FM-Steff

I had a great little trip to Zulu Records this afternoon. Zulu's the kind of record store that Rob from High Fidelity would cream his pants to own. It's just that good. You pay a little more for the street cred, though.

I played with the listening booths and got in touch with a little new music. One band is secret-secret for a bit, since a particular gift recipient might happen upon the information and have a surprise spoiled.

Me First and the Gimme Gimmes have landed me with a few exquisite laughs, though, bellyshakers. How can a punk cover of "Build Me Up Buttercup" not make your week? I don't even need to mention the also-punk cover of "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina," do I?

God bless random. Some rather psychedelic remix of "the Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats has spun onto play. It's a little frightening that we seem to be evolving towards another era of '80s-style music. You question me? How about The Killers? Duran Duran-meets-Psychedelic Furs, their track "Mr. Brightside" gets a thumbs-up from me, but the rest hasn't hit home just yet. Maybe I'll fire up the John Hughes tribute night and that'll stoke the mood. Or how about the Go! Team? I'm enjoying them, sort of. They're fun, definitely, but I can't help but to think they're maybe, well, Banarama... on lots and lots of crack.

Now, speaking of crack and safety (watch those pipes, kids), there is simply nothing at all safe about this remix of "the Safety Dance." Next thing you know, I'll be listening to the Boomtown Rats or something. [Which brings to mind this story Bob Geldof wrote about a particularly Deer Hunter-ish encounter with a prostitute in Thailand... Not a place I need to go. Golf balls are for driving, damn it.]

I've come to my senses and skipped ahead, blindly, and now have Michael Jackson's "Man In The Mirror" playing. As much as creepy pedophilia thoughts coupled with visions of Neverland are slipping into my mind, I'll hear this one out.

I remember thinking, way back then in the early '90s, that there were just too darn many veiled "What the hell is wrong with me?" sort of lyrics that foreshadowed his then-impending descent into, well... the weirdness we see now. Take the lyrics from this track, "I'm talking with the man in the mirror / I'm asking him to change his ways."

One can only surmise the conversation didn't really go too well.

What a waste. For a time there, he was simply one of the greatest pure pop singers of our time. There's a lot to be said for dying young if you're going to blow your legacy in your own lifetime, like M.J. has done so well. He's the human being brought to you in part by Silly Putty, for God's sake.

Hell, that nose probably did come in a plastic egg after all.