Something 4 The Weekend # 248

Sylvia Juncosa:  Nature:  "Lick My Pussy, Eddie Van Halen" [mp3]


Sylvia Juncosa is still around, bless her.  Her career started back around 1980, playing keyboards at the age of sixteen for The Leaving Trains.  A couple years later she decided she'd rather play guitar, and started her own band, To Damascus.  Bands are difficult things, and a few years later she went solo and signed with SST.  Nature is her only solo record released on that vaunted label in 1988, but she ended up releasing three more solo records on various indie labels in the next three years.

In 1988, I knew nothing of Sylvia Juncosa, but when I ran across the artwork to this album while flipping through the stacks at Atomic Records, I was intrigued enough to pick it up and flip it over, finding the SST logo on the back, and this song title standing out, making me chuckle.

I think I would say that Sylvia Juncosa was the Marnie Stern of the Grunge era, except Marnie Stern is a much much better guitarist, not to take anything away from Ms. Juncosa, of course, because there's some pretty hot shit going on in this furious instrumental.  From a historical perspective, there were not very many women in the Punk or Grunge movements, much less a female instrumentalist in the indie scene in whole of the '80s (and even '90s), and by the time the Riot Grrl movement caught steam, Sylvia had retreated to Europe, so she was and remains a woman out of time.

Anyways, I think it's impossible to deny the beauty of a song titled "Lick My Pussy, Eddie Van Halen".  It's 100%  RAWK!

Hotcha!  Hank

Something 4 The Weekend # 85

The Kinks: Lola Versus Powerman & The Moneygoround: "Powerman" [mp3]


I still remember that sunny summer afternoon in 1995, when Geoff, the manager of Atomic Records, over on the fashionable east side of Milwaukee, pulled a handgun on me as I inspected the import CDs in the glass case/counter.

"The cash register's already yours," I said with a cracked voice, but Geoff barked back, "Who's the greatest songwriter of all time?"

"Huh?"

"Tell me who the greatest songwriter of all time is, right now, or I'm gonna empty this thing in your face."

"Jesus, Geoff, put that fucking thing away."

"I'm not joking, Hank. It's quite simple - I've got a gun to your head, and I'm asking you to name the greatest songwriter of all time. Just answer the fucking question."

I sighed heavily, and for dramatic effect...

"Alright, I'll say Mozart is the greatest songwriter of all time."

"Wrong!" Geoff screamed, "Try again."

I considered The Ramones t-shirt he was wearing. I don't think Geoff likes The Ramones. In fact, I think he wears the shirt as some sort of ironic "punk" statement. Irony sucks, and Geoff still has that gun pointed at my head. Maybe if I stall long enough, somebody's bound to come bounding through that heavier-than-fucking heavy door, and that bell is gonna ring and wake Geoff from this insanity, and either this scene is gonna come to and end with a whimper, or we're all gonna go down together in a bloody hail of bullets. Well, six bullets at most, I suppose, but then again, I have no idea what he has in his pockets. He probably has some cocaine in one of his pockets. I'm pretty sure Geoff likes cocaine. Man, managing a small but legendary indie record store must pay pretty fucking well if he can afford coke...I can't afford coke...I can't even afford these fucking Fugazi bootlegs...Who fucking charges $18 for a fucking Fugazi CD? Who fucking pays $18 for a fucking Fugazi CD? I betcha $14 of that goes straight up Geoff's nose...The Ramones...Who the fuck does he think he's fooling?

"Quit stalling, Hank...And don't give me another bullshit answer like 'Mozart'. Let's keep this in the 20th century, shall we?"

"Irving Berlin."

This answer pissed off Geoff so much that he laughed.

"You've got to be shitting me."

"Well, sorta, but maybe not...I dunno...The dude wrote thousands of songs, and dozens of 'em have become standards. White Christmas. God Bless America. Puttin' On The Ritz..."

"Well, that's only three, and the answer is wrong anyways."

"This is ridiculous, Geoff. Alright. You're favorite band is Depeche Mode, so I'll say, whatshisname...Martin Gore."

"Good answer, but that's just pandering. Martin Gore doesn't count. C'mon, one more time - Who is the greatest songwriter of all time?"

What a bullshit question, I thought to myself, or possibly out loud. Completely subjective, but Geoff expects some sort of absolute truth. Greatest songwriter of all time? Lennon and McCarthy? Jagger and Richards? Bob Dylan? Tom Waits? That guy from Abba? Elvis Costello? Robyn Hitchcock? The boys from REM? Paul Westerberg?

"Me and the gun are waiting, Hank."

Finally, I blurted out "Ray Davies."

"Ray Davies?"

"Yes, Ray Davies."

Geoff stood there motionless, staring at the wall of show flyers behind me, for what seemed like an eternity but probably just fourteen seconds. On that sunny summer afternoon I couldn't fucking believe that I was the only hipster doofus on the fashionable east side of Milwaukee that just wanted to flip through NEW RELEASES and talk trash with whichever hipster doofus was working the counter that afternoon, which just happened to be store manager Geoff that day, who still had that fucking gun pointed straight at my noodle.

"Ray Davies, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Meh, good enough for me."


Hotcha! Hank