One more for the road

I couldn't let the year end without one final word--or note, as in musical note.

As you can no doubt tell from browsing earlier postings, I really like music. Of many shapes and varieties. Lost in the shuffle of postings and the fierce and forced scheduling of the season, I mentioned recently that I've been trying to work on some music projects this fall (and now winter).

I did finally finish my "hot and cold" mix, which I hope to post here shortly. Thank you to my two-week-plus winter crud for the inspiration.

Today, in lieu of writing and recording the intro to that podcast, I did manage instead to finish up another project, my "Smells Like Young Adult Spirit" mixtape, featuring multiple versions of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit." You can find that above. I hope you enjoy.

There's some narrative as well, about grunge, Nirvana, Kurt Cobain, and Dave Grohl, along with some conjecture about possible inspiration for that early Nirvana sound.

Here's a preview of what you'll hear, sort of.



Gang of Four, one of my favorite "post-punk" bands of the early '80s, performing "I Love a Man in a Uniform." I was post-punk when post-punk was cool but was simply filed under "new wave."

On the accompanying podcast, you'll hear Gang of Four's "Call Me Up," which really does remind me, musically, of early Nirvana. But I couldn't completely ignore "Man in a Uniform," one of my favorite songs from the era. Lyrically edgy and musically jagged. The perfect combination.

But, Holy Capezios, is that Deney Terrio from Dance Fever introducing the group?

I can't fathom the clueless booking agent that stuck the hyper-political Gang on something as see-through as Fever.

But I would marry him or her nonetheless.

All that glitters

Poor Mariah Carey. Her movie career was even dissed by the Pope. Ten years after the fact, but still, sad . . .

Nevertheless, while glitter (not the movie) may hide the meaning of Christmas, apparently red Prada shoes and Serengeti sunglasses just raise you up closer to God.

Really sad . . .

Jesus loves you . . .

But Newt Gingrich and Rick Perry? Not so much.

No, all I want for Christmas is sound-proofing

Up on the housetop, squeak, squeak, squeak.

It's almost Christmas, so what better time than now to discuss the neighbors' boinking again?

Last night, the eve of Christmas Eve, my neighbors were in exceptional form, at least if the incessant and prolonged (as in more than five minutes) squeaking of the bed may be considered any indication of quality. I was just about to turn in myself, but then, upon hearing the tell-tale tattoo of love's labors, decided to return to my TV set and enjoy Meredith Baxter Birney shooting her lover in the head for the holidays on the Lifetime Network.

Sorry . . . my rich fantasy life at play . . . the movie had far less gunplay than that. Dammit.

Speaking of rich fantasy lives, I do have quite a wealthy one, but it is in no way augmented,  encouraged, or satisfied by the shenanigans above my head. First of all, if I were interested in anyone in this pairing, it would me the male, uh, member, and he is very much a silent partner in this entanglement, saving all of his vocalizing for daytime hours when he's yelling at the kids.

Plus he is not my type--and pretty much everyone is my type--but then again, I, a cranky, bald, 50-year-old who has apparently become a very light sleeper, is probably not his type either.

But there are other reasons for me not to be engaged by the pairing upstairs.

Let's talk technique for a moment: I am spared any evidence of foreplay. Or perhaps there just is none? I cannot discern. Nor am I particularly keen to, I hasten to add. But the discovery of another man who lacks a sense of fun and foreplay always producing a sense of disappointment and mourning in my heart.

To ensure marital happiness, I might play Secret Santa and place a coupon for 50% off at Adam and Eve or some other online "marital aids" shoppers' paradise. But, let's face it: I don't want to foster more marital happiness. I'm not sure my delicate nature can handle that.

Plus I fear that if a vibrator became involved in the lusty labors, it would sound like a hydraulic jackhammer blasting through my ceiling.

So no.

But I digress . . .

Back to technique. Lack of a proper appetizer aside, we move on to the main course, which consists of some very rapid-fire bed-squeaking, intensely accomplished (I'll grant you that, dear couple) for five to ten minutes. This is occasionally accompanied by additional acoustical warbling in the contralto range, but nothing too excessive or even interesting. There are children and pets sleeping nearby, after all. Not to mention wide-awake neighbors.

After about five to ten minutes of beat-the-clock squeaking and then everything comes . . . to an abrupt and quiet end, which is accomplished (if one could label it that) without warning or arpeggio. This sudden end is immediately followed by the shower being turned on in the bathroom. After a few minutes of showering, both parties are reunited in the marriage bed, where, depending on the hour, the machine gun-like ratatatat of bed-squeaking may or may not resume.

The only persons in our world who must get a good night's rest are children and pets because none of those creatures ever stirs when the 'rents get freaky upstairs. No, all is calm, all is bright, except directly above my head. The sound-proofing between rooms is obviously exceptional. Between floors? Not so much.

I'm dreading tonight, Christmas Eve, and, good god no, New Year's Even is just around the corner.

Not sure sound-proofing will fit in a stocking, Santa, but new earplugs or noise-canceling headphones most definitely will.

All I want for Christmas, really, I mean it this time

Now if only I knew Sven's address.

All I want for Christmas is my dignity, my manhood, and a regular-guy's fashion sense

Also spotted at the Target in East Liberty. Seriously, hasn't Ken suffered enough shame, abuse, and ridicule over the years at the hands of Mattel, Barbie, and little white girls the world over?

I swear I've seen that outfit before. Now where could it have been . . . ?

That's it! Speck Rhodes wore a version of it on the ol' Porter Wagoner Show in the 1960s and '70s!

I'd rather dance

My "latest" musical discovery was actually released in 2004--"I'd Rather Dance than Talk with You" by Kings of Convenience.

Such a lovely pop song and an especially charming video. How did I ever miss this? I heard this for the first time this morning on my way to work on WYEP, Pittsburgh's only alternative yadda yadda yadda. Actually, Pittsburgh has a couple of "only alternatives," including the college radio stations at the University of Pittsburgh and Carnegie Mellon University.

Anyway, I don't know much about the group or their other music, except that Kings of Convenience hale from Bergen, Norway, also home to Annie.



Both Annie and the Kings are further proof, in my opinion, that, at the moment, the best English-language pop music in the Western World continues to emanate from Scandinavia.

Care to challenge me over this point? A pox on your Swedish meatballs! May Santa leave nothing but lutefisk in your stocking this Christmas! I hope your Saab gets beaten by an old Volga and a Daewoo in the first NASCAR race in Finland! I hear Steven Spielberg's going to remake all of Ingmar Bergman's films--in 3-D!

And other assorted (and nonsensical) faux-Nordic insults.

Justin 3:16

Because God so loathed the world, he gave us, the one, the only, Justin Bieber.

Spotted at the Target in East Liberty, Pittsburgh. In the seasonal department hereby known as "Christmas in Hell with Justin Bieber."

All in all, you have to hand it to the toy designer, as it is an amazingly accurate replica of La Bieber.

Oversized head and hair? Check. Check.

Generic Old Navy wardrobe? (or since he's from Canada, maybe from the Roots Outlet in Niagara Falls, Ontario?) Check.

Solid, molded plastic body and demeanor? Oh, yes, definitely check on that.

"Bieberconda" in tow? (What can I say? I've read about such things on the Intertubes.)

Actually, that I did not check. And I can't say that I feel too saddened by that missed opportunity.

I'm not a celebrity, but get me out of here anyway

Kylie Minogue as photographed by Prince Charming; available here.

Last night's strangeness: I dreamt that I was trying to "make it," i.e., be more artistically creative and hopefully successful in the next phase of my life, a thought that has gone from simmer to boiling over in my mind over the last couple of months (the mid-life crisis doth continue . . .).

In the dream, I was trying to put myself out there as an actor, writer, singer, musician, something creative and big and showy and fame-inducing. I was showing my portfolio of work or abilities or what-have-you to Kylie Minogue (of all people), a pop star I've admired in the past (but not necessarily in the present). Truly, there is no accounting for taste, mine or anyone else's.

After examining my work for a period of time, she stopped, looked me square in the eye, and remarked, "Look, the problem is, it's just not very good. I don't think you have what it takes to make it."

Needless to say, I was crushed. In the dream I remember thinking, if a lightweight like Kylie doesn't think I have any talent, then I'm truly hopeless.

And then I woke up.

* * *

I blame it all on The Graham Norton Show. And Chris Kattan's brief appearance on Saturday Night Live last night. And Twitter. And Christopher Hitchens. But we'll get to those.

For now, let's focus on Graham Norton and his guests, then see if I have the energy and time for the others in this little Sunday midday diatribe.

Almost without fail, as much as I try to like them, Mr. Norton and his panel of low-wattage British and high-voltage American celebrities always manage to piss me off.

As to why I get so irritated by the show, I would guess some of it comes down to this: The attention-seeking behavior, sarcasm, and general mean-spiritedness of the host and particularly his British guests. Often it seems to me that he and his guests act like they're so incredibly fabulous and wonderful and clever and smarter than everyone else, particularly anyone not British or anyone not a British celebrity.

Ferchrissakes, you're a celebrity in Britain! And it's not the 1960s or the 1980s, when Brit cool was everywhere and you were able to export yourselves around the globe with pride and good reason. No, instead, you've maybe appeared on EastEnders or Casualty or Strictly Come Dancing or X Factor or Masterpiece Theatre special, and that's about it. Not too shabby for as far as it goes, but it doesn't go that far. And it certainly doesn't mean you have "arrived"--except perhaps that evening at Broadcast House in a taxi. Trust me, no one outside the UK or Ireland has ever heard of you or gives much of a flying fancy-the-luck.

The snarkiness exhibited on The Graham Norton Show seems to me to be a very London approach to the world, but it is an approach I have seen elsewhere in the world, particularly among the self-satisfied and newly monied. Because The Graham Norton Show takes place in the UK, I'm sure the ass-holier-than-thou attitude is a class thing, but it's that awful kind of urban egotistical and aspirational behavior you see in New York, Washington, San Francisco, Toronto (oh no, my Canadian friends, there is no escape for you), and other parts of the developed world, Former British Colony Edition. Too much money, too eager to try to erase the fact that you're just as unfabulous and uninteresting as the rest of us. Been there, done that, bought the overpriced t-shirt. A couple of them in fact.

And yet, these "well-regarded persons" get up on stage along with Graham and smarm and snark and smirk their way along about their marvelous, clever, and successful careers and how "hard" it was for them at school when they couldn't handle a "proper" or "boring" job and wanted to be an actor, singer, TV presenter, what-have-you, growing up in Lower-Snivelsfield-on-Toast, County Bumfork.

Which is exactly the approach taken last night by part-time singer Alesha Dixon (who you've never heard of) and Eddie Izzard (who you no doubt have). Good lordy, you play pretend and dress-up for a living (quite literally in Eddie Izzard's case)!--how damn "hard" can it be?

The previous week's episode was much the same, with the gracious, humble, but, nonetheless, with questionable taste in wives Antonio Banderas on the dais, alongside of the somewhat bemused-but-all-not-that-amused Salma Hayek, and this British excuse for a comedian, Jimmy Carr, whose schtick seemed to be, "treat everyone in the room as if they were stupid; that will show how clever I am."

Which apparently in the UK equals comedy gold.

Graham Norton. Borrowed with CC permission from here.

I can deal with someone being bemused and befuddled by the world; I can even deal with the I-detest-everybody-and-everything-among-us approach to comedy. There's a lot, in fact, to detest. But the absolute contempt with which Mr. Carr held everyone in the audience, at home, Salma Hayek (he made fun of a thumbs-up hand gesture she used after she told a story about something silly she had once done), and even someone from the audience who admired him ("Well, good for you," Carr retorted in ironic deadpan, then gave a "Who does this cretin think he's impressing?" mug to the camera). Gah. Such an (up)tight little island.

I'm losing you, I'm sure, but here's another case in point that might help shine a UV light on my phosphorescent venom: There's this segment on the show where they have someone from the studio audience sit in this big chair in another room. (Why? can't the non-celebrity breathe the same air as the Anointed?) Via two-way TV, Graham talks with the lesser-light and has him or her tell a story about something funny that happened in his or her life. If Graham and his guests like the story, they are invited back into the studio and onto the dais with the celebs for about 5 seconds at the end of the show. But if Graham & Company vote down the story, the non-celebrity is ejected backwards, that is to say, Graham pulls a lever and the non-celeb is sent arse-over-tea-kettle in the chair and out of the picture.

The studio audience and Mr. Norton and his guests seem to love this. But, really, why is this funny? Despite their rejection, sometimes the stories are quite funny and charming. One older woman last night was rejected after telling in monotone this wonderfully intricate shaggy-dog tale about driving into a wild animal park with her family, having a bear attack the car, having her husband *open the window* to throw peanuts out the car to distract the bear, having the bear rip off the sideview mirror, and finally escaping the bear enclosure, only to decide that they needed to retrieve the sideview mirror ("because what if they police stopped us and asked where our sideview mirror was?") and return to the bear enclosure to attempt to find the sideview mirror, which they were unable to do.

It was a stitch, and she told it in a really charming, low-key, half ironic-half unironic way. But about halfway through, Graham hit the eject button and sent her flying. Only after the audience and some of the panel complained did Graham ask her to continue, "approve" her tale, and invite her onto the dais--a moment they failed to show in the broadcast.

I understand that a major tenet of comedy involves laughing at the misfortune of others. But doing so isn't very sophisticated. Nor is it very mature. Both of which seem to be characteristics that the host and the panel are trying to convey.


It's not that the show is all that highfalutin'. I mean for goodness sakes, I've seen Jason Donovan, Chesney Hawke, Lorraine Kelly, and Barbara Windsor (twice) on this show. Pitiful. Just pitiful.

I suspect the idea is to provide the audience with an hour-long glimpse into a shiny, happy, celebrity-laden cocktail party. But the opposite result is achieved. There are these weird segments from time-to-time, some involving audience participation--"everyone reach underneath your seat and pull out--that's right!--a dildo!" Others involve celebrity participation--"because he played Zorro and Puss in Boots, let's do amateur swordplay with Antonio Banderas!" They make the whole affair seem like episodes of Romper Room hosted by Joel Gray's character from Cabaret or The Mike Douglas Show as produced by Bob Guccione.

* * *

So why exactly did all this spawn my strange, I'm-not-worthy dream? Well, I'll try to figure that out in a more satisfactory manner in Part Two of this diatribe, available soon. It's 1/3rd written, so it should see the light from Rudolph's nose before Christmas.

But for now, let's say that my dreams of "doing something" in the next phase of my life need to be better defined. I want to be heard, to make my mark, to write, to give voice to my thoughts and interests, to be more and consistently creative, and, yes, to find an audience. And more power to me.

But if The Graham Norton Show or Chris Kattan or Twitter or Christopher Hitchens are the measures of contemporary success, I think it best to include me out.

Stay tuned . .  .

Just jump in the pool already

Please choose from the following:

• One of my favorite pop songs. Ever.
• One of the most underrated bands of the 1980s. Ever.
• One of the dumbest videos. Ever.
• An explanation for part of my profile text.
• All of the above.

Class dismissed.

It might work!

I don't always like Kristen Wiig's characters on SNL (although I thought she was comedy platinum in Bridesmaids), but this one, flirting expert Rebecca LaRue, had me rolling.

Did you remember to call your girlfriend?

Well, I did.

Robyn performing on Saturday Night Live, 10 December 2011.

You can find the video for this song (but not this performance, alas) here.

Such a bargain!

And yet, even at 50% off, I still can't be arsed to read this.

My biggest amazement at seeing a copy of this on the shelves? Well, heck, who knew you could now craft a lying sack of shit and venom into a book-like object.

Actually, truth be told, I was tempted to buy a copy. Then take said copy out into the woods, get drunk, and shoot it in the face with my hunting rifle.

Just for giggles.

And, by the way, Dick, you got that title right: In My Time.

As in, your time--the Cold War, the 1950s, the Vietnam era, the Nixon and Reagan reigns of error--passed a long time ago. It's just that you wouldn't let go of it and somehow convinced and coerced a nation to believe you still knew what you were talking about, long after you ceased to be relevant.

Bravo, I guess.

Wanted!

Another blast from the past, UK family group The Dooleys with "Wanted." I loved this song in the late 1970s. I'm sure my hairbrush (looooong since retired) could tell a few tales of my singing this song into it while watching myself perform in the bedroom mirror. Alas, I was the world's most tragic teen.



My questionable coolness aside, it never ceases to amaze me how truly fugly '70s hair, makeup, and clothing looks nowadays. Having said that, oh to return to a time when you could be appreciated for your talent and not your military-like approach to personal grooming through vomiting, surgery, and crystal meth.

But what, me bitter and old? Say no.

Il n'y a pas de mystère

It's a sunny day here in da Burgh, sunny but cold, below freezing in fact. But, honestly, I'm not complaining. Sunny, cold days in Pittsburgh are all-too-rare, as too often here it is cold in the winter but not sunny at all. Instead, it's gray, unremittingly gray, in sky and in spirit. And it can be wet in the fall and the spring and, in fact, throughout the year. But during the winter, when that frozen water falls from the sky, it does so in a dry, powdery form, a snow that is great for skiing and snow-shoeing. In theory.

In reality, there rarely seems to be enough of it. Oh, it snows. And snows. And snows! But it often doesn't accumulate until January and February, and even then, it snows and snows and snows (did I mention that?), but the amount received is out of proportion to what falls from the sky.

Difficult to explain--and I've had four winters of trying. Essentially, it drizzles non-stop during the winter. It's just that the drizzle is in the form of snow. Follow me?

I often describe a Pittsburgh winter--which usually starts in November and lasts until early April--as being akin to living in the bottom of an old, deep, abandoned well. And instead of rescuers dropping a rope down the well to secure your release, some jokester insists on sprinkling a large box of instant potato flakes overhead, just to give you that snowglobe effect. Jokey as that may be, no one's laughing. Especially not me.

Why I live here is indeed a mystery, but until a new career path reveals itself or the man of my dreams whisks me away to parts unknown, this is where I am. Have kitty litter, shovel, and ice-scraper, will travel.

* * *

A sunny, cold day in Pittsburgh does allow me to do what I do best: Dream of other places. And when I dream of anywhere but here, I find myself feeling wistful for Montréal, a city I adore (which sounds kind of pretentious, "j'adore" and all that, but there you have it) and one where I've passed a lot of wonderful times over the last couple of years.

Admittedly, I have spent more spring, summer, and fall times in Montréal, not winter ones. Despite my physical and psychic groaning over the thought of another winter approaching, I would love to visit la Belle Province during Montréal's "Nuits Blanches" or Québec City's winter carnival, just to experience it and see, maybe just maybe, whether I could cope with a real Canadian winter and make the leap from here to there.

And never look back.

So what brought on that reverie, other than a lovely almost-winter's day? It was a revelation of another sort, the resolving of a musical mystery that has been forty some years in the making.

And the answer is "Les Montréalais" ("The Montrealers") by French-Canadian singer, musician, and actor, Louise Forestier.

Now what was the question?

By way of background, it's a question that was formed in the early- to mid-'70s, when I used to listen to Radio Canada International on my shortwave radio. Remember my posting and podcast about signature tunes and interval signals from a couple of months ago? Well, I promised a follow-up, and the discovery of this tune may be the inspiration I need to keep my word.

"Les Montréalais" was a piece that was used for a period of time as incidental music on the English-language broadcasts of RCI during the mid-'70s. The piece--an odd, wonderful mélange of acoustic and electro--was played at the end of the broadcast, between sign-on and signature tune (the first four notes of "O, Canada"). It's a piece that I have loved ever since I heard it, but until this last week, I never knew what is was called, who it was by, or whether it was even memorable to anyone else.

I've searched for it intermittently over the years. But how do you search for a sound, a song with no lyrics and limited vocals, something that you heard forty years ago? Even Canadian friends couldn't help with this one, especially since I couldn't describe it, sing it, or even hum it properly.

Recently, while browsing around the web and the various CBC/Radio-Canada sites and archives, I stumbled across the homepage for "Maple Leaf Mailbag," the question-and-answer program on Radio Canada International. There was a web form that invited questions, and on a whim, I thought, well, why not? What could it hurt? It's cheaper than the airfare from Pittsburgh to Montréal, that's for sure.

Within a week, I received a pleasant message from a friendly gentleman in Audience Relations saying that he would investigate. And just a couple of days ago, I received a follow-up message, with the mystery of forty-plus years finally resolved, the answer at last revealed, and the link to the YouTube video attached.

So please enjoy this little 2 minute-and-46-second blast from my past.

In the meanwhile, I'm going to be greedy and redouble my efforts to find another mystery song, one I used to hear on shortwave radio stations from Central Europe during the mid-'70s. It was a slice of Teutonic disco à la Silver Convention, featuring a breathy female vocal singing over and over again, "Fly high butterfly" (or "fly, fly, butterfly"?) with a male voice intoning dramatically in harmony, "Butterfly!"

And, no, it's not "Fly High Little Butterfly" by Arabesque.



What can I say that I haven't already said about my dodgy musical tastes? I can say this: My criteria for musical satisfaction often consists of the mood conveyed, nostalgia, and whether it has a good beat and is easy to dance to.

While it doesn't extend necessarily to Arabesque, hum a few more bars and don some costuming that makes you look like an exploding Christmas cracker, and you just never know . . .

I just can't cope without my soap

I've been trying for months now to write an homage (a love letter, a mash note) to All My Children and One Life to Live, two of my favorite soaps of all time and the latest two to be canceled. (AMC left the airwaves in September; OLTL is scheduled to depart in January.)

But I'm all tongue-tied, all multiple stages of grief, all momentarily high-on-a-mountain-top, then dashed to the rocks below. (Very "Widow's Hill" from Dark Shadows, circa 1967, I might add.)

Which is odd because one of the reasons I wanted to start writing a blog again was because I wanted to find a way to express myself over some of pop culture I have been absorbing since "the big life change of 2011" (job, love, life--all exploding like cheap fireworks at a street fair located too close to a PEMEX station) took place earlier this year.

But for whatever reason--it's too emotional, I'm too easily distracted, I lack the mental capacity to explain it all for you--I just haven't been able to say what I want to say about the soaps.

This article by Sara Bibel does get part the way there, though.  Bibel's a former soap scribe who now blogs on pop TV culture, especially the soaps (daytime and nighttime editions), for the Comcast network. I really like her voice: She's proof that you can be an intelligent person and enjoy the soaps, get them for what they are but also understand what lies beneath the surface, in terms of plots, characters, the American TV industry, and life as we know it. I don't always agree with her take on everything, but I'm about 95% there, more than I can say about most writers and most people. Let's just say that if I could do it all over again, I'd turn the clock back thirty years and become a soap writer--or Sara Bibel.

Her comments on Tuesday, 6 December's episode of One Life to Live, in which the characters are caught out obsessing over their favorite fictional soap, Fraternity Row, only to find out at the end of the episode that it's been canceled . . . well, please read it for yourself, even if you're not a huge fan of soaps. It explains a lot about why the shows mean a lot to many of us and why their cancellation and the imminent demise of the genre from American network TV is so unsettling.

I'm not so good at explaining why the soaps matter to me and to others, but I will say this: The soaps are not just the sum of their plots and their hairdos. Yeah, sometimes it is all a bit silly--I think any soap fan who doesn't take it all too seriously would agree with that statement. But at other times, the shows, when done right and with integrity, are highly engaging, addictive, satisfying, and just a lot of fun in an un-ironic way.

They're a visual page-turner, your favorite beach read or poppy melodrama come to life--on videotape, not film, with nice-looking people providing emotionally fulfilling moments, conveying the idea that kindness between family and friends still matters, and expressing your secret wish that everything will turn out fine when all is said and done. All delivered with some great laughs and a few tears and fears along the way.

The soaps are like American life (or at least American TV life) before cool and business decisions got the better of everything. Remember when?

* * *

I've never liked every soap--just the ones that get canceled, apparently. Ba-dum-bump.

Dark Shadows, The Doctors, Texas, Santa Barbara, Another World, Sunset Beach, Guiding Light, All My Children, and now One Life to Live. They've all come, and now they're almost all gone.

I especially never cared for General Hospital. I couldn't tell you why exactly. Maybe it's because I'm not really a fan of hospital dramas (except ER and St. Elsewhere, which I mostly liked) or mob wars (which is now mostly what GH is about). General Hospital just seemed like a very '80s, Los Angeles-based soap--lots of pretty people attempting to be clever and fabulous with some really dumb plots. Luke and Laura and The Ice Princess? For pity's sake.

That was the beginning of the end, as far as I'm concerned. A lot of soaps went the same route--to extremes. I feel like when the history of American soaps is written (by me, of course), that will be the modern era's jump-the-shark moment.

That and a few too many people coming back from the dead.

But despite my deep, abiding loathe for GH, I do recall this song with more than just a chuckle.

Smells like middle-aged spirit

Nirvana around 1992 by P. B. Rage (Wikimedia Commons)

Editor's note: You can now hear a podcast of the mixtape I made in honor of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

* * *

Another mixtape I'm working on is more of a compilation of songs. Or, rather, one song: "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana, which was released as a single (they still existed then, at least on CD) twenty years ago this past September.

Hard to believe! I was a mere lad of 30 when the song was released, which, merely uttering that sentence makes me want to cry. Not for the late Kurt Cobain, no, but for my tragically unhip and past-it youth. In September 1991, I had just moved away from Washington, D.C., moved back to my home state of North Carolina, and was trying to figure out what to do with the next phase of my life.

Within less than two years, I was in graduate school, and within less than four, gainfully employed in Texas. 

Within three years, Kurt Cobain was dead.

That was an incredibly long time ago that somehow seems to have passed in a less than a nanosecond.

Anyway, I never really got the same thrill over "Smells like Teen Spirit" or Nirvana that many others did. Perhaps at 30 I was already too old, mentally if not physically, to get it/them or to appreciate it/them. (A close friend of mine, 24 in 1991, also told me he felt too "old" for Nirvana at the time.) In fact, the whole grunge movement just kind of escaped my understanding and interest. Maybe because I was no longer in D.C. I missed all the grunge "culture," but you'd think, living in a couple of college towns at the time, I would have picked up more of it, even only by accident.

But, feh, the '90s are kind of blur to me these days. Plus I look really dopey in plaid flannels.

Fashion aside, the "problem" with grunge for me was twofold: (1) I'm only moderately fond of guitar-based music; (2) I'm even less enamored with skinny white-boy rock-and-roll, then and now.

I know, I know, very shallow of me to dismiss a whole era and an ethos in that way. But grunge never had, at least to me, the sheer nerve and verve of '70s punk, and certainly not the drama and glamour of early '80s new wave. Which from the reading I've done (limited as it may be) may be the point--grunge was music made by the alienated for the alienated who, by their very nature, were too inured to their alienation to take action.

"Smells Like Teen Spirit" being a case in point, at least if this article in Wikipedia can be believed: Even apparently Kurt Cobain described "Teen Spirit" as a song about the idea of revolution but one that makes fun of the idea of revolution, although "a revolution is a nice thought."

In contrast, Dave Grohl, in the same Wiki article, is quoted as saying that he doubted that "Teen Spirit" had any meaning at all.

Having said all that, I have come to appreciate, well after the fact, the sonic power of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and some other Nirvana songs. I also like how Dave Grohl shows up in the unlikeliest and goofiest of places, giving Nirvana a much better sense of humor than I would have expected.

And, yes, it was sad that Kurt Cobain felt so hopeless that he killed himself. Very sad indeed. I'm not one of those people to go off on what "a loser" he was for killing himself. Indeed, if you've never been that depressed or hopeless or bereft, congratulations. Count yourself incredibly lucky and/or blessed. May you be spared much pain in your life.

But I also avoid referring to pop stars' early deaths as "tragic" and "senseless," while we too often ignore the pain and hurt of those women and men that form a part of our more immediate sphere.

Anyway . . . bitching aside, here's to Nirvana, Kurt Cobain, and "Smells Like Teen Spirit." You had your moment--and look, it's a moment that has lasted for 20 years and counting.

* * *

Below is my short list of versions of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." Can you recommend other versions for me to add?

1. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana
2. "Smells Like Nirvana" by Weird Al Yankovic (but of course)
   
3. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Patti Smith
4. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Paul Anka (seriously, it's a lot of fun)
5. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by The Bad Plus (this really wonderful, off-kilter jazz combo from Minneapolis)
6. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by The Muppets
7. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Tori Amos (if I have to)
8. "Smells Like Electro Teen Spirit" by Dsico
9. "Atari Teenage Riot" by Atari Teenage Riot (features a sample of the guitar riff from "Smells Like Teen Spirit")

I know there are also other versions and variations by the likes of Pansy Division, The Moog Cookbook, The Flying Pickets, and The Melvins featuring Leif Garrett (!), but I haven't yet heard those.

Mitt-piphanies

Photo by c.berlet/publiceye.org; courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

An afternoon's worth of random musings about Mitt Romney, former governor of Massachusetts and current candidate for the Republican nomination for the 2012 U.S. presidential election. (Or some such.)

Trust me, despite the constant score updates for the current political dodgeball game in progress, I try to think about Mitt as little as is humanly possible. But Mitt is almost refreshingly creepy/crappy compared to the hideous shitty-ness offered up in heaping, musky piles by the likes of Michele Bachmann, Rick Santorum, Ron Paul, Newt Gingrich, Rick Perry, et al. (John Huntsman doesn't offend me--yet--but practically no one's heard him speak.)

* * *

After posting on Facebook last night that I was mock-horrified to see ol' Mitt on the cover of Parade (the magazine that arrives as an insert in your Sunday newspaper, at least if you live in the U.S.) in blue jeans and a blue-and-white checked shirt (very baseball, hotdogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet, n'est-ce pas?) but still with that vulgar, it-came-from-the-'80s oiled hair à la Michael Douglas as Gordon Gecko in Wall Street, a friend pointed out to me that Mitt has a son named Tagg.

Tagg? WTF kind of name is Tagg for a kid, no matter how to-the-beehive-manor-born and oleaginous his father might be? As yet another friend quipped, "Did the Romney family use the same baby-naming book as Sarah Palin?"

Tagg. Gah.

Why not tattoo the word "PUTZ" on the child's forehead as a babe, toss him out of a moving vehicle, and let him fend for himself?


Which got me to thinking--does everyone in Mitt's family have a one-syllable name with a vowel followed by double consonants?

Tagg, Nett, Mitt, Sott, Rutt, and sometimes Kytt?

* * *

I find it kind of funny ha-ha and funny strange, too, that only now am I starting to hear the dreaded "flip-flopper" label applied to the Generously Anointed One. Maybe I wasn't paying attention or maybe the Repubs figured that this time the alleged taint of Mormonism (please, like any of the Protestant or Catholic candidates have any reason to be sanctimonious about their beliefs) wasn't going to rub off and rub out Mitt's chances at the polls.

So, now, finally, Mitt's naysayers have whipped out their giant spatula and are making like a pancake with the flip-flopper label. Tee hee. Too late.

First of all, duh. When Mitt was governor of the Bay State he was pro-abortion and pro-gay rights, perfectly in line with the majority of the Commonwealth's populace. Now that he is running for POTUS (twice, no less), he's agin' both. Perfectly in line with the rabid-and-likely-to-vote members of his own party and assorted independents and probably a number of silent-but-deadly Dems as well.

But no duh. I think Mitt's record on the issues just goes to prove that he has no record on the issues. In other words, Mitt's no flip-flopper. You have to be able to flip in the first place in order to flop.

* * *

Despite this needling, ribbing, poking, and many other descriptions that probably sound dirty to most Republican candidates, I sorta kinda feel sorry for the Mittster. In these moments, when I think of Mitt, I'm reminded of a joke my North Carolina frenemy Spencer likes to tell:

Q. What does a pretty Southern Belle say to let all the gentleman know that she is "in the mood"?

A. "I'm drunk, y'all!"

Q. What does an ugly Southern Belle say to let all the gentleman know that she is "in the mood"?

A. "I SAID, 'I'm drunk, y'all!'"

That joke may improve when you hear me do it in dialect or when you've had a little to drink yourself. But you get the idea. No matter how many times or how loudly Mitt tells everyone that he's drunk, no one, I repeat no one, wants to see what's under that hoop skirt.

'Cause I suspect Mitt is mostly just flop.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmix

'Tis the season for mixtapes. Thus, I'm getting my Christmas jollies by working on a new mix, something I haven't done in ages--and something I haven't found an easy way to share via Blogger quite yet. (But, oh, I'll keep trying.)

There's no particular criteria for this one, meaning that the songs do not need to be holiday-themed or some such. I can do those and have done so before and, when I get a spare mo', I'll post a playlist I did a year or so ago for my friend Expo.

This is more of a true mixtape, that is to say, the songs are linked together by beat, sound, or rhythm. So, I take it back, there is one criteria, and that is that the songs need to have a danceable BPM, which for this unnamed, unfinished mix is about 120 beats-per-minute. A good party groove, not too fast, not too slow.

I started off with Manu Dibango's "Soul Makossa" as the lead song, but so far it's not fitting into the mix so well. It may make a reappearance, but for now the mix in the works is definitely pop in orientation.

Here's the playlist so far--

• Little Boots - "Stuck on Repeat"
• Agnetha Fältskog - "One Way Love" (Razormaid remix)
• Bobby Orlando - "I'm So Hot for You" (discussions of one's sexual fever--always appropriate for the holidays)
• Sarah Love (aka Sara Lumholdt formerly of the A*Teens) featuring Milano - "Glamour Bitch" (again, so appropriate for the season; I know the term "glamour bitch" is what I think of whenever I see those commercials where 1% trash buy each other Lexuses for the holidays)
• Annie - "Hey Annie"
• The A*Teens - "Floorfiller"
• Deborah Harry - "In Love with Love"
• Cut Copy - "Need You Now"

OK, so there's music by a Brit, one Latino Americano, one New Jersey American, some Swedes, a Norwegian, and a couple of blokes from Oz. Maybe I should call this the "Hot & Cold Mix"? Then most definitely Mr. Dibango could make a reappearance, along with some other, more north and south of the Equator sounds.

* * *

To get you in the mood, here's Sarah Love and Milano performing "Glamour Bitch."



OK, so this is kinda paint-by-numbers hip-hop-pop (sexy female voice, suggestive lyrics, Brooklyn-accented rapper), but it is very catchy and clever, too, imho. It should give you a taste of what to look forward to or flee from, as you wish.

The vinyl solution

One from my friend Øresund, who has excellent taste in music (often in agreement with mine--ha!):

The worst album covers ever created? from photographer Steve Carter

Feel free to pick your favorite--or whatever the opposite of favorite may be.

I have a few I like (in a perverse way) in particular:

• Latin '80s rentboy-goes-to-hell Tino's cover for his solo "piece," Por Primera Vez. "Por Primera Vez" translates as "for the first time." From the look on Tino's face and this angle of his hips and crotch, methinks otherwise. But nice legs, Tino, all the same.

• Heino's Liebe Mutter. Even Mike Myers at his most Dieter-esque wouldn't be this perverse. It's like Norman Bates as played by a David Lynch extra shows up on your doorstep on Mother's Day--whether you're a mother or not--in need of some maternal bonding or bratwurst or both. "Bitte, Mama, give me your wurst." Brrrr.

• Any and all of the gospel or family oriented groups (the Sherwood Singers, the Cooper Family, the Amason [or is that supposed to be "Amazon"?] Twins), who look like, in lieu of a marketing and costuming budget, were given a Kenmore sewing machine, some Simplicity patterns, yards and yards of old polyester, and an old Polaroid camera, and told to go at.

• Cante Gitano by Argentina Coral. "Gitano" means "gypsy" in Spanish. I think the citizens of Argentina owe a huge apology to the Roma people for this album cover.

• A Taste of . . . . I leave the rest for you to, uh, savor.

And there are more. So many more.

Please, I beg of you, never let my obituary read like this

From CNN's U.S. edition on Friday, December 2, 2011: "Deliverance actor Bill McKinney dies."

But of course, that's not the worst of it. No. While it might be tragic enough as an actor to be best known for a role played nearly 40 years ago, to add pain to your posthumous honors, CNN leads with this teaser on the front page: "'Squeal' actor from Deliverance dies."

Squeal. As in, "like a pig." Yes, folks, that's how CNN--and I'm sure the estate of Mr. McKinney--would like you to remember the actor: As the man who anally assaults poor Ned Beatty's character, requesting in the process that he "squeal like a pig."

Thank heavens that my career is so unnoteworthy that I am unlikely to be remembered in this way. The limited pleasures of anonymity.

Some day, I may have to try to watch Deliverance again. I'm sure there must be a point to it, other than this horrific scene, which I recall watching through my fingers and never venturing much beyond this moment in the film's, uh, thrust.

So the point is . . . man's inhumanity against man? Scratch the surface of civilization, and we're easily transported back to our more primal selves? There's little that separates human beings from animals? (Figuratively, literally.) Country livin' ain't fer sissies? Never date a hillbilly whose opening line is "yew shore got a purty mouth"?

I'm sure there must have been some point to it.

While I'm scratching my ass--oops, I mean, my head--over that, in the meantime, I'll just stick with watching Paula Deen and her boys cook up some grub on the Food Network. That's about as close to "Southern primal" as I dare to get these days.

Ma-ma-ko, ma-ma-sa, ma-ko-makossa!

"Soul Makossa" by Cameroonian saxophone superstar Manu Dibango is probably one of my favorite songs of all time. It's perhaps somewhat of an obscure song to claim as a favorite--an Afrobeat tune from the very early 1970s that somehow managed to make the charts in the U.S. and to become noted as one of the first disco tunes. Even though I was just a wee nipper, I do recall hearing the song on the radio circa 1972 or 1973. And I remember being captivated by it. In some ways, it was a song about as alien to me and my culture as was possible at the time.

Growing up, our house was always full of music. My Dad's Maybelle Carter and the Carter Family records, Jim Reeves, and the Grand Ol' Opry on TV. My sister's Beatles records, from which there was no escape. My one brother's sensitive singer-songwriter types (Emmett Rhodes anyone?), and my other brother's Southern rock ("Jim Dandy" by Black Oak Arkansas and Ruby Starr, among many others), which we all enjoyed, the late great era of Muscle Shoals boogie bands.

And then there was me, the gay one, with his yen for soul, disco, and Europop. On long road trips in the '70s, I must have been the only white kid south of the Mason-Dixon line bopping to Barry White, the Ohio Players, and the Miracles.

So, in other ways, "Soul Makossa" wasn't that alien to me. I'd already learned to appreciate the groove, the exquisite joy of rhythm, dance, and funk. Lyrics were important to the era as well--might I suggest listening to John Legend and the Roots' Wake Up, an homage to '70s black consciousness pop?--but a tune like "Soul Makossa" doesn't need to be understood word for word. The sound of Manu Dibango's voice, the musicality of the African language in which he sings and chants, and that smooth, laidback chorus of back-up singers intoning "Hey Makossa," all combine wonderfully to make a stellar pop record which, to me, transcends time, language, genre, and culture.

In short, if you fail to be moved--literally or figuratively--by "Soul Makossa," I do begin to wonder whether you are indeed a sentient being.

I don't think the original is what disco became known for, what it evolved into, all 4-on-the-floor beat, swooning strings, and frothy vocals. Instead, "Soul Makossa" is where disco started and might have gone, if it had stayed more underground, more alternative, and less cokespoons-and-cheap glamour. The song, with its transcendental pleasure, its worldview, and its unmistakeable sensuality was what disco was all about anyway, but got hopelessly lost along the way.



So flash forward to 2011 and Mr. Dibango has rerecorded "Soul Makossa," this time with up-and-coming UK pop artist Wayne Beckford.

Now I'm highly wary of remakes. Whether in film or music or what have you, most of the copies are light and faded in comparison to their originals.

However, with "Soul Makossa 2.0," I think Dibango and Beckford get it right. They don't try a note-for-note remake of an unremake-able song. Instead, it's more of an homage to the original with updates for the present day. And yet those updates--in rhythm, in lyrics, in singing style--complement the original, rather than overwhelm it or alter it beyond all recognition.

Is it as good as the original? Well, I guess I would say it is what it is, a version 2.0, so it's not a remake of the original, but rather a reinterpretation. I think musically it's still a very exciting, intriguing song. Lyrically, well, it's now intelligible to me in English and while the lyrics aren't embarrassing or insipid, let's just say that maybe something is lost in translation--that something being the more mystical, transcendental quality offered by *not* understanding the original language.

Still, worth a listen and worth owning.

With some skill, you can find this new version on iTunes U.S. Look for the album Festival International - Nuits d'Afrique Compilation 2011 (25ième édition).

Oddly, I could swear that a month or so ago, I saw the Manu Dibango album, Past - Present - Futur, from which this song is culled, slated for release on iTunes. But zut alors, now it's gone.

* * *

And speaking of things you can't find on iTunes, here's one by Wayne Beckford that I particularly enjoy, musically and visually.



My goodness, how can you not love a funny but rather cringe-inducing line like "This girl is making a big explosion/like the Taliban." I now want a trio or quartet of Beckfordettes (the Montaguettes? the OnFireMajorettes?) to follow me wherever I go, serving as a R&B chorus to my Greek lifestyle (i.e., too much debt, not enough austerity).

Ha. Seventies soul for a Naughties + Ten reality.

Give me (another) break

Sorry, Montag has needed another break this week. A head cold don't you know.

I promise to be back in the business of pop culture and sarcasm very soon.