today is the 25th anniversary of elvis's death on the pot that mournful day as punk was exploding all across the western world. in reading the trashy beach novel which is '24 hour party people' tony wilson describes the moment he found out - of another generation and too northern for sex pistols nihilism, he was moved, felt an era end.
interested then, the rolling stone article about how no one really gives a shit about elvis anymore. ya, i read mystery train but i'd be inclined to agree with those 18-year-old kids they profiled, and Public Enemy who seemed to think the King's legacy had no personal effect on them. likewise, my elvis was bob dylan or the psychedelic furs, sonic youth or the clash. maybe dylan has some of the elvis in him in tha he owed a larger debt to the tradition from which he came, he became a name through the old tradition of playing covers and paying your dues. but he evolved quickly where elvis became a pacified, pastel clad sinatra with only a truck driver's grace and little more. he wasn't even sexy like brando in streetcar, just a lumpen moving the shellac-ed hair about a stage. don't get me started on the comeback special.
on an unrelated note, i wanted to hate spoon but find that their blend of strokes rave ups and vaguely smarty lyrics shrouded in dumb sideliners making you not really sure - are these guys geniuses or just savants?- which is sometimes my favorite rock query. the iggy pop conundrum.

just finished a huge piece on the bluegrass band jim and jennie who have sort have become my pets. talking to 'bluegrass unlimited' magazine i got that unpleasant, itchy feeling of not knowing anything about a certain genre...wanting to dive right into it. bill monroe, at least.
saw a blues band last night and think i finally understand what that's all about. why should the blues be something i don't understand? well, i don't understand the cliched, white-guy in khakis relating thing and now i do. actually, yesterday there was an ad for the atlantic city george carlin show where he went off on his gravel-mouthed rant against white people singing the blues. don't know about the race card but the blues does seem like the black equivalent to country - a tradition with about five major themes to be taught and learned down the generations.
not at all like the blues is ladytron's new album, which i'm listening to right now. will it make it past the fischerspooner/adult world we live in now? things like trans am and ladytron, once thought kitsch, proved to be 'ahead of their time'? and depeche mode, ever faithful, has been around long enough for it all to come back around but couldn't even muster the pre-sets to get into the game. brushing off the gratuitous laments about the loss of youth and beauty (is the song about models? electro? i can't follow all the meanings) the album is pretty damn good in the lush, all keyboards go midtempo, cheesy handclap effect at just the right moment type vibe. i feel like i'm back on the gravitron circa 1987. and that's not a bad place to be.

someone tried to convince me that interpol was clever, charming even, but i can't help but think i'd rather listen to the cure or the smiths. the lead singer's four-note range and endless babble over weird, almost U2 guitar haze is novel until two songs in, when you realize, 'hey, this guy really can't sing.' and, listening to his lyrics, maybe he shouldn't. ' the subway, she is a porno.' no. the subway is transit and your voice is a lead weight on my head.
today, against my rebellion against troubleman (follow?) i picked up the milky wimpshake and loved it entirely from almost the first second. well, i like television personalities and sarcasm and self-depricating/secretly egotistical indie-pop only when it comes out of the undertones/dirty punk and leftist university-isms so how could i not? makes me want to fire up the four-track and start a hand-stitched fanzine.
listening to the zombies still like a disease. the route of all true indie pop is not the beatles, but them with their tireless attention to the backspin, to sentimental reflection and weirdly dusty melodies strung over warm walking/soul-fueled bass lines. time of the season is such an afterthought, it is the best argument for not trusting oldies radio. who ever did?

forgotten radio stations play forgotten things - the guess who's first album after bachman left - share the land. can't say i enjoyed it that much although after my introduction into the world of the boogie rock via the James Gang last weekend I at least began to understand where they were coming from. Unrelated, I think that Music from Big Pink is a terribly overrated album and if I hadn't sent my bs into Chunklet on the matter, I would add that to my list. anyway, the first song is this totally bizarre dis on people who ride public transportation called 'bus rider' which had this crude visciousness to it that, 32-years later, seems hilarious in its childish attitude. c'mon man, what's wrong with the bus? especially in fucking manitoba or wherever they're from. anyway, one of my least favorite oys of the piano is in gratutious honky tonk chatter thrown down under bands like this to give texture - it works in great rolling stones songs, is fabulous in early spiritualized and all over where layered with care. but this shit was awful. not that anyone reading this doesn't know deep in their hearts that the guess who sort of suck.

conceptualist v. concept driven...annoying distinction, but needed. john cage, a man i wish i knew more about than the sort of exploded cliches i've adopted for party chatter about idea over action. of course, others did it at the time - stockhausen and his om - but cage really explored it with all types of compositions - from radios, speaking, silence (argh, i'd love to bring a boom box to 4' 33" and get kicked out...oh, another of my musical audience annoyance pranks has been hatched), and of course, tape loops. ahh, to live in california in the '40s. all that concrete, all those pinko minds.
nina nastastia - good stuff - sort of like a country rasputina sans annoying super-fake vibrato. always trust touch and go, even in the promo. very inoften do i approve of extended jams where the strings, usually cello, is allowed to come out from the mix and have melodic dominance, but the song 'ocean' really gets me. she's not even country, she's just cat power without the twirled-hair ignorance and coy downplay, tory without the stigma or harpsichord (or overuse of breathy delivery)...
also, the new pop writer for the new york times who covered nelly today is trying to do some sort of 'larger commentary' on society with his bs about mr. cornell (i love finding out the real names of monikered stars, guilty pleasure) being a posterchild for the mundane, army-brat midwest existence. st. louis is everywhere, and nelly the every man. let's take off all our clothes.