Category: Music

Posted on

57 Years Later

My mom loved this—and in fact all of the Tijuana Brass—albums. I will always associate Herb Alpert with lazy summer vacation days as it seemed his music was always playing on the hi-fi in our family room.

Posted on

Le Sigh

This Sony model was the last portable Minidisc player I owned. I got big into MD in the late 90s/early 00s. I had [more than one] MD deck, a MD player in my car, and of course, various portables. I hung onto the format until I got my first iPod and when I started using iTunes, I knew MD—as wonderful a format as it was—was dead. The hardware was awesome, but Sony's software was absolute shit. I eventually sold off all my gear and the hundreds of disks I'd amassed, never looking back.

Every now and then, however, an image like this crosses my path and I just sigh.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Ben was also into MD. I mean, what are the chances of that?

Posted on

Feeling a Little Nostalgic Today

These three albums—and to be honest, probably dozens more—were my soundtrack as I transitioned to life in San Franisco in the late 1980s.

Ancient Dreams and Keys to Imagination were gifts from my ex the first Christmas we were in The City. I discovered Desires of the Heart on my own (probably via KKSF) and Chris Spheeris is one of the few artists who  have responded—with a handwritten note, no less—to a letter I sent him after hearing his CD for the first time.

Posted on

Oh, How I've Missed You

The last time I bought a dedicated CD player new was 21 July 1990. How do I know that exact date? I kept scrupulously-detailed journals. I also have photos from when my mom was visiting me in San Francisco at the time and I remembered that I picked it up while she was there.

Have I mentioned I'm a little anal-retentive?

It was a Yamaha CDX-730. I'd gotten an unexpected mid-year bonus at work.

I kept this little deck around until 2005, when I lost my mind and thanks to eBay, started swapping gear in and out of my rig on what seemed like a monthly basis. I tried a couple different Sony decks (including a combo CD/Minidisc), a vintage Technics deck (the one I originally wanted to buy in 1985 but missed out on because the model year had changed), a Teac deck, and then back to a Yamaha—this time the CDX-530—the little brother to the 730, which I kept for several more years until I'd ripped everything to iTunes and stopped playing CDs altogether.

(My teachers always complained about my run-on sentences. Sorry.)

In the years that followed, I ended up selling nearly all of my extensive CD collection. The ones I kept had sentimental value for one reason or another, and were relegated to a banker box in the closet; ultimately the closet that ended up suffering the most damage in the fire two years ago.

To their credit, the firefighters pulled most everything out of that closet before they started spraying everything down, but that box was lost in the aftermath. I didn't even give it a thought until a month later when I realized it was not among the things inventoried by the salvage company and was, for all intents, gone.

Every time I thought of that my heart sank. Even though I never played those CDs—hell, I didn't even have anything to play them on at that point—they still held immense sentimental value.

A couple weeks ago (yes, two years on and I was still mourning their loss) I decided to stop crying about this and do something. So I went on eBay, located a "near mint" Yamaha CDX-530, and ordered the first two replacement CDs in my collection: Kraftwerk's Minimum/Maximum and Pet Shop Boys' Very/Relentless. The deck and the Kraftwerk disk arrived yesterday. I hooked it into my system and just laid back and enjoyed the music.

For the last ten years or so I've been in the "vinyl just sounds better" camp, but frankly after hearing Minimum/Maximum (something I will never be able to afford to buy on vinyl) on a system that I've never heard a CD played through, I may have to revise that opinion a bit. Both formats have their strengths and weaknesses, but Kraftwerk sounded damn good.

Fortunately—thanks to that anal-retentiveness—I have a list of [most of]  those CDs. The document is dated 2013 and I know I purchased a few more since then to rip to iTunes, but it's a great starting point to rebuild my collection.

 

Posted on

My Tales of the City – Very Relentless

It was August 1994. The previous two years had taken an emotional toll on me, first with Rory, then with Ron, and it seemed The City had lost much of the magic that had enchanted me upon my arrival nearly ten years earlier. I ached for a change and after returning from a trip to Tucson earlier that summer I started wondering if moving back to Arizona might be what the doctor ordered to cure this ongoing malaise.

After I returned from Tucson and the summer drew on, my dissatisfaction with The City increased. It seemed every aspect of daily life—from the panhandlers to the urine-soaked doorways to the daily commute from hell to the cost of everything—had become an annoyance, so it was a relatively easy decision to cast it all aside and return to the desert southwest.

Once I decided on that course of action, I gave a month's notice at work and on my apartment with every intention of moving back to Arizona the second week of September, but ultimately it was not to be. At least not this time.

I've often said that The City is a very jealous mistress, and my attempts to leave during the next eight years only confirmed it. She does not easily let go of her lovers. And deep down, despite everything, I truly loved The City.

The Playground

The Saturday before I was scheduled to move, I needed a break from packing, so that evening I decided to head out one last time and get into trouble. Young, hung, and full of cum…or something like that. (Well, two outta three ain't bad, right?)

I learned about The Playground from my friend Rick (or Miss K.C. Dare as he went by when on stage). With the demise of the 1808 Club a few years previous and not being one who cared for the tubs, I'd been missing the kind of wanton abandon a good old fashioned sex club provided. From Rick's description, The Playground sounded perfect.

It was. There was something primal about the place, something that was very much liked to our deepest (and yes, I suppose darkest) sexual fantasies. I knew from the moment I stepped into the place that the owners had a gold mine on their hands if the only knew how to keep the ambience alive.

It was a converted warehouse, located on the north side of 17th Street between Folsom and Harrison. The building itself was at the far end of a large parking lot, all grey corrugated metal with yellow painted trim. At night there were two rotating yellow beacons located at the entrance, which was also a loading dock.

When you first entered, to the right was the admission area. When you passed  through that, you first entered the television and refreshment area. There were several sofas clustered about a lone TV. If continue toward the back and slightly to the left, the next area you encountered was the gloryhole space. It was a series of black painted cubicles surrounding a raised platform. Naturally, there were more than an ample number of holes drilled between the cubicles and the platform.

Immediately to the right of that area is what I referred to as "the Drive-In." There was an English taxi of unknown vintage parked there that faced a large projection television that showed the same porn videos that were playing in the television area. Continuing back toward the rear of the building, you entered another area separated by separate separate cubicles. These cubicles had small holes drilled at eye level and surrounded another, smaller room, allowing you to look in and see what's going on.

Continuing on toward the back of the building, you passed the dungeon on the left that contained a sling and other accountrements. On your right were the restrooms (and yes, they were used for play as well as for their intended function). Continuing down a set of stairs, there were three more spaces: the jail (four cells complete with bunks and stainless steel toilets), the "infirmary", and a small room with a bed and a single lone light bulb. I remembered there was something very eerie and uncomfortable bout being in those two rear rooms, even if you were totally alone. I never lingered there.

And the soundtrack to this debauchery? It was The Pet Shop Boys' recently released Relentless half of Very/Relentless.

And as far as what exactly happened that night, let's just say I came home a very satisfied man.

Melancholy Sets In

During what was ostensibly my last week in San Francisco, I took Wednesday off and ran errands that morning, noticing the fog spilling over Twin Peaks as I drove down Dolores Street. As I got out onto the 280 Freeway (I was heading to Target to get a cooler in which to transport my tropical fish), I realized that this was probably going to be the last time I was on that highway.

A certain melancholy descended upon me as my continued my errands, picking up items I knew I wouldn't be able to find once I left Oz. By the time I returned home, I was severely depressed. I was just about ready to call it all quits and bail out of the move, but I realized I couldn't. It was too late. I had to go through with it.

The next night I hooked up with an especially handsome man whom I'd met the prior Sunday while I was out washing my car in front of my building as one is wont to do in San Francisco. He was walking down the sidewalk. We locked eyes, and to my utter surprise he'd paused and started up a conversation. We had dinner and ended up in my bed. What was I doing? I was leaving the fucking city in less than a week, and here I was going on a date with an impossibly good looking man who seemed quite enchanted with me and expressed great disappointment that this was only going to be a one-night thing.

After he left, coupled with the doubts that reared themselves the day before, I found myself wondering why the hell I was leaving San Francisco. Was it really too late? During the weeks that led up to all of this, my friend Stan was fond of telling me it was never too late to change my mind. I wondered if he might be right.

I sat down to write in my journal later that evening, but didn't get more than a paragraph completed. I'd started writing about everything that had happened that week: the unabashed lure of The Playground, meeting Peter, the realization that I really did have friends there who didn't want me to leave,  the magic that continued to come into my life in various forms—and I wrote, "I can't leave!" I broke down and cried.

And then, at a little past midnight, I made a decision. I wasn't going anywhere. No matter what it cost, I was not going to say goodbye to my beloved San Francisco. The only problem was I was caught in a financial Catch-22. I had to leave my job in order to remain in San Francisco. I needed the severance money they were giving me in order to pay the two months rent I needed to stay in my apartment. I didn't relish the idea of leaving the firm that had become my family over the previous eight years, but I also knew from my conversation with my boss a week earlier that staying on was probably not an option. No matter. It would force me to find a position doing more computer and less (hopefully much less) architecture.

What I wasn't prepared for when I told him of my decision the next day was the fact that he wanted to keep me on—and would be willing to loan me the money to pay my rent so I could stay. Now that is something you just don't find in today's workplace.

I accepted.

Friday afternoon we closed the office early and I came home and started putting my apartment back together. IT was no easy talk, although the unpacking did go much more quickly than the packing had. By that evening the living room had pretty much been returned to normal. By dinner time on Saturday, the rest of the place was put away. Instead of driving down I-5 heading toward Los Angeles, I was busy putting my track lights (it was the 90s, after all) back up and reinstalling all the flat switches and electrical outlets I'd swapped out only days earlier.

Of course, it seemed like the moment I got resettled, all that magic disappeared like the fog burning off each morning.

Peter—who seemed at first so disappointed that I was leaving San Francisco—became cagey. After telling him I'd decided to stay, I tried several times to set up a second date but his excuse was always "too busy at the moment" to get together. I finally wrote him off. If there was one thing I learned through that whole transformative process of leaving and then at the last minute stepping back from the brink is that I no longer had time to waste with bullshit like that.

And the magic that was The Playground? It too dried up, although not as quickly. While I had one more magical night at the venue, it seemed with each subsequent visit, the quality of the clientele and the encounters themselves dropped precipitously until I reached the point where it was more satisfying to simply stay home and jerk off by myself.

And that is why I say San Francisco is a jealous mistress…

 

Posted on

Palate Cleanser

After spending several minutes in the pre-apocalyptic hellscape that is Twitter, I needed an inusion of pure, unbridled joy; hence this repost from last March.

This song is bringing me such unbridled joy; the likes of which I haven't felt in years. Tears streaming down my cheeks!

And here's the extended mix for those so inclined…

Posted on

Blast From The Past

MacArthur Park notwithstanding, when Live and More  was initially released, I was so disappointed. Donna had just come off the high of Once Upon a Time and we were given…this?

Over the last 40 plus years my opinion of the album has mellowed a bit, and now that Donna is gone, it's become somewhat of a cultural touchstone for those of us who never got a chance to see her live in concert. (I had tickets when she was scheduled to come to Phoenix in 1979, but she canceled at the last minute.)

Posted on

My Latest Acquisition

Prompted by this and an offline convo I had with one of my readers (you know who you are), I decided it was time to add Ray of Light to my vinyl collection. This 2-disk, 180g clear vinyl, Record Store Day/Black Friday 2018 special edition didn't come cheap. It cost a bit over twice what I'm used to paying for new vinyl, but it was worth it.

Now I'm just worried that this purchase will  justify shelling out twice that for the purple vinyl edition of Prince's Purple Rain that I've been eyeing for years.

Posted on

Released 36 Years Ago Today

Madonna: True Blue (1986)

From Behind the Grooves:

"True Blue", the third album by Madonna is released. Produced by Madonna, Patrick Leonard and Stephen Bray, it is recorded at Channel Recording in Los Angeles, CA from December 1985 – April 1986. After the massive whirlwind success of the "Like A Virgin" album and "The Virgin Tour", the pop superstar does not rest on her laurels, beginning work on the crucial follow up at the end of 1985. Working with long time collaborator Stephen Bray and new producer Patrick Leonard (Michael Jackson, Jody Watley), the album is praised upon its release as her strongest effort to date, and is widely regarded today as one of the best albums of her career. It spins off five top five hits including "Live To Tell" (#1 Pop), "Papa Don't Preach" (#1 Pop), "Open Your Heart" (#1 Pop) and the title track (#3 Pop). "True Blue" also marks the beginning Madonna's long association with famed fashion photographer Herb Ritts who shoots the LP's iconic cover photo. The original LP package also includes a poster of the album cover shot. As a promotion for the album, MTV sponsors the "Make My Video" contest, inviting viewers to submit their own visual interpretations of the title track. The winning entry comes from Angel Gracia and Cliff Guest, whose black & white clip is rotated heavily on the video channel. The pair are awarded a check for $25,000 by the pop superstar herself at MTV's New York studios. The alternate video directed by James Foley, featuring Madonna with close friends actress Debi Mazur and fashion designer Erika Belle is shown largely outside the US. Madonna also supports the album with the worldwide "Who's That Girl Tour" beginning in June of 1987. It is remastered and reissued on CD in 2001, with the extended 12" mixes of "La Isla Bonita" and the title track included as bonus tracks. The vinyl LP is reissued in Europe in 2012, including the original inner sleeve lyric sheet and poster featured in the original release. In October of 2016, a limited edition release of the LP pressed on blue vinyl, is issued as exclusive through the European supermarket chain Sainsbury's. "True Blue" spends five weeks at number one on the Billboard Top 200, and is certified 7x Platinum in the US by the RIAA.

My unbridled love for this album and the accompanying quest to acquire it on "true blue" vinyl has been well documented on this blog, so I won't add anything more today and instead will sign off and go listen to it.

Posted on

Released 48 Years Ago Today

Damn, I feel old.

Elton John: Caribou (1974)

This was the first EJ album I bought. In fact, it may be the first rock album I ever bought, come to think of it. All I remember was my mother was aghast.

She was very judgey when it came to my music. I remember an incident years after Caribou  when she came in my room, picked up the sleeve of Mike Oldfield's Ommadawn, and asked, "Who's he trying to look like, Jesus Christ himself?"

She liked most of my disco tunes, however.

My dad on the other hand, only once commented on anything he heard coming out of my room, and that was Karen Carpenter. "She sounds like a cow mooing!"

Posted on

Peak Madonna

Bedtime Story (1994)

Nothing Really Matters (1998)

I grew up with Madonna. Not literally of course, but she provided a major portion of the soundtrack of my life from my 20s. I've stuck by her through the best of times and the worst. (I haven't had a Pepsi since the company boycotted her when the whackadoodle christianists Christofastists—let's call them what they are—objected to Like a Prayer back in 1989.)

While I think her current attempts to look and sound half her age to appeal to the younger generation are…unfortunate…I'll admit that she remains a force of nature for my generation.

Posted on

I Had Forgotten…

…what a truly excellent album this is.

"If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding!"

I watched a making of video on YouTube this afternoon which prompted me to give this a spin tonight. Born of blood, sweat, and tears like all great art, I never fully appreciated the work—and drama—that went into its creation.

Posted on

Released 42 Years Ago Today

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OeX9Rq9cFk&list=PLrpyDacBCh7D9LYtNqpCNxIAyLk4R26uA

Grace Jones: Warm Leatherette (1980)

My favorite—or maybe second favorite—Grace Jones album. I can never definitively say if this or Nightclubbing is my favorite, followed closely by Slave to the Rhythm in third place. Both Warm Leatherette and Nightclubbing are so good they could easily have been released as a double LP.