La Vie En Robe

The Baying of the 'Hound

Yep, it's true — ShockHound, the music content, download and merchandise site that I've spent the last year helping to build has finally been unleashed. It's not officially "live" until next week, but it's totally up and running already, so go check it out when you get the chance. The "Shock TV" section includes a number of exclusive video interviews and programs, including "Taco Tuesday," the weekly CD review show co-hosted by yours truly and head Hot Topic music buyer Jay Adelberg; every week, we go to exotic locales, eat tacos, and discuss some of the more interesting new releases. The above screen grab is from our latest episode, where we chow down in front of Beijing's Forbidden City.

Oh yeah, almost forgot — until November 3rd, all "Robe" readers can take advantage of a special promotion we've got going for early-bird visitors to the site, where you get 20% off your first ShockHound purchase. Just go to the site, set up a user account (or log in, if you've already got one), and shop our merch section to your heart's content; when you're ready to check out, just enter SHOCKLAUNCH into the promo code field, and your 20% discount will be calculated into your final purchase total. Want a kick-ass Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers t-shirt like I'm wearing in the picture above? I got it at ShockHound, baby! (Actually, the whole array of stuff we've got is pretty mind-boggling; I'm half-tempted to forsake my paisley-heavy wardrobe in favor of black rock T's.) We've also got tons of cool new vinyl pressings, fabric wall posters, lighters, incense burners (the Zep IV one is a particular fave), hoodies, tote bags, you name it. No Thin Lizzy t-shirts yet, but I'm of course pushing hard to make that happen...

Sorry to be a shill, but I'm actually really proud of this site; not to mention, all proceeds go to a good cause — namely, keeping me employed. Of course, we're not just about sellin' shit; we've also got plenty of exclusive artist performances that you can enjoy for absolutely free, like Robyn Hitchcock's beautiful rendition of his recently-penned "The Human Song." I was sitting four feet from him the entire time, alternately trying not to break into a goofy smile or burst into tears...

Return of the Friday Fro (On Thursday): R.I.P., Rudy Ray Moore

Well, as the man himself would've surely said, ain't that a bitttttch? Rudy Ray Moore — aka "Dolemite," the godfather of rap, blaxploitation film auteur, and perpetrator of about 30 of the most gleefully foul-mouthed "party" records you'd ever want to hear — passed away last week at the tender age of 81. Mr. Moore may not have possessed the most happenin' 'fro in the world (it generally looked pretty nappy whenever it bloomed beyond the basic circumference of his head), but his contribution to African American culture was surely 'fro-tastic in the extreme.

Moore was born in Arkansas in 1927, and he never really lost that "just off the hay wagon" vibe, even when he was sporting his finest pimp vines at the peak of his stardom. An older black gentleman I once met at a party lovingly described Moore as "a stone country n*gger"; and on the surface, at least, there was little about Moore's excessive braggadocio — the length and girth of his dick wasn't just a boast in his standup routines, it was a veritable plot point — that you could ever describe as sophisticated. And yet, the rhymes and tall tales that Rudy laid down (both in form and content) actually dated back hundreds of years to the slave-era south, and to Africa before that; so in his own twisted way, Moore was something of a walking, talking cultural artifact.

His no-budget films — Dolemite, The Human Tornado, Petey Wheatstraw — The Devil's Son-in-Law, Avenging Disco Godfather — were a whole 'nother thang altogether. My friend Tracy, who had the pleasure of working with Rudy in his later years, has compared him to Ed Wood, Jr., which is pretty spot-on, except that I'd throw in some John Waters and James Brown, as well. Sure, you could see the microphones in the shots half the time, but Rudy had a finely honed sense of ridiculousness and a deep appreciation for oddball characters (dig "the creeper," aka "hamburger pimp" from Dolemite, the junkie who could barely shuffle across the street yet boasted that he was "so bad, I kick my own ass twice a day"), and exuded a natural comic charisma that made many other blaxploitation stars of the day seem like cardboard cutouts by comparison. I mean, anyone with the balls to call a late-70s album Close Encounters of the Sex Kind has to be some sort of genius in the first place, but these flicks confirmed it — in my warped mind, at least.

In final tribute to the man, I'll just treat you to the original trailer from 1975's Dolemite. Not remotely safe for work — but you simply wouldn't want it any other way. R.I.P., Rudy.

Shore Is Purdy

Kicked around the Santa Monica Pier and Beach yesterday.

The ocean air was sweet, and the cool sand felt nice on my bare feet.

Took a buncha pics, some of 'em came out good.

Levi Stubbs, R.I.P.

It made me very sad today to hear about the passing of Levi Stubbs (pictured above, second from right). Smokey Robinson may be my all-time favorite Motown vocalist, but the lead singer of the Four Tops comes close. Not as flashy as the Temptations, or as smooth (or handsome) as Smokey or Marvin Gaye, the Four Tops simply got over via the two-pronged attack of a seemingly endless string of Holland-Dozier-Holland-penned hits ("Bernadette," "Baby I Need Your Loving," "Standing in the Shadows of Love," "Ask The Lonely") and the sheer power of Levi Stubbs' dignified and wrenchingly earnest baritone. As imposing and stately (and as much of an American treasure) as Mount Rushmore, Stubbs' voice was also capable of conveying considerable tenderness and deep emotion. When I first heard "Reach Out, I'll Be There" as a kid, it was so majestic and powerful coming out of my AM radio, it sounded as if it had already been around for centuries, and had probably originally been carved in cunieform on stone tablets. Shortly thereafter, when I heard the song re-written for a Sears radio commercial ("Sears is there!"), it sounded like blasphemy of the most vile sort...

Though they will always be associated with H-D-H, the fact is that the Four Tops had a number of fine hits that were penned by other songwriters, including "Keeper of the Castle," "Are You Man Enough" (aka the theme from the immortal Shaft In Africa), "One Chain Don't Make No Prison," "Ain't No Woman Like the One I Got," etc. Stubbs was also pretty amazing at reinterpreting songs that had already been hits for other people, including Tim Hardin's "If I Were A Carpenter," JImmy Webb's "MacArthur Park" or the Moody Blues' "A Simple Game".

My all-time favorite, though, has to be their 1968 cover of the Left Banke's "Walk Away Renee". Much as I love the baroque pop charm of the original, I love the way Levi sings the living shit out of it even more; I love how he transforms the song from a teenage heartbreak lament into something much bleaker and more adult, but also much more beautiful. It's worth the price of admission alone for the way he squeezes every last drop of juice out of the line about "the empty sidewalks of my block" — and the sidewalks of my cosmic block will definitely be much emptier without Mr. Stubbs around.

R.I.P., my man; may your music live on for another several thousand years.

Four Tops - walk_away_renee.mp3

Why Minor League Baseball Rules

I was at a bar in Hollywod tonight with a handful of music and film biz folk, and I started talking baseball with a guy who is really into minor league action. He told me about going to see the New Orleans Zephyrs, and how their mascot is a guy in a giant nutria suit named Boudreaux — which was pretty much the coolest thing I'd heard all day, at least until we started talking about the Lancaster JetHawks.

"Yeah," he said. "I missed it, but the JetHawks had a 'Tribute to Clint Howard Night' last summer." What?!? I couldn't believe my ears — the star of Cotton Candy, Rock N Roll High School and Evilspeak, honored at a California League ballgame? "What happened?" I asked. "Did Clint actually show up?" "I don't know," the guy said; "I missed it."  Surely this was some mad fever dream. But no; I got home, looked it up, and sure enough — it was indeed listed on the JetHawks' promotional schedule for 2007. There's even a Flickr set out there to prove it! There was even apparently a Clint Howard bobblehead doll, which is surely worth at least ten bucks on Ebay by now. Screw this year's playoffs and World Series — I'm counting the days until minor league play begins in 2009...

Chicken Fried Bacon Strips

For real.

Many thanks to my buddy Byronne for sending me this clip, and opening my eyes to the fact that there's actually something fried and/or bacon-related out there that even I wouldn't eat. Carole thinks the waitresses at Sodolak's Original Country Inn should all wear nurse uniforms with defibrillators on their belts...

I am absolutely fascinated by the way this Frank Sodolak guy speaks. If Sly Stone's vocals on "Family Affair" are the sound of cocaine, then Sodolak's gutteral drawl is the sound of cholesterol. I did pull a Woody Allen in Annie Hall while listening to him towards the end of the clip — when he says, "some choose to eat the bacon strips, what can you do?", I was initially sure he said "some JEWS eat the bacon strips, what can you do?" (I still like my version better.)



Okay, I'm off to eat a salad... 

It Is Done

Thought I'd take a brief break from all the bad news to offer up a little glimmer of the good stuff — "Man, the dope's that there's still hope," as Bruce Springsteen once sang back when he was still skinny and scraggly.

Basically, after years of research, on-and-off-again writing jags and writer's blocks, and all kinds of other fun stuff, I have finally finished my baseball book manuscript. I sent it the last part of it off to my editor tonight, toasting the flight of the email with a couple of fingers of A.H. Hirsch Reserve bourbon, from a bottle I've been saving for just such a special occasion. There's still more work to be done, of course; but if the Good Lord's willin' and the creek don't rise — or if the bottom doesn't completely fall out of the economy and we're not overrun by ravenous zombie hordes — it'll be on bookstore shelves come spring training '09.

I will share more news on this as I have it. For now, at least, I am ecstatic, relieved... and really friggin' tired.

Cubs Suck

Welcome to my last Chicago Cubs-related post of the year.

For the second season in a row, a really good Cubs team whiffed pathetically in the first round of the playoffs. Blame Lou Piniella, blame the Cubs players, blame the presence of the risible JIm Belushi (pictured above), blame Eddie Vedder's shitty Cubs song that sucks the energy out of every molecule it comes in contact with — they're all to blame in their own way. But to play like the best team in the NL all season long, get everyone's hopes up for the first Series championship in 100 years, and then to not even bother showing up for the playoffs... that takes a special kind of intrinsic suckitude. Carole likens it to buying tickets to a Ted Nugent show, only to find out that it's a Ted Nugent archery demonstration. I liken it to a full renal collapse. All I know is that I want to wipe my ass with my Cubs cap and then set it on fire.

Congratulations to the Dodgers, and to all my Dodger fan pals. They may not have been the better team on paper, but they were obviously the better team on the field, the team that wanted it more and played like they meant it. Right now, I'm hoping that the White Sox can somehow come back from their 0-2 deficit, and that we can get a rematch of the 1959 Dodgers-ChiSox Series.

This doesn't hurt as much as 2003, when the Cubs got so close to the World Series that you could taste it; but at least that 2003 team battled to the end, and didn't look like they were just waiting for someone to put them out of their misery. This isn't about curses; this is about displaying some cojones and intenstinal fortitude in pressure situations, and the Cubs playoff teams of the past two years just looked like scared little girls out there. Christ, even the Brewers managed to win a game yesterday. I'm not profoundly depressed, like I was in '03; I'm just profoundly disgusted. Thanks for nothing, assholes. 

This Is How It Feels

Fucking hell. I avoided watching tonight's Biden-Palin debate, because I knew it would make me so crazy that I would wind up yelling obscenities at the TV. Instead, the Cubs made me so crazy, I wound up yelling obscenities at the TV. So much for my grand plans for a sane evening at home.

Actually, I did catch a snippet of the debate while sitting in the lobby of my neighborhood police station, waiting to see the detective who’s handling our second burglary case. Yes, we got robbed for a SECOND time two weeks ago. Turns out the cops caught a guy they think was involved, and they recovered some of our stuff, including Carole’s watches, my guitar pedals, and my Lomo camera (which I love, but actually haven’t used in the three years since I discovered the joys of digital photography); none of my grandfather’s jewelry, though, or my box full of ancient Greek and Minoan pottery shards. In other words, none of the irreplaceable stuff that actually meant anything to me. And the detective told me they had to let the guy go on some kind of juvenile technicality, though they’ll arrest him again if his fingerprints match the ones on our stuff and our windowsill. In other words, there's still hope that the guy will eventually be the victim of a brutal prison rape, though that likelihood has been somewhat diminished. Oh, and there was a fatal shooting four blocks from our apartment last night, when some guy tried to hold up a medical marijuana dispensary. I am so fucking over this neighborhood…

In other words, a Cubs victory would have gone a long way towards elevating my mood, especially after yesterday's egregiously ass-sucking 7-2 loss to the Dodgers. But of course, as any longtime Cubs fan SHOULD know by now, you can't count on these fuckers to do anything other than break your heart. Carlos Zambrano, the evening's wild card, actually pitched a respectable game (3 earned runs and 7 strikeouts in 6 1/3 innings); too bad his infielders suddenly forgot how to field grounders, turn double plays, etc.

Seriously, what is up with these guys? Who ARE these guys? Last year's Cubs were streaky as hell, so the fact that they went dead cold in October wasn't that surprising. But the 2008 Cubs squad (regular season edition) were fighters; down by four, five or six runs, you could always expect them to battle back and at least make a game out of it. But whatever zombie cucumber paste they've apparently ingested this post-season didn't begin wearing off until the bottom of the ninth tonight, by which time they were already down 10-1. Gah!!!

Lou Piniella didn't seem to wake up until around then, either. Sure, he was all fiery in the post-game press conference, saying he didn't want to hear about Kosuke Fukudome anymore (that makes two of us, Lou), but where the fuck was he in Game 1 when Ryan Dempster was throwing like shit? And how come he can't motivate his teams to get up for a playoff game, or at least get them to relax a teeny bit and have some fun out there? Everyone in a Cubs uniform has looked as tight as a strained hamstring for both these games — so maybe it's time to take a different managerial tack than you did during the regular season? Dude, lose one more game to the Dodgers, and you spend the rest of October fishing meatball sandwiches out of a bucket, or whatever the fuck it is that you do perpetuate that fine physique of yours; how about actually trying to light a fire under your players' collective ass before Game 3? Sure, you've pretty much blown the series already, but it would mean a lot to all us Cubs fans if the team we rooted for all season showed up for at least one game in the post-season.

Tonight We're Gonna Party Like It's... 1906?

Yeah, yeah, so the Dodgers and Angels are both in the playoffs, getting everybody out here in SoCal all stoked about the prospect of a Subway Series. Me, I'm more excited about the fact that — for the first time since the names of Frank "Wildfire" Schulte, Mordecai "Three Finger" Brown and "Big Ed" Walsh were commonly dropped in Windy City taverns — both the Chicago Cubs and Chicago White Sox have made it into the same post-season. Congrats to both teams and their fans; hopefully this October ride has just begun for all of us. I really don't miss Chi-town much these days ('cept for the eye-tralian beef, of course), but I really wish I was back there this week, just to observe and feel and join in the hysteria.

Now that the playoff matchups have finally been sorted, let's take a look at my pre-season predictions, and see how they panned out:

AL East: New York Yankees
AL Central: Cleveland Indians (w/ Detroit Tigers as the Wild Card)
AL West: California Angels

Well, my AL picks were pretty much "whiff city"; I can't even give myself a pat on the back for picking the Halos, since the Special Olympics West has been such an egregiously shitty and uncompetitive division these last couple of years. It remains to be seen, however, if — having basically phoned it in since August — the Angels can rev their wings back up enough for the playoffs.

NL East: New York Mets (with Phillies as Wild Card)
NL Central: Chicago Cubs
NL West: Colorado Rockies

A wee bit better here; I just didn't think it was possible that the Mets could blow it two years in a row, much less in the exact same, pull-up-lame-at-the-end-of-the-year fashion. And I guess the Colorado organization's strategy of packing their roster with "quality individuals" — i.e., white Christians — didn't pay off like it was supposed to. (Bet they had some rockin' prayer circles goin' on this year, though!) As for the Cubs, I said "they should take the Central in a sprint," which is pretty much what happened.

They Cubs are definitely a better team than the one that sucked male ass against the D-Backs last October, though I'm worried about the tenuous current state of Zambrano's arm/mind; I also don't know how much ESPN/Fox "100 Years of Misery" hype I can handle before I wind up putting my foot through the TV. Best to watch the Cubs-Dodgers series with the sound turned off, methinks — unless of course Vin Scully is calling the game. I loves me some Vin; even when he goes off on a tangent of semi-relevant minutiae (like about five or six years ago, when he wouldn't stop talking about Adrian Beltre's "botched appendectomy" and subsequent date with a colostomy bag), he's a million times more fun and edifying to listen to than Joe Buck, Tim McCarver or Joe Morgan...

Anyway, no post-season predictions here — just the fond hope that it'll be a Nort' Side-Sout' Side Series. Go Cubs, Go Sox...