Marissa over at The Anti DC has been responsible for more morning coffee through the nose than I can count--and this Friday, she's been turned loose here at TVD to DJ your Weekend Shots:Hello, e-friends! Fancy finding, well, me here! Yes, my slow but
steady takeover of the World Wide Web has finally begun. And you're
welcome.
But enough about my diabolical e-plans! It's time to take care of some
business, and by "business," I mean I will force my musical opinions
on you. Again, you're welcome.
Anyhow, so here we are. I must admit, despite my introductory bravado, I'm a little bit nervous here over at The Vinyl District. See, unlike most of my retardulous musings at
The Anti DC, music has always been a very personal thing to me. Not only has it been the basis of many a great friendship, but it's also been a bit of an obsession. At one point, I even toyed with the idea of becoming a rock star myself...
I was living in Moscow, Russia, when a couple of acquaintances
approached me at a party and asked if I'd like to join their new band.
I gladly accepted (as I love making an ass out of myself) and
immediately began preparing for our first gig. After days of outfit
planning, I showed up at our show dressed as my alter ego, Babette the French Whore, which instantly became the name of the band. It was at that point that I knew history was about to be made. However, since I'm largely an idiot, the only history made in this instance was me being kicked out of my namesake band. Yeah.
But I'm not bitter. I mean, I was clearly the Gwen Stefani to their No
Doubt. What band wouldn't get a little jealous over that? So
naturally, they had to squash me before I could blow up and leave them in the proverbial dust, er, borscht (hey, we're talking about the Eastern Bloc here!). Or maybe it was because the only preparation I did for the show was invent an outfit, which took up so much time that I couldn't really learn the lyrics. Moot point, in my opinion.
Anyway, the point is, I love music. Singing it, dancing to it,
listening to it, and yes, sometimes even dressing for it. And while
I've finally come to accept that I'll never be a rock star (I'm
apparently not enough of a multi-tasker for that), I still love great
music and those who make it.
And so, without further ado (i.e., me telling any more ridiculous
stories about my equally ridiculous past), I invite you to take a
listen to some of the most influential, inspiring, fun, irreverent,
beautiful, sentimental, memorable, dance-worthy and/or just plain
awesome songs that I would put on any mixtape for a good friend or, in this case, e-friend. Enjoy!
The Faint - I Disappeaer (Mp3)Bams - Please, Tends L'oreille (Mp3)Elliott Smith - Let's Get Lost (Mp3)Fugazi - Merchandise (Mp3)Thom Yorke - The Clock (Mp3)At The Drive-In - Initiation (Mp3)Dismemberment Plan - You Are Invited (Mp3)Dizzee Rascal - Fix Up, Look Sharp (Mp3)Blonde Redhead - Water (Mp3)
Bright Eyes - Pull My Hair (Mp3)
Rick Carlisle at Orpheus Records in Clarendon. (Photo by John Mcdonnell)
A TVD Ten from 1980:
Well, sure - I grew up on the Jersey Shore...but I was nothing close to a Springsteen fan. It took me until my thirties to actually get The Boss, and much of that is purely nostalgia. (I'm on board now, but still...) This Meat Loaf record...with all of its bluster and blather filled the gap just fine, thank you. Motorcycles belching out from the grave, tenuous moments in the back seats of cars, hot summer nights on the beach...this was the soundtrack to that road map. Smell the ocean? I do.
OK, that's it. I'm pitching the Nano. Too many recurring themes among the randomness...but here you have it:
It just gets worse and worse, doesn't it? I'm sure a third of you are wondering to what level of depravity TVD will sink this week, another third saw this round-house punch coming since Monday when this sick salad began to be tossed--and the rest of you are making that infamous Lee Harvey Oswald face as TVD loads this morning...But fight it, I can't--these songs kill in their 1970's FM radio, AOR way. (That is, permanently downloaded and cached.) 
(Yea, that's the face.)
Despite the volume of whiskey and other things ingested at the prompting of my high school pal Noel to better "get" Yes -- it just never happened. He became a Yes-aholic, and me? Well, I preferred tunes that weren't 8 minutes long -- or a whole album side long. Sheezus. What torture. Make mine punk or new wave. But a funny thing happened -- Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman left Yes and the Buggles - the f'n BUGGLES - joined! What th'? I was in clover and Noel was in--censed. And you guys get guilty pleasure/embarrassing post #3!
Maybe it's because I miss Queen so much. Or the quality of the Roy Thomas Baker production with those sonic flourishes that have been marinating in my brain since childhood. Or maybe it's the cool--albeit corny--cover art. Or maybe it's because, while waiting with Big Andy for The Darkness to hit the stage at the 9:30, they played nothing but Thin Lizzy to warm up the crowd. Then Dan Hawkins comes out wearing a classic Thin Lizzy t-shirt. That could be it. But I tell you one thing, it's not the falsetto. Certainly not the falsetto.
It's a tough life over here at TVD, what with having to conjure up some fine, fine music each week--rummaging through the archives to find the killer overlooked tracks and the hidden gems amidst the vinyl stacks. Yet, there's a deep, dark underbelly to this pursuit: the guilty pleasure. They're LP's or bands you might not admit to liking in public conversation, but at home, squirreled away, you're tapping your toe and singing along to some seriously suspect selections. So, in the name of transparency and candor, we'll pull back the curtain a bit and reveal a few dark, dark secrets this week...and we hope you'll forgive us.
Marissa over at The Anti DC has been responsible for more morning coffee through the nose than I can count--and this Friday, she's been turned loose here at TVD to DJ your Weekend Shots:
...for my pop. In a "hey you got your rock in my classical/no you got your classical in my rock" way, dad and I always found common ground with ELO and this LP in particular when it was new...blasting 'Mr. Blue Sky' on the car radio, tooling around the town while coming up with weirder and funnier band names than Electric Light Orchestra. 
Elvis Costello's next solo studio album, curiously dubbed "Momofuku," will arrive April 22 via Lost Highway. For the time being, the set will be released only on vinyl, with a digital download code included in the package.
...reminds me that the smallest, most innocuous of events--in this case, a rainy afternoon, mid-Fall trip to another record store (Record World in Seaview Square Mall--where yours truly would ultimately find employment)...could pay the largest dividends many years on. So, you parents out there, pull your kids away from Guitar Hero for one afternoon and take them to an honest-to-goodness, brick-and-mortar record store. Many years down the line they might find themselves eternally grateful--and who knows--they may even blog about it some day...
Talking with Ms. TVD last night, I was reminded that my dad once toured with the Ringling Brothers Circus -- not as a performer but as someone hired to film the goings-on from the performances to the backstage stuff. She was kinda surprised to hear that and I guess I hadn't thought about it in quite a while. But often when I was a kid, the rough, uncut footage would come out and dad would narrate through the soundless portions. I had seen the footage pretty darn often and became pretty disinterested when he'd roll through the nostalgia AGAIN after setting up the projector and the slide screen for the umpteenth time.
Metal giants announce intimate signing session
I was 11 and obsessed with "Let's Go." Played it over and over again. Finally, I get my hands on the LP and I'm standing in the kitchen with my dad after dinner, just having returned from Two Guys with the record. My mom's looking at the cover like, "Reallly?" with one eyebrow raised. My dad says, "Honey, it's a VARGAS." Nothing ever mentioned again.
Any comics geek over say 30, will tell you there's something to the smell of the comic's pages themselves--the ink on the paper that takes you right back to the proverbial simpler time and place. We all do it--crack open a comic and with one whiff you're twelve and it's 7am some Saturday morning and before there's any stirring in the house, you've already been to the Negative Zone with the Fantastic Four or fighting the Hellfire Club alongside the X-Men. It's pretty amazing stuff the memory bookmarks in seemingly innocuous ways. 
Long-time friend Shamus DJ's your Weekend Shots all the way from:
