A gorgeous Christmas gift from the SO, this 2x gift cert from Donut Friend (Mark Trombino’s Los Angeles-based sweet-house… the drummer of Drive Like Jehu, k’mon), will afford this here guy a delicious “Chocolate from the Crypt” and a “Drive Like Jelly.” A proper post to follow, post-donut-consumption, but all are happy campers here at the PG with this amazing, sugar-laced gift cert.
(Also, happy friggin’ new-friggin’ year!!!)
It’s pouring here in The City of Angeles, and this comes as both a welcoming escape from the lingering summer, and a cloud-covered agricultural blessing (we needed the rain).
Had the pleasure of attending this show last night. It was pleasant. Many thanks to Har Mar and The Pizza Underground for an exciting evening at the El Rey.
The debut album by Jane’s Addiction didn’t set the streets of Los Angeles on fire quite like 1988’s Nothing Shocking, or 1990’s Ritual de lo habitual. That is certainly not to say this (slightly doctored) live album doesn’t hit the needlepoint highs that the band is globally known and rewound for.
Jane’s Addiction, XXX, or Triple-X (whichever you prefer), is a great start, but barely measures up again the bands (only) first two albums. The rest (2003’s Strays and 2011’s The Great Escape Artist) is financial fodder.
Just in the Knack of time, 1979’s debut by LA’s (Los Angeles) The Knack dropped their international hit-tastic album just 16 days before I was born (and some mere 32 miles away from the hospital in question). This is the time, which I like to refer to as “my Mother’s physical hell.” Sure, My Sharona is present and accounted for, but what’s disturbingly overlooked is the vast greatness of the remainder of this prolific album.
The Knack, 1979’s Weezer, is, by all means, the sound of “now.” Get the Knack! Got it? Good!
In 1988, I know jack about Delicious Vinyl records… but like any radio-worshiping Midwesterner, I knew every syllable to the song Wild Thing by Tone–Lōc. Produced by the legendary Matt Dike and Michael Ross (Michael Ross is the genie he’s giving us our wishes), and, not surprisingly, engineered by b-boy Mario C., this little 12” time warp is a who’s-who of Beastie Boys crossovers.
Including the aforementioned Matt Dike and Mario C. (you can’t front on that!), the illustrious credits continue with EZ Mike and King Gizmo (AKA the Dust Brothers, producers of the Beasties’ Paul’s Boutique), and none other than Wild Thing video director, and lady b-boy (Mike D’s wife), Tamra Davis.
I knew that when I discovered this album, being labeled as DV 1002, for only $4 at a small and dusty Long Beach record shop that a bit of my childhood would be reinstated. What I didn’t know, was how much of my young adult-era obsession was intimately intertwined.
Please, baby-baby, please!
Saw this in the kitchen at work yesterday and had to yoink it. An esteemed apology to my coworkers for a missing Arts section in Tuesday’s edition of the Times. (I’ll be more than happy to return it now that this has been posted.)
I’ve yet to fully read the article, but it looks as though Mr. Claas Brieler and his 25k collection made it into the new book, Dust & Grooves. Congrats to him and to record collectors everywhere. The bar has been set, if only momentarily.
Just like how function trumps fashion, so too shall quality (eventually) trump quantity here at The Prudent Groove. For too long I’ve been lacksadaisically (it’s a word… I think) thumbing my procrastination button and parading through an inferior product (since day one). So, as a mission statement (if only to myself), I, out-of-turnly proclaim, that tomorrow’s focus will showcase a much more thought out analysis (read: sarcastic observation).
What you see here (obviously), is an 8-track cassette of Led Zeppelin’s fourth album. Acquired today for a cool $1.99, this lil’ jammer will squat within the vacant garage currently residing in our living room in the shape of an empty (wood-paneled) 8-track player. Gone (and thoroughly missed), is my red cassette copy of Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M., and in its place, and abridged version of Zeppelin’s most commercially proclaimed outing.
“Do you own an 8-track player?’ – Record story Guy
“Have you read The Groove?” – Me (to myself, and several hours later)
Combining a portable turntable, the annual spinning of the Earth revolving around the Sun, and luxuries of 1930’s, high-class travel, yields a few, important last-minute notions: 1) None of us, especially me, are getting any younger and, 2) Holding a record over an open porthole is, I guess, something I thought I’d never do.
If there is a will, there is a time for anything.
Fun promo letters inside promo EPs are fun! (Especially when they’re only $1.98!) Have a read. I personally recommend all five of these releases (including the Great Five Lakes 12” keeping this little sheet of paper safe for over 16 years). Many thanks to Stephanie for the late 90’s love.
The brothers three, AKA the Beastie Boys, followed up their 1989 (critically hailed, and historically beloved) flop, Paul’s Boutique by moving from NYC to northeast Los Angeles where they would record their instrumentally diverse, and genre-shredding third album, Check Your Head. Gratitude, one of the albums’ five singles, features the crew goofin’ under the Atwater Village sign, which has now become an immediate nerd-tour destination spot for yours truly.
Two quick things and then I’ll be out of your hair. 1) Having been introduced to the b-boys back in Wisconsin, I had no Earthly idea to think of visiting the Atwater Village sign once I finally got my ass to LA. On a side note, I currently live only 13 from it, a stark contrast from the 2008 miles from where I first heard this song. 2) Gratitude is an essential buy if only for the unreleased joker, Honky Rink. I won’t go into details, but it involves a facetious announcement for white-only skaters at a local ice rink. Check your head, and this out.
A few days ago we had an earthquake here in Southern California. Initially it was monitored as a 4.7, and then was downgraded to a 4.4. How a conscious-inducing seismic anomaly can be reduced in mere hours is beyond my pre-K comprehension. Anyway, my girlfriend and I have, what I believe to be, a rational and logical understanding about what to do when the planet has a seizure. She finds the closest doorway, and I rush to the record wall to keep it from falling. Makes perfect sense to me, although death by records is not necessarily something my GF is keen to. After our 4.7 (or 4.4, depending on what wizardry of scientific evaluation you trust) we regained composure, picked up a few things that the Earth apparently wanted on the floor, and we went along about our day.
Among the debris of gravitational plunging, was a drumstick I luckily acquired from a Ministry concert during their 2003 Fornicatour (that’s what it was called). It had been resting above the doorframe to the office, opposite the drumstick from a Har Mar Superstar show I’d seized sometime in 2007 (my only two concert acquisitions). Since this was the first quake I had witnessed to knock anything over, the image of that beat-up baton lying helpless on the floor stuck with me. So now, I drop it here, like it has been dropped before, first from the stage to my outstretched arm, then to the floor from that early morning tremor. Beware of tumbling matter, kids, for when drumsticks fall from the sky, anything is seemingly possible.
I’m not entirely sure how different these strokes of “19 contemporary artists performing music of our time” were in 1971, but that doesn’t stop Columbia Records’ “special low price limited time offer” marketing ploy from capturing a wonderful, meshy, medley of jazz rock, southern fried rock, psych rock, sci-fi jazz, open field soul, and piano-friendly folk rock (and that’s just side A) on one, easy to access record.
Different Strokes launches with a bit of a gaffe as Johnny Winter And’s Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo leads the pack of (somewhat) lesser known greats, but strategic placing of the needle can very easily, and wisely, turn this 19 track slab of delicately formed polyvinyl chloride into a 18 track time capsule representing the best Columbia Records had to offer in the burgeoning, wide-eyed, and fried-minded 1970s… but what the hell do I know? I wouldn’t have been born for another eight years.
Different Strokes is definitely worth seeking out if you don’t already own it, and can be had for exceptionally cheap if you’re so inclined. Coming highly recommended by the PG, Different Strokes is the perfect soundtrack to this, or any coffee-sipping, cloudless, southern California Saturday morning (my esteemed apologies to those residing in less than ideal climate conditions).
When the first one hit, I found myself amongst a cloud of darkness, and a kitchen full of dirty dishes. When the second one hit, I (literally) ran to the office for my portable, and this 1985 release (Wax Trax! Records cat. no. WAX006), Lost Soul’s Club by the Blackouts. I’ve lived in Southern California for over 10 years and have never experienced a blackout, so, quick on my feet, I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity (however brief), to enjoy the Blackouts during an actual blackout. Lucky for me (less so for my SO), this one lasted three hours.
I’m still working on an actual, respect-given write-up about my portable turntable setup (battery operated Numark PT-01 and iBN24 iHome rechargeable speaker, gifted by my thoughtful, music-loving parents), but I will say this: the ability to listen to records literally anywhere and at literally any time is a luxury I’m rapidly becoming accustomed to.
Now, I’ll be honest and say I’ve never really pondered the notion, spun the groovy hamster wheel of imagination if you will, of what mainstream acts may have performed at Los Angeles’ legendary Greek Theatre in say, the summer of 1981. Call me old school, or whatever the kids are saying these days, but the idea never really crossed my mind. Thankfully, the previous owner of my copy of Harry Belafonte’s Harry Belafonte preserved this little time capsule-nugget-thing neatly away into the sleeve for me to discover some 30 odd years later. THANK YOU, OH GREAT AND WISE YESTEROWNER OF HARRY BELAFONTE’S HARRY BELAFONTE! THIS LITTLE 21-PAGE MAGAZINE IS NOTHING SHORT OF MYSTIFYING AND PROFOUNDLY ENJOYABLE! (I believe in giving credit where credit is due.)
Anyone want to hit up Doc Brown to see if we can borrow his GMC and head to the Greek to see Pete Seeger & Arlo Guthrie perform? Or how about Harry Belafonte with special guest Letta Mbulu? I know this guy who’s just sitting on a box of plutonium, so no need for gas money. The first round of Michelob is on me!
Thrift store hunting in The Valley yields some hip-swaying, luau-attending, hand-watching results. Who knew, am I right?! Recently acquired was this copy of Hukilau Hulas Vol. 2 (featured here, the back cover). “Keep your eyes on the hands” is more than a hula skirt-wearing, seductive suggestion for those looking for a quick lei (sigh), but instead, a graphic designer’s dream job featuring 16 (slightly) varied action-based hula illustrations.
But what about the music, you ask? Well, I have no Earthly idea! I just acquired this LP and haven’t had time to spin her grooves. A full report (from Interzone) shouldn’t be too far off.
So, as you’ve (painfully) noticed, I’ve been rather lethargic and lazy as of late. It may have something to do with the thrill of 365 now being a skipping glimmer from the “less than” side A of the Groove, but all things considered… yeah, I owe you a decent post sooner rather than later.
“The Groove would be the end of me if it weren’t for the three free rounds of drinks at the end of every year.” Thanks, Mr. Hardwick.
The year was 1994, and oh what an awkward and transformable year it was. Allow me to paint a 20-year-old picture using swift, roomy strokes if I may. In those days, I occupied the basement of my parents’ suburban homestead. I shared my first quasi-studio apartment with a blow-up mattress for a bed, ripped out Snowboard Magazine pages taped to plastic sheets covering the rows and rows of canary yellow insulation, a loud and obnoxious hot water heater that would wake me up in the middle of the night in a dead panic, and of course, my adorable mother popping down every half hour to painstakingly adhere to the family laundry. My “bedroom” throughout the duration of my high school days was a labyrinth of new and exciting music, and at the time, few syncopated sounds were more otherworldly (for a suburban white kid living in the rural Midwest) than Los Angeles’ own, Cypress Hill.
As a gullible and easily impressionable youth, anything that wasn’t early 90s country radio (or the overly played and equally obnoxious doobs of the grunge scene) grabbed my conformed and sheltered ear. Jane’s Addiction, Onyx, Beastie Boys, Operation Ivy, Ministry, Vacuum Scam, and The Pharcyde all became rhythmically projected voices, representing the outside world; a world I knew nothing about, but that which promised gilded and painful excitement.
Cypress Hill’s first two albums are critically flawless. Fans of Tim McGraw and those still clinging to Pearl Jam may have a different (and mortally incorrect) opinion. On the We Ain’ Goin’ Out Like That single, which is really more of an EP, there featured a song that was released exclusively to this release. This song, the opus of my youth, and a song my friends and I still quote on a weekly bases, is Scooby Doo. No mysteries are solved during the three minutes and 39 seconds of this epic story, and nobody utters the icon phrase “jinkies” (at least in English). Instead, Scooby Doo is a bass-heavy, skull-vibrating anthem covering themes of street confrontations and the ultimate and fatal error of crossing that forbidden line in the sand. It was, at the time, a force so strong, we’d play it on as many different stereos as we could to see whose rig had the biggest bass. Lancer Dancer is the legendary champ on all counts of said experiment (his mobile speaker system would knock you up side the head and inject a subtle, but piercing ringing sensation, both pleasing and a bit sobering).
Scooby Doo, if only for me, and a modest core group of friends, is 1000 times more legendary than Stairway to Heaven, and will forever live as the biggest, most atrocious bass-tastic song I’ve ever had the distinct pleasure of experiencing.
You’d aroun’ da way, mang… I know where chu at!
Have you ever wanted to live inside an 80s, cutting edge tech film? Well, you can’t. Sorry to break the bad news, but k’mon… let’s hitch a ride back to reality, shall we? Don’t worry, I’ll cover your bus fare. Simian Mobile Disco’s 2008 EP, Clock is something straight out of War Games, or any other Mathew Broderick movie loosely involving 1980s DOS-based operating systems. Melodic repetitions unfolding in waves of hip-gyrating force throughout four catch-tastic dance favorites… what more could you ask for? No, really, what do you want? I’m serious, because I certainly have no idea what you people listen to.
I was fortunate enough to catch SMD here in LA a few years back at a HARD fest. There were a lot of people, but the music was loud, so everybody went home a winner. This is more a confession to myself, but I don’t know why I stopped listening to electro. I’ve never been a dancer, but have always enjoyed hard-hitting, and filthy dirty programmed beats. SMD flirts with the dirty side of electro, but falls short when considering them next to MOTOR and / or Boys Noize. Clock however, is certainly worth a listen, especially on a Monday morning a day before the end of the year.
Nothing says another year is about to be sucked into the great void of forgotten memories quite like a collection of 18 Christmas songs from Broadway Records and Container-Kraft of Los Angeles. If you don’t believe me, maybe Santa Sunburn and his waving 2-ton mitten (probably ringing wet with Santa sweat… it’s warm here during the holidays) will convince you. With “Christmas favorites old and new for young and old,” from kiddies to grannies and all the naysayers in between, each and every ear will be bleeding that sweet blood of Christmas joy.
For best results use sharp needle.
All the classics are here. From White Christmas to Auld Lang Syne, and from Bring A Torch Jeanette Isabella to The Shepherd’s Carol, this album is your one-stop-shop for getting your humble abode (and that of your neighbor if your walls are thin enough) into that warm and fuzzy mood.
An outstanding value in top quality phonograph records.
Mainly, I just use this album for decoration during the holidays. I doubt I’ve ever even played it. Happy Monday, folks!
It’s not entirely difficult to consider this Seattle-based foursome adequate participants of the late 70s, early 80s sewer-like wave of repressed energy, known today as punk, or as my Mother likes to call it, “the Devil’s music.” Missing, or rather, subdued is the raw, misguided anger found in Los Angeles and San Francisco based punk acts of the time. In its place resides the mature, but no less angry, rhythmically brilliant 1/3 new wave, 1/3 minimalist indie-rock, and 1/3 punk-influenced musicianship that somehow gets lost amongst the 33-year-old haze that was 1980.
Blackouts (here losing the The… on a side note and completing having nothing to do with this post, do you remember The The?) consisted of future RevCo, Ministry, R.E.M. (you read that right), Pigface, KMFDM (to name only a few) drummer Bill Rieflin, Roland Barker (brother of Revco, Ministry, Lead into Gold, Lard, PTP, Acid Horse, U.S.S.A. bassist Paul Barker… who would join this band immediately following the release of this EP), as well as Erich Werner and Mike Davidson, of whom I know virtually nothing about. Phew! That’s a lot of band-name dropping there, but you can begin to see the overall scope of this band’s, and subsequently, this EP’s brilliance. Or, maybe you can’t and you’d much prefer the screeching yelps of Katy Perry, or God forbid, Madonna! Either way, this 4-track EP comes highly recommended and should prove for an interesting listen if nothing else.
The Prudent Groove 