Abel’s 4000 Albums That Matter: Part Forty-Two
The world is one glistening kaleidoscope of numbness. Oh well. Maybe tomorrow we’ll wake up and find out that the elephants have left us and not in some cute/clever way like the dolphins did in those Douglas Adams’ books. No, they’ll be gone because we never had the fortitude, the depth of scrotum, the spirit of poesy within our souls to appreciate beauty.
I won’t even conduct a “spell check” and/or a “grammar check” after I’m done typing. Today I violently jackknife into the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings with the unsheathed glory of an improvised urban sentence. Whatever the fuck that means. I’m numb right now and I’m pretty sure it is not because of how my diabetes works with my appendages.
656. Soda Stereo – Canción Animal. Latin America’s decade of the ‘80s might be romanticized through some serious beer goggles today. That is true. I know this because I do it. Caracas in that maligned decade for a young teen was a crustfuck. I was too young to get into serious trouble and I was old enough to have some legs outside of the home. I had a gun pressed to my head so someone else could be relieved of their shoes, I accidentally stabbed a kid in the eye at a birthday party and felt bad about it because truth be told, I’m not a bad person. The last couple of weeks have been trying to myself, America, journalists and my extended network of friends and family. Music was one of the few places (because music, in its etherealness, can be a physical place – plush and comfy) I could retreat to. I never wanted to become a musician; I always wanted to be a music lover. We’ve lost many good people in the past days and I don’t mean people I did not know like Robin Williams and/or Joan Rivers. You know who I mean and I wish all the families involved my deepest and most heartfelt condolences. Gustavo Cerati suffered a stroke in 2010 while rearing to perform in Caracas. He passed away this week in his hometown of Buenos Aires. He was 55 years old and Soda Stereo is, was and forever shall be – pound for pound – the greatest shoegaze/post-punk band of all time. Everybody else can suck on the teat of second place. Silver tarnishes. Gold is pro, bro.
657. Devo – Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo!. Yes. I know. The song “Gut Feeling” ties Steve Zissou’s raison d’être succinctly. It is the best New Wave build-up to a flung wad of exalted jizm. It is sacrosanct within the hallowed hollows of your whole heart. It is something you can take no more. It is criminal it took this long but sometimes you gotta cry it out a bit before your gut gets to feeling the feels you oughtta have. Golf ball? Check. Square jaw? Check. Hat? Whatever. Piss-yellow frame? This one is warm and it is going to last.
658. Los Violadores – Fuera de Sektor. Argentine punk owes much to their eternal sovereign and football enemies, the United Kingdom. Pil Trafa and co. gave a good yang to the yin of Soda Stereo. Some of these guys would’ve been okay fucking your sister, some, not so much. You pick who. I won’t. That ain’t my struggle. My sissy has a cadre of angry fists protecting her. For life and at least two to three decades after. Yes. The intellectual property of my sister’s livelihood has been discussed in chambers. Oh yes, solid punk rock that sometimes is a bit too posh, too clean but always catchy and satisfying. No lie. Asado for everyone!
659. Gábor Szabó – Gypsy ‘66. This Hungarian jazz guitarist has a name that rolls off the tongue sweetly and you’d hope it’d be slipping into Zsa Zsa Gabor’s thighs circa 1959 between the Sanders and Hutner marriages. Yeah boy, you play it well and we need pretty sounds to touch during these troubling times. Great intro, great debut from a jazz fixture who’d eventually realize his own damn full potential and get into the thick of things with righteous music though he always learned from those he covered/admired. Can you believe Zsa squared is 97 years old? Szabó died too young at 45. Some say liver disease killed him. We say his falling out with the “church” of Scientology did him in. Maybe Tom Cruise can slip into Zsa Zsa with less ease. I’m breaking apart. I’m losing it.
660. Marco, With Love – Love. Marco Argiro is one of the youngest players with the Outrights to shape my formative punk rock years in South Florida. I might be pushing slowly, maybe even crawling to 40 with the chutzpah and gusto of a broken heel supporting the lost dreams of the downtrodden but Argiro is looking and sounding younger than ever because he probably hasn’t broken 30 yet. To be young and full of fuel. The title track to this recent solo release has been grounding my thoughts and feelings. I needed some grounding. We all did. We all do. We all will. Fuck it if life ain’t short enough. Let’s be kind to each other. At least for a week. I promise you can all go back to decimating beauty afterwards. Can’t say that I care. The love is there if you want it. I, nay, WE suggest you take it.
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