Beer and football VI — week two

The game: Patriots at Bills
The beer: Ipswich Route 101 India Pale Ale
The result: Win, 40–32; Saints lose, 26–19
The commentary: "You guys mind if I run back inside for the last minute of the game?" With my mom visiting we retired to the back yard, the Pats seemingly in control with eight minutes remaining and an eighteen-point lead. But then the noises—"Gah!" "Noooo!" "Fuuuuuuck!"—were heard from neighboring homes. What's their problem? Did they pick the Dolphins or something? Might as well check my phone to see if the Pats game is over yet. "Gah!" Five minutes left and the Bills down by five? Refresh! Refresh! I could barely stand it at the two-minute warning and eventually begged off, leaving A. and my mom to watch G. hop around the yard and climb all over her new jungle gym (which was not assembled in time for her birthday party because, I don't know, weeds).

Minutes earlier A. and I were mourning the Saints' loss and my resulting exit from this year's knockout pool. "Well," I told her, "if only one of my teams could win today I'm glad it was the Pats." Next thing I know I'm muttering to myself on my way up the steps, wondering how it's possible for both teams to lose. TV: on. Sole hope was for Tyrod Taylor to continue exposing himself as not the bearded droid—now winning games in Jersey—Bills fans are looking for. And… wait for it… interception! Rex Ryan's hubris can have a strong influence on the weak-minded.

And the Saints? The Saints! Apparently they suck this year, as they did last year despite my lucky week-three victory before the hopelessness set in. On Sunday they took down ten of us. Ten! Ten! Others went out on the Seahawks in Green Bay, the Ravens in Oakland, the Titans in Cleveland and the fucking Dolphins in Jacksonville. All away teams, you say? The first two I can understand, as it's hard to believe both the Seahawks and the Ravens are winless. Still too risky this early. And the Titans? Who impressed the world by beating the (mostly) godforsaken Bucs last week? They're worth a pick? No. But hats off to the guy who trusted the barely-beat-the-Redskins Dolphins. Come on, man. Just admit you can't smell what the Rock is cooking.

The Saints, though, were This Week's No-Brainer against the lowly, Titans-fearing Bucs. One hundred percent of "experts," as collated by the helpful NFL Pick Watch, confirmed my decision and favored the Saints. I figured I'd move on to week three with, say, nine other people who were fine to play it safe like Swapnil in Project Runway. (Listen, Swapnil, I've liked your stuff so far but if you don't win one of the next four challenges you're going home after Laurie, Merline, Lindsey and Lindsey's ironic granny glasses. God, I hate her.) It's hard to be angry over a fluke result. Drag. However, with only two people (two!) moving on to week three unscathed (Bruno is officially out, wishing he'd saved his ridiculous Bucs pick for Sunday), I figure now's as good a time as any to throw twenty-five more units on the fire and keep things rolling lest my superior tracking spreadsheet go to waste. I have A's permission and I'd already sketched out the next three weeks anyway. Hubris indeed.

Up next: Oh good, someone scheduled a kid's birthday party on Sunday afternoon. Cheers!

Beer and football VI: You know, he shaves his eyebrows

Week one
The game: Steelers at Patriots
The beer: Samuel Adams Brick Red Ale
The result: Win, 28–21; Dolphins win, 17–10
The commentary: Where were you when Tom Brady's suspension was overturned? I was working from home so diligently that four hours went by before I broke for a late lunch and skimmed headlines on my phone. Oh, Roger. Already with the appeal. That was the best goddamn peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I've ever had.

Thursday evening was spent at the Beantown Pub, where so many nights have turned ugly over the years. This was no different as I slept through my train station after midnight. Oops! We got out of work early to participate in some Amazing Race action—for the second straight year—and got soaked in the rain—for the second straight year. This time I remembered an extra pair of socks. Normally I would have ditched early to be able to concentrate on the game at home but I thought it would be cool to watch in a bar for the first time since the Misfits invaded New Hampshire. The outcome was much better this time, even if I had to leave before it was over and didn't actually catch up (all the way through again, since much of the pub time was spent asking if I was stripes or solids) until Sunday. What is there to say? Brady, Gronk, Edelman, Dion Lewis, even Amendola. Throw LaFell back in there in a few weeks and we're scoring thirty-five a game. But the defense? The defense! We might give up thirty-two. I'll leave the complaining for another week as this is one of celebration.

Celebration, yes, for the Dolphins defeated the Redskins in inglorious fashion. What is this, December? You're supposed to own September, fishies! It was a risk to rely on them in mark three of the knockout pool and I'm glad to never again be tempted. Twenty-five of us are competing this year and six others went along with me so I hope my practice of picking against losers doesn't catch on. Fucking Bruno, though. Bruno! He got knocked out last year in week one by trusting the Buccaneers and then ran some numbers, swallowed a shitload of pills and picked them again this year. Knocked out! This was my competition over the final four weeks? Good lord, you know he's going to buy back and take Cleveland or something this weekend. And probably skate by. Anyway, the no-brainer pick last week was the Packers over the Bears and three morons decided to blow those loads. Congratulations, you'll have to pick the Dolphins at some point if you go anywhere. Two more lost on the Seahawks and probably haven't bought back so we're down to me and twenty-two other stiffs. It's painful that four people should have gone out on the Cowboys—I will never, ever choose that team. At least two more are probably out after Chief–Broncos the other night. It feels like one of those games where people would have taken either team (rumors of Peyton's death may be exaggerated), but I can't know for sure because our administrator won't email with everyone's picks until after the weekend. That's a little shady, right?

In other household news (because the above action is riding on twenty of our household's units), G. has begun her second year of preschool. It's a new school in our new town and she has new (pink, stuffed) doggie Pickles to keep her company. "I'm nervous," she told me as we left the house. I was a shy kid too. Still, she put on a brave face and danced around the driveway like there were more ponies in the yard. It gets easier, baby.

Up next: Welcome to Super Bowl 50 in beautiful Orchard Park, New York. Cheers!

Beer and football VI — training camp/the all-important third preseason game

The beer: Samuel Adams Rebel India Pale Ale/Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale
The commentary: Welcome back! Is your favorite team the reigning Super Bowl Champion? Is your favorite team-oriented podcast making "Highway to L" jokes? Has your daughter not yet outgrown her team apparel from two years ago?

I'll keep this short with kickoff a week away. Training camp was all sunshine again as my dad met G. and me in the shadow of the Dana-Farber Empower Field House. To celebrate the Pats' fourth title, I will limit each photo caption to four words.

Imminent Super Bowl letdown?

Forget that, let's roll!

Again! Again! Again! Again!

Let me get that.

Is Joe Flacco elite?

Neat flowers. I'm hungry.

Dessert? Tuck in, then!

I impress even myself.

The practice session was tough to make out from afar, though my dad and I agreed that Gronk looks enormous from any distance, like he's fifty feet closer than anyone else. One drill seemed to focus on blocking field goals, to the point where either Gostkowski was deliberately kicking them low or Jabaal Sheard's blocker was deliberately letting him through the line. He looked like Lawrence Taylor out there. Hey, I'm just impressed my dad recognized who it was before I did. Who's the reader-less blogger in this family?

The above dessert was enjoyed at Gillette Stadium's Red Robin. I always thought it was a take-out burger joint but it also doubles as the only affordable restaurant within the Kraft Kompound (last year's Olive Garden and its authentic, straight-from-Palermo cuisine was a tad overpriced). To my surprise they had a decent beer selection (the Rebel IPA is nice), red balloons that hold their helium for days and weekend dads at the next table who put their phones down long enough to order a Whales Tale and then revert to Coors Light when the waitress says they've run out. The pro shop set me back a few bucks once G. spotted new family member "Huggle Buggle Bear," a hot pink bear in a Pats shirt that has already been stripped off. It was inevitable. I'm still looking for the simple "XXXVI XXXVIII XXXIX XLIX" shirt the waitress was wearing. Drag. Hey, speaking of shirts, PFW in Progress is jerking us around by claiming to choose from submitted designs for a shirt of their own. Here's my entry, followed soon by one that reads "Hey Fred, how's that bullshit shirt contest coming along?"

I impress even myself. I remember nothing of the all-important third preseason game. Do I ever? I am, however, fully aware that I have a four-year-old daughter and we rented ponies for her backyard birthday party. "That's a high bar," I told our friends who also have a four-year-old daughter.

Honest-to-god ponies! The novelty of a proper backyard at our new house, as opposed to our previous strips of lawn that were significant enough only to mow, may never wear off.

Bow and hat? Indeed!

Was it worth it?

Yes. (But never again.)

Up next: Tom Fucking Brady. Cheers!

Beer and football V — playoffs, week fiveSuper Bowl XLIXPart 2: You say there was a game?

The game: Patriots vs. Seahawks
The beer: (See part 1)
The result: Win, 28–24
The commentary: Specific memories of the play-by-play have fogged over but I can't exactly have a "part 1" without a "part 2" and maintain my dignity. Who am I, Remo Williams? Fingers crossed that my T-shirt design is chosen by PFW in Progress and I win a copy of the season's Three Games to Glory on Blu-ray. A fine refresher! Then I'll just have to buy a Blu-ray player, as an already-earned, shrink-wrapped, dusty copy of Help! awaits as well. "There's more here than meets the eye!" Except when there isn't. Here are some shitty Shaughnessy-esque bullet points regarding the greatest Super Bowl of all time.

It should have been roughing the kicker on Allen's punt after the Pats' first drive. Even Jon Spencer couldn't believe it. "Plant leg, babeh!" The good guys got away with something later on that I can't remember so it probably evens out. At the time though: "This shit?"

Vereen averaged fewer than six yards per catch and each of those plays possessed the excitement of a six-yard play. Important first downs, though I don't think he broke a single tackle—lots of scrubs throughout the league could have been as productive in that role, which can be said for most of his tenure here. Amendola is one of those scrubs and looked like a dynamic all-pro in comparison. (This is not homer-ism because I felt the same way before Vereen signed with the Giants. They can have Amendola too if they want.)

Al Michaels still doesn't know how to pronounce "Hooman." He must have the over.

Brady's pick in the end zone might have been the second-greatest contribution to the win. It sucked, but I was pleased with how he was moving the ball. Meanwhile, Lane's arm looked like was wrapped in a golf bag afterward.

"Are you hyped for halftime??" I skipped it live but did watch the second time around. Katy Perry justifies my standing as a twenty-plus-year popular-music divorcé. Anyone older than ten who genuinely or ironically enjoys her spectacle should, plainly, drop dead. Please note that I have seen Kiss in concert six times and will jump at the next opportunity.

It was likely part of the defensive scheme to contain Wilson but the Pats' pass rush was nonexistent in this game. It's been so frustrating to track the degradation since McGinest and Vrabel were killing it every week. Unless Chandler Jones makes a huge leap (which he would have by now if it were going to happen) or Jamie Collins evolves into an unstoppable X factor (don't rule it out) I will be terrified during every opposing pass play, especially in a year when we play the fucking Giants. (On that note, it's confusing why I'm the only person who thought Belichick's number one target in the post-Revis draft should have been a cornerback. Even if he had reached for Darryl Richard in the first round instead of the seventh I would feel a little better. Only since then has everyone recognized how bad this secondary has the potential to be. I know nothing about football.)

Remarkable what knowing the outcome does to a promising drive that ends in a turnover: "Fuck it."

LaFell's touchdown was fun all over. Perfect route, perfect throw, perfect celebration boogie.

That Dove for Men commercial was the biggest waste of all I hold dear as a father. The kid on the monkey bars nearly brought me to tears and it was just pitching deodorant?

Party-goers who don't watch for the game were also treated to The Rise and Fall of Men Who Buy Nissans in its entirety. "Son (Age 5)" is a shoe-in for best supporting. Good day for child actors!

Slight detour to the non-blogged draft: Shall we ponder ESPN's use of "Superfly" as a theme song during their coverage? "The aim of his role was to move a lot of blow." Hold on, I get it. I remember Boys Will Be Boys.

Plus a Deflategate sidestep: The fallout from what is likely a league-approved conspiracy will get worse before it gets better. Cockroaches dream of Goodell's resilience and any—any—outcome of this "independent appeal" of an "independent ruling" based on an "independent investigation" is possible. Hangings. Bowling tournaments. A full Misfits reunion. I still think Brady was in on it.

Back to it. Mark Wahlberg, Will Ferrell, Steven Tyler and Paul McCartney in attendance. I wonder if the last three are also trying to wipe clean their hate-crime convictions.

"Nice pass breakup by Logan Ryan to force a three-and-out," said no one ever.

I basically put my phone down during the closing minutes because a game that's been in the books for four months is still tough to watch. Uptight! Here is the shorthand: "Not again!" "Malcolm, go!" "Encroachment!" And then…


Indeed. Your New England Patriots are world champions.

Up next: We're on to 2015. G's jumper should still fit. Cheers!

In which we multiply by three and divide by four

This may be my shortest playlist essay yet ("more probable than not"). I poured everything into those goddamn Super-Biffys after we lost Chloe. Considering the starts and stops since that post's infancy in 2014—I'd originally planned it as a literal January 10 anniversary piece to 2010's wasted clickbait opportunity—I'm pleased with the results. It was fun to beat up on notable fucktards Peter King and David Wallace-Wells again, and is there such a thing as too much Charles Napier? Surely not! Live-blogging the draft was beyond me and another year of Ten Commandments jokes will have to wait. (No need to order ESPN for a day, it turns out. They and the NFL Network streamed coverage of the first round over the Roku.) Then there's the continuation of a Patriots' fucking triumph once I dodge the outrageous Deflategate madness (I warned you, but this punishment is out of hand) and finish re-watching the best Super Bowl in years. Plus another short story in the works, emphasis on "short." Har! Har! And Beefheart. Oh, Beefheart.

In high school I took a basic computer literacy/programming class using one of those blue-background Commodore 64s. One thing I remember was constructing a Canadiens logo out of rectangle keystrokes and goto-ing it around the screen. Epic! We also (possibly in a different class) learned how to insert clipart into "Word" documents (or the 1991 equivalent)—I latched onto an odd black-and-white illustration of a yak and used it to play with planar relationships and scale whenever the lessons slowed. Eventually I printed a dozen copies with the legend "Congratulations, it's a yak" and handed them out to friends. Sure, young man, ignore your interest in graphic design a good decade early. You could have saved yourself a lot of headaches.

Have I achieved midlife crisis? Will I live to eighty-two? In case of doubt, I relive the past and introduce a new yak friend. Congratulations! (And you thought we were having another baby.) Gone are a dozen tracks but only thirty minutes of music. This edition sequenced itself without fuss and I will not ruin the flow just to fill out a five-year mold. It'll save my reader (!) a few bucks anyway. Dig that sweater!

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1. Jaime Brockett – The Legend of the USS Titanic
Thirteen minutes? "I'm gonna mooove you, baaabaay!" Past inhibitions of "alas it's too long even for me" are exorcised in full as Jack Johnson returns to declare "I'm black alright, I'll never let them forget it" and dance the eagle rock like it's going out of style. You want another toke, cap'n?

2. Kiss – Strange Ways
I saw Kiss with Hector and Ivan last Summer and kicked myself for not loading an appropriate playlist onto my phone so we and our open containers could listen in the parking lot of whatever Great Woods is calling itself now. Internet service around Mansfield is spotty at best and Ivan's cloud let us down hard, which is why I will never stop hoarding "hardcopy" MP3s. Anyway, "Strange Ways" was not part of the set, of course, but it's a great Ace song with a good (for once) Peter vocal. That night, Paul and Gene leaned heavily on Creatures of the Night, of all albums, in what I suppose was an embrace of the formal fracture of the Ace-less (boo!), Peter-less (yay!) era. "Still nowhere near as good as an anonymous handjob on the bus." Oh, Pitchfork. What once was.

3. Death – Politicians in My Eyes
A. and I enjoy yelling at Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot during Sound Opinions once a week in the car. Greg is OK (David Yow's repeated mockery of his calling all Jesus Lizard songs "Blah-Blah-Blah" is worth a listen—"just so happens the son of a bitch is a goddamn mouth breather") but Jim is one of those (like me) who thinks he knows everything about everything and then (not like me) refers to "Rain" as the A-side and "Paperback Writer" the B-side. It's also clear that neither of them actually listens to rock & roll for pleasure, only so they can ask "Hey, have you heard of this band Death?" Well, I hadn't, so thanks guys! And those jazz tips two weeks ago were… something else? Lastly, might I suggest Johnny Cash's "The Ballad of the Harp Weaver" for 2016's Mother's Day show. Apologies in advance if its tragic (though inspirational) parable isn't whiny enough for John Lennon and Roger Waters. What were you thinking?

4. DJ Shadow – Napalm Brain/Scatter Brain
Ur-T. Rex outfit Tyrannosaurus Rex, featuring "Steve Peregrin Took" (god bless the sixties), make an appearance two and a half minutes in with 1969's throwaway "Pon a Hill." DJ Shadow is the first to find value in its seventy-five noodling seconds. Took moved on to productive relationships with the Mick Farren/Twink sect I will likely poke at with more urgency now that the "electric Miles Davis" box has been checked. Relax: only two instrumentals this year.

5. Shellac – Dude Incredible
Dude Incredible beat out Ty Segall's Manipulator (check back later) for last year's Biffy^® in a photo finish. For now, at least. If I had a nickel for every edit I've made to that list I could afford up to two new carbon monoxide alarms. "Riding Bikes" and "All the Surveyors" were contenders in this spot but the title track's opening riff is this album to me, hearing it over and over as I decided "Yes, I will play Dude Incredible again." Easy to do at thirty-three minutes. Steve Albini was on Kreative Kontrol before its release and, at Vish Khanna's request, offered single-word "encapsulations" of all nine tracks. "Dude Incredible" produced "Monkeys." The Miracles weep.

6. Jimmy Smith – Main Title From The Carpetbaggers
A coworker recently made an eighties mix for another (younger by a dozen years) ignorant to anything outside of recent history's top forty. Now he randomly inserts names like Echo & the Bunnymen into conversation just to get a laugh. It works every time. Since I'm unqualified to recommend what people mean when they talk about "eighties music," despite entering 1990 as a high school sophomore (the evidence is there in my old playlists), I followed through on a drunken boast/threat to make the two of them a sixties mix that ballooned quickly into a four-disc boxed set. Over five hours of action! The collection was called Earth, 1960–1972 (I allowed a loose stylistic guideline) and it took about ten minutes to collate. Source material overflowed and Jimmy Smith's "Main Title," collaborating with Lalo Schifrin (whose Bullitt is one of my favorite soundtracks) on 1964's The Cat, made the cut there and here because it's action-packed and gorgeous. Our sweet, sweet Chloe even traveled back in time to pose for the sleeve. I miss her daily.

7. Johnny Thunder – I'm Alive
Of Village Green fame? Johnny Thunder's (not Johnny Thunders's) raw "I'm Alive" was featured as well, alongside non-Volume 7 tracks by Donovan, the Bar-Kays, Sweetwater and several blasts from the Biff! Bang! Past! The portion most likely to be skipped was a forty-five-minute stretch of John Coltrane's "Africa," the Mothers of Invention's "The Return of the Son of Monster Magnet" and Iron Butterfly's… yes… "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" on the "weird" fourth disc. I await the Elephant's Memory non sequitur with glee.

8. Digable Planets – 9th Wonder (Blackitolism)
"So Butterfly, is this a sequel to '8th Wonder' or something? Some-body-let-me-know!" "Nah, Doodlebug, it's a commentary on the black man's—or woman's, sorry Ladybug!—place in American society." "Hmm." "Yeah, right?" "You mean it's not a sequel?" "Dude, it's not a fucking sequel." "Can we emphasize that somehow? Like a subtitle maybe?" "Hmm…"

9. Almighty Defenders – I'm Coming Home
Germany 2009? Bullshit. Peru 1968. Wikipedia calls the Almighty Defenders "a supergroup consisting of members from the Black Lips and the King Khan & BBQ Show" as if families sit around the dinner table listening to "Fish Fight."

10. Kurt Vile – The Hunchback
"Expect something from Vile next May as I dig into his discography following the show. It will be Loud Song No. 1 'The Hunchback' or Loud Song No. 2 'Freak Train.'" Correct! Though I thought I'd pick the EP version rather than this… peppier?… one from Childish Prodigy. After killing at Turn It Up and financing many beers at the Northampton Brewery (G. was with grandparents) we stumbled over to Pearl Street, experienced the most ridiculous pat-down since the fall of the Berlin Wall and wound up behind J. Mascis for a spell while our ears turned to mush. I wish Kurt would ditch the studio drum machine—his full-band live sound runs circles around anything I've heard on the albums.

11. Neutral Milk Hotel – Little Birds
This one is tough to listen to. It makes me consider fatherhood and what it means to be responsible for someone who isn't quite ready to learn about, never mind be confronted by, the evils of the world. Bullying? Rape? Terrorism? What can I do to combat any of that? When G. awakes crying I tell her she is safe. When she screams after seeing a spider on the car window I tell her she is safe. "I just want to swallow up and promise to protect them." Yes. Above anything in the world, I want her to be and feel safe until the end. The alternative would break all hearts.

12. Lebanon Opera – Plave Perle i Kosti
Hoo boy. Allow me to cop out in the heavy aftermath with a song ("Blue Beads and Bones") in another language. I once followed the blog Vibrant Sound of Acid (a little on the nose) that was based somewhere in central Europe and is now replaced with a "blog has been removed" disclaimer. The contributors reviewed albums and made enormous ZIP files of copyrighted music available to download. Good idea? Sometimes they seemed to get permission from local (to them) artists, like Croatian outfit Lebanon Opera, but others? I guess they slept through the whole Napster era. Blogger's is a violent fist.

13. The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion – Skunk
The Common Ground in Allston is not what it was. Gone are the old-timer Irish bartenders my friends and I could never understand. Gone is Booty, who is playing in Dewey Square outside my office next week as original incarnation the Swinging Johnsons, where Hector, Ivan and I might shout ourselves hoarse demanding "Highway to Hell." Christ, gone even is shepherd's pie from the menu. In their places are stools slightly too short for the bar and strapping, tattooed bartenders who refuse to flirt with gay patrons who instead flirt with me. All this I learned before the Blues Explosion show across the street last week, where the band slayed during a shorter set than they ever performed in their—and my—youth. It was mainly the new Freedom Tower ("Freedom Tower! Freedom Tower! Brighton, Massachusetts! Brighton? Allston? Boston? Massachusetts!"), of course, as well as 1996's Now I Got Worry. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!" It was fun to watch new fans scratch their heads over "Skunk," "Identify," "Wail," "Fuck Shit Up" and "Chicken Dog" while I shouted along to all the words. Seriously, me! All the words!

14. Jack Bruce – Boston Ball Game, 1967
Jack Bruce, hero, passed away in October and no one cared because Eric Clapton, super-fraud, shat out another fakebook two months earlier. While people (and institutions) with bad taste desperately reach for qualities that demonstrate Clapton's relevance (I maintain that the Yardbirds and the Bluesbreakers improved with his replacements and that Cream could have as well under Leslie West, admittedly disregarding the uninspiring West, Bruce & Laing collaboration), they should join me in exploring Bruce's post-Cream artistic success. I finally picked up Songs for a Tailor, celebrating Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Lonborg, and look forward to checking out follow-up Harmony Row plus his subsequent time spent with West, Bruce & Laing and the Tony Williams Lifetime. Such a rich, non-MTV Unplugged history, with nary a project disowned after a bad review in Rolling Stone.

15. Kim Chu-Ja – The Man Who Must Leave
I've downloaded several songs from the Shin Jung-Hyeon compilations Beautiful Rivers and Mountains and From Where to Where and knocked myself out trying to tag those fuckers. Shin Jung-Hyeon? Shin Joong Hyun? Donkeys? Yup Juns? The Men? Plus all the South Korean artists whose albums he guested on? It's hard enough sourcing Western songs, never mind ones with album sleeves I can't read. From what I can tell, Shin Jung-Hyeon and his band the Donkeys are supporting Kim Chu-Ja (Kim Choo Ja?) on the 1969 album Kim Chu-Ja With Shin Jung-Hyeon & Donkeys (der), even though I don't hear a woman's voice anywhere. I give up.

16. Chrome – Sun Control
The foreign mystery man above bleeds nicely into the foreign jibber-jabber at the front of "Sun Control." Chrome's magnificent underwater guitar and unearthly percussion is all over the classic initial albums The Visitation, Alien Soundtracks and, of course, Half Machine Lip Moves. Too bad they lost me after that.

17. Ex Hex – Don't Wanna Lose
Starting with Pirate Prude, I've been listening to Mary Timony for over twenty goddamn years. Twenty! I am forty years old. Forty! Ex Hex performed on Late Night With Seth Meyers last Fall, which reminds me that Letterman is retiring in two days. Two! (Drag.)

18. Crushed Butler – It's My Life
"Take nine? Fuckin' hell!" Guys, it was worth it! I love that it took them nine takes to reach this level of polish and fidelity. "I tink we shouldna done that." "No, man, no!" I agree, that was great! Nineteen fuckin' sixty-nine!

19. Mission of Burma – Learn How
Peter Prescott used to work at Mystery Train Records on Newbury Street. Maybe he still does, if it's still there. A looong time ago I sold a stack of CDs to him, took the cash over the store credit and made the mistake of browsing after the transaction was complete. What do you know, I found an Australian copy of Mudhoney's Let It Slide EP on blue vinyl. When I brought it to the counter I said "On second thought I'll take the credit" and he responded along the lines of "Tough shit." That's OK, he could never spell Customized anyway.

20. Flo & Eddie – I Been Born Again
More adventures in free music. I follow a music site (unnamed here, for fear of more "blog has been removed") that offers several downloads a week, mostly focusing on my 1968–1972 rock/soul/funk sweet spot. Lots of unknowns but also deeper cuts from established artists like Al Green and the detestable Simon & Garfunkle. Plus: Flo & Eddie, a.k.a. Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan from the Turtles, whose "If we don't get credit we sue" attitude toward a four-second loop behind a minute-long interlude almost destroyed rap music. There is the smallest chance in the world that I will meet these… gentlemen… because I know people who are friendly with them but, if so, I hope to have a copy of 3 Feet High and Rising handy. The autograph request of all autograph requests! "I Been Born Again" is some good progressive rock and I'm immeasurably pleased that neither Flo nor Eddie will receive a red cent from me.

21. Michael Yonkers – Sunflower
"Sunflower looked at me eye to eye. Sunflower smiled a smile so wide. That it was the biggest smile that could ever be, I wanted to pick her and to take her home with me. But if I picked her she soon will die. So I decided to leave her thrive." Flowers are just about G's favorite things in the world and every stroll this time of year in New England is all "Look at those flowers, pink and purple and blue!" She's always picking dandelions (no chance of them not thriving) and handing them out to everyone with the expectation that it's all we ever need. Oh, monkey. You're the one.

22. Ty Segall – The Hand
Last year's Manipulator almost earned Ty Segall a second appointment with the dentist after Goodbye Bread (a recent retcon) scheduled the first. Segall's catalog is so intimidating but I dove in with Amazon gift cards a-plenty and feel good about our relationship. I enjoyed his interview with Marc Maron on a fairly recent WTF podcast where listeners learned that the answer to "How can he record and release so much material?" is "Because he comes from wealth and isn't inconvenienced by employment." The richest one percent produce ninety-nine percent of the country's psychedelic garage rock… something like that?

23. Circle Jerks – Live Fast Die Young
Supposedly a reworked "Cover Band" by Redd Kross. Why will I stick with Off! and never explore seminal southern California punk bands—outside of Black Flag and the Circle Jerks—like Redd Kross, the Adolescents or the Descendents? Let's ask Wikipedia. "The Adolescents have influenced many notable punk rock, alternative and hard rock/metal groups, including Bad Religion, NOFX, Face to Face, Good Riddance, the Offspring, Pennywise, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Fu Manchu, Mudhoney, Blink-182 and the Vandals." This sentence, minus the Mudhoney exception that proves the rule, will soon be published as Bands I Would Like to Strike from the Record, Vol. 1.

24. Unwound – Said Serial
I had every intention of including something off of Repetition after downloading the bonus tracks from its deluxe reissue this year. "Fingernails on a Chalkboard" was sitting there with that look, you know that look. "Skkreee? Skkreeee?" Sorry, baby. I still love you.

25. Sir Lord Baltimore – Woman Tamer
"Woman is a man's greatest temptation! Oh! Capable of multiple ruination! When she sets your mind to believin'! Oh! That's when the proof can be most deceivin'!" Ladies and gentlemen, justification for all the bullshit we have to tolerate regarding Brooklyn this-and-that. Legacy and stereotype are sometimes the same and can be wonderful.

26. Belle & Sebastian – The Stars of Track and Field
"But when she's on her back she had the knowledge to get her what she wanted." There it is: the sexually suggestive line found in every Belle & Sebastian song written by Stuart Murdoch (you know, the good ones). I love the conjunction "but." It's a beautiful setup. You can sing anything after "but." "But… tits!"

27. Pridjevi – Pjesma o Drveću
"Song of the Trees" is another Vibrant Sound of Acid selection. Their compilations were spotty, with overly "branded" artwork featuring detailed in-house design attributions—it's never smart to diagnose and label one's own pattern of international piracy—but I don't know how else I would have discovered two Croatian gems this year.

28. White Stripes – Why Can't You Be Nicer to Me?
Paul Henry Ossy played electric violin here. I always wondered what that sound was. According to the liner notes, Dominique Payette played "the world's smallest violin" on De Stijl's earlier "Jumble, Jumble," further mocking my lack of draft coverage this year. Jack is a regular reader and I'll be hearing it from him for years. Kathleen too. Hey Kathleen. What's up?

29. Bar-Kays – Son of Shaft
G. and I heard this in the car once while mom was picking out a toaster oven or whatever adults shop for in Bed, Bath and Beyond. She asked "Can you put this on my playlist?" and I responded "Great!" before the Greek chorus advised "Shut your mouth!" So the Bomb Squad announced "We'll take it," Chuck D warned "Your general subject—love—is minimal" and the Turtles knee-jerked "Sue!"

30. Yo La Tengo – Deeper Into Movies
Fresh out of college, driving up 128 to my cousin's wedding in Manchester-by-the-Sea. Running late at eighty miles an hour in my date's Jetta. Recommended! Should have known I'd grow up to live on the North Shore (and to miss a manual transmission).

31. Donovan – I Love My Shirt
G., upon hearing this for the first time: "Daddy, what is this song??" It's been a mainstay on her playlist ever since and she always smiles when I sing "I love your boots, I love your boots!" Other regulars she insists on hearing every day, on top of the ones mentioned last year, are current favorite "Carrie Anne" by the Hollies, "You Send Me" by Sam Cooke, "Mary, Mary" by the Monkees and "Young Folks" by Peter, Bjorn & John. Regarding the last two, we heard "Young Folks" on Songza one afternoon and G. asked "Is this 'Mary, Mary'?" Listen to the first few seconds of each and you'll wonder the same thing. I am so fucking proud of her.

32. Birds – How Can It Be?
The patience in this song is astounding for 1965, an era when record companies routinely chopped ten-second stretches of Donovan and Pete Townshend guitar solos to make singles "more commercial" because they knew pop music fans to be low-attention-span idiots. "You will… ya-use me. You will… abuse me." Even the riff pauses to carefully consider its next move. I like the full-stop ending but a thirty-second fade would have been appropriate.

33. Deltron 3030 – Nobody Can
The only song I downloaded from the sequel to the best album of 2000. Do not put your money on a 2013 correction in Event II's favor.

34. Sweetwater – Compared to What
I love the distinctions within Woodstock: "first performer" Richie Havens, "first band" Sweetwater, "first overrated drunk" Tim Hardin. Nansi Nevins's vocal contributions really dropped off after Sweetwater's first album and I'm not sure why—I'll take her every day over Janis Joplin and Grace Slick. Shut up, Grace.

35. Comets on Fire – Blue Tomb
Hard to believe I got into these guys after reading a review of Blue Cathedral in the goddamn New York Times one morning in the Summer of 2004. Hours later I pissed on the Bronx (in a Yankee Stadium restroom) and then the Red Sox ended an eighty-six-year championship drought at the end of the season. Productive visit!

36. Guided by Voices – The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory
Wait a minute… no Six Finger Satellite this year? No Groundhogs? No Can? Am I on the wrong inter-net? One of several 6FS numbers would have made the cut were I to push ahead to forty-eight but I really do dig the "minimalism" of thirty-six songs. Bob Dylan's "Maggie's Farm" also could have found a place after we heard it in the car and A. asked "What is this song even about?" "Well," I said, "he doesn't want to work on Maggie's farm anymore." You're welcome. Instead, another white man's afro bears a recorder and takes a bow with a melancholy Bee Thousand drone. Wikipedia says Robert Pollard found inspiration "after having an LSD-triggered psychedelic experience in which he perceived his own face in a mirror changing into his son's." Goddamn drugs.

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Three-quarters the breadth, four-fifths the length: nine songs from the sixties (five from '69), seven from the seventies, two from the eighties, eight from the nineties (should be prevalent again next year as I continue to work through the purged), four from the aughts and six from the teens (five from '14). Three songs under two minutes and three more over nine. Take us out with a joke, honey. "Knock knock!" "Who's there?" "Banana orange pie." "Banana orange pie who?" "Cow poop!" God bless you, daughter. May you always be safe.

More furious madness: Volume 1 | Volume 2 | Volume 3 | Volume 4 | Volume 5 | Volume 6

The 50th Anniversary Super-Biffy™ Spectacular!

Welcome to the Lynn Auditorium! As we commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the First Annual Biffy^® Special I present to you the Super-Biffys™! The greatest album from every ten-year span since 1964. Why 1964? Because shut up!

Here are the nominees under consideration by the Lower Galactic Biffy Council. Within each category, a special inter-net contributor will champion one of three albums, amounting to the best three of ten, advancing to "stage two." Council Strongman Jarrod P. Biffington (Jr.), DDS, DCM, will then declare five Super-Biffy™ Honorees and incinerate everyone within a (symbolic) five-mile radius.

Spared from said incineration will be the forty-five "losing" bands. Their humiliation is punishment enough, you say? Incorrect! Of these, thirty-five "stage one" nominees not advancing will perish due to unforeseen cannibalism by an audience held captive and unfed for days. What clothing remains will be examined for fashion cues and donated to charity for tax purposes. The remaining ten, having achieved "stage two" and believing themselves spared, will instead receive unnecessary dental surgery and nearly succumb to their wounds—badly—before drowning out back in the vomit of their biggest fans. The wretched remains of their teeth will serve as reminders that the Council does not tolerate weakness, no matter how exceptional.

"Good evening. I am your host and Council Strongman. You know why you are here. When necessary, I will communicate via cosmic mind waves and Powerpoint. Will the first three presenters stop cowering in fear and approach the dais. Slide number one, please!"

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1964 — 1973
Beatles – A Hard Day's Night
John Coltrane – A Love Supreme
Monks – Black Monk Time
The Jimi Hendrix Experience – Are You Experienced
Pretty Things – SF Sorrow
Led Zeppelin – Led Zeppelin
Stooges – Fun House
Groundhogs – Split
Curtis Mayfield – Superfly
Hawkwind – Space Ritual

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Super-Biffy candidates: Phase 1
  

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"Presenter the first, step forward to a chorus of boos. Floss regularly!"

"Judas! Haha, yeah! Now I know what it's like. I am here to nominate… whoa, what? A Love Supreme? No way, man. I like my albums as far from the edge as possible. Why not Sugar Lips or Cotton Candy? You people will be listening to Al Hirt in elevators for years. Just the other day my mom and I–"

"You neglect your duties and will pay dearly. Nico!"

"Allo. Eet ist mee. Eet ist Neeko. Und I nominatink Eegy und hees Foon Hoost. I do not care for ze udder men in ze band. I do not care for dirty Stooches. But since zey do not roon my art with awful flute maybe I vill make sex wit Ron und Scott und– Oh, allo Jeemee! Eet ist jor lover! Eet ist Neeko!"

"Yes, hello Nico. You are looking… well. Um… security? Thank you. I am Jimmy Page. This entire affair is for naught since compilations are ignored. Nonetheless I present the wonderful Groundhogs album Split. How did I not steal every single guitar lick included herein? The Complete Studio Albums is now available on iTun–"

"Silence! The winner is: A Love Supreme. I recently heard 'Acknowledgement' on Sirius's Real Jazz station and it made my morning, even though the DJ's decision to follow it with some cocktail crooner's cover of 'Resolution' was the worst idea since the hand-burger. Next. Now!"

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1974 — 1983
Kiss – Hotter Than Hell
George Brigman – Jungle Rot
Ramones
The Damned – Damned Damned Damned
AC/DC – Powerage
Chrome – Half Machine Lip Moves
Motörhead – Ace of Spades
Black Flag – Damaged
The Fall – Hex Enduction Hour
Bad Brains – Rock for Light

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Super-Biffy candidates: Phase 2
  

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"An interesting stretch of albums. Great choices, of course, but is one worthy of my grace? May the entire city of Cambridge please join me on stage. I am surprised to find you this far north."

"We, the People's Republic, crave Red Line accessibility and nominate an under-represented minority class with Bad Brains' second album. Angie over here even grew out her giant, horrifying dreadlock in honor of an international conspiracy to repress. Remember that our property taxes rank among the lowest in Massachusetts so please spare what you can. Also, recycle. Or else."

"I make the threats around here! Now shove over so these last two homeless men can join you."

"Um, no, I'm Theodore Deutschmann and this is my brother Milton. We co-founded RadioShack and have been losing money ever since. What's your zip code? Would you like to buy batteries?"

"I am powered by your tears."

"Ted, I think it all went downhill when Chrome broke up. They were always buying extension cords and old radios and we were getting too much pussy to count. And the cocaine! Man, the cocaine. Now we keep each other warm in a ditch. Every night I pray for the next Half Machine Lip Moves and then I pray for death."

"Feel free to join me in my watery grave. Just look for the topographic design and red lens ring that made the Droid Incredible so distinct. Unlike me, George Brigman is still kicking around and making good music. Nothing, though, can touch his Jungle Rot debut. The cover image is one even I could have shot before my camera went kaput. Glug glug."

"My old phone! We Jungle Rot-ters are convinced. May your demise inspire more genius poetry. Decisions only become difficult beginning with our third grouping. Slide!"

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1984 — 1993
Metallica – Ride the Lightning
Mission of Burma – The Horrible Truth About Burma
Dead Kennedys – Bedtime for Democracy
Big Black – Songs About Fucking
Public Enemy – It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back
Mudhoney
Public Enemy – Fear of a Black Planet
Black Sheep – A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing
The Jesus Lizard – Liar
Wu-Tang Clan – Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)

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Super-Biffy candidates: Phase 3
  

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"Let's get some of these hack writers and critics up here to discuss mustard typography. You first, skunk-head."

"This is for all of you. I was waiting for a plane at LAX the other night and heard 'That Smell' by Lynyrd Skynyrd. One of the worst songs ever created. Why did it become popular?"

"Stop inserting yourself into the story."

"Thanks for the invitation—maybe I should get into Game of Thrones. From the Peet's barista in the JFK Airport Terminal 4 coffee shop, after I'd ordered a medium latte with an extra shot of espresso, paid and was waiting for my drink: 'What is it like to know that young girls all over the country are going to know who you are?' Important facet of a personality for a bronzed, well-coiffed Liar and enemy of dignity."

"I, David Wallace-Wells-Coulee-O'Hanrahan-Marlbarger VI, BSocSc, MLitt, nominate It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back because its wonderfully long title steers me, with pleasure, toward an opening—however narrow and/or imperceptible, lacking both a clear locking mechanism and a window through which to see whom or what might be waiting for me on the other side—to discuss the overrated nature of popular artists. Warhol's best paintings—the sloppy, silk-screen memento mori of screen stars, singers and other American celebrities and grotesques—illustrate powerfully the distinction between secular images, which underlie the artwork and express the terrible absence of the depicted, and true icons, the painted figurations that express their immanent and intoxicating presence. It is a compelling account of the paintings' beguiling effect, but the fact that Warhol applied this same technique to commissioned society portraits—portraits that dominated his output after 1968—suggests that he was, at best, indifferent to, and perhaps even ignorant of, the source of its power."

"I understand a lucky handful of audience members have chewed through their own wrists. Into the lava pit, windbag."

"FWEEEEEEE!!!"

"Now who are these old AmeriGlide-riding biddies?"

"We, the Marblehead Festival of Arts Logo Contest Committee, reject Wu-Tang Clan's candidacy due to their aesthetically pleasing, non-seafaring-oriented W symbol. So much archaic fluff was left on the floor—in the name of King Neptune, Staten Island is an island!"

"I appreciate the economy of your language even if your lot could not critique yourselves out of an imploded Starbucks. Ignorance is at an all-time high and so, too, is Nation of Millions. Now bring forth the era of independent rock and hip-hop that cost me thousands of dollars at Newbury Comics."

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1994 — 2003
The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion – Orange
Six Finger Satellite – Severe Exposure
DJ Shadow – Endtroducing.....
Yo La Tengo – I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One
Six Finger Satellite – Law of Ruins
Make-Up – Save Yourself
Deltron 3030
Fugazi – The Argument
Mr. Lif – I Phantom
White Stripes – Elephant

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Super-Biffy candidates: Phase 4
  

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"Can a man choose from among the stars of the sky? Help me out, all-pro reality-television host Jeff Probst."

"Are you sure you don't want me to jump Nahant Bay on a kiteboard or something before we roll the credits?"

"Do not make me replace you with Dathan."

"A golden calf!"

"Alright, welcome back to the Lynn Auditorium! Tickets still available for Pat Benatar, Paul Anka and Air Supply in the coming months. What a lineup! Only on CBS. DJ Shadow came out of nowhere and served as the Strongman's basement-level bedroom soundtrack for months after hearing 'The Number Song' on WZBC. Remember that time you saw a mouse on your pillow? One! Survivor!"

"Jeff, no! That is not prop lava!"

"Rock & Roll Jeopardy forever! FWEEEEEEE!!!"

"Drag. What's to happen to Survivor now? My Wednesday evenings will be empty, as it will for the show's three other fans. Eagle Claw Fist, are you qualified to host?"

"I teach yoga on Wednesdays. Race-baiters, I give you the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion."

"That was Eagle Claw Fist with 'Controversial Negro.' I'm John Laurenti and you're listening to WZLX, Boston's classic rock. It's five past the hour and we're looking at some rain overnight. Highs in the upper forties. Speaking of the forties, up next is Sex Finger Appetite and Raw Loom, recorded on the Greek island of Rhodes in 1948."

"Hey Wikipedia, can you fact-check this clown?"

"Your three-year-old could fact-check this clown."

"Enjoy the lava bath, Laurenti. Just tuck in your goddamn shirt first. As we await John's immolation–"

"FWEEEEEEE!!!"

"As we celebrate John's immolation I remind all presenters that your arguments are meaningless, though the 'race-baiter' line was pretty good. Orange, of course, is the greatest album of all time and, among all prospects on this list, the only one that could check more boxes than both Endtroducing and Law of Ruins. Truly a monumental achievement. Don't feel too discouraged, group four. I will always love you, even after your horrible d– erm, honorable discharge tonight. Slide!"

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2004 — 2013
Comets on Fire – Blue Cathedral
Sleater-Kinney – The Woods
Jay Reatard – Blood Visions
Dungen – Tio Bitar
Black Mountain – In the Future
Flaming Lips – Embryonic
Dead Meadow – Three Kings
Thee Oh Sees – Carrion Crawler/The Dream
Off!
Ty Segall – Sleeper

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Super-Biffy candidates: Phase 5
  

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"In a special ceremony recorded earlier at Revere Beach Pavilion No. 3, the Council awarded its latest Biffy^® to… do we have a slide?"

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2014: Dude Incredible

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"En pointe! Shellac has since been cannibalized so I will read the now archived remarks from Steve Albini's Evernote app.

"'Long live Keith Morris and, you know, sixteen-minute albums. I can grab my crotch from behind without bending.'

"Whatever your take on Albini and his music, the shiny bastard knew the business. Have I killed off any remaining presenters? No? Then get your fat ass up here, Boomer."

"How's the weather out there? I think it might be… slEEEting. Or, rather, Sleater-ing. Sleater-Kinney-ing!!1 What are we talkin' about here, Tommy? Doin' the shuffle with Ickey…"

"The Woods!"

"Correct-a-mundo! Corin 'USS' Tucker, 'Harry' Carrie Brownstein and Janet 'The Guy from The Running Man' Weiss, together again! You saw them just last week, Suzy, isn't that right? What? We're not– Mel Kiper, who ya got?"

"Mariota still on the board. He goes first overall in today's mock draft. Ten versions to go. Twelve? At least I only have five players in my top five, unlike that pussy Mike Mayock with his bullshit ties."

"Whoa! You can't say that in front of an audience! Suzy? Su– Can we say that?! Any… riots… down there, grrrl?!"

"Fuck you, Chris! I think I'm dying!"

"I can't believe it took me so long to cancel ESPN. To present our final nominee is a very special guest who needs no introduction. Hear him well!"

"How are you? Wonderful! An arduous journey of which I will detail presently has left me as near my namesake actor—how he is missed!—as I wish to be this fine evening! Surely, Rothberg is consumed by guilt after believing me in the clear, blameless—naively so—as he may be. But Embryonic first, of course. For that is why we gather!"

"Please do not impede your fine yarn-spinning with tonight's agenda. How I've missed you, Charles Napier."

"Indeed! And I you. Amusing, regardless, that I should speak of 'flaming lips' in relation to my earlier adventures! As indicated, Rothberg secured my… release… in time to partake in an epicure's tour of the fine red wines of Somerville but—alas!—upon my supposed safe passage to River Works Station, courtesy of Rothberg's traitorous manservent Gideon, where I could gaze upon the late afternoon sun as it illuminated the lush marshes of Pines River, my drunken haste had me board the northward train instead of the south! Seconds later my error turned irreversible without leaping to certain injury. Curses! I knew Central Square to be the next stop and steeled myself against vertigo upon my planned disembarkation, for the station platform is several exposed storeys above traffic! The man in black, though… how he escaped my aisle-seat vantage—beg pardon, but Hustler does engross—will forever haunt me!

"By god, it was Jones! He of a peculiar single-minded vengeance. How the man came to be one, like us, who breathes a free man's air remains a mystery, lo, these hours later. Between waves of shock I came to understand that he had, to all appearances, shadowed my position—with Gideon's cruel assistance!—for weeks in absolute stealth and, only today, seized the opportunity to strike. And strike he did! After walking a most crooked line from my seat to the car door, my grip tightened on the handrail as, not a minute from our arrival at stated depot, a cry of 'Ad mortem nebulonum, and may the devil guide my poker!' was heard by all aboard. Aye, a fire poker! No doubt secured from an unsuspecting home hardware establishment! If only repeated price reductions could be directed away from such a weapon. Affordability is no match for sinister violence!

"His proclamation was the remedy my withered reflexes and poise required, for I was immediately shaken as by an earthquake and dodged, by hairs, Jones's haphazard thrust. Surely his foul emotions bested him, otherwise I would not be standing before you! Said momentum carried him straight past me, through the open car door, off the vestibule and into the darkening wilderness that betrays the outskirts of the City of Sin. His savage instrument foretold his own doom once it struck the track, causing a spark to ignite a slick of oil sitting atop the marsh and—FWEEEEEEE!!!—into the flames went my one-time comrade. His screams, so gruesome, were broken only by an explosion from what was once his bristled face—despite the speeding car I will never unsee it. An awful death! Or was it? With luck, the circling gulls have witnessed Jones's final resting place, though I fear his rage too resolute to extinguish. In death will I cease peering over my shoulder at each dark corner—and then, only if my spirit settles outside the gates of hell!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, Charles Napier! Not the actor! We are in your debt, old boy. Now flee before I annihilate this rabble. Mind your path!"

"Cheers, good sir!"

"Despite the chasm between Charles's unparalleled tale and Boomer's wild-eyed buffoonery, Embryonic is simply not The Woods. Reason and chance weep tonight.

"The five Honorees will now join me. Advance, you fool of an assistant!"

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<< INSERT TITLE >>
    

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"Idiot. Orange, for your still-relevant spin on rock, soul and blues music, you shall sit at my right hand. You're welcome. Next to you, appropriately, is It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back for an overall importance and ass-kickery that will never be matched. Third comes A Love Supreme for, yes, making me a better man. Penultimate is The Woods, which rocks as hard as anything since ninety percent of Love Gun. Lastly, in relative terms, is Jungle Rot for its purity of heart. Brigman's distortion shall defend my flank against all comers.

"Are these the five greatest albums of all time? Of course not. Foon Hoost isn't even up here."

"Eegy! I luff you!"

"But the five greatest of a series of random subsets of subsets?"

"Surely!"

"Bless you, Charles! Onward in triumph! Now, those of you seated in the upper riser, please douse each other with the seasoned barbecue sauce at stage left and then hurl yourselves into the orchestra pit. Your frenzied end will be neither swift nor enlightened but it will be. You other ten, in front, are free to exit… through that curtain. That curtain. A line of… limousines?… awaits. The whirring and wailing you hear is only the sea. Yes, wave to the feasting crowd! See you in 2065! Right.

"As for the rest of you, return to your seats once satiated. Under each cushion are two sets of cast-iron manacles, individually fitted for your wrists and ankles. 'Convenience fees' well spent! Your partner may assist in securing them and you, in turn, his or hers. Once in place, masses of lava from the Jeff Probst Memorial Flow will consume you while I head far north. In anticipation, notice how the cuffs are lined with fine virgin denim for maximum comfort and style. So tasteful!

"Sauce caterers, earth scientists and multimedia technicians, take this as your fifteen-minute warning to vacate the blast radius. I recommend Gulu-Gulu Café, for beer and hearty fare are encouraged after what you've endured. Come, Orange. Nation of Millions. A Love Supreme. The Woods. Jungle Rot. Let us walk together into a glorious Lynn evening and then beyond as it burns. The soundtrack will be wonderful."

My dear Chlo-Chlo

We lost our beloved little flopper Chloe last month and will be mourning a long time. Approaching fifteen "human years" (eighty in "cat years") she wasn't, and hadn't been, getting around as easily as she used to. She weighed next to nothing and slept twenty-two hours a day. From time to time she would surprise us by making the diagonal leap from the far corner of the couch to the ottoman and it would make me so proud I wanted to cry. To hold her was to be comforted and heartbroken.

A month or two after Steve passed away (no doubt they're lying by the heater together in cat heaven, which is much cleaner and snootier than regular pet heaven), A. and I were visiting with some (now former) friends who were planning to—it still amazes me—get rid of Chloe so they could bring in another half-retarded siamese. Chloe wouldn't have "gotten along with" it and their current siamese so them's the breaks, I guess. The… heartlessness. We weren't yet considering another cat but, while the hosts were polishing their guns or something after dinner, Chloe strolled over and flopped right onto her side, purring a purr that even Steve couldn't match in his usurper-sneak-attack moments. Not a care in the world… flop, upright, flop, upright, etc. Caring of nothing except to rub her face on the carpet. It was love.

Within seconds of leaving, before even turning off their street, we looked at each other and agreed that ours would be Chloe's new home. Whether or not I (for Steve was really my cat) was ready was immaterial: we couldn't bear the thought of her ending up in a shelter or elsewhere. The next day we reached out to those monsters and made our case, and the weekend after we hosted them and her on a trial visit. From that evening, Chloe, you were all-the-way ours. We will hear your silent meows and your rumbling purrs, marvel at your sweet tooth (!) and suffer your disregard for our thighs as you and your nails settled into our laps. We will cherish how much our daughter loved you—she always saw your spirit, even as you struggled to sit comfortably—and how much patience you had with her hugs. And we will laugh with your flopping because we know you had a sense of humor about it. Flop after flop when you were young! I will never forget.

Things changed the past few years with G. in the picture but I still included you upon entering a room and asking "How are my ladies?" I hope you felt so welcomed from when you saved me (for you did) until the end. The carrot cake was the least I could do. We miss you, Chlo-Chlo. We love you.

Beer and football V — playoffs, week fiveSuper Bowl XLIXPart 1: Full-on electric

The game: Patriots vs. Seahawks
The beer: Dogfish Head Miles Davis's Bitches Brew Ale
The result: (To be continued)
The commentary: The most expensive beer of the year cost about fourteen dollars. It's been so long now, with Dr. Jones finally standing in for Major Toht, that the details are fuzzy—a lot has happened in the weeks since Malcolm Butler learned to leave his wallet at home before heading to any New England watering hole. Our family has moved farther along the North Shore and away from the Big City, which the commonwealth requires by law—and enforces with shocking violence—when a head (or co-head) of household enters a fifth decade. If luck holds it will be the last move of my life.

I have put our ex-town behind us and I could not miss it less. I've never named it, or if so I've since gone back and redacted due to overwhelming internet paranoia (from the guy who only just started using his real name on Facebook) (and who still doesn't use his full name on his blog), but the clues are there in the archives. The taxes were too high, the beaches too smelly and the populace too enamored with a century-old middle school they attended as children. Ellie Miller: your lily-white, numb-fuck lot is the enemy of progress. May you achieve all you despise and reap all you deserve.

I won't say to where I've moved but my readers (!) aren't idiots. There's a large independent brewery in town with good distribution whose fine offerings have accompanied several beer-and-football afternoons and evenings since before the town was on our residential radar—the facility even leases space to at least two other brewers I've written about. I'll probably drink a selection during the draft when I pay for a single day's access to ESPN or the NFL Network. Oh, Moses.

And this expensive beer? Its name doesn't formally include the apostrophe S on the label—it's just an apostrophe—but I'm vetoing that shit. People think if a name ends in S then its possessive should automatically exclude a second S and that is goddamn wrong! (Thanks, Larry. Anonymous commenter number one single-handedly demonstrates everything wrong with this country: "George Jones's guitar just looks wrong, pretentious and ostentatious." Because that's valid. Everyone OK trusting someone who defends his ignorance with "…but here in the good old USA"?) It poured a rich, dark color (likely due to "a fusion of three threads imperial stout") nearly as black as Kearse's heart when he caught that ball on his back. Not my favorite beer of the season but it's a close second to the bootleg-scored turning point that was week four's pecan porter.

Bitches Brew. Bitches Brew. Is that a sentence? Bitches probably can brew once they get past their own vanity, loathing and/or inability to have children—I just wouldn't touch the stuff. Or maybe Miles didn't know his apostrophes either. Bitch's Brew? Bitches' Brew? No matter. Let's use our fine ale, "brewed with honey and gesho," as an excuse to discuss the album after which it is named… and then some. Continuing adventures in "I don't really know what I'm talking about when it comes to jazz." Related to ignorance, I had to look it up: "gesho" is an anglicized "gešo," or rhamnus prinoides, which Ethiopia uses "in a manner similar to hops." (Thanks, Wikipedia.)

Years ago, Ivan and I spent an afternoon/evening playing pool and getting hammered in the middle of Allston. Shocker. At the time my jazz collection was probably a bare-bones version of what it is today: heavy on Coltrane (though nothing yet from Ascension on) and a handful of "safe" discs from Charles Mingus and Miles Davis (maybe Miles Smiles by then). I was aware of Bitches Brew like I was aware of vegetarian chili—it exists, but why? And for whom?

In between the blocks of machismo Ivan and I blasted from the jukebox (Sabbath, Public Enemy, Cypress Hill, Foghat) someone slipped in and got the most out of their fifty cents by playing "Bitches Brew," the twenty-seven-minute, side-spanning title track that was used to annoying affect in some movie I can't remember. Probably by Spike Lee.

Daylight remained and we were several beers and appetizers deep. The Sox were on television playing one of their one hundred sixty-two games of the season, which is a ridiculous amount of baseball over the course of thirty months, never mind seven. I do not remember the score. It was neither the place nor the time for someone to choose to enlighten a crowd, as I suspect a spoiled BU egghead was attempting, with JAZZ MUSIC. "For Those About to Rock"? Fire! "Deeez Nuuuts"? Deeeeeez nuuuttzz! "Fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der fer-der… FWEEEEEEE"? Um! I appreciate the value he got for his money despite a period of time when I would recreate the closing five minutes of the Abbey Road medley by dumping quarters into individual tracks "Golden Slumbers," "Carry That Weight" and "The End" at Sligo Pub. (Yes, the mechanical hesitation between tracks bothered the hell out of me.) But I'm pretty sure Ivan and I would have murdered the guy if we'd known who in there played it. Ivan, who can't even tolerate the second half of "Can't You Hear Me Knocking," might still be looking for him.

I hope someone did it as a gag on his way out. Who, then, is to blame? How about the staff at the fucking White Horse Tavern for providing the option in the first place? "Zeppelin, check. Clash, check. Sublime, check. Mountain, ch– hey, where's the provocative electric jazz/funk double album with only one song out of six that isn't of epic length? Everyone loves dense, unclassifiable niche music from the late sixties and early seventies. Let's move some pitchers of Redhook!"

Years later it remains an unforgivable act all over. But the music? I'm coming around. Indeed, "I had nowhere to go but full-on electric," and so here is my complete-album Miles Davis discography, chronologically, from sold CDs to fresh Amazon downloads. Those with missing pieces like Sketches of Spain are excluded.

Birth of the Cool (1956; recorded 1949–1950)
'Round About Midnight (1956)
Milestones (1958)
Kind of Blue (1959)
Seven Steps to Heaven (1963)
ESP (1965)
Miles Smiles (1966)
Nefertiti (1967)
Miles in the Sky (1968)
Filles de Kilimanjaro (1968)
In a Silent Way (1969)
Bitches Brew (1970)
Jack Johnson (1971)
On the Corner (1972)
Big Fun (1974; recorded 1969–1972)

I imagine 'Round About Midnight and Milestones were progressive at the time and you can hear that he was making major strides, they just sound a little too be-bop for my Coltrane-favoring ears (I parted with the Birth of the Cool compilation of A- and B-sides pretty quickly for the same reason, times twelve). Everyone owns Kind of Blue. Everyone. And they should. Seven Steps introduces the "second great quintet" era and I settled in nicely (though out of order) with the subsequent ESP, Miles Smiles and Nefertiti (guess I should give 1967's Sorcerer another listen). And then?

And then! A nimble file-sharing leap later I experienced Jack Johnson. (If you need to satisfy an urge to drive a roomful of drunks out of their minds then go with the super-tight stone funk of "Right Off"—it's shorter than "Bitches Brew" by five seconds, which is enough time for you to flush a public toilet with your shoe.) A lot happened in between and I wasn't interested, or at least wasn't required to be interested, because I picked up what the man was laying down in 1971. Skipped years of trial and error and landed at its logical, cohesive two-song conclusion. Maybe I could do this "electric jazz" thing after all… nah. Ascension opened different doors for me anyway. And this Mingus fellow was doing (had done) interesting things.

I'd been a Mingus fan since after college, scooping up and loving the organic energy of the live Mingus at Antibes. 1964's Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus was my first studio strike and as much as I revel in its confident swing, I only realized later while exploring his back catalog that the album was simply remaking, and mainly improving, original songs from his past. I felt Mingus offered more adventure than Davis so I headed west: Mingus Ah Um, Charles Mingus Presents Charles Mingus, Blues and Roots, The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady, Oh Yeah, The Clown. Still more to hear but it's of the early or in-between vein: Pithecanthropus Erectus, Mingus Dynasty, Reincarnation of a Lovebird. Electric Miles Davis? "Now's the time." Be cool, Johnny Boy.

If step one was 1968's Filles de Kilimanjaro then step zero was the previous year's Nefertiti. The title track hinted at an "anti-jazz" to come with a riff-driven arrangement but otherwise doesn't sound radical today when considering all that came before and all that was happening around it. Kilimanjaro followed (for me) and eased the transition from acoustic to electric. Until recently it was the last Davis album I owned and I understand why—three of its five songs feature an electric rhythm section that doesn't sound much different. The horns all get their solos and only the second half of "Petits Machins" keeps the progression to In a Silent Way from hitting out of nowhere (the sudden fade anticipates Teo Macero's scissors). It's the natural follow-up to "Stuff" from Miles in the Sky, which I picked up in Northampton a few months ago before crushing my daughter's Christmas-lit dreams, which never were fulfilled. There's always 2015.

With Miles in the Sky nestled between Nefertiti and Kilimanjaro on the shelf in water-tight inventory storage, Christmas invited the final push. A generous Amazon gift card (since the nearly-as-generous iTunes card was applied toward an iTunes Match account that allowed me to replace all my annoying DRM M4P files that only played on Apple devices with higher-quality, unlocked M4A ones that can play nice with my Android phone) (also, to hell with Jony Ive for thinking I can't design a better phone than his giant golden turd) (oh, but feel free to officially license its dimensions so your tween/cougar audience can bedazzle—and fully obscure—your entire vision with cases that would embarrass my three-year-old) was first applied toward G-ready classics like Jackie Wilson's "Lonely Teardrops" and Ya Ho Wa 13's "I'm Gonna Take You Home (Part 1)" Dusty Springfield's "He's Got Something" and then, in order, In a Silent Way, Jack Johnson (for the white guilt), Bitches Brew, the era-spanning Big Fun and On the Corner. (On the Corner is a whole other bag that will take awhile for me to digest. In that way I compare it to Ascension. Give me time, though I doubt it will leave as heavy a mark.) Impressions?

In a Silent Way
It's 1969 alright! Marvelous. I love how these songs breathe—Davis and Macero hadn't yet gone so edit-happy that I can notice. Barely in the same area code as anything Davis had produced through '68.

Bitches Brew
The title beer! Overlong but it's really grown on me since Allston's fury. Track by track…

A1. "Pharaoh's Dance"
The first half wouldn't have been out of place on Nefertiti. Pleasantly… expansive? I mean it's a nice use of stereo technology that feels like it took a month to mix just right. Can and Neu! likely listened to a lot of this while touring Europe in their efficient Nazi-designed vans.

B1. "Bitches Brew"
The opening and concluding three minutes test my patience and resemble A's worst nightmare. The meat of the song compensates with what could work as an operetta—possibly the best twenty minutes on the album.

C1. "Spanish Key"
No, "Spanish Key" is the highlight. Its live feel is absent on the rest of the album and as a result it's the only one that doesn't come off feeling assembled: guys taking cues from each other, passing it around the room, single take. Just donating for beers and jamming some Kansas City after-hours shit. It's even got a live fade. Hazy memories coming back to me.

C2. "John McLaughlin"
In the grand tradition of "Pablo Picasso," "Max Ernst" and "Gerard." Deep breaths as we regroup. I hear no edits but then again I'm breaking this album down without requisite Stockhausen familiarity. The internet backlash will be terrific.

D1. "Miles Runs the Voodoo Down"
A frenzied, crude precursor to "Right Off." Loose! It works but I get a sense the band (or the tape operators) were running out of steam. I am too.

D2. "Sanctuary"
The ups and downs balance the free fall of "Voodoo" and close the album nicely. That sustained last note does its job by making you want to hear more—quite an accomplishment after an hour and a half.

Jack Johnson
As far out as Bitches Brew gets I'd still call it jazz. Jack Johnson is not—can you call Hugh Masekela's "Grazing in the Grass" jazz because he plays trumpet?—and that's OK. "Right Off" wouldn't have sounded out of place on a contemporary he-managed-to-vomit-out-his-vomit-and-survive Hendrix jam accompanied by Davis and featuring, I don't know, Levon Helm, Mike Bloomfield, Billy Preston, Country Joe McDonald and Isaac Hayes. For my money, the best "electric Miles." And it is my money because I paid for all of this shit.

Big Fun
Sitar! Skipping On the Corner for a minute since most of Big Fun came first. That one's a stronger concluding paragraph anyway. This collection of outtakes was an impulse purchase I'm surprised to like as much as I do. The Jesus Lizard must also have been killing time on Amazon, pausing between refreshes of Book's availability status to listen to samples before heading to the studio around, oh, September 1990. (It's a space/time thing.) "Go Ahead John" and Get Up With It's "Honky Tonk" convince me that Jack Johnson should have been favored with the double-album treatment over our Super Bowl namesake.

On the Corner
In turn, Davis must have been listening to Can's "Mother Sky" by '72. Right from go. He more or less shut down after this and (presumably) green-lit a bunch of concert recordings and outtake collections so On the Corner formally closed his studio legacy until the eighties. I'm inferring a period of desire to connect with his audience and, maybe, of determining who that audience ought to be—the caricature of black youth on the covers of On the Corner and In Concert offer clues, however desperate or tongue-in-cheek. My man Steve Forceman, who I sincerely hope is still with us, described On the Corner's tension eloquently in few words, which is an admirable skill: "When I listen to the queasy harmonies of the horns, the menacing thud of the bass and those brittle handclaps, I can't help but feel that there's something fevered going on—maybe feverish—and fever means sickness." Sickness. That's what I hear, too, in the start-stop-smash percussion from "Black Satin" through to the end. Sickness of paranoid chaos but also, like, malaria, floating down jungle rivers in untamed parts of the world, pursued by savagery, smothered by unease. Eyeballing all directions at all moments, anticipating danger, the drums, the air, the madness, bouncing from the left channel to the right. Dizziness. Fear. "Mistah Kurtz, he dead." And then six minutes into "Helen Butte" that horn comes clean through the center like a lighted highway: get me the fuck out of here. I want to live. On the Corner is growing on me even as I write this.

There. I have noted my embrace of Davis's late sixties/early seventies electric period without using the word "fusion" except when quoting an unsubtle beer label. Are At Fillmore and Live Evil next? See you at the White Horse in an hour—those twenty-somethings won't know what to think.

Up next: You say there was a game? Cheers!