MR. BIG – Big, Bigger, Biggest! The Best Of(1996 Atlantic)
The mid-90s were the time that every hard rock band in the world released a greatest hits. Why? Most of them either split, got dropped by the label, or both. Tesla, King’s X, Slaughter, Extreme, and Mr. Big are among the sidelined bands whose labels released a greatest hits mid-decade.
Big’s at least had four unreleased tracks, topping off 12 familiar cuts from their first four albums. Three of the songs were newly recorded. Unfortunately, the label stacked a bunch of ballads and made this disc really hard to finish in one sitting. The running order and track selection is a little wonky.
“Addicted to that Rush” is the jet-speed opener, as it should be. Big’s 1989 debut was instrumentally thrilling but light on hits. A so-so album track, “Rock & Roll Over” should probably have been left off. Lean Into It (1991) was the big one. “To Be With You” sits at track 4, because the CD is chronological, but the song has always worked better in the closing position. Placing it at track 4 is anticlimactic. Lean Into It spawned three more singles, all present: “Green Tinted Sixties Mind“, “Just Take My Heart”, and “Daddy, Brother, Lover, Little Boy”. This spurt of songs is a bit too soft. Two are ballads, one a pop track, leaving only one to instrumentally smoke you. That’s unfortunate because their cover of Cat Stevens’ “Wild World” is next in the pack. Though it is a fabulous and underappreciated cover, it’s too much mush at the start of the CD.
A buyer who picks this CD up as their first and only Mr. Big purchase will assume they are just another pop rock band. Another Bon Jovi, another Warrant. Though there are some serious moments of instrumental shreddery, that side of the band is too overlooked. “Colorado Bulldog” from 1993’s Bump Ahead is about the only remaining song with that kind of force. This is why suits shouldn’t compile CDs. Their studio albums are more balanced.
Unfortunately, none of the four unreleased songs are spectacular. The acoustic ballad “Seven Impossible Days” is from a Japanese EP called Japandemonium. The other three are new recordings. “Not One Night” is another acoustic ballad. Sonically beautiful, but it’s too much saccharine. “Unnatural” isn’t a ballad per se, but it is mostly acoustic (and features the lead vocals of guitarist Paul Gilbert). “Stay Together”, which is a dead ringer for vintage Van Hagar, is probably the best of these four songs.
Big, Bigger, Biggest! The Best Of Mr. Big does not represent the Mr. Big that fans have known all these years. Their favourite songs are rarely the ballads. Too many killer deep cuts are missing, and, I hate to sound like a broken record, there are too many ballads!
One Night in Nashville is John’s live run-through of the entire Motley Crue album with his ace band, including his son Ian on drums. Many of these songs have never been played live, and never in sequence like this. Veteran producer Michael Wagener ensured a kickass sound.
Ian Corabi has no problem duplicating Tommy Lee’s hard hitting style on opener “Power to the Music”. John’s voice is still more than capable of shredding these songs two decades later. His rasp and power have barely ebbed. Compare this to Motley Crue’s final live album The End and…actually, no don’t compare. Corabi buries The End.
“Uncle Jack” is one of the most pounding tracks on this CD. It was a departure for Motley Crue, a deadly serious track, and John nails every scream. The guitarist also duplicates Mick Mars’ underrated solo, note for note. Yes, underrated. Mars is rarely given the credit he deserves for creating his own style, and thereby defining the sound of the Crue.
If you know the album then you know these songs; if you don’t then buckle the fuck up.
Through the single “Hooligan’s Holiday”, Corabi and Co. breath life into songs we only know from the album. “Everybody wants a piece of the pie” — at least in this Nashville crowd they do, soaking up every riff and blistering scream. Even the complicated “Misunderstood” burns it down. Guitars instead of keyboards, backing band instead of Glenn Hughes, and it’s full speed ahead. Once again the solo is note for note, but there’s a brand new outro where it once faded.
“Loveshine” is a bit of a respite, a nice little acoustic jam a-la Zeppelin III. These last two songs are so far above and beyond what Motley Crue were capable of when Vince Neil was in the band. Corabi opened up entire new soundscapes for them to explore, and “Loveshine” is cool on the psychedelic side. Back to the rock, “Poison Apples” is a tribute to glam rock and what Motley Crue are about. “Took a Greyhound bus down to Heartattack and Vine, with a fist full o’ dreams n’ dimes…” Of all the tracks on Motley Crue, “Poison Apples” was the closest to the original Motley sound, and John owns it.
This is where you’d flip sides on the original album, so it’s the perfect spot for telling a story: track 7, “John Joins the Band”. He got the call before it was even announced that Vince had left the band, and he couldn’t say a word to anybody. One of the first songs they wrote together was “Hammered”, an old riff that John brought to the band. Even darker is “Til Death Do Us Part” which was actually supposed to be the title of the album at one point. It’s one of many long bombers, but things lighten up a bit on “Welcome to the Numb”. Dig that slide guitar riff, another very Zep aspect to this batch of songs. By John’s intro, it sounds like a ball-baster of a song to play live. He says they didn’t think they were going to be able to do it! But they killed it, and John says that’s due to the hard work of guitarist Jeremy Asbrock.
Your head receives a good solid smack with “Smoke the Sky”, a waste-laying blitzkrieg of a smokeshow. Corabi touts the health benefits of rolling a joint. “Home grown version complements the senses, opens up my mind.” Perhaps Peter Tosh put it better, when he sang “Birds eat it,” and “It’s good for the flu, it’s good for the asthma.” Regardless of who said it best, “Smoke the Sky” is a flat-out mosh.
“Droppin’ Like Flies” continues the ass-kicking, but at a more sensible pace, trading speed for mass. And although in theory it shouldn’t work, after this fairly relentless assault, the album always closes on a ballad called “Driftaway”. After a sentimental version for the Nashville crowd, there’s a bonus track. This is another ballad, “10,000 Miles Away” from the Japanese Quaternary EP, live for the first time. Icing, meet cake.
This Corabi live album is far stronger than any of the three Motley Crue live albums. In terms of performance, John’s band just kills Motley Crue. Of course, they had a brilliant set to work with. Finally hearing these songs live, and in album context, is a long fulfilled wish. John Corabi has long been respected by the rock community and this CD is a testament to why.
The featured photo for this week’s Sunday Chuckle was sent to us by Boppin, who thought these “woods wipes” would be perfect for Sausagefest. The funny this is that we actually have a Bucky at Sausagefest.
Bucky commented, “Copyright infringement right here. I sell my actual shit under the same branding. Don’t judge, we all got stuff on the side.”
Some of you may wonder why I’ve been quiet about the school shooting in Florida last week. Controversial rocker Ted Nugent has had plenty to say, but I try to keep politics to a minimum here. The truth is I have said nothing because I’ve been too upset – a toxic mixture of sadness and furious anger.
I’m not a parent, but I cry for all the children whose lives have been cut short simply because they went to school that day to get an education. I cry for the kids who will never, ever get over the trauma of seeing their friends cut down. And what about the kids of the future, who may never know what a normal, happy, unarmed classroom is like?
I’m not American, but I weep for the country that continues to bury dead children, one tragedy after another, while doing absolutely nothing about it.
I’m not anti-gun, but I shake my head the most ridiculous defences for potential killers to easily buy AR-15 rifles. Don’t pretend they’re “tools” and you’re GI Joe.
I love a good conspiracy theory, but I boil in pure frustration that Ted Nugent and others are calling these children “crisis actors” who are a part of an anti-gun conspiracy.
Student Emma Gonzalez has become the voice of the victims
In short, it’s taken me a while to stop being upset, and get clear enough in the head to write something.
I grew up around guns. My dad taught me how to shoot safely before I was even allowed to ride my bike out of the neighborhood. I was such a good shot that he nicknamed me “Deadeye Dick”. He encouraged me to get my Firearms Acquisition Certificate, and I did. I used to love going to hunting shops with my dad to look at weapons. Lake Huron Rod & Gun in Underwood, Ontario was our stop. My mom and aunt would look for knick-knacks at a store called The Chapel while we looked at guns.
I don’t know what the solution is to America’s gun problem. And yes America, you do have a gun problem. It’s obvious to everyone except you, because you can no longer see the forest for the trees.
You don’t have to worry about fighting off the Red Coats with your muzzle-loaded muskets anymore.
Nobody needs to worry about Obama taking over the country, he’s enjoying his retirement.
And let’s not forget, Hillary lost the election. She’s no longer the scary anti-freedom monster under the bed. She’s an old lady and she can only write books now about “what happened”. She never wanted to repeal the Second Amendment in the first place. That was just Russian propaganda that many people fell for and still believe.
I understand that your Second Amendment guarantees you the “right to bear arms” (muskets?) to protect your country and family. I think that’s just fine and I support you. What I am asking you to do is look really hard at the world around you, and ask who you are really afraid of. Right now, it looks as if you’re afraid of a bunch of 17 year old kids who are sick of being shot at and pushed aside afterwards.
If the Founding Fathers could see what the Second Amendment has wrought, I can all but guarantee you that they would go back in time and word it a little differently.
It’s different here in Canada. We still have lots of violent movies, rap music, and video games. We have guns, but we do not have mass shootings every two weeks. We do not have or want a lobby organisation like the NRA to tell us what to think. Our country was not founded upon revolution like yours. We didn’t worry about the British coming back to take over. We didn’t worry about someone declaring themselves King. In fact the only invaders we worried about were Americans. (Look up “Manifest Destiny” and you’ll understand why.) Yet we didn’t give in to fear and arm everyone in the neighborhood.
The point is, America took the Second Amendment and went a little far with it. Canadians managed to make it this far without worrying too much about deep states or elites taking over, and we’re doing OK. We’re not perfect. We are not likely to forget the École Polytechnique massacre in 1989. But we don’t do it every other week.
What’s the difference? I think it’s our very different history. You had a revolution to escape from monarchy, and have been worried about tyrants taking over ever since. We had a couple rebellions and slowly gained sovereignty, like a teenager eager to move out of their parents’ basement.
What’s the solution? At this point…I no longer even think there is one. After speaking to many Americans, I think the divide is simply too wide to breach. It’s far too easy to say “it’s a mental health problem”. We have mental health problems here, too. That lazy answer isn’t it. Token restrictions on guns or bump stocks won’t help either because you’re too far down the rabbit hole now. Something else has to change. Something evil and elusive has infected the country and it’s not going away.
I think it’s fear and hate. Too many Americans now distrust and hate other Americans. The media and political instigators stoke the fires of hate, and now it’s too late. If there is a solution, it has eluded me. Empathy needs to return to the United States. It’s your only hope.
America, you are my neighbor and you are my friend. But you’re becoming that scary friend that I don’t want to be alone with anymore. And I’m telling you this as a friend – you have enough guns. More won’t help. Open carry won’t make this go away. A lot of these shooters put the gun in their mouths when they’re done. They don’t care if they die – they often want to go down like Harris and Klebold did. And the “good guy with a gun” fallacy won’t work because you can’t identify who the good or bad guys are until it’s too late. “Good guys with guns” have made very little difference because this isn’t a Hollywood movie.
While I have no answers, Ted Nugent’s certainly not helping. I’m not surprised, seeing as this is a guy who once called for the nuking of Iraq. Shame on you, Ted, and shame on all those attacking the victims.
Maybe empathy really is the answer. How to get there? That is a whole other problem.
Vanilla Fudge, Rod Stewart, Black Sabbath, Dio, Cactus, Blue Murder, King Kobra…those are just a handful of the bands who have boasted an Appice in their ranks. Drumming brothers Carmine and Vinny have been recognised by fans and critics alike for their rhythms and associations with amazing bands. Now they step out on their own, with a duo album called Sinister.
The musical directions are all alloys of good ol’ heavy metal. “Sabbath gave us metal!” goes one line (more on that later). You know what you’re getting. There’s even a Sabbath medley called “Sabbath Mash”. Joining the Appice brothers are familiar names such as: Craig Goldy (Dio), Tony Franklin (Blue Murder), Robin McAuley (MSG), Paul Shortino (Ruff Cutt), Joel Hoekstra (Whitesnake), Ron “Bumblefoot” Thal (Guns N’ Roses) and Jim Crean (who regularly plays live with the brothers).
Many tracks have both drummers, with Vinny panned to the left and Carmine to the right. It’s not immediately obvious, but if you listen, the drums sound huge! Double drummers are not something we’re used to hearing, so pay attention and listen to the individuals and what they’re doing. You won’t be bored, even if you’re not a drummer.
Everything rocks — no ballads. You’ll find a sludgy Sabbath vibe on some tracks such as “Killing Floor” (lead vocals by Chas West). Jim Crean kicks ass on “Danger” which comes from the brisk Dio end of the spectrum. Another Crean song, “In the Night” is the most immediately memorable. It takes a few listens to absorb Sinister. Headphones may help, but give it a chance because it’s not an immediate listen. Other tracks are familiar. Blue Murder’s “Riot”, with Robin McAuley singing, is a damn fine heavy explosive.
What about drum instrumentals? Well, of course! You would feel ripped off if the two brothers didn’t go head to head. “Drum Wars” is exactly what you’re looking for. What Vinny and Carmine have done is create drum parts that compliment each other and work in unison, creating a fuller sound. You’ll also get a kick out of “Brothers in Drums”, which tells the story of the Appice brothers. “Is that my brother, on TV? That’s what I wanna be!”
The album goes a little sentimental on “Monsters and Heroes”, heavy as hell, but the lyrics may bring a tear to your eye. “Sing a song, singer, you’re the man on the mountain…” Yes, it’s a tribute to Ronnie James Dio, with lyrics by Shortino, who worked with Dio back in 1985 on Hear N’ Aid. Sabbath gave us metal indeed, but “Monsters and Heroes” captures a little bit of why we miss Dio so much.
Not every song brilliant, and 13 is a large number of tracks, but Sinister grows as you listen. (Stay tuned to the end!) It’s a grower thanks in no small part to some great performances by an assortment of rock n’ roll veterans. Any fan of heavy metal will find something to enjoy with Appice. Serious Sabbath or Dio fans should consider adding it to their collections, as an extension of the discographies. Bonus: there’s a poster inside!
Living up to Lean Into It was never going to be an easy thing to do. By the time 1993 rolled around, it didn’t even matter. Mr. Big were going to be ignored no matter what they did.
There are no giant leaps and bounds on Bump Ahead, but there are enough decent rock thrills and ballads to call it a good album. A lot of the heavy artillery is expended right on the first track, “Colorado Bulldog”. An amped-up Van Halen shuffle is cranked to the max with the one and only Billy Sheehan pushing the whole thing on the bass. It’s an insane affair of accelerated playing and a stomping riff.
“The Price You Gotta Pay” keeps it heavy, anchored by a patented Sheehan groove. Eric Martin’s bluesy soul rasp gives the music accessibility, but there is plenty going on instrumentally too. Fans of sheer playing will find plenty of challenging licks within. Likewise, “The Whole World’s Gonna Know”. It sounds like a redo of an old Talas song called “Smart Lady”, with a new improved chorus. They lay down a granite groove on “Temperamental”. Plenty of solid rock is to be heard here.
That said, let’s not kid ourselves. Mr. Big made their money with ballads like “To Be With You”, and so they loaded the deck here with a few more. “Promise Her the Moon” is sentimental, understated and classy. The big one is Cat Stevens’ “Wild World”. Mr. Big were not likely to blow it on a song this magnificent. Their version is more lush than Stevens’, but is actually quite great. They miss the mark on “Nothing But Love”; too syrupy with its guitar synth orchestra. In a case of ballad overdose, there is a fourth: “Ain’t Seen Love Like That”. It’s one of those basic campfire ballads. Good song, but not essential.
Bump Ahead has a bit more filler than preferred. “What’s It Gonna Be” is fine funky rock, but the chorus is pedestrian. They go a different direction on the psychedelic “Mr. Gone”. Don’t forget this is the band that gave us “Green-Tinted Sixties Mind“, though “Mr. Gone” isn’t as perfect as that.
They close the album on the free cover “Mr. Big”, the song that gave them their name. The grind of “Mr. Big” ends the album on an upstanding note, but damn, they should have cut one of those ballads doncha think? The fact is, Mr. Big were simply not going to have a hit with a ballad in 1993. Wasn’t gonna happen. The Japanese edition had a bonus track called “Long Way Down”, which wasn’t that outstanding but perhaps should have been included in the main tracklist at the expense of a ballad.
GETTING MORE TALE #654: “Gucci Gang” – A lyrical analysis
Over the last few months, you may have been aurally assaulted by a track called “Gucci Gang” by a young Florida mumble-rapper named Lil Pump. (Real name: Gazzy Garcia. I know, I know). Yet another product of proud Florida, Lil Pump boasts being kicked out of Grade 10 – for starting a riot! An auspicious beginning for the young star who, as of press time, is currently under house arrest.
A guy at work started playing the track “Gucci Gang” just to irritate people. I tend to really take jokes too far, so of course I grabbed the ball and ran with it. It’s really awful, which in turn made it funny to watch people cringe at the sound of it. Lil Pump’s “Gucci Gang” is surely one of the worst songs of the decade, which leaves me baffled as to how it currently has 505 million views on Youtube. Perhaps because it’s so bad, people are listening to it for comedy relief like us? Sort of a Rebecca Black effect?
Lyrics and flow are critical for good rap. Let’s analyze the lyrics of Lil Pump’s biggest hit.
Oooh, brrrpt, brrpt, Gucci Gang, ooh, yeah, Lil Pump, yeah, Gucci Gang, ooh Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)
OK, then. In rap music, I think it might be important to say your own name. I’m not sure why, but Lil Pump nails it in the first line. Then he repeats the song title a few times, interjecting a few “uhs” and “brrrrrrpts” in between. (Is that the sound of a phone ringing? The consensus of my lyrical analysis team is that it’s supposed to be a gun sound. I think it’s a phone.) The repetition is so you know what song you just clicked on, in case you’re illiterate.
Next up: boast about wealth you don’t have, because you’re shitty with finances:
Spend ten racks on a new chain My bitch love do cocaine, ooh I fuck a bitch, I forgot her name I can’t buy a bitch no wedding ring Rather go and buy Balmains
My lyrical translation team believes that “ten racks” is $10,000. That’s a lot of money to spend on a new chain, though gold ones go for up to $20,000 on Amazon, so maybe he got a good deal. But then, Lil Pump complains that he can’t buy a wedding ring for his cocaine-loving “bitch”. This is clearly selfish behaviour. He shouldn’t have spent ten racks on that new chain. His “bitch” needs a ring, but he’d rather go buy Balmains (French designer clothes). Don’t complain that you can’t buy that ring, Lil Pump. Get with the game. Maybe get your “bitch” some rehab for her cocaine problem.
Lil Pump repeats the title again, 12 times for the illiterate, and then repeats the entire first verse again. This requires no further analysis, except maybe to point out an attention deficit problem.
Let’s skip ahead:
My lean cost more than your rent, ooh Your mama still live in a tent, yeah Still slanging dope in the jets, huh Me and my grandma take meds, ooh
“Lean”, like “syzurp”, is a drink consisting of soda and codeine. I’m not sure how that costs more than anyone’s rent, but Lil Pump has already established that finance is not his strong suit. It is implied here that he and his grandmother may both have drug problems. The fact that he’s boasting about his so-called wealth while making fun of someone’s homeless mother indicates deep insecurity. What a douche!
None of this shit be new to me Fucking my teacher, call it tutory Bought some red bottoms, cost hella Gs Fuck your airline, fuck your company Bitch, your breath smell like some cigarettes I’d rather fuck a bitch from the projects They kicked me out the plane off a Percocet Now Lil Pump fly a private jet Everybody screaming “fuck West Jet!” Lil Pump still sell that meth Hunnid on my wrist sippin on Tech Fuck a lil bitch, make her pussy wet
Yeah, I’m sure all the “bitches” are dying to get with a guy who also fucked his own teacher. While his education suffers he continues to spend his money on clothes. “Red bottoms” cost “hella Gs”, and he boasts about flying on a private jet. Yet let’s remember, he can’t buy a ring for his “bitch”. Something is definitely wrong here. Does Lil Pump have an accountant? Probably not; it’s hard to put “selling meth” on your tax return. It is obvious that Lil Pump has not learned any lessons from all the broke former one-hit-wonders out there.
“Hunnid on my wrist” means he’s wearing a hundred dollar watch (not that impressive?) and “sippin on Tech” is another reference to that codeine drink. Something tells me that Lil Pump is going to lose that private jet if he doesn’t take better care of his money. He should also be concerned about his codeine dependency. That’s serious shit that’ll start giving you health problems early.
Pump then repeats the title (over and over) and first verse again…and again!
Is it popular for the novelty value as a joke? Is this considered a good track? General consensus via reviews is the song warrants a low to middling rating. Why so popular then? I don’t have a fucking clue. Not a single blessed idea. A frightening review from Florida states that nobody at a Lil Pump concert was older than 22. Kids are buying and listening to this shit? They knew every word to every track. Considering the phenomenally stupid lyrics, that’s terrifying. If you clicked the track above, I’m sorry for wasting your time.
Lil Pump is creatively and intellectually bankrupt, and financially soon to be the same.
Perhaps the greatest awakening I ever had in my life was the moment I first heard Iron Maiden. It was so important to me, it was the first chapter of Record Store Tales — Part 1, “Run to the Hills”. At that early age, music and video games collided I was never the same again. Since that time, music has always been intertwined with gaming and my best buddy Bob. All three combined were responsible for my rock n’ roll epiphany.
Bob and I played a lot of Atari on the weekends. Both families had the Atari 2600, but we both had different selections of games. Depending on whose house we were at, we’d play different games. “Gorf” was one game he had that I didn’t. It was a shooter like “Space Invaders” but with different kinds of levels. More than going for a high score, it was important for us to try and make it through all the levels. Atari games were so limited. “Gorf” had five distinct levels so it was more rewarding to see all five than to rack up high scores.
Same with “Frogger”. That was one of my games, and Bob was very competitive on it. As you progressed up the levels, more obstacles were thrown in your way, like snakes for example. It was exciting to make it to a new level for the first time, but “Frogger” was a hair-triggered game where timing was everything. And Bob used to get very, very excitable when a game of “Frogger” went wrong. That is how he earned the nickname The Reset King.
Here was his thinking. If you lose a level early in “Frogger”, the chances of making it to a new high level were greatly reduced. Bob would rather reset the game than try in futility. So, he’d dive for that reset button on the Atari console, usually while yelling something at the game. “The game is cheating!” was a favourite.
The game is cheating indeed, I suppose. It was easier to let him reset than argue that an Atari 2600 wasn’t sophisticated enough to “cheat” at a video game. “Frogger” was very touchy, but it wasn’t particularly glitchy. If you so much as touched a car, you were dead even if it didn’t technically “hit” you. So it could get frustrating, sure. We would have to eventually cut Bob off from resets or nobody else would get a turn.
And so, he was crowned the Reset King by my dad, who worried he was going to break the damn switch. It was a title Bob rejected because the game was cheating, and because David Dolph across the street was way worse with the reset button.
David Dolph was this bratty kid across the street. His weird family wouldn’t let them play with any toys with guns, like G.I. Joe. But David was no dummy. He had a Transformers collection, because he didn’t tell his mom they came with guns. He was also destructive, and if you let David Dolph near your toys, he’d probably wreck them. We didn’t like David Dolph, but one afternoon we found ourselves at his house playing video games in the basement. It was there that David Dolph faced the Reset King.
They didn’t have an Atari, but they did have a Commodore Vic 20 that you could play games on. We were playing there in the basement, when the Reset King decided to start a game over because it “cheated” early on.
“No fair!” yelled David Dolph. “No fair! It’s my turn now!” He tried to wrestle the controller from Bob’s hand, who didn’t budge. In fact he just continued to stare intently at the TV and play, with the corners of his mouth attempting to conceal a smile. Giving up the fight over the controller, David Dolph burst into tears and ran upstairs. Bob kept playing, a huge grin now upon his face. We stayed until Bob finished playing games!
David Dolph was a weird kid. His parents were really strict and wouldn’t let them listen to music, except for Bruce Springsteen. They approved of the Boss, but heavy metal was satanic to them. The kid was over at our house one afternoon when I was watching music videos on TV with Bob. He was visibly upset by “Rock You” by Helix, and left the house. About a decade later, he sure changed. I often heard him blasting Savatage’s “Hall of the Mountain King” from his bedroom window when his parents weren’t around.
Maybe it’s the narcissist in me, but who was he blasting Savatage for? By that time, Bob and I weren’t even talking to him, so I always wondered if he was blasting it at us.
As much fun as we had over the years, you had to be patient when gaming with Bob. If you wanted play with him, you had to let the Reset King have his way.
The reset button never broke. In fact we still have the same Atari 2600. It works, and we still have all the cartridges…except one. My sister never forgave me for trading away “Superman”. However, I traded “Superman” for my first Kiss (Record Store Tales Part 3: My First Kiss) so clearly I had the greater good in mind.
What did break…frequently…were the controllers. And that wasn’t Bob’s fault. Bob owned an Atari and took good care of his stuff. He was brought up in a Dutch household that understood the value of working for something and taking care of it. None of Bob’s things were broken like David Dolph’s. No, Bob didn’t break our controllers. They were broken by Cousin Geoffrey. Cousin Geoffrey broke…everything.
My cousin is now a father himself, and he understands things a little differently now. I think he doesn’t hold it against me when I say he was fucking annoying to play Atari or Nintendo with. More annoying than the Reset King or David Dolph!
Geoffrey destroyed about three Atari joysticks. I was pretty good at taking them apart and repairing them, but there was only so much I could do. An Atari joystick was a plastic handle that activated four switches on a circuitboard underneath. Geoffrey would push those joysticks so hard that the plastic inside would shatter. I could take it apart and use hot glue to give the inner plastic frame some strength but it was a temporary fix at best. You had to buy new controllers. My dad eventually decreed that Geoffrey was only allowed to play with old, refurbished controllers, not the new ones.
Geoffrey destroyed our original Transformers G1 Frenzy figure, on Christmas day, the same day we got it! He was just a destructive child, and what he didn’t destroy he simply lost. I’ll give you some examples of the chaos he caused.
First trip to Alberta, August 1979. l-r Mike, Geoffrey “Captain Destructo”, and Kathryn
In August 1979, the family took our first trip to Alberta. It was a two week tour starting in Edmonton and going through the mountains. My sister, my cousin and I were often given the same toys to play with, so we wouldn’t fight over them. My sister and my cousin were both given dinky cars of the Batmobile. Were they ever cool. They came with a little metal trailer and a plastic Bat Boat you could tow. We had a lot of fun playing dinky cars on those floors of Alberta motels. They were also small enough to carry around in your pockets.
Geoffrey threw his first Batmobile off a mountain in Jasper. He just wanted to see what would happen if he threw the Batmobile off a moutain. A second Batmobile was bought for him on the same trip. That Batmobile was flushed down the toilet of a rest stop in Canmore. He was eventually given a third Batmobile, which, as far as I know, survived a little longer than the other two.
Geoffrey “Captain Destructo” (in cap) sulking after sacrificing the Batmobile to the Mountain Gods.
Another incident of soul-crushing toy waste happened in the summer of 1983. This time, Geoffrey was visiting us in Ontario. It was the summer of Return of the Jedi. The new figures were out. My mom took us to Zellers and bought each of us a new toy. I chose Luke Skywalker, partly because he came with so many accessories. He came with a new lightsaber, a gun and a cloth cape. Geoffrey got the same figure. We then waited on a bench while my mom did her banking.
“Come on let’s open these,” said Geoffrey. My sister and I always waited until we got home.
Geoffrey ripped open his Luke.
“Why are you opening that now? You’re going to lose the gun. Just wait until we get home. This is our last stop.” I attempted to reason with my cousin but he had Luke out of the package.
Within the first five minutes, he lost the gun. Before we made it home, he lost the lightsaber too.
“I told you so,” was something I relished saying to him. My Luke, by the way, still has all his accessories 35 years later.
What these tales tell us is that cousin Geoffrey was a monsoon of chaos and utter destruction. He also had all the latest stuff, and that included video games. Fortunately for his parents, the original Nintendo Entertainment System had very robust, button-based controllers. He couldn’t break them. He was really good at “Super Mario Bros.” and “Mike Tyson’s Punch Out”. Unfortunately this meant my sister and I didn’t get much gaming time. We died early and often, and he played long lives while earning extra ones. His turns were much longer than ours.
We saw him make it to Mike Tyson once. That was pretty cool. Once he almost made it, but my dad walked in front of the TV during a fight and caused Geoffrey to lose. Boy he sure threw a fit that time!
Here’s the funny thing. When we were kids, my cousin took a lot of energy and patience to keep entertained. When he hit his 20s, he really mellowed out and we bonded like we never have before. And what did we bond over? Music and video games.
I took a trip out to Alberta for a week in 1997. He took me shopping to a couple music stores in Calgary, used and new. I found a rare CD featuring the early one of somebody named Dave Grohl. It was the band Scream, and the CD was No More Censorship. I was kicking off a love affair with Foo Fighters and it was a seriously cool find. Geoffrey was (and always has been) into to Tragically Hip, so I got him a CD by a similar sounding band called the Barstool Prophets. Meanwhile, he turned me onto the Gandharvas with their last album Sold For a Smile. Killer album that I still love (and own two different copies of).
At night, he introduced me to one of the best racing games I’ve ever played. For the N64 system, we spent hours on “Top Gear Rally”. It was such an immersive game for its time. We designed our cars, we discovered shortcuts, and had a blast seeing how far we could make it.
Once again, it wasn’t best scores or best times that mattered. It was seeing how far you could get. Getting to the third or fourth level was rare and required serious skill. It was the most fun I’d had playing video games in many years!
All these memories flow like a stream of consciousness, triggered by certain songs. Early Kiss, AC/DC and Quiet Riot will forever be associated with the old Atari 2600 in the basement. Bob was a constant gaming companion, and he sets off even more memories. Discovering music together, like Whitesnake and Kiss albums. All hail the Reset King. Long may he reign!
We had a big old IBM PC with dual 5 1/4″ floppy disk drives. That meant you could copy disks from your friends much faster and easier, and so we did. It wasn’t very powerful and we only had a monochrome monitor, but back then you had virtually unlimited access to free software. Copy protection usually took the form of the game asking you for information that can only be found in the game manual. So, you would just go to the library and photocopy the manual from your friend.
My dad worked at the bank at the mall, and he had a number of customers who did him cool favours over the years. One such friend was a fellow named Scully. Every once in a while, he’d come to my dad with a list of video game titles. Dad would bring it home, give it to us, and say “Circle any games you want.” My dad would buy a pack of 5 1/4″ floppy discs, and a week or two later they’d come back full of games. “Flight Simulator” (version 1.0), “King’s Quest”, “Alleycat”, “Sierra Championship Boxing”, “Lode Runner”, “Executive Suite”, “Rogue”, “Janitor Joe”, “Decathlon”, and “Evolution” were some of the game titles written on the floppy discs that returned.
Best friend Bob, who was without a computer in his house, came often to play the new games. Back then, a PC was a luxury. Only a few families on the street had them. My dad’s was subsidised via work. And by the way, when families on the street had computers, that meant more access to free games.
Bob and I shared a mutual love of music, and so music was usually playing when we were gaming. Mom and dad were tolerate a little noise once in a while, and damn, we had such a good time.
One game that we played to an endless soundtrack of Iron Maiden (Live After Death predominantly) was 1981’s “Crossfire” by Sierra. It was a grid-based shooting game, and the controls were so complex. You had four keys for moving, and four keys for shooting — one for each direction. Keyboards are not designed for that kind of gaming, and so playing alone was all but impossible as you mashed your fingers together trying to quickly move and shoot using eight keys.
Bob figured out how to play the game: as a team! He manned the firing keys and I moved the ship through this grid. It was about an 8×8 grid, approximated by hand below. As these alien things started moving around their rows and columns, I had to dodge blasts while setting Bob up for shots. You had to kill each alien twice. It required co-ordination, all enhanced by the steely bass of Steve Harris combined with the precision percussion that Nicko McBrain provides.
Another game that required coordination was “Decathlon“, which unfortunately drowned out any music we could play. My dad hated “Decathlon”. During the racing events, you “ran” by hammering on two keys as if you were running with your fingers. Bob and I discovered the best way to do it was two-handed — both pointer fingers at full speed. The clacking sound was a cacophony and my dad complained every time we played. The point of the game was to beat Bruce Jenner, so we had to do it. My dad hated Bruce Jenner because of that game.
Back to the teamwork: there were some events I could do well, while others only Bob could do, and one that required both of us hammering keys in unison. That was the pole vault. It began with someone doing the run-hammering with their pointer fingers on two keys. The other person had to use four keys to 1) plant the pole in the ground, 2) jump, 3) pull a handstand on the pole, and 4) release. Music didn’t help with the pole vault — you were fucked if you weren’t focused completely on your little digital man.
Some days I played solo. Bob was a couple years older and had a part time job at Harvey’s. There were a few games we had for playing against the computer. I obsessed over Sierra “Championship Boxing” one summer: 1988. Ace Frehley had a new album out, Second Sighting, and he happened to have a boxing related track called “The Acorn in Spinning”. The game allowed you to create all kinds of your own custom boxers, so I created a whole storyline about one I built called Acorn.
One of the aforementioned games, “Evolution“, was a lot harder without Bob. I picked it because one night, watching TV with my parents back in the early 80s, there was a story on about a new Canadian software company called Distinctive Software, based out of British Columbia. They were being spotlighted for a new and very original video game they released: “Evolution”. Through a series of levels, you had to evolve from a single-celled organism to an amphibian to mammal and up the ladder to humanity. It was praised for being different from the average computer game. The whole premise was so cool, and the actual gameplay so awful…not to mention, even as kids, we knew that humans didn’t evolve from beavers.
Level 1: the amoeba. You’re an amoeba floating around and trying to eat all the little edible blue dots around you, while trying to avoid a weird spinny eyeball looking thing that launches little purple spiky things at you. You can also, like, electrify your amoeba for a little while to protect yourself. You have five lives, but I used to typically burn three or even all five on this first level.
Level 2: the tadpole. A little easier this time. Just move side to side and jump to avoid fish, and to catch food. The simplicity of the controls meant you could make it through, losing minimal lives.
Level 3: the rodent. Dig little mouse tunnels and drop poisonous mouse poops behind you to block it again. Avoid being eaten by the snakes. Be careful you don’t use up all your poops too soon.
Level 4: the beaver, yes, a fucking beaver. Avoid the alligators while retrieving five pieces of wood to build your dam. A surprisingly easy level.
Level 5: gorilla. Humans didn’t evolve from gorillas, but we do share long distant ancestors, closer than beavers anyway. In this strange level, you have to throw oranges at monkeys who are stealing your shit. Aiming those oranges was purely just a matter of luck. Game over here. If you ever make it to this level, congrats, but you’re done now. Only once, maybe twice over the years did I hit all the damn monkeys and move on to:
Level 6: human instant death. As soon as your little fully-evolved human ejects from his neat space car, he is dead meat. Numerous robots and aliens enter immediately after, from every direction, and begin shooting. You will have no chance, so just accept your fate instead of wishing you were still a gorilla. And you thought those monkeys were bad.
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I love/hated that game so much. I wanted so bad to get to that final human level, and with Bob, we worked as a team to finally get there only for it to last a couple seconds at best.
Perhaps 1982’s “Evolution” had a deeper message. We climb the hill to the very top of the food chain on this world, only to be squashed immediately by whatever is waiting for us out there. It’s a classic science fiction dystopian theme.
Can we find a suitable heavy metal song to go with this doomed fate of alien or robotic annihilation? Of course we can! From 1988’s Ram It Down, another album I obsessed over during this period, it’s the apocalyptic “Blood Red Skies”.
Whatever your gaming soundtrack, I hope your memories are as good as mine.
As the sun goes down, I move around, Keeping to the shadows, Life, hangs by a thread, And I’ve heard it said, that I’ll not see tomorrow.
If that’s my destiny, it’ll have to be, So I’ll face the future, Running out of time, I’m on the line, But I’ll go down fighting.
Felt the hand of justice, Telling wrong from right, Threw me out upon the street in the middle of the night,
Cybernetic heartbeat, Digital precise, Pneumatic fingers nearly had me in their vice.
Not begging you, I’m telling you.
You won’t break me, You won’t make me, You won’t take me, Under blood red skies.
You won’t break me, You won’t take me, I’ll fight you under, Blood red skies.
Through a shattered city, watched by laser eyes, Overhead the night squad glides, The decaying paradise.
Automatic sniper, With computer sights, Scans the bleak horizon for its victim of the night.
They’re closing in, They’ll never win.
You won’t break me, You won’t make me, You won’t take me, Under blood red skies.
You won’t break me, You won’t take me, I’ll fight you under, Blood red skies.
As the end is drawing near, Standing proud, I won’t give in to fear, As I die a legend will be born, I will stand. I will fight, You’ll never take me alive.
I’ll stand my ground, I won’t go down.
You’ll never take me alive, I’m telling you, hands of justice, I will stand, I will fight, As the sun goes down, I won’t give in to fear.
MR. BIG – Big, Bigger, Biggest! The Best Of (1996 Atlantic)
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