Bar Talk # 8

Overheard Friday Night (6-8-12) at Nick-A-Nees,
Providence, Rhode Island
(Purty much reported as close to verbatim as possible.)


He’s the kind of guy who is always espousing various codes of honor, dignity, and loyalty. Just don’t turn your back.


Of course I live for art, but good ol’ art just can’t seem to throw me a rope even when I sinking in the quicksand.


It is not getting any better. I don’t care if it’s Mitt, Barry, Snookie, or the ghost of FDR, it’s not getting any better. It’s time to jump on one of those long boats heading to China and Japan.


I hate turtles, they all remind of my ex’s thing, except with eyes.


Everybody in this joint should be charged admission just to see her ass bend over the bar and order a drink. They’d all pay it gladly.


Hey, that’s sounds like Iggy on the jukebox. It is Iggy! What kind of jukebox is this?


Nobody fixes anything anymore. It’s buy it, try it, use it, abuse it, toss it, and start all over again and buy the new version. My grandfather would roll over in his tool-filled work cellar.


Last time I was here someone gave me some of that medical marijuana and it almost knocked me out. I couldn’t find my way home.
(3 hours later): Could you tell me how I get to the highway?


I don’t have to walk that chick to the car, she’s a super ninja chick. I mean it, I’m more worried for the guys that might encounter her on her way to the car.


I wish there were more movies about horses. Even ponies.


Man she was wild. But when she talked dirty her voice sounded like Clint Eastwood, the older version. After a while it started getting to me. I mean I’m fairly cool, but how cool can you be when you hear an aging Clint Eastwood talking the talk in the middle of a pretzel formation?


I just grabbed a bite at Rick’s Roadhouse. It’s like an unofficial frat house for high school kids who never made it to college.


You know what they say? Nothing’s private. Who the fuck are they and why are they butting into my business?


He said that she said that they said that they were disrespecting me and them. What’s up with that?


Netroots Nation? I‘ll stick to the Red Sox version.


He said his word of honor is sacred, like some cowboy in a black and white film, then he dry-gulched him, just like some cowboy in a black and white film.


If goddamned Romney manages to get elected I promise you I’ll jump off the hurricane barrier in my boxers and kicks, wearing a pig’s mask and clutching my wallet (along with middle class existence) in my teeth.


I love New England. Maybe the freaks flags don’t fly as high as they do in Cali, but I think they germinate three times as much deeper here. Even on the freak side, the east coast is just more evolved in its own devolution.


First Guy: Is drinking a pastime, a necessity, or simply part of the natural order of things ? Can you tell me?
Second Guy: I don’t know, are you buying?

Pushing Too Hard

Writer’s block is an insidious disease, purely psychological (however one’s psyche is effected by outside forces), and it also seems to be a condition that that further compounds itself the more one dwells upon it. The bottom line is that I simply haven’t mustered the energy, wherewithal, smarts, aggressiveness, groove, sense of purpose, moment of creativity, authorial whimsy, just plain get up and go to knock off a blog entry since November last year. While I realize that my blog has never achieved any widespread popularity or substantial readership, it has for many years functioned has a source of entertainment and pop culture enlightenment for a selected few, while dually serving as a reason for me to continue my lifelong pursuit of the snap, crackle, and (yup) pop of . No excuses, although the unceremonious dropping of my movie column in Providence Monthly—my only current paying writing gig—was a blow, further exacerbated by the inexplicable lack of an offer to write a bye-bye piece, and made doubly hard to swallow by being told me replacement would be a (gulp) wellness column, did indeed contribute to my sudden lack of confidence and execution. None the less, I am determined to carve out a comeback, starting right now. Nuff said.

Shaking Intensified

It was with great pleasure, and a certain swell of pride, that I recieved the first copies of a new self-published anthology drawn from the online journal Shaking Like a Mountain (now called Shaking Online, with an expanded editorial focus), edited by co-conspirators Vito Grippi and my pal Wayne Cresser, containing 17 fiction and non-fiction pieces, all built around a connection to popular music serving as a central conceit. Of course it's filled with some evocative writing, and (yeah, baby) it includes one of my own, originally entitled "Bo Diddley: He Used a Cobra Snake for a Necktie, 1928-2008", from June,2008, reprinted below. As the editors themselve suggest, a near perfect stocking stuffer, available here.



A Tribute to Bo Diddley
by Scott Duhamel

Somewhere in the ever-holy Tower of Song the residents shuffle up the winding staircase (handrails gleaming, carved from ancient ivory) to the bone-shaking, perpetually hypnotic, and pure rhythm Bo Diddley Beat. Bo, like Little Richard, like Chuck Berry, helped erect the sturdy bridge between the swamp of jazz, blues, country and gospel that lead to rollicking sea of rock and roll, Bo, as himself, is the undeniable architect of one of rock’s bulwarks--the otherworldly hip-shaking, chunka-chunka in-yer-head cadence of rock and roll. Bo, without the glammy, sweaty immediacy of Little Richard, who probably performed his way out of the womb, or the sharp, calculated story tunes and radio showy guitar hooks of Chuck Berry, offered up a different sort of regal showmanship.

Bo stood stage center like a conductor, hips akimbo, tasty hat, square eyeglasses, boxy guitar, oozing a quiet confidence while unleashing his snaky tremolo and laying down his first person eurhythmics. While Sun Ra readily informed his audiences and collaborators that he been transported to space and thus transformed, Bo might well have been a true time-traveler, clad in his own version of a space suit, his vast array of tailsmanic guitars his means of teleportation, mixing and matching the rumbling backbeat he lifted from the train yards of Chicago with ancient African tribal chants and the rat-a-tat-tat of a western gunslinger’s discharge, seemingly deprived of his earthly just desserts (money and fame), but actually here with other interstellar purposes: help create rock and roll, jumpstart the Rolling Stones, and lay down a mystical, eternal syncopation that will forever hold its sway.

Hitch’s Children

(Reprinted from Pop Eye)


One of my all time gurus, John Cale, once put it succinctly in song: “Fear is a man’s best friend.” Peeps in general (old school peeps, new school peeps, outta school peeps, probably even pre-school peeps ), all dig a good scare, always seem to be peeping around the darker corners of pop cult and their own upstairs windows trying to suss out yet another dose of temporary terror, attempting to churn up some innate fear-inducing chills and thrills, whether it be the ol’ pop- and-fresh in-yer-face shudder and shrink, or laying down the connected tracks for a psychological roller coaster ride, whether it be through literature, through the movies, or by splashing ketchup around the fake arrow sticky out of their pointy heads when they parade around in costumes on Halloweenie Day. (Myself, I don’t go hog-wild over Halloween because of those very costumes and the attendant behavior of those clad in them—they make me very, very nervous, but that’s a story for another day.)

Movies have long provided the safe distance into which one can thrust oneself directly into the realm of psychological, physical, or supernatural fear, and, by theory at least, be protected by the very distancing effects of the medium itself. Whatever route they take or genre they inhabit—whether it be the blood-and-entrails type, the slow-burn-to-insanity number, the have-some-paranoia side dish, or the occult special---movies have a special way of going bump in the dark and allowing for a certain release of tension, even if it’s simply the slow roll of the end credits. Of course the hypersensitive need not apply, and even the occasional regular Joe finds himself suddenly disoriented when a latent film image or a particularly piquant plot structure just keeps intruding upon his or her waking life. The catharsis that’s supposed to be part of the movie-movie deal ain’t always exactly delivered appropriately, particularly with the jaded-before-their-time, seen-it-all, oversaturated, highly desensitized contempo audiences.

The cinematic masters of the thriller-diller, the chop-‘em-up, the anxiety-arouser, the old fashioned spook fest, are indeed legion, ever expanding, and always keeping the creaking door open for any savvy art house director or pulpy filmmaker to step in for a one-timer, and try their hand in entering the ongoing (and perpetual) big screen fear fest. Names get bandied about, names like Polanski, Lewton, Lynch, Raimi, Carpenter, Argento, De Palma, Browning, Whale, Murnau, Romero, Cronenberg, and a whole passel of too-many-to-recount newbies, yet one truly stands above the rest: Alfred Hitchcock.

Hitch is the guy, the king of the fear swing, the cinematic svengali who continually wielded assorted degrees of voyeurism and sadism along with a blanket of Kafkaesque determination, bookending that filmic stew with ever eroding nerve endings and narrative uncertainty, all under the spell heavy duty moral implications, all in the glorious name of both art and commerce. Hitch was one filmmaker who, again and again, achieved a meaningful symbiosis between image, editing, camera movement, plot, character, tone and theme, and did most of it in the name of suspense. Much has been written about the films of Hitchcock, his sublime techniques, and his ability to layer a box office hit with overriding questions of guilt and morality. Hitchcock, with the possible exception of his late effort Frenzy (1972), didn’t do gore, didn’t do guts, and steadfastly refrained from all things Grand Guignol.

It was all about the power of suggestion, about the lights and shadows of both the visual palate and, yep, the soul. The ultimate Hitch film, as far as the fear factor goes is 1960’s Psycho. Not enough space allowed to re-sing its many virtues: taut, virtuosic, spine-tingling, exquisitely crafted, suggestive, lurid, flamingly Freudian, plus the cast, the score, the cinematography, the shower sequence. Years later, many would argue that Psycho, because it unleashed the first semblance of unimaginable but almost gleefully delivered overt violence--that knife against that bare skin under that deluge of sprayed water capped off by the black and white image of a splash of blood circling down the drain-- despite its indefensible stamp of artistry, set the dynamics of a whole brave and bold new cinema of unease. Hitch, what has thy wrought?

Bar Talk # 6

Overheard Friday Night (9-16-11) at Nick-A-Nees
Providence, Rhode Island
(Purty much reported as close to verbatim as possible.)



If there’s one thing that truly curbs my enthusiasm it’s actually watching Larry David and Curb Your Enthusiasm.

By the end of this Sox-Rays series I’ll be washing down my popcorn with vodka and Drano on the rocks. I’m calling it the J-Lackey.

My father was a union man for forty five years. He was around when everyone knew they needed unions. Back in the day they just knew it.

I can’t play pool but I do know how to bend over and shake my ass.

I just came from the Dropkick Murphy’s outdoor show and man it seemed like it was just that close to the edge of weird-poseur-white-guy-high-testosterone-violence.

Q: How can you waste your time talking to those boring idiots? A: Well someone has to do it, right?

Taj Mahal at the Park Cinema, can you explain that to me?

Those jello-shots seem frat-like and they don’t really seem to fit in with this place, do they? I’ve had three, and now I’m looking hard for the jello-shot girl.

It’s like the time machine just let some travelers out the sliding doors, except they came out slightly altered.

Sure, RFK wasn’t exactly JFK-lite, nor was he Teddy Boy-reinforced.

Billy Wilder talking about comedy is like a priest talking about eternal redemption, you got to give the guy certain credence.

I just don’t see Governor Chafee leading any of us to the Promised Land.

A few good drinks are far better for the brain cells than TM, LSD, yoga, tai chi, acupuncture, massage, or running around in the woods in your underwear and socks and do you know how I know this? Look around man, all those dudes and dudettes who specialize in that shit are in here sucking them down.

Why are half of those dancers wearing yacht togs and boating attire?

I’d do her with my pool stick, sans chalk, know what I mean?

Did you see him in action last night, he was inventing a brand new half-a-step primitive stomp, and just because of his hair most of the party was trying to follow him down that rocky road.

If that’s the hippy hippy shake find me some young republicans.

That’s the kinda guy who stands in front of the mirror to see if his brown fedora matches his red thong.

She broke my heart, my wallet and my ass and there’s a part of me that still wants to give her mucho credit and another goddamned chance. Buy me a drink, the stupider the better.

Do The Needle Drop

(One of New York's finest, albeit a cult band of sorts, The Del-Lords, will be playing in an unidentified backyard in South County this Saturday afternoon. For those interested, in what will be an undeniable rocking (and special) good time, contact Dan [rootshoot@cox.net].)


The Del-Lords
by Michael Tanaka

For a very long time-- decades, now that I think about it, I’ve been making a semi-annual pilgrimage to a used record shop just outside Hartford, in Weathersfield, Ct.

I go to Ed Krech’s “Integrity n’ Music” mostly for out-of-print and obscure jazz records. That’s his specialty. But over the years I’ve also discovered many hidden treasures tucked away in the bins of the rock section. Now I’m not talking uber-collector shit here—if you just went scrambling off for your copy of “Goldmine” and your rarities want-list, forget it. I’m talking about cool stuff you don’t see much anymore—mostly uncommon and forgotten LP’s that fell through the cracks in the 1980’s when vinyl began its slow death.

Example… a few years ago, while rifling the bins at Integrity, I happened upon the first three Replacements LP’s on Twin-Tone (Sorry, Ma…, Let It Be, and Hootenanny) as well as Tim and a couple of later titles on Sire. Each one was virtually unplayed and under three bucks each. Sure, I’ve got that stuff on cd—who doesn’t? But believe me when I tell you that vinyl really does sound warmer—it sounds better. And in addition, when you drop that needle and start to listen to an analog recording on vinyl, it has a certain magic way of really taking you back.

So a few weeks ago, I hit another major vein in the rock memory mine when I flipped through the bins and uncovered the first three records by the Del-Lords. Now the Del-Lords have come up in conversation many times in the past. My pal Scott Duhamel is a huge fan of both the Dictators and Del-Lords’ Scott Kempner and has long sung the praises of Joan Jett/Steve Earle guitarist Eric Ambel. But like most of you, I suspect, I hadn’t done a lot of in-depth listening to the Del-Lords in close to twenty-plus years. So scoring the first three LP’s by this critically acclaimed, yet relatively unsung band gave me the perfect opportunity to crack open a cold one, do the needle-drop, sit back and listen. And what a treat it was.

Of course, like a nerd, I played the records in order, so when I caught the opening track of the Del-Lords’ first album, Frontier Days, (1984), I was spun around when I heard their hard-rocking cover of “How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live?” Like a line-drive double off the first pitch, this song comes out of the box strong, with incredibly tight playing, great energy and a muscular sense of swing. And as I listened to the lyrics, I was reminded of how socially conscious Scott Kempner and the boys were—I mean “are.” The song they picked to kick-off their debut, a Ry Cooder cover of a 1929 depression-era folk song (some say it was the first “protest” song) is even more relevant today than it was when the Del-Lords blistered through the track during the reign of Reagan. The song has been done plenty of times before and since-- even Bruce Springsteen added the song to his Seeger Sessions tour and subsequent American Land Edition recording in 2006. I recommend you listen to all three versions— by Cooder, Bruce, and the Del-Lords—and I guarantee the one recorded by the Lords is the one that will make you sit up and take notice. And to make that song your very first album cut—that’s balls.

And there are more Del-Lords songs from Scott Kempner’s pen that tackle tough topics directly, and manage to escape being sappy or sentimental—songs about serious stuff that still rock. “Soldier’s Home,” from the second album, “Johnny Comes Marching Home” is a blatant anti-war statement wrapped in a catchy, hook-laden package, and later in the album, “Against My Will” is a first-person account of a hostage held by terrorists.

But the Del-Lords are far, far more than a rock band with a conscience. In fact, thinking of them in that way sort of does them a disservice. This is a band that just rocks, straight up. in a no-frills, no posturing manner, with great guitar playing totally devoid of typical 1980’s riff-histrionics. This band is, in many ways, less about what they are than about what they are not. Make a list of all the things that annoy you about 80’s rock (synthesizers, fake drums, over-production, over-compression, digital delay, big hair, spandex—you could go on and on), and it is amazing how much of that is not the Del-Lords sound.

You can’t deny the Del-Lords’ ability to rock it in those first three albums, and you can clearly hear the influences of rockabilly, folk, country and punk—all enhanced with clean, uncluttered guitar solos and smart, funny, often tongue-in-cheek lyrics (another hallmark of the earlier, under-appreciated Dictators). In the garage-band flavored, near surf-parody “I Play the Drums” from their first album, Kempner writes of typical rock angst and alienation with deadpan humor: “When I hate everyone / Instead of going for my gun / I play the drums.” And in “The Cool and the Crazy,” on their third record, the first-person song spews self-indulgent hip babble, delivered without a trace of irony: “We’re the outsiders / Watching the whole show. / It’s amazing how much it resembles TV / An L-7 world lost in mediocrity.”

All I can say is that’s beautiful, daddy-O!

But when it’s time to play it straight, honest and cut it close to the bone, Kempner makes it simple and direct. “Judas Kiss” is a great screed about betrayal, and “Pledge of Love” is a love song that, in anyone else’s hands, could dance close to the edge of the corn-field, but listen to the Lords bring it, and it’s pure rock n’ roll.
Those first three Del-Lords records I found were recorded and released in 1984, 1986 and 1988. A live EP and another studio records later, and they were essentially done by 1990. But you can listen to all these great songs again, re-released recently on cd, with lots of cool, additional info and liner notes written by Scott Kempner. And three of the four original members of the band-- Kempner and Eric Ambel on guitars, with Frank Funaro on drums are playing out live again. Last year they played a house concert locally, somewhere in Wakefield, RI, before taking off for a tour of Europe. They’re doing it again this year, and I plan to be there for the house concert show. That’s even better than listening to the LP’s.

There’s a line from The Cool and the Crazy that sums up the Del-Lords in my book— “We don’t follow fashion / Who needs it when you got style.”

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

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