Gary Lucy reminded me of this oddball LP from my year in the dormitory. Once In a Blue Moon has held up quite well; though the strongest track might be the cover of Cat Steven's "Hard-Headed Woman" (which our legal counsel has advised us against posting), I count at least five others that appeared on mix tapes in my angsty early 20s. Yo were a San Francisco band who had some 7" action which you can sample on Hyped To Death's Homework series, plus at least two long players. Starting with some fine songs written by singer Bruce Rayburn, they added elements of trad folk and a healthy punk roar, as well as a dash of the then de rigueur "new sincerity" sound (see The Wild Seeds, Zeitgeist) to create something that was rather unique, well-crafted, and roundly ignored outside the Bay Area.

Hi. I'm still here.

It's been an interesting and slightly strange August. I resigned my full-time position at The Love Garden, where I had worked for 14 years. I don't recall ever talking too much about the shop here on the blog, but let me just say a couple of things: First of all, I'm extremely proud of the store. We frequently hear customers from all over the country telling us that it's one of the best record stores they've ever seen. We strive to be fair, friendly, and interesting, and I think we've generally accomplished that, and I have every confidence that we will do so in the future. Secondly, I'd like to publicly state how much it meant to me that my bosses, Kory Willis and Kelly Corcoran (and earlier Zippy Hester) accommodated my school schedule, always paid me a living wage, and made sure I was taken care of financially when I had to miss weeks of work with a fairly serious health issue a couple of years ago.

Actually, let me drop this in, at the risk of giving you too much information. The "issue" referred to above was testicular cancer. I was 37 at the time, past the age at which the disease normally occurs. My point is, guys, check yourself out regularly, and if anything seems amiss, go to a doctor. I waited quite a while (probably a year or so) to do anything about it, and as a result had to endure chemotherapy that probably could have been avoided. I know...I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, the reason I quit the store was because I have a student teaching assignment this semester. I'll be teaching three Accelerated Senior English classes and one Science Fiction class. I'm very much looking forward to it, while simultaneously worrying that I'm a complete fraud.

I'm actually kind of hoping that being away from the store will make music more precious (because less of it) and therefore get me more excited about it than I have been for most of 2006. I really enjoy getting in my car after school and turning the stereo up, understanding that "up" is not nearly as loud as "up" was in 1982. I hope I will have more motivation to update this site frequently, because your kind words and comments and e-mails really do mean a lot to me. Once again, I'd like to thank Andrew Chalfen and Stewart Mason for their help and patience.

Oh yeah, saw a couple of Embarrassment reunion shows this weekend. I can't say they were musically stellar, but it was cool to see those four guys playing a bunch of songs I loved, and there were certainly glorious moments. Bill Goffrier was particularly good. He's still a post-punk guitar genius.

Thanks for letting me ramble. As a reward, here's a belated Little Hits tribute to the late Syd Barrett by Martin Newell's Cleaners From Venus.

Peace,

Jon

Jon just reminded me that I promised someone some months ago in the comments section to the Philip Glass piece that I was going to put up Polyrock's "Romantic Me" at some point. Apologies for the lateness, but here it is.

Best known -- let's not kid ourselves, pretty much ENTIRELY known -- as the new wave band produced by Philip Glass and his engineer/right hand man Kurt Muncasi, Polyrock were an artsy sextet led by brothers Billy and Tommy Robertson. Their debut album came out on RCA in 1980, which as mentioned elsewhere here on Little Hits was pretty much a death knell for the band's commercial chances since there was no other major label more clueless about new wave music. Not that they were likely to go much of anywhere in 1980, anyway: in those pre-MTV times, the heartland just wasn't ready for the synthed-out pulses of this primarily electronic band, or for Billy Robertson's tightly wound, shrieking vocals and elliptical-to-the-point-of-meaningless lyrics. In light of current alternative-rock radio, however, Polyrock would be as big as the Killers if they debuted right now; half the bands played on WFNX here in Boston are -- probably unconsciously -- biting huge chunks of their sound directly off this one song.

Polyrock managed one more major-label album, 1981's Changing Hearts, an EP on the PVC label and an after the fact compilation of unfinished demos and live tracks that came out on the ROIR cassette label sometime in the mid-'80s. All of their material is in this style, and is all of similar quality; if you see it in the used bins, pick it up.

-Stewart Mason

It was reported on the evening of August 3, 2006, that Love frontman Arthur Lee had died that afternoon, after battling leukemia. One of the most infuriating men in rock and roll history -- the definitive Lee biography has yet to be written, but I have no doubt that it will reveal that even his closest friends regularly wanted to kick him in the nuts -- Arthur Lee was also an artist of uncommon grace and delicacy. That one man could write both the stomping proto-punk of "Seven and Seven Is," one of the most unhinged records of the 1960s, and the dreamy "She Comes In Colors" on the same album is indicative of the duality at his core, and it was a huge part of what first drew me to Love as a high school senior when I picked up Rhino's mid-80s best-of almost entirely on a whim, having never heard the band before. (By the time I graduated, I was among those who thought Forever Changes was one of the greatest albums of all time.) Willfully self-destructive and possessing a legendarily violent mean streak, Lee could also be utterly charming; at one of his last concerts in Boston, in 2003, he was funny, self-deprecating and obviously grateful for the attention, but he was also every bit the cocky, no-bullshit frontman.

The glorious "Wonder People (I Do Wonder)" was written and recorded during the sessions for Lee's masterpiece, the epic Forever Changes, but left out of the final running order, supposedly because Lee thought this uncharacteristically optimistic, peppy song didn't fit with the bleakness at the album's core. (There's also the fact that the mod-a-go-go horn part is very reminiscent of the one that powers "Maybe the People Would Be the Times Or Between Clark and Hilldale," itself the one vaguely hopeful song on the record.) For all the depression and paranoia on display throughout Forever Changes, "Wonder People (I Do Wonder)" is as summery as a Lovin' Spoonful or Harpers Bizarre single, and proof that for all of his well-documented faults, Arthur Lee did have a sweet side. Our thoughts go to his wife Diane and his friends.

-Stewart Mason