Pop Evil, War of Angels
Bombastic, ‘80s-style hard rock, like metal used to be before hardcore and industrial got ahold of it. Scorpions surviving the apocalypse. The order of the tracks makes for for some amusing juxtapositions: the rhyming “Broken & Broken,” “Monster You Made”; the colorscape of “Purple” followed by “Black & Blue.” The band’s name, Pop Evil, does this chugging guitar rock a disservice, but song titles like “Black & Blue” and “Monster You Made” are at least reminiscent of stuff like the Black Sabbath/Blue Oyster Cult tours of the early ‘80s.
Monthly Archives: July 2011
An Ambridge Too Far
I just got around to writing about the Archers spin-off Ambridge Extra, and suddenly the BBC also-ran is on hiatus.
An announcement at the end of the 26th semi-weekly episode says it’s the last… for a while” and that it would return sometime “in the autumn.”
Ultimately, the show dealt with its disagreeable, unformed supporting characters by putting them all in the hospital. The fact that it was so easy to corral them shows how unconscionably uncluttered this show has been all along.
Rock Gods #143: Adventures in Our Little Music Scene
Study Blues McGee’s face and you see the scars of battle. The Rosicrucian nose. The bloodshot eyes. The sunken cheeks, the drooping eyelids, the furrowed brow. Even his ears are worn.
His neck has been arched out, then relaxed, so often that it’s formed into a thick ropey vine of veins.
Some rockers get leathery as they age. Some look like they’ve been pickled and curried in a vat or sour liquid. Others just wither.
Is Blues McGee going to beat us up for writing this? (He’s weak, but he can still whack with that axe.) We’re banking on no, because he’s written a song about his own decline: “Saggy Man Blues.”
Sample lyric:
I still hold my head up proud
Smoke and shoot and get right plowed
I lost an inch
I did not flinch
I’ve always been a raggy, craggy, saggy man.
We salute you.
For those who prefer their rock young and erect, Crowned Madonnas and Majestic Mosaics are at the Bullfinch, which kind of render Hamilton’s, D’ollaire’s and everywhere else irrelevant…
For Tomorrow We May Die: Diary of a College Chum #98
The potion works. I didn’t leave my bed all CBC day, sleeping it off.
Listening to…
Ted Leo has done a mesmerizing rendition of his song “The Sword in the Stone” for the online original rock video program Room 205. The show has its own production crew and has corralled such noteworthy acts as Soft Moon, Daedalus and Abe Vigoda to tape sessions. The Leo one has me pining for the casual appearances he used to make at such small rooms as Rudy’s or T>A>Z on his once-frequent tours through Connecticut over a decade ago. Besides “Sword,” the newspaper-lined Room 205 features Ted Leo ripping through “One Polaroid a Day” and “The Little Smug Supper Club,” in a a solo imposing-but-not-intimidating Buddy Holly stance.
The Little Ones
Two Saturdays ago I saw David T. Little’s contemporary classical song cycle Soldier Songs, in which a young boy is repeatedly choked, shot, bloodied and sacrificed for theatrical effect. The next morning at church, the scripture reading and sermon concerned Abraham and Isaac.
I found Soldier Songs, at least in its staging, to be overblown and largely unbelievable, but I did nearly weep during one of its calmer, most poignant moments, when the show’s key performer David Adam Moore, having exchanged his earlier camouflage grunt attire for a tatty business suit and loosened tie, sings a mournful ode to his son who died in a foreign war.
I’ve been a theater critic and music critic for half my life, but that’s been trumped by my main gig of the past nine years—Dad.
Images of dead children are especially horrific to parents, whose own children’s lives flash before their eyes every time they hear a squeal from another room in the house. In shows and novels (hello, Stephen King) endangered children have become an overused suspense device that it would be simply boring if these unimaginative authors weren’t toying with something genuinely horrifying to the rest of us.
Rev. John Gage at the United Church on the Green in downtown New Haven reminded me that coarse if effective tales of kids about to be slaughtered are as old as the Old Testament. But he doesn’t excuse it, condone it, or brush it aside as an awkward example of other cultures operating in other eras. He faces this absurd parable head-on and takes it down with logic, critical insight and cold satire. Rev. Gage’s sermon, titled Enough is Enough, is here.
Rock Gods #142: Adventures in Our Little Music Scene
The Punk Soliloquoy, based on something overheard at the Bullfinch:
Punkier than thou, are we?
I’m in college and you’re in technical college and you’re a high school dropout?
I have a lousy job and you don’t have any job and you’re a slave.
I smoke too much and you drink too much and you have a drug habit and you’re a crack baby and you died of an overdose.
You’re a ’77 punk and you’re an ’87 punk and you’re a ’97 punk and you’re the son of a ’67 punk or the grandson of a ’57 Teddy Boy.
So I don’t rate standing next to you watching some band in this toilet?
For Tomorrow We May Die: Diary of a College Chum #97
Gar mixed me a potion to ward off dead dog curses. Has lots of Triple Sec in it.
Listening to…
Fucked Up, David Comes to Life
Having a centered, lyrical band from Canada claim the name Fucked Up is just perfect. It’s like hearing a dirty joke told by your grandmother. The expectations are different. The whole experience is fresh. I hear the title “David Comes to Life” and i don’t think of some Frankenstein fantasy, I think Michelangelo.
Even when Fucked Up rip it up, they pace themselves carefully and enunciate every word. Their growling anger seems more like indignation than an incitement to violence. There’s always something in a Fucked Up song to balance your mood—an ethereal female voice, a crisp drumbeat, creative chord changes. The band is like all those New Wave bands who got umped in with punk in the early ’80s but weren’t. This is composed, controlled stuff, a pleasure to listen to. A rose by any other name. When they coin a new genre for this stuff, “Fucked Up” won’t be the phrase that springs to mind. “Up” may be enough.
Maron With Chillin’
When I got the go-ahead from the New Haven Advocate to write a story on Air America seven or eight years ago, back when that Leftist network first aired in the New Haven area, big names like all Franken, Janeane Garofalo and chuck D were the on air talent everyone else was looking to interview. The up and comer in our region was Rachel Maddow, not yet a national presence. Some were branded by previous accomplishments, like daily show creator Liz Winstead.
I chose to hang my story on Marc Maron. As the host of the wake-up slot Morning Sedition, Maron was probably the least well known, most overlooked host from Air America’s original celeb-studded ine-up. But I’d been a fan of his for at least five years at that point, from his frequent appearances on the 12:30 a.m. talk shows to his game-changing Off Broadway theater monologue Jerusalem Syndrome.
I thought Maron was the only host on the network doing something original and not just trying to ape traditional radio chat formats. Most of his Air America peers filled most of their airtime fact- checking and causing right wing radio, so much so that I started to feel out of touch because I didn’t listen to right wing radio at all myself. (Probably not the message Air American was trying to convey.)
Maron was creepy casual in his delivery, a real change from the brash, overconfident junk types you usually get on morning radio. His scripted routines were cerebral, his interviews challenging and wide-ranging. There was no false cheer. You really felt he’d just gotten out of bed with lot on his mind.
In our phone interview, he was as Frank and free-thinking as he was on the air, open and gracious. No condescension or leaping to conclusions.
When the article ran, several other air America shows, and some syndicated liberal talk shows not on that network, sent prissy missiles pointing out how they had higher ratings, or greater reputations. Made me even prouder to have given Marc Maron a little ink.
Maron’s Morning Sedition show got canceled, as did his second and third Air America programs. Then the whole network died. I lost track of Marc Maron for a while until he resurfaced on the iTunes podcast menu with his own self produced twice-weekly program WTF. The early episodes were hysterical. The pretaped opening announcement didn’t reflect that Maron was in the process of moving from New York to California, leading to confusion and consternation from his more geographically astute fans.
Maron would go so far with his ad libbed commercial breaks that you thought they must be parodies. Did he really hawk coffee by mentioning enemas and pooping?
When he started attracting regular guests, his nonchalance and recklessness was riveting. The interviews would go off on wild tangents. When the guests wondered how Maron would edit the rambles, he’d respond as if he’d never heard of editing. Such radio verite is pretty rare, even on low- budget podcasts.
Marc Maron’ s interrogations lead you to respect certain stand-up comedians in ways you never thought you would. Jim Gaffigan agonized that he would always be known for his “Hot Pocket” routine. Movie stars invited Maron into their on-set trailers and acted like regular guys who’d gotten lucky.
WTF quickly became one of the top shows in its format in its medium. Not like having a hit TV series, even on cable. Probably not even like having an Air America program. But especially given its daring content, Maron really crated something to be proud of. The guy’s obviously got an intense work ethic, too, since he’s kept up the pace for almost two years now.
Now Marc Maron’s getting the interviews and press attention and book and TV offers that largely eluded him when he was a hardworking stand-up comic and radio host. His podcast has defined him as not just a curmudgeonly commentator but a good listener and a gracious host. He’s appealing to fans who feel their support is deeply appreciated, and who send in contributions to WTF by their own free will.
This is the sort of Independence, freedom of speech, community agitating and, yes, sedition I’d like to honor this Fourth of July. Merry Marc Maron to all our readers.