2.02.2005
nostalgic post concerning hit to death in the future head by the flaming lips
one of the many great things about soulseek is that it allows you to revisit records you've owned lousy dubbed cassettes of for years but never upgraded. one such record of mine is hit to death in the future head by the flaming lips. i will now revisit that record autobiographically...
...when i look back on my high school years, one thing that always strikes me is the lack of older siblings that populated it. i'm the oldest child in my family, and out of all of my close friends, all but one of us was also the oldest. the only older brother we did have around was somewhat lacking in the misfit wisdom department. he was cool and all, but spent more time discovering new aftershaves than new bands or whatever.
accordingly, when i think of how i found the important things that would form "bohemian dan" (ponytail and all), it was either through somewhat humdrum means or a comedy of errors.
my exposure to the flaming lips was of the latter variety. i can claim quasi-hipness (which i will soon ruin if you continue reading) in that it was hit to death, not its follow-up (1993's transmissions from the satellite heart, or, if you'd like, "the one with 'she don't use jelly' on it") that got me interested in the lips. this was due to the most cherished connection that my high school clan could claim-- our friend ian was cousins with the drummer from the dead milkmen. i never met the guy, but his name would often appear in conjunction with any fantasy regarding our glamourous adulthood-yet-to-come. my friend gabe (), however, being obsessed with the milkmen at the time, was once invited to a dinner at ian's featuring said drummer. and thankfully, gabe had the good sense to ask him that quintessential high-school-kid question-- "what kind of bands do you listen to?"
hence hit to death in the future head. a record pop-rock enough for us to like at the time, and intelligent enough for me to like still. it sits comfortably in that vein of early nineties rock that learned equally from early grunge and shoegaze, without fully committing to either. good stuff.
whenever i think of this album, i immediately recall seeing them live. and i saw them at a certain underground vault you've probably never heard of, namely lollapalooza 1993 (you may now retract my "punk points," dear reader). that summer, with "she don't use jelly" having not quite made the jump yet from 120 minutes to buzz clip status, the lips were cast out to the second stage. but me, gabe and a handful of others were still ready to greet them.
if i remember correctly, more than half the set featured songs from hit to death, and i remember taking great delight when "hit me like you did the first time" was the second song performed. to add to the delight, i found myself standing next to one of the most memorable alterna-rock amazon women of my hormonally formative years...
one of the best (and least affectionately remembered) off shoots of that embarrassment known as "the mosh pit" was what might be called "the happy mosh pit." the happy mosh pit was a blessing in disguise borne out of the early-nineties insistence on moshing to anything fucking imaginable. but when the music being played was upbeat enough to provoke movement, yet too effeminate to facilitate sadistic machismo, a great bouncing would occur. thus the happy mosh pit-- an enthusiastic, collective bouncing-up-and-down. one that would mark many of the finest shows of my late high school career, only to regress into the head-nodding anti-theatrics of my indie-rock college years.
when bopping along in the happy mosh pit, i would occasionally find myself squeezed up against the same person for long periods of time. when fifty or so people are packed together like happy sardines, this is less creepy than it sounds. but it does schematically lead to an inevitable question: could someone be deliberately remaining at my side??
at lollapalooza '93, i asked myself this question about fifteen minutes into the second stage bop-fest. rocking beside me for at least three songs had remained a girl at least a foot taller than me, shaved head dyed red, clothed in riot grrl bra-and-skirt-combo, being in every way 1993 gorgeous and entirely out of my league. i was enthralled with the flaming lips, but peripherally enthralled with the girl to my left. and she seriously made no attempt to leave my side... and i wasn't hanging all over her either. also, she was clearly as into the band as i was-- which was heaven to an alienated nerd-youngster like myself. meanwhile, the flamings lips grew increasingly delightful with each note played, it was early in the day, and things were looking whole-heartedly good...
to top it off, they closed their set with a cover of "under pressure" by queen and david bowie. it was arguably the best cover i've ever heard live, pulling that irresistible anthem up from the still-fresh ashes of "ice ice baby," and paying a rich and loving tribute to it. as the band left the stage i was beside myself. i turned to leave, and alterna-amazon-girl began talking to me! i remember the conversation being something like "that was awesome!", "yeah, that was awesome!" followed by some still-not-inappropriate bouncing. not exactly cary grant stuff, but i was feeling a rare confidence and preparing to invite my new friend along for a fifteen dollar falafel/"smart drink" combo (or whatever the fuck you eat at lollapalooza), when my periphery was once again activated. off in the distance, moving forward, was a huge, fat skinhead dude (seeming more s.h.a.r.p.-ish than nazi, thankfully) with "boyfriend" written all over him. tall, tough, probably about 25, and potentially ready to beat the crap out of me. every inch of him proudly triggering my return to reality. my enthusiasm simmered, i cut things off politely, and i walked away.
...when i look back on my high school years, one thing that always strikes me is the lack of older siblings that populated it. i'm the oldest child in my family, and out of all of my close friends, all but one of us was also the oldest. the only older brother we did have around was somewhat lacking in the misfit wisdom department. he was cool and all, but spent more time discovering new aftershaves than new bands or whatever.
accordingly, when i think of how i found the important things that would form "bohemian dan" (ponytail and all), it was either through somewhat humdrum means or a comedy of errors.
my exposure to the flaming lips was of the latter variety. i can claim quasi-hipness (which i will soon ruin if you continue reading) in that it was hit to death, not its follow-up (1993's transmissions from the satellite heart, or, if you'd like, "the one with 'she don't use jelly' on it") that got me interested in the lips. this was due to the most cherished connection that my high school clan could claim-- our friend ian was cousins with the drummer from the dead milkmen. i never met the guy, but his name would often appear in conjunction with any fantasy regarding our glamourous adulthood-yet-to-come. my friend gabe (
hence hit to death in the future head. a record pop-rock enough for us to like at the time, and intelligent enough for me to like still. it sits comfortably in that vein of early nineties rock that learned equally from early grunge and shoegaze, without fully committing to either. good stuff.
whenever i think of this album, i immediately recall seeing them live. and i saw them at a certain underground vault you've probably never heard of, namely lollapalooza 1993 (you may now retract my "punk points," dear reader). that summer, with "she don't use jelly" having not quite made the jump yet from 120 minutes to buzz clip status, the lips were cast out to the second stage. but me, gabe and a handful of others were still ready to greet them.
if i remember correctly, more than half the set featured songs from hit to death, and i remember taking great delight when "hit me like you did the first time" was the second song performed. to add to the delight, i found myself standing next to one of the most memorable alterna-rock amazon women of my hormonally formative years...
one of the best (and least affectionately remembered) off shoots of that embarrassment known as "the mosh pit" was what might be called "the happy mosh pit." the happy mosh pit was a blessing in disguise borne out of the early-nineties insistence on moshing to anything fucking imaginable. but when the music being played was upbeat enough to provoke movement, yet too effeminate to facilitate sadistic machismo, a great bouncing would occur. thus the happy mosh pit-- an enthusiastic, collective bouncing-up-and-down. one that would mark many of the finest shows of my late high school career, only to regress into the head-nodding anti-theatrics of my indie-rock college years.
when bopping along in the happy mosh pit, i would occasionally find myself squeezed up against the same person for long periods of time. when fifty or so people are packed together like happy sardines, this is less creepy than it sounds. but it does schematically lead to an inevitable question: could someone be deliberately remaining at my side??
at lollapalooza '93, i asked myself this question about fifteen minutes into the second stage bop-fest. rocking beside me for at least three songs had remained a girl at least a foot taller than me, shaved head dyed red, clothed in riot grrl bra-and-skirt-combo, being in every way 1993 gorgeous and entirely out of my league. i was enthralled with the flaming lips, but peripherally enthralled with the girl to my left. and she seriously made no attempt to leave my side... and i wasn't hanging all over her either. also, she was clearly as into the band as i was-- which was heaven to an alienated nerd-youngster like myself. meanwhile, the flamings lips grew increasingly delightful with each note played, it was early in the day, and things were looking whole-heartedly good...
to top it off, they closed their set with a cover of "under pressure" by queen and david bowie. it was arguably the best cover i've ever heard live, pulling that irresistible anthem up from the still-fresh ashes of "ice ice baby," and paying a rich and loving tribute to it. as the band left the stage i was beside myself. i turned to leave, and alterna-amazon-girl began talking to me! i remember the conversation being something like "that was awesome!", "yeah, that was awesome!" followed by some still-not-inappropriate bouncing. not exactly cary grant stuff, but i was feeling a rare confidence and preparing to invite my new friend along for a fifteen dollar falafel/"smart drink" combo (or whatever the fuck you eat at lollapalooza), when my periphery was once again activated. off in the distance, moving forward, was a huge, fat skinhead dude (seeming more s.h.a.r.p.-ish than nazi, thankfully) with "boyfriend" written all over him. tall, tough, probably about 25, and potentially ready to beat the crap out of me. every inch of him proudly triggering my return to reality. my enthusiasm simmered, i cut things off politely, and i walked away.
