CD Review: Randy The Band

The music you put on in the morning sets the tone for the rest of your day. Wake up in a bad mood and put on something maudlin like Lou Reed's Berlin and your day might be ruined by depression. Put the Dead Boys on and you might find yourself wanting to beat up the first hippie you see. Fugazi could make you beyond earnest. Talk radio might produce signs of schizophrenia. I've been listening to Randy The Band almost every morning for a month now and the results are always the same: pure happiness. Randy The Band's melodic noise is a regular punk rock Prozac.

Punk rock is old enough now as a sub-genre of a genre that one shouldn't expect anything new or revolutionary out of it. Randy The Band is no exception to this. Once ascertained that the construct hasn't been exploded one is left to just the songs themselves. I'm talking pure American Bandstand "I'll give it an 8 because you can dance to it" analysis. There are some token socialist tracks polluting the waters, but the real joy of this album is in the melodic songs that swim through the consciousness of the listener with an endearing surface buzz. There's some intriguing ideas under the water, but Randy The Band's songwriting chops gives the listener the choice of whether they want to dive to the depths or just enjoy the ride up top.

"Punk Rock High" kicks the album off with a blast. Even if the school of rock idea isn't all that new (cue Yo La Tengo video, Jack Black movie and so on), Randy The Bandy make it sound fresh and fun from the basic Chuck Berry underpinning all the way to the brief snatch of Brian May style guitar. A punk by the numbers song like "Razorblade" is almost as good as the masters, but it's "Better Than Art" which is a minor masterpiece mishmash of influences. There's Rancid on the verses and skinny tie New Wave on the choruses that proclaim "I like music better than art."

"Evil" is a gas with its definite Misfits kickback cool. "Bahnof Zoo" is the catchiest cut on the album with the eternal theme of youth versus their parents. It's timeless pop punk that could fit in any era and there's a special twist beneath the bouncy exterior. It takes its name from the notorious book by Christiane F.: Wir Kinder Von Bahnof Zoo. So basically Randy The Band is saying that kids like to do drugs. There are some rote anthems for punk rock Commies to sink their teeth into along with a speed metal rockabilly foray "Teenage Tiger", but the album falters for most of its second half.

The coda of the song "Promise" signals a return to strength. "The World Is Getting Bored" confirms it with a 2nd verse that lets the major music moguls have it:

The kids these days are fed up with the music industry
They don't care about the product so they download their music on mp3
This is what you get when you get too greedy for too long
The kids don't want your plastic box no more they just want the songs

And in the end the song is about much more than downloading as we hear "Who decided that we have to live like this? Together all alone." It's some nice existential angst to cap off an album with a winning percentage that's around .700.

Randy The Band - "Razorblade"
courtesy Fat Wreck Chords

House Quiz

I answered the questions in a way that would guarantee I would end up as House, my latest television addiction; a very House like thing to do, don't you think.

Take the quiz:
What House M.D. Character Are You?

Dr.Gregory House
You are the king of medicine! You are mean, snarky, and downright brilliant. People admire you, and sometimes think your a total bastard. Oh well, you dont really care.

Love Monkey Jill

Nashville expatriate Jill has landed a job in "visual" A&R for a music label out in LA. While nominally opposed to major labels I have encountered some perfectly decent folks toiling for them so congrats to Jill. That label better treat her nice or they'll have some ticked off Nash Vegas cowboys coming to visit.

Poptionary

Todd A has a new internet project up. It appears to be a pop culture dictionary. It's called Poptionary and it looks promising.

Chapelle Show Parody Come To Life, Sorta

Dave Chapelle had an outrageous skit about a black white supremacist on his show. Now it appears the skit wasn't too far removed from real life. Except in this case, the black man was investigating the hate mongers.

It's The Eighties Out There

1985 was a big year for me. I graduated high school. I started college. But bigger than those events was Vanderbilt's radio station, WRVU 91 Rock, increasing their wattage. Where once I had to struggle to barely receive their signal; suddenly I could pick up the station throughout Rutherford County. I'd listen to it everywhere I drove and tape the station when I was at home. Those cassettes often contained some great songs by local Nashville artists. I recorded the station on cheap tape and most of them either broke or were lost. So I figured I would never get to hear some things ever again.

Modern technology to the rescue. I've found mp3's of a couple of my favorites from back then. I really liked Tom Littlefield's band The Questionnaires before they signed a major label deal which saw them release a couple of over produced albums. Their demos were much better. "Red Tears" was one that they re-recorded for their debut and it just got the life sucked out it. The original version has a walking guitar line that really adds some charm to a lyrically strange tune (the dude's crying metaphorical blood, jeesh) that is pure honeydew power pop. "Slug City" was the song by them that I liked best. Apparently an homage to the city of Smyrna, TN; its a great "Surf City" ripoff that I would always crank the volume up on.

The Wayouts were another 91 Rock staple and I didn't know anything about them. They must have broke up before the wattage increase. I recently learned that Jeff Cease was part of the band. He later played in Rumble Circus (perhaps a more mature Wayouts?) before joining the Black Crowes for a spell. He also played in Rayon City Quartet a few years back. "Do You Think I Care" by the Wayouts is great simple rock and roll with a little bit of a punk snarl to it.

The mp3's are dubbed from old 91 Rock carts so the sound qualtiy isn't the best, but it's close enough for rock and roll.

The Questionnaires - "Red Tears"

The Questionnaires - "Slug City"

The Wayouts - "Do You Think I Care"

Thanks to Allen Sullivant for the mp3's.

Anti-Society 1968

I did a fanzine during the 90's called Anti-Society. I've put the first two issues up previously. Issue 1 can be found here. Issue 2 can be found here. Here is issue 3: Anti-Society 1968. The 1968 refers to the French riots of that year which were fueled in part by the Situationists group. Everything was written by me under various pseudonyms, except for DD Blank's parlor game. Just click on the pics to make them readable.

Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting

Martial arts was the thing when I was growing up. There was Bruce Lee, Jim Kelly, Chuck Norris, and Sonny Chiba. There were the Billy Jack movies and the Kung Fu televison series. Even Elvis was into the martial arts. I always wanted to take a kung fu class, but my parents's work schedule wouldn't have allowed it even if they had had the money; which I doubt they did. So all of my encounters with the martial arts are from the sidelines.

First it was through television and movies. Billy Jack was a must see movie for me and my grammer school friends. The Kung Fu show was okay, but the fighting was too sparse for us. Bruce Lee films were the ones that meant the most - especially Enter The Dragon. The ability to summarize Lee's works and life added greatly to your standing among other 5th and 6th graders. It might be hard to believe that our parents would let us watch kung fu movies even when edited on television, but most of us were latchkey kids so we watched whatever we wanted.

I had an older cousin who was a black belt. Ronnie was the older brother of Fat Sammy from Ripley, Mississippi. He attended Mississippi State and I guess he got into karate there. I never got to see him compete, but he won a room full of big trophies. I rarely got to see him since after he graduated college he moved to Florida. There were several photo albums full of pictures of him fighting. Whenever I'd visit my aunt's house I'd pore through the photos while listening to records Ronnie had left behind (Led Zep's Physical Grafitti usually). I once asked Fat Sammy what he would do if Ronnie ever tried to use his karate against him. Sammy just pointed at the corner of the unused dining room to a propped up shotgun in the corner. Leave it to the always cynical Fat Sammy to cut karate down to size for me.

Fat Sammy couldn't keep me down for long. I saw real time evidence of kung fu one day when I was in 8th grade. My best friend was a guy one year older named Jay Jay. He was obsessed with the Billy Jack movies. He said it was because he was part Indian too. He used to practice kung fu in his backyard never taking any courses in it. He was a tough kid too. There was a couple of guys that were my classmates that liked to throw smaller kids into trashcans, shoot rubber bands at you (the small ones used for braces), and spit on you. They walked home in the same direction Jay Jay and I did. One day they were behind us and they started making spit noises. This went on for a minute or too until Jay Jay turned around and pulled out a huge knife he had concealed.

"The first one of you that spits on me or him or anywhere gets this. Do you understand?"

They sheepishly murmerd okay, we were only kidding, before swallowing what they had hacked up. That was just about the coolest thing I had ever seen. I always looked up to Jay Jay like he was an older brother and here he was protecting me from a couple of creeps. It wasn't kung fu though. It took me being a bully and an idiot for Jay Jay to have to use what he'd taught himself.

There was a dude that lived one street over from us with a last name of Witty. This lent itself to him being called Witty titty. It didn't help that he was seriously overweight which meant he had bigger breasts than most of the 8th grade girls had. He would sometimes come over and hang out with us, but not often. Jay Jay and me liked to play sports or ride our bicycles (Jay Jay could ride a wheelie almost the entire length of Prindle Drive) and Witty just wasn't in shape for those activities. One day he walked home from school with us. Jay Jay got to his house at the top of Prindle Drive and Witty and I went on.

I lived about halfway down the street from Jay Jay. Soon after we'd left him I started insulting Witty. Which is weird because I wasn't usually into that sort of thing. I guess I was just full of it that day. I don't recall exactly what I said, but I was seriously pissing Witty off. We got to the foot of my driveway and we decided to fight. We threw our books down on the asphalt and it was on. I got a few quick punches in with no results. It was like punching a giant marshmallow.

Witty thew some errant shots then he connected a grazing blow to my stomach. It stung just a little, but I had avoided most of it by ducking away. I looked back up ready to pop Witty a good one only to see Jay Jay kick him right in the head. It wasn't a slight blow either. It was a put a big lump on your skull kick. Witty staggered around glaring at Jay Jay before picking up his books to walk home muttering about how two on one wasn't fair. I was a little ticked that Jay Jay had felt he had to rescue me, but that was sure one cool karate kick to the head.

Then Jay Jay gave me the worst lecture I ever had to endure outside of my parents's lectures. He'd seen the whole thing brewing from the top of the street. He'd heard the insults. He knew I was the instigator and probably deserved to have my ass kicked. But he also knew it was out of character for me and he feared that Witty would seriously hurt me. It was better to give him a quick kick in the head than to let the fight go on. I wouldn't need a dictionary to learn the meaning of chagrined.

Down By The River Missy Mac Got A Smack From My Hammer

I was a wild child when I was 4. I was downright mean and evil. I make no apologies for it. I was only 4. It's not like I was capable of much rational thought. I'd kill every bug I could find. Tear down spider webs. Throw bird's eggs against the side of the house. Steal matches from my mother's purse and set little fires so I could sacrifice Hot Wheels cars just to watch them melt. You never quite forget the smell of burning plastics. We lived on Searcy Street with Stones River right behind the house.

My dear Granny watched me while my parents worked. When she would upset me I would always tell her I was going to go down to the river. The adults were all terrified that I might one day go down to the river, fall in, and drown. So one day after I told her I was going to go down to the river I ran through the house and slammed the back screen door open before she had time to tell me I wasn't. I hid beside the house and watched as she emerged from the house headed for the banks of the river. I slipped back into the house and promptly hid in my toybox. I could hear Granny calling my name. It soon became obvious that she actually thought I'd jumped in the river. I don't remember how long I hid, but it must have been quite awhile. My Granny was distraught and in tears when I emerged. I figured she'd punish me good, but she didn't. I was good for a few weeks, but it wasn't long before I got mad at Granny for something and I threw one of my toy cars at her striking her in the head.

It wasn't just family members that had to take my little bursts of pure meanness. The worst thing I ever did according to my mother was when I hit Missy Mac in the head with a hammer. Missy Mac's grandfather lived down the street from us. I used to go over there and watch Sesame Street with Missy and her older brother sometimes. Their mother became good friends with my mother and soon Missy Mac was my best friend. I always liked visiting them at the trailer park they lived in. I'd get to play with her brother's Lego sets and Missy's Barbie cars. I don't recall any bad scenes happening until the day Missy and her mother dropped by our place and I wasn't home.

I was out with my father and uncle. My father used to like to drive aimlessly around the back roads of Rutherford County. I liked to ride around with him out on the gravel roads back in 1971. The gravel made for a bumpy ride and you'd stir up dust for miles. Somehow it was fun to choke on it as you rode behind another car. There wasn't usually too much traffic to worry about. We'd come to a bridge over a creek or river and just stop right on the bridge. We'd get out and stare into the water. I'd spit into the water below just like my father and uncle; except they were spitting tobacco juice.

This is what we were doing on the day Missy Mac came to visit my house. We were out driving around and had stopped on a bridge overlooking Overall Creek. My uncle must have forgotten about me because as I tried to jump out of the cab of the truck he slammed the door on my fingers. I screamed like I'd been shot. That's what my father told my mother later. He'd heard people get shot in Vietnam so there's no reason to refute him. It just wasn't good for a tough kid to yell and cry, but a good hand mashing hurts.

I was only bruised and not broken, but my father and uncle felt I'd had enough of an outing so we headed home. I calmed down by the time we got to Searcy Street, but I was still huffing and puffing enough that my mother knew something was wrong. The swollen purple fingers told the story - it was rather common for me to get my hands smashed in car doors for some reason. Once she figured out I would live she thought I would like to know that Missy Mac was visiting and was playing in my room.

It was then that I finally noticed her mother at our kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee in our hands. My folks would drink hot coffee at any time and any season and I guess Missy's mother could too. I was happy for a split second that Missy was over, but my hurting hand quickly took over when I got to my room and saw her rifling through my toybox. She was just throwing my stuff all over the place.

One of the items in the doorway was a toy hammer. It was a toy only in that it was small. It was actually just a miniature hammer. I grabbed it and quickly made my way across the room where I beaned Missy Mac. After that smack she quit going through my toybox. She was only able to scream and stumble out the door to her mother. My mother found me calmly putting my toys away when she came to invstigate what had happened. The fact that I'm an only child helped me escape the total wrath of Missy's mother.

Years later (Missy graduated from Riverdale in 1985 with me) we would all laugh about the incident. My mean years didn't last much longer. By the age of 6 I was a nicer boy with a much higher boiling point temperature. I'm just glad that my kids don't seem to have inherited my, however fleeting it was, mean streak.

Zoo At The Back Of The Store

Things disappear. Houses get torn down. People die. Highways get built and traffic rumbles through a meadow where a small child played close to where a rock concert was once held. A good chunk of my childhood's locale has been wiped out by the city of Murfreesboro and the new medical complex being built behind Stones River Battlefield. A few years previously a developer built houses on the land behind my old babysitter's home too. There used to be a woodland and a little pond there. I would climb trees and just stare into the pond for hours waiting on my father to come pick me up. Bees were kept by somebody deep in the small forest. The little girl that lived next door to my babysitter found a small clearing on the edge of the woods and she brought toy furniture there for a playhouse. All of this land is gone now with its capacity to evoke memories cheapened toward loss.

Life isn't a static event. I'm aware of that. The bumpersticker reads "shit happens" for a good reason. I got hipped to change early. We lived in Memphis, then Murfreesboro, then Ripley, MS, then Murfreesboro. We lived in multiple places in these towns all before I turned 6. Then there was the McClellan's department stores. There was one on the square of Murfreesboro and one at Jackson Heights Plaza. It was where my parents liked to shop. I barely remember the one on the square, but the one at Jackson Heights lasted long enough to forever imprint on my mind. It was a huge store to me. It even had a small zoo at the back. The variety of merchandise with all of the different colored packaging was overwhelming to a small kid. It was disorienting in a delightful way. After shopping there we'd often pull in at a burger shop located in the parking lot and get a hamburger. I believe it was called Speedy's. They closed early in my childhood.

Though those places are long gone I don't feel the same sense of loss. The places may be gone, but the skeleton is still in the grave. Jackson Heights is still there. There have been businesses in the location of Speedy's ever since it went under even if they're not the same actual building. The spot still exists. The dust of memory can settle there with ease.

It's not the same with areas that have been changed completely. You're left to rely entirely on what's in your head. I can recreate the honey locust tree that stood in a small grove of trees in my memory from the 5 acre field behind the house we lived in off Manson Pike. Even if I wanted to I can't ever touch its thorns again. The house was sold long ago, but there was solace in knowing it was there even if the subsequent owners moved it closer to the road.

There were plum trees in our yard and one summer my mother made plum preserves with the help of my cousin Lisa who was visiting from Memphis. So much stuff happened that week. I remember Lisa and I walking barefoot on hot July pavement into the Big K store where we bought play money. We went to see Smokey And The Bandit when a bunch of my aunts and uncles and cousins came to visit later in the week. I was playing on the swingset and I bumped my head and my cousins laughed at me. So I chased them all around the yard with a baseball bat.

The paradox of this for me is that I refused to let my wedding be videotaped. I felt like my memory would be enough. I don't need to watch a tape to see my wife 's confusion between my right and left hand. I can still recall her coming down the aisle with crystal clarity. I doubt that if the small church was torn down tomorrow I would forget that afternoon that will soon be 10 years in the past. But I bet there would be that sense of something lost to me. While accepting change on the surface, perhaps I have kept too much of a child's feeling of permanence in the world.

Since even with the landscape changed, even with things being torn down and replaced; the bees can still chase me, I can drink imaginary tea with Shelley Davenport, climb over some limestone rocks and enter the shade of a group of trees mindful not to step on the thorns of a honey locust tree, or listen to my father gripe about the loud rock and roll concert being held on the land behind ours.

Bmarkey's Not Barnhart's Boy

Devendra Banhart comes off as an insufferable prick - writes Bmarkey in his 2005 Music wrap up over at #1 Hit Song. I'm not a big fan of the freak folk movement either. Go read the whole thing.

State Of The Blog

There is one deathball high fructose corn syrup laced Atomic Fireball in the drawer of my desk. I am conjuring up the will to never ingest it. I've dropped a couple of pounds since the beginning of the new year and I don't dare risk falling off the wagon into the land of junk food enchantment. Enough about my cliched resolution and on to the state of the blog.

My tenure as a Blogcritic is drawing to a close. I'm leaving their fold for various reasons, but leaving BC means you probably won't be seeing as many music reviews here in the future. There'll still be plenty of music babble happening just with not as much frequency. More of the focus here will be on stories.

There's stories of old to be told - perhaps the night the whole gang went commoding or the night I almost kicked out of Martin Theater for smoking and cussing people during E.T., or maybe I'll tell of the time I whacked the neighbor girl on the head with a hammer because she was messing around in my toy box (I was only 4). That's where SS is headed this year. And it's not a mere nostalgia trip through the past as the Soulfish wife believes. It's because all stories happen in the past, perhaps even science fiction.

Hook 'em Horns