BillJanovitz.com and PartTimeManofRock.com will both be the same site now. All new covers and post will live there as this site comes to an end.
Keep checking in!
B
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Summer Songs for Boston Mag
This is the full, unedited version of a post I wrote for Boston Magazine.
With my day job marketing real estate entering the semi-dormant state of the dead of summer, my attention veers back to music, specifically, songs that I love to play during the summer. Since I am trying out Spotify (user name billjanovitz), I will attempt to share a playlist there for the first time. Let's see if this experiment works with this link. I make no claim that these are the 10 best summer songs of all time (you would need "Summertime Blues," "Dancing in the Street," and "Heat Wave" on such a list.) These are not necessarily even my top 10, but they are the first 10 that jump to mind right now.
One of my band's (Buffalo Tom) best-known songs is called, "Summer," in fact. And like that song, many of my picks here have to do with the passing of summer or are otherwise melancholy. In fact, one of my song's lines goes, "Summer's gone, a summer song/You've wasted everyday." Uplifting, eh? I think this has every thing to do with growing up in the Northeast, where summer is so precious, and every year it seems to pass ever more quickly. We trot out all the cliches about the passage of time. And that is what my favorite summer-themed songs explore. Make the summer count, goes the sentiment, and by extension, make every day of life meaningful.
1. The Beach Boys, "Surfer Girl"
How could any list of summer songs not include a Beach Boys song? In fact, I could easily constitute the list with all Beach Boys numbers, including other melancholy numbers like "In My Room." This song is all about pining all summer for a girl from afar, an elusive surfer girl, over the classic pop ballad chord progression and a bed of plaintive Four Freshman-like harmonies. Poor old Brian wasn't the surfer. His brother, Dennis was. Brian was just a fish out of water more comfortable in his room. Pet Sounds was the real Brian. And so was his lament, "Surfer Girl."
2. War, "Summer"
OK, let's stop wallowing for a minute and just enjoy summer with this one from the band War. I am a child of the 1970s, so more than a couple of my picks are from that era. War sings of many of the cultural highlights of the '70s: "Riding 'round town with all the windows down/Eight track playin' all your favorite sounds." Late they sing about vans and CB radios. It was like they had a direct line to my heart and soul, or at least my fantasy world. It has such a good latin-funk groove that you can't help but chill.
3. Sly & The Family Stone, "Hot Sun in the Summertime"
This is one that would appear on the lists of many folks, no doubt. From 1969, the genre-smashing Sly & the Family Stone, offering a nostalgic look back at summer's past, but still celebratory of summers present. Sly could ease off of the funk pedal now and then with a big blast of horn-driven pop like this one.
4. Lou Rawls, "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine"
Some songs just remind you of summer, even if the lyrics have nothing to do with the theme. This Gamble & Huff smash was released in 1976. Every time I hear it, it brings me back to summer of that year. I was 10, growing up on the north shore beaches of Long Island. This latin-funk-tinged slab of Philly soul was number one in July 1976. It poured forth out of every little Panasonic transistor radio on the beach, wafting over the gentle breakers on the jetty. I remember watching Lou on the "Tonight Show with Johnny Carson" that summer. Johnny asked Lou, "do you like any of the new singers out today?" Lou replied, smoothly, "awww yeah, man. I love 'em all." Probing in that hardball way Johnny was known for, he pressed on, "anyone specifically you like to listen to?" Lou, kept his cool, undaunted, not prone to the sort of panic that would result in a weaker man blurting out something like "K.C. & the Sunshine band," just purred again, "aww, I just love 'em all." And I believed him.
5. Frank Sinatra, "The Summer Wind."
Frank Sinatra once said that Lou Rawls had "the classiest singing and silkiest chops in the singing game." Which leads me to a Sinatra number. I grew up with this song (my mother is a 100% Italian New Yorker) but when I heard it over the opening scene ofThe Pope of Greenwich Village, with Mickey Rourke getting all dressed to the nines for his gig as a restaurant manager, it was sort of life-changing, or at least a revelation. I went to thinking Frank was actually cool. Sure, we all know that now, but this was 1984. I was 18. Sure, I liked Frank, but I didn't think he was cool. What the hell did I know? I was a kid, for chrissakes! I have sung this song at weddings, piano bars at Frank's Steakhouse, and the Paddock, not to mention karaoke joints around the world. What a lyric by Johnny Mercer: "Like painted kites, those days and nights, they went flying by/The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky." And what a powerful Nelson Riddle arrangement of a Henry Meyer composition! It swings, baby! the version on my Spotify playlist is an older Frank, live at Radio City, from 1990. The years in his voice adds another layer of depth to the poignant lyric.
6. João Gilberto, Meditação ("Meditation)
The bossa nova stylings of Antonio Carlos Jobim and João Gilberto make for deeply satisfying summer listening. Gilberto is credited as creating this style, which take the beat of the samba but brings it to a stripped down, mellower context. Gilberto worked with the writer and producer Jobim to record some of the 20th century's most sublime melodies and lyrics. Depending on the translation from the native Portuguese, these songs can achieve the same Zen effect of Haiku, with nature, solitude, and meditation common threads that run between the art forms. Gilberto provides this evergreen Jobim song with his unadorned vocal style, which allows the listener to just soak in the melody, rest in the gentle samba sway, and ponder the rich lyric.
7. Chet Baker, "There Will Never Be Another You."
Chet Baker is closely identified with the "West Coast cool" offshoot of bop, which traded influences with bossa nova. One can here the similar "flat" style of singing, the relative straightforward presentation of the melody, and the gentle swing. There are few hard edges, but don't this stuff as "light." Chet's singing is deeply emotional and he was a real jazz player, surrounded by some of the best in the business when he tok to the microphone for his seminal Chet Baker Sings (1956)
8. The Rolling Stones, "Memory Motel"
Growing up on Long Island, we heard about this being written at and/or about the motel of the same name out in Montauk. This record, like many of the Stones' middle period, is actually quite underrated. This ballad screams 1970s summer and is one of my all-time fave Stones numbers. "When I asked her where she's headed for/'Back up to Boston, I'm singing in a bar.'"
9. Elvin Bishop, "Fooled Around and Fell in Love"
Elvin Bishop was one of those guitarists who had an act under his own name but had his biggest hit with a guest vocalist, Mickey Thomas, a top blue-eyed soul singer who went on to become the lead singer in Jefferson Starship. This smash was peaked at number three on the charts in May of 1976 but was all over the radio that summer, hence its effective placement in movies like Boogie Nights and Summer of Sam. It has that "burned out at the end of a hot summer's day" feel to me, driving home all sunburned at the beach.
10. Grateful Dead, "U.S. Blues"
As I said, I am unapologetically a child of the 1970s, and this is an shameless summer anthem, filled with images of Americana, name-dropping the likes of P.T. Barnum and Charlie Chan, flag waving and bits of other old-timey summertime fun.
With my day job marketing real estate entering the semi-dormant state of the dead of summer, my attention veers back to music, specifically, songs that I love to play during the summer. Since I am trying out Spotify (user name billjanovitz), I will attempt to share a playlist there for the first time. Let's see if this experiment works with this link. I make no claim that these are the 10 best summer songs of all time (you would need "Summertime Blues," "Dancing in the Street," and "Heat Wave" on such a list.) These are not necessarily even my top 10, but they are the first 10 that jump to mind right now.
One of my band's (Buffalo Tom) best-known songs is called, "Summer," in fact. And like that song, many of my picks here have to do with the passing of summer or are otherwise melancholy. In fact, one of my song's lines goes, "Summer's gone, a summer song/You've wasted everyday." Uplifting, eh? I think this has every thing to do with growing up in the Northeast, where summer is so precious, and every year it seems to pass ever more quickly. We trot out all the cliches about the passage of time. And that is what my favorite summer-themed songs explore. Make the summer count, goes the sentiment, and by extension, make every day of life meaningful.
1. The Beach Boys, "Surfer Girl"
How could any list of summer songs not include a Beach Boys song? In fact, I could easily constitute the list with all Beach Boys numbers, including other melancholy numbers like "In My Room." This song is all about pining all summer for a girl from afar, an elusive surfer girl, over the classic pop ballad chord progression and a bed of plaintive Four Freshman-like harmonies. Poor old Brian wasn't the surfer. His brother, Dennis was. Brian was just a fish out of water more comfortable in his room. Pet Sounds was the real Brian. And so was his lament, "Surfer Girl."
2. War, "Summer"
OK, let's stop wallowing for a minute and just enjoy summer with this one from the band War. I am a child of the 1970s, so more than a couple of my picks are from that era. War sings of many of the cultural highlights of the '70s: "Riding 'round town with all the windows down/Eight track playin' all your favorite sounds." Late they sing about vans and CB radios. It was like they had a direct line to my heart and soul, or at least my fantasy world. It has such a good latin-funk groove that you can't help but chill.
3. Sly & The Family Stone, "Hot Sun in the Summertime"
This is one that would appear on the lists of many folks, no doubt. From 1969, the genre-smashing Sly & the Family Stone, offering a nostalgic look back at summer's past, but still celebratory of summers present. Sly could ease off of the funk pedal now and then with a big blast of horn-driven pop like this one.
4. Lou Rawls, "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine"
Some songs just remind you of summer, even if the lyrics have nothing to do with the theme. This Gamble & Huff smash was released in 1976. Every time I hear it, it brings me back to summer of that year. I was 10, growing up on the north shore beaches of Long Island. This latin-funk-tinged slab of Philly soul was number one in July 1976. It poured forth out of every little Panasonic transistor radio on the beach, wafting over the gentle breakers on the jetty. I remember watching Lou on the "Tonight Show with Johnny Carson" that summer. Johnny asked Lou, "do you like any of the new singers out today?" Lou replied, smoothly, "awww yeah, man. I love 'em all." Probing in that hardball way Johnny was known for, he pressed on, "anyone specifically you like to listen to?" Lou, kept his cool, undaunted, not prone to the sort of panic that would result in a weaker man blurting out something like "K.C. & the Sunshine band," just purred again, "aww, I just love 'em all." And I believed him.
5. Frank Sinatra, "The Summer Wind."
Frank Sinatra once said that Lou Rawls had "the classiest singing and silkiest chops in the singing game." Which leads me to a Sinatra number. I grew up with this song (my mother is a 100% Italian New Yorker) but when I heard it over the opening scene ofThe Pope of Greenwich Village, with Mickey Rourke getting all dressed to the nines for his gig as a restaurant manager, it was sort of life-changing, or at least a revelation. I went to thinking Frank was actually cool. Sure, we all know that now, but this was 1984. I was 18. Sure, I liked Frank, but I didn't think he was cool. What the hell did I know? I was a kid, for chrissakes! I have sung this song at weddings, piano bars at Frank's Steakhouse, and the Paddock, not to mention karaoke joints around the world. What a lyric by Johnny Mercer: "Like painted kites, those days and nights, they went flying by/The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky." And what a powerful Nelson Riddle arrangement of a Henry Meyer composition! It swings, baby! the version on my Spotify playlist is an older Frank, live at Radio City, from 1990. The years in his voice adds another layer of depth to the poignant lyric.
6. João Gilberto, Meditação ("Meditation)
The bossa nova stylings of Antonio Carlos Jobim and João Gilberto make for deeply satisfying summer listening. Gilberto is credited as creating this style, which take the beat of the samba but brings it to a stripped down, mellower context. Gilberto worked with the writer and producer Jobim to record some of the 20th century's most sublime melodies and lyrics. Depending on the translation from the native Portuguese, these songs can achieve the same Zen effect of Haiku, with nature, solitude, and meditation common threads that run between the art forms. Gilberto provides this evergreen Jobim song with his unadorned vocal style, which allows the listener to just soak in the melody, rest in the gentle samba sway, and ponder the rich lyric.
7. Chet Baker, "There Will Never Be Another You."
Chet Baker is closely identified with the "West Coast cool" offshoot of bop, which traded influences with bossa nova. One can here the similar "flat" style of singing, the relative straightforward presentation of the melody, and the gentle swing. There are few hard edges, but don't this stuff as "light." Chet's singing is deeply emotional and he was a real jazz player, surrounded by some of the best in the business when he tok to the microphone for his seminal Chet Baker Sings (1956)
8. The Rolling Stones, "Memory Motel"
Growing up on Long Island, we heard about this being written at and/or about the motel of the same name out in Montauk. This record, like many of the Stones' middle period, is actually quite underrated. This ballad screams 1970s summer and is one of my all-time fave Stones numbers. "When I asked her where she's headed for/'Back up to Boston, I'm singing in a bar.'"
9. Elvin Bishop, "Fooled Around and Fell in Love"
Elvin Bishop was one of those guitarists who had an act under his own name but had his biggest hit with a guest vocalist, Mickey Thomas, a top blue-eyed soul singer who went on to become the lead singer in Jefferson Starship. This smash was peaked at number three on the charts in May of 1976 but was all over the radio that summer, hence its effective placement in movies like Boogie Nights and Summer of Sam. It has that "burned out at the end of a hot summer's day" feel to me, driving home all sunburned at the beach.
10. Grateful Dead, "U.S. Blues"
As I said, I am unapologetically a child of the 1970s, and this is an shameless summer anthem, filled with images of Americana, name-dropping the likes of P.T. Barnum and Charlie Chan, flag waving and bits of other old-timey summertime fun.
Summer Songs for Boston Mag
This is the full, unedited version of a post I wrote for Boston Magazine.
With my day job marketing real estate entering the semi-dormant state of the dead of summer, my attention veers back to music, specifically, songs that I love to play during the summer. Since I am trying out Spotify, I will attempt to share a playlist there for the first time. Let's see if this experiment works with this link. I make no claim that these are the 10 best summer songs of all time (you would need "Summertime Blues," "Dancing in the Street," and "Heat Wave" on such a list.) These are not necessarily even my top 10, but they are the first 10 that jump to mind right now.
One of my band's (Buffalo Tom) best-known songs is called, "Summer," in fact. And like that song, many of my picks here have to do with the passing of summer or are otherwise melancholy. In fact, one of my song's lines goes, "Summer's gone, a summer song/You've wasted everyday." Uplifting, eh? I think this has every thing to do with growing up in the Northeast, where summer is so precious, and every year it seems to pass ever more quickly. We trot out all the cliches about the passage of time. And that is what my favorite summer-themed songs explore. Make the summer count, goes the sentiment, and by extension, make every day of life meaningful.
1. The Beach Boys, "Surfer Girl"
How could any list of summer songs not include a Beach Boys song? In fact, I could easily constitute the list with all Beach Boys numbers, including other melancholy numbers like "In My Room." This song is all about pining all summer for a girl from afar, an elusive surfer girl, over the classic pop ballad chord progression and a bed of plaintive Four Freshman-like harmonies. Poor old Brian wasn't the surfer. His brother, Dennis was. Brian was just a fish out of water more comfortable in his room. Pet Sounds was the real Brian. And so was his lament, "Surfer Girl."
2. War, "Summer"
OK, let's stop wallowing for a minute and just enjoy summer with this one from the band War. I am a child of the 1970s, so more than a couple of my picks are from that era. War sings of many of the cultural highlights of the '70s: "Riding 'round town with all the windows down/Eight track playin' all your favorite sounds." Late they sing about vans and CB radios. It was like they had a direct line to my heart and soul, or at least my fantasy world. It has such a good latin-funk groove that you can't help but chill.
3. Sly & The Family Stone, "Hot Sun in the Summertime"
This is one that would appear on the lists of many folks, no doubt. From 1969, the genre-smashing Sly & the Family Stone, offering a nostalgic look back at summer's past, but still celebratory of summers present. Sly could ease off of the funk pedal now and then with a big blast of horn-driven pop like this one.
4. Lou Rawls, "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine"
Some songs just remind you of summer, even if the lyrics have nothing to do with the theme. This Gamble & Huff smash was released in 1976. Every time I hear it, it brings me back to summer of that year. I was 10, growing up on the north shore beaches of Long Island. This latin-funk-tinged slab of Philly soul was number one in July 1976. It poured forth out of every little Panasonic transistor radio on the beach, wafting over the gentle breakers on the jetty. I remember watching Lou on the "Tonight Show with Johnny Carson" that summer. Johnny asked Lou, "do you like any of the new singers out today?" Lou replied, smoothly, "awww yeah, man. I love 'em all." Probing in that hardball way Johnny was known for, he pressed on, "anyone specifically you like to listen to?" Lou, kept his cool, undaunted, not prone to the sort of panic that would result in a weaker man blurting out something like "K.C. & the Sunshine band," just purred again, "aww, I just love 'em all." And I believed him.
5. Frank Sinatra, "The Summer Wind."
Frank Sinatra once said that Lou Rawls had "the classiest singing and silkiest chops in the singing game." Which leads me to a Sinatra number. I grew up with this song (my mother is a 100% Italian New Yorker) but when I heard it over the opening scene ofThe Pope of Greenwich Village, with Mickey Rourke getting all dressed to the nines for his gig as a restaurant manager, it was sort of life-changing, or at least a revelation. I went to thinking Frank was actually cool. Sure, we all know that now, but this was 1984. I was 18. Sure, I liked Frank, but I didn't think he was cool. What the hell did I know? I was a kid, for chrissakes! I have sung this song at weddings, piano bars at Frank's Steakhouse, and the Paddock, not to mention karaoke joints around the world. What a lyric by Johnny Mercer: "Like painted kites, those days and nights, they went flying by/The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky." And what a powerful Nelson Riddle arrangement of a Henry Meyer composition! It swings, baby! the version on my Spotify playlist is an older Frank, live at Radio City, from 1990. The years in his voice adds another layer of depth to the poignant lyric.
6. João Gilberto, Meditação ("Meditation)
The bossa nova stylings of Antonio Carlos Jobim and João Gilberto make for deeply satisfying summer listening. Gilberto is credited as creating this style, which take the beat of the samba but brings it to a stripped down, mellower context. Gilberto worked with the writer and producer Jobim to record some of the 20th century's most sublime melodies and lyrics. Depending on the translation from the native Portuguese, these songs can achieve the same Zen effect of Haiku, with nature, solitude, and meditation common threads that run between the art forms. Gilberto provides this evergreen Jobim song with his unadorned vocal style, which allows the listener to just soak in the melody, rest in the gentle samba sway, and ponder the rich lyric.
7. Chet Baker, "There Will Never Be Another You."
Chet Baker is closely identified with the "West Coast cool" offshoot of bop, which traded influences with bossa nova. One can here the similar "flat" style of singing, the relative straightforward presentation of the melody, and the gentle swing. There are few hard edges, but don't this stuff as "light." Chet's singing is deeply emotional and he was a real jazz player, surrounded by some of the best in the business when he tok to the microphone for his seminal Chet Baker Sings (1956)
8. The Rolling Stones, "Memory Motel"
Growing up on Long Island, we heard about this being written at and/or about the motel of the same name out in Montauk. This record, like many of the Stones' middle period, is actually quite underrated. This ballad screams 1970s summer and is one of my all-time fave Stones numbers. "When I asked her where she's headed for/'Back up to Boston, I'm singing in a bar.'"
9. Elvin Bishop, "Fooled Around and Fell in Love"
Elvin Bishop was one of those guitarists who had an act under his own name but had his biggest hit with a guest vocalist, Mickey Thomas, a top blue-eyed soul singer who went on to become the lead singer in Jefferson Starship. This smash was peaked at number three on the charts in May of 1976 but was all over the radio that summer, hence its effective placement in movies like Boogie Nights and Summer of Sam. It has that "burned out at the end of a hot summer's day" feel to me, driving home all sunburned at the beach.
10. Grateful Dead, "U.S. Blues"
As I said, I am unapologetically a child of the 1970s, and this is an shameless summer anthem, filled with images of Americana, name-dropping the likes of P.T. Barnum and Charlie Chan, flag waving and bits of other old-timey summertime fun.
With my day job marketing real estate entering the semi-dormant state of the dead of summer, my attention veers back to music, specifically, songs that I love to play during the summer. Since I am trying out Spotify, I will attempt to share a playlist there for the first time. Let's see if this experiment works with this link. I make no claim that these are the 10 best summer songs of all time (you would need "Summertime Blues," "Dancing in the Street," and "Heat Wave" on such a list.) These are not necessarily even my top 10, but they are the first 10 that jump to mind right now.
One of my band's (Buffalo Tom) best-known songs is called, "Summer," in fact. And like that song, many of my picks here have to do with the passing of summer or are otherwise melancholy. In fact, one of my song's lines goes, "Summer's gone, a summer song/You've wasted everyday." Uplifting, eh? I think this has every thing to do with growing up in the Northeast, where summer is so precious, and every year it seems to pass ever more quickly. We trot out all the cliches about the passage of time. And that is what my favorite summer-themed songs explore. Make the summer count, goes the sentiment, and by extension, make every day of life meaningful.
1. The Beach Boys, "Surfer Girl"
How could any list of summer songs not include a Beach Boys song? In fact, I could easily constitute the list with all Beach Boys numbers, including other melancholy numbers like "In My Room." This song is all about pining all summer for a girl from afar, an elusive surfer girl, over the classic pop ballad chord progression and a bed of plaintive Four Freshman-like harmonies. Poor old Brian wasn't the surfer. His brother, Dennis was. Brian was just a fish out of water more comfortable in his room. Pet Sounds was the real Brian. And so was his lament, "Surfer Girl."
2. War, "Summer"
OK, let's stop wallowing for a minute and just enjoy summer with this one from the band War. I am a child of the 1970s, so more than a couple of my picks are from that era. War sings of many of the cultural highlights of the '70s: "Riding 'round town with all the windows down/Eight track playin' all your favorite sounds." Late they sing about vans and CB radios. It was like they had a direct line to my heart and soul, or at least my fantasy world. It has such a good latin-funk groove that you can't help but chill.
3. Sly & The Family Stone, "Hot Sun in the Summertime"
This is one that would appear on the lists of many folks, no doubt. From 1969, the genre-smashing Sly & the Family Stone, offering a nostalgic look back at summer's past, but still celebratory of summers present. Sly could ease off of the funk pedal now and then with a big blast of horn-driven pop like this one.
4. Lou Rawls, "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine"
Some songs just remind you of summer, even if the lyrics have nothing to do with the theme. This Gamble & Huff smash was released in 1976. Every time I hear it, it brings me back to summer of that year. I was 10, growing up on the north shore beaches of Long Island. This latin-funk-tinged slab of Philly soul was number one in July 1976. It poured forth out of every little Panasonic transistor radio on the beach, wafting over the gentle breakers on the jetty. I remember watching Lou on the "Tonight Show with Johnny Carson" that summer. Johnny asked Lou, "do you like any of the new singers out today?" Lou replied, smoothly, "awww yeah, man. I love 'em all." Probing in that hardball way Johnny was known for, he pressed on, "anyone specifically you like to listen to?" Lou, kept his cool, undaunted, not prone to the sort of panic that would result in a weaker man blurting out something like "K.C. & the Sunshine band," just purred again, "aww, I just love 'em all." And I believed him.
5. Frank Sinatra, "The Summer Wind."
Frank Sinatra once said that Lou Rawls had "the classiest singing and silkiest chops in the singing game." Which leads me to a Sinatra number. I grew up with this song (my mother is a 100% Italian New Yorker) but when I heard it over the opening scene ofThe Pope of Greenwich Village, with Mickey Rourke getting all dressed to the nines for his gig as a restaurant manager, it was sort of life-changing, or at least a revelation. I went to thinking Frank was actually cool. Sure, we all know that now, but this was 1984. I was 18. Sure, I liked Frank, but I didn't think he was cool. What the hell did I know? I was a kid, for chrissakes! I have sung this song at weddings, piano bars at Frank's Steakhouse, and the Paddock, not to mention karaoke joints around the world. What a lyric by Johnny Mercer: "Like painted kites, those days and nights, they went flying by/The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky." And what a powerful Nelson Riddle arrangement of a Henry Meyer composition! It swings, baby! the version on my Spotify playlist is an older Frank, live at Radio City, from 1990. The years in his voice adds another layer of depth to the poignant lyric.
6. João Gilberto, Meditação ("Meditation)
The bossa nova stylings of Antonio Carlos Jobim and João Gilberto make for deeply satisfying summer listening. Gilberto is credited as creating this style, which take the beat of the samba but brings it to a stripped down, mellower context. Gilberto worked with the writer and producer Jobim to record some of the 20th century's most sublime melodies and lyrics. Depending on the translation from the native Portuguese, these songs can achieve the same Zen effect of Haiku, with nature, solitude, and meditation common threads that run between the art forms. Gilberto provides this evergreen Jobim song with his unadorned vocal style, which allows the listener to just soak in the melody, rest in the gentle samba sway, and ponder the rich lyric.
7. Chet Baker, "There Will Never Be Another You."
Chet Baker is closely identified with the "West Coast cool" offshoot of bop, which traded influences with bossa nova. One can here the similar "flat" style of singing, the relative straightforward presentation of the melody, and the gentle swing. There are few hard edges, but don't this stuff as "light." Chet's singing is deeply emotional and he was a real jazz player, surrounded by some of the best in the business when he tok to the microphone for his seminal Chet Baker Sings (1956)
8. The Rolling Stones, "Memory Motel"
Growing up on Long Island, we heard about this being written at and/or about the motel of the same name out in Montauk. This record, like many of the Stones' middle period, is actually quite underrated. This ballad screams 1970s summer and is one of my all-time fave Stones numbers. "When I asked her where she's headed for/'Back up to Boston, I'm singing in a bar.'"
9. Elvin Bishop, "Fooled Around and Fell in Love"
Elvin Bishop was one of those guitarists who had an act under his own name but had his biggest hit with a guest vocalist, Mickey Thomas, a top blue-eyed soul singer who went on to become the lead singer in Jefferson Starship. This smash was peaked at number three on the charts in May of 1976 but was all over the radio that summer, hence its effective placement in movies like Boogie Nights and Summer of Sam. It has that "burned out at the end of a hot summer's day" feel to me, driving home all sunburned at the beach.
10. Grateful Dead, "U.S. Blues"
As I said, I am unapologetically a child of the 1970s, and this is an shameless summer anthem, filled with images of Americana, name-dropping the likes of P.T. Barnum and Charlie Chan, flag waving and bits of other old-timey summertime fun.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Indian Wrestling
I grew up with a guy, let's call him Neil Eruzioni. His father was a barber and - at least back then, when I was growing up in New York - used to cut the hair for wise guys who "played bocce" at the... let's call it the "Fisherman's Club," an Italian-American social club. Neil's mom was a large woman, older than my parents. They lived near the downtown village.
Neil was a fantastic drummer -- one of the best musicians any of us knew in those early adolescent days. Problem was, he liked jazz fusion and we liked the Stones and Neil Young, primarily. He is still a great drummer and I still like the Stones and Neil Young primarily. But now, I think Neil also like the Stones and Neil Young more than the Mahavishnu Orchestra.
One day, Neil was telling me about how his mother would break into uncontrolled hysterical laughter at the mere mention of the phrase, "Indian wrestle." Indeed, if for some reason Indian wrestling was being televised, say on the "ABC's Wide World of Sports show," she would also lose it. Basically, if she just brushed up against the concept of Indian wrestling on any level, she would lose it.
I doubted this whole story a bit. But our mutual friends present testified to the veracity of these claims. And on the whole, I am pretty gullible, and was even more acutely naive back then. No one could explain it, the tale went.
Then I moved away. In some of my idle time of lonely exile in the high pines of Medfield, Massachusetts, it occurred to me that I had been had with this whole "Indian wrestle" business.
I was back for a visit about half a year later and Neil's dad gave me a crew cut. And the band got back together for a jam, for old time's sake. At least, this is how I remember it. We often practiced at his parents' house. This is how it goes for drummers. They would rather make Faustian bargains with their parents to allow amateur rock bands rehearse in their basement than pack up, lug, and unpack all the equipment.
One day, during a break from band practice, we were sitting around the Eruzioni's living room.
"Neil," I began. "You probably don't even remember this. But a while back you told me this story about your mother. It was about how she would laugh..."
"At the words 'Indian Wrestle.' Right," he answered. "What about it?"
"Well. That was not true, right? I asked. "I mean, you guys were pulling my leg."
"You don't believe me?" He asked. "You've never seen it?"
I made a skeptical "oh, come on" face.
He put up his index finger. "Ma!" he yelled. MA!!"
"Yes, whattaya want, Neil?" We heard his mother's voice from the kitchen.
"Come here! Ma, come in here!"
"OK, OK," she was saying as she came through the dining room and leaned against the doorjamb, drying something with a dishtowel. "Whattaya want."
Neil paused, looked her in the face, and said, blankly, "Indian wrestle."
She started to laugh. Sort of a normal laugh. But then it began bubbling up. And soon, like in a manner of a few seconds, she was in absolute, unbridled hysterical laughter. I'm talking tears. Catching her breath, she left the room. Laughs still emanated from the kitchen.
We could all not help but laugh along with her. Neil just smirked. It was something he grew up with. No one has ever explained it. His mother grew up with this... this little quirk. Something way back in her brain is tickled by the concept of, the name "Indian wrestle." Something from the past.
Neil was a fantastic drummer -- one of the best musicians any of us knew in those early adolescent days. Problem was, he liked jazz fusion and we liked the Stones and Neil Young, primarily. He is still a great drummer and I still like the Stones and Neil Young primarily. But now, I think Neil also like the Stones and Neil Young more than the Mahavishnu Orchestra.
One day, Neil was telling me about how his mother would break into uncontrolled hysterical laughter at the mere mention of the phrase, "Indian wrestle." Indeed, if for some reason Indian wrestling was being televised, say on the "ABC's Wide World of Sports show," she would also lose it. Basically, if she just brushed up against the concept of Indian wrestling on any level, she would lose it.
I doubted this whole story a bit. But our mutual friends present testified to the veracity of these claims. And on the whole, I am pretty gullible, and was even more acutely naive back then. No one could explain it, the tale went.
Then I moved away. In some of my idle time of lonely exile in the high pines of Medfield, Massachusetts, it occurred to me that I had been had with this whole "Indian wrestle" business.
I was back for a visit about half a year later and Neil's dad gave me a crew cut. And the band got back together for a jam, for old time's sake. At least, this is how I remember it. We often practiced at his parents' house. This is how it goes for drummers. They would rather make Faustian bargains with their parents to allow amateur rock bands rehearse in their basement than pack up, lug, and unpack all the equipment.
One day, during a break from band practice, we were sitting around the Eruzioni's living room.
"Neil," I began. "You probably don't even remember this. But a while back you told me this story about your mother. It was about how she would laugh..."
"At the words 'Indian Wrestle.' Right," he answered. "What about it?"
"Well. That was not true, right? I asked. "I mean, you guys were pulling my leg."
"You don't believe me?" He asked. "You've never seen it?"
I made a skeptical "oh, come on" face.
He put up his index finger. "Ma!" he yelled. MA!!"
"Yes, whattaya want, Neil?" We heard his mother's voice from the kitchen.
"Come here! Ma, come in here!"
"OK, OK," she was saying as she came through the dining room and leaned against the doorjamb, drying something with a dishtowel. "Whattaya want."
Neil paused, looked her in the face, and said, blankly, "Indian wrestle."
She started to laugh. Sort of a normal laugh. But then it began bubbling up. And soon, like in a manner of a few seconds, she was in absolute, unbridled hysterical laughter. I'm talking tears. Catching her breath, she left the room. Laughs still emanated from the kitchen.
We could all not help but laugh along with her. Neil just smirked. It was something he grew up with. No one has ever explained it. His mother grew up with this... this little quirk. Something way back in her brain is tickled by the concept of, the name "Indian wrestle." Something from the past.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
You Got the Gig, Kid...Dispatch from Nantucket Film Festival
(from Boston Magazine.com)
For the past few years, I have had this website with the ironic title of Part Time Man of Rock. We all know there is not supposed not be any “part time” in “rock.” When my wife was a kid, she misheard the Kiss song “Rock & Roll All Night” lyric. It famously goes, “I wanna rock & roll all night and party every day.” She heard it as “I wanna rock & roll all night and part of every day.” I mean, in our minds, that’s still a pretty good level of commitment to The Life of Rock. Even just part of every day seems a worthy goal now that I am 45.
But I still find myself caught between the rock & roll and multiple other worlds on a regular basis. I sell real estate in Lexington, Lincoln, and other western suburbs. Sure, I get some maturing rockers buying modest homes, but I get many folks buying and selling swankier digs and they tend to be running in different circles than I do. And I did not exactly grow up poor. But nothing prepares me for the rarefied air of Nantucket.
Each time I go, I am astounded by the consistency of that life’s (truly, deeply, profoundly) rich pageant: men in “Nantucket red” pants from Murray’s, whale belts, and open collared Brooks Brothers, and skinny ladies with perfectly blonde tresses flowing down over their Lilly Pulitzer sundresses, gliding across finely manicured, croquet-court-quality lawns at evening garden cocktail parties. It is rare when you see someone in something as shabby as even Banana Republic chinos or (gulp) jeans. Listen, I can be as cranky as anyone about the slob-ization of Americans on holiday, but that's a costume party down there for cryin’ out loud.
I was on the island this past weekend, invited to be a featured guest at the event’s Storytelling Night. Other participants included such up-and-comers as Brian Williams, Anne Meara, Jerry Stiller, Tom Perrotta, and director, Dave McLaughlin. The packed house of 250 people included Chris Matthews, and a lot of people with extremely white teeth and the sort of healthy glow that yacht-loads of aged money brings. This is not my typical crowd. I sensed that I should be reconsidering my story about getting strip-searched for drugs at the French border and then spit in the face by a skinhead chick at a club in a squatted factory in Paris 20 years ago (story linked).
I was under no illusions of why I was there; I am a FOM, a close friend of the host, Mike O’Malley, who is riding the kind of hot streak that only someone with such a giant heart who has paid his dues for decades deserves. Mike has been going down there since he was in college, but he also hails from a different world than most regulars down there. Yet his success, his willingness to always help out worthy events, his extreme talent as an MC and host (never mind as a charity auctioneer) and his ties to the island make him a natural choice, even if he is a bit -- let’s say earthy -- for the finely bred folks there.
Years ago, I was pleased to be able to introduce Mike to Tom Perrotta, whom I had met at one of the legendary Earfull nights at the late and lamented Kendall Cafe, when authors would read and rockers would stomp. Tom, while able to hobnob with all strata of society, also seems far more at home at grittier events like those. And Tom’s success as a novelist and in Hollywood (Election and the Oscar nomination for his screenplay adaption of his own Little Children), also made him a natural choice as a storyteller.
Tom, his wife, and I shared a ride down with Dave McLaughlin, who directed the film On Broadway, for which I provided th musical score, and which starred Joey McIntyre, Eliza Dushku, Lance Green and (have you picked up the connections yet?) Mike O’Malley. Dave is the youngest of 11 kids in a West Roxbury Irish family, has written at least two screenplays, one of which played at an earlier Nantucket Film Festival, and worked for the Mayor for a while. You think he has some stories? Again, slam dunk as a choice.
Then there is me. A real estate agent who also played in a modestly successful post-punk rock & roll band called Buffalo Tom (polite applause from the man in the blue blazer and the perfect hair in row three, two seats over from BriWi, as Anchorman Williams is affectionately called by the locals). The organizers like to mix in some local, non-celebs to tell five-minute stories, like the Moth Radio Hour on NPR. So, it is not like I was the only person there of little renown -- unlike the time Mike brought me to Nomar Garciaparra’s “Nomar Bowl” charity bowling event circa 1999. I thought I was going to that shindig to rub elbows with ballplayers. I did not expect to be enlisted onto a team as a “celebrity” when someone else did not show up. Neither, it seems, did the visibly and audibly disappointed hedge fund managers on my “team” who had paid good dough to be at that event.
Mike has such famous friends that anywhere he turns, he could get some big names. And Tom Perrotta is not exactly just low-hanging fruit. The fact that Mike invited me, even though we have been best buds for a dozen years, was still flattering, and I was glad to accept the challenge. Though I have performed in the course of 25 years on some huge stages (60,000 at the Reading Festival a couple of times, e.g.), I am not a good public speaker. I will not say that the only speech I gave as a best man at a wedding was the worst of all time; I will only point out that it was the only one I have ever given. I believe I have since been passed over for the role after word of my deficiency got out.
But I think I can write well enough and I have a couple of good stories from over the years in a rock band. But I felt the night, the theme of which was “off on the wrong foot,” was indeed off on the wrong foot for me. First, the extremely sweet and efficient organizers asked if I would also consider bringing my guitar to provide a little music and, mainly, to signal to the speakers that they were nearing their five-minute mark. But as the first speaker went closer toward the 15-minute mark, despite my polite gentle, harp-like arpeggios, I knew I was sunk. How could I possibly be the Bad Guy, up on stage, while this person is soaking in the laughs? Next up was my buddy, Tom, followed by Jerry Stiller. Who am I to play over the comedic genius who brought George Costanza's father to life after decades as a headlining act my parents enjoyed? Never mind that I am simply not the “give ‘em the hook” type; I had to tell my own story later. But the hosts of the event became increasingly strident in their throat-slitting gestures from the side of the stage.
Mike had the crowd in the palm of his hand all night. Anne played off of him expertly. And when Jerry came on, I really enjoyed having the best seat in the house. I greatly relished watching this legendary husband-and-wife comedy at work. They may look their age, but their timing has never been better. I watched as Anne’s lips twitched, anticipating Jerry’s story, and jumping in at just the right time, only to have him comically swipe back, as if this was just muscle memory. It was as if you saw an elderly couple slowly shuffle up to a tennis court for a doubles match only to shed off their years and destroy all comers like they were Navratilova and Agassis in their prime. Tom told a story about a high school fight that conjured up the perfect mix of comedy and pathos that he mastered long ago. And Dave told a story about losing his virginity while wearing a brace bolted into his head after breaking vertebrae in his neck. BriWi slayed the audience with a series of one-liners about Nantucket -- not exactly a story, but perfect laugh lines nonetheless. And talk about skinny -- someone at the cocktail reception afterwards described him as “lady skinny.”
I managed not to collapse in a puddle of sweat, stammer, or otherwise embarrass anyone during my turn at the mic. I was just glad to be able to get a couple of laughs. But it was not my audience. This was not a “rock & roll all night,” or even “part of every day” crowd. But there were a few who knew the band and the story went fine.
As I packed up my guitar, I wondered why the hell I had lugged it into a minivan, a ferry, and a cab, only to pluck a few notes. I did no songs. The audio techs just faded up classic rock in between performers. But after the reception, it seemed there were enough people who wanted to keep the party flowing. Mention was made of heading “around the corner” to the Summer House Bar/Restaurant. Sounded good to us. Dave, Tom, Tom’s wife, Mary, and I literally felt our way in the foggy darkness down sleepy narrow lanes, and over a footbridge. A few wrong turns and a leap of faith later, and we had finally arrived, the warm yellow glow welcoming us as if we had traveled over the misty moors to a local pub in the English countryside. The place only had a handful of people there, but it was hopping and the martinis were flowing. I had not even sat down when a slightly older fella named Jamie saw my guitar case, opened up the piano, shouted to the bartender to shut off the music on the house stereo, and asked me what songs I knew. I sat on a couch and started “Tupelo Honey.’ I looked up to find another dozen or so folks had made there way over from the Story Night. It turned out that Jamie was an old pro. We all ended up harmonizing on about a dozen classic rock and country songs, Van, Neil Young, Petty, the Stones, Merle Haggard, etc. We had the whole place singing along until last call (hear a snippet here, captured on Dave's iPhone). It was a perfect, spontaneous end to a fun night. The lubricated owner told me, “be here tomorrow night, kid. Dinner and drinks on me.”
Well, he probably did not say “kid,” but that was how I heard it. I had the Nantucket gig if I wanted it. I guess if I can't join 'em, I can at least play some songs for 'em. Its good to have a contingency plan. Even as the Part Time Man of Rock.
Crossposted at bostonmagazine.com
For the past few years, I have had this website with the ironic title of Part Time Man of Rock. We all know there is not supposed not be any “part time” in “rock.” When my wife was a kid, she misheard the Kiss song “Rock & Roll All Night” lyric. It famously goes, “I wanna rock & roll all night and party every day.” She heard it as “I wanna rock & roll all night and part of every day.” I mean, in our minds, that’s still a pretty good level of commitment to The Life of Rock. Even just part of every day seems a worthy goal now that I am 45.
But I still find myself caught between the rock & roll and multiple other worlds on a regular basis. I sell real estate in Lexington, Lincoln, and other western suburbs. Sure, I get some maturing rockers buying modest homes, but I get many folks buying and selling swankier digs and they tend to be running in different circles than I do. And I did not exactly grow up poor. But nothing prepares me for the rarefied air of Nantucket.
Each time I go, I am astounded by the consistency of that life’s (truly, deeply, profoundly) rich pageant: men in “Nantucket red” pants from Murray’s, whale belts, and open collared Brooks Brothers, and skinny ladies with perfectly blonde tresses flowing down over their Lilly Pulitzer sundresses, gliding across finely manicured, croquet-court-quality lawns at evening garden cocktail parties. It is rare when you see someone in something as shabby as even Banana Republic chinos or (gulp) jeans. Listen, I can be as cranky as anyone about the slob-ization of Americans on holiday, but that's a costume party down there for cryin’ out loud.
I was on the island this past weekend, invited to be a featured guest at the event’s Storytelling Night. Other participants included such up-and-comers as Brian Williams, Anne Meara, Jerry Stiller, Tom Perrotta, and director, Dave McLaughlin. The packed house of 250 people included Chris Matthews, and a lot of people with extremely white teeth and the sort of healthy glow that yacht-loads of aged money brings. This is not my typical crowd. I sensed that I should be reconsidering my story about getting strip-searched for drugs at the French border and then spit in the face by a skinhead chick at a club in a squatted factory in Paris 20 years ago (story linked).
I was under no illusions of why I was there; I am a FOM, a close friend of the host, Mike O’Malley, who is riding the kind of hot streak that only someone with such a giant heart who has paid his dues for decades deserves. Mike has been going down there since he was in college, but he also hails from a different world than most regulars down there. Yet his success, his willingness to always help out worthy events, his extreme talent as an MC and host (never mind as a charity auctioneer) and his ties to the island make him a natural choice, even if he is a bit -- let’s say earthy -- for the finely bred folks there.
Years ago, I was pleased to be able to introduce Mike to Tom Perrotta, whom I had met at one of the legendary Earfull nights at the late and lamented Kendall Cafe, when authors would read and rockers would stomp. Tom, while able to hobnob with all strata of society, also seems far more at home at grittier events like those. And Tom’s success as a novelist and in Hollywood (Election and the Oscar nomination for his screenplay adaption of his own Little Children), also made him a natural choice as a storyteller.
Tom, his wife, and I shared a ride down with Dave McLaughlin, who directed the film On Broadway, for which I provided th musical score, and which starred Joey McIntyre, Eliza Dushku, Lance Green and (have you picked up the connections yet?) Mike O’Malley. Dave is the youngest of 11 kids in a West Roxbury Irish family, has written at least two screenplays, one of which played at an earlier Nantucket Film Festival, and worked for the Mayor for a while. You think he has some stories? Again, slam dunk as a choice.
Then there is me. A real estate agent who also played in a modestly successful post-punk rock & roll band called Buffalo Tom (polite applause from the man in the blue blazer and the perfect hair in row three, two seats over from BriWi, as Anchorman Williams is affectionately called by the locals). The organizers like to mix in some local, non-celebs to tell five-minute stories, like the Moth Radio Hour on NPR. So, it is not like I was the only person there of little renown -- unlike the time Mike brought me to Nomar Garciaparra’s “Nomar Bowl” charity bowling event circa 1999. I thought I was going to that shindig to rub elbows with ballplayers. I did not expect to be enlisted onto a team as a “celebrity” when someone else did not show up. Neither, it seems, did the visibly and audibly disappointed hedge fund managers on my “team” who had paid good dough to be at that event.
Mike has such famous friends that anywhere he turns, he could get some big names. And Tom Perrotta is not exactly just low-hanging fruit. The fact that Mike invited me, even though we have been best buds for a dozen years, was still flattering, and I was glad to accept the challenge. Though I have performed in the course of 25 years on some huge stages (60,000 at the Reading Festival a couple of times, e.g.), I am not a good public speaker. I will not say that the only speech I gave as a best man at a wedding was the worst of all time; I will only point out that it was the only one I have ever given. I believe I have since been passed over for the role after word of my deficiency got out.
But I think I can write well enough and I have a couple of good stories from over the years in a rock band. But I felt the night, the theme of which was “off on the wrong foot,” was indeed off on the wrong foot for me. First, the extremely sweet and efficient organizers asked if I would also consider bringing my guitar to provide a little music and, mainly, to signal to the speakers that they were nearing their five-minute mark. But as the first speaker went closer toward the 15-minute mark, despite my polite gentle, harp-like arpeggios, I knew I was sunk. How could I possibly be the Bad Guy, up on stage, while this person is soaking in the laughs? Next up was my buddy, Tom, followed by Jerry Stiller. Who am I to play over the comedic genius who brought George Costanza's father to life after decades as a headlining act my parents enjoyed? Never mind that I am simply not the “give ‘em the hook” type; I had to tell my own story later. But the hosts of the event became increasingly strident in their throat-slitting gestures from the side of the stage.
Mike had the crowd in the palm of his hand all night. Anne played off of him expertly. And when Jerry came on, I really enjoyed having the best seat in the house. I greatly relished watching this legendary husband-and-wife comedy at work. They may look their age, but their timing has never been better. I watched as Anne’s lips twitched, anticipating Jerry’s story, and jumping in at just the right time, only to have him comically swipe back, as if this was just muscle memory. It was as if you saw an elderly couple slowly shuffle up to a tennis court for a doubles match only to shed off their years and destroy all comers like they were Navratilova and Agassis in their prime. Tom told a story about a high school fight that conjured up the perfect mix of comedy and pathos that he mastered long ago. And Dave told a story about losing his virginity while wearing a brace bolted into his head after breaking vertebrae in his neck. BriWi slayed the audience with a series of one-liners about Nantucket -- not exactly a story, but perfect laugh lines nonetheless. And talk about skinny -- someone at the cocktail reception afterwards described him as “lady skinny.”
I managed not to collapse in a puddle of sweat, stammer, or otherwise embarrass anyone during my turn at the mic. I was just glad to be able to get a couple of laughs. But it was not my audience. This was not a “rock & roll all night,” or even “part of every day” crowd. But there were a few who knew the band and the story went fine.
As I packed up my guitar, I wondered why the hell I had lugged it into a minivan, a ferry, and a cab, only to pluck a few notes. I did no songs. The audio techs just faded up classic rock in between performers. But after the reception, it seemed there were enough people who wanted to keep the party flowing. Mention was made of heading “around the corner” to the Summer House Bar/Restaurant. Sounded good to us. Dave, Tom, Tom’s wife, Mary, and I literally felt our way in the foggy darkness down sleepy narrow lanes, and over a footbridge. A few wrong turns and a leap of faith later, and we had finally arrived, the warm yellow glow welcoming us as if we had traveled over the misty moors to a local pub in the English countryside. The place only had a handful of people there, but it was hopping and the martinis were flowing. I had not even sat down when a slightly older fella named Jamie saw my guitar case, opened up the piano, shouted to the bartender to shut off the music on the house stereo, and asked me what songs I knew. I sat on a couch and started “Tupelo Honey.’ I looked up to find another dozen or so folks had made there way over from the Story Night. It turned out that Jamie was an old pro. We all ended up harmonizing on about a dozen classic rock and country songs, Van, Neil Young, Petty, the Stones, Merle Haggard, etc. We had the whole place singing along until last call (hear a snippet here, captured on Dave's iPhone). It was a perfect, spontaneous end to a fun night. The lubricated owner told me, “be here tomorrow night, kid. Dinner and drinks on me.”
Well, he probably did not say “kid,” but that was how I heard it. I had the Nantucket gig if I wanted it. I guess if I can't join 'em, I can at least play some songs for 'em. Its good to have a contingency plan. Even as the Part Time Man of Rock.
Crossposted at bostonmagazine.com
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
New Target Cancer Tracks
Two new songs up at the web site for the charity, Target Cancer, RightTrackTunes.org. You might remember the Christmas tunes we did for the same organization. One is a Van Morrison cover, the other is a Staples Singers cover. Many of you who used to come to the Toad and Lizard Lounge residencies of yore probably have heard me cover these songs before. Download them for a great cause.
More info:
Bill Janovitz and the Q-Dee Revue-y -
Cul De Sac & What You Gonna Do?
Cul De Sac
This is a Van Morrison number from an almost criminally overlooked album called Veedon Fleece. In many ways, the album is an answer from a slightly more mature Morrison to the Astral Weeks of his younger days. Granted, though there were five albums (six if you count the live It's Too Late to Stop Now), Van was still only 29 by the time VF came out in 1974. The yearning, the sense of place and of home, of comforting the restless soul -- all those great Van themes appear here. Most interestingly, though, VF represents his first album written after a long hiatus from his native Northern Ireland. While Astral Weeks was about making it back home, Cul De Sac says in a few words all that needs to be said on the subject. The meaning is in the heart of Van's voice as he sings over the gospel/soul progression.
This song was originally recorded by Van Morrison in 1974. This version was recorded live in Studio B at Q Division Studios in Somerville, MA on December 9, 2010 by The Q-Dee Revue-y – exclusively available here.
Bill Janovitz – Lead Vocals, Acoustic Guitar
Tom Polce – Guitar
Ryan Spraker - Guitar
Matt Pynn – Pedal Steel
Matt Tahaney – Bass
Steve Scully – Drums
Phil Aiken – Piano
Andrew Jones – Percussion
Paul Ahlstrand – Baritone Saxophone
Produced by Tom Polce
Recorded and Mixed by Pat DiCenso
What You Gonna Do?
I don't personally know of any other versions of this song aside from the Staple Singers. At least, I have not heard any. The recording on Freedom Highway was done in a Chicago church in the late 1960s and you can hear how its influence seeped into the late 1960s/early-1970s roots revival, with The Band and the Rolling Stones absorbing that full gospel tilt. This was a great late-night session just before Christmas, and I was able to sing with and off of Chris Toppin and Jenny Dee.
This song was originally recorded by The Staple Singers in 1965. This version was recorded live in Studio B at Q Division Studios in Somerville, MA on December 9, 2010 by The Q-Dee Revue-y – exclusively available here.
Bill Janovitz – Lead Vocals, Acoustic Guitar
Tom Polce – Guitar
Ryan Spraker - Guitar
Matt Tahaney – Bass
Steve Scully – Drums
Phil Aiken – Piano
Chris Toppin – Background Vocals
Jenny Dee - Background Vocals
Andrew Jones – Percussion
Produced by Tom Polce
Recorded and Mixed by Pat DiCenso
Download both here.
More info:
Bill Janovitz and the Q-Dee Revue-y -
Cul De Sac & What You Gonna Do?
Cul De Sac
This is a Van Morrison number from an almost criminally overlooked album called Veedon Fleece. In many ways, the album is an answer from a slightly more mature Morrison to the Astral Weeks of his younger days. Granted, though there were five albums (six if you count the live It's Too Late to Stop Now), Van was still only 29 by the time VF came out in 1974. The yearning, the sense of place and of home, of comforting the restless soul -- all those great Van themes appear here. Most interestingly, though, VF represents his first album written after a long hiatus from his native Northern Ireland. While Astral Weeks was about making it back home, Cul De Sac says in a few words all that needs to be said on the subject. The meaning is in the heart of Van's voice as he sings over the gospel/soul progression.
This song was originally recorded by Van Morrison in 1974. This version was recorded live in Studio B at Q Division Studios in Somerville, MA on December 9, 2010 by The Q-Dee Revue-y – exclusively available here.
Bill Janovitz – Lead Vocals, Acoustic Guitar
Tom Polce – Guitar
Ryan Spraker - Guitar
Matt Pynn – Pedal Steel
Matt Tahaney – Bass
Steve Scully – Drums
Phil Aiken – Piano
Andrew Jones – Percussion
Paul Ahlstrand – Baritone Saxophone
Produced by Tom Polce
Recorded and Mixed by Pat DiCenso
What You Gonna Do?
I don't personally know of any other versions of this song aside from the Staple Singers. At least, I have not heard any. The recording on Freedom Highway was done in a Chicago church in the late 1960s and you can hear how its influence seeped into the late 1960s/early-1970s roots revival, with The Band and the Rolling Stones absorbing that full gospel tilt. This was a great late-night session just before Christmas, and I was able to sing with and off of Chris Toppin and Jenny Dee.
This song was originally recorded by The Staple Singers in 1965. This version was recorded live in Studio B at Q Division Studios in Somerville, MA on December 9, 2010 by The Q-Dee Revue-y – exclusively available here.
Bill Janovitz – Lead Vocals, Acoustic Guitar
Tom Polce – Guitar
Ryan Spraker - Guitar
Matt Tahaney – Bass
Steve Scully – Drums
Phil Aiken – Piano
Chris Toppin – Background Vocals
Jenny Dee - Background Vocals
Andrew Jones – Percussion
Produced by Tom Polce
Recorded and Mixed by Pat DiCenso
Download both here.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Vinyl Confessions From a Man Cave
From my latest post for Boston Magazine dot com:
Since today is June 15, 2011, known in Boston as Stanley Cup Game 7, I have a confession to make: watching hockey makes my eyes glaze over. I know this is ridiculous coming from a baseball fan who can spend four hours watching (and with intense interest) a meaningless Sox-Angels game in April. I try, but after a few minutes of watching bearded Canadian dudes skating back and forth and bumping each other into the walls while slapping around a little black speck (I thought HDTV was going to vastly improve this aspect of viewing), I am soon paying more attention to the music at the Garden or the Rogers Arena.
At the home ice, the Boston stereotypical classic rock comes out — a bit of the Cars, Boston (the band), and, of course, Aerosmith. For some updated flavor, they might throw in “Shipping Up to Boston” from the beloved modern classics, the Dropkick Murphys. All of this is an improvement over present-day Fenway. One would be forgiven for thinking that the “lyrical little bandbox” has been transported to suburban Nashville for all the lamestream modern country-pop music played there this season. And I guess we can be grateful that at least hockey players and the fans of the sport share a reputation for the sort of toughness that would not allow for the unfortunate tradition of “Sweet Caroline” (made worse as a post-Fever Pitch phenomenon) played between periods. (Or is it? I am never at live hockey games, but I can’t imagine that would fly.)
Either way, during the series, I’ve found myself turning down the volume (though I really enjoy the excellent play-by-play of Doc Emrick) and reaching for my records — yes, my old, dusty records. They reside in my basement man cave, which just was improved by the addition of a knock-off of the classic Eames Lounge. Mine is a Plycraft recliner variation and, damn, if it isn’t one of the most comfortable listening/viewing spots. Coupled with some recent turntable tweaks, I have been back to enjoying the vinyl experience again on a regular basis.
Now, I am not one of those old record-collecting SOBs who will bore you with tales of what has been lost with the age of digital music. For me, it has been less of a revolution (excuse the pun) and more of an evolution, embracing the new without forsaking the old. However, I actually had the old records in the attic for a while after we moved house. They were up there for a couple of years during which I did not play records at all. It wasn’t until trying to describe to my daughter the experience of acquiring Sgt. Peppers and Magical Mystery Tour LPs that I decided to get all the records out again and actually show her.
Read the whole post here.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Since today is June 15, 2011, known in Boston as Stanley Cup Game 7, I have a confession to make: watching hockey makes my eyes glaze over. I know this is ridiculous coming from a baseball fan who can spend four hours watching (and with intense interest) a meaningless Sox-Angels game in April. I try, but after a few minutes of watching bearded Canadian dudes skating back and forth and bumping each other into the walls while slapping around a little black speck (I thought HDTV was going to vastly improve this aspect of viewing), I am soon paying more attention to the music at the Garden or the Rogers Arena.
At the home ice, the Boston stereotypical classic rock comes out — a bit of the Cars, Boston (the band), and, of course, Aerosmith. For some updated flavor, they might throw in “Shipping Up to Boston” from the beloved modern classics, the Dropkick Murphys. All of this is an improvement over present-day Fenway. One would be forgiven for thinking that the “lyrical little bandbox” has been transported to suburban Nashville for all the lamestream modern country-pop music played there this season. And I guess we can be grateful that at least hockey players and the fans of the sport share a reputation for the sort of toughness that would not allow for the unfortunate tradition of “Sweet Caroline” (made worse as a post-Fever Pitch phenomenon) played between periods. (Or is it? I am never at live hockey games, but I can’t imagine that would fly.)
Either way, during the series, I’ve found myself turning down the volume (though I really enjoy the excellent play-by-play of Doc Emrick) and reaching for my records — yes, my old, dusty records. They reside in my basement man cave, which just was improved by the addition of a knock-off of the classic Eames Lounge. Mine is a Plycraft recliner variation and, damn, if it isn’t one of the most comfortable listening/viewing spots. Coupled with some recent turntable tweaks, I have been back to enjoying the vinyl experience again on a regular basis.
Now, I am not one of those old record-collecting SOBs who will bore you with tales of what has been lost with the age of digital music. For me, it has been less of a revolution (excuse the pun) and more of an evolution, embracing the new without forsaking the old. However, I actually had the old records in the attic for a while after we moved house. They were up there for a couple of years during which I did not play records at all. It wasn’t until trying to describe to my daughter the experience of acquiring Sgt. Peppers and Magical Mystery Tour LPs that I decided to get all the records out again and actually show her.
Read the whole post here.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Almost Famous
From my latest on BostonMagazine.com:
I just got home late Saturday night from the last of the Buffalo Tom touring for 2011. (Because, really, why would a rock band want to play on a Saturday night and come home instead on a Sunday?) It had been an especially intense little run of five West Coast shows in four cities, three states, and four days — flying each leg from Boston to San Fran, to LA, to Portland, then driving overnight to Seattle for a daytime lunch performance, which was broadcasted live on the excellent KEXP, and then a late-night club performance the same night. Flying home the next day, you would excuse me for sleeping the whole flight.
Back at Logan, I rounded up my guitars (always the last bit of luggage to arrive at baggage claim), and bid adieu to the band and two-man crew until the next time. I loaded up the cart and went up to meet my taxi driver, an enormous individual who did not leave his seat as I loaded the stuff into the trunk.
Making small talk, in between labored breaths, he proceeded to list all the classic rock knowledge he had accumulated, with a particular slant towards local rock history, such as the warehouse in Waltham where Aerosmith once rehearsed and recorded. Sadly, limits of his expertise betrayed him before he could come up with the name of the lead singer for the J. Geils Band.
“Peter Wolf,” I volunteered.
“What’s dat? Oh yeah, Petah Wolf. Right,” he affirmed. “So, are you famous?”
“Well,” I wearily started to explain, “Not really. We had our day in the 1990s, but never hit it really big like all of those guys.”
He paused in pensive silence for half a minute. “I can tell you’re not famous because you’re carrying your own equipment.”
You noticed that, eh, I thought. While you were sitting there watching me load my guitars into your cab, for which I will nevertheless tip you 20 percent for some stupid reason?
And that’s about how it goes. No respect for trying to keep a dream alive in one’s 40s. We must suffer the indignities of a cab driver pointing out that he can tell we’re not famous.
Rest of post here
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I just got home late Saturday night from the last of the Buffalo Tom touring for 2011. (Because, really, why would a rock band want to play on a Saturday night and come home instead on a Sunday?) It had been an especially intense little run of five West Coast shows in four cities, three states, and four days — flying each leg from Boston to San Fran, to LA, to Portland, then driving overnight to Seattle for a daytime lunch performance, which was broadcasted live on the excellent KEXP, and then a late-night club performance the same night. Flying home the next day, you would excuse me for sleeping the whole flight.
Back at Logan, I rounded up my guitars (always the last bit of luggage to arrive at baggage claim), and bid adieu to the band and two-man crew until the next time. I loaded up the cart and went up to meet my taxi driver, an enormous individual who did not leave his seat as I loaded the stuff into the trunk.
Making small talk, in between labored breaths, he proceeded to list all the classic rock knowledge he had accumulated, with a particular slant towards local rock history, such as the warehouse in Waltham where Aerosmith once rehearsed and recorded. Sadly, limits of his expertise betrayed him before he could come up with the name of the lead singer for the J. Geils Band.
“Peter Wolf,” I volunteered.
“What’s dat? Oh yeah, Petah Wolf. Right,” he affirmed. “So, are you famous?”
“Well,” I wearily started to explain, “Not really. We had our day in the 1990s, but never hit it really big like all of those guys.”
He paused in pensive silence for half a minute. “I can tell you’re not famous because you’re carrying your own equipment.”
You noticed that, eh, I thought. While you were sitting there watching me load my guitars into your cab, for which I will nevertheless tip you 20 percent for some stupid reason?
And that’s about how it goes. No respect for trying to keep a dream alive in one’s 40s. We must suffer the indignities of a cab driver pointing out that he can tell we’re not famous.
Rest of post here
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Giant Kings Scare Me
Last week, after a middling Wednesday of trying to sell and market real estate with mixed results, instead of throwing in the towel and wrapping myself in a Snuggie to watch the Celtics get eliminated, I did the only thing that made sense at the time: shook myself a small, ice-cold martini.
It was just enough to perk me up and make me want to listen to some music. I checked Facebook and was reminded that the greatest band in Boston, The Giant Kings, were playing that night, the second-to-last of a residency at the beloved subterranean Lizard Lounge in Cambridge. These gigs are relatively rare, and seeing as though I am leaving town for a short Buffalo Tom West Coast tour and would miss the final night, I sent out the Bat Signal and managed to round up a foursome to go down and listen to some great music. When you are in your mid-40s, the enormity of this accomplishment on a Wednesday night cannot be overstated. I must also point out that I had already gone out the previous Monday night to see the legendary Echo and the Bunnymen, my 80’s heroes, at the Paradise. Two nights in one week during the busy spring real estate market makes me feel even more boastful. Combine this with the fact that I have been spending more than my usual allotment of nights in rock clubs these past few months while touring with Buff Tom, well, yes, I am beating my chest! (I made it a trifecta with the Feelies at the Middle East on Saturday.) And those bags under my eyes? They are a a badge of honor....
More here at a post I wrote about the incredible Giant Kings
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
It was just enough to perk me up and make me want to listen to some music. I checked Facebook and was reminded that the greatest band in Boston, The Giant Kings, were playing that night, the second-to-last of a residency at the beloved subterranean Lizard Lounge in Cambridge. These gigs are relatively rare, and seeing as though I am leaving town for a short Buffalo Tom West Coast tour and would miss the final night, I sent out the Bat Signal and managed to round up a foursome to go down and listen to some great music. When you are in your mid-40s, the enormity of this accomplishment on a Wednesday night cannot be overstated. I must also point out that I had already gone out the previous Monday night to see the legendary Echo and the Bunnymen, my 80’s heroes, at the Paradise. Two nights in one week during the busy spring real estate market makes me feel even more boastful. Combine this with the fact that I have been spending more than my usual allotment of nights in rock clubs these past few months while touring with Buff Tom, well, yes, I am beating my chest! (I made it a trifecta with the Feelies at the Middle East on Saturday.) And those bags under my eyes? They are a a badge of honor....
More here at a post I wrote about the incredible Giant Kings
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Charlie Byrd and the Emphemeral
This might be the most sublime of all of Jobim's melodies and therefore one of the most sublime melodies of all-time.
When I was just starting to learn guitar, my dad and I went to a little clinic and concert that Charlie gave at the Munro Music store in Huntington, NY in about 1980. He signed our (Dad's) copy of this record. I still have it. Let's hear you say something like that about an mp3.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Late Night with Bill Radio Vol. 2
Photo by Anders Petersen
A little shorter this time: Bill Radio Vol. 2
I have to work on my on-air persona a bit more.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Late Night with Bill 99 Minute Radio Hour Episode 1
Some nights I am just spinning tunes for myself and figure it is easy enough to share. Uploading it is another matter altogether. Here is a 99-minute set of tunes, with some commentary.
The Late Night with Bill 99 Minute Radio Hour Episode 1 mp3
The Late Night with Bill 99 Minute Radio Hour Episode 1 mp3
Friday, January 28, 2011
Buffalo Tom Tour Dates
Here are the dates we have so far. Our time on the road will be extremely limited on this record, so if your city is not listed below, please consider meeting us at one of these places:
MARCH
5 HOLLAND GRONINGEN VERA CLUB http://www.vera-groningen.nl/
6 BELGIUM BRUSSELS AB
http://www.abconcerts.be/nl/concerten/p/detail/buffalo-tom-06-03-2011
7 HOLLAND AMSTERDAM MELKWEG
http://www.melkweg.nl/artikelpagina.jsp?language=nederlands&batchno=5&offset=48&artikelid=199111&disciplineid=muziek&agendaitemid=199110
8 GERMANY COLOGNE LUXOR
http://www.luxor-koeln.de/di-08-03-2011-buffalo-tom/
9 Off / TRAVEL
10 ENGLAND LONDON DINGWALLS
http://www.dingwalls.com/
11 ENGLAND MANCHESTER Sound Control (A hometown homage to "She's Lost Control"?) www.soundcontrolmanchester.co.uk
12 SCOTLAND GLASGOW ORAN MOR
http://www.oran-mor.co.uk/
APRIL
8 BOSTON -- PARADISE ROCK CLUB
28 NEW YORK -- BOWERY BALLROOM
29 PHILADELPHIA M ROOM
30 WASHINGTON D.C. THE BLACK CAT
MARCH
5 HOLLAND GRONINGEN VERA CLUB http://www.vera-groningen.nl/
6 BELGIUM BRUSSELS AB
http://www.abconcerts.be/nl/concerten/p/detail/buffalo-tom-06-03-2011
7 HOLLAND AMSTERDAM MELKWEG
http://www.melkweg.nl/artikelpagina.jsp?language=nederlands&batchno=5&offset=48&artikelid=199111&disciplineid=muziek&agendaitemid=199110
8 GERMANY COLOGNE LUXOR
http://www.luxor-koeln.de/di-08-03-2011-buffalo-tom/
9 Off / TRAVEL
10 ENGLAND LONDON DINGWALLS
http://www.dingwalls.com/
11 ENGLAND MANCHESTER Sound Control (A hometown homage to "She's Lost Control"?) www.soundcontrolmanchester.co.uk
12 SCOTLAND GLASGOW ORAN MOR
http://www.oran-mor.co.uk/
APRIL
8 BOSTON -- PARADISE ROCK CLUB
28 NEW YORK -- BOWERY BALLROOM
29 PHILADELPHIA M ROOM
30 WASHINGTON D.C. THE BLACK CAT
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
Just an Old Buff Tom Story for Christmas
People have asked We Three Buffalos Tee for stories from the road. We have relatively few good ones worth telling. Certainly none of them are Zeppelin level. No arrests or major property damage. No bans from any hotel chains. So we usually come back to a small handful, and in particular, this one from Paris. It happened so long ago, probably 1990, and that fact in an of itself shows how few stories there are. In fact, I would not be surprised if I have not already told it in this space. How sad would THAT be?
I searched Dan and Camille Speca's site, which documents almost all of the live shows we have played, This particular show seems to be missing. In fact, I do not see any shows in Paris in my quick scan, and even though it was not a hot spot for us, I know we have played at least two or three times there, once opening up for the Gun Club. Anyway, it is just as well, as this show should be expunged from the official record.
It started out just as our previous trip to Paris had. During that first european tour, in 1989, we had a day off or two and figured we would drive down to Paris just for the day, even though we had no shows in France that first year. But we had all our gear and records with us (we sold vinyl as merch' - goes to show how far back this was). When we got to the border on the way in, we were stopped and taken aside by the French customs agents, who took one look at the rock band with a Dutch driver and a van registered in the Netherlands, with boxes full of rock records and t-shirts and decided we were worth a search. The first BT album, some of you may recall, had a series of symbols in a hand-drawn logo designed by yours truly, a semi-arbitrary assemblage of a peace sign , a heart, a yin/yang, a cross, and -- naturally -- a hypodermic needle, for no apparent reason except to invite problems.
The French agents did not need to see anything more to order us out of the van. They brought a dog in to sniff through everything. The van was completely emptied and each section was taken apart, ceiling and door panels removed, and all our bags brought inside the building. Tom's duffel, filled at this point mostly with dirty laundry, was placed in front of us as we watched them search each item, with the dog sniffing all of it. And they strip-searched everyone but me. I was actually a little offended.
We were afraid enough of border crossings to know not to have anything on us and none of us had any sort of drug habits that would require taking such risks. So, after a few hours, they finally and reluctantly let us go on our merry way to enjoy the fair city of Paris as warmly welcomed tourists.
The next year, we came back to actually play a show. We were never very popular in France, but we had been booked at an ad hoc club in an old abandoned hospital campus that was being squatted. With our history at the border, we figured it would be best to get an early start. I believe that this time we were coming from Zurich, with its infamous Needle Park, home to hundreds of junkies. But that might have been the first visit, I forget. Needless to say, we were again held up for hours at the broder, with a similar bienvenue committee. Instead of being early, we had to speed into Paris so as to not arrive horrendously late. Of course, we were stopped by the police again on the highway, who seemed to have a sense of curiosity similar to their countrymen back at the border. "The French police wouldn't give me no peace/They claimed I was a nasty person..."
By the time we pulled into the right location, having circled the serpentine back streets of Paris looking for this squatted club, we were quite tardy, a fact made clear by an otherwise pretty lady running toward the driver-side window of our van, screeching her head off at us in a Gallic tempest of unmitigated fury. Stephen, our tour manager was a young guy from New Zealand, but I think it was Jan, our long-time Dutch soundman who also acted as our tour manager at times, who was driving and received the brunt of this vitriol. The poor guy was often stressed and took the job quite seriously, and, unfortunately, he understood some French. He mostly took it, though he tried here and there, in the milliseconds the mademoiselle paused, to explain what happened. She was having none of it. She started in on us in hilarious broken english that made her sound like an enraged female Inspector Closeau. The day in France was not off to a good start.
We were finally allowed to drive through the gates, past huge security guards dressed in DEA black, cargo pants tucked into boots, each holding German shepherds on short leashes. Yes, this was the "rock club," a walled campus that was like entering a prison.
We drove in and started to unload our gear, trying our best to ignore the ongoing stream of abuse from Fifi, who we soon deduced was the promoter. While Bob -- who was our graphic designer and was out selling merch for us -- unloaded the van, Jan, who did not see Bob, slid the van door shut on his head. Bob was woozy and eventually had to be taken to the hotel to rest. He may have gone to the doctor. I know he did eventually, I just don't recall this detail. It turned out that he got a concussion of some degree which made him nauseous.
Soldiering on, we completed a soundcheck in one of the many euro venues that resemble an airplane hangar, with a tin barrel ceiling, clearly the optimal conditions for the sort of hi-fi sound that warms the heart an exacting Dutch sound engineer with frazzled nerves and guilt compounded by arriving late and slamming his friend's head in a van door. But as you can tell, we were not so egregiously late as to miss a soundcheck; just enough to summon the blackest stuff from the bowels of a demonic French chick's damned soul.
As we made our way out for a quick bite, the bassist from the opening band asked Chris if he could borrow Chris' P-Bass. Chris, generous soul he is, sort of shrugged and said, sure, I guess so. When we got back in after dinner, the band was finishing up their set. I was first in the club. There was a rowdy audience watching and listening to the cacophonous racket, as the bassist repeatedly threw Chris' P-Bass up in the air, the strap holding it to his body, and letting it slam and bounce against his upraised thigh. I turned around to grab Chris, "look at what this guy is doing. You'll want to see this."
Chris came in and stood, mouth agape. He confronted the kid backstage afterward. "What the fuck? Why did you do that?"
The kid was very blase -- there's a nice French word for you. "Hey c'mon," he said. "Eet eese poonk rock, men."
Chris replied something like, "where's your bass? What happened to it, and why did you need mine?"
The guy just shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing wrong with his bass. He just wanted to use Chris's and got overexuberant. Chris simply did not know how to respond. But he let the kid have it.
Finally, the moment we were all waiting for, the time that we get to play; it is all about the music, man; the hour or so that makes it all worthwhile. We started our set to a packed crowd in this little room. The kids had paid around the equivalent of $20, which back then, for a band our size, was a lot of dough. I was actually starting to feel good. The crowd was definitely boisterous. And as a song or two went by, I felt myself getting beer spilled/thrown at me. Cups seemed to be flying. And one hit my right at the top of my guitar and drenched my torso.
Sort of half laughing, in my slowest, clearest speech, to try to convey my message to the French crowd, I said something like, "OK, I know it is a rock club and you all paid a lot of money to come and have fun, I have to politely ask whoever it is throwing beer up here to please stop." I heard a lot of yelling and jeering, people pointing fingers, and so on.
We started into the next song, "Mineral," which starts slowly, quietly, and with just me playing the guitar. The screaming continued and I saw a bustle in the crowd, just behind the first few rows of people, who started to look over their shoulders at those behind them fighting someone off, pushing around, trying to get out of the way, as this other insane-looking girl with a shaved head made her way forward, literally clawing her way up to the front. By the time it came for me to sing the first lines, she was in front of me yelling at me.
Mistake number one: I stopped playing and made eye contact with her, allowing her to engage me. She was still trying to gain ground and people were pushing her back. "What are you saying?" I asked. Mistake number two.
She yelled something to me in French or gibberish, or some combination of the two. Either way, I had no idea what she was saying. Mistake number three: I say, "hold on, hold on, what is she saying? Let her talk."
She wrestled her way right in front of me and yelled, "I thought eet would be refreshing to you! I thought you wanted to be refreshed!" She had been the one throwing the beers at me.
"No, ha ha, no that's fine," I said. I don't need...."
Splat! She spit right in my face before I could get my sentence out. Hawked a loogy right in my face.
Mistake number four comes next. Instead of walking away, which is something I am not too good at generally, and starting the music again, I instantly and instinctively spit right back in her cute little face. Well, before I could even straighten up, the skinhead chick was ON me, grabbing a hold of my guitar strings and my face, her nails slashing as she clawed up onto stage, kicking slapping, pulling my hair, my guitar clanging away. I looked to the side and saw Chris, again with mouth agape, but just standing there, along with Stephen, our guitar tech, stock still, the both of them. My face must have been in a panicked expression of, "a little help here?"
Finally, somehow, we were separated. Shaken, I left the stage and exited out the back door. In this setup, the dressing rooms were in another building up a flight of stairs. I was shaking and scratched up. We had only played maybe three songs. Fifi the promoter lady comes in, now all gooey sweet, begging us to go back on, telling us how the people loved the music and it was only one bad apple and so on. I told her to fuck off, that we had been badly treated this whole day, and that they have this heavy security presence and yet no one there to stop this one petite Tasmanian devil from nearly taking me out? She begged us, but my adrenaline was pumping and wanted to make her sweat, maybe a small riot from the outraged kids in the offing, so we refused to go back on for a while. She kept begging and we relented, telling her it was "for the kids, man!"
We were escorted back down the steps toward the entry to the stage. But we had to pass back through a courtyard between the two buildings. There, in a doorway, was the skinhead girl and two of the huge security guys and she was pummeling them while they tried to restrain her. They sort of seemed like they didn't want to hurt her, but she was trying their patience.
We played our set, which was good for a few laughs. People in the front were apologizing for her, telling me she was clearly on bad drugs. We wrapped up an otherwise uneventful and fun set.
Afterward, we were up in the dressing room again. enjoying a few drinks with some folks. I was discussing the bizarro incident with a French guy.
"Oh yeah, man," he said. "She was very high on something. She had been making problems all night."
"She was insane," I told him. "I mean, she really hurt me. And then we saw her outside going nuts on some big security guys."
"Yes, yes!" he replied. "You know, they had to shock her," illustrating some sort of movement with his hands."
"Huh? They had to shock her? What do you mean?"
He kept up the prodding motion. "Yes, oui. They had to give her electreek shock."
"What?! Like a cattle prod? A stun gun?" I asked (I don't think the word "Taser" had yet entered the lexicon -- english or french).
"Yes, yes, 'stun gun!.' Can you believe it, man?"
Here is the kind of place we played: huge SWAT team security guys patrolling a prison-like campus with German shepherds and stun guns, waiting for an opportunity to send high voltage into an out-of-control skinhead chick, and yet not being able to rise to the occasion when they were actually needed.
Merry Christmas kids!
I searched Dan and Camille Speca's site, which documents almost all of the live shows we have played, This particular show seems to be missing. In fact, I do not see any shows in Paris in my quick scan, and even though it was not a hot spot for us, I know we have played at least two or three times there, once opening up for the Gun Club. Anyway, it is just as well, as this show should be expunged from the official record.
It started out just as our previous trip to Paris had. During that first european tour, in 1989, we had a day off or two and figured we would drive down to Paris just for the day, even though we had no shows in France that first year. But we had all our gear and records with us (we sold vinyl as merch' - goes to show how far back this was). When we got to the border on the way in, we were stopped and taken aside by the French customs agents, who took one look at the rock band with a Dutch driver and a van registered in the Netherlands, with boxes full of rock records and t-shirts and decided we were worth a search. The first BT album, some of you may recall, had a series of symbols in a hand-drawn logo designed by yours truly, a semi-arbitrary assemblage of a peace sign , a heart, a yin/yang, a cross, and -- naturally -- a hypodermic needle, for no apparent reason except to invite problems.
The French agents did not need to see anything more to order us out of the van. They brought a dog in to sniff through everything. The van was completely emptied and each section was taken apart, ceiling and door panels removed, and all our bags brought inside the building. Tom's duffel, filled at this point mostly with dirty laundry, was placed in front of us as we watched them search each item, with the dog sniffing all of it. And they strip-searched everyone but me. I was actually a little offended.
We were afraid enough of border crossings to know not to have anything on us and none of us had any sort of drug habits that would require taking such risks. So, after a few hours, they finally and reluctantly let us go on our merry way to enjoy the fair city of Paris as warmly welcomed tourists.
The next year, we came back to actually play a show. We were never very popular in France, but we had been booked at an ad hoc club in an old abandoned hospital campus that was being squatted. With our history at the border, we figured it would be best to get an early start. I believe that this time we were coming from Zurich, with its infamous Needle Park, home to hundreds of junkies. But that might have been the first visit, I forget. Needless to say, we were again held up for hours at the broder, with a similar bienvenue committee. Instead of being early, we had to speed into Paris so as to not arrive horrendously late. Of course, we were stopped by the police again on the highway, who seemed to have a sense of curiosity similar to their countrymen back at the border. "The French police wouldn't give me no peace/They claimed I was a nasty person..."
By the time we pulled into the right location, having circled the serpentine back streets of Paris looking for this squatted club, we were quite tardy, a fact made clear by an otherwise pretty lady running toward the driver-side window of our van, screeching her head off at us in a Gallic tempest of unmitigated fury. Stephen, our tour manager was a young guy from New Zealand, but I think it was Jan, our long-time Dutch soundman who also acted as our tour manager at times, who was driving and received the brunt of this vitriol. The poor guy was often stressed and took the job quite seriously, and, unfortunately, he understood some French. He mostly took it, though he tried here and there, in the milliseconds the mademoiselle paused, to explain what happened. She was having none of it. She started in on us in hilarious broken english that made her sound like an enraged female Inspector Closeau. The day in France was not off to a good start.
We were finally allowed to drive through the gates, past huge security guards dressed in DEA black, cargo pants tucked into boots, each holding German shepherds on short leashes. Yes, this was the "rock club," a walled campus that was like entering a prison.
We drove in and started to unload our gear, trying our best to ignore the ongoing stream of abuse from Fifi, who we soon deduced was the promoter. While Bob -- who was our graphic designer and was out selling merch for us -- unloaded the van, Jan, who did not see Bob, slid the van door shut on his head. Bob was woozy and eventually had to be taken to the hotel to rest. He may have gone to the doctor. I know he did eventually, I just don't recall this detail. It turned out that he got a concussion of some degree which made him nauseous.
Soldiering on, we completed a soundcheck in one of the many euro venues that resemble an airplane hangar, with a tin barrel ceiling, clearly the optimal conditions for the sort of hi-fi sound that warms the heart an exacting Dutch sound engineer with frazzled nerves and guilt compounded by arriving late and slamming his friend's head in a van door. But as you can tell, we were not so egregiously late as to miss a soundcheck; just enough to summon the blackest stuff from the bowels of a demonic French chick's damned soul.
As we made our way out for a quick bite, the bassist from the opening band asked Chris if he could borrow Chris' P-Bass. Chris, generous soul he is, sort of shrugged and said, sure, I guess so. When we got back in after dinner, the band was finishing up their set. I was first in the club. There was a rowdy audience watching and listening to the cacophonous racket, as the bassist repeatedly threw Chris' P-Bass up in the air, the strap holding it to his body, and letting it slam and bounce against his upraised thigh. I turned around to grab Chris, "look at what this guy is doing. You'll want to see this."
Chris came in and stood, mouth agape. He confronted the kid backstage afterward. "What the fuck? Why did you do that?"
The kid was very blase -- there's a nice French word for you. "Hey c'mon," he said. "Eet eese poonk rock, men."
Chris replied something like, "where's your bass? What happened to it, and why did you need mine?"
The guy just shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing wrong with his bass. He just wanted to use Chris's and got overexuberant. Chris simply did not know how to respond. But he let the kid have it.
Finally, the moment we were all waiting for, the time that we get to play; it is all about the music, man; the hour or so that makes it all worthwhile. We started our set to a packed crowd in this little room. The kids had paid around the equivalent of $20, which back then, for a band our size, was a lot of dough. I was actually starting to feel good. The crowd was definitely boisterous. And as a song or two went by, I felt myself getting beer spilled/thrown at me. Cups seemed to be flying. And one hit my right at the top of my guitar and drenched my torso.
Sort of half laughing, in my slowest, clearest speech, to try to convey my message to the French crowd, I said something like, "OK, I know it is a rock club and you all paid a lot of money to come and have fun, I have to politely ask whoever it is throwing beer up here to please stop." I heard a lot of yelling and jeering, people pointing fingers, and so on.
We started into the next song, "Mineral," which starts slowly, quietly, and with just me playing the guitar. The screaming continued and I saw a bustle in the crowd, just behind the first few rows of people, who started to look over their shoulders at those behind them fighting someone off, pushing around, trying to get out of the way, as this other insane-looking girl with a shaved head made her way forward, literally clawing her way up to the front. By the time it came for me to sing the first lines, she was in front of me yelling at me.
Mistake number one: I stopped playing and made eye contact with her, allowing her to engage me. She was still trying to gain ground and people were pushing her back. "What are you saying?" I asked. Mistake number two.
She yelled something to me in French or gibberish, or some combination of the two. Either way, I had no idea what she was saying. Mistake number three: I say, "hold on, hold on, what is she saying? Let her talk."
She wrestled her way right in front of me and yelled, "I thought eet would be refreshing to you! I thought you wanted to be refreshed!" She had been the one throwing the beers at me.
"No, ha ha, no that's fine," I said. I don't need...."
Splat! She spit right in my face before I could get my sentence out. Hawked a loogy right in my face.
Mistake number four comes next. Instead of walking away, which is something I am not too good at generally, and starting the music again, I instantly and instinctively spit right back in her cute little face. Well, before I could even straighten up, the skinhead chick was ON me, grabbing a hold of my guitar strings and my face, her nails slashing as she clawed up onto stage, kicking slapping, pulling my hair, my guitar clanging away. I looked to the side and saw Chris, again with mouth agape, but just standing there, along with Stephen, our guitar tech, stock still, the both of them. My face must have been in a panicked expression of, "a little help here?"
Finally, somehow, we were separated. Shaken, I left the stage and exited out the back door. In this setup, the dressing rooms were in another building up a flight of stairs. I was shaking and scratched up. We had only played maybe three songs. Fifi the promoter lady comes in, now all gooey sweet, begging us to go back on, telling us how the people loved the music and it was only one bad apple and so on. I told her to fuck off, that we had been badly treated this whole day, and that they have this heavy security presence and yet no one there to stop this one petite Tasmanian devil from nearly taking me out? She begged us, but my adrenaline was pumping and wanted to make her sweat, maybe a small riot from the outraged kids in the offing, so we refused to go back on for a while. She kept begging and we relented, telling her it was "for the kids, man!"
We were escorted back down the steps toward the entry to the stage. But we had to pass back through a courtyard between the two buildings. There, in a doorway, was the skinhead girl and two of the huge security guys and she was pummeling them while they tried to restrain her. They sort of seemed like they didn't want to hurt her, but she was trying their patience.
We played our set, which was good for a few laughs. People in the front were apologizing for her, telling me she was clearly on bad drugs. We wrapped up an otherwise uneventful and fun set.
Afterward, we were up in the dressing room again. enjoying a few drinks with some folks. I was discussing the bizarro incident with a French guy.
"Oh yeah, man," he said. "She was very high on something. She had been making problems all night."
"She was insane," I told him. "I mean, she really hurt me. And then we saw her outside going nuts on some big security guys."
"Yes, yes!" he replied. "You know, they had to shock her," illustrating some sort of movement with his hands."
"Huh? They had to shock her? What do you mean?"
He kept up the prodding motion. "Yes, oui. They had to give her electreek shock."
"What?! Like a cattle prod? A stun gun?" I asked (I don't think the word "Taser" had yet entered the lexicon -- english or french).
"Yes, yes, 'stun gun!.' Can you believe it, man?"
Here is the kind of place we played: huge SWAT team security guys patrolling a prison-like campus with German shepherds and stun guns, waiting for an opportunity to send high voltage into an out-of-control skinhead chick, and yet not being able to rise to the occasion when they were actually needed.
Merry Christmas kids!
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