I’m lagging a day behind, and that ain’t cool in the blogosphere, so I’ll cut the oddservational chase:
–Great, great, great month for free and improvised music if you can dig it. I know that you can, I know that I do. Yeah, that’s physical media down there (I picked up the ancient copy of Mofungo’s “End of the World” sealed for $4), with a tip of the hat to Burning Ambulance.
–Album everyone whose sick of this sh*t would enjoy hearing? Guide your eyes and ears to Ms. Blanton’s offering below.
–I’ve been reading quite a bit of Irish lit over the last, what, six years and Kneecap’s album helped me maybe understand why.
–Rock (and maybe roll) Is Not Dead Department: Mod Lang, The Sleveens, Eddy Current Suppression Ring, Golems of the Red Planet (yay, we’re hearing surf music again, Jimi).
–Helplessly devoted fan continues waving arms in your direction re: legendary Japanese supposedly psych-rock band (see if you can guess it—if you’ve been here before, you can) that anticipated The Pixies’ and Nirvana’s quiet-loud trick.
Yes, Virginia, there has been some good—some GREAT—music released this year! It’s not like “music” is collapsing, too! Uh huh, I know about AI, but music is looking for its slingshot. I will not overtax your time here and get to the very notables:
Anthony Joseph’s on a run of four consecutive terrific poetry-with-rhythm recordings, and the sound behind his new release seems to signify outreach, a fine thing. I’ve long been a fan of Sasha Geffen’s groundbreaking alternate history of pop, Glitter Up The Dark, and it’s inspired a joyous, ebullient record from Jesse Desilva. I continue to be so bewitched by the seemingly endless flow of recordings from the Nyege Nyege Tapes label that I have dreams about a future box set and keep promising myself to create an only-the-wildest mixtape; both new offerings below spring fascinatin’ rhythms. One afternoon last month, I was trying to nap, running my “Records to Check Out ’26” Apple Music playlist on shuffle to try to catch up subconsciously, when my nap was spoiled/made moot by a cool is-this-r&b-and-if-not-whatzis flow of songs; thus, XG has made me a K-Pop X-Pop fan! It’s tempting to claim that everything Zev Feldman’s found in his deep bag of archival jazz concerts is amazing—it’s close—and his 2026 finds from Joe Henderson and Ahmad Jamal cast no doubt on that. Garrett T. Capps is MAFA (“Making Americana Fun Again”). Los Thuthanaka’s street-sweeper dance (?) music continues to stupefy, and I do not use that verb pejoratively. I tried to turn Nicole on to Robyn when she was recently on SNL—I failed, and even I thought her performance there was flat—so don’t tell her how much I love her sexplosive new one. Finally, This is Lorelei’s deluxe release almost gave me the fantods with its pop ’n’ roll rush and loving covers…almost. Have fun and take a chance!
The national dumpster fire is raging so hot that The Delines’ sobering but skillful portraits and tales (hit the link below) sound like Sly and The Family Stone’s Greatest Hits in comparison. I hope you all are getting out in the street or otherwise making your presence felt—if you’re hostile to the notion that there’s something to defeat out there, you’re come to wrong blog. You probably don’t like music anyway, and you’re certainly not likely to cotton to any of these new platters.
Developments? I’ve zeroed in on a new and very solid candidate for record of the year, at least so far: Tanya Tagaq’s angry and intense new record—she’s good at those, but to my ear this is her best. I once again exalt a splendid recording by one of Argentina’s finest pianists, Rocio Gimenez Lopez, who deserves many more huzzahs and is joined on the 88s by her husband (note album title). It’s an inspired and inspiring recording. If you’d asked me in 2025 if we needed yet another tribute to Duke Ellington, I might have said no, but Jason Moran’s shining and imaginative solo voyage would have made me eat my words. Quandaries: why aren’t more rock-oriented six-string worshippers on the Bill Orcutt train (maybe they are, and I’m just isolated)—a runaway train it is, trailing several creatively skronky recordings over the past few years—and why did Fugazi and Steve Albini agree to abandon the In On the Killtaker the latter “recorded”? If you need some peace, sound-healer Harlan Silverman has some stillness for you. Along with Mr. Moran, the Congolese act Kin’Gongolo Kiniata score a vibrant five asterisks with their debut album, which appears to be associated with a documentary I need to say. KINACT offers up the latest Nyege Nyege dance-racket. Buck 65 keeps passing the test. Finally, Cecil Taylor’s last performance, which includes a spoken scientific trip, has emerged.
Social music notes: a) Nicole and I not only got to witness the 86-year-old jazz groundbreaker Roscoe Mitchell play live, but we experienced him duet with his lab Shuggie, who kept the room in line (the show was arranged by the St. Louis non-profit Dissonant Works, which experimental art fans should keep an eye on); b) We also enjoyed bass player extraordinaire and frequent Bill Evans partner Eddie Gomez, 81 going on 30, lead his expert band through a set of standards and originals as part of Columbia’s annual We Always Swing series; and c) the truly exciting and informative Apple podcast Fela: Fear No Man made two road trips of ours go extremely quickly—check it out, even if you think you know all you need to know about Afrobeat’s Black President. We still have two episodes to go, during which I hope Tony Allen is at least mentioned.
Yep, from 1999 (I think) to 2005 (I think), I was the webmaster as well as the pseudonymal host of The First Church of Holy Rock and Roll, which faded from consistent view in the early 2010s but still can (usually partially) be seen via The Wayback Machine or (as I just discovered) at its old address. It all started when I bought my first real computer, noticed it has web page software on it, thought I would try to learn it, and had the basic site up in a day. The persona—a minister of rock and roll with quasi-Presbyterian madness—spontaneously jumped out of my imagination, and I stole the pseudonym from a band I am proud to have been a member of circa 1984(?)-1986 (see team photo below). No one in the band was named Wayne Coomers, so I felt I wasn’t stepping on anybody’s toes by borrowing it and also tipping my hand a bit regarding my identity.
Today, I stumbled upon one of the many wacky features of the site today: I invited readers to beg forgiveness for their listening sins, then anointed them with tongue-in-cheek forgiveness (we don’t need to be forgiven, and there are no guilty pleasures!). Here’s a sample! It was fun while it lasted, and I don’t know how I found the time to put it together—I was teaching and coaching two middle school sports, practicing teacher leadership, and being an attentive husband and concertgoer at the time….
“The Confessional”
We are all weak. We all make mistakes. We have all caught ourselves singing “What A Girl Wants” softly to ourselves on the drive home. The thing is, don’t keep the secret locked inside, festering and perhaps spreading (to the point where you’re yelling “Backstreet’s Back” in the shower).
E-mail your confession to the good rockin’ Reverend Coomers at wcoomers@yahoo.com and he’ll help you share the taint with his rockin’ congregation. And just to show that it ain’t so hard, the Reverend himself will jump in headfirst!
Reverend Coomers (see above in favorite rock tee preaching at The Academy of Rock): I was weaned on…Cher. Double best-of set of ’60s stuff Mom got through the ol’ record club. She did ‘Like a Rolling Stone.’ I thought it was hers, and learned all the lyrics. Also, she redid the girl group hits (still stuck on ’em, ‘specially ‘Baby, Don’t Go,’ the original of which I still don’t know and which Dwight Yoakam and Sheryl Crow did on his covers album). Combined wth the impact of her belly-button beckoning me on The Sonny and Cher Show, I moved on to such classics as Foxy Lady, Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves, and whatever one had ‘Dark Lady’ and ‘Half Breed’ on it. There was even a Tin Pan Alley one that softened me up for Gershwin and Berlin and Porter 20 years down the line. My first mirror lip-synchs were to her songs, not Alice’s or even Elton’s. I had that sultry, spookily Elvis-like timbre down cold. What lasting effects did she have on me? Not sure I wanna go there…but I did like ‘I Believe in Love.’ And she sure beat Rush.
Ken Shimamoto, scribe ‘n’ guitslinger (see above during Fort Worth drop-in by The Rev): Bless me Father for I have sinned. I have lusted in my heart after the Mysterious Miss Havisham. Even worse, in the last month, I have blown off shows by the Punk Rock Dinosaurs AND Sylvain Sylvain one night (different venues) and the Immortal Lee County Killers and Sons of Hercules another, to watch re-runs of “E.R.” Getting too old for this shit? YOU decide! I’m not even going to SXSW this year (think I wore out my welcome last year when I called my bro. at midnight and asked him if he had a hundred bucks in cash that I could borrow to buy my car out of impoundment). Most shameful, I recently remembered that the very first elpee I owned way back in 6th grade was Simon & Garfunkel’s Bookends, which I might actually buy again since my 17-year-old dtr (my good conscience) AND Jack Rabid from THE BIG TAKEOVER told me it was okay. How can I redeem myself?
The Rev sez: Ohmigod! You need to put yourself in peril–give yourself a little taste of danger–or they’ll be no turning back. ER? S&G? Taking advice from a 17-year-old? Sell whatever’s worthless to you until you can afford a trip to Oz, where in certain locales you know well they don’t stand for folkie bullshit, find Miss H (here you’re picturing your head on Dustin Hoffman’s body in the last part of The Graduate) and make your pitch. Win or lose, it’s more rock and roll than staying in, lighting candles, and singing along to “Punky’s Dilemma”!
Samantha Harrison, insomniac: I can’t think of anything worse than Britney Spears becoming “real.” Ever since that new song came out about how she is a “slave for music,” (I don’t recall it saying anything about music in the song, sounds more sexual to me…) I have seriously questioned her intentions. If you think about it, how can bubble gum pop stars rapidly turn into powerful women that know about life and, what’s this? Another genre of music? Please. But…. I have to admit that I’ve caught myself singing it several times, help me god, even in public. I got a few strange looks and a couple of people to move far away from me, but guilty pleasure or not, I am trying to contain myself.
The Rev sez: This is a tough one, ’cause I knew it was just a matter of time before Miss Spears turned up here, and ’cause I know you’re really too young to have to confess anything yet–hell, Sam, I was listening to that assbag Ted Nugent when I was your age (and–shhhh!–I still have two of his records). But this is serious–the harlot’s giving trash a bad name, and that’s just not tol’able in the rockaroll world. So here’s your penance: go out for cheerleading this year (just don’t make the cut, OK?).
The Mysterious Miss Havisham: You’re a cranky old shit, ain’t ya?! Dunno yet if I like yer preachin or if you irritate the shit out of me. Least yer well informed. Wanted to ‘fess up to the reverand. Bless me father for I have sinned, it’s been 25 years since my last confession. I LOVE “More Than a Feeling” by BOSTON and “Living on a Prayer” by BON JOVI. And I even thought he was cute with that poodle cut. What’s my penance?
The Rev sez: Can’t help you with Bon-Bon Jovi, but I gotta give you credit, ’cause the song idea has a helluva lot of relevance right about now. It’d sure hold my attention. But Boston…hmmmmmmmmmm…wrote my first-ever review about Don’t Look Back (a positive one). How ’bout this? You have to plant a marijuana seed and watch it grow in real time! (Ever hear the urban rock myth that “Foreplay” includes the speeded-up sounds of pot sprouting?)
Mike Rakehell (see above bringing The Rev to his knees with his six-string slashes…may he rest in the rawk!–guitarist of the Jimbobs, Possum Fat, Three Bags Full, The Balls, and the Gilloolys): They don’t get much worse than this, Reverend. Scenario: I’m 16, cradled in the sheltering arms of Camdenton, Missouri. News flash: Kiss’ Love Gun has just been released. I hop on the bike, pedal furiously into town, and snap it up. Kiss Army sweat beads poppin’ from my forehead as I skid back into the home driveway, I zip into my room, whip the vinyl onto the turntable, and…bear witness to the most heinous excuse for rock I had yet heard. This was not KISS–this was some imposter! The Sin: I stomp out into the garage, grab an awl outta Pop’s toolbox, lay a long, deep scratch across the A side, put it back in the sleeve, pedal back to the store, tell the cashier the scratch was there when I removed it from the shrink-wrap, he buys the scam…time for an exchange. I select…Peter Frampton’s I’m in You.
The Rev sez: You got some major cahones to admit that, son (and, to think, in my pre-frocked days you dissed me for diggin’ Technotronic). If you really wanna make it right and not end up frying with Frampton himself, you are to proceed to the nearest high school, carrying your best Johnny Thunders record under your arm, walk in, find the nearest rawkdude holding up the wall in the senior lounge, and trade it to him for the worst pieceashit scuffed CD that’s lying outta case among the taco shell fragments on the floorboard of his pickup (probably the Goo Goo Dolls or Matchbox 20 or even Dave Matthews). That oughtta learn ya!
Eric Johnson: Reverend, there are things that weigh on a man’s mind. I’ve been lucky, though. Some of the guilty, cheezy pleasures of my youth have been namechecked by eminently rawkin’ artists like the Minutemen. So, this is not about Blue Oyster Cult. The big stuff first. The first two songs I ever liked in this world (besides “Puff the Magic Dragon”), in fact, the first two songs I ever called a radio station about and requested were…”You Light Up My Life,” by Ms. Debbie Boon, (actually covered by Patti Smith on a 1977 bootleg called “Teenage Perversity and Ships in the Night”) and “Convoy,” by C.W. McCall. In my defense, I must plead that they both bring bile to my throat today. Unfortunately, there are others that I….still like, in some terrible secret way, including “Downtown,” by…(guilt has clouded my memory, I guess) [Ed. note: Petula Clark??!!?]. I also really liked “Too Shy,” by Kajagoogoo, when it came out, tho’ I never told anyone til now. Thanks for listening, Reverend. I’m certain there’s more, ‘cuz I’m a guilty, guilty man.
The Rev sez: Even half a life curing in that bracing Fayetteville subculture can’t direct some sinners to the Path, huh? Debbie Boon(e…and you spelled her last name like D’s…ouch!) is as low as you can go, then you compund that offense by claiming C.W. McCall as a guilty pleasure (Gawd’s got it on heavy rotation on his playroom juke). Ok–you were a kid. But Kajagoogoo? I don’t care if Uncle Jam called them “the best white funk (???) band in the world” in Uncut Funk back in ’91.You’re gonna have to actually pay me…with a tape of that Patti Smith boot. And I better have it by 2002 or you’re going to Hell.
Dimitri Monroe (of the Naked Flames) (click the link to hear his masterpiece “Nostalgia Kills”; I was honored to write for his fanzines “Anorexic Teenage Sex Gods”—see pic above—and “Ready to Snap” in the ‘90s: I like an awful lot of records I’m not supposed to, but I don’t even view, say, old Van Halen as a guilty pleasure,”cool” or not. It rocked like a motherfucker, period. But two records I would feel unburdened by confessing my love for are…. DON HENLEY’S “Building The Perfect Beast” I know, I know–I’m sorry! But I am absolutely HAUNTED by the “Boys of Summer” and shamefully, really identify with all those sentiments, as well as with “Not Enough Love In The World”, which in my weakest hour I’d even considered COVERING (fer Stiv’s sake), but Mariah or Cher or maybe both beat me to the punch. (Sorry,MOJO!!!) Allegedly, this record also featured an appearance by…. CHARLIE SEXTON “Pictures for Pleasure” In junior high, I attended a series of excrutiatingly Reaganesque,mean-spirited suburban schools, including Shawnee High School in Lima, Ohio. Shawnee had one token artschool-punk-doll/Madonna Wannabe named Michelle Briggs, a pretty blonde who dressed in black, had pin-ups from SMASH HITS magazine all over her locker, wore a zillion bracelets, and knew about bands like Doctor & the Medics and Sigue Sigue Sputnik and We’ve Got A Fuzzbox And We’re Gonna Use It. This was back when we called cheezy new wave “post-modern,” and I wanted desperately to befriend her, but she was a few grades older, and the one time I mustered up the courage to approach her in her Charlie Sexton t-shirt, she said something along the lines of “Dimitri,Like,you are SOOO queer!” Later, she ended up pursuing my once & future sideman, BRIAN MURDER, romantically! Anyways, this record was expected to be an impressive guitar-storm. Everyone was hyping the young Texas badass who co-wrote tunes with the Stones for The Wild Life soundtrack and had garnered praise from Stevie Ray Vaughan, but, instead, it was awash with Keith Forsee’s Billy Idol/Simple Minds generic mid-’80’s synth-saturated production,and junior-league Steve Stevens wankery. The Michelle Briggs’ of the world were all just lookin’ for a guy with perfect cheekbones in black who wore skull t-shirts with big hair, cuz they were all almost ready to graduate from their obligatory John Taylor infatuations; but his BOWIE/PRESLEY croon is still undeniable, and I still to this day love the “So Lonely” chorus of his lone hit, “Beat’s So Lonely”. I bet he rocks nowadays! If someone wants to put him in touch, he can audition to play alongside me and MURDER in the NAKED FLAMES!
The Rev sez: Get yerself a crewcut! I mean what I say!
Jennifer Lazo: I must confess my secret love for a 70s song called “Run, Joey, Run.” My big brother, Don Lazo, ALWAYS listened to it. Since I was just the little kid sister who looked up to her big bro, I became addicted and occasionally burst into it’s lyrics, “daddy please don’t, it wasn’t his fault, he means so much to me…Daddy please don’t we’re gonna get mar…ried.” I also listened to the Cheryl Ladd album and found myself singing one of the songs the other day when I was with a group of people! I won’t blame that one on Don, though. Please forgive me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I’d love to withhold my name, but I must expose my brother’s wrongdoings and therefore, must expose myself.)
The Rev sez: Sister, it takes some doin’ to throw such a monkey wrench in The Confessional Machine–no picture of offending artist (perhaps a measure of the total offense)! Figures the insaniacs at Rhino would provide a refuge for such a teen-angst mudslide. However, since your brother is going to Rawk Hell (where, like a true ChiSox fan, he’s gonna be blowing up vinyl at Satan’s right hand) for concealing this heinous crime, you get a pass for that one. Cheryl “I Don’t Sing Quite as Well as Cindy Crawford” Ladd is another matter: you’re gonna have to go to the upcoming Charlie’s Angels movie, which I’m sure is as close to hell as you can likely get–and you have to pay to get in.
“Art Howe”: I heard the song “Soundchaser” off [a Yes album]…when I was on mushrooms once in college and loved it. The guy playing it got real deep about it and was telling me how Patrick Moraz was the keyboardist on this album, having replaced Rick Wakeman, and how that made the group tighter and more integrated (as opposed to saying…grating). I rushed out and bought the tape a couple of days later and listened to it sober and decided it was the biggest piece of crap I’d ever heard in my life…I guess anyone who enjoys Yes must be under the influence….
The Rev sez: You don’t sound contrite enough, sonny boy. Looks like you might just bite down on the hook on the upcoming Asia reunion tour. If you wanna save your own soul, you need to sit down stone-cold sober with some tracing paper and reproduce–in fanatical detail–the cover of Tales of Topographical Oceans. Then, affix it to your bathroom wall so it’s at eye-level when you’re “sitting.” Keep it there for exactly one month–and don’t take it down when company’s over–or as long as it takes for the association to take.
Manthon (of THE RAWK) (see above, middle of the front row with The Good Reverend directly behind him, being bashful during Wayne Coomers—I was NOT Wayne, I just stole it for this website—and the Original Sins team picture): …forgive me rev.c for i have sinned….as a 15-year-old boy i committed an unthinkable act. i’m ashamed but i feel i must share so no kids out there have to deal with such a thing when they reach adulthood and (hopefully) will keep control of their senses. it was the summer of ’76 and i was living with my grandmother in downey,ca. she was not a wealthy woman but did ok enough and on occasion we would play poker (she taught me!). well, one friday night, gammy (that’s what we called her) was 2/3 of the way through a gallon of wine and the game was getting old (playing for pennies will do just that). i had been on a roll and had a huge pile of copper in front of me when gammy brought up the idea of an all or nothing last hand. except for me the nothing was losing my cents…for her it was $50!! well, three jacks later i was a rich-ass 15-year-old! hmmmm….what to do with my new found wealth? i know….i’m going to knott’s berry farm! in case you don’t know, knott’s is (or at least was…it’s been a long long time) a kick ass amusement park with the best rollercoaster around…the corkscrew! (again…was). so…8am saturday morning, i hopped on a bus for the 45-minute ride…by myself i should add…a sad sight but i was fresh into ca from southern arkansas. so…i rode everything (some a couple of times) until it was time. time for the show! the show was in the small theatre they had there. usually it was used for “flintstones on ice” or some such thing but today it was for rock and roll…my very first rock show! to make a longer than necessary story shorter…the band that burst my live rawk cherry was none other that hamilton, joe frank, and reynolds, a good 5 years past their “don’t pull your love out on me baby” prime. honestly…i dug it! i’m sorry for my indescretion rev. o…it won’t happen again. please be fair in naming my penance.
The Rev sez: One hour in the dark listening to the Hellacopters on headphones with the stereo cranked to 10, son! But at least it wasn’t Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Dennison.
“Lil’ Nik”: Please cleanse me of my musical sins, Reverend. My sorted musical past began and (thankfully) ended my senior year of high school. Of course, I’m blaming it all on a friend. Two of my girlfriends and I used to cruise the boulevard on Friday nights. Since I didn’t have a car, I was at the mercy of my friend’s music selection. Needless to say, she had horrible taste. It started with Bon Jovi, which isn’t too terrible a confession since most people in the mid to late 80’s listened to them. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there. Starting with Bon Jovi, the music selection progressed (down hill) to Ratt and Slaughter. I still have the Slaughter tape I bought (although it is never played) as a reminder to not let friends control my musical selections.
The Rev sez: Even though love is “slippery when wet,” you must do some penance, sister. Advance directly to the nearest record shop (such as quaint term now), purchase the Minutemen or Replacements LP of your choice ((although, regarding the latter, you better skip Don’t Tell a Soul (but This Album Sucks) and All Shook Down)). That’s where you should have been spending your money, time, and hearing in the mid- to late-’80s. Then send that Slaughter tape to me–I’m presiding over a little melting ceremony later this week.
Sammy D: Oh, my, I was weened of my parents music, most of which was good. Then, one night, I found some old tape of Sting’s work with Branford, and I loved it. I went out and bought his greatest hits, and I loved it, too. (Ouch!!!) Not only did I make my friends listen to it constantly, I listened to it constantly. Then, I heard of the Rembrandts, the little band who did the theme song for Friends (OOOF!), and I loved it, too, so I bought the album. I listen to it now, and wonder, where did I go wrong?? Please forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”
The Rev sez: You have truly been to heck and back already. And dragged innocent youth along with you. (Hope you didn’t eat any Tantric Rainforest Yoga Crunch along the way.) Stink and the Fiends soundtrack? You sure know how to make it hard on a man of the cloth, buddy! If those comrades of yours are still speaking to you, you are hereby ordered to preach the gospel of Sonic Youth (pre-Washing Machine, and I know that’s gonna hurt you) to them upon contact (before hellos and howyadoins) for the next year.
Don Lazo: Forgive me, Reverend, for I have sinned, and the guilt and shame have weighed down upon my soul for too long now. I’ve prayed for years that there would be no statute of limitations on my musical sins, but I now know better. The scene: three friends enjoying a road trip from Chicago to San Antonio. The locale: somewhere deep inside that hellish dustbowl known as Oklahoma. The sin: the three of us burst into singing….”Your Love Has Lifted Me Higher” by Rita Coolidge. I blacked out soon afterwards, and details are sketchy, but I remain haunted, both by the fact we engaged in this little sing-a-long as well as the frightening amount of lyrics we all knew. The three of us had quickly vowed never to tell anyone about this “incident” but I cannot join my friends in hell. Help me, Reverend…..
The Rev sez: Sheesh. “Blacked out” my ass. You and Leon Russell (wrote one helluva song about her: “Delta Lady,” best done by Joe Cocker on Joe Cocker!). And Kris Kristofferson (not only married the broad by sang duets with her with the tape rolling…if you’d have confessed to listening to those albums, I’d have nothin’ in my bag o’ tricks to help you). So, brother Lazo, at least you ain’t alone. This is gonna be tricky: at all costs, locate Jackie Wilson’s original version of “Higher and Higher,” a righteous up if there ever was one, and make a 90-minute tape of it–and only it, just for driving to work. Then, if you’re gonna confess to having listened to lethargic bad female pop singers, you need a dose of exalted good-bad female semi-pop singers. Polystyrene (best sampled on X-Ray Spex’ s Germfree Adolescents), Patti Smith (get Horses if you haven’t already), yam-queen Karen Finley (The Truth is Hard to Swallow), gutter-queen Lydia Lunch (Queen of Siam), or even that target of all Beatlemaniac hatred, Yoko Ono (her cuts on Double Fantasy or her great widow’s concept album Season of Glass). You go to those lengths, Donny Boy, not only are you forgiven but you better come save me.
“Skip”Call me ‘Skip.’: I have a confession to make, but am saddened by some of the confessions on your page. It seems that many of your followers want to put their dark sectets off to narcotics, friends, family or other influences. My confession comes from me and I don’t have anybody else to blame. I am not Catholic and don’t understand the whole confession thing, but it seems that most of the confessions on your page are moments of weakness that the confessors have already put in the past. My confession still haunts me whenever I hear it.When in high school, a horrible song by someone named Bonnie Tyler came out called “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” I instantly fell for the song, even though my friends hated it and reminded me how horrible the song was every time it came on. However, I persisted and remained adamant that the song was great. The worst part is that I still like it when I hear it today. When it comes on the oldies station as my radio is scanning, I must listen to the rest of the song. Even some of the lyrics haunt me: “I don’t know what to do/I’m always in the dark. Livin’ in this powder keg/And givin’ off sparks.” As stupid as those verses are, they stay with me and I find myself humming them at work or when getting ready for bed. This feels more like a meeting with The Big Man at the Pearly Gates rather than a confession, because I have tried to lose this song from my mind, but when I hear it two years from now, I will still like it. Please help me!
The Rev sez: Well, first of all, you have some serious spiritual guts to toss off all influences, because what are “influences” but slaps in the face to our most precious gift, free will. I humbly bow to you; you don’t need me. Secondly, well–you don’t need any absolution, either, my friend: the fiery (woops: wrong image) terms with which you describe your listening–then emotional–experience makes clear that the song is inside The First Church, not without. We’d claim it if, through your compulsive attraction to it, it hadn’t already claimed us. So…keep listening like you listen.
This month: I’ve begun my very basic asterisky rating system, now that most of the following records have had a chance to sink in, plus I’m continuing to share my lists of carelessly forgotten, underappreciated, or simply “new to me” records from January-November 2025 (December’s children are being counted as ‘26ers since they barely had a chance to be aurally dandled), my return to older records (stimulated by a great oral history of Texas punk rock—see below—Mardi Gras, the Miles Davis Centennial, and PBS’ nice Sun Ra documentary), my bibliobiography (lotsa music books therein)—and a Record of the Month.
Notable Top 10: 1) The two best jazz records I’ve heard this year, from Work Money Death and Dave Adewumi (that one hasn’t yet been released for public consumption). Hot on their heels is one by Chad Fowler and Art Edmaiston that was recorded in Memphis and which makes yet another case for the southern roots of free jazz. 2) A refreshed Van Morrison. 3) Charli XCX refusing to be dismissed. 4) More evidence that, if bassist/composer Ingebrigt Håker Flaten is involved with your project, you will greatly benefit. 5)A legendary P-Funk guitarist thrilling you solo. 6) A six-hour box set of trio interpretations of Morton Feldman compositions (classical music—eek!) (recommended to me by my reliable source at Burning Ambulance) that can calm your afternoon. 7) One rap record to soothe the Golden Agers’ breasts, another one that breaks through my resistance to live rap records. 8) A terrific Floridian singer-songwriter inspiring us over-sixties to finally learn to play and start writing. 9) South African Nandipha808’s can’t-stop-won’t-stop YouTube mixtape. 10) Some Colombian cumbia from the Analog Africa vault!
If you enjoy what I’m doing here, please check out my IG feed ( displaying a quadrant of records that each day thrill my earhole), my Substack newsletter (it purports to deal with my long career as an educator but I squeeze music in whenever possible—as I did in the classroom), and my education blog, “The Overeem Farewell Tour,” , a deeper educational dive that includes both a daily diary from my last year as a full-time public school teacher and a Spring ’20 to Spring ’21 COVID “cloister commentary.”
To the lists!
SPOTLIGHT ALBUM OF THE MONTH
KEY: # = Archival release ***Very Good! ****Really Good! ****C’est Magnifique Bolded entries are new to the list!
Big Boys: no matter how long the line is in the cafeteria there’s always a seat
Nick Brignola: On a Different Level
Butthole Surfers: PCPPEP
Joe King Carrasco and The Crowns: s/t + Synapse Gap
Ornette Coleman: Beauty is a Rare Thing
The Cramps: URGH! The Complete Show
Miles Davis: The Complete Concert 1964 + Highlight from the Plugged Nickel + Get Up With It
The Dicks: These People
Fela: The Best of the Black President 2
Sinead O’Connor: The Lion and The Cobra + I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got + “Famine”/”All Apologies” CD Single + Throw Down Your Arms (killer reggae, seriously)
Pylon: Chomp
Sun Ra: The Nubians of Plutonia + The Singles + Cosmo Sun Connection
Hey! I Read, Too-and So Should You!
Martin Amis: Money (Penguin)
Pat Blashill: Someday All the Adults Will Die—The Birth of Texas Punk (University of Texas Press)
Judy Cheeks: Love and Honor—The Life of Reverend Julius Cheeks
Liadan Ni Chuinn: Every One is Still Here—Stories (Stinging Fly Press) (these short stories are astounding)
Byron Coley, Mats Gustafsson, and Thurston Moore: NOW JAZZ NOW—100 Free Jazz and Improvisation Albums (1960-1980) (Ecstatic Peace Library)
Jozsef Debreczeni (trans. Paul Olchvary): Cold Crematorium—Reporting from the Land of Auschwitz (St. Martin’s Press)
Alysson McCabe: Why Sinead O’Connor Matters (University of Texas Press)
Flannery O’Connor: The Violent Bear It Away (Farrar, Strauss and Giroux)
Orlando Reade: What in Me is Dark—The Revolutionary Afterlife of “Paradise Lost” (Astra House)
John Szwed: So What—The Life of Miles Davis (Simon & Schuster)
Paul Youngquist: A Pure Solar World—Sun Ra and the Birth of Afrofuturism (University of Texas Press)
I retreated into music and books this month. The books I chose to help me find answers and a path forward; the music I explored to stay connected.
As usual with Januaries past, new so-called pop (and semi-pop) music oozed out slowly. Jazz, as is its wont, continued to issue forth like a live Sonny Rollins calypso solo. You will see evidence of such in my list, though maybe my perception is due to my leanings (jazz has been a more reliable stimulant to me than anything as I’ve grown suddenly into my sixties).
Also as usual, I am restless when it comes to formatting this blog, and this year, along with tracking my favorite new releases, I’ve decided to return to documenting older purchases I’ve recently returned to and the books I’m currently reading. In this post, I shamefacedly shine light on a few albums I should have pushed harder last year, especially one by the great Memphis singer of bluesy rhythm and blues (the blues? what are those?), Talibah Safiya. She has a new one in the February chute that I paid for the privilege of sampling early—see below. Verdict: it, too, is terrific—she has a gift for soft grit, something like legendary trumpeter Clifford Brown’s tone of “soft fire” (can’t remember what musician described it thus). The other most notable “coming soon” release is the product of the ever-sublime, ever-simply complex music partnership of bassist.cellist Tomeka Reid and guitarist Mary Halvorson.
I will always supply links to my recommendations. I would post a playlist, but I am not thrilled with the connections of any streaming platform, and, if the recommendation has a Bandcamp link, you can play tracks from there.
If the urge strikes you, check out my education Substack, The Overeem (Failed) Farewell to Teaching Tour, which almost always makes contact with the world of music even though I can’t play an instrument and I’ve taught English for the last 42 years. My other WordPress blog, the original Overeem Farewell to Teaching Tour, has deeper and broader reaches, especially as it traces every day of my final year of public school teaching (2012-2014) as well as my wife Nicole’s and my winding trek through peak COVID (March 2020-March 2021). For rock and rollers, it also includes school-related pieces on Dead Moon (played at my school), Bobby Rush (housed the audience at my school), and Chuck Berry (provoked a parent to question my principal about my morals).
Keep your eye on the ball, don’t turn away from life, and don’t panic. Freedom is a constant struggle, but it doesn’t have to be this horrible. Be the opposite of what they are. And get your feet in the street if the situation calls you to it.
Dr. Lomax and his combo continue to deliver spiritual jazz of considerable power—you can meditate to it, but it hits your body as well. His music is disciplined and devout, yet it celebrates and inspires freedom, not to mention the title adjective—we need all of that right now.
Other Favorite New Albums, January 2026
Julianna Barwick & Mary Lattimore: Tragic Magic (In Finé)
Childers deserves to chill.Thunder-nakas.Love, Commitment, and Improv.
It’s New Year’s noonish, and I have to come to a conclusion about the records that got me through this growing mess. 2026 ain’t gonna be much better, I’m afraid—maybe in the music universe, but not on the ground, so to speak. I may have short-changed December; if you didn’t see my December 1st long-list, it’s here. A few December releases did make my Top 25 line-up.
If you have followed this blog for awhile, you’ve already noticed I am a bit restless about formatting. This year, I just alphabetized records most of the year and used an asterisk system to indicate my level of enthusiasm (I am not a critic; I am merely an enthusiast who measures records by the degree to which my short hairs stand up while playing an album). I also did not separate out archival digs or reissues. I vote in the Francis Davis Memorial Jazz Critics Poll, but below, I did not weed out jazz (however, I will share my poll ballot, which would change if I resubmitted it today). To paraphrase Duke Ellington, there’s only two kids of music: good and bad. Seldom this year did I write at much length about albums; if I mentioned them at the top of the post, that indicated that I really cared. Also, my perspective about ordering records is very subjective: my life experiences, prejudices, 42-year-career as an English teacher, my 63-plus years hanging out in the middle of the country, my commitment to being a married man but also to seeking new aesthetic territory to open my mind—those are the determiners, and I respect yours, as different as they may be. Finally, I’m a hardcore Heraclitian (?): you can never step in the same river twice, because you are mutating by the moment and the river just keeps on running. Apply that to a piece of music you’re listening to for, say, the 157th time; I have Professor Longhair’s Crawfish Fiesta on right now, two days after hearing the combo’s unique drummer Johnny Vidocovich play live 40-some years after that record got waxed, and damn right I’m different than I was at 19 and my ears are way better after that show. Anyway…the point is, I’m not asserting that these are rankings that you should mind, my friends.
Thoughts: I have been invulnerable to Americana / folk / alt-country whatever since, oh, 2016. To be honest, even though many artists categorized as such are en resistance, and even though I am a Midwestern white guy one generation removed from the family farm, I just have not wanted to hear what those white (mostly) guys have had to say. Childers (intense vocals conjuring Gary Stewart—read Jimmy McDonough’s new bio of that one), The Delines (really downbeat and sharp writing from off the grid or hanging by the fingernails from it), Tommy Womack (a lifelong struggler apparently indomitable despite not being in denial), and I’ll throw in octogenarian Irish folk legend Christy Moore (fighting his own fight at home but aware of the threats to the world at large) changed that. [ahmed], Los Thuthanaka, and a vintage Hüsker Dü live set were aural fists in the face to creeping (ok, faster than creeping) repression. Among my peers, few have sung the praises of Colombian folk goddess Karol G but that album outjukes Bad Bunny’s. If Danny Brown can get his whole health together, so can I. Death was a constant presence in my personal life in ’25, so Brotzmann’s stunning final live sessions of autumnal free jazz—if he was ever too much for you, this is where to get on board—empowered me. I liked woods’ and Fanon’s reimagining of woods’ original version way more, because it seemed to deliberately tackle the problem folks occasionally have with woods’ tracks. And I’ll stop with a big plug for Natural Information Society’s perfectly-titled album: I saw the group perform the piece (on the album, in multiple versions) live and was completely mesmerized by their militantly disciplined minimalism across nearly an hour’s playing (36 minutes in its long version here). Apologies to Sudan Archives, Lil’ Wayne, C-MAT, and maybe-just-maybe Geese for not giving your work the time it very likely deserved
I listened to almost 40 records last month that passed muster–many did so in splendid style. A huge chunk of my time was taken up by a new studio (!) album by the forceful, imaginative, and focused jazz improvisers known as [ahmed] (a double set that requires very close attention and replaying) and Corbett vs. Dempsey’s shining new six-disc compilation of Chicago and international players known and relatively unknown blowing the doors off The Empty Bottle, one of the country’s greatest dives, circa 1996-2005. In addition, I was fortunate to receive review copies of two live Rahsaan Roland Kirk excavations by the indefatigable Zev Feldman for Resonance Records, and I’ll stop doing almost anything for Rah. Plus, I was finishing teaching two on-line classes plus a 3.5-week, three-hour-per-session, M-F freshman comp course during which many unpredictable things occurred that ’bout had me losing my religion. Add my first Thanksgiving without either of my parents above ground (ghost distraction) and Todd Snider’s passing hitting me harder than I’d figured, and I feel like I’ve been through a very slow-moving, tight wringer. I am through it, so some quick observations:
Sabrina Carpenter–I give. I give. You are the master.
If you watched Big Freedia‘s show back in the day, it’ll be impossible not to be moved by her new gospel album devoted to her departed long-time paramour.
Re: Snider‘s passing? So fucking sad, so weird, probably in the end, if all the facts ever come out, not surprising. But his last album (see below) is Americana’s version of Billie Holiday’s Lady in Satin: it is very painful to hear a powerful voice and spirit reduced to a near-husk–but the word is NEAR.
If you’ve never heard an album by the musician/writer/performance artist/stutter-battler JJJJJerome Ellis, you might give his new one a try. I witnessed him live perform much of the material, and, while it’s demanding, it’s astonishingly inspiring.
Thank you, Alfred and Joey, for the tips on Home Front (my kind of punk) and the new Allo Darlin’ (my kind of, um, twee…but I don’t like that appelation). Where would we be without other scouts?
If you have a taste for eccentric, intriguing, and impish jazz, you’ll be hard-pressed to find two albums that fit that bill better than Yuhan Su‘s and Joe Westerlund‘s new records. Delightful is another good adjective for those two.
No, these are not those Wrens. Not by a long shot. But they are tres interesante.
If you can’t decide between the Huskers and the Mats of your youth (assuming you were a youth at that time), go Huskers! You may be tempted by the live Replacements disc, but, though they actually sound pretty together, the sound is not great. On the other hand, the Du discs explode (though some are still complaining about mixes).
Regarding trends–I’m really backtracking to last month, when I should have said more about the even newer (and improved) Sharp Pins release–is there such a thing as a power-poptimist?
The billy woods reimagining is better than the originally imagined. And that would be about the music, which with woods is often a kind of sticking point.
What about the new De La Soul? It is de la sweet.
Sorry no playlist but I am still not gonna play with Spotify.
MY LIST OF AURAL PLEASURE—January 1 – December 2, 2025 BOLDED = New to the List ASTERISKED* to ***** = Damn good! to Holy CANNOLI! ITALICIZED: Excavations from the Past / Reissue
I shoulda had this up Friday, I shoulda had this up Sunday, but life, love, collegiality, The Pitt, stress, goodbye services (see a few ‘graphs below)—oh, shut up and get on with it, dude.
It’s truly been a bounteous year for music, and October helped. I was able to witness Natural Information Society’s “Perseverance Flow” live (it’s my single of the year at 35+ minutes) so I am a little biased about the studio recording, which will likely land in my Top 10. Right about when I was grumbling to myself about wondering if I would ever like fresh reggae-like stuff again, crafty veteran Hollie Cook dropped a nifty neo-lover’s rock album on Mr. Bongo. The thrilling but no longer living guitarist Pete Cosey makes a fascinating appearance on Melvin Gibbs’ second early-‘oughts extraction of his group Amasia’s work, and Tyler Keith, “The Richard Hell of the Deep South” (though now his leaning more toward Charles Willeford) also unleashed an intense recording from earlier days. Citric Dummies knocked out a brief but furious and funny hardcore album with my favorite title of the year. Robert Finley followed up a run of tough soul albums on the Easy Eye label with a defiant gospel recording. Sweden’s Sound Asleep label gifted us a collection from the archives of Springfield, Missouri’s The Morells (never forget Shake and Push!) featuring a heaping helping of Donnie Thompson guitar and gloriously corny songs—he is in rock and roll’s top five living plectrists—as a sweet a capella cover of a doo wop classic where he overdubbed himself as a street corner group. The magical Finnish guitarist/oudist (?)Jussi Reijonen released his second terrific album of the year, a live one in more ways than one. Sharp Pins, riding a wave of new power-pop bands, easily topped their earlier 2025 album with a kind of flowing river of catchy compositions (the structure and flow reminds me of Imperial Bedroom, though not the writing). R. A. P. Ferreira, a mic controller and writer who’s records are always interesting but sometimes a bit scattered, waxed his best slab in years. CupcakKe and Princess Nokia are back. Vernon Reid (last spotted on Swamp Dogg’s bluegrass record) still has plenty to say and play. If you dig the multi-national jazz improvising group [ahmed], you are gonna want to check out their pianist Pat Thomas’ new solo record. That’s just some of the nice new stuff to check out. Oh, and if you get a chance to see Swamp Dogg live (or take in his fantastic new documentary Swamp Dogg Gets His Pool Painted), do not make excuses: go. My wife, my friends, and I recently did both (I was privileged to have been asked to interview him post-film—a trip!) and it was unforgettable.
Allow me a brief tangent. One of my rock and roll brothers-in-arms, Bryan Stuart—we played together in each other’s first band and wrote a lot of songs that never got recorded—passed away in September. He was one of the most intense, most alive human beings I’ve ever been around—he challenged you to be in the moment. He’d been battling some demons for over a decade and they sadly got the best of him. If you’re a fan of garage rock or a long-time resident of the American Southeast, you may have seen or heard the bands he slung razor-sharp guitar and wrote for: The Angry Inches, The Ex-Impossibles, The Strychnines, The Ditch Diggers, Motor 76, and I think there were more (um, he also flew a copter in Desert Storm, an operation he had reservations about). I could not make it to Atlanta for his celebration of life, but his fellow guitarist and another of my best friends (all three of us were members of each other’s wedding party) read a tribute to him I’d like to share here. The structure may seem weird, but it was designed to parallel the insistence of Bryan’s presence, if that makes sense:
Reflections on Stu-Man
“What I remember best about Bryan Stuart is his intensity. Being in his orbit meant having a gauntlet thrown down before you. “Can you desire this moment of living as much as I do,” Bryan would seem to wordlessly ask you, almost bodily, vibrating with energy. His eyes, boring holes into you, seemed to declare the answer: “I know that you can’t.”
“Whether it was existing aimlessly with him in a dorm room with no plan (“Let me show you these nunchucks!” and feeling one whip so closely to my face my bangs flew up)—
or nervously heading out to find a party with him on a Friday night (“Tonight, I’m not taking shit from anyone and we are going to have a blast!”)—
or, completely broke, coming to his apartment for dinner—Bryan could be very selfless if a friend was in need—and having difficulty with his homemade spaghetti sauce, where he had split the difference between being a domestic and an outlaw by adding a healthy portion of Jack Daniels to it and you knew you had better not gag (“SO???!! How IS it??? How IS it???) (He actually turned out to be a great cook.)
or playing in a ragtag band in front of a ragtag house-party audience (“Hey, go put on that nightgown and come back and fellate my guitar! They’ll love it!”)—
or on an otherwise lonely New Year’s Eve night, drunkenly making up beer commercials straight from “Springsteen’s USA!” and throwing dead soldiers at the wall (“More pretty chords HAHAHAHA!!!!!)—
or talking music with him late into the night after he arrived by surprise at my parents’ house where I was staying for the summer and they hadn’t yet met him (From my parents’ room, 3 am, morning before my dad’s weekday work, my mom: “You guys need to shut up and go to sleep!” Then Bryan, practically yelling to me while lying on the floor with just a pillow in the strip of space between my bed and the wall: “No! Let’s listen to some more of these mix cassettes and make fun of Bob Dylan some more!”)—
or watching him challenge a fellow groomsman—East Coaster vs. St. Louisan with an East Coast attitude—to a Johnny Thunders jam-battle at 2 a.m. in the hotel room next to ours after my wedding reception (“Give me the guitar and tell me the song and let’s DO IT, man!”)—
or, just stopping by his house in northern Atlanta on our way to Tybee Island for the night to discover he had secretly arranged a partial reunion of our first band—Wayne Coomers and the Original Sins—complete with studio recording (he also, the next day, forced upon me—you could not say no to him—a VHS titled The Pirates Live at Dingwalls that’s still one of the shit-hottest live rock and roll videos I’ve ever seen, and it seems he did not leave it behind when he stepped on a rainbow)–
or arguing with him about existence on the phone for hours (“Name me one book, right now, we’re fifty-five years old, that’s gonna tell me one thing that I don’t already know that I need to know! Name me one!”) (He never did let me answer)….”
Bryan LIVED, a LIVE WIRE.
I don’t intend these memories as a critique. He upped the ante of the moment, and I was very seldom equal to the task, and he would be disappointed in me. That is not a bad reason to be disappointed, and upon reflection, given the stakes of life, perhaps I should have striven harder. Intensity in a person for living is a gift. And it is not easy, always, to be in that person’s company. They leave a mark.
Robert Frost’s epitaph is “He had a lover’s quarrel with the world,” and I think Bryan expected more of our world, sometimes, and that was not easy for him. I am always going to remember Bryan for his intensity, his upping the ante, and his explosive laughter and unspoken love on those very rare occasions when I was able to meet the ante.
I never raised it, that’s for certain.”
New Year’s Eve, ’88, Stu “showing me” an Iggy biography, probably saying, “Here, read this now, man!”
Our shared favorite bands when we were together: Dolls, Thunders, Stooges, Thee Michelle Gun Elephant (especially), Stevie Ray, early Thorogood (Bryan learned to play GREAT guitar faster than anyone I have ever seen), Stones.
On with the music–keep livin’, and look out for folks who may be struggling:
MY LIST OF AURAL PLEASURE January 1 – October 31, 2025 BOLD = New to the List ASTERISKED* to ***** = Damn good! to Holy SHIT! ITALICIZED: Excavations from the Past / Reissues
Sorry, no sampler because eff Spotify—buy physical and digital media, new or used!
Thank the stars we have the music. We also are better-looking than they are.
Side note: my head is spinning re: the recurrence of the “poptimism v. rockism” debate / clarification / writer cage match / white-flag-wave.” I’ve never had any doubt massively popular music is interesting, I am very interested in semi-popular music that exists between those poles, and I guess I sometimes wonder where loving pure sound (in the Pauline Oliveras sense) lies in the debate, or if it matters. I hate feeling guilty because I simply don’t see where Sabrina Carpenter connects with my lived life—I respect her talent, but I don’t need her work like I need the stuff listed below—and I have sampled her as well as seen her perform live on my smart TV. On the other hand, and it’s not just that I’m from her corner of Missouri, Chappell Roan was automatic for me: exuberant, clever, catchy, shifty, transgressive (in a way), imaginative, and charismatic, I find plenty to like. But Deepstar Enigmatica, which seems outside of the scrum, is also automatic and reaches deep inside of me. Probably, what it comes down to is I don’t fully get it, despite my having read Carl Wilson’s Let’sTalk About Love, from which I took this maxim: don’t taste-spar with others, because you don’t know what they’ve been through that spurs them to connect to a piece of music. Ok, done.
Marek Pospieszalski Octet & Zoh Amba: NOW! (Project financed by a scholarship from the Minister of Culture and National Heritage “Młoda Polska” & Katowice City of Music UNESCO)
Preservation & Gabe ‘Nandez: Sortilège (BackwoodzStudioz) ****
Living To Listen 