1. Lux Interior in his growling, yowling, screaming, microphone sucking, high heel wearing glory was the ultimate macho fey and the Pied Piper of kink. No longer would I want just a rocker, I'd want a freaky, sleazy, degenerate rocker who could holler Hasil Adkins, borrow your pumps and quite possibly make out with both your sister and your brother when you weren't looking.
2. Poison Ivy remains one of my rock goddess Idols. The quintessence of too-cool-for-school, she'd stalk across the stage like a disinterested kitty cat -- slinky, sexy, unapproachable, perfect.
3. The Cramps blasted rockabilly out of the tired retro affectations of the perfectly coiffed, Eisenhower youth, rock-and-roll-at-the-hop-hop-hop-hop tedium. They knew Link Wray was a bad-ass. They worshipped crazy man Hasil Adkins. They dug the Sonics, Screamin' Jay Hawkins, The Ventures and they brought bump and grind to Jimmie Rogers. Fuck Fonzie. Long live Lux.
4. Poison Ivy got me into her idol, Bo Diddley's brilliant The Duchess. I bow down to her for this.
5. I didn't need to take drugs or get drunk to get high at a Cramps show (though that's fun too). They were also the perfect first date show. My longest relationship (now kaput) was aided by The Cramps (with Famous Monsters). A night of a new kind of kick indeed.
6. For some reason, The Cramps always make me think of what Christmas should really be like. I always wanted to spend Christmas with The Cramps.
7. Poison Ivy inspired one of the greatest songs by one of my favorite bands, The Gun Club, aptly titled, "For the love of Ivy." It features the sublimely violent erotic line: "I'm gonna buy me a gun just as long as my arm."
8. Lux and Ivy actually make marriage seem like a good idea. They were the surprisingly clean living Charles and Morticia Adams of rock.
9. "Bend over, I'll drive, bend over I'll drive. Is this the way Ernie Kovacs died? Bend over, I'll drive."
10. The Cramps had great taste. Lux found rockabilly singers like Charlie Feathers, Sonny Burgess and Malcolm Yelvington as kindred spirits to his other major influence: the Surrealists. In an interview Lux stated: "Marcel Duchamp is quite an inspiration... Because he kind of single-handedly demolished all that had gone before, and made a brand-new art. Man Ray was great too... We're just people who remain ever-curious. We're just attracted to whatever comes in handy. Again, like the Surrealists, anything you run across is actually beautiful; within a single city block, you find miraculous things. It's a good planet -- and good things can happen." Beautiful.
11. Garage Punk, Psychobilly, whatever-the-hell. They were The Cramps.
12. The Cramps make you believe that sexy almost always has to be sleazy.
13. Lux Interior was Louis Prima to Poison Ivy's Keely Smith. He was speed to her heroin. The living to her dead. They were sickness, health, young and old. He's can't possibly be gone.
The British Invasion of 1964 wasn't confined to just North America and Australia. Even as it was dissolving the Sun never set on the British Empire, at least musically; during the decade there was scarcely a corner of Earth where you couldn't find some hirsute collection of teenagers banging guitars and howling yeah yeah yeahs in a vain attempt to attract screaming legions of females. Let's take a nostalgic trip around the globe for a listen.
Hailing from the world's most depressing country, Finland's Eddie and the Lightnings kept Helsinki teens dancing and non-suicidal with "Paha Oot," a cover of Betty Everett's "You're No Good."
Meanwhile, down south, the Iron Curtain teens of Poland were abandoning Polka for the beat sounds of Ana Rusowicz and Niebiesko Czarni -- here performing their gulag-rocker "Nie Pukaj do Moich Drzwi."
Any
one who knows me that garage is one of my fave record genres. The
records are hard to find in the wild, so getting original, at least in
this neck of the woods is much more of a challenge.
All of the
records in this set are original 45s that I have found in garage sales,
dusty junk shops, the occasional record show, or in one particular case
via a mail order trade.
The sub genres are pretty well represented as well, as punk, folk, moody, bubblegum and even some borderline mod are in the mix.
Hope you dig it.
Cratedigger in The Garage Tracklist
01 I Lie Awake New Colony Six Centaur 1202 02 Try It The Ohio Express Cameo Parkway 2001 03 Believe Me The Guess Who Scepter 12131 04 Sunny Day The Stillroven Roulette 4748 05 I Told Those Little White Lies The Painted Ship Mercury 72662 06 Leavin' Here The Rationals Cameo Parkway 481 DJ Copy 07 I Cannot Stop You The Cherry Slush USA 2032 08 A Question of Temperature The Balloon Farm Laurie 3405 09 She Left Me All Alone Tidal Waves HBR 482 10 No Correspondence The Beckett Quintet Gemcor 5003
Some notes: New
Colony Six are one of the biggest, most well kown 66 Chitown punks, but
in my opinion overstayed their welcome as they continued to issue 45s
they sounded weaker and weaker. This is one of my favorite NC6 sides,
the flip is also a winner- At the River's Edge. I can picture people
grooving to this 45 at Gulliver's Pizza or something back in the day.
Moving
over to the harder, more fuzzy side of garage, studio phantoms, Ohio
Express do a version of Try It that is actually quite good. This has to
one of the toughest sounds from Kastenetz and Katz' Super K
Productions. How could you not like that fuzztone? Bubblegum was more
often their sound-- Yummy Yummy and Chewy Chewy, are the more likely
45s that a digger will find in the wild. Look for this one, though. I
think I paid buck for it.
66
Garage from our northern neighbor, Winipeg Manitoba, Canada, makes an
appearance with Believe Me by The Guess Who. The Randy Bachman guitar
work on this side will keep you coming back for more. Dig the break
followed by excessive organ abuse. Yes, it is the same band that later
issued the classic rock staple, American Woman. This one cost me a but
at a record show.
A
little more folky sound is exemplified by The Stilroven's Sunny Day,
the flip to their take on Hey Joe. There is a bit of a lilt to the
sound and there is a modicum of jangle, so I will say that it is sort
of folky. All the way from Minneapolis. This shouldn't be too hard to
find, at least here in the mighty Midwest.
Next up, is one of my
all time favorite garage tracks, I told Those Little White Lies. It
also has to be on any garageiste's top put down snotty punk sinlges as
well. I had to pay a bit for this one, maybe $30, but it was worth
every penny. It looks like these gents might have been from Vancouver,
BC. You may have heard the flip, Frustration on Pebbles 7...
What can be said about the Rationals?
Underrated, underappreciated??? Certainly. When I hear their take on
Leavin' Here, I hear a backing vocal style that other Michiganders
would co-opt into their sound, especially the Motor City 5... Great
vocal harmonies and arrangement by Jeep Holland on this
Holland-Dozier-Holland number. I heard that there is a proper Rats'
reissue coming out, I would recommend that all reading this missive go
check out.
I Cannot Stop You by The Cherry Slush
is an odd duck. A killer track that has sort of a downer feel due to
the lyrics and some of the sounds and effects utilized on it. I would
say that in total it is less garage, but more in a mod type zone
soundwise. It has a wavy guitar break. Maybe that is why it is such a
DJ hit in Norway and Sweden. A Norske DJ told me that it was "wary
waluable" in his homeland when he was spinning it a few years back in
prep for a mod chicago set. They were from Saginaw MI, and released
this on the Chicago USA label. I got my copy from Mop Top Mike a few
years back. Might cost a bit more now.
Back into the fuzz with A
Question of Temperature by The Balloon Farm. This track made it into
the Billboard Top 40 in 68. Apparently my 45 is the original pressing
since there is a typo "Tempature" is how the track is spelled on the
label. Nice sound effect usage here. Don't really know much about it
other than the song rips and I got it for $.25.
She Left Me All
Alone is an excellent example of a moody garage song. This one is on
the Hanna Barbara label. I wrote about these guys a while back, and
made some wrong assumptions, which were duly corrected by others in the blogosphere. The Beckett Quintet round it all out with a pretty common 45. I think I spent a few bucks on this one, but it is in mint.
Hope you all enjoy these tunes as much as I do. It is great to find these gems out there, hope I expanded some ears out there.
Another pissy day here in Prius. The kind where you lollygag around not really wanting to do anything and least of all, go out into that summer's-end drizzle that's glossing the zinc rooftops a dark blue-grey. Watching this through the dusty 18th-century (and never washed since) panes of my unheated garret window, the mind starts wandering.... wandering.... wandering.... Now where the hell was I? Oh yeah, wandering about things like music, women, and places one has known: stuff like songs about cars and girls and that long unwinding road we call life....
Gentle readers, before Professor Jonathan falls asleep at the wheel, hypno-tizzzzzed by the endless droning of his own voice like some second-rate Steve Hill on Hearts of Space, it's time for a little trip down our collective-pot-holed memory lane of oldies and unforgettable car culture goodies, starting with the grand-daddy of them all: the shaman, ancestor and consumate bluesman, Robert "HellHound on My Trail" Johnson,
singing what was probably one of the first recorded songs that developed the irresistible in-your-face connection between automobiles and sex in the Terraplane Blues
A little further down that same road, another man with a song which came to define a way of life for some or passing experience for others, but always tangled up in blue: Big Bill Broonzy and his immortal Key to the Highway
You can find covers of Broonzy's song by musicians from Clapton to Johnny Winter to B.B. King, but just listen to him and then to them and be honest with yourself: excepting Big Bill, did any of those dudes ever actually walk that highway for real?
I got the key to the highway,
yes, I'm billed out and bound to go
I'm gonna leave
leave here runnin'
'cause walkin' is most too slow
I'm goin' down on the border,
yes baby where I'm better known
Cause you haven't done nuthin'
nuthin' little girl
but drive a good man 'way from home
Now when the moon
creeps over the mountain,
I'll be on my way
I'm gonna walk,
walk this old highway,
until the break of day
Oh give me one more kiss baby,
yes just before I go,
'Cause when I leave this time baby, I declare
I won't be back no more
So long, good-bye,
yes I gotta say goodbye
'cause I'm going to walk
walk this old highway
until the day I die...
Oops.
(Professor Jonathan pauses and takes stock of the situation) Sounds like we've just lost another Bolus reader....maybe Burge was right about my stuff being too depressing....must try to be more optimistic...upbeat like him: traveling around the world getting people to subsidize his tequila habit.. cruising in hot-rods and show cars all the time... hanging out with all those cool dudes in California and going to swanky Hollywood parties with Britney and Paris... Hmm: Onca Dave might have something there.... I'll have to think it over. But in the meantime, back to work: so many peeps to bum out and so little time.... (sighs heavy-heartedly and returns to the keyboard of his Amiga 500)
So, as I was saying...another decade and a few piss-calls down the highway of life and we find ourselves in the nifty fifties, filled with total white-bread boredom and the death of the mind for those not endowed with the precious gene of cultural subversion, unlike dudes such as Von Dutch and the SoCal rodding and biking set, a few white-collared freaks at Detroit's automotive design departments, a handful of renegades who ultimately emerged as the Beat Generation, white proto-rockers like Buddy Holly and Jerry "Great Balls of Fire" Lee Lewis, and miracle of miracles, the unholy trinity of Chuck Berry, Fats Domino and Little Richard, who simply refused not to have fun. Berry in particular galvanized an entire on-the-cusp-of-Elvis generation with songs like Johnny B. Goode, Roll Over Beethoven, School Days (with that anthem-like Hail, Hail Rock 'n Roll!) and what has to be one of the finest car songs ever written, Maybelline:
Motor cooled down, heat went down
And that's when I heard that highway sound
Cadillac sittin' like a ton of lead
A hundred and ten half a mile ahead
Cadillac lookin' like it's sittin' still
And I caught Maybelline at the top of the hill...
°
Maybelline's mighty Caddy smoked by Berry's scrappy little V8 Ford! There was more than just wishful male fantasizing going on here, it was the faithful reflection of a homegrown revolution that had started nearly 30 years earlier when Ford introduced their 1932 V8 flathead - and by the same occasion, gave birth to the iconic Deuce, celebrated in the Beachboys' joyous ode to the Little Deuce Coupe
Like many SoCal kids, the Beachboys' love for cars was both genuine and non-sectarian - as they were to prove in their love-song to the Chevy 409 mills introduced in 1961 and which had been cleaning the clocks of the competition from Orange Country to the Inland Empire
By now the attentive listener will have noticed that in terms of the keys to the highway, a definite sea-change had taken place: by the mid-60s they had become cool in a white, middle-class way, but compared to the down and dirty origins of the genre, they totally lacked cojones . Had American society really changed to the point where the racy themes of just a decade earlier no longer spoke to people, or were the automakers just not producing anything capable of inspiring a song on the level of Maybelline? What's for sure is that by the late eighties and into the nineties, the phenomenon accentuated to the point of an actual feminization of themes, lyrics and melodies. On a hormonal level, it was as if testosterone was being progressively replaced by estrogen; the results were pretty and sometimes even hauntingly beautiful, but well....sort of...um...neutered?
Little boy got a hot rod, thinks it makes him some kind of new god
Well this is one race he won't win,
'cos lifes no cruise with a cool chick
Too many folks feelin car sick, but it never pulls in...
Holy Moley Batman! What the hell happened to these people? Philosophizing like a bunch of neurasthenic turnips about life instead of just getting it on?
Everywhere you turned, just more stylish weltschmerz. And you thought Professor Jonathan was a hopeless case?
Call it a lack of guts or attitude, but the keys to the highway no longer opened exciting perspectives of fast cars and even faster women - or even the bitter-sweet and bottom-line honesty of the blues: just the vapid evocation of lovers left behind like abandoned pets somewhere between Phoenix and Albuquerque, like in this prophetically syrupy hit from the late sixties - and a taste of things to come:
Here and there in the decades that followed, a bit of resistance by a diminishing number of old school bad boys, as if to remind us that the the American birthright of liberty of movement, kinky hijinks and culturally subversive fun still existed (at least for certain of our body parts) - and all neatly summed up by that exuberant 360° roll of merci et au revoir to the Babes as the boys hit the Hyperdrive button of their Starcruiser...
That was more like it, but it was so long ago, sooo pre-21st century....
Speaking of pre-21st century stuff, and since he can't figure out a way to end this piece, Professor Jonathan is going to leave you all with a regal gift, an outright reward for your patience for reading his nonsense this far: an ultra-rare video which you'd be wise to download and keep - first of all because it was totally banned in the U.S. and the U.K., and secondly, because it's one sublime (and sublimely sung) song by Massive - back in the good old days when they were still called Massive Attack : a perfect mix of car-stuff and intelligent advice - all lip-synched by an authentic Soho (as in London) stripper in a miserable club in front of an audience of blasé wankers. What more could anyone want? Yeah, well too bad guys: as the lady - who's clearly seen better days herself says,
Be Happy With What You've Got
Snap-damn, but I love that vid. Aside from being a visual definition of the word pathos, it's reason enough for having written this whole piece, and while everyone's busy hitting the replay button, it's also the perfect opportunity to step out of the corner I had written myself into.
Shazam!
And now for some well-merited quality-time with Poopzilla the Fluid Drive™ Pigeon....
This mix was a ton of fun to mix live powered by Iced Tea as the humidity lays its sloppiness over the area.
The
title is a reference to a family name, but it could also refer to the
weight of the hunidity here as well. The cover model is my faithful
pet, known as Chooch.
I tried to keep it pretty funky in
general, even when the soul is in the house, I still leaned to the
funky side. Many of the 45s in this baker's dozen set are DJ items with
both stereo and mono mixes, in which case the mono mix was consistently
selected over the stereo. Many of the discs have been on the mental
want list for quite some time, so it was most excellent to finally
score some of these and get to spin them for y'all.
As per usual all of these original 45s were mixed live in cratedigger labs on the 1200s.
Please leave a comment, and let me know your thoughts!
Some random notes:
Rasputin's Stash is a great Chi band, glad to finally get a copy of one of their 45s.
I am a sucker for Andre Williams, and the '69 track shows him in fine Chitown funky finery.
The
Charles Wright was found in a dirty pile of records recently and I was
able to clean it up so that it sounds pretty good. Freaking love that
quiet intro!
Funky Meters- really swinging track there.
Try it Again is Byrd in the funkiest. The mono mix is LOUD here. Love the horn charts over the guitar. RIP Bobby!
Spill The Wine was a request from Heavy Soul Brutha Dave. It is a rather surreal version of said track. Lalo was the man. Killer use of Moog noodling in there.
The Waite Tracklist
01 Your Love Is Certified Rasputin's Stash (Cotillion) Mono 02 My Part Make It Funky Pt. 4 James Brown (Polydor) 03 It's Gonna Be Fine in '69 Andre Williams (Checker) 04 What Can You Bring Me Charles Wright & The Watts 103rd St Band (Warners) 05 King Kong Pt.1 Jimmy Castor Bunch (Atlantic) Mono 06 Get Ready Rare Earth (Rare Earth) 07 Good Old Funky Music The Meters (Josie) Mono 08 Cold BloodedThe Bar-Kays (Volt) 09 Mighty Mighty Children Pt.1 Baby Huey & The Babysitters (Curtom) 10 Here Comes The Judge Pigmeat Markham (Chess) 11 (I Got) So Much Trouble In My Mind Joe Quarterman & Free Soul (GSF) 12 Try It Again Bobby Byrd (Kwanza) Mono 13 Spill The WineLalo Schifrin (MGM)
You'll have to excuse me, but I'm in one of those moods: it's three in the morning here in Prius, and tomorrow I have to tell another Perfect Storm - who would certainly fancy himself (if he had ever actually learned to read) as France's answer to Richard Neutra, that he's had his fair share of money for destroying my place under the guise of renovating it, and that it's time to stop so that the next maniac in line can pick up where he's going to have to leave off.
I know you people are sick of hearing about this subject, but not nearly as sick as I am as having to live with it day and night for the last month. All of which has got what's left of my mind moving in strange directions, one of which is all the way back to a post by the admirable Charles Johnson in Little Green Footballs a little more than a year ago....
And here, Professor Jonathan asks the class, "How many of you have ever heard of Chris Whitley?" (Prof. Jonathan counts the hands and continues): Well, people, neither did I....until Johnson posted a YouTube video of the man-child doing his thing in his regulation ripped up wife-beater and advantageous six-pack abs.
I listened, and I liked. Could it have been Whitley’s long hair that fascinated the crypto-hippie in Professor Jonathan?Yet, Whitley came off as anything but, and I started scratching around Google and YouTube to find out more about the dude. What I found is very nearly a French Story, meaning of course that there's no happy ending.
No Exit, to borrow a phrase from France's late and great Country and Western singer, Jean-Paul Sartre - just ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Which is maybe why I got to thinking of Dust Radio
which is just the sort of tune that starts floating out of one's frazzled neurons at times like these - along with other haunting tunes like Scrapyard Lullaby
The consensus of industry types and enlightened listeners is that Whitley was the real thing. I tend to think the same, despite a nagging reservation that's so deep that I can't find the words to express it. But who cares, really, since in the end what's important is the music he made. And what’s for certain is that there’s something about it that bridges the distance between wherever the hell he was at and me over here in Prius.What’s also for sure is that he was an authentic burnt-out case – one of many, I should add, averting my own reflection in the plaster-coated bathroom mirror that’s been leaning against my bedroom wall for the past three weeks….
In a certain sense, I guess the real question is whether any of you guys would have let him ride around the block with you.Did Chris have the creds to merit it?Or was it all just smoke and mirrors: crud rather than cred. Does doing a Robert Johnson, dying young and having a (sort of) good-looking corpse cut it with any of the usual suspects around here? Or when all is said and done, is hypnotising flies just as much of an accomplishment?
You tell me, and try not to shoot the piano player:he’s doing his best*
*From the French expression, "Ne pas tirer sur le pianiste. Il fait de son mieux" - which became the title "Shoot the Piano Player" in Francois Truffaut's** 1960 film starring Charles Aznavour as a once-famous concert pianist trying to escape the tragedy of his past: his wife screwed his agent to further his career and capped it off by jumping out of a hotel window. For some reason, this severely depresses our hero, who abandons everything to become an anonymous musician in a distinctly down-and-out Parisian bar. And that's the most upbeat part of the story: it actually gets even worse from there. Like I say, no happy endings in France. But this funky, grainy, intimiste and bitter-sweet black and white film is still an absolutely kick-ass movie (I can imagine Truffaut rotating in his grave on hearing that) and certainly among any list of a hypothetical ten best... Grab it off a Torrent when you have a moment, and see for yourself....
By the way, this half-assed trailer does not reflect the overall excellence of this film, but it was just about the only thing out there that I could find. It's to be hoped that in some cases, even half an ass is better than none....
** Wikipedia trivia: Persuaded by Steven Spielberg, Truffaut played the French UFO specialist Claude Lacombe in Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind. When the iconic French director arrived on set, his presence intimidated everyone on the crew, including Spielberg, who could not bring himself to direct him. In one scene, where obsessed citizens are storming Devil's Tower and the military responds with EZ-4 sleeping gas, Truffaut's line was supposed to be: "They belong here, more than we." Truffaut tried his best with his poor English, and the intimidated Spielberg accepted the shot. At the next day's shoot many of the crew wore T-shirts emblazoned with: "Zay bee-long ere Mozambique" Truffaut was embarrassed, but laughed.
Time for you uncivilized dirtbags to culture your sorry asses! That's why I'm proud to introduce Bolus's newest contributor, Professor Jonathan, as your guide to highbrow enlightenment. A native of Chicago, former steamship stowaway, rock journalist, poet, and hippie bon vivant, PJ now resides in Paris where he teaches university English and haunts the cafes of Montparnasse. He'll be dropping in occasionally with free lessons on the finer points of culture -- like today's topic, the surprising link between avant-garde French composers and pole dancing.
Thanks, Jonathan! and remember, "absinthe you, in all the old familiar places..."
-ed.
------------------
The following series of apparently pointless
digressions was inspired by a track that randomly popped up on my cheap-ass
Chinese iPod clone over a cup of four-buck espresso at one of our favorite
(Burge and yours truly) Montparnasse bars, the good old fucked-up Café
Select.
Other Montparnasse landmarks like the tonier Closerie des
Lilas make
a big deal about having had the whole starving-but-later-famous artist and
writer crowd as patrons (mainly because back then, the plonk was dirt cheap and
the joint well-heated in winter), but the Select's attitude always was and still
is basically not to give a shit for anything but the bottom-line: Jesus
himself could have been a regular, and the only thing the owners of the Select
would have said about The Dude was that he was bad for business: "The
fucker was always changing water into wine, so we finally 86'd
him...".
That said, I'm going to have to go back nearly one
hundred years to give some context to a story that no one here is going to give
a rat's ass about anyway. Some of you might be a bit interested in the
visuals, but that's your affair: during what must have been a particularly nasty
bender, Burge invited me to contribute here, so like it or not, gentle readers,
suck it up.
So where were we...ah yes: it's the ass-end of
a hot August afternoon in 1919, and a little goateed man in a worn-out dark
velvet suit is making his way back on foot to a shabby room in the working-class
suburb of Arcueil- some three or four miles outside of Paris and still a lively,
attraction-filled place to this very day.
As he paused in
the twilight at the intersection of the Boulevards Port Royal and
Montparnasse, a trolley
ground
past the empty tables in front of another favorite Burge & Prof.
Jonathan
watering-hole,
the above-mentioned Closerie des Lilas.
But on this particular
evening, there's nary a Man Ray, a Hemingway, a Debussy or a Jean Cocteau in
sight. August in Paris was for the poor, the friendless and the unconnected:
people like our little man. Everyone else had fled the city for cool and leafy
retreats at the seaside or in the country.
As the trolly continued
up the line, the little man crossed the boulevard and began walking south on
Avenue Denfert-Rochereau - almost precisely perpendicular to the spot in the sky
from which Man Ray would later suspend the magnificent crimson lips of his
former model and lover, Lee Miller in his Surrealist masterpiece,
Observatory Time.
And
that's practically the end of the story. It's a French story, so there's
no happy ending. Anyway, a few years later, the little man
would expire from a multitude of health problems - the cumulative
effects of neglect and poverty. One notable fact concerning his demise: at the
last minute, he was saved from a solitary and anonymous death in a run-down
hotel by the intervention of a wealthy patron of the arts, the Viscountess
Marie-Laure de Noailles, who had him transfered to a Parisian
hospital.
music
remained nearly forgotten for decades after, only to be rediscovered in the
1960s - around the time I myself first heard Gymnopedie No. 1, which
many consider to be the most perfect composition for piano ever written:
Zzzzzz.
Hey, where did everybody go?
I guess the secret of presenting high
culture to a bunch of hooch, hooptie and hooter-loving um....gentlemen....such
as yourselves is to present it in a more palatable form. Fortunately for
the readers of Bolus, another inspired Satie aficionado had the brilliant idea
(he really must have had youse guys in mind) of pairing Satie's composition with
Kate Moss.... doing a pole dance.
Ah, I sense the
interest-level rising, so without any further obfuscation on my
part....
And
that's the end of my story, dear readers - presuming that anyone is still
actually reading this interminable nonsense. And all because of the
musical genius of an eccentric creator, perhaps not unlike some of Bolus' own
contributors, whose mp3 file (not yours, Satie's) popped up unexpectedly
this afternoon. Anyway, what else would you expect from Professor
Jonathan? Surely not some obscure but sublime track from Goats Head Soup,
n'est-ce pas?
I've mention my two spawn and their musical adventures before, and have some exciting updates. Exciting for me, anyway. My eldest, 16-year old bassist/vocalist Miss E, recently formed a new combo with her pal Miss J named Moskva, the aperçu of which is Dr. Zhivago meets melodromatic 80's synthpop. Complete with vintage commie-style graphics! The girls just got back from a local studio where they recorded a 4-song demo, the result of which is posted at their MySpace page. They kindly invite you to drop by for a listen.
If you like what you hear, you can catch them perform live this summer in and around Chicago with a couple of possible dates in Wisconsin. Check their website for dates & locations.
Kid #2, the celebrated 12-year old Hawkspawn, has been working on his own guitar-rock thang. He recently took to the stage with his friends in Category 4 at Gand Music's Camp MusicTech, performing their original hit "Dracula's Kitchen." Hawkspawn plays lead git on the left (wearing his official COOP t-shirt). Like a moron I forgot to pack an SD memory card; as a result I filled up my camera's internal memory after 1:50, and completely missed the moshpit riot and the bloody Hell's Angels security incident that followed. I'll post the entire performance when it's available. Rawk On!
I was scrounging through some storage boxes in my basement recently when I spotted a 7" piece of vinyl that sent a 110-volt burst across my synapses.
A little background: back in the late 70's my older brother decided to attend a kegger the night before his ACT college admissions exams. As a result he spent a two year exile at Iowa Central Community College in Fort Dodge (a/k/a "Ick," in the local parlance) before he was allowed to matriculate at Iowa State U. At ICCC his assigned dorm roommate was a weirdly cool guy from Audobon named Kacy Ross. Kacy came from a family of artists; his dad was a sign painter, and his older brother was a cartoonist who created t-shirt designs for Roach, the Tampa Bay Rowdies logo, and the hard-hatted beaver mascot for Hustler magazine. Kacy was pretty good with a cartoon pen too, but his real artistry was with a fretboard. To this day he was about the best dorm room guitarist I've ever seen. Still in high school I frequently road-tripped to Fort Dodge for advanced junior-college-level studies in boozing and guitar trickery. Here's a picture of the three of us in '78 (L-R: yours truly, brother, Kacy)
Kacy eventually dropped out and moved to Tampa, FL where his brother was located, and became frontman for a New Wavish power pop band called Rich Rags. The band quickly became a favorite on the Florida bar circuit, which led to a EP recorded in New York. Kacy sent complementary copies of the EP to me and my brother, and that's the vinyl I found in the basement.
When I found the record (entitled "(Rejected) Dentist Office Music") it sort of stunned me, as I hadn't listened to it or thought about it in 25 years. Thanks to the help of Cratedigger, I've got it digitized now, and it stands up as a pretty tasty 4-song slice of late 1979 American pub rock. My favorite cut is "On the Level," written by Kacy, who also provides lead guitar and vocals. Punch the play button for a listen.
Sleeve and lyric sheet:
Like every 18 year old kid with a guitar and amp, I harbored fantasies of rock stardom; that EP generated the vicarious thrill that somebody I knew - another Iowa hick town kid - was actually on their way to a career involving screaming arenas, orgies and hotel room vandalism. Unfortunately, after receiving the EP I lost contact with Kacy. When I rediscovered it I called my brother (who also eventually relocated to Florida) and he had similarly lost touch.
Through a little Googling I was delighted to discover that Kacy did get a measure of rock stardom. After quitting Rich Rags in 1980, he eventually ended up with Deloris Telescope, a band that remained a favorite of the Tampa Bay alternative music scene until dissolving in 1996. Here they are (I'm guessing around 1984), with Kacy on lead and vocals.
A progression of DT publicity shots: early show with blurbs from the NY and Chicago papers; 1983 cover of the local alt weekly rag; as a power trio; singing the National Anthem at the Devil Rays ballpark; playing with Marilyn Manson at the Hard Rock Cafe. (Thanks to the Deloris Telescope site and LeeSteel.com for images).
According to my research Kacy continues to perform and record today (he also apparently recorded under the name Skelbo White and appeared as a DJ at legendary New York station WFMU under the name Clay Pidgeon). Instead of hard rock or new wave, his latest musical groove seems to be experimental/ambient; here's the most recent recorded material I can find, his darkly humorous solo project "That Dirty Clown" from 2006.
Long strange trip and all that. I lead a pretty blessed existence, but I have to admit learning of Kacy's regional rock star exploits left me with more than a tinge of jealousy. That's why the next thing out dug out of the closet was the guitar.
So Kacy, if you're out there: good goin', homeboy. Give me a shout if you want to get together with me and Marty for a jam.
On eight-hour flights, you take boredom relief where you can find it. On my flight to France last week I plugged my earbuds into the arm rest to partake of American Airlines' selection of horrible in-flight movies ("27 Dresses" and "Evan Almighty" eastbound, "The Bucket List" and "Secondhand Lions" westbound). In between the celluloid dreck, I discovered something even more horrifying: AA's selection of music.
Let me explain. AA pads the audio feed for their movie channel with their "exclusive golden hits from yesteryear" channel. Okay, cool, I think, I like cheesy oldies as much as the next guy. But after listening to the first selection, I decided there was something wrong. Seriously wrong.
I give you: The Bright Elusive Butterfly of Love.
You might wake up some mornin' To the sound of something moving past your window in the wind And if you're quick enough to rise and catch the fading glimpse of someone's shadow... Don't be concerned It will not harm you It's only me pursuing something I'm not sure of Across my dreams with nets of wonder I chase the bright elusive butterfly of love
Heh... um, heh. I admit I was a little shaken by that but hey, there are plenty of weird and disturbing tunes that charted back in the day. So I hung on for the next selection. Maybe some Beach Boys? No such luck.
Behold: Billy Joe Royal and "Cherry Hill Park."
Mary Hill snuck around in Cherry Hill Park The games she played lasted all day till way after dark All the girls they criticized her But all the boys they idolized her 'Cause Mary Hill was such a thrill after dark... in Cherry Hill Park!
Alright, now I'm wondering who the hell is working in AA's entertainment programming office. Before I can formulate an answer, the next golden oldie is cued up: "Little Children" by Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas.
Little children, better not tell on me (I'm telling you) little children better not tell what you see (If you're good) I'll give you candy and a quarter If you're quiet, like you ought to be And keep your secret with me
Coincidence, or deliberate attempt to creep out a captive audience? At this point I'm unwilling to find out what's next on the in-flight perv Hit Parade, so I switch over to the French audio channel. For all I know it might have been just as lyrically deranged, but at least I wouldn't understand it.
After landing in Paris I alerted Interpol, who assures me they will be investigating the incident under various international statutes. More stuff from Paris soon!
