Saturday, September 28, 2013

Cleaner Than A Broke Dick Dog

Miles Davis, in his autobiography refers several times to anyone with badass-cum-suave style as someone who's "cleaner than a broke dick dog". While most jazz musicians of the Fifties and Sixties had crazy cool style a few really stand out for me, the reason being that in addition to being terrific players they had wicked sartorial style going on that complemented their music. While everyone knows Miles was legendary for being a fashion plate with his beautifully tailored Italian suits there were some other guys that were equally as slick.

One jazz icon who instantly comes to mind for his great fashion style is legendary pianist Hampton Hawes. A bebop and post-bop artist with male model looks, Hawes was always pictured wearing the smartest tailored suits and striking the most smoldering looks at the camera.

There was always something haunting about Hawes and his troubled life which he documented in his memoir, "Raise Up Off Me", co-written with jazz writer Gary Giddins. In addition to being one of the sharpest dressed musicians in jazz he bears the distinction of having his prison term pardoned by President John F. Kennedy in his last year as President. Legendary stuff.

Another legendary player who filled out his threads with crazy cool was pianist Horace Silver, one of MIles' favorite pianists. Silver is best known for his immortal recording "Song For My Father", one of the ten most popular jazz compositions of all time. A funky blues-style player who could finesse any style of music, Silver's image is that of a hipster with neatly processed hair wildly tousled as he intensely attacks his keyboard. With his clothes still neatly pressed! That's crazy cool.

Like Hawes, many of Silver's albums shows him resplendent in a beautifully tailored suit and tie, bespoke probably - the fit's just too good. Nowadays Silver dresses more casually but still looks neat as a pin. As I get older, I find this look much more admirable than the" heroin-chic I just fell out of bed" type look. It gives me hope. Despair doesn't win the day anymore.

Illinois Jacquet was arguably the founding father of R&B saxophone, born from his wildly honking tenor sax solo on Lionel Hampton's record "Flying Home". Jacquet, who shares the same birthday as me (10/31, different year) always counterbalanced his raw, abrasive saxophone playing with the some of the sharpest suits worn in jazz.

Like Horace Silver he also had smooth hair - his mother was Native American - and also was a pioneer for being the first jazz musician to be artist-in-residence at Harvard University in 1983. He also jammed saxes with President Bill Clinton at his inaugural ball at the White House in 1993. Now that's crazy cool.

While I don't seriously expect every musician to bust out a Brooks Brothers suit and Florsheim shoes to rock the room the point I'm really trying to make is that fashion and a clear sense of personal style can be the greatest compliment to whatever music you choose to play. Because long after the music's over everyone will remember the way you looked, and you only have one chance to make it count.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Every Bitch For Himself

12:45 PM. Union Station, Los Angeles. A tall man in his twenties with a torn t-shirt and Army boots strode out the front entrance of the train station with a grip in his hand looking around for an automobile. He fetched dozens of stares with his full head of silver hair, an almost artificial silver paint tone of hair. His name was Big Jason Gulliver. He quietly cussed out of his long, thin face which looked like the craggy side of a mountain. "Fuck!"

Holding his temper, he stomped over to a phone booth and plunked two dimes in, racked the dial seven times and waited.
"Hello?"
"I'M HERE PICK ME UP YA FUCKIN' CHIMP!" barked Jason and hung up.

Jason stoically stood at the curb waiting for his ride when a sleek Mercedes Benz convertible slowly cruised by, piloted by a middle-aged man with feathered hair, aviator glasses and a dark moustache. The Bee Gees were whimpering a disco song out of his car radio. The driver appraised Jason, who simply snorted two times and then hocked a huge sluice of green loogie just barely missing the expensive auto. The driver frowned and sped away in a huff.

HONKHONK!
"HEY FUCKER!" yelled a skinny blonde out the window of a dirty and dented 1974 Chevrolet Vega.
"Finally!" Jason yelled back. "You were supposed to be here already. Some homecoming, asshole!"
"BBIIIIIGGGG....JASON! Hahahaha! Get in the Shit Box!"
Jason piled in to the Vega, which made a point of making the loudest screech, tires burning the asphalt, earning everybody's attention.

1:00 PM. Allen Wrench drove the Vega going west down Sunset Boulevard, popping in a cassette of The Vibrators, screaming "YEAH!YEAH!YEAH!"
"Big Guy! Good to see ya back! What the fuck?"
"Good to be back from Frisco".
"How was San Fran?"
"A lot of pot smokers, ehhhh, even the punks smoked dope, it was lame. All the bands there thought they were like Richard Hell or some shit. A lot of poetry, a lot of art shit".

"That sucks, Bubs. Bet you're glad to be back!"

"Yeah, back in LA. Got some big plans, too...what's that fuckin' smell?"
"What? What smell?"
"It's like something's cooking, you know, burning Crisco, like a bad breakfast", Jason wrinkled his nose.
"It's the Vega, Buddy. Burns oil like crazy and smells like a horse turd".

Jason picked up a red licorice whip in a bag and it was melted into a weird shape. He chewed part of it and gave up. Allen Wrench's face lit up.
"Hey! Did you hear the news? Sack Face died last week, OD'd on some bad junk, probably cut with rat poison or some shit. Found him in a puddle of piss with his face looking bluer than the Scientology building".
"Sack Face died? No shit? Anybody tell his Mom?"
"Not me. Fuck that noise!"

Wrench wheeled the car over to the curb, making another screeching stop. "Welcome back!"
Jason leaned over to Alan. "Can you get the guys together tonight? I've got some big plans. Money making plans".
"Sure thing. And we can have a little send-off for Sack Face in style".
Big Jason smiled and winked. "Set it up for me, willya?"

Big Jason and Allen Wrench got inside an apartment that had beat furniture, an open Murphy Bed in the corner, singles, albums, and punk clothes strewn all over the floor.
"He's here!" Wrench yelled and raced off into his bedroom.
"Jason is that you?" a girls' voice yelled from the kitchen.
"I smell bacon and eggs. Is that for me?"

A tall, slender girl with dark skin ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. She had short, spiky black hair with bright red streaks shooting through.
"No! This is for you!" she ran over and kissed him in a tight embrace.
"Enough with the kisses. How about the food?"
"Not ready yet. How was Frisco?"
"It was damper than a baby's shit pants. Too many fat fuckin' punks, too. They oughta drop and do twenty".
"Hahaha, Jason. You're a fuckin' card!" laughed Raquel Tequila.

Raquel Tequila wasn't Latina at all, in fact she was high yellow and her real name was Selma Franks. Her resemblance to Raquel Welch and her fondness for eating only Tortilla chips and drinking cheap Thrifty Drug Store Tequila without throwing up earned her the name of Raquel Tequila. She had the most intense pair of hazel eyes and they were virtually hypnotic.

While Big Jason shoveled the food down his maw Raquel smoked a cigarette and kept ruffling his hair, delighted it was painted electric silver with black streaks.
"BJ! Who did your hair!"
"Now don't call me BJ unless you're planning on doing it!"
"Shut up, Jason!" she laughed, punching him in the arm.

"You took down The Clash photos and put up some Weirdos and Dickies pics. Cool!"
"Yeah, I'm not too hot on The Clash this week since Mick Jones grew out that hippie hair".
"Poseur", he blurted and gulped a glass of Hawaiian Punch.
Raquel took a drag of her smoke and brightened up. "Hey, did you hear about Sack Face?"
"Yeah. Sack Face died. Maybe we should put up a collection and raise something for him".
"Don't bother. Lily made an anonymous phone call to the cops and they picked up his body".
"Lily? She still working at the club?"
"Yeah, she even pinned a note on his chest with his parents' phone number on it".
Jason chortled. "Accommodating bitch".

3:00 PM. Jason Gulliver sprawled out on a bench in the laundromat watching his clothes spinning around. He looked around cautiously, leaned over his army fatigue pants and reached down to his ankle, feeling for the Colt .45 strapped inside his army boot. A little Mexican boy ran up to him and stared at his silver hair, making Jason straighten up and pull his eyelids down, making a Frankenstein face. The boy ran away frightened.

Jason tapped his foot nervously, humming "We Got The Neutron Bomb" to himself, wishing he had that melted licorice whip on him now. A buff punk in paint splattered jeans and cowboy boots came in snapping his fingers. He had a forked out thatch of brown hair with the back and sides of his head shaved off so that he looked like Fred Flintstone.

"Jace! Back from Frisk!"
"Robotman! Sit down, fag!" Jason pushed some newspapers with Jimmy Carter's face on the front page out of the way.
Robotman jerkily sat down and twitched a little. "Long time, man. Doin' your wash?"
"Never mind that. What are you doing for money these days?"
"You know I'm still working at the club".

"Ah, fuck that, there's no money in that shit. I have a way we can kick up some serious scratch. Are you with me?"
"Fuck, Jason, I'm your man, you know that. What do you have in mind?"
"I'll tell you and the guys later. Your brother still a big gun collector?"
"Yeah, that dick loves his guns. Even sleeps with one under his pillow".

Jason nodded his head, thinking. "Good....good...you still with Crazy Dahlia?"
"Don't call her that, it's just Dahlia, she's a cool girl".
"No she's not and look down your pants every once in awhile to make sure you still have your balls attached if she hasn't ripped them off yet".
"Aw c'mon, Jason".

"I'm calling a meeting at the garage tonight. Get there about tennish and don't squeak a word of it to Dahlia, understand?"
"Alright, Jason, don't get pissed". Robotman got up and jerkily stretched himself. "Gotta return the car, Dahlia needs it, see ya tonight".
Robotman dashed out of the laundromat, snapping his fingers again. Jason chuckled bitterly. "Pussy whipped".

Peering around the corner of a washing machine was the little boy looking for more horrifying faces. Jason ignored him, threw his head back and closed his eyes. The little boy made a pistol with his hand and pretend shot at him.
"Chooooooshhhh!"

The complete edition of EVERY BITCH FOR HIMSELF is available in eBook form via Amazon Kindle, iTunes, Barnes & Noble Nook and other eReaders. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Even Angels Crash And Burn

Once upon a time Andy Warhol adopted the idea of creating a studio star system for his Factory, and among his new stars was a drag queen triumvirate: the exotic and funny Holly Woodlawn, multi-talented rebel Jackie Curtis, and a mysterious, quiet beauty named Candy Darling.

Candy was the most haunting of the three because she looked like a modern Carole Lombard and spoke in a measured Jackie Kennedy whisper. She was more beautiful than Edie Sedgewick or most of the scenester girls in New York, and unlike most drag queens wasn't even terribly sexual. She was primarily asexual and her biggest passion was to be worshiped from afar.

Her live-in boyfriend/companion Jeremiah Newton produced the documentary "Beautiful Darling" and appears through most of the film, not only because he was Candy's confidant but also because he was the recipient of Candy's personal articles from her mother who didn't wish to keep them after her death.

A few photos of the young James Slattery (future Candy) are shown and it's pretty obvious he was good looking even as a boy. Raised in a working-class conservative home that had no sympathy for homosexuality, Slattery briefly took cosmetology classes to perfect his drag look. A role in a an off-Broadway show written by Jackie Curtis caught the eye of Taylor Mead, which brought Andy Warhol's attention, and the rest is history.

Sandwiched in between archival footage are passages from Candy's diaries, ineffectively read by Chloe Sevigny as they are read too expressively. A real Candy voice would be completely deadpan, no matter what her feelings called for. Candy's deadpan humor was just as lethal as her looks.

Beautiful Darling could have also benefited from more film footage from her Warhol pictures, of which there wasn't enough, and the footage of her from the Santa Claus slasher pic "Silent Night Deadly Night" would have been nice, too. While I liked the documentary I didn't think it really went in deeply enough, other than the surprising dirt on his working relationship with Tennessee Williams during the production of his play "Small Craft Warnings".

The film ends with a wretched cover of Lou Reed's "Candy Says", a song as beautiful and haunting as its subject. But any Candy Darling doc is better than none at all, and if there's an immortal blonde as haunting as Candy its' the equally under- documented Veronica Lake. Some blondes just can't catch a break.

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If the lush piano introduction to Quicksilver Messenger Service's "Shady Grove" took your breath away then you've just heard the genius of Nicky Hopkins.
If the hard severity of the piano driving The Rolling Stones' "We Love You" gave you the chills and followed up the jail door clang brilliantly You've just heard the genius of Nicky Hopkins.
If the elegant tinkling of piano floating above the thrashing of a Who record, eg. "Anyway Anyhow Anywhere" or "A Legal Matter" you've just heard the genius of Nicky Hopkins.

Unimpeachably the most criminally overlooked genius of iconic Sixties and Seventies rock records is mild-mannered keyboardist Nicky Hopkins, who not only played on countless classic records, some credited and just as many without credit (especially The Kinks and Rolling Stones). To say he was a musician of merit on par with Eric Clapton, Keith Moon, or a Mick Jagger would not be an exaggeration. In fact, by virtue of the fact that he created all his arrangements himself and set the mood for a sweeping variety of musical moods is remarkable. It could even be said that many of the songs he played on would never have turned out as effectively had it not been for his amazing piano parts.

Julian Dawson's bio "And On Piano, Nicky Hopkins" is an exhaustive task as it goes into exhausting detail about Hopkins beginnings playing with Screaming Lord Sutch and Cyril Davies, the Davies connection opening up doors with what would become the biggest rock stars of the next fifteen years. His book is indispensable not just about his subject but for anyone who's interested at all in the British rock explosion of the Sixties.

The cover to this book is very telling: Hopkins on stage with a popular dynamic group sitting in a very dark corner of the stage but virtually unseen. It sets the tone for the whole book.

To read just a few of the recordings he played on is staggering: the clanging jail doors of "Jailhouse Rock" and quaintly melodic accompaniment to the raunchy "All Shook Up" with The Jeff Beck Group (Beck comes off as a painful prima donna, too); the lovely childlike lines that open "She's A Rainbow", the spidery blues lines on "Sympathy For The Devil"; the creepy barroom intro to The Kinks' "Death Of A Clown"; the chilly upper register tinkling of The Beatles' "Birthday" and Jackie Lomax's "Sour Milk Sea", and that's just his English work in brief.

Ray Davies also comes off as a Dickensian villain repeatedly using Hopkins for classic Kinks albums like "Village Green Preservation Society" and "Something Else" with no credit given on the liners but somehow justifying it by saying, "A session player is hired as a worker and doesn't qualify for an album credit". Um yeah, Ray, but this guy wasn't given piano parts - he wrote all his own parts, big difference. That's total genius.

A visit to San Francisco gave Hopkins a major boost in his rep by bands begging him to play with them, resulting in him leaving his mark on immortal SF albums like The Steve Miller Band, Jefferson Airplane's classic "Volunteers" and a residency with Quicksilver Messenger Service. Some even claim his presence elevated Quicksilver who needed a melodic base to counterbalance their previously incessant jamming.

Hopkins unfortunately hit the skids touring with The Rolling Stones on their notorious "Cocksucker Blues" tour where he bought the whole Elegantly Wasted aesthetic and began drinking heavily and developing a heroin habit, not unlike the kind Bobby Keys also fell for in his bio. (By the way, The Stones tried hooking a young Ry Cooder into their satanic dope circus and he very promptly blew them off, claiming The Glimmer Twins to be "sinister and reptilian". Hah!)

Hopkins later cleaned up his habit and embraced Scientology as well as played on Beatles solo albums, and also like Bobby Keys was the victim of many bad scenes with the not so saintly Yoko Ono. Hopkins' biggest clients towards the end of his career included his piano performance on Joe Cocker's schmaltz classic "You Are So Beautiful", touring with Leo Sayer and even a stint with Julio Iglesias (!). And you thought you resume was killer.

Julian Dawson should be applauded for taking such an exhaustive subject as Hopkins especially in light of the fact that his subject was a man who was so ubiquitous in rock and yet unheralded, ridiculously so. Thirty years on, the myopic Rock & Rock Hall of Fame still has not awarded this great man a spot in their not-so-hallowed halls.

Details in the Hopkins biography I didn't know:
1. Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane of The Small Faces played on Bill Wyman's track "In Another Land" on the Satanic Majesties Request album.
2. Clem Cattini played substitute drums for The Kinks and The Who when Mick Avory and Keith Moon fell ill.
3. John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin composed and conducted the string arrangement on The Rolling Stones' "She's A Rainbow".