A Heartful Of Napalm

Out Of Traction, Back In Action....

2012-03-30T19:44:00.000-07:00

I'm rather fond of that photo up there. That's Yerz Truly in 1995, onstage with The Hormones at The Green Onion in San Antonio, TX. Over my shoulder: My trusty Les Paul Jr. that I wish I'd never lost to the pawn shop in 1999. To my right: Ron Williams, my musical soul mate, with whom I wish I was still making music. In this photo, we are busily christening the stage at The Green Onion, the Sons Of Hercules' club, the first band to take it.

There was a time when this was a regular occurrence in my life. I lived to make music. I haven't been able to in a long time. And that is now changing.

Two years ago, after interviewing Iggy And The Stooges guitarist James Williamson for Guitar World magazine, I was able to purchase the first guitar I've owned since I lost all my gear to the economic collapse in 2008. Last weekend, I finally finished paying off the first amp I've owned since then.

I have the bare bones now: A guitar, an amp, and a tuner. I can return to what I do best.

Quietly, over the past year, I've met musicians I feel would make a fine new lineup of The Hormones here in Denver. Once I can hash out a rehearsal schedule that can synch with everyone's lives, we'll get to work. I've also joined Dave Mansfield's new band The Roxy Suicide, strictly as their guitarist. So, for the first time in my musical life, I'll be pulling double duty.

This moment means a lot to me. I've honestly felt lost, not being able to make music for so long. And if you look at the last decade, I've been kept off the stage and out of the studio for most of it, due to personal circumstances. I've now got an overload of songs to bring to life, and to bring to the public.

So, yeah. Part of the pledge I made earlier this year - 1) Return to music with a new Hormones lineup; and 2) finally finish and publish my novel - is coming to pass. Now I have to tend to the other part of that pledge.

Meantime, I'm talking to a label or two. You should be seeing Hormones music, new and old, before the year is out. Meantime, I've set up a Hormones page at Facebook, under construction as I try to piece the band's history together. Please feel free to add it to keep apprised of news as we kick this corpse back to life. You should also add The Roxy Suicide's Facebook page, to keep abreast of that band's movements.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have songs to write. Thanks for reading this.

To Hype A Good Buddy's New Radio Venture....

2012-03-07T13:23:00.000-08:00

Rev. Norb demonstrates his amazing shadow puppet prowess.

My Irregulars! I interrupt my unemployment to bring you excellent news for all who mourn the death of "RADIO NAPALM!" Punk Boss Radio LIVES! Rejoice! And it's all due to my longest-lived friend in the entire punk community! The man New Bomb Turk Eric Davidson expertly proclaimed was the other side of a coin I had no idea I was part of! A man who proclaimed in a nationally-published Boris The Sprinkler tour diary that I was possibly more manic than he and needed to lay off the Dr. Pepper! A man who made it into both The Encyclopedia Of Punk and herr Davidson's We Never Learn, even if I didn't! We ("we," of course, meaning "I") are referring to the one and only REV. NORB!

Not Rev. Norb, but an incredible simulation!

*ahem!* Anyway...Norbie has begun a new weekly podcast series at the almighty GaragePunk Hideout called "Bubblegum Fuzz." As should be indicated by the title, the one-hour, downloadable show is hairline-deep in the sorta garage/punk/power-pop gunk that's been the righteous Rev's cup-o-meat as long as I've known him. (No, don't ask either of us how long that's been! We choose not to remind ourselves and each other of our geezerhood....) I mean, dig the playlists! Von Zippers? Dwarves? Little Killers? Monkees? Paul Revere And The Raiders? The Ruts? The A-Bones? Slickee Boys? Plastic Bertrand? Len Price 3? How can ya go wrong?

All this and Norbie's patented graphic touch, too? How can you go wrong?

Factor in Norb's patented motormouth baritone backtrack sections (that voice was MEANT for radio!), and you have one hell of an entertaining listen! Seriously: "Bubblegum Fuzz" is very much irritating my jones to return to radio! (WHICH WILL NOT HAPPEN! At least, not this year.) So, whaddaya waitin' for?! Traipse over to Norb's GaragePunk Hideout blog and commence to clicking and downloading! It's the most fun you can have with your clothes on in 2012! Over and out....

A James Williamson guitar lesson!

2012-03-06T10:06:00.000-08:00

No, James! the guitar goes the other way! (pic: DeeDee Keel)

Oh, you kids don't know how good you have it! In my day, I had to stand over a turntable (that thing we used to listen to music on - yeah, kinda the iPod of our time! Pay attention!) and play Raw Power at half-speed, guitar in hand, to try and figure out the savage six-string stranglin's James Williamson was emanating. But thanks to a School Of Rock in Michigan (home state of Iggy And The Stooges, obviously), you can now learn directly from the master himself how to properly bash out "Search And Destroy!" (And I emphasize "properly": Turns out there have been certain nuances I've gotten wrong this whole time....) So, whaddaya waitin' for? Grab your Les Paul, set the amp controls to "stun," and watch Straight James give you the straight dope on "Search And Destroy!"

And in more fun news, happy birthday to Gene Vincent!

2012-02-11T16:05:00.000-08:00

I fully realize I've already posted all over my Facebook wall about today being the birthday of the one Fifties rock 'n' roll pioneer who was likely the degenerate thug rock's detractors claimed all rock 'n' roll musicians were in the day. (Dammit, I really need to think twice about FB posting material that might be better for a blog.) But Eugene Vincent Craddock deserves celebration. He was primal, lusty, lowdown, and could still sing like an angel when needed. Elvis Presley's drummer, DJ Fontana (who was a Blue Cap for six months when Presley was drafted into the Army), verified that Gene and his Blue Caps were the pre-Keith Moon definition of rock 'n' roll hellraising on the road, to the point where he had to quit the band! And Gene's music? It had more thump, sex, swagger, and menace than anyone this side of Elvis. Case in point? Click below....

"Be Bop A Lula," the record that started it all. It confused Gladys Presley to the point she called her boy Elvis on the road to congratulate him on his new hit, "Be Bop A Lula!" What you just saw is Gene and the Blue Caps' immortal performance of it in the best Fifties rock 'n' roll film bar none, Frank Tashlin's The Girl Can't Help It, also featuring Eddie Cochran, Little Richard, Fats Domino, and Jayne Mansfield's million watt sexuality. Does it get any better?

Unlike Elvis and many other contemporaries, Gene suffered a leg injury in the service which prevented him from indulging the hip-thrusting gyrations other early rockers employed. Once he got to England, UK rock impresario Jack Goode draped him in black leather and chains and urged him to limp even more pronouncedly, turning him into some Shakespearean villain of rock. It drove the English and Europeans wild. Dig Gene in Belgium in the early '60s, predicting punk rock with a crazed performance of "Long Tall Sally," complete with a crutch-hurling entrance that's just pure rock 'n' roll attitude!

I only just discovered today, however, that Gene made contemporary, small label records during his '60s commercial twilight that were as vital and rocking as any he cut in the Capitol Records Tower in his heyday. Such as this garage punk (!) screamer, "Bird-Doggin'," featuring Gene backed by The Wrecking Crew getting low-down and dirty. Glen Campbell, of all people, even turns in some crazed, fuzz-drenched lead guitar!

I was even hipped to Gene having done some credible Byrds-influenced folk rock in this period, none of which is embarrassing. Think about that: Under the radar, Gene Vincent was still contemporary and vital. The only other peers of his doing strong, modern work at that time were the Everly Brothers and Dion. Elvis was losing his touch in Hollywood, wondering what the hell had happened. And Gene just rocked on....

Happy birthday, Gene. You really were the Living End....

Okay, it's ALMOST a corn dog pic....

2012-02-11T15:32:00.000-08:00

...and given how he's currently the most vehemently anti-gay presidential candidate running at the moment, I'm sure none of us would be surprised if photos surface with something more fleshy entering Rick Santorum's gob than this ice cream cone. And the clown cars continue unloading these over-sized goofs....

Okay, so it isn't a corndog pic....

2012-02-06T10:37:00.000-08:00

...but the idea of these assholes being shipwrecked is kinda appealing, isn't it?

I know this was already posted at my Facebook wall, but isn't this as good an opportunity as any to note I have a new "Letter From America" post at Louder Than War? Follow the bouncing links for the latest sarcasm about American politics, as well as some praise for The Jim Jones Revue and OFF! See you there!

Year-End Inventory III: Books I Dug

2012-01-22T16:19:00.000-08:00

Alice Bag greets you from the cover of Slash, May 1978.

Greetings, my Irregulars, from Your Irregular-In-Chief. It's a chilly, sunny Sunday afternoon in Denver. I'm in my friend's apartment, X live bootlegs on the hi-fi, a glass of cool, fresh water at my hand. My leg is healing nice-like, the advent of an ACE bandage doing wonders in my recovery and mobility. The leg's still tender and I have to be careful with it. But the pain's more like a dull ache now, rather than the skull-piercing shredding of my nerve endings it has been, which has made me a prisoner of a bed or couch for a few weeks now. That feels like a massive improvement. So, back to work for real, tomorrow.

I come to you today realizing I'd promised a reading wrap-up for last year. I do have to say that, due to funds, etc., that 2011 was not a year I either purchased or read much that was new. For the most part, I caught up on oldies I'd yet to read from either other pals' collections (such as Charlie Solus' vast James Ellroy archives) or things I found in thrift stores or used book stores for cheap. In the case of Ellroy, I had to marvel at his crisp, clean language, the brutal honesty, the ability to use real life events as a literary springboard, and his amazing ability to capture marginal life in mid-century Los Angeles (as well as pulling back the rocks and exposing the worms and snakes crawling beneath the city's showbiz surface). What strikes me as Ellroy's peak, American Tabloid, goes well-beyond the L.A. city limits to encompass the whole of America in the '60s, which is a rather daunting task. Still, he accomplishes that with ease, and the rest of his oeuvre definitely places him as the latest in a long line of great poets of Los Angeles' underside: Raymond Chandler, Charles Bukowski, even John Doe and Exene Cervenka. Bless him for that.

Then there are my other newfound discoveries: Alex Cox's X Films: True Confessions Of A Radical Filmmaker (Soft Skull Press, Berkeley, CA, 2008), which not only offers frequently hilarious behind-the-scenes accounts of the making of Repo Man, Sid And Nancy, and various other Cox films that aren't as well-known, but also serves as a primer in how to be an independent artist in an increasingly corporate world, with all the joy, rewards, and ugliness therein; Mark Evanier's Kirby: King Of Comics (Abrams, New York, NY, 2008), a huge, lavish, hardbound celebration of the man who was arguably the greatest comic book artist ever, Jack Kirby; Billy F. Gibbons' Rock & Roll Gearhead (with Tom Vickers, 2008; softcover edition from Voyageur Press, Minneapolis, MN, 2011), loads of hilarious philosophy and autobiography around the edges of beautiful photographs of the vast twin guitar and custom car archives of the ZZ Top guitarist – eye candy deluxe(!); and John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy Of Dunces (Grove Press, New York, NY, 1980), possibly the funniest novel I've ever read, and certainly the best I've read set in New Orleans or in the early '60s. How this has never been made into an equally epic and hilarious film is beyond me; Jack Black would certainly make a great Ignatius J. Reilly....

Of the few new titles that jumped into my shopping bag last year, my favorite was Alice Bag's Violence Girl (381 pages, $17.95 softcover, Feral House, Port Townshend, WA 2011, feralhouse.com). Subtitled East L.A. Rage To Hollywood Stage: A Chicana Punk Story, this should clue you in to what's great about it: It's not just another punk book. True, Alice Bag is as iconic figure as Darby Crash or anyone from that Masque scene. She was of that original generation of fierce punk rock women (Patti Smith, Penelope Houston, Joan Jett, Exene, The Slits, Poly Styrene) who made questions of gender irrelevant and inspired with their brilliance, their ferocity, and their righteousness. But there's a lot more to this book.

Like I said, this isn't merely an L.A. punk history. This is Alice Bag's story. So we get taken back to that environment which spawned Alice: From her parents' origins in Mexico to the Los Angeles barrios where she was raised. We see that Alice was given an odd mixture of love and abuse, mostly due to her father. He would tell young Alicia she was exceptional, that she could do anything, and nurtured her artistry...then lash out in drunken rage at her mother in the next breath. She was equally shaped by weight issues and her own ethnicity, until a mix of the Chicano and glam rock movements in the early '70s helped her burst whatever shell was there and gave her pride and determination. Then came punk and the formation of The Bags. And Alice Bag emerged a sexy, rampaging, intelligent force.

L.A. critic Ken Tucker tries to turn the town onto The Bags...and then undersells their 45?!

Fortunately for her, despite some inclinations in that direction, Alice only dipped into the debauchery and self-destruction inherent in punk rock Los Angeles. Moving back into her parents' home midway through might have helped, giving her some literal and philosophical distance from the damage that was developing among her peers. And even after The Bags' imminent death, Alice kept creating, either musically or in other areas, and eventually graduated college and became a school teacher. As a teacher, she remained an activist, centering on educating and encouraging the underprivileged, even spending time teaching in Nicaragua in the mid-'80s. She continued following and acting on her principles and beliefs, and has benefited for that.

Amazing, what can be done with some photo booth strips and a Bic pen....

Like the Alex Cox book I mentioned earlier, Violence Girl should serve as an inspiration to the young artist and rebel: For once, the heroine doesn't self-destruct. Alice Bag stayed on the course, rose above, and keeps doing what she set out to do. Punk rock doesn't have to kill. Nor does environment. Yes, there are happy endings in punk rock – and life – sometimes....

Putting the "limp" in Olympics

2012-01-16T16:37:00.000-08:00

Greetings, my Irregulars. I know it seems I've pulled another of my frequent disappearances. For good reason, this time around.

I've been forced by circumstances to lay a little low. Over two weeks ago, as I was walking to work at the temp service I'd been toiling at since I was suspended at my fund-raising job in late October, I slipped on some black ice and injured my right leg somehow. Not sure how, as I'm one of the mass of Americans with no health insurance. So no, I haven't seen a doctor.

Hence, since I had to move out of where I'd been living two days later, I've spent the last two weeks at first at one friend's house, then another, where I've finally settled 'til I've found a new place. I've no internet service there, and my cellphone is off for non-payment. I've essentially been isolated, in a lot of pain, my injured leg elevated and on ice, playing lots of guitar and writing a new song or two, and watching loads of cool and weird films provided by my buddy Tom. We're talking Russ Meyer homages, '60s Italian westerns, James Bond parodies, even the occasional rock documentary. (Thanks all that great eye candy, Tom. Your gift is a true sanity saver. BTW, Dear Reader: You should really check out his Denver Eye blog, at this link.)

Am I any better? Not sure. I'm just trying to get back into the world, on my way back to work at my old fund-raising job, as funds are low. I've been checking in daily, the last few days, at a coffee house along the bus route, to take advantage of the free wi-fi. But yes, I've found myself limping home and spending hours on ice to bring the swelling back down. I think I'm getting better. But this sure isn't healing as quickly as I'd like.

I know I promised to write about books and other eye candy I dug this past year. That'll have to wait for the next installment – an update was necessary this time around. Meantime, enjoy your non-crippled legs. I certainly look forward to the day I'm not channeling my late, arthritic grandpappy. (I mean, shitfire! How am I supposed to execute those flying scissorkicks when I'm hobbling around like this?! Although the introduction of the ACE bandage to my life has been quite revolutionary, I must say.) Be there. Aloha.

Year-End Inventory II: The Music

2012-01-02T12:45:00.000-08:00

"Personally, I like the Bern Elliot and The Fenmen reissue!"

This is always the time of year your fave-rave cultural journalists love to compile Top Ten Lists of the stuff they got sent for free that they feel was important. I never enjoyed doing those lists - how egotistical can you get, making such grand pronouncements? Fact is, taste is individual, the brain is an imperfect memory bank, and something's gonna get left out that'll offend someone or other. Then again, most of my actions offend someone or other, it seems. So, what the eff...?

So, despite having retired from the rock critic fray in 1998 and only occasionally writing about music for pay in the years since, I know there's scores of people out there who still look at me as being a (*gulp*) "rock journalist." Not that they likely care what my opinions are on anything....

Still, for some odd reason, I can't resist doing a recap for the past year in culture. Guess I crave punishment, for some weird crime I'm unaware of....

Record Of The Year 2011: This had to have been the oddest musical year in my memory. I don't know about your memory. But I think we have official evidence of the destruction of the music business by the Oughts' technological revolution now being complete. I no longer have any accurate compass on new music, new bands, etc., etc. Now that music has been fully democratized and placed in the hands of The People by technology, it's harder to find the cream on the surface for the flood of people starting bands and releasing every note they play on MP3, etc. And my tastes are no longer in synch with Da Yoof, so I don't really know or get what people with a lot of facial hair like.

Yeah, I guess I'm officially old.

I do know that what filtered through to me last year were a number of strong releases from veteran bands, some of which I wrote about in this blog (Gang Of Four, Michael Monroe), some of which I didn't (Motorhead, UK Subs). But two records (yes, I still call 'em that, whether the source is digital or not) stand out in my mind from this past year: The New York Dolls' Dancing In High Heels Backwards (which I wrote about here) and one I didn't write about and should have, The First Four EPs by OFF!

That Dolls record, like everything the reformed New York Dolls have done, has been rather controversial. Some people are just never going to get over the absence of Johnny Thunders, Jerry Nolan, and Arthur Kane. And many expressed to me that Dancing.... sounded less like the Dolls to them than the previous pair of studio albums by the reunion lineup. That actually might be one of the strengths of Dancing....: It broke from the sound of the last two albums, and even broke from Dolls tradition with its strange, almost avant garde production. Less reliant on raunchy guitars and more on atmosphere and songs, this also may have hewed closer to the Dolls' classic spirit than anything they'd done since their heyday. Why? Because it's almost surely the Dolls' tribute to their girl group roots, right down to the faithful cover of Patti LaBelle and The Bluebells' "I Sold My Heart To The Junkman." It's a solid album through-and-through, and one of the two new discs I reached for the most this past year.

OFF!'s Steven McDonald (l) and Keith Morris (r) sandwiching yours' truly, Denver, CO., Oct., 2011 (pic: Adams Pinkston)

The other release, by OFF!, is both a throwback and a shockingly vital, brand new blast. Fronted by punk rock force-of-nature Keith Morris (do I have to tell you he was in Circle Jerks and Black Flag?!) and featuring members of Redd Kross (Steven McDonald), Burning Brides (Dimitri Coats), and Rocket From The Crypt (Mario Rubalcaba), this is hardcore punk as it was originally intended: A solid blast of intensity. This isn't about speed or politics (except in the most personal, real-life terms possible). This is about raw power, anger, and sheer release. Keith's performance, on this record and live, is especially potent. He's unleashing something, and you can't help but pay attention to this unfiltered torrent of emotion and spleen. This band could be a one-band revolution all in themselves. Bless 'em.

Coming soon: My picks in books, movies, etc. Enjoy!

Year-end inventory

2011-12-31T10:19:00.000-08:00

No, I don't share the sentiments of the above photograph, humorous as it may be. Believe it or not.

Yes, today, the last day of 2011, finds me low on cash, moving out and into temporary digs on the couch circuit again, and hobbling around from what I guess is a torn calf muscle after slipping on some black ice two mornings ago. (I don't know for sure - I'm yet another of the millions of Americans who can't afford health insurance.)

Yes, this is the year I had to leave Los Angeles (hmmm...where have I heard that before?), and discovered after arriving in Denver that my so-called relationship was a sham.

Yes, a few days ago, I did announce at the "RADIO NAPALM" Facebook group that I finally decided the show was over, that I no longer had the time nor energy to produce it, and that I had tendered my resignation to Woody Radio.

I could list endless negatives for 2011. In fact, the last few years have not been great ones.

But, I actually think this was a better year than most.

Denver has turned out to be one of the best places I've lived. My health has certainly improved since leaving the poisoned Los Angeles air. I also find this place friendlier and more affordable than any place where I've lived in awhile.

I latched onto a job that has paid me and treated me better than any I've held in ages. (Yes, I was suspended briefly, and forced to work low-paying temp jobs to keep money coming in, however scant the pay was. But I return to the real job on Monday.)

I gained the focus, perspective, and inner peace to realize that I needed to strip my life down and concentrate this next year on two goals: 1) Returning to music with a new Hormones lineup; and 2) finally finishing and publishing my novel.

Hence, you won't see a lot of rock journalism in the next year from me. Radio is out of the question, too. Not sure how often I'll blog.

But I like the idea of working hard the next couple of months, finishing getting the musical equipment I need, and beginning the assembly of a new Hormones in maybe February or March.

I like the idea of finding a small place of my own around that same time.

I like the idea of the novel being done, and beginning a new literary life to parallel my musical one.

Those are the two things I do best: Write and rock. I don't enjoy working as a rock journalist, and haven't for years. Yes, I'm good at it. That doesn't mean it doesn't wreak havoc on me and my psyche.

Yes, I'm good at radio. I don't like how it takes over my life, and sucks away energy I could spend earning a living and playing rock 'n' roll.

No, 2011 was a good year. At least, it was on a personal level. I learned many a valuable lesson, and didn't have to pay too dearly for the education. I can see things are actually on an upward trajectory.

So, onward! All of you readers: Live. Love. Create. Don't get ground down by life's cruelties. The only way we change this world is by changing our personal worlds, and living as if the change has already happened.

See you in the New Year.

Real Life Record Reviews: Michael Monroe and Suzi Quatro

2011-11-18T23:23:00.001-08:00

MICHAEL MONROE – Sensory Overdrive (Spinefarm/Universal)

As someone who championed and worked within the genre for a long time, I've got to admit: I've veered quite far from the whole glam-punk thing for some time now. Admittedly, I still always have time for the two bands who created the music to begin with, being the New York Dolls and Iggy And The Stooges, of course. But it should be fairly obvious those bands were the last gasp of Sixties garage rock, given a coat of lipstick for 1970s consumption. However, when it comes to things I still love that followed in those bands' wake – Hanoi Rocks, D Generation, Backyard Babies, The Wildhearts, etc. - I haven't listened in a long time. My tastes have just gone towards rawer, bluesier, garage-ier sounds in recent times, for whatever reason.

Then something comes tripping over the transom like former Hanoi Rocks singer Michael Monroe's latest, Sensory Overdrive, and it can't be denied. After spending most of the last decade trying to give Hanoi Rocks another run with guitarist Andy McCoy and a cast of ringers, Monroe has opted to lay his most famous band to rest again and resume his solo career. For that task, he's assembled an all-star cast: Former Hanoi Rocks Mk. I bassist Sami Yaffa, guitarist Steve Conte (Yaffa's colleague in the reunited New York Dolls up until the past year), Wildhearts mainman Ginger on guitar (since replaced by Backyard Babies/Hellacopters firebrand Dregen), and one-time Danzig drummer Karl Rockfist. It's as potent and powerful an outfit as Monroe has enjoyed fronting since Demolition 23, the back to-punk-rock-basics band he and Yaffa used to destroy NYC stages in the early '90s.

And the album this band has cooked up? A granite-hard riff machine thickly coated in syrup and Pop Rocks. If, as Monroe proudly proclaims on the 2^nd track, “You can't take '78 out of the boy,” then Monroe's version of 1978 owes more to The Boys or Generation X than to Sham 69. In a better world, this is what radio would sound like: Like a new, angry Cheap Trick record, shiny and loud and crunchy.

Truth be told, I suspect this has to do with Ginger's presence. This music has all the hallmarks of a Wildhearts record: Big, tough riffs owing as much to '80s metal as to '70s punk, bubblegum hooks the size of skyscrapers, brutal guitar tones mixed into a hypergloss production sheen. It could be The Wildhearts with Monroe's trademark vocals on top, in fact. So it'll be interesting to hear how the follow-up will sound with Dregen now filling Ginger's shoes.

Ginger or not, be damned, though. The fact is, it's not like this is exactly a watershed year for great rock 'n' roll records. Sensory Overdrive is an exception. It's been in steady rotation at Napalm HQ since its European release earlier this year (it only got the US nod in August, if I'm not mistaken), so the review is overdue. But I like it. You should, too.

SUZI QUATRO - “Strict Machine” (track from new LP, In The Spotlight)

Haven't had a chance to hear the complete LP from Detroit's favorite daughter Suzi Quatro, who taught Joan Jett everything she knows the same as Johnny Thunders taught me. But judging by this Goldfrapp cover given the video treatment by ex-Runaway Vicki Blue, Suzi may be onto something. Sexy and slinky as hell, with a burbling, distorted electro-bass groove, this is a highly effective update of the classic Quatro sound heard on '70s UK hits like “Can The Can” (actually quoted here). I seem to recall ZZ Top giving their own sound a similar sharp electro update in the '80s to great success. This is certainly the best usage of such production on a rock 'n' roll record since those ZZ Top records. Perhaps this can similarly propel Ms. Quatro into full comeback mode. All I know is, this rocks....

Wow! You mean I have a blog?

2011-11-10T15:33:00.001-08:00

Coulda fooled me, as often as I've been posting lately. I can see it's been over a month, and that was to hip y'all to my new status as Louder Than War's American correspondent. (Yet another writerly duty I've neglected - sorry, John!)

Honestly, my hands have been way too full to blog/write/create as much as I'd like. I've been working hard for awhile, lately at an exceedingly blue collar temporary job, to keep a cash flow going and keep the rent and bills on time and to not be dependent on anyone, as I've unfortunately been for the last three years. Also, to accumulate the gear I need to get back to playing music and to start up my next Hormones lineup.

This means time has been at a premium, and I can't be as multi-media as I'd like. Much as I joke that anything Henry Rollins can do, I can do? I now see that I can't. My limitations are that Henry is lucky enough to be paid good money to be a media pundit/voice over artist/sometime actor, so he can afford to publish one book per year and do a radio show, etc., etc. I've never seen such success in my own endeavors. American minds might see that as me being a failure, or not being as talented. This isn't the case. It's just the way it is.

I'm not complaining. Just seeing things for what they are. It means I have to concentrate on keeping employed and keeping a cash flow going, modest as it may be. Then I'm able to do all the artistic stuff as I have time and energy in between.

But there is much to write about. I still have albums released this year by Motorhead, UK Subs, and Michael Monroe to write about, as well as recent memoirs from Alice Bag and Carl Barat. And then there's always the world situation, as always. And whatever else fits in as I sip my two cups of coffee to face my day, of course.

Speaking of which, Cup Number Two is just about drained. Thanks for indulging me. Be seeing you.

Check out my new blog at Louder Than War!

2011-10-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

I've just begun a new assignment for my UK colleague John Robb's Louder Than War website, as its American correspondent. I will periodically post a blog there called "Letter From America," where I'll be writing about US musical, political, and cultural matters from my peculiar perspective. I began with some thoughts about Occupy Wall Street, and the response less than eight hours later is already great! Check out the first post by clicking here. Please let me know what you think, and please help get the word out. Thank you.

Happy birthday, Jerry Lee Lewis! But since you guys don't look at my blog unless I post GOP corndog pics....

2011-09-29T21:22:00.000-07:00

Of COURSE, it's really Rick Perry eating a corndog on the campaign trail in front of a reproduction of a certain Michelangelo painting! NO, it's not what we're all thinking it is! That's it, Republican assholes! Keep giving me hilariously smutty pics to post! It's the only thing that seems to drag in readers by the truckload, as they seem to prefer dick jokes to rock 'n' roll.... *rolls eyes* (Thanks, Donna Dougherty, for sending this one my way.)

Meantime, now that I have your attention, it was 76 years ago today that the earth split open in Ferriday, Louisiana, and spit forth Jerry Lee Lewis. Yes, I honestly believe the Killer is that much a force of nature: The very wild-eyed, elemental spirit of rock 'n' roll itself made flesh, here to lead your children into a life of sin and whiskey. You can see it right here in his first network TV appearance, promoting his breakthrough hit, "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On," on The Steve Allen Show in 1957. And adult America thought that greasy hillbilly named Presley was bad enough, fucking his guitar and mic stand on TV....

Now fast-forward from a savage young Jerry Lee to a few years' older Jerry Lee. His career has been ruined by the UK press discovering he's married to his 13-year-old cousin. And now he's back on English TV, at a time that The Beatles and The Rolling Stones are selling music he helped pioneer back to American children. And he's out for blood. England doesn't know what demon's been unleashed in their midst. Same fuckin' song, too....

And this, my friends, is what they call rock 'n' roll. Accept no substitutes. Happy birthday, Jerry Lee Lewis. Long may you rage.

Timbo's TeeVee Party, 1st Edition

2011-09-29T10:35:00.000-07:00

Greetings, Irregulars! I've certainly been feeling irregular this week. Really in a funk more lowdown than a James Brown outtake. Can't figure out why, unless it's just triggered by the allergy attack that's been attacking me this week, as well. But, suffice to say that this week, I can't be satisfied (to get quite Muddy Waters about it). And I can't seem to shake it, despite life being better than I can remember it being in about 3 or 4 years: A job that's working out nicely, my first apartment in Denver (and hopefully, my last), a new laptop, new musical prospects on the horizon, and "RADIO NAPALM" about to be removed from the mothballs. Now if only I could get laid....

*ahem* Moving on from that bit of TMI....

Maybe a little TV watching is in order? First up are two clips I already posted at my Facebook wall. Why not begin with The Avengers? One of my favorite West Coast bands of the late '70s, I've often said these guys and The Weirdos were the cream of the California crop, punk rock-wise. Solid songs, great image and sound, and a really charismatic front-person in Penelope Houston. Here, we catch The Avengers at L.A. punk rock ground zero The Masque, days before they opened for the Sex Pistols' last stand at SF's Winterland, ripping the room apart with their classic "We Are The Ones":

Next, we have that *ahem* master thespian, William Shatner. He's been working on an LP of space-themed heavy metal hits (including, reportedly, Hawkwind's "Silver Machine," with Wayne Kramer on guitar; yes, the sound you just heard was Lemmy's moles falling off his face and running for the hills). And now I shall present a work-in-progress clip of Capt. Kirk attempting Black Sabbath's "Iron Man," made even funnier by the fact that we don't hear the instrumental track being pumped into Bill's headphones!

And just to recover, here's part one of 7 of a documentary easily findable on YouTube on one of my favorite characters from UK punk's classic era, John Cooper Clarke. Looking for all the world like a praying mantis in Bob Dylan's 1966 wardrobe, he was a poet who opened shows for the likes of the Sex Pistols and Buzzcocks, ranting his hilarious and witty verse at a Ramones tempo. At the time of this Channel 4 documentary, "Ten Years In An Open Neck Shirt," Clarke was enjoying some forward momentum with a "ranting poetry" scene he'd clearly inspired, touring rock clubs with skinhead bards who'd clearly heard him like Attila The Stockbroker, as well as with fellow traveller/dub poet Lynton Kwesi Johnston. Start with this, and work your way through all 7 parts at YouTube. It's a fun look at life on the road, and Clarke's poetry is always amusing!

And before I go, I must thank two longtime fixtures of my blog roll for their recent props paid. First to my old pal and colleague Chris Stigliano, both for writing some kind words about A HEARTFUL OF NAPALM and including it in his own blogroll at his fine BLOG TO COMM, an internet continuation of his longtime underground rantzine Black To Comm (where some of my earliest writings were published). Then, not least at all, to Jim Marshall and his always amazing THE HOUND BLOG, where all manner of rock's past glories get re-aired and appreciated. It's good to know scribes I respect are tuning in, and even directing some traffic my way. Bless you both, and thank you.

I must be off. Thanks for tuning in.

So, does this mean the Lord is soft? Or hard?

2011-09-23T04:38:00.000-07:00

Found on the Facebook wall of Billy Bonito, formerly Hopeless and singer of The Black Halos, now leading The Bonitos. Much obliged, pal.

At long last: The tale of the Loudly Masturbating Neighbor!

2011-09-22T10:07:00.000-07:00

Not an actual photo of the Loudly Masturbating Neighbor, but an artist's depiction.

It all began the day I arrived in Denver, back in mid-March of this year. Charlie had picked me up from the bus station about a quarter to seven in the AM. After a hearty breakfast at the Denver Diner on Colfax ("Mike Ness apparently likes to have a grilled cheese here when Social Distortion is in town...."), we obviously ended up at Charlie's - me, my filthy and travel-racked body, and my three suitcases. As we rounded Charlie's building's staircase and headed to his apartment, he paused at the door next to his, turned, and whispered conspiratorially as he pointed at the door: "Really loud masturbator." I, of course, had to laugh like a 14-year-old jackass, stifling it so as not to wake his neighbors.

Later, after doing some errands, Charlie and I were passing this guy's door. The neighbor stood before it, smoking and looking much like the comic book shop guy from The Simpsons, minus the ponytail and plus small wire-rimmed glasses. "Great weekend to fucked-up, eh guys?" he chortled.

Great. Not only is he a really loud masturbator, he's an overgrown frat boy. Swell.

The next morning, as I stumbled into the bathroom for the morning whizz, I got 120 dBs of what Charlie was joking about: Chucklehead's shower going across the wall, and some serious solo porno moaning. "Oooohhhh!...Oooohhh!...OOOOHHHHHH! GODDAMMIT! FUCK!"

It happened like clockwork, every AM. Sometimes, Charlie's hot blonde neighbor on the other side would be getting it from some piece of bar trash she'd picked up the night before. So it was like she was filling in the gaps in the Loudly Masturbating Neighbor's presentation. And we were getting it in stereo. Now if only the Loudly Masturbating Neighbor could hook up with this chick, and then he'd have a reason to moan.

Eventually, it got to be so comical, I had to start tweeting about this guy's exploits, quite naturally. I didn't expect it to be such a hit, though. This guy started getting an international following, due to my own internet presence. Facebook friends would write, wanting photos of the guy, telling me they "missed the jack-off guy." Some guy in the UK told me his band wrote a song about him. (I ended up deleting that guy - he turned out to be as big an overgrown frat dude as the LMN.) His new fan club thrilled as I reported my discovery that the only music he seemed to own was Rush and '70s white jumpsuit Elvis Presley. And yes, he'd pump the hydrant and porno moan as he listened to "Fly By Night," at top volume on a Friday night.

After about a month, I was coming home from work one night. There he stood at the top of the steps, the LMN, smoking as he did the day I first showed up. "Oh, hey!" he blurted, drunkenly. "We haven't met! I'm Todd!" We shook hands. Thankfully, his wasn't sticky, rashy, or growing hair in the palm.

I told Charlie that Todd had introduced himself. Charlie looked at me, slack-jawed. "We've been neighbors for years, and he's never once introduced himself to me! He must like you!"

That scared me.

As the weather warmed, I'd leave Charlie's front door open as I tapped away at his computer, seeking much-needed ventilation as I either wrote or searched out a job. The LMN would take to drunkenly stumbling in, uninvited. Every time, the conversation was the same: "Oh, hey! We haven't met yet! I'm Todd!" "Yes, Todd. We met a few weeks ago. Could you please not ash on the carpet, dude?"

As the weeks unfolded, it came to pass that masturbating wasn't all the LMN did loudly. He watched sports loudly. He talked on his cellphone loudly. He ate loudly. (Yes, I could hear that, too.) This was just one loud wrecking machine of a guy.

Eventually, the LMN dropped in, informed me he was moving out. "I'm getting a better place than this dump! By the way, we haven't met yet! I'm Todd!"

And hence, he was gone. A week later, I moved out of Charlie's apartment and into my current digs in Westminster. The neighbors here don't masturbate loudly. In fact, I don't know what these people do. I kinda like that....

REPOST: Something I rarely talk about....

2011-09-11T11:41:00.000-07:00

TIM SEZ: Repost from my old MySpace blog from three years back. Ike fizzled before he got to Austin, obviously. In the time since I posted this, my friend's death score was settled in the springtime, with Bin Laden's capture and execution. (And no, I don't buy any conspiracy theories on this subject. Nor do I buy conspiracy theories, period. Please save it all for your next Alex Jones fan club meeting, thank you.) Yet there are still troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. And why...?

I repost this every year, so we don't forget, so some semblance of truth remains out there...and for my late friend Johnny you will read about here. He is a real hero. I miss him every day.

Something I rarely talk about
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Life
It looks pretty certain the day after my birthday, I'm riding out a hurricane. Odd, for the Austin area. Where I grew up, it was more common: I'd been through three by the time I was a teenager, the last one having been Allen back in 1980 (I think it was). Not a big deal, really. By the time Ike hits here, he's gonna be a lotta wind and rain, really.

But, come on, Ike: Could your timing be any worse?

It's kinda par for the course, right now. Something about this decade and my birthday has meant disaster for me. There was the girlfriend who decided to break up with me the week of my birthday, just because that would sting the most, I'm sure. Then, there was the birthday on which Johnny Cash had the misfortune of dying. That really sucked.

But I think the coldest was the group of middle eastern gentlemen who thought it would be really cool to fly a couple of airplanes into the World Trade Center the day before my birthday in 2001.

I slept through it. I was homeless at the time and staying with a friend on 7th and Ave. B, probably three or four miles from the Twin Towers. She was out of town, and I was house-sitting, soon to move in with my friend Sami Yaffa and his girl Karmen. I was working at the time as a professional dog walker, and I got up at 11 AM. It was supposed to be just another day: I was thinking about coffee, looking over the schedule, wondering who the first dog of the day would be, etc., etc. I turned on Howard Stern's show, as was my wont back then (until he said something completely insulting about John Lee Hooker on the day Hook died, and I swore I'd never listen to the tasteless bastard again). And judging by the hysteria I was hearing, it was the end of the world.

I called my boss to find out what was going on. That was when I found out the towers had been hit.

From there, people were calling in left and right, canceling walks; most of our customer base worked in the financial district, so they were now gonna be home. I was getting all kinds of bits and pieces from there: The doorman at the building on Irving Place where a few of my dogs lived reported looking up and seeing the first jet flying so close to the ground, he could see its' markings. My friend Mark who lived two blocks away calling me up and telling me he was on the phone, talking to his mother, looking out his panoramic view of the southern end of Manhattan...and seeing that same jet fly right past his building, shaking him and the whole building. And getting a front row seat at watching it crash straight into Tower Number One.

These calls were going on for three hours. I couldn't sit down to eat. Finally, about 2 PM, I was able to leave the apartment and walk down to Ave. A, in search of breakfast. Every joint in the neighborhood was crammed to the rafters, it seemed. There were hand-written signs in the windows, advising that the Red Cross needed blood, go to this hospital or that one, go to Bellvue, go someplace, we need blood. The air smelled awful, like burning tires or hair, but worse. It would be that way for months. And can you imagine what it does to a mind, knowing that what you're breathing might be friends of yours'?

I finally squeezed into Sidewalk Cafe, ran into friends I knew from the local rock circuit. The waitresses and bartenders looked like they were gonna have coronaries. My waitress confided in me that they were severely understaffed, especially with the crush they were experiencing, and people due to work that day who lived out in Brooklyn or wherever were calling in because the subways were now shut down and they couldn't make it in. She looked like she was about to cry. Seconds later, some jerk at the table next to me started cursing her out about how long it was taking for him to get his eggs. I slammed my fist on his table and shocked him: "DUDE, DO YOU GET IT? CAN YOU LOOK AROUND YOU? DO YOU SEE HOW OVERWORKED THESE PEOPLE ARE RIGHT NOW? CAN YOU TURN AROUND AND SEE THE COLUMN OF SMOKE WHERE THE WORLD TRADE CENTER USED TO BE? CAN YOU FOR ONCE IN YOUR GAWDFERSAKEN EXISTENCE STOP THINKING ABOUT YOURSELF AND TRY TO PUT YOURSELF IN THE SHOES OF THE PEOPLE WORKING HERE AND THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU?"

"What are you getting mad at me for?" he whined. "It's not my fault they don't have enough people working. I'm hungry." I just stared at him.

I decided to wander a bit after eating and having coffee. People were then walking up from around the disaster site, walking because the subways were shut down, and no cabs can be found. They were covered in soot, looking like some ancient Jack Kirby panel out of a '60s Marvel comic. I ran into Jesse Malin, on his way to buy a protein bar and a newspaper. We started talking about The Strokes' debut album, which had just been released a few days before. (Or maybe that was only in the UK? Well, copies were obviously getting around on import.) And I remember at the time thinking, "Why are we talking about The Strokes in the middle of this?!"

My cellphone rang. It was my mother. She'd been trying to reach me for hours. The satellite dishes for the cellphone companies were based at the Twin Towers. Finally, a provisionary satellite path was opened, and she could know I was alive. The family were scared shitless: They had no idea of the geography of Manhattan, and for all they knew, I could be dead.

I went back to the apartment and finally turned on the news. For hours, my eyes were raped with endless repeats of the footage of those planes crashing into those towers. It was relentless. I finally had to turn it off and order pay-per-view porn. After all, what's amoral here: Being bombarded with footage of the WTC being penetrated hard and fast by terrorist-commandeered planes? Or being bombarded with footage of Jenna Jameson getting penetrated hard and fast from various angles?

The days and weeks after were like nothing I'd ever experienced. I remember having to wear a filter mask as I did the dogwalks for a long time, and suffering massive headaches from the air quality. For awhile, you would be forced to present ID at two different checkpoints to MPs if you lived in the East Village, just to get to and from your apartment. Armed personnel carriers would be going up and down Houston St. The middle eastern guys who ran the deli downstairs looked at me with pleading, fearful eyes that told me they were already getting harassed for the color of their skins and their accents. Probably by the same louts I heard that Friday up and down Avenue B, drunkenly chanting, "U! S! A! U! S! A!" I feared those clowns more than I did potential terrorists.

I can remember my mother and I talking, and she kept telling me, "We all understand. We all are with you. We're all going through this together." And I had to tell her that no, there was no way she could understand unless she was here. She got to watch this from the safety of her living room. This wasn't TV for me or anyone else in NYC. This was our life. And it wasn't fun, and I hoped that she (and everyone else who didn't live here) never had to find out what I was going through.

The worst was finding out how one of my dearest friends was affected by this: Johnny Heffernan was one of my local brothers in rock. His band The Bullys was one of Napalm Stars' brother bands. Johnny was frequently there when I needed him, whether I needed to borrow an amp, or whether I was having to fend off an obnoxious and violent stage invader. I considered him one of my best friends. He was to have left on my birthday to go on tour with The Toilet Boys, doing their lighting.

Johnny was also a NYC fire fighter.

He was not supposed to be on duty on Sept. 11, 2001. It was supposed to be his day off. He was working instead, trying to get in overtime before he left on the road, to support his wife and young stepdaughter. His company was among the first to respond when Tower Number One was hit. From what I remember, most (if not all) of his company was buried when the tower collapsed. Johnny's bandmates, family, friends, we all held hope that he was still alive. They pulled Johnny's crushed body out one month later.

We all know who killed my friend, as well as the many others who died that day. America invaded Afghanistan shortly after, gunning for Osama Bin Laden. Over time, our leaders began telling us Iraq had some connection with the WTC attacks, that they had weapons of mass destruction, that Saddaam Hussein had something to do with this. This, of course, turned out not to be the case. We are still at war in Iraq. Osama Bin Laden, the man who commanded the men who killed my friend and all those others, remains free.

Happy birthday.

Real Life Book Reviews 3: Byron Coley 'C'est La Guerre'

2011-09-08T10:50:00.000-07:00

Man o' the hour Byron Coley: He always stays in focus as everyone around him gets blurry.

When word reached me of the publication of Byron Coley's C'est La Guerre: Early Writings 1978-1983 (145 pages, L'Oie de Cravan, Montreal, 2011, French and English, introduction by Mike Watt), I was hoppin' all over this joint like a goddamned chimpanzee on meth-spiked Skittles. Which is a badly Coleyesque way of saying, "I dug the idea immensely."

This is par for the course for me. As a young rock journalist in the '80s, my initial fanzine writings were very much cut-rate Coley, the way 1960s American garage rock was bargain basement Rolling Stones-n-Yardbirds-isms filtered through a heavy hand on the fuzzbox. Coley was very encouraging of me at the time, until my obnoxious pestering ways forced a final "fuck off." Which I needed. I'd have never developed my own voice without this scission.

It was hard not to be under that guy's sway, so strong was his voice and so prominent was his presence in the mid- to late-'80s fanzine (and pro-zine) world. Across his co-editorship of the 'zine of the day, Forced Exposure, and into far-ranging freelancing spread across publications as august as The Village Voice and the inaugural Spin (or even as odd as teen music mag Smash Hits!), Coley displayed uncanny musical taste (the more obscure, the better, in his mind) in a fast-n- flashy style that was equal parts Richard Meltzer's dadaist syntax and grammar games and wiseguy humor, as well as Lester Bangs' keen analytic and contextual mind. And he'd just as likely tell you a tall tale to get you to the truth. (I cherish a memory of a Spin Underground piece introduced with a dialogue between Byron and his dog, where the dog mocked Coley's musical taste as Byron "rubbed warm peanut oil" into the dog's coat, as a way of introducing America to the avant swamp-Stooge-isms of Australia's The Scientists.) Along the way, he introduced many of us young'uns to the joys of Sonic Youth, prime-era SST Records, Einsturzende Neubauten, Australian garage punk, Lydia Lunch, Nick Cave, and The Flesh Eaters. (Truly, no one wrote better about that band or leader Chris D.'s poetic songwriting genius.)

Still, Coley had to journey from somewhere to get there. And that's the subject of this very-limited-edition anthology: Byron's baby steps, journalistically-speaking. Interspersed with hilariously autobiographical correspondence with pal Angela Jaeger, just to give these reprints some personal historical context, are Byron's earliest print forays for New York Rocker, Take It!, LA Reader and LA Weekly. You get a hilarious Devo tour diary from '78, brilliantly insightful criticism of the Minutemen ("Guitar Warrior, Dennis Boon, shakes his (not inconsiderable) booty like a cement mixer full of bowling balls, his guitar spewing gas like a pint-size St. Helens..."), Husker Du, Suicide, The Germs and Lydia Lunch. There's also potent slaughter and butchery of sacred cows ranging from the "definitive" Jim Morrison bio No One Gets Out Of Here Alive ("Anyhoo, if you ever find yourself taking a college course called, 'Jim Morrison: Many of the Facts,' this will probably be the text book...") and David Bowie. In fact, no one wrote (rightly or wrongly) with more venom and bile about Bowie:

If you're gonna be a style proselytizer, wouldn't it be sensible to at least pick/choose a good style to promote? Yeah, it would. But Bowie's so feeble-minded and has so little conviction in his beliefs that he's always prepared to hop on the next bandwagon that promises to have an extensive dress code. You can call that progress and exploration if you will, but I'll call it the vacillation of a man who has no center. Davie's a swirling black hole that you've deigned to place near the center of the musical universe and his voracious appetite's already sucked much light outta the sky. "His master's voice" robbed Iggy of his juice much more efficiently than years of heroin addiction could; Lou Reed's official break with the legacy of the Velvets (Transformer) was so effectively nambified that it's taken him over a decade to even begin shaking off its cutesy-pie dynamics; and what about Hunt Sales?

Wrapped in a block-printed raw cardboard cover and limited to a 750 copy first edition (apparently a second edition is imminent, so huge has been the demand), this is as much a fine art object as a book. This is underlined by the inclusion of some crude Coley drawings, collages, and visual poems. Which likely emphasizes why Byron ultimately limited his pro-'zine presence: He's as much artist and poet as rock critic. He'd probably rather be listening to his extensive jazz record collection than writing about rock bands (although he continues with publications like The Wire and the recently-ceased Arthur, in addition to self-publishing poetry chapbooks, and doing record projects and running a record/bookstore with long-time pal Thurston Moore). Even 30-some-odd years later, this early work shines and thrills, and excellently foreshadows what Byron did in his heyday. You couldn't find a finer read if you tried. Good shit, dad. Good shit....

Well, now it's all too clear....

2011-09-07T10:36:00.000-07:00

As this college-era photo proves, Rick Perry is really Neidermeyer from Animal House.

Soundtrack To Your Daily Life (Part One In A Series)

2011-08-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

The Damned, 1977: "Wot? Scrapin' yer bristles to our noise?! Ya daft cunt!"

I've long felt the best drugs are straight black coffee and rock 'n' roll. Honestly, both are cheaper than that nasty mess you kids are buying on the street. And they work far better for fuel for your daily endeavors, too. So, as a public service, I thought I'd begin a series of soundtrack suggestions for your daily activities. You'll be thanking me later....

Kickstarting your brain and drinking black coffee: Motorhead "Leaving Here" 45 or Johnny Burnette Rock 'n' Roll Trio

Morning men's rituals: The Damned - Damned Damned Damned LP (especially Side Two, with "New Rose" and "So Messed Up")

Cleaning house: UK Subs - Endangered Species LP
Writing a blog post: D.O.A. - "Rent A Riot"

Okay, now enjoy your day! More suggestions to come. (And maybe you have a few of your own? Leave 'em in comments here.)

Bob Mould's Book: Where's The Bangers-And-Mash Recipe?

2011-08-25T11:06:00.000-07:00

Bob Mould: "Recipes, Stegall?! And you wonder why I never return your calls or emails anymore?! Forget having coffee again, boyo!"

When Bob Mould announced in his always readable Boblog a couple years back that he was co-authoring his memoirs with fine rock journalist Michael Azzerad (author of authoritative histories of Nirvana [Come As You Are] and '80s indie rock [Our Band Could Be Your Life]), you could practically hear the hosannas arise across his fan base. Those of us who'd regularly read his blog before he ceased posting shortly after that announcement knew the guy could write (as if years of great song lyrics didn't already prove this). So much so, in fact, it's puzzling as to why he even needed Azzerad's assistance. (It turns out it was more for organizational and editorial aid, all done in perfectly 21^st Century fashion via Skype.)

Whatever the case, there's no serious gripes about the finished results since its publication this past June. See A Little Light: The Trail Of Rage And Melody (403 pages, Little, Brown and Company, New York, Boston, London, 2011) is definitely not easy to put down – I actually gave it two consecutive read-throughs across two weeks. Ultimately, my conclusion is Bob and Michael gave us three books in one, all equally fascinating.

The first book would be a musical journey/work memoir that's most detailed in accounting his pre-Husker Du days and in recounting Sugar and his solo work. Mould seems as pained as he is proud of Husker Du, the Minneapolitan buzzpunk trio which first introduced him to the world (and made the '80s far more bearable for those of us not inclined towards Pat Benatar or Ratt). As deeply as he goes into the making of that music, he simultaneously seems to be in a rush to get the Huskers' tale over with. Perhaps Mould is still uncomfortable with how that band played out? It reads that way, despite the big revelations along the way: 1) Zen Arcade means more to his fans than it does to Mould (!!); 2) bassist Greg Norton began to feel surplus to requirements to Mould following Husker Du's signing to Warner Bros. in the mid-'80s; 3) the tipping point, in Mould's mind, where his working, creative and personal relationships with drummer/co-songwriter Grant Hart soured (as early as Flip Your Wig's pre-production, when Hart brought later solo masterpiece “2541” to the band and Mould suggested it needed work); and 4) that the events leading to the band's demise may not have been as has been reported all these years. (Mould's previously untold account of the band's final meeting in Grant's parents' kitchen is as woeful and Spinal Tap as the Husker Du story can get.) There's also enough gear porn to keep a guitarsexual like me orgasming for days.

The next book-within-the-book concerns the dysfunctional household in which he grew up, and how it's colored his life and his relationships. The tale's about as harrowing as they come, being set in a small town in upstate New York and a household regularly fogged with the stench his alcoholic father exhaled every weekend. Those fumes are not something that clears out when you move out of such a home. Bob initially dealt with the odor by drowning it in both the usual substance abuse and a furious creative workload. It wasn't enough to drown out the howl which would damage much in his life, be it romantic relationships or those with band mates. How he turned down that horrid noise is the subject of the 3^rd book-within-the-book: His sexuality.

Mould's homosexuality was one of the worst-kept secrets in '80s/'90s punk rock. Hence, it was odd when he felt the need to “out” himself to author Dennis Cooper in Spin Magazine as Mould was promoting Sugar's 2^nd LP in the mid-'90s. It's interesting to read Bob characterizing the '80s punk scene as having an unspoken “don't ask don't tell” policy. (Perhaps I have no perspective on this, considering Austin' scene embraced flamboyantly gay personalities like Randy “Biscuit” Turner and Gary Floyd. Homosexuality was just another thread in Austin's funky, freaky punk scene, so no one really thought about it.) To read Mould's account, he identified with neither his own sexuality nor gay culture through much of his youth, despite realizing his tendencies at a very early age. (There's a lot of warm humor in Bob's confession that barber shops remain a turn-on to this day!) It took that public closet exit in Spin (despite it's having unpleasant side effects, anyway) before he was comfortable enough to begin an exploration of What It Is To Be Gay. Mould finally took the plunge during his late-'90s/early-'00s seasons in NYC and DC. Thence came his exploration of electro-dance music/culture, it's incorporation into his own music (alongside the formation of the popular gay dance party he DJs, Blowoff), and ultimately embracing/being embraced into the masculine gay subculture of the bears.

Most surprising is Bob's briefly-touched-upon return to Catholicism in the mid-'00s, as well as a seemingly out-of-nowhere chapter on his one day job of the last 30 years: Scriptwriter for the WCW in 1999! Anyone who knows Bob knows he's been a long-time, highly educated pro-wrestling junkie; he even contributed some authoritative writings to some punk-and-wrestling fanzines in the '80s. But there Bob Mould was for eight months, four years on from Sugar's demise, devising plot lines for the likes of Hulk Hogan and the gang! He was also a strong internal advocate for a younger breed of wrestler he felt would be the WCW's future. The saga is brief and but one chapter, but it's as hilariously out-of-context with the book as it was with Bob's life (despite his wrestling fandom). It would have been great to see Bob expand this into an entire book on its own.

All in all, See A Little Light is a joy. It's a hope-filled, down-to-earth ode to pop songcraft, punk rock, self-discovery and redemption. It's the marvelous story of the maturation of one America's finest and most idiosyncratic artists, one who deservedly engenders much respect and affection. Definitely up there with Keith Richards' book in a season of rock memoirs, although an entirely different beast. All it needs is for Bob to include a better bangers-and-mash recipe in the paperback edition!

Anatomy Of A Cover Version: Special Elvis Presley Memorial Edition

2011-08-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

It was today in 1977 that my ultimate rock 'n' roll hero whose name is not either Johnny Thunders or Iggy Pop, Elvis Presley, checked out of this sphere. (Naturally, supposed Elvis fan Michelle Bachmann wished Elvis a Happy Birthday today. *rolls eyes* Thanks for the tip-off, Wes Bingham.) Everytime I declare my love for Presley, a fleet of assholes roll-up and try to call shit on me, in some of misguided political or punk correctness. I'm not indulging the arguments this year - I like Elvis, and I like how he kicked the door open for rock 'n' roll into the mainstream by energizing a mix of black rhythms and country melodies with a shot of aggressive sexuality. The world has never been the same. It's not my fault if you can't see that. End of discussion.

Anyway, today we look at one of my fave records of his, "(Now And Then, There's) A Fool Such As I." Cut in a Nashville megasession when on leave from the Army, so RCA could have product to release while Elvis was away doing his patriotic duty, the track originated as a Hank Snow country hit earlier in the '50s:

Presley did what he did best: He gave it a big beat and pumped up the sexuality, making it hit and swing harder. Great Scotty Moore guitar work, too:

As a bonus, I include a rare live take from Elvis. Between receiving his draft notice in late '57 and the filming of his 1968 comeback special, Presley only played before live audiences three times - all charity performances in 1961. This is not actual footage, but a montage set to audio I've certainly never heard before from the third of those shows, in Honolulu on the eve of filming "Blue Hawaii." The surprisingly clear fidelity displays the man still in possession of his raw performance gifts: He's powerful and sweaty, even playful. ("You taught me how/To milk a cow!") Clearly, he's The Hillbilly Cat of old, even as Col. Parker attempts to smother his creativity in a sea of vapid musical travelogue films. Presley really shoulda put his foot down and performed more back then.....

Enjoy. And if you don't, I don't wanna hear it. Thank you. Off to work now. 'Bye!

Hmmm...Really, Rick Perry?!

2011-08-16T09:47:00.000-07:00

*smirks* Wow, what can I say about this snap of Rick Perry? That the former Aggie cheerleader may be more dangerous than we think? That speech he made on Saturday announcing his candidacy certainly set him apart from his GOP adversaries in the Presidential stakes. He sounded like Bush minus the grammatical errors and mispronunciations, and was throwing huge chunks of red meat to those lions at that conservative rally. Quoting Margaret Thatcher also indicates something sinister about this guy. I still say he's a jackass, though....

Thanks to Tom Lundin at The Denver Eye for forwarding this photo. And check out his blog - it's reet!

The results are in: My readers are, overwhelmingly, anti-GOP perverts!

2011-08-15T09:23:00.000-07:00

Good morning (he says blearily, over the second cup of coffee). Still working on the review of Bob Mould's book - hope to have that up tomorrow. Meantime, I did some checking up on the stats for this blog. The post that's received the most all-time hits was Saturday's entry with the Michelle Bachmann corndog blowjob pic - 328 hits! And it seems I have a very international audience, with readers in the US, UK, Canada, France, Germany, Australia, Russia, the Netherlands, Spain, and Denmark.

So, what does it all mean? Apparently, my readership cuts across various cultural strata and nation boundaries. And you're a diverse bunch that hates Republicans and likes dick jokes! I'll see what I can do to please you....