Hüsker Dü: Zen Arcade (1985)

(As published in the West Virginia University Daily Athenaeum ... )

Johnny wasn't sure how to tell his girlfriend Sue that he had faced up to the Hard Facts of Life again and that now he had to wear ripped T-shirts and maybe even get a mohawk. After all, the last time he had faced up to those Facts and burned his Billy Joel records, she nearly divorced him.

Well, not exactly divorced, but you know how serious kids are these days, what with soap operas and MTV and all.

He'd put off telling her for almost a week. But he could delay no longer. So he went to the phone and began to dial. Then he stopped, realizing that he'd forgotten to put a record on the stereo before making the call. What a klutz he was being! He'd been using records playing in the background as subliminal telephone suggestions ever since the time he was playing The Wall while his mother phoned the principal to say that, yes, Johnny really was sick.

The tactic was foolproof.

What should he play? He flipped through his records, only to realize that nothing quite suited the moment. Zappa's Sheik Yerbouti, which Johnny had used when he told Sue that he wouldn't be caught dead at the Junior Prom, was outdated. Zeppelin's "Black Dog," which Johnny had used to clue Sue in as to which pet-store puppy he wanted for his birthday, was irrelevant.

He flopped down in front of the TV to soak his troubled brain in The Flintstones, when what should pop onto the screen but an ad for Husker Du, "the memory game." "Hüsker Dü!" cried Johnny. "That's it!"

He ran as fast as he could to his record crate. Honeydrippers, Hoodoo Gurus--ah, Hüsker Dü's Zen Arcade, the Sgt. Pepper of hardcore, the Never Mind the Bollocks of the eighties. This was just what he needed.

He put on Side Four and began to dial. As Sue picked up the receiver and cooed, "Hello," "Turn on the News" tore through Johnny's speakers.

"Hello?" she repeated, able only to hear a distorted wall of feedback and frenzied drumming on the other end. "Hello?"

"SUE," Johnny shouted, "IT'S ME, JOHNNY! HOW YA DOIN'?"

"Johnny, what's wrong? I can barely hear you. What's all that noise in the background? Johnny?"

"SUE, HEY, I JUST WANTED TO TELL YA THAT I'VE FINALLY FACED UP TO THE FACTS OF LIFE IN THIS AGE OF OURS AND--"

"Johnny," she interrupted, "is this gonna be about sex? 'Cause if it is, I don't wanna hear it."

"SEX?" he shouted back. "NO, NO! THIS IS ABOUT IMPORTANT STUFF LIKE NOT EVER WEARING THAT POLO SHIRT YOU BOUGHT ME FOR CHRISTMAS AGAIN AND MAYBE SHAVING MY HEAD IN PURSUIT OF A HIGHER GOAL LIKE--"

"Johnny," she interrupted again, "if you don't turn off that noise and stop shouting at me, I'm going to hang up right now and never speak to you again."

"O.K.! O.K.! I'LL CALL YOU RIGHT BACK!"

"Johnny--"

"I'LL CALL YA BACK!" As he slammed down the phone, "Reoccurring Dreams" came on.

What had gone wrong? Never in his life had music or his shrewd sense of timing (not to mention his understanding of women) let him down so badly.

He picked up the album cover and carefully analyzed its crude graphics, searching for some sign of overlooked irony that might explain why his plan had backfired.

Suddenly, it hit him. He ran to the turntable, scratched the needle off in the middle of a grisly bass line, and put on Side One's "Never Talk to You Again."

Revelation: Hardcore band uses acoustic guitars and not only audible but even clear singing to tell anonymous girlfriend to, 'ow you say, hitch ride on slow boat to China? Well...

Where had he heard that before? The Velvet Underground? Buffalo Springfield, Yea, even perhaps Merle Haggard? Was this fair? Johnny didn't know.

He put Zen Arcade away and grabbed the Carpenters' Singles 1974-1978, placing the needle on "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft," his favorite.

He closed his eyes and began to dial. "This time," he thought, "I'm gonna do it right...."


(More from my college daze: http://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/2010/07/chicago-et-cetera-1985.html;
http://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/2010/06/elvis-speaks-1985.html)

Chicago: Et Cetera (1985)

(As published in the West Virginia University Daily Athenaeum ... )

Nothing better demonstrates the adage "You can't take from the times what the times won't give" than Chicago's recent records and, in particular, their Coliseum concert three nights ago.

The nine men that bounded onstage at 8:50 Saturday night, dressed in immaculate white outfits and looking fitter than Hulk Hogan (with the exception of guitarist Chris "Man Mountain" Pinnick) bore little resemblance to the Chicago (née Transit Authority) that debuted in 1969 with a Big Band/Yardbirds double-disc set of post-hippiedom tunesmithery, or the Chicago that filled the '70s with several dozen wonderful singles and a greatest-hits record (Chicago IX) that still hangs in there with the best.

Chicago circa 1985 is, in fact, a study in eternal survival, a living testament to the power of positive trending and the hypothesis that you're never old 'til your audience is. They've outlasted almost-soundalikes like Blood, Sweat & Tears and Three Dog Night by over ten years and have taken from the times the faceless aegis of hooks and--literally--blank verse to become, slowly but surely, America's Numero Uno Hit-Makers-for-Life, a hegemony with no outside threat in sight.

The transition Saturday night from new material to old and back was seamless, opening with the brassy "We Can Stop the Hurtin'" (from 17) and rolling unblinkered through a "Make Me Smile/Colour My World" medley and "Saturday in the Park." Other radio staples ("Beginnings," "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is") followed en route to the climactic and hysterically received slow-dance/make-out trilogy of "Hard Habit to Break," "You're the Inspiration," and "Hard to say I'm Sorry" (each of which, by the way, is exactly the same song). The crowd was held in rapt attention throughout despite the familiar sludge of Coliseum acoustics.

By the encores Chicago the Rockers began to emerge from behind Chicago the Perennial Professionals. A riff-happy run-through of "I'm a Man" (from the first album) sparked the first signs of dancing in the aisles, while a surprising (and a surprisingly good) cover of "Got to Get You into My Life" touched bases with anyone who, by this point, was still wondering what the fuss was about. A reprise of "Breakaway" (the tail end of "Hard Habit") ended the show with a bang, and several thousand highly held lighters tried in vain to bring the band back for encore number four.

I guess the kids didn't know that the unions don't allow that sort of thing.

Six of the nine current Chicago members are originals going back the full seventeen years. The brass trio that signatured each Chicago classic--James Pankow (trombone), Lee Loughnane (trumpet), Walter Parazaider (woodwinds)--is still intact despite the rumors of their being ditched ELO-style that keep circulating and the complete inability of any Chicago fan I know (myself included) to pronounce their names correctly. They freely maneuvered the multi-level space-age stage thanks to the uncumbersome mini-mics located in or on each horn, making up for their occasionally perfunctory performances with a decent display of agility.

Still, expert mainstreaming has cost the group some of the joire de vivre they used to embody. Parazaider's flute solo in "Colour My World" was a bit ho-hum, as was new-member Bill Champlin's vocal (the original was sung by the late Terry Kath), reducing the song to the sum of its famous piano arpeggios.

As for the onanistic solos that came about halfway through the set, they were definitely the low mark of the night. Pankow's ten seconds of trombone blurts sounded almost virtuosic compared to Bobby Lamm's three minutes of piano bang (neat chords, all four of 'em). And drummer Danny Seraphine and percussionist Kenny Cetera's drum solo (well, since their were two of them, I guess it was a duet) was the same one that every drummer since the invention of Side Three on double live albums has turned into coliseum-rock's most depressing "necessity."

Refreshingly, vocalist Peter Cetera's acknowledgment of MTV in his talk preceding "Along Comes a Woman" ("They're showing the video tonight for the first time!"--audience screams) and his dedication of "You're the Inspiration" to the crowd ("This is for you!"--more screams) showed that he and the band were no dummies when it comes to knowing on which side their bread is buttered. The crowd's singing along on "Stay the Night" suggested it didn't matter, and I guess it doesn't.

The only ironies in the saga of the reborn Chicago that the concert didn't resolve are what to do with 1) all the hits they don't have room to perform anymore (twice the amount that they do perform), 2) the high-school girls who say after each show, "I didn't know it was Chicago that did 'Got to Get You into My Life!'" and 3) the depression those same girls may suffer when they realize that adorable Peter Cetera is old enough to be their father.

Nobody said it was easy.

Elvis Speaks! (1985)

(As published in the February 8, 1985, issue of my university's newspaper, The Daily Athenaeum ... )

A Golden Celebration, Elvis Presley (RCA). Hi, I'm the ghost of Elvis Presley, and I want your money ("that's what I want"--oops, sorry, that's someone else's song, er, well, all of my songs were someone else's songs, weren't they? Hyuck, hyuck.)

Anyway, back when I was the proud inhabitant of that famous Elvis body with the wigglin' hips (before it got all fat and bloated, you know the one), I sang some meeeean songs, yes sir, songs like "Hound Dog" and "Blue Suede Shoes" and "Don't Be Cruel" and--what? Oh, you already own those. Well ...

I'll bet ya my Uncle Clem and all my non-famous cousins (who are still jealous, I swear) that you don't have these versions of my songs, the ones right here in this brand-new six-record set with my human face embossed in gold on the cover. Honest, gang, this is essential stuff!

Like on this one record here you can hear me singin' on both The Milton Berle Show and The Steve Allen Show (great names they gave shows then, don'tcha think?) in 1956. The girlies (they're "Mama" and "Auntie" to y'all now) are screamin', and the recording sounds like peachickens scratchin' their claws across peachicken-sized blackboards so's you can hardly bear to listen and--what? Whaddaya mean you've heard better sound on second-hand copies of Velvet Underground albums? That was low ...

Anyway, on Sides Five through Seven you hear me knockin' 'em dead at (are you ready?) the Mississippi-Alabama Fair & Dairy Show! That's right, me live from Tupelo, Miss. amid nothin' less than pigs and cows. Why, you can practically taste the Red Man. You can go ahead and clap now.

On Side Eleven you get "Collector's Treasures--discovered at Graceland, date unknown." Well, I know the date, but I'm not tellin', haw, haw. Truthfully, though, I hid those "collector's treasures" ("My Heart Cries for You," "Suppose," and "Write to Me from Naples") so's no one would ever find 'em. Why? Listen and learn.

So, all in all, you get (count 'em) six mono LPs, one air-brushed photo of me in my prime and suitable for framing, six versions of "Blue Suede Shoes" and "Hound Dog," five of "Love Me Tender" and "Don't Be Cruel," and four of "Heartbreak Hotel." I know you already have those songs, but you don't have these versions! Besides, there's more songs too. The price? Uh, well (giggle, giggle), it's $49.99. Why do you ask?

A Valentine Gift for You, Elvis Presley (RCA). Then there's other new record of mine, all fit and ready to give your sweetheart on Valentine's Day. It's got a smiley picture of me on the cover, and the record itself comes in red plastic. You know, red--the color of cupids, those little paper hearts, and the gooey cherry filling inside the candy that you have to give that day. So buy it.

What's on it? Well, it's got "Are You Lonesome Tonight" on Side One and "Can't Help Falling in Love" on Side Two. What? The other songs? Well, there's "Tomorrow Is a Long Time" and lots of other songs I did but no one cared much about. I guess it's 'cause they're so mellow and sugary and all. But it's great for snugglin' up with your honey on the ol' fourteenth of February, right? Right?

Rocker, Elvis Presley (RCA). If you don't want any of my other new records, at least buy this one. There's no hocus-pocus: no glossy photos, no rare studio screw-ups or anything. There's just music and lots of it. Heck, it's even on black vinyl.

It's called Rocker 'cause that's what I was before I went into the Service (and what I sat in a lot after I came back, but that's another story). All in a row, here's what you get: "Tutti Frutti," "Lawdy Miss Clawdy," "Rip It Up," "Jailhouse Rock," etc., etc. Get the picture? No oozy slow songs or nothin', just good ol' shakin', rattlin', and rollin' from the King (whose ghost I so proudly am). Shoot, my "Tutti Frutti" is lots better than Pat Boone's and almost as good as Little Richard. That about says it all.

So while I do want your money, I need your love. Buy one or all of these records 'cause to know me is to love me. (Poof!)