The Jam “Going Underground” / “The Dreams of Children”

Here’s an odd bit of business: I was recently going back to some of my favorite music from 40 and 50 years ago and finding that some of it doesn’t hold up for me. It’s hard to believe I liked it so much. But there’s a good side to that, too: Sometimes I can “discover” music that I once totally dismissed and despised—and hearing it now—I’m surprised to find it compelling. Not totally unrelated: Today’s random selection—two three-minute songs from The Jam on a 1980 promo 45—where’d I get it? Who knows—but since today’s fickle pointer descended on it, I’m going to do an experiment and predict my reaction before hearing it. One word: Lukewarm. For most punk bands, it was over by 1980—already planning their county fair reunion tours. Not that The Jam were a punk band, really—they were a really good pop band—but they played faster and with more energy than anyone—or were right up there. (There were some real coffee drinkers back then.) I remembered writing about—in the early days of this site—four The Jam LPs I used to have—so I went back and looked over those reviews. Interesting—I was expecting to hate them, by then, but found myself loving those records. So… weird. This single dates just after that—what will it sound like?

I wish I could say I was wrong, but both songs sound about like I expected—like The Jam—high energy pop songs with good jangly guitar and expressive bass—lyrics-wise what we used to call “political” songs—about social issues, etc., which is nice. But music-wise, I’m not feeling it. I don’t particularly like “Going Underground,” and I don’t think it’s gonna grow on me. There’s way too much happening, structurally, musically—it could have ended in several places before it did. They managed to make three minutes feel like 30. Too much going on for a pop song—or, really, for a mini-series. “The Dreams of Children” is more interesting, at least on first listen. But it grows old fast—again, overly complicated for what it is. Both of these songs could benefit by being, each, half as long. Oh well, now it seems a little ironic that the last The Jam record I own is this one—that I don’t even like—and I wish I had those first four LPs that I lost. Some advice to the kids—try to hang onto your old records for as long as you can (or whatever equivalent objects of importance from your younger days might be). There may come a time when you’re glad to dust them off and rediscover them.

The Cowboys “Supermarket” / “Teenage Life”

Not to be confused with The Clash’s “Lost in the Supermarket”—which came out a year earlier on the London Calling record, and is one of the wimpier Clash songs I remember—kind of a disappointment from “the only band that matters.” I don’t mean to always pick on The Clash—they were a great band (my fav at one point)… but their name is dumb. Now, The Cowboys—that’s a fucked up punk rock band name—a very good one. And The Cowboys’ “Supermarket” song is better—it’s a pretty great song—I probably like it better now than back then—this is a song that’s aged well (unlike the other side, “Teenage Life”—which is nonetheless nostalgic). It’s a reggae-tinged pop punk song about the middle-American middle-class dream—Ohio, the middle of the country—1980, when things were looking grim (had we only known…). Malls were still thriving, and rebellion might have been choosing not to get a “square” job, and not watch the TV shows on the three major networks. It’s kind of a weird song, really. “Up top in a supermarket”—what’s that mean? Am I hearing that right? I never thought about it. Is it from the point of view of the little kid in the grocery cart—those funny little seats? I remember riding in the grocery cart—pulling things off the shelf. My mom would keep me quiet with a Mad Magazine. I probably rode in those things up to an inappropriately old age—but I’ve never heard a song about it before. It’s got some great lines: “Beautiful music is everywhere, hey, hey I’m lost in space,” then, later, “You can’t learn until you learn to listen, but I can’t sit still, is that real?”

It’s funny how we don’t use that term, “Supermarket,” anymore—even though some of those big ones are bigger than ever. Though—maybe I’m wrong—maybe it’s a regional term, and in some places they use it. Or maybe it’s what people say in the suburbs. But I can’t remember the last time I heard someone say, “I’m going to the supermarket.” These days, it’s nothing to celebrate—I usually face it like a grim task—I go to the “grocery store,” and generally it’s a nightmarish hell. I used to know a couple of guys who worked at grocery stores (back around when this record came out), and I like to remind people (particularly younger people) how that used to be a really good job. Supermarket jobs were union jobs—and you could get married, have kids, buy a house and a car. Or you could work third shift, overtime, sleep all day, and save enough money to start your own recording studio—or buy an island with a lighthouse.

The other side, “Teenage Life,” is a pretty typical sounding punk song from the time—it’s fast, noisy, guitars wailing, and it sounds like it’s running downhill into oblivion—one of those end of the world punk songs. “I sit home and watch TV, nothing satisfies me.” Even if you’ve never heard this, if you’ve heard punk rock, you’ve heard it. It’s got a dropped in guitar solo, and it wears out its welcome quick enough. But like I said, nostalgic. It’s funny to hear non-teens doing a song about “teenage life”—though I don’t suppose they were far removed from being teens. I believe these guys were all a year or two older than me, and I was 20 when the record came out—on Tet Offensive label, which was the record label of The Offense zine (which I used to read all the time and write asinine letters to). It’s got a seven-inch paper sleeve with a degraded pink square on the cover (like it was some unknown red object, photographed and blown up a million times). Plus, some typed info, from a broken typewriter, that’s purposely illegible. It’s non-self-congratulatory and very punk rock.

I eventually knew a few members of this band, in Columbus, Ohio, who were all very nice—very cool guys—including Pete Stackelberg, who passed away in the Nineties. Brian Emch may or may not have played on this record, but he was in The Cowboys at some point, and later played with the Royal Crescent Mob—another great band from Columbus. The singer, Billy Lee Buckeye, used to write for The Offense (very good, funny stuff)—I’d seen him play acoustic at one of the local “Nowhere” music festivals—pre-Cowboys, I believe, and I was instantly a big fan. Later, using his real name, Mark Eitzel, he played with the Naked Skinnies (their record, reviewed in these pages, was also put out by Tim Anstaett/Offense Magazine), and that band moved out to San Francisco. Later Mark Eitzel started American Music Club—one of my favorite bands ever—and I saw them play, and him play, over the years, approximately once a decade. Lately, I’ve seen him play twice in Milwaukee (pre and post pandemic) in those intimate living room shows (most recently about a month ago). Of all the punk rock people I knew (or kind of knew) I feel like he went the furthest—into other realms of music, I mean—not just success. But in some ways—say, seeing that recent, live, solo show—and now he’s maybe 64—and he’s still punk rock in the best way—and he continues to be inspiring.

Patsy Cline “The Patsy Cline Story”

It’s hard for me to write anything about Patsy Cline because I was such a huge fan of her at one time and now, I barely listen to her anymore. Not that I mind listening to her, as I am right now, writing this—it’s just that I don’t normally put on a Patsy Cline record when I’m in the mood for country music, or love songs, or sad songs, or introspection. At one time, I suppose, my love for her had to do with being in the vicinity of “discovering” her—around the time this 1980 LP came out, when I was around 20 years old. It’s a two-record retrospective—one of about a million Patsy Cline compilation releases since her tragic death, at the age of 30, in 1963. I had not been a fan of country and western, in my youth, but my appreciation for it more or less coincided with me becoming a punk rocker (if that makes sense), and also learning about jazz, and also discovering a lot of older music I didn’t know existed.

Quite fascinating to me (and probably no one else) is that at this time (a little hard to believe it was 40-some years ago), I was an enormous fan of The Clash, James Brown, and Patsy Cline—and now I barely listen to those three. It’s not that I don’t have an appreciation of them, on paper so to speak, even love for them—but I’m just not feeling it. Well, The Clash is most confusing to me. It’s almost like I’ve turned against them. (I know, it’s silly.) If someone put on a good James Brown record right now, I’d probably be into it—it’s just that I never choose, these days, to put on James Brown. And I’m listening to Patsy Cline right now, enjoying the music thoroughly, but I don’t feel it the way I once did—so I guess that’s the point. Sad but true.

It’s interesting—when a song comes on that I don’t know that well, such as, “Imagine That,” I appreciate that one a lot more than all the usuals—the big ones that everyone knows—which I don’t need to mention. I suppose that I’ve just heard some of them way too many times—and just wore out the parts of my brain where they reside. Partly to blame, I guess, are movies and TV shows—who will, on occasion, allow one of these songs to do way too much work. “Back in Baby’s Arms” is a good example. I wouldn’t mind never hearing that song again. “She’s Got You,” however, I still feel a fondness for—I liked that one so much I learned to play it, and did (for myself, only) quite often. I can still remember the revelation of “Leavin’ on Your Mind”—my first hearing that—even if I can’t feel it in the same way. “Crazy” is undeniable, but I’ve just heard it too many times. “Sweet Dreams” was always my favorite, and I guess I can’t forget that. It’s still got a little furnished cottage in the nostalgia region of my brain. And… to end on a positive note, there’s the song, “Why Can’t He Be You”—that one’s a killer, lyric-wise, and the way she sings it sure is fine. That might be my favorite at this point. And maybe, if I’m lucky, and some years pass, brain cells under the bridge, just maybe I can come around to all of them again.

Michael Franks “One Bad Habit”

Initially, this one almost scared me away, as the record starts with the song, “Baseball”, which starts with a wailing, groaning guitar, and features a chorus that goes, “Love is just like baseball,” etc. Well… when I think about, I can’t really argue with that—and the rest of the song is pretty smooth and low-key, with some pretty funny lyrics. The album cover would have been enough to scare me away (thirty-something Michael Franks wearing an eggplant sweater and Levi’s in a locker room, in front of an open locker)—it’s a funny photo, but does a locker room ever look compelling? Also worrying, the year it came out, 1980, which is past the date I’m willing to take chances on. But I bought it with no hesitation because once I heard Michael Franks’ 1976 record The Art of Tea (which I bought on a whim, not expecting anything—I’d never heard of him) I set out to buy anything and everything I could find—and he’s got a few releases, about 18 original LPs, now—though I’m not sure how many are on vinyl—I’ve found seven, so far, and a few others via digital formats. One of my favorites, Time Together, is from 2011—as far as I can tell, he’s had a remarkably consistent half-century career. Every song of his—that I’ve heard—sounds like a Michael Franks song—he’s written a lot of amazing songs, and his singing is very distinctive.

Had I come across this record the year it came out, when I was 20, I don’t think I’d have been into it. It’s to some degree “smooth jazz”—and on the surface it’s certainly smooth, also fairly mellow, and even slick, as all the musicians are top rate. But when you listen closely, and particularly to the lyrics, it’s far from mellow, as the songs are mostly ultra-catchy, and the lyrics go from goofy to clever to wise. Great lyrics from Michael Franks. This record turns out to be a particularly good one—all nine songs are very good. I don’t even want to single any out (well, okay—“On My Way Home To You” is my favorite, at this listening). But I like them all. It’s funny, after that initial (somewhat) bad impression, it’s smooth sailing for the rest of the way. Did I mention that the back cover is even scarier than the front cover? I won’t mention it. I do hope my random record review picking device turns up some more Michael Franks, soon. I also hope I can find more on vinyl. I’m determined to find them all, one way or another. In the last two years—in which I’ve needed to hear music that both made me calm and stimulated me intellectually, Michael Franks and Donald Fagen have been my favorites. It’s not like I’m obsessed or anything—too old for that—but I’m very happy to have music to search out.

Rachel Sweet “Protect the Innocent”

In the between Rachel Sweet’s first LP (“Fool Around,” which I’ll get around to writing about some day) and her second, this one, from 1980, the album artwork (she’s wearing leather, and posing with much younger kids on front and back—pretty charming, really) leads us to believe she went from being a girl to being a woman. I suppose, age-wise, in a legal sense, that’s close to being true—but who knows. She comes across as a mature, seasoned singer on that first one—I love that record. I was sad, back then, as well as now, that I don’t like this one as much. It’s too 1980s, jaunty, new-wavy for me—I’m not crazy about the backing musicians—to erect and coked up—not necessarily literally. Maybe too much English breakfast tea. And too much guitar. But Rachel Sweet’s singing is great, and the song selection is interesting. She wrote or co-wrote a third of this record, including the kind of incredible, steamy last song, “Tonight Ricky”—which for a long time I thought was the sexiest song I’d ever heard. It still might be—what would have taken its place? It was also exciting that she did The Damned’s “New Rose”—a pretty bold punk statement at the time (and my favorite Damned song). My favorite song on the record is the Velvet Underground song, “New Age”—and seeing how Lou Reed is my all-time favorite songwriter, that’s not surprising. This version is a pretty mainstream arrangement, but the combination of her singing and it being a great song still gives me goosebumps—I’m not kidding. It also led me, on this evening, to go back and compare the versions from “Loaded” and “Live 1969,” I believe it was—I love them both. This is the earlier version with the Robert Mitchum line. I didn’t realize that Tori Amos recorded the other version, and I just listened to it—it’s satisfyingly strange.

The first thing I did while listening to this was look up Rachel Sweet online—something I hadn’t done since online was a possibility—and with a little trepidation. How often do I look someone up and find only tragedy? I’m kind of ashamed to say that, as much of a fan of her as I was back in the day, I probably hadn’t read about her in the time between when my Rolling Stone subscription ran out and the Internet was invented—and then some. It turns out she’s been busy and successful, and I don’t know how I missed so much—except that you could fill an IMDb-like-website with the stuff I’ve missed. Well… when the last part of your Wikipedia page says you unloaded Madonna’s former multi-million dollar home, that probably more likely indicates years of adventurous decorating than it does houselessness. Anyway, that brings me back to remembering my love for Rachel Sweet, over 40 years ago—which doesn’t make me feel old as much as… I don’t know… something about still being connected to the past. I wondered back then and still wonder now, who was making decisions about this and that, in regard to her career. Maybe there will be a documentary some day. All of this also reminded me of the one time I saw her live—probably around the time this record came out—at a fairly small venue, maybe it was the Cleveland Agora?* It was a great show—she was a confident and seasoned performer—still a teenager. Also, pretty sexy, of course—but I remember her evoking more of the image put forth by that first record—than this second one—very young and lovely and charming and fun. I even remember that she was wearing tight jeans, and her zipper (either by design, or due to being just that relaxed) was halfway down. There’s an image for you!

*A side note—while looking stuff up, I saw a YouTube post—a full concert (audio only) that is pretty great, and may well be the show I was at. It says Agora, Cleveland, 4-29-1980. It’s a fine recording, a pretty excellent document. At about the 20 minute mark, during the intro to “New Age,” I swear I can hear my friend, Brad (who I attended with) (AKA Jimmy Ego, of the Bursting Brains), yell, “Bursting Brains!” We’ve been missing Brad terribly for over 30 years now—kind of haunting to hear that—but also kind of great.

Blue Oyster Cult “Cultosaurus Erectus”

I never heard this record (before I listened to it, just recently) since by 1980 I was fully immersed in punk rock, and these guys seemed like “dinosaurs.” And based on this record (a play on scientific names and porn, I guess?) they also liked dinosaurs. The cover art seems to illustrate a kind of speculative text that the Earth’s former inhabitants were weirder and ever more savage than previously imagined—prompted somewhat, I’m guessing, by the original Alien movie, which came out a year earlier. And just imagining the sequel where the cat explodes and the aliens conquer the world—that’s the Alien sequel we were all expecting back then! A pretty good rendering of that distinctive alien mouth, on the cover—which was fresh back then (before it got ripped off by every movie with a monster, and counting). I guess the idea that we’re in for a new age of the dinosaurs makes a lot of sense, and might even be supported by the lyrics—but I can’t quite make them out, and there’s no lyric sheet, and I’m not willing to do more research—I’m not writing a thesis here! It’s good enough that the songs are actually quite catchy, and even fun. I have to admit, hard rock isn’t my thing—but a good song is a good song. What I recall from my BOC records from the Seventies is they wrote some catchy tunes. It seems like they kept the band together for a while, too—and I’m not sure what became of them—but it seems like I saw some version of the band on a recent festival lineup. If a feature-length, streaming, Blue Oyster Cult documentary hasn’t already been made, you can count on it soon.

Crosby, Stills & Nash “Replay”

There is probably someone out there who has kept track, in their mind, of the records made by David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash (and Neil Young, etc.)—probably the same genius who can tell you all the versions of the Byrds. I guess if you’re a big enough fan, it’s effortless, and if you’re not, it’s like untangling a box of audio cords. Personally, I can’t keep track, even, of people’s names—trying to remember if it’s Steven or Stephen, Neil or Neal, Gram or Graham or Graeme, etc.—it’s a nightmare! Because you want spell people’s names correctly, especially when you’re asking them for money! I was just thinking about all the bands who are named after people in the band. There are a lot. I would like to pass a law that says, unless you are a single performer, you can’t name your band after your name—you have to come up with a band name. I think it’s the most fun part of starting a band, after all—I don’t know why people would want to deprive themselves of that, unless either their egos are that big, or they’re just really unimaginative. And I know these three guys are creative—they are all excellent songwriters, musicians, and singers. I guess this record is a retrospective of sorts—I just picked it up for a $1.98—which, if they, or the record company are cashing in, why not—more records benefit all of us—if the music is good. Though, I’ve never been a fan of the song “Love the One You’re With,” which always felt like either stating the obvious, or some hippie predator bullshit. The song “Cathedral” is on here, which is one that always gave me the chills of joy and creep-out. I also dig the the drawing/painting of the band on the front cover, so I looked to see if there was a credit for it—it’s by Joni Mitchell! And finally, there’s a song about whales, called “To the Last Whale.” Which is nice (I mean, (heart) whales!)—plus, it gave me an idea. Instead of Crosby, Stills & Nash, they could have called their band: The Last Whale. See how easy that was?