bleedin' aida

glengarry glen ross.

There was a time, a couple of decades ago maybe, when I rather fancied to have the Stooges' "Gimme Danger" played at my funeral. Well might you chortle. These days I am no longer quite so given over to melodrama. At a push I often feel Lieutenant Pigeon's "Mouldy Old Dough" would be a good deal more fitting. Not to mention modest.

I can easily visualize some c@nt in black tails and stovepipe hat fidget a liver spotted finger onto the button primed to lower my casket as that jaunty drum roll kicks in. Like Jacob Marlowe in leather and mothballs, I take some rancorous comfort in those perceived gasps fluttering up from the pews. Assuming the news of my demise might scrape up any mourners at all, of course. The way things are heading fiscally, the end result is more likely to be a black plastic body bag stuffed in the fiery maw of an anonymous hospital waste disposal unit.

Worst case scenario ? Our government has already drafted a skein of (none too) secret measures to cope with the anticipated surfeit of Swine Flu fatalities. Mass burials might soon be back in vogue on European soil.

For a time back when I brokered health insurance. There's a laugh; have I confessed that one before ?

I even sold life insurance direct down the phone; cold calling at its worst. Of course, neither myself or my fellow agents ever dreamt of similarly investing in the same. Think 'Glengarry Glen Ross' and you would not veer too wide of the mark. The floor we worked stank of mints and bad feet. Farts and desperation.

A supervisor patrolling the aisles of our hunched undead once found a bag of smack in the cracks between floor tiles.

I'm sorry. I hope I never sold you any product, brothers and sisters. I had a gun to my head. Meantime, like Tiny Tim on death row, I tiptoed through the tulips.

I'm doing my utmost to make up for it now.

Recorded September 10th - October 6th, 1972 at CBS Studios, London.

▼ IGGY & THE STOOGES: GIMME DANGER from "Raw Power" LP (Columbia) 1973 (US)

after balloon burning...

The wasted tail fin hovers under the radar. Peeling decals fluttering. The cockpit has been hosed down and the instruments crackle on autopilot; a rusting colossus immune to nagging; neglect; and niggardliness.

"So far as I'm concerned, the early 70s were the Pretties' finest twinkling hour. Ladbroke Grove was their acid drenched stamping ground, home to Van Morrison's Madam George and the group's fluctuating line-up saw them brazenly trading key members with pioneering mental cases, the Pink Fairies ; recording in and out of Abbey Road studios and switching record labels as quick as jumping on a London borough bus."

From the ground its black silhouette hangs like a painted flag. The ghost of 'SF Sorrow'. One by one those remaining occupants crawl through the hatch and drop. It would be cheaper to get there by underground, missed opportunities refracting off steamed glass like kisses on the top deck window of a stalled bus.

"As smokey brown as the Beatles' "Abbey Road" in places, but shimmering and translucent too as the best of Chilton & Bell's Big Star. A perfect pop masterpiece painted from a well rehearsed palette of limited colour, a perfect teenage summer's trip."

The girl you covet waits at the bus stop. Her knees are trembling. She glances up and over her shoulder, where sweet wrappers and discarded beer tins pock thistle and wayward berries. There is something moving behind the fence. This is the sound of your free period on a summer's afternoon. Or the 8:00 AM journey from a suburban outback into a blotter tinctured oasis of hallucinogenics and Ritalin lozenges; an aggravated spinster in laddered tights by the roundabout who shares much in common with Sunday's maiden aunt. A spindle-legged hankering. Old English Spangles and Dandelion Clocks. Arachnids weaving unseen in the dewlaps, spotted hounds off the leash and foaming. And. Transgressions on your tongue.

A tangle of strings.

Free-fall. For aviators and survivors of 1970's unopened "Parachute" everywhere.

▼ THE PRETTY THINGS: GRASS from "Parachute" LP (Harvest EMI) 1970 (UK)

▼ THE PRETTY THINGS: LOVE IS GOOD from "Freeway Madness" LP (Warner Bros.) 1972 (UK)

brian and dennis, wilson and wilson; sans charlie

'dirty doll". photograph from here.

From the second disc of Pavement's 2004 re-release of "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain" - L.A's Desert Origins - featuring previously unreleased material which was subsequently rerecorded for their third album, "Wowee Zowee".

I met Steve Malkmus once on stage at a village hall in Belgium during Sonic Youth's "Dirty" tour. I did not like to inform him I generally considered "Slanted & Enchanted" a work of some genius. Modesty, and my woefully reserved Celtic temperament, absolutely forbade it. Besides. I was too busy looking up Kim Gordon's ass.

Sorry. Mrs. Thurston Moore's ass. The marital thang is still something of a novelty. I will get used to it. Fine asses always warrant serious reconsideration. Genuinely.

kim gordon by richard kern.

Possibly recorded at 'Louder Than You Think', Stockton, California, 1993.
Engineered by Mark Venezia.

▼ PAVEMENT: PUEBLO (BEACH BOYS) from "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain (L.A.'s Desert Origins)" 2 x CD (Matador) 1994/2004 (US)

S&M ?

"shy boy in soyapango, el salvador". photograph by donna decesare.

Any allusion to a large UK supermarket chain's commandeering of this piece through its television advertising is lamentable. But sadly inescapable. I detest food pornography, and it is a fairly safe assumption that Carlos Santana does not need the bread, however finely baked or dressed.

I notice, too, that a large mobile network has just launched a campaign underpinned by the Box Tops' "Neon Rainbow". I hate that kind of shit. Jim Morrison was right to be churlish. Hand back the jaded junkie glamour it deserves.

Produced by Fred Catero and Carlos Santana.

▼ SANTANA: SAMBA PA TI from "Abraxas" LP (Columbia) 1970 (US)

widdershins

"de sole et vento", aesop's fables. detail from illustration by francis barlow, 1666.

wid•der•shins |ˌwɪdəʃɪnz| (also with•er•shins)
adverb chiefly Scottish
in a direction contrary to the sun's course, considered as unlucky; counterclockwise.

ORIGIN early 16th cent.: from Middle Low German weddersins, from Middle High German widersinnes, from wider ‘against’ + sin ‘direction’ ; the second element was associated with Scots sin [sun.]

A wind...

howled in from the south or north this morning - up or down, I am undecided. Buffeting the kitchen window in sudden sheets of rain which drained away in minutes. I could hear it whistling through the cracks left open to allow in some air even as the kettle sputtered and boiled. A witchy sound; blowing hot and cold.

All day long the skies have been bruised and pewter. Autumn is just around the corner.

I have been on the caffeine again of late. Yesterday was all but dry.

Still. I imbibed a little cider. Just enough to whet the whistle. It did not do it for me, though, and I left the bottle pretty much alone and opted instead for tap water. It was alright. Toxic though it may have been, I miss the dull metallic tang which comes solely from a domestic supply routed through archaic plumbing; its slow percolation through countless submerged yards of unfit lead.

I pottered aimlessly around our flat and eventually poured a bath. All the while I listened to that wind.

It reminded me, not unkindly, that there is doubtless worse to come.

What is wrong with architects round here ? They all start out with misguided preconceptions, prejudices or inherited vices. Shutters would be nice.

Yesterday morning I rose early and strode out to deliver some thank you letters to the mailbox down the street. As close as I dare get to doing the same in person. Today I slept in until 10 or so. It seemed like the safe thing to do. I lay for a while and listened to Rosa move things around. Put breakfast cereal in china bowls for the kids. No hangover behind my eyes. No twitching in the body's extremeties.

Actually, I have not gotten drunk for quite some time. Well. Not in the habitual sense. Maybe I am losing it.

Don't speak too soon kid, the wind warned me: there is a gale brewing.


▼ DONOVAN: CATCH THE WIND [ECHO & STRINGS] from "Catch The Wind b/w Why Do You Treat Me Like You Do ?" 45 (PYE) 1965 (UK)

▼ BOB DYLAN: IDIOT WIND from "Blood On The Tracks" LP (Columbia) 1975 (US)

why we never hired a wedding singer

don gibson and reprobate accomplice, 1972.

Alright. A Don Gibson number recorded, of course, by Faron Young in 1956 and Patsy Cline in 1963.

It was Louisiana born crooner, though, Tommy McLain- one time time member of the Vel-Tones, alongside country singer, Cline West - who scored a #15 hit on the U.S. Billboard charts with this one in 1966 and brought the song to international prominence. This is the one I remember most fondly. Big cheese and Brilliantine. The cops are on the way... and everything is cool. Nothing ominous.

▼ TOMMY MCLAIN: SWEET DREAMS from "Sweet Dreams b/w I Need You So" 45 (Decca / London) 1966 (US)

earthman supersmell: sand and sod

A time to reap, a time to sow



August is fallen upon us and the hour is ripe for harvest. Several months back as winter settled in, I exhumed 1991's "Earthman Supersmell" from Eindhoven collective, Alabama Kids, a group justifiably lauded in their native Holland at the time as deserving of major league status. I pondered:

"Not a lot of information is available on the Kids. From Eindhoven, they were touted as the Dutch Dinosaur Jr. and built their reputation on sprawling live performances attended by a small hardcore in and around the Netherlands in the early 90s. As a guitar band - think Neil Young snagging picks and overstepping licks with Peter Laughner; an uneasy alliance somewhere between Cleveland and the other side of Lake Michigan - the J Mascis comparisons are certainly valid, and to my ears Alabama Kids should have been truly huge.

'Stadium' rock played out in countless church halls connected by equally endless stretches of anonymous motorway; and not a stadium in sight.

Flatlands and Skunk. Crates of Amstel."

Feloniously, the album - released on Schemer, a subsidiary of Semaphore - has been out of print for longer now than is seemly. Their sound, contrastingly sparse and dense and earthy, quite perfectly evokes the peculiarly Dutch landscape; mile after mile of conspicuous flatland and the odd marriage between arterial freeway and quietly flourishing pockets of agriculture. And in the south, near the border with Belgium, the squat spectacle of one of the world's first panopticon prisons. More like a botanical hothouse than a holding centre for violent offenders. And closer still - stagnant canal water and the ruinous wasteground of a derelict hospital where I exercised a pair of snarling dogs. A return favour for a friend.

I roomed overnight with an Irishman who had come just to photograph that gaolhouse. Not for nothing is the first port of call for newly released inmates a bar named after New York's Bellevue.

Michel Boekhoudt: bass; Jacco Van Rooy: drums ;

Rob Geerings, Stefan Vermeeren: guitar;
Djie Han Thung: guitar, vocals.

Mixed by Pidah; recorded by Pieter Kloos.

Thanks to Milo, whose recent comment prompted me to dust this one off before it spoils.

▼ ALABAMA KIDS: DON'T ASK ME from "Earthman Supersmell" LP/CD (Schemer) 1991 (NL)

▼ ALABAMA KIDS: THE LADDER from "Earthman Supersmell" LP/CD (Schemer) 1991 (NL)

OUT OF PRINT

sans cowbell

Written by Donald 'Buck Dharma' Roeser.

"Agents of Fortune" line-up:
Eric Bloom: vocals, guitar, keyboards, percussion, cowbell;
Albert Bouchard: drums, vocals, acoustic guitar, percussion, harmonica;
Donald Roeser: synthesizer, guitar, percussion, keyboards, vocals;
Joe Bouchard: bass, guitar, piano, vocals;
Allen Lanier: bass, guitar, keyboards.

Patti Smith: guest vocals ("Vera Gemini");
Randy Brecker & Michael Brecker: horns.

Produced by Sandy Pearlman.

▼ BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: (DON'T FEAR) THE REAPER [BUCK DHARMA ORIGINAL 4-TRACK HOME DEMO VERSION] from "Agents Of Fortune (Remastered + Bonus Tracks)" CD (Columbia/Sony) 1976/2001 (US)

it's a rainy day, sunshine girl

Well. I am a married man; it is a done deal, brothers and sisters. The well is flowing over.

Well and truly.

By morning last Friday, the rain began to fall. By noon it became clear this was no ordinary precipitation. Those raindrops were the size and colour of bright pennies, bouncing back up from the pavement to gather round the knees like a charm bracelet. Sluicing down under the collar and the back of one's neck.

In many cultures the presence of rain on a wedding day is considered an auspicious omen. The Italians, I hear, have a phrase for it: "Sposa bagnata, sposa fortunata" - a wet spouse is a lucky spouse - bride and groom anointed with good fortune. A token of fertility seemingly.

My God. We have three already. We might yet sire a football team.

Buddhists and Hindus, too - I am told - are united by this conviction.

All that rain could not dampen our spirit any. Although I would have welcomed the chance to stroll along sun dappled lanes rather than dash between taxi and registry office sheltered beneath a golfing umbrella. Still. Our Portuguese piper had earlier called the tune, stoically observing that pipers are much like the rain here in Scotland; guaranteed to grace the day. And so he did. Ceremoniously playing us out like a trooper through the downpour; our guests braving the same as they showered us with confetti. Some of it in my face as harshly as a slap.

Thank you, Jose. And all those who joined us despite the awful traffic threading and choking the city centre. Like salmon fighting upstream we made it in the end.

14th August, 2009.
For my beautiful wife, Rosa.

▼ TOM VERLAINE: RAIN, SIDEWALK from "Around" LP (Thrill Jockey) 2006 (US)
▼ THE BLUE NILE: TINSELTOWN IN THE RAIN from "A Walk Across The Rooftops" LP (Linn) 1983 (UK)
▼ BOB DYLAN: EARLY MORNIN' RAIN from "Self Portrait" LP (Columbia) 1970 (US)
▼ FRED NEIL: LITTLE BIT OF RAIN from "Bleecker & MacDougal" LP (Elektra) 1965 (US)
▼ LED ZEPPELIN: THE RAIN SONG from "Houses Of The Holy" LP (Atlantic) 1973 (UK)
▼ DIRTY THREE: RAIN ON from "Cinder" LP (Touch And Go) 2005 (US)
▼ FAUST: IT'S A RAINY DAY, SUNSHINE GIRL from "So Far" LP (Polydor) 1972 (Germany)
▼ THE BEATLES: RAIN from "Paperback Writer b/w Rain" 45 (Parlophone) 1965 (UK)

this little piggy went to market

son of sam says...

Man. Those leathers don't fit me any more. Not even the act of cutting Jim Morrison darts in the waistband is gonna help. No sir. I had hoped the diet might have gotten me closer, but given the liver no longer functions as it ought to, there was fat chance. Mid life crisis ? Not a bit of it. I just never wanted to fill the trotters of the common garden porcine groom.

So. There are options.

I thought briefly about a long kilt. No dice. I saw a gaggle of wedding guests last Friday in the West End rigged out in full kilt hire regalia with Ray-Bans on the side and it looked, I felt, just f@cking ridiculous. I got a jacket. I bought a collarless shirt - no fucking ties, alright ? - and that was okay. Vaguely the same muumuu pattern Homer Simpson might opt for at a pinch.

There. It is only the lower half which concerns me abjectly; the conventional option of dress trousers or otherwise. Yes, a suit can be fine, but only if the wedge in your pocket stretches to Giorgio Armani. The A-List celebrity shit, in short. Clearly, this is not an option. No dough to go Italian or French ? If you are no longer quite the skinny f@ck of yesteryear, my advice is think again.

Let's go Dutch. I have no notion of dressing up like Christopher Lambert for the ubiquitous budget Highlander sequel or Gibson in his Braveheart slice of ham. F@ck Sean Connery while we're at it; his kilt no doubt cost him the price of one of our smaller islands.

In the end it was jeans, of course. Are you listening Mr. Lydon ? What may be the lower bowels of hell, sartorially, for you, is by no means the same piece of shit for the rest of us. It still cuts the mustard quite adequately, I feel. Maybe I am misguidedly conservative. Inverted. Granted, I may not possess the credit to opt for imported US brands which sell here for a ludicrous premium, but I am f@cked if I am going to clad myself in a bin liner out of a shop on the Kings Road just to grab some backhand coin. You know where I am coming from. It was all a simple matter of under the counter spoils.

Jeans, I tell you. Nothing more and nothing less will do.

And. If I do happen to ever shed these surplus pounds of shrieking blubber, you can be guaranteed it will be back in the leathers in the blink of an optometrist's eye. No f@cking PVC for me.

▼ TAD: BEHEMOTH from "God's Balls" LP (Sub Pop) 1989 (US)

sno doz, the city which never sleeps

Meantime...

up near the eaves, waiting to drop like a stone, it was close to business as usual. Norris Gable, sometime broker in scrap iron - and officially the groom - paced the floor cagily and threw coffee after coffee down his throat. Outside the occasional siren wailed and the constant jackhammer in his head could only be appeased with a chain-smoker's fumbled offering.

In and out, the fumes catching in his chest and the butterflies protesting.

"Fuck this," he said. "My nerves are shot. I am almost out of cigarettes and I'd sooner recycle those butts in the ashtray than go down there and buy some more."

He pressed his nose to the glass puttied in the metal frames and ran his fingers over his neck. Agitated, he wasted five minutes or so rifling the window sill for stray papers. There were none and he knew it. He might kill an hour pointlessly going through pockets hanging on coat hooks next to the electric meter but in the end he would come back empty-handed. There was no percentage in it, it was just the unconscious desire to worm his head into the noose; to fiddle with the knot.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he went. Creaking back and forth.

The minute hand on the clock on the kitchen wall turned faster than he could believe. Not spinning, no. A kind of spastic twitching, merely. The tick of one hand clapping in mirthless applause.

"Oh well. There is nothing else for it. I will just sit down and watch that tv programme on The City Addicted to Crystal Meth. That should be distracting."

It was just like peering into the mirror. A procession of strung out blank eyed insects; each one twisting on bespoke soldering wire. Going through the motions of nothing in particular.

Keep the green tea on ice. His own bag from now until tomorrow was nothing more than caffeine, like Philip K. Dick with an empty fridge.

Blink and you might miss it.

note: ring shown not actual size.

▼ WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS: MILDRED PIERCE REPORTING (OLD SARGE) from "Spare Ass Annie and Other Tales" CD (Island Red) 1993 (US)

litterbugs

detail from "les très riches heures du duc de berry" by the limbourg brothers, circa 1413.

On the littered waste ground my apartment block looms over I spied a woman in a white jacket. She was on her knees, still as death, feeding a gathering of pigeons. Or observing them intently. In much the same way I stood watching her.

We are so high up, at first I mistook her for just another plastic bag. I actually had to retreat into the kitchen to fetch the scratched set of binoculars which once belonged to my grandfather. I am a nosy motherf@cker at times, I must admit. Add that to my list of vices.

Well, alright. It transpired it was just another plastic sack, but that doesn't mean we don't have our ration of Francis of Assisis round here. Albeit most are content to simply drizzle breadcrumbs from their windows. Or leftovers and glass bottles; and on one notable occasion a pair of scissors which very nearly impaled my skull. There is even a Chinese family with impeccably green credentials who rise every morning at the crack of dawn and sally forth to uplift beer cans and used syringes before the many children shared between twenty-three floors spew out in a tide.

A regular battalion of weasel faced brats watch the elderly matriarch stooping to retrieve the debris which has accumulated overnight. They too are forced out of their homes as soon as the sun comes up. They watch her dispassionately as they cram crisps into their mouths. They drop their emptied packets under CCTV cameras mounted on the walls and run.

In less than a year they will begin to swagger. This is the ritual.

I cannot quite grasp why the Chinese family persist with it. But I admire their dogged perseverance all the same.

I hear Bill Burroughs whine in my ear:
' "Aren't you going to do something?" I demanded. He looked at me and yawned.'

That old woman refuses to be cowed. Like a peasant sowing the fields while the B52's buzz overhead.

reup: from the gorbals to stonehenge

roger kynard erickson's
all-seeing eye, or some outlandishly fiendish occult plot ?

This song was recorded in Roky's manager's office in Marin County, California during an acoustic solo performance in which the Aliens were notable by their absence.

"from the gargoyles to stone henge
from the sphynx to the pyramids
religious temples praising the devil right
to the devils club as it strikes midnight..."

Hear that first line quoted above ? I'm still not convinced.

Ever since my friend, Gus - an Erickson aficionado - first brought this song to my attention a couple of years after its original release, I have been stone cold certain Roky actually sings "From The Gorbals to Stone Henge"...despite the odds. Even listening to it now, having finally sourced the lyric on the web somewhere in a bid to lay old ghosts to rest, I continue to harbour grave doubts.

Gargoyles just don't do it for me.

▼ ROKY ERICKSON: I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE BEFORE from "Gremlins Have Pictures" LP (Pink Dust) 1986 (US)

sans palmolive, without lubrication

Oh, well. It's now or never. In less than a fortnight I shall be officially married - road traffic accidents and strokes, excepting - a convention I have studiously avoided in the thirty odd years since I legally 'came of age'. Out of atypical modesty, I have thus far resisted the urge to announce said event. That, or the faint anxiety regarding plans which gang awry.

Anyhow. The game is afoot. Events have been set in motion.

A piper, even, has been procured; a splendid Portuguese busker on Spanish pipes who kindly agreed to step by and bless the ceremony. Far better a relaxed Iberian note than the spectacle of pomp and circumstance. A far more colourful route to travel than booking a complete stranger through any agency, I would suggest. It rained abysmally in the moments of my asking him if he had ever done a wedding gig. He carefully flicked a raindrop off the display on his cellphone as we swapped numbers and made sure we were not about to drag him on to the steps of a church. A man of the cloth, his tartan was wholly black. Without stripe or accent.

"Pipers are much like the rain in Scotland," he said. "One can always be assured we will be there."

I have not stepped foot in Portugal for quite some time. Twenty years, in fact. Give or take a downpour. From his tattoo I took him to be a man of his word.

Tessa Pollitt: bass;
Ari Up: drums, vocals;
Viv Albertine: guitar;
Steve Beresford: keyboards;
Bruce Smith: drums.

Recorded on October 12th, 1981;
first transmission on October 26, 1981.

Produced by Tony Wilson.
Backing vocals by Neneh Cherry.

▼ THE SLITS: EARTH BEAT / WEDDING SONG from "The Peel Sessions" CD (Strange Fruit) 1998 (UK)

smile a little smile

Delightful schmaltz from the UK production / songwriting partnership between Tony Macaulay and Geoff Stevens; better known through their association with The Foundations - "Build Me Up, Buttercup" - and Pinkerton's Assorted Colours.

Owing a massive one farthing debt to "Penny Lane" era woodwind flourishes and cow lashed McCartney-isms, one also harbors a secret admiration for the way the middle eight almost meanders off through the overspill of trash cans from Ray Davies' "Dead End Street". A little piece of uniquely shameless English whimsy.

Tony Newman: vocals, guitars;

Steve Jones: guitars, vocals; Sam Kempe: vocals;
Stewart Coleman: bass;
Paul Wilkinson: drums.
Written by Geoff Stevens and Tony Macaulay.
Produced by Tony McCauley.

photograph by alex waterford hayward.

▼ THE FLYING MACHINE: SMILE A LITTLE SMILE FOR ME (MONO) from "Smile A Little Smile For Me b/w Maybe We've Been Loving Too Long" 45 (PYE) 1969 (UK)

formal disclosures

toulouse, 2008. photographs by rory lindsay.



So much has been written here and elsewhere regarding Brooklyn's once forgotten finest that I will resist the temptation to embellish, save for the reminder that chief songwriter, Mike Brown was just sixteen years old when this rarified gem of an album was recorded in his father's studio above a beauty school just a block from the infamous Brill Building. And vocalist, Steve Martin a mere two years his elder.

A quick glance at my iTunes play count reveals that this song is well up there in my own Top 50. Like several others on their debut LP, the song's inspiration lay in Brown's well documented infatuation with Renée Felden, a young woman introduced to the boys living out of 1595 Broadway through mutual acquaintance, Tom Feher.

According to bassist, Tom Finn - who eventually secured Felden's affections - on the original session the drums were laid down by an anonymous jobbing 802 Union professional; the bass provided by classical cellist, Seymour Barrab; and the strings - oboe and cello - by friends of Michael's dad, including George Marge.

Recorded in the bleak winter of 1966, this is the sound of unrequited passion without the almost inevitable acrimony.

Steve Martin (Caro): vocals ;
Rick Brand: guitar;
Jeff Winfield: guitar;
Mike Brown (Lookovsky): harpsichord, piano;
George Cameron: drums;
Tom Finn: bass.

Written by Michael Brown.
Produced by Harry Lookofsky; Steve Jerome; Bill Jerome
at World United Studio, 1595 Broadway NYC.

▼ THE LEFT BANKE: PRETTY BALLERINA from "WALK AWAY RENÉE / PRETTY BALLERINA" LP (Smash Records) 1967 (US)

CHARLEMANGE'S LEFT BANKE SITE

two rum cherries spells casino ruin

one armed bandit. photograph by yale joel, 1951.

I like berries. I do not like fruit machines. Slot machines.

The term "one armed bandit" seems hideously appropriate. Like a shrunken Mexican purse snatcher lying in wait in a dark alley in Vegas. Or the deserted parking lot at the back of the diner.

As I mentioned here previously, I have an aversion to gambling. It is not quite a hobbyhorse, this disinclination to let my money ride, but in light of those other vices I have embraced or accumulated it is something of a small saving grace.

Flutter. Another ominously fitting tag. Moths dancing around the flame; glued and twitching on the backlit glass as the the bars and cherries refuse to settle on the line. I have known people thousands of pounds in debt thanks to those bells and whistles. Sober, god-fearing bastards who have never smoked a joint. They pass one bar after the other without a backwards glance, but still they are hooked. They avoid the beer gut but the cold sweat waits to spring forth just the same. The anxiety and panic is always there lurking.



I have heard the police come knocking at six o'clock in the morning to spirit away the inveterate debtor, and have felt relief it was not me. Shivering under the quilt like a coward. One fist balled in my mouth. It could have been far worse, of course. It just as easily might have been debt collectors with razors and saturnine threats. Ivory cue balls rattling on the stairs.

Pony necked, slab thighed yobs with running eyes and too much aftershave. They collected an uncle of mine that way, the bastards.

The slot machines have kept pace with shiny trends in entertainment, but the thugs employed to break arms and dislodge teeth have not changed to any remarkable extent. The interest repayments are invariably unmakable. The vigorish remains vigorously outlandish.

Still. We all have our vices. It is not merely a capitalist failing. Everyone begins a winner; flushed and flexing muscle. All bets off as the starting pistol barks.

Now, pinball, well; that's another story.

step off the grass and into the crop circle

My favourite fruit is the blackberry. Brambles, we call them. They grow wild by the roadside in the late summer months into autumn, protected from pickers by a vicious array of thorns. If I remember correctly, their appearance on the vine broadly coincides with the first bloom of psilocybin. Cars travelling over the speed limit with two wheels inches from the ditch pose a more significant threat.

I like blueberries too. A staple in the US, with hardier varieties grown in some parts of Europe, we have to have them imported.

Those blueberries don't travel well.

The best arrive frozen in transit. I am only really fond of them when they retain that keen note of sourness; a bitter tang like the best of grapes and sherbet.

I suspect those 'visitors' which plague late August skies have not come to harvest berries. They seem more intent on vivisecting cattle in situ. Or spiriting the odd hapless berry-picker off for a haircut and manicure, only to deposit said victim several hours or days later close to the original scene of their abduction.

Probably it is no small co-incidence that many of these strange occurrences take place near military installations. On desert plains, or deep in woods infested with all manner of foreboding notices. Take it as read. Those particular beings are riddled with all too human failings.

communis exalti

com•mun•ion |kəˌmjuːnjən|
noun
1 the sharing or exchanging of intimate thoughts and feelings, esp. when the exchange is on a mental or spiritual level : in this churchyard communion with the dead was almost palpable. See note at CONVERSATION.

ORIGIN late Middle English : from Latin communio(n-), from communis (see common).

From wiki:

"Whitley Strieber was born in San Antonio, Texas, the son of Karl Strieber, a lawyer, and Mary Drought Strieber. He attended Central Catholic Marianist High School in San Antonio, Texas. He was educated at the University of Texas at Austin and the London School of Film Technique, graduating from both in 1968. He then worked for several different advertising firms in New York City, rising to the level of vice president before quitting in 1977 to become a free-lance writer."

Fom WFMU:

"The CD was basically the project of Guido Erfen, one of the guys behind the So Healthy Music label. He got involved with the Ukrainian underground music scene when he was language student in Kharkov in 1990."

The CD, "Break Through in a Grey Room" comprises a collection of cut-ups recorded in the 1960's in various hotel rooms in New York, London and Paris. This key piece was recorded circa 1965 with Ian Sommerville between the Chelsea Hotel; 210 Centre Street, NYC and London, and owes as much to Sommerville's technical innovations as Burroughs' readings. 

Sommerville was a much respected contributor to the underground scene in London during the period, working out of a studio allegedly furnished by The Beatles' Paul McCartney.

faux cover designs by ib.
collect the full set!

▼ TOVARICH (ALIEN): BLUES from "Novaya Scena - Underground From Ukraine" CD 1993 (Ukraine)

▼ WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS: K-9 WAS IN COMBAT WITH THE ALIEN MIND-SCREENS from "Break Through In A Grey Room" CD (Sub Rosa) 1994 (US)

when the not so weird turn pro

A couple of nights ago I watched Alex Gibney's "Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson" on terrestrial tv. I have not read any Hunter for quite some time, although I have a good several of his key publications from 1965's "Hell's Angels" through to 1979's retrospective, "The Great Shark Hunt".

Benign and savage on the turn of a sixpence - in life and in prose - Hunter Thompson was not so much a man of contradictions as a man, like all of us, on a mission. Through his various assignments, constantly pitched against the deadline, Hunter sought to carve himself a reputation Sam Peckinpah might have been proud of, and a niche in the real world of politics he simultaneously despised and adored. Ultimately, he may even have created his own living nightmare; an elaborately manufactured similacrum of Mary Shelly's "Frankenstein", warts and all - the inescapable shadow of his own unique self. The angry fist of Gonzo f@cking himself right in the ass. With little or no lubrication.

In the final analysis, shrouded perhaps from too much wine, I found myself agreeing pretty much with his first wife, Sandy Conklin Thompson - now Sondi Wright - regarding his suicide. A single, self-inflicted gunshot to the head within earshot of his one son, Juan. Yes. Hunter S. Thompson was not yet done. He may have had enough, but he was not yet done.

From the suicide note subsequently published in Jan wenner's "Rolling Stone", fondly entitled "The Football Season is Over":

""No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt."

I remember reading about his suicide in "The Times" in 2005 with an unholy mixture of sadness and a far from admirable delight, maybe, in a chapter finally closed. At the time, perhaps, I too felt Hunter was done. Simply because I was done reading him. That is one hell of a confession. The world has moved on, I told myself; no more Vietnams, or crooks or peanut farmers in the White House.

Speak about premature ejaculation.

From Bush's foray into Iraq and Afghanistan, to Barack Obama's election as a black candidate, what is missing in today's theatre of politics and corruption is the unrequited observation from the bleachers of a Hunter S. Thompson. Cigarette holder or Gonzo fist rammed home or not.

Last night I had a dream. The Chinese had invaded, or maybe the invasion came from deep space. Whatever. Twenty-three to thirty of us were detained by day in a 're-education centre', and allowed home at night to complete an assignment. The Chinese were very efficient. And suave in their Jimmy Chu/Mao Tse-Tung suits and elegant footwear.

I had a crush on a female translator with obsidian eyes and a bull horn.

I did not complete my assignment. I missed the deadline. The very next morning I was surrounded by a smiling host of fellow Caucasians shyly unveiling beautifully executed Cartouches depicting the righteousness of occupation.

"You, who have done, have done well. You have exceeded your birthright by stint of meritocracy. In due course, your contribution shall be rewarded. Ruminate."

All I had managed was a cover note outlining my reservations. Even that appeared half-assed. The girl with the bull horn told us to congratulate ourselves. Our contribution to the revolution was inviolate. The best of us could expect to be summarily re-educated and set to work immediately. Women and men to my left and right threw high fives freely.

Their relief seemed infectious. Like Swine Flu blown in on an exotic breeze.

I could not believe my ill fortune. I had failed. Again, it seemed. I could not make it in the world of squares; I could not make it come the revolution.

I sat their forlornly and stared at my shoes. And waited to be expelled.

IT NEVER GOT WEIRD ENOUGH @ THE GAZETEER, 2005

small and stately

The fifth 45 release from the Small Faces, hitting the #1 spot on the British singles chart two weeks after its release on August 5th, 1966; sharing the top position with The Beatles' "Yellow Submarine", quite bizarrely. Think Rod Stewart's cover of P.P. Arnold's "First Cut is the Deepest" pipping the Pistols' "God Save the Queen" to the post in 1977, and the jubilee jigsaw begins to make sense.

File next to Them's "Gloria" for maximum agitation. For Small Faces' completists, there exists a live session version of the same song recorded for the BBC which seriously rivals the definitive Decca release in raw energy and sinewy bubblegum snapping arrogance. I can think of only a fistful of prime Small Faces numbers which do not at the very least threaten 3rd degree violence. Or the promise of a slap. Not so much domestic abuse, per se, as antisocial loitering. With intent.



From Wiki:

"According to Kay Marriott, Steve's mother, Steve wrote this song about his split with ex-fiancee Sue Oliver, though first wife Jenny Rylance states that Marriott told her he wrote the song for her as a result of her split with Rod Stewart. Both statements are said to be correct."

I want to see your mum in hot pants, motherf@cker. It's in my freekin' blood.

The smell of damp nylon on rainy Mondays. The crackle of heat and testosterone fueled impatience. Throw all the flowers on the fire and break out the wine.

The towels are in the wash and the baby is hungry. It's just spilled milk and aspiration. Unpaid bills and shopping for pacifiers. Scratching a dire f@cking itch.

Written by Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane.
Produced by Don Arden.


Recorded at IBC Studios in Portland Place, London, England.

▼ SMALL FACES: ALL OR NOTHING from "All Or Nothing b/w Understanding" 45 (Decca) 1966 (UK)

paging mr. lee

GOLAS 2.

A fractured slice of almost indecently perfect pop from the late 1980's, penned by Merseyside mysterioso, Lee Mavers, and prompted by this interesting tidbit recently posted on Blank Stares and Cricketclaps.

Produced by Bob Andrews, formerly of Brinsley Schwarz; Dr. Feelgood; and The Rumour. Andrews also contributed piano and hammond organ to Johnny Thunders and Patti Palladin's collection of covers, "Copycats", from the same year.

▼ THE LA's: THERE SHE GOES from "There She Goes" 7' & 12" EP (Go! Discs) 1988 (UK)

byrd with coils

albinio banana california king snake.

A Jaques Levy & McGuinn composition from The Byrds' untitled 1970 LP, featuring Clarence White, Gram Parsons and Skip Battin. Also including the great Terry Melcher on piano in pieces, this was undoubtably the last release from McGuinn under the Byrds banner of any merit. McGuinn's voice on this live cut is a barbed thing of wonder; strangled and bitter and devoid of Christian rectitude.


For the most comprehensive and concise detail on Clarence White imaginable, move directly to The Adios Lounge. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200, or gain surplus pounds. And hang on to your "Get out of Jail" card, brothers and sisters.

▼ THE BYRDS: LOVER OF THE BAYOU (LIVE) from "Untitled" 2 x LP (Columbia) 1970 (US)

pour a little sugar on it

The Archies, of course, were the saccharine comic-book-creation-made-flesh of Bubblegum Svengali, Don Kirshner; the evil impresario who also played his hand so well in the cynical manufacure of The Monkees. Devised originally in late 1967, there was so much of a liberal sprinkling of sugar on this one that even Kellog's were soon queuing up at the door, cheque in hand.

Written by producer, Jeff Barry and newly appointed staff writer, Andy Kim, and released on the Calendar imprint initially, the 45 - also available on the LP, "Everything's Archie" - was subsequently one of the biggest selling singles for media giant, RCA of all time.

Archie Andrews: guitar;
Reggie Mantle: guitar;
Jughead Jones: drums;
Betty Cooper: tambourine;
Veronica Lodge: keyboards.

Jeff Barry;
Ron Dante;
Ellie Greenwich;
Toni Wine.

A Man with the Golden Ear production.

The Chilton cover was culled from those solo sessions recorded at Ardent Studios, Memphis in 1970, directly after the collapse of The Box Tops. Lacking cohesion in totality, the projected debut solo vehicle was ultimately shelved. Raucous and deliriously lacking in any attempt for mass appeal, I would easily have revelled in a whole LP's worth of this shit like a pig in muck. Not least because "Sugar, Sugar" may just be one of the finest songs ever written. Sadly, the rest of the material chewed over here comes nowhere close. Think on what might have been.

As Beer N. Hockey recently opined, who wouldn't have fucked Veronica ? Spoiled sugarbabe or not.

▼ THE ARCHIES: SUGAR, SUGAR from "Sugar, Sugar b/w Melody Hill" 45 (Calendar) 1969 (US)

▼ ALEX CHILTON: SUGAR SUGAR / I GOT A FEELING (Heavy Medley) from "1970" CD (Ardent) 1996 (US)

capricorn one

A Gerry Goffin & Carole King composition, of course, allegedly named after Pleasant Valley Way; a road in West Orange, New Jersey which stakes out a path from the heart of suburbia into the Watchung Mountains. Or so I am informed.

Produced by Douglas Farthing Hatlelid
(aka Chip Douglas).

Mike Nesmith: lead guitar;
Peter Tork: keyboards;
"Fast" Eddie Hoh: drums;
Micky Dolenz: vocals;
Chip Douglas: bass guitar.

photograph by crowolf.

Famously sporting a riff stolen from The Beatles, the 45 release - issued on July 10th, 1967 - featured in the second series of their hit tv series, and peaked at #3 in the Billboard Charts. It also appears on the group's fourth LP, "Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd." released in November, 1967.

▼ THE MONKEES: PLEASANT VALLEY SUNDAY from "Pleasant Valley Sunday b/w Words" 45 (Colgems) 1967 (US)