Tom Waits is great, and so is Sinatra, but late nights were made for Johnny Hartman.
Nothing in particular, just riffing like a jazz musician.
Saturday night with Henry Rollins' ridiculously eclectic Harmony In My Head radio show out of KCRW in Santa Monica, CA. I've learned more about music in the six years I've been hip to this show than in my first thirty years of being a music fanatic. For the musically adventurous, every damned episode is available for download at the lovingly-curated Rollins Archive. Understandably so, Henry gets under many a motherfucker's skin, and even if you're one of these people, especially if you're one of these people, you should check out this show. Make it one of your 2012 resolutions to get through a dozen of these broadcasts, and I guarantee you won't want to stop.
I often wish that I wasn't a music fanatic, or a literature fanatic, or a horror movie fanatic, or a Dachshund fanatic. I'd likely have a much easier time in life if I were a Denver Broncos fanatic, or a Jesus fanatic, or a business-management fanatic, or a financial-planning fanatic, or a car-selling fanatic, or a paper-filing fanatic, or a Dockers-wearing fanatic, or a power-abusing fanatic, or a floor-mopping fanatic.
The store manager of the wage-slave hell that is soon to be a bad memory for me once told me that he is passionate about running a grocery store. He went on to say that it's the highlight of his day comes when he sees a display, presumably to sell avocados or hot sauce or potato chips. built. I'm not one to judge a person based on his or her passions, but I guess this makes him a don't-get-out-much fanatic.
Someone who might not be getting out much for a few years is the cheap-ass loser who, up until a couple of weeks ago owned the hell that is my place of wage slavery.
The salient facts of the case can be gleaned from the above article, and while I'd never stoop to such a level, I'm not condemning the guy for wanting to pay for a piece of ass, even if it was presented as underage. A law that prohibits one from selling one's body for sex is a law that says that one's body, and thus one's very being, is the property of the state. Regarding the young stuff, every seventeen year old (except those with Morrissey records) is screwing every other seventeen year old, and it's perfectly legal. Why shouldn't a piece of young stuff be able to get a piece of over-the-hill stuff? Again with the ownership of one's own body thing.
No, my problem with this dumb motherfucker is not his morals, nor with his seeming inability to get laid on his own. My problem with this turd is his utter inability to smell a fucking vice sting operation when it's practically fucking telegraphed to him! That someone with this complete lack sense can run a multi-million dollar operation and otherwise prosper in life, while I subsist on ramen noodles ("When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?" - Allen Ginsberg, America) , is all to proof I need that there is no god. Perhaps the highlight of this teen poon fanatic's day will come in the form of a daily ass-rape in some Arizona shithole prison. God, if you want me back, here's your chance.
Personally, the highlight of my day comes from a great line of literature, a great bit of music, a blowjob, a loving look from my Dachshund, or, what Daivd Bowie once referred to as a daily zenith of thought; daily satori if you will. In any case, I'm not picky.
Speaking of David Bowie, your hero and mine turns a spry 65 years old today. I've been a nut for him since 1993 when, tired of the crop of Pearl Jam imitating bands swept up, signed, and spit out a few years later by the bastard record industry (gutless fanatics) of the grunge 90's, I began to go backward into The Rolling Stones (Chess Records fanatics), The Who, T Rex, Johnny Cash, Alice Cooper (Seagram's Seven fanatic turned Jesus fanatic), and David Bowie. I figured if Bauhaus and Morrissey (a lapse in judgement I'm still making) dug the cat, then so would I. The first Bowie record I picked up was the RYKO re release of the soundtrack to Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture. The moment I heard that motherfucker, I knew where Steve Jones got that Sex Pistols guitar sound (and not just the actual guitars he stole from that very gig !). I knew where the mysterious Peter Murphy got that style and stage presence. Total Blam Blam!!!
For a while, I was the weird guy listening to a bunch of old music (and admittedly missing out on some great music of the time), but I wasn't alone for long. Pretty soon, all of my friends were Bowie fanatics. My motley crew of music geeks, stoners, rockers, dope-fiends, poets, and general miscreants all came to love Bowie. As for our pre-punk heroes in the glam 70's, Bowie was our soundtrack to underage drinking, reckless driving, cigarette smoking, and getting naked in the back seats of cars. Although he's no longer the musical accompaniment to three of those activities for me, I'm never far from a Bowie record new, old, or even from the wretchedly tasteless 1980's.
I first saw him in 2002 on a Moby-organized festival called Area 2. On the bill were Ash (good), Blue Man Group (not as revolutionary as they used to be, but good), Busta Rhymes (surprisingly good), Bowie (God), and Moby (fucking awful) . Having dyed my hair orange and not cut it in six months, I quite thought that I resembled a young, paranoid, coke-fiend Bowie from the film, The Man Who Fell To Earth.
Bowie, on the other hand must have thought differently, as he seemingly recoiled in horror at the guy in the front row with the stupid haircut. Maybe it just didn't work without the cocaine.
A few years later, when Bowie toured for the very fine Reality record, he played a surprisingly small venue when he hit my town. It was a tour in which he played stadiums (dig the wonderful A Reality Tour DVD and recently released CD of the same name), yet in Denver, he hit stage at the wonderful Fillmore Auditorium, a place I've seen the Stooges, the White Stripes. Slayer, Morrissey, Medeski, Martin, and Wood, Motorhead, Social Distortion, the Mars Volta, Jane's Addiction, Rob Zombie, and other medium-sized acts, yet no one of Bowie's magnitude. Although I didn't make it up front to scare him with my bad taste, it was an amazing night, but not just for us Bowie fanatics. My girlfriend of the time was screwing some other guy that night. I don't hold that against Bowie, though. He was that good. I should note that on both occasions that I saw Bowie, he commented to the very hip Denver audience how much he loved our local book store, The Tattered Cover. I believe he even said that it was the best book store in America. Yes, I shop at the same book store as Bowie, bitches.
Shortly thereafter, he had a wee heart attack, and seemingly disappeared from public life. As much as I'd love another record from the geezer, I'm elated that I've merely been able to have so many of his records as my soundtrack to dastardly deeds (and perfectly lonely nights). I'm elated that I've seen two absolutely perfect performances from the guy. Happy birthday, Bowie, and thanks!
To celebrate Bowie's birthday, I suggest throwing a few discs of his into the stereo (I've been on a Bowie At The Beeb tear for the last few months) and reading a book by the late Hubert Selby, Jr., an author Bowie greatly admires. Dig the video for more.
Stay sick.
Post Scriptum. In honor of Bowie's 65th, the good people at Slicing Up Eyeballs have put up video of eight full Bowie shows spanning 1978 - 1994. Dig 'em here.
It's a day off from work that sucks my black little soul dry. To replenish, I've been doing work that fills my black little soul with love and joy: writing. All fucking day long, Saint Vitus and The Southern Death Cult blasting as I feebly make my way through multiple writing projects, with occasional breaks to read from Lawrence Lipton's excursion into koolsville, The Holy Barbarians.
I'm fucking fried. In a good way. In the best possible way.
Last night, I finished up T.S.O.L. front man, Jack Grisham's amazing memoir, An American Demon. Do yourself a favor and read it. Whether you're an OG punk rocker, or someone whose love of punk goes no farther than that stupid distressed CBGB's shirt you bought at Urban Outfitters, you'll love it. Like Patti Smith's brilliant, Just Kids was for me last year, I'm sure this one will be my favorite book of the year.
Like I said, I'm too fried to write much that's coherent. At least I'm not writing a blog like the one I read this morning in which the asswipe author pissed and moaned about people who post less than expertly-shot-with expensive-equipment photos and videos on the internet. Fucking wanker.
Hail Satan.
Five years ago this week, the young Rimbaud on the right hung himself in a prison cell in Texas. In addition to being one of the greatest poets I've ever read, he was a dreadfully close friend. So close that when I got sick of his junkie bullshit, I smugly put an end to our friendship. I say smugly, as I did it with a smug attitude, but really, I just couldn't bear watching by best friend kill himself.
We kept in touch only sporadically over the next eight years. Like a jerk, I didn't want a junkie jailbird showing up at my doorstep. When he killed himself only a few months away from completing his sentence, I realized that I had never stopped loving him. Now, I'd never have the chance to tell him.
Whenever I read a great book, discover some mind-blowing new music, or watch some old punk rock heroes deliver the goods from a stage, I always wish he was around to dig it. After all, Abe Bacos is the motherfucker who turned me on to the Sex Pistols, The Velvet Underground, Joy Division, The Germs, Patti Smith, Cop Shoot Cop, The Smiths, Crass, Bauhaus, Jack Kerouac, Arthur Rimbaud, Charles Baudelaire, Jim Carroll, and countless others. My life would be rich enough if only his friendship, intelligence, and wit had changed my life, but the musical and literary influences that he had the grace to share with me have largely formed the core of who I am.
Reading a passage from the Italian poet, Pier Paolo Pasolini, tonight, I'm reminded of what an utter shit I was to write him off as easily as I did.
In the ease of love
the wretch feels himself a man,
builds up faith in life,
and ends up despising all who have a different life.
We all lose touch with our friends. As life goes on, it's inevitable. Just don't ever write them out of your life. Don't ever think that you're too hurt or too pissed off to ever talk to them again. As much as you may have good reason to be pissed off at them, you have a better reason to keep in contact with them. Love.
It would be cute to say that this time of year is hard for me, as it's the anniversary of his death, but in truth, its no harder than any other time of year. I think about him every day. I'm very fortunate to have a great deal of close friends, but I dare say that none have come closer to me or have had such an impact as the late Abe Bacos. He haunts me every day. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Nothing in particular to say tonight, just a desire to turn a mediocre day into something worthwhile. Writing does that for me.
Admittedly very late to the game, I began reading Machiavelli's The Prince today. I'm dealing with some rather dubious swine at my place of wage slavery, so I figured that a course in political maneuvering would be in my best interests. That, and to take a page out of Henry Rollins, any book on the shelf that I've not read mocks me. So far, it's fascinating. Hopefully I'll learn a trick or two about turning motherfuckers against one another. Thus far in my life, I've refrained, out of a sense of self-respect, from much snitching, lying, and general dishonesty with regard to coworkers, but after watching an episode of Dexter recently, I realized how this kind of bullshit could be used to stop some people who are trying to get me fired. (As much as I hate that job, I wonder why I care.)
Methinks a refresher course in Von Clausewitz, Sun Tzu and Miyamoto Musashi is in order as well. One of the offending swine noticed my copy of The Prince, and asked if it was by the same cat referenced by the late Tupac Shakur. I mean no disrespect to Tupac when I surmise that after a comment as such, I can't imagine that this person should be very difficult to handle.
I've been blasting the great southern California punk band, T.S.O.L. today in honor of singer Jack Grisham's 50th birthday. I also ordered a copy of his memoirs, An American Demon. From the excerpts I've seen, should be a hellride of a read; rampant destruction, violence, drugs, sex with an old woman in a crypt, anarchy, chaos, and punk rock. I'm amazed that he's still alive, but glad, just the same.
In 1995, after seeing another band of his, The Joykiller, in El Paso TX, I spent the night at the bar conversing with the bass player who had done time in both the Gun Club and the Weirdos. It meant the world to me that that this OG punk rock vet would take the time to chat music with me. Still does. Meanwhile, my comrades were talking with Jack, who liked them enough to give them each a shirt from the merch booth. As we drove away, I begged them to turn around so that I could ask Jack for a shirt. Gratis, of course. He was nice, and gave it to me. It kills me to this day that I was that guy at a punk rock show, begging for a hook up. Later, when I was away at college in dullsville USA (Lubbock, TX), I wrote Jack a few times, and he was cool enough to write back. He suggested that I piss off my neighbors in the dorm as he pissed off his neighbors, by blasting the great Isaac Hayes singing The Look Of Love. I love Jack Grisham.
I'd like to write more, but I'm about to fulfill a desire that's been burning in me for over a quarter of a century. When I was a young lad, I saw, on television, a short part of a science fiction film entitled Robinson Crusoe On Mars. That mere hour or so has stuck with me since then, much as the one episode I saw of the 1960's WWII drama, Combat has stuck with me. Today, I found it, and bought it. I've got a pizza in the oven, and I'm ten years old again. For now, life is good.
Dig that Adam West!
Whores
Watching the DVD included with Jane's Addiction's recent box set, A Cabinet Of Curiosities, I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer power and sexual vibrato the band exhibited their first time around. Their music, and especially their live performances dripped that essential sex rhythm found in the early Doors. In fact, for my money, they were the spiritual heirs to the mighty Doors, synthesizing sex, drugs, poetry, danger, love, lust, and humor.
From the spiritual lineage of Bowie, Iggy, and Peter Murphy, it flowed out of Perry like a poet shaman. It jumped out of Dave, vibrant and electric; violent, flowing sheets of sound. But the key element, the one thing that most effectively could showcase Dave and Perry was the rhythm section of Eric Avery and Steve Perkins. Over the last ten years, I've seen three different lineups of the mighty Jane's Addiction, and I can say with absolute certainty, even though as a bass player I'm admittedly biased in favor of the low end, that the lineup with Eric Avery on bass made Jane's Addiction a powerful force of nature, rather than a just damned good band.
That's what a good rhythm section does. It locks down the rhythm. It drives the song; pushes it like a freight train. It lays the groundwork for the guitar and vocals to let it rip. It serves the song. I've seen Steve Perkins many times, both with Jane's Addiction and with his jazz punk jam (ick!) group Banyan, and the guy is never playing at less than 110%. AND he nails every single beat with a smile. No macho rock constipation face for Steve. It's pure joy for him, and it shows in his playing. But a good drummer can only do so much, and I dare say, that he's only as good as his bass player. That's why Perks rips with Mike Watt in Banyan and Hellride, and with Eric Avery. He's good in Jane's Addiction with Flea, Martyn LeNoble, and Chris Chaney, but he's great with Eric Avery.
Eric Avery is a soft spoken motherfucker who doesn't come on with bass diarrhea a la the very talented Flea or equally talented Les Claypool. He serves the song. Drives it. Gives it authority. I can't explain how or why. It's not about mere notes with Eric. It's about attitude, but hell, all of Jane's Addiction was about attitude. Pure Stooges mainline attitude. At least for me.
As I watched this television transmission of the mighty Jane's Addiction at the height of their rhythmic sexual heroin power (Note: drummer NOT on dope. See Joe Strummer's analysis of great jazz bands and the drug proclivities of the horn players vs. the drummers. Dope fucks up a drummer, and Eric sticks to tea.), I couldn't help but think about the NEW Jane's Addiction single I heard yesterday, End To The Lies.
It's a good song. Hell, Jane's Addiction on a bad day is better than most bands at their height. But it didn't move me the wayPigs In Zen or Whores does. It didn't make me want to fuck or break anything (paraphrase of Henry Rollins. He got it right!), and if a rock and roll song doesn't make me want to do either, preferably not at the same time, I may like it, but I'll never love it. James Brown, The Stooges, Black Flag, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Birthday Party, The MC5, Slayer, early Clash and early Ramones all do that to me, as did the druggy, sweat drenched first edition of Jane's Addiction. But this was just a good song, and nothing special, the only standout being Dave's ripping guitar work, and I'm fine with that. If EVERY song made me want to fuck on the floor and break shit, then, no song would make me want to fuck on the floor and break shit. Get it?
Artists, both good and bad, evolve. Dylan's made some stinkers in his time, and not everyone digs the way he's reinterpreted his songs these days, but to my way of thinking, it doesn't make him any less valid an artist. The same can be said for the enigmatic Crass. Those of you who know them likely hold them in high esteem and for good measure, but their last record, Ten Notes On A Summer's Day, pissed a good lot of their fans off. It was avant to the extreme, but not avant punk like their fans had come to expect (Any of you anarchos out there who want a copy of this need only to send me a message, and I'll spirit a copy away to you, or you can download it here. ). The same can be said for the Clash, who seemed to loose old fans as every record evolved: too produced, not punk enough, too much reggae, a hip hop song???, etc, ad nauseam. Metallica got like shit when they decided not to make the same record for a sixth time with Load. Granted, I like their earlier records better than said stylistic departure (see "fuck on the floor and break shit" above), but they gained a lot of respect from me, while loosing it from a good portion of their simian fan base. Even the great, the unimpeachable, the heavyweight champion of jazz, John Coltrane got a bunch of shit from purist swine when he took the music far out. They called his music anti jazz, as if jazz or any genre is a fucking marble sculpture. The list goes on.
A few bands like Slayer, and to a large extent, the Ramones and Bad Religion can have vibrant, exciting careers with little change involved. They're smart enough to know what works and what doesn't. Bad Religion slipped for a moment with a prog record, Into The Unknown, but other than that have stayed the course.
And really, who cares? Nothing in life is static. Romantic love fades, pets die, hair falls out, friends stray, and Hendrix dies. Why should music be any different? As much as the atheist in me hates to give credence to any religious teachings, I dig the Buddhist thing about non-attachment. Shit's gonna change, so dig it now, and let it go when its of no use to you. Or change with it and dig the new.
Of course I'll buy the new Jane's Addiction record when it drops, and I'll listen to it with an open mind. I may like certain records better than others, but if they all sounded the same, then none of them would be great. I'll always love the Jane's Addiction of old, and not because I'm stuck in 1990. It's music that moves me like the best of friends, the best sex, strong coffee, or a Jackson Pollock painting. Simple as fucking that. To put anything more onto it would be a pathetic attempt to sully it.
Today's soundtrack:
