NEW MUSIC FOR OLDS #17
Last Night a VJ Saved My Life: It Ends Here
Welcome back to New Music for Olds, your top(?) source for non ”discourse” related musical discovery. Just got back from my personal stylist and I think everyone’s going to love my new look.
In today’s humdinger of a newsletter:
Goth adjacency
Illuminati sleep music
Road rage revenge
AND the final chapter of my “Name That Video” saga, complete with video evidence!
Alright, let’s be careful out there.
GOOD STUFF
Behold, the almighty Glossary of Terms.
THUS LOVE, “Repititioner”
Listen on Apple Music // Listen on Amazon Music
Album: Memorial
Nutshell: Swoon-y “dark wave”
Voltage: 5
Thoughts: THUS LOVE’s sound will be instantly familiar to anyone who grew up on British acts like Echo & the Bunnymen, The Cure and Bauhaus. My pal Hewitt accurately described this album as sounding “unearthed”. But then, what would you expect from a band hailing from (checks notes) Brattleboro, VT?! Far more importantly, the hooks are consistently great. You’d think a sound this narrow would get redundant after a few tracks, but Memorial is pretty close to a no-skip album. Goth-adjacent sensitivos rejoice!
Pairing Suggestion: Applying black fingernail polish while smoking a clove cigarette
Brian Eno, “Garden of Stars”
Listen on Apple Music // Listen on Amazon Music
Album: FOREVERANDEVERNOMORE
Nutshell: Creepy chill out music
Voltage: 2 (except for a briefly tense middle section)
Thoughts: I hesitate to call FOREVERANDEVERNOMORE straight up ‘Ambient Music’, given that there are vocals on almost every track. But ambiance is unquestionably what Eno has for sale. “Garden of Stars” won’t likely grab you coming out of your crappy laptop/phone speaker, but I highly recommend listening with the lights dim and a nice set of headphones—this has been my go-to sleep music for the past two weeks. This particular tune (drone?) is sinister, hypnotic and essentially liturgical. It should come with a hooded robe and incense thurible.
Pairing Suggestion: Ordering Tom Cruise to remove his clothes
Meat Wave, “What Would You Like Me to Do?”
Listen on Apple Music // Listen on Amazon Music
Album: Malign Hex
Nutshell: Minimalist post-hardcore
Voltage: 7
Thoughts: Meat Wave is a silly name for such a defiantly un-silly band. I’ve been fan for years and their tunes consistently make me want to drive through a brick wall (in a good way). I saw them live last year and I’ve never seen a dude bash his drums harder—we’re talking Patrick Ewing sweat levels. “What Would You Like Me to Do?” is actually tame by Meat Wave standards. But even in a mid-tempo song like this, the menace is undeniable. Every word that comes out of singer/guitarist Chris Sutter’s mouth sounds like “Fuck you”. I’d love to say I don’t need that kind of energy in my life, but…I very much do.
Pairing Suggestion: Methodically plotting, then taking, your revenge
Hey look, it’s the part where you tell me what you did or didn’t like!
Oh, and:
SOME BULLSHIT
Today we conclude our “Name That Video” triptych. If you’re new here, or if you’ve been freshly Memento-ed, I advise you to first take a stroll down Recent Memory Lane.
When we left off, I’ve just conquered “Name That Video’s” Championship Round and, in the process, won myself a Toyota 4Runner. The producers have asked me to wait for them in a nondescript office. It’s been 45 minutes.
And now, with all relevant ado a-done…
LAST NIGHT A VJ SAVED MY LIFE — Part III: It Ends Here
Eventually, the door opens. Four executives walk in, nary a smile between them. The celebratory mood from before is nowhere to be found. Instead, everyone looks tired and constipated. They invite me to sit, and one of the suits introduces himself as a lawyer.
"So, here's the deal..."
Historically, I’m not sure anything positive has ever followed the words "So here's the deal". It's never "So here's the deal...free blowjobs!" No, never that.
I won’t get into exactly what VH1’s lawyer says—mostly because I’ve stopped listening. I’m too busy watching my future disintegrate before my eyes. The walls are closing in and if we weren’t situated in a basement, I’d locate the nearest window and jump.
Nutshell version: In the Championship Round, I’d slightly mis-titled two of the songs. When shown the Dave Matthews Band, I’d said “Crash”, which is technically the album title—the song is "Crash Into Me". Also, I’d strangely truncated the AC/DC classic “You Shook Me All Night Long” to “You Shook Me”.
Egregious. Unthinkable. Unforgivable. But when you get down to brass tacks, this is VH1’s screwup, not mine. I had plenty of time left on the clock when I “won”. If my slightly-off answers had been refused, I’d have given the proper titles without a second thought. These were not unfamiliar songs. Heck, “You Shook Me All Night Long” featured prominently in the setlist of a hair metal cover band I fronted at Age 14.
Bottom line, I’m informed that this episode of “Name That Video” cannot be aired as is. They’re concerned about FCC scrutiny. This doesn’t make a ton of sense at that time—this is VH1, not the bar exam! But lived experience has proven their concerns to be valid. Should my “wrong” answers be broadcast, a small but loud army of pedants would undoubtedly would make a stink. I know this from years of hosting corporate trivia events for TrivWorks, where the stakes are rarely more than holiday party bragging rights. You don’t know Hell until you’re surrounded by shitfaced attorneys debating whether Robin Hood can be considered an “historical figure”.
So yes, my life’s greatest triumph has been deemed unfit for public consumption. But all is not lost! VH1’s lawyer believes he has a solution.
“We'd like you to come back tomorrow and replay the Championship Round. You’ll wear the same outfit, so will Karyn Bryant, everything will look the same. But the videos will be completely different. That’s how it has to be, legally.”
Sure, no problem. Makes perfect sense. After all, it’s only my entire future hanging in the balance.
And with that, I’m released into the night. After three hours of blizzard conditions, the city still seems magical, but more like a spell cast by a vengeful warlock. What was a paltry 2-3 inches of snow is now well over a foot, coming down so hard that it’s difficult to discern were the sky ends and the ground begins. Busses have stopped running and, even if there were any available, I’m no longer convinced I can afford a cab. As I trudge the three long avenue blocks to the C train, my sole pair of “dress shoes” soaked with wet snow, I can’t help but think how handy a Toyota 4Runner would be in this situation.
I arrive back at my disgusting apartment, soaked physically and mentally. My fuckface roommate and his four weirdo dogs are all still awake. Which is actually good news, given that the rats don’t usually make their presence known until lights out. I shuffle into my claustrophobic bedroom and collapse onto the futon. Not one of those fancy futons where you’re a couple feet off the ground, mind you. No, this is one of those on-the-ground futons.
It’s too early for sleep, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m certainly not in the right headspace for my standard late night trawl of the AOL chatrooms. So I stare at the ceiling, thinking about…what, exactly? Random music videos? The hypnotic sound of rats chewing the plaster directly behind my head? Sure, some of that. But mostly, I marvel at how obvious it has become that the Universe hates me. How else to explain this turn of events? It is, in its own way, a comforting notion. None of this is my fault, there’s nothing I’m to do about it. I’m just not meant to be happy, simple as that. A mere 4-6 hours later, I’m sleeping like a baby.
The next morning, I make two phone calls. The first is to my boss’ answering machine, to break the news that my ongoing “intestinal problems” will require me to miss work again. (Pro Tip: Few bosses will question the veracity of your diarrhea. It is, ironically enough, the cleanest way to fake a sick day.) The second call is to my Uncle Paul, a fancy Boston lawyer. He tells me a bunch of law stuff I’m too right-brained to understand, but the main takeaway is “Don’t sign anything”. Which, duh. Seems obvious. Of course, the only tangible effect of this conversation is that I’m now obsessing over the 15-20 pages of gobbledygook I’ve already signed.
It’s odd; I remember the initial taping day in granular detail, but the hours leading up to my Championship Round rehash are a complete blank. At some point I must have left my apartment. Made my way to the studio. Probably ate something? All I know is, when my internal playback picks up, I’m standing in the wings of the Divorced Dad Spaceship, yesterday’s clothes freshly steamed, courtesy of Viacom. The producers and executives have offered general support, but they are conspicuously silent about what will happen if I fall short this second go-round. At one point the friendly stage manager pulls me aside and, smothering her headset mic, whispers “Don’t. Sign. Anything."
We’re about ready to start and I’m back centerstage, making idle chitchat with Karyn Bryant. Absent the previous night’s post-victory high, it seems obvious that Ms. Bryant is not, in fact, madly in love with me. No matter. Head in the game, Finnegan! The stage is set. I’m doing my best impression of a calm adult. The stage manager is counting us in and away…we…go.
(The actual gameplay begins around 1:30 fyi)
Victory is once again mine!
A few annotations:
0:10 — Re my outfit: I don’t know what to say. I was husky with very little disposable income, which necessitated an Old Navy-based wardrobe. If I’m not mistaken, those khakis boast the maximum number of legally allowable pleats. As for the black puka shell necklace…? Let’s just say young Christian Finnegan kept a lot of Washington Square Park junk vendors in business.
0:24 — What an ass. I think I’d purchased Pet Sounds literally that week. Not technically a lie, but wince-inducing. That said, viva Nada Surf!
2:01 — What is it with Whitney fucking Houston, man…
2:30 — In my defense, “How Will I Know?”, “So Emotional” and “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” are basically the same song.
2:50 — Listen close and you’ll clearly hear me shout “FUCK yeah!” Whoops.
2:55 — Totally dissed Karyn Bryant on the high five. Sorry Karyn, too worried about pit stains.
3:19 — Said pit stain.
3:23 — Millions? Sure, let’s say millions.
And that’s about how things went. It took three months for the paperwork to go through, but eventually I made the trek out to Jersey City Toyota and they cut me a check for $24,979.00. I stared at the envelope all the way home on the PATH train, gripping it with both hands, then quickly deposited it before anyone could realize they’d made a mistake. It was, to that point, the greatest day of my life.
After paying Mastercard, I had enough left to buy my first Apple computer, a desk, a chest of drawers and a bonafide bed—with a boxspring and everything! Of course, I could hardly move these treasures into a rat-infested apartment. No no, with the last of my prize money, I abandoned squalor and began my life anew in the promised land: Astoria, Queens.
Fun fact: some believe Christian Finnegan prowls the streets of Astoria to this very day!
The End.
If you made it all the way to the end, thank you and congratulations. All I can offer is bragging rights:
NMFO will be back in two weeks with more new music and some extremely Old Guy thoughts about Taylor Swift. As always, thank you for your support. Please recommend New Music For Olds to anyone/everyone!
Thanks a lot Christian. I'm now addicted to Meat Puppet.
Thums up emoji. Smile emoji.