Canon Fodder #12: I'm Livin' In A Deja Vu

The Wipers - Land Of The Lost

There isn’t that big a difference between Wipers albums. Mostly, it’s just a matter of whether Greg Sage’s cowboy surf-punk riffs are killer enough to distract from his shamelessly cliche lyrics. My favorites are 1981’s Youth Of America and this one from 1986, YOA a little more punk and LOTL a little more surf. Somehow the Wipers’ sound is so minimalist - bass and drums driving away, Sage either journeying along with frenzied chords or tearing off on a solo - but it’s the words that you hope turn into wallpaper. They’re always delivered with the utmost sincerity, whether he’s announcing there’s no way out, or what goes up, must go down, or that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. In that sense, the Wipers are like Motorhead meets Bryan Adams: an uncompromising steamroller driven by a guy who’s as resolutely generic as he is intense. But when The Wipers are on, as they are here…these complaints become pointless sniping. The relentless minor chord madness is what you come for. The lyrics just maintain the mood.

Arto Lindsay/ Ambitious Lovers - Envy

I really want to love Arto Lindsay. No Wave guitar, Brazilian rhythms and a voice that splits the difference? Despite the novelty, I’d actually shrugged off this debut album from his semi-pop '80s project after investigating online. But I was so tickled to find a used copy at the fantastic local store Twelves, that I bought it anyway. Thanks to Lou Reed’s “The Original Wrapper” 12-inch, I knew that ‘80s digital percussion kicks rewardingly harder on my stereo speakers than on the computer. This doesn’t turn crap into Christmas (I doubt I’m buying Mistrial in full), but it does make the era’s electro-esoterica a little more engaging. As expected, the deeper bottom definitely improves this 1984 avant-funk experiment, even if I still have no idea what it all adds up to. Less macho, less clowny than Beefheart, while more candid in its eroticism and almost just as unwilling to be easy on the ear. Even the push-track “Let’s Be Adult” throws lefts, the Pretty Hate Machine to “The Perfect Way”’s Violator, if we can compare transgressive crossover electro-pop  from 1990 to 1984 crossover sophisti-pop. There is a brief ballad devoid of shriek or synth stutter on Side B, just to let you know they can.

Killing Joke - Pylon

I already praised Killing Joke's 21st century albums with a playlist post, but there’s a plenty more to say about this one from 2015 (their latest, though with a new single last March, hopefully not for long!). “Autonomous Zone” immediately re-establishes the band’s brutal sonic signature (original line-up reunited for three albums now). But where their lyrical perspective once vacillated between fear of apocalypse and a morbid call for personal and social cataclysm, leader Jaz Coleman now makes room for the rewards of survival (“squat, grow a plot/ pursue beauty instead”). It’s not that he isn’t still sweating over geopolitical threats (predictable titles here include “New Cold War” and “War On Freedom”), but decades of experience and a lifetime of curiosity has led to an appreciation of endurance and life as we know it. Unlike most galaxy brain survivalists, exiling yourself to an island to wait out mass death is less a dream for Coleman than a phase he already went through forty years ago (literally, Iceland, between albums three and four). This refreshing novelty in an aging post-punk provides such inspiring thrills as the confused happiness of “Euphoria,” the unadulterated happiness of “Big Buzz” (seriously! Killing Joke! Happiness! Jaz even quotes Sly Stone!) and the celestial Stockdale Paradox of “Into The Unknown.” Those last two bracket a civilization-dismissive “Delete” and the bludgeoning “I Am The Virus,” neither of which I’d call happy. But if Pylon did wind up the Joke’s last full-length, these climactic four tracks would be one hell of a summation.

Bruce Springsteen - The Wild, The Innocent, The E Street Shuffle

I can’t believe I’m putting this on the shelf! For most of my adult life, I’ve praised Born In The USA and particularly Tunnel Of Love, while crapping all over the Boss’ 70s work. The logic is that his grotesque boomer fantasy of Phil Spector and Bob Dylan teaming up for a Broadway musical was insufferable until MTV inspired him to figure out a contemporary identity that wasn’t an unwieldy meatball of mythic bullshit. That clear-minded, well-edited context established, the mature heartbreak of impending divorce inspired his one true classic LP (before everything got mushy and self-satisfied from the ‘90s on). I’m not ready to give up that perspective entirely, but - softened by time with ‘70s Joni, ‘70s Van and ‘70s Lou - I’m now ready to say the unwieldy meatball that is the E Street Band had a charming jazziness here, Springsteen heroic without aiming for iconic. You can hear roads that could have been taken other than “Born To Run,” and an urban loveliness that didn’t scream for a presidential seal of approval. I should probably have a degree in Bruce Studies before broaching this subject, but both in sound & lyrics (not to mention the beautifully gestative band photos), the guy’s gestalt feels a lot less white, or at least less pop, than it soon would. His concept of an American melting pot wasn’t yet erased of ethnic flavor in the name of universality. Whether this surprise appreciation for his earliest work (Greetings has some sweet moments, too) will warm me up for what came next remains to be seen. But I must admit, Springsteen's part of my early 70s classic rock canon now, as well as my ‘80s.

Too Much Joy - Mistakes Were Made

Despite my promises when putting All These Fucking Feelings in My Favorite Albums Of 2022, I still haven’t gotten around to hearing what Too Much Joy was up to in the 20th century (they, and my big fan babysitter from childhood, really deserve better!). I did however buy a CD copy of this 2021 album, which would have made the honorable mentions of that year had I posted them (surrounded by Local H, Olivia Rodrigo, Wurld Series, Helado Negro, Illuminati Hotties…). Highlights on this one include the pathetic macho character study “Uncle Watson Wants To Think,” “Oliver Plunkett’s Head” (worth a google if you’re also not Irish Catholic!), the triumphantly resigned “Snow Day,” and the prayer-as-Yelp-review “More Of The Stuff I Like.” There’s also a hilarious, perfect tribute to their online pre-paying patrons. Still can’t speak to Cereal Killers yet (sorry!), but my zingy, enthusiastic pull-quote for TMJ’s blessedly prolific reunion is “if Joey Ramone liked to read and lived long enough to regret Maria Baritomo.”

Aretha Franklin - Aretha Arrives

This album ain’t shit compared to I Never Met A Man (The Way I That I Love You) right before it, or Lady Soul right after. The only hit was the already released “Baby, I Love You,” tacked on to the end. The opening take on “Satisfaction” is stolen by the trombonist. “That’s Life,” which opens Side 2, remains Frank Sinatra’s, if not David Lee Roth’s. The definitiveness of the other standards & covers probably depends on how familiar you are with other versions (though her self-arranged “Going Down Slow” smokes, and the run through “96 Tears” is a trip). That said, Arrives is still the album Aretha Franklin made between I Never Loved A Man and Lady Soul, those classics released less than a year apart themselves. And it sure sounds great as far as clocking time goes. Tom Dowd & Arif Mardin still put it together for Jerry Wexler, and her storied band featuring names like Spooner Oldham and King Curtis remains. And it’s not entirely commonplace either: this was the only album from the period with string (and french horn!) arrangements, courtesy of Ralph Burns, who’d worked with Woody Herman & Ray Charles before this and would later win Academy Awards for his work on Bob Fosse’s movies. Arrives is less a misfire than mere fire, and a nice find on cheap used vinyl. Even if you debate buying it, anything that ends with “Going Down Slow” and “Baby, I Love You” is easy to keep.