La Vie En Robe

"All you have to do is open your gob..."

Back in the spring of 1980, when WLUP in Chicago started playing songs off the first Pretenders album, I had no idea that Chrissie Hynde was creating a whole new archetype for female rockers; nor did I understand that part of the magic of songs like "The Wait," "Mystery Achievement" and "Tattooed Love Boys" lay in the way they combined punk attitude with classic rock proficiency. I just knew that they sounded different than anything else on the radio, and I was impressed by how they seemed to resonate equally with the boys and girls in my 8th grade class; certainly, it was hard not to take notice when my girlfriend Beth and all her friends swayed back and forth together while singing along to "Brass in Pocket."

Flash forward four years later Chicago's infamous Aragon "Brawlroom": My friend Tracy's father took us to see the Pretenders, with the Alarm opening; and though I told everyone within earshot that I was there to see the Alarm, man (in my teens, I was a total sucker for big rock anthems that meant absolutely nothing), the real fact was that I was utterly knocked out by the Pretenders' set. Chrissie looked great in white jeans, white boots and a white t-shirt, and had total control over the crowd like I'd never seen — there was nothing self-aggrandizing or megalomaniacal about her stage presence, but everyone in the place was hanging on every move and word. Martin Chambers fired drumsticks into the crowd during every song, while then-lead guitarist Robbie Macintosh made with some dazzling finger-picking. I went out and bought my first real guitar (a Peavey T-15) the next day, and it sure as hell wasn't because of the Alarm...

Now, let's be honest; after those first three Pretenders records, things got a bit spotty. So I was both surprised and greatly relieved when the excellent Break Up the Concrete came out late last year; not only did Chrissie seem reconnected with her muse, but her band (featuring new lead guitarist James Walbourne) absolutely smokes, and the production is more raw and stripped-down than on even their first album. I recommend it highly.

I also recommend that you check out this interview I did with Chrissie last week for ShockHound, which was definitely one of the greatest half-hours of my journalistic career. She is every bit the "real deal," as irascible and funny and no-bullshit as you'd expect, and it was a total honor to be able to shoot the shit with her — and like a totally normal person — on the phone for 30 minutes.

(Oh yeah — while you're there, make sure you sign up for ShockHound's Pretenders Guitar Giveaway Contest. I know I would fucking love to have a Fender Telecaster autographed by Chrissie in my collection, but as a ShockHound staffer I am unable to enter the sweepstakes. But nothing's stopping you, my friends...)

Silver Summit Live Pics

Yeah, I know, my posting rate has slowed down as of late. Just spent the past three days helping some winter-damaged Chicago pals thaw out in the desert, which at times was a little like being a scoutmaster charged with the care and feeding of three drunken cub scouts, but overall was a blast. I'll have some pics from our journey to Joshua Tree up in the next few days...

In any case, I caught Silver Summit's Spaceland show the other night, and they did not disappoint. It's not often that I see a band where I am completely incapable of figuring out where the music's coming from (in the influence sense) or what the internal logic is behind the songs, but that's the way it went with these folks. I quickly just gave up and surrendered to the beautiful, hypnotic, cosmic flow of their songs, and was a happier man for it. (Meant to buy a t-shirt but got, uh, distracted. Sorry, guys!) You can see the rest of the appropriately psychedelicized shots I took on this Flickr set...

Silver Summit

I don't generally pimp out friends' bands on this blog, mostly because it's been a long while since anyone I knew put out a record that really blew me away. And then, while I was hangin' out in NYC, my friend Shawn slipped me the self-titled debut CD by his band Silver Summit...

Shawn (a.k.a. David Shawn Bosler) handles the lead guitars and backing vocals, while Sondra Sun-Odeon contributes rhythm guitar, mandolin, saz, keys and percussion, not to mention the album's beautifully chilling lead vocals. Imagine if Led Zeppelin's "Battle of Nevermore" was being covered by a Native American woman and her French-Canadian voyageur husband while they were freezing to death along the banks of some river in 18th century Quebec, and you'll have a little idea of the deeply haunting, creepy and rather trippy music that abounds on this little freaky folk masterpiece. (And just to keep the party hoppin', they also cover Bert Jansch's "Wishing Well".) 

I am totally knocked out by this record, and am very psyched to see Shawn and Sondra rock it out with a full band this Thursday at Spaceland, where they're opening for Woven Hand. They're also doing some other West Coast and Southwest dates over the next week; but even if you don't get the chance to see them, do yerself a favor and pick up their CD. Here's a little taste of their hypnotic magic for ya. Listen on headphones for maximum impact...

Silver Summit — The Door 

Ricardo Montalban Es Mas Macho

It's spooky, man. Hervé Villechaize killed himself shortly (no pun intended) after I moved to LA. And now, just a month after I leave LA, Ricardo Montalban drops dead. The Fantasy Island curse is now complete.

I wish I could say something about the late Mr. Montalban's talents, but the fact is that I'll always remember him far more for being namechecked in Saturday Night Live's "Quien Es Mas Macho?" game show, and for Eugene Levy's hilarious impersonation of him on SCTV's "Ricardo Montalban School of Fine Acting" sketch. ("No, not crunchy — ca-RON-chy! Jess!") Such is the power of pop culture, I guess.

And, of course, I'll never forget this:

When You're Young...

...you never imagine that you'll get to meet your heroes, much less get to interview them and pick their brains about the records that totally made your life worth living back in high school. Which is why it was such a trip — and a really wonderful one, at that — to interview Bruce Foxton and Rick Buckler from The Jam last year when they were in LA and touring as, well, From The Jam.

Both gents were absolutely lovely; even though we were sitting in a crummy Hollywood Holiday Inn lobby at 10 AM, they seemed totally happy to be there and talking about the old music. And even though my inner 16 year-old kept wanting to bust out and go, "AAAAAHHHH!!!! THE JAM!!! YOU GUYS ARE FUCKING AMAZING!!!", their mellow manner and gently witty asides soon put me at ease enough that I didn't just completely lose my shit. Sure wish I'd had the presence of mind to ask them about those shoes, though...

I think I still have the full interview transcript somewhere if any of you other Jam obsessives want to read it. For the rest of you, here's the video version that we put together for ShockHound. Yes, I love my job...

Salad Saturday

To paraphrase James Brown, it's a new year, baby — so let a man come in and toss the salad! 

Thrill as Jay and I hit the gym in this week's episode of Taco Tuesday, and try to stick to our healthy new year's resolutions while talking about new albums by Kreator and Glasvegas, as well as the soundtrack to the new Underworld flick...

Ron Asheton, R.I.P.

My friend Don gave me some shit today about failing to mention the recent death of Ron Asheton on this blog. Truth is, I've been all kindsa busy; plus, the protean Stooges guitarist hasn't exactly lacked for gushing tributes and in-depth articles this week detailing his massive influence upon punk, grunge, and rock in general. So, I'd been thinking, what could I possibly add to the flurry of well-deserved hosannas? I never met Ron Asheton, nor (I sadly must admit) did I catch the Stooges on any of their reunion shows over the past few years. So all I can really offer, in the end, is a little bit about what his guitar playing on the first two Stooges records meant to me.

Growing up in Ann Arbor in the 1970s gave me a slightly skewed perspective on rock and roll history; I was familiar with the terms "White Panther Party" and "MC5" from my nursery school days onward, and I recall that pretty much everyone in my sixth grade class knew who Iggy Pop was — although our understanding of him was as some sort of gross-out bogey man, as opposed to a brilliantly primal performer. ("That would be so bitchin' if Iggy Pop showed up," I remember my friend Johnny whispering to me during one school assembly. "He'd just get up on stage and PISS on everybody!!!")

But I never heard of Ron Asheton, or even the Stooges, until the early '80s — which was, not coincidentally, around the time that I was learning to play guitar. The songs on 1969's The Stooges and 1970's Funhouse were simple, but (contrary to what I've been reading in many of the Ron Asheton tributes) were not easy to play along to. The Ramones? Those records were a breeze to play along to — you just dialed up a nice distortion sound, found a barre chord in the right key, and off you went. Ron Asheton's playing, however, had a menacing logic all its own, and utilized a uniquely personal combination of fuzz and wah-wah pedals, natural tube distortion, feedback, extreme Stratocaster abuse (see the above photo), and blues licks that — once you actually broke them down — seemed more extra-terrestrial than delta-derived. What I eventually realized was that just about anyone can play a Stooges song, but very few people can do it and make it sound even half as bad-ass as the real thing, even if they're working with the right gear; and that's because the magic in the music truly came from Ron's hands and soul.

Was Ron Asheton the single biggest influence on my own guitar playing? Not exactly; as a guitarist who also happens to be an obsessive music fan, it's all but impossible to not be influenced in one way or another by the millions of different licks and solos I've heard through the years. But I can say that Ron ranks high in my personal guitar cosmology. Or put it this way: When I slam a power chord, I want to be Pete Townshend. When I jangle around an open G, I want to be Roger McGuinn. When I hang on a note during a solo, I want to be Neil Young; when I slide up the neck to go for the punk-rock "air raid siren," I want to be Johnny Thunders. But when I kick on the wah-wah pedal, there's no one I would rather be than Ron Asheton. His way with a wah had almost nothing to do with the artful tone sculpting of JImi Hendrix, or the percussive funkiness of Eddie Hazel — with Ron, the wah-wah pedal was all about orgasmic eruptions of frustration and anarchy. He could make that thing spit like an angry wildcat, sting like a swarm of bees and belch like a drunken German, and it's virtually impossible to listen to the first Stooges album on headphones without feeling like your brain is being rubbed raw by fistfuls of steel wool. 

Case in point: This fantastic alternate mix of "Real Cool Time" from the first album, which is pure nasty fuzz-wah heaven. Stick around at the end to hear the clueless engineer (or is that producer John Cale?) wondering if perhaps all the song could be trimmed down to the 2:20 mark...

Real Cool Time (Alternate Mix)

R.I.P., Ron. You fucking tore it up.

(Oh yeah — the amazing photo above was taken by the great Robert Matheu.)

Best. Thing. EVER.

First there were the pyramids of Egypt.

Then came the Roman aqueducts.

Then came the Great Wall of China.

Then came the printing press.

Then came the internal combustion engine.

And now, beautiful Robe readers, comes the very pinnacle of human achievement: 

The David Lee Roth Runnin' With The Devil Soundboard.

As the man himself would say, AWWWW YEEEAAAAHH!!!

Dock Ellis, 1945-2008

Wow.

I know I've been a bit distracted over these past few months, but I'm kinda shocked that I somehow missed the news of Dock Ellis' untimely demise from cirrhosis of the liver until nearly two weeks after the fact. I was at a neighborhood New Year's Eve Party, where the host introduced me to one of his friends and mentioned my book on 1970s baseball; I went into my usual song and dance about the magic of the era, the uniforms, the hi-jinks, the riots, and of course Dock Ellis pitching a no-hitter on acid. "Wait," said the host's friend. "Didn't that guy just die?"

I swear I almost left the party right there.

Dock's career numbers (138 wins against 119 losses, a 3.46 career ERA, 1136 strikeouts over 2127.7 innings) were solid enough, but nowhere near good enough to get him into Cooperstown. He was inducted into my personal Hall of Fame years ago, however — and not just because of the revelation that he'd actually been under the influence of LSD while no-hitting the Padres in June 1970.

No, baby; it was much, much more than that. I loved him because he was a fiery, complex and genuine individual who continually spoke his truth, even when it caused the Lords of Baseball to choke on their steak dinners, and even though his career (both as a baseball player and after his retirement) suffered greatly for it. I loved him because he caused a major PR incident by wearing curlers in the bullpen at Wrigley Field. I loved him because he once tried to bean the entire Big Red Machine in an attempt to light a competitive fire in the hearts of his Pirate teammates. I loved him because he was the starting pitcher for the Pirates on September 1st, 1971, the day the Bucs became the first team in major league history to field an all-black starting nine. I loved him because he wore an earring way before ballplayers (or mainstream American menfolk in general) dared to do so; even though wearing it caused the Yankees to exile his ass to Oakland early in the 1977 season. I loved him because he loved Jimi Hendrix, Black Sabbath and Iron Butterfly. I loved him because he later turned his life around and worked with ballplayers, prisoners and at-risk youth as a drug-counselor. I loved him because he was a badass whose example helped encourage me to live my own life with as much truth and as little bullshit as possible. And, of course, I loved him for being one of the main inspirations behind my book.

Unlike Dick Allen, an equally baaaad dude who just wanted to be left alone to play baseball in peace, Dock was a serious shit-stirrer. He essentially forced Sparky Anderson to start him over Tom Seaver in the 1971 All-Star Game by loudly proclaiming in the press that baseball would never allow two black pitchers to start the mid-summer classic (Vida Blue was starting the contest for the AL). Never mind that Anderson was one of the most color-blind managers of the era; Dock knew that it would be a major event to have two brothers on the mound at the start of the game, and he forced the issue instead of waiting around with his fingers crossed, hoping that it would happen. Of course, he got his karmic payback in the third inning of the contest, when Reggie Jackson hit one of the most mammoth and memorable home runs in All-Star history off of him, and Frank Robinson knocked a subsequent two-run homer that tagged him with the loss. Dock was never particularly careful about what he wished for...

Still, Dock clearly loved the game of baseball, even if he didn't have much time for uptight white guys like Bowie Kuhn who ran the show. As a teammate of the late, great Roberto Clemente on the Pirates' 1971 World Championship squad, Dock spoke openly and admiringly of the example that Clemente set daily for all the Pittsburgh players, even down to the way that they should demonstrate their "Pirate pride" by letting the stripes on their stirrups show. He was, by all accounts — despite many media attempts to paint him as a hostile prima donna or (much worse) an "uppity negro" — a great guy to have on your team; regardless of what color you were, if you were his teammate, Dock always had your back.

I saw Dock pitch only once, on a brutally hot August 1979 afternoon at Shea Stadium. He was pitching for the woeful Mets by then, his second of three stops during the final season of his major league career (he would, poetically enough, end the year and his career as a member of Willie Stargell's "We Are Family" world champion Pirates), and he clearly didn't have too much gas left in the tank by then. The Phillies roughed him up for three hits and two runs before he even recorded an out, and Greg Luzinski crushed one into the right field upper deck in the fourth that almost took my grandmother's head off. "Settle down, Ellis!" I yelled at one point, my adolescent quaver echoing through the mostly-empty stands, and he looked over his shoulder and glared at me. Well, actually, he was glaring at the runner he was trying to hold at first base, but the move caused his head to turn in my general direction. And even at that distance, on a crummy day in an even crummier ballpark, his intense bearing and regal body language seemed to say, "Shut the fuck up, kid; I got this."

Rest in peace, Dock. You were one righteous dude.

New York's All Right If You Like Shanghai Noodles

And boy, do I ever — especially these ones from New Yeah Shanghai Deluxe in Chinatown, which my friend Shawn and I scored (along with some truly wonderful soup dumplings) on a brief meal break from an epic drunken Christmas Night karaoke session with some of his righteous pals Laura, Bryan and Michelle at Winnie's Bar across the street. 'twas not to be a silent night at all, as Shawn proved early on with an absolutely caterwauling rendition of Supertramp's "Logical Song," and it all went hilariously downhill from there. I still have a divot in my new Chelsea boots as the result of Shawn's bizarre boot-slapping boogie dance during our duet on Grand Funk Railroad's "We're An American Band". Many other rock and soul classics were similarly desecrated that evening. Still, I would maintain that my singing and vocal range actually improved after about seven or eight Tsing Taos; my ability to stand upright, not so much.

Anyway, 'twas an absolutely killer Xmas vay-cay in NYC. Saw family and friends, but also had some much-needed solo time, and I didn't do a damn lick of work while I was there. A perfect and positive end to a year best (or at least most diplomatically) described as "challenging," and I was really sorry to leave so soon. Some non-karaoke highlights, then:

Best Museum Exhibit: Ray Mortenson's photos of the burned-out South Bronx (circa late 70s/early 80s) at the Museum of the City of New York. Fucking stunning stuff; totally reminded me of the photos I'd seen of houses and neighborhoods destroyed by Hurricane Katrina — though of course this was a much different kind of disaster.

Best Walk: From Columbus Circle down to Union Square, on a bright and sunny Christmas Day. Totally avoided Times Square and all that idiocy, opting instead to cut over to a wonderfully deserted Park Avenue where, after stopping on 42nd St. to photographically indulge my continuing fascination with the Chrysler Building (which, along with the Woolworth Building, remains my favorite NYC skyscraper), I made a nostalgic pilgrimage to my Dad's old building at 222 Park Ave South. I still have very fond memories of sitting on the windowsill in his living room at 3 AM, watching drunken scenesters stagger out of Max's Kansas City, which was right across the street at the time. Seemed like the most romantic thing in the world to me at the time.

Best Stroll: A meandering, laugh-filled afternoon groove with my friend Michael through the West Village to Pier 45 on the Hudson River, where I got an amazing pre-sunset eyeful of the Jersey CIty skyline. Wow, who knew there was an actual city in Jersey City?

Best Beer Selection: The Hop Devil Grill in the East Village. The somewhat cheesy sports bar vibe was totally mitigated by a truly mouth-watering array of drafts and bottles from many lands. Actually, turns out they have a lounge next door which looked much more "chill," but Shawn wanted dinner so we drank at the grill.

Best Bar To Request "Holy Diver" In (Again): The Three of Cups Lounge. I made a conscious effort this trip to stray from my usual tram tracks (museums, restaurants, etc.) in search of new adventures and experience. But I couldn't say no to another trip to the Three of Cups — great tunes, cheap drinks, mellow vibe (in a metal kinda way), and the DJs will always play Dio's "Holy Diver" if you ask them nicely. Which my friend Carise did, much to my headbanging, horns-throwing delight and edification.

Best Dessert (Maybe Ever): The olive oil gelato at Otto Enoteca. Good god, y'all!

Best Overheard Conversational Snippet (Abilene Bar, Brooklyn): "The cowboy from the Village People's a good friend, actually."

Best Street Encounter: My last day in NYC, I was walking through the West Village with my Dad and his pal George, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find a guy about ten years my senior, who exclaimed loudly in what sounded like a French accent, "Bob Dee-lahn! Bob Dee-lahn! The Seexties!" (I was dressed like this.) "You got the wrong guy, buddy," I smiled, replying in my best Dylanesque nasal rasp. Of course, it occured to me about two minutes later that "It ain't me, babe" would have been the superior response, but hey — we can't all be "the poet laureate of a generation."