i've seen your drugs and they don't look so good, suck the jaws like i wish you would

74.





you forgot it in people
broken social scene [arts & crafts / paper bag, 2002]

stylistic synthesis and grab bag eclecticism run rampant through the bushy fields of aughties indie-rock, as does the musical entity known as the "collective," an amorphous, ever-shifting conglomerate of like-minded musicians. Broken Social Scene co-founders and permanent members Kevin Drew and Brenden Canning aren't savants or savages; they're alchemists, turning the unprocessed ore of impromptu jam sessions with whoever happens to be in the studio into glittering pop gold. You Forgot It in People zigzags like an intestinal tract; it's a prodigiously diverse record with unexpected aesthetic detours down unexplored avenues. the spasmodic, herky-jerky pyrotechnics of "almost crimes" crash into the heavy-lidded hash brownie daydream of "looks just like the sun" which melts into the sun-kissed bossa nova of "pacific theme." the album is full of dazzling flourishes - the "tighten up" handclaps on "stars and sons" or Emily Haines' unsettling, broken robot vocals on "anthems for a seventeen year-old girl" - that elevate the songs above the humdrum monotony of guitar-based indie. "cause = time" may be the record's most reductive track, but it's also the most rousing - a shout-along, anti-media, anti-clerical anthem with glass smashing agent provocateur guitar freak-outs. "lover's spit" is a grandstanding, weepy Bryan Adams ballad filtered through poised detachment and winking irony, while the drum brushes and fragile guitar picking on "i'm still your fag" and the aching strings on ambient closer "pitter patter goes my heart" conclude the jamboree on a somber, quiet tone. by allowing contributions from a wide variety of individuals, You Forgot It in People achieves a sort of scattershot, paradoxical transcendence; it's sweepingly grandiose yet serenely tranquil, messily chaotic yet surprisingly cohesive, a celebration of the power of camaraderie and collaboration.

stephen dreams of pavement (another day) moment: Broken Social Scene's set at Lollapalooza in 2006 may just be the best concert i've ever witnessed. the crowd was relatively small, but completely engrossed. the band, then around ten members, was energetic and fun. and, because many of the other bands in the BSS periphery were also playing the festival, most of the guest vocalists - Feist, Emily Haines, etc. - appeared on stage. they played again in 2008, but it just wasn't the same.

do ya feel it when ya touch me? do ya feel it when ya TOUCH me?

75.





fun house
the stooges [elektra, 1970]

lock up your daughters, stash away the drugs, and pour out the booze, Iggy Pop né Stooge né James Osterberg is out of his mind on a Saturday night. he's the unhinged, wild id; a spewing, blood-spurting hot mess; the puck-like prophet of punk; an unruly lunatic throwing punches and pissing his pants in the backseat of a cop car. the Stooges outstripped, outshone, and upstaged every ragged group of no-gooders and long-hairs bangin' on three chords in garages and dimly lit bars across the country; Fun House is evidence of their dominance, a whirling dust devil of sound and fury. the blazing heat from Ron Asheton's ferocious electric storm guitar could melt glaciers, while Dave Alexander and Scott Asheton pulverize the rhythm into a bloody pulp. then, of course, there's Iggy, the preacher from Hell espousing the sins of flesh, wailing above the clangor, fighting to be heard. the clanging stomp of "down in the street" scrounges the gutter for dropped change and revels in the depravity of the puke-stained pavement, while Iggy growls and Ron's guitar howls on the gigolo blues meltdown of "loose." "tv eye" is stalker-dodging, alley-hopping amphetamine paranoia, while the "troglodyte groove" of slow-burning monster "dirt" hypnotizes its prey before pouncing at the jugular. Steve Mackay's bleating, lecherous saxophone bulldozes into the mix during the eviscerating finale of "1970" and refuses to leave the party during the shit-faced stomp of the title track. the revelry concludes with "l.a. blues," a formless cacophony of noise and indignation. primal, urgent, and savage, Fun House eschews the fat, the padding, and the bullshit, targets the viscera and exposes the bleeding, palpitating core of what made rock n' roll so fucking subversive in the first place - threatening, sexual raw power.


street walkin' cheetah with a heart full of napalm moment: not to detract from its glory, but fun house is really the best Stooges record by default. their self-titled debut has a few incendiary tracks, but is littered with throwaways and the plodding dirge of "we will fall." the otherwise incredible raw power is plagued by production quality issues: the original Bowie mix is muddy and dull and Pop own 1997 remaster is just too fucking loud and clipped. if a decent-sounding mix was ever released, it would fight with fun house for the prime spot.