Steaming Coils

Listening to Steaming Coils lost masterpiece Breaded–the record, I don’t think it ever came out on CD–and digging Brad Laner’s drums. Way loose, loopy, groovy, just the right pops and splashes, splattery press rolls and punchy bass drum kicked loud under crashing cymbals. It’s all so gloriously unmechanical and organic, and the only other drummer that comes to mind is Jim Capaldi. I have a memory, maybe even true, of telling Brad Laner the Jim Capaldi thing and him saying he was a fan too. Grok. Not many were in those Bonham days. Everyone wanted heavy back then. Not me. I liked loose. That memory would have been at Be Bop records, I think, maybe even at the Breaded release gig. There were few venues then and we’d drive out to the depths of the Valley to stand in the back of a record store and listen to the sounds of the eighties underground. Afterward we’d repair to the biker bar next door and watch hulking Hells Angels play pool as their women tried to start fights. Then we’d hang out on Sherman Way like juvenile delinquents getting stoned with our fellow denizens for the long drive back to Hollywood. Memories. But back to now and I’m listening to the opening cut again. “Carne del Sol” it’s called and I want to know what it says the singers sing. Play it backwards, play it backwards, snare splat, cymbal splash and fade.


Kyle C. Kyle


Damn, Kyle C. Kyle. Cool dude, amazing stories, a fine drummer who sounded like nobody else, playing in a band–the Wild Stares–that would have driven most of his drumming brethren mad. What a bad ass shuffle he laid down, I remember. Utterly unique.

Ah well….

Can’t remember who we’d all gone to see, but I had my last long conversation with him at Café Nela maybe a year ago. He was ageless, unchanging, a laconic presence that could have fooled a lot of people into thinking he had nothing to say. Not true. In fact, it was back a zillion years ago when I did a long story on the Wild Stares, and Kyle C. Kyle’s were some of the more incisive comments from a band full of brilliant minds.

Here’s that ancient story. Sorry about the writing. But you can still hear him in it, I think, his voice, his thinking. Somewhere I have tapes I made prepping that story. One a long interview. The other, especially priceless, a Wild Stares rehearsal. Kyle nails it. One of my favorite ever drummers.

Oh well….it happens.

The Wild Stares in the early 90's, Kyle C. Kyle on the left.

The Wild Stares in the early 90’s, Kyle C. Kyle on the left.


(sometime in 2016)

Began yesterday at the hippest place in town, known only to the cognoscenti, anti-hipsters (or maybe they just have issues) and beautiful European women with no names and security details.  Cobraside Records in on that new Melrose, San Fernando Blvd, where LA becomes Glendale and the street signs change color. It’s a wholesale distributor packed full of vinyl and CD, and occasionally live bands out back, and it’s free, and a party, and I sit at my brother’s desk–he’s shipping manager–and move everything around. The Rubber Snake Charmers opened, a jam band with Mario Lalli and whoever else has an ax, and Mario–aka Boomer–began this grooving kraut rock bass line that the drummer line up behind and Vince Meghrouni began a beautifully searching solo on the tenor. This went on for maybe an hour, too briefly, Vince switching to alto, to flute, back to tenor, and the whole thing was never less than  what musicologists call groovy when they are really stoned. Remarkable even. Jam bands can fall flat on their faces, or stumble about, or just bore everybody, but these cats were beyond all that and made something that would get airplay on hip underground stations worldwide had it been recorded. Which it was not.

Robert Omlit

In 5th grade, Robert Omlit brained me with a copy of Little Women. Hardback. You don’t make fun of Little Women.

Robert Omlit was still Robert Logan at the time. Aside from Louisa May Alcott, I can’t remember what we talked about. Books, I’m sure. We were both constant readers. I’d plunder the library’s history section–Bruce Catton was a favorite–and dinosaurs. He read the classics. Each of us read a book a week, at least. We were unlikely best pals on the schoolyard, skinny funny-looking little Robert and me already five and a half feet tall at age ten. I suppose I kept him from getting beat up. I don’t think we hung out that much after school. Probably lived too far from each other. But I don’t know. He had a Stingray, I remember. I had a Schwinn.

My family moved to Virginia halfway through sixth grade and when we moved back to Orange County a year later it was to another school district. So I sort of lost track of Robert Logan. I remembering hearing from another friend that by junior high he’d gotten a bit hippie, wore an armband to school during the Vietnam Moratorium in 1969. Developed what they used to call a consciousness. Certainly smoked weed before I did, way before. But we both turned into rock’n’roll fanatics, though he was a ahead of me on that too. I was still listening to AM when he was already deep into FM. Continue reading

Atomic Cafe

Found this tucked away in the drafts folder, not sure how old it is. Someone told me the corner is now a hole with a subway in it. I remember the city was trying to sell the building for a dollar. All you had to do was move it. Maybe they were asking too much. 

That Senor Fish on the corner used to be the Atomic Cafe. Had dinner there with Darby Crash. We’d been next door at the Brave Dog. Probably summer of 1980. Darby had the wiener gotcha, a dude in a blue mohawk eating wiener gotcha. My wife got fried chicken. Banquet. I watched the cook open the box. The service was awful, food worse, it was wonderful. Wouldn’t last a week now. Hipsters want only the best food. Jonathan Gold made it impossible for any more Atomic Cafes. No more wiener gotcha. Now it’s overpriced ethno-hipster slop from food trucks. Oh well.

Atomic Cafe

Atomic Café in the daylight. 1980’s. The Brave Dog was this side of the Imports place.


Oh yeah, here’s Mars doing “Puerto Rican Ghost” off of No New York. Brian Eno produced. You probably won’t like it. You probably really really won’t like it, even. There’s only two kinds of music, Duke Ellington said. I’m not sure where this fits in. I know it can clear a room, except for a few weirdos. My kind of people, those weirdos.

And here’s “Tunnel”,  also from No New York. I think this used to be my favorite cut on the record back in the day. Who knows how many people I tormented with it at maximum volume. I recall playing it one Halloween and some tiny trick or treaters wouldn’t come to the door. I turned it off. Three and a half decades later it’s still a crazily imaginative piece of music (or “music”), the aural sensation of a hurtling subway is pretty incredible. That had to be Brian Eno creating that sound, knowing what buttons to press and levers to push to get that feel, like George Martin assembling “Tomorrow Never Knows” or Teo Macero editing Bitches Brew from an unholy mess of jam sessions. Back in the late ’70’s and even into the ’80’s “Tunnel” sounded stunningly alien, even scary, but I guess all the crazed electro creations of the past couple decades have sunk in and now this thoroughly analog thing sounds a little more conventional. A little more. As it spins it forms itself into a groove in my head. I can imagine people dancing to it. Weird people, yeah, but weird people dancing. Which is the title of an essay if I ever heard one. Not this one, though, but one full of weird people dancing. What a sight they make.


Best practices

Best overdose I ever saw at a rock show was in San Francisco at some inner city commune called The Farm. It was staffed by old hippies and full of hardcore punk kids. This was the mid eighties and I remember the punk band MDC was on going on about capitalism and dead cops while off message right in front of the stage about half a dozen skinheads were slapping the shit out of one of their brethren who’d apparently done a little too much junk. One would grab him by the collar of his leather jacket and give him a full bodied crack across the face. Another would give him a crack across the face the other way. Each took their turn slapping him and finally after a maybe a dozen blows he came to. Best practices, I guess. They yanked him up and walked him around on rubbery legs, dropping him once or twice. Eventually he was sort of standing on his own, while they were trying to slam dance and falling down. By then there was some band from Seattle on with a gorgeous singer and one of the skins tried to yank her into the pit by her ankles and she brained him with the mike stand. He went down hard, bleeding profusely, but I don’t think he noticed, he was up again, laughing and wobbling and giving her shit and fell down again, blood everywhere. His friends dragged him out by his collar and tried to staunch the bleeding with a band shirt they stole off the merchandise table. About that time I said let’s get out of here and on the way out a kid in an MDC shirt cajoled a buck out of me for a Revolutionary Worker. Make sure to read what Chairman Avakian says about the fascist war on drugs, he said. I said I would. All drugs should be legal, he said. Sure, I said, why not.