Jazz CD review: Missing // Jazz With Meaning, by Dave Nelson

Dave Nelson
Missing // Jazz with Meaning
www.davenelsonjazz.com
I first became aware of Dave as a trumpeter with the Oral Fuentes Band, and soon found out that he is also a top-notch jazz man in his own right, not singularly playing reggae; the man simply loves to play, which you can easily tell seeing him perform. This collection is all original jazz pieces that feature Dave leading a top-of-the-line five-piece ensemble. Each number has its own feel, and this is the real deal, not the “lite jazz” that is too popular.  

Although presently a native of Saskatoon and originating from Washington State, Dave recorded this at Brooklyn’s Systems Two studio.  Many of the songs have some relationship to either youngsters or a theme of seeking, as it is dedicated to families of missing children (www.childfind.sk.ca), and part of the purchase price goes to that goal.

Dave Nelson; pic by RBF

The opening number, “Blues for Katie,” is lively in classic Miles style bop that is a bit a-melodic, and yet follows a defined path that will have your head bouncing to the rhythm.  “Missing” is more 1950s noir, which could easily be the background to a Mike Hammer film, with visions of rain-drenched asphalt and windshield wipers keeping rhythm.  On the other hand, there is also a quiet joy with a touch of dissonance (i.e., sharp notes) about “Found,” the following piece. “I Live in Mexico” is a lighter mood opus with a “South of the Border” Latin-style jazz motif. “Take a Deep Breath” seemingly is not named to say “calm down,” but rather an instruction to be able to play the piece. He plays the horn straight for many bars, sometimes in a staccato style. It’s a really nice number, and quite energetic with a classic big band feel.

“Let the Children Dance” has a ‘50s or ‘60s theme, bringing to mind the kind of tune that would play while someone like Bob Hope came into a room, or a Doc Severinsen tune.  “Keep on Searching…” (do you see the theme of the titles here?) is lovely and upbeat, relying as much on all the instrumentalists (Jon Davis, Ian Froman, Javon Jackson, Gianluca Renzi)who each have solos, as much as Dave’s horn. The last one, “Father Time,” is in a similar vein, as with most of the music here, upbeat and, well, jazzy.

Most of the pieces are over 6-1/2 minutes on average, but the songs and musicians hold up throughout. Very worthwhile.

Book Review: Underground: The Subterranean Culture of DIY Punk Shows, by Daniel Makagon

Text (c) Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2016
Images from the Internet

Underground: The Subterranean Culture of DIY Punk Shows
By Daniel Makagon
Microcosom Publishing (Portland, OR), 2015
223 pages (inc. photos); USD $14.95
ISBN: 978-1-62106-518-0
www.orphanpress.com

The central focus of this book is a look at independent venues that put on shows and produce their own idiosyncratic scenes, rather than the usual bars, theaters and other licensed places with names that many are familiar with, such as the 9:30 Club, the Channel, and so on. Rather, we get to see an inside look at the positives and negatives of holding performances in houses, garages, and shows in rented spaces. He also handles the topics of the differences between being payed to put on shows, and having volunteers who are there for the excitement and experience, more than for the payload. An example of a New York volunteer-run space discussed here is ABC No Rio.

House shows are nothing new, and were certainly not invented by the punk scene. Folk music has been doing it for decades, under the Scottish term, Cèilidh (pronounced as KAY-lee). Sure it started as just some friends coming over and bringing their own instruments and playing together, but it also developed into house shows for pay in the 1960s, at first as to raise money for civil rights causes, but now it’s often done to support the space and musicians; it continues on to this day. I once saw a community centre dance during 2003 in Mabu, Nova Scotia, with world renowned musicians such as fiddlers Natalie McMaster and most of the Beaton family for CAN$7 (McMaster alone usually sells out Carnegie Hall). Recently in Saskatoon, there was a local political rally for a local political party held in a backyard [HERE].

However, punk shows are their own kettle of fish, dealing with a totally different kind of audience. Rather than sedate handclapping-along, with the amplification comes energy and a larger chance of mayhem, substance abuse, and dealing with anxious police enforcement. Makagon is correct when he posits that “each city has its own unique roadblocks” (p. 198).  As I’ve oft said, most local scenes start off small and intimate, and as they catch on, they tend to attract a violent element (usually jocks that destroy the joy, usually starting from their actions in the pit) which eventually wears the scene down to extinction, or other factors associated with that popularity. As Makagon puts it, “The whole scene can be let down by the actions of a select few fools” (p. 214).

The local scene that last attracted me was in Brooklyn, called the Punk Temple, where a bunch of entrepreneurs rented out the basement of a Bensonhurst synagogue [HERE]. There were shows approximately every three weeks featuring bands touring from all over the country (but mostly from the Tri-State area), for a few years in the early 2000s. As the Temple (as it was known to its regulars; Makagon shows that all scene places have a unique name) became better known, the pit became more ferocious, and though all ages and substance free inside its doors, people (mostly teens) would hang around outside to do their imbibing. The noise they made did not sit well with the lower-middle class area and there were some complaints from the neighbors. Finally, during a sold out show with Leftover Crack headlining, the Police had enough and pulled the plug. Through the precinct’s influence, the synagogue stopped renting the place and in a couple of years, the building was replaced by a condo complex. Other local offshoot scenes were tried, but over time they vanished as well, like the mist on the moors, or the clouds from a smoke machine.

This is the kind of situation that Makagon addresses, about how the scenes get started, and the people who run the show. This is certainly not a how-to primer, but rather what to expect from the crowds, from the bands, and the neighbors.

Broken up into sections dealing with different aspects about the positives and the negatives of DIY shows, in the book Makagon follows a formula that is reminiscent of a graduate school project (not saying this as a complaint in any way, as I am certainly comfortable with that style). For example, he talks about an issue for a bit, and then has a quote from someone who has experienced it for a bit. The writing style varies from keeping it on a level that the average reader can appreciate (i.e., not opaque, or in academic lingo), but still manages to throw in some theory that is juuuust academic enough to make it bona fide. Again, this is not meant as not an argument for or against the book, it’s just an observation.

The book covers multiple scenes from across the US, and is well researched, even beyond the author’s Chicago locus. Part of what makes this viable, to me, is that he is not an author in search of a topic to dissect, but rather he is involved in the movement, so it’s something that is close to him, and it shows. His describing himself as one of the oldest on the scene is also something with which I can identify.

Also included in the book are a large number of monochrome photos from various scenes published in dark green rather than black, as is the text. While a bit wordy and could easily be trimmed by quite a few pages (that is the academic’s albatross, needing to say volumes; it’s very common, even to me), there is still plenty of material that’s worth sorting through.

Overall, the book is not only informative, but it’s also quite enjoyable, even through the occasional dry spots. If you’re thinking of throwing some shows, or want some more knowledge about it, even to just see that you’re not alone in whatever you’re going through, it’s worth it to add this to the list of books about the topic. Again, this is not a manual, but it is a good source to help keep it going, including on a psychological level, from both a level of an academic and a fan.

Review: Welcome to Your Funeral: The Story of Rigor Mortis, Part 1 (beginning to 1987)

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2016
Images from the Internet

Welcome to Your Funeral: The Story of Rigor Mortis, Part 1 (beginning to 1987)

Written and directed by Bruce Corbitt
Narrated by Philip H. Anselmo
12 Pound Productions / MVD Visual
110 minutes, 2015 / 2016
www.12poundproductions.com
www.mvdvisual.com

 Rigor Mortis is well-known in the heavier band circles, even outside their own Dallas-Ft. Worth (DFW) scene where they exploded into the stratosphere of metal cultdom. Oh, they were different when they formed in the mid-1980s, in that they were one of the first to incorporate guitar rock sounds (not hair band) with those of the hardcore scene thanks to a fortunate timing of walking into a punk club and joining the pit full of skinheads. With this nascent formula, Rigor Mortis (RM) became one of the first eminent speed- and thrash metal groups, especially in the Central part of the country, away from any oceans.

 This is a documentary of the RM story…well, the opening chapters its history, anyway. On some level, I am always pleased to see an oral history of a band or a scene, rather than hear about it in a retrospective by some music historian or chronicler who depends on second-hand information. That being said, this was written and directed by RM’s lead singer, Bruce Corbitt, so it does come across as kind of one sided. The indication is that they were not just the first but the only non-hair metal band originating out of DTW that mattered (and perhaps that’s true, I don’t know).

This is not, however, necessarily a fluff piece. It seems that most of the interviews take place around 2008, and the band comes across as being somewhat nice guys, even though they fully admit that they started fights, did more than a bit of imbibing, and raised some (sometimes literally) bloody hell during their tenure according to this Part I.

It’s great that we not only hear from the core of the band, including Corbitt, once wild orange haired bassist Casey Orr (who would also play with Gwar as Beefcake the Mighty), drummer Harden Harrison, and guitarist Mike Scaccia, but from various other bands around at the time and some that were influenced later.

Scaccia created his own style of playing that is recognizable to metal fans, claiming he did it the first time he ever picked up the instrument as a teen, to impress a girl (he states when she heard him, she gave him the guitar). He is also the only one in the band who didn’t originate from Texas, but rather is a Long Island goombah from Babylon; I say that completely complimentary); he would also go on to become a core member of the noise band, Ministry.

In its nascent stage, RM would constantly make fun of other softer rock bands who pile on the make-up, have hair that’s stripped of color and flounced out, and ridiculous and colorful leather outfits (and the occasional feathered boas), especially the local Pantera. Ironically, the band became close enough friends with Pantera replacement vocalist Phil Anselmo (he led Pantera’s to fame), who became a fan of RM after seeing them just before joining the band, that he is the gravelly and surprisingly monotone narrator of this documentary (and is also being interviewed).

Thing is, as relatively exciting as RM are, it’s kind of hard to tell just why they were so popular from this documentary. They sure do come across as a bit charming, surprisingly considering their reputation for wild boys (then again, they are aging, as well). And it really is a boys club here, as with the exception of Rachel Matthews, who signed them to Capitol Records and was Executive Producer of their first, Eponymous LP (still have my vinyl copy with press release), there’s no women in sight (she is interviewed toward the end, at the right moment in the story), including girlfriends, groupies or wives. Rock and roll is not exclusively penis-oriented, even if the majority of those on stage possess that equipment. Were there no females in the scene back then, even fans, who could have added some comments?

The biggest issue I have with this documentary, though, is not only that it’s a standard talking-heads about a bunch of guys reliving their glory days, but rather that there just weren’t that many good examples of their trade. Yes, Scaccia shows off some nice licks in the interview parts, but the clips of their live music is short clips that are both furry visuals (surely VHS transfers) and even worse, fuzzy sounds. The vocals are impossible to appreciate, and the sound is melded together like a stack of records at a garage sale that were sitting in the sun too long and melted into one.

Make sure you watch the credits, because it is filled with lots of still pix of the band throughout the ‘80s, and helps express the band from that standpoint quite well. As for extras, there’s a few. First off there is a 2:28 fun interview with John Perez (Solitude Aeturnus), and 7:16 of drunken stupidity with Wayne Abney (singer/bassist of Hammerwitch), both discussing seeing early versions of the band. The rest are live clips in concerts or practice sessions, comprising about a half dozen of their highlight songs. The quality varies, but it gives a better understanding of the band’s sound and appeal to their audience.

Now, I have a theory about this film. If I am right, and much of it was recorded towards the end of the 2000s, it might be the death of Scaccia in December 2012 that may have been the impetus to get the film finished. While he is arguably probably better known for his work with Ministry (which broke up after his death), it was during a RM gig in Texas for director Corbitt’s 50th birthday celebration that he had a massive heart attack onstage. This could be why in part Corbitt has fought to bring the documentary to fruition. The release is dedicated to him at the end, and rightfully so.

Despite my complaints that this is a bit of a generic recording of a band history film, it’s gained quite a lot of attention, and even won the 2014 Best Documentary at the Housecore Horror Film Festival in San Antonio, Texas. Like every other group bio, if you like the band, you know you’re going to get tons out of it, so if you know who they are and you’re into that kind of sound, or remember them from way back when, whatcha waitin’ fer?

 

Postscript:

Bruce Corbitt addresses some of my issues, and I am printing his response (with his permission) as I feel he has many valid points in reference to what I said, and I am very thankful to him:

In all honestly, we didn't have a huge female fan base back in that period or up until Part 1 ended (in 1987). Plus, none of our ex-girlfriends, Mike's ex-wife, old female fans or friends from that era could have made any significant contribution to our story. I did interview a lot of folks... and only used what we thought was best.

You are also right about the old VHS footage not being the greatest, but that's all we had to work with and it was better showing it than not showing it. I don't think we made the claim that we were the only non-hair metal band that mattered...we just don't have time to go into everyone's story in the documentary. But we did mention some of them and some were in the film. We plan on making The Birth of the DFW Metal Underground after we finish Part 2 of the Rigor doc.

Another thing you were right about is I did decide to blow off The Birth of the DFW Metal Underground film to make just a Rigor story in honor of my brother Mike Scaccia. He was born in Babylon, but was raised and lived in Texas pretty much all of his life.

Anyway, we are working on Part 2 now and it will be way crazier, and in my opinion, better than Part 1.

Bruce

The Coachmen [Thurston Moore's Pre-Sonic Youth Band, 1980], by Elodie Lauten

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

This review was originally printed in FFanzeen, issue #5, dated August/September 1980, page 30. It was written by award-winning Poet/Postminimalist Musician/Scenester Elodie Lauten.

I’ve never seen the Coachmen live; hell, haven’t seen Sonic Youth (d. 2011), the band Thurston Moore is infamous for, but I did get to sort of hang out with him and then-partner Kim Gordon when I worked as the floor manager for the cable access show Videowave in the ‘80s (see clip at bottom). They seemed a bit distant, but pleasant.

As for the Parisian-born Elodie Lauten (d. 2014), well… we didn’t have a great relationship, honestly.  After this piece, she wrote one more for FFanzeen on, I believe, Chubby Checker that was so stream of consciousness, it was unreadable, not even as poetry. Yes, I was a Neanderthal when it came to stuff like that, and could not appreciate it back in the early ‘80s. Perhaps I would now, if I read it again. When I asked her to rewrite it and why, I became an enemy of the/her state, as it were, and she would bad-mouth me in public, as I was told by someone who had talked to her (honestly don’t remember who, though). I was a punk, and I wasn’t hurt by it, but all these years later, I wish I would have handled it a bit better from my end. She was quite accomplished in the Arts, and it is worth checking out her Website (HERE).

Anything in [brackets and italicized] is written by me, in 2015. – RBF, 2015

John [J.D. King]

When started in rock’n’roll: 1977.
Foods: Nova [lox] and cream cheese on bagel (tomato and onions).
Drugs: Beer and vodka.
Instrument: Fender Guitar.
Favorite song: “Gee Whiz” and “The Hustle.”
Politics: Left.
TV program: “Leave It to Beaver” and “Dick Van Dyke.”
Job: Watchman.
Ideal job: Talent scout.
Favorite type of girl/guy: Smart, non-vindictive.

Bob [Pullin]

When started in rock’n’roll: Year and a half ago.
Favorite idol: Tibor Gergely [Hungarian-American artist of children’s picture books].
Drugs: Alka-Seltzer Plus.
Instrument: Telecaster bass.
Favorite song: “Marquee Moon,”
Politics: Not very.
Religion: Not very.
Job: Illustrator / art supply sales.
Ideal job: Children’s book illustrator.

Thurston [Moore]

When started in rock’n’roll: 7/25/58.
Favorite Idol: John Garfield.
Foods: Coffee rolls.
Drugs: 3-D.
Instrument: Fender Guitar.
Favorite song: “Stir It Up.”
Politics: Spartan.
Religion: Roman Catholic.
TV program: “Little Johnny Jewel.”
Job: Masterdisk.                                                   
Ideal job: Bank robber.
Favorite type of girl/guy: Movie stars.
Describe yourself: “New York Rules.”

Dave [Keay]

When started in rock’n’roll: Beatles.
Favorite Idol: Martin Scorsese.
Foods: Burger King.
Drugs: Alcohol.
Instrument: Ludwig drums.
Favorite song: “Sister Ray.”
Religion: Catholic.
Best friend: Fear.
TV program: “Rockers ’80.”
Job: Book store.                                                    
Favorite type of girl/guy: American.
Describe yourself: American.

FFanzeen: I compare you to the Beach Boys – the part that the vocals play in the Beach Boys is done in your band by guitars. What do you think of that idea?

Coachmen: That’s nice, thanks; the Beach Boys are favorites.

FFanzeen: So, what are your songs about? Reality? Fantasy?

Coachmen: We’d like to do more love songs. They’re kind of tough to do. Smoky Robinson does them – soul; music is all about love. Lately, most love songs seem rather cynical.

FFanzeen: Are you a democratic band?

Coachmen: Yeah. We improvise and feel around and figure out our own parts to an arrangement. It’s all pretty constant and open as far as change and progression go.

FFanzeen: You seem a very New York group. Are you stars?

Coachmen: Well, New York is home. We’re not stars, really.

FFanzeen: Such a casual image. Are you anti-stars?

Coachmen: No.

FFanzeen: What’s a good description for the Coachmen?

Coachmen: Well, we’ve always been a garage band. Experimental. The intent is music to dance to, so… some of us are still a bit shy…

 

My Shitty Is Gone, by Dava She Wolf, of Star and Dagger

Text © Dava She Wolf, 2010; introduction by Robert Barry Francos
Originally printed in POPULAR 1 magazine, in Spain
Reprinted with the kind permission of Donna and Popular 1
Photos © Robert Barry Francos

UPDATED (Originally published on March 5, 2010)

This is the first guest article this blog has ever presented, and when you read this you will know why. It's just too good to be seen only in a magazine from Spain (no disrepect to Popular 1 intended).

Dava She Wolf was the singer / guitarist in a powerful New York metal-based band, the She Wolves, and is now the guitarist of Star and Dagger. In an earlier incarnation, to which she refers to in the article, she was known as Honey 1%er, a vocalist in the Cycle Sluts From Hell, and wrote what is arguably their most famous number, "I Wish You Were a Beer." Plus, she is as sweet as she is certainly fierce. I am also proud to call her my friend.

As I nod my head in respect, adminration, and affection, I am proud to present her view of life in lower Manhattan in the '80s.

I feel like a ghost.

The New York Shitty I used to know is presently unrecognizable. Most of the original rockers, skinheads, punks and junkies have faded away. Now it’s investment bankers, stylists, trustafarians and hipsters.

All the great clubs and bars, one of a kind record shops, and cheap second hand stores are a dim memory.

Old New York Shitty never had retail chains. I remember when the first Gap landed where the St. Mark’s Cinema used to be. What an affront! Everyone was outraged and bricks were thrown.

Familiar haunts are now Duane Reades, Pottery Barns and slick lobby entrances of overpriced high-rises, where cookie cutter units house cookie cutter people. Mundane crap obliterates sacred spaces where miscreants, fiends and freaks could congregate when New York Shitty was xxxtra special.

Naturally, I don’t miss any of the bad shit, like no heat in the winter, no air-conditioning in the summer, the guns in my face, the knife to my throat, bruises from the occasional bar room brawl, the garden variety muggings on the way home from work, having all my shit stolen. I don’t miss any of that.

I began bartending just so I could live in whatever Lower East Side
shit hole I could afford. I wanted to sleep late, have a good time all the time and escape the norm; not sure want the norm was, but I wanted to escape it. I worked at many different places which, sadly, no longer exist. Places where I saw some strange, incredible shit. Some incredible shit that can’t be written about, I prefer to live out my natural life span.

But some dives, less famous than CBGB, are worth mentioning. New York will never see the likes of them again, no matter how bad the economy craps out.

Disclaimer

Sorry if a few details are flawed, it was an agonizingly long time ago, spent mostly under a haze of whatever was being offered.
A few names are dropped. Some are dead, some alive.

Berlin

My first bartending job was at an after hours club called Berlin, on 21st Street. It had relocated from its Broadway location and it might have been in another spot before that. Berlin was hands down the most freaky, surreal, scary, bizarre bartending gig I have ever had. And that’s saying a lot.
Shit and Corruption were Alive and Well in New York Shitty, which meant if the bagman didn’t get paid, law enforcement would descend to raid the place and arrest all us low-level urchins and misfits just trying to eke out a living to make the rent on our respective, crumbling, pre-war hellholes. These raids were dramatic: bright lights, shoving, screaming, and everyone running like cockroaches for an exit, while guns were being drawn and drugs were being dropped. Good times!

Our clientele consisted of other club workers getting off of work, badasses, musicians, artists, addicts, ne’er-do-wells, tranny-hookers and irregular folks in pursuit of a perpetual narcotic-induced faux sense of well-being. Berlin was a huge loft, painted all black on a derelict floor in a non-descript office building. There was a front bar attached to a back bar, actually an island, which was divided by a wall. The front bar looked out on an elevated DJ booth and a dance floor used for dancing and other activities.

On a good night you could catch a famous celebrity doing very bad things and on a great night you were invited to do very bad things with them. One of my favorite directors, Martin Scorsese, filmed some scenes for his movie After Hours at the club in an attempt to capture the indescribable insanity and ridiculous absurdity that was Berlin. Ha! Forget it. The cinematic version was outlandishly overdone and nowhere near the real thing. Sorry Marty.

After work I’d stash my spoils and head over to another after-hours club for a drink and more what not. In normal person time this would be around 7 a.m. Usually I ended up at the Nursery, or Brownies - “home of the losing slot machine” - on Avenue A and 11th Street. By afternoon if I finally had enough, I’d go home, get a grip and start all over again.
Danceteria

Before starting my glamorous shift at Berlin it was ritual to
fuel up across the street at Danceteria. Easy to do, thanks to something called “club courtesy”. You give me drinks, I give you drinks, and you always tip the bartender. It's pretty hilarious that the word “courtesy” could come into play at either Berlin or Danceteria, but there you have it.

Danceteria was a Mecca for all who were cutting edge and trendy. There were several floors with elevators. In case you got bored on one floor you could go to another and dance, or eat, or drink, and you could hang out on the roof if the weather was nice. Lots of options for the jaded and easily disinterested. The staff there even had their own lingo. If something was very cool they’d say it was either Fierce or Ruling, sometimes both. “Your hair is really Ruling tonight” “The way you threw that drink in her face was so
fucking Fierce”, etc.

All the girls that operated the elevators and tended bar at Danceteria were Fierce and Ruling. Despite all efforts I could not score a gig there. I had Fierce down, but was not yet Ruling. Still, it was a fascinating place where one could behold a pudgy, though no less self–absorbed Madonna, monopolizing the dance floor.
Always one to push an envelope, it is alleged the Material Girl was beaten over the head with a shoe (I’m guessing a Doc Marten) after pissing off a certain Fierce and Ruling bartendress, notorious for not taking shit from anyone, which includes Madonna. Legend has it that Madge was abusing her free drink privileges, repeatedly shuttling cocktails to an elite herd of mystery drinkers without ever leaving a dime and paying only lip service - which culminated in an immediate Zen response. If accurate, this story is of historical significance, because it details the only comeuppance Madonna has ever received in her entire life.
The World

The World was a huge old venue (a former Polish or Ukrainian chapel, I think) on East 3rd Street and Ave C. I can vaguely remember a motif of ornate wrought iron in garish surroundings. I got to bartend here, on and off. My bar-back would later go on to become the ill-famed club kid Michael Alig (Party Monster).
Long after we’d worked together I watched his rise, decked out in
over-the-top drag, on television and in the papers - and then watched his tragic fall exploited throughout the media. It was utterly shocking. When he had bar-backed for me, which was often at many different clubs, he was a hard-working, totally sweet kid. I don’t know what happened in the time that lapsed but I was sad to see his fate take such a wrong turn.

The World was run by legendary club impresario, Arthur Weinstein, and his partners. Arthur was responsible directly, and sometimes indirectly, for the success of some of Manhattan’s best clubs: Hurrah’s, The Jefferson, The Continental, The Milkbar, The Limelight… I can’t remember them all. I found him intimidating, but loved working for him. He was sharply dressed, fond of sarcasm, and had a genius for ambience and lighting, transforming any space into a destination where everyone felt important. Even if they sucked. Someone should make a movie about Arthur Weinstein.

Parts of Talking Heads video: “Burning Down The House,” featuring the ubiquitous comedian/performance artist/actor Rockets Redglare, were shot at The World. Rockets, a gargantuan persona in myth and in girth, was a real character who is remembered for some very infamous things, none of which will be mentioned here. Even though we were probably about the same age, he looked like a big goofy kid, sporting eyeglasses with retro frames, like the ones in news clips from the Kennedy assassination. Rockets made many cameos in several movies. But that pales compared to the amount of cameos he’s made at every bar I’ve ever worked at, especially at The Aztec Lounge during “Happy Hour” (if you want to call it that). Rockets would belly up to the bar as if he was the only customer, since usually he was, and regale me with fantastic Tales of Bullshit and Real Shit while sucking down vodka cranberries faster than I could pour them. Had I not been going toe to toe with him I probably could remember one or two of his incredible stories.

The Aztec Lounge

The Aztec was on 9th Street, between 1st and A, and it was truly a dump. At the time, I was very down and out, but had a nice friend there who hooked me up as my survival depended on it. I started out with day shifts, which were very depressing. At first my only “regular” was this old guy with real bad shakes, always buttoned up in his dirty, worn out, tweed coat. He’d always show up right after I opened. He reminded me of Ray Milland in Lost Weekend, only way older and way, way worse, and he’d only order Blackberry Brandy. I never charged him cause it was the crappy Mr. Boston kind and nobody else drank that shit anyway. Plus it was obvious he was flat broke. I figured he must have been a regular from when it was still The Park Inn, before it became a skinhead romper room. Poor fellow.

A little later, after noontime, all the snotty little squatter kids would show up: aspiring shit-starters and budding skinhead ‘tweens and teens that had no money, and no place to go if it was cold out.

At the time there was thriving hardcore scene. The energy around that part of the East Village was nothing at all like it is now. It was like a powder keg could explode at any minute. Lots of beefing going around over dumb shit, but when you have nothing, dumb shit is important. Sleeping in squats or in the park was not easy and these kids had steam to blow off. Of course they couldn’t drink at my bar. There was no quicker way to get arrested and lose the liquor license than to serve a minor a drink, unlike when I was their age and going to bars and clubs. Back then all you needed was some bullshit I.D. from Times Square and an attitude. Haha. Those were amazing times.

So I had to listen to these youngsters whine, complain and threaten me until their will was completely broken and they finally just gave up. Still they’d come in every day to drink from “the bottomless soda mug”. They were a tough bunch; some were miniature motherfuckers, really, and I’d get to listen to their assorted little stories while I wiped their falafel debris or greasy pizza mess off my bar.
Until “Happy Hour” arrived, I was less like a bartender and more like a warden at a juvenile detention hall.

Once in a while I’d have to bust open a bathroom door to throw out the occasional junkie trying to shoot up. The kids loved that.

One cool thing about those days was that I could bring my dog to work with me. He was a stray named Jack, and was part coyote. He was very protective, but he and the kids got along well and kept each other occupied. It worked out pretty good until one smartass decapitated his Snoopy squeaky toy. Back then I was so fucking broke that even an idiotic rubber squeaky toy was a luxury item. Plus this was a really disrespectful act so I threw all them rotten kids out and 86’d them for a few days. That showed ‘em. They promised to behave again after that and everything was fine, more or less. I always knew I didn’t want kids but my time at Aztec sealed the deal.

Another good thing about having the day shift was that I could play whatever music I wanted. I had cassette tapes that made up a well rounded mix of new stuff from bands that I knew, like Sea Hags and Jane’s Addiction (I had gotten hold of their first demo, which was excellent), the usual ‘70s stuff, predictable punk standards, hardcore for the kids, and a smattering of Sinatra for the few old timers that were left. I liked to keep everyone happy.

After a spell, I had a somewhat disheveled but animated little following and my numbers increased, so I was rewarded with some coveted evening shifts. All the patrons at my bar were awesome. It should have been great, but I didn’t share the same musical tastes as the management. I was making more money but I was also subjected to long, insufferable nights of Pet Shop Boys, Simple Minds, Malcolm McLaren, Bananarama, and other sonic atrocities that made me want to put a staple gun to my ears. It was the final straw.
The Lismar Lounge

Several blocks south and one block east of The Aztec was the Lismar Lounge. I liked going there because they played music that I loved, and there was a pool table. They even had a downstairs area where bands played; to call it a stage would be pushing it. Although owned by a miserable, crooked, Chinese slumlord, Lismar was now being run by a very magnetic guy, Glen Benson, who I knew from Danceteria. Glen was an absolute sweetheart and had all sorts of people flocking to him, including myself. I had no idea how radically my life would change thanks to Glen. He was sweet enough to throw me a bone with some bartending shifts and for that I was grateful, and then things just snowballed from there.

Lismar had a highly charged atmosphere, different than all the other East Village dives. It was an exciting place, full of gorgeous women and cute guys in bands who were always drunk, mostly on themselves. Turns out, this little scum hole would go on to establish an entirely new era in the New York rock scene. Bands like White Zombie, Circus of Power, Warrior Soul, Raging Slab, The Throbs, Cycle Sluts from Hell, and others were all spawned at Lismar Lounge. Joey Ramone frequented the place, and impromptu performances by Joe Walsh and Jane’s Addiction just added to the bar’s status. There were also performances by great local bands like The Skulls, Freaks, and a particularly disgusting shit-drenched spectacle by G.G. Allin. It wasn’t long before every A&R guy in the city was drinking at Lismar, looking for the “next big thing.” If you were hanging out regularly at Lismar and your band didn’t get signed, it must really have sucked.

Glen was dynamic at turning an average night into an event. He came up with something called Cycle Slut Thursdays. All the girls who bartended there were now dubbed Cycle Sluts, and someone eventually tagged on the “From Hell”, probably Glen. We put on a little show during one of those Thursday nights. One thing led to another and then my life changed dramatically.
The next six years would provide a folly of a different sort.

A lot can be said for being in the right place at the right time.

Those places and those times are gone for good.

DVD Documentary Review: Song of the South – Duane Allman & the Rise of the Allman Brothers Band

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2016
Images from the Internet

Song of the South: Duane Allman and the Rise of the Allman Brothers Band

Written and directed by Tom O’Dell
Narrated by Thomas Arnold
Sexy Intellectual Films / Prism Films / Chrome Dreams Media
131 minutes, 2013
www.chromedreams.co.uk
www.mvdvisual.com

Before watching this documentary, here is just about everything I know about the Allman Brothers Band: formed by Duane Allman on guitar at the start, he died young in a motorcycle accident; his brother Gregg, also in the band, married Cher, fathering Elijah Blue and the union ended in a messy and public divorce; and the last is the omnipresent WOLDies die-hard “Ramblin’ Man,” ironically the band’s biggest and lasting hit that was released after Duane’s demise. But you see, that’s what’s great about this British series, at over 2 hours long, you can learn a lot in relatively a short amount of time.

Of course, this documentary is not only about the Allman Bros, per se – at least not the first the first hour – but rather about the rise of Duane Allman from just a minnow in Daytona Beach, FL (remember, Tom Petty is also from F-L-A, as Freddie Cannon once sang). Though only living to 24 years until wasting his life away in a motorcycle accident, he is given the credit for practically single-handedly creating Southern Blues Rock, and highly influencing the likes of Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Marshall Tucker Band, and Talking Heads. Okay, I’m kidding about the last one.

While long guitar virtuoso freeform guitar has never been my cuppa, I know how to respect the talent, and I have no argument with someone towards the end of this documentary commenting that Duane Allman deserves to be up there with the likes of Hendrix and, well, pick a Yardbirds guitarist. His influence is felt in what has become known as Southern Rock, but I would also argue that there are probably a lot of post psychedelic blues-based bands that learned a lick or two from ol’ Duane.

While there is some detail in the second half about the Allman Brothers Band [ABB], I was more intrigued by the earlier period of Duane’s life, during the 1960s, flittering around in bands like his first in 1961, the Uniques, the Escorts, and the Allmen (or, sometimes, All-Men), where he grew his musical chops. The music of choice for Duane was the Blues, as the number of blues clips shown in the documentary attest to his influences. For the acid (nascent Southern) rockers of his 20s and especially the guitarists, Blues was the backbone as much as rock and roll. Yes, there was quite  a bit of country mixed in there, especially with pre-ABB superstars like the ‘Dead (who combined all those sounds into what would be called “Americana”), but artificial substances would affect nearly all the musicians at the end of the ’60 and into the ‘70s. I give you Janis, for example. Duane and his band the Hour Glass moved to the West Coast pre-ABB at the hippie high-point (pun intended); there are a couple of albums released by that collective, influenced by the counter-culture.

The Hour Glass was especially interesting to me, because they sound more Left Coast than Southern Bayou, leaning towards Chicago and Blood, Sweat and Tears (though an overhanded producer is credited with that horn sound more than the band themselves). While brass and rock’n’roll has always been a bit on an oxymoron to me, the clips they play here didn’t sound too bad. Well, no worse than the two bands I mentioned, anyway.

After an attraction to Taj Mahal’s sound, Duane learned slide guitar, and then moved on to the infamous Muscle Shoals Studio in the Deep South, where he honed his talent further by backing up numerous soul and blues musicians. For the Allman fan, I’m not stating anything new, and for those who are Allman-curious, there is a whole lot more detail I’m not giving way.

I found it interesting that not only was blues an influence to the band, and especially Duane, but that he also had a later dedication to jazz, which was introduced to him by ABB drummer Jaimone Johanson. That helps explain some of the wild Miles and Coltrane flairs he had on incredibly long jams (their double-sided At the Fillmore LP had on average two songs per side, definitely giving the Dead a run for their money).

One moment I had joy with was the discussion of how Duane influenced Derek and the Dominoes when he briefly toured with them, taking “Layla” – one of the early ‘70s best rock period songs – from a ballad to what it became (of course, Clapton would have a hit with it again decades later in its slowed down, acoustic version). Again, not old news, but it’s always a joy to hear that song, even for a snippet.

The Chrome Dream formula is followed to a tee, with short, under 30-second clips of songs (both live and played over purchased b-roll, such has having images of cars and roads for “Midnight Rider,” the ABB’s first hit), talking head interviews with musicians and recording studio engineers who were there, and biographers and music historians who talk about second-hand stories and the band’s influence – as usual, no voices of women anywhere; not even wives are mentioned, let alone talking. Of course, Southern Rock is not exactly known for being a bastion for women musicians, but good ol’ boy drinkin’ and carousin’ – and a wonderful narration by Thomas Arnold.  There is also a 1970 radio interview with Duane heard in snippets full of musician-talk soundbites like “man” and “cat”; it’s the only time we hear his voice when he’s not singing. The one thing I would change if I could, given what it is, is I would put the person identification sporadically throughout, rather than only the first time the person talking is shown. Perhaps this is an assumption that the audience would know who they are? This is a minor pet peeve of mine. In fact, there is more, detailed information I would have liked to hear about, such as Duane’s OD in October 1970, which is only briefly touched on in one of the extras.

The one oddity I found is that nearly everyone on here, while discussing the importance of the other members, such as Gregg and Dickie Betts, and how they were as talented in some ways as Duane in their own rights, the consensus seems to be after Duane died, the ABB when downhill afterwards. I find this weird because, as I said, the one song that is the most identifiable with the band, Betts’ “Ramblin’ Man,” was recorded after Duane’s motorcycle accident.  The song is not mentioned here, even when talking about the “decline” of the band after Duane’s death.

There are two extras, not counting the text of the contributors’ bios. The first is the 8-minute “Willie Perkins: Life Amongst the Brothers.” He was the road manager for the band, and is represented throughout the main documentary. This is more an extended scenes that anything else; this is not meant in any demeaning way, as he tells some interesting tidbits about the man. The same is true for the second short, the X-minute “Recording the Allmans: The Albert Brothers and Criteria Studios.”

As a music historian myself, it’s always good and interesting to fill in some of the gaps of my knowledge base (hey, punk is mentioned once at the one hour-19 minute mark!). I’ll probably never purposefully purchase an ABB slide, as I don’t have one in my collection now, but I do feel more informed about the topic. That’s one of the things Chrome Dream and Prism Films is best at, yawl.

 

Bonus, non-disk video:

VIDEOWAVE MONITOR: Video Reviews [from 1983]

Text by Alan Abramowitz / © FFanzeen fanzine, 1983
Introduction © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2015
Images from the Internet

This review was originally printed in FFanzeen, issue #13, dated 1983. It was written by Alan Abramowitz, who produced the cable access show Videowave. You can see many clips of the show from over the years on YouTube. Occasionally it is still taping. They had so many amazing guests over the years that it is hard to pick just a few. The show’s slogan was “Before you heard about it, it was on Videowave.” And for good reason.

Note that Alan was given free reign over what he wanted to write about, and our tastes overlap, but are definitely different.  The videos are included where available, usually from YouTube. We own no rights to the music or video, and we do not advertise on our site, so this is merely promotional, for you into legalese.  – RBF, 2015

I dare you to watch MTV, Friday Night Videos, Hot Tracks, Top-40 Videos, etc. What started out as a good idea is like most successes – it’s getting abused or Velvet Jones-ed to death [reference to an Eddie Murphy character on Saturday Night Live that was overplayed; now they would say he “jumped the shark.” – RBF, 2015]. I really can’t believe they’re still pushing “Billy Jean” [Michael Jackson – RBF, 2015] on Hot Tracks. Find some other “black” videos for goodness sake. Put on Tyrone Brunson or some other ignored video.

Leave it to “Big Business” to screw up. The land of music videos. They’re spitting out mediocre-to-miserable videos faster than Ford could assemble a Model-T. The Almighty Dollar (the real symbol of America) is being looked up to in reverence (God, liberty, ideals, fun, cheese in dog food) while the quality of good music videos are deteriorating rapidly. These crummy videos are pervading video shows. They show evidence of being made merely to attract the eye; commercial style with bad sit-com plots.

Meanwhile, the British videos, which have captured the eyes of youthful music TV pioneers, are being ignored. There, more quality is paid to how it’s done, obviously, in a time span lengthier than American videos. But in the rush to sell albums, American record companies have been turning out MOR, heavy metal, and new wave disco videos at an alarming pace, without regard to plot, viewer intellect, song/video compatibility, originality, etc. But does America make good videos? Sometimes. Underground band sand video artists are making videos that are fun to watch, even after the 15th viewing. The following are a sampling of American, British, and independent music videos.

Billy & the Buttons – Whole Fam Damly (independent)

Here are two videos in a row done in an amateur way with amateur, but courageous techniques (video directors in NY & LA take note!). “WFD” is a tale of a girl bringing home a boy to meet her family. Good editing tells the story well. A plain song/video tactic that’s so rare, that this is refreshing. Good punchline, too.

Billy & the Buttons – Want Want (independent)

This shows us to what lengths a guy will go to get his girl back. This looney-gooney video betrays its roots. Pop images with backyard humor: dogs with police hats, the suitor in a Pythonesque priest costume, and the cat-impersonation (love it!) make this a garage band’s garage video. It’s irreverence for the final product makes this funny without Hollywood pretense.

Jim Carroll Band – Sweet Jane (Danspak Co-Directions)

Travel the Game of Life with the Jim Carroll Band. Obviously, Jim Carroll, being an anti-video rock’n’roller, only settles for the very best when making a music video. Like “Imitations,” by Strange Party (see below), this one is by Merrill Aldighieri and Joe Tripician [they were also interviewed on Videwave – RBF 2015]. And like that one, it is unjustly under-publicized. Quick-paced editing (always a plus) with pixilation move the video at a breathtaking pace. Performance shots were done at CBGB’s. Lou Reed also does a special cameo appearance. [This is a Lou Reed cover, for those few who don’t know; also noteworthy is Lenny Kaye, front and off-center, whose own underrated band, The Lenny Kaye Connection, backed Carroll – RBF, 2015].

Chesterfield Kings – 99th Floor (Living Eye Productions)
Well done independent video. I love the psychedelic graphics, the go-go girl, the film animation (along with cut-outs of band members!), all cut between a lip-synch performance. The black & white images evoke clips from Shindig or Hullaballoo. Imagine if they were signed to a major label! [This is a cover by the garage band The Moving Sidewalks – RBF, 2015]

Chesterfield Kings – She Told Me Lies (Living Eye Productions)

If they showed this on MTV, they would be besieged by calls. A lot of work went into this. This video is made up entirely of sequential pixilations of photographs – some colored, some not. It’s heavily influenced by the Beatles movies directed by Richard Lester. See it if you can!

Dead Or Alive – That’s the Way (I Like It) (Epic)

Yes, it’s the KC & the Sunshine Band song, done in an entirely new interpretation. Filmed in the locker room of London’s Arsenal Football (Soccer) Club, it features the British Body Building Association’s female weightlifting champs in this performance of sex reversal and androgyny. The sensual, long-haired singer [transgender Pete Burns – RBF, 2015] starts out by losing an arm wrestle with a demure young lad. Extolling the beauty of female bodybuilders alongside the unisex a la Boy George, it shows sexuality isn’t restricted to Victorian sex role models. Dead Or Alive evokes a macho version of the male/female depolarization that Culture Club first brought to America last year.

 

Heaven 17 – Temptation (Arista)
This one should be nominated for best performance by a group in a video. Ditto for improvisation. While 3 Ministers (Heaven 17) warn us of the evils of temptation, a naïve girl (played by Karol Kenyon) is lured into a new decadent identity by a sleazy character (Glen Gregory of the band). Angled shots, theatrical sets, and lighting symbolically represent the struggle in all of us between good and evil deeds. Kenyon’s beautiful soul vocals make this a video, again, under-publicized.
[Many life versions available, but the only music video as Alan describes is shown backwards – RBF, 2015]

Lederknocken – Amok (Island)

This really should not be categorized as a music video. It’s an avant-garde film posing as a music video. However, it’s distributed as one, therefore I’ll review it. This vide0/film is a montage with etched-in optical effects. If I knew German I could tell you what the words mean. From West Germany, it deals with chaos (punk chaos). A general rebellion against standardized forms. It ridicules society’s values and contradictions, which explain the porn images. And the girl barking to “Shake Your Booty.”

 

Psychedelic Furs – The Ghost in You (Columbia)

Once again the video has nothing to do with the song. Lead singer (Richard) Butler poses in front of a mirror and performs with his band while some animation resembling Mirage video animation is superimposed over the band. Great care has gone into this performance. Muted colors are used in the colored ball (Mirage imitations). What it has to do with the song, I’ll never know, even though I like the song.

 

Bruce Springsteen – Dancing in the Dark (Sire)
It’s a freak! [That’s a reference to an SCTV sketch – RBF, 2015] Here’s a performance video by someone they were calling Uncle Brucie a couple of years ago. True, he’s an apostle of rock’n’roll, but I never cared for the likes of songwriters who can’t sing (e.g., Dylan, Knopfler). When I first heard Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” I felt it was good, but I don’t like it. Ditto for “Born in the U.S.A.”; except for “Dancing in the Dark.” Why I like the song probably has to do with the fact that I was enthralled by the video first. It’s a Brian DePalma production that didn’t rip off Hitchcock or anyone else (it’s too simple to do). Its driving beat guides the song. Springsteen’s facial expression and paced movements tell us the song. He’s narrating the dilemma. DePalma’s editing pace never lets our attention drop. Every scene shows everyone hang a good time listening (grooving) to this tale of identity crisis in a young man. When he picks a girl [Courtney Cox in the role that first made her famous – RBF, 2015] out of the audience, it seems farthest from the actuality of being staged (I recognized the girl from a NYNEX commercial). Zoom back to see Springsteen and the girl dancing. An excellent (so what if it was staged) video that may actually compel me to go out and buy a Springsteen record (the single, of course). And that’s what it’s all about.

 

Strange Party – Imitators (Danspak Co-Productions)
Probably the best independent video I’ve seen this year. Film and film animation transferred onto video and edited with squeeze-zoom-type effects. Makes this surrealistic video one Salvador Dali would be proud of. Ann Magnuson and Joey Arias [both of whom were interviewed individually on Videowave – RBF, 2015] recreate their pop image performance as Edie Sedgwick and Andy Warhol. Kudos to Go-Directions for a video that Music Television missed again (can Twisted Sister really be American’s answer to music?).

 

The The  – This is the Day (Epic)

Keying is the key. The video uses the elementary special effect of keying over of images. You can’t tell whether the person in the scene is actually part of it or was simply superimposed over it. Advances in video technology have eliminated the familiar video noise surrounding keyed images. Vocalist Matt Johnson walks from one scene to the next, fading out from time to time, while his accompanying accordionist follows him when his cue is up. Never has a simple effect been used imaginatively without being Velvet Jones-ed to death. [Could it be said that Alan is Velvet Jones-ing the Velvet Jones reference? – RBF, 2015]

 

T-Venus – Dragging the Bottom (Independent)
Julia Heyward [yes, also interviewed at some point on Videowave – RBF, 2015] certainly doesn’t drag the bottom in this metaphorical tale of love caught in the undertow. Underwater shots of wildlife, Julia, Pat Irwin (of the Raybeats fame), organic forms of trees, ferns present a fun post-30 search for serious love. A great song underscores this great music video. Dissolves and keying make this watery tale of mud so much fun to watch. I especially love the last scene in which Julia supers her lips over a still image of herself.

 

X-Teens  – Change Gotta Come (Dolphin)
This video received “light rotation” (if at all) from MTV. My eyes lift up to heaven in wonderment for this one. It’s a great spoof of Raiders of the Lost Ark and other serial adventure shows (e.g., Hope & Crosby road movies). However, the song concerns a cry for the lost morals of the ‘60s (“What ever happened to the Love Generations?!”). My test for a great video is if it gets better with repeated viewings. This passes. MTV deep-sixed it. Why? Why?!