Death

Wherein Lawrence O’Donnell Obliterates the Despicable Liz Cheney

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Children are supposed to aim high and pick up where their parents left off, moving the ball farther down the field, or finding new ways to contribute to society, or –in the instances where their parents have seen fit that they never have any financial burden whatsoever– be sufficiently humbled that they give up something to the greater good, and share the proverbial love. Naturally, in the upside-down world that is Cheney, Inc., it’s all about sharing the hate. And that is neither surprising nor particularly disappointing; I mean, would we expect anything less from this clan? (Slightly less famous daughter Mary, in the epitome of self-loathing battling money-grubbing, pimped for Coors beer, a notoriously gay and minority unfriendly franchise: a quick Google search will provide more than a little back story; be forewarned, it’s revolting.) Little needs to be said of the literally shameless Dick Cheney, but his daughter Liz has seen her star rise in ’09, helped in no small part by the Fox lies factory, but also typically timid MSM outlets who allow her smile n’ smear tactics to go entirely unchallenged.

Nothing new under the sun, right? Well, at some point, people in semi-prominent places need to say enough. That she (along with her father, who is suddenly more visible out of office where he spent most of his time safely sequestered in his undisclosed rat hole) is now appearing in public as often as possible, spewing demonstrably false venom is…typical. That she (along with her five deferment seeking father) is now suddenly the self-appointed voice of reason regarding foreign policy (in general) and wars of choice her chickenhawk pops helped embroil America in, is also typical, expected, and insufferable. And it’s not going to stop, so people interested in truth (and this should include many military folk who actually have to fight and die in the battles instigated by others) need to not only call her out, but encourage her to keep exposing the pathetic and self-serving bile she spews every time a camera is close by. Keep inviting her to debate and actually have to attempt to defend her demonstrably false rhetoric. Certain types of Republicans continue to profit from literally inventing an opposite reality (hello Orwell!) and since we should neither hope nor expect that to change, let’s encourage them to hoist themselves with their own petard.

We can hope that a handful of so-called reporters follow Lawrence O’Donnell’s lead:

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Bad Brains Before Bad Brains?

This is the reason you always remain humble, if not entirely content in the knowledge of how little you actually know. Not only about all the great art we know is out there, but can’t get around to acquiring all of, but the great art that is not out there, obscure, undiscovered, without a champion. Without a story.

Huge hat tip to Hersko for making sure I saw this piece in yesterday’s NYT.

Wow. This is Bad Brains before Bad Brains, Ramones before Ramones. Punk before punk, as Mike Rubin opines in his excellent NYT article.

It is enough of a commentary to even name-check Bad Brains without embarassment (I say this as an intrepid advocate for that band), because their debut album inspired a whole slew of styles and imitation, sprouting like weeds through concrete. It is almost beyond belief that Bad Brains did what they did in the early ’80s; to think that Death (three brothers, literally and figuratively, from Detroit) was making proto-punk like this in the mid-’70s in almost utter obscurity is staggering, to say the least.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

But it does: if the legend is true, rock impresario Clive Davis dug what he heard, but couldn’t get past the band’s name. Change it, and I’ll back you, he said. Fuck that, Death said. And the rest is, until now, three decades and change of unwritten (and almost unrecorded) history.

It gets better, still: this would be a wonderful story, a readymade movie even, regardless of the actual quality of the music. But check it out: the music is astonishing. As I say, to invoke Bad Brains would be ballsy, even gratuitous. Here’s the incredible thing: their song “Politicians In My Eyes” can stand alongside any of Bad Brains’ seminal early ’80s output. How is this possible? Don’t listen to me, listen to your ears: the ears never lie.

Here’s hoping Death lives in 2009, and cashes in some heavy and overdue karma to become the best story of the year: 1975 and now. Do what you have to do.