The Post-Rockist

Carl Perkins - Gone, Gone, Gone
(from Carl Perkins Dance Album)

The Tall Boy - Same Size Girlfriend
(from Go Forth)

The Smiths - Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others
(from The Queen is Dead)

Well, that must be my gal, your’s don’t look like that
Yeah, that must be my gal, your’s don’t look like that
I know my baby, she’s so round and fat
…is a great verse.

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls’ mothers are bigger than other girls’ mothers
…is a fabulously cheeky chorus.

Same size of girlfriend
Different size of mind
…well now that just sounds a little snarky, doesn’t it?

I was just watching NBC’s The Biggest Loser, which was trying to give its shrinking participants health tips on how to enjoy their Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners without having to worry about counting calories, minutes before having them race around a dirt track with colorful weights tied to their waists. Try as they might, but the producers of The Biggest Loser can’t fool me. This winter my ambitions are purely plus-size.  Steak and eggs, baked beans and sausage, tomato slices and toast, two pots of coffee and a Cinnabon. And that’s just for breakfast, the most important, energizing meal of the day; important energy that won’t be put to any better use than to watching prime time television on my sagging couch and complaining about it later on an unpopular website. For lunch, since I’m so busy, I need to get something quick and easy, and nearly impossible to digest, something like a triple-decker bacon cheeseburger and orange soda. And later, if I’m still hungry, which I will unvariably be, I can treat myself to a KFC Famous Bowl, with its delictable combination of mashed potatoes, sweet corn, popcorn chicken, gravy, and a three-cheese blend all in one easy-to-consume bowl. Mmmm, lordy, I can already hear my bowels singing in expectant praise of the KFC Famous Bowl’s safe passage through my system. I’ll have mine with extra cheese, please. But dinner, without a doubt, is the whole reason for being forklifted out of bed and throwing on a lumpy holiday sweater in the morning. Roasted leg of lamb, deep fried turkey, seven-cheese baked macaroni, mid-Atlantic crab cakes, pulled pork BBQ, smoked brisket, garlic mashed potatoes, jalapeno corncakes, Caesar salad, and, last but not least, a healthy serving of fruitcake for dessert. Is it really a day well lived if I didn’t eat the meat of at least five different creatures?

Now you know as well as I do that I can continue to shove food into my slick, greasy face until I sweat pure gravy, my eyes plump into Jet-Puffed marshmallows, and my hair turns into spaghetti - a portentous lump of lovable lard. But, come on readers, it’s no fun to pack on these pounds by my lonesome. I’m supplying some tasteful tunes for weight gain, from the likes of Carl, Moz, and the Tall Boy, won’t you be so kind as to pass me some figgy pudding?

-Posted by Todd

Greg Dulli is a big man. Physically, he is much larger than I had been deceived into believing by the cunning misrepresentations of modern photography. And in person, his yawps boom louder than on the albums. And that gravelly voice, so full of longing and gravel, shrieking for “that feeling,” something for which Dulli always seems on the look-out. That voice, like it’s owner, is simply too large, overpowering, and awe-striking. On the small stage of the Black Cat, he seemed to tower not only over the audience, over us all, over his bandmates, but over all other performers I’ve seen on that stage. A colossus.

And he’s cool because he just doesn’t give a shit. I was never a huge Whigs fan and I don’t actually own any of the Twilight Singers’ album–well not until the next paycheck at least, when I will buy all of them. I went to see the Singers due to the praises of old friends. I wasn’t expecting Dulli to break every rule of “cool” most bands follows to a tee. When I was in a band, long ago it seems, I was cursed at repeatly for the rookie mistake of introducing my band members–”How lame!” saith they. “What, do you expect me to do a cheesy drum solo after you call my name? DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN.” But Dulli introduced his band, and even mentioned that the guitarist will be playing a big part “in the next number.” “In the next number?” Who introduces a song like that anymore? Who does this guy think he is, Sinatra?

And since I’m using Sinatra as a point-of-comparison, I might as well report that Dulli delivered one of the best croons I’ve ever witnessed. Halfway through the set, Dulli jumped up from the keyboard he was playing, yanked the mic from its stand, pirouetted toward the stage with the mic chord spinning behind him, flailed his arms to-and-fro,  then fell hard upon his knees, offering his open hand to the audience as he pulled the mic toward his mouth to bellow his cathartic yearning again for “that feeling.” That big man fell right down, laid himself bare to his audience, and engulfed us all.

The colossus bestrode us and the night. He was simply bigger than the entire room. I’m guessing not even Sinatra ever got that big.

-Posted by Scotter

Election Day
Heikki
Heikki 2

A gentle, bitter farewell this morning. I imagine by the time I step outside that the pile of crunchy brown leaves will not have budged from my windshield and in the bleary break of dawn I might still believe that the chill of an early November air will hold some promise of a bright new day. But a few minutes of uncivil traffic and eight hours of fluorescent lighting can shake that feeling off rather quickly. Still, sometimes all it takes is the rustle of a simple drum kit and acoustic guitar to strum up memories of why this time of year always feels so potent, like the first time you hear Nico singing in The Royal Tenenbaums. Change is in the air, I read in the paper, and this here is a nice, non-political ode to moving on.

-Posted by Todd

Evil
Interpol
Antics

Post-dusk on a bustling city street. Work-week ending shuffle and scurry. Blare of street light. Blare of headlight. Blare of passersby. And all I can think about is getting the hell out of this mess as fast as I can. And all I can think about is the need to make all of this a bit more swallowable. And all I can think about is a need for some kind of intensity. And Interpol is doing it to me again. “For me,” I should say.

Post-dusk work-week ending blare of intensity that swallows this mess.

The MP3 above shant help you. If you don’t yet have Antics on your Pod or the disc available to your Discman, you must. You must walk it. It must be night. You must be exhausted. You must not be sleepy. The need to dodge or pass other souls on this walk is optional, but preferable. Look into the faces. “Then they’ll be watching you sometimes, with their bitter hearts.” Blare at their eyes. “See the living that surrounds me.” Blare at the headlights of the cars. “Is this motion everlasting or do shudders pass in the night.” Blare your exhaustion. “I’ll subtract pain by ounces.” Measure the speed with which you walk away in beats per minute.

Posted by Scotter

The mp3 of “Evil” will be removed in two weeks, unless Interpol requests it be removed earlier when they come to get me.