La Fin de la Semaine Essay Question: Special "I Can't Give It Away on Seventh Avenue" Edition

[I originally did a Weekend Listomania on this topic back in (egad) 2009, and I probably did something similar more recently, but I'm too lazy to do the research. In any case, given our current troubling times -- specifically the misadventures of Eric Adams, the latest in Fun City's run of inexplicably awful Democratic(!) mayors, it struck me as newly relevant. In any case, enjoy. -- S.S.]

And speaking, as we were in today's title, of that great moral philosopher Michael Phillip Jagger -- who amongst us has not at some point been moved by his poignant cry "Go ahead, bite the Big Apple, don't mind the maggots!"?

Which brings us to today's business. To wit:

...and your favorite (or least favorite) post-Beatles rock/pop/soul/country/folk song referencing (either directly or by implication) New York City and its environs is...????

I haven't got a least, but my favorite? It's a tie, and don't gimme any of that Alicia Keys shit or I'll come to your house and shove a BLT in your kisser.

The Dion song, of course, is from his epochal 1989 Yo Frankie comeback(!) album (produced by Dave Edmunds). And let's be honest -- as you can hear from it, Mr. DiMucci may be the best single motherfucking singer ever to come out of those aforementioned pavements.

As for The Trade Winds -- c'mon. There's never been anything funnier than a hit record/blues lament for a surfer transplanted to NYC.

Alrighty then -- what would YOUR choices be?

And have a great weekend, everybody!!!

It's Feline Thursday: Special "Your Cat is Born Toulouse" Edition

Attentive readers will recall that, back in January, I sang (albeit not literally) the praises of "synth-driven power-poppers" (from Seattle, Chicago and Vancouver) Autogramm and their spectacularly fab new single "Born Losers."

Hey -- what can I tell you, I'm a sucker for a guy in a Yeti suit.

But now, as they used to say -- sounds so nice, let's do it twice! And this time, with a pussy!!! 😎

Okay, in case you're wondering what I'm talking about, here's their even newer (yet equally fab) single "Randy."

Take it away, guys!

"Randy” was originally slated to be released as part of their latest album Music That Humans Can Play, but was omitted as the subject of the lyrics became inaccurate. Being a self described “cat band” they naturally -- after some deliberation -- decided to re-record the vocals and dedicate the content of the lyrics to their drummer’s cat, Randy.

Autogramm drummer The Silo explains the lyrics he penned for the song.

"It's a letter to a good friend, in need of a little confidence push. Everyone needs an ego boost sometimes. Even if they’re a cat.” Listeners will delight in lines like “If you think you wanna jump up on that countertop, well baby you’ve got the tools. The world’s looking for a pretty cool dude, and maybe that dude is you.”

“Randy” will remind listeners of Devo, with tick-tack rhythms, motorik basslines and a quirky bounce that subtly points to influences like The Dead Milkmen and The Cars. Guitarist Lars Von Seattle aptly describes the new release as, “Nuevo juevo punk pop for allergic feline lovers. Blazing guitars, squiggly synths, bumping bass, and deftly thrashing drums collide in a spirit of uplift for the irrepressible Randy in all of us”.

Okay, that's a freaking riot on every level, I think.

In any case, you can hear more from those guys, plus order/stream the above stuff, over at their Bandcamp page HERE. .

Wednesday’s Cartoon Chuckle

Heh.

Actual music postings resume tomorrow.

Assuming the forthcoming Trumpian economic catastrophe -- i.e., The Tesla Chainsaw Massacre© -- fails to materialize.

Cross my heart. 😎

Your Tuesday Moment of How Cool is That?

From a 1992 rehearsal for I'm not quite sure what event, please enjoy George Harrison and company and a rollickingly wonderful update of the Revolver classic "Taxman."

As I said, I don't know what the occasion of that was -- the footage apparently derives from MTV -- but it's an absolutely delightful performance.

The musicians, however, seem identifiable. The white-haired bass player would seem to be Will Lee (then of the David Letterman Show band); the drummer is likely Steve Ferrone (then of Tom Petty's Heartbreakers) and the guitar player -- having the seeming time of his life imitating the original Harrison solos -- is obviously the great Mike Campbell (whose guaranteed to be fascinating autobiography, I should add, will be available over at Amazon next week).

In any event, just fabulous.

Coming tomorrow: Actual new music by a band that isn't world famous!!!

[h/t Jai Guru Dave]

Okay, How Did I Miss This One?

From their 1998 Mermaid Avenue, please enjoy the inspired coupling(heh!) of Billy Bragg and Wilco that is "California Stars."

In case, like me, you apparently slept through the late 90s, Mermaid Avenue is comprised of previously unheard lyrics to uncompleted songs by Woody Guthrie, with Bragg and Wilco providing contemporary musical accompaniments.

The deal is that this came on the sound system while lunching at my local watering hole the other day and it blew me away, both strictly as music and when I found out who was responsible. Seriously -- I practically fell off my bar stool (no, I wasn't drinking) when the artist credits came up on Shazam.

I should also add that if "California Stars," in this iteration, doesn't strike you as quite ineffably moving, then you're obviously having more psychological trouble coping with the depressing realities of life during The Pee-Wee Hitler© administration that you've yet come to grips with. 😎

La Fin de la Semaine Essay Question: Special "Literary Hoo-Hah" Edition

So hi, kids. Everybody okay, despite what's going on in the world due to The Pee-Wee Hitler© administration?

Good to hear it.

And which leads us to today's business. To wit:

...and your choice for best or worst book about any aspect of pop/rock/soul/jazz/country/folk music is...?

No arbitrary rules whatsoever -- you can pick a biography, a compendium of essays, a photo album, or even an anthology of psychotic ramblings...everything's cool.

Anyway, in case you're wondering, my choice for the worst is clearly (don't even attempt to argue with me) this 1981 total piece of crap by the now mercifully forgotten Albert Goldman.

Which falsely and maliciously places a disgusting racial slur directly at the heart of rock's creation story.*

For that alone -- and don't even get me started on his John Lennon "bio" -- Goldman deserves an eternity in a molten dung heap in Hell.

Oh -- and the other all-time worst (trust me, it's not even a contest) is this piece of utter mid-Sixties drivel by first generation rock crit Richard Meltzer.

Meltzer's an interesting guy -- he co-wrote some cool songs for Blue Öyster Cult -- but sorry, an umlaut doesn't justify...

...a book as crappy/silly as this pompous collegiate horseshit.

As for the best? Oh come on -- you didn't see these coming? 😎

Pretty cool cover art on both of those, no?

BTW, I have no idea who's responsible for the impressive frontispiece of Gender Chameleons, but the design for The Simels Report (a masterpice which may or may not come out sometime this year) was done by my beautiful and brilliant art director girlfriend. Who as you know is working cheap. 😎😎

I should add that that Gender Chameleons is apparently available at eBay for a modest $180.00!

Pretty hilarious.

Alrighty then -- what would YOUR choices be?

And have a great weekend, everybody!!!

_________________________________________________

* I'm not gonna reproduce the offending passage, but let's just say it involves a very famous quote from Sun Records auteur Sam Phillips that Goldman, because he's a shithead, deliberately misrepresents.

Okay, Vinyl Rules, Okay!!!!

The short version: I just learned that some friends of ours (no kidding -- two lovely people BG and I are privileged to know socially) have invented, and are marketing...the Tune Table™!!!

Words fail me, except...what a brilliant idea! I mean, like that's the coolest thing in the history of things. And I say that as somebody who (as attentive readers are aware) didn't have a turntable, or start listening to vinyl seriously again, until late last year.

And I want one of those, and don't you? Duh. 😎

Seriously -- if you do (and who wouldn't?) hie yourselves to the Tune-Tables website at the link up top toot sweet to find all the info you need. And tell 'em PowerPop sent you!!!

Oh hell, here's the official Tune Tables™ link again!

Wednesday’s Cartoon Chuckle

Heh. And I say that as somebody who was a rabid Springsteen fan before it was fashionable. 😎

Wails From the Crypt: The New York Dolls [January 1974]

My very first non-audition (i.e. written while on staff) piece in The Magazine Formerly Known as Stereo Review.

Enjoy.

If you were an adolescent in the Chicago area around the winter of 1965, then chances are your favorite band was the Shadows of Knight. The Shadows were five suburban kids who became, for a variety of reasons, the absolute kings of the teen-band circuit. First off, they were pretty good musicians, and they could imitate the heavier British Invasion stuff of that era (Stones, Yardbirds, etc.) better than anyone else in the area. Second. they had what we used to call charisma; they were all moody types who could fake being English on a visual level, and they had the lifestyle down pat. (There were lots of stories circulating about lead singer Jim Sohns' being busted before a concert for...ahem...well, let's say activities involving an underage teenage fan and leave it at that.) Eventually, they got a national hit with their cover of Them's "Gloria," which they had already made into the Chicago Teenage National Anthem, and then they promptly faded into obscurity, leaving behind a couple of entertaining albums and some very nice memories. I bring all this up because somewhere, I suspect, at this very moment, they are having a quiet laugh about the rise of their most obvious spiritual heirs -- the New York Dolls.

My first exposure to the Dolls, not counting Ed McCormack's feature spread on them in the lamented Metropolitan Review (lamented because when they folded a few weeks later they owed me lotsa bucks) came rather late, by New York standards anyway. In fact, all through the summer of '72, I deliberately put off seeing them. This was largely because of the "New Stones" hype they were receiving; after all, the genuine article had just been in town, having put on one of the greatest rock-and-roll shows I've ever witnessed, and I was in no mood to be charitable. Nonetheless, by the time I finaly got around to them, they had become the undisputed rock darlings of the city, the first New York band since the Velvet Underground (or the Blues Project, or the Rascals -- anyway, it had been a long time) with a legitimate local following.

So the first night I was to catch them at their home-town stomping grounds (the now defunct Mercer Arts Center) I allowed myself to anticipate something really great. There was drama in the air -- the Dolls had just returned from a triumphant English tour (without benefit of recording contract!) where their original drummer had died in a tragic if trendy drug mishap, representatives of almost all the major record companies were in the audience, and there was, in general, a definite feeling of Event in the Making. Finally, the Dolls rushed on stage looking fabulous, there was a quick "Hello, New York!", the band hit into Chuck Berry's "Back in the USA"(a terrific choice), and then...nothing. They couldn't even play the song, and if you can't play Chuck Berry then you sure can't rock-and-roll, as David Bowie recently proved so vividly with "Around and Around." The rest of the set was a total fiasco, equipment breaking down all over, the band ragged and on the verge of hysteria. I left early, and when some fellow critics told me the next day that the second set had been far better, I merely curled my lip. Having been in garage bands myself, I felt that I had seen quite enough.

To be fair, I did go back on a few other occasions, and yes, they were infinitely more together, but I was still bothered by the blatantly second-hand nature of the whole business. Every move they made, musically and visually, was shamelessly and completely derivative of the Stones. Lead singer David Johansen looked, as one writer put it, like Jagger's skinny kid sister, and guitarist Johnny Thunders was a younger, chubbier version of Keith. During a typical performance you could actually sit there picking out where they had gotten their moves; oh yes, Mick did that step on Shindig in '65, and let's see now, Keith vamped the drummer like that on the last tour, and so on. Of course, on that level it was fun, but not to be taken seriously.

Slowly, though, I began to realize that with the Stones so remote and distant, and with Exile on Main Street such a generally depresssing work to contend with, just about any version of them, even a surrogate, was desperately needed. If you were born too late to have been at the Crawdaddy Club in 1963, then the Dolls at Mercer in '72 might be a reasonable alternative. I confess their music was growing on me as well -- granted that their rhythm section can at best be described as adequate (and to be honest, it's not that much worse than Creedence's) and Johansen has a voice like a frog, there was that undeniable energy, and the guitarists were really terrific in the classic (if currently unfashionable) twin rhythm-lead manner. The last time I saw them I was quite charmed.

Well, their debut record has been out for a while now, and I'm a believer -- almost. Of course, I'm disappointed that they didn't have the guts to have Shel Talmy produce them in a two-track mono studio, but Todd Rundgren has done right by them, and the album as a whole has an appropriately anarchic clang to it. More important, the material has finally made sense to me. Underneath the urban chauvinism and the drag posturing, there turns out to be a quirky sort of intelligence at work; Johansen's songs, a mildy silly amalgam of early-Sixties girl group r&b and British story rock circa '66, are actually rather touching.

But the question remains: Is the Dolls' "Trash" a better song and performance than the Shangri-Las' "Give Him a Great Big Kiss"? In other words, do the Dolls transcend their sources the way the Stones ultimately transcended Chuck Berry, or are they merely another nice temporary noise? I have a feeling only The Shadows know, and it looks (so far) like they ain't telling.

I hadn't read that in decades, and I was afraid it was going to be stupid, but no -- it kinda holds up.

And it's gotta go in that forthcoming book of my Greatest Hits that's (hopefully) gonna come out this year. 😎

David Johansen 1950 - 2025

Stealing it from Bill Murray as the Cab Driver from Hell/Ghost of Christmas Past in Scrooged (1988).

As his lounge lizard alter ego Buster Poindexter.

And with the New York Dolls, from their brilliant 2006 reunion album, exhorting all of us to "Dance Like a Monkey."

Now that he's gone, the world is without question a significantly duller place.