gave me my albums back and yea, they were scratched, I knew the Police knew me. So, I never fell in love with a hooker and I wasn't born in the 50's and maybe I kept saying "Bologna" instead of "So Lonely," but this was the band for me.
n the late 60s/early 70s, my cousin was in a band. Well, every teenage boy in the earl 70's was in a band. I used to linger around his garage on Saturday mornings to listen to his band play. I liked their sound, I liked the music they were playing. It wasn't until later I realized that Born on the Bayou wasn't this awesome song that my cousin wrote (as he told me), but belonged to the same guys who sang Proud Mary, a song my mother was pretty fond of. So I borrowed her album, listened to it and immediately realized just how crappy my cousin's band was.
I didn't even get past Your Phone's Off the Hook, But You're Not before I started it over again. I listened to that song about five times before I got to the listening to the rest.
I love Iron Maiden for so many reasons; they are unmitigated cheesiness coupled smug pretentiousness, overlaid with music that makes you want to bang your head while flashing the metal sign. I love that Dickinson strives to make his music work on so many levels at once. He's teaching, he's posturing, he's rocking the fuck out. His music was the antithesis to the mindless hair metal that ruled the airwaves during this era. It was smart, it was complicated, it had nothing to do with getting laid and getting drunk. Not that there's anything wrong with songs about sex and liquor, but sometimes, when Skid Row was making you feel dumb for having listened to them, a little Iron Maiden was all you needed to get a few of your IQ points back.
presents and eating huge holiday dinners with them, sometimes the stress of the holidays get to us. Sometimes we are tired of hearing those damn jingling bells and we are tired of the Trans Siberian Orchestra and we have had it with malls and parking lots and the endless playing of Christmas carols.
Hello daddy, hello mom, I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb
AmRep is Amphetamine Reptile Records. The label has put out records by Helmet, The Melvins, Mudhoney, Steel Pole Bathtub, a bunch of other bands you might have heard of and some you probably haven't. They specialize in noise rock, which is a lot better genre than the name would imply.
I was working in the record store when this came out and I was at the time heavy into buying import singles of post punk bands and working on maintaining my edgy, yet sophisticated personality that was trying to say "Hey, I'm totally 80s without being, you know, totally 80s." Because there were two kinds of 80s. There was the New Order 80s and there was the Huey Lewis 80s.
ade me feel vaguely guilty, as if I was a traitor to my gender by not embracing Heart and then, later on The Bangles, The Go-Gos , L7 or The Donnas. There were exceptions to this rule, of course; there was the Runaways, Drain STH and there was Sleater Kinney.
band or their moody, gothic poetry. Love and Rockets, while sometimes taking pieces of that goth sound, were more a beautiful conglomeration of a bunch of different sounds; they were part new wave, part dance sensibilities and part psychedelic, groovy tunes.
s music, with none of the bullshit. It's groovy and funky and it's got great harmonizing laid over some cool rock and roll.
sunshine on a winter day. It's "get up and dance" when I want to do nothing but crawl under the covers. Studies have proven that if Dick Dale is playing in my car, I am more likely to let you merge in front of me on the Expressway even though you clearly have no idea how to merge. I put this on my headphones at work because it makes a workplace incident less likely.
s/Marshall Tucker concert. Some of us may even have bought Charlie Daniels albums. Some of us embraced this genre simply because of this album. And, yea, Freebird.
Every person is different when it comes to evoking powerful memories. For some it is pictures, or sounds, or smells. Perhaps it is a combination of all those things. We all have something that triggers the snapshots that exist in our head. Moments in time that are embedded in our mind, sometimes forgotten and then dredged up again by a flash of of memory that triggers our senses. A whole scenario can come flooding back as if it happened only yesterday. Your senses transport you to wherever the memory came from and you ride it again, whether you want to or not.
Diamond's albums are like Dean Koontz books set to music. That's not necessarily a good thing being that Dean Koontz is not exactly high literature (I'm pretty sure the author of Twilight would cite Koontz as one of her literary heroes) and Danish black metal, while somewhat enjoyable if in the right mood, is mostly a guilty pleasure.
to build Neverland later on. This is evidenced by the selection of songs on the album. There are quite a few cover songs. Obviously, Michael wasn't self-assured enough to put out a solo album of his own songs. And it's obvious from the song titles that Michael was ready to embrace life on the wings of love.
But I loved this album for what it was and wasn't. It wasn't afraid, it wasn't modest, it wasn't shy. It was different, it was weird, it was intriguing and captivating.
That song is my albatross. There are people who know me solely as "That girl who likes Sister Christian." As if there's only one of me. I know you're out there. I mean, the song was a hit. There has to be people out there who still like it, right? I know, it’s cheesy, it’s bad, it’s everything that was wrong with 80's metal. But. It’s Sister Christian. 
since Shabooh Shoobah and The One Thing, I had been carrying on a sordid affair with him in my mind. Here I was a (mostly) grown woman, and I was swooning like I hadn't swooned since I had that poster of Leif Garret on my bedroom wall. Hutchence was sultry. He pulled off sexy in that smoky, decadent way that is usually reserved for raspy voiced women in cocktail dresses.
that quiz would come as ten of you sat in the dried out landfill on a hot summer night and spent hours discussing the lyrics and the meaning while you passed around bottles of Boones Farm wine.
When that happens, you take this CD into your bedroom. You turn off your phone, turn off the tv, close the blinds, and crawl into bed. Listen to this on repeat for 24 hours straight. During that time, smoke six packs of cigarettes, drink 2 bottles of gin and write dark, gothic poetry about how your life has no meaning. Think about how much each song means to you. Nod your head knowingly during Everything I Touch, sob in agreement during Sometimes it Hurts, punch the walls during The Thing I Hate and When I'm Dead and then when it all plays again and you get back to the dirge-like Drowning, throw the covers over your head and think that the only thing that makes you feel any better is knowing that somewhere out there, Chris Hall knows exactly how your black, bitter, broken heart feels.
irst ten people to call win the album by this yet unheard of band. I took the calls. Congratulated the winners. All nine of them.
and the small windows are slightly open. We're all quietly stoned and there's no sound or movement for almost an hour except for the rain, the wind, and the blowing curtains. Then MaryAnne gets up and puts on this album. There's the low hiss and that scratchy sound and then Cinnamon Girl. We sit there still, the rain drowned out by the music, but not the wind, and the garbage cans roll down the street, seemingly in time to the music. The side plays out and it's still raining, still dark in mid afternoon and the humidity is seeping through the walls. I close my eyes during Down By The River and imagine the whole song as a movie I'm editing as it happens.
I bought this album for one song only, so I'll just go ahead and review that song.
album as if I lived it. And I had to listen to it in secret, because, well, no one wants to see a 26 year old, suburban white girl attempt to rap. No one wants to see her jumping around yelling "Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin!" Yelling it like I believed I was, you know, from tha hood.
romanticism. LTP opens with Mark Lanegan and the creepy, yet mesmerizing This Lullaby and careens through a slew of musical styles until it ends with Josh Homme's melancholy voice on Long, Slow Goodbye. In between you have Everybody Knows That You're Insane, a bluesy piece that invokes a smoky barroom. There's the ominous sounding Burn the Witch which features Billy Gibbons playing some killer riffs (and also includes Jack Black hand claps). The pop-perfect In My Head is everything that was awesome about 70s radio hits. There's the wistful, almost mournful I Never Came and the deep and dark Someone's in the Wolf, which makes me think of being lost in the woods in some warped bedtime story. The Blood is Love is all spacey, like something you should listen to with a bong and a black light in someone's basement, as is the groovy You've Got a Killer Scene There Man. The awesome Broken Box is vulgar spitefulness set to a danceable, ass-shaking, hand clapping beat. Then Long, Slow Goodbye, haunting song in which Homme does an amazing job of conveying the sadness within.
fronted by Kevin Seconds of 7 Seconds fame and his wife Allyson. The music is straight up pop rock with a hint of punk. It's fun and it's light, and though some of the lyrics can be a bit heavy I think that's part of its charm (like MTX) that they words can still say something heavy while the music keeps you grooving.
me Dookie! Please!" It was pretty obvious she had been influenced musically by her uncle, because she did not learn the name of that album from me.
