#rolling record review

[sgt-celestial]

FINALLY

[mystical-one]

LOOSE SALUTE!!!!!! Snatched off eBay in a frenzy since it's super hard to find here in jolly north england innit. It's in extremely good condition save for being notched (indicating it was thrown in a bargain bin somewhere which needless to say is a travesty) and very slightly warped. It sounds like new in comparison to some of my more pre-loved albums, and looks it too! It's about to be very, very loved thankfully (and very cared for too i promise) :3

[lisamarie-vee]

[mywifeleftme]

260: Buddy Holly // Greatest Hits

Greatest Hits Buddy Holly 1967, Coral

As with following any artist who died young, being a Buddy Holly fan is like doing one of those connect-the-dots drawings where they give you part of the image and you fill in the rest as a wireframe. There isn’t a shortage of material exactly—he’d released 50 or so songs by the time he died in February of 1959, and recorded enough that “new” Buddy Holly records ensured he was a regular presence on store shelves well into the late ‘60s. But his literal absence gives all these assorted cash-in repackagings a fanfictional quality, exercises in instant nostalgia. As a fan, you can choose between seemingly half-a-dozen sensationally overdubbed versions of a song like “What to Do,” each based on a hushed demo he’d recorded on an acoustic guitar in his apartment; you can even decide that that set of demos, which are admittedly exquisite, represent the “true” Buddy, even though the singles he signed off on in his lifetime often had plenty of bells and whistles.

The fact is, we can never know where Holly might’ve gone as an artist, no matter how assiduously we sift through the pile of variously-incompleted sketches he left behind. Grim, unromantic precedent suggests we lost out on perhaps three to four years of his prime. Among the early prodigies of rock ‘n’ roll, none had a run of greatness much longer than six or seven: not trailblazers Berry or Little Richard, not the King, not even a singular songwriting genius like Orbison. Most of them rarely even managed a memorable single once they’d moved past their primes, let alone albums (with all due respect to the Everlys’ Roots and Bo Diddley’s The Black Gladiator). Perhaps something in the effort of instantiating a brand-new genre burns an artist out more than the work of refining one with an established foundation. Regardless, the shapes of these primordial figures in rock and roll are detectable again and again throughout the music’s history; for a rock fan, discovering the recordings of a Buddy Holly is one of those Rosetta stones that helps translate and connect so many of the currents you’ve followed in your own listening journey. He’s dissolved into the body and blood of rock like some bespectacled divine sacrifice.

But before he was dissolute, he was his body of songs. I don’t own either The “Chirping” Crickets or Buddy Holly, though both are great records and contain a good number of his classic songs. I also don’t own any of the more comprehensive retrospectives (of which 1979’s six-LP The Complete Buddy Holly is probably still definitive) either. I’ve just got this basic as mish Greatest Hits from 1967 and… that’s absolutely fine! It’s well-sequenced, has no bad songs, hits a lot of the absolute peaks, and even includes my preferred overdub of “What to Do.” It necessarily lacks many of his essentials, but in terms of single LPs you can find for like $1 in the year of our lord 2024, the list of records with more bang for your buck is short indeed. If Holly’s yet to hit for you, the hoopla can admittedly be a little perplexing, but take it from me: if you’re wired for rock music, you’ll get it one day.

260/365

[fetabathwater]

having the flu sucks. my time is consumed by sleep and watching 1 season shows that got cancelled with all the right hooks because some reviewers are stupid as HELL.

[girlreviews]

Review #474: #1 Record, Big Star

“I never travel far, without a little Big Star”, is the saying that goes, or rather, the lyrics from The Replacement’s ode to Alex Chilton. It’s true though. Big Star are my favorite band. While I disagree pretty adamantly with the order, all three of their records are in the Rolling Stone’s Top 500. I find that immensely satisfying. One thing Rolling Stone and I agree on – apparently — is that Big Star are special. I could talk possibly forever about the Big Star story, but it’s a rare occasion that I happen upon anyone else who knows, cares, or is interested. Which is pretty much part and parcel of the story itself. It’s part of its charm in a way.

I learned about Big Star the way everyone does, or at least did. Someone put a song on a burned CD for me (previously it would have been a mixtape, but this was the early 2000s and this is what we did). It was that fuckin’ boy, okay? And it was around when we actually met. He was trying to impress. He made me this CD, it was plain white, and it had scrawled on it in his stupid fucking handwriting “Summer Promo” with some little patterns doodled around it. Thirteen was the third track and it instantly became my favorite. I fell in love with it, and with Big Star, and that was it. I remember almost all of the other tracks, they were mostly trash. He gave it to me before fucking off for several weeks over the summer – to Bible camp, ha – and the douchebag didn’t ever have enough money to keep his cell phone with credit to call or text. By the time he got back he already was like, “sorry, dumping you”, and so began the 3 to 4 years of hellish on-off controlling, jealous, rage abuse from a boy who didn’t want me, and constantly cheated on me, but couldn’t stand to see me move on or be near anyone else. Who am I kidding, he didn’t say sorry.

Some years in, he had moved away but this all continued. He was back in town – and we were together at this point – and days into his visit he hadn’t called, texted, nothing. He eventually showed up, only to inform me that he had tickets to see an artist that we both loved, Kathryn Williams, at a very local venue, and that he was taking another girl. My father had to physically restrain me. Later that evening, my boy best friend just so happened to call me and said he and his parents were going to that same show, had a spare ticket and would I like to go. I said yes. When I arrived, I sat several rows ahead of my “boyfriend”, and he saw that I was there with my friend, a boy, who in his opinion, I was not allowed to spend time with. Then. As if by magic. Kathryn Williams covered Thirteen. Beautifully. I really do remember that in that moment, knowing that I wasn’t ever going to ever be able to let myself tie songs I loved this much to people that hurt me on purpose if I wanted to continue loving them. I turned around and looked at him as if to say “you will never get this song from me”. I’d love to say that was the end of it all, but it wasn’t.

In the Street also lives within #1 Record, and during my teenage years, That 70’s Show was such a breath of fresh air. We all loved it. I had really fond memories of watching that show with my friends. I used to download it illegally and we would all watch it in my room around my computer. The theme tune was performed by Cheap Trick in the show, but I always loved that Alex Chilton and Chris Bell were in the opening credits, and as I understand it, it earned them money in syndication. However, Chris Bell was already dead, and Alex Chilton died with not a great deal to his name. So maybe it didn’t help. It’s probably the way that most folks know Big Star, even if they don’t know it. I’d encourage you to listen to their original version of In the Street. It’s fun, and honestly would have been a better fit for the show if you ask me. Also, it’s got so much cowbell it’s just silly. Sadly — sadly isn’t really the appropriate word here — That 70’s Show and the majority of its cast are now mired by the actions of convicted rapist and Scientologist Danny Masterson. Fond feelings are now replaced by anger and sadness for his victims and bitter disappointment in his castmates for continuing to support him and his church’s actions.

Skip forward a few years, and that boy is finally out of the picture, but a new nightmare begins. I’ve pointed to this in a few previous reviews. A job with a boss, and that boss is no good. We’re not going to get too far into that here. But there was this time, I was working my seventh day in a week a fourth week in a row (!) at a trade show. I forget why, but the subject of music came up, or I was listening to music on my break, or something like that, and this guy wanted to know what it was I was listening to. He was in his 40s and in a previous life, he had very briefly and with a great deal of mediocrity enjoyed some commercial success in a band. I’m being quite generous in saying that. He liked to overstate that success. A lot. Anyway. It comes up that I’m a fan of Big Star, and this garners his attention (more so than usual), and earns me some respect as a “real music fan”. I’m at work, I’m exhausted, I’m paid 8 pounds an hour, and this man was my ride to and from some hotel trade show at the Heathrow Airport. Finally, the day is over, and we’re leaving. On the way to what I think is home, he tells me that his wife is out of town, and his bandmates are in town, and that he isn’t going to take me home, he’s taking me to his house to hang out with his band. It may surprise you to learn that I, an 18 year old girl, did not want to hang out by myself with five 40-year-old men, only one of which I actually knew. The thing is, I actually didn’t have any choice. At all. This is one of those things where I most certainly look back and think “Jesus christ, that was fucked up”, and at the time I recognized my discomfort, but I didn’t have enough of a voice or know what to do about it. He was my boss.

So there I was, at his house, just kind of stuck. They all got fucking white girl wasted. And they had set up recording equipment – I assume their entire weekend plans were to fuck around and record music. Well. He made me sing. He made me sing Thirteen. He recorded it. They played. I was shaking. Mortified. Terrified. He wouldn’t let me leave until I did it. Then I was allowed to be sent home in a private car. I feel really sad for myself when I think about this. I’m not sure how not one of those men thought it was strange that I was there, or that my discomfort was so obvious, and that not one of them thought I should be at home. In hindsight I get the feeling my boss wasn’t someone people felt comfortable standing up to. That’s no excuse, in my opinion.

In weeks following, he showed me the mix he made of the recording, and I hated it. Hated. It. To be clear: I sang it beautifully. Every single one of those men was surprised by what came out of my mouth, and they all shut the fuck up for awhile, because I sang it beautifully and they weren’t expecting it. I hated it because of how it was created. I hated it because he bastardized it with a bunch of weird added effects and elongations that were insults to the original. From that day, until I left that job to go to university, I was encouraged to not bother with school and let him manage my music career, and my aspirations of college and helping people were “a stupid waste of time”. I thank myself every day that I had no desire to take him up on his ridiculous offer, and that saying no required no second thought. I can’t imagine what would have happened to me had I said yes, but I know that it would not have been good. That wasn’t the last of that guy, either, unfortunately, but I did go to school and I did graduate before he had the opportunity to fuck anything else up again.

Again, I revisited that notion of never letting anyone ruin a song or a band for me. But, in writing these reviews, I have come to realize that the memory being attached to a song or an artist has served a really valuable purpose for me. I know that this shit really happened, because the song/artist makes me think of this memory. That’s how I know. It’s validating and it’s helpful to actually catalogue all of this in this particular way. I can believe myself. If I ever didn’t before, I do now.

At the end of 2022, I was able to see Big Star (well “Big Star”), perform all of their catalog live, for the 50th anniversary of #1 Record. In Memphis. Mike Mills of R.E.M., Pat Sansone of Wilco, Jon Auer of the Posies, and Chris Stamey of the dBs, playing alongside original drummer and only surviving member, Jody Stephens. Over the years – whether in the UK or in the US, so many Big Star events had come and gone. Movie showings, one-off shows, tributes, whatever. And no matter what, somehow, something always stopped me from catching them. Not this one. No fucking way. I was really overwhelmed, and overcome, to think of all of the things that had to happen in my life since I first heard Thirteen on that burned CD under my loft bed in England to put me in Memphis, listening to these songs live, finally, in my Thirties, knowing those absolute assclowns that I’ve written about above are well behind me and can’t hurt me anymore.

[waugh-bao]

[vinyl-connection]

HOT ROCKS

After the lively conversation about Goats Head Soup, I thought I’d better redeem myself with a truly timeless collection of early Rolling Stones hits. * There have been too many Stones compilations to count, but Hot Rocks 1964—1971, one of the early ones, is amongst the best and has rarely been out of print.  Originally released in December 1971, a few months after Sticky Fingers—the LP that…

[greensparty]

Album Review: The Rolling Stones “Beggars Banquet” RSD Release

Just a few days ago I did some album reviews of Record Store Day releases from Wilco and Iggy and the Stooges. Unfortunately I didn’t get this third RSD release in time to review before RSD, but better late than never. Originally released in Dec. 1968, The Rolling Stones released their album Beggars Banquet, a blast of blues and roots rock. In 2018, there was a special 50th anniversary edition. To celebrate RSD they released a special vinyl edition of their 2018 version in grey swirl (an ode to “Salt of the Earth” - hey it’s also an Earth Day release!!!). It also includes the original gatefold art and a replica 11″x18″ poster that was featured in record store windows at the time. 

album cover

Through this blog, I’ve had the pleasure and honor of getting to review multiple Stones reissues including Their Satanic Majesties Request, The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus, Let It Bleed, Goats Head Soup and Tattoo You. Unlike some of those reissues, this isn’t an anniversary deluxe set with loads of outtakes and concert recordings. Beggars Banquet is just the original album being released in a commemorative way for RSD. The color vinyl, the packaging and the poster are all cool, but it’s really all about the music itself.

RSD reissue

This album is highly regarded as one of the best Stones albums and it’s quite noteworthy because it was guitarist Brian Jones’ final album with the band released in his lifetime before his death in 1969. The album kicks off on a high notes with “Sympathy for the Devil” and it sustains throughout. I’d put this up there with Let It Bleed and Exile on Main Street in the pantheon of classic Stones albums!

For info on Beggars Banquet: https://recordstoreday.com/SpecialRelease/15858

4.5 out of 5 stars

[artjipson]

Wussy: The Best Rock Band in America

Wussy is one of those bands that everyone should know. They are an ongoing musical effort for over two decades with a deep catalog. The band’s lyrics — courtesy of Chuck Cleaver and Lisa Walker — are inescapable without being cloying or false, and the band’s observations are relatable, accurate, frighteningly honest, and perhaps more than a little sad. Yet, the dark lyrics hold a unique power to…

[sgt-celestial]

currently the collection btw. This is about 1/5 the size of my dads collection which we share so theres also that but these r the ones i keep in my bedroom for casual listening 🎧💿 imagine thats a vinyl emoji

[thoughtswordsaction]

Spells - Past Our Prime LP (Keep It A Secret Records)

Spells’ Past Our Prime is a rowdy, adrenaline-charged rollercoaster through the realms of melodic punk rock, indie punk, rock ‘n’ roll, and power pop. Released in April 2024, this Denver band’s third studio proves that they are anything but past their prime. This record explodes with energy and grit, mixing unapologetic punk intensity with singalong-worthy melodies and lyrics that hit close to…

[lisamarie-vee]

[mywifeleftme]

355: Motörhead // No Remorse

No Remorse Motörhead 1984, Bronze

I heard British comics writer Warren Ellis tell a story about hearing a horrible banging in the hallway outside his flat late one night in the mid-1980s. When he poked his head outside to give the noisenik hell he discovered Lemmy wandering around smacking the walls with a wooden cooking spoon. After he managed to get the metal legend’s attention, Lemmy waved the implement at him and snarled, “You ever hear of a coke spoon? This is my coke spoon!”

*

This past Friday, I talked to a 50-something punk named Joey P who has 26 Motörhead records on vinyl (including the coveted leatherbound version of No Remorse). If you ever want to have a long conversation with Joey P, I recommend starting with a riff on if Ronnie James Dio was a mob-connected / Rat Pack wiseguy, and then letting him go into antiquarian detail on which Motörhead records are kind of underrated (Another Perfect Day), underrated (Bastards), and really underrated (1916). Love that guy, and I think he’s mostly right. 26 is probably too many Motörhead records even for me, but they are one of those long-running, very sonically consistent bands who turn their deepest fans into sommeliers. I can hold forth about the subtle differences in tasting notes between an Ace of Spades and an Iron Fist (let alone a departure like Orgasmatron!) while an outsider looks doubtfully into their two indistinguishable cups of Jack and Coke. A band like this gives men of a certain age a way to sniff each other over when they meet in a clearing, a low-impact ritual of butting heads.

*

For years I remembered a story I thought one of my friends had told me about running into Lemmy at the Dominion Tavern in Ottawa towards the end of his life. He was miserably drinking white wine on his doctor’s orders, not looking for conversation. The image always struck me as both funny (I cannot imagine the house wine at the Dom having a nice finish), and sad (the day Lemmy Goddamn Kilmister lets anyone tell him he can’t have whiskey!). I think I’ve repeated it once or twice over the years as an example of how age mellows us all, but when I asked the pal I thought had told me, she denied it (though she did add that her ex told her Lemmy’d gone to see “the rippers in Aylmer once”). So, I dunno, maybe he escaped the fate of the Dom Chardonnay.

*

Speaking of fate, Lemmy was a damned sharp fellow beneath all the drugging and boozing (who else could’ve written the lyric “Fourth day, five-day marathon / We’re moving like a parallelogram”), and he rightly figured his label had pitched doing a hits compilation in 1984 because they thought the band was washed up. (The limp sales and savage critical reaction to Another Perfect Day having had something to do with that.) Kilmister insisted on inserting a side’s worth of new songs onto the double LP comp to emphasize that Motörhead remained very much a going concern. Of the four, only the brilliantly dumb “Killed By Death” became a classic in its own right, but the new tracks showed the band were still capable of churning out the sound that had defined them with undiminished ferocity. They never lost it.

*

I do know a woman who hooked up with Lemmy towards the end of his life (if anything in rock and roll can be believed, she had about 1,000 peers. It was like a more pleasant [?] Germs burn). They went home from the bar in Montreal and drank whiskey, and then she split in the morning without leaving her number. She thought the story was funny and I thought not leaving a number was a pretty good flex, but at the end she still gave a bit of a wistful, “I know he probably wouldn’t have called me anyway…”

*

Lemmy picked the songs for No Remorse himself, and even provides short annotations in the liners, so if you’re going to quibble with the selections, you’ll have to take it up with the mole man. (As he says of “Like a Nightmare,” a left-field inclusion, “This was one of my favourite B-sides. Everyone didn’t like it, but seeing as I’m the only one of the old band left, here it is!!”) There are a load of Motörhead compilations out there (I’m partial to 2000’s lavish, oddly-sequenced double-CD The Best of, since it’s the one I had as a kid), and as Joey P will tell you, they did lots of good stuff after 1984. But if 1) you only need one Motörhead record on wax, 2) you’re mostly into the original lineup, and 3) you want something reasonably comprehensive, No Remorse is a no-brainer. It has a few relative duds (“Louie, Louie”) and lacks some absolute classics (“Dead Men Tell No Tales”; “Tear Ya Down”; “City Kids”; “Love Me Like a Reptile”; “White Line Fever” etc. etc.) but why complain given the teeth-rattling abundance there is? As Lemmy says, “Here is Motörhead as you’ve come to expect them. Write your opinion on a Beatle wig and send it to someone who gives a damn. Even if you get us banned, we ain’t gonna stop!”

*

Motörhead were obviously a legendary live act, and they were my first metal show (on a bill at Detroit’s Pine Knob with Dio and Iron Maiden). They played a lot of arenas, but they made the most sense in small theatres. Bigger venues tend to dwarf them, like a small motorcycle gang trying to take over a castle. In a theatre, or better yet a bar, they own the place like The Wild Ones. I don’t remember much specific from their Pine Knob set, except that before closing with “Ace of Spades,” a song Lem was famously bored of playing every night, he told us all, “You’ll know this one, sing along if you want, I won’t be able to hear you anyway,” and then abruptly launched into that hellbent bass riff. Then he disappeared (probably there was some walking beforehand, couldn’t tell you for sure).

*

Lemmy’s funeral was livestreamed back in 2015, and it’s genuinely one of the sweetest, silliest things I have ever watched. The altar features flower arrangements in the shape of the ace of spades; an iron cross in place of a crucifix; two Marshall stacks; a pair of Triple H’s wrestling boots; a 3D-printed urn in the shape of his cavalry hat; and a mirror with a big line of speed on it. Everybody cries, many of them the sort of people the PMRC would’ve expected to burst into flames if they were to enter a church. Everybody talks about how genuinely nice he was. His girlfriend Cheryl, a job that earns you instant and eternal That Poor Woman status from all who observe, gives a super brief statement: “Lemmy loved me, but his greatest love was his fans and his music. I remember saying, ‘Baby, stay home, don’t go, skip this tour. And he said, ‘Baby, I can’t. I love my fans.’” (Imagine that being an interaction between two genuine living people—yet I believe it.) Apparently, he was an absolute pinball fiend. His bootmaker gives a speech. Somebody reads some limericks Lem wrote. What a life. What a story.

*

“Can’t get enough / And you know it’s some righteous stuff / Goes up like prices at Christmas! / Motörhead / Remember me now / Motörhead, alright"

355/365

[swampflix]

The Sore Losers (1997)

I recently saw Guitar Wolf perform at a crowded, raucous dive bar and was impressed by the band’s continued ferocity.  The Japanese garage-rock trio has been around for as long as I have been alive, but they’re rocking and rolling as hard as ever, shredding & crowdsurfing through neighborhood venues the size of living rooms.  Meanwhile, it took me two full days to recover from just one of their…