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And feeling Minnesota …

Our No. 4 entry into grungedown is Soundgarden’s arrival song:

4. Soundgarden, Outshined.

Grunge’s heaviest arena band burst onto the scene with the rest of its cohorts with the release of Outshined, a huge, thundering, arena-rock anthem that echoed at times Led Zeppelin, at times Black Sabbath, and at times Guns N’ Roses.

We all know the Soundgarden story. A charismatic frontman, a low, bitter, extremely guttural sound, and the ability to create a fury with catchy guitar hooks and angry, screaming vocal riffs. Outshined is the second track off BadMotorFinger, which of course, isn’t the greatest grunge rock album of all time, and of course, isn’t even one of Soundgarden‘s best efforts. It does, however, feature three thunderous metallic grunge rock cuts, all of which (Rusty Cage, Outshined, JC Pose) live on today.

The undercutting hook and beginning anger in Outshined quickly give away to a regretful and plaintive crying stanza (So now you know…), before the fury returns in the song’s hammering chorus. It’s a classic cock-rock, arena-anthem, fuck-you song — yet with hints of more substance behind Cornell and Soundgarden‘s rough edges. And it’s a bit overplayed, a bit overused, yet still a classic song.

Because you weren’t expecting it, and neither was I …

Rest assured that nothing foul is afoot, but this post serves as your fair warning that things may be sparse around here until the end of August or so. I’d like it to be because I am mimicking Europeans, and taking leave from my current life and traveling to Ibiza for the entire month of August. However, that is sadly not the case.

I’m going to spend some time away from this blog and devote my writing time and creative energy to the completion of my long-awaited (or not) novel, which is maddeningly close to completion. Because the mindset required in blog writing is almost completely different than that of longer manuscript and fiction writing, I believe the hiatus will spur the completion of the book, and I expect to be finished on or around Aug. 15.

You’ll still get Grungedowns, rest assured, but I simply won’t be phoning in four posts per week, whining about the Cubs, complaining about the heat, railing on sports media personalities, or bitching about my in-laws. (Wait . . . Do I do that here? Uh, forget I said that.) Instead, I plan to finish the book, stem the rising tide at my hectic job, take a sojourn with Ms. Faded Glory to Seattle, and I’ll return, hopefully refreshed, rejuvenated, and somewhat more satisfied with myself — and in full force just in time for football season and Tool‘s fall tour.

Until then, enjoy the rest of your summers. Back soon with Grungedown No. 4.

Welcome to Grungedown’s Top Five – lest you think all of our remaining cuts somehow melted in the aforementioned sweltering, stifling midsummer heat wave, we’re back! On a Friday, no less. But, of course, because we’re about to bid adieu for the weekend (Don’t think that Mister Faded Glory’s reluctant adultism will preclude adamant drunkenness.), we have a couple of other items to quickly stab at:

Check out these excellent blogs deadspin to read all about the Cubs Blog Army’s inadvertent takedown of the WorldWide Leader (even Deadspin is almost a curiously innocent bystander – yet not according to the ranting Stephen A. Smith, who no doubt was yelling into poor Teddy Greenstein’s telephone yesterday).

“For me it never has been about just being on TV. I’m about success.”

Stephen A. Smith
Greenstein, Quite Frankly: Baker Bails Out, Chicago Tribune.

Yes. Totally. That incessant screaming and ranting crap wasn’t completely about crafting an ‘edgy’ bombastic persona just so ESPN’s Mark (Sigh. Iowa grad.) Shapiro took notice in 2002.

Watch out, bloggers, Stephen A. is about success! Even though the combined daily site hits of deadspin and GROTA likely surpass the monthly combined viewership of Quite Frankly by tenfold – Stephen A. can totally afford way more steak dinners at the ESPNZone. Probably more Zimas, too. And Stuart Scott no doubt springs for drinks all the time.

Hmm. That was actually just one item. And, admittedly, my commentary adds nothing to GROTA, Desipio, VFTB, or Deadspin. (By the way, I realize that Quite Frankly, uh, quite frankly dwarfs my audience. So I’m not throwing stones. Seriously, does anyone like Stephen A.? Anywhere?) But I just wanted to piggyback. Regardless, what else can I bore you with? Oh, right, the countdown.

No. 5
Screaming Trees, Nearly Lost You.

The underrated Trees burst onto the pop culture landscape just a scant few times – an extremely solid and workmanlike band, they perfectly epitomized some elegant aspects of the Seattle sound – frustrated, deep, resonant vocals, scratchy guitar riffs and even some spooky and heartfelt ballads.

However, Nearly Lost You is by far their biggest hit – from Sweet Oblivion but included on the Singles soundtrack and charting during the summer of 1991, the tune is a catchy, inspired love song.

Its guitar hook is thunderous yet understated, and it’s plaintive but relieved vocals are down-to-earth and quietly optimistic. The song opens with fury, yet elegantly descends into the first stanza, as if the narrator was loudly proclaiming his message – yet slowly reflecting during his delivery. The lead guitars are forceful, but the backing hooks are wistful. It’s a simplistic, short ditty of a grunge song – yet there is still a lot going on, layers abound, musically and lyrically.

Nearly Lost You checks in at five, but it may well be the most timeless cut on the countdown. Its melody and structure very easily could have been a 1970s anthem or even a late-1990s alt-metal cut, but with the grunge wrinkles and the Trees’ usual virtuoso performance, it stands out perfectly as a grunge classic. It’s busy, but ultimately real in its sentiment, delivery, and story.

And, at the time, we all thought that’s what grunge was all about. You know what? Some of us think that still.

So I’ve turned into one of those losers I continually despised throughout my formative years and beyond — one of those morons who strikes up a conversation about the most inane and uncontrollable of things just so the sound of uncomfortable silence doesn’t strike their ears — of course, I refer to, the weather.

I always swore to myself I wouldn’t discuss, interlude, or expound upon the weather in any sort of conversation. To me, that’s what people became once they left college, got boring, got jobs, or moved on. Grown-ups talked about the weather, and no way was I ever going to be one of those.

Sigh. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I am (shudder) an adult.

Ah, Cubs history. A long, long, long era of almost-complete suck. Not totally, though.

In fact, the Baby Bears are still allowed to take part in MLB’s latest “voice of the fans” initiative. Namely, a ‘Hometown Heroes’ campaign, in which each franchise nominates five of its all-time greats, and fans vote on the best. Check it out here. I’ll even list the Cubs candidates.

1. Ernie Banks
2. Ryne Sandberg
3. Ron Santo
4. Fergie Jenkins
5. Billy Williams.

Now, personally, I think Greg Maddux and Andre Dawson have a complaint with being left off the list, but that’s just me, and that’s easily explained if Dawson is on the Expos/Nats’ all-time list or Maddux is on the Braves. Fine.

But — wait a minute. Someone else is missing from the list, n’est-ce pas? Didn’t Chicago employ some animated chap in the 1990s? Um, he socked a bunch of homers. Drove in a bunch of crappy players. Played a mediocre right field. Carried the Cubs to three meaningful Septembers, two playoff series, and has a legitimate claim at Best Cub of All-Time? Am I missing someone?

But of course, the list was submitted by the Cubs themselves. And though they hitched their wagon only to Sosa for nearly 10 years, with little interest in acquiring supplemental talent — now TribCo wants you all to forget he existed. But, of course, go ahead and remember the hearsay and conjecture, for now.

Sweet life at Clark and Addison. Where public relations never ends.

Seriously. I cooked an egg on the hood of my car for breakfast.

OK, that wasn’t really from The Simpsons. Or even funny. But this is your real quote:

Cayman Islands guy: [laughs] I’m sorry, but I cannot divulge information about that customer’s secret illegal account.
[hangs up]
Oh, crap. I shouldn’t have said he was a customer.
Oh, crap. I shouldn’t have said it was a secret.
Oh, crap! I certainly shouldn’t have said it was illegal.
(Sigh.) It’s too hot today.

(Courtesy snpp.com)

Aaaaaand scene.

What else do you want, people? It’s almost 11 p.m. and it’s still hotter than blazes here. No wonder they call Kansas a red state. (Smacks self in face.)

Outstanding! The ESPYs! The biggest night in sports! The night in which kids dream about, climbing the rungs of athletic success, to be presented with a meaningless award, as a huge, multibillion dollar arm of Disney Corp. goes out of its way to pat itself on the back. And guess what, it’s pretaped! So, even if you cared about the results, the night’s likely been ruined for you as well.

As part of the pomp and circumstance, Mr. Faded Glory is running a diary of the fabtacular event. Check in early, and often. This is totally a great idea, because I’m already in an unbelievably good mood.

8:00. Away we go!

8:05. Wow, this is lame.

8:06. (Turns TV off.)

It’s not like the season isn’t lost. It’s not like the Cubs’ future isn’t hopeless enough.

But it’s tonight against the Mets that my frustration all boils over. Tonight. A kid, Sean Marshall, pitches fairly well until he’s — stop me if you’ve fucking heard this one before — left in with nothing in the tank, trying to survive a Todd Walker error and a couple of bloops. Grand slam.

Then, get this, the Collage of Clown Coaches bring in Bob Novoa, who has been terrible for two years. Boom, another grand slam. To Carlos Beltran? Remember him? Remember in 2004, when the Tribune Co. didn’t attempt to sign him and told us all that it was because of Sammy Sosa‘s salary? That was awesome! Nothing like never looking into the future, if you’re a bonehead organization.

Well, like a billion runs later, and a few carefully-placed Dusty tantrums in front of the camera, another error by shitbag Todd Walker, a bunch of attempts by Jon Miller and Joe Morgan to exonerate Dusty and Todd (making it seem much more their fault) and I’m enraged. And I’m not the only one. Fans littering the field. Everyone’s upset. Everyone’s pissed.

You want a Cubs manifesto? I’ll give you my Cubs manifesto.

Trade all these sad-sacks. Losers. All of them. Binge and purge. Tear it down, start over. Lather, rinse, repeat. Trade ‘em all. Every last one of them. (And, ironically, I say this knowing that the Cubs aren’t competent enough in any facet to rebuild from the ground up. Not one. Better sign some more one-dimensional retreads and wait another six years for another 1989 or 2003 to come around.

Fire Dusty Baker. It’s not his fault he’s a terrible manager. It is his fault he thrives in the sea of old-boy accountablility that the cronyist Cubs promulgate. Jim Hendry, Andy MacPhail, every coach up and down the organization, they all suck. All of them. The hitting instruction’s been broken for ten years, the talent evaluation for longer. It’s all a mess. Fire all these coaches. They’re all morons. They’re all content to lose, to spout cliches, to blame luck, to blame circumstance, to blame someone else. The enabling starts with MacPhail, and shuttles on down to mouthpiece Todd Walker. God, I hate these fucking guys. And, yes, sure I was a happy fan in 2003. We all were. Funny how we keep expecting the Cubs to do their jobs — rather than contentedly thank them for a crummy playoff win.

Mike Barrett? He’s a dumbass. Unless he can learn to play left field, he needs to go.

Derrek Lee? We’ve seen his best season. Better not to sentence him to this.

Todd Walker? Todd is the biggest example of sabermetric fraud of all time. Stat geeks will tell you he has a great OBP. Yeah, but have you ever seen him drive in a run? Get on base when it’s needed? Move a runner over come clutch time? Well, I haven’t. I’ve seen a lot of disgusted bat flips. A lot of double-play balls. A lot of two-run doubles when the Cubs are up or down 5 runs. Yeah, great fucking player.

Neifi Perez. It’s not his fault he sucks. But it’s the Cubs’ fault for keeping him here.

Ronny Cedeno. Time to be traded — he’s shown spurts, but it’s not as though he can develop with the big club. After all, the Cubs assume once a player arrives in the majors, no more practice, instruction, or anything is ever needed.

Aramis Ramirez. I can’t believe the Cubs employ a lazy player who has no care about producing or improving. What a shock! The Cubs!

Matt Murton. See Ronny Cedeno. The Cubs hate you anyway. After all, you’re not a veteran. You actually require guidance from time to time. For shame, Matt. You’re supposed to have everything figured out. You know, like the rest of the big club.

Juan Pierre. It’s a much easier game when the pressure’s off and there’s nothing to lose, eh, Juan? Also, Corey would have caught that ball in the Mets’ top of the sixth. Yes, that’s right. The Cubs fucked him over, too. Just like you, Juan. Just like Matt. Just like everyone.

Jacques Jones. Keep fighting with the fans, we all hate your punk ass anyway. You’re just moving closer to the inevitable, when you’re bum-rushed after another 0-4 against a lefty with 4 K’s and two errors.

Mark Prior. I picture a Cy Young trophy hoisted over Mark’s head — in a Dodger uniform.

Carlos Zambrano. I’m sorry for your current team.

Everyone else . . . Ah, what’s the use.

There’s no getting better. There’s no plan. There’s no future. I sound off, whine that everyone should be traded, but what does that get Cub fans? Our management has no idea how to evaluate talent, let alone build from the bottom up. Just get ready for a couple lowball offers to Barry Zito this offseason, and the inevitable veteran retreads brought in (Mark Mulder, Pat Burrell? Can’t you see them overpaid, signed to much fanfare and false hope, and just hopelessly sucking?), reclamation projects overpaid, and fast, no-hit outfielders stockpiled by the dozen.

Life in Cubland. 2003 ruined us all. It made fans assume management had a plan. It made management assume itself infallible. Now, the whole world is broken.

And it’s never getting fixed. Maybe we’ll talk about the Cubs in 2007. Big maybe.

Yeah, I know, where is the Cubs manifesto? Well, I gave it some thought. I’m still working on it, but ultimately I figured, hey, if the Cubs are in no rush to change their culture, then why should I break my back to offer suggestions?

Anyway, it’s Thursday. July 13. It’s Grungedown, and we’re up to No. 6, meaning we’re six weeks away from The Official Summer Seattle Pilgrimage of Mister Faded Glory. Obviously, we’re all excited.

And one caveat — I agonized over whether or not to place Bush‘s Everything Zen somewhere in the countdown. Yes, you can crow all you want about whether the success of Sixteen Stone was because Bush was a simple clone of Nirvana or the grunge sound, or if they reaped the benefits of the album’s producer. However, that doesn’t change that the album itself holds up — Sixteen Stone is a classic, and one of the best rock albums of the 1990s. Case closed, bar none. Stop yelling at me.

The opening track, Everything Zen, may well be imitation of the SEattle sound — but damned if it doesn’t have the explosive guitar riffs, pointless angst, and crowing chorus that a grunge sound needs. It’s furious, intense, a little angry, and melodious all the same.

No. 6
Nirvana, Come As You Are.

If punk band Nirvana’s Teen Spirit was an opening salvo that signaled the landscape shift of rock and roll — then its follow-up, Come As You Are, was just as strong a signal the shift was perhaps permanent. Nirvana’s highest entry on the grunge countdown is hypnotic and melodious, yet haunting, resonant, and anthemic nonetheless.

It’s another revealing glimpse into the band at its fractured yet polished best — Kurt‘s resigned and reluctant lyrics — inviting yet somehow bleak, Krist‘s deep, dark bass tones, Kurt’s climbing, swirling, and building guitar solo, and Dave Grohl‘s sudden explosion from the background at the song’s absolute apex. It’s a gorgeous song — yet that somehow doesn’t detract from its gritty, contemptuous nature.

The dark, suspicious Come As You Are could serve as Nirvana‘s epitaph, had it been the band’s final release (And if nine or 10 of their other cuts didn’t similarly fit the bill.). Yet today it’s remembered as not only one of the band’s biggest hits, but also perhaps its most consistent and telling track. And hey, it’s the song that spurred me on to buy Nevermind in the first place. So there.

I’m not the only one lamenting in cyberspace over the lack of sports or any other sort of worthwhile television this week. However, the demise of the Cubs and the excruciating lull before the restart of any other meaningful sports action prompted me tonight to check out the mediocre Rockstar: Supernova or whatever it is on CBS.

Granted, I’m always last on board any of the reality trains, and I’ll spare you any sort of review of a totally brainless and mindless show (though, duh, real rock and roll can’t be bought, bred, or honed in any sort of establishment like a network audition show. We all know this but we watch anyway in hopes of hearing a competent cover of Interstate Love Song). Although I will comment that it’s quite a sight — a sobering, depressing sight — to see former Metallica bassist Jason Newsted as part of the supposed future band “Supernova,” serving as part judge, part auditioner, future bassist colleague, and part adviser — telling crappy singers to “Hang in there” and “Keep tryin‘” and “This is just a stepping stone” after a castoff finishes a rendition of a crappy Tonic cover.

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