Jesus Wept (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 14)

The shot heard round the hipster world was that of a shotgun blast into the face of Chuck Skylar, leader of hit band Shangri-La and reluctant rock star. Women weeped but men weeped harder, especially those that collected records and still lived with their single mothers.

Griff heard about a vigil being held at Java The Hut, one of the few places Chuck showed up in his bathrobe, occasionally facing his public to mumble a few syllables. Griff locked his car, scruffed up his big black hair, and approached the humble coffee house. It was Thursday night and the air was fresh and clean. Just for now.

He walked into the joint from the back to the sounds of Shangri-La records. The place was dark, lit only by a thousand votive candles all over to provide divine light. He made a beeline to the tiny coffee bar.

“Griff! How’s it going, my man!” Dave Stone, the cheery, bookish coffee server greeted him happily. Dave was six feet tall, rail thin, had a big loose Afro, wore wire aviator glasses and was the whitest kid Griff ever met. Dave pushed a half-pint of Jim Beam his way, then whispered, “Dutch courage, dude. The air is heaaavvvy with death!”
“Let me jump behind the bar for a few nips”.
“Yeah, keep it on the down low. It might look sacrilegious!” Dave twitched, running over to serve someone.

Griff snuck behind the bar, crouched and ripped a few slugs, instantly warming him up from ear lobes to nut sacks. He looked up and scanned the crowd, all sipping espresso, tea and iced boba drinks. There was Shawna and Jackie-O from Kitten Claws, Myekla, Jesti, Lucifer Camacho and some other lazy KXRV disc jocks, Cheese and the whole Spitball Magazine crew, even a few guys from The Neurotics.

“Griff! Come and mourn! One of the giants no longer walks among us!” Mykela keened from the shadows. She beckoned to him. He walked over to her table, where she was joined by the comely Jesti, Shawna and Jackie-O merely sat there silently sobbing, tears streaming down their faces.

“Having a bad day, girls?” Griff felt his glow coming on. The tragedy of a selfish, agoraphobic pedestrian songwriter’s overwrought suicide completely escaped him. Jackie-O glared at him with widowed hate. Shawna kept on weeping like a tragic bride denied.

“Listen, Mister”, Jackie-O belted, “are you trying to be funny or what?”
“No way, Jackie”, Griff slurred, “I just think life’s a dogfight, a struggle. I’m here, if somebody checks out, how does that make him better than me?”
Jackie smugly sighed. “Because he was a genius, and you’re so obviously not”.
“A genius can see the uselessness of dying for no reason, so we’re not talking about one, are we?”
“It’s better to be dead than be marketed and filed away, Brainiac”, Jackie-O spat over Shawna’s wailing.
“Tell it to six million Jews. Marketing would have been better than death for them”.
“YOU JUST DON’T GET IT, DO YOU? GO, LEAVE, DEPART, BEGONE FROM OUR TABLE, YOU HERETIC!’ Jackie-O screamed, killing the mournful ardor of the crowd.

Walking away from the table, Griff heard the girls singing a Shangri-La song, “High School Deodorant”:

Bros before hos
Light another number, burnin my clothes
Time to clean my gun for summertime fun
High School Deodorant’s got me down
Seattle rain fits me like a crown

“Oh my God, thought Griff, “I couldn’t write lines that bad even in my worst dreams. These assholes are seriously crying over that shit?”

Griff walked back to the bar for another snort from good old Dave. Unfortunately, he ran into Lucifer. “Griff! When are you coming in for a grilling?”
“I hate interviews, you know that”.
“Yeah, I know, but you have to address that whole shit storm about the British group that’s stole your name”.
“Oh, fuck them, who cares? Everybody knows English groups break up every time they cut a fart. Those bands are weaker than a house of cards. How long did Hairball 100 last? Dickhead’s Midnight Runners? It’s a joke, man. All those fuckin’ shit English bands stay open for business for ten minutes, then they have a period and break up. It’s a fucking joke, dude”.
“Well, it’s a drag you have such a shitty attitude”.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Check yourself. And by the way, there are ladies mourning”, Lucifer’s face was illuminated by the votive candles, especially the St. Michael one where his sword was raised against the devil.
“Oh, fuck you and your stupid radio station!”

Griff saw Bert drop some Lady Godiva’s operation flyers at Cheese’s table. He slithered away at the sight of Bert, avoiding a potential fight. “Lady Godiva’s Operation! Live at Joe’s Dive Bar!”
Cheese grabbed the flyers. “These will most certainly be collector’s items. LGO, the real band, Not like Garbage Truck, that outdated fake Hollywood band!”
“Hey, wait a minute”, Griff protested.

“No, you listen, bro, you’; you’ve totally sold out. You guys used to be real, but just to make it big you guys kicked out my man, Bert, here, and then there’s Ricardo, you kicked him out because he’s Chicano, and –“
“Bullshit, asshole!” Griff started, “Ricardo quit, and –“
“Griffster! Dude!” Pierre, his ex-roommate jumped in front of him. Because Griff was drunk as fuck Pierre’s face looked less human and more like an enormous balloon.
”What’s the hap, G? I’m out of rehab and clean as a whistle! I’m a new man!”
Griff calmed down a bit. “Lucky Pierre”, his pulse slowed down, “You’re finally off dope? I’m proud of you, man. Are you proud?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Yeah, it’s all good. Sorry about Thunderball, man”.
“Yeah, I know”, Pierre looked down, “My mom has that effect on people…and cats, too”.
“That cat was awesome. Nicer than people, dude”.
“I gotta go”, Pierre choked, and ran away as abruptly as he could.

Griff suddenly heard all four girls singing “High School Deodorant” in harmony with their most rehearsed choir voices braying in perfect vibrato. To add insult to injury he turned around just in time to catch Nelson Tweed creep into the room, fixing him with his patented pissy glare.
“I need some fresh air”, thought Griff.

Cheese turned in front of Griff, his big, overfed face illuminated by the flickering lights of the votive candles. “Look, bro, I don’t want to fight because that’s not the way Chuck would want it, man”.
“If he felt like telling anyone that, the little prince”.
“You just don’t get it, man. Our John Lennon is gone, Our spokesman is no more, my friend”. A crowd formed around them, making Griff a little uncomfortable.

“Wait a second, you’re going to compare Chuck Skylar to John Lennon? Are you crazy?”
“Same thing, man. Same thing!”
“No, not even close. John Lennon was murdered, Chuck Skylar took the coward’s way out, killing himself. There’s no comparison!”
“Chuck Skylar killed himself because he couldn’t live with the knowledge that the jocks in his school who used to bully him were buying his records and going to his shows!”
“Are you kidding me? What an idiot! What could be the ultimate revenge, making a fortune off the fools that made your life miserable when you were a kid! I’d be laughing my balls off all the way to the bank!”
“Oh, Griff, you’re so crass”, Shawna frowned, looking older and uglier than he’d ever seen her.
“Oh fuck you, you stupid bitch!”

Mykela and Jesti jumped at him. “You’re gross, Griff! Go back to the cardboard box you live out of and stay there!” they pushed him.
“FUCK YOU”, Griff sobered up quickly, “I NEVER LIVED OUT OF A CARDBOARD BOX, I ALWAYS LIVED IN AN APARTMENT, I TAKE A SHOWER EVERY THREE DAYS AND I DON’T NEED YOU FUCKING CUNTS. I’M IN LOVE WITH A HOT BLACK GIRL FROM DENMARK AND SHE DOESN’T WEAR A YEAST INFECTION LIKE A GIRLS SCOUT BADGE LIKE YOU ALL DO!”

“Uh, Griff”, Mort Mortuary, the owner of Java The Hut, grabbed him by the elbow, guiding him out,” I think you’d better go, come back when you’re more chill”.
“CHILL? FUCK CHILL! FUCK FAKE PUNK PHONIES WITH STRINGY BLONDE HAIR AND STUBBLE AND SHITTY HIPPIE MUSIC. AND BY THE WAY, THERE ALREADY WAS A BAND CALLED THE SHANGRI-LA’S…AND THEY WERE FUCK-KING BRILLIANT, ASSSSSSS-HOLES!’

Griff slammed the door, storming out of the dingy coffee house.

Cheese turned around to the angry mob. “Well, so much for bad vibes”.
Jesti piped up. “One day we’ll read about him losing it and killing dozens of pre-schoolers or something like that”.
“Yeah, he’s just a ball of negative energy. There’s no helping him”, Jackie-O said.

“He’s a bastard…tried to get me to drink and violate my 12-step commitment’, Mykela mused.
“The worst roommate I ever had”, Pierre shook his head, “Did you know he got me strung out on dope? And after that he sold my expensive Abyssinian cat to score a bag?”
Shawna ran her fingers through his hair. “Oh you poor thing. I always thought he was a freak”.
“He’s a psycho. I hope he gets help!” Mykela winsomely wondered.

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Disgusted by the weepy pity party, Griff left the club and walked up to Santa Monica Boulevard, a street notorious for gay hustlers and the dispossessed. Anybody rejected in Hollywood flocked to Santa Monica Boulevard as some sort of bizarre shelter. He strode down the dark street feeling angry and unhappy in his leather jacket, feeling cold from sweaty and tired jeans, felt greasy also from the sweat of dread, stress, depression and so much more.

The street lamps were doing a poor job of lighting the sidewalk but still a damn sight brighter than the stupid coffee house he’d just left. Still and all, he couldn’t help noticing a young hustler sitting on the sidewalk rubbing the bruised side of his head, tears streaming down his face. Griff stared at him as he walked on.

By the next block he saw another young hustler lying in a heap against a bus bench, holding his mouth, blood spots dripping on the ground. “Fucknshtnfucknfuck”, the kid mumbled, his hair disheveled with red eyes of fear. Griff stared at him.

Griff walked on, getting closer to the all-night burrito joint. Up ahead were three loud guys in leather jackets shouting, cussing up a storm and throwing their arms around like Roman gladiators. The three guys walked slower and Griff strode quicker, catching up with them. One of the yobs caught a sight of him out the corner of his eye and stopped.

“HEY GUYS CHECK IT OUT ANOTHER FUCKIN’ QUEER!!” The thick necked bastard, a wall of muscle and no brains with a blonde buzz cut roared. His two pals turned around and glared at Griff. Griff stopped dead in his tracks. Cornered.

“LET ME KICK HIS ASS FIRST”, the other guy, a fat goateed bully in shorts spat, “THEN YOU CAN FINISH HIS ASS OFF, DAWG, YAW!” He moved in closer, ready to punch Griff.

“WE’RE HUNTING QUEERS, AND TAG YOU’RE NEXT YA LITTLE BITCH!” the blonde pounded his fist against his chest.

Griff turned to the third punk and knew what to expect, and instantly froze. The kid stared at him hard, looked down, almost embarrassed, and yelled. “Naw, he’s no fag, leave him alone. Let’s go!” It was the kid he bailed out of The Glitter House after the bouncers jumped him at The Neurotics show. Griff couldn’t stop staring at him.

‘YOU’RE LUCKY, BUTT BOY!” the fat bully pointed his finger at Griff. Griff still fixed his eyes at the skinny yob.
“HAHAHAHA”, the blonde musclehead chortled. A can of beer in a paper bag stuck out from his leather jacket.
The kid piped up, “Yeah, some cocksucker fucks with us they get a dumpster funeral!”
He then yelled, “WHO IS THE KING???”
The three began marching away.

“YOU ARE THE KING!!!” the two punks chanted.
“WHO IS THE KING???” He threw his arms up in the air.
"YOU ARE THE KING!!!” They pumped their thick fists in the air.

Chanting over and over, three yobs’ voices drifted farther and farther away from Griff’s orbit. Looking down Santa Monica Blvd, the street felt darker and darker with each advancing moment.

Trinken, Tanzen Und Erbrechen (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 13)

Griff showed up early for his 2:00 pm appointment with a new temporary employment agency, so he decided to kill some time at the cavernous Virgin Megastore. Griff liked buying his records there but didn’t care much for the overly chatty British DJ who talked incessantly in between records. He was on duty that afternoon and Griff was trying hard to tune out his extremely upper class Public School accent.

He loved looking at the old vintage jazz album covers from Verve, Blue Note and Impulse Records, even though they were shrunk down to CD size. The font and colors seemed to vibrate off the cover, the horns looked three-dimensional and the players all looked like invaders from some noisy jive planet. A planet of revolutionary sound!

Griff’s reverie was ruined by a jangly guitar racket of obnoxious trebly frequency that demanded his attention. He hated it. A fluty, young, educated British voice painfully enunciated,
“Teatime with me mum,
currants, bones and scones,
Life’s a larf, a lark, ye know,
Ho ho ho ho”….

He blocked out the sound until the chipper Deejay loudly announced, “OI! That’s the latest release from those naff Newcastle lads Garbage Truck! Catchy tune, that, “Teatime With Mum”, chalk another one for the Land of Hope and Glory, match that yanks! Garbage Truck, only the UK could come up with a band name that deliciously daft! OI!”

Griff’s face turned purple and then red. He walked over to the rock section under “G” and saw a display for “Garbage Truck”, showing five sickly lads in fake Devo sanitation worker outfits brilliantly tailored by the legendary Paul Smith.

The band name must have been nicked, er, stolen from the Dead End Kyle interview in the New Musical Express that came out several months ago. Well, shit, why bother inventing a new band name when you can always steal it from a shit English newspaper? Griff was fit to be tied and had to mind his temper before he showed up at his job interview.

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G. Bobby Callahan, the most officious member of Garbage Truck, joined the party of three in the clamshell booth at Morton’s Steak House, the others being Dead End Kyle, big kahuna of Paint It Black Records, Miri Murder of all-girl band Kitten Claws, and Moish Wilson of Varmint Booking, visiting from out of town.

“There he is!” chortled Wilson.
“BIG GUY!” hooted Miri.
“What’s the hap, hoss?” Kyle drawled, adjusting the skipper cap on his head.
Bobby sheepishly giggled.
“So how’s the great band doing?” Dead End Kyle asked. “Did you sell enough copies of the record in Frisco?”
“Yeah, we did well, thanks. I thought you were coming to the Lounge show last Saturday”.
“Yeah, well you know, I don’t really go out, dude”.
“He was at our Costa Mesa show”, Miri hooted, clam chowder dancing in her mouth.
“How did that go, chickie?” Wilson asked, spooning gobs of shrimp cocktail in his greasy mouth.
“It was super awesome”.
“Hey”, Kyle asked, “Are you guys gonna cover that Hara Kiris song for my tribute album?”
“Which one?”
“’Banzai Bubble Gum’, you know the one you sing in that cute Japanese accent”.
“I gotta break that to the other girls, they don’t know yet”.
Wilson pointed his finger at Miri, “Don’t forget! It’s YOUR band, you don’t ask them, YOU TELL THEM what you’re going to do”.
“Jawhol, herr commandant”, Miri saluted. Everyone laughed.

Wilson now pointed at Callahan. “The same goes for you! Bobby Callahan, leader of Garbage Truck. Is that asshat Griff giving you a hard time?”
“No, but he threw a fit at The Lounge show. The monitors weren’t working so he started smashing up the mike stand. ‘If you can’t hear the singer you’re not going to hear anything!’ he yelled and then sang through every mike on stage, even the bass drum mike. I was so embarrassed!” Everyone laughed.
“Fuck that artistic temperament shit!” Wilson barked.
“Screw that genius noise!” Kyle speared a wad of creamy spinach.

“Then he fired Bert for plugging Lady Godiva’s Operation on stage and even jumping in front of the booker about it. By the way, did you listen to the tape I gave you?”
“Forget Lady Godiva’s Operation, kid. Never bet on a losing horse. Now, Garbage Truck, that’s the toro-bred sheet, Bubba!” Everyone laughed.
“So now we’re a two-guitar band instead of three”.
“Who told him he could fire anyone without consulting me?” Kyle cussed, guzzling his tropical iced tea, wig shifting into a crooked position on his head.
“Bert’s my bubba!” Miri joked. “Let’s take Griff behind the shed!”
“Oy vey!” Wilson croaked after squirting lemon juice on his oyster and tipping it down his thick throat. “Lady Godiva’s Operation! You’re better off without the bitch”.

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Around midnight Griff woke up on the couch to the sounds of his TV set. Coughing and rubbing his bleary eyes, an old movie was on the set, something from the Forties called “Blues In The Night”. Richard Whorf, Elia Kazan and some other hepcats were cooling their heels in jail. An all-colored jail cell was across from them with a big Leadbelly type saying, “We all got the miseries sometimes”, then soulfully crooning “Blues In The Night”,
“A woman’ll sweet talk and give you the big eye…a woo-ee a woo-ee, ah clickety clack uh echoin’ back… the blues… in the night”.

Jigger, Peppi and the boys marvel at the field holler blues being sung.
“Do you hear that, Jigger? That’s the real miseries!” Peppi gushed.
“THAT’S IT, FELLAS! WE’RE GOING TO START OUR OWN BAND, NOT JUST ANY BLUES BUT THE REAL BACK ALLEY DOWN HOME BLUES, THE WHOLE U-S OF A, JUST FIVE FELLAS NO MORE NO LESS LIKE FIVE FINGERS IN A GLOVE ALL WORKING TOGETHER ALL PLAYING OUR OWN MUSIC OUR OWN STYLE”.
“Let’s do it, Jigger!”
“Yeah, Jigger!”
Griff farted. “”Yeah, Jigger!” he mumbled.

He opened the fridge to grab some root beer and noticed he was SOL, so he grabbed the car keys to pick some up at Toluca Mart on the corner of Pico and Robertson. Before he split he pointed at Jigger Pine banging on the piano, smiling and pumping the blues.
“And stay out of London”, Griff mumbled at the TV before closing the door.

It was during his drive down Pico Boulevard that Griff felt an irresistible impulse to revisit several places from his teenage years. He steered the old Valiant down the dark, empty streets with dim lamp posts guiding him like long arms towards old, familiar locations from the distant past.

He first drove over to the old school yard, the one he hadn’t driven by in years. It was old, shabby, and vacant, a “BUILDING FOR LEASE” sign nailed in front. He drove around the alley to look at the playground with its basketball court. The fence was rusty and the hoops were bent and in need of repair. Some of the classroom windows looked smashed in, the yard unlit and boarded up in places.

He then drove to the first house he lived in that neighborhood, just a few blocks away. He remembered a Craftsman-style, cheery-looking duplex. As he approached nearer and nearer in his car he saw a middle-aged woman nervously walking her dog, giving him the fish eye. He couldn’t miss the house, of course. It was the one with the tall weeds all over and a fence around it. A sign read “TEN-UNIT APARTMENT COMPLEX WITH MODERN CONVENIENCES RENTING SOON”.

Griff drove over to the brightly lit gas station over on Robertson, bought his A&W, fueled up and thought things over.

“If my school’s boarded up and all the houses I grew up in are gone, does that mean I never existed? Does it mean I’m not even a real person but just a figment of someone’s imagination? If my entire past is torn down does that mean nothing ever happened and I just dreamed it all? What if my band broke up tomorrow? Would that mean I never played music and my songs were just some weird memory, a distant noise that never meant anything to anybody? Can I honestly say that any of this EVER happened?”
He didn’t know whether to cry or admit to himself that everything was nothing, and simply be at peace with that epiphany.

When Griff got back Jigger was a washed up alcoholic trying to play piano in some gin joint while the rest of his band looked on sadly at the poor shell of a man. Turning around from the set, Griff noticed a pulsing light on his answering machine. Someone must have called while he was sleeping earlier that night.

BEEP! “Hey, doll, it’s me!” Trixie Andersson yelled, and then lowered her voice. “Can you believe that Chuck Skylar, I mean Jesus! Blew a hole the size of a door knob through his head with his OWN SHOTGUN! Ugh! Well, that’s what happens when you hook up with a psych like Stacey Gash. What did I tell you? Huh?? I hope they don’t bury him in that lame Catholic school girl dress she made him wear. Yuck! Call me, baby, and hands off the firearms. Mwah!”

Kontroll (Hungary, 2003)

“Kontroll”, directed by first-time Hungarian director Nimrod Antal, is one of the most exciting films made in the past ten years. Equal parts suspense film, surreal mystery story, horror movie and even comedic satire, it is a breathtaking work of exhilarating beauty. Filmed in the Budapest subway system in 2003, Kontroll is one of those films that never leaves the indoor environs of the subway station and never gets boring, a pretty amazing accomplishment.

Kontroll is the story of a burnout named Bulcsu (Sandor Csanyi), a ticket inspector for the subway system who not only works in the subterranean station but lives and sleeps there, as well. Regarding the city above him with agoraphobic horror, he's shown lumbering around the subway station like a 21st Century Caveman and always appears to be in some form of bloody dishevelment. He’s the leader of his team of ticket inspectors, pretty funny stuff in that these teams behave more like street gangs than subway authorities.

Bulcsu’s biggest rival is another inspector named Gonzo (Balazs Mihalyi), who challenges our hero to a unique game of chicken called “railing”, where they race each other down the subway tunnel with the non-stop Midnight Express racing behind them. Whoever reaches the arrival platform first wins the race. Antal films the railing scene brilliantly, suspense building with every shot.

Another matter is a mysterious hooded killer who leaps from the shadows and pushes riders off the platform to their death by subway train. After every murder the transit authorities show up, led by a cold-blooded executive (Gyorgy Cserhalmi) who looks creepier and more menacing than any of the inspectors. Could he be the killer?

Kontroll never gets boring because there’s always something weird going on: a narcoleptic inspector who passes out whenever he gets confrontational, Bulcsu’s team chasing after Bootsie the Vandal, a psych called in to examine the nutty inspectors, and a dark, creepy rave party where Bulcsu pursues the subway killer.

Subway operator Bela (Lajos Kovacs) is also a burnout, and like Bulcsu spends his many hours eating and hanging out in his train with his daughter, Szofi (Eszter Balla). Szofi is every bit as nutty as Bulcsu and her dad, riding the rails in a huge teddy bear costume, and later in the film fighting off a team of inspectors in her bulky outfit.

After facing accusations of being The Subway Killer, Bulcsu, fed up, quits his job and finds redemption by allowing Szofi, no longer dressed as a teddy bear, but as a guardian angel, to escort him back up to the Big City and face the reality he had been hiding from down below.

Bulcsu is probably the coolest scuzz in movies, looking like a cross between Mickey Rourke from “Barfly” and a Brendan Fraser from Hell. Even when he appears impassive to what’s going on around him you’re curious as to what’s really cooking around in his head.

Nimrod Antal’s excellent direction is complimented by Gyula Pados’ ingeniously framed cinematography - check out how many times he makes the tunnel look like spider webs - and bordered by a visceral soundtrack by Neo. Kontroll was the first Hungarian film to show at the Cannes Film Festival in 20 years and won the coveted Le Prix De La Jeunesse award. It also won the Best Foreign Language Film Award at the 2004 Chicago International Film Festival.

While there are a few inevitable plot holes in the movie, Kontroll is one of the most exciting and visceral films you’ll ever see, a dazzling thing of speed and beauty and I highly recommend it.

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Old sex symbols never die, they just end up making lurid erotic horror films in Europe. Sue Lyon created a scandal playing the title role in “Lolita”, later reprising the sexy nymphet role in “Night Of The Iguana”, but by the Seventies all the sexy steam ran out and she went to Spain in 1973 to film the awful “Clockwork Terror”.

Carroll Baker faced a similar dilemma by following up her scandalous debut in “Baby Doll” with movies like "Sylvia", eventually going to Europe to star in “Baba Yaga”, an adaptation of the Guido Crepax comic “Valentina”, where Baker plays some weird old witch. While it’s somewhat better and more interesting than “Clockwork Terror”, “Baba Yaga” comes off as a sort of low-budget “Blow Up” with all sorts of occult hijinx to keep you from falling asleep.

Rock & Roll Confidential Part 10

It was the 4th of July 1976, the 200th anniversary of Independence Day in the United States. Although everyone threw parties and I resisted an offer to drop acid and watch fireworks, I held my ground to celebrate in the quietest way possible. Who was I kidding? I went that night to The Starwood to see Jr. Walker and The All-Stars.

The Starwood was in West Hollywood on the corner of Santa Monica and Crescent Heights Boulevard, was formerly know as PJ’s in the Sixties, and was later owned by Eddie Nash of The Wonderland Murders notoriety. It was an enormous club of disco proportions, which is to say there were many grottos to do drugs in, a dance room where Rodney Bingenheimer spun records and a huge concert room with a balcony.

It was a pretty strange night, don’t ask me why. I was one of the few white kids in the club, and actually, the club wasn’t too packed. The club goers that night, on average were black couples in their late thirties to early forties dressed in their Sunday best. Suits with ties, the gals in their classiest dresses festooned in even classier jewelry, very elegant when they hit the dance floor looking oh-so serious to Jr. Walker pounding out the hits – “Shake And Fingerpop”, “I’m A Roadrunner”, “What Does It Take (To Win Your Love)”, and the immortal “Shotgun”. It was easily the most offbeat audience I’ve ever seen rockin’ out in all my years of nightclubbing. (Second place goes to a lot of grim, handicapped lesbians at a Patti Smith show in 1975).

Jr. Walker and The All-Stars had the most diamond-hard piercing sound I’ve heard, the guitarist peeling out riffs effortlessly while the organist hit grooves like a well-oiled machine, all topped by Junior Walker’s ear-splitting saxophone playing. As soon as I got home I pulled out my horn and started honking like a silver-plated demon. Memories are made of these.

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

Another summer night at The Starwood was even weirder, if possible. In 1974, my friend Chuck and I decided to go there on a boring Saturday night to get drunk and hopefully laid. As long as we got connected we didn’t even care who was playing that night. Well, it turned out to be Tim Buckley, and he was no longer strumming an acoustic guitar.

The only previous exposure I had of Buckley was his appearance on The Monkees performing “Song To The Siren” and a mellow track on the Straight Records compilation “Zapped” titled “I Must Have Been Blind”. When I saw his name on the Starwood marquee I feared beat folkie Troubadour acousticness. How could I be so wrong?

Buckley had an electric band backing him and they played a powerful groove that went on and on, songs with sexy lyrics like “Get On Top”, “Move With Me”, and “Sweet Surrender”, every once in a while yodeling like Leon Thomas’ electric bastard son. It was pretty overwhelming stuff, and while it didn’t make me run home and break open the sax it was still a night to remember. And I didn’t get high or laid that night, either.

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I recently watched an epsiode of "Classic Albums" on VH1-Classic and the album being profiled was Black Sabbath's "Paranoid". One of the weirdest tidbits was the admission that "Fairies Wear Boots" was about skinheads and how they used to bully the band in their neighborhood. Can you imagine these fucking thugs being immortalized by Ozzy as being a bunch of fairies? That's pretty funny and harsh at the same time.

Another show I watched on the same station was a sketchy documentary on Lemmy which almost avoided playing Motorhead music. Outside of "Ace Of Spades" and "No Voices In The Sky" and another track from "1916", it was mostly Mr. Kilmeister playing rockabilly covers(?). I don't even think there was any mention of The Rockin' Vicars, his work on Stiff Records or his legendary days in Hawkwind. Pretty weak!