Guiltless Pleasures

A guilty pleasure is a thing that brings joy; but one would, I assume, want to keep secret. I don't have a single guilty pleasure. Oh, I like things that people make fun of me for; but they aren't secret and I feel no guilt regarding them.

I love Duran Duran. For a Rolling Stones fan, that might seem to be a guilty pleasure. However, Duran Duran introduced me to import music and the world of independent record stores. I would never have shopped outside the mall for music nor read great publications like The NME or Crawdaddy had it not been for my search for the acoustic version of "The Chauffeur" which was the b-side of an obscure pressing of the "Rio" 7" single. Were it not for my desire as a kid to hear the remix of "Tiger Tiger" available only on a 12" remixes compilation which was exclusively available in Japan, I never would have discovered Husker Du, The Replacements, or Dead Kennedys. Simon LeBon's off-key crooning of "Save A Prayer" was the least of my concerns as I hunted that 12" single, for there was a remix of "Hold Back the Rain" secreted on it's flip side and that was my absolute bestest most favorite Duran song of all time. While I was there, I also picked up a used copy of Nashville Skyline, my introduction to one Robert Zimmerman.

Wearing my love for these New Romantics on my sleeve opened the door for lots of other little pleasures for which I hold no regret: TV's Big Brother, the campy 1966 version of Batman, Def Leppard, Dolemite, McDonald's, and that greatest of all pleasures, Miller High Life.

Too much concern is given to what others think of us. Me, I'm too busy drinkin' and listening to "Girls on Film" to care.

The Ridiculousness of Rock and Roll Recognition

Fucking Christ.

Can the music industry please stop with the inane nonsense that it puts itself and us through every year as it trots out a line of has beens to induct them into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Sure, it seemed like a good idea at the time. At the beginning, in the idea stages, the idealists thought, "Think of it: The Rolling Stones, Beatles, and Herman's Hermits all in one place so that generations can appreciate where the music they listen to came from!" I'm fairly certain they weren't banking on the kids listening to Marilyn Manson and 50 Cent back then.

The first clue that things had gone awry showed itself in the location picked for this venerable institution. Cleveland. As in, "HELLO CLEVELAND", the mistake by the lake. It is humorous to see these music people decend upon Cleveland every year. They wouldn't dream of being there otherwise. The problem came when all of the initial nominees were inducted. The Stones, Beatles, Prince, and even the Clash are gone so now they actually have to think about it.

This years inductees included Blondie, Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Sex Pistols, Miles Davis(!), Black Sabbath, and the A and M of A&M Records, Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss.

First, let me address Miles. I love Miles Davis, anyone who knows me knows this. It is clear that the RARHOF is stymied, though. They have no direction. When was Miles on the Billboard Rock and Roll charts? Sure he did a record with Prince, but it was never released. Is he getting the award for his fusion records? Outside of Bitches Brew they weren't all that great. Is he getting inducted as an influence? Then let someone like Prince induct him. As it was, he was inducted by Herbie Hancock, best known for "Rockit" which every 1984-85 High School dance team used for its routine. Understand, this is the least of my quibbles. A case can be made for Miles, but if he was to be inducted as a rock influence, it should have been years ago.

Ah, Blondie. I love Blondie. Who doesn't, right? Half of the original band, that's who. An onstage fight ensued when Debbie Harry, bloated cow that she is, refused to let Nigel Harrison, Frank Infante, and Gary Valentine (who wrote "X-Offender", and "I'm Always Touched By Your Presence, Dear" by the way) play with the Blondie cover band that backs up her, Jimmy Destry and Chris Stein these days. I mean, come on, Debbie... who the fuck cares? You're just gonna warble your way through "Heart of Glass", "Rapture", and "Call Me" anyway... why not throw the guys a bone? Nah... more important to stand by your principles... like not putting out shit product 20 years after you mattered, right?

Skynyrd belongs here, and if you don't agree, YOU'RE the racist. That said, the band should never be allowed to play again particularly if Kid Rock is involved. I have written volumes on the fairground band circuit elsewhere, so I'll leave it at that.

Sabbath also belongs here, but thanks for letting Lars Ulrich induct them. First off, the guy said "fuck" approximately seven thousand times in his speech. We know you're hardcore, Lars, money hasn't changed you... ask Napster. Now get some Kleenex and cry for me some more. Fuck Lars Ulrich. And fuck the Hall for making me look at him again. Ozzy came out and said some unintelligible stuff and Bill Ward (the DRUMMER, who lets the DRUMMER talk?) made a precient comment about metal being guaranteed a place in history. Uh huh, Bill... if Ozzfest doesn't kill it.

Sting inducted Alpert and Moss, which is pertinent because both Sting and Alpert made lots of records I never listen to.

Finally the Sex Pistols. Their grand statement, if you haven't heard, was to not appear and send a statement comparing the Hall to "urine in wine". Look, fellas, if rock is wine, it is largely Cisco, or Mad Dog, and cheap convenience store wine goes with urine like peanut butter goes with jelly. I guess the Pistols, too, have principles, but not principles so great that they won't reunite to play shows for cash every ten years or so. The best part is that the statement was read by Jann Wenner, who, I guess, had to find a way to get his ass up on stage somehow. Remember Jann, "Three stars means never having to say you're sorry."

Apparently the Stone no longer rolls, nor does it rock.

On the ending of an era in Salem, VA.

The Record Exchange in Salem closed its doors forever this week.

First, let's toss out the empirical facts and disclaimers. A number of people lost their jobs due to the consolidation of staffs. I was one of them. Frankly, I barely worked there, so it is no real loss to me... I can get my discount, and my friendships are intact. However, some people who depended upon the ludicrous pittance that Don Rosenberg pays them in order to eat also lost their jobs. That is a bad hit. So yes, there is some bitterness involved, and some of the tone of this blog will extend from that, but let us not pretend for one minute that I am totally biased. I know what happened and soon... so will you.

This is no vast conspiracy to rob the Roanoke area of independent music outlets. YOU are the reason for the failure of the Record Exchange. If YOU would pay two bucks more for your Nickelback CD instead of shopping at Best Buy and WalMart, this place and others like it would thrive. Everyone runs around throwing their hands up... WHAT WILL WE DO? IT IS JUST LIKE SAFE AS MILK. Yes. It is. You didn't shop there either. If you had, it would still be there. There has been a lot written, some by me, about bad business models and poor decision making. This is all true. More will be written about internet downloading and major label CD pricing. Also true. Nonetheless... at the end of the day, the Salem Record Exchange failed because it didn't have the numbers.

Now, a person with no real knowledge of business will say... "the prices were too high, and if they were lower, we'd shop there." Ever buy anything at FYE? EVER? Then shut the fuck up. Record Exchange's prices remain between mall prices and big box prices. New releases are priced significantly lower the first week of release. "But they never have what I want." Neither does Best Buy, unless you listen to the radio incessantly. You just meander around the stacks until you find SOMETHING to buy... of course they have more in store stock... LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THE PLACE. Barring exclusives... there is nothing that Best Buy can get that Record Exchange can't get. If you are into more esoteric music, Record Exchange can get it faster and cheaper than Best Buy. Now, there are things Record Ex CAN'T get... this is what the internet and mail order is for.

Bottom line is this folks... if you don't shop, don't bitch when your only option becomes the mall or Best Buy. That day is coming soon. Very soon.

Sad Cobras, Secret Squirrel, and Sean Poff - Mojo Cafe 12Feb2006

First off, the Mojo Cafe is small. Really small. Entranceway to Willy Wonka's factory small. This is probably optimum for intimate coffee talk and quiet reflective time, but for a show featuring a local band that has become quite popular, it is simply claustrophobic. Still, the same could be said of the Green Dolphin at times, and here at the Mojo Cafe, there was no smoke or drunken patrons tripping over my feet. So space is what you make of it, I suppose. That said, this was one of the finest musical events that I have had the pleasure of seeing in recent memory.

As a review, this is going to be a bit of a trial. I am unfamiliar with most song titles, and so if you are looking for completism, I am afraid that I may come up short. First up was Sean Poff abetted by a young cellist, which augmented his acoustic story singing nicely. Poff plays a Will Oldhamesque brand of music which while well written and played sounds a bit too samey for me; and as I am sure that I would be told that I just don't understand, I will just state that it was pleasant, but for myself, unhummable and therefore unmemorable.

Next up was Secret Squirrel which is a band made up of Jaime Booker, and for this evening my pal Jay Wilson, who I believe currently plays in every band in Roanoke excepting maybe the Pop Rivets. I have been listening to Jamie's record incessantly lately, and her voice is not really something that is easily compared. I suppose it is informed, to my old ears, by equal parts Joni Mitchell and Polly Harvey. On one song she sounded a lot like Mary Margaret O'Hara, and this ia a good thing. Jay, is, well, Jay and sounds a lot like Jay. Sometimes he does Jay with a accent. We were treated to covers of Billy Bragg and Spiritualized and nicely appointed versions of Jay and Jamie's greatest hits. While the songs didn't go off without a hitch, due to lack of rehearsal time, the glitches actually added to the show as opposed to being distracting. Honestly, Jay and Jamie seemed to be having a great time, which is what it is all about, this rock and roll.

After the Secret Squirrel set screeched to a halt after giving us a scare, but not quite careening off the tracks, the Sad Cobras took the stage aiding in the final Secret Squirrel song before starting their own set. I adore these kids, I really do. The Cobras (along with Poff's Young Sinclairs, Wilson's Violent Spectator, and others) are part of a burgeoning Roanoke scene that is playing truly original music again, and it is a pleasure to watch. Daniel, Jonathan, and Paige control the Sad Cobra's set with mad scientist like precision, and their unstereotypable dance rock is mesmerizing. Some dope somewhere is going to make a B-52's comparison someday and he should be killed in the street for it. Wait... does that make me that guy? Let me redeem myself... when I say dance rock, I don't mean pop. I mean FUCKING Dance Rock. Think Pylon. Right. It is impossible to take your eyes off of the dancing Paige as she shivers and shakes her way through her vocals. The crowd is whipped into a frenzy as they are ordered as vertebrates to "shake their vertebrae". The Cobras then give the kids what they want with a stunning version of "1, 2, 3, heart, 4" which is clearly as big a hit as they intend it to be.

This is rock and roll too big for a Sunday night.

Way too big.