Choking On The Ashes Of The Inevitable: 20 Years After The Death Of Kurt Cobain

For 20 years, I knew this day was coming.

It was foreshadowed on April 8, 1994, my "official" date of the death of Kurt Cobain - the day they found his body laying on its back on the second floor in the greenhouse of his 171 Lake Washington Boulevard residence.

This is the day that I recognize the death of Kurt Cobain.

I'm serious. One of the things I remember about that date was how weird it would be revisiting it twenty years later. At that time, it would have been a little over twenty years since the death of Janis, Jim and Jimi. I don't exactly remember those dates, so the only death I could really compare it to was the death of John Lennon as both seemed to provide me with an overwhelming sense of sadness. And while I was despondent over the murder of John Lennon, I clearly remember my sadness being mixed with heavy amounts of anger at the news of Kurt Cobain.

I shit anywhere I please...

I was working in small market radio and having a great time. Part of that happiness was due to Nirvana. They had turned a very formulaic format into infinite possibilities, and it was a great time to be a part of that. For my money, 1991/92 would stand out as one of the high points of the rock and roll timeline, ranking next to such infamous dates as 1967 or 1977. It was our moment, and maybe that's why it's hard to look back on it now.

Cobain had  been missing for several days at this point, and  the rumors of a suicide attempt in Rome were prevalent. I had  purchased a bootleg CD called Roma that documented a live performance from around this time. The music was obviously from a soundboard recording as the fidelity is great and even the performance - recorded on February 22, 1994 - is surprisingly stellar considering he was just a few weeks away from his first suicide attempt and just a few weeks more away from his eventual execution of it.

The packaging of Roma was very professional in appearance, but the content was clearly slopped together. The photo collage is an orgy of Cobain shots, including a disturbing and prophetic band shot with Kurt holding a shotgun to his mouth. Again, this was released just a few weeks prior to his suicide.

An author with a very limited vocabulary penned  a few paragraphs about the band's notorious struggles during the first few months of 1994. "A near fatal accident in Rome has brought our the vultures hungry for a corpse" wrote the uncredited author, before adding a few swipes at  Eddie Vedder and soliciting sympathy for Kurt, Courtney Love and the other members of Nirvana. "It's going to take a lot more than this to knock down Nirvana's wall" continued the brief declaration, unaware that the wall was just about to be demolished with a quick shotgun blast to the head.

A representative from Elektra Records had called me and told me the news. I was in my office, obvious to the events. I went to the news room and began to scour the AP wire for information. "A body has been discovered at  the residence of Kurt Cobain" began the initial results. By the time of the start of my 2:00 pm airshift, the body was confirmed as Cobain's. I started every hour of my airshift with a Nirvana song and dutifully reported the news at any available break.

I heard the afternoon's news person talking to someone in the newsroom. "What an asshole! Committing suicide when there's a baby involved. How selfish!" It was hard to argue, yet hard to accept. This was the first musician of my generation that I explicitly related to, and the first one to explicitly disappoint me. I went into the room off of the station's studio where we kept a shitload of vinyl singles for years past and cried while "All Apologies" played. The news person came in and brought back all of the commercial carts that were used for her top of the hour news broadcast. She noticed that I was crying in the other room and seemed to understand that the words I heard her say moments before were probably left unsaid, given the circumstances.

"Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld"

I had semi-broken up with my girlfriend at the time, as she had taken a job close to the Minnesota border and moved out of our apartment. I moved back into my parent's home for a temporary residence, the entire event serving as an end to the salad days of my radio career, Cobain's suicide then serving as an exclamation point to its finish.

The event served as a clarion call to end any youthful aspirations of music, broadcasting, or anything related to the industry of both. I began to lift myself out of my limited economic resources and fell into a "straight" job where I began to earn a legitimate living, later realizing that the decision came at a price. I put the Nirvana records away and made little attempts to revisit them.

After my airshift that night, I went home to my parent's house. My mother had heard the news and quietly approached me in their sunroom as I watched the live MTV News feed of the suicide. "I'm sorry that the singer of the band you liked died" she offered. "I know you were a big fan."

"I was."

That weekend, I drove the five hours up to my ex-girlfriend's place and we watched the ongoing reports of Cobain's death on MTV. She cried continually and this bothered me as she was initially dismissive of Nirvana and chastised my enthusiastic support of them.

Everyone is entitled to a chance to change, I suppose, so I kept my own callous opinions about what I considered to be her carpetbagging support to myself. We had seen Nirvana perform in a basketball gymnasium just months prior, and now that event would be sealed with his death. I relayed how the phone lines at the radio station lit up when school let out from lots of kids calling in to confirm the news. She began to cry again.

Months later, we went and saw Hole play at First Avenue in Minneapolis. Looking back, it served as our own funeral of sorts for Cobain as well as an end to our relationship. The day after the show was the last time I ever saw her. In another example of my own about-face, I later hooked up with the news reporter that was initially so verbal about her thoughts on Cobain's death. We married a few years later in Las Vegas with an Elvis impersonator officiating.

Even though my life is light-years away from that moment 20 years ago, I remember the event vividly. Coming into 2014, I was reminded that today would be coming, and I avoided acknowledging the subject until now and the inevitable articles that commemorate the event.

Newly released photographs of the death scene?

Fuck you.

Courtney Love hinting at a potential Hole reunion?

Fuck you, too.

Nirvana being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?

"Corporate magazines still suck."

Instead of looking back on this day of Cobain's violent conclusion, I'd like to discuss why no band has been able to tap into the same level of cultural significance as Nirvana did even though two decades have come and gone.

Or maybe Cobain's shotgun ended that notion along with his life as well.

The Funky Drummer (Part III)

"The name of this tune is 'The Funky Drummer'" I told my son as we left the parking lot of Target. He came with me to pick up a few needed items for dinner that night, mainly because he was driving his Mother crazy at home, the result of some serious cabin fever for both of our children because of the never-ending winter we seem to be experiencing this year in the Midwest.

I pushed play and James Brown began to count off the song, a seven-minute long classic that would easily make its way into my "greatest songs of all time" list, if I ever thought I could compile one. The only reason "The Funky Drummer" made its way into the stereo of our minivan this evening was because I thought it would be perfectly timed from our journey from Target to back home, hopefully ending with Brown's naming ceremony at the end of the song as soon as we pulled into our driveway.

My son tolerates such impromptu music lessons, because if I don't occasionally target a few of these acknowledged classics for him, his musical knowledge would be dictated by the playlist of our city's Top 40 station, and influence he listens to nearly every night when he goes to bed.

I suppose I did the same thing at his age, but my upbringing was a lot more musically adventurous that what he currently displays. He loves music to some extent and even sings in his school's chorus, but there is little evidence that he has the same passion for music that his father has, and every now and then some tutoring is needed.

"This is one of the most sampled songs in history." I explained, immediately remembering that he probably has no idea what sampling is. The explanation is going nowhere, but then he asks something that hints at being remotely interested in what I'm telling him.

"When was this song recorded?" he asks.

"1969." I answer affirmatively.

"No it wasn't!" He corrects, even though I know he has no idea what the hell he's talking about. I take my Rock & Roll history somewhat seriously, primarily out of necessity of self-preservation rather than attempting to be a trivia snob trying to assert authority. Considering this, I retort with the commanding "E, you don't know anything about James Brown, so how do you think you know when 'The Funky Drummer' was recorded?"

I swear to God, this is how I interact with my son. With that being said, his historical knowledge of professional wrestling is impressive. He even reminded me once that Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka may have killed his girlfriend in 1983.

"James Brown?" replies my son. "I thought you were talking about Chris Brown!"

It's true: "The Funky Drummer" will turn 45 this year, and the drum break that inspired Mr. Brown's last minute song title has been the foundation for untold numbers of rap and R&B tracks during the last three decades, continues to inspire countless artists and listeners with its infectious beat.

If sheet music exists for "The Funky Drummer," it probably only takes a page. The basic pattern of the song would run a full measure before the instruction on the next measure read "Vamp til ready" and then ended.

Each member of The James Brown Orchestra gets a nod, punctuated by Brown's own verbal observations and direction. He enthusiastically yells "Bring on the juice!" before saxophonist St. Clair Pinckney starts his solo. When Pinckney gets near the end of his spot, Brown affirms "Still good!" allowing the horn player to blow for a few more measures. When things really begin to cook, it prompts a few "Good God!" and "I got to holler!" a few times throughout the rest of the song's seven minutes.

By the fifth minute of the track, we had pulled on to the last street leading to our home. There was no way that I would disrespect the Godfather of Soul by ending "The Funky Drummer" early, particularly if it's because of my inaccurate travel time calculations.

We would simply drive around the block.

This of course led to the inevitable chorus of "Are we going around the block?" and "Why are we going around the block?" almost overshadowing Brown's notice of what his band was up to.

"Fellas! One more time. I want to give the drummer some of this funky soul here." James interrupts. "You don't have to do no soloin' brother. Just keep what you got!" he instructs the man keeping such an impeccable ass-shaking groove. Clyde Stubblefield probably made $40 for his work on November 20th, 1969, possibly earning enough for a decent Thanksgiving meal for his family. I'll leave it to you to ponder if this is sufficient compensation for a drum pattern that ended up being used on million sellers and providing other artists with much more financial security.

"Don't turn it loose...'cause it's a mother!" James advises Stubblefield, before telling the rest of the band, "When I count to four I want everybody to lay out and let the drummer go. When I count to four I want you to come back in."

And just like that, Stubblefield is left alone with his spontaneous spark of genius. For eight full bars, Clyde delivers his groundbreaking drum pattern unaccompanied, becoming the focal point and namesake of the song itself.

By the time Brown counts off the second time, we've made our way around the block and I hit the garage door opener to the faded refrains of "The funky drummer...The funky drummer" "So! Wasn't that one of the best songs you ever heard in your entire life?" I ask my son as we slow into the garage, sure of what the answer will be.

"It was OK." he responds, completely lacking anything resembling enthusiasm.

He's on his way inside while I stay seated, jaw dropped that he didn't have the same kind of visceral reaction that I did when I first heard "The Funky Drummer."

"Cut off the lights." I mutter to myself as I kill the headlamps on the minivan.

 "And call the law."

On The Death Of Phil Everly

I had a chance to finish I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon and learned several things about the artist. One of them was the fact that Zevon served as the keyboard player for none other than the Everly Brothers as their musical director. His involvement with them continued on after their infamous Knotts Berry Farm Farm gig where Phil Everly smashed his guitar and walked off stage, thereby ending the most important vocal duos of rock and roll history.

Zevon later worked with both Phil and Don as arrangers for both of their solo careers, tip-toing around the brother’s mutual disdain for each other while trying to get a handle on his own fledgling solo music.

This was later in the brothers’ career, of course, and the fact that their last concert together happened in a friggin’ amusement park only speaks to the injustice of how America treats its national treasures the moment they’re no longer shiny and new.

The Everly Brothers would later get an opportunity to have a second act, this time with a mess of popular (then) current artists who acknowledged the brothers’ greatness with their own talents, content with merely sharing the stage with the pair that inspired them.

Paul Mc Cartney was one of those artists that contributed.

That should be a clear indication of how important the Everly Brothers were to rock music.

What wasn’t clear was how important the Everly Brothers were to my own upbringing. I noticed how woefully inept my own Everly Brothers collection was; it consisted of merely four songs-obvious inclusions-and it failed to reflect the proximity of the Everlys to my own early years.

For starters, I remember how one of my grandparents had a portable record player-you could fold the thing into a plastic case-which I dutifully used whenever I visited. The only trouble was that my grandparents had an unbelievably limited record collection. It was mainly a few 78’s that they had kept from the 40’s, music that was inherently foreign to me, having been raised on rock and roll from the earliest moments.

There was a leftover 45 from my Dad’s era, an original pressing of “Wake Up Little Suzie” on the Cadence label. It was an awful record. Literally. The acoustic introductions were overcome with que-burn and the center hole was broken in several places, making the 45 adapter worthless. I was forced to place the record directly on the platter of the turntable and eyeballed its appropriate placement to the spindle.

For about three years, I lived in a small town in Southwest Iowa called Shenandoah. The radio station was started by seed dealer Earl May (his garden center stores still dot the Midwest) who built a small media empire, complete with a radio auditorium where national acts would come to town and perform. One of those performers were none other than the Everly Family. They maintained their own show on the radio station (KMA-AM, “Keep Millions Advised”) and began their professional career in that small Iowa town.

Phil and Don stayed in Shenandoah until their early high school years, when they move to Knoxville, Tennessee, got the attention of Chet Atkins and the rest is history.

Because of my own history with Shenandoah, I was brought up on Everly’s lore. The Everlys and Johnny Carson (who grew up in nearby Corning) were continually name-checked, giving the otherwise sparsely populated area a much needed ego boost.

Don't want your kisses, that's for sure.

The Everlys were so highly regarded that a “Welcome Back” reunion was featured in their honor in the 1986. That’s my ex-wife as a teenager standing outside of the tour bus that they rode into town during the Independence Day celebrations. She used to work for KMA radio too, as did her grandmother, who scored a Marconi Award for her contributions to the radio industry. She told me that the brothers were rude and, supposedly mean to their mother who accompanied them for the trip, but I have no personal account of this.

Rumors aside, it’s pretty clear that their original success was vital to the development of rock and roll music. 

There’s also a very real possibility that without the Everlys, The Beatles probably wouldn’t have existed. If anything, there is no doubt that The Fab Fours “Please Please Me” would not have been such a hit, as it lifts the sibling’s diatonic thirds harmony featured so prominently on “Cathy’s Clown.”

Except Paul and John had to practice at it.

With the Everly Brothers, it all came naturally.

Phil took the high notes while Don steered the lead with his baritone. You can’t help but remember that the Everly Brothers were apart for more years of their professional career than they were together. They hated each other only to the point where they couldn’t acknowledge their unconditional love for each other. They resented the fact that they depended on each other, but understood that their roles as elder statesmen of rock and roll afforded them the opportunity to ignore reunion requests. Paul Simon recalls how, after the effort he undertook in getting the brothers back together for a last hurrah, he was shocked to learn how Don and Phil hadn’t spoken to each other for nearly three years prior to arriving at rehearsals.

He also noted that, even after their lack of communication, the brothers effortless fell into their vocal roles, seemingly by instinct and as beautiful as ever. Sure the high notes weren’t so high and their baby faces had grown into a more grandfatherly appearance, but the glimmer of their magic history was still present.

They were the Louvin’ Brothers rock and roll cousins, a genetic marvel that declared that rock and roll music wasn’t all about rhythm and rebellion. You could get lost in their scales, studying something that was completely instinctual to them. And while my children probably have no idea about their impact, they most certainly enjoy a world that sound much more beautiful because of their presence.

The Ventures - Knock Me Out

Every summer for two weeks, my parents would ship me over to my grandparent’s house in a small town in Southwest Iowa, population 1,500 residents. When I went there for my grandmother’s funeral this August. Both sets of grandparents lived in Bedford, making it impossible to get away from the farming community whenever summer come around again.

To a kid below the age of 12, Bedford was not such a terrible place to visit. It wasn’t until my teenage years when the limitations of a town of 1,500 people became noticeable. Prior to that, Bedford was a fine environment for a kid. It boasted a big lake you could swim in, a small Main Street with a department store, and fireworks just a few miles to the south, right across the state line of Missouri where the incendiary devices were legal.

The only time when Bedford became kind of a drag was when I missed my record collection from back home. Both grandparents did not have much in the way of records, at least the kind that I enjoyed, so it was a real bummer when I had a hankering for some Queen and the closest match was an old Rusty Warren comedy album that one of my grandmother’s had stuck in the middle of all of her easy listening records.

The same grandmother did have a one leftover record from her kids, The Ventures’ Knock Me Out.

It was an instrumental offering from the band circa 1965 and it featured a few hits from the day as well as one or two originals. The cover featured a blonde haired girl who was “knocked out” by the Ventures’ sound, a sound that evidently was created by the Mosrite guitars, whose headstocks were prominently featured next to the girl’s swinging head.

This was the first type of guitar that I ever became familiar with, mainly because I thought it was cool that the Ventures were so well known back in the 60’s that Mosrite had an exclusive line of guitars made especially for them. When I noticed that there was a picture of Ricky Wilson’s Mosrite on the inner sleeve of The B-52’s debut album, I surmised that the awesome surf tone of “Rock Lobster” was the result of that two-stringed instrument that had the strap attached to it by a bunch of duct tape. I immediately wanted one, and still do to this day.

Some of the songs on Knock Me Out were instantly recognizable. The album begins with “I Feel Fine” and the distinctive feedback at the beginning of the song. “Love Potion No. 9” was another familiar cut, although the fuzz tone of guitarist Nokie Edwards on the Ventures’ version makes the track almost sound menacing.

At the end of side two, The Ventures actually sign during one song, “Sha La La.” As you can probably figure out, the extent of the band’s “singing” consists of them going “Sha La La” over and over, dutifully preventing the band from ever being compared with any of the vocal groups they covered. Like most other Ventures’ product, the guitars normally served as the same melody where the vocals usually were.

Regardless of the band’s lack of vocal prowess, Knock Me Out is another example of the band’s instrumental dexterity and consistent chops. There’s no doubt that the band served an important role in the annals of rock music and Knock Me Out is another fine example of the band’s style and prowess. There are moments of intriguing tones, particularly considering the rest of the rock landscape from when the album was first issued in February, 1965.

The band puts together a taught collection of one dozen tracks that were probably better suited for my own collection rather than my grandmother’s. But at the end of the day, Knock Me Out stayed in Bedford as the only real permanent rock and roll fixture within my grandparents’ home, a brief reprieve from the over-abundance of mellow schlock that was played on their stereo during dining and whatever social occasions they listened to that garbage.

It only took another spin-several decades removed, and with a plethora of unlimited options available to me at my digital fingertips, before I fully appreciated the extend of Knock Me Out’s influence on my young ears.

Can't Live Without You: A Farewell To The Scorpions

Would you mind removing your hat, Klaus?

I do a mean Klaus Meine.

It’s true. Ask one of my co-workers (the ones over thirty, that is) and they’ll tell you how they’ve heard me yell—in my best World Wide Live voice—”Do you see the microphones in the air? Do you see them?! We are doing a live recording here toniiiggghhttt!” Because there’s nothing funnier than hearing a thin-haired German dude trying to work up a crowd in broken English.

But as much as I think Klaus Meine sounds funny, as much as some of the band’s lyrics are funny, as offensive as some of their album covers are, and as awful as their 1989 smash “Wind Of Change” truly is, I will stand behind the Scorpions and defend their awesomeness without a hint of irony. And to hear that they will be calling it a day disappoints me.

For me, it began with Animal Magnetism after Jim Turner gave a half-baked assessment of it during basketball practice. A few of us were talking about what records we liked when Jeff, who wasn’t even part of the original conversation, offered “Man, if you all want to hear some good music, it don’t get no better than ‘The Zoo‘ by the Scorpions.”

Jim Turner later went to jail when he and a pair of other classmates did a quick home invasion of an older couple who ran the local Dairy Queen. They broke into their house one night a demanded the funds of the ice cream place’s daily sales, oblivious to the fact that business owners generally put the store’s profits into the night depository box at the bank before heading home.

While Jim wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed when it came to felonious crime, he was correct in his recommendation of Animal Magnetism.

When Blackout came out, a friend of mine became so inspired that he wanted to immortalize it on his car, a 1969 Buick. He chose a line from “Dynamite” and carved “Kick Your Ass To Heaven With Rock & Roll Tonight” into the paint of his trunk.

Another friend admitted that he used the cover of Lovedrive as masturbatory material.

Thank God it wasn’t Virgin Killer [NSFW].

But even that album triggers a more recent memory. I was at one of those websites that lists the 10 or 20 most awful album covers of all time and it rightfully includes Virgin Killer on its list. Curiosity got the most of me and I finally decided to brave a potential Dateline: To Catch A Predator investigation and download a copy.

You know what?

It fucking rocks.

And so began my most recent exploration: Scorpions circa 1971-1978. It’s a revelation. Hell, it’s a completely different band. Thanks to the underrated genius of guitarist Uli Jon Roth, ’70s era Scorps are sonically heavier outfit with these weird flourishes of Hendrix-y psychedelic blues. Roth frequently quotes from Hendrix’s notepad, and he later married the same chick that was with Jimi on the night that he died. He is just one of three—count ‘em—three of hard rock’s all-time greatest guitarists that have played in the Scorpions.

When the band was just starting out, guitarist Michael Schenker was so good on the Flying V that UFO, a more popular band from England snagged him.

Kick your ass to Heaven, with rock and roll tonight!

After Roth and Schenker departed, Matthias Jabs—a possible contender for best name of a lead guitarist—managed to somehow continue the emotive soloing of his predecessors and combine it with the rapid-fire finger tapping approach of ’80s metal.

It was during this time when the band reached their heights with the commercial zenith of Love At First Sting, a record which prompted even my father to comment that “Rock You Like A Hurricane” was a “pretty good song.” Is it any surprise that my father’s approval proved to be the kiss of death that began the band’s dissent into worn out clichés (“Tease Me, Please Me“) and political ambassadors (“Winds Of Change”). Sure, the latter secured a place in the hearts of thousands freed from communist oppression, but for the rest of us, we felt the band had gone soft.

There were moments during the ’90s when I’d contemplate a new Scorpions album, but I never had the balls to actually buy one. It was too risky. “Wind Of Change” had done such irreversible damage that even the band’s notoriety as good-natured party boys seemed somewhat irresponsible. I can’t believe I’m suggesting this but, the Scorpions should have just stayed stupid.

There was a time when they served as an important reminder of the spirit of rock and roll: How does a rock and roll band build their chops? Gigs! What is the main reason why a fellow should start a rock band? Chicks! What should a band do during the hours off stage? Party!

They were the Beatles’ younger brother generation; a collective of teenage boys who saw The Beatles as a formula for a way out, and if it landed some tail during the process then all the better. One of the most important tools that they gleaned from the Fab Four was an almost Hamburg-like work ethic where the band got very good at their arrangements, to the point where even the most clumsy of English wordplay was overlooked.

While the Scorpions progressed exponentially on their craft, their lyrics remained a pubic hair above the seventh grade. They often seemed to rhyme things phonetically with a complete disregard for logic. And like a monkey writing Shakespeare, the band would occasionally mine gold, lending you to second guess that their apparent lack of smarts was part of the plan.

Plus, is there any way that a band with a track record that spans forty years could have pulled it off without a little bit of common sense?

No way.

So even though I haven’t heard much from the band in over half of that four decade career, I’m still compelled to visit them when they make their inevitable retirement tour that also happens to be supporting their final studio album. Up until now, there’s always been “the next tour,” with a sneaking suspicion that there’d be a cheaper county fair opportunity.

With their retirement announcements, it appears that the band will get to go out with an arena tour and with a certain amount of dignity.

What was that about playing dumb?

Thanks for the memories, Scorpions.

There really is no one like you.

This article originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

On The Death Of Lou Reed

There is probably no other artist as singularly frustrating as Lou Reed.

He is a personal hero, yet someone I would never want to meet. He let his past and his ego cloud what could have been a career that rivaled the output of David Bowie at the least, Bob Dylan at the most. For whatever reason, he chose a path that purposely alienated any possibility of that happening while continuing to boast about his talent, even in the face of this indifference.

And now, goddamnit, the last piece of work he’ll be remembered for is that godawful collaboration with Metallica, Lulu.

Somehow, ain’t that just perfect?

But let’s be honest, you give Lou Reed a wide berth for a very good reason. There are the four Velvet Underground records released between 1967 and 1970 which are some of the most vital albums in rock history. They of such enormous importance that even a collection of outtakes and leftovers recorded in 1968 is practically as good as the official titles.

So if you’re keeping score, that’s a batting average on par with The Beatles and better than the Rolling Stones, making Lou Reed’s post-Velvets output akin to John Lennon’s own uncompromising catalog, only three decades more wide.

It’s not that Reed’s solo records were anything to sneeze at; there are a few oddly placed titles that are required listening, but there are a lot more that will get you closer to believing that his creative apex ended the moment he moved back into his parent’s house and put his electric guitar away in the closet for a few months. After that, it’s a landmine of outbursts, questionable creative directions and a bunch of just plain stubborn decisions that did nothing else but to remind everyone that the buck stops with Lou Reed and him alone.

One of the most read posts on this blog are the ones about Lou Reed. The review for his 1979 album TheBells in particular solicits a lot of page views and a few passionate reactions to the less-than-positive review.

Reading it now, I was taken by how vicious (ha!) I was to an album that I accurately placed at “two-stars,” enough that I can completely understand why fans of Lou would actively log in to the comment section and call me an asshole for it. It’s unnecessarily bitchy.

And then I gave Sally Can't Dance, Reed’s lazy commercial follow-up to Transformer a whopping “three-star” review, which should have also garnered a large amount of comments (but didn’t) on the sheer weight that this was way too generous of a record featuring the likes of “Animal Language.” Reed even noticed the irony at how Sally-the effort in which he participated the least-became his highest charting effort ever.  I like it because at least half of the tracks rule and it shows that had Reed been willing to play ball just a little bit like a good roster boy, he could have had a string of gold records.

But no. He follows it up with Metal Machine Music. Then he changes his mind and works for that old queen Clive Davis and gives him an abysmal commercial offering, Rock ‘N Roll Heart. I mean, the guy was bi-polar in the manner in which he addressed his celebrity and music.

There were moments that simply transcended, perhaps never fully realized until he followed a disciple into the studio for Transformer. Reed would more than likely disagree, but with Bowie’s glam window dressings, Reed let the line between his contemporaries and his neglected old band in the Velvets, finally receive the commercial acknowledgement he deserved, only to resent the attention nearly as quickly as he experienced it.

It was with this album I first arrived, immediately followed by Rock & Roll Animal­ and the aforementioned Sally Can’t Dance.

Transformer filled the B-side of a Maxell C-90 XL-II cassette with Sex Pistols’ Never Mind The Bullocks on the A. These were probably the two worst records that you could probably give a Freshman in high school, but a friend of mine figured I needed them, and he was right. With these two records, the blueprint of my high school soundtrack was began a new musical wing of exciting possibilities.

Rock & Roll Animal had me thinking that Reed was infallible. It’s as unlikely a live album that you’ll ever heard, putting Reed at the head of the class in the arenas, filling out his catalog with hard rock licks and a sense of entitlement. When he blurts out “You can all go take a fucking walk!” during the extended version of “Heroin,” it’s like he’s got the last word on all those “Jim Jims in this town,” finally getting the popularity he deserved.

When things got grim (again) during the 80’s, I received comfort from Coney Island Baby. There was a club in Iowa City that unexplainably had this album on their cd jukebox, and it became a perfect, late-night selection.  There’s nothing like hearing Lou admit “I want to play football for the coach” while under the influence of too much liquor, and probably the only time you can hear such a line with a straight/shitty face.

Another resurgence in the late 80’s came for New York, and for a while it maintained Reed until Magic and Loss in ’92. I remember forgetting about how bad Reed could be, blindly following his output until the one-two punch of disappointment of the Velvet’s reunion and his solo effort, Set The Twilight Reeling.

From that point on, I barely paid attention, and when I did, it was for all the wrong reasons.

The news of his liver transplant came as a shock earlier this year, but having seen Phil Lesh of the Grateful Dead pull through something similar, it sounded like the surgery might be promising. It wasn’t too long ago when Reed promised that everything was going great and that he was going to be back “stronger than ever.”

It now sounds like it was only the bravado talking.

I didn’t take the news well. It’s been on my mind all day, in addition to all of the other mundane dramas of our family’s afternoon. I went out to mow the lawn, creating a Lou Reed playlist beforehand, but by the time I got the mower started, I just listened to the noise of the engine.

It was my own version of Metal Machine Music.

Singles 45's & Under: PowerSource - Dear Mr. Jesus

College is a great place to foster and develop one’s cynicism. In light of tragedy and things beyond one’s control, cynicism serves an important purpose. If offsets the realities of this cruel world by preparing us to tackle another day. If we linger too long on everything that is wrong with this planet, we find ways to hasten our exit from it, either consciously or subconsciously.

I never understood child abuse growing up, but then again, what is there to understand about it anyway? It’s a topic that grows exponentially horrid when you have children, and as a person who believes that we as a species should be better than killing another person in the name of justice, I falter a bit on the position whenever I hear stories about child abuse.

In 1987, a New York attorney was arrested after beating his step-daughter  to death. She collapsed after a blow to the head, and as she lay in the bathroom of the family’s Bronx apartment, slipping in and out of consciousness from her injuries, her step-father left her alone without medical attention, occasionally leaving the home to freebase cocaine.

He lived with a woman for several years, and she was also to blame for allowing the abuse to continue in the couple’s home. When she returned home from her job as an editor of children’s books for Random House one evening, she found the child close to death. The girl had been suffering for over 10 hours. It was at this time that she finally convinced her abusive partner that they needed to contact the authorities. The girl later died from her injuries.

The case gained national prominence, but I remember it for another reason.

During the trial, a radio station discovered a song recorded by PowerSource, a contemporary Christian musical group led by Richard Klender. The group recorded a song called “Dear Mr. Jesus,” a schmaltzy ballad about child abuse with stunningly bad 80’s production values. The song’s notoriety was secured when Klender asked 6 year-old Sharon Batts to perform lead vocals on his new song.

PowerSource released their first and only album Shelter From The Storm in 1986. “Dear Mr. Jesus” was nestled in the Bedford, Texas’s full length and probably would have gone unnoticed if it weren’t for the aforementioned child abuse case in New York City. When some clever disc jockey found it and began playing it during the trial, listeners called in by the thousands to request it. From there, it began to spread across the country, where it finally entered the Billboard Hot 100 chart, peaking at #61 in January 1988.

I remember it being played repeatedly in the Midwest during the 1987 holiday season. My cynicism took note of the song’s content and the manner in which Mr. Klender chose to address the topic by enlisting a 6 year-old girl to sing it.

Take a look/listen to this incredible piece of 80’s righteousness and marvel at how Klender seemed to foreshadow later events about a girl “beaten black and blue.” The girl narrator is troubled by the news and decides to take her concerns directly to Jesus, or “Mr. Jesus” as it were.

Taking a clue from George Jones’ classic “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” Klender saves a money shot for the end of the song, when the little girl asks Mr. Jesus to look into this topic of child abuse, and to keep a family secret to himself.

“Please don’t tell my Daddy, that my Mommy hits me too.”

While my cynicism certainly took notice of this forgotten gem, it was the song’s curious decision to highlight the topic from the perspective of a 6 year-old girl that stuck with me for almost three decades. I recently found the song online and have been thoroughly enjoying it in the most ironic of ways for the past week.

In fact, I have been subjecting the children to this piece of fine art, causing my daughter to sing the refrain of “Please, don’t let them hurt your children” over and over, while my son has decided to stick with the “my Mommy hits me too” line, particularly when his own mom tells him to come in for the evening.

I also have the song on vinyl, a promotional single that I acquired from a radio station. When I found it, I used it for a few cassette mixes, utilizing some production tricks in the process. On the flip side, Klender conducted an interview with the young Sharon, asking her complicated questions about abuse and her supposed advocacy concerning the topic. Of course, her responses were exactly what you would expect from a 6 year-old girl who had been heavily coached beforehand. There are lots of one-line answers as well as the expected “child abuse is bad” message. It is exploitation at its most blatant, but it is exactly what you’d expect from a song that was created from such obvious heart-tugging that it can potentially cause cardiac arrest.

For my mix tapes, I would let Klender’s introductions and interview “questions” spin at the normal 45 r.p.m. speed. Then, whenever Sharon would pause to respond, I would change the speed to 33 r.p.m., causing her voice to resonate with a creepy, lower pitched voice. To hear Sharon’s innocent responses under the guise of a middle-age man’s voice was positively stunning. I wish I would have kept a copy for myself.

Child abuse is certainly no laughing matter. I understand this completely as a parent. But while my own opinion of this topic can certainly elicit unchecked rage from within, there’s something inherently wrong about exploiting a child to address a subject as morally repulsive to begin with.

Jesus, thought I’d take this right to you…

You're In The Jungle Baby! 20 Years After Appetite For Destruction

The Peter Case book got me thinking about an article I did six-years ago over at Glorious Noise, celebrating the 20th anniversary of the release of Appetite For Destruction. 

Also, my Grandmother recently passed away. She absolutely hated this band, probably uttering her Swedish expression for disgust, "Ish!"

In the spring of 1987, my cousin was a junior in high school and overflowing with Midwestern teenage rebellion. A couple of classmates convinced him to stand lookout in the doorway of the boy’s restroom at school while they detonated a pipe bomb in one of the stalls. The explosion created major devastation and, as my cousin later admitted, it’s a miracle that no one was hurt during the incident.

The two boys that created the bomb were expelled from school while my cousin was handed a fifteen day suspension which entailed the final week of his junior year classes and the first two of his senior year.

Axl shows off the leather fanny pack he made in industrial arts class.

His parents, feeling that this punishment wasn’t severe enough, grounded him for the entire summer and forced him to learn about responsibility by getting a job. In a strange twist of irony, the job he landed was filing papers for a local insurance agent.

He spent his time outside of work holed up in his bedroom, passing the hours reading music magazines and listening to heavy metal records. A five-star review in Kerrang! of an unknown L.A. hard rock band called Guns ‘N Roses caught his eye and he made a mental note to look into them the next time he tasted freedom again.

Towards the end of summer, his parents finally displayed a small amount of sympathy by allowing him to tag along to the mall one weekend while they went shopping. He made his way towards the record store and immediately looked for the band that received such a glowing review. He became enamored with the original Robert Williams cover art for Appetite For Destruction and used some of the money he earned from his minimum wage job to take a chance on this debut.

The small town in Central Illinois where my cousin lived at the time probably wasn’t much different than Lafayette, Indiana, the city that W. Axl Rose fled from at the age of seventeen. It would only be a matter of time, and a few dozen plays of that cassette copy of Appetite, before my cousin drew parallels between him and William Bailey.

Fueled by the imagery within that album and inspired by Axl and Izzy’s own similar tales of escape, he and another friend jumped into a 1979 Chevy Camaro and headed west. A mutual friend who didn’t join them seemed to put more forethought into the journey than they did: she set them up with crackers and peanut butter for the trip, knowing that their limited resources wouldn’t provide them with much cash flow for fine dining.

While the Camaro’s 350 V8 gave them enough dependability to make it across the country, it did so at a high price. By the time they arrived in Los Angeles, the majority of their funds had been spent on fuel with the remaining balance going towards Marlboro reds and Mountain Dew.

They spent their first night gingerly sleeping on the Camaro’s bucket seats in a seedy part of East L.A.

While Appetite may have convinced them that L.A. was ground zero for sex, drugs, and rock and roll, the “jungle” proved to be relatively uneventful. The pair cruised the strip, looking for evidence of the scene chronicled in heavy metal magazines and immortalized in their favorite hard rock songs. The reality was much different: while they naively thought that they would be able to run into the members of GNR hanging outside of the Whiskey, neither one caught a glimpse of anyone remotely famous. After growing tired of their lack of success on the Sunset Strip, they decided that they would have better luck at meeting some of their SST idols like Henry Rollins and Greg Ginn. A quick drive down to Redondo Beach proved to be just as dull as their time on the Strip.

Perhaps their most notable encounter came while buying sodas and cigarettes one morning in a convenience store. They struck up a conversation with a prostitute who was coming to the end of her “shift.” After learning about the pair’s predicament, and perhaps going though similar circumstances herself, she offered the teenagers some sage advice: “Turn around and go home.”

Twenty years after the release of Guns ‘N Roses Appetite For Destruction, I’m hard pressed to think of another album that speaks to the disenfranchised youth of America with such power to subliminally motivate them to hop in a Chevy Camaro and head for Los Angeles.

GNR was grubby looking and inked to the hilt at a time when tattoos and dirty fingernails weren’t a rite of passage, but a complete declaration of anti-social values and poverty. Rose’s lyrics also reeked of anti-social behaviors, with misogyny, addiction, violence, and the brutal reality of the underbelly of Southern California being common themes of their initial batch of material. Appetite was a welcome change from other hard rock bands of the time who were watering down their arrangements to be more palatable to radio and MTV.

The album foundered for nearly a year before someone finally had the good sense to recognize that under the grit of the album’s harsh subject matters was a song of tremendous vulnerability and beauty. By the time the rest of the world finally heard the gentle refrain of “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” the band instantaneously changed from spokesmen for America’s troubled youth to the mainstream’s resident bad boys.

From that point on, the band would never be able to recreate that stunning blend of ferocity and hunger like they did on the debut. We may have come to terms with the fact hat they, particularly Axl at this point, won’t be able to match the level of Appetite again. The challenge that I struggle with is how a blend of five fuckups managed to come that close to perfection in the first place, only to immediately distance them from that winning blueprint.

My cousin isn’t necessarily proud of his youthful indiscretions nowadays; he had a certain amount of reservation in using his past for this public display. The turning point was the record up for discussion. The moment he heard it would be a piece about Appetite For Destruction, he relented about the unflattering points of his teenage years. Because things like pipe bombs, Camaros, Marlboro cigarettes, and running off to Los Angeles are completely logical when Appetite is part of the backdrop. And while we still may be waiting for the next seedy underdogs to rise from the gutter and rally America’s youth, it’s nice to know that Appetite For Destruction still has enough vitriol in it to help teenagers make poor choices for another twenty years.

I Need Seven Inches Or More: Parental Guidance Suggested

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When We Make Love: The Soundtracks To Our Sex

Iggy Pop: The Godfather of Abstinence

I have to confess, after reading Gawker’s post “On Choosing Sex Music,” I was reminded of a regular column that was under consideration at one point here on Glam-Racket.

The article considers the critical admiration of Rhye, a band that I am not familiar with but would wholeheartedly consider as the common thread among these critics is that this is great lovemakin’ music.

A quick side note, the article identifies a dozen songs that you’re not supposed to play during sex, of which I’m guilty of at least one Marvin Gaye song.

Do Not Play These Songs During Sex:
Color Me Badd's "I Wanna Sex You Up"
George Michael's "I Want Your Sex"
Berlin's "Sex (I'm A...)"
Salt-N-Pepa's "Let's Talk About Sex"
Marcy Playground's "Sex and Candy"
Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing"
Boyz II Men's "I'll Make Love To You"
Prince's "Do Me, Baby"
Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On"
Bad Company's "Feel Like Makin' Love"
Nine Inch Nails' "Closer"
N.W.A.'s "Fuck the Police"

The column that I was considering was an actual review of an album that was played during lovemaking. I even went as far as to ask my wife if something like that would make her feel uncomfortable, but almost immediately, I was given the green light.

Yet something stopped me from actually following through, namely because the idea was really stupid and I can’t imagine anyone giving a shit about the music that my wife and I listen to while we get behind closed doors.

The entire premise changed too many times to come to fruition, anyway. One draft would focus more on the wife’s perception of the music (which sometimes was non-existent) while another would end up as nothing more than a regular review of the record.

The most disturbing drafts matched the music with the actual act itself, and the results were just as creepy as you can imagine. Then there was the review of the spontaneous playlist that I prepared immediately before, but any such review would have to begin with the admission that the playlist began with the god-awful Berlin song “When We Make Love” off 1984’s Love Life.

Since we’re being honest, here are some notes from the lost drafts of this canceled column.

Channel Orange was considered “weird” by the Mrs. And obviously, that’s not a good thing.

Richard Hawley was too distracting.

Avalon is only the tip of the iceberg. For Your Pleasure is a close second and Flesh + Blood sometimes ranks as good as the last Roxy Music effort.

You can never go wrong with Pantha Du Prince, King Tubby, or any mix by Pete Tong.

Teddy Pendergrass should not be used unless you intend on working through at least one compilation side. There should never be any leftovers with Teddy.

Same thing goes for Barry White.

Marvin Gaye only in moderation.

Prince beyond 1999 is not recommended and the first two are essential.

I once had to turn off an Earth Wind & Fire record. It wasn’t working for me.

As exciting as learning more about the sex life of my wife and I must seem, the reality is that we’re usually to lazy to think beyond the 80’s Channel in our DirecTV music line-up. We’ve got that shit hot keyed, yo, and we play Russian Roulette with certain songs. If Kenny Loggins’ “I’m Free” comes on during the sweet love down by the fire, it means that we contract Chlamydia.

More than anything, the reason why I could not get behind the idea of a regular column like that is because it’s really none of your business. It’s fun to talk about once in a while and it’s a topic that I’m obviously not afraid of, but to bullet point the periods of our sexual activity is something I don’t want to have a digital record of.

I want to have an emotional record of those events, and as this blog attempts to remind everyone: the records themselves are the perfect compliment to any emotional event that life provides.

Elton John - Caribou

My first recollection of Caribou is from a drunken night with an Episcopal priest in my hometown. He was a young priest, mid-30s, while I was barely out of high school. He made classic drinks and his humidor was filled with exotic tobaccos and a pack of Camel no filters.

His record collection was not as impressive, as it contained an excessive amount of classical music and very little pop titles. The titles that a young man would recognize were leftovers from his days before seminary school, relics before he took a vow.

The alcohol made him a bit looser, to the point where he put down his glass of whiskey and bitters on the rocks and pulled out a record.

“You’ve got to hear this song by Elton John,” he advised, pulling out a copy of the superstar’s Caribou album.

For most, Caribou is remembered by the hit “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me,” later referred to as “Don’t Let Your Son Go Down On Me” when Reg finally came out.

The record also kicks off with another hit, “The Bitch Is Back,” a staple of Top 40 radio stations during the 70’s as they explored flexing their community standards with a song that sounded so naughty on the surface.

But the Priest wasn’t about to play me those simpleton hits from Caribou. Instead, he dug deep to the last track, “Ticking,” a character study of a man who snaps and kills a bunch of people hostage in some diner.

It’s pedestrian by Bernie Taupin standards, filled with all sorts of clichés and phony dynamics, making the song seem deeper than it actually is. Elton plays the song bare with plenty of tinkling ivories. Aside from a few vocal overdubs and an occasional synthesizer, the song clearly intends to end Caribou on a deep and reflective note, which is strange, as the rest of the album is the sound of Elton getting comfortable with his superstar status.

The Priest attempts to get comfortable with his former life, singing into his drink a showy reading of the lyrics-the alcohol only playing havoc with his timing at points, particularly during dramatic pause of the chorus, “ticking….ticking”

It was clear that the Priest thought the world of Caribou, as I’m sure it represented a moment in his life where the entire world was ahead of him. There are many records in my own collection where their appeal is more towards nostalgic fondness than actual worthiness.  To that point, I would certainly try to give an honest appraisal of a record’s ranking, and at the risk of the holy wrath that may come from admitting this, Elton John’s Caribou is the beginning of many disappointments from the artist.

Ironically, Caribou finds itself in between two of Elton’s greatest triumphs-Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. Like its predecessor, Caribou was built entirely around time constraints and outside pressures. The biggest difference is that G.Y.B.R. revels in the diversity of its brief creative spurt while Caribou shows how bad things could get when you press for too much too soon.

Because, apart from the widely fluctuating appeal of the record’s two hits and the eerily contemporary curio of “Ticking,” Caribou offers little in terms of both redeeming value or artist development. In fact, it is the epitome of what can politely be considered a “rush job” when its entire package can more accurately be described as a “hose job.”

“Solar Prestige A Gammon” finds Elton trying to test the hypothesis that if he hangs out with ex-members of the Beatles long enough, some of their genius will rub off.  The track pointedly disproves this hypothesis while anally raping the English language in the process.

“Dixie Lily” finds Elton prepping a riverboat tune for a possible skit in The Muppet Show while “Stinker” is the most appropriately titled Elton John song in his entire catalog.

And if the good Lord strikes me dead, the only reason why Caribou gets a generous two-star rating comes at the inclusion of three awesome bonus tracks for the reissue version of this record. They are the seasonal favorite, “Step Into Christmas,” the fairly decent cover of The Who's "Pinball Wizard" from the otherwise shitty Tommy soundtrack and the b-side to “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me,” “SickCity.” In fact, “SickCity” is so good that you’ll wonder why it was delegated to just a flip-side status, especially after hearing the flaccid selections chosen for inclusion on Caribou.

As easy as it is to explain why Caribou is such a setback, the record does very little at hinting how good Captain Fantastic would eventually become. Unfortunately, it would also set the standard for Elton’s ensuing mediocrity. The timing of Caribou would give the record a bit of nostalgic sheen-and somewhat of a religious blessing in terms of my old Priest’s support-but as God as my witness, it does little to warrant further examination or add to Elton’s prodigious 70’s output in any meaningful fashion.

Paul Williams Reminds Us That He's "Still Alive" With New DVD

Any chance that I can get to remind readers that Smokey and the Bandit was the longest running film in my hometown for two decades, I take.

But the decision to brag about this very telling statement of my former zip code today is less to do with the mustached brilliance of one Burt Reynolds (get well soon, Rey Rey!) but the overlooked cameo of Paul Williams, the Coors loving Little Enos Burdette who helps dream up a plan to have two dimwitted rednecks risk the lives of motorists throughout the southeastern United States, just so they could bootleg some scab beer that isn't available in their area.

Williams was omnipotent throughout the 70's, appearing in a plethora of variety shows, comedy cameos, and what seemed to be a permanent seat in Johnny Carson's Tonight Show guest line up.

He was unique looking, which made him easy to ridicule somewhat, particularly if you didn't know that Williams was a hugely accomplished songwriter and musician.

I remember my dad cluing me in on this when I got a copy of Three Dog Night's "Just An Old Fashioned Love Song" single, penned by non other than the short dude with blonde hair and glasses from Omaha.

By the 80's, Williams seemingly disappeared. He remained in hiding for many years, popping up ocassionally on an episode of Walker Texas Ranger or collecting paychecks for voice-over work.

His abscence caused one fan to take note, to the point where he actively sought out Paul Williams and filmed the results.

The subsequent film looks intriguing, but judge for yourself from the carefully selected words detailing this look at an Academy Award winning composer, Paul Williams:

Paul Williams was everywhere in the 1970s - on records, the radio, TV and movies - but he suddenly walked away from it all, and a new generation of pop music lovers has no idea who he is. Director Stephen Kessler sets out to remedy that situation in Paul Williams: Still Alive. Kessler's "fascinating" (Entertainment Weekly) and "endearing" (Paste) film about his journey to find his musical hero will bring the songwriting genius to longtime fans and new listeners alike when it arrives on DVD on February 5, 2013, from Virgil Films. 

Even if you don't know songwriter Paul Williams, you know his timeless classics, such as the Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun" and "Rainy Days and Mondays," Barbra Streisand's "Evergreen," Three Dog Night's "Just an Old Fashioned Love Song" and the Muppets' "Rainbow Connection." Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra and David Bowie, among other giants, have recorded his songs. He has won Grammys and an Oscar, made his own hit records, had a busy acting career, including starring in Smokey and the Bandit and Brian DePalma's The Phantom of the Paradise, and made 50 appearances on Johnny Carson's Tonight Show. But where has he been for the last 20 years? Stephen Kessler (Vegas Vacation) wanted to know, so he set out to find Williams. 

The result is an exhilarating film about a fan finally meeting his hero and getting him to open up about his career and why he seemed to simply give it all up. The revelations in Paul Williams: Still Alive will stun and move fans, particularly when Williams opens up about his personal struggles and his triumphant return to the music industry as the president of ASCAP. A wistful musical journey that will reintroduce a new generation to Williams' soulful classics, Paul Williams: Still Alive is the charmingly self-narrated story of what happens when a nostalgic filmmaker finally catches up with his hero.