Cornered Songs

Sometimes people insist on telling you about this great song that you may or may not have heard before. It's the best song ever. A deep cut or some obscure track someone else turned them onto. Within seconds you agree or wonder if they're big Doors fans. I'll post one a day and you might dig them, but don't ever accuse me of liking the Lizard King.

[corneredsongs]

With Reality Bites turning 20 this year, there's been a lot of reflecting on the movie, complete with quirky little listicles and other short form formats for our ADDed out brains. Lindy West had a fresh take for Jezebel, stating that the movie reads like a manual for "shitheads."

In 2011, Max G. Morton and I released Live... Suburbia! and the closing essay (which I've pasted in its entirety below) mentions the movie and has a similar slant. At the time I had re-watched the movie and thought about how if it was made now, Winona's character would have ended up with Ben Stiller, as these days everything is about money and not integrity or art. Blanket statement sure, but relatively true.

It's the reason why a band like Fugazi, wouldn't work now, no matter how many good songs they write. They'd get a quick bump on some sites, be the must see band at SXSW/CMJ, and by their second album, no one would really care, because there were another 200 new bands to replace them and blog about.

Maybe we all grew tired of being broke from chasing ideas and ideals, or maybe the whole earnestness/slackerdom of the '90s was pretty lame to begin with. I'd say it's a combination of everything I just mentioned and a bunch of other shit, and that leads me to believe that Reality Bites would never be made in 2014 and why the world is a confusing pastiche of the '70s, '80s,' and '90s (puke). 

THE UNDERGROUND IS OVER CROWDED

I woke up swimming in a sea of plaid, surrounded by boys with slick advertising agency hair grounded by deck shoes. There was a sales pitch coming I was sure of it but they quickly spread like ants to various coffee shops to freelance. Somehow the nerds of my youth had wired the brains of thirty-something year old men and Weird-Scienced together throngs of women wearing everything that was and wasn’t cool from the 60s/70s/80s/90s all at once. I rushed to the newsstand to see what year it was, as there were no clues around me other than a calendar date that ap- peared to be misprint. Cars weren’t flying and sidewalks weren’t moving so it couldn’t be thefuture. Everything was familiar but nothing felt real, I was sure I was just tired. What the fuck was this pop culture pastiche I was stuck in? I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes as they masked their robot circuits with boisterously colored Ray-Bans and text message focus.

A baby carriage wheeled by me but the man steering it looked like a action figure. His hooded sweatshirt matched his new jeans which matched his uncreased Nike sneakers. He was just taken out of the box and had to play Dad. I counted the rings on his fingers, measured his crow’s feet and knew he was older than me. My eyes were fixated on the baby’s t-shirt which said “Motorhead” and had the band’s violent skull logo underneath the text.

“He hates Spongebob” the father said “Motorhead is his favorite band, he can’t sit still when I play Ace of Spades!”.

“Well yeah, it’s pretty aggressive music for a...” I stammered before the baby interrupted me. Years prior babies did talk occasionally in movies but the Fox network now showcased sarcastic talking babies, this was common- place.

“I like Maiden more” the baby added. “Me too” I replied to the baby “I always thought Motorhead were kind of boring actually.” “Fucking poser” the baby commented as his dad wheeled him off.

As I continued to scan walls, magazines and humans I noticed that every novelty from my childhood was now a movie and a sequel. All bands, dead or live, were back together and playing festivals in deserts where they charged you for water. The food around me was either grass-fed by an urban farmer or the triple-kick-ass-fuck-you-burger. I was in New York City but I suspected this phenomenon was spreading through America or maybe all of Earth. Somewhere trendy Japanese teenagers were giggling at us. I was sure of it.

Suburbia was once my home, where denim sentinels guarded the arcade games I wanted to play and sold herbs and powdered prescriptions. There were two types of girl there, one wore a popped collar Polo shirt and the other a t-shirt from a rock concert I never wanted to attend. Both types hated me, so I chose to fake hate them too. I rode a skateboard, a BMX, kept weapons in my locker, cursed a lot, liked heavy metal, didn’t like heavy metal, lit things on fire, jumped off stuff, and if anyone I knew would have surfed I could have been a walking Keith Morris lyric. I knew my suburbia.

When car stereos blasted “Hells Bells,” or “Jump Around,” my skateboard became a broadsword. I dodged rocks, fists, chubby cheeked kisses, BBs, parents and teachers. The back patch on my jacket protected me from being blindsided and showed the world that the Num- ber of The Beast. Neal Peart was the greatest drummer and Mr. Rhodes a master of the polka dotted axe. These were actual facts even if you hated Rush. I knew suburbia.

The athletic boys in my school had no secrets and used any holiday as an excuse to cross-dress. Girls with Aqua Net sculptures shooting from their skulls had many secrets that came out with drags of stale cigarettes and peppermint Schnapps.

As a boy, all wanted was the next vehicle that could take me out of suburbia. Anything with wheels took me another stride away until I was old enough to drive an unsafe four cylinder automobile covered in stickers away from my fucking town forever ...or at least to a college campus. Every- day I X’ed out a day on the calendar and thought about living in a city.

There was every type of human in cities and they didn’t have segregated malls to pace. Guys would show me places to buy things they didn’t have in suburbia and girls would be impressed by the band names on my shirts not the brand name on the tag. I didn’t know shit about San Francisco, New York, or Los Angeles other than that they weren’t suburbia.

Leaving suburbia was a blur. I remember learning one day that I could control Tony Hawk with a joystick and that Kiss wore makeup again. Straight Edge men threw baseballs and wrestled on television. The one dollar bill had Crim- son Ghost on it. No hardcore record had sold a million copies but every dorm came with a copy of Check Your Head.

In the present Cyndi Lauper rang up my groceries. A man who once was kicked out of every skate spot and punk show for being annoying designed propaganda that aided the election of our current president. All the humans I wanted to meet as a suburban teenage boy in the late 1980s were now stores my hometown mall. The convenience was great but still confusing. I ran into an old friend in a bodega as I tried to purchase some water. Even water was cool, it took me a while to find a regular bottle, I felt old fashioned. “Poland Springs?” he questioned “who the fuck drinks that anymore? What is this ninety eighty...”

My choice triggered something in his brain. He asked me why every activity that got us beaten up in suburbia was now a career. Flashes of awkward fashion, questionable hobbies and fads raced through my brain. Bandana Saturdays in the mall, loudly cursing radio trips to splintered skateboard ramps and basement heavy metal seances once drove us further from rural normalcy, now they were comical, admirable and fashionable all at once.

I couldn’t answer him but I knew the underdogs won and were abusing their power. The villain of Reality Bites invested his money in energy drinks became a hero. He made the our youthful dreams real with minimal work and a corporate budget. Slackers had lost and been eradicated. They disguised themselves with conviction and integrity but the new decade exposed them as truly lazy and stubborn. It was impos- sible to be lazy now as ideas were commodities and cool was a currency. Nostalgia could be downloaded to a mobile telephone and stashed safely in our pockets while we checked the weather and the stock market and moved forward into the past.

I took a snapshot of 2011 with an actual film camera and buried the print in the ground an hour later. Bob Dylan, the full cast of Less Than Zero and Beat Street, James Hetfield, Juliana Hatfield, Andy Warhol, Woody Allen and a homeless man were all in the picture doing boring every- day things. Someday they’ll find it and not know what fucking year it is. They’ll just know that it’s not suburbia.

[corneredsongs]

Having played in a hardcore band throughout a good portion of the '90s, a large chunk of my weekends were spent in parking lots and most of them were in Connecticut. Rife with cheap warehouse space and bored white people, every coffee shop, fake club, or teen center throughout the state could potentially host a bill of at least five bands, on any Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. 

These venues were seldom equipped to house hundreds of people aged 13-43, so they were either too hot or too cold. Condensation would form on the windows or people would be bundled behind merch tables, their breath visible as they answered questions of "How much for a T-Shirt" or "Is there really anything on this VHS tape?" The latter question was specific to picking up a video cassette from Rick Ta Life's portable punk flea market, as there was a good chance there were not two high quality Misfits gigs on said tape, but rather blank snow that loops and never breaks into a band playing. If you're unfamiliar with Richard Ta Life, please take some time to look him up later, as it's impossible for me to provide any worthwhile perspective without hijacking this entry.

It was the dead of winter and my Sunday was spent in the back of a strip mall, at a club called Maxaluna's somewhere in Connecticut. The bands were probably One4One, Fastbreak, Groundzero, Murphy's Law, and Hatebreed, because most shows in that state boasted some combination of those musical acts. My band was playing also. It was 1995 and it was freezing out, but too hot in the club to dress appropriately. 

Breaking all rules of decency, I chose to wear shorts instead of jeans to feel more comfortable on the tiny carpeted stage. Nothing happened of note while we played, but we sold several records and T-Shirts, and were compensated well from the promotor James Jasta. Mr. Jasta--the frontperson of a then unsigned crossover band called Hatebreed--had also paid us for a show we had played a month prior that he owed us for. Most bands wouldn't leave a venue without attempting to collect their pay, but Jasta was earnest and trustworthy, so if he said he'd "Pay you more later," it actually happened without question.

What I do remember was downing water constantly during our 30 minute set, trying to stay hydrated and avoid passing out and injuring myself. There were points where I debated asking the singer to go on some long diatribe about anything, so I could sneak off and wizz, but I soldiered on, feeling like boiling kettle ready to overflow. Trusting only Jasta, I also had the band's pay and merch money in the side pocket of my shorts, which was close to $700.00 and quite a bit for a shitty hardcore band.

After moving our equipment off the stage, I bolted for the bathroom, with a bag full of clean clothes and wires slung over my shoulder. All the urinals were taken and I briefly debated breaking the laws of decency and pissing in the sink, but a stall door whipped open and I was instantly filled with a sense of security. 

Wanted to be free of my sweat soaked shorts, I completely removed them and hung them over the cinderblock wall, while I took--at least during the two decades I had been alive--the greatest pee of my life. Unfortunately, the joy of streaming gold into the American Standard below me, would soon fade after I dawned a pair of denim trousers and placed my shorts into my backpack.

No, I didn't have any type of accident, but I realized that my wallet containing all our money had slid out of my pocket and into the grooves between the cinderblocks of the wall. After climbing up and peering down, I could see it laying there, robust with 10s and 20s, six inches from my grasp. I was fucked.

In a state of panic, I ran outside and just started kicking things and cursing. Losing all my IDs and credit cards sucked enough, but having to tell the band that our money for two shows was between where people go number one and number two, wasn't going to make for an enjoyable ride home.There was only one resolution, provided I had the available tools to perform and extraction. 

"Hey, do you happen to have a hammer or anything like that in your truck," I asked our singer. He was a tinkerer, the type of person that probably took his toys apart, just to see if he could reassemble them. His trunk often lined with different ratchets, pliers, wrenches, and screwdrivers. His nickname was "Wrench," but that was coincidental. Luckily, he popped his head out from behind the maroon door of his vehicle holding a decent sized metal mallet.

We strategically waiting until the loud heavy metal guitars of Hatebreed buzzed in the background, knowing their volume and the crowd's refrains would mask what was about to happen. "Where is it? Wrench asked. I pointed at my wallets estimated location on a brick painted dark green, before he uncoiled a massive swing. Jailbreak! Cement dust poured out of the gaping hole, covering the floor and my wallet. Smashing the shit out of a cinderblock was actually pretty easy, and Wrench's single $700.00 swing was all we needed to liberate the cash.

Murphy's Law followed Hatebreed, playing a typical set, roughly 437 minutes in length. Once their last horn tooted, we were free to pack up our equipment and head back to Massachusetts.

"Hey man," said Mr. Jasta, his voice pained and face creased with disappointment. "I planned on giving everyone a bonus, because the place was packed today, but some asshole smashed a hole in the Men's Room wall... like who the fuck would do that right? That's just stupid!"

"Some fucking dumb hardcore kid would," I answered trying to lighten the mood. "If they aren't tagging the walls, they're doing something dumb. Thanks for the loot for the shows and for putting us on the bill. Hopefully the owner isn't too upset about the damage."

Despite requesting payment for the black hole next to the urinal, the cement cave remained the same as it appeared minutes after we smashed it for the following two years. I doubt Maxaluna's is there and I haven't been to any Connecticut hardcore shows in a while, but I can promise you, no matter what the temperature, if you find me in Glastonbury, Milford, Hartford, New Milford, New Haven, Branford, Danbury, or anywhere in CT, I promise my legs will be fully covered in fabric, and not exposed via shorts.  

[corneredsongs]

“Turn left into the corridor and don’t turn around,” said a man with a latin accent, who smelled like cigarette smoke. “Yes that’s a gun in your back and I will fucking shoot you nigga, so just do what I say and everything will be cool.”

Minutes prior I was sipping overpriced gin in a nightclub in Boston, MA. Not just any club, the type of place that has a dress code aimed at keeping out anyone who might look cool, (baseball hats, jeans with logos, and “loud” jewelry weren’t allowed... see what they did there?) and instead encouraged shiny shirts, square-toed dress shoes, and as much hair product as possible. 

There I was behind a roped off table wearing a pair of black Clarks Wallabees and not a pair of jeans, surrounded by free drink lurkers, bankers, other finance dudes, and a few mildly attractive women, finding my ear aching from the loud techno and rants from the least attractive of the mediocre girls with tacky footwear. Some friends of mine were celebrating the closing of some “deal,” which meant they made more than I make in a year that evening and where better to get fucked up than an overpriced club that doesn’t allow black people or sneakers.

My head was throbbing from too many drinks and BPMs, so I decided to head out and catch a cab back to Mission Hill. This was of course impossible in the Theatre District as the clubs started to empty and everyone needed a ride, so I chose to walk a few blocks to find a taxi. This is when I met Michael Ramirez.

As we weaved around the alley/service road behind the buildings that line Huntington Avenue, Mike told me that he didn’t really want to rob me, but he saw me leaving that “rich nigga club.” He just got out of prison and he just needed a little money to get on his feet and take care of his girl and baby. Seemed reasonable. Instead of asking for help politely, he decided to put some object--I’m still not convinced it was an actual gun, but didn’t want to find out--against my back and ask for my money, cell phone, and watch. Much more direct and a higher yield I suppose.

There was something in the way he was apologizing and ranting as he told me to take the money out of my wallet, that made me feel like I could get out of this unscathed pretty easily. Oh yeah... I was completely turnt the fuck up (though that word wasn’t invented yet) and I don’t think I really knew/cared what was happening. 

“You can’t have the watch bro,” I said firmly, attempting to see what happened if I didn’t do what Mike instructed. “My dad gave me that before he passed away and I’m not giving it to you.”

“Yo that’s cool... that’s cool... it ain’t no Rolex or nothin’... you can keep that and I’m sorry about your dad. I’m Mike by the way. Where you live at?” he said as I handed over a crumpled up twenty and a lone single. 

“Roxbury... I live in Roxbury,” I replied. 

He asked how I could be in the “rich nigga club,” but have so little money on me. “Credit cards,” I responded. “Who the fuck leaves the club with money, that’s where you spend it right?”

Without actually seeing Mike, I could tell that he wasn’t very tall, as his voice was talking up to me and I could also tell he sucked at robbing. I was fairly confident he was high on something and super desperate, but not the kind of desperate where a person will stab you for a quarter, he just seemed like he was winging it. 

He led me to a corner where I was to stand and count to 10, before I could turn around and head home. He was also scared that I’d call the cops, so he again demanded my phone. Feeling greedy, I asked if I could just give him the battery so it wouldn’t work, but that was just way too “heady.” I handed over the bulky silver Sprint PCS flip-phone and started my count.

After saying “10” I headed to the well lit street and continued to walk home. It was a typical September night in Boston, where the temperature suddenly dips 20 degrees and I wasn’t prepared. Completely sober and freezing, I cursed out Mike for the remainder of the journey.

My first stop the next morning was the Sprint store, to replace my stolen phone. Within minutes of leaving the store, my cell was blowing up with unfamiliar numbers. This wasn’t too weird, as I didn’t have the chip or whatever the fuck it was that stored all my old contacts, (this was the late ‘90s BTW) but getting calls this early wasn’t common, especially since no one knew I was robbed a few hours prior. 

“Yo... is this Mike’s phone,” said a man with a New York accent, when I finally answered a call. I hung up. Ring ring ring ring ring. I picked up. 

“Ehhhyooo! I know you there Mike... MIKE!” said the voice. 

“What Mike you looking for,” I said, somewhat annoyed.

“Mike... you know, that nigga from Hamilton Street... he owe me money and I got his number from his girl. He owe her money too... came by last night all buggin’ out and shit, high as a motherfucker,” the guy said. “Ramirez, Mike Ramirez... from Hamilton Street... the skinny nigga!”

“Fucking Ramirez huh? He was stayin' here, but he owes me money too. What's his girl's address, I'm gonna go by and collect from that motherfucker” I shouted back. 

"She on 418 Hamilton, near the Palace Fried Chicken and the Pizza spot," said Mike's fake-friend before he hung up after making me promise I'd mention the money he owed him as well.

Boom! Armed with a full name, street, and loose area, I did what any white person would have done and went down to the police station. I was pissed off and out $21.00, plus another hundo for a refurbished flip-phone and this asshole robbed me remember. Revenge was mine. The only drag was that I had to talk to the cops in order to exact it, but I was OK with the trade off... this time.

Unsurprisingly, the police were surprised that a dumb ass regular person could have solved a crime so quickly, but they were psyched and eager to get on the case, albeit an easy one. The captain--I knew this because he had a flattop--just wanted to be sure that I’d testify in a court of law against Mr. Ramirez if he was apprehended, which wasn’t too hard to agree to. I was thanked and gifted a cup of semi-burnt coffee, before heading back to work satisfied.

Weeks passed and I hadn’t heard from the police or thought much about Mike, other than retelling the story a few times to people who mostly thought I was full of shit. Their mugging stories were scarier, more violent, and their losses greater. Some even scolded me for being so flip, others just told me how “lucky” I was. Even when I explained it was my fault for joining a bunch of celebrating finance friends at a shitty club, they still focused on the fact that I was essentially talking shit to a crackhead holding a gun to my back. I guess they were right.

I decided to call the captain to see if they were able to do anything with the excellent leads I gave them. During the brief conversation, I was even able to get the exact street address where Mike was staying from his upset friend, so Boston’s Finest should have been able to crack the case. 

“Oh yeah, Mr. Pappalardo. How are you?” said the captain, after being transferred to his line by the receptionist. “Well, we were able to find Mike, but you don’t have to testify or anything. He’s an illegal, who’s been in a lot of trouble and he’s since been deported. Thanks for all your help, we appreciate it.” And just like that Mike Ramirez was a non-factor and no longer a “citizen” of the United States. No fist pump, no sigh of relief, or even mild sense of victory. Nope, I actually felt shitty. That has to be residual Catholic Guilt right from years of parochial school, right? Jesus probably would have given him the watch and washed Mike’s feet or something, instead I got him sent back home. Whatever, I stopped going to church in my teens and ditched Sprint shortly after too, they both annoyed me.

*This Chapterhouse song has nothing to do with getting robbed, but it's something I'd rather hear in a club than aggressive techno.

[corneredsongs]

Light Asylum "End of Days"

This weekend the worst assemblage of humans are ready to consume yellow domestic beer on the West Side of Manhattan in celebration of The Super Bowl. OMAHA, OMAHA! Peyton Manning apologists, indifferent fans ready for a hot pop-up party, giddy girls in sporting gear, ruddy faced corporate types hiding from their wives, and people who think this shitshow is "why they love New York!"

Basically, if you added a Kenny Chesney/Ted Nugent free concert at MSG post game to benefit racism sponsored by Halliburton, you could pretty have every terrible person around in a five block radius. Sounds like the perfect set up for a disaster movie starring Ben Affleck. He could even joke : "At least the Pats are safe playin' golf guy!" while plotting the safety of drunk NFL fans. While it does sound tragic and could have a cool name like Supernami, the rest of the world would be cheering on whatever weather or occurrence is set to destroy us, as football is still pretty American and the rest of the globe largely hates country music and The Nuge, as they should. Normally, when asked what would be my soundtrack to survival I'd select something kind of aggro to keep me aware and on the offense, but nothing is better for this occasion than a morbid dance song about Earth's destruction sung by a cool black chick. If it really is the "end," wouldn't you want to see how it goes down? Will the streets split and fire rain from the sky? What if God really descends from the clouds to judge us? Wouldn't you want to be like, "Thanks for taxes and The Flu asshole!" before he sends you to Hell?

How many chances do you get to tell your maker to suck it or just piss on a cop car in plain sight? I say dance on and be lead by this song. It's a lot cooler than everyone running around panicking, while heavy metal plays and rabid dogs are trying to bite you. Instead, break into a liquor store, post up on the nearest car, and dance with someone, while lighting shit on fire if we're all going to die... especially if the Broncos win.

If you dig the track, read this great interview with singer Shannon Funchess too. You don't have to agree with her, but it's cool to see a band not give a fuck and say what they really think. 

[corneredsongs]

The above photo is from one of my eBay auctions. I contributed a story toBryan Turcotte’s Don’t Tell Me About Tomorrow Zine about Black Flag and it later appeared in my book Live… Suburbia! The zine was super limited and came with a bunch of photocopies from Bryan’s Black Flag flyer collection along with a CD.

Because I’m nice, I’m going to paste the whole thing for you, but make sure you jam the entire Slip It In album while you read. HERE’S the link for that. 

BLACK COFFEE - Taken from Live… Suburbia! on powerHouse

My suburban umbilical cord was cut the first day I sat bitch in the back seat of a sticker covered Jetta. Without public transportation or a friend with a car, my teenage mistakes were made in basements, sheds and the woods but now I was given a brand new way to say fuck you; we had a method of transportation at our disposal to execute all bad ideas. Fourteen year old boys aren’t cool especially to anyone over fourteen so if you were invited to squeeze into a back seat of some beater, provided you coughed up gas money, you felt like a god. The car of an older punk, skin, skater or burn-out wasn’t just a escape from the wood panelling of your depressing stucco ceilinged room, it was church. The back seat was the pew, the same back seat where barre chord gripping fingers guitar soloed on virgin pussy, where yellow coke was chopped, where headache weed was inhaled between phlegmy coughs, where sweaty heads rested and blood coagulated after a crusade. Good alter boys didn’t speak, they listened and absorbed.

Long drives meant 90 minute Maxell sermons that could expand your world from the Ramones, Metallica and Zeppelin to the SSD, Rudimentary Peni and Abrasive Wheels. Cassettes were the voice of the suburbs, you have to drive everywhere, you need a soundtrack everywhere you go and the analog hiss of tape was the only way to make this happen because every shitty car had a shitty tape deck in the 1980s.

Steven Tyler and Bon Scott’s shrieks of ” I wanna date rape you” were the sounds of touchdowns, pep rallies and flattops, you weren’t having a good time to you classic rock, you were getting your ass kicked or rejected to it. Hardcore pun was played on tape wherever the the fuck you went through tinny blown out speakers in junk cars and chipped boom boxes.

You’re wound tight like a cassette tape with no release from the endless knot because once the last note fades out on Side-B you auto-reverse to Side-A again. You’re running in place, waiting for something epic but all you get are hand jobs from a chunky goth chick that won’t take her rings or the rush of jumping off something with your skateboard to the applause of horny boys.

My phone rang early on a Saturday morning in February of 1989, a friend of mine informed me that there was room in Keith Galloway’s car if I wanted to head into Boston to go skating and buy records. I’d been carted around the suburbs before by rat-tailed drivers to barren parking lots with rough pavement. It wasn’t much more than a faster way to do something boring.

These were the types of dudes that wore Champion sweatshirts and Reebok high-tops to school to avoid ridicule but had a skateboard in their trunk. They’d find the most desolate places to skateboard to avoid being called a skater fag and they’d never dream of driving 28 miles to Boston to actually have fun. Guys like this had names like Greg or Alan and would disappear if they had the attention of a pimply fringe cheerleader girl who conveniently didn’t have her driver’s license.

Keith on the other hand was a legend with a car and a flirty girlfriend named Greta whose real name was probably something boring that just began with a G. She had a smokey voice, wore too much make up, drew her eyebrows on smelled like musty thrift store clothes and some type of mystical oil. She’d sit on the curb reading books about the occult chain smoking while we rolled around and would always address you by your full name. I was convinced that she did this because the more syllables she was able the pronounce the more she could tease your teenage cock. “Where do you live An-tho-ny Pa-ppa-lar-do?” or “Can I borrow your lighter Ev-an La-mark” sounded better than anything you’d hear on a 900 number.A trip to Boston meant she’d be riding shotgun and arguing with Keith about something for the entire 30 minute drive. 

We piled into the car and kept our eyes fixated on the stickers and marker scrawls on the backs of the seats ahead of us like good soldiers. It was freezing outside and the heat in the car barely worked but no one would dare ask Keith Galloway to turn the heat up, that was suicide. Along with being old enough to buy beer and having a car Keith had seen every punk and metal show you could dream of, hit people with brass knuckles, had random scars from things people had done to him and owned some poorly covered up white power tattoos including a Swastika on his arm turned into what looked like a child’s rendition of a window and a “nazi shark” on his calf which was masked by interlocking triangles which I guess were supposed to be the Budweiser logo or the markings on a black widow.

Despite being intense and imbalanced, Keith was friendly and engaging provided you didn’t get on his bad side. This could result in being kicked out of the car, beaten up or the absolute worst, being given a really demeaning nickname. You’d actually be kept around after being nicknamed just so you could be called this shitty nickname in front of everyone. Despite being introduced to Keith several times he would alternate between calling me Anthony and Andy. I didn’t bother to correct him when he said “Andy, grab me a tape from that DeMoulas bag on the floor”(*Any plastic bag found in the Merrimack Valley, Massachusetts is referred to as a DeMoulas bag as they were the biggest supermarket chain in the area). 

Here was my trial by fire, picking a tape for everyone to listen to. It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal since they were his fucking tapes but I still felt like this was more important than where I should be going to college or something. I fished around for a second and passed over the Punk and Disorderly comp and a blank tape that said had Suicidal Tendencies misspelled on it in fifth grade printing. Instead there was a red cover peaking out with a Mona Lisa smile, Black Flag’s Slip It In.

After attending parochial grade school there was nothing cooler to me than an album cover featuring a nun giving me the shit eye gripping a dude’s hairy leg. It was the perfect blend of sketchy and funny. When I transitioned out of metal in middle school and converted to hardcore I was saved. Black Flag was my gateway drug, I wasn’t a crusty “remember when punk” who cringed when people said Rollins was the best Black Flag singer. I had a whole catalog to devour without guidance or discretion as it wasn’t 1981 and I honestly dug Rollins. Henry was the blend of drill sergeant and father figure. He yelled out motivational phrases, was physically fit and catered to every rebellious need I had. Punk rock was cool and rebellious but at the end of the day, punk rockers were the skinny junkie dudes begging for change in Harvard Square, they had a snappy answer for everything but came off as fucking pathetic.

Henry Rollins was the manifestation of everything I thought was simple, cool and tough. A plain t-shirt, blue jeans, Vans and a shaved head was the perfect uniform to me, I didn’t know how you could even skate in bondage pants and I thought mohawks were too much fucking work. I had a look, an attitude,and Annihilate This Week as my motto but I needed fuel. In order to really be impatient and overly self aware I needed to be strung out on coffee, black coffee specifically twenty-four-seven.

At fourteen I wasn’t going to be let into any bars and I wasn’t ready for any dangerous habits but coffee was a safe and practical rebellion. It’s fucking cold in New England, coffee warms you up. I needed to be alert and hyper and being jacked on caffeine gave me the perfect edge and for 99 cents I could sit as long as I wanted in a Denny’s and plot and plan. Besides not only was black coffee Rollins approved, the Descendents worshiped it as well, I could graduate to other beverages later.

"Thanks Ant" was the reply after handing over the tape, I was relieved that I had transitioned back to my birth name. The click of the tape into the deck was followed by the last strains of the title track "Slip It In," this was actually a relief because that song is over six minutes long and kind of boring, I didn’t really have any ire towards any women yet either.

Seconds later the Sabbathy grind of Black Coffee was blasting as we cruised up the on ramp headed south to Boston, everything felt official. The shittiest of car stereos don’t really have “stop” buttons, you can eject or fast forward a tape but not actually stop it. My whole world stopped when I heard Mr. Ginn’s guitar sped up to hyper speed and a loud buzzing hum. Greta had reached over to fast forward “Black Coffee” because she wanted to hear “Wound Up.”

“What the fuck are you doing, what the fuck are you doing you fucking bitch, Jesus fucking Christ we were listening to that …” Keith screamed over to Greta, completely taking his eyes off the road shrieking like a stuck pig. His right hand was open and raised and his eyes were bugging out of his skull like one of those gag toys being squeezed too hard. I was reminded at this point of another chapter in Keith Galloway’s folklore, he was really into coke, speed or any substance that made him more intense.

As they shouted back and forth and the poorly aligned car carved a jagged path on the highway I was fixated on the buzz of the tape fast forwarding. You could faintly hear the music speeding past mixed with a hazy frequency that cut through the cursing and screaming in the front seat. I wasn’t focused on it to achieve some zen-like escape, I was fixated because I knew at any moment there would be a mechanical “clack!” and then Side B would be cranked at maximum volume causing these two maniacs to yell louder or start beating the shit out of each other in a meth-amphetamine fueled rage resulting in a ten car pile up.

As undergraduates we just sat there paralyzed, afraid to move or speak wondering if our last moments were going to be spent in an shit stinking Jetta with a floor covered in fast food refuse and sweat soaked t-shirts.

The snap of the stereo’s gears were followed by the angular dirge of “Obliteration,” a confusing sound that made the the bitching of these two coke heads even more claustrophobic and unbearable. Keith was now leaning over the steering wheel and had advanced to the stage of rage where you just mutter things and channel your inner douche bag. He progressed past yelling at Greta and was now showing the signs of a true maniac by cursing out people that aren’t even there.

"Fuck you you fucking piece of shit, don’t-you-fucking-tell-me-what-the-fuck-I-should-do, don’t you fucking talk to my mother that way you fucking nigger, I-don’t-need-this-fucking-shit…" he ranted in an unnerving staccato cadence.

I was pretty sure he was bitching out his black step dad, followed by a teacher maybe and then back to Greta, it wasn’t that rad. We whipped off the highway and pulled into strip mall parking lot where Greta was instructed to “Get the fuck out of the fucking car you stupid cunt”, which she did without much resistance. Her pale face was covered in drippy make up and she was gripping her head which smeared one of her drawn on eyebrows which was really disturbing.

Like all true psychopaths Keith flipped his switch back to “level headed regular human” and asked one of us to jump in the front. Luckily I was riding bitch so it was between Evan and Berto the Skin (A racist latino skin who chose the name Berto because it sounded less ethnic than Roberto), Evan didn’t flinch and jumped into the front seat as Keith calmly talked about what a “fucking bitch” his “bitch” girlfriend was and how she can go “fucking die behind a dumpster” because he doesn’t fucking care. His voice never rose above the music or showed any signs of aggression just a calm venting about his “bitch-cunt-liar-whore” better half.

Our stride was broken but not our spirits, Greta’s flirting was semi-exciting but not necessary, besides our mission was to buy records and skate not fantasize about her saying our full names while we stared cock in had at her pointy tits and the Sisters of Mercy poster that hung over her bed in her overly incensed bedroom.

The pew had one less body, the tension was gone, Keith’s ranting was manageable and in twenty minutes we’d be rolling over smooth brick and budgeting out which 7” singles we could afford while still leaving a few bucks for coffee and french fries. 

Keith jolted himself back into his normal driving posture, cracked his neck and lowered the music. He tiled his head back and proclaimed “Fuck it man, it’s cold as hell out and Boston’s fucking freezing anyway, let’s just go skate the ramp in my garage, it’s only five minutes away”. 

[corneredsongs]

One of my minor obsessions is the music scene in Boston, MA in the '80s. Part of what makes it an interesting scene, is that there was so much turnover with Boston being a college town. Things happen quickly, then burn out equally as fast. Since a lot of the styles of music that were happening outside of pub rock, a lot of great recordings were self released and went out print quickly. I've touched on some of these bands and labels before, including Jeff and Jane Hudson. 

If you want to catch up go HERE then HERE, then rejoin us. 

Instead of going on about this Fad Gadgety track by Jeff and Jane, I went right to the source and promptly received this reply from Jeff Hudson, about the 1983 track "Secret World."

What jumped out at me was that a song that could be considered some "dark form of synth" or whatever genre marker someone wants to slap on it, is actually a pretty hopeful and cheery track. So don't scowl when you play this, even if your black jeans are too tight, just enjoy a happy dance track for a change... even if it sounds sinister. 

Special world was recorded at Downtown recorders in the south end in Boston

In the very early eighties. Most of Jeff and Jane was recorded at home on four track.

This was our big live sound with drummer Wally Gagel, who now owns Wax LTD in LA.Wally is a top notch song writer and audio producer. Wally is a fantastic drummer and it makes Special World groove with Big time drum fills with a rock steady dance beat. Russ Smith did the snap and funk bass style to the track. Jane did the melody keyboard lines and back up singing.

I did the TR 808 programming along with the Roland JX3P synth sequence.

I wrote the lyrics to it, It was a song about hope in the future and about finding that special person. It still surprises me today, I am not a lyric writer but that one seems to work.

It was a real group effort and it sounds like it. Our live show was as a synth duo or as a 4 piece band and this really give a true sound of the full Jeff and Jane band.

We pressed 500 with My Mother told me on the B side. And then  thirty years later it got reissued on the 20 song double album Flesh, and CD by Captured Tracks and Dark Entries records.

Jeff Hudson Jan. 22, 2014

[corneredsongs]

Where Have The Entries Been?

Sorry for slacking, it's been a trying week, but I have a few good ones on deck--it's all about the timing. In the meantime, I decided to get rid of a bunch of old T-shirts lurking in my closet. Skate shirts, rock bands, indie bands, hardcore, and just random. If this round is successful, I'll be swayed to go in for the big dogs.

So why the hell would this be of interest to you? Unlike most humans, I like writing eBay descriptions and I'm particularly proud of the one I came up with for the Descendents shirt I'm selling.

Basically, they have nothing to do with the actual shirts, so instead of reading one entry here, there's 18 on eBay for you to enjoy.

READ THEM HERE 

[corneredsongs]

Sticking with the theme that's stuck to the streets of New York City for all you weather obsessed humans, let's let the synths throb and the vocals hush with the track "Winter" from Brooklyn's Tiers. Then after you fall in love with the song and feel all romantic and shit, go HERE and buy the vinyl. 

Why should you feel a little warm arrow pierce your heart when you hear this? Because Tiers are a couple that synth out together, in the tradition of Chris and Cosey, Jeff and Jane Hudson, and for two people to get along and create music together--one of the most stressful things on earth--you know they're legit. You've heard the track by now, so I don't need to explain to you all the nuances that separate Tiers from the aforementioned acts, but I can tell you that no one from those bands was in Connecticut hardcore band Another Wall, save the half of Tiers named Glenn Maryansky. 

Maryansky's had a long run in New York City, playing drums for several great bands including Antarctica (fitting for a 9 degree day), Blacklist, and Cult of Youth, along with designing several record sleeves, many of which are probably nested in your collection right now. But the first time I saw him play was in the '90s hardcore band Another Wall, who--like many hardcore bands at the time--seemed to be added to every flyer in the Northeast, but seldom actually played said show.

This is not the fault of the band, it's usually the gung-ho teenage promoter who would leave a voice message on the cassette tape recorder attached to someone's landline (it was the '90s remember), asking if a band could play as he's pasting their logo onto a flyer, sans confirmation. Of course I ended up seeing Another Wall several times, bought their 7" and demo, and ran into Maryansky years later in New York City, but the meeting wasn't completely conventional .

"I'm only lying to myself, I'm hiding from what is REEE-HEEELL!!!" I shouted from the entrance of Library Bar on Avenue A, on an early aughts night. I noticed two silhouettes lurching down the street, steam coming from their mouths as they lugged records, one pushing a bicycle. Having a keen eye for familiar faces, I recognized them as brothers, the Brian and Glenn Maryansky, brothers who had played together in Another Wall.

My quote was from their song "Breaking Out," which I knew from a compilation 7" titled 1992 Hardcore. It was late, chilly, and dark, and we were all a bit buzzed, but the bros came to a halt, hearing the chant from a hardcore song they'd penned some decade earlier. 

The rest is a bit foggy, but I'm fairly sure we exchanged that gaze you give other hardcore cats you knew 10 years or so prior, when they were more gaunt from Veganism and their faces reflected less living. We chatted a bit about "stuff" and then we were both on our way. Later--most likely at a foggy Wierd party where Maryansky often DJed--we'd recall the run in and talk about the minutia of hardcore and whatever else was going on.

Unfortunately, I had to miss the wedding of the creators of the above track, but I'd like to say "Cheers To Tiers," and don't forget to check them out at Atrocity Exhibition in Brooklyn on February 22nd, if you're around. 

[corneredsongs]

Coffin Pricks - "Group Home Haircut"

From the upcoming Group Home Haircut 45 on Stationary (Heart) Records (Out March 2012). Recorded and mixed by Mike Lust at Phantom Manor, Chicago, …

I’m not a big “luck” person. This includes the quarterback for the Colts and his Amish beard, inanimate objects that somehow determine my fate, and anything related to the band Social Distortion and their fan base, who I refer to as “bad luckers.” You know those folks who use too many hair products, have an obsession with flames and old vehicles, and love getting the number 13 tattooed on themselves. 

A thrift store find that I acquired towards the end of the year 2012 almost made me rethink my hatred of luck though. Slightly oversized, in excellent condition and free of the normal scents associated with second hand clothing, this US Army surplus jacket seemed like a steal at $20.00. It was also one of my few forays into wearing camouflage, so on this particular day, I decided I needed a military pattern in my wardrobe. 

In thinking about this time period and that jacket, I’m reminded the streak of mostly terrible things that occurred when I wore it. The frequency was so often, that it was surmised that whomever owned it before me was probably an awful person, whose soul left their body and was haunting the sleeves of the coat. Time and time again, I’d slide my arms into the ghost outerwear and something would go awry. 

That made me think of the Skull Kontrol tune “Camouflage” and how it would perfectly compliment my entry today about bad clothing choices and good songs. Unfortunately, no one has uploaded this track to YouTube and I decided it wasn’t important to have it accompany my text, as vocalist Chris Thomson has appeared on several great songs, none of them about evil jackets… at least to my knowledge. 

Monorchid, Circus Lupus, the blazing hardcore of Fury, Red Eyed Legends, and other short lived endeavors, Thompson’s vocals always snarl like Darby Crash jammed up Mark E. Smith’s anus, while maintaining a character unique to himself. “Group Home Haircut,” is a ripper, channelling The Damned at their best and is also a cut I really enjoyed when I was wearing camo and continually smashing into things. 

Unfortunately for me The Coffin Pricks broke up, leaving us with only a handful of songs, but luckily the army coat was damaged during a small war with New York City and retired forever.  So wait, did I really think this jacket possessed me? No fucking way. You see, I am a man of logic and science—even at my most insane. Some forgotten solider was not forcing my hand, causing tragedy. Nope, I was just being a legit maniac a.k.a. the type of dude that normally wears such a coat. Overly drunk and intimidating homeless people, damaged discharged soldiers including John J. Rambo, or just people that are wearing the patterns to look tough, not fashionable. These folks dig camo, I was being disengenuous by wearing it.

Camo has been put on the “do not buy” list for me, along with prior missteps, which may or may not include patterned pants, sleeveless shirts, jeans with only one back pocket, and that one time I bought an all-over print Stüssy shirt at a non-age appropriate time.

[corneredsongs]

In April of 2012, I found myself in a place I normally hate being: Miami, Florida. I don't think anyone actually enjoys humidity, so I'm not going to bother saying I fucking hate it, but I actually function poorly in it, so I avoid it. Waiting on NYC subway platforms, feeling like I'm stuck in front of a hairdryer gives me panic attacks and makes me contemplate moving. Of course I'm never going to, but San Francisco sounds perfect when the temperature is in the '90s and I feel dizzy and dewy. 

There I was though, in my nightmare climate, wishing my Mediterranean heritage would somehow click in and stop me from sweating and feeling like I was stuck in a fishbowl, pounding cheap domestic beer in a concrete room, where I had an art show for Live... Suburbia!, the book I co-wrote with Max Morton. 

The space was done up to look like a shitty house party, with framed art and oversized blueprint output images hung high from the book. Several people, originally from other parts of America, talked to me about the punk flyers and photographs, all very polite, engaging, and interesting. One man was introduced to me as "Arthur" and immediately asked if I knew the score of the basketball game. I swiped at my phone and said, "Bad news, the Celtics are beating the Heat," assuming this Floridian was a LeBron sympathizer. 

"No way, that's great fucking news, I hate the Heat. I'm from Boston," he replied to my surprise, swaying back and forth with his arms folded. He started telling me about how he got out of punk rather quickly back in the '70s and became much more interested in the hip-hop scene and dance music, before becoming a DJ and getting into production. My boozy brain was able to put a few clues together and I realized that the bearded man next to me, was the same guy who played the "hero" in New Order's "Confusion" video. Yup, I was chopping it up about punk, basketball, and how much Boston sucks with producer Arthur Baker. 

This revelation shot a bit of sobriety into me, as I wasn't just talking to some random art fair walker, but a guy who shaped the sound of so many of my favorite songs and who New Order consulted when they wanted to get more "New York" sounding. I always assumed he was from New York and that he was kind of a much cooler version of Rick Rubin, but no... he was a Masshole like me and thankfully, wanted the Heat to fall to Paul Pierce and the good guys.

Wondering what the hell it was like to DJ in Boston during the early-'80s, I asked how hip-hop went over in the clubs back then, which of course wasn't too great and led to Baker relocating to New York City where "people dug cooler shit." The C's pulled off a playoff game victory, I forgot how fucking gross out it was and managed to not look like a sweaty pile, and despite almost destroying half of the prints a day prior during a packing malfunction, the show was a success, even though I cried on the plane during a movie so embarrassing, I'd never reveal the title publicly. 

No one needs to be told to listen to any Beastie Boys track, but Baker had a hand in creating this next song in 1985 with Burzootie that features MCA rapping over it. The Psycho Dust version HERE is even more advanced for the time and is worth a click too. So if you're a fan of Baker's work and don't mind MCA virtually yelling over it, dive into this rando one and hopefully it's not humid wherever the hell you are. 

[corneredsongs]

If you're an American male with an interest in music deeper than The Beatles and Grizzy Bear, you've probably had a confusing Krautrock phase. And there goes any potential female readership I may or may not have had. I say confusing, because really Krautrock is just a shitty term the British press made up for almost all the music coming out of Germany starting the late '60s.

I'm sure  the intention was to brand the electronic music and trippy new sounds emerging from the country then, but the point was to reject the past music of German and start fresh--a big rejection of pre-WW2 Germany. The thing is that when you put them side by side, bands like Amon Düül have nothing to do with Cluster at all, but they'll still end up in the same section of the record store, in front of a plastic divider with "Krautrock" written on it in marker. 

Of course Kraftwerk are one of the most important and recognizable bands of the genre, partially due to their mainstream success and also because they managed to stick around a long time. But before they were snarky robots, they kind of were on the jammier side of the spectrum, playing with Michael Rother and Klaus Dinger before they broke off and formed Neu!. So watch this and vibe out to the electro flute vibes before rejoining me. Yes, it's much cooler than most music Americans were making in 1971.

So why did I post a track from Radio-Activity and not the gem above that you hopefully clicked on? Because this is an underrated cut on an album that J Spaceman has cited as a massive influence ad infinitum and it's a track you need to hear. 

The whole thing I love about "Antenna" is that if you speed it up, it's one of the greatest dance tracks of all time, despite the Chipmunk vocals, but it's equally as perfect at it's intended tempo. Rather than continue to listen to my novice musings about Krautrock, just watch this BBC documentary. Some important things are left out, as with any doc, but it's a must see if you have any interest in any band of the genre. 

Oddly enough, the United States government has been epicly shitty for a long time, yet few musicians seem to have any intention of rejecting the history. Instead, we focus on emulating specific genres, from all over the world and meticulously replicating them. I'm not saying I'd like to hear a bunch of Millenials rigging up old flip phones and making bad electronic music with them, but it's odd that instead of pushing towards anything new, we're stuck in a retro/nostalgia spin cycle--one that we've been shortly after 9/11 actually. Don't worry, I'm not getting heavy, just pointing something out that we can move on from immediately.

The beat copy of Radio-Activity that I acquired in college, was one of those purchases that I felt like I was obligated to make. Someday in my quickly approaching 20s, some record snob would be flipping through my collection, letting out sighs of disapproval, and if I didn't have this one, he's most likely wonder why it was absent and think less of me. So yes, I felt like I had to buy this album, but it's also a classic that I ended up enjoying, so that worked out.

It also turns out that the pulsing, morse code beats and blips of the LP sound perfect in a perfectly square room constructed of cinderblocks, resembling a prison cell... or least what they portray them as in the movies and TV shows I've seen based in prison. A twin bed, posters culled from "free piles" in record stores, bad art, and some scattered clothes. I didn't really learn much about interior design in college and the lack of a simple living thing might have made the setting more cheery, but my record cell was actually perfect for listening to moody music, especially when you've suddenly gained weight from eating only french fries and pizza and realize that going to art school was the worst thing you could have done to your life other than actually following through with becoming a park ranger. I'm not shitting you, I was accepted to Unity College in Maine and considered doing the exact opposite of what I thought I would my entire life.

You could argue that I may have found peace and tranquility in the woods and lived a simpler life--one where I wouldn't be hit by a moving vehicle on 14th Street, which would have been kind of nice. But then again, the woods are dangerous as fuck and I had a childhood fear of being mauled by a bear, so that probably wouldn't have worked out either.

Fuck, what the hell am I talking about anyway? I hate getting dirty, I don't want Lyme disease, and part of the reason I didn't end up deciding to chase Yogi Bear, was I envisioned myself locked away in a treehouse with out a record player or even a store close in proximity to buy music at. Whatever, fuck the woods, please don't start a folk rock band, and jam this loud, especially if you're in a dorm room.

[corneredsongs]

It's Going To Sound Like This

DJ Anthony Pappalardo and DJ Jack McCready 

Tonight @ Over The Eight in BK

[corneredsongs]

No one needs a scholarly dissertation about Turkish psych-folkie Selda Bagcan... well actually there's a large percentage of the WFMU record fair lurkers that would have appreciated it at some point--probably before they got into Ethiopian Minimal Electro or something. If you want to get the background on Selda, just lurk the web or email her as her personal site has that info if you so desire.

This album is one I stumbled on in a bar during my horrific "Gin Phase." For those who don't know, gin turns me into a mix between Don Draper and Ric Flair. If you aren't getting the pop culture references or were born in the '90s and have no clue who The Nature Boy is, it's a combo of two cocky assholes, but one is a wrester with a "finishing move" and the other... I mean he's really good at being a prick. 

At that point when things feel fuzzy and the air pressure in a bar on a cold night feels like that of an airplane, sounds get familiar. Everything vaguely bounces around your ear cavity differently. Yes, this is because you're fucking drunk, but that's not a bad thing. For the most part, this is a good thing, as shitty songs by the Bee Gees or Staind become comical, tolerable, or "fun," but on the downside, hearing The Foo Fighters and Dave Grohl's overly emotive "third verse screams" can cause full on bar fights. 

This night was peaceful, despite the Hendrick's saturating my blood, beckoning me to run through walls like Bugs Bunny or just throw candle wax on someone. "Niye Cattin Kaslarini" came on, and if it didn't sound so '70s analog, I would have thought it was one of four million Sun City Girls songs that I haven't heard. Instead of being "that guy," I was able to spot the record sleeve and make a mental note of what was being played, instead of having to ask and either engage in a conversation about rare psych music that I have no interest in or be shut down and let the gin respond to the snark for me.

Much like any Cocteau Twins song, I really don't want to know what the hell the lyrics are or what they're about, the cadence, phrasing, and tone do enough. Besides, it's the worst when you find out something is about a mountain or some object, not this dramatic incident you're imagining in your head that could drive someone to etch sorrow only vinyl via magnetic tape. It was even a mild let down knowing the first line of the song when translated is "Why did you knit your brows." Uhg. 

For whatever reason I chose to write "Selda" in fairly ornate block letters on a Bud Light coaster and stuffed it into my coat pocket, only to be discovered about ten months later, along with a movie stub and a 5 dollar bill. I should remember what the movie was, since I never go to the movies and don't like movies, but I do remember being psyched on the fiver because no one in Brooklyn takes credit cards for anything--it's smart to have a business, yet deny potential sales--and this meant I could get coffee without a trip to the ATM. I was impressed at my typography skills on the Selda Coaster and kept it in my pocket for a few years, eventually throwing it out after a purge of "dumb shit that reminds me of drinking gin."

For a good portion of my life, I hoarded. Receipts, sentimental match boxes, backstage passes, action figures, magazines, rubber bands, rings that don't fit, yellowed T-Shirts that once were white and fit properly, stickers, and just random shit. I even had this habit of always buying some plastic thing out of random gum ball machines when I stumbled upon them with exact change--only exact change. This leads to having a lot of weird shit, that's ultimately just that: shit.

I'm not coming down on the little things we hold onto for the sake of memories or whatever, I just have a problem and overdo it, and if left to follow whatever natural impulses my brain fires off, would keep the lint in my pocket that I found when someone held a door for me or something.

Keep things, I'm not going to stop you. It's actually a good time to think about things, as we all probably got "things" during the last few months of 2013. Appliances, unsurprising books that you requested, and hopefully something thoughtful that makes up for how fucking crazy everyone gets during the holidays no matter how sane they actually are or little they care about them. That's the shit you'll keep and should keep, along with the other things you acquire the other 11 months of the year that give you that little shot of happiness and slight sting of nostalgia when you pull them out. 

I'm pretty sure a copy of Eating Animals or a BluRay you knew you were getting doesn't have the same punch. 

[corneredsongs]

Year end lists, inflated plans, high expectations, low deliveries. We all get trapped into celebrating time at the end of the year and reflecting on the 52 weeks that just past, deciding if we had a “good” or “bad” year. I don’t need to talk about this anymore, as we all know the deal with this ritual right? 

By now your hangover has subsided and you’re sifting through emails, scrolling through the last embers of NYE in your social media feeds, and looking forward to whatever is going to happen in 2014. Reality was suspended momentarily, but now we’re back to credit card bills, utilities, interoffice conflict, and our day-to-day shit. BUT—this is a big but folks—we raged for a night and some shit happened… or maybe nothing at all.

For every negative we place on this night each year, you have to admit—the biggest NYE haters included—this theoretical “reset” does feel kind of good. Even if your night consisted of a bad house party that ran out of booze too early, with some prick dogging all the salsa, that little moment of “phew” means something. Maybe it’s not some romantic movie scene moment or even the modest triumph of drinking all night and not puking, but isn’t life about the little victories? OK, I say that because we all can’t ball out 24-7 like a high paid athlete or socialite, so just don’t ruin the concept. If you’re reading this site, you’re probably familiar with this Brian Eno track. Perhaps you’ve played it hundreds of times, put it on mixes for someone you enjoy, or thought of covering it with your band, but never really executed. The reason for a an entry for “Here Come The Warm Jets” is simple: it’s triumphant.  Just like an average NYE itself, the song is a slow build to a small, but poignant payoff. The vocals swell in as the drums slap around and it doesn’t even really matter what’s being said. Like the buzz you have as the ball drops, the song is just saying whatever you want. Maybe it’s “We’re over 2013, know what I mean?” or “Over there, somewhere, we’re all away and it’s another day”… it doesn’t really matter.

I’m on a long streak of predicting what song I’m going to hear wherever I am when the clock strikes midnight on NYE. This year I went two-for-two, guessing that the cliche DJ aka ClicheJ, would warm the room up with “Blurred Lines” and then really bring the house down with that shitty Daft Punk song about getting lucky or whatever. When this happened in the exact sequence I predicted, I looked and felt like a psychic god, but in reality, it’s a fairly easy thing to guess.

About ten years ago I was in a DUMBO loft—if you aren’t from New York or familiar with terms realtors invent to make neighborhoods sound cool, all you need to know is DUMBO is a part of Brooklyn that once sucked, but now is desirable. Basically it’s a place that exists on Earth. There I was on a fairly frigid night, drinking, celebrating, and acting Zery (that’s short for Losery). As we inched closer to the dawn of the newest of years, things got a little less calculated than most of my NYEs. Instead of the person in charge of the music playing the “song of the year,” he chose to drop this and I lost my mind. I then decided it was appropriate to run around, smash a champagne bottle on the wall and demand that he play T.I. “What You Know.”

If you’ve ever DJed, you’re aware this is the musical equivalent of sneezing or coughing in someone’s face on the subway without covering your mouth or saying “sorry.” Surprisingly, homeboy was drunk/cool enough to not only agree to my request, but high five me and say “Fuck yeah bro.” So there I was holding the stem of the smashed bottle in my hand, essentially forming a stabbing device, loving the transition from Eno to Clifford, shooting people with my free hand and completely in my own weird world.

I don’t even know if that qualifies as a “good” New Years Eve, but I do know “Here Come The Warm Jets” is one of Eno’s best songs and “What You Know” is essentially “Hey Joe.”  

[corneredsongs]

Is forming a band the new form of mid-life crisis? Everyone has that friend who goes through something traumatic and suddenly they're a few drinks deep telling you about how they're going to just "start playing music again and go on tour." With all the bands existing currently on Planet Earth, it does sound easily attainable, but as this song states "There's 600,000 bands." 

Sub in "brands" for "bands" or even "start-ups" and that's kind of where we are right now. Just check those "year end lists" we're being flooded with: there's plenty of shit out there my friends--emphasis on shit. This got me thinking about how unfair it is to go and form a band, haphazardly, without thinking about the strain this puts on your friendships. Suddenly there are new expectations on your personal relationships, so I decided to map out some simple guidelines for your new band ready to take the stage in 2014, that will help preserve the ties to the people you love and also prevent you from looking douchey.

DON'T TRY TO "MAKE IT"

Despite seeing those younger AND older than you achieving a level of success that your old band The Axels only aspired to, shit's not that easy. Just because you convinced that mildly attractive barista with Skrillex hair to assume vocal duties and your friend's friend lives in Brooklyn and has some label, doesn't mean you'll be headlining Coachella next year--maybe even on a cruise ship--or will find yourself in the middle of a major label bidding war. 

Just write what you like, because the likely hood is that you're going to be playing a lot of Tuesday night gigs with bands you'll grow to hate, but refer to as "really solid people!"

CHOOSE YOUR GIGS WISELY 

This one is tricky. You have a solid set, you're ready to play out as much as possible, and even have that Eno cover in your quiver in case the crowd feels you, but that doesn't mean you need to play constantly. House parties, strange opening parties, dive bars, that venue that "some guy" you know books, these are all tempting and you need to play to get somewhere, but step back for a moment and think. 

You're most likely going to blast out an invite to all your friends, because your new band is a BIG DEAL... even better than those pussies in Arcade Fire or even that manufactured crap people dig like Haim. We get it. So when you do hit us up, be ready to make us want to come back, because if you hack around, stop between each song, and mumble while addressing the crowd, it's going to be a while before anyone drops ten bucks to see you play the back of some bar with reclaimed wood and exposed brick again.

NO NAMES PLAYING ON OTHER EXISTING BANDS, PLURALS OF STUFF, OR WEIRD SPELLINGS

We're all over this one now right? Blue Sabbath Black Cheer, Darkside, SH!T CHVRCH, Journeys... it's been tough in the post-Wolf name era, but we can do better right? I've been waiting for a band to come out called The Beatle or The B3ach B0y. I mean... fuck, your name is your name, that's great and all, but please, no more recycled ones at least. Ultimately, it doesn't really matter, but it would be cool to not have to look at a name and feel uncomfortable like Woodenjjjennnn Shiji))))PPz or think, "Oh cool, I own four records by a band that's better with the same name, but I guess you can use it .. again."

DON'T TALK ABOUT YOUR BAND UNLESS ASKED

Until your new project is headlining the Toyko Megadome and it's your main source of income on your taxes next year, no one really wants to hear about the demos you just recorded, or this chorus you wrote after hearing a Steely Dan b-side. If someone asks you, then tell them everything, but don't use bit of conversation as a gateway to "rock talk." If you do choose to constantly talk about your conceptual band, please be aware that they laypeople around you might start talking about the minutia of their job, including industry buzzwords, acronyms for analytics, and interoffice personality conflicts.

MAYBE YOU SHOULDN'T START A BAND

I'm being ageist here and I'm fine with it. As Ian Svenonius, leader of the defunct Felt Letters, clearly states in the song "there's 600,000 bands... everybody wants you to listen to theirs, but you can't right now 'cos your listening to this." Sounds about right, he also goes on to let you know that "50,000 sound like Can," so don't even...

[corneredsongs]

We're going short and sweet on this one, as no one really has time to read something long from my brain today recalling some weird thing that happened to me and its tenuous link to a song I didn't write. Besides, your family doesn't know why you tap around on your phone like a 14-year-old girl anyway and I don't want you to get in trouble.

THIS listicle that just went live reminded me how much I like John Cale's Paris 1919 LP and the track "Child's Christmas in Wales." Then I immediately think about how much better I think Cale's form of "cool" was than Lou Reed's manufactured scowl and perma sunglasses vibe. That's about it really, but I would like to address the nature of these lists that have become a part of our world: they're just fucking lists.

No one making these things is doing anything but driving web traffic and getting ad clicks. In fact, the whole purpose--I've mentioned this before in another piece--isn't what's included, it's what's left out.

You'll send the link over to your friend and the email will say how dumb the writer is for omitting an obvious choice. He'll respond and CC someone with "really good taste in music" or whatever you're debating, and everyone but the people on the email chain will continue to profit from this--unless they are connected to the parties involved of course.

That's how "lists" work folks. They're just about sparking a discussion, inspiring other lists like "The 20 Best People Not Mentioned In That Other List," and someday we won't care about Buzzfeed's "13 Gifs of 13 Year Olds Blowing Out 13 Candles," and won't that be a better world?

OK, that's enough. Besides, I'm not going to write anything better than this lyric from Mr. Cale's song anyway:

With mistletoe and candle green

To Halloween we go

Ten murdered oranges bled on board ship

Lend comedy to shame

[corneredsongs]

If you were at the Hacienda on Christmas Eve in 1982, you'd probably still be asleep at 10 AM... or still partying, and you might have been one of the 4400 people that got this New Order flexi. It's not even remotely good, but I thought I'd share it's existence, as the concept (with a lot of FAC output) is a lot cooler than the product. 

From Factory "We can't remember if this was Xmas present to the Hacienda regulars or just a crazy idea. Certainly it involved taking a New Order piece that they'd recorded for a local TV Xmas special the previous year and making a flexi out of it. As far as we remember it was Beethoven's Ode to Joy, but we don't have a record player any more so we can't be sure."