If we at The Fix found ourselves at the proverbial dusty crossroads where the Devil spends his down time waiting for desperate souls willing to strike a deal, we would pass on the usual transaction of our eternal destiny handed over for the chance to play guitar like Eddie Van Halen. We don’t actually want to be one of those musical types who lay bare their souls, subjecting it to the scrutiny and criticism of desktop critics and embittered wannabes. No, we are the embittered wannabes, dutifully slinging criticism and casting aspersions. The Fix has prepped an offer for the Dark Lord to exchange twenty over-hyped, way-outstayed-their-fifteen-minutes, ego-infested poseurs for five of the genuine articles. We’re talking five vital artists driven into obscurity and artistic Siberias out of disgust with the music business and all the foul shit they would have had to eat to remain in the mix, or who have been held at bay by drugs, depression or jail. We are willing to trade at a rate of four to one.
We offer for sacrifice, in the Aztec sense of the term, these twenty cultural stains:
1. Coldplay
Following the trail blazed by Klaus Nomi, Yanni and John Tesh, this band is what happens when your only records are ELO and latter-career Elton John and you misheard the few good parts of those. Uh, Mr. Paltrow, we know you’re rich and you look like you were rich before you were famous so quit dressing like an updated Artful Dodger. God invented the electric guitar so we didn’t have to listen to stuffy Europhiles saw away on those hideous violins and cellos, but you have forsworn God’s plan for rock ‘n’ roll and now we cast you out. Away.
2. R.E.M.
Everyone so desperately wanted R.E.M. to make another good record that they went ahead and heralded this year’s Accelerate as a total return to form and bought up tickets for the tour. But like the last seventeen things Michael Stipe and company have released, it is a completely forgettable, tuneless mess, notable only for being slightly louder than the last album. Hardly cause for celebration, especially considering they remain the most self-important, humorless men in rock, who have been lapped in the creative department not only by one-time contemporaries like U2 but even disciples like Radiohead, Coldplay (see #1) and Snow Patrol. It’s time to put the blue eye shadow away and climb the pyramid.
3. Pearl Jam
We could have gone with the Eagles or the Doors, but what about the ‘90s answer to both? These puritanical pollyannas employed hippie business logic–“so, we can bust our asses on world tours, or, we can sit here doing nothing and blame Ticketmaster?”–while their mystic side quickly faded in turn for the same old rock records everybody in the ’70s had ditched by the ’80s. Their laissez-faire jock image resonated with millions of meat heads to the chagrin of those who had peaked back around the time punk broke. Vedder’s vocals–that throaty, steam-powered, full-body contorter known as the “yarl”–went on to inspire cum stains like Dave Matthews (see #10), Creed’s Scott Stapp, and that guy from Nickelback. Pearl Jam’s grand plan to grind shut the gears and restore order following Nirvana’s untimely demise worked like a charm. And by not contributing a single advancement to rock music, they effectively set our musical culture back two decades.
4. Green Day
The M. Night Shyamalans of pop music might have busted out of the gate, way the hell back when, brandishing enthusiastic re-takes on classic models, but what the fuck have they done for us lately? People now listen to the McPunk of Green Day out of drone habit. Growing more pretentious and sadly self-important by the year, it’s enough already with the political lecturing from a dude pushing forty who wears eyeliner and buys his rags at Hot Topic. We liked them better when they didn’t give a shit. Now, it’s our turn to not give a shit.
5. Kanye West
His artless flaunting of a primitive and novitiate distaste for whitey is just so quaint, and may be his only compelling characteristic. Touted in the lineage of Wu Tang and KRS-1 as an educator-rapper, this halting babbler of pop culture fixations has done nothing that holds a smidgen of value three weeks after its release. His ill-begotten sampling and foolhardy blasphemies of soul and R&B classics denotes a clear break between his reprehensible “school” and all that is decent in music. Iconoclastic punkers deconstructed horse shit false idols and struck back at heinous industry constructs that had gutted the musical landscape of its vitality; and there are plenty of sycophantic music critics who will credit West’s evil doings to artistic license and cultural idiosyncrasy, but his reckless layering of tuneless yammering predicated on random references to shit you can read off of billboards and see in movie ads over the top of Ray Charles and Otis Redding treasures is unforgivable. This poster child for ADD will soon fade from memory and hopefully all public record, but we would just as soon give his ass back now for somebody who will try and make the world a more musical place.
6. Sonic Youth
You had us at EVOL and you really should have fucking stopped when Kim started to look old. But then, do you even have a picture where she could pass for forty-five? Your A&R skills ‘plied to tap winners like Beastie Boys and Nirvana out of obscurity hardly makes up for the pretentious musical jack-off sessions and onerous multi-disciplinary European art exhibitions. Now we hear about a self-release of experimental instrumentals from an hour-long improvised show in Denmark from 2005. What the fuck did the Danish ever do to you? They make delicious pastries for chrissakes! 3 out of 4 Abu Ghraib prisoners chose to be the subject of an experiment in hooded sodomy rather than be subjected to one of your experimental EP’s in a cushy hotel room. Props for that Starbucks compilation, though; it shows you have the presence of mind to know your place, right next to Paul McCartney’s aural vomit (see #20). After innumerable offenses, your artistic licenses are hereby revoked.
7. Smashing Pumpkins
The same argument implicating Pearl Jam goes backward for Smashing Pumpkins, who were lucky enough to gain notice but stupid and egotistical enough to blow it on miserable excess and rehashings of the failed experiments of others. The balls on this Corgan guy. But he couldn’t even back ‘em up by at least making a show of eschewing the successes. And their handful of moments, aligned in a truly spaced, sun-dappled afternoon whomp of guitar resin, sink without trace into all of their puddle-deep platitudes. To think that these guys used the punk and indie rock networks to make such an obvious grab for fame and money constitutes unmitigated blasphemy, which is irrelevant of course to these soul sellers. Generations ahead are already forgetting you. The world is a vampire, Billy. May you go insane alone. Or at least go away.
8. Ryan Adams
Being prolific doesn’t necessarily mean being great and since he fell off the stage in London, breaking his wrist in January 2004, Adams has been anything but. He and his backing band the Cardinals released three albums of watery Grateful Dead style jams in 2005, before Adams joined up with Phil Lesh and hit the hacky-sack circuit. Next, he took to the Internet, using his website to release 18 albums worth of novelty music. He spent 2006 hoovering heroin, cocaine, booze and pills. His comeback efforts, Easy Tiger and the Follow The Lights EP, are so banal they make the Counting Crows sound like Pitchshifter. Lately, Adams has been blogging his adolescent poetry in an effort to win back his last girlfriend and denying he’s hooked up with tween has-been Mandy Moore, even though everyone knows he totally has.
9. Modest Mouse
In Conan O’Brien’s “Bizarro World” these guys are the dilution of the post-Slint/Shellac-lite school of indie malfeasance. Too cacophonous to dismiss as innocuous, this coagulation of feckless groupies-with-a-record-deal do not warrant extensive exposition. So, let’s dispense with the formalities. You guys go away and we won’t dispatch a Fuzz staff detail to hold down your “singer” for a round of Cleveland Steamers.
10. Dave Matthews Band
Talk about lyrically challenged. 1000 monkeys on 1000 typewriters for 1000 years would not churn out drivel as inane as DMB’s choicest moments. One more quarter-assed metaphor for getting high and/or boning and we might literally die. Plus, their milk-the-fans-of-every-last-penny scheme, with twice the live releases (12) as studio albums (6), requires a positively sociopathic combination of cheek, greed and laziness.
11. Usher
There are at least twenty-five of his ilk that should suffer this fate but he will suffice as the stand-in. We have to start somewhere with this abominable gaggle of pseudo-crooning pussy beggars. Chicks give this guy ass just so he’ll shut the fuck up about it. And that obviously doesn’t stop him from maintaining a running commentary during the bedroom activity. If he actually liked girls he would know that most of them aren’t all that interested in “making love,” they just wanna fuck, and without a bunch of bloated, observational banter while in the act. You’re getting a little nippy there lover boy; better put a shirt on and Usher your ass the fuck outta here.
12. Cat Power
Hard to remember now, but there was a time when Chan Marshall was interesting. Her most awe-inspiring shows usually ended abruptly with her running off stage in a stream of tears. Her records offered a glimpse into the mind of an artist battling real demons. But a few years ago Cat Power cleaned up her act, became the face of Chanel and hit the road with a bunch of veteran studio musicians, effectively turning herself into the indie-rock Norah Jones. Compare 2000’s adventurous The Covers Record with this year’s Jukebox, another covers record that only manages to summon up the most pedestrian takes on songs by Bob Dylan, Hank Williams and James Brown. She approached each Jukebox song as if sleepwalking, like she did through her most recent tour, just a ghost of the volatile singer that once made our hearts race with meltdown classics like “What Would The Community Think” and “Moon Pix.” Enough.
13. Dinosaur Jr.
We could almost give J Mascis a pass based on the whole pity tip but he was remaking the same record over and over back when he was purportedly lucid. Offering him for sacrifice is not really fair since it amounts to more of an indictment of the endemic laziness of music fans than it does a denouncement of Mascis’ idiot-savant like pre-occupation with his 2-and-half chords. But then games with the Devil are hardly ever played fairly. Suckers play fair and suckers lose. Later J.
14. CocoRosie
The pu-pu platter of every weird thing that’s gone down in pop music since Kate Bush and the Residents, all rolled into one deplorable costume. CocoRosie have crammed so many disparate identities into their music it sounds like nothing at all, despite their desperate, clingy reaches into diabetic levels of gooey sap. It’s like watching a child’s doll collection try to rap–and poorly, we might add––serving as a pointed and prescient warning against raising your children without boundaries. If you see someone over 21 in your neighborhood who looks like these people, expect a rent increase soon. An eternity on roadside trash detail should be their fate. Nah, just go away.
15. Gnarls Barkley
Weren’t these guys calling themselves OutKast or Black Eyed Peas like last week? A publicist can post any bio they possess the gall to claim as legit, attempting to sell this construct as a human act, but GB are quite obviously a botched student multi-media project. Grade: F. Now delete those files from the school’s hard drive and don’t enroll in this class next semester.
16. Euro Techno Re-mixes
We are not aware of a concept more shamelessly odious than some boner calling himself something like “DJ Bart Simpson Blue Revolution Snapple” putting dance beats behind “My Heart Will Go On” or “Losing My Religion” and feeding them across language barriers to the oppressed. Mindless, yet archly commercial, we’re not sure pop music has ever sounded so despicable. May food riots plague your festivals until you flee for your very lives.
17. Morrissey
The very reason we have to put up with all this goddamn emo music nowadays. Were it not for Johnny Marr would we have ever even heard of this guy? Unredeemed save for his long gone collaboration with Marr and a scant few accidental comic moments (e.g., “I would go out tonight but I haven’t got a stitch to wear”), Morrissey has been pissing and moaning about God knows what all for twenty odd years. We’ve been force-fed eight albums of angst so melodramatic it wouldn’t be out of place in an 8th grade girls bathroom (nor likely would Morrissey be), so yeah, we’re starting to get a little sick of it. And by a little, we mean the sound of his voice makes us want to eat a pipe bomb.
18. Amy Winehouse
Crack. Yeah Amy, you like crack. All right, you really, really like crack. We all do. The shit’s popular for a reason. Could you just not let your videographer friends (and husband) follow you into the bathroom every time you smoke it? Or, how about you just drop the tabloid-ready antics altogether and focus all your time and energy on ripping off ’60s artists. Oh wait, then you’d be Lenny Kravitz. Forget it, Amy, just go with what you know. Promise you’ll stay hydrated, and for God’s sake get yourself some Bactine or something before all those open sores get infected. And as for you, Lenny, the only thing that’s saved you from a good cockpunching all these years is that your mother used to live next door to George Jefferson.
19. Madonna
Seems like a million years ago that Madonna was relevant. That’s because it was. She’s a million years old. And instead of aging gracefully she’s going for the marathon-runner-that’s-been-skinned-alive look. If not for her career-saving decision to re-hash an ABBA song, we’d be coming on 20 years since Madonna brought us something other than an utter embarrassment to anyone involved. Now she resorts to kissing girls (so edgy!) and dry humping Justin Timberlake (edgy! again!) to stay in the news. We get it, Madge. You’re cool. Now stop making out with the kids and scram.
20. The Beatles
The seminal blight on the history of rock-and-roll since their fey little asses came skipping out of whatever grotesquely verdant, throbbing and respiring pod spawned them back in Liverpool. Their second record, With the Beatles (1963), is rife with unabashed emasculations and mal-renderings of milestone R&B hits and signaled the beginning of a decade of serial brazen mockery, especially with their injustice to Barrett Strong’s “Money (That’s What I Want).” The Beatles were to rock-n-roll what Enron was to the working man. They were arrogant, elitist, dilettantes who–even though now diminished by half–just won’t go away. Well boys, the Devil’s here and he’s got a past due notice for what’s left of your hollow, wheezy souls. Once and for all, Go Away!
…and these five we want back, please:
Neutral Milk Hotel
Jeff Mangum clearly ascribes to the George Costanza philosophy of going out on a high note. Fuck protecting your legacy and throw us a bone here. We’re drowning in assholes. We’d trade some vital organs (in addition to the afore-mentioned) for just one EP.
Shuggie Otis
Could the impossibly precocious (age fifteen at the time) lead guitar player on father Johnny Otis’ raunchy blues classic Snatch and the Poontangs and author of “Strawberry Letter 23″ deliver us from this latter-times R&B desert?
Bitch Magnet
The name alone warrants a comeback, Soo Young. Let that nasty bass guitar show us who our daddy is. You, Shellac and My Bloody Valentine at All Tomorrow’s Parties? Just the thought makes us feel naughty. You’re the coolest dorky-looking post-punk rock songwriter since, well…forever. Your tension-and-release ferocity is sorely lacking in this age of kids with no sense of dynamics or restraint. Return to make ‘em all bow, keel and grovel.
Captain Beefheart
Duh.
Sly Stone
Double Duh.
On Wednesday, May 21st, the news leaked via the web and radio: Green Day, under the alias Foxboro Hot Tubs, were to play the inside stage at Emo’s on May 22nd.
People started lining up for tickets ($20, available only at the door) at four in the morning and waited all day in a dumpster-studded alley in almost 100 degree heat. The 320 person venue sold out almost instantly. The sound check was zealously guarded. There was no guest list. Even an eight year-old fan was turned away. The show was early (started at 8pm, over well before midnight), and sadly to some, was not all ages. Austinites said they had not seen Emo’s on such lockdown since Johnny Cash played there during SXSW in 1994 to a crowd of 200 people.
Okay, so the true identity of Foxboro Hot Tubs wasn’t too much of a mystery–it’s out there on their Wikipedia page: they launched in 2007, and band members include Billie Joe Armstrong, Mike Dirnt, Tre Cool, Jason White, Jason Freese and Kevin Preston. Their album Stop Drop and Roll (which has no biographical information or pics of the musicians) is available now, although more casual listeners may think they aren’t listening to Green Day at all, due in large part to FHT’s ’60s garage rock aesthetic. Their MySpace page already has over 22 thousand friends, so apparently some Green Day fans are paying attention.
FHT fan Josh Massie, 20, hung around Emo’s after the show to try and get his poster–made by Austin screenprinter Billy Bishop–signed by the band. He drove five hours to see the show and waited for 20 hours for his ticket. Massie works for FYE and got the album when it came out on May 20th.
Massie said, “I was aware Foxboro Hot Tubs were Green Day. They have the same energy, just under a different guise. They always bring it.”
The band played the album in its entirety, then did a set of ’60s garage covers. According to Massie, “The place went crazy when they played ‘Blood, Sex and Booze’.”
Foxboro Hot Tubs’ remaining tour dates:
May 25 2008 The Brick House - Phoenix, AZ
May 26 2008 Belly Up Tavern - Solana Beach, CA
May 27 2008 The Roxy - West Hollywood, CA
May 28 2008 Alex’s Bar - Long Beach, CA
What the Hell Is Punk, Anyway?
The three unavoidables for musicians: death, taxes, and the van–the less than sumptuous facilities from which I am reporting to you now as the Damned hurtle at breakneck speed from Thessalonica to Athens on our latest Euro jaunt.
At least we had a reasonable hotel last night–but is it “punk rock” to be afforded the luxury of a bathrobe, room service and a vanity kit and all that? It takes a lot to get my chum Charlie Harper, singer of the UK Subs, to complain (”sleep on the DJ’s floor Charlie?”…”Yeah yeah yeah, but where’s the beer?”). The Subs will play any gig, anywhere, anytime–the bloke’s a legend.
Now I’m not saying that dossing on the floor’s beneath me–I just think at this late state in my dubious career I deserve a bit of comfort after a hard day’s flitting about in my quest to spread a little joy and happiness (plus a dollop of subversion) around the planet. Oh, and I’m not sure my dodgy old back would stand sleeping on the DJ’s floor these days, either.
A few years ago the Damned participated in the Warped Tour, a traveling punk circus with the bands journeying from town to town through the night in their various tour buses. We did notice then that some of the buses were a lot posher than others. And how about the bands that have private planes with an anarchy logo on the tail–as the owner of our last label had (although that didn’t stop us borrowing it on occasion…cough, ahem!).
I remember when we flew in for what was the first US show by a UK punk band. At CBGB’s it was, in 1976 and we were met by this limo to take us into Manhattan…which we promptly sent off in disgust taking the shuttle bus instead. Who did they think we were–rock stars? But it wasn’t long before we started selling reasonable amounts of records and the inverted snobbery went down the jolly old toilet pan!
So, what exactly is punk rock? Is it just about kick ass songs, spiky hair and tattoos, or is there more to it? The Damned’s motto was “THE FIRST RULE IS–THERE’S NO RULES”–but I’m not sure you can front a punk group wearing bright orange loon pants and get away with it.
Maybe punk’s job is to tell it like it is: naming names, challenging the lunatic policies of government and pointing out the failures of a society that works just fine and dandy if you’re stinking rich but is a nightmare for the poor–in a way that journalists used to do before the likes of Rupert Murdoch changed all that nonsense! And whatever you think of Green Day–”American Idiot” did hit the nail firmly on the head lyrically (even if the tune does reminded us of Kim Wilde’s “Kids In America” somewhat).
But is it not the DIY attitude that is the crowning glory of punk? Buy a guitar and do it yourself. You only need to learn a few chords and you’re away. And for me that philosophy should go for sport, TV, religion, art, whatever…don’t sit on the couch watching some arrogant overpaid asshole do it for you–use your own brain and see what you can create. That’s punk if you like.
But I’d better wrap up now as our van is finally approaching Athens after 6 hours of hell–sweltering heat with no AC to speak of–and regardless of my preceding waffle about punk all I can say is if they don’t have any decent beer at the venue tonight the gigs off!
Pip pip,
Captain S.
The worst joke I’ve heard this week…
A 6 year old and a 4 year old are talking. The 6 year old says, “I think it’s time we started swearing”. The 4 year old agrees.
They go down to breakfast and Mum asks what they want. The 6 year old says, “Oh shit Mum, I think I’ll have some Cocoa Pops”. WHALLOP… he flies out of the chair and across the room and runs out crying.
Mum looks sternly at the 4 year old and asks what he wants.
“I don’t know,” he cries–”but it won’t be fucking Cocoa Pops!”