After missing last month’s review, I’ve felt pressure from my own internal expectations to meet this deadline for procurement of new music and a subsequent and intelligible review. I nearly became a repeat offender this month as my overbearing employer once again sapped the creative life force out of my body with relentless extended workdays. But a man has to put his foot down. Okay, well it’s more of a matter of just making the time to scratch out some review on something. It’s not without challenge. I’ve picked up some new music over the last two months and have had a record or two recommended to me. But for this month’s entry of "New Music Monday" I chose to go with a local act.

The album isn’t new and the band has destroyed themselves. However, that doesn’t make the album any less interesting. As a matter of fact, that’s what makes it a little intriguing. Their name, locale, and music are entertaining and moderately engaging. In a world of bubblegum pop stars that cross dress and ignore the use of ‘actual’ instrumentation while resorting to computerized repeatable rhythms and track playbacks, one must wonder, “Why can’t a band that clearly has musical chops and a new slant on previously deceased campy garage sound make it?” Must be all the coffee in Seattle.


Let’s get to the review since I must be boring you with my hypothesis on the socio-economics of popular music and its rise to fame in the kingdom of recorded audio entertainment. The band is The Murder City Devils and the album is “In the Name of Blood.”

Briefly, The Murder City Devils are a Seattle garage-punk band which either is getting back together or they’re not. That seems to be difficult to nail down. In any event, “In the Name of Blood” is new to me and I felt compelled to write about it as it has a unique, yet strangely 1960’s familiar sound.

Get it here at LaLa.com.

So the name, The Murder City Devils, gives you the impression that it might be shock rock, a la Marilyn Manson-type dark and debaucherous music delving into horrific imagery ranging from the beating deaths of old ladies to puppies getting ran over by metro transit buses. Nope. The lyrics are pretty vanilla about typical topics; love/loss, alcohol, and cowboys. About as unassuming as your little sister having a tea party with her stuffed animals. Who needs good lyrics when the delivery makes you fee like you drank a whole fifth of whiskey, broke the bottle, and then stuck your self with it. Okay, a little overdramatic, right? To a degree, yes. But the lead singer, Spencer Moody (perfect name for a punk lead singer) delivers the innocuous lyrics in a vein similar to Glen Danzig or Henry Rollins. It’s urgent, howling, and hollow. It’s the perfect delivery accompaniment for the style of music belted out by the band.

While I have labeled The Murder City Devils as garage-punk, this is merely a way for me to begin to frame their sound similar to categorizing your stuffy nose and respiratory congestion as the flu. The Murder City Devils are psychedelic and angry. So say Jim Morrison, while fronting the Doors, didn’t have issues with inebriating narcotics, was born 40 years later in a rainy gray city, and yelled his lyrics rather than slurred the words. That’s The Murder City Devils. The use of crunchy guitar distortion and spooky Farfisa toned organs makes every song is like an angry Munster’s theme song. It’s a bit campy, a bit psychedelic, and a bit of the Doors meets Danzig. Listening to the swirling organ and angry lyrics, I feel like I’m railing down a dark black and white winding wooded road in a Barris-styled roadster firing flames out the headers looking for Marilyn Munster.

“In the Name of Blood” isn’t an original album or unique in its execution. But it’s listenable and mildly addictive. The songs of the album are all roughly similar in sound, driving guitars, simple drum kit, and soaring organs, except for one, a Neil Diamond cover.

Bunkhouse – When I started to listen to this record, “Rum to Whiskey” was my favorite song. However, “Bunkhouse” quickly unseated it for my new favorite. The whole song is about unraveling myths about cowboys. Seems like a great concept to me under the guise of punk rock and organs. It goes on to say “If you don’t think that cowboys cry, you’ve never been left for a saddle or a bottle of rye.” Simple cowboy 101.

Rum to Whiskey – So maybe this song is still my favorite on the record. It’s ‘deeper’ than “Bunkhouse” but that isn’t saying much. “She was the prettiest girl in an ugly town” is about as deep as this one gets. However, the organ work on this track is eerie and the song is about alcohol and loss. This is The Murder City Devils in their ‘smash-a-bottle-across-your-head’ greatness.

I’ll Come Running – An unlistenable easy listening song by America’s biggest wedding and family reunion song artist gets covered by a screaming organ-driven garage-punk band from Seattle. It’s borderline painful to listen to much like the original. It reminds me of karaoke at a dive bar in Renton, Washington. But it’s a new take on something else.

I personally enjoy the 1960’s-retro sound with more of a punk context. I also like the sound of the Munster’s theme song gone strangely awry. Overall, The Murder City Devils are not creating a ‘new’ genre; they are just twisting a name and a sound to fit their style. There are no fatal car wrecks or drug overdoses on the album. No homicide or crime and the band or album title would lead you to believe. Just typical Seattle garage-punk rock without a real homerun in content. Disappointing? But they’re local and they’re worth a listen. I like them, whiskey, car crashes, and Marilyn Munster.

Occasionally, I’ll be listening to music and a particular song reaches me in a more poignant way than it ever had before. For example, when I wrote about "Things My Father Said,” I had heard it many times before but on that one instance where I needed to ‘hear’ it, there it was in its most emotionally engaging manner. Other times, while listening, a song will play that rewinds the tape on my life and reminds me of a milepost of my life. That’s the great thing about emotionally charged music, when it reaches you, you always remember that moment, that emotion, that instance where you heard it and it ‘meant’ something to you. The song today on the player below goes so much deeper than that.

I remember when my brother died how confused I was at that moment. That ‘moment’ eventually spanned years. But at the period where I realized just how alone I was, I experienced a subset of songs which will forever be logged into my heart permanently that mark the experience and concatenate its effects. Today, a Wednesday, the consistently the worst day of the week, the music from my MP3 player is being piped into my ears by way of noise canceling ear pods. And there it is; a song from the subset of years past. And in an instance, I rewind the tape of my life to that afternoon on the 405 in Orange County. I remember everything about that day. The sun, the temperature, the time of day, where I was going, what I could see on the roadside, the smog, the smell of the air. But the most interesting point was that I remember is relating to the song. It was how the immediate existence of that day with everything I was going through related to not only that moment, but how I knew in the future, the song and I would be even more connected. That day in southern California, this song made me flash forward to this stage of my life where I exist now and the feelings associated with this existence. Strangely circular life is at times. The song today makes me remember everything then which compartmentally contains a memory of flashing forward to today.

I won’t go into the each level of connection I’ve found here in the music. Addressing both my past and my present existence would only concern people for my mental state of health or bore people to death. But metaphorically and explicitly though the song and its lyrics, I'm here and I was there. After that last note is played on the keys, I know it’s going to be just fine.


And like that, where I felt alone, I’m welcomed by an old friend in the form of recorded music. While the memories associated with the song remind me of the pain and tears of stage in my past, it also brings its premonitory abilities of my future to the forefront. The music lends its healing powers in the form of circulatory comfort even if only for five minutes and 27 seconds. Feeling welcome, appreciated and understood, I can sulk down in my chair and just enjoy how the song marks a waypoint in my life.

I try to write with some sort of diversity in topic so that the reader does not get bored with the same old stories about skateboards and punk rock. In this instance, I couldn’t avoid writing about Son #1 again. The kid is never at a loss for saying something uniquely intriguing or behaving in a way only his mother could love.

I once opined about two things Son #1 routinely practiced. Singing and running. And sometimes, both actions are performed in unison. Fresh off his fifth birthday, Son #1 is a year older and ‘stronger’ because of it. He was showered with gifts and we’ve done our best to lay down the subtext that he’ll have to ‘donate’ some of his older belongings to the other kids. Of course, he agrees in theory. What I predict will happen is that he will lose it with such substance in behavior deterioration that it will justify its log here on this platform.

But not today. Let’s talk Son #1’s birthday booty and his penchant for singing. Of the many unique gifts bestowed upon him, there was one of which I had no clue to be a favorite. It was an old school sock monkey. You know the kind, the freaky gray and white cottony, drooping sock monkey with the red lips, yarn tuft of hair, and red monkey butt. Unbeknownst to me, Son #1 has entertained himself with Son #2’s new school, light blue sock monkey for months prior to this. Which, by the way, doesn’t have the freaky red lips and monkey butt.


This brings us to the meat of this entry. Son #1 now has his very own sock monkey. It didn’t stop him from liberating Son #2’s sock monkey from the boy’s crib. Now the two monkeys live together in a state of monkey bliss. While sock monkeys are a startling as a clowns or zombies, they become more intolerable and strangely freakish when you read my next statement. Several nights ago, Son #1 began to ad lib a song about his ‘love’ for sock monkeys. It was eerily similar in beat and tune to that of Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys. First, Son #1 has never listened to the Beasties with me. I can only blame his mother for this. Second, it’s not about the Beasties and the lack of listener discretion, it’s about his lyrics and sincerity. While the exact lyrics professed will not be written here, it’s safe to safe to say they were ‘American Pie-ish’ in nature. My wife and I were rolling with laughter after the song performance. Suffice to say, Son #1 has love for the sock monkey.

Boy. Sock. Love. Three topics which would never be discussed in the same context or in mixed company, or in public for that matter.

What makes this story even more interesting is the draw this toy had when near other five year olds prior to bringing it home. Apparently, the new craze in public affection is ‘moose kisses’. As defined by another five year old, a moose kiss is a strong, and slobbery lap of the tongue across a body part, or in this case, a sock monkey’s mouth. I had the privilege of having my hand moose kissed. But even more disturbing were the little kids moose kissing the sock monkey. Is your child lonely? Get them a sock monkey. It looks like the blankets of Son #1 have been trumped for a sock with arms, tail, and red lips. At least the sock monkey feels wanted in our home.

There’s nothing better than being a hero to a child. Unless of course that child is your own son and he would rather yell, scream, and kick your walls when placed on a time out for running over his younger brother with a toy shopping cart. Son #1 has the flare for the dramatic, and that’s an understatement. But this entry is less about the chaos that he creates or the walls he destroy and more about the compassion of the boy and my unyielding pride in his heart to be himself. We’re just hours away from his fifth birthday.

There has been some proof delivered on the karmic front by way of New Year’s Resolution. If you recall, I began this year with the intention on executing on the plan of patience and tolerance. This was more directed toward the outside world which routinely disappoints me in its inability to operate horseless carriages. However, my patience with Son #1 could be in question at times. Diligently, I planned on turning over this new foliage from the patient tree.

This has worked out well both of us. The last three months have been epic in the time we’ve shared together. The best part has actually come after bed time when my wife would fill me in on his discussions with her earlier in the day. He’d ask his mom, “I wonder how my Dad is doing today. If he is having a good day.” As much as you would expect your child to care about ‘how you are doing,’ it’s not always the reality. Children are pretty self-centered and have a limited attention span similar to that of a goldfish.

In the essence of time and reader attentiveness, I shouldn’t go into everything but I can’t help but write down some of the great things that have happened:

An Audio/Video Lesson
Unsolicited, Son #1 inquired of his mother about the sound emitted from the speakers of our great room A/V system. While my wife is gifted in many accolades and accomplishments in her life, electrical circuitry is not one of them. “Go ask your father,” she says. So he asks me how this stuff works. I have a question of my own, “Do you want the easy description or the scientific explanation?” He wanted the ‘scienticif’ explanation. The long and short of this story is that I crafted a drawing of the A/V system detailed down to the polarity of the wiring. That answered his question and he actually understood. Here is a one of the sheets of the drawing:


Planes, Trains, and buildable Aerospace Inventions
Because I don’t think we have enough clutter in the house, I decided to excavate 20 or so Lego sets from my parents’ attic and bring them home. Our formal dining room became a construction zone with parts strewn like a tornado tipped the Lego factory over. We built a motorized space train, about a dozen spaceships, construction vehicles with lights, and an airport and with accoutrements. Then we decided to freestyle and build our own elaborate spaceship and space station. This took about three weeks to complete. Lego’s were, and still appear to be, a major element of my life. Building with him and watching his excitement brought me back 25 years.

Is it the Z-button that I push?
Much like Lego’s, video games are an element of my generation. Son #1 and I have played Wii Sports Bowling and Golf. He will spank you at both. Don’t believe? Come on over and play him. The next step was the introduction to the Lego franchise of games. We have both Star Wars and Indiana Jones. The latter of the two is much more able to accommodate two players of varying degrees of skill. The one thing I didn’t realize is how well his little mind could master the puzzles of the game. Varying degrees of skill are no longer a problem. He and I are dominating the adventures together. As he accomplishes feats and levels, he becomes more and more excited.


Culinary Arts at NASA
Out of the mouths of babes; Son #1 periodically rambles and occasionally will spill some interesting comments. One evening, he and I were preparing dinner when an advertisement about technology or something was uselessly running on the television. In a trance, he tells me that he has ‘never been to outer space.’ Yes. This comes as a surprise. He was sincere and worried that in his five whole years on this green planet, that he’d missed a unique opportunity to offer his ‘scienticif’ skills to NASA. So I explain that by studying hard he can become and astronaut and achieve an outer space voyage. Worried, he explains to me that he wants to be a chef and since he believes one is mutually exclusive of the other, he can’t have both. Chefs don’t go to outer space.

And while sounding cliché, Son #1 can become whoever his vision for himself defines. I had the privilege of figuring out that very vision of me. That’s not to say my parents didn’t intervene when I was spending too much of my allowance on candy or writing dirty words in Madlibs, because they did. I was fortunate enough to have parents who believed in my ability to make my own educated decisions. They were (and still are) comfortable with their parental skill sets and how they deployed their will on my growth. ‘Give them enough, and let them figure out the rest.’ While I was jealous of my friends who were forced to take piano lessons and committed to one sport or club, I was never coerced into joining or competing when I didn’t want to. In retrospect, the decisions and interests were pushed down to me, for me to choose, for me to fit to my liking and my comfort level. My jealousy has long since faded. I realized that those small exercises in decisions led to larger and more balanced thinking and greater balanced existence. Those same friends as children who were forced to play soccer every year and practice their flutes are the same adults who are inflexible in their ways dividing their family and fostering resent.

Many nights I’ve slid into his room and stood in amazement of the fortune I’ve had in having him as a son. You could say that the communication between the two of isn’t the most efficient. If both of us are sleep or food deprived, I would strongly warn you to keep your distance from any confrontations between the two of us. What makes our relationship complicated at times is the common fact that he and I are emotionally equivalent. An educated individual would think that he and I would recognize this detriment/commonality and step out of a potentially combustible situation.

It never works out that way. I suppose that’s why I have so many worries. He’s so much like me I worry that he’s destined to travel the same emotional path. I’ve always wanted to do better for him, do more, and give him more opportunities I’ve never had. Better yet, opportunities I’ve had, but where I made mistakes. With all of the pain and heartbreak in the world, I struggle with my inability to shield him from the inevitable bumps in the road. That’s part of the parental job description; learning to let go. I can only pray that I equip him with the courage to follow his heart regardless of risk and heartache. As I sit here and wrap up this entry, I’m a little misty-eyed about the little man growing up more and more each day. I’m watching as a finite number of days with him pass. Despite my awareness of the trouble he will encounter on his journey through life and my inability to protect him from all of the heartache, I know the apple didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree. His heart and passion are real. They are mine and he is me, but better.


Son #1 has the blessing (read: curse) of responding to the outside world in an identical fashion as his father. So here’s to the next ‘scienticif’ explanation of where gas goes when you pour it in to the gas tank of the car, and more importantly, Son #1’s fifth birthday.