Greg Kihn

I Got Another Speeding Ticket!

GregKihn — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 20:12:51 +0000

Greg Here- I got a speeding ticket this morning on the way to work. I was running a little late and I tried to make up the time and I got busted. Last year I got 4 tickets (driving the rock-star Corvette) but since I got rid of it I haven’t been pulled over. I was doing so well… Until this morning about 4:35am. Damn!

My license was nearly suspended last year and I can little afford to be caught speeding again. I haven’t been pulled over for a year- and now this. I got rid of the Corvette for this very reason, and I bought a nice sedate BMW 4-door sedan. I was a good boy for so long! I was completely ignored until today. Damn! So stupid!

Dick Clark’s American Bandstand

GregKihn — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 20:10:26 +0000

On this date in GKB history- back in 1983- we were on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. Greg Kihn Band appeared on that TV show many times over the years and Dick Clark was always cool. Love that guy. He always took a few minutes to interview the band after the performance. Check out the Mod T Shirt I was wearing from Carnaby Street. How young we all were! Has it really been that long?

American Bandstand 04:83 Greg Kihn Band Interview

Looking at the tape now I look like I’m about 16 years old. And Dick Clark looks about 23!

Believe it or not I remember that day. Dick showed me a framed “thank you” letter from my father on his office wall. He said, of the 1000′s of acts he’s had on over the years, he only got one “thank you” letter from a guy’s dad- and that was mine.

In the days before MTV had become huge ( I think it had just started around the time of this performance) network TV shows were big exposure for an up-and-coming rock band from Berkeley. That was how you got the word out in those days.

I’m your Venus, I’m your fire, what’s your desire?

GregKihn — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 20:34:29 +0000

On this date in 1970 “Venus” by the Shocking Blue hit #1 in the Billboard Charts. You probably remember the song- it was a strong rocker with a great chorus. I’m your Venus, I’m your fire, what’s your desire?

The Shocking Blue were a Dutch Band from Den Hague (The Hague) in the Netherlands. When I was twenty-one years old I went to Amsterdamn with several of my buddies to play rock and roll in the local clubs. My good friend- Jeffrey Berkow had moved there the year before and his letters and stoned late-night phone calls painted a pretty wild picture for the rest of us Baltimore guys. Jeffrey had a band (The Dutch Bombers) a sexy new Dutch girlfriend, and a record deal. When he asked us to join him we were off like shot, flying Icelandic Airlines over the North Pole.

When we got there, we crashed on Jeffrey’s floor for a month and rehearsed, smoking copius amounts of hash and drinking Heinekins.

A producer named Hans Von Osterhoot took an interest in the Dutch Bombers, and we found ourselves in a Ducth recording studio doing demos. I remember doing one or two original tunes and a few covers. Notably- Red River Rock, sung by Jeffrey himself. Of course, THAT was the song they all liked and decided to release as a single.

Fast forward a few months and the Ducth Bombers have a handful of gigs to promote their record with the Dutch audiences.

That’s when we found ourselves opening for the biggest Ducth band in history (kinda like the Jefferson Airplane of Holland) The Shocking Blue. They had a #1 world wide hit with “VENUS.” “Venus” was huge- later covered by several bands including Bananarama (who we played with in the 1980′s in Europe.)

The lead singer for the Shocking Blue was the beautiful Mariska Veres, a brunette goddess from another dimension (where English is not spoken.) When I got an eyeful of her, I couldn’t sit down. Well, it must have been evident what was going on inside my brain because their manager came right up to me and told me that Mariska was “off limits” permanently. I couldn’t even say hello. Apparantly she was married to the guitar player or some such nonsense.

Mariska had a great voice, too. Do you remember “Venus?” Great tune. She could really belt it out. In Holland they had about six number ones in a row. The Dutch Bombers? We faded back into obscurity in a matter of weeks. But it was a great experience and I got to visit Amsterdam (the city where everything is legal) while I was still a young man. Now THAT was a real eye opener! Eventually we ran out of money and flew back to Baltimore, but not before we lived out 3 lifetime’s worth of adventures in one crazy summer!

Let’s hear it for Mariska!

Sadly, Mariska passed away from cancer on 2006. Good-bye Mariska- I’ll never forget you!

My very first album “Greg Kihn”

GregKihn — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 20:31:14 +0000

On this date in 1976, my very first album “Greg Kihn” was released on the legendary Beserkley Records. I was still working my day job at Rather Ripped Records at the corner of Hearst and Euclid right across the street from North Gate of Cal Berkeley. In fact, I shot the cover picture outside the store during a break in my shift. I personally shrink-wrapped the first 5000 copies on their shrink-wrap machine!

Rather Ripped was an incredible scene. I worked there with Gary Phillips back in 1975-76. That place was so cool. Patti Smith did poetry readings there, Iggy Pop jammed, the Police signed autographs, every band that mattered would stop in and hang out. If you examine the album cover you can see the Rather Ripper sign above the wall of posted handbills. And look at the stuff on that wall- Patty Hearst posters, Take Me Naked movie poster, Earth Quake album cover, a copy of chartbusters- it’s like a time machine.

My first album cost chump change to make since it was recorded after-hours (for cheap) at the old CBS Studios on Folsom Street in SF. In fact, it cost less to make than most other bands spent on their album covers alone! You can take a look at my album cover and realize we didn’t exactly spend a fortune on it. In fact the entire album had a hand made look which wasn’t fake. It really was hand-made!

The first copies were distributed out of the back of a VW bus to tiny independant record stores. This was before we had professional distribution. A few weeks later Playboy Records signed a distribution deal with Beserkley and we were off and running nationally. They would be the first of a long line of distributors to work with Beserkley. Nobody gave us a snowball’s chance in hell, but we beat the odds! Of course it took a while, but we eventually cracked through.

Lucky Video

GregKihn — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 20:24:28 +0000

Neal Schon, lead guitarist for Journey has put his new girlfriend Michaela Salahi in the band’s new video “Resonate.” Some fans are complaining. I know what that’s like because I gave in to the pressure myself back in the 80′s and featured my 2nd wife in the video for “Lucky.” Too bad the marriage wasn’t as successful as the video. Would you put your significant other in your video?

I didn’t stop there, she was also featured in the videos for “Love and Rock & Roll” and “Boy’s Won’t Leave The Girls Alone.” It’s amazing what the power of love can do… make that the power of sex.

That marriage didn’t last very long at all, but I guess it just wasn’t in the cards. In all honesty, I was no day at the beach back then, and I suppose she wasn’t entirely happy with the state of affairs but I was too busy being Joe Rockstar and acting like a jerk. I was hard to control in those days. Drugs didn’t help either. But, you live and learn. If I had it to do all over again… I don’t think either of us would.

For the record- that divorce it was 99% my fault!

The Ice Rink Incident

GregKihn — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 20:34:23 +0000

I had been grounded for some pimply offense or other. I don’t remember exactly why. My mother forbade me to leave the house, that much I knew. But, I was fifteen and a half years old and going through a difficult time. Rambunctious behavior was the norm. Still, I had never deliberately and with malice aforethought gone against my mother. Not until the ice rink episode.

It was the Saturday night before Christmas. I knew all my friends would be at the Stadium Ice Rink hanging out trying to get up the nerve to talk to girls. It was prime time and I knew that the place would be buzzing. What’s more, I knew Francis Terrinoni would be there. She wasn’t my girlfriend, none of us had any real girlfriends yet, but she knew me and called me by name and I knew she liked me because one of her friends told me so. Let me tell you, Fran Terrinoni was a genuine teenage goddess. She’d developed breasts before any of the other girls and she looked like one of the Ronettes. I was hopelessly, madly in love with her.

Word had gotten back to me through mutual friends that she would be there and she wanted to see me. Thoughts of skating arm-in-arm with her around the hockey-sized rink while romantic Dave Clark Five songs played on the P.A. occupied my mind like a 700-pound gorilla. I visualized her, in her little figure skating outfit, skates flashing, gliding effortlessly next to me as we shared unspoken vows of love. I knew she’d be devastating in a tight sweater, probably with a cute little matching beret. It was the uniform of the damned, as far as I was concerned. After all, I was grounded. It wasn’t fair.

The gravitational pull of the ice rink was irresistible. It was only a few blocks away and my hockey skates were hanging inside the closet, calling my name. And Fran was probably already there, lacing up her skates.

I thought my head would explode. Back when I was fifteen and a half, if there was something going on and I wasn’t part of it, it drove me crazy. And this… this was torture. Agony!

It was hot young teenage love versus traditional motherly love. Pure and simple. I knew which side of the bread got buttered.

Knowing that Fran was only a few blocks away, skimming over the ice alone, or worse, with another guy(!), short-circuited my brain. I knew in my heart that before the night was over I would disobey my mother for the first time ever and it caused me great consternation.

For some reason, during that winter, there was a fad going around school where guys would bleach a streak in their hair. I know it’s dumb, but that was the fad. Several of my friends had done it with modest results. My mother was aware of the fad and forbade me to indulge.

Maybe it was the proximity to Francis Terrinoni. Maybe it was teenage angst. Maybe it was just me being rebellious. But, after my parents left the house to do some last minute Christmas shopping, I strolled into my parent’s bathroom looking for trouble. I found it in the form of a bottle of some sort of hair color. I had no idea how to use it so I just poured it on my head over the sink. Maybe I should have thought it out a little more or at least read the directions because the result was stunning. I had a streak of bright orange hair extending from my crown to my forehead, an inch wide, front and center. It was impossible to miss. Somewhere in the back of my twisted brain I actually thought it looked cool. In reality it looked absolutely ridiculous. Of course, reality wasn’t on the menu that night. I had chewed through the leash and I was runnin’ wild.

My heart was pounding when I went down the stairs. My younger sister saw me and started screaming, “Oh, my God! You’re gonna get it! I’m tellin’!”

I brushed past her with disdain. She kept repeating the mantra of little sisters everywhere, “I’m tellin’! I’m tellin’!” Ignoring her, I threw my skates over my shoulder and headed out the door. The night was bitter cold, the temperature in single digits. My breath formed great clouds in the icy air. I walked down the block with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. I was off to see my beloved. What did I care what happened back at the house? I was on a rocket to Venus.

I walked briskly, no time to spare, and by the time I got to the ice rink my ears were burning. I had forgotten my scarf and hat. Actually, I didn’t forget, I just thought I looked cooler without them. Anything that might appear even the least bit dorky would be jettisoned for Fran. Anything for Fran.

All the kids were there and the ice was crowded. I changed into my skates and got out there in record time. It didn’t take me long to spot Fran. She stood out in her figure skating outfit, her big hair bobbing as she gracefully slid across the ice. Her skates were white and the blades were polished to a mirror finish. They flashed as she pushed off, one perfect leg in front of the other. Fran sported young Italian breasts high and proud, and I imagined them to be as firm as ripe plums. I was a quivering mass of uncontrollable hormones.

I positioned myself where she couldn’t miss me when she came around. I glided out onto the ice and waited for lightning to strike. It did, but not in the way I’d hoped. Four buddies of mine grabbed me and pulled me along into a whip. After a few moments of slapstick comedy at my expense they launched me like a slingshot and I hurtled over the frozen water like a maniac. I tried to stop when some little kids skated in front of me. I fell, sprawling and sliding, in the direction of Fran Terrinoni.

I slid about ten yards and came to rest at her feet.

I looked up, my face as red as a beet. She laughed. I guess I must have looked pretty silly. She pointed to my hair. I’d forgotten about the orange streak. I tried to be cool as I got to my feet. I stammered, temporarily unable to put together words and phrases.

I wanted to say a thousand things. I yearned to pour out my heart to her. It wanted to bare my very soul, but, all I could get out was, “Wanna skate?”

She must have said yes, because my next memory is skating next to Fran, supremely happy, with the world as perfect as it could get. It is often at these times, at the height of our triumphs, when fate intervenes to remind us of who we really are. And that’s exactly what happened next.

Somebody called my name. The only problem was that none of my friends called me “Gregory.” That’s when it struck me; my time had come. The dream was over.

My mother pulled our huge family station wagon (two and a half acres of red 1965 Chevy Bel Air) right up to the skating rink. She stood next to it looking very perturbed. Steam rose from her head and her nostrils flared.

“Gregory! Gregory! Get over here this instant!”

Francis Terrinoni slipped from my arm and melded back into the crowd of skaters around us. She was gone. Long gone.

I stood alone at center ice, the whole place suddenly aware of my drama. Every eye was on me as I slowly complied with my mother’s orders. Shame racked my shoulders and bowed my head. It took a half an hour to get across the ice to where she was; at least that’s what it seemed. Gawd, I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Every kid’s worst nightmare came reigning down on my poor soul. In front of Fran!

I was busted. Now the only question would be how much punishment I had coming. My mother greeted me with her hands on her hips, the stance that mother’s have used to intimidate since the beginning of time. I cowered, waiting for the axe to fall. She glared disapprovingly at the orange streak in my hair. I waited in silence, expecting the worst.

Then something happened that would change my relationship with my mother forever. Instead of humiliating me in front of everybody, she lowered her voice and explained that she was not at all happy with me, and that there was much to discuss when I got home.

My mind tried to grasp what was happening. Did I hear her right? When I got home? Did that mean I didn’t have to get in the car like a whupped dog? I could stay?

My mother had allowed me to save face in front of all my friends. A miracle had occurred on 33^rd Street. My heart swelled. She reminded me of the time and told me to be home within the hour, but she didn’t destroy my already shattered ego in front of Fran and everyone else that mattered to me.

She got back in the car and drove away. I stood there dumbfounded.

I stuck around the ice rink for a while, trying to repair the damage to my rep, and trying to save what little credibility I had with Fran. But the bloom was off the rose. I could tell. I wasn’t cool anymore. I’d lost my Mojo.

I walked home with my head hung down. I’d try again with Fran, but it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. I had a world of punishment waiting for me.

I would be grounded for life, that much I knew. But, with time off for good behavior, I held out hope that I might get out of jail while I was still young. Such was life. Besides, I had it coming.

Christmas came and went, the relatives visited, Turkey and Kielbasa were served. Apart from my status as house prisoner, my parents didn’t mention the ice rink incident after that. I had to get a haircut, of course. Mom insisted they cut it extra short to get the orange out. That in itself was punishment enough in the post Beatles world.

As fate would have it, I did hook up with Fran again, but not until that summer. By then my hair had grown out. I got my Mojo back.

I don’t recall what Christmas presents I got that year. It doesn’t matter. They were just material things with a limited shelf life anyway. But I’ll always remember that particular Christmas, because that was the year my mother gave me the best gift of all. She gave me respect.

Hall of Shame

GregKihn — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 01:21:31 +0000

Hall of Shame

Joan Jett and Heart did not make it in the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame yesterday! How is that possible? You know I have a problem with that.

I know that I’ll never make it to the Hall of Fame- but I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around and watch (and keep my mouth shut) while my friends systematically get voted off the island after dedicating their entire lives to rock and roll.

I write about it every year! It’s starting to piss me off.

Now here’s a partial list of questionable acts (in my opinion) that have been voted in by those artsy-fartsy idiots in the committee, followed by what I consider a deserving group that truly should be in:
The Talking Heads- In; Journey- Out
Blondie- In; Doobies Bros- Out
The Ramons- In; Heart- Out
Iggy Pop- In; Boston- Out
Abba- In; Stevie Ray Vaughn- Out
Jackson Browne- In; George Thorogood- Out
Bonnie Raitt- In; Eddie Money- Out
Genesis- In; Styx- Out
Laura Nyro- In; Carol King- Out
REM- In; The Cars- Out

I just realized something- all those band who are NOT IN the R&R Hall of Fame all opened for me at one time or another! I must be the curse!

Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame

GregKihn — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 20:55:06 +0000

Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame

by Greg Kihn, posted Dec 5 2011 9:21AM

We go through this every year- the new class of inductees is nominated for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and I usually have a problem with it. This year is no different. Now, don’t get me wrong, some of these acts are OK by me- because at least they are Rock & Roll (and after all- that’s the name of the place!) but some of these acts are Pop, Rap, R&B, and Disco. I have no beef against those musical genres but isn’t this the R&R Hall Of Fame? Surely their must be a Pop Hall Of Fame somewhere for people like Michael Jackson and Madonna because they clearly don’t belong in the R&R Hall Of Fame.

That being said- it’s about time the Hall of Fame recognized Joan Jett. I’ve known her for years (since the Runaways) and she really is one of rock’s true originals. Joan is the real thing- a real rocker- no frills- no hype- no pretension. She deserves to be in.

Other nominees include Heart (yes!), The Small faces (yes!), Guns & Roses (Si!), Freddie King (absolutely!) and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers (spicy!). But as always there are a bunch of non-rock acts represented as well- The Spinnners (classic R&B), War (maybe, I don’t know…), But the Beastie Boys, Chaka Khan, and Donna Summer? I’m not so sure.

Where are the rest of my friends? The people I came up with? Why are they not represented here? What’s wrong with the nomination committee?

How about Journey?

Eddie Money?

The Doobie Brothers?

Let’s face it- the Bay Area is underepresented- New York is OVER represented! If the Talking Heads and the Ramones are in- shouldn’t Journey and the Doobies? If Blondie is in, why not Eddie Money? You figure it out.

A Pickle For Your Thoughts

GregKihn — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 16:37:24 +0000

A Pickle For Your Thoughts

Thanksgiving is now officially over- we’ve stuffed ourselves silly and given thanks all over the place- so now comes the scariest part of the year- CHRISTMAS! I haven’t done any shopping yet. Black Friday? It’s nothing but a Steely Dan song to me. I never left the house. Traffic was lined up for days- every store and mall was full- but I never opened the door. We were too busy eating leftover turkey sandwiches.

Man, were they good this year! Nice, moist, thinly sliced turkey breast does the trick- lightly toasted bread, then tons of mayonnaise, a slice or two of Swiss cheese, a little tomato and pickles- GOTTA HAVE PICKLES! Growing up on the east coast I am a connoisseur of pickles. My mother got them fresh from the big wooden barrel at the Polish deli in downtown Baltimore- garlic kosher dills- as sour as Tariq Salahi’s social secretary. Man, were they good! You can’t get them out here in California unless you go to a real Jewish Deli (They’re mostly in LA- places like Canters, Greenblatts and Art’s- where every sandwich is a work of Art!) There are very few Jewish delis around the Bay Area (we have our share of fabulous Italian Delis, that’s for sure) – and none of them really and truly excel at pickle making.

I had a friend who’s mother used to make pickles every year. She was very old school- she picked out the cucumbers- smallish and extremely fresh, soaked them in ice water for a day, then got out the pickling jars. She used varying amounts of pickling spices- from mild to atomic, depending on how many red peppers she used. She sealed them in pickling jars with brine and we waited. A few weeks later- tons of pickles! And those suckers would last- sometimes for 6 months- and wow did they get funky! There’s an experience I’m not likely to have again. My friend and I have drifted apart, his mom died, and with her- the pickle recipe of the ages. Maybe in the next life…

I recently had lunch at Saul’s Deli in Berkeley and it was OK- but the pickles were a trifle too young (the needed more brining). Max’s Deli does a decent job with the pickles- but again, these are not east-coast-make-you-sweat-and-give-you-bad-breath pickles. For those you have to travel to the Carnegie Deli in New York, or Katz’s in Jersey. That’s the real deal when it comes to pickles. What do I do when I am faced with my pickle jones on the day after Thanksgiving and I absolutely, positively MUST HAVE a genuine Kosher dill pickle with my turkey sandwich? I get myself a chilled bottle of Bubbies Pickles. Bubbies is a little miracle for us east coasters trapped in Tofu Land. Made right here in San Francisco- Bubbies are old school. You can’t get them everywhere. You’ll have to go to specialty grocery store, but it’s worth it. Look for them in the chilled section.

Well, I gotta go now- I have to eat yet another turkey sandwich- how many days in a row has it been? How about every day since last Thursday! And still there’s more! For some reason, they’re still good! Build another one for me, and let’s keep going until we hit Christmas and have to do it all over again.

And don’t forget the pickle!

Thanksgiving is here!

GregKihn — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 19:01:06 +0000

Thanksgiving is here! How wonderful to live in the Bay Area. Of course, I get nostalgic over the Holidays, My parents are both gone and it saddens me to think we won’t be having turkey together any more. I have so many rich and wonderful memories of Thanksgiving. Usually, in Baltimore, the weather at Thanksgiving is already getting ugly. The ice skating rink in the parking lot of Memorial Stadium was up- and usually our beloved neighborhood Baltimore Colts were in the thick of a championship run with Johnny Unitas at Quarterback.

We lived a few blocks from the stadium and every year the annual Poly-City football game was held there at 1:00pm. Let me explain the names- Poly was Baltimore Polytechnic Institute and City was Baltimore City College Preparatory School, hence the names Poly and City. The Poly-City game was the biggest thing in town- two powerhouse all-boys high school football rivalries that went back a million years to when our fathers played in that game (my father was a track star at City).

Looking back now, it seems like something out of Oliver Twist- real Dickinsonian stuff. We wore white shirts and a ties every freakin’ day! I was sent home twice in my senior year for having hair that went over my collar. These were all-boys tech high schools in downtown Baltimore. It didn’t get much grittier. The neighborhood was so bad you took your life into your hands just walking to the bus stop (yes, we took the bus!)

I went to Poly and played a little Junior Varisty football until I discovered that playing the guitar was a lot less wear and tear on the body than getting hit by bigger kids who loved to hurt you. Still, I lasted half a season playing for the Baltimore Polytechnic Institute Engineers and actually intercepted a pass against Patterson on a wind-swept Baltimore afternoon in the “dirt bowl” a hellish sandpit where we played all our home games. That was the name of our team- The Engineers. ”Repel them! Repel them! Make them relinquish the ball!” was out battle cry. The school itself had no fields of any kind- nary a blade of grass or even a tree! Poly was solid concrete and brick for blocks around. We had to take a bus to our practice field and play our home games in a pock-marked dust bowl in Patterson Park. I’d get home at 7:00, too tired to eat or do homework. It just wasn’t my cup of tea, but some guys dug it.

It was the Thanksgiving Day Game that brought it all together for every red-blooded American lad. Girls- tons of them- from all the area high schools, neighborhood girls that you’d see on Greenmount Avenue or at Church CYO dances, exotic out-of-the-area chicks brought in by the lure of the big game- I mean it was a plethora! Me and my buddies- Snyder, Danforth, Kirkman, Vinny Vineyard, all of us- with flushed pink faces in the cold air- drinking beer! Smuggled in one can at a time- it was miracle we never got busted. But we’d go up in the stands, drink our beers, and scream our heads off, then try to pick up on chicks. Let the record book show that after a entire childhood of hanging our with those guys- never once were we successful picking up chicks. Never once!

The year I was a freshman at Poly, we beat City in the big game and were nationally ranked- we played in the Orange Bowl for the regional title that year. You had to be there. I was 15 and full of piss and vinegar.

Then we’d all walk back to my mother’s house and have hot chocolale. The smell of my mother’s kitchen on Thanksgiving is one of my greatest memories. I close my eyes now and it all comes back- how excited we all were- what good times we knew- and above all- how thankful we all were. God bless you and have a wonderful Thanksgiving this year- that’s what it’s all about.