I got as far as a few pages and cast some roles for this opus in the 1990s-
Premise: It is now, and the Hall of Justice has fallen into disrepair, as the big DC heroes- Superman, Batman have left for free-agency and greener pastures. The Superfriends (the minor ones still in the league: Flash, Aquaman, Wonder Twins etc.) must hold a benefit talent show to save their home base. Cajun arch-villain Solomon Grundy threatens to spoil the proceedings with a nefarious scheme which is foiled somehow. Gleek, the Wonder twins' monkey shows his hidden musical talent by playing drinking glasses at the show.
I was thinking-
Flash- Steve Buscemi
Aquaman- Patrick Swayze
Solomon Grundy - Gary Busey
Wonder Twins - now maybe Hillary Duff and Shia Lebouef? (Too big, I know)
Gleek- ?
Alright - Let's get this rolling! Form of- an ice go-kart.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Branded!
Did anyone else feel the icy hand of doom clench ever tighter recently, as the rock venue Irving Plaza was rechristened ‘The Fillmore New York AT Irving Plaza?’ Surely this was the final insult. The rigor mortis grip of a greasy dead hippie promoter (Bill Graham) now usurped the name of his long dead East Village venue and nonsensically tossed it onto a room uptown, named for (of all things) the street it was located. Of course this was enacted by the omnipresent Live Nation Death Star, but by cashing in on the Fillmore ‘brand,’ they hope to hearken on misty associations with the bygone patchouli paradise of the encrusted baby-boomers. It seems the corporate tarp is now thoroughly squelching the dungheap of modern American ‘culture.’ Essentially there is now no difference between playing in a successful rock band or a professional sports team- you are playing on rented time for the highest bidder. Was it ever any different?
Billy Childish & Holly Golightly
Ah- the British- Where would we be without them? Their noble land has inspired a wealth of cultural touchstones- scones, Jack the Ripper and the U.S. Constitutional Right to Bear Arms to name three. In fact, every Southern gun rack-toter should write a pen pal to Parliament in gratitude for their grave ongoing threat. To relate this to the all-important world of rock criticism, futile battles have raged for years over which nation invented rock or perfected it. The ‘British Invasion’ period saw pasty art-school fops studying bacon-fat Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley riffs and churning out their own mutations in the form of the Stones, Animals, Kinks, Who and yes- the Beatles. American teenagers in turn formed their own combos to crank out amateurish hybrids of R&B and white teen sass, playing road-houses and school dances- the platonic ‘garage band’ ideal. After the bloat of early 1970s rawk excess, with both sides equally guilty, it took four snot-nosed punks from Queens (the Ramones) to kick England’s musical bum into gear again. Whichever side of the pond you choose to hang your hat on, this cultural push me-pull you has kept rock alive. America’s latest Saviors of Rock, The White Stripes, have stepped into the breach one again, recording their album Elephant at Liam Watson’s all-analog Toe Rag studios in London, and clarified their debt by dueting with Holly Golightly on the last track. What does it all mean?
Before the pixieish Detroit duo known as Jack and Meg White were glimmers in their mom(s)’ eye, young gawky Englishmen with funny hats were rocking the Bo Diddley beat into a crackling dimestore microphone. Billy Childish, a self-taught iconoclastic writer, poet, painter and WWI enthusiast, took Lou Reed’s minimal rock credo to heart- ‘…three chords is pushing it, four chords is jazz.’ Beginning in 1977, his numerous bands including the(e) Headcoats, Milkshakes, and most recently the Hendrix-inspired Buff Medways, Childish has cranked out music at a breakneck pace, exuding fun, spontaneity and live excitement. Childish’s rock trios utilized trusty barre chords, primitive drumming and thumping bass, with a snotty English delivery. The music owed as much to the pop bubblegum Nuggets of 1960s garage as the politically tinged DIY movement, with matching woolen caps and even a female spinoff band- the Headcoatees. (We’ll get back to them.) Through their prolific output and ceaseless touring, the Headcoats spread their pasty English seed on our shores thorugh two decades. In the 1990s, the band toured with such notorious Sub Pop acts as Mudhoney, and released an album on the label (The impishly titled Heavens to Murgatroid- It’s The Headcoats!) Childish’s influence shows no sign of waning in the 21st century. This fall his band the Buff Medways opened for indie-rock darlings Modest Mouse at Radio City Music Hall and performed at the All Tomorrow’s Parties Festival in Los Angeles. In keeping with his response to this fame, the band recently released a seeming WWI concept album, 1914, featuring the members dressed in military regalia, lighting smokes on a dreary B/W battlefield. The Childish way will abide.
“Well Holly I love you too, but there’s just so much that I don’t know about you.”
- Jack White
With a name cribbed from the high-class prostitute in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, (her mother was reading Capote’s novel during her pregnancy), our next artist of the week began her career in the same garage family as Billy, as a founding member of the Headcoatees in 1991, but has since developed into one of the most distinctive rock singers and songwriters ‘on the scene,’ delivering smoky torch song put-downs set to fuzz guitar, tailor-made for late-night bleary reverie. The legend reads that she has driven trucks, lived on a boat, and trained horses. Be that as it may, her music is what makes it evident that she truly has lived. Holly and Childish recorded a version of Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra’s erotic march ‘Sand’ on a 1999 collaboration. Just as 1960s chanteuse Nancy Sinatra wouldn’t be pinned to her “Boots” a-go-go image, Holly quickly put her Headcoatee days behind her. Holly recorded with the newly hot ‘White Stripes studio’ head Liam Watson for years before the Detroit duo entered the picture, releasing records on many labels starting with her 1995 solo debut The Good Things. Her 2001 singles collection collected the various strands that make her one of the true originals- from garage raveups to acoustic sultriness. The varying musical directions don’t clutter her sound- her voice remains. Garage disciples the Greenhornes backed Golightly on an American tour, demonstrating the continuing musical cross-fertilization that goes beyond glossy flavors of the month to the working club circuit. Last year, she released two albums, Truly She Is None Other and Slowly But Surely and she is currently touring the states.
To their credit, the White Stripes never claimed that what they do is strictly garage-rock; magazines do. The fact that they cite Childish and Golightly as influences speaks not just to ‘a sound’ but a choice. Each artist has maintained longevity by doing what they love best when they want to do it- writing and recording songs and building a body of work that is certifiably their own. Who wins in the latest UK/US battle of the bands? Everybody does.
Recommended Billy Childish ventures:
This Is This The Buff Medways. Damaged Goods. 2000.
Heavens to Murgatroid, It’s Thee Headcoats! Sub Pop. 1991.
Singles Roundup Damaged Goods. 2001
Lil' Steven - What Undergound- Whose Garage?
What better proof do you need that money buys cred then the meteoric rise of this troll-like, bandana-strewn mogul who for much of his career was content to stare longingly at the chin of his Jersey bandleader ‘The Boss’ and most assuredly never play Sun City? Surely one could respect the political stand of that 1985 all-star crusade urging entertainers not to tour in apartheid-era South Africa. Like ‘Hands Across America’ and ‘We Are The World,’ it spoke of a certain shiny MTV do-good globalism. Now he has inexplicably thrown his tie-dyed heft into bolstering the ‘garage rock’ scene, a nebulous designation encompassing 1960s also-rans, never-weres and the 1980s-00s combos who cite them as forefathers. Bands like the Hives, White Stripes and others are taking the music into a new century and drawing deserved acclaim. As a particular fan of much of the music that Van Zandt now champions on pay-per-listen satellite radio, why should I bitch? Because I can.
Let’s think for a minute about what the poor man’s Gene Simmons was doing in the mid-1980s while bands like the Fleshtones and Lyres were playing their brand of fuzz-drenched rock for crowds of 20 people - well, probably lots of cocaine in arena dressing rooms. Van Zandt was riding the coattails of a mega-star to second banana-hood success that Art Garfunkel could only dream of. He, Clarence Clemons and the now dapper drummer Max Weinberg performed ably as the E-Street Band, backing up meandering ‘working-man’s’ rock about getting laid off from the quarry and drunkenly punching your girlfriend. (Then sobbingly recalling the incident in a ballad.) I don’t care if none of the songs were actually about that- Guys who pumped their fist at these shows would beat up someone for liking the Replacements, let alone the Cure. Through the 1990s, annual NYC music events called Cavestomp bravely reunited under-appreciated bands like the Standells, the Monks, and Blues Magoos, placing them on stage alongside younger groups. Van Zandt gradually usurped the event until it was absorbed into his commercial game plan. So how has he handled the mantle of NYC Rock Savior?
I attended the Little Steven Rock N’ Roll Spectacular on Randall’s Island in August 2004 under impending rains and threat of a hurricane. Many of my favorite current bands were chosen to appear alongside the giants- the reformed Stooges and NY Dolls, mod legends The Creation and the default darlings of the current NY scene, The Strokes. Before the event, sources tell me a memo was circulated regarding band performance and etiquette, requiring bands to have at least four members and to dress to impress. How rock n’ roll is that? The mod-a-go-go revolving stage idea must have been great in theory, but broke down early on. Bands were then limited to two tunes at most. In many cases, this was not a bad thing, but it didn’t allow groups like Detroit’s ferocious Paybacks time to rile up a head of steam. Coupled with this was the relentless barrage of ‘guest MCs’ (often clueless TV ‘wiseguys’) desperately grinding verbal gears in endless vapid conversations with large-bosomed go-go girls instead of perhaps just playing music between bands. ‘The Boss’ himself made a token appearance, lamely introducing a group called –guess what, the Boss Martians. Septuagenarian impresario Kim Fowley had the best line of the day – ‘Sponsored by Dunkin’ Donuts, the Food of Young Gods.’ After a raucous set by the revived NY Dolls, the crowd was subjected to the limp, monotonous strains of The Strokes, a band that seemingly didn’t want to be there, and whose sentiment was echoed by the angry wet masses. Things were turning ugly. Leave it to the master Iggy to harness this ugliness and channel it into a rock assault against the hand that feeds. During the Stooges’ immortal ‘T.V. Eye,’ he leapt onto a high-tech 3-D camera being used to film the event for a poor-man’s IMAX event, kicking off several no-doubt vital electronic components while punching the words home. As the invited audience rushed the stage, Iggy salvaged the inept day-glo nightmare with a taste of real rock power.
In any bitch-fest like you may be reading right now, you may detect a hint of rockist elitism. But it’s based on genuine regret. DJs like Bill Kelly on listener-sponsored WFMU’s ‘Teenage Wasteland’ has championed the lost sounds of ‘Real Rock n’Roll’ on the airwaves since 1978, and doing it with more verve than meathead rah-rah. Of course Steven has now thrown him a bone by giving him a slot on the new satellite stream. It is somehow fitting that Van Zandt and aging ‘shock-jock’ Howard Stern are taking their act to satellite- their egos have outgrown our worldly boundaries. Just remember- in space, no one can hear you fart. The bands that benefit from Steven’s exposure are of course vaguely complimentary- after years of getting gypped by small-time seedy promoters in clubs, it’s got to be somewhat of a relief to deal with a rich seedy promoter. Maybe I’m a bitter naïve crank for wishing it didn’t take a pint-sized TV tough-guy to get them paid. I may be whacked for this piece, but when you listen to ‘Born In the U.S.A.,’ do you get a ‘Psychotic Reaction?’ Well, yeah - I do, too.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Bob Log III - Make You Say Wow!
“Bob Log III – One-man band - Tucson, AZ. Lemme introduce the band. On the cymbals- left foot. On bass drum – right foot- Shut Up! My left hand does all the slide work, my right hand does the pickin’ My mouth-hole does most of the talking. And you’re looking at my finger. Don’t talk to my finger- My finger’s an asshole!”
If at first, it seems as if Bob has stepped from his own space capsule, he is actually the latest tricked-out model in a long line of idiosyncratic one-man bands, each connected by their lone wolf resourcefulness and their mutation of the blues for their own purposes. In the 1940s and 50s, former railroad and shipyard worker Jesse ‘The Lone Cat’ Fuller, an Oakland folk/blues singer and guitarist, devised his homemade ‘fotdella,’ a bass viol triggered by foot-operated levers to accompany his 12 string guitar, hi-hat cymbal and kazoo. Fuller toured for American and European audiences successfully and wrote songs that were later covered by those notorious dirty hippies the Grateful Dead. Later in a rural West Virginia shack, Hasil ‘The Haze’ Adkins bent rockabilly sounds into his own maniacal irresistible rants and spawned should-have-been dance crazes ‘The Hunch’ and ‘The Chicken Walk.’ His ferocious live act often featured him abusing a cymbal with the neck of his acoustic guitar and storming off stage. The one-man band is not only the most immediate way to make music, but also the purest transmission of mind to audience, with no band censorship process. It’s hard to imagine Hasil pitching a song about decapitating his girlfriend to a stone-faced session musician and calling it ‘No More Hot Dogs.’ As Adkins himself said, you don’t figure it out- you just sit down and do it.’ In the late 1980s, Bob Log played in a trash blues-influenced duo called Doo Rag before paring down to one member when his band-mate became ill. As a Fat Possum artist, Log toured with T-Model, Burnside and Adkins, forging his own stamp on the one man spectacle. Whether Log himself would admit these pioneering influences is only known behind his dark visor, but in any case he has lifted this musical tradition to a new level of accessibility for today’s discerning freak.
Jay Reatard - 'Blood Visions' LP Review
JAY REATARD – ‘BLOOD VISIONS’ LP (2006, IN THE RED)
What was the last new rock album that truly gave you ‘the shivers?’ And I’m not talking delirium tremens here. Mr. Jay Reatard of Memphis has crafted just such a work in his ‘Blood Visions’ LP (In The Red). The ‘boy-wonder’ musician and producer already scorched a path through the garage and synth-punk jungle with groups like The Reatards, Lost Sounds, and (believe me) many more, all the while honing his unique attack. His new work is a relentlessly efficient barrage of blazingly original melodic punk-pop that bursts through the tedious garage rock ghetto to claim fresh- uh, blood. Jay has found the perfect vehicle for his righteously misanthropic lyrics, a compellingly ominous musical landscape of modern life run off the rails. Musical strands of predecessors like Devo, Wire and The Adverts are crammed onto a careening personal pop skeleton. Here is a man wary of ‘Greed, Money, Useless Children,’ ‘My Family,’ and even ‘My Shadow.’ While this may not sound like much fun, it’s the sounds that carry it through, nailing one by one with unique hooks that prick the ear and leave a bright stain. For a man with such a body of work behind him, like it or not he’s got a future in store for the rest of us.
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