Oh, boy… this is bad. That dang Scalzi has just pointed me to a time-sink of unbelievable proportions: it’s an online repository of old ’80s-vintage music videos. Hundreds of them, enough to waste hours and hours looking at hair styles that, for some inexplicable reason, us thirtysomethings used to think were pretty cool.
I’ve been thinking of how best to present this next find, but words are failing me. Some things simply have to be seen to be believed. And sometimes the words of others just have to stand on their own without further comment:
We at BringBackBritney.com hold firm that a hosed-down, scantily clad Britney Spears is vital to the livelihood of millions of Americans. We will not sit silently as she sullies her persona in the public eye; that of a Kabbalah chasing, non seatbelt wearing, ovary farm for any two-bit backup dancer to take advantage of. This is not the Britney we hold in high regard.
[ADDENDUM: The really interesting thing is that this site seems to be tied in with Madame Tussaud’s wax museum in New York, which, not coincidentally, just debuted a stripper-pole-straddling likeness of Brit — complete with heaving breasts that actually, er, heave. You know, I feel sorry for the girl, I truly do…]
If the Sears Wishbook isn’t enough entertainment for you on this long, sunny Friday afternoon, how about this: the immortal William Shatner performing Harry Chapin’s “Taxi” in the same melodramatic, spoken-word style that has made his rendition of “Rocket Man” such a classic.
[Ed. note: I moved the video player below the fold for the convenience of dial-uppers, and also just to keep the place tidy…]
Here’s a quickie musical meme, courtesy of Scalzi:
Using this site, find and reveal the song that was #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart the day you were born.
[Ed. note: if you haven’t read the previous entry already, please do so now. I’ll wait… finished? Okay, procede.]
It seems this isn’t the first time John Densmore’s refusal to let Doors songs be used to peddle products has gotten some press. I’ve found a piece he wrote on this subject three years ago for The Nation. It’s pretty rambling and positively reeks of aging hippie, but if you’re interested in reading the man’s own words instead of a few cut-lines and a journalist’s interpretation of his opinion, follow the link. Here’s his argument, in a nutshell:
I’m pretty clear that we shouldn’t [sell our songs for commercials]. We don’t need the money. But I get such pressure from one particular bandmate (the one who wears glasses and plays keyboards). [Ed. note: that would be Ray Manzarek.]
“Commercials will give us more exposure,” he says. I ask him, “so you’re not for it because of the money?” He says “no,” but his first question is always “how much?” when we get one of these offers, and he always says he’s for it. He never suggests we play Robin Hood, either. If I learned anything from Jim, it’s respect for what we created. I have to pass. Thank God, back in 1965 Jim said we should split everything, and everyone has veto power. Of course, every time I pass, they double the offer!
Once, in what now seems like a previous life, I listened to a lot of music by The Doors. Like many other young men with artistic pretensions and a generally sulky disposition, I was drawn to the dark vibe of the music and the cryptic, existential lyrics of the band’s late frontman, Jim Morrison. I fancied myself a wounded romantic for reasons that shall remain anonymous, and I identified with the band’s well-known songs of alienation and pain, songs like “Riders on the Storm,” “Love Her Madly,” and “People Are Strange.” I bought into the myth of Morrison as a shaman in leather pants, and although I never seriously believed he was still alive, it long amused me to think that he might have faked his death to escape an unsatisfactory life as a rock ‘n’ roll sideshow freak.
For any Floyd fans who may be lurking among my three loyal readers, my friend Robert sends word that speculation about the band’s Live 8 set list has begun! (Of course it has; this is the Internet, after all…)
If you’d like to join in the fun or just see what other people are hoping to hear, check out the discussion thread at the Pink Floyd forum.
For whatever it’s worth, Robert would like to see the band “do some real esoteric shit like [his] personal favorite, ‘Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict.'”
Hmm. I can’t say I’m familiar with that one…
Well, this is just amazing: Pink Floyd is getting back together for a one-night-only performance at Bob Geldof’s upcoming Live 8 concert. For the record, I don’t especially like Floyd — I mostly find their work pretentious and depressing — but the conflict between the band’s bass player Roger Waters and guitarist David Gilmour is legendary among rock-music afficianados, and for fans of the band, this news must seem like nothing short of a miracle. As I recall, Geldof pulled off a similarly unlikely reunion of Led Zeppelin for his ’85 LiveAid concerts. If he can perform impossible stunts like getting these notoriously acrimonious musicians back together, why hasn’t this man taken over the world by now? Maybe that’s the next item on his agenda…
I’m not a big fan of punk music, which was always too unrelentingly angry and anti-everything for my tastes. But I did find Sandman writer Neil Gaiman’s recent comments on the subject interesting, and even inspirational:
I think that the punk ethos of you don’t need anything, you just need to do it and figure out what you’re doing as you go, has probably informed everything I’ve done since [the punk movement]. It seemed a pretty sensible and refreshing idea at the time. Likewise the idea that you ought to be enjoying what you’re doing and be doing it because you think it’s cool and fun. The idea that mistakes are part of what make things interesting, and it’s probably wisest to get it right and move on and not spend the rest of your life polishing it.
(It also left me with the idea that a black leather jacket was an appropriate sartorial item in any possible context.)
Last night I cancelled my membership with BMG Music Service. It was easy. All I had to do was click one button on the Web site (although the button itself was kind of tricky to find), and the actual decision was a no-brainer, too. I think I’ve bought only one CD from them in the last eighteen months or so, and paging through the monthly catalog was kind of like looking at a stranger’s yearbook: lots of pretty young faces, but the names mean nothing to me. Hell, I don’t even listen to music much anymore — I can go months without turning on my stereo, and I haven’t been really aware of what’s current since the days of Nirvana and Pearl Jam.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness when I clicked that “cancel” button. It was a genuine end-of-an-era moment, seeing as I’ve been a member of BMG since before compact discs were the standard music format. Back when I joined, BMG was the RCA Record and Tape Club, and before that I was a member of the Columbia Record and Tape Club. Once upon a time, way back in the glorious, pre-digital ’80s, everybody was a member of the Columbia Record and Tape Club. How could any self-respecting teenager resist the offer of twelve albums for only a penny?