Cinderella and Juice WRLD

By Kloghole

I have been asked to write a review about one of my favorite thrash metal bands. Back in the day, I began gravitating toward the Bay Area and East Coast thrash scene without really knowing that it had a label. For me, there tended to be a political edge to the lyrics and themes of darkness and despair to fuel my blind drunk depression at the time. One band stood out. The lead singer’s raspy voice and the band’s hook laden chops really sunk in. At one point, I told SoDak that if a certain song came on, it would make me want to fuck anything that moves. “Shake Me” was infectious, and if you fuck anything that moves, you may just get infected.

Yes, I am yanking your chain. For those of you going “what the fuck? Cinderella, a thrash metal band?,” you are right. I am fucking with you.

Back in the day, I drew hard lines around the music I liked and “posers” who listened to certain music because it was the cool thing to do (see my Metallica review). The interesting thing about my boundaries at the time is that they were only sensical to me. I was into Overkill and Testament, but hated Metallica. The bluesy nature of Great White and Cinderella were fucking awesome, but Poison and Warrant were absolute shit. I may have seen Great White and Tesla more times than I have seen Iron Maiden.

My apologies to Gary Holt and Paul Baloff (RIP) for the blasphemy, but I feel it makes a point. While there are some boundaries that we can draw between underground and “pop” music, ultimately, the value of an artist is in the ear of the beholder. There are some really shitty bands/songs that still elicit emotion for me, but they are tied to something I was going through at the time. Some people like cotton-candy music. To see anything redeeming in contemporary pop music, I feel like your life has got to be so fucking free of trauma or you are escaping trauma. Either way, if you like pop music, you are fucked in the head. But, most of us are. If it is popular, by definition, it is worth three constipated turd nuggets. It is very rare for “good” music to be popular.

A few years ago, I reviewed Swift and Perry. Since then, many folks have communicated to me how deep Swift’s lyrics are. I really do not fucking hear it, and they do not speak to me. Over the past few years, I dug deeply into the lyrics for 1989, and I came up empty (I staunchly refused to listen to that fucking album again despite my morbid curiosity - was it really as bad as the pant-load of diarrhea I remember it to be?). Honestly, I am at a real fucking loss to figure out what the fuck people are talking about. So much so, it really kinda pisses me off, if you can’t tell. To try to argue this vapid “white people problems” whiny bullshit is somehow deep makes me question humanity. I do not mind if you like Swift’s music. Just do not fucking insult me by telling me how fucking profound it is. Be proud of the fact that you love its vacuous, cheerful, superficial self-reflection. I love Weird Al and Huey Lewis, but I do not try to justify it by saying how deep they are.

Here’s a taste:

Taylor Swift “Blank Space”

So it’s gonna be forever

Or it’s gonna go down in flames

You can tell me when it’s over, mm

If the high was worth the pain

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They’ll tell you I’m insane

Cause you know I love the players

And you love the game

‘Cause we’re young, and we’re reckless

We’ll take this way too far

It’ll leave you breathless, mm

Or with a nasty scar

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They’ll tell you I’m insane

But I’ve got a blank space, baby

And I’ll write your name

Now compare this really deep shit to the hair metal, cock rockers, Great White.

Great White “Sail Away”

As you come you come alone

All you are is what you know

Dependent on your memory

Remember who you used to be

Reason is a raging wind

Beating on your weathered skin

Confusion in the tidal flow

Pulls you like an undertow

Adrift out on a sea of tears

Navigating by your fears

Searching in the stars above

A way to find your isles of love

How about the hair spray encrusted Cinderella?

Cinderella “Somebody Save Me”

Somebody get the doctor

I’m feelin’ pretty poor

Somebody get the stretcher

Before I hit the floor

Somebody save me

I lost my job, they kicked me out of my tree ( I thought it was “kicked me out on my cheeks”)

Somebody save me

Save me

Well, everybody’s got opinions

But nobody’s got the answers

And that shit you ate for breakfast

Well, it’ll only give you cancer

In Taylor Swift’s song, the lyrics are way too fucking literal. There is little left to the imagination, and bragging about failure is not endearing, “Got a long list of ex-lovers.” Sounds like the old adage, at some point perhaps you should think “maybe it’s you.” Great White, in contrast, germinates poignant mental imagery while giving the listener the ability to see their specific circumstance in the generality of the lyrics, “Remember who you used to be.” Now, if I chose Great White’s “Down on Your Knees,” Swift would certainly have the lyrical upper hand. Cinderella is a bit literal, but ever so slightly glances the political by dragging in economic despair and the reality of cancer among the working classes. 

Is it profound or a trenchant critique of the horrors of the capitalist system? No, but at least it does not rely on a misogynistic view of sexuality that churns its way through sexual partners the way rednecks tear through a Chinese Buffet.

I have already pondered Swift’s popularity, but the point here is to make clear that music is relative. I think we can still shit talk some music, and dogging Swift is still punching up, so she is fair game. However, listen to what you like. Find resonance where you can. I may still shit all over you for doing it, but just tell me to fuck off. People certainly did it to me for liking Cinderella and other “butt rock.” Still have no idea what the fuck that means.

In the spirit of music that is not my cup of tea, I decided to give another artist a listen. Recently, a student asked me to rate the song “Feeling” by Juice WRLD. One of my classes is a bit of a circus. One student puts his head down on the desk almost immediately. There were a few students who did not turn around to face the film we were watching in class. It is a bit weird, but what are you going to do, and they seem to have an okay time? The class also gets into odd debates when they finish working on their group exercises. One involved how many holes a straw has and descended into whether a hot dog was a sandwich. We came to an abrupt end when they painted themselves into a logical corner by basically implying that a Philly cheesesteak is a hot dog.

Students had introduced me to Juice WRLD’s story in a previous class. Just before I left my previous department, the racist, homophobic, autistiphobes I worked with yanked me from the graduate theory seminar I taught because I was becoming too popular with the students. As a big fuck you to the bigoted assholes, I taught a class on “Rock ‘n’ Roll” before I left for a new program.

The one thing I learned from the students was that “selling out” is not really a thing anymore. In the battle between heavy metal and hair rock, selling out was a big deal. Commercialism and pandering were viewed with derision (unless you are Metallica, then it is totally fucking okay to be a sellout fuck and bitch about people getting access to your music for free). Now, students do not really even understand the concept because music is not communicated in album form. Artists are simply assumed to seek wealth and fame. There were a few examples where students felt artists had drifted too far away from their base, but it was not really viewed as selling out. This is simply something I did not predict before teaching the class. Some of their favorite genres of music were artificial constructions of the music industry like K-pop. The stark divide between “posers” and “real” artists is virtually absent in this new era of streaming and basement engineering. I am not sure I have fully comprehended how students see music now.

One of the student presentations covered the life of Juice WRLD and a couple of his songs. One of the songs the student presented was “Wishing Well.” The prophetic lyrics highlight the contradictions of using drugs to cope with life’s realities.

It’s stress on my shoulders like a anvil

Perky got me itching like a anthill

Drugs killing me softly, Lauryn Hill

Sometimes I don’t know how to feel

Sometimes I don’t know how to feel

Let’s be for real

If it wasn’t for the pills, I wouldn’t be here

But if I keep taking these pills, I won’t be here, yeah

To be honest, I can say the same thing about whiskey. I am not certain how I would have coped with my first few years of college without being blind drunk most days. However, it set up a pattern that was hard to shake. Because I had a lot of folks depending on me, I had to pull my shit together. I really did not have the option, after a while, to cash in my chips.

The lyrics in “Wishing Well” point out the deadly gamble of using drugs as a crutch while risking worsening the problem. While you can put off the pain of some current agony, you are just as likely to do something stupid while high that makes you even more depressed. It is a pretty vicious cycle that some do not seem lucky enough to escape. I had a few close calls during those dark days. Some just don’t come out on the other side.

I hear the bravado masking the pain in “Feeling.” On the surface, it glamorizes drug use and being out of it, chasing the capitalist’s dream. If you listen a little more deeply, Juice WRLD is using drugs to “conceal” his feelings, but they are never quite silenced, “I still feel them.”

Although I am drawn to the lyrics in “Wishing Well,” both “Feeling” and “Wishing Well” are too heavily steeped in autotune for my taste. The beats are those reminiscent of the tracks constantly piped out of the speakers at the bar where my brother bounced. There are certain hip hop and R&B tunes that do move me (Lupe Fiasco), but the ones that tend toward the dance moves and overly orchestrated choreography are just not for me. I feel the same way for the horseshit line-dancing tripe that passes for “country” music.

I feel the backlash against Beyonce was not so much about her music as it was about revealing the sham that is called country music. It is just fucking pop music for white folk who fancy themselves cowpies. Compare Beyonce’s “Texas Hold ‘em” to Trace Adkins’s “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk.” If Adkins is country, so is Beyonce, but her shit is at least more listenable.

I will stick with Cinderella. There is a hook there that is not what I hear in most dance music. There is a different purpose to bluesy glam rock than there is to dance music. I look for the melody to mirror my anger, rage, depression, and hostility. 

If I was a happy fucking dude, I would listen to Michael Franti, dance like a goddamn hippy, and fart fucking rainbows out of my ass. 

I am not, so I listen to death metal, depressing political outlaw country, and frivolous rock music that still sounds a bit angry even if it is not.

Because I get the depth of pain Juice WRLD elicits in his lyrics, I am creating a new rating to sit right in the middle of the sweet sticky balls and the constipated turd nuggets. For Juice WRLD’s “Wishing Well,” I give it a department store gumball - the ones in the vending machine that last about 23 seconds before they lose their flavor. I do not get too much joy out of listening to it, but it is not the sonic torture that is Taylor Swift or Katy Perry. For those who do enjoy the beats of Juice WRLD, there is lyrical content here in these two songs that speaks to the complexity and contradictions of the human experience. I could see how folks may get the same resonance as I did with Ozzy’s “Suicide Solution.”

Getting back to the original subject of this review, Cinderella is still one of my favorites. “Shake Me,” “Bad Seamstress Blues,” and “Dead Man’s Road” are all solid songs I dig to this day. Cinderella gets at least one sweet sticky ball. Perhaps two if I am not feeling so goddamn cantankerous.

Sweet Dreams Motherfuckers

Maine Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

In the middle of a beautiful forest in Maine, my father-in-law passed away on August 3, 2024.

My wife and I headed to Maine. What did we listen to?

One thing is for sure, Maine is very difficult to get to from Colorado. There are no direct flights, and we must always get on a bus or train, and/or rent a car, especially given that my in-laws were in a camper, set up on their friend’s land, in the middle of a forest. We got into Boston about 2 in the morning; the bus would leave for Portland, Maine, about 6 AM, so we had 4 hours to wait. This was the only math I could do at this point. We pushed a couple of faux leather sofas together to make a crash pad. As I was tossing and turning, I heard some faint music on the speaker.

What were they playing? No idea. In the cacophony of this hour and setting, I couldn’t hear much. It was just a collection of noise, sort of mashed together.  

What they should have been playing? “Zionsville” by Khruangbin. This Houston band has put together something awesome. They have a real smooth crisp guitar player. They have some great albums including the collaboration Texas Sun with Leon Bridges. Hearing this track would have made things okay, or at least for a little bit.

Waking up in the Boston Airport, at the ungodly hour of 4:30 or 5:00 AM, is not amazing. As I peered up from our nook, I noticed some other travelers were sprawled about, possibly jealous of our set up. I smelled the coffee from the shop, where there was already a massive line. We hoped in line. Then we headed to the exit to catch the bus to Portland.  

What were they playing: “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. It’s only fitting right? I would say this is a pretty good band with some fucking excellent songs. Tom Scholz started this band and allegedly worked tirelessly in his basement studio, mixing, re-mixing, and tweaking these songs to the point of obsession. I guess there was some CBS lawsuit that kind of derailed the band’s production for a period, I think mostly because Scholz took so long to finish a record. A better way of putting it is “…its been such a long time…” since we’ve seen a record. But whatever, this is how it goes with artistic expression, books, art, movies, and especially music; eventually you must abandon the project knowing that you (the artist) will never be satisfied with the final product. I also really enjoy the tracks “Foreplay/Longtime” and “Peace of Mind,” but I didn’t hear them in the Boston Airport that morning.

We finally made it to the in-law’s RV camper on the Maine Coast. We were close to the town of Boothbay Harbor. This was where my wife and I got married. It was a beautiful day in September, with a slight fog dusting the morning water. I was wearing a cape and a western tie. I watched my wife stride down the deck of her parents’ house escorted by her father also wearing a cape, as well as black-and-white checkered Vans made famous from the movie. They were both smiling and glowing. She looked so beautiful; I thought I was going to cry. How did I end up here? I guess I was lucky and patient because today everything seems perfect.  

What was our wedding song? “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley (originally written by Leonard Cohen). Jeff Buckley was one of those session guys, who after many years cutting licks in Los Angeles, finally decided to make the album Grace. Incredible album. His unique singing and fantastic guitar are timeless. He sort of slows the song down on his version; he lets it flow. It’s almost a rendition better than the original, but with this song written so well who’s really to say. For my wonderful wife, Hallelujah! Love you.   

We went into town, such a wonderful scene, New England coast in the summer—the line out the door of the ice cream store where my wife had her first job; the smell of seafood; and the feeling of ease. Pure summer bliss, not a care in the world, and I am enjoying this place and time.  Everyone young seems to be staring at their phones; all the old people look like they’re thinking. If we could slow down time a bit, it would be nice to have these types of days go on forever.

What song was in my head? “Summertime” by Miles Davis. What to say? This fucking guy took out a trumpet and turned the music world upside down. His ability to produce, innovate, and reinvent himself were unparalleled, which is pretty incredible considering his massive heroin, cocaine, and alcohol addictions at various times. He had so many style iterations. His album Kind of Blue is widely considered to be the best jazz album ever. (By 2019 it was certified at 5 times platinum.) While the track “So What” is probably the most well-known track on that album, I was always a bit more partial to the track “All Blues.” The harmony gets going with John Coltrane on tenor sax, then almost out of nowhere, here comes Miles with the melody. The wheels just come off this track, in good way. The musicians take their cues and deliver some bad ass improv riffs. Then there’s the track, “Summertime,” from the Porgy and Bess album. It’s got an easy vibe with a splash of melancholy. It’s great, it’s relaxing, but summer’s not going to go on forever.  

Driving around Maine, it was easy to notice what a wonderful place it is. There was a pair of bald eagles swooping above the woods. 

What was on the radio? “Cult of Personality” by Living Color. I’m gonna say it, this is the greatest rock song ever. Prove me wrong. The hook, the intensity, those lyrics—add it up—it’s a crusher.  This song feels like it could almost fit with any generation, but maybe it is even more poignant in this era of the internet with its fast news and spin that skews and blurs. This world seems like it’s all just the status quo, the rich people calling all the shots while the rest of us poor schlubs try to sort it all out. Do you think a fucking rich person gives a fuck about the price of bacon? I guess we get what we pay for, at the grocery store and in the government. Then there’s this song, it really needs to have more airplay—especially right now. “They tell you one and one makes three!” and we believe it whatever it is. Fuck it all, but at least this song is greatness.   

We were sitting in a restaurant on the water, getting ready to enjoy some fresh Maine Lobster, as it was our farewell dinner to Maine. Not sure when we’re coming back. My wife asked me, “Do you recognize the waitress?” I looked over at the portly looking waitress who was kind of showing us a wry grin. “She’s the bartender who banged the caterer after our wedding.” I guess she looked vaguely familiar, difficult to say, as this would have been about 16 years ago. I was glad she did, who cares about rain on your wedding day, did the bartender bang the caterer?  

What was on the radio? “Escape” by Rupert Holmes. This is a timeless song—always easy and always familiar, known to most folks of my generation. Who doesn’t like pina coladas anyway? This is one of the great things about music and art—it is the timelessness of the whole thing because greatness is forever.  

An important aspect of my appreciation of music is my acquisition experience. Allow me to illustrate. I remember listening to Casey Kasem on Sunday nights breaking down the top 40 songs in America. I would hear something that would catch my ear, maybe a song called “Escape.” I would remember the song and maybe the artist and would then pop into the Sam Goody record store in Twin Peaks mall in Longmont and start digging. I love digging through piles of music. Often, I would not find “Escape” on a 45, but I might find something else, maybe something that I was sort of familiar with or that had a cool cover. The record store experience was not complete until I had been through it all, including the cassettes. Or maybe I would pop into Twist and Shout records in Denver and slide into the back room and see what “used” records, CDs, or cassettes were available. Or maybe I would slide into Good Records in Dallas and pick up some old country album. Or maybe I would wander into one of my favorite record stores that no-one knew about “Harry’s Head Shop” on Ferguson Road in East Dallas, right by my house. I would dig and dig and eventually decide to purchase “The Point” by Harry Nilsson. Throw in some rolling papers and I could get out of there for around $6. I don’t think this album ever made it to the top 40, but it didn’t matter, this was something I discovered after all the time I spent in record stores. This album appeared and captured my interest for some reason. I went home, put it on the turntable and just listened. By the time I was on side 2, I felt tears rolling down my cheek. The track was “Life Line.” Such a fucking beautiful song. You can still find me digging through crates in a record store somewhere, it’s makes music mean something a little bit more because it’s not just the listening. A big part of the experience is to get out and discover the music as well, because you never know what you might find. 

“Unless this dream which seems so real, is just a fantasy.”

A vignette: It’s a musty morning. I’m in the middle of a thick forest that is difficult to navigate on foot without a trail, especially after last night’s downpour. A pair of bald eagles glide and swoop as they hunt over the estuary, in hopes of catching a fish out of balance in the brackish water. Two seals poke their heads out. My best friend stops by, and we share a beer on the wood deck we built last year. “Finest Kind,” he says on his way out. My wife mills about in our RV, and I put my head down and go to sleep. I dream about my boat, as I sail away. 

What song is in my head? “Shiver Me Timbers” by Tom Waits.