MOG - zarpex's Posts

You Dropped Obama on Me -- Baby!

zarpex — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 22:36:16 GMT

May I humbly suggest The Gap Band as accompaniment for election night parties should Obama win?

Creepy Odd

zarpex — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 22:07:58 GMT

You could always count on Scotti Bros. Records for something appalling, but their release of a Fabio record may have reached lower even than Electric Light Orchestra II. I'm surprised they didn't do a Beatles II. This is what happens when a label leaves everything to the marketing department. And I must admit it somewhat undermines my previous argument that concept albums as a rule were moneymakers, because everything Scotti Bros. did was a concept album. But hey; they were right about Bat out of Hell II...

Oh; and did no one involved in recording this ever stop for a moment to recall Steve Martin's "European Lover"-voice from the SNL skits, which parodied this fifteen years before it was made?

Okay; I've Got an "Odd" One, Too...

zarpex — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 20:48:38 GMT

I found this on a site that offered recitations of various poems; I can't remember what it was called. It definitely stood out.

Size Does Matter

zarpex — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 17:22:38 GMT

I was once waiting for a friend in the lobby of an office building in New York while they were preparing to display a piece of Roy Lichtenstein's work. I don't know what its exact dimensions were, but what they were setting up was gargantuan. It had to be at least a hundred feet tall (the lobby was immense, and my suspicion was that the painting still wouldn't fit). I never saw the piece up and displayed, which I regret now.

I don't know how you would even go about looking at a painting that vast. Where would you study it it from to get a sense of it? Half a mile away or so?

But Lichtenstein's greatest talent lay in mockery, and he surely realized the painting could only be seen (at least by people inside the building) in separate, meaningless parts -- especially when you consider his style of painting, which calls attention to the limits of detail by mocking painting itself, rendering it in comic book ink dots. He was, I am now strongly inclined to believe, ridiculing the people who commissioned this preposterous art display and the men in suits who would be walking past it, no doubt thinking it might reflect a kind of classiness on them. Idiots.

It's all a question of scale.

Paintings tend to fall within a certain size, and there's a reason for that. They're flat surfaces, so beyond that size, the effects of perspective can distort the way the painting is seen. We (quite reasonably, I think) expect something that you can take in as a whole from about five or ten feet away, and that might perhaps reward a bit of closer examination of details. Artists are endlessly looking for rules to break, but this rule you can only break if you've already made a considerable success of your art career, and can impress people with your name. I'm sure Lichtenstein laughed himself silly over this gig.

Movies tend to run between ninety and a hundred and twenty minutes. There are no good movies over three hours long. I checked. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly? Two hours, fifty-nine minutes. The Godfather is two hours, fifty-five minutes. Titanic clears three hours, but it's dreadful (sorry if you had your hand raised). But how is it I (and I'm not alone here; lots of other people I've spoken to have confessed to doing the same thing) can sit around entire weekends watching a full season box set of House or Entourage? It's not just because I can smoke during it or get up and grab a soda without standing in line (although those are considerable factors). It's because beyond a certain point, the irritation at having to sit still and follow a story and be quiet and be in the dark just reach critical. Film is illusion, and illusions can be tremendously entertaining, but boredom and annoyance are real, and they need only raise their heads and remind you of their presence to shatter the illusion, no matter how great the first two hours and fifty-nine minutes of it. Break it into separate, digestible parts, however, and we can go all day. That's why the same rules of scale don't apply to novels: we can put them down, and read only as much as suits us at a sitting.

Songs, like movies, are designed to be taken in as wholes, not parts. The longest song ever to reach the Billboard #1 spot was "American Pie" by Don McLean. Eight minutes, thirty-six seconds. And it's a great song, with intriguing lyrics, a marvelous singalong chorus. The second longest #1 Billboard hit is less than half its length ("Macarena" by Los del Rio, four minutes and thirteen seconds, if you're curious). We don't like our pop songs too long. An eight-and-a-half minute #1 song is a deviation from the pattern worth exploring, but for now, let's discard it as an anomaly. If we include it, the average length of a #1 pop hit, 1940-present, is three minutes and seven seconds. If we disregard it, the average length (impressively) drops an entire second. But we seem to have figured out roughly how long to make a pop song.

Albums, I am increasingly convinced, are out of scale. They're the wrong length, and they're broken into too many pieces (or songs, as some call them). I can't think of a single album I really sat down and listened to all the way through since... Hmm... Probably not since Green Day put out American Idiot. What's that, four years? Creating a truly great album just isn't in most musicians. But record companies sign artists by the album, and until that changes, most people who write and play songs for a living are going to spend more than ninety percent of their time, effort, money and skill creating filler. Bad songs they have to put out, quite possibly before they had a chance to percolate into the form of good songs. I have 3,549 songs on my iTunes, and not one single complete album. The album is a form imposed on us by a combination of past technological limitations, unimaginative businessmen and inertia. There are truly great ones, but I've yet to come across one that played straight through, beginning to end, without a song I'd take out (and do, thanks to iTunes) or a significant relaxation of quality standards on my part (which is impermissible). Sgt. Pepper's would have been better if they'd cut out "With a Little Help from My Friends." Abbey Road would have been better without "Octopus' Garden" and that "Quando obbligado" song, whose title escapes me at the moment.

Breaking creative works into certain sizes is sensible, but the album is due for rethinking, says I. An album should either be a complete artistic statement unto itself, or it shouldn't be there. Most musicians are lucky if they've got one single great song in them, and forcing them to create forty-five minute creative outbursts bracketed on either side by a year of imposed silence is a bad idea. These kids might have a hit in them; do you really want to force crap out of them just because the convention is to release pop music that way? It's bad for consumers (who have to pay, ultimately, for time wasted recording lesser material); it's bad for record companies, who have enough problems already; it's bad for musicians, who are (to my experience) a rather sensitive and insecure bunch, and don't like putting out anything they're not completely convinced is good. Which usually means something like 93% of an album.

They made me happy when I was a kid, too. I love albums, when I'm not busy arguing passionately for their elimination (or their existence only in the form of coherent works of art, anyway). But an album should be more than just a bunch of (ideally) good songs laid side-by-side. Songs add up; they create a collective momentum. A song is easy to manipulate and control; a group of songs isn't. Unpredictable things happen, unfortunate comparisons become inevitable, weaknesses are exposed that shouldn't be exposed. Let bands who write songs write songs. Let bands who make albums put out albums. The former is vastly easier than the latter, but has a lot of real merit to it. Let the concept of "filler" become an embarrassing memory. We love good albums, but we NEED good songs, in a wide variety of styles, constantly -- I wouldn't say quite like we need food, say, but perhaps the way we need... Sunlight. That's it.

Oh; and speaking of good songs, here's a bit of despair from the lovely Aimee Mann!

The Concept

zarpex — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 05:26:59 GMT

I saw a news story or read an article or something a while back, talking about the state of the music industry, and its basic point was that albums were money-losers as a rule, and that the time would soon come when they would cease to exist. Why sign a band to record a certain number of albums when you're really just after one irresistible song of theirs, and the rest of their material is just dead weight? It's expensive, it's time-consuming, it burdens commerce with ego, and it's usually just poor advertising for the band. I haven't noticed any telling signs that the album is on its way out, but then again, I'm part of the problem. Most of my music purchases are individual tracks from iTunes or Amazon. It's been ages since I bought an actual album, now that I think of it.

At any given second, I bet there's a musician somewhere in the world setting down his guitar or lowering the lid of his piano, having just composed a song that I might really like (mind you, there are fifty or so other musicians doing the same thing, having just composed a song I'd dislike). We can easily go years, on the other hand, between really good albums. The reason it's so difficult to break through as a rock band and have a hit single, paradoxically, is that it's not really all that difficult, so you have a ton of competition. It's more influenced by chance than any other factor. The reason it's so difficult to create a great album, on the other hand, is that it actually is difficult.

From secondhand sources, I understand Kanye West and R. Kelly have semi-recently put out what I am left with no alternative but to call concept albums. I like concept albums. All albums should have a concept behind them. How did that idea become so uncool? Whereas the typical album is a money-loser, most of the concept albums I can think of offhand are commercial hits. American Idiot was a concept album. Big hit. OK Computer was a concept album. A Night at the Opera, 1999, The Wall, The Downward Spiral, Ziggy Stardust, Exile in Guyville, The Black Album, Skylarking. There was no single released off of Sgt. Pepper's. It didn't need one, did it?

Let the "album" die. It will go unmourned, perhaps unnoticed even, in the zarpexian Empire. Most of them are 100% dreck, and a few are 95% dreck with one good song that would look better without the bad songs that come with it. So few have a unifying vision or theme -- fine; concept -- that they can only benefit from the removal of so much rubbish cluttering up the racks. Concept albums will live on, because they're the product of hard work, originality, imagination and perseverance. Those things just line up now and then, and you can't prevent it. And they make money, of all things!

Actually, there's an exception to that rule that I notice now as I scan through my iTunes. The Proclaimers. The Pros put out one of the only authentic, cohesive concept albums I can think of that just went completely unnoticed: Hit the Highway, 1994. It took five years for the world to realize that "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" was a brilliant pop song: if the proportions (greatness : length of time it takes to recognize) hold, Hit the Highway will suddenly become a massive phenomenon some time in late April of 2070.

I remember the impact it had on me. I popped it in at the start of a long drive, and by the time I was about three-quarters of the way through it, I was freaking. I was truly scared that this album was going to give the conservative movement something it had never had before: creativity. I was listening to song after song about hard work, religious faith, submission to authority and thinking Oh my God; how can this rock so hard? [SPOILER: the effect created by all these songs is completely subverted by the lunatic closing track, which unmasks the exquisitely crafted narrative voice and leaves the protagonist destroyed and humiliated.] I was sincerely worried this album would change the world. When I discovered how it ended, I wanted it to change the world. But it didn't. Track it down when you can some time.

Proposed New Tagline to Join the Rotation at the Top of MOG Pages:

zarpex — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 04:20:42 GMT

SIGN ON, YOU CRAZY DIAMOND

Barack Obama's New Campaign Song

zarpex — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 15:57:40 GMT

Okay, maybe some older voters - some - might be a bit turned off, but everyone south of 60, or a whole lot of them, are going to go nuts. We might have to trim some of the lyrics out - "Shake your paranoia," "Dancing like Madonna"... Actually all you need to loop is the basic hook, and maybe get A440 to tweak the lyrics ever, ever so slightly (my hunch is they would be thrilled to comply).

I see Ted Kennedy at the DNC in Denver preparing the audience for Obama's grand acceptance speech. If his medical condition permits, I see him going into a sort of "whooping up the crowd"-schtick; no podium. No standing still and addressing the crowd in solemn tones. Nothing too theatrical, no shrieking "Are you ready to rock!?' or anything like that, but pacing the stage, getting the audience curious and excited. The lights start to go down, the opening guitar riff of this song starts playing. Kennedy disappears offstage, unnoticed. Maybe some strobe lights, and a little shower of glittering confetti, building up the excitement...

And just as Obama steps out, he's hit with a tight blue spotlight. They're already calling him a rock star, so he can just smile and wave, looking friendly, amused, maybe a little embarrassed at being made such a fuss of. And as he begins walking to the podium (which will have risen silently from beneath the stage, unnoticed when the lights went down), the lyrics kick in:

Stop

Barack

Can't stop Barack

You can't stop

Barack

Can't stop Barack

[REPEAT]

I mean, come on. People loved it when Bill Clinton made his '92 campaign song "Don't Stop" by Fleetwood Mac. Remember that? I was there at the convention that year, and believe me, it was sheer joy on every face. "Happy Days Are Here Again" just didn't get people to open their eyes anymore, but "Don't Stop" said something new was coming, something cool, something people felt excited about. This song would have an even more exciting effect, would make people laugh and pump their fists at the same time, and Fox News, bound by their rigid policy of unfairness and distortion, would have no choice but to spend at least the whole morning doing their King Canute impression: sitting on the beach ordering the tide not to come in. Maybe a tsunami.

Oh; I was also thinking about adapting The Gap Band's "You Dropped a Bomb on Me" (with the new line "You dropped Obama on me"), but I think this one would get the crowd more worked up.

Has anyone thought of any good McCain campaign songs? I've been trying, and finding nothing...

I Hate to Say It, But...

zarpex — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 06:10:44 GMT

I watch Fox News.

There. I said it. It's off my chest.

Mind you, I don't watch it when there's an actual news story of any real importance; on those occasions I usually turn to CNN, because of course, strictly speaking, Fox doesn't cover news - they deliver republican propaganda under the guise of journalism. But when there's nothing going on of any particular interest, I like to sit there and just marvel at it all. The hypocrisy, the intellectual dishonesty, the glaring conservative bias they get away with calling "fair and balanced" (surely the most nakedly cynical slogan since "Arbeit Macht Frei"). I drink it in.

I assume, perhaps naively, that none of you disagrees with my analysis. Even the republicans among you. If there were a network of the same sort, proclaiming itself a source of "news" and proselytizing for democrats, I would consider it an embarrassment. There are comedy shows, such as Jon Stewart's or "The Colbert Report," that take a plainly liberal stance, and I quite enjoy them, but comedy - good comedy - I enjoy only because it makes me laugh, at the expense of whatever politics (if any). You can pretend to be objective; you can't pretend to be funny. I'm not aware of any funny conservative comedians. I can think of a handful of hopelessly unfunny conservative comedians, but no funny ones.

In fact, I'm having a hard time thinking of any creative works, in any field, of any real merit, by a conservative. Maybe you could count Disneyland as a creative work... Ayn Rand's novels were unendurable, but her screenplay for The Fountainhead was truly excellent. Johnny Ramone should be counted, although he didn't actually write any of their songs (and quite a few of his privately expressed views would turn most republicans' hair white). Skunk Baxter was one hell of a guitarist, no denying that. Ted Nugent was... No; I can't think of anything actually good by him. Who else? A tiny handful of conservative actors, but I'm not sure I'd call acting "creativity" so much as a skill... Sonny Bono?

But Bill O'Reilly. My God. I mean, how does he get away with it? The easily exposed lies he spouts that no one ever questions, the stomach-churning pretense of moral rectitude, the dissimulation, the self-congratulation, the cloying flattery of his audience... I mean, I have no sympathy for child molestation (could there possibly be an easier target?), but how does Bill O'Reilly, a sexual predator, get away with declaring himself the nation's watchdog against it?

When Scott McClellan's book came out vindicating the beliefs they had so long ridiculed, scarcely a single word was uttered about its contents. That Bush had lied us into a war that has killed thousands, and that Karl Rove (a Fox employee, unsurprisingly) had revealed the identity of a covert CIA operative (punishable by death, under a law signed by Ronald Reagan), went with scarcely any mention. Every word to be heard on Fox was about Scott McClellan, and the question of which two things he could possibly be: a madman or a paid liar.

Fox News is toxic. It profits on fueling ideological hostility and disunion, it fosters ignorance and misinformation, it encourages self-satisfaction among the ignorant, it sanctions dishonesty, and provides a forum for bigots, bullies, cowards and frauds.

So why do I watch it? I don't listen to Madonna records. I don't read Harry Potter books. I don't buy LeRoy Neiman paintings. What is it about Fox News that fascinates me?

Maybe it's just because when it falls - when a tape of Bill O'Reilly sexually harassing an employee finally emerges, when someone catches Rupert Murdoch laughing at the brainlessness he relies on for an audience, when Neil Cavuto is photographed shooting heroin, or whatever it will sooner or later be - my glee will be that much greater.

But if anyone among you actually does consider Fox News "fair and balanced," do please say so; I'd be curious to hear your reasoning.

Just My Luck

zarpex — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 22:41:15 GMT

A couple of months ago, my cousin called me up saying he'd heard I'd started a music blog ("MOG," I told him; "they're called MOGS"), and asked where he could find it. I wasn't at the computer at the time, and couldn't recall the URL, so I just told him to Google "zarpex," on the assumption that - surely - there would be no other appearance of such a preposterous word.

But I got to wondering - what would he actually find with a search for that name? So I dragged the cursor into the Google box that now appears in every web browser, typed in "zarpex," and pressed the return key.

There is a "Zarpex Biosciences, Ltd." in Scotland. Fair enough. But it turned out there's another "Zarpex," in something called the Urban Dictionary (theirs has a capital Z). It's defined as: "A homo. A lover of horses. (In a very bad way.)"

Oh dear.

The name "zarpex" came from a short play my daughter was asked to write in elementary school, some time roughly ten years ago, maybe a little less. She was having trouble coming up with an ending, and asked me for help. I looked it over and recommended she go for the absurd. In the truest deus ex machina tradition, I suggested it end with the unexpected appearance of "ZARPEX THE SPACE GOD," who kills everyone. The end. Fans of Emo Phillips among you, by the way, may recognize this as a lift of his "Zorkon the Space God."

But I know it predated the Urban Dictionary entry, which is given as 2004. I don't know when Zarpex Biosciences, Ltd. was founded, but I don't really mind that one. How long would it be, I wondered, before someone Googled "zarpex"? How many might already have done so, and be looking at me askance?

It was Universalis, about a week ago, in a comment on my post about Nancy Wilson's "How Glad I Am," who announced the findings. The tone was playful and lighthearted, and it went without remark among the subsequent comments, to my relief. I wasn't so much worried that anyone would really imagine that I was sexually attracted to horses as that they might think my sense of humor so crude and vulgar as to have chosen such a name, or that it would provide a subject for mockery too easy and tempting for some to resist, like being named "Egbert" or something in third grade.

"That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet," Juliet argued. And they would, too, but they would no longer be welcomed as tokens of love if they were called "horse-@#$*&ers." What must my cousin have thought when he Googled it?

So just for the record: I didn't pick that name because I'm a fan of Zarpex Biosciences, Ltd., or because I like sex with horses. But I picked it, and I'm too proud of what I've written under it to change it. It might yield some funny wisecracks, though, so tee it up and crush it.

Oh; and isn't this a great song?

Vibrate, Buzz-Buzz, Ring and Beep

zarpex — Sat, 31 May 2008 15:53:56 GMT

The field of electronics is one of my intellectual blind spots. I have no clue at all what anything in a recording studio is or does, or how to work it. I don't know what a motherboard is; I don't know a gigahertz from a megabyte; I have no earthly notion what "compression" really is, or a rheostat, or a crossover, or what the difference is between resistance and impedance. As a child I firmly believed that if you cut a vinyl LP of Magical Mystery Tour in half, you would find a miniaturized John, Paul, George and Ringo inside, strictly following the needle's instructions wherever it fell, including skips.

I try to cultivate friendships with the people I encounter who possess that facility, but it can sometimes be a bit difficult. The workings of their minds are so fundamentally different from my own that I sometimes think they represent - well, not a different species, but perhaps something analogous to a different gender. Their thinking is linear; mine is katabatic. I have to be careful not to obey my instinct to ask them to explain concepts I don't understand; the result is infallibly a correct, and often quite lengthy answer, composed of words which, in themselves, I understand perfectly, but which form a whole that bewilders me. As Admiral Benson said in Hot Shots! (if you'll forgive a bit of crude language), "I don't have a clue what you're talking about, Jim; not a fucking clue." I know what comes out of the speakers, I know what appears on the computer monitor - how it got there, I'm blind to.

So about fifteen years ago I was in the market for a new preamplifier. My incomprehension of their workings notwithstanding, I'm rather fussy about sound, and will happily spend a great deal of time, and travel considerable distances in hunting for satisfactory stereo components [N.B.: let me quickly add that the widespread preference, among audiophiles, for vacuum tube over solid state amplifiers is questionable; there are good and bad solid state amps, and the best ones {narrowly} beat tubes]. My quest eventually brought me to a very high-end, boutique-y concern in LA, where I listened to a preamp that I found especially gratifying. Among its attenuators and switches and God knows what all, however, I noticed one I'd never seen on any other: a big, heavy knob with only two positions, identified as "PHASE INVERTER 180˚." Foolishly, I asked what it did, and sat through five minutes of incomprehensible factuality, trying to look like I found it helpful. It ended satisfyingly, however: "Turn it," the guy said.

Whatever 180˚ phase inversion is, it's cool. The effect is difficult to explain; without the actual music changing in any definite way, it somehow creates a sort of - how can I describe it? - a kind of bump in the sound, that fills your ears almost the way pressure equalization does when you get off an airplane. It almost seems to push you, physically; the whole room seems to tilt a few degrees for an instant. If you have an opportunity, try to experience the effect some time, with a pair of good speakers. Jarring, but in a quite fascinating way.

Anyway, I left the place thinking how amazing it was that this effect had, as far as I was aware, never been used in a rock song. I meant to employ it in a VWC endeavor at one point or another, but it was like what happens to that mental list of records you've been meaning to buy when you walk into an actual record store: poof.

Well, someone finally did it. Terrific song, too. If possible, I urge you to listen to this on headphones to get the effect, and even then it's still not as powerful in recording as it is when you apply it firsthand with good equipment. But this recording is dripping with phase inversion. Phase inversion is our friend.

By the way; anyone who can hip me to an earlier example (or examples - this song is from 2006) will be rewarded with five sleek, aerodynamic zarpex-Points™.

And You Don't Know, You Don't Know, You Don't Know, You Don't Know

zarpex — Tue, 27 May 2008 04:24:46 GMT

Three delicious zarpex-Points™ to the first who can figure out why radio stations that played this song when it came out in 1964 were flooded with objections from listeners.

Motors Painted Green

zarpex — Mon, 26 May 2008 17:50:20 GMT

The first song I remember falling in love with was "Help!" by The Beatles. But my Mom told me that before I discovered the moptops, just as I was learning - as so many would later regret - to speak English, I would go into raptures when I heard this song.

Apparently I knew about ten words by this point - and one of them was "moon." Whenever it came on the radio, I would howl ecstatically along with every note, substituting "moon" for every word.

Extra zarpex-Points™ to Cody for identifying my mistake (both parts, in fact), and to ivylander for knowing some Jonathan King background.

King also discovered Genesis, wrote hits for one-off bands (like Hedgehoppers Anonymous), discovered The Rocky Horror Show during its one-week dinner theater run and brought it to the East End (before it had the word "Picture" inserted in the title), was doing songs about being openly gay in 1970 and reggae music in 1972, and created the English equivalent of the Grammys. He has a new-ish album out, too, by the way, now that he's in his mid-60's and out of jail, and it's very good. You can find it on iTunes, or hopefully at amazon.com, the merits of which Konkrypton argues for persuasively.

indipixie, I blush.

And, now, Ladies and Gentlemen, with no further ado - THE WRONG SONG!

Orbit Is No Longer Lonely

zarpex — Mon, 26 May 2008 05:33:20 GMT

Okay; first off, I refuse to believe this was really recorded live, although I acknowledge its truthfulness. No band ever, ever sounds this perfect live. Karajan never got the Berlin Philharmonic this tight.

The lyrics are exceptionally great, and proved surprisingly difficult to track down, even with Google. There's some dispute over whether the second line of the chorus is "Everybody's going, it'll be quite soon" or "Everybody's going, in a weird white suit." I favor the latter.

We're Afraid to Call It Love - Let's Call It "Swimming"!

zarpex — Thu, 22 May 2008 20:14:15 GMT

Hey, gang. Missed you.

I guess I was having the same frustrations with this site that a lot of other people experienced, and when I managed to get back on it a couple weeks ago, I noticed a lot of new avatars, with a picture of a rodent of some sort and a notice of a strike, demanding more reliable cooperation from whatever software governs this thing. I didn't go through the hassle of actually announcing it, but I was in sympathy with the strikers, and steered clear of mog for a while, but it seems to be working fine now, so rejoice! The wisdom of zarpex is once again available to you all.

I have no idea what I'm going to write about, but I feel like I should write something. And I suppose it ought to have to do with music, just for the sake of appearances. Let's see...

Ah! Movie scores!

I rented a house on the beach seven or eight years ago, and discovered, to my surprise, that the stretch of sand it faced was the least rocky and most pleasant to walk on of any house for quite some distance around it. As a result, we got a lot of unfamiliar faces unrolling beach towels and setting up sun umbrellas right in the middle of what, on at least an instinctual level, I took to be my beach. I didn't really mind it terribly, but I remember there was one family that seemed to be there every single day, and gave off a slightly defiant air, as if hoping someone would ask them to sunbathe elsewhere, so they could start arguing about it or starting a lawsuit or God knows what. After a couple months, I glanced outside and noticed them all wading into the surf together, and I had a rather cruel idea. I carried the stereo speakers out onto the deck, pointed them out towards the beach, turned up the volume nice and high, and shared with them the track accompanying this post.

They turned immediately around and rushed back to the sand, staring at me with undisguised fury and resentment. And I never saw them there again.

If music really can touch something deep and primal in us, and there's any truth to territoriality at all, we've got a good chance of spotting him between Cape Scott and South Beach. Two notes - dunt-dunt, dunt-dunt, dunt-dunt, dunt-dunt - and you're looking down to see if your legs are still there. Greatest movie score (not counting musicals) ever written, hands down.

Do please share your own thoughts.

The Ice Queen and I

zarpex — Tue, 06 May 2008 00:45:08 GMT

A couple years ago my daughter was asked to contribute a few poems for some "zine" that came out quarterly, and since they were to appear in the Winter issue, it was suggested she write stuff that had to do with snow, or cold, or that sort of stuff. Three of them she wrote on her own, and they were utterly inspired - e.g.; "I wanted to write a poem about Winter / The only word it rhymes with is 'printer'" [note that this is not factual; she knew perfectly well about "sprinter," "splinter," etc. - instead she had the energy and imagination to wrestle with language]. The fourth, much longer poem, I helped her with, but it was very much a collaboration, and of a rather interesting kind - she came up with the entire story, down to very small details, and my role was to convert it all into meter and rhyme. I could find no mention of it anywhere on the web, to my horror, and I didn't have a copy of it, so I've reconstructed it from memory. I know parts of it differ from the original, but I've tried to be as close as I could. There's a lot of Shel Silverstein here, but I happen to like Shel Silverstein a lot. And he wrote the song appended hereto.

The Ice Queen and I

This Winter I plan to surmount the North Pole With a team of genetically engineered moles Or some kind of steam drill, to drill a huge hole Where I’ll fish for the Big Ones – so big is my goal

That I’ll settle for only the Magical Walrus As the moles and I watch it will sing and enthrall us And through it the voice of the Ice Queen will call us The Ice Queen! Who still owes me two hundred dollars!

So the drill is shut down and the moles are unfettered They watch as the walrus and I leave together I’m drawn on a sleigh by a long silver tether To the Hall of the Ice Queen, who doesn’t know whether

I remember those two hundred dollars or not You want it played cool? Well, cool we got So she points out a few more spectacular spots And I tell her I like them; I like them a lot

Still, she senses it’s coming. It hasn’t come yet But you don’t often see her break into a sweat It’s just not something either of us would forget And an outstanding debt is an outstanding debt

Why she needed the money’s a bit of a fuzz Did her credit max out, as it so often does? But I can’t dwell on issues of “why” or “because” I was there when she needed me. That’s all it was

But Queens don’t carry cash, so I have to assuage her There are protocols; right and wrong ways to engage her I suggest it be settled by some sort of wager To gain time, she pretends there’s a beep on her pager

“Your pager won’t work here,” I chuckle and say, “So let’s stick to those two hundred bucks you can’t pay We both knew this was coming; it came here today Since you need a way out, I’m providing a way.”

And right then from the sea leapt a hideous fish It slid right to her foot, which she lifted to squish The foul thing on the spot, but I granted its wish Saying “This is a fugu! They’re simply delish!”

“In Japan there are chefs who devote their whole lives Learning what tiny bits one can eat and survive And behold! By some miracle fate has contrived That I have on my person a full set of knives!”

Having found the appropriate knife and filleted it I cut out a rather small piece and displayed it I would leave to Her Majesty which of us ate it Then wait the ten minutes we’ll need to have waited

The Ice Queen, of course, must put something at stake I’m already down two hundred bucks, for Christ’s sake! And since someone might die here, the risk she should take Should reward a bet mortals don’t normally make

She might eat it, and live, and in that event she Is absolved of her debt. Possibility B Is she eats it and dies. Possibility C Is I eat it and live – and her force goes to me!

Possibility D is the one where I die But I already see that cold gleam in her eye She suspects my bravado conceals a lie And what fool would eat food its own chef wouldn’t try?

Hence the lot fell to me, as I might have predicted I ate it, and lived, and the Queen was evicted There was some in my teeth, so I quietly picked it Dug it out, glanced at it, leaned back and flicked it I’ll conclude, having weighed it for three or four hours There are too many rainbows, and too many flowers! Let snow fall in blizzards! Let ice fall in showers!

Now what will I do with my new, God-like powers?

Where they least expect snow, I will make it snow first Where the weather is best it shall henceforth be worst Stratocumulus clouds will assemble and burst Every trace of our species will soon be immersed

I will snow on the world without mercy or favor No allowances made with regard to behavior You’ll look back on the Pleistocene Era with savor Then I’ll feast on my shave ice – Planet Earth-flavored!

Captain's Log, H.M.S. Rock: May 2, 2008 -- Latitude: 34.09 N, Longitude: 118.37 W.

zarpex — Fri, 02 May 2008 18:50:33 GMT

Repairs following the recent engagement (http://mog.com/Cody_B/blog_post/153713, et. al.) with Capitaine Cody of le Rap are finally complete. We lie becalmed for the moment, and the crew take advantage of the respite to compose epic poetry or draw up designs for newer and bigger atomic supercolliders.

But that battle got me thinking a few things. One of them is that I'm glad no one showed up to defend country music so aggressively. The other is that rock, like the great Alexander, conquers territory not by scorching it, but by absorbing it.

How, then, do we absorb rap? And the object here, of course, is to distinguish not its most obvious facets, but its deepest and most universal. In this regard, Cody called my attention to one of the threads woven most deeply into it; something called the "Dozens." This is apparently a kind of verbal combat - strictly playful and good-spirited - with origins in precolonial Africa, whose purpose is to take turns saying something so offensive, so boastful, so completely obnoxious, that the other party blows his cool.

That registered with me. I did it with my brothers growing up, I did it with friends - I do it to this day, in fact (as some of my readers may have noticed), but only with people I feel I can trust and respect: this is the opposite of patronizing someone, which is the truest and most outrageous sort of insult. I was never aware of a name for it (and I don't think "Dozens" really does it justice), but this I can do. I'd never really even thought about trying it in lyrics before.

Naturally I would make no attempt to alter the way I express myself, musically or lyrically, or to make boasts that didn't seem just barely enough like the sort of things I might actually think to deliver the shock and horror required of them.

If I might here address the world as a whole - I am not above negotiation. I will consider terms of your surrender with respect and magnanimity. It is not too late to spare countless lives.

As you consider your next move, relish this almost universally overlooked song by Miles Dethmuffen (a band that might, perhaps, never have reached the audience it should have, but was denied ever having had a chance to by their name).

Caked in Filth from Head to Toe and Screaming Obscenities

zarpex — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 12:18:27 GMT

Helen Caddes, the first of you all to recognize the exquisite beauty of the pearls I cast before you, has made a request - and hereabouts, we treat those with reverence. She would like to hear her favorite VWC song, "Revolver." A superb choice.

I rather liked the FUN FACTS thing I did for "The Elephant" or whatever that ponderous dirge was called - I thought it would never end. Remember: if it doesn't end with an exclamation point, it is not an authentic Virgin-Whore Complex FUN FACT, and you should summon an adult immediately.

FUN FACTS:

1: This song is about an escaped lunatic, and is told from his not very reliable viewpoint. He's violent and dangerous, but - like all such people, I believe, even the ones who want people to think they're violent and dangerous - believes in his heart he's really a very decent fellow, driven to the occasional murder by circumstances; in his case, direct instructions from God, of whom he believes without question he is an agent. Chipworth Community is the mental care facility he has just escaped from, completely undetected; Father Kennedy (who is blind, hence the "eyes burnt white") is a fellow inmate he has come to regard as even closer to God than himself, and who is actually even further gone in the depths of insanity, but is less of a threat to others. Our narrator considers him the very model of sanity, and our story begins with him having made his escape, and saying his farewells. He'll actually kind of miss the place. But he has divine errands to run. He has learned through God that it is a service on behalf of outcasts of all kinds ("madmen and deviates," etc.) when he kills an intellectual or a gay man. Anyone wearing glasses is clearly the former, any male who looks at him is the latter. He gets extra credit from God for brutality, and before long he has killed one. Maybe more. The song's end finds him happy and free, with every likelihood of continuing in his divine mission!

2: These lyrics were written in a single afternoon in Napa Valley, where the Napa State Mental Hospital can be found (I've never actually seen it), entirely under the influence of LSD, which may or not be true as far as you know, but would go some way to explaining the "trees of sculpted lead" and the "acid's immediate." Oh; and that's the possessive form for acid, not a contraction of acid is. Misinterpret it at your peril!

3: I have completely forgotten how to play this song; I have not he faintest clue what the chords are. I know I was never once able to play it and sing it simultaneously; the rhythm guitar part is tricky!

4: The last several lines, which play with "rain-soaked earth you flowers struggle through," are just a bit of silliness; they have no relevance to the story. "Ice" was, at the time this was written, described breathlessly in magazine articles as the next super-addictive drug that would destroy the country in a few short weeks!

Almost forgot the lyrics:

Goodbye, Chipworth Community Some people die of sheer continuity I don't mind the role so much as What it might do to me And in turn what I might do to you

Take faith, blind Father Kennedy Eyes burnt white with Jesus' serenity Caked in filth from head to toe and Screaming obscenities Who else understands the good you do?

I guess it's time I made a change So I might just as well make a complete one

And the sun shines low and red Between these trees of sculpted lead On these velvet hills I never quite outgrew And the rain-soaked earth you flowers struggle through

Raise hell, madmen and deviates Widows and dope fiends Whores and inebriates Heaven's joys are long withheld but Acid's immediate Almost always less expensive, too

God's wrath, smite intellectuals Find, expose and kill homosexuals Rip their tongues out Pound their heads in Pull off their testicles Sing, thou sword of Jesus, keen and true

And if I have to be a bastard I might just as well be a complete one

In the garden there's a raincoat In the raincoat there's a man And an ugly black revolver In my violently shaking hands And I can't recall exactly what I dreamt last night But I woke up feeling terribly angry

To see the sun shine low and red Between these trees of sculpted lead On these velvet hills I never quite outgrew And the rain-soaked earth you flowers struggle through And the plainclothesed earth you flowers struggle through

Rain-soaked earth you flowers struggle Family, friends, career you juggle Fifteen keys of ice you smuggle through

The Latest Addition to My "Trusted" List

zarpex — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 23:59:53 GMT

A few of you may recall a post of mine a couple months ago or so about the horrors of loving a song without knowing its title or performer, or having the first clue how to get hold of it, in which I offered a dukedom to anyone who could help me identify one such song. I described it as best I could, but I had very little hope of anyone figuring it out from what few identifying features I could convey in written words. But lo and behold, I discover one of those red "play" buttons attached to a new comment on that post, and guess what?

It wasn't the song.

But it was a sincere attempt to help out a fellow mogger, and apart from a date of release that didn't match, anyone who heard it would think it was the song I wrote about. In recognition of this truly moving act, and in partial compensation for the dukedom he showed no disappointment at having just barely missed, I have knighted this stouthearted patriot, and despite its unfortunate cadence, he should henceforth be referred to as Sir yummygatalover (all lower-case), a Knight of the zarpexian Empire. Oh; and his MOG is now, of course, officially zarpex-Endorsed™.

"So shines a good deed in a weary world," as one of my lifelong role models put it, in exactly the right tone of near-amazement.

He also said he quite enjoyed my song, and asked if I might share more music by the VWC (really; you can check it, for what little that means anymore). Since it seemed to help with "Mrs. Witherspoon" a bit, I'll include the lyrics here:

I really couldn't think of anything to say I guess it doesn't really matter anyway Some of my friends I'll never see again But that's okay It's better that way

'Cause I can never think of anything to do Because it hurts me, just like it hurts you But don't forget my lies Or whom I told them to

And it's not okay if you're unhappy Don't stare betrayal at me Ding dong, the doorbell rings But I don't hear a thing

For I have seen the elephant All else is irrelevant Rubbed my cheek on its cool gray skin, been Overcome by the smell of it I have won the lottery None of you bastards will bother me Ever again

And God knows I could fill up a book Just interpreting one of your looks Like the one that night in Salzburg When the mountains shook

But I can see you don't believe me And I'm tired from my flight I'll forgive you if you leave me But not tonight Not tonight

I am just as impatient as you With this hell we put each other through You know, you have standards, God has standards I once had them, too

And I curse this hope that springs eternal Now I'll go hide my journal "Time flies," the convict sighs But his bars are internal

And I have seen the elephant Drawn in by its elegance Dwarfed in stature Shamed in beauty Brushed aside in intelligence I have seen a family of five Taken alive

502 Silver Springs Avenue; Appleford, Michigan

zarpex — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 08:18:44 GMT

I just got back from a trip, and left the book I was almost done with - Michael Crichton's Next - behind on my hotel bedside table, like an idiot. I don't know how many of you have read it, but I'll try to arrive at the point I think it illustrates without spoiling anything for those of you who might not have.

There's a scene towards the middle where, in order to persuade a skeptic of some fact or other, a list of Google links are created in only a few hours, by someone having some experience and facility with computers, nothing that dazzling. An article about it here, something mentioning it there, a whole section of that devoted to it; all in about two hours or so or (hurried) work, the book suggests. The skeptic does a search for this thing she doubts so much; finds these stories, and is satisfied.

If Michael Crichton shows something - well, cool being done in the here and now, I usually assume that it really can be done (and although the possibilities he sees in store for us are sometimes a little wild, he does analyze the factors required for their emergence with cool understanding).

If this is the case, I'm sorely tempted to usher Appleford, Michigan into existence - not just the calamity that befell it in August of 1944, but its origins, its location, its history and demographics, its mayor and chief of police, the Zagat ratings of its restaurants...

During the early Age of Exploration, the position of stars could be used to fix latitude quite precisely, but no means was yet known for calculating longitude, and maps created on the basis of explorer's records had to accommodate conflicting ideas, especially of the positions of coastlines that ran mostly to the north and south, like those of Argentina and Chile, sub-equatorial Africa, or our own east and west coasts. One island, its longitude having been guesstimated differently by three independent explorers, might be rendered on the map as an archipelago.

The artisans who did the often baffling work of actually painting maps by hand were expected to present their finished products not to sailors and navigators, but to whatever royalty or potentate sponsored their work - from which the men whose actual survival might depend on them would then be permitted to make copies. For its primary purpose - display in a palace - a map would have to include somewhere the Kingdom of Prester John (which was for centuries accepted as fact, and a psychological bulwark in Europe during the expansion of Islam), despite no clue whatsoever where it really might lie, and it would need several islands to be occupied by headless men whose faces were in their chests, or any number of fantastic creatures whose existence was part of the impetus for exploration in the first place. Often mapmakers would create islands without any more solid motive than to name one after a wife or child, not thinking that hundreds of men at sea might die of hunger, thirst or scurvy as they hunted for them in vain.

In Borges' "Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius" (one of the very greatest short stories ever written - I cannot recommend it enthusiastically enough), a cabal of scholars create an entire new inhabited planet and bring it into existence by assembling its encyclopedia. It has a language, for instance, consisting only of pronouns, articles, prepositions and verbs (in which, he says, the sentence "The moon shone over the river" would be expressed as "Over the onrushing, it mooned"); it has its own mathematics, its own card games. When this encyclopedia was completed, down to the last detail of geography, down to every trace of its literature, its music, its agriculture, its savage past and its bright future, it would need only to be discovered by some unsuspecting researcher for the earth to be transformed.

My ambition - for now - is more modest, and the web has made truth into something much easier to manipulate. Let's just summon a small town into being. Anyone want to lend a hand? Because one of these days, a satellite is going to take a photo of Michigan from space, and it'll be right there...

True Love in a Large Room, OR, Why Use One Word Where Six Will Do?

zarpex — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 16:40:52 GMT

The singer for a recently-formed rock band in San Francisco, with whom I have developed a relationship of mutual friendliness and respect over the last several months, sent me an electronic verbal message of some sort - on AOL they used to be called "instant messages"; I don't know if facebook uses the same terminology - a few weeks ago, asking if I could suggest a good band name. I let fly five or six possibilities off the top of my head, but I realized that the last one was the clear winner the moment it popped into my mind. It was a phrase I'd crafted in a paper on Flannery O'Connor's "Everything That Rises Must Converge," and how it showed up in my neocortex as if summoned - a fragment of a single sentence from a paper I wrote almost a quarter century ago, and to which I gave not another thought - I am glad not to understand. Unwisely, I used it as the title of this post, depriving it of the star's entrance I believe it merits. david hyman (by the way - do I understand correctly that he is the creator of this website? If so, I must buy him dinner some time) has been hipped to it already in a haughty and dismissive comment I made about The Grateful Dead in response to one of the recent, characteristically self-effacing and disarming posts on his zarpex-Endorsed™ MOG (a word which I have lately taken to capitalizing in its entirety, perhaps correctly, if such a concept even applies to one so newly minted, and which I might add contributes less pollution to the English language than it seems to at first glance). She too recognized its beauty immediately, and a band was Christened. I felt like a proud father, and a proud father with a flair for off-the-cuff creativity at that.

My fatherly pride did not extend to listening to their music, which, like all artistic efforts, in the harsh light of statistics, is likelier to be wearisome than otherwise. Greatness will announce itself; it should never be sought out. Besides, I felt (and still feel) that I'd done the band a considerable service without having any notion what they sounded like; why tamper with a successful formula? As I told david hyman, "if the band flops, it won't be because their name sucked."

Of course, if you do someone a favor - especially without pay or credit - they will usually return for more, and I more often than not provide it cheerfully. A sense of accomplishment cannot be exchanged for goods or services (to cite the inspired, wrenching lyrics to Bob Mould's "Brasilia Crossed with Trenton," They don't take these things down at the bank/ They just take money), but bear in mind that it's an asset whose value is usually greater before you're compelled to put a price on it.

Sure enough, I was approached again to provide a short band biography to accompany their first release. My first instinct was to follow Keats' injunction - which I will leave to you to recall; I'm sure you've heard it - and craft a story whose value - like all things, really - lay in its beauty, of which its truthfulness would be a consequence, not a constraint, and create a biography of less than two pages, abounding in rich detail, captivating stories, and colorful history, bearing only as much relevance to reality as suited my intention to lighten the crushing load of facts under which humanity labors too hard already.

Still having heard nothing at all by the band, I stayed up late last night fulfilling their wishes, and I adhered to Keats' Law more faithfully than I even meant to, although it bore no trace of biography (biographies are boring, anyway). I confess that I drew considerable satisfaction from the form it took, which was not what I foresaw when I imagined it. But that's as it should be; all creativity is unforeseeable and profoundly spontaneous by nature - when you start a sentence, realize that you haven't the slightest idea how it will end. And if you do know, you're acting and probably unconvincingly. In fact, while I'm issuing weird, quasi-philosophical pronouncements on the nature of creativity, I'd like to add that nothing should ever require a second draft. Not a single thing I've ever written in my life required more than proofreading; second drafts are for hacks. If kings and angels didn't assemble around its cradle, your art is unworthy, and should be left to fatten the wolves.

In the meantime, this is what I sent them:

There are many well-documented historical cases of mass hysteria sweeping very sizable communities. In August of 1944 one single woman in Appleford, Michigan –- population 5,812 at the time -– reported a curious chemical odor, and before two days had elapsed, almost everyone in the town was convinced they smelled it, too. This quickly became a virtually universal belief that they had been attacked – some believed by a madman possessed of great expertise in chemistry, others resolutely certain it was the Axis powers America was then at war with – by means of poison gas. Hundreds of people staggered through the streets vomiting; the town’s two small hospitals were overwhelmed with men and women who told baffled doctors that they had, only moments after smelling the gas, gone blind (which tests confirmed was in fact the case, every time, without a single exception), or who were bleeding profusely from their mouths and noses. Eleven people, among them a family with four young children, went to such desperate lengths to shield themselves from the peril that they suffocated in their own homes. The local police force was swept up as well; in the confusion and horror that prevailed, they issued contradictory orders to the citizenry, almost on top of one another: the instructions to evacuate were quickly followed by the command to stay indoors. There was no evidence of looting or riots, but in their panic, the police fired on a small crowd in Appleford’s commercial district, killing three. It was a full week before the town regained its senses, by which time its population had become 5,744. Most of the fatalities were among people who appear to have been so wholly persuaded that they had been poisoned that their systems shut down of their own accord. Of the several hundred that reported blindness, 41 never recovered their sight. The illusion had become too firmly ingrained, even after it was explained to them. The only people in Appleford who remained unaffected, smelled nothing, couldn’t figure out what everyone was so upset about -- were all among the town’s small subset of people who spoke no English. This was a contagion of the mind, and it spread through language. The bubonic plague in the 1300’s infected about half of Europe; hysteria infected over 99% of Appleford.

The suggestibility of human beings, and the unpredictable force of language and ideas, makes True Love in a Large Room, in my careful consideration, a very great danger. I have personally seen people so fascinated by the unlikely juxtaposition of aesthetics this band imposes on them that their powers of reason become appreciably diminished. I have seen people – not many, but then, not many have yet been exposed – who succumbed to the illusion that they too could wield the band’s volcanic ferocity, and came to ends I will only describe as unhappy. Young people especially seem susceptible to the allure of their lyrics, in which they often claim to perceive fragments of prophecy, and their pursuit of a clearer understanding has driven at least four I know of – two of them very closely; both of them teenagers who held great promise – to insanity.

I have been chosen to write a few words about True Love in a Large Room, and it is taken for granted that I will write something that casts them in an appealing light and makes them seem like a force for some kind of good or other. I will instead subvert them.

Ours will be looked back on as the Age of Litigation, and I hope to avoid any culpability in the release of what I am thoroughly convinced is an ideological and cultural virus that will ruin the lives of – perhaps kill – many, many thousands of people, striking the young disproportionately. If you are considering buying this, I urge you not to. If you already have, heed my advice and burn it – outdoors, if possible, or in a well-ventilated area free of nearby combustible material. Be careful in doing so not to draw the sort of attention to this band, their music, or the ideas they hope to spread that might arouse curiosity or interest.

One could describe True Love in a Large Room as a piece of H.P. Lovecraft that broke off and fell into reality. Its attraction is narcotic; the strangely pleasant uncertainty, and the false sense of power that it quickly instills, end in misfortune for all but the very lucky few.

I refuse to go down in history as a propagandist for chaos.

The Grateful Dead - Part III

zarpex — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 01:08:58 GMT

The Grateful Dead weren't through with me. I'd tried to like them on their own merits, I'd tried to use them as romantic subterfuge - I'd learned my lesson.

The years passed, and I wrote songs when I wasn't busy with something else, and by the time the 90's rolled around I had an album's worth of material. I eventually accumulated a few friends who were reasonably proficient at different instruments, and we declared ourselves a band - in theory if not practice; we didn't play live, we didn't publicize ourselves in any way, but every so often we got together, learned the chords to a song that one of us had written (usually me), and, for lack of a less serious word, rehearsed.

We recorded some of it, rather crudely, and got some encouraging feedback (see my post on Linda Stein), so we tried giving it a slightly more professional feel to see if a record company would take a chance on us. To make a long story short, we drew a smattering of interest, but refusing to do live shows hurt our cause more than I thought it would, and we wound up just sitting on the tapes for several years. Pity, too, if I do say so myself; pop culture could have used a band like us around then.

The fellow we enlisted to give us a presentable sound - or "producer," however meaningless that word - actually did like our stuff, though, and as our demo tape languished, he would play it for his friends and speak of us highly. I didn't give it much thought at the time, but he was (is) actually a fairly established and well-liked figure among professional musicians in the Bay Area, and one afternoon he gave me a call. These might not be the exact words, but they're not far off:

"Hey, dude; I had a friend of mine over just now, and I was playing him your demo tape. He really liked the lyrics, and he wanted to see if you'd be interested in writing stuff for his band. I gave him your number; I hope that's all right." Actually, it wasn't entirely all right; I'm a bit reclusive, and didn't like thinking a stranger might call me unexpectedly. "You gave my number to someone I don't know? Who was it?" "Oh, he's a cool guy; don't worry. You might have heard of him. His name's Jerry Garcia. You know The Grateful Dead?"

Yes; I knew The Grateful Dead. The rest of the conversation I don't recall, but there wasn't much to it. A day or two later, the phone rang - I remember the call came at an inopportune moment, and I answered it irritably.

"Hello?" "Hello." "Yes, who is this?" "Well, we haven't met, but a friend of mine gave me your number. My name's Jerry Garcia." Gulp. "Yes, Mr. Garcia?"

He didn't come right out and ask me to write lyrics for them, but he said he dug (he used the word "dug") my lyrics, and wanted to know if we could meet some time. I said I would be happy to meet with him at whatever time he found convenient. "Well, I have to leave for a couple weeks, but when I get back, I'd like to talk to you if you have some spare time." It was a brief conversation, but I remember he seemed very low-key and affable; I couldn't help feeling a little guilty for holding his band in such perennial scorn.

I didn't hear back from him, and a month or so later - maybe less - I turn on the news: Jerry Garcia is dead.

I don't know if I'd necessarily have gotten the gig (how I hate that word), but I expect hearing them sing lyrics I'd written would have done a lot to improve The Grateful Dead for me. I don't like to think of them framed by interminable jamming (how I hate that word, too) and noodling, but the typical GD song had a meter I could have written for quite comfortably. I've contributed lyrics for several bands since then - including a few quite well-known ones; you may well have heard some of them - and they're not always as accommodating of my sense of prosody as the Dead would likely have been. Acts that need help with lyrics are frequently sensitive about receiving it, resisting acknowledgment. It would have been nice to work with a band that made no bones about needing a helping hand.

Ah, what might have been.

The Grateful Dead: Part II

zarpex — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 17:36:37 GMT

[N.B.: I haven't read this over carefully; I have to run out the door.]

1979 went on to be a good year for music. Armed Forces was released within a week of that show. We got Lodger, Fear of Music, Candy-O, The Wall, Discovery, The B-52's, Drums and Wires... Even a few of the disco songs were catchy. What possible reason could anyone have to listen to The Grateful Dead?

Ah; but that September I found one. Her eyes had to be some kind of special effect; they were like tiny stained-glass windows. I half expected butterflies to soar out of them at any moment, or to spot functioning civilizations in them. I did not yet understand that man is not fit to behold such mysteries, and that Mephistopheles sets the price.

One subject, and one subject ONLY, could be discussed - and had to be discussed, constantly - in order to look into those eyes: their owner's staggeringly detailed recollections of going to Grateful Dead concerts; the huge, indistinguishable cast of imbeciles who accompanied her to them, and every word they exchanged (not a single one of which was ever funny or unexpected); every bite of food they'd eaten, every soda they washed it down with. Inevitably she and her friends would find themselves dashing frantically, but to or from what I could never recall her explaining, nor do I remember the name of a single song entering into the descriptions.

But this was where going to that concert unexpectedly turned out to be useful. "The Closing of Winterland!?" [editor's note: actually, at the time, it was usually called the Farewell to Winterland, as I recall] It was already holy among deadheads, in the same pantheon as some show they did at the Pyramids. "Man, what was it like?" "Oh; it was great." So how many shows had I been to? I was taken aback to find that "one" wasn't sufficient.

I bought What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been and set to work at it. It repaid me nothing. I tried to learn some of their songs on guitar, thinking that might help; it was like picking up a blob of mercury with your fingers. I felt stupid just playing them.

After a couple months it was getting too long and strange; I'd already made plans to see Grateful Dead shows with her I knew I wouldn't be able to attend, and I just couldn't mutate my sensibilities by an act of will. I gave up. It wouldn't be the last time I'd try, but it was the last time I'd try on The Grateful Dead. Her eyes lost none of their wonder, even as mine very slowly readjusted to the starless night of their absence.

But another thing that dawns on me as I look back on it - guys: was it just me, or did you too find in high school that a disproportionate number of the girls you were smitten by were deadheads?

COMING SOON: PART III

The Grateful Dead - Part I

zarpex — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 07:17:40 GMT

[Prefatory Note: The song attached hereto lacks any relevance to the post whatsoever, thematic or otherwise, but I thought you might like it.]

I've noticed a recent increase in posts about The Grateful Dead, and although I suspect the iron has cooled a bit by now, it might still be a good time to share my own thoughts and impressions. Let me note that these impressions are generally negative, and that to my experience, when I criticize music someone else likes, they usually defend it spiritedly, or get angry with me, but fans of the Dead often look genuinely hurt, which I never like to do to anyone. But the truth must out.

I have labored long and hard to find merit in The Grateful Dead's endless, lethargic shuffles, their idiotic lyrics, their vapid efforts at soulfulness. I could make no sense of the most basic facts about them. How could a band so famously steeped in drugs remain so pedestrian and unimaginative? How could a band standing almost at the dead center of ground zero during the most audacious period of social, cultural and artistic experimentation America has ever known produce nothing but this blurry treacle while bands like Jefferson Airplane, QMS, and Big Brother & The Holding Company surrounded them? The mind reels.

The one Grateful Dead show I’ve been to is, from what I gather, regarded as one of their landmarks, and is referred to by deadheads in hushed, awestruck whispers, as "The Closing of Winterland," on the New Year's Eve that ushered out 1978 and welcomed 1979. I was 13 years old, accompanied by my mother, and had no clue what to expect. My favorite bands at the time were The Beatles, Queen, and Roxy Music. All I knew about The Grateful Dead was that their name was genius.

My parents, to fill in a bit more background, were close friends with the late Bill Graham, who ran San Francisco's live music scene with something approaching monarchical authority, and had graciously provided us with backstage passes (the first I'd ever seen - I couldn't take my eyes off it; it seemed like an amulet that conferred godlike powers on me, and I preserved it lovingly for several years before it disappeared during a move). With your indulgence, in fact, I'd like to devote a paragraph to Mr. Graham, which, if he holds no interest for you, you are welcome to skip.

To me, Bill Graham was one of the very few grownups I found interesting when I was that age. He had a deep, gruff voice that very quickly became incredibly loud when he raised it, and his natural, relaxed expression, even when he was feeling happy, looked angry. He scared people. On several occasions I watched in fascination as he struggled to produce a natural-looking smile when being photographed. He had to struggle into it, like a girl shimmying her way into a tight pair of jeans. It looked completely unnatural, as if it hurt his face physically. I have never seen anything else like his volcanic ferocity when he chewed out someone for their ineptitude, and it didn't have to be an employee of his, either. If a waiter in a restaurant was neglectful of his station, or a cashier had to get in a few more words on the phone before dealing with you – KER-BLAMMO. It was art. I don't believe the sort of power he exercised over San Francisco's rock scene has ever been known by anyone else in his profession, and could only have been attained by someone possessing incredible energy, very keen intelligence, a natural air of authority, and an instinctively utilitarian mindset, concerned first and foremost, at all times, with the greatest happiness (to borrow Jeremy Bentham’s phrase) for the greatest number of people. To this day, club owners, musicians, and even concertgoers in SF who are old enough to remember his reign - I kid you not - lower their voices and clean up their language when they speak of him. Even his detractors. When The Sex Pistols played their last concert at Winterland, one of The Avengers got into a fistfight with him. From that night on, "wipe punk rock completely from San Francisco" was a fixture on his To Do list. His stance softened gradually over the years, but for a long time, punk rock in SF was played only at the Mabuhay Gardens an Indian restaurant. One of Led Zeppelin's strongmen tried to bully him when they played there in 1975. Never again would he permit the band within city limits. And finally, let me wrap this up by noting that he was always very nice to me; never visited the house without bringing me a poster for some concert, or a record I might like. He always wanted to talk about music with me, and I never noticed any difference between our conversations and the ones he had with other grown-ups. I’m grateful that I got to know him, and I miss the hell out of him.

We return you now to December 31, 1978: Ten minutes or so into the show, I could no longer deny the evidence. The Grateful Dead had wasted a great name. I asked my mother for permission to wander into the crowd and explore a bit, and was surprised to receive it – I think the backstage pass was a factor. The crowd – and this should tell you something – was more interesting than the band (and they weren’t all that interesting). Most of them, I noticed, were gathered in separate knots, talking to each other, getting stoned – looking cheerful, no doubt, but showing no signs I could see of paying any attention to the music – no tapping their feet or bobbing their heads, very little looking toward the stage.

As I think about it now, perhaps these were the people I later was told, to my amazement, actually followed the band from town to town, catching every show.

Take a moment to think about that. Think of your very favorite album of all time, and imagine listening to it every single night, over and over, for four, five, maybe six straight hours. Could you do that? Of course not. Repetition would strip the music of its beauty and meaning after only a few nights; over a few weeks, it would become intolerable, and after a few months, it would lose its very audibility. I bet the people in those groups were speaking to one another in a normal tone of voice. Incidentally; this testifies to the that The Grateful Dead made music for people who don’t like music. Sadly, these poor wretches can almost never be made to understand this; they believe that because they have a fun time at these concerts, they Q.E.D. must like music, and would – quite understandably - resist accepting the idea that they lack such sensitivity.

I remember being tapped on the shoulder at one point, and turning to see a (very pretty) hippie chick smiling at me, who asked if she could paint my face. Well, I didn’t think I was going to get her number or anything, but if it would give me a few minutes’ diversion from this all, let’s do it, right? What, she asked me, did I want her to paint? After a few moments’ thought, I replied “Devo,” the name of my favorite new band at the time. She’d never heard of them, but obliged me cheerfully. I wandered back to Mom backstage, and at some point one of the concert staff came up and asked us if we’d like to watch from the stage (not, like, the middle of the stage, obviously, but off to the side), and we both thought it might be fun, and he escorted us there. I mention this because a year or so ago, a friend of mine who knew I’d attended it gave me a DVD of the concert (such a thing actually exists, and is commercially distributed). Sure enough, I can be seen in one shot, next to dear old Mom, off stage left. My face isn’t really discernible, but it’s me.

We didn’t stay for the whole show, but wanted to remain long enough to see the new year brought in, which was marked by the appearance of a bearded Santa Claus with a skull face, riding a wire-suspended funicular shaped like a giant joint.

We went back home shortly afterwards, and I went to bed, thinking I need no longer worry about this band; they sucked, and that was the end of the matter. Besides, there was no way any act with such hopeless music could possibly stay in business for more than another year or two. No way.

TOMORROW (OR AT MY EARLIEST CONVENIENCE): PART II

We'd Like to Thank You Once Again

zarpex — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 12:24:52 GMT

There's a subset of Beatles fans who eagerly seek out the band's "rarities" - the various edits of "Christmas Time Is Here Again," for instance, or The Beatles' version of "Come and Get It," etc. But few of these enthusiasts, to my experience, have paid adequate attention to the original mono mixes, especially of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and Magical Mystery Tour. I myself haven't heard either one since they inexplicably vanished from my record collection twenty-ish years ago after a party I threw.

Stereo home systems had been growing in popularity for about ten years when The Beatles started putting out records, but most people still owned mono systems at home. All their output up to The Beatles (or "the white album," as it is commonly referred to) was released in both formats, but the lads themselves actually sat in during the mono mixes and were very attentive to them. The most startling differences, to my mind, were to be heard on the two aforementioned records, and the departure that really sticks in my memory was the mono version of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)." Sadly, I don't have it to share with you; I have only the version you're likely already familiar with.

But that "live recording" sense that song is given in stereo? The way it feels so excited and peppy; The Beatles love you all so much, are so sorry it's coming to an end, etc.? It takes on a surprisingly sarcastic, nasty edge in the mono. The sound of an audience is still mixed in, but the premise is deliberately subverted: you actually hear the taped cheering engage and catch speed, flatly announcing that the audience isn't real; they're thanking a tape recording. You kind of have to hear it to get the effect of it; it's quite unsettling.

So anyway, if you still listen to vinyl, and occasionally go hunting in used record stores, check the spines of Beatles records and snatch up mono copies if you see them. A lot of record stores aren't aware there's such a thing at all, and file them in with the stereo copies at the same prices. Dazzle your Beatles collector friends.

You've Got to Die Someday

zarpex — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 02:57:31 GMT

I think I might have rubbed a few fellow moggers the wrong way a few days ago with a comment I made regarding a post on Cody B's zarpex-Endorsed™ mog. I can't be bothered to look it up and link to it, but Cody's post was about some bit of sampled jazz on a rap single, and perhaps I was venturing beyond the subject at hand when I called for rap and country music to acknowledge the creative stasis they've been in for several decades, find some stirring final expression, and - well - die.

Of course, musical genres can only die figuratively, but lest I come across as too vicious, the examples I suggested country and rap should emulate were heavy metal and jazz. Neither of them, to be sure, is truly extinct; you can still find jazz clubs in most cities, and there are still bands called (although I believe it's a misnomer by this point) "heavy metal" that sell records. But there was a time when they were, if not dominant, damned near ubiquitous. When their numbers came up, they bowed out on high notes (Guns'n'Roses for heavy metal; Miles Davis for jazz), and wasted no pity on themselves.

It is a defining attribute of heroes - in literary terms, at least - that they die. Death makes the hero; how they live matters, but only in terms of how it establishes the tragedy. This is why Ahab is a hero and Ishmael (without pretending otherwise), is merely a protagonist.

And like I said, musical genres aren't really alive, and their deaths, unlike ours, are incomplete and subject to rescission. Swing and lounge music sprang from the grave for a couple of quite enjoyable years in the mid-90's; punk rock was declared dead in 1984, and for seven years its pulse was commercially undetectable. The only excuse rap and country music have for continuing to occupy the stage is cowardice. Their stale and rigid formulas make a creative breakthrough impossible. If you kid yourself otherwise, you're part of the problem.

By the way - rock, God's chosen music, occupies a place beyond death, tragedy and heroism. Unlike almost any other kind of music, it abjures formula, and its field of play is so vast and inclusive that the word "rock" has actually lost a great deal of meaning. The band Miranda Sex Garden, by way of illustration, was booked in rock clubs across America in the early 90's, and performed absolutely straight Elizabethan madrigals that would have been entirely at home on Deutsche Grammophon. The death of rock would be the death of musical innovation. Which is quite possible.

Starting the Fire in the Celestial Empire

zarpex — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 01:06:20 GMT

It seems to me sometimes like there's scarcely a woman born in America since the fifties - and a lot of men, too - who doesn't realize that astrology is baloney. Even among very intelligent people I frequently encounter the habit of attributing some difficulty or other to, say, Mars being in retrograde, or personal conflicts to mismatched Libras and Virgos, or whatever hogwash. It was even introduced in the classroom when I was a child - the teacher went around asking everyone what sign they were (I had no idea what sign I was - I thought "signs" meant STOP, YIELD, RIGHT TURN ONLY, and so forth).

As superstitions go, I suppose it's one of the less harmful - certainly less of a menace than religious fundamentalism of whatever sort. But like all such systems, it's essentially a kind of antiquated crowd control, allowing its believers to dismiss complicated issues as lying beyond their powers of reason.

Okay; maybe some problems are (presently) beyond our powers of reason, and maybe a lot of people still need such myths to struggle through their troubles. But why should their superstitions be so archaic, dating back literally thousands of years in most cases? If people still need some web of absurdities to accept their place in the universe, can't it at least remain somewhat relevant to our times?

Guess what? Zarpex has an idea. I haven't worked out all the details yet, but I think it shows promise. Forget the arbitrarily (and very unconvincingly) drawn constellations; forget the motions of neighboring planets; forget the ludicrous idea that everyone born within a month of you has the same personality you do.

The day I was born, the #1 Billboard hit in America was "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" by The Rolling Stones. The bestselling book was The Source by James Michener. The Sound of Music topped the box office. If you figure out the right number and combination of such inputs, you could create a new way for people to explain the world to themselves; one that would give people a lot more to ponder than the relative positions of stars and planets at a certain time. I'm open to suggestions.

Together we can create a less stupid tomorrow.

Suddenly a Whole Lot of Tigers Came In

zarpex — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 21:40:08 GMT

People tend to think that alternative rock's commercial breakthrough came in the early 90's, when Nirvana's Nevermind became a surprise smash, but no one seems to recall the early 80's, more especially '82-'83, when The Plasmatics and The Clash were suddenly filling stadiums, XTC actually got into heavy (if brief) MTV rotation with "Sense Working Overtime," frat boys across the country were rocking out to Talking Heads and, most improbably of all, Laurie Anderson actually had a hit.

I can't seem to find anything on the web to confirm it (which actually seems rather appropriate), but in an interview with MUSICIAN magazine (remember that?) after the release of Big Science, Laurie Anderson related what remains one of the funniest anecdotes from a musician I've ever heard - and musicians are full of funny anecdotes.

Having studied sculpture and art history at Columbia University in the early 70's, Laurie Anderson began her career as an avant-garde performer with admirable tenacity, but that's a hard way to make ends meet in New York, and she decided to put her education to use, teaching at the City College of New York, where she had, to her understanding, been hired to share her wisdom regarding sculpture. As it turned out, however, there were two other women who shared the (decidedly quotidian) name "Laurie Anderson" applying for teaching positions that year. One had already been given the sculpture job, and the other, who was going to teach Egyptian history, had been hired by a more prestigious school and declined the job without going to the trouble of informing anyone. This confusion might have cost Laurie a job she rather needed, but luckily, she recognized the mistake before the administration did. With a natural survivor's aplomb, she accepted a job teaching Egyptian history, about which she knew nothing. She would begin teaching her class in two days, she was told.

Well, there was little hope of learning Egyptian history in that span, of course, so she made it up. She knew about the Pyramids, no doubt, and what a "Pharaoh" was, and that sort of basic stuff, so she told her students there would be no text - her lectures would be sufficient. She was careful to keep it plausible and self-consistent, but it was plausible and self-consistent rubbish.

The course was quite popular with students, and she wound up staying on and teaching it for several years. By the time the next semester rolled around, she'd given herself a crash course in Egyptian history, and began teaching the factual version. I don't know how many people were in that first class she taught, but they're likely wandering about somewhere thinking they know Egyptian history, and not realizing it's all the product of an avant-garde artist's imagination. For some reason, I feel a certain envy when I think of them.

MORAL: There's no such thing as fraud in art, only good and bad, and art can show up in unexpected places.

In the meantime, enjoy this delightful Laurie Anderson rarity - more a bizarre micro-story than a piece of music, but a treasure nonetheless.

Why Didn't You Tell Me?

zarpex — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 14:53:24 GMT

Has this ever happened to you?

Every now and then I stumble onto a song on the radio that I really, really like, which fades into another song, which fades into another song, and by the time the DJ comes back to recap what I've been listening to, he (or she) seems to have forgotten about it - maybe the last couple songs in the string will be identified hastily, and then it's time for a word from our sponsor. I never hear the song again. I have no idea who played it, and can only guess at its title. I might try describing it to friends or record store clerks, maybe even try to hum a few measures in my desperation. Everyone looks at me like I'm crazy.

There was a song I heard on the radio in Boston in the early 80's, to pick a particularly nagging example, with a bouncy, folksy feel to it, and the repeated refrain (which was not, apparently, its title) "charity begins at home." A dukedom to anyone who can provide information leading to its arrest and conviction.

Anyway, this was almost one of those songs. I heard it on the radio in England when it came out, back in 1980, and no one bothered to mention what band it was. By a complete stroke of luck I bought the album that contained it several months later, simply because I thought the cover art was amusing. According to allmusic.com, the song was "a bona-fide hit" and "garnered impressive radio play," but no one else I knew seemed aware of its existence.

Haunting guitar refrain, heartbreaking lyrics, deeply felt vocal performance. ("Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical." --Nabokov)

Reflections

zarpex — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 18:30:41 GMT

This has nothing to do with music, but have you ever looked in a mirror and wondered why it inverts left and right as well as forwards and backwards - but not up and down?

I shave with my right hand; my reflection shaves with his left. If I look in a mirror to my north, my reflection looks to the south. But, like me, my reflection's knees are above his feet, his ceiling is above his floor, etc. What makes up and down so special?

I put this to a friend of mine who teaches physics at Berkeley, who loves these sorts of questions, and he came back with an uncharacteristically lengthy and weird explanation, having something to do with the way we think about standing on the other side of a mirror, and imagining shapes drawn on a transparent surface. He didn't seem much happier with his solution than I was. When I asked him the same question a couple of years later, he had an entirely different, but equally lengthy and unconvincing answer.

I did, however, realize something when I was standing at the edge of a duck pond a few weeks ago: my reflection in the pond was inverted up and down. The sky in it was below my reflection's head; his nose was above his eyes. If I tossed bread crumbs to the ducks with my right hand, my reflection used his left. But now we agreed on forwards and backwards: if I looked contemplatively toward the west, so did he (this is also true of a mirror positioned overhead, of course).

Well, next time I run into my Physics teacher friend, I'll bring it up and see if he's interested, or if the thought lends any clarity. But I still don't entirely get it, and I doubt his explanation will make any more sense to either of us.

Personally, I think it's a glitch in God's software - an enticing clue that there is some kind of divinity, but an imperfect one. The incongruity of quantum theory and relativity might be another one (unless M theory actually is the TOE); so might be the phenomenon of turbulence, and perhaps so is sunburn. Otherwise, most of it seems about right.

Love Will Tear Us Together

zarpex — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 00:11:40 GMT

I wrote my first song when I was thirteen, a short piano piece of no very great interest, dedicated to my piano teacher, who was extremely hot. It was kind of a rip-off of Beethoven's Für Elize, so I inserted her name instead of Elize and it got chosen to conclude a piano recital, which was supposedly something of an honor. Not an entirely deserved honor, I might add; there were at least two other pianists who were clearly better than I. Such is the power of love songs.

Since then I'd say that about half the songs I've written are about love in one way or another. But since I started adding lyrics, none - at least none that was addressed to a specific girl - has met with anything like the same approval from its subject.

The truth is, once I started going out with flesh and blood girls, I discovered that love was not the state of uninterrupted bliss I'd imagined. I was horrified to learn that girls actually do care if you give them flowers, that they really do give a damn about clothes, that they have hormonal mood swings unlike anything I could have pictured. [Editor's Note: I had no sisters, only brothers, and before I got to high school, I had only attended schools for boys - girls were things I read about in biology textbooks.]

Now mind you; this wasn't all bad. I was actually kind of glad to run into so many surprises, even if I didn't like all of them (and I did like many of them - for instance, I discovered girls were far better readers, better conversationalists, possessed a delicacy of feeling that I learned a lot from, and a sense of mischievous playfulness that I soon came to realize signaled trust, and which I found bewitching), and of course their anatomical mysteries occupied, realistically, about every third thought that ran through my brain.

And yet, where boys might be oafish or violent, I was surprised by the cruelty of girls. I got into two fistfights during that time with other boys (very unwillingly), the only two I've ever been in. One was with a kid who fancied himself a karate master and unexpectedly decided to demonstrate his skills on me, and one was with a kid who mistakenly thought I'd punched him from behind in a crowd. A stitched lip, a black eye, and from the instant it ended, we were friends for life (I still keep in contact with both of them). If two girls got into a fight? Well, there wouldn't be any punching. It would just become a matter of spending every single waking moment until one of them died trying by whatever means possible to destroy each other's lives completely. Fights made boys into best friends; they made girls into Siamese fighting fish.

I still can't pretend to understand the female mind fully, but my impression is that in romantic matters, guys tend to be rather open books, and if they keep a secret or two, it's usually something less interesting than they realize, whereas girls (again; these are simply my own impressions) seem to be darting in and out of concealed realms, choosing at every moment what they'll hide or disclose.

Well, enough of my half-baked ramblings. The point is that no love song worth the name is or should ever be unalloyed, worshipful adoration. Screw that. I've had five serious girlfriends since I started writing songs, and not one of them has ever been happy with a love song I wrote about them - which disappoints me. Like I said, women tend to have a richer literary sensibility, to my experience, than men, but having eventually grasped that treacle like, say, "I Just Called to Say I Love You" is what they prefer to be told, I learned long ago simply not to tell them which songs are about them. I believe this is what Kafka meant when he said "Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way."

Good Vibrations

zarpex — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 09:25:14 GMT

I was in San Francisco during the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, and there are few experiences in my life I remember more vividly or with such savor. The actual shaking was said to have lasted about ten seconds, of which I spent the first two in a state of confused paralysis, and the next eight with a clarity of thought and perception which I hope I can experience again just once before I die.

Just from the way I could feel its structural supports as they jarred and slammed into one another, I'm confident I could draw a perfectly accurate sketch of where they lay between the walls and floors of the house, down to the basement. I could feel the direction the seismic waves were flowing along; I was connected to the earth's crust as if it were part of my skeleton. I knew the shaking would be enough to set off car alarms, and a moment later I could hear them starting, all over the neighborhood. Even though the lights weren't on, I could feel it through my hair, almost like the sensation of a hat blowing off, when the power cut out all over the city. I knew I would be safe where I was; the house could take it.

Anyway, the power stayed out for the next day and change. That night, there were parties by candlelight all over the city - in the streets, in homes, in businesses. The spirit of camaraderie, the urgent need to hear and tell stories, the thrill of having a single, big experience common to everyone, was overwhelming. Wealthy and poor, cop and criminal, dog and cat: everyone was your best friend that night, drinks were on the house, drugs were legal, all was forgiven. I will always love and cherish San Francisco for that.

Since then I've become a little bit of a disaster junkie. Y2K was a letdown, and I wouldn't want anything quite so horrific as, say, a giant meteor impact, or as drawn-out as global warming, but part of me, I have to confess, wanted to be there for the tsunami and Katrina; part of me perks up when I read about a new outbreak of bird flu or a fresh sign of peak oil. I can't help it. The lining of some of those clouds is of a silver so pure you would frame your world in it.

As a friend, tell me: what's in a name?

zarpex — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 19:41:24 GMT

[NOTE: As with my previous post, the song accompanying this has nothing to do with it beyond a thematically suitable lyrical snippet. But it is, luckily, overwrought, silly and fun.]

A year or two ago, there was a sort of mid-level scandal in the publishing world when, at around the same time, it was revealed that James Frey, the author of A Million Little Pieces, had palmed off as a factual memoir what was, in reality, an almost total fabrication, and that J.T. LeRoy, the author of Sarah and The Heart Is Deceitful above All Things, was not, in fact, the bizarre, very young, camera-shy homosexual man that was presented to the public, but instead a woman in her thirties named Laura Albert.

I'd read A Million Little Pieces a year or so before it was exposed as fiction - no; "fiction" does it an undeserved credit - before it was exposed as a load of horsefeathers, and for my own part, recognized it before I was halfway through as the tissue of feeble, self-glorifying lies it could not have been other than. I'd also read Sarah several years earlier, and although I certainly considered Mr. LeRoy a very odd character, I never saw any meaningful reason to doubt his existence, or even give it any thought. It wasn't an issue. Sarah remains one of the four or five greatest American novels of the past ten years, and whether it was written by J.T. LeRoy, Laura Albert, or a monkey hitting random keys on a typewriter, it's a flat-out masterpiece.

George Eliot wasn't really a man. The Ramones weren't really brothers. Dr. Seuss did not, in reality, hold a valid medical license. You may even be shocked to learn that my name isn't actually zarpex. But for some reason, J.T. LeRoy is called a hoax. Authorial identity is one of the crutches available to the aesthetically crippled. Few people, it pains me to say, possess the faculties even to understand what they like or dislike. The majority would wince at a glass of wine poured from a bottle labeled "Gallo" and rhapsodize over the same wine poured from a bottle labeled "Chateau Lafite." If Toni Morrison were to be revealed in tomorrow's newspapers as a wealthy Caucasian, her writing would suddenly be recognized as the facile twaddle it has always been, and its newly identified creator would be hanged from the nearest tree by the 1993 Nobel Prize for literature.

If anything, the invention of J.T. LeRoy should be regarded as a creative accomplishment unto itself, stranger and more complex than Ziggy Stardust (which, for all its endurance, was really little more than a pseudonym), possessing both an absurdity and a plausibility that stands toe-to-toe with Borat. And is it not possible that Laura Albert could not have written her books without creating an alternate character to speak through? Wagner had to dress in period costume to compose; Brian Wilson, whose feet, as far as I know, have yet to touch a surfboard, compensated by resting them in a box of sand when he sat at the piano to write.

A misfortune of timing lumped an important work of art together with a piece of crude literary onanism, and our culture is the weaker for it. Do yourself a favor if you haven't already, and read Sarah.

The IAU stripped Pluto of its status as a planet, but you know what? It's still out there.

Better Back Off!

zarpex — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 07:04:46 GMT

[NOTE: This post really has nothing to do with Marshall Crenshaw, but I thought this song of his would make a suitable title for it. And it's really good, too.]

I don't generally like going to live shows. I get claustrophobic in crowds, I always get the feeling I'm blocking someone's way, the music never sounds as good as the record, they're almost always far too loud, etc., etc. There have been a few exceptions - I mentioned The Upper Crust in a previous post, whose live acts are truly laugh-out-loud funny; Jon Brion's shows are genuinely impressive; Gwar was fun. Oh; and believe it or not, Third Eye Blind are a gas live.

But back in '85 or '86 or thereabouts, I was dragged off by some friends to see the Butthole Surfers at (I believe it was) The Channel, a club in Boston that no longer exists. Mind you; these were my younger days, when I did this sort of thing a lot more often, so I can't say with certainty that that was the venue. But I think it was.

Anyway, the band's emergence on stage was unlike anything else I've encountered. The house lights didn't go down; the tape of forgettable songs hadn't stopped playing; nobody screamed "Are you ready to ROCK!?"... Without making any particular effort to call attention to himself, Gibby Haynes walked onto the stage, wearing a perfectly hideous bright green dress. Most of the audience members were dispersed around the club, or lined up at the bar. As people began to realize that the show was about to start, however, there was a convergence towards the stage. Naturally, everyone wanted to be right there in the front, to savor every sweet, melodic note.

Well, not me, actually; I'm fairly tall, and can usually see fine from further back, and I don't like the idea of blocking someone else's view. But I was caught up in the sudden press, and before I knew it, I was about ten feet from the front of the stage, with people still pushing from behind. Most uncomfortable, frankly. Then I realized, to my surprise, that people were no longer pushing against me only from behind; there was a new, albeit weaker, force in the opposite direction. The people closest to the stage were suddenly trying to get further away, and were prevented from doing so only by the larger number of audience members behind them, trying to get closer. "What the hell's going on?" I thought to myself...

I looked up at Gibby, who by now was standing right at the front edge of the stage, looking down at his adoring fans. And boy, he looked sick. He looked really sick. People a little further back probably couldn't see the sweat beading on his forehead, or the pallor of his cheeks, but the people within a few feet of him had grasped the situation all too well.

I don't know what he'd eaten before going on stage, but he'd eaten a tremendous amount of it, and he'd washed it down with a bottle of green ink (that matched the color of his dress perfectly) and a bottle of ipecac.

I'll leave the obvious unstated. I was outside the radius he covered, but not by a whole lot. He made no effort to wipe his beard. The music was ghastly, accompanied by appalling film footage of surgery or burn victims or whatever they could find that would qualify as nauseating. There was an unexpectedly pretty girl in the middle of the stage dancing around naked; I suppose they'd been unable to find a hunchback in time.

Like a trooper, I stayed till the end, and tromped out with the rest of the attendees - at least two or three of them, I noticed, still besmirched with bright green vomit.

Better back off!

It Forms a Halo in the Air around You

zarpex — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 06:31:42 GMT

I first discovered this site because, well, every now and then my vanity gets the better of me, and I Google my band's name to see if anyone's got anything to say about us. They seldom do, but the last time I indulged my narcissism, I was directed to a post on Helen Caddes' zarpex-Endorsed™ mog, saying such kind things about The Virgin-Whore Complex that I joined up simply to add a comment thanking her. As luck would have it, I found myself intrigued by the site, and quickly became, as you all know by now, its undisputed champion of taste and opinion, and for all practical purposes, its wise and benevolent monarch. A casual remark of mine might now lay waste to a career, or propel a nonentity to stardom; my least velleity mobilizes entire industries. Perhaps this is too much power for one man to possess. I'll abide by history's verdict.

Ah; but my enemies - our enemies - are legion, dear readers. There are those who envy my good fortune, who call me "tyrant," or whose warped minds prefer chaos to the order and prosperity you've all come to rely on under my rule. And one of them, I regret to inform you, has penetrated this very website, where he or she hopes to obstruct our progress by whatever desperate means available. I assure you this saboteur will soon be exposed and made an example of, but a certain degree of damage has already been done.

Until recently, clicking on "The Virgin-Whore Complex" brought the curious to a page containing Helen's post. Humble but gratifying, it is no longer to be found. Someone is trying to erase the historical record; to conceal my achievements from the world. They will not succeed.

Let the truth shine forth: I attach herewith "Four Alarm Fire in Lover's Lane," a perennial VWC favorite, and obliterate with one stroke this act of cowardice and treachery.

And remember: your fealty means a lot to us.

Has the Orwellian Prophecy Finally Come to This?

zarpex — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 00:36:26 GMT

In 1994, Buster Poindexter (perhaps better known as David Johansen) released - almost completely unnoticed - one of the five greatest albums that decade yielded, and quite possibly the most entertaining jazz LP ever recorded: Buster's Happy Hour. I have yet to meet anyone who's even listened to it other than myself. Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its perfume on the desert air, as Thomas Gray so eloquently put it.

The wit, the complexity, the good cheer and self-effacing silliness of Buster Poindexter had not fully coalesced when he had his first and only hit - "Hot Hot Hot," in 1987 - and sadly, by the time Happy Hour came out, he could far too easily be dismissed as a one-hit wonder trying to revisit a tired formula. Unless, of course, you actually listened to the album, which is exactly what their first impression would prevent most people from doing.

But lucky you: zarpex is not so easily misled. Behold!

You Cut Off His Head; Legs Come Looking for You

zarpex — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 19:45:56 GMT

Most people tend to think of ants as marvelously hard-working creatures - selfless, disciplined, dedicated and tireless. But an entomologist will tell you that in reality, roughly 15% of the worker ants in a colony are slackers. When the other 85% head out to collect food or do battle or whatever, they make themselves scarce. They'll join in the line, march out with everyone else, but when no one's looking, they'll sneak off, find some comfortable hiding place, and relax.

With this in mind, someone in the entomology department of (I believe it was) Columbia University conducted an experiment several years ago: he (or she) chemically tagged each of the ants in an entire colony and identified the slackers, then separated them to start their own colony. What would happen to an ant colony composed only of slackers? And would there be any benefits to the colony that no longer had to provide for its layabouts?

What happened was, I think, quite fascinating. When left to their own devices, the slacker ants suddenly got religion. No more waking up at noon, no more getting stoned and playing X-Box. Well, at least for most of them. About 15% retained their indolent habits. The colony from which they had been removed, meanwhile, had a sudden outbreak of laziness among its workers. About 15% decided to lift their noses from the grindstone and leave the hard work to the suckers.

If someone has devised a compelling explanation for this phenomenon, I haven't yet heard it, but nature has spoken. Ants have existed for over 100 million years; they compose about 20% of the collective biomass of all land animals (exceeding our own proportion); there are about 20,000 different species of them, and they can be found in every climate and terrain from desert to tundra. They have been called "arguably the greatest success story in the history of animal metazoa." Whatever those 15% are doing, there's a reason for it.

Incidentally; a similar experiment was conducted with human beings. In school, or at summer camp, did you ever notice how consistent the chemistry was in the group (of 15-25 or so)? There was always a "leader" kid, a "clown" kid, a "bully" kid, a "troublemaker" kid, etc.? Some sociologist or anthropologist or something decided to take a bunch of kids who had been identified as "leaders" and put them all together in a summer camp for a few weeks. One would remain a leader, yes, but the rest abruptly decided they would be more comfortable in new roles - as a bully, or a clown, or a troublemaker...

So the next time someone starts complaining about "the nanny state," or having to pay taxes so other people can receive welfare or see a doctor when they're sick, remember the last line of John Milton's On His Blindness:

"They also serve who only stand and wait."

And As I Passed My Date I Let Her Kiss Me

zarpex — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 15:29:28 GMT

Tiny Tim himself held this song in quite shockingly low regard - "The worst song!" he exclaimed in one interview; "one I wish I never recorded." Its inclusion on God Bless Tiny Tim (one of the greatest albums of all time, by the way) was, to hear him tell it, entirely the decision of producer Richard Perry, with which he reluctantly went along. "I don't like story songs," he explained to the interviewer (who seemed as surprised as I was).

If this is a story song, it's a good story. It's about, well, coming home, and reaching an understanding of "home" that, for all the song's light-hearted feel, is basically a mutual dislike.

Well, artists are often poor judges of their own work, I've found, and surely self-awareness was never one of Tiny Tim's strengths. If this song is to be attributed more to Richard Perry than Tiny Tim, then bravo, Richard Perry.

The Wind Is with Me Now

zarpex — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 22:49:37 GMT

And now, before my teeming millions of devout readers have yet recovered from the impact of "Across the Sea," I hit them with Diane Schuur's cover of "Rock Me on the Water."

A harsh taskmaster indeed is zarpex.

I'm Not Afraid of Being Far from Home

zarpex — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 03:04:15 GMT

This was a single I was very fond of in college, and had a hard time tracking down.

I think what I like most about this song is the way that touching uncertainty in the verse becomes so strangely powerful towards the end.

But maybe I'm crazy.

What Might Have Got Me Thinking about the Name "Keith"

zarpex — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 18:02:52 GMT

Jonh Ingham, on the 8th of this month, posted something on his zarpex-Endorsed™ mog that can be found at:

http://mog.com/Jonh_Ingham/blog_post/135663

It's basically a quick reflection on the phenomenon of rockers destroying hotel rooms, its origins and highlights. It mentions four people by name. Three of them "Keith."

So name your son Keith, get him music lessons, but keep him away from hotels.