The Bass Is Base

Album: R.E.M., Chronic Town, 1982

Best Song: "Stumble"

Lasting Memory: Early R.E.M. was a revelation--a bolt of Americana lightning from a clear blue sky.

So, of course, I didn't pick up the band's 1982 debut EP until 1988, and even only then under duress. I'm always late to the party, and I only arrive after having taken a wrong turn.

An hour after I won my high school's local league heavyweight wrestling crown, my family car stalled out while I was driving home from the tournament. Stranded a dozen miles from my home and in the parking lot of one of Tidewater's foremost music stores, Tracks at Ward's Corner, I called my dad and headed for the $1.99 cassette bin.

Purchasing R.E.M.'s Chronic Town was my true victory of that late February day. I am pleased that I earned a sports title to add to my lifetime resume, and I'm grateful to this day that my father was willing to drive out and rescue me. But I'm karmicly indebted to that shitty Ford Fairlane for forcing me to be in a position to pick up Chronic Town.

Of all of R.E.M.'s 14 albums, Chronic Town is my favorite because it is both charmingly unpolished and a précis on what the band from Athens, Ga., would go on to accomplish.

It bears noting--which I will fail to do in the course of my next seven posts--that what R.E.M. went on to accomplish was taking over the world by making the U.S. airwaves safe for alternative music.

The open secret to R.E.M.'s success is that, following the Who and sometimes the Kinks, lead singer Michael Stipe and guitarist Peter Buck allowed bassist Mike Mills to take the rhythm and melody lines of the band's songs. This not-exactly innovation makes "Wolves, Lower" and "Carnival of Sorts (Box Cars) " instant classics.

It also helps to sell R.E.M.'s music when the vocals are mixed way below the instruments. The band would break from this style dramatically on the album that inevitably made me fall out of love with the group whose drummer used to be Bill Berry.

But, good grief, who could resist the siren call of the half-Byrds and half-Velvet Underground anthem that is "Stumble"?

Up Next: R.E.M., Murmur, 1983

Dude, We Call That "Therapy"

Yesterday, the world learned that an admitted Al Qaeda leader is terrified of caterpillars.

Having an unnatural and highly mockable aversion to moths myself, I could almost relate. That is, I was semiprepared to spare Abu Zubaydah the tiniest bit of fellow feeling until I also learned that he considered it torturous to be placed in a small room with an arthropod.

Dude, that's not torture. That is desensitization therapy.

I also found myself questioning Zubaydah's choice of career and the lifestyle it imposed on him. As an al Quaeda operative, the man was required to spend a majority of his time in caves, swamps, desserts and many other places that were absolutely crawling with insects.

If this terrorist was truly terrified of bugs, wouldn't he have been much happier doing anything else than rising through the ranks of al Qaeda? If Zubaydah can't act in his own best interest, he gets no sympathy from me. He should be made to lay in his own bedbugs.

In fact, if you want to send some bad vibes Zubaydah's way, go here and think in his direction. Your country has pledged not to prosecute you for your service.

What's in a Name?

Album: Rancid, Let's Go, 1994

Best Track: Pick 'em

Worst Track: Pick 'em

Lasting Memory: In early 1994, I saw Blacksburg, Virginia's own Pietasters play live for the first time. Instantly, I was a ska kid. A nearly 25-year-old ska kid, but, man, I was hooked. I set about buying every ska-related album I could afford, which was about one every two months.

Rancid's Let's Go was acquired during this saddest, slowest record-buying frenzy ever, and it didn't disappoint. Let's Go is as close to a ska punk template as anything anyone could name. None of the songs are absolute classics, but a couple are pretty darn good, particularly "Sidekick" and "St. Mary." Also, and this is a huge accomplishment for any punk band, none of the songs on Let's Go are awful. "Name" and "I Am the One" aren't great, mind you, but they are tolerable enough.

If motivated and at leisure to take the time to do so, I could probably describe exactly why some of these songs sound appealing and other less so. But I'll let myself off the hook with the observation that the band's music doesn't not live up to or down to its name. There is nothing rancid about this album.

What really sold Let's Go when it was released in 1994 was Rancid's history of being composed of several members of the seminal band Operation Ivy. What sells Let's Go in 2009 is the knowledge that Rancid would release an album titled Out Come the Wolves ... that is loaded with great songs and which I sold my copy of in 2000 to get beer money.

Selling possessions for beer money, now that's punk.

Up Next: R.E.M., Chronic Town, 1982

Rejoice! He Is Fabricated

Lego Jesus Loves You

He just wants everyone to fit together.

The Sum of One Fear

Inspired by an Onion AV Club feature on childhood scares, wanting to weasel out of doing a by-this-blog's-rules post on the pretty mediocre Ramones album Brain Drain that spans the audioscape from heavy to metal, and feeling appropriately confessional on Good Friday, I'm posting this video




and admitting that there is a scene in the 1989 film Pet Semetary that still creeps me the eff out. It's when the sick woman suddenly sits up in bed. Having exposed myself to it again, I may not sleep for a week. Enjoy, if you dare.




Up Next: Rancid, Let's Go, 1994

P.S. Fred Gwynne was a fascinating, immensely talented man. If you ever get a chance to watch his Biography Channel biography, do so. It will be time well spent.

Inspiring Words From an Inspired Band

Facing serious underemployment in exactly three weeks and two days, I find myself in the ironic situation of having a ridiculous amount of work to deliver on deadline before the end of April.

It'll take a miracle to meet my deadlines. It may well take another miracle to quickly and fully replace the income I'll be losing come May 1. Fortunately, like the Ramones, I believe in miracles.

Wish me luck storming the castle.

Own Your Onus

Album: Ramones, Animal Boy, 1986

Best Track: "Love Kills"

Lasting Memory: To my ears, the best song on Animal Boy is the Dee Dee Ramone-penned eulogy/cautionary tale "Love Kills." The song is about the doomed-because-drug-fueled romance between Sex Pistols bassist Sid Vicious and American lost girl Nancy Spungeon. The love affair is excellently captured in the movie Sid & Nancy, so every time I listen to Animal Boy, I think of the movie.

The person who put together this fanvid also seems to also have had trouble separating the movie from real life and from the chanson d'hommage.

It's more than a little ironic that Dee Dee Ramone would warn listeners about the dangers of heroin use and the rock 'n' roll lifestyle, since he was addicted to both. Takes one to warn another, I guess.

And it's not like Dee Dee was alone among his bandmates in having addiction problems. Noted drinker Joey Ramones contributed no less than three songs about his highball hobby to Animal Boy--"Somebody Put Something in My Drink," "Crummy Stuff," and "Hair of the Dog."

I wonder if the Ramones were cagey enough to claim their drug and drink costs as business expenses? Their iniquities did lead to some pretty kickass songs.

Up Next: Ramones, Brain Drain, 1989

Just 'Casue It's a Just Cause

I used to own a "Hands Across Your Face" t-shirt.



This song, off of the still-unprofiled Animal Boy, contains one of my favorite verses of all time:

If I was stupid or naive
Trying to achieve what they all call contentness
If people weren't such fags and I never made mistakes
Then I could find forgiveness

I like this song -- and this verse in particular -- because it does something I've repeatedly taken the Ramones to task for not doing. The song and verse express postadolescent disappointment with oneself and everyone else succintly and understandably while bordering on incoherency. That's a job for punk rock, yessir.

The entire song works because it employs the timeless trope of using slapstick-y comedy to couch and cover a real expression of pain and anger.

What Dee Dee Ramone was feeling so upset about when he co-wrote "Something to Believe In," I can't say. But it's good for listeners that he was going through whatever whenever.