I Really Can’t Stress It Enough

It’s Friday.  It’s Local H night.

Not just because they’re in town.  They ARE, of course; look to the left for club and ticket info.  And while you should go, I don’t really care if you do or not.  Last time they were in town I told you to go; you didn’t.  And what came of it?  Only only one of the best Local H shows I’ve ever seen.  So stay away, for all I care:  Go party like it’s 2003 with the Rapture at the Bowery, go crane your neck trying to watch Lou Reed croak out two – maybe three – songs at that garden benefit thing, go home and watch your Touched by an Angel DVDs.  I don’t fucking care.

It’s Friday.  It’s Local H night.

At my last 9-to-5’er (which, as they will, morphed into a 7-to-7’er), Pack Up the Cats was my salvation.  After a week of – if I may borrow delicately from Dead Ringers – slaving over hot snatches, I’d drag myself to my car, pop in the CD, and get my life back.

Still the band’s best work (though last year’s P.J. Soles was right up there), I was always fond of describing PUtC as a concept album that rocked so hard that it forgot to give a shit about its concept.  It’s not entirely true:  There’s some sort of loose plot, in there, about a small-town band that follows some hype to a big city, courts success... and fails, miserably.  But there’s so much oomph invested in the songs that you don’t need a narrative to get the point.  It’s too honest to bother with some bullshit academic analysis:  It’s not meta-, or postmodern, or even self-absorbed.  Sorry ‘bout that.  But, if you must:  Singer/songwriter Scott Lucas’ oeuvre is all about failure.  His self-effacing sense of humor acknowledges it, and the sheer reach of his talent exemplifies the unjust frustration of it all.

It starts off with a classic, thumping Dumb Rock Song – so dumb it wound up on one of those Jock Rocks compilations.  It’s called “All-Right (Oh Yeah),” and here are some of the lyrics:

“All-right.  Oh yeah.  All-right.  Oh yeah.  All-right, oh yeah, all-right, oh yeah, all-right, oh yeah, all-right, oh yeah, oh...”

And then, smartly, after you’ve learned to stop worrying about your higher brain functions and just love the rock, it undermines your expectations by launching into:

“Sickle-cell anemia, carpal-tunnel and bulimia.  Don’t get sick.  It’s only stupid me.”

Trust me:  There is no better song on earth to bang your head against your steering wheel to.  Every Friday, for four-plus years, I’d pull out of x parking lot and exorcise my workweek demons to this thing.  As I’d barrel down Route 33, the boys’d barrel through the tracks – there’s no way to even breathe before you’re on the fourth song, it flows so tightly – and I’d measure the space between me and my employ/imprisonment with music.  As the there’s-got-to-be-more-to-life-than-this wail of “500,000 Scovilles” (“I’m living well!  I’m working hard, I’m eating right!”) poured into the whiplash riffs and shameless indulgences andandandthatblitzkreigfuckingdrumsolo of “What Can I Tell You?” (“Whatever you want, whatever turns you on”).  I’d be mounting that new overpass; “Fine and Good” would take over as 33 went from four lanes to two.

“Fine and Good” is a special song.  Here, listen:

Fine and Good.mp3

It may very well be my favorite song of all time; for me, it’s every bit as good as The Beatles’ “A Day in the Life.”  It has a real emotional arc.  It is the human condition. 

Things are good, nothing much for me to say
Feeling happier everyday
Things are good, I've got a simple mind
It seems like everything is going fine
Fine and good
Everything is fine and good

Everything is running smooth this week
I don't even really feel the need to speak
But things are good, didn't mean to make you mad
People seem to like when things are bad
Things are good
Everything is fine and good

Is that too much to ask to be this way?
I don't think I'm asking to much
Is that too much to ask to be this way?
I really can't stress it enough

There you are, everything is fine and good
It's fine and good
Everything is fine and good

Is that too much to ask to be this way?
I don't think I'm asking too much
Is that too much to ask to be this way?
Or do you think I'm asking too much?
Don't confuse the issue
Or take contention when you are
I really can't stress it enough
There you are, everything is fine and good
It's fine and good

It’s not shoving its brilliance in your face.  Formally, it’s repetitive; on the surface, it could be worthlessly sarcastic.  But you’re not listening.

Sure, it seems to starts off as some sort of condemnation.  Lucas’ voice has that simplesingsong quality.  “Everything is okay.  I’m happy.”  Only lobotomized morons are happy all the time, right?  Optimism is for idiots. 

By the second verse, though, we’re already apologetically self-aware.  Explanations, justifications.  I’m happy, okay?  Can’t you just let me be happy?  Back-the-fuck-off.

I mean, isn’t it enough to say that I’m happy?  Doesn’t that make you happy?  Shouldn’t that make me happy?  Well, okay, not happy.  Fine.  Good.

Then there’s a little bit of a guitar solo wherein our narrator thinks a little bit.

When we come out of it, there’s a real ferocity to it.  We’re not on the defensive, anymore.  This is the only way I’ve ever been able to be happy.  I need it, I can’t afford to question it.  (And, following a big, schmaltzy “Ooooooooo...”) There you are:  Everything is fine and good. 

Suck it up.  Embrace the denial.  Your existence depends on it.

Oh, and the song has a great hook, and rocks, et cetera, et cetera.  Sugar, medicine, and all that.

If, on any given Friday afternoon, you happened to be filling up your tank at that gas station at the junction of Colts Neck Rd and Route 33 and looked over to see some schmoe in a Saturn stopped at the light (I always hit that red) screaming his head off... That was me, and the song was “Fine and Good.”

It’s such a strong song that the rest of the CD – including its single, “All the Kids are Right” – is rather anticlimactic.  And unless I ran down to Bruno’s to grab a cheesesteak, I got home in the middle of “She Hates My Job,” cutting off the album before its humbly happy ending.

*

It’s Friday, and Local H is in town, and I want to hear Pack Up the Cats.  Live.  All of it.  Lucky for me, the band – currently touring behind a live CD – is still doing that All-Request thang they started this past summer.  Here’s what I wrote about it back in June, and it still holds:

“This is not going to be folks-yelling-out-shit chaos, and it should NOT DISSUADE YOU FROM GOING IF YOU DON’T KNOW ANY OF THEIR SONGS.  This is how it works: 

“When you get into the club, you pick up a “menu” (see below) and check off seven songs you want to hear.  Yes, there’s a box for write-ins.  Smart asses are free to put “Nader” or “Ross Perot” or “Freebird.”  You can vote for all the songs that have swears in the titles if that’s what you want to do [Note:  Sadly, this does seem to be the way some folks vote; there’s no other way to explain the popularity of “Fuck Yeah, That Wide”].  Backstage, a liquored-up Lucas will tabulate the votes and throw together a set list.  Yes, there will be more than seven songs in the set.”

Anyway, here’s how I’ll be marking the ballot, tonight at Tribeca Rock Club, in case you want to – nudge, nudge – follow suit:

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