Halloween Reading Recommendations

In the years between trick or treating myself and turning on the porch light to pass out candy to the kiddies, I developed a deep appreciation for classic horror fiction. Some of the greatest horror writing has always been found in the short fiction form, and I have a list of perennial favorites I try to revisit annually, once the leaves begin to turn.

Ambrose Bierce is generally known only for his satirical Devil’s Dictionary, “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” and his mysterious disappearance. His portfolio, however, is packed with tales of ghosts, dread, and damnation. The collection, Can Such Things Be?, offers a wealth of eerie reading. Especially recommended are “The Moonlit Road,” a chilling realization of the Rashomon effect, and “An Inhabitant of Carcosa,” as desperate a story as can be put to paper and the inspiration for H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos and Robert W. Chambers’ The King in Yellow.

Speaking of which, Chambers’ collection of stories about the malevolent King and the dread Yellow Sign effectively evoke a Gothic atmosphere of despair and doom. The stories in this mythos are highly effective chillers, and seem to be an aberration among Chambers’ flowery romantic fiction.

W.W. Jacobs’ “The Monkey’s Paw” is a cautionary story culminating in an image so horrific, it’s rightfully earned a reputation as a classic. Although the story’s been adapted to radio and TV, the original prose version is unsurpassed.

Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Feathertop” is more whimsical than horrible, a morality tale involving a witch, a scarecrow, and some insufferable Puritans. And something that keeps lighting Mother Rigby’s pipe.

Charles Beaumont was responsible for nearly as many memorable Twilight Zone episodes as was Rod Serling. Like Serling, Beaumont was adept at crafting allegorical stories of suspense and terror. There are the hellish neighbors of “The New People,” the twisted psychology of killer and victim in “The Hunger,” the world’s deadliest prisoner in “The Howling Man,” and the most atrocious parenting this side of Mrs. Bates in “Miss Gentibelle,” all of which can be found in his collected stories.

Finally, just when it appears that there are no worthy living, working authors who could add to my autumnal required reading, I discovered Collected Stories by Lewis Shiner. Known best as a cyberpunk pioneer, and later for the remarkable rock and roll fantasy, Glimpses, Shiner offers an abundance of evocative horror, science fiction, and suspense—among an array of other genres—in this substantial collection, which is strongly recommended overall.

A few of the Collected Stories enhancing my haunting season this year include:

• “Primes”— If you have a double in the world, wouldn’t one of you would be superfluous?
• “The Circle”—About the great power of storytelling and ritual, especially at this time of year.
• “Nine Hard Questions about the Nature of the Universe”—This should disabuse us of the notion that our most cherished human characteristics and concerns are of any consequence to the rest of the galaxy.
• “Lizard Men of Los Angeles”—A pulpy reality in which a Mandrakian hero and his enigmatic assistant encounter acolytes of Crowley and an even-more monstrous sub-culture in 30s L.A.

I hope among these suggestions you’ll find what you need to get into the proper frame of mind for a chilling Halloween. The thought of my readers lacking a good read, now that’s frightening.


Article first published as Recommended Halloween Reading on Blogcritics.

Halloween Wishes DO Come True!

Ah, Halloween, that magical season of the unexpected, when the out-of-the-ordinary waits around every bend, when all the wonder you wish for may be realized!

Or something. All I know is, like many adults, I’ve never outgrown my enthusiasm for it. And while I have adjusted my expectations to the extent that I no longer fully expect to see ol’ lady Liptrap take to the sky on a broom, I have to acknowledge some mysterious happenings at this time of year.

Growing up, I viewed every horror and sci-fi film I could, and was fortunate to have two highly entertaining TV horror film hosts within our reception range—Svengoolie (followed by, what else, Son of Svengoolie, in later years) and Nightmare Theatre MC, Sammy Terry. I'm not sure what he was supposed to be, but Sven resembled nothing so much as Mad Dogs and Englishmen-era Leon Russell with an extreme motel tan. Sammy dressed as a sort of unspecified ghoul with Dracula aspirations, and yellow latex gloves. His corny humor and booming baritone voice made even The Navy Versus the Night Monsters enjoyable.

When he got hold of fare like Bucket of Blood or Horror of Party Beach, it was great entertainment, and my ongoing affection for those films, and their like, is largely due to having Sammy Terry introduce me to them.

Flash forward to a few years ago, a spectacular October Saturday, and we’re in the scenic hills of southern Indiana, visiting one of our sons at college. The local library is having a sale, and I pick up a stack of LP's for 25 cents apiece, including a sealed copy of Best of Mancini, which includes the chilling “Experiment in Terror” that had been used (along with Link Wray’s “Rumble”) as theme music for Sammy Terry’s late night TV show.

We later went to the artists’ colony of Nashville, Indiana, with no specific plans. Wandering around the cluster of galleries and shops, we came across a line of people waiting to see, in a rare public appearance, Sammy Terry. An appearance we'd known nothing about!

Imagine stumbling across an autograph session with one of the formative figures of your youth, in the first place, and having an album of “his” theme music with you.

Sammy is now in his 70s and apparently hard of hearing, so his assistant had some difficulty explaining why I was asking him to sign a Mancini album. But once he got it, he was happy to sign, and was as gracious, and corny, as I could have hoped.

He even posed for this photo with me:



(I’m on the left. Ha!)

So whenever friends ridicule you for feeling a little magic in the air this Halloween, show them this photo, and remind them that, if you wish hard enough, perhaps you, too, can be choked by a childhood hero!

Article first published as Halloween Wishes DO Come True! on Blogcritics.

Our Scary Neighbors

I never intended to use this forum to approach any weightier topics than whether the worst rock band ever is REO Speedwagon or Styx. There are times, though, when I simply can't suppress my despair and I have to wail, to anyone reading, about the discouraging, downright frightening views held by those around me.

Within the past few weeks, on the same day, two of my nearby fellow citizens published letters in the local paper that are so dangerously misguided, they could have passed for the work of The Onion.

One had been given the heading, "Gun control hurts law-abiding people," which opened with the inarguable (and poorly-punctuated) statement that "it is not the guns that are committing the crimes; it is the people who are pulling the trigger." The writer contends that those people--this would be those committing crimes with guns--"are not law-abiding citizens." Again, no argument there; by definition, people are not law-abiding if they are committing gun crimes.

But this is just picking at his semantics.
Where he starts to seriously run off the rails is with the claim that "law-abiding citizens are the only ones affected by gun-control laws." Can it be that not one would-be criminal is inconvenienced by mandatory waiting periods or limits on automatic weapons. Could be, I suppose, but it sure seems improbable.

So what does the letter-writer propose we do about this intolerable situation? Apparently he is advocating universal gun ownership (although, possibly being against more government interference in our lives, he stops of short of demanding a legal mandate).

It is quite clear to this gent that, if "every citizen had a gun on his [sic.] hip," we wouldn't have to worry about "1.3 women" being "raped every minute" or 20 people losing their lives annually in bank robberies. Because the local gun-slingin' fella would intervene in these crimes, in a manner that would not cause loss of life, presumably. Hard to tell whether the 20 bank robbery victims include any perps, due to the total lack of supporting data. Also hard to tell if we are to issue shootin' irons to the little ladies, or just count on an armed good guy to be on hand whenever a rape is about to be committed.

There are more unsupported "facts," such as "most gun crimes are committed by people who had a record prior to the crime." Um, does that include gun crimes in which the perpetrator gets away? How do we know if those criminals have prior records? And as long as we're tossing around unsupported "facts," how about the one that says most gunshot victims in the U.S are shot by someone they know? Are all those accidental, "I didn't know it was loaded," family shootings done by convicted criminals?

Maybe the most irresponsible supporting anecdote offered by this NRA shill is the one lauding two students who restrained, at gunpoint, a killer of three at a Virginia law school in 2002. Two students who had guns in their cars despite a gun ban on the campus.
Does the letter-writer believe that flaunting the law is acceptable if those doing it seem like ok citizens, like the students, and not "criminals"?
And this guy clearly has not spent much time on a college campus if he seriously believes MORE guns should be introduced into the hotbed of hormones and alcohol that is many universities.

Obviously, the writer isn't concerned about presenting a shred of empirical evidence to support his views. Allow me to refute those views with some: thanks to the laxity of existing firearm laws, his state of residence is fifth in the nation in exporting guns used in crimes in other states; "right to carry" firearm laws have not reduced crime rates and are linked to an increase in aggravated assaults; guns are used in crimes four to six times more often than they are used in self-defense. (Citations available upon request.)

How could we be safer with even more guns in the hands of inexperienced users, even those with the best of intentions? Why does this guy's desire to own guns trump my right to live where every yahoo is packing? Does he truly believe that more guns in more citizens' hands would lead to less crime, or does he just want to continue to be able to buy as many guns as he wants, as easily as possible?

The second letter . . . "I agree that we should have engaged in war with Iraq, but I do not agree with being there this long. I think we should have gone over there, crippled the country and left. Why should we spend billions of dollars to rebuild a country that we spent billions of dollars to destroy?"

Why, indeed.
Who knows who she is agreeing with: those who think Iraq had anything to do with 9/11 or those who believe Saddam had weapons of mass destruction by the time we invaded them? Either way, they were asking for it, so why should we rebuild what we so justifiably destroyed?

What kind of human being acknowledges that our country "crippled" another, and has no obligation to help that nation return to the condition it was in when we invaded?
Do even those who believe "we should have engaged in war with Iraq" believe that innocent civilians there should suffer because of the destruction we wrought?

There is just one statement she writes that I agree with: "Our country now is in a recession because of this." So, I suppose by her reasoning, we should not incur any more debt to repair what we broke, even if it might be the right thing to do.

But, of course, to her way of thinking, it isn't.

I am sickened and disheartened by these views, and downright frightened to think they live right down the road from me.

Schrödinger's Radio Shack

I'm not even going to pretend to understand physics -- heck, I can barely handle experiencing them -- so the concept of Schrödinger's cat* pretty thoroughly eludes me. Which I will likely illustrate by saying I understand Schrödinger's cat to refer to outcomes not being fixed until observed. For my purposes, that's what it is.

[Let's go wiki for a summary of Schrödinger's Cat: A cat, along with a flask containing a poison and a radioactive source, is placed in a sealed box . . . If an internal Geiger counter detects radiation, the flask is shattered, releasing the poison that kills the cat. The Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics implies that after a while, the cat is simultaneously alive and dead. Yet, when we look in the box, we see the cat either alive or dead.]

To my reductivist mind, this live/dead cat in a box notion also applies to a lot of the simple binary outcomes in my daily life: as I approach the intersection, that idiot will/will not run the stop sign; when I open the icebox, the leftover fettucini will/will not sport green fuzz; when I need a specialized piece of gear, I will/will not find it at a tiny, small town Radio Shack.

A few weeks ago, I had a gig with the (cover) band I play with, and went to the local 'Shack to pick up an SC card for my recorder. I'd been having trouble getting a sustain pedal to work with one of my keyboards, and was on the verge of ordering a pricey one from the manufacturer, Korg. The only pedal I'd used with success with this instrument was, inexplicably, one made by Yamaha, and I had to use it with my other instrument.

Perusing the clearance shelf, there was a dusty box, priced at $5, that promised to contain a sustain pedal, for use with RS or Yamaha keyboards.

Until I entered that store, it was equally likely, Schrödinger would say, that the pedal was, and was not there waiting for me.

Wouldn't it be something if I opened the box and there was a dead cat inside?

Cranky McCrankerson says . . .

Seems like I've been griping inordinately about traffic-related matters lately. (And if it seems like it here, just be thankful you're not on our commute.) It's because of our 60-mile commute that the I'm in Cranky McCrankerson mode.

Certainly there are more crucial issues facing our nation and our imperiled planet than traffic conditions and crossing guards. For many of us who have to drive daily, though, it's become a literal matter of life and death.

For no good reason, of course. People run stop signs and traffic signals for the same reason they cut in line and carry on cell phone conversations in movie theaters. They are inconsiderate and self-centered. You do not matter to these people; you are not worthy of consideration.
You are in their way.

There's an intersection we pass through every workday, where a two-lane state highway crosses the four-lane we take. Two schools, an elementary and a middle-and-high school, are inexplicably situated there, miles from anything but the most heavily-traveled road in the area. Traffic on the two-lane, north-south road has stop signs in both directions. They are supposed to yield to traffic on the four-lane.

And yet, it is a rare day that at least one driver doesn't pull out in front of us off that road. (Usually without signaling, often pulling across both lanes to take the passing lane.) While I have no statistics to verify, my ten-times-a-week observations would indicate that 100% of the collisions that occur at this intersection are due to failure to stop by north-south traffic.

The state highway department's solution to the epidemic of collisions has been to:

• reduce the speed limit on the four-lane to 55 mph in the school area, which makes some sense, and
• install rumble strips to slow traffic and warn them of the upcoming intersection.
  

Only the rumble strips were installed, not on the north-south road, but on the east-west four lane, the main road. I suppose this is intended to serve as a warning that, as a driver on the main highway, you are about to be endangered by crossing traffic.

Isn't this a little like imprisoning victims to prevent them from being victimized again?
While the perps go free.

Battle of the Beatle Boots: when the pros turn amateur

Got a reminder recently, that some people find cover bands, in general, to be bogus.

This guy I used to be in a band with, one of the last times I saw him, gave me a rough time--as if I was supposed to be ashamed or apologetic--because playing in a cover band was "all" I was doing musically at the time.
Wish I'd had the presence of mind to point out it was more than he was doing. But that was essentially his contention, that he'd rather not play music than play cover music.

Certainly, if I had my preference, I'd rather always play music that I've written. And I consider myself very fortunate, not to mention atypical, to have had a band that played nearly as many of my original songs as it did covers, for a couple of years.

The fact is, for most of we amateur, part-time musicians, if we want to perform for anyone other than ourselves, we either play cover songs or we play to ourselves. By and large, folks who go out to a club or bar to hear live music want to hear live music they're familiar with.
So the choice for most of non-pro rock and rollers is not whether or not to play someone else's songs, but whether to play in public or not.

Along with being reminded of this smug former band mate, the other thing that brought the cover music issue to my mind was hearing Dwight Twilley's album, The Beatles.
It's a 2009 release whose cover emulates "The White Album," although the set covers material as old as "I'll Be Back" from A Hard Day's Night.
And it's . . . ok.
None of Twilley's arrangements are going to supplant the originals as anyone's favorites. His signature tremulous vocals sound to be in top form, and his voice and ear for harmony certainly lend themselves to this material. I question the need for another version of Come Together; the Aerosmith cover was all it took to convince me that the song is ridiculous, even unbearable, without Lennon's vocal. Several of Twilley's selections--Helter Skelter, Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey, Bungalow Bill, Tomorrow Never Knows--would make most short lists of the most challenging Beatles songs to attempt, which may have been the point. But there's no excuse for a cover version of the sniggering throwaway Why Don't We Do It In the Road, especially one that runs longer than the original.

Listening to Twilley's The Beatles is not unlike, oh, going to hear a really solid cover band.
You will enjoy it while it's in your ears, and you will never yearn to hear these versions again, over the originals. That's about the most good cover bands can aspire to.

(Also demoralizing, my discovery that he also released another all-covers album last year, Out of the Box, which includes five Beatles songs--at least some of them overlapping his all-Beatles album--among selections as inexplicable as Good Golly Miss Molly and, lord help me, Old Time Rock & Roll. The disappointment of learning about this has been somewhat mitigated by news of Green Blimp, apparently a new album of original material, due out yet this year.)

Twilley is a novice, though, compared to The Smithereens, who have released two albums composed entirely of Beatles material, including a complete cover of the Meet the Beatles album, essentially. a note-for-note rendition, only with DiNunzio's distinctive lead vocals. Which, after hearing it on two consecutive albums of the stuff, I can only conclude isn't all that well suited to stand in for either Lennon's or McCartney's.
To their credit, the 'reens' second album of Beatles covers, B Sides the Beatles, features some more-rarely covered material--Cry for a Shadow and Ask Me Why, in particular. Like Why Don't We Do It In the Road, it's just possible these songs aren't recorded that often because, in comparison to the rest of the Beatles' catalog, they just aren't that great!

(Ask Me Why, in fact, often makes "worst of the Beatles" lists. Bing that phrase and see what I mean. While I'm at it, Revolution #9 is not their worst song--it's a sound collage, not a song at all--and Ob-La-Di isn't the worst song ever, polls to that effect notwithstanding, although it sure is lame and annoying.)

Even more-worthy contributions to the vast Beatles tributes, such as Cheap Trick's live Sgt. Pepper's-with-orchestra, nice as they are to listen to, and impressive as they may be as performances, seem rather pointless. Yeah, you can play an entire album's worth of challenging songs extremely well . . . lots of people can! When are you going to turn out another album as good as In Color? You know, really contribute something new to rock and roll?

What disturbs me about this isn't hearing, sometimes buying more versions of songs I already own, dozens of times over. Or even that most of these renditions are imminently unnecessary.

It's that these bootleg Beatles could be performing their own songs, and that's a choice that's largely denied to we amateurs. Dwight Twilley and Cheap Trick, and to a lesser degree, The Smithereens have all written substantial amounts of original material, to the extent that, if tribute albums to them don't exist, they could.

Since when is it a legitimate career move for immensely talented songwriters to poach on the cover bands' turf? These are artists of the same caliber as those whose material we cover!

Maybe everyone wants to play Beatles' music, which is understandable, and who am I to claim that as exclusively the amateurs' province? Maybe I'm just sour because these pros play cover band out of choice, and I do it out of necessity.

Maybe I'm just ashamed of never having made it any further than the local cover band.

Resumption of Service

Huh, another month goes by, and outta me, nothin'.

Since we last talked, I saw that long-running Charlie Sheen TV sitcom, and only made it through a few minutes. Until I saw the title in the credits, I thought it was called Two Half-Men. So it was kind of different than I was led to expect.

Thanks (?) to a CD titled Before They Were Hits Volume Five, I have now heard a version of "(They Long To Be) Close To You" I can tolerate even less than The Carpenters' . . . the original 1963 recording by Richard Chamberlain. At least Karen's amazing voice can distract from those drippy Richard Carpenter arrangements.

If vibrato were dynamite, Chamberlain's vocal on this thing would blow a crater the size of Tunguska. As it is, it just blows craters.

On the subject of intolerable singers, Kevin Cronin is doing infomercials for a dreadful Time-Life "rock ballads" collection. Hope they run it this month--it's creepy!
Kevin looks like that aunt who always smelled like gin rickies and hugged you considerably longer, and lower, than you were comfortable with.
Oh, and his voice makes "co-host" Amy Motta sound like a tough guy.

Look at me, I finally show up here and I'm nothing but a nattering nabob of negativity!

On more pleasant subjects, can you believe there are, at this late date, unheard Beatles recordings?
(Of course, if they were truly unheard, not even the bootleggers would know what they are. And what's with the phrase, "never before seen photos"? How did they process and print them if they've never been seen? How do they know what they are photos of?)
Last year brought the, um, revelatory Revolution 1, Take 20, a 10:47 version never before heard! Last I knew, experts considered it legit, and it's remarkable.

My latest Beatles boot discovery has probably been around for a while, just escaping my notice until now: Abbey Road minus the vocal tracks. This was their only album recorded on an eight-track recorder, and the power and depth of the instrumental tracks, already impressive on the released album, is stunning. The tightness of the collective band and signature flourishes of their individual players allows for the discovery of all kinds of nice little touches on songs I've heard hundreds of time. And it makes it easier to spot the little missteps, for those who are into that. Simply remarkable.

In yet more evidence that he's too good for the masses, Lew Shiner's "Death of Che Guevara" didn't win the Theodore Sturgeon Award for which it was nominated, which is both a shame and a puzzle. Though I'm hardly impartial, it's difficult to imagine a better piece of recent fiction. Go read it, at no cost, and see if you don't agree:

http://subterraneanpress.com/index.php/magazine/fall-2009/fiction-the-death-of-che-guevara-by-lewis-shiner/

I don't know much about much, but I do know good writing, and this is it. See if, like me, you don't read it a second or third time. I loves me some short stories and this has become one of my favorites.

And since you asked, more of my favorites from the inimitable Mr. Shiner are available in his COLLECTED STORIES (which is not only a pleasure to read, it looks spectacular on your end table), here:

http://www.subterraneanpress.com/Merchant2/merchant.mv?Screen=PROD&Product_Code=shiner03&Category_Code=B&Product_Count=124

and he's posted loads of his short and long-form writing, to read for free, at his Fiction Liberation Front site:

http://www.lewisshiner.com/liberation/index.htm

Did I mention, it's FREE!
Now you have no excuse not to be reading . . . go there!

At last, GLIMPSES is back!

http://www.boingboing.net/2010/08/30/shiners-glimpses-bac.html

Now you have no excuse for not having read it.

Do so, then come back here and we'll discuss.

The Lewis Shiner Appreciation Society

It's rare that I find myself to be moved to action -- really, by anything -- specifically by my strong reaction to art of any kind. And so, as with most things, in this situation, I find myself at a total loss how to effectively or appropriately respond.

Because a friend took exception this week to my referring to myself as a "failed writer," let's say I'm a writer who fails to reach his potential . . . who overreaches his abilities . . . who don't write good. Or very much.

My admiration for those who can and do "write good" is exceeded only by how much I enjoy their work.

One of those exceptional writers is Lewis Shiner. Reading his writing is one of my greatest pleasures at this stage in my life, and the friendships I've made by being a Shiner fan are among the greatest I've known.

I want more people to read Lewis Shiner. I think discerning readers will find themselves challenged, provoked, and moved by his writing. They may even make some new friends.

The Lewis Shiner Appreciation Society aims to bring more readers to his writing and to bring together those who already know, and appreciate it. Give it a look:

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/pages/The-Lewis-Shiner-Appreciation-Society/143125009049253?ref=mf

I Write Like H.P. Lovecraft

I write like
H. P. Lovecraft

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

http://iwl.me/s/147eabd8

In addition to looking like him.

Diluted to Death

Imagine you own a Bugatti Veyron.

(For anyone reading who doesn't watch the BBC's Top Gear, if anyone is reading, the Veyron is a 1,000 horsepower luxury touring car, priced around $1.5M, one of the most expensive production vehicles ever made. So I consider it likely you, like I, have to imagine owning one.)

Now imagine that you take the Veyron to the garage for some work and, instead of a component made by Bugatti, your mechanic replaced the old part with one from a Ford Pinto. Depending on the part, there may not be a noticeable difference in performance.

But what if, every time the Veyron needs a part replaced, the mechanic slaps on some crappy piece from the Pinto.

Or for an example more of us can relate to, imagine you have a bottle of vodka in your liquor cabinet, and your lush uncle keeps drinking out of it, and adding water so you will never suspect.

Until you taste it, that is, and it becomes apparent just how weak and watered-down the vodka has become. If old unk does this often enough, the beverage will become so diluted, it cannot accurately and honestly be called "vodka" any longer.
"Vodka-infused water," maybe.

Likewise, swap out enough parts and the Veyron is no longer a luxury super car. It's a Pinto.

It seems to me that bands can be like that.

How many original members must a band lose before it's no longer honestly the same band people recognize? Which crucial members have to be lost to inferior replacements, or not replaced at all, before the performance is noticeably inferior and unsatisfactory?

How dishonest is it to bill your band as, I don't know, The Periodic Chart, when there no members of the beloved original incarnation remain?

You can call a Pinto, a Veyron, but that don't make it so.

Martin Gordon calls "Time gentlemen, please!"

Martin Gordon is not a household name, even in my household, which is home to several albums he's on, going back to Sparks' Kimono My House, released in 1974.
Gordon's long-ago dismissal from Sparks was abrupt and seemingly inexplicable, and there was acrimonious fallout, but when the band recreated the album onstage last year, their bassist studiously copied Gordon's distinctive bass lines.

The other Gordon recordings I am most familiar with are those with his post-Sparks band, Jet. Not the contemporary one, the 70s one, the one AMG dubbed "the first glam super group." Gordon's songwriting flourished on the two albums' worth of material that has surfaced from the band, which trafficked in chunky guitar riffs and ridiculously catchy hooks.

Many of Jet's characteristics, and Gordon's exceptional songwriting, continued in the better-known Radio Stars and over series of solo albums. The most recent, Time Gentlemen Please, paints a typically dire portrait of 21st century humanity, but does it so entertainingly, it distracts one from the certainty of the impending apocalypse.

This review appeared, pretty much like this, on Blogcritics, and refers to a promotional
CD that was provided to me free* of charge:

When it arrived in the mail, the first thing I noticed is that Martin Gordon’s new album is nicely packaged. From the clever evolutionary clock front illo, to the artfully designed lyric pages within, the enclosed booklet reflects uncommon quality in these recessionary times. I also appreciated the helpful warnings on the back—“Do not place this CD in boiling water. In case of overwhelming hunger, do not attempt to eat this CD”—because, well, with me, better safe than sorry.

Unfortunately, as interesting and appealing as Time Gentlemen Please appears, and as intriguing as it sounded that one time I played it in the car stereo on my commute, I’m a busy guy, and really, who’s got time to listen to a whole album, much less write it up?

Good thing there are so many capable music reviewers on the Internet. Radiant Future, Gordon’s longtime label, must have sent out scads of review copies, if the number of write-ups on the Web is any indication. Because they are all probably better reviewers than me, and like I say, I’m kind of rushed, I cut and pasted some of the best comments I found about Time Gentlemen Please, which I’ve compiled for you here:

“Gordon’s pedigree with preeminent art-rock outfits Sparks and Jet (his 70s glam band) stands him in good stead here, as the mad pop ideas and heady lyrics fly fast and furious. While an entertaining listen, his dour outlook on mankind’s prospects for the future will give one paws.” — Canine Fancier Quarterly

“One look at titles like "Houston We Gotta Drinking Problem" and "Incognito Ergo Sum" hint at bassist/songwriter Martin Gordon’s wit and facility with language, if not his lyrical concerns. This album, billed as “the fifth and final outpouring of bile and spite in the so-called Mammal Trilogy,” is Gordon’s soundtrack to the final ticks of the Atomic Clock, both a jovial indictment of humanity for what we’ve done to ourselves, and a resigned shrug at the futility and finality of our situation. Full of energy, yet thematically often downbeat, listening to this album is something like cutting your Xanax with crystal meth.” – Contemporary Drug Interaction Journal

“Another in a string of clever-bordering-on-brilliant solo offerings from a chronically underappreciated artist. The classically-trained Martin Gordon has surrounded himself with a tight band of like-minded, versatile players — check the nylon string-morphing-to slide guitar solo on “You Can’t See Me” — and a frontman-ready Swedish lead singer, Pelle Almgren, who has acknowledged that he doesn’t always understand what he’s singing. Gordon’s experience with Spark’s innovative songwriter, Ron Mael, is as evident as his impeccable influences.” — Offshore Heavy Equipment Manufacturing Monthly

“Standout cuts include the Jellyfish-esque "21st Century Blues," "On and On," the Kinks-y "Talulah Does the Hula From Hawaii," and the woozy, menacing, and captivating ‘Elephantasty.’ — Specialty Socket Sales

“Mr. Gordon and his friends play well together. Many of the selections lend themselves to dancing and singing along (although parents may wish to program around the tunes ‘If Boys Could Talk and Girls Could Think’ and ‘Shoot the Women First’ lest they lead to some awkward questions about gender equality!) Mom and Dad may recognize the Beatles’ classic, "I Feel Fine," by title if not otherwise. Where the original was bright and peppy, Mr. Gordon’s remake is slow and gloomy. He doesn’t sound ‘fine’ at all! (Note: Don’t be misled by the title, Time Gentlemen Please. This album does not attempt to teach either telling time or manners.)” — Childrens’ Recreation and Creativity Jamboree!

“Lively!” — Modern Mortuary Management

Overall, they seem to think this is a CD you ought to hear. Me, too! As soon as I get time . . .

* If the FCC truly has nothing better to do than police penny-ante bloggers like me over the handful of
promotional materials they receive every year, we are as doomed as Mr. Gordon makes us out to be.

Why can't I have a rocket as big as Dirk's?

RiffTrax' "Missile to the Moon" . . . Finally, a science fiction film that asks, “Why can’t you have a rocket as big as Dirk’s?”

For years, I gazed longingly at the satellite dishes in my neighbors' yards. Why? Certainly not out of aesthetic jealousy over those NORAD-inspired monstrosities. This was in the day when a dish required about a quarter-hectare of land and looked like Godzilla's spaghetti bowl.

And yet, I longed for one so that I could view Mystery Science Theatre 3000 (MST3K, as it's called by MISTies). The few Joel episodes I did manage to view, through friends' VHS tapes, were gems, his understated (some would say, Romilar-influenced) delivery still the benchmark for effective MISTing. Unwilling as I was to plant Paul Bunyon's soup bowl in my front lawn, we eschewed satellite TV during the MST3K years.

Fate is never so cruel as cable providers, as I became aware when our cable finally picked up a station carrying MST3K. It was during the last gasp, when licensing the original films they were ribbing was running out, so a dwindling handfull of episodes repeated, until ... nothing.

Since the demise of MST3K, the various of the staff and cast have gone on to similar wisecracking projects. RiffTrax, the latest, is centered around Michael J. Nelson, Joel Hodgson's (subpar, some would say) replacement on the original movie heckling series. Now, in addition to their online commmentaries, available for purchase as MP3s, RiffTrax is issuing DVDs of them doing the MST-thing, only minus robots and skits.

Does it seem odd to anyone else that RiffTrax can get us to pay for something that annoys most people? Back in the days when Missile to the Moon was first-run material, in 1958, talking during the showing of a movie could get you tossed out of the theater, or at least harshly shushed by an indignant usher. (Nowadays, of course, this behavior is more likely to get you shot, and if an usher walks the aisles at all, it’s either to find the source of the pot smoke or whoever’s bootlegging the film with their cell phones.)

Yes, Missile to the Moon is the product of a very different time, back when, as the RiffTrax commentary reminds us, “the Government used to come over to your house and give you some good-natured ribbing.”

RiffTrax also hearkens back to an earlier time, when the crew of the Satellite of Love were subjects of an evil science project, forced to view dreadful movies while orbiting in space. That was the high concept for Mystery Science Theater 3000 (a.k.a. MST3K), the lamented TV series that introduced audience commentary as entertainment. On MST3K, one human astronaut and his two robot crew members cut up over screenings of such infamous stinkers as Manos, Hands of Fate and Monster A-Go-Go, and public domain shorts like A Case of Spring Fever.

Other than the MST3K’s original songs and skits, RiffTrax is identical, down to cast members Mike Nelson (who originated RiffTrax on the Web), Kevin (Tom Servo) Murphy, and Bill (Crow T. Robot) Corbett. And likewise, relies on unearthing appropriate subjects for their ridicule, their quick wit, and their facility with cultural and popular references. Missile to the Moon is a stereotypical '50s sci-fi cheapie, its cheap sets, broad acting, and ludicrous dialog making it ideal for the riffers. It’s the kind of movie where the moon has a breathable atmosphere, is populated by beauty queens, and looks a lot like the American southwest.

MST3K is often imitated and rarely equaled, leaving RiffTrax an imposing legacy to live up to. The early going on Missile is not promising, with original movie credits (“Art Direction: Sham Unlimited”) more entertaining than the riffs about them. And then, after a long, awkward set-up, a play on “missile/missal” falls flat.
Thankfully, Missile is only a slow starter, not a total failure to launch. Once they’ve compared two escaped cons to the Everly Brothers, promised “neutering followed by vivisection,” name-checked Fluffernutters, and suggested a cop scuff up his new nightstick on someone’s skull, it’s evident the RiffTrax gang is back in top MST3K form.

The film, a near-remake of the 1953 Sonny Tufts vehicle, Cat-Women of the Moon, gives them plenty of ridicule-ready material to work with. Running gags throughout the film play on scientist-astronaut Dirk, be it his desk with a gun in every drawer or his “ten-pound can of Dirk-flavored whup-ass.” True to form, the RiffTraxers pounce on unfortunate dialog, like which of the escapees is the “shrewd one” and which is “smart, too smart.” With cultural references as varied as Harvey the pookah, The Honeymooners, Rick Astley, ALF, and the Baconator, the riffers allow very few slack moments during Missile’s brisk 77 minute runtime.

One disappointment is the change in cast from the Web version of RiffTrax Missile to the Moon, which featured Nelson with Fred Willard. Willard’s low-key delivery was reminiscent of MST3K alum Joel Hodgson’s, and perfect for many of this film’s riffs. Still, for anyone suffering MST3K withdrawal, this disc comes highly recommended.

"You Kids, Get Off My Lawn!" How Woodstock Looks to Me Now

One thing I've learned about HDTV (and large screens) is just how telegenic most humans truly are. That is, not very. Facial pores at that size . . . well, "lunar baedeker" isn't just a poem to me anymore.
At least I feel better about the prominent, throbbing veins in my temple now that I've seen Steve Carell sporting a couple.

Recently, I watched the Woodstock film again, only the second time I'd seen it since the original theatrical run. (Even I was struck by the fact that virtually none of the tech I was using--a laptop, using a wireless router to access work files on a remote office computer; HDTV; satellite receiver--existed when the concert took place.) The Woodstock Experience CDs I've encountered (Sly, Janis, Airplane), which pair the artists' contemporary albums with their 'stock performances, take advantage of tech advances to offer better sound, and are presented in vastly superior packages than any previous releases.

Now that I've heard some of the music in enhanced editions, seeing the film again makes me wonder, why haven't they upgraded it?
As I said, I saw the movie on its first run (yeah, that pegs me as an antiquity) and, at the time, watching the vast numbers of music- and scene-lovers assemble, space out, groove to the tunes, and generally refuse to go Lord of the Flies, was a novelty. It could even be uplifting. In all the spectacle and "bad brown acid" announcements and "wow, man, that cat is wasted" (and prototype twirly dancing), the music is often treated as secondary.

While I'm not suggesting Woodstock is deficient as a documentary film, it sure ain't an exemplary concert film. Of its contemporaries, perhaps only Gimme Shelter* employs worse camera angles of the performers. (* That would be the film that features a performance by The Flying Burrito Brothers that manages to, not once, show more than a glimpse of Gram Parsons. From the back.)
It was maybe five minutes into looking up at Alvin Lee's rubber-lipped facial contortions that I wanted to ask the filmmakers, would it have killed you to, oh I don't know, put a camera on the same level as the band? I mean, if I want to look up a lead singer's nose, I'll buy festival seating tickets and risk my life in front of the stage at a live show. Why bother filming a view no better than the one from the mosh pit?
And why am I looking at Lee's face through maybe nine minutes out of ten during "I'm Going Home"*? It was a star-making performance not for facial expressions so grotesque they must have inspired the career of Jim Carrey. Why don't we get more than a few glimpses of how he's throwing off several thousand notes per minutes from that guitar?
* As a lifelong superfluous keyboard player, I had to laugh in sympathy at poor Chick Churchill, Ten Years After's fifth wheel on this performance, whose B-3 chording is audible only briefly, and appropriate in this song, not at all.

Concert presentation has made leaps as incredible as the one from VHS to Blu-Ray.
What Woodstock deserves is a new cut as a concert film. Lose everything but the performances, use performances that didn't make the cut, in favor of mud slide shots. There were some peak performances (Sly & the Family Stone were reportedly never better; Hendrix and Janis were debuting new bands; Santana introduced their fresh take on Latin-flavored rock and roll) by several of the defining performers of the past forty years. There has to be more, and better footage lying in the vault.

Maybe the quantity and quality of modern concert films, and hearing the remastered discs, have made the existing Woodstock film a frustrating viewing experience for me. Maybe the "oh, wow, man" hippietude" wafting over it like patchouli in a head shop brings out the fist-shaking old man in me now. Maybe I could never relate to most of the concertgoers, and can even less forty years on.

Whatever the reason, just about every second of Woodstock that isn't spent on the music is like an eternity in line for a Port-A-Potty for me.

[Just to show I'm not a total crank, I do think it's wonderful that the couple pictured on the cover of the original Woodstock OST were recently featured on CBS Sunday Morning, still together.]

How to Roll When It's "Hit Record Time"

Last post in January?! Well, I would hate for Blogger to assume this is an abandoned blog and delete it. And although posting here feels disturbingly like talking to myself, I'm going to put some stuff up here that has appeared, in different form and less rambly, on Blogcritics.

A couple of my favorite movies are American Grafitti and That Thing You Do. Both deal with a period for which I have what is likely an unhealthy level of longing. Both are about rock and roll and youth culture at a time when it was becoming a force for the grownups to reckon with. Now I have seen a film that belongs on my dream triple-bill with them, My Dinner With Jimi.

Among the fortunate few who saw director Bill Fishman’s My Dinner With Jimi on the big screen, at a film festival or in its limited theatrical release, this DVD has been eagerly anticipated. For the rest of us, who had only read praise for the film, the wait for this award-winning, low-budget quickie (shot in 12 days) has been agonizing. Now the DVD is here, and guess what? Entirely worth the agony.

My Dinner With Jimi is a factual account of a brief period in 1967 when the Turtles made the transition from opening act to stardom, however short-lived, with the number one hit, “Happy Together.” The first half of the film depicts the band’s struggle to achieve greater success than their modest hits to date, and to avoid the military draft. Their place in the L.A. rock and roll pantheon of the day is pointedly made when they are worthy of a 16 Magazine photo shoot, but get bumped from the cover in favor of the Monkees. The film’s second half plays out the Turtles’ first night in England, culminating in the title event, Kaylan’s early morning dining, drinking, and rap session with guitarist Jimi Hendrix, who was a personality on the hip London scene, but yet (prior to his first album’s release) unknown to America.

Unlike most Sixties rock and roll films, this one has the advantage of being told by the story’s central figure, Turtles’ singer Howard Kaylan, who wrote the screenplay and fully acknowledges the possibility of memory lapses, and the likely causes. The casual attitude about drug and alcohol abuse adds to the film’s feel of authenticity, and it’s to Kaylan’s credit that he didn’t attempt to downplay it. In fact, extreme drug and alcohol intake figure prominently into his and Mark Vollman’s draft aversion tactics, which also felt quite authentic, although that lengthy sequence bogs down an otherwise snappy 90 minutes.

My Dinner captures the brief, breathless time when the scenario played out in That Thing You Do (a film that shares the same buoyant, delirious prevailing mood)—of a bunch of kids putting together a neighborhood band, making a record, and having a number one hit—was not only feasible, it was happening all over the world. The immensely likable Turtles’ wide-eyed, star-struck naivety adds to the realism of the pivotal scenes in London’s exclusive Speakeasy Club. One of the film’s greatest strengths is in these scenes that show us the human dimensions of larger-than-life cultural figures like Hendrix, Brian Jones, and The Beatles.

With few exceptions (such as “Graham Nash’s” dodgy accent and some of the worst wigs and beards this side of my high school’s production of Gone With the Wind), the cast pulls off the difficult task of celebrity impersonation, compensating for marginal resemblance with spot-on voices and mannerisms. The most impressive is Royal Watkins as Jimi Hendrix, who convincingly plays the coolest cat in the place, even in the presence of John Lennon and Brian Jones. Even if Hendrix never suggested that Kaylan perform “all done up like John Steed of The Avengers,”*** Watkins is utterly convincing giving this advice. The film’s best line, and its best-delivered, may be when Hendrix tries to talk Kaylan out of getting married, saying, “Don’t do it. This is hit record time.”

While scenes like the one in Cantor’s Deli, featuring Jim Morrison and a pickle, stretch credulity, they are so charming and funny, you won’t care about the “higher degree of accuracy” that producer Harold Bronson claims this film has over most films “based on actual events.” Accurate or not, My Dinner With Jimi captures the look and feel of the Sixties at their swinging-est. It’s a gas!

Turtles completists, take note, the film includes a couple of mixes Bronson did just for it, "Outside Chance" (by Warren Zevon, who Kaylan speaks about on the commentary track) with the lead vocal higher in the mix, and "She'd Rather Be With Me" (at the end, in the Speakeasy club), minus the horns, for a more "live" sound.

Extras include Howard Kaylan’s commentary, with Harold Bronson; their anecdotes add considerably to the story. Among other contentious comments, Kaylan repeats the claim that, unlike the Beach Boys and most every other L.A.-area band, The Turtles never used studio musicians (like Hal Blaine and the Wrecking Crew), but played all the instruments on their records, presumably not including horns and strings. He's a little rough on Jim Tucker, who left the band in 1967, and he does some other interesting name-dropping. It truly enhances the film.

It would be wonderful to see more films like this, which attempt to depict actual events from rock and roll's golden era, realistically and with human dimensions. My Dinner With Jimi -- it's a treat.

*** Strangely, Kaylan and Bronson talk on the commentary track about the lengths they went to with the Smothers Brothers' "Happy Together" recreation, getting the set and costumes just as they were in the original. After finding the clip on YouTube, however, I found that the recreation is amazingly accurate . . . except for Kaylan. In the actual clip, he seems to be taking Hendrix' advice as to dressing like John Steed (albeit with top hat and cane, rather than derby and brolly); in the film, he's hat- and cane-less and wearing a grossly ill-fitting suit! Which I thought must've been true to the original until I saw it. Also strangely, in the Speakeasy club footage at the end, where the Turtles perform "She'd Rather Be With Me," Kaylan is wearing the John Steed look!

No matter . . . it's a great film, and after a dozen attempts, I think I've determined what "Paul" and "John" say to each other in that last scene. Something like:
Paul: This would make a great story. Wonder if someone will write it someday.
John: Yeah, it's great.
Paul: You better hope not. You come off as a prick.
There's no way Kaylan, performing onstage, could have heard that conversation if it took place, but (like Morrison and the pickle) it's funny enough, and in keeping with the film's tone, who cares.

What's Best . . . Bears, Beets, Beatles?

Which former Beatle drummer put out the Best album this year?
Hint: It's not the one who told his fans to leave him alone.

I posted this review on Blogcritics after requesting a review copy of Haymans Green, by the Pete Best Band, from their label. You'll understand how I became aware of the album if you read the review. It was a very refreshing way to experience new music, almost like when you used to be able to hear cool new rock and roll when you walked into the local record store, or hearing it on the radio, back before "narrowcasting" and the ten song playlist.

What makes Blogcritics fun for me, on the rare occasions that I get read at all, is when someone like "Travis" stomps his little foot in outrage at me taking a "cheap shot" at a exploitative, crummy record he happens to like. Like? Revere, from the tone of his response. So I'm including his comment and my reply.
In the extremely unlikely circumstance that "Travis" reads this blog entry, I encourage him to contact me here. I'd genuinely like to know what he finds worth defending in Ringo's "Liverpool 8."
And then I'll ask him when he last read Emily Post. 'Cause I have, and I know from "rude" and "cheap shots."

REVIEW: 2008 has been a year of surprises for me, and like most everyone else, the recent jolts in my life have not been especially pleasant. In trying times, we seek the aural comfort food of good pop music more than ever. For a prime example, take the unprecedented response to the Beatles when most Americans first heard them on the Ed Sullivan Show, just a few months after the assassination of JFK. This album may not be Meet the Beatles, but it is a very pleasant surprise.

Nothing I knew about Pete Best’s career after he was unceremoniously kicked out of the most famous band in history led me to expect Haymans Green, a set of original tunes written by Best and his band and recorded at his Liverpool studio, in the former Casbah Club (site of many formative Beatles performances). Not only is this album an unexpected bright spot in an otherwise dismal period, it’s the better of two albums this year from former Beatles’ drummers.

When samples of three Haymans Green tracks were posted to a music group I belong to, in a blind “taste test,” group members were reminded of various late-Sixties sounds, mentioning the Byrds, Donovan, and even early Pink Floyd. None of us successfully identified the source, despite pervasive Beatles influences, as the Pete Best Band. And why would we? There is nothing especially distinctive about Best’s drumming—unlike, say, Keith Moon’s. And unlike Ringo, Best doesn’t sing, so his records can’t be identified by his voice.

The musicians Best has surrounded himself with though, more than compensate for his lack of distinctive musical characteristics. Pete is undoubtedly a solid player, which makes second drummer, Best’s brother Roag, seem superfluous. Phil Melia, Paul Parry, and Tony Flynn (on guitars, keyboards, and vocals) are well versed in melodic, Sixties-flavored fills, soaring vocal harmonies, and hook-filled, power pop songwriting.

COMMENTS: #1 — December 26, 2008 @ 15:52PM — Travis Comparing Pete Best's album to Ringo's is ridiculous, considering Pete uses another drummer and doesn't even sing. That's a low, unnecessary blow. There are some good songs on Ringo's album, and he's earned his place in history and had a fine solo career. Perhaps Pete's album is good, but your rude comparison is cheap.

#3 — December 27, 2008 @ 08:59AM — James A. Gardner [URL]

Travis, you may consider my comparison of Pete's and Ringo's albums to be ridiculous--that's certainly your right. Rude? Sorry, I don't see anything rude about comparing the two; comparing two artists is a legitimate critical practice, especially when the two have held the same place in a band.
I did find the dismissive AMG review (as quoted) of Pete's album to be rude. And I was personally offended by what struck me as Ringo's insensitive lyrics and his treatment of his fans this year.
I appreciate your comment, however, and would respectfully suggest that our notions of what constitutes good manners and rudeness are very different.

Ok, so long as I've gone down this road (and since I cannot imagine anyone reads this, even
the scum who post spam comments), I'll include a comment from someone who thinks I might
not be so rude and ignorant, after all:

#5 — December 31, 2008 @ 16:20PM — tj

thanks mr gardner for specifically calling out the insults inherent in Mark Deming's AMG review. MD would have benefitted from the same blind taste test that you experienced; instead, he approached Haymans Green with a hearty bias that became blatantly obvious after his review had actually started off on a positve note. HG surprised me, with every track- whether a rocker or a ballad- quite enjoyable. The auto/biographical theme of the album makes it even more interesting to listen closely to the lyrics to learn what parts of beatles history and/or personal history are being described. Seriously, I'd if you have the CD, do a similar blind taste test with someone you know, and see their reaction AFTER you tell them who it is.
Very cool review Mr Gardner. Ya hit the nail on the head.

Bands of Brothers

The new Creedence Clearwater Revival reissues have had me thinking (no small feat) that it sure would've been nice if they'd put the unreleased tracks that fill out the new CD reissues on the 2001 box set. Which I paid to download from eMusic a few years back.
Another thought is how CCR exemplifies a subject I wish I'd never read books about. I enjoyed CCR's music more fully without reading multiple accounts of John Fogerty's treatment of his brother, Tom.

The Kinks, another favorite band based around two brothers, is finally getting the box set treatment, which has spurred both rumors and denunciations of a band reunion. Oasis and Kings of Leon are based around two and three brothers, respectively; both have new albums out, and I'm interested in one of them. Not too many months ago, the Mael brothers' Sparks released their twentieth album, another in a long string of inventive, addictive oddities. And if I were going to be near L.A. next week, I'd be in line for the Carl Wilson Tribute at the Roxy, featuring Carl's nieces, Carnie and Wendy Wilson; his ex-sister-in-law's group, with The Honeys; and Brian Wilson, with whom he was in arguably the greatest brother band in pop history.

The Beach Boys famously achieved their initial success with the involvement of father, Murry Wilson; the degree to which that involvement was positive is debatable. This brings me to consider my own potential for Murry-dom.

Our sons are now in not one, but two bands together.
Some Kind of Steve, seen above, made their debut a few weeks ago at our town's fall festival, and they were superb. Not that I'm impartial.

Rich Kids, Poor Planning

When last I left me, I was out of college (and the less said about that, the better) and the very promising band I'd been in, called (for reasons that were never clear), WayStar.

What are the odds, do you suppose, of two or more people, an ocean apart, having the same idea at essentially the same time?
Rich Kids* turned out to be such a great, intentionally obnoxious name for a band that ours wasn't the only one. The first, and the more obscure, sure. We had been playing as Rich Kids for a year or so when I learned -- via the lamented Trouser Press -- of the UK band of the same name. No idea who had the name first, although I think we were by a long shot.
Considering the presence of a former Sex Pistol, a future Ultravox, and producer Mick Ronson, the other Rich Kids probably had a better shot at doing something noteworthy with the name.

Our Rich Kids was, at times, a pretty decent band. We played some good gigs and played a lot. And we came this close to some success. In addition to what can generously be called reckless personal habits, we cooked up a woefully misguided "marketing" approach that put paid to any big time rock dreams we might have entertained.

Take a look at this photo ----------->
How many mistakes can you spot?
(Click on the photo to enlarge! It!)

That's right! You may think you're being blazingly clever and daring to pose nonchalantly in front of a neon sign that shouts "DRUGS" . . . you may also discover that club owners might find it indicative of undesirable qualities in prospective employees. And it truly doesn't play in conservative, small, Midwest U.S. town, not even if you point out that the sign is in a local pharmacy and that "no publicity is bad publicity."

And then there's the idealogical clash that is all-too-apparent in this photo.
Two of these things are not like the others.
The three in the shades were into a lot of the same music, and didn't have too much difficulty in agreeing on nifty "New Wave" tunes to cover, or which similar-flavored originals fit into the mix. The other two, not so much.
At a time when our set list included the Cars' "Dangerous Type," Joe Jackson's "One More Time," and "The Time Warp" from Rocky Horror, one of these guys suggested we add "The Lady in Red" by Chris De Burgh. Without an ounce of irony.

What was most remarkable about our Rich Kids was that we were able to stay booked consistently, playing a list that was 60/40, even 75/25 percent originals to covers. There were, granted, a number of bands then (late 70s) and there (the Midwest) that played all, or predominantly original material. But that was mostly feasible only for bands that were playing bigger clubs than we'd graduated to, for the most part. So it was a real accomplishment to pull it off in the local bars we played all too often.

We did a 45 that we got onto some jukeboxes and local radio. We played with Badfinger and the Elvis Brothers. We did a great four-song demo and had some people interested in working with us.

And it wound up being a colossal cluster-flub, as these things usually do, in my experience, anyway.

By the time this photo on the left was taken, we're back down to four members, but one of the faces is new. And one of the faces is sporting the sorriest, Caleb-looking facial hair this side of a barn-raising.
Hopefully, those rockin' Zodiac shoes distracted from the hirsute head. Coolest shoes I ever owned, and some of the most expensive. The clerk when I bought them, in San Francisco, took the opportunity to use my credit card number to charge himself an airline ticket.

If you thought the DRUGS sign was ill-considered, take a look at this promotional shot (below, right):

Maybe that is sugar spelling out the band name on the mirror, and maybe the rolled-up bill in her hand isn't that visible. It's still a strong exhibit in the "What Were They Thinking?!" file on the Rich Kids.
And fairly near the end of the line.

Here's a tip, all you rock kids: don't try to live like a rock star until you are one.
And, really, you probably shouldn't then, either.
Not that Rich Kids would have become successful on anything but the most limited scale, but the way we conducted ourselves assured us of failure.

Ok! That was both depressing and embarrassing!
Next time, I'll tell myself all about the first Illicit Affair, truly a concept before its time.

[* Not like anyone reads this, but because I haven't sought any of their permissions to use their names and because I might inadvertently write something unflattering or even untrue, I'm not naming any names with these old band anecdotes. In the extremely unlikely event that ANYone else wanders into this blog and reads it, if they know any of us, they'll know who I'm writing about.]

Glen Campbell? We've met.

[The following review appeared first on Blogcritics. For your convenience, now you can not read it here, too.]

Glen Campbell: Meet Glen Campbell

Here are some things Meet Glen Campbell is not:

• It’s not ironic or insincere. Campbell’s vocals on “Grow Old With Me,” for instance, are as convincing (if a touch more weathered) as on “Wichita Lineman.”
• It’s not a gimmick or a joke, like the hokey Pat Boone-ifications of In A Metal Mood.
• It’s not produced by Rick Rubin, doesn’t sound like it, and isn’t as dreary as if it had been.
• It’s not a reclamation project, like Bruce Springsteen’s for Gary “U.S.” Bonds or Tom Petty’s with Del Shannon, where anyone came forward with new material, custom-written for Campbell.

Yeah, about the material. Despite a sticker on the CD shrink-wrap claiming Glen “hand picked” these “classic tracks,” the man himself writes in the booklet that producer Julian Raymond “hand picked” the songs and came to the veteran singer-guitarist with the album concept. This means that someone “hand picked” songs from such unlikely sources as Green Day and the Velvet Underground (along with more obvious selections, like Tom Petty and Jackson Browne), set them in arrangements that evoke Campbell’s late 1960’s classics, and recorded them with contributions from the likes of (former Jellyfish) Jason Falkner, Wendy Melvoin, Cheap Trick’s Robin Zander and Rick Neilsen, and five of Glen’s kids.

Anyone familiar with only Campbell’s lesser-quality, though hugely popular hits, like “Rhinestone Cowboy,” might expect Meet Glen Campbell to be a short trip to squaresville. Bear in mind, this guy’s first single was one of the hippest songs Brian Wilson’s ever written, and he was covering Allen Toussaint when Elvis Costello was still answering to the name, “Declan.” And three of Campbell’s greatest recordings (“By the Time I Get to Phoenix,” “Galveston,” and “Wichita Lineman”) cemented his reputation as the ultimate interpreter of the eternally-hip Jimmy Webb’s music.

In the absence of new Webb songs of that quality, the selections on this album make sense. How different is his recording U2’s “All I Want Is You” in 2008 from covering “Reason To Believe” or “Dock of the Bay” (both on the Wichita Lineman album) in 1968? Most listeners who are familiar with the newer songs on this album are too young to remember that, when Campbell was enjoying his early success, it used to be standard practice for mellow singers like John Davidson and Andy Williams to routinely record the day’s softer rock hits. Meet Glen Campbell is very much in that tradition, although they chose some songs — the Foo Fighters’ “Times Like These” in particular — that rocked pretty hard in their original versions.

The songs here, even the Foo Fighters’, all lend themselves to arrangements that would have suited Campbell’s late-sixties releases, making Meet . . . seem less like a dramatic departure than a continuation. In this setting, “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” could pass for Campbell covering a John Hartford song on one of his hit albums, and the mildly nondescript album opener, “Sing,” could as easily have been written in 1971 as 2001.

Producer Raymond has done a remarkable job of casting these songs with vintage arrangements in warm, widescreen stereo that nicely emulates a retro LP sound. And even clocks in at an LP friendly 33 1/2 minutes. At 72 years old, Campbell’s voice is surprisingly strong, even if he seems to have lost a bit of range and tone from his glory years. His singing on the album is always earnest, with “Jesus” and “Grow Old With Me” sounding as if they’re especially meaningful to him (regardless of who chose them).

While most of the songs work better than seemed possible when this album was first announced, it’s hard not to question some of the choices, like including two Tom Petty selections and sequencing them consecutively. (And isn’t “The Golden Rose” begging to be recorded by an artist like Glen Campbell?)

Apart from a classic, tremelo-laden solo (played on a very cool Danelectro, if the promotional video is to be believed), Campbell’s studio ace guitar skills aren’t much in evidence, which is a disappointment. Another minor complaint is one prominent misstep in the arrangement of “These Days,” where a cheesy organ solo clashes with the lush instrumentation.

The biggest let-down is the closing track, John Lennon’s “Grow Old With Me” (one of the demo’s offered to the then-surviving Beatles for the Anthology project, and passed over). Campbell has said in interviews that he hopes the song will become a new wedding standard. While it expresses a lovely sentiment, and he sings it with a great deal of feeling, it’s simply not a very memorable melody, or one of Lennon’s better compositions.

These are minor reservations about an album that no one expected. Overall, it’s an admirable effort from everyone involved, and a pleasure to listen to, a nice slice of audio comfort food. It is highly recommended to any Glen Campbell fan, and should be of at least mild interest to fans of cover versions (and, judging from the blogs devoted to covers, there are many).

Add to the list of what Meet Glen Campbell is not, apparently, a comeback attempt. From interviews with Campbell and producer Raymond, these sessions were kept as low-impact as possible for the singer, who would come in from his morning golf, put down a vocal to ready-and-waiting backing tracks, and take off until the next day. And if Glen decides not to interrupt his golfing with recording any more, Julian Raymond and company have provided his fans an appropriate finale. Don’t be surprised if no one wants to let him pack it in after this one, though.

Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

YES!

Friday night, over five inches dumped on our place in a very short span of time, three inches of it in less than ninety minutes.
Last night, more torrential rain, this time accented by 1" (or "quarter-sized," depending upon whether you believe the newspaper or TV station) hail.
Tonight, the prediction is for as much as two inches of rain per hour (which, according to my math, would equate to the same rate as Friday).

When I get to be li'l king of everything (Los Lobos ref!), any DJ who trots out "Riders on the Storm," either of the CCR "rain" songs, the Led Zep one, or (especially) "Ridin' the Storm Out," will be sentenced to six months in our basement. Which conditions over the past six months has converted from an entertainment center/music room to a frog pond/mushroom farm.

Maybe the Native Americans in my family know a No Rain dance?