Rip, Rig and Panic

Back in the Pleistocene era of punk rock (1977-1979) the top fanzines of the West Coast were Slash (Los Angeles) and Search & Destroy (San Francisco), which were both written and designed by people that worked in the field of graphic arts, cinema and publishing. This meant that both fanzines not only covered the new music that was emerging at the time, but also covered cutting edge artists, filmmakers and performance artists. Performance artists got an extraordinary amount of coverage in Slash/Search & Destroy, and a lot of these artists were every bit as exciting as any punk band.

In an era of Siouxise Sioux, The Slits, and Cindy Sherman, no other artist embodied femininity gone awry better than Johanna Went. Playing every feminine role with the manic ferocity of a mental patient, Went portrayed nuns bathed in blood carrying crucifixes, violent housekeepers throwing flour around the stage with baby dolls tied around her neck, speaking in tongues, babbling and shrieking into a microphone. A terrific jazz-noise combo would punctuate her whirling dervishes, creating an aural wallpaper as disturbing as her I Am Woman nightmarisms. She even released a great EP of jazz-noise bludgeon called “Hyena” (available on eMusic with bonus tracks, yes!).

 

If there was a British Music Hall act from Hell it would be The Kipper Kids. Two stocky men who favored a cross between British lorry drivers and The Blue Meanies from “Yellow Submarine”, a performance from them would include: a boxing match between them clad only in jock straps – who would you root for, Harry Kipper or Harry Kipper?, a version of The Velvet Underground’s “Heroin” on ukulele, or an argument between them in a language only they knew. And of course, a lot of blood, animal entrails, food product and fluids all over each other, which is the sort of “Johnny B. Goode” or “New York, New York” of the performance art world. No performance artist could complete their show without making a mess all over themselves.

But performance art was more than just a spectator sport. When I lived at The Masque (1978) I once woke up to the sounds of metal being banged around, kind of like a garbage can fighting its way out of an alley. When I got up to see what the racket was all about I saw Z’ev auditioning on stage, which meant him hurling a gauntlet of metal cans, pots and scrap metal all tied together and creating a cacophonous metallic soundscape. I thought he was great, but I wanted to jam, so I busted out my saxophone and walked into the hall blowing some wicked atonal tenor saxophone. Z’ev looked shocked and probably a little pissed that I was playing along, but Brendan Mullen and company were entertained by my contributions.

 

Word got around The Canterbury (where I lived after the Masque) that Hermann Nitsch was doing his“Orgien Mysterien Theater” (trans: Theatre of Orgies and Mysteries) at The Otis Institute of Art and if you had a horn you were invited to play. My neighbors Don Bolles of The Germs and Pat Delaney of The Deadbeats were going but I couldn’t make it, and I was bummed. The day after the performance Pat had dried blood all over him, and he said I missed a great show. Naked men and women were tied to crucifixes behind hacked animal carcasses as Nitsch poured blood and cow entrails all over them while the horn players blew a wall of noise. I kicked myself all week for missing that one!

Another phenomenon that was fairly big at the time was tons and tons of loft parties in the warehouse district in Downtown LA where all you had to do was show up with your horn and blow. Sometimes with a band, sometimes just by yourself along to prepared tapes, it was important for the maximum effect of the loft party. Nobody played crummy rap records, it was all about the originality of the environment and even if youdidn’t know the host of the party you were welcome to play. Shit done changed after all these years. People need to loosen up!

At the risk of writing yet another whiny piece about how cool the scene used to be I just want to testify that there was a time when punk rock was more than just a lot of bands and party merchandise. It was a living, breathing wall of sound and vision, and I’ll always fondly remember those days of watching, listening, and even participating in the sonic outrage of the Seventies.

Give Booze A Chance

This is a promotional sticker for Suzi Quatro's album on Bell Records in 1974. That alone is funny because Bell Records was known for having wholesome, bubblegum acts on their label like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family. Once glitter rock hit America Bell Records cashed in on The Sweet, dropping them after one album, Gary Glitter, picking up Mud and Showaddywaddy for singles only, and Ms. Quatro.

You'd never believe it nowadays but there was a time when a girl pictured in a leather jacket and leather trousers was automatically dismissed as a "dyke" regardless of what her sexual persuasion was. Somehow her appereance dressed in something less than girly was threatening to the arena-rock sensibilties of some. When I looked around for the latest Suzi Quatro single at Tower Records on the Sunset Strip the artist file card said "Suzi 'Dyke' Quatro". Gee, I wonder why they went out of business. But Suzi had the last laugh; her first LA appearance at The Whiskey A Go-Go was sold out and she was awesome.

Here's a flyer from a memorable punk gig at The Masque featuring The Skulls. The late Marc Moreland used to have his clothes torn off him while he played wild, screaming psycho leads on his Gibson Flying V. Sometimes it got so bad all he had left on him was a pair of shredded boxer shorts and sneakers. Once even the shorts came off and he ended up draping himself in the US flag previously standing in the corner proudly. I got to sit in with The Skulls for awhile and it was a great experience.

It was also one of the very first shows played by my band, Arthur J. and The Gold Cups. We were a punk-rock big band that played skewered covers of all kinds, like The Soft Machine's "We Did It Again", which we played ten different times during our 30-minute set, pissing punks off in ways they thought they were too impervious to be irritated. Some of the other boys in the band included Geza X on guitar, Brendan Mullen on drums, Hector Penalosa from The Zeros on bass, and a host of others.

I remember reading the fine print on the Creem Magazine masthead where it said they aren't responsible for returning unsolicited contributions, which to me meant they didn't exactly refuse them, so I sent a few album reviews to Creem in 1972. It seemed pretty important at the time, because back then Creem Magazine was the best rock magazine around, reporting on bands like The Stooges and Roxy Music, which their larger counterparts Rolling Stone Magazine refused to acknowledge. Well, maybe my reviews weren't the greatest  ever written, but they couldn't be any worse than a lot of the in-joke nonsense they used to publish. At least I got this rejection letter from them that was sent on cheaply xeroxed stationery. What a bunch of skinflints. I guess they needed the money to buy dope for the next J. Geils Band arena concert. I wondered what kind of stationery they used at Circus Magazine.
(Click on image for enlargement)

Rebecca's friend Jane painted her house in San Francisco as a shrine to her favorite band The Beatles. She obviously loved every phase that these talented chaps from Liverpool went through, as you can see. First of all I just want to say that her parents are the hippest people on the planet for allowing her to paint this amazing tribute all over their home. What makes this piece so brilliant is that the band image placement is proportionate to every phase of their careers, so you have the early "Hard Day's Night" Beatles down by the basement (early period), the 1966 Al Brodax - King Features Syndicate cartoon show Beatles (complete with crocodile) towards the middle, and then the 1968 Yellow Submarine Beatles way up on top, complete with "Paul Is Dead" reference. Three of The Beates look healthy but obviously Paul's face is painted red because it's all bloody from that alleged car crash.

After awhile the house missed a few upgrades and even The Beatles started to look shabby, so the neighbors began leaving notes on their front door offering to paint over this shrine, even offering to supply the paint for free. And to think, I thought people from San Francisco loved great art. By the way, don't bother trying to find this place in SF because it's long gone, just like the boys themselves.

BTW, if this was my home I'd have a few quadrophonic speakers set up in front of the house blasting Beatles music all day, every phase of their careers from the Tony Sheridan - Cavern days to the Sgt. Pepper period to the Dead Paul Vs. Yoko Husband period (1970). I'd even throw in Ringo's "Sentimental Journey" album and the "Don't Worry Kyoko" masterpiece from Toronto. That would really give the neighbors something to talk about.