I’ve been reading a lot about revolution lately—Jed Rubenfeld’s novel The Death Instinct, the new revised edition of Paul Krassner’s autobiography Confessions of a Raving, Unconfined Nut, the overthrow of the Nome King in Ozma of Oz…
And The Dirtbombs is the perfect soundtrack.
The Detroit-based band’s brand new album Party Store is the second half of a manifesto begun a decade ago with the unabashedly brilliant and influential instant indie classic Ultraglide in Black. (Wanted to make it sound like a ‘70s K-Tel collection there for a moment.) Both albums cover songs which helped form the eclectic tastes of bandleader Mick Collins (whose ‘80s band The Gories has already assured him a place in the punk history books), but the setlists are studiously constructed from lesser-known soul or R&B records. Ultraglide covers the ‘60s and ‘70s while Party Store partakes of the ‘80s. The differences in the eras are heightened by the selections: Ultraglide is full of fleeting frat-rock rave-ups such as “The Thing” (which belongs alongside Dave Clark 5’s “The Place” in the pantheon of willfully underdescriptive scene-setting singles) and the respectful Dirtbombs original “Your Love Belongs Under a Rock.”

Ultraglide covered one well-known hit, Stevie Wonder’s “Livin’ for the City,” but countered that atypical burst of familiarity with a cutting version of Thin Lizzy leader Phil Lynott’s “Ode to a Black Man,” a harmonica-blurting critique of contemporary pop that tells Stevie Wonder “I don’t want no songs for plants, I want songs for me.” Party Store pulls off a similar upset by letting the seminal 1981 Detroit techno track “Sharevari” (by A Number of Names) face off against a leisurely beat of a decade and a half later and a refined jazz background, Innerzone Orchestra’s “Bug in the Bass Bin.”

Which brings us back to revolution—the “Revolution #9” variety. Some fans might blanch at a punk band whose own opuses tend to average out at two and a half minutes lurching relentlessly through over 21 minutes of “Bug in the Bass Bin” (over three times the length of the original, including a two-minute overture that sounds like revving engines). For me, it’s the heart of Party Store—literally so, since it arrives midway through the album, but also because it strips to the marrow The Dirtbomb’s main conceit—that if a punk band strips everything down to drum and bass essentials, it means a whole different thing than when a funk or soul band does the same thing. I’ve pontificated for years on the glories of white-boy Northwestern garage band remakes of Motown or Stax hits—attempts which might seem misguided and awkward, yet end up laser-pointed into transcendent new directions. There’s no academic analysis in what The Dirtbombs do—they are as eager to get the crowd moving as were their funky forebears. They just have a different strategy, a different sense memory of the music, and aren’t afraid to impose it.

Lenny Kaye once described Malcolm McLaren’s culture-bridging album Duck Rock as “almost a theoretical work,” and I put the Dirtbombs diptych of Ultraglide in Black and Party Store on the same plateau.

The ultimate format for Party Store—a vinyl 12’’ three-disk set—is still a week away from release, as is the official CD release. But the songs came out on iTunes on Jan. 12, as if shoved angrily through the ether before they could be contained within a sleeve or jewel case. This is awe-striking ambient urban art of the highest, yet deepest underground order.

Excerpt from what we would have said had we been invited to speak at the Old Town Hall Meeting Room on Thursday for that “informational meeting” convened to settle the question of whether to permit rock music in the OTH auditorium.
Invited speakers who spoke included a busybody from the Board of Ed, an annoying alderperson or two and somebody who worked for the mayor (who was too bored to attend himself).
Our opening statement:
“Ladies—and oh, we see a couple of gentlemen in the back. Thank goodness for the gentlemen!
“We are here to represent rock & roll as a subject of serious merit, a topic so fraught and serious and sober that it be allowed to be seen on the hallowed stage of Old Town Hall. This is, after all, the same rarified venue where that kid played accordion that time. When such refined entertainments as polka bands, square dance hoedowns and capoeira classes transpired. Careful consideration must indeed be given. We know this because we ourself must practice due diligence in making the same treacherous topic suitable for readers of indiscriminate ages in a public newspaper every week.
Let’s break this brouhaha down.
The noise: Have loud bands ever played the hall? We saw a symphony here once, and it featured tubas and a gong. Most rock bands do not have either a tuba or a gong. If they have instruments as loud as a tuba or a gong, you can usually turn the volume down, unlike you can with a tuba or a gong.
The performers: We happen to know many rock performers. To us, they are not an abstract concept. They are a community. We know many of the specific musicians who are likely to want to play book shows here. Some are young and have unorthodox ideas, granted. But if they want to play in this city they must turn into some semblance of a sensible businessperson. There are currently only two clubs within their reach—The Bullfinch and Hamilton’s—plus a third which, to local bands, is like the castle on the hill: D’Aulaire’s. They need and want a new place to play, and will behave. The non-rock acts playing the Old Town Hall already tend to be much more demanding than young rock acts are likely to be.
Nevertheless, as you’ve gathered, these bands represent an extremely popular, ubiquitous artform. It is ludicrous, bordering on reprehensible, that at this late time, half a century after establishing itself as the major force in popular music, there should still be auditoria off-limits to it.
The audiences: Large, demonstrating their favorite musical form’s immense popularity. Excitable and passionate. Drunken, but only if you choose to let them drink on the premises. If you go that route, and it’s a profitable one, we’d suggest you set rules in the parking lot as well. In terms of boisterousness, overall, it will slight less rowdy than one of the Bingo Nites or Rotary Club Awards held here.
Oh, we’ve exceeded our allotted nanosecond? Well, fuck art, let’s dance.

Here’s where they do have bands, no waiting:
Chris Topsomo, T. S. Ourecki and Pitta combine for an early folk happy hour at the Bullfinch Wednesday. Pitta’s bringing her autoharp… Jule Kage, Kolach, Lusse (the final name change, they swear, for the embattled Lucy) and the Limpas (featuring members of Beer & Port) at Hamilton’s… Knacker and Catch Poorly rawk Dollaire’s…

Two college chums (one male, one female) walk into a beauty shop. An overmade-up saleswoman assists them.
“Are you shopping for someone?”
“I’m shopping for him,” Mar said, just to be silly.
“And I’m shopping for me,” said I, sillier.
“Wellllll…,” the salesgal mused. “All our men’s supplies are over here.” There was a single shelf. All the bottles were blue or brown, whereas the women’s shelves were virtual rainbows.
“Honey, it’s our school colors. Blue and brown,” Mar cooed.
The saleslady plucked a blue bottle. “This is our best seller.” It appeared to be a bottle of water. “Aftershave,” she explained. “A refreshing splash.”
“How is it refreshing?,” Mar queried. “I need to know.”
“It stings a little. It wakes you up in the morning,” the salesperson replied.
“It’s supposed to sting?” Mar behaved bewildered. “Doesn’t that mean it’s affecting his skin badly? That it’s not working?”
“Of course not,” said Ms. Sales, icily.
“May I try some?,” I politely grabbed.
“Of course. Here’s the tester here.”
Mar knew at once what would happen. This is why I love her.
I splashed and gave a pause for effect.
“YOOOOOWWWWWWW! AHHHHHHHH! HOOOOOOOOOLLLLY CHHHHHRIIIIIISSSSSTTTT!,” I said, slapping hysterically at my head.
It was actually quite a few seconds before we were asked to leave.
“Did I clear the store?,” I asked Mar.
“Of men, yes,” she answered. “Not hard to do.”
“You never give me the satisfaction, do you?”
“What’re you going to do about it—splash me?”

I ‘ve never gotten the knack of Google Earth and those other geological search services, but based on what I’ve been reading lately you could probably hone in on any grand desolate expanse of land—desert, icecap, mountaintop—and find a wailing godforsaken Marvel superhero there.
I don’t ordinarily keep close tabs on that particular universe anyway, partly because of that same exhaustive existentialism. If I want to read about a superpowered individual undergoing a spiritual test in the wilderness, it’s hard to beat the fourth chapter of Matthew, verses 1-8.
But a recent free sampler assortment of impending storylines, stuffed into my comic-store shopping bag on a recent Wednesday, shows inwardly directed
angst run amok in wide open spaces.

These are not the batcaves or fortresses of solitude found in more psychologically stable universes. These are last-ditch get-away-from-civilization-before-you-hurt-it dilemmas—though it must be said that with Power Girl battling clones in the arctic and Green Lantern’s galactically grandiose “Brightest Day” excursions turning out to be not all that brighter than his “Blackest Night”s, the DC universe needs careful psycho-policing as well. But heck, at least it seems more social.

Alas, comic books don’t get closure, only cliffhangers and spin-offs. And these frantic isolated self-examinations, which usually involve flying about madly crashing into stuff, never have the calm open-ended fade-out of, say, Waiting for Godot. Who waits for Magneto?

The New Generation Gap Nostalgia Revue’s tomorrow at Standard Auditorium. We don’t always acknowledge these old radio-hit rave-ups, but the NGGR not only is considered tops in the genre, but among its retirement-age ranks is Casey C(oo)K, father of the adorable Millie of The Model Marvels… The Dream Jobs and Financial Guru expand your mind, and your investment profile, at Hamilton’s… Boomerang Kids at the Bullfinch with Forced Super and Harvest of Gratitude…

I don’t even remember doing my homework, but here it is in front of me and I understand it.

Last Night’s Dinner

1. Pita bread
(variant on a recipe in the Laurel’s Kitchen Bread Book, where they refer to it as “pocket bread”): A packet of yeast dissolved in half a cup of warm water, added to three cups white flour, three cups whole wheat flour, two teaspoons salt and two teaspoons diastatic malt powder (which I get from the King Arthur Flour shop in Vermont), then inundated with over two more cups of water, a quarter-cup of sesame oil and a spoon or two of honey. (The honey and the sheer amount of oil is the distinction of the Laurel’s Kitchen recipe.)

Dough rises for ninety minutes or so, then gets punched down and rises another forty-five minutes, then gets pulled into over a dozen pieces to rise separately for ten minutes or so. You’ve got to roll them out quickly and cleanly to ovals of between six- and ten-inch across.

Some recipes suggest just chucking them on the bottom of the oven or right on the racks, but I’ve performed that little comedy routine to the point where it’s no longer funny—I use the same cast-iron pan I make pizza in, oiled a little.
My problem with pita, I now realize, has always been in the baking, not the dough-making. My oven (which, I assure you, is not your oven, being small and quirky and Sears-cheap, but still bears a lot in common with other ovens) has to be broiler-hot and you can’t peek for at least five minutes. You also have to put in just a few—four, say—at a time. You also have to sacrifice the first batch to test the heat and timing, so it’s probably a good idea to make that a small batch, though I always forget to.

2. A very quick soup: one can diced tomatoes, a teaspoon of curry powder.

3. Avocado Hummus
(from Linda McCartney’s World of Vegetarian Cooking, with tiny variations. My wife makes fun of me for regularly referring to Linda McCartney by her maiden name, Linda Eastman, which I always do when I don’t think twice to correct myself. But I was the kind of ‘60s rock baby boomer who was aware of her as a photographer before she became a Beatle wife, and it stuck. This cookbook was a wedding gift to us from another Beatlefan, Hank Hoffman.)
A cup of drained cooked chickpeas are mashed in a bowl along with a tablespoon of tahini, one lemon-full of lemon juice, a quarter cup of plain yogurt (we make our own, which I guess is a cooking blog for another time), three tablespoons of olive oil, one crushed clove of garlic, two ripe avocados, salt and pepper and parsley. All whipped to within an inch of its green blobby life with my ever-handy Cuisinart Smart Stick. (A Father’s Day gift. Then, when I wore that one out, a birthday gift.)
It’s really good just like that, but when I had it for leftovers for lunch today I was inspired to add some of the diced tomato/curry soup to it and it was even better.

4. (I actually made a whole other hummus as well, a roasted red pepper one, but writing about it now just seems piggy so I’ll pretend I didn’t make it after all.)
5. Cabot Three-Year Extra Sharp Cheddar Cheese. I have it on good authority (a woman giving out free Cabot samples at a county fair) that this is the sharpest of the famed Vermont-based Cabot cheeses. I am also partial to Cabot’s Hunter’s Seriously Sharp and Racer’s Edge varieties (especially their names, which conjure up images of hunters with sharp spears prowling the woods for milk-laden cows, and of NASCAR drivers trying to wolf down crumbly cheese sandwiches whilst they zip around the track.

6. Slices of carrot, red pepper, mushrooms and onions for dipping or making into sandwiches with the pita and hummus.

7. Homegrown sprouts of speltberries and mung beans. (A surefire kitchen science project for kids that actually has some benefits afterwards as food—something you can’t say for cornstarch clay.)

8. A package of Yves’ Veggie Cuisine brand Meatless Deli Ham—protein for my daughters, who still fear hummus.’

9. Basmati rice. We eat a lot of brown rice around here, but I just like how Basmati LOOKS. It’s so thin and neat and clean, like Jerry Seinfeld’s concept of gay people.

10. Apple cider.

Fuse, classical fusion cat from the music school, has not seen daylight for a month. He got this gig adding vocals and strings to a mysterious underground indie project, and now it seems they won’t let him leave.
These classical gassers all think they’re the best in the world—creativity plus discipline, y’know. But few bandleaders know what to do with ‘em. Well, apparently, there’s one act out there who’s doing more than scribbling out a few quick string parts.
Pluto Studios has been booked for a month solid, all hours of day and night. Fuse is one of the few outside musicians allowed in, apparently.
Whose project is it? Fuse won’t give up a single detail. We think we know, but even if we were positive we wouldn’t tell you. Yet. Wrong season for rich, beautified blooms of creation. This is the season for dead veg. But hey, we’ll keep you posted.

Sheaf has grown since the Moss Valley Harvest Festival, adding two members and, uh, playing places other than harvest festivals. The rise Tuesday at the Bullfinch, with Scottish Morning and soda bread… Lardy rocks Hamilton’s with Malted Current and singer-songwriter Barney Bannock… Psychedelic folkies Bana Brith and Split Tin, in some ways a harbinger of where Sheaf may be heading, headline an “artisan folk fest” Sunday at Dollaire’s, with Cornish Saffron and Top of the Pots (which sounds druggy, but is really a Welsh rural folk act)…

Signed the lease!
Went shopping at the big eat low cost discount supermarket warehouse outlet save-a-ramalamadingdong.
Bar got a case of macaroni and cheese.
Car got a case of taken noodles.
Mar got a case of chicken a la king.
Lar got a case of saltines. I got a case of creamed corn. Pooled what we’d “saved” and bought a saucepan and two six-packs.
We are home.

“Old, weird and boring! Old, weird and boring!”