For The Record Top 10: #3

Sorry for all (two) of you who had to wait for me to continue my top 10 albums list, "real life" needs to take priority over my dreams of rock writing. But, the list continues, and will continue, though intermittently. Stay tuned...

Ramones Subterranean Jungle (1983)

This is the record that yanked me out of popular music almost altogether. Prior to my friend Tim Jacobson playing his copy for me, I was addicted to Radio (yes, at that time it was capitalized). While playing driveway or indoor Nerf basketball, I  kept a blank tape in my puny, fire engine red Panasonic boom box and stopped--sometimes mid-shot--to hit “RECORD” when Casey Kasem or the local WAQE DJ played a song I liked. Eddy Grant, The Police, and Men At Work were frequent game-interrupters. When he first played this cassette for me, Tim likely had to eject a TDK tape hand-labeled “KOOL TUNES” to make way for New York’s finest. I made sure my bedroom door was closed for that initial listen: these guys looked badass, forbidden, underground. What would my parents think? As soon as the first naked bass riff melded into the head-bobbing, hand-clapping beat (and soon after that cowbell interlude, DAMN!), I was hooked. Joey’s nasal delivery, Dee Dee’s chainsaw guitar, “Outsider” (my theme song), “Psycho Therapy,” “Time Bomb.” I grabbed my RATT Out of the Cellar tape and threw it (literally) into the back of my closet. I’ve been riding the underground ever since.

For The Record: Top Ten #2 Multiplication Rock

Multiplication Rock (1973)

In my musical world, before there was Michael Stipe, Robert Smith, Bono or Lou Reed, there was Bob Dorough. While many Gen Xers gravitate to “Conjunction Junction” or “I’m Just A Bill,” four decades later, I still count by threes and fives fluently by singing songs from this album. The genius of this record is its stylistic variety. Bob Dorough, a noted jazz composer and pianist, didn’t just generate cheesy campfire songs or bland middle-of-the-road rock-turned-teacher. He infused his masterful mathematical lessons with a bit of California rock (“Three Is A Magic Number”), shades of psychedelia (“Little Twelve Toes”), solid soul (“I Got Six”), and, appropriately for that troublesome times table, some smokey blues (“Naughty Number Nine,” sung by the fantastic Grady Tate). When I put on this record (which I still do; in fact, that’s my original copy from childhood in the photo), I’m taken back to the mid-’70s, not sitting in front of the Saturday morning TV but huddled with my brother and our Panasonic cassette player (the kind you’d find in an old school A/V room) in the backseat of our family car counting Noah’s animals off two by two.

For The Record (rebirth): Top 10 Albums challenge

My friend Deb recently tagged me for the "Top 10 Albums" challenge on Facebook.  I normally disregard such "chain letter" bait, but this challenge hits at the heart of who I am as a music fan and writer. I've been wanting to resuscitate my long-neglected blog, and this was the perfect primer to re-launch my "For The Record" online column.

I obsess over music they way most guys obsess over sports; therefore, when this challenge came my way, I pushed it off until the weekend so I could devote myself to generating a proper list with quality write-ups. I began brainstorming my Top 10 List, which quickly grew to more than 20 albums that I felt were foundational in my life. With much difficulty, I was able to narrow the list to a true "Top 10" (OK, I went "Spinal Tap" and took my list to 11) and immediately planned to add a bonus "Next 10" list later.

To enhance the "challenge" aspect, I decided to set some parameters for formatting: cover pic (from my actual collection), release year, and write-up, 200 words MAX.

Here's the first installment. Stay tuned!

-Greg

U2 Acthung Baby (1991)

As a 21-year-old exchange student in Japan, I first spotted the “new U2” on music TV in their frankly confusing “Fly” video. Where’s the stunning, black-and-white starkness of The Joshua Tree? What the fuck is up with the sunglasses and cigarillos? Are those rhinestones on Edge’s pants? Then the boys from Dublin really pissed me off. On November 11, 1991, I asked for the album at the underground CD shop (literally in a subway station). The clerk instead handed me a flyer touting “Super Rock Band U2.” The release date had been overwritten in Sharpie to November 18. I had saved my yen and searched them out, and U2 stood me up. To spite them, I bought an album by Japanese band Fence of Defense, digitaglam-FOD VI, whose sci-fi-infused single “9.9.9” I’d also seen on music TV. That album is phenomenal--one of the greatest headphone records I’ve ever experienced--but it’s a novelty compared to the depth, discombobulation and painful rebirth pangs of Achtung Baby. The songs sound like Japan felt. I have an undying love for Achtung Baby, perhaps because it initially played so “hard to get” on so many levels.

For The Record #1

I'm trying to generate some new writing on a regular basis Here's my first stab at what I hope to be an ongoing column entitled "For The Record," focusing on records and live concert experiences.

For The Record #1: The Cure live at UIC Pavilion, June 10, 2016

For the record, I didn’t anticipate the first time I laid eyes on Robert Smith in the flesh would be with my head tilted forward through bifocals. With a hefty paunch and gray hair. With my 13-year-old daughter in tow. And my wife of 19 years. I did not feel cool. Honestly, I felt old and fat but thrilled to finally experience The Cure live, to ceremonially scratch off one of the few remaining names on my list of “bands to see before I die.”

From the winter of 1985 on, listening to The Cure always made me feel cool: underground, gothic, intelligent, isolated, misunderstood. I was part of an exclusive club. Only one other person I knew of in my small, northwest Wisconsin town listened to The Cure--Jack Rothenbuehler, and he was perhaps the coolest person in Chetek. A few overnight VHS-movie-watching/cassette-dubbing marathons at Jack’s house poured the musical foundation upon which I stand firmly today: U2, R.E.M., The Cure, Midnight Oil, Bauhaus, among many others. A trip to Deaf Ear Records in La Crosse, WI, (again with Jack) yielded my first actual Cure tape: Standing On A Beach (used). Many would follow: The Top, Head on the Door, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. MTV provided my first glimpse of the band’s outrageous hair, stylish suits and not-very-subtle make-up. Watching Robert Smith “spinning on that dizzy edge” in the “Just Like Heaven” video cemented The Cure as an audio-visual staple in my life from then on. (I still wish I had the iconic black and white “Boys Don’t Cry” and neon-faced “Head on the Door” posters from my high school days.)

Concert opportunities in my neck of the woods were limited, and I stuck to collecting tapes and CDs in lieu of pursuing long-shots of catching The Cure live. I settled for a VHS copy of In Orange first, then embraced Trilogy (still one of the most gorgeous concert videos I’ve seen) and was grateful for Festival 2005 (sort of). 

Then my daughter started discovering The Cure. 

Then my friends Cindy and Karl posted about their Cure experience at Riot Fest 2014.

Then the 2016 North American tour announcement came.

Hallelujiah!

Standing in line at the UIC Pavilion, I was greatly relieved that I was neither the oldest, fattest nor  “uncoolest” fan awaiting the show. The crowd was, well, weird, running the gamut from pasty, blue-haired Goths in full make-up to a few couples who looked as if they just walked off the 18th green. In my Beneath The Planet of the Apes T-shirt and cargo shorts, I imagine I was leaning toward the latter. Still, if you were to peel away my outer shell, you’d uncover a genuine, corpse-like Goth snarling away behind the gray hair and bifocals. I had to try to remember this when scoping out the rest of the “I can’t fucking believe THAT person is a Cure fan!” crowd. 

Listening to The Cure alone in my basement or isolated in my car perpetuated the illusion that I was somehow their only true fan. Robert Smith spoke to me directly. He was much darker, more manic, more romantic than me, but his pained voice and melancholy melodies where the shape of my thoughts. Sitting inside a 6,000-plus-seat sports arena full of other people who, I assumed, felt the same way was honestly disillusioning. 

Our seats? Also disillusioning. We were definitely in the “nosebleed” section with a giant, rivot-splayed beam blocking the screens in back of the stage, and a speaker that covered up Roger O’Donnell entirely. My Cure live dream was dying, further shit upon by the cutting conversation unfolding in the seats directly behind us: two divorcees discussing (loudly) their (banal) philosophies on (failed) relationships and (“soap opera”) religion. I wanted to conjure that inner Goth, turn and spit, “You WILL shut the fuck up when the music starts!” But I silently stared at the dusty, battleship beam in front of me and prayed for Scottish openers The Twilight Sad to drown out the chatter. (I was pleased The Twilight Sad sounded even more like Chameleons UK than The Smiths live, proving they are worthy cohorts on a Cure tour. Kudos to frontman James Graham for writhing, dancing and gesticulating as wildly as an engaging frontman should.)

Can’t you sit and “dance” (i.e. sway awkwardly while holding your beer with one finger pointing in the air) for God’s sake, I thought when the mom in the black Eddie Bauer dress one row up from us rose in salute to “Lovesong” and “Just Like Heaven,” two of the four songs she recognized from MTV “back in the day.” As The Cure played through a dreamy mix of deep cuts and alternative radio staples, I was once again torn--how could this band that made me feel like such an outsider resonate with the likes of Drunk Mom? The feeling was laughingly adolescent but nonetheless unshakeable: The Cure is my band, not yours. Naivete leaves an indelible mark on a person’s soul. 

This crowd clash of MTV binge watcher and cassette Walkman disciple continued throughout the night with true Smith devotees coming out ahead: “Shake Dog Shake,” “Screw,” “Primary,” “One Hundred Years,” “Jupiter Crash,” “From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea,” “The Exploding Boy,” and my favorite of the night “Give Me It” energized me and other longtime fans as much as “Pictures of You” and “Friday I’m In Love” satiated the ‘90s flashbackers. 

The most impactful moments of the night came when I diverted my tilted gaze from the faraway stage to catch my daughter’s profile, her starstruck eyes glazed from the spectacle of laser lights and projected backdrops, and her lips mouthing along in sync with Robert Smith’s lyrics, which have scrolled continuously inside me like a poetic teleprompter for decades.

What it’s like to be an older dude in a metal band
(for those of you who aren’t)

--Modeled after “What it’s like to be a black girl (for those of you who aren’t” by Patricia Smith

first of all, it’s being 44 years old

and feeling like you’re simultaneously 24

and 64, it’s being asked,“is that your son

playing drums?” suspecting there’s something

wrong with you for being out this late, your wife

and daughter long past sleeping when you finally

take the stage. it’s feeling self-conscious about

your nearly non-existent beard, your short, gray

hair and the protruding gut partially hidden by

your bass. it’s sweating way more than you should,

dreading the aches in hips and knees, suffering

sleep deprivation from crawling into bed two hours

before your wife crawls out. it’s basking

in the confidence of decades of live performances,

judging those baby-faced newbies imitating youtube

glory and over-reaching for intensity. it’s not

giving a sh*t if you look cool but focusing

on the heaviness of your music. it’s backing away

from overturned barstools, broken glass and mosh pits.

it’s cool points and bragging rights when colleagues

casually inquire, “so, what’d you do this weekend?”

--Greg Adams, Wednesday May 13, 2015

Record Store Day 2015 Blackout Poetry

So, I held out posting these until the people from Record Store Day finished their promo campaign. They said they might be able to work them into their social media posts but never did.

These are a series of blackout poems created from the 2015 RSD release list. Enjoy them. Share them. Try your hand at one. They're tougher than they look. Sorry they're small. You'll have to zoom in to read them, I guess.

Sadly, this form of "blackout" could have easily described my luck with this year's RSD releases. Pretty much all the records I wanted, my favorite (and local) record store, Revival Records, did not receive. I still spent a good wad at Billy's shop, though, snatching up some records I really wanted: Ryan Adams  Gold, The Velvet Underground & Nico s/t, The Cure Entreat, INXS Kick, and R.E.M. Chronic Town. Great stuff!

I also played a solo acoustic set at the Volume One Local Store on Record Store Day. I love the sound of that room! A few good friends showed up, and we had a great time. I even busted out an old School House Rock tune, "Three Is A Magic Number."

Long time no see, eh?

Sorry I've been away. It's been a rough spring and a tough summer. My mother passed away July 25th. Haven't had much time to promote, play or update.

Someone is buying my CDs off CD Baby.com--thank you! Please spread the word and keep on buying. I'm always stoked to receive the "CD Baby RESTOCK" request e-mail.

My friend CJ Conner (whose painting adorns the cover of Pareidolia) had a great show at the Volume One gallery in Eau Claire, WI, a few weeks ago. I hope to post some photos soon. Sold a few CDs there too.

Buying a lot of old records lately. I'm no vinyl snob, but I'm getting lost in the coolness of finding erstwhile 33s at thrift stores and garage sales. Music in any form (CD, tape, vinyl) is a gift!