jukeboxgraduate.com

love & happiness

the rev. al green, house of blues, atlantic city, 8.27.05

Are any words necessary? Of course not.

[But if you need them, you could read about the show I saw at the Apollo last year.]

reader from iceland

You Google my name every few months, end up at this site, and spend five minutes reading, and you live in Reykjavk. I am fascinated. Please drop a line the next time you swing by.

dear mick and keith

Dear Mick, Keith, Charlie and Woody:

You know, I was kind of proud of you on the last tour, you didn't release a new album of crappy half-baked songs that we would all pretend that we liked oh so much in order to seem relevant, you just toured. It was easy for me to ignore the gonzo ticket prices because we found a way to beat the system by buying fan club memberships and going to the small theater shows, which were of course the cheapest (so Michael Kohl can say to the media, "We are fairly priced, we have tickets priced from $45 to $350.") Even with splitting the cost of a fan club membership (we just pretended it was like a Ticketmaster 'convenience charge') it was still cheaper and we were still closer than we would be at the Tacoma Dome or FedEx Field. Sure, we had to spend all day sitting on the sidewalk on a cardboard box like a homeless person, but as Laura's husband Joel put it, "This is the price you pay to see the World's Greatest Rock and Roll Band."

I have to say, though, you could still bring it. That show at the Wiltern made me feel like I could never see any concert by any other band ever again. Teresa and I got interviewed by the RS.com camera crew while sitting on our cardboard boxes, and I said that I wanted to be at one of these shows so I could feel like the girl on Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out who's yelling "Paint it black, you devils!" And to give you credit, I honestly did feel that way that night.

Somehow I convinced myself that I was going to see you on this tour. Mostly it was wanting to go with the boyfriend, who wants to see the Stones through my eyes and me wanting to show him how you look to me, how you have always looked to me. I am the girl with the Keef bracelet and the skull ring. He has seen them of course but not the way I have. We dreamed of going to Memphis or maybe using a fan club membership for a small club show or even just an arena show.

But not for $450.00. Even if I was still working at the Evil Empire, even if the tables at Mohegan Sun were kind to us, there is no.way.in.hell I would pay $450.00 to see you, or anyone else just for any old show at the Wachovia (or whatever-they-are-calling-it-now) Center, and I do not sit in the rafters, especially not for $150. And even more especially not when the stockbroker with the comb-over is in the front row eating a soft pretzel during Keith's solo set, and is only there so he can try to claim that he's still hip and cool and assuage his panic that he might be turning into his parents. No.Fucking.Way.

Foolishly, with some kind of spirit and hope that I am amazed still exists, I downloaded all three new songs from iTunes last week. The samples sounded decent; maybe there was life still left in there. Maybe the magic could happen. Maybe there are some old songs that will sound really good now - I mean, Bruce just did that and boy is he rocking now.

OH MY FUCKING GOD, THESE SONGS SUCK. IF THEY WERE NOT WRITTEN AND PERFORMED BY THE ROLLING STONES I WOULD NOT GIVE THEM THE TIME OF DAY, LET ALONE PAID ANY MONEY FOR THEM WHATSOEVER. I WOULD HAVE DOWNLOADED THEM FROM SOMEWHERE AND THEN DELETED THEM AS A WASTE OF PRECIOUS SPACE ON MY HARD DRIVE. 15 YEARS AGO I WOULD HAVE BEEN AFFRONTED, ANGRY, INFURIATED AND PISSED OFF THAT THEY CAN GET AWAY WITH THIS.

Guess what, I still am.

"Back Of My Hand" is a reasonable, authentic blues for about 30 seconds, and this is what this band can do WELL, let's remember. Instrumentally this still isn't as bad as it could be but Jagger doesn't fucking mean it. I know, I know, I know, I'm a fucking moron for believing for 1 millisecond that he still might somewhere.

"Rough Justice" sounds reasonably contemporary, but there are several dozen Ryan Adams outtakes that are better Rolling Stones songs than this, which is straight ahead formulaic 90s era Rolling Stones. There's a guitar-ringing chorus that Mick can use to go to the edge of the stage and get some crowd participation because it will be new yet sound familiar and everyone on every Stones board from Undercover to Shidoobee is going to wax rhapsodic about how this is the second coming of the new Stones and anyone who says otherwise is a traitor to the cause. It is probably the least contemptible of the three and I'll probably keep it on the iPod.

"Streets of Love" is just abominable. It's the formulaic 90s era Rolling Stones ballad, that's it, period. The boyfriend said "This isn't half bad," and I replied: "If this was ANYONE but the Stones would you care?"
"No."
I hate these plodding vaguely melodic platforms that are excuses for Jagger to Emote and "Streets of Love" is no difference. Slow start, dramatic chorus that will be a cause for arm waving and lighters, Chuck Leavell is probably falling all over himself for his role in this song.

I have no one, repeat, no one, to blame for this but myself. I need to break up with the Stones, I need to remember things like the b-stage in 97 and 98 and the Wiltern and stop getting so fucking emotionally invested. I want the band to stop wasting their time so Keith can do another solo record, but that begs the question of whether or not that will ever happen again. I once wrote a long, impassioned defense of the Stones about 10 years ago where I asserted that Keith would play forever (and that we would all be there no matter what he was doing) and now I'm not so sure. He's still alive and he's healthy considering I guess but I don't know if that "I'll stab Jagger if he dares put out a solo album instead of touring with the Stones" fire is anywhere to be found. God knows on some level I still worship the man and that will never leave me but it is not relevant and it is not the present or the future.

So this is why I am not going to buy the record and we are not going to see you (although we did try for one of those 'on the stage' seats - what, were there two $75 seats for the entire tour?) and I am going to refund the fan club membership because what I want to find and what I am looking for is not there, and for that $100 I could go see a lot of other bands and buy a lot of other music. Don't take it personally, I'm going to tell Roger and Pete the same thing when they try to come back with "The Who" next year too.

Luv,

Me

dulli to join DTK/MC5

Dulli to Join MC5

and OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD and I don't stand a chance in HELL of seeing it because 1) can't afford to fly to LA (it's not quite like hopping down from Seattle) and 2) MY SISTER IS GETTING MARRIED THE NEXT DAY, AND IT SEEMS LIKE EVERY RIGHTEOUS SHOW IN CREATION IS GOING TO HAPPEN THAT WEEKEND

At least the tapers will be at this one. If there is a just and loving God, they will be.

Please.

judge rules cb's can't be evicted

CNN.com - Judge: Punk landmark CBGB's can't be evicted - Aug 11, 2005

ALSO: Daily News: Ruling rocks for CBGB

five reasons: springsteen in milwaukee

Bruce Springsteen
Bradley Center, Milwaukee, WI
7 August 2005

WHY I DO THIS, #1:

Springsteen at the pump organ, slow and somber, the music familiar but still unrecognizable, and then:

The runway rushed up at him as he felt the wheels touch down
He stood out on the blacktop and took a taxi into town

And there is the initial intake of breath when you realize what the fuck he is singing, that jolt of adrenalin, and then you squelch it all as quickly as possible because you want nothing to distract you from the experience of the song: "Shut Out The Light," one of the first Vietnam experience songs. These songs strike me, hard, even though I have no connection beyond generational (well, barely). I thought I had never heard it before but setlists prove me wrong (1985).

The wild card songs. They come out of nowhere, sometimes you'll get a clue as to what inspired them later on during the show -- Bruce will mention an article or an event or a name; this time, all we get is: "This is a song for a soldier."

While many of Springsteen's songs have undeniable cinematic qualities (and oddly enough many of them will appear tonight), this one was always in my top ten, I have a movie that runs inside my head every time I hear it. The carefully chosen images portray a thousand words in one line.

WHY I DO THIS, #2:

Mr. Springsteen at the grand piano, which has for me lately become a more eagerly awaited event than picking up the Esquire. A little nervous laughing banter, and then --

no. fucking. way.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Frankie," which has been played a grand total of three times in the last 26 years. Now, to be fair, I was there one other time (8/9/99), but that doesn't diminish the impact. "Frankie" full band exemplifies everything that annoys me about the song (I feel it is too overblown or free-jazzy in parts), but "Frankie" on piano and F harp is a motherfucking masterpiece, probably because we're hearing it the way it was written (well, maybe). As a result of this performance, this song is moving into Column A. It was lilting, the tune carrying you lightly through the narrative, and sparse enough that you could paint the pictures in your head - there was room for them without the E Street Band stumbling through the song along with him (it is a complex song to play, and it not appearing on the frequent flier lists, of course it's not going to be perfectly polished -- I understand all of this. But it does suffer as a result.)

WHY I DO THIS, #3:

The brand-shiny-new white Gretsch (can anyone help me with a model or a vintage?) which Himself was clearly loving, posturing like a boy with a new toy (it's three or four shows old, so I guess that's exactly what it is), mixing Elvis with Scotty Moore, Eddie Cochran with Mike Ness, singing "Ain't Got You," the only Tunnel song I got this night (compared to, oh, half of freaking Nebraska -- not that I'm complaining, wait for it).

WHY I DO THIS, #4:

The man is so completely underrated as a singer that it makes me crazy sometimes, but he is usually working so many different angles onstage that the voice sometimes gets overlooked. And this is why he wrote "Back In Your Arms" (okay, one of the reasons at least, we have him on record at Somerville), but it's rare that he can just let the voice SHINE, which is what happened to night, honest-to-god goose-bump inducing, white-knuckle moments when that voice was red velvet cake, pure hot buttered soul, and your heart just melted. (I have no idea what effect this has on the men, however.)

WHY I DO THIS, #5:

All of the above aside, I would honestly have considered the trip a blinding success if all I'd gotten was "Open All Night". No, there are no epic stories about getting pulled over in Hightstown for going "suspiciously slow," but there's enough attitude in the song - and FUCK! it's THE SONG! - to make it a standout. I did not do BITUSA in the stadiums so despite how large it looms in my legend, according to my accounting -- I HAD NEVER HEARD THIS FUCKING SONG LIVE UNTIL TONIGHT!

Well, I had the carburetor, baby, cleaned and checked
With her line blown out she's hummin' like a turbojet
Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks
For a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks
Took her down to the carwash, check the plugs and points
Well, I'm goin' out tonight. I'm gonna rock that joint

Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours
Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations
Lost souls callin' long distance salvation
Hey, mister deejay, woncha hear my last prayer
Hey, ho, rock n'roll, deliver me from nowhere

If you knew how many live versions of "Open All Night" I had on my iPod you would have me committed. No, it's not "Jungleland" or "Backstreets" or anything of that caliber, It's dumb, I know, I shouldn't even compare it to hearing "Shut Out The Light" or "Frankie" or anything else in the set, but the fun side of Bruce is just as important as the grand cinematic epic storytelling, dark brooding tales of the dark side, side of Springsteen, at least for me. All the classic images and lines that ring true if you've ever driven the NJ Turnpike late at night, "wee wee hours" paying tribute to Chuck Berry (this song is a homage if I ever heard one), and then that anthemic last verse tying it all together: "Hey, ho, rock n' roll, deliver me from nowhere!" yelled out, arms raised high, the people behind us who didn't know anything but BTR and BITUSA (I overheard them anxiously whispering, "Maybe we should have bought the last two records before tonight," earlier) convinced at this point that we are certifiable.

So: five reasons, out of a few dozen for this show alone, five reasons that try to, kind of explain all the reasons I do this, at least the ones I can articulate to the uninitiated. Five reasons that explain why, if airfare wasn't up to $1000, and it wouldn't take us three days to get there by car, despite all previous declarations to the contrary -- you would so see us in Portland and Seattle and Vancouver on Wednesday and Thursday and Saturday.

Ah, hell, you still might.

save cbgb, pt 2

around 10:30pm tonight

Tonight was the big media event, Blondie and Jesse Malin and the Star Spangles and the Brian Jonestown Massacre and Mickey Leigh and the Rattlers and Jean Beauvoir singing Ramones songs and everyone was there, Lenny Kaye and Handsome Dick Manitoba and Sami Yaffa (who now plays in Jesse's band) and the Waldos and Ivan Julian is wandering around outside and Ted Leo and Legs McNeil and Tommy Ramone and John Holstrom... and taking a leadership role is now none other than Mr. Steven Van Zant, aka Silvio, aka Sugar Miami Steve, aka Underground Garage maven extraordinaire. No Patti Smith, no rumored Wayne Kramer/HDM pairing, and no, Stevie did not play either (which I would have been way down to see; Billboard claimed he was going to, but the boyfriend asked, only to be told: "I'm a retired businessman. I don't play any more.")

I couldn't get into the main event, but the sideshow in the Gallery wasn't too bad either, and having all those people in the same immediate area has got to be good energy. Besides which, I think I've spent as much time sitting/standing outside CB's as I have inside the place, so the fact that tonight was also like that just felt like business as usual. In many ways, tonight could have been any night at CB's: scenesters and rock stars and bums from the shelter upstairs alternately panhandling or just getting in your face, the tourists who had never been there, the underage kids (or at least the ones with bad fake ID) standing outside hoping to catch a note or two.

I just decided to overlook the fact that I hadn't spent a night doing that for about 10 years, if not longer. The important thing was: once I did. Once it meant everything. The first time I saw the awning on Bowery and pulled the front door open and walked into that room -- it felt like visiting Jerusalem. That place was magic.

At some point I'm going to have to make my peace with this and say goodbye.

i wanna hear some revolution: return of the MC5

DTK/MC5
Northsix, Brooklyn, NY
July 29, 2005

Of all the places I've ever wished I had been back in the day -- the Apollo Theater, the Mercer Arts Center, The Marquee Club -- the Grande Ballroom has always been in that top five. Tons of great music, to be sure, was performed there -- the Who always considered Detroit to be a second home in the 60's -- but mostly because of the Motor City Five. I cannot claim that I came to them on my own; obviously, it was because Marsh and Lester and a half dozen other folks who were the epitome of cool back when I wasn't old enough to drink worshipped them. And when I finally managed to track down a sanitized reissue of Kick Out The Jams I walked around dazed for a few days.

So I was excited to see this show and you can throw whatever accusations of nostalgia or dumb-ass comments about "just because it's old doesn't mean it's good" because you'll just look foolish and ignorant. Like I said in my review of the documentary, this band made history. This band changed rock and roll. This band was important and important to me. Damn straight I was excited to see this show, excited to turn up before doors opened and excited enough to grab a piece of the stage just to the left of center.

Rock and roll reunions generate so many different threads of emotion. The thread of: oh my god, I am seeing something I never thought possible. The thread of: how can this live up to my expectations? The thread of: how can you have expectations if you never believed it could happen but then they are there on some level, there is a legend to live up to and how much of a break do you cut them in the name of nostalgia or loyalty.

And then, of course, there is the thread of: OH MY MOTHERFUCKING GOD I AM SEEING THE FUCKING MC5.

That's the one that ruled the evening for me.

The show was billed as the band playing the entire Kick Out The Jams record in order, and so I (and most of the audience around me) thought that the evening would start with someone (my money was on Handsome Dick Manitoba, and frankly I believe he could have done it from heart if pressed into service, as could most of the audience, I believe) echoing Brother J.C. Crawford's legendary invocation:

Brothers and sisters, I wanna see a sea of hands out there... I want everybody to kick up some noise, I wanna hear some revolution... Brothers and sisters, the time has come for each and every one of you to decide whether you are going to be the problem or whether you are going to be the solution! You must choose, brothers, you must choose. It takes five seconds, five seconds of decision, five seconds to realize your purpose here on this planet. It takes five seconds to realize that it's time to move, it's time to get down with it. Brothers, it's time to testify. And I want to know -- are you ready to testify? ARE YOU READY?! I give you a testimonial: THE MC5!!"

And then they crash into "Ramblin' Rose" with Wayne Kramer's legendary falsetto.

Instead, a tiny bit of a letdown, there was no intro at all, just the band walking onstage: Wayne Kramer, dressed all in white, down to his shoes, looking like Captain Steubing on hallucinogens; Dennis Thompson settling into place behind the drum kit with the dignity of an Indian chief; and Michael Davis strapping on the bass and looking slightly apprehensive, as though they were getting ready for a showdown.

But then again, I guess they were.

Opening notes of "Ramblin' Rose" were chaos and it seems like every person in Northsix knew every single word. No falsetto, but I can't really hold him to that THIRTY FIVE YEARS LATER, now can I. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Mark Arm sidestage, staring at Wayne with dogged concentration, not moving, but with the air of energy of a prizefighter girding himself for the ring. And then, he strode onto the stage, took possession of the microphone, and before I knew it - they must have said something, I'm sure, but this is where I got lost in it all and time froze and my brain whirled and when I came out of it I am singing along:

Yes i'm starting to sweat
You know my shirt's all wet
What a feeling
In the sound that abounds
And resounds and rebounds off the ceiling

You gotta have it baby
You can't do without
When you get that feeling
You gotta sock'em out
Put that mike in my hand
And let me kick out the jams
yeah Kick out the jams
I want to kick'em out

There are goosebumps and bewilderment, that feeling of am I really seeing this? Am I dreaming?, feeling like the air shifted, the energy changed, that there is magic in this place, there was magic made by these three men and their absent friends and they are able to open it up and invoke it again.

Mark Arm. Admittedly, I am a die-hard Mudhoney devotee. I believe they are a national treasure. Yes, it is easy to feel that way when you live in Seattle for close to 10 years and can drive up the road and see them play a bar that barely holds 100 people. But the fact remains that they are amazing and Arm is an amazingly compelling frontman with energy to spare -- still! -- and most importantly, this music is part of him and who he is the same way it was for every person in that audience. When Mike Watt and J. Mascis first pulled the Asheton brothers out of retirement sans Iggy, I was more than a little bit surprised that Mark Arm didn't get offered the position. But this is pretty damn okay too. Not that I ever had any doubt, but Arm brought it big time. I'm surprised he was still standing by the end of the night with the amount of conviction and searing raw power he threw into each and every song. Not that I ever got to see Rob Tyner live, but I felt like Mark channeled his spirit and mixed it enough with his own personality and presence and the result was appropriate, convincing and damn effective.

I was really looking forward to an ear-splitting, incendiary "Rocket Reducer No. 62" (aka "Rama Lama Fa Fa Fa"), so I have to admit that this is the number where the whole concept of the album trying to be recreated (and yes, you could recreate a live album, the Who getting up to recreate Live At Leeds or the Stones redoing Ya-Ya's is entirely possible -- not plausible, mind you, in a million years, but it's a distinct sequence of songs that has become legendary through live recorded performance of same). What I really wanted was for them to tear through the album until my eardrums were bleeding and them come out and play another set of songs that I needed to hear. The latter happened, but I didn't get the intense song-to-song transition that I had some kind of expectation of getting. But in this song specifically, instead of the guitar orgy I was hoping for, instead, Wayne stopped the song for a little three-part singalong, and you know, all right, unity and all that, but we coulda done that later to "High School" or something a little bit lighter.

Time to flip the album.

I don't know if anyone else is a fan of Continuum Book's 33 1/3 series, but I am obsessed (and also have promised myself I will write something to at least submit for consideration once my first novel is published). In the fall series, there is a volume about Kick Out The Jams and the author, Don McLeese, describes the second side of KOTJ aptly:

Four songs, fourteen and a half minutes of high-energy epiphany and raw sexual release. Then comes the second side, which remains the second side even in the CD era, another set of four cuts as diffuse as the first four are focused. In the vinyl era that spawned the album, you'd listen to both sides of a release at least once but then come to favor one side over the other. I'd guess that most of the more than 100,000 who bought Kick Out The Jams played side one 25-50 times for every time they turned the album over.

It's not like it sucks or anything, okay, it's just a little bit more, um, experimental in spots. I always remember being disappointed that a song with a title like "Motor City Is Burning" didn't live up to its name (at least in my opinion). And for this show, the second guest vocalist, the absolutely fabulous Lisa Kekaula (the Bellrays) brought the soul power to the stage. Oh, my god, she was STUNNING. She livened up "Borderline" and even "Motor City Is Burning," and then Mark returned to finish up the record. Wayne announced they were taking a 10 minute break and would be back to play some more.

At first I was a little bummed, I wanted to keep the vibe going, but there was no worry because they grabbed it back immediately, deafening cheers as soon as the first notes of "Shakin' Street" started, Michael Davis on vox. Gilby Clarke (oh, yeah, he was there too) acquitted himself admirably on "Tonight". The inimitable Handsome Dick bounded on for "Call Me Animal," "High School" and "American Ruse." I like HDM -- okay, I like him in character and in context and I also like his bar. But no matter what you think of him, there is no doubt thathe was absolutely the right choice for those three songs, no question whatsoever, jumping up and down and staring intently at WK during every guitar solo, havin' a party during the first two numbers. Mark Arm came back for a fun, rollicking "Sister Anne" and then, and then... a little political address from Mr. Kramer, about how when they recorded the album, we were involved in a war far away and we didn't like it -- and how, isn't it odd, over 30 years later, we're in exactly the same situation, this ushers in Fred "Sonic" Smith's anti-Vietnam ode, "Over and Over," and Mark imbues it with a fury that isn't out of place now and wouldn't have been out of place back then either. It was fierce and majestic and no matter how many times I have heard this song before, it was suddenly like I understood it for the first time, I felt it for the first time.

Lisa Kekaula is back for two more, "Human Being Lawnmower" which was fine and all, just fine, and I'm a little tired by now and hungry and it's been a long, long night, very emotional, all of that. But then Michael Davis hits the opening notes to "Looking At You" and Lisa has the maracas and she's shakin' it up there, dancing around, rocking it out, voice soaring, it's low and soulful and loud and proud all at the same time, and she's shimmying around the stage, and it was then I felt it again, that moment of otherworldliness, that magic touch, the irrational feeling that while I never was at the Grande Ballroom and I will never, ever know what it was truly like, at that second there was this glimmer that made me believe that this moment might actually have been close to what it was like. And I well know -- and Wayne asked for a moment of silence for them -- that 2/5 of the magic wasn't on that stage (and I cannot even conceive of what it would have been like with Sonic Smith and Rob Tyner too).

Everything that happened after that didn't matter much, at least to me.

After the show, we walked down the street to get some food. As a couple were seated next to us, the woman noticed my "Got Motown?" shirt and asked if I was from Detroit.
No, I answered, I just saw the MC5, that's why I was wearing the shirt.
"You know, I grew up down the street from where they used to play," she said. "I never saw them, I was too young. But I grew up always hearing stories about them."
"Well, I can tell you that they were all true," I assured her, with more than a little bit of conviction, and a whole lot of emotion.