Messin' With The Kid
"Keep on. The work of the world is always done by creatures too tired to do it.”― Carol Emshwiller
I thought all neighborhoods had them: dark, creepy houses. Those fairy tales from the Brothers Grimm are riddled with scary houses that were fabled to be haunted, with one child trying to prove his (or her) bravery by going up to the front door and ringing the doorbell. Things never went well for those kids, just ask Judson Fountain, the Ed Wood of early radio land whose protagonists don’t make it out so well or any haunted house the members of the Mystery Machine come across in season after season of Scooby Doo (as for the latter, yes…they always emerge victorious, being meddling kids and all).
We had such a house in our neighborhood. It was on California Street in the Richmond district of where I grew up in San Francisco. It was a two story house painted jet black with a seven+ foot tall black wooden fence in front of it and a camera pointed to the street atop its front awning. I would tip toe when walking by…sometimes thinking I heard roars of animals or stealth movements from inside.
And then there was the time I walked by with my Grandma and her friend, who were talking about the strange man who lived there…and the rumors of what went on in the house (there were many many rumors). I peered through one of the few slats that offered a glimpse of what was within and suddenly saw him…listening quietly…an ominous looking man with a bald head, black goatee dressed in black. I only saw him for a second before I burst into a run, hyperventilating and scared to the bone: what would he do to us after listening to what was being said about him.
Of course, we survived the encounter, and it was much later revealed to me just who the owner of the hose was: Anton LaVey, the founder of The Church of Satan. It was there that the Hollywood elite would come to experience dark rituals, which at times included a lion (yes, it seems the animal sounds I heard were real), with pentagrams lit by candlelight and a cloaked LaVey acting as guide. Yes, our neighborhood had the prize of haunted houses.
After Anton LaVey passed there was much astir at what would happen to the house. I was an adult, and it seemed to me that if anything the house was a landmark. Supposedly (again, rumors) the walls were adorned with murals LaVey had painted, and the basement was still set up for dark rituals in only the way a temple to Satan would have been. My friends and I looked at getting a tour: none of us (besides some members of Mr. Bungle and associates) had been inside and after years of being scared of the place, I wanted to see what was beyond the black facade.
But it was not meant to be. The house was sold without much fanfare, torn down without much brouhaha and in its place was erected a very boring, boxy apartment building that still stands there today. The street address, which was 6114 California Street, was even changed to hide the dark history of the property. The neighborhood will never be the same.
Today would have been Anton LaVey’s 92nd birthday, my neighbor who I never met…who gave my childhood experience the gift of the most haunted of houses.
Chris Bailey of The Saints Has Passed Away
One of the greatest punk bands of all time…bar none…were The Saints. Their first two records on Sire: Chris Bailey’s angry, melodic voice burst through Ed Kuepper’s razor blade guitar onslaught with incredible songs like This Perfect Day, (I’m) Stranded and Know Your Product. Chris Bailey’s voice was like no other. RIP.
The greatest 'lost tapes' ever found?
“An independent record label is releasing previously unheard tracks by David Bowie and Marc Bolan – all produced by Joe Meek…”. The sentence that sits atop of this article just blew my mind. The iconic spaced-out producer Joe Meek….David Bowie….Marc Bolan…unreleased…I AM IN. And the writer goes on from there with details. This MIGHT be the greatest lost tapes ever found!
Top 30 Most Expensive Items Sold on Discogs in February 2022
This month’s list is filled with punk and psych gems that have made the rounds in collectors circle’s for years. I have owned a reissue of the self-titles Mirkwood, whose original took the most expensive slot of the month…for $6480. Damn.
The Mysterious Man Who Built (and Then Lost) Little Tokyo
This is a great piece of investigative journalism by Robert Simonson about Tony Yoshida…who supposedly was the muse behind John Belushi’s Saturday Night Live samurai persona. Yoshida’s story is an incredible read enveloped in a great slice of New York history….
How Odetta Revolutionized Folk Music
I will never forget that moment at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass when a withered Odetta took the stage for the final time, days before her passing, showcasing a voice that still displayed its power, its wisdom. This is a great article by Sasha Frere-Jones.
GUGGENHEIM ANNOUNCES 2022 FELLOWSHIP RECIPIENTS
“The Guggenheim Foundation on April 7 revealed the 180 recipients of its 2022 fellowships. Those awarded the coveted honor include painters, filmmakers, photographers, writers, academics, scientists, engineers, historians, and mathematicians. Of note, a number of fellows are involved with projects directly responding to issues including climate change, pandemics, Russia, feminism, identity, and racism.”
Library of Congress Magazine - March/April 2022
As mentioned before on The Signal, the Library of Congress puts out an incredible newsletter where they write articles based on research around their collection. This edition includes an article on Abraham Lincoln’s grammar book as well as a dive into the work of the National Recording Registry which “recognizes technical, artistic and cultural achievement and comprises an incredible array of aural treasures beautifully reflecting the soundscape of America.” There are great discoveries to be made within the choices of the registry, as well as old friends to reconnect with.
The Garden
By: Mark Strand
It shines in the garden,
in the white foliage of the chestnut tree,
in the brim of my father's hat
as he walks on the gravel.
In the garden suspended in time
my mother sits in a redwood chair:
light fills the sky,
the folds of her dress,
the roses tangled beside her.
And when my father bends
to whisper in her ear,
when they rise to leave
and the swallows dart
and the moon and stars
have drifted off together, it shines.
Even as you lean over this page,
late and alone, it shines: even now
in the moment before it disappears.
