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Hopefully by now, you intrepid internet-reading music fans know the story of young Cal Robbins, who was born with Spinal Muscular Atrophy, a motor neuron disease that will keep him in a wheelchair for life. But Cal has been blessed with loving, strong parents, one of whom happens to be a well-respected indie rock musician and producer who goes by the name of J. J’s got some wonderful friends, and they’ve been helping out with auctions, benefit compilations, and shows. One of ‘em featured the reunion of a nearly-forgotten D.C. band, you may have heard about it.
Cal is two years old now, and as wonderful as that is, he’s nowhere near out of the woods. Another auction to benefit him has been announced, and it’s a doozy. On offer are such things as:
-A lesson from impossibly talented ex-Jawbox drummer Zach Barocas
-A fully-autographed set of the Mission of Burma Obliterati pre-release 12″ers
-Not one, but TWO copies of Shellac’s infamous Futurist album. These were donated by two members of Buffalo Tom, who have presumably realised, like everyone who hears this record, it’s not that spectacular and they might as well do something good with it.
-4 DVDs full of footage of Shudder to Think recording their landmark, amazing Pony Express Record (buy the damn thing now, if you haven’t yet for some reason)
and most mindblowingly,
-a copy of Craig Wedren’s handwritten journal from the making of PXR, featuring “of pages of Craig’s handwritten lyrics (including early drafts and unreleased songs!), recording notes, doodles, personal journal entries, and correspondence!”
Now, let’s face it, folks: I probably won’t be able to afford any of that stuff, if it goes for the amount it should. But if one of you has some deep pockets and will make a copy of that Craig Wedren journal for me, I’ll donate everything I can to Cal’s fund. Plus I’ll be your bestest friend.
As a special bonus for reading, here’s an alternate take of “Savory” by Jawbox. Enjoy!
Bad news from the left coast, as the following message appeared on (Superstarcastic’s own) Replicator’s webpage last night:
“Replicator is playing? Oh whatever, i’ll just see them next time…”
Well, actually… not so much.
After 8 years, 3 albums, 2 eps, 4 vans, almost 200 shows, a handful of compilation appearances, and countless floors
Replicator is calling it quits.yup. It’s true.
All of the members of Replicator will still be making music and pursuing creative visions, and in time we will be making that information available, for now… but these things will not be as Replicator
We have achieved more with this band then any of us ever dreamed was possible. It has taken us further then we ever imagined, and the opportunity to give something back to the music world that has given us so much has been an honor and a privilege. It has been an amazing time, and has led to some incredible experiences that will remember forever, and friendships that will hopefully last just as long.
Although we are by no means “out of ideas”, the fact of the matter is that there is a life outside of rock, and something like this, as anybody who has ever poured their heart and soul into it knows, requires a lot of sacrifice for other creative pursuits and interests. It’s sad, but it’s time for Replicator to be done. Could those that wish to continue on use the name and keep at it? Absolutely. However, this band is a family, and that’s one of the things that has made us different. We have the utmost respect for bands that have pulled this off and still been creatively vital and changed things up in a new and exciting way.
It’s not the path we are choosing to take.
We ARE, however, choosing to go out with a bang, not a whimper. After all, we get to plan our own funeral!The idea is to record the last couple (awesome!) Replicator songs and make them available in some way (as of yet unknown!) very soon, finish up a really cool video project and then we are going to play out the last of the shows that we have scheduled with some really amazing touring bands, which include the 26th of this month with BABYLAND at Gilman, and a handful of others that are in various states of confirmation.
We will be playing a big-time final show, to properly send things off.
We aren’t going on “hiatus”, we aren’t taking a break, and we aren’t going to try to replace anybody,Replicator is doing something many other bands should, and breaking up.
Imploding upon itself if you will.
Consider the self destruct activated.
thanks,
-C. C and B
Replicator
If you’ve got the means and the ways, pay close attention to Replicator’s site, and when they announce their plans, be there. You won’t regret it.
Ladies and gents, we all know ABBA: the Swedish pop sensations of the Seventies. And we all know the reputation that they have. Everything comes back around in hipness one of these days, but ABBA’s not even close. Me, I make no secret of my deep appreciation for their music. No, really. This isn’t some sort of hipster irony; I love ABBA. Ask anyone. But most people I mention this to can’t seem to understand. I told a friend tonight of my love for them, and she cringed. And then she told me that I share this love with a well-respected presidential hopeful:
During a campaign bus swing through South Carolina today, Sen. John McCain demonstrated his love of hot dogs and declared his love of ABBA. The comments about the Swedish group came up on the bus as he talked about what’s on his iPod.
“Dare I say ABBA. Everybody says, ‘Ehhh, ABBA.’ Why is that? ABBA was the largest selling (recording act ever). Nobody likes them but they sold more records than anybody in the history of the world, including the Beatles. But everybody hates them. (But) you’re a no-class guy if you like ABBA. Why does everybody go see ‘Mamma Mia?’ Hypocrisy! Rank hypocrisy! I’m not embarassed to say I like ABBA, ‘Dancing Queen.’”
More from McCain. If elected, “the background music would be ABBA in the elevators all over the White House.”
And even more.
“‘Take a Chance on Me.’ Maybe that’s what we should have as our (campaign) theme song. That would be good.”
And this, fellow Superstarcastians, may be what it takes to bring ABBA back to where they belong! So let’s do this, America! Embrace the pop genius! It’s okay! In fact, it feels damn good!
I mean, I’m not voting Mccain. But at least the fella’s got taste.
I’m the first to admit that I’m the type of guy that reads a bit too much into things sometimes, for basically no reason. I still can’t get over the idea that everyone in Riverdale is yelling, at all times. (Speaking of which, have you seen the character redesign they did over at Archie last year? Holy Anne Hathaway, Ron!) But honestly: “Got Me Under Pressure” is really fucked up. Hear me out.
Let’s talk a little about ZZ Top. Approved by everyone from Jimi Hendrix (who once declared Billy Gibbons his favorite guitar player during an appearance on the Tonight Show) to Steve Albini (”Not because I could have done better, but because I’ve never done anything this good: any early ZZ Top…“) to David Lynch (”ZZ Top = the fast track to cool,”) one of the best things to ever come outta Texas.
Their 1983 album Eliminator was utterly unlike anything that had come before it, pulling off the neat trick of combining stiff, metronomic rhythm sequences with authentically greasy blues guitar, and making it work. Nobody’s managed it since, including the Top themselves. But it (along with some semi-clever videos) made them superstars. This was as mainstream as it gets, folks; your Mom would dance to this if it came on the jukebox.
Now, we all know that the lyrical content of many a ZZ Top song regards sex. With ladies. Their catalog is replete with double entendres like “Pearl Necklace” and “I Got the Six” (completed in the chorus with “gimme your nine,”) single entendres like “Tush,” and “Woke Up With Wood,” a song that bends so far back on itself that it might actually be a negative entendre. “Got Me Under Pressure,” by contrast, is so direct that it’s somewhat disconcerting. Things start out innocuous enough: our protagonist is dating someone with expensive tastes (which isn’t very surprising. Once you class up the nerdy gal from the shoe store in the mini-mall across the street, she’s gonna start asking for the finer things.) However, “she won’t let me use my passion unless it’s in a limousine.” Is the titular pressure that Billy’s referring to merely blue balls? No, the situation’s far more sordid.
The next verse starts off gibberish (…the hell is a “mind museum?”) before getting a little more in-depth about Miss Limousine’s sexual tastes: “She don’t like other women/she likes whips and chains.” Okay, sure. BDSM=very yes, threesomes not so much. “She likes cocaine, and flippin’ out with Great Danes.”
“…with Great Danes.”
She fucks dogs.
“…it’s too much for my brain.” No kidding. Whatever is our protagonist to do? “I’m gonna give her a message, here’s what I’m gonna say: ‘It’s all over.’” That’s the smart thing to do, friend. But he’s scared to, because he knows what’s in store for him: “She might get out a nightstick and hurt me real real bad by the roadside in a ditch.” In a ditch? I guess that’s how they do it in Texas, huh? Or…remember that line about how “she don’t like other women?” Maybe “she’s” a transvestite and that “nightstick” is a penis. It’d be par for the course in this seamy little tale. Worst of all, there’s no denouement, no end in sight. Our protagonist remains forever “under pressure.”
Next time: an in-depth analysis of “Unchained” by Van Halen!
Presenting! A new 1-10 ratings system based on how happy Kenny Loggins appears on his album covers! The Loggins Album Cover Happiness Scale! With additional lol/l33t-style commentary for no good reason!
1: Sittin’ In
i r srs loginz. i haz ful hous.
2: Nightwatch
this hallway is hell of spooky Read more »
In early 1989, PBS’ seminal program Austin City Limits was still largely the province of middle-of-the-road/fairly obscure country acts, and thus not usually within my sphere of interest. However, flipping by channel 12 one afternoon, I saw a commercial for that evening’s broadcast, featuring Timbuk3 and Eric Johnson. Now, Eric Johnson was on the charts with his tune “Cliffs of Dover,” which still holds up pretty well for being a G3-virtuoso-guitar-led instrumental. I dug that. So I set a tape to record it later that night.
I think I watched the Johnson segment maybe once. I got a lot more out of the other half of the episode. I was familiar enough with Timbuk3’s one and only hit single, “The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades” (also known as “Mainstream America Will Never Understand Irony (At Least Not In Song Form)”) but I hadn’t heard anything further. But there they were, Pat MacDonald and Barbara K, opening the show with “Dance Fever.” Their rhythm tracks were on a big reel-to-reel that sat behind them, revolving impassively. Their songs were witty, incisive (in ways I couldn’t even understand yet) and catchy as hell. Naturally, I tracked down every damn record they ever did, and started listing Pat amongst my fave songwriters, if anyone asked (they rarely did).
Skip forward a number of years, to 2003 (or so, my memory for time is always kinda hazy). Our new utility infielder Sean was from the Madison area, and he told me that he knew Pat through friends of friends. Well, okay. Sean had no reason to lie to me (nor was he), but it didn’t really mean much beyond that. And it wouldn’t have if Pat hadn’t played in Neenah, where we all lived. But sure enough, he played, Sean introduced us, and suddenly I knew one of the best songwriters I’d ever heard. It was kind of weird. But Pat’s a nice guy, and as I came to see him more often (particularly after moving to Milwaukee), we got to know each other pretty well.
In 2005, Pat and his sister Christie decided to throw a free concert to raise some awareness and donations for the Sturgeon Bay Steel Bridge, which was consistently in danger of being torn down. Pat called in a couple of favors, and soon enough Jackson Browne was headlining a makeshift stage at a boat yard, in direct view of the bridge. The Steel Bridge SongFest was born. When 2006’s SBSF approached, Pat asked my band (IfIHadAHiFi) and our friends white, wrench, conservatory to play. Naturally, we said yes. w,w,c had never really been out of town, and it was destined to be a bonding experience for us all.
It wasn’t the best show we ever played, for a number of reasons. The soundman was not at all prepared to enforce set times, and because of that, the show started late and certain bands (well, just one band, really) played well over their set times. Everything got thrown off, and, well…we were a bit drunk. Forgive us. But sure enough, while I was sitting in with w,w,c on their song “Freshest Cat Possible,” I looked up into the crowd, and gazing back were Pat MacDonald and Jackson Browne. What more could we want?
Well, maybe more than the 15 minutes that were left for us to actually play. But we whipped through a ferocious 7-song set that saw the PA get shut off halfway through, the power cut on us a couple of songs later, and had Pat crowing “We really fucked this town up, didn’t we?” We sure did, and so w,w,c and we went off to find a place to get fucked up ourselves. We couldn’t wait to do it again the next year. But we had a few favors to ask. We wanted to not play with the timewasters from the previous year, we didn’t want the band in the other room that went ahead and forgot to stop playing when we started (nor had they even stopped playing well after we got kicked off stage…) and we wanted someone to enforce the set times. Pat’s response was to put w,w,c’s singer/keyboardist (and, full disclosure, my lovely roommate) Dixie Jacobs in charge of the whole shebang. She booked a full night of Milwaukee bands, which was listed in the offical writeup as “Milwaukee Invades the Bay.”
When we arrived at the main stage area this year, we were feeling confident and we had people to track down, so we spent a large amount of time in the “backstage” area. Where the rock stars were. And, more importantly, where the free vodka and Red Bulls were. We spent time drinking those, hanging around with some Madison friends who were there, and making fun of the two hipster douchebags in the aviator shades and bandanas placed just so. Also in attendance was Joe Kirschling, drummer for Quinn Scharber and the Quinn Scharbers, and an extremely skilled photographer. We’d asked him to bring his camera along in hopes we could get some good promo shots with our new new utility infielder. I walked around, surveying the musicians, and spotted Jackson. I turned to Joe and said “Okay, we’re going to go walk behind him. Be ready.” After a few false starts, sure enough…
There we are. Jackson Browne’s making a turtle face.
It’s the best picture in the history of mankind.
As for our show? It was a little more sparsely attended than last year, but lots of fun, run as tight as a ship, and loud enough to make the walls shake. In a perfect world there would be a picture of me meeting Jane Wiedlin, but by the time Pat introduced us it was 2.30am and I was stumbly drunk. Maybe next year she’ll come back and we can get a picture of us standing behind her while she’s not paying attention.
