Elvis Costello And The Attractions // This Year's Model

Notes:

Released in 1978

MoFi Original Master Recording #025234
180G Black

Favorite Track:
Then: "Lipstick Vogue" 

Now: "Lipstick Vogue"

A

Let me start by saying I hate my version of this record. The UK versions include "(I Don't Want To Go To) Chelsea" which is easily in my top three songs Elvis Costello and The Attractions ever penned. I went full nerd mode and wanted the 180G original master blah blah blah, but didn't assume  it would omit one of my favorite tracks. So suffice it to say the version of this record I fell in love with was purchased at Recycled Records in Reno, NV, for less than $10 and is VG - at best. It turns out that good songwriting is vastly more important than fidelity. That said, this record sounds fucking incredible.

I've made a long-overdue upgrade to my system in the form of a Pro-Ject Debut Carbon Esprit SB in piano black. It feels like the bass drum got its own speaker. It's wild. Like dating an ex after a prolonged period; new and familiar at the same time. My longtime roommate and best friend, Tim, used to give me shit about my AV obsession. I've ruined no less than a dozen movies tweaking the frequency crossover of subwoofers mid-movie. He's caught me at home with a calibration disc more times than he's caught me with a girl. He always used to give me shit about the money, time, and mental real-estate I'd spend perseverating over tiny audio details.

One day I'm in my room and Tim Kramer's through my door. "Fine! You're right. You're fucking right," he begrudgingly exclaims.

I have no idea what he's talking about.

As I sit here in the perfect equilateral triangle between my tower speakers listening to this record after having gingerly applied a forty year-old Discwasher brush, I realize I should have known what he was talking about. He continues, "I was listening to This Year's Model on my record player and it's not even the same record as when we listen on your setup. It's not even the same fucking record. You're going to ruin me." Not the first person to utter those words to me. He would go on to bemoan watching The West Wing anywhere other than our living room on a once-coveted 40" Sony Trinitron XBR, my holy grail of televisions.

B

Let me be clear: I don't really care about hi-fi systems. The point of great equipment is to get out of the way. It should be invisible. It should be a conduit for the art. You should forget the apparatus and get lost in Bruce Thomas' musical and innovative bass lines. Speak of the devil, "Lipstick Vogue" just came on. His contributions cannot be overstated. I'm geeking out so hard right now. I stopped writing until the song ended. Trading "Chelsea" for "Radio Radio" is so American.

Elvis Costello has me thinking about solo artists. I am of the opinion that his best work was with The Attractions and I am not particularly interested in his solo career. Here's where I get real American Psycho. Outside of a handful, and I do stress the numerically quantifiable handful of five, most solo artists produced more consistent and more interesting art in the context of their respective bands.

Some qualifiers: I play bass. Am I biased against virtuosic songwriters who think they don't need their supporting band? A fair query, but I submit a band provides something essential to our warrior-poet troubadours. Let's operate under the assumption they are all artists of singular talent and vision. Even if they write every song, lyric, and time change, having someone you've worked with for years whose sole job is to think about laying down the perfect details to your magnum opus can't hurt. So unless you're the Stanley Kubrick of rock 'n' roll, sit down, Bitch. Be humble. Respect the rhythm section.

I was whining about this to someone who's both profoundly important to me and who possesses impeccable music taste (they often go hand in hand) who responded with a pragmatic response: life gets in the way. Perhaps the artist wished to continue working with their band, but maybe some members aren't as dedicated, perhaps they wanted to start a family, or tour less. Would I prefer to not have any music from them at all? Of course not.

People should make art until the last shovel of dirt covers their casket. Elvis Costello is still playing music. And that's a miracle which should be shouted from the rooftops. We are lucky to have him in any capacity still making music. He's a gift for the ages. And his solo stuff is solid, certainly worthy of positivity and praise. But for a series of records in the late 70s and early 80s, he and The Attractions made magic. They produced unicorns.

And those are the records I'll never forget.

Murder City Devils // In Name And Blood

Notes:

Released in 2000

First press on black

Favorite Track: Then: "Rum To Whiskey" 

Now: "Someone Else's Baby"

A

In the 1999 I transferred from a high school too poor to allow its students to share books for its Spanish program to a community college pilot program. Essentially you'd take college courses and still graduate high school. I'll never forgive myself for taking two full semesters before realizing 9AM classes are to be avoided like 2020 handshakes.

The experience was a fucking gift. I met some all-time desert island people and for the first time felt like I belonged. One of the people I met there would go on to define several chapters of my life. Enter: Jade. Jade was rock and roll as fuck. She wore retro glasses and usually some kind of bandana. She was slight of frame and spoke like she was made of glass. But holy shit did she dig some killer bands. She dropped the Murder City Devils S/T in my lap like it was nothing. This motherfucker was howling about Iggy Pop rolling in broken glass and I never fell in love with a record faster. Jade later got me into Tom Waits and we took PE together the following summer because we needed it to graduate. She dated my best friend and that's a whole other story.

Fast forward to the summer of 2000. The underground had been exploding. My buddy Jawsh used to say, "Indie isn't a genre. It's just alternative that hasn't gotten popular yet. Mark my words, Dude. Jimmy Eat World is going to be huge."  At The Drive-In just released Relationship of Command  (a record which most certainly will make this list sooner rather than later) and announced a tour with the Murder City Devils in the fall.
    

B

News of the this tour shook Reno. Literally every person I liked planned on making the four hour drive to see them perform at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco. But as Tarantino pointed out in a Pulp Fiction b-side, "There are two types of people in the world: Beatles people and Elvis people. Now Beatles people can like Elvis, and Elvis people can like Beatles, but nobody likes them both equally. Somewhere you have to make a choice. And that choice tells you who you are."

At The Drive-In are Beatles people and the Murder City Devils are Elvis people. And Reno had to fucking choose. And everyone insisted on knowing your answer. At the time I was playing in a trashy rock 'n roll band AND a screamo post-hardcore band. I refused to answer for months. It wasn't until the drive down I let my allegiances slip. While warbling the verse of "One Armed Scissor" to my captive audience, I shouted, "I'm an At The Drive-In man!"

The show, however, changed my mind. ATDI was unhinged. They were raging like a wild fire, but it was thirty seconds into "Ebroglio" before I even recognized what song it was. MCD, however, put on a rock 'n roll sermon. Leslie indulged her parts with a cigarette in one hand. Spencer wrestled with he mic like it owed him money.  I fell in love with Coady as a drummer. It was perfect. I walked in a Beatles man, and walked out an Elvis man. Twenty years has not changed my mind.

Moss Icon // It Disappears

Notes:

Released in 1994

Hand Silkscreened cover on reclaimed LP sleeve

First press on black

Favorite Track: "Gravity"

A

This is a big one. So big I avoided it until now. It is with great trepidation and qualification I name Moss Icon's It Disappears my favorite record. It makes my bristle to say it, like picking a favorite child. Every parent has one, but looks over their shoulder as they say it. What is a favorite (cf Experiment 1)?  I certainly haven't listened to it more often than dozens of other records. I haven't played it in a year. But to answer myself from a half decade ago, I don't think my declaration is disingenuous. I must carve out a new slot between play frequency and intellectual posturing for favorites.

This record, using a phrase my buddy Tim coined (perhaps stolen from my other good buddy Ryan, who almost certainly stole it from someone profound), saves me. And I don't mean it in the hyperbolic, "Music saved my life" bumper sticker wisdom. I've never been on the precipice only to be pulled back by a record. And while my life's course was certainly guided by music, it never needed saving. Music saved my life from boredom. It saved me from ever believing the world is devoid of beauty. It rescues me from despair. This record, and countless others, are a rope in a deep well. They implore me to climb out of the morass. I have no doubt I would still be here without music, but I wouldn't be the same person. Maybe I'm just being an asshole about admitting music did save my life, and that my beliefs can be distilled into a bumper sticker.

Moss Icon was a DC hardcore band in the late 80s. And they ruled. Their Lyburnum LP is best in breed. It's powerful and emotional. In high school, I had to read my favorite poem to the class. I read the lyrics to "Kick The Can." Their records were pretty rare. The only copy of their Lyburnum I'd ever seen belonged to my friend Jawsh, who plays in a great band called VHS now. I must have searched fifty record stores' used bins for their albums before finally tracking one down. When I got it, it didn't disappoint. I played it on repeat for a month.

Years later I finally tracked down a copy of their second record, It Disappears. It does not rock. Not even a little. Gone was the fury of youth, the aggression which echoed the aggression I felt toward an indifferent teenage world. What the fuck was this record?! Where was the fucking rock?!

I was severely disappointed. My love for their first record set an expectation of what this record should be instead of taking it for face value. I would put it on when I was in the mood to destroy and it didn't deliver. And I resented the band for it. The record sat largely unplayed on my shelf for months.
    

B

The B-Side has a live version of "I'm Back Sleeping Or Fucking Or Something," a ripper from Lyburnum. I would begrudgingly play the B-Side for the one track I could get into. And some late night, I let the record keep playing. The title track, and the only other song on the B-side, is an egregiously mixed, sprawling 15 minute live jam. And despite the awful recording, it's incredible. In a letter to Nathanial Hawthrone about Moby Dick, Melville wrote, "You were archangel enough to despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul." He could see past the flaws in the work to the perfect soul underneath. "It Disappears" has a perfect soul. I discovered this album quite by accident. I heard it differently. As it hit the run out, I immediately flipped the record and listened to the other side. I was ready to hear.

Lyburnum tells of a man in trauma. His home has burned. His faith is tested. It is tumultuous and off balance. It Disappears is the soundtrack of a man who's found an earthly peace and repose. Even the anti-war "Memorial," is done with immense care and poetry, not anger and frustration. When I listen to this record, it calms me. It reminds me that chaos and ugliness can give rise to beauty and peace. I would sit in my room in the dark, put on headphones, and listen to this record in its entirety. I love it from top to bottom. The lyrics rescue me. And I won't bastardize them by quoting them for you out of context; they are too special for that. I don't know if Jonathan Vance found God, or love, or what happened to him between these two records, but the journey is beautiful.

I no longer think of Lyburnum and It Disappears as separate albums. They are a singular piece of art, told over several years. Expectations put holes in the universe. And mine almost caused me to write off what is now my favorite record.

Elastica // Elastica

Notes:

Released 1995

First press on black

Favorite Track "Never Here"

A

A newly minted teenage Nick spends the summer in Cleveland, Ohio. Next year he enters middle school where he discovers skateboarding, guitar, and girls. The three spend the next ten years fighting for their place in his mental hierarchy.

Spoiler: girls by a mile.

As I lacked an older brother, or siblings of any stripe, I was dependent on some radical older friends to shepherd me through the pre-iTunes musical jungle. If your friends didn't listen to it, you never heard it. That's how music worked. You were only as cool as your friends or your Dad. Thanks for getting me into Sabbath, Dad.

Until that point, I listened primarily to KWNZ, the top of the pops radio. Now, while it turned me on to Dre and Snoop, the rest was pretty much garbage. Except for Ace of Base. I stand by that shit. My buddy Justin, who could kick flip a five-stair, shredded the guitar, and had flowing grunge locks that broke hearts simply by spilling out from his knit beanie, decided to take me under his wing. He was basically a god of cool and I wanted to attend his church. Justin lobbies for me to abandon the "pop shit" and insists I should listen to punk rock. He bets if I switch between the radio stations, I'll find ZROQ, the indie alternative station, more to my liking. As the fates would have it, there was some boy band on KWNZ and "Self Esteem" from The Offspring blaring on ZROQ.

Sold.

The aggression and the whining about girls really struck a chord with me. He gets me into Reno legends 7 Seconds, and blows my mind with Afi's Answer That and Stay Fashionable. He helps me pick trucks from a CCS catalogue for my first board, and I'm pretty sure donates some of his old skate shirts to get my wardrobe started. There ought to be fucking Academy Awards for guys like him.

So I'm getting my bearings (literally) and really digging all the new bands when my Dad tells me we're spending the summer in Ohio, away from all my friends, cool shows, and skate parks. I'm pretty bummed.

The suburb of Wickliffe, Ohio is a far cry from the budding metropolis of Reno, Nevada. There isn't a record store that sells punk records for miles, was screamed at by jocks while skating, and all my friends were discovering crucial bands while I was languishing away in the land of sports and humidity.

B

I beg my Dad to take me to a used records shop I find in the Yellow Pages. He drives me out there and I'm totally lost. I know of like three punk bands. And they don't have any of their albums. I had been watching a lot of videos on MTV and, though I turned my nose up at most it, I did bob my head to a little Brit Pop tune called "Connection." The video was cool, and I thought the lead singer was real pretty. I was desperate for new jams, so I bought the CD.

I got it home and was totally rocked by the song "Annie" before "Connection." Relief washes over me in an awesome wave. Maybe this won't suck after all. It's actually kind of punk. I only had a handful of CDs with me that summer and I listened to this album on repeat maybe fifty times. It was with me in an important time. I had branched out on my own and found a cool, punk band all on my own. I was feeling great.

Fast forward ten years.

I realize they aped the main riff of "Connection" from Wire's "Three Girl Rhumba." Fuck.
I find other Wire songs they straight lifted. FUCK. I was conflicted. Can I still like this if they're thieves? Am I allowed to enjoy this record anymore?

Yes. It turns out you can and I didn't care that they robbed The Stranglers, The Fall, and other great bands. To me, it was like the end of The Graduate. I'd already seen that ending in Wanye's World. And for me, chronologically, Wayne and Garth did it first. I'm sure if I moralized about it, I'd find them culpable, but they had already been part of my life for a decade and I wasn't about to have one of the pillars that built my house knocked down because of a little plagiarism. As my good friend Jawsh says, "There's only so many chords on a guitar."

I bought the LP on eBay sometime, I'm guessing in the early 2000s. I was probably in college. I spent more on this record than any other I'd ever purchased up to that point. DGC put out their CD and never released vinyl for this album. Only the UK label, Deceptive put this baby on wax. It's real collector bait. Import only, 12 page fan booklet, numbered, AND an exclusive Flexi. I got the first press from overseas which has the special misprint on the label listing "Waking Up" on both sides. I don't usually go in for in collector stuff. Given a choice between colored and black wax, I'll choose 180G black every time. I just want it thing to sound great, which is why I shelled out a little more for the first press. All and all, including shipping, I think I paid $30 for this record and it felt like I morgaged a home for it. If college Nick only knew what I spent on records now, he'd have a heart attack.

My emotions run deep with this record, and my love for it has evolved over the years. As a kid I loved the fast, nearly punk moments best. I wanted this record to be fast and nasty, which it most certainly is not. Even the punk moments are expertly produced and tame. What gets me now is the B-Side. Quieter jams like "Never Here," "Waking Up," and "2:1" are the ones that hook me now. Records I learn to love differently over time are the most rewarding to me. Revisiting them digs up new gems, making it feel like the album is growing up with you.

I don't like quantifying my love for records. Top 10 lists always seem gauche to me; they miss the point.  Music doesn't have a win/loss record, it isn't so nearly categorized. My love for albums ebbs and flows, surprises me when it comes on a jukebox, and changes depending on my mood. But I will say this, if my house was burning and I could only save a handful of records, this record would make the cut. No doubt in my mind.

Man... Or Astro-Man? // Is It?

Notes:

Released in 1993

First press on black wax

Favorite Track: "Clean up on Aisle #9 (Turn Up the Monitors)"

A

This record is tangentially responsible for a cross country move, the loss of my virginity, and my first band. My buddy Jawsh put it on a mix-tape in high school and I blasted tape hiss into my ears until they didn't make Walkmans anymore. And although you can't really sing along with an instrumental record, but you can memorize every B-movie sample and shout along with the band while they play. It's basically the same thing.

I own every single Man Or Astro-Man? record and nearly every 7". Some I've bought several times because I gave them to friends with budding record collections and had to rebuy. I love this band.  Since high school. And yet I continually find new things to love about them. I like their later records as much as their first. And that, for me, is the hallmark of a great band. Lots of bands can get lucky and string together a couple bangers. But seven great full length records, spanning twenty years, is something special.

The members who recorded this record parted ways before I ever got to seem them live, but they reformed in 2000 with a different lineup. My closest friends and lady road tripped to San Francisco to see them at the Great American Music Hall. These dudes are nerdy. I mean like really nerdy. Like they build the software they use to sequence their samples, nerdy. The wrote a song on a dot matrix printer and rolled it on stage to play a song. One of the proudest moments of my life was watching Amber wrench a piece of the printout from the girl next to her's avaricious hands. I still have a shard.  I never got to see them with their original lineup.

Until, they reunited. Like a bunch. Over and over again. "Oh, I'd better travel way the fuck over there to see them because I'll never get a chance to see them again.." Yeah, I did that like a dozen times. They're still together and playing at least once a year. I don't travel to see them anymore, but I still go to every show here. Hey, it got me to Chicago for the first time and made me think this was a place I could pay rent in for a few years.

B

When you love MOAM, and bands like them, you don't have to treat their discography like a minefield. Eventually they left behind Ventures-style surf for a Sonic Youth in space sound. Every record is great and, though their sound evolves, it's all fantastic. The argument isn't about which records are good, but which records are better. I get deeply jealous when someone discovers MOAM because they just added nearly a dozen great records (because who doesn't need the live records and 10"s too?!) to their collection. It's like the first time I saw The Jinx. I wanted to go back in time and watch it again with fresh eyes. It's how I feel when someone tells me they haven't seen Shawshank Redemption before. I get giddy at the thought of vicariously experiencing it for the first time.

The LP version of this album contains the exclusive track "Rudy's Lounge." I can easily see why it was left off the record. The soft crooning guitars belie the reverb tsunami that is the rest of the record. I never thought much of it. That was until I realized the samples from the song were from the pinball machine, Funhouse. My favorite band wrote a song about pinball that I had listened to for a decade and never knew it. I love the song now. Art is tricky.

I'm in love with the sounds guitars make. Guitars sing. And I'll never fully understand people who need vocals in their music to enjoy it.  I'd read a romance novel from a Telecaster to a Twin Reverb. Man or Astro-Man is my instrumental Adele.

Surf gets relegated to movie soundtracks and is largely overlooked as a musical genre. It's gems are rare, but they shame a diamond. I'll probably end up writing about all their records, but I happen to listen to their debut first. It put me on a journey to the stars which The Ventures started, but has yet to reach its final destination.  

La Dispute // Somewhere At The Bottom Of The River Between Vega And Altair

Notes:

Recorded in July 2008

Double LP on Translucent Purple with Etched D-side

11th pressing

Favorite Track: "Last Lost Continent"

A

In late 2009, I was between moving to Washington state for a computer programming job, or to Chicago to study improv. One path started at 80k and the other involved me working part-time in the position I've held since I was 18.

I moved to Chicago.

B

I'd wouldn't be young, debt-free, and dumb enough to think people could make a career out of improv
for very long, so I moved. I am grateful to my dad not only for volunteering to help me lug all my heavy shit to Chicago, but for the encouragement. It would have been an easy Dad move to nudge me in the direction of a real job, security, and adulthood. But he said to me, "Take your shot. Most people never do."

And it would be poetic if the next part of the article was an excerpt from a GC cover article about the overwhelming success I've had in Chicago, regaling you with the fame and fortune I've amassed, but it isn't. Nearly seven years later, I still work part-time. I still write the same blog. And I still check my bank account before writing a big check. Success isn't binary. I think of my Dad's advice differently now. I used to imagine I'd either make my shot and get famous or I'd miss and get a real job. But a life spent chasing creative endeavors isn't measured that way. I spend the better part of my week writing, seeing shows, reading books, playing pinball, drinking coffee, listening to records, and playing my guitar. And every year I report "employed part-time" on my taxes, I count it as a win. But the specter of adulthood looms and I waiver frequently.

C

Music has never saved my life. I don't even know what that means. For me, music is a helpful stranger offering you a hand after you've fallen. In 2009, I didn't have a friend in 1000 miles. I watched a hundred Netflix documentaries. Read a fuck ton of big books. And I listened to a lot of music. Jeff, one of my oldest friends sent me an email telling me I had to check out this band, though I might hate the vocalist. He knows my musical taste better than anyone. I didn't hate the vocalist and ended up listening to Somewhere at the Bottom dozens of times in 2010.

They played a tiny basement in Chicago somewhere between 2010 and 2012. I don't remember how I heard about it, or what the place was called, but I climbed inside a clear fire code violation in the middle of summer and watched La Dispute. There is something special about a basement. I don't mean it nostalgically. I mean sonically. The drums aren't mic'd. The concrete and bodies are perfect insulation. Punk sounds like garbage in a stadium, but in a basement, you can hear the singer scream even when the PA goes out. Everything is immediate and palpable. Given a choice, I'd see every band in a basement. Sweat dripped from the ceiling, and I remember thinking I'd certainly die if a fire broke out. It was so packed, I couldn't even glimpse the band. But they played "Last Lost Continent" and I shit you not, I cried. I ugly cried. It remains one of the most powerful music experiences I've ever had.

I've seen them a dozen times since then, but like The Sandlot, nothing compared to that first summer. This song calls me back when I think about trading in my life for one where I have a down payment for a house. I took my shot, Dad. Or more accurately, I'm still shooting.

If you've never heard this sprawling epic, or needed to be stirred from a languid torpor, sit down the the lyric sheet and listen. I'm not going to cheapen it by telling you the parts that get me, but they do. I'm tempted to quote lyrics, but I won't.

D

Fugazi // End Hits

Notes:
Recorded at Inner Ear Studios in March and September of 1997.
Marbled Grey Wax

First Pressing
Favorite track in 1999 "Five Corporations"

Favorite track in 2016 "Break"

A

What's the best six dollars you've ever spent? Was it a helluva hamburger, or a novel that changed your life? I spent mine on February 23, 1999. I bought a ticket to see Fugazi at Del Mar Station in Reno, Nevada. I was fifteen and was making less than $6 an hour. I couldn't drive and didn't have many friends. But I saw motherfucking Fugazi and the show still affects me.

There was this girl I liked. She was a little older and much cooler than me, but I liked her anyway. I was learning to play guitar which is to say I could jangle my way through the main riffs of some Metallica songs. And in the era of the Teen Line, I spent an awful lot of time talking on the phone. I distinctly remember trying to impress her one night by playing a cover of Marilyn Manson's cover of "Sweet Dreams" over the phone. The only logical response to this Shakespearean display of affection and male virility would be to swoon and offer her hand in holding during lunch. 

B

She answered quite dryly and without malice, as if stating a mundane fact, "My brother is a much better guitar player than you." First of all, fuck that guy. And second, how am I supposed to compete with an older brother, someone with a 1000 day head start of guitar playing? Needless to say, I hated him (He really is a phenomenal guitar player, though. Just stupidly good.).

Fast forward about a year to PE at Hug High. My largely apathetic instructor blithely rambled through the roll. Then I heard a familiar last name, the one belonging to my goth crush. As I turned to spy her in exercise shorts, I instead saw a scraggly, skinny dude. It was him. My nemesis. The brother. He was not the swaggering casanova of the guitar I had imagined. He looked like an alley cat. 

She must have said something to him because a few days in, he came up to me and said, "So... you're trying to bang my sister." What do you say to that? Still, miraculously, Jawsh and I became friends. He made me a series of mix-tapes which served as the foundation of the next decade of my musical love. The first one was entitled "You Will Hate This Tape" and had a hand drawn sketch of a male inspecting his testicles. The Misfits, Bikini Kill, DI, and Fugazi were on that first tape. I think I own a record from every band on that tape. 

Fast forward a year. Jawsh and I were going to Fugazi together. We wriggled our way to the front row. The sound was deafening. I had never heard drums so loud, but inexplicably clear and powerful. It was incredible. No less incredible were their politics. Their DIY ethos helped shape every project I've since been a part of. If you want your record to come out, you put it out. No one will help you. When I pay $60 to see a band now I think, I saw Fugazi for $6. Is this band ten times better than Fugazi? The answer is always no.

End Hits came out that year and they opened with "Break." Our tiny rib cages were being assaulted by the intersection between the sweaty mass behind us and the unyielding barricade in front of us. I had just purchased End Hits and was praying for "Five Corporations" as I was only interested in bangers at that point in my life. I wanted "Merchandise" and "Sieve Fisted Find." 

It was just after they ripped through "Merchandise," I looked down at my watch in horror. It was 10PM. A thousand feet from Fugazi was my Dad sitting in his Toyota 4-Runner waiting for me. I was devastated as I shuffled through the crowd who couldn't fathom why I was leaving. I lingered in the door for a moment to see if they were going to play "Five Corporations," before departing. The best $6 I ever spent was on half a Fugazi set. I would never know if they played my song. 

Jawsh, the next day at school, "Hahahah, you pussy. They totally played 'Five Corporations' right after you left." 

I love that man.