The Fish Eye

When I was young I remember when fish eyes lens album covers were a big deal. Generally meant to depict the effect of a distorted, drug-induced hallucination, the fish eye lens was developed in the early 20th century but didn't become available on the marketplace until the early Sixties.

The popular fish eye lens is the circular lens, best explained by Wikipedia:

The first types of fisheye lenses to be developed were "circular fisheye" — lenses which took in a 180° hemisphere and projected this as a circle within the film frame. Some circular fisheyes were available in orthographic projection models for scientific applications. These have a 180° vertical angle of view, and the horizontal and diagonal angle of view are also 180°. Most circular fisheye lenses cover a smaller image circle than rectilinear lenses, so the corners of the frame will be completely dark.

By the mid to late Sixties it was de rigeur for every popular band to have a cool fish eye lens photograph of themselves. Several bands released iconographic album covers employing this exciting new look.

Three album covers which immediately come to mind are Are You Experienced? by the Jimi Hendrix Experience (shot by Karl Ferris), Safe As Milk by Capt. Beefheart & His Magic band (shot by Guy Webster), and Mr. Tambourine Man by The Byrds (shot by Barry Feinstein). These particular shots expand on what would have been considered average stock rock photos.

The fish eye camera lens craze enjoyed its heyday in the Sixties and its use in the decades to follow slowly dropped into obscurity. I think we're due for a revival any day now....

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Speaking of a revival I've been listening to the Edgar Broughton band a lot lately. Talk about your overlooked geniuses, they were so far ahead of their time they couldn't even catch a break in their own home country.

The band's first album Wasa Wasa inaugurated their sound in 1969. While it recalls classic stoner rock like Black Sabbath, it sounds more like what would be considered The Birthday Party's signature sound over 10 years later. Case example: Love In The Rain, shown here on Beat Club.

Although the Broughton Band was more song-oriented compared to, say, the more freeform Deviants, the lyric content from Broughton was far more outrageous. One of the more extreme examples is “Psychopath”, the recalling of the rape/murder of a young teenage girl. The track unsettled rock fans with the way the crime is recounted with more than a trace of humor. This twisted sense of humor earned the band more than their fair share of enemies and made the band fairly reviled in a scene that accepted just about everyone. The Edgar Broughton Band stepped over the line and fans were not amused.

Nor did they endear themselves to the vegetarian hippie corps by posting a photo of a line of slaughtered cattle in an abattoir on the cover of their second album. They were pushing buttons far ahead of the punk rock bands of 1977, but nobody was ready for it yet.

While the band weren’t about to unseat Donovan in the peace and love sweepstakes, they still managed to be as eclectic as possible. One of the earliest bands to cover a Captain Beefheart song, they merged Dropout Boogie with Jorgen Ingemann’s instrumental hit Apache.

But if you want to hear the proper precursor to The Birthday Party, I recommend tracks like Evil (“Evil, evil, black as night…”), Crying and Love In The Rain, where the trio play distorted acid rock with swinging jazz time signatures. And for those of you who like ballads, you may never hear a ballad more gorgeous about suicide than Hotel Room.

On the other end of the spectrum is Elysian Fields, a band led by New York couple Jennifer Charles (vocals) and Oren Bloedow (guitar and piano). Their sound is very slow, moody and torch song influenced. For the past twenty years they have produced a line of albums that sound like Julie London transmitting messages from the dark side of the moon.

Bearing an uncanny resemblance to Sixties-era Jane Birkin, Charles sings in a low whisper while the band, a revolving group which included members of Jeff Buckley’s backing group play behind her. Bloedow and Charles write haunting melodies that are both erotic and romantic, Songs for Really Modern Lovers.

Some of their more haunting torch songs include The Moment, When, and Climbing Up My Dark Hair. If you go for more of a rock sound, they do rock out in a Romeo Void-kind of way with songs like Timing Is Everything, Jack In The Box, and Bend Your Mind. You owe it to yourself to discover this great band. You won’t be sorry.

The Queen Is Dead/The Bitch Is Dead

Last week Chrissy Amphlett of The Divinyls passed on from breast cancer and multiple sclerosis at the age of 53. Chrissy embodied Australian punk rock at its best and was even a bit of a rock fashion innovator, rockin' the insane schoolgirl look eons before Babes In Toyland and Hole took credit for that style (see video below).

Amphlett sang in a tough girlish voice that spearheaded the band's razor sharp sound perfectly, with great tunes like "Boys In Town" and a wild cover of The Easybeats' "I'll Make You Happy". The band invested in a physical and sonic makeover with their big New Wave hit "I Touch Myself". It was rumored that Amphlett was offered a chance to have her teeth re-done but declined, proud of her working class grillwork.

After the band scored their big hit Amphlett and her then boyfriend, guitarist Marc McEntee moved to Los Angeles, particularly the Pico-La Cienega district, amusing in that it's well-known for being a very staid middle class Jewish neighborhood where nothing ever really happens. I remember when choreographer Toni Basil lived around there in the late Seventies.

The Divinyls were always a pretty entertaining band but any view of Amphlett in action was lightning in a bottle, a pure distillation of everything that made punk rock red hot. Memories of her serve as an undying punk rock inspiration.

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"The bitch is dead". The last word uttered by James Bond at the end of Casino Royale, and a fitting way of describing the passing of the obnoxious Alvin Lee of Ten Years After. His legendary arrogance and rudeness places him in a pantheon of peerless assholism headed by pricks like Ray Davies, Jeffrey Lee Pierce and Gene Simmons, to name a few.

Lee died on March 6th with his notoriety somewhat linked to that awful boogie warhorse "Goin' Home" from the Woodstock festival. This number alone not only dumbed down his music forever but hard rock in general. To hear this execrable boogie garbage you'd never think that one point Lee and his band produced three amazing albums in the late Sixties - Stonehenge, Ssshh, and Cricklewood Green. All three albums showed a band that effortlessly melded rock, blues and jazz without breaking a sweat.

Lee wore his roots on his sleeve, singing and playing sounding so closely to Mose Allison it was hard to tell whether it ws homage or blatant rip-off. At any rate many people were turned on to Allison thanks to Lee's serious Allison influences. His speed-freak style guitar playing which was reviled by critics at the time owed quite a bit to Les Paul's more jazzy workouts. I knew a few jazz guitarists that disliked rock & roll but listened to Alvin Lee for his refined approach.

Unfortunately Lee had a massive ego and his reputation as a creep was widespread, even prompting a few jabs from Iggy Pop himself in his autobiography "I Need More", stating that Ten Years After and Lee in particular were absolute dicks to The Stooges backstage at the Boston Tea Party. An interview with Lee in 1969 for Zygote Magazine started out with the interviewer literally walking in backstage and catching Lee staring lovingly at himself in the mirror.

The lowest point in Ten Years After's history, however, was their protest song, "I'd Love To Change The World", where Lee condemns "dykes and fairies, tell me where is sanity". Somewhere in Lee's universe he didn't envision sanity leaving average assholes like him who need to verbally and physically beat homosexuals for simply having different sexual preferences. Every time I hear this awful song I feel like a knife going through me.

There's something sad about a musician who has a rich sonic palate to work with and abuses it by watering it down to trotting out old Fifties oldies and lame boogie workouts, but he finally took it to the grave with him, where they, his homophobia and ultimately he belong.

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Documentaries on bubblegum pop stars have run the gamut from absorbing (Who Is Harry Nilsson?) to not so (Paul Williams Still Alive) but outside of "Karen Carpenter: Superstar" there hasn't been one as depressing as "Family Band: The Cowsills Story". The film documents one of the most poorly managed successful bands in the history of pop music, made the more bizarre because the band was managed by their father.

The Cowsills started out as an average set of brothers hitting it as a garage band taken over by their bullying father Bud who came upon the concept of bringing in their mother and little sister (Susan), turning them into a wholesome rock & roll attraction. The focus and spokesperson of the band suddenly became Barbara (Mom), much to the horror of the Cowsill boys.

Although Barbara Cowsill was the so-called face of the band she was equally intimidated by her alcoholic and abusive husband, whose only choice in protecting Susan, her molested daughter was by sending her to an aunt's home or keeping her on the road. Bud's managerial skills were so aggressive and amateurish, says Bill Cowsill, that the band was originally scheduled for five spots on The Ed Sullivan Show but were dropped after only two.

The band were also bullied by MGM Records who refused to release their cover of "Hair", a battle the band actually won by challenging a local radio station to play "Guess Who?" on the air, the outcome being if anybody couldn't guess it was The Cowsills it would have to be played regularly. They won, and the record became a million seller. Unfortunately MGM hated their video for the song, a goofy piss-take with the band wearing silly hippie wigs.

Celebrity guests in the film include guitarist Waddy Wachtel and Tommy James (of the Shondells) who all attest to the terror dished out by Rock & Roll Dad Bud, with James even adding that whenever Bud's temper hit threat level red "I let the guys hang out in my office upstairs until the coast was clear". What a nightmare!

The film hurts not just by showing the band's artistic and financial bankruptcy but the aftermath of their lives following their fall as pop stars: Richard Cowsill's serious heroin addiction brought on by his tour of duty in Vietnam, Barry Cowsill's death during Hurricane Katrina and the eerie event of Bill Cowsill's death the day after.

Narrated by Bob Cowsill, the film concludes with the band still embracing their love for performing and finally getting a chance to play the kind of music their insane father and their obnoxious record company forbade them to play. It may not be the most brilliant shit ever played but at least they've finally found the freedom they've been denied for most of their lives. I know I'll never hear "The Rain The Park and Other Things" the same way again.

The Brotherhood of The Horn

It was 1972 and I had $185 left in my Bar Mitzvah fund. I was taking flute lessons at Siegel’s Music and on the way out of the store after a lesson it stood in the shop window staring me down: a Conn Mark IV Tenor Saxophone, silver plated and so small for a tenor it was mistaken for a C-Melody saxophone. It was from the 1920’s and in pretty good condition. It had a naked girl with long, sexy platinum hair and a killer pair of titties etched into the bell of the horn. I ignored her beckoning towards me for the next two weeks.

I tried to forget about her lying in my bedroom listening to Captain Beefheart, Blodwyn Pig, the Bonzo Dog Band, and The Mothers of Invention, all showcasing demented psych-jazz saxophone playing. I finally said, “fuck it”, went to Crocker Bank, closed my account and walked one block down to Siegel’s Music and bought my horn. But it wasn’t just a horn, it was buying a new life, newer than I ever imagined.

My flute teacher Jerry Myers was thrilled to hear I got the horn. “Now you’re going to be playing the real stuff, Andrew”, he said as he began drawing up saxophone exercises for me to practice. One of the first things I did was play my sax alongside Jimi Hendrix records hoping to replicate distorted guitar sounds. I also remember playing along to T. Rex records, wearing out my copy of “Electric Warrior” playing lead sax to “Jeepster” and “Rip Off”.

As soon as people found out I could play saxophone invitations were extended for jam sessions; after all, who needs yet another guitar player or singer? People always need a sax player. Within weeks I was skronking and skreeking at downtown loft parties, all the booze you can drink, Yes! I played New Year’s Eve with my brother Marc Anthony Thompson backing up some wild rock band at The Blind Pig. Have horn will party :).

Beyond the loft party sax tramp shenanigans Jerry Myers taught me about the whole old school jazz fetishisms, as in watching him rehearsing with a big band at The Musician’s Union on Vine Street. Big bands generally suck but once you’re sitting in front of a wall of saxophones, trumpets and trombones, the sheer power of these winds will blast your ass into the stratosphere. Even a hoary (whore-y?) old chestnut like “Signed Sealed, Delivered” sounds strong enough to make you see the Saints.


Across the street from the Union building was M.K. Stein, which sold every type of brass and wind instruments, cases and horns and instructional books, etc. The walls were jammed with yellowing framed photos of jazz recording stars whom played up the street at The Vine Street Grill, Shelley’s Manne Hole, The Hollywood Palladium (home of big band leader Guy Lombardo) and the CBS radio station on Sunset & Gower. I bought a leather saxophone gig bag at M.K. Stein after I found a $100 bill in my back yard – I lived next door to a massage parlor and when I took out the trash on a rainy night I saw a bill on the ground, grabbed it and ran up the stairs.

The best sax repair man in Hollywood was right around the corner, a guy named Mac who had a big speed boat in his driveway which you walked past to get to a little garage in the back. Inside the garage were hundreds of horns in various states of disrepair with pads and keys being replaced or overhauled. Jazz music was always blaring out of a tinny cassette player and “Mac” in his skipper cap would calmly tell you your horn would be ready in a few days. And it would sound better than you ever imagined it could sound once you picked it up.

The wild thing about this sonic education is that one ear was listening to glitter rock and the other one was discovering jazz. In between the Sweet, Roxy Music and Queen shows I’d go to Shelley’s Manne Hole to see Charles Mingus and Gato Barbieri and Donte’s in the Valley to see Stan Getz and Art Pepper.

My time to groove in the Big Band Mode came when Jerry taught a big band class at Los Angeles City College (which has an awesome music curriculum, by the way). “Pick your horn, Andrew, don’t be shy”. I wasn’t. I picked up a baritone saxophone, huge and heavy, so large I had to place it on a stand, lest I dislocate my neck.

We played another Stevie Wonder classic, “For Once In My Life”, and the vibrations shaking from the resonating horn boomed across the room. I was bringing down the bottom, electricity flowing through me, from my cerebellum through the reeds, down the curved horn and out of the bell of the horn.

The next week I walked to The Donut Show at Toluca Mart on Pico & Robertson and the crazy bastard Morey Branovan with this thick sunglasses and Hawaiian leis around his neck braying “Hatikvah” on his alto sax like some hebe Roland Kirk echoing down the intersection providing Jewish nightmare music. I picked up some chocolate buttermilk donuts realizing I could play better than this untalented dinosaur.

Walking down Pico Boulevard I started picking up jazz 78’s from the Hadassah Thrift Shop. My favorite was “I Cried For You” by Dinah Washington with that wild, swinging Ben Webster tenor solo. You could also buy 78’s in great condition at Music Man Murray in the red light district of East Hollywood, records like vintage Charlie Christian sides complete with the album cover (opening up like a photo album). I’d alternate playing my scratchy 78’s with “Nothing Is” by Sun Ra, “Volunteered Slavery” by Roland Kirk and “Science Fiction” by Ornette Coleman. Music would never be the same again and my life would never be the same again.

Rock & Roll Confidential, Part 4

The Troubadour (9081 Santa Monica Blvd.) = What better band to play The Troubadour on Santa Monica Blvd. than Turbonegro , the Norwegian Tom of Finland tribute band playing songs like "Rock Against Ass", "I Got Erection", "Rendezvous With Anus", and the sublime "Sell Your Body".
I thought the bartenders were pretty friendly for such a big club, so I always tip them well. Unfortunately later (15 mins) I have to pee out my cocktail and find out the men's room is as small as a cat bed. Noooo!
So then you walk around the club, walk, walk, walk, and then you realize that the sound and visibility in the club varies from corner to corner, so keep rambling because there is no "sweet spot" there. Just keep rambling around.
I finally let it go in the alley, but the great thing about a Turbonegro show at a WeHo club like the Troub is location, location, location.

El Rey Theatre (5515 Wilshire Blvd.) = Standing proud in the sleepiest part of Miracle Mile where no one ever sleeps is The El Rey Theatre. The El Rey is a nice concert hall because it's smaller than the Hollywood Palladium but bigger than your average nightclub.
When I think of The El Rey two stories come to mind: seeing Morphine on their last tour before Mark Sandman passed away, his sleepy, grumpy slide bass guitar rumbling and shaking the old theatre silly and Dana Colley's baritone saxophone bitch slapping my ear drums around...and making me love it. It was bodacious, it was foxy, it was Morphinous.
The second time was when I modeled for the Retail Slut fashion show - my prop was a gigantic magnum of champagne which I spat across the room while dressed in Melrose goth sloth finery. The LA Weekly gave me a special item in their gossip column, "The Low Life", and I quote:
"The models worked that runway with attitude to spare: one swaggering male mannequin took a swig of bubbly and lobbed a big spurt that splashed our poor photog". I don't know if Janice Dickinson would approve, but she's been a bad girl lately, too.

Amoeba Music (6400 W. Sunset Blvd.) = There's a scene in every children's film where the lil' urchins are about to be banished to an evil factory to toil for the rest of their lives and it's cold and gray and unfriendly. Well, I think I've been there. It's called Amoeba Music.
Your tot will surely get the chills when you take them there, for they won't see heart-warming Oompa Loompas but guys with pockmarks, zits, dandruff and other hygienic violations sullenly elbowing you out of the way for that valuable copy of "Radiohead Live In Poland". Out of my way, I'm looking for entertainment!
The true collector (usually a guy whose high standards in girls makes him celibate until he's 43 years old) flips through the records at lightning speed as you can be impressed by this one (1) dexterous skill they possess.
After waling in with a laundry list of 10 records and maybe finding one you kinda-sorta want, you get in line, the one that winds towards the back of the store. You feel like little Olaf Nilsson at Ellis Island come to the big country to become American like Mr. Thomas Jefferson. Scheiss!
You spend the next 20 minutes staring at every tattooed arm and leg in line, and then it's your turn, i.e. the cashier's waving their arms frantically at you and looking pissed because you can't see them from 5 miles away. Ka-ching! Finally you escape the cattle call and feel like a million bucks because just like in the movies you escaped the evil factory for wayward children.

Anaheim Convention Center (800 W. Katella Ave.) = Weel, shit, I finally made it to the NAMM (aka North American Music Manufacturers) show at the beautiful Anaheim Convention Center. What did I see there? Well...
THE USEFUL:
-Parking was very easy if you show up early. If you show up late don't despair, there's only 500 hotels all over the area with gigantic parking lots. Your ass is covered.
-The staff and even the security guys were very friendly and helpful. I was waiting to get "Punk'd", it was too copacetic for comfort.
-The phone signal inside the Convention Center was very low. My wife and I tried sending texts to each other across the hall and didn't get them until ten minutes after we sent them. This is pretty frustrating if you're lost in a big clusterfuck like the NAMM show.
THE FUNNY:
-I was in the world's biggest Guitar Center. All I could hear was either bad metal guitar or geriatric blues-dude guitar (think "Ghost World" bar scene). Every old creep thought he was Stevie Ray Vaughn. Well, he's dead, just like Buddy Hackett.
-Ten years after quitting the music biz and sound men are still the most arrogant assholes on the planet. They all walked around with a big Peavey-sized cabinet up their ass.
-Celebrities galore graced the NAMM show: Paul Stanley, Mick Mars, my wife said, "What the fuck am I doing here? I might as well be back at work". (She makes clothes for metal bands).
THE COOL:
-Every instrument was represented there, they even had see-through ocarinas (WTF?). Is there a more lesbian instrument than a see-through ocarina?
-I'm not a big violin lover but the electric violins were insane, some of them were shaped like jet fighters and some were cast in cubist Picasso-styled shapes. Wild!
-The best guitar maker was Johnson Guitars, showcasing axes shaped like shotguns, AK-47's, Gumby, King Tut hieroglyphics, you name it, these crackers were off the hook!
-There were multicolored saxophones, multicolored music stands, it was every bit a feast for the eyes as it was to the ears.
I finally made it to the NAMM show, and I had fun. I hope I never go back there again!

Capitol Records Tower (1750 Vine Street) = If there's a sight prettier than the Leaning Tower of Pisa it's a building shaped like a stack of records on a spindle. I always thought the Capitol Records Tower was the coolest sight in Hollywood, but what a tore-up structure.
A musician I played with worked there and said the building hasn't seen much change since it was built, and I suppose that includes asbestos issues (yikes), structural funk and other antique building problems.
I was inside twice. Once, when they had their record collector swap meets in the parking lot (a long time ago), and : twice, when I attended a recording engineer training course and we had a class in the enormous recording studio in the Capitol Records basement. They told me Nat King Cole pinched a loaf down there. I was in the presence of greatness.
Check out the gigantor wall mural of Miles Davis, Tito Puente and Billie Holiday. Ironic how Ringo Starr and Brian Wilson aren't on the mural and they brought more money to those bastards at Capitol than the artists chosen.

God Damn It's NAMM