rock and roll musings by Tim Byrnes

DWAYNE

     As November ground to it's chilly end, a man named Dwayne died in the parking lot of the 'apartment complex' where I live. Just yesterday in fact. I put the words apartment complex in quotes because, in my little town of Fowler Colorado the Sunset West Apartments is more popularly known as the Heartbreak Hotel and is the closest thing this middle American panorama has to a ghetto. It's three one room bungalows and a small plaza of rooms, the Eastern most of which is the studio apartment where I live w/Buster, Bleeker and MacDougal. It's the kinda place where old drunks go to die. Dwayne didn't, to the best of my knowledge, drink, maybe in his past much like me he did, but there was no evidence of a current drinking problem. But the Heartbreak remains the kind of place  the decent people of Fowler choose to ignore.

     Set aside, as we are from 'polite society' we denizens of the Heartbreak form as much a community as our isolated natures allow. The family in Bungalow 5 surprised me by delivering a plate on Thanksgiving and the rest of us do what we can to keep each other in cigarettes and such as we each await our various paydays. As a matter of fact Dwayne came into the convenience store where I worked just last Sunday, spending his last 65 cents on crackers and asking if he sould get a pack of smokes on credit. Being the newest employee (as usual) I wasn't authorized to give credit, so I instead gave Dwayne 5 or 6 of my own cigarettes.

     I've been writing songs for the new record, as reported, one line of one songs referred to Dwayne. It read 'there's an old man next door dying slowly...' I had no idea. Dwayne was a decent sort, I can't pretend to have really known him,but have spent time listening to him tell tales of his past. Tales that reflected much of my own experience, Drunken nights, sleeping on the streets of various cities, tales of jobafterjobafterjobafterjob, ex wives, entire lives and families left and long forgotten. Dwayne spent much of the time I knew him in his bungalow reading Zane Grays, getting from sunup to sundown, waiting I guess, for that day when he went legs up by the mailboxes, the victim of a sudden and fatal heart attack. That day came yesterday for Dwayne.

     Change Zane Gray to Vonnegut and throw in the hours I work each week and my experience is much the same as Dwayne's. Keeping in mind that he was 72 and I've just passed 50 I start to see a little too much of my future in that 'old man next door dying slowly.' I can write songaftersongaftersong or long, laborious posts about the Afghan Whigs or the ghost of Lester Bangs in the attempt to impose some kind of revelance on my life, but after all, I feel I'm just next in line to go legs up by the mailbox. And I don't think I could stand another 22 years of waiting.

     Of course there's Buster, Bleeker and MacDougal to consider, but I'm sure I can find them homes. Rock and roll don't cut it anymore, not as a religion, reason to live or even entertainment. Pretense of genius or even delusions of adequacy can't carry me much longer. It's been just over a year since Lynn and I broke up and I miss her more than  I can say, but what really kills me is how I failed her. How I've failed everyone, especially myself. 50 years and I'm still living from paycheck to paycheck, too far behind in my rent, too far down in a hole of my own making to ever get out. Too numbed by life to feel anything more for Dwayne than the nagging suspicion that I'm next.

     Merry Christmas.

tb

Posted by: timbyrnes at 21:07 | link | comments (1)

A THANKSGIVING CAROL: LETTING THE TERRORISTS WIN

     There was a light snow falling that night, making the parking lot of the Amoco station a little snowglobe wreathed in streetlight. It was nearing 10 pm and I'd just locked up the store and was on my way home to walk Buster. My apartments less than 3 blocks away so I was home before I felt the cold. As I fumbled for my keys I was startled by the sudden appearance of the disembodied head of Sid Vicious, floating in the air but inches from my face. 'Tiiiiimothyyyyyyyyy, Tiiiiimothyyyyyyyyyy' he wailed in ghostly wail, his working class cockney drenched in reverb.

     Yeah, this is gonna be one of those......

     I shook off the apparition as the result of a turned cheez-doodle or something and entered the house, expecting Buster and the cats to run up to welcome me like a sailor home from sea, gone for lo these many years now, but was again startled to see all 3 of them in ridiculous costumes, looking more than a little peeved. Buster was wearing a buckskin dress and had a feather sticking oout of his beaded headband.

     "What the hell is this?" I asked, for I was curious, "Who the hell are you supposed to be."

     "I am the ghost of Thanksgiving past." Buster muttered, sounding mortified. To which he added "Boo."

     Bleeker Street Kitten (Scared-of-Patti-Smith) bounded off the top of my wardrobe in a turkey suit, similar to the one Paul Simon wore on Saturday Night Live years ago, singing 'Still Crazy After All These Years'. He spread the costume's foam and feather wings like a glider and hollered

"I am the ghost of Thanksgiving....splat."  Well, he didn't actually say 'splat', but that's what it sounded like when he crashed into the couch, forgetting that turkeys can't fly. He raised his little head and got out the word 'present' before passing out. I checked on him and he was OK. A little battered perhaps and definetly out of the flying business, but OK. Suddenly the refrigerator door flew open, filling my little studio apartment with an eerie light. A shadowy figure emerged on a cloud of dry ice, like Ozzy Osbourne or some other professional wrestler. It was, of course, MacDougal X. Cheese, dressed in white jodphurs, a florid crimson tunic bedecked with fictional war medals, a monocle, a pith helmet and a flaming croquet mallet.

     'Who are you supposed to be and put out that hammer!" I said.

      'I am *blowing sounds* I, uh, am... *more blowing sounds* that is I am.. *frantic blowing sounds followed by howling as MacDougal's tail catches fire* I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A GENERALLY MAJOR MALADY, uh no, that's not it...I AM THE MOODY MYTLE OF A MADRESS GINGHAM OVERALL.... YAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

     At which point he hopped on the stove, sat in a pot of water, causing steam to rise and fill the kitchen. I heard  his sigh of relief and had to laugh when he fell asleep in the bath.

    So with both cats down for the count it was up to Buster, noble Buster, to explain to me the true meaning of Thanksgiving. I turned to my terrier friend and opened my heart and soul to enlightenment.

    "Beats the heck out of me. Can I take off this dress now?"

     "Yes, please.' I answered, "Man what kind of dream sequence is this?"

     I took my jacket off, turned on the tv and lit a cigarette. Lying back on my couch, I surveyed the room and saw my 3 furry friends all sleeping peacefully, a little beaten up but happy. I was touched by their thoughfulness and tickled by their execution of their little 'passion play' and I realized that I was pretty happy, too. I turned to PBS  and just as the Killers were coming on 'Austin City Limits' Buster opened one eye and said.

     "Wait till ya see what we got planned for Christmas."

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:56 | link | comments

PLEASE THE PRESS IN BELGIUM: THE ALBUM OF A YEAR

      And so it goes again, one minute it's Memorial Day and the next thing you know it's Halloween, and then Thanksgiving and don't those Christmas decorations go up earlier every year? And, of course, we're bearing down on all those 'year-end best-of music' lists that dot the media horizon at this time of year like crows on a phoneline, all trumpeting their Album of the Year. Well, this year I haven't heard a whole lot of new music, what with moving 6 or 7 times and spending most of my time and money on survival ( a specious accomplishment at best, but that's another post. Don't worry, I'll talk about it more in future posts, made all special for Christmas). I started the year in Denver, where my good frien Simmons shipped me a box of CDs of (as he put it) "Christian Music that doesn't suck".

     We, Simmons and I, had been e-corresponding both privately and on a Christian band's message board. I had been trying to convince myself, ultimately to no avail, that I was recieving the call to be a Christian. Regular readers know I have a godproblem, right? Anyway, Carl sent me these CDs that I was  unfortunately unable to listen to more than once. I played them all basically in 2 sittings as I packed my stuff up yet again after the Denver expedition failed. I was completely unable to give them anything close to a fair listening at that point and have been without a CD player since. I will give these CDs a fair listening ASAP and will post my thoughts and impressions then and only then. Although I have concerns that I'll be able to get past the 'message' of the music and review it on  strictly musical terms. And that's not a problem I have with Christian music exclusively. I'm that way w/music in general, never able to seperate the style from the substance. Actually, the 'musical merit' of any recorded work is usually way down the list as far as my criteria when 'rating' a record.  I'm more concerned with what I percieve the record's intentions to be, where does it heart lie, or tell it's truth or whatever. Case in point: I like everything about Marily Manson except the sound of his music. But I still recognize it as great work, 'cause it'll make you feel something, Jack, right or wrong whether you like it or not.

     The only other music I got this year was the Kate Bush CD which is talked about below, and a copy of Lester Bangs' 'Jook Savages' I got as a Birthday present. But, with the magic of reissues/repackages , courtesy of a generation who, like me, loves themselves all to pieces, I can write about a record that really matters, at least to me.  So without further ado, the Punk Rock Blues Album of a Year.

HORSES: Patti Smith Group

     November, 1975 saw the release of Horses, the debut record bythe Patti Smith Group, a milestone in modern music which has recently been reissued as a double CD, the second CD being a live performance of the record with special guests in 2004. But it's the orinal record I know and love and one I'm gonna talk about today. In 1975 I was in much the same situation as I'm in now. Newly divorced and rootless, bouncing from couch to couch and playing in bands like it could save me from myself. The main differences then were, on the plus side, I was young. On the minus side, I had been revving up my drinking problem for about 6 years then and was just about to let that clutch out and tear off into a dark ride that lasted another 20 years. But enough about me (hahahaha) let me tell you how that record felt the 1st time I played it in a room full of Black Sabbath/Bad Company fans who thought I was a creep to begin with.

     The opening piano chords of 'Gloria'  thrummed seditiously at the edges of my catholic guilt, the hushed bourbon cornhusk voice intoning that 'Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine' spoke directly to the confusion and growing suspicion that, ass the great poet once wrote '99% of my life I'd been lied to.' As the song took up steam, as the garageband genius  guitardrums swiveled on hinges of greasy, hipcat swagger, as Smith's voice yelped in untrained but unrestrained passion, my heart stood a little taller. As my friends hooted and told me to 'take that crap off, man', I felt that I wasn't alone. I felt like someone understood. As the band brokedown near song's end, slowdragging the opening lines in a burlesque of triumph before gallopping off into the sunset of Van Morrison's spelling of a woman's name chorus, my whole body, my soul played along on the worlds biggest air guitar.

     'Redondo Beach' came on like a new druggy mix of reggae and doo wop, an ancient Uncle Tom and exotic revolutionary cocktail that simmered and swayed like the girl/boy of yr dreams. A sexy song of suicide that looked to a redefintion of all experience, a tune of finding beauty in the corpse found on the shore on which the 'girl was washed up".

     'Birdland' upped the ante for everyone, for all time like no one since Dylan. Really. A 3D fever dream of multiple voices channelling multiple emotions all at once, the songform too small for the story, for the tale of  life streaming, tripping from the poets tongue and the guitars and drums and piano rippled in waves like a fireman's blanket, tossing the song updownbackforth, supporting the ceremony, supplanting the sins of pride, envy and murder.

     'Free Money' should have been a hit single with it's acidlaced bubblegum drive and it's rolling down a hill joy at being alive and dreaming. The song invites you to become a drum, to pound in sympathy with the freedom of the rock and roll song, the flat out majesty of wanting, of breathing and bleeding, recieving and giving.

     'Break it Up' clicked and twitched like hypnosis, it's singer calling up spirits, Verlaine's guitar shrieking that the ghost of Morrison, trapped by stone wings to his forever grave as Patti danced in her shoes on all that had come before her; standing on the shoulers of perceived giants and pointing toward a promised land.

     'Land' was/is that promised land, the 'sea of possibilities' that calls for us all, but only those precious few rise to answer. Three Patti's crosstalk in wave after wave of beatnik revelation, of expolratory oratory up against the backbeat like a sidestreet where murderers roam free. The harrowing tale of Johnny belongs to us all. Pretending to know where the day might take you might be comforting, but like everything else is an illusion, so choose illusions wisely, hook up to the train. At the end of the day, I wondered then and wonder now, does it really matter if you know how to pony?

     'Elegie' felt/feels like a goodnight kiss from mother, a sweetness that can only be imagined 'cause blood and guts and jelly just don't shake like that. The record was/is at varying times, to varying degrees a throw down, a chillroom for the battered soul, a war cry of the human heart, a sockhop soundtrack for the human spirit's natural state of rising and falling and rising again.

     A lifelike gift from a stranger that gives still and again today. I'm not gonna tell ya that 'Horses' is the greatest record ever made, only that it is to me and I hope with all my heart that you can find something that makes you feel the way listening to this record makes me feel.

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:56 | link | comments (8)

LOVE WILL TEAR US APART

Kate Bush/Aerial

     To say that I held high expectations for this record would be an understatement. I've always looked to the music of Kate Bush for some kind of reaffirmation of the existence of true beauty; that there does indeed exist in the world that essence rare, that sublime creation sprung forth from a wholly human soul that embodies all in life that is better than the best like a combination of nostalgia, sex and really, really, really good chocolate. 'Aerial' doesn't so much disappoint as confound. My confusion is, I'm sure, due to being overwhelmed by so much music at one time and attempting to sum my feelings up in a review before the spin cycle's complete, so to speak.

     The first rush of hearing Kate's voice on the opener 'King of the Mountain' must be what heroin feels like. A letter from a long, lost friend (it has, after all been 12 years since her last record' The Red Shoes', a record that still spells that time of my life for me, and as a result holds a very dear place in my heart.) that speaks in different voices than much of her previous work. More personal and on a smaller, though no less glorious a scale than, say, 'The Dreaming' or 'Hounds of Love', 'Aerial' flies on the wings of real pianos more than the electropoptronic madness of earlier work, although synths do pop and electrodrums loop herein, they do so in service of a, to me, more organic, more cohesive whole. Meshing with one of the most beautiful voices to ever come from a human throat, the electronics and jazz tinged trios support and caress and lift these songs on high in a magnificent combination of grace and technique.

     I miss the blood curdling screams of 'The Dreaming' as I miss the Trio Bulgarka's other worldly backing vocals, but not that much really. 'Aerial' tells more human tales, songs of motherhood ('Bertie'), the loss of Kate's own mother ('A Coral Room'), the aforementioned celebrity skinning of 'King of the Mountain' which name checks Elvis P. and Citizen Kane, easy targets to be sure, but touchstones guaranteed to touch a chord in all of us, no? More precise and Katelike, to me, is 'Joanni', apparently a love song to Joan of Arc and is the record's closest sounding tune to 'classic' Kate. The 1st CD is subtitled 'A Sea of Honey' and contains te unrelated tunes mentioned while the 2nd CD is subtitled 'A Sky of Honey' and is a conceptual piece/suite, piano driven and lowkeyed and smooth, tracing the course of one day. Which is all we get, right? One day at a time.

     The subleties of this record will, I'm sure, reveal themselves to me upon subsequent listenings, as Kate's music is not the kind to give up all it's secrets at once. But having only owned this CD these 2 days now it has made me laugh and cry and regret and wonder. It has told me tales of my own life; not all of which were/are comfortable to hear. By singing her own life, Kate Bush helps me to look harder, smarter and more honestly at my own and, really, isn't that what great art is supposed to do?

Posted by: timbyrnes at 22:19 | link | comments (10)

BLEEKER AND MACDOUGAL'S CORNER OF THE WORLD

(Author's note: between starting a new job at a local convenience store and familiarizing myself with 'Aerial', I haven't had the time to prepare anything so I'm gonna give the reins to our two newest correspondents, my cats. In depth 'Aerial' review coming soon. All I'll say for now is that I'm in love. Again. tb)

     "MacDougal, we're gonna get in trouble."

      "Oh don't be such a pussycat, Bleek, the skinny guys been under the headphones since last night listening to that new Kate Bush CD. He ain't paying no attention to us. Come on, say hello to the people."

     "Uh, h-hello folks. I'm Bleeker Street Kitten, Scared-of-Patti-Smith, I'm a Gemini, a black and gray tabby and would like to go on record as being against this whole idea...."

      "Then step aside, Alice and let a real cat show you how it's done. Yo, hello and whattaya know, rsidents of motime? This here's MacDougal X. Cheese, the orange door hinge of power slapping out curds of words to you and yours throughout the bloggedty blog universe!"

       'McDougal, I don't think Tim would like it..."

       "Oh, Tim doesn't like anything, remember? With the possible exception of Sonic Youth and all that lease-breaking crap he plays all the time."

     "That's not, true, no it isn't, no it's not. Tim likes me! And you! And even Buster."

      "Well, OK, he likes us, I'll grant ya that, but ya gotta admit, the boy spends more time bitching than enjoying things."

      "That's because he's thoughful. Like me. S'matter a fact, I'd say that me and Tim are a lot alike. You and Buster just run around having fun alla time like it's OK and me and Tim worry about important things. You really can't look at how the world's going without getting worried and I think me and Tim have the right idea."

       "Well, a number one, you can't change it and neither can Tim. B number 2, all we see of the world is this apartment except for when we escape and even then it's just the parking lot. Heck, Tim doesn't get out much more than us and half of that time he's just walking Buster anyway. Besides, if you and him are so much alike then why are you afraid of Patti Smith? Tim dotes on her doings."

      "Ahem. I am NOT scared of Patti Smith! It's just that 'Easter' was a little jarring coming after that Tangerine Dream record he'd been playing. I'd never heard music before and neither had you. As I recall, you were frozen in fear when that came on. The only reason Tim knew I was scared was 'cause I was running around. So physician, heal thyself or something. You're not the boss of me. Buster is."

     "BUSTER??!! You mean to tell me you let that mangy old hound tell you what to..."

      "He's right behind you."

       "AHHHH!!! WHAT??!!!

      "Gotcha. heheheheheheheh."

       'Why you, I oughta........"

       MEOWWgrzzleklkikRARRARmoew&^%#$@%&*( catfight noises)

      Good day, kind readers. This is Buster Byrnes in for Tim, who's currently immersing himself in the new Kate Bush CD, preparing for his upcoming review of same. I'd like to apologize for the behavior of my 2 feline charges, who's opinions most certainly do not reflect the opinions of punk rock blues. I'd also like to take this opportunity to remind you that the 30th Anniversary edition of 'Horses', tthat phenomenal Patti Smith debut record was released the other day under the title 'Horses/Horses'. Disc One is a newly remastered version of that classic work while Disc Two is a live recording of the entire album, featuring Tom Verlaine and Flea as well as Lenny Kaye, Jay Dee Daugherty, Tony Shanahan, Oliver Ray and, of course, the lovely and talented Patti Lee Smith.

     Tim has gone down on record as saying that "Horses" was a life changing record for him and I'm sure he wouldn't mind my urging anyone who has not heard the record to purchase one today. And judging by the idiot grin he's currently wearing as he listens under the headphones, I would bet that 'Aerial' by Kate Bush will soon be heartily recommended by our second favorite author.

      I mean, Tim's good but he's no Lester Bangs.

    

     

      '

 

Posted by: timbyrnes at 20:58 | link | comments

SAY IT LOUD: I'M BLACK AND I'M PROUD

     My recent mention of James Brown got me to thinking. There's an episode of the PBS 'Rock and Roll' documentary that deals with Motown and the '60's ingeneral. After a wonderful hour detailing the am radio sounds of my youth the episode ends with a freeze frame of the Beatles landing at JFK. The voiceover guy says something along the lines of 'Many said that the Beatles had 'saved' rock and roll, but from whom?' In a later episode, Ben E King elaborates that when the Beatlesa hit, the soul music revolution was lost as those 4 moptops changed history and all that. He mentioned that all black artists had their momentum ripped from them by the British Invasion. In a telling moment he said "With the exception of James Brown, who's thing was SO far removed...."

     It's true. I was there. I remember seeing the Beatles on Ed Sullivan that February night and being mesmerized. I've since written that that night was a defining moment in my generation's development; that after that night we became We, a generation with a new identity. I also remember seeing James Brown on the same show months earlier and being somewhat scared. Protean and uncompromising, James Brown danced his holy dance and yelped his gutteral war cry with total abandon, and certainly caring not a whit what White America thought of him.

     Of course, age and drugs and compromise have found him in Rocky movies and TV commercials, but I can remember when James Brown was a source of power, liberation and fear masquerading as White Liberal Guilt. As a young, severley white Catholic school lad in the '60's, I held fast to my Beatles/Stones axis, not knowing then that the much of the music I loved originated in the blues and Little Richard. I remember tuning out the Motown songs, somehow certain that soul was not 'my' music. Of course in later years I came to appreciate the wonder and marvelous talent of Motown, the reckless abandon of Little Richard (the King and Queen of Rock and Roll, just ask him!) but it wasn't until I was in the Army that I got a handle on James Brown. It was the mid 70's, post Cream and pre-punk. I was heavily into Bowie, Mott the Hoople (sigh, now there was a band!) and the parent-scaring New York Dolls. So, as you might imagine, it was a difficult time for a skinny boy in the military for the sole reason of impressing his ultimately un-impressable father. It was also the first time in my life I shared my world with Black people. So I started hearing the music with new ears, in a new experience. To this day, I still remain unmoved by what I consider the supper club sound of much Philly soul, Gladys Knight and (gasp) B.B. King. (As a guitar player, I know it's almost heresy to knock B.B., but I find most of his work a little too clean, too uptown. I like my blues raw, like Muddy Waters and R.L Burnside. I find vindication in the fact that the legendary Gatemouth Brown -rip- felt the same way. Although I will admit that, much like Elvis Presley, B.B was a motherhubbard when he was young).

     It was in the Army, also, that I first fell into the trap of alcohol and began my drinking career in earnest. So little peckerwood me would get all tanked up and wind up cruising the clubs in Wrightstown N.J. usually the only white guy in the car, a situation I'd find myself in more and more often as I got older. It was on one such hot New Jersey night that me and about 6 guys were coming back to post in varying states of stupefication that 'Say It Loud' came on the radio and, yes, we all sang drunkenly along. It was that night that I first heard the words "I like you, Byrnes, and I usually don't like White people'. It wouldn't be the last.

     And you know what? Neither do I. Like White People, that is. With a capitol 'W'. The power structure that must be fought in this country is run and supported by White People. Now I know I'm not a brother and I don't try to talk like one or presume to understand Black Culture, but I'm painfully aware that a poor white person like myself, has a lot more in common with the Black Man than the White Man. And, as I've written at antimusic to great ridicule, I think Eminem is the new Dylan (more on which later). I was thrilled a few weeks ago to see on CSPAN, all day coverage of the Million More Movement rally on the steps of the Capitol, where Black Leaders like Jesse Jackason, Malik Shabazz of the New Black Panther Party and Louis Farrakhan spoke words of hope that I'd not heard from the mainstream (read:White) political structure.

     Approximately 2 million people, when asked by Shabazz, how they found President Bush on the charges of racism and lying to the American people about the war in Iraq (amongother things) shouted 'GUILTY!!' in one voice. And little peckerwood me sat on his couch, left arm thrust out in power salute shouted along. They called for Bush's impeachment, an obvious wish to me, but somehow overlooked by the spin controllers on the Sunday shows and the apologists who abound in Washington and, especially, the media. Apart from a 2 minute piece on 'This Week with George Stephanopolous' the following day, that showed only Russel Simmons reminiscing about the original Million Man March 20 years ago, it was the ONLY media coverage of an event that was certainly history in the making.

     The Rev. Farrakhan called for the poor white, the Native American and the Latino communities to band together and organize. He suggested the formation of a new political party, built from the disenfranchised among us, to call this administration on it's high crimes and misdemeanors and demand "justice for all." A far cry from the 'kill the White Devil' days, and certainly more reasonable. I've posted a link to the MMM site and I hope you'll investigate and see that a truly peaceful and political movement is forming a fair wind to blow against the Empire that is hiding from us as it lies to us and treats it's people like obstacles to power; to be ignored, abused and ultimately swept away.

      Now get up off of that thing.

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:34 | link | comments