SONG OF THE WEEK: “Borrowed Tune”
— Neil Young

My ma was less than thrilled—I can remember her glaring at us kids in the rearview mirror and muttering, “You little piss-ants!” or some other equally fascinating jab. I’ll go on record right here and now saying that, although my mother is fairly diminutive, hovering somewhere below the 5-foot mark (sorry, Mom!), I was always more terrified of invoking her wrath than I was of my dad’s, regardless of how loud, crude and threatening he could be. And it wasn’t fear of her physical retribution that moved me, but the mere fact of having her angry with me that governed my behavior.

Over time, I’d learned to gauge exactly how irritated she was getting, and back off before she could explode. As the odor whirled through the air vents and the smell reached such epic proportions that we could no longer breathe without pulling our shirts over our noses and mouths, we all got the giggles. Looking back, I guess just the thought of—let alone the actual sensation of being immersed in—such a rancid, foul emanation drove us close to the brink of madness. Our eyes began to water, both from the smell and from laughing, and I can recall the magnificent, sky-piercing mountains, blue-green ocean and dark, roadside forest all whizzing by through a watery blur. Talk about your conflicting sensations. I wouldn’t have wanted to be the one driving, but Ma kept it together.

What were we to do? Pull over and call some nonexistent roadside assistance program (this was, after all, the frontier of Alaska around 1970) to come and fumigate the car? Dial 1-800-REEK-AWAY? No, we were trapped, at least until we reached that afternoon’s destination (probably the docks, where lots of other foul smells would at least balance out this one) and let ‘er cool down awhile. Even then, we knew we were in for a summer of rides in a rolling stink-wagon that was so putrid and horrific to experience that there was nothing left to do but laugh. And laugh we did. All four windows down, blasting along the freshly-paved two-lane blacktop, howling like hyenas and reeking to high heaven, we must’ve looked to fellow motorists and the few pedestrians we met to be some sort of high-speed, shrieking metal box on wheels full of escaped lunatics.

If they’d listened closely, they’d have heard the soundtrack to our little tear through that tiny burg—a song I’d never have expected my ma to leave on the radio long enough for us to even get into it. See, she usually kept the dial on either the local station, which was pretty much a public gig, airing phone-in markets, fishing and weather reports, and round the clock news, or the corn-ball AM country station out of Kenai, which broadcast a lot of music that I loved at the time (Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline, George Jones, Merle Haggard), then later professed to hate in high school, and now am proud to say I love once again. To hear a rock ’n’ roll song—a modern one, not a ’50s doo-wop or mid-’60s girl group—on my mom’s car radio at that time was a bit shocking, and I guess it only really registered to me because (a) I love music so much, and (b) it was such a great, driving, killer song. The first thing I noticed about it was the drums.

Boom-bah, boom-boom-bah-boom-bah, rat-a-tat-tat-tat!! “Hey, you!” sneered the singer, “Get offa my cloud! Hey—hey—you—you—get offa my cloud/Don’t hang around ‘cuz/Two’s a crowd!” Yeah, that was quite a turn-around from the usual “I’ve been walkin’, after midnight ...,” “Well, I was born, a coal miner’s daughter ...,” or “I beg your pardon/I never promised you a rose garden ...” I was slain. I guess I’d probably heard the Stones before—I did have several teenage aunts and uncles—but this was the first time I remember really HEARING them. And though I laughed and joked about that big, stinky ride to friends later, it was that song—and that deceptively simple, ass-kickin’ drum roll—that really stuck in my head. It’s probably the real reason I even remember this story at all—music seems to be the glue that holds a lot of my past together.

At any rate, I’ve loved The Stones—not everything they’ve done, but a good portion of it—and Charlie Watts in particular ever since. That song, and his beat, got me interested in drums for the rest of my life. Gone were the innocent days of singing along with Johnny Horton’s “The Battle Of New Orleans,” Roger Miller’s “Dang Me,” or BJ Thomas’ “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head” at the top of my lungs. Oh, I still had some cheese ahead; I’d yet to discover the heartbreaking comfort of hearing the Carpenters on the radio on a rainy afternoon after I saw my dog get hit by a car, or the desperate strains of Bread, Abba, America, or Seals And Crofts after a nice, nasty breakup.

And let’s not pretend here—much of the music I play now, although wrapped in the waxy paper of sophistication, is just a fancier brand of cheese. If all of those old ’70s bands—the ones Charlie Watts and the Stones always pulled me back from when I got too wimpy, back to the ROCK, at least until ’79—were like the Cheez Whiz, Kraft or Velveeta of the music world, then cats like Nick Drake, Mark Eitzel and Nick Cave are like the Gouda, Brie or bleu cheeses—grown-up cheeses. And doesn’t it figure that the fancier and more refined a cheese is, the better the chances are that it’ll also have a rich, thick, distinctive odor—nay, reek—to it?

See, it all comes back to that stinky ride in the days before disco, dope and degradation had brought the mighty Stones themselves to a certain cheese level, back when they were a lean, mean, rockin’ machine propelled by the sure-fire skin-slammin’ of one Charlie Watts, the coolest—if not the best—drummer in the universe. And he’s still the coolest, even if the band itself hasn’t played a decent new original note in several decades. Back then, it was all new to me, and Charlie was still in the thick of it all. Back then, the Stones weren’t yet 10 years old, and neither was I. Back then, the past was smaller than the future, and the possibilities for all of us seemed endless.

Back then, I didn’t know that Charlie’s true musical passion was for jazz (although he insists to this day that he does not, contrary to popular belief, hate rock ’n’ roll), or that he once confessed that he’d have loved to play drums for The Sex Pistols, or that he never once took LSD, though he wished he did, or that he felt that he could play better “.. behind a smoke (joint),” or that he once had a producer play his beats back to him through a drum machine, and was so offended that he was moved to remark, “He will be the first one to get lynched, come the revolution.” I only knew that he blew me away, and he still does. So thanks, Charlie—and may you live to play “Get Off Of My Cloud” for another 40 years. Um—that is, if that’s what you want to do.

*FUN FACT: The online USA Today story about Charlie Watts’ brush with cancer (10/4/04) is listed as being filed by a Las Vegas Bureau AP reporter named Brian Jones. And it’s not even Halloween yet...*

Now on to our regularly scheduled DVD/CD reviews:

Devo
Live In The Land Of The Rising Sun DVD
(Sick Video/MVD, 2004)

Inspired, as they were, by the National Guard’s 1972 killing of four student Vietnam war protesters at the Kent State campus, it’s no surprise to find Ohio musical pioneers Devo still a relevant force on the art-rock/protest scene—even if they are playing to Japanese audiences. This lovingly packaged, fiery set of de-evolved classics was shot live in “the bowels of Tokyo, Japan” in the summer of 2003, 22 years after the band’s wildly successful—and record-company-supported—first visit to the nation.

Appearing to have lost none of their geeky, herky-jerky energy, keen wit and genuine rock ’n’ roll attitude, brothers Mark and Bob Mothersbaugh, Gerald and Bob Casale, and drummer David Kendrick here present absolutely scathing run-throughs of rowdy, spud-driven faves like “That’s Good,” “Girl U Want,” “Whip It,” “Satisfaction,” “Uncontrollable Urge,” “Mongoloid,” “Smart Patrol/Slap Yer Mammy,” “Gates Of Steel,” and “Freedom Of Choice.” And while the musical subject matter speaks volumes about its author’s political and social beliefs—the group was founded on the principal that mankind is steadily de-evolving, and will soon involuntarily reach a “Planet Of The Apes”-like state from which there will be no return—it’s the interview segments here that really find our energy-dome-sporting little nerd-rockers spewing some righteous revolutionary rabble-rousing.

When asked by the Japanese press what they thought of America today, they retorted: “Unfortunately, America right now has taken a bad, bad turn. Everything is bad and ugly and America’s dangerous and America’s stupid and doing all the wrong things. But we (Devo) were what was right about America, because we thought for ourselves, we hated illegitimate authority, and we were anti-stupidity, pro-information. And we didn’t think there was no future (a jab at Johnny Rotten & Co.—and the nihilistic attitude of punk in general), we thought there was a real future and it was ugly and horrible. And we were right! And now we have a retarded cowboy running our country!” The footage then slams back into an absolutely mind-blowing “Blockhead,” presumably a little tribute to our Fearless Leader—just another tweak in a thrill-packed, whirlwind journey through the band’s endearingly twisted mind-set.

Video montages, stadium-rock quality lighting, and shrieking, buzzing, howling alarms intermingle with the band’s music throughout the set, with the cameras giving equal time to the swarming throngs of frothing, screaming Devo-tees in the audience. The images, the songs and the wildly-dressed group’s antics blend together to create an almost psychedelic vibe, even though the band and its followers are clearly high on the music and the experience alone—an experience which is filled with hippies, preppies, punks, spuds, ninnies, twits, Booji boys, words, war, TOIL IS STUPID, hearts full of worms, “In the beginning was the end ...,” lights, mongo, go up, alarms, buzz, buzz, the band crying out in yellow paper outfits, “Kenichiwa!!”

Other highlights include a ferociously spastic reading of their de-evolved version of the Stones’ classic, “Satisfaction,” an over-the-top rendition of “Uncontrollable Urge”—oh, yes, these Dexters still get those young foreign schoolgirls all hot an’ bothered—during which the band lays down some serious choreography and the clothing begins to come off in huge swaths. “Mongoloid” is absolutely slammin’, driving the crowd into a mad, raw, totally rock ’n’ roll performance, with Mark Mothersbaugh dropping to all fours and bounding around the stage like a wild dog. As the opening notes of “Jocko Homo” rip out of the amps, the final shreds of the outfits are discarded (like some modern rock version of The Full Monty), and there they are, in all their fiftysomething glory, kickin’ it out loud and proud in their T-shirts, boxers and black garter-socks. The show boils to a head with “Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA” (with guitarist Bob Casale producing a howling, growling axe solo/stage prowl that’s equal parts Angus and Neil Young), an anthemic, crowd-pleasing “Gates Of Steel,” and the oh-so-timely “Freedom Of Choice.”

Cool extras include “Devo Goes To Japan,” a series of shots of the band riding the subway, shopping, and generally freaking out in Japan, an interview with drummer David Kendrick, and an ultra rare 1980 video of “Gut Feeling.” This package is not only a much-needed confirmation for fans and new initiates that Devo is indeed alive and well in the 21st Century, but also an important documentary of an American band caught in a moment in time—one that may well ultimately define the future of this country altogether. A rare opportunity, as Mothersbaugh is quick to agree in one of the vid’s final interview segments: “This is a pretty rare experience. Very rare. It’s like going to a museum. We would like to just stop doing it, just mow the lawn, but there’s nobody else doing what we used to do, so we have to come out and do it one more time.” Do yourself a favor—make sure you catch ‘em doing it one more time. Twist away those gates of steel, brothers and sisters, and do your duty now for the future—buy Devo on DVD!

Dan Israel
Time I Get Home
(Eclectone Records, 2004)

Local singer/songwriter Dan Israel returns with a fresh batch of the jangly, soulful folk-rock he’s so adept at writing, crooning and playing. Time I Get Home, his sixth release overall—and first since 2002’s Love Ain’t A Cliche—is the result of a 10-day recording session in his basement over the Christmas and New Year’s holidays of 2003, although the tight, finished product is, sonically, far from what one would consider a “basement recording.” Like a lot of the thirtysomething state worker’s material, this collection is home to a fair number of highly personal songs, and seems to be a logical extension of the feelings of loss, heartbreak, pain and betrayal he’s touched on in the past. Thankfully, Israel studied just as seriously at the feet of Bob Dylan as he did some of his more dire pop inspirations (Big Star, Elvis Costello), so like those older songs, these too contain that small, hard-to-define grain of hope that so sets him apart from the “singer/songwriter” pack.

With the exception of drums (Dave Russ, of Israel’s band The Cultivators, pitches in) and Hammond organ (ditto Honeydog Peter Sands), Israel plays all of the instruments on his latest, a choice which fits these nicely understated, hum-able ballads and harmony-rich personal anthems perfectly. “Come To Me” is an uplifting, keyboard-augmented dreamer of a tune, with Israel imploring his beloved to just leave the cold, cruel world behind and find solace in his arms. “All The Phonies” is a driving, catchy pop number, with the author laying waste to his personal Judases over smokin’ axe licks and crackin’ snare, while “Down The Line” drifts in on a vaguely island-ish groove, shades of George Harrison in the subtle lead guitar line.

“On Our Way” is a fragile, nearly ethereal love song; wending its light, blues-y way over acoustic slide and soft invocations from one love-numbed partner to another: “I’m not gonna try and tell a story/How everything turns out right in the end/Don’t want prizes, accolades or glory/No, I only want to be your friend ...” “Better Road” could be a long-lost (Dylan-penned) Traveling Wilburys outtake, Israel slidin’ and strummin’ along with a bounce and a carefree gleam in his eye, and album centerpiece “Where” is classic Dan Israel, a charming, hypnotic slice of nearly-acoustic pop rock with sharp-tongued lyrics and a wistful, rainy-day aftertaste.

“Don’t Turn Away” is dirtier, darker than the previous cuts, and finds our long-suffering protagonist delivering an accusatory message over martial beats and downright spooky riffs: “And the footsteps from behind/Mean you’re only keeping them in time/Racin’ and losin’ to the wind/Something always brings you back again ...” “You Know” is a snappy soul-searcher, “Don’t Turn Away” a twitchy, nervous acoustic cut flavored with just a hint of late-period ‘Mats angst, and “Somebody Better” another anthemic, keys-driven rocker that deals with loneliness and isolation: “Somebody better call me up soon/I ain’t talked to nobody since noon/Nobody wants to hear me wail away/So I guess nobody’s callin’ me up today ...”

The album’s final two cuts, “Fly” and “Windowsill,” however, neatly tie up the various ends here, the former with a wispy, almost lighter-than-air declaration of love and faith, the latter with an insistent, Allman Brothers-esque riff and Israel’s dogged, determined will to hang on to that tiny light of hope still flickering somewhere deep down in his soul: “Well, I’m sittin’ on the windowsill/Just waitin’ for life to begin/I’m waitin’ here/For somebody to bail me out again/I’m sittin’ on the windowsill/Battlin’ with the blues/And I never wrestled with so much/Or had as much to lose...” Another smart, catchy, edifying blast of soul-heavy folkin’ rock from one of the Twin Town’s brightest and best singer/songwriters. Highly recommended.

Dan Israel plays the CD release party for Time I Get Home this Friday, Oct. 15, at The Turf Club in St. Paul, with fellow Eclectone artists Mandrew (opening) and Big Ditch Road (middle slot). Cover is $4, music starts at 10 p.m. Call The Turf for more info at 651-647-0486.

One final note, in the “Oops, shit!” category: Last week I listed the online-only music label It’s About Music’s website wrong. It’s actually ItsAboutMusic.com. Sorry for any inconvenience—now go check ‘em out! That’s it for this time ‘round, kids. Until we meet again—make yer own damn news. ||

If you have local music news, gigs, CDs you’d like to see mentioned in this column, or you’d just like to tin pan in my alley, send replies to: (temporary e-mail) jamescrouch_1@juno.com.