Gene Vincent :: Be-Bop-A-Lula
Brushes on drums rustle like a tight silk skirt on rolling hips. She walked past and everyone followed with his eyes. The sound is barely there, so minimalist, all yearning words and Elvis-hip hits. Some girls are just born to be sexy, can’t help teasing those poor unfortunates looking on. For anyone who’s never been a sexy teenage girl, you might not know what I’m talking about. There are many, many people who have been a victim to them, however. I can tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that I wielded my power with a dictator’s ruthlessness—taking down everyone possible, trampling hearts and other organs and not looking back. This song is tops for those two feelings, two sides of the same coin, really: the longing voyeur, the sexy tease. Neither, in their own way, ever come to climactic confrontation with the Other. The song personifies that pent-up, you’re-hurtin-me-girl, kind of a feeling that finally releases (just a bit) in the end in a drum roll and then two soothing, winding down chords (evoking a little bit of the feeling of P.E. (not phys ed, damn your eyes, it’s a medical term).
Be-Bop-A-Lula, written by a young man being groomed to rival Elvis, debuted this song in my high school town, Norfolk, Virginia. Of course, I wasn’t even born then, but I sure took it to heart in my high school years. It’s full of those teenage feelings.
Since this blog began (thanks Josh), I’ve felt the link between those formative teen (or preteen) years and music. Seems like that is the time when our senses absorb more, analyze more, and our feelings for people, moments, and music are formed. Is it all just synapses?
Be-Bop-A-Lula (3.3MB MP3)
Gene Vincent (wikipedia)
T. Rex :: Monolith
Some songs exist outside time. They float in the mesosphere, far above the machinations of man. The mesosphere is a good place for these songs. It is a region too high for aircraft and too low for spacecraft, so there’s plenty of room for these songs; if they are needed, they could float down to earth on a gravity wave—the only relevant habitant of the mesosphere.
Who can say when this song was written? Twenty or perhaps sixty years ago? Or eighty years from now? It’s like that part at the end of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure when they see holographic portraits of themselves playing their songs in the future.
Monolith spans time, or perhaps connects it, like a wormhole. Actually, a wormhole would allow it to pop into different times and be present in multiple eras.
Yeah. That’s probably what it did.
Monolith (4.4MB MP3)
T. Rex (wikipedia)
Holly Golightly :: Virtually Happy
Hey boys, have you ever wanted to be a girl? Have you ever whined: “Girls aren’t forced to play sports. Girls are better at studying. Girls don’t have to get jobs. Girls don’t have to wear ties. Girls never have to beg.”? How often do you hear a girl beg for a date? They either just get one, i.e. someone offers, or they don’t worry about it.
I love Holly Golightly because she has a unique voice and an attitude. She can beg. Her voice goes low, which can be a great talent for a girl (re: Nina Simone). Often, I think of gender theory, or what those theorists call ‘blurring the boundary.’ Virtually Happy was written in the style of what I like to call ‘boy begging’: it has a modified blues set-up, which is appropriate as most blues songs are about begging for returned love. Many other women singers have begged for love in the past in the tradition of country or blues. But why that little topper of ambiguity at the end of the phrase? Why only ‘virtually’ happy?
Hey all you gender theorists out there, what’s hidden in this song?
Virtually Happy (4.9MB MP3)
Holly Golightly (homepage)
Ennio Morricone :: Navajo Joe
The man grabbed the kid by the throat and slammed his body back against the corrugated aluminum wall. You could hear the cicadas and the cars on the highway.
The kid barely choked out “lemme gko!” as he tried to pry the huge forearm away. I thought, why doesn’t he kick him? With your back against a wall, you can be braced nicely for a kick to the stomach or balls, depending on what kind of person you are. Then I noticed that the kid’s legs were way too long and gangly to get up and cocked in that little space between the huge man and himself.
It was the summer between seventh and eighth grade. We were outside some… temporary place, at a show. It’s hard to describe some venues in Mississippi. There aren’t many in the little musty town of Ocean Springs. One is an old armory, complete with a couple of tank-like military vehicles that the punk rock kids would climb on and try to start (“you know these kinds of army trucks don’t use keys… in case of an emergency… they just start with a button… yeah I’m sure… my uncles are all in the army”). This venue was east of the town of Ocean Springs, halfway between there and the next town, Gautier (pronounced “go-SHAY”), an on the only road that connected them. I’m a big fan of those roads between towns: straight, flat, surrounded by high swamp trees and sticky marsh, and usually only designated by a number (90, in this case, however, it was also called Bienville Road, or Bienville Boulevard if you’re one of those map-readin’ out-of-towners; everyone called it 90).
We were all staring, discreetly at first, at this huge fat bald man, probably some kind of skinhead, as he retaliated for being tripped by a lanky punkass high school grunge kid with hair hanging in his face. No one likes skinheads, although everybody knew one—a friend of some older friend, you know, that guy Nick that hangs out with Nathan?
So many types of music and people come together at small-town shows out on the edge of civilization. If you liked grunge, you came. If you only liked ska, you dressed up, and then came. If you sneered at people who didn’t respect pure punk and the show was grunge or some new rock, or ska, you would come anyway with at least four other pure punk friends and talk about punk outside the show. But everyone came because that was all you were gonna get in that little town, and the next show is either too far away or not for another four months, so you put on your newly “made” shirt (or whatever) with safety pins all in it, or brought your scrappy deck along to show someone your new skate trick (I dated the guy that could ollie over the hood of a Trans Am and land an Impossible every time) and made what you could of it.
But it was asking for trouble, putting all types of people into an old corrugated aluminum building (they used to sell fishing boats there) on the side of a little country highway. It was trouble; Southerners love trouble.
“I’ll let you go, asshole,” he shook the kid’s neck against the creaking aluminum. “But you have to lick my shoes.” He let go and then laughed. Two guys behind him laughed. Where was that guy that always busted up the circle of staring people and said “Hey, cut it out” or “Hey, let him go”? He wasn’t at this show—probably at that arena show in Biloxi.
No one else wanted to get stomped by some skinheads… Except those kids… Four pure punk mohawk heads stood graveyard still staring at the skinheads. Punks versus skins, the classic fight. The crowd mumbled. The kid was not making a move to lick those boots.
Maybe someone went inside to tell; however it happened, the stillness of the moment was broke by the headliners emerging from the dank insides of the shack. They weren’t wearing their instruments, but we knew who they were. They came as peacemakers, filled with the brotherhood of music. They broke it up; the frontman did a cursory check of the kid; and the drummer said something into the grumbling, milling crowd about coming together for good music and putting aside our differences. I don’t remember who the band was, or which big faraway city they were from, but that kind of talk sounded to me like hardcore propaganda.
(see also Mohawk Town by the Vandals)
Navajo Joe
Ennio Morricone (wikipedia)
The Robot Ate Me :: They Ate Themselves
In Virginia, everyone is emo. Everyone says Fuck you. A sulk and a good cry is as common as a shave and a haircut. Everyone owns a gun. Perhaps consequently, the ratio of citizens to cops is 3:1.3* Virginia contains many forests, and hence, always smells of dead or decomposing leaves. Good air. In Virginia the dune grass slopes down the sides of the sandy brows and curves to the left, much like the bangs of any emo dude sloping down the streets of Richmond. Every day is bright sunshine, glaring hard like glass on the dyed black hair of the bartender at Beach Hut Subs and Pub. If you are one of those people who believe that everyone has a dark side, then you are probably from Virginia, or believe that based on observing the actions of or relating to Virginians. Here is a question: Is Kurt Vonnegut emo? He would probably say no, fuck you. But do some people who espouse emo espouse Kurt Vonnegut? Most definitely yes, if they are Virginians. Another question: what is the connection between a drugged mind, a heartfelt apology, and two lovers having a falling out?
* this song clocks out at 3:13, for laymen, three minutes and thirteen seconds. Just try to be alive.
They Ate Themselves
The Robot Ate Me (homepage)
(editor’s note — this song was originally recorded by The Robot Ate Me’s Ryland Bouchard’s first band Kilmore Trout)
Mr. Bungle :: Ars Moriendi
This song changes parts more than an autumn-waking album. Seriously. Mike Patton is considered sexy by girls, women, men, boys, drag queens, trannies, very small dogs, and himself. He may or may not be. But if talent is sexy (and we know it is), then yes, sure, I would lick him. But I know for a fact he likes supersexy ladies (or dudes that look like ladies) with chainsaws. He’s probably a control freak too, considering how studio-perfect his songs are (listen to this and imagine recording all those tracks!!). He also conducts on stage, but from the front of the stage, and not looking at his band. But enough about him. This is really about Steve Eck.
Richie, the man who will survive after this world goes crazy and attacks itself, is a very great entity and good soul from Louisiana. He built his own house in the worst (best?) part of New Orleans. Inside it looks like Hemingway’s dream. Skins deck the halls, skulls deck the walls, cozy leather chairs invite. The lighting is well-placed and dim, of course. Steve and I sit at midnight surrounded by memories of hunting lodges playing endless games of dominoes and drinking Maker’s Mark on the rocks. California, a Mr. Bungle album, is on for the 400th time for Steve Eck, and the first time for me. However, I am currently kicking his ass with a trillion points after seventeen rounds, and want to concentrate. Then this song comes on.
“Dude,” I said.
“Hm?” He’s still studying his dominoes, squinting through smoke.
“This song is blowing my mind.”
“Yep.” Whiskey is sipped.
We’re playing dominoes because everyone has left town. Many have graduated and left. Others are at home on break. New Orleans is great then, almost empty. Sultry, ripe. We talk about relationships (one of his favorite topics). Jane is talking about visiting and that’s making Casey pretty nervous. Richie’s girlfriend is crazy and, perhaps, getting crazier. Steve Quick has a sugar mama and is doing alright there, so far as anyone can tell. Steve Eck is single, sort of, on and off with Gretchen and some other girls. I don’t really like my boyfriend anymore; I didn’t invite him to dominoes.
“Play that one again,” I request. Instead, we start the album over. It’s as glorious as an opera. Orchestrated like a dream, or a nightmare. We talk about musical geniuses and being the front man of five bands. We can be this hardcore. It’s decided. We drank on it, and so it must be.
Ars Moriendi
Mr. Bungle (fan site, another)
the Half Beats :: Should I
The adolescents of 1966, grown emotion-blown and sentimental on the sounds and words of 50s rock and roll knew the oft-repeated lyrics by heart. Rock songwriters of the 50s and early 60s knew that they had to reach in and grab a specific piece of gut from inside us and twist it around, and they knew what words to use. Over and over we’ve absorbed familiar lines:
“…love / under the stars above…[I] [I’ll] [I’d] die for you…I’ll wait for you…cry for you,” etc.
The Half Beats, raised on these crooned platitudes feel rightly let down when they don’t hold up under the acerbic strain of a teenage break up. The worn lyrics, now sung in an insolent whine, are hurt — and hurtful:
“No more will I die for you…why should I wait for you…you’re out there makin’ love / makin’ love under the stars above.”
Enjoy this break up song, and rejoice that teenage pain doesn’t last forever.
Should I
the Half Beats (nothing on the web that I could find!)