It's Your Picture On His Wall (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 10)

The Apartment Manager’s office didn’t have a desk and chairs you could sit in. When it was time to pay the rent tenants would have to stand in front of a little barred window, the kind you’d see for bettors at the race track. It was very cold and official, the way old Kim Moon and his wife liked it.

Griff stood in line behind two other men, a Hispanic and a black man. The black man was having words with Kim Moon, who was loudly arguing with him.

“You late with rent, Ballard, you pay now or we call sheriff”, Kim Moon’s old face ordered.
“Ah told you”, the man named Ballard insisted, “Ah can pay half now and the other half late next week”.
“No, you pay all rent now!” Moon’s face turned red.

The Hispanic man turned to Griff. “I don’t believe this old bastard Moon. I pay my rent and a week later he sticks an eviction notice in my box”.
“You too? I paid my rent last week and got a notice”.
“My name’s Castillo, I’ve seen you in the hallway a couple’a times, and take it from me”, Castillo lowered his voice, “That old coot’s so senile he doesn’t have a clue who paid their rent and who hasn’t. He does this back and forth with all the tenants”.
“No shit. My name’s Griffith, I just moved in and already I got my notice”.
“Shit, here comes the wife”. Mrs. Moon came out from behind the cage window towards the two men.

“Mr. Griffith, Mr. Castillo”, Mrs. Moon, an elderly little frail smiled, “I’m so sorry for the mix-up. Your notices meant for tenants on the upper floor. I’m afraid my husband missed his medication and got a little disoriented. Please accept my apology and his as well”. She took their eviction notices and tore them up in front of them to demonstrate good faith.

“Yes, ma’am”, they both said together. She turned back to the cage window and Castillo twirled his finger round his head disgustedly. Griff laughed and ran back upstairs.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Later that night, Griff’s band Garbage Truck played a cattle call gig whereby twenty-five bands were booked in one night with the proviso that they not play for more than twenty-five minutes, hence prompting the ad in the paper: “The Banana Peel presents Twenty Five Bands in Twenty-Five Minutes, Hot Dogs and Beer 25 cents All Nite!” It was a stupid club but the band needed some scratch to raise for their coastal tour.

The band that preceded Garbage Truck, Flower Drum Drum, left a ton of flowers and flower petals all over the stage without bothering to clean up the mess. Since the club provided the drumset and amps all the band had to do was plug in their shit and start playing.

“Good evening, we’re Garbage Truck and by the flowers around the stage you can bet this is our psychedelic show”, Griff announced to the crowd.

The band slammed into “Polka Dot Flag” and the pit grew in front of the stage. Griff picked up his trumpet and started blowing a stream of ear-shattering blasts that Joshua blew down walls in Jericho. Bert jumped around the stage and immediately slipped on flower petals, sliding across the stage and crashing into Griff.

Griff picked up Bert and the charge from his guitar merged with the mike stand sending Griff jumping in the air from the electric shock. When he jumped down he slipped on some petals and fell into the pit, narrowly missing a slammer’s elbow in the face.

At the end of the song Bradley gingerly walked around the stage picking up flower petals and throwing them at the audience. Bobby tried doing the same and slipped, catching himself from falling.

“Who needs stunt doubles when we can do our own? SHIT!” Griff joked. Trev angrily brushed a bunch of crushed chrysanthemums off the top of his bass amp, some of which fell on Ricardo’s floor tom.
“Hey!” barked Ricardo.
“I didn’t do it intentionally!” Trev yelled back.
“Watch it, you fuck!”

“Ahahaha, the brotherhood of man, the dove of peace, where is thy sting?” Griff quipped. “This one’s called ‘TOSS THE MIDGET!’”
Ricardo angrily pumped his beat on the floor tom shooting dirty looks at tall bass player standing next to him. The crowd picked up on the aggression and slammed even harder in the pit, prompting the cheap blonde cocktail waitresses to splutter like wet hens at the kids in the crowd.

Griff picked up his Gabriel Armageddon horn and some fool tried tossing a few petals into the bell of his horn. Griff kicked the idiot in the chest. The audience heaved first towards Griff, and then at the geek in the crowd. Bobby stomped on his fuzz-wah pedal, peeling out waves of twisted notes around the packed tiny nightclub.

The sound man, a failed bassist from Tennessee, worked the lights by constantly flipping the light switch making the stage lights change colors like a bad carnival ride, lights kaleidoscoping from blue and red and yellow, flickering non-stop, creating no real effect because the light dynamics were low-budget, like the 25 cent hot dogs – made from old dying horses, and the 25 cent beers – tasting like stagnant dish water with a cup of rubbing alcohol thrown in for some “kick”. The nightclub sold cheap because its stock in trade was so cheap. The punks and metal heads liked it, so somehow it didn’t matter.

Once more Bert slid across the stage without falling, but not without knocking over Ricardo’s hi-hat stand. Ricardo shot daggers at Bert, fuming so you could almost see smoke streaming out of his big ears.

“People”, Griff cracked, “you gotta love ‘em. This song’s called ‘THE RIFF THAT KILLED”, check it out, bitches!” Griff hollered. During the song he had to catch Bobby falling on his face 5 times, Bradley 3 times, and Bert about 10 times alone. “Banana Peel” indeed. The set was over fifteen minutes later. Bobby, Bert, and Bradley hung out by the patio after the show, Trev hung out with his power entourage, and Ricardo left the club immediately, not saying a word to anyone.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Griff held the flashlight down on the Thomas Bros. guide. “He’s two more blocks down, make a left at the next light”.
“Gotcha”, Trev nodded. He piloted the 1963 Mercury Comet station wagon, which grumbled loudly down the road.
“Nice car, Trev”.
“It’s a gas guzzler but it can carry any sized bass cabinet rain or shine. And even though it’s over 30 years old I still keep it pretty cherry!” As if in agreement the Comet blasted out some backfire ass-smoke out the tailpipe.

Cherry was a mighty debatable word as the station wagon was a tad rusty and had a few more dents than an old beer can, but they needed the cargo sled in the back to pick up their boxes of singles. They were on their way to Dead End Kyle’s house to pick up their first record. Dead End Kyle was the self-titled “Non-Impresario” of Paint It Black Records, whose promotional slogans ran on the order of “HEY, HOWZABOUT ANOTHER RECORD COMPANY?” or “SHIT, MAW I STARTED A RECORD COMPANY! WELL FUG ME!”

Griff and Trev walked up the lawn to Dead End Kyle’s humble abode and knocked on his door. Kyle himself opened the door and yelled, “Howdy!”

“Hey, what’s up?” the boys asked. Dead End put out his hand.
“I’m Kyle, you are?”
“Trev, I’m the bass player in Garbage Truck”.
“-And the driver, sometimes”, Griff added.
“Ah, a road slave”, Kyle laughed. “Well, somebody’s gotta do it”.
Everybody chuckled. Trev and Grif looked around Kyle’s living room, a veritable museum of vintage toys, weird statues, sketches from underground comic artists Griff worshipped for years, comics and magazines from the Fifties and Sixties and a few big paintings on the wall. And two cats.
“Okay, dudes, I guess I haveta assume you aren’t here for my stunning good looks. You’re here for some records, huh?” Kyle grumbled.
“Yeah!”
“Okay, follow me”, he stopped and turned around. “We’re gonna have to walk by my bedroom, so don’t judge me by how messy my bed is or I’m gonna throw y’bums out”.

Trev laughed. “Deal!”
The three guys walked through Dead End Kyle’s bedroom to get to Kyle’s little office. Trev looked ahead as he walked but Griff out of curiosity looked around, only to find an 8 x 10” glossy of himself on the wall right by Kyle’s bed. What the hell?

“I think the single’s gonna do real well”, Kyle said as he opened his office door, switching on the light. His office was even more cluttered and dust-filled than the living room, posters of old shows and more knick-knacks standing in the way of everything. There was nowhere to really sit so everyone just stood in the cramped, airless room. “As a token of good faith I’m gonna throw in 200 more copies so you guys can sell ‘em on the road. You can keep the profit. Yeah! Just sign here, Griff!”

Griff had a small, dirty piece of paper slid in front of him, saying, “I’m signing this document because Dead End Kyle is a real cool guy and put out my single, ‘GREEN BLOOD AND HAM’, cause he rules. Signed, ___________.”

Griff signed. Kyle folded it away, “Okay, that’s another one for the archives. Glenn Danzig wouldn’t sign, the bastard. Claimed I bootlegged him, lies, all lies”.
“That sucks”, Trev countered.
“Jon Spencer, Lux Interior, they’re all washed up. They tried to sue me”.
“How many boxes are for us?”
“All ten of them”, he watched Trev bend over to pick a few up.
“This is gonna take a few trips to the car”.
“Okay, cool”, Kyle clucked, “Hey, you wanna hear my new single I’m putting out? These crazy chicks from Kyoto called The Hara-Kiris. They’re pretty wild. They have this great song called ‘Wanda Jackson Ginsu Knife Twist’”.
That’s pretty gay, thought Griff.

Trev began grabbing boxes and walking out to the station wagon for loading.
“Hey, remember when you gave me your business card to give to Kitten Claws?”
“Shit, yeah, I do”, Kyle scratched his goatee.
“Well, they didn’t want it so they handed it over to Stacey Gash. She has that band SpinPsycho”, Griff winced.

“SpinPsycho?” Kyle lit up and flushed. “That’s my favorite band!!! Next to yours of course, Griff, but wow, that’s awesome. I guess she’ll be calling me soon”.
“Yeah, welp! I’d better give Trev a hand and move some of these singles out”, Griff chuckled, bending over carefully.
“Yeah….I guess so”.

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Griff schlepped half the boxes up the stairs, trusting Trev to hold the other half of the stock. He noticed that his answering machine light was flickering. He walked up to the play button, and heard the following.

“Hey, Griff, this is Ricardo”.
“Ricardo never calls me”, Griff mused aloud.
“-this must seem weird to you cause I never call you, but….I haven’t been satisfied with the band for a long time. I’m not cool with the new direction, the three guitar players, you know, like, everything….. Well, I guess that’s it….. Don’t call me, don’t look for me, I’m done… and better yet, you guys are done, as far as I’m concerned. Peace out”.
Griff heard the beep, which sounded a lot like, “PEACE”.

What's Been Did And What's Been Hid (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 9)

“HAHAHAHAHA!”
Garbage Truck was on their rehearsal break, sitting on the old stained sofa in the middle of the rehearsal studio, leafing through a red scrapbook. Griff, the lead singer did not join them, but instead paced up and down the studio like a restless cat.

He nervously ran his fingers through his messy black hair, trying to think of something to report to his friends, but they were distracted by something else.

“Hey, Griff, you gotta check this out. Isn’t this some sick shit?” Trev called over to the pacer.
“How you get away with this shit is beyond me”, Bradley flicked his cigarette.
“I wouldn’t have believed it, but here it is”, Bobby chuckled.
“Griff!” Trev yelled, “Get over here and take a look at this!”

Griff stomped over to the sofa to see what everyone was laughing about. He peered over their shoulders at what was inside the red scrapbook, which turned out to be photos of girls passed out on a bed in their bra and panties.

“Ricardo’s scrapbook!” Trev raved. “You bastard, you!” He nudged Ricardo, who grinned sheepishly.
“Perv! You perv!” Bert yelled, laughing. “I knew it! Behind every drummer beats the heart of a pervert!”
“C’mon, you guys”, Ricardo whined, getting sensitive.
“HEY! WHAT’S THIS GIRL’S NAME?? JESUS, WHAT A RACK!”

“HAHAHAHA!”
“Whoa, this one’s got her bra off, look at those titties!”
“How do you get them to strip on your bed?”
“Well, I bring ‘em over after a show – they’re already loaded, and –“ Ricardo mumbled.
“These have to be posed, you don’t know that many girls!”
“The ones in my neighborhood are easy, they’re not all stuck up like your Hollywood friends”, Ricardo sulked.
“Hey, asshole!”

“Yeah, asshole, how come you don’t invite these chicks to our shows?”
“They don’t like to go into Hollywood, and –“
Griff was bored with all the pictures of underage girls passed out and he had bigger problems, anyway. He found a dead body in a nightclub parking lot and didn’t report it to the police or anyone else. He tiredly rubbed his eyes. The prospect of making his ears ring for another sixty minutes was not appealing to him.

“I think we should knock off early”, Griff groaned, “Let’s just run through the set and wrap it up. There’s always Thursday night, anyhow”.
Bert picked up his guitar, flicked hi amp switch off standby to screaming feedback. “Works for me. I have finals next week, anyhow. I got studying to do”.
“Put that monkey book away”, Griff told Ricardo.

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G. Bobby Callahan, guitarist, was the most officious member of Garbage Truck and liked to think of himself as being more organized than the rest of the guys. Although he wasn’t a founding member he occasionally assumed he was the real band leader of the group and that Griff wasn’t worthy of leadership. He would give in to feelings of frustration whenever Griff would assert his authority because he felt he could do a much better job.

Bobby had a laid-back office job on the Westside to supplement his trust fund money. Holding down a job on top of coming from a prosperous family kept up appearances.

He sat down at his desk and wrote down a list of assignments that needed completion by the end of the day. He was interrupted by the buzzing of the intercom line on his phone.

“Callahan here”.
“Bobby, there’s a call on 57 from a Moish Wilson”.
“Okay, thanks, Gillian”.

He picked up line 57. “Callahan speaking”.
“Bobby Callahan from Garbage Truck? Moish Wilson from Varmint Booking. How you doin’, pal? Your band came highly, highly, highly recommended to me by Miri Murder from Kitten Claws”.
“Oh yeah, Miri, cool”, laughed Bobby.
“Yeah, I also hear on the grapevine from my bud Dead End Kyle that you guys are doing a CD for him. Very good. Very, very good. So let’s talk major shit. Kitten Claws are going on a major tour this summer, kapeesh? I owe Kyle a big one, so if you guys keep your asses together long enough you can open for my girls, whadda ya think?”
“Sounds great, Moish. Did you talk to my band leader Griff about all this?”

There was a dead silence on the other end of the line. “Look, Miri gives me word that this Griff guy is a drunk and homeless, what the fuck do I want to waste my time talking to that loser?”
“Well, it’s his band, but –“
“No, amigo, it’s YOUR band. You’re the man. Miri recommended you, the girls swear by you. This Griff is a dumb shmuck and means nothing to me. I won’t do business with some shvantz that gets dead drunk on stage”.
“Okay. What do I need to do?”
“Let the whole band know that you’re going on tour soon and to block out the next two months. It’s all taken care of. Kitten Claws want you guys to play support, but only if you coordinate things and report to me every day.”
“Sounds cool”.
“And you’re the captain. Forget about Griff, dumb bitch with a microphone, but you didn’t hear that from me, kapeesh?”
Bobby chuckled.“Okay, dude. Did Kyle say anything about when our CD’s coming out?”
“That’s between you and him. Remember: you’re the boss, not this drunken prick Griff”.
“Got you”.
“I’ll call you in a week with the skinny”, grunted Moish Wilson. “Welcome to Varmint!”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Griff woke up from his nap on the sofa and stared at the television set that quietly buzzed away. Still groggy, he tried to focus on what he was watching, eventually getting up and pouring himself a glass of water by the sink. He looked out the fourth floor window of his apartment and saw only darkness occasionally punctured by street lamps which glowed like fireflies.

Like a ghost he slowly drifted over to the curtains and closed them to block out the void staring at him from the outside. The thoughts that were nagging him to death for the past few days finally got in his face and wouldn’t leave.

He reached for his car keys on the coffee table and went downstairs. It was pretty late, a little past midnight, but Griff was going to head over to The Glitter House parking lot. Since it was a Tuesday night there probably wouldn’t be a show tonight so he didn’t worry much about being caught wandering around the lot.

As he drove around in his battered 1966 Plymouth Valiant he thought about the new record and all the time he spent in the recording studio mixing the tapes, making sure he got all the levels to a point where everyone in the band got a fair shake being heard. He tried to be fair about it since the three guitar players fought so much turning up over each other. It took him hours to make sure it was all perfectly balanced.

He thought about Dead End Kyle, and his promise to have the record out soon even though he’d already released dozens of records from other bands less popular than Garbage Truck. Was Kyle taking him for a ride or what? When was this record really going to come out?

He thought about Bert stretching himself thin, another trust fund kid in the band who went to college all day and had his own band, Lady Godiva’s Operation on the side, not to mention his attendance at 12-step meetings at night in addition to his many vacations. This guy had way too much on his plate, and how he managed to keep his commitment to Garbage Truck was highly shaky at best.

He drove past The Glitter House, which looked dark other than the marquee which was always turned on at night. He slowed the car down to the parking lot. All the overhead street lamps were turned off, so he parked in sheer darkness.

He got out of the car quietly in spite of the fact he was alone and in ink-black darkness. He saw the dumpster several yards ahead of him, the dumpster that blocked the corpse of the dead security guard lying in a pool of blood.

Griff looked nervously around him to make sure nobody could see him. He walked closer and closer to the dumpster until he was in front of it. He looked behind the dumpster and saw nothing lying behind it. The body was gone. Griff panicked.

He tried to open the lid to the dumpster but they were locked. He turned on his pen flashlight and shot it into the dumpster but couldn’t see anything except some random garbage. No sign of a body at all.

“So that’s it”, he mumbled. He looked around, hoping he could find the corpse moved somewhere nearby, but it was wasted effort. The body was definitely gone. Griff slowly drifted back to his car, and turned over the engine as quietly as possible, tearing out of the lot right away.

Griff drove down Sunset Boulevard back to his apartment.
“Where did he go? Who moved him? Did anybody report the dead body?” Griff asked himself. He looked out the window at his side, and noticed a cop car in the next lane.
“If I’m the only one who saw him dead, did it really happen? Who else knows?”
One of the cops was staring straight at him. Griff got nervous.

The cop car suddenly turned on its siren and raced down the street past him.

Griff got home and walked across the lobby of his apartment building. He noticed an envelope sticking out of his mailbox. He pulled out the envelope, addressed to:
“GRIFFITH APARTMENT #417”.

He tore open the envelope and pulled out a legal notice, which read:
“THREE-DAY NOTICE TO PAY RENT OR QUIT”
WITHIN THREE DAYS AFTER THE SERVICE ON YOU OF THIS NOTICE, YOU ARE HEREBY REQUIRED TO MAKE PAYMENT OR QUIT AND DELIVER THE POSSESSION OF THE PREMISES”.

I've Got Friends: The Sunset Of Celso Chavez

On May 9, 2012, my friend and colleague Rob Zabrecky reported the sad news that Celso Chavez had passed away at 1:42 pm that afternoon from pneumonia due to complications brought on by lyme disease. The news was surprising because of all the musicians I’ve ever played with he was probably the healthiest and most physically fit.

I first met Celso in early 1989 when Lucas McClelland, my bassist, brought him to our rehearsal. Celso picked up the songs right away and brought a great positive attitude to a band of jaded cynics like us. To be perfectly honest I look back on the 1989 edition of Trash Can School with affection and nostalgia. After searching for so many years for players that shared my quest for musical exploration it was a genuine gift to have Celso, Lucas and Manny share my enjoyment in exploring new sounds and sonic landscapes.

Celso was responsible for our most memorable song, a cover of Patti Smith's “Horses”. At one of our rehearsals out of sheer boredom we started playing a feedback-laden version of Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York”, and instead of crooning the familiar opening line of “Start spreading the news, I’m leaving today”, I went into “Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine”. Lucas and Manny followed Celso’s and my lead and, well, the rest is history. In fact, when you hear the opening chords to our recording of “Horses” that’s Celso you’re listening to.

One of his favorite stories he liked to tell was the time we recorded that single at Radio Tokyo. When it was time to record “Phantasm III” I asked him, “Well! Are you ready to lay down your solo?”
“I’m playing the solo? No way”. (Getting nervous)
“Didn’t you prepare a solo?”
“No! What am I gonna play?”
“I don’t know but you’re gonna have to come up with something amazing in about five minutes”.
“Dude, I’m totally scared. I’ve never played a guitar solo before!”
“Perfect, you’ll be great. Take all the fear that’s inside you and pour it out of your guitar”.

Celso recorded his guitar solo in one take, a manic, screaming slice of atonal brain shred sounding like a Latino Sonny Sharrock at his most homicidal. For the rest of his life every time Celso saw me he said, “You told me I was a lead guitarist and I wouldn’t believe you but you made me believe!” His gratitude always touched me because it was genuine, like everything he felt.

In the brief time he was in the band (less than a year) he made a substantial impression on our music as he co-wrote “Baby Lust”, another one of our biggest songs. Celso’s knack for writing and arranging great, catchy rock songs was always fine tuned.

Celso shortly left Trash Can School to play with Possum Dixon, writing and recording “Friends”, a hauntingly brilliant song about the irony of friendship with layers of feedback guitar and an eerie reverbed vocal.

“I’ve got friends who sit around
And laugh each time you walk in the room
With your candy clothes and cigarettes
The way you smile and undress
I’ve got friends…”

© 1990, Apartment Music, BMI

We went our separate ways, but in 2002 I left a comment on the message board for his new band, Pill Module. He called me shortly after and we started meeting for lunch periodically. He was working for the LA Unified School District or a similar non-profit educational agency and I worked for the LA County Department of Children & Family Services. Celso was always happy to see me and fun to talk to, telling me about how proud he was to be a father and how much he loved his wife and son.

During the time I saw him I turned him on to Emmitt Rhodes and David Garza since they both played pop music with an edge, both of whom Celso never heard before. When I told him David Garza was going to play Café Largo soon we almost went, but we both lamed out and flaked.

After another lunchtime I remember taking him to the Jewelry District downtown to my favorite jeweler because he was getting a diamond necklace for his wife, Veronica. I totally hooked him up and he never stopped thanking me for it. Another time I took him down to the LA County Department of Human Resources to check out the clerical positions there because he wanted something that paid better and had better job security. He was pretty serious about keeping his life together. Eventually we drifted apart again; I guess friendship has its irony all the time.

When I think of Celso I remember a man who always maintained a positive attitude, an open mind to new ideas, and a free-spirited willingness to gamble with a crazy bandleader who always went for broke. Although the sun has set for my friend Celso, after the sunset is the coming of the stars in the sky, and the brightest star in the Hollywood sky tonight and every night is Celso Chavez.

Photography by Chris Blum

New Fashion Inventions

One of the great things about working for Viva Rebecca is being able to take advantage of the great equipment, resources and supplies on site to create my own fashion inventions. Since nothing has been sketched for the most part I hesitate to call them designs, but anyway here's a preview of what I've been doing.

Pictured above is a Purple and Gray Striped Top made of a cotton/lycra blend (stretchy) with a boat neck and long sleeves with arrow-shaped cuffs that can either be rolled up or let out to cover mid-hands. Lately I've been foregoing t-shirts for more long-sleeved knits because they fit me better. (By the way, I need to mention the fact that if it wasn't for Rebecca's generous guidance and supervision none of this shit would be possible. Amen.)

Although I've done Moon Crater Wristbands before it was in black leather. This time I got ahold of some faux wood finish leather and stamped my moon crater design on them, and pictured here is a sample of the new line. Looks pretty sick! Another new fashion invention in recent months was a Black and Red Striped T-Shirt Dress I made for Rebecca, very stretchy so it's recommended for evening wear (aka parties and nightclubs). Still trying to get Rebecca to pose for pictures in that one.

One of my favorite sections at Michael Levine's in DTLA is the Denim Section because the selection in colors and textures are so versatile. As a result I've fabricated a pair of aquamarine jeans, a sort of sea sick blue-green hybrid shade that has to be seen up close to be believed. Another pair of jeans is a great gold-olive green hybrid blend of denim that we framed with gold leather front and rear pockets. The leather pocketing was influenced by a pair of X-Ray Jeans that I owned with a similar feature.

Pictured below is a green linen knit top that was also very stretchy, kind of a challenge to sew but the end result turned out very well. Most of these tops are either recommended for night time wear or in colder climates. I can't see anyone wearing this in Phoenix on a hot August afternoon!

Since both of my H&M Henleys are falling apart I decided to create my own striped Henleys, one in red and one in yellow, both in cotton and easy for sewing. We made a pattern from the H&M Henleys in disrepair and cut the new ones from the same design. H&M shirts for men aren't very durable but their pants are an entirely different story altogether. I recommend you go there for the pants. At any rate, with the construction of my Henelys I don't think I'll be missing my H&M originals too much.

Whether I want to get serious about clothes making professionally or not is something I'll think over. Right now I like working with Rebecca, and I certainly don't harbor fantasies of being on frightening contest shows like "Fashion Star" or "24 Hour Catwalk", but there's a certain rush you get when you create your own cool Rock & Roll clothes. Kind of like the day you picked up a guitar for the first time and banged out a few chords and realized you've just written a song. It's that real.

Rock & Roll Confidential Part 9

One of the most attractive releases of 1971 was an import LP that looked like a cross between a Command Records stereo demonstration album and a Euro techno album, when in fact it was neither. It was the second release from Curved Air, simply titled “Curved Air Second Album”, following up their dazzling picture disc from the year before, “Airconditioning”. The album performed well with British listeners, peaking at #11 on the album charts.

Curved Air was a product of their time, less prog and more like a hard rock band with lush symphonic sounds courtesy of Darryl Way and Francis Monkman’s keyboards and violin playing. Many of the sonic textures on the album recall Euro sex horror films of that time, sounding like they belonged in a Jean Rollin or Mario Bava movie. In addition to the vampire opera vibe of their sound was the presence of lead singer Sonja Kristina, who wouldn’t look out of place in any of these films, looking like a sister to Ingrid Pitt, Maria Perschy or Soledad Miranda.

Some of the lyrical content focused on wayward urban girls with titles like “Young Mother” and “Back Street Luv”. The pastoral textures of “Piece of Mind”, “Puppets and “Jumbo” have that lush-cum-nightmarish sound that makes me think of movies like “She Killed In Ecstasy” or “Requiem For A Vampire”. Kristina sings in a dreamy falsetto that compliments the Dracula in St. Tropez vibe of the music.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

By the way, here's a picture of Keith Richards serving up some Larry Fine action for you just in case you want to believe he still looks like a badass outlaw. Put that doo rag back on, playa!

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I've always had problems trying to like Kevin Ayers even though I like the idea of a prog-rock troubadour a la the great Peter Hammill. I think the reason I could never embrace him as a serious artist is because he comes off as some lazy bastard who just wants to fuck and get loaded. His records for the most part give off the image of Artist As Vacation Resort Gigolo. Frank Zappa once wrote a song called "Honey, Don't You Want A Man Like Me?" All humor aside, the scary part is that Ayers aounds like he really means it.

An album like "Shooting At The Moon" is pretty indicative of both his strengths and weaknesses, the strengths being great Henry Cow-style jazzy art school workouts like "Shooting At The Moon" and "Colores Para Dolores". The weaknesses come in the form of his bad samba gigolo tunes like "May I?" returning later in a French version just to underscore the sleaze of his advances. The paradox of Ayers is that just when you're ready to slap him for a lech ballad like "Clarence In Wonderland" he counters that with a slice of menace like "Lunatic's Lament".

At first I thought I was being a little hard on everyone's favorite blonde playboy, but even Wikipedia weighed in with, "one of the frustrating and endearing aspects of Ayers' career is that every time he seemed on the point of success, he would take off for some sunny spot where good wine and food were easily found". While I came to praise and not bury Ayers I think his preference to having a good time made his music suffer because the urge for self-indulgence and narcissism spoiled what could have been further records with the daring of "Joy Of A Toy" and "Shooting At The Moon".

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Here's a picture of the Voxmobile, and from what I understand (which means that I'm leaving room for error, so don't scream) is that guitars could be taken off the side of the roadster and played. I also understand that an amplifier is built into the car with an organ in the rumble seat, also. For further information go to http://www.thevoxmobile.com. Imagine that, now that's what I call really rocking on the road.