April 2004

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I Hate 1984: My Paisley Punk Year

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By David Beckey of The Autumn Leaves

In 1984 I was in high school and lived with my family in the suburbs. I worked as a bag boy at Lund's, so I had a bit of spending money (already I'm getting nostalgic). For some strange reason, there were two really good record stores in Hopkins, both only a bike ride away (and yes, one of them had "rental records"). I realized my record obsession was getting a bit serious, and I was a bit embarrassed by it. (Years before, Scholastica had put out a book about The Byrds, which my brother bought. He didn't like it, so he gave it to my sister. She didn't like it, so she gave it to me, and I read it a million times. It also came with a cool EP.) I took to sneaking records into my room by unlocking my bedroom window before going on record-buying sprees. When I'd return, I'd drop the records in my window and walk through the front door sans records. I would take occasional pilgrimages on the bus to downtown Minneapolis to go record shopping, check out books from the Minneapolis Public Library, and shop for magazines at Shinders.

That fall I found an EP called Explosions In The Glass Palace by The Rain Parade. It had a very wide-angle lens sound to it, and there was a wonderful feeling of melancholia throughout that kept me listening to it again and again. The keyboard player, Will Glenn, wore an old "Quadraphenia-style" raincoat on the album cover, and I eventually got one just like it at Ragstock. I found out my high school was letting rock bands play, so with three weeks notice, I signed up and formed a "band" as quickly as I could. My friend Tom was an excellent drummer who liked some of the same bands as me, so we enlisted our friends John, Mike, Jason, and our most reluctant member, Scott, who found us sitting in his family's living room with our gear all set up when he got home one Sunday afternoon. Scott's dad was super nice--he was the one that let us into his house (and oddly enough, he was into The Jam). Scott, however, didn't want any part of our musical endeavours, and obviously regretted his initial promise to play with us. We were unfazed, and since we were in his house, we practiced.

Around that time, I had spotted a Jack Kerouac book in the school library called The Subterraneans, so I suggested that as a band name (not that I ever took the time to read the book). Tom didn't think that sounded punk rock enough, so he came up with Subterranean Resistance, to which we all happily agreed. Even now that name makes me laugh; it reflected our ridiculous situation perfectly. We pooled together covers by U2, Wire Train, Icicle Works, The Psychedelic Furs, and a "punk-rock" version of our school song "H-O-P-K-I-N-S High School"--perfect revenge for having had to endure all the jock-oriented pep-fests. Come the day of the show, I was nervous as hell, but all I had to do was stand there and play guitar in the school theater with the rest of my "band." At one point during our set, I could see an empty pop can being hurled into the air (courtesy of an angry audience member) and shooting straight for my head.

Luckily I ducked in time and kept playing. We were pretty awful, but I later decided that it wasn't what we were that mattered, it was what we stood for (or were trying to stand for). It was our last show, too.

I Hate 1984: The Escapism Ends Soon

Note from Pete: I'm winding up this series this week (with a complete guide to I Hate 1984 and tributes to Husker Du, the Replacements, This Is Spinal Tap, maybe Repo Man, and whatever else people turn in--where are my Madonna, Prince, and Cyndi Lauper fans?). So send your contribution if you've got one, on any topic at all. Here's one from the electronic mail bag...

 

Eight Days a Week: April 28-May 5

   Mary J. Blige on Sunday at the Orpheum in Minneapolis

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 28

PICK Blondie. $36. 6:00 p.m., FIRST AVENUE, 701 1st Ave N, Mpls., 612.332.1775  PICK Twinkie Jiggles Birthday Concert: Radio 4, the Fever, Heiruspecs. $8. 9:00 p.m., TRIPLE ROCK SOCIAL CLUB, 629 Cedar Ave S, Mpls., 612.333.7399  Pushstars. $10,$12. 8:00 p.m., 400 BAR, 400 Cedar Ave S (at Riverside Ave), Mpls., 612.332.2903  Scottie Miller Band (HERE'S A LINK) CD-Release Party. 6:30 p.m., VIKING BAR, 1829 Riverside Ave, Mpls., 612.332.4259  Bachelor Boy Entertainment and Colossus Enterprises present: ESCAPE WEDNESDAYS, w, B96 Beat Masters, 9:00 P.M., 21+, Escape Ultra Lounge, $5.00 

THURSDAY, APRIL 29

THE JAM! 2004 A BENEFIT, THE C.O.R.E. , HI-TEST, SELFISH, 3 KINGS 4:00 P.M., All-Ages, The Quest  50 Foot Wave (feat. Kristin Hersch), Robert Skoro at 5P.M. First Avenue $8/12  Ela CD Release, Dujeous, Roosevelt Franklin (Slug and Jean Grae). $6. 8:00 p.m., 7TH ST. ENTRY, 701 1st Ave N, Mpls., 612.332.1775  Deerhoof, 54-71, Sicbay. All-Ages. $8. 6:00 p.m.  Edie Carey, Teddy Goldstein, Dave Potts. $8. 7:30 p.m., GINKGO COFFEEHOUSE, 721 Snelling Ave N, St. Paul, 651.645.2647  Kip Blackshire, 9:00 P.M., 21+ Bunkers Bar & Grill $4.00  Ceilidh with Duncan Williamson at 7:30 P.M. Cedar Cultural Center ALL-AGES $12/15

FRIDAY, APRIL 30 (Duke Ellington born 1899)

PICK P.O.S. LIVE on Radio K!  (KUOM-AM 770 & KUOM-FM 106.5) as this week�s guest on Off The Record (OTR) on Friday, April 30.  Hosts Adam and Keri will welcome P.O.S. in Studio K at 4:00 pm for a live in-studio performance and interview.  Listen online here.  IBIZA SESSIONS featuring DJ�s JON FRANK and FREDDY FRESH (Freddy's hip-hop book is now in real bound paperback at Cheapo.) 9:00 p.m. / 21+ID $3.00 until 11pm, $6.00 until Close Free with College ID  The Figgs, the Candy Butchers, 7TH ST. ENTRY, 701 1st Ave N, Mpls., 612.332.1775  The Paladins, Jack Knife & the Sharps, Paul Galaxy & the Galactix. $8, LEE'S LIQUOR LOUNGE, 101 Glenwood Ave N (at 11th St), Mpls., 612.338.9491  HAPPY APPLE $10/$12. 8:00 p.m. Cedar Cultural Center, 416 Cedar Ave S, Mpls., 612.338.2674.  Hydroponics at 9P.M. Uptown Bar $5  Jo-Roke Ka-Roke. Karaoke with DJ Josette Winterfeldt. Free. 9:00 p.m., TUBBY'S BAR AND GRILL, 2500 4th St NE, Mpls., 612.789.7301  2004 Minnesota Folk Festival at Little Log House Showgrounds (Hastings) ALL-AGES  Scott Laurent Band, Jessy Greene, High Heels. $7. 8:00 p.m., 400 BAR, 400 Cedar Ave S (at Riverside Ave), Mpls., 612.332.2903

SATURDAY, MAY 1 (May Day)

PICK Scott Hardkiss, Escape Ultra Lounge (here's a link)  PICK Thrashfest 5 This daytime D.I.Y. punkfest is fun, cheap, crowded, and timed to the day before the May Day festival and parade--which means you'll meet kids from all over who are staying the weekend. Kicking things off around 2:00 p.m. are Chicago's Get It Away, who play in dinosaur costumes. Headlining before sundown are Amsterdam's Vitamin X, one of the key hardcore revival bands, whose eminently open homeland would be leveled right now if the terrorists truly hated us for our freedom. Between are eight great bands, many on organizer Felix Havoc's international record label: Sweden's Wolfbrigade, Pittsburgh's Caustic Christ, Portland's From Ashes Rise, Philadelphia's RAMBO, Seattle's Spitting Teeth, Tulsa's the Leveling, plus locals Any Last Words and Damage Deposit. (DD's recent song "Government & Big Business Are Out to Screw the Little Guy" is catchier than it sounds.) Collectors, come for the record sales; drinkers and drug takers, keep it away from the premises, or save the former part of it for the $6 hardcore show at the 7th St. Entry featuring Misery, Iskra, Disrespect, and Jacid 9. (8:00 p.m., 701 First Ave. N., Minneapolis; 612.332.1775). Doors at 2:00 p.m. Profile Music Center, 2630 University Ave. SE, Minneapolis; 612.378.2200. Go to www.havocrex.com for full and current schedule.  PICK Einsturzende Neubauten. Like Gogol Bordello, who perform in the 7th St. Entry on Monday, Einsturzende Neubauten are a transcendently exciting live band whose fans (and not much of anybody else) stand by their concept albums like old friends defending the opera-singing drunk at the punk club. Their clattering energy is pure industrial--a pipe-banging genre they helped shape 20 years ago. But their driving, dizzying sprawl of chamber styles is all their own, and when they catch a groove on their latest, Perpetuum Mobile (Mute), it makes you want to chant every one of their weird lyrics (which, as always, are in German). Fans of Krautrock, Savage Aural Hotbed, or black nail polish don't need convincing on this score, but the rest of you won't be disappointed. 21+. $12/$15. 6:00 pm. First Avenue, 701 First Ave. N., Minneapolis; 612.332.1775.  Misery, Iskra, Disrespect, Jacid 9. $6. 8:00 p.m., 7TH ST. ENTRY, 701 1st Ave N, Mpls., 612.332.1775   Mondo Film CD-Release, Grafton, Sea Whores. $5, BIG V'S, 1567 University Ave W, St. Paul, 651.645.8472  Candystore CD-Release Party. $5. 8:00 p.m., 400 BAR, 400 Cedar Ave S (at Riverside Ave), Mpls., 612.332.2903  The Dames, the Midnight Evils. 9:00 p.m., TRIPLE ROCK SOCIAL CLUB, 629 Cedar Ave S, Mpls., 612.333.7399  HAPPY APPLE $10,$12. 8:00 p.m. Cedar Cultural Center, 416 Cedar Ave S, Mpls., 612.338.2674.  Jack Brass Band, Stereoscope, FIVE CORNERS SALOON, 501 Cedar Ave S (at Riverside Ave), Mpls., 612.338.6424  Trippin' Billies at 9P.M. Cabooze 18+ $7/9  2004 Minnesota Folk Festival at Little Log House Showgrounds (Hastings) ALL-AGES

SUNDAY, MAY 2

PICK May Day Parade and Festival May Day in Minneapolis is quite simply one of the reasons to live here, a convivial burst of live music and funny costumes that's as vital to spring as Cinco de Mayo, Art-a-Whirl, and the MSPIFF film festival. Rooted in pagan ritual and labor struggle, the celebration transcends polemic in the best sense: Who wouldn't be, at one time or another, grateful for life itself? And what child will forget the spectacle of the sun puppet crossing the moat in Powderhorn Park as the crowd chants "Sun! Sun! Sun!"? The Heart of the Beast's puppet show at 3:00 p.m. makes you feel like a kid again (so do the cones full of chocolate chip cookies), and the parade that precedes it is so scattershot in its politics--with a "free speech" contingent at the end for unofficial entries--that calling the event leftist would offend at least a third of the participants. The parade kicks off at 1:00 p.m. at 25th St. and Bloomington Ave. S., with a gathering in Cedar Field, and the afternoon festival in Powderhorn (35th St. and 15th Ave. S.), includes food, crafts, dance, and performances by a slew of talents: Machinery Hill, the Viviana Pintado Duo, the Brass Messengers, Rumba Eterna, Slam Minnesota, and many more. HERE'S A LINK or call 612.721.2535 for more information.  PICK Mary J. Blige HERE'S HER HOMEPAGE 6:30 P.M. All-Ages, ORPHEUM THEATRE, $52.75  Destroyer, Frog Eyes. $8. 10:00 p.m., TRIPLE ROCK SOCIAL CLUB, 629 Cedar Ave S, Mpls., 612.333.7399  Graham Parker, Anne McCue at 9P.M. Fine Line $19/21  Youngbloodz, Yukmouth, Dorasel, Rob G, 05,02,04, 9:00 P.M. 18+ The Quest $28.00  Strike Anywhere, Paint it Black, Challenger. All-Ages. $8. 5:00 p.m., TRIPLE ROCK SOCIAL CLUB, 629 Cedar Ave S, Mpls., 612.333.7399  2004 Minnesota Folk Festival at Little Log House Showgrounds (Hastings) ALL-AGES  CITIES 97 ACOUSTIC SUNRISE LIVE SERIES Featuring live music by Dana Thompson (Read Demko's excellent piece), light brunch. Free. Noon to 2:00 p.m. Fire Lake Restaurant, 31 S 7th St, Mpls., 612.216.3473.

MONDAY, MAY 3 (James Brown born 1928, Pete Seeger born 1919)

PICK Gogol Bordello 7th St. Entry  PICK 1st Annual Merengue and Bachata Festival with Kachimbo (merengue band from Puerto Rico), Kenny Ray (a bachatero from New York), and the local El Grupazo, featuring "the lovely Puerto Rican princess" Lulu. $15, open for dinner beforehand (with bachata contest for the third Monday in a row; compete for your chance at $200 cash and lots of good prizes, and your place in the grand finals on Monday, May 10). El Nuevo Rodeo Nightclub and Restaurante, 2709 E. Lake St., Minneapolis, MN  55406, 612.728.0101  Willie Murphy, VIKING BAR, 1829 Riverside Ave, Mpls., 612.332.4259

TUESDAY, MAY 4

KIMBERLY LOCKE Heads up, American Idol fans: Here's the chance to meet Lock ("8th World Wonder") in person at The Mall Of America on the day of the release of her debut album, One Love. She's signing CDs and posing for photos with fans. Sam Goody Central, MINNEAPOLIS, 5:00 P.M.  GUSTER $21.25-$24.25. 7:00 p.m. Roy Wilkins Auditorium, 171 W Kellogg Blvd (at RiverCentre), St. Paul, 651.989.5151.  Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash at 9P.M. Lee's Liquor Lounge  Fastball. $13/$16. 8:00 p.m., FINE LINE MUSIC CAFE, 318 1st Ave N, Mpls., 612.338.8100  The Close, Morris, Sound Salvation at 6P.M. Metric House ALL-AGES

WEDNESDAY, MAY 5 (Cinco de Mayo)

The Flatlanders Historic Pantages Theatre All-ages  In Flames, Killswitch Engage All-ages Quest Club  Runner & The Thermodynamics, Triple Rock Social Club  Harry Connick, Jr. 730PM Northrop Auditorium All-ages. HERE'S A PREVIEW OF CINCO DE MAYO EVENTS.

Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 28, 2004 10:31 AM

 

Rain Parade cover

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Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 28, 2004 9:26 AM

 

I Hate 1984: Tina's Turning Point

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The Tall, Tough, and Very Public Privacy of Private Dancer

By Britt Robson (of The Bulldog Edition blog)

When Tina Turner performed with Ike, she was so sexy it literally made me nervous. Everything about her--hair, cheekbones, hips, and that banshee voice--was big and wide and blatantly suggestive of something raw, primordial, and carnal that I knew would shrivel me up and then eat me alive if I somehow were to find myself rolling on her river. When I first caught her act--opening for the Stones at Boston Garden, a week before Altamount in 1969--I was in my mid-teens, playing football for a podunk high school, and just beginning to try on he-man phrases like "badass motherfucker" with my fellow puds. Tina Turner, nee Annie Mae Bullock, from Nutbush, Tennessee, was really the first badass fatherfucker I�d ever encountered.

Fifteen years later, I was the only employee (not counting the owner and his girlfriend) of used record store in Cincinnati, spending most of my pittance on dope and vinyl while writing on the side (my savings account hovered between $16 and 30 cents for more than nine months before the banking fees closed me out). One day, Ross, the independent promo man who used to trade cartons of product for coke money, came through with, among other things, a copy of Tina Turner�s Private Dancer LP.

Checking out the photo on the cover, it seemed in some respects like she hadn�t changed much. From midriff to ankle arch, her pistons were on full display, sheathed in fishnets and patent leather heels. Her wig was an outsized homage to trailer park sophistication, looking as if 6,000 raccoons had been slaughtered in order to pluck the single most voluptuous hair from every one. The V of her unbuttoned blouse revealed more muscle than cleavage, like hard clay slightly indented by a now dried-up creek.

But the face was another person entirely. Instead of the familiar sweat and strain of exultation, it was two or three coats of lipstick, eyeliner, and pancake makeup elegantly applied to a piece of stone. The stone had slightly flared nostrils, a hint of a sneer, and eyes that said, "Don�t even begin to think about getting a piece of me."

Everybody knows Ike beat the shit out Tina, and did it for years. Laurence Fishburne�s savagely riveting portrayal of the man in the biopic What�s Love Got To Do With It laid a hit on Ike's reputation that was nearly as damaging as what Ike did to Tina, and if gawkers wanted more details, they could get them from Tina�s book, I, Tina. None of that was pervasive knowledge at the time Private Dancer was released. But anyone could hear that something had happened.

Tina got as far removed from Ike's gutbucket grit and and roadhouse R&B as possible, opting for formulaic, mid-'80s, pop-rock glitz--one of the producers is Rupert Hine, for chrissakes. There�s some dreadfully bad stuff here, including "Show Some Respect," "Steel Claw," and David Bowie�s "1984." But a handful of tunes won�t ever go away. When compared to her vintage material with Ike--"A Fool in Love," "It's Gonna Work Out Fine," "Proud Mary"--Tina�s voice is cracked and shopworn, robbed of propulsive depth and effortless elasticity. Not surprisingly, it�s ideal for revealing the proud but bruised pathos of a life survivor striving for a career comeback.

              in the late '60s

Private Dancer sold 11 million copies mostly on the strength of the song "What�s Love Got To Do With It," a ballad where a hopeless romantic clings to cynicism the way a drunk holds on to sobriety. "Who needs a heart/when a heart can be broken?" Tina sings, and tags it with a moan just before the noodling keyboard instrumental pushes the tune toward being a whimsical ode to self-pity. But Tina takes it out of the realm of lonely heart�s club cliches by nailing all the foreboding and hopeful nuances in the lyric: "I�ve been thinking of a new direction/But I have to say/I�ve been thinking about my own protection/It scares me to feel this way."

Then there�s Tina�s rendition of "I Can�t Stand The Rain"--unrequited love as Chinese water torture--which manages to match Ann Peebles definitive version in its bittersweet intensity. There�s "Better Be Good To Me," a stock proletarian plea complete with the uplifting tag of an escalating guitar riff. Tina shreds the banality with a soulfully bravura vocal turn that rightfully turns the mere fact that she�s making the demand into a personal triumph. "That�s how it�s gotta be now," she says, savoring the immutable, non-negotiable truth of it like it�s single malt or a Cuban smoke.

On the finale--Mark Knopler's mordant, moody title track--Tina explains the stone face above the fishnets and the unbuttoned blouse on the cover. Inhabiting the role of an emotionally disinhabited stripper, her clinical vocal both chills and entices through its unattainable distance. "You don�t think of them as human," she says of the patrons. "You don�t think of them at all/You keep your mind on the money/Keeping your eyes on the wall." Years spent with a sadistic Svengali just might have contributed to her masterful interpretation. You�ve heard of method acting. On Private Dancer, Tina Turner becomes a method singer.

And where did she find the strength of will to surmount, and then wield, her victimization? Buddhism, she claims; a nifty, cosmic counter-punch.

Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 27, 2004 5:39 PM

 

Tinacountry11

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Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 27, 2004 4:09 PM

 

Tinaturnercover11

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Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 27, 2004 4:04 PM

 

TinaTurner11

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Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 27, 2004 3:55 PM

 

I Hate 1984: Michael Jordan's Rookie Season

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         with the University of NC

                          1984 Olympic Games in L.A.

By Bill Tuomala (of Exiled on Blog Street)

In December of 1984 I only had a limited knowledge of Michael Jordan, then an NBA rookie. I remembered him playing on the 1982 North Carolina national championship team, and a season later he went pro after his junior year. When my parents, who were then briefly living in the Chicago area, called me at my University of North Dakota dorm room and told me that Dad would be taking my brother Randy and I to see a Bulls game while we were visiting for Christmas, I�m sure I thought: Hey that�s the team Michael Jordan plays on. I was curious as to just how good this guy was, as his name was just starting to gain some buzz in sports circles. What specifically had me interested in Jordan was an article in a fall of '84 issue of Sports Illustrated about the incredible hang times of certain NBA players. The writer claimed that Jordan stayed in the air so long that he had time for a sandwich while he was up there. Accompanying this assertion was a patented SI cartoon showing Jordan, in the air, enjoying a sandwich as he prepared to dunk.

We drove into the city on game night, through neighborhoods filled with Old Style signs. Chicago Stadium was full of, as people might kindly say, character. But we had outstanding seats and the sight lines were solid. The place wasn�t close to being sold out. The Bulls were playing the Cleveland Cavaliers, a team with ugly orange uniforms and whose sole star was the oddly-named World B. Free.

          Dec. 1984 Sports Illustrated

Michael Jordan wasn�t yet a figure in popular culture. While in the Chicago area I saw him in exactly one commercial; it was for Chicagoland Chevy dealers. He was alone on a dark basketball court dribbling towards the basket and his voiceover said: "Sometimes, all I think about is driving." He didn�t yet shave his head, he didn�t yet have baggy shorts. Nor did he have Air Jordan shoes or the supporting cast that helped him lead the Bulls to multiple titles in the '90s. But certain trademarks were in place. He stuck out his tongue while playing, he hustled his ass off, he played amazing then-unheralded in-your-face defense, and he lit up the joint that night for about ten dunks (some of the jaw-dropping variety) and 48 points. The Bulls won. We loved the show.

I returned to UND after Christmas break and some of the guys in the dorm asked me what I had done in Chicago. I saw Michael Jordan play, I said. Only the ears of Dan, a huge sports fan, perked up. Wow, he said, how was it? Unbelievable, I replied.

The scary thing is that this unbelievable athlete only got better. And better. Over the years while watching him in the playoffs or seeing his spectacular highlights on SportsCenter, I would think of that one time I saw him play live. It�s like telling people I was at the Cavern for the Beatles or the Stone Pony for Springsteen. I still shake my head when remembering it.

 

May 3 Is JB Day!

Whatever he says (and Lord knows, whatever he does), James Brown is 76 one week from today, and one of the greatest musical forces of all time (here's his official site, a third site, and a fourth for news). So why not celebrate by listening to Douglas Wolk's archived 2002 WFMU special featuring James Brown productions of other artists. And while you're at it, blast your own favorite James Brown records all week.

Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 26, 2004 10:37 AM

 

I Hate 1984: Living up to 'Born in the U.S.A.'

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By Paul Demko

I'll never write a memoir. My memory is so tragically fallible that at least half of it would be utter bullshit. Maybe this is owing to my chronic dipsomania, or some genetic flaw, or something else entirely. But my childhood (and everything else that occurred prior to, say, Monaco�s inspired victory over Chelsea yesterday afternoon) is something of a blank slate. My younger years were happy and free of tragedy, and they occurred on the Eastern Shore of Maryland near the home of chicken magnate Frank Perdue. Beyond that, everything is subject to interpretation.

So when I state that the first album I ever owned was Bruce Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A., please take it with a heaping grain of salt. As best I can recall, the record was a present received on my 11th birthday. It probably came from my parents, but possibly my brother. What I can state unequivocally is that Born in the U.S.A. was the first record I became completely obsessed with.

I just now retrieved the vinyl copy of the album that I received twenty years ago and it�s not nearly as scuffed and battered as I would like to recall. (Tucked inside the record sleeve was a 45 of Mick Jagger and David Bowie performing "Dancing in the Street"!) This is most certainly reflective of the reverence with which I treated the record rather than evidence of neglect. Because I�m absolutely certain that for a period of months in 1984-85 I listened to the album multiple times daily until I'd mastered every lyric, air-guitar solo, and Springsteen scream. Courtney Cox was my first love.

Listening to Born in the U.S.A. now I'm not entirely certain why I was so enraptured with Springsteen at that age. It certainly wasn't the lyrics. Like Ronald Reagan, I don�t think I even realized that "Born in the U.S.A." was a very pessimistic assessment of America until many years later. Perhaps it was just some repressed homosexual tendencies that responded to Springsteen's blue-jean-clad, all-American ass on the cover. Or maybe it was some Jersey gene embedded deep in my D.N.A. (I was born in Livingston, New Jersey--in the same hospital and just one month after the great Claudio Reyna--but decamped for Maryland after just 10 months.)

My best guess is that the response was--like most--primal. I wasn�t familiar with Springsteen's previous work (or Little Richard or Elvis for that matter), so his full-throated yelp felt like revelation. There's a conviction in his voice that is truly shocking by comparison with pretty much everything else encountered in the world. Take "Cover Me." It's truly a banal song. ("The times are tough now, just getting tougher/This whole world is rough, it's just getting rougher." Yawn.) Yet somehow, through the absurd conviction of Springsteen's vocals, the song is transcendent. At his best, Springsteen could be singing sausage McMuffin jingles and I�d still be willing to listen over and over again.

Paradoxically this explains why the only truly great album put out by Springsteen is the five-album live set that he released after Born in the U.S.A. Listen to the versions of "Darlington County" on the two albums. There�s simply no comparison. The frenetic hedonism of the live track makes its counterpart sound staid and dull.

A couple of years ago I saw Springsteen in concert for the first time. I was visiting friends in South Florida and the previous evening we'd been out until dawn drinking beer and snorting coke. I was barely feeling human by the late afternoon when we made the trek down I-95 from Hollywood to Miami in the back of a pick-up. I barely avoided puking over the side of the truck.

Our seats in American Airlines Arena were well up in the upper deck and the place was half empty at the scheduled start time. The prospects for rock 'n' roll bliss were not promising.

The specifics of the show are not particularly important. Donovan showed up. Bono too. Big Pussy even made an appearance. (Unfortunately he did not sing.) I can't recall much of the set list. What sticks out vividly in my mind is ecstatically jumping up and down from my nosebleed perch above the stage and suddenly losing my balance. In order to avoid tumbling down twenty rows of steeply pitched stairs and plunging to my death on the stage below (not a bad way to go really), I frantically grabbed on to the shoulders of the stranger in front of me.

I was gripped by the same inexplicable feeling that seized me two decades ago as an 11-year-old, pre-adolescent hillbilly first hearing Born in the U.S.A.: Springsteen�s messianic yowl. I can�t recall a feeling of unencumbered bliss in my life to match that moment in American Airlines Arena. Perhaps that's testament to the shallowness of my existence. I don't care.

Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 23, 2004 8:08 AM

 

I Hate 1984: Foetus in Fridley

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How Scraping Foetus Off the Wheel Almost Saved Me From Poseurdom

 

 

                               Foetus in 1984: not a Chess King customer

 

By Chris Strouth

 

In 1984 I was a suburban wannabe punk rocker or "new waver" without a clue, in the best prep school that Fridley, Minnesota, had to offer. For about a year and a half I labored under the notion that I was the king of punk angst, at least all the angst you could wear on your sleeve while shopping at Chess King. Granted I was trying to be old-school by listening to the "classics of the genre": Sex Pistols, the Damned, as well as what MTV said was cool. Every New Wave album that I had was purchased at Musicland in Northtown.

 

To understand Minnesota suburban youth culture in the '80s is to understand Northtown in the '80s. If the '80s were an age of excess, Northtown was beyond the boundaries of time. Mullet-haired boys and sunflower-haired girls had lengthy discussions as to the tru meaning of the lyrics "motoring, what's your price for flight." To my knowledge, at that point, my friends (well, friend) and I were very alone in our tastes. And my one friend, Suzette, was a cheerleader. Not exactly the punkest of rock. But we bid our time cruising Musicland for Oingo Boingo records, buying very cheap costume jewelry at Walgreens, and of course trying to look menacing. Lord knows nothing was scarier then a teenager with spiky hair and several plastic rings.

 

Punk rock/New Wave hadn't come to my school yet, at least not the haircuts, and not all that much of the music. Being that I was a shy, unsure youth amongst strangers who all seemed to know each other since birth, the best way to get along seemed to be this: color my hair purple and spike it really, really high. Oh yeah, the rattail helped too. I think what made me look foolish was trying to adopt the New Romantic look of the period without knowing anything about it--for example, knowing that even in England, they thought it was a lame idea.

 

Up until the middle of my Sophomore Year, I was my school's token New Wave geek (aside from Suzzette, but like I said, she was a cheerleader): I had purple hair (from colored mouse, mom wouldn't let me use permanent color), an arm full of jelly bracelets, several swatches, not to mention a Psychedelic Furs cassette in my Walkman.

 

Then Brian transferred to our school. Brian came from the mean streets of Roseville, a much grittier suburb. Brian, with hair that frightened adults much more then mine. Brian, with many earrings. Brian, who smelled rather badly. Brian who had, in large scrawly text on the back of his Army Surplus coat, the word "Foetus."

 

 

Being that we were the two guys with haircuts at Preppie High, it was assumed that we would be friends. Now, till this time my epithet of choice was "poseur." Anyone with a polo shirt and a Flock of Seagulls haircut was fair game for a harsh word and a surly look from me: That would certainly scare someone into submission. But in the course of one school lunch, I got the feeling that I may in fact have been a poseur, too. Not through any fault of my own. I just had never found access to any other information, save what words of wisdom that the clerk from Musicland could pass on. But Brian knew the truth. He held the keys to secret and arcane knowledge. He had a subscription to MaximumRockandRoll. Brian was from a different world: big, spiky hairy--poorly died, lots of tails, not to mention a large square randomly shaved into his head. Did I mention he smelled? I had no idea that you were supposed to be smelly, save, of course, the subtle hint of Drakar Noir.

 

As we talked about bands, I realized that his was a world I knew nothing about: DRI, JFA, GBH. The best I had to offer was some records on IRS. It was decided that some advanced study was needed: Since I tended to prefer things with synthesizers, he pulled from his backpack a ratty cassette with graffiti lettering that said "Scraping Foetus off the Wheel," and in even worse marred-up lettering, "Hole." Hole scared and excited me in equal measure. Hearing it was transcendent. This wasn't a guy hoping to be on American bandstand. He was angry, and not angry in the MTV-won't-play-my-video way. The notes were sharp and pointy. His voice seemed to sneer with each word. He was much angrier then Joey Ramone. This was deeper, darker. Hearing it was like living in a Playboy world and suddenly seeing Hustler: It certainly wasn't the world I'd want to live in now, but when you're a 14-year-old boy, it's hard to put down. For three days, that was what I listened to. It was dark and brooding, with comic-book moments, a little like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, except, you know, minus Mr. Toad.

 

 

                    with Lydia Lunch in 1987

 

Twenty years later (you have no idea how difficult that fragment was to write), things have changed. I won't tell you that Hole is still a great record. But it is awfully good. It hard for nihilism to hold up for that long a period of time. Sure, Rimbaud could do it, but he was French. Like all of that Nihilist generation, the punks never lived up to their promise: It always seemed like something big was right around the corner, but then it never materialized.

 

At the end of the day, Jim Thirlwell (a.k.a. Foetus) never really lived up to his promise, either, sadly becoming more like a character in one of his songs: dark twisted, bruised, and bloodied. Hole was just a trailer-trash symphony by a guy who read French Nihilist poetry, making bar-fights into record albums. Or to quote the man himself, "his constant companion is always at hand making memories in his diary, the diary of sick man."

 

Note from Pete: Alas, I, too, shopped at Chess King.

 

Your 1984 emails so far...

 

From Michael Tortorello: I love this 1984 feature, Peter, but I think you should really attend more closely to the copy editing. Dylan's piece, I noticed, was missing a decimal point in a few of the key figures.

 

--M.

 

From John Evans to G.R. Anderson, Jr.: Absolutely great piece on Van Halen's 1984. Like you, I've always had metalheads as pals, but kept one foot in the "indie" world (for lack of a better word). Van Halen was always beyond guilty pleasure... I could see something more abstract (again, no better word) going on.

 

I should track down a Creem magazine for you from 1985. In it, there's a Replacements article/interview and Creem was onto something that has been lost in the memory of the Replacements: their similarity to Van Halen in bravado, drunkenness, balls, working-class roots, etc., etc. Paul even says, "I couldn't get away with the seatless leather chaps."  Creem had the intelligence to sorta pit these two bands as mighty twins, separated by sales. Soon after, Tommy beat out Michael as best bass player in a Creem poll.

 

It still blows me away to think that Van Halen was, instrumentally, a trio. Their sound is boldly spare and open (and always driven brilliantly by Eddie's rhythm guitar playing... Michael's bass was often laid as a foundation that didn't jump around much... you could tell that Eddie and Alex learned as a duo together). If one of your car speakers was out, you lost half the band (incredibly, Ted Templeman put two of them in one speaker and two in the other... that's an extreme that even the early stereo producers knew to be folly).

 

So, great writing. Keep it up... I'll be reading!

 

--John Evans

 

1984 Bonus link from TCPunk.com:

 

In 1984, I...

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JB art

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Black Flag single

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I Hate 1984: Remember "renting" records?

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Such, Such Were the Joys of Leasing Womack & Womack�s Love Wars

 

 

By Dylan Hicks

 

Normally I�m paid embarrassingly large sums of money to write about music. We�re talking double digits, quadruple if one includes the numbers to the right of the decimal point, plus frequent hot-oil rubdowns from editors and occasional gratis lunches at the Minneapolis Club paid for by the secretly well-heeled members of the local teenage hip-hop community. But for this assignment, if I�m reading my contract correctly, I will not be compensated. As Shasta drinkers know, one gets what one pays for. Be advised, then, that all of the facts below have been researched and verified with determined laziness. All facts of a personal nature are likely to be slightly more accurate, especially the one about my thirteen-inch penis.

 

For most of 1984, I was 13. In other (syntactically Spanish-y) words, I had the same number of years as my penis now has inches, give or take. Back then, the country was mottled with music-rental stores. Like video-rental stores, only with records. With names like Rent-a-Record, Rental as Anything (I made that one up), Sing for a Day (that one, too), and Why Don�t You Considering Renting One of Our Albums Instead of Paying Top Dollar for That Same Album at One of Our Competitors? (that one�s real).

 

The first such store I patronized was in Chicago. That was in 1983. Chicago, as you�ve probably heard, is a toddling town. Plus it�s big. As noted above, I refuse to do any fact checking for this unpaid piece, but I�m almost fully certain that Chicago is more populous than Minneapolis is. I love Minneapolis (Richfield, too), but it has precisely none of Chicago�s bona-fide big-city energy. In Chicago, when standing beneath the tall, tall buildings downtown, amidst the swarms of people, some of them still pungent from the stockyards, some with guns tucked in the trousers of their charcoal, shoulder-padded, pin-striped double-breasted suits, it is entirely appropriate to say something like shazam.

 

Anyway, the rent-a-record store that my dad took me to in Chicago was big. Of course, I hadn�t yet reached the hulking adult stature that I�m now feared for, so feel free to account for perpectival relativity. But I seem to remember five or six deep and long racks of albums, and a high ceiling, and lots of customers, and an intoxicating air of petty subversiveness.

 

Here�s how I remember the rules. Records were two bucks to rent. You weren�t allowed to rent more than six at a time. You got to keep them for two days. The records were retired (sold for three bucks or so, I think) after twenty or so rentals, so they were in pretty good shape. The most important rule was that the records were not for home taping, which at the time was "killing music," according to certain members of the music industry who hadn�t quite succeeded in killing music on their own. The albums, then, were for preview purposes only, much like those giant bongs they sell at some record stores are for the efficient inhalation of tobacco.

 

 

The official Rent-A-Record entrepreneur's pitch was aimed at the frugal and circumspect music consumer. Someone who might, for instance, be really curious about Loverboy�s Keep It Up, but who didn�t want to get burned on an eight-dollar album that might, despite its suggestive title, be kind of flaccid. For two lousy greenbacks (the cost of four Milky Way bars), that music fan could get to know the album in the privacy of her own home, and then decide if she wanted to make the momentous decision to add the album to her permanent collection. Or say a guy�s throwing a party and wants to have some of the latest tunes for dancing and atmosphere-setting, but he�d already blown most of his party budget on kegs, Doritos, and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey supplies. Rent those records, brother!

 

That day at the rent-a-record store in Chicago, I�m pretty sure I rented Talking Heads� Speaking in Tongues, the Fleshtones� Hexbreaker, Jackson Browne�s Lawyers in Love, and Joe Walsh�s You Bought It: You Name It. I remember thinking: But Joe, I didn�t buy it. I rented it. Ha! That night I had nightmares about the FBI breaking into my room. In my dream the taller agent said, "Wake up, punk! Home taping is killing music, and now we�re going to kill you. Slowly. Oh, cool, the new Joe Walsh. How is that, anyway?�

 

Later, sometime in 1984, I went to a smaller rent-a-record shop in Evanston, where the clerk and a customer talked about Prince. The customer, who was in his late 30s or early 40s and who was returning Controversy and Dirty Mind, said that Prince was like a cross between Jimi Hendrix and Michael Jackson. I also remember being curious about the first Run-D.M.C. album, which was displayed on the wall.

 

The rent-a-record store in Minneapolis was in Dinkytown. First it was in a basement, and then it moved to the space that�s now home to Jerry Raskin�s Needle Doctor, which as of a few years ago at least (remember that I�m not doing any real research) still employed the main salesperson from the rent-a-record store. Whenever I see this guy, he remembers me as having been a rent-a-record regular, which is weird because I can�t have shopped there more than four or five times.

 

Here are some records that I remember renting from the record-rental shop in Dinkytown: The Rolling Stones� Aftermath; Trio�s Trio and Error; something by the Waterboys that I didn�t like; Bruce Springsteen�s Born in the U.S.A.; Los Lobos� �And a Time to Dance; Tina Turner�s Private Dancer; the Del Lords� Frontier Days; Womack & Womack�s Love Wars.

I rented Love Wars because someone from the Minnesota Daily, possibly David Ayers, put it on his Best of 1983 list. Possibly David Ayers was right. Love Wars is a really great record, one of my top-ten favorites from the 1980s. The warring lovers to thank for it are Cecil Womack, Bobby�s brother, and Linda Womack, Cecil�s wife and Sam Cooke�s daughter. Cecil had previously written or co-written some somewhat successful songs for other people. Teddy Pendergrass�s "Love T.K.O," for instance, is his. Love Wars is a concept album about cheating and lying and spousal abuse and other ugly stuff that�s sung about real pretty-like. Take special note of the group harmonies on the title track, which are angelic, and not "angelic" as in cliché-rock-critic-adjective-for-superfine-harmonies angelic, but, like, actual angels flew into the studio, pretended to be various members of the Womack clan, and then left to save some kid from being hit my a Mack truck or whatever. I�d write more about the rest of the album, which as I say is really great, but I don�t feel like it. And I�m not getting paid. So let me conclude by noting that, as with all of the other good albums I rented in 1983 and 1984  (which doesn�t include You Bought It: You Name It, though I am pro-Joe Walsh) I wound up buying my own copy of Love Wars. The tape just didn�t cut it, and besides, those rentals were for preview purposes only.

 

 

 

I Also Hate 2004: Like you care

 

 

Notes From Pete: Two things. First: Hicksy, or "The Shiv" as he enjoys being called, leaves his job next month as City Pages theater critic to cover local music for the paper as Associate Editor, which is good news for two reasons: First, I'll start reading him, now. Second, it's part of a staff shuffling that seems promising all around: Melissa Maerz takes over as Arts Editor, Michael Tortorello takes over as Managing Editor, Jennifer Vogel takes over as a Senior Editor, and Jen's book, Flim-Flam Man: A True Family History, takes over Hollywood. (She announced her departure as Managing Editor around the time DreamWorks optioned her memoir, with Jez Butterworth of Birthday Girl slated to direct.) Meanwhile, Brad Zellar continues to rule our blog realm (with both his Twins baseball blog Yard and his freer-form Open All Night) but no longer from a staff position, I gather.

 

Second: Because I was out of town so long, there will be no "Eight Days a Week" entry this week, so you're on your own. Check out the useful links to your right under GOING OUT IN MINNEAPOLIS/ST. PAUL, and this show that squeaked by our A-List: Saturday at the 400 Bar, hip-hop Tropicalist soul avant-jazz supergroup Savath & Savalas features Prefuse 73, with Argentinian opener Juana Molina, and DJ Nobody. $10.00, 8:00 p.m. Eva Puyuelo Muns and Claudia Deheza on vocals, Joshua Abrams on bass, Jon Philpot on guitar, Lori Scacco on guitar, Scott Herren on piano/Rhodes/electronic gear, Susie Ibarra on drums and percussion, and DJ Nobody (Elvin Estela) on sound. Look, you can bar-hop to the Plastic Constellations. And I confess indifference to (and ignorance of) the Electric Six. Good to be back.

Posted by Peter S. Scholtes at April 21, 2004 5:24 PM

 

Rent-a-Record article two

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From "I Hate 1984: Remember "renting" records?"

[Out-of-print article from The Washington Post, June 28, 1981, Sunday, Final Edition, Style; Show; K1]

Record Rentals: Cashing in on Home Taping

By Richard Harrington

THE CONTINUING home-taping controversy, described by one record company executive as the "cancer in our industry," took a sudden turn several weeks ago when a major New York retail chain followed the hesitant footsteps of a few independent stores around the country and began renting records as well as selling them. The King Karol chain now rents albums for $2 a day, with a full-charge deposit held until the record is returned. After 8 to 10 rentals, the record may be sold as a used record. Nowhere is anything said about home-taping; the records are for "audition," or as another rental outfit puts it, "for preview purposes." Yet another store advertises "Risk-Free Record Buying and Renting."

In England, where blank tapes outsell prerecorded tapes and where cassette players outsell record players, a major controversy surfaced in February when Island Records kicked off its One Plus One program by releasing Steve Winwood's best-selling "Arc of a Driver" on one side of a high-quality chromium dioxide tape -- with the other side left blank for home taping as a bonus for purchasers. Since then, the label has begun to transfer its entire catalog to One Plus One cassettes, which sell for $3 less than normal prerecorded cassettes; there's also a major cross-marketing campaign coordinated with the tape manufacturer, BASF. The line's sales have been "very, very good" according to an Island executive, but the label's American distributor, Warner Bros., has so far nixed the line here.

Stateside, the already beleaguered record industry, which estimates that it loses $1 billion a year in sales to home tapers, is less than pleased at the move into rentals by the 30-year-old King Karol chain. "We're appalled," says Joe Smith, president of Elektra-Asylum Records and one of the industry's most vociferous campaigners against home taping. "We've always based our costs, our entire structure, on people buying records. We have no structure for the rental of records. The King Karol move is certainly not a positive one."

Adds Lou Dennis, national sales manager for Warner Bros., "I don't understand how people can even think about renting. You're encouraging home taping. Why the hell else would you rent records?" Stanley Gortikov, president of the Recording Industry Association of American, a 53-company trade group whose members account for 90 percent of all record and prerecorded tape sales, see rentals as "an attack on the rights of property of the artists, record companies, creators, copyright owners and risk takers. Because the price of records is fairly low, I think the rental of records is done for one purpose only -- which is not listening, but to encourage home taping."

The home-taping issue came to a head in 1979, when the industry followed 1978's record-high sales of $4 billion with a sharp drop-off in profits: Home taping war paired with record piracy as the major problem.But consumers, who for the first time that same year purchased more portable than home-playback systems, were not always well-served by the record companies, which seemed more infatuated with the revenue possibilities of videotape, videodisc and cable. Prerecorded tapes suffered from high-speed duplication on low- to medium-quality tape housed in cheap units. With the increasingly high cost of prerecorded tapes and albums -- which record company executives insist will only go higher because of recently increased royalty fees and costs for raw materials as well as revenue losses from home taping and rentals -- consumers and retailers perceived a new mutuality of interests. The initial battle of the profit margin has been waged over blank-tape sales; rentals, an idea whose time is around the corner, may prove to be the backbreaker.

Ben Karol, the owner of the Manhattan chain who studied successful rental systems in Canada before starting his own, scoffs at the tempest his rental policy has created. "It's a lark at this point, an experiment," he insists. "The record industry isn't that great these days. You sit around and think of ways to stimulate it, try to come up with ideas based on what similar product is doing." Karol looked no further than his own video department, pointing out that "the whole video tape business is now going rental."

As a counter to the escalating price of records, Karol says that "now you can get somebody to audition a record for a couple of bucks. Maybe half of them will like it . . . and I'll make a sale. It's worth a shot." Karol says that so far most of his business has been classical and that record renters have not been buying blank tape at his store. "Maybe my prices are too high. Listen, we're trying to find out if there's some way to enhance and increase our business. We don't want to hurt anybody."

The idea of renting records is not entirely new, having been tried in various locales during the mid-'70s, when retail prices were significantly lower; some stores even did the actual taping for customers. And before that, many major stores had listening booths that provided a similar "preview" capability; the cost of commercial space eliminated that tradition.

A confluence of events in the late '70s and early '80s has turned tape technology into a major thorn for the industry that, ironically, developed it.Cassettes have become the cheapest optimum means of listening to music; portable cassette players in particular combine technological and social advantages -- the fact that you can take it with you weighs heavily in the minds of an increasingly mobile population.

Tapes, besides holding up better than vinyl, offer one distinct advantage that the record industry can't counter: They are reusable, adaptable to the transient nature of music. Records, unfortunately, tend to be unalterable artifacts -- you can't erase a record. "That's the beauty of videodiscs: it's playback only," says Warner Bros.' Dennis. "As long as all the tape machines in this country have a record button, how do you control that? You can't."

The major ongoing -- and so far unresolved -- issue of home taping (including video, of course) has to do with copyright infringement. Tapers don't pay royalties to songwriters or performers whose work they copy; the issue of home, noncommercial duplication has yet to be addressed by law in any clear-cut manner. "We live in a rental society," Dennis mourns, echoing Gortikov's assertion that "the principal of renting is not unlawful, per se." And since rentals are couched in terms of auditioning or previewing or testing, there's really nothing the record companies can do about it.

Many industry critics point to record companies' traditional unresponsiveness to emerging trends. Prerecorded tape has become an increasingly large portion of the market, yet a home taper working with average equipment can produce a better-quality, cheaper tape than is currently provided by the record companies (audiophile tapes