Every few decades, reincarnation goes on a bender and a soul is born into the wrong nexus of the time-space continuum. Take Meg Reichardt and Kurt Hoffmann, a dashing pair of musicians from pre-war France, accidentally transported into 21st century New York. Unheeding of their incorrectly assigned era, the pair – two parts of the quintet Les Chauds Lapins – have taken it upon themselves to re-enliven the spirited chansons of Paris.

Les Chaud Lapins, which translates literally as “The Hot Rabbits” or figuratively as “The Super Turned-On Rabbits” (those French are always turned on!), have a new recording – Parlez-moi d’amour. This collection of 1920s-40s French love songs is steamy to be sure, but it’s not the steam of jungle love the Rabbits are after – this is the kind of steam that pours gently from vents in a Paris sidewalk and blows up your lover’s skirt as children roll hoops and street vendors hawk pretzels piled high with rock salt and spicy mustard, while the Hurdy Gurdy man grinds away at his organ, pet monkey banging tin cup against the sidewalk. “Parlez-moi d’amour” is the steam of a hot latte and a plate of onion quiche on a spring morning, the steam of the landlady’s boiler blowing a gasket next to the spot where you and your secret paramour are making love on a time-worn picnic blanket.

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A friend took his nine-month-old son to the local record store recently, muttering something like “I’ve got to teach him early about the importance of buying music, rather than downloading.” “For copyright reasons or tangibility reasons?,” I asked. “Neither,” he responded, “It’s about getting all the information.” He was talking audio aesthetics — preserving maximum data in the recordings you own, rather than paying for convenience with aesthetically diminished, massively compressed audio. I respect that, but wonder if there will be any CDs left to buy by the time our kids have their own allowances.

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Part One: International Sheep of Mystery

With a style that veers between downright rude and merely impudent, Rufus Leaking isn’t your usual music reporter. He began an interview with funk legend George Clinton by introducing him as the “42nd President of the United States,” and spent most of the time asking him where he thought he could park the Mothership in downtown Washington, D.C. He virtually forced Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips to join him in a karaoke version of Starship’s “We Built this City,” even though neither of them actually knew how the song went. He gave members of Cypress Hill an impromptu anatomy quiz, compared singing actress Juliette Lewis to Corey Feldman, and confused Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst with Frank Sinatra (Bright Eyes, Blue Eyes, whatever). Yet musicians have clamored for a chance to appear on his obscure, low budget television show, whose roster of visiting talent could give the Lollapalooza, Coachella and Roskilde festivals a run for their money.

Who is this man? Actually, Rufus Leaking is a puppet with an identity crisis. Self-described on his website as an “international sheep of mystery,” he’s sometimes described in media accounts as a goat puppet. Whatever his barnyard origins, he’s the host of a wonderful Washington, D.C.-based children’s television show called Pancake Mountain, presently on hiatus while its creator, film producer Scott Stuckey (grandson of the roadside snack empire’s founders) revamps its format and tries to expand its reach. Previous episodes are available on DVD. Let’s hope Stuckey succeeds, because at its best, Pancake Mountain celebrates the simple pleasures of making a joyful noise, or at least a tremendous racket. In one of the inaugural episodes, D.C. punk pioneer Ian MacKaye used the show to introduce the Evens, his pop-savvy duo with former Warmers drummer Amy Farina. The Evens’ “Vowel Movement,” a charming ode to “six important letters,” makes you wonder what might have been if Fugazi and Minor Threat had smiled a bit and performed in matching jumpsuits.

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Dana in white, fully-clothed.

The final season of The Sopranos is casting a long shadow in my life these days. I know, this is a music site—we’ll get to that. But as I write this, there are merely two episodes left in the greatest television show ever, and I’m pretty deeply engrossed. Anyone familiar with the show knows that music has always played a huge role, and after a recent episode used Van Morrison’s cover of “Comfortably Numb” to set-up maybe the series’ most singularly breathtaking moment, I was ready to dig deep into why the song choice was absolute perfection…

…until I discovered that those crafty Sopranos-deconstructors at Slate beat me to it. (And did a far better job than I ever would have; I mean, the guy brings Hitler’s secret bunker into his analysis—no way I would’ve dug that deep.) But it led me to ask: what is my favorite moment of pop song/TV show symbiosis?

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Nick Collier of Sheffield’s psychotic sextet Pink Grease isn’t the first knob twiddler in rock history to wear a strap-on-synth, but dude – his is hand-made. And it’s got no keys.

Apparently Collier got a little build help from Pete Hartley, who also designed the drum kit Def Leppard drummer Rick Allen used after losing his arm. All part of the “fundamental strangeness of Sheffield.”

What really sets Collier’s synth apart is its use of a ribbon controller in place of a keyboard, putting its sonic output somewhere between that of a theremin and Rolf Harris’ Stylophone. Except that Collier’s strap-on has been known to blow amps in a few seconds or less.

Icing on the sawtooth: You can tweak Nick’s knobs yourself, if you’re so inclined.

More:

• Pink grease roller disco
• Terrifying wiring shot
• More of Collier’s synth creations

Photo courtesy Dan Sumption, via Dan Shot Me (Gallery: Pink Grease roller disco)

Plastic Bertrand is not answering his email. I’m trying not to take it personally — maybe he’s on tour in Eastern Europe, playing “Ça plane pour moi” over and over for 40-somethings in Buda, or across the Danube, in Pest. Maybe he’s overwhelmed with interview requests. Maybe he just doesn’t check his MySpace page very often. Shame though – I really wanted to learn more about his “cellophane puppet” girlfriend, and where she got the “large rubber beer glass” mentioned in his 1977 punk/new wave crossover smash. Does he still have that magnificent rubber glass? Does he use it to quaff large quantities of Belgian ale? (Bertrand is one of Belgium’s finest one-hit punk rock exports).

In case you don’t speak French – or in case you do but can’t make heads or tails of those jackhammer lyrics, an English translation is in order:

Allez-oop! One morning
a darling came to my home,
a cellophane puppet with Chinese hair,
a plaster, a hangover,
drank my beer in a large rubber glass
Oooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!
like an Indian in his igloo

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I could call Prince a “genius,” but would it matter? In music, art, and writing, everybody’s a goddamn genius. So let’s come at it from a different angle. My dad, a physician, tends to look at things from a genetic point of view. When we’re watching a truly brilliant athlete or musician, he’ll point out that their “genius” is based on their genetic aberrations. Basically, they’re mutants, if you want to make it sound comic-book sexy. Or, as I prefer to look at it, they’re freaks.

Michael Jordan? Total freak. Absurdly mutant-like muscular control combined with freakish creative spatial analysis abilities. He won the genetic lottery and got to test-drive the prototype genes. In 10,000 years, all of us will dunk like Jordan.

And everyone will make music like Prince.

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Mmmm… Skinny dipping on a cool autumn night, river rocks basking in the moonlight, perfect banjo and ukulele* strings glancing gently off rippled water. The sweetest canary floating through the pines, crooning in French. Kurt Hoffman and Meg Reichardt (aka Les Chaud Lapins, aka The Super-Turned-On Rabbits) perform Il m’a vu nue at Midnight Ukulele Disco, lovely and just a little bit naughty.

* Banjolele, to be exact. Via Clusterflock.

I admit I was predisposed to dislike British soul chanteuse Amy Winehouse’s new album Back to Black until I finally listened to it. How could the future of R&B lie with a troubled diva who vaguely resembles a goth version of Barbarella-era Jane Fonda? But appearances can be deceptive. I played Back to Black right after my beloved Chess Sisters of Soul anthology, and while it’s not in the Chess league, it sounded surprisingly good. Winehouse’s voice comes somewhere between the two Ettas—the powerhouse belting of Etta James, and the sultrier shadings of Etta Jones, whose “Don’t Go to Strangers” she has covered in a live duet with Modfather Paul Weller. And while Winehouse isn’t going to set the world on fire with her lyrics, it’s hard for me not to love someone who sings, in the catchy Ghostface Killah collaboration “You Know That I’m No Good,” that “by the time I’m out the door/ you tear me down like Roger Moore.”

With Winehouse tossing f-bombs like a drunken sailor and name-dropping Slick Rick and Nas (aka “Mr. Jones”) alongside Donny Hathaway, nobody would confuse her with a Ronette or a Vandella. But at its core, Back to Black fulfills its promise of delivering sweet soul music that is both contemporary and classic. Best of all may be the haunting title track, which updates the Phil Spector-style Wall of Sound to lethal effect.

Still, I have to wonder about a young star whose biggest hit has her saying “no, no, no” to rehab because she can learn everything she needs from Ray Charles records. Yeah, that’ll straighten her out. I’m going out on a limb, but maybe Amy Winehouse resists rehab because she thinks it would have a boring soundtrack. With that in mind, I’ve compiled a twelve-step playlist that might help her stick it out next time.

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Via WFMU, wonderful video clip of a youngish and very dapper looking John Cage, appearing on a TV game show to perform his piece “Water Walk” on a motley collection of household objects. By 1960, when this piece aired, Cage was already controversial for his seemingly innocuous idea that “music is a production of sound” and because of his hallmark piece “4:33″ (a.k.a. “Silence”), composed a few years earlier. The list of instruments for the game show performance included a rubber duck, ice cubes, a blender and five radios.

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Stuck writers dig the tradition of music magazines such as Down Beat playing tracks for famous musicians “blindfolded” to extract un-scripted gut reactions. Most of our musician friends are better described as “notorious” and some of them are shy– so for now, we’re slumming it and playing tracks for each other. In our inaugural Needle Drop, Scot Hacker and transient Stuck writer Benoit Baald traded tracks and riffed on them live via iChat. We’ve included the tracks here so you can play along — spoilers at the end of each section.

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