Iggy Pop and the Stooges Ready New Album for April Release
‘Ready to Die’ features guitarist James Williamson, drummer Scott Asheton
Now, this makes me smile.
See, my three readers, 2013 was starting to look like yet another shitty year for McCrabass until I heard this news. I saw Iggy a long time ago in LA and it was quite the show–he was loud, crude-as-fuck and just plain out of control. It was one of the best times I’ve ever experienced standing up. I mean, I almost tossed my granny knickers at him, but was afraid he’d put them on and they’d be too big. He’s alluring in an ugly-sexy kinda way–if that makes any sense.
So, when I heard my favorite skanky, blue-eyed boy & the Stooges were releasing an album–some 40 years after the last one with James Williamson and Scott Asheton–I did a slow nod and muttered to my empty living room “Niiiice.” Yeah, very un-Iggy-esque but I gave up heroin before I even started and my leathers are being repaired.
Iggy Pop and the Stooges are ready with a new record, Ready to Die, which will mark the first time Pop has worked with guitarist James Williamson and drummer Scott Asheton on a full album since their 1973 classic Raw Power. As he’s done since the Stooges’ 2003 reunion, Mike Watt will fill in for the late Ron Asheton on bass. It’ll be Iggy and the Stooges’ first album since 2007′s The Weirdness, which was the last to feature Ron Asheton. Ready to Die is due April 30th on Fat Possum Records.
I don’t like to wish my life away, but April 30th can’t come soon enough. That’s kind of sad–I’m sliding down Crap Mountain again and I’m looking forward to an album release like I’m some sort of love-struck teenie bopper.
Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.
Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.
Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.
1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.
Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!
2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.
3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.
4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.
5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”
6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.
7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.
8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.
9) OJ did it.
10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.
11) My god–I love peonies.
12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.
13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.
Is that a cat?
14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.
15) Everyone should own this album.
For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.
One of my fave songs ever–
You’re welcome.
16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.
Girlfriend needs to up the voltage and lay off the Lithium cocktails.
Kesha Made Bra out of Fans’ Teeth
From Female First.
“Ke$ha made a bra out of her fans’ teeth.
The ‘Die Young’ singer recently asked her followers to send her a tooth each and after receiving over 1,000 canines, she decided to create a bra, headdress and earrings out of them.”
Let me get this straight–when you’re sans talent but are kept around for our amusement (thank you media!), and you’re none the wiser to our mockery but continue to add to our collective misery by doing stupid shit … wait … where was I going with this?
I’ve never heard her braying, but from what I understand her voice is shrill enough to reverse the flow of the Chicago River (again), cause the balls of men to tuck up into their innerds, and … to get her fans to send her their chompers.
I find it hard to believe that so many people thought the swimming pool game ‘Two Times Up & Three Times Down’ was a real one and not just their summer girl’s way of getting you out of her hair while she flirted with the hunky (but closeted) lifeguard. But those dolts seem to believe this woman who looks like a used up ASU sorority girl has enough talent to warrant them yanking their pearly whites from their maws and sending them to her.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Well played, Mayans.
Do I really need to give a flying fuck/fiddler’s fart/red rat’s ass about these two people? I don’t think I do but all of social media is screaming that I need to make their overvalued lives my moral imperative.
Seriously people, if you’re soooo obsessed about the love life of two pre-moisties who happen to be talentless hacks, then you need to either up the voltage or start drinking heavily–OR BOTH.
… the 1990s called–they want Michael Bolton AND Mario Lopez back. You’ll understand in a moment why this odd duo should be shoved back to the decade when Saturns were THE “It” car to have.
From Racked.LA.com:
Oh I hope you’re sitting down for this bit of news, and I hope your hair salon is closed for the day since after reading this, you’ll want to get a mullet.
The Grove is gearing up for a big shopping season. The arrival of a 100-foot-tall Christmas tree at the end of October marked the beginning of the shopping center’s 10th annual holiday celebrations, which get an official kick off this Sunday, November 11th. It’s on that date that The Grove will light its tree with a huge party involving balladeer and Jack Sparrow imitator Michael Bolton.
The holiday show will begin at 7:30pm and will feature a “snowfall” and the sounds of Bolton plus Melanie Fiona, Colbie Caillat, DJ JibbJock, Scotty McCreery, Rickey Minor and His Band and Phillip Phillips. Santa will also make an appearance; Mario Lopez and his dimples will emcee. The ceremony will conclude with fireworks.
I’d rather walk on my lips than criticize anyone else’s religious practices (unless they’re particularly heinous), but something must be said about how stinkin’ weird this ritual is. From The Telegraph:
Briton arrested with roasted human foetuses for use in black magic ritual
So, some people believe that roasted fetuses, or I mean foetuses, covered in gold leaf no less will bring them wealth and good luck. Guess cuz it’s on the Internets it must be true, correct? I had no idea that feetusses — or however you spell it — would bring such wonderful things to those who shelled out shitloads of cash. In the scheme of things, this doesn’t surprise me in the least.
What chaps my hide is the spelling of “foetus”– when I see it spelled all British n’ shit. My mind sees, then pronounces it as “foe – tuss”– just like how it pronounces “Phoebe”, “Foe – bee.” See what they did there? Come to think of it, Phoebe’s Foetus is a great band name.
Six in one, I guess. But, why to the Brits have to go and fuck up our language so damn much?
Limey wangs.
Now, I don’t know if I want to scrub, smack, smoke, laugh at, bail out, shake my head at, tattoo, de-tattoo, introduce my mom to, make him lick my boots, have him shave my armpits, make secksy time/hang out/talk politics/watch porn with OR marry Lil Wayne. Quite the quandary I know.
