Bob Mould at World Cafe in Philadelphia

Can I get an amen when it comes to driving in Route 76 heading into Philadelphia from Plymouth Meeting, an amen to say we hear you loud and clear brother, the road is like a parking lot. Add some snow and some nonsense like a fender bender and two men pumping their fists towards each other chins in mock violence oh amen. I told my real brother (not you sister Lyn) we’re going to be late. But the road cleared as we approached the zoo and other exits bringing us closer to World Café. What exit? I don’t know. But we found WXPN and parked the black beast and jogged to the back doors to event and got in. I climbed up the steps since I knew I had mere minutes. Mould is punctual a no nonsense mother fucker who hit the stage exactly at 7:30 and we were there in the front row. This was a solo performance and reading from his autobiography, See A Little Light. But first let me describe the empty seats, the older faces, who are they? Face it they are us. Where are the rest of the punk mother fuckers? Decided to stay home? What the fuck? How was the show Michael? I can hear you. At first he was a little off, I was not sure what direction Mould wanted to take us on. Was there the “in depth- heart- opening- soul- exposing -onslaught” on the stage? No. So I felt he skimmed over the surface of the book, teasing the audience, the potential lethargic readers who could have purchased this book months ago. I read it and reviewed it here. So maybe this was the man, he skims over all of us and drips tidbits of information and honesty. But when he plugs in the guitar, tunes it and strums the opening chords, the truth resonate in the speakers. This is when the show really took off. The performance built up to an amazing pace…the audience was wrapped up in what Bob played. If Bob came out with a clear direction of his readings, the show would have been better. If Bob stopped acting like this was his living room or a classroom and was lecturing us on microbes in the Mississippi. It would have been much better. Let me finish with this, take my review for what it is. It’s a learning lesson on the life of Bob Mould who is gay and open and proud of it, but more it shares where the man lived like the time he lived on a farm in Minnesota. That was a boring part of his life and I’d suggest maybe it was not a good idea to start the show with the blazing epic. Thank you for the picture and for signing my book.

Why The Clash were the best fucking band in the world

I wrote a few blogs on REM. Little is mentioned on this blog regarding perhaps my all time favorite band, The Clash. Back in 1978 Tom Snyder had them on, they played sold out shows at Bonds, and the NYFD shut down some of their concerts due to overcrowding. I remember wondering who was this band who made the news in NY, the fans seems like outcasts and radicals. It was as if a riot was erupting since they could not get into the show. On Snyder’s stage were temporarily fiberglass walls. A graffiti artist used them for his work and I remember feeling this is my favorite band. They played Radio Clash. Paul Simenon on bass was a bad ass as he slapped his low strung beast. A family friend went to Asbury Park to see them and said he met Joe on the boardwalk. My walls were plastered with their pictures. I bought everything I could and they made their record cheap for the kids to afford their music. Who does this anymore? The first and only time I saw The Clash live was back in 1982 when they opened up for The Who at Shea Stadium. The weekend before they were on Saturday Night Live, and played Straight to Hell and I recall Should I Stay or Should I Go. The Who concerts were supposed the signify the passing of the baton from The Who, veterans of arena rock to The Clash, the radical punks who were making a commercialized name for themselves on the AM radio with Rock the Kasbah. I came back home from a Boy Scout trip from the Delaware River and told the truck full of good God fearing lads who they were. At Shea heard they played Train in Vain, London Calling and more. I was packed with others in the outfield. Strummer wore glasses and the band sounded loose, not really what I expected. MTV later played a live version of Should I Stay or Should I go, but that was recorded from the previous night. Someone corrected me at school when I went around declaring I was in the audience. Being a Clash fan was a radical declaration that I was a punk. I was a rebel with a fuck you attitude. I did not want to conform. The only option to Regannomics was anarchy. John Wayne was dead and so is America was a statement I would write in my social studies class. Anger can be power don’t you know that you can use it. Was a line from their song Clampdown off London Calling, my English teacher read the back of my test where I wrote the line and read it out loud to the class; I was not sure if I was in trouble or he appreciated the blunt statement. If I recall he was going through a divorce at the time, and maybe the sentiment triggered a deeper hatred. I spray painted buildings in the VA in Northport with The Clash sign, the same large font which was used off their first album. There were different versions of their record, the import with a black background and the domestic olive green. Mick and Joe and Paul stood in a stairwell and looked blankly into the future. I was given London Calling for my 16th birthday a couple of years after it came out. Uncle Bob Runyan my 11th grade social studies teacher brought an article he found in Mother Jones’s on them and was impressed with their support of the Sandinista movement. In fact we worked on having a spokesman from the movement come to our school. Soon I became consumed with every Clash record. The band ended with a fizzle. It’s a shame Joe kicked out Mick Jones and they released, This is London which I am sure I have still in the wrapper. They toured the US but the life was sucked out of them. This is London is a shitty song and when they played a local venue Hofstra University, I refused to see them since this was not the band. I still go back to the songs from time to time. Meeting Joe Strummer was lifelong dreams come true. In fact I met him twice. Years after I saw The Clash and saw him perform at The Palladium for his – I will give it three stars - Earthquake Weather album. He only played a few shows in the US and for years went sort of underground. When I learned he was playing in town I was invited to a pre-show event. Strummer was playing Irving Plaza. My sister’s boyfriend Dennis worked at KRock and he was known in town as being Joey Ramone’s favorite DJ on the radio. Dennis said he had passes for the VIP and invited me to have dinner with Joey and Tim from Rancid and some other friends. I think Jesse Malin was there. I sat next to Joey and didn’t have a dime to get anything to eat nor did I add my input to the conversations. There was little I could say except when it became obvious this outsider was sitting at their table, he looked at me, asked casually, “And who are you?” I explained who I was and who brought me; he nodded and shook his head. He was a gentleman. Tim was quiet, sitting across from us, barely audible above the clamor in the place. From what Dennis explained Strummer was on his label, Black Cat records, Tim was a millionaire. Not bad for a tattooed punk from California, I think they were from California, I remember one of their songs I saw on MTV. One of them spat into the camera, but they appeared too professional. California has a way to make sweat appear glossy. I’m getting away from the first time I met Strummer. Up in the VIP section at Irving Plaza, Matt Dillon was there, Jim Jarmuch the director, Joe was in some of his movies. There were other artists and actors. Strummer did a shout out to Joey Ramone, and he also yelled out to the house manager shut off the air conditioning. Soon the place was sweltering. “I got something for you,” he said dripping in sweat and belted out the open power chords to London Calling and the place flew into a riot. Heads rose up and rejoiced, falling back into the crowd, their arms flung and twisted, hundreds of bodies were sporadically lurching to get closer to the man. He also played something he rarely played Rock the Kasbah as a shout out to Topper Headon. After the show we walked through the village with Matt Dillon who had three girls on him over to Jesse’s bar. We had the downstairs VIP to ourselves. Matt was standoffish, a dick for the most part, had a stuck up Hollywood attitude. Maybe it was my drunken state? Then Strummer came down and Dennis came over to me and said, “I got’s someone who wants to meet you.” He brought me over to Strummer and we shook hands and another DJ took our picture together, Joe leaned his sweaty head into mine and I wish I had that picture. Joe signed my concert ticket and we were off to cause drunken destruction in Queens. The second time I met Strummer, his last release received critical acclaim and he seemed to back in the game. The show was at the St. Anne’s Warehouse in Brooklyn. He played six shows and was his last in New York. Rudy Can’t Fail was sung and the crowd sang along with him. He looked somewhat overweight, his black shirt stuck to his sweaty skin. The concert was incredible and he played a good chunk of his new material. I thought the night was over, but we walked down to a bar from the club to have a nightcap. Strummer walked in with a cheer. He wore a light blue jacket and I approached him asking if he would sign my poster. He was a nut job for the most part, pretended to speak to someone who had their back turned to him, just to throw me off. It didn’t stop me. “Can you please sign my poster?” He did and we shook hands. As always I have a question, “What was it like playing with The Pogues?” “They’re all a bunch of drunks.” Later I cornered him in the basement of the bar, a drunken Asian woman begged him to sign her breasts but he wouldn’t. I nudged her off and had one more request, this was the one song I never heard and wanted to hear, even just a few lines. My sister was with me and I leaned in. “Joe can you sing me a couple of lines from Broadway?” He said, “No Michael….Nope…No…” I thought I lost. Then he leaned over and sung into my ear. “It ain’t my fault it’s six o’clock in the morning.” We drove home (Green Lights…drive) I had a fixed smile and one of those memories that never fade away…

Get In The Van by Henry Rollins

This year my goal was to read as many books by Henry Rollins as possible. I couldn’t finish them all. There are some reviews in previous postings. His books are mainly his journals depicting his global travels and the assorted characters he meets. There is some heart wrenching moments when he meets a young - terminal cancer patient. I read this before my wife was diagnosed with cancer and to this day - the images of the boy in the sterile hospital room in Australia haunts me. I respect Rollins as being blunt and true to his convictions. He is sober and a workaholic who has little regard for the drunks he encounters while touring with the band or on one of his sojourns. For the record, after finishing some of his books,” The Black Coffee Blues” series which are interviews as well as journals was more bang for the buck. You get the real deal when he writes. But there are minimal physical details of his surroundings since his interest is more in what internal battles are waged in his mind. He suffers from depression but battles the illness with an insatiable appetite for travel and work. After reading as many books of his that I could, I’m ending the year by finishing his most popular Get in the Van which depicted his years with Black Flag, actually the last years of the band’s existence. Rollins was their third singer and Greg Ginn was the last original member of the band. Like Spinal Tap with their series of drummers, no one was safe in Black Flag except for Ginn. This book, published in 1994 put Rollins on the map since he won a Grammy for the spoken word version of the book. What is interesting is how he developed as a performer, not just a singer in a band but also a spoken word performer and with reluctance he becomes a celebrity. The band asked him to audition, he left his job as a manager at a Hagen Daaz store, sleeping in his VW Beetle and cleaning up in the store’s sink, but working and gaining a reputation as a singer with the DC punk bands. While he toured with Flag he was abused by his fans to such a degree that most would quit than deal with the ordeal of the hardships of travel. Cups of urine, beer are splashed on him. People spat on his and called him a faggot or a pussy. The appeal for Rollins was the road was the escape to his depression and self inflicted isolation which he writes about, he lives in a shed in the back yard of Greg Ginn’s mother’s house in LA. His insight into the band and their diverse personalities is worth the time to read and trudge through the constant themes such as lack of sleep, pain from either self inflicted wounds, body aches like his right knee or the pain from getting smacked in the face by a guitar or a fist into his face. The other common theme is the skin heads who are the enemy to the punk movement since they inflicted violence on those who were weaker and always travelled in a pack. The book is filled with pictures of the band and their live shows as well as behind the stage. I have to say with some reluctance I will ask Rollins to sign my copy of this book as well as the others I read. I will be one of those people who get his autograph and say something inconsequential like, Henry Miller is the shit man, don’t you think?

Fire Destroys a house in Port Jefferson Station

The red lights swirling in the room woke me up in a panic. Smoke hung in the air. Our house was on fire, where did it start? I got up and looked outside, ready to see firemen running around our house. A truck with its lights on was stationed in front of my neighbors to my left. Was the fire at that house? Across the street, flames crept up from the back of the large house where college students live. A thick spray of water drifted to our house, hoses showered the house in waves of water. Did they make it out alive? I stepped outside and asked if everyone got out. I was told they escaped. Wind ripped the icy air; I shivered as I watched the volunteers, heavy with rain coats and equipment extinguishing the fire. There were a few on the lower roof. Flames flared up where they were. Another team climbed inside, breaking up the wall to see if the fire was contained inside the walls. There were fire departments from Terryville, Setauket, Port Jefferson and Selden. This morning I spoke to an arson inspector and asked if he knew where it started, he said they were still trying to determine that. My neighbor had one of the tenants from the burned house inside his home. From what Vito said, one of the kids who lived on the second floor saw a small flame on the carpet that spread quickly. They called 911 from Vito’s house. It took some time for the first responders to arrive, and by the time they did, the back of the house, where the fire started was engulfed in flames.

Cheap Trick at The Paramount Huntington, NY 12 8 11

12/9/11 sometime in the morning on the rush hour train out of Port Jefferson.

It’s Friday morning and I’m on the train. We’re pulling into St. James. There are the usual commuters mingling about, slowly moving into the train. So last night was the last event for the week. Cheap Trick played at the Paramount in Huntington. It’s a new venue for Long Island which has brought some headliners. The building used to house the IMAC theatre, which had some concerts, like some new age artist you’d hear on NPR’s Echoes on Sunday nights. I saw Stanley Jordan the jazz guitarist at IMAC and a few friends and I saw Tragically Hip what ten years ago. The theatre was cool, since there were old seats and ornate moldings on the ceiling. At one time it was a vaudeville theatre. When I lived in Huntington about 20 years ago, I worked in the theatre, fixing some of the molding as best I could which later needed a professional. So, I was curious to see the changes since I heard it’s as if Long Island now has its own city club. The lobby was more open and on either side was steps that led to a bad, a large window in the back looked over New York Avenue. MTS and I walked up a slight slope which led out to the floor. One either side a large bar was set against the wall. The beers were expensive for the small plastic cup they served it in, but the bartenders as well as the folks working at the venue were friendly. The ceiling had a rustic appearance, stripped bare, the concrete roof with ceiled cracks and steel support beams appeared in tact and sound. There was a balcony on both sides which had seats and in the back were more rows of seats. From the way the place was decorated the designers were creeping close to Hard Rock Café or a House of Blues theme with flames and sheet metal, scripted flare. Inside the bathroom appeared original graffiti which the artist actually signed his name to in the corner I was too busy to notice what the painting was. If you had seats, the tickets were more money than the GA we paid, but both Mike and I prefer the floor, getting closer to band. Elvis Costello played the first event at The Paramount, BB King and I’m trying to remember who else. Willie Nelson…how can I forget? Can’t really think of any more at this time, I’m exhausted. I got to bed at 12:30ish and woke up five hours later, but really who gives a shit about my lack of sleep. Cheap Trick was amazing, I was a little reluctant to shell out that much for a band that I liked but was never a huge fan. Not to say I didn’t like them. Since I bought the tickets I took out some CD’s of the from the library, they released a live album that I think was recorded somewhere in Illinois, I will get the title, but the recording was tight, they had some appearances from the likes of Billy Cochran from The Smashing Pumpkins. Like last night, the band barley let up; if there was a second or a pause they ripped into another song, played The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour as if they owned it. She’s Tight which brought back images of the video from thirty years ago. The Dream Police which I would say in my favorite, and I Want You to Want Me. Rickie Nilsson kept flipping guitar picks out into the audience and like a kid I wanted to get one. I have one of his from when I saw them perform at LeMore Brooklyn. I have a metal First Aid box that looks like it came from the Korean War which contains my childhood mementos, and inside with some baseball cards and a Suzanne B Anthony Dollar is that white guitar pick. Rickie tossed a handful out at the end of the show and both Mike and I grabbed one. I have to write about the opening band, Mike Leigh or Matt Lee or whoever they were - sucked the fuck- out- of- Lee. The lead singer/guitarist rock star posing drunk played like shit. They played some copies like Jimi Hendrix Manic Depression which was barely recognizable, drunk fuck rubbed his guitar against the stand, the mic fell and he looked like an idiot. There was the rock star salute he sung about living in New York and wanted the crowd to sing a long, he took his mic and shoved it into some faces that yelled or hummed. If he shoved it in my face, I would have told him to hang it up shit head and get off the stage. Odd how Cheap Trick didn’t mention them when they came on the stage or at their encore.

Turns out it was Joey Ramone’s younger brother Mickey Leigh. If Joey was in the audience he would have kicked the shit out of this little brother. I wrote this review of the performance for his web site, but I can guarantee it will never see the light of day:

I was at last night’s show. Didn’t know who I was watching since there was nothing on the drum kit. or on the keyboard, or even the back drop to tell us who was on the stage. I called The Paramount, who was that? They sucked!
It’s a shame, since it’s the first time I saw Mickey perform – he appeared drunk. Their rendition of Hendrix’ Manic Depression was horrible. The band was lame. He posed like a rock star, rubbing his guitar on the mic stand. Are you serious? I haven’t that shit since 1979. The theatrics were an obvious replacement for the “musician.” Mickey mentioned wearing out his welcome last night before he tripped off the stage. Please note, if you come on stage and act like an idiot there will be little appreciation from any crowd. Cheap Trick kicked ass and schooled you, besides they didn’t mention the shit show Yorkesta once while they were on the stage.

A Prairie Home Companion show at Town Hall 12/3/11

A Prairie Home Companion show at Town Hall has been a live production I’ve wanted to see for years. In the past, the shows have sold out quickly, so I was excited when I bought a ticket. For myself. For Christmas. It was a present I gave myself. Going to a show by oneself is odd. Some would say it’s pathetic. So is masturbating. I know these things, but I still had to go…and do. I came into the city by myself. I am writing this on the train on the way home. I am alone. But I will write more details about the train in a little while. There are not a lot of fans of the show that I know of. Listening to the show has been a secret over the years. I am divulging this fact only to you. I can hear the shit from my brother and sisters, you listen to what? When? OK, on some Saturday nights I Iisten to the radio. Garrison Keillor appears to be a tortured artist, there are no two ways about it and I’m intrigued to learn more about him. He came on the stage wearing a long red tie, red sneakers, tight red socks and a black baggy suit. His thin hair was messy at times, strands flew in the air in different directions. Small thick glasses dangled on the bridge of his small nose. I brought one of his books hoping for the chance to get it signed. It didn’t happen. I had to leave to catch the train instead of hanging out after the show like some groupie. My seat was in the loge area, the seats were closer than I expected. Since I bought one seat, I was able to get close as possible. From past events when I would go by myself I have been spoiled. I had a great seat at Radio City to see the Dali Llama, Betty Carter at the Bottom Line, and now this. I still paid $75 which included the service fees. Before I review the show I have to describe where I’m sitting at this moment. As I mentioned, I am on the train. Sitting inches from me a couple who appear to be a few years older than me and who behave half lit. “I think we have enough left at home to make some martinis.” There is one punk who did something foolish as the train pulled into the station, the conductor asked as he looked out from an open window “Are you serious?” The droll punk hunched his rebellious shoulders, “Yeah.” Fair to say, I didn’t see what the punk did. Two adolescent girls who are deep into their teen years, spill out conversations from their seats, everything is so dramatic. I’m losing space for my review of the show and I apologize. Town Hall was sold out, which is normal for this short run production. The show comes to New York once a year, each time at this time each year, but I heard or read that Mr. Keillor was cancelling his show after this season, so there was an impulse to buy the tickets. I know Mr. Keillor is very busy in his own artistic pursuits from writing novels to editing poetry. He also has solo performances which after seeing tonight’s show I would like to see and compare it to A Prairie Home Companion. Here is the odd thing which dawned on me; his shows are clean which contradicts my usual humor. I prefer more of the insanity of Robin Williams or even my cousin Jason Gillearn. There is a hard edge in their humor. What is it about A Prairie Home? Looking at the audience which is older than me, we grasp onto an innocent ideal which is too remote in today’s world. Face it we are too connected for our own good, so listening to tales of Lake Wobegon is a little like sharing rumors of the town we would like to live in. Tonight’s fable or tale as it’s referred to in the show was about the reverend who conducts miracle healings. I loved how Keillor wove the tale, but I asked myself from my seat, how did he weave it, was it off the top of his head? Did he formulate something so unique in from of all of us, sharing it with the radio audience who were shallow breaths in the distance? It had the immediate impact, but it must have been practiced, the players knew when his story was winding down, they appeared from the sides of the stage. And the tale was over. So how does he do it? I think Mr. Keillor has the unique gift to tell a story. The musicians in The Guy’s All Star Band were incredible, they played some songs before the show began, and the crowd was worked up and out walked the casual story teller with the long red tie. It’s Saturday night…I was there in Town Hall, right there from the Lodge, stage left and so close I could see his facial expressions as well as the each of the players on the stage. It’s Saturday night. I would like to see if the show can continue without Mr. Keillor. Can it? The show began it seems as a goof when GK was in his mid thirties. He’s slowing down. He can’t stop, can he? Royal Academy of Radio Actors were hysterical, and for me was the real thrill to watch them perform, making back-ground music, small talk, the first skit with Heather Massie as a pseudo hippie psychic poet (was that Patty Smith) was a classic as an upset stomach rose to life out into the audience but it cut short by some professional editing just before it heaved. Heather I assume is a regular on the show and had such poise. Nellie McCay is stunning. What a spirit she has, her rendition of The Flamingos I Only Have Eyes for You was…different as her sax player cried out like as baby and Nellie strolled around the stage pretending to ease the “baby in her arms” and yet it was comical. She belted out The Beatles, I’m So Tired which was stripped and raw, smacking us on the side of the head, with a fair warning, take her seriously. “I give you all I got for a little piece of mind.” If you have not heard the show, take some time and listen to real players and souls on the radio. If you have the chance to see the show: GO! Sit back watch a play of words and emotions that only a true story teller can conjure from the Midwest or Minnesota or somewhere hovering over across the West.

meditation

11/27/11 13:57
I’m sitting on the deck with a long sleeve shirt, not that I changed after church, instead I will wear the same clothes and just may change into some sweats. There is always work to do, earlier I gave Amanda a driving lesson I want her to lose her fear of driving; we drove in the parking lot at the train station and on the street which was quiet. Last night Amanda wanted to talk to Ali so I went to bed with Bella. Our sleeping patterns have changed since she came home from the hospital. The event was traumatic and something we never want to experience again. One of my worst fears came true that day, I never wanted to see anyone have a seizure, the fact they are not in control and appear possessed…Bella is fine, since she takes Keppra regularly. The neurologist said her epilepsy will go away as she ages, most likely in a couple of years she will not have any more seizures. They occur when she is sleeping and this is the reason why either Ali or myself sleeps with her. Most nights Ali falls asleep, taking her to bed so she is in the darkened bedroom by 9:30. There is no TV. When they were younger I would slowly rub their eyebrows till they would fall asleep and last night proved the same. The problem occurs when Ali or myself, come into the bed, there is not enough room in our queen for all of us. Last night I woke up a few times and finally at 3:30, came down to the living room for a few more hours of sleep. It was a broken sleep, interspersed with dreams which I don’t recall, one was a nightmare which I thought would make a good Stephen King novel, but it’s lost in my memories. Around seven I got out of the bed and went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I went outside, the air was foggy like my mind, the ground was moist and cool, I picked up the paper and went back in, not that any of my neighbors saw me, but I took in the sparse winter trees, the thick fog and heard a faint bird. Sunday mornings are somewhat hectic, today Emma was reading the first of advent services and will be reading at each consecutive Sunday, what does advent mean? The fact Jesus is coming. Our morning message was by Reverend Elaine and it was powerful, how we can call out for God and we’re not sure if he is there, how we get caught up in the busy holiday season and lose that inner voice that still is seeking…I was struck with when she referred to a theologian, whose name I don’t recall, that is was good to mourn, that if we don’t mourn we project a bitterness and hatred on the world. After the service I walked through the woods, smelled the sweet warm leaves and headed to the beach. It was mild enough for a stroll, a young couple with a black lab walked up from the woods and we greeted each other, the dog sniffed in my direction without a care assuming correctly I was not a threat. I took some pictures and appreciated the silence of the water. The wind was light and I meditated for close to twenty minutes, I sat in a lotus position on a washed up tree, the water barely broke into the shore, the tide crept into the grass carrying small fish and a light milky froth. My intention was to call out to God, why does my wife have to battle cancer? Why does my youngest daughter have epilepsy, instead I used my breath, let those thoughts pass and breathed in with my tongue on the roof of my mouth. What journey are we on? When will I learn some of the answers? Ali is going to chemo tomorrow. I hope to take the train and get to work on-time. I’m planning to go to Pennsylvania on Wednesday and hope to make it there…the last time I attempted a trip Bella was taken by an ambulance to the hospital.
“Our life is an endless journey; it is like a broad highway that extends infinitely into the distance. The practice of meditation provides a vehicle to travel on that road. Our journey consists of constant ups and downs, hope and fear, but it is a good journey. The practice of mediation allows us to experience all the textures of the roadway, which is what the journey is all about. Through the practice of meditation, we begin to find that, within ourselves, there is no fundamental complaint about anything or anyone at all.” Discovering Basic Goodness by Chogyam Trungpa