o captain, my captain:

captain beefheart's safe as milk

DON "CAPTAIN BEEFHEART" VAN VILET

january 15, 1941 – december 17, 2010

r.i.p.

i've decided to do a Captain Beefheart album review. not to honor his death, mind you, but to celebrate his life and the indelible texas-sized smoldering crater he left on the face of pop music.

(...as i am writing this, the word 'review' becomes less-and-less accurate. this is more of a booze-soaked rant than an album review. a long-winded tangent, both ludicrous and grotesque, in true Beefheart form...)

i think i loved his music before i ever heard a single note. his influence on countless great artists is nothing short of remarkable. that low-down vocal growl and the blues-soaked sensibilities you hear in post-1980 Tom Waits, for instance, or the grease-monkey grunge and angular rhythms of early PJ Harvey, or how about the out-of-this-world absurdity of the Pixies' lyrics...or, better yet, the one-part-progressive two-parts-regressive musical style of the White Stripes that's on the one hand, as cutting-edge as the space-age while, on the other hand, still knee-deep in the muck of the delta-blues swampland. this is one hell of a legacy Captain Beefheart has left behind. i think Tom Waits said it best:

'once you've heard Beefheart's music, it's hard to wash him out of your clothes.

it stains, like coffee or blood.'

ok, so the album in question is his debut Safe As Milk, one of his more (and i use this term loosely) accessible albums. don't get me wrong, it's out-there alright, but it's still within reach of the casual music listener. a perfect stepping stone into the utter chaos and absurdity of Beefheart's later work, like the infamous Trout Mask Replica. you've gotta crawl before you can walk, after all, and listening to this album is kinda like musical calisthenics prepping you for the grueling triathlon to come. riding with training wheels, so to speak.

BEWARE:

jumping right into an album like Trout Mask is downright dangerous. first you need training. you can't expect to circumnavigate the whitewater rapids of its stream-of-conscious rhythms or traverse the steep slopes of its densely-layered electro-blues polyphony right off the bat. no, many great minds have been blown that way. to grasp the colossal mindfuck that is Captain Beefheart is no easy feat. it takes careful study, constant practice, and, yes, repeated listenings of Safe As Milk is a must.

this album certainly paints a picture, but not like your budding van gogh or wannabe picasso would, not by a long shot. it paints not with delicate brush strokes, painstaking attention to detail, or a subtle palate of colors. it paints a picture like an avant-garde artist would, by hurling entire cans of paint angrily at the canvas, stabbing violently at it with a broken brush, lunging nude and paint-covered at the picture full-force, and when the paint runs out, smearing the canvas with the artist's own blood, hurling putrid buckets of fecal-matter onto the grotesque dripping masterpiece, until the starving artist finally collapses utterly exhausted into a sweaty heap on the grimy cigarette-littered floor of his/her studio apartment.

yeah, this album's so post-modern it's post-mortem. so post-modern it's compost-modern. in one word, SAVAGE. this is an album that, once you've heard it, you can't unhear it. no amount of easy-listening jazz or the coma-inducing muzak of Enya can rinse this twisted audio-mung from your ears. it festers in your brain, swelling like a tapeworm until it becomes a part of you and you're infinitely better for it. 

to call this album blues-infused would be putting it lightly.

this is electric-neon blues incarnate.

THIS...IS...THE DELTA-BLUES ON STEROIDS!

drenched in muddy waters, it reeks of testosterone, from the gravelly two-pack-a-day vocals of Beefheart, to the macho punches of the bassist, like some deranged prize-fighter past his prime shadow-boxing amidst the heavy tumult of the scatterbrained tribal rhythms of the drums. hell, even the guitars have five-o'clock shadow. when combined, they mold a sound so dense, so heavy and distorted, it sounds like how a juiced-up bodybuilder looks: grotesquely muscular, blue veins bulging, muscles twitching.

yes, the whole album's bluer than a mississippi-delta barroom at midnight, but none so bluesy as track 11: Grown So Ugly, a raunchy lopsided blues number. a Robert Pete Williams cover that's shed its humbler cotton-pickin country-stylings in favor of a fuzzboxed day-glo instrumentation. a cover that's been possessed by the devil. electrified-radioactive-subterranean-mutant-blues.

some simple-minded listener might call this album psychedelic, when nothing could be further from the truth. it's not so much psychedelic as it is purely PSYCHOTIC. psycho-delic, if you will. as manic-depressive as music can get. take, for example, the out-and-out 'roid rage of Dropout Boogie's super-distorted blues that rampages for a few verses until, out of nowhere...

a giddy little harp plucks out a dulcet waltz
smack dab in the middle of it all,

like some beethoven scherzo,
a sick joke, undermining the black-out rage
of Dropout's fierce boogie

...and then, to take such a ninety-degree turn from this gruff-albeit-bipolar blues to the slow bubble-gum doo-wop ballad I'm Glad is freakin' schizo. it happens so fast and so sudden you get whiplash for christ's sake.

yeah, this album's so batshit-crazy that if it killed you in cold-blood, a jury of it's peers would vote unanimously and find it not guilty by reason of insanity...and all things considered, this album is, believe it or not, relatively sane in comparison to Beefheart's later works, like Trout Mask &co., which would embody the raving lunatic off his meds, as opposed to on them. and yes, its rather odd title couldn't be further from the truth. it IS safe as milk at least when compared to the full-moon lunacy of the albums to come, but that's not saying much. in reality, it's about as safe as milk to someone whose lactose-intolerant or, god forbid, lactophobic.

alright, Walt Whitman, quick say something inspiring and profound so i can end this review on a high-note...

O CAPTAIN! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

godspeed, Captain Beefheart, we salute you.

ODE TO A STREET PERFORMER IN HARVARD SQUARE

O elderly little asian man in harvard square

who plays that bizarre-looking chinese fiddle,

sure, your music sounds like what you'd hear

if you shoved a cattle-prod up some poor cat's ass,

or like the nasty metallic shriek of the green-line train

when it finally comes to a slow screeching halt,

or, better yet, like the shrill squeal of a tea-kettle

or the insufferable sound of chalk-board-scratching, 

but, even so, my friend,

i can dig it.

i'm sure it must drive dogs nuts, people too,

'cause it sounds so out-of-tune to our western ears.

but then, i'm sure the tough-as-nails grit of that

savage electric guitar being played across the street

by that tattoo-sleeved sleaze-bag with the face like a pin-cushion,

probably sounds equally as alien to your ears.

holy shit, can you play that thing fast,

shredding like some gung-ho guitar-hero high on cocaine.

and, for fuck's sake, there isn't even a fingerboard

on that little two-string bamboo fiddle of yours,

not even a fretboard to guide you and, what's more,

you're not even looking at the freakin thing when you play it.

no, you're staring off blankly into space,with a look of

ferocious concentration on your wrinkled face,

playin your heart out for a kleenex-box full of

the nickles and dimes of a couple slack-jawed yuppies.

now, that's talent.

then again, i can't help but think that maybe, just maybe,

that instrument you play, whatever the hell it is,

wouldn't actually sound as grotesque as it does now,

if it were in the hands of other more capable musicians.

that's right, man, i said it:

maybe you just suck royally at it.

maybe all the other chinese-born immigrants passing by

are thinking to themselves:

'damn, this guy fuckin blows.

why the hell are all these people giving this asshole money?

he sounds like he's sodomizing a goddamn cat!

what a buncha morons.'

if that's the case, then well done, sir. touché.

i've greatly under-estimated the scope of your genius.

and don't you worry, my half-pint friend,

your ancient chinese secret will be safe with me.

day-in day-out, you may be bilking all us

naive american suckers out of our hard-earned cash,

passing off your total lack of talent 

as exotic musical prowess, but you know what, 

it's really alright with me because

if that ain't the american dream in action,

then i don't know what is.

BRAVO.

 ADDENDUM:

so, i did a little research online and it turns out the instrument in question is called a JINGHU. i pulled up the wikipedia page and, lo and behold, there HE was on the webpage. a photo of the very same musician performing at the very same harvard square street-corner. well, i'll be goddamned.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jinghu_%28instrument%29

u2 - all that you can't leave behind

LO, it's been 10 long years since this album first hit music stores and invaded airwaves worldwide. an entire decade and still, even to this day, my ears feel raped by it. every once in a while, i'll have the extreme misfortune of hearing one of these songs on the radio, in television and movies, at trendy night clubs, and even on dive-bar juke boxes--and everytime i do, i die a little more inside. in the past decade, u2 have released 2 more albums of pure unadulterated shit, so it's easy to forget just how truly god-awful this album really was when it first came out. so, in honor of its 10 year anniversary, i felt it pertinent, nay crucial, that i remind everyone exactley how much this album sucked and continues to suck, lest we forget. what follows is nothing short of Divine Revelation; my small gift to mankind. now, without further ado...

10 things to do with U2's album All That You Can't Leave Behind
(that're better than actually listening to it) 

1. use it as a drink coaster

2. use the CD underside as a vanity mirror

3. frisbee anyone?

4. dashboard ornament

5. burn it--and no, i don't mean stick it in your disc drive so you can make a copy and give it to your boyfriend or girlfriend and tell em how this album like totally changed your, like, life. i mean literally commit this fuckin thing to flames.

6. eat it. yeah, not exactley nutritious or even remotely edible. in all likelihood, it'll chip your teeth, cut your gums, and make you sick to your stomach, that is, if you even manage to get it to your stomach without choking on the thing first. still, it beats having to listen to beautiful day one more time.

7. got a lopsided dining room table or chair? jam this thing under there. problem solved.

8. paper weight. (and yes, i am running out of ideas...)

9. an xmas present for your mortal enemy. and if someone actually gave this to you as a xmas present, i'd think long and hard about whether that someone really is your friend at all.

10. break the CD into jagged little pieces and use them to slit your wrists.

believe me, people, this is one thing you most definately CAN (and should) leave behind.

for those of you who have the digital version of the album, these alternatives are of no use to you. but don't despair, there is one other option: DELETE.

attempted humor

almost 2 months have gone by without a single post and all i've got to show for it is this brief attempt at humor. who cares, no one reads this shit anyway.

ever wonder what it'd be like if we lived in a completely politically and grammatically correct world? have you ever wondered what terrible ramifications this innocuously proper, anal-retentive, stictly by-the-book outlook would have on something as raucously improper as ROCK 'N ROLL? (or should i say "rock AND roll"? that colloquial conjunction "'n" is a grammatical no-no.)

no, you say? you haven't thought about it at all? ah, you're too busy working a full-time job, gettin your degree, or raising a couple kids. i see. well, for those of us with way too much free time on our hands, here's what rock 'n roll turned PC might look like.

let's start with the ROLLING STONES and their hit (formerly) known as "(i can't get no) satisfaction."

dun dun da nana nana nanana...
I am unable to acquire satisfaction.
I am unable to acquire satisfaction.
Though, on several occasions, I have attempted to acquire said satisfaction. A sentiment I feel must be reiterated several times.

satisfied? i thought not.

next up is NINE INCH NAILS' hit "closer.
forget that offensive, misogynist refrain "i wanna fuck you like an animal." i'll tweek it just a bit to make it nice and PC. ok, trent, let's try that one again.
Take 2:
"i...
     ...would like to take you out to a nice candle-lit dinner at an upscale French restaurant and get to know you a little better over a glass or two of a moderately-priced wine and then, afterwards, possibly see a movie with you--something tasteful, a romantic-comedy perhaps--and, if it's all right with you, maybe I could walk you home after and, if you feel comfortable, you could invite me up to your chic studio apartment for a cup of coffee that's not really a cup of coffee, if you know what I mean, and then we could make sweet love while I tell you what a strong independent career-driven person you are and how much I respect you..."

not as pithy, but at least no one feels objectified or offended.

alright, how about RAM JAM and their oldy-but-goody "black betty"?

African-American Betty (bam a lam)
Oh, African-American Betty (bam a lam)
African-American Betty had a child (bam a lam)
The darn youngster has, of late, become a bit hyperactive, no doubt due to his/her being recently diagnosed with ADD, a condition, which, with the proper medication, can be managed (bam a lam)

...bam a lame.

i guess i should touch on hip-hop as well. i wouldn't want to leave anyone out, lest they be offended.

how about Ol' Dirty Bastard. that name has got to go. it's not only grammatically unsound, but also politically incorrect. here's a PG-rated alternative:
       Elderly Hygenically-Challenged Child of Unwed Parents

that's all i got for now.

ROCK 101:

Part II

here's the next (brief) installment of...

ROCK 101: A How-To Guide on Being in an Unsuccessful Rock Band

so before we delve any further into the realm of indie rock survivalism, let's get this whole band name thing over with...

SIDEBAR: CHOOSING A BAND NAME

         now ultimately, you're goal as a rock band is to make a name for yourselves and you can't do this without, you know, literally making a name for yourself first.  choosing a proper band name is important. not as important as your overall sound or whether you're any good at all, but important none the less. think of it this way: a band name no matter how phenomenally clever it may be, won't mean a thing if the band itself sucks. there's no name in the english language (or esperanto or swahili or any other language for that matter) that can redeem a totally inept and shitty-sounding band. likewise, an awesome-sounding band with an awful-sounding name probably won't go very far either, but this is up to debate. there are probably a few exceptions to this.
        first off, a band name should somehow define the band's sound/style/attitude/outlook. this is no easy task and things become increasingly more difficult when trying to get each bandmate to agree on a single name and to stick with it. if you're in a punk band naturally you're gonna want a name thats gritty and raunchy (like the sex pistols or buzzcocks) 'cause that's what punk's about. if your goal is to be bland, then name your band something like, oh i don't know, the dave matthews band.
        come up with a couple ideas. make a list. then, do some research. i'll assume if you're computer-savvy enough to read a blog, you can manage a simple search on google or myspace. run the names on your list and see if any rock bands pop up that have the same name. don't get your hopes up. chances are most of the good band names are already taken--most of the bad ones too. probably multiple times. but that shouldn't necessarily stop you. do some further research into the bands. if they're fellow unsigned and unsuccessful bands with very little hits on the site, few if any shows, and low-quality music, then i don't see the harm in taking the name. a lot of band accounts on myspace are inactive and have been for quite some time. the band may have broken up years ago. etc, etc. in cases like these, i'd say keep the name. just so long as you're confident you can surpass their popularity if need be.
        look at it this way: if you wanted a completely original band name, it would have to be something so long-winded and bizarre that no one in the history of rock n roll has ever thought of it before. also, you might be surprised to find out that even some of the most peculiar names are already taken. like if you wanted to name your band, say, the Strawberry Alarm Clock you'd be saddened to find out it has already been taken.             
       so don't worry so much about whether other obscure garage rockers share the same name. just make sure once you've started making a name for yourselves in the underground music scene, you stick with the name. you'll start playin shows, recording demos, and building a fanbase with this name and changing it spur of the moment might make you lose your reputation. why do you think a douche-bag like axl rose would start a band with a group of brand-new musicians a decade later and have the balls to call it Guns n Roses? it's the name. it has a reputation and following of its own that he's trying to piggy-back off of. granted this is blatant infringement and should probably be punishable by death, but at least you can see how important a band name can become once things get rolling.   

that is all for now.

ROCK 101:

A How-to Guide on Being in an Unsuccessful Rock Band

in addition to music reviews, i've decided to write a rock band survival guide in semi-weekly installments. here goes nothin.

INTRO:

        so, you wanna be in a rock n roll band? before you begin, there a few things you've gotta learn. some of you might think that the golden rule of rock n roll is 'there are no rules,' but don't be naive. rock has rules just like everything else in this world. rules you'll have to follow if you wanna be any good. keep in mind, these are not commandments set in stone. not by any means. some rules are meant to be broken, others, bent. the mark of a great rock band is their ability to manipulate the rules, not completely obliterate them. and if you want to do this well, you've got to at least be aware of some of the rules and regulations of rock n roll.

PART I: REALITY CHECK

        first off, let's get one thing straight. forget about getting famous. the chances of that are about as likely as getting struck by lightening while being eaten by a shark after winning the lottery. if you want to be in a rock n roll band, it's gotta be about the music. who knows, maybe one day you'll have a best-selling album, legions of fans, your face on magazine covers, just don't bet on it. forget fame and fortune. settle for being great. but keep in mind, being great is no guarantee you'll get famous either. tin pan alley is paved with the greatest bands you've never heard of. if you want instant rock stardom, try american idol.

        learn an instrument if you haven't already. tone-deaf need not apply. if you're completely incapable of being a musician, stick to videogames like guitar hero or rock band. a poor substitute i know but hey, it could be worse. contrary to popular belief, rock music takes talent and if you wanna be taken seriously, you've gotta be able to play. now you don't have to be a virtuoso by any means. really all you've got to do is keep a beat, play a few chords, and carry a tune. sometimes not even that much. but beware of sid vicious syndrome. by this i mean, don't think you can substitute a lack of musical talent by being wild and crazy onstage. charisma will only get you so far.

        most people when they think of being in a rock band, they picture playing sold-out shows to an ocean of screaming fans. they picture binge-drinking, drugs, trashed hotel rooms, and gorgeous groupies. that's the glamour. the reality, though, is quite different. for example, the shows my band plays, which are few and far between, happen in small hole-in-the-wall clubs with shoddy equipment that's older than i am. the meagre audience usually consists of parents, a few close friends, and an apathetic bartender. a far cry from the overly romanticized sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll dream-world.

        it's easy to play an engaging and energetic show when you're in a famous rock band playing to a mob of hysterical fans, in an arena, using state-of-the-art equipment. there's nothing to it. it's a-whole-nother story playing a small show to a few lackluster spectators in a club that's really nothing more than a glorified basement. motivation in a place like that is hard to come by. but we play like we're playing to a crowd of thousands. we play each show as if it were our last, as jim morrison would say, because that's how things start. famous rock bands don't start out famous. they start out in the basements and garages of the world playing to small crowds that are barely aware of their existence, if at all.

once you've accepted these sad truths, you're ready to begin.

as dark as the blues of your ultraviolet soul:

pj harvey's to bring you my love

pj harvey makes me feel all warm and mushy inside. there, i said it. i mean who could blame me? this girl's what wet dreams are made of. so what if she's way out of my league? so what if she's rich and famous and i'm neither? so what if she's got fifteen-plus years on me? so fuckin what? i think we could make things work. whatever it takes...

dearest pj,

as god is my witness, you'll be mine one day.

love,

will

...but in the meantime i guess i'll listen to her album 'to bring you my love' again (and again and again.) listen and bide my time. yeah, this is the album that made me fall head-over-heels-kicking-and-screaming in love with her. here's why:

(1) to bring you my love
werewolf-thick guitar fuzz, death march pace, organ so evangelical it makes you want to die just to be born again. not to mention her voice. smooth as snakeskin, sweet as cobra venom, and just as deadly. it sets the tone for the rest of the album.
          a godforsaken love song
                    surrender to temptation in the desert
that's the eponymous opening song in a nutshell. you can practically feel that dry desert heat and see the heatshimmer on the horizon.

(2) meet ze monsta
IT'S ALIVE! clanging assembly-line rhythm, guitars on sizzling overdrive, and woodsmoke-thick vocals have been stitched together by some mad scientist into this...this beautiful monstrosity. it sounds downright industrial. a biblical tempest, the great deluge, and the gruesome aftermath all rolled into a single song. musical monstrosity at its finest.

(3) working for the man
scene: driving beneath a full moon. bass line slinks down back alleys, the electric guitar twangs in the shadows, plush cat-like vocals purr. this one's not so much quiet as it is hushed. passion detained, like putting a silencer on a pistol or restraints on a raving lunatic, cries muffled by pillows.

(4) c'mon billy
plaintive acoustic guitar, her voice pure seduction, violins pine desperately in the background.

(5) teclo
whereas most of the album's a collection of flickering live wires, this one's the thinker. the softer introspective side. sounds cautious and careful, like someone walking on broken-glass. and that hook! that haunting little melody of tandem piano and guitar, one porcelain-smooth, the other grainy as hell.
          the sound of still waters
                       the calm before the storm
then...

(6) long snake moan:

The Storm.

(7) down by the water
low-down bass guitar/synthesizer sludge thicker than mississippi mud
horror movie strings that prod and saw
the demented scratching of a serrated blade on guitar strings
this one's got it all.
sounds like the thing that crawled out of the swamp. and who could forget that whispered nursery-rhyme-turned-sinister-mantra:

'little fish, big fish, swimming in the water,
come back here and gimme my daughter.'

maniacal. diabolical. post-partem psychotical. infanticidal. this one gives me goosebumps.

(8) i think i'm a mother
if dem down-home southern blues done cast off de overalls and straw hats n put on cocktail dresses n stilettos instead, i reckon dis here is de song dey'd sing.
primal guitar, tribal drums, ice-cold vocals. primordial soup du jour.

(9) send his love to me
one of the gut-wrenching ballads on the album. somewhere between a spanish love song and a bible-belt church hymn. it reeks of sweet desperation.

(10) the dancer
sounds like carnal lust.

this album swaggers. swaggers and inspires. it makes me wanna
(a) revel
(b) rampage
(c) fuck
(d) write shitty rock n roll poems to polly jean, like this one:

roses are red, violets are blue

just not as deep as your marlboro-red lips

or as dark as the blues of your ultraviolet soul

most reviewers like to give out grades with stars. not me, though. seems too much like kindergarten. ah, what the hell...

if i have to give this album stars, i'll give it The Pleiades.

deadmetaphors:

tom waits' swordfishtrombones

where to begin? tom waits seems an appropriate choice, as one of his albums is right next to me at the moment. swordfishtrombones.

each song paints a picture and the music goes on where the words leave off.

it sounds
like walking into a smoke-filled saloon seconds before a brawl,
or during,
or seconds afterward,
like a bible-belt chain-gang with their pick-axes clanking,
like something you'd find in your granddad's collection of vinyls,
if your granddad was a crazed drunken degenerate psycopath,
like a sailor in a filipino whorehouse on a sultry summer night,
or the crabs and empty pockets the morning after,
like a hitchhiker on a lonely highway sharpening his bowie knife,
or a quiet sunday morning hangover,
like gasoline rainbows,
or a twenty-one gun salute,
like the soundtrack to a snuff film,
an evening stroll through the slums of hong kong,
last call at a sleazy swing-jazz speakeasy,
and that last shot of bootleg rye that's one too many,
like a dead man walking that jail-cell-lined hall to that decrepit electric chair,
shackles jangling against the cold linoleum floor,
like a rusted beltsander on a gravel driveway,
and death valley tumbleweeds,
like an irish wake,
or a mexican funeral,
or a shot-gun wedding,
or a messy divorce,
like black eyes, chipped teeth, and broken china,
like someone who's had enough and just don't give a shit no more,
like a .44 magnum chamber revolving,
its hammer clicking,
or a sawed-off shotgun caulking,
like a love song to a long-dead lover,
like bones rattling in a pine box,
or a ribcage xylophone,
or ice-frosted tree branches tinkling against window panes,
like all this and more
it sounds

metaphors don't do it justice, but then what could?
you've just got to listen for yourself.
or else...
"i'm gonna whittle ya into kindlin'."

is this thing on?

testing 1-2-3...check, check. hey, is this thing on?

so. this would seem the right time to explain the whole purpose behind this blog. you know, the thesis, mission statement, or whatever. it's pretty simple really.

my world revolves around music--listening to it, making it, watching it, talking about it, you name it. so it seems to me that the next logical step is to write about it.

i'll pretty much write whatever the hell i want, when i want, how i want. could be anything from zeppelin to stravinsky to tuvanese throat singers to the garage band down the street. anything.

this isn't for anyone else but me. if a few people like it, great. if they don't, oh well. they can go to hell. if no one reads it (and this seems to be the most likely scenario), then i guess i don't have to think of a way to end this sentence.

that being said, i guess i'll begin.