Thursday, April 28, 2011

Sounds Like Teen Spirit

A friend sent me a link to the Youtube clip below of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” that features only the vocals. In an era of Auto Tune and other computer-based wizardry, it seems quaint to behold a vocal track where the gasps of air are clearly audible and the only enhancements are some good old-fashioned reverb and vocal track layering. The vocal is definitely not what you'd call “pretty” but its raw throaty feel is perfect in the same way that Bob Dylan's voice is perfect for the stories he told. There's been ample discussion and debate over the meaning of the song, much of it fueled by the fact that the band often provided vague information each time they were asked to explain it. Is the teller of the tale angry? Frustrated? Bored? I'd say perhaps he's frustrated about being bored. Historically speaking, there was a lot to be frustrated about back then living in the aftermath of the Reagan Years.

As I listen to this, I'm trying to keep out of my mind the history behind the track, its aftermath, and the way the story ends but I inevitably fail. It's difficult to evaluate this track solely within its own context because of the fact that so much has been discussed about the song and the band that wrote it. Looking back, the song is a clear dividing line in rock music. It ushered in what was for me the last great run of new rock music. In the way punk rock shook people out of the stupor of dinosaur rock, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was the antidote to the ennui and bad sartorial style of the hair metal bands.* In the way that the single snare beat that leads off “Like A Rolling Stone” was a breath of fresh air, the opening riff of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” sounds like relief to me. It's the relief that rock music was now back in the hands of people that wore thrift store clothes like I did and who weren't interested in the trappings of being music superstars. Sure enough, pop culture swung back the other way as it tends to do and we were soon deluged with boy bands and other things that took over the airwaves.

The stripped-down version of this song serves as a elegy for what once was and is now sadly gone. Ever since the end of Nirvana, I've held out the hope that there's a kid in a basement somewhere with a guitar who's sowing the seeds of the next go-round. This may be hopelessly optimistic as today's music business is so much different that a wide-scale rumbling from the underground may not happen again.




* (Disclaimer: I loved the first Poison record and played a few of their songs in a band. I will tell anyone willing to listen that Poison could've gone down in history as a cool younger brother to Cheap Trick had they ditched the makeup and hairspray).

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Letting Go

     In a few more days, the stack of boxes dominating my living room will make their way to a new home. I'm making way too big a deal of things especially since I'm moving a grand total of 14 blocks. Hell, I'm still in the same zip code. But in New York City terms, it's as if I'm moving to a different state. Most people in this city tend to live the majority of their existences within a radius of several blocks of where they live expect perhaps for work purposes. Some people in Manhattan never go above 14th St. while others never go below 14th St. Manhattan is a small isle but there's a whole lotta life in each neighborhood that allows one to be quite provincial in a tiny area.

Although I've been in my place for barely 6 years, I've created a nice little sanctuary for myself that I will no longer have as I will be living with someone else for the first time in a while. (There's a whole other story behind that which can be told another time.) I will have to modify my sense of freedom and be respectful of the fact that, for example, the other person may not want to hear my mediocre guitar playing at 9:30 PM. Along with that comes the fact that I've had to shed a good chunk of my personal belongings in order to fit them into my new abode. Much of that has been a good thing.

As hard as it is for me to motivate myself to relinquish my personal items, I love the way a good spring cleaning feels once the discarded items are gone. I've learned that I can get by without a mountain of books to hide behind and without clothes that haven't been worn in years. (One shirt I gave to Goodwill still had the tags on it). Even getting rid of cherished CDs was not as tough as I had imagined once I realized how much more likely it is that I will listen to certain things if they are easily accessible via iTunes as many of the CDs in my closet have not been touched since I stored them there a few years ago. Harder was the task of giving up books that I've carried around, in some cases for close to 20 years. Of course, some of those books haven't been read in 20 years but the idea of having them is all about security and the need to show other people that I have great taste in literature. The paradox, of course, is in the fact that I don't regularly have guests over who would behold these great works. In this case, the reality of life in cramped NYC has once again trumped the luxury of holding onto many things. I have to admit that having fewer things feels like freedom.

There is one item, however, that I know needs to go but I can't bring myself to get rid of it. Since around 1989 or or so, I've traveled with a picture of ol' Jerry Garcia from one living situation to the other on both coasts. The pic was taken (I believe) at the Philadelphia Spectrum on 9/8/88 during “Turn On Your Lovelight”. That song and I have immense history together, making me feel great whenever I need a boost of positive energy. A few years after I bought the picture, I added to one corner a printout of a quote from the last interview Garcia did with Rolling Stone:

Q: Does anyone in the Dead still take psychedelics?

A: Oh, yeah. We all touch on them here and there. Mushrooms, things like that. It's one of those things where every once in a while you want to blow out the pipes. For me, I just like to know they're available, just because I don't think there's anything else in life apart from a near-death experience that shows you how extensive the mind is.

At the time the interview came out, it seemed like a really cool thing to hear but history has added a layer of sadness given what happened just a few years after this interview occurred. Still, I've carted this picture around because the years of going to those shows and listening to that music have become a part of my DNA through the memories of the people I met and the adventures I undertook. Even today, 16 years after the end of the Grateful Dead, it's safe to say that I haven't gone more than a few days without listening to something Dead-related and I never fail to smile at least a little bit. Earlier today, I was ready to put the picture into a bag with a bunch of other stuff that went to Goodwill but at the last minute, I relented and left it on top of some boxes.

This picture is a memory that refuses to go away quietly. Ideally, I would give the thing away to some person who would cherish it as much as I have. I like the idea of passing the karma onward. Somehow, dumping it off at Goodwill seems inappropriate because I'll never know who the new owner is or if he/she will give the picture the respect it deserves. For now, the picture remains in my possession and as I think about it, I have a feeling it's not going away so quickly.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Hobo Envy

I just finished reading “Riding Toward Everywhere” by William T. Vollmann. I've wanted to sample his work for a while but wasn't ready to dive into one of his weightier tomes. This relatively short book is his account of “riding the rails”, or surreptitiously hopping aboard freight trains as they make their way up and down the coasts. Inherent in these trips is the attempt to stay a step ahead of ever-present danger. As it is illegal to sneak aboard trains, there's always the risk of getting caught and/or beaten up by the security guard “bulls” who patrol the train yards. Also, jumping on or off a moving train poses the potential of broken limbs or death.

As a “feauxbeaux” (or fake hobo), Vollmann always has a bed to come home to at the end of his journeys. He gets to dip his toe into the waters of the hobo life without worrying so much about material comforts. Driving all of this is a passion for the wide open spaces that are attainable only by rail routes that plow through unspoiled areas. While Vollmann doesn't have to live in hobo villages, he still takes part in a lifestyle that is beyond the grasp of the non-hobo “citizens” who live traditional, structured lives. Throughout “Riding Towards Everywhere”, Vollman documents the fruits of his journeys: the interactions he has with people who cross his path and the bounties of natural wonder that he experiences through the open door of a rail car. For me, the lesson that's made loud and clear is that if you want to experience things in life that not everyone gets to experience, you have to take routes that not everyone is willing or able to take.

As I read “Riding Toward Everywhere”, I couldn't help but feel envy for the people that Vollmann meets who seem to be freer than the rest of us who worry about jobs, apartments, 401Ks, etc. I've spent a lot of time feeling like I have no choices because I've created a narrative that dictates certain requirements and tangible anchors in order for me to feel safe. I don't feel like I could just shed everything and walk away. As the old saying goes, “the more that you possess, the more that possesses you”. To me, these folks seem to embody freedom as they are unencumbered by the pressures of working for The Man. Much of this viewpoint is fantasy, of course. I have no idea where these hobos came from nor do I have any sense of the pain they may experience on a daily basis. All of this eludes me as I type this on my shiny iMac that sits on a beautiful wooden desk within the confines of a comfortable apartment.

At one point, Vollmann quotes part of this passage from “On The Road”:

In an instant all the city of Gregoria could hear the good times going on at the Sala de Baile. In the hall itself the din of the music — for this is the real way to play a jukebox and what it was originally for — was so tremendous that it shattered Dean and Stan and me for a moment in the realization that we had never dared to play music as loud as we wanted, and this was how loud we wanted. (Bold emphasis added.)

I feel as if those who live more freely than me (hobo or “citizen”) are the ones who crank the dial of life to 11 and let 'er rip. People in this category are the ones who have traveled, lived in other places (sometimes not so glamorously), and have been willing to throw caution to the wind without worrying so much about the results. They have stories instead of regrets. I've lived most of my life terrified of risk and unable to speak out and be who I wanted to be. I did what I was told when I was young while others told off the teachers, got high behind their parents' backs, and didn't give a shit about the mythical “permanent record” that supposedly tracked all of your youthful discretions for the purpose of screwing you as an adult. Those running on 11 tend to do things that are seemingly unwise with the potential of having their actions backfire in their faces. If I knew then what I know now, I would've taken the governor off long before I did because those who flaunted the rules won the game in terms of adventure and fulfillment. I can assure you that keeping the music muffled at 2 or 3 won't get you there.

I'm taking steps these days to get out of that self-made prison of fear and someday I might document some of that journey. Each day, I try to do something that makes me uncomfortable so I can prove to myself that I can get through the experience unscathed. As I make these small gestures, I feel a little bit better about myself. I may never ride the rails but I can still move towards a greater sense of freedom.

Photo courtesy of www.thehobosoul.com.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Kelly's Pub

I dreamt last night that I was in one of those old-time divey Irish bars in NYC. For some reason, they served breakfast platters that came with 6 eggs. According to dreammoods.com:


To see or eat eggs in your dream, symbolize(s) fertility, birth and your creative potential. Something new is about to happen.

That would work out just fine for me.

The dream made me think about Kelly's Pub in Hoboken. It was the classic Irish bar of Hoboken for 30+ years before it closed down amidst the crossfire of a major feud among the 3 siblings of Mr. and Mrs. Kelly. When Mr. and Mrs. Kelly died, the kids took over and couldn't get along well enough to keep the ship sailing straight. As Hoboken transformed from gritty to pretty, Kelly's was the place where B&Rs (those born and raised in Hoboken, non-yuppie) could still come for cheap and strong drinks and to reminisce about the town that had escaped their working-class grasp. On the morning of the Hoboken St. Patrick's parade, the place would be packed by 8AM. The police and firefighters would be there in dress uniform sandwiched in with locals and whoever else decided to show up for the day.

When I moved to Hoboken in the late 90s, I was afraid to walk through the door as I'd heard that it was a dangerous place to visit. I remember walking past on weekday mornings at around 8 or so and seeing someone at the bar drinking. When I finally showed my face there after a few months, the Kellys had done a purge of the worst troublemakers and drug dealers but thankfully allowed a few of the more charming miscreants to stay. One person who had been 86ed and then let back in (I think) explained to Patty Kelly that the reason he had acted out on the night he was tossed was that he had a “brain problem” and could not control his actions. From what I recall, he pleaded to be let back in.

At that bar, I met guys who rolled with the Hoboken MCs, the women who tried to love them, people who were pillars of the community, and guys who definitely were not. Kelly's was a place where professional drinkers hung out. There were no “Sex In The City” cocktails for this crowd although over time, the young yuppie crowd made their way in as it became somehow hip to drink in places like this. I'd always hold out hope that Loretta the bartender would finally succumb to what I thought was my irresistible charm but was really just the ramblings of another boring, self-important drunk. At Kelly's, I learned more about the history of Hoboken by listening to the stories about the old days: landlords who burned down their own buildings to facilitate rent increases; the blocks that were so dangerous that you couldn't walk down them during the day. I loved the men's room marble urinals that seemed bit enough to accommodate a horse and easy to fall into but hated the single stall that had a clear window on the door, most likely put there to prevent illicit activity. It took a while before I had the courage to use that toilet but the need to keep drinking comfortably trumped my long-standing OCD issues around dingy public bathrooms.

As easy as it is to wax nostalgic, there's also something sad about my time there. I can still recall the names and faces of many of the regulars there as well as their stories. However, most of those people never knew my name nor could they remember it because they were so wasted every time I saw them. I'm sure no one knew the first thing about me. At the bar, I fancied myself to be a latter day Hank Chinaski taking in the sights, sounds, and smells but in the 8 or so years I drank there I was just another piece of replaceable furniture. There was lots of chatter but very little real connection. I usually entered alone and left alone.

Still, I wonder how some of those folks are doing these days: the Kelly sisters (especially Lori and her kid); Bob; Cheech; and of course, Loretta. I have no idea where all of these people ended up after they lost their community headquarters but I hope everyone is doing alright tonight.

Photo courtesy of hoboken411.com

Monday, April 18, 2011

She Was No Woo Woo Girl


If only all of them would come out as quickly as this one from The Chavos' "Billsburg Sessions" did. Whereas some songs have taken months to complete, “East Village Art Girl” was begging to be let out of the brain. It was one of those moments a songwriter yearns for: grab pen, write verses, grab guitar, find chords, complete. No stopping for air or pee break. As you will soon find out when you hit the Play button, it's not deeply profound but then again neither was “Tutti Fruiti” and that seemed to work out just fine for Little Richard, even if he was ripped off by The Man in terms of royalties.

The inspiration came from observing (ok, leering) at someone before, during, and after a Krzysztof Kieslowski screening at an East Village bar that may no longer exist. It's safe to say that she was definitely not one of the woo woo girls who haunt Second Avenue in the EV on any given Friday or Saturday night. As with many rock songs, names have been eliminated to protect the guilty.

So have a listen and share thoughts if you wish. If you want your own copy, hit me up and we'll make it happen.

Photo courtesy of http://www.dnainfo.com






Thursday, April 14, 2011

Fallout Records

As a result of this meme going around about deceased record stores and writing about the comic “Hate", my thoughts drifted to the late great Fallout Records up on Seattle's Capitol Hill. I have never encountered a cooler record store in all of my days. I suppose Fallout has a special place for me because my patronage there coincides with a time in my life where I was bored and was in desperate need for change. One side was devoted to punk and garage vinyl and the other was devoted to comics and zines. Had they sold food and beer (and, ahem, a few other things), they would've covered all of my basic needs back in the 90s.

One thing I will credit Fallout for is for re-kindling my interest in comics. My current interest in alternative comics started with the shelves at Fallout. As a kid I grew up on Marvel superheros but by my early teens, I had stopped reading as those stories no longer held sway for me. It was at Fallout where I discovered the world of Fantagraphics Comics and people like Peter Bagge, Daniel Clowes, and Los Bros Hernandez. The characters and lifestyles those artists brought to life were a much better reflection of where I was at than the universe of Marvel (though I have since come back to the fold).

My musical tastes also undertook a major permanent shift at Fallout. That's where I learned about labels like Crypt Records and Norton Records and had my mind blown by bands like The Gories and Dead Moon. The free live shows that took place in that cramped space are etched in the memories of those that were fortunate enough to have experienced them. Much of what I listen to today is based upon what I found at Fallout and expanded upon later as the internet grew and facilitated my musical detective work.

All of this rumination makes me really miss the sense of community that indie shops like Fallout were able to create and sustain. I'm pretty sure that lots of people who hung out at Fallout back then would share the same sentiment. Sure, the internet has its upsides in terms of discovery and distribution but it's way cooler to walk in the door of a physical store, hear something new, and chat up the person behind the counter about it (especially the young petite female that I was infatuated with). The ability to easily Google something takes away the sense of accomplishment of having found something by getting your hands dirty.

I still have some of the best vinyl I bought there as well as all 30 issues of the original “Hate” (some of which had to be supplemented years later outside of Seattle). Recently, I found a Joe Coleman book I picked up at Fallout that has a caricature of me drawn by Coleman as we talked about a minor police riot that took place on Capitol Hill that weekend. I've been shlepping some of these items around for a long time and as I've been getting ready to move once again, these artifacts from Fallout are coming along for the ride.


**Photo courtesy of the great Ten Things zine.  Read it today (but after you're done here).

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

They Are The Youth Gone Wild

I was looking for something to distract me from the tedium of copying a mountain of CDs onto my computer so I decided to watch “Over The Edge", the 1979 film that stars a 14-year-old Matt Dillon in his first feature film. “Over The Edge” documents the adolescent boredom in a Southwestern desert town that's trying to jump-start its big-time suburban sprawl.   Dillon's Richie White is the bad-kid ringleader who fills the archetype of the kid your parents always warned you to stay away from.  His bravado is captivating and he owns every scene he's in.

With little to do in town besides hanging out at the rec center, the kids pass the time with lots of drinking, drugging, and debauchery. My favorite symbolic imagery in the movie is the dull triangle pattern that appears on every working TV set, subtly underscoring how painfully bored these kids are. It's reminiscent of the branding of the plain-looking cans that line the supermarket shelves in “Repo Man” (“FOOD”, “BEER”, “DRINK”, etc.). Throughout the film, the tension between the kids and the cops continues to build as kids are harassed and busted for possession, dealing and theft.  The powder-keg-in-waiting erupts during the explosive finale.

Even today, these kids comes off edgy as hell as they get wasted, shoot guns, and taunt the local cops. When I was in junior high, the most daring thing I ever did was to ride my bike across the two-lane highway of Route 9. I remember the “burnout” kids back then whose lives seemed much fuller than mine as they smoked cigarettes and had alleged sexual relations with each other. They seemed almost like adults to me with their swagger, cursing, and bad attitudes.

I'd go as far as to say that “Over The Edge” is way punk but without the standard accoutrements that come with that label. The movie is propelled along with a killer soundtrack of Cheap Trick, Van Halen, and The Ramones. I've seen “Over The Edge” countless times and I haven't bored of it yet.


Today's tip: DON'T be a dead kid.....

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Hate Is Alive And Kicking

One of my favorite memories about my time in Seattle during the 1990s was the comic "Hate".  20 or so years later, I can still conjure up the feelings of amped-up joy I got from walking into the now-defunct Fallout Records on Capitol Hill and seeing the latest issue on the shelves.

The comic, released from 1990-1998, followed Buddy's adventures as a beer drinking, junk collecting dirtbag and at the same time provided a painfully accurate and often sardonic look at what the Seattle 90s scene was all about.  I liked the idea that Buddy, like me, was a Jersey guy who moved to Seattle and then back again.  Since 2000, Bagge has been keeping us up to date on Buddy Bradley with the yearly-or-so “Hate Annual”.   Buddy is now a junkyard-owning Family Man with a shaved head and, inexplicably, an eye patch and captain's hat.


In “Hate Annual #9”, Buddy returns to Seattle to meet the dysfunctional family of his wife Lisa who he has never met despite having been with Lisa for close to 20 years. In a tension-filled 72 hours, Buddy is subjected to senile parents, criminals, and drug addicts. Each page is filled with the sardonic humor and high drama that are staples of Bagge's work. The short “Home Of The Brave”, appearing at the end of the book, allows Bagge the opportunity to cast his sarcasm towards our current political state.

Read this issue slowly because once you're done laughing your head off, you are sure to be sad that you'll have to wait another year to check in with one of the best characters of alternative comics.

Order it here or buy it at cooler comic shops near you.