I get a new turntable and dust off some old records. Vinyl Tap #17:
Marquee Moon is upsetting my dog. It’s the first time he’s heard it, although since it’s after 3am – not so much in the wee small hours of my soul as in the quotidian demeanor of my neighbors’ nocturnal mattress-cide slumber sprees – he’s not hearing it to full advantage.
Instead of catching some Zzzzs, I'm latching onto some CBGB ambiance with new headphones on – and this is an album that demands the full Nigel Tufneleven ear-bleed increment. I don’t have headphones for my dog, didn‘t even give him my old ones – call PETA if you feel this falls under the rubric of unethical treatment, though I’ve already told them the only rights animals have is the right to be medium rare – so he’s only hearing filtered full-frontal sonic seepage spillover. And while I’m listening to Television’s innovative and monumentally-maniacal 1977 masterpiece, poetic and punkish with-a-twist more riveting than raw, I'm wondering how I’m ever going to find words to do it justice (and realizing quite well that I’m going to come up very, very short, thank you very much).
Gus is getting nervous and going into omni-directional semi-woof mode, distracting me from what is hands-down the best and most intense album side ever, soundscape as off-the-scale earthquake: side one of Marquee Moon, alternately crook-and-nanny angularity and sinuous energy – no bumper-guitar bombast here – with the dazzling and cleanly interweaving lead guitar careening of Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd.
Suddenly Gus, looking up at me, has focused in on his prey that is, in turn, preying on his fraying nerves. I seem to be the source of his canine cogitation – or more specifically, and as oddly as it sounds, the Television emanating from my head, as oddly as that sounds to him. The fidelity is not for Fido, so fine. But I rub a couple synapses together and spark a thought: Gus is kinda like that old "His Master's Voice" RCA Victor dog, Nipper, in front of that Victrola, perked ears and tilted head, amazed at the early 20th-century sound revolution he’s witness to.
Only my mutt isn’t nearly as iconic-looking, and it loses some impact to have him perturbed at a pair of headphones. And besides, he doesn't seem amenable to accepting this particular revolution-per-minute album as the revolutionary music that it was, and the always refreshing aural sensation it remains. And "his master's voice" isn't going to persuade him otherwise.
But instead of discontinuing my listen altogether to tend to the delicate sensibilities of man's best spoilsport, or constantly interrupting it with mid-track cue-stick nips and tucks, I begrudgingly decide to stop between tracks. In between, say, the slippery wig-out "See No Evil" and “Venus” mix of the instrumentally majestic but lyrically droll, a song about a surreal “Tight toy night,” featuring a hilarious call and response between lead singer Verlaine and the boys in the background vocals: “Didja feel low? No, not at all. Huh??? / I fell right into the Arms of Venus de Milo” – the punning not as funny as the underpinning incredulity, “Huh???”
But more than not allowing Gus to divert my rapt attention from the absolutely frightening and tightly manic guitar frenzy of the aptly-titled “Friction,” there was no way I was going to let him keep me from total enjoyment of the essential 10-minute title track’s non-stop flight of imagination and perfect amalgam of crescendoing instrumentation and evocative lyrics:
- I remember
how the darkness doubled
lightning struck itself.
listening to the rain
I was hearing
hearing something else.
Life in the hive puckered up my night,
the kiss of death, the embrace of life.
There I stand ‘neath the Marquee Moon
I ain't waiting…
The sense of intuitive seeking and heightened anticipation is more than paid off in the interplay of Verlaine and Lloyd’s mesmerizing lightening-striking-itself guitar build up, a heady brew that simmers and gradually comes to full boil and even to a boiling-over point.
Speaking of things coming to a boiling point, as “Marquee Moon” wanes, I look out the window and see Gus barking furiously, and no doubt waking the neighbors. He wants back in. Has he completely forgotten I'd done him a favor by letting him out, or has he had second thoughts? Maybe he can get into the dog-friendly second side of the album, which is just as good but not so tightly-compressed – there are even some exquisite and graceful moments in "Guiding Light" and "Prove It."
He can have my old headphones.
I'm now feeling kind of good about having the opportunity to teach an old dog new tricks with some classic, trailblazing tracks. On the subject of tracks, though, I stop in mine. With my luck, he's probably going to want to listen to Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music. All four sides. Again.
Come to think of it, that dog never did have good taste in music.Powered by Sidelines