Are We Not New Wave?—Modern Pop at the Turn of the 1980s
By Theo Cateforis (University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor, 2011)
Here’s a book that is incapable of answering the very simple question in its very title.
It doesn’t set workable definitions of “punk” or “new wave,” basically just wanting to write about the bands it wants to write about. In assessing an era of music that was largely defined by regional movements, college-prof author Theo Cateforis focuses instead on Devo (part of a thriving Akron industrial-town music scene in the 1970s) as an “art-school” band and The B-52s (from the fertile and diverse Athens, Georgia scene) for its camp-kitsch elements. This is a cosmetic gloss on music that runs deep beneath its surface. Cateforis also overstates critical reaction to these bands to prove his points
I’ve learned to be wary of overacademicized university-press books on pop culture. I should have known better about this one. I liked the candid, colorful Devo photo on its cover. I was surprised, given the Devo-coverage, not to see The Waitresses, Tin Huey, Pere Ubu or Rocket from the Tombs listed in the index, but checked Are We Not New Wave? out of the library anyway. The language will make your eyes glaze over, and you realize after a while that the only real problem evident in sections like “Power Pop and the Problems of Genre” are Cateforis’ difficulties fitting some of these bands into narrow and arbitrary categories—something he continually accuses mainstream critics of doing
Ultimately, you feel that this book centers on the most commercial and accomplished “new wave” bands because Theo Cateforis either wasn’t there or wasn’t paying attention while the movement was actually happening. Oh, for a real historically based, rather than theoretical, study of the new wave!

The Beanbag Chairs had another gig. Remember last time, when they emerged from beanbag chairs to play? This time, they had a merch table with their new album– How Have You Been, You Old Bag?–stuck inside the pocket of little homemade beanbags. A few of the bags ended up onstage, but in a nice way, with mash notes inside them. One of them read “Rage, Bags!”
The real rage came later, when The Beanbags were forced to clean up all those tiny Styrofoam beads from the floor before they could get paid.
The Deli Cats for two sets at the Bullfinch. What its this, Hamilton’s?… The RoPi (you know who) and Sonny Blitt’s new band, Blitster, at Hamilton’s. What is this, the Bullfinch?…

I was the only one raking.

Fountains of Wayne, Sky Full of Holes
It’s wonderful, of course it is. Fountains of Wayne albums are too rare, too impeccably crafted to be anything less. But if there’s a quibble, it’s that I’ve listened to Sky Full of Holes several times through and it hasn’t spoken to me yet.

My initial discovery of this pure pop powerhouse couldn’t have between purer: an advance copy of their first album, with no prior hype top bias me. They had me from “Radiation Vibe”. When I got to interview them a year or so later, I learned they’d even lived here in New Haven for a short while, and had sublet an apartment from my favorite band of the time, The Gravel Pit.
I missed the first Fountains of Wayne show in Connecticut, a midweek affair at the El n Gee in London, but so apparently did everyone else; I recall Chris Collingwood telling me that they played that night exclusively for the club’s staff.
I did see Fountains of Wayne live several times since then in New Haven as their fame grew: at Toad’s Place, then at the New Haven Coliseum opening for Smashing Pumpkins, then back at Toad’s Place, where Collingwood referenced the Coliseum gig and a lot of people thought he was joking, since they’d just discovered the band. This was all before Fountains of Wayne made “Stacy’s Mom” a household name. (They should get a cut of every MILF porn website’s profits.)
In every album, Fountains of Wayne has spoken to a certain variety of disillusioned, socially awkward, suburban youth with uncertain future prospects. These are profound statements logically and emotionally on par with Brian Wilson’s hallowed “Don’t Worry Baby.” The new album hasn’t hit me that way yet. The loudest message on it is one I don’t really want to hear–” Richie and Ruben,” about a couple of lousy businessman through whom the song’s narrator has lost a lot of money. It all sounds painfully nouveau riche rock star. There’s probably a good reason why The Beatles never wrote a song about Magic Alex.

1. My Pet Lion, Juliana Hatfield. Not really about a pet lion. More allegorical, about inner youthful rage and desire.
2. My Pet Sally, Blink 182. “A long and skinny friend” who happens to be a salamander.
3. Puff the Magic Dragon, Peter Paul & Mary. Imaginary pets count.
4. The Dog Song, Nellie McKay. “Well, just go right to the pound/And find yourself a hound.”
5. The Monkees, I’m Gonna Buy Me a Dog. Micky Dolenz is an immensely appealing vocalist, even when he’d goaded into missing his cues by Davy Jones.

We wouldn’t have known if we hadn’t all rushed to the bar at the same time, but The non- woven sponges set at the Bullfinch caused several people in the crowd to experience a severe ringing of the teeth.
We’ve heard of jawdropping reactions, but this was downright painful.
The band was both apologetic and amused. They aspire to create sounds that reduce audiences to quivering limits of jelly. The mouth is not a bad place to start.
NWS plays again tonight in a masonic basement, worth astringedent and viscostat… Matrix bands and prompt pop at the Bullfinch, chewing the bubblegum… Micro Etcher and single bond at Hamilton’s; expect long instrumental breaks, since micro etcher singer Endo is indisposed… Fuji conditioner and the up and coming Bur Setups at Dollaire’s…

Signed up to rake leaves on campus for a couple of weeks.

Guano Apes, “Oh What a Night” video
Creepy name, creepy looking, creepy ‘80s rock obsessions, from captivity lyrics (“You’ve got to let me go”) to the stifling walls of drumsounds and backing vocals. Rocks itself right into a corner. Strangely fascinating, since this is a German band aspiring to be bygone American commericial pop, but mostly disturbing.

The Blues Brothers film (dir. John Landis, 1980) its being screened tomorrow night (Friday, 8 pm) on New Haven Green. The outdoor showing was rescheduled following the egregious rains of a few weeks back.
It actually would have been nice to see blues brothers in the rain. That film drips worth lot of things– sweat, beer, holy water, Midwestern lakes, smashed beer bottles…
I’ve been privileged to see blues brothers through many prisms. I remember viewing the original Saturday night live routines while in High school, and how this was one of the hyperphysicalized belushi bits I could really get behind. (never really dug the samurai.) the first blues brothers album came out while I was the music director of the high school radio station, and the buttons and stickers which Atlantic records aren’t along made me the envy of, well I don’t really know who. When my friend Hugh Mackay urged me to join him as a camp counselor at agassiz village in rural Maine, we worked up a Blues Brothers duet (me on harmonica. Hugh on vocals and somersaults; that was it) that brought the house down one dinnertime. In the 1990s, I re-experienced the Blues Brothers through the eyes of the besotted leaders of the local ska band revival. Now I’m keen to introduce it to my daughters, who already have some knowledge of vintage soul/R&B, and who don’t mind car crashes.
Addendum: The screening never happened that Friday. No screening at all. The event was a raindate for a cancelled attempt a few weeks earlier, but was listed in at least one online calendar, plus a friend had called City Hall and been told it was on. Very Blues Brother-ish to evade a show like that. I rented the DVD a few days later and my daughter Mabel, initially skeptical, quickly became a convert.

She was the dizzy, daffy lead singer. He was the smooth lead guitarist and main songwriter. He kept fooling around on her, yet they convinced themselves that theirs awas a romance for the ages. So, since every bar in town held a temptress for him (Hamilton’s hosted two), the couple decided to to move west and seek their fortune without distraction.
Whereupon he ran off with a young goddess at the first road stop which let them play. Thus Elly Orb abruptly became a solo act.
The rest is history—or a sitcom, depending on who you hear it from and how you choose to take it. Erstwhile hubby Henry Brown is stuck running a diner in the Midwest. He’s lost several lawsuits (and appeals) where he claimed credit not only for the songs on Elly Orb’s debut album but her entire persona.
Shame on Elly for not copyrighting her style and self sooner. Might have saved her some time at trial. Instead, she had to shlep into court and prove she was real, rather than a figment of her ex-husband’s imagination.
Did we say husband? One of Elly’s clever lawyers discovered that she and Henry were never legally married. A surprise to both of them (long involved story, that) but a welcome one to Elly.
Readers of gossip columns know this all transpired years ago. So why rehash it here?
Because Henry Brown is back in town. Not with a band, but with a brand of muffin, and a threat to upstage his ex-non-wife one more time.