If you're one of the many anonymous blobs of matter who has, over the years, sporadically enjoyed perusing this ragtag collection of deranged musings known as Cosmic American Blog, well, the cold hard truth is, you may not be able to enjoy it, or at least any new content from Little Earl, for much longer.
But slow down that accelerating heart rate of yours, take a nice breath of fresh air (or whatever gaseous substance you're fond of inhaling), and don't dial that suicide hotline just yet.
Quit blogging? Who, me?
Fear not, as Little Earl is merely embarking upon a new phase of his dastardly mayhem. Prepare yourself, if you can, for a sleeker, more modern, more groundbreaking, more experimental work of unparalleled blogging brilliance, the likes of which the internet may have never seen before, and may never see again. One adventure ends, as they say, and another begins.
Allow me the pleasure of introducing to you: a great humanitarian, a brilliant entertainer, a fellow blogger, and my dear, dear friend of 41 years:
The Part-Time Buddhist Pop Culture Guru means business, and you know how I can tell? Because he's on WordPress.
Initially, I was skeptical, but after the Part-Time Buddhist Pop Culture Guru (PTBPCG?) approached me in good faith, pitched me the general concept behind the blog (discussing his favorite albums and films of the '60s and '70s, but with the unique twist of discussing them from a part-time Buddhist point of view), and asked for my input, I have to say, I found the project simply too good to pass up. And so, I've agreed to help out behind the scenes, under terms that I am legally and contractually forbidden to disclose here, but suffice to say, I will most likely need to devote my full energies to the enterprise.
The truth is, Cosmic American Blog was never meant to be my "forever blog."
A little history. In January 2007, my good friend from college suggested that I start a blog. He said it was a laughably easy thing to do. It was so easy, in fact, that, one night, he created a blog on blogspot, and added a couple of posts as a joke. Soon I began adding a few posts of my own. We were essentially "instant messaging" each other that night, through the guise of a blog. There was no grand agenda, no central objective. We were just dicking around.
That said, I was a young man with plenty on my mind, and so was he, and after about a week of dicking around between the two of us, we shared the link with friends and family, and began to take the notion of blogging a wee bit more seriously (and I mean a wee bit). That college friend went by the blogger name of Yoggoth. Because we had initially met as DJs at our campus radio station, where my DJ name was Little Earl and where one of my many radio shows was named, I believe, "Cosmic American Music" (another show title: "Nuke the Whales"), he dubbed the blog "Cosmic American Blog" and chose Little Earl as my blogger alter-ego.
I feel a slight amount of pity for anyone on Google over the last 15 years who might have been searching for a blog that they were hoping would discuss, in great detail and tremendous affection, late '60s and early '70s country rock, happened to stumble upon something called "Cosmic American Blog," assumed that their prayers were answered, and instead found themselves face-to-face with endless posts about Debbie Gibson, Starship, and Stock Aitken Waterman. I'm sorry. I'm really, truly sorry. Blame Yoggoth.
So, for the first five years of the blog's existence (let's call this "Phase One"), it was essentially a "blog about nothing" (a la Seinfeld), without any specific raison d'etre, although we flirted with two large series ("Best Movies of the '80s" and "Best Albums of the '90s"), suggesting both the potential for something more substantial, and the format I partially hope to follow with my upcoming blog. During that very first year, one of my friends from high school (with whom I shared the enterprise) began to follow the blog more closely than almost anyone else, constantly leaving his thoughtful comments on practically every post and expressing great enthusiasm for our magnificent nonsense. Yoggoth and I huddled, and, after much deliberation, decided to grant our biggest fan co-blogging access. That fan ... dubbed himself Herr Zrbo.
Phase One continued on into 2010. Yoggoth gradually began posting less and less frequently, claiming to be attending something called "law school" (whatever that was), but I didn't mind that so much as long as he continued to read my posts and Zrbo's posts and add his peerless commentary at the bottom. But soon Yoggoth ceased even reading the damn thing - he stopped reading the blog he had co-founded! Losing a bit of the fire myself, I began to wonder where this beast was headed, even posting an amusingly frank entry titled "The Blog Is Dying." If I'd been in a more financially and professionally stable period of my life, I might have done then what I've decided to do now: start a brand new blog, with a more clearly defined thematic focus, more legitimate marketing presence, and more modern web design. Imagine if I'd spent the last 10 years writing about the subjects that had truly meant the most to me.
But nope! Not what I did.
Instead, in the fall of 2010, I found myself becoming absurdly and irrationally obsessed with '80s music. I knew that Zrbo loved '80s music. I knew that Yoggoth didn't care for it so much (at least not the "Top 40/MTV" side of '80s music), but Yoggoth had stopped reading the blog anyway, so screw him, and Zrbo was still into it. Hence, I made a fateful decision. I decided to blog about my newfound love of '80s music, essentially aiming my writing at Zrbo (to paraphrase a Vonnegut quote, "Try to write with one person in mind; if you open the window and attempt to make love to the world, you will only catch pneumonia."). Did I have any idea of how long I would be blogging about '80s music? Pfft. I just thought I would dive into the deep end and see where the topic took me. Thus began Phase Two.
Well, eleven years later, I woke up in a dumpster covered in George Michael's leather jacket, Madonna's cone bra, Kate Pierson's beehive hairdo, and Al B. Sure!'s unibrow, wondering what the hell had become of my life.
The thing is, although I made it all the way up to 1990, in a sense, I didn't actually "finish." As outlined in my introductory post (now - Jesus Christ - 11 years old?), my original intention was to cover "both" sides of the '80s AKA spend some time on the aforementioned "Top 40/MTV" side of '80s music, and then eventually transition over to the more "alternative" side of '80s music, which I enjoy almost as much as I do the mainstream side. Picture, if you will, lengthy, in-depth series on alternative acts both American (Husker Du, the Minutemen, the Meat Puppets, R.E.M., the Replacements, the Butthole Surfers, the Pixies, Beat Happening, Bongwater) and British (the Cure, New Order, the Smiths, the Jesus and Mary Chain, the Pet Shop Boys, Depeche Mode, Tears for Fears, the Cocteau Twins, Bauhaus, the Associates, Felt).
Well, since it took me 11 years to blog about the "Top 40/MTV" side of the '80s ... your mental picture of those blog posts might just have to do. 'Twas a beautiful vision, but I think we're going to have to let the second half of that plan slide a bit. I do recall feeling a sting of deep uncertainty as to whether or not I should have included the Pet Shop Boys in my "Summer of '88" series, or R.E.M., the Cure, Depeche Mode, and Tears for Fears in my "Herbert Walker Memories" series, given that the official "plan" was always to include those acts in separate, future blog series, until I realized, "Fuck it, I'm never going to get around to it at this point." But at least I managed to lightly brush those acts' catalogs.
Oh, I could keep going! Is there some secret rule, agreed upon by Mark Zuckerberg, Tim Cook, and Jeff Bezos in a vast underground lair, that a blogger is required to maintain only one blog at a time? The thing is, I have, like, a day job. Sure, I could keep going ... if I were independently wealthy, or possibly retired (give me about ... 20 more years?). The truth is, at the moment, I think I can only handle one blog at a time. And wrapping up the "Top 40/MTV" side seemed like a suitable place to stop the madness. But if I unexpectedly find myself with more time on my hands, then who knows?
While the last 11 years' worth of blogging may have suggested otherwise, I should probably mention that the '80s isn't actually my favorite decade of music (!). Which, in a sense, made it easier to write on, given that I didn't have nearly as much to say about it as I had to say about the '60s and '70s. But I always felt a bit uneasy with the notion that my ultimate writing legacy might consist of excerpts from a fake Phil Collins autobiography and microscopically granular analysis of every facet of Belinda Carlisle's entire recording career. Look, it just ... happened. Even less apparent over the course of Cosmic American Blog's run, perhaps, is my deep passion for 20th century cinema.
I knew I would have to make the transition someday, but, as a friend of mine recently pointed out, addiction was certainly a pervasive theme of '80s life, and so perhaps it was fitting that I found myself addicted to continuously posting about '80s music and being terrifyingly unable to quit. But I now announce to you, with pride, that I've finally emerged from '80s blogger rehab clean and sober.
That said, although I have little intention of adding new posts to Cosmic American Blog going forward, it'll still ... you know ... be here, in all its low-tech, 2007-era glory. Welcome to the magic of the internet. Keeping an old blog online costs me absolutely jack squat. I see no reason to "close" it somehow, or alter the posts as they already exist. It's not like it takes up space on my hard drive.
I also suspect that Zrbo may still plan to publish his usual "Favorite Songs of the Year" posts every once in a while, which I imagine might appeal to a slightly different audience, but how he decides to approach that is honestly up to him.
So, if you're that rare music and culture aficionado who adores reading about '80s music but has absolutely zero interest in '60s and '70s music, or '60s and '70s film, then perhaps I'm breaking your heart. Otherwise, the Part-Time Buddhist Pop Culture Guru beckons.
Question: What happens when two depressed British synth-pop sourpusses cheer up just a teeny tiny bit?
Answer: They put away their Joy Division 12-inches and pull out their imported copy of Magical Mystery Tour.
Given that their very band name was a term originated by psychologist Arthur Janov, the creator of Primal Scream therapy whose brief stint treating John Lennon greatly inspired John's first post-Beatles album (John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band), it shouldn't be a surprise that Tears for Fears were gargantuan Beatle freaks, but when "Sowing the Seeds of Love" came out in 1989, I think it was viewed as, shall we say, a departure.
"Sowing the Seeds of Love" wins my vote for greatest Beatles homage of the '80s. It's like the "Beatles" of '80s Beatles homages, if you will. Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith stole an entire jar of Beatles moonshine from the country market and they chugged the whole gallon. A touch of "Rain" here, a smattering of "All You Need is Love" there ... you name it, they nicked it. A dash of McCartney's toenail clippings, a splinter of Ringo's drumstick, a lock of George Martin's hair, a drop of Yoko's urine ... they took it all and went to town.
What Tears for Fears did with their Beatles homage that, in my opinion, even ELO or Oasis never quite managed to do, was turn it into its own little six-minute Abbey Road medley. "Sowing the Seeds of Love" has enough mini-sections and unexpected digressions to sow the seeds of eight separate Beatles rip-offs. Let's start at the top:
0:13 - The verse melody, which lifts its lyrical rhythm, and siren-like organ riff, from "I am the Walrus" (?) 0:40 - I'm fairly certain they simply flipped over the "Walrus" single, played "Hello Goodbye," looked at each other knowingly and declared, "There's our chorus!" 1:48 - Dreamy Interlude #1, complete with faint choral singing right out of the Let It Be version of "Across the Universe," topped off by what I'm fairly certain are R2D2 farts 2:22 - Roland and his vocoder take center stage ("Feel the pain/Talk about it") in a section that, in a typical '80s pop song, would essentially be the bridge that immediately precedes the final chorus, but whoa-ho-ho my friends, this song isn't even halfway over yet. 3:12 - Dreamy Interlude #2, set to the chorus melody, sporting trumpets flown in from the "Penny Lane" Express 3:28 - Someone shouts "OK!" in his raunchiest James Brown voice and the track takes a quick detour to Memphis (or perhaps that's Billy Preston on keys?) 3:55 - With a hard-panned guitar lick straight out of Harrison's worst meditation-induced nightmares, and a drum fill doctored to the teeth with what sounds like backward masking (?), the adventure swiftly returns to where it all began - the "Walrus"-like verse melody. 4:48 - Finally, at nearly the five-minute mark, the last chorus, and the "Hey Jude"-style fade-out. Rejoice, for Odysseus has been reunited with his Penelope.
But if the music of "Sowing the Seeds of Love" could be described as delightfully '67, I would describe the lyrics as intensely '89. Seriously, no one could create hummable radio hits that somehow sported stealthily barbed political overtones quite like those '80s British synth-pop groups, I tell ya:
High time we made a stand
And shook up the views of the common man
And the love train rides from coast to coast
DJ is the man we love the most
Could you be, could you be squeaky clean
And smash any hope of democracy?
As the headline says you're free to choose
There's an egg on your face and mud on your shoes
One of these days they're gonna call it the blues, yeah
Sowing the seeds of love
(Anything is possible)
Seeds of love
(When you're sowing the seeds of love)
Sowing the seeds
I spy tears in their eyes
They look to the skies for some kind of divine
Intervention, food goes to waste
So nice to eat, so nice to taste
Politician grannie with your high ideals
Have you no idea how the majority feels?
So without love and a promised land
We're fools to the rules of a government plan
Kick out the style, bring back the jam
The bitter phrases Orzabal peppers the song with are so oblique that I doubt anyone out in Main Street USA would even understand which aspects of world affairs, precisely, he was genuinely objecting to, but at least he sounds like he's got stuff on his mind. "As the headline says you're free to choose/There's egg on your face and mud on your shoes"? "So without love and a promised land/We're fools to the rules of a government plan"? He's talking about somebody else's country, right? "An end to need/And the politics of greed"? I mean hey, who's against that? I'm pretty sure the "Politician grannie with your high ideals" would have been a reference to a certain Iron Lady, who ... my God, was she still in office in 1989? What the hell was wrong with those people? And finally, what's with the implied diss of Paul Weller's Style Council ("Kick out the style, bring back the Jam")? Guess Roland wasn't digging the non-threatening Yuppie affectations of sophisti-pop? Or perhaps Weller forgot to call him on his birthday, I don't know.
Although he occasionally inches toward dopiness ("I love a sunflower"?), what I admire about Orzabal's outlook here is that, in the face of relentlessly gloomy news, he is a man who nevertheless advocates positivity. While not suggesting indifference, I wouldn't say he suggests anger either. Could it really be possible to tackle injustice without succumbing to snotty self-righteousness (AKA becoming Jello Biafra)? Perhaps many on the political left today might want to give this 33-year-old chestnut another spin.
And they should give the video another spin while they're at it, only after ingesting the substance of their choice. You know what the video for "Sowing the Seeds of Love" makes me think of? You know the end of Yellow Submarine, where the Blue Meanies suddenly find themselves covered in flowers, and they finally release all the love they'd been repressing inside themselves for thousands upon thousands of years, and they hold hands with Jeremy the Boob and "It's All Too Much" starts blaring out of the speakers and the movie virtually explodes with drug-induced pheromones of peace and sunshine? This video is like that. These two sad sack wallflowers who hardly even seemed capable of getting up in the morning without a healthy dose of antidepressants (see: "World, Mad" and "Shelter, Pale") had finally busted out of their funk and were letting the whole human race know it. The word this song and video bring to mind is "opulent." Tears for Fears didn't worry about going too colorful, too dreamy, too silly on this one. They let their imagination run rampant. It's what the moment called for.
Also: I've heard it said that, once upon a time, effects in videos weren't made with computers. This means that they look like effects, but that also means those effects still have a tactile weight and movement to them that later effects arguably would not. I can feel that box spinning in the sky. I can feel that stalk shooting up out of the ground. I can feel that giant stone face opening its doors (which are placed on its forehead?). I can feel that golden orb smashing into the eye of the illuminati. Then there's the part where a flaming ring opens up a portal inside a newspaper, and we find ourselves being sucked into a vortex of spinning fish, Buddha statues, doves, and ... Egyptian ankhs? Then, once an abalone shell gets the hell out of the way, Roland and Curt start marching through a field of ... those see-sawing bird paperweights? Look out for flying violins, umbrellas, and a gravity-defying Brunhilde! Suddenly Roland tosses a book our way, and the video quickly transforms into the video for Tom Tom Club's "Genius of Love." Then Roland finds himself literally sowing seeds in what appears to be ... Andrew Wyeth's Christina's World? The final blossoming of the sunflower in outer space (how would it survive in space?) feels appropriately orgiastic. In hindsight, perhaps these two should have saved up at least a couple of drops of all that positive energy for the follow-up album.
Unnerved and alarmed by my shocking failure to recognize the grossly forged nature of the Phil Collins "memoir" which I so eagerly devoured and so frequently quoted over the course of several years, I began to wonder (and fear): could it be at all possible that I'd ... made the same mistake twice?
Loyal readers may recall that, only a short while after "discovering" the fraudulent (if highly amusing) Collins work, I came across an equally strange text, Father Figure: The Socio-Political Implications of George Michael in the Post-Modern Landscape, which, unlike the bogus autobiography, was purportedly written not by the artist himself, but by an academic scholar of significant international renown: Professor Horton J. Higglediggle.
But now I began to wonder. Allegedly an instructor at the University of New South-Southwest Wales, perhaps there was something amiss with this imposing-sounding credential. Let us not forget, of course, that Professor Harold Hill never did in fact attend Gary Conservatory and was not, despite his many claims, a member of the Gold Medal class of 1905. Alas, after a quick Google search, a cold sweat enveloped my palms once again.
There is no Australian state known as New South-Southwest Wales.
What had I done?
Come on, like I know the names of Australian states? Hell, I thought they were called provinces, you know, like in Canada. Give this Yank a break. But mainly, I felt that a scholarly groundbreaking text such as Higglediggle's was too masterful to fake, too insightful to fabricate - as if some random blogger who'd spent a year in grad school could have imitated language so complex, theories so heady. Preposterous!
Then it dawned on me: at various times, hadn't I been personally corresponding with Professor Higglediggle - or if not Professor Higglediggle, then at least someone claiming to be Professor Higglediggle? And so, it was time to compose yet another letter. One evening last month, at approximately 2:00am, bottle of Absolut Vodka on my desk (presumably from Russia, but perhaps even that was a lie?), I wrote to this reclusive pseudo-Aussie once more, in a tone arguably a touch too nasty and accusatory for the occasion, but emotions were running high. A week later, I received the following reply:
Your inquiries as to the nature of my identity, though possibly not intended as such, do raise salient points about the issue of authorial authenticity in the post-textual media landscape. For if the means of publication are, for lack of a better term, democratized, and if identities can be formed and dissolved without any sense of finite legitimacy, then would there be, in any experientially or ontologically valid meaning of the term, a concrete categorical difference between the work of Professor Higglediggle and, say, an online imposter purporting to be Professor Higglediggle? In other words, if the difference between the "imposter" Higglediggle and the "real" Higglediggle cannot be established, then wouldn't the "imposter" Higglediggle become just as real as the "real" Higglediggle, in the same sense that "misquoted" classic film lines (ex: "Play it again, Sam"; "We don't need no stinking badges") have eventually, if unintentionally, risen to the status of the "real" quotation? In merely asking the question, "Who is Professor Higglediggle?" aren't we elevating the primacy of the "original" Higglediggle to an arbitrary status it may not ultimately merit?
Ten years ago, just for the fun of it, I started blogging about my favorite songs of the year. I didn't realize it would grow into an annual tradition, let alone one that would last an entire ten years. But here we are in this cursed year of our lord two thousand twenty one, and to paraphrase (ladies and gentlemen...) Mr. Elton John, "I'm still blogging better than I ever did".
So here are my favorites of the past ten years. First off, some ground rules. I am only considering songs that made it into my end of the year lists, so that means we had a total of 50 contenders. If I've found another song not on any of my lists that I've now decided I like more - well, that's too bad. That also means no substitutes, so no, I can't swap 2015's entry of Carly Rae Jepson's "All That" with "I Really Like You", even though in retrospect I probably should have.
Long time readers of this blog might know that I frequently include songs that are not only NOT from that respective year, but are oftentimes 30 or more years old, or are otherwise one-off novelty songs. I tried to limit the number of novelty songs on this list, but be warned, you might encounter a magic carpet ride or more.
This is a straight list. I did not rank the songs here. That would be too much needless brain work, and I hate to pit such great songs against one another.
With all that out of the way... the envelope please.
Taken from my top 5 of 2011, VNV Nation started out the decade strong. With their 2011 album Automatic, VNV tweaked their sound in such a way that it was, as reviewer Ned Raggett described "an attempt to reconfigure [their sound] going forward." For long time fans such as myself, this was apparent from the get go, with front placed "Space & Time" debuting singer Ronan Harris's punchier vocal delivery alongside electro-harpsichords, and even a hint of something approaching dubstep. The album as a whole seemed more positive and upbeat than previous albums. This was the mood at the time, with Obama in office and the economy on the upswing. Things would change of course, and by the end of the decade VNV would release a much darker album that was also indicative of the mood at the time. We'll come back to that.
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Chvrches - "Gun"
Scottish trio Chvrches were the indie synth-revival darlings of the 2010s, but I actually first caught them early in the morning on a channel known for not playing music videos anymore. I instantly gravitated towards their use of big synths coupled with singer Lauren Mayberry's fragile voice. Both the song and the video for "Gun" are a trippy mix of cascading synths and breakbeats. I personally feel that their first album, The Bones of What You Believe, from where "Gun" comes, was their most interesting and experimental, an attribute I feel they've somewhat lost over the years.
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Sergio Mendes - "Alibis"
Fellow writer on this here blog, Little Earl, was the one who originally put this song before me with his 80s mix tape series. At first I loved this song for the accompanying video here. I have vague memories of sitting in front of the TV as a little kid, perhaps with a babysitter, watching episodes of Solid Gold. In short, this whole video gives me a wistful feeling of my childhood. It was a time when artists could wear ridiculous outfits and lip-synch so-so obviously that they weren't even really trying, and there was no irony to any of it.
But quickly I noticed that it was the song too that I very much liked. Singer Joe Pizzulo's voice is so smooth, and Sergio just bounces there having fun on his keyboard. I love the vintage artifice of it all, the coordinated background dancers in leotards, the solo where they swarm and dance provocatively around the sax player, the presenter who kinda mingles with the band after the performance, and just the way everyone looks like they all just did an 8 ball in the makeup room beforehand. Even the premise of the song is vintage, with it stating that "your telephone service is out again". I very much unironically love this song.
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Taylor Swift's album 1989
I had to give up my goth-industrial membership card when I put this album on my top songs of 2014, and I will stand by my choice. On 1989 Swift reinvented herself, moving from country to the world of pop (though she was already headed that direction). And this is a very good pop album. Highlights are "Out Of The Woods" and "Style".
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Within Temptation - "Faster"
Now here's a song that'll get you a speeding ticket if you listen to it while driving. Ten years later and this is still my favorite song to listen to when driving fast down the freeway. When I first saw this video I was surprised, as the last time I had encountered Within Temptation they were doing a neo-pagan meets symphonic metal thing. Now they looked like a much more mature band. Singer Sharon den Adel looks gorgeous here too (her soul must be residing in a mirror somewhere because she looks virtually the same today). The inclusion of strings gives the song some needed cinematic bombast. 2011 must have been a very good year, because this is the third song from that list that's made it onto this list.
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Benny Mardones - "Into the Night"
Oh Benny. When I first heard this song (or really, saw the video for the first time) I loved it because the video was so old and ridiculous. Here's a video featuring Mr. Mardones skulking around, peeping in on a girl who's supposed to be 16 but looks even younger here. Then he woos her through the worst looking magic carpet ride effect you've ever seen, complete with a trip over the Statue of Liberty! And the whole thing looks like they had a budget of... whatever money Benny could find between the cushions of his 1977 Firebird Trans Am. But after not too long the song itself began to grow on me. Mardones' voice is sort of gravely, but in a smooth way (smooth gravel?). Then there's those notes he hits near the end, which, to quote fellow blogger Little Earl, sound like "someone is slowly dipping his toes into a vat of acid".
This rather trite pop song I found last year has managed to make it into my regular rotation. Its simple 80's inspired synths work well with Frye's voice. The whole thing has a hazy dreamy retro feel to it. I still can't figure out who Texas based Jessie Frye is or who's buying her records though (or who's fronting the cash to make all her videos).
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Adele's cover of George Michael's "Fastlove"
As I said when I gave this song my #1 of 2017, Adele transforms this otherwise silly pop song about George's ability to easily pick up partners for casual sex into a stirring dirge full of pathos and sadness for the late George Michael. But really, for me it's the performance here that's so wonderful. Adele sings as if she were mourning the death of a dear friend, she even restarts the performance when she recognizes she's off key (go to 1:35 for the full performance).
Big kudos to whoever made the video that backs her. They've designed it in such a way so that at times George is mouthing the same words as Adele, so that when she sings the "wooo hoo baby baby" we see George mimicking the same vocals. Or, my favorite part, right before the final verse at 5:00 after the music swells and she hits the big note, the video maker just knew that everyone would want to clap. In order to shush them they show a brief shot of George literally putting his finger to his mouth to shush the audience. And in that final verse she nearly brings herself to tears. I'm not really an Adele fan, but this performance still gives me the chills.
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The Birthday Massacre - "One"
I only discovered The Birthday Massacre during that first summer of the pandemic, even though they've been around for 20 years. Ok, I had heard of them since they were on the same industrial music label Metropolis Records as many other bands I'm familiar with. I also had their cover of The Neverending Story theme that I had downloaded way back in the days of Napster, but I had never really paid them any attention. One night the algorithm decided that I might be interested in them so I gave them a listen. I have to thank the algorithmic gods here, as I quickly discovered a band that I have absolutely fallen in love with. By the age of 40 I was content with the music and bands that I knew and loved and never thought another band would come along and grab ahold of me the way that bands or albums I listened to back in high school or college would.
But wow, for the past 18 months I've pretty much been listening to nothing but The Birthday Massacre. This Toronto based band creates these pop infused goth/metal/synth songs that when combined with lead singer Chibi's Madonna-influenced vocals are just these little confections I can listen to over and over again. The song "One" taken from their 2017 album Under Your Spell is just one example I could easily fill an entire top 10 with.
What began as a decade full of hope and optimism had completely fizzled out near the end of the 2010s. Political strife, the effects of global warming, and the rise of a global pandemic ended the decade on a dour note. VNV's 2018 album Noire reflected that change. Almost an inverse from 2011's fist-pumping Automatic, Noire is much darker (natch) and moodier. The opening track "A Million" delivers a bleak opening statement about the future we face, and the final track "All Our Sins" delivers an incredibly bombastic indictment of the human race and our collective fate. However, the track "Armour" provides a bit of something to hold on to, as singer Ronan Harris sings about metaphorical armor (sorry, armour) that shelters and provides comfort from the ravages of the world. The album as a whole is one of VNV's best and I would highly recommend it.
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Well that's it! I can't help but wonder what we'll all be listening to 10 years from now? No doubt it will be something we can't even comprehend yet, like an animated meme of Barron Trump doing the cha-cha-cha set to some viral song about artificially intelligent hot dogs. The future awaits!
What a wild year it's been. Thanks to the vaccine, the world began opening up again (somewhat). At the same time, it feels like the world is slipping further into chaos with each passing day. The songs I chose this year as my favorites reflect that chaos. They're a rather eclectic mix. Really I've pretty much been listening to nothing but The Birthday Massacre, but I didn't want to stuff this list with songs from just one band. So instead you get a song from a video game, two novelty songs, and two actual songs - only one of which is actually from 2021. Let's get to it:
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5. Sayonara Wild Hearts - "Wild Hearts Never Die"
A song from the video game Sayonara Wild Hearts where you play as a young woman coming to terms with her feelings as a lesbian. It's all wonderfully rendered as a trippy pixelated world where your character is constantly moving forward as they navigate obstacles. The whole experience incorporates a magnificent 80s pop-synth soundtrack that pulsates and flows in time with the gameplay so that each level (or song) is like it's own music video that you are participating in. The entire game is like an album and is short enough that it can be completed in one sitting. The track "Wild Hearts Never Die" appears part way through, but is reprised during the finale in a triumphant explosion of pink and purple polygons. I have to admit that the song doesn't quite have the same punch without the experience of playing the game alongside it, but I wanted to include it as a representation of the entire soundtrack and game, which is very much worth playing.
4. Chris Ray Gun - "We Didn't Stop The Virus"
Just what the world needs, another take on Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire". I didn't discover this until earlier this year, after 2020 had already come and gone. Yea, it's a bit dated now, but Youtuber Chris Ray Gun uses the Billy Joel song as a template to reference pretty much everything you might remember from 2020, and maybe everything you've forgotten as well. I was somewhat loathe to include two novelty songs on this list, but there wasn't much this to inspire me this year, so once you've finished listening to this, check out number 2 for another novelty.
3. Czarina - "Wonderland"
Czarina is a conceptual artist/actress/director who works in the dark electronic music sphere. I don't know much about her but it appears she only makes singles, usually accompanied by videos and images highlighting her costume designing skills. In short, she's a very visual artist, kind of like a modern day Bjork. That visual artistry helps lift up "Wonderland", the only song on this list actually from 2021. Using the backdrop of her adopted land of Galicia, she crafts something out of a fantasy novel. Her distinct bellowing voice and the song's driving beat combine with the images of stunning landscapes and harsh architecture to create a video showcases a mystical journey.
2. Nick Lutsko - "Donald Trump's Speeches as an Emo Song"
Oh boy, a song making fun of Trump! It's JUST what everyone wants to hear right now, amiright? Yes, yes, I can hear your collective groans. I only discovered this nearly two year old video earlier this year, and I know you would rather forget the former guy, but believe me when I say - this song isn't just funny, it's actually kinda... good.
Taking various phrases uttered by everyone's least favorite Domino's Pizza spokesperson, Lutsko arranges them into a parody of an emo song. He perfectly captures the overly earnest and heart-on-the-sleeve lyrics of a band like Dashboard Confessional. The line "I never said that I'm a perfect person/nor pretended to be someone that I'm not" is nearly indistinguishable from the real deal. It's surprisingly catchy too. More than once I've found myself singing the lyrics to myself.
You might have come across Nick Lutsko's work before. He rose to viral fame with his Spirit Halloween Theme Song, which I also very much recommend if you haven't heard it before.
1. Riki - "Napoleon"
I discovered this song on another best-of list from last year, approximately five minutes after I posted last year's favorites. Formerly a member of a California death rock band, vocalist Niff Nawor reinvents herself here with a crafted sound that mixes a myriad of 80s influences from Neue Deutsche Welle, synthpop, and italo disco. With an alluring presence, the slightly NSFW video includes her gyrating along with a nearly shirtless cowboy hatted man (giving off Andrew Eldritch or Ian Astbury vibes). The flowers-and-horses imagery contains whiffs of Frida Kahlo or Georgia O'Keeffe, giving it a distinctly feminine feel, while the song itself features a plucky keyboard rhythm coupled with Nawor's somewhat disaffected voice. I find the song captivating. Riki comes to us from the Dais Records label, which I was not familiar with beforehand. But from what I've listened to I like pretty much everything from the label so far, so I recommend checking them out.
That's it for 2021, stay tuned for a best of the decade post coming soon!
Whenever I hear someone complain about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, I'm inclined to recycle the line I typically use regarding the Oscars: "Whenever I'm tempted to complain about the Oscars, I just look at the Grammys."
Because for me, at least the other two are somewhere in the ballpark, whereas the Grammys have always just seemed inscrutably random. But not everyone's so sanguine about the situation. About fifteen years ago, the comments section of every single article on Rolling Stone's website that even tangentially mentioned the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was littered with statements along the lines of "The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is a complete joke!!! Look at all the great acts that aren't in!!" And I'd think to myself, "Yeah!" And then these anonymous internet arbiters of taste would go on to explain that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was a "joke" due to its not yet having inducted ... Rush, Kiss, Chicago, Yes, or Journey. Uh ... not exactly the big exclusions I'd had in mind. I'd been thinking more along the lines of, say, Tom Waits, Roxy Music, T. Rex, or Todd Rundgren. Well, those four are all in now (as are the other five I mentioned), so ... thanks a lot, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, you've robbed me of my God-given right to complain about you.
The thing is, people like to call the Hall of Fame a "joke," but everyone has had their own separate reasons as to why it is a joke. You've got your "classic rock" fans perturbed by the absence of Styx, Kansas, Toto, and REO Speedwagon, and then you've got your '80s alternative scenesters griping about the absence of Black Flag, the Replacements, the Pixies, and Sonic Youth, and each cluster would surely refer to the other cluster's preferences as a "joke." So which joke is it? It can't be a joke both ways, eh? Then you've got the people whose biggest problem with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is simply its name. "Why are Madonna and Whitney Houston in while Iron Maiden and Judas Priest aren't? What a joke!" Come on guys, we all understand it's basically the Pop Music Hall of Fame, but with a cooler name. Go back to your Magic: The Gathering tournament.
But while I caught the Go-Go's bug around ten years ago, and would now defend their greatness even at the risk of lethal harm, I never quite felt they were an egregious exclusion from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. To put it simply, their discography is a little brief. Three albums from the original run, plus a reunion album from 2001, and a few other stray tracks here and there? I mean, bands like Iron Maiden and Judas Priest have accrued these monolithic, bottomless discographies of, you know, 20 to 30 albums, and sure, most people probably couldn't name any of the albums they've released since the '80s, but what I'm saying is, there are groups out there that have left behind some serious recording catalogs. I'm just not sure the Go-Go's' peak was long enough to merit that same level of outrage.
Oh sure, but what about the Stooges (three albums), or the Sex Pistols (one measly album)? Uh huh. Not that I myself prefer those acts to the Go-Go's, but I don't think I'm going out on a limb here by stating that the Stooges and the Sex Pistols, despite their equally truncated discographies, were more musically influential (and certainly more threatening to the status quo) than the Go-Go's were. In fact, putting on my All Music Guide hat for a moment, I feel like I could rattle off the names of at least ten more acts from the punk/new wave era whom I would say, as a more impartial observer, have proven to be more "musically influential" than the Go-Go's were, and yet have hardly even been mentioned as potential Hall of Fame inductees: the Jam, the Buzzcocks, Wire, the Fall, the Specials, Madness, Joe Jackson, Squeeze, the Soft Boys, XTC ... am I at ten yet? Of course, all of these bands were British, and none of them had a massive US #1 album. I'm not saying that I personally like any one of those artists more than I like the Go-Go's. That's not the point. I am someone who is able to differentiate between my own affection for a band and my sense of where that band might rank in the "I can't believe they're not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!" outrage hierarchy. Long story short: I was not appalled by the Go-Go's' exclusion.
However, the Go-Go's themselves apparently were. They kept mentioning it in interviews. They kept talking about how it was so freaking obvious that they should have already been inducted that there must have been a secret Skull-and-Bones style conspiracy to keep them out. The All Music Guide had this to say about their recent Showtime documentary: "There's a recent subcategory of music documentary best described as 'Our case for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,' and this dash through the history of the Go-Go's clearly falls into that bucket." I guess the Broadway musical wasn't enough of an honor? As a fan of the highest order, I wasn't eager to say it, but ... I'm not sure this was the best look. I might have suggested they gain a little more outside perspective, or perhaps simply not care so ... transparently. (A quick message from Little Earl to every band that's eligible for the Hall of Fame but is not yet in it: as far as I can tell, whether you're in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame or not has absolutely no bearing on the quality, value, or importance of your music.) I also began to wonder if they were playing up the "feminism" angle of their story a little too heavily, now that "the kids these days" are more into that sort of thing. Some of the band members had even suggested they were being kept out of the Hall due to sexism. Yeah, I dunno, I think it probably had more to do with their meager three-album discography, and the fact that only one of the albums within it is generally considered "classic," and not their gender, but hey, that's just me.
I also have yet to be convinced that the lack of female artists in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ranks terribly high on the list of modern society's civil rights injustices, just as I could never get too wrapped up in the whole #OscarsSoWhite debate. I mean ... it's the Oscars. Who thinks the Oscars are actually important? (I guess #GrammysSoWhite could have never gained much traction because nobody thinks the Grammys are important.) When I would read articles stating that the Go-Go's should be inducted into the Hall of Fame because, that way, the Hall could instantly add five more women into the Hall of Fame ... like, isn't that a little patronizing? Isn't the whole point that they shouldn't be inducted because of their gender per se, but because they made passionate, heartfelt, playful, well-crafted music and didn't give a fuck about what other people thought of them? Frankly, what I personally love about the Go-Go's isn't so much that they were the first all-female band to suddenly score a #1 album, but that they were the first trash-bag-and-safety-pin-festooned L.A. punk band to suddenly score a #1 album. To me, that's the story. And the Go-Go's are only half the story anyway, because you've got to factor in the unfettered Yuppie zaniness of Belinda's late '80s solo career. Of course, the other four members of the band ... uh ... don't really see that as part of the story.
Well, at any rate, they're in now! What, you expected me to complain? The nice thing is, they're all still alive - something of a minor miracle, given their various substance abuse "adventures," the general unpredictability of human health after the age of 60, and the fact that they are a band of five, and that many bands of their generation, such as the Pretenders, the Cars, Devo, or the B-52's, can no longer perform as their original lineup. Not to mention, the five of them are currently getting along well enough to attend the damn ceremony together (something that was not true even four years ago). I just hope this means they can finally spend their time talking about something else.
But the thing is, the Go-Go's have already spent 30 years talking about the same old things anyway, which I suppose is what happens when a group's heyday only consisted of a blindingly bright four-year supernova, when only the lead singer ever managed to genuinely establish an identity for herself outside the group, and when the other not-so-famous members all need to make a living somehow and yet don't feel like releasing too much more new music under the Go-Go's umbrella. This is probably something only an obsessive fan who has watched way too many post-1980s Go-Go's YouTube clips would even gripe about, but after a while, every interview starts to sound the same and every version of "We Got the Beat" simply bleeds into the others. And given that, aside from "Head Over Heels," they've essentially retired Talk Show from their concert setlist, that's two albums of material they've been milking dry for 30 years now. Just imagine what life must be like for a one hit wonder.
Perhaps the most amusing aspect, then, of revisiting the Go-Go's' 1990 reunion (ostensibly the intended subject of this post), is to observe how much of a big freaking deal both the band themselves and the media in general made of it, without anyone involved knowing, of course, that this "reunion" would last five times longer than their original recording career did.
So. While Belinda had been busy running around indulging in mermaid cosplay with the Beach Boys, convincing George Harrison to play on her album almost as a dare, unexpectedly flirting with Sammy Davis, Jr. and Dave Mustaine, and generally ascending to her throne as the undisputed Queen of Yuppie Rock, what the hell had the other former Go-Go's been up to? It's sort of like asking what Michael Collins was up to while the other two astronauts were busy walking on the moon: far from your first question, but at some point, it probably crosses your mind.
In addition to hitching her wagon to the Belinda solo train, Charlotte formed the Graces, which included a young Meredith Brooks (of future "Bitch" fame - and I mean that in the nicest way), although their lone 1989 album didn't set the charts on fire. At some point, she also married Jeff McDonald of Redd Kross. But basically, yeah, she hitched her wagon to the Belinda solo train.
Jane, whom astute readers may recall, actually left the Go-Go's to try her hand at a solo career before the band even officially broke up and stuff, released Jane Wiedlin in 1985 and Fur in 1988, which didn't exactly do Belinda-type numbers either, but her single "Rush Hour" certainly did, hitting #9 in the U.S. and #12 in the U.K. Many are the internet comments I've read expressing great fondness for "Rush Hour," but I don't recall hearing it back in 1988, and it hasn't quite grown on me much since I first heard it roughly ten years ago. Although AMG's Stewart Mason writes that "Jane Wiedlin's 1985 solo debut is probably the best solo album by any ex-member of the Go-Go's" and that "the singles 'Modern Romance' and 'Blue Kiss' really should have been hits (they're certainly better than most of Belinda Carlisle's solo work)," I mean ... I dunno ... I guess I'm just a Carlisle-ophile. For me, listening to Jane Wiedlin solo material is like eating roasted garlic all by itself. Roasted garlic is good in stuff. Adding roasted garlic to a soup? Mmmmm. But eating roasted garlic all by itself? Sure, some people might enjoy that. Probably not most people.
Kathy attempted to form a band called the World's Cutest Killers with Kelly Johnson, former guitarist of Girlschool (AKA "the Go-Go's' New Wave of British Heavy Metal counterparts"), but sadly neither it, nor a few other fledgling bands, ever got off the ground.
Gina formed the gloriously-named House of Schock with Vance DeGeneres, older brother of Ellen (!), but if you're wondering how well their lone album did, all I need to tell you is that House of Schock doesn't even have its own Wikipedia page. Hey, not every band has a Phil Collins in them, all right?
In summary: Charlotte was doing fine, Jane wasn't doing as well as she'd hoped to be doing but could have been doing worse (and let's not forget Clue and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure), and Kathy and Gina, who were adamantly against the band breaking up to begin with, found their concerns solidly confirmed. I feel like this should put Belinda's griping about stuff like Runaway Horses "only" going gold into a little perspective.
But alas, as we all know, despite radiating a surface aura of nonstop success, Belinda felt like shit virtually the entire time, and she definitely felt like shit at the dawn of the '90s, particularly after becoming reacquainted with her old powdery friend in Ibiza. For the first time in five years, perhaps Belinda wasn't quite feeling the solo "magic." Funny how, back in 1985, the band must have seemed like a stifling, suffocating force, but now, given the pressures of maintaining her worldwide solo stardom, a resurgent coke habit, an eating disorder or two, and her marriage to her ever-loyal husband now revolving around a certain degree of untruth ... perhaps reverting back to the warm and protective cocoon of the Go-Go's didn't seem quite so stifling and suffocating after all! From Lips Unsealed:
On the bright side, I crossed paths with Gina one day. After a fun catch-up, the two of us on a whim arranged for a reunion with the other Go-Go's. Without telling anyone, we met for dinner at an Italian restaurant in West Hollywood. It was the first time the five of us had been together since Jane left and our subsequent breakup. All of us were nervous. Jane held up her palms and said, "They're sweaty!"
We agreed to one ground rule: none of us would say anything that would piss off someone else. Then we had a great time. We reminisced about the crazy times we'd had in the early days, offered apologies for things said in the latter days, worked through some hard feelings, and, as we told a local reporter who got wind of the reunion, we realized "even the bad times we've gone through didn't seem so bad."
I left dinner appreciating the special camaraderie the five of us shared - and that it had survived. But all was not rosy. As I later confessed to Morgan, I felt uncomfortable about having a successful solo career when some of the other girls were struggling in their endeavors. While Jane and Charlotte were both working on albums, Gina's label had dropped her and Kathy didn't have a deal.
I realized everyone might benefit from a Go-Go's reunion. I mentioned it to my manager, Danny Goldberg, who had a lengthy background as a political activist ... He loved the idea of a Go-Go's reunion. But it sat a few months until Danny found the right event, a fund-raiser Jane Fonda was spearheading for California's environmental ballot initiative. It sounded good to me. I called the girls. Everyone was game.
In January, we announced our reunion show at a press conference with Jane Fonda.
"I think we have about ten years, and if we don't do it in ten years, we're in big trouble," she says? Well. Good thing we solved the world's environmental crisis back in 2000, eh?
Somehow environmentalism morphed into anti-fur activism, an issue one certainly doesn't hear quite as much about these days, possibly because most furry animals are nearing extinction anyway. The band posed "naked" with a poster declaring "I'd rather Go-Go naked than wear fur!" Funny funny.
Sadly, those expecting actual nudity would have to wait another 10 years for Belinda's appearance in Playboy.
Two and a half months later, we got together for rehearsals at SIR, where I was also in rehearsals for my Runaway Horses tour. I felt self-conscious running back and forth between rehearsals and maybe some resentment from the other girls, who I sensed - and it could have been me being overly sensitive - looked at me as Miss High and Mighty with her rock band, getting ready for her world tour. At the end of the day, I was feeling like I should apologize.
You owe them nothing, Belinda, nothing!
But I was able to set that aside and enjoy stepping back into the Go-Go's. It wasn't hard for me to switch gears. The band was part of my DNA. On March 27, we played a surprise warm-up show as the KLAMMS at the Whiskey, a stage that was like a second home in our punk days. We still looked like an odd collection: Jane wore short-shorts, Kathy was in a polka-dot negligee, Charlotte radiated laid-back L.A. rock chic in a long, embroidered shirt, Gina had on her trademark jeans and T-shirt, and I was in a fancy black gown that a girlfriend of mine laughingly said made me look like I had dressed to go to Harry's Bar in London.
If the dress she's describing is the one that she appears to be wearing in almost every single Go-Go's clip from 1990, I'm inclined to describe it more as her "Disney princess" look, but fair enough.
The fun we had carried over into the next night at the Universal Amphitheater when we performed a set of the band's hits to a crowd of L.A. politicos and celebrities that included Jodie Foster, Rob Lowe, John McEnroe and Tatum O'Neal, and Sandra Bernhard. Afterward, all of us were agreeable to doing more shows and maybe even a tour later in the year when IRS released a greatest hits package.
Since the tales of drug abuse and acrimony had already been told in at least part of the press, the Go-Go's two-month reunion tour in November and December 1990 gave us a chance to focus on the thing that mattered most: the impressive collection of music we had put together before calling it quits six years earlier. With a new greatest-hits package that included a snappy remix of "Cool Jerk," plus a video featuring the five of us looking like a million bucks, everyone agreed we could make a point about our contribution to the eighties. If we also made a profit, no one would complain.
Another version of "Cool Jerk"? Hey, why not? As Belinda hints at, I.R.S. decided to take advantage of the reunion to put out a Go-Go's greatest hits album, whether the band wanted one out or not, so a remake of "Cool Jerk" was included as the *cough* new product. Of all the Go-Go's' 438 different versions of "Cool Jerk" (the early demo featured on Return to the Valley of the Go-Go's, the proper studio version released on Vacation, various live versions), I think I'm into this one the most, despite it sounding like their attempt to be the B-52's circa Cosmic Thing. The issue I've always had with the Go-Go's' perennial obsession with covering "Cool Jerk" is that, while it certainly stems from the right era (the Capitols' original came out in 1966), it lacks the angst and turmoil of, say, "Remember (Walking in the Sand)." It's the kind of song a casual Go-Go's fan might think the Go-Go's would cover. Like John Lennon with "Across the Universe," apparently the group kept hoping that just one more version would finally be the "right" one.
At any rate, the band milked their 1990 reunion for all it was worth, and trying to view every YouTube clip from this period kind of feels like swatting at flies in a swamp, but allow me to share a few highlights. Notice how, at the 2:00 mark during this interview for E!, while Kathy observes, with touching sincerity, that "the songs really held up over all this time, you know, it wasn't like I felt like we were doing something old, it felt just as current today," Belinda blatantly fiddles with the neckline of her dress for at least ten consecutive seconds, sneakily letting the world know that, yes indeed, "bad" Belinda was back. And get a load of this line: "Their very public break-up and subsequent solo careers have given them a very grounded perspective for this 'Go-Go' a-round." Oy.
Plus, every time Belinda tries to say something serious during one of these interviews, someone else in the band quickly makes fun of her. For example:
Belinda: Gandhi said, um ...
Gina: [giggles]
Belinda: I know, I'm just saying I thought it was a really good quote ...
Kathy: She can quote Gandhi if she wants.
Gina: [continues to giggle]
Belinda: I know, I'm not trying to be intellectual but he said, "The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way it treats its animals" ...
Also, who can forget this Bugle Boy commercial that apparently aired during Super Bowl XXV?
Sorry Bills, the Go-Go's must have jinxed you.
More important, having already come to terms on past disagreements, we felt like we could get along, and for the most part we did. We preceded a kickoff appearance on David Letterman's late-night talk show with a heavy-duty shopping spree in New York City that reminded me of the fun we used to have together. Onstage, I had a blast singing the old songs and looking to either side and seeing Gina and Kathy in sync and watching Jane and Charlotte trade riffs.
Belinda also apparently had a blast indulging in the kind of naughty stage banter that probably wouldn't have flown at her solo concerts, particularly when introducing the band's re-worked acoustic version of Talk Show's somewhat overlooked closing track "Mercenary," one riveting version of which appears on Return to the Valley of the Go-Go's. "This next song ... is about a girl who likes to be mean ... I know I like to be mean," she proclaims to immediate applause (sadly the version on Return to the Valley doesn't feature the comment added at other shows, "Charlotte likes to spank her boyfriend"). It should also be mentioned that, whether the band liked it or not, by December of 1990, Belinda's voice was kind of hoarse and shredded and she'd probably had one gin and tonic too many, which might either add or detract a little something, depending on your point of view. Toward the end of "Mercenary," for instance, she really lets it rip like she rarely has before or since, perhaps the cover of being in her "old" band providing her the freedom to let her sound as fucked up as she probably felt.
Occasionally the old jealousies reared their head. The girls didn't like it when we pulled up to one venue and the marquee read "Belinda Carlisle and the Go-Go's." Several hotels also gave me a larger room than the others even after we made sure to tell them everyone in the band was equal. I even forced a couple of the girls to see my room before they checked into theirs so they knew I wasn't creating the problem. After a few more times, though, I got fed up with the carping and complaining and had a Neely O'Hara-type moment when I snapped, "I can't help it if I'm a bigger star than you!"
That's the spirit. (I guess if I'd seen Valley of the Dolls instead of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, I would have picked up on Belinda's "Neely O'Hara" reference, but I had to look it up.)
Ironically, I kept myself on the road as much as possible. Without consciously realizing it, I was running from my life. In mid-December, though, the Go-Go's tour ended and I returned home, which meant either facing hard truths about my behavior or lying to Morgan.
Let's go back, shall we, to January 2012, toward the tail end of my "Fun New Wave Surprises" series, where loyal readers may remember my post titled "Belinda Carlisle Was In The Germs (?!)," prompted by my discovery of perhaps the most notorious tidbit of rock and roll trivia that has ever come to pass and shall ever come to pass - that Belinda Carlisle, Queen of Yuppie Rock, had (briefly) been a member of seminal LA punk band the Germs. To explain my amazement and bemusement, I wrote the following words: "It would be like someone coming up to me and telling me, 'Hey, did you know that Debbie Gibson used to be in the Circle Jerks?' Why no. No I did not."
Well, about that. Some time later, I found myself, on an otherwise perfectly normal day, reading Debbie Gibson's otherwise perfectly normal Wikipedia page, only to come across this section:
In 1995, she signed with EMI's SBK Records division and recorded her only album for the label, Think With Your Heart. It was an Adult contemporary-heavy album consisting of piano and keyboard ballads recorded predominantly with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. The album's producer, Niko Bolas, who was usually Neil Young's co-producer, was producing the reunion album for Circle Jerks (a veteran punk band) and invited Gibson to a recording session for that band's album. She sang background vocals on the song "I Wanna Destroy You", as well as appearing at and participating in the Circle Jerks' performance [at] the punk venue CBGB, wearing one of the band's T-shirts and sharing a microphone with frontman Keith Morris.
OK. All right. Let's get one thing clear.
When I wrote about Debbie Gibson being in the Circle Jerks ... I was joking.
It was a joke.
As in, "This is obviously something that would have never happened."
And I could have picked any offensive punk band name! I could have picked, say, the Dickies, or the Butthole Surfers, or the Crucifucks. I guess the Circle Jerks just seemed to have the right je ne sais quoa. It was supposed to be funny because it was supposed to be implausible. I had not read about this collaboration before I made the joke. I did not possess some secret insider information.
What we might have on our hands here ... is the most incredible coincidence in American history.
Yes, even more incredible than John Adams and Thomas Jefferson both dying on July 4, 1826, precisely fifty years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. I mean, that one is pretty incredible, but me making a joke about Debbie Gibson and the Circle Jerks, only to learn that Debbie Gibson had actually collaborated with the Circle Jerks?
That isn't just funny. That's scary.
This is some supernatural voodoo mysticism right here. Granted, Debbie Gibson was never actually "in" the Circle Jerks, but come on, that's just splitting hairs. She easily could have never been within the same time zone as the Circle Jerks. This is way too close for comfort. The universe must have decided, "What is the most ridiculous, most unlikely musical collaboration that could have ever possibly existed?" And then BAM! It was so ridiculous, and so unlikely, that the universe willed it into being. Think I'm making this up, like the mysterious, unnamed scribe of a certain Phil Collins memoir? We have video:
Most surreal exchanges:
Circle Jerks: I think it was a natural progression for us. We did it to increase our mall sales.
Debbie Gibson: Now that's Tiffany.
Buuuurn.
Circle Jerks: How would you like to stage dive this evening for the first time?
Debbie Gibson: Ugh. Ugh. Thank God my mother didn't come. I knew there was a reason I told her to stay home.
But while you're busy processing the impossible, I guess I might as well talk about Debbie Gibson's two big hits from 1989, in that final, delicate moment before teen pop underwent an immediate, dramatic, and well-earned (?) ten year hibernation. After revisiting "Lost In Your Eyes," another US #1 smash for the Notorious Debbie G., I have come to an obvious realization. A couple of years back, I remarked that Martika's "Toy Soldiers" might have been the best Belinda Carlisle solo hit that Belinda never made, but now I might have to eat those words, because as I listen to "Lost In Your Eyes," you know who I think Debbie Gibson's biggest musical influence was? Not Madonna, not Whitney Houston, not George Michael. I think it was Belinda Carlisle! "Lost in your eyes" is totally a lyric from the chorus of "Mad About You," right? And "I get weak" is totally a lyric from the chorus of "I Get Weak," right?
My God, everybody.
Debbie Gibson was just pilfering Belinda Carlisle's solo hits for her lyrics and tossing them all into one big Belinda lyrical salad. I mean hell, why not just throw in references to "heaven on earth" and "circles in the sand" and call it a day? The funniest thing about all this borrowing, of course, is that Gibson, who actually wrote her own material, was so heavily inspired by the music of a singer who almost exclusively relied on other writers for her material. Hey look, if you're Belinda Carlisle, you'll take your musical legacy wherever you can find it. Be proud, my yuppie queen, be very, very proud.
Yes Belinda, we see you there with Debbie Gibson (and Donna Summer)
Frankly, it's hard for me listen to "Lost In Your Eyes" without feeling a slight resentment toward it, as I get the sense that it desperately wants to serve as the soundtrack to an idyllic teenage romance I never actually, you know, had, but setting that aside for a moment, for what it's trying to be (a shamelessly grand, sentimental, Disney-style ballad), could it realistically be any better? How many songwriters have been attempting to write this sort of cheese over the past 30 years, dreaming of their masterpiece being belted by a horde of Mariah wannabes on American Idol? How many of them ever managed to make their chord progressions sturdy enough, their bridges hauntingly modulated enough, their vocal melodies varied enough? Sure, the opening piano motif lifts a bit from "Imagine," the drums predictably enter at the start of the second verse, the hard-rocking guitar comes in at the halfway point to keep the energy level from flagging, and pointing out the key change here would be like pointing out the pimple on an adolescent's face, but when you watch a horror movie, you expect a few zombies to get their throats slit, do you not? (Video highlight: Debbie deking out mutant blue-eyed but otherwise black and white Zombie Boyfriend on the court before sinking in a perfect shot [at 3:23] - I hear the Knicks have an opening.)
Side note: although my Bangles series petered out after 'Walk Like An Egyptian," I should mention that, for a good many years, I used to mistake "Eternal Flame" for a Debbie Gibson song, which, if you're the Bangles, probably isn't the kind of mental mix-up you'd want people to be making. (They probably also wouldn't want to know that [whispers] I might prefer "Lost In Your Eyes"!)
And finally, we come to "Electric Youth," which, as a song, may be no "Lost In Your Eyes," but as a video, is practically an '80s blogger's wet dream. I'm assuming they filmed it inside a "still under construction" ride at Disneyland, complete with fake castle backdrop and imitation bushes. Debbie gets out there and struts her stuff in a light blue button-up blouse that's tied in a knot at the bottom (premonitions of Britney?), a black vest, and jeans that are cut off ... immediately below the knee? Why there? Then during the bridge, she's suddenly swallowed by a cage of neon laser beams (but somehow escapes!). Then, during the synth solo, Debbie, her keytar player, and her other cohorts float awkwardly in front of a green screen, a special effect that, since it serves no clear purpose, I assume was probably stipulated in her contract. I also love the brief shots of A) a little girl turning into a slightly older girl turning into ... Debbie? (at 1:40 and 4:30); B) what appears to be a group of elderly Irish gravediggers in a field attempting to dance to the song (at 2:55); C) Michael Jordan ... in 1989! (oh yes, the '90s were on their way) (at 4:03); D) a fortune teller gazing into a crystal ball, and seeing ... what could it be? Why it's ... it's ... Debbie Gibson! Whose image then turns into the words "Electric Youth" (at 4:16)! "Don't underestimate the power of a lifetime ahead," eh? To paraphrase Jon Landau's infamous statement on Bruce Springsteen, I have seen the future, and, unbeknownst to the participants of this video, its name is not Debbie Gibson.
Unless she's singing back-up for the Circle Jerks, that is.
As most of you know, I take tremendous pride in my professional standing. Being an '80s music blogger of the highest repute, I cherish the trust and confidence that my loyal readers have placed, and continue to place, into my peerlessly accurate work. Each blog post I publish serves as an integral testament to the veracity of my research, the credibility of my sources, the rigor of my analysis.
That said, I also believe this: when an extremely rare error is made, when a minor oversight occurs, I owe it to my public to clarify my mistake, to correct my misstep, to clear up any lingering confusion. It is with these words that I preface an announcement of a remarkable, and yet regrettable, recent discovery:
I don't know how else to put it - forged, phony, fabricated. Use the wording of your choice. The brilliant, riveting, bracingly frank Phil Collins memoir that I have been copiously quoting for roughly seven years now ... was not, it appears, actually written by Phil Collins.
It would seem that, as they say in the sales business, I've been had.
Gotta admit, it looked like the real deal. I have a nose for these things, can spot a counterfeit when I see one, but this, my friends, was no amateur forgery. Sherlock Holmes himself would have needed another healthy sniff of cocaine to lift his sunken spirits after failing to spot, as I am sure he would have, the fraud in his midst. Perhaps its supposed publication by a "small Bulgarian publisher" in a "limited edition" should have given me more pause, or the oddly-phrased subtitle should have set off an alarm bell or two, but in my excitement over the mesmerizing content, I'm afraid I let my guard down, rushed to judgment, and allowed my journalistic ethos to lapse grossly.
It was all a little ... too good to be true.
In retrospect, the fictional nature of the work should have been obvious. An imaginary hedgehog named Rot Rot? Sex with a one-legged Chilean dancer? Poodlephobia? Putting snails on his dick? Huffing varnish? Hippopotamus urine? Horse tranquilizer? Honestly, horse tranquilizer? What sort of rock drummer would possibly think of consuming horse tranquilizer?
Of course, this only raises even more questions, such as: if Phil Collins didn't write this compelling and yet utterly spurious memoir, then who did? Although getting to the root of this devilish mystery will take some time, I do have my theories. Mainly, I suspect that one of Phil's former bandmates - perhaps Mike Rutherford, Tony Banks, Steve Hackett, a certain Peter Gabriel, or (quite possibly) a combination of the snickering foursome - concocted the entire ruse in order to have a private laugh at Phil's expense. Well, creo quia adsurdum est, as they say.
Nevertheless, even though it was all a farcical lie, it was a great ride while it lasted.
Which leads me to one final mea culpa. Upon unexpected news of the publication of a competing Phil Collins "memoir," Not Dead Yet, in 2016, I confidently proclaimed that particular work to be bogus, specious, apocryphal, what have you. Today, I now eat my words as I realize that Not Dead Yet is, indeed, the real Phil Collins's real memoir, and not, as I had so egregiously assumed, In The Air Tonight: The Secret Life and Twisted Psyche of Philip D. Collins.
However, having spent so much time and effort consuming the false autobiography, I have to admit that my initially casual interest in the subject has grown to a startling degree, and I am more than curious to find out the supposed "truth" behind the life of this hairless music legend. The quote on the back cover is certainly promising: "Hi, I'm Phil Collins and, as you can see from the front cover, I'm not dead yet, but when I do go, I'd prefer my epitaph not be 'He came, he wrote "Sussudio," he left.' That's why I wrote this book." Ah, there's the Phil whimsy we know and love. According to the blurb on the jacket from the Daily Mirror, the memoir is "Jaw-droppingly honest," and when has the Daily Mirror ever been wrong about something like that? In other words: think I'm gonna have to check it out!
Four years. That's a pretty nice chunk of time. We're talking the span of an entire U.S. presidential term, or the length between World Cups or Olympic Games (uh ... usually). One earns a high school degree in four years, or (in theory, at least) a college degree. I guess what I'm saying is, a coke addict going four years without sniffing coke - not even once? That's nothing to sneeze at. But sometimes, old habits die hard.
After she kicked coke sometime around 1985, Belinda Carlisle spent a great deal of time talking to the media about how she had heroically and irrevocably kicked coke. After she got back on coke sometime around 1989, she ... didn't spend as much time talking to the media about that. Matter of fact, she didn't talk about that at all. Yep. According to Lips Unsealed, while the official word in TV interviews and magazine articles was that Belinda's drug addiction days were "in her past," she didn't genuinely kick the habit until 2005 (!), a date which I'm afraid is far out of the range of this blog as currently constituted. So, you know, there were a few bumps in the road, but in the end, it's all good.
I have a hard time picturing people still doing coke in the '90s - even rock stars! It would be like dropping acid in the '80s. Well, it turns out that a drug much more heavily associated with the '90s ended up reintroducing Belinda to her little white-powdered friend.
Overall it seems like, four years on, the elements of her life that had initially felt so exciting and liberating (new solo career, new yuppie husband) had gradually become boring and stifling. I guess it was just time for Belinda to shake things up a little. From Lips Unsealed:
Shortly after the May kickoff of my world tour in the UK, I was in my hotel reading through the latest press clippings. I came across a recent review that described me as looking like a singing secretary onstage. He had taken exception to the Chanel-inspired suits I'd had custom-made for the tour. I took offense, but in retrospect he was right.
"Singing secretary"? For some reason I'm picturing an unsuccessful spin-off of The Flying Nun.
I looked like shit. I was way too skinny, wore too much makeup, my bobbed hair was wrong, and the suits - well, they were a different issue. They reflected the trouble I'd had at the outset deciding on a look for the tour. If you have to think too much about those things, it's a sign of confusion and uncertainty - and that was me.
One thing I wasn't confused about was my birth father. He had started writing me letters again before I left home and continued sending entreaties through my management after I started my tour. I had spoken to him a few times on the phone out of the guilt I still felt from having not seen him on my Heaven tour, but I had no intention of letting him back in my life at the level he wanted. I also found something slightly creepy about the way he professed such strong affection for me in his letters. How can you love someone you don't know?
Finally, I came straight out and told him that I didn't want to have a relationship with him. Considering how much I had adored him as a little girl, I agonized about sending him that message. He responded by sending me letters saying that I was going to burn in hell unless I found forgiveness in my heart. I ignored him, hoping and praying he would go away - and he did for a while.
"Burn in hell," eh? Probably not the best strategy to go with if you're trying to convince the daughter you abandoned to resume contact with you again, but what do I know? Frankly, I'm with Belinda on this one. She didn't hear a single peep from the guy until she became famous; if she'd never turned into a celebrity, would he have even given a shit?
Just cram all that emotional turmoil up into a little ball in your mind as you read the following excerpt:
Although still coke-free, I was drinking more. I also started keeping a secret stash of pills, including Valium, Halcion, and Rohypnol. I never thought I might be traveling back down the road to addiction. As long as I wasn't doing coke, I thought I was fine, no big deal.
And it wasn't, I suppose, until I had to perform a promotional show on the same bill as Beach Boys' genius Brian Wilson in Ibiza, an island off Spain. I had never been to this Mediterranean playground, but I knew of its reputation as a decadent, party-hearty getaway for the rich, something that was confirmed when I spotted director Roman Polanski with a pretty young girl at the baggage claim. I thought, Perfect, this is my kind of place.
Words I usually don't expect to see anywhere remotely near each other: "Roman Polanski," "pretty young girl," and "Perfect, this is my kind of place." Belinda, you truly march to the beat of your own drum.
On the way to the hotel, I got my friends Jeannine and Pearlie to promise we were going to be healthy, jog and hike, lay out in the sun, eat right, and get plenty of sleep. By night, though, I was whooping it up at the giant nightclub Amnesia and enjoying my first time doing ecstasy. It seemed like everyone was on it.
We hit all the big ecstasy clubs, including a party in the middle of nowhere - it seemed like a desert - where I watched columns of drag queens go-go dancing. It was a magnificent spectacle. I was both stunned and drawn straight into the unfolding circus. I had never experienced such a night. The whole place was like a Fellini movie. Suddenly, I was drinking tumblers of vodka, smoking cigarettes, dancing, not just listening to but absorbing the music, and having the time of my life. On E, I loved everyone I met.
What if you'd met your birth father? "How can you love someone you don't know"? I think I have the answer.
At one of the clubs, someone offered me a hit of coke. I did it without thinking; my response was automatic. Right after, though, I knew I shouldn't have done it. I thought, Uh-oh.
Well hey! You're on E, everyone's having a good time ... fortune favors the bold.
I hadn't done coke in four years. But that one hit triggered a reaction straight out of the drug addict's textbook. I went on a binge and came out of the last club in the morning. Awash in hot sunlight, I said to myself, "I'm a disaster. This is fucked."
I had yet to call home to check in with Morgan. I sat in the back of a cab and rehearsed what I was going to say to Morgan. Hi, honey, it's me. How are you? I tried different inflections. I was panicked about how I was going to sound. At the hotel, I got out of the cab and walked straight into Brian Wilson and his twenty-four-hour therapist, Dr. Eugene Landy. I tried to act normal as I said hello, but I wasn't fooling anyone. My hair was twisted and gross, my lipstick was blue, and I was covered in filth. Dr. Landy knew what was going on. He also knew Morgan, which made me fear he might call him. I was fucked.
Well, Dr. Landy isn't exactly my idea of someone whose diagnosis I would have put much stock in, but ... the point stands.
I went up to my room and paced back and forth with my cigarette, trying to come down from the coke and rehearsing what I was going to say. Finally, I called Morgan and said I had woken up early and was going to the beach for a jog. He believed me.
On hanging up, though, I was hit with a one-two of shame and guilt for lying to him and for what I had done. Ibiza wasn't good for me. The place was full of temptation. I wanted to get out of there. I performed that night and let some local friends take me out to a club. But this time I didn't drink or do anything, including enjoy myself. In the morning, I caught the first available plane out of there.
I felt like I would've died in Ibiza if I had stayed any longer. I didn't want to do coke ever again.
