I’d imagine it was with a smiling sense of irony that Amy tagged me for this christmas edition of The Joup Friday Album. It certainly was with that same sense of gleeful irony that I accepted the challenge. You see, although I am a devilish manifestation of the evil one, well, I can’t say that I do not, in some way, fall in for the cheer and good times of the holiday season. The bells, garland, trees and lights; buttered rum, santa slippers and stockings hung by the chimney with care. We never had that where I’m from, and although I remained steadfastly against it for the first few decades I spent on this Earthly plane, well, it won me over.
For many people, Christmas With the Chipmunks represents fond holiday memories of fun gatherings and familial warmth. But for one artist, this album represents a career filled with emotional abuse by an ill-tempered Svengali, and cries for help that went unheeded. That artist is Alvin, and this album serves as evidence of his systematic abuse and suffering at the hands of David Seville.
“At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet, and a freight train running through the middle of my head…”
If that doesn’t sum up the month of November, I don’t know what does.
November started off on a Tuesday in a cold sweat over our nation’s pastime. The Chicago Cubs were 2-3 against the Cleveland Indians. One slip-up and it was all over. I didn’t know if my partner’s blood sugar, let alone heart, could handle it. Lo and behold, they pulled it off. The next day, history was made.
“Yo, Melissa, Imma let you finish, but I have one of the best Friday Albums of all time.”
No one invited me this week, but I have to take the stage. I have to mention it, this Elephant in the room (well it was once a Donkey, then a…whatever, then begrudgingly welcomed back as an Elephant when it looked like it might get its trunk on the peanut-keys. ‘Off she went with a trumpety-trump, trump, trump, trump’). It’s been two weeks since the combined nationwide clapping and gasp abruptly went reverberating around the world like the amplified unveiling of a waterfall of severed genitalia. To think, I was once torpid with apprehension at the prospect of the Romney-bot, who in retrospect looks like a chuckling uncle with no more nefarious-a-skeleton in his closet than a used-car lot, albeit with a dog strapped to the top of one of his inventory.
Conceding to my Will, Daniel has cleared the path to allow me to take the helm for this special weekend, that which ushers in the night of the dead, my personal favorite time of the year, Sam Hain, All Hallows, Halloween! And I have a tasty treat for you, oh true believers in all that is dark and arcane. That’s right, I’m kicking this shit off right, because what better way to usher in the darkest, most sinister night of the year than to have a Devil-ridden goat spin a disc for you? And what better disc to begin with than the original deth rock/contemporary gothic masters Bauhaus’s first entry into the musical canon of the damned?
When I was a kid, I loved big, dumb popcorn movies just like everybody else, taking in weekend matinees of whatever mass appeal schlock-fest Hollywood happened to grace us with on a weekly basis. As I got older though, my tastes grew more refined, first taking in quality genre fare, and then moving on to the critical darlings. Then I went to film school, and my screen tastes began to get even more challenging. Foreign films, experimental movies, classics, and all manner of independent and cerebral art. In short, I gradually became a film snob.