jukeboxgraduate.com

the mc5: a true testimonial

Somehow, astoundingly, Seattle managed to rate a screening of what's turned into an incredibly controversial documentary about the MC5. The fur has been flying in the media and online to such a degree that I turned up at the theater fully expecting to find it had been cancelled. I have been waiting years to see this, and as a fan, it did not disappoint.

I wish I could remember the exact moment I discovered the MC5, or how it even happened; probably some random comment somewhere in a rock magazine or book, and it was authoritative enough to make me dutifully go off and try to find out more about them.

So I've been listening to them for years, and I've even heard bootlegs, I had but I had never SEEN them, you know? It wasn’t anything I ever tracked down, never struck me as that elusive IT that you must see, unlike the Dolls or the Stooges, video footage of those two you could find if you wanted to, easily enough, hell, that footage of Iggy smearing peanut butter on his chest got broadcast on ABC prime time in the 70s... So this was the first time I ever really SAW the MC5.

It was astounding. And astonishing. And it broke my heart because I was not old enough to have been there, to have SEEN that, because it was so truly huge and wonderful and perfect in its rawness and fuck-you-ness. Very few of us can appreciate how truly dangerous it was to get up on a stage in the MIDWEST in the 60s and scream the word "Motherfucker". And there is no way that any of us can know the liberation and danger that Rob Tyner likely felt every time he got to call on the audience to "Kick out the jams, motherfucker!” I mean, talk about the shot heard round the world. It really, truly was a CALL TO ARMS.

When I was younger I always felt left out. I missed the Who with Keith Moon. Missed the Stones when they were "good" (75 and earlier). Should have been a Warhol superstar getting my 15 minutes hanging out at the Factory in the 60's. Should have been at Woodstock. But as I got older and I found my own bands to love in real time, that lessened to an extent.

Saturday afternoon, watching this documentary, that feeling of having missed out was back with a vengance. "Oh my god. I MISSED that!" And yeah, I know, I'm not idealizing anything, I’ve read about how women were treated in the 60s and John Sinclair especially, it’s not like the Trans-Love Energies house was exactly a hotbed of feminism. I didn’t even care, I wanted the rock and roll.

So, jesus.. Fuck! I missed that. I missed it. I missed it and it is gone, gone forever, and the DTK/MC5 tribute tour going out with Wayne and Dennis and Michael - I can’t see the 5 without Rob Tyner’s spirit, or without Fred Sonic Smith. (Although I would go just to see Mark Arm and Mark Lanegan having the time of their lives...)

I don’t understand 1/10th of what all the infighting is between the surviving members of the MC5, the surviving spouses of the deceased members, and the documentary filmmakers. I’ve even had a friend who is an expert at bankruptcy proceedings go through some of this crap in his copious free time and while I am slightly smarter, I am certainly no wiser as to what the real problem is. After seeing the documentary, I came to the realization that I do not care.

I don't care, because at the end of the day, I'm just a fan. I am a fan of this band. And without a doubt, they influenced me profoundly. And as a fan, this documentary is important. It’s not perfect, there are moments that are needlessly hokey, while I feel there are some gaping holes (Where were the interviews with the fans? Or even Dave Marsh and the Creem gang from detroit?) But as a fan, this film moved me. It moved me not because of the actual filmmaking necessarily (I know fuck all about cinema and I won't start to pretend I do now), but because of the story, and of the music, and the energy. That is what moved me.

I loved the story about how the 5, once they became the house band at the Grande Ballroom, and once the Grande Ballroom became part of the circuit and attracted name bands from England and elsewhere, how the 5 would taunt them. "We’re the MC5 and we are going to wipe the floor with you, just so you know." How fucking PERFECT that is. (Why doesn’t anyone do that any more? Are there any opening bands these days that come out to fucking search and destroy? Anyone who gets an opening band gig and goes out there with the sole intent to blow the headliner off the stage?)

What else did I get out of this movie?

truth is stranger than fiction

Or, the musicologists that hang out on ryanadams.org (otherwise known as "the dot-org," to distinguish it from the steaming pile of useless officialness that is ryan-adams.com [hyphenated because of course some geek owns ryanadams.com and feels so tied to it they'd rather have a link at the top of their page sending everyone to ryan's official site than have to abdicate their domain name]) discuss the history of music:

ORIGINAL POST:
"RYAN STEALING FROM NIRVANA

The guitar part in I'M COMING OVER--"hey, wait, I gotta new complaint" from Nirvana in HEART-SHAPED BOX. try to deny it "

Response #1: "Oh please... *rolls eyes*"

OP: "listen to it"

#2: "...and of course Nirvana never nicked anything from The Pixies, Killing Joke, Black Sabbath, etc."

OP: "that's not the point. listen to it and quit hedging"

#3: "I'm not doubting you, I just don't see the point of bringing it up..."

OP: "I think it's COOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!
RYAN stealing from the greatest rock band evah!"

#4: "Greatest rock band ever? I guess you are entitled to your opinion, but......
ummmm.... The Stones?"

#5: "and nirvana made a pretty good replacements album when they came out with nevermind..."

OP: "the stones can suck it. nirvana rocks"

#6: "aaawwww... struck a chord..."

OP: "i'm sorry, i really didn't mean that. :(
they dont suck but are no nirvana"

random notes

Kraftwerk: You really missed this?

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It's beyond jumping the shark at this point: The Supersuckers have covered "Hey Ya".

This needs to stop, and soon.

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Did you hear? Courtney's set her sights on Jack White. Okay, I will confess this: There is part of me that honestly *likes* Courtney. I can't hate her, I just can't. On the other hand, I read that article and CRINGE.

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I am not going to Coachella. While I am partly envious of friends who are going, I am not sure whether I'm an idiot, old and burnt out, or just damn smart for avoiding it. I mean, even for the Stooges I wouldn't suffer through a festival, even if it is in one of my favorite parts of the country.

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If I had been fast on my feet, I could have been seeing the Pixies in Spokane tonight. Originally I was all "I'm not driving through the pass in April at night and I'm not overnighting in Eastern Washington just to see the Pixies."

And then I got shut out of Vancouver.

And then I read the setlists.

Someone at work advertised four tickets on Monday, and I sat there and thought about it OVERNIGHT for some reason. Of course by the time I asked on Tuesday, the tickets were long gone.

I did cave and buy a cd (of Friday night's Vancouver show), after my usual taper sources informed me (when I was looking for Winnipeg, so I could hear their version of Neil Young's "Winterlong") that they weren't bothering, since they were selling all the shows. I figure if nothing else it'll be resellable. I like the idea of picking it up night of show, though. I am curious as to how they are managing that.

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The Reunited DTK/MC5 are coming to Seattle (courtesy Paul Allen's checkbook, and largely, I am pretty sure, due to the influence of a certain individual who works at the EMP and knows Wayne pretty well). When I was writing this entry up late last night, I was ambivalent about the tour; however, today I saw the documentary and - well, okay, I still don't know. I really want to save all of this for a proper entry about the 5 and the documentary, but the truth is, part of me won't be able to not go and see if any of the magic is left. Again, more tomorrow.

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Shows I should go see but likely will not: the Electric Six, Cheap Trick at a club, Mudhoney, Muse. The one show I will likely make it to is the Young Fresh Fellows, because Scott McCaughey is the hardest working man in Seattle rock.

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Finally: stolen from someone else, but too good to not repeat: "I'm already sick of Franz Ferdinand, and I've never seen them and only heard the one song." I add: when the concert discussion list at work is full of people begging for tickets for a band at one of the smaller clubs in town, I know their sell-by date has passed. Snobbish? Yes. Elitist? Damn straight. Do I care? Not really. What ever happened to drastic, polarizing opinion in rock? I say we bring it back.

Bruce Springsteen Song or Adult Film?

A Good Man Is Hard To Find
All Night Long
Brothers Under The Bridge
Dancing In The Dark
I'm Goin' Down
Man's Job
Man At The Top
My Love Will Not Let You Down
My Lover Man
Open All Night
Pink Cadillac
Protection
Ramrod
Restless Nights
Take 'Em As They Come
The Rising
Thundercrack
Unsatisfied Heart
Wages Of Sin

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*If you guessed this was another McSweeney's submission, you would be right. Then again, it took me all of three minutes to put together. It was inspired by some tangential discussion on rec.music.artists.springsteen that mentioned, in passing, an adult film.

shameless self-promotion

My (co-authored) review of the Springsteen Christmas shows will be in the next issue of Backstreets.

(Yeah, I know, geek alert.)

rebel rebel: bowie redux

I don't care that I just saw him three months ago. There is just no way in hell I am going to sit at home when David fucking Bowie is in town.

gabba gabba hey

just a note - and i can't believe it was patti lee who had to remind me - that we lost joey on this day back in 2001.

[on a related note, patti's on letterman friday night, which i'll miss because i'm seeing Mayor of the Sunset Strip.]

i said...

are you gonna be my girl?

I admit it. Jet have been my biggest guilty pleasure of late. It's not deep, it's not original, and it's literally *everywhere* - while in New Orleans a few weeks ago, we strolled by a bar to hear the above-mentioned song blaring out onto Bourbon Street, and I predicted that that would most likely be the song to suffer from overkill during our trip.

But, man, what's not to like? As I described Jet to a friend a few months ago: "It's like they woke up one day and decided, 'Hi! We want to be Led Zep, AC/DC, the Ramones, and all of them at the same time, and AS LOUD AS POSSIBLE!"

So I went to the Moore Theater tonight to check out the Aussie Invasion Tour, Jet along with The Living End and the Vines. The Living End have been getting better reviews than anyone (which I guess I can understand, but so not my cup of tea. Enough ska-influenced rockabilly. But they were excellent musicians, I'll give 'em that), and the Vines (whom I do not care for whatsoever) have been receiving consistently horrific reviews, hands down, everywhere. I didn't care; I was there to see Jet, and anything else was gravy.

It was loud and obnoxious and the light show better suited for Madison Square Garden, and snarly and driving and full of attitude - hell, I would've liked more attitude (and a touch more energy, but it's been a long tour, and this is the second-to-last date). The final verdict was - they didn't disappoint. The pacing was superb. I even liked the slower songs. And the rockers fucking RAWKED. It was energy and chaos and screaming girls (and I literally mean, screaming girls, I have not heard screaming girls at this pitch and volume since Duran Duran in the heyday, and do not sneer at me, I have it on excellent authority that the Duranies are back in vogue right now, it is hip to like them - not that I like them, I just never hated them. Okay, I know, tangent). I especially liked how, when they let the crowd sing (most noticably during The Hit), that the girls were louder than the boys (and it was probably a 60-40 split in favor of the guys).

Yeah, there was AC/DC and there was Zep, but more than either of those was the presence of The Who. Windmills, Moon-like drum rolls, fantastic jamming and interplay - yeah, that was the Who circa 72 up there at moments. Fucking brilliant. And I swear that Nick Cester sounds like a cross between Paul Rodgers and Plant in his best moments (although the screams are stolen from Daltrey. No fucking contest there.) I get why the Stones asked them to open last year, I get why Townshend digs 'em too and how, at his request, they're on the bill at the Isle Of Wight with him and Roger (yes I still refuse to call it 'The Who,' but that's a discussion for another entry).

I totally got off on watching the crowd - I could've been in the first few rows in a heartbeat, but settled on seats in row H, just far enough back for good sound and great vantage point. I had worried about being the oldest one there (or at least the oldest one there not accompanying someone in their teens) but it was a great mixed crowd.

My favorite moment had to be the two girls who were two rows in front of me. They were just normal girls, jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, cute as hell but not flashing it everywhere. They weren't not the blonde girls in the halters down near the front who security had to keep shining their flashlights on, as they climbed on seats to try to get the band's attention; they weren't the hipper-than-thou Hot Topic girls who kept winding their way through the crowd to get as close as possible; just two normal girls who had clearly waited for this show for weeks. They were besides themselves. They knew every word, and would sing it to each other, screaming and laughing and jumping up and down. They would shake each other excitedly as the first few notes of the next song would start. Watching them sing "Cold Hard Bitch" to each other, faces flushed, excited, and 2004 or not, I bet they felt slightly dangerous just singing that word out loud.

I stood there, watching them, and felt this odd pang. At first I thought it was jealousy, because that was me 10 or 20 years ago. I felt old. I felt left out. I felt sad. But then, Nick raises a tambourine in the air, and the screams start again - we all know what it's gonna be - and they fly into "Are You Gonna Be My Girl?" Boom, crash, atomic explosion, blinding lights and those screams again, pumping fists, waving arms, pogoing down front, and I'm laughing and singing along and having the greatest time.

That was the moment that I realized: I'm still one of those girls.

As long as rock can make me feel like this, I'll always be one of them.

An Open Letter To The Idiot Yelling for "Southern Man"*

Esteemed Sir:

I had the distinct pleasure of recently attending the performance by Neil Young and Crazy Horse within the magnificent confines of the Radio City Music Hall. Perhaps it is because my memories of this venue begin in early childhood at the Christmas Spectaculars, when I was dressed uncomfortably in my going-to-New-York-City clothes, taffeta skirts and patent leather shoes, accompanied by my parents, that I would never think of misbehaving in the slightest at Radio City. You, however, did not seem restrained by your environment. Instead, you felt the need to bellow for "Southern Man," repeatedly, every time there was the slightest lull in the performance.

I must ask you, anonymous sir in the balcony, did you imagine that you had the faintest chance of having your request honored? When you awoke that morning, did you think to yourself: "I love 'Southern Man' more than any other Neil Young song in his entire catalog, and despite hearing it on Classic Rock radio every day of my life, nothing would bring me more joy and pleasure than to hear Neil Young play it at Radio City tonight. Therefore, my quest will be to yell for that song as loudly as possible (since I am sitting in the third balcony, I need to make sure he can hear me) and as often as possible, especially when Neil is speaking and it is otherwise quiet. Surely Mr. Young will not be able to ignore such a highly original and clearly heartfelt petition. I know with absolute and perfect certainty that there is no way Neil Young would consider playing this song – I am sure that he has forgotten about the very existence of this song in his repertoire! - without my ardent, resonant and voluminous requests."

You may feel that I am being unkind, when the truth is that I feel a gentle pity for you. This is because I can only imagine that you do not get out to many live concerts. Because if you did, you would know that your chosen methodology has been employed so often that we – and by "we" I do not mean the royal "we," but rather every single person who attends a live concert event, as well as every artist who performs at a live concert event – are weary of your attentions. You should be relegated to a special soundproof booth in the back of the venue, where you would reside with your brethren, The Guys In Backwards Baseball Hats Who Scream For "Magic Bus" Before The Who Have Even Taken The Stage, and a related group, The Seat-Warming Girlfriends: they don’t want to be there, but their boyfriends have convinced themselves that they have "converted" their significant others into die-hard fans. In reality, they are the girls who spend the entire night getting up and down, acquiring snacks and drinks, as well as calling their friends on their cell phones (yelling "I can’t hear you, I’m at the concert! What? I said, I can’t hear you, I’m at the concert!") and then walk out very upset that the band in question didn’t play their "favorite" song (which is of course that band’s most well-known song) – when the fact is that they did. They were just at the concessions, purchasing a soft pretzel, when this event occurred.

But I digress.

In short, "Southern Man"-requesting individual: Sit down and shut up. Please.

Kindly,

Caryn Rose

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*As rejected, very nicely, by McSweeneys.net.

ten years ago



For some reason, the plethora of self-indulgent, "where were you when" ramblings that are bubbling up from the media are annoying me. They're annoying me because I find them hollow and lightweight and insincere. I know people who were *profoundly* affected by Kurt's death 10 years ago, kids whose hold on the planet was tenuous enough already, the girls and boys that Nirvana gave a voice to, the people who suddenly became less weird, because they dressed like Kurt did before he ended up on MTV for the first time. Friends who admitted to staying in their dorm room for days, lying in the dark, listening to "Negative Creep" or "About A Girl" and wondering what the FUCK they were going to do NOW, who was going to get up onstage for them and make them feel less alone in this world?

Where are those stories?

I mean, hell, yeah, it's beyond righteous that Thurston Moore gets an Op-Ed piece in the New York Times, defending the underground and making the point about Kurt that 99.9% of the rest of the mainstream media forgets. Sure, go up to Viretta Park and take photos of the kids sitting on the grass with their hair half-dyed red at the bottom (except that Kurt used cherry Kool-Aid, and I wonder if they a) know this and b) did that themselves? But why bother to be authentic, you can go into Hot Topic in the mall now and get that stuff). Write it off as - he lived, he was miserable, he was famous, he killed himself.

The real story isn't Kurt so much as it is the fans, the ones whom he sang for, the people whose lives changed in a very real and very drastic fashion when he died, some for better, others for worse.

For the record: I wasn't a huge Nirvana fan, although I was working for Geffen back in the day, and got to be a direct part of the entire Nevermind phenomenon. I remember getting the advance cassette (god, I wish I still had that now!) and thinking, "This is great, but it's not going to sell more than 150,000 in the U.S., but it's an important record to release."

Kurt's death touched me because the death of a musician will always affect me. And his in particular, there was part of the angst and the wailing and the joy that was there if you looked for it - that I did recognize and did identify with.

Mostly, I was angry. And mostly, I still am angry. At loss of life, loss of talent, loss of - one of us.

So, now I get to work in my one Nirvana story, albeit tangential: In 1996, I got to go to a party at the former Cobain mansion. A friend worked for a start-up whose owners had bought the house from Courtney. They realized that everyone and their mother was going to want to come visit, so they held a huge housewarming party before they moved in. The house was big and cavernous and echoey, and anything BUT warm. I couldn't see Kurt being happy in that place, no matter how hard I tried to imagine it.

The owners thought it would be funny to blast Nirvana's Unplugged all night, while random quasi-yuppie geek types clambered around the house as though it was their own private playground. Sure, we were curiosity-seekers too, we fully admitted it. But funnily enough, in a situation Kurt was probably grimacing at - the misfit bunch of current and former punks that my pal Delores had managed to wangle onto the guest list ended up feeling out of place and overruled by the yuppie faction. This was our fucking band, assholes, NOT YOURS, we all thought (okay, some of us said out loud).

So we retreated outside, away from the house, under a weeping willow tree. It took us a few minutes before someone pointed out that this was likely the tree Courtney was coming back to get, because she'd scattered part of Kurt's ashes underneath.

We sat there in silence for a while, digesting that thought, wondering what to do - should we leave? Should we stay?

While we were sitting there, pondering, I had a flash of brilliance. Raising my glass into the air, I toasted in the direction of the sky, and then poured some gin and tonic onto the ground. With communal understanding and relief, everyone else followed suit. Then we settled in for the night, making fun of the drunk yuppie fucks running around the house and falling out the windows.

Now, *there's* a tribute to Kurt I could live with.