Tuesday, April 16, 2019

The Number Fortys: Joyce Kennedy & Jeffrey Osborne - "The Last Time I Made Love" (Again)

In The Number Fortys, we review whatever song was sitting at #40 on the Billboard charts. We began in the first week of January 1984, right around the time this writer became cognizant/obsessive about music, and will continue until we get bored. The seeds for the idea came from Tom Breihan's Number Ones column over at Stereogum. However, we here at k-postpunk believe that the bottom is more interesting than the top (and obscurity is more interesting than either). Also, if you want to read the Number in the title as meaning "more numb," I think that's totally understandable at this point.

It's always amazing to me when the #40 song stays at #40 the following week. When I first thought about doing this series, it hadn't occurred to me that it was even possible. But this is the second times it's happened in nine months of chart action. I wonder what that felt like for the artist. Your song enters the charts at #40, you've got to be thinking it's going to go up, right? But nope. Right where it was. It's like watching a rocket, or a firework, go into the air. It reaches its peak and just...kind of sits there for a while. Nothing happens. You know it's going back down, but it hasn't gone down yet.

Anyway, I present to you, once again, JK & JO.




Here's a link to what I posted yesterday, in case you're too lazy/obstinate/confused to find it over there on the right in the BLOG ARCHIVE. I chose to do this on blogspot because I wanted to pick the lamest possible hosting site as a protest/counter-narrative against slickness & metrics. Turns out it's extremely difficult to get your blogspot blog to show up on search engines, or to incorporate tagging features. If you're thinking that's insane that a blogging platform provided by google doesn't show up when you google, well...welcome to the 21st fucking century.

Anyway, last time we talked about this song, which was last time we talked about any song, I suggested some other, more interesting, scenarios that could have taken place the last time someone made love. Here's one more.

The last time I made love...I got a cramp in my leg, in the back of my calf muscle, you know where I'm talking about? and I had to stop for a few minutes. When the pain finally subsided, it turned out they weren't in the mood anymore. I mean, Jesus, I can't help it if I get a cramp in my leg.... Bananas? What do you mean bananas would help? Is that some kind of weird BDSM shit? Bananas?.... Oh. Potassium. Yeah, I get that. Maybe I'll try it.

I think I gave the song a 2 last week (I'm too lazy/obstinate/confused to go back and check). I'll give it a 2 again. Why the hell not.

THE NUMBER ONE



Remember when I took the fact that a song as exciting and unique as Let's Go Crazy could reach #1 as some sort of sign that humanity wasn't a total cesspool of misdirected fear and ignorance? Those were good times, man. Not only did this here insipid bland-out reach #1, it stayed there longer than Let's Go Crazy. Humanity can go to a local sex shop, purchase a bag of fake dicks, boil them, chop them up into bite-sized pieces, grill them in soy sauce, sprinkle some nutritional yeast on them once they're tender, and them proceed to eat that whole bag of dicks. This song is a 1. If you're thinking to yourself, how can I rate that nothing of a #40 song higher than a sweet earworm from a total legend, I'll just say that at least I can forget the #40 song. It's forgettable. But walking around with this bopping around my head? Jesus.

And it stayed at the top of the charts so long that I need to leave more to talk about in the next installment.

Sucks About Your Thousand Year Old Megachurch

Here's a take hot enough to burn whatever's left of that building to the ground. The Catholic Church is a child-rapist-enabling blight on society, and I don't give a fuck about one of their buildings burning down.

Unless it was arson, because it's not cool to burn stuff down just because it's a symbol of centuries of tyranny and darkness. I don't support arson. But ask yourself, what if you were a boy from Senegal who was sexually abused by a Parisian Catholic priest in the 90's? Would you want to burn down a symbol of the Catholic church? I bet you fucking would.

Did a twitter search yesterday for Michael Mouree, who back in 1950 gave my all-time favorite sermon in Notre-Dame Cathedral on Easter Sunday. Like most great speeches, he had help from his friends, in this case Serge Berna (who actually wrote the thing), Ghislain Desnoyers de Marbaix, and Jean Rullier. Here's the text in full, though I think by the end he was drowned out by the screaming (not unlike The Beatles).

    Today, Easter day of the Holy Year,
    Here, under the emblem of Notre-Dame of Paris,
    I accuse the universal Catholic Church of the lethal diversion of our living strength toward an empty heaven,
    I accuse the Catholic Church of swindling,
    I accuse the Catholic Church of infecting the world with its funereal morality,
    Of being the running sore on the decomposed body of the West.
    Verily I say unto you: God is dead,
    We vomit the agonizing insipidity of your prayers,
    For your prayers have been the greasy smoke over the battlefields of our Europe.
    Go forth then into the tragic and exalting desert of a world where God is dead,
    And till this earth anew with your bare hands,
    With your PROUD hands,
    With your unpraying hands.
    Today Easter day of the Holy Year,
    Here under the emblem of Notre-Dame of Paris,
    We proclaim the death of the Christ-god, so that Man may live at last.


Now there's a hot take. See, Mouree and his friends weren't actual priests. They were members of a group of bohemian artists who called themselves Lettrists, which later evolved into the Situationist International, which...just go read Greil Marcus' Lipstick Traces. They dressed up as priests and hijacked the service.

They were arrested of course. And, as you can imagine, it was a big deal, with people having all kinds of opinions. Mourre was held for a while, eventually released, and many years later repented and became (I shit you not, life is nothing if not hilarious) an actual priest.

But, you know, if 1000 years from now the Wal-Mart-sized Jesus World, or whatever the fuck the church is called out by the highway, I hope nobody sheds any tears. Like Notre-Dame, it's a symbol of arrogance, wealth, and is an abomination that flies in the face of everything Jesus taught. The Notre-Dame cathedral is a symbol of power, and as such, I shed no tears for its destruction. And I feel nothing but pity for the ones who do.

Monday, April 15, 2019

Passing Is Not The End

Maybe it's because of where I live (the US south), but it seems like nobody can say a person died anymore. People say they "passed." They speak of someone's "passing." Maybe it feels less jarring, more sympathetic, to say someone passed. You imagine the person's loved one hearing it. Maybe their child. And because this is a cruel world, you want to try to be as gentle as possible. What is the gentlest way I can say this, you think. And so you say, I'm so sorry to hear of Dave's passing.

None of which changes the fact that Dave's fucking dead, of course. It's just that it feels so...rude to talk about it that way. Watch people flinch when you talk about death. For a society that has no problem when it comes to killing--especially when it's done by a soldier, or a cop, or a judge--we get real fucking squeamish when somebody talks about death. You better stand on your chair and weep tears of patriotic joy when someone mentions the military, but when you're talking about my 93 year old grandma? She passed away.

If this trend continues (and given the general squeamishness of the middle-class-and-up bougie social values that are infecting our society--a demographic that simultaneously loves TV shows of violence and rape like Game of Thrones but will stiffen if you say the word shit in front of them--I see no reason why it won't), it won't be long before everyone just the newer, more sanitized euphemism get used just as crudely as the word it replaced.

You hear about, Dave?
Yeah, yeah. Too bad. Heard the dude passed in the bathtub. How sad is that?
Yeah, man. Wish Trump would hurry up and pass. Save us the trouble of sending his racist ass to jail.

You get the idea. Hey, I can totally get with the idea that language shapes thought, that violent/sexist/racist language is likely to, even if employed ironically, lead to more violent/sexual/racist acts. So sure, language is powerful. But it's worth remembering that cleaning up the language isn't going to clean up the world. Death doesn't get any less ugly just because the words get prettier. Indeed, for most of human history, we've tended to pick euphemisms that emphasize the ugly/cruel/real facts of death. Pushing up the daisies. Becoming worm food. We made bleak jokes about death because, well, because death is kind of a bleak joke. And I can't help but feel as coping mechanism go, you're better off picking one that acknowledges the realness of the thing you're coping with, rather than engaging in that suburban style of avoidance. But what do I know, I'm not the one gobbling anti-anxiety meds so I can walk out my front door.

But what are we going to do about the radio? Think of all these poor people driving around in their cars, listening to the radio, and suddenly some song comes on about death. People are likely to be so shocked and traumatized that they drive into a guardrail or something. For that reason, we think someone needs to do some radio edits to some famous songs. For the sake of politeness. Here's a quick sample of lyrics and/or titles that have been gentle-fied (it's like gentrified, only the real estate is between your ears).

The Day The Music Passed
Hope I pass before I get old
Live And Let Pass
The Passing Of A Disco Dancer
The Black Angel's Passing Song
I Just Passed In Your Arms Tonight
Earth Passed Screaming
All These People Have Passed
Ready To Pass
Born To Pass
Only The Good Pass Young
I Would Pass 4 U
Get Me Away From Here, I'm Passing

Friday, April 12, 2019

The Number Fortys: Joyce Kennedy & Jeffrey Osborne - "The Last Time I Made Love"

In The Number Fortys, we review whatever song was sitting at #40 on the Billboard charts. We began in the first week of January 1984, right around the time this writer became cognizant/obsessive about music, and will continue until we get bored. The seeds for the idea came from Tom Breihan's Number Ones column over at Stereogum. However, we here at k-postpunk believe that the bottom is more interesting than the top (and obscurity is more interesting than either). Also, if you want to read the Number in the title as meaning "more numb," I think that's totally understandable at this point.

Remember when they used to have to call it "making love." I think I speak for everyone when I say, ick. As for this song, well, I guess people had to listen to something back in 1984 when they were fucking (excuse me, making love).



I guess maybe the difference between fucking and making love is that making love is supposed to go really slow? Because this song is slow as hell. This sounds more like going to sleep than fucking, or making love, or doin' the old pokey-pokey (a term I just made up). Let's imagine a song called "The Last Time I Did the Old Pokey-Pokey. Is that a better song? Why yes, I believe it is.

So this song is about the last time they made love... to each other, and how beautiful it was. Seems like a waste of a title that could have gone in a number of different directions.

The last time I made love...I was attacked by a flurry of locusts.
The last time I made love...was awesome. It was right before my dick fell off.
The last time I made love...I was in a brothel in Wichita.
The last time I made love...it was with my sister.

You get the idea. This though, this is just an embarrassing Hallmark card set to insipid music. This is the second time this blog has encountered Jeffrey Osborne. That song got a 6. This one gets a 2.

At least it has a nice message re: women's sexual satisfaction etc., though even that aspect of the song makes me a little uncomfortable for the way it portrays female sexuality as passive and rooted in kindness (so much like mommy!). But since most songs about sex back then (and back now, for that matter) didn't give the women any agency at all, I guess I'll cut the song some slack and say, fuck it.

Or, as the song would say, make love it.

THE NUMBER ONE


Even if people one day decide to cancel Prince, and there are plenty of reasons why people would want to, I can't believe anyone could ever cancel this. It is one of the most life-affirming pieces of music ever made. A song about joy that looks death right in the eye and laughs at it. The singer is excited by the fact that we are all gonna die. Because if we are all gonna die then we have absolute freedom. That's some radical shit to send to the top of the charts with a multi-gender, multi-hued, multi-genred band of weirdos. A song about wanting everything "to go wrong" because it means the party, and our existence on the planet, will be so much greater and more exciting, is the sound of true enlightenment, a freedom that would be dangerous if people actually understood it and took it to heart.

Let's remove the song from the singer, the person who wrote and imagined it. Because that guy didn't come close to living this out. He was a control freak who lashed out in anger and brooding silence if things didn't go exactly the way they were supposed to go. But this song. This song is glorious.

Score: 10.

Ideology: Are you opting out or buying in?

Let's go ahead and reduce it to a false binary, in order to understand exactly what we're talking about here. Which is worse? To play the game and lose. Or to not play the game and lose. There is no good option. We knows the rules of the game. You choices you make about how you live/love/work need to be rooted in fear. Fear of not making enough money, of not having health care, of one day (never today, delayed gratification is rooted in this game) being able to buy a house. There's a reason this blog has SC.R.E.A.M. (Scarcity Rules Everything Around Me) as it's motto.

But what's the alternative, people ask. What else are you supposed to do? The fear of being poor is so great, a fear indoctrinated into us from birth by parents, authority figures, the entire fucking culture from top to bottom. Who is worthy v. who is not--worthy of love, respect, admiration. Which one do you want to be? Well if you want to be worthy, if you want those rewards, hell if all you want to do is survive, you need to shut your mouth and play the game. That means you measure every relationship on whether or not it can get you closer to your goal (which is the same goal as everyone else's money and/or fame and/or power). This is true of people in the culture industry, academia, country clubs, whatever. The people who can get you where you want to go have value. The people who can't are worthless, or a waste of your (limited, exhausted) emotional resources.

That's one path. The other path would mean trying not to care about any of that, and just doing what brought you joy, or freedom. It would mean learning, or creating, or working in spaces & situations that--even if they couldn't bring you 100% enjoyment all the time--could at least minimize the anxiety and dread and SC.R.E.A.M.ing in your head. You could at least find peace of mind in knowing that you weren't perpetuating a cruel and exploitative way of living. You could, to be trite, treat others the way you yourself want others to treat you.

For all its kindergarten simplicity, it's still a radical concept.

You can opt out, or you can buy in. But be careful. They both lead, more often than not, to disappointment. But they are two different types of torture. Opting out means getting your heart broken over and over again. Buying in means sentencing yourself to a life of perpetual hell.

Because the way you live your life ends up creating the lens through which you see others. In the same way that if you are liar, you'll assume that nobody can be trusted, if you are a person who sees other people as a rung upon a ladder, then you'll assume other people are as shallow and machiavellian as you are. I have to do this, you will think, because everyone else is doing this. And to not do live like this would be putting yourself at a disadvantage. And in a competitive world, you need every advantage you can get.

There is no victory. Not a final victory. Any success, by these standards, can only be temporary and fleeting. There are no triumphs, only respites.

The thing is, there's no guarantee that playing the game, that leading a ruthlessly aspirational life, inevitably leads to success. This is not a meritocracy. Not even fucking close. And the amount of money you're born into has way, way, way more to do with whether or not you will "succeed" or "fail" in this life (we're going to start putting those words in quotes, because they have been debased beyond all meaning).Do you really think hard work gets you anywhere in this country? Intelligence? Ability?

And networking is just another form of work. It's right there in the word. The idea that, in order to get ahead you need to make contacts and cultivate relationships (puke) is just  bougie, middle-class version of the "if you work hard, you'll get ahead" American dream horseshit that even the people selling it don't believe in. The US equivalent of snake oil. Work hard because I get to keep 90% of the wealth you generate would be a more honest and more accurate philosophy.

What does it mean to opt out of all that? What is the alternative? It means recognizing that dignity and self-respect also matter.  It means trying to live first and foremost as a human being sharing the planet with other humans, as opposed to seeing one's self as a commodity, or a fucking brand. It means resisting. It means being conscious of all the ways in which dominant ideologies--of neoliberalism, of capitalism, of nationalism, etc.--poison our existence. It means seeing how we suffer in our striving. It doesn't mean no one should strive, or aspire, or dream. It doesn't mean one resigns one's self to suffering. It means being aware of exactly what choices we're making, being aware of them as choices, and then choosing what we are willing, and are not willing, to do--to ourselves and to others--in the pursuit of our goals.

Opting out isn't easy. But then neither is buying in. Opting out means being aware. No rationalizations, no straw man arguments, no easy justifications. It means understanding exactly what you're doing, and accepting that your actions have consequences. It means valuing love over money, kindness over success, and revolution over perpetuating a system that is murderous & cruel.

Thursday, April 11, 2019

The Number Fortys: Barry Gibb - "Shine Shine"

In The Number Fortys, we review whatever song was sitting at #40 on the Billboard charts. We began in the first week of January 1984, right around the time this writer became cognizant/obsessive about music, and will continue until we get bored. The seeds for the idea came from Tom Breihan's Number Ones column over at Stereogum. However, we here at k-postpunk believe that the bottom is more interesting than the top (and obscurity is more interesting than either). Also, if you want to read the Number in the title as meaning "more numb," I think that's totally understandable at this point.

This installment, we present to you a song so bad you may never want to listen to music again.



I would rather listen to Shine a Light, or Shine Like it Does, or Shine On You Crazy Diamond, or Shiny Shiny by Haysi Fantayzee, The Sun Is Surely Gonna Shine, or whatever that Blossom theme song was called. I'd even listen to Collective Soul's Shine, which is only half the title that Barry's song is.

Anything but Shine Shine, from Barry Gibb's 1984 album, Now Voyager, which I'm assuming was named after a 50's movie called Now, Voyager. Barry got rid of the comma, the first of many, many lapses of judgement. Hell, even Barry thinks the album sucked.
It's something I always wanted to do, but I never quite felt confident enough to do it. The man who really made me think seriously about it was Irving Azoff, who convinced me that there was possibly a market out there for me. As unhappy about it as we were at the time, we now appreciate why it didn't do well. We worked nine months on that album. That's crazy. I think you lose energy by doing that. The message has to be that we really can't take so long making albums. 
That's one message, a kind message, a kinder message than this song deserves. Barry Gibb had done, by this point in his life, plenty of music-related things that could be considered, by some, to be good. This is not one of them.

Fun fact: I think there's some celebrity cameos going on in that video, but the only person I can definitively identify is Jameson Parker, one of the Simon brothers on hit 80's TV show Simon & Simon. It's theme song, taken as a TV theme song rather than an actual piece of music deserves a 7.



Anyway, see if you can find some more celebrities. Mr. Gibb's song is a 0.

 THE NUMBER ONE


This is probably the biggest between a #40 and a #1 that we've had so far, quality-wise. We wrote a couple weeks back about what an absolute bucket of scum Prince was as a  human, but this song is quite simply one of the most exciting pieces of music ever recorded. You have to admire the way it does everything. Spoken introduction, jet-engine guitar riff, a beat that kicks, sex, melody, a heart-stopping guitar solo, even a little bump & grind at the end. Short of the studio exploding, it's impossible to imagine Prince, or anyone, getting more excitement into a pop song. Some songs reach #1 because they're sweet, or because of their hype, or because everything else around it is so incredibly shitty. Prince reached #1 here, as he did with When Doves Cry, because he had created something so artistically and commercially perfect that I can't imagine how it could have not gone to #1.

Score: 10.

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

Ratka Against The Machine

When I here something like this, something that makes me sit up and go fuck yeah, I figure everyone must be talking about it. After all, most of the stuff everyone is talking about makes me sit back and go huh. The good folks (they could be bad folks, actually, I don't know them) over at Treble wrote about this new record by a Brazilian band called Ratka (link). You're a smart person. You can listen for yourself.



The review's great (the phrase "psychedelic witches" was all it took to send me scrambling to their Bandcamp). I'm not sure I get the Factory/4AD comparisons though. To me, it sounds like early Animal Collective in hell (a show I would definitely see; I'd even pay an extra $20 to do some of the torturing), everything distorted and processed through delay pedals being abused within an inch of their existence. Or maybe Laurel Halo on a Pharmakon trip? Anyway, it's white-knuckle, blasted, and beautiful.

But a quick Google search brings back next to nothing on this Brazilian band. The album is available on Iron Lung records, who obviously haven't thrown the proper amount of $$$ at the proper PR firm (this is, in our opinion, a plus). Here's a link to their site. Buy this album. Hell, go buy the label's entire fucking catalog, you RMD-collecting trust-fund son-of-a-hedge-fund-manager.

This record feels like an appropriate response to being alive in 2019. And you want to talk to me about fucking Weyes Blood, a Sarah McLachlan without the sense of melody? Get the fuck out of here. Go sell that shit somewhere else.