Nineties rock stars persevere!

Good morning, do not attempt to put down this paper. We have taken control of this valuable inch space. We will return it to you as soon as you are groovy.

That was a clever adaptation of the intro to the old Parliament song “P-funk (wants to get funked up).” People don’t say groovy anymore, and they should. It’s not un-cool to say “groovy.” It’s a timeless word that sounds good, like “cheese,” or “vagina.” Groovy is the way to be ya know? It’s like sliding down the street with your head just right. You’re rollin’ with a smile and a warm belly. You aren’t tight, stiff, angry or incontinent, you’re in a warm, moist little pocket, a groove you wanna stay in and ride for awhile.

That’s all DJ Miles wrote this week. He wanted me to “take from there little buddy …” I’m not big on swearing but that is some bullshit. He leaves some lewd useless nonsense and goes off to some Halloween party as a “crazy drunk naked guy with a super tutu and purple lips.” C’mon, what kind of a costume is that? He said he had to stand under the Blue Moon and exorcise the demons that make him think about mullets so much.

I don’t know much, but as a humble assistant named Beotcho Sinclair (don’t laugh!) I do know that three weeks of mulletry is enough! This column, like the radio show of the same name, was supposed to be about music. Some scholars say that music transcends everything. Like a drug or sex, it is capable of eliciting a physical, emotional and cognitive response in the subject.

Miles asked me to take a look at the new albums in the music cabinet and “make some people happy.”

The first thing that caught my attention was a new greatest hits album from the Cure.
This was either put out because the Cure’s Robert Smith needs to finish his contract with Elektra or because the Cure are never releasing anything again. I haven’t listened to the Cure in years, but hearing “Lovecats,” “Let’s Go to Bed,” “In Between Days” and “Close to Me,” make me feel all teenagery all over again. Disc two of this package is the same 18 songs played acoustically with a band. The songs sound raw, natural and much less ’80s than the originals.

The package also includes two new songs called “Cut Here” and “Just Say Yes.” Both are vintage Robert Smith with a great modern Cure sound.

I also dug out a new CD from another alternative rock star of decades gone by, Natalie Merchant solo artist of late and former singer of popular alternative rock band 10,000 Maniacs.

On her new album Motherhood she sounds like a throat soup of Tracy Chapman and Eddie Vedder. Her voice sounds very honest and down to earth. I would take candy from her, even if she were a stranger. She also looks very honest on the cover, sitting in an apple orchard. Come to think of it, it’s kind of creepy.

Merchant has assembled a solid crew to lay down some good mid-tempo pop, hip-pop and reggae inflected grooves to sing over. The momentum slows dangerously at the mid-album point and it becomes a sleeper.

Speaking of momentum and once again the ’90s alternative rock scene Perry Farrell has recently released an electronic solo album called Song Yet to Be Sung.
Perry does his thing over purely electronic grooves: drum and bass, house, downtempo and swooshy bits instead of rock. His lyrics and vibe are still very Perry, which if you enjoyed Janes Addiction or Porno for Pyros, you will likely appreciate here.

He sings better than he ever has and manages to write decent lyrics.

This album fails on what would be big anthemic fist in the air choruses. They worked well in Janes with Dave Navarros’s riff’s backing Farrell’s wailing. Those high points are also common in modern dance music. The song builds and builds until shazaam! it’s huge and all the kids swallow their pacifiers. On Song Yet To Be Sung all I heard was little digitzed synth farts that grew stinkier but not bigger. Perry, Navarro and hopefully the rest of the original Janes Addiction play this Sunday at the Rose Garden.

Thank you for reading, and send your letters please. We hope Miles makes it back next week with clothes and newly renewed sanity sans mullet possession. My name is Beotcho Sinclair and my anti-drug is the Miracle Mile.