More Shit That No One Has Read

I've been writing album reviews for Bust ever since the Aug/Sept '07 issue, and as I haven't heard from the editorial brain trust in some time, I'm assuming that I used to write for them. Here's my sum total of half-assed slipshod writing:

Aug/Sept '07 -- The Mix Up (Beastie Boys), You Follow Me (Nina Nastasia and Jim White)

Oct/Nov '07 -- In Our Bedroom After The War (Stars), Colossal Youth (Young Marble Giants)

Dec/Jan '08 -- Cold & Kind (The 1900s), Oblivion With Bells (Underworld), La Cucaracha (Ween)

Feb/Mar '08 -- Crystal Castles (Crystal Castles), The First EP (Kerowack)

Apr/May '08 -- Funplex (The B-52s)

June/July '08 -- Pop-Up (Yelle)

Oct/Nov '08 -- The Singles (Free Blood)

Dec/Jan '09 -- Fucked Up Friends (Tobacco)

Feb/Mar '09 -- Rombo EP (The Bloody Beetroots)

June/July '09 -- Further Complications (Jarvis Cocker)

Oct/Nov '09 -- Love 2 (Air)

Dec/Jan '10 -- Don't Stop (Annie)

Writing for Bust was somewhat frustrating in that (a) I wasn't paid [which I understood, given that they are a niche magazine with an important ideological thrust that struggles to stay financially afloat] & (b) the stuff I wrote was often edited into something that "Bust readers could understand" [which meant dumbed down and blanded out, assuming the readers had a limited base of semantic knowledge]. But it was always fun to see my name in print, even though I'm sure that no one ran out and bought a record based on my sterling prose. (Or even downloaded it, given that no one buys records anymore.) I'd say my best work was in the Dec/Jan '08 issue, with the three disparate reviews. After that, as one editor gave way to another, my enthusiasm was in direct proportion to the reviews I was allowed to do. But I'll always subscribe to the magazine even if my name isn't there, because I believe in their feminist message. You should, too.

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"The Silver Gun" by Robert Palmer (1983)

I mean...Urdu? Seriously, Urdu . On an already eclectic and worldly album -- Pride , from 1983 -- "The Silver Gun" closes a chapter in Robert Palmer's career by singing a song about a horse in a language spoken daily by over 100 million people. The liquid bass line and propulsive electronics set out a bedrock for Palmer to ping phrasings rather out of place in Western music, askew astride even the peripatetic minimalism of the rest of the record. Somehow, in the middle of Michigan's Appalachia, I had this on vinyl a few years before the CD era officially commenced. It was an album of effort -- even the cover, a pointillism-and-bronze work, had Palmer's head barely above the water -- but the stitches didn't show to my pre-adolescent eyes and ears. In a career marked by zigs and zags, Pride and "The Silver Gun" were most certainly Other, and for a kid that felt like he didn't belong much of anywhere, it was nice to have those discrete feeling...

"I'll Drive You Home"

Upon reflection, I’ve had a fortunate life in the area of work. As a freshly minted teenager, I would visit Evergreen Park Grocery and dream of someday working there like my father did, and at the age of 14, I got $2/hour to live out that dream, such as it was. From there, I yearned to try other occupations, from record stores to teaching, and I’d be chuffed to tell Young Erick that both of those things happened in due course. ( Oh, and Young Erick, one of them got you to meet David Bowie, and one of them got you to own houses and cars, so I’ll let you ponder on which one was better. ) I even got to DJ a bit here and there, and while it never hit the heights of a professional radio gig, it was certainly better than the summer I played preset cassettes on my boom box for a nerd camp dance while my unrequited crush stayed in her room. What I never crossed off my professional life list was acting, either regular or voice, but while I still yearn for that big breakthrough -- seriously, ask...

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