The Greatest Peanuts Strips--40 to 31

40. 12/5/78



Previously on Peanuts, Lucy kicked Schroeder's piano sky high in the name of research. She returns with similar foul intent. Don't let Lucy's sign language fool you; there can never be peace between these two. Such fabulous frisson.

39. 5/8/63



Snoopy's desire to act humanoid (as featured in his many personas) doesn't mean he hates being what he is, which is a dog. It's just that he knows he's better than all those "pets," content to obey their masters and chase small objects in the name of exercise. He is eyes closed, stance defiant. Joe Better-Than.

38. 1/30/73



My favorite Peanuts kid has always been Peppermint Patty. Still, the athletically gifted, intellectually deprived tomboy narcoleptic (and if you're not in love with her after that description I give up) had no more ardent fan than her father, who had the sole responsibility to raise his little girl into a grown woman. From the glimpses his daughter gives us, Mr. Reichardt is a doting dad who encourages his daughters extracurricular activities while never failing to see (and reassure) that she is sweet and lovely, his "rare gem." He'll buy her a baseball glove, sure, but also flowers and sandals--whatever she needs.

Being told she can no longer wear her sandals to school crushes Patty's spirit. They're comforting in a multitude of ways, and losing them hits the poor girl like having a life raft deflate on her in the middle of the ocean. She needs some TLC, and Snoopy is right there--stocking cap and all--to give it to her.

(Oh y'all, you can't imagine what father-daughter relationships in art do to me. Rare gem, he called her. It is worth noting that Schulz took much inspiration from his children, and that was his term of endearment for daughter Jill. She even identified herself as such in her father's official obituary.)

37. 4/1/75



The baseball diamond was a familiar spot for the kids. Usually to lose. Suffer defeat. And so on.

As off the field, Lucy was Charlie Brown's constant nemesis (a title she would wear proudly), but everyone of his Worse News Wombats would set off massive heartburn for the barber's son over time. My favorite example of this is Linus's sorrowful soliloquy whilst lining up to catch a fly ball. (Man, did somebody put creepy-crawlys in Schulz' cereal or what?) Charlie Brown's ending lamentation applies not just to his own frustration, but that of his wayward outfielder as well, a neat trick.

36. 1/22/63



It is all about the last line. No more, no less. I wish I had come up with it, and I use it weekly.

Okay, I lied; it's about the rain too.

35. 3/30/93

Bu-bu-but...Charlie Brown never won! How could he have won?! This here strip defies conventional wisdom, and I love it. You can tell the people who knew their stuff and the folks with cursory smarts. Yessir ma'am, Charlie Brown's team won a freakin' baseball game and blocknugget Brown was the hero. Schulz gives this momentous occasion the gravity it requires, a single panel featuring Chuck in multiple stages of bliss, a disbelieving Sally taking it all in.

34. 8/19/60



Charlie Brown's snarling anti-rejoinder was borrowed famously by former big league pitcher Jim Bouton for his infamous tell-all Ball Four (and subsequently on Sportscenter by Ball Four disciple Keith Olbermann). It's a fantastic line. Sometimes delving deeper and examining the numbers is great. Other times...shut up.

(Love the "just ate a grape and gasoline sandwich face" too.)

33. 10/17/62



Charlie Brown never learned; try and help Lucy with some mother wit, and it just ends up unleashing the brimstone. Watch her get more and more worked up, till the sweat and spit practically moistens the newspaper. I would have loved to have seen Lucy later on try and come to terms with the uncertainty of what if anything comes after death. Boy howdy.

32. 2/5/86

"You're weird, sir!"

"You're inordinately weird, Marcie."

P. Pat and Marcie were pretty odd. They both crushed mega on Charlie Brown, if that's any indication right there. And their friendship was also a ponder, sort of a Niles and Bloomguard for the kiddy set (albeit with much less post-traumatic stress disorder). Marcie clearly idolized her intellectual inferior, while Patty seemed to enjoy having a hanger-on who would never threaten her status as the local "girl who intimidates the boys."

I picked this strip because it's just a funny mini-story. I can see them right now, can hear Peppermint Patty's laughter in the face of Marcie's minor misfortune. Schulz was sparing with illustrating open-mouthed laughs full-on, but it worked great here.

31. 1/3/57



One of the most amazingly "bitch" things Lucy ever said. How did Charlie Brown last, in his fifty years as a pre-teen, without stealing some of his dad's shears and ending it all in the water pail? Umberto Eco wrote that the Peanuts kids were "monstrous infantile reductions," and he was correct. Charles Schulz himself stated that "Children are cruel," and if you don't think otherwise, I guess you just forgot what it was like to be a child.

The Greatest Peanuts Strips--50 to 41

50. 6/20/52

We lose some of our childish ways as we age, but the proclivity to act exceedingly dumb in spite of acquired wisdom never really goes anywhere. Reading the first decade of Peanuts affected me in many ways, but the paramount feeling in my gut throughout was a desire to activate the Wayback Doohickey and relocate to the 1950s, just to get the context of a comic strip with depressed, self-loathing children.

Charles Schulz was to cartooning what the Beatles were to music. A revolutionary artistic force beloved by old and young, mainstream and underground, whose work instantly made all in his milieu seem hopelessly behind.

49. 6/26/95

Charles Schulz was extremely well-read, and peppered the panels of Peanuts with various literary references. The Great Gatsby was a particular favorite, with its biting critique of characters financially prosperous but emotionally bankrupt. If this panel showed Linus lamenting to Charlie Brown, it wouldn't have been as effective in my mind. When you think Snoopy and Woodstock, scenes of silliness come to mind; not the irreverent beagle sighing out a virtual abdication of all hope with a long face.

48. 12/22/78



Sally's malapropisms are usually harmless, but when a Christmas-themed speech to her class goes awry, even her long-suffering big bro is compelled to do more than just roll his eyes and breathe out a weary sigh. He didn't think much of her confusing "rain gear" and "reindeer," and just let her think what she wanted, but now he has to face that his baby sister is truly distraught and needs him to care. Charlie Brown's heart may be battered, but it's still sweet.

47. 5/21/66




Schulz never intended for the Van Pelt family's relocation to be permanent, so the gobs of fan mail imploring him to keep the neighborhood intact were of no consequence anyway. Still, it must have been nice to have confirmation that people cared.

Charlie Brown and Sally were predictably knocked loopy by the news of Linus and Lucy's impending departure; so, however, was Schroeder. Called out by Charlie Brown for the seeming illogic of his nostalgia, the tow-headed wunderkind had to admit to himself that the only thing more intolerable than being pined after by someone you don't desire is not being pined after at all.

Sure enough, the Van Pelts return, and Lucy can't get back to her familiar spot by Schroeder's piano fast enough. Each of the four panels is rendered exquisitely. Schroeder is as per usual: head down, fingers tickling toy ivory. Lucy has arrived, silently and gleefully. By the next square, she has assumed her familiar spot. Schroeder is still oblivious. Lucy's smile in the third panel says it all--she is home. She can no longer keep her joy to herself, and announces her return in the inimitable, flesh-lifting manner that the strips characters frequently verbalized.

46. 7/3/87

This one is all about the payoff. In the world of a child--and the world of a childish adult--everything that happens is of extreme import. Every incident changes the world, and sanity hinges on every word.

45. 4/4/52

If dogs could read, they'd relate to Peanuts just as deeply as any ol' humanoid. Snoopy's dreams are their dreams. Seeing him on two legs and not dancing is almost improper.

44. 3/20/74

For a long time, Peppermint Patty thought Snoopy was just another kid in the 'hood, albeit a freakin' odd-looking one. How could she think a beagle was a boy? Lotsa reasons, really. Stupidity. Unfamiliarity with the canine. I was going to say maybe she just couldn't fathom a dog being on a baseball team, but then I remembered that she was the first kid to resolutely share Linus' faith in the Great Pumpkin. So she can clearly think outside the rhombus.

Peppermint Patty just saw the world in a funny way that made perfect sense to her. But when she sought refuge in Snoopy's doghouse, and insisted it was instead the Brown family guest cottage, it sent her best pal Marcie over the edge. Trying to convince Patty with words was useless, so she spoke the tomboys language at last: physicality. It doesn't say much for the craftsmanship of the doghouse that two small bodies resisting another small bodies attempt to pry them off can send it collapsing to the ground, but it let Schulz show off with the pen and gave Snoopy the opportunity to bust off one of the great verbal punchlines in the strips history. (Also made me wonder if he ever ate with his feet.)

43. 7/26/79




For a brief time in the summer of 1979, Charlie Brown fell ill with a mysterious malady that landed him and his zig zags in the hospital. The thousands of fans who practically attacked United Media with "get well" cards must have been stunned when their beloved blockhead's most insistent rival was sent into paroxysms of violent rage over his situation. (That last panel is an amazing rendition of someone in the throes of utter frenzy.) But give it some extra thought, and Lucy's feelings make perfect sense. Just like Schroeder needs Lucy as a partner in the game of unrequited desire, so Lucy needs Charlie Brown. He is innocence and peace, and while she frequently exploits those qualities that she herself does not possess, she is also heartened by their presence. If someone so kind-hearted and decent can't get better, what chance does anyone have?

42. 5/8/96

Sally's Aspergian social skills for the flawless victory! "All your kids will be stupid" cracks me up so bad.

The second panel--scrunched between one and three, Sally's head peeking over her brother's blanket--is especially affecting in its sense of isolationism.

41. 12/19/63




Lucy has assigned Linus singing duties in their school's upcoming Christmas play. Most people who are not egomaniacs would dread such a responsibility, and so it goes that the ingenuous blanket-hoarder comes up with Plan B.

The middle panels are what shine brightest. The ridiculous visual of Linus and Snoopy's earnest gyrations followed by Lucy's deity-defying scream in the face of her petrified sibling, while Snoopy observes all in abject terror. Kids go through the darnedest trauma!

The Greatest Peanuts Strips--Honor Bag

Ranking seventy strips from the greatest newspaper comic of all time is probably the most daunting achievement I will ever perform for the sake of this blog. It took 33 days (September 1st to 29th, then October 1st to 3rd) to go through all 17,897 strips, pick stand-outs, then narrow that batch down, then finally put two lists in order. How many days it takes to review the strips for the purpose of manipulating them to fit a thesis masquerading as a biography, I could not tell you.

The honorable mentions featured here--the strips I could not place among the best but just couldn't bear not reflect upon--are presented in chronological order.

8/12/57

Art purporting to be rooted in realism is plentiful, but the truest examples ultimately turn out to be desultory reflections on pointless effort that leaves the beholder in despair, with any moment of joy and hope contained therein understood to be mere accidents in context. The truth is, many films, books, and songs that boast the "true-to-life" stamp frequently diverge into the absurdism borne not of existence itself but entirely of the creators fancy, where fantastical situations abound not for the purpose of proving true the pithy philosophy of Vonnegut ("So it goes") but rather to alleviate the pain, or give it a different shape.

Peanuts hit its marks with devastating accuracy: the cruelty of children, the heroism of effort, the demoralization of unrequited love. Still, Charles Schulz understood that no matter how much wit and wisdom he gave to these oddly-drawn little creatures, they were still the stars of a comic strip. Not a novel or epic film. Above all else, Peanuts had to be funny.

Here we see Charlie Brown the outsider, pretty much the only kid not having a blast in the pool. There is no room for him, and he knows better than to ask, bully his way in, or wait his turn. Despondent, he trudges to the only option he can find--a water bucket.

The sight gag/physical impossibility is brilliant, especially since Charlie Brown has a big fat watermelon head. Schulz repeated the gag 28 years later, giving the impression that this turned into something of a tradition for ol' Chuck.

6/10/59



This lone example of Linus showing interest in Charlie Brown's li'l sister would later be outnumbered by strip after strip of his strident denials that he was her "sweet baboo." Less an instance of retcon, more of childish capriciousness.

4/29/63




Feel smart the next time someone asks how Snoopy keeps from falling off the doghouse while he sleeps! This may also explain why he's so simpatico with Woodstock.

8/22/66



As far as character introductions go, only Charlie Brown's was better. And I don't mean Roy. "A real swinger"? My sweet lord.

10/7/69



Frieda was notorious for: briefly owning a cat; her naturally curly red locks; and badgering Snoopy to hunt rabbits, as was his birthright. (He wasn't even her dog!) All three prongs of this trident made for good strip runs for the limited time that Schulz felt her worthy, but not many individual strips stuck out. This one I couldn't pass by; Schulz' diabolical rendering of the beagle in the final panel has left an indelible impression on my little mind.

11/6/74



Hockey nut Charles M. Schulz makes a point that is still unfortunately cogent in todays game (the superlative career of Jarome Iginla notwithstanding). It's Peppermint Patty's casual manner of delivering her pointed question that gets me.

10/23/77



Charlie Brown's unrequited love rarely made him explode. Implode, yes. But one of the things that created such sympathy for the poor fella was his tender heart, resigned as it was to disappointment. His little sister, however, did not go gentle into that good night, morning, or afternoon. The Sundays gave Schulz the opportunity to fill his speech balloons with biting text, and Sally's self-recrimination in the face of a placid Linus is perfectly executed.

Also, this is the strip from the day I was born.

3/31/79



This is so accurate I got a chill.

4/11/80



Over the course of fifty years, the Peanuts reader discovers that--

--Snoopy weighs 23 pounds

--Snoopy's doghouse roof is 23 inches long from one end to the other

--Snoopy can be rendered fat and useless by 23 hot dogs

There's a magic there.

9/19/81



A prime example of how Schulz' artistic style developed over time.

Unlike the usual smirking beseechments Snoopy usually addresses World War II with, this time he's calling on the cat next door whilst in great pain. How can Snoopy be the Snoopy he wants to be, the Snoopy that everyone loves, the Snoopy that fox trots on box tops and grins cheese on Jenn's tees, with a splinter? He simply cannot, so he must do the unthinkable and appeal to the solicitous side of his feline foe. Look at the Twist-ian pleading of his face in the second panel; how could anyone resist? Sure enough, World War II assists Snoopy in his own special way. Many Peanuts strips end with the realization of a price paid for getting what you want, and this is one of the funnier ones.

1/29/86



"Pizza for rent" is just an amazing concept. Just pay a predetermined amount every month for some delicious frisbees to be delivered direct to your door. I dunno which of the big boy chains would adopt such an angle, but I sure hope it ain't Dominos. Snoopy would never eat at Dominos.

3/21/90



Following Charles Schulz' divorce, Lucy Van Pelt was toned down considerably. To equate Lucy with the former Mrs. Schulz is rather lazy, however; the cartoonist put a great deal of himself into several characters, Lucy among them. Her mellowness is as much a reflection on an increased, if tremulous, inner comfort with her creator as it is a result of a marriage dissolved.

This strip makes a point that is hilarious in its down-home truthfulness, and also gives Schulz a chance to show off his fantastic knowledge of literature in the form of some lines from poet John Gay.

12/30/90



Snoopy loved Linus' blanket. And why not? It represents security, warmth, comfort, and--if he could snatch it away--the triumph of dog over boy. This Sunday says so much with nothing at all, and the final panel was turned into a sticker design that could be seen on a Fender P-bass used live by Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon for much of this decade.

7/19/91



Oatmeal raisin, no doubt. Or coconut. Charles Schulz hated coconut, and let Snoopy speak for him on numerous occasions. Brilliant. It is the responsibility of the artist to use his characters to speak out against evil.

4/14/97



There's preternatural and then there's, like, "super-preternatural". The plot points of modernist Russian literature don't usually rank with preschool kids, but here we go. Rerun was a stroke of genius in latter-day Peanuts.

The Greatest Peanuts Strips--Prologue

Beginning next Monday, I will be posting the first in a series spotlighting what I and I alone feel are the ultimate strips in the 50 year history of Peanuts. More specifically, the top 50 dailies and top 20 Sundays.

This was not easy whatsoever. Poring over 17,897 strips was daunting; while I believe that at no period in time did the creativity of Charles Schulz vamoose the scene, there were stretches when it flagged. He did on occasion repeat a gag, or belabor a point. I defy anyone to do anything for 50 years--including existing--and maintain your apex moment throughout, without divergence.

On Sunday, as a teaser, I will be posting those strips that just barely missed the big lists.

Nerd Overload

The Peanuts Top 50 Dailies and Top 20 Sundays lists are...forthcoming! That's right, in between sleeping, eating, writing fiction, job-hunting, Skypeing, exercising, reading, listening to music and worrying about keeping a roof over my head, I'm somehow finding time to rank my very favorite Peanuts strips. People who enjoy this sort of thing will find it the sort of thing they enjoy!

Beautiful Jukebox: The Music of Sonic Youth (Selection 19--Not Subject To Change, Shall Not Perish)

JUNE 9, 2009

"A comfortable old age is the reward of a well-spent youth. Instead of its bringing sad and melancholy prospects of decay, it would give us hopes of eternal youth in a better world"--Maurice Chevalier

The last time Sonic Youth went three years between albums, the end result was their finest record to date. The thousand day gap does 'em good, clearly; The Eternal is easily their most satisfying full-length since A Thousand Leaves. Nothing on it plumbs the depths of "Sleepin' Around" or "Small Flowers Crack Concrete" (two songs that we shall never speak of again, until it's time to speak of them again); in fact, there isn't a single bad song. In my review for The Whitey Album I said "The Eternal slays like a dungeon fulla Zelda Blue Knights" and I meant it.

On a superficial level, it's also their best-titled album since 1998 as well. Thurston Moore is ever ready with a go-to overarching influence to rubber stamp every promo interview with, and for The Eternal, it was the black metal genre. "Eternal" apparently strikes T-man as a very "black metal" word; it pops up frequently in album and song titles.* Thurston is actually a well-informed, articulate fan of this particular brand of "non-music"--I take slight umbrage with his blithe dismissal of death metal, though--but you don't have to press "Play" to know SY are not doing anything black or metal on this album. Dark, yes; intense, yes. But no one will be torching churches or worshiping dark lords to these songs (incidentally, I've always found black metal lyrics to be more secular humanist than anything).

How to explain it? Was it departing the major leagues for Matador Records, the venerable label run by old Homestead honcho Gerard Cosloy? Was it the string of shows performing Daydream Nation in its entirety for the Don't Look Back concert series? Was it the addition of former Pavement bassist Mark Ibold? Was it increased comfort with producer John Agnello? Was it the unavoidable reality that if you're going to put John Fahey "ass art" as your cover, the goods better be delivered on time and with smooth corners?

It's everything we think it could be and a hell of a lot we would never imagine.

*(The romantically-inclined could also see the title as a nod to the odds-defying marriage of Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon, who on the very release date celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary. Sonic life.)

"Sacred Trickster"--A baby of a tune at 2:11, but if you're dowsing out the genius of 21st century Youth, here ye be. That one guitar at the very start is just like a little kid, mimicking its older sibling, just begging for some angry attention. When it happens, and the fellas go rollin' around the house in a tornado of puerile violence, mama is hardly perturbed.

"I want you to levitate me." Okay...I owe you one. Deal? Hey, Kim--deal? Heh heh.

After 30 years doing anything (including living), you get smarter or you atrophy and die off. That's why "Sacred Trickster" lunges over edges without plummeting down, times its peaks to perfection and leaves me wanting nothing when it's all over.

"Anti-Orgasm"--When the tracklist for The Eternal was revealed, I was not alone in my eagerness to hear this one before all others. With a title like "Anti-Orgasm," the potential was mountainous. Sonic Youth scaled it, and planted a glorious flag at the summit. Kim, Thurston and Lee on shared vocals is pro-orgasm.

The at-odds lyrics were inspired by a German film called The Wild Life, a biopic about Uschi Obermaier, a model who retreated to Kommune 1, a gathering of naked hippie radicals. One of the scenes shows her and her partner in bed, while another couple tries and fails to pass go nearby, thanks to the guy's sudden impotence. Obermaier's dude remarks that "he's anti-orgasm," a rather incisive quip at the antagonist nature of radical culture, so immured from conspicuous over-consumption that all selfish pleasures become threatening.

Of all the SY tunes featuring multiple vocalists--there aren't many--this is the champ. By pinfall. Multi's a-poppin'. Kim, Thurston and Lee and you discern each voice? Backing vocals that aren't liminal; I may weep. Kim and Thurston trading lines? Jesus crab-crackin' Christ! The grunting refrain? Forget it. I just looked outside my kitchen window and saw red sprites tunneling through fireballs in the sky. Either a meth lab nearby met its timely end, or this song is too incredible to exist.

Of course, there's an afterglow. There was a during-glow, too, you know.

"Leaky Lifeboat (For Gregory Corso)"--A Thousand Leaves would be perfect save for two minor flaws: the frog farts on "Karen Koltrane" and the dedication to Ginsberg. I always wished SY had honored a greater poet. Like, you know, Gregory Corso, who was not crazy at all. (Ginsberg wouldn't have hesitated to tell you he himself was nowhere near the wordsmith his less-heralded compatriot was.) Well, better later than not at all, and who's to say it's really late anyway. Mind you, the lyrics borrow more from ol' Herman Blount than anybody; even the very beginning, those aren't guitar strings, those are creaky sunbeams.

The title is direct from Corso, however, who once described life on this planet as a "leaky lifeboat." The music follows in the same vein; I always feel woozy when I hear it, like I need to get my sea legs. The toads yawning at opportune moments helps a bit, lets me know I'm not alone.

Thurston and Kim share vocals here as well; while Thurston is more prominent on the verses, Kim is wisely higher in the mix when the "la la la la" section comes in. Oh yes. This song has a "la la la la" section. And it's brilliant. Imagine telling 1985 Thurston that in 24 years he'll be recording a song with sweet, untrammelled "la la la la"s.

"Antenna"--Lee Ranaldo is the Delay King, making him a sight cooler than, say, the Crimson King, although both men run tidy palaces.

Thurston sounds dreamy (as in "like a dream" not like "oh my Gooood, he's so dreamy!") singing about his vagabond muse. Or such is my interpretation. "Forever yours and then she's gone." Sounds about right. The radio references suggest it could be a sweeter take on "Angie Baby." (If you've never heard that song, I don't advise it. Notice I didn't even tell you who sang it.)

Lee joins in at the chorus. The dual harmonies are so stunning they solidify breath. My favorite moment is at 2:59 when one of them (I'm thinking it's Lee) goes a bit off the agreed pitch. Then begins the stretch, very reminiscent of Washing Machine era Youth.

I still can't get over that fuckin' chorus though. When you're hanging at a friend's place, slightly drunk and sitting alone on the couch, and they're in the kitchen, or the bathroom, and "Antenna" is on the stereo 'cause fuck I-culture why can't we put the music we love in the air every now and then, and that chorus shines through the speakers. It's like inspiration to take immediate inventory of the life you live in and outside of your own head, and realizing that it's actually sweeter for being ephemeral. There's just enough time to sit frozen by the exponential joy that's suddenly seized you, eyes glistening, before your friend returns and it's time to eat, drink and be okay.

"What We Know"--Starts off with a rumble roll that the previous rhythm section really couldn't provide. Then, oh shit, it's Lee! Double-tracked for your pleasure.

Lee is all about unity and positivity this album. And jacking hot lines from Roberta Anderson. (Talent borrows....) "What We Know" could be read as a tribute to the band, a tribute to a love...each verse seems to refer to a different period of time within a relationship of some sort, and the choruses are no less variable, acknowledging that there's three sides to every story. (Kim's presence makes this seem more like a dialogue, as well.)

When there are no words, there is the relentless pursuit of pleasure, which is itself the maximum bliss. Headbutting concrete into powder, it's just another day of the life.

"Calming the Snake"--Ibold slithers from behind the bar, but the anacondas squeeze is what the crowd gathered for. Air in short supply, and getting shorter by the second. Then, at 0:53, the grip loosens and bodies onomatopoeia all over the place.

"Come on down, down to the river." Goddamn Kim sure loves that place. Probably 'cause there's lots of snakes.

My only beef is the echo effect on the vocals. It actually does a great service when Kim is just sounding off, but it makes for a very unnecessary swampy sound during the verses. Again, a minor problem. It doesn't take very long for words to become irrelevant, and for the desire to rip my shirt ala old-school Hulkster to swell up within me. It ebbs as I remember my tendency to wear bad-ass tees. I love SY, y'all, but I ain't crazy.

"Poison Arrow"--Foghat had "Golden Arrow" and that was cool, for a classic rocket-gang. Then ABC did "Poison Arrow," which was flamboyantly fabulous and deliciously disposable in the way that stayed stuck in the 80s along with Bonkers! and Prince's talent.

T-bone's Lou Reed stylin' got the majority of the attention, but for me it's all about SS Beat Control Clinic. Beats R Him. He Got the Beats. If you heard Sonic Youth play "Poison Arrow" live last year and didn't find yourself drawn to that explosive ball of energy emanating from the kit, well I guess you just heard it then, didn't you. Or you had a real shitty spot in the crowd.

You know what Steve Shelley's Wu-Tang name is? Steve Shelley.*

I won't ignore T's Reed, it is fairly end-boss status. "Paintings they faaalll off the walls/When you come traipsing in with your horse." Traipsing! Fuck yeah.

This shit rocks and refuses to stop. Although I doubt it was ever asked to. Only glitch? Weird-ass panning of Lee and Kim's vocals during the chorus. That said, you should notice by now that no album in their history has featured so much multi-vocalist action. It works a storm, it does. It's like having a dream during a dream. Bless you.

*I actually had the opportunity to tell Steve in person how much I loved his drumming on "Poison Arrow" and he shared with me and my friends the tasty tidbit that he deliberately played in the style of the skinsman from...an obscure band that I cannot remember the name of. I usually can dredge stuff like that up in half a heartbeat and it kinda drives me nuts to this day.

"Malibu Gas Station"--While it's common knowledge which lyrics Thurston scribbled for his missus on Rather Ripped (and others, throughout the band's history), I've yet to find any information that confirms he handed her some words for The Eternal. If I had to guess, I would say he wrote the majority of this one (everything bar the free-form "Everybody down" parts). My evidence? Kim generally doesn't write to the guitar parts. If I'm correct, that means the mind of Moore is responsible for gems like "Oops no underwear" and, best, "the breasts are bangin'," which is seriously a contender for greatest line in a Sonic Youth song ever.

Like "Kim Gordon and the Arthur Doyle Hand Cream," this is a vibrating paean to a mega-celebrity female singer of questionable mental stability, except Britney Spears can't actually sing. Apparently Britney was caught by paps at a gas station in Malibu coming out of the restroom barefoot. That's amazing. It's not like coming out of a restaurant restroom sans shoes and socks, now is it? Yet, it's newsworthy because enough people give it attention. Look what I just did.

Sonic Youth are culpable too, but at least they crafted something you can use during a melodic intonation therapy session. The beginning is superbly ATL-esque, a mosaic of shooting stars that fade to a bright California late AM. Kim's vocal delivery veers from barely more than spoken to droll come-on with the minimum effort required. "Come on do it/You gotta use it/That-a girl/Don't you blow it." That's not forgetting your footwear at a Malibu gas station, that's swaggering down the Santa Monica pier, unencumbered by panties, pretending you're beautiful. Open, round brilliant cut, and a bit delusional.

It feels longer than it is, which many times is negative but in this case is a positive. No dragging, just kicking and screaming. When the noisy soul-kiss pulls back--and remember, there is a considerable difference between creating a cacaphony and being a "caca phony"--and the final verse slips slick into the abandoned slot, you gotta love above all Steve with the extra BAP BAP BAP CRASH! after each line, like he's still reeling and cruising on the adrenaline, 'cause how could he not?

"Thunderclap (For Bobby Pyn)"--The title references the lesser-known pseudonym of Jan Beahm, while the actual song itself references that part of my brain that can still vividly recall soap box derby cars speeding down the road next to my parents house and crashing into small bales of hay while fat hillbillies in lawn chairs ate hot dogs.

"Thunderclap" is a showcase for Thurston's stream-of-consciousness poetry, and generally these are the oxygen-suckers of the album, but son of a biscuit face, he pulls it off. Should "Rapacious gardens of female distinction" work? Yes it should and yes it does. "Hair falls in a deadbeat's curtain/Trash can Canterbury/Hollywood Boulevard." It's like Thurston got Ghostface Killah's fortune cookie. (Only the overly precious enunciation on "libraries of rubble" irks.)

If the "la la" refrain on "Leaky Lifeboat" was stunning to hear on an SY record, the "yeah yeah yeah" and "whoa-oh-oh"s (courtesy of Thurston and Kim) made jaws drop audibly. It's like a reserved young girl tagging along with that naughty neighbor boy whose pockets are always bulging with rocks and firecrackers. Something will be damaged, and there's a good chance of tongue.

It's also redolent of the Honeycomb cereal song. Just me?

"No Way"--Thurston J. Temple burnin' up 'cause of yer love which wasn't. Your contumelious attitude bristles, bitch! You better shuffle off to Grenoble, baby; yer persona non grata 'round here now. Lee helps his pal out on the chorus, 'cause he never liked you anyway!

"Walkin' Blue"--Lee's second lap is helpfully optimistic.

I'm here to let you know All we need to do Is just to just let go You've heard we're born to lose I know But don't start to think that's really true

The problem, far as I can see, isn't really "starting" to think such a dire thought, as that's virtually unavoidable. The real dilemma arises when the blues aren't of the walkin' variety. Rather they've slugged you off your feet and onto your back. The deepest blues that can look pitch black from unfortunate angles.

Let's say You and I, we find something hard to hold Let's keep it in our mind And let it fill our days

Way ahead of you.

Then we slip and finally let it stray.

Ah. Not that far yet. Not that "evolved" as of this date. I know what he's getting at here, though; the first seconds of the song provide a gorgeous example of it, as does also the circuitous motif that follows each verse.

Lee keeps insisting that things are "clear." I'd like to one day agree with him.

(Yet another song that features two SY members on the mic, although not everyone catches Thurston here. Listen at 1:22; unmistakable.)

"Massage the History"--Kim took Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the dying record industry as dual inspirations. For the music, the entire band looked to nature's inexorable imperative: adapt or perish. Except the thing is, and you're gonna love this...they didn't take it to apply to themselves.

Age has not attenuated the gifts of Sonic Youth even as the world actively seeks to grow smaller by the half-day. In a world of increased availability of seemingly everything, Sonic Youth make you wait 100 seconds before Kim starts singing. The lead in is a magnificent melding of Thurston's acoustic and Lee's electric slide guitar playing. The resultant mirage melts bones. Somehow I'm slinking towards the end. There's great treasure to be had there. I know it.

Kim vacillates between croon and strain. The tension is high; the sensuality is palpable. It's kinda tempting...just to lay down...rest a minute. Then another minute. I don't think I'll ever run out of time, this song is going to go on forever....

"Youuuuuuuuuuu and meeeeeeee..."

2:51 to 2:54. Three seconds where the best parts go taut against each other. Lee's mournful slide; Kim's yearning voice. It seems almost impossible for such a rapturous concurrence of sounds to exist. That it does is testament to the rewards of the journey.

"You're so close/Close to me."

Onward. Onward.

There isn't a wasted second to "Massage the History," literally, but from 4:33 on the song suddenly becomes wild with the power to piss you off. Like lifelong grudge status. Because no hereafter dreamed up by the human mind in any period of civilization could match the resplendency of this song. It pushes itself to heights previously unscaled by equally determined explorers. It seems effortless, but the notes are beads of sweat flying off skin, the drum beats are palpitations threatening to burst through and expose to air what must remain encased to stay vital.

Yet...I quicken my steps to the music, I block out all thought but the end and how glorious it will be. The princess is not in another goddamn castle, I am the princess.

Kim G. is the queen. Wise and solicitous. Also, a bit scary.

"Come with me/To the other side/Not everyone makes it out alive." She repeats herself. Understand now, minion?

Kim sounds just torn to bits. Is it the pain of love or the love of pain? "I want you to suck my neck/Suck."

With those words, a canopy is created, covering my immediate view of the sky above me. I can still see the horizon ahead, however, and feel my own jittery pulse. The metallic notes pound out in my head. It's overwhelming, I can't breathe. Thoughts don't persist to cohere. I told you earlier "What We Know" pounds concrete to powder; "Massage the History" melts fucking bone and compresses flesh to air. There is no end to air. The journey has begun.

Sonic Youth could end their careers on this album, this song. It's a love story, a temperature reading, and a nod to lives and deaths both false and true. Play it for your nearest friendly ghost, and I bet they'll feel human again, for those ten minutes.





And that, my friends, is it. The Beautiful Jukebox shuts down, dormant till the newest selection lights it up once more. I thank you for enduring my tangential madness. It is my sincere wish that you were entertained and enlightened throughout. I may have surprised some readers anticipating an across-the-board deifi-fuckin'-cation of the band; although Sonic Youth are to my mind The Greatest Band Extant, no one is free from flaw. I hope you found me fair to the music I love.

Thank you to Thurston Moore, Kim Gordon, Lee Ranaldo, Steve Shelley, Jim O'Rourke, Mark Ibold, Bob Bert, Jim Sclavunos and Richard Edson for inspiring me in the first place. Not only on this review series, but in all the writing that escapes my thousands of scattered pens. The journey begins anew every day.

Beautiful Jukebox: The Music of Sonic Youth (Selection 18--A Respectful Distance)

JUNE 2006

Sonic Youth's sixteenth album would be their final one for DGC after an equal number of years. Recorded at Sear Sound (like Sister and Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star before it) alongside master mixer/recorder/producer John Agnello (one of the few who can claim they've worked with both Patti Smith and Patty Smythe), Rather Ripped was a stunner for anyone expecting Sonic Youth to embrace their abrasive side. Content to watch the likes of Wolf Eyes and Double Leopards, smart to not feel any silly need to "compete," they set out to make an airier, gentler set of songs. Thurston Moore grew fond of telling interviewers that RR was their version of Blondie's Parallel Lines, and while one must always take Thurston interview answers with the entire shaker of salt, better that album than, say, Auto-American.

If you had told me, back in '06, that the upcoming SY wreck-hard would feature naught colors but red and black, I would have Snoopy-jigged in muted glee. My two favorite colors, my favorite band, together at last. Well if you'd been a real pal you would've set me down and then explained that the cover would also feature some shit stenciling. Then, after rubbing my back while I choked on my own sad fangirl tears, you'd whisper that it would alllll work out in the end, to just have faith in the black-haloed angel. Beautiful. Looks like the bloody blowback of a gunshot wound splat on some scary guest room wallpaper.

"Reena"--"You keep me comin' home again."

Rather Ripped is not precisely a fan favorite, at least not if we're using the Internet as a barometer. I generally don't care about that (or critical opinion; Rolling Stone named it the third-best album of 2006, which is worth about as much as buffaloes bouncing 'round the terrain in their own crap), but I took notice when the negativity came from people I actually knew. Most of the SY fans I am friends and/or friendly with are the type with ecumenical musical taste, voracious and rapacious consumers (and oftentimes also producers) of sounds. To them, Rather Ripped is a once-great band picking at the frayed ends of the nerves that once made them vital. I disagree, respectfully, because I understand that while we're all hearing the same music, we're listening with different standards. I don't expect Daydream Nation from 21st-century Sonic Youth and frankly, comparing Rather Ripped to that record is like comparing a pop-up book to Shakespeare. Which is not a slight; those books can be wildly enjoyable, depending on what exactly pops up.

"Reena" is Reena Spauling, a fictional "It" girl in the circles of fashion and art, a figure made out by artists to be utterly fascinating but impossible to truly know. (In this way, at least, Reena Spauling is art.) Kim does a better job than all other interpreters at making the myth magical, imbuing it with sensual tension that holds up under scrutiny. The boys whip up a sweet, bang-lifting breeze as crystallized pop replaces labyrinthine skronk (I found it actually breathtaking when the wind picks up 'round 1:23 let's go!) but basically this is Kim G.'s showcase. How exactly does she keep her static cool? Double-tracking never hurts!

"Incinerate"--Thur-bone's first appearance is catchier'n a Village People medley. The badgering guit in the chorus is like a bleating call to the bat phone, straight from the husband of the real Commissioner Gordon.

Thurston is almost a little too calm for a song about fulminant heartbreak, but that's actually perfect. He knows that no one really wins in a firefight. I adore also the gentle string plucks juxtaposed against the lyrical conflagration.

Three things to take from "Incinerate":

1. Bitterness over love had and lost is missing the point.
2. When in doubt, take the last verse out.
3. Firefighters are like cops that people actually like.

"Do You Believe in Rapture?"--The failure of John Kerry in the 2004 presidential election (understood more accurately as defeat at the hands of hick schlubs and apathetic youth) means more songs on how much Bush sucks, when really Thurston should be writing about sucking bush.

The dull thud throughout created by Kim striking her pick against a single bass string doesn't make up for the rest of the song, which is thuddingly dull. "Do you believe in rapture, babe?" Yessir I do. And I further believe that you best get on with it.

("Do You Believe in Rapture?" was also considered as an album title. That woulda been weird.)

"Sleepin' Around"--In 2005 SY posted a short video clip, comprised solely of still photos, called "Summer Sonic." Over shots of band members, friends, family, records and dogs both real and fictional played a demo instrumental version of what would become "Sleepin' Around." It chugs like only a garage band comprised of the oldest, coolest fuckers breathing could. It's a bit sneaky, too, a bit shaky, and as a listener I could only imagine how it would sound once they double-bolted the thing.

Surely it starts fat as a promise ain't. Poltergeist possesses the alarm clock, and Preacher Steve is summoned to roll it on out, and all seems smooth as far as demon evictions go until...the lyrics spew pea soup all over the place.

"Sleepin' around, sleepin' around/What would the neighbors say."

I got some ideas.

Thurston, you are demonstrably better than this. You fucking wrote "Tom Violence," my dude. "My violence is a dream/A real dream." "I'm sleeping nights awake." And I could bust out other examples of letter-chain genius from other songs, but I won't, 'cause you already know.

If I ever cross paths with this song on the street, I'm gonna shoot it in the legs. And I'll be aiming for the femoral artery.

"What a Waste"--Funny then, that the lyrical nadir of the album is immediately followed by its apex. Thurston and Kim shared lyrical duties but the vocal honors are all Kim.

Ooooh, I feel like making a shitty neologism...Kimpeccable!

The first verse of "What a Waste" has left an indelible impression on my noodle, especially the very first line: "You gimme hollow stimulation." The longer I live my life, the more cracks and crevices I explore, the more I see what "hollow stimulation" is, and feel gripped by a great sense of guilt which is subsequently subsumed by a greater determination to no longer feel so empty. This is no commentary on what I personally feel the song as a whole is attempting to communicate, mind you. I dare not even begin with that one.

The chorus is much-maligned, and absolutely fabulous like a drunk bitch falling into an open grave.

"What a waste
You're so chaste
I can't wait
To taste your face"

First, gotta love beneath and beyond, when Lee steps in and up, like, "This provides an opportune time for some magus mastery, courtesy of me," and proceeds to clash some earth wind and fire together. Dude is dependable.

Now to the chorus. I love it for a number of reasons. There's the sexiness inherent in just the desire to taste one's face, much less the action itself. It also reminds me of the chorus to El-P's "Dr Hell No and the Praying Mantus."

"Don't make me bite ya face/'Cause it ain't like I like the taste."

Then Vast Aire does a battle rap, and El-P drops some gnarly sex rhymes. Cohere on concepts much? Anyway.

Point! Say Nick Cave put that in a song, "I can't wait to taste your face." It would no longer be considered barely worthy of an eye-roll, it would be all haunted and swoony and goth as a black moth attracted to liquor-drenched cloth. Like sittin' in a laundromat with the ghost of Flannery O'Connor on Halloween while the Deliverance kid plays the theme from A Clockwork Orange on the banjo while waiting for his delicates to dry.

But since it's Kim Gordon, it's weak, it's bad, it's ruining all my good memories! I must turn my disillusionment into snark! Wait while I think of a really epic age joke!

"Jams Run Free"--At the risk of getting smirked at...ignored...shunned...I cannot lie. The main riff of this song has always reminded me of "1979" by Smashing Pumpkins. I do not find this as off-putting as you may, namely because while Billy Corgan is an insufferable douchenozzle, the fucker could, on more occasions than he'll ever get credit for, write a decent-or-better song. I do not, however, operate under even the remotest delusion that anything he ever wrote has ever influenced Sonic Youth. Ever. It's just a funny coincidence, is all.

"Jams Run Free" is arguably the most intelligently-structured song on Rather Ripped, which makes it stick out more than it should (usually SY have such brilliant quilt patterns all over their albums, not so much here). The guitars whorl the suggestive into submission. Thurston so wisely gave his lyrics to his wife, 'cause she speaks the language of magnetism. Kim is agonizingly on the edge. "I love...the way...you move." I almost want to comfort her, knowing how that kind of pained attraction can only end in disaster.

("Jams Run Free" was another contender for an album title. While in theory I would have loved it, it would have guaranteed endless interviewer questions about Sonic Youth making an appeal to the jam band crowd. And the fact they played Coachella in '06? Oh Lord.)

"Rats"--Oh hi Mr. Lee. Is this better than "Paper Cup Exit"? By leaps and bounds, m'lord.

Kim and Thurston switch roles, with the tall man playing bass on an SY wreck for the first time since Goo, and Kim blessing us with dusty diamonds. (Seeing Sonic Youth for the first time on an album tour is frequently enlightening, and no moment moreso on the Rather Ripped tour when I realized that Kim is the one who's really helping us feel the noise.)

The abrupt volume switches from verse to bridge to semi-chorus are odd, but ultimately serve a purpose by making Lee's simple call to "Shine down" sound like a plea for salvation. The three vocalists in SY each evoke unique universes, and all told, Lee's are the ones I'd like to inhabit the most.

"Turquoise Boy"--Another song where Kim sings lyrics written by her husband. The likes of "Sleepin' Around," "Do You Believe in Rapture?," and "Lights Out" had caused me to proclaim a precipitous drop in the quality of Thurston's lyricism, but then I realized--he's still capable of fantastic wordplay, he's just not singing any of it himself. That's kinda beautiful. Giving your wife all your good lyrics is the new "I love you."

Recommended activity: chuck this marvelously combobulated song on the stereo (or mp3 player, if you must), sprawl out on a comfortable surface (and yes it must be comfortable, no objects on the ground jutting into any part of your body and making you squirm), and enjoy the sensation of molecules escaping your body, up up and away, hooray for everything.

"Lights Out"--Follow the bouncing guitar line on screen and sing along. Smart move not giving this one to Kim, because there's magic and then there's miracles, and there's only so much of either one human being can be expected to perform.

"The Neutral"--This has usurped "Reena" as my favorite on the album; it's almost that tracks inverse, an ode to a barely-comprehensible icon of the mundane everyday. It's interesting to compare the languorous descriptive styles of both "The Neutral" and SY's ultimate nod to the star-fan nexus, "Star Power." One is sensual while just avoiding oozing over into sleaze, the other fawning to the point of an eventually developed disinterest.

Both feature instrumental flourishes worthy of accompanying souls into the afterlife.

Me: "You know what rules most? Right after the li'l kinda chorus, when they casually step on the pedals and just gently fuzz it out, like beatin' somebody in the forehead with a toasted marshmallow on a stick."

Patrick: "Huh?"

Me: "It's like persistent, and it tickles, and it's so sweet you wanna eat it."

Patrick: "Yeah?"

Me: "Yessir. It pricks all my senses into hyper-alert mode."

Patrick: "That's cool. Is our exit coming up soon?"

"Pink Steam"--A reverse "Rain on Tin": extended instrumental first, then Thurston spewage. Influenced by Dodie Bellamy's novel of the same name. One of the most enrapturing things they will ever commit to record; everyone is operating at maximum demigod capacity--have I not mentioned the bad-ass perfection that is Steve Shelley's drumming yet? Dude would make a hell of a referee in another life--and at the three minute mark, it becomes almost unbearable, like hearing the angular momentum before getting sucked into the black hole, like feeling the bones underneath your skin strain to rip through.

"We cannot possibly keep this up," the collective Sonic mind realized. "It sustains or improves, and either way, it'll make all future music, by us or anyone else, utterly pointless. We gotta take it down a notch."

Breaking free momentarily from the braintrust, Thurston Moore offered a solution: "It needs lyrics. I'll write some lyrics."

Well, there's taking it down a notch and then there's taking off the whole goddamn belt. The lyrics veer between flushed eros and "ugh, bro."

I just came by to run you over
I just came by to watch you quiver

Damn, I feel some condensation.

I'm the man who loves your mother

Oh man.

Deep in love you need no other
Deep in love your lonely lover

For the longest while, I thought Thurston was singing "lovely lover," which sounds almost too ridiculous to exist, but put no thing past no one at no time, I always say. "Lonely lover" is better by a baby's breath.

"Or"--A fitting way to end the album, a song that comes off like a Thurston poem surrounded by incidental sounds (not the least of which would be Lee giving love taps to an acoustic). I dig T's delivery here; easy, not lazy; smug as a pug in a hug, as opposed to smug as a shrug from a lug.

"The plan is to go to DC and hang out/Go see girls rock."

Mary Timony, Mira and Christina Billotte, Kathi Wilcox, Jenny Toomey. If you don't know these names, learn these names. Then listen to the music. Know the history, so it won't be a mystery.

The song ends with Thurston's wispy recitation of the innocently vacuous queries inevitably posed to the touring musician.

What comes first
The music
Or
The words?

Thank you forever to the smart ass in the audience at SY's show in Seattle on 6/30/06 for screaming out "The words!" right after the song ended. I cannot hear the song without your not-sober attempt at humor blaring in my head. Good job. You fuckin' penis head. That's why Kim told the Portland crowd the very next night that "you guys rule over Seattle." Less yelling dumb shit, more enjoying the music. Quel fumier! (And if you actually do ever read this, don't feel all honored and shit that I remembered you; my memory is so legendarily sharp that I'm pretty sure I remember floating in the amniotic sac.)