When I was 17, I spent a foreign-exchange summer in Norway. I signed up for the Scandinavian jaunt mainly for a fantasized processional of hot, topless Norse women. Imagine my delight when, lo and behold, that teen-sex-comedy trope turned out to be somewhat accurate. Someday I'll tell you about the native pastime of the Naked Bicycle. But alas, this is a music column.
Two pivotal things occurred in Norway that would help convince me, 22 grownup years later, that Wolfmother (yes, Wolfmother) is the greatest band of the 21st century. While staying with a host family in the Oslo suburb of Grorud, I refused to get my hair cut. At the end of three months, I owned a phenomenal mushroom-cloud 'fro. My ballcap no longer fit; instead, it merely perched on my head like a wee beanie.
Man, I loved that hair.
During that time, I roomed with my host brother, Tor, whose primary indulgence was great greasy slabs of '70s rock 'n' roll. I was raised on Elton John and Billy Joel, so Tor's crunchy guitar scrum was ear-opening for me. Tor's curvaceous older sister was named Trine. In the bedroom next door, Trine was vavoomish and, it should be noted, adept at the Naked Bicycle. Trine's hairy, scrawny boyfriend, Fruta, loved AC/DC — probably more than he loved Trine. So the poor girl could only roll her eyes as these three goofs headbanged their mighty coifs to testosterrific thunder, the kind of music best accompanied by fake-wood-paneling and a bong made out of a Granny Smith.
Man, I loved that summer.
Which brings us, ultimately, to Wolfmother, a furry Australian quartet that has no interest in: (1) subtlety; (2) modesty; or (3) anything created after 1973 — or whenever Zeppelin made that deal with the devil. Tor and Fruta would have loved 'em!
Wolfmother's 2005 self-titled debut, featuring the hit Woman, was one of the best albums of that year; sophomore disc Cosmic Egg, released last week, might be better. It's heavy, metallic and utterly ridiculous, but it has more shimmery sheen than the inaugural disc. The layered guitar parts come in industrial sizes. A stoner organ swells with B-movie drama. And the drums go from hard to harder — even on the ballads. First single New Moon Rising is a howler's delight, with cascading power chords, schizoid rhythms and lyrics that revolve around busty mystics, a favorite Wolfmother topic ("Oh she don't mind / She got the time / I see the new moon rising").
The only member of Wolfmother you really need to know is Andrew Stockdale, 33, who's maniacal, perpetually randy and topped by an unruly puff of hair that generates gravitational pull. He's chasing that great, groovy endless summer, too. As well as writing and playing, Stockdale takes the lead vocals, banshee-wailing not unlike Robert Plant's snotty kid brother. The randy fantasy White Feather (presumably about having sex with a busty mystic) and In the Morning (presumably about having breakfast with a busty mystic) lean closer to "radio ready" than Wolfmother's last batch of complex sludge — that is, if you could consider the Beatles' Me and My Monkey "radio ready."
Cosmic Egg reminds me of the hazy old days, of Norwegian summers and beyond, when our hair was long and our libidos were chugging full tilt boogie. It reminds me of Trine and Tor and Fruta and that awesomely expanding head of hair I grew in the summer of '87. I'm not sure if I can still muster a mighty 'do like that, but I'll say this: The new Wolfmother album makes me want to try.
The Stephen King Playlist
After four weeks of counting down the grisliest, ghouliest Halloween hits, I was ready to move on to a brighter, happier playlist. The Baby Feet Playlist, perhaps. Or the Puffy Unicorn Stickers Playlist. But then I received major news. On Nov. 16, in a rare public appearance, Stephen King will speak at Sarasota's Van Wezel Performing Arts Hall. Go to www.vanwezel.org for tickets, but save one for me. Along with Mark Twain and John Irving, King is my preferred man of letters, a populist with vampire fangs. It shouldn't have taken late-career endorsements by the New Yorker and pipe-puffing critics to confirm his standing, but the more the merrier, I guess. His new book, Under the Dome, will be published Nov. 10. I always tell King newbies to start with Misery; save The Stand for the long, hot summer of your 16th year. Let's celebrate his arrival with one more nefarious playlist. I used the Ramones' Pet Sematary for our Halloween rundown, but here are 10 other cuts that nod to King novels. See ya in Sarasota, Constant Reader.
10Christine Sixteen, Kiss
9Talisman, the Guess Who
8 Miss Misery, Elliott Smith
7 Firestarter, the Prodigy
6 Desperation, Miranda Lambert
5 Carrie, Europe
4 It, Prince
3 Night Shift, the Commodores
2 From a Buick 6, Bob Dylan
1 Stand, R.E.M.
Weezer
Album:Raditude (Geffen)
In stores: Tuesday
When Weezy met Weezer: Rivers Cuomo likes to play the shlub, the social misfit, and his power-pop band's best albums (Pinkerton, Maladroit) revolve around his perversions. At the same time, the Weezer frontman is famous for lugging around a notebook with which he searches for the Ultimate Hit Formula, a sad sack in search of hap-hap-happiness. New album Raditude lets us know that Cuomo is growing out of his insecurities — and getting closer to that magical pairing of notes and beats. It also means that any sort of emotional complexity has been abandoned for an exclusive assault of roller-rink rock and Fonzie fantasies. This is, by far, the band's most ecstatic offering, 10 tracks and 34 minutes of verse-hook-verse that rarely goes dark. Instead, it's delirious, as Cuomo reaches out to R&B producer Jermaine Dupri and rap star Lil Wayne for the funky-white-boy strut of Can't Stop Partying. On Love Is the Answer, Weezer incorporates traditional Indian instruments into an uplifting message. And there's plenty of classic jangle-pop fun, from the NBA-arena stomp of The Girl Got Hot to the nerd-pop drive of (If You're Wondering If I Want You To) I Want You To. The album has all the nutritional content of a Drake's Cake, and you know the bespectacled frontman can write this stuff in his sleep. Then again, is there anyone with catchier dreams than Rivers Cuomo?
Reminds us of: Amid all the thrusty drums and "Whoa-oh-oh" backing vocals on The Girl Got Hot, Cuomo sneaks in a great Kiki Dee reference. You think Don't Go Breaking My Heart is in his magical notebook? I bet it is.
Download these: The Girl Got Hot, I Don't Want to Let You Go and I'm Your Daddy
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