There is a good chance you found us accidentally by using the word “taint” in your search (If you found us on purpose, you deserve our accolades). Of course, we don’t know what you were looking for, but you stumbled on a damn cool project. Look around; let us help send you on a musical journey. Here you will find a number of album reviews from the strange and extreme to the tame and mainstream. Our reviewers are a bunch of obsessive miscreants. Most of us are avid music collectors and have been involved in the music world for decades. A couple of us have been in or are still in bands.
There are no rules on Tickle Your Taint Blog. Our reviewers might make you laugh, or piss you off; both results are legitimate. One reviewer might write a glowing review of an album; another might tear it apart. We may have a new review every week, or we could end up with one every six months. This blog exists as a social experiment to build community among a diverse group of music maniacs – our reviewers and hopefully you.
My neighbor Tim was five years older than me. He was wild, always in trouble with his parents, teachers, and the law. He had a paper route, affording him the ability to buy some records. The others he acquired through other means. He introduced me to AC/DC and Ted Nugent. The way Tim sang along to “Cat Scratch Fever,” “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang,” and “Big Balls” was very creepy and seemed dangerous. Nevertheless, I loved flipping through his records, as we listened to various gems. One day, in 1979, when I was seven, I saw We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll in his collection. Tim readily shared his records, so he told me to take it home to give it a listen.
It was October, starting to cool off, in South Dakota. I was eager to spin the record on the cheap rummage sale stereo on top of the dresser. I set the needle on side A, curious when I heard the thunderstorm and bell. Then there was the guitar. What the fuck? I stopped the record, not sure how I was going to approach listening to this record and what to make of the few notes that I heard. I opened the windows to feel the cool breeze from outside. I repositioned the speakers, so they were facing each other. I turned off the lights, turned the volume up, restarted the record, and laid on the ground so my head was between the speakers. The world of music, as I knew it, changed. As I listened to “Black Sabbath,” I internalized what I was hearing, including the “figure in black which points at me.” It was chilling, but necessary to experience. I flipped the record over to be mesmerized by the antiwar song “War Pigs.” All these songs were heavy, with plenty of psychedelic and jazzy aspects thrown into the mix. I listened to sides A and B a couple more times, before moving onto sides C and D. I was struck by the variety of songs, from “Tomorrow’s Dream” to “Changes” to “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” to “Laguna Sunrise.” I lost my shit listening to “Children of the Grave”—the riff, the fucking drums, and vocals. It was perfection, as another antiwar, revolutionary song. My mother opened the door; I was crying due to being emotionally overwhelmed. She saw that I was joyful, so she quickly left the room. “N.I.B.” just made me want to hear everything again. I was headbanging before I ever heard of the term. It was natural.
The collection We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll was released in 1976. Most of the songs were from the first four records, with one track from Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and one from Sabotage. I reluctantly gave the record back to my neighbor Tim. As soon as I saved enough money, I bought Master of Reality, because of the song “Children of the Grave.” I fell in love with “After Forver,” “Into the Void,” and “Solitude.” I really appreciated the inclusion of the instrumental song “Orchid.” My Black Sabbath collection continued to grow—vinyl, cassettes, and CDs. Every time I saw a copy of We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll, I bought it, so I could give it a friend.
I saw Black Sabbath play three times. The first time, Sabbath opened with “War Pigs.” I instantly had goosebumps, welled up, and remembered the first time hearing Sabbath.
In the days of before, that time in my life when I was sticking my toes in the waters of adulthood, when everything was a first, I heard Black Sabbath for the first time. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a friend’s El Camino in the middle of a pine forest, parked next to the creek where I spent a lot of time fishing and talking with my father as a lad. My friend and I were fairly new adherents to the thrash metal sound that had popped up a few years earlier. We were obsessed with Metallica, who had not yet turned to shit, Metal Church, Exciter, Anthrax, and Slayer. I lived in an area where access to heavy music was difficult. FM radio had only happened a few years before; cable television was not the norm, and, for kids like me, it wasn’t available since I lived outside of town in the mountains. The nearest record store was almost an hour away, which was an insurmountable distance due to not having a driver’s license and parents who didn’t understand my musical needs. It seems incredible that I had Exciter records a few years before I obtained my first Black Sabbath album. I assumed Sabbath had a dated sound that had nothing at all to do with the metal I was mail ordering through ads in magazines.
My friend, the El Camino commander, had a youngish father who was into Sabbath, so my friend decided to bring a cassette copy of Paranoid on one of our poorly planned camping trips. I may have been one or two beers into our music listening night when he put Paranoid into the cassette deck. In that moment, the walls I had constructed in my brain crumbled, and my musical journey took a giant leap forward. I couldn’t believe how fucking heavy it was, heavy and accessible. This was such a monumental moment for me that I can still remember almost everything that happened that night, and the excitement I felt when hearing “War Pigs” and “Fairies Wear Boots” for the first time, sometimes I still feel it.
I have a hard time naming favorite songs, albums, and bands, and, when I do, they never match reality. For example, I frequently name Iron Maiden as one of my top two favorite bands, but the reality is that I listen to The Fall, CAN, and New Model Army more than Maiden. Nostalgia is powerful, and for that reason Maiden will always be one of my favorites, but Black Sabbath will always be my favorite band, Paranoid my favorite record, and “Planet Caravan” and “War Pigs” in the upper echelon of my favorite songs.
As a side note, I am writing this after Ozzy’s death. Other than a handful of songs, I haven’t been a fan of Ozzy’s solo career. The duet he did with Lita Ford is among the worst songs of the 1980s. His concert series, Ozzfest, in my opinion, did a lot of damage to heavy music, by promoting shitty pseudo-metal bands. I have mixed feelings about Mr. Osbourne, but I cannot imagine “Planet Caravan” without his voice. For that, I will remember him fondly.
It was the late 1990s. I was in 7th grade, spending a Saturday afternoon at a friend’s house, listening to—that’s right—Korn. I didn’t own a CD player, so my friend made me a tape. It was their self-titled, debut album.
My dad picked me up, and I put on the Korn tape. We listened on the ride home. Neither one of us spoke. Then my dad said, “Have you ever heard Black Sabbath?”
When we got home, he sat me down in the living room, dug around in a cabinet, and pulled out an LP. I watched as he walked over to the rarely used turntable. This felt significant: the last time he’d opened up the turntable was to play “Wipeout” when I’d started learning the drums. Now, he put on the Black Sabbath record, another self-titled, debut album, and handed me the sleeve. I stared into that scene for a while: the dark and dripping woods, the decaying building, the figure in black.
Then, through his old stereo speakers: the scratch of the needle, rainfall, a church bell, thunder. A church bell?
You know what it sounds like after that. Today, years later, I think of Louis Althusser’s remark about previously unknown continents of human thought: the Greeks discovering the continent of math; Galileo, of physics; Marx, of history; and possibly Freud, of the unconscious. Those first moments of music in the song “Black Sabbath” sure sound to me like the discovery of another new continent: the continent of heavy metal.
I thought none of this at the time, of course. The song merely blew my fucking mind.
“What is this?” My mom had been lurking around the house, listening.
“Black Sabbath. Ozzy Osbourne’s band,” my dad said. She grimaced and walked away. I listened to the whole side, and then the other. Then another LP: Paranoid. That night, I taped them both, scurried off with my cassettes, and listened to virtually nothing else for six months.
I still have those tapes. They’ll go into my grave.
Almost thirty years have passed since that afternoon. The other day, I put on the live stream of Black Sabbath’s farewell concert from Birmingham. There were many bands performing that day who I’d first heard, and loved, after passing through the Sabbath gateway: denizens of the heavy metal continent.
I have a three-year-old, and she watched some of the concert while it played throughout the day. I didn’t push it. But the next morning, I showed her the clips of Ozzy, taking the stage for his final show, and then the rest of Black Sabbath. She raised her little hand and formed the sign of the devil horns and said in her little voice, “We want Ozzy! We want Ozzy! We want Ozzy!”
Yeah, she was coached. Fuck it. In this day and age, certain family values must be preserved.
Ever since we moved away, my partner and I have been traveling to Salt Lake City often to visit family and friends. It always takes a certain amount of strength on my end to brave the traffic of the city after getting so used to being in a rural area, but it is something I’m getting better with. We usually take turns on choosing music, but we mostly stuck to 1970s tunes this time around.
Fleetwood Mac.
I’ve been back on a Fleetwood kick lately. Fleetwood Mac has always been one of those groups where I have adored a handful of their songs, but then never gone much deeper into their discography beyond Rumours and their self-titled. I would like to give more of their music the time of day, but that will have to wait for another time. There is nothing like “Dreams” coming on at the right moment, with the right landscape passing you by.
Dire Straits.
“Sultans of Swing” has always been a song that I enjoyed a lot. I hadn’t listened to much Dire Straits beyond that. So, it was nice to take the time during the drive to explore a couple of their albums. I listened to their self-titled and Communique. The melancholy, spacy sound of their bluesy rock was great to just lean back and drive to, without much thought other than the road. There were definitely tracks on both albums that didn’t grab me as much as I would have liked, but overall, I’m glad I gave them a listen, and am looking forward to listening to more of their work.
Stealers Wheel, “Stuck in the Middle With You.”
I’ve been obsessed with this song ever since seeing Reservoir Dogs. I’m sure that is a common experience for folks around my age. This one is up there in terms of my favorite driving songs. I used to go off roading with friends up around Midway or out in the west desert, and this one was always so much fun to bounce down rocky roads at 2 AM.
Jefferson Airplane.
There is a quote by Hunter S. Thompson, “on some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.” This always made me think specifically of the song “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane, which is fitting, as I know Thompson enjoyed this band. There are times when certain tracks from Surrealistic Pillow come on while driving, where I cannot help but press down harder on the gas, coasting toward some unknown abandon.
The Velvet Underground.
I found out during the drive that my partner had never heard of The Velvet Underground, which astounded me, so we took some time and listened to some tracks from Loaded and their debut. I find it remarkable that I still have yet to listen to anything that sounds like Velvet Underground. I suppose it is a testament to their uncompromising avant garde sound and style, along with Lou’s poetic lyrics.
Rory Gallagher.
I’ve admittedly listened to far too little of Rory Gallagher’s music, and I need to start changing that. We listened to a few of his songs on the way up to Salt Lake City, but it was during a point in the drive where the guitar passages just weren’t doing it for my partner, so we switched it up. I really loved listening to the song “I Fall Apart” while we did listen, though. I am looking forward to diving into his records with more of an attention span soon.
I do not like Greta Van Fleet. I must begin this review in this way because I need to make a distinguishing point. Greta approaches their throwback 1970s sound in a way that is cough heavily influenced by Led Zeppelin and Robert Plant’s vocals, to the point of being unforgivably derivative at times. Graveyard does the blissfully opposite. This album feels like a love letter to an era and collection of types of sound that revels in it, rather than cashes in on it. Perhaps I am being overly harsh to Greta in my admittedly flippant assessment of their approach, but I think it is appropriate in highlighting what Graveyard does so wonderfully right. It understands what to draw from, without simply becoming a chameleon, and by extension, a charlatan.
With that out of the way, let us talk about how fucking fun Hisingen Blues is. Careening back and forth from blistering rock and roll jams to bluesy, moodier tracks that channel a bit of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Graveyard always feel completely at home in their sound, brimming with emotion and a love of what they are playing in every given moment.
I think the most straightforward acclaim I can provide for this album is that I can’t count on my two hands for lack of fingers the amount of times I audibly exclaimed “fuck yes!” or got out of my chair to bob my head and sway my body in my own awkward fashion because the tunes just demanded it. This is the kind of music that makes you forget about the pile of thousands of types of bullshit worming around in your head for its whole runtime, and that’s reason enough to celebrate it.
Another important note about what makes this album so great is the understanding they have as songwriters in the importance of pacing. Each track individually builds and crescendos or mellows at the most appropriate and satisfying moments, and the tracks in relation to one another also flow very well.
Listening to this album was my introduction to Graveyard, and so I am sure I am behind the curve when it comes to this group and the larger context/commentary surrounding them. That’s one of many wonderful things about music, however. I love the knowledge that, even if everyone stopped making music tomorrow, I’d still have these personally undiscovered treasure troves to seek out and bask in. Albums like Hisingen Blues remind me of that fact, and it slightly brightens my otherwise blackened disposition.
We finally got the chance to see Sierra Ferrell live with some friends of ours, and I’m so happy we did so, because it was even better than I thought it would be. The only issue we faced was in the venue. It was a Twilight Series concert in Salt Lake City, and, for some reason, the show was located in the middle of the street near Library Square, with barricades on each side of the road, which caused the many people in attendance to be crushed together in a very unpleasant way. To make matters worse, all the food trucks and beer lines ran parallel to the street, which caused the lines for each to intersect the crowd, and just made it generally a nightmare to navigate. This caused us to enjoy the openers (a local solo act who did a lot of Townes covers and Kaitlin Butts) far less than I think we would have otherwise.
When it came time for Sierra to go on, we actually just left the main area that we paid for tickets to be in, and stood on the lawn next to the fence, which seems absurd, but it made the rest of the show so much better, and I’m relieved our friend had the idea to do so. Once Sierra and her band got on stage, all was well with the world. They started the set with one of my favorite songs from her new album, “I Could Drive You Crazy” and a good deal of the setlist consisted of a variety of songs that I love. I don’t think there was one that I wished had been performed but wasn’t.
We were all captivated the entire time, with Sierra’s pristine voice soaring over our heads and the band playing immaculately. It all felt very rehearsed yet loose and easy. I honestly preferred these performances of the songs to their studio versions. The sun had also gone down behind the trees by this point, and there was a cool breeze blowing, which was a welcome reprieve from the summer heat we had been enduring among the crowd.
They played their cover of John Anderson’s “Years” which had recently gained a lot of attention from another performance a couple of years ago. This cover really highlights Sierra’s range and her ability to belt out long, powerful notes. It was great to watch how much control she exerted over her voice, from the varied fluctuations in tone and volume as well. I really was not prepared for how impressed I would be watching her sing live.
Post Malone joined her on stage for a couple songs as well, which drove the crowd wild. I’ve never been much of a fan of his music, but he seems to be a nice enough person from what I have heard. A lot of folks seem to run into him all over Salt Lake City. One of the songs he was present for was a duet with Sierra, and it actually sounded great.
By the end, as darkness was finally settling into the valley, they closed out with an encore consisting of a more subdued version of “In Dreams,” a personal favorite of mine. Afterward, we walked a few miles in the cool night back to where our friends were staying, talking the whole way about how much we enjoyed the show. Despite the difficulties with the venue, this will be one to remember, for sure.
Music would not be what it is without Black Sabbath, without Ozzy Osbourne’s influence. The projects that Ozzy has been a part of and contributed to over the years have had a major impact from heavy metal to many of its sub-genres and beyond metal as well. It truly is hard to estimate the extent of influence Ozzy’s career has had. Pete Pardo from Sea of Tranquility put it well when he said that Ozzy’s music was “firmly entrenched in my DNA” in his tribute video. In many ways, Ozzy’s music is the foundation upon which much of my trajectory as a music fan is based.
I’ll always think about the material conditions that Black Sabbath came from. The ruins of post-war Birmingham, where the children played in “the bomb site.” An industrial hellscape full of factories and slaughterhouses that claimed the lives and spirits of the working class. That is the atmosphere that Sabbath was built from. I remember the quote from the documentary The Nine Lives of Ozzy Osbourne where he said that the “first thing I did when I got some money was get drunk, buy some shoes and socks.” That was the reality they were facing in the midst of their beginning with the band, and I think it is important to recognize those roots.
I very recently wrote a piece about my first time listening to Sabbath and what that entailed, so I won’t go too deep into that here, but I think it is worth noting for myself, in the context of a tribute to Ozzy, that my life would probably not be the same had I not listened to his music throughout the years. That seems a bit like hyperbole to write, but I know it is true, and I think Ozzy had a singular voice that none could mimic. Tony Iommi got it right when he said in reaction to Ozzy’s passing that, “There won’t ever be another like him.”
There’s something to be said of Ozzy’s range as well. To go from the dirge-like, doomier sound of early Sabbath, to those later Sabbath records and eventually the more high-octane, higher-register work with his solo albums (and the slower ballads on those albums as well), he was an excellent vocalist in his own way. I’ve had conversations on Ronnie James Dio versus Ozzy with some folks throughout the years (which I think is a dumb dichotomy to argue, to begin with), where the staunchly Dio-sided folks always branded Ozzy as “one-note,” which I didn’t think was fair or accurate at all.
Much like the point I made in my piece about Shane MacGowan after he passed away, I think increasingly unrealistic and dangerous expectations were made of Ozzy throughout his life that were sensational in nature and are a product of a sick celebrity culture (particularly after the bat incident). Much of the exaggerated press around Ozzy at that time (some of which the Osbournes capitalized on, no doubt) was the result of his struggles with addiction and unpredictable mental state. It was not something that should have been made into a topic of romanticization regarding his persona (this obviously could be an opinion being made in hindsight, but I think it’s a nauseatingly common occurrence for fans and the media to obsess over and glorify these struggles). Another parallel with Shane is how this behavior comes to be expected, and how it is perceived as charmingly buffoonish, something to make a joke out of (a lot of his behavior on the television show reinforced this).
I even remember when I was kid in school, and I was pretty freshly listening to Sabbath, I’d talk to other kids who I knew were into that kind of music at the time, and they would either know Ozzy because he was called The Prince of Darkness or because he bit the head off a bat. This always annoyed the fuck out of me, since I wanted to talk about his music. I’ve always had a problem with the whole persona behind rock and roll and whatnot, and it’s no different with Ozzy’s situation. It’s not to excuse much of the behavior he exhibited while he was fucked up, either. He was a bad drunk most of his life and at times a monstrous person who negatively influenced a lot of people around him. It’s unfortunately an integral part of his life story and needed to be discussed.
However, I am glad that Ozzy was able to do his final show just a couple weeks ago. To know he was able to go out on his terms from a certain point of view, knowing that his health was in bad shape, is gratifying to a degree.
Writing a tribute for Ozzy is a bit complicated because I think I have a complicated view of him as a person. However, it is undeniable how much his music means to me. That is just a complex fact of life that I deal with regarding many artists. All I know is that I will be listening to a lot of Sabbath and Ozzy’s solo shit for the next couple weeks. Particularly “Changes,” “Mama I’m Comin Home,” and a few other of the more melancholy tracks, and remembering him in my own way, in the way his music has played such a significant role in my life.
I feel like this quote from Ozzy caps this off pretty well: “You know the time when I will retire? When I can hear them nail a lid to my box. And then I’ll do a fuckin encore.”
Since Sabbath just had their final show, it has caused me to reflect on when I was first introduced to them when I was young, and the impact it had on me. I remember being at my dad’s duplex, I can’t recall what I was doing at the time, but I was pretty young. It was a summer evening, and my dad was grilling some ribs while some robins eased their worries in the birdbath near the ash trees. My dad usually had his CDs playing in the background while he got drunk slowly on cheap beer and grilled into twilight. We would also listen to the radio at times, and it was usually some classic or hard rock station.
I don’t remember the songs playing before it, but at some point, “Iron Man” played. I have no idea what I was doing prior to hearing it, but I stopped whatever it was, as I was completely entranced by that song. That initial foreboding, steady drum, leading into that first deeply bent note, sent chills all over my body. I ran around the house for a week after hearing those leading notes that Tony Iommi bends so low, trying to mimic that sound with my voice. I was obsessed with it and had never heard anything like it. To this day, I haven’t heard much that has had such a power over me like those first few notes.
I went out a few days later to find a Black Sabbath CD. I had asked my dad who played that song, and he had told me, but he didn’t know which CD it was on, so I didn’t know which one to look for. I ended up combing through the CDs at the store, and getting the one that had the most frightening cover art, since it made sense to me that such a terrifying song would be on that record. It ended up being their debut. It wasn’t until much later that I was able to locate and listen to Paranoid.
When I got home, I hurried up the off-yellow carpet on the stairs to my room and closed the door. This was already becoming a routine in my life. Finding new music, hurrying to my room full of anticipation, and closing my door for privacy to listen without any distractions, like a sacred ritual. If I thought “Iron Man” was scary, I was not prepared for what the self-titled first track would make me feel. The ominous sound of rain, and a distant bell as though it were ringing over a sad cemetery. The deep rumbling thunder, and then those first immense, sinister notes. It felt like I was listening to something that I shouldn’t have been. As if this were something occult or evil and that I was going to awaken some ancient, malevolent creature if I kept going, but I was too immersed to stop. When the song gets to that first shriek of “oh noooo” from Ozzy Osbourne, I almost had to hide under my pillow. I couldn’t believe that there was music out there that was even more frightening yet exhilarating than AC/DC, which I had only recently discovered.
Over the years since those days, I’ve continually returned to Sabbath’s many records, with differing opinions and perspectives as I have grown older. They have since become and remained one of my favorite bands, and they expanded my perception of music. Sabbath shaped my musical taste in many ways, and they will always hold an immensely important place in my heart, as I know they do for so many others. I’m glad they were able to do a sendoff on their own terms. It is incredible to think back on all that they have influenced, and while I’m sad that I never did get to see them perform live, I’m very grateful to have their music in my life.
This year being more than half over, I decided it was time to climb a mountain. What did I listen to?
I drove up Highway 34 and made a right at the split (Larimer County Rd. #43) to head to Glen Haven, Colorado. It was a misty, cool morning; the air was heavy from a rain the night before. It was an absolutely stunning drive up the Big Thompson Canyon. Sometimes you can see a bighorn sheep herd on the side of the cliffs, but not on this day. Being the middle of summer, they were probably up in higher elevations, where it was cooler. They are amazing to see; it seems that they carry an energy about them.
What was on the radio?
By happenstance, I was only able to get a few stations driving up the canyon.
#1, 88.9 KRFC.
Fort Collins community/public radio station is pretty solid, but it can be a tad hit or miss depending on the DJ. Fridays, they typically have a good DJ lineup with Ted and “My Bird” from 5-7 PM and “The Apocalypse Radio Show” with Colonel Kurtz from 7-9 PM. These are pretty solid shows with great selections (i.e., “San Andres” by Portastatic and “Listen” by Tears for Fears). Sometimes these guys get a bit obsessed with the obscure tracks and the deep cuts, but hey if things get too weird that’s the beauty of the radio; you can always change the station.
“Highway Patrol” by Johnny Cash. What a great deep cut this was! I wasn’t familiar with this track but what a cool song (written by Bruce Springsteen). Cash has a great voice, and it was really at home with this song. It tells a story, which seems like a bit of a dying art. Anyhow, I really like the way Cash does it; it feels authentic and what a great message. This version of the song kind of reminds me of the great Harry Chapin in the 1960s and 70s. (Check out the album Short Stories and most importantly the track “Mr. Tanner.”)
#2, 107.9 KBPI.
KBPI is billed as Denver’s hard rock station. It has been a mainstay for 40 or 50 years (used to be 105.9 back in the day). I guess this is a pretty cool station as far as hard rock goes. I would probably like to hear more Slayer and Metallica than Ozzy Osborne and The Offspring, but is there any station with a Slayer record on the ready?
“Photograph” by Def Leppard. This is a very popular song in Colorado, where people continue to love Def Leppard as much as they did in the early days of MTV. The song had a great video, and the band had a cool look. I think this is a sweet track. I could relate—a photograph of a beautiful baby was invaluable back in the day. The song was about a photograph of some girl from a magazine of sorts, and the photo wasn’t cutting it for this guy—creepy, but a fun jam, nonetheless. Pretty good band, I guess. A year after Pyromania was released, the drummer Rick Allen lost an arm in a car accident.
#3, 102.5 KTRR.
Northern Colorado’s classic rock retro station. This is a station I find myself on quite frequently. It’s an easy listen and always plays familiar songs, helpful for keeping a mellow mind while driving around. This station is dialed in for me every Sunday, as they play a classic episode of Casey Kasem’s “American Top 40.” It is fantastic with long-distance dedications and chart tracking of these old songs. It’s a nice stroll down memory lane as far as I am concerned.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s” by Deep Blue Something. I know these guys. The songwriter played in a band, Little Black Dress, with a friend of mine. The lead guitar was a restaurant manager my wife worked for when we first got together! Deep Blue Something formed in Denton, Texas, just outside of Dallas. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” was their only hit, but what a hit it was. It has the melodramatic feel that fits just perfectly on a retro playlist rotation. I’m not sure I really like this song, and I know the guys in the band were definitely sick of it. I did some digging and learned that the Houston Press named “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” the second worst song to come out of Texas after Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby.” But what does that matter when these songs still get quite a bit of airplay?
Finally, I arrived at the trailhead to begin my mission of climbing a mountain. I worried whether I had enough water. The weather in the mountains can be volatile and unpredictable. Being unprepared can be a problem. The trek up Mt. Crosier is about three and a half miles. It sounded manageable on paper, but let’s not forget it’s all uphill with some pretty intense elevation gain. It was really stunning and peaceful, great views of snow still perched on mountains in the distance. Wildflowers were strewn about filled with the buzzing of insects. I wished I could identify some of them, but I’m only able to recognize “Bell’s Twinpod”—a small, clumping yellow flower only found in Boulder and Larimer counties in Colorado. Of course, I just read about this, so it was interesting to find it in the wild. I was moving at a pretty good pace and wasn’t really seeing any animals except for some random birds. The sounds in this area provided for some unique listening, as it resonated as I moved along, huffing and puffing a bit.
What song is in my head?
“Time Out of Mind” by Steely Dan. Full disclosure, I am a pretty massive Steely Dan fan. I have followed two Steely Dan cover bands around. When I lived in Denver, there was Kid Charlemange, and, in Dallas, there was a band called Naked Lunch. Anyhow, this was the perfect track to be running through my head as I walked up this mountain. Yes, this was a moment when time doesn’t seem to exist. It was just me in the world, putting one foot in front of the other trying to get to the summit—time out of mind. The making of this song had quite the crew in the studio: Mark Knopfler on guitar, the Jazz fusion virtuoso’s “the Brecker Brothers” on the horns, and Michael McDonald with Valerie Simpson (of Ashford & Simpson fame) on backup vocals. It’s commonly thought this song is about heroin, as Walter Becker had a pretty good habit back in the day. I like to think that the song is reaching a place in your mind where you can just be, not thinking about anything but just being present.
Upon reaching the summit, I felt my heart pounding, thinking I should probably relax as this was not a good place to have a heart attack. Calming, I took it all in. A cleansing came over me, as I chewed on this incredible view. Climbing a mountain helps make sense of life and the world, because from this perspective, things feel pretty incredible.
I headed down and wondered about the lack of animals. Except for some birds and the occasional chipmunk, this ecosystem seemed a bit lacking. Where were the deer, the elk, and the midline consumers? I felt a bit concerned this ecosystem was a bit out of balance; it was especially apparent in the density of the forest, with pine trees right next to each other and deadfall everywhere. Perhaps, the animals knew something we should know. If there was a fire, this forest would be an inferno. The animals probably figured out they should be in a safer area.
As I approached the trailhead, getting close to where I started. I felt a sense of relief and accomplishment. All a sudden I was startled, there was a fox staring right at me! I didn’t see him (assuming) at all, probably just the way he planned it. He didn’t seem scared at all. I thought we might be having a bit of a conversation.
Fox: Nice job on the hike, looks like your life is rolling along alright.
Me: Thanks
Fox: I followed you the whole way and if you died up there, I would have eaten you.
Me: Maybe next time.
What did I play as I drove down the canyon?
“All Day Music” by War. People might ask, “What’s so great about War?” The Latino community would point to songs such as “Low Rider” and to some extent the “Cisco Kid,” as a couple of cultural defining tracks. I would say the best thing about War was Lee Oskar. This guy emigrated from Europe with nothing but a harmonica in his pocket. Adding harmonica to their R&B sound was unprecedented. And it was not just any harmonica, as Lee Oskar was arguably the best harmonica player there ever was. (Check out the songs “The World Is a Ghetto” and “City, Country, City.”) He later took a break from playing and formed a harmonica manufacturing company, which produced some of the finest harmonicas (Oskar’s) ever made. Oskar’s harmonica added a fantastic element to the sound and the music of War. They also had the great vocalist Eric Burdon, formerly of The Animals. Together, they had some awesome songs.
What I should have played as I drove down the canyon?
The class war of the rich against working people continues to intensify, as millions are going to be thrown off their health care. Fascist fucks in Congress chant “U.S.A” following the passage of the heinous bill. The U.S. Air Force in Utah conducts flyovers to remind us that burning jet fuel is patriotic. Fuckhead Trump surrounds himself with flags, as he signs the bill, thinking he controls everyone and everything.
Phantasmorgasm, a punk rock band with some funk, starts their song “Burn the Flag,” with the line, “Oh can you see,” before asking:
Do you see the homeless people die?
Do you hear the hungry child’s cries?
Do you think of anyone, but yourself?
With simple lines, they illuminate stark inequalities and shame in a nation where a small percentage of the population controls vast amounts of wealth. With the line, “the flag is a symbol with no meaning,” they counter those in power who shroud themselves in the flag, using it to justify their actions to plunder the public. With weariness, leading to the end of the song, they sing:
I’m so sick of seeing pain,
everywhere I go,
the people without homes….
I’ll burn the flag,
I’ll burn your flag.
This sounds like a great idea on this day of continued shame. This evening, I am going to burn seven U.S. flags in a metal bowl, envisioning an empire on the brink of implosion. While the red, white, and blue turns into smoke, I will play Propagandhi’s “Stick the Fucking Flag Up Your Goddamn Ass, You Sonofabitch.” My wife and I will be smiling as we sing along:
My father told me, “Son it’s futile to resist. You can topple the ideology but not the armies they enlist.” I questioned the intentions of the boy scouts chanting “WAR!” “Well, that’s the sound of freedom, son,” he said (free to say no more). But wait a minute “dad,” did you actually say freedom? Well, if you’re dumb enough to vote, you’re fucking dumb enough to believe them. Because if this country is so goddamned free, then I can burn your fucking flag wherever I damn well please. I carried their anthem convinced it was mine. Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line. But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck they had done to me. Made accomplice to all that I promised I would never be. You carry their anthem, convinced that it’s yours. Invitation to honour. Invitation to war. Bette Midler now assumes sainthood. Romanticize murder for morale. Tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree my friend and “Gee, Wally. That’s swell!” Fuck the troops.
Polish tinsel Christian values with lots of hate and Jimmy semen. The finger that points is up your dress.
—Sons of Ishmael
The televangelist Jimmy Swaggart is finally dead at the age of 90, no longer able to spread his rotten seed. In the late 1970s and through most of the 80s, he smiled on the TV, sang gospel songs, praised God, taught hate, and swindled followers of money to build an empire through his ministries, broadcast network, and his bible college. He financially supported the South African-backed Mozambican National Resistance, an anti-communist militia group that committed crimes against humanity. In 1988, he pleaded for forgiveness in his “I Have Sinned” speech, when the first of his prostitution scandals was exposed. Once defrocked, he was undeterred and became a non-denominational minister, continuing his bigotry.
In 1989, Sons of Ishmael, a Canadian punk rock band, released the seven-inch Sing Generic Crap. Today, to mark the occasion of Jimmy’s demise, I am listening to their short song, “Jimmy Swaggart Stuck His Pee-Pee in My Poo-Poo.” The deeply scathing cynicism for the hypocrisy of televangelists erupts with:
It seemed like much more than a dream
When Jimmy Swaggart came to me
He said, “Send your kids to my school
Where they’ll learn to be just like me
I put my penis into whores
To cleanse them of their awful sins
I intimate children and old people
Extracting protection money to ward off Satan.
With a few lines they capture Jimmy:
Show me your sins and I’ll show you mine
Take me to a hotel room and I’ll tear off my garter belt;
Wholesome Christian blood rush to my penis
Little girls with blue lipstick are yeast to my penis.
It is no surprise that Jimmy loved Shitbag Trump. I hope Jimmy’s family plays this Sons of Ishmael song (3:22 in the video below) at his funeral.
