I knew from repeated experimentation — and subsequent disappointment — that Van Morrison records had stopped being worth owning sometime between Veedon Fleece and Wavelength — and even that mid-70s block was a marginal, iffy period. To have a truly psychedelic experience with Van required a large supply of candles and a Mexican Talavera candlestick, a painful breakup or some other source of profound melancholy, and an evening or two of total, incense-drenched immersion in Astral Weeks or a few of the more floaty tracks from Moondance or The Bang Masters. Van at his apex was a powerful force – the passion of Joe Cocker, mind-melded with the mysticism of Nick Drake.

Creem Magazine rock writer Lester Bangs on a live Van performance from the Astral Weeks era:

Just those words, repeated slowly again and again, distended, permutated, turned into scat, suspended in space and then scattered to the winds, muttered like a mantra till they turn into nonsense syllables, then back into the same soaring image as time seems to stop entirely. He stands there with eyes closed, singing, transported, while the band poises quivering over great open-tuned deep blue gulfs of their own.

Continue reading Want a Danish from Van Morrison? →

If I mentioned that Oakland-based guitar guru Henry Kaiser ventured into the Deep South for a recording, you might think of Lynyrd Skynyrd, or if you’re younger, perhaps the Drive-By Truckers and Cee-Lo. But Muscle Shoals and Jacksonville must seem like mid-northern outposts to the globetrotting Kaiser, who earlier this year became the first musician to record a CD in Antarctica. The CD isn’t available yet, but his website provides proof of his use of the South Pole as a guitar slide. And I recently had the pleasure of taking my daughter Amelia to see his kid-friendly triple threat performance at Oakland’s Chabot Space and Science Center, in which Kaiser simultaneously lectured about Antarctica’s fragile ecology, narrated an Antarctic video he shot underwater, and played a few guitar riffs that would be completely beyond your reach unless your name is Richard Thompson or Nels Cline.

Kaiser, whose similarly named grandfather was the father of modern shipbuilding, has a fascinatingly well-rounded life and a staggeringly eclectic musical career. I first encountered his work in the late eighties, when he joined forces with Thompson, Henry Cow guitarist Fred Frith, and Captain Beefheart drummer John “Drumbo” French for the good-natured avant-geek supergroup French, Frith, Kaiser, and Thompson. Since then, he’s teamed with hirsute fellow traveler David Lindley for two first-rate musical anthologies, the Madagascar-based A World Out of Time and the Norwegian opus The Sweet Sunny North. His Yo Miles! collaborations with trumpeter Wadada Leo Smith and a roving cast explore and extend Miles Davis’ seventies electric legacy.

Despite producing a New Years Day event called Icestock with a poster assist from his friend Matt Groening, Kaiser wasn’t simply slumming it in Antarctica. He’s been there several times as part of his other career as a professional research diver, and his gorgeous video footage of Antarctica’s life aquatic, filmed while swimming underneath a twenty-foot ice sheet, will be featured in Werner Herzog’s forthcoming film, Encounters at the End of the World. Kaiser’s firsthand account of Antarctica’s melting ice shelf also might help persuade the three or four people left out there who doubt the reality of global warming (all of whom seem to hold public office).

Those of us who go back a ways with Iggy Pop know that he certainly has more than a little “Lust for Life” — even at age 60. He was full of lust when I saw him eat dog food on stage almost 30 years ago.

I’d never imagined that the cruise line travel industry would one day be channeling subliminal messages from William S. Burroughs through The Iguana, carefully masked as a ploy to sell us on the joy of ocean cruises. But for the past couple years, a certain vacation cruise line has been running a snippet of Pop’s “Lust for Life” with a strange edit that aims to soften the song into some kind of hip “let’s party on a ship” message.

Continue reading Just Like Hypnotizing Chickens →

When I’m on road trips, a favorite pastime is to flip through the radio dial trying to find local stations featuring regional music or other hidden treasures I may have overlooked. In recent years, though, these flips through the dial have increasingly become the aural equivalent of what urban sprawl critic James Howard Kunstler has termed the “geography of nowhere,” with the “local” stations’ music having all the color and life of the surrounding strip malls. Fortunately, an important bill just introduced in Congress, the Local Community Radio Act of 2007, will if passed remove an ill-conceived legal barrier that has thwarted the development of community radio for years.

The desensitizing sameness I’ve noticed on the road is not a coincidence. The nonprofit Media Access Project, which provides legal support for independent radio, reports that in the aftermath of the 1996 Telecommunications Act, the total number of radio station owners has dropped by a third. Radio behemoth Clear Channel alone now operates over 1200 stations, and in most markets, four or fewer companies control more than seventy percent of total market share. By 2003, the average cost of a conventional radio license had grown to more than $2.5 million.

In 2000, with radio rapidly turning into a tame game played by multimillionaires, the Federal Communications Commission experienced an outburst of common sense. That year, the FCC set up rules that were designed to authorize thousands of noncommercial Low Power FM (LPFM) stations to serve communities at a fraction of the costs of a conventional station. But sadly, Congress several months later succumbed to lobbying pressure from the National Association of Broadcasters, leaving LPFM literally stuck between stations. The resulting law, sneaked into an unrelated appropriations bill, effectively barred LPFM from the 50 largest media markets in the country, by requiring these new stations to stay at least four intervals on the radio dial (0.6 megahertz) from existing full-power stations. And in a twist on Elvis Costello’s prediction in “Radio Radio,” radio is now in the hands of a shrinking number of fools “trying to anesthetize the way that you feel.”

Continue reading Stuck Between Radio Stations →

Yesterday on National Public Radio’s dependably hilarious quiz show, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, Associate Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer attempted to answer questions inspired by a Blender article on the 50 craziest pop stars. Justice Breyer proved to be a good sport with a decent sense of humor, which you’d need to get through a day job spent arguing with Antonin Scalia, Samuel Alito, and Clarence Thomas. But unfortunately, the esteemed justice was unable to correctly answer any of the questions about David Bowie (crazy pop star #41), Ozzy Osbourne (#10), or Iggy Pop (#26). Justice Breyer was not only unaware that Ozzy had asked for directions to the bar at the Betty Ford clinic, but was unaware of his very existence. He had no idea that David Bowie had once attempted to exorcise Satan from his swimming pool. Most disappointingly for me, Breyer incorrectly believed that the Chief Stooge had spoken only in rhyme for a year while hanging out with Bowie in Berlin. The correct answer–as I’m sure our readers already know–is that Iggy ate only German sausages for a year. So much for Stanford, Harvard and the highest circles of American jurisprudence giving you a proper education.

If you scratch at the surface a bit, Mr. Pop and Mr. Breyer may have more in common than meets the eye. One wrote a satirical (I think) song called “I’m a Conservative,” while the other spends most of his waking hours skewering the logic of right-wing jurists. Both understand the fearsome consequences of raw power. Both grew up in middle class families; both try to stay in shape and know their way around a golf course; both ride through the city at night, seeing the bright and hollow sky and the city’s ripped backsides. Okay, maybe Iggy a little more than Steve on the last one.

As someone who straddles musical and legal circles, I appreciate little moments when these worlds collide. One of my favorites is the 1987 appellate ruling in United States v. Abner, the notorious Talking Heads decision. In it, an enterprising Heads-obsessed judicial clerk managed to sneak 25 references to Talking Heads recordings into the published ruling of federal judge Reynaldo Garza.

This week, Stuck Between Stations combed through a Denny’s shortstack of YouTube bookmarks to find videos that simply will not escape the brain, no matter how many times you call the sheriff to force their eviction. The visual equivalent of ear-worms, these A/V train wrecks take up residence in the corpus callosum, either because of or despite their badness, and lodge there for keeps, like grains of sand in your Juicyfruit. There are elements of awe and sadomasochism at work here. It’s not just that these videos are “so bad they’re good” (though there’s plenty of campy indulgence); we’ve come to genuinely love these “bad” music videos, and offer no apologies. In Vol. 1, Roger and Scot subject themselves to South Indian breakdancing music, the bizarre-but-relevant soul stylings of Tay Zonday, a troupe of angry geriatrics covering The Who, an airborne David Hasselhoff, the worst Star Wars theme song cover ever taped, and Leonard Nimoy’s foray into Hobbiton.

Continue reading Hooked on a Feeling, Vol. 1 →

Part One: International Sheep of Mystery

With a style that veers between downright rude and merely impudent, Rufus Leaking isn’t your usual music reporter. He began an interview with funk legend George Clinton by introducing him as the “42nd President of the United States,” and spent most of the time asking him where he thought he could park the Mothership in downtown Washington, D.C. He virtually forced Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips to join him in a karaoke version of Starship’s “We Built this City,” even though neither of them actually knew how the song went. He gave members of Cypress Hill an impromptu anatomy quiz, compared singing actress Juliette Lewis to Corey Feldman, and confused Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst with Frank Sinatra (Bright Eyes, Blue Eyes, whatever). Yet musicians have clamored for a chance to appear on his obscure, low budget television show, whose roster of visiting talent could give the Lollapalooza, Coachella and Roskilde festivals a run for their money.

Who is this man? Actually, Rufus Leaking is a puppet with an identity crisis. Self-described on his website as an “international sheep of mystery,” he’s sometimes described in media accounts as a goat puppet. Whatever his barnyard origins, he’s the host of a wonderful Washington, D.C.-based children’s television show called Pancake Mountain, presently on hiatus while its creator, film producer Scott Stuckey (grandson of the roadside snack empire’s founders) revamps its format and tries to expand its reach. Previous episodes are available on DVD. Let’s hope Stuckey succeeds, because at its best, Pancake Mountain celebrates the simple pleasures of making a joyful noise, or at least a tremendous racket. In one of the inaugural episodes, D.C. punk pioneer Ian MacKaye used the show to introduce the Evens, his pop-savvy duo with former Warmers drummer Amy Farina. The Evens’ “Vowel Movement,” a charming ode to “six important letters,” makes you wonder what might have been if Fugazi and Minor Threat had smiled a bit and performed in matching jumpsuits.

Continue reading Return to Pancake Mountain →

Sadly, Don Aicardi’s comment about my previous Dylan-does-Dr. Seuss post is true: Dylan Hears a Who is no more, and you can blame the Doctor’s handlers. The message at dylanhearsawho.com notes: “At the request of Dr. Seuss Enterprises, LP, this site has been retired.” That brings this episode a bit of resemblance to that of Bruce Springstone, the 1982 moniker of Baltimore journalist and cartoonist Tom Chalkley, who completely nailed that wheezy working-class Jersey drone. To his credit, Springsteen got the joke and just sent a postcard to Chalkley saying “Heard your record. Cute.” But Hanna-Barbera got hot and bothered, filing a cease-and-desist order that terminated production after 35,000 copies of the record (including mine). Hanna-Barbera’s nastiness was perhaps predictable, because one of the record’s highlights was the cartoon cover art of drummer John Ebersberger featuring Dino the dinosaur in the Clarence Clemmons role (any resemblance of Clarence Clemmons’ sax riffs to those of an actual dinosaur was, I’m sure, just coincidental). For a novelty record, the music holds up as well; truth be told, I’ve probably played my vinyl copy of the “Bedrock Rap/ Meet the Flinstones” medley more often than “Born to Run” itself over the last quarter-century.

On a related note, the miracle of YouTube has brought back Little Roger and the Goosebumps’ proto-mashup of “Stairway to Heaven” and the Gilligan’s Island theme song, which caused quite a ruckus among self-righteous stoners back in 1978. For what it’s worth, Robert Plant eventually met Little Roger, claiming that he always liked the parody and that Jimmy Page was the humorless bore who successfully prevailed on Led Zeppelin’s legal team to get the record banned. That must have been a very busy legal team–during the same period, for example, the Zeppelin boys threw a couch out of the 11th floor window of Chicago’s Ambassador East hotel, apparently hoping that Joe Walsh’s accountants would pay for it all.

If you’re in the mood for a more challenging reworking of that Zeppelin warhorse, don’t miss the terrific 2006 version by Rodrigo y Gabriela, the most accomplished metal-influenced Mexican acoustic guitar duo in all of Ireland.

The Rolling Stones have become the scourge of Serbian humane societies due to their plan to hold a July concert at Belgrade’s Hippodrome, home to hundreds of horses that live a few meters from the stage. If things get out of hand, Hippodrome staff plan to give the horses Bensedin, an animal tranquilizer that became popular with humans during NATO air strikes in 1999. Since the horses can’t be moved safely, Serbia’s largest animal protection group, ORCA, is trying to get the concert moved to a different location. As a former humane society director, I hope the Stones find a more suitable venue. What I wonder is why any promoter would even consider a concert plan that places Keith Richards a few meters from a huge supply of animal tranquilizers. This is the same Keef who, just last month, famously told a New Musical Express reporter he had once snorted his father’s ashen remains with cocaine, only to later issue a retraction the reporter found disingenuous.

Whether the Stones will give the horses any reason to get excited is unknown. Mick and Keith are as professional as two deranged codgers can get. But artistically, they’ve mostly been gathering moss since 1978’s Some Girls, and relying on the near-bulletproof drumming of Charlie Watts to roll over the tough spots. The music blog of Philadelphia’s WXPN has unearthed a Stones performance that really could have gotten the horses moving— a dirty, bluesy romp on the TV show Shindig (complete with groovy backup dancers) that unexpectedly segues into a star turn for Howlin’ Wolf, accompanied by Billy Preston on piano.

What Stones material would rank as the most likely to cause equestrian unrest? I’d probably vote for a loud and fuzzy version of the entire Exile on Main St. album. Let us know what you’d choose.

Iggy Pop is missing some bones. I’m sure of it. There’s no other way to explain how his 60-year-old frame can slither through space the way it does. The rippled wall of lithe-yet-steely muscle he calls a torso compensates for the bonelessness, suspending The Iguana like a marionette. Fewer bones, more muscle, and just a little bit of celebratory butt crack to seal the deal (unless he gets pantsed, in which case all bets are off). Iggy’s body is one of the most beautiful canvases ever to grace a stage, which makes it all the more amazing that after all these years of hard living, Iggy still has no tattoos. It’s as if he knows that any art would detract from, rather than add to, the visual spectacle of his body. Wonder if Henry Rollins sometimes wishes he had stuck with his birthday suit.

Iggy Pop turned 60 yesterday, in front of an audience wishing it had half as much energy at 40. But make no mistake – this was a Stooges show, not an Iggy Pop show. All tracks were from the eponymous first Stooges album, Fun House, or their recent The Weirdness, with not a single nothin’ from the dozen-plus albums released under Iggy’s own name or recorded with other bands. That was OK, since some of us consider The Stooges and Fun House to be Rosetta Stones of rock, untouchable and unrepeatable in their massiveness, both in sound and in influence (it’s hard to imagine what punk or heavy metal might have evolved to become without these two albums). And yet Iggy seemed oblivious to his own birthday, until the band launched into a thudding version of “Happy Birthday” late in the show, and balloons silkscreened with Pop’s praying hands Raw Power image fell from the sky. The SF Chronicle summarizes last Thursday’s show pretty well: “Punk’s godfather is now its grandfather.”

Continue reading The Iguana at 60 →