Cod reggae #1

The playlist, more or less, now available through the magic of YouTube.



This isn't a perfect solution to the Mixaloo or Finetune conundra, of course. Ideally, if I were truly in the now, I'd use iTunes to create a playlist, but, if I'm not mistaken, you have to buy all your music through iTunes in order to create a public playlist in the iTunes player. In other words, you can make your own playlist but to share it with others, you need to have spent $0.99 each on songs you already have in your own collection. Ah, capitalism.

And this isn't the entire Cod Reggae #1 playlist either. I couldn't find a video for The Brothers' "Sing Me" (it's pretty obscure, even though it was a Top Ten hit in the UK in 1977 or so) or even any songs by them. I also couldn't find videos for The Kongas' "Jungle" or Midi, Maxi, & Efti's "Masenko," although in the latter case, I included a video for their song "Ragga Steady," which should give you an idea of what this Ethiopian-Eritrean-Swedish pop group from the '90s sounds like.

I did a similar thing for Serge Gainsbourg's "Aux armes et caetera." There are two "homemade" videos for this tune in YouTube, one which has a warning before you watch it about "adult images." I watched only part of it, and as best I could tell, the so-called adult images include shots of Vladimir Lenin and Abu Ghraib's excesses, which . . . well, the latter need more exposure, although the former, the snaps of Lenin, seem positively quaint in this day and age, my snide remarks about capitalism notwithstanding. Perhaps later we could don our Young Pioneers uniforms, join hands, and sing "The Internationale" or "The Red Army is the Strongest in the World." Just for fun.

The other video doesn't have any warnings but probably should: It features a beautiful Asian nymphette in a bikini running a bath (for herself, one would assume). I decided not to use that video either (and turned away before, perhaps, I was scarred for life by what was to follow), which, in reality, is pure Serge Gainsbourg, but then so is the one of Abu Ghraib. Instead, I opted for a homemade video of the dub version of his reggae number, "Lola Rastaquouère."

I did, however, choose the "skin option" for Timmy Thomas's recording of "Why Can't We Live Together," the homemade video featuring some scantily clad babe gyrating rhythmically to the tune. What she has to do with a song about world peace, I'll never quite fathom, but I can see how she might relate to the theme of "world piece" instead.

Enjoy . . . or whatever . . . while you can. This approach doesn't necessarily resolve the copyright issue, but to be sure, if anything does impinge upon someone's copyright, YouTube will take action, remove the offending video, and, thus, seriously interrupt my studies in mixology.

But fear not: Cod Reggae #2 is coming soon to a YouTube near you.

Cod reggae #2

As promised, mix #2. Funnily enough, my tastes seem even cheesier, one might say even more Velveetastic, in visual, rather than merely aural, form.

Neat, hunh?

Pop music is not a crime

Another song about dancing/
I know you’ve heard it all before/
If i wrote a song about more serious things/
Would you want to hear some more?/
It’s just that i really like to dance/
I guess that sounds pretty trite/
Would you dance to a song about dancing?/
Guilty pleasures feel so right

Freezepop, "Pop Music Is Not a Crime"

* * *

I like to think that my musical tastes would make your mental mixtape exhausted and confused, or, worst case, give you a tension headache and causing you to lie down in a dark room for a few hours. That tape might include a tracklist like so:

• Something from an avant-garde composer such as Steve Reich, Philip Glass, and Arvo Pärt
• A little modern and classic jazz from the likes of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, the Cinematic Orchestra, and Eric Truffax
• Worldbeat sounds like North African rai, Bollywood, Arabic-language pop, and Brazilian samba and jazz
• Contemporary guitar-based Britpop by the likes of Keane, the Kaiser Chiefs, and Peter, Bjorn, & John (even though the latter are actually Swedish, but who's counting?)
• '70s soul and disco, including Barry White (and lots of him), Cerrone, Silver Convention, and both Thelma Houston's and Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes' versions of "Don't Leave Me This Way"
• '60s Merseybeat and "girl" singers like Dusty Springfield, the Dave Clark Five, and Sandie Shaw
• Anything French, particularly Etienne Daho, Air, Mylène Farmer, and especially Serge Gainsbourg
• All those trip-hop groups from the '90s like Portishead, Olive (the first album only), Mono, and "Six Underground" by the Sneaker Pimps
• Guilty, dance-around-your-bedroom-in-your-underwear-singing-into-a-bottle-of-Brut-aftershave (not that I've ever done this . . .) pleasures like the Spice Girls, ABBA, and Kylie Minogue
• Maybe some Joni Mitchell to mellow you out a bit while simultaneously making you moody, or some Carly Simon so you can see how angst-ridden and long-suffering the upper classes in our fair nation truly are
• And, lately, even a little bluegrass and classic, pre-1975 country; consider it an homage to my Dad

I will listen to the occasional opera and have even found myself liking a little hip-hop--most definitely Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliot, as well as Common, Talib Kweli, and Kurtis Mantronik. I draw the line, though, at almost all contemporary Top 40 country and pretty much every last bit of gangsta rap. In both cases, I just don't think I'm either suburban enough or white enough for it to speak to my tortured soul. In the latter case, too, I just can't relate to the street-hardened billionaires who make it. You earn all those Benjamins (as one says . . .) and you blow it on an Escalade? We are *definitely* worlds apart. What about a nice Mini Cooper? You can still trick it out, though admittedly it's a bit of a challenge to fit all your entourage in the backseat.

I sometimes/often sound defensive whenever I talk about music--for example, in my previous post on the Spice Girls. Ah, paranoia, man's best friend, at least this one's. It's just that I think I'm always ready to be blasted for my curious and sometimes downright dodgy musical preferences. Consider it coming from a family of four kids who were always very passionate about their tunes and who staked their claim early to some of the best popular music on offer at the time--my sister, Beatles (enough said); my brother, the Honorary Curator of the Lynyrd Skynyrd Memorial Museum, the one-man champion of Southern rock; and my other brother, the Romeo of Duchess Lane, who first brought Bruce Springsteen home (in album form, that is), as well as a slew of '70s senstive singer-songwriters like Emitt Rhodes, all the better (I suspect) to appeal to the feather-haired, blue-eyeshadowed girls that lived in our subdivision.

School for a gay kid, at least in the '70s, was pretty much a never-ending turmoil of hiding all too poorly one's differences, and one great source of tension between the Third Sex and the Rest of Teenage Humanity were lunchroom discussions of our record collections. There were three listening choices for any "normal" American boy in the '70s--Kiss, Aerosmith, and Led Zeppelin, with maybe a pass for Deep Purple or Yes, and, seriously, maybe even for Queen, who could be forgiven all manner of eccentricities because they were British. Interesting that these bands almost always featured long-haired, flamboyant singers, some with make-up and some singing in falsetto and at least one of whom was gay. Nonetheless, they sang about chicks, cars, and partying, so they had to be straight, right? Don't confuse the issue, boy, with your homoerotic subtexts!

Meanwhile, the Lone Homosexual at the table tried to stuff his mouth full of tater tots and whole milk before anyone could ask him about his tunes. They talked about Kiss; I thought about the weekend's shortwave radio listening--namely, the pop music programs from 208 Radio Luxembourg and Radio Nederland, and wondered if Boney M would make it to number 1 on the BBC Top 20. They played air guitar alongside of Led Zep; I dreamed of attending an ABBA concert (who interestingly enough ended up recording "All of My Love"--the only Led Zep song I really like--in ABBA's studios in Stockholm--so, ha, take that pimply bullies of the '70s!) and somehow befriending the band and maybe stealing Benny (the bearded one) away from Frida or at least helping Agnetha pick out her next hairstyle. They rocked out to Aerosmith, and I funked around the living room to Parliament and Bootsy Collins in heavy rotation on my parents' console hi-fi.

To further underline the point, two of my earliest music purchases were 1) a 45 of "Waterloo" by ABBA, fresh from their win at the Eurovision Song Contest, and 2) an 8-track tape of the soundtrack to Shaft by Isaac Hayes. That pretty much says it all, doesn't it?

Musically and pop culturally, I've just never fit in--I couldn't if I tried, and I recognized that early on and went my own way, but kept it all very sotto voce, at least until adulthood.

And still . . . it's hard to fess up to these squirrelly, non-progressive tastes. The older I get I guess I'm supposed to like more serious stuff, and sometimes I do, but just as often I don't. I mean, ferchrissakes, I am 46 years old and went to a Spice Girls concert. WTF? Just call me Old Spice. I will also accept Mid-Life Crisis Spice as an alternate designation.

I'd like to think absolutely nothing is weird about that, but you try convincing a potential boyfriend otherwise. I speak from experience: I spent three years with a guy who regularly raided my Björk and ABBA collections but just as regularly ridiculed my then-fascination with Kylie Minogue and '70s soul. It was tough going, and in the end, when the going gets tough, the boyfriend is just so much extra baggage to be tossed over the side.

However, I am thinking of making the Spice Girls the Love Barometer for all future relationships. If he doesn't wrinkle his nose when I sing along to "Wannabe" on the car radio, maybe he'll get to second base on the first date (even though I'm not really sure what second base is and for gay men, most likely it's the sharing of a post-coital cigarette). If he can appreciate the '60s pop stylings of Emma Bunton's Free Me album, then there will be a few more dates. And if he toe-taps along with Mel B's hit, "Feels So Good," my favorite Solo Spice effort, then it's you + me = love, I believe.

Sounds fair, doesn't it? And most logical.

* * *

Cod Reggae: The Playlist

There really is no accounting for taste, mine or anyone else's. I get tired of defending mine, mind you, but then I haven't always been generous in my appraisal of other's tastes either. Those screaming divas from the '90s make my ears bleed; the Carpenters, especially during the holidays, make me want to set snowmen on fire and kick elves in the nuts, bless their hearts; and I've never forgiven Shakira for recording all those Latin pastiches for the English-language market, when she did perfectly good rock en español for the rest of the Western Hemisphere. But, hey, that's me.

It should be noted, though, that I am a frustrated DJ at heart. I've always forced . . . uh . . . shared my music with others through homemade mixtapes. Recently through Facebook, I've played with the Mixaloo and Finetune applications as a way, in theory, to create online mixtapes to share with friends, but which, in reality, come up far shorter than my aspirations.
Mixaloo lets you put together a compilation of up to 15 songs. You choose tunes from their library, and you can choose as many from a particular artist as you like--as long as you don't go beyond 15 songs. The choices can be limiting, though. Recently, I tried to make a compilation entitled A Gainsbourg Family Album, which featured tunes by Serge, his former squeeze Jane Birkin, their daughter Charlotte, and others who have recorded or worked with them or have been inspired by them in some way.

But I ended up frustrated--there was very little Jane Birkin to select from in the library, including practically nothing from her excellent Rendez-vous album of duets; there was no Etienne Daho, including the duet of "If" he did with Charlotte Gainsbourg a couple of years ago; there was no Mylène Farmer; and there were only a few remixes of Serge Gainsbourg tunes, although they did include an exceptional Vibrators adaptation of "Je t'aime . . . moi non plus." So at least there was that to appreciate.

Finetune was even more frustrating to play with--you could select up to a very generous 45 tunes for your mix, but only *3* of them could be by the same artist. Three Serge Gainsbourg tunes out of a body of work that spanned at least three-and-a-half decades. Sacre bleu! And there was also the issue, as with Mixaloo, of not a lot of availabilty of non-English-language music, which kind of runs contrary to the point of A Gainsbourg Family Album mix.

So I'm back to basics with my mixtapes, making them at home on a computer, the old school way.

I have started, though, to move beyond the standard one-song-after-the-next mixtape. Last year, I invested in some music software, MixMeister Express, that lets me actually make the mixtape a mixtape, that is to say, let's me mix the tunes together, match beats per minute, and add sound effects if so desired.

The first mix I did was entitled Cod Reggae. I'm not a huge reggae fan, but with what the British call "cod reggae," that's OK, I don't have to be. "Cod" in this case is short for "codswallop" or, in other words, rubbish, junk reggae. Reggae for the non-purist. In short, pop reggae. Just my size.

So, below, I present you with Baby's First and Second Remix Albums, Cod Reggae 1 and 2. In MixMeister you're limited in your mix only if you plan to burn it to a CD; then you have to limit the number of tunes to fit on a standard-sized CD-R. No surprise here, I had more tunes than I had space for (and still could have included several more--what? No Elvis Costello and "Watching the Detectives"? No UB40?). So I broke Cod Reggae into two mixes, and I was fairly pleased with both of them, if I do say so. Let's see what you think:

Cod Reggae 1

Jimmy Sommerville—“To Love Somebody”
Agnetha Fältskog—“The Heat Is On”
Althia and Donna—“Up Town Top Ranking”
Dawn Penn—“You Don’t Love Me”
Third World—“Reggae Ambassador”
Boney M—“Brown Girl in the Ring”
The Brothers—“Sing Me”
Scott Fitzgerald and Yvonne Keeley—“If I Had Words”
Steely Dan—“Haitian Divorce”
Culture Club—“Everything I Own”
Dollar—“Who Were You with in the Moonlight”
Timmy Thomas—“Why Can’t We Live Together”
Tom Browne—“Funkin’ for Jamaica”
Kongas—“Jungle”
Midi, Maxi, and Efti—“Masenko”
Marta Sánchez—“Desesperada” (extended version)
10cc—“Dreadlock Holiday”
Aswad—“Shine”
Bob Marley and the Wailers—“Could You Be Loved”
Serge Gainsbourg—“Aux armes et caetera”
C. J. Lewis—“Sweets for My Sweet”
Señor Coconut y Su Conjunto—“The Robots”

Cod Reggae Mix 2

ABBA—“One of Us”
Gorillaz—“Clint Eastwood”
Marta Sánchez—“Arena y sol”
Allen Toussaint—“Yes We Can Can”
Maryam Mursal—“Lei Lei”
Blondie—“Die Young, Stay Pretty”
Lily Allen—“Smile”
Ace of Base—“Don’t Turn Around”
The Police—“The Bed’s Too Big without You”
Apache Indian—“Lovin’ (Let Me In) (Bhangra Flava)”
Kirsty MacColl—“Mambo de la luna”
Bob Marley and the Wailers—“Jamming”
Manu Dibango—“Soul Makossa”
Boney M—“Hooray! Hooray! It’s a Holi-Holiday”
Bananarama with Fun Boy Three—“It Ain’t What You Do”
The Specials—“Ghost Town”
Scritti Politti—“The Word Girl”
M.I.A.—“Bucky Done Gone”
Roxy Music—“Love Is the Drug”
War featuring Eric Burdon—“Spill the Wine”
The Chakachas—“Jungle Fever”
Grace Jones—“My Jamaican Guy”
The Clash—“Guns of Brixton”

See what I mean about my pop diet? My cheesiness is showing ("If I Had Words" by Scott Fitzgerald and Yvonne Keeley, "Who Were You with in the Moonlight" by Dollar), as well as my eclecticism (ABBA mixed into Gorillaz! A cha-cha-chá version of Kraftwerk's "The Robots"! Manu Dibango's "Soul Makossa," which isn't reggae in the least!).

I wish I could legally put these online so you could hear these, but, alas, I can't interpret international copyright agreements in any way imaginable so that I can do so, and I'm all about being a law-abiding citizen of our fair-to-middlin' republic, as I'm sure we all well know.

But, friends, you never know what might end up included in a future birthday box, stuffed into a Christmas stocking, hidden in your yard by the Easter bunny, or baked into a Thanksgiving pumpkin pie.

Mmmmm, and what could be more appetizing for the holidays than a little cod mixed with pumpkin . . . .

Spice up your life!

Editor's note: The wayback machine continues its journey, now moving forward slightly to early December 2007. With any luck, we'll be up to the present tense by spring . . . 2009.

* * *

If for only one weekend in my long life, I earned the right to call myself Spontaneous Spice.

As bizarre as it sounds, this is my story: I, a 46-year-old man, on a whim, with only about a week to plan, made two quick strokes of his overburdened Visa card and . . .

Got the rhythm, the melody, and the juice to savor . . .

Became a little bit wiser, baby, and put it on, put it on . . .

Stopped right now, thank you very much, and decided I need someone with the human touch . . .

Gave you everything, all that joy could bring, this I swear . . .

Slammed my body down and wound it all around . . .

In other words, I spiced up my life. For you see, in early December, I traveled to Las Vegas, not for a two-day arc of gambling and debauchery (penny slots and a couple of weak mojitos at an off-the-strip tapas bar don't count for much of anything on the debauchery toteboard, I'm told), but, instead, to see the Spice Girls reunion tour at the Mandalay Bay Resort.

Don't believe me? Well, I have witnesses--Vegas Texan and Kangaroo, who rounded out our little triangle of unbridled fandom. And like the crucial climax in a classic film (Cannonball Run, for instance), we ended up in Vegas, along with Kangaroo's sister and brother-in-law and our friend, Sin City Flake (also known as Clippy in our friend Snappymack's blog). While Sin City Flake was a non-starter in our concert-going, she did at least have the proper skeptical-yet-bemused appreciation of our endeavors and provided one of us with housing and transportation, not to mention explanations of the various types of tequila one could give as wedding gifts if one was so inclined. At least that's how I remember it. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking. It's certainly not the mojitos.

* * *

One could view this as the gayest thing I've ever done. It even shocked me in its unrestrained queerliciousness.

I prefer, though, to view it as the completion (one can but hope) of the homo queerectus music appreciation arc I have been working on since 2004, when I attended the Donna Summer concert at Wolf Trap outside of Washington, D.C., and the Kylie Minogue tour at the Earl's Court in London in 2005. (What I did in 2006--other than work, work, work--I can't even remember. Perhaps wrote a gushy fan letter to Patsy Gallant or completed my collection of Tina Charles 45s and b-sides. I just don't recall, and it's probably better that way.)

And, truth be told, it was the best of the three concerts, and one of the better, more entertaining events I've ever attended. Patti Smith last fall still wins hands down, and Bebel Gilberto and Feist are tied for third in terms of enjoyable live music entertainment value. (Editor's note: FYI--nothing gives me greater, more perverse pleasure than to juxtapose Patti Smith, Feist, Bebel Gilberto, the Spice Girls, Donna Summer, and Kylie Minogue in the same blog posting.)

Donna Summer, while in strong voice and a good all-rounder, seemed to lose the plot about 2/3rds of the way through the concert and didn't even bother to sing "I Feel Love," "This Time I Know It's for Real," or "Love to Love You Baby"--although, now that I think of it, being spared seeing a grandmother simulate multiple orgasms on stage is indeed something I could live without.

Kylie Minogue followed the plot a little too closely and stuck to the script of her increasingly elaborate stage spectaculars, occasionally bothering to contribute a note or a dance step, and only at the very end acknowledging the audience's presence, which was the highlight of the concert. (Note to Miss K.: Follow your sister Dannii's lead and get your personality and singing voice back. People want to see and hear you.)

The Spice Girls on the other hand were consummate entertainers--singing (at least four of them; none of us was ever quite sure about Victoria's contributions), dancing (or at least posing in a very sexy way while wearing some cracking outfits), laughing it up (Geri to the crowd regarding Mel B's second place finish on Dancing with the Stars--"She was robbed! She was robbed by a midget!"), and having fun with the audience and with one another.

The Girls have always been criticized for not being that talented, for being a manufactured product, instead of being true artistes who sprung forth organically from the musical matmos. Yawn. While I won't be screaming "Leave the Spice Girls alone!!!" into YouTube anytime soon and can't argue against their origins (they did answer an ad to be in a music group, but then, so have others), this complaint just seems to me like the rock critic's stock-in-trade response, doled out everytime the critic doesn't quite get pop music. I always feel like for most rock critics, it's a case of those-who-can't-do-write-criticism-for-a-living, as most seem to keep dreaming the secret dream of being the Saint Sebastian-esque lead singer with great bedhead hair in yet another phallus-centric guitar band. I look cool--but I hurt! And chicks dig me!

Double yawn.

I, on the other hand, would argue that the Girls have always been greater than the sum of their musical parts. Singly, other than Mel C, none of the Spiceys ever struck me as a musician first, pop star second. In fact for a few of them--namely, Geri, Mel B, and Victoria--you could argue the order should be stardom first, pop music second--or maybe even a distant third--as they seemed to have more to prove personally than professionally. In concert, you realize that the band relied heavily on vocals from Mel C first, Emma second, and Mel B third, which is probably why Geri left and Victoria turned her life toward fashion and David Beckham. The poor dear.

However, I'd argue that together they were magic, and whatever you say about the vapidity of pop culture and Top 40 music (and there is plenty to say), it's difficult to fake magic, even with a full suite of Pro Tools and a legion of back-up dancers. It takes some form of raw talent to make something out of nothing or little at all, and while the Girls are sufficient singers and entertainers on their own, together they are stardust, they are golden. I'm not saying that the Beatles or the Stones should hang their heads in shame (other than for their choices in dalliances and life partners), but I think giving credit where credit is due is in order here: The Spice Girls had something. They had "it," at least for a while.

It's not as though I was always a fan. The first go-round in the mid- to late-'90s, well, I barely paid attention. The Girls, ubiquitous with their Girl Power and dodgy style (what was Geri doing with her hair? why was Mel B wearing all that leopard print?) seemed more cartoon-like and focus-group-driven than anything, and the influence of the market in their careers could still be pointed out today. (Reportedly, they each received $10 million apiece to make this tour.)

Still, when the bubble burst in 2000, just when I thought they were getting interesting musically ("Holler" and the whole late, lamented Forever album, which saw them take a turn in a more R&B direction), to me it seemed like that bursting bubble sucked the air right out of the room--and with it a lot of pop fun and whimsy. No more three minutes-and-thirty-seconds of pop heaven, no more wacky '90s-meets-the-'60s style, no more flirting with Nelson Mandela, who totally seemed to enjoy it and appreciate the silliness and the fun. Not bad for a man who'd spent nearly 30 years of his life in prison fighting apartheid. Ponder that and, just a suggestion, perhaps you could lighten up a little yourself? Only asking . . .

Blame it on Geri leaving too soon. Blame it on their audience growing up and moving on. Blame it on them trying to take on management duties and not knowing what they were doing. Whatever. During the concert it struck me as a sad turn of events, because when they were hot, they were blinding white lightning fever pitch hot--entertaining, funny, and fun. They brought a particularly British cheeky-chappy sparkle to the pop world. To see that disappear from the pop culture scene was regrettable, at least for me.

While the Spiceys were often decried for being too manufactured, in their wake we got even more prefab pop--Britney, to name but one example--where the music seemed incidental to the fame, or, in Britney's eventual case, the infamy. Think about it for a moment--in the space of less than ten years we went from the Spice Girls singing about their "Mama" and pinching Prince Charles on the bum to Britney writhing on stage with an oversized snake (hello penis!) to the tune of "I'm a Slave 4 U" and paparazzi photo ops sans panties. What a world. What a freakin' world.

* * *

But are the Spice Girls art? Ah, who can say? And, honestly, who cares? Increasingly, I find myself finding art in all sorts of odd spaces, or, at least, finding fun in those places, and giving not even two zig-a-zig-figs about art.

It's all relative, of course. Each of us finds genius--or at least entertainment--in the strangest of choices.

After this last year, though, it's been hard not to notice how short life really is, how fleeting the moments of pleasure are, and that if you really want something (if you really, really, really want it . . .), no matter how seemingly light or frivolous, you better get a move on and go for it, at least if you can afford to do so.

Spontaneous Spice I truly am not--in fact, I was so worked up about winging this little adventure that I contemplated going into the bathroom before take-off and just giving a huge hurl to the porcelain gods to get the nervousness (or whatever) out of my system. But it all went fine, off without a hitch. No one died. No one went bankrupt. No one broke into my home while I was away and stole everything I own. My luggage didn't go missing and I didn't end up having to buy an entirely new wardrobe at H&M (dammit). And no one at my place of employment got bent out of shape because I planned not to be at work on Monday "on account of red eye." (A flight-induced ailment, as it happens.) All was calm, all was bright.

This time my occasionally adventurous spirit took me to Vegas to see the Spice Girls and, more importantly, to enjoy a great outing with friends, something I suspect I'll remember for years to come.

Where will yours (and your Visa) take you in the year to come?

A post as timely as my holiday cards

I promise, and I eventually deliver.

If you turn the wayback machine on this blog to December 24, 2007, you'll see my contribution to the growing canon of Christmas lore and queer theorizing.

You are so welcome.