Dwayne Johnson and Roll

Good Albums

Someone told me to expect some new readers today which is surpring considering that I don’t think any of my friends even know this blog exists. With that in mind, if you are a new reader, here are some albums that I like that I hope you might enjoy if you haven’t heard them already.  I’d wager to say that this is My Top 10 Favorite Albums list.

Bruce Springsteen-Darkness on the Edge of Town

Tom Waits-Small Change

The Beatles-Revolver

The National-Alligator

The Replacements-Let It Be

R.E.M.-Reckoning

Ryan Adams-Heartbreaker

Bruce Springsteen-Born To Run

John Lennon-Plastic Ono Band

Beck-Sea Change

Pavement

I am made of blue sky and hard rock and I will live this way forever.

Summer Lovin’ Torture Party

Bought some new vinyl today.  Including:

Bright Eyes-I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning

Vampire Weekend-Contra

The Replacements- Don’t Tell A Soul

Steely Dan-Aja

Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers-s/t

Bruce Springsteen-Darkness on the Edge of Town

I’m not going to write out an epic description of my relationship with ALL of these albums because I would imagine reading that description would be on par with getting a root canal while watching a Paul Walker movie.  With “Timeline” situated squarely in the forefront of my mind, I’m just going to talk about Vampire Weekend. 

Vampire Weekend-Contra:  I always really wanted this album to be called Diamonds on the Soles of Your Boat Shoes, but I guess I can’t win them all.  I had the distinct pleasure of playing this album for my dad last week and his willingness to immediately dismiss it as a Paul Simon ripoff did not dissapoint.  I asked him to remind me of the time that Paul Simon sampled M.I.A. and sang through autotune, but I guess Art Garfunkel is pretty much the american equivalent to everyone’s favorite Sri-Lankan pseudo-terrorist rapper?

Unlike a lot of you, I never got tired of their first record.  As a result, I probably set the bar impossibly high for their sophomore release.  To say I hated this record at first would be akin to saying that Hitler was a mildly bad dude.  I tend to be incredibly dismissive if something doesn’t sound like what I expect immediately (gee, I wonder where I get that from?), and the first spin of this record just made me think VW was listening to way too much Animal Collective.  Then I actually listened to it on an extended drive through the Ocala National Forest and was delighted to find that it was actually really good.  At the risk of misquoting every teenage boy at one point in their lives, ‘twas a grower, not a shower.  I think? Maybe?  Probably not.

Also, I know Steely Dan is not the most popular of bands but fuck you if you don’t like “Deacon Blues”.

A poodle ripped Stephen Malkmus’ face off.

I got a record player for Christmas.  This is pretty great, namely because record players are inherently pretty cool and also because now I wont be reduced to being the kind of guy that has a ton of vinyl in the corner of his room without anything to play them on.  Also great is that the record store I used to work at just relocated to right underneath my current office.  I went in there today to make my first vinyl purchases, found out the owner is getting married, and then had a spirited debate about how piracy might be killing the independant record store (yeesh), but it’s probably really helping the bands more than ever. Felt like kind of a dick move.  Anyway—this blog has kind of been gathering the dust that only comes with excessive and bombastic Springsteen homages, so I thought it might be time to update with a list of the vinyl I buy and why I decided to pick them.  Complete with excessive and bombastic Springsteen homages.

Funeral by Arcade Fire

I’ve always had a conflicted relationship with this ragtag band of Canucks.  I first heard them in the car of a fairly abrasive lesbian who used to shepherd me around town buying me booze when I was underage.  She left this cd at my house and I gave it a few listens before I decided it was complete crap.  I think I arrived at this decision because I didn’t really want to listen to something this person would like.  I just had this terrible image of her sitting around listening to Funeral underneath a Melissa Etheridge poster while reading some obnoxious feminist-lit by Elizabeth Wurtzel.  Not exactly an inspiring first impression.

Then the followup Neon Bible came out and John Ashenden played it every hour of every day for 6 months at work.  I was basically bombarded with “No Cars Go” once an hour, and that kind of incessant playing tends to neccesitate a relationship of some kind with the songs.  Thankfully, it was a good relationship and I’ve been a huge fan of Arcade Fire since, Wayne Coyne be damned.

Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen

I really just want to put the tracklist on here and ask you,  non-existant reader, just how I could refuse to purchase such an opus.  It’s my favorite album of all time and it’s a virtual requirement that I own it in every form of media possible.

Tunnel of Love by Bruce Springsteen

When I was 16 I saved up all of my money and bought a 2001 Honda Civic.  Affectionately named “Blue Steel”, this fine piece of machinery came with all of the extras, with the startling exception of a cd player.  As a result, I was forced to listen to cassettes which at the time seemed like the complete bane of my existence.  Luckily for me, I have a father who’s kind of like a non-dickish version of John Cusack’s character in High Fidelity.  I asked him if he could make me a Springsteen tape because I’d been enjoying “Thunder Road” on the radio and he obliged.  Thus, a 24 track Springsteen cassette was born and overplayed for about 2 years.

I remember really hating the Tunnel of Love material at first.  It always seemed just a little too wimpy for me compared to Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town.  As I got older and started developing what can only be labeled mega-huge crushes on girls, these songs started to resonate a lot more.  I can remember driving home from basketball games at the gym and not turning to “Jungleland”, but wanting to hear “Valentine’s Day” over and over again.  Half the songs are of the “Gee whiz, ain’t marriage the tops!” ilk, while the other half is basically “oh my god, marriage is the most terrifying thing ever created”.

Plus, the title is probably a metaphor for a vagina and that’s kind of cool.

Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain by Pavement

I always thought of Pavement as one of those bands that is beloved by people who are in love with the aesthetic of indie rock and not the actual sound.  Granted, I’d never heard Pavement and was generally just an asshole prone to making rash, uneducated judgements, but that’s still what I think of.  To me, Pavement was kind of like X or Dirty Projectors—music I’m supposed to really like as a music fan, but actually just music I’m going to pretend to like to trick people into thinking I’m impressive.

What turned me on Pavement was hearing the song “Unseen Power of the Picket Fence”.  It’s a pretty great song about the R.E.M. album “Reckoning”, and I while I disagree with Stephen Malkmus’ opinion on the song “Time After Time (Annelise)” (it was his “least favorite song”)…it sold me.  I downloaded the Pavement album “Slanted and Enchanted” and I’ve been cautiously diving into the rest of their catalog ever since.

Rob Sheffield wrote an excellent book called “Love is a Mix Tape” about the mix tapes he used to make for his late wife.  There is one part that really struck me, and that was a story he tells about going to see Pavement in the basement of a sushi restaurant with his wife and being completely blown away.  The way he wrote about his wife and their mutual relationship with their favorite music was always just kind of encapsulated by the way he described seeing Pavement for the first time.  You should read that book.

Plus, it is not lost on me that there is a certain amount of hipster street cred associated with having Pavement on vinyl…which is probably the most pathetic admission I’ve ever tendered.  I’ll be giving Stephon Malkmoos a face transplant after a poodle rips off his face.

Why Won’t Vishal Go To Lucas Pasta With Me?

Especially after this delightful correspondence.

cousinbeevo23 (2:13:50 PM): hey fuckhead wanna get some food?cousinbeevo23 (2:15:23 PM): you dickcousinbeevo23 (2:15:26 PM): look at your computervishal (2:15:32 PM): whatcha got in mind?cousinbeevo23 (2:15:35 PM): lucasvishal (2:15:37 PM): I just ate GS rationscousinbeevo23 (2:15:37 PM): PASTAcousinbeevo23 (2:15:40 PM): fuck that noisecousinbeevo23 (2:15:43 PM): we need sustenancecousinbeevo23 (2:15:48 PM): in the form of delicious pastavishal (2:15:55 PM): I’ll go if you can wait an hourcousinbeevo23 (2:16:03 PM): i cant, i’m famishedvishal (2:16:16 PM): understood, we were never meant to sync cousinbeevo23 (2:16:24 PM): two houses dividedcousinbeevo23 (2:16:32 PM): it’s like montagues and capulets…but for foodcousinbeevo23 (2:16:33 PM): and not gayvishal (2:16:35 PM): hahvishal (2:16:43 PM): where you living in the fall?cousinbeevo23 (2:22:51 PM): DELICIOUS. FILLING.  PASTA.cousinbeevo23 (2:22:57 PM): in your belly.cousinbeevo23 (2:23:11 PM): i heard my bloody valentine loves lucas pastacousinbeevo23 (2:23:21 PM): the original name was cacophonous noise rock pastavishal (2:23:25 PM): I heard the hold steady is playing a live set there right nowvishal (2:23:27 PM): you better get therecousinbeevo23 (2:23:46 PM): pitchfork wrote about lucascousinbeevo23 (2:23:49 PM): they gave it an 8.4cousinbeevo23 (2:23:57 PM): merriweather post pavillion has better pasta apparentlyvishal (2:24:50 PM): how was europevishal (2:24:51 PM): ?cousinbeevo23 (2:24:54 PM): tiringcousinbeevo23 (2:24:54 PM): drunkcousinbeevo23 (2:24:56 PM): expensive

Rachel Getting Verbally Assaulted

Rachel operates the Grooveshark Artists facebook.  I saw that GSartists was online, so I took to insulting her, as is my wont.  Here’s the text.  I lost with my inability to spell marmoset.

Jack

i hate you

you love anberlin

shut up

you want to have like 10 million of anberlin’s babies

4:52pmGrooveshark

hahahaha

you’re anberlin’s dummer

drummer

but youre dumb too

4:54pmGrooveshark

so you are their dummer

4:54pmJack

you’re not even smart enough to be in copeland

4:55pmGrooveshark

go pray to your michael stipe shrine

4:55pmJack

go suckle at the teet of your ironic jonas brothers obsession

4:55pmGrooveshark

i wouldnt touch you with a Ten Foot Pole’s version of Love Song by The Cure

4:56pmJack

you got thrown out of Foghat

miley cyrus just sneezed, shouldn’t you be blogging about it?

SO HOW IS THE CANAL THESE DAYS?!

4:57pmGrooveshark

hey wait did ryan adams just release an unreleaesed bside vinyl split demo single

are you going to go masturbate to it

i think i hear The Hold Steady

singing about something really new like beer

and sex

ph wait

oh*

4:59pmJack

i think i hear the sound of a dying marmacet—is cocorosie in town?

4:59pmGrooveshark

marmoset

4:59pmJack

shit

Henry Chinaski

So apparently this Thursday was “Evoke Charles Bukowski Day” at The Atlantic.  Through the fog of Pabst Blue Ribbon, it was revealed that my erstwhile roommate and frequent quoter of Albert Camus had not read anything by Charles Bukowski.  When we got home I immediately ran to my room and unearthed “Ham on Rye” and demanded that he read it by morning.  Because we were both inebriated to the point of thinking that watching The E True Hollywood Story of NKOTB was a good idea, it didn’t happen.  I’m still waiting patiently for his report, as it’s probably my 2nd favorite Bukowski work (behind Hot Water Music, and, no, I don’t like the band).

The 2nd Bukowski reference came when a girl I’ve only recently met started telling me about a short story she had been writing.  I went into uber-condescending dickhead mode almost immediately after she told me the plot, and I think I drunkenly mumbled something about it being a “watered down Pahlaniuk story”.  I really suck sometimes when I drink exorbitantly, but I really hate Chuck Pahlaniuk when I’m sober so maybe it evens out.  She then explained the story a little better and it got progressively cooler until she mentioned that it was kind of Bukowski-esque and then the story idea became infinetly more awesome.

Talking to people about writing things is really fun.  It can also really suck.  I once dated a girl who wrote preposterously serious fare and it made me feel unbelievably uncomfortable.  Namely because she wasn’t terribly subtle about some of the poems’ actual subject ( a tall curly haired youth who has a tumblr with a bad pun involving The Rock). When I write things (very rarely now), they’re either autobiographical and self deprecating (it’s impossibly not to write a story about losing your virginity and not make jokes at your own expense) or unabashedly silly.  The last thing I wrote was called “Epilogues to Disney Animated Classics” where Gaston slays the Beast, Scar and Simba join forces and take over the world, and Eric cheats on Ariel because his occupation is that of a sailor and they aren’t exactly known for their fidelity.   Weird stuff.

Anyway, I don’t like writing poetry.  It makes me feel like Chris Carraba, because you know that fucker has like 1200 notebooks full of poetry.  I do like this poem though, probably because I didn’t write it and Charles Bukowski did.

One for The Shoeshine Man

One For The Shoeshine Man

The balance is preserved by the snails climbing theSanta Monica cliffs; the luck is in walking down Western Avenue and having the girls in a massage parlor holler at you, “Hello Sweetie!”

the miracle is having 5 women in love
with you at the age of 55,
and the goodness is that you are only able
to love one of them.
the gift is having a daughter more gentle
than you are, whose laughter is finer
than yours.
the peace comes from driving a
blue 1967 Volks through the streets like a
teenager, radio tuned to The Host Who Loves You
Most, feeling the sun, feeling the solid hum
of the rebuilt motor
as you needle through traffic.
the grace is being able to like rock music,
symphony music, jazz …
anything that contains the original energy of
joy.

and the probability that returns
is the deep blue low
yourself flat upon yourself
within the guillotine walls
angry at the sound of the phone
or anybody’s footsteps passing;
but the other probability—
the lilting high that always follows—
makes the girl at the checkstand in the
supermarket look like
Marilyn
like Jackie before they got her Harvard lover
like the girl in high school that we
all followed home.

there is that which helps you believe
in something else besides death:
somebody in a car approaching
on a street too narrow,
and he or she pulls aside to let you
by, or the old fighter Beau Jack
shining shoes
after blowing the entire bankroll
on parties
on women
on parasites,
humming, breathing on the leather,
working the rag
looking up and saying:
“what the hell, I had it for
while. that beats the
other.”

I am bitter sometimes
but the taste has often been
sweet. it’s only that I’ve
feared to say it. it’s like
when your woman says,
“tell me you love me,” and
you can’t.

if you see me grinning from
my blue Volks
running a yellow light
driving straight into the sun
I will be locked in the
arms of a
crazy life
thinking of trapeze artists
of midgets with big cigars
of a Russian winter in the early 40’s
of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil
of an old waitress bringing me an extra
cup of coffee and laughing
as she does so.

the best of you
I like more than you think.
the others don’t count
except that they have fingers and heads
and some of them eyes
and most of them legs
and all of them
good and bad dreams
and way to go.

justice is everywhere and it’s working
and the machine guns and frogs
and the hedges will tell you
so.

GOD: I own you like I own the caves.
THE OCEAN: Not a chance. No comparison.
GOD: I made you. I could tame you.
THE OCEAN: At one time, maybe. But not now.
GOD: I will come to you, freeze you, break you.
THE OCEAN: I will spread myself like wings. I am a billion tiny feathers. You have no idea what’s happened to me.

I got the handshake under my tongue

Great lyric from MGMT about how signing a record deal is a lot like being a mental patient putting pills under your tongue.  Pretty much exactly how I feel right now.  Except I can’t play an instrument and I’m prone to making weak analogies.

Selling things makes me feel dirty.