And the shitty stuff, too. Final poisoning, Enthusiasts.
And the shitty stuff, too. Final poisoning, Enthusiasts.
I will be listening to Live Stones today, but not from any of the good tours. ’81 is the best Americans deserve.
I will also be reading Borges, but will take a break at some point to enjoy various pornographies.
Prince in an asymmetrical coat fronting a lady-heavy band. (FUN FACT: No one, not even Prince, sounds cool calling heroin “horse.”)
Remember The Banana Man? Well, he was a real chimp that Elvis bought from some goober and named Scatter. It ended poorly because it could end no other way but.
Everybody was arguing about the Pistols the other day, and they were all wrong. Even the people I agreed with.
This is wonderful: Bill Graham’s production notes from the 1980 Warfield run. A useful list of management principles can be derived herein: Know your market, set clear goals for your team, make sure your wieners are the best available.
If anyone’s aware of more available footage of the JB’s, let us all know. Of note in this performance: the Collins’ brothers adorably half-assed dance moves, Mr. Brown announcing his move to the keyboard by shouting “JAMES! PEE-AN-UH!”, and Soul Sister #1 on the podium.
This Rolling Stones unreleased track features Jimmy Page on guitar, and is a rip-off of a different unreleased Stones track. Name it in the Comment Section and win a shiny imaginary nickel.
More to come.
The Stones’ unreleased tracks are better than most bands’ greatest hits.
We have not, Enthusiasts, ventured into the Problem Attic recently; with all the creators and their creations being chucked up there lately, I thought it best to avoid the whole affair lest I be mistakenly consigned. Classic films and popular teevee shows have made the shameful crawl up those rickety stairs. Writers and actors, and a whole lot of stand-up comics, too. Not Kimmy Kimmel, but not for lack of trying.
But our interest is musicographical here, and so we concern ourself with the Problem Attic’s jukebox, which only takes dimes from Apartheid-era South Africa. A random sampling follows:
Hot Child in the City – Nick Gilder It’s about teenage prostitutes in Hollywood, and you can tell. Nick Gilder does not couch his topic in metaphor; he eschews euphemism. Just straight-up about teen hookers.
Every Picture Tells a Story – Rod Stewart You could get away with naming a character in a song “Shanghai Lil” today. Maybe a line about “She called me Glasgow Rod, and I called her Shanghai Lil.” That’d be hunky-dory. But you could not call Shanghai Lil a “slit-eyed lady” in the next verse. Your Coachella appearance would be cancelled within minutes if you released this ditty today. Still a bop, but it’s now a headphones bop.
Illegal Alien – Genesis This is what happens when you put Phil Collins in charge. Peter Gabriel wouldn’t have pulled this bullshit. Peter Gabriel would’ve dressed up like a mailbox and written a 20-minute song about Jesus.
Christine Sixteen – KISS Not right. This song is not right now, and it was not right then, and it was never right. “TotD,” you’ll say. “People used to get married at fifteen and die at 28. This song would’ve been all right then.”
I just buried a machete in your face. Do not question me. This shit is fucked up. You’re not allowed to describe girls you “saw coming out of school” as “young and clean.” If this song were a color, it would be lime-green: A bad look on anyone.
Brown Sugar – The Rolling Stones Ha! Fooled you! Brown Sugar is NOT in the Problem Attic. It should be! It should be there right next to Some Girls and Under My Thumb. But, due to the total incomprehensibility of Mick’s faux-gumbo yawping, the vast majority of the song’s fans don’t know any of the words except “How come you taste so good” and the “Woo woo woo, yeah” part at the end.
Unless you see Salma Hayek’s boobies.
Ole, Ole, Ole is on Netflix; it’s a travelogue of the Stones’ South American jaunt in 2016, and this is the best part.
Also: I know “Ole” should have some sort of foreign diacritical over the “e” but I can’t be bothered. Get a Sharpie and do it yourself.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man–”
I’m TotD! How are you?
“–of wealth and…could you not interrupt me, please?”
Gosh, I’m sorry. You had a whole thing you were gonna say, didn’t you?
“Yeah. There’s a rhythm to it.”
So sorry. So, so sorry.
“May I continue?”
Go to it. Again: I apologize.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m man of wealth and taste.”
“I’ve been around…what?”
Are you Guy Fieri?
“Guy Fieri just has wealth.”
The taste is in the donkey sauce.
“I’m not Guy Fieri.”
I interrupted you again.
“You did. You absolutely did.”
Sorry. Again: I am sorry.
“I’ve been around for a long, long year. Stole many a man’s soul to waste.”
You still sound a lot like Guy Fieri.
“Guy Fieri doesn’t steal souls!”
He steals hearts.
“Hearts are not souls!”
“They’re not! Shut up and listen to me!”
Dude. We are not close enough for you to take that tone. I mean, I don’t even know your name yet.
“I’m trying to tell you my name.”
I’ll be quiet. Do your thing, man.
“Thank you. I was ’round when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain. Made damn sure–”
Did you help Him?
“–that Pilate washed…what?”
Did you help Jesus?
“No. I was there. I was there.”
And you didn’t help? I once held up traffic on the New Jersey Parkway to rescue a turtle; you didn’t give the Son of God a helping hand?
“That’s not why I was there.”
We all make choices, muchacho.
“Do not call me ‘muchacho.'”
No one likes being called that.
“I’m gonna continue.”
“Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name.”
I did. I guessed you were Guy Fieri and you got mad.
“I’m not Guy fucking Fieri.”
You should be so lucky! That man has raised millions for charity.
“I think what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game.”
“I stuck around Saint…what?”
Is your game Mah Jongg?
People think it’s for old ladies, but it’s a hoot. You can get some big money games going.
“Mah Jongg is not my game.”
“I was in the middle of a statement.”
Go to it.
“I stuck around St. Petersburg when I saw it was–”
“–time for a change. What?”
St. Petersburg, Florida?
You should have been more specific.
“If you hadn’t interrupted me, the next thing I was about to say would’ve clarified my position.”
Wow. What a rude guy I am. Sorry, my dude.
“I killed the Czar and his ministers. Anastasia screamed in rage.”
Oh, yeah. That’s Russia. There are few to no czars in Florida.
“Context is important.”
Wait. Are you the Devil?
“I have, like, four more verses to get through.”
Unnecessary! I figured it out! You’re the Devil.
“Yes, okay, I’m the Devil. But I have some real deep shit to say about humanity, and its nature.”
I’ll bet! You must have some stories, The Devil!
“Your tone of voice is not rubbing me the right way.”
Well, you’re the one who talked shit about Guy Fieri and didn’t help Jesus.
“I’m the Devil!”
How’s that working out for you? You happy?
Are you happy, The Devil?
“Call me Lou.”
Absolutely not. Listen, man: go back to Hell and think about the kind of Supreme Evil you wanna be.
“Do not speak to me that way.”
I can speak to you any way I want. Because I have…THIS!
AN OVERCONFIDENT IDIOT PRODUCING A CRUCIFIX NOISE
“I’m not a dracula, man.”
This doesn’t work on you?
“I’m gonna walk away from you and pretend this didn’t happen.”
I won’t hold it against you. You’re busy. Maybe you got bodies to bury. Or wine to press. Or body-wine to press. (You can make booze from corpses. Should you? I dunno. But you can.)
I promise that tonight’s Stones performance will feature zero (0) appearances by U2, and none of Mick’s solo stuff. Swear to God.