Monthly Archives: January 2026

Top Ten Excellent and Angry Albums (Needed These Days)

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10. The Times They Are A’Changing (Bob Dylan) He spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished/ And handed out strongly for penalty and repentance/ William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence

9. Animals (Pink Floyd) Have you heard the news?/ The dogs are dead/ You better stay home/ And do as you’re told/ Get out of the road if you want to grow old

8. Never Mind the Bollocks (Sex Pistols) Blind acceptance is a sign/ Of stupid fools who stand in line

7. Fear of a Black Planet (Public Enemy) Elvis was a hero to most/ But he never meant shit to me/ That sucker was/ Simple and plain/ Motherfuck him and John Wayne

6. Live Through This (Hole) Make me real, fuck you/ Make me sick, fuck you

5. Battle for Los Angeles (Rage Against the Machine) An army of pigs try to silence my style/ Off ’em all out that box/ It’s my radio dial

4. The Lonesome Crowded West (Modest Mouse) Drunk on the Amtrak/ Please shut up!/ Another rider/ He was a talker/ Talking about TV/ Please shut up!

3. The Fragile (NIN) Like you said, you and me make it through/ Didn’t quite, fell apart, where the fuck were you?

2. Let England Shake (PJ Harvey) I have seen and done things I want to forget/Soldiers fell like lumps of meat/ Blown and shot out beyond belief/ Arms and legs were in the trees

1. Rid of Me (PJ Harvey) I might as well be dead/ But I could kill you instead

The Bloated Orange Monster In All Of Us

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Let’s be honest. The problem isn’t just in the bots making crazy posts, the tailgating Camaro, the halfwit half-brother or the dipshit daughter-in-law. It’s in all of us. As nice as it is to blame an unhinged president, or fentanyl and oil or lockdowns and raids, that’s missing the point. Why did we let it happen? What did we do? What about me and you?

I went to a Ratdog concert (with Bob Weir) at The Beacon Theater in 2006, introduced by none other than Donald Trump. It was a joke for most, many yelling out “You’re fired!” But how did he get there? Why did we let him on the stage? I mean, really, why did we do that?

Those bloody hats

That orange bloated monster is all of us, that fear and anger, that vainglorious stupidity that we’re better than we are, that we deserve more than we have. As much as we might hate to admit that we’re in a fat suit and our skin just isn’t right, we are that fucking guy.

The Tininess in My Head

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The island where I was born has untold manifestations in my head. It is tiny and vast, empty and overbuilt, extensions from every building, every building gone, the path across hills and prairies, leading to a barren rocky point that never was.

I’ve circumnavigated the island many times, down from a steep ridge, the water choked with ice, a canoe at the ready. I need to go back for a paddle and watch everyone leave. There’s a menagerie of animals in the water, fish and seal, cats and birds, and a miniature sheep that fits in my pocket. Half asleep, I do the breast stroke to the bottom.

A message from my realtor comes through; someone wants to buy the island. I’ve already left. That’s what I text. I don’t intend to return. I get a question mark back and reply with a meme of the sheep in my pocket.

Finding an Antidote for Poisoned Music

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The shitty (tragic?) parts of my life have tended to poison things that I love, including favorite music. Low, a band I once saw in concert every year, has been off my playlist ever since Mimi Parker, a member of the duo, died suddenly of cancer. It’s been three years now. As much as I miss the music, I can’t listen. Not yet.

Alan and Mimi play Low music in Fargo (2010)

A similar grief hit when my friend Gord Downie, the lead singer of The Tragically Hip, died although I was more prepared for his death, given his prognosis. It wasn’t grief as much as mourning, as Joan Didion differentiated in The Year of Magical Thinking. I attended one of his final concerts, and then he died. As much as I miss him, his music provides comfort.

Gord singing and contorting at Fort Henry in the ’90s

The poisoning is more intense when it comes on a personal level. I very much enjoyed Modest Mouse until a student I associated the music with committed suicide. And then, as they sing on Polar Opposites, I’m trying to drink away the part of the day that I cannot sleep away.

I’ve had a couple of relationships turn terribly sour and drag the joy of the music with them. The death of an ex made The Red Hot Chili Peppers feel dark and awful, while Sufjan Stevens, once a great passion, was dragged into a quagmire of triggering memories. I’m working on getting his music back into my head.

Sufjan plays Christmas Unicorn at The Bowery Ballroom

In the end, this self-cleaning of music, loving it once and then not, allowing it to creep back in, knowing it again, almost feels like wisdom, or at least the closest I will ever get to a thing like that.

Phil plays one of his last shows at The Capital Theatre