My Cat Holds No Grudges Against Neko Case

My cat has nearly 1,500 friends on MySpace.

I can't explain how this happened, but my cat Sitka P. Coldfoot has more friends on MySpace than I've had in my life. Among Sitka's MySpace friends are nearly 500 bands (including 82 from Iceland). I mean, he's definitely a cute kitty (and everyone who meets him loves him), but he's an indoor cat and I wonder sometimes how he made so many internet friends since his primary activity on the computer is walking across my laptop keyboard.

One of the things Sitka does love is listening to music on MySpace and he's discovered many great musicians there, including Neko Case. Sitka loves her country-flavored solo albums and her more pop-oriented work with the New Pornographers and converted me through repeated listening (Link for Gmail subscribers):


Well, Sitka is beside himself because he learned this week that Neko Case is releasing a new album on March 3rd called Middle Cyclone. Her record company Anti is making the first single "People Got a Lot of Nerve" available as a free download. What's more, between now and February 3rd, for every blog that posts "People Got a Lot of Nerve," Anti will donate 5 bucks to Best Friends Animal Society, an organization dedicated to reducing the number of unwanted pets to zero.

Obviously, this is a great cause. And for Sitka, a former shelter kitty, it's an issue near and dear to his heart. (And presumably, it's a cause Neko Case cares about.)

But there's just one thing -- when Sitka first joined MySpace, he sent a friend request to Neko Case. She turned him down. He sent another request with a note about how much he enjoyed her music; she turned him down again.

When I saw this offer, I was torn. On the one hand, Neko Case is great and groups like Best Friends Animal Society deserve whatever monetary support they can get. On the other hand, I don't understand why Neko Case would spurn the friendship of my cat. Maybe she doesn't deserve our support after all.

I couldn't decide, so I asked Sitka. He told me to go ahead and post her song; Sitka P. Coldfoot holds no grudges. Not even against Neko Case.

Download: People Got a Lot of Nerve by Neko Case.

A Record Store that Can See, Hear, Smell, Touch, Taste

The really good stuff is downstairs.

Northampton, Mass. is more than just the home of Rachel Maddow.

For more than 100 years, it was the home of McCallum's Department store, an upscale multi-level building with gorgeous wood, a huge central staircase, stained glass windows, and a community theater space on the third floor. The McCallums were a local family whose store survived the Great Depression but closed their doors for good in 1973 (oddly enough, the year Rachel Maddow was born). The building was sold, refurbished, and re-opened as "Thorne's Marketplace," a hippy-dippy mall filled with galleries, performance art spaces, and stores that sold incense, unicorn stickers, hand-crafted soaps, and funky clothing.

And then, in late 1977, a small record store took over a space on the second floor. Since Thorne's was on Main Street, it seemed a no-brainer to call the store Main Street Records. They carried the great music you thought only you knew about, the records you'd play over and over again for all your friends. The staff would talk to you about great British bands (to win you over to great music, not to make you feel small for what you didn't know) and make recommendations that were almost always spot-on. (They were even nice to my Mom when she went searching for a Christmas present for me.) Within months, Main Street Records became known as the place to go for punk and new wave records (as well as anything obscure and English). Before too long, they outgrew their space at Thorne's and moved across Main Street (and 100 yards up the block) to a storefront next to a vegan restaurant where you bussed your own tables.

The new location of Main Street Records had a small upstairs area (for new records) and a basement mecca of used albums and import 45s. A sign above the stairs promised that the really good stuff was downstairs (and the sign was almost always right). I easily spent hundreds of hours in that store, rifling through bins, juggling my desires against my budget. Every one of my purchases had a story -- different moods, sounds, tones, sleet, rain, and sun mixed together and wrapped up in the records. Best of all, the owners liked Elvis Costello and Joe Jackson, but they loved XTC and always featured their music prominently (edging aside bands that were much more popular). (Link for Gmail subscribers.)


For three or four years in the early 1980s, XTC was easily the best band in the world, turning out a series of classic albums, brilliant singles, and bizarrely compelling B-sides spanning a broad range of styles. But XTC was always feuding with their record company (Virgin) and they bounced between a series of labels in the U.S. When the band released English Settlement in early 1982, Virgin proudly put out the 15-song album as a two-record set, but Epic (then the band's U.S. label) decided to eliminate 5 songs as a cost-cutting measure so they could release the album as a single record.

This led to a crisis at Main Street Records. A clerk explained to me at the time that they held a staff meeting to decide what to do. Some felt it was morally wrong to even stock an incomplete album that bastardized the band's vision. Others pointed out that cash-strapped customers might prefer the American version to a more expensive double-record import, which would reward Epic's "reprehensible behavior." After a long (almost rabbinical) debate, they reached a Solomonic decision.

The store would stock both versions of the record, but do everything they could to encourage customers to buy the imported English version. To help customers get the hint, they displayed both versions of the album in the front with a sign saying the American version had eliminated 5 of the songs.

And they jacked up the price for the American version by 2 or 3 bucks and took a small loss on the English version... so (as it said on the big chalk board near the entrance), for an additional 19 cents, you got the album the band wanted you to hear.

This was why I loved Main Street Records. And I wasn't the only one -- the June 1985 issue of Spin called Main Street Records the best record store in all New England. It never occurred to me that it wouldn't last. But all of a sudden, it was too late. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)


In March, 1982, Andy Partridge from XTC collapsed on stage and suffered from such debillatating stage fright that the band never toured again (and never quite became the superstars they seemed destined to be). Musical tastes changed and Main Street Records closed its doors in the recession of the early 90s (although they contributed picture sleeves and musical knick-knacks to Rhino Records' great DIY compilations).

After a few years on the west coast, I came back East, went to Northampton, and found Main Street Records gone. A huge part of my past had been ripped out (and replaced with a Benetton). I went home, took out my copy of English Settlement (ensconced in a plastic sleeve with a Main Street Records price tag on the corner) and listened to all four sides, thinking about my favorite record store in the world.

But nothing really dies in the Internet age... and a zombified version of Main Street Records still haunts the web, feeding on the Bad Brains and selling more than 60 items by XTC, but not the import double-album vinyl version of English Settlement -- maybe they got tired of taking the loss.

Hugging Hello Saferide

Someone needs to give Annika Norlin a hug.

Four years ago, Annika Norlin was a journalist in Sweden. Her father won a guitar in an auction (for almost no money) and gave it to her. Norlin started to play, wrote a few songs, recorded some, and posted a cheery ode to high-tech Peeping Toms called "High School Stalker" on the internet. When she had to choose a band name, Norlin picked Hello Saferide, which (depending on what version of the story she's telling) comes either from a Swedish service providing drunks with rides home on holidays or from the cheery greeting of a bus driver in suburban Connecticut.

Her smart lyrics, simple music, and naive, fragile, girlish vocals (which seem more plaintive because she clearly is not a native speaker of English) won her lots of fans on the Internet and then a manager and a Japanese record deal. In the last four years, she's toured the world, released two full-length albums and a bunch of singles and EPs. She's also made a series of stark, visually arresting videos (many of which mix unusual animation with live action).

Through Hello Saferide, Norlin seems bound and determined to bring heartbreakingly sad laments back to pop music. (Just look at some of her song titles: "Loneliness is Better When You're Not Alone," "Long Lost Penpal," "The Last Bitter Song," "I Thought You Said Summer Is Going to Take the Pain Away," etc.) Most of her songs plumb the endless depths of loneliness, despair, and love gone wrong (or just not gone at all). And when she's not writing about loss, she's writing off-kilter and darkly comic pop songs about OCD ("If I Don't Write This Song Someone I Love Will Die"), wanting your crush to be ill so you can take care of him ("Get Sick Soon"), or wishing she could give up men and fall for her best (female) friend (link for Gmail subscribers):

Hello Saferide has a new album called More Modern Short Stories from Hello Saferide. The sound is fuller (Norlin's embraced more of an indie rock sound and most of the songs feature electric guitars instead of the cheap auction acoustic). But the album has more than its share of laments, most spectacularly "Anna," which speculates on the amazing life a daughter she never had might have led (link for Gmail subscribers):

Annika Norlin has claimed in the press that her songs are just made-up stories sung over simple chords. Maybe in real life, she really is unbelievably happy, cheerful, and completely content. But, just in case, would someone in Stockholm please give her a hug?

I Fought the Law and the Clash Won

My friend Julie loved the Clash.

When Joe Strummer was buried, his friends put two bumper stickers on his coffin. One said "Vinyl Rules" and the other said "Question Authority."

Julie was cool. She had the first Clash album (the UK import, not the American version, which she said was inferior, thus winning instant punk cred with everyone she knew). She bought London Calling on the day it was released and is one of the only people I've ever known who owned Sandinista on vinyl (and regularly listened to all six sides). She saw the Clash live once and proudly argued with anyone who'd listen that they really were "the only band that matters." The politics went right over her head, but she tapped directly into the passion that exploded out of her speakers when she played their records and that was really all that mattered. (And she was so committed that you could overlook the absurdity of a suburban American blonde girl singing along to quintessentially English punk songs.)

Every March, Julie would celebrate the release of the Clash's first single ("White Riot") by skipping school (or later calling in sick to work) and watching her old VHS tape of the movie Rude Boy and listening to her old records (vinyl only, no CDs) for hours. That's what she did in March 1987, on the tenth anniversary of the Clash's first record being released. Then she went out driving in her beat-up (but still gorgeous) white convertible, top down despite the winter weather, her long hair buffeted by a cold wind, listening to this song, written and first recorded by Sonny Curtis -- now better known for writing "Love is All Around," the theme song for the Mary Tyler Moore Show (link for Gmail subscribers):

Now I'm not a physicist, but I'm pretty sure Sir Isaac Newton said something about how impossible it is to drive slowly when you hear songs like this. And Julie was flying. A State Trooper pulled her over and said he'd clocked her going 86 in a 60 zone. He asked why she was speeding. She's pretty enough to have gotten out of the ticket by flirting, but instead she explained she'd been listening to the Clash because it was the tenth anniversary of their first record coming out. The Trooper then told her about how he had discovered the Clash and how he'd seen them exactly once. As it turned out, they went to the same show. So he let her off with a warning.

Joe Strummer died before the Clash were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2003. Later that year, there was a Clash tribute at the Grammy awards. It took Bruce Springsteen, Dave Grohl, Steve Van Zandt, and Elvis Costello to take Joe Strummer's place (link for Gmail subscribers):

Julie reminded me recently that, when Joe Strummer died (a few days before Christmas in 2002), she went driving again. Different car, this one not a convertible, her hair a little shorter and the heater blasting. Also blasting was "London Calling." Again, impossible to drive slowly with a song like that. So Julie was pulled over; this time clocked at 70 in a 55. When the cop asked why she was speeding, Julie explained that Joe Strummer of the Clash had died. She talked about the band, she talked about the show she'd seen, and she even mentioned that she had just listened to Sandinista on vinyl. All six sides. The cop patiently listened to Julie's story, eyes hidden behind mirror sunglasses, face stripped of emotion. Finally Julie asked him what type of music he liked. The cop thought for a minute, then said "Britney Spears." And wrote her a ticket for $78.

Stop-Action Pizza

Stop-Action Pizza

I came too late to the Hellacopters party (they recently broke up after a series of farewell shows in their native Sweden), but what's not to like about a band that called their debut album Supershitty to the Max?

Most Hellacopters songs are too metal for me, but I have a soft spot in my heart for "I’m in the Band" (which I promise will be a hit in 1972 for the Faces -- just as soon as I work the kinks out of my time machine). When it comes to Claymation videos where music is played by and for pizza toppings, you can't beat this ditty from the Hellacopters' 2005 Rock ‘n’ Roll is Dead album). (Link for Gmail subscribers.)


Perfect Bonus

Lou Reed was always destined to be Lou Reed. He didn't really have a choice. But John Cale… he could've been anything. A serious composer. Or a classical musician. Or the best producer in rock 'n' roll. Or the original punk. (And arguably, he was all those things at some point in the past 40 years.)

Which makes it hard to remember that John Cale also occasionally writes a perfect pop song, like this one from 2005's Black Acetate (again with 2005!), which is... um... Perfect. Sure, he's older, and yeah, the center cannot hold, but who cares if everything decays when you've got a perfect pop song? (Link for Gmail subscribers)

Extra (Perfect) Bonus: Will Rigby of the dBs writing about John Cale.

No Static at All?

From the start, the contest was fixed.

My friend Mark recently told me that Elvis Costello's Saturday Night Live performance from 1977 was online. The one that got him banned from the show for more than a decade (Costello, not my friend Mark).

In the Fall of 1977, SNL (then starting its third season) had become a phenomenon. Some considered it the comedic equivalent of punk rock -- a show for the young and hip that gave the finger to bloated mainstream television (and was years away from becoming bloated mainstream television itself).

For the third season, the producers announced an "Anyone Can Host" contest, with the winner hosting the last show before Christmas.

From the start, the entire contest was a sham. John Belushi had the idea of bringing the Sex Pistols to American TV and loved the idea of a little old lady introducing them. And while more than 100,000 people entered the contest, the only serious contenders were kindly grandmother types -- the older the better.

It's no surprise then that the winner was an 80-year old grandmother. Miskel Spillman lived in New Orleans and was more than willing to make fun of herself for being old. The stage was set for a little old lady to sic the Sex Pistols, widely considered the most dangerous punk rockers on the planet, on America.

Except the Sex Pistols were stuck in Toronto. The U.S. government refused to grant them visas or allow them into the country. So Elvis Costello was recruited as a last-minute replacement. Maybe not as good as the Sex Pistols, but hey, punk was punk.

The show opened with John Belushi sharing a joint with Miskel Spillman, who then acted stoned during her monologue (which included running jokes about how she had the munchies and craved fruit -- perhaps because older people aren't cool enough to want brownies or junk food). And just before midnight, the little old dutifully introduced Elvis Costello to America (and he sang "Watching the Detectives").

Costello's record company insisted that his second song would be "Less Than Zero" (which came from the album he was trying to promote, although the lyrics about unrepentant British fascist Oswald Mosley would make little sense to American audiences). Costello had performed the song in dress rehearsal and camera blocking was set up and finalized. But during the live show, Costello had a change of heart. After a few seconds of "Less Than Zero," he waved off the band and said "I'm sorry ladies and gentlemen, but there's no reason to sing this song here." He then launched into a blistering rendition of a new (and not yet released) song called "Radio Radio," a scathing indictment of the vapidity of radio programmers. (Link for email subscribers.)

Lorne Michaels went ballistic, screaming and vowing never to let Costello on SNL again. But SNL wanted a punk rocker (and punk is punk, right?), so maybe it shouldn't have been a complete surprise that Costello would do something punk.

But you live long enough, what was once considered dangerous becomes fodder for cocktail-party conversations. Elvis Costello mellowed, made up with Lorne Michaels, and was eventually invited back on SNL. He even made fun of his earlier appearance, interrupting a song by the Beastie Boys and then performing "Radio Radio" with them. It wasn't punk, it was slick, rehearsed, and self-congratulatory. (Youtube link for email subscribers)

(In a further nod to pop culture eating its own tail, Weird Al Yankovik has been known to sing "Radio Radio" at his concerts when technical problems arise.)

And now, more than 30 years later, radio is infinitely worse than it was in 1977. Elvis Costello's sincere, frantic, desparate warning that radio had fallen into the hands of "such a lot of fools trying to anesthetize the way that you feel" has become a punchline. But all you have to do is turn on your radio to realize the joke's really on us.

Getting Mugged at the End of Lonely Street

John Cale knows the power of a good dirge.

Cover songs are tricky. A good song (or even a bad, but well-known song) embeds itself deep into your memory. You may not remember all the words, you might not be able to sing it or know how it starts, but your memories kick in whenever the song is played. Neurologists will tell you that memories of music are different from other memories -- each time we hear a song we know (especially one we know well), our brains activate the memory of how the song sounded before. And our experience hearing each time we hear the song is colored by how what we're hearing in the present compares to our memories.

Musicians know this instinctively. And they know there's no real point in doing a cover that sounds like the original with a different singer. Successful covers almost always rearrange the song (which then creates an interesting experience for listeners whose memory of the original colors how they hear the cover).

Take "Heartbreak Hotel." The original version was a joyful rockabilly song, with Elvis Presley's mumbled singing more of an inviting come-on than an expression of sorrow. Despite the lyrics, it's clear this was a song from someone looking for a new love (and anxious to find it -- the song's over in 2 minutes and 16 seconds). (Youtube link

Give that song to John Cale (legendary singer, songwriter, producer, and former member of the Velvet Underground) and it turns into something completely different. Elvis's Heartbreak Hotel seemed like a fun place to visit, a waystation you pass through before you find true love (or at least great sex). But John Cale's Heartbreak Hotel is slower and more threatening -- a dark night of the soul from which you might never escape with your sanity intact. Head down to the end of Cale's Lonely Street and you're liable to get mugged, beaten, and left for dead. It's scary, middle-of-the-night stuff that creates an entirely different mood (and one that is a much better match for the lyrics).

But what makes Cale's version more effective is our memories of the Elvis Presley version. If Elvis never existed, Cale's "Heartbreak Hotel" would still be moody and memorable. But when John Cale sings and our brains activate the memory of Elvis Presley's version, the difference amplifies the desperation, changing the song and turning it into something new and wondrous. (Youtube link for email subscribers.)
(And yes, that is Andy Summers from the Police on guitar -- and if anyone knows how the hell that happened, I'd love to hear about it.)

Update: Apparently, this version of "Heartbreak Hotel" is powerful enough to be fatal to chickens. Details from the Fragments of a Cale Season blog.