dude, i-tunes blows! long live amazon! Thats right folks the amazon mp3 store is up, check it out, hi quality mp3s that are not right protected visit it here you can find just about everything..except ac/dc, i don’t know why but itunes doesn’t have them either, weird. I know i haven’t posted in a while but i have been real busy, I will have the flyers soon for temple of boom, talk to you when i can.

lates

a.t.

Filed under: slowblogger

Artsy-fartsy parties were my mother’s pastime when both her and I were younger. It was the late 80′s and early 90′s. She was in her thirties and I was a pre-tween. She had just discovered the pleasures of staying young by acting young and I had discovered the pleasures of feeling young by being younger. It was a pleasure to have so many more years ahead of me than party-goers who dressed, talked, dolled up, and made on as if age weren’t a destructive force but a license to use their additional years to impart wisdom on all spheres of culture, but all the while they seemed unsure of their place, they seemed to know that there was another wave of youth coming; I liked being there to remind them, even if I never said a word. Often little children can make 20 and 30 somethings tremble simply by being around because the somethings know that the children will probably be around a bit more, and they will inherit their album collection at 50 cents a record.

The party talk was disconcerting because I have seen the same talk these days in my own generation and even worse I have been guilty of this reckless snobbishness myself, and often, mostly while hungry or drunk. There are always those who want to be both wise and young, experienced and hip. Artsy-fartsy parties share a common language. I wouldn’t realize this until later when I became aware of my own ridiculous whiskey babble. In ’89 I was just a captive observer, I had no idea how silly it all could sound. Take this desperate conversation I remember overhearing as I stood behind a large potted ficus .

- Man #1 -Where should I set my drink. Oh here we go. What was I saying. Oh yea, have you heard the new The The album?

- Woman #1 – No, I think I heard that song, but I haven’t bought the record.

- Man #2 – Oh, oh are you talking about the one on the radio, It’s My Wife, or something like that.

- Woman #1 – Is that it? I like that song.

- Man #3 (turning around from another conversation) No no, it’s It’s My Life and that’s Talk Talk.

- Man #1 – Shit that song’s awful, The The is so much better.

- Woman # 1 (digging through purse) Wait what is called again? I wanna write it down. I should get that record for Steve, he loves that song, if it’s the one I’m thinking of.

- Man #3 – No way, Soul Mining was a good album but The The haven’t done anything good since.

- Man #2 – Is that the one with the weird crayon painted face on it?

- Man #1 – No, that’s Infected and that one is really good. No way Talk Talk is better, that’s crazy. It’s so radio and not good college radio.

- Man #3 – I’ve heard Talk Talk on college radio.

- Woman # 1 – (writing on a matchbook) Infected Soul?

- Man #1 – You’re so wrong, Talk Talk is so cheesy compared to The The.

- Man # 2 – Wait, we can settle this. (Yelling into the kitchen) Nancy, can I look through Bob’s records.

And so the argument was sorted out. Who won? Sort it out yourself, it’s a whole new generation.

Talk Talk

The The

Filed under: slowblogger

On the subject of crying, Bobby Gentry kills me. I weep like hell every time I hear “Ode to Billy Joe”. So imagine my surprise and utter embarrassment when I learned Reba McEntire wasn’t the progenitor of “Fancy”. That hit neu-country song I used to hear from the WB starlet while sitting in the back seat of my mom’s 1980 Crown Vic, to the derision of many a BHS wrestler (“ees your mom your taxi driver?” bench seats, tiny driver legs, I’d explain in a long sequence of explanations as to why I’m not a pretentious dickhead…). I like her little dances, especially the leg-sweeps, c’mon, it’s uncomfortable but it’s not quite thumbs and kicks. The leg-sweeps aren’t as cool as mock roach stomps would’ve been, but it kinda looks like she’s pushing their butts along with her shoe, underneath the lazy susan. Is “Lazy Susan” a good name for a band? I’d love to know your opinion…


Buy Bobbie Gentry mp3 at amazon.com

Filed under: slowblogger

Manhattan Melodrama (1934)

Dear reader, I apologize. Lately I’m a cryer. It’s these damn movies people are making. I keep watching them expecting to be disappointed but I just disappoint myself by balling like a babe. This time I should have known by the title. Manhattan Melodrama was a small movie when it first released but it became a big hit with audiences – especially when they found out that the original gangster John Dillinger was shot outside of a theater after watching it. Although I believe that this was just a conveniently cocksure reason for men to watch a movie about two good looking and charming best friends.

The movie gives a lot quickly even though Mickey Rooney has a lot to do with it. Within the first ten minutes we are given a boat party, a boat burning, a boat sinking, the death of almost every important character to that point and a a riot between capitalists and communists. And then within the next couple minutes we watch Hollywood work one of it’s earliest and most impressive magic tricks when it ages Mickey Rooney into Clark Gable. Another kid, played by Jimmy Butler (who eleven years later died in France during WW2) grows up to be William Powell. The two are best friends but grow up on either side of the law. Gable is a gangster and Powell is a rising attorney for the state of New York. Between them is Myrna Loy. The wheels of melodrama have their slope. However, it is the acting that moves the movie.

Myrna Loy plays a woman only a date rapist wouldn’t love. William Powell plays an honest and boring man that never bores and Clark Gable is Clark Gable. As a warning, if you think Clark Gable is just Rhett Butler from Gone With the Wind, (as I once did) then you have work to do. My suggestion, make room at the front of your Netflix queue, search for Clark Gable, and insert anything with at least three full red stars. Manhattan Melodrama was directed by W.S. Van Dyke who was famous for directing The Thin Man movies, (which also starred William Powell and Myrna Loy) but should be famous for directing about four movies a year from 1922 to 1942. A few months after his last movie was released he killed himself; but not from overwork, but from the agony of cancer. The directing is done with a finish not resembling a man who was part factory and the story and script are superb. Arthur Caesar deserved his Oscar for Best Story. He helped make a crybaby cry.

Filed under: slowblogger