The Devil's Radio

Change of Channel

2003-07-28T17:00:00.000-05:00

For all of you whom have received joy or knowledge or taken a slight interest at all in my writing (which is many more than I expected), I am sad to say that The Devil's Radio will now cease to broadcast. However, all is not lost. The Big E is jumping ship, moving to his own website: Erik's Trip. This is going to be a blending of Devil's Radio with the politics and personal rants of Big E Thoughts. I do hope you will adjust your bookmarks accordingly, and follow my adventures into the land of Movable Type. For those who choose not to follow, thanks for the support and friendly greetings.

Goodnight. This is the Big E, signing off.

New World Forming

2003-07-27T19:05:00.000-05:00

In another life, another time, Terence Trent D'Arby brought light and happiness to all with his angelic tenor, a seraphim in peg pants and finely braided hair. There was no other acceptable explanation for that voice, that honeyed sweetness of wildflowers and morning dew. Terence should have been my generations Sam Cooke - a fiery passionate man, a secular lover in the arms of the Lord. I still hear "Wishing Well" and feel the goose bumps rise on my arms.

A few months ago I found Terence under his modern guise of Sananda Maitreya. The short tale of this rediscovery is chronicled on Big E Thoughts, my original and still ongoing weblog. Well, I was transferring some things to my ipod and came across the MP3's of some of the Wildcard out-takes I downloaded at the time (Sananda has graciously made many out-takes available at his homepage). I decided to give them some eartime - my wholly unoriginal name for self-broadcasting (otherwise known as headphones) - and was just as impressed as at first listening. I'm particularly fond of "New World Forming", an acoustic guitar driven track that is immediately head-bobbing and smile inducing. Maybe I'm just a sucker for a little tambourine accompaniment, or joyous gospel influenced background singing, or for Terence himself.

What else explains my acceptance of bongos and lite-jazz noodling flute on "Glad She's Gone"? He sings over background music that wouldn't be out of place in a 70's Sesame Street montage - children spinning on a witches' hat, glaring oranges and rusts, overexposed shots of multi-culti families holding hands and dancing in a circle before a setting autumn sun - and I love it. Even the poorly done scatting.

I just can't deny that voice, even 15 years later.

If I say you'll live forever
It's because I've seen the light
I can see your transformation
Is a cause for celebration
I can see a new world forming
"New World Forming", Sananda Maitreya

The Dog End of a Band Gone By

2003-07-22T19:30:00.000-05:00

I was born in 72, which means that my musical tastes were formed by the 80's. From the first glimmers of my discriminating ear (I bought "The Tide Is High" 45 for my sister's 11th birthday. This was my first musical purchase of any kind) through the pivotal high school years, the 80's are the guideposts to my musical identity. Alas, I found out recently that some of those guideposts lead to some amazingly bad music.

I was, and am, somewhat of a loner. In high school I developed a small coterie of friends, far from even the periphery of popularity. Luckily, there were plenty of bands catering to my outsider status, and my nerdy sense of cool. I had Morrissey and Robert Smith to comfort me, I had Flesh For Lulu and Gene Loves Jezebel to get me dancing. I had Some Kind of Wonderful. I had an in with the coolest of cool; I had Love and Rockets.

Love and Rockets - the band that was the heart (if not the voice and mind) of Bauhaus, the band named for the greatest comic book of the 80's, the band with Daniel Ash and Daniel Ash's hair. I started the L & R ride with Earth. Sun. Moon, and it's Alterna-folk anthem "No New Tale To Tell". I arrived a bit late - a month or two before "So Alive" and their peak of popularity - and "So Alive" was redemption. A band I liked, a band appealing to freaks like me, were on Top 40 radio. This was huge. There was and is no alternative radio in the area I grew up in - no HFS, no KCRW to redeem the airwaves. We had classic rock, where the 80's were not to be found; we had a Top 40 all-white cheese-metal extravaganza; we had country. Love and Rockets had broken through the cheese metal onslaught.

Into college I had a weakness for the music of Mr. Haskins, Mr. Ash and Mr. J - even the solo efforts (I still believe "I'll Be Your Chauffeur" isn't half bad). Yet somewhere in the midst of Nirvana and Sonic Youth, of the Happy Mondays and the Clean, of Steven Jesse Bernstein and Meat Beat Manifesto, Love and Rockets disappeared. I never updated any of their albums to CD; I didn't pick up later efforts like Lift or Hot Trip to Heaven. Yet this spring they crept back into the periphery of my mind, and I decided to find out where they had been. I looked and found out a greatest hits album would be released June 3.

So, June 3 arrives, and I traipse down to my local independent record store (keep them alive!) and bought the only copy they ordered. They were surprised anyone was looking for it, and the clerk tilted his head to the side and looked at me, puzzled. Love and Rockets' Loaded, and a used copy of the special edition Singin' In The Rain DVD. One brilliant, a classic; one very much less than that.

I didn't realize just how bad this band was! My sister always hated that I put "Haunted When The Minutes Drag" on multiple mixes for her - she said it was so long that she just stopped the tape then and there and decided that was the end of that side. I'm sorry. I never understood, and I hope you believe me. It's crap. And so is most of this album. "It Could Be Sunshine" could be, but I tend to think it's just more crap, with bad music and bad lyrics. "Yin and Yang (The Flowerpot Man)" - the title is the best part. Don't let yourself get suckered by that opening riff - it's just "Haunted When The Minutes Drag" played at an appropriate speed.

The songs from the period of time when everyone thought they were dead (otherwise known as the 90's) are just as bad. "Holy Fool" even taints the mediocre legacy of Luscious Jackson with their background vocal contributions. Yet "Holy Fool" is the Holy Grail compared to David J's lyrics to the "record companies don't appreciate artists" diatribe that is the piece of shit otherwise known as "Shelf Life":

How many A&R men does it take to change a light bulb?
I'll get back to you on that
How many spells and dollars does it take to make the magic
of pulling legends from a hat
Well we'll take another sucker for another sell
Regarding them with compliments and muskatelle
A honeymoon in Vegas in a plush hotel
For that's a sad time in the morning light

That's the opening, and I'm surprised I got that much typed before I thought I would puke. So where did I go wrong? They were good once, right? I still think a CD EP of "No New tale To Tell," "So Alive," "No Big Deal" and "Ball of Confusion" wouldn't be too bad. Maybe not classic, but worth three or four bucks.

To wrap this up (I was going somewhere with this, I think), some guideposts and signs of the past are just that; indicators of where you've been, stops on a dotted line like the travel sequences of old movie serials. Some are safe havens, places you can return to for comfort and succor. Others, like Love and Rockets, are reminiscent of the unknown places on the maps of the ancient mariners; "Here there be Monsters." Or giant piles of shit.

Apologies (Again)

2003-07-20T20:44:00.000-05:00

I want to take a moment to break off from music thoughts to let people in a bit. As you can get from the last post, I recently returned from a vacation. At the end of the trip I purchased an ipod, which brought my faulty firewire ports to my attention. This meant the computer was going into the shop, which took four days to make it back to me (all working fine now, thank you). Within this time frame I also began to succumb to a most heinous of flu's that I caught from my wife. The drugs that seemed to temper the edges of this influenza outbreak left me fuzzy and vague. Also, this vile virus settled in my sinuses, aggravating my tendencies for sinus headaches and the sound sensitivity they bring. It has not been my favorite few weeks here.

So I haven't been listening to music much or wanting to think about writing. A while back I said I would try to be "more regular" (if someone could hook me up with the Metamucil of writing I'd be all set), and I do hope to keep that promise. I will try to make it up to you folks (I lived south of the Mason-Dixon line for ten years or so but I have trouble using y'all, as useful as that word is) in the next few weeks. I have begun to once again listen to music, and have a few comments percolating up from that font of esoteric knowledge and lyrical pabulum otherwise known as my mind.

Driving Aloud

2003-07-10T10:24:00.000-05:00

I’m back from a road trip to visit my in-laws, and 10-hour traveling days means 8+ hours of music (I do try to listen to NPR for news when I travel – which allowed me to hear about a possible break in the Mia Zapata murder). I try to play a mix of things when I drive – a few sing along or up-tempo albums, a calming or comforting set, and always a few new and a few favorite pieces. In the past, I have often made mixes to travel by, but things have been crazy and I didn’t make even one mix. Which means each album is an experience of both wheat and chaff, unfiltered and in an unchanged context. So what did I find amongst the dross?

The continued love of Robyn Hitchcock, and particularly Moss Elixer, springs to mind. “Sinister But She Was Happy” is a perfect opener, with beautiful violin from Deni Bonet and a smiling and obviously comfortable Hitchcock spinning his usual lyrical web. I can’t hear this song and not see Robyn smile at my wife during its performance in Baltimore a few years back. My wife was quietly singing along (“Sinister But She Was Happy” is her favorite Hitchcock song), and Robyn looked over at her and watched her sing with him. It is one of those moments I will always remember. “The Devil’s Radio” (from which I named this weblog) and “Heliotrope” make an opening triumvirate rarely matched.

My continuing love of The American Song-Poem Anthology grows and grows. “Jimmy Carter Says Yes” may be the best song about a President since the days of “White House Blues” (I also recommend Mellencamp’s rewrite of it as “To Washington” on Trouble No More). “Convertibles and Headbands” and “The Moon Men” are lovingly absurd, with the obviously one-take “The Moon Men” being one of the most amazing readings of abysmal lyrics ever laid to wax. It’s an album that you play for friends – “you won’t believe this!” – and one that makes you reevaluate those friendships if they don’t get it. Brilliant and irrelevant and indispensable.

Ted Hawkins, the voice of truth, left a legacy that seems to grow and grow. I have a soft spot for The Final Tour, which has him drawing on songs from throughout his long (if neglected) career. Again, a triumvirate of songs weighs heavy; “Biloxi”, “The Lost Ones” and “Missin’ Mississippi”. A multifaceted portrait of his home, of the formation of the man he would become (for both good and bad). One of those singers I could listen to forever, a tape loop of The Human Experience.

I also took advantage of the radio on this trip – driving through New York and DC means the best Hip Hop and Eclectic and Alternative on the East Coast. Hot 97 blasting “Crazy in Love” and “Never Leave” was right as right could be, though the mistake that is Chingy’s “Right There” or the weakness that is “In Those Jean.” Tainted the experience overall (though I want to give a Shout Out to “New Jeru”, as DJ Envy let me know is another name for Jersey). In DC, HFS did their patriotic thing with the All-time American Alternative Artists (which they repeated a few times – I caught Beck at #24 twice) and did a Most Downloaded songs in the BalWash (I’ve been trying to get this moniker of the DC/Baltimore metro area to catch on for 8 years now, and it’s just not working to my satisfaction). It was good to hear Elvis Costello and the Cure and Incubus all mixed together.

Overall, an interesting musical road trip. I picked up an ipod on the way home, only to find that the logic board for the firewire ports in my computer is fried. Once I can get that fixed (next week sometime) I will share my thoughts on my new 30GB personal music machine. Ah, technology…

The Audience Laughed at Lester Maddox Too

2003-06-25T19:56:00.000-05:00

I wish I could say the last of the good old boys died, but, alas, that will probably never be the case. However, the death of Lester Maddox removes one racist from the face of the planet. It's too easy to write Lester off as a product of his times - his times are our times, and we shouldn't forget that the vast majority of Americans were born and lived in the era of segregation, of "separate but equal."

Slight of stature, Mr. Maddox was nonetheless direct and outspoken in the defense of his convictions, which he wrapped in a states' rights banner. These included the view that blacks were intellectually inferior to whites, that integration was a Communist plot, that segregation was somewhere justified in scripture and that a federal mandate to integrate schools was "ungodly, un-Christian and un-American."

This is not the view from "days gone by." This man died today, and many of those who supported him, voted for him, and believe as he believed are still here, still believing.

In 1974, Randy Newman released Good Old Boys, with it's scathing opening track, "Rednecks." In 1974, Lester Maddox was four years from the Governor's house, and running for reelection. Randy Newman has never pulled punches, and his lyrics from "Rednecks" are as pertinent now as they ever were:

Last night I saw Lester Maddox on a TV show
With some smart ass New York Jew
And the Jew laughed at Lester Maddox
And the audience laughed at Lester Maddox too
Well he may be a fool but he's our fool
If they think they're better than him they're wrong
So I went to the park and I took some paper along
And that's where I made this song

We talk real funny down here
We drink too much and we laugh too loud
We're too dumb to make it in no Northern town
And we're keepin' the niggers down

We got no-necked oilmen from Texas
And good ol' boys from Tennessee
College men from LSU
Went in dumb, come out dumb too
Hustlin' 'round Atlanta in their alligator shoes
Gettin' drunk every weekend at the barbecues
And they're keepin' the niggers down

We're rednecks, rednecks
And we don't know our ass from a hole in the ground
We're rednecks, we're rednecks
And we're keeping the niggers down

Now your northern nigger's a Negro
You see he's got his dignity
Down here we're too ignorant to realize
That the North has set the nigger free

Yes he's free to be put in a cage
In Harlem in New York City
And he's free to be put in a cage on the South-Side of Chicago - and the West-Side
And he's free to be put in a cage in Hough in Cleveland
And he's free to be put in a cage in East St. Louis
And he's free to be put in a cage in Fillmore in San Francisco
And he's free to be put in a cage in Roxbury in Boston
They're gatherin' 'em up from miles around
Keepin' the niggers down

We're rednecks, rednecks
And we don't know our ass from a hole in the ground
We're rednecks, we're rednecks
And we're keeping the niggers down

I'd like to think that the death of Lester Maddox just renews the calls for true equality, for real justice. We've come a short way in a short time, and it's been a long time coming. If the afterlife were just, Saint Peter Claver and Saint Martin de Porres would chase him out of heaven with an ax. That would be the only fitting way to great such a right bastard.

All the Way to Boylan Heights

2003-06-23T19:14:00.000-05:00

As summer approaches (it takes it's time to reach Maine), I always recall seeing The Connells at The Boathouse in Norfolk, VA in the summer of 1992. Summers in Tidewater Virginia can be downright hellish. Cruising down I-64 through Hampton and diving into the cavernous mouth that sucks you down below the James River, you emerge to see Norfolk rise in steam and ripples in front of you like the city of Dis on the river Styx. For those who never have been to The Boathouse, it was/is (I haven't been there since '94, so I will use past tense) a relatively good sized (2500?) venue with mediocre sound and some pretty atrocious sight lines (I mean, it was a big rectangle, ceilings about 15' high, supporting polls throughout, with a six foot high stage in the middle of the venue, along one of the long sides), and I went there as often as I could. Well, back to the story at hand.

I went with my friend Jon to see The Connells. It was a benefit show, with anyone who brought a canned good getting in for 99¢. Jon and I set out on a typically hot (98 or so) Williamsburg evening to see the show. We popped in Check Your Head to accompany us (I remember this clearly because Jon could do a perfect imitation of the voice the Beasties used for "Well I think it's booty - Boot/boot/boot/booty, that's what it is"). When we emerged from the tunnel it was at least ten degrees hotter. Miserable. We reached The Boathouse, and could feel the heat of the place blasting us as we approached the door. The ticket guys thanked us for the canned goods, we paid our two bucks and got the warning that it "was hot in there." Thanks. If you happen across this, thanks again. Really. As I have been around blast furnaces that were cooler than the air blowing out of the place, thanks for the warning.

Jon and I went quickly through and ducked out a side door - along with 35 sixteen year old girls and their dates. We didn't quite fit the shows demographics - Jon was 22 looking like 35, I was 19 and had just shaved off my 14" mohawk, leaving only a long blonde braid off the back of my bald head. At least we were both wearing sandals. Regardless, we struggled to hold our place on the edge of the inferno. As showtime approached, we were sure that it would be canceled or postponed. We guessed it was at least 110 on the floor and had to be hotter under the stage lights. But right on time, The Connells took the stage. Jon and I maneuvered ourselves to a happy midpoint between the PA and an industrial airport hanger fan (you know those five foot metal fans from all the old movies? There had to be a dozen of them throughout the club). After the first song, the band looked done. Absolutely shot. There was some patter, along the lines of, "Sure is hot! Are you all hot?" The band started into a second song, then a third and fourth. The crowd was ignoring the heat, jumping up and down and singing along. People started to collapse from heat exhaustion, and The Connells stopped and called security to help.

I forgot to mention that the only water available was $3 a pop from the concession stands. The band called for water for the crowd, and the workers at the venue were hesitating. The band called again, and the crowd took up the call. Before long, bottled water started flying out to the crowd and they even set up a hose over to one side (well away from any equipment) to just hose people down. The Connells went back to playing, four or five in a row, with the crowd dancing and singing, soaking wet, half naked and passing out. The band called for everyone to pay attention, and pulled out a thermometer. Doug MacMillan held it up for the people in the front to see, and said, somewhat dumbfounded, "It's 128 on stage." (now, please don't quote me on this - I remember it as 128, but it could have been 118 or 123 or something. My mind, ten years later, has settled on 128, and I couldn't find anything to check it by on the net). As crowds of teenagers are want to to, they cheered and started dancing. The Connells started playing again, and didn't stop until they had been on stage over two hours. Looking back at it now, I remember Jon and I sharing a look of amazement as The Connells got better as the show went on, feeding off the heat and the crowd. The only song I can see clearly in my mind's eye is "Scotty's Lament," with Doug draped across the microphone stand, his legs literally shaking, sweat running off his bent elbows onto the stage and crowd.

I went back later that summer to see the Beastie Boys, with L7 and House of Pain (who cancelled, on account of their sucking too much to "Jump Around" live). The Beasties complained about the heat, and I laughed. I would swear there were Connells shirts for sale at the Beastie Boys show, with 128 on it in big letters.

More Apologies

2003-06-17T17:56:00.000-05:00

I just reread that last post and I want to apologize most profusely for the second-rate Greil Marcusisms that litter that whole piece like the popsicle sticks that signify the trail of the Good Humor Man. I doubly apologize for the bad poem that leads off the piece - I leave the post up as a reminder not to take it all so seriously. I promise not to make allusions the The Hairy Ape ever again. In summation, I choose Muswell Hillbillies over Exile on Main Street as my portrait of America as seen through British eyes, and that pretty much caps it.

If life's for livin' then what's livin' for

2003-06-16T19:47:00.000-05:00

It seems a life ago I made a break from The City
No more chipped and fading formstone facades
No more crushing crowds
No staggering drunkards serenades
No vibrant culture clashes
Working poor on after-dinner stoops comforting the crying Queen in glittery platforms
(a sob is a sob, and every man's shoulder brings comfort and peace)
No suits of lavender
Or chartreuse hair
Or Easter Parades
Cherry blossoms and smells of cake and sawdust
Sweet tang of sugar burning in the air

From millions to 70,000 is a only a cutting of extremes, of highs and lows. The dreams are the same - escape to a place that is different, a place that must be better, livelier, where dreams come true. A country man may think of The City as opportunity, a city girl may dream of the time when she can escape the confines of brick, concrete and steel. Happiness in escape, in change of air and opportunity. Listening to Muswell Hillbillies exposes the lie of The Grail, of redemption through escape. London boys hoping to escape the city of mechanization, uniformity, conformity - to be extraordinary in a world of ordinary. Where to escape? West Virginia? Oklahoma? The classic beach Holiday in Brighton fails - we can't even bring back memories now, the boardwalk a burnt ember, sparked on land and doused in the Atlantic. America - across the sea, land of opportunity - a country riff or slide guitar will take us there like James' Peach on the waves of belief.

Is there a better evocation of hopes and dreams, of shattered men with broken lives where no decision leads to a better outcome? These are the fathers of Sam Lowry, the children of Yank. Ray Davies sings without the hope of redemption or freedom except in the mind. It is the voice of determination, not desire, an almost blank acceptance that in this way lies madness. The recognition of this is the escape itself, knowing that the schizophrenia and degeneration are the way to deal with societies traps and games. In a 1972 Circus Magazine interview, Davies said, "Leaving Rosie Rooke behind is like leaving everything behind. She symbolized all that for me." The new evolution crushes the old dreams and hopes, replacing them with concrete convenience.

It fails in reverse as well - the country dreams of the city fall victim to barred windows and broken glass, the crushing uniformity that absorbs and swallows and the next generation dreams of "Country Roads." Escape is never possible, and Davies never sang of happy sanity. It's all a fool's game, and you have to enjoy the playing, not the role or the outcome.

Mr. Deadly

2003-06-15T18:31:00.000-05:00

First, apologies to any who have checked here for new posts - things beyond my control limited my ability to post. I will try to be more consistent. Consider it an unplanned break in broadcasting.

"Mr. Deadly" is a track from Robyn Hitchcock's Invisible Hitchcock that just emerged from my computer speakers as I was tweaking the template for this weblog. I just put my 6800 mp3's on random and let my computer "entertain" me when I'm doing mundane tasks like updating links, and was blindsided by this song. I've probably heard it at least 100 times, and I've never really taken a shine to it. Hitchcock's greatest songs tend to be (understandably) guitar driven. "Mr. Deadly" is all keyboard - moody chords, flat early eighties drums (the sound to me was always a bongo with a sock on it) - complete with a vocal echo & multitrack chorus, and a Tones on Tail menacing atmospheric wash.

Randomly the radio that wanders through the stations like a train
Flickers on the dashboard as the melody dissolves into his brain

"Mr. Deadly" has surprised me. It's the case of a certain song finding a way to be heard, a way to connect to a listener at a specific time and place. Today is overcast outside, my mind is tired and sluggish, and a slow miasma of a knowing step-outside the lines of convention and expectation has invaded my cells through porous walls. I may hate it tomorrow, a trite and cheesy eighties mistake. But oh, "Mr. Deadly", you're comfort and succor keep me whole.

And all who hear him say you must be further gone then they
And all who hear him say he must be mad to be himself around today
Around today
Around today
Around today

Live Music

2003-05-31T07:00:00.000-05:00

Living in Maine has separated me from the live music performances of my favorite bands. Somewhat "alternative" bands seem to skirt around the state - we get Godsmack and 50 Cent, while anyone I want to see goes to Montreal, Burlington, and Boston (which is the closest of the three, but I hate going there). It didn't help when the only venue for anything edgy closed a few months ago. Luckily, Portland has a decent local scene which I am starting to explore.

Wednesday night my wife and I went to see a friend play at an open mic in town. It was a singer/songwriter folk-leaning venue, and the open mic participants were pretty much in that vein. Our friend got things started on his 12-string guitar and I was hooked. I forget when I haven't been out for a while what live music does to me. His 12-string had such a beautifully sweet resonance - I just felt it's pull, some nameless victim of the Piper of Hamelin. I don't talk much at shows - a word or two between songs, a knowing smile to my wife when a band plays a favorite song. I gravitate toward the center, trying to find where the music connects with me. The experience of live music is an intoxicant to me, it makes me feel alive and centered, attached to now. It's weird, but I often feel slightly apart or out of sync. Recorded music helps me with this, but live music pulls me and holds me squarely in place like an anchor. After a show I am usually more energetic, engaged and comfortable with myself. I can't explain it, but even the memory of music can help ground me - a song will hold my mind long enough that it's residual energy let's me focus on the world.

Looking at the Ceiling

2003-05-22T14:31:00.000-05:00

I remember days and weeks of my life spent laying on my back, holding an album, cassette or CD cover, just listening. Not reading or typing emails or letters, not surfing the net, not even talking to friends except in the three to five seconds between tracks. Just listening, experiencing the music. Recently, I took the time again to just listen, to hold the music foremost in my mind, letting other thoughts drift and fade, a meditation on melody and harmony.

I let Yo La Tengo's Summer Sun drift over me like a slight breeze, wispy clouds of guitar and keyboard washes. "Beach Party Tonight", the opening track, a pastel wash study of "Detouring America with Horns", the song that brought Yo La Tengo to me in 1992. The vocals are so far back in the mix as to just be another cloud, twisting, reshaping and reforming thousands of feet above. "Little Eyes" is another gust of wind, not forceful but determined. For some reason I hear The Replacements circa Tim or Pleased to Meet Me in this song. Westerberg on valium.

"Nothing But You And Me" is interesting, but fails me. My mind drifts off the music, the center cannot hold. The piano figures prod me like my sister next to me in the backseat, trying to get me to lash out, to get myself in trouble. I think of this, waiting to be drawn back - "Season Of The Shark" reins me in. It sounds like a cover, a reinterpretation of something that came before. It reminds me of "From A Motel Six" as a bossanova, weird little casio drumbeat cha-cha-cha-ing below the mix, hollow and false. As the album continues, it feels more and more a reaction to May I Sing With Me.

"Today is the Day": a guitar, bending simple notes, a bluesman at the end of the line, to weak to pull a solo, just a single note repeat, a mantra of growing old when the pyrotechnics of the past are gone, but the spirit is pure. The repeated driving references of the lyrics remind of sitting in the back seat, leaning on the window and finding that point where your reflection disappears as you approach the glass. I remember riding in the back and picking a point slightly ahead, letting my eyes follow that point until it disappeared behind my field of vision. Instead of the blur of passing grasses or fields of corn, that point would stay clear like a photograph until it blew by, out of reach.

Another song of motion: "I will go if you say you'll go, do you want to go? I won't talk at all, but I'll go for a ride," begins "Tiny Birds". Rarely do you hear the movement of the hand on the frets, here it seems necessary. I can't shake the idea of a polished lou barlow song, Yo La Sebadoh? No flow, no segue, into the Bacharach keyboard of "How to Make a Baby Elephant Float". Such a sweet song, about familiarity and love, the shared moments and private language of familiarity. Is this the true theme? - so far the songs sound familiar, the voices hushed or twined like ivy long clung to trellis and ledge, the pace unhurried - frenzy is past, the passion subtle and deep, a sweet rich taste that lingers like a sugary maple candy.

What's this? "Georgia vs Yo La Tengo" - bad, simple, insulting. Is this the ultimate private joke, or is this for real? I hope to never understand this, this, abomination, of simple drumming, bad lounge piano and faux "freak out" synthesizer twiddling. Almost four minutes, my mind has left this behind...

The bass line for "Don't Have to Be So Sad" grabs my ear. Simple seeming, strong and good. More lounge piano - da, da, da da, da. Now lower - du, du, du du, du. My brow is furrowing, questioning. "Winter A Go-Go": Georgia holds the center again, over a xylophone-like sound - literally bad vibes, "I can't keep from wandering", indeed. I'm thinking of And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out, how that album snuck into my consciousness, pushing thoughts around, rearranging my fibers. This is not doing that, it's pushing at me, keeping me at arms length as it goes on. "Moonrock Mambo" continues this with more bad piano figures, "Like a Chunky or a Charleston Chew, Like shoe crab soup or chicken stew, Like Cinderella's other shoe." I want to care, I do. I can't. I put down the CD case and leave the room. I go blow my nose, stretch my arms out behind my back and feel my back crack, I wait and hope.

Bleeps, satellite sounds - promising. Wait, no, piano chords ... trumpet ... flute? Georgia anchors as always, but everything is falling, spiraling down, miasmatic noodlings, so arch, so deep. "Let's Be Still" - if only! I squirm, restless. Voices, heavy echo, multi-tracked, "Passing time so carelessly (? - hard to follow, too layered)." Appropriate lyrics for this "jam session" Covering and exploring Sun Ra on the Nuclear War EP has bled through here - echoing guitar, trumpet lines not dissonant just disconnected, flute playing "thick as a brick" (Tull reference intended), not transcendent and free like Conference of the Birds. I pick the case off the floor - over ten minutes of this? This is not the glory that is "Night Falls on Hoboken". Bmm, ba bm, bmm, bmm - piano chords of endless misery.

I persevere and reach my reward, a coda of Big Star's "Take Care". Georgia sings over steel guitar, so unadorned, open and vulnerable, almost stumbling at the start. Alex Chilton's lyrics find a new home and voice here, "This sounds a bit like goodbye, In a way it is I guess. As I leave your side, We've taken the air. Take care, please, take care." So sweet and soft, as the steel guitar bends upward, a hopeful note to end.

I sit up, blinking. She had me at goodbye.

Spring Dreams of Springsteen

2003-05-19T19:12:00.000-05:00

Had me a dream about the Boss. Not a "sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head" kind of dream, but one of seeing Bruce and co. in concert. I've never been a huge Springsteen fan - I appreciate him more than I like him per se. Yet I would still go see him if someone where to donate a couple of tickets. Regardless, the dream was peculiar because Bruce and the E Street Band were doing a full show of covers. It was weird - it was Bruce giving props to artists that influenced him, like Dylan and Guthrie, and artists that are his contemporaries and younger. It was weird hearing him sing Van Morrison's "Madame George", and Talking Heads "Blind"; though Clarence Clemons ripped the sax section Stax style, and Little Steven took the bridge - "No sense of harmony/No sense of time/Don't mention harmony/Say: What time is it?"

He played for hours, and the set peaked with a cover of Billy Bragg's "She's Got A New Spell." He sang the first verse just accompanied by his own electric guitar; rocking back and forth, legs splayed wide on the balls of his feet, leaning into the mike with each line, teeth clenched, singing out the side of his mouth. He revved up to the end of the first verse: "Something you don't understand/Something you cannot command" - quick look over his shoulder to the band - "That's how I know" - and Clarence played the riff on his sax - "She's got a new spell" - Max lays in with a snapping snare, Nils and Little Steven smile - "Yes, that's how I know" - Three guitars, bass, drums, piano, organ and saxophone hold court, Little Steven, Nils and Clarence step to mics - "That she's got a new spell". The song becomes a boogie blues, raw and pre-cambrian in essence. Terrifying, hypnotic, true.

I was shaking when I awoke - it was visceral, my gut feeling the reverberation of bass, drum and guitar feedback, the clapping of tens of thousands, the roar and vibration of the arena itself. I rubbed my eyes, held myself, arms crossed and grabbing shoulders. It was real. I knew somewhere this had happened, would happen, was happening as I dreamed. Reality bent, and Springsteen tore me down.

The Elvis of Letters

2003-05-18T18:54:00.000-05:00

William S. Burroughs & Gus Van Zant.
"Burroughs Break" - echo guitar and drum loop.Added layers, layered and added.Burroughs on repetition:The last time I was in George.I couldn't find George.Arf Arf.Cut up and down.Forwards and back."Word is Virus" - Word begets image and image IS virus.Image/ima/ima/image/image IS virus.Loop cut repeat form cut loop form repeat.Wo/wo/be/be/ge/ge/wo/wo/virus."Millions of Images" - Layers of noodling/noodle/loop/techo/loop/ guitar with heavy reverb.Long dead (now dead long and gone) Burroughs,voice scratching & visceral,clawing/cloying with echo. "The Hipster Be-Bop Junkie" - Repeat and slow loop and distort,sample and begin.There's a junk gesture marks the junkie like the limp wrist marks the fag.They all looked like junk.A dirtier boulevard of broken needle wounds vitriol and despair anger spit and spite."Waiting For The Man" as truth not lullaby negatives of hope Images,that's what I eat.

Kiss My Shades

2003-05-13T19:12:00.000-05:00

Not to sound like I only like The Smiths or something, but I do want to note that today is the 20th anniversary of their first single. "Hand In Glove" is a somewhat disturbing little tale of a very possessive lover, willing to lay down his life for love even in the face of a knowledge of the likelihood of failure. Interestingly, the single version (available on Hatful of Hollow) starts with a fade-in, which seems incongruous with Marr's aggressive guitar, and Rourke and Joyce's chunky rhythm. The version on the self-titled debut album is the same recording, sans fade-in. The b-side, "Handsome Devil", was recorded in studio at the BBC for the John Peel show. "Handsome Devil" matched the aggressive band performance of "Hand In Glove", but instead of being somewhat disturbing it is forceful and overt:

I know what hands are for
And I'd like to help myself
You ask me the time
But I sense something more
And I would like to give
What I think you're asking for

I'll be honest; neither are near the top of my list of favorite songs by The Smiths. Not that you asked, but here's today's top five (they do change, regularly):

5."Unhappy Birthday", from Strangeways Here We Come. Wonderful chorus: I've come to wish you an unhappy birthday/I've come to wish you an unhappy birthday/'Cause you're evil/And you lie/And if you should die/I may feel slightly sad/(But I won't cry)

4. "Half A Person", Louder Than Bombs. First heard this in the fall of 87 around my 15th birthday. With the lines: Sixteen, clumsy and shy/I went to London and I/I booked myself in at the Y ... W.C.A./I said : "I like it here - can I stay?/I like it here - can I stay?/Do you have a vacancy/For a Back-scrubber?" I had no choice. It cried out to the sad, alienated, sensitive teen inside me.

3."What She Said", Meat Is Murder. What she said:/"I smoke 'cos I'm hoping for an/Early death/AND I NEED TO CLING TO SOMETHING!" Meaning in a cruel world..

2."How Soon Is Now?" Meat Is Murder. The most recognizable of their songs, remade many times (think the TV show Charmed), used to sell automobiles, danceable (Soho's "Hippy Chick"), timeless.

1. "Cemetry Gates", The Queen Is Dead. Literate, humorous, pretentious, catchy as shit. See title of entry below for a quote.

'Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn

2003-05-11T13:19:00.000-05:00

I suppose in a different time I would have worn frilly shirts, read Shelly and pondered the fate of Ozymandias whilst skipping jauntily through fields of lavender and natural wild grasses. Instead, I listen to Stuart Murdoch and bemoan the fact I look like shit in a cardigan sweater. Ah, sweet nerd of happiness! Morrissey, Morrissey, wherefore art thou Morrissey? Eh, Stevie?

I had a point here, really. I took the Guardian "Lit Pop" quiz and got a ten out of ten. What do you get for a comment from the Guardian, you don't ask? You get this:

Born to be Wilde
Congratulations. You are a literary genius. You clearly have spent far too many warm summer days indoors writing frightening verse to a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg. Go out and get some fresh air and buy a Gareth Gates record. (and if you don't know what we're talking about, you're a lot less sad than us)

I scratched my head. "Ask", I said. But Gareth Gates? Quick, check with the All Music Guide. Seems Master Gates came in second in the UK's Pop Idol competition, and became the youngest person to ever have a #1 UK hit with a cover of "Unchained Melody". I am so uncool! How did I not know this! Plus, according to his official website:

Gareth's pure talent and his courage at overcoming his stutter had won him a place in the nation's heart and a record contract.

Good for him. He's the next James Earl Jones.

So, I guess I was less sad than the Guardian quizmeisters, but no more. I now know who Gareth Gates is, and my misery knows no bounds.

Welcome

2003-05-06T13:04:00.000-05:00

This is The Devil's Radio, where music is discussed, distilled, dissected and destroyed. Broadcasts are infrequent, and no warning is given, no quarter expected. We do things differently here, and make no apologies for whatever is played. Everybody smiles, everybody smiles...