La Vie En Robe

Frontiers...and Beyond!

Longtime Robe readers may remember that, back in 2007, I posted something about Journey's "Faithfully" video, and the memorably humorous experience of seeing Jonathan Cain almost break down while introducing it on Friday Night Videos.

In the comments section of that post, some of my friends hipped me to the existence of a Journey tour documentary from the same period, called Journey: Frontiers and Beyond, which was produced and narrated by the same folks who produced NFL Films. Apparently, it's an absolute laff-riot, which includes footage of Neil Schon getting brained onstage by a bottle hurled at him by someone in the audience — and the narrator excitedly intoning, "Wow, that's gotta hurt!" And now... it's on YouTube, in its entirety!

I haven't had a chance to check it out yet, but I thought I'd better pass the info along, just in case it gets yanked soon. Here's chapter 1, below...

Happy Birthday, Scott Walker!

Noel Scott Engle, aka the legendary Scott Walker, turns 67 today. I'm too busy packing boxes and clearing shit outta my yard today to go at length into the enigmatic gentleman's history, or to talk about what his remarkable music (especially his first four solo albums) means to me, but I didn't want let the day go by without acknowledging him.

Wish there was much, much more in the way of solo or Walker Brothers live footage floating around on the Tube of You, but I think this promo clip for the Walker Bros' 1965 hit "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Any More" nicely sums up Scott's overdramatic aesthetic. (My friend Eric once described him as "the intellectual Tom Jones," which he meant as a great compliment — though I'm not sure Scott would take it as such.)

It also brings back fond memories of the afternoon in 2002 when Lemmy and I were booted out of the West Hollywood hotel where I was interviewing him, unceremoniously expelled just because we felt drunkenly compelled to bellow this song from the balcony, complete with flamboyant hand gestures...

"A Soul Hootenanny — Me and the Bee Gees!"

I posted this video on my Facebook page yesterday, but it clearly deserves a re-post — not to mention a few more words of introduction.

As many of you know, I'm a big fan of rock covers by soul artists (almost always preferable to the other way 'round), and I consider Wilson Pickett's version of the Beatles' "Hey Jude" to be one of the greatest recordings by anybody, ever. Much as I love the Beatles, their original resides in the "Paul Songs I Never Need to Hear Again" file, along with "The Long and Winding Road," "Birthday," "Let It Be" and "When I'm 64." I never get tired of the Wicked Pickett's version, though; his impassioned vocal performance and Duane Allman's wild string-bending take the song somewhere far deeper and make it far more cathartic than McCartney could have ever hoped for.

And then there's this clip from an early 70s Midnight Special, which delivers the same soulful charge while adding something deeply bizarre: A duet of sorts between Pickett and Barry Gibb. I can safely say that "Soul Hootenanny" and "Bee Gees" are two phrases that have never even shared the same part of my brain at once, much less been in a sentence I've used, but the Wicked One invites them out for just that, and even steps aside a couple of times to let "Soul Brother" Barry do his thing on "Hey Jude". And while Barry doesn't exactly sound like the second coming of Otis Redding, he still acquits himself fairly admirably; his brothers, however...

Actually, Maurice looks like he's having a great time, and just seems happy to be able to watch the fireworks from such close proximity. Robin, though, is acting like a bored-out-of-his-mind six year-old, twirling in circles and waving his arms like he's pretending to be an airplane until the grown-ups start paying attention to him again. Seriously dude, WTF?!?

Still, the whole thing pretty much rules. And Pickett's backing band — the Midnight Movers — kick mightily. Enjoy!

Mid-Wilshire Nighttime Stroll

Put the finishing touches on the copy-edit manuscript for my '70s baseball book yesterday afternoon. They say Edward Gibbon took a stroll in his garden after finishing The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; since I was staying in LA for the weekend, I had no garden to stroll through, so I took a celebratory nighttime walk down Wilshire Boulevard, between the post office on Detroit and the LA Country Museum of Art. And I took my camera with me...

Hookers, Brain Tacos and H1N1 Beer Pong

I ended last week in a pretty foul mood, the result of numerous work and book deadlines colliding with dawning awareness of the mega-hassles that the next major change in my life — i.e., selling the desert pad and moving back to L.A. — will entail. Saturday was beautiful, but the sunshine alone could not lift me out of my doldrums. I needed to smile. I needed to laugh. I needed to rock. I needed at least one really cold beer.

Thankfully, all of the above things were within my reach — for Wonker were playing on Saturday night. The retarded brainchild of one Bones Wonker, Wonker the band deliver the Misfits-esque punk-metal goods with little regard for things like eardrums, subtlety or dignity. Taking a break from their recording sessions for Too Dumb To Die, the long-awaited full-length debut that they've been working on since 1993, Wonker made a rare live appearance at Friar Tuck's Bar & Grille (I'm guessing the "e" has to do with the fact that the establishment was built to resemble a miniature medieval castle) in the no man's land between Claremont and Pomona. 909 reprazent!

Crowded together on the venue's tiny stage, the quintet cranked out one would-be hit after another — "Psycho Bitch," "Brain Taco," "Girls' Night In," etc. — in a cerebellum-shredding twin-guitar assault. They played a song about people who die while masturbating to internet porn and come back as zombies ("Gutbusters"). They played a song that courageously linked vegetarianism with the evils of pre-marital sex ("Eat Meat [But Not Mine Until We're Married]"). They played not one but two songs about hookers. They played an electric kazoo solo. They were fucking awesome.

All of which surely would have sufficed for an evening's entertainment in itself — and yea and verily, I smiled, laughed and banged my head more during Wonker's 25 minutes onstage than I had all week, and felt a million times better for it. But there was yet another treat to be had: Namely, the opportunity to watch some of the locals face off against each other in the most disgusting game of beer pong I've ever witnessed.

Well, truth be told, it's the only game of beer pong I've ever witnessed. It's been a long time since I've played drinking games or hung out with people who do; so while I'd certainly heard of beer pong before Saturday, I had no idea how it was played. For those of you similarly in the dark (or who just take your drinking too seriously to make a game out of it), the two teams set up a bowling pin-like formation of plastic beer cups (with beer in them) at opposite ends of a ping pong table, then try to toss a ping pong ball across the table into one of the other team's beers; if they succeed, their opponents have to chug the beer that the ball landed in.

In this case, both teams (a girl and a guy versus two girls) had cups of water at their respective ends of the table, ostensibly to rinse off the ping pong balls between shots. I say "ostensibly," because neither team seemed particularly vigilant about their ball hygeine, even when the balls bounced off the table and rolled around on the floor. This wasn't some highly polished, regularly swept wooden tavern floor, either; the table was situated in ye olde tavern's semi-enclosed beer garden/smoker's porch, whose pockmarked asphalt floor was covered with dirt, cigarette butts, candy wrappers, chewed gum, AIDS and H1N1 viruses, etc. My friends Rusty, William and I were so grossed out by the sight of the wet balls bouncing around in the filth, we refused to touch them even when they rolled to a stop at our feet. Instead, we'd just gently kick them back to the players, who'd pick them up, make (if they remembered) a half-hearted dunk in the rinsing cup, and then resume play. "Plop!" Drink up...

Somehow, the most poetic part of the whole thing was that the one guy who was playing — and who was clearly the ringleader of the whole beer pong tournament — was a beefy, fratty type sporting an Ed Hardy-esque t-shirt with "That's How I Roll" written across the gut, and a dice motif on the side seams. Just like Wonker, it was so deeply wrong, it was beautifully right.

Ellis, D.

First of all, let me say thanks to everyone who's forwarded me the link to James Blagden's amazing animated short about the LSD-assisted no-hitter pitched in 1970 by the late, great Dock Ellis. 

Second, let me say that anyone who loves 1970s baseball really owes it to themselves to take five minutes to watch the whole thing. 

Third, let me also say that if you dig this clip, I've got a book coming out in June that you're gonna love...

Doggin' Around

To paraphrase the title of Julien Temple's 2007 documentary on Joe Strummer, the future may indeed be unwritten, but the past isn't as set in stone as we might think. Good historians know that their job isn't just to collect and collate facts, but to find new meaning and nuance in them, especially as previously unknown details come to light — even the ones that make them question their previous theories.

For those of us who are obsessed with the history of American punk rock, the last year or so has witnessed the excavation of some amazing artifacts that have shaken up our long-standing musical timelines in a pretty intriguing fashion. Chief among these is ...For the Whole World to See, a seven-song compilation of mid-70s proto-punk tracks by Death, a black Detroit hard rock band so obscure — and so oddly similar in sound to the Bad Brains, who wouldn't emerge until several years later — that many collectors initially believed them to be a hoax. But Death were the real "ahead of their time" deal, baby... and so, too, were the Imperial Dogs.

The Imperial WHO? Well, chances are, unless you're a serious punk collector (or you know waaaay too much about Blue Oyster Cult), you've never heard of the I-Dogs. They only played a handful of Southern California gigs in 1974-75, including a debut show at Gazzarri's that was so raucous, they were banned from the club for life. They broke up in '75, released one posthumous single (the A-side, "This Ain't the Summer of Love," was cannibalized by B.O.C. for their Agents of Fortune track of the same name), and were briefly immortalized about 20 years ago with a limited-edition compilation released by Australian indie label Dog Meat. So, not exactly "household name" territory.

In fact, the only reason I'd ever even heard of the I-Dogs was because my pal and fellow journo Don Waller was the band's lead singer. (That's him glowering at lower left from the above photo.) Earlier this year, Don told me that he'd unearthed a 35 year-old videotape of the I-Dogs rocking out in front of a somewhat baffled Cal State Long Beach crowd, and invited me over for a screening. What I saw (and heard) totally blew me away. It also made me do more than a few double-takes, because — aside from the black and white, public-access style production — no friggin' way could this performance have ever taken place in Southern California circa 1974. Boston '78 or New York City '77, sure, or maybe even Akron '76 at the absolute earliest...

And yet, there it was before my bloodshot eyes: Just two months after Richard Nixon retired in sweaty shame to nearby San Clemente, the I-Dogs were roaring through a hopped-up, hippie-baiting, willfully aggro set at CSLB that included hard-edged covers of Mott, the Velvets and the Kinks, along with 10 muscular originals that fell (musically as well as chronologically) right between the Stooges and the Dead Boys, with a touch of Doors/Seeds/Music Machine "dark side of the mushroom" mojo thrown in. Don't believe me? Czech out this clip of them howlin' their way through "Midnite Dog":

If you dig that — or have someone on yer Xmas list who might — you can get yer sweaty mitts on the whole performance, which is now available to the unwashed masses on a DVD called Live! At Long Beach (October 30, 1974), that comes complete with a lavishly illustrated booklet and copious liner notes. To get yerself a copy, just go here to the I-Dogs' official website to order one, and tell 'em The Robe sentchya...

Jesus Died For Somebody's Sins... But Not Exene's

Very cool interview I conducted for ShockHound with the extremely cool Exene Cervenka. What more can I say, other than I played my vinyl LP of Under The Big Black Sun over and over again until you could practically see through it — and that she turned out to be even funnier and warmer in person than I could have hoped. If you were ever a fan of X (or of American punk rock in general), you'll definitely enjoy this one...

 

Coming in June to a Book Store Near You...

Just got a look at the cover of Big Hair and Plastic Grass, my forthcoming book on baseball and pop culture in the 1970s, and I'm stoked I just had to share it. Major kudos to the St. Martin's Art Department, who completely jacked this baby outta the park...

Pizza Not Peyote: A NYC Vision Quest

Let's get one thing straight, right from the start: I love Southern California. In the 16 years I've lived here, I have never been one to whine about its plasticity, vapidity or its maddening traffic; and as I was just saying to some Chicago friends the other week, if the constant threat of earthquakes and fires is the price that we must pay for 72-degree-and-sunny Christmases beneath the swaying palms, then so be it. Yes, there are many massively fucked-up things about L.A. in particular, and the Golden State in general, but it still feels as much or more like home to me as any place I've ever lived.

And yet, New York City, the metropolis of my birth, has been exerting one helluva pull upon me this year. Actually, it's been calling my name for several years now; looking back at the five or six trips I've made to NYC since the fall of 2006, it's now quite clear to me that I've returned from each visit with new perspective on life and new insights into who I am — kind of like a Native American "Vision Quest," only with pizza instead of peyote.

It's only been a week or so since I returned from my 10-day vaycay in Manhattan and Brooklyn, which is way too early to fully process the lessons and experiences from this trip and figure out what the hell it all means — though I can already tell that there are some major life changes on my horizon. But hey, it was a righteous time in any case, so I'm-a just go 'head and run down some of the highlights from the past week and a half. First, of course, the food and drink...

Best Pizza: The brick-oven Margherita pie from La Pizza Fresca on 20th Street. (Pictured above in all its cheesy glory — thanks again, Jessica!) For sheer deliciousness of sauce and chewiness of crust, nothing else really came close — though the Margherita from Sal's in Carroll Gardens was pretty decent, as well. Not that I sampled nearly as many pies as I woulda liked, thanks to the fact that I was using my Dad's place on the Upper West Side as my base of operations. For whatever reason, the UWS seems curiously devoid of above-average pizza; I still mourn the loss of the old Vinnie's at 74th and Amsterdam, where I would often eat "breakfast" and late-night dinner in the same day during my visits back in the '90s.

Best Soup Dumplings: Man, this one was a real toss-up — the crab meat and pork ones at Grand Szichuan in Chelsea, or the shrimp and pork ones from New Yeah Shanghai Deluxe in Chinatown? Both totally delivered the goods, packed as they were with succulent fillings and soul-warming broth. The spicy Dan Dan Noodles at Grand Szichuan were pretty damn satisfying, too. 

Best Finger Food: The crostini at Gottino in the West Village. I ate there my first night in town, and copious amounts of wine were consumed, so I'm a little vague on what we actually ate — I just remember sardines and figs-with-goat cheese were involved. (Rebecca, if you're reading this, please jog my memory!)

Best Beer: When I walked into the Blind Tiger and saw something called Kuhnhenn's Fourth Dementia on the draught list, well... how could I not? (The fact that it was over 11% alcohol had nothing to do with my decision, I assure you.) Rich, dark, smooth and so tasty I wanted to lick the glass after I'd emptied it, it was the perfect comforting accompaniment to the lively music journalist war/horror stories I was trading with Michael.

Best Meal: Frankie's Spuntino in Brooklyn. The house-made cavatelli (little rolled bullets of pasta) with Faiccos hot sausage and browned sage butter was absolutely outta this world, as was the melt-in-your-mouth pork braciola marinara. The ricotta cheesecake tasted a little too much like "lemon fresh" Pledge, but I was just happy to have an excuse to linger longer in their romantic-as-all-hell back garden.

Worst Meal: The utterly vile gristle n' MSG lo mein at Wo Hop in Chinatown. Yeah, I know it was 2 a.m., and we were drunk, but surely there were better places we could've gone for a post-karaoke feast than this? Right, Shawn?

Best Karaoke Choice: Shawn and I wound up hitting Winnie's not once but twice during the course of my visit; and even though their blown bass cabinet prevented me from rocking the house with a rendition of Foreigner's "Dirty White Boy," the highlights were still too numerous to name. But our painstaking scientific research did prove that nothing gets the party started quite like a tag-team version of Rick James' "Super Freak."

Best Live Band: Okay, I only saw three — Silver Summit, White Hills and Psychic Paramount — all in one night at the Union Pool in Williamsburg. Though the sound was kinda off-kilter from where I was standing (i.e., the bar), I was once again blown away by Silver Summit's freaky brand of electric folk music for mind and body — and their new rhythm section added a whole Zep III vibe to the proceedings that definitely tightened my trousers. Didn't like the other bands as much — White Hills were unspectacular stoner rock saved by a truly spectacular drummer (Kid Millions, also of Oneida), and Psychic Paramount's all-instro kraut-psych just plain bored me. But hey, lotsa folks dug all three...

Best Musical/Religious Experience: Actually, there were many. Before heading to NYC, I'd put together an iPod playlist of songs that were about New York, recorded in New York, recorded by New York artists, or all three. Every day when I would leave the house to traipse through Manhattan and/or Brooklyn, I would fire that sucker up and inevitably be rewarded for my efforts — whether it was hearing the New York Dolls' "Subway Train" or the Ramones' "Rockaway Beach" while on the subway, grooving to the Jaynetts' "Sally Go Round the Roses" while walking through Central Park, or blasting Mongo Santamaria's "Hippo Walk" while boogalooing down Broadway. But listening to Side 2 of Bruce Springsteen's The Wild, The Innocent And The E-Street Shuffle while pounding the Midtown pavement on Labor Day — good god, y'all. I mean, just the part towards the end of "Incident on 57th Street" where Gary Tallent kicks on the fuzz bass... A friend of mine just went to see Bruce play Born to Run in its entirety in Chicago; not sure I'd pay to see that (especially since he's typically played most of those songs in concert since the late '70s), but if he ever decided to play Wild/Innocent in its entirety, I'd seriously be on that shit like grease on pizza.

Best Ballgame: By sheer stroke of luck, the Cubs were in town to play the Mets — and Brendan managed to score us two front-row seats at the "New Shea" (I refuse to call it by its heinous corporate name) in the upper deck between home and first (view pictured above). Derrek Lee hit two home runs, the Cubs won, and the Italian sausages weren't too bad either. Hoped to get out to a Brooklyn Cyclones game on Coney Island, as well, but couldn't fit it into my schedule. Next year, for sure!

Best Picnic: I'd only recently heard that Governors Island was now open to the public, so when Nina invited me to join her and her pals for a Sunday picnic there, I jumped at the chance. Didn't get to explore Castle Clinton (pictured above), but had a great time chilling and chowing while watching the island "fun run" (which we all decided was truly a contradiction in terms) and gazing out at the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and the southern tip of Manhattan.

Best Walk: Matt's guided tour at dusk of the Brooklyn Promenade (from which the above pic was snapped) and Brooklyn Heights, followed by a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge — an engineering wonder whose wonderousness is exponentially magnified when you're actually standing on the sucker. Wow...

Best Nature Hike: Though I've passed through Central Park countless times since my Mom used to push my stroller there, I really fell in love with it for the first time in 2006, when I re-learned how to walk there after my appendix went kaput. Since then, I've really gotten into exploring Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux's Manhattan masterpiece, and I took a long walk one day in the gorgeous  "North Woods" section of the park, which I'd never previously ventured into. I spent a long time sitting by the above waterfall, feeling about a million miles from the city I was in the center of.

And finally, thank you once again to all my friends and family members who gave me such a warm welcome and showed me such a good time. Much as I love the Big Apple, it would be a considerably less tasty place without your beautiful presence...