We, at the site, really do strive to bring the coolest stuff possible to the readers and I think you’d agree our commitment pays off. But sometimes things float through our transom that don’t make it to the site for one reason or another. Such was the case when your own, your very own Dirk McQuickly Jason Hare e-mailed some links to the staff. A friend of his transferred old cassettes recorded from radio broadcasts in the ’80s, complete with commercials, DJ banter and other ephemera, to MP3. Nerdlet that I am, I downloaded as many as I could and reveled in a little regressive therapy at maximum volume.
Then I recalled, “Wait a minute. I’m a notorious packrat! I might have a few tapes of my own!” I did, in fact. Recordings of the fabled WPLJ from 1980s New York actually existed in a tape box that had an inch of dust congealed atop it. I thought this would be a very cool addition to our little Internet menagerie, and it would have been – were it not for the fact I only bought the cheapest, crappy blanks back then.
Yes, friends, the tapes had stretched, warped, some even seized up into circular spools of utter uselessness, but all were rendered ruined by time. But that doesn’t stop a man on a mission, now does it? I decided to build the playlist back from the ground up, based on the information on the J-card. Also, this one particular tape was playable but it sounded horrible, warbly, drifting in azimuth alignment so that sound meandered from fuzzy and muddy to irritatingly sharp. (more…)
When last we left Michael Schenker, he was totally shredding through the last 40 seconds of UFO’s majestic power ballad, “Try Me.” Mikey hung around the band for another year or so before leaving in 1978 to rejoin brother Rudy in the Scorpions. That, too, lasted a year or so before he left again, this time to form his own band, the imaginatively named Michael Schenker Group, the moniker under which he would rape, pillage, and drink his way through arena tours here and abroad for a number of years. Three decent studio records and a very cool live album brought Schenker some middling chart success in the very early 80s, but nothing could touch the power and finesse of the peak UFO material.
By the end of the decade, Schenker’s desire for chart success could be measured in the length of the hair extensions he wore, apparently to keep up with new vocalist Robin McAuley, whose semi-artificial mane was prominently featured on the cover of the first album released under the name McAuley Schenker Group, 1987’s Perfect Timing. McAuley had been in a band called Grand Prix, as well as the evil Frank Farian-produced hydra known as the Far Corporation (who had the stones to cover “Stairway to Heaven”—poorly—as their first single). How he hooked up with Schenker is a closely kept secret (probably involving an international banking conspiracy and at least one case of Johnny Walker Black), but those who appreciate the power ballad arts remain thankful.
The band’s 1989 follow-up record, Save Yourself, yielded an actual quasi-hit single (#69 Hot 100, #5 Mainstream Rock) in “Anytime,” a plea for reconciliation, understanding, and maybe even graphic bondage, wrapped in a warm blanket of melodic rock production. (more…)
One of the great eccentrics (and notorious drinkers) in rock, Michael Schenker also served in one of the great hard rock bands of the mid- and late 70s. The Schenker/Phil Mogg/Pete Way/Andy Parker nexus that powered UFO in this period produced a handful of classic albums, including the scorching, varied Lights Out (1977). Mogg is an oft-overlooked voice in this period who, at his best, could match Paul Rodgers and Lou Gramm in strength, sleaze, and swagger.
Don’t believe me? Check out “Too Hot to Handle,” the lead cut from Lights Out. To these ears, that chorus is easily the equal of “Baby I’m a bad man” or “I’m hot blooded / Check it and see” in sheer potency and sexual bluster. And that shit was important in 1977, dawg. I remember how the girls went nuts when little Eddie Blevins sang “Cat Scratch Fever” during second grade recess. Never forgot it.
Back to Michael Schenker. He was a Scorpion at 15 (older, mustachioed bro Rudolph is still at it) and hooked up with Mogg, Way, and Parker at 18 for a four-year run of arena tours, smokin’ records, and hard partying. While Schenker developed the latter into a debilitating affliction, for a while there he was a monster riffmaster and soloist extraordinaire. Except for this one little track … (more…)
“The only place I get hurt is out there. The world don’t give a shit about me.”
I. Well, I’m Frustrated and Outdated
The first voice you hear is a dead man’s scream. It’s one of those full-throated primal belts, like Roger Daltrey’s in “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” Here it’s Kevin DuBrow, his scalded screech busting the floodgates for “Bang Your Head (Metal Health),” the second single from Quiet Riot’s landmark Metal Health (1983), the first slab of fuzz ’n’ meedley to ever reach #1 on the Billboard Albums chart.
The band was at its mainstream zenith then. Randy “The Ram” Robinson (Mickey Rourke) was probably just getting started, years of toil finally paying off as professional wrestling graduated from the sweathouse din of high school gyms to respectable arenas in metropolitan cities. It came with a price, of course. Regional territories were swallowed by ambitious, growing monoliths. But that wouldn’t matter for a while, not even to the Ram. Luckily, he was in his prime, synchronous with the era. He was the ’80s.
Someday that would come back to haunt him, but someday was just a harmless, nebulous future. For now we’re in his past. Wisely, director Darren Aronofsky (on a Robert D. Siegel script) never shows us this past except as a collage of scattered magazines and handbills against the ghostly chatter of ringside patter and a raucous anthem that rocked a long-gone summer, growled by a man who in 2007 was silenced forever.
But Ram still struts to this hoary buzzsaw, having plucked it during its popularity and transformed it into his ring-entrance music. When the riffs kick in to summon his fist-pumping form, the crowds respond as they would at a concert. They know what’s coming: a classic blast from their childhoods, riding into town with a near-suicidal need to entertain. And the outcome is always predetermined. Once their faded hero climbs the ropes and drops that old-school Ram Jam finisher — his greatest hit — it’s over, brother.
One of my favorite things about joining the Popdose brother/sisterhood is the fact that I have found a group of people whose taste in music is as broad and, on occasion, wussified as my own. For example, my illustrious editor, Jason Hare, has seen Air Supply live (recently!), and no one busts his balls for it, at least not in any serious, make-Jason-cry kinda way. Those who bow at the altar of the Two-Headed Russell know they’ve found a kindred spirit in Jason, possibly even a virtual gang of them. There is a safe haven for us all under the banner of the ‘Dose. Say hallelujah, say amen.
And then there’s REO fucking Speedwagon. I’ve proudly flown the flag for Kevin Cronin (or K-Crone, in street parlance) and the boys ever since I bought Hi Infidelity at the Record Town in Woodbridge Mall back in ‘81. However, reactions from the Popdose staff are mixed for the man who said he would love us for-eh-vurr. And while I’m not the kind of fan who would engage in a physical altercation to defend K-Crone’s honor (Jefito could probably kick my ass, and he’s about as fierce as a nine-year-old), I am the kind who will spend time at a bar or a record store or on a Web site to make the case for the man and his music.
Last year, in fact, REO delivered its first new studio album since the Clinton administration, a better-than-expected, Wal-Mart-approved record called Find Your Own Way Home. It’s a dignified collection of tunes from a band working in an industry that’s anything but dignified, particularly for a bunch of guys pushing 60.
No, really, it’s quite good. You should definitely check it out, particularly if you’re around 40 and can name the second single off Good Trouble without thinking about it. The pinched-nose affectations K-Crone incorporated into his vocals in the ’90s (which made Building the Bridge and the REO half of the Arch Allies live record unlistenable) have been subsumed to a large extent. Neal Doughty, the band’s keyboardist and longtime secret weapon, provides all the great low-mix color and texture, as he has for almost 40 years. And though I miss Gary Richrath’s chunka-chunka burnin’ chords and chirping solos, my appreciation for Dave Amato has finally exited the grudging stage.
A friend of mine told me I needed a severe attitude adjustment. At first, I didn’t know what she was talking about: “What’s wrong with my attitude?”
“You’re the only person in this room not having fun,” she said. She was right. We were in the midst of a typical Friday night crowd at the local watering hole. I don’t drink, but I don’t think that had any bearing on my state of mind and, if anything, if I was a drinker my negative view of the situation probably would have been worse, not better. On the stage, which seemed to be the size of a backyard pool’s diving board, was a cover band. Not just any cover band, mind you, but an ’80s hair metal band, complete with poofy, sprayed-up manes held together with gypsy-print bandannas and the whole “we are gonna Rock YUH” schtick — I think the lead singer even did Axl’s snake shake a couple of times.
And the audience ate it up. No question that the booze was indeed flowing, so there was a degree of liquid indoctrination happening, but their momentary adoration was not completely fueled by firewater. And here’s the thing: in spite of the inherent cheesiness of trotting out Europe’s “The Final Countdown” like it was something worth trotting, the band could play. The singer could sing. It wasn’t like they were incapable, so why were they leaning on the crutches of Winger, Poison and Slaughter?
Weeks before, I mentioned to someone that the only time karaoke is really fun is when the participants are drunk. Look, there’s a little truth to that, isn’t there? I barely can handle listening to the real Mariah Carey sing, so why would I get any pleasure out of listening to an amateur imitating her competently? Stumbling for words and attempting to reach those hellspawned high notes until her poor little head nearly burst like a festering zit…well, that might be more entertaining. Still, that was a snipe there, and in retrospect I realize that maybe I do need an attitudinal chiropractor to wrench my crap back into alignment and help me not be such an old, opinionated crank.
I’ve met people in cover bands over the years, and even though many have been of the “Du-ude!” variety, they had a clear notion of where they were on the entertainment totem pole, and where they weren’t, meaning that few harbored illusions of becoming stars in their own right. One once said to me, “I’m not here to be a rock star, I’m here to channel a rock star. People don’t come here to see me if they come at all for the music. They come to see through me to whoever and whatever I’m singing tonight.” It was a very honest statement, a knowing statement. This guy worked at a mortgage firm at the time, before the term ‘mortgage firm’ had the same effect as ‘baby killer.’ Deskside number-crunching was what paid the bills, and he knew it. Saturday night at the beachfront joint with the tiki lounge was for fun, it was escape, and it was a brief moment for this guy to think about the might-have-beens. (more…)
Bands like Rush and AC/DC wear as a badge of honor the fact that they’ve never written or performed a power ballad. I love them both, but they’re pussies. The power ballad is to rock and roll what Al Pacino in Scarface is to acting. The artist has little use for subtlety or restraint — emotion is laid bare, put forth in the most emotive manner possible. In power ballads, the tempo slows; the guitars come to the fore; the notes the singer sings echo and elongate for miles and miles. When done well, the result is beautiful in its pure, overblown glory, enabling the audience to say “hello” to the band’s leetle friend, usually with lighters held aloft.
Every two weeks or so, I will pay tribute to the finest examples of the genre. Together, we will find this death by power ballad to be an exquisite one, indeed. — RS
My vote for greatest rock and roll song of all time goes to the Scorpions’ “Rock You Like a Hurricane.” It’s got it all: its guitars are loud and its lyrics filthy, sung in broken English by a bunch of long-haired yet still balding German dudes with names like Klaus and Matthias. The album it came from, Love at First Sting, was chock full of likewise loud, enormous-sounding, German-accented rawk songs like “Big City Nights,” “I’m Leaving You,” and “Bad Boys Running Wild” (cuz the Scorps were not good boys; good boys would never do such a thing).
The same record also contained “Still Loving You,” one of the great power ballads of the ’80s — one you typically see on Volume 2 of the typical multi-disc set of Hard Rock Ballads” or “Metal Hits” or other bargain bin product. Rarely does it make the cut for the first volume, which is typically crowded with Whitesnake, Warrant, and Winger shit. More about them some other time.
“Still Loving You” is six and a half minutes of slow-building rock ballad pleading, the kind of groveling that guys only do when they’ve fucked up really bad. Really bad. Bad, as in you sleep with your girlfriend’s best friend, in the bed you share with your girlfriend, on your girlfriend’s side of the bed, using your girlfriend’s “toys” and her brand new candle from Bath and Body Works, and instead of cleaning up the sticky, smelly, waxy mess afterward, you just throw the comforter over it and leave your girlfriend a note, asking her to please throw the sheets in the wash when she gets a chance. That kind of bad. (more…)
I was getting wistful for 45s the other day and went hunting through my old Grundorf cases that I used to lug from DJ gig to DJ gig back in the day. While flipping through those “back stacks of wax” it was somewhat shocking to see the vast amount of crappy singles I bought for God knows what reason. Some of the singles aren’t danceable, and some are so badly scratched and cue burned that I wonder why I didn’t toss the singles out years ago. But there they were: relics of an era in the music industry long since past, but also historical markers of the ’80s, when my brother and I trudged off to gig after gig with cases of 45s and LPs on the weekends.
Oh, and regarding the, um, preponderance of crappy 45s in my collection, I offer this defense: My brother had a 10-watt pirate radio station in his bedroom in the mid to late ’80s, and during the week we’d broadcast shows in the evening to mostly middle school kids listening at home. They would call, we would put them on the air, and often times they would request the most god-awful songs. The next day, one of us would drive down to Tower Records, plunk down a few dollars and bring home singles that would, more often than not, be stiffs on the charts. But for a brief moment, the pirate station sounded very current. It was all in good fun, and the FCC never came knocking on our door (probably because we broadcast so infrequently).
So, let me cue up the 45s and let’s have a listen to the good, the bad, and the ugly of it all.
My junior year of high school was the first time I had ever heard of the Scorpions. To me, they were a stoner band — only because the stoners at my school listened to them — but if there was such a category as “stoner pop” back in 1982, I think the Scorps, Def Leppard and bands of that ilk would fit that bill. With their infectious hooks in the chorus, the melodic guitars and Klaus Meine’s theatrical voice, it’s a recipe for a kind of hard rock that avoids a lot of dissonant chords. Plus, the lyrics in this tune are standard issue cock rock, or as Eddie Van Halen once explained it: “Boy meets girl. Boy inserts penis.” (more…)
You know it, I know it, and all but the most diehard aficionados of reality TV know it. We don’t watch TV for reality, we watch it for fantasy. Still, when you’re pop culture obsessives like we are, we can sometimes be swayed to get involved in one of these God-forsaken programs when they involve a cast of celebrities, and in the case of CMT’s new show, “Gone Country,” the premise is eye-catching as well: take six musicians from decidedly different genres and watch as they attempt to reinvent themselves as country music artists. After watching the first episode and finding it disconcertingly enjoyable, we found ourselves thinking about others in music history who’ve taken a stab at career re-creation, only to have it go horribly, horribly wrong.
Yes, while putting together our list, we snickered. A lot. And now it’s your turn.
When 
One of the great eccentrics (and notorious drinkers) in rock, Michael Schenker also served in one of the great hard rock bands of the mid- and late 70s. The Schenker/Phil Mogg/Pete Way/Andy Parker nexus that powered UFO in this period produced a handful of classic albums, including the scorching, varied Lights Out (1977). Mogg is an oft-overlooked voice in this period who, at his best, could match Paul Rodgers and Lou Gramm in strength, sleaze, and swagger.
One of my favorite things about joining the Popdose brother/sisterhood is the fact that I have found a group of people whose taste in music is as broad and, on occasion, wussified as my own. For example, 
A friend of mine told me I needed a severe attitude adjustment. At first, I didn’t know what she was talking about: “What’s wrong with my attitude?”
My vote for greatest rock and roll song of all time goes to the Scorpions’ “Rock You Like a Hurricane.” It’s got it all: its guitars are loud and its lyrics filthy, sung in broken English by a bunch of long-haired yet still balding German dudes with names like Klaus and Matthias. The album it came from, Love at First Sting, was chock full of likewise loud, enormous-sounding, German-accented rawk songs like “Big City Nights,” “I’m Leaving You,” and “Bad Boys Running Wild” (cuz the Scorps were not good boys; good boys would never do such a thing).
