Baby, Baby, Do it to Me, Rock Me

Ooh, Rock me Amadeus!Ooh, Rock me Amadeus!

Everyone's talking about today being the 250th anniversary of Mozart's birth. But who's talking about Falco?

Falco's 1986 No. 1 hit (arguably the first "rap" number one--according to our pals at Wikipedia) "Rock Me Amadeus" was unusual, funky, cool and educational. I particularly liked the "timeline" part of the song:

1756, Salzburg, January 27, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is born
1761, at the age of five Amadeus begins composing
1773, he writes his first piano concerto
1782, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart marries Constance Weber
1784, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart becomes a free mason
1791, Mozart composes "The Magic Flute"
On December 5th of that same year, Mozart dies
1985, Austrian rock singer Falco records Rock Me Amadeus!

Thank you, Falco! Remember, this was on the heels of the Oscar winning film Amadeus when everyone had Mozart fever. I credit Falco with teaching me pretty much everything I ever knew about Mozart.

I also liked the part of the song where the chick sang "Baby, baby, do it to me, rock me."

Falco himself had a tragic end--he died at age 40 in a horrible SUV accident in 1998.

An Amazing New Album

I just finished my first listening to Rosanne Cash's new album Black Cadillac, and I'm stunned. It's a remarkable piece of work that is one of the most gripping records I've heard in years. Get it. Download it. Do something. It's spellbinding.

I'll write more on this later. I need to listen to it again.

Proof That I Watch Too Much TV

In one of my most realistic dreams in weeks, I woke up in the early morning hours thrilled that I had been selected to appear on the new Doctor Who series!

Apparently there was a contest to decide who would appear in the BBC's second series of this long-running sci-fi show. Although I didn't win, actors Billie Piper (left) and Christopher Eccleston (who's no longer Doctor Who, but that's a different story) said they were upset I was not chosen, and made the executive decision to add me to the cast list.

Who knows what I'll be--a guest on the Tardis? An alien? Billie Piper's love interest? The Doctor's love interest? Who can say? Maybe I'll dream part 2 tonight.

Woke Up Singin': I Zimbra

What kind of day will I have if I wake up singing:

Gadji beri bimba clandridi
Lauli lonni cadori gadjam
A bim beri glassala glandride
E glassala tuffm I zimbra
Bim blassa galassasa zimbrabim
Blassa glallassasa zimbrabim
A bim beri glassala grandrid
E glassala tuffm I zimbra
Gadji beri bimba glandridi
Lauli lonni cadora gadjam
A bim beri glassasa glandrid
E glassala tuffm I zimbra

It's the Talking Heads, so who knows, really. This track opens their sublime 1980 album Fear of Music, and for years I assumed it was an African dialect. A little research revealed that they used a Dadaist poem by Hugo Ball as the lyrics for "I Zimbra," which is written in pseudo-African words.

Well, at any rate, once you hear this track, you don't forget it. It bounces, drives and chants its way into your head. Talking Heads were so far ahead of pretty much anyone at the time, and this album proves it. Always fresh and interesting, their work demands a closer listen.

But Jesus--when this song pulses through your head, who knows what kind of day you have in store. I'm anxious to find out...

The Most Beautiful Battle of All

The Smiths vs. the Cure. When my friend alerted me to this periodic dance event held at the Black Cat in DC, I responded instantly that yes, I was in.

So on Friday night, a group of us squeezed onto the dance floor at the Black Cat to the strains of the Cure's "How Beautiful You Are."

"I used to have a T-shirt that had all the lyrics to this song printed on it," I hoarsely cried to my compatriots, who nodded politely. I sang along to every goddamned song they played--one Smiths to one Cure seemed to be the formula (with a few classic Morrissey solo tracks thrown in for good measure). It was, as I pointed out to someone later, a "wet dream" for me.

"You and I have very different wet dreams," was his reply.

Well, clearly. But for a recently-turned 37-year old aging hipster, this was a nirvana I never thought I'd experience. In the last few years, I've reclaimed my late 80's tastes in music and embraced them with a passion to the point where I listen today almost exclusively to what I listened to at 19.

It's a function of "everything old is new again," to a degree, along with my steadfast stubbornness in accepting new music (unless I discover it myself). I hear new bands and comment on how much their sound is derived from such and such. It makes me a curmudgeon and frustrates my younger pals, but I have successfully introduced some of them to this glorious old 80s alternative catalog.

So armed with that emotional baggage, you can see that the Smiths v Cure night was the most fun I've had at a show in years. I jumped and twisted and stepped on everyone near me at least once. I screamed when they played "Interesting Drug" by Morrissey, because earlier that day I "rediscovered" it when it came up on my iPod shuffle. I stood mouth agape when they played "The Blood" from the Cure's Head on the Door. I secretly wished the DJ would lose his copy of the Cure's 1990 remix album Mixed Up, but other than that, the songs surprisingly blended very well and kept everyone moving.

It used to be that one couldn't be equally passionate for both bands. I distinctly remember in college, there was tension between die-hard Cure fans and their Smiths counterparts--one faction dark and quasi-goth (I never considered Robert Smith to be goth, per se, but that's another blog entry); the other moody, introspective, pale and thin. I was happy to bounce between the two--and to a degree I still do, though my body type has morphed from Morrissey's to Robert's through the years.

So who was I rooting for? Neither, really. But I will state for the record that the Smiths were the first of the two bands that I latched on to (to an almost frightening degree; I mean I lived the Smiths) at age 18. Their music changed my life, in the same way that Joni Mitchell's was to change it just a year later. And I don't throw that statement around lightly (although I am given to exaggeration).

Then when Disintegration hit in 1989, I was all over the Cure. I had more Robert Smith posters in my room than anyone should have and at least a dozen Cure T-shirts. God knows where or how I got them. The culmination of this mania took place in August of 1989, when I saw, on the same bill, the Pixies, Love and Rockets and the Cure at Giant Stadium. I wept openly when they took to the stage to the strains of "Plainsong," the first track from Disintegration. I was to repeat that reaction 11 years later when I saw Joni Mitchell take to the stage--and then again in 2004, when I saw Annie Lennox for the first time--and later that same year when I finally (after three thwarted attempts over two decades) saw Morrissey live in concert.

But on Friday night at the Black Cat, no tears were shed. It was a glorious night--and quite a revelation. I transported myself back to those days when listening to the Smiths in the middle of the Pennsylvania mountains was a private, insular experience during which I thought I'd never find anyone else who loved this music as much as I did.

Well, turns out I was wrong--and Friday night proved that people are still discovering this music and it's speaking to them. I don't feel so old now.