MC5 Or DC5?

If there is a more burning question than "Boxers Or Briefs?" it's the big musical question: MC5 or DC5? Not that its impossible to enjoy the music of both bands, but there is a slight generational difference. In some ways they're surprisingly similar - both bands have an affinity blues/jazz only presented differently, and both are also extraordinarily LOUD, especially for their time. Let's weigh both bands:

The MC5 (Motor City Five) were the pride of Detroit, Michigan in 1968 and well initially well-known for aligning themselves with John Sinclair's White Panthers Party, not quite as menacing as the Black Panthers, but still a great gimmick, forerunners to The New York Dolls and their red leather drag and Communist flag shtick and many others following that.

In 1969 several labels hit pay dirt cashing in on the Detroit sound, like The Bob Seger System, The Frost, The Amboy Dukes, SRC, The Stooges, Grand Funk Railroad with even Alice Cooper stopping by for an extended residency. Elektra Records signed the MC5 for the terminally loud 'n proud "Kick Out The Jams" showing the band ripping it up with bottomless American flags rolling down miles and miles behind them.

One of the brilliant highlights of Kick Out The Jams was the choice of covering Sun Ra and The Troggs on the same record, pretty audacious for its time and a definite influence on me, as well. If free jazz can't be played on electric guitars then it can't be played on anything, dammit! Wayne Kramer and Fred "Sonic" Smith clearly defined the band's sound with their wild, barley controlled screaming guitars.

Back In The USA was considered a disappointment when it was released, but I think after the utter Mad House riot Revolution In The Streets vibe of the first album a more controlled affair was in order, so you got more poppier songs like Shakin' Street and High School. By the time High Time was released the band was back in full psycho abandon with tracks like Sister Anne, Sonically Speaking - back to the jazz saxes honking like mad - and Future Now.

I'm the usually the last to hear good news about anything, so I just recently heard that in 2010 Dave Clark finally turned over at least ten albums worth of material of DC5 (Dave Clark Five) music, three of them containing either unreleased or obscure tracks that barely got its minimum daily requirement of oxygen. Unfortunately they're only available on iTunes, so it's time to pay the Apple piper again. But I digress.

The DC5 were such a powerful force during the British Invasion that they knocked The Beatles out of the Number One position in the charts and in their prime were two steps behind The Fab Four everywhere they went. They followed The Beatles as the second English band to play on The Ed Sullivan Show. It was that serious, but why not? They were sensational.

Unlike the MC5 there was more than guitar army reconnaissance going on: the DC5 had some wicked blues organ playing from singer Mike Smith, who wrote most of the material, and wicked raspy saxophone playing from Denny Payton. Denny Payton occasionally overdubbed his tenor and baritone saxophones together on several songs, sounding not unlike that badass Dana Colley from Morphine.

With Mike Smith's snarling vocals mixing with Dave Clark's military march pounding (pre-dating Gary Glitter's homo stomp by a good 10 years!) and Payton's growling mad dog saxophone, the DC5 tore into R&B standards like "Do You Love Me", "Reelin' and Rockin'" and "I Like It Like That" with vicious abandon.

Equally exciting is the new, unreleased material like "Fallout Shelter", "The Man In The Pin Stripe Suit", and "Return My Love". And how great is it that we can finally enjoy songs like "I'm Thinkin'" and "Say You Want Me" in digital panorama sound instead of that scratchy Epic Records vinyl. Nostalgia is nice but pops and hisses aren't and a good, clean polish only makes the songs sound more demented.

The influence of both bands is far and wide, almost hard to even estimate: MC5 have influenced bands like Radio Birdman, KISS (esp. High Time, listen to Baby Won't You or Over And Over) and The Didjits. The DC5 have clearly influenced bands as varied as The Monks, Slade - check out the stomping drums! and The Ramones, who covered the sublime Any Way You Want It.

If you haven't heard the MC5 lately dust off their records and turn it up, especially Sister Anne. And if you haven't checked out the DC5 on mp3, now's the time to do it before Dave Clark pulls a Walt Disney and pulls the tracks off the shelf, which he's done before. I guarantee it'll clean your clock!

Rock & Roll Confidential, Part 2

The Blue Star (2200 E. 15th St.) = I got the invite on the Garage Punk Hideout that there was a big garage blow-out show, and when free barbecue was thrown into the mix I was there with bells on. The fact that The Blue Star was located in truck & train nightmare Vernon, California didn't even scare me. This is what happened:

The Blue Star looks like an abandoned Norm's with a rockin' juke box. Drinks are $6 but all they served was beer and wine, no hard-ons, booo. I walked out to a patio with a tiny stage in the corner that had cheap Walgreens Xmas lights strewn about the stage for lighting. You can barely see how ugly the bands are on stage, so maybe it's a public service.

The barbecue pit was in the back with a cool Flintstones-type boulder bar with all the fixings. While The Teutonics (From Germany, natch) played "Dont'cha Just Know It" I noticed the patio was covered in corrugated iron with a barbed wire topping. There was a good turn-out by the time The Jinxes played their spazzed-out Dickies meets Supernova mishigas as I looked up at the star constellation above me in the cold winter sky.

The bottom line is that come summer time this will be a shreddin' scene, but until then you won't find many takers that'll sit out in the cold night air no matter how hot the band. And get some stage lights - at a $10 door cover plus $6 for supermarket booze you can afford to buy some fluorescent tubes or something. I wanna catch all the pimples the garage bands are sportin'!

Timewarp Music (12255 Venice Blvd.) = On one of my many treks into Culver City I checked out the majesty that is Timewarp Music. There were surf-era guitars, Ringo Starr drum sets, vintage tweed amplifiers and bulbous Elvis-Fifties microphones laid out all over the store. The showroom was cooler than the club next door! I imagine Westside kids coming in and buying all their gear so they can form a surf combo and play the beach down the street.

Club Good Hurt (12249 Venice Blvd.) = Advance reports of Club Good Hurt conjured visions of foxy nurses in PVC uniforms with nurse caps, tongue depressors, stethoscopes bouncing off bobbing breasts, but alas, no such luck, just two barmaids wearing tiny dresses with a medical cross stitched on. Club Good Hurt has a gimmick but doesn't really run with it much: a 1940's neon drugstore sign hangs over the bar, and that's about it. What did you expect? Mar Vista will never be a hot bed of rock 'n roll, anyway.

The bar itself was lacking, too. I had the most watered down Cosmopolitan ever. Not only couldn't I taste the vodka, I couldn't even taste the cranberry juice. That's bad, seriously bad, especially at $12 (and an expected tip). The band that played, yes, it's a nightclub, was kinda bad psychedelic, but the kids liked them. They had a squirrely synthesizer yammering through their set with a silly fog machine blasting everyone in the face. Nurse! Nurse!

I'm giving Good Hurt three stars because if I was 21 and in a band I'd probably play here and I think it has the potential to be a cool venue. Just don't drink the water, I mean booze. Doctor Andy's prescription: flask it.

Rock City News (7030 DeLongpre Ave.) = Everything old is new again. Before you get a chance to wax nostalgic over The Pixies they're back on the road touring again. Well, Warrant's back too and Rock City News is there reporting every rawkin' head bang they make. If Axl Rose is making a personal appearance at Pink Dot, Rock City News is there. If Dave Mustaine from Megadeath has more catty remarks to make about Metallica, Rock City News is there. If Faster Pussycat plans another rent-paying comeback, Rock City News is there.

Rock City News, in business for twenty-five years and keeping the heavy metal Strip scene flag flying are still going strong, yes on a monthly basis as opposed to their once weekly output, helmed by the fearless Reuben Blue. In fact, their 25th Anniversary party will be at FM Station on August 22nd. An AC-DC cover band will be on board, and so will Hardly Dangerous, whoa! I thought they were dead. Rock City News is the nightmare that keeps coming back, just like The Pixies.

Studio Instrument Rentals (6465 W. Sunset Blvd.) = Everybody knows about the legendary SIR studios. I once came here for an audition. It was for some psychobilly band. The guitar player was a giant from Germany who would argue with you about everything, even when he agreed with you. Crabby Kraut, may a team of hobbits pee poison in his stein.

The rooms themselves are pretty spacious and clean as rehearsal studios go. Some of the rooms have stages in them so you can point at your invisible audience as you're rockin' out. I'll bet when the big guns like Kiss or The Motels rehearse there they point at that invisible audience from the stage. That's lame enough to be funny.

Pebbles For Rebels

In 1972 glam rock was at its peak, but there was a sleeping giant in the process of being woken up by several critics from Creem and Rolling Stone Magazines (Ben Edmonds, Lester Bangs, Lenny Kaye, etc.), and the sleeping giant was termed punk rock, which is now garage rock. “Punk rock” was coined by them but made flesh by a compilation released by Elektra Records called “Nuggets”. “Nuggets” lumped old AM radio classics recorded by garage bands like The Electric Prunes’ “I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night”, “Psychotic Reaction” by Count Five, “Dirty Water” by The Standells, etc. In the coming years other record companies created their own psychedelic (aka “psych”) garage compilations. During the 1980’s the most popular series was released by another former rock writer Greg Shaw, now indie record mogul of Bomp Records (named after his fanzine). He issued a series of compilations that completely expanded on “Nuggets” and beyond, and named it “Pebbles”. Each volume of “Pebbles” concentrated on a different region in the USA and even expanded to international bands, as well.

The best volumes are the ones from Southern California and the International one, too. "Pebbles So Cal vol.1" is amazing, starting with Terry Randall's "S.O.S." a great number about the Sunset Strip riots, recalling Suicide of all people, with the vocalist almost whispering Police Dept. cliches over a hypnotic blues riff, "Up against the wall...let's see some I.D.", organs beeping telegraph message noises.
The Starfires' "I Never Loved Her" is a weird, chilling number that contrasts between a hardened punk bragging to his pals about dumping some loser gal after banging her, then the chorus drops into a soft, Zombies-like confessional of hidden manly fears. The guitars contrasts the protagonist's moods brilliantly.
The Human Society's "Knock Knock" is a masterpiece, slow, swirling guitars unwinding a ringing in the lead vocalist's psychotic cerebellum, lyrics spitting out a Jim Thompson-style dementia that's gripping in it's candor. And to think Donovan was mumbling about bananas while this sludge was being recorded!

"Pebbles So Cal vol.2" is equally as spazzed out, though; "Lost Innocence" by The Buddhas rocks like a wrench. "I'm Not Alone" by The David has a loping Doors-type sound with it's stately organ parts and thespian vocalizing. "Ain't It Hard" by The Gypsy Trips features a simple piano figure that rolls around in circles while backwards guitar tracks unwind in your ears, driving you crazy with its freak-out grooviness.

"Pebbles The World" is the international edition and has some excellent gems that'll make you shake like a wild pony. It opens with The Bunnys from Japan doing an insane instrumental where the guitarist violates his tremolo bar like crazy ("Moanin'"). "Dis-Nous Dylan" by The Five Gentlemen from France is a weird, slow tribute to the famous protest singer, weird because its so trance-like. Lebanon's The Cedars have a great song "Hide If You Want To Hide" with a very pronounced Middle Eastern melody that still sounds like a great Hollies-type number. John Wooley from Belgium has a driving number called "Look And You Will Find" that has a fairly cliched rock guitar line but the beat is so hypnotic and the recording is so well done you'll like it, anyway. The show-stopper on the record, however, is France's Evariste, with the absolutely insane "Connais-Tu L'Animal Que Inventa Le Calcul Integar?" (Don't ask!) It's a sort-of Wild Man Fischer au Francais, the singer howling, spitting, screaming and shitting all over himself. This one's so demented it literally stops everyone in their tracks from doing what it is they're doing, and asking "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" Well, it's rock & roll, natch!

"Essential Pebbles vol.1" is a best-of compilation and well worth your attention. Classic Tracks include Canada's Haunted doing "1-2-5" ("My name's Mary Jane, I live down the lane"), T.C. Atlantic doing the haunting "Faces", and the folksy "I Ain't Dead Yet" from The Breakers. The Sinners keep it French for "Sinnerisme" where they remarks on the dark beauty of a girl's eyes. But I really like The Roosters, one of the great forgotten bands, with their sublime "You Gotta Run", 12-string guitars ringing, beautiful harmonies and reedy Beatles-like harmonica.

"Essential Pebbles vol.2 " has The Chimes doing the wild "#38" with tremolos guitar busting through the speakers like a freight train. The Yo Yos' "Crack In My Wall" has a severe Animals vibe going for it, all Eric Burdon drama like an old British Angry Young Man movie.

Much has been said about garage rock, but in discovering the hidden gems of the genre one finds unknown tracks that open up vistas of sound that are exciting and almost surprising in their obscurity because they still sound new and relevant today. While latter day compilations lie Rhino's "Where The Action Is" fill a void in unsung chapters in Sixties rock it's recommended that you look into Greg Shaw's "Pebbles" series (*and the great UK psych series "Rubble") to discover even more untold gems in the vast fabric of wild and wooly Sixties rock.

Grim Reaper Of Love

On Thursday, June 25, 2009 a triple-header of iconic deaths occurred which no Dead Pool enthusiasts in a million years would have predicted: Sky Saxon of the Seeds (Sixties), Farrah Fawcett-Majors (Seventies) and Michael Jackson (Eighties).

I immediately recalled that remark Charles Bukowski made of celebrity deaths: it’s not the celebrities’ deaths that hurt us but the death of that period of our lives that these celebrities inhabited. The Sixties was the decade of my childhood when my parents were happy. The Seventies was the decade of teenage discovery and approaching adulthood and the Eighties was the decade of Ronald Reagan-era snobbery and lower caste poverty, culminating in homelessness. Guess whose death affected me the least?

The eulogies heaped on Michael Jackson read more like an old Universal Pictures horror film synopsis than praise. Just like Frankenstein, The Wolfman and The Invisible Man, Michael Jackson was a lost soul gone astray who disintegrated into perversion, decadence and insanity. Val Lewton must be jealous as hell.

Farrah Fawcett-Majors was never a terribly sexy woman to me. Her hair style was goofy and she had a vapid look about her that seemed dead and stupid. Her hook-up with Ryan O’Neal reminded me of Barbara Payton shacking up with Tom Neal: another cheap blonde knocking boots with a surly, heavily-medicated actor.

Although Sky Saxon hadn’t produced anything in years I still listen to The Seeds with their tough as nails punk sound counterbalanced with the most delicate electric piano in history. His sneering vocals on “Pushin’ Too Hard”, “Can’t Seem To Make You Mine” and “Tripmaker” are the stuff of legend and dare I say it, he was a superior punk singer to the much-lamented Lux Interior. The happy memories of going to the beach in the daytime or the Fairfax Avenue headshops in the nighttime to 93 KHJ or KFWB 98 blasting out The Seeds and other garage-punk thugs warms my heart. The other two celebrities can evaporate in the garbage can of culture but Sky Saxon’s sneer will remain eternal.

The Monks: The Transatlantic Feedback

I didn’t really understand The Monks the first time I heard them and was never a big fan of their music until I saw the documentary “The Monks: The Transatlantic Feedback” (excellently directed by Lucia Palacios and Dietmar Post) on the Sundance Channel recently. Now I’m totally obsessed with those noisy psychos. “The Transatlantic Feedback” is a great documentary and reads like a Tony Curtis military comedy from Hell. It’s the story of five enlisted men in the Army in Cold War-era West Germany whose infantry duties consisted of washing the General’s car or for bassist Eddie Shaw measuring bazooka artillery projectiles. To pass the time they hit the decadent Berlin club scene (which spawned The Beatles) playing covers as The Torquays. After they’re discharged from the Armed Forces they decided to stay in Germany and continue playing the clubs, catching the eye of two advertising men, Walther and Karl.

Walther and Karl molded the boys visually into wearing all black, hangman’s knots for ties, and shaving the middle parts of their heads like ascetic monks, a pretty bizarre reaction to the now popular Beatle haircut. Musically they were molded as well: as Eddie Shaw explains it: “Where there were four chords, you narrow it down to only one. If there were six lines of lyrics, can you shorten it down to only two?” Musical and lyrical minimalism was part of their new order. “Some of their ideas were brilliant”, guitarist-singer Gary Burger recalls, “but some of them were too crazy for us. We had to say at some point, ‘We’re not going to do that!’”. One of the humorous aspects of Walther and Karl’s management was a written manifesto, read laughingly aloud by Shaw: “You must always look, act, move, walk, talk like a Monk, but above all else you will not be a Torquay”.

The Monks’ sound was incredibly assaultive with some of the most incendiary feedback-drenched fuzz guitar playing from Gary Burger, hypnotically semaphore organ playing from future IBM exec Larry Clark, and the most bizarre banjo playing in history from Dave Day. Eschewing folksy, melodic playing for violent chord-bashing, Day plays his banjo like a percussive instrument, doubling the beats the drums are pounding. At one point during “Monk Time” he even replicates machine gun sounds on his banjo. Brilliant stuff!

And how about “Monk Time”, with the most schizophrenic set of lyrics screamed by Burger, bouncing bipolarisms at the drop of a hat. Anti-war: “Why do you kill all those kids in Vietnam?” Pro-war: “Mad Vietcong! My brother died in Vietnam!” Anti-music: “Stop it! I don’t like it! It’s too loud for my ears!” Pro-music: “What do you mean, Larry? You think like I think, you’re a Monk, I’m a Monk, we’re all Monks!” Talk all you want about hip irony, this was strong shit for 1965 when everybody was groovy.

The stern Germanic influence continues on a song with mournful church organ and chanting Monks singing, “Got a reason to laugh, got a reason to cry, be a liar everywhere, Shut Up! Don’t Cry!” and then slipping a little Satanism in Higgle-Die Piggle-Die, “Way down…to Heaven!” The negativity hits a feverish peak with the amazing “I Hate You”, Burger’s voice recalling classic David Lee Roth (tell me I’m wrong!) wailing, “I hate you with a passion baby, My hate’s everlasting baby!” The music never once loses its edge, guitars burning through your eardrums, sleazy organ and that nutty banjo bashing itself into your skull.

Once Walther and Karl parted ways as band managers the band slowly unraveled. Onstage fisticuffs, dropping the Monk look, record industry indifference, and drummer Roger Johnston leaving the band led to the guys’ return to the States, with the exception of banjo-guitarist Dave Day running a pub. “If I had stayed in Germany, I probably would have died there”, admits Shaw, emphasizing the vice-crazed “anything goes” lifestyle of decadent Berlin, still crazy after the legendary “Cabaret” era.

Looking back in retrospect, the band attempts to whitewash their lyrics by claiming that because of attention focused on “only one song” their music “wasn’t really political” (“Monk Time”) but you can’t get more political than “Complication” with its lines of “people kill for you, people die for you” and the lyrics for “Shut Up” have political connotations (“Be a liar everywhere, Shut up! Don’t cry!”).

Burger, Day and Shaw seem to be the most forthcoming in their analysis of the band while Johnston seems very saddened by the experience and Clark is a man of few words, but that’s okay. Walther and Karl, both long believed dead, declined to be interviewed for the film, stating that a manager’s job is to stay in the background. Shit, that’s refreshing!

The film ends much like “New York Doll”, the band’s dream of playing New York finally realized by doing a reunion show to scenester celebrities like a pre-op Genesis P. Orridge, Peter Zaremba (Fleshtones), and a super-twitchy Jon Spencer. The band looks thrilled as fuck to be playing again, and fortunately didn’t show signs of losing their edge at all, still playing with an ageless intensity. Burger’s lead guitar lines still boil and Day’s mental case banjo strumming still pounding like a musical jackhammer. Still wearing their legendary black shirts, Dave Day quips “we don’t have to get the hair styles anymore, we already have the bald spots”.

Although “The Transatlantic Feedback” is a documentary on one of the most obscure bands in rock directors Palacios and Post did an amazing job with old TV broadcasts, band interviews and Cold War newsreel footage.

Shortly after the film wrapped drummer Roger Johnston passed away, but the band continued to play the occasional reunion show in Austria and Germany (clips available on YouTube). Unfortunately, Dave Day passed in January so it seems pretty doubtful the band can really play again, but their mark in rock history is assured. While any band can release one album and disappear, it takes stunning performances and brilliant songwriting to make that one album stay fresh and immortal in people’s minds, and The Monks are one of the small handful of bands that have accomplished just that. It’s always Hop Time, it’s Beat Time, it’s Monk Time.

So You Want To Be A Rock & Roll Flop

There’s nothing more boring than watching a documentary about a wildly popular rock band patting each other’s balls, pretending to be humble and thrilling their billions of sheep-like fans. The most recent offenders have been Wilco (dull), The Pixies (smug), Flaming Lips (not funny), and Radiohead (overrated). Actually, the best films I’ve seen in recent memory have been documentaries about the losers of rock ‘n roll. These films are infused with more drama than a million Nicole Kidman blockbusters, and damn if they have anything to be proud about. Here’s my favorite rock flop flicks:

1. New York Doll – Arthur Kane, bassist of the New York Dolls, is more heroic as a born-again Mormon clerk at the West LA temple than he ever was in his previous incarnation as skanky glam rocker. Waiting for the Number 4 bus on Santa Monica Blvd, Arthur perpetually pines for one last New York Dolls reunion. The opportunity finally arrives, courtesy of Morrisey (!) and Arthur demonstrates more wisdom than his other bandmates, appearing almost saint-like with his humility, a far cry from the old Mercer Arts Center days. Shortly after the reunion show Kane passed away, his wish finally granted by the powers that be. This one had a happy ending.

2. Derailroaded – Wild Man Fischer became the stuff of legend in the Psychedelic Sixties standing in front of the Whiskey A Go-Go selling his songs for a dime. Frank Zappa made the dubious decision to record a full-length album of his singing, his songs sounding very much like bad nursery rhymes with banal lyrics. His delivery, of course, is the creep factor, all ex-mental institution manic with shrieks that sound like a cat getting gutted. All through the film we hear testimonies from family members and musical colleagues about being attacked or threatened by Wild Man. Even Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo weighs in on the genius of Wild Man Fischer. We’re not convinced.

3. Won’t Anybody Listen? – Midwest transplants NC-17 attempt to conquer Hollywood with their dazzling tunes. We see them wowing crowds at The Coconut Teaszer where bands are herded like so much cattle (20 Bands a Nite for Only Five Dollars!), and that’s the focus of the film: while the band grouses about how the record industry won’t recognize them for being the true geniuses that they are, their complaints are intercut with A&R executives (including ex-Gang of Four drummer Hugo Burnham! So much for socialism!) explaining how hard it is for bands to score a record deal, and even when they do, they’re so deep in debt they won’t turn a profit for another six years. When we see NC-17 finally perform we hear music so directionless it’s easy to see why they’ve been passed up by the major labels. I guess being “Star Search” finalists added up to zilch!

4. Dig! – The “Citizen Kane” of rock flop flicks, where we see the Brian Jonestown Massacre crush under the weight of their incorrigibly annoying leader, Anton Newcombe, who keeps drooling about a “revolution” his band is leading, but the only revolution to be seen in the film is the band mutinying against him resulting in interminable punch-ups every five minutes like sex in a porn film. When you think it couldn’t get any more annoying, you’ll see Courtney Taylor of The Dandy Warhols contrive a phony WWF-type rivalry with the BJ Massacre. The only person he truly pisses-off is fashion photographer David LaChapelle, who’s ten times the artist The Dandy Warhols will ever be. The BJ Massacre is still together and kicking each other’s balls on stage. Take a tip from me: their shows aren’t first-date material unless your date’s a dominatrix.

5. You’re Gonna Miss Me – Roky Erickson, leader of the 13th Floor Elevators, wrote some great songs: Fire Engine, You’re Gonna Miss Me, Two-Headed Dog, etc. His documentary focuses on the custody battle between his mother Evelyn and his brother. His mother’s eccentric in a “Grey Gardens” way, gluing family pictures to her wall like a scrapbook, and his brothers allude to possibly being molested by their stoic father. After all is said and done Roky still has the ability to move you with his amazing singing, whether it’s Buddy Holly’s “Starry Eyes” or his “Goodbye Sweet Dreams”. SPOILER: His brother Sumner gets custody in the end, but Roky of course returns to Mama and the safe womb of his bedroom watching Powerpuff Girls cartoons.

Other documentaries that didn’t zing my tweeter as much was the Townes Van Zandt doc (okay, he was a manic depressive, so what?), the Nick Drake movie, where his sister confesses to putting him down all the time, wonder where the depression came from?, and that Rodney Bingenheimer nightmare movie. After I saw that one I yelled at my wife for hours!

But I’m just nursing sour grapes, I’ll confess. I want my own rock flop flick, where I’m the star of my own movie where people see me going to work every day and not rocking out at The Hollywood Palladium and The Roxy anymore, and all my ex-bandmates talking about what a fucking prick I am. I want to be the coolest music failure in the history of rock cinema. That would be hotter than a million Oscars.

Did Somebody Mention Patti Smith?

Once upon a time, many great new bands would forego playing auditoriums and instead do three night engagements at The Whiskey A Go-Go, The Roxy Theatre or The Starwood. These engagements would of course be over the weekend, and right around the time Patti Smith’s groundbreaking debut album “Horses” was released she booked a weekend engagement at The Roxy Theatre.

When buying tickets for a weekend engagement this was the rule of thumb: Friday, opening night, was always sold out and so packed that standing in the club was sweaty and uncomfortable. The performance was usually wobbly because the band was feeling out the shit PA and acoustics. It was so funky you never felt like you got your money’s worth. I avoided Fridays, which was easy because they sold out the quickest.

Saturdays were better, the band gaining more confidence with their material and understanding how to work the room. I remember a Saturday at The Whiskey A Go-Go featuring Blondie and her openers, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. Both bands were having a lot of fun on stage. I shook Petty’s hand when it mattered(1977).

Sundays were the best. Nobody went out on Sunday night, it was closing night, the bands were fully confident and experimented on stage and interacted with the smaller audience and it was big, big fun. Did I mention that bands always played an early show and a late show? If you went on Sunday night you got to stay and watch the late show for free! I saw Patti Smith on Sunday night.

I had tickets for the late show (12 midnight) and stood in a longish line (Patti was already big because she pulled a bigger line on Sundays than anyone else). As I stood in line waiting for the early birds to leave I saw Peter Falk, Columbo, quietly strolling down Sunset Blvd. with his wife holding hands. They were so dressed down they fit in with everybody on the street, him in uncombed hair, dirty t-shirt and scummy jeans. The wife wore a plain house dress and didn’t give a Hollywood fuck what anybody thought. What a killer couple.

So! Anyway, Patti’s first set finally ended and out filed out the largest conglomeration of tragic lesbians I’ve ever seen: the bulls with their Ziggy Stardust Bowie haircuts in jumpsuits, the stark ‘n skinny folkie Peggy Liptons with no man-forced make-up on, angry debs in leather motorcycle caps, not a smiling dyke in the pack. It was severity on parade. Suzi Quatro was probably jealous as shit.

Patti Smith was not really punk rock but a kind of garage noise band. While Patti would recite her free-form poetry on “Birdland” her guitarist Lenny Kaye would make percussive noises on his guitar. I loved that line she sang in the Velvet Underground cover: “Don’t you know the blackest thing in Harlem is white?”

More Pattisms: “Redondo Beach is a place where women love other women”…”Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine”…She kept her between-song patter to a minimum and kept the yackety-yak to performance poetry. Legendary shit. It’s one of those shows you’ll remember even when you’re seventy-five years old.

A year and a half later Patti came back for a spoken word show at The Roxy. By this point she was the toast of the town and this show was a star-studded event, a garage punk version of “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World”. While Patti scatted and recited selections from her books “Witt” and “Seventh Heaven” she was getting support from her band and John Cale, Buddy Miles (!), Iggy Pop, Ray Manzarek, and some guys from The Byrds, etc. The real show was outside: an extremely drunken Arthur Lee from Love was fighting with the bouncers outside and pulled a gun on them, by which point Sheriff’s Deputies were called and Lee ran down glamorous Sunset Blvd. cussing and yelling like Uncle Humphrey at the Easter Sunday BBQ church picnic. Love may have set the scene on the Strip way back when but The Roxy wasn’t having it.

At this point Patti’s head was getting bigger than ever and was given to silly dance moves (eventually breaking her neck at one show from it), even sillier statements to the press, posing as a PLO terrorist in photos and the audience shifted from the Beebo Brinker Knitting Circle to the Gabba Gabba ramones clones and Johnny Rotten wannabes. Our cult of misfit toys no longer had our beatnik cheerleader anymore; she was now the public domain of shopping center punks in suburban Southern California. But it’s cool. To be honest it never really had anything to do with Patti Smith, anyway.