11.11.2009
Morocco II
I was in my late teens when I first read about Marrakech. By chance, I picked up a copy of Elias Canetti’s Voices of Marrakech, a slim volume of writing documenting the author’s late 1950’s stay in the city. The book opens with a chapter on Canetti’s visit to the camel market outside the medina at Bab el Khemis. His description of the scene is seductive and harsh. The reader is brought to a place that is totally exotic, full of interesting sights, sounds, and smells. Canetti’s writing creates a world that is difficult to resist…and then reality sinks in. Many of the camels are being sold for slaughter and will wind up on the dinner plates of Marrakech. Some of the camels - the ones who barely made the trip across the Sahara and the ones who are too sickly to sell - will be killed and burned. The unsold camels will continue their trek north to be sold or slaughtered at Settat, just south of Casablanca. Throughout Canetti’s book, scenes romantic and exotic are leavened by reality.
I reread Voices… a few weeks before our travels and should have paid a bit more attention. If I had, perhaps the whiplash from the excitement of our arrival slamming into the reality of daily life would have been a bit less jarring. Or perhaps not. A certain part of traveling is about losing yourself in the moment, escaping into fantasy, and ignoring the obvious around you. In Marrakech, it is very easy to get sucked into the architecture, the music, the colors. The place is very, very intoxicating, so much so that the obvious is easily obscured.
Our first real life moment was something that was quite trivial. It is late morning and we are our way to the Kasbah. After a brief stop at the post office on the Jemaa el Fna, we head down Rue Ben Marine. Susan tells me that at the post office she was shunted off to a tourist line. Locals had the speedy service, visitors had to wait. We hit a main street and try to cross. The “anything goes” traffic that was so exciting the day before is a drag today. We look for an opening but there is none. After about five minutes, we line up behind some locals and push our way into traffic when they do. Across the street, we wander into a little square of shops and cafés , sit down at a café, and order a couple cokes. Flies arrive before the cokes , flies that will follow up for the rest of our stay. The smell of sewage drifts towards us; someone has opened the bathroom door, 100 feet away.
We make our way to the Kasbah wall near the Palais el Radi, find an opening and start wandering through a maze of cobblestone streets. We are alone and our walk is quiet. The chaos and stench we just encountered is gone. We are back in fantasy land. A school boy, no older than eight, crouches, petting a kitten. Susan bends down and pets the cat. The kid turns to Susan and, in French, says “Do you like the kitten?” “Yes, it is cute.” “You can have it for 10 durham.” Susan tells me what he says and we laugh. There is no innocence in Marrakech.
Our exchange with the school boy was the most charming of our encounters with people on the street. Actually it was the only charming street interaction we had. Without exception, when walking through Marrakech we were either ignored – which is great – or hounded. When not trying to misguide us (“The gate is closed. I can show you the way,” when walking down a dark street…which had no gates), a local would insisting that we need him as a guide. A simple “no” was never enough. In fact, to reply negatively to any offer was tantamount to opening negotiation. And to not reply was often an invitation to insults. Casual interaction on the street was impossible. Step out of your lodging, a café, a shop, a museum, anywhere and within a couple minutes the hounding started. We were told by one local that this is not only unavoidable and common, but better than it was a few years ago.
A couple days into our stay, we go to the Saturday morning flea market outside Bab el Khemis, the same place where the camel market that Canetti describes took place. Instead of camels, there are hundreds of people selling used stuff. It’s a scene we are totally unprepared for. I’ve been to hundreds of flea markets across the United States, in Europe, and in Mexico and I know what you find is stuff one step away from the landfill. Old tools, furniture, clothes, and used electronics are what I usually see. And Marrakech’s flea market is no different. What is different is how close to the landfill this stuff is. The clothes are always in piles and always in poor condition. Rusted pipe sit next to broken chairs. Everywhere, spread out on bed sheets are bits and pieces from cell phones mixed in with what looked like broken computer motherboards and spools of used wires. If the flea market didn’t wake me up to the fact that we are in a very poor country, the strange hand probing for my wallet does. Seeing someone go for my front pocket, Susan yells, sending a pickpocket scurrying. I’m not angry. I’m not shocked. We stand amidst poverty and by local standards we are rich. Normally I am pretty keen to what is around me, so why did it take this scene to wake me up? Consider George Orwell’s answer:
All people who work with their hands are partly invisible, and the more
important the work they do, the less visible they are. Still, a white
skin is always fairly conspicuous. In northern Europe, when you see a
labourer ploughing a field, you probably give him a second glance. In a
hot country, anywhere south of Gibraltar or east of Suez, the chances
are that you don't even see him. I have noticed this again and again. In
a tropical landscape one's eye takes in everything except the human
beings. It takes in the dried-up soil, the prickly pear, the palm-tree
and the distant mountain, but it always misses the peasant hoeing at his
patch. He is the same colour as the earth, and a great deal less
interesting to look at.
It is only because of this that the starved countries of Asia and Africa
are accepted as tourist resorts. No one would think of running cheap
trips to the Distressed Areas. But where the human beings have brown
skins their poverty is simply not noticed. What does Morocco mean to a
Frenchman? An orange-grove or a job in government service. Or to an
Englishman? Camels, castles, palm-trees, Foreign Legionnaires, brass
trays and bandits. One could probably live here for years without
noticing that for nine-tenths of the people the reality of life is an
endless, back-breaking struggle to wring a little food out of an eroded
soil. (From the essay “Marrakech”.)
I try to ease into my natural stoicism, but it is difficult not to feel under attack. Suddenly the stares from locals go from indifferent to unfriendly. The offers from men on the street are hostile. And indeed a couple exchanges we have with would-be guides end in being told to “Fuck off.” But, it is crazy to think that this hostility comes from nowhere, that it is the result of some Neocon con like “They hate our freedom.” The root of the hostility is pretty obvious. Most of the people we encountered are poor or very close to that. We are Euro/Americans, staying in a place with hot, running water, something plenty of Marrakechis go without. We have Obama; we have “hope.” They have King Mohammed VI; they can go to jail for being critical of him.
Though Morocco has an elected parliament, in reality, it is the king who has the power. He controls the military. He controls the police. And, because he appoints the prime minister and can dissolve the legislature, he controls the parliament. As noted, people are routinely jailed for criticizing the monarchy. The few conversations about politics I had with Moroccans were done in hushed tones. As with other countries where dissent has no “legitimate” voice, the desperate turn to desperate measures. In 2003, there was a wave of suicide bombings by Islamic militants, from the shantytowns at the edge of Casablanca. The state met the violence with a wave of repression and mass arrests. The king also put into action a slum removal campaign, a project which got quickly mired in corruption.
This situation is nothing new. In fact, the reign of Mohammed VI is generally considered more liberal than that of his father or grandfather. Human rights groups cite the Seventies and Eighties as a pretty dark time in Moroccan history, at least if you had a political opinion counter to the monarchy. That is not to say that people didn’t speak out. They did and they got jailed. They also sung out. Legendary among the singers is a group called Nass el Ghiwane.
Formed in the late 60s, Nass el Ghiwane was a part of a small scene of musicians who fused traditional Berber music with parts of Arab music, Sufi trances, and Gnaoua ritual music. While some groups incorporated electric guitar and organ, Nass el Ghiwane used traditional acoustic instruments. Many of these groups’ lyrics dealt with social and political issues; Nass el Ghiwane was the most outspoken (member Boujemaa Hagour is thought to have been assassinated by the secret police). This scene – which I have yet to find a name for – is credited with pioneering Rai music.
Today I am going to turn you on to a single I found on my trip. There will be more to come.
Nass el Ghiwane Lahmami b/w Mezzine M'dihek 7" (Polydor, 1974)
Lahmami
Mezzine M'dihek
10.17.2009
Morocco I
By air or by land, now or a couple hundred years ago, the approach to Marrakech is stirring. After miles of barren hills and small dusty villages, a red city emerges, bold against the yellow of the land. In the 11th Century that red city started with the orange colored ramparts, a 12 mile long wall surrounding the Medina. Nowadays, the old town sits among hundreds of large, red, apartment buildings, the modern part of the city and remnants of French colonial rule.
We land and fight our way through customs. In the airport lobby, a driver is waiting for us, to take us to the place we are staying, a riad in the Medina. We pull out of the airport and onto a main street. I've seen this scene before, it is the movie journalist/traveler/government agent's introduction to the Third World. It is cars swerving in and out of traffic, with little recognition for rules of the road. It is scooters cutting off cars and mopeds transporting families. We pass one, two, a dozen donkey carts on our way into the city. The closer we get towards the center of town, the thicker and more diverse traffic gets. The streets narrow and we now share them with bicycles and pedestrian. We pass three women in burkas, riding on a moped together. A man on a donkey slows traffic until our driver, Sawad, honks and is waved forward.
We stop and wait at an intersection, the Place de la Liberte. I notice that there are no traffic lights. Cars, moped, scooters, and donkey carts build behind us until we reach critical mass and, as a group, force our way into traffic. Sawad maneuvers his small Renault to the edge of the street and after a series of jags, we are running parallel to the ramparts. We pass through the gate Bab Doukkala, past the high, orange walls, and we are in the Medina.
Now in the old city, everything compacts. The streets go from two lanes to one in each direction. Soon the streets shrink to fit the width of a car and a half, then to a single car, barely. Shops crowd the street, many of them spilling onto the byway. Everywhere there are people - on mopeds, on scouters, on bikes and on foot. Sawad keeps a consistent speed of 5 - 10 mph, weaving in and out of people, between vegetable stands and "sidewalk" salesmen. The only times he stops is to let a donkey cart pass and to give passage to a group of women, totally cloaked. The radio is blaring Moroccan music, he waves at people he knows. That he is able to navigate this maze, at this speed, while greeting his friends is amazing.
The sky disappears. Sawad has taken us down a covered street. Above are thatched straw mats, designed to keep the sun at bay. The light flickers above and then comes back, then dark, then light. We pass so many things that it is impossible to keep track, though in the coming days, through our wanderings, I recognize different shops, hammams, workshops and mosques. Or at least I think I do, so much looks the same. So much looks different. We go through an arched gate, past a crude wall painting of school children. It is a landmark that we will use to find out way. I see a huge carpet hanging from a building. Another landmark. We pull into a small opening, what locals refer to as a square. The minaret of the Ben Youssef Mosque looms above.
We take our suitcases out of the cab. Sawad leads us down another street, though in Western terms we would call it a passageway or even a tunnel. The street is no wider than five feet and still we hear the sound of an oncoming moped. We push ourselves to the building wall as the rider passes. Though it seems much longer, for three minutes we twist and turn, in dimness to total darkness, past huge ornate doors and chiseled out entrances. Finally the street ends and we are standing in front of a beautiful wooden door. Sawad slams the iron knocker a couple times and a French woman slowly opens the door. Susan greets her and some words are exchanged. We pay Sawad. He leaves and we are lead into a courtyard garden and shown our room.
After hitting the bathroom, we kick back on a carpet in the courtyard. In Morocco, it is tradition to greet people with mint tea and we are people in need of greeting. Susan and I have spent the last 16 hours or so in cabs and on planes, flying from San Francisco to New York to Madrid and to Marrakech. We are pretty haggard and it is time for a break. However, it isn't time to sleep. It is only 1 p.m. Moroccan time. We've got some exploring to do.
After tea, we leave the riad and find our way through the tunnel to the square. We try to memorize all that is around us. As soon as I look at the map to get oriented, someone offers to guide us. It is the first of over a hundred offers and not the first time we say no. I see that we just need to take one turn and we are at the Ben Yousseff Madrasa and then a few steps from the Musse de Marrakech. What street we are headed for I don't know. The map doesn't say. The map doesn't mark other streets and pathways we come upon. It doesn't take long to find that the map is an outline at best. Getting around Marrakech will be largely backtracking, taking chances, memorizing landmarks, and being willing to get lost. It will not be about asking locals on the street for directions, as that is a costly, no-win game.
We pass the madrasa and the museum and in five minutes we are in the souks. The souks are a covered maze of small shops. Each souk specializes in one type of good. For a couple blocks there are nothing but slipper salesmen, shoes hanging on the walls of their shops, top to bottom. Beautiful tea sets adorn the metalware souk. The spice souk is famous for its mindblowing smell and the pyramids of spices. In the pharmaceutical souk are dried lizards and piles of dried roots and herbs. Every once in a while we stumble on a shop dedicated to some random product or nothing in particular. We pass one with a few records. I look at a half dozen Eurovision 12"s and some chipped 78s. These are the only records I will come across in Marrakech.
The streets that make up the souks are small; few can accommodate more than one car (though none allowed in the souks), some are no more than six feet wide. All the streets are packed with people. Donkey carts loaded with merchandise push their way by. Mopeds and bicycles, many with more than two people on them, stream through the crowd. Linger when you hear a "beep beep" and you stand a chance of getting knocked down.
Though we are in the souks for more than an hour, we don't step into any of the shops. To step into a shop is to start the process of haggling over something that you might or might not want. The shopkeeps are aggressive in their salesmanship, calling out to you as you pass. "Bonjour! Best price!" "Hola! Cheap!" It is curious how the greetings are always in an European language but the pitch is in English. The shopkeeps do not assume we are American - we are told not many of our ilk visit Morocco, but know that the language of commerce is English and that everyone understands "Best price" and "Cheap."
We pause in front of one of the CD shops lining the Place Bab Fteuh. A tall, skinny Moroccan emerges from the store and in French, asks what we are looking for. "Disques" I reply. He waves us in. I say, "No no. Disques," and make a large circle with my hands. He looks puzzled. Susan says "Thirty-three" in French and he understands. He leads us to another shop, but they have no records. He tells Susan that he is positive the next shop will have records and he darts off. We rush to keep up with him. We make it to the next shop. More CDs, no records. He shrugs. Susan gives him 10 durham (about a euro) for his efforts. He thanks us and splits. We have no idea where we are, but, really, we had no idea where where we were when we started this hunt - this is just another opportunity to explore. After about fifteen minutes of wandering we walk past the egg & poultry market and into the Place Jemaa el Fna.
In most cities, the space which makes up the Place Jemaa el Fna is little more than an empty town square. Perhaps on weekends, it turns into a flea market or farmers come and sell their produce. In Marrakech, the Jemaa is the living, beating heart of the city. Starting in the morning, the orange juice carts roll in, followed by healers, snake charmers, dentists, and fortune tellers. As afternoon comes, these people are joined by a few musicians and story tellers. In the evening the food carts start setting up. As night falls, more musicians show up. For most of the day and night the Jemaa is a cacophony of sights, smells and sounds.
We pass a cart piled high with oranges and wind up facing a man with a monkey on a string, wanting us to take a picture with his primate. Ten steps further and we are staring at a card table piled with human teeth. Sitting behind the table is a dentist, pliers in hand, ready to extract a bum tooth. Turn around and, spread out on the ground are neat piles of herbs, live lizards in cages, healer sitting on the ground, smiling at us. We hear music, the sound of a Moroccan shawm accompanied by a drum, wander to it, and look down. There is a pile of snakes, some coiled, some slithering around. We hear someone shouting and turn to look. There is a crowd of men surrounding a lone figure, a storyteller. The saw of strings cut through the air. The sound takes us to a Berber quartet, decked out in kaftans, jamming on a folk tune. A couple kids are boxing for a crowd of men, for money. The smell of roasted meat drifts through the Jemaa, smoke swirls into the sky. This has been the scene at the Place Jemaa el Fna for the last two thousand years.
Though one might think that the Jemaa is just one big mob for the tourists, it is thoroughly Moroccan. The storytellers tell their tales in Arabic. Marrakeshis are the main customers for food stalls. No one but a local is gonna get a tooth yanked in the town square. And though you are constantly hit up for donations from the performers (it is how they make their living), there isn't a hint of commercialism anywhere. We spend a couple hours walking around the Jemaa, get some bad food at one of the cafes that line the square, and head out for another walk through, winding up in front of the Kharbouch Mosque as the call for prayer sounds. This time I record our journey.
After the call to prayer, Susan and I head back into the souks. We pass the olive souk. A row of merchants stand behind pyramids of olives. It is a glorious sight. One the way back, we pass through the antiques souk, the leather souk, then onto slippers. We come to a fork in the road. Straight ahead is a street only 4 feet wide, lined with slipper salesmen and their wares. Though the street is only about 40 feet long, you can't see its end. The other way is wide, something that actually looks like a street. We take the small street. It will be only one of two times that we hit the right path to the square in front of Ben Youssef. The second time we hit it right is our last night in Marrakech. Every other time we opt for the "real" street, a series of "S" turns which takes you to the mosque square but only after you have convinced yourself you are hopelessly lost.
We find the entrance to the passageway that takes us to the riad. Inside, we unlock our room and collapse on the bed. Marrakech is wonderful. The sights, the sounds, the smells...It is so exciting to be somewhere so unlike home.
There are two samples below. The first is a long one. It is of the last stroll through the Place Jemaa el Fna on our first day in Marrakesh. You will hear the sounds of snake charmers, story tellers, Berber bands, water sellers, orange juice hawkers, fortune tellers, mopeds, people in conversation, and competing calls to prayer. Please download the track to listen to as not to eat up my bandspace. The second track is a musical excerpt of the first. Specifically it is a four piece Berber band. During it you will hear someone say "Merci". That is the voice of the one non-instrument playing member, whose roll seems to be shouts of encouragement and collecting money, kinda the Flava Flav of the band.
A stroll through the Jemaa el Fna, September 25, 2009
An anonymous Berber quartet (excerpt from above)
10.10.2009
Is Here
Knowone Is Here 45 (New Age, 1980)
Knowone (AKA Don Barker)'s single seems puzzling. The label and the sleeve notes espouse the New Age. The lyrics are all about changing the way we deal with each other without resorting to revolution, a fairly typical sentiment of hippie gone yuppie new agers. The music is part "Eye of the Tiger" pop, part lounge funk. The "band" is from Shingle Springs, California, which in 1980 was a combination of mountain hicks, outdoorsmen, and ex-Suburban white-flighters, with a few back-to-the-landers thrown in. On the surface none of this makes sense, but if you know the time and place I am refering to, Knowone is perfect.
1980's
Unfunky
10.05.2009
Testube Vol 4 Final 1979 - 1984
Reptile House Testube Vol 4 Final 1979-197-84/5th Anniversary Extra flexi disc (Testube, 1984)
Columbus, Ohio's Testube zine was a pretty great thing. Not only did they put out a good zine, but they also issued a bunch of cassette comps and this wonderful flexi. The band Reptile House was a short lived bi-city outfit, hitting both Columbus and Tuscon. In Testtube much is made of Reptile House, mostly because the band's leader, Tim Gassen, was/is also a filmmaker. Garage mooks will know Gassen's name from the Marshmallow Overcoat, one of the 80s garage revival bands (a scene he later made a film about). This, I believe, is Gassen's first effort and it contains two great tunes, especially the anthemic "Room for Hate."
Reptile House
Room for Hate
9.30.2009
Don't Blame Me
Reign of Terror Don't Blame Me b/w Big Things 45 (R.O.T., 1983)
Reign of Terror's great self-released single was their one and only. That they were one and done isn't surprising. As good as this single is, when this thing came out, it confused people. In the UK it would have been lumped in with New Wave of British Heavy Metal and might have garnered them a small following. In America, It was too metal to be punk and too punk to be metal. Slower riff oriented tunes like "Big Things" were out of place in both hardcore land and in the burgeoning speed metal scene. However this single was championed by the folks at SST Records, who sent to people as a promo with stuff on their label. I was doing a teen punk zine at the time and got it in a package that - if I remember right - included the Stains great LP and Husker Du's Metal Circus. Reign of Terror fit right in. As time went on, the song "Don't Blame Me" was thought good enough by at least one punk collector/bootlegger to put on the Bloodstains Across California LP. I don't believe "Big Things" has been comped anywhere.
Don't Blame Me
Big Things
9.25.2009
Fuckin' Car
Russian Roulette J'ai Tout Oublie b/w Fuckin' Car 45 (Ere Force, 1984)
Picked this one up in Brussels a few years back, at some combo book and record store. It was one of those places that had probably been around for years and had no real passion any more for what they were selling. As a result, everything was pretty much semi-organized and priced uniform. So all the 7"s were 1 euro no matter what and at 1 euro a pop, you can create a nice pile of records to bring home. Russian Roulette was in that pile.
I have no idea who Russian Roulette were or if they made any more records. The label is from France so I assume they were French. The A side of this record is forgettable and they stuck the winner on the B, so I doubt they made another good record. The song "Fuckin' Car" is approached like it was a novelty, something worthy only as a flipside. Bah. It is one of the best punk rock "Surfin Bird" rip-offs I've heard. And it is pretty damn addictive.
Fuckin' Car
9.20.2009
Johnny Runs for Paregoric
Exploding Seagulls Johnny Runs for Paregoric 7" (Fried Egg, 1980)
I am not sure if the punkalectuals would let the Exploding Seagulls into their classroom. I don't know if they would even be allowed in the "special" class, along with those DIY nerds. The Exploding Seagulls (like the very very great Avant Gardner [post pending]) might be a little too coy, a little too tongue in cheek, hell, a little too cheeky. But I like them. This was made in 1980 in Bristol and was released on Fried Egg Records, which is not only one of my favorite label names but they have one of my favorite label art. The band is credited as the band, however Tony Orrell played drums. Since his name is mentioned separately, perhaps he is a stand in. Ken Wheeler produced. I tell you all this because that is all I know about the Exploding Seagulls.
I do, however, know a little bit about paregoric. Paregoric is a tincture made with camphor, aromatic oils, and opium. It is not quite as string as morphine, however both the camphor and the oils are said to enhance the effect of the opium. It has been called a "modern day" laudanum. Laudanum was very popular with the Romantic Poets, but is no longer being produced. Neither is paregoric. However, fifty years ago paregoric was a very popular flu remedy. Little Johnny has the sniffles? Give him a slug of paregoric and he'll be dreaming good dreams for the night. He might ask for a taste in the morning but that's all right. And if you run out, send Johnny out to get some more.
------
One of the cool things about writing about and playing obscure music on the radio is every once in a while, one of the people that I write up or play contacts me. Way back in July, I did an entry on the Exploding Seagulls. Today I got an email from Richard Bolton, bassist and vocalist of the Exploding Seagulls. Richard writes:
Scott
Thanks so much for your appreciation of the seagulls record on crud crud - which I came upon by chance when I was trying to pin down when something happened and the only reference point was the release of that single. And you're right - the punkalectuals wouldn't let the Exploding Seagulls into their classroom - we were obscure, idiosyncratic, idiotic and we had quite a good time! I would point to sugarshack records website which describes the seagulls thusly - 'Berserk art-college kids from Southampton, they became Peel favourites before fragmenting in a welter of sexual and musical differences. The guitarist hooked up with a couple of Art Objects and became the Blue Aeroplanes.'
For my sins i was responsible for bringing 'Johnny' into the world, or rather, reviving him, for the first line, 'Johnny runs for Paregoric' was found by my sister in a Victorian book - all i did was mash it up with 'Subterranean Homesick Blues' and, as you point out - stuck tongue firmly in cheek.
The band, initially was me on bass and vocals, Julian Chadwick on keyboards and shopping trolley (doubled as keyboard stand and transport) and Nick Jacobs on guitar and vocals. the 'Tony Orrell' you see credited was indeed a stand in drummer as George Martin wasn't sure that Ringo would be up to it. We sort of ballooned later with girlfriends joining as singers... we went through a couple of drummers until we found one who could drum..
Fried Egg was the home of Bristol weirdscapes and Ken Wheeler the house engineer at Sound Conception studios in Bristol.
We played some memorable gigs, john peel played our record(s) ..... what more can you want. Nick peeled off to join the Blue Aeroplanes, Julian went to live in New Zealand, I got hacked off and divorced and suddenly the Seagulls had exploded...... although not necessarily in that order.
I've kept on playing music in a number of different milieu - from rock to theatre to writing an oratorio and am just kicking off with a new band called 'throne above the stars' which is an attempt to recapture the bright elusive butterfly of psychedelia, chloroform it and pin it to the backside of the grinning donkey of rock.....
Great website - I'm going to try to listen to the show via the magic of the internet.
Regards... and thanks again.
Richard (The Former Republic of Fred) Bolton
(Johnny.... originally posted 7/15/05; Richard's letter posted 8/30/09)
9.13.2009
Jim Carroll 1949 - 2009
Lots of famous people have died this year. To me most of them are just names, pictures in the paper or on the screen, people with whom I have no personal connection and who had no real impact on my life. In the world of celebrity, Jim Carroll wasn't one. He was a poet, a writer, and a singer but his fame was minor. More Americans can identify the "Informercial King" Billy Mays in a couple seconds than know who Carroll was. Bring up his most famous song "People Who Died" or the movie adaptation of The Basketball Diaries and you will have to drop is name before people think "Oh yeah." For me, Jim Carroll was more than a footnote. He actually had a pretty big influence on my life.
I first heard of Jim Carroll via KDVS, the local college radio station. Like many stations playing underground and punk music, they had "People who Died" in heavy rotation. Though the song might be a bit overplayed now, back then it was super cool. I rushed out to the nearest Tower Records and stole me a copy. Though by the time Catholic Boy was released, I was pretty much a cropped top, combat boots & chains wearin', hardcore punk, there was enough toughness and romance to Carroll's voice to make me a fan. And the lyrics were a bit more than lyrics. Of course, they were. They were poetry set to music, not that I knew that then. To me they just seemed a bit deeper than "I've heard it before/I just want to shut you up" (no dismisal of that classic Black Flag line). And the music was good. Edgy enough to excite me, but a bit cooler to put on when trying to put the make on my punk friends' sisters.
Shortly after the release of Catholic Boy, Bantam Book put out a pocket sized paperback edition of Carroll's memoirs The Basketball Diaries, which was previously only available as a small press edition, which even then was fetching collector's prices. I got my cheapie and read it in a week...and then reread it and reread it until the cover fell off. Though I had already made my way through the books that teenagers and those in their early twenties gravitate to (On the Road, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, Naked Lunch [didn't understand a fucking thing!], etc.), Carroll's book hit me. I was a confused fucked up kid. Carroll was writing about a confused fucked up kid, but it was more than that. Carroll had a deceptively simple writing style, one that not only turned me on to his work, but made me think, "I can do that." I filled up volumes of notebooks with the adventures of my friends and I, tales of punk shows we went to, lists of the slang we used, things like that. Where those journals are now, I have no idea. They probably got lost in a move or thrown out by a shitty girlfriend. I have no idea. But those things started me writing and they were inspired by The Basketball Diaries.
A few years later, he came to the West Coast to promote The Book of Nods. I went down to San Francisco to see him read, and went back down there every time he passed through. None of his other books, hit me like the Diaries and none of his records are nearly as good as Catholic Boy but those two things made enough of an impact on me that I've followed what he's done since.
I listened to Catholic Boy tonight, after I read that Jim Carroll died. It is just as good of a record as it was when it was released. To pick out a favorite song or the best tune is impossible for me to do. I'll leave you with a couple and encourage you to track down the record, if you don't have it already.
Thanks Jim Carroll for turning me on to some great shit.
Wicked Gravity
Nothing is True
8.30.2009
Voices of Human Revolution
Various Voices of Human Revolution 2LP (Min-On, 197?)
A very odd record here. By the looks of it, one would think that this is some kind of Up with People thing or the product of a hippie Christian religoid cult. And on the surface, perhaps it is close to one of those two things or maybe not. The label - Min-On - is not just a label but an organization dedicated to spreading peace through out the world through music. It is also an arm of the Buddhist sect Soka Gakkai, headed by Daisaku Ikeda. Soka is the largest Buddhist sect in Japan and one that has political ambitions. It's New Komeito Party has a presence in the Japanese Diet and has formed alliances with the recently deposed Liberal Democratic Party. Still many in the Japanese establishment consider Ikeda and his party a threat and fear that if it ever gets in power it will make its brand of Buddhism the state religion. Ikeda says such an idea is nonsense, that the party's main goal is the promotion of peace. Western press has mostly taken the "Komeito Party as threat" line, going so far as to compare the 8 million plus member Soka Gakkai to the Aum Shinrikyo "suicide cult". My knowledge of all this is what you just read, so I will save offering an opinion. I will tell you that Min-On released at least one pretty far out record.
The styles on this record are pretty diverse. They range from Japanese traditional music to Up with People pop to American soul to wild jazz blow-downs. Some of it is pretty shitty, some of it is awkwardly funny, some of it is fucking great. Only a couple cuts seem to have anything to do with Soka Gakkai and if they are message songs, they are songs only to the sect's followers. There are also a few cover songs. The groups seem to be from all across the United States and, judging from the concert photos on the inside cover, I am guessing that this record was released in conjunction with some kind of Min-On festival.
I'm going to start you off with one of the album's chucklers, a message song of sorts. Please don't stop there. Check out every track and listen for at least a minute or two. Some of these are shockingly good.
Sunshine Chorus of New York - New Life Gospel
United Life of Los Angels - The Letter
Golden Gate Jazz Band - El Pito
Tribune Band of Los Angeles - Afro Blue
The Rocking Rockies of Denver - Somebody Tell Me
8.20.2009
Operation "Lune"
Daniel J. White Operation "Lune" 45 (Editions Montparnasse 2000, 1969)
Found this odd gem at a public radio record sale for a quarter. Daniel White is a film and television composer with a pretty damn long list of scores. I am not sure if the music on Operation "Lune" was composed for a documentary or just to commemorate the 1969 moon landing. Doesn't really matter if the music is good and that it is. "Deux Hommes Sur La Lune" has that great electronics goes outer space sound with a touch of future sounds. "Mer de la Tranquillite" is a strange one. It has a noir sound to it, while evoking a cinematic post-war Paris street. But that isn't all. The playing of the song is very off-kilter, almost narcotic, so much so that it sounds like it could have been writen by Bob Graettinger. Enjoy.
Deux Hommes Sur La Lune
Mer de la Tranquillite
8.15.2009
Six Songs / Manbot
Standard of Living Six Songs 12" (Vinyl Records, 1982)
Manbot s/t 7" (NuVu, 1981)
One of today's trends in "alternative" music is the reintroduction of synth into punk rock. This has been going on for a few years, long enough for all the cliches that were formed in the 1980s to be recycled many times over. And while there are a few bands that do capture the sound well, who are able to pull off the angry scree of a Nervous Gender and do a close approximation of the Screamers, there are a few things that are missing.
First is the newness of the technology, especially when applied to basic rock and roll. From Suicide on through the early 80s, second-generation and then low-cost synths were new on the scene and/or new to people's hands. Throwing a whirrrrrr or a fzzzzzttttttt into a 1-2-3-4 song was fresh. I remember the first time I got my hands on a synth. It was a Radio Shack knock off of a Minimoog. A friend borrowed it from a friend and we were supposed to buy it for $75 but couldn't come up with the money. Instead, we formed a band around it and two drummers, played with Flipper, and broke up when friend's friend demanded the synth back. At the time, we were the only punk band in town with a synth. The instrument was an anomaly.
The second thing that lacks in today's synth punk is a true dread of the future, expressed with "futuristic" sounds and image. Growing up with the threat (real or imagined) of nuclear war was a very heavy thing. The future did not look bright. A mechanized, industrialized wasteland was what seemed to await. Either that or some sterile, narcotised, brainwashed day-to-day existence ala Brave New World. Science fiction films like Soilent Green, Westworld, Rollerball, and, the punk fave, Clockwork Orange were what we expected to grow up into. And the sounds of bands like the Normal, Chrome, and Throbbing Gristle were prepping us for tomorrow. Today's synth sound does not embrace this distopian vision. In fact, the only contemporary band that I know who comments on such things (and does it well) is the very much non-synthesized A Frames.
The synth bands of yesterday were also part of a much bigger scene. Though I am sure someone has created a subgenre for these groups (uhhh synth punk/dark wave), back then they were punk rock. Perhaps some might be called Industrial Music, but this was at a time before Industrial ditched punk rock for the dance floor. Prior to SPK's Metal Dance and Cabaret Voltaire's proto-techno, the world of Industrial was that of punk rock. Because the punk umbrella was so wide it was possible for bands like Minimal Man to play with thrash bands. You could see an evening of the Screamers and the Weirdos. The genre ghettos weren't yet built (though to be fair, today, people have easy access to a much broader range of music than I did as a youngster. There are many guides and you can download pretty much whatever you want. In my youth, the only place I could go for a radical mix of music was the local college radio station, KDVS, and then raid the import section at Tower).
Nowadays, when I stumble across a forgotten synth punk or unknown early industrial record it is a lot like opening a time capsule. Themes of alienation and technology are spread over drum machines and synth pulses. Tape loops and future apocalypse go hand in hand. Some of it is great, some of it is silly and cliche. But it really does stake out a place in time that today's crop cannot hope to do (really, isn't today's "darkwave" just a cousin of a rockabilly revival band).
All of this is to say that I know little about the four songs here than what I've gleaned from the record covers. There are no web references and my record freak friends who are heavy into this stuff are clueless as well. I do know that Standard of Living is from Oakland, California (or at least their label is) and the two songs here are off a six song 12" released in 1982. The sounds on it are great, especially "Don't Worry", with its mix of guitar freak out and synth pulse. And with band members named "Rad Solar" and "Jon Velcro" how can you go wrong?
From listening to Manbot you would think that they were from the UK, however as much these guys would like you to think Rob Calvert was the man-machine here, the label is from Fremont, California, another East Bay city. The close proximity to San Francisco, where the art punk/synth/early Industrial sound thrived and Hawkwind enjoyed a big following, is no surprise. The geographic origin of this record also reveals itself when you consider that the flip is yet another song about Jonestown, complete with the Rev. Jim Jones's lunatic ranting - the Guyana mass suicide and audio samples from the People Temple's last night both standard features of many a Bay Area punk song. Other than that, I can tell you nothing.
Please enjoy the shitty future!
Standard of Living - Don't Worry
Standard of Living - Immune to You
Standard of Living - NFA
Manbot - Manbot
Manbot - Jonestown Surprise
(Repost from original 8/25/05 entry)
8.11.2009
Volume One
Trane / The Honkies Volume One / Transplant + Organ-grinding EP (Dark Beloved Cloud, 1994)
Here is a short one, one of my favorite seven inches of the 90s and for one mesmerizing track, "Looking for Logic (Lara)". Trane were Jeff Feuerzeig, Paul Bentham, and Liz Coleman. I believe that this is their one and only release. Too bad. Guitarist Feuerzeig is also responsible for the music documentaries Half Japanese: The Band that Would Be King and The Devil & Daniel Johnson. What becaome of Bentham and Coleman I don't know. I'm not going to post the Honkies cut. It is good and I like the group but I want to let this Trane song have today's glory.
Looking for Logic (Lora)
8.08.2009
Mustafa
Staiffi et ses Mustafa's Mustafa EP (Disques Vogue, 1960)
Pure kitsch cut with total exploitation. It's 1960 and Middle Eastern music in the form of Belly Dance is all the craze in Europe (and America); but it is not alone in exotic appeal. Latin music is hot. Everything from rhumba to the cha cha cha is being pressed on to records, even if the tunes don't even remotely resemble the music styles. So here you have Staiffi, who might or might not be Middle Eastern, combining "Oriental" music of the Mid East with the Cha Cha Cha of Latin America and Rock & Roll of North America...kinda. His version of the traditional "Mustafa" has a bit of Latin in it...I think. On "Le Ana Sentimental" he incorporates rock & roll in his "Oriental", so so the credits say. Actually, "Le Ana Sentimental" sounds more authentically Middle Eastern than any track on this four song EP. The best thing about this one is the sleeve. A blond Euro woman in an evening dress and heels, holds a veil to her face. Her hands look clenched behind her head and her eyes are penetratingly psychotic. She is sitting in what looks to be a tent. Peeking into the tent is a burro's head, or at least a wood carving of a burro's head. Next to her is a bag full of straw. Yow!
Mustafa
Le Ana Sentimental
8.03.2009
Nippon Victor JL-515 10"
"Nippon Victor JL-515" 10" (Victor, 1958)
I am afraid that unless a Japanese speaker/reader out there can tell me what this is, I can only identify it by the record label and its matrix number. Other than that the only thing I can tell you is that the date is on the label as well as the words "Koto Music". I can't tell you much about the music other than I like what I hear. I've got some like records and dig traditional Japanese music, especially when it winds its way through a song like this one does, and when the tune taps into the universal music mood that gives up American blues, flamenco, Middle Eastern music and other soulful sounds. I especially like the way the strings bend when backing the vocals. Great stuff.
Unknown "Koto Music" song
7.31.2009
Slask
Polish State Folk Ballet Slask LP (Monitor, 196-)
As much as I tout my Italian roots, half of my blood is Polish. The Italian accounts for me being a cocky son-of-a-bitch; the Polish marks me with melancholy. Both run me into romanticism. So I brood and fight and brood some more. Then I get up and do a dance. Ha!
I plopped this record on the turntable not expecting much. Monitor Records is a fine label, they were off documenting international music before anyone else was, but unlike Folkways or Nonesuch, their stuff tends to be a bit more "slick". It tends toward professional music groups and state orchestras. I still pick them up when I find a Monitor record cheap, but it usually winds up in a stack, waiting for weeks, months, even years to hit the turntable. Slask got early platter time, pretty much because I wanted to hear what the Pole part of me had lurking in my musical genes...or something like that.
While most of the record is just okay, there are three songs that make me jump around. All three have a dour joy to them and are dance tunes. State orchestra, sure, but still good stuff.
W Olszyne
Starzyk
Bajtel
