03.10.15

On March 10th I listened to Buzzcocks Another Music In A Different Kitchen and Björk Vulnicura.

Did you know Buzzcocks’ seminal single “Orgasm Addict” never really appeared on a proper album? Yeah, it’s true. So, when you listen to a reissue of Another Music In A Different Kitchen, it’s thrown on there.

Buzzcocks are one of those pioneering UK punk bands that sound so fucking English if you didn't know what they looked like you might imagine an order of fish n’ chips wrapped in a newspaper and a bottle of malt vinegar performing the songs. It being lent and all, that sounds really good right now… I digress, they sound very English.

I’m pretty familiar with Operator’s Manual: Buzzcocks Best, but I don’t think I can say I've ever hit play on one of their albums. If you’re going to shoot a movie set in the early 80s and you have to do a scene in an indie record shop where the clerks are total twats, then Another Music In A Different Kitchen should be playing. I thought the name of the album was derived from the revolutionary sound of the band at the time of its release in 1978, but apparently it’s a play on a name of a picture some visual artist did back in the day. “Visual artist?” Reminds me of this scene from The Big Lebowski.

I like Buzzcocks. They’re a lot of fun to me, and I have a funny story how I came to be a casual fan. (More on that in a minute.)

I knew most of Another Music In A Different Kitchen going into this listen, even though I've never heard the album. Only five of the album’s eleven tracks aren't included on Operator’s Manual. So, I was hoping to find a gem of an album track or two. The uncharacteristically long “Moving Away From The Pulsebeat” was pretty much the only standout in that capacity and it mainly stood out mostly cause of its length.

“I Don’t Mind” is the superstar here and sticks out like an onion ring in your chips right in the middle of this debut album. It’s really the first time on this endeavor that the band sounds like more than the sum of their parts. The problem with a band like Buzzcocks is ultimately their “sound.” However interesting it might be, it’s just the same shit over and over again. The first five minutes is heaven, and each additional five minutes gets a little less exciting. Thirty minutes is about all you’ll need of Buzzcocks and then you can go listen to something else.

It was easy to just get acquainted with their greatest hits offering because of that fact. Throw a single Buzzcocks song onto any mixtape, pardon me… playlist, and it peppers it with flash of brilliance, throw a whole Buzzcocks album on and pretty soon it all starts to sound like the pieces to one long song. Too much of a good thing, I guess. Having said that, there are other bands guilty of that that I love, so it’s not like I don’t have the patience for a great outfit with a repetitive nature. (Repetitive nature is just a polite way of saying one-trick pony.)

I saw Buzzcocks play a 45-minute set at a big outdoor Festival in 1996 and it was absolutely perfect. Tight and quick! The band sounded great. The hits didn't stop coming and then it was all over. Done and done.

I suspect that if I listen to the band’s next two albums, they’ll be met with the same reaction from me. The songs that didn’t make their greatest hits collection, didn’t make it for a reason.

So, here’s a funny story that revolves around Buzzcocks.

In Buffalo, New York in 1992 we didn’t have a summer. July and August came on the calendar but the season of sun never bothered to show up. It rained and/or was chilly almost every day. By the end of July, people weren't happy and bored college students on summer vacation got restless.

That's the almanac from July 1992! Look at all those rain clouds.

I spent most of that summer crashing at my friend Joe Bagodonuts’ three bedroom apartment on Elmwood Avenue; it was the whole second floor of an old house. He had just rented the place with Frankenstein and The Hippy; both of whom were spending the summer at their mommies’ houses on Wrong Island and in Rochester, respectively. Because Bagodonuts was the primary resident that inaugural summer, the place was nicknamed The Donut Shop. I became the resident freeloader and slept in the Hippy’s room. Mostly because Frankenstein’s room was empty and there was a bed with a burlap sack for a blanket in the Hippy’s. (That September, while lying on that bed, wrapped in that burlap sack and tripping on acid I will see sound for the second time in my life. You can read about the first time I saw sound here.)

In January of 1990 I started working at 91.3 WBNY/Buffalo, the radio station at Buffalo State College. A one hundred and ten watt FM mono powerhouse! As “Buffalo’s Only Alternative,” WBNY didn't really have any competition. There wasn't anything like it in town. Classic Rock, Dirtbag Rock, Top 40 and Country were the big formats and everybody listened to those radio stations. If we were lucky down at 91.3 a couple hundred people listened to us. The average hot chick on Instagram or Twitter today has more followers than WBNY had listeners. My whole college life pretty much revolved around working at that radio station. It was my fraternity and I dedicated a lot of time to it.

Then one day, a couple of pirate radio clowns showed up and fucked up our apple cart.

Captain Coldsore and Toothpick took the Buffalo underground by storm. Amassing tens of listeners in just a few weeks with an unpredictable broadcast schedule and ever changing frequency. Their underground buzz was astounding, if you didn't factor in that nobody actually ever heard them. A lot of people just kinda heard of them.

Staffers at WBNY were not amused by their antics, mainly because they usually always broadcast close to or on our frequency of 91.3 megahertz. (I don’t even know if megahertz is the right word. It just sounded good.) Basically, sometimes when they signed on their signal bled all over us.

I simply didn't like them because they sucked! They’d set up a mic on a coffee table and would play quarters* for half an hour and then have lengthy discussions about how “important” the music they barely played was and blah blah blah… puke! They sounded exactly like 99% of every podcast that nobody listened to ever!

I like to think I was a world-class drunk in College. But, compared to my friend Joe Fisher (sic) I was barely semi-pro. He was/is your typical Irish drunk. He’d have a drink with Hitler himself, if it was after closing time and Adolph knew an afterhours spot. He really dedicated himself to drinking alcohol and it was that quality that led him to some out of the way places, drinking with a wide array of people… like Hitler. So, it wasn’t shocking that one night Fisher walked into the Essex Street Pub, at last call, with Captain Coldsore.

Our story takes place at this palatial shithole. 

Details of this evening are spotty at best, but after we got booted from the Pub, we headed to The Donut Shop in the wee hours of that damp summer's night. The guest list consisted of: me, Bagodonuts, Fisher, Coldsore and the downstairs neighbor, who may or may not have been named Kate. Luckily, the other downstairs neighbor was Maurice, a very elderly and deaf gentlemen.

The five of us clomped up the stairs, opened beers and plopped down in the living room. I threw on the new Ministry album Psalm 69: The Way To Succeed And The Way To Suck Eggs and mostly everyone was happy with the selection.

“I’m not a fan of Industrial music,” Coldsore said to nobody in particular. “It’s just cheap Metal.” His comment bounced around the room for a second before anybody else spoke… I soaked it in without acknowledging it.

After the initial merriment of the new venue and the new Ministry album wore off we all settled around the coffee table in the living room and began discussing whatever the bullshit topic of the day might have been. Maybe we talked about the 1992 Summer Olympics being held in Barcelona and the inclusion of NBA players on the “Dream Team,” which went on to win the gold. I dunno, maybe?

What I do remember very distinctly was as the late night powwow burned on, every time Joe or I got up to switch CDs, Captain Coldsore looked visibly moved to speak, but said nothing. Imagine Woody Allen lifting up his hand and opening his mouth about to say “excuse me,” but not a peep came out. It didn't matter anyway because Fisher was actively making requests that were being ignored. If I got on a tear, it was my way or the highway. I kept a strictly Industrial theme going: KMFDM, My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult, Front 242, et al. It was while I was throwing on “Supernaut” by 1000 Homo DJs that I finally looked over to Captain Coldsore. “What, dude? You wanna hear something?”

SNL's Kyle Mooney stole Captain Coldsore's whole shtick.

Coldsore was what I’d call a petite fellow. Dressed smartly in a white t-shirt, thrift store pullover sweater vest, tight black jeans and doofus brown shoes. He had dark curly hair, dark eyes and looked like he got punched a lot for flinching. His voice was as annoying as he looked.

“Do you have any Buzzcocks?” he asked as he noticeably perked up in his seat at the end of the couch. For most of the bullshitting that had happened in the last hour or so, he wasn't what I’d call a very vocal participant.

Nothing annoys people more than when you quickly and decisively dismiss something they’re passionate about.

“No. Buzzcocks suck” I nonchalantly said as I hit play on 1000 Homo DJs. Joe and Kate got up to go to the kitchen or bathroom and I stole the ratty armchair Kate had been sitting in. “Grab me a beer,” Fisher and I said in unison. Coldsore added a paltry “me too.”  

Completely unsolicited the good Captain began to talk about the history of the Buzzcocks and how some of their earlier works were highly influential recordings. He was lit up with a new passion that I hadn't seen all night. He was downright animated! It also explained that it's not The Buzzcocks. It is just simply Buzzcocks. 

I started feigning interest and asked a few dumb questions. “Where are they from? Do they sound anything like Frankie Goes To Hollywood? Was that Bob Geldof's first band? Is Buzzcocks English slang for dildo?"

Coldsore was busy explaining how Johnny Marr had changed his name to avoid confusion with the Buzzcocks’ drummer when Joe, entering the room with an armful of beers, followed up with “didn't Johnny Marr play harmonica on their last album?”

When Joe and I fucked with somebody, a lot of the time they just thought we were a couple of idiots. A known accomplice of ours, Fisher was fully aware of what we were up to.

“I’d love to hear these guys!”

“It’s too bad that we don’t have one of their records here!”

As luck would have it, the Captain had a copy of Singles Going Steady in his bag, which he was very happy to produce.

Kate let out a moan of dismay. She had been asking for Tom Cochrane’s “Life Is A Highway,” for a long time and under normal circumstances would never have heard it, but she ran downstairs for her copy and we let her have her moment. Joe, Kate, and I danced and sang along, quite loudly, to Mr. Cochrane… twice. Immediately afterwards, Joe remembered Johnny Marr wasn't on a Buzzcocks record!

“He played on The The Mindbomb! Oh, we should listen to that!” And we did!

That led to a mini-marathon of The Smiths with multiple CD changes. Every time we pulled out the disc and loaded up another one, Coldsore would shift in his seat and look down at his lonely Buzzcocks disc sitting on the coffee table. He eventually picked it up and cradled it in his loving arms. There wasn't much this kid could do that wouldn't annoy me. 

Fisher intervened, grabbing the disc from Captain Coldsore and suggesting we “throw on some Buzzcocks! I wanna hear “What Do I Get?” He started singing the song and thrust the CD out for me or Joe to grab.

We reluctantly agreed to play it. As Joe was loading it up in the player, Coldsore started preaching again. “Singles Going Steady, like its name implies isn't really a proper album, but a compilation of singles released by the band.”

“Like a greatest hits album?” I asked. Joe shouted “greatest hits albums are for housewives and little girls!” We then spend the next twenty minutes searching a six hour VHS tape (Recorded on the EP setting.) full of episodes of The Kids In The Hall looking for a sketch entitled “Into The Doors.”

Immediately after the sketch, we ask Coldsore who plays bass for The Buzzcocks and he named like four or five guys. Then in the spirit of the sketch admit that “we don’t feel right listening to a greatest hits album” and maybe should wait to get one of their earlier albums first.

Coldsore then explained that Another Music In A Different Kitchen was currently out of print. The evening hit its tipping point with that tidbit of information. 

“Out of print?! You know what that means?!” I surmised. “I was right. They do suck. They suck so bad literally nobody ever wants to hear them.”

“No, Brad! That’s not true. It just means they sold out. They’re sold out? Right, Coldsore?” Joe offered sarcastically, yet with a hint of diplomacy.

“How can that be? To sell out don’t they need to be commercial successful first?”

“No,” Joe offered to explain. “They sold out.”

“Oh, so everybody that wanted one of their shitty records got one and then they were all out of them?”

“Yes!”

“You know what should be out of print? Girl, You Know It’s True by Milli Vanilli.”

“You can’t buy that album anymore,” Joe scuffed.

“Nah, I just saw it in the 99 cent bin at the grocery store,” I said. “That’s fucked up, Coldsore. I can buy a Milli Vanilli CD for a dollar and you can’t get your hands on The Buzzcocks first album cause it's out of print! What a world!”

I repeated “what a world” several times as I got up and walked to the bathroom.

The early morning light of a solidly overcast gray day was now illuminating the apartment as I walked to the bathroom. No sooner than I started pissing I heard a bit of a kerfuffle coming from the living room; some raised voices and rapid feet shuffling. I had a very heavy beer stream going, so I couldn't discern anything specific over my whiz. I knew I had started a shitstorm and couldn't wait to finish pissing to see the damage.

When I was zipping up, I heard somebody calling somebody else “a fucking asshole” and that was followed up with the hollow thud of what I figured to be somebody getting pushed up against a wall. When I finally got back out there, the party had moved into what would be considered the dining room and Joe had indeed pushed Coldsore up against the wall. He was holding him in place with his left hand and trying to open a nearby window with his right. Fisher and Kate were just standing there. Kate attempted to defuse the whole situation with a very stern “c’mon guys!”

“You’re little dick, you know that?” Joe muttered in a forced manner that would suggest he was having a bit of a struggle.

“You know what we do with little dicks around here? That’s right… out the fucking window.”

I stood there for a few seconds, soaking up the scene and watching Joe labor to get that window open. He had the window up, but was now struggling with the screen. He finally just pushed it out and it sailed down to the walkway below.

Fisher was no help. He had upped the ante on Kate’s “c’mon guys” to “knock it off, guys!” It didn't matter, he was way more curious to see somebody get thrown out of a second floor window and I have to admit I was right there with him. This story would definitely have a better ending.

Captain Coldsore bounced off the wooden fence separating the restaurant parking lot from the side walkway of the house and crashed onto the asphalt in a bloody heap of broken bones and bruised flesh. Joe Bagodonuts was charged with felonious assault and is currently serving six to ten at Chino. The End.

It quickly became apparent that Coldsore was way too squirrelly for Joe to actually get out of the window and they were both losing steam fast. Kate used the opportunity to say, “I guess I’ll see you guys later,” and left. The whole episode went from white-knuckle anticipation to fairly hilarious slapstick to a pathetic heavy breathing pushing match in about a minute.

It was time to call it a night. I grabbed the Singles Going Steady CD and went over to where Joe and Coldsore were playing grab-ass by the window.

“Hey! Asshole! Here you go!” I said as I threw the CD case out the window like a Frisbee. It landed flatly in the parking lot next door and slid under a car. “GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Coldsore wrestled himself away from Joe and grabbed his purse.

“I’m totally knocking ‘BNY off the air tonight. You’ll see!” the good Captain screamed as he marched out the door and slammed it as hard as his one hundred and fifty pound frame could muster.

Joe and I just stood there staring at Fisher.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” he said before pounding the last of his beer. “He’s my ride.”

He was just out the door as a loud “fuck you” echoed through the window from the parking lot below.

“Well, I’m going to bed. Nighty night,” Joe said and vanished into his bedroom. It was somewhere around seven a.m.

When I got up the next afternoon. Joe was sitting on the front porch, drinking a coffee and listening to music. I emerged outside and asked him what he was listening to. He pointed the CD player remote into the window and started the disc from the beginning. “Orgasm Addict” began to pour out of the speakers.

“Buzzcocks?”

“Yeah! They’re really fucking good!”

The CD was in the player and I never checked the case before I threw it out the window.

*Quarters is a drinking game where you bounced a quarter into a shot glass so as not to drink more alcohol.

If you’re looking for something dark and boring to listen to while you read a shitty book about vampires or BDSM this is your album!

What happened to this wild woman?

Tomorrow I listen to Radiohead Amnesiac and Thom Yorke Tomorrow's Modern Boxes.