Rockabilly Pioneer Dead

ROCK AND ROLL legend Dale Hawkins passed away over the weekend at age 73. He was best known for the raucous 1957 hit Suzy Q -- covered by more famous acts like the Rolling Stones in 1964 on 12 X 5 and later in the decade by Creedence Clearwater Revival, whose own impassioned rendition not only introduced Hawkins to a new generation but also managed to take the song to new heights (and lengths too, stretching it out to almost 9 minutes!), giving it the trademark CCR swamp-blues treatment on their landmark 1968 debut album.

Unfortunately, Youtube is sorely lacking when it comes to tracking down Dale Hawkins archival footage. The above grainy footage of Hawkins is the best the site has to offer. However, there is a cool clip of the very young Stones tearing into it on the American TV show Shindig! with Mick showing off some fine dance moves and Keith shredding lead six-string before the band slows things down with Heart of Stone.



Finally, here's an in-depth obituary from the Shreveport Times for the Louisiana native. According to the article, not only was he one of the few white musicians to record for Chicago's Chess Records back in the '50s -- releasing over 40 tracks for the mostly black blues label -- but Hawkins was the first white performer to play at Harlem's famed Apollo Theater. That's big-time crossover appeal and street cred rolled into one.

A Razor In The Wind

WILLY DEVILLE, FOUNDER OF ONE OF THE ORIGINAL CBGB's house bands, passed on last week at age 58 after a battle with cancer. DeVille's group was lumped in with the burgeoning mid-'70s New York punk movement that featured acts as diverse as the Ramones, Talking Heads, Television and Blondie, but the soul-and-R&B-drenched sound of Mink DeVille was indeed most NOT like all the others in that groundbreaking scene.

As DeVille said of his time at the legendary punk club on Bowery Street: "We auditioned along with hundreds of others, but they liked us and took us on. We played (at CBGB) for three years. During that time we didn't get paid more than fifty bucks a night."

Actually, the Mink DeVille story -- "one of the greatest all-but-unsung legacies in rock history" according to AMG -- began many years before, when Willy DeVille left his native New York City for London in 1971, hoping to find like-minded musicians who were into old blues instead of all the groovy, hippie vibes left over from the '60s: “electric this and strawberry that,” as DeVille put it. The journey next took him to San Francisco, where he formed a band called Billy DeSade & the Marquees that played in some of the seedier bars of that city. After changing their name to Mink DeVille ("There can't be anything cooler than a fur-lined Cadillac, can there?") and reading an article about the nascent New York punk scene, Willy convinced his bandmates to drive cross-country in 1975.

Mink DeVille would catch on in New York quickly enough to have three songs chosen for the landmark Live at CBGB's compilation album a year later. The band was signed to Capitol Records after label executive Ben Edmonds was blown away by their exciting live show:

"When Mink DeVille took the stage (at CBGB) and tore into "Let Me Dream if I Want To" followed by another scorcher called "She's So Tough," they had me. These five guys...were obviously part of the new energy, but I also felt immediately reconnected to all the rock & roll I loved best: the bluesy early Stones, Van Morrison..., the subway scenarios of the The Velvet Underground, Dylan's folk-rock inflections, the heartbreak of Little Willie John, and a thousand scratchy old flea market 45s. Plus they seemed to contain all the flavors of their New York neighborhood, from Spanish accents to reggae spice."

Mink Deville's first two albums, 1977's Cabrera and '78's Return to Magenta, wear those influences on their sleeves, but played with an aggressively jaded swagger. Both records were produced by the legendary Jack Nitzsche, who called DeVille the best singer he had ever worked with. Cabrera features the band's best-known song, "Spanish Stroll," as well as its "punkiest" moment -- the dual guitar attack on "She's So Tough" from the first album would have fit in nicely on a Television album. But most of the songs:

"reached deep into blues and soul, the classic romantic pop of Ben E. King and The Drifters, with a side order of Spanish spices and New Orleans Zydeco swing. They favoured castanets over tom-toms, and accordion over distorted guitars, and Willy delivered his vocals with a sweet, tuneful flexibility that brought out the emotional resonance beneath his nasal sneer. What the wiry, dapper DeVille had that tied him to fellow CBGB resident bands like The Ramones, Television, Blondie and Talking Heads was an edge. He was drawing on some of the same musical areas that Bruce Springsteen’s epic rock dipped into, but Willy was an entirely different creature, a macho dandy in a pompadour and pencil moustache, with the dangerous air of a New York gangfighter and an underbelly vulnerability that came out through the romanticism of his music. Springsteen sounded like he was your friend in desperate times. DeVille sounded like he couldn’t quite decide whether to serenade you or pull a knife on you." [Daily Telegraph critic Neil McCormick]

By the time I saw Willy DeVille live -- New Year's Eve 1985, the Ritz on 11th Street, $35 ticket price -- he was incorporating even more flavors into the mix, especially Cajun music. Can't recall if there was an opening act that night or what time the show ended, but I was working at a liquor store on 88th Street and Second Avenue at the time while attending storied Hunter College. New Year's Day fell on a Wednesday that year, and so after the concert ended in the wee hours, I headed uptown to open up, catching a few uncomfortable hours of sleep on a desk chair in the back of the store before 10:00am reared its ugly head. Just a rock & roll snapshot as we remember Willy DeVille and his singular contribution to its history.

"Mink DeVille knows the truth of a city street and the courage in a ghetto love song. And the harsh reality in his voice and phrasing is yesterday, today, and tomorrow — timeless in the same way that loneliness, no money, and troubles find each other and never quit for a minute. But the fighters always have a shot at turning a corner, and if you holler loud enough, sometimes somebody hears you. And truth and love always separate the greats from the neverwases and neverwillbes."
-- Doc Pomus

Here's Venus of Avenue D, Spanish Stroll, It's So Easy, Bad Boy and She's So Tough, courtesy of Nevver.com

Retro Music Snob has an MP3 up of Little Girl

New York Times obit

New York Rocker tribute

Rider In The Sky

JOHN "MARMADUKE" DAWSON, founding member and driving force behind country-rock pioneers New Riders of the Purple Sage, passed away Tuesday at age 64 from cancer.

The group was originally conceived as a side project for Grateful Dead members Jerry Garcia, Mickey Hart and Phil Lesh to indulge their country & folk interests. By the time the first New Riders album was released in 1971, the lineup was independent of the legendary psychedelic band, although Garcia plays throughout the record on pedal steel guitar.

The Adventures of Panama Red, the New Riders' gold album from 1973, featured the marijuana-fueled adventures of the title character in the group's best-known song, written by Peter Rowan. Dawson contributed two plaintive ballads to an almost perfect record (one drawback is the flimsy running time, a mere 29 minutes, 51 seconds): "One Too Many Stories" and "You Should Have Seen Me Runnin'."

Panama Red spent as much time on my turntable as any other record in the collection back in those "heady" days -- my mellow Deadhead phase: New Riders, Hot Tuna, Marshall Tucker, Charlie Daniels Band, Poco, Pure Prairie League, etc. This is the kind of music I was listening to at the time... before the metallic-sharp Punk Rock phenomenon would slice through my wooden Americana doors of perception a few years later.

All Music Guide gives Panama Red short shrift, awarding it only 3 out of 5 stars, then almost makes up for the slight by sagely pointing out:

"The freakiest thing is that the record segues together so beautifully and the songs are so tight with nothing extra between, it feels like it's a lot longer than the mere 29 minutes it is. The listener feels satisfied that after 11 songs it's all been said and done in a delightful way ... Musically it can do a lot to teach modern-day alt-country cookie cutters something about knowing the rules before trying to break them." Amen to that...

Their first album's 10 songs were all written by Dawson. The rollicking "Henry" chronicles an enterprising young pothead's trip to Acapulco in search of "twenty keys of gold" -- with "fifty people waitin' back at home for Henry's load." "Glendale Train" is Dawson's detail-oriented embellishment of a famous 19th century train robbery -- where the robbers "MADE CLEAN OFF WITH SIXTEEN G’S AND LEFT TWO MEN LYING COLD" and "THEY FOUND AMOS WHITE IN FIFTEEN PIECES, FIFTEEN MILES APART."

Dawson also had a hand in one of the Grateful Dead's most enduring songs, co-writing "Friend of the Devil" with Garcia and Robert Hunter. In fact, future Riders Dawson and David Nelson make key contributions to that American Beauty record, along with its companion Workingman's Dead (both released in 1970).

I saw the Riders play in Central Park circa 1975. Looking back, NRPS were at their absolute live peak at this time. They would stay together for another five or six years, and after the original lineup disbanded in 1982, it was Dawson alone who kept the name alive, with a revolving cast of new members, for another 15 years.

Unfortunately, the NRPS selections on YouTube are underwhelming at best. Here's a "video" of "I Don't Know You" from the 1971 first album. A year later, of course, The Eagles would release their own debut album, offering a safer, more mainstream version of what the New Riders were doing, but it was The Eagles who would go on to ride country rock to the corner of Fame and Fortune -- a cross street that eluded the more visionary New Riders of the Purple Sage.

And here's a touching video of a frail Dawson with the 2007 version of NRPS, performing "Portland Woman" from the first album; it takes a while for the band to get going -- only for the video to cut off abruptly. Boo, hiss...

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Boxer Found Dead

CALL ME CYNICAL, but this doesn't seem like your typical, run-of-the-mill "ex-boxer gets strangled to death at a Brazilian resort by his wife using the strap of her handbag" story. Yet according to police, that's exactly how Arturo Gatti, the 37-year-old former world champion, was killed over the weekend.

Gatti moved to Jersey City from Montreal in 1991, and earned his nickname "Thunder" fighting in nearby Atlantic City. His career record of 40-9 included 31 knockouts -- with seemingly all of them on HBO! His three 10-round battles with Micky Ward for the junior welterweight crown from 2002-03 were legendary fights. Gatti was the definition of a fearless brawler -- willing to trade 5 of his blows for 10 of yours anytime -- which made the match-ups with a fellow high-motor puncher like Ward so intriguing.

The first report I saw, from the Daily News Saturday, did not mention the wife, 23-year-old Amanda Rodrigues, as a subject of investigation, but did state that the police suspected foul play upon discovering his blood-spattered body around 6am Saturday; after all, it's not like you can chalk this case up to natural causes. By Monday Rodrigues was the only suspect, with reports that she may have bludgeoned Gatti before strangling him. The couple were in Brazil on a second honeymoon, and leave behind a 10-month-old boy in the wake of this brutal slaying.

Ironically, Gatti -- who retired two years ago -- was scheduled to provide testimony this week in New York for a lawsuit filed against the New York State Athletic Commission by a former opponent. Joey Gamache, knocked out in 2000, alleges Gatti outweighed him by almost 20 pounds at the time of the fight. Hopefully, the inevitable Lifetime TV movie will tie up all these loose ends.

Grief & Folly

SOMEBODY WAS BOUND TO SAY what a lot of other people were thinking, and just because that someone was narrow-minded, reactionary blowhard Peter King, the Republican congressman from Long Island, doesn't mean his remarks were totally bereft of merit. King has made more than his share of outlandish statements over the years, but none caused a backlash quite like his Youtube video about the Michael Jackson media circus:

"Let's knock out the psychobabble. He was a pervert, a child molester; he was a pedophile. And to be giving this much coverage to him, day in and day out, what does it say about us as a country?"

You can question the timing of the comments -- but considering that half the country and most of the media seem to have lost their mind over the last 10 days, I thought if nothing else King provided something of a balance to all the over-the-top idolatry. I mean, pharaohs have been buried with less ceremony and adulation. But then of course as far as we know the King of Tut never busted out the moonwalk, did he?

Speaking of psychobabble, if there were an award for Most Cringe-Inducing Commentary on Michael Jackson's death, rap "artist" Jean "I need that Grammy" Grae would definitely be a contender, given her gushing, near-hysterical column in last week's Village Voice:

"I'm lucky and blessed to have been one of the millions who received Michael's magical, awesome, immortal presents/presence ... I'm not going to speculate on any of the controversy, the darkness--we all have, all of us. I can't judge anyone, and I won't ... No, I never met Michael Jackson. No, never even got close. But if he wasn't the most brilliant sliver of magic alive, I don't what is or ever will be."

Writing about Jackson but refusing to deal with the child molestation charges or talk about his tortured visage is like mentioning Richard Nixon but avoiding the Watergate scandal. By the same logic, when Phil Spector dies, I don't want to hear anything about his personal flaws or murder conviction... only uncritical, non-stop coverage of all the hits he produced in the '50s and '60s and the joy he brought to millions. Anything else would be disrespectful to his family and fans.

By all means, feel free to call me a "playa hater," but Jamie Foxx has always struck me as an unfunny, arrogant, ignorant, overrated, overbearing-narcissist-even-by-current-Hollywood-standards, jive-ass fool -- if I can still say that on the Internets -- so his remarks at the Black Entertainment Awards came as no surprise to me, but I'm glad others took notice of his needlessly exclusionary remarks: "We want to celebrate this black man," Foxx said while wearing an absurd Michael Jackson costume. "He belongs to us and we shared him with everybody else."

Perhaps most disturbing was the almost unhinged tone in Foxx's voice as he spat out those words, channeling the vitriolic rhetoric of a Malcolm X as opposed to Jackson's lifelong message of racial inclusion and tolerance a la Martin King. Put me down in the camp that hopes Foxx's career bombs from here on out.

Continuing the charade, P. Diddy lent some much-needed ghetto gravitas to proceedings with his astute historical observation: "Michael is one of the reasons Barack Obama is president." Let me guess, P: your own career spent mumbling hip-hop cliches into a microphone and coming up with mad whack beats is another reason, right? I guess we all voted for Obama because we just knew his moonwalk put McCain's outdated dance routine to shame.

Rent-A-Reverand Al Sharpton was predictably omnipresent, holding court at seemingly every ceremony, offering more of his tradmark overgeneralizations and exaggerations:

"Michael Jackson made culture accept a person of color way before Tiger Woods, way before Oprah Winfrey, way before Barack Obama ... Blacks never abandoned Michael. When Michael had the problem with his catalog, he came to Harlem and we marched with Michael. When Michael was indicted with the molestation case, black people stood by him, all the civil-rights leaders, and were criticized for being there."

At the Tuesday memorial, Ervin "Rent-A-Center" Johnson used his 3 minutes at the podium to relate that Michael Jackson somehow made him a better basketball player, and that he believed white fans brought his jersey into their homes because Michael was already there. Then Magic became the first person to work a product placement into a memorial service -- admitting that the best moment of his life was learning the King of Pop ate Kentucky Fried Chicken. Would it surprise anyone if it turns out Johnson was paid by KFC for the plug?

There's no other way around it, so I'll come right out and say it: After that garish funeral-palooza at the Staples Center, there are an awful lot of folk who need to take a good long look at the Man in that Mirror we've all heard so much about the last two weeks.

Looking back, that surreal tribute to Michael Jackson in a Philippines prison on June 27th was a dignified, classy celebration compared to what our own twisted celebrity culture had in store for us.

For me, the prevailing image of the whole spectacle will remain Joe Jackson -- an octogenarian ludicrously sporting a hoop earring -- repeatedly plugging his new record label -- only because someone else brought it up first, mind you. Four days after his son's demise, here was Joe and his business partner, the equally "opportunistic" Marshall Thompson, announcing the formation of Ranch Records -- because that's that Michael would have wanted.

In one clip, a CNN reporter repeatedly asks how the family is holding up, while a distracted Jackson appears far more concerned with bringing up the record label. Nice to see the gruesome exploitation continue after death.

Paul Mann 1960-2009

BOY OH BOY, lately it's been one downer after another. I hate having to write this, but I just learned via Facebook that one of my high school classmates was found dead today on the shore of Oregon's Columbia River after an apparent drowning. Paul Mann was a fellow Class of 1978 alum from long-defunct McBurney School in Manhattan. He helped out the football team as a manager, and was one of those guys who was truly well-liked by everyone: the Jocks, the Brains, the Freaks, the Stoners, you name it.

His father was the legendary jazz flutist Herbie Mann, who died six years ago. But you would never know his dad was a world-famous musician, as Paul was as down to earth as they come. Coming after we lost Tony Tortora about a year ago, this kind of sad news really brings home how fragile life is.

Body of paddle boarder found near Hood River this morning
by The Oregonian

If you click to enlarge this pic of our '75 football squad, Paul's the shaggy-haired fellow wearing the light blue jacket on the far right, just to the left of #74 (Ralph Tucker).

R.I.P, Paul.

Steve McNair 1973-2009

THIS IS NOT THE WAY star athletes are supposed to perish -- shot four times, twice to the head, with his mistress, 20-year-old Sahel Kazemi, lying dead next to him in a Nashville apartment. The 2003 co-MVP and a three-time Pro Bowl selection, Steve McNair exemplified toughness during a superb 13-year National Football League career with the Houston Oilers, Tennessee Titans and Baltimore Ravens. Just 36, he leaves behind a wife and 4 children.

Police are ruling that Kazemi shot McNair before turning the pistol on herself. Kazemi was driving a 2007 Cadillac Escalade with McNair in the passenger seat early Thursday morning when Nashville police pulled the couple over and charged her with driving under the influence. Two days later, the apparent murder-suicide occurred in the early morning hours of July 4.

The Seeds - Pushin' Too Hard

Slightly more obscure than either Michael Jackson or Farrah Fawcett, nevertheless it should be noted that the lead singer of The Seeds, Sky Saxon, also passed away on Thursday. This song is just fucking brilliant, a Top 40 hit in '67, as is Can't Seem to Make You Mine, later covered by the Ramones on Acid Eaters. Part of a wave of great garage bands captured on the terrific Nuggets series, The Seeds were punk in attitude before they were calling it such. Set volume to 11 and play often.

Back To Back Endings

SEVENTIES ICON FARRAH FAWCETT passed away this morning at age 62 after a long bout with cancer. I was just the right age to be, ahem, aroused by that famous poster of her in a red swimsuit -- her long curly blond tresses falling about her perky breasts while she cracked a dazzling smile exposing perfect white teeth. That pinup shot and the Sly Stallone Rocky poster were damn near ubiquitous in 1976 -- until that shot of John Travolta in a white leisure suit from Saturday Night Fever eclipsed both of them about a year later.

Charlie's Angels was just another cop show with a lame-ass premise except for the eye candy, but I was a mere lad of 15 when the series began and will admit to tuning in semi-regularly. But I was much more of a Kate Jackson fan if you must know. After just a single season, Fawcett would walk away from Charlie's Angels at the height of the show's popularity to pursue a film career, but contract issues forced her to return for a handful of cameo appearances as special agent Jill Munroe.

It's a shame Farrah couldn't even have a whole day to herself, because only minutes ago I heard a report of an even bigger cultural icon's demise: Michael Jackson went into cardiac arrest today and passed away. I was also the right age for the Jackson 5, and bought most of the group's early 45's like The Love You Save, I Want You Back, ABC and Rockin' Robin. To this day I still have those scratchy Jackson 5 singles I grew up with -- bought 'em way back in the day at Bobby's Beat, a record store which used to be on 31st Street off Ditmars Blvd. here in beautiful downtown Astoria; if we paid more than a buck apiece I'll take a bite out of the vinyl. I was never much of a fan of Jackson's later solo career, but it was hard to hate catchy songs like Thriller, Beat It and Billie Jean as they blasted out of radios in the 1980s. Now he's dead at age 50, only a year older than yours truly. Man, how I loved that Jackson 5 cartoon that used to run on Saturday mornings!

The website TMZ is reporting that the R&B legend is survived by three children, which I had forgotten about ... because let's be honest: "Dad" isn't the first thing that comes to mind when you hear Michael Jackson's name.

If celebrities indeed die in waves of three, then there's another big shoe to drop perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Then again maybe Sidekick Par Excellence Ed McMahon kicked off the celeb deathfest earlier this week, bowing out at age 86.

Just checked my official dusty singles bin and sure enough I've got the original blue label Motown 45's of The Love You Save b/w I Found That Girl from 1970; Got To Be There b/w Maria (You Were The Only One) from 1971; and Rockin' Robin b/w Love Is Here and Now You're Gone from '72-- timeless, almost perfect pop tunes. And actually to call these singles dusty and scratchy" doesn't do justice to their sorry condition! But I'm gonna play 'em anyway, hisses and all, after I finish this post, if only for nostalgia's sake.

Just for tonight, I'll remember Jackson as the precocious little teenager with the big voice and the nifty dance moves instead of the freak show pedophile and plastic surgery disaster he would later become. Not to make excuses for Jackson's later behavior in any way, but sometimes it's worth keeping in mind that the seeds for abhorrent adulthood are often sown in childhood.

His overbearing, abusive stage dad Joseph reportedly administered frequent beatings and punishments -- "Jackson recalled that Joseph sat in a chair with a belt in his hand as he and his siblings rehearsed and that if you didn't do it the right way, he would tear you up, really get you." -- and also cruelly nicknamed the young Jackson "Big Nose". Is there any wonder the kid later grew up with massive self-esteem issues? And who knows how much Jackson's tortured upbringing contributed to his literally never-ending search for an identity, and a face, that he could settle on.

The Los Angeles Times website just confirmed that Jackson went into a coma after his heart attack and then passed away shortly thereafter, at around 3:00 Pacific time. If you needed any more confirmation, Wikipedia just put a bow on their Michael Jackson entry with the proviso that "This article is about a person who has recently died. Some information, such as that pertaining to the circumstances of the person's death and surrounding events, may change rapidly as more facts become known."




















The Gloved One in 1984 with two of his more famous groupies.

Death By Association

IF, LIKE OCEAN WAVES, celebrity passings come in threes, then this past week made for some strange deadfellows. Shuffling off this mortal coil in rapid succession were Sam Butler, age 81, and Koko Taylor, 80, on Wednesday, followed by David Carradine, 72, Thursday. And although all three enjoyed a pretty nice run, check back with me in about 20 years: I have a feeling 72 years old is not gonna seem all that ancient or far away anymore.

I don't necessarily like when people die, but I do love to read a well-written obituary. Is that wrong? Does it say something morbid about me?? Is this seat taken???


Anyway, ladies first. Koko Taylor -- "Queen of the Blues" -- was the most highly regarded modern female blues singer after Etta James. Her version of Willie Dixon's raunchy roadhouse romp Wang Dang Doodle is absolutely the gold standard -- which is saying something considering how ferocious the Howlin' Wolf version is.

Taylor's rise was nothing less than a real-life rags to riches story. She grew up as Cora Walton on a plantation in Tennessee the daughter of a sharecropper and

"gave little thought to pursuing a career in music until she was living in Chicago, working as a cleaning woman by day and frequenting the city’s blues clubs with her husband by night. At Mr. Taylor’s urging, she began asking the performers to let her sit in.

In 1962 Willie Dixon, an influential behind-the-scenes presence in Chicago blues, heard one of her impromptu performances and said, as she later recalled, “I never heard a woman sing the blues like you sing the blues.” He took her to Chess Records, where he was a talent scout and producer, and wrote a number of songs for her, most notably “Wang Dang Doodle,” which she recorded despite her initial trepidation about its raunchy lyrics. It made her a star."

Sam Butera was best known as the wailing saxophone player and arranger on just about all of Louis Prima's classic '50s sides, as the serious record collectors say: Oh Marie, Just A Gigolo, Jump Jive an' Wail, Hey Boy Hey Girl. Butera also regularly served as a foil for Prima's in-song banter -- mostly being implored by the bandleader to keep up or blow harder or play what he just sang. And like any good sax man, you can't imagine the songs without his contribution (think Springsteen with no Clarence Clemons, or David Bowie's Changes missing the bittersweet sax coda)...

Butera formed his own band in the late '70s after Prima passed away, and he remained active until about five years ago, often playing with Keely Smith. And you have to be encouraged by Butera's ability to know crap when he sees it. According to The Times:

Among Mr. Butera’s best-known arrangements was the medley of “Just a Gigolo” and “I Ain’t Got Nobody” that was a hit for the Prima-Smith team in 1956. To Mr. Butera’s chagrin, it became an even bigger hit for the rock singer David Lee Roth three decades later. “He copied my arrangement note for note, and I didn’t get a dime for it,” Mr. Butera told The New York Times in 1997. “But there wasn’t an act in Atlantic City or Las Vegas that would do that song, out of respect for me.”

David Carradine will always be known for the hit '70s TV series Kung Fu, which has achieved almost cult status over the years -- that is, he WOULD HAVE always been known for his starring role in that Asian Western if -- and there's no real way to sugarcoat this -- the man had not been found dead with a rope tied around his private parts. Call me judgmental, but that kind of ignominious ending will tend to have an adverse effect on your reputation, on how people think of your body of work -- uh, legacy. But no, instead Mr. Fancypants Autoerotic Asphyxiation goes to Thailand and hangs himself in truly bizarre fashion instead of engaging in the more acceptable local custom of paying to have illicit sex with underage prostitutes like any normal, decent Westerner.

Actually, despite being the right age for Kung Fu when it ran from 1972-75, for whatever reason I never took to it. Instead, i got to listen to friends who did watch it reciting variations on the series' signature line "Snatch this pebble from my hand, grasshopper" whenever they could squeeze a reference in.

Bound for Glory -- the 1976 feature based on the Woody Guthrie autobiography whose title now takes on comically ironic overtones -- is the consensus critical choice as Carradine's best performance out of his more than 100 movie roles. However, as the Times dryly notes, Carradine was "a busy actor if not always the most discriminating in his choice of roles."

In the excellent Times obit, observing the more respectful graciousness of the format, habitual obituarist Bruce Weber omits mention of just what role the actor's bound genitalia may have played in his demise, while revealing that Bangkok police were treating the whole mess as a suicide -- apparently standard operating procedure even in Thailand when a dead man is found swinging from the light fixture.

I jumped off the Quentin Tarantino bandwagon pretty much for good about 10 years ago (right after Jackie Brown, which I liked) , soon after realizing what a complete, utter doofus the guy is -- so I never did see Carradine in either of the gratuitously violent Kill Bills. In me 'umble opinion, the Kill Bill franchise was Tarentino's desperate, cynical attempt to rescue his flagging career by making movies so repulsively violent that critics would have to take notice, moronic suburban teenagers would flock to the multiplex, and clueless hipsters would watch it in some downtown art house & pretentiously hail it as a masterpiece of cinema, you know the type: "Kurosawa meets Peckinpah."
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Also saw on the Daily News website yesterday a story about Tony Darrow, an actor you'd know by face, who was arrested Thursday at LaGuardia Airport and charged with good-old-fashioned extortion stemming from a 2004 incident involving known members of the bent-nose crew Joseph "Joey Boy" Orlando and Giovanni "Nothing Catchy Rhymes With My Name" Monteleone. Darrow, like just about every Italian-American actor, was in The Sopranos, but as Bamboo Lounge owner Sonny Bunz, he had some of the most quotable lines in Goodfellas as he runs afoul of the crazy Joe Pesci character, including the demented:

"But I'm worried... I mean, I'm hearin' all kinds a fuckin' bad things. I mean he's treating me like I'm a fuckin' half-a-fag or somethin'. I'm gonna wind up a lammist, I gotta go on the fuckin' lam in order to get away from this guy? This ain't right, Paulie."

So his acting career is not only on hold, but now in intensive care and on life support. It looks like the guy's gonna be doing some time here -- officially unavailable anytime soon to play those mob stooge types he had down to a science.
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Gone Too Soon

SOME REAL SAD NEWS for music fans of a certain age and taste. Just clicked on the New York Times website and the first thing to catch my eye is Jay Bennett, Ex-Member of Wilco, Dies at 45. Bennett made news earlier this month after filing a lawsuit against former bandmate Jeff Tweedy for unpaid royalties over his contribution to five Wilco records and his appearance in the movie I Am Trying to Break Your Heart. Cause of death is still unknown at this time, with the obituary saying he died in his sleep early Sunday morning.

In fact, it was seeing the Wilco movie in a Greenwich Village theater when it first came out in 2002 that drove me to jump off the Jeff Tweedy-Wilco bandwagon, never to climb back on. I thought Tweedy came off as overbearing and humorless in that film, and the shabby way he treated Bennett left a real bad taste in my mouth.

I always felt Wilco lost its heart and soul when it ousted Bennett. Tweedy in particular seemed to patronize the dreadlocked guitarist as they butted heads over the direction of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, with Tweedy trying to move the band away from its Americana roots and Bennett wanting to add some rock-and-roll attitude to the songs. Tweedy "won" that debate, and my revenge has been ignoring all things Wilco ever since. Despite my boycott, Wilco has done just fine, judging by the often over-the-top critical praise from every quarter as Tweedy took the band in new directions.

That said, the first Wilco album, 1995's A.M. was an unabashed country-rock romp and remains one of my favorite albums. Bennett would join Wilco for the expansive second double album Being There and remain through Summerteeth and YHF, in addition to playing a major role in the two terrific Mermaid Avenue albums adapted from Woody Guthrie lyrics made with British punk-folkie Billy Bragg.

What propels the songs on A.M. more than the songwriting are the tasty guitar licks played by Brian Henneman of the underrated Bottle Rockets -- elevating songs like "Boxful of Records," "I Must Be High" and "Pick Up the Change" to a higher level, just as multi-instrumentalist Bennett would do with future Wilco material when he came on board for 1996's Being There.

I remember reading about Bennett's lawsuit, and Tweedy's cavalier response had the effect of turning me off even more: "It was such a long time ago. Aside from everything else, I'm being sued for not paying someone for appearing in a movie I didn't produce. Go figure."

Apparently Bennett lived the last few months of his life in intense pain, but didn't have enough health insurance to pay for the hip surgery he needed. According to court documents, he was seeking damages of $50,000 in his suit, a relatively small amount considering the big part he played in Wilco's financial success.

The one time I saw Wilco live was just over 10 years ago -- Irving Plaza here in NYC on April 21, 1999 (my birthday) -- an outstanding, rollicking show, as were the Austin City Limits and Sessions at West 54th concert broadcasts from around the same time which I taped. Watching those shows over the years, what stands out is the sheer fun the band is having onstage as they rip through the sets. But Tweedy was so intent on moving away from alt-country toward something less pop-oriented and more experimental that he was willing to dump his ex-guitarist in the process.

In addition to his work with Wilco and solo releases, Bennett was a highly respected session musician and producer, working with artists as diverse as Billy Joe Shaver, Blues Traveler and Sheryl Crow. R.I.P., Jay, you'll be missed more than you probably ever thought -- out of sight, yes, but definitely not out of mind.
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Boogie Woogie Flu has a selection of Wilco songs, including some alternate takes and rarities, that Bennett had a major hand shaping; here's your link to yesterday's memorial post.

Here's a link to Cover Lay Down's Bennett tribute, also well worth checking out.

Aquarium Drunkard has demos and other outtakes from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Adios Lounge has a Jay Bennett & Edward Burch solo tune from a 2002 Minneapolis appearance.

And here's Bennett's myspace page, where you can hear his latest solo album and read the heartfelt testimonials from his fans.

"Tall buildings shake,
Voices escape singing sad sad songs,
Tuned to chords strung down your cheeks,
Bitter melodies turning your orbit around.
Voices whine,
skyscrapers are scraping together,
your voice is smoking,
last cigarettes are all you can get,
turning your orbit around.
Our love, our love, our love is all we have.
Our love, our love is all of God's money, everyone is a burning sun."
Jesus, Etc. (Bennett, Tweedy)

Cramps' Lux Interior Dead

THE MUSIC WORLD lost another larger-than-life figure this week as Lux Interior, lead singer and founding member of Psychobilly legends The Cramps, passed away at age 62.

Even among New York City punk bands, there was something so menacing, so authentically fiendish about The Cramps that they stood apart from the scene even as they were a major component of it. In an era when it was good capital sense to pretend to be psychologically unhinged and mentally unbalanced, The Cramps seemed more than a little out there, even while playing up the more campy aspects of their ghoulish, horror movie persona for all it was worth.

The basic Cramps lineup featured no bass guitar, just two guitars and drums and a lean, emaciated, quite possibly deranged lead singer calling himself Lux Interior (real name Erick Purkhiser). The visual focus onstage alternated between the mostly shirtless lead singer and statuesque guitarist Poison Ivy dressed in tight black leather (real name Kristy Wallace, perhaps the original intimidating goth chick). Their signature sound was Neo and Retro at the same time, a blistering combo of 1950s rockabilly and 1960s garage punk. But as Lux himself is quoted in the excellent New York Times' obit: "Rock ’n’ roll has absolutely nothing to do with music. It’s much more than music. Rock ’n’ roll is who you are. You can’t call the Cramps music. It’s noise, rockin’ noise."
The Cramps for the most part operated under the radar of FM radio and the mainstream music business. But on their two best full length albums -- Songs the Lord Taught Us and Psychedelic Jungle -- as well as on the essential early compilation Bad Music For Bad People, they were right up there for a while with the best that the Punk genre could offer. It was pop music, sure, but somehow it seemed less like a mere commercial product that you held in your hands and more like a personal companion in your own struggle for identity and search for meaning.

Rudimentary as their musicianship may have been when starting out in 1976, like many fellow punk bands, after 2 or 3 years of steady touring, The Cramps emerged as a riveting live act. Their trademark sound was a primitive, almost primordial beat that seemed to rise up from some dark swamp where the baser, cruder instincts of mankind still lurked. I think All Music Guide nicely sums up The Cramps' trashy appeal: "The Cramps celebrate all that is dirty and gaudy with a perverse joy that draws in listeners with its fleshy decadence, not unlike an enchanted gingerbread house on the Las Vegas strip."