BIG TEARS by Elvis Costello and the Attractions

  A perfect and I believe genuine Angry Teen Rant with this song, a string of intense and spiteful non sequiturs . Costello gets the mindset that is thinking too fast in the raging fit, bringing up snipers, not being accepted by bohemians in the hipster hangouts, failed love, getting jerked around by work. This is a young man who wants to burn the world to the ground, a comprehensible if not well articulated blurting of unsolvable turmoil. Costello's word -smithery is in good form here, and the Attractions provide the proper grinding chord progression and nagging organ backdrop.

This is a statement of unredressable grievances that will not be ignored. This was what the younger Costello was consistently brilliant at, penning the two or three minute harangue with rhymes and analogies that occasionally didn't make literal sense but which added to the exhilarating jolt one might get in "going off", ie, launching into a lacerating assault rapidly, nearly stammering as the words came, not all of them logical .

Three discs from 1979

 (From 1979, The UCSD Guardian, when I still was trying to be a local version of the Village Voice's music editor and critic Robert Christgau. Yes, it's humbling to see how clumsy and ham-handed my prose could be back then._

Special Edition -Jack De Johnette (ECM)

Considering the line-up on this disc-drummer De Johnette, one of the best-rounded jazz drummers anywhere, alto saxist Arthur Blythe and tenor saxist and bass clarinetist David Murray, and bassist Peter Warren- you would have thought it would have been a significant breakthrough record, one of those legendary sessions that chart new directions in the art. This ensemble, though, had no intentions of blazing any new trails, as the music stays safely in the boundaries of what we've heard before. Which isn't to say that this record lacks spark. On the contrary, Special Edition is fresh and lively, highlighting first-rate at the hands of Blythe and Murray. Throughout the disc, their instruments join in a variety of harmonic settings-the fusion-tinged "One For Eric," the rhythm and blues riff of "Zoot Suit," the ethereal texturizing on John Coltrane's tone poem "India"-and at key points branch out to establish their own personalities. Murray, alternating between tenor sax and bass clarinet, offers a strong,confident tone which he sustains through the wildest stretches of his soloing, an unpredictable style that finds nuance and unexpected inroads in a solo space. Blythe, on the other hand, exploits the alto sax for all it's worth, often changing moods from the whimsical and lyrical, to the soulfully anguished. DeJohnette plays solidly under their playing, rumbling like Philly Joe Jones one moment, accentuating hard-rock bass- drums another, and continually fragmenting and piecing back together rhythms as the music flows onward. Bassist Warren seems the odd man out here, maintaining a fairly conservative attitude as he backs the others dutifully, if not preceptively. Special Edition has much to recommend it. Though not profoundly original, it nonetheless cooks hard like the best jazz should. 

 Songs The Lord Taught Us- The Cramps (Illegal Records)

On the cover, The Cramps look like a cross between The Munsters and the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and on record their music sounds like the ersatz psychedelia of a bad 60s youth movie (Riot On Sunset Strip, Psyche-Out).The absence of a bass player is unnoticeable, given the rest of the band members' collective incompetence. Mod Squad guitar solos and recommissioned mothballed rock cliches add a lot of eldritch squeals and howls to the cuts.The most refreshing tracks on this disc are the grooves between cuts. The Lord apparently didn't teach them how to play these songs properly. Perhaps a stint in Purgatory listening to surf music would be an appropriate refresher course. With song titles like "Mad Daddy." "Sunglasses After Dark," "Strychnine," and "Zombie Dance," I don't doubt that some people call this stuff New Wave. Yawn. I call it old-hat. 

Formula-Lazy Racer (A&M)

The title is the tip-off to what this record contains, wherein an earnest young band searches for that sound to put them over the top. Lessee, whatta we got here? Doobie Brothers? Steely Dan? Pablo Cruise? Yep, they're all here. The problem is that Lazy Racer jumps from style to style as if they were desperate-as though they suspected their appropriated styles wouldn't work as well as they hoped.

Some decent vocals and fairly competent soloing are found on these tunes, but the songs are so polished that the overall effect is imminently forgettable. While running in the vein of the aforementioned groups, Lazy Racer lacks complexity and hooks, which are essential for commercial success. If you hear a tune twice on the radio and can't hum it afterwards, it's going nowhere. 

1994: slumbering 70s hard rock

 

Hard rock isn't dead, but as one must realize about any medium with a growth prospectus of near zero, the once invigorating sounds of power chords, hysterically accelerated guitar solos, and rust- bucket vocalizing have reached a dead end. These days, there are no new Led Zeps, Deep Purples, Mountains, or Captain Beyonds to fill the shoes of the once mighty. Though Robin Trower, Aerosmith, Van Halen, Heart, and Pat Travers add the occasional breeze of fresh air to revved-up rock, the scene remains a stinking, static morass, with the dim-witted likes of Ted Nugent, Boston, Kiss, Rush, and Frank Marino dominating a scene I think, for the most part, should have died a passive death years ago. But, against my better judgment, I attended the KGB-A&M Records free concert at the California Theatre Friday, featuring a new band ambiguously named 1994, whom I suspect their record company hopes will become the new standard bearers of hard rock.

Though I had my hopes high, something inside my jaded, beer-soaked brain prayed for music as brilliant as Deep Purple's masterwork Burn, or, more hopelessly, something equal to Mountain's live version of "Dreams of Milk and Honey" from Flowers of Evil, to this day an unparalleled example of everything hard rock ought to be. I was ready to have any whimpering, wishful thinking I had dashed unmercifully. Thus, psychologically forewarned, my letdown was less severe than it might have been. I could have guessed what 1994 would have sounded like, and those of you who've "matured" beyond rock and roll and have joined the elitist ranks of white dilettante jazz fans—who now regard your former affection for rock and roll as a "juvenile" phase you're glad you grew out of—you can second guess the invective I'm about to sling.

1994, like other hard rock bands working their way from third to top billing with grinding tours, is a band devoid of any imagination whatsoever. Their songs are stripped to the most remedial riff-heavy gruel feasible, with solos that are fast, flashy, and screaming, without the needed intelligence or forethought that set Ritchie Blackmore, Leslie West, and Jeff Beck apart from the pack. And true to the "boogie" tradition, every song was extended light-years beyond whatever worth they had in the first place. 1994, in total, reminded me of a dying dinosaur mindlessly smashing anything that got in its way, wasting time and energy in a fit of useless rage that served only to enervate the beast faster and further.

There were a couple of good moments, however. Karen Lawrence, a Linda Ronstadt clone, possesses a rusty drainpipe voice akin to Lydia Pense (of Cold Blood) and Bonnie Tyler, which could be put to better use elsewhere. As a rule of thumb, raspy vocals in hard rock are best left to men, as in the case of Paul Rodgers, Frankie Miller, Bob Seger, or Rod Stewart. Don't ask me why. Guitarists Steve Schiff and another one whose name I don't recall had a few moments of inspirational playing, especially during their rendition of Robert Johnson's "Crossroads," made famous by Cream. Both of them have ample facility and touch, and succeeded in their trade-offs to recreate Eric Clapton's original guitar solo note for note. I find it ironic, however, that it took two guitarists to replicate what originally took one guitarist to accomplish. The less said about drummer John Desautels and bassist Bill Rhodes, the better, as both of them managed more to get in the way of things rather than expedite them.

This review, though, should not be construed as any kind of "goodbye to rock" testament by someone hopelessly wrapped up in his own trivial reification. The basic statement is that despite the artists mentioned before, hard rock is a dead horse, a form that's largely exhausted its potential. There are too many other good rock artists for me to call it quits altogether: Little Feat, Steely Dan, UK, Bryan Ferry, Elvis Costello, Bowie, Devo, Bob Seger, Peter Gabriel, Streetwalkers, Bill Bruford, Zappa, Jack DeJohnette's Directions, Brand X, Johnny Winter, and a host of others who keep incongruous company in my record collection. 1994, to me, was a baleful reminder of sterility in rock that has to be gotten around and ignored. The good rock is out there. You have to look for it on your own, however, because the radio doesn't play it most of the time at all.

(From the UCSD Guardian, 1978).

A Poem and a Back Story

I can see my house on the Russian River

near the mad rapids

that slather

over the rocks and

kiss the embankment.

You could see me coming up

a San Diego walk way

emerging from the

dreamy mist clinging

to the trees and

blades of grass poking

through the cracks,

I am holding

bags of bagels

and five dollar wines

to go along with

the video about a

man who knew a women

who did a thing

that made the world

make sense for a minute I would

never forget.

Decades later

it was like

we had just learned

how to talk

in uncapitalized at a volume

that is clear and

suggests a language that

sound it's been lived in.

Never lived in the Guerenville area back in the day, but I was there twice in the early 70s, two years out of high-school, when a particularly charismatic scoundrel a year older than I convinced me to hitchhike with him up the California Coast, hitting lots of small towns, spending a few days in Big Sur, winding up in that fine town for an overnight residence. We made that trip twice, back backs, carton of Marlboro 100s. sleeping bags, carrying too much cash to be traveling around in the land of s trangers. But it was delightful and what I saw of the area made a lasting impression on me, much like my adventure through Az and Colo. did a couple of years ago. I had a girl friend, later on, who had friends who lived on the Russian River, and we went to visit them; quite a scene, real off the grid counter culture life style, gentle, peaceful, remarkably non- materialsitic. It was a fine time indeed, as I was entranced with how all these homes were nestled into various nooks and crevices of the thick forest , lots of winding roads, mist in the air, with a what looked like a magnificently roaring, churning, pulsing river below. None of these incidents are related other than my trying to find some emotional and tonal commonality with things seen from a distance , through a thick fog or heavy mist, with the idea of that one is left wondering what they were thinking at those moments and how it all brought us (me) to the age of 71, somewhat dazed and amazed. The third stanza that starts "You could see me..."refers to the Coast Apartments near UCSD, where morning fog frequently hovered close to the earth and made the walk to work (I was at the Birch Aquarium at the time) serenely and eerily ethereal.

Capsule reviews of John McLaughlin, Tom Petty and David Johansen from 1978

 (Anyone familiar with the style of the well known rock critics of the 6os and 70s will without exception realize I was imitating the style of the Village Voice's Robert Christgau, who was and remains an argument-starter I admire. That said, forgive the obvious indebtedness).

Johnny McLaughlin, Electric Guitarist - John McLaughlin (Columbia)

After three interesting albums with all acoustic and raga-oriented Shakti, guitarist McLaughlin plugs in again and re-teams himself with several stellar musicians he used to share band duties with. Accordingly, there are a variety of jazz styles on this disc, and McLaughlin proves himself comfortable in all of them. The highlight track here is "Do You Hear the Voices You Left Behind", a post-bop chase in the mold of John Coltrane's classic "Giant Steps" composition. McLaughlin skillfully negotiates a complex chord progression and solos with a surprising spiritedness. Chick Corea (piano), Stanley Clarke (bass) and Jack DeJohnette (drums) live up to their reputations, each maintaining a pulsating rhythm and offering their own inspired sorties. "New York on My Mind" is an unexpected change of pace for McLaughlin, being a Gershwin-like melody with brilliant blues shadings. The solos, from McLaughlin, violinist Jerry Goodman, and keyboardist Stu Goldberg, are cleverly restrained and subtle, complementing the moodiness. Another departure is "Every Tear from Every Eye", a dreamy composition with an ethereal tinge in which McLaughlin offers an angular, introspective solo, and which features pop-jazz saxophonist David Sanborne playing in a more cerebral context than his fans are used to. Though not the best effort he's ever made, Johnny McLaughlin none the less shows that the guitarist is more than the Speed King Honcho of the frets. This disc is a refreshing change of pace from someone who many had dismissed as having fallen in an irrevocable rut. B plus.

You're Gonna Get It -Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

This time out, Petty, and crew sound a bit less journeyman-like in their mild manner brand of rock and roll. Petty's voice, a limited vehicle for self-expression, is more soul-oriented this time out (though not soulful), and the band, especially in the guitar work, is crunchier, dirtier, and a little more committed to mainstream rock and rollisms. In time. Petty and the Heartbreakers may become, as San Diego based writer Mikel Toombs alluded to in his concert critique, a sturdy Rolling Stones type band. They have sound and song writing talent. All they need is a little more hysteria and bad luck. B.

 

David Johanson - David Johanson.

Johanson, the former lead singer for the well-loved New York Dolls, has become another over-stylized non-entity who is salvaging what's left of his "punk" reputation into an a priori mélange of typical street posturing, none of it very interesting at this point. Johanson's voice, which sounded good with the Dolls because he was buried in the mix, is an uninteresting bellow, and having it upfront on this album, booming like cannon fire and not much else, only accentuates the problem. The band. as well, are contrived study in slick sloppiness, deliberating themselves through the material like over conscious artistes calculating the effect of some mechanical vulgarity. In general, David Johanson rolls plenty. but it hardly rocks worth a bean’s worth of flatulence.

DAVID JOHANSEN OF THE NEW YORK DOLLS, RIP

 
Gone is David Johansen, lead singer, AGE 75 for the groundbreaking New York Dolls and an odd musical chameleon when that band broke up. The Dolls interested me as a Detroiter who grew up with the MC5 and The Stooges playing local venues and getting songs played on area FM radio stations.

Those proto punk rockers, on whose shoulders I believe an entire generation of punk bands that follow stand, were rough, splintery, ill-mannered, simplistic, fast, purposefully sloppy, the dumb side of real life that the Velvet Underground never explored (to paraphrase R. Christgau). The New York Dolls, to my ears, were the first to pick up on what the MC5 were doing and made teenage outrage-your-parents music that was similarly chaotic and crashing, hoarsely bellowed vocals over careening guitars and a rhythm section that couldn't decide how fast to play or when to start or end a measure.

I saw the band at the now defunct JJ's on Pacific Highway and found myself enjoying their speed freak-junkie jitters show, and especially liked Johansen, who threw himself all over the venue's cramped stage, sometimes looking like a rag doll caught in the jaws of a crazed hound. I did, though, name the band as one of the worst shows I'd seen in a Reader year-end round up, a hurried listing I still regret. But they were great, a perfect demonstration of everything prudes, priests, and parents thought was wrong with American youth. And it's not the lyrics were in any sense reflective or revealing why teens were angry, confused, mixed up, inflamed by competing emotions and impulses; their music and their appearance shocked scribes, moralists, and meatheads all around, and the New York Dolls gave them no solace , no relief. Comprehension, coherence, manners or maturity as one got older were not the virtues the Dolls sought. Instead, they wallowed in their addled comprehension of world, they were in your face, they didn't give a flat f-bomb what you thought. You dug them or you walked away from them, grumbling under their breath. They were a high-ocatane wallow , in the moment, finding joy in the sensations that adrenaline provided.

Maybe they were Kerouacian in their own way, searching for new experiences, new kicks? Night likely, though one might look forward to someone writing a long treatise on Johansen and the New York Dolls. But be warned if such a squib appears in a bookstore window claiming to explain it all to you. For their Dolls, there was no transcendence. it was all RIGHT NOW, forever, until gravity and human fraility decided otherwise. They were gleeful in their general fucked-upedness and flaunted it merrily. They understood the founding principle of what became punk rock no less than the MC5 or the Stooges or the Who before them, to not have a good time flouncing about to a horrible racket and enjoying the old world as it squirmed in a pool of its own nervous sweat. RIP