Overwhelming Colorfast
Moonlight and Castanets (Headhunter)
by Chris Adams
It’s all Dean Martin’s fault. O.K. I know I’ve said that a million times before (generally whenever I’m drunk and/or crooning flatly, watching my former friends scurry en masse towards Jack Kevorkian’s office) – but this time I mean it. I selected Moonlight and Castanets from the vast piles of unsolicited no-name indie-shit at the Lollipop offices solely on the strength of the album’s title and cover. Modeled after one of those original “space-age bachelor pad” albums, the cover art depicts two of my favorite things: Acouple of martinis and a burning cigarette–all bathed in the enchanting, wistful, golden glow of a single candle.
“Ahhh,” I thought, I’ll slip this one on the CD player, make a drink, and bask in the tuneless glory of some Velvet-Vegas yahoo doing his best to emulate the one, the only, the indomitable Dino.” When I slinked back to my swank little pad (just north of nowhere, Dad), I slid into my slippers, poured myself four neat fingers of Beam, mixed a side-car for Judy, my faithful inflatable girlfriend, ever at the ready, and was cruelly and violently affronted at what I heard emanating from my hi-fi. It was none other than your standard power-pop punk! Fuck, you can’t get away from this shit! Every corner you turn, there’s another alt. rock goon grinding out buzzaw riffs practicing his “riotous” “cathartic” guitar-hero leaps. Epileptic drummers are turning up in sandwiches. Throaty singers huskily groaning banal “boy loses girl” lyrics are more common than six-foot Carol Channings at Wigstock. What gives? Sure, this kinda stuff can be a nice shot of adrenaline, a mindless headlong rush into 3-minute pop oblivion, but just how much of it do we need? All these groups sound like a buncha frat guys whose parties you’d go to for the chicks and the beer, but the point is you wouldn’t follow them on tour. Hell, you wouldn’t cross the quad to see ‘em, y’know? Ya wanna know why these kinda bands pogo around the stage like kangaroos on hot coals? Why they have to set a speed record with the blustery fidget of their playing? It’s because, in their heart of hearts, they harbor this one terrifying secret: THEY’RE ALL THE SAME. They pray that if they whoop it up and fuss and holler enough, you won’t notice that their song is just a bland, unsubstantial piece of throwaway hoo-ha, which is exactly the same as all the other disposable hoo-ha on their record label run by some power-pop freak who built a shrine to Rockpile in his rumpus room and frequently consults Rodney Bingenheimer for hair-care tips. Enough already. (Judy, however, thought the record spoke to the “innermost existential horrors dwelling in the midnight of her soul.” Stupid bitch.)
