I have never, to my knowledge, been anyone's muse. I mean, aside from a few painful high school poems and the song H. wrote about my being chastised for asking men to bring me drinks onstage. Just like anyone, though, I have been listening to the radio or the B-side of some scratchy cassette tape, and thought to myself: that's me! This song is me! And just like anyone, sometimes instead, I thought to myself: Dammit all, why am I not this girl? The misunderstood, gorgeous genius who causes sleepless nights and hopeless devotion and a SONG, an ode to my cleverness and wit and deep brown eyes... More than anything, I wanted to leave someone so profoundly affected by my loss that the only salve for their wounded soul was a bittersweet ballad about how he would never love anyone the same way again. Or maybe to seem so unattainable that the only way to win me over would be to pen a missive that would never be sent, only played. Preferably over the airwaves, where it would be heard by millions of people. Who would consequently buy the album, making artist rich. So he would be famous, and I would read about him in a magazine, and think: That guy! I forgot about him. I should give him a call.
When I was in high school, the Replacements were on their way out, which is a shame, because this album was the one that convinced me that boys could really mean it when they said they fell just as hard as girls. Whenever I am in doubt about it, I listen to this song and I wish I were her.
she opens her mouth to speak, and what comes out's a mystery
Jack White hardly seems the knight in shining armor type, but I'd let him buy me a beer and listen to my neurotic list of slights and wrongs.
lots of girls walk around in tears, but that's not for you
I do not want to be Joey Ramone's girlfriend. But I like that he asked.
do you love me best? what can I say?
Equal opportunity swoonage. Oh, Kathleen Hanna...
rebel girl, you are the queen of my world
Cake explains how we really all feel about "let's just be friends"
I'm really only praying that the words you'll soon be saying might betray the way you feel about me.
There are thousands of others - pretty much anything Elvis Costello ever wrote, for example - but I have to leave you a few to discuss in the comments. What songs made you wish you were the singer's object of affection?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
How to make a really good sandwich
1) Start by preparing a batch of gorgonzola dressing. A basic buttermilk recipe with lots of black pepper and an equal amount of gorgonzola cheese blended in is perfect. If you MUST, you can go with some prefab stuff, but stay away from the plastic bottles of "blue cheese" on the non-refrigerated shelf. You will call me ugly names if you go that route.
2) Find some sturdy bread. I like mini baguettes, but a good solid sourdough would work, or pita. Just be sure that whatever you choose is going to have to integrity to withstand the filling. I would avoid regular sliced bread; it will break under the strain like your high school boyfriend did when you dropped him because he wouldn't wear a lime green silk waistcoat to prom.
3) Choose an assortment of vegetables. My last version included a perfectly ripe avocado, red pepper slices, a Roma tomato, leaf lettuce, and shredded carrots. Forget to add one of these veggies in the building process - I went with the carrots - otherwise your final result may prove unwieldy.
4) Slice some good medium cheddar cheese. I know you like other cheeses better, but you want to compliment the bleu cheese in your condiments, and something mild like Muenster is going to get lost, and something bold like a sharp cheddar is going to be too prevalent.
5) Assemble: A generous dollop of your homemade dressing on one side, a scant smear of a biting mustard (Dijon for me, but don't let it stop you from using stoneground or something) on the other. Avocado goes on the bottom, lightly mashed so it stays put. Then tomato, lettuce, cheese. The pepper slices, due to their affinity to slide around, go in the hollowed out top, where the dressing is, so they are kind of glued into place.
6) Slice in half unless you intend for the vast majority of the filling to be in your lap rather than your mouth.
7) Enjoy with a glass of fizzy water and some Kettle chips. I went with barbeque.
8) If you want, we can make these together and sit on the couch and eat them and read magazines and I will regale you with interesting tidbits out of my National Geographic about Peruvian mummies and you will finally have to tell me to stop talking about dissection while we are eating and so I will pout for a moment and then try to steal the Rolling Stone out of your hands. Then we will make a batch of cupcakes and you will try to borrow something, probably a shirt or maybe my new Chuck Klosterman book, and I will let you because I am THAT HAPPY that you came over just to eat sandwiches with me. Or we could rent a movie if you don't want to read magazines. It's up to you.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
I sleep on the right side
So on the left side of my bed, in the spot where someone else would lay if he were around to lay in it, there is:
-the lumpy pillow. I need to have it, just in case I have a sudden desire to completely surround myself in fluff.
-seven books: Natural Acts and The Reluctant Mr. Darwin, by David Quammen; Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman; the graphic novel of Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman; The Basic Eight by Daniel Handler; With Billie (a biography of Billie Holiday); Scar Tissue (the autobiography of Anthony Kiedis). I am in the middle of one of these and just starting another. The rest I have read at least once, but keep around to reference or read bits of before sleeping. Except the Handler - I have no idea how that even got on the bed.
-four magazines: Rolling Stone, Mental Floss, Old School Rods (don't ask), and Star (REALLY. DON'T ASK.)
-my ukulele
And on my nightstand, to my right:
-a mason jar full of pens.
-all my remotes.
-my iPod speakers.
-two candles, one orange blossom and one bergamot and lime; two lighters, one green, one lavender.
-a glass for water, currently empty.
- five books: Oliver Twist, a rhyming dictionary, 100 Poems from the Japanese, collections of Millay and Cummings.
-three different types of balm for skin: Badger Balm, Lubriderm lotion; the tattoo stuff from the place.
-four different types of balm for lips: Burt's Bees; Kiss My Face Cranberry Orange; Schweppes Tonic Water; Besame Lipglaze in Crystal.
-my empty and long neglected glasses case.
-an assortment of jewelry from the last two weeks, since getting back from Seattle, including my sparrow necklace, two pairs of black hoop earrings, and my fantastic vintage Bulova watch.
-a huge stack of CDs people have burned for me that I have not put on a spindle yet.
-my journal, which is used only for jotting down ideas and phrases - I am not much of a diarist, and my lyrics notebook, which is used for everything from lyrics and song ideas to grocery lists.
-a grocery list with a doodle of a strawberry on it.
-a tourist guide to New Orleans (yes, still. shut it.)
-a bottle of nail polish in Stroke of Midnight, a very very deep red.
-an orange crayon.
-Post-it notes in bright yellow. Like not normal Post-it yellow, but school bus yellow. Dandelion yellow.
I feel like you now know everything you need to know about me.
-the lumpy pillow. I need to have it, just in case I have a sudden desire to completely surround myself in fluff.
-seven books: Natural Acts and The Reluctant Mr. Darwin, by David Quammen; Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman; the graphic novel of Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman; The Basic Eight by Daniel Handler; With Billie (a biography of Billie Holiday); Scar Tissue (the autobiography of Anthony Kiedis). I am in the middle of one of these and just starting another. The rest I have read at least once, but keep around to reference or read bits of before sleeping. Except the Handler - I have no idea how that even got on the bed.
-four magazines: Rolling Stone, Mental Floss, Old School Rods (don't ask), and Star (REALLY. DON'T ASK.)
-my ukulele
And on my nightstand, to my right:
-a mason jar full of pens.
-all my remotes.
-my iPod speakers.
-two candles, one orange blossom and one bergamot and lime; two lighters, one green, one lavender.
-a glass for water, currently empty.
- five books: Oliver Twist, a rhyming dictionary, 100 Poems from the Japanese, collections of Millay and Cummings.
-three different types of balm for skin: Badger Balm, Lubriderm lotion; the tattoo stuff from the place.
-four different types of balm for lips: Burt's Bees; Kiss My Face Cranberry Orange; Schweppes Tonic Water; Besame Lipglaze in Crystal.
-my empty and long neglected glasses case.
-an assortment of jewelry from the last two weeks, since getting back from Seattle, including my sparrow necklace, two pairs of black hoop earrings, and my fantastic vintage Bulova watch.
-a huge stack of CDs people have burned for me that I have not put on a spindle yet.
-my journal, which is used only for jotting down ideas and phrases - I am not much of a diarist, and my lyrics notebook, which is used for everything from lyrics and song ideas to grocery lists.
-a grocery list with a doodle of a strawberry on it.
-a tourist guide to New Orleans (yes, still. shut it.)
-a bottle of nail polish in Stroke of Midnight, a very very deep red.
-an orange crayon.
-Post-it notes in bright yellow. Like not normal Post-it yellow, but school bus yellow. Dandelion yellow.
I feel like you now know everything you need to know about me.
Friday, February 27, 2009
I am Long Play, my friends
Today is my 33 1/3 birthday. For those of you who are youngsters or technophiles, the LP album, spinning at 33 1/3 rpm, was the music delivery format of choice for more than forty years. It is still beloved by many music fans - those who are aficionados, and those who are dilettantes, and those who for whatever reason feel that there is a warmth and intimacy that doesn't resonate the same digitally. In honor of my reaching this momentous age, I'd like to share with you some music that I own on vinyl.
Joni Mitchell's Blue was the first piece of vinyl I bought for myself. I had several records I had inherited from my sisters, and a few that were purchased for me as presents - mostly of the turn the page when you hear the chime variety - but I didn't buy my first piece of vinyl until my musical tastes were fairly well defined. I mostly bought cassette tapes in those days; they could be had for less than a tenner and were eminently portable. I went into a little record store and saw this and thought instantly of my mother, who had long, stick straight flaxen hair just like Joni's before she joined the army and cut it all off. I bought it, and I listened to it again and again and again on my $99 Magnavox turntable, the one without a replaceable needle. I was the only one on my dorm floor with a turntable; everyone thought it was quaint and faintly ridiculous.
One of the albums that got passed on to me when my music snob sister eschewed vinyl for CDs was Stray Cats' Rant 'n' Rave. (Yeah, you know where this is going...) Listen, the eponymous album is epic, I know, and Built For Speed has some better written material on it, but Rant 'n' Rave was what launched them into the stratosphere. Setzer, for all his rockstar posturing these days, was just plain CANDY. Before I was bequeathed it at the tender age of 13, I used to sneak this album out of my sister's collection and listen to it with headphones on... Mostly because of this song:
I don't know how I came to be in possession of the Readers Digest wartime favorites album. It is thick and brittle, the sleeve faded from the years, smelling faintly of mildew... It is scratchy, poorly mastered, and strangely put together. But it was my introduction to swing and consequently to all the other forms of jazz, and the Andrews Sisters were my gateway drug:
I have the White Album. Disc two is scratched to hell and back, and Julia is a little warped on the B side of disc one. It probably makes me a bad Beatles fan to admit this, but my favorite sonng on the white album is not Bungalow Bill or Dear Prudence. It's Ob-la-di, Ob-la-dah.
I did not realize until I was about 17 that anyone other than Nat King Cole ever sang this song. It was on another album I received from my sister in a pile that she no longer wanted when I was in middle school. For several years, there was no song in the world that could compare to the sheer romance of this one:
Finally, this album belonged to my mother first. Although I was ostensibly too old to be fascinated by such things, I coveted the paper dolls on the inner sleeve, and dreamed of a day when I could have a fringe skirt to wear with my cowboy boots. I know every word of this album, every chord change and semiquaver. It still gives me chills.
I won't object if you offer me cupcakes or cocktails or even some 45's, but what I'd really like is if you'd drop a memory about a long play record down there in the comments. I know each and every one of you has a story... My newest favorite memory involving both the vinyl AND good wishes is this: On my recent trip to New Orleans, I celebrated my birthday on the last day I was in town. It happened to be the only day that Z. and I had to really explore, because we had spent so much of our time listening to to music at Voodoo Experience. I walked him all over town, down Frenchman Street and up Burgundy, and I finally made him go to the Louisiana Music Factory with me, which is a huge music store right on Decatur that specializes in local music from in and around New Orleans. I was happily dirtying my hands with vintage records, pulling them out and putting them back again, when Z. walked up behind me, leaned very close, and said, "I forgot to wish you a happy birthday. Happy Birthday." Then he kissed my cheek and left me amid the stacks of wax, breathing in the decades. I don't know that I have ever been as perfectly content.
Joni Mitchell's Blue was the first piece of vinyl I bought for myself. I had several records I had inherited from my sisters, and a few that were purchased for me as presents - mostly of the turn the page when you hear the chime variety - but I didn't buy my first piece of vinyl until my musical tastes were fairly well defined. I mostly bought cassette tapes in those days; they could be had for less than a tenner and were eminently portable. I went into a little record store and saw this and thought instantly of my mother, who had long, stick straight flaxen hair just like Joni's before she joined the army and cut it all off. I bought it, and I listened to it again and again and again on my $99 Magnavox turntable, the one without a replaceable needle. I was the only one on my dorm floor with a turntable; everyone thought it was quaint and faintly ridiculous.
One of the albums that got passed on to me when my music snob sister eschewed vinyl for CDs was Stray Cats' Rant 'n' Rave. (Yeah, you know where this is going...) Listen, the eponymous album is epic, I know, and Built For Speed has some better written material on it, but Rant 'n' Rave was what launched them into the stratosphere. Setzer, for all his rockstar posturing these days, was just plain CANDY. Before I was bequeathed it at the tender age of 13, I used to sneak this album out of my sister's collection and listen to it with headphones on... Mostly because of this song:
I don't know how I came to be in possession of the Readers Digest wartime favorites album. It is thick and brittle, the sleeve faded from the years, smelling faintly of mildew... It is scratchy, poorly mastered, and strangely put together. But it was my introduction to swing and consequently to all the other forms of jazz, and the Andrews Sisters were my gateway drug:
I have the White Album. Disc two is scratched to hell and back, and Julia is a little warped on the B side of disc one. It probably makes me a bad Beatles fan to admit this, but my favorite sonng on the white album is not Bungalow Bill or Dear Prudence. It's Ob-la-di, Ob-la-dah.
I did not realize until I was about 17 that anyone other than Nat King Cole ever sang this song. It was on another album I received from my sister in a pile that she no longer wanted when I was in middle school. For several years, there was no song in the world that could compare to the sheer romance of this one:
Finally, this album belonged to my mother first. Although I was ostensibly too old to be fascinated by such things, I coveted the paper dolls on the inner sleeve, and dreamed of a day when I could have a fringe skirt to wear with my cowboy boots. I know every word of this album, every chord change and semiquaver. It still gives me chills.
I won't object if you offer me cupcakes or cocktails or even some 45's, but what I'd really like is if you'd drop a memory about a long play record down there in the comments. I know each and every one of you has a story... My newest favorite memory involving both the vinyl AND good wishes is this: On my recent trip to New Orleans, I celebrated my birthday on the last day I was in town. It happened to be the only day that Z. and I had to really explore, because we had spent so much of our time listening to to music at Voodoo Experience. I walked him all over town, down Frenchman Street and up Burgundy, and I finally made him go to the Louisiana Music Factory with me, which is a huge music store right on Decatur that specializes in local music from in and around New Orleans. I was happily dirtying my hands with vintage records, pulling them out and putting them back again, when Z. walked up behind me, leaned very close, and said, "I forgot to wish you a happy birthday. Happy Birthday." Then he kissed my cheek and left me amid the stacks of wax, breathing in the decades. I don't know that I have ever been as perfectly content.
Monday, February 23, 2009
For your delectation, a Monday outfit
I don't have much to say about this, except that I wanted to wear it with the mysteriously missing black shrug I got for New Orleans, and have not seen since unpacking that bag, and that I am also wearing black wool tights and black ballet flats. Also, I was listening to Gogol Bordello while I got dressed.
What I didn't bring home From Seattle
This trip seemed quicker than most, although it really wasn't any shorter. We planned it MONTHS in advance instead of hours, though, and that might have affected my perception of it. My anticipation had nearly eclipsed the event itself. Nearly... It was wonderful to see A. again; it had been nearly three years, and I couldn't stop exclaiming, "I forgot how funny you are! I forgot how much I like hanging out with you! I forgot that you are FULL OF AWESOME!"
So V. flew in from NYC, and A. flew in from SF, and S. and I made our way down from here, and we met up in a hotel room with two smallish beds and a whole BUNCH of shoes. We got up on Saturday morning and drank coffee and ate pastries and went shopping, and went shopping, and went shopping... We shopped for HOURS. I tried on approximately nineteen gazillion pairs of Betsey Johnson heels, but settled for a new pair of boots. We bought Japanese stationery and tissues with hamsters on the packages. We took a break to have bubble tea. We laughed ourselves breathless.
We headed up to Capitol Hill because there was not a chance in Hell we were getting a fourtop at a posh place on Valentine's night. We settled for Thai, and it was a good choice. Number one, the meal was decent - pumpkin curry and a noodle dish whose name escapes me - and number two, I nearly pocketed our bartender/waiter on the way out the door.
V. kind of hated him, probably because he was all hipster-y with his tight jeans and sarcasm and affected growl, but I was curious to see what his tattoos were of, and he played some MARVELOUS music while we were there. I like to think he did it for us. Also, when we ordered our drinks, I asked for a Hendrick's and soda, easy on the soda, and he said, "So heavy on the gin, then?" And then brought it to me, exactly like I wanted. The tipping point was when he brought me another one, without me asking. He had to finish his shift, though, and we needed to go to the karoake place.
I adore karaoke. I adore gay bars. I adore greasy, snarky bartenders and pretty ones who give me free drinks. And I adore being adored, of course. So when Leo, the baby sailor, started chatting me up, I let him. He was wonderful - attentive and funny, attractive, and the tiniest bit awkward. If it were not for his weird, hand-licking, PBR-swilling fratty friend Matt, I might have kept him, just as a pet.
At one point in the evening, he said, "I just have to tell you , I think you're adorable." Aww, sweetpea! Adorable was exactly the word I was going to use for you!
He offered to walk us back to the hotel, and I was prepared to take him up on it (I thrive on admiration, remember?), but my girls dashed into a cab, and I left him waving sadly in them middle of an intersection. Leo, in the miniscule chance you have stumbled on this blog, thanks for the drinks. I never got the chance to say that before I disappeared.
Sunday was full of clouds, both figurative and literal. Although Saturday had been so nice that I was wandering around Westlake in nothing but a longsleeved t-shirt, Sunday was chill and blustery. I awoke to a text message saying that plans had fallen through, and that the last friend who was going to join us couldn't make it. I spent the morning on the verge of tears and sick to my stomach, and only about half of my discomfort could be attributed to the several rounds of drinks the night before. I tried my best to not let it ruin the rest of the trip, and succeeded except for the ten minutes I spent crouched on the sidewalk on Broadway, head pounding and heartsick, attempting not to weep as I failed to put on a good face for Z., whose disappointment rivaled mine. I moped for a bit, and then went and got a tattoo. It's funny how pain banishes things, and brings the world into tighter focus. The desire to give in and cry disappeared.
V. left in the wee hours, and A. departed from Pike's Place. I had to buy another bag just to bring home the newspapers and magazines and book I accumulated in the remaining few minutes of the trip. When I got home, the last vestige of my mini-break was a pistachio macaron, the first cookie I have eaten in months. It was bittersweet.
Once again the city breathed a little new life into me, and now I feel like I can hold on until the crocuses begin to struggle their way through the cold ground. Even though there were goodbyes again, the splinters off my heart were smaller this time. I miss my friends, but we are as close as we ever were. Until next time, darlings!
So V. flew in from NYC, and A. flew in from SF, and S. and I made our way down from here, and we met up in a hotel room with two smallish beds and a whole BUNCH of shoes. We got up on Saturday morning and drank coffee and ate pastries and went shopping, and went shopping, and went shopping... We shopped for HOURS. I tried on approximately nineteen gazillion pairs of Betsey Johnson heels, but settled for a new pair of boots. We bought Japanese stationery and tissues with hamsters on the packages. We took a break to have bubble tea. We laughed ourselves breathless.
We headed up to Capitol Hill because there was not a chance in Hell we were getting a fourtop at a posh place on Valentine's night. We settled for Thai, and it was a good choice. Number one, the meal was decent - pumpkin curry and a noodle dish whose name escapes me - and number two, I nearly pocketed our bartender/waiter on the way out the door.
V. kind of hated him, probably because he was all hipster-y with his tight jeans and sarcasm and affected growl, but I was curious to see what his tattoos were of, and he played some MARVELOUS music while we were there. I like to think he did it for us. Also, when we ordered our drinks, I asked for a Hendrick's and soda, easy on the soda, and he said, "So heavy on the gin, then?" And then brought it to me, exactly like I wanted. The tipping point was when he brought me another one, without me asking. He had to finish his shift, though, and we needed to go to the karoake place.
I adore karaoke. I adore gay bars. I adore greasy, snarky bartenders and pretty ones who give me free drinks. And I adore being adored, of course. So when Leo, the baby sailor, started chatting me up, I let him. He was wonderful - attentive and funny, attractive, and the tiniest bit awkward. If it were not for his weird, hand-licking, PBR-swilling fratty friend Matt, I might have kept him, just as a pet.
At one point in the evening, he said, "I just have to tell you , I think you're adorable." Aww, sweetpea! Adorable was exactly the word I was going to use for you!
He offered to walk us back to the hotel, and I was prepared to take him up on it (I thrive on admiration, remember?), but my girls dashed into a cab, and I left him waving sadly in them middle of an intersection. Leo, in the miniscule chance you have stumbled on this blog, thanks for the drinks. I never got the chance to say that before I disappeared.Sunday was full of clouds, both figurative and literal. Although Saturday had been so nice that I was wandering around Westlake in nothing but a longsleeved t-shirt, Sunday was chill and blustery. I awoke to a text message saying that plans had fallen through, and that the last friend who was going to join us couldn't make it. I spent the morning on the verge of tears and sick to my stomach, and only about half of my discomfort could be attributed to the several rounds of drinks the night before. I tried my best to not let it ruin the rest of the trip, and succeeded except for the ten minutes I spent crouched on the sidewalk on Broadway, head pounding and heartsick, attempting not to weep as I failed to put on a good face for Z., whose disappointment rivaled mine. I moped for a bit, and then went and got a tattoo. It's funny how pain banishes things, and brings the world into tighter focus. The desire to give in and cry disappeared.
V. left in the wee hours, and A. departed from Pike's Place. I had to buy another bag just to bring home the newspapers and magazines and book I accumulated in the remaining few minutes of the trip. When I got home, the last vestige of my mini-break was a pistachio macaron, the first cookie I have eaten in months. It was bittersweet.
Once again the city breathed a little new life into me, and now I feel like I can hold on until the crocuses begin to struggle their way through the cold ground. Even though there were goodbyes again, the splinters off my heart were smaller this time. I miss my friends, but we are as close as we ever were. Until next time, darlings!
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Whatchu got in the pot?
There is some discussion about what comprises a 'billy song - rockabilly, psychobilly, punkabilly, etc. etc. It's not strictly the subject matter - Buddy Holly never sang a single tune about hot rods, for example. It sure isn't the look - while pompadours and cuffed blue jeans prevail, there are plenty of Nudie suits and rhinestone cowboy shirts in the scene, just as many pointed toe boots as crepe soled tu-tone slip-ons. It's not one particular vocal style - compare Elvis' butter smooth round tones to Carl Perkins' nasal hillbilly twang to Paul Fenech's flat Cockney growl. Dying young is no requirement, although plenty of them did. It's not even the guitar sound - Cochran rocked that big ol' Gretsch, and so does Setzer, but there were plenty of Jazzmasters and Telecasters and Les Paul Gibsons, warm tones and tight tones and wet ones and distorted ones. And even though it causes me actual physical pain to say it, it's not the click of a slapped upright bass - there are some definitive bands that never laid hands on a doghouse. Case in point? The Cramps.
Tell me with a straight face that that isn't rockabilly. Go ahead. But that clicky? Is the drummer playing the rims.
I'm thinking about the Cramps because Lux Interior died today. He wasn't exactly young anymore - he made it to 60 - but he was still writhing and wailing and deepthroating microphones with the best of them. He HATED the term psychobilly, and maintained until the bitter end that that was not what the Cramps played (although most people agree he himself coined the term), and would rather have lumped them in with the Stooges and the Ramones and probably Richard Hell and all those coked-up performance artists that shared the stage at CBGB in the Village. I can kind of see it; Lux and Iggy both had a propensity for stripping down to their pleather underthings, flaunting their emaciation, unabashedly fondling themselves, their bandmates, the audience... But that SOUND. That sound is undeniable.
The Cramps helped save American music, them and the Ramones. They reached back into history and found the still thumping heart of rock and roll and devoured it whole, infusing a scene that was becoming mired in its own cleverness with lust and nostalgia. Go listen to Stay Sick and hear the humor and passion and allegiance to the past that most 'billy bands now strive for. You might want to grab a pair of pleather hotpants or gold lame leggings, though. Just to honor a man who dressed like a woman and dated men but was married to a woman and who had more rock and roll in his left thumb than is contained in the entire combined body mass of this week's Billboard Top 40.
Tell me with a straight face that that isn't rockabilly. Go ahead. But that clicky? Is the drummer playing the rims.
I'm thinking about the Cramps because Lux Interior died today. He wasn't exactly young anymore - he made it to 60 - but he was still writhing and wailing and deepthroating microphones with the best of them. He HATED the term psychobilly, and maintained until the bitter end that that was not what the Cramps played (although most people agree he himself coined the term), and would rather have lumped them in with the Stooges and the Ramones and probably Richard Hell and all those coked-up performance artists that shared the stage at CBGB in the Village. I can kind of see it; Lux and Iggy both had a propensity for stripping down to their pleather underthings, flaunting their emaciation, unabashedly fondling themselves, their bandmates, the audience... But that SOUND. That sound is undeniable.
The Cramps helped save American music, them and the Ramones. They reached back into history and found the still thumping heart of rock and roll and devoured it whole, infusing a scene that was becoming mired in its own cleverness with lust and nostalgia. Go listen to Stay Sick and hear the humor and passion and allegiance to the past that most 'billy bands now strive for. You might want to grab a pair of pleather hotpants or gold lame leggings, though. Just to honor a man who dressed like a woman and dated men but was married to a woman and who had more rock and roll in his left thumb than is contained in the entire combined body mass of this week's Billboard Top 40.
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