Dec 13, 2005 12:00 AM

Arctic Monkeys, Gorillaz and King Kong

Though countless words were strewn this past weekend in memorium, we too would like to bid a sad buona notte to two Well Hung heroes, Richard Pryor and Eugene McCarthy, both of whose particular talents would come in quite handy right about now.

This sounds like something Dick Cheney thought up to torture "terrorists." Shit, we'd fess up to just about anything after just ten minutes of that kind of abuse!

Worst porn site ever. Don't get us wrong, we still managed to finish off (to Heather, if you must know), but nevertheless . . . We're doomed. Doomed, doomed, doomed.

That said, thank fuck for M'Lud Yatesbury, whose sacrilicious new Dark Orgasm rocks way harder than those babbling bible-thumpers currently pointing their Jebus vibes at the Supremes.

For those looking for a more traditional cuppa Copey, we heartily recommend the magical mind-bendiness of Misty's Big Adventure. No bout adout it, Grandmaster Gareth and his far-out Brummie nontet's new LP, The Black Hole, is the best Julian pastiche EVER.

Evan Rachel Wood is Neronica Bars!

Just so's you know, Arctic Monkeys are just the tip of the iceberg up there in Sheffield Sex City. Best of the bunch are Little Man Tate, guaranteed to light up 2006 and beyond with their quirk-pop tales of lonely bedhoppers, skinhead crossdressers, sexually ambivalent scenesters and smug-but-shite local bands. Trust us on this one -- this time next year you'll be bragging to your friends about how you knew Little Man Tate when.

First Florida, then Ohio, and now this. Can no one be trusted? Oh, the humanity and so forth.

Those filthy little angels at erm, Filthy Little Angels have just fired twenty-four free salvos in the Great War Against Christmas. Among the downloadable crackers found in this well-stuffed stocking are such WHAD faves as Angels Fight the City, the Bridge Gang and the ever-vicious Vichy Government (including a sly cover of the Long Blondes' classic "Christmas Is Cancelled"). And while you're there, grab up the Vichy's merry musical assassination, "Luke Haines Is Dead". Kill Yr Idols indeed . . .

Peter Jackson is Harold DeMuir!

Funny thing about parodies: sometimes the spoof -- in this case, Hep Alien -- is actually superior to the spoofee.

We'd like to wish a hearty "mazel tov" to Eddie Argos and Pee-Pee Chalets on their impending nuptials . . . Cartoon band fans, who like us, who still mourn late, great Pooh Sticks but are completely underwhelmed by the multi-culti wankorama of Gorillaz, can rejoice -- there's a new ink-and-paint indie combo to love. Meet the Close-Ups. Their superfizzy bubblepop makes us as happy as an ice-cold glass of chocolate milk on a Saturday morning. In 1969. Sigh. Good times . . .

Hard to believe it's been eleven years since Kathy McCarty's brilliant Dead Dog's Eyeball. She's finally back with a new record, and coincidentally, so is fellow Austinite Craig Ross. And no, we're not talking about Lenny Kravitz' guitarist. Sheesh, you know us better that that!

We here at WHAD begrudgingly endorse Lex Luthor in his race for the Kansas legislature. The Topeka state house seems a bit below his station, but we feel it's important to support the Democrat in this particular contest.

Where the F is Huw Pooh anyhow?

John Doyle's production of Sweeney Todd reminds us of seeing the Arcade Fire. Only, y'know, good.

Email Well Hung, and we'll spoil Kong for you.

[NOTE: The above are the opinions of Cohen and Krugman, and not necessarily those of the editors of Rolling Stone.]

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Nov 18, 2005 12:00 AM

Nasty cheerleaders, race riots and indie-rock wussies

Starting on a somber note for a change, we here at WHAD would like to bid a heartbroken farewell to the one and only Eddie Guerrero. Indisputably one of the finest wrestlers of his generation, not to mention a terrifically talented comic actor, Eddie was also a true gentleman, a kind, sweet, humble and generous person that Michael was proud to call his friend. Our love and sympathy go out to his wonderful family. Do your part for 'em and buy the book.

And on that rather sad note, it's back to our regularly scheduled Bollocks . . .

This is what happens when you spend six weeks around Taylor Hawkins. Now they have to be taken out back and shot.

Neo-Brecht/Weill theatricality? Check. Profane razor strop wit? Check. Irreverent misanthropy? Check. Scathing socio-cultural critiques? Check. Acid sweet indiepop songcraft? Check. Meet the first Great band of 2006, the fabulously unfashionable, unfashionably fabulous Indelicates. If WHAD were a band, we'd like to think we'd sound something like this. Though probably not nearly as good.

First Kurt, now Morning Sedition. Tell Danny "You can't talk! You weren't invited to speak!" Goldberg that you're mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.

So when exactly did Dave Foley's dad get the Celebrity Poker Showdown gig?

Y'know, the French race riots won't seem real to us until Adam Gopnik writes a stultifyingly boring 4,000-word story about 'em . . . Dunno about you people, but we still haven't made up our minds about reading "Indecision."

Michael's lived by the Watchtower for years, but he's never seen a JW that looked like this . . . It's so very, very wrong, but you gotta admit: good name for a bar.

An Alan Ball series based on a series of Southern vampire romance novels? It'll suck so bad, it'll send Anne Rice to Jebus! On a tangential-but-still-related note, we could have told you that Jarhead would be crap ages ago.

The 34 Austin Musicians in the Buff calendar is for a very good cause, but couldn't we just pay $12 not to see the Flatlanders naked? To say nothing of Shawn Colvin.

Longtime WHAD readers have circled February 13th on the calendar: The long-awaited new Bitter Springs album That Sentimental Slush hits stores, and the annual Julian Cope tour starts. See you all in Cambridge!

A video game with no welcome screens! Genius.

Foreman, Schmoreman. We were skeptical, but That '70s Show's handling of the Charlie character was brilliant. We can still do without Donna, who truly serves no purpose now, but, truth is, we'll keep watching until Red and Kitty leave.

John Buccigross's latest tortured Sportscenter construction: "What Conor Oberst is to Bright Eyes, Patrice Bergeron is to the Boston Bruins." Frankly, we don't get the analogy. Bergeron isn't at all overrated . . . Speaking of sports, how 'bout those Nittany Lions? Haven't been able to say that in a while . . . And do we understand this correctly? Two Carolina Panthers cheerleaders got caught having sex with Terrell Owens?

Thursday, on a very special Smallville: Clark jerks off while thinking about Lois.

Not sure which is more disgusting, the concept of Peach Skoal or 35 cats pissing.

Which sounds better: Erica Durance Cohen or Erica Durance Krugman ? Readers, you decide.

So now we know: Joss Whedon is a much better actor than Quentin Tarantino, though he's clearly just as big a dork. (Incidentally, we don't know what was up with the rat either).

Before there was an Ass Ponys, Chuck Cleaver was in Gomez (no, not the British band). Now he's one-fourth of Wussy, a band that also showcases frontwoman Lisa Walker, who adds a woozy melodic rush to Cleaver's trademark whine and stick-in-the-eye lyrics. The new album is Funeral Dress.

BTW, be on the lookout for Jason's new band, Goetta.

More old dudes: the new Saints album is damn fine punk rock, though truth be told, we were equally fond of their jangly phase on TVT. And what's Marty Wilson-Piper from the Church doing in the band? And where's Ed Kuepper? (Which is to say, we don't expect him to be in the Saints, but what about his own stuff?).

Sarah Silverman is fuckin' funny, but we still say Courtney is the greatest female stand-up of all time.

And finally . . . it's been a while since we printed . . . that's right . . . you know you love them . . .

READER LETTERS

AutumnSWebb writes: you guys suck!!! blatant rip off of buddyhead, and you're not even funny, you're probably both fat and gay

Yup, that's right. Buddyhead is to Well Hung At Dawn as Deadspin is to Can't Stop the Bleeding. Or do we have that backwards?

Stephan writes: I discovered the new Gap ad with Morissette on my bus stop shelter this morning. Well, Thank You India! . . . and, oh yes, Taiwan, Tailand, Indonesia, Marocco, Costa Rica . . . Sorry, didn't know who to send this silly joke to.

Your check for seven cents is in the mail.

Chris from Austin writes: Chk-chk-chk, but I'm betting you already knew that. I'll leave you with a joke: Bob Pollard, Shane MacGowan and Paul Westerberg walk into a bar.

Fourteen cents for that one!

Kevin from Tarrytown writes: You guys make me laugh. Just curious, in order from most to least, who would you enjoy punching in the face: Bono, Elijah Wood, the guy from the Killers, Dick Cheney, Jim Rome, the guy that looks like Bruce Campbell from that other shitty band that fights with the Killers, Bryant Gumbel, Bill O'Reilly, Oprah, Chris Martin, Jonathan Safron Foer and Jimmy Fallon. I realize this will be difficult, but if you reply I'll be your best friend.

1. Cheney
2. O'Reilly
3. Bono
4. Kevin from Tarrytown.

John writes: bull shit assman. They pay you for facile one liners?

Yes.

E-mail Well Hung

[NOTE: The above are the opinions of Cohen and Krugman, and not necessarily those of the editors of Rolling Stone.]

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Nov 03, 2005 12:00 AM

Reinterpreting Franz Ferdinand, taking cues from Robert Downey Jr.

Dunno about you, but Fitzmas felt a lot like regular Christmas for us. Even though we did get one pretty good present, the whole thing was a bit of a let-down. Here's hoping Ukranian Orthodox Fitzmas delivers the goods!

Like a phoenix rising up from the ashes, say hello to the Official Purveyors of Epic Romantic Rock & Roll to your Well Hung Majesties, the Visions. The name may have changed, but goddamned if Greg's gang doesn't still take our breath away!

Speaking of taking our breath away, three words: Lois. Lane. Bikini.

We're thinking these guys just might be the next Killers.

A.O. Scott on Kiss Kiss Bang Bang:

. . . a movie with no particular reason for existing, a flashy, trifling throwaway whose surface cleverness masks a self-infatuated credulity.

Ladies and Gentleman, meet WHAD's new advertising slogan!

"Two More Years" -- sounds suspiciously like a threat, though if it means no more Bloc Party in 2008, we can live with it . . . Gogol Bordello is Black 47.

It seemed a little odd at first, but really, when you think about it, Michael couldn't have been more appropriate, erm . . . "bed music" for World Series baseball.

Hang on . . . we're two-thirds of the way through Part I of John McPhee's article about coal transporters. Give us a sec.

Ok, we're back. Will this man give the second most annoying film performance of the year?

So which is it, the Saw Doctors or the Cure? We're so confused! We don't care, especially, but dammit, we've gots to know!

Fuck Rocky Balboa and Rambo IV -- we're holding out our Stallone shekels for Oscar II.

Why not just rename the damn show Alison Krauss City Limits already? Sheesh!

WHAD agrees with longtime reader Brent Bozell: The War at Home and American Dad just aren't very good.

"Created by Rod Lurie." How's that going, anyway? Truth be told, now that John Clark's on the show our Bochco/Commander-in-Chief jokes regarding Jimmy Smits and Sipowicz have dated. But we'd still like to say this, ever-so-hopefully: Gordon Clapp is the senator from Masschussetts!

Y'know, time was they wouldn't have split up a McPhee piece. Oh, this world of self infatuated credulity we live in! . . . And speaking of the New Yorker, that Joan Didion book sure sounds like laugh riot.

Two words: IPod. Porn.

Or better yet: Porno Podcasts.

Or . . . wait for it . . . Pudcasts!

The Weatherman: it's all downhill from the Ben Kweller tune in the commercial. Next season on The L Word: Shane bags Sheryl Swoopes . . . We'd throw a hump into Rachael Ray if it would shut her up. Then she could make us a delightful sandwich.

While we're definitely fond of the wacky new Burger King ad campaign, we're a little tweaked that they blatantly stole Michael's porn name for their new omelet sandwich. He's currently considering a copyright infringement suit.

Y'know, this is really starting to piss us off -- you do a Google search to find important information about women's curling, and instead you have to listen to The Constantines! Plus, we understand the Stills' next record will be called The Brier.

Ummmmmmhhhhhhhhhhh. Canadian donuts.

Ever notice that Jon Stewart's brilliant imitation of the President sounds just like Beavis? And remember: Butthead was the smart one.

Hard to decide what to hate most about Morningwood: their unlistenable music, their unwatchable -- to put it delicately -- chick singer or the fact that they had to buy their name off of a now-forgotten Austin band (just like Gomez!) . . . Fresca should never be anything but grapefruit-flavored.

Why won't that emasculating bitch in the Olive Garden commercials let her husband try all 47 pasta-sauce combos? (Other than the obvious: she's pissed he didn't take her to Macaroni Grill).

Man, have you taken a look at Black Francis lately? He's meatnormous. Bet he's also got an improbably hot sassy wife and a couple of smart-mouthed kids at home.

E-mail Well Hung

[NOTE: The above are the opinions of Cohen and Krugman, and not necessarily those of the editors of Rolling Stone.]

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