Albums That Will Eternally Have A Place In My Heart: Def Leppard-"Hysteria" (1987)

For quite a while now, I've had the idea to discuss some of the albums that have had the greatest impacts on me. Now this isn't to say that the albums have necessarily held up over the years, although I still own most, if not all of them. I'm also not trying to argue that these are the best releases from each artist/band. No, I'm simply creating a list of albums that marked specific points in my life. Some of these albums were first heard or purchased on or near specific occurrences while others simply made me feel funny in my pants (I'll explain, don't worry.). I've broken out several of these discs out over the last few weeks and I can honestly say that I remember how I felt upon first (100+) listen(s). They will never be purged.

So, without further ado...I present to you...Def Leppard-"Hysteria."

If there is one thing that I know for certain, it is this: I started to notice girls mere minutes into my first listen of Def Leppard's album "Hysteria." It certainly didn't hurt that the album's opener was titled "Women," but that track was just the beginning. I swear that my voice dropped and I sprouted a shitty mustache over the next hour and several minutes. And this was before I saw any of the videos.

The album in question came out in 1987, but other than a few seconds here and there on the radio, I really didn't hear it until my sister brought a dubbed copy of it home from college one Friday night in the fall of 1988. And for this, I will forever be grateful to her.

As previously mentioned, it was a Friday night in the fall of 1988. I was in fifth grade. In 1988, it was the fashion for fifth graders to do absolutely nothing on Friday nights except perhaps sleep over at a friend's house, maybe catch some "Family Matters," etc, etc. My sis got home from a long week of classes at Shippensburg University sometime around 6, if my memory serves me correctly. After dinner, she began unpacking her laundry from the week and handed me a cassette with Def Leppard scribbled on the side. I was vaguely familiar with them. They had the one-armed drummer, right? I had heard a few seconds of "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and it seemed pretty cool. So, it sauntered over to my Panasonic boombox and tossed in the cassette. I can't remember for sure, but I don't think I spoke until the following Tuesday. The album was HUGE; unlike anything I had ever heard before. The guitars were bigger than life. Rick Allen's beats were thunderous (especially considering that he had/has 50% fewer arms than most people) and "Mutt" Lange's production was top-notch. There was absolutely nothing about this record that I didn't LOVE. The vocal harmonies were spot on, the lyrics were juuuust clear enough without being toooo clear. And even at the tender age of 11, I knew there was quite a bit of innuendo in these songs. I was blown away. This was music created by guys who constantly got laid for guys who constantly wanted to get laid. I suddenly wanted a Camaro. The urge to rip all the sleeves off of all my t-shirts was almost overwhelming. I wanted a one of those awful hands-free microphones that the bass-player wore in all the videos that depicted them playing live. Looking back, it's amazing I didn't accidentally become a father sometime in the summer of 1989 (Good thing my love affair with Tom Petty's "Full Moon Fever" happened when it did, but that's another story.).

In the coming weeks, I made numerous copies of this album for friends. Even at the tender age of 11, I recognized the value hidden away in miles and miles (feet and feet) of magnetic tape stored in this Memorex brand coffin. Sometime during this period, I began catching the videos that coincided with the release of the singles. "Armageddon It," "Pour Some Sugar On Me," "Rocket," "Love Bites" and "Hysteria" all seemed to be released mere minutes apart. The last two were kind of ballady, mid-tempo numbers that gave the band members an opportunity to catch their collective breaths between banging chicks and drinking beer. They were fine. But the first three were absolute barn-burners. These are the ones responsible for whisking me through puberty.

"Armageddon It" and "Pour Some Sugar On Me" were basically the same video: Live footage of the band playing the songs. Same concert. Same clothes (or lack thereof). Same hot groupies. These two songs, possibly the biggest, most popular singles on the entire record, were super-heavy to me in 1988. So heavy, in fact, that my friend Trevor and I would put the tape on a boombox in his garage and dunk on his (lowered to about 7 feet) basketball hoop for hours upon hours. We agreed that the album was full of psyche-songs (songs used to psyche oneself up) but agreed even more that those two tracks in particular were the epitome (although we didn't know that word) of awesome. So, the videos were pretty great, albeit normal. Nothing too crazy, but it was nice to be able to put faces to the sounds, if that makes sense. One thing that was drilled into my head as a result of these videos was that at least 75% of all rockers were allergic to shirts. They just couldn't wear them. I can only guess that they somehow hindered their abilities to obtain and subsequently maintain erections, but I can't be certain. The only consistent exception was the drummer who always seemed to wear t-shirts with his own face air-brushed on them. I can completely understand why a dude with one arm would not want to go shirtless, but c'mon...who wants to sleep with a guy who 1) sports an air-brushed shirt and 2) has his own face upon said shirt? OK, OK. EVERYONE, that's who. It didn't matter. They could have done anything and I would have thought it was incredible. The video for "Rocket" was badass as well. Tons of TVs showing tons of clips of England's premier glam and punk bands. It was so serious. Everything seemed to flash too quickly for my little fifth-grade mind to comprehend, but I loved it.

As I got older, I realized that what seemed to be so sexy and dangerous about this band, or rock in general, could easily be seen as homoerotic. Sure, 33 year-old me sees that, but 11 year-old me was sucked in and happy, for that matter. Was this Def Leppard's greatest album? Commercially, yes. But realistically? No. Did it, however, allow for the dropping of my voice a year or so early? Yes. Did it possibly act as a gateway album for other things heavy/sexy/dangerous? Possibly. Did I listen to it at work yesterday and still love every note of it? Absolutely.

Does It Still Hold Up?: Yes.
Is It Their Best Album?: No.
If No, What Is?: "Pyromania."
Do I Still Own A Copy Of This Album?: Yes. CD and LP.

The Hobo

So, as many of you already know, I recently purchased a ticket for my beautiful wife to go see one of her all-time favorite bands, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. Brenda has been in love with this band, and more specifically, Jon Spencer, for longer that I've known her. In fact, she loves the band's hunky front-man and namesake enough to have him as a rotating member of her *Top 5 List.

[*For anyone unfamiliar with the Top 5 List, the Top 5 List is a list of at least relatively famous people with whom one's significant other is entitled to "go all the way with" should the opportunity present itself. For example, Brenda's most recent lists have included Ryan Gosling and Taylor Kitsch from "Friday Night Lights." My list always has Rosario Dawson and almost always has former Russian ice-skater, *Katarina Witt. (*former skater, still Russian.) As the rules state, if a Top 5 member propositions the Top 5 list maker with any activity whatsoever, then said activity does not count as cheating seeing as though the odds of such a proposition is so far out of the realm of possibility. Understand?]

Now since this show is at a small club and my wife is a stone-cold fox, the chance of this type of "transaction" increases 10-fold. I have accepted this. And to combat the feelings of ineptitude and loneliness that I will undoubtedly feel after Brenda leaves to mary Mr. Explosion, I have devised the following plan: I am going to create a reality show called The Hobo.

Let me explain the inner workings of The Hobo. It will be almost identical to The Millionaire or The Bachelor in that I am going to essentially trick women into believing that I'm something that I am not. But whereas the guy on The Millionaire poses as some regular turd only to expose himself as a millionaire, I am going to pose as a regularturde only to expose myself as a drifter, or more specifically, a hobo. I'm going to shave my beard, hide my jaw-harp and lock away all my Tom Waits cds. And as much as it pains me to do so, I will refrain from eating *beans out of cans. (*I have never eaten beans out of cans.)

At the end of every round, I will line up all the unsuspecting women and present a stick and bindle to each lady who I feel will ultimately love me who I am, revealing tiny pieces of myself as the show goes on. You know, "accidentally" stumbling across a jar of moonshine in my fridge. Or strategically placing a *Boxcar Willie cd on a counter-top. (*I do not own a Boxcar Willie cd.) This will surely weed out the harlots who are only interested in my passion for soccer, black metal and raw fish.

On the last episode, when I pick my future bride, I will unveil my true self and the abandoned train car that we will dwell in for the rest of our lives while I spend the rest of eternity trying to figure out how Jon Spencer managed to steal my wonderful wife away from me. I think it could be a big hit. I mean I'd watch it.

So, in conclusion, I do not want my wife to leave me for Jon Spencer, or anyone for that matter, but fair is fair and he is on her list. But ultimately, I feel that it is a good idea to have a back-up plan. And The Hobo, no matter how far-fetched, is my plan. Now pass me some beans!!

Currently blasting: Chalk Circle-"Reflection"

Yes, We Have Lots of Bananas

First of all, I'm not going to acknowledge that it's been almost one year since my last post on this blog. But I guess that by not acknowledging it, I fully acknowledged it. (Please ignore the previous sentences.)

So, this story has less to do with absenteeism and more to do with bananas. More specifically: My love of bananas and the ridiculous things I end up doing with them and their peels. A few weeks ago, I threw a banana in my car to eat later in the day. For one reason or another, I forgot about the banana and left it in my car, eventually throwing in the back seat. That weekend, Isaac stayed at my parents' house. So, on that Sunday, Rosalie and I made the trek to McAlisterville to pick Isaac up. On the way home, I heard Isaac yelling at his sister saying, "Rosie, put that down!!" I briefly turned around to see Rosie eating through the peel of the banana; bringing it to her mouth much like one would play a harmonica. I grabbed it out of her hands and threw it on the passenger-side floor.

A few days later, while I was leaving work, I smelled the faint odor of a banana. After having already starting my drive home, I found the banana on the floor, right where I had tossed it just days earlier. Not wanting to leave it in my car and wanting even less to toss it out my car window for fear of being reported as a litter-bug, I did what any reasonable person would have done: I opened my sunroof and placed the old banana on my roof.

After a block or two, my crappy short-term memory kicked in and I immediately forgot about my attempt to free the banana. That is, until I came to the intersection of Maclay and 6th Street. I was the first car at the light. The first car on the perpendicular street ahead and to my right was waiting to make a left turn onto 6th Street. As we were both waiting, I saw him gaze upon the roof of my car in wonderment. Finally, he rolled down his window and motioned to let me know that something was sitting on my windshield. I gave him the "I know, I know" gesture and smiled. A few moments later, he made his left turn, pulled right beside me, rolled his window down the rest of the way and said "Yo! There's something on your roof." So I countered, "Yes, yes. It's a banana. I know." He rolled off and I flew home.

When I arrived home, I was disappointed to find that the banana had remained on my car. The plan was to jettison said banana without physically tossing it myself. I had failed. For the next three days, I drove from Carlisle to Harrisburg with a banana stuck to my trunk. Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, I wrapped the weathered banana around the top of my driver-side mirror in a last-ditch effort to get rid of the damned thing. (NOTE: My wife was proud of me the entire time. Don't believe her if she tells you otherwise.)

I got to work, the banana was gone. Huzzah!!

In a related story, I used to throw my banana peels on the roof of the Capital City Mall over the last three years that I worked there. I later heard from a very dear friend of mine that one morning after a particularly stormy night, he showed up to work to find tons of banana peels all over the parking lot. VICTORY!!! Maybe my next challenge will involve watermelon rinds.

Currently blasting: Ponytail-"Do Whatever You Want All The Time"

Philadelphia Phree-Phor-All Part II: Circle Pits + Meatheads + Punches to the Face=Major Drag/Canada Wins!!!

Alright, so, the show started out innocently enough: About 60 or so awkward, black-t-shirt-sporting metal fans in attendance to see Bison B.C. totally wreck house (the "B.C." stands for "British Columbia."). They were one of the finest openers that I've seen in a while. Metal...crust punk...sludge. They had it all; and beards to boot. Great stuff! Black Cobra, from SF, came on next. They're on Southern Lord, so my expectations were somewhat high. Unfortunately, the were boring as shit. I generally get more enjoyment out of mowing the lawn. (In fairness, I LOVE mowing the lawn.) The drummer did all the work while the guitarist/vocalist pretty much acted strangely and played at a mediocre level. Zero points for the U.S. Then came Priestess (Canada). I'm a huge fan, so I was especially excited. Although their beard quotient was somewhat less than that of Bison B.C., they were incredible! Seriously,they were insane. The dual guitar harmonies set the place ablaze. Not to mention, they were some of the coolest cats around. Very humble and entertaining: two things I've never been accused of being. They burned the place down right before High on Fire came out.

Now, something I've failed to mention up until this point: For nearly the entire duration of the show, I stood behind this guy who was essentially a spittin' image of John Goodman's character from "The Big Lebowski." I mean, he looked just like him...other than the long ponytail coming out of his bandanna and the way he beat his chest while singing the Dio songs blaring from the PA. I actually tasted this poor bastard's hair on several occasions that night. Boo!!

Anyway, as High on Fire's roadies set-up, the crowd swelled. More than anything, I noticed how the jock: metal dude ratio started to slant uncomfortably in favor of the jocks. Finally, the lights went down and High on Fire took the stage. As they went into the beginning of the first song, it was very apparent that Matt Pike (one of the most sun-abused men ever)'s guitar was not working. Roadies came out in an attempt to fix the problem before the track really kicked in, but it was to no avail. They had to stop the song before it really started and figure out the problem. Pike looked disappointed and I honestly expected the whole church to burst into flames, but luckily, that didn't happen.

High on Fire played a few songs and the place absolutely erupted! For the first several songs, I found myself working harder to stay upright than to experience the set. During the third song, I saw some dude find and reapply his contact lens...in a very metal fashion, I might add. Then, within about 15 seconds, I saw one cat get knocked out cold while "moshing" and another kid get cold-cocked right in the nose by one of the aforementioned meatheads. With blood everywhere, the kid pretty much gave up and tried to let the guy know that he wasn't going to continue. Unfortunately, the hitter (as opposed to the "hitee,") didn't seem into the gesture. Onlookers eventually pulled the two apart. High on Fire muscled through a fantastic, although muddy-sounding, set. Score one for the U.S. It was easily one of the loudest shows I've ever been to. At certain points, I actually felt dizzy. I've finally seen High on Fire. On this night, however, Priestess stole the show. Canada won, 2-1, but more importantly, Justin and I survived the noise, the violence and the sea of spilled beer of which the floor bore the brunt. Overall, a great night. The next day at work sucked, but at least I have several stories to tell.

Currently blasting: Mi Ami-"Steal Your Face"

Philadelphia Phree-Phor-All Part I: Q: Who's Got the 10 1/2? A: Not me.

I got out of work at 4:30 Tuesday afternoon. I then met up with my man, Justin, and we high-tailed it to Philly for a night of stoner metal featuring the likes of High on Fire, Priestess, Bison B.C. and Black Cobra. After stopping for gas, drinks and over-priced pizza, we were on our way; eating up highway at 80 mph in my trusty ride. We got to the venue a bit early, so we decided to backtrack a few blocks to a Dunkin' Donuts where we could purchase cold beverages and use the facilities. On the way there, a forty-something, stocky dude told me that he liked my shirt. On the evening in question, I was sporting my Black Flag "Slip It In" shirt feature the Raymond Pettibon illustration of a nun holding onto a hairy arm (leg?). Classic. I mumbled a 'thanks' in his direction and we moved along.

****SIDE NOTE: Punk and metal shows always seem to function as pissing contests for people with band t-shirt collections. The idea is to sport whatever shirt could potentially make the most hipsters collectively share the greatest amount of jealousy. This is why I am usually more apt to wear my James Brown shirt to a show than almost any other shirt in my collection, because it doesn't really qualify in the fashion show. If I still had it and it still fit, I would also wear my 'Archie Bunker for President' t shirt that I got from my grandma years ago. On the morning of the show, I grabbed the closest non-black t-shirt I had, no agenda in mind. Big mistake.

So, anyway, Justin and I made it back to church where we meandered about for bit as we waited for the show to start. Bison B.C. came on around 7:45 and absolutely killed it. Score one for Canada! As they were tearing down and Black Cobra prepared to set-up, I ventured over to the merch tables to see if anything looked good. (Best piece of the night: High on Fire tote bag with the Pontiac Firebird logo.) On my way to said table, who do I run into but the Black Flag fan from earlier. This time, he stopped me and formally expressed his love of Black Flag. After indulging him with what seemed like half a dozen handshakes, we briefly talked about our favorite eras of the band as well as our favorite albums. I referenced Rollins-era Black Flag as sounding like a bulldozer running into a wall and he mentioned his man-crush over "Who's Got The 10 1/2?" at least once for each handshake he pressured me into only moments before. It was apparent that my portly, forty-something friend was intoxicated. I gave him the old "see ya later" but didn't mean it. He did.

After Black Cobra's painfully boring set came to a close, I took a stroll to the back of the room to flip through a couple boxes of used cds that some guy was selling. Nothing really caught my eye so I headed back to the spot that Justin and I had planted ourselves for the first two bands. I turned around and an extended hand was waiting for my shaking. It was "10 1/2 Man." It was almost like we hadn't spoken twice within the last hour. He told me how big of a fan he was of Black Flag...especially...you guessed it..."Who's Got The 10 1/2." This time, he had an open bottle of Miller Lite in one hand and an open Pabst Blue Ribbon pounder in the other. He talked about his infatuation with Henry Rollins and how Henry is really only about "this tall";according to this man, Henry Rollins is about 4'7". I said "wow" and "cool" a lot in an effort to humor him. At the end of his lengthy monologue, he asked, "So...what do you think about 'Who's Got the 10 1/2?'?" To which I said, "It's my FAVORITE album!!" He nearly lost his shit. I gave him the old "see ya later" one last time and dodged him the rest of the night. I'm not gonna wear that shirt again any time soon.

NOTE: The story behind the name of Black Flag's live LP, "Who's Got The 10 1/2?" is that one of the members allegedly had, and hopefully still has, a 10 1/2" member. Seeing as though there was a girl in the band at the time, it pretty much limits the owner to Greg Ginn, the apparently dwarf-like Henry Rollins or Anthony Martinez (?). I'm gonna go with Ginn.

Currently blasting: Black Flag-"Slip It In"

Whacks

Since I've been so enthralled with making stop-motion movies these past few weeks, and I'm a huge vinyl fan, I thought to myself, "What if I were to combine the two? Would the world implode? Probably, but I'm willing to take that chance." When the conversation in my mind ended, I began creating the following. I definitely missed some gems, but the goal was to get as much finished as I could before Isaac and Rosalie woke up. Maybe I'll make a sequel sometime soon. Who knows? Enjoy!

Fear does not exist in this dojo (but questions do).

At this very moment, I am watching the second installment of one of the greatest quadrilogies the world has ever seen: The Karate Kid. This installment, "Karate Kid II: The Search for Daniel's Dignity," is better than the next two adventures, but not as good as the original. But when I was younger, this was all I cared about. In fact, I saw this exact movie in the theater and it blew my mind.

Some things have stood the test of time, while others have not. One of the constants has been Pat Morita's bottomless supply of humor. Such as this gem:

Daniel: Can you break a log like that, Mr. Miyagi?
Mr. Miyagi: Don't know. Never attacked by tree.

Good God! That shit STILL brings the house down. Unfortunately, Ralph Macchio doesn't stand the test of time quite as well. In 1986, I found him to be the absolute coolest cat ever to get beaten up by Billy Zabka. Twenty-four years later, I find him to be so annoying that I not only feel as though Zabka was possibly given a bad rap, but also that Elizabeth Shue could have done much, much better. With the exception of the following three items:

1. "Aw, C'moooonnn."
2. "Whoa!"
3. "Ouch!"

he only asks questions. How aggravating! And seriously, dude. Take off that stupid headband. You look ridiculous. And it has to smell like a mixture of Drakkar Noir, Aquanet and sweat at this stage in the game.

When I originally saw the movie, I thought that the whole drum-technique-expressed-through-the-doll-thing was kind of interesting. At present, I think that a cameo by Stewart Copeland would have been more effective in conveying a drum technique.

Either way, I own the boxed set (Good lookin' out Laura Kicey!) and I will continue to love the franchise, but after all these years Mr. Miyagi's eternal wit and charm trump any and all whining done by his zany sidekick.

R.I.P., Pat Morita. Your performances in the Karate Kid movies are matched only by your appearance in that Tony's Pizza commercial once upon a time.

Currently blasting: Peter Cetera-"Glory of Love"