Read:My:Back

New Year's Dismissal, 2009 Edition

As you may have guessed, I'm not one for big parties, let alone New Year's celebrations that involve riding home on the subway with hundreds of drunks. Call me a pansy, but I think I'm still emotionally scarred from the New Year's Eve during which the packed train crapped out underneath the East River about two hours after the ball had dropped. The lights went out momentarily, and in the cramped darkness, a number of people vomited from the combination of intoxication and anxiety. This caused other riders to begin screaming and pushing one another in a panic that seemed without end. Trust me, you don't know the first thing about having a really bad time until you've been locked in a pitch black underground vomitorium.

New Year's Eve is amateur hour anyway, especially in New York, where the city routinely floods with bridge and tunnelers who are hellbent on depositing their celebration on someone else's shoes. If that's what you're into, have at it and god bless you, but I'll be once again hangin' with my homeboys Ryan Seacrest and the sushi delivery guy, as well as my extremely tolerant and understanding wife.

In years gone by, when weekly radio duties were a regular feature of my life, I would always look forward to airing the (few) songs I liked that are applicable to this most maligned of holidays. Since I haven't got a sniff of a radio gig happening this year, I shall instead point you towards the best two in my iTunes shuffle. Like the Styrenes song I wrote about a few entries ago, these tracks are perhaps only marginally related to the holidays anyway, but in my mind, they easily trump all the sparkly eyeglasses, noisemakers, and related hooey that'll become the focus across town in a few short hours. Like every proper cynic, it's my place to note that for all its soaring highs and rock-bottom lows, 2008 was a year much like any other, and one that many of us would no doubt be pleased to drag down to the river with a burlap sack and a few heavy stones. But if our species insists on taking time out of one box and shoving it hastily into another, I say let's dim the lights in anticipation of Warner Wolf's year-end highlights reel, and get ready to grab 2009 by the shirt and push it up against the wall. Somebody pop open the bubbly -- goddamnit, we've got work to do.

To brighter days ahead.

The Dismemberment Plan - The Ice of Boston

Margo vs. Eiffel Tower - Tonight is my New Year

The Dismemberment Plan song is from their "...Is Terrified" CD on DeSoto Records. Buy it direct from the label here, or on iTunes here.

The Margo vs. Eiffel Tower song is from "The My Pal God Holiday Record Vol. 1" CD on My Pal God Records. It is no longer available in physical form, but can be had in digital magnificence on iTunes.

Update: I have just spent an unsuccessful 45 minutes trying to convert the brilliant Dismemberment Plan tour diary that vocalist Travis Morrison wrote for my old zine into a single, downloadable PDF. (Problem area: I don't have Adobe Acrobat. Does anyone have suggestions for another method by which to turn six individual jpegs into a continuous PDF?) Here are the links to view the tour diary one page at a time:

Dismemberment Plan tour diary from Green Means Go! Fanzine, circa 1996.

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six

Jon Solomon's 24 Hour Holiday Radio Program, 2008 Edition

Here's a brief programming note for this coming week. My good pal Jon Solomon will be hosting the 21st annual edition of his 24 hour holiday radio program beginning Christmas Eve at 6 PM, and continuing through the following day at 6 PM. The show will air on WPRB, 103.3 FM, throughout Jersey Centralia and the Delaware Valley, or can be heard online at wprb.com.

Jon's holiday program has become something of a legend to the WPRB listenership, and beyond. Over the years, it's been written up in nearly every Philadelphia alt-weekly, as well as earning acclaim from Idolator, NJ Monthly, and the New York Times. A few years back, even Pseu and Monica called Jon during their show on WFMU, and interviewed him while he was in the midst of his show on 'PRB. (That had to be some kind of broadcasting first... I'm still surprised that the transmission between the two overlapping radio signals didn't create a feedback loop powerful enough to blow Metuchen clean off the map.)

Jon's selection and presentation of left-field holiday music is utterly without peer, so you'll be unloading a pretty great present on you and your own band of merrymakers just by tuning in. For my part, I can say with confidence that it would never be a proper holiday for me if Jon wasn't introducing a Christmas number by the 60s garage band The Wailers during the final moments of the show. You're sure to feel likewise, especially if the buildup includes signature holiday tracks from the likes of Billy Childish, The Dickies, Hasil Adkins, Couch Flambeau, Curtis Mayfield, Crass, Low, Cheech & Chong, Galaxie 500, Kurtis Blow, Loretta Lynn, Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine, John Fahey, Peanut Butter Wolf, The Hybrid Kids, Esquivel, Sun Ra, and Fishbone. Looky here for last year's complete playlist, and start your regimen of squat thrusts for the main event.

Note: the above photo is of Jon in the midst of the 1993 edition of the holiday program. Visible in the foreground are a Born Against 7", and the more overtly Christmas-y "We Three Bings" compilation LP. Jon would presumably want it known that he still has (and wears) that shirt.

The Simple Elegance of the Wine Key

Here's a free holiday tip that might help you find the right gift for that uncooperative friend or family member that's impossible to shop for. For the moment, we'll ignore the fact that these people are usually regarded as such because they have no observable talents or interests, and therefore leave you and I wandering the shops deciding between expensive junk like an electric golf ball detector or a hamster-operated desk calendar. On the contrary, the gift I'm suggesting is very inexpensive, extremely useful, and widely available in most liquor stores -- from the very posh, all the way down to those where requests must be shouted through 3 inches of bulletproof glass. The gift I am suggesting is a wine key.

Every year around holiday time, you can observe an all-new arsenal of complicated corkscrews and bottle openers unleashed upon the gift-buying public. So elaborate are many of these contraptions, that a visiting alien might assume that the act of opening a bottle of wine is an arduous task which calls upon the efforts of many thousands. These devices are often named after cute and/or furry animals, whereas others look like they could be used during surgery to remove pesky ribs or skull fragments. Still others require battery or electric power and vaguely resemble intimate favorites from the Xandria Collection. Another hilarious detail I've noticed this year is that many of these devices are now emblazoned with the word "professional", in extravagant and loopy cursive -- As if that would convince me that the waiters at L'Espalier routinely lug these ridiculous accessories to and from the kitchen whenever someone orders a bottle of wine. I have news for you: I've never been to L'Espalier. I've also never been to French Laundry, nor have I enjoyed the wine at most other famously exclusive restaurants in this world. But I can bet you a 2003 bottle of Joseph Phelps Cabernet Sauvignon that the employees of such places do not use The Rabbit, The Corkenator, The Bottle Slave, or The Auto-Drunkener to uncork their customer's wine, so the 'professional' argument is something of a non-starter.

Which brings us to the wine key. It is a simple and elegant device whose configuration is certainly deserving of inclusion in Phaidon's Design Classics series. It has a comfortable handle. It has a retractable, serrated blade for slicing away foil. It has a long, twirly bit on a hinge. And it fits conveniently in your purse, back pocket, or glove compartment. I'm not a wine expert by any stretch of truth, but I can navigate my way around the ten-dollar-and-under display table with reasonable talent, and I've been known to turn up my nose at the idea of Merlot. But that being said, I have long argued that there is way too much artificial exclusivity associated with the drinking of what is tantamount to old grape juice. Never mind that it's been fermented and consumed by us lucky bipeds for thousands of years. That's no reason for it to be marketed as a luxury item, or endorsed solely by creepy, rich-looking guys with graying temples and polo shirts tucked into their khakis. That kind of imagery makes me feel like I need a drink, and not the kind that you find waiting for you underneath a cork. I believe that wine should be enjoyed by people of all economic classes, so I'm therefore drawn to the wine key for its socially leveling potential as much as for its flawless utility. It is of that rare class of human achievements that technology can not improve upon. As in wine making, it requires skill, determination, and the use of one's hands.

Being thirsty is also a plus.

All the Wrong People are Dying

In keeping with the somewhat guarded and uncertain tone of the current holiday season, I wanted to throw a light on my favorite left-of-center Christmas song: "All the Wrong People are Dying", by the Styrenes. While it's true that its holiday sentiments are limited to a brief mention of It's a Wonderful Life, I've been annually inspired to play it on the radio towards the end of every December since it came out in 1996. I'll be honoring the tradition again this Monday, December 22nd (8-11 PM), when I fill in for Trent Wolbe and his excellent Sound and Safe program. The Styrenes EP from which the song comes is already packed away in the record bag I'll be bringing along for the evening's festivities.

A quick summary of the Styrenes would be next to impossible, but there's a classy and informative overview available on their MySpace page that'll get any newcomers sniffing in the right direction. For my part, I've been a proud fan since first discovering a split-spined copy of their "A Monster and the Devil" LP in the record stacks back at WPRB. From that starting point -- an imagined soundtrack to an urban noir fantasy -- I worked backwards through their earlier recordings, albums by their artpunk affiliates in the Electric Eels and Mirrors, and wound up anticipating the Styrenes' We Care, So You Don't Have To with a kind of excitement that I'm usually something of a stranger to. Good rock bands come and go all the time, but the Styrenes' endurance and forever-changing lineups and sonic explorations have made me a fan for life. It was a distinct honor to invite their participation in WFMU's Sinister Moody benefit concert back in 2002, and then something even more gratifying when they performed on my show a few weeks later. [Archive here.]

"All the Wrong People are Dying" is an epic tragedy that addresses the complex emotions and anxieties that the death of a trusted friend often inspires in those they leave behind. It also weighs in on the redistribution of personal obligations that tend to follow such events, and the drunken or medicated haze in which we sometimes reconcile them. Although the song is shored upon a funerary dirge, the narrative moves quickly from the plague of sorrow to the appealing clarity that an arrogance towards our own mortality can offer. There's an impressive list of departed musicians and artists namechecked in the song (Stiv Bators and Johnny Thunders among them), and their legacies are admiringly reflected upon through unexpected comparisons to It's a Wonderful Life's George Bailey and Clarence the Angel. Aided by storylines both real and imagined, "the affirmation that life is good and worth living" strikes a unique pose at center stage, and summons a kind of holiday warmth that's a million miles away from the usual Hallmark hokum. I believe I very nearly wept during the first Christmas radio show on which I aired this track.

For this recording, the Styrenes were:

Mike Hudson (vocals), Paul Marotta (piano), Jamie Klimek (guitar), Paul Laurence (drums), Fred Lonberg-Holm (cello), and David Newman (bass). The Drag City EP from which the song originally comes is out of print, but the song can now be had on a CD that also includes "A Monster and the Devil". Buy it here from Insound.com. Other Styrenes records, including the brilliant "We Care So You Don't Have To" are likewise available, or can be had via eMusic.

In Search of Great Americans

There is nothing quite like the smell of old electronic equipment. 

I'm not talking about early 80s digital watches or archaic computer game consoles, but the real vintage stuff that's outfitted with voluptuous glass tubes, and spectacularly designed knobs and switches. I'm talking about the smell of old radio gear, and a small museum in north Jersey that's just lousy with the stuff from floorboard to rafter. Yet weirdly enough, it is a museum that few people know about because it has never been opened to the general public. Through an amazing twist of fate, and with help from my admittedly few "industry connections", I was able to visit this technological Mecca-on-the-Hudson in early December, and have spent the subsequent days marveling at the full extent of everything I saw. The museum's collection of broadcast oddities is located at the base of a massive radio tower in Alpine, New Jersey, which happens to be the original laboratory site of my most exalted hero: Major Edwin Howard Armstrong -- inventor, patriot, genius, crusader, and the father of FM radio.

I've written about Armstrong before. Here's a brief paraphrase of the tribute I penned for WFMU's blog last year, on the 117th anniversary of his birth:

In a perfect world, he would be as historically recognized as Thomas Edison or Carl Sagan, but sadly, history had other plans.

Edwin Howard Armstrong's story is one that I first learned as a media studies undergrad who was captivated by Ken Burns' brilliant "Empire of the Air" documentary. "Empire..." tells the story of three radio innovators (Armstrong, Lee DeForest, and David Sarnoff) who saw tremendous potential in the wireless medium, and who very nearly forced one another into ruin through an endless series of treacherous personal battles and legal squabbles.

I've since watched "Empire..." countless times, but I will always remember that first viewing during my freshman year of school. I was already a serious radio junkie by then and had been doing a weekly show on WPRB for several years. Armstrong's tale seemed to come front-loaded with the same feelings you get when finding someone else who shares all of your passions and interests. How could I have thought I knew anything of radio before hearing Armstrong's story? And how could my classmates sleep through the same narrative that had me sitting bolt upright in my chair, my pulse hammering audibly inside my skull? Sitting in that auditorium was one of the few times in my life that I knew I was in the right place, and I've spent the ensuing years trying to validate that sensation through my involvement with radio.

Alpine is an exclusive and heavily-wooded town in Bergen Country which overlooks the Hudson River and the northern tip of Yonkers. From the Jersey portion of nearby Palisades Interstate Park, the length of the Manhattan skyline is visible in its accordingly regal splendor. The 425 foot tower, which Armstrong built in 1937 (when the area was largely undeveloped and remote) now neighbors upon some of the most ridiculously extravagant homes this side of MTV Cribs. (According to Wikipedia, Alpine's residents include Jay-Z, Joe Piscopo, Russell Simmons, and a number of other celebrities. But the tacky architecture and ridiculous lavishness of many of the town's homes adds further to my theory that most rich people get all their ideas from watching television.) In addition to serving backup signals for many of New York City's major TV networks, the tower also foists transmissions from radio stations WPLJ, WFDU, and a number of others upon residents of the metro NYC area. So desirable is Armstrong Tower's unique location atop the Palisades cliffs that within hours of the 9/11 attacks, scores of panicked reps from the area's major networks had descended upon on the premises, hoping to use the tower to replace their destroyed facilities at the World Trade Center. Line-of-sight access to the most cherished population of media consumers in the world is clearly an asset that outweighs almost any other in the competitive game of modern broadcasting.

A few yards away from the tower's massive base is the original brick building which housed Armstrong's laboratories. Surrounding the entrance is a concrete relief which bears the call letters W2XMN, from which the very first FM broadcasts emanated. Today, the small building is home to thousands of peculiar looking relics and devices from the early days of radio. Anyone who's ever handled equipment of this caliber knows there is an unparalleled satisfaction in the act of rotating a heavy turn-pot, or throwing the kind of switch that acknowledges your effort with a sternum-rattling KA-CHUNK. Of course, it would take a proper radio engineer -- as opposed to a mere fanboy like me -- to explain to you exactly what devices like an Acme Telephoto Trans-Ceiver or General Electric Random Noise Generator are actually used for, but for my part, just being around such sturdily-crafted equipment inspired within me a weird kind of primitive techno-lust. I wanted to take all of it home with me. Not because I'd know how to use it, but because of its aesthetic beauty, and because it is so closely associated with something that is terrifically important to me. If you come from an ideology which promotes the idea that radio can be art, then it's not too far a leap to also believe that the tools of the trade can be considered in a similar light.

Most radio junkies with an awareness of history will argue that Armstrong had loftier ambitions than those sought by earlier pioneers like Lee DeForest, or even old man Marconi. His aspirations existed beyond radio's use for point-to-point communication and portended the arrival of broadcasting -- one person speaking to potential millions. Armstrong's story also anticipated how corporate interests in mass media, such as those promulgated by then RCA-president David Sarnoff, would result in unprecedented power and influence in the hands of those who answered to advertising dollars. It's a drama that we've seen unfurl all over again with the arrival of internet technologies, the argument for net-neutrality, and our perpetual willingness to cede control not to those with the brightest intentions, but to the shepherds of the fattest bank accounts. Although Armstrong accomplished more than any other inventor who worked in the wireless medium, he also spent his entire life battling bogus patent suits served by DeForest, and simultaneously struggled with a host of personal demons and anger management issues. The stress of defending his patents, the loss of his once considerable assets, and the adversity he faced in his pursuit of new technologies eventually culminated in his very tragic death. On the last day of January, 1954, he wrote a regretful letter to his estranged wife Marion which included the words: "May God help you, and have mercy on my soul." He then dressed in his coat, hat, and gloves, and stepped out the 13th floor window of a Manhattan apartment building. His body was not discovered until the following morning.

Before I start weeping all over again, let me more optimistically report that there is a great deal of excellent information out there pertaining to Armstrong's many achievements. First and foremost, Ken Burns' fantastic Empire of the Air documentary is available through PBS and on Netflix. Tom Lewis' book of the same name provides a number of more expanded insights, and is readily available on Amazon. For those looking to quell an immediate jones, Scott Fybush's "Tower Site of the Week" is like full-blown radio nerd heaven, and includes an excellent survey of the Alpine tower in its archives. Over on YouTube, you can hear a wonderful archival recording of an Armstrong tribute which was originally broadcast from Alpine shortly after his death. And in honor of the major's well-documented love of extreme heights, here is a satellite view of the tower complex courtesy of Google Maps. Finally, I humbly offer a selected assortment of my own photographs from the hours I spent on-location, as well as a news clipping of Edwin and Marion during brighter days.

Many thanks to Steve Miller at Rutgers University, and to fellow travelers John Fogarazzo and Scott Williams (who shares his photos from the day here) for their assistance in enabling this voyage. It is gratifying to know that others share my enthusiasm for this incredible history.

Here's Your One Chance Fancy (Don't Let me Down)

Here's a cranial corkscrew for your late afternoon: While eyeballing the offerings at the corner bodega earlier today, a somewhat jarring iPod segue set off a wild fantasy in which Killdozer covered the song "Fancy" by Bobbie Gentry. Observe the fetching Ms. Gentry performing said number on a 1970 edition of the Johnny Cash Show:

Yeah, I don't really know what's up with the Elizabethan bellbottom catsuit either. But imagine the same song, only now performed by the group who made popular standards out of tracks like "The Pig Was Cool", "King of Sex", and "Knuckles the Dog (Who Helps People)". I'm especially drawn to the mental image of Killdozer's Michael Gerald sliding up to the mic, and with an eyebrow cocked heavenward, sensually growling out the lyric:

It wasn't long after a benevolent man took me in off the street / And one week later I was pourin' his tea in a five room hotel suite / I've charmed a king, a congressman, and an occasional aristocrat / and I got me a Georgia mansion and an elegant New York townhouse flat.

Considering Killdozer's long and meaty history of revealing the hidden genius of everything from "Nasty" by Janet Jackson to Don McLean's "American Pie", the notion of spinning Bobbie Gentry into the mix isn't as conceptually absurd as a lot of my other ideas. Though by this point, I suspect the band's tolerance towards people like me trying to direct and refine their careers has probably thinned considerably. Chalk it up as more evidence that I should have joined a Killdozer tribute band back when I had the chance. Enjoy some additional Bobbie Gentry video over here.

The Unique Joys of Beer that Tastes like Bacon

Sometimes it's fun to think about what I did with my money before I started drinking. In the more prosperous times of ten or fifteen years ago, I could piss away my paycheck on used records, books, rock shows, and East Village sushi without a second thought. But these days, as any newspaper will be quick to remind you, non-essential expenses have all submitted themselves to a radical re-evaluation, and what used to be important to me has in many cases become the stuff of mere luxury. I've begun selling CDs on eBay -- not so much for financial gain, but to remind myself that even in a crap economy, people in Montana will still pay handsomely for the Soul Jazz releases that local preacher-types and concerned citizen groups have presumably denied them access to. And like everyone else I know, corners are being cut, sacrifices are being made, vacations postponed, and ambitions put off. Contrary to what elders might have told us, my generation has definitely seen this movie already, and we're begrudgingly accepting of its necessary routines.

However, as hard as the times may be, I know I speak for many when I say that I have NO plans to stop drinking. My wife and I recently rationalized a multi-hundred dollar dip into our nest-egg for enrollment in wine-making school because upon graduation completion of the program, we'll have five cases of a drop-dead amazing Sangiovese-Cabernet blend to help us through whatever Grapes of Wrath nonsense 2009 may unload upon us. I like to think that it's exactly these sorts of seemingly miniscule budgetary adjustments that will make the grim realities of present history less alarming for us to address.

Which is why I really wish I hadn't just discovered the existence of beer that tastes like bacon.

Go back and read that sentence again. It is not some spectacular typo caused by my tripping and smashing headfirst into the laptop. There is, in fact, beer that tastes like smoked bacon, and one need not employ a time machine or sophisticated alchemy skills to enjoy it. You will, however, have to throw a little bit of that scarce cash around in order to partake, but I wouldn't recommend it were it not worth the wonderful experience of drinking what is tantamount to liquid meat.

Like most of the great beers I've been exposed to in recent years, WFMU's Scott Williams is to blame for my latest fizzy obsession (and by extension, I also hold the station's Bob W somewhat accountable, since he's apparently the one who tipped Scott to this miracle of the German Old Country.) The bacon beer is called Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier and is alleged to earn its peculiar taste by having the malt exposed to burning beechwood logs early in the brewing process. (To your possible disappointment, there is not any actual bacon used in this beer's creation.) The first retailer at which I secured a bottle of my own was Brooklyn's legendary Bierkraft, who claim to stock upwards of 1000 different brews at any given moment. During my brief obsession with Innis & Gunn cask ale, I made regular voyages there for the explicit purpose of stocking up, so it's safe to assume that if you're even vaguely interested in the boutique beer phenomenon, Bierkraft can easily become something of an obsession. However, the problem with Bierkraft is that it is often discouragingly expensive, especially in times when the international financial market seems like a drunk college kid about to shoot an apple off his own head while blindfolded. Happily, I've used some recent free time to scout around NYC in search of a better deal and have learned that the bacon beer is available in many other places for a lot less money. Whereas Bierkraft sells 16.9 oz bottles for around six bucks each, I eventually found them elsewhere for as little as $3.99. With many of us forsetalling grocery expeditions with stops at the CoinStar machine, a two-buck-per-bottle difference is nothing to shake a rotting bag of organic vegetables at.

The bacon beer comes in three varieties which Scott or Bob could probably explain the nuances of with much greater eloquence than I, so I'll just list them: Märzen, Urbock, and a wheat version. I've tried the first two, which are quite similar, but I'll give the edge to the Märzen for it's deeply appealing color and magnificent scent of smoked meat and even smokier fireplaces. It's definitely not something to chug multiple bottles of at a party, but as an accompaniment to a hearty meal, or as a liquid component in your favorite chili recipe, this stuff neighbors more closely to godhead than any other brew I am currently aware of. Furthermore, it makes an excellent and affordable gift for whichever beer snob in your family or social sphere you decide is the most deserving. Contrary to what others might say, I believe that alcohol makes a perfectly thoughtful gift for any holiday. I have never once torn away sheets of wrapping paper and been disappointed when such labors revealed a bottle of wine, Maker's Mark, or Grand Marnier, and fancy beer should be treated no differently. After all, it is commonly said that the best gifts are those that can be shared with others. But there is also a compelling argument to be made for greedily consuming those same gifts in the abject darkness of solitude, and you are hereby encouraged to shop accordingly. Happy holidays!