SLC PuNk Meets the MeaT puPpeTs

In the early eighties, PuNk rock was still a fairly new phenomenon and hadn't yet sold out, (or bought in), to the corporate machine that seems to condemn everything it touches to some kind of entropic doom. According to many, that's what happened to PuNk the following August.*

I don't know how the Indian Center came to be the primary venue for the early bands in Salt Lake City, but I can't imagine a better place for raucous mosh-pits to slam to the sound of the new genre. The old brick building on 1300 South had large windows open wide, allowing fresh air to relieve the hot and sweaty moshers. The 60' x 80' theater could accommodate a substantial gathering too. The Indian Center was mainly used by the Native American community, however on occasion, a different kind of Mohawk touting tribe made use of the social center. SLC PuNks!

Flyer Image Thanks To writermama... Link

I had already heard lots of Black Flag before Henry Rollins joined the noisy ensemble. Jon and I wondered skeptically about Rollins addition to the band; we had seen first-hand what Steve Perry had done to Journey, plus, we could see the direction the new PuNk music was heading and it didn't look good.

Even though it was April, the weather was unseasonably cold and had even snowed. We arrived early at the Indian Center because we didn't want to miss any of the bands. We had paid seven bucks each for the fancy yellow-green transparent tickets and wanted to make sure that we got our money's worth, (unlike my own kids, I had to work to for my money when I was their age).

There were already a couple hundred kids there. A far cry from the old days when a handful of PuNks would show up with self mutilated hair. Now there were lots of short hairs and bald hairs running around with home-made t shirts and lots of black leather jackets. Those without the courage to cut their hair, had it PuNked up with lots of hairspray or some kind of goo. It was easy to spot the poseurs. Jon and I both still had long hair. Neither of us were into fads, and figured it was more PuNk to be different from all the conformist PuNks. We kind of stuck out and could only see two other guys with long hair in the entire Indian Center. One of them was sitting against the wall watching everyone nervously. I got the feeling that he was probably with one of the bands. Maybe even the new Black Flag guy. I was right. There he was, casually leaning against the cool brick wall, the very un-famous and young (nearly baby-faced) Henry Rollins on one of his first tours with Black Flag. I hope he had fun in SLC. I'm sure he was surprised that there were so many PuNks behind the Zion curtain.

Act One
Snot and Snowballs

The first band nearly caused a riot. Nig-Heist came out wearing only little white briefs. They seemed more interested in antagonizing the crowd than playing music. Their hair was long and flowing, like Ted Nugent wore his at the time, and that didn't go over well with the PuNks who began spitting big lougies at the nearly naked musicians. Oddly, the band seemed to enjoy the attention. The snot was getting out of control when a large snowball just missed the drummer's head and smashed into the wall behind the band. Jon doesn't usually miss. It was cold and snowy outside, but everyone inside was sweating from the mass of people crowded together moshing chaotically. We were covered with sweat, while the band, covered with snot, played on. More snowballs began to fly in through the large open windows on the east side of the building. Rage!

Act Two
The Massacre Guys

One of Salt Lake's local and most successful old-school PuNk bands, the Massacre Guys, played next. Jon and I had been outside cooling off, but when the MG's began to play, we gathered an arsenal of snowballs which we carried inside and distributed without prejudice. The most fun ever mosh pit ensued.

Act Three
Pinochio Wants to be a Real Boy

The Meat Puppets brought some sanity back to the Indian Center. The snot supply had dried up, and no more snowballs were directed at the stage, but the floor had become slippery from a combination of snow, snot and spilled drinks, resulting in many fallen and trampled moshers. Ouch! I went to the restroom to take a leak. As I washed my hands, I realized that there was no mirror, but could see that one had previously hung on the wall above the sink. Out of the corner of my face, I noticed a Native American guy standing in the doorway keeping an eye on the restroom. I pulled a comb from my back pocket and combed my hair as if I was looking at myself in the nonexistent mirror. He liked that. When I returned to the dance floor, I met a girl who I spent the remainder of the Meat Puppets set with. We danced together for about a half hour by the time the Meat Puppets stopped playing. I could see that Jon was feeling dissed, so I left her there with her friends who swiftly wisped her away. As our friends ushered us off in different directions, our eyes met as she was swallowed up by the mass of people, never to be seen again. I was smart enough to know that she would be one of many girls, and that my best friend comes first. We went outside to cool down while throwing snowballs at passing cars. Thump!

Act Four
Name with no Anagram
Black Flag was fun to watch but it wasn't the Black Flag I knew. I was standing against the stage with Mr. Rollins directly in front of me. He was heavily tattooed, and incredibly sweaty. He wore no shirt, and little Dolphin shorts. His long stringy black hair draped over the shaven side of his head when it wasn't thrashing about. Squatting and screaming, he stood before me at less than arms length, and I was strongly impressed with the feeling that Henry Rollins was an egotistical jerk. I realized that if I reached out and pulled his leg out from under him, that he'd fall right on his arse in front of everyone. I amused myself with the notion, and fought off the impulse. I did pull out some hairs on his legs though. He didn't like that, and offered a bit of a sissy-kick and a glare, before retreating a half-step, out of my reach. It was the beginning of the end of an era. Black Flag - Kills PuNk Dead!

A Quarter Century Later
PuNk is dead, but the Meat Puppets live on. Not many bands have the staying power of this trio from Arizona. I hadn't seen the Pinocchio brothers in nearly three decades, but a hat-full of hours ago, I had the opportunity to see the Meat Puppets live in my own town, in my favorite local theater. The Meat Puppets I saw all those years ago in the Indian Center appear to have become real boys... actually men now... old men. Nevertheless, the well weathered remnant of an age long gone demonstrated their craft with skill and professionalism as they presented their two-hour show at the Rio Theater in Santa Cruz. The Brothers Kirkwood expressed their kindred familiarity as they played a variety of multi-tempo songs ranging from Cashesque cowboy rythms to psychedelia. I was impressed by Curt Kirkwood's exclusive usage of an acoustic guitar throughout the show. It reminded me how versatile the acoustic guitar really is and how much fun I used to have playing mine through effect pedals to achieve unique** sounds.

The audience at the Rio Last night was much tamer and respectful than the snot hucking snowball chucking juveniles that attended the Meat Puppets show twenty eight years ago. I'm glad the Rio didn't get trashed. There was no stage diving and no mosh pit at last night's show either. In fact, there were only two moshers who gave it a go during the opening act.***


*MTV launched on August 1, 1981. About that same time, I attempted to start a PuNk is Dead campaign, but it didn't catch on.

** One of my favorite acoustic guitar sounds was created by holding the inner wire of a broken E string with needle-nose pliers and applying tension while laying it across a pickup. The tension in the string causes the outer wire to uncoil, making a nifty whirring sound.

*** Shaky Hands from Portland Oregon played an enthusiastic set, but I was disappointed that our favorite local band, the Vox Jaguars, didn't open the show. I assumed they would since they share the same recording label with the Meat Puppets (Anodyne).

PuNk isn't what it used to be

SKI KIRKWOOD!

Blue Monkee - Not a Belew Monkee

My first impression of the new Saul Zonana CD surprised me... in a good way. I wanted to play it for my son who's critical ear would either confirm or deny what I was hearing, so when we were alone in the car, I played it for him and didn't tell him what we were listening to, because I didn't want to influence his critique in any way. He asked, "Who are we listening to?" I replied, You tell me." He listened intently for a few moments and proclaimed, "It feels like Belew, but I know it isn't... Is it Saul Zonana?" he asked with rhetorical uncertainty. "Good job!" I affirmed. I was impressed that he guessed correctly. He had only heard Saul Zonana live on one occasion, and it had been a couple of years previous.

As we discussed the music on the CD, we agreed that it didn't really sound like Adrian Belew at all, but rather felt like Belew. Crisp, clean honest music with a side of lyrical irony, perhaps Zonana and Belew are kindred spirits. It may also have something to do with the fact the the CD was mastered at Studio Belew, and we were picking up on the feel of the equipment.

Either way, Saul Zonana's Blue Monkey stands on it's own and shouldn't be compared to anything else. A very comfortable listen. I've played it a dozen times now, and I like it better every time. Every song is good enough to become a commercial hit, and I wouldn't be surprised if someday Mr. Zonana's music is known to the masses.

I've had a chance to see Saul Zonana perform live on two separate occasions. I'm impressed by anyone who can stand up in front of a huge crowd with nothing more than a guitar and carry the show solo. Bravo!

Most recently, I saw Mr. Zonana open for Adrian Belew at Slims in San Francisco. I spoke with him at the products table where he was setting up a list and money jar so that for only one dollar, everyone who signed his list would receive his new CD when it was released. I signed the list, and reached into my wallet for a dollar, but didn't have one. Unfortunately, I had spent all my cash on pizza before the show. I figured that Mighty Mo would have a buck in her purse, but when she checked, she didn't have any cash with her either. Bummer! My name was on the list, but I hadn't paid for the CD, and by the end of the show I had forgotten all about it... until I got home and downloaded the photos from the show. There among the photos was a picture of the empty money jar. I felt terrible.


Not long ago, the new Blue Monkee CD that I didn't pay for arrived in the mail, and I've been listening to it since. It is certainly well worth a dollar, so I've decided to send a one hundred cent note ($1) to Mr. Zonana, and hopefully alter my karmic trajectory for the better.

=@# - Bunny Boy Review - #@= Part 9

Not to be continuedI'm so excited because I'm finally finished with this Bunny Boy triple trilogy project. After this, I won't need to say anything about the Residents for a long time. Yay!

If you haven't heard the Residents before, the Bunny Boy probably isn't for you. The Residents require an acquired taste, as well as a fully functional sense of humour to be appreciated appropriately. The latter will get a first-timer a long way though, and everyone is a first-timer sometime.

Historique

The Residents are an anonymous collective of musicians and artisans who have been hiding in the shadows since before the war. Their 1976 song, Satisfaction, is credited as being the first* Punk single, (even though it isn't punk).

In the late seventies, the Residents associated themselves with the image of a large eyeballed tuxedo in a top-hat. A smart move. Every eye-con needs a good image for devotees to venerate.

The Residents' records have mostly been thematic and conceptual. This approach allows the Residents to re-invent themselves whenever necessary... something they've done dozens of times. They avoid personal fame by remaining anonymous, and rarely grant interviews. Their official information is misleading at best. They've done a pretty good job at staying aloof for the past three and a half decades.

Bunny Boy Feels Like the Furr-ssst Time

I've been trying to listen to the new Bunny Boy album as if it was the first time I had heard the Residents. For research, I attended a recent live Residents performance with two people who had never seen or heard the Residents before. Their naivete was telling, and a little surprising at times. After the show, Mein Frenzel asked me, "Are they always like that?" That's actually a pretty tough question because, no, the Residents have never been like that, and yes, the Residents are always like that... nothing like you have ever seen before. Seeing the Residents is always like seeing them for the furrsst time.

This time the superintendents of the subterranean have chosen a ridiculously contrived story about a supposed former colleague of theirs whose fascination with rabbits and the coming apocalypse has driven him off the deep end. I don't think anyone really believes the tripe about the Residents good-will gesture to help their crazy friend find his brother Harvey who has supposedly, mysteriously disappeared.

To tell the story, (or confuse it further), the Residents have been showing a You Tube series of videos supposedly filmed by the Bunny Boy himself. These short movies chronicle his psychotic search for his brother Harvey. Portions of these videos were featured in their live performance as well.

The songs on the album are all short and catchy tunes that I find myself whistling as I go about my daily duties. The melodies are smart, and the snappy arrangements of deranged songs are FUN to listen to. At the live performance, the songs were presented in a different order than that of the CD. I'm not sure what that means.

Mr. Bunny Boy's video series didn't do much to convince me that the lost brother story was real and I haven't lost any sleep over Harvey's disappearance. In one of the early episodes, (2 I think), the Bunny Boy plays a message on his answering machine from someone who he claims to be his brother. In one of the following episodes, we see the chord to the answering machine unplugged. You'd think he'd want to keep it plugged in in the event Harvey calls again.

In another episode, the Bunny Boy points out his first family photo. It's an old black and white picture that shows himself as a baby with his mom, and dad, (dad is a book). Among the plethora of photos of family and friends pasted on the walls of the Bunny Boy's secretum sanctorum, there are surprisingly none of his supposed brother Harvey. Likewise, when the Bunny Boy shows the family photographs from Greece, there are none of Harvey, however, the Homeric Bunny Boy is present in many of them. I suppose the case could be made that Harvey was the photographer who took the pictures, and therefore wouldn't be in any of them.

These clues lead me to think that the Bunny Boy and Harvey are a one man show, so to speak. Apparently something happened that forever separated the Bunny Boy from his once golden guy personality. Maybe it was the recognition of his own insanity that pushed him over the edge, maybe it was eight years of the Bush Administration, maybe it isn't even real... so why am I wasting my time pondering it??? It brings to mind the Residents early film, Vileness Fats, where conjoined twins, in a jealous rage, fight to the death over a woman. The victor limps away, dragging the corpse of his conjoined brother behind him. I think the psychological equivalent happened to the Bunny Boy. Maybe not.

For some reason, insane people always find themselves mentioned in Holy Writ as some kind of messenger or messianic figure. This was true of Harvey who's fascination with Saint John's apocalyptic visions took him to all the way to the Island of Patmos** where the apostle wrote the Book of Revelation. Apparently, this is where Harvey came unglued.

The most surprising thing about the Bunny Boy album is how well it works. Who'd have thought insanity could be so artsy-fartsy and down-right fun?
EDWEENA would give The Residents Bunny Boy two thumbs up... if she had thumbs. 

* I held it in my hands, but didn't buy it when I had the chance. It's worth about a million bucks now. Maybe more?

** I was glad that it wasn't Easter Island.

The Residents or What Does Salt Smell Like?

Edweena

Subterranean-Rhetro

The first time I heard the Residents was in 1979. I was sixteen or seventeen, and an avid listener of I'm So Bored, Susanne Brown's Tuesday night radio program on KRCL in Salt Lake City. There was nothing else like it in Utah at the time, (or the rest of the country for that matter), and assuming that I would likely never hear the songs again, I began recording the shows on ninety-minute 8-Track tapes. I'm So Bored was unique, and presented me with a plethora of new punk and rock wave music, (as Michael G. Cavanaugh* called it), that I could listen to at my leisure on the tapes I had recorded. One of them contained a track called Plants by the Residents, which was nothing like anything I had ever heard before. I knew I'd have to hear more from these mysterious musicians.

The Cosmic Aeroplane was no doubt the most likely place to find Residents music in Salt Lake in 1979. I was astounded that good old el Cosmico had a handful of Residents records to choose from. I delightfully selected Not Available, and Fingerprince, and purchased them both, having heard neither. I bought Not Available for myself, and Fingerprince for my summertime girlfriend, Jamie, who accompanied me on my quest for the Residents. Back then, the record department at the Cosmic was located downstairs. At least that's where they kept the punk-produkts and related paraphernalia. After finalizing my purchase, we ascended the narrow stairwell, and exited the store. I had a friend named Bob Ruffner who lived near Skyline High, so we went there to hang out and listen to my new Residents records. Bob's house would be a good place to hear them for the first time because his dad had a great stereo, and surely, the Residents could be best appreciated on a good hi fi.

By the time side one of Fingerprince had finished playing, there was no way to convince Bob and Jamie to listen to side two, or the other record I had purchased. They had decided that the Residents were too weird. Bob had became partial to the last of the successful prog bands, Rush, while Jamie had metal tendencies, and fancied Van Halen and Ozzy. YUCK! Serves them both right! I had to wait until I had driven all the way back to Tooele, dropped off Jamie, and returned home before I could finally listen to Not Available on my own adequate stereo. I was shocked. It was stranger than anything I had ever... anything. It appeared to be some kind of opera about a woman named Edweena. I wasn't sure if I liked it. I played it for my friends Greggary Peckary, Merlin, Jon and Bart. Jon and Merlin gave it three thumbs up, Peck snickered, and Bart sardonically laughed, declaring, "They sound like little kids." I could forgive Bart. He didn't know any better. After all, he was a cowboy from Stockton, Utah, who's most radical venture in alternative music was Molly Hatchet and Lynnard Skynard. I suspect that Peck secretly liked it.
1979 was a time when music was stagnant on most fronts, yet changing on others. Leading the change, so far ahead they were out of sight, were the Residents, who's brand of subterranean-modern tunneled deeper than other alternatives, and kept their fans entertained with comically spooky treatments of familiar and contrived themes. I had become jaded by the polished cookie-cutter music that permeated the seventies, and in 1979 I began a five-year boycott of commercial music. Who needs commercial radio when there's KRCL? No commercial radio stations, and no TV. As it turned out, I missed a lot of terrible stuff during those years... so I hear. Remember Wham? I don't.
On Wednesday nights, KRCL presented Brad Collins' program** which featured more emphasis on the punker side of neo-underground musick. When the Residents released their critically acclaimed Eskimo album, Brad Collins played his copy in its entirety. It was awesome, and I soon procured my own copy on snow-white vinyl. One of my favorite records of all time. Eskimo was an unprecedented instant masterpiece that made it clear to me that the Residents were not only part of the underground scene... The Residents, in fact, were THE underground. Everything else sounded like pop in comparison.
In 1980 my best friend, Jon, purchased the Residents latest release, the Commercial Album. A departure from their anthropologique Eskimo, the Commercial Album featured forty - one minute songs... a mockery of formulaic top forty pop music. What was most surprising about the Commercial Album to both Jon and myself was the album cover which featured a picture of my friend Jon. I have no idea where the Residents got a photo of Jon, or why they used it on their album cover, but there he was.

Jon 1978

The Commercial Album 1980

When the Residents released their Mark of the Mole album, they pressed a handful of special edition silk screened covers which had been signed by the Residents with brown crayon, and pressed on brown vinyl. My copy was mistakenly sold at the flea market for one dollar. :-( I wish I still had it, especially since now its worth hundreds of dollars. At least I still have my Third Censored and Roll album, the West German version of the Third Reich and Roll. Still in perfect condition.




The first time I saw the Residents perform was at the Barrymore Theater in Madison Wisconsin in 1990. I arrived early, and was the first person in line that night. When they opened the doors to the theater, I sprinted to the front and center of the Barrymore. Best seat in the house. That night the Residents presented Cube - E (being) The History of American Music in 3 E-Z Pieces. The first piece featured old western cowboy songs. One Resident wore an exaggerated over-sized cowboy hat. A neon fire glowed at center stage while a projected desertscape and evening sky illuminated the backdrop. The other three Residents, cloaked beneath Harry Tuttle-esque disguises, tapped away at their electronique instruments . Black slave songs were the theme in the second set. The third and final set featured Elvis as a fulfillment, or personification of cowboy and black rhythm. In the end, the space-age Elvis is made insignificant by the British invasion, specifically the Beatles. At least that's what Zoroaster said.

I didn't see the Residents again until 1997, when Mighty Mo purchased tickets for the Halloween show at the Fillmore, for our anniversary. I was impressed by projected images onto a large balloon on stage. Brilliant idea! Clam rockers, Primus, and fellow Residents fans, must have liked the idea too because they incorporated the concept for their own stage.

A Simple Song - Ralph Viddy - Buy or Die!
I must have been one of the first people to order this fancy NEW Ralph Records Video.

When it arrived in the mail, it was a simple TDK video cartridge featuring seven different Ralph viddys. Five different bands, including the Residents.

The cover-art consisted of basic black ink on a 81/2X11 white paper-board. I carefully cut out the video cover, and with Elmers Glue, affixed it to the vhs box (included). Crafty!
The fancified package was complete.


These videos were a great alternative to the trendy commercial music being played on MTV.

The Residents have released lots of other videos over the years. Millions of them in fact. In May 2001, My son and I had the opportunity to see the Residents right here in Santa Cruz, Ca, at the Rio Theater. As usual, the Residents presented a unique and unprecedented concept for their stage show. The Icky Flix Tour featured the Residents playing live on stage as their familiar videos were projected onto a large screen above the band. Not long after the tour, the Residents released the Icky Flix DVD, which featured lots of snazzy Residents videos that could be played with the option of listening to old familiar songs, or newly recorded versions of the same tunes. Sparkling idea! I'll take two. Mm... Salty!

Ralph

* Michael G's show preceded I'm So Bored. His show featured sixties and seventies rock. This was back when KRCL was located above the old Blue Mouse Theater, next to Cosmic Aeorplane. Jon and I paid Michael G a visit one evening. He played Cucamonga by Zappa/Beefheart at our request.

** My friend Squirrelly's cousin, Jamie, who lived in Colorado Springs, Colorado, stayed with Squirrelly's family every summer. She returned home with Fingerprince. Jamie reported to me that she had played it for a friend, and that they both laughed at it. What can you expect from a couple of ignoramiatic metalheads?
*** Mr. Collin's program was originally called Dead Air, but was later changed to Beyond The Zion Curtain. When Brad sold out and began playing speed metal exclusively, Jon and I began to pester him by requesting Eskimo every time his program was on. Years later, I asked Collins about his Eskimo album, and he told me that someone had stolen it. He may have assumed that his taunters were the thieves. He assumed wrong

Dicky B - Artistique Magnifique

Santa Cruz Lighthouse by Richard M. Bennett

Santa Cruz is home to hundreds of talented artists. I've heard it said that a person can't swing a dead cat without hitting one here. While much of the Santa Cruz art community focuses on whimsically light-minded projects that often appear to me to be an unnecessary waste of materials, the work of Richard M. Bennett is beautiful and breathtaking... like real life.

An artist of exceptional talent... a real artist, "Dicky B" is comfortable working in many different mediums, such as water colour, oil, bronze, CAD and etc., and has accumulated hundreds, (maybe thousands), of pieces, some of which are stored at his home on the east side of Santa Cruz where he lives with his wife Ann. Mighty Mo and I had the opportunity to attend the Richard M. Bennett Mother's Day open studio earlier this month, and were able to chat with the artist and his wife.

The artist working on a new project.

A member of the Santa Cruz Art League, Mr. Bennett's work can be found all across America.. and beyond. Mr. Bennett is the only Santa Cruz artist who has drawings on file at the Santa Cruz Surveyor's Office.

Startled By Deer

Mountain Animal Hospital just released their first full-length compact disc, and I am one of the lucky few to own a copy.

Startled By Deer will be the perfect CD to listen to next time I find myself driving across the desert at night. The mysterious melodies and haunting vocals infused with a goodly measure of traditional rock instrumentation, (somewhat reminescent of mid-seventies Floyd, and early Genesis), wisps the listener away to the realm of contemplative reflection. The kind of music you want to listen to when no one else is around to interrupt.

Startled By Deer is a product of Loves In Heat Records.

Mad at Glad Bags' Bad Idea - A Rhetropinion

$ometimes a bad idea goes way too far. I'm speaking of scented products which seem to be everywhere these days. Scent went epidemic with those terrible smelling fabric softener sheets that people throw into the dryer with their clothes. Do people really think that makes them smell better? Duh! Please people, get a clue... you smell worse than cigarettes do. It may even be worse for you... it certainly can't be good to coat your vestures, which come in direct contact with your skin, with questionable chemical combinations. Oh, yea... I forgot... people don't think. That's why this kind of crap is so popular.

Worst Idea Ever!

Most recently, Mighty Mo came home with what appeared to be our regular box of Glad Tall Kitchen (garbage) Bags, but when we opened it, and took out the first one, we realized that they were contaminated with a raunchy smelling new fresh scent. Since we didn't have an alternative, we gave the bags a try. Before long the kitchen was filled with the sickening sweet odor, and when I couldn't take it any longer, I moved the garbage to the garage, then opened all the windows and doors to rid my home of the putrid freshness.

I tried to complain to Glad's customer service department at their website, but was unsuccessful. It was as if they made it impossible to contact the company there. I should have returned the bags to the store, but continued to use them. I found that by opening up several bags at a time, and hanging them outside for a few days, they became almost tolerable to use, but never entirely gave up their stench. It made the back-yard look quite fancy as well. I'm sure my neighbours loved the collection of white trash bags hanging from trees and blowing in the breeze, while spreading their foul fragrance throughout midtown.

I was SO happy when the box of smelly-bags was empty. Mighty Mo returned from the store with our usual box of Glad Tall Kitchen Bags with Drawstring and 3-Ply Strength. I was Glad.

A word to the wise. Avoid those smelly bags and like products.

Finished ranting... I feel better now. Rhetro

Gershwin Shmershwin - Rhapsody in Belew

Slims February Twenty-third 2008

Super Tuesday found me in Boulder Creek, California. As I was driving in this small mountain berg tucked away amidst a giant Redwood forest, I accidentally made a wrong turn down a narrow alley that appeared to dead end at some houses. I realized the error of my way, quickly stopped the vehicle, and prepared to back out. As I checked to make sure it was clear to proceed, I spied a familiar person walking briskly toward the fire station located across the street. He was ten feet away from me. The window powered down, and as we made eye contact, I said, "Hey, Jim, are you going to Belew?" Jim had no idea who I was, or what I was talking about, and replied, "Uh, I'm going to vote." gesturing to the polling station across the street. I realized that he didn't remember me, so I clarified, "Adrian Belew is playing at Slim's next month, and I was wondering if you knew about it."

"Adrian Belew?" he reiterated excitedly. "Yeah, on February twenty-third." I volunteered. "Is it sold out?" he asked. "I doubt it," I said, and continued to give him what details I knew. He said,"Thanks! I'll see ya there."** and quickly jaunted across Highway 9 to vote. I hollered, "Vote for Ron Paul" but I don't think he heard me.

Few people have influenced music more than Adrian Belew. Gershwin*** himself couldn't claim the monumental impact of this master of sound. Adrian Belew's list of accomplishments and collaborations would take a blog of its own to describe. Although Adrian Belew is virtually unknown to the masses, his name and influence is well known in the music industry.

The Power Trio

I've seen Adrian Belew perform live a few hands full of times with various bands over the past couple of decades, and every time I walked away with my jaw dragging behind me.

A couple of years ago, my son and I drove to the "big city" to see Belew play at Slim's in San Francisco. That particular version of the Power Trio featured Ade's friends Mike and Mike, on drums and bass, respectively. We were surprised to find that Slim's was a tiny venue. Maybe I expected more grandiose ambiance for such a renowned performer... a musician who is no stranger to large coliseums. The show was great, and everyone had a really good time, and although the performance was no doubt better than anything else in town that week, or month... I somehow felt that Belew deserved more power than what the Mikes were willing or capable of contributing. Then came the Slicks.

Three of a Perfect Pair

A brother and sister duo, Eric and Julie Slick are the best thing to happen to Belew since the war. With these two solid young performers, Belew has everything he needs to pull off the best show you've ever seen, or heard. I saw them perform two nights in a row in November of 2006. At Montalvo in Saratoga, the California Guitar Trio opened and played a sparkling set. Adrian joined them on stage for their last tune, then CGT left the stage, and soon all three members of the latest and greatest incarnation of the Power Trio took the stage, prepared to blow the roof off the ritzy theater. Unfortunately, a dozen people or so stood up and walked out the moment the first song came to an end. Adrian looked stunned. How painful it was to watch the ignoramuses mooing and bumping as they made their getaway from the loud rock music, and retreated to the safety of their multi-million dollar homes in the hills above Saratoga. "Good riddance," I said as I moved to a recently vacated seat in a better location of the small theater. The show was great, but I suspect that the mass exodus may have affected the performers more than they made apparent.

On the following night, my friend Aaron, joined Mighty Mo and myself as we peddled our bicycles to the Catalyst in Santa Cruz to again see this powerful music trio. It was Aaron's first time to see Belew, and he said it was one of the best shows he had been to. Even though the trio played basically the same set as they had the previous night, it seemed like two completely different shows. No one walked out in Santa Cruz.

Return of a Crimson King

Last night the Adrian Belew Power Trio made their appearance at Slims... their fourth stop on their 2008 tour. Once again I was impressed at the quality of showmanship on the stage. The small venue was packed with barely enough room to walk around. Apparently news of these remarkable musicians has gotten out. The sound was crisp and clear, and thanks to my trusty ear-plugs, it wasn't too loud either. The three performed their set flawlessly, and presented the crowd with a fine selection of songs. Krimson fans were rewarded with a goodly number of songs, such as Dinosaur, Frame by Frame, Three of a Perfect Pair, Thela Hun Ginjeet, and Elephant Talk. I was amazed to watch the Slicks play these complex pieces so proficiently. In my mind's eye, I could see Robert Fripp smiling.



* I met Jim at an Adrian Belew show at Slim's back in 2005.

** He did. We happened to stand next to each other in the merchandise line which featured a drawing for an Adrian Belew autographed Parker P-44 Guitar.

*** Gershwin shmershwin!
Rhapsody in Belew!
He doesn't hold a camel to you

Best Live Record of the Year - Side Four: Critique

Pre-Order Belews

I waited a long time to hear this CD. Back when the double Mike power trio was touring, there was talk about plans to release live material to complete Adrian's Sides theme. After all, a three-sided record doesn't make much sense.* Then came the Eric and Julie version of the power trio, and more promises of a Side Four in the future. Recently it was announced that Side Four would soon be released, and that pre-orders were being taken at http://www.adrianbelew.net/ I promptly pre-ordered my copy of Side Four in order to be among the first to hear it. That was the plan anyway... 

I looked for it in my mailbox daily, until one day, it donned on me that I couldn't remember informing Pay-pal of my address change when I moved a couple of years ago. I decided to check my on-line receipt, and to my horror, I discovered that my signed copy of Side Four had been shipped to my old address on B-40 Drive. I picked up the telephone and called the people who currently live there, but no one answered, so I left a message explaining what had happened. A few more days passed and I hadn't hear back, so I drove to Happy Valley to find out for myself. When I arrived, no one was around, no mail in the box, and no package anywhere to be found. Next door, the infamous Happy Valley Villa loomed forebodingly... making me wonder if my Side Four was being enjoyed by some villain living within the gates of the spooky complex once owned by the Elizabeth Montgomery family. On Christmas Eve, I successfully contacted the current residents at my former address who told me that they hadn't seen the parcel. OK, so it is lost, I should be able to find a copy of Side Four somewhere in Santa Cruz right? wrong! I found two Side Twos, and one Side One, but no Side Four for X-Mass. 
Unexpected Surprise

I play disc golf every Thursday, and today was no exception. I realized that I had forgotten my special disc golf glasses, so Mighty Mo met me at the course, so I'd be able to see where to throw the disc. In addition to my special spectacles, she handed me a small manila mailer. The official Nashville TN postmark was dated December 24, X-mas Eve. I knew it was Side Four before I looked to see. The good folks at Adrian Belew Presents had made sure that I received a replacement for my lost parcel. I had a fantastique round of disc golf in anticipation of listening to my new compact disc.

I didn't open the parcel until I got home. Knowing that it would be difficult to give a critical listen with all the hustle and bustle of extra-family activity all around me, I chose to wait until the house was quite quiet and dark. I didn't want any interruptions. With headphones adjusted comfortably on my ears, I pushed play, and heard the best live album of the year... maybe the best album of the year... I haven't heard all of them yet, so can't say for sure. 
The Listen
 
Writing on the Wall erupts like a volcano on a primordial landscape. The thundering sound makes me feel like some kind of Primusaurous Erectus is coming to scoop me up and devour me. Fast as punk and tight as a fine Swiss watch. Suddenly, another Dinosaur rears its head for an old familiar Krimson cover. The bass is masterfully executed, the drums are precise and deliberate. Adrian's voice is powerful as he delivers every note with convincing passion. Pretty freakin' good for an old guy. Oh, and the guitar... Oh, yea... and did I mention the bass? What really stands out on this track is the bare foot pretty's phenomenal frettery. Wow! Queen Crimson.

I had always hoped of one day seeing and or hearing Les Claypool play Ampersand live with Belew... this is probably better... Next, Adrian introduces his masterful young musicians who have just made such an impression on the audience (and listeners at home like me). Young Lions sounds as though the trio has played together for a decade. Adrian's guitar solo roars and reminds everyone what they're there for. He manages his custom-made Parker Fly guitar as though it is an extension of himself. No wonder Beat Box Guitar was nominated for a Grammy a couple of years ago. Infused with a touch Krimsonesence, it really grooves, and is a lot of fun to listen to too. It sounds like the band is having a great time... like three kids in a sandbox. One of the most beautiful songs in the sides series is Matchless Man. The lyrics and backwards guitar give this piece a bit of a Lennon flavour.

Next the band plays A Little Madness. I wonder how mad folks feel about the title. I don't think they'd like it, but I do... really... what, do you think I'm Krazi? In a couple of months, I'm going to Drive all the way to San Fancisco to see this dynamique trio because they're not coming to the vegetarian and barefoot-friendly Santa Cruz. The Siblings Slick sit this one out as Adrian commandeers the wheel and takes everyone on a Belooperistic adventure. Nice!

One of my favorite Belew songs is Of Bow and Drum, from the Op Zop Too Wah album. I couldn't ask for a better live presentation. Great job. Last November, I was impressed when these three played Big Electric Cat at the Catalyst here in Santa Cruz. Listening to this track reminded me of the excitement in the air that night. From frogs croaking in the jungle to the slick presentation on this disc, there are now lots of versions of Thela Hun Gingeet for the Krimsonnoisseur to enjoy. 
Not Kids Anymore

Now that I've heard Side Four, I feel like it isn't fair to refer to Eric and Julie Slick as kids any longer. They've proven themselves. Any band would be thrilled to have either one of these exceptional performers in their ensemble... Adrian Belew is fortunate to have both of them. He'll have to work hard to keep up with these two.

I have to wonder what is next for the Twang Bar King now that the Sides are complete...
and what of the siblings Slick?* Unless you're the Residents who recorded a three sided concept album called Tourniquet of Roses. The double album was intended to have a blank fourth side, but economics outweighed concepts, and the music was whittled down to accommodate the limitations of a single 12# vinyl disc, (two sides). Fortunately, the full version is now available on one side of a single compact disc.

George Harrison with Ravi Shankar - My First Concert

In my youth, I was a huge Beatles fan. I knew everything about them, and had copies of every record. Lots of people were Beatles fans, but not in the seventies, when I was into them. At that time, it seemed like everyone was angry at the Beatles for taking away the sixties... as if somehow their split up caused the end of that mythical era. In fact, everyone thought it a bit odd that I was SO into them, and not the popular stuff. I even named my Parakeets Ringo and George, after two of the fab four.

Imagine my excitement when, one day, mom handed me the newspaper and said, "Look at this." I read the headline, "Ex-Beatle Schedules Solo Tour" as I read on, I learned that my favorite Beatle - George Harrison would be coming to play, along with famous sitarist, Ravi Shankar... live in concert at the Salt Palace in Salt Lake City, on November 16, 1974. I certainly wouldn't be missing it, even if it did cost seven bucks.

After the tickets went on sale, mom took me to the Salt Palace box office, and we purchased two tickets for seven bucks each. I wanted the eight dollar seats, but there was no way mom was going to spend that much. Besides, I was happy to have any seat at all. After all, this wasn't just any show... this was a Beatle, an almost god-like creature to me, and I was going to be able to behold him with my own eyes, and hear him with my own ears. I couldn't wait, as I held my dark yellow and black ticket in my hand, imagining how it was going to be. I fantasized that the other three Beatles would make a surprise appearance, and maybe I'd get to meet the Beatles too, and other musings of an eleven year old.

The day before the show, I was in the schoolyard, and an aeroplane flew over. I remember that it was red, and imagined that there was a large white letter H on the tail fin. "Surely, this is George Harrison's plane," I speculated. At the time, my older sister was in college, and she took me to the show. She had been to lots of concerts, so it was logical that she would be my guide as I entered the rock concert scene.

The night of the show was so exciting. The drive from Tooele seemed longer than usual. The islands of the Great Salt Lake were still visible, and the water shimmered as the sun set with spectacular colours of deep red, orange and yellow. This was a magical night. It was dark by the time we got to Salt Lake. The Mormon Temple could be seen from many blocks away, and was bathed in white light, emphasizing the whiteness of the huge granite stones of which it is constructed. A couple of blocks away, we reached our venue, and parked across the street from the Salt Palace, which, like the temple, was bathed in white light, and illuminated the sky.

There were a lot of people working their way through the large heavy glass doors. Lots of different kinds of people. There were some dressed up, as if they were going to the orchestra or ballet. Some were hippies, and there were even a few Hari Krishnas. The thing I noticed most was that I was the youngest person there, at least as far as I could tell. I didn't see any other eleven year olds.

Since our seats were rather far from the stage, I took binoculars to see better. I think my sister suggested it. Despite the distance from the stage, our seats were pretty good. We were situated facing the stage, and could see over everyone. Smoke filled the air, and I had my first smell of marijuana which was all around me.

The lights dimmed, and the arena exploded with a roar of excited fans. A man walked onto the dark stage, and said, "Blah blah blah is pleased to welcome George Harrison!" More roaring ensued as the lights and music began simultaneously.

George kicked off the show with a song I would soon learn was called "Hari's On Tour Express," an instrumental, and first track of his (then) soon to be released Dark Horse album. As I peered through my spy glasses, I could see that George was wearing a suit coat over a t shirt, and at a certain point in the song, would give his leg a bit of a lift, almost a small kick, as he played "Express."

Except for the new Dark Horse material, I knew all the songs he played, and was surprised when he played "In My Life," a Lennon song. At the completion of that song, he said, "God bless John Lennon, wherever he is." He then announced that he would return for the third portion of the show, and introduced Ravi Shankar along with family and friends who performed for the second portion.

I loved the Indian music. It was wonderful to observe such talented and gifted musicianship. They left the stage to an appreciative applause which seemed to last a lunchtime. They returned to the stage for one last gracious bow. The stage hands were busy setting up drums guitars and etc. again, and before long, the lights dimmed again, and George came out on stage alone and played "Here Comes The Sun," and it was more than "all right..." it was great! He was no longer wearing the suit coat, and I could now see that it was a Dark Horse logo on his T shirt.

George introduced his band, and allowed keyboardist Billy Preston to play a couple of his hit songs... ie. "Will it Go Round In Circles?" and "Nothin' from Nothin." The band played a few more songs and left the stage.

Again, the crowd erupted in a roar, as thousands of Bic lighters and matches suddenly illuminated the interior of the arena. I even saw some wax cups on fire. The stomping, roaring and burning continued for some time, until George and the band came back out on stage. For the encore, he played the song "Dark Horse" and lowered a huge flag above the stage with the Dark Horse image on it. "Thank you for coming... good night," were George's last words that night.

As we filed out of the Salt Palace Arena, I noticed that my ears were ringing as my sister commented, "That was the best concert I have ever seen." I knew it was the best one I had ever seen... and may still be. In Y2K, I took my then ten year old son to his favorite band and first concert. King Crimson at the Fillmore in San Francisco. It was phantastique!

JERRY IS DEAD or Better Dead Than Grateful Dead

My son asked me, "What's the difference between a hippy and a hipster?" I answered, "patchouli and clove." The discussion that ensued involved mods, scooters, ska, tie die, love beads, dead heads and etc... He already knew about dead heads, after all, we live in Santa Cruz California, and you can't live here without knowing a dead head or a dozen. A local radio station here, that calls itself KPIG, plays lots and lots and lots of Grateful Dead intermingled with Greg Brown songs, (mom always said, "If it's brown, flush it down"). Occasionally you'll hear Janice Joplin screaming about something, and on that rare occasion, you might be lucky to hear our local boy Neil Young sing a song, but you can always count on hearing the Dead at some point.

I remember the first time I heard of the Grateful Dead. I was in eighth grade, walking to school with my friend John Manchester. There was a bit of a chill in the air that morning, even though it was sunny and bright. We met up with John's brother Bill at a fence intersection in an old field. There was just enough room for a skinny kid to squeeze through where the fence came to a T with the tall 7' chain link football field fence. Standing on the other side of the fence, I noticed Bill's t-shirt for the first time. Wow! I was awestruck. It was a picture of the Grateful Dead Blues For Allah album cover, on a deep reddish tie dye. I remember misreading it, and saying "graceful dead" out loud. Bill quickly corrected me, emphasizing the T in GraTeful Dead. As I gazed at the fantastique image on Bill's shirt, I thought to myself, "The Grateful Dead must be so cool. I can't wait to hear them." Previously, Bill had turned me on to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, and I was very impressed with that, so I trusted his opinion. Plus he was a couple of years older than me... seemed like a decade almost back then. Even though Bill was shivering in a t-shirt on a cool morning, he seemed to have a clue.

I eventually had my chance to listen to the Dead at Manchester's house, in sister Dorothy's room. Dorothy, or Dot, as everyone called her, was much older... already out of high school. She burned marijuana incense in her room. I told her I wanted some, but she said that they don't make it anymore. Sure it was incense. When we finally got around to listening to one of Dot's Dead records, I kept waiting for the music to happen, but it just kind of fell on my ears like a lead thud on a frozen lake. Really dull, and uninteresting was my first impression of the actual music of the Dead. A much different experience than my encounter with my first Grateful Dead image. I figured it just must be a bad record, (I wish I could remember what we spun). So when I saw a Dead record at Harmon's Drug Store, I purchased it. It was called Shakedown Street, and once again, when I listened to it at home, nothing happened, except my eyes glazed over and I think I died. No I didn't die, but I wished I had spent the money on that Harry Nilsson Pussycats record instead. I ended up giving Shakeclown Street to my friend Albert. I don't think he liked it much either.

I heard a lot more Dead when I was in college. My roomie Steve had all their records, and played them in his regular rotation, (he played the record in front of the stack, and when finished, returned it to the back of the stack). Fortunately, Steve played other things like Beefheart, Mot The Hoople, and a gaggle of interesting listenables that were new to me. I already knew Beefheart from The Fourth Tower Of Inverness radio serial back in the early seventies. But that is another story for another day. As wise as Steve was, (several years older than me, a tour of duty on a nuclear submarine, president of the debate team, straight A student), even he couldn't convince me that the Grateful Dead had any merit.

Some years later, a woman from work invited me to take a "quick lunch break" with her at her place, just a couple of blocks from work. It was obvious to me that she was a hippy, so wasn't surprised when we arrived at her pad. There were funkily coloured candles with wax melted to the table and beyond. There were no chairs, only cushions to recline on, and both familiar and unfamiliar odors. I sat on a rug, and she bent over to select a record from an untidy stack of wax, took the vinyl out of the sleeve, placed it on the turntable, and said, "Do you like the Dead?" "Sure"... I reluctantly said, lieing through my teeth, knowing it was too late to stop it anyway. Besides, I didn't want to be rude. After all, I was a guest in her house. As the crackly, uncleaned record spun, I lost all interest in life and died again. Ok, I didn't die, but I wasn't late getting back to work that afternoon.

To this day, people make me listen to the Dead, and I do listen, even though I don't enjoy it. At this point, I'd like to pose a question - Other than a bunch of slumber time tunes, what did Jerry Garcia contribute to the world? Where I live, the Jerry cult is thriving and patchouli fills the air. Here in Santa Cruz, Jerry is revered as a saint. Think not that I judge too harshly. My voice is as one crying in the Wildebeest. My words are but neo-petroglyphs-graffiti on a sandstone monolith. They will erode, and be washed away with time, but the withered Dead rock "will survive." Meanwhile, I'll be listening to Dead Kennedys instead.


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