The Perfect Album

I am 25 years old, which means that, although I can remember a time when cassette tapes were the preferred vessel for sonic sacrament. (I don’t know that I’ve ever written such a pretentious alliteration. I must use it!) Of course CDs came along and replaced them almost completely by the late 90s and by the time I got to high school iPods were already a thing.

            Technology is great. As I’ve stated before, I can collect more songs in one afternoon online then most folks could in an entire year back in the 90s, but there are drawbacks. With the sheer volume of music now available at the click of a button having a hit single on iTunes has become more important then producing an album of quality work. Even when an artist or group produce a solid body of work, the album as a whole typically gets ignored by most people who only bought the single on iTunes.

            Musicians and music journalists have lamented the disappearance of the album over the past couple even starting grass roots efforts to appreciate albums bizarrely boosting vinyl sales for the first time in almost two decades.

            So who cares? Why bother listening to a whole album when the DJ on the radio has already picked the 1 or two songs worth listening to.

            Well if you’re a casual listener you probably shouldn’t care. Of course if you’re a casual music fan, why are you reading my blog? My God, this crap must be boring as hell for you! Go read a blog about cooking or balloon animal performance art or something.

            For you “Real” (wink, wink) music fans, you should care because every once in a while you’ll find what I like to call a “perfect album.” 10 or 12 songs that seem to fit together perfectly, that leave you going (Insert Keanu Reeves voice) “Whoooohhhh.”

            Rolling Stone has a list of the greatest albums of all time. It’s an interesting read, as much for what didn’t make the cut as for what did.

            I like lists articles like that. They mesh well with my short attention span and sometimes I learn about music I might like.

So here is a short list of a few of my “Perfect” Albums. I’ll steer away from the obvious classics. Nobody needs me to tell them that albums like Nirvana’s Nevermind, Dylan’s Times They are A Changin’, the Stone’s Exile on Main Street or The Velvet Underground’s Loaded are outstanding albums. If you haven’t gotten around to listening to them all the way through I’d recommend them, but I couldn’t possibly add anything meaningful to the already prodigious dialogue compiled on each of them.

            Instead, I’ll mention a few albums that knocked me out the first time I listened to them. Check them out, then share a few of your own “Perfect Albums” in the comment section.

                                                    The Black Keys Attack and Release

            With the released of their two most recent albums albums, Brothers and El Camino, The Black Keys have skyrocketed in popularity, becoming one of the biggest bands in the world on the shoulders of songs like Howlin’ for You and Gold on the Ceiling. Of course me and every other music snob out there is going to tell you we knew them from way back when. That’s why we never get invited to parties or go on dates.

I couldn’t be happier about the Keys success. Their newest albums are pretty tight. They keep the tunes jaunty enough for a pop sensitive crowd, but loose enough to maintain their garage blues roots.

That being said, Attack and Release, the duo’s first collaboration with producer Danger Mouse blows their newest work out of the water. From the first minimalist notes of All You Ever Wanted to blues rockers like I Got Mine and Same Old Thing to the Psycadilic groves of Strange Times Guitarist/Singer Dan Arbach and Drummer Patrick Carney threw everything into this album. You can here it in Arbach’s desperate cries on Lies and defeated moans on Things Ain’t Like They Used To Be.

                                                                    Circle Jerks VI

Just from their name you can tell these punks wanted to get a rise from people. Their name may have been overly vulgar but these guys had a talent for hacking right to the moral woes at the heart of American society circa 1987, then twisting that rusty blade until you promise never to do hard drugs again.

Coming out of the 80s hardcore scene, it’s not surprising these guys worshiped at the church of the straight edge, but even the biggest haired meatheads on the block can’t deny, tunes like I’m Alive and Casualty Vampire just freaking rock.

                                                               Jeff Buckley Grace  

            Jeff Buckley covered Lenard Cohen’s Halleluiah on his debut studio album Grace. It’s a classic that everybody in the history of the world has heard. Sadly, Buckley drowned shortly before he could finish recording his second album, so it would be easy to write him of as a tragic one hit wonder. Easy that is, except for the fact that Buckley fit more awesomeness into that one album then most musicians get out of a long and successful career. (I’m looking at you Nickleback.) This jazz… rock… folk… singer released one of the weirdest most unexpectedly beautiful pop albums of all time. From the vocal virtuosity of Mojo Pin to the grimy baseline of Eternal Life to the spacey bombastic finisher Dream Brother, Jeff displayed a class and diversity completely unique for the 90s. I honestly don’t think I was mature enough to appreciate this album until recently, but It’s been my go to writing album for the past couple of months.

            I could easily go on like this all night, throwing out albums like Rum, Sodemy and the Lash by the Pogues or BRMC’s Howl, but it takes for ever to link all these youtube videos and I have to get up early, so I’m going to call it a night. Don’t just listen to the tracks I’ve linked above, check out the complete albums, and share a few of your personal favorites below.

Why can’t we all just get along?

I think one of the symptoms of the human condition is an overwhelming need to define oneself.

            This isn’t a bad thing. Building an identity, understanding of who we are as individuals, and making personal decisions about how to interact with the rest of the world are vital parts of being of living in a society.

            That being said, it really bothers me when I see people trade introspection and analytical thought about  the rest of the world for a one-dimensional, cookie cutter persona shaped by parents, teachers, friends or the media.

Everyone is a product of their own experience and choices but it shocks me how many of the people I meet define themselves almost exclusively by their political affiliation, sexual orientation, religious beliefs, job or social status.

I think that’s sad. I’m not saying that these things shouldn’t color our perceptions. Obviously, personal believes and values should be the guiding force in a person’s life, but I think people are too often swept up in the rhetoric of a belief system and stop thinking for themselves.

By defining ourselves solely through one aspect of our life, we cut ourselves of from a whole world of interesting people and experiences.

Nobody wants to hang out with the guy with the hemp belt and knit sweater who only talks about legalizing pot and playing Madden.

I’m not going to get into politics or religion here, because this is a friendly blog, where I crack jokes about Lady GaGa, and the strongest political statement I will ever make is to tell celebrities to keep their opinions to their own damned selves. I’m looking at you Kanye and Ted!

 

No, I’m going to bring this lofty issue down to my level… Music.

Haven’t you detected the pattern in my writing yet?

Really?

Ok look, go back and read this, and this.

As I was saying, the world of music is a microcosm of society as a whole when it comes to one-dimensional…ness. Fans come up listening to a certain kind of music, decide they like it, and say “Screw you” to everything else.

Pretty much everybody, myself included, have had this attitude at one time or another, and for the most part it’s not a big deal. Some folks like country music, and it’s their God given right to be wrong. Where we as music lovers run into trouble, is when camo-wearing dude with a deer rifle in the back of his F150 beats me to death with his oversized Stars and Bars belt buckle for cracking that joke.

           

Obviously that’s an exaggeration, sure I might get a cold shoulder in West Virginia for wearing a Bad Brains T-Shirt, but it isn’t 1969 and my life isn’t Easy Rider.

 Still, when by blindly adopting the lifestyle associated with a certain kind of music you run the risk of ruining the very thing that made it.

Punks ruined punk rock by making it an exclusive club with uniforms and a three cord maximum limit, never mind the fact that Jimmy Page was Johnny Ramone’s favorite guitarist.

Thousands of kids grew up listening to gangsta rap and decided they’d make themselves hard and die young in the hood rather than do whatever they could to get out and live long enough to make something of themselves, never realizing that’s exactly what their idols had done.

And every year hundreds of rednecks with Toby Keith T-Shirt refuse to change the channel to the Stanley Cup Finals at my local sports bar, explaining very politely that, “hockey is for Yankee queers,” no matter how many times I explain it’s just as awesome and violent as football and way more exciting than NASCAR.

I’m the last person in the world to tell someone not to listen to the artists that makes them happy, (unless that “artist” is Britney Spears, in which case, take off those poor headphones, slap yourself, and check out a couple of hot chicks who actually deserve your attention.) but keep your mind open to new things.

Just like in life, good things come from unexpected places. Who knows, maybe the guy who’s been listening to nothing but GNR for 30 years would actually like that new grunge crap if he ever bothered to give it a chance.

            And hey, while we’re at it maybe you could actually have a conversation with the gay couple down the street or the Vietnam Vet across the way who hangs out at the VFW every night.  You might even like the same music.

The Elmo Slippered Bandit Part II

The second installment in the story of America’s silliest criminal mastermind 

If you haven't read part one of this story none of this will make since so  click this link and catch up, or 

be royally confused.

I returned my focus to my notepad, a little perturbed by the display, but determined to break my writers block once and for all.

            I sat with my pen poised above the yellow page, eager to share with the world the wonderment I knew hid somewhere in my soul, but within seconds my eyes glazed and my thoughts drifted aimlessly.

            After a good long bit of staring into space I was jarred from my useless reverie by a string of obscene, yet elegant, profanities far too graphic to repeat.
            I jerked my head toward the X-Rated tirade to see the beslippered ragamuffin on his feet, his finger in the face of poor Tim who looked close to tears.

            “Those sunglasses are my daughters, you Bastard!” he shouted in an accusatory tone. “Why the hell would you want to steal little girls glasses Tim, I thought we were closer then that!”

            “Sir, I brought your orange juice,” the waiter said; glass in hand, eyes on his shoes, obviously wishing he were anywhere else. “I didn’t try to take your sunglasses, sir.”

            Hearing this the drunk immediately turned from outraged fiend on the edge of violence into a docile fawning child eager to repair his new friendship.

            “I’m sorry, Tim,” he said, patronizingly patting the young man on the shoulder, gently prying the juice out of his hand. “I didn’t mean to yell, its just they’re my little girl’s, y’know.”

            Glancing over Tim’s shoulder, the pajama-wearing patron noticed his outburst had drawn attention from the rest of the dinner’s clientele.

            “The hell are y’all looking at?” he demanded.

            Orange juice held aloft in one hand, Hello Kitty frames in the other, the scraggly stranger stepped around Tim the waiter, to be better viewed by his audience.

            “I’ll bet none of you heathens would shell out the cash to get your kid shades this nice,” he slurred flamboyantly. “Limited edition, collectable they said… but she wanted them… so I got them… So don’t look at me like I’m a bad father, you pricks…”

            From there his speech degenerated into a list of all of our supposed personal flaws to including some bizarre sexual proclivities I didn’t understand until I looked them up online later.

            As the wild eyed young man spoke, Tim scurried back to the kitchen and the AA members began to trade worried glances and grip their coffee mugs with white knuckles, as if they feared proximity to this addict mid-binge might push them over the edge and off the wagon.

            A trucker sitting clear on the other end of the dinning room had enough and stormed out dropping a 10 next to the cash register, no even waiting for the recipe needed to collect his per diem.

            Eventually the Elmo Slippered buffoon tired of his rant and returned to his booth, where he gulped down half of his juice in one go before reaching into the pocket of his sponge bob pajama pants to retrieve a flask, the contents of which he dumped over his remaining juice without even a glance toward the wait staff, who unfortunately pointedly ignoring him.

            He took a sip of the cocktail and smacked his lips in alcoholic ecstasy. Losing interest in his fellow patrons (much to their relief) he began to grin at his reflection in the window adjacent to his booth.

            While other diners, grateful for a reprieve from the freak show that played out before them over the past 10 minutes or so, returned to their meals and conversations, I continued to study the young man, fascinated and appalled by his behavior in equal measures.

            For the first time in weeks I felt the squeaky grind and clack of my creative wheels slowly begin to turn somewhere in the back of my head.

            With my eyes glued to the young man, who now seemed to be holding a hushed conversation with his reflection, my hand began to idly search for my pen.

            “Sir, can I get you a refill?”

With a start I tore my eyes away from what I hoped was a one sided conversation, to see Tim standing next to my right shoulder, coffee pot in hand. So intent was I on the young ne’er-do-well’s antics that I didn’t notice the waiter’s approach.

  “Sure, buddy” I said holding up my mug.

“Are you doing ok over there,” I asked nodding toward the Elmo slippered fiend, who had finished his conversation, and was now looking around the room for some other amusement. “Can’t you just throw him out?”

Tim managed to shrug his shoulders dejectedly, while pouring, without spilling a drop of scalding hot Columbian roast on my hand. I’d have to tip him well.

“The cops would have to shut the place down and get statements from everybody in here,” he said. “The manager thinks its better to serve him and get him out of here as quickly as possible.”

            “Maybe it won’t be an issue,” I said once again nodding toward the stranger who was making a beeline for the door.

            “Oh thank God,” Tim’s words came out like a sigh of relief.

            Unfortunately for the waiter, Elmo, as I decided to call him, simply stuck his head out the doorway for a few seconds before ducking back into the restaurant.

            “Needed to make sure my truck was still out there,” he said loudly and to no one in particular.

The Hello Kitty shades once again covered his Johnny Rotten eyes and, from my seat 20 feet away I could detect the pungent scent of OJ and tequila from where it had dribbled on his Cowboys T-shirt.

For some reason Elmo took notice of me sitting unobtrusively in my booth and I made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

The drunk took my gaze as an invitation and sauntered over, sliding smoothly into the booth, leaning his back against the wall, and swinging his red-furred feet to rest on the cushioned bench.

Resting his chin in the palm of his right hand, he looked at me over the lenses of his pink sunglasses and asked, “What kind of car do you have, friend.”

The smell of the guy was overpowering, but for better or worse this disgusting excuse for a dinner companion was my muse, so I breathed through my mouth and engaged him politely.

“I just have a bike,” I said trying to sound easygoing, but coming off just north of a nervous wreck. “You know, good for the body, good for the environment and whatnot.”

 I could almost see Elmo roll his eyes behind his dark glasses. He looked about ready to give me hell for being a granola-chewing hippy freak, when he noticed Tim who still stood slightly to my right, coffee pot still in clasped tightly in his hand like a tiny glass shield.

“Tim, where the fuck are those pancakes?”

“Um, I’ll go check with the cook,” the kid said fleeing toward the kitchen.

Elmo turned his attention back to me and made a sour face.

“A bike, huh,” he said dismissively. “I’ve got an F150. Now there’s a man’s truck right there, brother!”

“Yeah, I hear their grea…” I said, again trying to be friendly, but getting cut off.

“Of course it’s great! A solid American truck that I paid good money for!”

“Sure, sure buddy, I’m with you all the way,” I said, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore, because Tim had emerged from the kitchen plate in hand.

Without another word or even another glance in my direction my fragrant new friend practically leapt from my booth and pounced on the plate of pancakes, ripping it from Tim’s hand without a word of gratitude. I believe he had a slice of bacon in his mouth before he even made it to his seat.

After about 30 seconds of shoveling food into his mouth in a manner usually reserved for cartoon characters, he reached for his cocktail only to find the glass empty.

“Tim!” he shouted boisterously to the waiter, who had already retreated back into the kitchen. “Be a doll and get daddy another juice.”

By the time the waiter returned with the OJ, Elmo was almost finished with his meal.

I glanced down at my pie, now cold, with the whipped cream melted off into a puddle. Despite his obvious disregard for anything resembling human decency, I found myself envying the gusto with which Elmo attacked his food. Hell, attacked life. I hadn’t felt as passionate about anything as that crazy young man felt about his pancakes in a very long time.

With these thoughts pinging around my brain like a pinball, my fingers found my pen and began to write, even as I watched the man-child devour the last of his flapjacks.

  In my periphery I could see the AA members preparing to leave, standing up, stretching, and pulling out their wallets.

I didn’t really pay them any mind as they left, my attention absorbed with the glorious mess before me, collecting left over syrup on his fingers and plunging them into his mouth, but I did notice they made a special effort to ignore his antics.

 Soon after they left, Elmo lept toward the door, and I thought he’d pull a dine-and-dash, but he once again stuck his head out for a couple seconds before heading back to his table.

“Gotta look out for those alkies, man,” he said to no one in particular. “Thought they were going to jack my truck.”

He’d no sooner sat down than he stood back up and headed toward the lavatories.

I took this brief reprieve to look down at my yellow note pad. I’d scrawled such gems as Johnny Rotten Eyes, stinking of booze and bong water, and the confidence of 12 tequila shots.

My lips parted in a little smile and picking up my fork I shoveled a mouthful of cold blueberry filling into my mouth.

I had a character. Now all I needed was a story.

There was a crash from the bathroom, and a moment later Elmo came out, giggling and bouncing with glee.

He didn’t say anything, and instead of returning to his booth, he casually sauntered by the AA table, where he collected the bills piled in aprecation of Tim’s long suffering service.

Ok, I thought. This guy is interesting, but I can’t let him steal poor Tim’s tip.

I searched the room with my eyes looking for any of the restaurant’s staff but seeing none in the dining room I got up and positioned myself between the drunk and the door.

I was nervous, my last fight having been in middle school almost 20 years ago I really wasn’t sure what to do in this situation.

When Elmo took a step toward me I put a hand up and said.

“Buddy, I can’t let you lev…”

Elmo swiped my hand aside and for a moment his greasy forehead filled my vision… then I blacked out.

I awoke to searing pain in my nose and the sight of Tim’s pasty face hovering inches above from mine.

“I think he’s waking up!” he shouted, drawing my attention away from the pain in my ears, but really driving home the ache setting in behind my temples.

I groaned and began to sit up, feeling dizzy, but determined.

“Easy there son,” said a voice from my left. “Looks like he broke your nose, and you’ve probably got a concussion.

Turning my head was probably a bad idea but it gave me a view of the man addressing me, a heavy-set, middle-aged man in police blues.

Despite the throbbing in my nose and cranium I grinned.

“That’s alright, officer. It makes for a hell of a story.”