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December 12, 2017


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BRIAN BARRY'S TREASURE REVIEW FROM THE PAST:
The Spent Poets (Geffen Records)

By: Brian Barry

The Spent Poets - 1992 Geffen Records.

Songs: Mr. Einstein; My Useless Heart; Your Existential Past; Greassheads; Special; Dogtown; You Can't Kill Michael Malloy; Walt Whitman's Beard; He's Living with His Mother Now; Ali Ali Ackbar; The Rocks in Virginia's Dress; You Don't Know Me; Why are You Sleeping with MR. Brown?; A Bad Case of Melancholy.

What do you do when it's humid and 87 degrees in an upstairs apartment (with no air conditioning) which is also home to a kitten that shits diarrhea in the shower? You read the Voice , smoke, drink a beer and listen to jazz. Or some other CD. Or the night. Or you read your poetry down at the cafe where nonpoets hang out when the diner is closed and kids half your age, who have actually have nothing to say but the shit-eating words they spit on paper, don't even listen - they talk on mom's cell phone.. NO SOUL! BROTHER! (snap snap of my fingers - down with the black wet stuff).

Well, there ya go.

This week's most listen to CD was the one I bought for $4.99 up in Albany at Rin's price CD world. I would have bought a new release, but I couldn't find Rin's FULL price HALF TALENT Cd World. Don't get me started AGAIN. The CD I speak of is a great collection of ditties put out in 1992 by "The Spent Poets". Listen to it will ya? You guys have no idea what talent is and I'm here to play Dr. Barry, Music Ph.D. This thing was recorded on an 8-track in a dude's bedroom and it sure as hell kicks Smash Mouth's Gatorade and MM theme song's ass 7 years later. If I were a DJ in this shabby world, I would play these two songs (songs that should be the staple in every aspiring pop star or young budding music fanatic's diet) : "Your Existential Past" and "Walt Whitman's Beard".

"Your Existential Past" is the type of song, full of continuous groove bass and strummy acoustic, that you MUST play when you are driving too fast on an empty highway after you broke up with that bitch (or bastard) that plagued your life for the last few months, years, etc. "Sitting on the hillside, cursing the infinite in the daytime of your lifetime. All she did was watch television, television." Think about how many slobs you know who do that in the daytime of their lifetimes. As for "Walt Whitman's Beard" - at first, this song sounded kind of weak but the chorus is f-ing phenomenal and is truly a great piece of work. DO I get paid for this stuff? Lemme check my rolodex for Dave Geffen's number. The lyrics in this song are well thought out (Taking notes Present-day Mtv regulars?) and the beginning is sung so eloquently (vocals alone with a distant picked guitar) - here's a sample: "Hell's a golf course that sways like a druken sailor in tropicana breezes and everyone there has day-glow suntans. And people try too hard to look like Mr. Sammy Davis Jr and Jesus tends the green - the tips fall through his hands." I just got that about Jesus - damn I'm slow - get it? The holes? Then this chorus boys and girls!!! High falsetto tumbler "scratch that itch baby right there" vocals, "Throw my ashes right up to the wind and let that motion be a metaphor! That I might travel right back in time and rest my head on , Walt - Whit- Man's, Walt Whitman's Beard." It's like a Beatles march with violens and better singers (screw the Beatle fan flack - here's a bone to you guys-I love Revolution #9 and play it over and over again while I drive four hours to Boston). Anyhow. Well, go out and get it kiddies-I found it for under $5 - I'm sure you can. It's a great album and you need some culture. Woodstock was over 30 years ago and you need to realize that no matter how much Abercrombie and Fitch you wear or hate your hurl or trailers you burn, you're not going to feel what Mom and Dad (or for some of you saps-Gramma and Grandpa) felt in those loving years. Pay attention to Musical history-it passes by quicker than a new act in this world.

My next review? MTV's Jesse Camp's new album. Shit, I'll give it to you now: There are thousands of bands breaking their ass nightly eating shit for cereal and this poor excuse for a retart gets a contract because he's a VJ. I'd rather be draped in porkchops scraping a fork on a blackboard in a room full of pitbulls. Hold on, I'm getting ill with anger. Read this book kiddies: "The Death of Common Sense." I forgot the author's name, but I'm sure a search on Amazon.com will get you there. By doing so, you'll know where I'm coming from (My dream : I hope you already know). See ya next time boys and girls. Feel free to e-mail!

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