Ta much, MSiegel!
Ta much, MSiegel!
Matt hipped me.
Fabulous!!!!!!
Slow down a little, genius: I'm merely gifted., § tristan tzara, hans arp e hans richter a zurigo...
§ tristan tzara, hans arp e hans richter a zurigo ‘17 (by M U F)
If you wanna live
Treat me good
If you wanna live, live
I tell ya, treat me good
I'm like a walkin' razor
Don't you watch my size
I'm dangerous
Said I'm dangerous...
Treat me good
If you wanna live, live
I tell ya, treat me good
I'm like a walkin' razor
Don't you watch my size
I'm dangerous
Said I'm dangerous...
Our hero, already terrified by the prospect of interviewing Mark E Smith, just as he is about to start:
... I suddenly realise I am pissed mindless.
IN: Mark, I've got a present for you, (namely Brilliant Orange, a book about the cultural changes in post World War Two Dutch society, as mirrored through Dutch football, specifically the Ajax teams of the seventies. Okay, trust me, it's actually a lot more exciting than it sounds. Mark E seems pleased at any rate).
MES: Oh, cheers, I like stuff like that, have you read Tor? That's a book about German football, that's a really good book that... So, then, sit down, don't jump about. What part of Yorkshire are you from then?
IN: You f*cker, I'm from Accrington!
(I suddenly realise through my drunken fog, that I have called - albeit with a fair amount of jest - a man who can lay claim to be the greatest and most consistent artist of his generation, if not of the entire alternative rock genre, a f*cker. I squirm inside and fumble for a question. However, Mark has beaten me to it.)
MES: I used to go out with a girl from Accrington some time back. Is it still as mad up there? I remember that when I split up I had the entire family round, granddads with shotguns and stuff. They were nice people, but it was a bit mad. Do you like it?
IN: Me? Yeah, I go back at Christmas... but I live here now. Sometimes I like it here better than in Accrington.
MES: What isn't better than Accrington? Always raining. (A long laugh ensues) What's it like over here then, to live?
(I then go on a long and rambling explanation of why I am in Holland and how I think the country has changed since the time I have been here. All the while I am thinking, "Ask him a bloody question you prick". And all the while I keep rabbiting on... Finally I pluck up courage. But Mark has beaten me to it.) ...
... I suddenly realise I am pissed mindless.
IN: Mark, I've got a present for you, (namely Brilliant Orange, a book about the cultural changes in post World War Two Dutch society, as mirrored through Dutch football, specifically the Ajax teams of the seventies. Okay, trust me, it's actually a lot more exciting than it sounds. Mark E seems pleased at any rate).
MES: Oh, cheers, I like stuff like that, have you read Tor? That's a book about German football, that's a really good book that... So, then, sit down, don't jump about. What part of Yorkshire are you from then?
IN: You f*cker, I'm from Accrington!
(I suddenly realise through my drunken fog, that I have called - albeit with a fair amount of jest - a man who can lay claim to be the greatest and most consistent artist of his generation, if not of the entire alternative rock genre, a f*cker. I squirm inside and fumble for a question. However, Mark has beaten me to it.)
MES: I used to go out with a girl from Accrington some time back. Is it still as mad up there? I remember that when I split up I had the entire family round, granddads with shotguns and stuff. They were nice people, but it was a bit mad. Do you like it?
IN: Me? Yeah, I go back at Christmas... but I live here now. Sometimes I like it here better than in Accrington.
MES: What isn't better than Accrington? Always raining. (A long laugh ensues) What's it like over here then, to live?
(I then go on a long and rambling explanation of why I am in Holland and how I think the country has changed since the time I have been here. All the while I am thinking, "Ask him a bloody question you prick". And all the while I keep rabbiting on... Finally I pluck up courage. But Mark has beaten me to it.) ...
The Outsider
The Wire 183, May 1999
Mark E Smith in conversation with Tony Herrington
... TH: You have a new group now.
MS: Yeah, it's great. I'm really lucky. It just fell together. This new band is great. Tom the drummer, I'm lucky to get him, he's brilliant. His older brother is a good mate of mine. He said: Our Tom plays drums. He played me this tape he'd done with his brother and it was like Zappaesque stuff. I said, yeah, do you think he'd do it? And he said, yeah, I'll ask him, and he did. He's great because he does exactly what you want. He can do it. He'd played jazz, Country & Western, he can play anything, I mean, really play it. It used to take days, weeks and months sometimes before the drummer got it right. He can get what you want like that [clicks fingers]. He's great, touch wood. It's a pleasure to be on stage now. Which is the first time it's been like that for a bit. It's quite weird actually. [pause] A lot of the things that were frustrating me have disappeared. A lot of things that were put down to me rambling and all that was in fact the group. That last group, they were efficient, lazy, old fashioned, I thought, everything The Fall shouldn't be.
TH: Is that something that frustrates you: you get all the credit for The Fall, but all the blame as well?
MS: For sure, course you do. I take it anyway. You've got to take it. You can't say to interviewers, Well actually, I thought the set was rubbish last night. If people say that set was a bit long, or a bit flat, you have to say it was my idea. You take the rough. . . But they've got their own band now, and everyone says. . . It wasn't you [laughs]. ...
The Wire 183, May 1999
Mark E Smith in conversation with Tony Herrington
... TH: You have a new group now.
MS: Yeah, it's great. I'm really lucky. It just fell together. This new band is great. Tom the drummer, I'm lucky to get him, he's brilliant. His older brother is a good mate of mine. He said: Our Tom plays drums. He played me this tape he'd done with his brother and it was like Zappaesque stuff. I said, yeah, do you think he'd do it? And he said, yeah, I'll ask him, and he did. He's great because he does exactly what you want. He can do it. He'd played jazz, Country & Western, he can play anything, I mean, really play it. It used to take days, weeks and months sometimes before the drummer got it right. He can get what you want like that [clicks fingers]. He's great, touch wood. It's a pleasure to be on stage now. Which is the first time it's been like that for a bit. It's quite weird actually. [pause] A lot of the things that were frustrating me have disappeared. A lot of things that were put down to me rambling and all that was in fact the group. That last group, they were efficient, lazy, old fashioned, I thought, everything The Fall shouldn't be.
TH: Is that something that frustrates you: you get all the credit for The Fall, but all the blame as well?
MS: For sure, course you do. I take it anyway. You've got to take it. You can't say to interviewers, Well actually, I thought the set was rubbish last night. If people say that set was a bit long, or a bit flat, you have to say it was my idea. You take the rough. . . But they've got their own band now, and everyone says. . . It wasn't you [laughs]. ...
When I’m walking down the street it’s always you I seem to meet
Long hair down and sneakers on your feet
And write your letters to the Evening News
I clench my fist and sing this tune - I said, “Hey student, hey student, hey student
You’re gonna get it through the head...”
tagged as The Fall. I LOVE this song.
Long hair down and sneakers on your feet
And write your letters to the Evening News
I clench my fist and sing this tune - I said, “Hey student, hey student, hey student
You’re gonna get it through the head...”
tagged as The Fall. I LOVE this song.
Captain with the 'Magic' touch
David Hepworth remembers Captain Beefheart, the maverick musician loved by everyone from the Beatles to the White Stripes
18 Dec 2010
...1969's Trout Mask Replica, which is the Finnegans Wake of rock 'n' roll, the only album about which every serious rock fan has an opinion, having either deciphered its dry mathematical playing and lupine delivery, or retreated in confusion muttering, "It's too strange for me." The music writer Jude Rogers recently wrote about having bought it 10 years ago, at the age of 20; it felt like a rite of passage. But she found it so frightening that she took it back to the shop. Certainly, Trout Mask Replica makes The Fall sound like Take That. Compared to that, most pop music is, as Beefheart observed, "just a lullaby".
Although he was marketed along with the rest of the West Coast psychedelic wave of the late 1960s, he resisted any attempt to place him alongside the peace and love generation. Songs like Beatle Bones 'n' Smokin' Stones and Kandy Korn and Gimme Dat Harp Boy were aimed squarely at the self-indulgence of the very long hairs who were idiot-dancing to his records.
Throughout his career he did everything possible to puncture the expectations of his fans, opening his show at the Royal Albert Hall in 1972 with a ballerina and a belly dancer, excoriating the audience for always wanting to hear what they had already heard, and suggesting their craving for what he called the "big mama heartbeat" of rock 'n' roll was a sign of decadence. When they called for "more", he approached the microphone and whistled the Andy Williams tune of the same name.
At their best, his records hit a unique nerve. Safe as Milk is one of the few blues revival records that gets beyond aping the originals. Moonlight on Vermont, which sounds like Cecil Taylor dueting with James Brown while on a tightrope, is one of the few art experiments in rock that's worthy of your attention. Big Eyed Beans from Venus anticipates hip hop and heavy metal by at least 15 years. His best stuff is a bold departure and a dead end at the same time. Maybe one of the reasons he rarely followed up his best work was that he knew he couldn't. ...
...He was the first rock star to realise that if you don't talk, but rather declaim, even your zanier pronouncements will be treated as a piercing insight. "There are only 40 people in the world, and four of them are hamburgers," was one. "Everyone's coloured. If they weren't, you wouldn't be able to see them," was another.
He often hit the mark. When I met him in 1982, a television in the background was showing Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher posing for photographs. I haven't been able to look at them together since without hearing Beefheart announce, in his characteristically stentorian tones, "Oh, please. Do these people think we'll fall for that corn?"
David Hepworth remembers Captain Beefheart, the maverick musician loved by everyone from the Beatles to the White Stripes
18 Dec 2010
...1969's Trout Mask Replica, which is the Finnegans Wake of rock 'n' roll, the only album about which every serious rock fan has an opinion, having either deciphered its dry mathematical playing and lupine delivery, or retreated in confusion muttering, "It's too strange for me." The music writer Jude Rogers recently wrote about having bought it 10 years ago, at the age of 20; it felt like a rite of passage. But she found it so frightening that she took it back to the shop. Certainly, Trout Mask Replica makes The Fall sound like Take That. Compared to that, most pop music is, as Beefheart observed, "just a lullaby".
Although he was marketed along with the rest of the West Coast psychedelic wave of the late 1960s, he resisted any attempt to place him alongside the peace and love generation. Songs like Beatle Bones 'n' Smokin' Stones and Kandy Korn and Gimme Dat Harp Boy were aimed squarely at the self-indulgence of the very long hairs who were idiot-dancing to his records.
Throughout his career he did everything possible to puncture the expectations of his fans, opening his show at the Royal Albert Hall in 1972 with a ballerina and a belly dancer, excoriating the audience for always wanting to hear what they had already heard, and suggesting their craving for what he called the "big mama heartbeat" of rock 'n' roll was a sign of decadence. When they called for "more", he approached the microphone and whistled the Andy Williams tune of the same name.
At their best, his records hit a unique nerve. Safe as Milk is one of the few blues revival records that gets beyond aping the originals. Moonlight on Vermont, which sounds like Cecil Taylor dueting with James Brown while on a tightrope, is one of the few art experiments in rock that's worthy of your attention. Big Eyed Beans from Venus anticipates hip hop and heavy metal by at least 15 years. His best stuff is a bold departure and a dead end at the same time. Maybe one of the reasons he rarely followed up his best work was that he knew he couldn't. ...
...He was the first rock star to realise that if you don't talk, but rather declaim, even your zanier pronouncements will be treated as a piercing insight. "There are only 40 people in the world, and four of them are hamburgers," was one. "Everyone's coloured. If they weren't, you wouldn't be able to see them," was another.
He often hit the mark. When I met him in 1982, a television in the background was showing Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher posing for photographs. I haven't been able to look at them together since without hearing Beefheart announce, in his characteristically stentorian tones, "Oh, please. Do these people think we'll fall for that corn?"
Captain Beefheart, who has died aged 69, was provocative and unpredictable
The influence of Don Van Vliet, aka Captain Beefheart, stretched from the Grateful Dead to the Sex Pistols and beyond
Ewen MacAskill in Washington
Saturday 18 December 2010
... Although his style was rhythm and blues based he introduced a completely unorthodox approach to structure, rhythm and key. The band wore a mixture of cloaks and second hand outfits, and the Captain wore a hat, usually a topper, which became his trademark.
He was a provocative and unpredictable figure, given to primal screams into the microphone or even grunts and was outspoken and candid about the music industry and the people in it.
He disbanded his group – or they abandoned him – in the 1980s, with some complaining he ran a regime that was little short of tyrannical. He concentrated instead on painting and became reclusive.
Tom Waits, another musician who was influenced by Beefheart, said of him: "Once you've heard Beefheart, it's hard to wash him out of your clothes. It stains, like coffee or blood."
He stubbornly refused to conform and that was perhaps one of the main reasons that commercial success eluded him as a musician, although he was fond of the lifestyle that success brought.
He loved fast cars and owned variously a Hudson, a Corvette and a Jaguar. However it was his art that brought him more commercial success: despite having no formal training he drew and painted throughout his recording career.
His first exhibition was in Liverpool at the Bluecoat Gallery in April 1972, while he was touring in England. In 1982, on the advice of New York art dealer Michael Werner that he would never be taken seriously as a painter unless he gave up music, Beefheart turned seriously to art.
In the past few years he gained a reasonable reputation as an artist, mainly doing large abstracts in oils, and was able to demand high prices for his work.
The Michael Werner Gallery, in a statement carried by Rolling Stone magazine, said: "Don Van Vliet was a complex and influential figure in the visual and performing arts." It described him as one of the most original recording artists.
"After two decades in the spotlight as an avant-garde composer and performer, Van Vliet retired from performing to devote himself wholeheartedly to painting and drawing. Like his music, Van Vliet's lush paintings are the product of a truly rare and unique vision."
He leaves behind his wife of more than 40 years, Jan.
The influence of Don Van Vliet, aka Captain Beefheart, stretched from the Grateful Dead to the Sex Pistols and beyond
Ewen MacAskill in Washington
Saturday 18 December 2010
... Although his style was rhythm and blues based he introduced a completely unorthodox approach to structure, rhythm and key. The band wore a mixture of cloaks and second hand outfits, and the Captain wore a hat, usually a topper, which became his trademark.
He was a provocative and unpredictable figure, given to primal screams into the microphone or even grunts and was outspoken and candid about the music industry and the people in it.
He disbanded his group – or they abandoned him – in the 1980s, with some complaining he ran a regime that was little short of tyrannical. He concentrated instead on painting and became reclusive.
Tom Waits, another musician who was influenced by Beefheart, said of him: "Once you've heard Beefheart, it's hard to wash him out of your clothes. It stains, like coffee or blood."
He stubbornly refused to conform and that was perhaps one of the main reasons that commercial success eluded him as a musician, although he was fond of the lifestyle that success brought.
He loved fast cars and owned variously a Hudson, a Corvette and a Jaguar. However it was his art that brought him more commercial success: despite having no formal training he drew and painted throughout his recording career.
His first exhibition was in Liverpool at the Bluecoat Gallery in April 1972, while he was touring in England. In 1982, on the advice of New York art dealer Michael Werner that he would never be taken seriously as a painter unless he gave up music, Beefheart turned seriously to art.
In the past few years he gained a reasonable reputation as an artist, mainly doing large abstracts in oils, and was able to demand high prices for his work.
The Michael Werner Gallery, in a statement carried by Rolling Stone magazine, said: "Don Van Vliet was a complex and influential figure in the visual and performing arts." It described him as one of the most original recording artists.
"After two decades in the spotlight as an avant-garde composer and performer, Van Vliet retired from performing to devote himself wholeheartedly to painting and drawing. Like his music, Van Vliet's lush paintings are the product of a truly rare and unique vision."
He leaves behind his wife of more than 40 years, Jan.
Captain Beefheart: dust blows forward and dust blows back - an appreciation
Don Van Vliet, aka Captain Beefheart, was mysterious, alchemical, inexplicable and unrepeatable
Alexis Petridis
Saturday 18 December 2010
He never sold many records. His biggest hit album, Lick My Decals Off Baby, reached number 20 in the UK in 1970. But in a recording career that lasted from the 1960s until 1982, he succeeded in redefining the parameters of rock music.
His sound shifted over the years, from relatively straightforward blues rock to doomed attempts to court a mainstream audience; but at its height, it reached hitherto-unimaginable heights of avant garde experimentation.
Beefheart's most celebrated album, Trout Mask Replica of 1969, offered a world in which rock music appeared to have spun entirely off its axis.
The singer's earthy holler grounded it in the blues tradition, but the lyrics were wild and surreal. And the music seemed to be from another planet, far beyond even the most acid-fried psychedelic band could muster.
Standard time signatures were disregarded. Instruments – which extended beyond the standard guitar, bass and drums were set up to incorporate bass clarinet and musette – clashed to the point that it frequently sounded like everyone in the Magic Band was playing an entirely different song to everyone else. ...
Don Van Vliet, aka Captain Beefheart, was mysterious, alchemical, inexplicable and unrepeatable
Alexis Petridis
Saturday 18 December 2010
He never sold many records. His biggest hit album, Lick My Decals Off Baby, reached number 20 in the UK in 1970. But in a recording career that lasted from the 1960s until 1982, he succeeded in redefining the parameters of rock music.
His sound shifted over the years, from relatively straightforward blues rock to doomed attempts to court a mainstream audience; but at its height, it reached hitherto-unimaginable heights of avant garde experimentation.
Beefheart's most celebrated album, Trout Mask Replica of 1969, offered a world in which rock music appeared to have spun entirely off its axis.
The singer's earthy holler grounded it in the blues tradition, but the lyrics were wild and surreal. And the music seemed to be from another planet, far beyond even the most acid-fried psychedelic band could muster.
Standard time signatures were disregarded. Instruments – which extended beyond the standard guitar, bass and drums were set up to incorporate bass clarinet and musette – clashed to the point that it frequently sounded like everyone in the Magic Band was playing an entirely different song to everyone else. ...
Captain Beefheart obituary
Discordant and mesmeric, the 1960s Magic Band singer Don Van Vliet was rhythm and blues based but completely unorthodox; latterly he won fame as an artist
Caroline Boucher
Saturday 18 December 2010
Captain Beefheart, Don Van Vliet, who has died at the age of 69, was one of the most influential American musicians of the 1960s and early 1970s. His status was always cult rather than commercial, and for most of his career he was broke.
Yet he remained a hero to most of the musical avant garde...He was John Peel's favourite artist, and the DJ did much to promote Beefheart by playing his records when no other radio programme would touch them.
In 1964 Beefheart formed the Magic Band, the first of many line-ups under the name. They sounded pretty discordant, but due to Beefheart's extraordinarily mesmeric presence as frontman, a four and a half octave vocal range, his eccentric ability with lyrics, and his inexplicable one-liners to interviewers, the band was unforgettable.
Beefheart once described his thing to an uncomprehending radio interviewer as "music to dematerialise the catatonia". His style wasrhythm and blues based but completely unorthodox in its approach to structure, rhythm and key.
Magic Band musicians had names like Winged Eel Fingerling, Zoot Horn Rollo, the Mascara Snake, and Rockette Morton. They wore a ragbag of cloaks and thrift-shop outfits, and the Captain wore a hat, usually a topper, which became his trademark.
Van Vliet was born in Glendale, California on 15 January 1941, an only child who showed artistic talent from an early age: he claimed he was producing respected sculpture when he was five. When he was 13, his family (his father drove a bread truck) moved to the Mojave desert, an atmosphere that was to have an enormous influence on him, and particularly his painting, and a place where he lived on and off all his life. In 1959 he was offered a place at Antelope Valley junior college as an art major, but instead he hung out at home (doted on by his mother and grandmother) with his schoolfriend Frank Zappa, listening to old r'n'b records and planning various projects, most of which came to nothing. One was dreamed up sitting stoned in a car ("not Zappa," recalled Beefheart, "Frank never turned on") in the desert in 1962 , to shoot a film called Captain Beefheart meets the Grunt People. The film was never made, but the name stuck. ...
Discordant and mesmeric, the 1960s Magic Band singer Don Van Vliet was rhythm and blues based but completely unorthodox; latterly he won fame as an artist
Caroline Boucher
Saturday 18 December 2010
Captain Beefheart, Don Van Vliet, who has died at the age of 69, was one of the most influential American musicians of the 1960s and early 1970s. His status was always cult rather than commercial, and for most of his career he was broke.
Yet he remained a hero to most of the musical avant garde...He was John Peel's favourite artist, and the DJ did much to promote Beefheart by playing his records when no other radio programme would touch them.
In 1964 Beefheart formed the Magic Band, the first of many line-ups under the name. They sounded pretty discordant, but due to Beefheart's extraordinarily mesmeric presence as frontman, a four and a half octave vocal range, his eccentric ability with lyrics, and his inexplicable one-liners to interviewers, the band was unforgettable.
Beefheart once described his thing to an uncomprehending radio interviewer as "music to dematerialise the catatonia". His style wasrhythm and blues based but completely unorthodox in its approach to structure, rhythm and key.
Magic Band musicians had names like Winged Eel Fingerling, Zoot Horn Rollo, the Mascara Snake, and Rockette Morton. They wore a ragbag of cloaks and thrift-shop outfits, and the Captain wore a hat, usually a topper, which became his trademark.
Van Vliet was born in Glendale, California on 15 January 1941, an only child who showed artistic talent from an early age: he claimed he was producing respected sculpture when he was five. When he was 13, his family (his father drove a bread truck) moved to the Mojave desert, an atmosphere that was to have an enormous influence on him, and particularly his painting, and a place where he lived on and off all his life. In 1959 he was offered a place at Antelope Valley junior college as an art major, but instead he hung out at home (doted on by his mother and grandmother) with his schoolfriend Frank Zappa, listening to old r'n'b records and planning various projects, most of which came to nothing. One was dreamed up sitting stoned in a car ("not Zappa," recalled Beefheart, "Frank never turned on") in the desert in 1962 , to shoot a film called Captain Beefheart meets the Grunt People. The film was never made, but the name stuck. ...
CM: (Playing piano) "Ma-ma-ma-ma-cita, donde esta Santa Cleese...the vato wit da bony knees...he comin' down da street wit no choos on his feet...and he's going to..." No, no, that ain't it... "Mamamacita, donde esta Santa Claus...da guy wit da hair on his jaws...he's..." Nah. Hey, man, come over here, man. I need some help, man.
TC: Yeah, man. I can dig that. Like, uh, what are ya doin', man?
CM: Aw, I'm trying to write a song about Santa Claus, man, but it's not comin' out...
TC: About who, man?
CM: About Santa Claus, man. You know, Santa Claus, man?
TC: Oh, yeah, man. I played with those dudes, man.
CM: What?
TC: Yeah, last year at the Fillmore, man. Me and the bass player sat in, man.
CM: Oh, hey, man, you think Santa Claus is a group, huh? No, it's not a group, man.
TC: Wha? They break up, man?
CM: No, man. It's one guy, man. Y'know, he had a..a red suit on, man, with black patent leather choos...you know the guy, man.
TC: Oh, yeah...he's with Motown, ain't he? Yeah, I played with that dude, too, man. He's a good singer, man.
CM: No, no, hold on, man. He's not with Motown, man.
TC: Well, then he's with Buddha, man.
CM: No, aw, man, you don't know who Santa Claus is, man!
TM: Yeah, well, I'm not from here, man. Like, I'm from Pittsburgh, man. I don't know too many local dudes.
CM: Ohhh, I see. Well, hey, man, sit back and relax and I'll tell you da story about Santa Claus, man. Listen...
(background music begins)
Once upon a time, about, hmmm, five years ago, there was this groovy dude and has name was Santa Claus, y'know? And he used to live over in the projects with his old lady and they had a pretty good thing together because his old lady was really fine and she could cook and all that stuff like that, y'know. Like, she made da best brownies in town, man! Oh, I could remember 'em now, man. I could eat one of 'em, man, wow...
TC: Wow, did you know these people, man?
CM: Oh, yeah, man. They used to live next door to me, y'know...until they got kicked out, man. ...
TC: Yeah, man. I can dig that. Like, uh, what are ya doin', man?
CM: Aw, I'm trying to write a song about Santa Claus, man, but it's not comin' out...
TC: About who, man?
CM: About Santa Claus, man. You know, Santa Claus, man?
TC: Oh, yeah, man. I played with those dudes, man.
CM: What?
TC: Yeah, last year at the Fillmore, man. Me and the bass player sat in, man.
CM: Oh, hey, man, you think Santa Claus is a group, huh? No, it's not a group, man.
TC: Wha? They break up, man?
CM: No, man. It's one guy, man. Y'know, he had a..a red suit on, man, with black patent leather choos...you know the guy, man.
TC: Oh, yeah...he's with Motown, ain't he? Yeah, I played with that dude, too, man. He's a good singer, man.
CM: No, no, hold on, man. He's not with Motown, man.
TC: Well, then he's with Buddha, man.
CM: No, aw, man, you don't know who Santa Claus is, man!
TM: Yeah, well, I'm not from here, man. Like, I'm from Pittsburgh, man. I don't know too many local dudes.
CM: Ohhh, I see. Well, hey, man, sit back and relax and I'll tell you da story about Santa Claus, man. Listen...
(background music begins)
Once upon a time, about, hmmm, five years ago, there was this groovy dude and has name was Santa Claus, y'know? And he used to live over in the projects with his old lady and they had a pretty good thing together because his old lady was really fine and she could cook and all that stuff like that, y'know. Like, she made da best brownies in town, man! Oh, I could remember 'em now, man. I could eat one of 'em, man, wow...
TC: Wow, did you know these people, man?
CM: Oh, yeah, man. They used to live next door to me, y'know...until they got kicked out, man. ...
Click 'em and enlarge 'em if you so desire.
... Since moving in, Sara Taylor has opened the front door to a host of strangers.
"We have had a lot of people stop by and ask permission to take pictures on the porch and ask to tour the interior," she said in an e-mail. "We hope in time people will realize it is a private residence and the traffic at the door will lessen."
The five-bedroom, four-bath house was built more than a century ago by David and Sarah Morey, with the earnings from her citrus tree nursery.
David Morey, a shipbuilder, helped design the house and carved many of the wooden accents. Its 1.7-acre site overlooks San Timoteo Canyon.
The house, built in the 1890s, has a distinctive roofline, with its onion dome and mansard roof.
The previous owner, Janet Cosgrove, ran a bed-and-breakfast there for several years. She and her husband bought it in 1998 and made extensive upgrades to the foundation and electrical, plumbing, heating and air conditioning systems.
Cosgrove, since divorced, decided to sell last year so she could spend more time with her grandchildren, she said. She was honored by the Redlands City Council this summer for her stewardship of the Morey Mansion.
The Taylors spent about $1.7 million for the house, which they had been yearning to own since discovering it some 12 years ago while antique shopping.
Bill Taylor owns a business in Fontana but Sara Taylor says "taking care of the Morey is now my fulltime job." Among the changes they expect to make are a fence and gate across the front of the home.
"We would consider allowing people to come by to take pictures if they would drop us a note ahead of time," she said. ...
"We have had a lot of people stop by and ask permission to take pictures on the porch and ask to tour the interior," she said in an e-mail. "We hope in time people will realize it is a private residence and the traffic at the door will lessen."
The five-bedroom, four-bath house was built more than a century ago by David and Sarah Morey, with the earnings from her citrus tree nursery.
David Morey, a shipbuilder, helped design the house and carved many of the wooden accents. Its 1.7-acre site overlooks San Timoteo Canyon.
The house, built in the 1890s, has a distinctive roofline, with its onion dome and mansard roof.
The previous owner, Janet Cosgrove, ran a bed-and-breakfast there for several years. She and her husband bought it in 1998 and made extensive upgrades to the foundation and electrical, plumbing, heating and air conditioning systems.
Cosgrove, since divorced, decided to sell last year so she could spend more time with her grandchildren, she said. She was honored by the Redlands City Council this summer for her stewardship of the Morey Mansion.
The Taylors spent about $1.7 million for the house, which they had been yearning to own since discovering it some 12 years ago while antique shopping.
Bill Taylor owns a business in Fontana but Sara Taylor says "taking care of the Morey is now my fulltime job." Among the changes they expect to make are a fence and gate across the front of the home.
"We would consider allowing people to come by to take pictures if they would drop us a note ahead of time," she said. ...
The Davenport House - Saline, MI
Second Empire Victorian in Panama City, FL
The Seiberling Mansion - Kokomo, IN
Scottville Tower House - Michigan
Atlanta, Georgia
Victorian house in Georgia
The Hecker House - Detroit
Former 8th Precinct - Detroit
Angelino Heights - Los Angeles, Coliforniyah
Tunkhannock Storybook Mansion - Pennsylvania
The McCreary House
June 3, 2010
The punk prophet of Ing-er-land
How did Mark E. Smith of the Fall get involved in the World Cup song England’s Heartbeat? It’s in his blood, he says
Terry Christian
... England’s Heartbeat, on which Smith sings, rather than using the sloganeering quasi-rap of the Fall records, is an impassioned and witty appeal for a show of pride from England in South Africa. Smith urges the players to “take care of the invention of your nation . . . socks up at last or be a Brazilian breakfast”. Gone, it says, should be the days of England teams wilting in the June sunshine like a bunch of cry babies.
“I can assure you,” Smith says, “it definitely won’t get to No 1.”
I have spent numerous hours over the past three decades drinking with Smith. I have a fascination with the Fall that dates back to the first time I saw them in 1978. Smith was annoying the crowd by dedicating a song to Elvis Presley, anathema to punks at the time and very amusing to witness. As a young radio presenter, I interviewed him about his albums, from Slates and Hex Enduction Hour onwards. He remains one of the most interesting people I’ve met. Given his ranting stage presence and reputation for not suffering fools, the most unexpected thing about him was always how friendly he was, and what a good sense of humour he had.
A strong part of Smith’s working-class credentials is the appreciation and respect he has for the older generation. The first thing he’d say whenever we met was: “How’s your mam?” This time, when I tell him that she died in April, he’s genuinely sad for me. “April is the cruellest month.”
“Where does that come from?”
“T. S. Eliot, I think.”
Smith has a habit of understating his knowledge. Something he’s been doing with his lyrics for the Fall for more than three decades. He was always reading new stuff, listening to new stuff and plugged into the real world.
The Fall were John Peel’s favourite group; he famously described them as “always the same, always different”, which is as good a summary of their uniqueness as any. So, given his long history on the cutting edge, why has Smith done something as seemingly mainstream as a World Cup record?
Well, he has history with the Beautiful Game, he points out: “The Fall were the first band to ever do a song about football when we did Kicker Conspiracy for Rough Trade in 1983. At the time all these hippies at Rough Trade were saying, “You can’t do that; music fans aren’t into football’. We also did Kurious Oranj, which was about football rivalries, and Sparta FC a couple of years ago.”
There’s the urge, too, to improve on a genre that’s not exactly flush with quality. “All the World Cup songs I’ve heard are rubbish,” Smith says, giving amused short shrift to songs such as New Order’s World in Motion and Skinner and Baddiel’s Three Lions. ...
... With warm reviews for their recent album, Your Future Our Clutter, the Fall’s longevity continues. After years of refusing to sign contracts, Smith retains the rights to all his recorded material. “I always knew, even when we were only getting ten quid a week out of the group, that the last thing I wanted to do was sign all my songs over to some hippy. People in other bands used to laugh at us for not signing contracts or think we were mad. But they’d be massive for two years and then disappear.”
He has a wry sideswipe, too, at the current crop of British bands: “They’ve all been to drama school.” Taking that to be a dig at how middle-class they are, I ask him what it was like working with the artschool-educated Damon Albarn on Gorillaz’ Plastic Beach album. He immediately sees what I’m getting at, smiles and brushes it aside: “It was really good, he really knows exactly what he’s doing and works properly.” ...
The punk prophet of Ing-er-land
How did Mark E. Smith of the Fall get involved in the World Cup song England’s Heartbeat? It’s in his blood, he says
Terry Christian
... England’s Heartbeat, on which Smith sings, rather than using the sloganeering quasi-rap of the Fall records, is an impassioned and witty appeal for a show of pride from England in South Africa. Smith urges the players to “take care of the invention of your nation . . . socks up at last or be a Brazilian breakfast”. Gone, it says, should be the days of England teams wilting in the June sunshine like a bunch of cry babies.
“I can assure you,” Smith says, “it definitely won’t get to No 1.”
I have spent numerous hours over the past three decades drinking with Smith. I have a fascination with the Fall that dates back to the first time I saw them in 1978. Smith was annoying the crowd by dedicating a song to Elvis Presley, anathema to punks at the time and very amusing to witness. As a young radio presenter, I interviewed him about his albums, from Slates and Hex Enduction Hour onwards. He remains one of the most interesting people I’ve met. Given his ranting stage presence and reputation for not suffering fools, the most unexpected thing about him was always how friendly he was, and what a good sense of humour he had.
A strong part of Smith’s working-class credentials is the appreciation and respect he has for the older generation. The first thing he’d say whenever we met was: “How’s your mam?” This time, when I tell him that she died in April, he’s genuinely sad for me. “April is the cruellest month.”
“Where does that come from?”
“T. S. Eliot, I think.”
Smith has a habit of understating his knowledge. Something he’s been doing with his lyrics for the Fall for more than three decades. He was always reading new stuff, listening to new stuff and plugged into the real world.
The Fall were John Peel’s favourite group; he famously described them as “always the same, always different”, which is as good a summary of their uniqueness as any. So, given his long history on the cutting edge, why has Smith done something as seemingly mainstream as a World Cup record?
Well, he has history with the Beautiful Game, he points out: “The Fall were the first band to ever do a song about football when we did Kicker Conspiracy for Rough Trade in 1983. At the time all these hippies at Rough Trade were saying, “You can’t do that; music fans aren’t into football’. We also did Kurious Oranj, which was about football rivalries, and Sparta FC a couple of years ago.”
There’s the urge, too, to improve on a genre that’s not exactly flush with quality. “All the World Cup songs I’ve heard are rubbish,” Smith says, giving amused short shrift to songs such as New Order’s World in Motion and Skinner and Baddiel’s Three Lions. ...
... With warm reviews for their recent album, Your Future Our Clutter, the Fall’s longevity continues. After years of refusing to sign contracts, Smith retains the rights to all his recorded material. “I always knew, even when we were only getting ten quid a week out of the group, that the last thing I wanted to do was sign all my songs over to some hippy. People in other bands used to laugh at us for not signing contracts or think we were mad. But they’d be massive for two years and then disappear.”
He has a wry sideswipe, too, at the current crop of British bands: “They’ve all been to drama school.” Taking that to be a dig at how middle-class they are, I ask him what it was like working with the artschool-educated Damon Albarn on Gorillaz’ Plastic Beach album. He immediately sees what I’m getting at, smiles and brushes it aside: “It was really good, he really knows exactly what he’s doing and works properly.” ...
... Mr. Smith has been smart enough to bet against his own past. When the band tours, it plays few songs predating five years ago. It’s been reconstituted over and over again, playing fairly simple songs with different affects. At first the Fall made a kind of scratchy primitive para-punk; after many subtle changes it’s become heavy-featured, trance-inducing garage rock with clear and steady rhythm.
One of the big questions around the Fall is: What’s the way in? I grew up hearing the band on college radio, ignoring it. At first, around the time of “Hex Enduction Hour” (1982), I found it bitter, bossy music, and a pile of noise, even by my low standards. At a certain point I became a music critic, and such people are expected to buckle down and pay attention to the Fall. I had children instead. But not long ago “Perverted by Language,” a record I’d bought when it came out in 1983 and forgotten about, drew me in: first with its title — think about it for a minute — then with its sounds.
It’s got bullish bass lines and two drummers. It’s got inscrutable chants: “Eat Yourself Fitter.” “Smile.” “It was not an unreasonable offer.” From guitars come open chords in strange tunings, scraping against the key; from keyboards come mellow polytonal clusters. It has a decent amount of echo, and an incredible aura.
So that was finally my entryway, and after that I couldn’t stop. The Fall has recorded almost an album a year since 1979, and the 27 live sessions they recorded for the BBC, under the supervision of the disc jockey John Peel, tell another story: different versions, different inflections, different energies. Sorry to say, but in American terms, this is a Grateful Dead situation. I like hearing “Your Future Our Clutter” all the way through: as an album it works as few do anymore. But I’m happy to discard it and move on to the next.
Mr. Smith’s voice — both the vocal instrument and the point of view — is a template. He’s proven that it doesn’t depend on youth and good health, so theoretically it can go on as long as he lives. After a while it’s a voice you want to climb inside and get to know, or even start controlling yourself.
Recently I played a highly repetitive Fall song to a 9-year-old — I think it was “Cruiser’s Creek,” from 1985, to gauge his reaction. He loved it at first, then found it unreasonable. I told him I wasn’t sure why I liked the band so much all of a sudden. “You might be going through a kind of Japanese puberty,” he said. It’s an anime joke, describing boys who think they’ve turned into Pokemon characters. That sounded to me like the makings of a Fall song, along the lines of a few others about metamorphoses or half-man, half-somethings: “I’m a Mummy,” or “Wolf Kidult Man.” My favorite new Fall song is imaginary. It’s no less good for that.
One of the big questions around the Fall is: What’s the way in? I grew up hearing the band on college radio, ignoring it. At first, around the time of “Hex Enduction Hour” (1982), I found it bitter, bossy music, and a pile of noise, even by my low standards. At a certain point I became a music critic, and such people are expected to buckle down and pay attention to the Fall. I had children instead. But not long ago “Perverted by Language,” a record I’d bought when it came out in 1983 and forgotten about, drew me in: first with its title — think about it for a minute — then with its sounds.
It’s got bullish bass lines and two drummers. It’s got inscrutable chants: “Eat Yourself Fitter.” “Smile.” “It was not an unreasonable offer.” From guitars come open chords in strange tunings, scraping against the key; from keyboards come mellow polytonal clusters. It has a decent amount of echo, and an incredible aura.
So that was finally my entryway, and after that I couldn’t stop. The Fall has recorded almost an album a year since 1979, and the 27 live sessions they recorded for the BBC, under the supervision of the disc jockey John Peel, tell another story: different versions, different inflections, different energies. Sorry to say, but in American terms, this is a Grateful Dead situation. I like hearing “Your Future Our Clutter” all the way through: as an album it works as few do anymore. But I’m happy to discard it and move on to the next.
Mr. Smith’s voice — both the vocal instrument and the point of view — is a template. He’s proven that it doesn’t depend on youth and good health, so theoretically it can go on as long as he lives. After a while it’s a voice you want to climb inside and get to know, or even start controlling yourself.
Recently I played a highly repetitive Fall song to a 9-year-old — I think it was “Cruiser’s Creek,” from 1985, to gauge his reaction. He loved it at first, then found it unreasonable. I told him I wasn’t sure why I liked the band so much all of a sudden. “You might be going through a kind of Japanese puberty,” he said. It’s an anime joke, describing boys who think they’ve turned into Pokemon characters. That sounded to me like the makings of a Fall song, along the lines of a few others about metamorphoses or half-man, half-somethings: “I’m a Mummy,” or “Wolf Kidult Man.” My favorite new Fall song is imaginary. It’s no less good for that.
... Their show at Hammersmith was more car-crash than car insurance — a fast-paced, chaotically-executed exercise in demolition-derby, proto-punk rock’n’roll. They started by performing their third album, Raw Power, released in 1973, albeit with a slight readjustment of the running order. There was mayhem on stage and off from the moment they kicked off with the title track, and Iggy was already stripped to well below the waist by the time they reached Search and Destroy. Diving headlong into the crowd in front of the stage, he somehow managed to scramble back on stage with his trousers now hanging off his bare backside — the first of many, increasingly frantic such sorties.
Restlessly patrolling the stage in his strange, lolloping, broken-doll walk — the result of innumerable falls and bashes — Iggy cut an extraordinary figure for a man of any age, let alone 62. His singing encompassed a deep punk croon together with a lot of yelping and bawling, while Williamson’s razor-edged riffing — which was so far ahead of its time in 1973 — now sounded like classic punk rock of the sort made famous by the Clash, the Pistols and all the other bands who were inspired by the Stooges in the first place.
There was a massive stage invasion, at Iggy’s invitation, and at one point, the band was completely obscured by fans, while the singer was flailing around somewhere in the mosh pit. It took about 40 minutes to get through Raw Power, after which they blasted through a selection of other songs from the same period, including such delicacies as Open Up and Bleed, I Wanna Be Your Dog and a vividly illustrated version of Cock in My Pocket. There was, however, nothing from their recent album, The Weirdness, released to hostile reviews in 2007. Maybe they will be asked to play that one in another 30 years’ time.
Restlessly patrolling the stage in his strange, lolloping, broken-doll walk — the result of innumerable falls and bashes — Iggy cut an extraordinary figure for a man of any age, let alone 62. His singing encompassed a deep punk croon together with a lot of yelping and bawling, while Williamson’s razor-edged riffing — which was so far ahead of its time in 1973 — now sounded like classic punk rock of the sort made famous by the Clash, the Pistols and all the other bands who were inspired by the Stooges in the first place.
There was a massive stage invasion, at Iggy’s invitation, and at one point, the band was completely obscured by fans, while the singer was flailing around somewhere in the mosh pit. It took about 40 minutes to get through Raw Power, after which they blasted through a selection of other songs from the same period, including such delicacies as Open Up and Bleed, I Wanna Be Your Dog and a vividly illustrated version of Cock in My Pocket. There was, however, nothing from their recent album, The Weirdness, released to hostile reviews in 2007. Maybe they will be asked to play that one in another 30 years’ time.
April 17, 2010
Iggy Pop at 62
Robert Crampton meets the rock legend who has conquered drug addiction and his self-destructive streak to emerge a bigger star than ever
Robert Crampton
... Iggy had natural taste, raw talent and considerable brains. But he also had a terrible fondness for drugs. He was on Ecstasy and crack before they were even so named. And when heroin hit LA in the late Sixties and early Seventies, he developed a serious habit. He recalls once writing a song, overdosing, lying in a heap for 14 hours, waking up and finishing the song. In short, he is lucky to be alive.
“I was 37 or 38 before I began to stabilise. I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna die here, I’m going to fail, I’m not well, my talent is weakening, my looks are going, things are not gonna work out.’ Part of what I had to do is find a stable relationship with a woman. So I looked for the right type of woman and I married a Japanese woman, Suchi, my wife for a dozen years, who was very helpful. As is Nina, a beautiful and exotic-looking person, which leads lots of people to fail to find out she’s also very well educated, graduated cum laude from Georgetown University; sharp cookie, a serious person.”
Does he resent those with less talent who made more money than him? “No! I gotta lotta money! And it’s been incredibly interesting. I look at other people my age and I can’t help but suspect they’re not having new experiences, new challenges and new rewards like I am. Is that cool or what? The best I’ve ever done is now. Yeah, ’bout as near as I get to happiness, the least insecure, the most healthy.”
Does he have therapy? “F*** no!” Medication? “F*** no!” He seems a sunny character sitting here; why all the trouble for so long? “I go dark. I was pretty much wrecked in the late Eighties. I was about four or five years into going straight. I hated it.” What does he mean by going straight? Not being on heroin? “Not being on anything.” Anything? “Well, cutting down. By the middle Eighties, it meant that every night I would smoke half a doobie. By 1990, no more doobie; 1985-90 was me trying to be stable, not f*** everybody that I saw, not intoxicate myself, not point out everything to which I objected. Which is just about everything. I decided you gotta pick your shots, buddy. Little by little, I learnt.” ...
"...The devil,” he insists, “is not out of my system, but the particulars are.” ...
... We get up from our chairs and shake hands. Looking forward to tomorrow? “Oh yeah,” he drawls. “Tomorrow’s gonna be better than today.” We both nod meaningfully. “All right,” he says, “I’m gonna piss off now.” And he does.
Iggy Pop at 62
Robert Crampton meets the rock legend who has conquered drug addiction and his self-destructive streak to emerge a bigger star than ever
Robert Crampton
... Iggy had natural taste, raw talent and considerable brains. But he also had a terrible fondness for drugs. He was on Ecstasy and crack before they were even so named. And when heroin hit LA in the late Sixties and early Seventies, he developed a serious habit. He recalls once writing a song, overdosing, lying in a heap for 14 hours, waking up and finishing the song. In short, he is lucky to be alive.
“I was 37 or 38 before I began to stabilise. I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna die here, I’m going to fail, I’m not well, my talent is weakening, my looks are going, things are not gonna work out.’ Part of what I had to do is find a stable relationship with a woman. So I looked for the right type of woman and I married a Japanese woman, Suchi, my wife for a dozen years, who was very helpful. As is Nina, a beautiful and exotic-looking person, which leads lots of people to fail to find out she’s also very well educated, graduated cum laude from Georgetown University; sharp cookie, a serious person.”
Does he resent those with less talent who made more money than him? “No! I gotta lotta money! And it’s been incredibly interesting. I look at other people my age and I can’t help but suspect they’re not having new experiences, new challenges and new rewards like I am. Is that cool or what? The best I’ve ever done is now. Yeah, ’bout as near as I get to happiness, the least insecure, the most healthy.”
Does he have therapy? “F*** no!” Medication? “F*** no!” He seems a sunny character sitting here; why all the trouble for so long? “I go dark. I was pretty much wrecked in the late Eighties. I was about four or five years into going straight. I hated it.” What does he mean by going straight? Not being on heroin? “Not being on anything.” Anything? “Well, cutting down. By the middle Eighties, it meant that every night I would smoke half a doobie. By 1990, no more doobie; 1985-90 was me trying to be stable, not f*** everybody that I saw, not intoxicate myself, not point out everything to which I objected. Which is just about everything. I decided you gotta pick your shots, buddy. Little by little, I learnt.” ...
"...The devil,” he insists, “is not out of my system, but the particulars are.” ...
... We get up from our chairs and shake hands. Looking forward to tomorrow? “Oh yeah,” he drawls. “Tomorrow’s gonna be better than today.” We both nod meaningfully. “All right,” he says, “I’m gonna piss off now.” And he does.
... But there was a record called Raw Power. And, yes, Ron played on the record and he played magnificently. He would tell me many, many times — he would call me in his last few years, late at night, at 3 or 4 in the morning, just to let me know, "You know, Jim, I really am my own favorite bass player." [laughs] He loved to play the bass. He loved his own bass playing. And anyone who knows music well or even people who don't but who have a good ear can immediately pick out what his bass playing on that record did for James' guitar playing. Because James does not sound as good without those parts. And Ron wrote every damn bass part on that record. You know, once rock 'n' roll put on cowboy boots, the bass player got this quote-unquote "demoted" position. Which is completely bullshit. Complete bullshit. But you do get a lot of these guys, they put one finger on the thing and string along on the riff — dum, dum, dum — and that's it. But that's not what Ron did. The patterns and the nimbleness, the way he played it, the way his tonality complements the tonality of the guitar and the brutality of the drums. It's an incredible achievement. It's in a direct line from Bill Wyman and Dick Taylor, people like that. Also Paul Samwell-Smith from the Yardbirds. And before them, from the great blues and early rock guitar players — all those licks, like Bo Diddley licks or Jerome Arnold from Billy Boy Arnold. Billy Boy was the drummer; Jerome Arnold was the bass player in the Butterfield Band. So, no, I don't buy that. Raw Power is a particular thing that came out of the Stooges. If somebody doesn't like us, it's a free world, and they can tell the world. But I'll play whatever damn gig I think is good and I want to and I'll answer you right back with some music, you know? ...
A lace card is a punch card with all holes punched (also called a whoopee card, ventilator card or IBM doily). Card readers tended to jam when a lace card was inserted, as the resulting card had too little structural strength to avoid buckling inside the mechanism. ...
Old school, yo.
Old school, yo.
"I felt like I had found Jimmy Hoffa or something."
You'll never guess what I'm listening to right now.
... There are few things so faithful as a dish of sausages, not the indigestible leadeny things cooks make in the country, but the light savoury productions of the practised hand; and friend Facey having eaten about a pound and a half of Minshull Vernon ones felt equal to any emergency; he didn't think he would ever be hungry again, so he didn't pocket his customary crust. ...
... "Be off, then," said Facey, getting the Dragon of Wantley short by the head, giving him at the same time a refresher on the shoulder with the pig-jobber whip and a touch of the spur in the flank. This gave the field, who had hitherto enjoyed a side and a back view of our friend, the benefit of a front one also, thus exhibiting his watchful pig-eyes, a peculiar expression of countenance, his battered hat and shabby shirt. No one knows how ungentlemanly he can look, until he has seen himself in a shocking bad hat. ...
... On a richly inlaid Indian work-table on the right, lay a splendid wreath of pearls, with three important pendants.
"Oh, what loves of pearls!" ejaculated Mrs Watkins, clasping her hands, thinking how she would cut Lucy down with her diamonds. ...
... As it was, he let off his steam by abusing the sham-fox system generally, declaring he would rather hunt with a pack of rabbit-beagles on foot, than condescend to such work. "A rat in a barn, with a terrier, is worth two of it," said he. ...
... Mr. Romford, having first ordered Leotard for Mrs. Somerville, and the Baker for his own riding out of the brilliant galaxy of stubbornness and vice with which his stable was supplied....
... The lofty vehicle, which was painted dark green, was ventilated from the roof, and displayed on its side, in white letters on a black ground, the walking advertisement of "AUGUSTUS STOTFOLD, ESQUIRE'S DEER-CART, PICKERING NOOK." The vehicle, as Hood says in his "Epping Hunt," was --
In shape like half a hearse — tho' not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the deer alive,
And not the dear deceased! ...
...and Mr Romford was surprised to learn from Independent Jimmy they were only five or six miles from Dalberry Lees.
"Ar'll show you the way," said Jimmy, jumping onto the bare-backed grey; and taking a line of his own, irrespective of either gates or gaps, he proceeded to make his way across country.
"Ar think nout o' this stag-huntin'," observed Jimmy, running the grey at a great on-and-off bank, with a wide ditch on each side.
"Nor I," rejoined Mr Romford, following him.
"When you've catched the stag, ye're ne better off than ye were afore," observed Jimmy.
"Just so," said Romford.
Jimmy then angled a wide pasture at a trot, and was presently contemplating a rough, bush-entwined, rail-mended-fence with a too obvious brook on the other side. Jimmy ran the grey at a rail, but, hitting it with its fore feet, it landed on its head, shooting Jimmy well over it.
"Greate numb beast!" exclaimed Jimmy, catching the horse as it rose. He then pulled the rail out for Romford. ...
... Now he takes a startling stone-wall, at which the Baker bounds so as to hit his rider's head on the impending branch of an ash and knocks his old hat right down over his nose.
"Rot the beggar!" exclaims Romford, spurring him across a rough fallow, extricating his head as he goes.....
- Robert S Surtees, from MR FACEY ROMFORD'S HOUNDS (1865)
... "Be off, then," said Facey, getting the Dragon of Wantley short by the head, giving him at the same time a refresher on the shoulder with the pig-jobber whip and a touch of the spur in the flank. This gave the field, who had hitherto enjoyed a side and a back view of our friend, the benefit of a front one also, thus exhibiting his watchful pig-eyes, a peculiar expression of countenance, his battered hat and shabby shirt. No one knows how ungentlemanly he can look, until he has seen himself in a shocking bad hat. ...
... On a richly inlaid Indian work-table on the right, lay a splendid wreath of pearls, with three important pendants.
"Oh, what loves of pearls!" ejaculated Mrs Watkins, clasping her hands, thinking how she would cut Lucy down with her diamonds. ...
... As it was, he let off his steam by abusing the sham-fox system generally, declaring he would rather hunt with a pack of rabbit-beagles on foot, than condescend to such work. "A rat in a barn, with a terrier, is worth two of it," said he. ...
... Mr. Romford, having first ordered Leotard for Mrs. Somerville, and the Baker for his own riding out of the brilliant galaxy of stubbornness and vice with which his stable was supplied....
... The lofty vehicle, which was painted dark green, was ventilated from the roof, and displayed on its side, in white letters on a black ground, the walking advertisement of "AUGUSTUS STOTFOLD, ESQUIRE'S DEER-CART, PICKERING NOOK." The vehicle, as Hood says in his "Epping Hunt," was --
In shape like half a hearse — tho' not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the deer alive,
And not the dear deceased! ...
...and Mr Romford was surprised to learn from Independent Jimmy they were only five or six miles from Dalberry Lees.
"Ar'll show you the way," said Jimmy, jumping onto the bare-backed grey; and taking a line of his own, irrespective of either gates or gaps, he proceeded to make his way across country.
"Ar think nout o' this stag-huntin'," observed Jimmy, running the grey at a great on-and-off bank, with a wide ditch on each side.
"Nor I," rejoined Mr Romford, following him.
"When you've catched the stag, ye're ne better off than ye were afore," observed Jimmy.
"Just so," said Romford.
Jimmy then angled a wide pasture at a trot, and was presently contemplating a rough, bush-entwined, rail-mended-fence with a too obvious brook on the other side. Jimmy ran the grey at a rail, but, hitting it with its fore feet, it landed on its head, shooting Jimmy well over it.
"Greate numb beast!" exclaimed Jimmy, catching the horse as it rose. He then pulled the rail out for Romford. ...
... Now he takes a startling stone-wall, at which the Baker bounds so as to hit his rider's head on the impending branch of an ash and knocks his old hat right down over his nose.
"Rot the beggar!" exclaims Romford, spurring him across a rough fallow, extricating his head as he goes.....
- Robert S Surtees, from MR FACEY ROMFORD'S HOUNDS (1865)
It's beat time, it's hop time, it's Monk Time, yeah!
Some of you young 'uns may not have been very well brought up, and so I herein provide the lyrics:
Moral Majority
Dead Kennedys
from Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables
1980
You call yourself the Moral Majority
We call ourselves the people in the real world
Trying to rub us out, but we're going to survive
God must be dead if you're alive
You say, 'God loves you. Come and buy the Good News'
Then you buy the president and swimming pools
If Jesus don't save 'til we're lining your pockets
God must be dead if you're alive
Circus-tent con-men and Southern belle bunnies
Milk your emotions then they steal your money
It's the new dark ages with the fascists toting bibles
Cheap nostalgia for the Salem Witch Trials
Stodgy ayatollahs in their doubleknit ties
Burn lots of books so they can feed you their lies
Masturbating with a flag and a bible
God must be dead if you're alive
Blow it out your ass, Jerry Falwell
Blow it out your ass, Jesse Helms
Blow it out your ass, Ronald Reagan
What's wrong with a mind of my own?
You don't want abortions, you want battered children
You want to ban The Pill as if that solves the problem
Now you wanna force us to pray in school
God must be dead if you're such a fool
You're planning for a war with or without Iran
Building a police state with the Ku Klux Klan
Pissed at your neighbour? Don't bother to nag
Pick up the phone and turn in a fag
Blow it out your ass, Terry Dolan
Blow it out your ass, Phyllis Schlafly
Ram it up your c***, Anita
'Cause God must be dead
If you're alive
God must be dead
If you're alive
Plus a change, plus a mme chose, mes chers.
Moral Majority
Dead Kennedys
from Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables
1980
You call yourself the Moral Majority
We call ourselves the people in the real world
Trying to rub us out, but we're going to survive
God must be dead if you're alive
You say, 'God loves you. Come and buy the Good News'
Then you buy the president and swimming pools
If Jesus don't save 'til we're lining your pockets
God must be dead if you're alive
Circus-tent con-men and Southern belle bunnies
Milk your emotions then they steal your money
It's the new dark ages with the fascists toting bibles
Cheap nostalgia for the Salem Witch Trials
Stodgy ayatollahs in their doubleknit ties
Burn lots of books so they can feed you their lies
Masturbating with a flag and a bible
God must be dead if you're alive
Blow it out your ass, Jerry Falwell
Blow it out your ass, Jesse Helms
Blow it out your ass, Ronald Reagan
What's wrong with a mind of my own?
You don't want abortions, you want battered children
You want to ban The Pill as if that solves the problem
Now you wanna force us to pray in school
God must be dead if you're such a fool
You're planning for a war with or without Iran
Building a police state with the Ku Klux Klan
Pissed at your neighbour? Don't bother to nag
Pick up the phone and turn in a fag
Blow it out your ass, Terry Dolan
Blow it out your ass, Phyllis Schlafly
Ram it up your c***, Anita
'Cause God must be dead
If you're alive
God must be dead
If you're alive
Plus a change, plus a mme chose, mes chers.
...Johnny Rotten has explained the lyrics as follows: "You don't write a song like 'God Save The Queen' because you hate the English race. You write a song like that because you love them, and you're sick of seeing them mistreated."...
Bo Diddley Is Released From Hospital
Tuesday, September 4, 2007; 7:14 PM
GAINESVILLE, Fla. (AP) -- Bo Diddley's on the mend.
The hall-of-fame musician has been released from a Florida hospital after suffering a heart attack and having a stent inserted to improve blood flow, his publicist said in a statement Tuesday.
The 78-year-old singer-guitarist was released Saturday, said Susan Clary, Diddley's publicist.
"With his health greatly improved, Diddley is happy to be home with his family and away from the hospital food," Clary said. ...
Rock pioneer Bo Diddley suffers heart attack
Tue Aug 28, 2007
LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - Ailing rock 'n' roll pioneer Bo Diddley suffered a heart attack while undergoing a medical check-up, and is in stable condition in a Florida hospital, his spokeswoman said on Tuesday.
The 78-year-old musician, whose distinctive rhythms and guitar style influenced rockers from Buddy Holly to the Rolling Stones and U2, felt unwell during a check-up last Friday at North Florida Regional Medical Center in Gainesville, Fla. He was transferred to the emergency room where he suffered the heart attack, spokeswoman Susan Clary said in a statement.
He underwent surgery so that a stent could be fitted to help blood flow to his heart. He was moved from intensive care to cardiac care on Tuesday morning, Clary said. ...
Back in May...
Bo Diddley showing promising signs after stroke
Wed May 30, 2007
By Tom Brown
MIAMI (Reuters) - Rock 'n' roll pioneer Bo Diddley is still struggling to communicate after a stroke earlier this month. But he has been humming and listening to country music on the radio in hopeful signs of a recovery, his longtime manager and friend said on Tuesday. ...
Tuesday, September 4, 2007; 7:14 PM
GAINESVILLE, Fla. (AP) -- Bo Diddley's on the mend.
The hall-of-fame musician has been released from a Florida hospital after suffering a heart attack and having a stent inserted to improve blood flow, his publicist said in a statement Tuesday.
The 78-year-old singer-guitarist was released Saturday, said Susan Clary, Diddley's publicist.
"With his health greatly improved, Diddley is happy to be home with his family and away from the hospital food," Clary said. ...
Rock pioneer Bo Diddley suffers heart attack
Tue Aug 28, 2007
LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - Ailing rock 'n' roll pioneer Bo Diddley suffered a heart attack while undergoing a medical check-up, and is in stable condition in a Florida hospital, his spokeswoman said on Tuesday.
The 78-year-old musician, whose distinctive rhythms and guitar style influenced rockers from Buddy Holly to the Rolling Stones and U2, felt unwell during a check-up last Friday at North Florida Regional Medical Center in Gainesville, Fla. He was transferred to the emergency room where he suffered the heart attack, spokeswoman Susan Clary said in a statement.
He underwent surgery so that a stent could be fitted to help blood flow to his heart. He was moved from intensive care to cardiac care on Tuesday morning, Clary said. ...
Back in May...
Bo Diddley showing promising signs after stroke
Wed May 30, 2007
By Tom Brown
MIAMI (Reuters) - Rock 'n' roll pioneer Bo Diddley is still struggling to communicate after a stroke earlier this month. But he has been humming and listening to country music on the radio in hopeful signs of a recovery, his longtime manager and friend said on Tuesday. ...
The Outsider
The Wire 183, May 1999
Mark E Smith in conversation with Tony Herrington
... TH: You have a new group now.
MS: Yeah, it's great. I'm really lucky. It just fell together. This new band is great. Tom the drummer, I'm lucky to get him, he's brilliant. His older brother is a good mate of mine. He said: Our Tom plays drums. He played me this tape he'd done with his brother and it was like Zappaesque stuff. I said, yeah, do you think he'd do it? And he said, yeah, I'll ask him, and he did. He's great because he does exactly what you want. He can do it. He'd played jazz, Country & Western, he can play anything, I mean, really play it. It used to take days, weeks and months sometimes before the drummer got it right. He can get what you want like that [clicks fingers]. He's great, touch wood. It's a pleasure to be on stage now. Which is the first time it's been like that for a bit. It's quite weird actually. [pause] A lot of the things that were frustrating me have disappeared. A lot of things that were put down to me rambling and all that was in fact the group. That last group, they were efficient, lazy, old fashioned, I thought, everything The Fall shouldn't be.
TH: Is that something that frustrates you: you get all the credit for The Fall, but all the blame as well?
MS: For sure, course you do. I take it anyway. You've got to take it. You can't say to interviewers, Well actually, I thought the set was rubbish last night. If people say that set was a bit long, or a bit flat, you have to say it was my idea. You take the rough. . . But they've got their own band now, and everyone says. . . It wasn't you [laughs]. ...
This is the real link now: http://www.thewire.co.uk/articles/141/
The Wire 183, May 1999
Mark E Smith in conversation with Tony Herrington
... TH: You have a new group now.
MS: Yeah, it's great. I'm really lucky. It just fell together. This new band is great. Tom the drummer, I'm lucky to get him, he's brilliant. His older brother is a good mate of mine. He said: Our Tom plays drums. He played me this tape he'd done with his brother and it was like Zappaesque stuff. I said, yeah, do you think he'd do it? And he said, yeah, I'll ask him, and he did. He's great because he does exactly what you want. He can do it. He'd played jazz, Country & Western, he can play anything, I mean, really play it. It used to take days, weeks and months sometimes before the drummer got it right. He can get what you want like that [clicks fingers]. He's great, touch wood. It's a pleasure to be on stage now. Which is the first time it's been like that for a bit. It's quite weird actually. [pause] A lot of the things that were frustrating me have disappeared. A lot of things that were put down to me rambling and all that was in fact the group. That last group, they were efficient, lazy, old fashioned, I thought, everything The Fall shouldn't be.
TH: Is that something that frustrates you: you get all the credit for The Fall, but all the blame as well?
MS: For sure, course you do. I take it anyway. You've got to take it. You can't say to interviewers, Well actually, I thought the set was rubbish last night. If people say that set was a bit long, or a bit flat, you have to say it was my idea. You take the rough. . . But they've got their own band now, and everyone says. . . It wasn't you [laughs]. ...
This is the real link now: http://www.thewire.co.uk/articles/141/
Our hero, already terrified by the prospect of interviewing Mark E Smith, just as he is about to start:
... I suddenly realise I am pissed mindless.
IN: Mark, I've got a present for you, (namely Brilliant Orange, a book about the cultural changes in post World War Two Dutch society, as mirrored through Dutch football, specifically the Ajax teams of the seventies. Okay, trust me, it's actually a lot more exciting than it sounds. Mark E seems pleased at any rate).
MES: Oh, cheers, I like stuff like that, have you read Tor? That's a book about German football, that's a really good book that... So, then, sit down, don't jump about. What part of Yorkshire are you from then?
IN: You f*cker, I'm from Accrington!
(I suddenly realise through my drunken fog, that I have called - albeit with a fair amount of jest - a man who can lay claim to be the greatest and most consistent artist of his generation, if not of the entire alternative rock genre, a f*cker. I squirm inside and fumble for a question. However, Mark has beaten me to it.)
MES: I used to go out with a girl from Accrington some time back. Is it still as mad up there? I remember that when I split up I had the entire family round, granddads with shotguns and stuff. They were nice people, but it was a bit mad. Do you like it?
IN: Me? Yeah, I go back at Christmas... but I live here now. Sometimes I like it here better than in Accrington.
MES: What isn't better than Accrington? Always raining. (A long laugh ensues) What's it like over here then, to live?
(I then go on a long and rambling explanation of why I am in Holland and how I think the country has changed since the time I have been here. All the while I am thinking, "Ask him a bloody question you prick". And all the while I keep rabbiting on... Finally I pluck up courage. But Mark has beaten me to it.) ...
The real link now is: http://www.incendiarymag.com/node/624
... I suddenly realise I am pissed mindless.
IN: Mark, I've got a present for you, (namely Brilliant Orange, a book about the cultural changes in post World War Two Dutch society, as mirrored through Dutch football, specifically the Ajax teams of the seventies. Okay, trust me, it's actually a lot more exciting than it sounds. Mark E seems pleased at any rate).
MES: Oh, cheers, I like stuff like that, have you read Tor? That's a book about German football, that's a really good book that... So, then, sit down, don't jump about. What part of Yorkshire are you from then?
IN: You f*cker, I'm from Accrington!
(I suddenly realise through my drunken fog, that I have called - albeit with a fair amount of jest - a man who can lay claim to be the greatest and most consistent artist of his generation, if not of the entire alternative rock genre, a f*cker. I squirm inside and fumble for a question. However, Mark has beaten me to it.)
MES: I used to go out with a girl from Accrington some time back. Is it still as mad up there? I remember that when I split up I had the entire family round, granddads with shotguns and stuff. They were nice people, but it was a bit mad. Do you like it?
IN: Me? Yeah, I go back at Christmas... but I live here now. Sometimes I like it here better than in Accrington.
MES: What isn't better than Accrington? Always raining. (A long laugh ensues) What's it like over here then, to live?
(I then go on a long and rambling explanation of why I am in Holland and how I think the country has changed since the time I have been here. All the while I am thinking, "Ask him a bloody question you prick". And all the while I keep rabbiting on... Finally I pluck up courage. But Mark has beaten me to it.) ...
The real link now is: http://www.incendiarymag.com/node/624
John Peel's favourite band announce new album
The band are also set to release two books
John Peel's favourite band The Fall are set to embark on a release frenzy in the next few months, unveiling a new album and two books.
The band's new album 'Reformation' is set to be released in late January or early February 2007.
According to Pitchfork, the album will contain twelve tracks, including 'My Door', 'Fall Sound', 'Scenario' and 'Reformation' itself.
Photographer Bob Gruen, who has previously worked with Led Zeppelin, David Bowie and John Lennon, has shot the album cover, a photograph of the band.
Mark E Smith will also publish his autobiography 'Renegade: The Gospel According To Mark E Smith' on April 26, while 'Perverted By Language: Fiction Inspired By The Fall', a collection of short stories, follows on June 28.
Avarice, thy name be Xtine!
The band are also set to release two books
John Peel's favourite band The Fall are set to embark on a release frenzy in the next few months, unveiling a new album and two books.
The band's new album 'Reformation' is set to be released in late January or early February 2007.
According to Pitchfork, the album will contain twelve tracks, including 'My Door', 'Fall Sound', 'Scenario' and 'Reformation' itself.
Photographer Bob Gruen, who has previously worked with Led Zeppelin, David Bowie and John Lennon, has shot the album cover, a photograph of the band.
Mark E Smith will also publish his autobiography 'Renegade: The Gospel According To Mark E Smith' on April 26, while 'Perverted By Language: Fiction Inspired By The Fall', a collection of short stories, follows on June 28.
Avarice, thy name be Xtine!
TREVOR MALCOLM - lead guitar noise and vocal disturbances
NANCY DREW - lead crooning wizardress and pitiful guitar picker
MARK SIKICH - junkyard sculptor and tickler (percussionisticus bangus)
ROBERT BRUN - sexy drum lord (penis challenged)
MARK GELINAS - dirty, Harry, bassman, scary
Formed in 1988, as a haven for nude artschool models, and disenfranchized guitarists, LUXURY CHRIST is unabashedly living up to the reputation of its frontman (ex- Butthole Surfer), Trevor Malcolm. Trevor, who was dubbed by Spin the most hated man in America, left the buttholes in the mid 80's to return home and form LUXURY CHRIST. ...
NANCY DREW - lead crooning wizardress and pitiful guitar picker
MARK SIKICH - junkyard sculptor and tickler (percussionisticus bangus)
ROBERT BRUN - sexy drum lord (penis challenged)
MARK GELINAS - dirty, Harry, bassman, scary
Formed in 1988, as a haven for nude artschool models, and disenfranchized guitarists, LUXURY CHRIST is unabashedly living up to the reputation of its frontman (ex- Butthole Surfer), Trevor Malcolm. Trevor, who was dubbed by Spin the most hated man in America, left the buttholes in the mid 80's to return home and form LUXURY CHRIST. ...
NPR Audio Files: Music Review: 'Mento Madness' from Various Artists
All Things Considered, April 19, 2004 Chris Nickson reviews the CD Mento Madness: Motta's Jamaican Mento 1951-56. The disc is a compilation of material from the Jamaican "MRS" label founded by Kingston business man Stanley Motta.
Listen!
All Things Considered, April 19, 2004 Chris Nickson reviews the CD Mento Madness: Motta's Jamaican Mento 1951-56. The disc is a compilation of material from the Jamaican "MRS" label founded by Kingston business man Stanley Motta.
Listen!
Prometheus Steals Fire From the Gods Circa 1964
or
A Brief History of Feedback
. . . starring Gary Burger
... You could almost see the sound waves, moving as an incoming tide across the room. Gary was halfway to the restroom and stopped to look back. He was going to say, "Turn off my guitar, somebody," but Roger, out of simple boredom, had begun to beat a rhythm. It had an astounding effect - this yowling of a wild unleashed electronic noise and then Roger's heavy drum beat accompanying it. It gave the cacophony a strange sense of having been arranged.
"What the hell?" I said. I began to play a bass line along with Roger's drum beat. Dave yelled across the stage, "Makes a good song, huh?"
Gary ran back to the stage. "I can't believe this," he shouted. He jumped up on stage, picked up his guitar and twanged it, still holding its face towards the amp speaker. Sound exploded. The effect was instant. It was like discovering fire.
We began to jump up and down, as small children do when they find something that totally amazes them and yet could be forbidden. No one would call this music. We knew that, but time flies when you're having fun. We began to make the most distorted layers of sound we had ever heard - and we were doing it on purpose. All of us went into a frenzy. The sound was god-awful, as if it was going to rip the guts right out of our amplifiers. We twanged and banged, and created all kinds of non-musical caterwauling. It was an atomic cat fight. Our amplifiers rattled as if they were going to explode at any moment.
"Whoaa!" I shouted.
"Let's do that again!" Larry was laughing himself silly.
You couldn't get Gary to stop.
It was not the kind of sound we had ever heard before. It was as if the genie of the demons had entered our instruments, working without human help. We didn't have to do anything. It was there. It was the invention of the automatic atomic ear blaster - a very valuable discovery for civilization as we knew it. We stopped and stared at each other, grinning from ear to ear. For the very first time, we then listened to what silence sounds like. It sounded artificial, believe it or not. Before anyone could spoil it by saying something, Gary started it again. "Yes! I can control this sonuvabitch!" he shouted. He made a sound like a ship, the Titanic, scraping its bottom along an iceberg. One could hear cats screaming on a fence, or even fingernails dragging across a chalkboard.
"It's beautiful!"
"I never knew it would do that!" ...
The Monks and Jimi Hendrix, on a stage in Hamburg, took turns blowing each other's minds. They spoke only briefly. No one else at the time was using feedback the way Messers Hendrix and Burger did. As they spoke, they learned they had pretty much simultaneously discovered the automatic atomic ear blaster.
or
A Brief History of Feedback
. . . starring Gary Burger
... You could almost see the sound waves, moving as an incoming tide across the room. Gary was halfway to the restroom and stopped to look back. He was going to say, "Turn off my guitar, somebody," but Roger, out of simple boredom, had begun to beat a rhythm. It had an astounding effect - this yowling of a wild unleashed electronic noise and then Roger's heavy drum beat accompanying it. It gave the cacophony a strange sense of having been arranged.
"What the hell?" I said. I began to play a bass line along with Roger's drum beat. Dave yelled across the stage, "Makes a good song, huh?"
Gary ran back to the stage. "I can't believe this," he shouted. He jumped up on stage, picked up his guitar and twanged it, still holding its face towards the amp speaker. Sound exploded. The effect was instant. It was like discovering fire.
We began to jump up and down, as small children do when they find something that totally amazes them and yet could be forbidden. No one would call this music. We knew that, but time flies when you're having fun. We began to make the most distorted layers of sound we had ever heard - and we were doing it on purpose. All of us went into a frenzy. The sound was god-awful, as if it was going to rip the guts right out of our amplifiers. We twanged and banged, and created all kinds of non-musical caterwauling. It was an atomic cat fight. Our amplifiers rattled as if they were going to explode at any moment.
"Whoaa!" I shouted.
"Let's do that again!" Larry was laughing himself silly.
You couldn't get Gary to stop.
It was not the kind of sound we had ever heard before. It was as if the genie of the demons had entered our instruments, working without human help. We didn't have to do anything. It was there. It was the invention of the automatic atomic ear blaster - a very valuable discovery for civilization as we knew it. We stopped and stared at each other, grinning from ear to ear. For the very first time, we then listened to what silence sounds like. It sounded artificial, believe it or not. Before anyone could spoil it by saying something, Gary started it again. "Yes! I can control this sonuvabitch!" he shouted. He made a sound like a ship, the Titanic, scraping its bottom along an iceberg. One could hear cats screaming on a fence, or even fingernails dragging across a chalkboard.
"It's beautiful!"
"I never knew it would do that!" ...
The Monks and Jimi Hendrix, on a stage in Hamburg, took turns blowing each other's minds. They spoke only briefly. No one else at the time was using feedback the way Messers Hendrix and Burger did. As they spoke, they learned they had pretty much simultaneously discovered the automatic atomic ear blaster.
Many thanks to dear VelouriaScot, who tells me many MP's tried to get this record banned.
Crass was class.
Host Eric J. Lawrence welcomes Mark E. Smith, leader and founder of legendary UK post-punk band The Fall, in a rare and intimate interview on Dragnet.
Aired Tuesday, May 23, 2006.
Many thanks to dear Hat!!!
Aired Tuesday, May 23, 2006.
Many thanks to dear Hat!!!
The Fall: Fall Heads Roll
Review by Donald Breckenridge
Mark E. Smith -- a well-read dockworker and the self-professed psychic son of a plumber -- had his brain lit up by the seemingly endless possibilities of punk's first wave and, more important, its American roots in the late-sixties sonic garage assaults of The Stooges and the demonic blues howls of Captain Beefheart. In addition, he brought in the heady repetition of German krautrock pioneers Can and the crafty dubwise tracks being laid out in Jamaica by a host of revolutionary producers and DJs. All played vital roles in shaping a musical revolution that would gradually sweep over the sleeping music industry and its comatose mainstream audience in the next decade, and inspired Smith to form a band with a handful of equally disenfranchised co-conspirators in late '76. The group took their name from the title of Albert Camus's aching post-war meditation on the futility of existence and performed their first gig the following April in a cramped Manchester basement.
Now, after almost thirty years, innumerable lineup changes, endless tours, and dozens of studio albums, compilations, and live recordings, Mark E. Smith and the latest incarnation of The Fall are back and packing a vengeance with Fall Heads Roll. The new studio album, on NYC's Narnack Records, weighs in at just under an hour and finds the band in outstanding form. If this is your first exposure to The Fall, it will be a perfect introduction; if you're already familiar with the band, you certainly don't need me to tell you to buy the album, because you already own it. ...
...Every Fall fan can recall that one specific lyric from a song--half-spoken, slurred, or shouted--that flicked the hidden switch in their brain, transforming them into a rabid fan of certainly the most prolific, and arguably the greatest band--regardless of genre--that exists on the planet. I was seventeen when This Nation's Saving Grace was released in '86, and it was during that summer--as a powerful, organically grown hallucinogenic aura held sway over the suburbs of Northern Virginia--that my epiphany arrived by way of a cassette blasting from a recently copped boom-box precariously balanced atop the peeling vinyl roof of my father's `72 Cutlass...
Review by Donald Breckenridge
Mark E. Smith -- a well-read dockworker and the self-professed psychic son of a plumber -- had his brain lit up by the seemingly endless possibilities of punk's first wave and, more important, its American roots in the late-sixties sonic garage assaults of The Stooges and the demonic blues howls of Captain Beefheart. In addition, he brought in the heady repetition of German krautrock pioneers Can and the crafty dubwise tracks being laid out in Jamaica by a host of revolutionary producers and DJs. All played vital roles in shaping a musical revolution that would gradually sweep over the sleeping music industry and its comatose mainstream audience in the next decade, and inspired Smith to form a band with a handful of equally disenfranchised co-conspirators in late '76. The group took their name from the title of Albert Camus's aching post-war meditation on the futility of existence and performed their first gig the following April in a cramped Manchester basement.
Now, after almost thirty years, innumerable lineup changes, endless tours, and dozens of studio albums, compilations, and live recordings, Mark E. Smith and the latest incarnation of The Fall are back and packing a vengeance with Fall Heads Roll. The new studio album, on NYC's Narnack Records, weighs in at just under an hour and finds the band in outstanding form. If this is your first exposure to The Fall, it will be a perfect introduction; if you're already familiar with the band, you certainly don't need me to tell you to buy the album, because you already own it. ...
...Every Fall fan can recall that one specific lyric from a song--half-spoken, slurred, or shouted--that flicked the hidden switch in their brain, transforming them into a rabid fan of certainly the most prolific, and arguably the greatest band--regardless of genre--that exists on the planet. I was seventeen when This Nation's Saving Grace was released in '86, and it was during that summer--as a powerful, organically grown hallucinogenic aura held sway over the suburbs of Northern Virginia--that my epiphany arrived by way of a cassette blasting from a recently copped boom-box precariously balanced atop the peeling vinyl roof of my father's `72 Cutlass...
MES is not a legend in his own mind.
One of the greatest bands, and greatest minds of the era.
One of the greatest bands, and greatest minds of the era.
The photographer owned the club where these pics were taken. 'Twas a long time ago: when dinosaurs walked the Earth.
It's all fun and games
until someone loses an eye!
Poor Dave. I shoulda been even more cruel to him: he mighta turned out a nicer guy. Instead, I helped him with his eyeliner. Tsk.
Tony was a good guy and he had a Wm S Burroughs t-shirt.
It's all fun and games
until someone loses an eye!
Poor Dave. I shoulda been even more cruel to him: he mighta turned out a nicer guy. Instead, I helped him with his eyeliner. Tsk.
Tony was a good guy and he had a Wm S Burroughs t-shirt.
Mmmmmmmmmm
The Fall
The Fall
* OFFOFFOFF music THE MONKS band with Gary Burger, Larry Clark, Dave Day, Roger Johnston, Eddie Shaw
The Monks, a group of ex-G.I.'s who recorded in Germany during the mid-1960s, were loud, rude, sophomoric, and atonal. In other words, ahead of their time.
THE MONKS
Gary Burger (guitar, vocals)
Larry Clark (organ, vocals)
Dave Day (banjo, vocals)
Roger Johnston (drums, vocals)
Eddie Shaw (bass, vocals)
In recent years, with the Infinite Zero label's release of the CD of the Monks' lone album, "Black Monk Time" (1966), and bass player Eddie Shaw's autobiographical book of the same name (Carson Street Publishing), the group has become far more popular than it ever was in its time.
Proto-punk anthems like "I Hate You," "Shut Up," and "Boys Are Boys and Girls Are Joys" (the closest they ever got to a Brill Building song title) have endeared them to arty, downtown, "we really listen to Side 2 of the Velvets' 'White Light, White Heat'" types as well as garage-rock enthusiasts. When the organizers of the Cavestomp! '99 Garage Rock Festacular taking place this weekend at the Westbeth Theatre Centre announced that the Monks would reunite for their first U.S. show ever on November 5, ticket demand was so high that the group was added to the event's November 7 bill as well.
These concerts became Let's Start a Beat, their third disc which came out in 2000.
When they played Genesis P Orridge stood mouth agape, gawking at them, his mind blown.
Now that's impressive, girls and boys.
THE MONKS
Gary Burger (guitar, vocals)
Larry Clark (organ, vocals)
Dave Day (banjo, vocals)
Roger Johnston (drums, vocals)
Eddie Shaw (bass, vocals)
In recent years, with the Infinite Zero label's release of the CD of the Monks' lone album, "Black Monk Time" (1966), and bass player Eddie Shaw's autobiographical book of the same name (Carson Street Publishing), the group has become far more popular than it ever was in its time.
Proto-punk anthems like "I Hate You," "Shut Up," and "Boys Are Boys and Girls Are Joys" (the closest they ever got to a Brill Building song title) have endeared them to arty, downtown, "we really listen to Side 2 of the Velvets' 'White Light, White Heat'" types as well as garage-rock enthusiasts. When the organizers of the Cavestomp! '99 Garage Rock Festacular taking place this weekend at the Westbeth Theatre Centre announced that the Monks would reunite for their first U.S. show ever on November 5, ticket demand was so high that the group was added to the event's November 7 bill as well.
These concerts became Let's Start a Beat, their third disc which came out in 2000.
When they played Genesis P Orridge stood mouth agape, gawking at them, his mind blown.
Now that's impressive, girls and boys.
Contrary to the majority of the minority (which is to say, people who listen to Monk music), I would say that the demo Five Upstart Americans is much superior to the later Black Monk Time. (Pixies fans who love the Fort Apache demos would probably concur.)
Whichever CD you buy (if you're goofed enough not to buy both), the sort of person who prefers the early, bassless Cramps will appreciate the relatively cymbal-less Monks. Monk Dave makes the best use of the banjo since Homer & Jethro, and Monk Larry's organ -- well, one either loves the organ or one doesn't. I do. If you do, then wie du, and that's one of the strongest reasons for preferring Five Upstart Americans to Black Monk Time: the tone-setting organ prelude before each song.
Five Upstart Americans was released in the late 90s, a little after Black Monk Time. It's their demo record, and they constantly alarmed the engineer: their volume was much too high for equip't that normally recorded classical music. The poor guy screamed at them and their managers.
Whichever CD you buy (if you're goofed enough not to buy both), the sort of person who prefers the early, bassless Cramps will appreciate the relatively cymbal-less Monks. Monk Dave makes the best use of the banjo since Homer & Jethro, and Monk Larry's organ -- well, one either loves the organ or one doesn't. I do. If you do, then wie du, and that's one of the strongest reasons for preferring Five Upstart Americans to Black Monk Time: the tone-setting organ prelude before each song.
Five Upstart Americans was released in the late 90s, a little after Black Monk Time. It's their demo record, and they constantly alarmed the engineer: their volume was much too high for equip't that normally recorded classical music. The poor guy screamed at them and their managers.
I'm a a Monk, you're a Monk, we're all Monks!
We Monks mean what we say!
We Monks mean what we say!
Mmmmmmm The Five Keys
Classic Mento
Classic Mento
Ah yes, the inimitable Mark E Smith has allus been a fashion plate
Trying to bolt out of
Trying to get over
Operation mind fuck
"I do not like your tone.
It has ephemeral whinging aspects."
It's a curse. I am not unguilty of using it.
Waiting for you to f....
Trying to get out of
Tryna get out of
Waiting
They are waiting for you, bitterly, for you to fall over.
It's a curse.
I only have this excerpt-ah from It's a Curse-ah; off The Infotainment-ah Scan, a fabulous disc-ah.
Trying to get over
Operation mind fuck
"I do not like your tone.
It has ephemeral whinging aspects."
It's a curse. I am not unguilty of using it.
Waiting for you to f....
Trying to get out of
Tryna get out of
Waiting
They are waiting for you, bitterly, for you to fall over.
It's a curse.
I only have this excerpt-ah from It's a Curse-ah; off The Infotainment-ah Scan, a fabulous disc-ah.