So, good news is that there’s only one question.  Bad news…

1) People were shocked at some decisions Grammy voters made last year  because________________________ .

a. people have to be “shocked” instead of “racist” now

b. the Arcade Fire are god-damned Canadians, that’s why

c. we didn’t like Muse the first and gayer time, when they were The Darkness

d. Neil Young is a god-damned Canadian, that’s why

answer=b.  Really each answer is correct; people were up in arms after the awards ceremony.  The beautiful Esperanza Spalding made the talk show circuit after deservedly winning the Best New Artist award; not only did she have the gall to be better than Justin Bieber, but she also had the gall to be a young black woman with a dangerous amount of talent focused through the perils of JAZZ MUSIC.  I really thought Diane Sawyer was going to ask her, “with all of this talent, why aren’t you doing safe pop music?  And why aren’t you a sexy white male?  I mean, you’re scatting up there for Christ’s sake!”

But the biggest shock was Arcade Fire winning Album Of The Year for The Suburbs(AOTY is awarded for best production and performance of a full album).  Nominated against Eimenim, Ladies Gaga and Antebellum, and Katy Perry, nobody thought they had a chance.  It was the last award of the night.  I watched it live; I had talked so much shit about the Grammys already, so I wanted to see it bloom to fruition.  Here’s what happened:

- Of all people, Kris Kristopherson and Barbara Streisand come out to announce the award.  Streisand says it the award that “you’ve all been waiting for”.  I can only assume that the crowd is in agreement.

-The nominees are mentioned, with Arcade Fire getting the least applause.

-The screen cuts to a five-way split, with the members of Arcade Fire where?  Waiting backstage to play another song.  Most rednecks that were hollerin’ for Lady Antebellum point to this coincidence as proof of conspiracy.

- Streisand is actually surprised enough to stutter: “and the Grammy goes to… The Sss-ss-Suburbs!”  In the split-screen you can see Dr. Dre give an Acadamy-award worthy can-you-believe-this-shit face as the camera focuses on Arcade Fire, all filled with devoid-of-irony shock and laughter.

- Win Butler, leading the band from the stage wings, kneels to Kirstopherson.  I seriously doubt he knelt to Streisand, unless he was a fan of A Star Is Born.

- The first thing Win Butler does is thanks Montreal.  Then his wife says something in French.

- After sufficiently saying “fuck you” to America, Win slyly says fuck you to the music industry: “We’re going to play another song, because we love music.”  A high-pitched tone comes somewhere from the band’s gear, as if the spirit of a live Black Sabbath bootleg suddenly fills the auditorium.

- A slightly less subtle “fuck you”: Butler says, “Everyone leave to this song, thank you”, as the band plays “Ready To Start”.  It takes a full four minutes for the look of natural high and joy to get off of Win Butler’s face.  The song continues over the credits.

The microblogging/vlogging/tweeting universe went supernova with, to me, a surprising theme: Who The Fuck Is Arcade Fire?  I understand the surprise about Spalding.  If you were to ask Paul Mooney to write a sketch about white people afraid of a skinny black girl with a nappy Afro who is strong and talented enough to play bass exceptionally and lead a jazz trio, he would have written pretty much what happened.  But this was Arcade Fire’s third album, and all the vitriol I conjured up regarding Win Butler’s attitude is only what people must have perceived; he came off thankful and charming, like most Canadians do, to me.

For what it’s worth, and for what it says about “culture”, the Grammys were a cultural event last year, for the first time in a long time.  I’ll watch again, for a couple of reasons…

The Bon Iver Moments: Justin Vernon thinks the Grammys are ridiculous and filled of self-important people, and said so in a NY Times interview.  He was then promptly nominated for four Grammys.  One of them is for Best New Artists, which is kinda strange: I know the rule is that a “literally not new” artist can get the nomination for the album that propels them to prominence.  But what listeners weren’t already convinced by For Emma, Forever Ago?  Anyhoo, Vernon will be there, if not just to support his BFF,

Kanye West, who is up against Vernon for Song of the Year, and Kanye West is up against baby-daddy Jay-Z and Kanye West for Best Rap Song and Best Rap Album.  Will Kanye rush the stage and blow a gasket if Kanye wins?  If Vernon wins, whose weed gets smoked at the after party?  Find out live!

The High Drama of the Best Americana Album, Best Bluegrass Album, and Best Folk Album that will never see the light of television, for sure.  But this is where the real drama is.  The Del McCory Band, Union Station, Steve Martin, and Ralph Stanley all deserve the Best Bluegrass Album; Emmylou Harris and Lucinda Williams will have a ten-minute girl fight until Levon Helm wins the Best Americana Album(and smokes his own weed at the after party); and The Civil Wars, a band so derivative of the style of Gillian Welch and David Rawlings that it is painful to watch, have to fight for the Best Folk Album against Fleet Foxes, Eddie Effing Veder, Steve Fucking Earle, and Gillian Welch and David Rawlings. So, so sweet.  I can’t wait to read the results online while Katy Perry pees on a crucifix onstage while trying not to rely on Pro Tools.

1. I am kind of a Mama’s Boy, and my Mama in particular used to sing to me “Lola”, by the Kinks, and “Uncle Albert/ Admiral Halsley” by Wings.  I can not remember if she sang this one to me or not, but it fits so neatly in the wheelhouse of my mom’s early lullaby repertoire that it fits right in.  My entire family has been incredibly helpful during my convalescence, but my Mother own’s the plot in my heart the belongs to music.  It has surprisingly tied us together as we grow older.  Surprisingly and wonderfully.

2. I have mentioned before that I’m more a Rolling Stones man than Beatles; I listened to Abbey Road and The Magical Mystery Tour a ton growing up, but they never really pushed me, musically.

Is there a similar derision, if I asked people to pick either “Wonderful Christmastime” or “Happy Xmas(War Is Over)”?  Because it’s an easy pick for me.  I get the who-cares-goof-off-rock-out-ness of Wings.  Maybe it just suits Paul McCartney better; maybe it was a release from the gravitas the Beatles dragged around.

I don’t know the real answer or reason.  But if I am evaluating Christmas songs by the Pirate George ethos, on its internal and honest influence, this is the winner, hands down.  Happy Christmas to all of you.  Back to long-form self-important opinions of music at the top of the year.  Thanks for reading.  Spend the rest of the week knowing that net year is gonna be awesome.

I had more to say tonight, but I scrapped it.  It was too good of a day and too comfortable of a state to hit the “Submit” button.  I deleted a depressing post last Christmas, too.  It might make a good tradition.

Just know that this is a terribly important song to me and it makes me happy when I’m sad.  Christmas Eve is no time for frowny faces; thinking about family and friends made me too happy today; the only dogs put a paw on my foot for reassurance, some sloppy pooch smooches, and a small but welcoming snore coming from the bedroom down the hall.

Your Christmas present to me?  Leave a comment below about how much you loved/hated this video.  I will certainly judge you on your opinion, but only silently.  Merry Christmas to us.

Glen was a member of our Boy Scout troop, Troop 95, a particular group of abused country boys, misfits, ADHD-rattled teens and outcasts that had developed a reputation of, believe it or not, winning blue ribbons and ranking high on the metrics that measured success.  And for good or ill, Glen was a part of our group.  I don’t think that Glen did anything particularly gay– not at Boy Scouts anyway.  He took the brunt of some teasing nevertheless, and I can remember the word “gay” being tossed around plenty.  By this time in my life I had a pretty good clue that I was gay, and Glen was the barometer that taught me  to keep it a secret.  All the crazy horseplay and grab-assing that went around at Scout camps may have been the perfect place to explore feelings.  Never happened with me; I was too antisocial and too guarded.  The smattering of kids my age that I had crushes on weren’t Boy Scouts anyway.

Fun fact about how “gay” is just a marginalizing term for kids and mere bullying compared to actual homophobia: no one thought George Michael was gay.  All the straight guys knew every word to just about every song from Faith.  Ass-shaking, tight-jeaned, full homogay “Faith”, the song, in particular.  It is certainly the gayest song in my catalog of memories that so many people openly pranced around to.

Wham! had come and gone; besides the video for “I’m Still Standin’”, extravagantly choreographed by and co-starring Dancing With The Stars’ Bruno Tonioli, the gayest thing on television was the “Wake Me Up Before You Go” video, with George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley doing the Jitterbug like giddy schoolgirls in tight Day-Glo Umbros.

The oft-covered “Last Christmas” is no better: the video is a bit more subdued, and there are *gasp* girls in it, the non-gendered pronouns and the “someone special”s that abound are enough.  At 3:55, with Michael looking contemplative in his fur-lined ski parka, “Dick In A Box” scruff and Princess Diana eyes?  Holy shit, I bet Glen loved this song.  I did to.

I have mentioned before that AC/DC was this close to being a major influence to me, as far as musical performance goes(but ultimately bead out by The Eurythmics).  There was plenty of influence to be had by the Aussies, though; I was enamored with the fact that Angus Young used no effects pedals or after-studio filters, used to the extreme(Extreme, even…) in rock music during the time–Young’s overdrive techniques were the first ones I would fall in love with, before I even knew what “overdrive” was.  And, somehow, when I would learn more about how pop music was constructed and found real disdain in “simple” music, I never lost my love for AC/DC, as straight-ahead as they might be.

I have also already mentioned how important, musically, the year 1990 was for my budding crush on rock-and-roll music.  By September of 1990, when The Razor’s Edge was to be released, I had already worked my way through the entire AC/DC catalog; hearing it for the first time was less about discovery and more about, “will this one be any good?”

I had every right to doubt.  Both a reissue of ’74 Jailbreak and the Who Made Who? compilation gave me, early on, foresight to develop a more cronological feel for the AC/DC catalog, and it’s fair to say, at least for how my tastes run, that all the good stuff was with Bon Scott, and, save for the almost lucky in it’s rocking-ness Back In Black, all the good stuff ended with Bon Scott’s death.  There were some decent tunes, but the only album of new material to be released during my new-found fandom was Blow Up Your Video.  There were some good tunes on Blow Up Your Video; “That’s The Way I Wanna Rock ‘N Roll”, “Heatseeker”, and the terribly underrated “Two’s Up” are the glue that kept a decent Brian Johnson-era album together.

Unfortunately, “decent Brian Johnson-era album” doesn’t equate to much.  Simon Wright’s drumming just never fit(he replaced original drummer Phil Rudd after 1983′s Flick Of The Switch, and after 1983′s drunken and drug-addled physical altercations with Malcom Young)and made the backing section of the band, the true secret to their success, sound clunky and seperated, and on this, his last album with the band, it was no better if not worse.  Also, the entire album sounded like it was recorded in an empty high-school cafeteria; weird echos and reverbs made whatever looseness the rhythm section have seem magnified and muddy.

There were some pre-release promises from The Razor’s Edge; Simon Wright had been replaced by Chris Slade.  Slade, much like Tom Jones’ index finger, had played with everyone(including Tom Jones), and even though he was only hired on for the album’s recording for his studio savvy, he was formally asked to join and tour with the band, double concert bass drums and all.  Also important; Malcom Young was out of rehab and sober enough to contribute to the album’s recording.  The album’s recording itself was an improvement; out of the echoes of tax-free France and into the probably tax-freer studios of Vancouver gave the album a much more tight and controlled feel.  Brian Johnson was too busy with his divorce to meddle with the songwriting, although he probably did contribute, as usual, to the lyrics.

Which brings us to “Mistress For Christmas”, one of the weaker songs on the album.  Now, one of the big differences between the Scott/Johnson eras of AC/DC are the lyrics.  Although both contain perhaps “womanizing” lyrics, the Scott era lyrics seem more impish and silly, even self-deprecating, whereas the Johnson lyrics seem at the least sophomoric, and the worst misogynistic.  Scott? More of a “here’s what I think of that lady.”  Johnson? “Guess what I’m going to do to you!”  That tradition continues on with this song; even though Johnson was born in England, his lyrics are so silly as to have a Scorpions-esque grasp of the English language.  If you will:

I like female form in minimum dress
Money to spend with a capital S
Get a date with a woman in red
One of me in heaven with three in a bed

You would think “Got You By The Balls”, “Let’s Make It”, and “Shot Of Love” would have met the Bevis Quota on their own, but this song kind of sticks in the middle, separating the obvious hits from the “maybe kind of” songs, as most modern-day albums do.  But, hey, one more gave us this Christmas song to scoff sexual laws and morays, the reason for the season!

DAVID BOWIE DID AN EERIE VERSION OF “HEROES” ON THE BING CROSBY 1977 CHRISTMAS SPECIAL.  BING CROSBY DIED A MONTH LATER.

Look at this thing:

Bowie in shadow and shade, looking like heroin chic Jamie Lee Curtis dressed in American Apparel; tryptic Bowie faces singing to each other; Adrian Belew squonk as Bowie does the mime-make-out routine; Bowie trying to soften the performance edges by doing family-friendly mime standards, but coming off looking like a French short film about cyborgs.

There is some debate about whether or not Bing Crosby even knew who the fuck David Bowie was.  There is no debate, however, that if Bing Crosby saw the post-production results, where it seemed to encourage the girl to grow up to be just like Major Tom, he would have stepped away from Death’s door long enough to beat the Hell out of someone.  Probably one of his kids(just kidding!  He would have beat his kids up regardless of the video).

Merry Christmas, readers.  Jesus, and Merry Christmas.  You can guess the ones coming next.  Music is the best.

0:16 –  The opening lyrics, written explicitly for The Thin White Lines Of Choice Blow Duke, are instead sang by Paul Young.  ”Who”, everyone not from the United Kingdom and Steven Michael Van Ore are asking, “is Paul Young?”  His big US hit was “Every Time You Go Away”, and his band had Who 2.0 bassist Pino Palladino in it.  That’s all you get.

[All cocaine jokes aside, there was a ton of fucking cocaine during the recording sessions.  1984, folks!]

0:31 – Young sings, “We let in light, and we banish shade.”    Did you know that “shade” is a term used in some, ahem, communities to describe insulting someone?  Because guess who’s about to throw some shade?

0:32 – Boy George, who wasn’t even there in the beginning; he was drunk and coked in New York.  Culture Club were there, but Geldof wanted the Big Wig, who did finally show up to sing.

0:32 thru 0:45 – It’s important to know that Boy George moved his feet and shoulders in the oh-so-white way that Barbara Mandrell did during the 1976 Johnny Cash Christmas Special.  Coincidence?

0:46 – OH SHIT PHIL COLLINS.  He played drums along with a Tears For Fears sample; Adam Clayton of U2 played bass

Collins had started his transition at this point, from the turgid prog throb of Genesis to the pooched-out vaginal estrus of No Jacket Required.  Ok, full disclosure: I do love his duet with Phillip Bailey, “Easy Lover.”  But that song was on Bailey’s album.  Phil Collins’ solo hit in 1984 was “Against All Odds”.  Barf-o.  The argyle sweater vest should be a clue.

Oops!  I forgot that I promised you “shade”.  Boy George said of the next singer,”God, he sounded camp… but then, he is.”  Who could it be?

0:48 thru 1:00 – George Michael, looking tasteful in black-and-white Buffalo plaid and a Meg Ryan hairdoo dying for a hot oil treatment.  Camp?  I don’t know about that.  It’s Gregorian Chant compared to his subsequent Live Aid performance, with a Day-Glo orange short-sleeved Oxford unbuttoned all the way down to the button fly of his jeans; the look on Andrew Ridgeley’s face every time Bob Geldof says the word “cock” during the Live Aid intro is priceless  in it’s gayness.

1:00 thru 1:10 – Simon Lebon, I choose you(to look like you wore off your last toot of White Girl ten minutes ago and are slumpy drunk off of merlot)!

1:10 thru 1:14 – Geldof uses Sting… it’s super effective(at looking confused and drug addled, like you pushed a Japan fan with Asperger’s Syndrome into the duet with Lebon)!

1:14 thru 1:17 – I’m not sure who this is, but the blouse he is wearing?  That is camp.  Oscar Wilde and Dorothy Parker could riff on those four seconds of video for hours.

1:17 thru 1:22 – “The bitter sting of tears”.  Sang by Sting.  Get it?  Sting makes people cry!

1:22 thru 1:29 – If you notice, Simon Lebon, now in a trio with Sting and Bono, feels so ridiculous about the lyrics, “And the christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom,” that he pretends to be too drunk to sing.

1:30 thru 1:37 – Bono steps up to the microphone and boldly teaches lesbians how to style their hair for the next twenty years.

1:37 thru 1:39 – cuz tonight, Tonight, TONIGHT, Ohh Ooooohhhhhh…

1:40 thru 1:41 – A bloke is singing that I can’t identify, other than “Guy That Looks Like Tim Roth, If Tim Roth Suffered From Marfan Syndrome”.

1:41 thru 1:42 – Another second of my life ruined by Sting’s solo career.

1:43 thru 1:47 – Boy George gets featured while Culture Club look on, seething about sitting by the mixing board when THAT QUEEN DIDN’T EVEN SHOW UP TO BEGIN WITH.

1:47 thru 1:53 – quick flashes of people I can’t recognize, including Lady With A Squirt Can

1:54 As if by a queer magic, Boy George appears one second after the word “squirt” is flashed across the screen.

1:55 thru 2:11 – Who are the band people?  I know Adam Clayton, but some acoustic guitar guy showed up, too.  This was recorded in Trevor Horn’s studio, so I’m sure it wasn’t Jon Anderson playing guitar…

2:12 – Photographic evidence that Phil Collins’ nuts were removed during Genesis’ recording of their eponymous album.

2:28 thru 2:33 – The order of appearance of guests: White Women(Bananarama), Black Men(Kool and The Gang?), Black Woman(Jodi Watley), Unidentified White Woman.

2:35 – Two babies, inexplicably brought onto the set, high-five each other, openly celebrating their survival of their mother’s prenatal drug abuse.

3:11 – To show that London was still one of the most diverse cities in the world in 1984, the cameras focus on the brilliant sheen of activator in the hair of Robert Bell and Dennis Thomas.  Please note: Kool and The Gang were not British.  Did they have to import people with actual African roots?  Was Emergency the blackest thing playing over London airwaves in 1984?  Perplexing.

3:30 – The Unidentified White Woman is actually a dude.  A dude named Marilyn, who wasn’t even invited but showed up anyway.  Some twenty-five years later, Marilyn would achieve success under the name Ke$ha.

This single made 1) millions of dollars for African relief, 2)the Live Aid concert possible, and 3) Geldof miserable–he now feels like this song and “We Are The World”, recorded a year later, are twin albatrosses wrapped around his neck.  Typical depression after a coke and booze binge, also known as “The Eighties”.

Yes, I totally get it and totally love it.

Yes, I hope you think of me when you listen to it.

No, I don’t do heroin

No, I can’t justify this thing’s existence.

No, I’m not mad that you didn’t listen to the whole thing.

[Note: There are no other editions.  Yet.]

Fantasy: Jesus of Nazareth was born on December 25th.

Reality: Not so much.  It is a time that Christians celebrate his birth, but there’s no references to an actual calendar date.  Even hard-core Christians admit that there is more pagan about the celebrations than Christian, and what celebrations there are belong to the Catholics(the word ‘Christmas’ refers directly to the Catholic Mass of the Christ).  So give a Jehovah’s Witness a high five on this one. Just don’t give him/her a present.

Fantasy: Coca-Cola is responsible for the modern-day image of Santa.

Reality: That image was already around; they just used it because he was red and white, just like their logo.  Coca-Cola’s widespread, universal marketing machine did distribute the image further than it has ever been, though, and with the elbow grease of corporate advertising muscle that red and white fat bastard was everywhere.  They get a pass on Santa Claus.  Blame them for this…

Reality: Christmas of 1986 was the worst one my nuclear family endured; my Grandpa Carney was flown to St. Francis Hospital, in Tulsa, OK, for quadruple bypass surgery.

Fantasy: I was ten, and it was Christmas, and I feel like even though I knew it was a real hardship I remember having a great time.  We got to stay the night with my mom’s friends, Sandy and Mike.  The Christmas displays in Tulsa kicked the dirty asses of the Christmas lights in West Fork.  The hospital was huge and pink(pink!), and me and two pockets full of Go-Bots wandered around the stairways and waiting rooms, staging battle after battle; I’m sure every banister was covered in paint transfer and every arm rest was covered in spittle from my incessant laser niosemaking.

To hear the story now, in hindsight, it is terribly depressing: my parents having to leave my grandpa behind to go back to work, needing the money after already spending some on presents; the only way my grandpa could communicate was by writing notes on paper; mother having to lug my baby brother around because she was still nursing him.  But there’s nothing like a ten-year-old brain to have filtered all of that out.

Fantasy: “Hard Candy Christmas” is paralyzingly depressing.

Reality: “Hard Candy Christmas” is sung by whores.  In a movie about whores.

“Hard Candy Christmas” was the emotional rebound/resolution of the conflict of relationship for the third act of the musical, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.  The original version(the cut from the movie is provided at the end of this post) has the versus sang by different girls, with Miss Mona, the role played by Dolly, singing the sorta-more-uplifting chorus.  Kinda sad, kinda sweet.  Better than most songs sung by whores.

When Dolly sang it herself, though, and it’s her voice singing all the different scenarios, there is an uncertainty about the state of the speaker; in the play she only says that she’ll be “fine and dandy”, but in the single released by Dolly she embodies all the different choices, some aloof, some maudlin and depressing.

Consider this emotional change-up with the fact that “Hard Candy Christmas” was the first single Dolly Parton released after her heart-smashing mega hit, “I Will Always Love You”.  Two in a row of contemplative soul searchers made it easy to forget the roots of the song and the original character of the speaker/speakers of the lyrics.  If your hard candy gets too soft thinking about this song,go back to the whore house.  That’s what they’re there for.