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!

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.

"A Salty Dog" - Procol Harum (1969)

It all happened one beautiful Sunday afternoon in Beverly Hills. I walked into the Burberry boutique to view their fiendishly fashionable Prorsum line, and the first thing that hit me was “The Wreck of The Hesperus” by Procol Harum booming over the Burberry speaker system. So sweepingly cinematic, it brilliantly complimented the dramatically beautiful and quintessentially British Burberry fashions in the boutique. Matthew Fisher’s airy vocal melodiously drifted through the room, making us all feel as if we were out to sea, singing the maritime lyrics of Keith Reid:

“We’ll hoist a hand, becalmed upon a troubled sea

“Make haste to your funeral”, cries the valkyrie

We’ll hoist a hand or drown amidst this stormy sea

“Here lies a coffin”, cries the cemetery, “You will surely see”…

Majestic English horns blew fanfares while Robin Trower’s guitar conjured an endless seascape as 1,000 strings laid a melodious pattern of sheer ardor. I almost forgot I was supposed to be looking at the new Burberry Prorsum line.

It’s been an eternity since music had the power to transcend its environment, but then again I haven’t owned “A Salty Dog” in years. Although I enjoyed “Shine On Brightly” I forgot how unique “A Salty Dog” was, one of the great albums that never really received the attention it deserved.

Procol Harum released their third album in 1969, an album so eccentric, a much too British maritime-themed album that it turned American listeners away. 1969 was a year for outrageous album covers, i.e. Blind Faith, Trout Mask Replica, and the great Blodwyn Pig cover that still disturbs people, etc. “A Salty Dog” featured a take-off on the Player’s Navy Cut cigarette box; rather than show a respectable English sailor a shaggy gob of indeterminate origin wearing a cap with the name “Herod” stitched on top. That got my five dollars in a flash. I thought it was cooler looking than some ugly naked girl holding a toy plane, really.

Most of the tracks on the album are dirges, the most notable one being the title track, the lyrics articulating feelings of hopelessness on a restless and poorly charted sea. While the keyboards and strings play staccato minor notes, Gary Brooker sings mournfully,

“Across the straits, around the horn: how far can sailors fly?

A twisted path, our tortured course, and no one left alive…”

“We sailed for parts unknown to man, where ships come home to die,

No lofty peak, nor fortress bold, could match our captain’s eye…”

Ironically, while many of the songs allude to distress and despair aboard the ocean blue, the lyrics also define the despair of drug addiction. “The Devil Came From Kansas” reflects these feelings:

“There’s a monkey riding on my back, he’s been there for some time,

He says he knows me very well but he’s no friend of mine…”

“For the turning and the signpost and the road which takes you down,

To that pool inside the forest in whose waters I shall drown…”

While Gary Brooker leads a monkish sounding choir chanting the chorus, Robin Trower’s blistering metal guitar screams over a tattoo of tribal drums, setting this anti-Wizard of Oz fable in a tail-spin with descriptions of “a dark cloud just above us” and “for the sins of those departed and the ones about to go”.

The lost-at-sea analogy as drug damaged casualty is also expressed in the blues dirge of “Crucifiction Lane” (dig the pun):

“Tell the helmsman veer to starboard, bring this ship around to port,

And if the sea was not so salty I could sink instead of walk,

In case of passing strangers who are standing where I fell,

Tell the truth: you never knew me, and in truth it’s just as well”.

In spite of the fact that the tempo to every song is slow like the languid waves of a calm sea (with the exception of “Kansas” and “Hesperus”) there is enough sonic seafaring to keep the record from sounding like one monotonous moan. I don’t know why I set this one to the side, but I’m glad it’s back on my deck. And to think, a trip to Burberry Beverly Hills made it all possible. I wonder what they’re playing tonight?

All lyrics (c) 1969, Keith Reid (Onward Music)

The Rolling Stone Groupie Issue

In 1969 Rolling Stone Magazine did a cover feature on a heretofore unreported phenomenon in the world of rock, the emergence of the groupie (one of the first mentions was in The Mothers of Invention’s “Motherly Love” in 1966). Here are a few scans from that issue for your entertainment. Sorry about the yellowed paper, Photoshop and I can only do so much.

Miss Mercy

I met Miss Mercy from The GTO’s in 1978 when we were both extras for the filming of The Ramones’ “Rock and Roll High School”. She had a baby by guitar whiz Shuggie Otis named “Lucky”, and Lucky’s governess at the time was Linda Jones, eventually Texacala Jones of Tex & The Horseheads fame. If you hang around long enough you get to meet everybody.

Pamela Miller (Des Barres)

Miss Pamela, the future Ms. Des Barres, a very nice lady and one of the few surviving members of The GTO’s (Girls Together Outrageously), also known as The Laurel Canyon Ballet Company. She had the best song on The GTO's album, "Permanent Damage" titled "Circular Circulation, or Do Me In Once And I'll Be Sad, Do Me In Twice And I'll Know Better".

Plastercasters of Chicago

Cynthia Plaster Caster still makes casts of rock star’s pudenda: The Muffs, Demolition Doll Rods, etc. To date she hasn’t done Justin Bieber, Thurston Moore or Henry Rollins so she has a lot of catching up to do.

Spider Eyes

The spider eye make-up was a big deal at the time, and it has been reported that Alice Cooper copped that look from the groupies that were lurking around the scene. Frankly I think it’s a great look, especially given how gruesome Alice looks without his makeup.

Trixie Merkin

I haven’t got the foggiest idea who she is, but if she rates a great Baron Wolman photo shoot then she has my blessing. Baron Wolman was Rolling Stone Magazine’s original photographer (along with Jim Marshall) and I still prefer his work to the Annie Liebowitz Seventies smarm photography that ruined the magazine.

Miss Christine

Legend has it that Russell Mael from Sparks stole her away from Todd Rundgren while he produced their album. In all fairness Christine really got around, may she rest in peace (she passed in 1972).

Miss Sandra

The late Miss Sandra. The “Miss” title preceding The GTOs member's names was invented by Tiny Tim, who christened every woman with a “Miss” title, and even referred to his wife at the time as “Miss Vicky”. God bless Tiny Tim, and God bless groupies everywhere.

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.

Rock & Roll Confidential, Part 3

Guitar Center (7425 W. Sunset Blvd.) - The last time I went to Guitar Center I saw a Japanese kid posing all slumped on an amp, playing Jimi Hendrix riffs letter perfectly on a Fender Strat, xerox riffs of "The Wind Cries Mary" and he was loud. VERY LOUD. There were twenty other guys doing almost the same thing, so the main room was almost as loud as a speedway in full tilt.

The only reason Guitar Center works for me is because it's a quick place to get guitar accessories, and they have a good selection of guitar stands, straps, strings, etc. Got a sweet Pignose amp there, plus my all-time favorite, the belt clip-on Marshall stack you plug your guitar into so you can jam dirty, distorted guitar in the kitchen, at the parking lot, in the crapper, portable boogie is all yours!

Don't waste your time and money on guitars or amplifiers here, they're overpriced at a ridiculous mark-up. Your better buy would be from an e-tailer like Music 123 (look it up, ya lazy) because they have a wider selection and sell at lower prices. You can get a cool Johnny Ramone Mosrite guitar for only $300, way cheaper than Guitar Center would ever charge.

Oh, and if you walk by Eddie Van Halen's handprints on the Rock & Roll Walk of Fame, do the right thing and spit on it. That turd took Kurt Cobain to task for having a black guitar player in Nirvana. He really ought to apologize to Pat Smear.


The Cinema Bar (3967 Sepulveda Blvd.) - Eve knew her apples. Adam knew his women (well, he only had one) and I know Culver City. Duller than dull, but here's tons of action at The Cinema Bar.

As everybody else has said the bartenders rule and last Friday my friend's band played, as opposed to the biker jug band fare they usually put on. The space was scary because the club is as small as a cat bed, add the bandstand, the bar and a few tables even! so racing off to the cool patio in the back was a good option.

The crowd was a mixture of aging chunky biker barfly, Ultramega OK metal heshers and confused creeps like me. There was a black tweaker with Afro pigtails trying to sell me crank and I said no. If he was taking what he was selling nobody wanted in. The brother was splayed.

I just wish they had the gigantor TV on with footage of the X Games with Travis Pastrana making with the freestyle MX jumps. It would have enhanced the hesher factor. But no matter. Culver City is redeemed by this cool saloon.

Carvin Amplifiers (7414 W. Sunset Blvd.) - Nice change of pace from the screaming in-your-face vibes of Guitar Center across the street. The Carvin store looks quite cave-like from the outside, craggy rock entrance and all. You step in and it's pitch black with little spotlights over the amplifiers on sale. It's like buying your gear at The Batcave.

The amplifiers sound sweet, better than Marshalls IMO, but they're damn pricey, but what the hell did you expect? You're buying your gear from The Batcave.

The Cat Club (8911 W. Sunset Blvd.) - "So, how's your love life?"
That's the greatest pick-up line I've ever heard. Not very clever, I know, but the girl that asked was wearing nothing but a baby diaper and cowgirl boots. That's the kind of memory you take to the grave. What does any of this have to do with The Cat Club? Absolutely nothing, but there's nothing terribly relevant about The Cat Club, either.

Saturday night: At the club we ordered drinks at a jaw-dropping $10 apiece. I didn't know a bottle of Bud was worth ten dollars. My Scotch and Soda was so watered down you could have poured it into Lake Arrowhead and the fish would have felt cheated. The bartenders were hard of hearing and surly because they were up past their bedtime. God, they were so old they probably pissed sawdust.

The band Goo Goo Deville acted like Eighties glam metal was still rocking like gangbusters. The singer was so ugly he looked like he fell off Ugly Mountain and didn't miss a boulder. He flipped the dirty bird at the audience every 30 seconds. What a repertoire. Look out, Tony Bennett.

While they were chugging into their most excellent power ballad my girl tried to use the ladies room, a sliding metal door with one toilet inside, but there was a line. Just to speed things up she banged on the door to wake the dead (or at least the geriatric bar staff, hyuk!) and two metal strumpets marched out with sheepish looks on their faces. They'll have to engage in their Free Clinic Frolics somewhere else.

A lot of the kids loved the band and had a great time, I must confess, sloppy butt dames shoulder shakin' and tossin' their hair like a Pat Benatar video. I drained my $6 water, ahem I mean cocktail and headed for the exit. Halfway out the door someone yelled, "ANDY FUCKEN SEVEN", and I thought I've been here for an hour plus and now somebody feels like yelling my name. WTF?

But that's The Cat Club for you. Everything about it's a day late and a dollar short.


Musician's Institute (6752 Hollywood Blvd.) - I don't know why, but there's a twisted symbolism in Musician's Institute being next door to the Church of Scientology...hmm, robotic lifestyles, robotic music, it all fits.

I don't know how these suckers cram for finals..."Dude, I got graded on a curve playing 'Crazy Train', I barely squeaked by"...do they realize the people that created these songs never took a class in music? It's weird seeing these kids from Sweden with their expensive, non-scuffed guitar cases studiously racing to class.

Musician's Institute started out as G.I.T. (Guitar Institute of Technology), then expanded to P.I.T. (Percussion Institute of Tech), and then B.I.T. (BASS! Institute of Tech), and then K.I.T. blahblahblah same S.H.I.T. different Hollywood money-making scam.

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.

Rock & Roll Confidential, Part 1

Rainbow Bar & Grill (9015 W. Sunset Blvd) = Ah, the Rainbow Bar & Grill…the decline of rock civilization unfolding before your eyes…mp3 killed the video star, but I digress…
The “legendary” pizza everyone raves about will take about an hour plus before you even get to see it on your table. And it’s not all that, really. If you want to eat right away, I would suggest (believe it or not) the Greek salad which is surprisingly goods, seasoned well and absolutely delicious.
Celebrities spotted at the Rainbow: Lemmy of Motorhead who probably gets his mail delivered there, the Osbourne Family (pre-TV show fame), Kevin Dubrow of Quiet Riot RIP, and a heavy-metal Cecil B. DeMille cast of thousands.

Hollywood Bowl (2301 N. Highland Avenue) = Everyone has to hit the Bowl at least once in their lives. Last time I visited the Bowl was for the Motley Crue/Aerosmith show. First thing we did was park at Hollywood & Highland and hit the Bowl shuttle on Orange Drive. I was the only guy on the shuttle besides the surly bus driver; every metal tramp, stripper and strumpet was riding the hooker shuttle, whoo! Cheap blondes in buckskin bikinis were craning their necks scoping me out while my girl was laser-beaming stink eye at them. Let the rock ‘n roll begin, and begin it did. Since my girl made clothes for Mick mars (Motley Crue) we got in through the VIP entrance behind the Bowl. The reason I mention it is because it was fun watching Leif Garrett try to talk hi way in for free after the guest list staff didn’t see his famous name on the list (“Dude, don’t you remember me from Behind The Music?”)
As we walked in I noticed Slash walking by us, his bodyguards were three steps behind him and running to keep up. Some bodyguards. I hope he puts a stop payment on their pay checks.
We got a great box in the orchestra pit (seats four). The sound was decent (ah, the review begins), visibility is good no matter where you’re seated with lots of video screens in case you’re not a squinter. Motley Crue were great; wish they did “Too Fast For Love” and “Afraid”, but they did “Dr. Feelgood” so I went home happy.
As soon as Motley Crue were done and Aerosmith opened with “Toys In The Attic” (my favorite R.E.M. song) it was our cue to leave. If I want to hear Aerosmith there’s always KLOS and trailer parks.
The bimbo shuttle wasn’t happening so we walked down Highland, everyone incredulous we would bail on Steven Tyler’s mega-lips, even the rent-a-cops schitting a brick (“how could you?”)
The most outraged of all was MTV has-been Jesse Camp and his entourage walking up as we were walking down the road. “Dude are they done already?”
No, but we were. Who wants to hear the same old song and dance?

Whiskey A Go-Go (8901 W. Sunset Blvd) = The Wiggy A Goo-Goo, those were the days, and they were funny ha-ha days, too.
You’d be on stage rockin’ and shakin’ yr. ass and there’d be video monitors all over the place and while you’re singin’ up there you’re staring at yourself performing and it’s a lot like boppin’ in front of the bedroom mirror when you’re a kid only a lot of poor people paid to get in so your ego is magnified times 100 and once two girls fought over me at the bar upstairs and I ended up going home alone because it wasn’t really about me after all, was it?
The Whiskey is a funny place because The Doors played there and now a tribute band called Wild Child plays there and once Van Halen played there and now a tribute band called Atomic Punks play there and I played there a lot and how soon will my tribute band be playing there?

The Coach & Horses (7617 W. Sunset Blvd) = I was in a very-Bad-MOOD before I went to the Coach & Horses because my former band sent me a pseudo-litigious e-mail about some mySpace crap I had no involvement in. By the end of the night at the C&H I was grinning like a little chimp flinging Number 2’s at the zoo.
The door man (Paul? Too drunk to remember) was the nicest I’ve met in years. The bar is dark as hell with a jukebox that made my jaw drop. As soon as I heard “Hold Tight” by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich I knew I was home.
The drinks were stiffer than Walt Disney’s corpse: My first 2 scotch & sodas were rabbit punches but the third was the haymaker. I almost lit my nose instead of the cigarette I jammed into my gob. The bartenders here rule like a wrench. Dammit, I was so larried up I could have sung a Johnny Mathis aria at Miceli’s.
The night ended with a cab ride home from a cabbie named Hamlet, I schitt you not. Coach and Horses is chill to kill.

The Roxy Theatre (9009 W. Sunset Blvd) = When I played The Roxy Theatre the sound was very crisp and clean on stage, great monitors finally I could hear my Lizabeth Scott On White Crosses Croon and screeching saxophone over the din of feedback guitars, kick-ass monster mix, etc.
The sound man was Don Henley-style cocky and rude but the end result was brilliant, angel’s flight to the ears cheers mate, but buy yourself some manners, Don Henley clone.
The lighting guy was excellent. Never met him before in my life but he knew all the dramatic moments I our songs instinctively and lit us at all the right moments to chilling effect.
The dressing rooms are pretty small but big enough to make out in. I road tested that option myself.
If everything about the Roxy seems small it’s because the club got its start as a dilapidated striptease club bought by Lou Adler, John Phillips and some silent partners. The first show they put on there after they gussied it up was an unknown rock musical from England called “The Rocky Horror Show”. Not a bad start, eh?
In short, the Roxy isn’t the greatest club to see a show at but it’s one of the best for performing in. You will love it.

Frankie & Johnnie’s New York Pizza (8947 W. Sunset Blvd) = If the Rainbow is for rock royalty (haha) then this joint is for the dispossessed rockers, the street skanks and the merely curious. They’ve got beer and wine, if you want it harder (hey girls) go to Turner’s and flask it, baby. F&J’s isn’t like the ‘Bow but at least you get your pizza in less than an hour. And individual slices thin and thick crust can be had in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Yes, the pizza’s just OK but I like it.
The Italian sandwiches are big and happy and affordable. Their dessert selection’s not bad, either. Apple cheesecake and tiramisu are some of the specialties there. I love the Sunset Strip.

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.

The Jesus And Mary Chain Will Drive You Insane!

Just like thousands of music fans I couldn’t play “Psychocandy” by the Jesus and Mary Chain often enough. The way pop melodies would be offset by continuously howling feedback guitars and a bottomless pit of reverb on the vocals was an irresistible exotic music nightmare. They were compared to the Velvet Underground quite a bit but they never seemed clumsy like the Velvets did.

I caught them at The Roxy Theatre shortly after, and it was quite possibly the worst show I’ve ever been to. Following a painfully awful set from Frightwig (who opened with “Delta Dawn”, so much for alternative music), the boys finally got up and dosed us with their psycho candy. And it tasted like dog shit.

The guitar had the tinniest tone with more reverb on it than I’ve ever heard on a guitar, so it sounded thinner than tin. The bass was inaudible, so all we were left listening to was bad ghosty guitar and the stand-up drumming from Bobby Gillespie (who shortly quit the band to sing for Primal Scream).

Lousy sonics aside, the band was so loaded they played “In My Hole” a second time…two songs later. By the time they played it a third time, two songs later, they were getting booed big time by a sold-out crowd. Their set only lasted thirty minutes, shorter than their album. It reminded me of the Woody Allen joke where he said, “Oh! The chicken they serve is so awful…and in such small portions.”

So after getting burned by these junkie dicks I wrote JAMC off as the greatest joke in music. For awhile they were, too, putting out pedestrian junk like “Sidewalking” (Ouch, sorry for the pun) and those boring duets with the girl from Mazzy Star who seemed to have been beaten with the untalented stick.

It all turned around when I was on tour in South Carolina, setting up my gear and the PA was playing intermission music when on comes “Blues From A Gun”, explosive drums kicking the room around and the most lethal guitar (no longer reverb diarrhea), and I thought, “Nothing I play tonight will sound as powerful as this. Shit!” As soon as I heard the whispery cool kat vocals I knew it was the fucking Jesus and Mary Chain, rising from the dead like it’s Easter. You couldn’t write them off, the bastards.

Other manic recordings soon followed, like the amazing “I Hate Rock ‘N Roll”, with the lines, “I love the BBC, I love the way they’re shittin’ on me, I love MTV, I love the way they’re pissin’ on me”. And of course the vocals are all lovely melody with more growling guitar than the last sonic skull fuck they recorded. The coda at the end is the greatest of all time, with the prettiest melody sung, “Rock and roll hates me, I hate me, I hate me, I hate rock ‘n roll hates me”. Genius.

Their final hour was the sequel titled (of course) “I Love Rock ‘N Roll”, with it’s reptilian slide guitars and All-American horn section, sounding so crassly commercial and yet so powerful like the best rock music. Needless to say the song infuriated their purist fans to the point of dementia.

A true sampling of their ability to split music fans straight down the middle can be found on the message board of any YouTube video that shows their videos. Here are a few comments:

“The COOLEST band ever!”

“They’re boring and pathetic now. Psychocandy 1985 was the only good thing they ever did”.

“I loved this band for 23 years and I am not giving up on them. They are hot!”

“Oasis and the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club are MUCH better than the JAMC”.

“Still wild after all these years!”

To offend your fans 25 years after your first album is a major accomplishment. It’s also a true testimony to their ability to be the most controversial band of all time. For that reason The Jesus and Mary Chain have outpaced their peers like The Psychedelic Furs, Bauhaus and The Birthday Party in terms of sheer outrage. The zombie keeps rockin’ and bullets to the brain cannot stop them.