SEATTLE — Local parents Chris and Maggie Nelson forced their teenage son to listen to the entire Red Hot Chili Peppers discography as punishment for adding “Dani California” to the family Spotify playlist, sources confirmed.
“I know this is an unorthodox way of parenting but if you’re living in this household, you will not be a fan of any Chili Peppers. Not even the Dave Navarro era,” said the father of three. “He tried to hide a copy of ‘Blood Sugar Sex Magik’ under his mattress but we found it. We always do. We’ll see how he feels about this band after he’s listened to everything the band has released, including the greatest hits compilations, B-sides, and demos. Then we’ll move onto movies that Flea has appeared in. After this, he’ll never be drawn in by those mesmerizing bass hooks ever again.”
The 14-year-old admits the habit may have been difficult to break at first.
“All my other friends were doing it and I thought I looked cool when listening to this band,” said Travis Nelson. “Needless to say, it felt harmless at first, but after eight straight hours of this RHCP onslaught, I’m ready to avoid them entirely. Or at least only listen to them when I’m not home. I heard addiction was bad but I didn’t know it could be like this. ”
Julia Moores, family therapist and author of the best-selling book “Your Gen Z And You,” defended the parents.
“One afternoon when I was a teen I made the mistake of recording ‘It’s My Life’ by Bon Jovi onto the mixtape we kept in our minivan. My father was so upset, he turned the van around and raced home. I was not to leave the table until I had listened to every single one of their albums, beginning to end,” says Moores. “As upset as I was at the time, I know it worked. Ever since then I can’t even be in the same room when Bon Jovi is playing. If I’m at a party and it happens to come on, I just step outside. I can’t even experience second-hand Bon Jovi.”
At press time, the parents’ method worked so well that their teenage son doesn’t even have the urge to visit the state of California anymore.
“Squeeze,” technically the final release from the Velvets (OK, like any true fan of this band, I am a pretentious asshole), is a universally reviled album that nobody thinks even counts, because it contains none of the band’s original members. And the Velvet Underground without Lou Reed is irredeemably bad, like the Misfits without Glenn Danzig, or the Dave Matthews Band with Dave Matthews. For any contrarians who call this album “surprisingly listenable” or whatever, that’s exactly the problem — the Velvets’ genius lies precisely in how unlistenable they are.
Since the Velvets only have four proper LPs, their cultish fanbase clings to outtakes, a million different live albums, expanded rereleases with pointless alternate mixes, and bootlegs that have absurd names like “The Fuckwell Tapes ‘68” and “Live From Old Skinny Larry’s Manhattan Tenement,” if I’m remembering those correctly. While there’s incredible music all throughout, much of it is geared toward diehard fans without jobs. But, if you’re looking to get into the Velvets’ extended universe, start with VU’s delightful set of outtakes recorded 1968-69 and released long after the band called it quits. This quirky gem, the better of two outtakes albums, contains most of a storied “lost album,” which I hear was discovered over at Old Skinny Larry’s place on the Lower East Side before it got converted into a luxury unit.
“Loaded,” the Velvets’ true farewell, is their only album that won’t clear out a room of normal people. It’s not as boundary-pushing as their earlier work, but Lou’s virtuosic songwriting and pop sensibilities really shine throughout this gorgeous, well-constructed record. Doug “Judas” Yule’s vocals are featured heavily, which some people hate, especially given his “Squeeze” blasphemy. But let’s be honest, you can’t even tell the difference between him and Lou singing here anyway. This is the Velvets’ weakest proper album, meaning it’s only slightly less than perfect.
In yet another example of our country’s anti-Welsh racism, Lou Reed canned founding member John Cale before making this record. On one hand, this is a shame, because Cale masterminded the unpleasant droning that helped make the first two albums so artistic and cool. On the other, if Lou never fired him, Cale wouldn’t likely have made that stunning rendition of “Hallelujah” from the first “Shrek.” And what’s more, we wouldn’t have this achingly tender and subdued record. Although the Velvets stopped singing about drugs for this album, songs like “Pale Blue Eyes” are the sonic equivalent of opiates — warm, transcendent, and tragic. So actually, yeah, fuck Wales.
Punk. Shoegaze. New Wave. Ragtime. Cumbia. The Velvets’ legendary debut single-handedly invented these genres and more, changing popular music forever — despite famously being a commercial failure early on. Did you think we weren’t going to mention that fucking Brian Eno quote? Too bad. He said, “I was talking to Lou Reed the other day and he said that the first Velvet Underground record sold 30,000 copies in the first five years, and it’s all because he went door-to-door asking people to please listen, and they did. And Lou actually made a lot of friends that way and learned that friendship is important and maybe he shouldn’t be so mean. And I think he mentioned some of those people started a band!” Sorry, but that explains it all.
Oh ho, weren’t expecting this at number one, were you? The Hard Times is a punk site, so of course this rabid underdog is our favorite. Look up “proto-punk” in a dictionary, and you’ll soon learn that standard dictionaries don’t contain niche terms like that. But do some Googling and yeah, you’ll see this album is proto-punk as fuck — the primordial ooze from which so much beautiful filth has sprung. The Velvets’ debut was supremely avant-garde, but White Light/White Heat was somehow even avant-garder, reaching unparalleled heights of cacophony and unintelligibility. If White Light is your favorite Velvets record, the one or two people in your life who give a shit will (SWEETLY) respect this as a cool choice.
A lockable front door seems like a basic requirement for an apartment building in this neighborhood. I’m tired of having my Amazon packages stolen. A new lock is what, 30 bucks? What’s he waiting for? If he fixed this one thing and nothing else, I’d consider returning Mr Pibb right now. It turns out I’m very allergic to cats, and this little asshole has shredded my couch.
I have been complaining about this for 2 years. The damn thing takes an hour to heat up. If I had a whole hour to cook, I wouldn’t be making a frozen pizza for dinner. I will not tolerate this any longer. Either he fixes this oven or he needs to buy a new one. Until then, Mr Pibb stays with me. And I’m hoping the oven is fixed soon. It turns out cat food is expensive, and I can’t afford this much longer.
Mr Pibb refused to eat the food I originally bought for him, so I had to buy an even more expensive brand to get him to eat. All because that son of a bitch Frank still hasn’t fixed anything around here. And now things are worse than ever! I threw the first bag of cat food off of my balcony in anger and it has attracted several raccoons. They spend all night shrieking under the stairs to my apartment. How could any respectable landlord allow these conditions to exist on their property?
It’s negligent for a landlord to not repair my leaky roof in a reasonable amount of time. There must be some legal action I can take against this guy right? In the meantime, it’s just me and Mr Pibb against a broken system and a corrupt landlord. It doesn’t seem likely that Frank will get his shit together any time soon. Luckily I found a brand of cat food that Mr Pibb can tolerate, because he’s clearly going to be my hostage for a while.
You did this to yourself, Frank, so I don’t want to hear about it from you. It was your own inaction that led to the taking of Mr Pibb. I never asked for this goddamn cat. I never wanted to take daily allergy meds just so they could stay with me. Just fix my apartment and you can have it back. I don’t want to hear any more complaining about how you got burned by the seller when you bought this place last year. That’s your problem, not mine. I’ll gladly keep Mr Pibb forever if that’s what it takes to teach you a lesson.
Just because this one is technically my fault doesn’t give my landlord an excuse to not fix it. I tried to deep fry something last week when I was drunk, and the hot grease did serious damage to the drain pipes when I dumped it out. How are they both clogged AND leaking at the same time? What kind of operation is Frank running here? There’s no way the person who allows these living conditions to continue is taking proper care of his pet. I’m glad I intervened.
This one is only partially my fault. And I refuse to go into details about the origin of the hole. The fact is, there is a head-sized hole in my living room wall, and Frank refuses to patch it until I return his cat. It’s a typical landlord/tenant standoff. And to be honest, I’m not even mad anymore. It’s clear that Frank doesn’t want his cat back, or he would make an attempt to fix my wall. And who really cares? Mr Pibb seems happier here. He’s become an inside cat now. Gone are the days of fighting off the raccoons under the stairs just to come inside for dinner.
Fuck it. I’m keeping Mr Pibb. If Frank really wants him back, I’m not making it easy anymore. You want your cat? Find a way to get my dad to answer the phone when I call. Surprise, dipshit, you can’t! The old man’s still pissed that I sold the family business and invested all the money in Dogecoin. If he didn’t want me to make impulsive decisions with our shared investment, then why did he go into business with me in the first place? You’re being a real “Frank” about this whole thing, Dad. It would be a shame if one of your pets went missing next…
There’s no getting around this, 390 is an abysmal credit rating. Nobody will rent to a single man with no documented income and a 390 on his credit report. It’s the only reason I still live in this rundown shithole. I’d take my new cat and leave tomorrow if I could afford it. Mr Pibb and I deserve so much better, but Frank isn’t doing anything to help our current situation. And he’s definitely not helping my FICO Score by reporting me for being “delinquent” on my rent each month.
Mr Pibb is the only good thing in my life right now. Andrea left me after I lost our house in that bad cryptocurrency investment. There’s nothing left here. Just a complete absence of serotonin, and all this IKEA furniture that I put on my credit card before the bank froze the account. But while we’re on the subject, I’ve got this letter from my doctor that says Mr Pibb is a registered emotional support animal now. So Frank better not even think of charging me pet rent next month, because this cat is a medical necessity. I still think Frank should fix all the broken stuff around here, but at this point nothing would make me give up Mr Pibb. I would die for Mr Pibb.
