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Monthly Archives: October 2008

So when did Of Montreal morph into oversexed, funk pervs? In the late 1990s, they were a quaint little indie band who hung out with the pasty, horn-rimmed Wilson worshippers of the Elephant 6 collective. Powered by mastermind Kevin Barnes, Of Montreal’s earnestness and whimsical lyrics provided precious respite from the whiny screamo and brawny frat rock (read: Limp Bizkit) of the era. Now Barnes—apparently hopped up on Viagra, oysters, and electronica—is drawing comparisons to David Bowie and Prince. Did I miss something over the past decade?

It’s obvious when analyzing Of Montreal’s approach to the love song:

From 1997’s Cherry Peel: “I could make you spaghetti with tomato sauce/With just a touch of oregano/And a parsley stem”
From 2008’s Skeletal Lamping: “Maybe I’ll blow you/Whatever kind of kisses you want/Because you’ve got so much in common/With my big cock creator”

The kicker is that Of Montreal are now a total “It” band, beloved in college towns and topping the “staff picks” in record stores. I guess Barnes is doing someone—er, something—right.

Never name your band “Violens.” If, in the weird science of naming bands, any misspelling counts as clever, then I guess I’m impressed. But when the DJ back-announced the band who recorded the song that had us spellbound, “Violens” was not among the first thirty spellings I would have guessed. And there is a band called “Violence.” If there was never a band called “Violets,” I’d say name your band that right now, it’s a fantastic name. Except that when the DJ back-announces you, it won’t do you any good. People will be looking for a band called “Violins,” another fine name, unless your band has violinists, in which case it would not count as clever.

Violens has no album out yet, as best I can tell. But the song we heard is fantastic and can be downloaded for free.

Cristy and I have just created a quiz called “Are You a Rock Geek?” on Facebook.

Please let us know how you do.

No fair using wikipedia, geek.

This article, by the author of the greatest response to the war on terror of all time, is the greatest article about the Minutemen of all time.

Attributed to Will Dunham, Reuters:

“U.S. doctors have found the Bee Gees’ 1977 disco anthem ‘Stayin’ Alive’ provides an ideal beat to follow while performing chest compressions as part of CPR on a heart attack victim.”
Just one more freakin’ thing for those damned baby  boomers to be smug about.

At Rock Geek Chic headquarters, we’ve just obtained a new CD: Fuck Work, by the Unemployed Misfortune. While multiple listenings will be required before we can speak about this music with our full expertise, so far I think it’s the total independent rock album, with a bold title, stunning cover art, and music that is arrestingly catchy and close enough to power pop to get me to turn it up a notch.

And it has a message.

…or does Aimee Mann sound like Karen Carpenter?

That’s right. The old spank who brought the world immortal AOR classics like “I Can’t Drive 55,” “There’s Only One Way to Rock,” and “Mas Tequila” turns 61 today. IROC-Z owners are rejoicing everywhere.

• Referring to Jethro Tull as “he”

• Attributing “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress” to CCR
• Referring to The Jesus and Mary Chain as The Jesus and Mary TRAIN (seriously, I heard this a few times on WPGU)
• Attributing “Stuck in the Middle” to Bob Dylan
• Attributing “A Horse with No Name” to Neil Young
• Referring to “Is There Something I Should Know” by Duran Duran as “Please Please Tell Me Now”

.38 Special at the Illinois State Fair, 1995.

The former wild-eyed Southern boys, weathered and bloated, unenthusiastically slogged through their set of late ’70s/early ’80s hits. But by mid-show–and after a few beers, perhaps–lead singer Max Carl (or was it Don Barnes?) was itching for  some rowdy audience participation, 1981-style. Launching into the raucous chorus of “Rockin’ into the Night,” he roared at the crowd to sing along, put his hand to his ear, and thrust his microphone toward blank yuppie boomers in Bermuda shorts. But instead of mass off-key shouting and fist-pumping, only crickets chirped. Tumbleweeds blew across the Grandstand. The faraway sound of a carousel rang through the summer air.
As if opening for a splintered Beach Boys lineup wasn’t bad enough.