Saturday, December 30, 2006

Hardest & Littlest Man in Showbiz

Yes, he gets up at 5:00 AM and spends the entire day in constant movement and spontaneous (and as yet never before seen) dance moves, as his body actually seems to stumble across the floor in a manner many say he acquired from his drunken wino father. His fans lie in an awe inspired stupor as he lays hands on their tortured souls and calls forth the blessings and incantations he has has learned while his father lies snoring on a couch with a religous station on TV and no remote within reach. He still finds his comfort in a bottle, even though his mother is concerned he will follow his father's path of inebreated and mindless bantor about things no one seems to care about except for a few elitist boomers who should be doing something else at their jobs, but instead find amusement in this forum.

Friday, December 29, 2006

I'm experimenting here..
Some James Brown and a bunch of white kids.....

Thursday, December 28, 2006

The Hardest working Man in Showbiz

C'mon Chas , look at that statement- "James Brown was the most overrated singer/entertainer ever, and tis' B-sides were betterthan the best thing JB ever did", it's just like the punky know-it-all in the schoolyard who's gotta tell you that black is blue or the erath is flat, just to rev up a debate. Sure Otis was transcendent and had a whole lot better material and did indeed put on one hell of a live show but JB, in all of his egofied glory, had, by all accounts, perhaps the best stage show evuh (without JB there would be no Mick or Prince), an extremely tight band that pushed the music to an extreme towards pure, unadulterated rhythm, and his amazing unknown-tounge barrage of yelps, screams, and surreal hipster slang was as unique as anythang any jazz lead vocalist ever came up with--essentially making his vocal asides slound like another instrument, like a bleating, blaring, raging horn. Sure James was as dumbas a rock in many ways (last year's Rolling Stone story was comically sad), as the second half of his career clearly proved, but his instincts were uncanny, as wis his impeccable sense of style, hiis hall-of-fame hairstyle, and his civil-rights era sensibility (no one, not even the sublime Curtis Mayfield, managed to put it out there better than "say it loud, I'm black and I'm proud"). The contemporary JB was but a shadow of his former self, and his drug and marital side stories were as funny as they were pitiful, and he, like Little Richard, Chuck Berry, and Bo Diddley couldn't seem to muster up the songwriting magic after his initial (and extended) fertile period (Whose to say that Otis, deprived of his Stax band mates and fellow songwriters might not have turned into another Aaron Neville?), but I caught JB (with Maceo Parker)at Brown U ten or so years ago and he could sweep you up onto the night train. JB was always in a world all his own (like many of our creative heroes, a world comprised of stubborn pride, blatant ignorance, a huge showbiz heart and soul, and a maniacal conviction that everything he did, or said, or sung, or danced, or even thought was absolutely right on--that's why he's an American music original, as brilliant and important and distinctive as Jimi henmdrix, Bob Dylan, or Frank Sinatra.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

james brown, r.i.p.

my first real ownership of james brown music came by way of the who, who covered both "i don't mind," and 'please, please, please," in 1965 on my generation. after that, i had intermittent interest because i was a dolt when it came to soul music until otis redding. otis, sam and dave, booket t. and the mg's, memphis soul, not motown or james, opened the door for me. but i knew "i got you" and "papa's got a brand new bag," and loved the cape thing on the sullivan show. later, papa don't take no mess, part one. maybe my favorite. however, as has already been observed, for all his musical genius he was tasteless and self-destructive, and lately, at a quick glance, condoleezza rice has been reminding me of j.b. around the time of 'living in america.'
w (barely sentient) c
p.s. got a thunderclap newman cd for christmas (hollywood dream--maybe their only one) and i love it. any speedy keen fans about?

Monday, December 25, 2006

Historic RI shows

Truly enjoyed going through, before deletion, all these thoughtful and humorous entries to our Our Online Rock and Roll Seminar Part 1, and want to wish everbuddy a cool Yule and a thanks for weighing in.Gotta little XMAS present for you all---my top five live musical memories on RI soil. Been to more gigs than I can remember, all over this country, from my first evuh(Ten Years After and Humble Pie at the RI Aud, somewhere around 1970-72), to my most memorable (hitchhiked to NYC to catch Idiot/Lust for Life Iggy with Bowie on keyboards and ist lp Blondie opening), to the coolest (Mink Deville/Petty circa 1st lps, double bill at the Paradise), to the biggest surprise (Dirty Mind era Prince is some huge club, maybe Axis, on Lansdowne St), to the most sublime (Susan Cowsill and the strikingly lovely Vicki Peterson with assorted Continental Drifter guests at some tiny upstairs club in New Orleans), to the most inexplicable (Chequered Past, a punk so-called supergroup with Clem Burke,Steve Jones,Tony Sales, Nigel Harrison and -gulp-Michael Des Barres at the Whiskey-a Go-Go).

Anyway here goes, and, although in my past I was often impaired by drugs or alcohol a magical elixir of both, I'll still match my memory with any youse Mr. or Mrs. Robotos.

Top Five Best Live Rock and Roll Moments Evuh Witnessed on Rhode Island Soil, by Scott Duhamel (Confirmed Master of PopCult History and adjunct Professor at the Whizbang School of Musicology)

5. Hawkwind, Wishbone Ash, and Jo Jo Gunne performing a group jam/encore of "Puff the Magic Dragon", Brown Spring Weekend 1973. Truly, dearly, mind boggling and soul shaking.

4.BB King, digging into a bowl of cornflakes and swallowing 'em down, yanking a kazoo outta the cereal box, and exchanging solos with special guest Scott Hamilton during "Love the One Your With", Warwick Tent, 1980. Jizzy jazz and blues poetry at its most sublime.

3. Bette Midler and Gwen Stefani slathering each other's breasts with some sorta holiday jello during their spirited duet on "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen", The Very Merry Christmas Revue, The Veteran's Auditorium , 2004.The showbiz at its best, entertainment absolutely defined.

2. Art Garfunkle, accompanied by Al DiMeola and that long-haired sax guy from Billy Joel, reading excerpts from Tristam Shandy, Kiss Me Deadly, and Richard Hell's poetry, Providence Performing Arts Center, 1992. The ultimate, no doubt about it, in spoken word performing.

1. Sting, in a blue velvet diaper and nothing else, backed by the Blind Boys of Alabama, who, while singing background vocals on a transcendent cover of "Gotta Serve Somebody" attempted a barrage of whip-cream pie throwing directed at Sting's diapered ass, Stateof RI Art Council Annual Fete, The Rhode Island State House, 1998. Sting proved once again that he's an even better live-performer than The Boss, and I get goose bumps thinking about it to this very day, and I sincerely wish that all you likeminded souls where there with me, only then would you truly understand what art can be.

album covers

More covers for your listening entertainment

album covers

a bit of graphic design genius to cheer up your holiday festivities. that's right, bad album covers again. i can never get enough of these. my condolences to anyone whose favorite bands might be featured in this selection of ohmygodthat'ssoawfulwhatwheretheythinking covers.

..more memories

Wayne C
it's been established that reg presley and the troggs (reg lives comfortably off the royalties of love is all around, i hope) played the east providence heritage festival. i want to add this eyewitness account. after a somewhat palatable billy j. Kramer and the searchers, who were apt, professional, played the hits, the troggs came out before some configuration that included eric burdon.
he troggs did not know where they were (and that's a good thing). clam cakes, chowdah, the flying wallendas, a booth to raise money for the restoration of ponham light. fook no! the troggs came on like in the hall of the mountain king to the wee laddie afternoon of the foolkn' faun searchers.
i can't contol myself!!!!???? children hid behind their mother's skirts and crawled under lawn chairs. the beer line walked away and tried to rush the stage. it was raucous, awful and lovely!
i vaguely remember eric burdon that night and i love the guy. he did all day music...nothing else coming up. no sky pilot or san franciscan nights.
monkees yeah. we couldn't have the beatles very week but we could have mickey, pete, mike and davey. my older brother and i dug the first record, pleasant valley sunday and some ripper that mickey dolenz did (help me here). it rivalled i'm down in our estimation.


Culture Vulture
Just watched Head, the Monkees feature film (scripted by Jack Nicholson and directed by Bob Rafelson) on cable last week. As a kid I enjoyed the Marx Bros/Three Stooges riffing on the extremly cartoonish show, had a batch of thier singles, and thought Peter Tork was the coolest. As an adult, very much dig the Boyce and Hart, Coffin/King, Neil Diamond stuff and can now ignore the first class session musicians who were a sin then, but hindsight tells us some of the same guys played all over Beach Boys, Turtles, and at least the first Bryds record.Saw Reg and the Troggs at Lupo's, they were unexpectedly valid- streamlined and raw."I Can't Control Myself" was and is a classic prop-punk tune. Saw a strange gig (in Newport maybe) that combinedthe raw talents of Eric Burdon and the MC5's Wayne Kramer, speaking of whom,was part of one of my undoubtedly top five gigs of all time-- Johnny Thunders/Wayner Kramer at the punk joint in Newport, one of the few post-Doll's times Johnny ever rose to the occassion (I saw him at least a1/2 dozen times in different mutations) and I can still remember a Tony Lioce PROJO review raving about the gig. Hey, can one of you internet heads locate that piece?

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Culture Vulture Time #6

October 2006

The Shakiest Head in the West

Is there a more Pavolian sound known to the American public than the ching-chang of TV’s Law & Order? Like most of our huddled-in-front-of the-TV-glow masses have watched every permutation of the show and it’s respective spin-offs endlessly, aimlessly, and inordinately. I watched squirrelly Mikey Moriarty, Deer Hunter-guy George Dzunda, cool daddy Jerry Orbach, pin-up boy Benjie Bratt, and Chicago toughie Dennis Farina all go through their paces, artfully tossing ironic one-liners and arching their eyebrows over enough stiffs that they could be laid side-buy-side in two Superdomes. Still, when all is said and done, I cannot remove my eyes from the one-and-only spooky tooth ongoing televised performance art courtesy of Vincent D’Onofrio as Detective Robert Goren in Law & Order: Criminal Intent. D’Onofrio, who responsible for two outstandingly memorable high wire acts, as Private Pyle in Stanley Kubrick’s 1987 Full Metal jacket, and as John Lange (aka the guy stuck in the subway tracks) in Homicide: Life on the Street’s justifiably infamous 1997 episode “The Subway.” Vincent (you just couldn’t call this guy Vinnie) D is full tilt boogie out-of-control as he bends and dips and shakes his big rock-like head throughout each week’s newest crime. He out-tics Christopher Walken, out-lip-licks Marlon Brando, out-barks Al Pacino, out-stage-whispers Jack Nicholson, out-eyebrow-furrows Judd Nelson, out-grimaces Bruce Dern, out –herkyjerks Johnny Depp, out-pantomimes Harold Lloyd, out-eye- pops Klaus Kinski, and he does it all in the downright strangest, scariest, self imploding, self-contained way possible, all the while reducing his melted Barbie Doll partner Kathryn Erbe to the straightest of straight man, making her so unnecessary she could be replaced with a blank screen filled up with her simple, responsive dialogue. I developed my own personal exercise program, and because of it I’m getting into Charles Atlas-like shape. When he tilts over sideways I tilt, when he whips his big neck around I whip, when he points his thick elongated figures I point, when he drops another thoroughly inappropriate bit of gesticulation into his L&W dialogue I gesticulate, when his ever clear eyes bead up or pop out I bead and pop right with my man. If you dig acting, exercise, or glazed ham please tune in, cuz you be absolutely unable to turn out.

My Consciousness is Diminishing But My Midriff is Expanding

In a highly contemplative mood the other day, exploring my own reality and the all- engulfing environment around me while quietly urinating, I noted, with great alarm, that I could barely glimpse my own member. I started to panic, think that, having hit the fifty-year mark, that maybe it was shrinking, maybe that ain’t no urban myth. Or possible my already atrocious nearsightedness was mutating into farsightedness. Or, maybe after all these years, I was leaning the wrong way, an effect no doubt cause by years of consistent inebriation and all around drug taking. Nope. No way. Not for an Onleyville minute. It was my stomach. My Own Gut! My middle-aged potbelly transfiguring into something wider, larger, rounder, bigger, heavier, more rotund, an ever-expanding mid-life spread bent on attacking my ego, my well being, and the very ability to check out my own shit. As a rabid and slightly overzealous pop cultural maven my desperate thoughts began to search for a fatty or two I might seek solace in as role models, as newfound personal tokens, as the kinda guy I might very well be on my way to becoming. There was no real life fatty buds to relate to, no one I could think of to wolf down some double cheeseburgers and discuss elastic waist bands with so I mentally chalked up the Porker Hall of Famers/ Male Division—Babe Ruth, Jackie Gleason, mid-life Orson Welles, late Elvis, Fatty Arbuckle, Fats Domino, Solomon Burke, Oliver Hardy, Haystack Calhoun, Biggie Smalls, Marlon Brando, Homer Simpson, John Candy, Chris Farley, John Belushi, Luciano Pavarotti, Sydney Greenstreet, Raymond Burr, Henry VIII, William Howard Taft, Teddy Roosevelt, Charles Laughton, Alfred Hitchcock, Lou Costello, Meatloaf, William Conrad, John Goodman, Luther Vandross, Jack Black, Mao Zadong, and Ron Jeremy. Two notions struck me immediately: (A) All these puff daddies had talent, power, or comedic abilities, and I have none. (B) There is not a country & western singer among them. It’s obvious then, truly obvious, that I’d better lose some weight soon or else don a cowboy hat and write a coupla quick ditties about cheating on my dog and kicking my wife back home on the range near the lone star state in the dewy morn at the local bar after the hangover before the next deep-in-the gut drink while I’m running from the taxman and hoping America’s still got it right so I can share some prime rib with a vet without a leg while I’m burning down the lonely highway in search of true blue love and just one more booze-swallow while dead men sing ghosts songs and my horse stands tall in the shiny sun where men have sturdy backbones and woman stretch long legs and everybuddy remembers the Alamo.

Cool Daddio

Any cineaste worthy of his or her horn-rimmed specs has to have their Top Ten
Directorial List ready for immediate discussion, erudition, and extended delineation at the mere mention of Citizen Kane, the use of the high angle in Hitchcock, the non-westerns of John Ford, or exactly which films Quentin T has directly lifted from. If there was another Directorial List, one just called The Coolest Directors Of All Time, there could, should and would have to be one guy at the tippity-top, no bones, no debate, no second choices, it would have to be John Cassavetes, King of the American Indie film, and one-of-a-kind director/actor/writer/producer/distributor. Marshall Fine (author of two well-done previous film books about Sam Peckinpah and Harvey Keitel) has written the definitive biography so far of Cassavetes, entitled Accidental Genius: How John Cassavetes Invented the American Independent Film (Miramax, 482 pp., illustrated, $27.95.) Cassavetes, a raffish Greek-American college dropout, managed to craft a ragged batch of truly original films, featuring a rough-edged repertory company (most notably including Seymour Cassel, Ben Gazzara, Peter Falk, and wife Gena Rowlands), largely self-financed, and all made on the high-level fumes of improvisation, harsh reality, middle-class disaffection, boozy dreams and acidic laughter. While Johnny Boy often hit the acting heights (his own TV show, Johnny Staccato, or memorable movies like Rosemary’s Baby, The Dirty Dozen or The Tempest) his true obsession was making movies and he kept at it despite the frequent critical drubbings and financial failures, stamping each one with his indelible personality and brash inventiveness. His is a left-of-Hollywood story worth reading for film maven who plans to participate in the next barstool movie-movie yadda-yadda debate.

Confessions of a Labor Kingpin

Human nature just ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. When you become, in effect, a responsible party for (a) finding union members work and (b) finding contractors the right members for the right job, you’re gonna get yer bell rung. Repeatedly. Example A: After nearly two years of debating with Mr. Biggie Contractor about the merits of utilizing apprentices he finally gives in. I send the bright young apprentice to Mr. Biggie first, 6:30 am on a Friday morn, then the spotlight kid comes to my office and I explain to him how much his performance means to me and, yup, the very union itself, heading home for the weekend feeling extremely self-satisfied. Monday morning 7:20 am, Mr. Biggie on the phone, “ The apprentice didn’t show up, that’s why I don’t like apprentices, that’s why I don’t use apprentices, that’s why I will NEVER use an apprentice”, an in yer face I-Told-You-So that caused me to sweep every bit of paperwork off my desk while my stomach got an early start for yet another ulcerated week. Example B: Send Hyperactive Jiminy Cricket member to job with one the easier contractors (i.e. the work pace and type of work), he leaves job during lunch without even cleaning up his tools or materials and leaves me a message that is uniquely formal and uniquely non-sensical: “Thank you for getting me a job, but I have to inform you that I think that companies goals are highly unrealistic and I am choosing not to attempt to match up to them.” Remember now, this is painting, not rocket science. Example C: A taper (or drywall finisher) we shall call Willie calls to inform he’s just gotten laid off from Company Z. Me, “That’s a little odd, they have a ton of work, is there anything I should know?” Willie, “No.” Me, “Are you sure nothing went down, just between you and I, I need to know.” Willie “Well…” Me, “Yes…” Willie, “Well, I’ve been living with a hooker.” Me, “What’s that got to do with it?” Willie, “Well, she was taking care of some of the carpenters.” Me, “Huh?” Willie, “But, Scott, it wasn’t on the job.” Me (to myself) “I wonder if I can get a job as a baker or maybe a male nurse…”

Pure Fidelity

Who would have thunk it? Frank Portman, the whack-a-do behind cult rockers The Mr. T Experience (spawned from the same Berkeley, Ca. scene as Green Day, and around just as long) has written a debut novel that is receiving a heap of critical kudos and selling quite briskly. King Dork (Delacorte, 344 pp., $16.95) Simply the best rock and roll themed novel since Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity (or Bill Flanagan’s A & R and Kevin Sampson’s Powder), yet also a teen novel disguised as a detective story, a hilarious insightful riff on dorkdom, teenage angst, rock and roll infatuation, and the rare piece of fiction that is literally laugh-out-loud funny. The hilarious (but affecting) tale follows high-schooler Tom Henderson (the self-acclaimed King Dork of the title) as he dodges the psychological spitballs sent in his direction but the majority of the student body, struggling with the mystery and hurt of his father’s death, exploring the pangs of adolescent sexuality, and mostly hanging out in his bedroom with best dorkpal, creating imaginary bands, song titles, and album art. (A few examples: Ray Bradbury’s Love Camel /lp-Prepare to Die, The Underpants Machine /lp-We Will Bury You, The Nancy Wheelers /lp-Margaret? It’s God. Please Shut Up.) One of the book’s running themes is protagonist’s disdain for the way Catcher In The Rye is shoved down the throat of every youthful reader as the ultimate teen/rebel/literary experience, yet King Dork itself wryly celebrates Salinger’s pivotal work. The tale culminates with a pentimulate rock and roll performance, multiple mysteries solved, a bully-delivered beat down, and a main figure who truly comes-of-age, and Portman’s offbeat approach (the story comically circles around itself, with dorky Tom’s self-conscious first person narration serving as both an authorial eyewink and the witty voice of a teen wunderkind) is vastly entertaining.

It’s A Hard, Hard, Hard World

At the height of my post adolescent movie-movie addiction years I did my best to repeatedly thumb through my totemic copy of Andrew Sarris’ The America Cinema, digesting his thought-provoking rankings of directorial prowess and doing my darnedest to check off each filmmaker’s body of work any which way that I could—midnight screenings, campus screenings, classroom screenings, late night TV, video rentals. Among my new discoveries, the three directors I felt most passionate about were Sam Fuller, Robert Aldrich and Don Siegel. All men’s man, with an eye for action that somehow went hand-in-hand with character development, all three largely made lean, no-nonsense, straight-edged (even pulpy) movies, devoid of melodrama and drained of color. Somehow, until recently, I never caught up with Siegel’s much talked about and little seen 1964 The Killers, largely known as the repository of Ronnie Reagan’s last screen appearance. It’s a vivid and quick sketch of a film, a California noir shot in dusty sunlight, centering around a batch of guys with angular physiques, crispy business suits, healthy tufts of hair, and enough shades to go around for everybuddy. Of course, it also offers the singularly attractive Angie Dickinson as a femme fatale, drawing skinny puppy John Cassavetes into a web of deceit and lust. Clu Galager and Lee Marvin are the two hoods on the hunt for Cassavetes, and eventually out for his back-story, as the movie (like the equally well done Robert Siodmak 1946 film of the same name featuring Burt Lancaster) is drawn from one of Hemingway’s well-known bits of short fiction. Siegel’s usual sturdy characteristics are splendidly on display—overhead shots that spell out the action with a quiet flair, a 60’s malaise that so permeates the goings on that it almost acts as an unwritten subplot, and an air of easy brutality that continually punctuates the relatively low-key storytelling. It’s a masterful example of a workmanlike American filmmaker doing his job succinctly, professionally, yet still allowing his vision to peak through the surface. On top of it, ya got Ronnie-as-bad-guy eventually going one-on-one with Lee Marvin’s eyes, a battle that shouldn’t be ignored.

Every Once In a While Even I Dig America

This September saw my first pilgrimage to Cooperstown, New York and the Baseball Hall of Fame. As a lifetime baseball fan I was totally swept up in the magical air of the surroundings; rapturously examining the stats, memorabilia, and yeah, the very essences of such wonderfully evocative names and imprimaturs as Yaz, The Spendid Splinter, The Say-Hey Kid, Stan the Man, Cool Papa Bell, The Bambino, and Jackie Robinson. After a full day lurking with the in the shadows and amongst the ghosts of our truly grand national pastime I lit out for another dose of Bob Dylan’s endless tour, taking place in the historical confines of Doubleday Field. Cowboy Bob (rather than Gypsy Bob, or Woodstock Bob, or Hipster Bob, or Pirate Bob, or Hobo Bob, or Carnival Bob, or Neil Diamond Bob, or Mime Bob) looking dour and austere under the twilight, delivered a beautiful acidic version of Simple Twist of fate, a thunderous Cold Irons Bound, a lively and lovely Lonesome Day Blues, a sinewy and hypnotic Blind Willie McTell, and a surprisingly rocking (and crowd pleasing) encore of Like a Rolling Stone all the while posing like the missing visage of Mt. Rushmore, with his well-tailored band performing flecklessly and adroitly around him. The night plunged on deeper and darker, the rainy mist fell steadily like another mystical accompanist, and, for a hour or two, I could really believe in the promise and the spirit of America, a place rich and fertile enough to lay the seeds for the impeccable sport and captivating history of baseball, and also a place where Bobby D can stand front and center, channeling the styles, tongues, and words of the musical past while summoning up the magical powers of his own extraordinary personal vision. Take me out to THAT ballgame, jack.

Mickey Spillane, He Had It Down
(Excerpted from the NY Times, “Word for Word”, 7-23-06)

“She was standing by the information booth tall and cool-looking, in a light gray suit that made the black of her hair seem even deeper. Luscious. Clothes couldn’t hide it. Seductive. They didn’t try to hide it either.” The Big Kill, 1951

“The body on the floor was still leaking blood that soaked into the carpet and all I could think was that the next time I’d get a rug to match the stains and save the cleaning costs.” Survival Zero, 1970

“God, but it was fun! It was the way I liked it. No arguing, no talking to the stupid peasants. I just walked into that room with a tommy gun and shot their guts out.” One Lonely Night, 1951

“It was Monday again, a rainy, dreary Monday that was a huge wet muffler draped over the land. I watched it through the window and felt the taste of it in my mouth.” Kiss Me Deadly, 1952
Culture Vulture

Certain music, specific groups and some periods of an artist seem almost too colored by time, often imbuing the stuff with added personal weight, and thus making it stand higher and stronger in yer own personal listings. At the same time, the specific style, the politics, the sound, can be dragged down by too close identification with a dated genre, or a genre that wound up bloated or dissipated or (always the worse) watered down. Will anybuddy ever do the pyschobilly thang better, livelier, and funnier than the Cramps? Why do Grin and the first coupla Nils Lorgren offerings or the first 4 Alice Cooper lps stand up while Bad Company (who had one of the coolest geetar guys evah-Mick Ralphs), or the James Gang, or Joe Jackson, or John Entwhistle's solo stuff all sound too obvious, too stupid, or too inconsequential? Why do solid songwriters (and rockers) like John Hiatt or Graham Parker seem to have hit a peak then nothing, while a guy like Lou Reed still makes a great record every coupla efforts? Did Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Bo Diddley, and Jerry Lee all have one fertile period inflamed by commerce (i.e. they sold what they were writing) and then all turn into classic, one-of-a-kind performers who purty much never wrote a decent three minutes again? Why does the sometime pre-mature, possibly infantile, often crude, obviously borrowed, early sounds of people like The Kinks, The Stooges, The Ramones, The Stones, The Velvets sound so continually rich, fresh, and deep they they've somehow never fallen of most of our personal lists and so many other have? By the way-always loved, still adore, it gives me the chills, the strange Super session "Season of the Witch" even though I always though (and still do) that stephen Stills is a fat walrus bastard and the Son of Satan?
Eric F

okay, i'm in on a saturday night, and waxing poetic for a bit. been thinking about the vagaries of style and taste that change or mature over the years. nothing like discovering new music, whether it's new stuff or old stuff (that for reasons unknown loitered beyond my consciousness) but the old stuff is still always welcome. but i'm not a nostalgia kinda guy. can't stand these over-hyped, over-priced reunion tours that are trying to sell material the most recent of which is 30 years old or more. but i surprised myself by going to see roger waters last october. since i never saw pink floyd, i figured it was make-up time. and man it was great. but the tickets were free, and i never woulda gone if i had to cough it up.

funny, i seem to burn out on many groups after they've been around awhile. i can still listen to (and love) the first three or four albums by traffic, tull, santana, zeppelin, elton, ELO, eagles, traffic, moody blues, the airplane, spirit, rod stewart (solo), jackson browne, cat stevens. maybe the first 5 or 6 by the animals, steely dan, talking heads, bob marley, roxy music, graham parker, elvis costello, bowie. and then it starts to wear thin, and i need something or someone else to get it going for me. new blood for the old ceremony, so to speak.

i can take middle period beach boys more than their early stuff now. rarely ever listen to the beatles pre-revolver anymore. the stones lost me after some girls, fleetwood mac after rumours. the who haven't done anything worthwhile since by numbers (i haven't heard the new one yet), and i haven't summoned the courage to once again listen to any kinks post-muswell hillbillies (though i've been on an early kinks jag for several weeks now). nick drake and jimi after ... oh, that's right ...nevermind.

but sometimes someone sticks, from beginning to end: dylan, cash, hank, springsteen, neil young, richard thompson, and eno (roxy, ambient, vocal, producer, whatever - his newest is another hidden gem) come to mind . and though lou reed (solo) is another in the first 3 or 4 album-category, john cale is a beginning-to-end guy. and i haven't grown tired yet of my waterboys library, of which i have almost everything. and there are others approaching this coveted distinction, though time will tell whether they last. pixies did. pogues with shane did. clash did. patti smith, peter gabriel, tom waits, lucinda ... time will tell. U2 and REM? jury's still out there, but for most of 25 years they have for me.

van morrison. another that i'd put in to the beginning to almost-end category. i think i'll be listening to his stuff, from Them to about the mid-nineties, till the day i die. but god help me, i just can't digest most of what he's done since. am i not growing old fast enough?

and itunes? yeah, scott, i've become an itunes junkie (for cataloging, finding and playing), though i usually download from other, less expensive sources, such as legalsounds, emusic, my own or a benevelont friend's library (you there wayne?). even that's not enough. i've taken to digitizing my old vinyl and tapes. recently burnt a Kevin Ayers compilation, Kinky Friedman's first, Mink deVille's first two, and The Great Lost Kinks Album to cd. classics all.

and one more thought thrown out: someone's who i wasn't even aware of when he was alive, but now find his stuff to be simply amazing: townes van zandt, beginning to untimely end.
and alejandro escovedo? i knew not a whit of him beforehand, but it's been about a year and a half since i saw him on stage with john cale in austin, and i'm still amazed discovering the breadth his oeuvre.

actually, i'd probably still listen to vanilla fudge if i had it. truth be told, i do have 'season of the witch' on an old mixed tape that i just might have to dig up and dust off. the power of suggestion, wot?
Anonymous 1

Hey, I bought Near The Beginning on CD and still thing their version of “Shotgun” is great and their completely overindulgent “Break Song” w/all the individual solos is @ least as good as any of the 20+ minute Cream or Led Zep live songs are.

Bob G
Come on, Humble Pie live at the Fillmore was alright. Your dead on about Beck, Bogart & Appice live...had always heard Carmine was good, but when I heard him live I was inspired to seek him out and take lessons. However on recordings, it just didn't happen. I do remember Carmine drumming and singing (yeah, was Beck gonna do it?) "I'm So Proud" and really digging it. Who originally did that tune anyway? Also saw Tony Sales sing it when Tin Machine played the Campus Club and thought he nailed it. Plus brother Hunt on drums...the original R&R swing drummer (along with Dino Danelli I guess)...and you know, where would Carnival Cruiseline commercials be without Soupy's sons?

and has anyone heard 'season of the witch' lately. oh my god. it's so bad, but not bad enough to be good, if you know what i mean. try it. i dare you to get through the whole 7+ minutes.
Bob G
Come on, Humble Pie live at the Fillmore was alright. Your dead on about Beck, Bogart & Appice live...had always heard Carmine was good, but when I heard him live I was inspired to seek him out and take lessons. However on recordings, it just didn't happen. I do remember Carmine drumming and singing (yeah, was Beck gonna do it?) "I'm So Proud" and really digging it. Who originally did that tune anyway? Also saw Tony Sales sing it when Tin Machine played the Campus Club and thought he nailed it. Plus brother Hunt on drums...the original R&R swing drummer (along with Dino Danelli I guess)...and you know, where would Carnival Cruiseline commercials be without Soupy's sons?
Mark D
Okay I'll play

My list looks like Mr. K's and Mr G's a bit

Over the top overwrought, overplayed, head bobbing white boy I
can't dance to this even if you point a gun at my balls thank god:

Mahavishnu Orchestra
I want to add Weather Report but I still like Weather Report even
though I listened to that album all by myself in Charlestown 2.8
million times
Supergroup Beck, Bogart, Appice and all other supergroups and even
though it was perhaps the best live performance I'd ever seen and
maybe ever will see; Humble Pie

Stuff I resisted but now embrace like every other aging post punk
pop motherfucker:

Sinatra, Dino, Davis, Como, Prima, and yes even Tom Jones which made
me wanna puke as a kid but seems cool now that I'm old

Dylan - for some reason never got into it even though I owned Dylan
albums all along - I guess I felt obligated to own them but never
listened until recently

Beach Boys - could care less about that smooth and happy sound in
adolescence but discovered the depth and richness in maturity.
Bob G
I still like 16 Questions by Seatrain...but the lyrics are pretty lame...."deep in the darkest hour of a very dreary week; three earth men did confront me and I could hardly speak"...pretty sure that's what they were saying, but the gist of it is, they were morons.
John K
Watched great shows on Johnny Cash and Ray Davies last
nite. If you guys don't get Ovation, call your cable
company and ask. Yes Scott, soon to be a show on ABBA!
John H
i like the TJB/Baja Marimba, Beatles/Stones comparison. i think i still have a worn out copy of The Lonely Bull somewhere. and when i brag that my first 'real' R&R concert was the Stones at Boston Garden in the fall of '68 (the Ya-Ya's were out!), i usually fail to mention I had seen Herb and the boys there the previous spring. whowouldathunkit?
Mark C
Grand Funk Railroad - I bought E Pluribus Funk cuz I thought the Coin record cover was cool
I Like Steely Dan up til Katy Lied (sorry, still like Boston Rag and Rikki Don't Lose that Number among others)
I bought an Elliot Randall solo album cuz he played the solo on Reelin in the Years...should have stayed with Reelin in the Years...the album positively sucked even to my little teen age ears
Peter Frampton - Dooby Wah?? Yikes....The anti Shakespeare.
John K
Rehashing a lot of what's been said:
Music currently playing in my Hell
Pink Floyd
Grand Funk

As a kid I blamed Lennon for the break-up so I ignored
him and bought McCartney albums-Shame of Shame I owned
Ram-Could not be more bubblegum if The Archies had
done it. Meanwhile Lennon was writing much better
music-Jealous Guy is in my all-time top 10. (covered
by The Faces and Roxy Music very well)
Yes, Chas I like Roxy!!

Ignored country as a kid and think that today's
country is nothing but Pop. Haggard, Cash, Hank
Williams Sr, Patsy Kline are all appreciated now.
Actually had 2 covers of Singin' The Blues. Dave
Edmunds and The Infamous Black Oak Arkansas (Owned way
too many records as a kid)

Couple of albums for old time country and folk music;
Arlo Guthrie's Hobo's Lullabye
Mike Ness's Cheating at Solitaire.
Mike Ness and Springsteen doing country together-Who
saw that one coming??
Culture Vulture

Somewhat Defensible 1 lp Purchases (never bought another piece of vinyl by any of 'em): Chicago Transit Authority, In the Court of the Crimson King, Workingman's Dead, 1st Jackson Browne, Dexy's Midnight RunningIrishmen, Pyromania, Dark Side of the Moon, Johnny Winter And Live

Critical Darlings I Just Don't Get--Richard Thompson (It all feels like stale ale), Frank Zappa (adore the first few Mother's lps, tolerate the Flo & Eddie period, despise the collegiate humor and guitar noodlings and fake jazz hackery that came after at), Allman Brothers (Every song goes down the road forever, hate double drummers, Dickie Betts is far too redneck, Duane bit the dust, Greg's a nearly comatose presence and singer, and Ronnie Van Zandt wrote way better songs)

Yeah I Bought Because, Well You Had To, But I Never Really Listened: Eno's wallpaper muzak, Joni' Mitchell's Pissing on Summer Lawns and Into My Ears, Sex Pistols ( sure they had the attitude and the fashion down, but the record remains a punk pastiche, and The Clash did it all better (along with the attitude and fashion) the Ramones truly believed and had humor, and Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers did all of the above and also had one of those much-loved historic flameouts on par with the Pistols)
Bob G
I forgot the ones I didn't get but love now:
The Beach Boys...hated them for; two words: Teenage Mozart
Johnny Cash...because besides Glen Campbell ( & Jimmy Webb) I thought all country was shit kicker music and sucked.
Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin...what can I say? It was Dad's Beatles.
Mike T
Category #1
1. Blood, Sweat and Tears (with, god forbid, David Clayon Thomas). I loved Bs&T (Spinnin' Wheel, etc.) and BS&T3 and even 4. I am so ashamed.
2. Whitesnake "Is This Love?" Not only was a writhing Tawny Kitaen in the video remarkable, but I actually dug the song's chord changes and hook. Boy! was I wrong.
3. Steely Dan. Even though everyone loves to hate them, it's still a guilty pleasure for me. "Reelin' in the Years" doesn't hold up, I'll admit, but listen to the solos on "Rikki, Don't Lose that Number" and Larry Carlton's solo on "Third World Man," and you might just understand.

Category #2
1. Nick Drake. When the guy across the hall in college showed me his Nick Drake and Gram Parsons lp's I though they were both fags. I listened to Neil Young, Tom Rush, Gordon Lightfoot, Steve Goodman and John Prine and thought I was the balls. Needelss to say, he scored all the beautiful arty chicks, and I practiced my guitar alone. A lot.
2. Rush. I would take three busses and walk twenty blocks in the rain to make fun of a Rush fan back in the day. Pompous, overblown shit. Then I heard a recent live concert, and while I still don't care for Geddy's voice (or lyrics), I have to admire the technical mastery and overall musicianship of Geddy, Neal (or is it Neil) and Alex.
3. The Dead. I saw the Dead a few times in college and always wondered what all the fuss was about. And for years I told the joke... "What does a deadhead say when he runs out of pot? Jeez, this music sucks!" But the other day, I heard "Tennessee Jed" on the radio, and have to admit that "Workingman's Dead" and "American Beauty" are pretty damn good. Fuck the rest of their shit, however. (I feel the same way about "Tumbleweed Connection" and "Madman Across the Water." The rest of the catalog can take a hike.
Bob G

O.K. this is easy...even though I was a NY Dolls/Velvets fan back when I was 13 (my father had a subscription to the Voice and an old Grundig radio that could pick up the math), I still went through this progressive rock period when I thought chops were important and should be spread all over an other words, lots of solo playing in the middle of what is supposed to be a verse, but ends up being a sound-alike Lord of the Rings excerpt.
So I listened to some righteous crap at around 14 to 15...and somewhere in there was Grand Funk Railroad...but we won't even go there.
The best of the worst:
Patrick Moraz: he's the dick head who took over for Rick Wakeman when the tall blond one left Yes
Rick Wakeman...Six Wives of Henry the 8th...a "concept" album. The only thing that woke me out of this stupor was the Sex Pistols...seems old Awake Man was one of the artists responsible for them getting bounced off A&M England and still getting 150,000 quid for their trouble. I laughed when two years later the fool had a heart was my punk phase, so I thought it was funny.
Finally...Tiny Tim's first record. I gotta admit I dug this guy's record at the time. So much so that my Aunt & Uncle took me to see him at his peak at the Tent in Warwick. Ted Nugent and The Amboy Dukes opened up, and the entire season ticket holder section emptied in panic. I learned two things that night...loud, distorted music was way better then a pre-reality television superstar (remember he got married on what was the highest Tonight show rating in history before Carson actually had his last show) and season tickets at the Tent were the way to go. As far as the record, I can still remember the duet he did with himself on a song called..."Daddy, What Is Heaven Like" and sang the son and father parts...sort of like Alice Cooper meets Gomer Pyle.
John H

interesting topic. i like it. i'll weigh in with ...

once loved, but now makes me wince:
1. elton john ... though i still love tumbleweed connection, i cringe at captain fantastic or anything after '72.
2. chicago transit authority (the real name) ... i can still take about 6 songs off their first two albums, but they lost me by Chicago III. i think they're up to Chicago XXX now.
3. the dead. okay, i still listen to workingman's dead, but i never saw them live, nor did i ever want to, and i never owned anything tie-died. was it the lack of acid in my diet?

never could get into, but now can:
1. lyle lovett ... is my feminine side showing?
2. pink floyd ... DSOTM out-charted the Beatles, so i boycotted them till about '96.
3. zz top ... i never got it before, but i can't drive across texas now without a bit of these boys boppin' on the radio. loud. really loud.

Richard R

Nothing wrong with old records- and who am I to say?- but here are three i never need to hear until I go deaf (again):

The Doors

inexplicably turned up instead of off:

If You Could Read My Mind - Gordon Lightweight
Behind Closed Doors - Charlie "Jack" Rich
I Just Called to Say I Love You - Stevie Wonderfullness' first finagle

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go check my shit for corn...
Mark C

Loved then and still love
Glen Campbell- Witchita Lineman
Carpenters - Close to You
Al Wilson - Show and Tell

Didn't dig then- dig now-
Tom Jones
Barry White
Tits O'Toole
Tommy Roe
Culture Vulture

Here's the rock and roll quiz question for our newest forum--List three guilty pleasures that you (in your misspent, uneducated youth) adored, but in reality they've become virtually unlistenable. On the other hand, who, in yer early, don't-tell-me-I'm-a-popular music-connoisseur, wound up being near the top of your ever-maturing personal charts. For me, I once puppy loved, but no longer can defend: (1)Ten Years After, (2) Rick Derringer,(3) the Lou Reed Rock and Roll Animal configuration (Dick Wagner/ Steve Hunter), and once sneered at but now adore: (1) Hank Williams (Sr.) (2) Tommy James and The Shondells, (3) Donovan. Lay it on us, and play it straight.