MANCHESTER, N.H. — An out of control bachelor party based on the theme of shock-punk legend and provocateur GG Allin resulted in the lifetime ban of at least six patrons from a local Dave & Buster’s, horrified sources confirmed.
“We attempted to stop the party at the door, but five individuals managed to creep in while our security guard was wrestling with a man who would only refer to himself as ‘Retch,’” stated Assistant Manager Gerald Warner. “By the time I was able to confront them, they had smeared feces on several of our arcade games, including Dance Dance Revolution. I managed to make my way to a gentleman that was actively defecating on the bar while shooting drugs between his toes. As I was politely asking him to get down, he spit in my mouth and just kept screaming ‘Suck my ass! Suck my ass!’ repeatedly. I had no choice but to deactivate their Power Cards that instant. It was awful.”
Friend of the groom and organizer of the event Roger Reynolds was disappointed to have such an important moment disrupted by Dave & Buster’s security and management team.
“There are only three things my boy Joey loves more than his partner in life, and that’s jalapeño poppers, skee-ball, and GG Allin,” sighed a bloodied Reynolds. “This was supposed to be a fuckin’ magical night and I didn’t even get to see the look on my guy’s face when the boys re-enacted that show where GG shat all over a pool table. Only us real scumfucs know about that one. We practiced it for months, too. I can’t believe I shaved the middle part of my mustache just to be kicked out by that dickhead security guard.”
Seasoned punk historian Johnny “Bones” Harrison agreed that a GG Allin themed bachelor party was a good idea, but believed location is important.
“Look, it’s 2023. People are less tolerant than they used to be of excrement, self-mutilation, and all the other far worse things that are associated with GG Allin. You have to be careful where you do that kinda shit now,” explained Harrison in between huffs of paint thinner. “You just can’t pull a stunt like that at a fine arcade establishment like Dave & Buster’s. They really should’ve held that type of themed event at Chuck E. Cheese. They let you do anything there.”
At press time, Warner was seen cleaning what he hoped to God wasn’t semen from the toilet seats in the men’s restroom.
After the critical and commercial failure of “Around the Sun,” R.E.M. was ready to go back to basics and just straight up rock it out. Unfortunately, that meant that the band was more concerned with attempting to capture the energy of their fiery early years than, y’know, writing good songs. At least the band sounds like they’re having fun with the generic guitar workouts on “Accelerate,” but they’re the only ones.
Ah, the album so bad that it inspired a worse one. “Around the Sun” is a surprisingly listenable album, but that’s the most backhanded of compliments for a group that helped define the very concept of alternative rock. More than anything else, “Around the Sun” is a fussy and directionless album, clearly the sign of a band that had never really regained its footing after unexpectedly becoming the biggest thing in rock for a hot minute. Also, Q-Tip dropping a guest verse on “The Outsiders” meant that Michael Stipe had to be the one to do it live, which is just kind of embarrassing.
It’s always a small miracle when a legendary, long-running band’s last album is not their weakest effort, so “Collapse into Now” has that going for it. After the dad-rock amp blasts of “Accelerate,” the album isn’t exactly a return to form, but it is noticeably a synthesis of many familiar R.E.M. elements, which is welcome enough. A little mandolin here, some classic Mike Mills backing vocals, some weird little flourishes like a sousaphone; that’s all they needed to retire with a little grace left in them.
By 2001, it must have been clear to R.E.M. that they were in imminent danger of becoming elder statesmen of rock, which is to say, a band that no one listens to anymore. That probably explains the clear sign of strain on “Reveal,” which isn’t so much bad as it is just somewhat uninspired. The catchy, wailing chorus of “Imitation of Life” would have been a sign of great things ahead for an up-and-coming band, but for R.E.M., it was a hint that the band’s power was waning.
Critics described “Monster” as either their grunge album or their stab at punk rock, which just goes to show that music journalism is pretty bad in any decade. R.E.M.’s ninth album is a classic example of a band deciding to respond to massive success by doing the direct opposite of what got them there. In this case, that meant Peter Buck ditched the mandolin and went hog-wild on the tremolo and fuzz, to immediately diminishing returns. Despite that, the album was R.E.M.’s absolute commercial apex, hitting number one on the U.S. Billboard chart and eventually going quadruple Platinum, which is interesting for an album that most people remember as a failure. Anyway, as a collection of songs, “Monster” starts out strong with “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” and just gets steadily less interesting from there, until you suddenly come to and find yourself donating your copy to Goodwill.
Okay, things get more difficult from here, because R.E.M. had a run of classic albums in the 1980s and 1990s that are arguably the most consistent and interesting in rock history. Of those, “Fables of the Reconstruction” is the weakest, likely because the band decided to pull up the stakes and record a loose concept album about the American South in London. It’s an album for a band attempting to become something more than it is, but it’s just not there yet.
“New Adventures in Hi-Fi” is like surfacing for a huge breath of air after nearly drowning in the slog of distortion that was “Monster.” Largely regarded as R.E.M.’s last great album, this is the work of a band full in command of their powers of songwriting and performance, but also a little too scattered to stand along the unassailable greats. That makes sense, considering the album is essentially stitched together from fragments recorded during the “Monster” tour and expanded on. It lacks the cohesion and vision of their best work, but when you’ve got tracks like the River Phoenix dirge “E-Bow the Letter” and the ineffably romantic “Electrolite,” that can be excused. On the other hand, did you have to name a song fucking “Binky the Doormat?”
And so we’ve come to the “sellout” album, when R.E.M. made the jump from indie label I.R.S. to Warner Bros. On behalf of people in the future, we say “fuck you” to the college rock gatekeepers of the 1980s, because “Green” is a fascinating and uncompromising record for a band that just signed a huge deal with a major label, if still not quite as tight as it would soon be. This is the type of album when a band still feels quirky enough to end with a track titled “Untitled,” but also has the emerging pop instincts for bangers like “Orange Crush” and “Pop Song 89.” At this point, R.E.M. was now frequently mixing up the instrumentation from the classic guitar-bass-drums, which would pay far greater dividends soon.
Considering it’s the first album recorded after Bill Berry left the group after a series of strokes, “Up” is a shockingly strong album. If the remaining trio had dissolved, gone into hiatus, or put out some shitty retread album, no one would have blamed them. Instead, the new configuration of R.E.M. abruptly veered into a new, chillier sound dominated by keyboards and programmed drums, and astonishingly, it works. “Lotus” has some of Michael Stipe’s snottiest vocals over the time period over eerie guitars and a trip-hop beat, while “Daysleeper” stands as perhaps the most innocently beautiful ballad of their entire catalog. The band would not be able to maintain this momentum for long, but “Up” almost made it seem like they could.”
From the first moments of “Finest Worksong,” it is clear that R.E.M. was up to something new. The booming, martial drums of Bill Berry, Peter Buck’s jagged bricks of guitar lines, and Mike Mills’ deliberate, stately baseline perfectly frames Michael Stipe’s voice, which has fully abandoned the muttering tone he had been famous for, and is now strident and even angry. Part of this can be attributed to producer Scott Litt (who also worked with a few bands you might know of, like Nirvana and the Replacements) coming aboard and bringing a new, more professional polish to “Document.” It’s also where R.E.M.’s political leanings began to emerge, underlining the grim beauty of “Welcome to the Occupation” and the apocalyptic goof of “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine).” This is the true beginning of R.E.M.’s Imperial phase, and it sounds like it.
“Lifes Rich Pageant” is everything R.E.M. wanted “Fables of the Reconstruction” to be, and wasn’t. With this album, the band fully fused the weirdness of their early albums with the ferocity they had been embracing. Songs like the kickoff “Begin the Begin” have a driving force that had only occasionally emerged in earlier albums, while “Fall On Me” hints at their growing handle on pop hooks. If “Life’s Rich Pageant” has a failing, it is that it does not have the kind of direct and clear smash hit that would buoy them to superstardom in just a few years. But it is also a massive leap forward for R.E.M. and a demonstration of a shocking new power in their music.
“Automatic for the People” is the most downbeat, elegiac album to ever become an era-defining hit, impacting the 1990s like few other albums not named “Nevermind” did. After years of developing a ferocious hard rock sound, R.E.M. made one of their trademark left-turns and produced a melancholy masterpiece.R.E.M. reportedly initially wanted to produce another fast-paced rock album, but songs like the sweetly gorgeous “Man on the Moon” were the closest they could get at the time. The album is dominated by ruminative flashes of memory like “Nightswimming” and the wistful instrumental “New Orleans Instrumental No. 1,” while even louder tracks like “Monty Got A Raw Deal” are built on a foundation of sorrow. Listening to “Automatic for the People” is the perfect thing to bum yourself out, but in a fun way.
In an age of Soundcloud rappers, it seems pretty funny that Michael Stipe was considered to be a mumbling, indecipherable singer. Still, there is something enigmatic about “Murmur,” the debut album that first established R.E.M. as one of the most fascinating bands of the 1980s. Equal parts confessional mysticism and jangly college rock, the album remains a highlight of the era, a singular collection of songs that seem to be faint echoes of 1960s pop being overshadowed by dark folk and strange turns of phrase like “Inside a moral kiosk.” No band could do better to throw the gauntlet down with a first album.
While there is no one definitive “R.E.M. sound,” you might not think of the band as upbeat, exactly. However, that’s how “Out of Time,” the band’s big breakthrough to the mainstream opens, with the strangely jocular “Radio Song,” where Michael Stipe finds himself unexpectedly backed up by the deep baritone of KRS-One. R.E.M. was ahead of the curve on a lot of things, but they are rarely given credit for crossing over hip hop and alternative rock before anyone but Run-DMC had even thought it possible. Of course, “Out of Time” is dominated by “Losing My Religion,” the archetypal, eternal R.E.M. song that will soundtrack the death of our sun millions of years from now. When a song is as fundamentally perfect and heart-wrenching as that, it is difficult for anything else to register. And yet, “Out of Time” contains country-inflected classics like “Near Wild Heaven” and the sublime instrumental “Endgame,” showing a band expanding in every direction possible. It’s no wonder this is what launched the band to global stardom.
Where “Murmur” luxuriated in an eerie, timeless atmosphere on each track, the follow-up album “Reckoning” is a blast of post-punk smashing up against a wall of jangly pop, a weird, wild collection of incredibly catchy songs that had no chance of ever becoming hits in their day. The album opens with “Harborcoat,” the best song that Wire never wrote. If all you knew of R.E.M. was the stately murk of their debut, you would be shocked but the jittery, muscular propulsion of it, the way Stipe and Mills’ voices wind around each other and the beat drives it all. Then it goes on to classics like the keening “So. Central Rain,” which matches Stipe’s plaintive lyrics against a surprisingly upbeat baseline, and the aching “Camera,” a truly heartbreaking paean to a lost friend. “Reckoning” is R.E.M. at their most youthfully eclectic, and they would never record anything as wildly scattered yet potent again.
If you want something sick that your tattoo artist has created or based on traditional old-school designs, you can always trust their flash sheet. If you want a design that you have come up with in your head, book a custom tattoo. Don’t pick the eagle off the wall and then ask to get rid of the knife in its mouth and fire coming off its back, those are the awesome parts.
Speaking of traditional flash, don’t be a poser. If you are going to get that swallow bird tattoo, you better have traveled 5,000 nautical miles. And if you are getting a teardrop under your eye, well I hope he had it coming to him.
Asking a tattoo artist to tattoo someone else’s design on you is the equivalent of tattoo cuckolding. Are you also going to go back to their house and fuck their significant other in front of them? If you have an artist you want to be tattooed by then pick one of their designs, it’s that simple.
We know tattoos hurt, but you don’t need to flop all over the place like a fish that just landed in a canoe. It might not be the most comfortable feeling getting your ribs tickled by a thousand tiny swords, but if you are determined to get that sick side splitter you need to be prepared to sit like a stone. Try not to laugh and keep breathing to a minimum if you can.
Nothing kills the vibe in a tattoo shop like a tag-along with bad opinions. If you want to bring a buddy along to your appointment, be sure they know how to keep their mouth shut. Better again, bring someone who will hype up the design and buy beers for everyone in the shop.
You might think you’re more charming after you’ve had a few, but you’re actually even more annoying than normal. The benefit of you being drunk is that you might be willing to pay more, and you should. The downside is you’re going to do the drunk close talking that everyone hates, and you’re going to bleed more. Get tattooed sober you coward.
Tattoos hurt, and everyone needs a break from time to time. But starting and stopping every 5 minutes isn’t doing anyone any favors. Suck it up, sit there, and you will get a break eventually. This is a surefire way to end up getting a nice dry paper towel wipe as the tattoo winds down.
Why are you going to make someone stare at a photo of your ugly partner and pretend this is a good idea? Ask for a tattoo of your dog instead, people love dogs. Nobody loves the person you’ve been dating for 3 months.
Any phrase that requires a comma is a bad idea. Even if it is put in the right place, strangers will always stare at your tattoo to check if you have a big permanent grammatical fuck up on your arm to add a bit of smugness to their day. Don’t make your tattoo artist have to hire a copy editor for the day because you read Voltaire for the first time.
If you don’t want to pay the price for a good tattoo, find someone who will give you a shit tattoo for cheap. Just pay your artist the rate they gave you, don’t try to negotiate a deal. And be sure to leave a tip especially if they’re super nice or played a few sick Deftones tracks during your session.
As insults go, “Worst Radiohead Album” is a pretty mild one, along the lines of “Least Cute Cat”, or “Worst Lifesaving Procedure” – even the lesser ones pretty much hit the spot. However, everything about TKOL and its release felt oddly low-key, to the extent that I’m never 100% sure I didn’t dream it. (Yes, that is a brag).
The songs on “Amnesiac” came from the same sessions as the previous year’s “Kid A”, and yet this somehow wasn’t another era-defining masterpiece. The fuck? Were they spitting directly into the faces of the loyal fans here? According to me back then, yes. But with some objective distance, these are actually 11 inventive songs whose only real crime is not transporting me to “Kid A”‘s intangible magical nether-dimension.
I want to love this as much as everyone else, and for the first 3 tracks I absolutely do. But for some reason the rest of it just doesn’t seem to get to me – with one very notable exception. “Present Tense” fucks me up good and proper, and every time the “as my world comes crashing down” lyric hits I invariably crumple to the floor and start bawling (really inconvenient when I’m out and about).
Before Jonny Greenwood had his head turned by old French wooden synthesizers and clockwork oboes (probably), his part in the band’s three-guitar attack was their secret weapon (alongside Thom Yorke’s not-so-secret voice). Idiosyncratic and virtuosic without being punchable (very rare), his lead guitar added some sizzle to this (relatively) conventional debut. It would all get even better on the next album, but I will fight anyone (including members of the band) who tries to write this one off.
The guitars had taken a back seat for the best part of two albums, and dads across the world were getting antsy. Would there ever be another “Creep”? There wouldn’t, but the axes did get a bit of a run out this time, including on many of the strongest songs. That said, the standout track is “Myxomatosis”, which is dominated by a galumphing synth riff that transforms it into easily the funkiest song ever written about sick bunny rabbits.
Radiohead disrupted the music industry’s album-release template here, with an innovative “pay-what-you-want” system. One million copies of “In Rainbows” were left by a farm gate on a country lane in Oxfordshire, and fans were invited to put “a few quid” into a wooden honesty box that was shaped like a sharp-toothed cartoon bear – eventually raising a commendable £842. It’s a remarkable, beautiful album, that deepened our love for the band in a way that we didn’t think was possible at the time – and in retrospect my payment of 12 pence and an expired condom severely undervalued it.
Not much more jizz needs to be spilled fluffing this rightly celebrated album, but it’s worth spending a moment on the excellent lyrics. Not as coldly impersonal as they’re reputed to be – just as often they’re vulnerable, or furious, or even funny. The line “kicking squealing Gucci little piggy” [sic] is an absolute world-beater, and I sincerely hope Thom gave himself the rest of the month off after writing it. (Update: he didn’t).
I fully hated this on the first listen. When a fucking free-jazz brass ensemble parped themselves into existence midway through track 3, “The National Anthem”, I was all ready to frisbee my compact disc right out the window. But I made it through to a curious second listen, and then by listen three I’d already become insufferably evangelical about it. Some kind of witchcraft is at play here – nothing on the album would make it into my top 10 Radiohead songs, and yet the sum of its parts is just magic.
I can’t even remember what else I was listening to in 1995, but it all got ditched soon after “The Bends” came along. It just had this indefinable aura, although I will concede that maybe a small part of that aura could actually be defined as “total dweeb listens to good music for the first time”. So it’s a pretty subjective number one. But if you think its conventional rock band sound makes it automatically less sophisticated than the albums that followed it, might I entreat you to suck upon the octatonic flex that is “Just”? A whole lot of theory shit is going on under its hood, but before you get a chance to discern whether the opening four chords have borrowed a note from the Lydian mode, the song flings you against the wall, stuffs your manuscript paper into your mouth and sneers into your stupid nerdy face.
