Some people call it the album for only the most devoted Presley fans.
I won’t go that far (these good-is-bad-is-outside-in propositions give me sorassisis), but I will agree with Marcus that it is “perversely listenable.”
And you’ll pry my copy (the only one I ever saw and way more than I could sanely afford at the time) from my cold, dead, peanut-butter stained hands.
[EDIT]: This turned up during vinyl filing this afternoon (Aug. 22) and … uh … don’t hate me … but I continue to believe “There’s No Room To Rhumba in a Sports Car” is quite a clever novelty, and seems mostest ridiculousest in this context. Now, the “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” indeed must have been written by the Martian authors of “How To Eat Humans.”
… that I also consider counterproductive for the music they concern.
- This weird, pious atmosphere that keeps attaching itself to pre-electric country blues. This is sacred stuff, man, esp. treasured because “non-commercial.” Reminds me of the worst aspects of the early-’60s folk revival. Didn’t Bob Dylan point out that that sort of reverence was a dead end?
- A closely related effect applies internationally. That the purest, noncommercial folk forms from the most isolated corners of the land are the true music of the place. Genius innovations from city performers are just tainted junk.
- The only time anybody wants to play, listen to, or write about reggae and offshoots is during the hottest weeks of the summer.
Easygoing day … recycled Egg BBQ .. as long a walk as we could take in the strong sun … leisurely Red Sox Game and French Open win by new fave Tommy Fleetwood … try to feel down into it because, for about the last 10 years a strange uneasiness has settled over this week for me. Long, long ago I heard that some wag said “After the Fourth of July, yer on a greased chute to Thanksgiving.” Except now instead of “heheh,” feel a little shiver. This is the final week were I don’t sense Old Dad Winter lurking somewhere just beyond the horizon.
I knew I’d seen Steve Bannon somewhere long ago. I paid an intense but brief session of attention to the Biosphere 2 calamities more than 20 years back because it seemed like some muddled sci-fi story come to life. Biosphere 2 did not have clear, compelling explanations of its mission, and it seemed as much con job as science. Had no clue how common its tone and temperament would become in American culture and politics.
There’s no point resisting the conclusions of this essay.
I’ve been fascinated by the manuscript ever since I heard about it as a romantic book-boy out in the sticks. I mentioned it early on in this blog. But I looked at my reproduction around the time I did that post and was disillusioned — how could I have thought the text was a made-up language? It’s merely decorative script-babble. Plus, the mysterious, secret-knowledge manuscript was a lot more common fantasy back in the ’60s and ’70s. I’m almost cynical enough now to put down the Voynich as being too famous for being famous.
Can’t be said often enough about a peculiar phenomenon I have never understood. The sex-terrified reactionaries of the ’50s wanted rock and roll to just go away — by banning if necessary. Send that monster Elvis into the Army. Send that threat to white women Chuck Berry to jail.
And damned if it didn’t work in a funhouse-mirror way. The rock of the British Invasion and later (up to a point) is annoyingly present (just consider the nonstop soundtrack we had to put up with while the car was worked on this Sat. — maybe the single most painful part was the inclusion of “I Wanna Be Sedated” like it was the hit it shoulda been). But the whole original wave of rockers is neglected except for oldies moments.
C’mon everybody (ahem), you can program that stuff right in with the Boss and related acts.
… you lose a cherished object you’ve had since childhood. You suffer mightily. Then you wake up and realize you never had any such object.
A. A good dream?
B. A bad dream?
C. More evidence the brain enjoys playing pranks on itself?