From the apparently endless stack of Christopher Arnott’s 45s. We’ll be doing this for months to come.
Loudon Wainwright II, Jesse Don’t Like It/T.S.D.H.A.V. I understand he’s an elder folk statesman and sired the esteemed Wainwright pop progeny Rufus and, um, his sister. But for years I only appreciated Loudon Wainwright III as a novelty act. A smart one, assuredly. “Dead Skunk” hit when I was 11 years old, and this slice of political satire followed 18 years later, when I was a rabid anti-censorship activist in college. (The A-side here is a reaction to Sen. Jesse Helm’s crusade against government-subsidized controversial artworks. The initials on the flip side stand for “This Song Don’t Have a Video.” This single was cutting-edge for about 20 minutes.) Another 20 years, and Wainwrights was on the Judd Apatow TV sitcom. Look, I know I’m some important stuff here, but I just find the guy funny.
The Rake’s Progress, Salvation/It Never Dies. Wonderful band name—classical yet saucy. Plus this is a limited edition (mine’s #290 of 1000) on clear vinyl. Unfortunately, none of those things make it memorable. Straightahead rock riffing and yowling.
The Trip, Help Me/Captain Poland’s Bolero. The band name is way too obvious and simplistic, the punk-tinged neo-psychedelic music much less so. Actually suits the 45 format, which is more than you can say for a lot of sprawling neo-psych experimentatlists.
The Swingin’ Neckbreakers, Workin’ & Jerkin’/Good Good Lovin’. The violent, up-close face-squeezing cover photo that looks like a cross between the work of WeeGee and Stan Brakhage, neatly suits the explosive post-punk rockabilly vulgarity of this band, which visited New Haven clubs regularly in the ‘90s thanks to Paul Mayer of the similarly old-school Gone Native.
Stigmata a Go Go, Satan Comes to Dinner/Mote. There was a time in the ‘90s when the word “Stigmata” was as common in band names as, well, Jesus. At least this one puts religious iconography in its song titles as well. Fascinating thumpy instrumental workouts which deliberately don’t stray far from their repetitive riffs. More soundtracky than in your face (or spurting out of your hands).