Fit to Be Crossed

A trip to the North Regional CrossFit Games last May introduced me to the North East Media Director who, as it turned out, was looking for more writers to contribute to the CrossFit Games/CrossFit Journal Web site(s). I am always happy to oblige. And my first assignment—a profile of North East Regional winner Austin Malleolo, is now live here.

The CrossFit Games will take place next weekend, July 26 to 28, at the Home Depot Center in Carson, Calif., close to the West Coast home of the Goodyear blimp. (Carson is one town over from Torrance, where I lived for 3.5 years.) The Games can be watched on ESPN 3 or streamed at the official CrossFit Games site.

Happy Bloomsday...Amongst Other Days

Whilst today is in fact Father's Day—and happy F.D. to all fathers, although my own is apparently doing something involving printing with steamrollers, so my mind is riven with thoughts of a sketch from an old ~1980 Steve Martin TV special warning of the hazards of drinking and driving a steamroller. I can't find it on YouTube, which makes me wonder if it ever actually existed. Anyroad, today is also "Bloomsday," when literature nerds and other assorted dorks (like me) around the world celebrate James Joyce's 1922 novel Ulysses, which chronicles Leopold Bloom's perambulations around Dublin on June 16, 1904. (Leopold Bloom becomes a father figure to Stephen Dedalus, so it is not un-apropos to Father's Day.) How did I celebate this year? Why, with a special CrossFit workout I made up called "The Bloomsday":

04 rounds for time (not 1904 rounds):

6 thrusters (95#)

16 pull-ups

(my time= 9:21)

Then, because Ulysses was first published in 1922:

4 min AMRAP*:

19 pushups

22 situps

(my roundage= 2 rounds + 19 pushups + 3 situps)

So whether you are a father, or a James Joyce aficionado, or both, or neither, I hope you had a great day!

* I was going to do 18 min AMRAP for each of the 18 "episodes" in the book, but that wasn't gonna happen. 

Ride the King's Highway

Despite the lack of blogging, the Rereading Stephen King Project has actually been continuing behind the scenes. Which does raise the question: if you do something in your life and do not blog, tweet, or update Facebook about it, can it be said that you did it at all? 

Anyway, we continue:

The Talisman (with Peter Straub) (1984)

First off, boy did King (and Straub) really like Lord of the Rings. The Dark Tower and The Stand are King’s solo attempts at a uniquely American LoTR, and his first of two collaborations with Peter Straub (who is perhaps best known for Ghost Story via the 1981 movie) more closely brings to mind Tolkein, except you don’t have to learn Elvish. Jack Sawyer, the 12-year-old son of an old, faded Hollywood actress, finds that his mother is dying from cancer (thanks to a smoking habit). Holing up in a New Hampshire seaside hotel during the offseason, he encounters the caretaker of a nearby carnival, who tells him that, to save his mother, he needs to journey to the West Coast and seek The Talisman, whatever that is. To get there, he can slip into The Territories, a kind of parallel, pre-Industrial Age Earth where the air is clear and fresh, and there are weird flora and fauna. As the situation dictates, Jack flips back and forth between these two worlds and gets caught up in unpleasant jams both prosaic and fantastical. It’s a thick, brick of a book and I did generally like it. One of the big problems I generally have with fantasy is that every single geography has some kind of weird, deadly creature(s) that defy biology (yes, I know, that’s why they call it “fantasy”), but it really does get to be a bit much. The killer trees were pretty creepy (and tres Tolkein), and there is a good showdown between Jack and the force of evil (his dead father’s former business partner—not quite Tolkein, that). It’s a weird, crazy book that actually was worth the time it took to plow through it. Some of the ancillary characters are quite fun (especially Wolf, a werewolf from The Territories, who is a good guy). Ultimately, it’s a story about the power of friendship, as many of King’s books tend to be. The sequel Black House comes up much much later in this series and I will be curious to check it out.

Grade: B-

Thinner (as Richard Bachman) (1984) 

The last of the Bachman books before he was “outed” as Stephen King, Thinner is actually the most King-like of the Bachman books, especially in that it is the densest and longest, tarrying a bit more than the fast-moving, very streamlined earlier Bachman books. In a nutshell, overweight lawyer Billy Halleck (who kind of reminded me a little of Chris Christie) accidentally runs over and kills a Gypsy woman, he had connections that get him acquitted of any charges, so the woman’s father curses him to lose weight...which he does, and drastically. The Battle of the [Lack Of] Bulge is well-done, and the drastic weight loss starts off enviable and then gets creepy and upsetting. Much of the book gets bogged down in the minutiae of Billy’s searching for the Gypsies who cursed him, and then in the details of how an old mob friend terrorized the Gypsies into removing the curse. The thing is, Billy was so clearly in the wrong, and the perversion of justice so egregious that it’s kind of hard to truly be on his side—but I suspect that was the point. (The Bachman books tended to feature anti-heroes were were unlikeable in one way or another.) The real downer ending (a Bachman hallmark) is perhaps for the best. Also, too: the idea of a Gypsy curse. I dunno. It’s one of those old, tired tropes (like the possessed Indian burial ground in Pet Sematary) that would probably have been done a bit differently if King (or anyone) were to write this today.

Grade: B-

Skeleton Crew (1985) 

Another collection of short stories that, like Night Shift, is a mixed bag of the really effective and the really bad, and everything in between. Opening novella “The Mist”—detailing people trapped in a supermarket by the titular mist and the mysterious creatures living within it—is probably one of the truly scariest things King has ever written. (For this reread, I actually did read “The Mist” while on holiday and taking the Eurostar train through the Chunnel, which had added an extra level of creepiness.) Other good stories in this collection include “The Raft” (college students trapped on raft in the middle of a lake get eaten by a weird splotch in the water); “Gramma” (little kid is scared to be alone with his perhaps dying grandmother who happens to be a witch); and a few others. Some (“The Jaunt,” “Word Processor of the Gods”) are okay and would have made good Twilight Zone episodes. An okay collection but some stories were tough to get through.

Grade: C 

It (1986) 

This was about where SK and I parted ways back in the 80s, but reading It for the first time in the 90s and again for this project, this is his magnum opus (so far). It is an immense epic, but it rarely drags. The Losers Club are some of his most endearing characters and we really get to know them, as kids and as adults, over the course of the book. It could use some editing and rearranging (the chapter in which all seven of the kids meet doesn’t come until more than halfway through the book, some early chapters are wasted detailing the lives of characters we will never meet again, and the “Derry Interludes” do seem a bit beside the point), but it/It really does keep you going for its length. Clowns are truly frightening to begin with, so Pennywise’s earthly incarnation made perfect sense. But it’s really a story about childhood and friendship, the last time, actually, that King would address these themes. There was a pretty awful TV miniseries made in the 90s that starred mostly sitcom actors, although Tim Curry stole the show as the evil clown.

Grade: A

The Eyes of the Dragon (1987)

A young adult (sort of) fantasy novel about princes and assassinated kings and evil magicians, written, as the story goes, for his daughter who did not are for his more typical fare. It’s a not unsatisfying read, and has some wry takes on the fantasy genre. There are some connections to The Dark Tower; the assassinated king is named Roland while the evil magician is named Flagg (also from The Stand). Peter, Roland’s elder son and heir to the throne, is blamed for the king’s murder and his brother Thomas—who is not a particularly adept ruler—is put on throne so as to be Flagg’s manipulatee. (The idea of “Dragon Sand,” the poison that kills Roland, is pure, unadulterated King.) Peter’s plan to escape the tower in which he is imprisoned is, shall we say, unique. (You will never look at napkins the same way again.) All in all, a unique decidedly Kingean take on a classic genre. 

Grade: B-

The Dark Tower II: The Drawing of the Three (1987)

The second installment of The Dark Tower epic seems a bit more directed and intentional than the first volume, which was a collection of a couple of shorter pieces. Volume II has the sense that it’s going somewhere. At the beginning, our gunslinger Roland has been attacked by giant mutant lobsters (called lobstrosities, a neologism I shall have to use). Dispossessed of a couple of fingers and toes, he is in desperate need of medicine. On the beach on which he is trapped, there are three doors, for some reason, and through them lie the three people he needs to choose (aka abduct) who will accompany him on his journey to the Dark Tower. All three doors lead to our world, specifically New York City at various times, and Roland manages to take possession of the bodies of the people who will accompany him, battling various folk in our world before dragging them back to his. The first is a 1980s-era 18-year-old heroin addict and smuggler (Eddie), the second is an African-American woman from the 60s who not only has had her legs severed in a freak subway accident but who also suffers from multiple personality disorder (Odetta), the alternate personality (Detta) being a psychotic. The third actually is not intended to be part of Roland’s gang, and is a psycho who gets off on randomly injuring or killing people, including the character of Jake who ended up in Roland’s world in the first book. He is dealt a very brutal fate, appropriately, and his demise (he was responsible for Odetta losing her legs) results in her two personalities merging and becoming a third person, Susannah. (Yeah, this is where the book kind of lost me, and at about the same point where the first book lost me.) Still, I remain intrigued and will forge ahead when Volume III comes up a few books hence. 

Grade: B-

Misery (1987)

Probably the quintessential Stephen King book, the one everyone probably knows from the hit movie, one of the best King adaptations, and it really is hard to not see Kathy Bates as the psychotic Annie Wilkes. She was perfectly cast. (James Caan as Paul Sheldon...well, not so much.) Everyone knows the plot: writer Paul Sheldon, author of a bestselling series of Victorian romance novels about Misery Chastain, is rescued from a road accident by his "number one fan," who then proceeds to torture him for a) killing off Misery in his latest book, hoping to end the series, b) having written a contemporary novel about a foul-mouthed car thief, and c) trying to escape. At her request (via an axe), he writes a new Misery novel in which she comes back from the dead in very Stephen King fashion. There are some differences between the book and movie (in the book, she chops off his foot and his thumb), but both are very well-done. This would be the ideal gateway Stephen King novel, as it is pretty short and devoid of any supernatural elements. I also get the sense that it would be a vicarious thrill for any writer buttonholed into a specific genre or series—as indeed King has been buttonholed as a horror writer.  

Grade: A

Coming up...The Tommyknockers, The Dark Half, and Part III of The Dark Tower...just as soon as I clear my palate with something else for a bit. 

Certain Songs Part XIX: Blogger Sucks

And Blogger continues to get worse and worse. We attempt to continue, even though it was quite the struggle to get this to display without a great deal of effort. There are spacing and other issues. I don't care anymore.

#97
Pixies
Doolittle
1989

When I first heard Nirvana in the early 1990s, my first thought was, “Dang, they nicked the Pixies’ sound and did it far more depressingly.” I adored the Pixies in 1989, although when Steven H. and I tried to see them in Providence on this tour, the crowd—which was voluminous—were all of the slam-dancing type, so it was hard to really enjoy the show. Still, they played their set in alphabetical order, and that appealed to me. Doolittle was the one masterpiece of the band’s four records.
Opener “Debaser” has become something of a classic, with its references to the surrealist Louis Buñuel/Salvador Dalì film Un Chien Andalou.

“Here Comes Your Man” and “Monkey Gone to Heaven” were the radio/MTV hits (“Here Comes Your Man” was the video they played relentlessly on 120 Minutes, and it is pretty funny, even if the song is the most atypical of the album), but all the songs are great. The line “Walked the sand with a crustacean” in “Wave of Mutilation” helped endear me to the record. The dark, surreal aspects of the lyrics were the appeal, but rarely duplicated since. And how can you not sing along with “Gouge Away”? The Pixies may have helped invent grunge, which was unfortunate. Their subsequent two records were okay, but never matched the heights of Doolittle.



Sugar
Copper Blue
1992

After one great and one okay solo album, Bob Mould formed another power trio, but this one blew the doors off Hüsker Dü. Where the Hüskers’ power was in their lo-fi thrash punk, Sugar was a professionally recorded assault on the senses. The EP Beaster will shred eardrums and speakers alike, and I mean that in a good way. Their debut LP Copper Blue has a pop sensibility buried amongst the tumult. It will still shred anything in earshot if the volume is loud enough (one advantage to owning a house—perhaps the only one). Opener “The Act We Act” sets the (very loud) tone (“The act we act is wearing thin”...indeed). “Helpless” should have been a hit. This one reminds me of commuting in NYC in 1992, as it was playing on my Walkman incessantly at the time, which may explain my failing hearing. “If I Can’t Change Your Mind” is a refreshing acoustic break, but still emotionally wrought. We’ve all been there. This record may be the pinnacle of Bob Mould’s entire career, although he’d probably beat the crap out of me for saying that. But, then, there are days when cranking Beaster is the most appealing option. File Under: Easy Listening never did much for me. But then, neither did too many of Mould’s subsequent records.


#95
Stan Ridgway
Mosquitoes
1989

Stan Ridgway may, unfortunately, be forever known as the singer of the one-hit-wonder 80s band Wall of Voodoo (“Mexican Radio”), even though his solo career easily surpasses his brief stint with WoV. I discovered Mosquitoes via a Rolling Stone review that pointed out that Ridgway should be writing movie screenplays; they also played the uptempo “Goin’ Southbound” on Boston’s WFNX at the time. Ridgway’s songs are, often, story-songs about film noir-ish characters, and what I think is his masterpiece—Mosquitoes [sic]—has some of his most compelling characters and stories.
Wall of Voodoo had originally begun in the 1970s to score movie soundtracks, and while that didn’t quite happen, Mosquitos’ opening instrumental “Heat Takes a Walk” does sound like it could have been a low-budget movie theme. “Lonely Town” only drops hints as to why the narrator wants to go to the titular town, where “all those people are lonely and mad”:

I think about those mosquitos on my windshield
And they don’t give a damn about Christmastime.”

He’s obviously returning to a place he ran away from? “Goin’ Southbound” is a great crime caper song—and the crime-boss narrator doesn’t like people who snitch: “The last one who did, well, we tied him a tree/Out in high desert by an anthilll....” But then: “Everybody does what nobody will allow.” “Peg and Pete and Me” is very James M. Cain-esque (see The Postman Always Rings Twice mixed with Double Indemnity, while “Can't Complain” is one of what I would imagine to be a very few songs to feature a character crushed by a falling piano. The tragic “Calling Out to Carol” got some rotation on MTV’s 120 Minutes. “The Last Honest Man” may be a bit trite, but hearing Ridgway’s film-noir-wise-guy voice sing the phrase “He kept his meeting for a cat o’nine beating from a leather-clad man named Moe” is worth it. “Mission in Life” sends the album out on a very inspirational note (“You got a mission in life/To hold out your hand/Help the other guy out/Help your fellow man...”). The music itself is very hard to describe, as Ridgway never cleaves to one particular style; saxophones blurt in middle of “Peg and Pete and Me” and sitar gives “Newspapers” a somewhat exotic flavor. In some cases, the 1980s-era sound dates certain portions, but most of the music was pretty left of center even at the time, so it still holds up. The follow-up record Partyball is nearly as good, with more scifi-related story songs. Never especially prolific, he’s only released fewer than half a dozen albums since Mosquitos

Nemo No Mo'?

OK, so I’m not going crazy (well, at least not in this respect); I didn’t think they named winter storms, much less something as dorky as “Nemo” (most folks think of the animated fish, but nemo, as Jules Verne could tell you, is actually Latin for “no one”—a bit of an ironic name, especially if you are in New England). Back in my day, we had to be content with referring to “The Blizzard of 1978.”

Anyway, it turns out a storm is brewing between AccuWeather and other meteorologists and The Weather Channel, as it was The Weather Channel that unilaterally decided to name the storm “Nemo,” against the protestations of just about everyone else.

Then again, maybe we should name all weather phenomena: Torrential Rain Robin, Tornado Tom, Unseasonable Warmth Dennis. And of course they call the wind Maria.

Back to Britain 1: Of Banquets and Bunkers

There are three reasons why traveling to popular international destinations over the Christmas holiday is a bad idea. First, there is the weather, and hoping that Mother Nature cooperates with travel plans, which she rarely does. It also tends to be cold. Second, there are huge masses of people everywhere, more so than during other parts of the year, with the exception perhaps of peak summer vacation time. Third, things are closed on at least one, often two days during that period. And fourth—there are four reasons why traveling to popular international destinations over the Christmas holiday is a bad idea—the days are very short and daylight ends around 4:00 or 4:30.

We experienced all four of these problems when Ken A. and I did London for Christmas back in 2008—a December blizzard cancelled our outbound flight and we had to rebook flights and flats. This time, we lucked out, and outbound was no problem, and even the return happened to coincide with the one clear day sandwiched between two blizzard days. We—and more specifically I—rarely have that kind of luck, to which just about any trip to Graphics of the Americas in Florida in February stands as a testament.

For international flights, I prefer flying out of Newark, but for some inexplicable reason tickets were about $400 more than flying out of JFK, so needless to say, JFK it was. This was the first time I have ever actually been to JFK airport (although I think I took a Boston–NY shuttle to/from there in 1999 but it may have been La Guardia), and I had heard horror stories, but it was actually quite smooth and relatively uncrowded. British Airways check-in went quickly, more quickly than at Newark actually, and security was surprisingly fast, as well. We had allotted plenty of time, which it turned out we did not need, so we spent a fair amount of time in a bar/restaurant owned (or at least named after) Sammy Hagar, of Van Halen fame as well as the solo 1984 ode to reckless endangerment, “I Can’t Drive 55.”

The outbound flight was generally OK, although right behind us, a child screamed the whole way. Can’t they check children with luggage? 

We arrived at Heathrow early the following morning, and passport control into the UK was the usual level of crowded, but at least the border agents didn’t give me the third degree about why I want to enter the country the way they usually do. I guess with the UK economy in the toilet (austerity!), they need as many tourist dollars (or pounds) as they can get.

We had rented a flat in Bayswater in West London, as we had in 2008, a wonderfully ethnic and diverse neighborhood with many great restaurants. It’s also easy to get anywhere else in London from there, either on foot or by Tube. We took the Heathrow Express train into Paddington Station and, whilst detraining, my well-traveled-but-not-very-old-but-still-very-crappily-made suitcase literally fell apart (the handle ripped right out of it, tearing the top off). It had been steadily deteriorating for a while, pretty much right after its first use; the plastic used for the inner shell turned exceedingly brittle when exposed to the cold temperature of aircraft baggage holds, so after every flight the case is filled with small plastic fragments. American Tourister = Chinese-Made Crap. Anyway, I managed to wedge the handle back into the frame and it held together long enough to go the one stop on the Circle Line to Bayswater.

The first night we availed ourselves of Phoenicia, an excellent Lebanese restaurant on Queensway.

Our first point of interest in London was the Banqueting House on Whitehall, which I have been meaning to visit for the past few trips over there. Originally a palace for the Archbishop of York, and later the lavish palace of Cardinal Woolsey during the reign of Henry VIII, Henry took it over when Woolsey fell from royal favor (Woolsey was unable to get Henry his divorce) and turned it into a vast space for entertaining. The original wood structure was replaced during the reign of the first Stuart monarch, James I, with a magnificent new structure designed by architect Inigo Jones (most of London was either designed by Inigo Jones or Christopher Wren, it seems) in a grand classical style, borrowed from Jones’ visits to Italy. 

The Banqueting House then became the venue for grand “masques,” music and dance extravaganzas. When Charles I, James’ son, became king, he took to the Banqueting House, and commissioned Peter Paul Rubens to paint grand paintings for the ceiling. However, the paintings were potentially so sensitive to smoke that the use of candles was verboten, and thus ended the masques.

About the paintings... magnificent, yes, but they depicted James and Charles as if they were gods. Indeed, the Stuarts were big on the notion of the Divine Right of Kings, the idea that the British monarch was the human instrument of God on Earth. This didn’t go over particularly well with a lot of people and when Charles I dissolved Parliament for 11 years, well, folks began to grumble. Prime among them was Oliver Cromwell, and Civil War broke out in England. At the end of the Civil War, Charles I was charged with treason and sentenced to be executed. On January 30, 1649, Charles awaited the executioner in his beloved Banqueting House and, when the time came, was marched out an upper window (which no longer exists) and beheaded just outside. The whole thing is recreated in the 1970 film Cromwell, starring Richard Harris as Cromwell and Alec Guinness as Charles I. And you know, Charles I does bear more than a passing resemblance to Guinness. Help me, Charles I, you’re my only hope! 

After the Banqueting House, we banqueted ourselves in the Red Lion pub across the street from the Houses of Parliament, then proceeded to the Churchill War Rooms. 

I had been there before but Ken was eager to check it out, so down we descended into the underground rabbit warren of rooms where Winston Churchill and his ministers ran the war effort during WWII as bombs rained down on London. Since I had been there in 2007, they had installed a massive Churchill museum that basically chronicles every detail of his life. In the center of it all was a giant touch screen display that essentially let you tap on any date during Churchill’s life and find out what happened on that day. We gave it only a cursory look, as it was all a bit overwhelming.

By that time, it was getting late, so back to the Red Lion, and then off to Bayswater where we found a very good Indian restaurant.

Next up: Back to Greenwich.

So This Is Christmas...

Despite the fact that I will be spending Christmas in London, earlier this month a strange burst of the holiday spirit struck me (helped by a sale on trees at Lowe’s)‚ and I decided to put up a tree of my own this year (premised on how easy it would be to find all my Christmas ornaments, which turned to not be that hard at all). Curiously, some of the old Hallmark Star Trek ornaments from the 1990s that plugged into the mini-light sockets and lit up don’t fit the string of lights I have, but happily found that the local Hallmark has an adapter. An adapter for Christmas ornaments? What, is Apple making ornaments now? iOrnament?

At any rate, have yourself a very Merry Christmas.

Certain Songs Part XVIII: Cheepnis

Yeah, OK, it has been a while. I read somewhere that the feud between Apple and Google is why Blogger has become staggeringly annoying to use on a Mac, compared to how easy it used to be. Also explains the awful Apple Maps app that can actually give life-threatening directions if you are in Australia. But then, says The Onion, “Apple Promises To Fix Glitches In Map Software By Rearranging Earth’s Geography.”

Anyway, the list continues.

Part I (150–152) here.
Part II (147–149) here.
Part III (144–146) here.
Part IV (141–143) here.
Part V (138–140) here.
Part VI (135–137) here.
Part VII (132–134) here.
Part VIII (129–131) here.
Part IX (126–128) here.
Part X (123–125)here
Part XI (120–122)here
Part XII (117–119)here
Part XIII: (114–116) here.
Part XIV (111–113) here.
Part XV (108–110) here.
Part XVI (105–107) here.
Part XVII (104–101) here.

#100
Echo & the Bunnymen
Crocodiles
1980

I came kind of late to this particular party; while I was familiar with Echo & the Bunnymen back in the 80s, and I remember when Ian McCulloch left the band in 1988 and everyone in colleges across the country was quite upset, and I did like a few scattered songs here and there (especially “The Killing Moon,” see later in this list), I didn’t really get into them in earnest until their original five albums were reissued in the early 2000s. Crocodiles was their debut, and it has to go down as one of the best debut albums of all time. They’d get better, sure, especially by Ocean Rain, but it's hard to find a bad track on Crocodiles. Mix two parts doomy post-punk à la Joy Division with one part psychedelia and you pretty much have Echo (or more precisely, the Bunnymen; Echo was the name of the band’s drum machine that was jettisoned before they started recording). Four years before Johnny Marr appeared on the scene to reinvent the guitar sound of the 80s, Will Sergeant was creating unique soundscapes and moods. The highlight here is “Rescue,” with its chiming opening riff. “Villiers Terrace”—“There’s people rolling round on the carpets”—was inspired by a story about how Hitler used to get upset and chew on the carpet (recounted in William Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich). “Stars Are Stars” is also a highlight. And the closing song “Happy Death Men” does live up to its name! Their next album, Heaven Up Here, was a bit more experimental.



#99
Roger Waters
Radio KAOS
1987

As a crazy nuts Pink Floyd fan, I picked up Waters’ second proper solo album Radio KAOS (no, there is nothing about Get Smart on it) probably the second it was released, and I played it virtually nonstop throughout 1987. As a concept album, or “rock opera,” if you prefer (and I’d understand if you didn’t prefer), the plot isn’t so much half-baked as quite raw. Basically, a vegetable savant manages to steal a cordless phone and call an LA DJ using his mind (he can communicate via radio waves, kind of like The Who’s Tommy as conceived by Nokia), and he eventually manages to hack into the Government’s computers and scare everyone into thinking WWIII has started. Yeah.

Musically, it was quite different from Waters’ previous Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking (see earlier in this list); it was a bit slicker, a bit more radio friendly (which didn’t help him get on the radio all that much), and more song-oriented. The bass-driven opener “Radio Waves” got some radio play, and “Who Needs Information” tries to advance the plot but doesn’t really. “Me or Him?” was mellow Waters, and side one closer “The Powers That Be” is one of Waters’ effective critiques of the Reagan/Thatcher era. Much of side two (or the last half of the album—that’s right, I didn’t have this on LP, I bought the CD straight away) deals with the simulated nuclear attack and its aftermath. “The Tide is Turning” ends on a hopeful note and may be the most uplifting song Roger Waters ever wrote, even if it was not reflected in reality. His Bleeding Heart Band actually does seem like a proper band (much of them had played on the latter half of the Pros and Cons tour). The usual sound effects add atmosphere and realism to the proceedings.

Actual LA DJ Jim Ladd is a character in the, um, story, and some of his former colleagues at KMET (a freeform FM station in the 70s that was taken over by a large media corporation and turned into a New Age music station) appear here and there, even reprising their “Fish Report with a Beat,” which was far more risqué in actuality than appears on the album, where it just seems strange. (A more representative version of it was included in the concert tour for the album.) Radio KAOS came out at the same time as the reconstituted Pink Floyd released A Momentary Lapse of Reason, and while I liked much of the Floyd album musically, it just fell very flat to me compared to KAOS. (Steven H. and I saw Waters live on this tour in Providence, RI, and it was a fantastic show, with Jim Ladd introducing the songs on stage. I also had the opportunity to work with Jim Ladd, as his memoir Radio Waves was published by St. Martin’s Press when I worked there in 1990. I’m even listed in book’s acknowledgements. My one claim to fame!)



#98
Zappa/Mothers
Roxy & Elsewhere
1974

Perhaps the best band Zappa ever had (arguably until his final 1988 tour) was in the post-Flo and Eddie period, featuring George Duke, Napoleon Murphy Brock, Ruth Underwood, Chester Thompson, Jeff Simmons, and a variety of Fowlers on a variety of horns. They played on a few albums in the early to mid 70s, including the masterpiece One Size Fits All (see later in this list). Roxy & Elsewhere, like most of Zappa’s live albums, featured predominantly original songs; indeed, few of Roxy’s tracks appeared elsewhere. (Except on Vol. 2 of You Can’t Do That On Stage Anymore, where the same band does much of the same set list in Helsinki—and it’s startling how the songs transformed over the course of the tour or, in other words, got faster.)

Each of the four sides of the original double album featured a Zappa introduction; opener “Penguin in Bondage” seems like it would have been dirtier on another album, but here is just surreal. “Knirps for moisture” was a bizarre line (I thought “knirps” was a verb, albeit a made-up one), until I learned many years later that Knirps is a brand of German umbrella. Well, I guess it’s still a strange line. “Howlin’ over to some antarticulated moon” is pretty good. “Pygmy Twylyte” is also pretty surreal and vaguely about drugs (not in a good a way; Zappa was vehemently anti-drug). “Dummy Up” features some onstage business about smoking a high school diploma. “Village of the Sun” is that rare Zappa song that smacks of nostalgia (I recall it going through my mind whenever driving past Palmdale, CA, ”out where the turkey farmers run”—that’s where Zappa grew up, in Lancaster). “Echidna’s Arf” and “Don’t You Ever Wash That Thing?” are amazing instrumental showcases, especially for percussionist Ruth Underwood. “Cheepnis” opens with a narrative about the old Roger Corman grade Z movie It Conquered the World (shown on MST3K) before launching into a funny track about Zappa’s love of bad monster movies.

All of side 4 is “Be-Bop Tango,” which begins with a very complicated instrumental section (“The cowbell as a symbol of unbridled passion!”) before morphing into one of Zappa’s “enforced entertainment” events in which audience members were invited up on stage and told to try to dance to something well-nigh un-dance-to-able. It obviously went on longer; the edit toward the end is just abrupt. Just a fun, yet musically challenging record. It’s also very much a percussion-lover’s record—you’ve got drummer Chester Thompson but also random percussionist Ruth Underwood. There are moments that are quite sublime. “A true Zen saying, ‘Nothing is what I want.’”

I, Saac

Given the extent to which I utterly loathe driving, I am intrigued by the idea of self-driving cars such as those being tested by Google, although if it’s Google, I can only imagine that any drive will thoroughly inundate the rider with ads which may end up being even more unpleasant than driving. (Actually, I’d rather walk or take public transport but, this being the U.S., that’s not an option in most places.)

The New Yorker, though, poses some interesting questions vis-à-vis self-driving cars and the potentially Robot Holocaust-like technology underlying it all.

Eventually (though not yet) automated vehicles will be able to drive better, and more safely than you can; no drinking, no distraction, better reflexes, and better awareness (via networking) of other vehicles. Within two or three decades the difference between automated driving and human driving will be so great you may not be legally allowed to drive your own car...

Hope springs eternal! But, perhaps more importantly, we may be ushering in

the era in which it will no longer be optional for machines to have ethical systems. Your car is speeding along a bridge at fifty miles per hour when errant school bus carrying forty innocent children crosses its path. Should your car swerve, possibly risking the life of its owner (you), in order to save the children, or keep going, putting all forty kids at risk? If the decision must be made in milliseconds, the computer will have to make the call.

Now, suppose there was no such thing as a hypothetical situation...

But if we have reached this point, why would the school bus be errant in the first place? (Yeah, I know, think about MS Windows and then extrapolate that to a vehicle’s OS; “You’re about to die in a fiery crash. But there are unused icons on your desktop. Would you like you like to fix them?”) And in the second place, I’ve seen some viral videos and bits of the movie Bully, so I’m not all that convinced of the innocence of school kids, so I say off the bridge with ’em. (Oh, I’m kidding. Sort of....Um, can we pick which of the forty?)

There are, of course, Isaac Asimov’s classic Three Laws of Robotics:

1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
2. A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the first law.
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the first or second laws.

And, it being Asimov, 4. All robots must sport gigantic mutton-chop sideburns.

Asimov’s short story collection I, Robot demonstrated pretty effectively just how problematic those laws could be. And think about how you might define terms like “injure,” “inaction,” “harm,” “protection.” Norman, coordinate! (Star Trek’s “I, Mudd” episode also illustrated these conundra, albeit in very silly ways, and Futurama’s “I, Roommate” in more intentionally silly ways.)

Still, given that after all these millennia we still have not figured out how to get humans to act ethically and morally, so I suppose it’s no surprise that it will be challenge to get our machines to behave as such. 

Pop Goes the Culture

It was around 1999 or 2000 that I began to lose complete track of pop culture. It was the popularity and subsequent ubiquity of illiterate— er, I mean, reality—TV that did it; when Survivor was a hit and there was no avoiding the repellent, semi-nude photos of the creep who won the first series, that was perhaps the first brick in the wall that went up between me and media culture. Big Brother was the second. The utterly vile and loathsome Temptation Island was a ton of bricks all by itself (not that I watched any of these; the promos were enough to make me want to pluck out my eyes—“Out, vile jelly!”). A few years later, when a show pitted a team of midgets against an elephant to pull a jet, the entire medium jumped the shark, as it were, and the rest of the wall went up. 

Movies? Well, at least I write and update the Saratoga Film Forum’s newsletters and Web site, so I have a passing familiarity with at least some current movies, namely the good ones. (I saw Safety Not Guaranteed a few weeks ago; I liked it.) As for what plays at the malls and multiplexes...I haven’t a clue. There was something about a foul-mouthed teddy bear (yeah, sign me up for that), and a series of movies about hangovers, if my peripheral vision caught the Web ads correctly. I think about five years ago I was dragged to a Will Ferrell movie (something about ice skating) and again prayed for retinal detachment (I really can’t stand Will Ferrell).

I was talking with someone recently about James Bond (apparently there is a new one out) and even I was shocked to realize that the last Bond movie I saw—at all, let alone in the theater—was Licence to Kill. And, yes, that came out in 1989. Tempus fugit. (In my own defense, I thought they went downhill after Sean Connery quit, and gee our old LaSalle ran great.)*

And while I have been perfectly happy to remain ignorant of it all (or most of it; a few shows—not reality ones—have filtered into my little bubble, like Parks and Recreation and, um, others, I suspect), I am discovering that there is a downside: my ignorance of pop culture is starting to impede my ability to do crossword puzzles, as more puzzles are cluing actors, actresses, shows, and movies I have never even heard of. It is starting to become like doing those old Margaret Farrar- and Will Weng-era NYT puzzles from the 1960s and early 70s that included then-current-but-now-long-forgotten names.

It’s getting serious. I may have to subscribe to Entertainment Weekly strictly—and ironically—for educational purposes. 

*It could also be age-related. It’s my belief that the definition of middle age is the point at which you can look through an issue of People magazine at the dentist’s office and fail to identify more than 50% of the celebrities in it.

UPDATE: I rest my case. They remade Red Dawn?! For the love of all that’s holy, why?

I Am Legend

First of all, do you know how many times you would have to kill me to get me into a Walmart...well, ever, but especially today (so-called Black Friday)? Or, for that matter, into any shopping mall? It’s not just that a) I actively dislike shopping in general, b) can’t abide crowds of feral, sociopathic shoppers or the even more sociopathic traffic, or c) my approach to Christmas shopping gets more and more Scrooge-like every year, but, as per this article in The Atlantic, the whole so-called Black Friday thing pretty much a scam:

It's in the stores' interest to make you think prices will go up after Black Friday. But for many items, they probably won't. Instead, as inventory piles up, prices will stay low or go lower in early December. Still, it's better for the economy if more customers buy into the Black Friday hype and behave as though we're in a mini-inflationary cycle where prices on all goods are about to jump. The alternative -- everybody sits on their hands and waits until December 26 to shop for gifts -- isn't particularly good for anybody. Plus, predicting exactly when prices on your single favorite item will be lowest is like trying to buy a plane ticket at its single lowest price. Even our smartest algorithms struggle to do it.

Bargain-hunting has never been my cup of tea—even when buying tea—and when it comes to searching for deals and steals, I’m far less alpha male and more Omega Man. So I’m perfectly happy to sit on my hands until December 26th, if ever.

I say “so-called” Black Friday because, as per Kevin Drum on his Mother Jones blog, the phrase as used today is a fairly new one, and its origins (1950s or 60s in Philadelphia) originally had bad connotations (it still does, as far as I’m concerned):

the gigantic Army-Navy-post-Thanksgiving day crowds and traffic jams, which both retail workers and police officers dreaded. The retail industry originally loathed the term...

Speaking of bad things, so-called Black Friday, and Philadelphia, Syracuse is at the moment losing to Temple... Oy.

And the less said about the unfortunate term “Cyber Monday” the better.

Now, whether the whole camping out and going to shops at 3 in the morning thing becomes some sort of cultural tradition...well, there are some shared experiences I don’t have any desire to share. Today is the day to barricade myself in the apartment, indeed like Charlton Heston in Omega Man (or Will Smith in I Am Legend, if you prefer; they’re both based on the Richard Matheson book) and spend the day deleting all the so-called Black Friday spam I am being inundated with. (Amazon alone has clogged my inbox rather dramatically.)

By the way, yesterday’s Saratoga Turkey Trot 5K went vaguely OK; I ran it in an appalling 28:49, down from my record of 25:28 in the Saratoga Palio back on September 16. Sure, I could blame it on the cold (see below), the 3000+ other runners that formed a dense, unbroken mass and made getting up to speed a challenge, and/or the hills of the Skidmore campus, but the fact is that I have not been running a lot lately, focusing instead on CrossFit workouts and strength conditioning. I used to spend a lot of time on the treadmill; not so much lately.

I shall have to make it a point to train for the New Year’s Eve 5K, whose temperature may, it occurs to me, bear a close resemblance to yesterday morning’s:

King for Many More Days

The rereading Stephen King project continues.

Different Seasons (1982) 

A collection of four novellas, three of which have been made into movies (supposedly the fourth is in the works), two of them (“Rita Hayworth and The Shawshank Redemption” and “The Body” aka Stand By Me) getting Oscar nods (Apt Pupil got mixed reviews). These stories don’t really have a horror or supernatural component, and are more character studies than anything. The most successful is “The Body,” with four slightly pre-teen friends circa 1960 setting off on a long trek to see a dead body. The relationships between the characters develop over the course of the journey, and the reaction isn’t what they anticipated. King doesn’t always get credit for his characters, as the scare factor is usually what everyone focuses on, but he really nails the mindset of that age extremely well. “Apt Pupil,” about a teenager’s unhealthy obsession with a former Nazi—and the hold they develop over each other—doesn’t quite do it for me; I can see why Dussander (the Nazi) would be afraid of Todd (the kid) blowing his cover, but why would the kid be afraid of Dussander threatening to reveal that Todd never turned him in? And why do they both start randomly killing winos? (A little is made of the fact that Dussander never speaks Todd’s name. The reason is not given in the story, and it was only a little bit later that I realized that Tod is the German word for death.

The “twist” ending to “Rita Hayworth,” which you can kind of see coming (even given that I read these stories back in the early 1980s), does strain credulity just a tad, but it’s still a good story.

“The Breathing Method” was the only one of the quartet that I had no recollection of (and was not made into a movie...yet) and the tone and characters are a 180 degrees from “The Body” (middle-aged New Yorker listening to a story by an elderly doctor about a patient he had in the 1930s). The “twist” ending to this twice-told tale make me wonder how on Earth I had forgotten it, as it is quite bizarre. Oddly, it works.

Anyway, this is a pretty strong collection of non-horror stories that are just as compelling as the creepy stories.

Grade: A- 

Christine (1983)

I was really girding my loins for this one, thinking (perhaps recollecting) that it was King almost literally jumping the shark. And yet, it turned out that I actually rather liked it. In a way, it's kind of like The Shining on wheels in that (well, like a lot of horror) it is about forces of evil tapping into an individual’s inner demons. In the case of Jack Torrance, it was being a short-tempered alcoholic. In the case of Christine’s Arnie Cunningham, it is being a pimply high school misfit. Christine isn’t really about a possessed car; it’s really about high school, and King taps into that mindset as easily as he tapped into the pre-teen mindset in “The Body.” Christine is very much a set of character studies—Arnie Cunningham, his only friend the football player Dennis Guilder, and his would-be girlfriend Leigh.

What I guess doesn’t entirely work—or at least the question I have—is exactly what was possessed. What I mean is, Arnie buys the car from a bitter, perpetually angry old Army vet named Roland LeBay. The car is deteriorating on LeBay’s lawn and he is selling it. Arnie sees it and, as a car aficionado, immediately falls in love with it and wants to restore it. He buys it from LeBay, and the car actually starts restoring itself. Then LeBay suddenly dies, and every time Christine starts driving in by itself—and killing Arnie’s enemies—it turns out she is being driven by the ghost of LeBay. But...what was driving her before LeBay died? Meanwhile, Arnie starts psychologically (and in some ways physically) turning into LeBay. Why, if his ghost is still tooling around in the car? And no mention is made of how the car got evil, or was it that LeBay made it evil? I think it would have worked better if it had been a straightforward Shining-like possession without the added complication of LeBay. There is also a scene in which a character is killed by the car inside his own house; the car crashes into the living room and chases him around and up a staircase. Yeah, that was a bit much (it reminded me of a scene from Woody Allen’s Take the Money and Run).

What is also a bit distracting is that the first third of the book is written in the first person by Arnie’s friend Dennis. At about the one-third mark, Dennis is seriously injured in a football game and is confined to the hospital for a few months. The narration then shifts to third-person (in order, it’s obvious, to describe events that there is no way Dennis would be able to witness, even if he wasn’t in hospital), but then at the two-thirds mark, it shifts back to Dennis’ first-person narration. I get why King did this; he wanted the perspective of the teenage character (which works exceedingly well) as well as some vivid descriptions of Christine killing some people. A little “having your cake and eating it, too,” and it only slightly doesn’t work.

That said, I liked it a lot more than I was expecting to.

Grade: B-

Pet Sematary (1983)

From what I recall, this was the last “first run” King novel I read (I had the hardcover) before college and moving on to snootier fare. Like most of the titles in this project thus far, it ended up being better than I recall, even if you can see where it’s going. According to a new introduction written in 2000, this is the one book that even scared its author, to the extent that he held off submitting it to his publisher thinking he had finally gone “too far.”

Plot, in a nutshell: a Midwest doctor, his wife, and two kids move to rural Maine, in a house alongside a busy state highway that is doom to pets. Behind their house is the local “pet sematary” where generations of spelling-challenged kids buried their pets, many of which had been claimed by speeding traffic on the road. (The set-up is virtually identical to King’s own situation when he got a teaching gig at the University of Maine.) However, just beyond the pet cemetery is an old Micmac burial ground that, like most Indian burial grounds, has some spooky local lore attached to it. When the family’s cat is run down on the road and killed, Louis (our hero) tests the local legend by burying it in the Indian burial ground...and the cat comes back, decidedly changed (the bits with the cat are the creepiest in the book). So, when Louis’s young son is killed on the road, he decides to see what would happen if...

The book references the classic short story “The Monkey’s Paw,” of which it is a more modern iteration. The book is also a meditation on the extent to which “dead is better,” in that there is an inherent danger in just about everyone’s fantasy of being the deceased back rather than remembering them as they were in life. King succeeds where other horror writers fail in that it’s not always about the scare factor; there are larger themes in these books for those who care to look for them—although they’re usually pretty obvious.

The interesting thing about King is that he identifies his characters’ lapses in logic; we know that Louis is behaving irrationally when he digs up his son’s body and lugs it to the Indian graveyard; he knows he is, as well, but he manages to rationalize it to himself...and to the reader. It actually kind of works. What I kind of throw a flag on is the generic use of anything Native American to have all sorts of supernatural effects. It was a convenient trope in old horror (for example, Poltergeist), but seems a bit hokey these days.

I did not see the movie version, but did enjoy The Ramones’ theme song. King was/is a big Ramones fan, and the refrain “Hey ho, let’s go” (from “Blitzkrieg Bop”) recurs throughout the book. At one point Louis checks into a motel under the name Dee Dee Ramone.

Grade: A-

Cycle of the Werewolf (1983)

I am not entirely certain what to make of this one. It’s basically a short story typeset so that it comes out to 120 pages, interspersed with color and black-and-white illustrations, some of which should be captioned “spoiler alert.” It is divided into 12 chapters (corresponding to the months of the year) and werewolf attacks that occur during each month’s full moon (King admits in an afterword that he played a but loose with the lunar cycle so as to have the full moon coincide with various holidays; like that’s the biggest problem...).

It’s an interesting narrative experiment but we never get all that invested in the town or the characters (as opposed to, say, ’Salem’s Lot) to really care all that much and when we find out who the werewolf is (given away in one of the illustrations, actually) we’re not all that surprised, since we had only met the character fleetingly.

This was apparently made into the movie Silver Bullet (starring Corey Haim), which got decidedly mixed reviews (perhaps explained by the phrase “starring Corey Haim”).

Anyway, a nice quick read but not too thrilling.

Grade: C

Up next is a collaboration with Peter Straub called The Talisman, which is a big, thick cube of a book, so that’ll take a while. Then there is the Richard Bachman weight-loss plan, another collection of short stories, and...It.

Certain Songs Part XVII: With Surgical Focus

To finish out the bottom 52, this installment of my favorite 152 records of all time will comprise four titles, taking us from 104 to 101.

The story so far:

Part I (150–152) here.
Part II (147–149) here.
Part III (144–146) here.
Part IV (141–143) here.
Part V (138–140) here.
Part VI (135–137) here.
Part VII (132–134) here.
Part VIII (129–131) here.
Part IX (126–128) here.
Part X (123–125)here
Part XI (120–122)here
Part XII (117–119)here
Part XIII: (114–116) here.
Part XIV (111–113) here.
Part XV (108–110) here.
Part XVI (105–107) here.

#104
The Kinks
Face to Face
1966

Although I was a very big fan of the mid-80s Kinks (see later in this list), it took a while before I discovered their back discography; it was largely due to the reissue of definitive remasters of their first seven Pye Records albums (Velvel also contemporaneously released remasters of the 1970s and 80s RCA and Arista albums) in the late 1990s. But one of those early great albums is their fourth, Face to Face, where Ray Davies first solidified his art and storytelling style, hinted at in earlier singles like “A Well-Respected Man” and “Dedicated Follower of Fashion.” At first, it sounds like the old Kinks (“Party Line”), even if the lyrics concern a strange voice calling the narrator on the titular public phone (party lines vanished by the end of the 60s):

I’m on a party line,
Wonderin’ all the time,
Who’s on the other end
Is she big, is she small?
Is she a she at all?
Who’s on my party line?

By track 2, a plea for sister Rosie to return from Australia, where she had emigrated, a new sound was emerging. “Too Much On My Mind” deals with Davies’ perennial topic of insomnia. “Session Man” pays tribute to Nicky Hopkins who played keyboards for just about everyone. “House in the Country” deals with a rich pratt who could very well turn up a few songs later having to sell his the house in “Most Exclusive Residence for Sale.”

He don’t need no sedatives to ease his troubled mind.
At work he is invariably unpleasant and unkind.
Why should he care if he is hated in his home,
’Cause he’s got a house in the country,
And a big sports car.

“Holiday in Waikiki” is not exactly happy, fun time, it being massively commercialized: “Even the grass skirts are PVC” and “a genuine Hawaiian ukulele cost me 30 guineas.” The single was “Sunny Afternoon,” a quintessential late-60s Davies composition that still gets massive applause today:

The tax man’s taken all my dough,
And left me in my stately home,
Lazing on a sunny afternoon.
And I can’t sail my yacht,
He’s taken everything I’ve got,
All I’ve got’s this sunny afternoon.

The B side “I’m Not Like Everybody Else” has become quite rightly a classic in its own right.

“Rainy Day In June” and “Fancy” added different shades to the typical British Invasion sound, the latter a bit more Eastern sounding. The cover art could not have been less representative of the music.

The next Kinks album was Something Else, which it assuredly was. See later in this list.



#103
Guided by Voices
Do the Collapse
1999

In summer 1999 I was in Tower Records in Torrance, CA, and for whatever reason was impelled to pick up this record (I can’t recall if I had read a review of it or had heard about previous GbV records and took the plunge with this one). Anyway, it is the most atypical of all GbV’s massive discography, in that it is very slickly recorded and produced (by Ric Ocasek). It divides GbV fans to this day, and stands in stark contrast to the lo-fi recordings that endeared them to their fans. At the time, I was unaware of this history, and just loved the songs. From the opening “Teenage FBI,” there is none of the usual GbV filler; all the tracks are fleshed out (well, relatively speaking) and sound great. Yeah, sure, maybe too slick, but tell me “Surgical Focus” isn’t a classic. And even if “Mushroom Art” is lyrically inscrutable (like most of songwriter Robert Pollard’s songs), damn if it doesn’t cook. The bandmembers had been switched up again, but a great find—a holdover from the previous album—was lead guitarist Doug Gillard, who makes mincemeat out of tracks like “Zoo Pie,” “In Stitches,” and “Much Better Mr. Buckles.” They even had something like a radio hit with “Hold On Hope”:

Invitation to the last dance
Then it's time to leave
That's the price we pay
When we deceive
One another animal mother
She opens up for free
Everybody’s got a hold on hope
It’s the last thing that's holding me

And one can’t help singing along with the chorus to “Liquid Indian.”

I spent most of the rest of 1999 digging this record and, yes, as I uncovered their past discography it kind of paled in some ways, but listened to objectively, is a great pop-rock album.

The next two albums sought to find a middle ground between this and past records—and I thought Universal Truths and Cycles (“Everywhere With Helicopter” being the greatest song ever) was the most successful. Still, the record does conjure up a brief, somewhat happy period in Southern California. This was taped and on the car tape deck for a long time (this was before iPods; my car at the time didn’t even have a CD player).



#102
The Smiths
The Smiths
1984

Meat is Murder (see later in this list) was the record that got me into the quintessential 1980s college band, and of the four original studio albums, only Strangeways, Here We Come does not make this list. This is a great debut, but has some things that annoy (such as Morrissey’s falsetto, which he’d quickly ditch). Opening “Reel Around the Fountain” is a sublime love song (I only recently learned that the line “I dreamt about you last night and I fell out of bed twice” was nicked from Shelagh Delaney’s play A Taste of Honey; Morrissey’s appreciation for Delaney would eventually lead to a photo of the playwright as the “cover star” for the singles collection Louder Than Bombs). (The BBC version on Hatful of Hollow is actually better.) “Miserable Lie” starts off great—gentle and calm before turning into punk thrash and decidedly bitter lyrics, directed both at protagonist and antagonist (“you have destroyed my flower-like life, not once but twice,” “I look at yours, you laugh at mine and ‘love’ is just a miserable lie”). The falsetto wailing detracts a bit. I have it on good authority that the studio version doesn’t come close to doing the justice to the song as live versions. “Pretty Girls Make Graves”—title from Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums—chronicles the narrator’s impotence when propositioned by a somewhat aggressive female suitor. “I could have been wild and I could have been free/But nature played this trick on me.” “The Hand That Rocks the Cradle” has the distinction of being the first song Morrissey and Marr wrote together.

“This Charming Man” was the classic single (the line “a jumped up pantry boy who never knew his place” was nicked from Michael Caine in Sleuth). The first great Smiths song. The other (which was actually the first Smiths single) is “Hand in Glove.” “What Difference Does It Make?” is vague enough that it could be about any embarrassing detail one might have, which us what makes it timeless. It’s hard to imagine what a shot in the arm this record was in 1984 (with REM’s 1983 debut Murmur) which brought energetic guitar rock back amid a sea of 1980s synthesizer sludge (some of which I liked). For more from The Smiths, see later in this list.



#101
Richard and Linda Thompson
Shoot Out the Lights
1982

Richard Thompson was always something of a cult figure, a critical favorite (and amazing guitar player) who never quite hit the mainstream. In the 1970s, he and his then-wife Linda recorded a number of hit-or-miss records before culminating in their last album together (and as a married couple), Shoot Out the Lights, often a fixture on many critics’ best-of lists. The songs alternate between Linda- and Richard-sung, and I suppose I prefer the latter, simply because I think they’re more interesting songs (in general; Richard wrote all the songs). Most of the songs detail doomed relationships—ironic, in a way, as the Thompsons were fine when they wrote and recorded the album; it was only afterward that they split. “Don’t Renege on Our Love” kicks the basic theme off from track one: “When my heart breaks/It breaks like the weather/If you leave me now/It’ll thunder forever.” The highlight is the Richard-sung “A Man in Need,” detailing the guy who did indeed renege on someone’s love. It rightly opened the mid-1990s 3-disc compilation Watching the Dark (the title of which references “Shoot Out the Lights”). I do love “Backstreet Slide,” but I think a slightly better version appears on Watching the Dark.

In the gorgeous Linda-sung “Walking on a Wire,” the narrator blames herself for any marital discord: “I wish I could please you tonight/But my medicine just won’t come right/I’m walking on a wire...and I’m falling.” Richard’s mournful guitar punctuates her laments. “Wall of Death” (another cheery title!) sums up the appeal for some of extreme amusement park rides: “You can waste your time on the other rides/But this is the nearest to being alive.” If there is a song here that seems slightly out of place (and this wasn’t intended as a concept album), it’s the title track, inspired by the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. It’s a great, powerful song...it just seems to stick out here. But who am I to complain?
The spare production suits the material beautifully; given this was 1982, there could have been all kinds of attempts to tart it up for mainstream commercial appeal. Thompson’s subsequent solo albums (which continue to this day) have been spotty, but have evinced pockets of brilliance (Amnesia, Rumour and Sigh, or Mock Tudor should have appeared on this list somewhere).