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.
Contributors include: Alec, Anita Papsmear, AntiChrist-iansen, Billy West, Beert, Cam Starke, Chastity Morgan, Class Warrior, Dale M, Dave, Dismal, El Jefe, Five-Inch Taint, Gory Zaver, Gusty Bellows, Hartman, HinckleyHadAVision, Ian, Infidel Cowboys (Lusk, Wyoming), Jack Rafferty, Jack Stephen, Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B, Jon, Jonnie Dames Rio, Kloghole, Musical Odyssey, Null, PaulySure, Ratones, Scott, So Brick Eh?, SoDak, Spooner D, Taciturn Orator, TheNeonRooster, Travis, Vidal, and Wayne.
A friend asked, “Please tell me what you love about the Black Hills?”
The moss in Botany Canyon, the ice in Ice Cave, the pale yellow light after a thunderstorm at Ranch-A, tiger lilies, kayaking Dark Canyon, ice skating Spring Creek, the strawberries on Flag Mountain, the sunset from Warren Peak that makes a Bighorns silhouette, really ripe chokecherries, the little piece of 1868 Treaty land my family is squatting on, catching trout with your bare hands, the smell of an old cabin, coyotes howling, getting stuck in the mud with Jerry Harp, skiing Custer Peak, watching the moon rise from Railroad Buttes, lady slipper orchids, rolling a four wheeler, building an ice block castle, the colored walls of Calico Canyon, the Rock Maze as a kid in the late 1970s before it was trashed, Inyan Kara, Ryan’s Wiggle, Vern Kraemer taking off, the French Creek Narrows, skinny dipping in Cold Brook Reservoir, Moon, the view while climbing Devils Tower in autumn, a nighttime walk along Castle Creek, the old switchbacks in Vanocker Canyon, ice walking, raspberries at the Bighorn Sheep Sanctuary in the rain, What the Hell Lake in Wind Cave, the eastern most extent of aspen, the western most extent of birch, a ponderosa too big to hug, inner tubing Boxelder Creek, ice skating the Cheyenne River, sneaking in and exploring Galena Mine as a kid, the boat inside the Alabaster Mine, the wind at Jasper Cave, a motorbike over the Piedmont Fire Trail, a mountain bike ride down Tinton Trail, a unicycle ride on the Bone Collector, the knife edge meander in Elk Creek, the early spring ice in Sunday Gulch, wild plums, a full moon paddle on Deerfield Lake, Classic Crack, hunting for morels, 11th Hour Gulch, fishing on Lower Spring Creek with Grandpa Brown, Six Mile Road, Ice Climbing at Community Caves, Cold Brook Canyon, friends around a fire, the Moonshine Gulch Saloon, climbing the Conn Diagonal, getting chased into the Cheyenne River by wild horses, driving a VW bus on Castle Peak Road, an inversion that leaves only the peaks above the fog, bicycling Spearfish Canyon, cliff jumping, cutting an ice hole and polar bearing Sheridan Lake, hearing a mountain lion scream, The Sheep Mountain Table slot canyons, in fact the entire South Unit of the Badlands…and more to come…
I recently saw Backrooms, Kane Parson’s directorial debut starring Chiwetel Ejofor (Clark) and Renate Reinsve (Dr. Mary). Backrooms is a psychological thriller set in the late 1990s. The main character, Clark, is an unfulfilled furniture store owner and divorcee who is working through his resentments with life with Dr. Mary. One night, Clark finds an invisible door in the basement wall of his furniture store. He embarks on an eerie journey through endless backrooms filled with stuff and distorted creatures that he refers to as “everything that once was.” Clark thinks of the space as “memories” that become distorted the longer they stay in the backrooms.
I couldn’t tell you exactly what Kane Parsons was thinking when he wrote a script about the vintage 1990s. Are backrooms where we hold our individual traumas? Is it the place in our minds where we recreate our memories, hoping that one day we will finally “just be okay” with the events of our past that continue to haunt us? Or are backrooms literal spaces where outdated materials like VCRs, floppy disks, answering machines, and Walkman’s are stored until some hipster finds them? I took a latter approach to the film. If you asked me what’s in my backrooms, I would say movies. I realize movies aren’t a thing of the past per se, but streaming has made the movie experience substantially different.
For as long as I can remember, movies have been at the center of my life. My earliest movie memory is of when my sister would babysit me, and I would get to watch a back-to-back screening of Howard the Duck and Pee Wee’s Great Adventure. Then on most Sundays, I would go to my grandparents’ house for our Sunday routine. My grandmother would drag my grandfather and me to church where he would fall sleep, and I would bite my nails until they bled. But I would slug through the homily because I knew I would be rewarded with a warm apple pie from McDonald’s and a movie. Most of the movies we saw were G or PG, until 2004 when my grandparents took me (their 20-year-old granddaughter) to see Meet the Fockers, which was much more risqué than the prequel Meet the Parents. I left the theater with a mortified grandmother who looked at me with the sweetest eyes and said, “I’m sorry I took you to such a dirty movie.”
My father was less prudish about movies, that was until I got older. I didn’t think twice when he took 7-year-old me to see Point Break and made me close my eyes during the naked fight scene with Julia Michaels and Keanu Reeves. This all changed though on one fateful night when I came home from college for a visit and my mother was working a night game at the Giants AT&T Park (now Oracle). When she worked late, my father and I would rent a movie from Blockbuster. We went to the video store and perused the shop for what felt like forever. Finally, I said to him, “Hey, my friend said he watched a good movie called Sleeping Dogs Lie.” We went over to the Indy section and read the VHS case, “A woman has a dark secret that she discloses to her fiancé.” I mean, okay, how bad could the secret be?
The opening scene of Sleeping Dogs Lie is of Amy (Melinda Page) spitting into a bathroom sink. The screen pans out to a dog rolling on his back, and Amy saying, “That’s right, I blew my dog.” I sat next to my dad in silence staring at the TV screen. I couldn’t even make eye contact with the guy. As I sat there listening to Amy talk about the size of her dog’s dick, I started giving myself a pep talk, “You’re 22 years old. You’re a mature adult. You can watch a sex scene in a movie with your dad without it being awkward.” Now when I was a teen my rebellious move was to run out of the room, but in my 20s it was to stay right where I was. Finally, my father paused the movie and said, “Go to your room.” I thankfully left as he finished the movie. When I asked him how it was, he said, “What kind of sick fucking friends do you have?” I immediately called Jeremy who recommended the movie. I told him about what happened. As he laughed, he said, “I didn’t think you were going to watch it with your dad. That’s disgusting.”
Movies weren’t just a part of my family life; they bonded me and my friends. In high school, my friend Vanessa and I would reiterate movie lines to each other and guess the film. In college, I met Amy who I was roommates with until she graduated from Humboldt and moved away. We were connected at the hip. We walked to school together. During long breaks between classes, we would watch movies in the library cubbies that were equipped with a 14-inch screen and headphones. We especially loved the foreign films—Deepa Mehta’s films Fire, Water, and Earth and Pedro Almodovar’s, All About My Mother and Volver. Then we walked home together and made sure to stop by Spotlight Theater where we would chat with the movie clerks Nick and Steph who would guide us toward their favorite new releases. This was our 4-year routine, and I loved it.
Just last week, a judge allowed Paramount Skydance to acquire Warner Brothers Discovery. For those of you who may not know, the merger was initially stalled because of violations concerning antitrust laws. Just because the merger is allowed to go through, it is still problematic for bringing CNN and CBS under one corporate umbrella. But what is more frightening is what will happen to the movie theater. Apparently, Paramount has agreed to release at least 30 films a year in theaters for the next 5 years. I hope they follow through.
The movie experience is already so much more individual than it once was. I miss wandering through a movie rental store with 20 other strangers on a Friday night rather than sitting on my couch doomscrolling through the endless supply of movies, most of which I never even heard of. I miss watching a movie with 30 strangers and hearing the social commentary as I leave the theater. I miss the collective laughs, jump scares, and the crowd warning Sidney Prescott to go out the front door instead of running up the stairs. Most importantly, I don’t know if there’s enough space in my backrooms for movie theaters. It’s already cluttered with VCRs, VHSs, and DVDs (I never got into the Blue Ray craze).
If you’re looking for some good films and don’t want to waste your time wading through garbage, here’s some must see recent movies in no specific order:
Richard Dawson’s 2020, released in 2019, was one of my favorite albums of that year. This was my introduction to Dawson, and from the first notes of the first track I was enthralled. His specific and wholly unique take on progressive folk, with its juxtaposition of discordance with some of the most profoundly sad melodies I’ve heard, and sharp lyrical critique of capitalism from a modern standpoint that does not feel forced in any way, keeps me returning to it often.
His vocal style is very much his own and is simultaneously beautiful and crushing. The only somewhat comparative artist I can think of is Junior Brother, though more melodic. They both have this quality of sounding like a wounded creature at times, which lends itself aptly to the topics they are addressing. Coupled with a style of guitar playing that is very harsh at times (sometimes he plucks the strings so hard I anticipate them to break), and other times tragic and gentle, this album stands out, and I have not heard anything else quite like it.
While there is quite a diversity of topics covered on this album, the throughline is the tragedy of loneliness, alienation, and exploitation that persists to this day, and the varied ways that it manifests in our lives in this age. His album, Peasant (2017), which was released right before 2020 approaches similar themes, though with a focus on medieval peasantry. These albums pair well together, as they both focus on oppressed classes of peoples in specific epochs struggling against prevailing modes of production and class relations.
The first track, “Civil Servant,” is a good example of the divergence of sound that 2020 is making from its predecessor. The opening notes are brash, jarring, and repetitious, almost machine-like, which is fitting given the thematic focus of this album being set in modern times. This theme of mechanical noise grappling with the soaring, sad melodies fits very well with Dawson’s larger narrative of human struggle as appendages to the machine of capital. The first lyrics give a taste of what is to come, in terms of depicting the drudgery the working class must endure in this society,
Open your eyes, time to wake up
Shit, shower, brush your teeth, drain your cup
Wolf down a bowl of Ready-Brek
Fasten a tie around your neck
All over the city we arise, arise
For a job we despise, despise, despise.
Toward the end of the song, in what are some of the most crushing lines on the album, Dawson illustrates the persisting mental toll of social work under a capitalist society, saying that “in my bed, I can hear the strangled voices of all the people I’ve failed, I’ve failed, I’ve failed.” I think it is interesting that Dawson’s pronunciation of “I’ve failed” also sounds somewhat like “I’ve held,” which just enhances its sorrowful quality. I could honestly write a whole review about this song alone, but I will move on for the reader’s sake.
The next song, “The Queen’s Head,” is largely a commentary on rampant anti-immigrant sentiments, which the ruling class cultivates and uses to create antagonism within the working class. Dawson doesn’t mince words in his presentation of these topics, which this stanza highlights well, discussing the interpretation of a flood event,
There’s a crowd gathered ‘round the fat-headed butcher
Who’s back on his soap box again
Bemoaning the lack of adequate flood defences
Somehow putting it down to “an insurge
Of benefit-scrounging immigrants.”
The powerful short refrain “how little we are (clung to the rivers edge/in the mouth of the world)” in the context of worsening climate disasters is in a sense an acknowledgement that humans do not stand above nature, dominating over it, but rather exist within it, and are bound to its laws. It reminds me of Frederick Engels’s notion of the futility of the conquest of nature, “Thus at every step we are reminded that we by no means rule over nature like a conqueror over a foreign people, like someone standing outside nature—but that we, with flesh, blood and brain, belong to nature, and exist in its midst, and that all our mastery of it consists in the fact that we have the advantage over all other creatures of being able to learn its laws and apply them correctly.” Dawson laments with his aforementioned line about the hubristic fallacy that capitalist society believes itself to be in control of nature and impervious to the ramifications of prioritizing accumulation above all else.
The fourth track, “Jogging,” talks more about mental health and disenfranchisement of workers, exploring how empty consumerism and escapism are sometimes the only ways that people cope with the material conditions they live in,
Recently I’ve been struggling with anxiety
To the point I find it hard to leave the flat
The days drain away, scouring eBay
Or looking on Zoopla at houses where I’ll never live.
The song then goes on to discuss how being recommended physical activity leads to him jogging “hundreds of miles going nowhere,” with a robotic voice in the background repeating the word “jogging” over and over, a tactic that is utilized later in the album as well. I love this, as it works to convey the ways in which everything in our lives, even our physical activity outside of work, is something prescribed to us to “fix” an ill that is systemic, and becomes not a source of genuine pleasure, but a task to complete like all else under this system. It is merely a method of maintaining the potential labor power in bodies to then be used up as much as possible for the sake of accumulation of capital.
This is followed by further commentary on discrimination toward immigrant populations and the ways in which the system enables and perpetuates this,
There’s a Kurdish family on the ground floor
Had a brick put through their kitchen window
The police know who did this, still they do nothing
It’s lonely up here in Middle-England.
There is a line not long after this that says, “I feel the atmosphere/‘Round here is growing nastier/People don’t smile anymore.” I think this ties in well with the narrative of mental health under capitalism being rooted not only in our exploitation, but in our separation from one another, in our loneliness and our division.
I will skip a few tracks to focus on one of my favorites on the album, “Fulfillment Centre.” This is a perfect distillation of the conditions of the modern-day worker in an Amazon so-called “fulfillment” center. Bringing back repetition as a theme, the song merely begins with Dawson reiterating “over and over and over and over, again and again and again and again and again,” which wonderfully illustrates the focus of this song being the type of division of labor that exists as a worker in an Amazon warehouse doing the same tedious, redundant tasks all day.
This is followed by the same robotic voice showcased earlier, stating “five hundred units per hour, hour after hour after hour, please adjust your packing rate accordingly,” which perfectly encapsulates the feeling of some dystopian AI supervisor, omnipresent over the workers, constantly analyzing and appraising their productivity. The robotic voice continues soon after in the same repetitious cadence, “increase productivity, increase productivity, increase productivity!” which feels as though it would be at home depicting some oppressive institution on Pink Floyd’s The Wall, as though it could be transitioning from a supervisor shouting over young children toiling in a factory of Victorian London to a lifeless red eye, staring out over the floor of an Amazon warehouse. We then get the worker’s perspective, discussing the cheap commodities they are forced to package to scrounge what subsistence they can, and the conditions they face doing so,
Bedding and power tools, tablets and football shirts
Perfume and Blu-Ray discs, jewelry and dehumidifiers.
I am desperate for the toilet
But if I go, I’ll miss my targets
All I can do is pee in a bottle
They treat us like animals here.
This is followed by a guitar solo that feels both mechanical and demented, as though it were embodying the deranged scene these workers are forced to endure, and the deep stress and discomfort of their bodies and minds. Dawson gives an example of how these workers are brought to their limit, where they have breakdowns, and the ways in which the inhumanity of this system simply ignores such distress, and only steps in to neutralize it when it becomes an inhibitor to the process of production.
A gentleman who spoke little English
Started to scream at the top of his lungs
No one could understand what he was getting at
Everyone stared ahead and kept working until
Someone came from on high to escort him from the building.
The song ends with this cry of exhaustion and plea for something better,
There’s nothing left of me by the time I shuffle homeward
On the early morning train
To eat a little breakfast and sleep a while
Before it starts again
There’s more, there has to be
More to life than killing yourself to survive.
Finally, I will discuss the closing track, which takes a first person look at the plight of the unhoused. The title illustrates the way life is so coldly disregarded under this system, with the image of a dead dog in an alleyway atop a pile of burst trash bags, with the poignant line “dead dog in an alleyway, dreaming of home.” Dawson then goes on to detail the abuse that those who have to live on the streets endure, crying out for help to a culture and a world that seemingly doesn’t give a shit about them, and has forsaken them, since they are deemed worthless for not sacrificing every waking moment producing surplus value.
In the moment just before I awake to a savage kicking
Blows rain down upon me through the blackness of my sleeping bag
Help me, help me, please help me
Won’t you please help me?
Anyone?
This is followed by the contrast of the pleasant lives privileged people live within immediate proximity of those suffering in the streets.
You can hear the families chatter with each swing of the door
Music, tinkling cutlery, and the laughter of the little ones.
I especially love the chorus to this song, accurately signifying so much that is wrong with this late-stage capitalist society in just four lines, from infrastructure to addiction and the ever-present brutality of the police state,
Over there in the labyrinth of neon
You can hear the voices lift through the icy air
Hooting and projectile vomiting
And the distant sound of sirens.
Overall, 2020 remains one of my favorite albums of recent years. While his more recent releases have been brilliant in their own way, none of them have really captured me like this one has. The sound here is both grand and stripped back, mechanical yet tender and human, unsettling and powerful. I still have much more to say about it as a whole, but I will resist the temptation to make this piece any longer than it already is. If you haven’t listened to it yet, I highly recommend doing so.
A vignette: I am driving east on I-76 in a raging downpour. I am running late to my show in Flemming, Colorado. I am supposed to be there by 7 PM, because the show starts at 7:30. I should probably slow down a bit, but I’m pushing it because I don’t want to be late. I haven’t worked with this producer before and want to make a good impression. I am white knuckling it, gripping the steering wheel. The windshield wipers are on full. I start to come out of the storm. I am in the middle of eastern Colorado about an hour from the Nebraska border. I take a right and start heading down a country road. I come to a stop sign—only one in town—right by the grain silo. I make a left, and KiKi’s Bar and Grill is right there. I park across the street at the post office. I run into the bar. I see my buddy, the opener for the show. Out of breath, I say, “Hey, I made it.” He responded, “You made it in plenty of time, our call time is 7:30 and the show doesn’t start until 8:00.”
What would have been a good song as I rolled into Flemming? “Welcome to the Boomtown” by David & David.
This is a quintessential 1980s track. It should have got a bit more airplay even though it did crack the Top 40. This song, which lays bare the underbelly of the Ronald Reagan years, had some really cool guitar work and a slick production. I would have liked to hear more from David & David, but sadly this “one hit wonder” was the peak of their success. The song opens with these great lines, “Mrs. Christina drives a 944, satisfaction oozes from her pores.” This was supposed to be about as good as it got in the 1980s or so we thought.
The show went great. I did about seventeen minutes, which was the longest amount of time I have done to date. The producer was pleased, which was good to hear. Even more satisfying, one of the older locals told me as she was leaving, “I had never been to a comedy show before, what a good time.” I was glad it wasn’t a disappointment.
What song did I play driving home? “Little Birdie” by Vince Guaraldi.
Vince Guaraldi really owes something to Charles Schultz. Or maybe Charles Schultz really owes something to Vince. Tough to say? I read the biography Schultz, written by David Michaelis, and it was a comprehensive read. Schultz always wanted to be a cartoonist, and he ended up making that dream a reality by taking it to the stratosphere. He became probably the most well-known cartoonist to this day. An early struggle, as the book notes, was that newspaper editors were confused because a great number of his strips never ended with a punch line. Often, Charlie Brown was hanging his head with a passing comment and sometimes it would be a “SIGH.” It ended up not mattering, people grew to love the Peanuts strip and its cast of characters. Things really elevated when the family dog Snoopy became a lead character. There were strips showing Snoopy not really doing a whole lot, except for maybe indulging his Red Barron fantasies, but the masses were entranced—see the MetLife blimp. Having Vince do the music was an exceptional choice. He was a fairly well-known San Francisco jazz musician when the producer of the Peanuts holiday specials sought him out to compose a score. He relied heavily on the Fender electric piano, which had such a cool sound. My favorite track, the super funky “Little Birdie,” was featured the Thanksgiving special. The lyric repeated in my mind: “Little Birdie, why do you fly upside down?”
The Semifinals 1
After months of waiting, the night has finally arrived: the New Faces semifinals at Comedy Works. I was ready. I had a lot of support for this, as my family and friends equaled ten guests in the audience. I said “Hey” to everyone and ate a burger. Afterwards, I just walked around downtown Denver by myself rather than making small talk with my well-wishers. I envisioned things going well and they did. I went up seventh and had a solid set. Unfortunately, I did not advance. The competition was really tough. The finalist crushed as did most of the other comics. Everyone had fun, and I enjoyed it as well. The host, a highly respected pro comic, said he liked my pauses and delivery; he told me to stay with it. Nice, this was the compliment I have been waiting for. The jokes need work, but its good work, fun work. I am lucky to have it as work.
What song did I remember listening to on the drive back? “Los Otros Yo” by Patricia Brennan.
I don’t know anything about this artist except that the internet tells me she is a professor of the vibraphone at the Manhattan School of Music. As they used to say, put that in your pipe and smoke it. The vibraphone is quite a bit underrated and underused. This song does it justice with a heavy deep groove. It’s kind of like a cross between Weather Report and Sun Ra with a bit of Santana thrown in? Whatever the genre, this song is pretty badass.
The Semifinals 2
Just a week and a half later, I’m back performing at Comedy Works, the south club for my second attempt in the semifinals. I felt much more relaxed for some reason, maybe because I didn’t have any friends or family in attendance or maybe because the pressure has eased a bit. The south club is quite a bit different from downtown—a bit more suburban, a bit more stodgy. I drew number 2, not the best place in a 12-person lineup, but not the worst. More daunting, I was following the winner from semifinal 1. Before I went up he said, “Get excited, you got this.” I mixed up my set a bit, which in retrospect maybe wasn’t the best idea, seeing how almost everyone else did their same set from last time. I wanted to stretch myself and see how some different jokes would play. Overall, I felt good about my set. There were some lulls, but it helped to be more relaxed and work in some off-the-cuff comments. Moments like that can really connect you to an audience. All the comics crushed. I didn’t feel like I had much of a shot, but did it matter? I was in the room and on the stage with the other semifinalists. And while I didn’t advance, I had leveled up.
What song was in my head after I wrote this? “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore” by the Smiths.
I am pretty sure the first CD I ever had was the epic compilation album Louder Than Bombs by the Smiths. It was influential as to how I would learn to appreciate music. I was especially struck with how the Smiths felt like they were speaking to me in my teen angst. What an incredible band! I was doing some research on the Smiths in my The Essential Album Guide book by Gary Graff and Daniel Durchholz, and they remarked how the Smiths were a band who didn’t fit in? While I might agree, it’s important to note there were many bands of their era who didn’t fit in—see David Bowie, The The, or going back a bit further The Doors. Nevertheless, the Smiths, song after song, put it all together. When I was younger, I played Louder Than Bombs on repeat and got a Morrissey T shirt to wear around. The Smiths always remind me that you can still be a badass, even if you don’t fit in.
I was prompted by the recent death of Jennifer Finch to revisit my L7 records. It had been quite a while since I had listened to them, but I always had a soft spot for their most famous album Bricks Are Heavy. I searched through my CDs and found that I had a copy of their first album and the aforementioned Bricks Are Heavy. While listening, I was reminded how much I liked this band. I was thirsty for more and stumbled upon Wargasm: The Slash Years 1992-1997. It was a little package containing the albums Bricks Are Heavy, Hungry for Stink, and The Beauty Process: Triple Platinum. Every album included a few bonus and B-sides.
It was worth every penny. Each of these albums is a reminder of the infectious heavy-ass hooks that seem to fall out of the sky for L7. Each record is produced a bit different, but the same melodic riffs cascade one after the other. The slow burns feel as good as the up-tempo numbers. L7 records make it feel good to be pissed off. Whether the lyrics are of a more subjective nature or a political call to arms, every song is delivered with a snarl and an upturned lip. Speaking of snarling, L7 makes Billy Idol look like George Michael, but I digress. At the same time, L7 puts me in a cheerful mood. In a word, they’re dark and fun like a goth in the sun.
The art work and booklet are great as well, as the package contains original covers of singles, and other music nerdy things.
If you’ve been wanting to check out some L7, Wargasm will not let you down.
In closing, L7 are still around. They’re still doing shows and I’m left with the feeling that their other albums must be pretty solid as well. I’ll leave you with a slow burning favorite of mine from a TV show in 2008. Jennifer sings this one. L7 can be a respite when the world throws you one more stupid fucking thing.
