C is for Cavedogs

Finally, the third installment of the unabashedly self-indulgent "Lee's CDz from A to Z" series.

The C-section has delivered one bundle of joy after another. I was just getting started when my beloved pre-legal woes Captain America popped off the spindle. Along with Tougher Than Leather, this is one of the few records that actually makes me taste and smell beer whenever I hear it. Amazing. Licensed to Ill is the all-time winner for "beerfeel," but a bit unfair since the CD itself is actually covered with malt liquor and literally smells like beer. Anyway, "Buttermilk" from CA's "Flame On" was a boozy fave back in the day. With lyrics like "buttermilk was on her chin, same color as her white skin," it's no wonder the record was recalled! Also no wonder I was thrown out of their show at Club Babyhead for over-consumption of beer.

I'm getting all kinds of shit 'round the compass about how long this is taking... well excuuuuuuuuse me!! Do the math, Euclid!! Let's say each CD is 45 minutes (conservative estimate!), and I'm well over 500 already... so that's at least 500 hours of ripping time! Add the time it takes to put the discs in and out of the computer, plus typing all the song titles into iTunes, and we're talking about months of work! Josephina was yowling something about "doing it at 20X" the other day, but she usually has no idea what she's talking about anyway. Most of the time she's just looking for ways to bill more hours for her internship...

oh dear god in heaven!

Wowed by The Cars in a big way. What a great fucking record. "Bye Bye Love" is pretty much perfect, and segues seamlessly into another vision of perfection. That would be "Moving in Stereo," aka "the song that makes every guy born between 1960 and 1970 instantly pop a boner."

Once again, missing tons of CDs. Between Josephina's notes and my spotty memory, here's the death toll: 3 Cream, 4 Eric Clapton, a ton of Cure CDs, a few John Cougars, possibly 2 (!) Chi-Lites discs, and God knows how many releases with Crosby and Stills on the spine. It's possible that each of the above titles were mysteriously replaced with Cypress Hill CDs, of which I somehow have eleven. What the heck happened?! And where's my Coolio record? 

About two-thirds of the way through the letter-grouping, I unearthed a piece of plastic that belongs in some sort of museum (or laboratory)-- my Giant Steps CD. This thing found its way into trouble so many times I was sure I chucked it! Nope, still here.A buddy of mine that crashed on my couch in college for at least a full semester had something to do with it. We took acid one night (actually, dozens of nights... but I'm referring to one in particular here) and ended up in a familiar scenario: taking turns playing records for each other. At some point, "Fruitfly" (not his real name) threw the Coltrane on, which I was certainly familiar with but by no means expert. My friend launched into several lectures within 30 seconds, namely (a) an etymology of the title "Giant Steps," (b) a quick discography of Paul Chambers, and (c) something about bungee jumping. At the same time, Fruitfly had unsheathed his bass guitar and was furiously playing along with the song, to my ears, perfectly.

Like many LSD experiences, fascination quickly morphed into terror. Fruit's fingers were moving so quickly that I imagined them as the blade of a circular saw, which made me shrink back about two feet. I stammered out some sort of suggestion about "Giant Eyes" or "Giant Squares" as an alternative title, and made an end run around Fruit over to the CD bookshelf. I considered hanging on for dear life until "Naima," but that was light years down the road at this point. I grabbed a disc off the top of the bookshelf just before 4:30 on the display and made a slick switcheroo. A brilliant transition popped into my throbbing orange brain in the 10 seconds of silence between records. Something like "here's your fucking Coltrane!" slid off my tongue as I skipped to track two of It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back.

Fruitfly cowered in mortal horror as I practically climbed on top of him, with "Bring the Noise" shaking the walls of our building. I regurgitated some jive I'd tried out a few nights before on cough syrup, but fired off my lines about twenty times faster and clearer than the first time. "You're overwhelmed right now!! You're musically and conceptually overwhelmed!! This is politics, lyrics, production, innovation, humor, dance, race, EVERYTHING AT THE SAME TIME!!!"

I don't even think we made it to the end of the track; I felt like a rogue linebacker after breaking a placekicker's neck. It didn't take long for us to settle down and make friends... I think we went outside and watched cars for a while. Pulling a nasty stunt like that takes a lot out of you.

The Giant Steps CD resurfaced years later on Long Island, when I somehow left it in a paper bag with four other titles on a stool at Gunther's Tap Room. Next time I walked into that hole the bartender threw the brown package at me, sneering, "These are yours." The 'Trane was in there, but my brand-new Iron Maiden collection wasn't. I hate that bar.

looks kinda like a fish...

Somewhere along this odyssey, the CD was damaged badly. Who knows where,  who knows how? Regardless, there's a swatch of digitally encoded polycarbonate missing from the disc's underside. The missing data is near the outer edge of the program area, possibly during the alternate take of "Syeeda's Song Flute." I attempted to import this monstrosity a few weeks ago, and nearly destroyed my computer. As the CPU tower started to shake, a sound I immediately compared to running over a putter with a lawnmower filled our apartment, waking up two of the three sleeping children currently residing at Chez Mazzola.

I'm starting to worry about ripping my Red Hot Chili Peppers CDs, if I still have any. I know for a fact that one of my copies of Freaky Styley was submerged in orange juice for at least two hours.

B is for Bad Brains

Not vinyl but bloody brilliant

If the "digitization" of my CD collection were a cross-country trip, the B section would be the first hour of Pennsylvania: a few initial thrills followed by nerve-deadening boredom. I never thought I'd be so thrilled to see David Byrne's The Catherine Wheel emerge from a freaking spindle.

Highlights:Original Émigré pressing of Basehead's Play With Toys ("Not Over You" is a forgotten classic), a copy of Biz' I Need a Haircut with a chainsaw-sized cut-out notch in the booklet, a promo-only single of Bodeans' "Closer to Free" with the Party of Five cast on it, a couple of weird BDP discs, and more Bill Bruford CDs than I'd like to admit. Oh yeah, Lindsey Buckingham's Words and Music too-- a collection interspersed with dorky musings and comments about the songs by LB himself (director's commentary-style).

MIA: nearly all my BÖC, Jeff Beck, Sabbath, and my Last Waltz double disc... no question that these were traded in during the early '90s depression days. Needed a 15-pack of Stroh's? That certainly seemed worth four or five perfectly good classic rock CDs. Now? Not so much. Remarkably, I'm even missing some additional Bruford recordings.

[The fucking Rays just scored five runs in the time it took me to write two paragraphs.]Flat-out missing are Vincebus Eruptum, Power of Pussy, This Is Big Audio Dynamite, Last Splash, and one of my Richard Buckner CDs. Like, I have the booklets but not the actual music. I guess they all might've walked at the same party, but seems a bit fishy.

Funny as hell watching my computer try to import We Sold Our Soul For Rock 'n' Roll... hiccuping and wheezing over the horribly scratched CD like a tubercular pigeon. After multiple attempts and piecewise ripping, only "Sweet Leaf" was declared to be unimportable and omitted.

A is for Audioslave

As I staggered around my living room watching Carmelo Anthony with a Miller Lite in my hand, trying not to step on my daughter's head, I wondered aloud, "What the hell am I doing?" Of course, I knew the Knicks had no chance of beating Boston in a 7-game series, and I actually love Lite beer, so I was searching much deeper. "Why do I have thousands of CDs stored in giant black wallets taking up valuable storage space in our apartment? What the hell am I doing?"

My CD collection's display value has varied inversely with my age, in years, over the last two decades according to the following equation:

da = 20
(let d = display value, in percent)


In other words, my CDs are currently hidden from view and somewhat accessible on demand. In other words, there's gotta be a better way.

Scary good.

I always laugh when people talk about "digitizing their CD collection"-- isn't that like liquifying your urine? Anyway, I bought myself a big old portable hard drive at Costco on 116th and started lettin'er rip!!! We've officially finished the A section, featuring well over 100 pieces of plastic. My new intern, Josephina, is doing a kick-ass job so far, even if she misspelled every one of the twelve Autechre releases she notated in her accompanying Excel file. "Lee, why do I have to type these in? iTunes does it automatically..."

Here's what we've learned so far:

Most of my indie rock CDs seem to be missing: Atari Teenage Riot, Archers of Loaf, Amnesia, etc. These are all on my original Excel file (typed by my old intern, Michelle), but nowhere to be found. Hmmm...

Totally forgot that AZ started out on RCA as "AZ the Visualiza." Wonder why that never caught on?

AC/DC might be the greatest band of all time. Their stretch from 1975 to 1981 is unbeatable. OK, they're the greatest band from 1975 to 1981.

The Bargain Bin

Drawing inspiration from (1) Charles Simone's touching memoir "An Ode to the Record Store," and (2) the Yankees' recent success with scrapheap sensations Bartolo Colón, Freddy Garcia, Andruw Jones, Eric Chavez, Russell Martin (sort of), Kevin Millwood (possibly), etc., I present an homage of my own to diamonds in the musical rough. Each trashcan treasure below spent many months (or years!) in the 99¢ cut-out bins on St. Marks and elsewhere, crying out for savvy shoppers like myself to snatch'em up and share. Props to S.T. for pointing a couple of these out...

Cool Down Time - Dan Zanes (1995, Private Music)
Between the Del Fuegos and his Nick Jr. superstardom, Dan Zanes made a weird pop record with cool production and sticky tunes. I think I bought three copies in Princeton for less than $5.

Thank You - Royal Trux (1995, Virgin)
My wife backed off a bit when I asked her for a formal rec on this one, but we certainly agreed that it was a bonanza in the bins. A cheap, cheap high.

Keep a Secret - The Mysteries of Life (1996, RCA)
An industry buzz-band that sold nada outside of Indiana, whose debut features wonderful pop tunes and superb drums courtesy of Freda Love Boner.

A Series of Sneaks - Spoon (1998, Elektra)
Sure, these guys are huuuuuge now, but nobody outside the record biz had this little old masterpiece back in the day. Happens to be their best album, too.

Dirt Floor - Chris Whitley (1998, Messenger)
Not a major label promo-spawn but still a cellar dweller cut-out tragedy. I used to buy this one every time I saw it for less than five bucks, which was often. Great fucking record, great fucking guitarist... crying shame.

Knicks-Celtics / Yanks-Rangers Live Blog!!!

6:46 - As soon as I get Jr. to bed, I'm on it!!!

7:46 - One hour later, and tied 28-28. Jr.'s asleep but Lil Mz is roaming the living room virtually unsupervised. Good enough.

7:57 - Figured I'd try typing with my 14-month-old daughter on my lap. My laptop immediately went to a terrifying black screen, with a garish font warning something about system reboot. Children under the age of two have an uncanny ability to make computers (and other electronic devices, particularly cell phones) do things they've never been seen to do. Lee Jr. once caused my screen to rotate 90 degrees with the strike of a single key, which was harder than you might think to fix. I had my head and spine orthogonal as I tried to make corresponding moves with my mouse, which I was terrible at.
I can barely pick my nose properly while looking in the mirror-- something is seriously wrong with my brain's ability to reflect images.

8:08 - Pretty good so far. Bounces and calls seem to be going our way for the most part, and no one's broken their leg(s) yet. We have a chance.

8:09 - I really thought about postponing the boy's bedtime and having him watch the game with me on the couch. You know, a real "father-son" moment. Or something like a farmer taking his boy out to see the slaughtering of chickens ("geeking") as a rite of passage; maybe even the equivalent of the Maasai Eunoto ceremony, where pubescent warriors eat raw oxen flesh as they are promoted to the ranks of full tribesmen.

---(MID-THIRD QUARTER)... JR. HAS HORRIBLE HONKING COUGH FIT AND NEEDS TV TO RE-OPEN WINDPIPE... "MAX AND RUBY: EASTER" AND "MAX AND RUBY: PARADE" ARE ON-DEMANDED ARE WATCHED TWICE EACH FOR A TOTAL OF 96 MINUTES OF AIR TIME... REMAINDER OF KNICKS-CELTICS MISSED COMPLETELY, WITH MINIMAL ACCESS TO BLACKBERRY SCOREMOBILE... LAST 21 SECONDS OF GAME TAKE AT LEAST 10 MINUTES OF FROZEN SCREEN TIME... MISSED REMAINDER OF YANKEE GAME AS WELL...

Can someone tell me why the fuck i even bother writing about this bullshit?!! Anyone?!!!

Huges, Huger, Hugest!

Glad ESPN got this news to us right away...



Pistons 99, Knicks 95

People have been asking me, "Lee, why don't you write about the Knicks anymore?" Well, they really say, "Lee, you asshole, why don't you write ANYTHING anymore??!!!" but that's besides the point. Let's talk about the Knicks.

Truth is, I'm terrified. Every time I turn on MSG when the Knicks are on, they immediately go stone cold and disappear into a 12-2 run by the opponent. Seriously, at least 80% of the time. I fear my beloved team have become Eurydice to my Orpheus, punishing my lack of faith with eternal misery.

Upon further reflection, I realize that this is not a new phenomenon. The Knicks have sucked as soon as I turn on the TV for the last 10+ years! Forget the Greek myths, this is like saying, "Wow, I looked out the window at midnight tonight and it was dark out!" It's just that now the Knicks are sort of good again, I think. Maybe.

SEE???!!! They were up by about ten when I turned it on tonight, and they just lost the damn game to the Pistons. O Knicks! Return thy selves to the Erinyes and Hades himself, for you my gaze shall ne'er find!!!

Charlie Don't Surf

Wow. Sheen's-Korner is so powerful, so awe-inspiring... it's not logical to even begin a discussion.  I'm half staring-at-the-light in Close Encounters and half staring-into-the-Ark in Raiders of the Lost Ark.  It's a brave new world, or maybe an eternity damned.

Snowblind

I can't see a damn thing. Feels that way, anyway.

Honestly, my recent vision issues are a welcome departure from my last medical debacle, which is still going on. I'd love to tell you all about my semen analysis nightmare of the past couple of months, but it's much too complex and painful to write about. Let's just say it involves a Subway sandwich shop on Canal St., a testing center in South Maryland, and more than a few wasted weekends. I thought the whole point of masturbating was to avoid being rejected by other people!


Things started looking all washed out and blurry in my right eye about three weeks ago. Given that things have looked all washed out and blurry in my left eye for about seven years, this concerned me. Even weirder was the droop in my right eyelid, which ranges from about 50% to 15% droopage. Did I have one of those "silent strokes" everyone's talking about, or did I just fall asleep in my ice cream again?

This seemed like a question for Frank Weiner to answer. Dr. Weiner is one of New York City's most respected neuro-opthamologists, and he actually takes my insurance. I had an appointment last Wednesday afternoon, and arrived promptly with a CD of my most recent brain scans and some scrawled out notes on a piece of paper. It was already starting to snow like the dickens, but I made it.

I was immediately convinced that Dr. Weiner was a stand-up guy and a master of his discipline. Within minutes he had diagnosed my ailment (contact lense fatigue), but he still put me through a battery of neurological and optical exams, probably to eliminate obscure diseases like heterochromia, Horner's Syndrome, and nystagmus (I actually had uveitis, which I guess sounds sort of cool). It's incredible how low-tech most of these tests are. Ratty parchment letter charts and plastic eye-patches are still used by the finest physicians in the world.

Defying description is the "visual field" exam. which measures a patient's peripheral and central vision. Imagine getting bonked on the head with a sledgehammer, taking a hit of acid, and playing Missle Command with a spaghetti strainer over your head. That's what a visual field exam is like.

Weiner sent me off with a script for steroid eyedrops and strict instructions to avoid contact lenses for at least one week. Avoid, as in "don't wear them." Of course, I forgot to bring a pair of glasses with me. [note: I famously forgot my glasses for Mike Mussina's near-perfect game at Fenway in '01... Charles Simone will bring this up any time he has 5+ beers in him]I staggered out onto First Avenue and into the budding snowstorm. Slush puddles the size of Lake Huron had already formed at every corner. My chances of hailing a cab seemed as scant as Blind Pew finding buried treasure in the island sand. I decided to head west, young men.

Second on my mental list (right under "cab") was finding a drugstore-- not only did I need to fill my script, but I also needed some fancy-ass preservative-free eyedrops to prep my sore eyes for the 'roid-water. I spied a CVS across the street, just beyond what appeared to be a clearing in front of parking garage. That seemed like safe passage, even if I was still seeing flashes and swirls from the visual field exam.

The "clearing" turned out to be a side entrance to the Midtown Tunnel, and yes, it was rush hour. I hotstepped my way across and somehow made it over to CVS. I soon realized I had about as good a chance of locating preservative-free eyedrops as Blind Pew was never going to find what I needed without some major help. A kind strumpet took pity on me grim face and sent me to aisle 5. I grabbed a Snickers and shuffled back out into the cold.


Walking around Manhattan without glasses or contacts (if you're visually impaired) feels liberating at first, and quickly becomes absolutely terrifying. A lot like walking around Manhattan without pants or underwear (which I've only done once). I decided to push the taxi thing even harder.


I finally made it home, and joined my wife in a frantic search for my glasses. I believe I've owned only three pairs of glasses in my life, but I'm not quite sure. What is certain is that one pair was sat on by the Mz. and another pair was dropped in the toilet by me. The third pair was at least four prescriptions old, but easily located (of course). We were unable to find the toilet-glasses, which left me with lenses that actually accentuated my eyes' deficiencies, rather than correcting them (they blurred my left eye and doubled my right eye imaging). I immediately began wearing them.

Top 10 Guitar Solos

Buddy of mine came up with this "topic" a few weeks ago.  No, we weren't wasted!  At least I wasn't.  Anyway, here's my necessary but not sufficient list:

1. "Blue Sky" - Duane Allman/Dickey Betts

Brings a tear to me eye ev'ry time.  Probably the only song on this list you can safely play in front of anyone (in-laws, toddlers, your boss, the elderly, etc.).

2. "Comfortably Numb" - David Gilmour

Wait, you never listened to this on your floor with your eyes bulging out of your head?  You should stop reading this right now and go organize your sweater drawer.

3. "Flight Over Rio" - Al DiMeola

They shoulda called this one "Blimp Over Sunset Park On Cough Syrup" but hey, Al's never been big on song titles.  A.D. rescues this proto-Screwed flange-fest from the tussin swamp around the three-minute mark, and proceeds to embarass the sweatpants off of Jan Hammer in a somewhat unconventional duel of licks (Les Paul vs. Mini-Moog?).  Al carves up a fucking bison while Jan spurts synth-jizz all over the console.

4. "Free Will" - Alex Lifeson

I already nailed this one in two words or less on two pills or more in my Permanent Waves review: positively horny.

5. "Heartbreaker" - Jimmy Page

I remember a guy I used to hang out with complaining about this one: "Blah blah blah... so sloppy... blah... noisy pickups... not that fast... blah..."  Notice I said used to hang out with that jerk.

6. "I Heard Her Call My Name" - Lou Reed

The gold standard for noisy guitar solos. My college roommate was out on the roof with his friend and a couple of girls one afternoon, totally wasted and pissing me off. I took their bad rap CD out and blasted this song, and they kept on dancing. Neither drunk got laid.

7. "Sinner's Swing!" - Eddie Van Halen
I nailed this one on Lee's Steez too, but I was so bombed I deleted it. Something about skinning an electric eel, or maybe wetting your pants in an electric chair? It was right on, whatever it was.

8. "St. Elmo's Fire" - Robert Fripp

Mr. Bojangles perfects his toggle-switch electric pan-flute routine here, and is given a courtesy reprise for his efforts.  Bravo!

9. "The Thing That Should Not Be" - Kirk Hammett

You wanna talk about guitar solos that enrich not only the song but the song-concept as well?  I do.  The Lovecraft theme is reinforced by a non-Euclidean guitar-poem that defies all known tonal and harmonic constructs.  Yog-Sothoth is belching in approval somewhere...

10. "Whole Lotta Rosie" (live) - Angus Young

We don't usually recommend bringing a breakneck juggernaut to a complete stop for a guitar solo; in fact, we forbid it.  Angus somehow gets it back up on the tracks and up to speed in about ten seconds, in front of thousands of screaming fans!  Breathtaking.