Best Rap Performance (1984): Ronald Reagan

Ronald Reagan was God's gift to rap music.

In the summer and fall of 1984, I was chasing after a girl named Diana. And she loved hip-hop music, so I vowed to be more open-minded about it. She also loved Ronald Reagan (and I tried to tolerate that).

On August 11, 1984, President Ronald Reagan was doing a microphone check for his weekly radio address and (not realizing he was being recorded) said:

My fellow Americans, I'm pleased to tell you today that I've signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in five minutes.

Within weeks, Reagan's voice was sampled and used in several hip-hop songs, including "See the Light, Feel the Heat" by Air Force 1 (Elliot Sokolov & Jack Waldman, mixed by Arthur Baker):


Jerry Harrison from Talking Heads and Bootsy Collins from Parliament-Funkadelic had a similar idea, producing the funkier "5 Minutes" and releasing it under the name Bonzo Goes to Washington:


These songs confused Diana -- she loved them musically, but wasn't happy that they were basically making fun of her hero. To prove to Diana that my musical tastes were broader than they really were (and perhaps also to needle her about Reagan), I bought both of these records.

Also around that time, the review "Rap Master Ronnie" (written by Doonesbury's Gary Trudeau and Elizabeth Swados) premiered. In this show, Reagan and his closest advisors rap about his politics and work habits. Diana and I saw this show together. She hated the politics and thought the music was weak. I loved the show and bought the soundtrack album.

These records have more in common than Ronald Reagan, rap music, and a girl named Diana. All 3 were ignored by the Grammy Awards. And I've dragged all 3 along to every new place I've lived. But I haven't listened to any of them in more than 20 years.

Meanwhile, rap music survived and thrived (blame Reagan).

That's not to say that I never want to listen to music about Ronald Reagan. That urge strikes me every 4 or 5 months. And when it happens, I dig out my vinyl copy of Animal Boy by the Ramones. Just to listen to this:


This album came out long after Diana and I were through. Incidentally, Diana hated the Ramones. And that's fine with me.

Answer Records

It seems like a lost art.

For decades, it was fairly common for songs to reference or answer previous hit songs.

So Irving Berlin had a hit with "God Bless America" and Woody Guthrie recorded the socialist answer record "This Land is Your Land." Neil Young knocked the South in "Southern Man" and Lynyrd Skynyrd responded with "Sweet Home Alabama." And when David Bowie released a record called Low (no e), Nick Lowe put out an answer record called Bowi (again, no e).

But, if you take rappers dissing each other back and forth out of the equation, the answer record seems to have all but died out.

Six months ago, we had a rare fall rainstorm in L.A. And the latest in a long line of L.A. radio stations that pop up, play great music, develop a fiercely loyal following (and then abruptly change format to ranchero music, chasing after higher ratings that never materialize) played this song by Lloyd Cole and the Commotions (which I'd first heard years earlier on a Boston station that briefly played the best music in the world before starting a long decline into pre-programmed mediocrity). Then the station played a second Lloyd Cole song (link for Gmail subscribers):


And I was transported from a car in rainy L.A. to a record store in Boston in 1984, where I stayed, watching the rain come down, listening to every second of both sides of the first Lloyd Cole album Rattlesnakes (which combined brilliant wordplay with insanely catchy jangle-pop music). "Dance music for English majors," someone wrote at the time, damning and praising the music in equal measure. When the needle came off the record at the end of side 2 (after the song "Are You Ready to Be Heartbroken?"), the only thing left was to buy the record, walk out of the store in the rain, and marvel at the confidence you need to end your first album with such a great rhetorical question.

But maybe it wasn't rhetorical. Maybe Lloyd Cole was trolling for an answer record.

22 years later (but next on the radio that rainy L.A. afternoon), Glascow-based Camera Obscura responded with "Lloyd, I'm Ready to Be Heartbroken," aping some of the sounds of Rattlesnakes, but updating it in a surreally poppy way. If it were raining and I were in Boston, I'd have stayed in the store and listened to their whole album... but I was late and it was raining in L.A., so I had to settle for the 21st century equivalent: coming home later and watching the video on YouTube 18 times in a row:

Slipping Through the Cracks of Possibilities

This part of the day bewilders me.

The light of day is for working. Accomplishments. Getting things done.

Night is a time for unwinding. Romance. The thrill of the hunt.

The times between are where possibilities blur together. It's not quite light, not yet dark. Between the certainty of the day and the nagging doubt of night is a window of opportunity where plans are hatched. Schemes are born. Ideas emerge that would never work in daylight and could never fly at night.

And the tail-chasing. Analyzing endings and beginnings. Replaying it all to try to come up with a different result.

Between the sunset and certified darkness
Dusk comes on and I follow
The exhaust from memory up to the end

Civil twilight, that period after sundown where there's still enough light to see, is where possibilities live. Between the certainties of day and night, we can slip between worlds. Make real changes. Move forward in ways that are hard to imagine.

Couple that with a change in seasons and you've really got something. An opportunity. A period of immense challenge and confusion.

Those periods are scary as hell. Filled with doubt. And simultaneously the most hopeless and hopeful parts of life. (Link for Gmail subscribers).

Musical Incompatibility

We should have a song.

When you're shooting the rapids of love, these might just be the scariest five words in the English language.

When she first said them, we'd been together for about a month. We were on a bus and it was raining. I watched a raindrop make its way up the bus window for about 30 seconds before I answered. "What do you have in mind?"

Over the past weeks, I'd marveled at her record collection -- an impossible mix of British Invasion, punk, self-indulgent singer-songwriter crap, prog, several records by the Time (but none by Prince), and treacly AM drivel. Her steadfast commitment to Elvis Costello and the Sex Pistols was only matched by her passionate embrace of all things Marilyn McCoo and Billy Davis Jr.

And now she wanted to pick a song?

I watched her as she ticked through her mental Rolodex of songs and wondered if the old 45s she bought at flea markets would triumph over the vinyl she inherited from her brother when he went to college (most with the plastic wrapping still intact, warping the records slowly as the seasons changed) or if the second-generation cassettes she'd taped from scratched CDs of albums her friends bought at the mall would come to haunt my dreams with their low-fi hiss (not to mention the distortion from sitting in a glove compartment through three hot summers).

I wasn't sure that any song qualified as our song. There weren't particular songs playing when we met or on our first date. We didn't both harbor the same unquenchable thirst for the same music. We'd never gone to any concerts together (and it didn't look like we ever would). So why do we need a song? Is there some rule that every couple needs a song?

"Every couple who are in love needs a song," she answered, as if she could read my thoughts.

And as the bus rolled through huge puddles at the bottom of the hill where Route 9 makes its way back into town, she started to smile.

By the time the bus reached our stop, she'd come up with a song. And I knew, deep in my heart, that I was doomed (link for Gmail subscribers).


"Really?" I asked. "A song about muskrats? You think I'm a rodent?"

"It's a metaphor," she said.

"For what?" We stood in the rain as the bus pullled away and after a long time she asked if I had any ideas.

Yeah. Not to force the idea of having a song down my throat.

But I had to come up with something. So I did (link for Gmail subscribers):


We broke up the next day.

Plea for a Cat Named Spot

Like most stories, this one starts with a song.

Actually two songs.

The Weakerthans, a fantastic Canadian band from Winnipeg (which as you know is the capital of Manitoba), has spent the last few years creating a library of smart, inventive power pop songs.

My first exposure to the Weakerthans was "Plea From a Cat Named Virtue" (download it for free here), an amazing song about a depressed cat-owner (told from the perspective of the cat).

As a new cat owner (and someone who frankly always preferred dogs), I got a lot of insight into my cat's inner life from this song. Before long, I'd completely bonded with my cat (and not just because he has thousands of MySpace friends -- now including Neko Case -- and gets emails from my favorite Icelandic bands). Of course, it helps that Sitka is a tuxedo cat who has a lot of doglike traits (he likes baths, riding in cars, playing fetch, etc.) And, like Virtue the Cat, Sitka has a lot of insight into the human condition:

All you ever want to do is drink and watch TV,
And frankly that thing doesn't really interest me.
I swear I'm going to bite you hard and taste your tinny blood
If you don't stop the self-defeating lies you've been repeating
Since the day you brought me home.
I know you're strong.

A few months ago, I started seeing signs in my neighborhood. Small signs on telephone polls and larger signs -- all laminated so they'd still show up in the rain and all featuring a photo of a cat who looked almost exactly like Sitka. The signs were missing-cat posters for a cat named Spot. And he was exactly Sitka's age.

You could almost hear the agony and fear of Spot's owners in the signs. So I went out looking for him. Around some of the construction sites in the neighborhood. In bushes. Up and down some of the streets. And when I came home, I told Sitka how upset I'd be if he ever ran away.

Judging from the posters, Spot's different from Sitka -- he's an outdoor cat (who apparently was comfortable wandering into apartments around the neighborhood). But this time he got out without his collar... and his owners are worried.

Sitka would want me to remind all pet owners to have their pets microchipped -- and to make sure they always wear their collars (even if they're indoor pets). Sitka even said he'd gladly give up his favorite toy mouse if it would help Spot make it home safe and sound.

Which brings me back to the Weakerthans, whose latest album Reunion Tour contains a sequel song, again from the point of view of Virtue the Cat. But between "Plea from a Cat Named Virtue" and the new album, I've had a cat for 6 years. Even though my cat is doglike, I've grown to appreciate the cattish parts of his personality as well. So now I can't think of anything sadder than "Virtue the Cat Explains Her Departure" (link for Gmail subscribers):


And as for you, Spot: your humans miss you so much and are so worried and sad. It's time to make your way home... and if you're lost, know that there are people searching for you. So let someone in the neighborhood find you... and bring you home.

Time to Play B-Sides

Speaking of cowbell...

Blue Öyster Cult has a lot to answer for (starting with that damn umlaut above the "O" and including enough heavy-metal black-magic imagery to embarrass even Spinal Tap). Still, it's hard to argue with an understated ode to doom and death that's as catchy as "Don't Fear the Reaper." It was impossible to escape this song in the 1970s (when every third FM DJ -- and every single overnight DJ) played it half to death (another 40,000 plays every day). (Link for Gmail subscribers.)

But try to find a radio station that played the B-Side of "Don't Fear the Reaper" -- or a casual fan who even knows it was (for the record, it's "Tattoo Vampire").

Five years after not fearing the reaper for the first time, Blue Öyster Cult was back on the radio with "Burning for You," a song so slick and anonymous that it could have come from anyone. Naturally it was a huge hit and poured forth from every AM radio in America like a Vampire (tattooed or not) in search of a pre-dawn snack.

I didn't like the song much, but I loved exactly one of its lines:

Time to play B-Sides

See, I loved B-Sides. They're the vinyl equivalent of opening bands: You're there for something else (which you know you like), so you have zero expectations and anything good that comes out of it is just a lucky bonus.


Save the B-Side, save the world?

Blotto (aka the 34th Most Important Band in the World) clearly knew this. Their great 1981 single "When the Second Feature Starts" had a flip side called "The B-Side," which laments the lack of respect given to B-Sides:

The A side gets the attention
The B side? Barely a mention...

The A side has the hit
The B side ain't got...anything

My friend Eric and I once stood front and center at a Blotto concert yelling out "B-Side" until they relented and sang it. The look of confused irony on Broadway Blotto's face as he sang the chorus (including the line "And you're probably not even listening to this right now") is etched permanently on my brain.

And, of course, Buck Dharma, who wrote and sang "Don't Fear the Reaper" played the heavy-metal guitar solo on Blotto's anthemic "Metal Head." In a just world, Blotto would have been on the radio as much as Blue Öyster Cult.. and years later it would have been Blotto instead of BOC doing a cameo in the movie The Stoned Age.

Still, sometimes the B-Side was so great that it transcended B-Sidedness, like XTC's "Dear God," which started life as a non-album B-Side (on the single "Grass") until radio stations started playing it and Virgin Records made it a proper A-side (and reissued the album Skylarking, adding the song). This proves a lot of things (including that Virgin couldn't pick XTC singles to save its life), especially that it's worth taking the time to play B-Sides (link for Gmail subscribers):

By Order of The TSA

True story.

My wife, Mrs. Clicks and Pops, is in The Bobs, a Grammy-nominated band.

Last month, they were on tour and (like any band on tour), they were lugging around merch (CDs, etc.) to sell at gigs. Towards the end of the tour, they flew halfway across the country and checked the merch bag for the flight.

Now, sometimes the TSA opens checked bags to inspect them... and when that happens, the TSA agent is supposed to leave a card in the bag explaining that the TSA inspected the bag.

When the Bobs opened the merch bag that night, they found the TSA card. Apparently, the TSA agent who opened the bag had a sense of humor: recognizing that the bag was merch for a band, the TSA agent scrawled a two-word note on the card he left in the bag.

It read: More cowbell!

(Link for Gmail subscribers).