Have you ever moved an under-the-counter microwave? Seems easy, doesn't it? Nope. It’s heavy as hell and awkward. It’s like there’s reverb in it. If you say or think, “That’s ok, I’ll get the microwave.” Don’t. That’s a pro tip. Also, never help a record collector move. Never. Another pro tip.
OK, Don Tinsley. Great power-pop song from the early to mid ‘70s? I put a question mark cuz I don’t really wanna delve too much into his story. Without looking, I assume this is a self-published, one-off single from the ‘70s, found by a Discog douche in a Lincoln, Nebraska thrift store in the winter of ’23. It went nowhere and he eventually followed his other passion…real estate.
Tinsley did record a single in the ‘70s but it was never published. It languished in a drawer until he (Tinsley) or, more like it, his “banged” niece sent the reel-to-reel to Numero Group or Earth Libraries, both song archeologist purveyor labels. Earth Libraries, a label or song collective or whatever they are, won the bidding war and put out the single. Tinsley proceeded to die once the single was released. At his funeral, it was rumored he died doing what he loved…real estate.
Great song. Listen
(Tinsley probably didn’t love real estate, and it’s possible a single was pressed in the ‘70s. Microwaves are heavy, though)
3. Anonymous Club by Courtney Barnett
The city hall heads were causing trouble, so I went upstairs and found our politics guy. He was the man who dealt with these types of problems. He had power. He was a player. I told him the city hall heads gave us tickets and impeded delivery. Immediately indignant, and aghast, he grabbed his coat from the back of his office chair and we marched 2 blocks to city hall. We found the heads who caused the problems and he told them to stop. I stood slightly behind him, ready to jump in or say “yeah,” but these weren’t physical guys. Nor was I. They stopped immediately. I was impressed.
On the way back, the upstairs politics guy told me he had a small part in the movie The Towering Inferno and wanted to be a priest -- even attended seminary --before being our politics guy. The seminary thing was oddly common with a specific subculture of the population at work. I looked at him and thought, “Ohh.” That’s all I had.
On the street, I looked back at city hall. Damaged in the earthquake, it sat empty for many years. Willie brought it back with a black dome. It probably cost extra but it was worth it. It’s the tallest dome on the “W” side of the Mississippi.
Before taking the elevator upstairs, the politics guy told me a story about the present-day young, hipster mayoral candidate. Walking into a room in city hall, the candidate was lying on his back on a sofa with the lights off. Light flooded the room from the hallway. The candidate looked up, squinted, and yelled, “Get the fuck out.” The politics guy intimated that the candidate had depression issues.
The spray-painters liked the mayoral candidate. He was one of them. He dabbled in art, Lo-fi indie and probably skateboarded to work. He didn’t win. The spray painters eventually got married, had one kid, and moved to the suburbs when the kid entered kindergarten. You know, for the schools. On select Saturday nights, they’d tag a dumpster on the side of a 7/11, while wearing a Wu-Tang shirt. They’d post it that night. I’m sure the candidate is out there too, still dabbling in collage and depressed. Aren't we all?
This song reminds me of lying face up on a sofa in a dark room in the middle of the day. Gravity heavy, mind wandering to my troubles, my troubles, my troubles…
4. Around the Corner by Sam Blasucci
Sam is in a band called Mapache. If you omit M from Mapache you get Apache. It’s a tribe and a well-sampled song.
Two rows back and a couple spaces over, a math student wore a leather jacket with a large Native American in full headdress painted on the back. This wasn’t abnormal at the time. He was large for the seat, stiff, and all in black. Not rocker black, insdustrial black. Shaved on the sides, his dyed black, stringy hair fell across his face. He constantly swiped it back. He'd do. It was a geometry class in community college. Why was I taking a geometry class at a community class. I have no idea.
We were looking for a singer. In the hallway after class, I introduced myself and asked him to try out for my band. We needed a singer and he looked cool. Had no idea if he could sing. He agreed. I gave him a demo of our original rock songs.
He came down to our fire-trap practice studio, a converted rug warehouse. As you walked the hallway to the last space in the basement, the year’s trendy alternative music bled from rooms behind closed doors. Musical taste seemed to change every three years, the normal length of a band.
I introduced him to the band like we were old friends. He took off his leather jacket, revealing the same tattoo on his bicep that he had on the back of his leather jacket. He grabbed the mic, barked out a few lyrics, and then awkwardness took over. He was too Nine Inch Nails and rusted metal drum banging for our post-modern southern rock. We went back to being co-students.
The next guy wore a wife-beeater with a chain wallet that hung below his knee. When we shook hands, he slid his hand up my forearm to my elbow and squeezed. It was like we were two Thors or in the final battle for middle earth. It freaked me out. He approached the mic, stopped, moved off the mic, and then attacked it again. But he never sang. He was our drummer’s friend so we let him deal with it.
The last guy was older and obviously a professional singer. Since trying to find a singer was turning out to be awkward, our guitarist met with the prospects before coming to the studio. The guitarist reported that the pro oldster singer had a commissioned oil painting of the cover of The Rolling Stones’ 1974 album It’s Only Rock-n-Roll in his living room. However, there was a twist. Upon further inspection of the painting, the pro oldster singer had painted himself with The Stones walking down the red carpeted stairs with adoring nymphs: Mick, Keith, Mick T, Bill, Charlie and Pro Oldster Singer. At the time, the painting was an object of ridicule and mockery, but, man, I’d pay a plenty quarter for the painting now. For the story alone.
I ended up singing. That’s how reluctant singers become reluctant singers.
I have trouble liking a Mapache song because of the name. It conjures wool ponchos and the phrase “festival ready.” Same with Soccer Mommy. I just can’t bring myself to mutter, “Hey, have you heard the new Soccer Mommy song” without feeling like a total tool. It’s me, not you, Mommy and Mapache. With Sam’s solo record, I can now listen without judgment. Thank you for thinking of me. Soccer Mommy? What about you? Throw me a bone.
Listen.
5. Jesus by The Velvet Underground
This song made me think differently about The Velvet Underground. Before hearing it,
The Velvets were polaroids, wigs, screen printing machines, long art films, factories, parties, and general Lower Eastside degeneracy. The way it should be. But maybe after not sleeping on a Saturday night, a few of them floated the idea of going to church on Sunday. Most of them and everyone around them attended church as a kid, right?
I can picture John Cale and Mo Tucker (definitely Mo) saying, “Yeah, we’ll go.” Nico probably hissed at this idea. And off they went, passing Coney Island where Lou mumbled, “Coney Island, Baby.” And when they returned from one of these outings, Lou wrote Jesus. Sounds feasible, right? I think so.
But what I love most about this song — what keeps my active mind intrigued — is a scenario where the band is backstage making the setlist for a show. Someone suggests sandwiching Jesus between I’m Waiting For My Man and Heroin, and everyone agrees it's a good idea. So, that night, after playing Jesus, Lou says, “The next one is called Heroin.” Jesus and Heroin. A man can wish.
Great song. The chorus is so delicate and bare. Lovely.
