Spoiler alert: opening bands now sound like the unknowns on Twin/Tone comps apeing a lesser Hüsker Dü/80s pop sound.
Good morning, His Name Is Alive, Stars on E. S. P. This world is not my home, I’m just passing through. Forever true.
Good morning, Superchunk, On the Mouth. A kissing punch, lips that knock you back, apt analogy on an album that romances with vigor, extra-applied elbow grease on soft contours, fists wrapped in valentine red cellophane. Rapt rapture of old car window-down summer love singalongs, evening soft-serves indulged, finale fireworks of rainbow sprinkles and tactile crunch. The heat making pants legs stick and so eventually, removed.
“The Super Patriot” (The Mad Primer of Bigots, Extremists and Other Loose Ends, Mad Magazine Issue #129 [Sept. 1969])
Good morning, David Bowie, Scary Monsters. I’m ok, you’re so-so.
Good morning, Camper Van Beethoven, Camper Van Beethoven IS Dead, Long Live Camper Van Beethoven. Ridiculous times call for ridiculous titles like “Broadcasting Live From The MCI-Worldcom-AT&T-Daimler-Chrysler-Mitsubishi-Phillips-BASF-LG-Phillip-Morris-BP-Texaco-Pfizer-AOL-Time-Warner-Boeing-Microsoft-Aeroflot-United-Yoyodyne Coliseum, Strom Thurmond City, Mars”. A best-of-never collection of rarities recalls the dot-bust, dying flowers, heat-warped flexidiscs, and the lonesome, loathsome world.
Good morning, David Bowie, Low. Jaunty songs about reckless behaviors, love, nothing at all. Rebirth in a new city, fit for a new week.
Good morning, David Bowie, Aladdin Sane. Lightning flash and introspection, drive-ins and Detroit, 197?-201?. If a pop star could release Time as a single 40 years ago, they can challenge today’s dystopian cusp further.
Good morning, Fugazi, Steady Diet of Nothing. Throwback to the nascent curl of the culture wars. Warnings about Supreme Court appointments, women’s rights, anti-abortion control freaks, and to Keep Your Eyes Open. Fugazi were often taken to task for strong ideologies by those more blinkered or less progressive for being too vocal. Looks like Fugazi got the last laugh. KYEO.
Past the fourth but nothing’s more red-white american and blue summer than the spitting churn and howl of this officially classic rock aged classic. The fact that it’s not a Kinks chaser on playlists and radio merely underscores the paucity of pasty business brains burning hot under the influence of google spreadsheets not guts. From lead-infused garages to you, open doors, heatwaves, humidity-choking, single-coil huffery.