UPDATE: My cut and paste skills are getting rusty because my fingers are turning into giant smoked sausages from the portion sizes around here- videos make 10% more sense now END UPDATE
On the bumper-sticker front:
Saw my first version of SECEDE. For all of my critcism of our hypocritical and Medium Lobster-denigrated society, I must say I still found it enraging, so it was likely a win for the bumper and a loss for the bumpee. I can’t decide how ironic it was that it was on a Toyota Yaris and not the expected F350 king cab.
On the radio front:
This is a much more extensive section of the report. I hadn’t yet found the local version of the classic country format so that was something that only got tuned in on the way back from the closest sprawling, unzoned metropolis to Cloverhill Big T (the way down is usually Rick Dees’ Top 40 countdown, of which we only can get about 9 songs before losing it). So coming back one day we had an especially good run.
The first song I can’t identify but it sounded like late 50s/early 60s production and a really good voiced male singer. I think there was a Loretta Lynn in there.
Then Willie and Waylon, ubercoolly namechecking themselves. That is so outlaw. Love it.
Then, what I guess I would have expected would be illegal in a country song, irresistible hand claps. Juice Newton! Seriously, Belle and Sebastian should just twee this up an score an easy hipster B-side.
Followed by an all-time great, The King:
Little did I know I was just being tenderized for the body slam. This cowpie came through the windshield at 85 mph:
Moving on, because I spend more time in the car, I spend more time with the radio. I realize I could listen to something else, but I still hold out hope for that little charge of happiness when some mindless corporate radio programmer throws an interesting or nostalgic bone my way, instead od the mindless corporate shuffle on my iPod or some such. I only listen to CDs or music of my actual choosing on long drives because I can’t shake the engrained habit of hopefully scanning the dial for something unplanned and wonderful to come on, or sheepishly, something wonderfully terrible.
We have what I guess would be called a Top 40 station, that was 60% Gaga all summer, with 30% Taylor Swift. Very randomly for Big Texas Cinnamon Roll they have a midmorning DJ who is Australian (some listeners think she’s English).
We also have an Urban “Beat” station, but on weekend mornings they kick it Oaktown oldschool style (K knows of what I speak).
The majority of what we have that is tolerable enough to make it onto the presets, though, are various mix/magic/first name stations. Here are a few choice bits:
The Point: Big city station comes in all the way to Big T, I believe these cobags were the perpetrators of the Def Leppard/Erasure double shot. They bill themselves as 80s and more, but what they mean by 80s is 83-95, and it seems like they are mining Hysteria nonstop. “Animal”, “Rocket” and “Pour Some Sugar on Me” have all featured, and I think we have to assume “Armageddon It”, “Love Bites” and “Hysteria” make it in their mix, but no “Foolin” or “Photograph” because that might break their algorithm. It is this station that rode me both into and out of work with this next song, as if I had pressed pause for the intervening 9 hours.
Keep in mind that I view this sort of music as “Blue Girl” music, and I realize that I do this because BG is the next generation up from myself, and I don’t want to even consider the possibility that I could be on the edge of the demographic targeted by this station. I started listening to the radio at the age of 8, so I remember most of these songs from the first time around, but really would prefer that the alleged “horrible” “cheesiness”* of these songs is not aimed at any nascent or growing nostalgic reverie type behavior on my part. Therefore, I create an alternate universe where BG (no joke!) is listening to these songs and then posting about some awesome hijinks she got into with her cool friends and some crazy station wagon in an idealized midwestern town possibly involving harmless drug use or alcohol, things not present in my childhood or at least my memory.
Also all over this station and the next:
Also, lots and lots of Phil.
Jack: DJ-less automaton robot mix presents essentially a shuffle that goes beyond what you would expect from your Alice, Bob, Ted type stations in that it seems to be a true Top 40 mix of songs from 1975-2005, but skewing heavily 80s. This means they mine some unexpected corners. For example, everywhere else I’ve lived has whittled down this crap band’s radio contribution to “Working for the Weekend” but Jack pulls out:
Shortly followed by this one hit wonder. I allude to Sly Fox and “Let’s Go All the Way”, and if you listen to it at the right angle, in another dimension you might be convinced it could be a Love and Rockets song.
Possibly related, Pitchfork decides to relive their older brother’s childhood and reexamine Hall and Oates, because to remain cool in hipster narrative is always to connect with your older bro’s/sis’s pop records because everything in your life is a music policy position. Seriously, we have GOT our EYES on you sad sacks. UC prepare yourself for the cobaggery. If I can hack it with the arrival of project CODE NAME: SMALLTIME BEEF, you surely must be able to give to our readers. We are a mere month away.