Deaths
I saw all four Beatles. Lennon I met, saw a Wings concert, saw a Harrison
concert, and saw Ringo 1 at a press
conference 2.
George Harrison's passing prompted one odd outburst. Robert Hilburn,
the rock editor at the L.A. Times, opened his tribute "It's the
end of an era." What era? The Three-Solo-Beatles era? When John
died, the Beatle era died. When George passed....now they're half gone.
The hubbub over his death was just right; headlined, given some commentary,3,
and then tucked away.
It brings to (my) mind the similar, but less important, and way more
overplayed, death of JFK-2. When he died in 1999, it was like black
rain poured from the heavens... yet nobody had anything to say. He was
a private person. He made no personality impact on the nation. He was
a handsome guy, we all like handsome people, but there was little about
him to sustain more than a 15-minute? half hour? testimonial. Yet the
east coast news idiots devoted A WEEK memorializing someone nobody knew.
"He was our....prince."' It was like the narration of a 7-day
car chase.
The Harrison death revived Mods vs Rockers. As the tributes dragged
on at a Harrison gathering in NY's Central Park, a man kept asking his
wife "Can we go now?" She replied, loudly, "If this was
a memorial to Dion you'd be here all night!" (Reported by Gene
Sculatti.)
This story isn't deja vu for me: I've been there. When Elvis died in
1977, I was inconsolable. It was a "passage" -- my childhood,
belatedly, was over.4 I saw the look of loss on many men's faces
the next few days. My Beatle-kid girlfriend, 26, chuckled and said,
"Are you lighting any candles tonight?" I endured her boorishness.
Then Lennon got shot. She grieved. Large crowds with candles sprung
up everywhere like men with velvet capes at the beginning of Harry Potter
(the book).
I was sorry that Lennon died, but he held no magic for me, he was just
another talented geezer. But though I was tempted, I didn't mock the
gf for her sadness.
1 Also, I
spoke with him on the phone for a half hour in 1984. I was trying
to get him to do a rockabilly album for Rhino, but it didn't work
out.
2 The press conference (1975?)
was for the Ringo/Nilsson movie that never came out. At that conference,
at Capitol, a hot-headed woman reporter said, "This is all
a HYPE!" "Well," he said, "we are promoting
a movie." The news gal was angry because......mostly they
are.
3 Bob, for whom also maturity
is hitting late, used this occasion to champion his new favorite
band, saying that if U2 had been recording in the 1960s, THEY
and the Beatles would have been neck-and-neck in popularity
4 Sadly, I passed into adolescence.
|
Reviewing the Reviewer: Pt. 1,000
Jon Paralysis 5, in the 11/11/1
NY Times, takes predictable shots at Britney Spears, but then actually
raises a good point.
He says her show allows "people of all ages and genders to feel
like a dirty old man." I think he means it's sexually arousing.
But, being a rock crit, he is not comfortable with this sensation so
he points and giggles. Dirty old man? Brit is a fully-grown female:
it's doubtful she'll be developing any more sexual apparati. She's ripe
and ready. What's the crime of lusting?
Which leads to Paralysis's actual good point: at 19, why is she still
singing "Don't treat me like a baby"? Many gals that age are
rocking with sex; many are mothers.
But Paralysis goes on. "Teenage pop singers from Brenda Lee to
Tanya Tucker to Tiffany have also exploited pedophilic impulses..."
Yeah, I remember Brenda's topless bikini. Tanya? A little. Tiffany?
A skinny kid in a mall. The details of Paralysis's pedophilia are something
he ought to keep private.....
Finally, "Ms. Spears' voice isn't strong enough to radiate sincerity."
There's a correlation between muscle and honesty? Besides, musicians
are performers, actors; what they feel is not necessarily what they
reveal. As professionals they develop an ability to convince. Claiming
to identify sincerity violates the unspoken understanding that it's
ALL an act.
P.S. to the rock press. Britney's act is like the Ice Capades. It has
nothing to do with "rock," so quit over-analyzing it and find
something good to tell us about. 6
5 I do this
mock-naming as a tribute to Michael Savage's syndicated radio
show Savage Nation. He is a hysterical bombastic right-wing nut
who renames all his foes: Hitlery Clinton, Jesse Hijack-son, etc.
His show is a laugh riot.
6 I just got CDs from Ethic
Records in San Francisco and two kill me: the bands I See Hawks
In L.A., and the Ruby Rakes. |
Avant-Garde
Being ahead isn't always good.
For instance, I got deep into Cajun/Zydeco in 1974 when I 'discovered'
Clifton Chenier. Became my "thing" just before Jump entered
my life. So I studied it and enjoyed it and told people about. In the
80s, Cajuns somehow entered the national consciousness. I noticed that
the blissful people who were discovering it regarded me as kinda odd.
Like, "It's cool now, but you knew it when it wasn't."
Take donuts. (One of the few words I prefer the lazy spelling of.)
I am something of a connoisseur. One donut shop in Hollywood has it
all above all the others, in my considered opinion. Recently Krispy
Kremes sprung up all around L.A. They're great too. Fluffy. When a woman
I know raved about Krispy Kreme I said I loved them, but I knew about
another place that was also sensational. She looked at me incomprehendingly.
Her interest in donuts was that they were part of the current craze.
Her attitude telegraphed, "What the hell value can THAT place be?
Does EVERYONE know about it? "
I exaggerate. But that's that general drift. Did you have an Elvis pomp
in 1973? You were certainly shunned. When the 50s revival started for
real in 1982, you'd figure you've finally find acceptance.... but if
people knew you had it in 1973 you STILL might be shunned as an "out"
person seeking favor with the newies.
This does not exactly lead, but I'm leading it, to the recent Sun Records
special on PBS. People ask me if I saw it and I say no. I certainly
approve of Sun Records being lionized, it's just that I did that, for
my own satisfaction, throughout the 70s and 80s. (How I agonized whether
to get the Sun logo tattooed on my arm in 1973.) (Didn't do it.) Now
that Sun's logo is almost as ubiquitous as Nike's, I say, Fine, good,
let it be, but they don't need me, and I don't need to rehash it anymore.
Funmaster Me
The Punmaster site of R&R news can be very useful. It's cute how
its Frisco location is revealed in constant references to Jerry Garcia,
Quicksilver, Santana. Just like this column with its endless L.A. mentions.
Sunday, December 16th there was a surprise party for the Blasters' ex-drummer
Bill Bateman at the Ledge in Atwater (L.A.). All five original Blasters
on hand, plus numerous other local lights. If felt like I was backstage
at the Whisky in 1981. Party favorite Bateman was utterly surprised
when the crowd screamed Happy Bday as he entered. Surprised is not sufficient:
terrified is more like it. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.
Maybe you don't do this to people over 30, lest they keel over.
Which reminds me of the time 20 years ago my gf Kathe gave me a surprise
party. We went to a friend's house to go to dinner, and they told me
to wait in the den. I opened the door and that same unexpected noise
and visage assailed me. As I panned the room in a fraction of a second,
I grew faint; the assemblage was not just a surprise, but surreal.
For one, she had stolen my phone book and called everyone INCLUDING
PEOPLE I DIDN'T LIKE. Their presence disturbed me. Also, the actual
pairings, a lawyer friend standing with a poker friend, my cousin standing
with Dave Alvin MADE NO SENSE and caused my brain to urge me to faint,
reasoning "These people cannot be together except in a dream, why
are you awake?"
Blaster Boys, December 16, 2001. Photo by Gary Leonard.
Who, Are We? (Boomp boomp, Boomp boomp)
Those of us who write about music but don't produce it are an OK aberration
when we behave ourselves. Musicians, by and large, distrust rock writers
bec they have experienced some to be starry-eyed immature fools and/or
untrustworthy knife wielders.
So, then, rock-writers flock together, with few musicians in tow. It
must be no different in sports: do the players buddy with the writers?
Only if it's to their advantage, I'd guess, because athletes, like musicians,
exist in their own world. They have common experiences that are unique:
the name of the liniment that burns or the brand of guitar pick that
breaks, what happens when you forget which direction to run with the
football or the panic you feel when the monitors fail. I can imagine
what it feels to stand on a stage and hear people cheer 7 BUT I'VE NEVER FELT IT. There's got to be
a difference.
We share a parasitic relationship that's weighted toward them -- without
them, we're nothing, without us, they're musicians -- but still is beneficial
to both. It is possible that musicians respect writers for their knowledge
and, who knows, even their perceptiveness. I've been around musicians
who turn to me in helplessness and say "WHEN was the concert?"
or "WHO wrote that song?" We are happy, useful puppy dogs
sometimes.
But musicians and writers co-exist best if they don't talk about the
musician. I've known several musicians whose music I've never mentioned.
Without their music in the foreground, we're just music fans, equals.
It's like a guy working with a girl. You can focus on a subject, you
can truly meet minds, but being possessed of female stuff she can render
you helpless at will. You stay friends if you steer away from that truth
that burns below the surface.
The music/sex conjunction is old and true.8
The power of instruments, like sex, has long frightened me. My only
foray into musicianship was my time with the accordion. Not when I was
11, but when I was 30, when my gf bought me one 9
for 5 bucks. This was some gift! When I first pressed two keys together
I jumped back: I was unleashing power. It was the power others had over
me, that musicians held! Fingering that keyboard, I found myself entranced
by the slightest congruity of tones. It struck me as a responsibility!
It carried weight! It was sexual, without differing sexes: a trans-sexual
experience.
But I became lax in practicing as my lessons continued, bec the teacher
could not fathom the zydeco instruction I sought. I quit about 20 years
ago, and wish I was playing today.
7 When I was to the side
of the stage when the Blasters played, back when I managed them,
I felt the force of an audience. But it was second hand..
8 On the tv show, especially,
I have been struck by the third-sex quality of music when I have
had male musicians on. There's just the two of us, and he's making
sounds that touch my emotions. We are sharing a feeling he is
creating; he is broadcasting it, I am receiving it. Yet I have
not desire to kiss or hold the guy. The music between us is, it
is understood, an entity in itself.
9 The majority of used accordions
for sale are women or kid models with narrow keys. Mainly they're
from kids they take lessons for a year or two then lose interest.
My student accordion is a grown-male one with a full-fingered
but short keyboard, and a beautiful french tone. My next one,
from the Chicago Accordion Company, has the name "Mario"
inlaid in pearl, and is a full, heavyweight. It has two tones.
Makes a nice picture when I hold it. |
I Don't Get It
I'm constantly amazed at the things I don't understand. The truth dawned
on me the first time I bought clothes marked "irregular" and
they fit.
You read reviews and you find out things you like are wrong. Happens
to me constantly. Recently I taped the movie "Mahogany."
Not bec I thought it would be good, but bec I thought it would be bad.
A mid-70s "fashion" movie with Diana Ross sounded like something
my wife and her friends might enjoy hooting at, like Barnaby Jones,
or the Halston episode of Love Boat.
But as I watched it unfurl I was struck by its feeling. I thought Diana
Ross was terrific, Billy Dee Williams too. The ambiance of Chicago's
south side in winter was powerful. I was amazed. So I consulted one
of the movie review books. I learned the film was "contrived"
and the acting was "wooden."
Was dies ist, "wooden"? I need to know, because I want to
see other movies with wooden actors. These I liked plenty.
The list of things I like that are mocked or deemed second-best 10
is lengthy. Here's a few.
"Cahoots" by the Band. I read constantly that this,
their fourth album, was a downturn in their career. So why do I like
it best? My irregularity?
Elvis on RCA. As rock & roll study developed, I learned
his Sun stuff was the important stuff. But much as I like Jerry Lee
on Sun, Billy Riley on Sun, just about everyone on Sun, I prefer Elvis
after "Heartbreak Hotel." (My favorite Elvis song: "His
Latest Flame.")
"Rabbit Redux" by John Updike. It was the first Updike
book I read, from a thrift store. I enjoyed how events shifted jerkily,
without flow, like life. My "reader" friend sniffed that most
people preferred "Rabbit, Run" the first in the series, that
"Redux" was the inferior followup. C'est la lit!
"Young Turks", Rod Stewart. This is a hit from Rod's
critic-knocked early 80s period. I just like the song. I have the extended
7 minute version. I'm so shallow.
"Great Balls Of Fire," movie. Jerry Lee believers
believe this is a mockery. Exactly! It's funny. Randy Quaid as Foghorn
Leghorn. A dance number in a department store! A misunderstood movie
about a subject dear to my heart.
"Home Thoughts From Abroad" by Clifford T. Ward. Not
a hit in America, but released here, this 1974 album drew hoots from
British crits, who likened it to Rod McKuen meets Paul McCartney. Soft,
sensitive-rock. The songs "Wherewithal" and "Time, The
Magician" kill me today as much as back-when. But I'm a wimp 11.
Queen, generally. Relegated by crits to dinosaur status. Man,
they were good, and funny! Like Louis Jordan. Their overblown stage
show, with rising platforms and a smoke-spewing crown, exactly straddled
the line between coolness and idiocy. The intentionally humorous "Bohemian
Rhapsody" was in an album named after a Marx Brothers movie! Speaking
of which...
"The Big Store." Marx Bros analysts agree that "A
Night At The Opera" and "A Day At The Races" are their
masterpieces. So why do I like "The Big Store" best of all?
The musical number in the department store is colossal, like what was
attempted in "Absolute Beginners." (Don't like. Wish I did.)
The bed-dept scene is among their best. The race on roller-skates. And
"Tenement Symphony"!
Mel Torme. I love his voice, but people who know more than me
favor Sinatra, and tell me that Torme sings with technical proficiency
but no soul. I feel his music deeply, as does my wife. It's disconcerting
to know we're not feeling anything!
"Deconstructing Harry" This latter Woody Allen film
was pounded by crits. I remember the LA Times gal ranting "Who
CARES about his sexual hangups?" I do. This one goes to stunning
extremes: it's his "River Deep Mountain High."
"American Rhapsody." The 1999 Joe Eszterhas best-seller
was blasted by all reviewers. Its unraveling of the Monica Lewinsky
imbroglio is a thrill to read, as is its sympathy for Clinton and hatred
of his persecutors. The gossip makes me laugh, too. Also gets points
for being a Swamp Dogg fan.12
Jack Clement. The longtime Sun Records engineer is chided by
Sun purists for such things as putting background vocals on records.
Surely we'd all love to hear "Ballad Of A Teenage Queen" acoustically,
but his putting the call-and-response on, say, Jerry Lee's version of
"Matchbox" makes that record, not ruins it. (Also made a BRILLIANT
solo album on Elektra, 1978.)
"Who Is Harry Kellerman And Why Is He Saying All Those Terrible
Things About Me?" This film is left out of many review anthologies;
Maltin says it is a mess. I picked it up at a drugstore for $2.50 recently
and I watched it to unending delight. The surprise moments justify the
whole.
10 Then,
'secondariness' has plagued me all my life. How couldn't it, growing
up in a City that proudly (!) calls itself The Second!
11 I fly into rage when a
reviewer characterizes anyone as a wimp. It's a word taken from
a superior point of view. It thunders, like the writer is a hero,
a stallion. Ever see a critic?
12 And for being very prescient
in this, which unfortunately fit his successor:
From Joe Eszterhaus, American Rhapsody (1999)
Re: Diverting attention from the upcoming impeachment.
What Bill Clinton needed desperately was a wild boar national
tragedy... a humungous hurricane with thousands of deaths, , or
anthrax in Central Park, or a Three Mile Island meltdown on a
Chernobyl scale, or the Big One in California voiding a chunk
of coastline into the sea, ot a Texas tower-type sniper. Something....on
that tragic level.
Wed go through the horror itself first. Then videotaped
replays of the horror for weeks. Then wed go through the
grieving. Then videotaped replays of the grieving for more weeks.
Then the experts would pontificate on Larry King Live, night after
night, analyzing the horror and the grieving and the closure from
all the replays, still picking through the ruins - a childs
Raggedy Ann doll, a smashed photo of a smiling young couple found
in the rubble -
Something to soften us up. To put us in a more sensitive mood.
To make us feel more forgiving. To make us feel better about him.
Bill Clinton needed a great and horrible and welcome and opportune
tragedy to put everything in perspective.
He didnt get it. |
ELVIS LIVES
Sunday, January 6th, 2002, is, or was, the 17th annual Elvis birthday
bash at the house of blues, run by yours truly. Signed up so far:
Jimmy Angel, Big Sandy, Danny Blitz, Donnie Brooks, Cadillac Angels,
Ray Campi, Justin Curtis, Levi Dexter, Keith Joe Dick, Doug Fieger,
Harvey Sid Fisher, Rosie Flores, Glen Glenn, Barry Goldberg, Groovy
Rednecks Pearl Harbour, Barry Holdship, I See Hawks In L.A., James Intveld,
Theresa James, June Bug, Mario. Paul Marshall, Rip Masters, Mighty Echoes,
Harry Orlov, Kings Order of Elmysah, Bob Reynolds, Rod & The Tonemasters,
Silver Jets, Sprague Bros, Billy Swan, Swing Syndicate,
Pep Torres, Billy Tulsa & The Psycho Crawdads, White Line Fever
and more to come! >>
- 57 -
Art
Fein

 |
Other Fein Messes |
 |
|