Like everyone else out there, I have a MySpace page that I check on about once every 1 to 5 months. I occasionally get a friend invite, usually from porn websites or call girl services, but other than that, there’s nothing to really DO on MySpace. Not that I’ve found, anyway.

But there are the music pages. And this I find to be MySpace’s strong point. This is why it’s valid. This is the only valuable aspect. And it’s incredibly worrying to think it might be bought by the big label asshole jerkwads.

But until this happens, there are literally thousands of bands to be found on MySpace Music, some that are super famous, the vast majority are complete nobodies, and everything in between. I received a friend request from one of the latter the other day, a band that goes by the clever moniker “ATTACK ON URANUS.” Well, this is perfect, I thought. I’ve wanted to spend more time on MySpace Music so that I could find some horrible musical groups to pummel with my misplaced anger and aggression, and it would appear that these groups may just come to me, instead. How easy!

Much to my chagrin, ATTACK ON URANUS did not hopelessly suck. In fact, they turned out to be a pretty solid thrash punk outfit out of Missouri with a hell of a lot of energy and much to offer to headbangers everywhere. No, they aren’t the next Megadeath or Anthrax, but with member names like Smooth Cock Sailor and Bet Your Balls it’s Neill Smith, can you really go wrong? Hell, I might even accept these cats’ invite to become friends.

But don’t worry, fans of Retardo, I am not giving up my search to find a band to bash.

Like most people, I’ve always been easily affected by music. Songs that drive me in sorrowful, fiery, or bittersweet directions mean the most to me, and even as a child, songs with a world-weary overtone would weigh heavy on my heart; but I was—and am—drawn to them like a magnet.

Today in the offices of Jose el Retardo, a fellow staff member caught my attention by singing Jackson Browne’s Doctor My Eyes, and it immediately made me stop whatever useless task I was up to and wax horribly nostalgic. It’s dogged my steps all day, and I’ve gotten relatively little accomplished. Upon hearing this song on the radio, even when I was very young, a shadow has always been cast over my mind. Obviously I had no clue what Browne was talking about, but my kid-brain was nevertheless troubled by the notion that this man singing was up against the wall somehow, and getting no relief.

Don’t get me wrong, agents of cool. I am NOT a Jackson Browne fan by any stretch of the imagination—Lawyers in Love could be in the top twenty of all time bad songs; oh how I hate it—so don’t get yourself all in a tizzy over my nerdish admission. But come on, you have to give it up for Doctor My Eyes. It’s just so damn sad. Maybe it’s because his vocals on the song are the most vulnerable of any of his recordings that I can remember—indeed, when Browne practically yelps out the line, “You must help me, if you can”, he truly seems at the end of his rope. Or maybe it’s the plaintive lyrics. I don’t know, but as I get older, this song only gets more and more haunting in a bizarrely pleasant way.

Listen for yourself, and then tell the Jose community what songs weigh heavily on you:

Hype is defined by Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary as: to promote or publicize extravagantly. While there may not be a public relations blitz to keep Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Beatles on top of the current music hot 100 type bullshit stuff, it still makes it to the top of influential music lists compiled by dorks everywhere. I would love for somebody to tell me why. To the best of my reckoning, there are two good songs on the entire album, which according to the calculations performed by the accounting offices here at Jose el Retardo would place the album at the bottom of the Beatles pile; although it did have way cool cover art, and logistically this could have affected many listeners. I have provided to my genial readers a track listing for Sgt. Peppers below, with my Own Personal Thoughts on each song (forever to be known as Jose’s OPT scale):

Side one

1. “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” – Sucks.

2. “With a Little Help from My Friends” – Blows.

3. “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” – Pretty good.

4. “Getting Better” – Barely not crap.

5. “Fixing a Hole” – Eh.

6. “She’s Leaving Home” – Please.

7. “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!” – Pure nonsense.

Side two

1. “Within You Without You” – Oh come on. What is it even doing on this record?

2. “When I’m Sixty-Four” – Schmaltz. Kinda catchy, but pure crap.

3. “Lovely Rita” – What? I don’t get it.

4. “Good Morning Good Morning” – At least it’s short.

5. “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (reprise)” – What, again? Ugh. Kill me.

6. “A Day in the Life” – Fucking awesome. Truly.

And now, here are some Beatles albums that are at least 50 times better than the above mentioned waste of wax, in no particular order, except that the White Album is obviously the best, and anyone who disagrees has poop on their shoe:

1. The White Album

2. Abby Road

3. Magical Mystery Tour

4. Let It Be

5. Revolver

6. Rubber Soul

7. Help

8. The Early Beatles

And who knows. The rest are probably all better too, but I’ve never been a huge fan of the way early stuff. The true nail in the coffin, for me, is the awful movie Robert Stigwood made back in 1978, the premise of which is still a matter of hot debate in the circles of people that debate retarded things. The Beatles, having been long apart, never appeared in the movie, but history’s most bizarre cast of characters ever sure did: The Bee Gees, Steve Martin, Peter Frampton, George Burns, Arrowsmith, Leif Garrett, Wolfman Jack, and many other mismatched celebrities. It was universally panned. I don’t need to tell you about it, just watch this awful clip.

BTW, can anybody tell me why this old man is being allowed to walk off to destinations unknown with two young girls? Does this bother anyone besides me? Thank god that everything that lives must die, or else we’d be stuck with George Burns forever.

I am going to make a fairly large admission, one that could severely tarnish my credibility as a “man of rock” forever: Upon my first listen to Vampire Weekend, I didn’t vomit all over myself. The song I randomly decided to check out was A-Punk, and I ended up giving it three listens in a row. The opening riff, ska-infused rhythm, and lively melody cannot be easily dismissed, even by the hard-core realists found deep in the underground editorial bunkers here at Jose Headquarters. I then went on to give the tune Mansard Roof a shot, and though I was less impressed, it was still fairly passable (if not just a little too damn nice; it feels about as breezy as the yacht trip featured in the video). Oxford Comma is all very well and good if not particularly exciting. Here here. Nicely done, chaps (mild stifled yawn).

And so while the bile stays below the esophagus, never does my head spin, nor does my spine tingle. I am not transported. And so enough said about the nice but not great music by Vampire Weekend.

I have a different bone to pick with these Fine Upstanding Young Men—where in the HELL do they buy their clothes? I realize that many bands over the last decade or more have eschewed the look of rock and roll. The t-shirts and jeans of Weezer slowly came to replace the garish notions of Mötley Crüe, and began to define the look of even the most devoted music fans all over this fairly decent country, much like the more intriguing (yet too hippiesque) style of the Black Crowes used to do. This mild approach to apparel, for many, was a depressing left turn into Dullsville, taking one of the more outrageous and fun aspects of the culture surrounding rock music and dismissing it, much as the earlier detractors of the musical society had done in the days of the dirty hippies. But Vampire Weekend has taken this dismissal to a whole new and shitty level. The self-professed ivy-leaguers have brought the culture of uptight sweaters (knotted securely about their squared shoulders) and anxious khakis into a venue where it has no fucking business whatsoever, and we here at Jose el Retardo are standing up to say NO.

Come on, boys! You look completely ridiculous. I know what you THINK you are doing, but it isn’t having the effect you would like. You are attempting to say to America and all rock-loving nations of the world, “Hey man, take your notions of what a rock band is supposed to be and shove it up your bums. We don’t care what we’re supposed to look like, we’re gonna play our kind of music on our own terms until curfew. Then we shall retire to study Proust for a few more hours, enjoy a healthy snack, send our girlfriends an endearing text, and call it a night. And we don’t care what anyone has to say about it! ROOOCK ON!”

How pathetic. Believe it or not, Alice Cooper looks far more at ease and less self-aware in his clothes than Vampire Weekend look in theirs. Here is a man who knows where he belongs and has zero regrets for having chosen it.

Ironically, I find myself thinking of another recent band made up of the sons of privilege, and how they were somewhat responsible for bringing some of the carefree outrageousness back to rock dress: the Strokes. Now that I think about it, the sound of the Strokes is also far more immediate and arresting. Makes you wonder if there’s a connection, no?

I think the boys of Weekend need to make a decision. Are you going to embrace this culture you’ve chosen to flirt with but make no commitments to, or are you going to go forward with little girls making comments like this from bbmuffin1224 on your YouTube postings: omg thats so cute =]

Monday night, at a smallish, dark, Brooklyn bar called Spike Hill, I was reminded why I never listen to the radio anymore (see the video below for footage from this show).

Look, it’s no secret that I fucking hate the likes of My Chemical Jerkwads and Fallout Turd. The glut of crap that populates the airwaves of this fairly decent nation, while maybe not at an all-time high (that was most likely during the Beach Boys era), has at the very least been dense enough to drive me to absolute distraction. If it weren’t for bands like C Phineas replenishing the hope in mankind that Daughtry has so greedily sucked out of my marrow, I would gladly take up an ice pick and spend the rest of my days in deaf bliss (more below).

C Phineas is probably not going to be playing on my radio anytime soon, not only because I never turn it on, but also because their kind of sound thrives on word of mouth, on copies of EPs being passed around, on sitting in small venues with other like-minded people—all of whom have forgotten everything else that happened that day because C Phineas took advantage of a chance to grab their attention completely. The show at Spike Hill was arresting. The sight of the band filled your line of vision and the tight musicianship kept your attention rapt. The funk-infused soul music created by the three saxophones, stand-up bass, keys, and drums was, for a lack of a better word, dazzling (I hate even typing the word, but truly, it was), and proved to be the perfect backdrop for the two vocalists—emcee and singer—whose engrossing tales of youth and warnings of modern pitfalls made the audience feel as though they were taking part in a lively conversation with a couple of guys far more cool than their other friends.

To call the show lively is to not give it full credit. It was lively, yes, but you got the idea that all the guys in the group believe in what they are doing, and that is rare indeed. They certainly gave me a reason to believe. These funky fucks can play. It felt as times like I was taking a crash course in a class called Beatology in the Age of Funkism 101 at some crazy liberal college that served beer (if only). It’s good to know you can find some of their lessons online, and I highly suggest picking up the primer by CLICKING HERE.

I’d like to personally thank C Phineas for giving me a marrow transplant. When the time comes for them to be on the radio, I’ll dig it out of the closet and blow the dust off. Who knows, maybe I’ll even turn it on.

If you live in the NYC area, CLICK HERE, bookmark the page, and catch these guys while they’re still playing the small shows.

Dave Grohl may have been born to play the Garden—and it’s as much of a not-so-good thing as it is a great thing.

I have been a big fan of the Foos since around 1999 or so, and I rank that year’s There Is Nothing Left to Lose as one of my favorite recordings of any band. What I love about this album is the insanely clever melodies that permeate every song, and how influenced the songwriting is by (seemingly) incongruous 70’s artists like Gerry Rafferty. The album begins simply and straightforward, and then layers upon itself with lyrical and musical complexities, almost like a time line of a band’s entire songwriting career condensed into one record. No surprise that it was a hard act to follow.

Other albums have, of course, followed from Grohl and company, but none have reached the musical heights of There Is Nothing Left to Lose. This isn’t to say that each of these records hasn’t had their own merits; there really isn’t such a thing as a bad Foo Fighter album. Quite possibly the problem lies with the Foos making the mistake of trying to TOP themselves with each record. 2005’s In Your Honor is probably the most conspicuous example of this. A double album boasting 20 tracks—10 heavy and 10 acoustical—In Your Honor, like many modern double albums, breaks under its own weight. Had they trimmed the record down to its best 11 or 12 tracks, interspersing the heavy and the light, they would have had a shot at surpassing There Is Nothing Less to Lose. However, with each albums’ (sexy word alert) mounting attempts to become the prototypical Big Rock Record, many subtleties have been left behind.

Luckily for the Foos, subtlety spells death at the Garden. Over the last 13 years, the Foo Fighters have grown steadily into what just might be the most perfect stadium band of its time. Good natured, anthem heavy, and full of rock monkey business, they split their most recent tour into two stages (very much a sign of the times); the main stage being the place where the money is made and the band works out its relentlessly tight hooks so that they are strong enough to uphold Grohl’s primal screams and howls. Later in the show, the band moseys on over to the smaller stage on the other side of the arena (via a ramp that runs through the center of the crowd; I’d hate to be one of Dave Grohl’s pant legs), and they relax into the set list’s more somber numbers, including a well done and low key “My Hero” (a clip of which can be seen below, recorded by yours truly Jose el Retardo; more on the Foos below).

Here is where we get to know the band, enjoy a tongue and cheek triangle solo, and we see Dave hand drummer Taylor Hawkins a bone so that he can sing his solid number Cold Day In the Sun off of the afore mentioned double record. The Foos have the right mixture of stage presence and musical chops to pull all of this off without boring anybody in the audience, and from what I could see not many people left to buy a beer and take a piss.

And then it was off to the main stage again, where the band brought the show to a satisfying, if not a magical, ending. The great thing about it all is that Dave and the boys seemed to genuinely feel appreciative of the welcome New York gave them (and it was an authentically warm welcome; the crowd seemed to eat up every moment), and appreciated the gravity of having now, after 13 years of empire-building, reached the top of their musical careers. And they played like they intended to stay there for a while.

Rumor has it that when David Lee Roth was the front man for Van Halen, he would do his damnedest to prevent Eddie from playing all of that poppy crap he kept tapping out on his little Casio at night (under his covers with a flashlight and a cigarette while Valerie tossed and turned and labored under the nightmares of Alex peeking through the window at her and Eddie’s lovemaking…but wait, was it really just a dream?). Obviously a few keyboard items would end up on the records from time to time—and in the case of Jump, ended up as the band’s only number one hit.

I believe the rumors. Granted, I haven’t had the time to do all of the research (I do have some kind of life), but for me, once Sammy Hagar joined the band, the songs took such an incredibly candy turn to pop music that the albums could dissolve in water. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; I know for a fact that many people less inclined to ROCK THEIR ASSES OFF actually prefer the watered-down beer of Van Hagar, and this opened up a lot of people to the virtuosic guitar playing of the toothless wonder.

Decide for yourself. Because I love all of you so and would do nearly anything for you (except Michael Cesari, aka Medium Happiness, the guitarist for the explosively popular band the Shallow Divers—he can kiss my ass with his bizarre and cruel hatred of the victims of theft; see his blog article here) I have included in my article a little jukebox player I have concocted with some songs from both eras. As you listen, please try to note how much freaking better the guitar playing is on the Roth era songs. For more regarding the controversy between the singers themselves, click here.

For more on the Gary Cherone era, please slam your head in a door.

Michael Cesari, guitarist for the once explosively popular band The Shallow Divers and administrator/writer/editor for the infamous Medium Happiness, has tipped me off to yet another piece of evidence uprooting the long-held rumor concerning the death of rock and roll. I have just found out from the Brooklyn, NY band Cheeseburger that it is greatly exaggerated. (More below…)

I have a lot of respect for any band that trusts their songwriting enough to let it rest upon bare-bones instrumentation, and have it work. The Hives do it, The Hellacopters used to do it (and probably still do from time to time), and Arcade Fire does not. This music grabs me by the throat and completely commands my attention. The more I listen, the more I love it, and the more I love the minimalism of it all. It makes me want to go home and throw all my stupid Ikea furniture out of the window and sleep on some strange floor tonight without a pillow and wake up in the morning with a beer bottle in my back and a hangover like a dwarf turd in my mouth. Like vocalist Joe Bradley says in the no-holds-barred riff-fest Tiger, “Go outside and take a drink out of the gutter, well ain’t it fucking cute?” Indeed. Yes, it seems that good to me. No, I don’t like Arcade Fire. No, I’m not kidding.

At first listen, this music seems to rip along like a bull in a china shop (or shoppe, if you prefer), with little regard to structure or indeed musicianship. But, like the best punk bands, after the hook has dug itself deep into your nose and dragged you along the street for awhile, you notice a definite method to the madness—especially in the vocals; it’s been a long time since I’ve heard such well-intentioned menace all wrapped up in a nice, buzz-saw riff package (fuck you and the horse you road in on, My Chemical Romance). Soon enough you realize that these guys are a lot tighter than anything else you’ve heard in a long time, but were fooled by the effortlessness of it all. It’s what I hoped the Living Things were going to be, but they simply never stuck in my mind. Or my heart, sniff sniff.

If you’re like me, you’re looking for the record these guys must have put out somewhere. Well, you kind find it by visiting their record label, Kemado Records, or you can just CLICK HERE. I just ordered it myself, so I’ll tell you more about it soon.

Oh, hey, thanks for the tip, Michael, and sorry about what I said regarding Arcade Fire. Not that I don’t mean it, I just…well…I guess I’m sorry you like them.

PS—OMG, please don’t confuse these cats with The Cheeseburgers; salt, salt, salt!…cheese indeed.

I ran across a favorite song of mine recently after having not listened in some time, and was moved to write:

The Kings of Leon are, without a doubt, one of the few recent bands to not only become popular, but also to be of any worth. Those that would say differently are most likely the self-described “taste-maker” jerk-wads who should not only be avoided at all costs in every social situation, but who should also be beaten mercilessly about the shins and ankles whenever accidentally encountered in a street or alleyway. Coolhunting.com, you know who you are. (More below…)

And while the last two KOL albums have been, in my opinion, standout offerings in a sea of depressingly retarded teen nonsense and laughingly emasculated emo, the first and arguably the best Kings of Leon offering—Youth and Young Manhood—has been somewhat forgotten alongside its more commercially viable brothers (Aha Shake Heartbreak, Because of the Times). Its sound is unwaveringly brave. The four young men who made it were too young to either know or care that the sound they were producing was about as far from the accepted current “popular” rock hum as you can get. Southern, raw, and produced with absolute immediacy by Ethan Johns, the sound practically explodes off the disc from the first monster riff, and from there traverses effortlessly from exuberant, to lonely, youthful vanity, mischievousness, downright malice, and back to lonely again without once letting their attention stray from a unrefined sonic through-line that is completely unique to this album.

One track in particular, Trani, stands out even above the rest. With a maturity usually attributed to a band much older, this song captures fully the confinement and grinding forlornness brought about by living life in an environment unsuited to one’s character. It is reminiscent of Bob Dylan’s golden era (Brining It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, and Blonde on Blonde), and as a matter of coincidence, the song has received praise from Dylan himself. Lyrically the song is at once bizarre and impeccable (All the bubbas got their heads in a nod, they don’t know what they love or deserve to get; chances are they tab their worm in a slab, doesn’t even know which fish that he like to bite tonight, ah tonight, tonight, ah maybe tonight”); musically it is hauntingly indelible. Starting with a slow burn, regretful and astray, it builds to a heated and rebellious bridge and smashes through to the end with true freaking rock aplomb.

I’ve included some video from a 2004 live performance at some fucking hippy-infested festival called Bonnaroo in Manchester, Tennessee. A great performance by the Kings of Leon, made when some of these cats in the band were still teenagers.

KOL is very big overseas, and getting bigger all the time here in the states (where, as we all know, it really matters).

On January 14^th, the incomparable Katie Dooley and I traveled to Terminal 5 on Manhattan’s west side and saw one hell of a sight: The Mars Volta baby, shaking their shit in a profoundly exuberant way. I have included some video I recorded from the event, which shows off the Volta’s tremendous stage presence and overall cool.  (More below…)

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I have been listening to the musical exploits of Omar Rodriguez-Lopez (guitarist, composer) and Cedric Bixler-Zavala (singer, lyricist) since their days with At the Drive In, the punk outfit from Texas that blew the roof off the David Letterman show back in 2001. Letterman never knew what hit him (I have so thoughtfully included this video as well; I am so good to you). I think my admiration for these boys stems from their ability to expand their musical horizons compositionally with the Volta while not losing a drop of the ass-blasted fire that made them such a roof-raising punk outfit back in the day.

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The show at Terminal 5 underlines this notion. No opening act performed. The Mars Volta hit the stage at about a quarter after 8 PM, and never slowed down for the next two and a half hours. The rhythm section, comprising of drummer Thomas Pridgen – playing as though he keeps the beat on fills alone – and bassist Juan Alderete remained locked into a grove that was simply unrelenting. Truly, I’ve never seen guys work this hard (well, except for me and the last time I ate two blocks of cheese with a whole box of Chicken in a Biscuit crackers and washed it all down with a glass of Chipotle Tabasco and a ball of twine; I worked DAMN hard the next day, I can tell you that). The boys out front were twitching and jumping like a box of laboratory rats, and keyboardist Isaiah Ikey Owens looked like he was having more fun than a whore in a honey jar. They just made the rock seem like something that was palpable and electric, something that forced them to move uncontrollably, a spiritual happening infused into music that seems to evolve so seldom in the ‘music scene’ these days. And that’s probably why their fans love them so.

Not to mention the fact that seasoned concert vet Katie Dooley turned to me half-way through the show and proclaimed, “I think this is the loudest show I’ve ever been to.”

The Volta is not for everybody; they are not for the weak at heart; they are not for the musically unadventurous. To enjoy the Mars Volta means checking one’s notions about any previous definition of rock music at the door. Are you into the 3 minute pop song and nothing else will satisfy? Well, the Mars Volta is not your Snickers Bar. To listen to a Volta record is to traverse a punk-prog, subterranean, deliciousness factory intent on gorging its listeners with every musical note possible at any given moment. Then they back the whole operation over your head, flip it, and use it to scoop out your brains into a crispy waffle cone, where it is served back to you with some of the most over-indulgent toppings you could imagine. And then they repeat this for another 12 minutes. And then Cedric starts singing in Spanish. Cue the trumpet.

Lately I’ve been listening to the last offering, Amputechture, frequently. It was hard to put aside the previous album, 2005’s Frances the Mute, an addictive rock opera that reveals more to me every time I listen, but it’s been worth it. The problem with any Mars Volta album is that it takes patience. It takes faith that something good is going to come out of this seemingly perilous sonic landscape. The initial fear, I think, is this: but what will happen to me if I give in to this insanity? Will I go insane? Will I throw my loafers and Arrow shirts into the garbage and stop going to work? Will I let my hair get greasy and long, stop shaving, put on dirty, torn cargo pants with combat boots and go screaming into the lawless night? Will I give up on democracy? Will I give up on CAPITALISM??

No. But its fun for a few minutes to think that you might.

The show at Terminal 5 was great enough to make you forget you were watching a show at Terminal 5, a venue that seems hell-bent on keeping any of the patrons inside from seeing anything at all that’s going on on-stage. I can’t wait for the chance to catch these crazy bastards in the act again at a better club. I can’t wait for another chance to let the Mars Volta show me how rock has still not faded; that it’s only splintered into so many sub-genres that it can be hard to find what you love.

The new Mars Volta album, The Bedlam in Goliath, comes out on January 29th. SPIN Magazine gave it a crap review. It isn’t surprising. Those fucking sissies need to let their hair down and quit their fucking jobs.