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.
Sometimes when I run my tongue along my teeth, I recall the chipped “baby teeth” that I had when I was young. These teeth were jagged and sharp from sparing with my neighbor Matt, when we were six years old. Neither of us were tough—then or now. For some reason, his father had two pairs of boxing gloves, which we found in the basement. We figured, what the hell, let’s box. We timed the rounds by playing forty-fives, which had two- to three-minute songs per side, on the record player. One of our favorites was “(The Man Who Shot) Liberty Valence,” sung by Gene Pitney. We stood on opposite sides of the room, waiting for the needle to drop and the song to start. When the strange violin part in the opening sounded, we stepped forward holding up our gloves. As the slow gallop started, the match commenced with playful jabs. Whenever the triumph chorus arrived—“many a man would face his gun and many a man would fall, the man who shot Liberty Valance, he shot Liberty Valance, he was the bravest of them all”—we would throw a few punches. The chorus occurs twice, so we had a couple dynamic moments each time the song played. The occasional punch bloodied a nose and chipped a tooth, but there was never any malice. I think we mostly enjoyed listening to old records, as we would hum and sing along, as we “fought.” At the time, we did not know that the legendary Burt Bacharch and Hal David wrote the song; we did not know who Gene Pitney was. We just relished listening to the song. I still get excited every time that I hear this simple song and get to sing along to the chorus.
I headed to Denver to compete in The New Faces Competition at Comedy Works. The annual New Faces competition receives over 200 applicants and accepts 168 people. Over 6 months or so, the field is whittled down to the top 40 comics for the semis. Then, there is the finals and finally the crowning of the champion. This was my third year competing, and my sights were set low because the comics competing are top notch.
What song was on the radio as I drove down to Denver from Loveland? “Honky Cat” by Elton John.
Elton John, what to say? I’m not sure I’m the biggest Elton fan, but I’d have to admit he has put out some incredible songs. I read his autobiography, ME, and it sure was interesting. Perhaps with a bit of serendipity, he decided to partner with songwriter Bernie Taupin—otherwise he probably would have been relegated to a life as a session piano player or a lounge act. In his early twenties, he was the biggest pop star in the world. Another interesting tidbit in the book was that one of his rock bottoms, before he decided to get sober, was a night of pounding martinis with Duran Duran, which sounds like quite the evening.
My favorite Elton songs are probably “Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatters,” “Amoreena,” and the obvious “Levon” (choice lyric, “Jesus wants to go to Venus”). There’s another three I might list on a different day, as they’re all filled with passion and presence. My favorite track of his was the one with minimal piano on it, “Philadelphia Freedom.” This song was a tribute to the tennis superstar Billie Jean King, who started a new tennis league trying to get women paid fairly, sponsored by Virginia Slims cigarettes! It is a big groovy pop song, especially awesome to have him paired with an orchestra. While Elton had some duds (see the album Caribou recorded in a studio outside of Nederland, Colorado), overall, he’s a genius musician with an epic career.
But let’s come back to “Honky Cat.” I guess it’s about a redneck who was trying to navigate upscale New Orleans? He realizes he needs to “get back to the woods.” At one point, he mentions “he’s read some books and magazines”—yeah, that’ll show those upper crust ladies! Let’s bring back the term “Honky Cat.” It sure is a crack up as far as white monikers go. This is a song that really gets stuck in your head. Elton nails the ragtime piano better than Scott Joplin or Jelly Roll Morton ever could.
What song should I have played as I drove down? “Philadelphia Freedom” by Elton John.
There’s a bit of time to kill before the show. I parked in the garage across the street from Comedy Works around 6 (you must check in before 6:30), and the show wasn’t going to start until 7:30.
As I sat in my car, what song did I play to get ready? “N.Y. State of Mind” by Nas.
I recently discovered Nas, and what a fantastic find. His album Illmatic is killer; it kind of reminds me of early Ice Cube records. It’s one of those simple rap albums; lay out a great loop/beat and let Nas do his thing. He was in a great headspace on this one, perhaps in a “N.Y. State of Mind”? I played it a couple of times and got it stuck in my head; I was there—this audience was going to be rocked.
I checked in and paid my $20 entry fee. I shot the breeze with the comics loitering at the club and then walked around in Larimer Square. I was trying to stay loose and not get worked up. Around 7, I sat in the back, watched the patrons file in and get seated for the show.
What song were they playing? “Don’t You Evah” by Spoon.
I really like Spoon. They were one of the Austin bands that caught the 1990s wave of indie rock and have been riding it ever since. Much like the bands The Shins and Built to Spill, they have a super unique sound and vibe. They kind of remind me of Jeff Buckley’s music, well, maybe, if Jeff Buckley had lived long enough to start an indie rock band. I would say Spoon would be the top for me in this genre, whatever it’s called. So many cool tracks, especially on the album Gimme Fiction, which included the gems “I Turn My Camera On” and “The Beast and Dragon, Adored.” Thanks Spoon for the music, nice to hear you tonight while getting set to rock this room.
What song do they play when they start the show? “Battle Without Honor or Humanity” by Tomoyasu Hotei.
Almost every show at Comedy Works starts with this song, at least the ones I’ve attended anyway. It is probably most remembered from the Quentin Tarantino movie Kill Bill: Part 1. It is certainly a good one to start a show. The song is used in the movie when the Bride is preparing to take on O-Ren Ishii, as O-Ren is entering the tea house with her gang. The scene devolves into a pretty epic blood bath/battle scene, which goes on for about 30 minutes and the blood never stops spewing across the screen. I guess this is a good song to set up a comedy show as well? Killing and crushing on stage is pretty awesome, albeit less gruesome.
Tonight was the first night for group A, and twelve comics were going up with a five-minute set. This year I was equipped with the ultimate pro tip; my buddy was going to give me a light at four minutes. Comedy Works doesn’t light for the contest, so the timing can be problematic. If you go over your time, your mic is cut. This can be especially challenging, as the room is red hot and most comics aren’t used to the long laugh breaks, which can mess up your timing. Five comics in my group got their mic cut, missing their closer, which is usually their best joke.
Going up fourth, my set was going great. I settled in and was relaxed. The pops were popping. The crowd was on my side. I was able to ad lib and get into the moment. I even had time for my trademark deadpan comment “It’s a fun crowd out here tonight.” Then one more joke, and into the closer, no problem—hit just like it should. It felt great, but I thought my chances were slim. The competition was tough. I watched the rest of the comics and the headliner. It was time to hear the winners, so I headed backstage. We milled around. The judges announced the wild card winner. Then they put forward two other winners, which were no surprise—crushers with great sets. It was time for the last spot. They called my name; I advanced to round 2! I took the stage a bit lightheaded with a loopy smile.
After they took the winners picture, I headed out hitting fist bumps and heard the compliments along the way. I walked to the parking garage and some guy got the door for me and said, “Dude you are fucking hilarious!” I got in my car, yelled, and cried a little bit. “You fucking did it!” As I paid for my parking, I was laughing a strange looney laugh. I turned down Larimer Street and stopped at the light. I put my window down—still smiling. I saw some people from the show at the street corner waiting to cross. I hear one of them exclaim, “Hey, that’s the guy,…there he goes.”
What song was on the radio? “Does Anyone Really Know What Time It Is?” by Chicago.
Chicago was such a cool band. They embraced a location with the band name, much like their colleagues Boston and Kansas. Of the three, I would say it’s a close race with Boston, but Chicago probably wins by a length or so. They just have a deeper range and overall better songs, but let’s not forget “Carry On My Wayward Son,” which is a great Kansas song. Between the horns, the super creative songwriting, and Peter Cetera and Robert Lamm on vocals, Chicago nailed it. With a perhaps bit of synchronicity, the choice lyrics in this song punctuated tonight’s experience for me—“Does anyone really know what time it is? Does anyone really care?”
“Is anybody listening? Testing, one, two, three.”—“Partners in Crime” by Social Distortion.
When I first laid eyes on the cover of the new Social Distortion record, I thought, “Well, it’s another Survivor’s Greatest Hits collection featuring ‘Eye of the Tiger.’”
Then, as the yellows and fluorescent pinks soaked into my retina, I realized that the cover looked like the logo for a new Jane Fonda line of athletic wear with the tagline: Ferocious Cougar—The Jane Fonda Collection.
I come from a time when album art was important, especially concerning punk rock. An album cover was a big part of the overall message. Inside were lyric sheets and info, a connection to other humans. I hate streaming music; I like to hold it in my hand. The cover of this album was different. Missing were the classic cars, leather jackets, 1950s pin-ups, tattoos, and alters built to old guitars, which have adorned Social D album art since their conversion to more mainstream and traditional rock ‘n’ roll following Mommy’s Little Monster and Prison Bound.
Something about this was new.
Social D is solid, like a rock. The nuances between albums are only evident to close listeners who have traveled the Social D road many times. These listeners know the terrain well. What rises above the surface and keeps fans coming back is, not only an emotional connection to the lyrics, but also the hooks and subtleties of textures. Thus, to have this for an album cover was not very subtle.
It was kind of exciting.
Despite emotional links to the past, I hadn’t been excited about listening to Social D in quite a while. This isn’t because they don’t mean anything to me anymore, or because their albums weren’t good. It was more a falling off due to general familiarity. Social D isn’t math rock. They are more about guitar tones and are a “light a cigarette, turn your back to the wind, while giving a despondent side-eye to the world at large” kind of band. They’re not Crass or the Dead Kennedys, but they have their place.
For me, they are the comfort food of punk rock. I mean, they are “punk rock” because of their history; but they are really a band emersed in traditional rock ‘n’ roll and country, in the most general way. When I put on Social D, I like that fact that I already know what I’m getting. That’s where the comfort comes in; I want catchy melodies with familiar tropes. I want guitar solos that are relatively simple and don’t stray from the melody. I want to know what’s going to happen next. Like a well-balanced Mozart, you can feel the change coming.
If Social D is boring, it’s because I’m not in the mood. I’ll grab a Miles Davis Quintet or Iron Maiden album instead. The problem isn’t Social D. It’s me.
Social D is nostalgic, sentimental, romantic, and traditional in the best ways. Consistently.
I put the needle on the new record, Born to Kill, and didn’t stop listening for a week. The first thing I hear is a beautifully distorted guitar bursting with manic energy. It was glorious. I was playing air guitar before any other instruments even kicked it. It’s pretty fuckin’ punk rock. The title track burns the house down. I knew this was going to be a great album.
The song “Tonight” is the most stereotypical Social D song on the album, but it also quickly became my favorite. My beloved Saint Bernard dog died suddenly right around the time I picked up this record. The song became my goodbye song to him. I did not see this coming. I listened to it on the way to work for the following two weeks after my dog’s death and shed a tear every single morning as the sun rose over the Rocky Mountains. This is what a typical Social D album can do. It provides time-tested songs to time-tested human emotions. I’m not the first guy in the world to lose a dog he loved, and this isn’t the first time Social D wrote a song that sounds like this one. It doesn’t matter. In the moment, it feels distinct and unique.
The album then takes a startling turn into a paint-by-numbers country song, “Crazy Dreamer.” At first, it comes off as a little boring, but it is no different than any classic, short Tammy Wynette or early Loretta Lynn song. It’s not actually boring, it’s just Social D having a fever dream at the Grand Ole Opry. It provides a nice segway to the second half of the album, an intermission, if you will. “Crazy Dreamer” also sets up the next song perfectly: a cover of Chris Issak’s “Wicked Game.”
Wait. What? I wasn’t sure what to think of this when I saw this song on the track list. It’s going to be awful. No, it is perfect. It’s the kind of song Mike Ness wishes to write. Luckily, the latter was on point. Social D does to Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” what Johnny Cash did to NIN’s “Hurt.” Social D owns it. It fits like a glove. For me, it is the official version of “Wicked Game.”
From here, the album just delivers one great song after another. It’s a damn near perfect record.
If you like Social D, you’ll love it. If you don’t like Social D, you’ll hate it. Social D are like the Ramones, Les Thugs, Neil Young and Crazy Horse, or even Oasis. They’re not here to reinvent the wheel. Love them or hate them, they are here for the four taps, a few tears, and a bit of connection and release. Mike Ness isn’t a sage or a revolutionary. He’s a guy who is trying to stay sober who ran out of places for new tattoos. Social D is a respite, but not an escape. That’s OK; we still have our Crucifucks and Conflict.
I became obsessed with this record, which brings us back to the cover. It’s perfect. The colors of the tiger really pop. They are vibrant with a touch 1980s ridiculousness. Ridiculous like a roller-skating rink in 1984 and, underneath, just as sad. The textures and guitar solos, in particular, pop out. Some are psychedelic, while some are dreamy. Some add tears and emotion, while others set the amps on fire. The album, Born to Kill, feels more colorful and alive than the Social D I remember. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s because I watched a short video of Mike Ness talking about surviving cancer and feeling a new gratitude for the limited days we old fuckers have on Earth. I feel that. I can’t separate it from this album.
Speaking of the 1980s, I think Social Distortion should make a Trapper Keeper with this album cover on it. I’d get one to house the obituaries of my loved ones.
I first stumbled across Dave Mason’s Alone Together (1970) in the late 1970s when flipping through records in a shop. I paused looking at the strange, rather ugly, cover of a man in a top hat standing against a desert cliff. For two decades, I repeated this activity, whenever in a record store, wondering who the fuck is Dave Mason? But I never gave this more thought, except each time I saw the record. In the late 1990s, a neighbor was throwing out a stack of old records with the trash, so I asked if I could take them. There ended up being five Dave Mason records among the sixty slabs of vinyl. Given that I was about to move across the country, I did not spin these records until a few years later. When I finally got around to checking them out, one of the first songs that I heard was “We Just Disagree.” Holy shit, I thought, I know this classic song, but I have never known who sang it. Then there was “Let It Go, Let It Flow,” which I also knew. I am a sucker for 1970s, melodic rock. So, again, I asked, who the fuck is Dave Mason? I found out he was the guitar player and occasional singer in Traffic, a band that I never devoted much attention to, except for a few songs. I suppose that I should have known this, but I did not know anyone who was a Traffic fan—I still don’t. After listening to three Dave Mason records, I was completely hooked by the time I played to his first solo release, Alone Together, the one with him in front of the cliff. It opens with “Only You Know and I Know,” which has catchy strumming acoustic guitars with electric guitar accents. Released at the start of the 1970s, this record consists of a great mix of folk-rock and blues. Dave Mason plays some great guitar solos throughout the record. “Shouldn’t Have Took More Than You Gave” has a nice psychedelic vibe incorporated into the song. But the song that really floors me every time is “Sad and Deep as You.” Accompanying Dave Mason’s acoustic guitar is Leon Russell on piano; the combination is hauntingly beautiful, providing the perfect set up for the soothing vocal delivery. The lyrics are simple, recounting lips, a smile, eyes, and tears that “tell a story, as sad and deep as you.” The simplicity hits the heart, and I sink into the beauty of the song, appreciative of those who craft such songs.
The first time the Reddmen played at my folks’ house Ramon might not have been more than 12. They were all young teenagers at best. Their older brother gave them a ride to my place. We all thought—let’s give these kids a chance. They proceeded to blow us all away with their talent, and they went on to become a powerhouse in the local music scene for the next three decades. Johnny’s sheer talent, unbelievably prolific songwriting, and unstoppable stage presence were unmatched. One of our mutual friends, Jack Batchelder, noted that he never felt cool enough to be around Johnny; I always felt the same way. But the incredible presence he carried—the light and the life—we, all of us, need to carry forward into the world. Johnny lives on in our collective memories—the community who knew him. Let’s keep all the positive things he showed us alive by taking the inspiration and sharing it forward.
SoDak:
The last time that I saw the Reddmen play was in Salt Lake City in 2022, when they played a series of dates as part of a reunion tour. Johnny Miller’s unbridled energy was infectious from the first guitar chord to the closing crescendo of their set. While I was rocking out, I caught myself smiling almost the entire time, enjoying the performance, just as I did in the mid-1990s when the Reddmen first started playing shows in Rapid City, South Dakota. I am not sure how many times I saw Johnny play with the Reddmen and Friends of Cesar Romero, as well as other bands such as the Weather Machines and Clause 83, but it was numerous few times over the decades. I never saw Johnny put on a bad show. He was a force to be reckoned with, as he erupted on stage, jumping around, and hammering on this guitar. Johnny and his brother, Miyo One Arrow, were electrifying, creating beautiful music. Johnny was unbelievably prolific writing hundreds of songs, finely crafting the structure, the guitar riffs, and the melody. He wrote catchy punk rock tunes that had complex chord progressions and emotional hooks like the Beatles. When he played live with the Reddmen and Friends of Cesar Romero, the influence of the Who was on full display, as far as a high-octane performance. I loved talking about music with Johnny, given his extensive knowledge of classic rock, country, and soul music. We shared a deep love for the band J Church, marveling at Lance Hann’s productivity. Johnny was a kind, inspiring, beautiful, and funny friend. He was a treasure, who enriched the punk rock community in South Dakota. I will miss him dearly—much love.
Before digging into an analysis of this album, I ask that you indulge me momentarily so that I can complain about myself. I purchased this album expecting to get a Low album, Alan Sparhawk was one-half of Low after all. I wanted a dark, moody, and sparse masterpiece. Upon my first listen to the album, I was disappointed, so disappointed that I put the CD on my pile of unwanted albums to dispose of later. What bothered me most was that the sound was full compared to Low, and Sparhawk’s vocals didn’t sound right without Mimi Parker—for those that don’t know, Mimi died in 2022.
A couple of weeks after grumpily setting the CD aside, I grabbed it from the rejected music pile, and gave it a second listen. This time the album clicked with me; I got it. What did I get? I understood that Low was over, that the Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker magic was done, and that an album by one-half of Low was good enough. Sparhawk had clearly put a lot of mental energy and likely mental anguish into this album, one that I initially dismissed. I was aiming my anus to shit all over what I now think of as a good album.
It is not a perfect album; I have complaints. On their own albums, I find Trampled by Turtle’s pop bluegrass style tolerable but annoying. To their credit, they played to the intent of the songs/lyrics. There is only a hint of their weak bluegrass fluff. The powerful song, “Screaming Song,” could have been better if the back-up vocals had been dropped and if The Trampled ones had allowed a little more space for the vocals to set the tone. There is one song, “Get Still,” where Sparhawk’s voice doesn’t work. The vocals move in and out of falsetto with a lot of vocal accompaniments; it is disruptive to the flow of an otherwise good song.
I had read the lyrics to “Screaming Song” before listening to it. The lyrics put into song exactly how I imagine it would feel to lose a spouse or partner—Mimi Parker was Sparhawk’s spouse. The message is powerful and painful. Sparhawk’s grief made me imagine my own future misery if I were to outlive my partner. Here is an excerpt: “When you flew out the window and into the sunset, I thought I would never stop screaming. I thought I would never stop screaming your name and I started screaming even louder but I ran out of breath, so I took in some more, and I started to scream even louder.” Fuck me—that is depressing.
For the most part, my original critique of the album was bullshit. Alan Sparhawk has created an emotionally charged album with just the right amount of bleakness to get across the mental images he wanted to present to the world.
Low has come to an end. Alan Sparhawk, the solo artist, is still here, and his album must be evaluated and enjoyed in this light, something I was eventually able to do.
This album was too depressing for me to tickle my taint, but I definitely enjoyed it.
