La Vie En Robe

Gimme Gimme Gimme

My Mom called a few weeks ago and asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I hemmed and hawed about it for a few minutes, and finally she just said, "You should think about it and make me a list. You always made me such great Xmas lists when you were a kid." I only vaguely remembered what she was talking about, until I was going through the moving boxes a few days ago and unearthed THIS:

(Click on it to see a larger, more legible version.)

It's my Christmas list from November 1984 — I was 18, working at Beatrice Foods in Chicago (hence the corporate letterhead) while taking the year off between high school and college, and apparently had an almost comically precise knowledge of what I did and did not ("NO BROWN ANYTHINGS!!!") want for Christmas.

I could lie and say that the emphasis on dress wear (tweeds, ties, etc) was the result of my office gig, but let's face it — I spent several years in high school and it least one in college wearing suit jackets, colorful shirts and ties everyday, in a constantly evolving attempt to merge my fascination with men's clothing from between World Wars I and II (two-tone wingtips, double-breasted jackets, etc.) with the flashier elements of the mod revival. Life in a corporate environment, ironically, really gave me the opportunity to fly my freak flag in this regard; working downtown gave me easy access to both the many white and black mens' clothing stores that dotted the loop — and because I wasn't looking to rise in the Beatrice ranks, it didn't matter if I dressed weirder (or better) than any of the execs I worked with. Like Jimmy in Quadrophenia, I would sneer inwardly at the lawyers in their 50/50 beige tone-on-tone shirts and wide polyester ties from Weiboldt's, while I'd be proudly rocking a deep pink Egyptian cotton shirt with white collar and a purple paisley silk tie from Italy that was barely two inches across. My boss was greatly amused by my sartorial adventurousness, even though the only pop cultural thing he could relate it to was the "big suit" worn by David Byrne in the Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense flick, which was then in the theaters.

(The only guy in the office who could out-dress me was my friend Tommy from the mailroom. Tommy — who also always sported the most happenin' jheri curl — came into work one day in a blue double-breasted suit with thick chalk stripes and NO LAPELS. Even I wouldn't have had the balls to try and pull that one off.)

The great thing about finding artifacts like this is the realization of how (despite the desire for pleated pants and "tasteful" cuff links) you're still pretty much the same person a quarter-century later. Looking at the "Books" part of the list, there's nothing on it that I would be ashamed to have in my shelves these days; I still dig soul music and splatter films, after all, and ditto for PG Wodehouse, SJ Perelman and Tom McGuane. On the other side of this piece of paper (which didn't scan so well) is a list of the LPs I wanted, and it's a pretty respectable assortment of classic albums by the Kinks, the Beatles, the Stones, Lou Reed and the Byrds, as well as more contemporary records by XTC, Husker Du, Warren Zevon, the Del-Lords, the Bangles and... Aztec Camera. No points for guessing which one I found under the tree that year...

Anyway, this will most likely be the last thing I post before heading to NYC for a Xmas break. I'd like to wish all you Robe readers a wonderful, happy and love-filled Pagan, Jewish, Christian, Muslim or non-denominatinal winter holiday of your choice. And if you didn't get a Christmas card from me, it's not 'cuz I don't love ya — I just simply couldn't get it together this year. Cheers!

Merry Christmas... On Mars

 

Of all the experiences and memories I racked up during this crazy, tumultuous, intermittently rewarding and harrowing year, my ShockHound interview with Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips would easily land on my list of Top Ten favorites.

I'd been a huge fan of the Lips since the late '80s, but for some reason I'd never crossed paths with Wayne (well, working for a metal magazine for seven years probably had something to do with that), other than one night back in 1992 when my band Lava Sutra opened for the Lips at Chicago's Cabaret Metro. I was so blown away by the band that night, I couldn't even manage to interact with them backstage beyond an awestruck nod at Wayne as he passed me in the hallway. 

Which is all pretty funny, in retrospect, since Mr. Coyne turned out to be one of the warmest, most genuinely sincere, and easiest-to-talk-to people I've ever met in da music biz. The following is the first of two video interviews we're running with the good man. In this one, he talks about the band's trippy new film, Christmas on Mars; the next one, which will run in a few weeks, is more of a general "History of the Lips" thang. The "mad professor" aspect of Wayne's persona comes through pretty loud and clear in this one, but I also found his words about Christmas to be fairly inspiring — like the man says, "You can always be kind." Why he kept coming back to the subject of porn films (and implicating me in it) is a bit beyond me, however...

There Ain't No Party Like A Voodoo Sex Party

This one's for you, Bob!

Having re-exhumed a bunch of old photos during my move, I finally got motivated to buy a new photo scanner, and have begun the long (and presumably haphazard) project of scanning and posting snaps and ephemera from my old bands onto Flickr. You can presently view a few circa-1986 shots of my very first band, the mighty Voodoo Sex Party, with plenty more to come. Until I can dig up the old VSP tapes I digitized a few years back, just imagine yer basic three-chord 60s garage or 70s punk classic covered with a minimum of subtlety and a maximum of underage inebriation and libidinous motivation...

(Oh yeah — the tasteful flyer artwork above was drawn by the great Tom Nucci. Thanks again, Nuch!)

Two Welsh Corgis Need Home ASAP

I don't usually use "The Robe" to pass on bulletins like this — and I really should be packing right now — but this one hits me deep in my heart. Basically, my dear friend Josh has two wonderful Welsh Corgis that desperately need a good home, preferably one that would take them in together; he loves them dearly, but for reasons outlined below there's no way he can keep them.

Please, Robe readers: If you — or anyone you know in the Southern California area — might be interested in letting two adorable, loving dogs into your home and heart, contact Josh ASAP at Josh@itsalivemedia.com, and tell him I sentcha. Here's the dogs' story, in his words:

"My mother passed away in October and she had 2 wonderful Welsh Corgi’s who now need a home. My wife and I live in a one bedroom apartment with 2 cats and there is simply no room for us to take on the dogs although we love them very much. Currently they are being boarded at a fantastic place where they are well looked after and exercised daily. Also know we are a little stung as we had a family in San Diego take the dogs (I drove down and did a home check and they met the dogs twice) with 2 young children return the dogs to us less than 48 hours after taking them because of ‘allergies’ they never knew they had. These dogs need a loving home and have been moved quite a bit in the last 6-9 months but we really do not want to split them up.

I’ve enclosed photos of each dog and some basic information on the dogs. Here goes:

Male: Trevor, 2 years – he is fixed but does not have a chip. (He loves, playing fetch with a ball and loves doggie toys and bones to chew on)

Female: Lulu, 9 years (she is the one ‘howling’ in the photo – it’s something she does comically if you prod her along). Lulu is fixed but does not have a chip.

Lulu is up to date on vaccinations, Trevor needs a few to update him but we can provide the vet hospital name/number so the new owners can confirm all this and get them proper vaccinations as needed. Both dogs have never been leash trained properly as my mother never walked them – she had a large yard for them to run around in so that is something to alert people to. Know that we have had them on leashes and they are simply not aware of what is needed but are not rambunctious – just slightly confused.

I would describe Trevor as a very happy puppy with good energy. He’s very loving, loves to give kisses and like Lulu always wants to be near you. He loves belly rubs and slept on my mom’s bed as did Lulu. He likes attetntion.

Lulu is a very loving, very mellow 9 year old female who is most happy when she is at your feet. This dog will give you no problems other than wanting to be near you, sleeping and eating. A super, super dog. She is the dog we are most concerned about – she misses my mom.

To be clear here are some things adoptive owners/guardians should know:

These are short haired dogs but they do need to be brushed.

Corgi’s are herders so they tend to be underfoot a bit – if the owner is older, this is something to note although my mom never had a fall or serious issues with this.

Corgi’s bark – they will definitely alert you when someone is at the door or there is a strange noise. Be warned.

When giving the dogs a new toy or a bone, it’s best to separate them for a little bit or so in different rooms as Trevor’s ‘boss dog’ comes out and he tries to take both and that can be a problem.

What else can I tell you? We love these dogs, my mom felt they were her children and I really just want a loving home for these 2 great dogs – as I really don’t want to separate them."

Rock n' Roll Damnation

A few thoughts on seeing AC/DC at the Forum this past Saturday:

• I've seen a bunch of bands at the Forum over the years, and NO ONE has ever sounded as good in that decrepit sports arena as AC/DC. This was the second time I've seen them there, and the band's patented combo of bluesy restraint (as in, knowing when not to play) and utterly punishing volume is tailor-made for the place. (Or, for that matter, any other 1960s- or 1970s-built basketball arena.)

• The metallic sturm-und-clang of the Angus-Malcolm guitar tandem still sounds absolutely, beautifully killer, and the sound of Angus digging into a note at the beginning of a solo is still pure rock n' roll bliss. His extended solo spots were pretty hurtin', though; he sounds way better with the band cooking behind him.

• Screechy old Brian Johnson still sounds like screechy old Brian Johnson, though his between-song banter (such as it was) often sounded like Beavis in "Cornholio" mode.

• Angus still expends a helluva lot of energy for a 53 year-old dude, but he's looking absolutely grotesque these days. Seriously, when the jumbotron camera zoomed in on him at the end of the show, gurning away underneath a stringy, drastically thinning fringe of sweat-drenched hair, he looked like something  "Ghastly" Graham Ingels used to draw in the pages of 1950s EC horror titles like Tales From The Crypt.

• Playing four songs from the new album is at least two songs too many, especially when you've got so many great songs in your back pocket. (And especially when your new songs are pretty lousy.)

• Ditto for playing only a two-song encore — even though "Highway to Hell" and "For Those About To Rock" totally shook the foundations, as it were.

• The inclusion of "TNT," "Dirty Deeds" and (especially) "Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be" were pleasant surprises, and the band totally did 'em justice. Not so for "The Jack," one of Bon Scott's more hilariously salacious songs, which Johnson sang as if he'd only actually heard the song once or twice before, and hadn't bothered to learn anything beyond the chorus. Boo.

• In one of those absolutely random encounters that this city is so good for, a co-worker of mine spent fifteen minutes this weekend talking to a woman at a car wash in Whittier, who turned out to be Angus n' Malc's cousin. She let slip that this would be the last AC/DC tour; if that's actually the case, I'm glad I caught them again — especially since I went with my friend Chris, who has been my foremost partner in AC/DC worship for a good 23 years.

• If the band is indeed going to pack it in after this tour, it'll probably be for the best. Though they weren't exactly going through the motions, they didn't exactly bring a lot of newfound fire to "Back In Black," "You Shook Me All Night Long," etc; and save for the pyro-stoked "Rock n Roll Train" wreck at the beginning of the show, the stage spectacle was about as fresh as Johnson's newsboy cap. And much as I love Phil "No-Fill" Rudd, his time-keeping is a little suspect these days; some of those tempos were downright draggy. AC/DC could still kick the Stones' skinny asses on any given night, of course, but better they should exit semi-gracefully instead of wind up with Angus doing his strip-tease routine from a wheelchair.

• Rain began to fall as Chris and I left the Forum, then suddenly abated once we got about two blocks from the parking lot. Did AC/DC play loud enough to actually squeeze moisture from the clouds over Inglewood? At that moment, with my ears ringing like twin fire alarms, I wouldn't have bet against it.

Friday 'Fro: Smokey Robinson

Not long ago, someone on some chat board linked to one of my Friday 'Fro entries, telling their fellow chat-mates that "this is a cool 'fro site, but it's mostly about dead guys." Which has never been my intent, of course, but I made a mental note that I really oughta throw a living 'fro into the mix.

So, today at the office, my colleague Tony was making the afternoon go better with a Smokey Robinson (both with and without the Miracles) collection, and that got me thinking — I'd never seen our "Greatest Living Poet" (to quote Bob Dylan) sport anything beyond the most rudimentary tennis-ball 'fro. Did Smokey ever go for the big hair?

Well, five minutes of internet research turned up very little on that score, except for the above picture from the cover of his 1974 album, Pure Smokey. And, to be honest, I have to call "'fro shenanigans" on it, because that perfectly coiffed afro really looks like the work of the Motown art department, instead of anything remotely "natural". Maybe they were worried that Smokey's old-fashioned romanticism wasn't playing anymore with "the kids," and felt a faux 'fro was needed if he was gonna keep moving units like he used to. Sigh. That's simply no way to treat a national treasure...

Anyway, this all brought back some very lovely memories of interviewing Mr. Robinson for the L.A. Weekly back in 2002, so I went online and checked to see if I could find the article I wrote on him and the radio show he was doing at the time. It's still there, though does omit some of my favorite memories from the experience. I did it right after Thanksgiving, and thus I got to have the surreal experience of watching him try to heat up some leftover turkey and stuffing in his oven; I think the housekeeper was gone for the day, and he wasn't, shall we say, completely comfortable in the kitchen. 

He was super smooth in every other way, though; we broke the ice talking about the Detroit Tigers (I was wearing my 80s-era Tigers starter jacket at the time), and he waxed nostalgic about going to old Tiger Stadium with his uncle back in the 1950s. But from the get-go, he really was every bit as sweet and warm and kind as his records had led me to imagine, and I thoroughly enjoyed every second of our hour-long conversation.

It was also Carole's birthday that day, so as we were wrapping up I asked if he would wish her a happy birthday; without any further prompting, he grabbed my tape recorder and sang a full chorus of "Happy Birthday" to her — then added, "Hi, Carole, this is Smokey Robinson, wishing you the most joyous of birthdays! God bless you!" Pure Smokey, indeed...

Oh yeah — you can read my old L.A. Weekly piece here.

Thanksgiving at the Beach

Lest some of you continue to doubt my sanity, enjoying the new Guns N' Roses wasn't the only thing I did on Thanksgiving Day. I also took a long, sun-drenched, Isley Brothers-blasting ride up the Pacific Coast Highway to Leo Carrillo Beach, where I hung out on the rocks for a couple of hours, watched the waves and the birds and the fishermen, took some photos, and gave thanks for the whole lotta things that I have to be thankful for. It was pretty righteous, and fairly cosmic.