Charlie Watts Was Not There
“All are lunatics, but he who can analyze his delusion is called a philosopher.”―Ambrose Bierce
Greetings from London. I arrived on Monday in time to meet up with dear friend Jon Blaufarb and head to OVO Arena Wembley to catch the Billy Idol concert. It is pretty incredible how powerful Idol’s voice still is, and to remember how many hits he actually had. He told the story of how a night out drinking with the Stones (he made sure we knew that Charlie Watts was not there that evening) inspired him to write Rebel Yell (the bottle of whisky they were sharing). Idol gave long-time guitarist Steve Stevens room to shine during the show, especially with a mid-set dazzler, swinging Tony Iommi classical/rock hybrid chops (think intro of Children of the Grave) before launching into a back-to-the garage swaggering version of their tried-and-true Tommy James cover of Mony Mony. And the encore: reuniting Idol with Generation X bandmate Tony James for a run-through of Ready Steady Go into Dancing With Myself.
Going on advice from my friend Circe, I went to see the Jenny Saville show at the National Portrait Gallery (she had read a deep dive article about her in The New Yorker), an artist who takes inspiration from Titian and DeKooning and created huge mostly portraits of herself and others, with crazed colors and textures, her faces falling into abstraction yet carrying with them feeling…sometimes horrific…wrestling with the ideas of body identity, sexuality, and mortality. She seems a modern-day Francis Bacon, playing with color and shapes, massive distortions and yet most of the time resulting in faces reaching out from the canvas demanding to be acknowledged, often with deep sympathetic undertones, sometimes with Weegee-esque crime scene immediacy. I will share some close-ups of her paintings below, but nothing comes close to comprehending the emotional attack of seeing these giants in person, seeing the thick, crazed (but brilliant) colors splayed on often with thick, wide brush strokes, colors often clashing that need to be seen a few steps away to get their relationship within the epic piece of art. A fantastic show.
And now I am off to see the Victor Hugo watercolors at The Royal Academy of Arts, having just recently finished his final novel, 93.
Later today, I will be on my way to Glastonbury for the first time in at least seven years. As is more often the case than not these days, the booking of the festival skews younger, with more acts that my kids would want to see (Noah Kahn, Olivia Rodrigo, Gracie Abrams). There are still a handful of artists that seem exciting (Glass Beams, Burning Spear, Vieux Farka Toure, Melin Melyn…Neil Young) and as announced, it will be the final show (ever) of the legacy Merseybeat band The Searchers (and yes, it two original members John McNally & Frank Allen along with Spencer “Beach Baby” James). But in all truth, the magic of Glastonbury commences upon melting away in the cabaret fields, floating through the healing fields (especially around the ancient stone circle), discovering what remains of the English hippie and magick movements that are within the hidden depths of the Ley lines of the King Arthur hillside that surrounds the area. As Roky Erickson and Tommy Hall postulate in the 13th Floor Elevators’ song Postures, you’ve got to remember to “leave your body behind.”
But before, a few music releases I want to call out….
Sweet Sister Ray by The Velvet Underground (No Label): Let’s talk about Sister Ray. The Velvet Underground song, introduced to the world on their 1968 sophomore release White Light/White Heat (the last featuring John Cale), is the high-water mark of the group’s blend of noise, distortion, streetwise storytelling, and improvisation. It reaches a hefty 17+ minutes on the album but live they would often extend it much further and often adjust the speed (sometimes slowing it down) and the vibe (sometimes more bombastic, sometimes almost beautiful). I own many a Velvet Underground bootleg, and of all of them, Sweet Sister Ray is by far my favorite. Four sides of Sister Ray performances. Three performances actually, one spanning two sides, which includes a slow, beautiful intro-drone they title Sweet Sister Ray, a drone that in my opinion helped birth bands like The Spacemen 3, especially their Dreamweapon release. Each side of this record is wonderfully different from the next. I do not release bootlegs on any of my labels, but I have been SO tempted over the years to release this one and if I was working with the estates of the VU members (or the members themselves) I would convince them to make this an official part of the catalog. I noticed that the LP is being “reissued” and wanted to make sure everyone who cares would know about it.
Rehearsal Tape by The Adverts (In The Red, 2.13.61): The word is out that Henry Rollins is opening a punk rock museum in….Nashville (?) (yes, Nashville). Rollins has been collecting punk rock ephemera since he started creating it back in DC while singing for SOA. One of his many hobbies within the bigger vision is to locate original tapes from his favorite punk rock singles and reissue them, and yes, often he finds forgotten tracks Through a partnership with his label 2.13.61 and In The Red Records, they have been releasing incredible early punk reissues my favorite being The Ruts’ The In The Rut Sessions and The Panik’s It Won't Sell!…until now. The Adverts were one of the greatest of the original English punk bands, and this rehearsal tape release is a revelation with early versions of some of their greatest songs like One Chord Wonders and Bored Teenagers. This is the first official release of these tracks, and they sound fantastic.
Drinking In Here: These catchy old songs aren't as think as you drunk they are
I am proud of this release, which I curated a few months ago, and which got picked up by NPR’s Morning Edition upon digital (only) release. Drinking In Here is a compilation of recordings by Alan Lomax, mostly recorded in America, of drinking songs spanning four decades. As discussed in the above NPR spot (just click on the “These catchy…” title), what amazes me about these songs is their timelessness, some songs being over 150 years old and still sung today, and the happiness and camaraderie that they celebrate. I am working on a second volume now, mostly of international recordings.
Dr. Demento to Retire After 55 Years
Barret Hansen, Dr. Demento, is known for his unique shows showcasing comedic and nutty recordings. But to me growing up, listening to his show on KSAN every week, he was subversive…before I knew what that even meant. The songs he played were chaotic, crazy. Funny, yes (My Name is Larry, Pencil Neck Geek, Fish Heads) but he would also weave in Shel Silverstein’s The Smoke Off (are they talkin’ bout Marijana?), The Holy Modal Rounders’ Boobs A Lot and The Fugs. There was a lot of musical awakenings packed into his anarchy, as well as yes, a lot of laughs. Hansen ran Specialty Records in the late 1960s, before the formation of his alter ego, and has been helpful in tracking down some records for the one-of-these-days-released box set…he even wrote a forward. Congrats on retiring, Barry….now, what are you going to do with your record collection?
The Damned Thing by Ambrose Bierce
Bierce’s 183rd birthday was on the 24th, so why not read a killer short story by one of the finest writers to come out of San Francisco? A recently published analysis of the story is here (which reintroduced me to it…and got me to read it again, it having been decades since the first time). Bierce is most known for both his story An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge and his mysterious disappearance, during a trip down to Mexico.
San Francisco's 'most sexually, intellectually, and culturally stimulating hotel' prepares to close
Now this is the end of an era. I have video footage of The Boredoms meeting Bad Brains at The Phoenix…and I cannot tell you how many times I sat by the above pool in fogged out weather with bands I was working with who were coming through town. Hard to believe it will be gone.
Interview: Hector Penalosa Part 3 of 6
Flying Color was a major band in my San Francisco high school clubbing and hanging experience and Hector was the one who one night turned me on to The New York Dolls, The MC5 and the Stooges. But I never knew the details of the story behind the ending of early So Cal punk band The Zeros (which Hector was in) and the beginnings of Flying Color. Great interview detailing a not-well-known moment in both punk history and the birth of the jingle jangle era.
Thurston Moore on Sonic Youth’s Sister, and moving from junk guitars to Fender”
“I remember saying to Glenn (Banca) that [our] guitars were so bad that we couldn’t really make them work for us. He came over to my apartment with six guitars, three under each arm – no cases or anything – and threw them onto the futon. [Laughs] It was amazing. He had one that had six .10-gauge strings all tuned to E, for example. We started to really delve into alternatives to standard tuning. I’d just strum the open strings and adjust them until I liked what it sounded like, and then I’d make a note of what the strings were tuned to in that tuning. This was before you could buy tuners very easily – I think all you could get were those big [Conn] Strobotuners. I used to tune Kim’s bass to a Black Uhuru record, then tune our guitars based on that.””
The Meaning of Birds
By: Charlie Smith
Of the genesis of birds we know nothing,
save the legend they are descended
from reptiles: flying, snap-jawed lizards
that have somehow taken to air. Better the story
that they were crab-apple blossoms
or such, blown along by the wind; time after time
finding themselves tossed from perhaps a seaside tree,
floated or lifted over the thin blue lazarine waves
until something in the snatch of color
began to flutter and rise. But what does it matter
anyway how they got up high
in the trees or over the rusty shoulders
of some mountain? There they are,
little figments,
animated—soaring. And if occasionally a tern washes up
greased and stiff, and sometimes a cardinal
or a mockingbird slams against the windshield
and your soul goes oh God and shivers
at the quick and unexpected end
to beauty, it is not news that we live in a world
where beauty is unexplainable
and suddenly ruined
and has its own routines. We are often far
from home in a dark town, and our griefs
are difficult to translate into a language
understood by others. We sense the downswing of time
and learn, having come of age, that the reluctant
concessions made in youth
are not sufficient to heat the cold drawn breath
of age. Perhaps temperance
was not enough, foresight or even wisdom
fallacious, not only in conception
but in the thin acts
themselves. So our lives are difficult,
and perhaps unpardonable, and the fey gauds
of youth have, as the old men told us they would,
faded. But still, it is morning again, this day.
In the flowering trees
the birds take up their indifferent, elegant cries.
Look around. Perhaps it isn’t too late
to make a fool of yourself again. Perhaps it isn’t too late
to flap your arms and cry out, to give
one more cracked rendition of your singular, aspirant song.
Jenny Saville close-up
HAPPY BIRTHDAY BIG BILL BROONZY!
