CLASH CITY CROCKERS

While some Clashoholics have been drinking to the strains of Joe Strummer's newest little audio firecracker, the ones with taste have avoided the B.A.D. brew by launching tried-and-true bottle rockets like The Clash, Give 'Em Enough Rope, and London Calling. For these fire-starters, Epic/Legacy's decision to upgrade and remaster the entire Clash catalog (sans the Mick Jones-less Cut The Crap) should've set the July night sky aflame. Instead, the manner in which Epic chose to set one prime bomb adrift backfired with the alacrity of a cap gun.

As many of you know, the first Clash album was released in 1977. Since the label felt that the record would be met with American indifference (i.e., "too British"), The Clash was only available in the U.K. as a domestic offering. As an English import, the album sold roughly 150,000 copies in the United States. Two years later (the band was on record #3 at this point), The Clash washed upon American shores as a refurbished vessel. With slightly altered cover graphics, the U.S. version contained five songs ("Clash City Rockers," "Complete Control," "White Man In Hammersmith Palais," "I Fought The Law," and "Jail Guitar Doors") not found on the U.K. release. The American overhaul also subtracted four cuts ("Deny," "Cheat," "Protex Blue," and "48 Hours") from the original U.K. pressing. Though there existed a 10-track overlap between the two albums, The Clash saw the U.K. and U.S. items as two completely different things. Therefore, when The Clash remasters came out earlier this year, the band decided to reissue its first album in both English and American editions.

"The band's thinking was, 'This is the way we made the album for the U.K., and this is the way we made it for the U.S., and that's it,'" reissue producer Bruce Dickinson, pointing out that it was The Clash's and not Legacy's decision, told ICE MAGAZINE #160.

Such a cut-and-dry response rang hollow to many a Clash enthusiast. One concerned "career opportunist," Eric Levy of Illinois, expressed his displeasure in this E-mail to ICE: "I went to buy the newly re-released Clash albums, and was disappointed at how they chose to release the band's first album...Wouldn't it have been preferable to put all the songs from both versions on a single CD, with the song sequence explained in the liner notes? That way, people could program the disc however they wanted...I'm saddened that they felt they had to resort to this kind of rip-off tactic."

Back to Dickinson: "If you took either one of those first albums and put the other's songs on as bonus tracks, it would sort of conflict with their reasoning for not putting bonus tracks on any of the other releases -- which they could've done. But they felt it would've taken away from the total effect of what each album was."

Preserving the original vinyl statements may be seen by purists as a sign of integrity ("what The Clash have always been about..."). To those unadorned with a "punk-rock security blanket," however, The Clash's decision was more in keeping with AOR geezers Pink Floyd or Yes (that "total effect" comment could've easily been said by Roger Waters or Jon Anderson) than with anything anti-establishment. And why not? They've acted like Chicago in the past by forging Sandinista! (a huge mess of a triple album whose worthy tracks would've made a decent EP) on an unsatisfied public. Maybe it's an English thing, but most Americans have a hardy appetite and would happily chomp on bonus-track morsels. The Brits can be so dainty when it comes to consumption ("I'll have just the tea and not the cookies."), whereas Americans forever have hunger pangs ("Gimme the tea, the cookies, the pastries, the fruit, the cake...and a dozen of them there doughnuts!"). Past catalog reissues from notables like XTC, Motorhead, Joan Jett, Cheap Trick, and Motley Crue have kept a few extra treats in the refrigerator cold, much to a bedtime snacker's delight.

As such, the missing sweets from the U.K. album would've been a flavor enhancer to the U.S. record (and vice versa), creating an overall tastier recipe. Still, if you choose to partake in either as-is portion, nibble on this Clash crumb from VH1 Online: "But there are far worse ways to help turn rebellion into money. You could buy a Limp Bizkit record, for instance."

American Hi-Fi - The Art Of Losing (Island, 2003)

Why isn't "The Breakup Song" (not to be confused with Greg Kihn's beery-eyed anthem from two decades prior) #1 on the charts? With a radio-friendly hook and similarities to "Flavor Of The Weak" ('specially in the chorus) from its first album, A Hi-Fi's so-long-you're-gone statement should have spirited teens all 'round singing, "It's over/We're over/Just like in 'Crimson And Clover.'" But alas, the chances of that happening are equal to an ex-girlie returning borrowed music ("One more thing before you go/Would you please give me my records back?/My Bloody Valentine, the Pixies, Cheap Trick, and Back In Black"). The dude must've loaned her Trick's self-titled, because "Built For Speed" is shaped like Zander and friends' "He's A Whore." "Save Me" and "This Is Sound" suggest that the girl's hoarding a forgotten-about copy of Smashing Pumpkins' Gish. The title track cops some lyrical feels from the 'Mones and Kim Wilde, reminding both of the fun times in their relationship. Will the kids in America warm to American Hi-Fi's quality brand of above-ground pop-rock? Hey ho, let's hope so.

The Strap-Ons - $4 Whore (Naked Jain, 2003)

More twisted thoughts from the mind of Tidewater's most outgoing calculus teacher -- Brian D. Diederich (known to shiftless, SOL- challenged drunk punks as Idle). The ginch who's "pulling tricks and doing hits at the dollar store" on the title track is later found making change inside the "OV Love" shack ("Kneeling in piss, just a little kid with lipstick and tights/Ocean View -- they're only dudes in dresses wearing spikes..."). Having saddled his/her last Trojan horse minutes earlier, the tranny doesn't take chances and gets a "Glad Baggy" across the next piece of raw hide ("I had no rubbers, honey/It was after two/I said, 'look girl'/I think I'll go home with you/
Slide my jockey in"). While counting post-coitus pennies (all 400 of 'em), the TV shows a bit of a political side on "Replace Me" ("Only cloned from good genes/Generations much more clean/History for what it seems now/Drone-like workers happy now") and "Johnny Jihad" ("A Toyota truck just got stuck/Someone call the CIA/Try to change the human race/Someone blew up the USA"). Not to worry, though -- the pre-op's CNN broadcasts around-the-clock Circle Jerks and Sloppy Seconds. Group sex. Wild in the streets. "Traci" will be the one wearing a Paula Zahn wig. See you on Chesapeake Blvd.

My Dad Is Dead - The Engine Of Commerce (Vital Cog, 2003)

One might attempt lumping MDID with The Strokes and Interpol as wunderkinds offering dated-yet-fresh approaches to post-punk. Though Mark Edwards drives a '96 Saturn with similar horsepower as the aforementioned's rides, he's been renting company cars from Factory Records since '84. On MDID's eleventh (judging by AMG's vehicle history) release, Edwards once again turns on the radio and tests the transmission. "All We Want" downshifts Ian Curtis' spoken-not-sung vocalisms with fluid contemplativeness. "Stories Left Untold" is Mission Of Burma in fourth gear while Edwards strips an honest admission ("What I've learned/After forty years of living/Is I've got a lot to learn"). "Physical Fitness" wonders if the loaner from Hertz has "the right equipment." Like autos serviced by Jiffy Lube, MDID is a well-oiled machine.

SONG NUMBER ONE IS A "FUCK YOU" SONG

On April 9, 2001, radio station 93.7 The Coast had an interesting three-song lineup for its "Theme Park." Since you asked, that's a segment where the DJ plays a trio of selections. Then, the listener has to determine how all of the tracks tie together.

This particular merry-go-round had The Who's "Who Are You?", Alanis Morrisette's "You Outta Know", and Pearl Jam's "Jeremy" as horses waiting to be saddled. With the rotation complete, caller #1 thought the cuts were found on each band's respective first album. Think again. The second guesser was closer to the mark -- "They all have the F-word bleeped out." Actually, only Morrisette's number was censorship-shaped ("Are you thinking of me when you ---- her?"). The Who ("Tell me, who the fuck are you?") and Pearl Jam ("Seemed a harmless little fuck") penetrated the FCC walls with relative ease. This fact was pointed out by the on-air personality. Nevertheless, she deemed caller #2's conjecture to be acceptable, and the prize of two tickets for Edwin McCain And The Ultimate Spiral Fries was soon in the dialer's hands.

FCC's thoughts concerning "Theme Park" were saved till later on.

Hardee's Chicken Filet Biscuit

A friend of mine I've never met named Shawn once wrote that McDonald's should close their doors after 12 noon, for he felt the breakfast choices were the only edible items posted on the menu board. By and large, this suggestion is agreeable to me, though I've been known to scarf down late-night snacks of Quarter Pounders and fries when they've been priced right at 99 cents. On the other hand, I've avoided dinner time at Hardee's ever since my mom and a friend's madre had gotten extremely sick upon finishing roast beef sandwiches. Until I furnished a "Buy One Crispy Chicken Sandwich, Get One Free" coupon last Thursday, it had been over four years since I'd darkened the doorway amongst the lunch 'n' dinner crowd. Besides tainted meat, two Hanson brother-lookin' (think "Slap Shot," not the MMM... Boppers) jack-offs who had worked at the Kempsville Road location weren't exactly Emerils BAMMING to serve you a meal. From overheard conversations between the two at nearby computer terminals, the Hansons had been:

1)Living behind a dumpster at Woodstock Elementary,
2)Planning a trip out of town to "bang some bitches,"
3)Avoiding court-ordered child-support payments to their exes, and
4)Wondering where they could "score some weed."

Well, they must have acquired new-old beds, married some Jefferson Avenue hookers from Nippert News, paid their kiddies in Fixin's Bar annuities, and sucked on fat doobies, because I haven't seen the bros for damn near 18 months now. Their welcomed absence was my cue to order some "bretfast." Waving yet another 2-for-1 paper slip, I did exactly that.

Unlike the clucker sandwiches I'd resigned myself to intaking, these were carefully prepared by cooks who somewhat give a damn about what they're dishing out. Guess if you have to report to work at 5 AM, you're more likely to take pride in your tasks than two hockey goons passed out drunk on their Mattress Discarders. The chicken pieces were generous and had a pleasing spicy flavor, while the biscuits were warm and flaky. Every bite was an enjoyable one. Surprisingly, they were better tasting than the last two counterparts I'd had at Chick-Fil-A (different poultry stock from their most-famous creation?). I'll oftentimes add a dollop of mayo on the chicken, but I decided against doing so in order to capture the true flavor. With the last several bites, I was satiated, smiling, and ready to go about my day. Not at all a bad deal for $2.41; however, that total was computed with the coupon and sans beverage (I'd brought my own Deer Park water from the homestead). No way would I've forked over $4.38 (plus 10% food tax...in a resort town!) under normal conditions, but I had no problemo with my adjusted-figure meal. As far as Hardee's P.M. chicken offerings go, stick with those found at the "Never on Sunday" establishment.

DOING THE CURL

Thanks to the 3,650,000 televised hours of these Oh-Limp-Ick Games, I now have an obsession with a sport previously unwatched by me.

Curling could be described by the casual observer as a hybrid of darts, horseshoes, hockey, and custodial engineering. Each four-person team has eight tries per end (similar to an inning in baseball). One person (whom I'll call "the stoner") pushes a 42-pound chunk of finely shaped granite across the sheet (what the playing area is referred to as) without going over the hog line. As the stone makes its way to the bulls-eye, two teammates with brooms (known as sweepers to me and many others) follow alongside. Their function is to either smooth the ice in front of the rolling rock (which increases distance) or let the stone travel uninhibited (mainly as a defensive strategy for positioning). The fourth individual (also holding a broom) stands around the target and brushes the surface to guide offensive boulders or misdirect defensive rolls. After each side has passed eight rocks, points are scored by the team whose stones in the target are closest to the center (I've seen teams score as many as four points an end). Often, an entire end is scoreless because a team will knock an opponent's rocks outside the circle (where the horseshoe comparison is most apt). When ten ends are completed, whichever side has the most scoring stones is the winner.

As of 2/16/02, the Ewe Ess curling dudes have defeated Sweden (a power in the sport); lost to Canada, Germany, and Sweden; and stomped Switzerland. Those in the know say we'll have to sweep (HA! HA!) our remaining four matches to get any chance at a medal. If the Ewe Ess Aye fails to bronze, I'll move to Minnesota and be joined by fellow curler Tim Willig. Once there, we'll spend hour after hour sweeping and stoning the 10,000 available ponds. When not training, Tim and I will aggressively promote our new passion via innuendo-laced bumper stickers ("Curlers...Do It From End To End!"), impromptu sponsorships ("You're damn Skippy Peanut Butter we're gonna bring home the bronze in Oh-Sixx!"), and Jesse Ventura ("These two gentlemen of sound body, sound mind, and sealed spirit represent everything that is so great about Minnesotans"). Paul Westerberg, Bob Mould, and Kirby Puckett ("great Minnesotans" all) have promised a third-place party upon our if-successful-but-not-too-successful return home. Billing themselves as The Twin Twins, Minneapolis' favorite sons will play any of Tim's or my requests ("as long as they're not Grant Hart-penned numbers," Puckett warns). Also, the two long-legged femmes from the TV show "Let's Bowl!" told us they'll be ours for Return-To-Minn night, providing that they can wear our medals.

Hey, ladies: We'd like for you both to have a bumper sticker.