Random Riot

Hi, it's me the guy who threw up in your purse the guy who hurled Japanese finger food against the wall in your kitchen and never got invited again to your home you hypocrite it's me the guy who screamed for hours in the nightclub which doesn't even exist anymore I'm not that guy anymore and haven't been for some time but there are people who don't want to let go of their stupid memories of who I was they just want to hold on to the outlines of an unhappy and outraged and angry man who wanted to kill banality like a hunter in the dead of winter. I'm no longer on your radar I'm no longer in your orbit I'm not dead I just don't care about being in your petty and stupid life so there it is and the funny thing about it is you resent the fact that you can't complain about me and you can't attack me anymore because I don't care your dirty little sand pit is all yours sit in your shit and make your own mess it must suck to not have me to blame for your own kill switch you call a brain insane.

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It's so sad that within the past few weeks several cool stars from the British Invasion have passed on, notably Rick Huxley of the Dave Clark Five, Reg Presley of The Troggs, and early Beatles colleague Tony Sheridan. Granted they were pretty high up there in the years but they still rocked like crazy and gave me hours upon months upon years of listening pleasure. Their work was always exciting and fresh to listen to even in year 2013.

Special mention should be made of Reg Presley's excellent range as a rock vocalist. I don't think most people realize what an extensive range he had, going from raunch god on the classic "Wild Thing" to leering Peter Lorre soundalike on "From Home" to whisper gnome on "Night Of The Tall Grass" and "Strange Movies". And just when you thought he hadn't a shred of sensitivity in his sleazy bones he could tug on your heart strings with the beautifully tender vocal of "Love Is All Around". Brilliant, just brilliant. They will all be missed.

Bearing in mind that my English heroes are slowly departing I flew into a senior boomer tallywacker panic and downloaded a ton of British Invasion music, hoary old classics like The Merseybeat's "Sorrow", vintage Animals, Herman's Hermits and Dusty Springfield's "I Only Want To Be With You". While downloading these records I listened to a lot of Manfred Mann tracks and marveled how incredibly sophisticated the early stuff was, effortlessly mixing jazz with R&B and garage rock on tracks like "I'm Your Kingpin" or "Hubble Bubble".

Also in the underrated category was Sounds Incorporated, a totally killer instrumental unit that insanely combined James Bond spy music with Northern soul funk workouts at break neck speed. No wonder The Beatles tapped them to be their opening act at Shea Stadium. They can also be seen in the movie "Top Gear" rocking out a totally looney take on "The William Tell Overture". Check them out!

I also really liked a track by The Nashville Teens called "Devil In Law", more laid back than "Tobacco Road" but just as cool and the lyrics are pretty funny, too. I also liked "Even The Bad Times Are Good" by The Tremeloes, a really great song that stands tall next to their massive signature hit "Here Comes My Baby". The current state of music as such is so piss poor that even The Rubettes' hits "Sugar Baby Love" and "I Can Do It" sound pretty awesome, and that's skull-fuckingly bad.

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There's a new generation of film directors who seriously haven't got a clue what they're doing or even why they need to do it. It's pretty sad how it's become the rule rather than the exception when Rebecca and I to meet with these guys who present us with their projects and they have nothing planned or designed for us to work on.

One idiot came by and told us he wanted us to make outfits for his movie which was "kind of like The Craft, Sucker Punch, and some anime". He had a few bad sketches of chicks in skimpy outfits. One looked like a shit Baby Spice knock-off and the other one was some garbage goth witch outfit. This fortysomething director wanted to make some teen chick superhero movie. GROAN. Not again. I said okay, anime like The Dirty Pair, right? He didn't know who The Dirty Pair was, all he supposedly knew about anime was that it was supposed to be a bunch of semi-naked chicks running around kicking guys.

Rebecca: "Okay, so do you have any specific outfits in mind?"
Old man director: "No, I still haven't finished the script yet, so the outfits could change".
Rebecca: "What are the sizes of the girls?"
Old man director: "We haven't cast the film yet so I don't know anybody's sizes yet, but I'm anticipating really skinny tall girls. But they have to know how to fight!"

What the fuck does that mean? You don't have a script, don't have any actresses willing to do stunts, what do you have and why are you wasting my time? Go jerk off in a fireplace, you clown.

The scary deal is that there have been a lot of "filmmakers/screenwriters" barking up the same empty fantasy fanboy vacuum with no money and no ideas assuming Rebecca and I are supposed to flesh out their horny, myopic vision - which is already ten years behind what our friends, the Japanese, yes them again, are doing. Read Takekyo Hitman Reborn, No. 6, Karneval, D. Gray Man or Black Butler and get enlightened. America needs to step up their game, the times they are a-changin'.

I leave you with Rick Huxley and Mike Smith, both gone but not forgotten from the Dave Clark Five:

The 2008 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Awards

If rock ‘n roll wants to enter the mainstream and be taken seriously as an art form, then fine, but you have to bear in mind that once that happens things like awards, tuxedos and banquets arise from that serious mess. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is a fine example of what happens to trashy entertainment that decides it’s heavy business.

The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame (televised on VH1) is a train wreck, a plane wreck, and a car wreck complete with flying roadkill. Every culture hero you looked up to in the past will eventually show up at these ceremonies and show how drained they are of any significance whatsoever.

While it was heartening to watch John Fogerty aka Grampa Feedback introduce the Ventures, things later ground to a dead halt when bitter Lou Reed showed up to introduce awardee Leonard Cohen. For a man who insists on being taken seriously as a songwriter, Reed shows little respect for anyone else’s work. He read Cohen’s lyrics with very little expression or verve. Cohen’s speech wasn’t terribly funny, but considering how grim his songs are that came as no surprise. Rather than perform his own songs, some Starbucks minstrel covered a Cohen tune instead.

John Mellencamp, the awardee with the most unmemorable name that night, looked like Tweedledee the carnival midget sporting an Elvis pompadour toupee. His speech was interminable and was followed by an equally interminable medley of his Eighties trailer park anthems. I think I would rather serve a year in prison under solitary confinement than take orders from him in a band. He looked very angry and full of his tiny self.

Sucking up more schedule time was Madonna, who accepted her award quoting Kabbalah and other cosmic crap, and her speech lasted so long it felt like a college lecture. Instead of doing her customary Broadway hooker schtick Iggy & the Stooges covered “Burning Up”, Iggy coming off like Kevin Bacon playing the Flying Dutchman. When the bass guitarist proudly kicked his leg up in the air I could feel the air whistling out of this shit soufflé. Soon drummer Scott Asheton fell apart in the middle of the song, so Ron Asheton busted into a noise-jazz guitar solo that ruined an already awful song.

The worst was saved for last: Tom Hanks came aboard (Madonna, Mellencamp, Tom Hanks, it was so fucking Eighties I had the puke chills) and gave a long, unfunny Baby Boomer account of discovering the British Invasion to introduce the mediocre racket that was the Dave Clark Five. Super-creep Dave Clark accepted his award looking every bit as sinister as his reputation. He had the most satanically arched eyebrows I’ve ever seen, arched so high Anton Szandor LaVey would spin in his grave in Hell out of jealousy. Actually, Clark looked like a marionette that’s been melted and then thrown in the spin-dry cycle for three days. Singer-songwriter Mike Smith died a week before the awards ceremony, and if it wasn’t for Smith old DC would be picking up litter in Hyde Park.

The topper of course was the final jam session on Dave Clark Five tunes, led by 80s has-been Joan Jett, mugging like Liza Minelli on a date with Bela Lugosi. Other 80s casualties chimed in, like Late Night chimp Paul Shaffer, Billy Joel, Mellencamp and his fiddler (uh, yeah, lots of fiddle on Dave Clark Five songs!), Hanks sang backup, and Baby Boomer deadbeat Chevy Chase was seen boppin’ in the audience.

If this nightmarish puppet show is the bottom line when it comes to giving rock music the respect it thinks it deserves, then some art forms should remain misunderstood. Sometimes "understanding" creates soul-crushing compromise, so keep the mystery alive.