Being fans of sports and athletic contests, we here at deadman/party often wonder if our love would be quite as strong without Kernkraft 400 and the original jock jam: Rock’n Roll Part 2. Our musical sides marvel at the genius of giving rock and roll a part two (yes there is a part one and no, of course, it’s not nearly as good) and the simple beauty of drums and a chant that is far from–but just as good as–anything Enya every produced. Gary Glitter has a huge pile of hits that are close to the zen kohn of rock and roll. Probably the finest product of Bubblegum Glam Rock. Sure “48 crash” is an awesome song, but have you ever listened to a whole Suzi Quatro album? We tried. It’s just about the same with that Sweet record. Even Slade is hard for us. And all of you Alice Cooper fans can save your comments. We don’t care.
We do realize that we are now beering our second child molester and we are more than a little bit worried. What’s next? A tribute to Roman Polanski? Or Woody Allen? Shit. Okay, third child molester. Some of us do have significant others that are old enough to buy cigarettes. Honest. So let’s just forget how repulsive it is that Mr. Glitter likes little boys and girls: sexually. We will just talk about how honorable his determination to break the law is.
In the 80’s he was determined to be badass by driving drunk. It worked pretty well for Vince Neil. And not one time but three times! Sounds like a man that knows what he wants. This man is not only determined to make rock records or endanger the lives of others by piloting a very heavy piece of machinery whilst intoxicated, no. His warrior-like focus extends to all areas of his life, even those he would probably rather be private. In 1997 Mr. Glitter walked into his local PC World to get his laptop fixed and his fascination with pornographic pictures of children would be exposed. He was convicted in the United Kingdom around ’99 and sent to prison for four months. Not to be kept down, this horny old goat moved to Cambodia after his release. A place where he could perhaps be finally understood. But Mr. Glitter hopped a jet to Vietnam three short years later becuse he was simply trying to live his dream but again found himself in hot water because of the Vietnamese moral police. Did anyone know that it was illegal to have sex with eleven year old in Vietnam? Thailand was the next destination for our intrepid man of the world but before he could board the plane he was arrested by the Vietnamese authorities. And he spent three years in jail. After he got out and paid the hefty three hundred fifteen dollar fine he assumed he would find safe haven in the promised land of Thailand, only to be denied entry. Not one to be stopped by government, Mr. Glitter tried Hong Kong. No luck there either, nor in nine other countries that officially banned him. And so he disappeared into the ether in search of the illusive garden of earthly (underage) delights.
We fear that it may be a challenge to locate our man in order to buy him this beer. Our search will take us high and low, but we suspect that we shall find him in some outpost much like the bar in Raiders of the Lost Ark. We may have to outdrink Karen Black in order to get close to our tenacious hero, but if we can pull the young vagrants off him, the beer will taste glorious. Like the sweat sweet of an eleven year old?
We must admit we feel a certain hesitancy about this post. To date, the entire roster of deadman/party beered musicians consists of Mike Love, Phil Collins, Ludacris, and Neil Young. All upstanding gentlemen to be sure, but not exactly indicators that we are particularly cool or have heard any music (save Luda) in the last 20 years. Still, we can’t help but throw our support behind the smoothest chanteuse we know of, Sade.
Aside from her good looks, it is difficult to explain exactly why we love Sade so much. Her music contains nearly lethal doses of smooth jazz, which ranks as our least favorite genre of music (well, do pop-punk covers of 80’s hits constitute an entire genre?) and she is beloved by an especially obnoxious brand of liberal yuppie who think that listening to a Nigerian born singer means they are into world music. In spite of ourselves, we can’t help but surrender to her husky, honey soaked alto and those easy repetitive grooves. Try to spend 15 minutes listening to Sade songs and see if you can get those damn things out of your head (spoiler alert: you can’t).
We aren’t the sort of lads who have a secret cabinet full of scented candles and oils used to dish out erotic massages, but if we ever decide to get a cabinet like that, rest assured that it will include a Sade mix cd (we must note that there is a distinct possibility that in jamming to “The Sweetest Taboo” while doing the dishes we are actually creepier than the silk bikini-briefed fellow listening to it while giving his lady a sensual rub down). Sade’s tunes are just about the smoothest things on earth. If you are in the kind of mood where listening to Steely Dan’s Gaucho or the assorted works of James Ingram more of an aural assault than you can handle, pump up the Sade and let quiet storm roll over you. Damn that shit is smooth.
In addition to creating an entire catalogue of smooth masterpieces, Sade (if her 80’s video output is to be believed) is an avid equestrian. The bulk of her videos feature at least one shot of her burning through the desert atop her trusty steed. Her horseback riding is the perfect compliment to the whole Romancing the Stone vibe she was cultivating in those days and even though we should know better, we admit the whole exotic post-colonial thing was pretty fun for awhile. It probably came pretty naturally to her, being born in Nigeria to an African father and English mother and raised in London. Not cringe inducing like the “Hungry Like the Wolf” video at least. We have a hunch that Sade doesn’t even drink beer, but we want to buy her something. Maybe a nice cognac? Something smooooooth.
Neil Young is the type of grumpy old man we here at deadman/party aspire to be, the type that has been ornery his whole life. The earliest moment we know of was the infamous Woodstock incident in which he told whoever was filming CSN&Y, and we quote, “One of you fuckin’ guys comes near me and I’m gonna fuckin’ hit you with my guitar.” We find this to be the perfect balance between celebrity (CSN&Y at Woodstock for goodness sakes!) and refusing celebrity (but not refusing it in some sort of Billy Corgan, “waaaaaa, stop looking at me like I’m a freak. Boo-Hoo, The Elephant Man is my favorite movie. I shaved my head!”). Mr. Young was again captured angry in his Live at Massey Hall recording, sternly telling a photographer to stop taking pictures of him as it messed him up. Somehow it comes off as cantankerous and badass more than the way in which Eddie Vedder admonishes ‘Josh’ to turn down the lights because ‘it’s not a t.v. studio it’s a rock concert’ in the music video for Even Flow. Something about Mr. Young just seems more manly than Mr. Vedder. Maybe because he is not as pretty.
Mr. Young also collects two things that we admire, guitars and cars, but both in a way that treads the fine line between decadent and manly. He has enough guitars to devote a section of his website to them which, unlike Steven Seagal, he does not. (Though he does find quite a lot of space to devote to how much he hates Bush and the Iraq war, enough space to make him the hero of any liberal arts college in America.) And unlike Steven Seagal, his guitars are famous because they once belonged to Neil Young. With the exception of one that belonged to Hank Williams. We will accept that homage. Another proof of Mr. Young’s fire and ice mentality is his love of old cars and his efforts to make them green. There is definitely some sort of penis-directed yearn in all of us to praise old Detroit rolling stock, though our politics demand we like something much better for the world but much more pussy, like a Prius. Lucky for us, Mr. Young is forging the path of ridiculous mid-life crisis autos that run on ethanol.
Getting a beer with Mr. Young would certainly be at some sort of dimly lit dive bar where they let you smoke cigarettes somewhere in the Central Coast. And from there it would go one of two ways: either a many beers, swapping stories late into the night or some sort of cosmic jam session at some strange dude named Kripsy’s bunker/recording studio near the beach. Playing folk tunes for about three days straight. Either way would be great, as long as no one mentions Chaney.
Life moves pretty fast in the dog eat dog world of major label alt-rock (or whatever you call the genre that hipsters find lame and New-Rock-Radio (The Bone! The Point! The Hog!) dudes find pretentious and gay). Its like one minute you are hangin’ in the Alpha Beta house playing a few rounds of beer pong and the next you have an appointment with a stylist to pick out a feathered jacket for the MTV Europe awards. Such has been life for The Killers’ singer Brandon Flowers. Even with his busy schedule, we suspect that Mr. Flowers has taken it upon himself to reflect at least a little bit upon his younger days. After all, it would take at least a couple keg stands and bong rips before asking the musical question “Are we human or are we dancers?” with a completely straight face. That shit completely blew Chad and T-Dawg’s minds after the winter formal.
There are certainly far graver musical offenses than those perpetrated by the Killers, but Mr. Flowers is nearly unmatched in the “believes his own hype” category. We suspect that his preening and posturing started innocently enough: the fruits of hours spent studying David Bowie videos and the collected teachings of Bono. At some point however, Mr. Flowers started to think he really was some kind of rock god. This wouldn’t be such an issue is he had any kind of charisma or extraordinary talent for writing or performing rock music. He does not. Deadman/party counts several musicians among its ranks and we don’t think a person needs to be particularly badass or sinister to play great music, but when your mommy and daddy come to all of your shows, you can cut the mysterious brooding artist crap. All of the ironic mustaches and bedazzled costumes in the world can’t undo the fact that you are just a glee club member playing dress up. Mr. Flowers is to rock stardom what the Rent soundtrack is to rock albums: rock in name only. We however would be glad to punch that stupid soul patch right off his face, in word and deed.
Deadman/party functions more or less like a judicial body. We hear cases (well, we don’t actually hear them), deliberate, and hand down a verdict and opinion. However, if we ever feel compelled to expand our powers to include a legislative branch, our first order of business will be to mandate a Ludacris verse on every song ever recorded. The man is a net benefit to every track he touches. He makes the good ones great and the bad ones tolerable. What’s that you say? Ludacris already has a verse on every song? Well, he is certainly prolific, but to date, he has limited himself to hip-hop and r&b tracks. We propose giving Mr. Bridges free reign over all of recorded sound. You’ve heard him with with Usher, Fergie, and Nate Dogg, but how about Bob Dylan featuring Ludacris or Symphony No. 1 “Titan” by Gustav Mahler featuring Ludacris or Singing Birds: Nature’s Relaxing Sounds featuring Ludacris? Sign us up.
In addition to his guest appearances, Ludacris has a solid solo catalogue full of the kind of songs you hope to hear on the radio every time you get in the car. We remember fondly the days and weeks following the debut of “Area Codes,” turning the knobs with baited breath hoping to catch it. Hip-hop could use more songs like this (“Throw Some D’s” is but a distant memory) and we hope Luda’s new album can deliver some of what has been missing.
We think the most appealing thing about Mr. Bridges is that he seems to really love rhyming. These days Hova is always doing his hip-hop CEO schtick, Kanye is reminding us what a damaged artist he is (can you believe he didn’t finish college?!), and 50 is, by his own admission, more interested in formulating some new Vitamin Water variety than rapping. While Mr. Bridges has ventured into some other projects (he nearly stole the show in Hustle & Flow), we like to imagine that he spends most of his days thinking of shit that rhymes. We appreciate a guy who likes his job and takes some pride in his work, so take a load off Mr. Bridges. It would be our pleasure to fill your cup like double d’s. Luda!
Posted in beered!
We are not the least bit ashamed to admit that we enjoy blasting some KISS jams on occasion. You’d be hard pressed to find a better Friday night than one that starts by emptying a sixer of special edition camouflage High Life tallboys to the soothing strains of “Strutter” or “Detroit Rock City.” Hell, in our weaker moments we’ll even listen to “Beth” (if we are reasonably sure no one else is around). But while drinking with KISS on the hi-fi is one of life’s great pleasures, the prospect of drinking with Gene Simmons in person ranks somewhere between having our nipples hooked up to a car battery and sitting in between Carlos Mencia and Nancy Grace on a transatlantic flight on the list of things we would like to do.
It is difficult to find an appropriate place to start the criticism of a man completely devoid of redeeming qualities. Annoying, abrasive personality? Check. Obnoxious politics? Check. Absurdly inflated sense of self worth? You better believe it. Hell, we’re not even sure if the guy is any good at bass (Alive! features a re-recorded bass part because Simmons biffed so many notes in the actual live recording). We suggest Mr. Simmons follow the example of his fellow spooky makeup-wearing rocker, Alice Cooper. Mr. Cooper has a sense of humor about his persona and has aged gracefully, doing charity work, golfing, opening a restaurant, and still putting on a great show. All the while Mr. Simmons and his disturbing tongue are still out trying to pick up chicks (“Wilt Chamberlain I will catch you!”)
Perhaps the most telling indictment of Mr. Simmons is that we have overwhelming feelings of sympathy for anyone who has the misfortune of interacting with him. We feel sorry for Shannon Tweed for leaving the glamorous world of Showtime soft porn to settle into domesticity with the man described by Al Franken as “the most awful person I’ve ever met.” We feel sorry for Terry Gross for having to put up with the disgusting advances of a man who manages to walk the thought-to-be-impossible line of thinking he is God’s gift to women while looking like the bastard child of Frankenstein and a Nassau grouper. Most of all, we feel sorry for Peter Criss, Eric Carr and Eric Singer, who have collectively spent the better part of thirty years behind the drums having to look up and see Mr. Simmons’ bare, hairy thighs staring back at them. It is for the honor of these people, our own satisfaction, and the general good of humanity that we must punch Gene Simmons.
Posted in punched!
Some people blame Phil Collins for the dissolution of Genesis, but we here at deadman/party couldn’t give less of a shit, for not one of us is a bearded, longhaired archivist at the local university library, rather we are people unafraid of the occasional pop tune or Motown cover, just so long as it is not in the hands of Michael McDonald. Sure, sure, King Crimson rules it and bong-rips are pretty awesome too and musical integrity and blah blah blah. We just happen to not take ourselves too seriously and like to get loose to the get-up rhythms of “Easy Lover” on occasion. Only a soulless tin-eared cretin would deny the slow majesty of “In the Air Tonight” and “One More Night.” Coincidence that they rhyme? We think not.
And we have never seen a man with better style. From his burnt-butter mullet, through his double breasted suit and down to his Converse all stars, there is nothing the man does not look good in. Mr. Collins is the only man besides Lionel Ritchie that we will allow to wear a sweater sans undershirt. Not only will the ladies at the bar be obscuring his view of the football match, he will have us all in stitches. The “nicest guy in rock and roll” has displayed a keen sense of humor from time to time (probably a requirement for someone too short to ride the teacups) but putting a paint brush and paint can on top of your amp in honor of your wife’s affair with the decorator is downright devilish with a touch of sad clown. What more cold you ask of a drinking buddy?
To paraphrase Jack Donaghy, we do have two ears and heart. All the better to appreciate Mr. Collins.