Tim Anderson's Blog, page 9

See Tim Review: Echoes and Rhymes by The Primitives

Both of my regular readers might recall that one of the bands I loved in high school back in the late '80s was the Primitives, a Coventry, England-based outfit led by vocalist Tracy Tracy and guitarist Paul Court. It wasn't just because I'm a sucker for leather-jacketed dudes with slicked-back hair rocking out while a classy  dame with moxie to burn cooed and snarled into the microphone. Nor was it merely because they had a lyric that went "Who's that boy with the turquoise head / walking 'round like he's still in bed?" It was also because they had the musical chops to back up their surface charms. The Primitives specialized in a wonderfully infectious style of guitar pop that was equal parts Blondie swagger, '60s girl group sweetness, and scuzzy, fuzzy, Jesus and Mary Chain–style chainsaw ruckus. Their self-released early singles, such as "Really Stupid," "Stop Killing Me," and "Thru the Flowers," put them on the map and got them a record deal with RCA. Morrissey was even seen around town/in the cemetery with a Primitives T-shirt on. 









You might know them for their most famous single, "Crash," which hit the Top 10 in the UK and was a big college radio hit in the US. The accompanying album Lovely was a classic pop masterpiece with ear worms galore, like "Buzz Buzz Buzz," "Run Baby Run," and "I'll Stick With You." It was a smash hit in Britain and a moderate success in the States that sadly has mostly gone unremembered in the intervening years. 










    


Their second record, Pure, was more polished and psychedelic, but still delivered the pop candy the band had become famous for. (Well, famous in England, which, in stateside parlance, is kind of like being really really big in Buffalo.) But by the time of its release, the Primitives had already reached their sell-by date with the British music press, which had already moved on to Madchester (to be replaced by shoegaze to be replaced by Nirvana) and was ready to get on to the gleefully vicious backlash that was due any UK band with the nerve to stick around for more than a few years, no matter how catchy their singles were. ("Tracy who?") Their glossy, sometimes treacly, but still fun-filled final album, Galore, wasn't even released in the US and sank like a stone in the UK. The band called it quits soon afterwards. 




In the past few years, a new generation of young hipsters have been taking their cues, wittingly or not, from the template set by the band. A direct line can be drawn between the Primitives and, for example, the Raveonettes, the Dum Dum Girls, the Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Best Coast, Frankie Rose, and Vivian Girls. It was the advent of this collection of acts that brought the Primitives name back into circulation a few years ago.




































I certainly never thought we'd hear from them again. Tracy Tracy, I figured, was surely now a designer of china doll lingerie living in the south of France. Paul Court was probably a hip high school band teacher in Brighton, and the drummer was... playing drums for scraps of food in Leicester Square? Maybe. Anyway, they were living their separate lives now, like Phil Collins and whoever that woman was who did that terrible duet with him back in 1985.





Fast forward to 2009, when the band members reunited under sad circumstances--the funeral of their original bassist Steve Dullaghan. This grief-tinged reunion led to the band deciding to make music together again. They did a small British tour and even did a one-off show in Brooklyn that I went to and wet myself over. They re-emerged last year with an excellent four-track EP, Never Kill a Secret, which featured their first new material in 21 years, and it was smashing. Now they've finally unleashed another full album, Echoes and Rhymes, and it's the best thing they've done since Lovely.




Echoes and Rhymes is an album of covers of obscure tracks from the '60s (a few from the '70s), but because most of these songs are unknown, this expertly performed, produced, and sequenced record feels, for all intents and purposes, like an album of Primitives originals. Single "Turn Off the Moon" was originally performed by Sue Lyon, who played the titular role of Lolita in Stanley Kubrick's 1962 film, when she was only 14. Tracy Tracy makes the song her own, though, as she does with other zippy tunes like "Move It On Over" (a LeGrand Mellon song), "Single Girl" (Sandy Posey), "I'm Not Saying" (originally by Nico), and "Time Slips Away" (Shocking Blue). The songs have full, muscular arrangements (my favorite kind), and there is no filler. The band sounds cocked and freaking ready for it, and Tracy's vocals absolutely shimmer. Clocking in at a mere thirty-five minutes, it leaves you eager for another fabulous outing by this criminally underappreciated band.



TRACY, PAUL, COME TO NYC AGAIN! (And Paul, cut your hair.)



In conclusion, here is my favorite moment from the Primitives' Brooklyn show last year.









Full SeeTimBlog Primitives coverage here.

I'm Already Tired of Killjoys Pissing on Obama's Gay Marriage Endorsement (Because F*ck Gawker)

I know people have to write things and get page views for a living, especially the twelve-year-old lackeys over at Nick Denton's Circle Jerk Factory, aka Gawker, so it's incumbent on them to have provocative, link-worthy opinions on everything from NYC media figures no one cares about to John Travolta's massage preferences to the latest side boob extravaganza. They are sometimes very insightful! But shitting on the POTUS for coming out for gay marriage but not doing it exactly as you wanted is just stupid, sorry.



I grew up in North Carolina, which, way before it was known for voting against the gays, was known for repeatedly and gleefully re-electing famous knuckle dragger Jesse Helms to the U.S. Senate. (We never voted him out--he retired and then died, the fucker.) When I was in high school, the thought of President Ronald Reagan declaring that gay people deserve to live/not die of AIDS, much less asserting that they should be able to have access to public institutions shared by the other 98 percent of the country, was a hilarious pipe dream. (Ha ha, pipe dream.) The idea of the President even having a pro-gay record to speak of (let's not forget the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell, his recording of an "It Gets Better" video,  expanding same-sex benefits for families of folks working in the executive branch, the decision by his Justice Department to no longer defend the Defense of Marriage Act, signing the hate-crimes act into law, lifting the travel/immigration ban for people living with HIV)? Even more hilarious. Which is why seeing a post entitled "Barack Obama's Bullshit Gay Marriage Announcement" on Gawker today is just so very irritating.



Sure, it would be great if Barry dispensed with the "state by state" rhetoric so beloved of Republicans. But guess what, children: Barry is the fucking President of the United Freaking States and he's up against a shit-ton of bollocks being thrown his way constantly forever by a certifiably insane right-wing who has been amazingly adept at not inspiring the electorate-at-large to tell it to just STFU with its constant stream of idiotic, schizophrenic claptrap. He came out with an eloquent defense of gay marriage that, guess what, probably a lot of folks--left, right, and center--can relate to: He knows gay people, knows their families, and at the end of the day just can no longer see the reason for them to be a separate category of people. Was it some sort political calculation? WHO CARES THIS IS A SPECIAL DAY DO NOT SPOIL IT YOU SNOT-NOSED BRATS. It's nice that a political calculation benefits the gays for once, GAH.



Can't we all just strip down, oil up, lay back, and suck in slowly the breathtaking poetry of Barry doing this on the same day that North Carolina decides to show its ass again, to the world, because fuck it? Really, this is the most amazing Day in Gay News since Margaret Thatcher came out as a trannie. (That wasn't just a dream of mine, right?)





In conclusion, I think it was this photo I sent to Barry and Michelle last night that really spurred him to do the right thing. How can you say 'no' to a cat this sad and a gay face this judgy?

Bookshelf Bombshells Reviews Tune in Tokyo

Great news, everyone: The great ladies over at Bookshelf Bombshells have given Tune in Tokyo a fantastic review, and it's one of the funnest I've received. A really nice Monday surprise.



This is my new favorite Internet website, obviously.

three-fingered viola playing dept: simpleshapes at the rock shop, brooklyn

so, i know you are all wondering whether, in the wake of the horrific attack on my finger last week by a massive truck, i would be able to play simpleshapes' gig four days later. the answer is: kind of! i couldn't use my index finger at all so i had to do all my fingering (yes, fingering) with my other three digits, which was hard, gah.



the point is, i mostly played okay but i hit a few terrible notes, so just ignore those.

horrific injuries dept: big-ass truck edition

sorry for the long silence, loyal reader, but i do have a good reason. last tuesday i was in a terrible bicycle accident that fractured my index finger and robbed me not only of my beloved fingernail but also of a lot of blood and buckets of little girl tears. it was painful!



it's the world's oldest story: bicyclist approaches the intersection of Houston and 1st Avenue and sees that a truckosaurus is blocking the bike lane, bicyclist stays behind the truck as it turns left and, as it slowly moves forward, looks behind him to see if there's any oncoming vehicles so he can go around the truck to continue straight on 1st, bicyclist turns back around and sees the truck has inexplicably stopped, bicyclist swerves to avoid hurtling into the truck but instead slams into the back, bicyclist scampers to get out of the street only realizing when he gets to the other side that his hand is a blood fountain and his finger looks like it was gnawed on by a wild boar.



cue ambulance, waiting room, waiting, blood, white hot pain, waiting, x-rays, stitches, sutures, hair, make-up, wardrobe, nausea, all of it. the photo above is of the aftermath of my residency at the bellevue emergency room. i also have photos of my finger, but they will make you hurl, so i'm holding back and not posting them.

obviously, after such a harrowing experience followed by two days of painkillers, one-handed typing, and worrying whether i'd ever play my viola again, i needed a drink.











on friday i went to the bellevue hand clinic and they made me a splint that looks like a ballet flat. people think it's adorable, which undermines me utterly, because what my dancing finger shoe hides is a world of pain and horror. I'VE GOT NO NAIL AND MY FINGER LOOKS LIKE HELLRAISER! how am i supposed to make people appreciate this when my finger constantly looks like it's about to break out into song and do the two-step with Mickey Rooney?











in conclusion, sad face.

Jukebox: Primitives!

Okay, I'm ridiculously excited about the Primitives' new album Echoes and Rhymes, which comes out at the end of the month. It's a covers album of obscure pop songs from the 60s and 70s, and above is the first single. You might remember the Primitives from their 1988 hit "Crash," but they're so much more than that! Their first album Lovely contained a ton of bliss pop nuggets that were equal parts Blondie, Jesus and Mary Chain, and Shangri Las. Yes. Go get it.

Their last release was last year's fab EP Never Kill a Secret, which I wrote about here. Go get it. And this new album is their first full-length in 22 years. (Good GOD, 1991 is that long ago?)

Full Primitives coverage here.

Dear H&M on 5th and 18th, Please Hire Some More Staff/Get More Registers, For F**k Sake

Now, I love H&M, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Those who know me know I'm no clothes horse. If I look good when I go out of the house, it's purely by happenstance or accident or, perhaps, because of H&M. I love that I can just go in there, find a piece of clothing I like (like the stretchy cotton collared short-sleeve tops!), and then just buy it in five different colors, and BAM, I'm all set for however long it takes me to wear them the fuck out.

But, H&M, there are limits to my enthusiasm. Let's be clear: yes, I do visit your 5th Avenue store (at 18th) regularly whenever I'm in the mood for some stretchy cotton, but the thing is--and I think most human folk will agree with me--standing in a line this long to buy f-ing clothes is not something I wish to do. It's just not. I'll wait in a line this long to see Dolly Parton. Or to get some good gumbo. Or to watch Michael Fassbender eat a corn dog. But, H&M, I will not wait in a line this long to buy your stupid clothes, as much as I want them clinging to my body.

I stopped by yesterday to pick up a few things because I need to replenish my warm-weather wardrobe. As usual, I had to bite my tongue and deal with having to wait in your stupid long line, which stretched all the way across the entire f**king store, well into women's wear, and nearly to the door. Above is a photo of how close I was to the register. Below is a picture of how close I was to the exit. Is this acceptable? No it is not. I don't care how delightfully and efforttlessly bitchy your cashiers are, I'll take my business elsewhere because this is New York City and this town is fully of bitchy cashiers ready willing and able to get me out of their damn store as quickly as possible because fuck me, right?

Get your shit together, H&M, Jesus.

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Keith Haring Exhibit at Brooklyn Museum

Eighties gays that we are, Jimmy and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see the Keith Haring exhibit here in Brooklyn, and it was stupendous. So many dicks, y'all. So many dicks.


Three cocks, a heart, and a bunch of squiggles. Reminds me of the night I lost my virginity.


This one also reminds me of the night I lost my virginity.


Some Pig.


Such a cutie.



Just your normal everyday drawing of fallen angels f**king some dogs they found.


If you know anything about me you know that I can't leave a museum without photographing any freely available naked male statues. This one was a little small for my liking--probably half my size--but still quite handsome.


Another non-Keith work, included for obvious reasons. Now, this... this reminds me of the smoke breaks Jimmy likes to take in between painting me in the nude. And yes, my butt is that milky white.


Jimmy was really moved by this exhibit, and he was dropping some mad rhymes about it on the way to see The Hunger Games afterwards. I must say, he was getting pretty jiggy with it in a funkified psychedelic situation.

I've Started a Meme! (Must Credit Wonkette)

Hey, y'all, I'm internet famous for one day because my last post was picked up by the mighty Wonkette, yay, I'm gonna be rich! (Page views can be traded in for cash, right?)

See Tim Blog hasn't seen this much action since it spent the weekend as a fluffer in Palm Springs back in 1978. (Our arms are still sore.)

Smug Racist John Derbyshire's Got Me Thinking...

First of all, dear readers, I must apologize for placing a photo of a woefully unattractive old shitsack at the top of this post. It is lamentable! The shitsack in question is John Derbyshire, who, though he sounds like a bit player in a hilarious Jeeves and Wooster romp by PG Wodehouse, is actually a right-wing cartoon character who writes regularly for low-minded newsletter The National Review.

Yes, the horrifying collection of pixels above is of a maladjusted old fart who just hates black people so MUCH. Thankfully the internet gives him ample space to articulate his racial preferences, and last week he decided that he would, for a laugh, perform a stunning riff on a timely topic that has been much discussed and written about in the wake of the shooting death of Trayvon Martin: "The Talk" that black parents have to have with their male children to prepare them for their lives of being on the wrong end of the law/neighborhood watch all day, every day, forever, even if they're just walking down the road during halftime to get some Skittles.

So Derbyshire sets to typing and comes up with a "Talk" of his own, titled "The Talk: Nonblack Version," in which he gives sage advice to his children about how best to treat the entire black population of the country with complete and utter contempt. Amazingly, in the fallout from his screed, TNR fired him, probably for being too overt. (They like their racism subtle, in the style of a Limbaugh or a Drudge.)

But anyway, Jimmy and I were talking about this tonight and Derbyshire's really got us thinking. What if we were parents and had to prepare our children to fear/loathe an entire group of people? What group would we choose? Breeders, obviously!

Jimmy and I will never have children, of course, because we really just prefer cats. But if we did end up with child, "The Talk" we would have with our gay offspring (once they are able to communicate in full sentences/text messages) about the dangers of 97% of the population would probably look something like this:

THE TALK: GAY VERSION (SNAP!)



(1) Many people refer to "heterosexuals" as "straight." The better term is "breeders" because they are always going around having babies all over the place. Beware of them. They might try to get you to babysit while they go out and make more babies.

(2) Of course, Breeders should be treated with respect, just like any other person. But there are certain times when also they shouldn't.

(3) Breeders are statistically in the majority, which is why they have to be watched. They are power mad, and super paranoid about any non-Breeder feelings they might be having. These feelings usually manifest themselves in some dumb bullshit law or other that will restrict your right to marry the person you love. This is one of their favorite things to do, in fact, because they are spastic.

(4) Religious, right-wing breeders, especially, just cannot stop thinking about gay sex. They think about it more than you, just accept it. If you ever need some good/disgusting porn, just hack the computer of the most religious man on your block. He will have a mother load on his hard drive.

(5) Because they are so shifty and capricious, when you must deal with breeders, use statistical common sense:

(5a) Avoid concentrations of breeders not all known to you personally.

(5b) Stay out of neighborhoods that are heavily breedery. (Park Slope, most but not all of Utah)

(5c) If planning a trip to a beach, amusement park, or concert venue at some date, find out whether it is likely to be swamped with breeders on that date. If you do not plan in advance you may find yourself at a megachurch, a tailgating party, a football game, or the Country Music Awards. (They do not sell poppers at such events.)

(5d) Do not attend events likely to draw a lot of breeders, like hot dog eating contests, funerals, Big & Rich concerts, and confirmations.

(5e) Never go to Jamaica.

(5f) If you are at some public event at which the number of breeders suddenly swells, leave as quickly as possible. Such events might include a spring break beach party in Daytona, a Rick Warren book signing in Tulsa, or any bar in the Meat Packing District.

(5g) Do not settle in a district or municipality run by breeder politicians. They will never leave their wives for you. Never.

(5h) Before voting for a breeder politician, scrutinize his/her character much more carefully than you would a gay one. Because, really, if a dude sucks dick, he's got your best interests at heart, just vote for him. (Unless he looks like John Derbyshire.)

(5i) Do not act the Good Samaritan to breeders in apparent distress, e.g., on the highway. They will probably just try to sell you some khaki pants out of the trunk of their car.

(5j) If accosted by a strange breeder in the street, like Phyllis Schlafly or Tony Danza, smile and say something polite but keep moving. They just want relationship advice or a free haircut.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

You don't have to follow my version of the talk point for point; but if you are gay or lesbian or some combination of the two and have kids, you owe it to them to give them some version of the talk. It will save them a lot of time and trouble spent figuring things out for themselves. It may save their social lives.