Kevin Alexander

By 1987, the New Order had fully risen from the ashes of Joy Division. Along the way, they’d shed the post-punk sound and become arguably the leading synth-pop band in the world.

They’d already released 4 studio albums, but their fascination with disco & (then) new technology had left them with a habit of reworking and remixing album tracks into 12” singles.

It was time to put together Substance- a collection optimized for filling the dancefloor (The CD release has a 2nd disc of B-sides and extended instrumental remixes). Serving almost as a de facto greatest hits record (future hit “True Faith” debuted here), each of the 12 tracks showcases the band’s masterful ability to marry gorgeous pop melodies, frontman Bernard Sumner’s endearing vocals—and thunderous beats.

The result was a sound that sounded as good coming out of a car coming down the block as it did in the club. Though very much a product of its’ time, the music is timeless (it turns 36 today) and is a testament to the band’s outsized influence on the rave & house music world.

New Order- or rather their graphic designer Peter Saville- also habitually released records with beautiful covers. Every release was a marriage of sight and sound. Saville wasn’t picky, either; he was at home tapping into Bahaus or Constructivist influences as he was classic art.

This time, though, he opted for a simple white cover with black type, not unlike a generic label.

There’s not much substance to it (sorry, not sorry)there, but in this case, there needn’t be; the music was the message.

For your playlist: Everything’s Gone Green, Blue Monday, The Perfect Kiss.

As a kid growing up in the Pacific Northwest, the Midwest might as well have been on another planet.

The heartland was somewhere abstract. A great corn sea that people only saw on their way to/from somewhere else. A place where you could drive for hours without being bothered with things like steering inputs and where the slow changing of license plates only vaguely marked distance.

It all seemed like one big blur, but there are lines everywhere; state lines, county lines, fence lines.

John Mellencamp (still John Cougar Mellencamp at this point) drew his own line with 1985’s Scarecrow. Mellencamp had committed to standing for Middle America, specifically small-town Midwest America, and the farming communities being torn asunder by Reaganomics.

He’d gone from Johnny Cougar- singer of fun ditties about Tastee-Freez, to John Cougar Mellencamp, ambassador of the everyman and flyover country. This transition really started with 1983’s Uh-Huh but took hold on Scarecrow, a record that is both a love letter to the heartland and the people who call it home. And it was an alarm for the rest of us that their way of life was dying. This is Mellencamp championing the American farmer and castigating the American government.

This is the line between “Nothin’ Matters & What if it Did “ and “You’ve Got To Stand for Somethin’.”

Like most Midwesterners, Mellencamp is economical with his words. The pictures he paints are vivid but don’t use any more words than they need to. He pulls no punches. He was born in a small town; he’ll die in a small town.

Same with the sound. Few drummers produced as clean of a backbeat as Kenny Aronoff. The sound is simple and defiant all at once. On “Between a Laugh and a Tear,” fellow Midwest native Rickie Lee Jones lends her underrated voice to the track, adding just enough to give the track texture. No more, no less. No glitz, no glam.

“Scarecrow” explains the lifecycle (and demise) of farming in roughly four minutes. “Small Town” does more for middle America than any chamber of commerce could hope to. “Between a Laugh and a Tear” feels like a vignette of Jack and Diane, a few years into their future.

When paradise is no longer fit for you to live in
And your adolescent dreams are gone
Through the days you feel a little used up
And you don't know where your energy's gone wrong
It's just your soul feelin' a little downhearted

They’re grown up now. Things aren’t as simple as they were supposed to be.

1988: My ramp to with The Jesus and Mary Chain began the way so many did in the late 80s, with a cassette shoved in my hand on the way to class and a mandate to "check this out." The tape was Barbed Wire Kisses, their collection of B-Sides, outtakes, and rarities. Like so many other bands before and after them, this, too, had been swiped borrowed from a friend's older sibling. 

It was love at first listen. 

Playing it felt like being in a wind tunnel of sonic chaos. There's plenty of feedback, rockabilly riffs (and a Bo Diddley cover), and just enough surf rock (“Surfin' USA”) to keep you coming back again & again, which I did. 

Looking back, part of that appeal came from thinking the band wasn't long for this world. No way it would work. They were too volatile to be around for the long haul.

Or so I thought.

###

Pushing through to keep on keepin’ on. It’s ironic that I have ideas for days, but bubkis when it comes to expecting them. Shits weird.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.

The gremlins is back again. The ghost in the machine. Need to exorcise it so I can get the faucet back on.

Guided By Voices- La La Land (1/20)

I overuse often make the joke that if we ever go more than 8-9 months without a new GBV record, something is seriously wrong. Luckily, Bob Pollard is still in fine form, churning out records at a breakneck pace.

Last year’s Tremblers and Goggles By Rank made a lot of year-end lists (including mine) and contained five and six-minute songs, new ground for a band used to cranking out sub- 2:00 minute tracks. According to Pollard, La La Land is that record’s direct follow-up. And like its predecessor, it shows him going deeper, again writing (relatively) longer tracks and a more sophisticated sound.

Forty years in, Pollard-and GBV- have nothing left to prove. They could probably coast and release iterations of Alien Lanes, and we’d all eat it up. But they don’t, and the world’s a better place because of it.

Just keepin’ the streak alive. Thought about cut-n-pasting something, then thought better of it.

Maybe tomorrow…

Still workin’ through it. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.

Nah.

One more day.

My streak of writing what I'd like, as opposed to practicing ("practicing in public") continues.

At first it felt a little rebellious (yes, that sounded as dumb typing it as it likely does to read it-- follow me here), but I've warmed to the idea. I like having a place to just cut loose. To freewheel whatever I want. To scoop up this pile of letters toss it in the air like the leaves in autumn and hope they stick the landing.

And if not? Fuck it. I'm having too much fun to much mind.

What day are we on? Is this thing on? Does it matter? Maybe. Probably.

I'm back to work after 12 days off. Feels like it was both a year and three hours. Never enough.

• Back to getting up before dawn.

• To a regimented day- down to the minute.

• To banal small talk with coworkers that pretend to care.

God forbid we'd ever discuss anything even remotely spicy (or interesting).

Big sigh

On the plus side, I made a killer playlist, so I've got that to carry me through.

It's easy to forget the power of making art for art's sake in a world of formulas, templates, and hacks. Of constructing something beautiful from a jumble of words and piles of letters.

I saw a wonderful quote from musician Nick Cave this morning. It was in response to an artist who had been told their work needed to revolve around the larger socio-political discourse. That's a perfect recipe for cooking up something full of empty calories. It might incite anger or reinforce the viewer's current opinions, but it won't actually move them. There's rarely much entertainment or education in these sorts of hot takes.

So here’s to art, Isabella! Here’s to freedom! Send your well-connected artist packing and continue to listen to your own thundering heart. That awesome sound you hear is the trembling of true art as it rumbles and calls to your very soul.

It can be a powerful action, this refusal to break. Not everything has to be "3 reasons why X does Y." Those are fun to write and can be valuable, but you know what else makes money?

Authentic writing at the intersection of what you know a lot about & what you love.

Which one do you think will prove more sustainable in the long term?

I missed yesterday's publishing deadline. I had it written in my head. I had every intention of putting those sentences down to paper, er, screen. And yet, it didn't happen. Why not?

'Cause I was busy. Busy living.

• Busy listening to the new record that finally arrived.

• Busy playing with my dog.

• Busy tying up some loose ends on an upcoming Substack article.

• Busy making headway on the book I said I'd finish a couple of weeks ago.

• Busy going on a date with my wife.

• Busy watching the amazing sunset, which up here is often a harbinger of an incoming storm.

• Busy watching said storm.

We're always told we need to get out and experience things if we're writing anything remotely interesting. So that's what I did. Besides, that sounds much better than saying the day simply got away from me.

I woke up today and chose violence.

I am burned all the way out on terms like "content" and "delivering value." What happened, you ask? I saw the one too manyieth writer on Substack desperately struggling with what "more" to offer people to get them to upgrade their subscriptions.

They don't believe that their "regular" writing volume is enough- that it isn't worth support.

Look, I get it. Writers can be an insecure lot. But I should be clear here: These people write quality content about things people are interested in. No once-a-month diary entries in this bunch.

And yet here they are, victims of the conditioned opinion that everything everywhere should be free all the time.

A bunch of tech bro dorks prioritized shareholder value over creative output, and this is the end game. Good writers are battling algorithms for your attention. It's absurd. It doesn't have to be this way.

No one I know says they like this.

My point here? Start putting your money where your mouth is. Support your favorite artists. Buy their music. Pay for their Substack. Use your dollars to tell them that what they're doing is enough.

I’m now at the age where half of my vacation is spent doing what I call “practicing retirement,” which I guess is a cute way of saying “whatever the f—k I want.” I sleep late (for me), have a leisurely breakfast, and savor my cups of coffee. Then I play some records and play with my dog. My wife and I went to the gym and then had a nice dinner together. It’s all low key and it’s perfect. Oh yeah. I wrote a bunch of stuff in there too. I’m ready to do this for real.

“I’m so sorry y’all,” he says over and over. “He” sounds like Roger from American Dad, and none of us can unhear it. Fortunately, he looks totally normal.

“He” is named Isiah, and it’s his first day at this Waffle House. His crime? Forgetting to put half of our table’s order in. We meet everyone of his million apologies with assurances that it’s fine— and it is. This place has potent air conditioning. We’ve got all day for all I care. Besides. Everyone’s new once; what good would it do to yell?

So we wait. And listen to a kid free styling at one of the booths. And to the two older ladies behind gossiping in what they think are hushed tones. I assure you they were not.

Meanwhile Isiah’s new coworkers give him a harder time than any of us could’ve. They’re playful, but merciless. One of them announces he has a new theme song and proceeds to blast “I Will Survive.” He looks like he might die.I finally stop sweating. The A/C drones on, as do the women behind us. Life’s good.