In the early 1990s, Andy Partridge from XTC wrote and recorded four demos for Disney's James and the Giant Peach movie.
Disney reportedly offered him a buyout that gave them total ownership of the songs and didn't require them to pay any royalties on any of the songs.
He said no.
Disney replaced him with Randy Newman. Who is a great songwriter (and, as someone who both was a relatively big name and a vet of Disney movies, presumably was able to get a better deal from the Mouse).
But I still want to see the Andy Partridge-ified movie. And I still want to hear these songs fleshed out, given the full Disney treatment. I'll bet they'd still be identifiable as Andy Partridge songs. (And I'll bet that movie might have been a huge jolt for Andy, with or without XTC).
Instead, it's yet another alternate universe project that never saw the light of day on this side.
So... in honor of spending too much time on the phone arguing with insurance companies about something that was their fault nearly a year ago...
And in honor of all my friends who are going through difficult times lately.
Here's my hope for you, courtesy of Andy Partridge:
It's not just poetry in motion. There are clear and obvious electrical, chemical, and scientific causes and effects of everything. Even love. (Maybe especially love.)
Now, what Dolby was trying to tell the world in 1982 (with a little help from Andy Partridge, Lene Lovich, and Bruce Wooley) is finally proven: If you want something, ask the right ear. Requests to the right ear are twice as likely to be granted as requests to the left ear.
So the next time you ask for a raise (or a dance, or a phone number, or anything else), blind them with science.
I'm sorry to report that I plan to use this information for evil, not for good. I wonder if it matters if the listener is a lefty... (Link for Gmail subscribers.)
And of course, there's no guarantees in science, so you have to take the risk that things might wind up like this:
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.
I was offered tickets to see them on their last tour. But I had no way to get to the venue (and didn't know anyone with a car that I could talk into going). So I didn't go, figuring I could see them the next year when they toured the U.S. again. Of course, they never toured again... and ever since I've regretted missing my chance to see them live.
You see, in 1980, XTC became my favorite band that still existed.
A local radio station in my college town that was leaning towards New Wave (while not quite abandoning Top 40) was playing Making Plans for Nigel (which the DJs frequently played 2 or 3 times in a row since the Program Director wouldn't let them play any other XTC songs). I was hooked instantly.
From then on, I devoured devoured everything the band put out. Their jangly off-kilter rhythms and catchy melodies were instant earworms that burrowed into your brain and never came out. Colin Moulding was a strong writer, but Andy Partridge was clever, biting, cynical, sometimes angry, and wildly prolific -- everything that resonated with kids growing up in college towns in the 80s.
Late 1983 found me in New York with my friend Ed (whose record collection is still spoken of by his friends with a mixture of reverence and jealousy). We wandered into the Tower Records in the Village (which took up an entire square block of prime real estate, boasted the finest selection of British and European new wave bands in the U.S., and was more Temple than store). I remember it was cold and snowy outside and warm and inviting indoors (but maybe my memory is playing tricks on me). Did I spend days there or did it just feel that way? Did I really explore every part of the store except Opera and Country? Did I literally rappel down the wall in the Classical section? I can't quite remember.
What I do remember was the import section in the back of the store, where they had dozens of copies of Thanks for Christmas, an import 45 that never got a proper U.S. release. The song was credited to the "the Three Wise Men," but the open secret was that it was really XTC. The single and its flip-side (the funk-inflected Countdown to Christmas Party Time) were cheekily listed as being composed by Balthazar/Kaspar/Melchior, but were really written by Andy Partridge, whose cynicism didn't stop him from wanting to create a modern classic Christmas song. (Andy later said in an interview that he wanted to get women who worked for his record company -- Virgin -- to sing on the song and credit them as "the Virgin Marys," but the company quickly put a stop to that idea).
Tower Records is now gone. XTC changed categories; they're no longer my favorite band that still exists, but one of many groups I love that sadly disbanded. But 25 years later, I don't think it's really Christmas until I pull the 45 out of its sleeve and hear the needle drop on the only record released by the Three Wise Men.
Now, what Dolby was trying to tell the world in 1982 (with a little help from Andy Partridge, Lene Lovich, and Bruce Wooley) is finally proven: If you want something, ask the right ear. Requests to the right ear are twice as likely to be granted as requests to the left ear.
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. 
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. 
Late 1983 found me in New York with my friend Ed (whose record collection is still spoken of by his friends with a mixture of reverence and jealousy). We wandered into the Tower Records in the Village (which took up an entire square block of prime real estate, boasted the finest selection of British and European new wave bands in the U.S., and was more Temple than store). I remember it was cold and snowy outside and warm and inviting indoors (but maybe my memory is playing tricks on me). Did I spend days there or did it just feel that way? Did I really explore every part of the store except Opera and Country? Did I literally rappel down the wall in the Classical section? I can't quite remember.
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