Belated Record Reviews

Knocking out that post below, I was reminded that my assessment of Jim Testa's CD is long overdue, as are my comments on the Pink Lincolns' new one. Proceed at your own risk; there are sure to be digressions a'plenty:

Unfortunately, said comments are likely to be a bit half-assed, not only because I'm a bit rushed at the moment, but because commenting on a friend's stuff is always difficult enough privately, but it's a real bitch when you try to do it in public.

With Jim, the problem is intensified, because in my world, Jim has always been synonymous with Jersey Beat, which, along with MaximumRockNRoll (are they still around?, he asks himself for the hundredth time), is one of the world's longest-running music fanzines. (The longest-running must be The Next Big Thing, written and published by the sadly unheralded but remarkably witty and astute Lindsay Hutton, but NBT hasn't had a print presence for some time now, so I guess technically speaking it doesn't count. But what the hell, it counts with me, so let's just say NBT is the longest-running underground music fanzine in the world and be done with it.)

I'm reminded of a piece by one of my literary heroes, Harlan Ellison, in which he discusses a tiff with his friend Walter Koenig, the actor who portrayed Chekov in the Star Trek series and movies. Ellison had reviewed one of the Star Trek films for whatever publication he was toiling for at the time. After the piece was published, he received a phone call from a churlish Koenig, who demanded to know what Ellison thought of his work in the film. Caught off guard, and more than a little confused by his friend's surly approach, Ellison told him it was "fine." This did not sit well with Koenig, who was incensed over what he felt was a slight. Ellison saw Koenig as part of an ensemble; Chekov was a stock character, and Koenig had done his usual fine job in the role. Koenig wanted to be seen as more than a body in a suit - as a legitimate actor with range and depth - in spite of the fact that, well, the role didn't call for a whole hell of a lot.

Perhaps the analogy breaks down here. But my point is that by releasing a CD, Jim kind of caught me off-guard; Jim is a fanzine guy - hell, he's the fanzine guy. He has a life outside of music, of course, but so much of his life involves listening to, watching and writing about bands, that it's easy to forget that he's also a regular guy with ambitions that go beyond the next issue of Jersey Beat. So when he came out with a solo CD, I felt a little like I was facing a 12-6 Barry Zito curve. When he asked my opinion, I felt like I was expected to knock that curve onto Waveland Ave, in spite of the fact that I was standing at the plate with a stick for a bat and a blindfold secured around my peepers.

Even now, I feel like I should tread very carefully, which is odd, because I found There Goes the Neighborhood to be very entertaining. But when you're writing about your friends, in addition to not wanting to hurt their feelings, you don't want to go overboard with praise; it comes off as phony. So you simply forge ahead, cross your fingers, and hope for the best.

Backed by an able band, Jim takes the singer/songwriter approach with acoustic guitar in hand, commenting wryly on New York hipsters, childhood nostalgia and his own hometown in the manner of a folk singer even as his Ramones-inspired chord-progressions (especially on "Punk Rock Is Not Daycare") bring to mind the better moments of quirky bands like the Dead Milkmen. He occasionally strays out of his vocal range, and more than once he forces a precious rhyme ("children should be seen/Not absurd"), but just as often, he turns a good phrase with a self-assuredness reminiscent of Dr. Frank (“I need a little more zip/ a little more tang/ a little bling-bling in my weltanschauung").

The vibe on Neighborhood is one of fun, and in combining a serious approach to songwriting with the fuck-it-all spirit of punk circa when-it-mattered, Jim manages to admirably pull off a style that is very difficult to succeed with (if I had a nickel for every piss-poor demo or record made by ambitious and talented friends who had listened to one too many Hank Williams records, I'd be at least a couple of bucks richer). There's a sense of fun and simple earnestness in this stuff that strikes a chord with me, probably because I haven't heard much music that so assiduously avoids scenester affectations since the late 1980s. The record has charms that seem, sadly, dated, in the sense that these days, hearing records that were made without delusions of grandeur is a relatively rare experience. What "the old days" mean to me is something that I can't fully explain - in no small part because it's bound to change every few minutes - but the rare times that were good - when you really felt like you were a part of something that was, in its own pathetic, insignificant way, somewhat revolutionary - well, those are the times I miss, and Neighborhood reminds me of that feeling. Unpretentious and straightforward, almost professional in its unabashed amateurishness, it's music made for the sake of making music. If the songs were no good, that wouldn't matter, but these songs are good, and there's something about this record that feels like coming home again.

So how much is my opinion based on my friendship with Jim? I have no idea. I don't want to even pretend I can be objective about it. Some of his stuff is there, and some of it could use some work. Some of the production decisions are brilliant (again, especially on "Punk Rock Is Not Daycare," which takes the "Danny Says" approach) and some are a little flat. What I do know - and I believe this with all my heart - is that if I were running around the country with my band playing shows with a plethora of dogshit opening bands, and Jim Testa found his way onto the stage at one of the shows with this batch of tunes, I'd be pleasantly surprised, and quite likely to stick around for the whole set and shake the songwriter’s hand afterwards. From a guy like me, that's pretty high praise.

Another old friend is Chris Barrows of the Pink Lincolns. It's a little easier to talk about his stuff publicly, because I've been a Lincolns fan since 1986, and I loved the last Lincolns record, as well as the Jackie Papers stuff (I released an EP by them on the label I used to own). A Pink Lincolns record would have to be pretty bad for me to find no merit in it.

As it turns out, the new Lincolns record, No Lo Siento, needs no qualifiers. It's true that Chris has put me and my traveling circus up at his home more than once - and even cooked for us - and it's true that we've pounded the old Budweiser more than a couple of times, often resulting in a little game of oneupsmanship in full view of a paying public (Chris lights a half-brick of firecrackers and throws them into the crowd - I bait an angry, on-the-verge-of-violence gang of metalheads demanding to know if I'm a homosexual; Chris swings his mic around by the cable with reckless abandon, breaking the nose of an audience member - I bait the crowd some more and dodge beer bottles until I finally storm off the stage in protest; etc.) (Chris always won those tests of the will, by the way, and by a mile…). But No Lo Siento is a raging, pissed off piece of work that doesn't even consider apologizing for its red-meat, testosterone-fueled rampage over subtlety; this fucker grabs you by the neck and makes you scream uncle. My friendship with Chris doesn't have time to enter into my assessment of this record.

No Lo Siento features no low moments, but perhaps the apogee of this record occurs in the lengthy (over 4 minutes) instrumental outro of "Happy Boy" - a dark, Alice Cooper-esque dirge that segues into a vicious jam that brings to mind the demented machinations of Saccharine Trust and the chaos of the Stooges in the Funhouse era while simultaneously removing the scalp from your skull. Even if the rest of the record didn't smoke, I'd recommend this one on the basis of that jam alone. This says nothing for searing blasts like "So Much Nothing," "Happy Hour," "You," (even Bl'ast never came this close to reproducing the paranoid rage of Black Flag's My War/Slip It In era) and "Crescent Red." Going overboard with praise? Maybe, but all I know is that a record hasn’t pinned my fucking shoulders to the wall like this in many moons, kemosabe. Like Joe King says, it's like Black Flag all over again. Whether you've forgotten how powerful punk can be or not, you need to BUY.

So, do I praise these records because I’m friends with the people who made ‘em? I don’t know for sure – how can I be totally objective? – but I don’t think so. I get records from my friends all the time, and if I don’t like them, I offer a few encouraging words and carefully avoid the subject of saying anything about them publicly – an easily accomplished task given that I seldom go out on a limb to offer recommendations to you, the gentle reader. Maybe you won’t like these records, but I give you my opinion unreservedly. Check ‘em out.

Housecleaning

You'll notice that we're doing a little re-designing over here at Weasel Manor - nothing major, just a bit of a tuck. Sometimes this stuff requires a couple of steps back before moving forward. The idea at this point is to re-size the header logo and do something about the colors so they soothe the eye rather than assaulting it. Patience please - our team of volunteers does this out of kindness, decency, and pity for your technologically-challenged narrator and thus must toil in precious moments of spare time. We hope to have it sparkling by the end of the coming weekend.

In the meantime, check out this piece in which one James Testa, Esq. throws some much deserved heyahs at the feet of Mr. Pat Duncan, who has been doing his WFMU radio show since he was about 4 1/2 years old. Pat's one of the good guys, having given exposure to quite probably thousands of otherwise unheard of punk bands during his reign at WFMU. He doesn't look to be slowing down anytime soon.

In addition to his regular blog, the suddenly ubiquitous Dr. Frank is now providing coverage of music news over at the mid-to-high-brow Playboy-for-punks paysite SuicideGirls.com (the news section is free). If you think "music news" is a delicious oxymoron, join the club, but don't let that stop you from checking out Frank's typically dry take on the entertainment business. Adding a fourth chainsaw to the juggling mix, Frank's young adult novel is set for an April 2006 release by Delacourt press. I shall be front and center when his book tour hits Chicago, assuming my jealous rage has died down by then.

Now that the owners have almost completed their de-pantsing of the NHLPA, with only Friday's ratification swirlie left before the cake is iced, I might be less inclined to read the hilarious, insightful and almost always correct Tom Benjamin, but I still find myself checking his blog every day. Benjamin was the leading voice in a very small group of hockey writers who didn't mouth the NHL party line during the lockout, and if his dire predictions may occasionally go a bit far, he makes up for it with an eagerness to eviscerate through prose the half-baked ideas of the owners and their mouthpiece Gary Bettman. The emperor is buck naked and Tom Benjamin's taking pictures to prove it.

Finally, the above-mentioned Testa informs me that he passed along news of my quest for the first Palomar album to that band's immensely talented songstress/frontwoman Rachel Warren, who apparently then embarked on her own treasure hunt, which one might assume would prove more fruitful. It remains to be seen if the booty has found its way to my post box, but as soon as it arrives and I have a chance to take it all in, I'll tell you all about this terrific band.

Podcasting

I'm just sitting here listening to the mastered version of the Screeching Weasel best of thing that Fat will be putting out in October. I don't particularly want to be listening to it but it's part of the job. But for some reason I was reminded of my long-standing desire to do an internet radio show, and further reminded that I meant to look into the Podcasting thing to try to figure out if that might be easier and whatnot. So if any of you readers know a lot about Podcasting and can hold my hand as I learn about it I'd appreciate it if you'd drop me an e-mail.

Oh yeah, I just passed the My Brain Hurts stuff and I'm on the Anthem material. That Andy Ernst somehow always managed to make my vocals sound pretty great. Thanks Andy, wherever you are.

Holy Hill

Pixie and I made a trip up to Wisconsin a couple of weeks ago to visit my folks. While we were there, we shot down to Holy Hill for a quickie pilgrimage. I've been to Holy Hill before, but I didn't take photos. This time I took a bunch of shots, which mostly served to prove that I'm no photographer, but for those who might be interested, here's an abbreviated, seriously truncated documentation of the visit.

View from outside.

Me and my mother at the entrance of the church.

St. John of the Cross - to the right of the sanctuary.

Inside the Shrine chapel - when I visited in 1997 there were canes, crutches and walkers stacked outside the chapel doors, supposedly left by those who had been healed inside. They weren't there this time, probably due to the fact that renovations were just being completed when we visited.

In the Sacred Heart chapel.

This cross, now encased in glass, used to sit on the grounds of Holy Hill. I imagine the Carmelites must have wanted to make it inaccessible to those who couldn't resist carving their initials on it. The earliest engraving I found was from a couple of people who made their mark in 1934. I soothed Pixie's ire by noting solemnly that those particular offenders were most likely dead by now.

One of the Stations of the Cross.

The Stations wind up the hill. They're truly beautiful works of art, and if you're not in the mood for prayer or meditation, they still make for a great - though long - walk.

View from near the bottom of the hill.

My cruddy photos don't do justice to the beauty of Holy Hill. I didn't get useable photos of the Lourdes grotto, but it's quite a sight, featuring a statue of St. Bernadette gazing at Mary, with holy water dispensers on each side of the grotto. If you're ever in Milwaukee, Holy Hill is definitely worth the half hour drive.