Yay, we have a winner.  Thanks to the generosity of Matt Stevens, Spike Worsley and his son will be attending the Stabbing a Dead Horse concert, February 2, 2014.  Excellent.

Great job, Spike.  The answers were:

• The name of the third track of the first solo album of Matt Stevens: “Drama in the Coals”
• The year Knifeworld was founded: 2009
• Who built the Trojan Horse in the ancient world: The Greeks

Again, great job, Spike.  I hope you and your son have a blast at the concert.

As I write this, the Grammys are airing. And so I, like every lover of fantastic and worthy music, am doing the obvious: I’m not watching. I haven’t watched the Grammys in well over twenty years, which means I’ve not only saved 60 hours or so of precious time, I’ve probably saved a few television sets in the process. In short, I cannot stand the Grammys. To be clear, it’s not so much that the actual choices for nominees or even the winners are so misguided or puzzling—although how Kanye West has managed to win 21 Grammys is a bit perplexing—but the banal, narcissistic, and politically-correct posturing of The TV Spectacle Called “The Grammys” is simply too much. I cannot take it. And so I don’t.

(Astute readers will note that several of my selections were nominated for Grammys. Again, I don’t think the Grammy choices are necessarily poor, as they are actually often on the mark. But the television event itself is a travesty. Update: Yep, a complete travesty.)

Back in 2006, I wrote my first (and only) “Carl the Snarl Music Awards” as a response of sorts to the Grammys. “Most Top 40 pop/rock music,” I serenely opined at the time, “is heavily-produced, hyper-marketed aural trash … Which is why I offer you the “Carl the Snarl Music Awards,” a heavily biased, very subjective, but entirely correct collection of music deserving time on your CD player, iTunes, iPod, or whatever other musical device you employ.” So, in truth, I must thank the Grammy’s for saving my “Favorite Albums of 2013,” which I started compiling two months ago but have never finished—until now. If it weren’t for The Grammy’s, the following would have become a mythical and bedazzling sort of rumor, along the lines of Seal’s “Togetherland” album.

I’ve listed my twelve favorite albums of the past year, followed by a few other albums (36 of ’em, actually, for a total of 48 favorites) that I think deserve some attention. “And…” [glancing blankly at the huge audience] “…the winners…” [grins slyly and a bit creepily] “…are….”: Continue reading “Forget the Grammys—it’s time for Carl the Snarl’s Music Awards” →

One of the best-known songs on The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway seems to have more than one name.  I’ve always thought of it as “The Carpet Crawlers,” but it has, on various packaging, been identified as “Carpet Crawlers” (no “The”), “The Carpet Crawl,” and “Carpet Crawl” (again, no “The”).  Sometimes the referent is the crawlers, sometimes the crawl itself.  And what happens when there is crawl or crawler, but no definite article?

The crawlers sing, “We’ve got to get in to get out.”  That chamber at the top of the stairs (Is Doktor Freud still in the house? He considers in his writings how often stairs are associated with intercourse) is the “in” from which there is surely a way out.  Up the stairs, into the chamber, and OUT.  Near the end of Stephen King’s Dark Tower books, Roland ascends the stairs, gets in, and gets out.  Semi-spoiler alert!  But it’s profoundly important that I’ve not said to what, or to where, or to when.  It spoils nothing, for it reveals not the spoils.

Why crawling?  A sexual posture?  Having just Counted Out Time, cuddling the porcupine, the sad ending of the previous tune makes it a bit surprising that we are still headed along a carpet into a red ochre corridor.  But Rael is not a crawler.  Perhaps he could not have seen and understood the crawlers as he did, had he been one of them himself.

There’s something about the very notions, the very words, ‘in’ and ‘out.’  Something about the way in which they are places, but they are places neither “in particular,” nor “in general.”  They require each other so that the “in,” no matter where it actually is, must be the “in” of its own “out.”  That’s what makes the crawlers’ logic seem unassailable.  Given that this IS an “in,” there must be an “out,” AND there must be a way.  Corridors and staircases are ways.

But here is the rub (mankind handkinds):  All of this is unassailable only if this IS an “in.”

Is it?

IN the cage.  Back IN New York City.  “…[A]s the notes and coins are taken out, I’m taken IN…”  “You’re IN the Colony of Slippermen.”  And like a woof to the warp of “in” are the “outs.”  There are many (look for yourself).  But does it somehow hinge on this strange locus called “in”?

It’s never clear, at any point in our story, that Rael moves — unambiguously passes — from an “in” to an “out.”  Always the suggestion of a way out (“to get out if you’ve got the gripe…”), but never is there an “out” that shows its whole face, thus proving the existence of “in.”

Out!  Out, damned “In”!

There must be some kinda way out of here, if here is an “in.”

But I’m thinking about that Tat Tvam Asi sort of ending, and wondering if we’re supposed to wonder, to wonder as we wander:  Is there really any “in” in here?

Perhaps we’ve gotta get in to get out.  Perhaps “in” is something that we don’t usually get, and The Lamb is trying to point this…

…uh…

out

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