Zoogz Rift

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(Journal entry, c. 1982)

Later we went to the Anti-Club. It is not identified as such, announcing itself over the door as “Helen’s Place”; luckily we heard the give-away sounds of a slapped, ill-tuned snare and over-amped keyboard: Art! This had to be the place. Indoors was, ah, “refreshingly different”: Helen’s Place is a country music bar, and dangling from the ceiling were saddles, and covering up large portions of the walls were large wagon wheels (I leaned against one a good part of the evening)—between these were various accoutrements of the Old West. Of particular interest was a large display, labeled and all, of a collection of barbed wire.

Three bands played that night. First was Earth Dies Burning: singer, aged circa sixteen, two on casios, one circa fourteen (the singer’s brother; their parents sat next to us, adoringly), the other circa sixteen (and who played drums one night for Nervous Gender at Al’s, subbing for Don Bolles who was with 45 Grave in Arizona; the kid was a real formlessly energetic drummer and lots of fun), finally, a drummer, circa thirty. The latter’s set was cruder than mine, his crash looked to have been run over by a tank. They played a real short set, including a version of “Heartbreak Hotel” retitled “I Like Fishsticks And So Does Dad” (you see, father was injured in an auto wreck and is paralyzed from the waist up—and when Mom goes out to play Mahjong all he can prepare for dinner for himself and son is fishsticks). Also a great version of “Psychotic Reaction” which was as good as the Urinals doing the “Jetsons” song and [my old band] Keene White doing “Rave On”). A great, stupid, short set.

Then came the guy [John Trubee] who once played bass in the Amazing Shitheads laying down (the first time we ever saw them he was doing that—I think that was his final gig with them, though.) He did this ridiculous poetry—real crude, witty and funny. He rolled around on the floor, dropped to his knees, and waved at and cajoled the crowd with a big rubber penis. He also had one of those mechanical chimps you wind up and they clang little cymbals together: clang clang clang clang like that. His best poem was one about Sonny andCher, elevating their story to the level of a Greek tragedy.

He had been backed by the next band on the bill (though their “backing” was a quite unrehearsed volley of noise and squeaky guitars), who called themselves Vertical Invaders. They had a line-up and sound similar to MX-80 Sound, though much less developed. Good points were a) they didn’t wallow in sloppy-noise-as-art b) their guitars were used in interesting manners c) no rhythm boxes or other trendy devices. Bad points were a) monotonous drumming and b) some of their songs were a little too similar to others, e.g. their climactic number was very similar to “Waiting For My Man”. Promise, though.

A couple oddities: they had a song about General Guderian, and one song they started, screwed up, started again and then having completed it, decided the did it poorly should do it again. I liked that. It was extremely hot in the place, the air conditioning having broken down in the midst of our 100+ degree heat wave.

Finally, of course, was Zoogz Rift, who put on as good a show as I’ve ever seen them do. Zoogz began the show with an acapella rendition of “An American Tune” by Paul Simon, done straight, then he joined his band and tore into some new material, including “Kiss My Bleeding Dork”, an attack on theL.A.music scene, and some song really trashing Frank Zappa. Plenty of old stuff as well, in particular a great version of “Heart Attack”.

We sat with Zoogz and his band, talking, and all in all had a good time. Richie Häss, the drummer, is exceptionally good—plays all kinds of beats, has two bass drums and a high hat, etc. The bass player, Dan Buchanan, is the strangest rock bassist I have ever seen: never mind that he bounds about eland-like, but he plays with a slide on his little finger and runs his fingers up and down the fretboard (sometimes both hands) maniacally, making a really strange sound—his bass at times sounds more like an Elvin Jones drum solo (fast, deceptively erratic) [think I meant Rashied Ali.]. The keyboard player [Jon Sharkey] is really weird, playing a cheap organ and electric piano through fender amps—you can imagine the effect. He also strings his equipment with blinking Christmas lights. Finally Zoogz himself: fat and angry as ever, voice strong and guitar frenzied. Nice guy, too.

These guys are our favoriteL.A.band; I think they are the best band on theL.A.rock circuit, and I can’t even think of any other band that compares.

The next night we went to the Cathay de Grande to see, once again, Zoogz Rift. Opening the show was a strange band calling themselves “Hurtin’ Bros”, playing a kind of intellectually crude R&B: imagine an R&B band on the old Roxy album [the Roxy Live punk comp], heavily influenced by Mirror Man—that is kind of the idea. A bit pretentious, but crude enough to satisfy my punk urges. Three guitars (two lead and a rhythm), bass, drums and sax, and a barefoot singer. FromPasadena and I liked them [one of them was our crazed friend and original Silverlake BBQ Association member Bormann]. They’ll probably gain some notoriety around town—a cultist’s cult band.

Zoogz and His Shitheads were good that night, though it finally dawned on me just how bad the sound system is there—criminal! The worst of all the clubs in town, especially after the real good system they had at the Anti-Club. The crowd sucked, too it’s too bad the crowds are so lame in L.A. anymore—the art crowd has been permeated by this sappy gay funk disco mentality with no real sense of purpose. I suppose all youth movements are prone to this—it’s just sad to see it happen. Zoogz, too, was sick of it, or them, especially of people walking out, so, during “Heart Attack” he lunged off stage and charged after two deserters using his guitar like a lance, then thought better of, turned around and told the band to pack it up. That was it. The Shitheads said he does that sometimes…. Zoogz explained it to us later, and his reasons actually made sense. We talked for quite a while, on the Cathaystairs, about all kinds of stuff; he gave us a copy of his first album (gratis), called Idiots On The Miniature Golf Course, qualifying it like mad: I like it, a lot in fact, though it is nowhere near the quality of the stuff he’s doing now.

Zoogz Rift and His Amazing Shitheads is probably the third band like that both of us have been really behind, and fond of: others are the Sequencers (+ Christian Lunch), and Nervous Gender. I think what we appreciate in them is a) an uncompromising attitude and belief in what they are doing, which borders on ferocity; and b) a healthy dose of personality, that is, interesting exciting people who don’t try to cover up their appearance onstage behind a made up image (they can act weird on stage, but it’s them acting weird, and not some facade; and c) they’re nice guys. If they are jerks, stuck up, or attitude coppers [attitude copper?], she doesn’t like them—nor do I.

So we went home—a bit discouraged that the show went so poorly, but happy that we are getting to know the band so well—they consider us two of their biggest fans.

We went home and turned on Monster From A Prehistoric Planet, Japanese circa ’65. Kind of a cross between Godzilla, Rodan and Gorgo—complete with a brown-faced Japanese kid portraying a little jungle boy who is friends with the Mom and Dad monsters and cries as they are blown to pieces by massed rockets. Real trash—actually drove Fyl off to bed, but I remained, the TV with the sound off, one of those strange KPFK late night-early morning “new Music” shows squeaking and rumbling quietly in the corner, and reading (what, though, I don’t recall). How bohemian….

Sunday we went to Spike’s to issue in the Labor Day. He lives in a sort of “artist’s” colony at the corner of Western and Melrose: great litle vaguely European apartment, but the neighborhood is crazed, being the center for drag queen whores. Just a wonderful neighborhood—the whole time we were there we were accompanied by screams and yells, breaking bottles, squealing tires, loud queen voices, threats in Spanish, sirens, strange and ominous bumps in the night. I couldn’t handle it [we must have been very stoned and I was freaking out, as we’d been hanging in neighborhoods like that on a regular basis….] Spike was once mugged outside the gate of the building [by a gang of six foot plus black drag queens, seriously]; they hit him over the head with a metal bar, and nearly tore his ear off as well. And he was on acid at the time….

We had a good time, though, talking talking talking, drinking beer and smoking pot. Listened to the Slits, Dolls, Hell Comes To Your House, Stooges, UXA and other neet records [that “neet” was a joke, or better have been], watched an animated Flash Gordon (only partly with the sound on—it wasn’t very good); told variations on the “maybe it’s just a stupid bird-lizard” line from Monster From A Prehistoric Planet, and listened to Spike’s great flying saucer, etc., stories. Fun.

On Monday Phyllis, out of the blue, said let’s go to my folk’s house to see my Dad off to Philadelphiathough he’d already left. Went anyway—had fun, great hamburgers, weird jokes (my brother Jon wouldn’t sit on the lawn because it was full of “insect shit”). Had a couple hits of pot and a great trip home—windows open, air beautiful; heard a riot-like Jerry Lee Lewis song (“High School Confidential”, live) and something by Aaron Copeland we liked a lot. Ed O’Brien [aka Celtic Runes of Renfield Brick, then bassist in Zoogz Rift’s band and later art director for SST] returned my MC5 albums and “Teenage Head” by the Flamin’ Groovies; he also picked up a copy of that rare old Some Chicken single—great savage ’77 punk; real obscure, too. Oh—I borrowed my sister Suzi’s copy of Sometime In New York City album, which was surprising on two counts: first, that Suzi had it at all (apparently she’s a real John Lennon fanatic), and two in that it’s not that bad, after the reviews I’ve read. The title cut (minus the “Sometime In…” ) is a real killer cut—just hard rock’n’roll. I like “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and “We’re All Water”, too. That Elephant’s Memory is a hell of a band, too—I’ll keep an eye out for their album.

That was our three day weekend, then—I had lots of fun. It was real refreshing. Wow, I started this Sunday, and am just finishing it now, Thursday 9/9/82, at 10:30 PM.

Hands

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(email, 2010)

The photographer Joe LaRusso took this shot of me today.  Well, he took a bunch but for some reason this was my favorite.  Damn, I got big hands, I never realized that. That’s a 16 oz cofee cup, and that size 15, 6 mm wedding band looks like something from a cracker jacks box. 

An editor brought me and the photographer together to discuss a project (which sadly never got off the ground) that had me writing a couple essays for a collection of  LoRusso’s boxing photos.  We’re talking and talking at this little coffee shop on Santa Monica Blvd. and I look up and LaRusso is taking a pic of me on a little digital camera. Takes a couple more. He shows me a couple, they looked cool, actually. The guy was good. He keeps shooting as I’m talking and I made a crack about giving the finger and then the guy starts taking shots of my hands. Hence this. To be honest it’s my favorite pic of me for some reason.  A lot of muscle in those mits. They are huge. I had never really noticed that before, being that they are part of me. Funny how a writer spends so much time watching his hands dance across a keyboard, but never actually sees them. I stare at my hands but see words.  But I stare at this picture and I see why gloves don’t fit.

 

Music as Heroin

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(book review, West Coast Review of Books, 1981)

 

The Healing Energies of Music by Hal A. Lingerman (Theosophical Publishing House)

“Music as physical, emotional and mental therapy.”  The author, a self-described minister, counselor and teacher, tries to show how one can be a better person by listening to “certain pieces of music, played with timing and good taste,” and by avoiding the music that hurts his plants.  To illustrate this to us he begins with an “incident” from Greek history in which an enraged man, sword in hand, is reduced to lamb-like gentleness with a single chord plucked from a lyre.  If you believe that, then this book might be for you.

Lingerman’s approach is based around a strange mesh of the bible, astrology, sixties-style mysticism, and what are apparently Theosophical ideas of Sound and Light that are never really explained.  The music is not explained technically at all, but rather in terms of what instruments are good for the physical, mental, spritual and soul “bodies.”  Compositions, too, are categorized this way:  the physical body, for instance, benefits when it hears marches, fanfares, “Oh What A Beautiful Morning,” Liberace, the soundtrack to “Born Free”, and Johnny Cash.

He then drifts into how we can control our moods with music.  To release anger we should beat our rugs to “Ride of the Valkyries;” or calm down to the strains of Bach or Andy Williams.  Lingerman, again, recommends Johnny Cash because “the tremendous outpouring of feeling” on his live prison albums (perhaps the cheers after “I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die”?) are “testimony to the basic longings of mankind, no matter how seemingly distorted, for some ineffable union in the Spirit.”  Lists of music are provided for our various moods.  Interestingly, lust or physical attraction is not one of them.

It gets really hazy after this.  Apparently, we are all either air, water, fire, or earth; maybe a combination thereof, and must carefully select our music accordingly.  He does this for us, with a mixture of religion and pop psychology—all based on the idea that we can know our exact temperment (which can never be changed).  He tells us which composers had which temperments.  Apparently, we are supposed to stick listening-wise to those composers with our own temperments.  If we don’t, who knows what could happen….

The man’s approach is patronizing in the extreme.  We cannot make any decisions for ourselves musically without his guiding light.  He tells us to first take the dust off our stylus.  To say thank you, literally to say “Thank you” to the music for playing for us.  He tells us what to play for our kids (“Scheherazade” and “Tubby the Tuba”), what to play for our fetuses, why we should not play Beethoven and Tchaikovsky after one another (it could upset us), or play much Tchaikovsky at all (it will upset us).  That rock music irregular rhythms (irregular?) will hurt us as well as our plants—except, research shows, that of the Beatles.  That digital recordings are not as therapeutic as regular recordings.  That listening to international music helps make us “planetary citizens”:  the American selection is an album each of Navajo songs, “negro” spirituals, and “American Civil War Songs of the North and South” as sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

I could go on and on.  Though the “light” selections go from “Whistle While You Work” by the above named choir to the Captain and Tenille and Barry Manilow, and that “the ‘Sound of Music’ is one of the greatest pieces of music ever composed,” the classical selections in general are very good, by many and varied composers.  But we are given Stravinsky’s “Firebird” but not “The Rite of Spring;” Liszt’s “preludes” but not the “Mephisto Waltz.”  And there is no jazz listed or even mentioned at all.  Too many rhythms, too many time changes, too much threat.  He gives you music as heroin: clean off your needle, say “Thank you” and float away into the euphoric nothingness of “The Sound of Music.”  This is not therapy.  It is escape.

Mountain Interlude

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 (one of those write a short story in 400 words or less online contests. Late 1990’s.)

 I passed the gorp.  Seeds seemed unappetizing just now.  I wanted meat and potatoes.  She looked up.  “You better eat.”  I grunted yeah.  She handed me the jerky and I tore out bear sized mouthful that made speech impossible.  “Wa’er” I requested.   She handed me the water.  “You’re gonna choke if you keep eating like that” she warned.  The water only made the jerky in my mouth swell in size.  I turned away and removed the chunk with my fingers, and then tore at it with my teeth.  Maybe it was my imagination but I swear I could feel them loosening in their sockets.

 She laid down and sighed.

 The wind rustled the evergreens.  Birds chirped, whistled, shrieked.  The sun made us warm, sleepy.  Wildflowers bloomed crazily all around.

 She sighed again, louder.

 “Hmmm?” I asked, swallowing the last of that jerky.

 “Nothing”. 

 Something.

 I scooted closer to her.  Reached out with a boot and prodded hers.  Once.  Twice. Three times.  She smiled.  She sighed again.  This time it was nothing.  So I laid down beside her, rolling my jacket up into a pillow.  The soft grass would do the rest.

I’m no musician

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(comment posted at International Review of Music, 2011)

Musician? I’m a musician now? Where did that come from? I mean, I played drums for years, yeah, but I was one of those drummers for which the term musician was quite a stretch…. I didn’t even know Don knew about that.

Had fun, though. Girls, drugs, parties. Not to mention tearing down on stage as the next band is trying to set up and my guitarist is backstage somewhere doing something fun or illegal.

Oh, and the violence, bar room brawls, a night in jail, kicked over drum kits, getting dusted and playing with my hands (a lotta blood), taking on a dozen cops (they won), a lot of funerals (none my own), turning down a chance to be a porn star (I love that story), who knows what else. A helluva lotta fun.

But it never once occurred to me to call myself a musician.

Of course, how I became a jazz critic I will never understand either. It wasn’t my idea. Nice perks, tho’. Plus you get all kinds of jazz credibility without having to be a, well, musician.

I have trouble thinking in lists

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(2009 ten best list for All About Jazz. Never wrote another.)

Man, I have trouble thinking in lists, by best ofs, certainly in tens! Oh well. Here goes…these are things that came out this past year (2009).  I like a lot today, but my opinions shift all the time…..

Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey One Day In Brooklyn (Kinnara)

Lanny Morgan Sextet 6 (ACM)

David Murray & the Gwo Ka Masters The Devil Tried To Kill Me (Justin Time)

Alex Cline Continuation (Cryptogramophone)

Art Pepper The Art History Project: Unreleased Art Volume IV (Widow’s Taste)

John Beasley Positootly! (Resonance)

Branford Marsalis Quartet Metamorphosen (Marsalis Music)

Josh Nelson Let It Go (Native Language)

Miguel Zenon Esta Plena (Marsalis Music)

Reptet Agendacide 7″ single (Monktail)

Fuck, I could tossed in a half dozen more easy.

Sorry but I don’t really get any reissues or boxsets, one or two  a year maybe, not on the right lists I suppose. And I am so horribly bad about keeping up with the jazz press I never have a clue what’s out. I subscribed to Downbeat for a year and all twelve issues are sitting on my desk, their ages shiny and unmarred by my prying eyes. I’ll flip through them one of these days.

Anyway, hope that list passes muster.

Hamburger

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(A writing challenge off some how-to-write website that required writing a short story that contained a grand piano, the John Hancock Center in Chicago, and a hamburger, late 1990’s.)

She stopped for a hamburger.  Outside the window the El rushed by, concealing for a moment the skyline.  From a distance it was the worse, she thought.  Like like some enormous thing erected for all the world to see.  And they call it the city of big shoulders….  Another beer there, lady?  Sure, why not.

Back on the street she hailed a cab.  Where to, lady? JohnHancockCenter.  You from out of town?  Yes I am.  Gonna go up the Tower?  Y-yes.  Beautiful day fer it.  See like halfadozen states from up there; them and the lake—Wisconsin,Michigan,Indiana,Illinois,Chicago, Lake Michigan,Milwaukee,Gary…it’s the second biggest building in the world!

She swore that the beers had worn off already the way she was shaking.  On the ride across town she looked carefully out the taxi as the shops and buildings passed by; she watched the people boiling out of subway stations and the bicycle couriers fighting the wind; the cops and the hoods and a million deep-dish pizza places…she looked at everything everywhere but up, at it.

The cabbie dropped her off right in front.  Back on the sidewalk she took a deep breath—it stood before her, huge.  But harmless.  A mountain of concrete and steel and glass perfection.  She took another deep breath and looked upward, craning her neck, craning and craning till it hurt.  Somewhere up there the upper reaches of the thing disappeared out of her line of vision.  She was too close.  It was comforting.  Relief washed over her.  A splendidly attired doorman stood invitingly at the door, waving people in.

The interior was cavernous but warm and almost cozy.  A lounge in a corner served cocktails.  In the middle of the vast lobby stood a grand piano.  A fellow in a tuxedo ran long, delicate fingers along the keyboard, eyes closed.  She approached him.  A candelabra threw crazy shadows across its gleaming surface.  There was complimentary tea in little cups.  She took hers with honey and sat down in the overstuffed lounge.  The pianist finished the piece with a quiet flourish.  Polite applause.  Chatter.  The clatter of hard shoes on a tiled floor.  Lizst she said.  Please play some Lizst—one of his quieter pieces.

“Liebestraum” hung in the air like a fragrance.  She let herself sink into the soft cushions.  “Consolations” followed, notes in quiet progression tinkling into nothingness in the base of so much concrete and steel.  She looked at the walls and imagined the pressures applied to them.  Wondered at the combined poundage of humanity inhabiting its cells.  And yet in here deep within it was all so comfortable, so much safer than the streets, safer than anywhere.  The man played like an angel.

Suddenly someone requested the “Mephisto Waltz” and chords crashed like a frantic tumble down a thousand steps*.  It jarred her and she clenched a fist at the sound.  The pianist pounded at the keys in cold fury.  At the momentous break before that final maelstrom of chords she heard the soft bell of the elevator.  The parted doors beckoned.  She hurried from her seat and entered, then impulsively pressed a three digit floor.  The car shot up like a rocket.

The passage took an eternity.  She listened as it swooshed upward.  Muzak oozed from a speaker in the ceiling; warnings screamed at her from signs on the wall.  The car passed floor after floor after floor with a ding ding ding, never letting anyone on.  As she reached for the emergency phone the car shuddered to a stop.  She let go the receiver.

The doors slipped open quietly.  Cautiously she stepped out.  It was another planet up there.  The city had dropped far, far away and was gone.  In any direction was the infinitude of space.  A brilliant blue sheathing the incomprehensible vastness.  Out in the open she turned around and around, looking for a bearing in the vastness.  She stepped closer to the edge of the building and the earth came into view in endless flatness.  She felt Olympian.  Released.  As if unbound she stepped up to the building’s edge and looked over.  But there it was.  The concrete and asphalt and human being city.  Tiny tiny cars inched along slowly.  El trains slithered over streets.  The infinitesimal specks on the crosswalks.  She clenched her fists and closed her eyes and nearly swooned.  You can do it, she told herself, you’re up here and you can do it.

The wind whistled at her ears.  She steeled herself up, took a deep deep breath and leaned over and took another look.  My God!  Look at it! Chicago!  And she could feel it deep inside, coming, coming, ready to burst forth—a shout, a song, an irresistible force….

It was then that she remembered the hamburger.

 

* I had actually done this in the lobby of the Sanwa bank building in the early 90’s. A cat was playing a beautiful restrained Liebestraum. A handful of people stopped to listen. When it tinkled to a finish all was still. I said “Mephisto Waltz” and it exploded from the piano. He did the intro, the startled people broke into applause, he smiled, and returned to something far more appropriate for the lobby of a big downtown building. The memory hung with me, apparently, and worked itself into this piece.

Gorgeous

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(email, 2010)

Had a great moment tonite.  Was at the Foundry on Melrose, a very hip and energetic bar with great bands.  A hot, sexy, maybe five foot tall, kinda butch leather babe at the bar pleaded with her friend, the dude I was talking to, to introduce us. He did so. I said hi my name is Brick. She said “look at you, you’re gorgeous. I love the long hair”, running her fingers though my thinning locks. I don’t know who she thought I was, but she was lucious. I smiled back, slid past her, and escaped.

Editors

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(Just found this, it’s from an email circa 2007 to somebofy or other, no idea who…. Pardon the pomposity. I was still a little new and naive. Jadedness is a luxury you can hide behind, wallow in even. Pomposity is just the sign of a writer having no idea what the fuck he’s doing. I’d just experienced a stint under the worst editor in the world at this point. Some people have no language skills at all. So they write abour music…He’s done very well, too. They all do, those worst editors in the histroy of tyhe world.)

I don’t hate editors, ya know. They rarely understand my writing style, but usually leave it be. My prose is kinda way over their head or under their feet or in a different dimension(s) but they notice if they tinker too much it all caves in. I didn’t know this till I saw how they tinkered. They usually do a lot when they first start working on my stuff but after a while they seem to get more of it and leave it be for the most part. My stuff is so multi-layered and full of puns and references and linguistics and multi-layered writing things and rhthyms—jazz rhythms mostly, but anything drummy too…that I assume only I get them anyway and I have my originals so what goes in print means not much to me. I write for myself, I guess. If people like it, fine…if they don’t that’s cool too. To this day I hate talking about my writing, and kinda can’t stand it when people come up to talk to me about it specifically. [I still can’t…drives me crazy.] I even prefer being completely anonymous except to the players. The only people I talk to about it—besides poor Fyl—are a couple other writers who I consider good, deep prosesmiths, or literate musicians who might dig what I am getting at.   But I make sooooooooooo many mistakes that an editor is essential. And when I have a good one, oh man, that is beautiful. I do NOT like being unedited. Never have. Not even when I was doing rock stuff.

(My perfect editor ever was the Editrix, she was a writer’s dream. Alas it was such a fleeting thing, just a couple months. She was maybe my tenth editor at the Weekly. They went through editors like I go through elipses…..)

I’m not stoned anymore

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Interview with your’s truly, 2010. It was at LACMA, apparently a Bobby Bradford gig.