We Love Malcolm

...cause no one else does.

(Video via Jon Solomon.)

There's a lot of things you could call Malcolm McClaren: swindler, charlatan, opportunist, scam artist, provocateur, culture vulture, art school wanker, unrepentant exploiter, borderline child pornographer, shameless idea thief, narcissist. I'm sure McLaren wouldn't object to any of those being part of his epitaph.

Coincidentally, I just rewatched The Filth and the Fury a few days ago. The film certainly downplayed McLaren's contribution to his most famous association, the Sex Pistols. This was in some ways a refutation of The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (ironically, also directed by Julien Temple), where McLaren positioned himself as a Machiavellian mastermind assaulting culture and the Pistols themselves as mere puppets. The truth somewhere in between. There's little doubt that McLaren's concepts shaped the Sex Pistols to some degree. At the very least, he deserves full credit for dressing them.

Beyond even that band's considerable influence, McLaren's fingerprints are all over popular culture. Consider Bow Wow Wow's Annabella Lwin then consider the early career of Britney Spears. Consider his "solo" recording "Buffalo Gals" then consider Snoop Dogg's "Drop It Like It's Hot." McLaren was obviously more an ideas man than musician but his ideas have informed music culture for the past 30-plus years. Anyone who has enjoyed a bit of post-Situationist subversion mixed in with their pop product probably has McLaren to thank.

Children By The Million...

...sing for Alex Chilton.

I'm quite certain there's no chance of me writing a better tribute to Mr. Chilton than the one Westerberg did many years ago. So I'll just note that the three albums he made with Big Star are indeed every bit as brilliant as everyone says they are and worthy of their legendary status. In fact, they cast such a long shadow that many seemed to resent Chilton for not remaking them in his (admittedly scattershot) solo career. At the very least, you have to hand it to Chilton for being a muse-follower rather than a crowd pleaser. Songs like "Walking Dead" and "My Rival" are among the most fucked-up rock n roll recordings you'll ever hear from a major artist, released well before that sort of willful deconstruction had any aesthetic cachet. (The collection Stuff, is as good an introduction as any to his solo work.)

Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be any performance footage of pre-reunion Big Star available, nor any of his prior band, the Box Tops, where they aren't miming. (Though this one pairs footage of the recording of their first album with a song from their third.) So here's LX, in the mid-80s, promoting his Feudalist Tarts EP by playing a few songs and giving a brief interview.

Requiem For A Reatard

When I first heard rumors of the passing of Jimmy Lee Lindsay, better known to the world as Jay Reatard, I assumed it was some nasty internet prank. With the recent Chuck Biscuits fiasco fresh in my memory and factoring in JR's propensity toward message board and Twitter feuds, it seemed like the most plausible explanation.

Sadly, the rumors turned out to be true. While many insensitively chimed in with some variance of "I'm not surprised," I have to say that I was. While the press deemed Jay Reatard as confrontational and self-destructive, I always felt that was a bit blown out of proportion for the sake of good copy. I saw him play at Cakeshop a few years back and he angrily confronted a fan, who had slam danced all over his pedals. Under the circumstances, "Get the fuck off my shit" seemed like a reasonable response. I figured that other scrapes he'd been in since were retaliations to much more pronounced baiting. I even thought urinating on his own bandmate while on stage was well within the realms of acceptable rockstar behavior.

There are certainly those more qualified than me to eulogize Jay Reatard. I didn't know the man. I'm not as familiar with his extremely prolific recording career as some. In fact, most of his formative work didn't do much for me. Upon hearing the Reatards many years ago, I was fairly unimpressed. It wasn't until a friend turned me on to Blood Visions shortly after its release that I finally recognized the guy as a considerable talent. I illegally downloaded Blood Visions upon recommendation and was instantly blown away. Mr. Reatard seemed to synthesize everything I love about punk rock in that one record, combining the angularity of Wire, the irreverence of Angry Samoans and the raw fury and velocity of bands like the Pagans and the Saints. After the album ended, I promptly got in my car, drove to the nearest shop and bought a concrete copy. I can't name another album that moved me to equal measures.

Blood Visions slowly gained momentum as a major release by a vital artist. Along with the praise, Mr. Reatard seemed to garner criticism from two opposing viewpoints. (Shot by both sides, as it were.) Some punk purists considered him a sellout, as he became more popular and his material became more melodic. Others dismissed his music outright as retrogressive trash. I can't speculate if any of these conflicts led to his demise.

What I can say is that I found his music incredibly exciting. His more recent "pop" direction may have lacked the immediate impact of his prior work but better showcased his ample skills as a songwriter. It also proved that Jay Reatard was not one content to rest on his laurels and simply churn out whatever made him famous in the first place, as so many lesser artists do.

In my review of his most recent album, Watch Me Fall, I opined that Jay Reatard had made a "reverse In Utero." I had no idea that similarly, its creator would be gone less than a year after its release. Watch Me Fall left me wondering what he'd do next. It's a great shame that the world will never know.

MJ at the Crossroads

"It was totally unfair that it didn't get Record of the Year and it can never happen again." -Michael Jackson, disappointed that Off The Wall only received one Grammy.

On the night of February 27th, 1980, a disheartened Michael Jackson returned to his home, his Best Male R&B Vocal Performance Grammy in his hand. It was a consolation prize, he thought. Any award with that many qualifiers in its name is barely an award at all.

He walked in the door and the beast was waiting for him.

"Hello, Michael. I know you're upset. I would be too if I were you. It was unfair. 'What A Fool Believes' as record of the year? It's a joke. You were much more deserving, especially after all you've been through.

But I can help you, Michael. What if I told you that your next album could not only sweep the Grammys but be the biggest selling album of all-time? And you, Michael, would be the biggest pop star in the world, adored by not just millions, but hundreds of millions, perhaps even billions. And the children, Michael. They would love you more than anyone.

You wouldn't have to answer to anyone, Michael. No one could tell you what to do. Not the press. Not the record label. Not your family, Michael. All of those who tried to keep down in the past would come to you begging for your help, begging for just the lightest caress from your Midas touch. They would be yours to appease or deny. You'd be an entity of your own, untouchable.

I could show you things, Michael. Things you wouldn't believe. Things you would think defy the laws of physics, like how to move backwards and forwards at the same time.

It could all be yours, Michael. Let's make deal."

Michael made the deal and everything the beast promised came true. Thriller and its many hits, including the title track with its occult overtones, were a pop music phenomenon like the world had never seen.

But soon, the beast came for Michael's soul.

Michael's music slowly became less soulful, no longer working in the black R&B idiom but instead playing professional pop for greatest mass appeal.

His appearance also began to betray his African-American heritage. His nose became skinnier and his skin progressive paler. Eventually, he just didn't cease to resemble a soul brother, but barely looked human at all.

His essence corrupted, Michael developed a fascination with young children. Proximity to their innocence helped him regain a small bit of what he had lost. He attempted to express his affection for these children in a manner his eroding moral compass thought perfectly appropriate.

Soon, people began saying the most awful things about him. He was still known throughout the world but no longer as a superstar. At best, he was a punchline from which the most hackneyed comedian could elicit a laugh. At worst, he was a monster.

Michael did his best to persevere. Thirty years after his deal with the beast, Michael had hoped to tour again, performing his music in front of a smaller but still sizable following of fans who continued to be devoted to him. It was all he had left. As the only possible source of pleasure remaining in Michael's life, the beast took him to hell before the tour could begin.

The timing was perfect for the beast. He had a busy weekend ahead of him fulfilling the terms of his deal with Michael Bay.

Sky Saxon RIP

Sky Saxon, leader of 60s "flower punks" the Seeds and author of one of my favorite songs of all time (see below), passed away this morning. Literally a few moments after I heard the news, CNN reported that Farrah Fawcett also met her demise today, so it's looking unlikely that Sky's passing will get any coverage from any mainstream media outlets. This is unfortunate as surely the composer of the below made a considerable contribution to culture:




Update: Obviously, just a few a hours later, even bigger news broke.

Lux Interior 1946-2009

There are bands that are influential and there are bands so seminal they seem to birth entire subcultures by themselves. I'm not going to insult anyone's intelligence by using the term "psychobilly," and I'll admit that after couple of brilliant records the law of diminishing returns set in, but any artist since who's harnessed the raw power of primal rock n roll and wedded it with punk irreverence owes the Cramps a debt of gratitude. Their singer, Lux Interior, passed away today.

It Was 30 Years Ago Today...

..that John Simon Ritchie poked his head out, saw his shadow and decided to overdose of heroin, thus giving a generation of maladjusted misfits a role model for self-destruction and anti-social behavior in the name of "punk." Sid, of course, didn't play a note on Nevermind the Bollocks, but since when was punk about the music? It's an attitude, man!

Happy Groundhog Day everybody!

Ron Asheton 1948-2009

It's unfortunate that this sad occasion marks my first post of the new year.

Multiple sources are reporting that Stooges/New Order (US)/Destroy All Monsters/New Race-guitarist Ron Asheton has passed away at 60. Here is the Guardian UK's report.

I'm sure there are many more fit than me to eulogize Mr Asheton so all I'll say is this: for years, whenever the topic of the Stooges came up, my summation of their work would be something like "Fuck James Williamson. Ron Asheton is the man!" That might have been a bit harsh but while Raw Power is fully enjoyable record, for me, few rock bands could ever hope to match the feral wallop put forth by Asheton's riffs on the first two Stooges albums.
Probably even more than Iggy, Ron Asheton was the Stooges.

Bo Diddley, 1928-2008

I've sometimes stated the (admittedly oversimplified) opinion that rock n roll has 3 fathers: Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Bo Diddley. We lost one of them today.

It usually drives me crazy when performer is retroactively labeled "Punk Rawk!" by folks whose idea of subversion is having tattoos and/or a weird haircut. (Johnny Cash is the most egregious example but I'm sure been applied to everyone from James Dean to Scrooge McDuck.) Thus, I'm only going to point out that while most of Diddley's obits have pointed out the enduring influence of the "Bo Diddley beat" (bomp! da-bomp! bomp! bomp! bomp!) few have noted that Diddley's understanding of the power of the "rhythm as lead" approach to electric guitar might be his greatest gift to the world.