Review: D.O.A.: A Right of Passage

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2018

Images from the Internet

D.O.A.: A Right of Passage

Written and directed by Lech Kowalski

High Times Films / MVD Rewind Collection

90 minutes, 1980

Blu-ray and DVD

www.mvdvisual.com

This documentary of the later part of the early days of punk rock, namely the late-1970s, is now considered the granddaddy of non-fiction films about the genre, much as Please Kill Me is viewed, though in book form. While I’m not trying to imply that this or Kill Me was the first, I do posit that they are both game changers and have since become iconic.

There are generally two schools of thought: one that punk started in New York in 1974, and others that believe it began with the Sex Pistols in England, in late1975. They can be both right, as they were different in both politics and sound, with the occasional overlap. Rather than thinking of them as one or the other, I like to believe they are both concurrent and inter-serving. Yeah, I am in the New York school, and believe it started there, but am also comfortable knowing that they are both different and alike at the same time, as long as both acknowledge each other.

The film is essentially three acts that are intertwined, and yet remain unique: one is the Sex Pistol’s tour of the Southern United States (including post-tour), the governmental and record company reaction to the Pistols directly and therefore British punk as a whole, and live performances of various bands.

The film starts with the Pistols playing in Atlanta, including a clip of them performing “Anarchy in the [U.S.A.].” Of course, it’s the audience interviews that are equally as interesting as the music. The haters are a drawling hoot, but even the fans present a level of pretention that’s hard to explain. In New York, I remember seeing Eddie and the Hot Rods play Max’s Kansas City, and they were disgusted with the lack of audience frenzy, despite the applause after the songs. The First Wavers (aka the Blank Generation), including me, were too cool, after years of the Heartbreakers, Ramones, Dead Boys, et.al. By the way, the Damned were a more interesting live band than the Hot Rods, but I digress.

The point is that the audience in Georgia that were pro­-Pistol appeared just a bit off and pretentious to me in their going out of their way to be “different,” such as one who said, “They made me want to vomit, they were so beautiful.” It’s like the two girls fake fighting in the ticket-buying line to see the Ramones in the film Rock and Roll High School. I just said, “Hunh?” to the person I was with at the RaRHS New York premiere on Bleecker St. For me, the whole idea of punk was the lack of pretention and social norms, not necessarily creating a new one for this scene (which became especially codified by the time hardcore – aka, the Third Wave – came about).

I’m not sure if the interviews with the British politicians and such were specifically for this film, or taken from newscasts (or both), but it’s an interesting corollary between them and the hyper-sensitive Evangelical Republicans on the Hill today as I write this, seeing anything different as evil (e.g., “Make America Great Again” is much more regressive than, say, “Make America Greater”). To be fair, ironically (and hypocritically), much of what these people say about punk is how I feel about most of the modern Top 10. Yeah, I’m old.

The live music is part of what makes this film great, such as the underappreciated X-Ray Spex doing “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!”, the post-Pistols’ Glen Matlock band the Rich Kids (I saw them play Harrah’s in New York opening for Sylvian Sylvian’s 14 Street Band, and was not impressed; Matlock was a great songwriter, but not as much as a front man), Generation X playing “Kiss Me Deadly,” and Sham 69, who were underrated in the States, doing a couple of numbers, including “Borstal Breakout.”

While a bit confusing on the why part, I am certainly not complaining that two thirds into the film, it shifts to the “U.S.A.” (as the John Holmstrom drawn title card states) and the Dead Boys – a band I saw many times – are playing “All This and More.” I really miss those shows, so it put a smile on my face to see them again in their glory; to me, they were the one of the rare bands that had an affinity to the British punk style (which would explain why they shared a bill with the Damned so often), and can arguably be seen as the first genuine hardcore band, fitting into all three Waves in function.

Of course, the most infamous scene occurs about an hour in: sort of the absolute antithesis of the John and Yoko Toronto bed-in interview is the Nancy Spungen and Sid Vicious conversation (such as it is) where Sid is totally nodding off while wearing a Swastika tee. Nancy’s odd accent that’s a cross between Philly high-line, New York Lower East Side and London-esque is as disarming and alarming as Sid’s drug-induced mumbling.

For the film’s final act, it’s a mix of the Pistols’ last show of the tour and what came to be their final performance before reforming decades later with Matlock replacing Sid, the police presence and fans outside the club, and more wacked out Sid and Nancy at the Chelsea Hotel. This includes the infamous Rotten onstage comment about “being cheated,” playing over some woman spontaneously pretending to masturbate for the camera in a totally unsexy, fakey way.

Terry Sylvester

The ending is a nice mash-up of the band playing “Bodies” with clips from all their American shows melded together. And yet, even though they are the centerpiece, the Pistols turn out to really not the entire theme of the film, but rather a creamy layer of the whole cake. One of the points of focus is Terry Sylvester (not to be confused with the singer from the Swinging Blue Jeans), who was the lead singer of Terry and the Idiots. Not lasting long, they were pretty terrible-but-enjoyable; they remind me of New York’s Student Teachers, who were a better act, and arguably modeled themselves on the Mumps. We follow Terry around and listen to him philosophize about punk, and tell a very bad joke based on innuendo that really had nothing to do with the point of the film, but whatever. There’s also an amusing interview with New York stalwart Bleecker Bob in his infamous shop (Lenny Kaye worked there at the time, but you don’t see him). He talks about some bands, and they pan a bunch of singles on the wall, most of which I own (bought at Disc-O-Rama, though, not from him).

Worth it merely for the live band footage alone, but that is only a small helping of what is good here. Yeah, when it was reviewed by the late-great Lisa Baumgardner in the pages of FFanzeen back in the day, it was slagged (HERE). I remember it being really grainy and rambling, but I’ve always been kinda fond of the film, being somewhat neutral on the which is better front (though not on where it all started). The current release, however, while still obviously taken from the print by the wear and tear, it’s much clearer than I remember.

Lech Kowalski

The basic extras are an Image Gallery, the original film trailer, and a trailer for (I kid you not) the classic Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, which was put out by the same distribution company as this one. There is also a nice and thick booklet with photos, and some text by Holmstrom, and a folded film poster.

The most notable extra is a complete and full-length documentary about the making of D.O.A. titled Dead on Arrival: The Punk Documentary That Almost Never Was. Put together by Richard Schenkman especially for this Blu-ray and DVD 2-disc set, at 115 minutes, it actually lasts longer than the feature it is about.

The two main talking heads are Punk magazine co-founder and the key New York Scene illustrator John Holmstrom and Scene photographer Robert Bailey, both of whom became part of the D.O.A. caravan through the American Sex Pistols’ tour, and Holmstrom then also continued on with the British phase after the American leg ended. Others who appear extensively in new material include (but not only) New Musical Express writer Chris Salewicz, musician Midge Ure (who was in the Rich Kids at the time of filming, and would go on to his own cult fame leading Ultravox), cinematographer Rufus Standefer, and crew members David King (U.S.) and Mary Killen (U.K.).

Along with some historical interviews with Malcolm McLaren and Billy Idol that are included from television shows, one of those in the new segments is Lamar St. John, the woman who is laying on the ground in the film as part of a group of teenypunkers from Los Angeles who drove to see the Pistols in Dallas. She’s also the one who bloodied Sid’s nose.

While the Pistols’ tour was infamously and covered from the inside with tons of snark by roadie Noel E. Monk and writer Jimmy Gutterman in the book 12 Days on the Road: The Sex Pistols and America (1990, Quill/William Morrow & Co.), which is name checked in this follow-up documentary, the view presented here was more from the outside looking in, which actually makes it extremely interesting in a whole different light. They lived in a circumstance of being within the crowd, with near constant threats of violence from the audience, from the clubs’ personnel, and even the Pistols’ Warner Bros. team. It’s definitely an interesting bookend to the Monk self-serving version.

Part of what kept me riveted is that everyone who discusses the events was at the filming, giving first-hand accounts of the events, rather than from other journalists who were told what happened. John and Roberta are experienced at telling of events of the 1970s, so this practiced hand keeps off the stumbling around for words or remembrances, keeping the pace up.

I especially liked when Holmstrom comments that punk was the last musical form created totally in an analog world, before digital music and CDs temporarily replaced vinyl. As a student of media and technology, this spoke to me.

What makes the film D.O.A.: A Right of Passage so palpable is that it is not news footage, but rather a group of fans who put together a film trying to express a positive point. Back then, and I remember this strongly, most of the media attention was on the negatives, about how punk would degrade culture rather than put a mirror up to it, as is expressed by the officials in the U.K. within the documentary. This (and I do believe the follow-up, modern Dead on Arrival) is a better indication of what was actually going on in a three-dimensional way, from multiple directions rather than just pro- or anti-.

Oh, and Lech? You still owe me the $100 for the full page ad you took out in FFanzeen when this film came out. Just sayin’…

Review: Sad Vacation: The Last Days of Sid and Nancy

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2017

Images from the Internet

Sad Vacation: The Last Days of Sid and Nancy

Directed by Danny Garcia                  

Chip Baker Films / MVD Visual

94 minutes, 2016

www.chipbakerfilms.com

www.mvdvisual.com

I’ve certainly been in the same room with Sid and Nancy, especially the latter considering the sheer number of times I’ve seen the Heartbreakers, her band of choice before latching onto Sid. But my strongest connected and contributing memory is coming home from a show (if I remember correctly, the bands were The Fast and Crayola) in the late 70s, after the break-up of the Sex Pistols and before Nancy’s death, and seeing an inebriated and stumbling Sid kicking a guy passed out on the sidewalk on 8th Street, between McDougall and Sixth (Ave of the Americas, to those who don’t know better). Needless to say, I walked on, without talking to him. About a year later, he and Nancy were legends and newspaper fodder.

It makes sense that this documentary was made by the same people/director as the excellent Looking for Johnny: The Legend of Johnny Thunders [reviewed HERE], because Thunders and his band the Heartbreakers were a key catalyst in the lives of Sid and Nancy. Y’see, Nancy Spungen was a Heartbreakers’ friendemy/groupie who joined in with the band in its proclivity for hard drugs. These bits of fact, mentioned as raindrops at the beginning, including the elements of the Heartbreakers going to London to tour with the Sex Pistols, thereby opening up an opportunity for Nancy to go to the UK to get herself a Sex Pistol (much in the way the story goes that Linda Eastman did the same with the Beatles, and ended up with Paul).

There is a bit of irony in the whole story of the Pistols and Heartbreakers, as the Pistols famously wrote a derogatory song about the Heartbreakers (or New York Dolls, depending on how you read the lyrics) in a song called “New York” (“You're just a pile of shit / You're coming to this / You poor little faggot / You're sealed with a kiss”) to which the Heartbreakers responded with their own “London Boys” (“You're telling me 'shut your mouth' / If I wasn't kissing, you wouldn't be around / You talk about faggots, little momma's boy / You sit at home, you got a chaperon / You need an escort to take a piss”); you didn’t think in-song insults started with rappers, did you? After all that, Thunders and Vicious became good buds at some point.

The introduction of these elements led to a drug shitstorm that would rock the music scene as the Heartbreakers (and Nancy) introduced the use of heroin to Punk’s British Second Wave. Nancy, of course, latched herself onto Sid, but with all the tenuousness of the violence and mind/physical altering substances of their relationship, it’s hard to argue that they loved/needed/were dependent on each other (much as Linda and Paul were an actual couple beyond how they met). With Nancy holding the needle and the dime, she brought Sid into a world he may never have explored (though that is debated in the film), and eventually to New York.

As the film demonstrates through a large number of oral history interviews with varying memories and opinions about what would happen between the death of Nancy and that of Sid on Feb 3, 1979 (exactly 20 years after the crash that took the life of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and J.P. The Big Bopper Richardson). The general consensus seems to be that Sid could be a sweetheart or a terror, depending on the day or what was flowing through his system, but Nancy was just a horrendous human due to mental problems, substance abuse, and a “whiney” voice that could shatter glass. Her mom, Deborah, tried to explain it in a defensive and angry, self-serving auto/biography, And I Don’t Want to Live This Life (the book goes unmentioned, and Debbie is only brought up once).

To get down to the nitty-gritty, the film is extremely well put together with a very limited budget. I have always enjoyed different theories types of documentaries, that doesn’t try to come any real conclusion by itself, or have an answer in mind, and that uses the interviews to support ideas, rather than coming to one on its own. While one of the two trailers included in the extras claims it does, I’m happy to say it doesn’t really. However, it does posit a bunch of credible theories and lets the viewers come to its own possible choice of solution. The latter part of the film sometimes feels more like a murder mystery than a narrative, which I feel is a plus.

There are so many people from the period present, especially in the New York Scene of the 1970s, from fans to musicians, that experienced the Sid/Nancy phenomenon first-hand. Some include Walter Lure, Rockets Redglare, Cynthia Ross, Donna Destri, Lenny Kaye, Andy (Adny) Shernoff, photographer Bob Gruen (who went on the bus with the Pistols for their US tour), the late-great Leee Black Childers (who owned a leather jacket back then I truly envied), Howie Pyro (of The Blessed and D Generation, and who infamously snorted some of Sid’s ashes), Hellin Killer (who was with him the night Sid died), Sylvain Sylvain, and so many others. It also includes the one person I really wanted to hear, which was “Neon” Leon Matthews, a musician and fellow Chelsea Hotel resident that disappeared for a number of years after Sid died (only to resurface decades later in Europe). For a long time it was believed he held the key to the answer to what happened that night, and I am really grateful to be able to hear his side of that night.

Wisely, the interviews are intercut and short, so no one story goes on long enough to become burdensome to anyone who doesn’t really know these people talking about their affiliation to these two desperate and media-legendary victims. Also, the stories themselves are interesting and keep apace. Hearing the differences in opinion and events makes for conversations on what happened with the viewers going after the film ends. My only gripe is that the names are only shown the first time the talker is presented. I knew most of them, but the few I didn’t got lost on me as I heard more of their involvement. Also, it is a pleasure that everyone who talks had some direct action in the events, rather than hearing from journalists who report their indirect opinions on second-hand stories (as I hypocritically do at the end of the review).

As for the budget, well, it’s pretty easy to see the constraints, and I’m saying this as a positive considering the achievement and fascination of the film. For example, we see a B-roll of the Pistols playing live, and the Heartbreakers’ “All By Myself” is playing on the soundtrack. In fact, there is no Pistols music at all, and only a quick live snippet of Sid at Max’s; Sid’s “My Way” and “C’mon Everybody” is mentioned, just not heard. There are some pretty infamous clips though, including the drugged out Sid & Nancy in bed from the film D.O.A. (1980). The big head scratcher for me is that we don’t hear Johnny Thunders’ elegy for Sid, for which this film is named.

Other than the two trailers mentioned previously, there is also a Heartbreakers music video for “Take a Chance” that is linked to the film through clips. But the standout for me is the 18-minute extra of interviews. There are five, and it was right to take them out of the film due to their length and as they don’t really contribute to the story; however they were among my favorite anecdotes, especially the one by Donna Destri. Definitely watch it all of this extra all the way through. And did I mention the DVD comes with a free film poster?

So, yeah, the director/producers certainly achieved what they set out to do, and it makes sense that they preceded this with one about Thunders. I’m really looking forward to what’s next (I’m hoping one about Stiv Bators of the Dead Boys, though I haven’t heard anything about it).

And, for what it’s worth, here is the version of the story as I heard it at the time, though I can vouch for none of the validity: Sid and Nancy were expecting to have a big drug deal go down, and so they gave much of their valuables to friends for safeguarding; Johnny got Sid’s jacket, which he wore from then on, in good faith (i.e., he never sold it for, well, let’s say rent). The drug dealer gave them samples, enough to knock out Sid, and then made a move on Nancy; she rejected him, and he stabbed her. When Sid found out what happened, he felt guilty that he had passed out, and then left her to go to his methadone appointment in the morning, saying to the police, “I killed her,” meaning he didn’t protect her. The cops heard it as a confession (parts of this are echoed in the film).

Who know what would have happened if Sid had cleaned up. Would he be famous rather than infamous? Ponderous thoughts.

Film Review: D.O.A. (Don’t Overlook Any-Of-It) [1980]

Text by Lisa Baumgardner / FFanzeen fanzine, 1980
Introduction © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2015
Images from the Internet

This review was originally printed in FFanzeen, issue #4, dated May/June 1980, page 11. It was written by Lisa Baumgardner Falour, who published Bikini Girl fanzine at the time.

Sadly, Lisa passed away early this year in Paris. Lisa was an incredibly interesting person, as was her fanzine. She worked as a writer, photographer, artist, and for a while as a BDSM pin-up model. She was also known for always carrying a hidden cassette recorder, on which she taped all conversations, and then would publish them in her fanzine when she found them interesting. But hardly anyone she transcribed was as thought-provoking as her. I was introduced to her by Diana Torborina, someone who I worked with at Dimensional Sound Studios, and with whom I became friendly (Diana, if you read this, please feel free to contact me).

For my first half-tabloid newsprint issue of FFanzeen, Lisa wrote a review of Lech Kowalski’s then-new, and now-classic 1980 documentary about the Sex Pistols, D.O.A. As a side note, Lech took out a full page ad for the film, for which he never paid the $100. I’m just sayin’. – RBF, 2015

D.O.A. will soon be released to theaters around the world as a feature-length punk rock documentary. It’s definitely worth seeing, but requires a lot of patience and objectivity. Punk rock and its spin-offs in the fashion, art and political world are both important and inconsequential, and tell a story about the ‘70s, yet doesn’t say much at all.

Lech Kowalski’s Film is hard to sit through but bears a number of incredible scenarios. Beginning with a baptism and a soundtrack peppered with corny heartbeats, we are led through the doorway of X-Ray Spex’s rehearsal studio for an astounding performance of “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” Cut away to an interview with the president of Warner Bros. Records, who sneers and mentions, “You know, we are not a non-profit organization!”

These perplexing statements are part of a much larger onslaught of visual sludge known as D.O.A. (Dead on Arrival), a 100-minute-long documentary film on punk. Not the “punk” I grew up with. Hopefully, you too were spared because it’s ugly and disturbing, and when I saw it, my own youth suddenly seemed too close and fresh and unsettling. Yuck!

A pretty girl with heavy makeup and short hair is interviewed in a prone position in a parking lot in Texas. She has just been literally thrown out of a theater where the Sex Pistols were playing. Her crime? “Hangin’ out,” she moans. Apparently, the police have used direct physical force to eliminate a group of fans loitering in the lobby. She looks pretty seriously hurt, at the very least extremely distraught. Can she get up? “This is why punks gotta carry chains!” she says. Violence is breeding further violence. “What are you doing tonight?” Lech Kowalski asks her from behind-camera. “Who cares?” she replies, starting to cry. “I don’t care. If you care, you get let down.”

The film is full of gruesome vignettes. The comedy relief? An interview with Sid and Nancy, O.D.-ing and barely coherent in his all-black bedroom in London. The only time Sid seems aware of anything is when Nancy peels off her black rubber t-shirt, glistening with sweat. He picks it up, sniffs it, and smiles with a look of wonder. “’Ey, it smells just like you, Nancy!” “Well, it ought to,” she replies, “I’ve been wearing it since the first day I got to London.”

“I ain’t afraid to walk down the street looking totally ridiculous,” one serious-looking London punk musician explains. “It don’t matter what ya got on. You’re a human bean, just like everybody else. You’re messed up.”

The message behind this film, as well as the continuity, is obscure. Punk is a reflection of decay, one might say, and as the title implies, was born dead. The similarities between British and American audiences are the boredom, pent-up frustration, and search for freedom of expression of the anger youth feels. British public officials are quoted ridiculing punk and insisting, “They can’t win.” Can’t win what? “I’m ashamed of the world we’ve made,” one female official says, “if our children are growing up with attitudes like this.”

There are moments in D.O.A. that come close to capturing the feeling at a band rehearsal. Four or five young musicians are kidding around in an old, garage-like converted studio, and they begin to belt out a tune as if their lives depend on it. Yes, we conclude, it does start out positive. It’s energetic self-expression, and it beats the fuck out of boredom. But by the time it gets to be performed before thousands of kids who’ve paid ten bucks to see it, it’s pretty sorry stuff.

D.O.A. is negative, but very thought-provoking. It is exciting to see a film with guts these days. It is straightforward, raunchy, and has no plot. It seeks to reveal glimpses of a fascinating phenomenon. Lech Kowalski has a lot of energy and determination to have traveled extensively with a crew numbering from four to thirty, and the footage shot of the Sex Pistols’ tour in the South, particularly Georgia and Texas, is priceless. He has not tried to be arty. He presents a variety of conflicting circumstances and opinions, and allows us to be voyeurs without getting spit on at a crowded rock arena full of young people looking and behaving like assholes. He shows us Sham 69, the Dead Boys, and Bleecker Bob, too. He also makes us wonder about money – the concert promoters, the record companies, the media – and the way they present punk to the world. One of the British officials insists the individual musicians are doing it for the money. We think of Sid and Nancy. In it for the money?

Bonus D.O.A. footage:

 

DVD Review: The Sex Pistols on TV: The TV Interviews (Un)Censored

Text by Robert Francos / FFanzeen, 2014
Images from the Internet
 

 

The Sex Pistols on TV: The TV Interviews (Un)Censored
Directed by Mark Sloper
Odeon Entertainment
A2B Media / ITN Source
120 minutes, 2010
www.mvdvisual.com

Before I start the review, first some wavy lines of a flashback: when VHS first started to be mass marketed, there were a series of tapes of popular groups like the Beatles and Elvis that just showed press conferences and news pieces, without any music by the artists they covered. The reason was simple in that music meant royalty fees. Fast forward to this release.

I need to cover this review in two pieces, first the content and then a bit deeper. Perhaps not on a Greil Marcus level, but here we go. Wheeeee.

There is no real flow here, just a semi-chronological order as we follow the boys through their careers. Smartly, it starts with just a brief clip from the infamous Bill Grundy interview that everyone who is interested in this has probably seen soooooo many times EV-rywhere. Thank you for that, director Sloper.

Separated by title cards displaying year(s) and focus of a particular set of clips, we are shown television shows and interviews with the group, some band members, or those associated with them. Clips run from pretty short at a couple of minutes to extended pieces, resulting in 2 hours of all-Pistols-and-Pistols-related-all-the-time. Which has its good and bad points.

The good is that there are many clips here I’ve never seen from British shows, including those culled from music news programs, something the US did not really have during the Pistols’ tenure (unless you want to count the ridiculous segments on the likes of Tom Snyder’s Tomorrow Show, or Phil Donohue). There’s a couple of Janet Street Porter, a tall woman with big teeth and a thick north U.K. accent, for example, trying to get a decent answer out of Lydon (I admired when Johnny then-Rotten gives an bemused, off-hand side comment on how her obviously dyed red hair is the same color as rhubarb; see video below). Mostly they’re met with derision while being accused of being devious. It’s a joy watching Lydon take the piss out of them, never storming off the set, but just sauntering off after acknowledging the bias against the band. Then again, he walks around with a joyful metaphorical target on his vest.

The bad part is that all of the news stories are somewhat taken out of context. Captions stating the names of the programs or interviewers would certainly have been most helpful. I’m sure the audience in England will know the program(me)s, but we Yanks may not. I found that really annoying. Also, all music is taken off, even if set in the background, and replaced with a generic piece that has sort of a Pistols feel to it, albeit with all the life sucked out of it. It is also repeated throughout the whole collection. By the end of the two hours, it made me question whether I will ever watch this again.

Of course, there are some news clips that were used in some previous documentaries about the Pistols, especially on the US tour (let’s see the redneck jocks makin’ fun of the punkers, before they would realize that they could inflict some serious body damage in a mosh pit if they joined in). And there are the New York City news reports of Sid’s death, especially my favorite one of Roger Grimsby (ABC News) pronouncing that it all happened at the “Chel-sah” Hotel. See, I knew that one because it was local for me. Anyone outside of NYC would not have a clue; even then I wanted some caption so everyone can know.

The quality of the pieces ranges from sharp to obviously taken from old home-recorded off the television VHS grainy. Yes, there is a lot of information in this, and it is especially interesting to watch Rotten stay the same and yet evolve at the same time as far as using the media as much as it used him. With the exception of Sid and Johnny, nearly all the others (Jones, Cook, and Matlock) get very brief vocal time. There are also no clips talking about Rotten getting slashed with a knife on the street (perhaps it was before Grundy? No, I’m not going to look it up).

As far as face time goes, more is given to Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood than to the rest of the band. Sure, Rotten gives some snide comments about them here and there, but he and Sid are the focus of this. Gotta say, though, I did see Matlock’s Rich Kids - which is never mentioned here, though Lydon’s post-Pistol’s PiL is - a couple of times, once opening for Sylvan Sylvan’s 14^th Street Band at Hurrah’s, and they weren’t all that interesting. I remember Jones being on a “stay away from drugs kids” commercial and a couple of mentions in a book by the lovely Miss Pamela DesBarres, but the rest of the band didn’t really have much other than the Pistols.

Some of the news segments include the aforementioned PiL, a couple of the Pistols reunions, brief pieces on the US tour (mostly the southern end rather than California), and a pretty interesting section from the early 1990s on how they affected Manchester by playing there, leading to the formation of bands like the Buzzocks. There are interviews with Howard Devoto, Steve Diggle, Pete Shelley, and members of other bands as well. There is even a news story on the making of Sid and Nancy.

What I found most interesting, however, is a 20-plus minute interview in a bar near the end with a jetlagged Lydon-Rotten where he is actually answers questions (the next interviewer – or previous one, it’s not clear – was not so lucky). He happily and intelligently talks – and often talks over – without giving in to the usual “ask an intelligent question” mode he tends to fall into. He seems to be having fun, and is quite informative. This piece alone is worth the watch, though as a whole it’s an important piece of collected history; this one, however, is the keeper.

One last thing before I become more of an academic: why does Sloper call himself the director? He should, more likely, be called the curator or producer, as he does not really have anything to do with the content, other than grouping them into sections with titles, and digitally replacing decent music with a terrible one. I’m sure it’s a lot of work, but calling it “directing” is a misnomer. He does more actual directorial work on his next film, Sid!, of which a really nice 20-minute preview is given on this DVD.

Switching gears a bit (okay, a lot), I was paying attention to what Lydon was saying through the years, and came to realize that he was a Media Ecologist. Whether he’s read it or not, he aligns well with the likes of Neil Postman, Harold Innis and Daniel Boorstein, discussing how mass media such as news organizations are interested in a pre-set bias and agenda, and focus on made up, or non-events (Boorstein calls them “pseudo-events). He constantly posits about how the media is rubbish, the focus of their stories are more on sensationalism than reality, and that the questions they ask are meaningless other than to be “shocking” (or what he calls boring). Of course, I’ve always seen him being grumpy at reporters, especially when he’s heard the same question over and over (e.g., “how are you guys getting along?”), but I really listened to what he was saying. Much like Bobcat Goldthwait, there is more beneath the demeanour that just acting out. He’s actually saying something important; something that is becoming more so all the time as the Tea Party tries to steal the United States and set up a theocracy through lies and distraction.

Now, Lydon keeps saying that the rest of the band is into the reunions for the money, but not him. Honestly, I don’t know how true that is, but it really is irrelevant, isn’t it? I mean, the whole group kind of took the wind out of that sail by calling their rejoining “The Filthy Lucre Tour.” But that doesn’t stop the questions. This only feeds Lydon’s fervor and avering about the true focus and bias of mass media.

A quick couple of comments and then we’re outta here. First, it drives me crazy when news reports state that the Pistols “started punk rock.” Well, they don’t call it the British scene “second wave punk” for nothing. By the time the Pistols formed, the New York scene had been going on for two years, with hundreds of bands. Yes, however, they did transform it into something else, as did the “third wave,” hardcore, shortly after the Pistols broke up. Second, the bias against the Pistols is shown clearly by the often reference of “Sid killed his girlfriend Nancy,” especially in the British press. This has never been proven, and there are enough contradictory stories to this line of thought to put forward serious doubt. Personally, I believe she was stabbed by a drug dealer that she refused sex while Sid was passed out from “sampling.” My theory is no less credible than theirs, and is actually based more on people who knew them than the press or police reports.

On a positive note, one of the most touching moments is Lydon discussing the death of Joe Strummer. Through the years there has been the hint of animosity between them, but Lydon clearly sets that straight.

As a collective historical document, this is an interesting-to-say-the-least release, and possibly an important one to have all of this info at hand in one place. That being said, there are substantial problems with it, and I have avered above. If you’re a Pistols fan, it’s good to have all these clips in one spot.

DVD Review: “Final 24: Sid Vicious, His Final Hours”

Text © Robert Barry Francos/FFanzeen
Images from the Internet

Final 24: Side Vicious, His Final Hours
Season 1, Episode 1
Cineflix International, 2006
60 minutes, USD $14.95
MVDvisual.com

Having seen two other of this Canadian series (Janis J and Keith M, reviewed previously) that was once presented on the Discovery Channel, I was looking forward to seeing more, especially the first one, on Sid Vicious. I was wondering what their take on the whole affair, and the question about Nancy’s death. This DVD did not disappoint.

This is another fine mixture of first person interviews and actual images of Sid and his crew, such as footage (including the famous bed interview with Sid and Nancy) from Lech Kowalski’s D.O.A. documentary. Throughout, actors dramatize Sid’s last day while the real persons often included in these vignettes discuss what you are seeing in 2007 monologs. British narrator Danny Wallace (listed on the box, though IMDB claims it was Dave McRae) somberly informs us regularly of the time of day, and just how much longer our anti-hero has to live (e.g., “In four hours, Sid will be dead”).

The action jumps back and forth between the dramatized last day and documentary scenes of Sid’s life up to that moment. Between each commercial break there is a different period discussed, be it childhood, Pistol-hood, drug use, Nancy’s demise, and post-prison. His mom, Anne Beverly, comes off as creepy as Deborah Spungen, Nancy’s mom, did in her book, And I Don’t Want to Live This Life.

There is a mystery exposed here, and I was assuming that it would be information about Nancy’s death, which has had as many expository causes as JFK, but the end takes us down a different and very interesting path that I will not expose, but is an attention-grabbing thought, though it is impossible to track as everyone concerned is mort.

Many familiar and not well known names are presented in 2007 interviews, such as Peter Kodick, who bought him his last shots (Kodick listed as Sid’s “friend,” and yet I still don’t understand why he is not in jail for accessory), his friends Eileen Polk and Alan Jones, his lawyer James Merberg, Pistols’ roadie Steve Connelly, Glen Matlock (which I found ironic), and even the late Malcolm McLaren. Unfortunately they did not talk to his post-Nancy girlfriend, Michele Robinson, or any of his band members.

Usually what really makes the program is not necessarily the last 24 hours, which is nicely dissected in increments of events with a digital clock showing how much time the subject has left to live, but the overview of the person’s life. However, in this case, the show posits an idea into Sid’s death I had not heard before (though I did hear a variation of it), making this a bit more relevant and “new.”

For all the high drama visuals and narratives, the program actually manages to make Sid somewhat of a sympathetic man-child who was out of control and had a lack of boundaries buried under fame and a needle. This surprised me, as I was expecting more of a modern-style expose. Sid comes off as more of a Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein’s monster, created by the media and music business, than, say, the cold killing machine of Glenn Strange’s version of said creature.

Like most of the other people in this series, Sid’s death began with circumstances beyond his reach, in a world full of cameras and twisted adoration, and he just couldn’t handle it. But the question is, who shot the sheriff, and this show tries to examine that very question.

SEX PISTOLS: Pretty Vacant

Text by Sue Starstruck, intro by Robert Barry Francos
Interview © 1979; RBF intro © 2010 by FFanzeen
Images from the Internet

The following article about the Sex Pistols was originally published in FFanzeen magazine, issue #3, in the Winter-Spring 1978-79 issue. It was written by Sue Starstruck.

Do I really need to go into any background or detail about the Pistols? Didn’t think so, thereby let me say that Sue Starstruck, along with her cohort Alex, used to live in Whittier, California (near Disneyland), and published their own fun and fabulous fanzine, called / (which as subtitled “The fanzine without a name”). I was friendly with them, and somehow, when they both moved to England, I lost contact with them. If anyone knows their whereabouts or what happened to them, please let me know. – RBF, 2010
It’s fucking St. Valentine’s Day, and I celebrated by playing a Bryan Ferry record. Now I’m in my room, there’s a kite on the bed – but no wind outside.

So: The Sex Pistols. When Alex and I first worked out the idea of doing their fan club, we knew it wouldn’t be ordinary. That wasn’t what the Pistols were about. We just wanted to share information, to give people a chance to get t-shirts, posters, all that; and to just DO SOMETHING, in a personal, non-boring way.

Well, the fan club never got off the ground due to delays and the increasing possibility that it would be run by a merchandiser – the same one who supplies the KISS Army.

Time dragged on; the album was released, the film off and on and finally off (good). Then it hit. The Pistols were coming to America. Then they weren’t. OK, they were. It was enough to drive a crazy person sane!

Knowing I didn’t want to see them at Frisco’s Wonderland (too big and too crowded), I scraped together fanzine money and some I was saving up to move out, and went to Dallas.

As soon as the show at the Longhorn Ballroom was underway, I thought I’d wasted my money and my effort. The Sex Pistols were so bad; they reminded me of the New York Dolls, who I don’t think were ever what they are now thought to have been – Sid Vicious was so gone, but we’ve probably all read about this in Rolling Stone…The band was furious, but the music wasn’t. It was just sloppy and self-centered.

The next night was Tulsa – Cain’s Ballroom. I waited for hours in the snow, but I’m not complaining. I thought it was great! (It was only the second time I’ve ever been in snow, so you’ll have to excuse me.) The Pistols arrived late afternoon in their tour bus. They clowned around in the snow. Another kid who had been waiting outside went to shake Sid Vicious’ hand. Sid hit him, not hard tho. I thought it was funny and I was glad it wasn’t me.

I managed to see some of the soundcheck. Boy, I saw enough to know. “Let’s do it together this time,” Rotten pleaded. During “Liar,” which I don’t think they ever did in the actual shows, John (I must be trendy and call him John) just sat on the edge of the stage and looked out, hollow, empty – what am I doing here?

The show that night was fantastic despite the fact that Rotten had the flu. Paul played well as ever, Steve (who looked none too happy) explored a new guitar, Sid was carefully watched by a guard as he fought the temptation to swing his bass at the people like myself who were smashed together right in front of the stage. And John – definitely on, like a man possessed, his performance sliced by his cat-and-prey stares with the crowd. It occurred to me as I caught his stare, “It’s all for him. He’s putting forth so much but he’s doing it for himself, and not for the audience.” I stared back with a vengeance.

But this was the show I had waited for since way back when. I’m glad they had it in ‘em like I’m glad I wasn’t wrong.

A few days later was the SF show topped off by the break-up. Why it happened, who threw out who more exactly we may never find out. But what will happen next: Paul & Steve form a power pop band (here we go again with labels!). John does reggae – “I mean it, mon.” Sid with Jerry Nolan… is luckily yet to be learned.

By the way, I really recommend a book that is, as far as I know, only out in England: The Sex Pistols by Fred & Judy Vermorel it’s called, and try writing to Tandem Publishing… It’s pieces of interviews, news stories, and best of all, portions of Sophie’s (McLaren’s secretary) insightful diary. The book’s loosely done but it speaks for itself as in “look afar and see the beginning” – I got that in a fortune cookie once.

Fear of February

Text © Robert Barry Francos
Images from the Internet

As we swing towards February, Mercury is currently in retrograde. What this means to those into astrology is that this is a bad time for making life-altering decisions and signing contracts. In fact, I know of a famous musician who is putting off a big deal until the retrograde ends, after February 1. Astrology to me is one of those things that I find cool if it works for me, but I ignore if it is negative.

It seems an irony that retrograde ends at the start of February, because that is when I start to get a little bit nervous. Early in that month seems to have an air of fear and a hint of death. After all, lets visit this period for the past few decades.

On a very early cold Midwest morning, three musicians stepped onto a plane. They were on a grinding cavalcade bus tour, and the star decided he wanted to fly ahead to wash his socks and underwear.

Though the stories are numerous about how everyone ended up being on the small chartered plane, it crashed minutes after taking off. Along the with tales of how culture changed at that defining moment, there are even songs telling of “The Day the Music Died.”

On board were the prince of rock and roll, Buddy Holly (Charles Hardin Holley), rising star Richie Valens (Richard Steven Valenzuela), and one-hit-wonder disk jockey J.P. Richardson, known nationwide as The Big Bopper. One story was that at a certain point, session guitarist Waylon Jennings was also on board, but got off, with Valens taking his place.

Ten years later, it was February 2, 1969, and a British born/Toronto raised elderly actor named William Henry Pratt passed on. He possessed one of the most imitated voices in the history of cinema, and yet, again ironically, he started his career voiceless. His first film was in 1919, a silent film called “Her Majesty’s Service.” Pratt’s roles were mostly second-string, and though he made numerous films before the advent of sound pictures, he didn’t make enough to live on, so he drove a truck to fill in the gaps.

The change came indirectly at first, in 1930 (though it was actually recorded in 1929). The film Dracula was an instant success, making the actor who played the role, Bela Lugosi, famous. He had that melodious, mysterious voice, which he considered his trademark. When the next film at Universal Studios came up later that year, to be released in 1931, he turned down the role because it was non-speaking. The person who got the role was pretty much unknown, despite his years of the craft. When the film Frankenstein came out, the actor playing the monster was listed in the credits merely as “?” No longer Bill Pratt, “?” was now monikered Boris Karloff.

Paradoxically, Karloff had a much more varied and popular career than Lugosi, probably because the former was able to remove himself from his roles, where as the latter had too much of his life mixed with his mythos. Karloff used his roles to pursue the things that interested him, such as art collecting; Lugosi merely wanted the fame, the dames, and the intoxication. Because Karloff was such a kind man, he actually made a sideline of being totally against type, by recording albums of children’s stories (I possess one of them), and even playing the narrator and main character of the animated How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Towards the end of his career, he made one phenomenal film, Targets, essentially playing himself in an early film directed by Peter Bogdanovich, before Boris drifting off into grade C Mexican horror films while confined to a wheelchair due to an extremely advanced case of arthritis. He died on February 2, 1969.

Ten years later, it goes back to a short, flashy life in music. Or, some people may argue, around music, considering the talent of the artist. There have been many interpretations and tales about the death of John Simon Ritchie, or as he’s commonly known, Sid Vicious. Or, just Sid, even though he was Sidney (or SID-nay) to John Lydon. I share the same birthday as Sid, May 10.

But first I must digress: I saw Sid once. In ’78, was at a crappy little club that lasted for two minutes near the old Bleecker Bob’s, when it was on MacDougal Street, near the Christian Science Reading Room. The show was over, and I turned the corner onto 8th Street, going toward the subway, and there was Sid, definitely wobbly with a bottle in his hand, kicking some unconscious drunken guy who was lying on the sidewalk near the curb and a pile of trash waiting for the garbage truck. Needless to say, I did not stop to chitchat.

Without saying whether it is true or not, here is the story that I heard about Sid’s death. After getting out on bail, he wanted to, well, let’s just say return to some old habits. He had his mother, who was in New York, head over to a dealer he knew in the then truly seedy Union Square Park. He told her, “Make sure it’s good stuff.” When his mom made the purchase, she asked the dealer what condition the condition was in, and he told her, “For Sid, I only give excellent. Just make sure he cuts it.” For those who don’t know (and as someone who has never tried the crap, I’m not even sure how I know), it means it’s pure and needs to have something added into it to dilute the potency.

When dear ol’ mum brought it back, Sid asked, “Is the stuff good? What did the guy say?” She told him, “He said something about it being cut.” Sid took this to mean that it had already been cut, and he OD’d.

That story may be pure fiction, I don’t know, I’m just the reteller of what I heard. Either way, he died on February 2, 1979.

In case the reader has not noticed, this was the first few days of February in three 10-year intervals: 1959, ’69, and ‘79. As far as I know, there was no cultural death-shift in 1989 or 1999, but I am still aware every first few days of that month. Perhaps I am going to be especially aware as it comes around this year, 2009.


POSTSCRIPT FEB 2009: Looks like this year proved to be another in the list, as Cramps front(wolf)man Lux Interior passed away on Feb 4, 2009. My blog about him is dated Feb 5.

More Memories: Alpine Theater, Bay Ridge

All photos taken from Web

During the much of the ‘70s, I worked at a couple of local movie theaters as both an usher and a ticket ripper. I had my little red jacket, white shirt and black bowtie as a uniform in both.

Alpine Theater
The second one, in the late ‘70s, was at the Alpine Theater, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. It’s the kind of place that events that happened sound like they are made up, but that is far from the truth. It was a period of cosmic weirdness, in an area made famous by disco, the 2001 Odyssey Dance Club, and "Saturday Night Fever". Here are some stories of working there; they are not chronological, but just as they come to mind. And this is just a smattering.

By the time I started the job, I had already been involved in the punk scene, and my fanzine was well underway, between my third and fourth issue. Of course, I was the only one there who had any idea about things like CBGB’s, Max’s, Ramones, or anything other than Kansas, Yes, CSN&Y, and especially disco. When Sid allegedly killed Nancy, the ushers kept teasing me. When Sid died, I knew they were going to really bug me about it, so I took one of those huge metal laundry safety pins and put it in my lapel. One by one the ushers came in and before they could say anything, their curiousity piqued, they asked, “What’s that?” I answered firmly, “Its for Sid!” They left me alone.

There is a book called “Billy Lives”, by Gary Brandner, which is basically a novel about the marketing of a rock star after he as died in an accident. It’s cynical as all hell, but one thing that made me buy it in the first place was the cover, which is a painting of a photo of the New York Dolls. It’s is a kind of crude rendition, but it’s definitely them (If I remember correctly, it was taken from the cover of the “Too Much Too Soon” LP). One day, in 1978, I was on my lunch break, and was reading the book while eating a tuna salad sandwich at the luncheonette diagonally across the street from the theater. I was sitting on a stool at the counter (where have all the counters gone, long time passing…)

As I’m chompin’ away, there is a middle-aged woman sitting next to me is waiting for an order she placed. She turns to me and says, “Isn’t that David Johansson on the cover?” Mouth filled with tuna and a head full of “Wha?”, I nodded my head to the affirmative. She started saying how she was from Staten Island, and her daughter used to date him when they were teens. Took me totally by surprise. I mean, now it would not seem uncommon for someone to recognize him, even from a piss-poor drawing of him, since the Dolls have been around for so many years and David had such an illustrious solo music career (every middle class person probably knows “Hot Hot Hot”), or even his limp stab at acting, but in the ‘70s, someone that age would not necessarily be familiar…unless of course he took their daughter to the prom!

I’ve never been a fan of pot. Tried it, found it boring, so I stopped. Late one night, during the last show, one of the ushers pulls out a joint the size of my arm, and says, “Let’s smoke!” The manager had gone home and we were closing, so except for the dozen people watching the film and the candy counter person (who hadn’t had a sale since the film started), we had the lobby to ourselves. “Nah, I’m not interested, but you go ahead, I won’t tell.” He lights up, and before long, he’s leaning on a column, wrecked. I snuck up behind him and started whispering, “Reeses…..Reeses….Reeses.” With an anguished cry, he ran – nay, stumbled – over to the candy counter and bought three huge and expensive packages of the candy, then stumbled back to the column. Just as he was about to take a bite, I jumped up and make a goofy face saying “Boogah boogah!” He started laughing, inane as it was, because he was stoned. I kept doing goofy things to keep him laughing, so even though he had the candy, he couldn’t eat it, as it quickly melted in his hands. The next day, he was really mad at me, and probably rightfully so.

Late one night, I was in the utility closet putting away one of those tiny brooms, when the security-guard-for-hire walked in. “Hey, Larry,” I said. Without saying a greeting, he took out a non-legal handgun, cocked it, put it to my forehead, and said in a dissonant whisper, “You know, if I wanted to, I could kill you right now.” I quickly thought, “This is ridiculous…this guy isn’t going to kill me in a utility closet in a movie theater.” So I looked at him straight in the eyes and said, “Go ahead.” He uncocked the gun, lowered it, and said, “You know, you’re the first person that didn’t crap in their pants!” I thought, “What a jerk,” and left the closet.

About 20 minutes later, what he said came back to me, that I was the first person…. That meant he had does this to others. One by one, I questioned the other ushers, who were tough Irish and Italian kids, and they confirmed that sure enough, he had done that to just about all of them, which scared the hell out of them because many of them were “connected”, and a gun meant something else to them than it did to me. I gathered the boys (back then, ushers were male, cashiers were female), and we collectively went into the manager’s office. She was a morbidly heavy woman in her ‘60s who was known to walk through the lobby picking up stubs people threw down, and then sent them to the district office claiming them as refunds, keeping the cash. Her son was a police officer at the local precinct, so we figured she would back us up.

When we told her, she said, “So?” Not what we were expecting. We said, “We want your son to come down here an arrest him. He’s not supposed to be carrying a gun.” She said, “I don’t want to bother him, he’s busy.” I said, “You don’t understand: he held a GUN to our HEADS.” Her reply was, “I don’t want any trouble, so just ignore it.” The biggest usher, who was her favorite, said, “look, either he goes, or we all walk off the job together.” Finally, she relented and said she would ask for someone new the next day, but she wanted him to finish out the night because of the hour.” We agreed and started to walk out the door. Then I grabbed the sleeve of the big usher and dragged him back, and said, “You cannot tell him why. If he’s dumb enough to pull a gun on us, he’s dumb enough to come looking for us for revenge.” She looked like she was about to argue when the big usher said to me, “You go, I’ll talk to her.” He was in there for about 10 minutes and we could hear loud voice. Finally he came out, and gave me the thumbs up. It was the last we saw of the rent-a-cop, but you can bet we all looked over our shoulders for a while after that.