So I will permanently be here, for those two or three people who found me again.

and always here, in some form or other.

So I will be here until then.

Here's an idea of how long it's been since I've done this. Remember my daughter?

Yea, she's all grown up now. Driving.

Time flies.

Meanwhile, you can find me, as usual, over at Faster Than The World.

Much like my backyard. A simple thing like putting in a patio has resulted in The Great Backyard Overhaul. This is where we are at so far (if you click on the pics, you can see the commentary about what's going on).

Today is woochipper and stump grinder day. Fence estimate guy comes tonight. I'm ridiculously excited about this. I have discovered that I love yardwork. Not planting flowers yardwork, but ripping out trees and lopping the the branches and bushes into twigs and things like that.

A lot happens in a year.

Maybe I feel like writing about it.

maybe.

Meanwhile, I'm still here. and Here.

Yes, I am aware the comments don't work. I need to get this place refurbished. You can always drop me a line.
michele.catalano@gmail.com

25 years ago tomorrow, I was sitting in the backyard listening to the radio when I heard the news. I went inside and found my mother in her room, making her bed.

"Hey, mom. Guess you won't be going to that Elvis concert next week."
"What?"

"He's dead."

I may have snickered, I don't know.

Mom ran into the bathroom and turned on the little radio she kept in there. I remember the voice. I remember the exact sound of the tinny, staticy voice that relayed the news to my mother in a much softer way than I did.

Elvis was dead.

My mother's eyes filled with tears and despair while her face registered only that small "o" one's mouth makes when they hear shocking news. That "o" stayed there for a while, but the despair in her eyes had become hard and angry. She was pissed at me.

How could I have told her like that, knowing that she idolized Elvis in a pure, passionate way? How could I do that? What kind of daughter was i?

Well, I was fourteen. That's my only excuse.

I was a fourteen year old whose mother made fun of her own idolization of another self-obsessed, overly dramatic singer who similarly became a bloated replica of himself. And later, dead and bloated. Maybe it was my way of evening up the score.

My mother had this friend Noreen. Noreen was the largest woman I ever knew. Not just heavy large, but tall and wide and her hair was piled up on her head so she looked even taller. Her voice roared even when she whispered and her sneezes were legend in the neighborhood, said to be heard from at least three blocks away. She wore mumus and housecoats and tons of hairspray and sometimes she wore an ugly fur coat that made her look like a small woodland creature was nesting on her shouler.

Noreen and my mom were the Elvis duo. They worshiped him. They loved him. They knew everything about him and owned everything to do with him including Elvis commemorative plates and I think one of them had an Elvis wristwatch.

I grew up with Elvis's hips grinding in my face and his voice grinding in my ears and I have to admit that at some point, I realized what the attraction was. When I would lay in bed on summer nights, trying to sleep while my mother and Noreen and the rest of their crew played Pinochle in the kitchen and had Elvis on the stereo, I knew. His voice would come drifting into my room and I could feel the sensuality, the danger, the passion that lied within his words.

I would never tell anyone this, of course. I went about my daily business of bowing before Jim Morrison and Robert Plant and never let on that I thought Elvis was cool. Especially to my mother. That would just ruin the taut, tenous relationship that we both thrived on. Who was I to break the rite of passage of mother-teenage daughter bitterness and anger?

Noreen and my mother were going to see Elvis in August, 1977 at the Nassau Coliseum. They had seen him many times before but this one was special. They had a feeling this would be his last tour ever.

They were like little giddy school girls in the weeks leading up to the show. Sometimes my mother would take out her ticket and look at it. As I write this I realize that my mother was 39 at the time. The same age I am now. When I was fourteen, 39 was old and withered and wrinkled. 39 was too old to be getting worked up over a hip-shaking idol. Yet, here I am at 39 and I'm not old or withered or wrinkled and I would certainly get worked up over my hip-gyrating idol.

She was so happy. And I crushed her world. It would have been a much softer blow if it came from Cousin Brucie or Uncle somebody on whichever oldies station she was listening to. It would have been a bit easier to take if her teenage bag of hormones didn't make some smarmy remark about dying like a fat, beached whale.

When Noreen found out we heard her from two blocks away, bellowing and carrying on. Her booming voice sounded through the neighborhood like a siren, a mourning call for all Elvis fans in East Meadow to gather on her lawn and weep.

Not really. But it was something like that. I don't think my mother ever told Noreen the way in which she found out about the death of their hero. I probably wouldn't have lived to tell this tale if she knew. She would have kicked my ass all over town.

When Noreen died, my first thought was that she would finally get to see Elvis again. My second was that I was now safe from my mother ever spilling the beans to Noreen about my youthful indiscretion.

25 years later,my mother still has not forgiven me. Maybe that's what drives every argument we have, every nit-picky little fight we endure. Maybe she's still mad at me. I know she still resents it, still thinks about because yesterday she told my daughter that I laughed at her when Elvis died.

I didn't laugh. I may have snickered a little. Maybe.

I sent an email to my mother this morning:

I'm sorry, mom. I'm sorry I told you like that. But in a way it's your fault for making me sit through Viva Las Vegas and Jailhouse Rock, for forcing that horrid "In the Ghetto" on my ears, for making me tried fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

It's been 25 years, mom. I promise to play Elvis at my wedding next week if you promise to get over it already. Deal?

Maybe I should reword that.

This is all that remains, the archives are no longer accessible.

Please visit the new, improved weblog: Faster Than the World where the turtle and I will continue to blog about punk rock and fast cars and whatever else strikes us at the moment.

If you have asv linked on your blog, please update the URL to http://fasterthantheworld.com and note the name change.

See you at the new place!

[you can't leave comments here because the archives are closed, but feel free to come on over to fttw and talk to us]

Today's selection brings you one of the greatest American music recordings ever made: The Supersuckers' Evil Powers of Rock and Roll.

"Adrenaline drips off the frets like week-old bongwater...**** (4 stars)!!" --Guitar World... ...Honestly, the Supersuckers are the greatest live band Seattle has seen sinceJimi was playing street fairs and Heart was covering Led Zeppelin I and II at the Aquarius.

Turtle goes first:

One of the first times I heard this album was right before the tour. They were selling it outside a coffee house where you could get coffee and beer and the same time. Wanna see a fucked up crowd? Sell them caffeine and alcohol. Feed them a little nicotine and you got the makings of either a fucked up crazy show or a riot of kids screaming for one more shot of espresso in their beer cause tonight is the only their parents will let them go out. And if they were gonna go out, they better break something cause tomorrow is a school day.

This album makes no excuses and makes no friends. It does what it does and walks away.

The music grabs you. They are so cock rock. A Texan band living in Seattle. They had the cards there. The music showed it. Something in there came out and said "hey dude, this is cocaine, this is wine, take a big slug cause the dope is mine."

They were new and neat and before they went all cowboy on my ass, a great band to see. This is the best Supersuckers album there is. It makes you remember what rock and roll is, balls hanging out throwing cans at your neighbors, and saying "fuck you" to the world..... Hard driving, broad finding, beer drinking, tv watching, dice throwing, card playing, rock and roll. And if you don't like it. Fuck you. This is who they were. And if you don't like it you can always go buy another album. They will be there when you come back.

Great album. Great rock. Welcome to Texas, motherfucker. Get a hat and grab a beer cause it all gets hard from here.

-T

If anyone ever tells you rock is dead, just sit them down and make them listen to Evil Powers of Rock and Roll. This is the kind of music that makes you believe there is life after nu-metal and emo and boy bands, that there is no such thing as the day the music died, that the negative aura left by every niche and novelty rock band out there can’t kill rock and roll because as long as the Supersuckers exist, rock and roll will still be around to kick ass and take names.

This is the kind of album playing in the background of a heated poker game where large, mustached men in denim vests and ten gallon hats drink moonshine and accuse each other of cheating and occasionally pull out a six shooter to make a point.

It’s a Saturday night driving up and down the main highway in town, half of it spent giving the finger to people who have nicer cars than you, the other half spent throwing empty Budweiser cans out the window and yelling drunken obscenities at the girls lingering in the Burger King parking lot.

It’s music that belongs on a half warped cassette tape that you shove into the tape deck of your 20 year old car and you sing out loud along with it as your car backfires almost in time to the songs.

It reminds you at once of the lights of Vegas, of dirt roads, of Satan and deserts and bar fights and motorcycles. It’s rock and roll, Texas style. And it’s one of the best damn albums ever put down on vinyl.

-M

Evil Powers of Rock and Roll
Kickass Life
Gone Gambling
I Want the Drugs
Fisticuffs

I’ve picked out a very specific GTO to write about: the 1969 GTO, model called The Judge.

I searched high and low for a black version of this car, and came up with only two or three. It seems most of them were done up in Sunkist Orange. Normally, I don’t do orange, but somehow the color looks hot on this car. Hell, this is the kind of car you could roll out in some hideous shade of puke green and it would still look good.

If cars were guys, the ‘69 GTO would be the guy your mother warned you about; the one you are not supposed to look at, let alone talk to, because one stare from him would turn your chastity belt to dust. Yea, if this car were a guy, I would be standing in front of it, leaning down low, wearing the lowest cut shirt I own whispering something about checking the dipstick.

Except it’s gotta be the hardtop, not the convertible. Convertibles are nice on some cars, but when you are riding a bad boy like this, soft just won’t do.

-M

If I ever rode in one of these I think I would remember. So we are gonna go with a "Turtle has never been in one of these cars" day. They happen folks. Belive it or not, there are some cars I have never been in. I researched the specs and hey hell, it must have been cool. And some of your email suggestions make me feel like I missed half of the world. The wind passed me by and I didn't stop to breathe in.

Hey, dude. It happens.

Thats a '65 Pontiac GTO. Looks pretty fucking mean if you ask me. That looks like something you drove teenagers around with in high school while seeing how loud the engine is. Trying to remember how to unhook a bra on the girl next to you while she is drunk on one beer. Cheap date and a cool car. If only you could get your dick to suck itself you wouldn't need anything else.

Sometimes you feel sad missing a car like this. But this car really looks like something that would pull the diaper of a newborn as it was just warming up and tear the baby teeth out of a 5 year old as it blew by. It looks like a car that someone would be in after they slammed a six pack and the only thing on their mind was seeing the next show. Or going to Burger King. You make the call 'cause I don't fucking know.

This is the kinda car that would move things and ask the world to watch cause it was only going around once and you better pay fucking attention cause it wasn't gonna do it again no matter how many fucking times you asked. It lived for the moment.

Hey dude, that's the feelling I get. For all I know it could have a pussy engine. But the Ramones mention it a lot so it's probably a kick ass car. So I'll just go with them and agree. Cool looking car.

-T

Keep your email suggestions coming on all cars, all songs, all records and all bands. Cause we are having fun with this and we hope you are too.

MC5 Thunder Express
Ramones - Rock and Roll High School
Iggy Pop - Lust For Life

Todays album is the self titled debut of the Ramones. Have fun guys and girls cause we did.

"The Ramones. The Ramones. The Ramones! You gotta hear the Ramones! You gotta hear the Ramones!" A battle cry I heard in the backlot of some ash covered street. Someone telling me how good they were. Someone twice my age telling me they were the greatest band in the world. How punk rock was shit now and how they started it all.

Well ok. First of all fuck you and don't steal my beer, and second of all, I'll get a copy of it in the morning.

You have to understand, I was a kid. I was into early 80's California punk rock. Shit that was mean and angry and didn't really give a fuck about anything although they always tried to sound like they cared about some cause. Well, maybe they didn't but who knows. I was a kid. Californina songs were about beer and hating "Bob," who ever Bob was at moment, were pretty common. But theses songs, the ones I grew up on, the early Califonia punk songs, were fast, mean and lean. Hell, even G.B.H. was a little slow for my style. I needed shit like D.R.I. to make me breathe and bring life me into after waking up on a curb in the morning.

I went out anyway and bought the first album and put it on. My friend and I looked at each other in shock. Turned the wax up to 78 rpm cause we thought it was broken. Like they recorded too slow. Or it was a joke. Or I bought the wrong album. I sat thinking "This is what all the hype is about? This is why they are so big? This kinda sucks, dude."

Remember I was a kid. But as the years grew on I realized that without this album, no one would be where they are today.

I still have this album and cd. This is album I listen to when I just want to rock and think about nothing. What I missed then, I understand now. This album was the blueprint for punk rock.

Plus 53rd and 3rd fucking rocks.

-T

You ever get so excited about something, some new discovery, that you want to share it with everyone you know and so you do and when you shove it in their faces all wild-eyed and stammering with the sheer joy of your find, they look at you like you’ve lost your fucking mind and slowly back away from you?

That’s what happened when I discovered the Ramones. Summer, 1976 ,thank you WNEW-FM. I had been mired in KISS’s Destroyer and Blue Oyster Cult’s Agents of Fortune at that point, and I was about to embark upon a one person war against disco, using the hardest rock I could find as weaponry. No, I had no idea how I was going to wage this war, I just knew that somehow, someway, Thin Lizzy would figure into the death of Donna Summer. Someone had to kill her.

And then I heard the Ramones. And I knew. My satanic, devil worshiping heavy metal was not going to destroy disco. Joey Ramone was. From the first riff of the first Ramones song I heard (Beat on the Brat), the music hooked me in. There was something about it, something raw and exciting and...different. So different. The vocals, the chords, the energy, the sparseness of the music, the simplicity of it all. It made me want to jump around my bedroom. It made me want to play guitar. It made me want to buy a black leather jacket and cut my hair and stick a safety pin in my ear. Hey, I was 14. Leather jackets were cool and so were the Ramones.

I grabbed a handful of dollar bills out of my allowance jar. I was saving for a new stereo system, but this need, this feeling that I had to have this music in my hands needed to be appeased. So I walked the mile to Modell’s to buy the album. I spent the entire walk home cradling that album in my arms as if it was going to change my world. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. But it changed me. And that’s all that mattered.

I spent the next few days holed up in my bedroom spinning this record over and over again. 53rd and 3rd, Blitzkrieg Bop, holy shit, this was the most amazing thing I’d ever heard. It wasn’t great music, I recognized that. You weren’t going to get into a discussion about the complexity of time changes. You couldn’t sit around and get stoned with your friends and analyze the lyrics like we did with Pink Floyd. You just listened to it, for the sake of listening. Just enjoyed it. It gave me a feeling like there was something more out there, something beyond the layered nuances of Led Zeppelin songs that were really nothing more than Lord of the Rings fanfic. Something so simple, yet so enormous.

I fell in love with this album, fell in love with Joey Ramone, fell hard in love with punk rock. And I had to go it alone because, my friends? They sucked, man. It wasn’t until about five or six years later that they finally figured out that the Ramones weren’t some fad band, that they changed the face of music, but by then, my sorry friends had become pussified by too much Bruce Springsteen and not enough four chord rock and roll. But what can you do? We were just kids. And some kids are just stupid when it comes to good music.

-M

Beat on the Brat
Blitzkreig Bop
I Don't Wanna Go in the Basement
53rd and 3rd

[thanks to tesco for saving the day with the mp3s today]

This was the vehicle that you dreaded as much as flu shots. This was the thing that shivered your bones as you sat eating cold oatmeal on a Monday. This was the thing that when you saw it coming up the street , final fleeting thoughts ran through your head about sticking your finger down your throat and pretending to have the flu.

The same one that stunk of lighter fluid and beer. Mixed with a litle exhaust, a little wood chippings and the stench of vomit from the kid who couldn't hold down his Cheerios, much less ride in a moving vehicle .

A true beast of a machine that somehow could get away with the saftey belt laws and have kids running up and down the aisles while some strung out mother who is just trying to make ends meet drives the rig, wondering why in the fuck her kid really needs braces. I mean no one's teeth are fucked up enough for this job.

So thats the fun post of the day although now that i think about it, I might go in the bathroom and cry.

Add your own nightmare bus stories, cause I'm busy having some bad flashbacks.

-T

______________

I didn't have much experience with the big yellow bus, but what I did have was pretty much unforgettable.

I walked to school from kindergarten through sixth grade. In seventh grade, our town voted against the school budget and we went into an austerity budget for many years. Eighth grade, we trudged the mile or so to school on our own two feet. From 9th to 12th grade, when I went to private school, they shuffled us there and back in regular buses, the kind old ladies with shopping bags and scary men with wandering eyes rode in the morning.

So my only year riding the yellow monster was the 1974/75 school year, in seventh grade.
We had a bus driver that just might have been the prototype for Otto. Long haired, constantly red-eyed and completely ignorant of the shit that was going on in the back of the bus. Or let's say willfully ignorant. The smoking, cursing, fighting, dry humping, drug dealing, seat kicking, hair pulling, name calling, lunch stealing, money grubbing, fighting, fighting, fighting that went on from one end of town to the other.

I sat in the middle of the bus, far enough away from the back to not be bothered by the noise (hey, I was trying to get some more sleep in) and far enough away from the front to not be called a nerd.

Otto had a cassette player that he brought on the bus. James Duncan, Electronics Freak, also had a portable cassette player. Each day would bring a duel. James played the radio, though. I think the station was 99x. Every morning he'd be blasting songs like Seasons in the Sun and Billy Don't Be a Hero and Otto would be blasting things like Lou Reed and David Bowie and every time James would turn up his radio to try to drown out Otto's music, Otto would stop the bus, turn around, call James a faggot (had way different connotations back then) and then put in his tape that played nothing but Spark's This Town Ain't Big Enough for the Both of Us over and over again. I'd lean forward in my seat and concentrate on Sparks hard enough so that Hall and Oates or whatever the hell was playing on Duncan's radio would fade from my head.

And that's pretty much how I spent my one year on a school bus. Getting a contact high and learning how to drown out the crap music for the good stuff. Thanks, Otto.

-M

More muscle cars later folks. Right now we need a minute.

Dead Milkmen - Takin' Retards to the Zoo
Faith No More v. Sparks - This Town Ain't Big Enough For the Both of Us
Turbonegro - Back to Dungaree High

For past car entries, see sidebar.

• The Misfits post has been updated, so come on down there and have some fun with that.
• I've been getting a lot of suggestions for car posts, as well as album review ideas, so feel free to throw a suggestion out, they are always welcome.
• All recent content (cars, underground, reviews, lists) is now in the sidebar. Also, any songs used in entries here are available on the sidebar
• We're working our best punk albums of the 90's thing, so if you want to throw your two cents in with suggestions, feel free
• Just want to throw out a quick thank you to those who have stuck around to read this new, improved incarnation of this site. This is the most fun I've ever had blogging. And thanks to those who have thrown some links this way as we try to bring in a whole different set of readers. And thank you always to the turtle, who was the one who inspired me to get the site going again and (in my opinion) whose stories are the best part of this thing.
• You'll notice that the "a small victory" part of the title of this site is gone from both the header and the logo. We'll be moving everything over to a new URL eventually. So this site is now called Faster Than the World.

It's called moving on. And it's good.

And just because all the posts here have songs, here is one that I've been listening to on repeat all day. It's some kick ass rock and roll.

Rockety From the Crypt - Salt Future

Never Go Back

Some days you feel you have to do what you have to do. Running on empty, feeling there must be some sort of deity who is either out to get you or just bored. Just wasting time fucking with you til "Batman " reruns would come on and he could sleep on the couch. See, this is why I don't believe in god.

One night when we were just starting, we played a gig in San Francisco. The set was alright. It was a two staged set. Two totally different styles of music. One upstairs and one downstairs.

Not really caring about anything but playing, I went to sleep in the truck, carefully noting where the sun was at in the sky so I knew how long I could sleep. Crocodile Fucking Dundee. Like I knew.

When I woke up there were tons of people there. It was two bars, two sets and Saturday night.

We didn't really want to mess with anyone or make any enemies. It had already been a bad run. The last three months were spent cleaning blood off some piece of equipment, the van, or ourselves and we were getting, well, getting fucking tired of it. Waking up in the morning with your hand smelling like a penny gets old after awhile.

The bass amp was huge. We called it "The widow maker." When you say it's name you grab your balls and squeeze. That thing was a mess. A huge Fender cab that weighed probably as much as my mother when she was on her "Pork Diet." It was big and it did was it was intended to do, but it was missing two wheels. Great. Just fucking great. We had a make shift crew that consisted of a neighbor and that was it. He was the one. The one who got free ins but instead of helping, used our drink tickets. He was it. Great. Just fucking great. We had to drag this thing in every night while I kept reassuring my friends that "hey dude, it might bust your balls, but it was fucking cheap ok?"

The set goes, we finish up and and I'm walking around afterwards wondering what happened to my gear. "Widow Maker? Baby?" Finally, our "roadie" said he found our hand truck and would pull my amp out. But, wait.we didn't have a hand truck. Hm. This is the way it works folks, anytime you think "Hm" something is probably wrong. But hey, I was a young dumb kid so loaded on free beer I could barely function my fingers much less put together a sentence asking where that thing came from. "Cool," I thought as I jumped in the van. The roadie pulled the Widow Maker and "our" hand truck in and we took off for home.

Some time during the trip it occurred to me that the hand truck was not ours. It was the club's. We stole it from them. You could put together your thoughts as if this was justified, but in the back of my mind, we stole from them. Burning bridges in this business is not a good thing.

About two or three hours from home, I decided we had to go back and I took over the driving. This was not right. Fuck, everyone was sleeping anyhow Who cares. We had to take the hand truck back. You don't want to leave a club thinking that a band stole from them. I don't even know how much those fucking hand trucks are but i spent more on gas bringing it back than the fucking OPEC nations do pumping out crude.

When I got back, the guy who had stamped our hands the night before was still at the door, probably too tweaked to go home. He asked what we wanted. It was way before 6 in the morning and they weren't even open yet. I explained to him how we made a big mistake the night before and grabbed their hand truck by accident and we wanted to return it and it was an honest mistake and... The dude looks at the hand truck. Stares. Then says "You didn't have to bring that back. That's an old one."

At that exact moment when those words hit my ears, I decided I would burn every bridge like the Towering fucking Inferno.

Dag Nasty - Never Go Back
Dag Nasty - Thin Line

Mine first. You have no idea how hard this was. I had to leave off Angelfuck and Hate Breeders. That killed me.

Where Eagles Dare - Why? Besides the awesome refrain, you get to sing a line like "an omelette of disease awaits your noontime meal." download

Halloween - My favorite holiday, my favorite time of year and this song gets the imagery just right: brown leafed vertigo, I remember Halloween. Plus you got the whole burning bodies hanging from poles thing. download

Some Kind of Hate - because only Danzig can make the lyrics "The maggots in the eye of love wont copulate" sound like a love song. download

Turtle's:

She - I liked this because if was about a girl with a machine gun. Hey dude. Tits and guns. Tits and guns dude. Guns and tits!! This song was gold before it was even put to wax. download

Devil Lock - Was this a song about their hair? I mean even though they looked stupid this song moved.download

Earth A.D. - A new venture and a new tone by the Misfits. Dumping the Goth-punk to becone Deathpunk on the first track. Pretty cool. download

Update: Tesco sends his favorites:

Misfits - All Hell Breaks Loose: I know its not all that glamorous but this tune is early hardcore at its finest. A perfect blend of simple rhythm, cut time drums and a pit sparking chorus. Perfection.

Msifits - Green Hell The best off the second real full legnth, so much so that even Metallica destroyed covered it.

Misfits - Death Comes Ripping : This is the first song that comes to my mind when someone brings up the Misfits - excellent tune. No new hard-rock, metalcore, neopunk band can even get close to this.

Scott from Strange Reaction adds his:

Night of the Living Dead - This sums up early Misfits to me. It has the obligatory "whoaoh" chorus and it's about zombies, what more can you ask from a Misfits song?

Earth A.D. - The best of their thrash period. Starts with a nice bit of feedback and then just jumps to life at a hundred miles an hour..

Bullet - Take the Kennedy assassination and mix filthy lyrics with Jackie O = winner!