Yesterday, Carlos and I made the stupid, but necessary decision to finish Christmas shopping, which resulted in spending somewhere around five hours in my car heading up and down freeways and side streets between the Valley, the Westside and the South Bay (for those not from LA, that's the route to LAX, avoid it at all costs during the holidays). When the radio rotation of KXLU, KROQ, Indie, Jack KDAY on my presets proved no longer interesting, we popped in one of those Radio Soulwax bootleg cds that I spent too much money on at Amoeba a few years back.
"Uh-oh, I think I hear some 'Sunglasses at Night,'" Carlos remarked.
"Yeah, when was the last time you heard this at a club?"
A few years ago, I was playing between three and five nights a week and, outside of the all 1980s club, Tiga and Zyntherius' cover of "Sunglasses at Night" was a staple, just like "Emerge" (Fischerspooner), "Silver Screen, Shower Scene" (Felix da Housecat), "Fuck the Pain Away" (Peaches) and "Frank Sinatra" (Miss Kittin and the Hacker). For songs that were such major hits at the clubs, it seems odd that all have completely disappeared from the city decks. The lifespan of a hit song has certainly decreased.
While there are plenty of older songs that have never left my crate ("Blue Monday" is the obvious example, others include "Connection" from Elastica, "Personal Jesus" and "This is Radio Clash"), post-2000 numbers never seem to last more than a few months (exception can be made for certain songs that never cleared a dancefloor but never became major dance hits, as these songs can last for a few years). This seems to be a sign that perhaps the hype machine is moving a bit too quickly, that the buzz wears and the hit hangover begins before the artist can really resonate with an audience. Case in point: LCD Soundsystem. A band that is as good as this one live and whose singles, such as "Losing My Edge," packed dancefloors, should have crossed over with the release of its major label debut. It didn't.
Thinking back to my formative club years, I can recall tunes that lasted throughout the better part of the 1990s. I can also remember one particular track, "Silence" by Delerium featuring Sarah McLachlan, that was a club staple for a few years before it became a radio hit. However, before the dawn of the millennium, high speed internet connections and file sharing, it was damn hard to find a song. First, we would have to figure out what the song was, which meant either stalking the DJ booth or going to Vinyl Fetish when we knew one of the DJs was there to ask questions like: "What's that song with the sample from Carmina Burana?" (Answer: Apotheosis "Oh Fortuna") or "There's this song where a girl is singing 'Did I dream/You dreamed about me?' and then a guy shouts 'Who loves you and who do you love?' Um, what is it?" (Answer: Messiah "Temple of Dreams). After someone told us what the song was, we had to find it and that was no easy task even if we did go to specialty outlets. However, when one of us actually did manage to acquire one of the hits, that cd or record or cassette copy was handled like a Faberge egg.
This is the downfall of the democratization of music. When the majority of the crowd at the club knows what is cool before it makes it's first appearance over the soundsystem and when anyone with an Ipod can DJ, it lessens the impact of a song and even the club experience as a whole. The gut reaction to scream "I have to find this song" becomes an apathetic remark of "Yeah, I've had this MP3 for months. Whatever." The fact that one no longer has to trek across the city to find this song makes it automatically more likely to become disposable ("Eh, I'm sick of it. Delete."). It is, indeed, a sad age for music.

Maybe some day people will realize that there is more to Los Angeles than celebrity-dating DJs and spawn-of-celebrity artists, that there actually is a crop of solid music groups out here that really deserve a bit of attention.
Take Tender Box, for example. Last night at Spy Club, I had a chance to see the band for the first time since the name change (they used to be Silent Grey). Despite the technical difficulty that thwarted what sounded like it might be a cover of the Cure's "Never Enough," the band played a tight set. These guys have definitely grown as musicians over the years and have turned their style of guitar-heavy, schooled-on-the-Brits style of pop into something that is poised to make an impact soon. "Mister Sister" is a radio hit waiting to happen. I suggest you download it from the band's My Space page. But, you know, buy it at the merch booth if you get the chance to see them.
The Mojo Filters followed with another impressive set of 60s soul-influenced rock. These guys play at least once a week somewhere in the city. There is no reason not to go see them.
Bands aside, I had a really great time at Spy Club. Dia played House of Love for me, which was a nice treat. I ran into an old acquaitance, Eric, who informed me that his band Love Like Heaven (formerly Riah) is working on some new music in the vein of "the La's and Suede." I hope to check them out live sometime in the near future. Then I heard some pretty heavy duty gossip from another friend regarding bona fide rock stars, which I shall not repeat here because I like being a tease.

Sometime in the late-1990s, when I worked at KXLU, I became a fan of Sunshine Blind, a heavy goth rock outfit reminiscent of Fields of the Nephilim fronted by a girl whose voice could rival that of Beth Ditto or Lisa Kekaula. Sunshine Blind released a cover of "I Ran," a dead-on, guitar-powered rendition of A Flock of Seagulls' classic, that I played often on my show. One day, I got a phone call from one of those cranky 40-something rock dudes who never got the memo that punk went mainstream years before and that it's time to stop calling in to the local college station to complain about "you kids" not really "understanding the message." Punk Rock Dude started hollering at me over the phone for playing such a "reverent" cover of a song from a band that "KXLU never would have touched in the 1980s". It would be okay if this were an "ironic" cover, but, no, he could tell that this band "seriously loved" A Flock of Seagulls.
"Yeah, and irony is just for people who are too chicken to admit that they like stuff that isn't indie rock approved," I answered.
In the years that have passed, very serious people have managed to justify the existence of scads of artists that might previously be considered unhip. However, while it is now suddenly cool to admit liking American Idol winners, the new wave bands who topped the pop charts in the 1980s have yet to receive their due. In the case of A Flock of Seagulls, the band remains something of a punchline at the end of a nostalgia-filled commercial or one of those VH1 shows where terribly unfunny commentators flashback to their Flashdance youth.
Oh, dear reader, there is so much more to AFOS than gravity-defying hairstyles, turquoise jumpsuits and "I Ran." "Space Age Love Song," from the self-titled debut that spawned the band's signature track, is a good place to start with its celestial vocals and Moroder-style synths. "Telecommunication," though, might be my favorite off this debut, a perky, headbobbing synthpop piece similar to what one might find in the early work of OMD or Depeche Mode. You might also want to try "D.N.A.," winner of the Best Rock Instrumental Grammy in 1983.
Today, I spent a good chunk of my afternoon with Listen, the band's follow-up album, playing in the background. If you remember one slice of this album, it might be "Wishing (If I had a Photograph of You)," the ultimate beginning-of-the-party 1980s club jam with it's slow, steady beat and forlorn vocals. If you ever pick up this album (and I highly suggest you do), though, pay close attention to "Nightmares." Where many a band might go overboard with the horror-movie possibilities brought about by a song entitled "Nightmares," AFOS uses restraint with somber electronics and Mike Score's vocals conveying a dread of sleep without relying on overly dramatic phrasing. If you never thought to give AFOS more than a solitary cheer for "I Ran" now is your time to check out the early albums.

Year-end charts are everywhere right now and, if you have been keeping up on such lists, you might have noticed that many are virtually the same. Now, I'm not arguing with the top choices of 2005. I love Spoon's Gimme Fiction, Franz Ferdinand's You Could Have it So Much Better and Ladytron's Witching Hour. However, I wonder if there are some releases that have been overlooked by the critics and bloggers at large. Did the hype surrounding Fischerspooner in previous years morph into less of a backlash and more of a plain old apathetic reception of Odyssey? Does Depeche Mode just not matter to anyone outside of Depeche Mode fans? Were Constantines simply overshadowed by tourmates Hold Steady and labelmates Wolf Parade? Is Gomma's catalogue just too hard to track down in the States for anyone to care?
I don't have the answers to these questions. Maybe you do. Then again, maybe you don't. Regardless, I ask that you post the albums, singles, record labels, etc. that you think were overlooked this year in the comments section.

Whilst browsing the Internet in search of a contact email for Mr. Eggers so that I might follow D.'s advice and send a glowing fangirl email about how I want to go buy all of Big Country's early material after reading his Spin article (see post below), I came across this collection from McSweeney wherein writers reflect upon favorite songs. What is most exciting about this collection is an entry from Jonathan Shipley in reference to "The Chauffeur."
There is no Duran Duran song quite like "The Chauffeur." Sure, "Planet Earth" is the ultimate dance track, while "Girls on Film" and "Rio" are the Totally 80s standards from STAR 98.7 and then, y'know, there are so many other tracks that I'm sure most of know by heart. "The Chauffeur," though, is the official goth anthem. Actually, I don't know if it was ever dubbed an official anthem for LA goths, but damned if you went to a boo spooky club in the 1990s and didn't hear Simon pleading "sing blue silver" as the clock struck midnight. That's just the way clubs are. Sometimes you can set a watch by the playlist and, usually, that's not a compliment, but, sometimes, it's heart warming and when you're feeling all euphoric because you have danced to Kate Bush, Legendary Pink Dots, Marc and the Mambas and Siouxsie and the Banshees all in a row, you know you can die happy with a Duran Duran nightcap.

Having succumbed to the annual Christmas cold from hell, I spent the bulk of this past weekend catching up on some books of the music variety.
Generally, I'm a fan of Da Capo's Best Music Writing series, but the 2005 edition was trite. Guest editor JT LeRoy's introduction was irritating in that emo Live Journal fashion and the selection consisted of so much of that cliched, intellectual to pseudo-intellectual rock criticism that I actually started to believe that there might be a music journalism conspiracy wherein the editors and top critics meet in secret every year, decide what will be important and then write about that and only that for twelve-months straight. Hmmm, can you find any other way to explain Kanye West?
Anyhow, since the essays herein stem from 2004, most seem to be reflective of the trends and events of that year. There are two pieces on the significance of 1979, obituaries for Ray Charles and John Peel, and the obligatory reflections on Kurt Cobain and Bob Dylan. There are only two essays that really step outside of typical rock journalism and shed new light on artists that consistently overlooked: "The Shortwave and the Calling" from David Segal and "And Now, a Less Informed Opinion" by Dave Eggers. The latter is my favorite, a personal recollection of a fan's response to Big Country in connection with the band's career. Admittedly, I know very little about Big Country and most of what I know revolves around one video that was played on MTV a lot back when I was a wee lass. Eggers article gets to the heart of what made Big Country work and what was the band's demise, ultimately selling this now-obscure Scottish band to virtually anyone who reads the piece.
Encouraged by the visions of Scotland running through my head after reading the afore-mentioned article, I devoured Belle and Sebastian: Just a Modern Rock Story by Paul Whitelaw in under twenty-four hours. It seems odd that there actually exists a biography on Belle and Sebastian, after all, the band has only been around for a decade at this point and there isn't any scandal lurking in their history. But despite a lack of scandal (unless you consider Stuart M. and Isobel's breakup and the subsequent scathing B&S songs such as "Waking Up to Us"), Whitelaw pieces together a captivating history of the band. Especially interesting are the inclusion of letters written by Stuart Murdoch to the likes of Morrissey on the eve of Tigermilk's release. Morrissey never sent a response but, fortunately, John Peel and others took notice of the band's debut. Another noteworthy feature is the comprehensive discography, which also features a complete list of covers performed at live shows, radio performances, et cetera. If you're a Belle and Sebastian fan, pick up this book and prepare yourself for next year's album and tour.

"I hate this song. Yet, I can't help thinking of Stewie dancing to it in his Ipod commercial."
"I only know it from Family Guy."
"I remember it from when I was little. I hated it then too."
"Why?"
"'Shooting at the walls of heartache/Bang, bang/ I am the warrior' Even an eight-year-old could tell you that those were the worst lyrics ever."
"Oh, but she wants to tame your animal style."
"Stop it!"
"It's the bang, bang part. That's what makes the song terrible even by an eighth graders standards."
"Eight-year-old. It was 1984."

Are there songs more abysmal than "The Warrior?" I'm not sure. You can add your responses to the comments section.