Category Archives: Rock

Dick Clark

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(2013)

There’s a notion going round that Dick Clark was the one who put Elvis Presley on national television, a notion that seems to have solidified into fact since Clark died. But I think American Bandstand was a local Philly show until later in the 50′s, by which time Elvis had been all over national TV many times, not to mention made a movie or two. Rock’n’roll was on TV a lot then because it sold. Dick Clark was just one of many hustling to get Elvis on their local airwaves, long after he’d already been seen coast or coast on other shows. But I think Dick Clark was the first national show that had rock’n’roll in a Saturday morning time slot, right after the cartoons. That was new. He was certainly the one who helped make rock’n’roll safe for nice white teenagers. He suburbanized it. What had been all Elvis, Little Richard, Jerry Lee, Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry became Pat Boone, Paul Anka, Fabian and Frankie and Annette. I always thought Dick Clark was one of those guys who cashed in on rock’n’roll by destroying it. No more crazy black R&B, no more manic redneck rockabilly. Rock’n’roll took years to recover. Thank god some English kids discovered Chess Records and took rock’n’roll back again.

Rock’n’roll has always been a war between the forces of good and the forces of evil. Alan Freed was in league with the Devil. Dick Clark now sings with the angels. Me, I’ll take the evil every time.

Dick Clark, Pat Boone and Jerry Lee Lewis, who is thinking about kickign both their asses right there on live TV.

Dick Clark, Pat Boone and Jerry Lee Lewis, who is thinking about kicking both their silly asses right there on live TV.

Layla and Other Love Songs

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Was listening to part of Layla and Other Love Songs tonite for the first time in a zillion years. I was digging the music (I wore out my copy in my impressionable teenage days) but all I kept thinking this time was how the hell did Eric Clapton get so hung up on one woman? The dude was a rock star for crying out loud. There were chicks for days who would have thrown themselves at him. He would have been piled so high with female companionship it would have looked like a rugby scrum. Well, a miniskirted, gogo booted rugby scrum, but you get the idea. There were that many babes and he was a guitar hero. More than a hero, he was God. You could read that on the walls, Clapton is God. Do you think Brian Jones would have let that slip by? Hell, all the darling girls remaining after Hendrix left this mortal coil (if he were ever on it) could have made most guitar players very happy. Jimmy Page was probably thrilled. Jeff Beck probably insulted dozens. A good guitar player merely had to reach his carefully manicured left hand out. But not Eric. No, he wallowed in unrequitedness. And the unrequisition was his best friend’s wife. The wife of a Beatle. Bell Bottom Blues, he sings, you made me cry. His solo thereafter is utter perfection. You could hear all that unrequited pain. Sheesh. Like what was good enough for every other guitar player in London was not good enough for him. Nope, he wanted the unattainable (then, anyway) and moaned about it over four sides of a double album. That’s not a torch, that’s a bonfire. I mean I love my wife but if I ever got that drippy over four sides of a record she’d kick me out of the house. There’s no point in being pathetic, she’d say. But then she never did like Derek and the Dominos. She was a Sex Pistols girl.

Fantastic record, though. Why does love have to be so sad, Eric moans, like anybody cares, the band is so hot, the tempo so fast, Jim Gordon’s sticks dance across the skins and the guitar interplay with Duane Allman is wicked. About a minute in Eric just takes off, fast notes, Buddy Guy and Freddie King merging in all that self inflicted despair, when just past the one minute thirty second mark Duane Allman joins in and it is, it is, it is something. How do you describe music like that? You don’t, not in words anyway. You just listen.

I’m eighteen

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The wife just came in singing I’m Eighteen. Said they were playing it at Trader Joes and she, perhaps touched a bit by the long walk in the heat, had sung it aloud to the delight of the crew. Wish I’d seen that. As she wandered off into the kitchen a moment ago chanting like it, love it, like it, love it, it occurred to me that when that song was released in 1970, anyone eighteen then is sixty four now, bringing to mind one of the most unlistenable of all Beatles songs. I’ll spare myself that. Instead here’s I’m Eighteen, which all you sixty four year olds can sing along to as you chase real eighteen year olds off the lawn.

Norman Greenbaum and heavy friends

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The things you find when you go digging through the dark recesses of your hard drive. Here’s a parody I wrote over twenty years ago of a very early local blog–a proto-blog, actually. This would have been right after the KISS reunion tour, when perfectly intelligent middle aged men put on KISS make up and collected in vast herds at the Forum to rock’n’roll all night and party every day. I am still mystified by that.
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Foreigner at Lawrence Welk Village, 4/31/96

I’ve always been amazed at how “unhip” this band has been considered among the Alternative illuminati, especially since Mick Jones has been a member of both Foreigner and the Clash. When I was a college student in Ohio I considered Foreigner to be gods, so a Foreigner show was like going to church or something. Anyway, this being the one night all year I had not scammed tix to a free concert I figured I had better go. The Clash comparison was even more obvious this night, in that the chorus of “Cold As Ice” and the Oh Oh Oh!’s of “Complete Control” are almost identical, which is probably Jones’ signature hook. “Cold As Ice” also starts with a “C” and sounds a little like “Clash City Rockers”.  Anyway, although I was in the beer line once again the show really rocked.  Of course, a little herbal preparation after work left my buddy and I a little confused as to just which show we were attending this night–let’s just say we looked a little out of sorts in our KISS get up. Still, Foreigner are old and can rock harder than any of these wimpy lowlife Johnny-come-lately bands from Silver Lake.

Bachman Turner Overdrive at the Office Depot parking lot, 6/31/96

I have many fat friends. And just because you are fat doesn’t mean you can’t rock harder than any of these wimpy upstart bands from Silver Lake. Bachman Turner Overdrive are one of the great fat bands of our time. When I was a teenager in Sunday school I thought Bachman Turner Overdrive were gods. Fat gods, but gods nonetheless. I mean when BTO sat around the house they sat around the house. When the houselights dimmed and the cheers went up I was the beer line, but then so was Randy Bachman, buying hot dogs. In fact he bought so many hot dogs he spent most of the set in the head, “Taking Care of Business”.  But what a show. Of course, I had gotten confused and was all dudded out in a Foreigner costume and make-up.

Norman Greenbaum at the downtown Greyhound Station, 9/31/96

Just because you are a one hit wonder doesn’t mean that you can’t rock harder than most of these wimpy jumping-on-the Silver Lake bandwagon bands. Of course, being a one-song wonder is a little rougher–still, I thoroughly enjoyed the 45 minute rendition of “Spirit In The Sky”, even if the forty-three minute guitar solo was a little tinny through the pignose amp. His friend the homeless kazoo player didn’t help, either. At least I didn’t miss any of the show standing in line for beer; and this time I remembered to wear my full-on Norman Greenbaum costume.

Bob Lee

Brian Wilson

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There’s the time that Alice Cooper and Iggy Pop were invited over to Brian Wilson’s house to work on some music. True story…this was in the 80’s. They felt like they’d been summoned by royalty. They get there and Brian is in his bathrobe at the piano in the middle of the sandbox, catshit everywhere. Brian is playing Shortnin’ Bread, singing how Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’, shortnin’, Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread. He waves to Alice and Iggy to join in.  Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’, shortnin’, they all sang, Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread. Then again. And again. After a while they asked if he wanted to work on any other tunes but all he wanted to do was sing Shortnin’ Bread. Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’, shortnin’, Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread. He showed them how it was played on the piano, and why it was the greatest song ever and how it was the only song he wanted to play ever.  An endless hour went by, Brian singing Shortnin’ Bread over and over and Alice and Iggy feeling more and more uncomfortable. Finally Alice excused himself and made his escape taking Iggy with him. Neither talked about it for a long time. I don’t know if Iggy ever has. Think of it…Brian completely weirded out Alice Cooper and Iggy Pop. Scared them, even.  Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’, shortnin’, Mama’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread.

Machine Gun

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Several people asked where the biker joints were I described earlier. The first was the Canby Suite, just off Sherman Way in Reseda, on Canby behind BeBop Records. A block from the Country Club. Older Valley rock’n’roll fans will recognize the location. That was the early to mid eighties

The second, mid to late 80’s, was called Big Johns, down in Anaheim somewhere, a lot of people played there. The Suicide Kings–a great trashy rock’n’roll band from the 80’s– were on the stage the night a big biker named Machine Gun–a Viet Nam vet with what we now know as PTSD–was offended by the singer’s pseudo-fay Mick Jagger/David Johansen act. Faggot! he yelled. The singer–Rick–shook his ass at him. Machine Gun went berserk and nailed him with a full beer to the forehead. Rick hit the floor, out cold. Then Machine Gun went after the fans. Who wants to take me on? he yelled. I’ll take you on, asshole! It was my brother Lex’s drummer, a former high school boxer named Derek, half Machine Gun’s size. Machine Gun swung wildly, missed, Swung again, missed. Then Derek peppered him with about twenty rapid fire punches to the face and Machine Gun went down like a redwood, bang. All the punk rockers swarmed on top of him like pummeling little ants. Machine came to and rose from the floor, roaring, shaking the kids off. He kept swinging but couldn’t see, his face was so swollen. Eventually it all settled down, the floor a mess of broken glass and furniture and blood. Other bikers broke it up. No one wanted the cops to show up. I got all this from my brother Jon, who called me at 2 in the morning with the story. It’s the greatest rock’n’roll tale I know. Machine Gun, I believe, was the one reduced to cinders when the place burned down. And it was Lex’s guitar player who had, on a previous night there, gone berserk himself and smashed his guitar and infuriated the bikers, forcing me to become a lawyer for a second.

Rock’n’roll used to be way more fun before it became a business. Not for the kiddies. Not for nice people at all. Fuck all this School of Rock shit. You learned rock’n’roll in garages, in dives, in dangerous places, with no teachers at all except Machine Gun.

Bob Dylan

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(February 3, 2014)

People are moaning–and having seen the commercial, I can understand why–that Bob Dylan is selling Chryslers now. That’s because Bob Dylan didn’t die. If you die early enough you’re never corrupted. But if you live to old age people condemn you for things that they themselves would do in a minute, given the chance. Alas none of us ever will get that chance. But I’d bet even money that Bob Marley is selling Caribbean Cruises in an alternate universe right now.

Then there’s blinkered memories…people forget that John Lennon was a washed up junkie has been when he died. Not saying he wouldn’t have turned around, but his stuff was no better than Paul’s crap of the time. We dis Paul. Whatever happened to him? Was it Linda? But John was heading in an even limper direction, that first album ancient history. Remember he sang, but he probably didn’t. Hard drugs do that. Then he is murdered and suddenly he was as great as he ever was, perfection, a martyr. He and Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix and John Coltrane and Hank Williams and you name it, all dying before a long spell of rot set in. It’s lucky Jesus died when he did, a fat old Jesus with a drinking problem could not have launched a faith.

I picked up a Sonny Rollins album. Sonny is my hero of heroes. There was a tune on side 2 called Disco Monk. Had I seen it on there I would never have bought the album. Disco Monk. From The Bridge and East Broadway Rundown to Disco Monk. I heard that and wondered about John Coltrane in long sideburns playing sessions with the BeeGees and felt a cold shiver down my spine. Age is tragic for a martyr. Bob Dylan came so close to perfection in that motorcycle accident. We’d have all been so happy now, comparing all the sell outs to Bob Dylan lying there lifeless on the side of the road.

Joe Cocker

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(2014)

Joe Cocker’s performance at Woodstock was so freaking outrageous, his live act was so demented that when I first heard he’d been a working man I didn’t believe it. I thought he must be mad. And what a band he had, that Grease Band, one of the great forgotten bands of the time. They are so hard and so on, that crunching guitar is so gigantic, those ridiculous backing vocals are so perfect, and when Joe says Baby it sounds like a hurricane, a tornado, a volcano blowing itself to pieces. That silly little nothing of a Beatles song rendered rough and Wagnerian by a band you could have seen in a bar. Nothing but dynamics, loud guitar, cool organ, falsetto, a hard ass rhythm section and a voice like a really angry god. Joe loved his Ray Charles, obviously, but, Ray never hurled a Baby into the void like that, this wasn’t soul, it was Götterdämmerung. Joe was on that day. And if there was one day you wanted to be on, it was that one, in front of all those people and all those movie cameras. I doubt he was ever that on again. Some things come only once in a lifetime, you do it, and spend the rest of your life wondering just what got into you that day.

I remember seeing Woodstock back in the early seventies when I was impressionable and fragile and sitting in a dark, dank movie theatre full of hippies and freaks and weed smoke and thinking uhhh, wow. Still, my experience was nothing like my pal Richie, rest in peace, who spent a wintry New Jersey afternoon smoking hash and wandered into the local cinerama dome to see Woodstock feeling three feet tall and the light was vibrating and like a little kid he decided to sit in the very front row and melted into the seat and the music and images surged over and around him and Joe Cocker was like some enormous monster, Godzilla sized, destroying the city. Richie was frozen, wide eyed, terrified, exultant, and when Joe let loose that Oh Baby to the gods above Richie thought it was the end of the world.

Ollie Halsall

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(written 3/14/2015)

My pal John Altman just pointed out that today would have been Ollie Halsall’s 66th birthday. Alas, he barely made it into middle age. The usual things. But I did manage to see him one night at the Whiskey with John Otway, opening for the incredible Pere Ubu. It was 1979, I think. A duo–an unusual format at the time–pairing an utterly mad singer with an utterly mad guitar player. Now I knew John Otway’s name somehow–he used to pop up in the pages of Zig Zag, looking mad–but I had no idea who the guitar player was at all. Ollie somebody. They certainly put on a berserk show. At one point Otway hurt himself somehow–he was already bleeding from a split lip where the mic had bashed him, when some kind of backflip ended badly and he was prostrate momentarily, then staggering around out of sorts and it just seemed to drive accompanist Ollie to new heights. Crazed virtuosity. Wild eyed, fingers a blur, rule book out the window. Some people thrive on anarchy, and those were anarchic times. Certainly made an impression on me, especially right at the front of the stage as I was. It was years before I found out who he was. I was telling a friend about this incredible guitar player I’d seen with John Otway. He said that was Ollie Halsall. Didn’t ring a bell. So he gave me a mix tape that included a Patto tune. Loud Green Song. Jazzy prog guys doing proto-grunge or something. Whatever, it was more crazy playing. I wore the cassette out. I mentioned the cassette to another friend. You have to hear Patto, I said. He remembered Patto. Not his thing. But he gave me a custom made Patto tee shirt for my 40th birthday. I still have it. It’s several sizes too small (I stopped wearing large when I was in grade school, I think) so it is still in perfect shape. A one of a kind Patto tee shirt in mint condition. Probably worth a zillion dollars on Ebay. Maybe two zillion. John Altman snuck me into the one time ever Rutles reunion gig at the Pig and Whistle (open bar!) and I told Patto/Rutles drummer John Halsey about the shirt. He looked at me like I was an idiot. Drummers can tell these things.

Ollie Halsall New-York-1980

Ollie Halsall in 1980.

Mike Bloomfield

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Pulling out LPs that I didn’t even know I had. Check out Mike Bloomfield here on Woody Herman’s Brand New (1971).

“Hitchhike on the Possum Trot Line”

Alan Broadbent is playing the groovy electric piano, it’s his tune. Frank Tiberi and Sal Nistico are back there on tenor. Woody is playing the soprano sax. Dig he and Bloomfield dueling it out past the 3:30 mark. You can hear Bloomfield at the top of his game on this record….it was all downhill from there. But then Herman had seen all that before, four brothers’ worth.

According to Ralph Gleason’s liner notes, Bloomfield was a huge fan of swing bands, especially Herman’s. Gleason suggested him to Woody who jumped at the chance. He was always filling the ranks with kids, and his band had a sixties rock’n’roll energy to it. Lots of rock covers, not all worked, but even those were noble failures. Herman confided that the band never got around to sending the charts to Bloomfield, who was freaking. Woody told him not to worry about it, it’s all the blues and to just come in and wail.

Which is how it happened. On the opening cut Bloomfield seems kinda nervous, but he opened up as he went along and by the end of his four tracks he was burning the place up. I don’t think he ever played with the band live, however, which is a drag. But then Bloomfield was a mess by then. I’m sure Woody Herman would have loved to do a whole tour with him. Woody Herman and the New Thundering Herd featuring Mike Bloomfield. Imagine the possibilities. It could have turned kids onto a great, hot band that didn’t sound like their dad’s record collection. And it might have revived Mike Bloomfield’s career. It hadn’t been too long since he’d played on Highway 61 Revisited, or helped Dylan outrage Pete Seeger at Newport. He’d blown minds with the Paul Butterfield Blues Band on East-West in 1966, played Monterey with the Electric Flag in 1967, went gold on Super Session in 1968. He was everywhere in 1969. Nowhere in 1970. By 1971 he was nearly forgotten. Hearing him here with Woody, though, each driving the other up in intensity, it’s hard to imagine that by then he was no longer one of America’s most influential guitarists. But he wasn’t. He was heading toward oblivion. Most people didn’t hear his name at all until ten years later when he was found dead in his car. He hadn’t died in his car. He’d died, rather inconveniently, at a party. So they put him in his car and drove him to another part of town and left him there. No note, no nothing. Police found him in the morning. It was in all the papers. Mike Bloomfield, I remember him.

When this album was released it got some airplay on jazz radio, as Woody Herman albums always did. Rock radio didn’t even know it existed. Oh well. Another of those what ifs that no one even knows was a what if.

MIke Bloomfield and Woody Herman

Mike Bloomfield and Woody Herman