For a few days, I was tasked with researching the life of Christopher Savage. Savage had moved to D.C. from Bakersfield, Calif. in the hopes of starting a new life. After five days in the District, he ended up dead. The cause of his death remains a mystery. His life is a different matter. He tended to wear his life on his sleeve. You can read the full story here.

But one thing that struck me–aside from everything else–about Savage was his dedication to being a punk rocker. He came here with three jean jackets emblazoned with shoutouts to his beloved Turbonegro. He also brought with him only one CD: a best-of Motorhead compilation. And for his new friends, a sack of Crass buttons.

Savage was 36. It’s just a long time to be a punk rocker. I don’t think this is so rare anymore. The Internet certainly helps. He lived on the Turbonegro fan message boards. And just about any band has some sort of forum for other fans to communicate with each other–trade bootlegs, merch, set lists, and just feel like they are a part of something. So few scenes feel like scenes anymore. Except on the Internet. Pitchfork makes a point about this today with its review of the new No Age record–a band very much rooted in a city and in an all-ages space.

Maybe with the music shake-up in Mount P, things could change here as well.

I know. I know. It’s only April. Way too early to be making predictions about Album of the Year. Plus, it’s a metal record we’re talkin’ about and few will believe that a metal record–even a really catchy, accessible metal record–could ever be, you know, the record. (Those who already worship this album should just go check out the most genius thing on the Internet.)

But it must be said, just so I can say, I told you so: Torche’s Meanderthal, which came out on Tuesday, is this year’s album to beat. Even with its inappropriate title, Where the Wild Things Are cover art, and Heavy Metal Parking Lot lyrics (on “Across the Shield, Steve Brooks sings, “Impalin’ every born knight/Raidin’, pierced the hole, rite”), this album does more, aesthetically, and does it better than anything else I’ve heard this year, or last year.

Seriously.

You can hear Meanderthal here.

People don’t seem to get this, so let’s put it in cable-television terms: the reason that album sales are down is because albums used to be a monopoly of sorts (like cable packages) and once consumers had the option to pick-and-choose the songs they like, overall sales went down (which is why some stations like CBN lobby to keep these packages in place). It’s protectionism. And no protectionism equals lower sales. Which is why I agree with Rick Rubin: You gotta get the art right.

The Nationals are requesting your votes for “7th Inning Stretch Song,” “Home Run Song,” and “Victory Song.” As pointed out in this Idolator post, there’s only one local choice in there, Chuck Brown’s “Bustin Loose” (my personal theme music for overeating) and the rest are pretty crappy (though I do get goosebumps whenever I hear U2’s “Beautiful Day”).

You’d think that, instead of Blur’s Fugazi rip-off “Song 2,” we could get an actual Fugazi song. Luckily, there’s a write-in function.

A friend just sent me a link to a PopMatters post about the demise of Silver Spring’s Harp Magazine. I asked a colleague who would know and I was told that it is indeed true.

Looks like the issue with Dain Bramage’s Dave Grohl on the cover might be the magazine’s swan song.

First Maxim dissed the Black Crowes‘ new record, Warpaint, without ever hearing it. Now, the New York Times has screwed up their name, referring to the popular roots-rock act as “the Black Cowes.” Will their tribulations ever end?

OK, to get this out of the way: The Pogues at 9:30 last night was the best show I have ever seen in my life. It was fucking religious. And although I’ve no idea how Shane MacGowan has kept his liver from sliding down his pantleg after all these years, he has and he was upright and it was enough.

Some highlights:

1. MacGowan still sounds just as he did on studio albums cut in the ’80s. It’s the same chewing-on-a-driveway/smooth as cream voice, even more remarkable considering that, true to legend, he actually could not speak—the only semi-intelligble words I heard were, “Hello Wasssshhhton.” He dropped his mike, missed his mouth with a bottle of mystery booze kept at his feet; he looked pasty and near-death and when he occasionally walked offstage, he came back even more shattered. Yet after 25 years, after breakups and canceled shows, after the death of Joe Strummer and guitarist Phillip Chevron’s recent bout with cancer, MacGowan and his long-suffering bandmates brought it, firing through a near-perfect setlist. It wasn’t groundbreaking—starting with “Stream of Whiskey” and ending, after two encores, with “Fiesta”—but it contained gems both rocking and nostalgic: “If I Should Fall from the Grace of God,” “A Pair of Brown Eyes,” “The Body of an American,” “Dirty Old Town,” “Sunnyside of the Street,” “Bottle of Smoke,” “Sick Bed of Cuchulainn,” and, a personal fave, “Rainy Night in SoHo.”

2. Founding member and tin whistler Spider Stacy took the lead on a couple of songs, including his “Tuesday Morning.” In a word: lovely. The band, with him at the helm, will likely live on (again) after MacGowan.

3. MacGowan, in an old tradition he borrowed from Stacy, beat his head with a beer tray at the end of “Fiesta.” And did not fall down.

4. This was after his on-pitch screaming during several spirited numbers.

5. And a number of cigarettes onstage. If the drink hasn’t killed him, I don’t think D.C. law can really touch him.

6. The opening act, London’s Urban Voodoo Machine—with its two drummers, multiple antics, and obvious Tom Waits inspiration—was a great tone-setter. They’re opening tonight, too, and playing the Red and the Black on Tuesday. Definitely worth a look.

7. Up on the second tier, I watched the superfans pogo at the front of the stage and sing every word and, although not a superfan, I felt what they felt. Growing up vaguely a Mick, seeing the Pogues together and hearing them sounding so great was like going home, or at least for me, it was like channeling my life 15 years ago—a college apartment, a couple of roommates from Ireland, a boombox, and the Pogues turned up very, very loud.

There are a few tickets on Craigslist for tonight’s show, some of them reasonably priced. I can’t think MacGowan is going to be around for many more tours, if any, and this one is limited. If you can, go.

Wouldn’t Ramiele Malubay and David Archuleta make, like, the nicest couple ever? I think the two of them together might be able to achieve world peace.

Word from the DC Baltimore Punk Rock Showlist: “[M]ark your calendars, set your TiVos, or VCRs. Washington’s own Georgie James will be on Late Night with Conan O’Brien on Wednesday the 27th. [L]et’s give Conan a huge ratings boost that day. Plus, John and Laura are really nice folks.”

Back in the mid-’90s, I briefly worked at the Library of Congress, where Polvo guitarist Dave Brylawski’s uncle was one of my supervisors. At the time, his nephew’s North Carolina alt-rock outfit was one of my favorite bands.

(I spent a week last month listening to Polvo’s entire catalogue–every skronky aside, every Dinosaur Jr.-worthy hook, every Indian-sounding riff–going to and from work. Know what? It sounds every bit as great as it did back in the band’s early-to-late-’90s heyday.)

So, when I discovered that the Brylawski I worked for was related to the Brylawski in Polvo, I began a regular ritual of asking the uncle for news about the band. I remember, at one point, getting kinda PO’d when I saw a new EP, 1995’s This Eclipse, at Vinyl Ink in Silver Spring. Why didn’t the uncle tell me about this?!?

Anyway, I used to go see Polvo whenever they would come to the Black Cat, which, according to Pitchfork, is where the band is scheduled to play its first show on an All Tomorrow’s Parties-inspired reunion tour.

If it’s anything like the show or two I saw during my Library of Congress stint, the May 9th set will involve equipment malfunctions, tuning problems, and a sleepy-looking Ash Bowie. Can’t wait.