Surprise! No More Wednesday Surprise! I Surprise You Whenever I Fucking Feel Like it!

I pride myself on learning, finding, and sharing music that isn’t known to a majority of people. I also pride myself in having my guilty pleasures, though I do not pride myself on using the term “pride myself.” The opening sentence sounds like a douche-y thing to say…bear with me. It is not a pride thing as far as, “Oh, you haven’t heard _________? It really was at the forefront of the _______ movement.” It is a pride thing as far as, “Hey, man…come over and let me play this for you.” More often than not the guest will bring something that I have never heard or tell me about a genre somewhere in the world that is right up my alley. Everyone wins when no one is a dick smack.

Ah, the 90s. When the only issue in the White House was whether or not the Commander in Chief was or wasn’t getting hand jammers from a young, semi-attractive aide.

What I am sharing today are things that everyone already knows. Why? It’s my website and I felt like it. That might be kind of a dick thing to say, sure, but I don’t care.

While working at the record store I would dig through the discount bins and pick out 90s music that I had forgotten about or dismissed as fodder. Most of the time I was correct in writing it off but sometimes I would revisit something that opened the floodgates to memories. This is one of those albums.

The Smashing Pumpkins were always an anomaly for me. I enjoyed the timbre, save for the ultra-mid guitar sound, and I will shit off of a cliff if anyone disagrees that Jimmy Chamberlin is one of the best, and overlooked, drummers of the last 50 years. My put off was always the front man, Billy Corgan. Obviously I don’t know him personally but he comes across as a complete narcissistic ball sack. He had one of the greatest bands of the 90s and yet no one could work with him. He went from a frail-haired, rayon-wearing rock icon to a bald-headed pseudo-intellectual spouting off at anyone who dismissed his art as complete shit. Any true artist would take the criticism and use it to their advantage but instead he formed Zwan.

One of my favorite memories, and best stories, is when, at the age of 15, I stole my dad’s truck to go to Kmart and buy Siamese Dream. The rush of driving through the town and doing wrong was like a drug. I arrived and pulled into the parking spot, went in, and paid for the $10 of magic. I returned to the truck and started pulling out and turned too early, smashing into the car parked next to me. (I was driving a 1978 Ford Ranger…not the smallest vehicle.) “Fuck,” I thought. To put whipped cream on my sure demise, a girl was walking by at the time and witnessed it. I simply played it cool and parked the truck and got out and began to walk inside again to report it. With one eye over my shoulder I waited for the witness to get in her car, comfortable that I would be a good person and report it, and drive away. As the horizon swallowed her I ran back to the truck and peeled lightning outta there.

D’Arcy has seen some better days. Like when she was an international rock star and not arrested for letting her horses run free in Michigan.

I arrived home safely and replaced the truck exactly where I had stolen it from. The only difference was the entire side was caved in from the accident. I had no idea what to do. My sister was home and had worked out an agreement with dad about taking the truck to meet some friends for lunch. She had had no idea that I even left. She took the truck and, because she was such a good kid, upon return she washed the truck as a thank you to dad for letting her take it. Luckily she hadn’t seen the dent yet so as I walked out I assholed to her, “OH MY GOD WHAT DID YOU DO TO THE SIDE OF THE TRUCK?!”

She came around (the damage was on the passenger side) and kind of freaked out. “Oh no! Someone must’ve hit me and took off!”

“Yeah, that’s what it looks like. Dad’s gonna kill you.”

The secret was kept hush until a dinner years later when our mutual friend, whom I had told the story to, said, “Hey, I think Luc has something to tell you.”

My sister, perplexed and in wonderment, innocently said, “What?”

I then explained the entire thing. Luckily the statute of limitations had expired and we all had a good laugh.

I only told you that to tell you this.

I am totally gonna get sued for this.

I was really looking forward to the follow up to Siamese Dream. Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness was released and, oh boy, it was a double album. Pulling the ol’ Use Your Illusion trick. “Let’s make it a double album so people will think we are so thought-provoking and artistic.” Goddamn. It was almost enough to make someone hate music. So much filler and jagbaggery (see what I did there?) that one had to constantly skip tracks so as to hear the good ones. I see why he shaved his head now…he had cancer of the restraint.

I like the album and have spent some time revisiting it lately. So to continue on in my asshole ways I present to you my edited, reordered version aptly titled Mellon Collie and the Finite Sadness. Enjoy.

Here.

Listening to this made me think about the nineties and all the shit and hangers-on and soft potatoes that went on in that era. So, much to the chagrin of my neighbors, I’m sure, I compiled a four hour mix of 90s music, some good and some deplorable. I have my favorites, as should you, but it is blatant that this is quite the amazing collection of, “Holy fuck, this is horribly wonderful,” that has been put together in quite a while. Save for the NOW Volume 547 that you see in checkout lines and manage to sell millions of copies. (Pssssst, to those people buying it, you only have to turn on the radio.) Let’s all cringe together.

Here (part one).

Here (part two).

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