Unsolicited Johnny Thunders Review

Johnny Thunders
Bootlegging The Bootleggers
Jungle Records
1990

“I looked at this book one day, right? And it was like, fuckin’, uh, 65 Bootlegs Of Johnny Thunders. So I said, ‘Fuck it, all these dudes makin’ all this money!’ So what I did, myself, I had the idea that I would take a song from here, a song from there, off these bootleg records, and fuckin’ bootleg the bootleggers! HA! You assholes thought you put one over on me? I’m making more dough than you thought you could ever make!”

So sayeth Johnny Thunders at the end of Bootlegging The Bootleggers, the most energetic and solid collection of Thunders live tracks these hairy, wax-plagued ears have ever heard. You just can’t argue with this cross section of New York’s favorite deceased rail-thin underground guitar bozo: there’s peppy pop punk (“M.I.A.”), shuffling blues (“In Cold Blood”), maudlin Dylan covers (“Joey, Joey”), maudlin originals (“Sad Vacation”), and the requisite Dolls song Johnny can never seem to sing and play at the same time (here, it’s “Personality Crisis”). Per the latter, you have to wonder if JT ever practiced those tunes, or if he just thought, Fuck it. I was IN the fuckin’ New York Dolls. I’ll be able to play that shit no problem.

Bootlegging naturally includes a run-through of the Thunders standard “Pipeline.” Johnny’s versions of this old surf chestnut were always several megawatts better than the original and his expected concert highlight; while “Pipeline” is no disappointment here, the real standout tracks are JT’s acoustic renditions of the Stones classic “As Tears Go By” and his own heartfelt ballad “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around A Memory” (which Scorsese famously dropped into that Nic Cage ambulance movie, if anyone else remembers 1999 like I do). Yes, when really he put his mind to it, the scrawny little dope addict born John Anthony Genzale, Jr. on July 15, 1952, in Jackson Heights, Queens, could slice right through your heart like it was a hot calzone.

Yet Johnny couldn’t stop at merely assembling a dozen stellar live performance for his fans (all of which were recorded between 1985 and 1989 in such varied places as Tokyo and New Jersey). Oh no – Johnny had to personally introduce each number in that quivering and sinewy speaking voice of his, often employing ridiculous jokes to get by (over-the-top Louie Armstrong impression? Check! “Wild Kingdom” references? Check! Hacky foreign accents? Double, triple, and quadruple check!). In some alternate universe, a version of Casey Kasem’s “Top 40 Countdown” is currently being hosted by Johnny’s sniffling ghost, offending listeners with his jagged Brooklynese and inability to sound anywhere near sober.

I take shots at the general messy, unkempt, and strung out nature of the late J. Thunders, but honestly, he wouldn’t be better any other way. Rock needs its grimy, heroin-addicted sewer rat legends. Besides, the guy had a quite a penchant for pounding out addictive, beer-soaked, sneer-inducing, flip-’em-the-bird “rawkinfuhkin’rawl” music. That’s commendable in any hemisphere.

FINAL SCORE: Four terrible Louie Armstrong impressions (out of four).

Unsolicited Mini-Reviews Of Films I Have Recently Watched Part 526

Step Brothers: It’s great to see the dad from Bill & Ted working again (the bald one). Come to think of it, this movie is kind of like Bill & Ted 3: Bill & Ted Gain Sixty Pounds, Get Perms, Suffer An Incredible Amount Of Brain Damage, Forget They Can Time Travel, And Annoy Everyone They Meet Every Single Day Of Their Lives. A little uneven, but there are plenty of yuks. Plus, Rob Riggle. That guy elevates the hilarity of every project he signs on for.

Hail! Hail! Rock n’ Roll: Chuck Berry turned sixty in 1986, so the guy who made An Officer And A Gentleman decided to stage a huge concert celebrating the rock n’ roll pioneer and film a documentary around it. What the director didn’t count on was Berry being a complete diva, one who nearly sank the production before it began. Truth be told, this DVD’s behind-the-scenes featurette chronicling Berry’s impossible nature is far more entertaining than the film itself. Yet Hail! Hail! does boast plenty of fun moments, particularly during the actual concert. The whole package is a loving tribute to a sizable asshole who helped invent a really incredible form of music.

Infamy: Graffiti doc that peers into lives of three or four different artists. Interesting stuff – particularly “Earsnot,” the angry NYC tagger whose frustration and art stems from his father forbidding him to play flute as a child.

The Hangover: Finally, the frat pack movie to dethrone Old School as the tops of the genre. The plot weakened near the end and the Tyson bits struck me as forced, but you can’t argue with the sheer volume of funny. I got on my LOL-copter and ROFL’d every waffle in sight during this one (or whatever the hell the kids are saying).

Moon: Sam Rockwell has a contract job on our nearest celestial entity (someone check the facts on that)…or does he? This psychological sci-fi exploration was so good I watched it two and a half times in a row (life interrupted). Expertly acted, directed, produced, and probably catered. Moon should get every Oscar available come awards season.

Unsolicited Californication Soundtrack Review

Various Artists
Season 3: Music From The Showtime Series Californication
Lakeshore Records
2009

So, they’re putting out soundtracks for individual seasons of TV shows now? Is this how the record industry is going to save itself? Is the music from “Californication” really that popular? Are David Duchovny fans clamoring for that much physical product dedicated to/extended from their hero?

I’m sorry, give me a second here. I think I’m developing a migraine.

Just in case you forgot “Californication” is the show where real life sex addict Duchovny mindlessly rubs his grubby naked body and stubbly visage against an endless array of nubile young starlets, this collection opens with Rob Zombie’s suggestive cunnilingual anthem “Pussy Liquor.” If that slinky, sleazy bass line doesn’t uncomfortably enhance the lusty, Manson-esque stare Fox Mulder is giving you in every promotional ad for this program, you’ve probably lost all your hormones. Seek medical attention immediately.

There are actually a few great entries on the awkwardly titled Season 3: Music From The Showtime Series Californication. Pop chanteuse Danielle Duval grinds the silly Grease classic “You’re The One That I Want” down to a sexy crawl, making the protagonist sound truly afflicted by love/desire. Deceased hate rocker GG Allin makes the most surprising posthumous cameo of his career with the Criminal Quartet on the accordion-driven sing-a-long “Carmelita.” The rock remix of Spider Problem’s “Cha Cha (Be My New BF)” will most likely induce head bobbing and, in serious cases, Stevie Nicks-style swaying. And hey, how about that kiddie piano cover of “I Want You To Want Me” by Damhnait Doyle? That song is good no matter how stupidly you play it!

Tempering the good here is a solid slice of pointless crap, such as Widespread Panic’s useless rendition of “Werewolves Of London,” the two-short-to-be-effective Monks track “Boys Are Boys And Girls Are Choice,” and a variety of unnecessarily serious “introspective” pieces by the likes of John Neal and Blind Pilot. We get it – “Californication” is strictly for adults, adults who can identify with a smarmy unshaven West Coast writer who seduces girls nearly half his age with nothing more than a deadpan mumble and a résumé that boasts Zoolander and Red Shoe Diaries. The soft acoustic arpeggios that keep popping up on this CD are a firm (albeit soothing) reminder of that.

But I kid Duchovny. I’m glad he’s found a successful post-”X Files” vehicle. However, I must wonder aloud how much more successful “Californication” would be had they dropped Gillian Anderson into the role of Hank Moody. Surely we’d have a new “Sopranos” on our hands if each week it were the supple and red-headed Anderson bedding women barely out of their teens while cracking wise about literature with a Lucky Strike dangling from her lips. World class entertainment like that seems like a no-brainer; alas, perhaps Gillian was unavailable to shoot the pilot.

There are, in fact, soundtracks covering music from the first two seasons of “Californication” floating around out there. If alt-adult contemporary is your bag, hunt those suckers down and let your ears feel the complete sexual energy of premium cable’s favorite actor with a terminal head cold.

FINAL SCORE: Two and a half Duchovny five o’clock shadows (out of four).

Unsolicited Notes On That New Alice In Chains Album

Alice in Chains
Black Gives Way To Blue
Virgin/EMI
2009

The mainstream rock press is heaping Louie Anderson-sized amounts of praise upon Black Gives Way To Blue (a.k.a. OMG Tha Chains R Back With A Noo Singur LOL!!), calling it another stellar entry in the AiC catalog and in no way a disgrace to late founding singer Layne Staley’s dark legacy. Intrigued, I decided to check this bastard out. Too lazy to whip up a real review, I shall now share with you the notes I took as I sat back in my favorite easy chair a few days ago and let Black Gives Way To Blue wash over me like a bucket of thick paint for the second or third time:

“In case you weren’t aware this [album] is a new beginning, a time to start living, Alice in Chains literally announces that less than a minute into the first song. Guh.”

“Interesting arpeggio on ‘All Secrets Known.’ Kinda hypnotic.”

“The dizzying riff to “Check My Brain” is probably the hottest I’ve heard since Obama took office. But those goddamn lyrics! Oy gevalt. No, Jerry Cantrell, I will not check your brain because you have entered the great state of California.”

“People love to debate whether or not Alice in Chains was grunge or metal. Without Layne’s gutteral vocals, they are most assuredly metal, bordering on the hair variety. ‘Last Of My Kind’ could be a damn Warrant song. It has shades of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’”

“Layne’s presence is definitely missed. There are lots of tasty textures, though.”

“Most of these tunes are pretty generic.”

There you have it. If you had to chop all that down into one tasty and utterly misleading pull quote, you could do it like this:

JG2 of the JG2Land blog says, “[Black Gives Way To Blue] is a new beginning [that's]…hypnotic…dizzying…most assuredly metal…[with] lots of tasty textures!”

So, yeah, bottom line – there are some hot riffs on this bitch, but overall, thang’s generic.

FINAL SCORE: One and a half guys with goatees arguing about what musical category Alice in Chains falls into (out of four).

Unsolicited Manimals Review

Manimals
Blood Is The Harvest
House of Pain
1985

The neon-spackled cover of Blood Is The Harvest suggests the Manimals were nothing more than a D-grade KISS parody cooked up by the laziest writer on “Barnaby Jones” for one of those “rock music is so crazy these days” episodes. You can almost hear the uptight dialog in your head – “Who are these Manimals? Why are those damn teenagers so into their music? Did they have anything to do with murder of Prudence O’Malley? How come there are two of them made up to look like a cat? By law, aren’t all bands only supposed to have one cat person? Something isn’t adding up here.”

Thankfully, these guys weren’t aping the rudimentary penis jams of KISS – they were aping the rudimentary penis jams of Glenn Danzig! Indeed, the Manimals were horror punk, albeit with a generic FM rock twist. There’s just no avoiding that when you hail from Ohio – even DEVO had their regular meat n’ potatoes guitar record. Thus, the songs on Blood Is The Harvest all stretch past the two minute mark, cramming in wanky solos, middle eights, and vocal harmonizing that desperately wants to evoke Danzig (whom they thank on the back of the record) but comes much closer to Davey Havok from AFI. Same neighborhood, different bar.

Blood Is The Harvest boasts a few fun grave-rattling numbers, like “White Zombie,” “Burn Witch Burn,” and “Island Of Lost Souls” (the melody on that last one will stick in your head like a railroad spike). Unfortunately, the entire record is hampered by thin, ham-fisted production, muting what could have been a much livelier outing. Is there any reason we need to hear everything the drummer is doing so clearly and crisply? I feel like I can almost see my reflection in his brand new Zildjian cymbals. ‘Course, the drum fella here, “Dark,” was the only Manimal not to wear the seemingly requisite cat makeup. He went for some kind of bat thing painted over his eyes, which apparently gave him domain over his band mates (at least when it came to mixing the drums).

At only twenty-six minutes, you’re not really committing to a whole lot when you throw on Blood Is The Harvest. It’s a serviceable entry in the horror/death rock canon, but one that probably isn’t going to whip serious Devil-worshipers into an arm-carving frenzy anytime soon. FYI – this was the only release from the original Manimals line-up. In 1988, the band broke up and faded away into the Midwestern ether for about ten years. Then, on the heels of the Misfits reunion, Dark and bass player Larry the Wolf got together with some fresh meat to release a CD entitled Horrorcore. Allegedly, this reconstituted Manimals is still out there doin’ stuff – they’ve even promised a reissue of Blood Is The Harvest sometime in the next year.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering about the political leanings of the Manimals, they’re pretty big Republicans. Check out their Myspace page to see video of Larry the Wolf hanging out with Joe the Plumber. Now there’s a ticket for 2012. The Wolf and the Plumber. I bet they’d take at least one state. Probably a Dakota.

FINAL SCORE: Two and a half “Barnaby Jones” references (out of four).

Unsolicited Inbred Review

Th’ Inbred
Legacy of Fertility
Alternative Tentacles
2009

Legacy of Fertility is a long-overdue roundup of the entire recorded output of razor-sharp West Virginia rabble-rousers Th’ Inbred. A staple of all those obscure-o/forgotten punk blogs out there, these guys turned the sword on hardcore in the mid-eighties and eviscerated the endless crowds of mohawked sheep with a perfect mixture of blistering speed, unexpected prog, and hilariously pointed lyrics. It’s hard to believe a band this crisp and intelligent and scathing and funny isn’t more widely known. I suppose in the tidal wave of punk that washed over Reagan ’80s America, anything from a place as decidedly unhip as West Virginia was purposely overlooked.

Th’ Inbred’s sardonic platform was crystal clear less than twenty seconds into their 1985 debut EP Reproduction. “Don’t wanna hear no political songs, just wanna comb our hair all night long!” shouts singer Bobb Cotter on the lemming-basher “Scene Death.” “We don’t say fuck Reagan ’cause we’re not the ones out there beggin’!” Cotter’s delivery is dripping with sticky sarcasm, making this attack on the “Nazi jocks” ruining the punk scene that much more potent than other more famous songs of the same ilk.

After two minutes of skull-smacking thrash, Reproduction veers into a bit of unexpected lo-fi jazz rock on “eMpTVy.” A slippery bass line lays the foundation for a serviceable rant against the world’s most famous music video cable network (then still in its infancy). While Th’ Inbred were critical of their own insular world, they had even harsher words for the larger capitalist American society. To wit, a couplet from “Fantasy Express”: “Freedom of choice between consumable goods is no freedom at all/just different flavors of scraps thrown to the dogs!” Or, as Bobb bluntly puts it towards the song’s end, “He who dies with the most toys winds up in the fuckin’ ground!” Spoken like a true anarchist.

1986’s A Family Affair LP found Th’ Inbred blurring the sonic lines between prickly sandpaper punk and noodly prog rock even further. Yet, one leaning does not weaken or distract from the other – every obtuse and mathematical diversion is complimented by a wild, graceful swing back to Minor Threat territory, and vice versa. Unlike earlier stabs by bigger bands of the genre, this is fusion that works. Best of all, the venom is still there, pouring out of the speakers in nimble efforts like “Middle Class Refuges,” “The Positive Song” (a gut-busting rewrite of “Scene Death”), “Jesus Youth,” it’s companion piece “Satan Youth,” and the kinetic “But Not For Me.”

By 1988, tensions within Th’ Inbred were at an all-time high, which explains the darker tone of Kissin’ Cousins (the cover of which prominently featured cousin-kisser Jerry Lee Lewis and his child bride). The fun sounds like it’s slowly swirling down the drain on this later work; Bobb’s voice even sounds different, much angrier, gruffer, and worn out. Great entries remain, though, like the Primusy ball-buster “In The Woods” and the totally fucking insane anti/pro(?)-drug rap parody “Walk This Way (To The Crack)” (credited to “Run LSD”). The latter is proof that even at their weakest, Th’ Inbred could still be counted on to make something worth talking about.

If Legacy of Fertility is marred by anything, it’s the spotty fidelity in a few places (issues I imagine could have originated with the master recordings) and the slew of grammatical errors in the liner notes. Otherwise, it probably stands as the most valuable hardcore collection/reissue of the year. Kudos to Alternative Tentacles for unearthing Th’ Inbred’s catalog and making it readily available again. Life in America right now certainly feels like the fecal waste heap the band rants about in “The Shitpile”; thankfully, Legacy of Fertility is here to take the edge off.

FINAL SCORE: Four Idiot Skateboarders w/ Mohawks (out of four).

Unsolicited Mini-Reviews Of LP Record Albums That Have Recently Crossed My Path

DJ Screw – Codeine Fiend

This guy was apparently a big deal in the underground a decade ago. His deal was he slowed rap songs down to simulate the effects of hearing music while totally fucked up on depressants. It’s kind of neat the first time you hear it, but after that you just wonder, “What the hell’s wrong with my tape deck?” Then you remember you don’t even have a tape deck anymore, it’s 2009, and you’re actively listening to Da Brat two or three speeds too slow. Still, outsider music freaks should check out Codeine Fiend (or one of the other 9,000 mix tapes DJ Screw made); I bet if you blasted this stuff on Halloween, you’re whole neighborhood will think the Devil just learned how to rock the mic.

V/A – Weezer – The 8-bit Album

No band from the past two decades is better suited to have their music transformed into a soundtrack for an NES game that never existed. Have fun imagining a bespectacled Mario running away from Goombas and writing the Princess love notes he’ll never deliver to sparse renditions of “El Scorcho” and “In The Garage.” The only thing that kills this album is that sometimes the participants add vocals, which instantly turns 8-bit novelty into frightening Japanese techno pop. You can download the whole thing here. WARNING: putting this on your computer will make you the nerdiest person on your block (unless you actually live next store to a member of Weezer).

The Resonars – That Evil Drone

One-man nostalgia act Matt Rendon continues to defy the 21st Century by churning out retro 60s garage rock so authentic that calling it retro should be a federal crime. Most impressive here is the instrumental “Run Kodiak Run,” a playful acoustic guitar piece I can easily imagine bears in the wild frolicking to. Also, the stormy “Black Breath” demands your attention for all two minutes and thirty-six seconds of its time. Anyone still pissed off that the Who became a sweaty ball rock arena band should dive head first into Matt’s Resonars. Mod comfort has never flowed this effortlessly.

Demolition Hammer – Skull Fracturing Nightmare

The virgin 1988 release from an underrated Bronx thrash band. I found it on this amazing blog. Pretty tight, dense stuff. Nothing Earth-shattering, but great when you want to get your mosh on and you’re sick of the big boys. You wanna know something crazy about Demolition Hammer? Their drummer died from Globefish poisoning in 1996. Guess that means no reunion anytime soon. Bummer.

Nashville Pussy – Let Them Eat Pussy

I can’t believe I waited until 2009 to check out this album. I remember the day it came out eleven years ago like it was yesterday. The two clerks at the record store were arguing about whether or not to remove the wrapper blocking the controversial cover art. The one guy just said, “Fuck it!” and ripped it off. Weren’t we shocked to see two hot chicks gleefully forcing a couple of male sex slaves to munch their hard-rockin’ carpets? Yes, yes we were. Well, perhaps not so much “shocked” as “incredibly aroused and suddenly willing to pledge our complete allegiance to at least the idea of this new band.” ANYWAY, LTEP is a terse shit-kicker of an album, hampered only by Blaine Cartwright’s flat vocals and the somewhat rigid samey-ness of the material. But hey, if you’re just looking to get your wang in shape before pounding some Polk County cooch in the back of your Daddy’s El Camino, crank this shit ’til the break of dawn (preferably in a 7-11 parking lot while guzzling off-brand whiskey from a paper bag).

Unsolicited Inglourious Basterds Review

The Basterds and their really, really, ridiculously good-looking leader.

Inglourious Basterds
Starring: Brad Pitt, Mélanie Laurent, Christoph Waltz, Eli Roth
Directed by Quentin Tarantino
2009

Remember that quote Tom Cruise threw out while promoting his own Nazi flick Valkyrie about how much he hated Hitler when he was a kid? He literally said he “always wanted to kill” Der Führer, which seemed odd only because it came from the mouth of the diminutive couch-jumping psychology expert who tricked Katie Holmes into becoming a soccer mom. Every red-blooded American during and after World War II felt cheated when they learned the conflict’s top villain shot himself in his bunker as the whole episode was drawing to a close. Where was the justice in that? The Allies thirsted for blood; thus, millions of bitter revenge fantasies were born.

Unfortunately, the only people who ever actually get to live out their killin’-Hitler revenge fantasies are big-shot Hollywood actors and directors. Cruise based his on an actual Nazi plot that was hatched to take down Austria’s least-favored export (one that failed almost as hard as Tommy’s film – hey Cruise, next time you make a Hitler movie, hire some goddamn Germans, why don’tcha?). Obnoxious man-child Quentin Tarantino has gone a different route, of course, eschewing fact for something that looks and sounds cool. Inglourious Basterds is the result, a cinematic tale of marauding and renegade Nazi-busters who get caught up in a surprise attack on the Big Mustachioed Cheese himself.

Inglourious Basterds is a frustrating film in that it sets up an intriguing alternate history legend – a group of Jewish-American soldiers who brutally pounce on Nazis and scalp them Indian-style – but does not allow us much time to get properly acquainted with the individuals behind that legend. Instead, brief character sketches are offered; there’s the wise-cracking leader who hails from Tennessee (Brad Pitt), a bat-wielding monster known as the “Bear Jew” (Eli Roth), and a German defector whose grimace is just as frightening as his kill count (Til Schweiger). Yet on the whole, the group remains a mystery. How they all came together, how they interact, even the personalities of the remaining members – it’s all swept under the rug for Plot B.

For the long stretches where the Basterds are absent, we get to know the trials and travails of a young French Jew named Shoshana Dreyfus (Mélanie Laurent). Under an assumed identity, Shoshana runs a Paris movie theater that eventually becomes ground zero for the titular heroes and the devilish Nazis they’re fighting. It’s typical Tarantino, of course, to have multiple stories that ultimately end up converging. The problem here is the big payoff fizzles, refusing to give the audience certain moments of conflict resolution it’s been expecting. Even the final assault on Hitler doesn’t feel as cathartic as it should (which is amazing considering how comically graphic it eventually becomes).

That said, large chunks of Inglourious Basterds is delicious fun, fraught with humor (Sam Jackson cameo!) and tension (guns pointed at testicles!) as only that perpetually smirking fool Quentin T. can provide. It is, perhaps, a shame that this film did not transmogrify into the TV show it was originally intended to be. With no discernible time limit or ending, this brief nugget of gory joy could have expanded into a deep “Sopranos”-esque phenomenon. As it stands, Inglourious Basterds is a flickering escapist’s delight, one that will briefly satiate the Roosevelt-era patriot inside all of us.

FINAL SCORE: Three Nazi Scalps (out of four).

Faceless Loser Complains About New Music From Old Bands

Alice In Chains – “Check My Brain”

Dangerously sick riff hampered by laughably trite lyrics (the west coast is so trippy, bro!). Musically, this is close enough to o.g. Alice that I no longer feel compelled to kidnap Jerry Cantrell and Sean Kinney for deprogramming. Still, things could be a lot better over in this neck of the woods. Hey Chains, why don’t you hire Tarantino or David Mamet or even Kevin fucking Smith to whip up some tasty lyrics? We’re in a recession – I’m sure they’d all work cheap.

Slayer – “Hate Worldwide”

Better than their cover of “Born To Be Wild,” but still not golden.

Beastie Boys and Nas – “Too Many Rappers”

Guess what? The Beastie Boys want you to know that they’re older, cooler, and more talented than you. Doesn’t that make you feel good about yourself? Isn’t that uplifting? I swear to God, I’m sick of these trust fund assholes rapping about well they can rap. That was theme of every other track on 5 Boroughs. I realize ego plays a large role in nearly every hip-hop song ever written, but something about the braggadocio of these guys really churns my butter. They always act too cool for school, but you know what? They aren’t.

KISS – “Modern Day Delilah”

The mating call of Paul Stanley is updated for the Aughts. This song makes me feel like I have cocaine on my dick. I can’t tell if “Modern Day Delilah” reminds me of Wal-Mart because I know it’s going to be sold there exclusively or because it sounds like the kind of song you’d hear blasting out of an F150 driven by a beefy dude wearing a farmer’s tan and fake Oakleys.

Megadeth – “1,320″

Who’s even in Megadeth now? Jason Newsted? I have no idea. I can tell you that this song sounds like it’s about NASCAR, which is depressing as hell. Fuckin’ Jeff Gordon, paying Dave Mustaine to be his little bitch boy. Honestly, this tune is a little too Iron Maiden for my liking.

Fifteen Years On, Woodstock ‘94 Still Something That Definitely Happened

Everybody was crowin’ last week about the fortieth anniversary of the original Woodstock, the three days of peace and love in upstate New York that had nothing to do with Mel Brooks or heart-shaped hot tubs. I’ll admit that wild August weekend in ‘69 was a watershed moment for the decade, right up there with the debut of “The Munsters” in ‘64 and the introduction of Tupperware to Europe in 1960. However, for people like me who were raised in the ego-driven era of Atari, Michael J. Fox, and Garfield coffee mugs, Woodstock was just another lifeless entry in our history books (like Teapot Dome with a few stray, blurry boobs). Besides, they couldn’t even get Tommy James and the Shondells to show up at that bitch. What kind of drug-infused hippie festival were they trying to run over there?

Honestly, if you want to get all in my face about a corporate jack-off music festival disguised as some kind of important cultural event for the young generation, you’d better be sure you’re screamin’ about Woodstock ’94 (which quietly celebrated its fifteenth anniversary last week in the shadow of its older, more established brother). That was the heaping pile of money and useless nostalgia I cared about. The memories are still so vivid. Why, it seems like just yesterday I was watching the liberating and mustachioed antics of Jackyl lead singer Jesse James Dupree on the Woodstock ’94 Pay-Per-View special. Please don’t tell me that band’s rendition of “Headed for Destruction” didn’t touch a nerve with you or your loved ones, because that performance spoke to every U.S. citizen the minute Jesse sauntered on stage in his flashy white tuxedo and giant American Flag top hat. And you thought Steven Tyler knew how to wear ostentatious head gear.

Jackyl: touching nerves since 1990.

Of course, what most people remember about Woodstock ’94 (aside from the lousy coverage on MTV and the inexplicable presence of both Roguish Armament AND Huffamoose) is mud. Oh, the mud. It was everywhere – on the ground, on the crowd, on the bands, in the drinking water, squirting out of reporter’s microphones, and flowing spectacularly from Calvert DeForest’s ear canal. Some Woodstock ’94 participants derided the mud, such as Primus’s Les Claypool (his name is HYPOCRITE), but most found joy in the excess of watery dirt. Green Day staged a massive PR stunt around it. Nine Inch Nails wore it as an accessory to accentuate their grimy, frightening industrial sounds. Indeed, the mud at Woodstock ’94 played an integral role in defining the festival as the most unsanitary event since the first Woodstock (or perhaps Rick James’s first week in prison).

Speaking of people who weren’t there for those two extra days of peace and love (and delicious Pepsi, the choice of a new generation), a lot of big name artists were inexplicably absent from the Woodstock ’94 roster. Where was Pearl Jam or Soundgarden or the Beastie Boys or Smashing Pumpkins or even goddamn Dr. Dre? What were these motherfuckers doing that weekend? Dicking around at Lollapalooza? Playing Sega Genesis? Engaging in some other early nineties activity of a humorous nature? The alternative revolution was at critical mass, and we got Blind Melon instead of Billy Corgan? Weak sauce, bro. Thank God Rollins Band and Cypress Hill were in the house to iron out the serious cred issues this multi-million dollar farm jam was burdened with.

Blind Melon’s Shannon Hoon picks up Dr. Dre’s slack.

On a similar topic, I believe Woodstock ’94 hosted the one of last “classic” Metallica performances, by which I mean one of the last performances before Metallica hired a professional stylist, busted out the slide guitars, and generally started acting like the rich pompous jerks they always knew they were. Someone should erect a monument in Saugerties to James Hetfield’s old hair, the once mighty heavy metal mane that commanded an army of unwashed American youth to just rock in a pure, unadulterated fashion. Future generations must be aware that once upon a time the biggest band in thrash didn’t look like a renegade GQ pictorial.

There’s no getting around the fact that Woodstock ‘94 was a tad silly in concept and execution. Yet, it could have been a whole hell of a lot worse. I cite the rumor that KISS was offered some ungodly sum of money to reunite their original line-up and headline (this was back when KISS was still sans make-up, unaware that no one wanted to watch a bunch of grizzled old men in leather chaps pretend to be Warrant). I can’t imagine a more transparent attempt to boost ticket sales while eschewing whatever tiny spirit of the original festival remained. Oh wait, yeah I can – how about attempting to reunite Nirvana with a new lead singer less than six months after Kurt Cobain’s death? Apparently, the people behind W’94 tried to put that vile plan into action as well.

Let’s stop for a minute. It’s August of 1994. Who could possibly substitute for Kurt Cobain in a reconstituted Nirvana? The list is pretty short. Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Regis Philbin. That kid from “Squirt TV.” No, I’m joking. Kurt was a one in a million dude, and no one could ever fill his tattered Converse shoes…not even Gene Simmons.

Smells like teen spirit.

If the original Woodstock was a snapshot of generational sands shifting, Woodstock ‘94 was a snapshot of a loosely organized family reunion where a bunch of far removed relatives you aren’t sure you recognize show up for the open bar. Multi-day rock concerts had become par for the course years prior to this unnecessary sequel, and an air of “does this really mean anything?” hung over the proceedings like a stale fart. For me and virtually everyone I knew, the answer to that question was a resounding “no, not at all.” We were the “Beavis & Butt-head” generation. Sarcasm and eye-rolling always won out over heart and earnestness. Our sand-shifting moment was…I don’t know. Maybe Letterman’s move to CBS?

Still, I don’t outwardly reject Woodstock 2: The Search For More Money. There were a few hot performances. It gave America something to talk about for a week or two. I cannot directly link it to any misfortune or pain I experienced that year. WS’94 may not have been as meaningful or explosive as Woodstock ‘69, but it sure was a hell of a lot cooler than Woodstock ‘99 (two days of beer pong, rioting, and sexual assault). I cringe at the Limp Bizkit-tinged memories of that soulless crap pile.