Desert Island Discourse

Can you hear the blind street urchins banging their garbage cans? The rabbit bones clattering through our drain pipes? The conjoined twins looming portraits of the damned on Broadway? Do you know what it all means folks? That's right: Waitsmas day is upon us! We've finally reached the apex of the one true holiday season, and are celebrating in style by inviting recurring castaway/life and death of the party Andy McAlpine to gush our way through the second half of the Tom Waits oeuvre, from the dramatis personae of Franks Wild Years to the raucous collage of Bad As Me. After the Kathleen Brennan-inspired madness of Swordfishtrombones and Rain Dogs established a new direction for Tom Waits, he embarked on some of the freest experimentation of his career, embracing industrial primitivism on the apocalyptic Bone Machine and a Burroughsian carnival on The Black Rider. It was a period where he took his newfound freedom into strange new places, creating strange works that would never be repeated again before. And t

We're going straight to the top, fellow Waitsmas celebrants! Or, at least, y'all are—Max is deathly ill and coughing all over this track. But we aren't going to let a little thing like death get in the way of talking about one of the weirdest and most wonderful live films we've seen: Tom Waits' Big Time. As the ersatz "t's a Wonderful Life of the season, Big Time is an odd one, since its nearly impossible to find rather than everywhere always, but Waitsmas is all about making life a lot harder than it needs to be, right? Filmed hot off the heels of his Franks Wild Years tour, dubbed by many to be his greatest ever, Big Time bucks the cinéma vérité style of films like Stop Making Sense for a more surreal, imagistic pastiche, blending live footage with odd, go-nowhere vignettes and singular fever dreams. It's more "visual companion" than "concert film", while still delivering some truly bone shakin' performances from a band packed with all-time greats like Marc Ribot and Ralph Carney that tear through the mate

Merry Waitsmas drunks and drunkettes! Yes, tis the season when all islanders forsake God and turn their eyes to the gutter in worship of the one true king: Tom Waits. This week we're flying guestless so we can get down and dirty with the first half of his career, watching as a Brill Building jazzbo blooms into a sort of horrifying junkyard scarecrow preacher man. If you've ever wondered what it sounds like when an iconoclast is still trying to find their voice, the line of albums from Closing Time to Rain Dogs is a good place to start. But it's also filled with some of the most genuinely beautiful work of his career, packed with bawling ballads and jazzy improv that would fall to the wayside later in his career. So join us as we inaugurate the actual most wonderful time of the year, and maybe—just maybe—learn a little bit about ourselves. Also: Andrew blasphemes against Captain Beefheart, the Melvoin Alert returns, and we all hear the story of how baby Max met the reason for the season.

Can't wait for Waitsmas? Neither can we, so we're opening one of our presents early, only to discover that Grandma screwed up again and got us the wrong thing—a Tom Waits cover album, courtesy of Scarlett Johansson and Dave Sitek. Back in 2008, they came together to give us "Anywhere I Lay My Head," the most baffling crossover vanity project of that innocent time before an evil land developer from an 80's movie literally took the white house. But while "Actress Scarlett Johansson and TV on the Radio Member Dave Sitek Make an Album of Tom Waits Covers with Special Guest David Bowie" seems like a particularly hipster mad-lib from the outside, the result is actually surprisingly pleasant, and even—dare we say—a little dull. Rather than taking the obvious route of Downtown Trains and Uptown Buses, "Anywhere I Lay My Head" is a collection of some real latter day deep cuts, the kind of playlist that belies a genuine fandom. And Sitek's production is definitely a fresh take, turning each track into a sort of techni

Need a big loan from the girl zone? Well this desert island has you covered, thanks to longtime castaway enthusiast (first-time castaway) Caroline Pendleton! With her anime-fueled determination, Max's lifetime devotion, and Andrew's generally pleasant demeanor, we have everything we need to cover the first half of the discography of songwriter/piano-bench humper Tori Amos. That's right, we're all Toriphiles now. Tori Amos is sort of an anomaly in the music scene. She's a classically-trained pianist who made her name writing lyrically and melodically dense albums, but she's also a die-hard pop fan who was kicked out of music school for refusing to read sheet music. She's boasts a dry wit and a fanciful streak a mile wide whose biggest hit was a dance remix of a harpsichord song that heavily features the line "starfucker/just like my daddy". But for her diehard fanbase (of whom Caroline and Max count themselves a part), Tori Amos is quite simply one of the greatest songwriters of her era, and her discography i

CW: R*pe, pedophilia, abuse, misogyny We've taken down our Brand New episode because we no longer wish to have a document out there supporting the music of an abuser. This clip is a more in-depth explanation of our thoughts on the matter. We do not mean to erase our mistakes and pretend as if they never happened—we simply want to prevent those mistakes from hurting anymore people. Here are some better written, more articulate pieces written about what happened, the toxic culture that supported it, and the people left in its wake: "The Specific Betrayal of Brand New" by Zoe Camp: https://theoutline.com/post/2499/brand-new-sexual-harrassment-emo "Unraveling the Sexism of Emo's Third Wave" by Jenn Pelly: https://pitchfork.com/thepitch/unraveling-the-sexism-of-emos-third-wave/?mbid=homepage-more-latest-and-video

Are you ready to Free Fiona? Well, too bad—she's already free, and has been for, like, 12 years. But that's not gonna stop us from examining one of the strangest and, oddly, most controversial albums of her career: Extraordinary Machine. Both of them. Since the first, Jon Brion-produced version was held in limbo by Sony for so long, Fiona ended up re-recording the whole album from the ground up with part-time Dr. Dre collaborator Mike Elizondo for its official release. So with two significantly different versions of it in existence, Extraordinary Machine has long been a strange and divisive beast, which is why it was especially fun for us to dive in and dissect the successes and failures of these two disparate machines. Will we discover which producer is best? Or will we come to our senses and finally focus on the impeccable songcraft at the core of the album? Why not both? Also: Weird Al's hot new single, the year of male consequence, and the shocking return of "Meet Me in Con-Talk."

As one of the only survivors of the short-lived and abominably-titled "freak folk" movement of the early-oughts, Joanna Newsom made a name for herself by taking what first seemed like a gimmick—her status as a classically-trained pedal-harp player—and turning it into a career packed with dense lyrical brambles, impeccably constructed song-craft, and her own divisive, inimitable chicken-fried-Björk singing voice. She's a sentimental favorite of everyone on this episode, leading to a surprisingly contentious but heartfelt discussion of the four albums she's written to date. It's an episode packed with heartbreak and unlikely alliances, capped off with our very first letters section! Also: Max reveals the origin of her vendetta against Van Dyke Parks, Andy shills for the pleasures of suburban Western Mass, and Ryan Shea gets just super roasted for, like, no reason. He’s not even on the episode. Sorry Ryan.

We have no calendars or seasons or sense of the progression of time here on the island, but that's not gonna stop us from celebrating what we're told is Halloween. And for us, that means celebrating one of the spookiest soundtracks for one of the spookiest movies by one of the spookiest bands we could find: the Suspiria soundtrack by Goblin! A creepy combination of cacophonous ambience and straight up prog rock, this soundtrack is one of the most interesting—and listenable—horror movie soundtracks out there. And of course, we also delve into an in-depth discussion of Dario Argento's surreal, visually stunning nightmare, which also just so happens to be Max's favorite horror movie of all time. Also: occult psychology, the importance of razor wire rooms, and a celebration of national treasure Jessica Harper.

It's time for Angstoberfest to bid a teary, mascara-stained farewell, but not before taking an extra melodramatic bow. So now, one week after covering the best (early-oughts) emo band of all time, we're traveling to the flipside of the much derided sadness coin with the world's best nü-metal band: Deftones. That's right, this episode is all about how Max's favorite no-longer-guilty-pleasure band slowly transformed from a bunch of So-Cal Korn fans into one of the foremost experimenters in a notoriously conservative genre. But are they really the Radiohead of metal? Or is that a stupid, lazy comparison made by a legion of hacks who don't know how to talk about anything without referencing Radiohead and have probably never listened to any metal past Metallica's black album? Sorry, I have a chip on my shoulder about this. Anyway, enjoy! In a sad way! Also: the death of compact discs, Grindr is magic, and the Tom Waits Advent Calendar.

The skies are dark across the heartland of the island, as we grieve the sudden death of Tom Petty. It's a strange thing, when a musician whose work you take for granted as a constant source of joy and barroom camaraderie is suddenly taken—it forces you to reflect on just how much you came to love them. So its in that spirit that Max and Andrew have come together to celebrate America's most jangly and least litigious musical genius, Tom Petty (& his ever loyal Heartbreakers). It's our first and perhaps only episode examining a greatest hits compilation, but we think it's worth it here, both as a means of approaching the breadth of his work and as a showcase for the incredible pop craftsmanship he showed throughout his career. So please join us on this genuine and enthusiastic celebration of Tom Petty, the one musician who it is literally impossible to hate, don't even try. Also: a brief preview of our Deftones episode, Desert Island Discourse's official stance on serial killers, and the new global standar

Did you hear? Twin Peaks is back! Or it was. It's gone now. But dammit if Desert Island Discourse isn't dedicated to stretching out nostalgia way past the bounds of what is good and reasonable. To that end, this week we're branching out a bit, examining the Julee Cruise album Floating Into the Night and, by extension, the TV show that made such great use of its music—Twin Peaks. One of us has been obsessed with both for years, and the other was only exposed to either in the past few months, but somehow we find common ground in the love we share for this pristine slice of strange, reverb-laden dream pop, and its equally strange televised cousin. Also: the possible origin of fuckboys, Andrew's irrational hatred of tote bags, and the remarkably well-casted content of Deputy Andy's Balls

Everybody loves the Beatles, right? Well not on this island—we're as contrarian as ever here, mostly considering the legendary rock band with a meh and a hand wave. So in our typical iconoclastic style, we are jumping right over any discussion of the Beatles as a band to talk about the far more weird and ranging solo albums that the members released in its wake. From the homespun pop of McCartney's solo debut to the schizophrenic art-pop of Lennon's last album, the genre-diversity at the core of the Beatles was completely indulged in, for better and for worse. But which of the lovable lads from Liverpool will steal our 60's hating hearts? Hint: it's not Ringo. Also: cheese factors, the uncanny valley of repetition, and all our thoughts on God.

I have a confession to make, Deserteers, on this, the eve of our Beatles solo album episode: I have never listened to a John Lennon album. Due to a combination of apathy, youthful iconoclasm, and a deep-seated hatred of blue-eyed soul, I have managed to avoid his storied solo career for nearly three decades now. But that all changes today (well, technically a month ago, but play with me here), as, with the steady guidance of eccentric musicologist extraordinaire James Eidson, I venture to listen to his legendary album Plastic Ono Band for the first time. And what better way to first encounter a record than by drinking PBR and talking over it? Over the course of one full album play, we discuss John Lennon's checkered past and the strange critical reputation of Plastic Ono Band in our classic aüdio vérité style, so you can hear every off-handed comment and argument about beer consumption. Also: terrible portraits of James Schuyler, the similarities between Dara Wier and Yoko Ono, and how Harry Nilsson is actual

Can you believe we've been trapped on this album nearly half a year, and never once discussed the beach or its titular boys? Well it's about damn time we rectified that. So, with the help of return castaway/bearded bundle of joy Andy McAlpine, we're going to take on one of the most legendary discographies we've yet encountered—The Beach Boys. The weird and wild world of the Wilson brothers is full of classics and clunkers, and on this episode we're running the gamut of both, with a selection of albums ranging from the pure pop pleasures of The Beach Boys Today! to the lo-fi depths of Smiley Smile. In the process, we learn a lot about the glossed over depths of this band, the joys of life before and after Pet Sounds, and, of course, the epic heights of "Bull Session with 'Big Daddy'". It's one of our most epic and wide-ranging episodes yet, ending in a thrilling duel of Smiles. Also: the world's greatest box set, sausagefests, and the perks of eating John Stamos.

In preparation for the sunny onslaught of our upcoming Beach Boys episode, we take a moment to discuss the troubled, oft-ignored beach brother—Dennis Wilson. Responsible for the surf vibes that permeated their early albums, the hard living beach bum of the family released the first solo album of the group, Pacific Ocean Blue, and was working on another (Bambu) when he tragically died in 1983. We're talking about both today, as we examine these flawed yet fascinating tracks, shot through with a darkness and pathos that the Beach Boys only hinted at. It's a brief episode about one man's personal dissolution, although we somehow still find time to take jabs at the second best drummer in Foo Fighters. Also: suffocating prospectors, Andrew's empty tummy, and the puzzling state of the Depeche Mode fandom.

Welcome back, punks and punkettes! We've received yet another castaway on the island, drummer and punk rock dad extraordinaire Chris Pagnani, and we're welcoming him the only way we know how—with spiky hair and outdated weed references. That's right, we're covering those west coast bad boys made good, Green Day! From their earnest and humble beginnings through multiple cries of "sellout!" and all the way to their millennial political makeover, we cover the career of one of music's most enduring punk institutions and, in the process, learn a little about ourselves. Also: auditory tattoo tours, sudden births, and Fuck Time.

Ladies, Gentlemen, Genderqueers: it is going down. Ever since they heard our lukewarm treatment of King of Limbs back in the Radiohead episode, the Walnut Desk boys have been itchin' for a fight with your Desert Island pals to defend its honor. And on Saturday the weird fishes finally came home to roost, in a raucous hour of...well, actually rather civil conversation. Andrew even warmed up to the album a little. But will three good-natured bearded men be enough to convince Max that King of Limbs isn't actually Radiohead's worst album? Stay tuned for the thrilling answer! Also: DrummersTM, the pathos of Korn scatting, and Phil?!

Well we've made it folks—Desert Island Discourse has hit episode 25. And now that the island is officially old enough to rent a car, we figured the best way to celebrate is with our favorite bunch of screaming, pseudonymic songsmiths: Animal Collective. As one of the first bands that opened up Max and Andrew's baby brains to the wonders of weird music, Animal Collective has long held a sweet, unique place in our hearts. So of course our attempt to trace their lineage from weird pop solo project to, uh, weird pop group project (with a lot of strangeness in between, we promise) resulted in a full two hours of gushing, tangents, and terrible, terrible puns, as well as the most insufferable installment of "Pitchfork Said it Worst" yet. Also: Max learns the difference between Blues Traveller and Collective Soul, Andrew throws foil at a cat, and we learn Avey Tare's secret recipe for almond butter.

Welcome to the first B-Side of our brand new schedule! You're gonna be seeing a lot more of these from us now, so it's fitting that we start with one of the best albums we'd never be able to cover otherwise: the Neutral Milk Hotel classic In The Aeroplane, Over The Sea. In the process, we examine its legacy and give a platform to Andrew's Anne Frank-less interpretation of an album that's so entrenched with lore and history that it's hard to remember how great the songs themselves are. It's a rambling conversation full of surprises, for an album that deserves nothing less! Also: horrible singing, jerky old friends, and the humble origins of Desert Island Discourse.