Album Review: Hunt Hunt Hunt Camp, "Light on a Landfill" (2014)

"A lot of great things I did not do/But there's nothing here to ruin."

Hunt Hunt Hunt Camp is Chicago-based Joseph Starita and whoever's around.  For Light On a Landfill, Joe is joined by a cast of a dozen, aiding and abetting the cause with horns, guit-fiddles, keybs, beats and bleats.  Time to take a short drink from an infinitely flowing fountain.  

The fourteen songs comprising Light On a Landfill were recorded from 2011-2014, and the diversity of moods and textures I expected was indeed present.  The inconstancy in quality I feared was absent.  Result.  

The pieces possess power of a peculiar sort, the most potent sort, in fact.  The sort that sharpens the tongue rather than scrubs the throat.  The type that uses the walls to test slap-echo rather than to discharge fury.  Words are used first as weapons, for as long as the arsenal allows.  The deceptively labyrinthine vineyard that opens the album ("Hellos") is also one of the record's standouts, along with "Handshake," a three-minute track consisting of two similar yet distinct acts:  Mr. Starita on Doomsday, surrounded by the stutters and putters of a dying world; then, finally, the oceans beginning to boil. 

"Missing Persons" is all open heart thumping underneath an aluminum cage, dangling just out of reach.  And it has a fire-ass first line.

My favorite tunes come near the end:  the gorgeous swaths of "Continental Blues" and the ultimate track, "Hunt Hunt Hunt Camp," what feels like (to me, anyway) a tale of survival in the immense outdoors, all splayed limbs, aching skull and treacherous heart.  Harrowing covers it...well, most of it, I can still see the feet poking out. 

There are abstract EVP echoes, tenderly-articulated tracks and songs that lean towards the more standard construction, all juxtaposed wonderfully under the auspices of an even-keeled oddball.  Song after song, logic and emotion tussle to the soul's delight.  There's hope for the analgesic addicts here as well.  Some offerings ("K.I.L.L.S.," "Ginger Unit") hit my ears as Starita and crew making sound because they needed something to perch upon and gaze out from (or stand upon and dive down from).  Others coated my brain like the tree-filtered sunlight hitting bay windows, spreading through a sparsely-decorated living area, blending the light blues and hard whites. 

For the listener who loves to be pulled to, rather than pushed in, Light On a Landfill is worth a purchase.  Not only for the music, but the unique packaging.  Jesus, but do I appreciate effort ever more as the days go by.

Book Review: Girl In a Band by Kim Gordon (2015)

(You can't borrow my copy; trust me, it's well-guarded.)

"Men's memoirs are about answers; women's memoirs are about questions."--ISABEL ALLENDE

What's it like to want to be a girl in a band?

Kim Gordon.  Not a special name.  Doesn't take up much space.  No uncommon letters were harmed in the making of. 

Names are for tombstones, baby.  Take that superficial way of thinking outside and give it a goose egg.

Kim Gordon has been my hero since 1990.  Since I saw the video for "Kool Thing," the song that was surely the beginning of the end for Sonic Youth, once kings and queens of the American underground.  To have that look, to be a component in that sound.  To know those people, to be that person.  Slim, toned, gorgeous.  Sharp, witty, genius.

I totally wanna.  I know so.

Ever since the first rumblings of a Kim Gordon memoir, it's been at the top of my "must-read" list.  And good lawd, did I; one sitting, five hours.  I devoured Girl In a Band. 

So you got the name-dropping, the mental illness, the infidelity, but really, the most scandalous thing about Girl In a Band is that one of the most singular American artists of the past forty years even deigned to grace us with a significant account of her life and times.  Gordon is an insightful writer, free of stylistic quirks.  She is more concerned with breadth than depth, more adept at offering revelatory flashes than holding the light on one spot for long periods of time. 

Kim's memories of her family are touching and non-exploitative.  Her love for her resourceful mother and academic father is clear.  Her older brother, however, is the one that will be impossible to forget.

Dedicated SY fans know Keller Gordon as the co-star of a classic image inserted into the booklet of the band's first album, and the inspiration for "Cinderella's Big Score," one of the standout tracks from 1990's Goo.  After reading GIAB, everyone will know him as the most profound influence on young Kim Gordon, the person arguably most responsible in shaping the woman beloved by thousands (shit, dare I say millions?) worldwide for her bravery and savvy.  Unable to compete with her big bro's outsized personality, she retreated, spinning an opaque cocoon around herself. 


                               ------------------------------------------------------------------
In all my trips to the West (most of them revolving around SY) I've never felt the pull of California's suffusive air.  Well, that's not entirely true; I am asthmatic, after all.  But I've always preferred the density of New York City.  Something about California has always struck me as laughably insecure.  Kim has a more intimate knowledge of the so-called Golden State, though, and it was impossible for me to avoid being sucked into her straightforward descriptions of the places she knew as home.  Equally impossible?  Avoiding sadness when reading about her disinterest in the city that Sonic Youth arguably encompassed with more intensity and intelligence than any other band.  Kim is hardly the first to have expressed disenchantment with the Disney-fied New York, to bemoan the Giuliani-led replacement of unprofitable fetidity with profitable fetidity, but damn, she makes it sound like there's absolutely nothing there for her anymore.  It's amazing for me to consider that, juxtaposed with my own excitement whenever I visit, how I lose myself so readily in the areas outside the touristy disaster known as Times Square, how I emerge out the other side with sharpened edges, ready to set and go…then again, I never knew the New York that the music of Sonic Youth knew.


                                   ----------------------------------------------------------
Reading her thoughts on select Sonic Youth songs turned me into the person who went three days without any solid food, was treated to a decadent night out at a Michelin-starred restaurant, then bitched afterward about how the creme brulee was "'loose."  Not just because she didn't speak on any of her miniature masterpieces from A Thousand Leaves, 'cause I really didn't expect that.(I guarantee I hold that album in higher regard than everyone actually involved in its creation.) But the insights we are treated to, from Confusion Is Sex to Washing Machine, only confirm my suspicions that if Kim had wanted to write primarily about Sonic Youth, she would have turned out one of the greatest music books ever.   Christ's sake, reading her thoughts about "Shaking Hell" made me want to listen to nothing but that song for an hour.  (Made it 45 minutes, which is almost an hour!)

If nothing else, maybe "Massage the History" will get its proper due now?  Eh?!

                                   -------------------------------------------------------------
Kim was born to be an artist--visual, auditory--but the eagerness to express is frequently wed with the fear of sticking out.  'Cause when you get noticed, you can be judged.  If you can be touched, you can be hit.  The lessons learned growing up with a seriously-ill sibling served Kim well as Sonic Youth's profile grew.  Was she cool, or cold?  Imperious or impassive?  Detached or determined?  All the questions bandied about by fans and media meant she maintained a degree of control.  How admirable.  Or?

"If you have to hide your hypersensitivity, are you really a 'strong woman'?" she asks in the one sentence that froze my eyes inside my head.  Of course!  You can't lay it all out there, not if you want to survive.  Picking and choosing what you show is the power.  How it's interpreted is beyond you, and cannot be allowed to diminish the strength.  Of course it's not!  You're letting others--men, specifically, the expectations laid upon women by a world run by men--dictate your image.  You're not a positive role model, you're playing it safe!

And on.

                                  -------------------------------------------------------------------
Prior to publication, click-bait articles Internet-wide suckered in the simples with Kim's passages concerning Courtney Love (she called her mentally ill!  And since this society doesn't understand or respect mental illness whatsoever, this is a horrible burn!), Billy Corgan (self-important rock star, nailed that one) and Lana Del Rey (whose cult attacked Kim over social media re: a potentially-insensitive half of a sentence that ended up not even making the finished book).  Thankfully, Girl In a Band is not packed with these "sexy" reflections. 

There's nothing, and I mean absolutely not a single standing-alone-like-the-cheese thing, sexy about the dissolution of the marriage between Kim and Thurston Moore, the super-tall, lanky Connecticut-bred dude with the hair falling over his eyes that she met and fell for in arty-as-fuck New York.  Before they were the golden couple of the indie-rock scene, before David Geffen, before diapers, before the big house in Mass, there was just Kim 'n' Thurston.  She was young, he was younger.  She thought maybe they could start a band and maybe write some songs and maybe a record and maybe maybe, he knew they could.  From that union of skepticism and faith came Sonic Youth.

The band I adore above all others, whose racket convinced me to keep writing, whose sole female member compelled me to believe that what I was writing was worthy of the world…of course one day they would end.  That didn't upset me.  What gnaws at me to this day, and likely will for most of the rest of my days, is that they called it quits due to something so…banal. 

Kim reserves a measure of compassion for her manchild ex-husband (she makes repeated references to his aptitude for fatherhood, which scores some serious points with this woman, anyway) but Kim is understandably merciless when it comes to "the other woman," this mysterious figure who materializes onto the scene like some super-ambitious Dementor, attempting to ingratiate herself into Kim's life before moving on to not one, but two other members of SY.  Kim graciously resisted the urge to boldface announce "I'M DROPKICKING THAT BITCH BACK INTO THE TWILIGHT ZONE NEXT TIME I SEE HER, YO" but make no mistake, the hatred is high. 

These are the "juicy" chapters, and goddamn is much of it hard to stomach.  I never thought of Thurston Moore as anything other than one of the great re-imaginers of his much-abused instrument, but taking in the many examples of his gross duplicity, the "darkness" that took over and separated him from his wife, his child, his band…you know, I could have gone my entire life without reading about what caused the Moore marriage to "combust."  But I doubt that Kim Gordon could have gone her entire life without writing about it, and that is what matters.  The amelioration of suffering. 

(Mind you, there were moments my heart went out to Thurston.  It must be horrifying to realize you just wrote and recorded an album as devastatingly trash as Demolished Thoughts.)

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I think it's worthwhile to ask:  if called upon to write at length about my life, could I write as bluntly and boldly as Kim Gordon?  She shows no interest in romanticizing or de-romanticizing anything, least of all herself.  I honestly don't know.  She makes me want to, though.  Frequently--too frequently--as of late I have found myself ready to put pen to paper, prepared to bleed cold red everywhere, when a sudden paralytic attack hits.  Forces invisible and incomprehensible render me useless.  Soon enough, I am convinced of my utter and complete futility--as a writer, as a friend, a daughter, a lover.  The attack passes, and my mind is mine again.  This can take as long as two hours, as little as twenty minutes.  What isn't variable is my fear.  Past be damned; I just know, this time of all the times is the one, this isn't just mud, this is quicksand, and there's no hope now. 

Forget therapy; forget medication and meditation.  The homilies and bromides that worked for others simply will not work for me.  The next time those demons, those enemies of the expressive soul come for my throat, I'll go for theirs.  Cold red all over the page, everywhere.


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A gaze at the "Autobiography" section of any bookstore can induce depression pretty quickly.  Whether it's some "reality personality" who was paid more than the worth of the average life to put their name and face to a book that someone else wrote, or a blustering cultural/political maven who exists solely to remind me that a full 50% of America's citizenry is 100% unfit to procreate, it's hard to imagine the memoir as a work of art.  But Girl In a Band qualifies.  It is called-for.  It is brilliant.  It assures the questions will keep being asked.

Fall Down on the World: The Music of Sleater-Kinney, Pt. 8--Start Again While Unsteady Still

1/20/15

Don't know what you had till it up and left your ass one day.  Then it returns, on some Jedi steez, and you swear up and down that never ever will you take Sleater-Kinney for granted again, not their music, not their message, not the irony in such a proud all-female band being produced by a dude with the last name Goodmanson, you are different now and you know better.

Tricky thing is, so are they.

"Price Tag"--Economic woes lead but to self-cannibalization.  The drums are steady, strong, unshakable.  But that's standard S-K:  the foundation doesn't collapse, you collapse upon the foundation.

Mama Corin is mindful, but on the other side is Carrie, worrying mostly for herself by herself.  Unluckily for us all, life in these 21st-century United States ain't the goddamn Pain and Suffering Olympics.  No gold medals for the procreating competitors, no podium spot for the creating competitors, no nothing but more "no"'s.

"Fangless"--Fans of Sharon Gless?  That's what I've taken away from this song, which features some sweet Janet backing vocals.  If Sleater-Kinney were Cagney & Lacey, Carrie would be the ambitious Cagney, while Corin would be the family-first Lacey.  Janet would be over on Hill Street Blues, which was a much better 80s cop show.

"Surface Envy"--That the band has lost none of their individual or collective acerbity is the biggest reason that No Cities To Love not only works, but works harder longer faster stronger than any other clock-punchers going.   They're not dishing out, they're breaking plates, 'cause the planet is fucked...or it is if people don't dig deeper for some substance pride.

"I feel so much stronger/Now that you're here/We've got so much to do/Let me make that clear!"  Scratch.  Scratch.  Scratch.

"No Cities To Love"--The first real "Carrie" song.  Brownstein loves the feel of the words in her mouth, rolling over under and around her tongue, sticking to the palate and lodging in between most of her teeth.  The verses are brick and mortar, the chorus is fiberglass and plaster.

The city is only what you make it.  But others have made it before you.

"A New Wave"--Ever feel compelled to go all No Wave in life, just throw your arms around the nihilistic impulse, hurling your soul in the direction of the nearest black hole?  All the avarice, all the destruction, all the deterioration, all the goddamn time, all paths lead but to the grave.

A new wave is even scarier, because it represents continuation.  Oblivion is the greatest freedom.  Obscurity is the bitterest freedom.

"No Anthems"--Oh my darling elephantine.

The bread has hardened, but Corin layers it edge to edge with honey.

"Gimme Love"--The album's shortest song is also arguably its most divisive.  Love, lust, lasciviousness, lollipops...every "L" word that sends the brain and body into paroxysms, you can hear it inside "Gimme Love."  The listeners who aren't repulsed by earnest pleas may just place this one near the top.  Those fans who wanna earn their pleasures may feel differently.

That blue Slushee-infused instrumental break kinda has something for everybody, though.

"Bury Our Friends"--Remember those idols we killed years ago?  Time to bring 'em back up, McGarrity.

Carrie's impatience is by turns endearing and infuriating.  She's never as righteously pissed as Corin, but she always collects each stone as she overturns them.

"Hey Darling"--Lita Ford, riot grrrl?  Well, she was a Runaway.  And she used to fuck Tony Iommi.  I've never banged anybody missing a part of a finger before.

Fame!  Anybody can fly; try learning how to land.  Oh, and there are no thresholds on the runway.  FYI. 

"Fade"--All that yelling, an avalanche is inevitable.  What gets top honors on the death certificate, blunt force trauma or hypothermia?

After nine songs of life screaming up and down lush fields, death rounds things out.  The investigator returns to the days-old crime scene.  She stands stock-still, shuttering up the clutter inside of her inquisitive mind, beseeching the spirit to reach out to her, into her, to tell her who it was that wrenched their corporeal form from this realm. 

"The end."

It may just be.

Flock Rock: Sleater-Kinney at the 9:30 Club, 2/24 and 2/25

Patrick tends to be on top of things, while I tend to be on the bottom of them.  Thus, the responsibility of procuring tickets to Sleater-Kinney's gig at DC's venerable 9:30 Club fell into his lap.  And when those tix sold out in one hour, more or less, necessitating the addition of a second show the following night, he purchased those as well.

Patrick does not always stay on top of things.  Occasionally he deems it restful to descend from the peak and snuggle with the rest of us in the mediocre middle.  But soon enough, the clarion call will tickle his cochlea and once more he ascends, more heaving upward than any fanciful climb with ropes and carabiners.  "I'm coming to pick up you a week early," he informed me, and while I would love to tell you (and myself) that the reason for his haste was an aching desire to be in close proximity to my warm glowing warming glow, the rush was inspired by nature conspiring to dump on us.  The meteorological whiz-kids on local TV actually underestimated the impact on the DC Metro Area; some places ended up covered in a full foot of snow.  Hanging with Patrick and his pops in Montgomery County, I watched as "only" eight inches piled up outside the gorgeous expanse they call a mere "yard," and wondered at my use of quotation marks.  My mind marveled at the sights, but my body shivered at the sensations. Temperature extremes are a chore for most anyone to endure, but thanks to a chronic circulation issue, the record lows were utter agony for me.  Even as I increased the layers and bundled the blankets tighter, even as the logs burned in the fireplace under the auspices of a retired firefighter and various vents blew out hot air...I still felt like polar bear balls.

THE BEFORE

By the 24th--the night of the first Sleater-Kinney gig--temperatures were still low enough that Siri made that annoying "BRR!" when asked for the exact number but the roads were clear of ice and the skies held not a single threat.  Such situations are when my English pals would say, "Result!"

By the 25th--the night of the second Sleater-Kinney gig--temperatures were still low enough that Siri made that annoying "BRR!" when asked for the exact number but the utterance was curtailed, an indication that one need not wear three layers of clothing just to go outside and grab the mail. 

Nearly two years had passed since our last jaunt to the 9:30 Club:  May 13, 2012, to be precise, when we stayed just long enough to watch Lee Ranaldo and band open up for M Ward.  Other than trips to see live shows, U and V aren't streets we have reason to visit regularly.  Our loss, genuinely.  Even as much has changed, much has obstinately refused to change, and it is in this way the capital of America most acutely serves as a microcosm for the nation at large. 

Patrick travels to the 9:30 Club via Georgia Avenue, a main arterial road that takes us from small suburban life in Olney to an especially dense area of the much-livelier Silver Spring, on to one of the most scattered sections of DC and then U Street, an exemplar of gentrification.  In many ways, the rougher area of DC we pass through appeals most to me.  One gleaming building with obscenely wide windows here, seven dilapidated storefronts there.  Somehow the Ethiopian-Tex Mex cafe on the corner being watched over by the HIV-positive man who hasn't changed clothes in two weeks (but will, as soon as he gets the nickel) doesn't offend any of my sensibilities, but that new Wal-Mart?  Gross.

Ah well.  I was still able to peer out the window and count four munch-houses with signs boasting of their proficiency in at least four distinct types of food.

One gigantic change that we had not been privy to struck us right as Patrick turned onto V Street.  The Atlantic Plumbing Building that had stood at 8th and V for years had been razed and construction begun on a new apartment complex, a monolith next to the humble club.  Apparently the condos will welcome their first residents this spring.  All I'll say in this space is that the look is very modern.  And that when you are basically homeless--as I am--revulsion is an inescapable reaction.

One reason these shows mattered, then:  to staunch, however relatively briefly, the flow of toxins between my brain and the rest of my body.

Another change:  the 9:30 Club has started letting early arrivals in via their Back Bar.  Instead of hours spent lined up against the unforgiving brick, thirty lucky folks get to get their hands stamped and wait in the warmth, and maybe even create their own at the bar.  Patrick and I are almost always up for the jolly juice--he's of Irish ancestry, and my parents were both born and raised in Kentucky, meaning my blood type is Bourbon--but the nerves were too much.  Soon down, soon up, or at least that was the worst-case scenario.  Besides, The Simpsons Movie was playing on the mounted TV!  Alaska!

The second night was different.  Our bodies had been shaken up in the most pleasant ways by the previous night, and a much-savored drink (cider for Patrick, beer for me) would not only be harmless, but actually rather beneficial.  Also, the TV was off. 

THE SHOWS

You gotta love how I bold these headers, you can just jump right to the part you're most likely to care about!

From the Back Bar, it was two short flights of stairs (and the appropriately stickered/markered walls) then a quick left, and there we were.  The entrance to floor of the greatest place to see a rock show, full stop.  Both nights, we ended up at the far left end of the long metal railing--"side Carrie," to those who know. 

Sober as a bird draped in black robes for the first show, I couldn't beat back that roiling admixture of excitement and dread in my gut.  Patrick picked up on my vibe--sharing it to the degree that he did--and remarked that while the 75-minute wait for opener Lizzo seemed long, it would be nothing compared to the two-and-a-half hours that we were forced to stand around waiting for Devo to take the stage back in 2005.  Yep.  Doors opened up at 7.  No acts beforehand.  Devo onstage at 9:30.  And we did that two straight nights. 

But, we caught part of Bob Casale's Hazmat suit later in their suit, so it evened out.

Goddamn did Sleater-Kinney pick the perfect opener.  When I think "Minneapolis hip-hop," I think Atmosphere, AKA Slug on the mic/Ant on the beats, all heartfelt and introspective, and while Lizzo can be accurately described with those two adjectives, she is so much more.  Wild-haired and outsized, like to the point where I'm sure she not only does not possess an "indoor voice" but if anyone even dared suggest you adopt one she'd shove a package of Pepperidge Farm Milanos up their ass, she took the stage alongside DJ Sophia Eris and drummer Ryan McMahon, peppering her sound with impure funk and pure soul.  Big beats, bigger rhymes. 

Her set remained fairly unchanged one night to the next, causing her on the second night to beseech us repeat customers to resist spoiling her act:  "I'm like M. Night Shymalan in this bitch!"  But how could I complain about anyone who warms up by blaring Gossip, Runaways, and Le Tigre?  (And oh yeah, "Rebel Girl.")  Sure, sure, I could bitch about being front row and still not getting any cookies thrown my way during "Batches and Cookies" (which Patrick legendarily misheard as "Bitches and Cookies") but you know what?  That does not matter.  What does matter, as the proudly "humanist" Lizzo reminded us midway through her incendiary and indelible set, are "all lives" in general and "black lives" specifically.  Her crowd control is impeccable; when she requested all cell phones out and lit up for her finale, she didn't have to ask twice.  She did...but she really didn't have to.

Lizzo proved the perfect act to lead into Sleater-Kinney.  She loosened our limbs, stretched our mouths, and...well, our minds were already opened coming in, we're all Sleater-Kinney fans after all.  What we needed was to have our anxieties allayed, our bodies protected against any sudden physiological revolt...and that's what happened.  (Save for those souls sensitive to the effects of strobe lighting.  Yikes.)

National Public Radio were on hand to livestream the first show, and I'd be hard-pressed to claim they documented either the greater or the lesser of the two performances.  Sleater-Kinney blessed the DC faithful with 23-song setlists for each night, which just so happens to be the same number of counties in the state of Maryland, soo...take that, Virginia!  DC is so clearly ours!

2/24                                                                                  2/25

Price Tag                                                                          Price Tag

Start Together                                                                  Get Up

Fangless                                                                           The End of You

Oh!                                                                                   Turn It On

Surface Envy                                                                   No Anthems

Get Up                                                                             Surface Envy

Ironclad                                                                            Little Babies

No Anthems                                                                     No Cities To Love

Youth Decay                                                                    Hey Darling

What's Mine Is Yours                                                      Light Rail Coyote

A New Wave                                                                   Bury Our Friends

No Cities To Love                                                           One Beat

One Beat                                                                          A New Wave

Words and Guitar                                                            Youth Decay

Bury Our Friends                                                            Words and Guitar

Sympathy                                                                        Good Things

Entertain                                                                          Jumpers

Jumpers                                                                           Dig Me Out

ENCORE                                                                        ENCORE

Gimme Love                                                                   Gimme Love

Little Babies                                                                    Start Together

Turn It On                                                                       Let's Call It Love

Modern Girl                                                                    Modern Girl

Dig Me Out                                                                     One More Hour

Well well well...fuck me till the wheels fall off, why don't'cha.

Patrick and I were thoroughly spoiled re: setlists for this tour, 'cause that's how we are.  If the information is out there, we will find it, see?  We were aware that they were playing pretty much all of the new album, save for the dirge-y "Fade," and we were abreast of all the old faves they were dipping in and out of the sets, like so many Double Stuff'd Oreos into so many cups of whole milk. 

I'll be doing a full review of No Cities To Love later on in the week, but I won't hesitate to tell you all right here right now that 2015 Sleater-Kinney is every pound as vital, every inch as crucial, as the initial Grrrl-y incarnation of some 20 years ago.  The addition of Brit Katie Harkin on guitar/keybs/bonus percussion is a bonus to their overall sound, rather than a detriment.  (Take that, Tumblr-ing worrywarts.  She and Carrie were even synchronized on "Surface Envy."  It was incidental and adorable!)  Of the new tracks, my favorite (both on record and onstage) is the third-degree burner "Surface Envy."  I knew upon my very first listen that it would blow off and then hastily rebuild/replace the roof in a live setting, and I was far from mistaken.  A gorgeously distorted, relentless call-to-extremities that comes as close to a mega-colossal explosion as anyone reading this will experience in their lifetime.  "Price Tag" is another modern classic, a stomper for the cautious consumer that rings up and down every aisle, at every register.  S-K graduated from the Sonic Youth school of live performance, majoring in the refusal to gaze slavishly upon their past. 

In the "revelatory" category, I have to confess that "No Anthems" resonated far more with me in concert than on record.  Patrick has been a champion of the tune since the album's release, and finally, I got the hype.  Likewise, he was converted to the gospel of "Gimme Love."  Was it Corin Tucker stepping to the middle of the stage, mic in hand, free of her guitar, hands reaching out to feel the heat emanating from the ton o' luv accumulated in the audience?  Maybe it was that blue jean baby instrumental stretch, which allowed her to hit the floor quite literally, laying it all out and swinging it all around.  Either road you choose to travel by, they'll both make a hell of a difference.

I'm a member of the freak show known as "'All Hands on the Bad One' is my favorite Sleater-Kinney album, you guys!" (less members than "'Wowee Zowee' is the best Pavement album, dude!,"  more members than "'A Thousand Leaves' was the apex of Sonic Youth's career, y'all!") so to get "Youth Decay" just the once was a blessing so joyous that I damn near punched Patrick in the throat when they tore into it on the first night.  "Ironclad" was much less of a surprise, but no less of a thrill.  The band have been playing it virtually every stop on the tour, but it means more in DC than any other place on the globe.  (Hero warships...they preserve it, we deserve it.)  

Patrick, notorious lover of The Hot Rock, got his off early (and late) with "Start Together."  Who wouldn't want to touch sentient lava?  Other wool-shearing blasts from the past included the stalwart "Words and Guitar," "Dig Me Out," and "Little Babies."  Make no mistake--nothing got to us as instantly, twisted in and around our souls quite as intensely, as "Good Things" on the second night, and I doubt most sincerely that we were the only ones in the packed club that felt that way.  During S-K's 2006 "farewell" tour, they were fond of ending sets with the heart-punch of "One More Hour," bringing already distraught fans to actual tears.  They closed out their delayed DC date of '06 with "Dig Me Out," sparing some upset...but not from me.  See, I was fond of telling friends that I wouldn't cry if they'd played "One More Hour," but "Good Things," yeah, that would get to me.  Luckily for me and the people standing near me, I got to dance instead of blubber.

Not that I blubbered, exactly, but I'm grateful no one could see my eyes fill with tears, or my throat spasm from restrained emotion.  Thankfully, the band knew just how to cheer me up--the suicide song!  Yay!  Setlist construction at its most magnificent.

"Let's Call It Love" was a true shocker, the first time they've played it this tour.  I maintain that Corin is saying "Snoopy, the dog is sick" on the chorus until someone explicitly asks her and she states otherwise. 

THE CROWDS

Wait...header related to the show within the show header?  Put the wheels back on and fuck me again.

The first show was absolute fire, with everybody bringing along their sticks and stones.  Writers paid to express their half-formed, heavily-edited thoughts to the world may tell you otherwise.  They may tell you likewise.  All I can tell you is what I saw, what I heard, and most crucially, what I felt.  Bodies in emotion, true native activism.  A tidy mix of young, old, and the in-betweeners like myself.  Yes, men attend Sleater-Kinney concerts, and they're some fucking great dancers too.  I'm pretty sure people who have no need for corrective eye wear also go see S-K live, but that's just an assumption. 

There were no assholes, thankfully...we dodged a bullet with the small group of people who fought their way to the middle of the crowd during "Youth Decay" on the second night.  I thought I spied a couple ladies shooting me stink-eye for daring to hog the front when I'm damn near five-ten but hey, as I explained to Patrick on the first night--

"It does no good to get mad at me.  I'm five nine and a half 'cause my mom's five eight and a half, and my dad was six foot three.  It's all genetics.  You're five foot two trying to see the stage at a show, get here earlier or get a step ladder.  Ya know?  Not my fault her mom didn't screw a taller guy."

In addition to my height, I also have a head like a goddamn melon about to burst.  I imagine seeing me bop and hop was quite the extra treat.  On springs in the wintertime.

THE CLOTHES

The first night Carrie stole the show with Angus Young's school boy uni, minus the suit.  The second show, though, Corin was stupendously sexy in her white top with red shoulders and black pencil skirt. 

THE AFTER

Arriving home after the Tuesday concert, Patrick and I just concentrated on unconsciousness and recovery.  Going from no shows in almost two years to motherfucking Sleater-Kinney is akin to letting your precious little chihuahua out to do their sinful business, calling them back, and looking over to see a sleek, fierce tiger slowly striding to the door.  Oh, did I mention neither of us had any solids in our systems?  Yeah, that too.

Wednesday night, we treated the hell out of ourselves with hop skip and jump for the love of (veggie) chili cheese fries at the legendary Ben's Chili Bowl.  So hot, cheesy, and bean-y.  Was it real cheese?  It legitimately does not matter.  If Anthony Bourdain doesn't ask such questions, why should we? 

Working For the Week: The Music of Shonen Knife

POP TUNE 
6/6/2012

For real deal--some jobs are never done.

Never judge a book by its cover, a film by its cinematography, or a record label by its owner.  Good Charamel Records was started in 2003 by Goo Goo Dolls bassist/co-founder Robby Takac.  (You may remember the Goo Goo Dolls from such wretched songs as every single one they ever recorded.)  Good Charamel's impressive streak of eight years without releasing a single album I cared about ended when they put out Shonen Knife's 18th studio offering, Pop Tune.

"Welcome to the Rock Club"--Drum beat, it's a rock beat.  Welcome to the raw crab, indeed.  Fists stomp, feet pump, words do-si-do.  Naoko Yamano is a goddess in her own mind, which is the only requirement.  Asian buffets replace Colombian ones and stuffed animals occupy the bed-space the lesser deities might reserve for sleazoid leech-types.

"Pop Tune"--Pop having wistful thoughts of punk.  Memories that wrap 'round rather than smother.  The women of Shonen Knife are superheroes with no traceable villains, tailoring melodies for episodes of a lovably off-kilter animated series favored by viewers with the eternal kernel of childhood popping forever about.

(Might have been no call for that key change, but there was a text for it.)

"Osaka Rock City"--"I need more excitement," goes the litany.  Not terribly enticing the first few swings, but after I loaded up an animated gif of a dancing Snoopy and let it loop whilst playing this 'un, the enjoyment level increased exponentially.  As the enjoyment level is wont to do whenever dancing Snoopy is in the vicinity.

"All You Can Eat"--The organic peculiarity of the Knife means a song titled "All You Can Eat" was inevitable.  That it features a kazoo solo is merely a honey-dipped bonus.

A tidy break from the wall of sound, "AYCE" boasts chords with discernible footprints.  "Fill yourself with food, " Naoko beseeches us, and you don't gotta tell this feedbag more than once.  The succulent selections of sushi; the gloriously-sauced and deeply-fried meats; the rolls both spring and egg--there's a reason I wait until late at night to write these reviews.

"Paper Clip"--A shadowed strut along the snoozer's edge.  The winds are for sails only.  I've seen this sky before.  "Life is a journey/No need to cry."

"Psychedelic Life"--The Seventies vibe that permeates Pop Tune pulsates strongest here, the sole turn at the mic for drummer Emi Morimoto.  Nothing fruity or alarming here.  So many of SK's songs sound like short story concepts set to music.

"Mr. J"--Not about weed.  Or Julius Erving.  Absolutely about cotton candy.

"Ghost Train"--"Oh yeah."

Say it again.

"Oh yeah."

Pigs decked out in penguin costumes achieve a tenth of the coolness on display here.  Oink and waddle all you want, Wilbur, but Charlotte is still dead, and the rockin' shudder of Shonen Knife still cannot be surpassed.  

"Sunshine"--Bass-slinger Ritsuko Taneda offers up a track which manages to come off more psychedelic than the song with the actual word in its title.

"Sunshine" is comparable to someone who believes in love reading the first few lines of an above-average romantic poem. 

"Move On"--An odd conclusion.  By-the-numbers optimism that is either heartening in its consistency or discouraging in its consistency.  Only you, the listener, can decide. 

OVERDRIVE
4/15/2014

See?  They just won't go home.  Bless 'em.  The furnace is probably on the fritz, anyway.

"Bad Luck Song"--Naoko Yamano listens to naught but Seventies rock radio stations for one solid weekend while vegging out at home, noshing on every type of comfort food but veggies.  Come Monday, she has an album written in her head, raring to go.  Not to mention a roiling tummy.

"Bad Luck Song" is akin to wolfing down an entire pizza.  I don't know why I did it.  I know it felt good while I was doing it.  I know, furthermore, that in spite of that excruciating discomfort doing the Double Dare obstacle course run around my insides, and in spite of the repeated assurances to self that never again will I allow my appetite to rule so rapaciously, the day will come when I yet again take a whole pie to the face.

"Black Crow"--A diamond kiss, a hazardous bliss.  Dark without being dank, greased-up but not slippery.  Shonen Knife love their heavy metal suffused with dreams that scrub the brain clean of all those scruffy boy-sins.

"Dance to the Rock"--No choice is left!  At the rock club, it's only right!  Exuberant ducks all in a row, keep the bread in yer pocket.

"Ramen Rock"--SK eschew the trappings of the rawk life for smooth noodle indulgence.  Chuckles by the basketful.

"Shopping"--Classic rock mall life.  Eh?  These mash-ups are leaving me Brak-brained.

"Fortune Cookie"--Worst part of any Asian buffet experience.  Hokey advice, mush-mouthed proverbs, who needs it?  Gimme a fried banana with a fiver wrapped around it any day.

"Like a Cat"--If you are wondering whether or not "meow" sounds are inserted into "Like a Cat," I wonder how familiar you are with this band here.

I Am a Cat?  No I am Like a Cat.  Big big.  Big Cat.  Pump it up...slow it down.  Every day they read the cookbook:  To Serve Cats.

To frolic and play the feline way--never could I pull off such.  I'm the stern-faced creature carrying more weight than most on my four legs, so forget the slinking and the slithering, and why ever would I purr when a bark goes better?  Still...I just can't resist these curious charms.

"Green Tea"--Spiked with the stuff that shelters ears in fuzz.  This one is much better than actual green tea, or really any tea you can name.  I much prefer coffee, but a Shonen Knife under the collective influence of all that caffeine would bring about an adorableness too fidgety and bubbly for the world to contain.

"Robots From Hell"--I'd love to see them play this live, if only to grin up at 'em from my spot in the front and yell, "Y'all still cute as all hell!"  Clank and burn, but wait your turn!

"Jet Shot"--I was going to specify a single subject, but forget that--"Jet Shot" is the entire Candy Kingdom from Adventure Time.  Grab all the goods, savor all the tastes, marvel at all the colors, and above all appreciate the goddamn textures.



Naoko Yamano has gone on record stating her desire that Shonen Knife should last forever.  Not in the sense that they have recorded classic music that will be listened to generations from now.  (Though by my estimation they have.)  She means that the band Shonen Knife should, literally, last forever.  Even after she's moved on to that great buffet in the sky, there should exist on Earth three irrepressible Japanese women filling the increasingly ugly air with pretty sound under the name of Shonen Knife.  

I can't say that Naoko's wish is either foolhardy or undesirable.  I can say, however, that if Shonen Knife indeed prove to be the cockroaches of rock, I need to start training someone to take over these reviews. 

The Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk

AIRDATE:  11/4/88

STORY:  Brothers Orville and Wilbur Wright had spent three years designing and testing gliders in the hopes of proving that man was indeed capable of sustained controlled flight.  Failure after failure left them disheartened and pessimistic.  Desperate, they decided to relocate from Ohio to Kitty Hawk, NC, a small beach town whose shores appealed to men who needed unobstructed land and strong winds.

On December 17, 1903, the first-ever pilot-controlled flight of significant time and distance was taken in a 700-pound aircraft called "The Flyer," as flown by Orville Wright.  The world was literally never the same after that day.

The narration that kicks off the program, detailing mankind's multitudinous attempts to gain meaningful access to the skies, is more interesting on its own than a couple This Is America segments I could name.  Soon enough, we join Charlie Brown and Linus on a rip-roarin' horse-and-carriage ride to see Linus' cousin Dolly in Kitty Hawk.  The timing of their visit is quite fortuitous--December 16, 1903!

Dolly has been keeping abreast of all the news regarding the recent arrivals and their experiments, and has no trouble convincing Charlie Brown and Linus to bike with her down to the beach.  Once there, they run into not the brothers, but a slightly less innovative duo:  their assistants, Peppermint Patty and Marcie.  After some shenanigans with a kite, Orville and Wilbur materialize and decide the conditions are as good as they'll get--time to try and fly.

Air travel revolutionized the world.  But millions worldwide remain fearful of getting onto an airplane.  Some of us can't get through a flight of at least four hours duration without suffering panic attacks.  You know what method of transportation rocks harder than a plane?  A train.  Fuck yeah, trains.  Slower and lower, and I've never once thought I was going to die while seated on one.  So I give this segment a 9.

MUSIC:  For modern jazz that sounds most at home played at a respectable volume in a coffeehouse, call on Wynton Marsalis. 8

ANIMATION:  The usual well-done job, despite some infrequent weirdness with mouths.  I get a kick out of the kids wearing jackets that correspond color-wise with the outfits we most associate with them.

The crayon drawings that are shown on screen as Dolly relates the pre-Kitty Hawk adventures of the Wright Brothers are pretty awesome.  As in, if a kid did those and showed them to me, I'd muss their hair and give 'em a cupcake.  9

VOICES:  Erin Chase (Charlie Brown) and Brandon Stewart (Linus) prove themselves yet again to be reliable reciters of dialogue typed on paper.  8.  In fact, I'm handing out that number out like crazy--here you go, Jason Mendelson, you do a fine Patty; Gregg Berger and Frank Welker, who could do the adults better?; finally, Brandon Home, very nice job as Dolly.

Sadly, Tani Powers underwhelms as Marcie (5), sounding as though she was overdubbed.  She says her lines in the same maddeningly laconic manner as that "not-Flick" kid waiting in line to see Santa in A Christmas Story.

FLY BOYS AND FLY GIRLS ALL OVER THE WORLD

--

You done goofed, son.

--Can we just, each and every one of us, appreciate how dashing Snoopy looks in a top hat?

--

By 1950s standards, Linus and Charlie Brown are a married couple.

WELCOME ABOARD UNITED AIRLINES

--

Sand sandwich!

--

I wasn't entirely sold on his plan before, but now that Snoopy has accessorized, I'm confident we will see a dog in the air on this day!

--

Sand sandwich!



The story of the Wright Brothers is one of perseverance, ingenuity, and obsolete first names.  Definitely give this segment a watch.  (Or a rewatch.)

The Mayflower Voyagers

AIRDATE:  10/21/1988

STORY:  The year is 1620.  The Peanuts kids join the Pilgrims aboard the merchant ship "Mayflower" as it travels from Plymouth, England to the (possibly) glorious New World.  Miserable conditions--ranging from nausea to death--make the two months spent crossing the unforgiving ocean neigh intolerable.  Over 100 dreamers are smashed up against one another like sardines--and smell nearly as mephitic.  No shuffleboard, no Hungry Hungry Hippos...only visions of what await them in their new home keep the passengers from losing their sanity.

Once aground, the struggle continues.  A group of musket-toting Pilgrims (and Snoopy) attempt to approach a group of Natives huddled 'round a campfire, who run off upon catching sight of their would-be friends.  "They must be afraid," one portly Pilgrim proclaims.  "Quickly, we must chase after them!"  On such brilliance, began America.

Eventually, the Pilgrims find suitable land to begin building homes, while widespread ill-health and the encroaching winter bear down.  Enter Samoset and Squanto, two Natives with friendly hearts and able bodies.  Calling upon the generosity of their people, they help the new arrivals establish a comfortable, prosperous settlement.  Their teamwork culminates with the first-ever "Thanksgiving," wherein much food is prepared, and much food is eaten.  7

MUSIC:  General seafaring string and reed arrangements courtesy of Ed Bogas.  Unimaginative but unobtrusive.  7

ANIMATION:  The team certainly went all-out to make the 17th-century pop off the screen.  The men tend to be generously mustachioed, and the women are often abundantly bosomed.  The only flaw (potentially, depending upon your taste) are the "dickle" noses sported by many of the characters.  (You know...can't decide whether it looks more like a dick or a pickle, so you just split the difference.) 8.5

VOICES:  Erin Chase is a dependable 8 in the role of Charlie Brown, while Brandon Stewart's Linus is likewise.  Jason Mendelson's Peppermint Patty is in the same boat as well (quite literally).

Erica Gayle is outstanding (8.5) as Lucy, who, going by her facial expressions throughout, is never not smelling shit.  Tani Powers fails to impress as Marcie (6), sounding as spineless as Frieda's cat.

Going outside the usual suspects--Frank Welker makes for a respectfully-voiced Squanto (8) and Gregg Berger handles double duty admirably (8), as both military advisor Myles Standish and the kindly Samoset.

(WHITE) WISHY WASHY OL' CHARLIE BROWN

--The traditional story of the first Thanksgiving as told to American children has one notable problem:  it's kinda bullshit.  Which makes this well-presented special a lie.  Rather than rail against the national school system, or the producers of This Is America, I'd rather urge people to do their research.  Put the shoe up to your ear.  And never, ever feel guilty about scarfing down pumpkin pie.

A VERY VEGAN THANKSGIVING

--

'Murica!

--

You can tell Captain Jones is the leader because his attire inspires others.  Also because he remains seated while dudes with weapons stand, faces frozen in menacing countenances. 




The Mayflower Voyagers is the only segment of This Is America, Charlie Brown still aired on national television, as it makes a tidy pair every November with A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.  If you can ignore the historical inaccuracy and get a chuckle out of dickle noses, a decent watch awaits.