Poor Boy’s Soul, Burn Down (early November)
Poor Boy’s Soul bills itself as a “one man foot stomp’n band.” Its sole member’s name is Trever Jones. He’s just been arrested (not for the first time, apparently) for hopping a freight train. Yet his is not what I think of as “railroad blues”—that chugging locomotive rhythm often punctuated with harmonica. No, this album starts more in the chain-gang blues mode. “Burn Down That House” is slow and pessimistic, with a singalong chorus. “Moving to the City” is much sprightlier—is that a tambourine there? With his petulant poetry of the moment, Poor Boy’s Soul is as reminiscent of post-Expressionist European singer-songwriters like Kevin Coyne as it is of trad blues. That said, Trever Jones has certainly got his guitar slides and vocal growls down pat.

Ugly Things magazine, for many, could seem as unwelcomingly obscure as a bad acid trip. There’s no easy entry for some into an annual periodical which devotes a ten-page feature to the ‘60s freakbeat band Wimple Winch, and then leaves you hanging because that’s only Part One. Wimple Winch’s reputation is based on three singles, released within an eight-month span of time 45 years ago.
The other way to look at this, of course, is to praise such obsessive scholarship to the tangerine-colored skies. Bands such as Wimple Winch seldom got the coverage they deserved, and the most popular bands mentioned in Ugly Things were chronicled in their heyday only by fan mags such as 16 and Tiger Beat. A lot of wild stories never got told. Ugly Things pulls musicians out of decades of hibernation and grills them about the specifics of things which the artists, given the tenor of the ‘60s, have no right even to remember.
Twice in this issue, it’s mentioned how unfair it is that Paul Revere & the Raiders haven’t been seriously considered for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the presumption being that the band’s tricorner hats and other Revolutionary War comically undercut their otherwise superbly rocking manner. I am in full agreement—if Jimi Hendrix could dress the way he sometimes did, the Raiders (whose ruffled shirts and piped jackets weren’t that different than Stones and Beatles uniforms of the time) have nothing to be ashamed of. But the greater argument is the attention Ugly Things gives to the Raiders in the final years of the band’s time with Columbia Records, when the band rebounded from a dive into obscurity by delivering “Indian Reservation” (the biggest selling single in the label’s history, its sales record not to be broken until Michael Jackson a decade later), then back into obscurity due to Columbia’s disinterest.
Massive international hit records such as “Indian Reservation” aside, Ugly Things is more about also-rans and alternate histories than it is about the victors. The new issue chronicles an underappreciated Raiders era, but also profiles Brotherhood, a band formed by several defectors from The Raiders. It also has an unconnected article on Don Fardon of The Sorrows, who happened to have the bigger European hit with “Indian Reservation.”
Some intentional, many not, coincidences of time, place and sound swirl about every issue of Ugly Things. The magazine uncorks a spirit that I could use more often than once a year. Luckily, when I’m done reading this phone book of a freak beat periodical, there’s always its soundtrack—all those cool old records they write about—to rediscover.

The annual Christmas Tree Lighting on New Haven Green last Thursday. We walked over after school, but not soon enough. The lines were so long that even Sally wasn’t going to endure them just to ride a mechanical yak around a flagpole. Make that halfway around a flagpole—the lines remained long, but the actual ride had been drastically shortened. The carousel would’ve been a better bet, but we didn’t even do that, let alone troop through Santa’s cottage.

It was nice to see electric candles glowing in the windows of United Church on the Green. This is the church we have belonged to for over six years, so in our case the lights in the window were not attracting our wandering souls as much as they were reminding our parched throats that hot cocoa and peppermint candy canes could be had in the narthex.

1. “Gimme a Little Sign,” Brenton Wood. For all the occupiers carrying little signs.
2. “In the Pines.” AKA “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?” You could read this as an adultery blues, but it’s more open-ended than that. Leadbelly popularized it in the 1940s, and Nirvana taught it to Leadbelly’s listeners’ grandchildren half a century later.
3. We 51 Say You 49, The Furors. New Haven’s frenzied yet friendly alt-rock duo deals with the fine lines of democracy and mob rule.
4. “It’s a Liberty Walk.” Miley Cyrus stretches into rap and Madonna styles, to preach the value of integrity and nonconformity. The video consists of footage from Occupy movements nationwide, including disheartening scenes of tear-gassing and shoving.
5. Stick to the Status Quo, High School Musical soundtrack. Disney rockers have written activist movements anthems before. A song about how hard it can be to stand up for your rights and tastes in a classist society, which ends up showing a lot of communal support for the notion of independent thought.

I was in Boston twice last month, and both times took a quick stroll through the impressive Occupy encampment at the foot of the financial district. A civilized and upbeat bunch, despite being hammered with court challenges and eviction threats. Lots of music, debate and information.
Occupy Boston even have their own newsprint newspaper, The Boston Occupier. Front-page stories on the four-page Nov. 18 edition were “Survey Reveals Occupiers’ Values,” “Occupy Wall Street Evicted by the NYPD” and “Gandhi Statue Finds Home at Occupy Boston.”
Occupy Boston is getting good play in the city’s newspapers, especially in the Boston Phoenix, which seems positively reenergized by this youthful insurgence. The movement has attracted old media and created its own media. That, to me, is the best thing about Occupy—whether or not people have trouble parsing or detecting its often vague messages and edicts, it has created an entire new platform for expression.

There are several lists of “Thanks” songs out there (though I haven’t found “Thank You Falettinme Be Mice Elf’ on any of them), so I thought I’d do “Giving” instead.

Give Me Just a Little More Time, Chairman of the Board. Begging for a few more seconds on the clock, a perfect anthem for a day on which football is avidly played.

Simply Beautiful, Al Green: “If I gave you my love, /I tell you what I’d do /I’d expect a whole lotta love outta you.” This long just melts me, despite its arguably selfish intentions. Its romantic negotiations actually get rather complicated, despite the simple luscious chorus “simply beautiful” repeated a billion times.

Give It to Me, J. Geils Band. The cowbell percussion was to have some bad influence on future jam bands, but overall the J. Geils Band were tight and focused, not solo-hounds, a lesson in not overstaying at the party.

Simple Gifts, composed by Elder Joseph Brackett. The Shakers constantly came up with new music and artworks as vehicles of praise. They weren’t looking to build a canon, and most of their creations were considered disposable. The melody has endured due to the keen ears of Aaron Copland, Michael Flatley (by way of Sydney Carter),Weezer and others. “Simple Gifts” has been a gift to contemporary classical music, Christian folk masses and radio pop. What must it have sounded like when first sung at a spirited assembly by the controversial “Shaking Quakers”?

The Riddle Song (I Gave My Love a Cherry), Animal House soundtrack. When Steven Bishop plays this on the staircase of the fraternity house, John Belushi s grabs the guitar and smashes it into smithereens against the banister. I always wondered how those who understand such high musical standards and passions as to craft that joke could even have allowed the insipid singer/songwriter Steven Bishop onto the set. How Belushi reacted to Bishop’s as a bad folksinger is how I react to Steven Bishop albums.

Marvin Gaye, Got to Give It Up. Became more profound after Gaye’s subsequent songwriting work became more spiritual.

Madonna, Give Me All Your Love. The new current Madonna single, Greedy and garrulous, with a Toni Basil new-wave spin that Madonna eschewed herself as an ‘80s pop artist.

The Who, A Quick One While He’s Away. “You are forgiven.. forgiven forgiven forgiven…” Great family-based bombast in Townshend’s first rock opera.

Tenniscoats, Oetsu to Kanki no Nanoriuta (Given Song by Sob and Joy). I discovered Tenniscoats via their collaboration with one of my favorite bands, The Pastels. Winsome and whimsical, their bare-bones lo-fi approach is something I can’t stand in a lot of other bands but which I’ve come to appreciate through them. Thanks for that.

Keb ‘Mo, Hand It Over. Bluesy, prayerful and demanding: If your problems
won’t go away/ and you’re worried/ both night and day/ hand it over/ get on your knees and pray.

Gimme Dat Ding, The Pipkins. It’s a mystery why The Pipkins were a one-hit wonder band. Gimme Dat Ding is so obviously ripe for sequels and spin-offs! “Gimme Dat Other Ding.” “Gimme Dis Ding.” “Take Dat Ding Back.”

Indian Giver, 1910 Fruitgum Company. A true Thankgiving carol about racial misrepresentation, cultural stereotyping and neighborly relationships laced with suspicion. Covered by The Ramones and Joan Jett.

Sonny Blitt has been borrowing bands as if they are cups of sugar.
He attaches his name to the front of them, has them learn a few of his old Blats songs, leaves the stage so they can play a few of their own tunes, then brings them to Hamburg and—no, we made that last bit up.
Sonny’s done three of these shows now, with three different pick-up bands. He insists the variety is intentional, that this is another of his conceptual experiments in modern club music. This may be true, but the band members we spoke to haven’t seemed happy to repeat the “experiment” themselves.
“It’s not that he’s a taskmaster. He’s not,” says Ginger Jimi of the Lezzie Fairies, the first band to accept the Blitt challenge. “He gave us recordings and we had to rehearse and then he turned up for soundcheck.”
“You can’t call it collaborative,” echoes Jo Stunk of The Stunkbugz. “I’d love to write songs with Sonny. He’s just not interested. ‘Don’t call me with any changes,’ he told me.’”

Request Wisdom and Building, Furnishing and Dedication at the Bullfinch… Second Appearance and Military Commercial Activity at Hamilton’s; veterans get in free… The Ark Brought In and Leverett Street Jail at D’ollaire’s, but they’re not allowed to use the Theremins since the low-flying plane incident…

Brought a 1940s bartending guide to the Hammer and had them make the oddest cocktails. Distracting.

Doldrums, Empire Sound.
This is the kind of raw yet thought-through stuff that invariably knocks me out. It reminds me of a couple of my fave rock gods, Chris Butler and Chris Mars, not to mention Harry Nilsson at his most larynx-shredding. Snips, screams and screams keep the energy up. The beeps and boops of a landline phone dialing open “Life in My Head,” and it’s mesmerizing, especially when the tune then goes unexpectedly tribal.

The magnificent Michael Moore visited Hartford Friday. I couldn’t go (there’s coverage in the Hartford Courant, if you’re curious, here), but the stars otherwise seemed properly aligned for a top-notch event. The sponsor was Hartford’s Mark Twain House, whose support for contemporary political satirists befits the legacy of its prime resident Samuel Clemens. The venue was a big auditorium at the University of Connecticut. Most importantly, Moore had put aside his distaste for Connecticut (based on policies and proclamations of former Senator Joe Lieberman) and was visiting for the first time in a while.

Instead of the high-energy rally buzz of a Moore live show, I’ve been reading his new book Here Comes Trouble. It’s his most reflective, most vulnerable, most heartwarming book, a big switch from his usual manuals on how and why to get mad at the government. Here Comes Trouble is a sensitive memoir about how Moore was first inspired to rouse rabble. Through understated anecdotes marking small yet significant shifts in his consciousness, we see a radical get radicalized. Moore explores the differing cultures (or lack thereof) in his Michigan neighborhood. He recalls, with admiration, the first homosexual person he remembers. As a seminary student, he gets in trouble for asking too many questions. By the time he reaches adulthood, he has entrenched values, and the stories become about him maintaining them. But even though the book starts with his adventures while winning an Academy Award, and notes his extraordinary success, this is not a rags-to-riches or how-I-got-famous tale. It’s about how Moore stayed grounded, didn’t forget his roots, and still fights for the rights of the unwell-off.

I’ve found Michael Moore’s other books to be exhausting, studded with bumper sticker catchphrases and propulsive jokes. This one is more in a Garrison Keillor or Sherwood Anderson mode, about the complications and revelations of everyday life in overlooked places.

“Get Blitzed,” reads the cover of the Harvard-Yale Game edition of the Yale Herald. Considering that the main “Blitz” of the weekend was death and injury due to a rented van reportedly carrying kegs to a fraternity tailgating party, it’s fortunate that this issue of the Herald basically didn’t go beyond that cover phrase in endorsing excessive partying during The Game.

For the past several years, the Harvard-Yale game has been preceded by a slew of articles in the Yale student press complaining of how the university administration has been cracking down on partying opportunities.

In the years when Harvard has hosted the game, Yale has derided its rival for its Draconian clampdowns on tailgating and drinking. Yale’s own efforts to control the mood outside the stadium have gotten steadily more serious, but not as severe as Harvard’s. It will be interesting to see how it’s handled from now on—and whether “blitzed” will ever return in a Game headline.