Woke Up This Morning (And Found Myself Dead?)

or: "Fuck Her In The Ass" is hardly profound, you drunken jackass!

I’m listening to a live Jimi Hendrix album from 1968. What an exciting time for music, musicians and fans alike: The Beatles, the Stones, Dylan, Young, Zeppelin, The Kinks, The Who - there was plenty of good noise and good times going on. This show I’m listening to, it was recorded on New Years Eve, and it features Jimi jamming with his future Band of Gypsys drummer Buddy Miles and, for three raunchy tracks, the drunkest Jim Morrison rantings I’ve ever heard. Apparently, this is the first and only time the two Jims really jammed together.

They only play through for three songs before a drunken Morrison is escorted off the stage and Hendrix & Miles finish the show: one is a cover of the Beatles’ "Tomorrow Never Knows" (not bad, but I prefer Our Lady Peace’s version), another is a new track called "Uranus Rock," but the first is a strange little jam (posthumously) titled "Morrison’s Lament." There’s a lot of intelligible drunken slurs blurred together into a stream-of-maddeningly-drunken- consciousness rally cry, and in between these bursts of freaky not-quite-beatnik poetically-inclined dribble, the drunken Jimmy (not the Jimi in control of one crazy cool show) is prone to shouting repeatedly "Her fuck in the ass!" To whom, for what, I cannot say. I wasn’t there. But many are interested in Morrison enough to ponder why he would say this: Is this a personal preference, or Jim’s view of humanity, or the world at large? (Was he agreeing that "Woman is the nigger of the world?" No; John and Yoko didn’t share that gem with the world till 1972, long after Hendrix and Morrison both died choking on their own vomit. The same logic applies for "Stairway To Heaven," obviously.)

I don’t think it’s anything much more than some words that seemed fun to yell into a microphone by a very (too) inebriated and highly (too) celebrated vocalist. But it sure does seem demeaning, and I don’t mean to whichever "Her" he’s referring to (a particular girl in the crowd, the one on his mind, or just womankind in general); I don’t even mean demeaning to the concept of ass fucking. It demeans the lionization (and legitimization) of musicians. Simply put, all three of those guys jamming onstage were probably jerks in one way or another: Miles was a drunk, Hendrix was too high throughout his all-too-short career, and Morrison was, well, sinister and kind of stupid (though I will also admit he was just as often spiritual and kind of brilliant). But more often than not, whenever Jim Morrison opened up his mouth, something insanely weird came out, often as ideal as far-fetched, but still shimmering with ideas all the same. This man is still viewed as a visionary and a poet by millions of people thirty-five years after he died (at age 27, mysteriously the same age as the other Jimi, Rolling Stones guitarist Brian Jones and alcoholic nymphomaniac Janis Joplin, not to mention early ’90s musical laureate Kurt Cobain).

Now don’t get me wrong here: I am a fan of the Doors (mostly). While I understand carnival caravan psuedo-shaman rock spectacles are not for everyone, I appreciate what all four guys in the Doors were trying to do, and I can’t deny that "Riders On The Storm" and "Touch Me" were unbelievably groovy and catchy as all get out. And it was the 1960s, a time when they could totally get away with this sort of behavior, music and choice in life. But this also allowed for a lot of these manical tendencies to assert themselves in artists. Jim Morrison was a drunk, not a poet (Lester Bangs - or is it Philip Seymour Hoffman? - was totally right), and I’m now listening to the proof. "Fuck her, baby, in the asshole!" he yells into a microphone that Jimi points out is not the one recording. Then he talks about circuses and more about assholes and, well, it’s almost sad (but almost funny, too). For a man who composed epic Oedipal rock songs set to slow motion army helicopters in Vietnam movies, and was arrested for allegedly (or allegedly not) exposing himself to an arena of thousands, and met the keyboard player for his band while meditating and reading poetry on a beach, and was part of one of the most significant eras of change, not just in music but throughout culture in general - for a man who did all of this, well, it’s actually not that surprising to hear Jim trying to be coherent, failing miserably until he falls back upon his supposed mantra: "Fuck her in the ass!" Jim was also growling a lot, the way black metal singers were inclined to in just about every black metal song I’ve ever heard. I wouldn’t be surprised if after his guest spot, Mr. Morrison didn’t go find a bathroom to puke in (or get more loaded with Janis Joplin, if she was around).

And all the while, through this brutish spectacle, Jimi and Buddy still held it together. The riffs are solid, and Miles is one hell of an improvisational percussionist, deftly keeping up with whatever chaos Jimi (or Jim) was throwing down. I always tell people that if I had a time machine, I would only use it to go back to specific musical performances. To have been able to see any compelling piece of live music, any time and any where, is my ultimate geek dream fantasy, and it’s shows like this one I’m listening to (the album, unofficially released after both Jims were dead, has been called Woke Up This Morning And Found Myself Dead, Sunshine Of Your Love, Sky High and Live At The Scene Club) that make this The Dream.

Jimi’s hands seem on like they were fire. To have seen Miles simultaneously sweating and smiling as he was keeping up with the greatest guitarist the world has ever known must be quite a sight. According to legend, at the next night’s show, Mr. Morrison wanted to come back on stage (while Jimi and Buddy were mid-song), but Jimi wouldn’t let him. Apparently the Lizard King asked, "Do you know you who I am?" (more than likely all incredulous and shit), and I can only imagine the smile Jimi must have cast as he said, "Yeah, I know who are you (motherfucka). You’re Jim Morrison. And I’m Jimi Hendrix." And then they went back to playing (it wouldn’t surprise me if this time, Mr. Morrison got a conk on the head). Who wouldn’t want to go back and check that show out?

Of all the classic rockers out there, Jimi Hendrix is the only one that breaks my heart. John Lennon comes close, because he was so honest and loving in just about everything he did. But fuck, he stayed active and busy (even politcal during his four year musicalal break) until his death 1980, which says something for one of the most influential icons on the 1960s. And at least Lennon was shot; a tragedy, no doubt, but perhaps more dignifying than ODing on smack, crashing in some sort of road accident, suicide or, say, choking on your own vomit. Most of his peers didn’t do nearly so well; many died prematurely, others fell out of the music game, and several I’m sure went sour or mad. But Jimi was too much potential in too short a time: he was fragile (he beat women and was very sensitive to people not liking or understanding him, or his music), ultrabright (both in his songwriting, playing and obviously fashion sense), truly original (still no one has figured out how to successfully, or even cleverly, rip off Hendrix), and even trascendental (you know what I mean). When Jimi picked up that guitar, it was like no one else. It still feels that way, and his debut album came out more than 40 years ago. In an industry where originality takes a backseat to carefully clever rip-offs and homages, Jimi still stands out. So do the drunken ramblings of Jim Morrison in 1968. Crazy times indeed.

I Do Believe In Ghosts

or: A Review Of The New Nine Inch Nails Album, In 4 Volumes

I: INTRODUCTION (NINE INCH NAILS = TRENT REZNOR)
Trent Reznor seems to know no bounds. Not these days at least. After making a career and lifestyle on hating so much in the world, things have really been going his way, and these last few years have only seen the rich, successful and influential musician grow all the more amitious and fierce, kicking a drug-and-alcohol habit, buffing out into a Herculian version of his former self, and releasing albums at a much-quicker-than-normal pace, going from roughly one new album every 4-5 years in the first 16 years of his career to a healthy 3 albums in less than three year's time frame.

Since his return-from-oblivion release With Teeth, in 2005 at age 40, T. Rez has been thunderously roaring through a new musical swath at a pace much quicker than most strapping young lads less than half his age. And following the release of the Year Zero remixed off-shoot Y34RZ3R0R3M1X3D, Nine Inch Nails is now an independent act, having fulfilled its obligations to record labels TVT and Interscope for almost two straight decades. It's all the cooler that, in chosing his next project to be producing beats for poet/MC Saul Williams' Niggy Tardust album (including an amazing cover of U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday"), he only made his indie cred all the better while fulfulling an artistic passion at the same time. Anything seems possible for him, I'm certain.

II: INSTRUMENTAL ALBUM, YOU SAY?
So Trent went all political and danceable on Year Zero, which was a truly stripped-down but heavy-duty experience on par with the best of Bomb Squad/Public Enemy. But there were a few instrumentals (as is customary with most NIN albums) that gave us hints of what's to come. Of course, everyone was so immersed in the online-reality game and tour, not to mention to catchy beats and overlying themes, that those glimpses into the future went unnoticed. Despite rumors of a movie based on Year Zero (with Nine Inch Nails/Trent Reznor no doubt composing the score/soundtrack), instead the next NIN project turned out to be perhaps the greatest testament to their artistic (and business) acheivements.

Ghosts I-IV. Halo Twenty Six. 9 tracks per disc, one disc for each volume (well, two in the packaging, but we'll get to that later). It's entirely instrumental. It's almost two hours. It was recorded and mixed in roughly 10 weeks. It came at a time when such a strange album would have gone through hell with a record label/company trying to distribute and sell it. But that same time happened to be well into the online age, more specifically just a few months after Radiohead released their album for download on their website (at a price to be set by the buyer). A now-independent, well-known, digitally-inclined artist like Trent Reznor could easily make good use of this great technology at hand, but sometimes it's hard to make the art as good as the marketing.

III: SO, HOW IS IT?
It's absolutely great, if you're a Nine Inch Nails fan. Now, if you're not a Nine Inch Nails fan, you're not likely to be won over with this one (unless the only problem you had with NIN all along has been Trent's pop sensibilities and lyrics, in which case, this is the album you've been waiting for; and if you like NIN for strictly these reasons, proceed with caution). Even if you are and always have been a fan, this is still a strange and singular experience kind of unlike anything ever done before, despite being everything Nine Inch Nails stands for in just about every way they've established through the albums and years.

Each track suggests a scene, a mood, an idea. This is Nine Inch Nails' jam band mode, a group of talented musicians working fervently at capturing each other's sounds into a solid structure. You can feel the live touches, but it's sequenced to loving perfection in that NIN way we're all expectant of by now. The experience unfolds like an in-the-mix collage of beats and melodies. Clearly Trent's been listening to a lot of Sigur Ros, Angelo Badalementi, Mogwai, Can, and Explosions In The Sky lately, perhaps some Madlib, later Jimi Hendrix, Brian Eno and Prefuse 73 to boot. Unlike J Dilla, however, T Rezna cannot lock 30+ tracks into one disc. And record labels are quick to point out (to artists, stores and consumers) that double albums means double production costs (sorta) and double the sales price (nearly). But by taking advantange of this digital era, Trent made it cheap and easy to make that fact obselete.

IV: GREAT, GET ME A COPY!
Well, if you want it free, you can't have all of it, but you can get all of Vol I FREE at ghosts.nin.com. Pretty cool, and if you're feeling it and want the whole package, well, you have to choose what you believe to be the whole package. There are quite a few options, from a simple "let me download the whole thing, DRM-free, with a pdf of all the photos, artwork and credits" option to varying levels of physical products on CD, vinyl, DVD (for track remixing) and even Blu-Ray (containing the entire four volume album mixed in surround sound with accompanying visuals). The cream of the crop, the $300 all-inclusive limited edition box set signed by Trent himself, sold out in less than a day.

Apparently, Mr. Reznor still understands business, because the album made more than $1.6 million in orders (781,917 orders by his account) in the first week of making it available, March 3rd. And the fact that he is doing so well financially at something that is so purely artistic and exploratory is the testament to how established an entertainer he still is, and how crafted an artist he has become. This all happened with no advertising or mention prior to two weeks before the album dropped. What an exciting time, not just for Trent Reznor, but for his fans and peers as well.

FOR MORE INFO:
-Those snarky folks down at Pitchfork give a pretty thorough report of the online ordering and product packaging surrounding Ghosts I-IV.
-An interesting article about Trent's thoughts on "that Radiohead album" and the music industry in general's standing in the full-swing digital era.
-A track-by-track review.
-An interview with Halo 26 session drummer Brian Viglione, who just so happens to be in The Dresden Dolls, who opened for Nine Inch Nails on the With Teeth tour.
-And as if all this was not enough, here's a video of Trent explaining his latest new Ghosts experiment/expansion.

'Aving Fun Twif Fungrish

or, Butchering Our Language Isn't Just For The Ignorant Indigents Anymore!

Hey kids! Tired of speaking "correctly"? Has your native tongue lost its pizzazz? Then be just like me and twist your English just slightly to create and fun and flavorful new way of confusing everyone around you that I call "Funglish"!!!

First, replace all your "L"s with "R"s - like stereotypical broken Chinese English. (For instance: "I love Lemon Jelly" translates to: "I rove Remon Jerry")...

Next, put a "T" in front of words that start with "W"s (exempting all words beginning with a "wr" sound, like writing, wristband, etc.). For instance, I am fucking twith twords. Or my personal favorite new Fungrish word, twhatever...

Also, drop the "H" in any word that begins with it (i.e., "If it wasn't so 'ot today I would not be wearing this 'at.")

Now take any “th” sound you have and make it a simplistic and hearty “f” (as in, "fink with your mind, fank you.")

Last, put a "C'" ("ch" sound) in front of your "O"s and "Y"s. Like C'Yo! MTV Raps, c'okay?...

Twell, fat's it's for now. Just forrow fese arterations and c’you and c’yer friends wirr be giggring for ‘ours and ‘ours on end. Prease berieve. That's arr for now! Orra back girrs, and peace c'out, c'y'arr!

A FUNGRISH LETTER TO MY SISTER FOR HER BIRTHDAY

C’Oh, ‘erro Bairey! I didn’t see c’you fere. ‘Ow are c’you? I ‘ope c-your birfday is a super hyper mega urtimate reggae party! Courd c’you be roved? Probabry yes!, maybe.

Twhat would c’you rike for c’your birfday? A gift twirr be great, and ‘ow! No, but seriousry, I am werr. I ‘ope c’your are enjoying fis retter that I am writing to c’you currentry. Do you speak Japanese? I did, in the tenf grade! Now, I can’t even sperr Suzuki. ‘Ey, wait a frippin’ second… Ret me start over a new retter, much better!

‘Owday gangster! It’s been a rong time. I twas away for a twhire battring the snow gob Ubangi and shoverring his frosty excrement. Are you stirr fancy? Isn’t it fun praying twif Fungrish? I fink arr the coor kids should be doing it by next c’year! Are c’you a fan of tongue twister charrenges? ‘Ow about then c’you furrow me in a whirrwind of wacky wordiness:

She serrs sea serrs down by fe sea shore.
‘Ow much twood twourd a twoodchuck chuck if a twoodchck courd chuck twood?
Twhich twitch twished twif twhich twicked twish?
Terrence totarry tipped two tough titties towards feir tairs.
C’old c’oiry c’Orrie c’oirs c’ord c’oily c’Ordsmobires.
Firty fick fhistres trickre frough firsty twist tricks.
Bark bark, I’m a doggy.

Now that that was fun, twasn’t it, ret’s wrap this retter up, twhy not?

Since c’you are now two and two again, but not four, I am searching for some twisdom advice to betow upon your ripe cranium. Can you berieve fis is ‘appening? I remember in twhat seemed like c’yesterday the care free years I spent as a spored onry chird. No ronger on March 1, 1986, twhen c’you came arong. But c’you twere a cute baby, I heard c’once.

Arr in arr, I rike c’your styre and mannerisms. C’your make greatness in sisters. If I tried I probabry courd not even find, twish or create a suitabre repracement. Can I borrow five dorrars? I wourd rike to buy c’you a frower arrangement. And a ‘at for c’your ‘ead if your ‘air farrs out from c’your skull. C’you are twonderful, and c’once some bigry-ass bitch was trying to talk arr kinds of smack about c’you and c’your tways but I tord fem, “Twhatever, tark to my ‘and a minute and I wirr show c’you twhat time it is!” That wirr show fem.

Rove arways,
C'Your Brofer
Aaron ‘Ernandez