Here's a Call Me Maybe bonus, too. He's actually got 10 different metal versions of Call Me Maybe, so maybe I'm burying the lede on this post, but the Is This Love is pretty great.
Via Stellar Interesting
Released on July 21st, 1987, Appetite for Destruction went on to sell well over 15 million copies in this country alone, becoming one of the best-selling debuts ever. The album looked both forward and backward: The punky rawness of its sound and the pained artistry of its lyrics made it a bridge between commercial Eighties hard rock and the alternative music of the next decade. But Appetite was also among the last classic rock records to be mastered with vinyl in mind, to be edited with a razor blade applied to two-inch tape, to be mixed by five people frantically pushing faders at a non-automated mixing board "We used classic instruments and classic amps," says the album's producer and engineer, Mike Clink, "Our approach was reminiscent of stuff that was done in the Sixties and early Seventies." Adds assistant mixing engineer Deyglio, who earned a credit as "Victor 'the fuckin' engineer'" on the album: "It could almost be seen as the last of one of those types of records, from Layla to Abbey Road on down. It could be seen as the last great rock record made totally by hand."
They sorted tapes according to chart position, and I remember being overjoyed whenever a tape I had purchased moved up on the rack. When Hysteria went to No. 1, I nearly lost my shit. They also had a section for new albums, and it was July 1987 when I went to the store and saw Appetite in the display case for the first time. I had never heard of Guns N' Roses. I had never read anything about them or listened to any of their songs. All I had to judge them was that cover, with the five skulls laid out on a cross, each skull sporting it own distinct haircut. Skeletons are cooler when they have a full head of hair.
Here's why Appetite is awesome. Everything else I listen to from the eighties is so fucking dated that it might as well come with a picture of Joe Piscopo eating out a woman with a super hairy bush while driving Magnum's Ferrari. Shit from that era is so laughable, hipsters wear it because of how ironic it is. NOBODY listens to Appetite ironically because it still kicks the shit out of almost everything today.
"Appetite for Destruction" introduced a band that anyone who loved rock'n'roll could agree on. The metal heads loved the aggression, the glam fans fawned over their looks, the punks aligned with their rebellion, and the purists savored their blues-based riffs. It also contributed iconic images to the lexicon (Rose's head bandana, guitarist Slash's top hat) and uncompromising, powerful songs that remain incredibly fresh. Nothing quite like "Appetite" has come along in the 25 years since it arrived. And that, folks, is why we're stuck with Axl Rose for the rest of our lives.
A group full of hard-partying Sunset Strip veterans whoâ€™d all done time on the L.A. pop-metal scene, led by an Indiana transplant that still thought of himself as some sort of off-the-bus hick delinquent and compensated accordingly. And that band happened to have both the ridiculous chops that the pop-metal scene required and a sort of alchemical, otherworldly chemistry that few other bands in history have ever displayed â€” one of the things that makes their quick dissolution so tragic. And that hick happened to have this sensitive sandpaper wail that sounded sensitive when it was trying to sound tough, and vice versa. Thatâ€™s a deep and rare combination, and somehow it doesnâ€™t come close to explaining how an album like this could happen.
Then he was there. And apologies to the nice woman, but people do not go that nuts when Bon Jovi appears. People were: Going. Nuts. He is not a tall manâ€”I doubt even the heels of his boots (red leather) put him at over five feet ten. He walked toward us with stalking, cartoonish pugnaciousness. I feel like all anybody talks about with Axl anymore is his strange new appearance, but it is hard to get past the unusual impression he makes. To me he looks like he's wearing an Axl Rose mask. He looks like a man I saw eating by himself at a truck stop in Monteagle, Tennessee, at two o'clock in the morning about twelve years ago. He looks increasingly like the albino reggae legend Yellowman. His mane evokes a gathering of strawberry red intricately braided hempen fibers, the sharply twisted ends of which have been punched, individually, a half inch into his scalp. His chest hair is the color of a new penny. With the wasp-man sunglasses and the braids and the goatee, he reminds one of the monster in Predator, or of that monster's wife on its home planet. When he first came onto the scene, he often looked, in photographs, like a beautiful, slender, redheaded 20-year-old girl. I hope the magazine will run a picture of him from about 1988 so the foregoing will seem a slightly less creepy observation and the fundamental spade-called-spade exactitude of it will be laid bare. But if not, I stand by it. Now he has thickened through the middleâ€”muscly thickness, not the lard-ass thickness of some years back. He grabs his package tightly, and his package is huge. Only reporting. Now he plants his feet apart. "You know where you are?" he asks, and we bellow that we do, we do know, but he tells us anyway. "You're in the jungle, baby," he says, and then he tells us that we are going to die.
Four days after the five members of Guns & Roses got together in Silver Lake and decided to form a band, they left on a West Coast tour. On the way to Seattle, their car broke down in Fresno and the musicians spilled out onto the road with their gear and hitchhiked for the next 40 hours.
When they arrived in the Northwest, they found out the rest of the tour had been canceled and they were only getting $50 for the show, not the $250 they were promised. They played their set on borrowed gear and then turned around and hitched back to Los Angeles, broke and tired.
Studies indicate that, while 17 percent of us believe weâ€™re tone deaf, only 4 percent of people actually have amusia, the oddly inappropriate technical term for a condition that only the mean-spirited would consider amusing. Perhaps the Zimbabweans have it right with the proverb, â€œIf you can walk you can dance. If you can talk you can sing.â€
Rate it? How can I rate that?
What am I supposed to say to that? Thatâ€™s ridiculous. You see the way they can fuck up music? Itâ€™s a mismatch. They donâ€™t complement each other. Max and Mingus can play together, by themselves. Mingus is a hell of a bass player, and Max is a hell of a drummer. But Duke canâ€™t play with them, and they canâ€™t play with Duke.
Now, how are you going to give a thing like that some stars? Record companies should be kicked in the ass. Somebody should take a picket sign and picket the record company.
Five stars is real good? Itâ€™s just good, no more. Give it three.
As for Gilberto, he could read a newspaper and sound good! Iâ€™ll give that one five stars.
GZA isnâ€™t just relying on his lyrics and music to convey his love of science; the album may also come with an illustrated book featuring a glossary of terms. Nor is he stopping with space. The next album in the series is going to be about oceans. With any luck, the third will be about fuckinâ€™ magnets and how they work.
Ray's a very handsome man. When people meet him, they often try to guess which movie star he looks like-Roy Scheider, Michael Douglas, Ted Danson, George Hamilton? Maybe that's why this feels so innocent, so wholesome, like he's just cheering on the team. He beams down at the photos. Any one of them might be the next Vanna, the next Pamela, the next Jenny, the next perfect Ray Manzella hybrid that becomes not just an actress but an icon you can cross-promote from movies to books to dolls to toothpaste to infomercials. They sold a million Vanna White dolls on the Home Shopping Network-a million dolls! "These girls jump off the page," he says. "They're channelstoppers, every one of them. If all three make it, it wouldn't surprise me. If not, I'm gonna quit the business."
Most of the songs played on Top Forty radio are collaborations between producers like Stargate and â€œtop lineâ€ writers like Ester Dean. The producers compose the chord progressions, program the beats, and arrange the â€œsynths,â€ or computer-made instrumental sounds; the top-liners come up with primary melodies, lyrics, and the all-important hooks, the ear-friendly musical phrases that lock you into the song. â€œItâ€™s not enough to have one hook anymore,â€ Jay Brown, the president of Roc Nation, and Deanâ€™s manager, told me recently. â€œYouâ€™ve got to have a hook in the intro, a hook in the pre-chorus, a hook in the chorus, and a hook in the bridge.â€ The reason, he explained, is that â€œpeople on average give a song seven seconds on the radio before they change the channel, and you got to hook them.â€
The top-liner is usually a singer, too, and often provides the vocal for the demo, a working draft of the song. If the song is for a particular artist, the top-liner may sing the demo in that artistâ€™s style. Sometimes producers send out tracks to more than one top-line writer, which can cause problems. In 2009, both BeyoncÃ© and Kelly Clarkson had hits (BeyoncÃ©â€™s â€œHalo,â€ which charted in April, and Clarksonâ€™s â€œAlready Gone,â€ which charted in August) that were created from the same track, by Ryan Tedder. Clarkson wrote her own top line, while BeyoncÃ© shared a credit with Evan Bogart. Tedder had neglected to tell the artists that he was double-dipping, and when Clarkson heard â€œHaloâ€ and realized what had happened she tried to stop â€œAlready Goneâ€ from being released as a single, because she feared the public would think she had copied BeyoncÃ©â€™s hit. But nobody cared, or perhaps even noticed; â€œAlready Goneâ€ became just as big a hit.
All transitions are brave alike, but public transitions are each brave in their own unique way. I won't lie, this is going to be hard â€“ and it's even harder to do it in the spotlight of public opinion. But the opposite would have been hard too, you know. There are things I accomplished in my pre-transition life that now I find myself reticent to talk about, afraid to bring more complication into a life grown already more complicated than I ever thought possible.
Do you know why she wanted to reveal this in such a hugely public way?
I'm not sure why she wanted to do it in exactly this way, but I think she wanted to not have a thousand conversations with people. This was a way to push herself a little. She said that so many times she'd make a goal to tell her wife Heather or the band, and she'd make excuses and put it off. This was setting up a deadline for herself. She knew this would come out at the beginning of May. Also, she just wanted to have something she could point people towards. Instead of having people e-mail and call over and over, she could just say, "This article explains everything and after that we can talk." It was a good way to get the news out all at once.
In turn, that's seen 40 per cent of the world's current stock of vanillaâ€”around 1,000 tonnesâ€”shipped out of Madagascar recently, and as a result the markets have gone crazy. After six years hovering at around $25 per kilo, the price has jumped to $40 in single day.
What I've learned/realized:
Acquire an education, secure a stream of income, put it to work intelligently, and live with self-control.
Don't get divorced.
Never trust your business partners; never treat them like you don't trust them.
He counted the number of native-born white men of military age in 1860 and determined how many of that group were still alive in 1870. He compared that survival rate with the survival rates of the men of the same ages from 1850-1860, and from 1870-1880 - the 10-year census periods before and after the Civil War...He controlled for other demographic assumptions, including mortality rates of foreign-born soldiers, added the relatively small number of black soldiers killed, and compared the numbers with the rates of female survival over the same periods.
After breakfast, I rush back to the car for a high-speed trip to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, where Iâ€™m meeting a real-life billionaire for a trip on his private jet. The billionaire, a hedge fund manager, was scheduled to go down to Georgia and offered to let me interview him during the two-hour jaunt on the condition that I not reveal his identity.