SCRAM blogs

Plush — “Conversation with Schroeder:” Liam Hayes meets Jonathan Donaldson

Thu, 07 Jan 2010 21:03:48 -0800

Plush—“Conversation with Schroeder”
by Jonathan Donaldson

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the work of Plush, let me begin with a little history. Plush is basically the work of Liam Hayes of Chicago, and whatever rock orchestra he can pull together for a given recording project. He began his career with a 1994 Drag City single, "Found a Little Baby" b/w "3/4 Blind Eyes," which was the best piece of sixties-style pop to bear the mark of a double A-side in years. Holding this single in my hand, I know that it's a pop classic. But is this Liam Hayes? I wonder, looking at the fuzzy haired cartoon caricature on the sleeve.

Hayes sings with the style and conviction of John Lennon and when he drifts into falsetto, as he often does, it evokes the sweetly feminine quality of Brian Wilson. Instrumentally, Plush's work could be compared to George Harrison's first solo record (think "I'll Have You Anytime") and The White Album (think "Dear Prudence") crossed with dead-on Wilson/ Bacharach style arranging. Plush has raised the bar for me on what I thought possible for orchestrally arranging rock music in this digital age where the life is compressed out of most every flat-sounding CD that hits the used bins.

With the delayed release of a follow up, 1998's More You Becomes You (also on Drag City), fans awaited the second coming of Plush as if he were George Martin himself in purple velvet hunched over a Gretch guitar, with the great ghosts of the past surrounding him for the session date. But instead of Sgt. Peppers Lonely Pet Sounds Band, we got Liam Hayes smacked-out on a grand piano, performing a solo song cycle. In the span of two releases, we went from grandiose to absolutely sparse. The songs on More You Becomes You weren't as strong as the "Found a Little Baby” single—but something of interest was happening here. We were seeing Hayes' pop smarts unfolding in a very raw form. One gets the impression that he's making it up as he goes along, finding a little groove and then going for a big, unusual chord change, waxing his most elusive as he goes for the odd Joni Mitchell- style melody. Hayes seems to be playing a game of challenging himself to keep the songs coming; being as daring as he can with his simple, but well defined color strokes, reaching deep into the well of his pop-consciousness for the most obtuse melodies he can find.

Hayes maybe have been attempting to deliver an anti-climax, much like The White Album was the opposite of Pepper with its blank cover, or how the greatest piece from the Beach Boys post-Pet Sounds project, “Surfs Up,” is basically a free-associative unaccompanied piano piece.

Notably on More You Becomes You, Hayes sounded depressed, with lyrics like "I didn't know life was so sad, I cried." I even heard some strains of classic torch-pop, ala Laura Nyro's New York Tendaberry, showing how easily Hayes is able to tap into the feminine side of his persona with his melodic moodiness and that falsetto. But, man, what is this guy so depressed about? That he has remained relatively unknown? That he just wasn’t made for these times? That he woulda been big time about 35 years ago? That he is a master of one tiny little style of rock that now just has a cult following? Probably all of the above. Or that he has to spend all his dough to make the recordings he knows he's capable of—recordings on par with other holy grail-sters like Ron Sexsmith, Fugu, Jim O'Rourke, Jon Brion, Louis Phillipe—and half of these other guys are producers, with all the time in the world to sit around figuring out how to make shit sound great!

Now I'm confronted with the big daddy of them all—another four years later—my little shy depressed wonderboy returns with Fed on the Japanese label P-Vine. Let me just say that Mr. Hayes' proper follow up to the massive single he launched eight years ago has big hairy purple velvet balls. Gone are the slightly smacked out longings. Gone is Brian Wilson cooing paradoxically, and come is the cocaine hangover of—Robert Plant?!? Hayes leads a laser-tight band on a 1971-sounding tour-de-force. We have a full-on seventies horn section—at times resorting to soulful hits and accents—plus winds on some tracks and, most impressively, a full-on string section. We're not talking “Eleanor Rigby” though. Think Shaft, straight up. Orchestrations also sometimes echo Marvin Gaye's What's Going On. The songwriting is tight, with echoes of Carole King and John Lennon. But it sounds like the Brian Wilson part of the persona has been exiled for the time being. Apparently he just didn't fit in at this party; too insecure, maybe.

I conducted this interview with Liam Hayes in August of 2002, via email. I sent him a list of questions which he answered on a jetset bumpy flight from Sydney to Tokyo. In general, our correspondence was extraordinarily friendly, and I found his answers to be pointedly funny, at times sarcastic, and intelligent. Perhaps what was most revealing were the questions that he chose not to answer, most of which dealt with my comparing his music to other artists. If anything, I felt like he was mocking me. To that end, I compare him to Howard Roark, the protagonist of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, who when asked by a fellow architect what he thought of his work, replied, “I don’t.”

Scram: between 1999 and 2002, you disappeared from the music scene. Where did you go?
Liam Hayes: Where the action wasn’t. Part of the time was spent putting this record together.

Scram: I know you appeared in a movie [High Fidelity].
LH: Yes I did. I got to pretend I was playing and singing while the main character pretended to listen.

Scram: Well, I am so glad to see you’re back! I’ve been waiting. Once I thought that I discovered a new Plush record on-line, only to discover it was a Christian band. Rats! Ever heard of them?
LH: That’s interesting. Doesn’t the bible say something about not taking a trademarked name in vain? Time for them to have a prayer session with the lawyers.

Scram: In the meantime, you changed labels, from Chicago’s famous Drag City to the lesser known Japanese label P-Vine. What prompted a move?
LH: P-Vine believed in it, made a serious offer, and were willing to make it a priority.

Scram: Were there issues with Drag City?
LH: They’re a good label. It just ended up costing more than they were willing to pay.
[I've since found out the cost of Fed was well into six-figures. Understandably, Hayes was looking for significant compensation from a label to help cover the costs of recording for which he scraped together claw, tooth, and nail, and mostly on credit. A longtime friendship with a higher-up at Drag City could do little to keep Hayes faithful, since a label of that size simply doesn’t have that kind of cash to give to artists with extravagant/ perfectionist leanings. Rhetorically, how much do you think it costs to make a Smog record?]

Scram: Do you have a fan base in Japan? They are notorious for their love of soft-rock—which your work up to this point has certainly touched on auspiciously.
LH: I don’t know… could be.

Scram: Plush is really just you, right?
LH: Yes, I’m the sole survivor.

Scram: But you’re touring with a band?
LH: We just finished a tour of Japan.

Scram: Any big differences you can mention about Japan?
LH: People don’t act like naked savages in public there.

Scram: Let’s talk about people acting like savages. I live in Boston! Any memories of your last show here? I think it was at TT the Bears in Cambridge with Rufus Wainwright?
LH: Maybe that rogue Christian Plush was on the bill, but we certainly weren’t. I’ve never played Boston. We were supposed to. I think it was in ’98. We had come from NYC and were booked to TT the Bears. I remember reading some piece in a Boston rag… some girl saying she’d heard all this hype on our band and was going to check out the show just to confirm her negative expectations. Namely, that it wouldn’t be up to the hype. I don’t know what she ended up doing that evening, but the venue was closed due to fire damage from an overactive tandoori oven next door. I was happy to drive home.
Scram: That's Boston. People are so negative here. Look at the Red Sox—the only cheer we have for them is “Yankees Suck!” It’s ridiculous. You don’t want to play here anyway, and if you do, I’d recommend The Paradise. It’s really one of the last great clubs here and the bills are usually pretty solid.

Scram: Let’s dig into this beautiful new album. Track one, “Whose Blues”: you seem to be exiting the sensitive role you played on More You Becomes You and reappearing amid a bashing brass arrangement with a bit of a cocky swagger, ala Robert Plant. Is Zeppelin an influence on you?
LH: No. (…uncomfortable virtual silence…)

Scram: Well, let me milk you for another comparison. The legato string interlude introduced after the three-minute mark has a very Curtis Mayfield, Shaft-like feel to it. In other songs I hear bits of Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On. Are you conscious that you might be moving from a sixties-inspired sound into a more seventies-inspired sound on this album?
LH: It’s partly Tom’s influence [arranger Tom Tom 84 who goes way back to Earth, Wind & Fire]. I heard quite a bit of that music growing up. It was popular, so it was everywhere and left an impression.

Scram: Tell me about Tom Tom—what exactly does he do? Score and everything? Where it says in the booklet that you did additional arrangements on certain songs, what does that mean? Did Tom Tom arrange “Found a Little Baby” as well?
LH: Tom worked with me, took what I had written and cleaned some of it up, prepared it for performance. There are parts throughout that are mine that he kept. In many songs he just did his thing… horns and strings and really shaped the tune. A lot of the winds are mine. “Additional arrangements” are the songs that I arranged from beginning to end.

Scram: “Whose Blues” comes to a climax with the jarring lyric, “my creation has drowned me,” which suggests to me Dr. Frankenstein. You also talk about living for “something else”… this may sound corny, but are you talking about being Plush, or growing into a cog in society?
LH: Both. Nobody knows what to do with a wish giving tree. It’s not the tree's fault.

Scram: Going along with this sentiment, I wonder if the thing to which you assert: “it’s my time” in track two, “I’ve Changed My Number” is related to your involvement in the music business, or rather something involving a personal relationship or your relationship with society.
LH: It’s my time and how I choose to use it. One way not to spend it: getting caught up in other people’s trips.

Scram: Well, thanks for not changing your number in this case. Are you tired of people interested in Plush trying to contact you?
LH: No. I like knowing that people are listening.

Scram: I get a sense that you have an interesting relationship with the character that is Plush. Are you more “Plush” in real life, or more Liam Hayes—or are the two inseparable? Like the Other Music review of Fed states about you, are you are an international man of mystery, like the James Bond of music? Or do you have a real life that is comprised of a job, bills, a lease, pals, a goldfish? Or are you a really a rock star?
LH: Please don’t include the goldfish in all that nonsense. He’s the only thing that’s real, the rest isn’t.

Scram: The bizarre photo montage within your CD features you in a Superman-like stature, a grocery stock boy, and a billy goat knocking down a pyramid of cans in a sterile white installation setting. Is it just for fun, or is that linked to any particular art movement?
LH: Yes, advertising.

Scram: I think I remember reading somewhere that you are like a rock n’ roll vagabond, sitting on the park benches of Chicago as in your new single “Greyhound Bus Station.” Also I have heard that like Mr. Morrissey, you’ve never had a job because you’ve never wanted one—any truth to this, or a bunch of crap?
LH: Never wanted one and never kept one. For me music is the only thing worth doing.

Scram: Back to “I’ve Changed My Number,” the chorus is very Carole King, with the lyric, “They say, isn’t that the way that it feels…” Are you commenting on depression and dealing with people confronting you about depression?
LH: Look, most of the people I’ve met want you to do more than simply acknowledge them and their condition. They want you to empathize. Now you have two depressed people where there was just one before.

Scram: I make this assertion about depression considering that your first single contains lyrics such as “gonna be another lonely day” and “what’s so bad about dying.” Likewise, on More You Becomes You, one can’t be sure if you are laughing or crying when you sing the lyric “it took me so long.” Clearly, yours are not the lyrics of someone perennially happy, like Stevie Wonder for instance.
LH: Do you think that Stevie Wonder needs therapy?

Scram: Maybe he does these days. There is something a little sinister about “I Just Called to Say I Love You” and “That’s What Friends Are For.” Sticking with this Motown theme, I want to go back to my earlier comment about Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On. The over-all sounds of the first two songs are very similar—they were obviously meant to go together, as are “No Education” and “The Sound of San Francisco,” and “Unis” and “Born Together.” Is this intended to get that What’s Going On effect, where the songs actually run together?
LH: I like the idea of a record that has a beginning, middle, and end as opposed to just a collection of songs.

Scram: Were they recorded at the same time as a suite? It’s really neat to see two different songs come from the same seed. If the songs were in fact recorded separately, you all did a very nice job putting it together.
LH: No they were not recorded at the same time. And thanks.

Scram: Incidentally, how long did it take to record Fed?
LH: Years.

Scram: Was it recorded on tape or with a computer, or both?
LH: Tape. Computers take too long to do everything.

Scram: I've noticed that Chicago’s finest turned the knobs on this record—Steve Albini, John McEntire, Bob Weston—so you must not have been living in Japan.
LH: Don’t assume.

Scram: Either way, does being in the Chicago music “glitterati” afford you to work with these engineers? Are they the greatest in the world or what?
LH: Being a seventh degree glitterati prohibits me from discussing what goes on in our meetings. I can however tell you that they certainly do know how to rock the mic collection.

Scram: A fringe benefit of working with McEntire (Tortoise, Stereolab) must’ve been his drumming talents, which he lends so nicely to the jazzy feel of track three, “Blown Away.” The song also has a really enjoyable, slightly obtuse chordal/ melodic structure. The “one man dies” section is really breathtaking—it really reminds me of “Anyone Who Had a Heart” (Bacharach-David), which has that irregular waltz time feel as well.
LH: It didn’t start out that way. I originally wrote it for guitar and then moved it over to piano. I suppose the instrumentation (upright bass, piano, and drums) automatically puts it in some sort of jazz context.

Scram: What is your attitude towards chords? Are you pretty liberated with the movements that you make? Do you use them as the building blocks of the song and then impose the arrangements upon them?
LH: This is a hard question to answer. Chords. Can’t live without them. Chords move. They have to. Up and down they go. It’s very liberating, the movement, you know. Chords are imposing. You notice them when they enter a song.

Scram: Track 5, “Greyhound Bus Station,” is perhaps the happiest song you have ever released, a clear choice for a single, a relationship song for a relationship that didn’t quit get off the ground. Yet is the sun coming out here?
LH: I think it is a happy song. The other person that’s being addressed won’t sing along, but that doesn’t stop me from harmonizing.

Scram: But it's the happiest song and you still have to ride a Greyhound? What gives?
LH: Who cares if it’s a Greyhound? Sure, it’s depressing, but at least you’re out of the house having an adventure.

Scram: I really think that lyric is funny: “sitting in the park for lack of ambition.” Very Lennonesque, and the melody on the big chord change is bizarre in a Lennonesque way. You obviously don’t suffer from lack of ambition if you composed and produced this album together with some thirty people.
LH: It was a major undertaking. Everybody was challenged and we did what seemed impossible

Scram: Is that what you like to think of Plush, if you will forgive my pandering language: do you keep the rock star fantasy of Plush seated on a park bench too cool for school?
LH: Fantasy?
[I suppose I should acknowledge that I am projecting here. I think Liam is fantastic, so I must think he thinks he’s fantastic. Or something like that. Plus, I wouldn’t mind achieving his level of rock stardom, which to me, is fantasy.]

Scram: Or too smart for education? As we see in the next song, one of my favorites, “No Education”—it really just has such a beautiful lyric—“Never read a book in my life, but I feel just fine, I’m alright/ Now is the time that I feel so inspired.” It makes sense that a creature of the soul would never read a book, but turn instead to song, for music is pure emotion. Comment?
LH: I’m not saying that I don’t read, never read, or that it’s not a worthwhile activity. At the time I’d just met somebody who was very intellectual, a brainiac, and they were applying that to their music. Maybe it’s interesting in small doses, but I don’t want to be a brain in a jar. Many do. This song is not for them.

Scram: I hate to bring them up again, I’m not even a big fan, but “No Education” kind of has the same subtle sexy power of “No Quarter” by Led Zeppelin—or maybe it’s just the chorus on the guitar. Do you think that effects pedals are coming back in for guitar players, or is that just you experimenting with that sound?
LH: I don’t know what’s in or out. I’ve been playing with the same set-up for the last twelve years.

Scram: This is in fact a different version of the "No Education" single that was released in '97, correct?
LH: Yes.

Scram: What motivated you to re-record it?
LH: I’d always wanted to do it with an arrangement.

Scram: “No Education” really has a fantastic outro—you dueting with the French horn (or is it English?). Also, the strings are splendid on the “feel alright” section. Really an outstanding track—very powerful. By now you must be starting to learn more about what the different horns and winds sound like specifically, how and when to use them in an arrangement. Can you impart some of your discoveries on me?
LH: What you are refering to is a French horn and a Flugel horn. It’s really just what sounded good. I can recommend a book: “The Study of Orchestration” by Samuel Adler. That’s what I taught myself with.

Scram: You must be happy with track seven, “The Sound of San Francisco?” (which along with the diabolical title track, “Fed,” will really reward fans of "Found a Little Baby" / "3/4 Blind Eyes" with lush strings and horns, prominent organ and a chugging chorus-driven guitar). The way you say those “yeah’s” really makes me feel good!
LH: Good.

Scram: There’s actually some Christ imagery here, am I right? Mention of bread and the lyric “Woke up today, said who’d gonna be my keeper?/ Said on the way, who’s gonna feed these people?” Any explanation for this? Is this designed to go along with some of the other spiritual/ philosophical references on the record?
LH: It was taken from a dream. San Francisco was and still is a weird place. In the dream it was even weirder. There is a Christ-type figure, yes, but he’s really just as disconnected as everyone else. It’s not really religious.

Scram: I want to mention track nine, “Born Together,” the ballad of the album. It's a lovely, bittersweet song that grows on me with each listen, as I am able to absorb some of the frightful originality of it bit by bit. It features an acoustic guitar with what sounds like a string trio. The feminine side of your songwriting really comes out here. I imagine Phil Spector arranging a John Lennon song like “Julia” from The White Album. All the little pieces, how it is put together, very unique. Do you have any special feelings about it? Did you arrange the strings here or did Tom Tom?
LH: I really like the song and always enjoy playing it. I did the arrangement

Scram: My last question: What is next for Plush?
LH: Breakfast.

Daniel Clowes speaks

Tue, 05 Jan 2010 11:37:24 -0800

Daniel Clowes interviewed by Steve Mandich

June 15, 2001: Daniel Clowes is at the Seattle International Film Festival doing press before the premiere of Ghost World, the celluloid adaptation of his well-received serial comic. Clowes, wearing a windbreaker over his button-down shirt, is booked for a busy afternoon of interviews. I was given my 20 minutes with him at 3:30. He is easy-going and surprisingly chatty. We speak in room 426 of the Sheraton Hotel.

SCRAM: Is Goofie Gus something you made up?
CLOWES: No, Goofie Gus is completely mine. It was a toy I had as a kid, actually, and we tried to get it in the movie originally. They have all these problems with clearances and rights and things like that, and they said, “We can’t trace this back to the original toy company, so we can’t let you use it in the film.” I was like, “But you don’t understand! It’s very important that we get this in the film!” So at the last minute they said, “Well, if you change it like 33 percent then you can use it.” So we put this ridiculous blonde wig on it. (laughs) It’s one of the most absurd things I’ve ever seen. In the film you can’t quite see it so it just looks like a weird doll of some kind. But I took the prop home, since it was my Goofie Gus in the first place, and I had it on display with the wig on it. People wonder, “What? Why did you put the wig on it?” That was the most ridiculous thing.

SCRAM: Enid’s record that was in the comic was the same record used in the movie?
CLOWES: That’s the same record. I wrote the script and I put in a scene where it said “Enid plays this haunting children’s record,” and I never identified what it was. [Co-writer/director] Terry [Zwigoff] is very specific about his musical tastes and I always thought, “He only likes jazz from 1931 or before. If I played him this song he’d think this was the worst song and he’d never go for it.” And he kept saying, “We need to have a song, we’re making the movie, we need a song for this scene.” And I just thought, “I gotta wait for the right moment to play this thing for him.” We actually shot the scene where she isn’t even listening to a record, so there’s no music. So I said, “Come on, will you listen to this? Maybe you’ll think it’s okay? I think it’ll work…” And he’s like, “Why didn’t you play this for me before? It’s great! It’s perfect!” “Oh jeez, I should have played this for him three years ago.”

SCRAM: Is that the same record you had in mind when you drew the comic?
CLOWES: Yeah.

SCRAM: What is it? Who sings that?
CLOWES: There were these two girls named Patience & Prudence, who were the daughters of some producer at Liberty Records, and their big #1 hit was “Tonight You Belong to Me.” They did two or three other singles, and “A Smile and a Ribbon” was the b-side to one. Only Prudence sings it, not her sister Patience. I bought it when I was a teenager for some reason. I was always embarrassed to tell people that I thought it was a really strong emotional song for me. I couldn’t quite figure out why.

SCRAM: It was touching scene in the movie.
CLOWES: It’s very hard to make stuff like that work.

SCRAM: The opening scene with that Indian dance video: was that something shot for the movie or was that something you found someplace?
CLOWES: It was one of those tapes that guys like me get from people, where you get like a 20th generation tape: “Hey, you gotta see this, man.” A friend of mine who was house-sitting for this guy--Peter Holsapple, who used to be in this band the dBs in the ‘80s--he has the great collection of video detritus like that, just stuff that he’s taped. And so my friend made a bunch of tapes of stuff while he was staying there and said, “Hey, you gotta see this Indian video.” It was a really grainy, horrible version of it, but it was the most amazing thing I’ve seen in my life! “What is this?” I showed it to Terry one day and he said, “Oh, we gotta get that in the film, it’s perfect for Enid.” We tried to figure out what it was, and we just had no luck. And so we wrote it into the film, just praying we could find it somehow. By pure luck, John Malkovich was one of our producers, and he had really championed some Indian film in like 1996, so the Indians in the film business were very grateful to him, so they said [in Indian accent] “We will find!” We sent them a tape of it and they said, “Oh yes, it’s from Gumnaam, 1965, directed by so-and-so.” It was a very famous film. Gumnaam means “nameless.” As all Indian films are, it’s a musical. It’s actually kind of a mystery, it’s based on Agatha Christie's Ten Little Indians. It’s sort of a murder mystery on an island. And that scene really has almost nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of the movie. It’s the original music, and it’s actually the opening theme to the film. We met the sons of the guys who produced it, they actually came to the set the day we were shooting and watching that. They were so proud. [Indian accent again]“We remember being on the set when this was filmed! Our father would be proud to be in an American film!” So we got a perfect print. It was just the greatest thing.

SCRAM: It looks so sharp and vivid.
CLOWES: It’s too perfect.

SCRAM: You and Terry co-wrote the screenplay.
CLOWES: Yes.

SCRAM: How much input did you have on the rest of the film? Were you on the set, or did you have some say in the casting?
CLOWES: I had more input than any screenwriter ever is allowed. It was really amazing. I got to be there for all of the pre-production, which involves the casting and hiring set designers and things like that. So I got to do all the casting and help design the costumes and help plan out the sets. Then I got to be there for all the shooting. Terry pretty much conferred with me before every single take, and I really got to have a big say. Terry felt that those girls especially were my characters, and didn’t want to do anything that I didn’t approve of. You never get that from any other director. Most directors are like, “Ban the writer from the set--you can come to the premiere.” Most writers will be seeing their films for the first time tomorrow night [at their respective film festival premieres]. It was amazingly lucky. Although, then again, when you’re a writer you just get paid for the script, so everything I did was on the house for the last year-and-a-half.

SCRAM: But it’s got your name on it.
CLOWES: It’s got my name on it, and I figure a movie really does live for a long time, so you should do what you can while you have the chance. That was the amazing thing to me to be on the set and realize, “I could change something right here that will be in the film and will exist for however long this film exists, however long DVDs are around. I could move this piece of paper in the background…” It’s such an odd feeling. It’s cool.

SCRAM: There were a lot of scenes drawn from other Eightball stories, like “Art School Confidential,” and Feldman, the guy on the scooter who knew all the trivia. Are there any scenes like those that that didn’t make the final cut?
CLOWES: There was stuff from the comic that was sort of more verbatim stuff, that was really funny in the comic and then we filmed it and it just didn’t work as well in the film somehow. We learned during the making of it that the film had to be its own thing, and we couldn’t just copy the comic. We really had to re-think every single thing to make it work on film. Like, in the diner scene, when they’re with the Weird Al guy, the waiter--we had all the dialogue from the comic, where there’s page after page of them making fun of the songs and stuff. I thought it was hilarious when we were filming it, but then we watched it, it was kind of tedious, so we just dropped it. It’s weird what stuff worked and what didn’t.

SCRAM: There were scenes that I anticipated that didn’t happen. I kept waiting for the scene in the grocery store where the girls see the Lunchables in the Satanists’ shopping cart.
CLOWES: We actually had that in the script for a while, but we didn’t have room for it or time for it. I’m glad we cut it out because it later turned out you couldn’t ever get clearance on stuff like that. It would never have been funny with anything other than Lunchables. We would have never gotten it. You would’ve needed Kraft to watch the whole film and sign off of on it. They’d think “Oh, you’re making fun of us.” Which, of course, we would’ve been.

SCRAM: I thought the best line in the movie was when the art teacher says, “I thought maybe this was supposed to be your father.”
CLOWES: (laughs) That performance should get an Oscar. That kid, just the way he looks down. Clearly he’s got issues with his father. (laughs)

SCRAM: In Eightball you drew a nightmare scenario about “Velvet Glove” being turned into a movie. Did you have any experiences like that?
CLOWES: I had stuff that was just like that, except not while the film was actually being made. We’d have these meetings and I could just see that these people were really sleazy and disreputable but I was so intrigued by the whole process that I’d keep going to meetings and stringing them along, and then I’d always at some point stop answering my phone and blow ‘em off. I could so imagine how it would be to make a film and have no control and you don’t trust the people at all. But with this film, it was always me and Terry and this producer, Lianne Halfton. It was really just the three of us the whole time and we never had to face any of that kind of stuff. It just wasn’t an issue. If you get along with your producer and your director, there’s really nobody left to betray you. And it’s not a big enough film where the studio would take it away and re-edit it. They know the only value the film has is ours. There’s no point in them trying to change it.

SCRAM: You’re happy with how it turned out?
CLOWES: Yeah, it was miraculous how close it is to what I wanted to get on the screen. It’s that and much more. It was really a great experience. It was really long and drawn-out and tedious at times. Three years in writing the script just goes forever. We started in 1997 and the premiere is here in 2001. There were lots of ups and downs and heartbreaks along the way, where we almost got it made and then we backed out at the last minute because we weren’t too sure. Now that it’s all done I can forget about all those miserable days sitting by the phone that never rings, and now I’m very thrilled with it and really proud.

SCRAM: Any other comics that you have in mind for a movie?
CLOWES: Terry and I, we like that whole art school thing. We could do a whole art school film, that could be fun. I was telling somebody that, to me, my four years in art school were what Vietnam was to Oliver Stone. (laughs) There’s so much material that I could go on forever, just an endless fount of stuff.

SCRAM: I’ve never been to art school, but I showed “Art School Confidential” to an art school friend of mine…
CLOWES: That thing’s been xeroxed so many times and put up on walls on art schools. You can’t even tell it’s drawn by a human being. It’s 10th generation. (laughs)

SCRAM: When you drew Ghost World, did you have any particular city in mind, like Chicago? It is obviously LA in the movie…
CLOWES: We didn’t want it to be that much LA. We wanted to shoot there because we thought LA was the furthest along in America, sort of this degradation of culture, but we wanted it to read as Anytown, USA to some degree. I started drawing it when I lived in Chicago and then I worked on it for awhile living in Los Angeles and then I moved to Berkeley, so it’s a weird kind of conflation of the three. Chicago brick buildings with palm trees in the background and sort of a Berkeley feel to it, so it’s a weird combo of all the places I was living. Which is interesting because people always say that they think it’s wherever they live. They think, “Oh, were you in Washington? Were you in the suburbs of Minnesota?”

SCRAM: I always pictured Chicago in the summer, as Enid and Rebecca wore summery clothes.
CLOWES: That was my good excuse that it could be anywhere, so they don’t have to wear down parkas.

SCRAM: It would have to be a big enough city to have its own ‘zine shop.
CLOWES: Right. People always say, “It’s set in suburbia,” and I go, “No, they don’t have Zine-O-Phobia in suburbia.” (laughs) If you look hard you can see a Scram or two in the background.

SCRAM: I looked hard but I didn’t see one. I could only pick out the Monkey Rock ‘n Roll issue of Roctober.
CLOWES: There definitely is one. You have to freeze-frame it. It’s pretty tough to see some stuff, but there’s definitely a Scram in there.

SCRAM: I’ll check again when it comes out on video… Seymour’s character is totally new in the movie. Was he drawn from the Bob Skeetes character in the comic? Or someone else?
CLOWES: He was something Terry brought. Terry had these two characters, Seymour and Joe, the two roommates, basically based on him and a friend of his. Seymour is more sort of Terry. He said, “You know, is there any way we could just get these two guys in there? Like in a small vignette or something?” I kept thinking there’s something really resonant about crazy 78 collectors thrown in with these girls. There was something so funny about that, and the possibilities were so good. When I finally figured out, “Oh, he could be the guy in the ‘50s diner, and they could sort of just follow him,” that really was exciting. It seemed like such a great opportunity. Then as the character got more developed ,Terry was writing scenes and then I would rewrite the scenes, and I got so I was sort of to rewriting the whole thing, and so Seymour became sort of a weird conflation of me and Terry. It’s really more Terry than me, but definitely we both have that same sort of hide-in-our-room collector mentality. (laughs)

SCRAM: Seymour’s ragtime fixation brought to mind Chris Ware.
CLOWES: Yeah, [Ware] responded very highly to it. But all of that stuff is Terry’s. We brought up all his posters and all his junk and moved it to a set in Hollywood. Steve Buscemi plays that character so much like he’s just playing himself, but he’s not at all that kind of a guy, really. It’s really an amazing performance, but he’s much more sort of up-to-date. He liked all that music but he really didn’t know anything about it at all. He was always asking about it: “How do you pronounce ‘Lionel Belasco’? How do you say that?” It was always shocking, because we figured, “Oh, he’s Seymour, he knows all that stuff. How could he not know?”

SCRAM: He came closest to the caricatures around the fringes of Eightball, like the guy on the scooter. Panning across the apartment building in the opening scene, there’s that guy with the Jim Belushi haircut…
CLOWES: In the script he was “Man with hair on his back,” or something like that. [It actually reads: “A large, hirsute MAN, wearing only Lycra jogging shorts, watches the Home Shopping Network while eating mashed potatoes with his fingers…”] The extras guys--they read the script very carefully and they want to bring in exactly what you have in there--and so the extras casting guy came in and had nine Polaroids of guys photographed from the back, with hair all over. My God, who would to humiliate themselves like that? (laughs) So that guy had the haircut too, and we thought, “Boy, that’s an added bonus.” He was amazing. That was one of the funniest days, when we shot all those guys.

SCRAM: Though I didn’t see any characters with really big, pronounced teeth…
CLOWES: Except for Steve himself, with those giant fangs. We had a few we cast in the background, but you don’t really get to see it. I would’ve liked to have seen more walrus-toothed people walking by. (laughs)

SCRAM: A character who got a big response was Doug, the redneck guy who hangs out at the convenience store.
CLOWES: Yeah, that guy was the real thing. We had seen a tape of all this stuff he’d done where he played characters like that, these kind of dirtball characters. You could tell he absolutely understood that. He wasn’t playing down to it. We could tell he was totally from that world and understood every nuance of it so well, and we basically wrote that scene like, “Dave Sheridan ad-libs next five lines.” We just turned the camera on him and let him do all that stuff. He showed up on the set that day--we hadn’t seen him since we cast him five months earlier--he shows up with that haircut, which he had given himself. And he actually had those tan lines, he had gone out that weekend and had gotten sunburned with a tanktop on. Everything he did was so flawless. We didn’t have to do any work on that guy at all.

SCRAM: I like the outtake scene following the credits where Seymour beats him up.
CLOWES: He and Steve came up with that on their own. They came up to me and said, “Keep Terry busy for a few minutes. Tell him we need to do another take of this scene.” So I took Terry aside and just talked with him and said, “You know, I didn’t like that last take so we should do one more.” So Terry had no idea that was coming. If you watch that really carefully you can hear Terry shrieking with laughter in the background. (laughs)

SCRAM: Joey McCobb, the painfully bad standup comedian, was really true to the comic.
CLOWES: The reason that’s true is because the guy who played Joey McCobb is my best friend, who invented Joey McCobb. One day we were in a train station and he just said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if there was some corny comedian who made up all those jokes off the top of his head: ‘Take my wife, please.’” We were casting the film and we tried to get a real comedian to play it. We tried all these actors but they just weren’t that funny, and I said, “Why don’t we just get Charles [Schneider] to do it himself?” He came in and Terry was like, “Why didn’t we get him in the first place? He’s perfect!” So it’s a very rare instance of somebody playing a character that they made up themselves.

SCRAM: It looked like you did a lot of your own original artwork in the movie, like in Enid’s sketchbook. Did you do the Laugh Grotto backdrop?
CLOWES: Yeah, I designed that font. They have painters in Hollywood who can do anything, so I had drawn this little thing and said, “Make it like this.” Next thing you know it’s this 3-D, perfect, amazing thing. I did all the logos for the Cook’s Chicken as it changes into a more modern company, and the painters printed that stuff on stationery and everything.

SCRAM: I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it got some crowd response at the screening I went to: the picture on the brochure for the Academy of Art and Design shows the campus of the University of Washington, where I go to school.
CLOWES: Oh, is that right? That’s great! (laughs) I had no idea! The prop guy just made that up! That’s hilarious!

SCRAM: A couple people in the audience were whispering about it to each other.
CLOWES: I can’t wait to see that tomorrow night. That’s funny.

SCRAM: So what’s next for Eightball?
CLOWES: There’s a new Eightball that I have three pages left on that I’ve been trying to finish for the last two weeks. I had to do all these interviews everyday and I can never get anything done. But it’s a 40-page, all-color issue. Twenty-nine stories in 40 pages.

SCRAM: Super.
CLOWES: It’s a wacky issue. It’s about this made-up suburbia sort of town.

SCRAM: Is this the beginning of a new serial?
CLOWES: No, it’s all self-contained, all by itself.

SCRAM: Any additions you wish to make to those you “hate deeply”?
CLOWES: You know, I need to start a new list. I can’t even remember some of the last ones.

SCRAM: Are you happier in Berkeley or Chicago?
CLOWES: I actually live in Oakland. Oakland is like the West Coast Chicago. It’s got all the decay and misery of Chicago, but nice weather.

SCRAM: Kim hates baseball…
CLOWES: (laughs)

SCRAM: …and I interviewed Peter Bagge for Scram a few years ago and I got him to talk about baseball. Reading Eightball, I take it you’re baseball fan?
CLOWES: I used to be, as a kid, and then when I went away to college I got away from it and stopped following it and I could never get back into it. So when I think of baseball, I could probably still tell you every member of the 1971 Cubs. I was so focused on that. But my knowledge stops at about 1980 or so.

SCRAM: With me it’s the same, except it’s about 1977. I can name all the Yankees and Dodgers from that year. It’s funny how much more I can recall from that long ago, like it’s yesterday.
CLOWES: I still think, “Is Rick Monday still playing centerfield?”

SCRAM: Did you by any chance go to Disco Demolition Night at Comiskey Park?
CLOWES: I remember it very well. I did not go, but I remember watching the news that night. I remember being sort of appalled, like, “They’re ruining our American pastime! How can they do this?” I went to school with Bill Veeck’s daughter. I used to be pretty good friends with his son. He was kind of a character, he collected old Edison Rolls.

SCRAM: [Realizing my twenty minutes are up] Okay, thanks!
CLOWES: Say no to drugs!

Beyond a Shadow of Usher

Tue, 05 Jan 2010 11:00:59 -0800

BEYOND A SHADOW OF USHER
by Dick Campbell

In 1971, the year Gary Usher gave this interview, his musical tastes were continuing to evolve from his hot rod/surfing roots of the early 60's. He had an idea for a concept album entitled "Beyond A Shadow Of Doubt" which would reflect his developing philosophical views on metaphysics, and he asked me to write the music to his lyrics. We had written some other tunes, such as "Good Ole Rock & Roll Song" recorded by the Cowsills, and had become great friends in the process. Gary had taken me under his wing since I'd come out from the Midwest where my "Dick Campbell Sings Where It's At" LP had been released on Mercury Records in 1966. He signed me as a writer to his L.A. label, Together Records, and later I moved with him to RCA, and then to Rip Music (BMI), a publishing company owned by Danny Thomas.

For the next couple of years we recorded several demos for the "Shadow" project in various L.A. studios, and Gary wrote a book to be included with the proposed album. But, for several reasons, the album never went beyond the demo stage and snuggled into hibernation for thirty years until it was revived by Gary's son in 2001. Gary Usher, Jr. dusted off the old reel-to-reel demos and released them, along with the book, as a "work in progress" on Dreamsville Records. Although the songs were in demo form, the excellent Usher production touch gave them a very finished polish considering that they consisted mostly of my acoustic guitar parts, lead vocals by Gary, and background vocals provided by Gary, Curt Boettcher, and myself. As Gary's latest release, some dozen years since his death, "Beyond A Shadow Of Doubt" presents an excellent indication of the direction in which he was heading, as well as proof of his enduring popularity among Usher aficionados.

As for why this project took so long to see the light of day, my opinion is that Gary was beginning to weary of all the perceived crapola he had endured through his first decade in the record industry. He was definitely tired of the commercial-vs.-artistic aspect of the business, and was exploring Eastern philosophy in his personal life. Then there was the horrific blow he suffered in early 1974 when his wife Bonnie died suddenly in her sleep from an apparent epileptic seizure. Bonnie's death was hard on us all, as my family and Gary's were quite close on a social level. After that, the wind just went out of Gary's sails for a year or two and he eventually ended up going to an island off the coast of Washington. Gary later remarried (to Sue Cypher, daughter of actor Jon Cypher of "Major Dad" TV-fame) and also dabbled again in music production, but he never returned to the level of interest in music that he had enjoyed in the beginning when his songs like "409" helped kick off the hot rod record craze.

Although Gary's name was not as well known to the general public as that of the man who's career he helped launch (Brian Wilson), his vast recorded repertoire continues to be collected by his fans. In addition, CD reissues of Gary's early productions and new CDs of previously unreleased material, such as the "Shadow" project, are becoming more available. The advent of the internet, and it's auction sites like eBay, are also a good way to find rare Usher nuggets. Recently I saw an acetate demo of a song we'd written, "California Way," sell for $241 to an unknown collector. This would have amused Gary since it's probably more money than we ever got paid for that particular song. Another interesting aspect of the internet is the proliferation of message groups on various subjects. There's one on Yahoo hosted by Ron Weekes which is dedicated to discussions of Gary Usher, and in the area of books an excellent five-volume biography on Gary has been written by author Stephen J. McParland.

When Gary died of lung cancer in 1990, his reputation in the record industry had long been secured. Even more importantly, his personal influence on his many friends is still felt to this day. He had a great sense of humor, but knew when to get to work; he was successful without being overbearing; and he was competitive without being unkind. Time and space does not permit me to relate the dozens of anecdotes which would illustrate these attributes, but I can leave you with at least one. When I first arrived in California, Gary and I would play a board game called Stratego in which each side would have forty army pieces. These pieces, of various ranks, were lined up against each other in such a manner as to conceal their ranks from the opponent with the object being to capture each other's flag. Since both Gary and I considered ourselves military buffs, the competition to achieve "the thrill of victory" was raised to a level usually reserved for important things like the Super Bowl.

While Bonnie worked on making us lunches, the battles would rage for hours. Every time we played Gary would whip me, and after half a dozen losses I was beginning to experience "the agony of defeat." But, like Gary, I'm competitive too--just not as kind. I bought my own Stratego game and studied it for hours. Finally I arrived upon a "corner strategy" of encasing my flag in a layer of bombs backed up by majors, so that when Gary's miners broke through the bombs they'd be killed before reaching my flag. The next time Gary and I played I beat him. Then I beat him again. Now here comes good part. On the third game he had become so unglued that he actually attempted to distract my attention so he could switch his flag, an unmovable piece, to a less vulnerable location. I caught him, we had a good laugh, and never had to play Stratego again--the novice apprentice "just off the boat from the Midwest" (as Gary used to kid me), had beaten the master, thus gaining a certain degree of parity.

In closing, let me just say that Gary usually acted calm and cool under fire, whether it was a game or a big budget recording session for a major label. One day in 1971, we were set to go into a studio for a song demo session, so I stayed overnight at his house for an early morning start. At 6:01 A.M., I was awakened by the sound of rumbling, the vision of window blinds flipping up and down, and the feeling of my bed violently shaking. Even "just off the boat" and without prior experience with earthquakes, I was immediately able to deduce the nature of this event. It went on for what I claim is 60 seconds before ceasing. I, and the Usher children, then beat it into Gary's room and up on his large bed where we joined him and Bonnie for assurance. The Sylmar earthquake had been 6.6 magnitude, killed 65 people, and caused 500 million dollars damage, but that morning the "Master" was in the studio without fail--and the "sorcerer's apprentice" was right there with him. One can live through an act of God, but not beyond the shadow of Usher.

Don't Sing This Song... It Belongs To P.F. Sloan

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 22:29:41 -0700

When Edwin Letcher asked if I’d be interested in helping him interview Phil Sloan, I was delighted to accept. We’re both big fans of his work as a songwriter and artist, but conveniently Edwin’s interests skew more towards his early career and mine towards the later part. We made two visits to Phil’s sylvan estate in the heart of West L.A., the first a social call that gave him a chance to check us out (and tell some amazing off-the-record stories about rock and roll and his fascinating spiritual practice), the second a formal interview. Once that was on tape, it was easy to split it down the middle, with part one running in issue #10 of Garage & Beat and the conclusion appearing here. If you want to get the full experience, including a mystical audience with Elvis Presley The Sun King and how Phil discovered the Beatles (and the Stones), visit www.garageandbeat.com for ordering info. Or just dive in below. It’s 1964 and Phil is working as staff songwriter and underpaid A&R man at Screen Gems and recording groovy genre-rock under a slew of fake band names, including Willie & the Wheels, the Trash Cleaners, the Wildcats and the Fantastic Baggys. Soon he’ll form the Grass Roots, write “Secret Agent Man” and release great Dylan-inspired protest pop under his own name. But for now, he’s still a sideman… -Kim Cooper

Kim: And where do Jan & Dean fit into the picture?
Phil: Jan & Dean were already in the picture. Jan & Dean were like major stars for me. They would come into Screen Gems to talk to [Lou] Adler, who was their producer. Of course we never got to talk to them or see them. When they came in they were pushed in another room. And eventually what happened was when Jan & Dean had done “Surf City,” the Matadors had fallen apart, they had their own record deals, and they were sold under different names. So the Matadors decided to go out on their own, because Jan never paid any money. I don’t mean to give Jan a bad rap, 'cause to be honest with you it was a privilege to work with him, but, y’know, you still needed some money! Apparently, whatever the reason for the break up, the Matadors broke up, and (sighs) Phil and Steve [Barri] were there to take their place. And we became Jan & Dean’s back up group. And eventually I became Dean, I took on Dean’s part, and then singing all the background parts, and then eventually Jan wanted me to do his part! So on some records I’m singing Dean and doubling Jan and doing the middle parts.
Kim: Where did you do all that?
Phil: “Little Old Lady,” “New Girl in School,” all the hits right after “Surf City,” I’m on “Drag City”—
Edwin: What about “One Piece Topless Bathing Suit”?
Phil: I’m on that.
Kim: Did you write that?
Phil: Yeah. (laughter)
Edwin: That was one of my favorite songs when I was a kid.
Kim: I assume you were inspired by all the kerfuffle about—
Phil: Chuck Berry.
Kim: —Rudy Gernreich—
Phil: It was Chuck Berry and it was the hoopla at the time.
Kim: He was designing down on Melrose.
Edwin: I’ve seen pictures, but I think it was probably just a model wearing it in the studio. It could be that it was worn in France, I don’t know. There are plenty of beaches where the folks are a lot less uptight about that sort of thing. I didn’t think it was very flattering.
Kim: No, the only girls who looked good in it are really flat-chested. (Phil cracks up over all the attention we’re giving the roots of his tune’s title)
Kim: Did you go out on the road with Jan & Dean?
Phil: Yeah, one time they let me out of the office. I went to Hawaii. The Baggys had a Top Ten record. I went over there with the Beach Boys. Jan & Dean, Bruce Terry, Glen Campbell, Hal Blaine and me were the backup band. Someone didn’t tell me that Glen Campbell was going to be playing guitar, so I wound up playing bass. They just stuck a bass in my hands and said, “Here.” I had to play bass for forty bands. Grateful.
Edwin: That was probably quite an education.
Phil: I had never been on stage. I had been waiting to get on stage and there I was. Playing in this backup band for me was getting to see the musicians up close. I was really into seeing all these guys and girls up close. Why, I don’t know.
Edwin: It seems to me we are just about up to the point of the Grass Roots. Did the Grass Roots seem demonstrably different than all the Willie & the Wheels, Baggys and others, or was it just another studio band?
Phil: Well, it started out to be. That’s the reason I had to leave Dunhill. At that time Dunhill had connections with the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Barry McGuire… and P. F. Sloan? This was a joke with them. They wanted to promote P.F. Sloan, but not really, because if P.F. Sloan happens to leave the office and go out on tour, they felt they didn’t have a company anymore.
Kim: You were their hit man.
Phil: I was producing, doing A & R, writing, arranging, doing all the records. They wanted me there, and yet they wanted to make some money.
Kim: Were they the ones pushing you to do stuff on your own?
Phil: The first album they did because Steve Barri was begging them to do an independent project. They said, “Okay, then produce Phil.” So I was doing “Eve of Destruction” and Steve was in there with Chuck Britz, the Beach Boys producer [editrix’ note: Britz was an engineer who worked with the Beach Boys from 1962-66], and they weren’t even listening to the songs. They were talking about things like Brian’s new recording and they’d turn around and say, “So are you done with that song?” I’d say, “I guess so. Can I listen back to it?” “No, we haven’t got time. Let’s go on to the next one. What’s the name of this next one?” “Take Me For What I’m Worth.” “Okay, so Chuck, how did you get that Beach Boys thing?” I was doing the whole album by doing a guitar track and overdubbing another. And I talked them into letting me put drums on a couple of them. Basically they put it out as P.F. Sloan and “Sins of the Family” took off. Like “Eve of Destruction,” it escaped. They didn’t want P.F. Sloan; they wanted a kid that they could sell to all the different markets. They didn’t want something to all of a sudden stick to this kid. If something stuck to this kid, they were stuck with it. They didn’t like “Eve of Destruction.” They said they wouldn’t publish it. They didn’t like “What’s Exactly the Matter With Me.” They didn’t like “Sins of the Family.” They didn’t like “Take Me For What I’m Worth.” They didn’t like all the songs I had written. They wouldn’t publish them. They said, “These are not songs that are up to the standard of this publishing company.”
Kim: Were they troubled by the topical nature? What do you think the problem was?
Phil: The head of the company said, “This is communistic crap. We can’t publish a song which has the words ‘prostitute,’ ‘liquor’ and ‘schizophrenia’ in it.” These were real life experiences, unfortunately. But anyway, they released it and I’m on billboards all over town. People would call the office and ask if they could get P.F. Sloan to play, and they would say, “No, there is no P.F. Sloan.” They’d say, “Well who is that?” and the office would say, “That’s just a made-up person.”
Kim: There’s the problem. You were doing everything else; you should have been the receptionist too.
Phil: I was in love with the receptionist.
Kim: We’ll get to that.
Phil: I think that’s how I became successful… because I was in love with the receptionist. Make that a note to any of your readers who want to go into the music business: if you happen to fall in love with the receptionist at the record label, you are guaranteed success. Those people run the business. They are the only ones that the head of the label would come out to and say, “Hey, do you know this group called the Kinks?” “Yeah, they’re fantastic.” “Okay, I guess we’ll sign them then.”
Edwin: How did the Grass Roots enter the picture?
Phil: Well, we have to talk about Bob Dylan a little bit before that. The Grass Roots started because of Bob Dylan. Basically, Bob Dylan called Dunhill records and said, “I want to talk to P.F. Sloan.” The receptionist, who I was in love with, was used to me calling up and doing imitations, saying I was Elvis Presley and Ricky Nelson and what have you. “Hello, this is Elvis. I want to talk to P.F. Sloan, please.” “Oh Phil, get off the friggin’ phone. Call me later.” “Hi, this is Rick Nelson—” “Get off the phone, Phil!” So she hung up on Dylan five or six times. Finally he got through to the head of the label and they said, “Bob, we’d love to have you come up, but you’ll have to leave Columbia Records and sign with Dunhill if you want to have a conversation with Phil.” Then they called me into the office and said, “If Bob Dylan calls you and you have a meeting with him, we will take you to court, strip you of your royalties, keep you under contract and you will never record ever again. We’ll keep extending your contract, but we will never record you. If you try to sue us, good luck. Don’t talk to Bob Dylan.” So Bob Dylan comes in to see Phil Spector one afternoon. This is another example of seeds of the beginning of the end. Bob comes in to Phil’s and they write out a two million-dollar check. They went to Dunhill and said, “Here’s a check; we want to buy Dunhill Records. Now, where’s P.F. Sloan?” The guy ripped up the check for two million dollars and says, “You’ll never talk to P.F. Sloan.”
Kim: What were they afraid of? What were you going to say to them?
Phil: Bob Dylan was the biggest entity in the world. Even greater than Beatles or at least equally on that level. For that level of person to want to talk to me, the kid in the little tiny room with a piano, working for forty dollars a week now, for him to want to talk to me tells them: “Oh shit…”
Edwin: You’re going to find out that you’re getting screwed.
Phil: Exactly. He’s going to find out that getting forty dollars a week is not the end all to beat all. They wanted to keep that where that was at. So Dylan calls me up at home and I go and see him. We meet and he plays me his new album, Highway 61 Revisited. We’re both sitting on the floor, listening to his little tiny masterworks, and he puts on “Mr. Jones.” I fall over on the floor laughing and Bob falls over on the floor laughing. He’s so happy that someone got it. He said, “Columbia is trying to kick me off the label because of ‘Mr. Jones.’ They don’t know what it’s about. They think it’s a communist song. Obviously you get it. No one who’s heard it understands it, not even my producer. They don’t want it on the album. Is there something wrong with me? Have I lost it? No one understands any of these songs.” Then he plays me “Highway 61” and I’m rolling on the floor laughing. These are like the best jokes I have ever heard. And he’s rolling on the floor laughing because he’s so happy that someone has finally got it. Then in comes David Crosby. Let me back up. I had worked with Terry Melcher on “Summer Means Fun” and the Rip Chords. Terry was given a new group called the Byrds, but he only had one more month to go on his Columbia contract and they wanted him out. They considered him Doris Day’s boy and they figured he came into Columbia because of Doris Day and Marty Melcher. They didn’t think he was a viable music person, so they gave him this unknown group that no other producer wanted. Terry calls me up at twelve o’clock at night and said, “I’ve submitted a song called ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ to Columbia and they rejected it. I want you to come over to Columbia and tell me what’s wrong with the record.” I go over. He’s only got five hours and then they’re going to lock him out. We listen to “Mr. Tambourine Man” and there’s no echo on the record at all. It doesn’t sound very good, to be honest with you. Terry and I started talking about “Summer Means Fun” and how we put the guitar ending in triple echo and I said, “Let’s do that with ‘Mr. Tambourine Man.’” He plugged into all the echo chambers in Columbia and by four o’clock in the morning, we had mastered “Mr. Tambourine Man” with all the echo on it. They locked him out at five and that was supposed to be it; Terry was supposed to have been gone from Columbia Records. But he submitted the record and for some reason they put it out. They didn’t expect it to be a hit. Neither did Dylan. Terry told me the Byrds had gotten a gig at El Monte Legion Stadium following Don & Dewey.
Kim: That was a big gig out that way.
Phil: Yeah, but it’s all Don & Dewey fans, fifties people. Up come the Byrds on stage. Terry had asked me to go to El Monte and keep an eye on the guys and help them because it was their first gig. There’s McGuinn and his glasses and Crosby with a purple cape. Michael had an actual set of drums. He didn’t own his own drums and was playing on orange crates up until then. And there was Chris Hillman and they’re on stage and they’re doing everything except “Mr. Tambourine Man” and the crowd is booing and booing. The manager comes up and asks if these are my boys. I tell him yeah and he tells me to tell them to get off the stage right now. I jump on stage and whisper into David Crosby’s ear, “The manager said get off the stage, but fuck him! Do ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ now or you’re going to get kicked out.” They went into “Mr. Tambourine Man” and it was like the song, “Whiter Shade of Pale,” where the roof completely disappeared. It left these poor people, stuck in 1959, it left them homeless, forever. The universe and all the planets and all the rays of light were there in the Byrds. Crosby never forgot and he said to me, “If you ever interrupt my set again, I will have you killed.” So here I am with Bob Dylan and David Crosby walks into the room and yells at the top of his lungs, “Why do you have this piece of shit here?” Dylan excuses himself, walks over, grabs Crosby and takes him in the other room and I can hear him slapping him around. At that point I’m sitting on the couch in this hotel room on the fourteenth floor of the Sunset Plaza by myself. The door opens and in walk two topless girls wearing pink pantaloons with bells and rings on their toes. They’re twins, blondes, and they sit down on both sides of the couch. I’m there with these girls on either side, waiting for Bob and I hear him slapping Crosby around. Crosby’s going, “Jeez, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. Bob, how would I know?” And from out on the balcony flies a man on a rope. He is also topless and is wearing a Zorro mask, a Zorro hat and black silk pantaloons. He signals to the girls and he takes them by the hand and they do a little dance in the middle of the floor and then they go out the door. Crosby walks in and says, “Jeez, I didn’t know” and he walks out. Then Bob comes in and says, “Jeez, I don’t understand these people” and we go back to listening and he says, “Y'know, I’m so glad you get it. Nobody gets it, but you get it. Maybe you can help me out here.” He said, “I really like your sense of melody, man. You’re a better melody writer than me, man. I really wish that you’d help me with some of my melodies, man.” I said, “Yeah, like maybe ‘Girl From the North Country’? Where the melody is just like one of the greatest melodies ever written?” I said, “Maybe I could help you learn how to screw up a couple of your B minors.” He said, “You really think I can write good melodies?” I said, “Bob, you’re the absolute best.” “Naw, you’re a much better melody writer than me, man. I could learn a lot from you, man.” Then I started naming off five or six of the greatest melodies that he had written. Even some of his throwaways. He said, “You really think I have good melodies?” “Yeah, they’re timeless, fantastic.” He gives me “Mr. Jones” and I go over to the record label, after they had fired me and rehired me, and they said, “Okay, why don’t we get a group and do ‘Mr. Jones’?” I flew to San Francisco and I meet the Grateful Dead and the budding Jefferson Airplane and I get to hear Jerry Garcia’s vision of the future, which expands into the year 2050. He knows what the world’s going to be like up to the year 2050. I’ve been told what the world’s going to be like. From writing “Eve of Destruction” until the year 2020. I was told that communism was going to fall and this whole thing has been prewritten. Here’s Jerry Garcia telling me about the Internet and how people are going to be putting music out for free and that people will send them a penny or a nickel or a dime and that will keep them going and this way there will be no record labels. This was back in like 1965. They turned me on to a blues group called the Bedouins. I go to the Bedouins and say, “Hey, I’ve got this song that Bob Dylan wrote, nobody’s got it, how would you like to come down to L.A…?” They do, the song’s a hit, they go to the record label and say how about some money? The label says no. “But we got a hit.” “No.” “But we’re on tour.” “No.” “But our manager…” “He’ll be dead in a week.” They show them pictures of bombs and people without arms. Any manager that came into Dunhill Records and said, “We need some money’ they get shown pictures of dead people. They left. They ran. I ended up being the Grass Roots. I wound up doing all the follow-ups and filling in the albums and stuff like that.
Kim: I wanted to ask you about the Grass Roots’ name. The band Love was using that name before.
Phil: Originally, yeah.
Kim: Was that just a coincidence?
Phil: Yeah, it was. Jagger had called me up and he said, “I want you to give a message to Jim Morrison for me.” I said, “What’s the message?” He said, “Tell Jim that he’s a turn on and that the Rolling Stones dig him, but...” [Jagger’s comments on Love are deleted at Phil’s request] I went to see Jim and he was already drinking very hard. I gave him the message from Jagger. You have to understand that the Doors were considered third-rate Rolling Stones. Even though they were having hits, they were not considered artists. Jagger considered them to be artists and he wanted me to tell Jim for fear that he’d kill himself. That the Stones, who they were imitating, considered them to be artists. I gave the message and then I went to see Love, who were playing at Pandora’s Box on the night of the Sunset riots. I was there with Steven Stills.
Kim: They were still having shows at Pandora’s Box? They had instituted the curfews and the kids had to be off the streets by ten.
Phil: The night that Steven wrote “For What It’s Worth” we were together at Pandora’s Box. I was delivering a message to Arthur Lee. The riot happened outside. Steven and I were walking outside as they turned over a bus and they drew a line out there. Steven says, “Look, they’re drawing a line. There’s something happening here, Phil. Look, there’s a man with a gun over there.” He was just speaking the lines which became the song. At the time I was living with Richie Furay. He needed a roommate when I was trying to get out of my house.
Kim: Where did you guys live?
Phil: Near Turner’s [liquor store].
Kim: Around Hillsdale and Clark?
Phil: Yeah. Every night I was at the Whiskey Au Go-Go watching the Buffalo Springfield. They had been turned down by every record label in town. Finally Neil Young says to me, “Phil, I’m leaving the band. I’ve given it a year and nothing’s happening.” I say, “You guys are going to be as big as the Byrds.” He says, “Yeah, Phil, right.” I say, “Look, I was right with the Beatles. I was right with the Stones. I worked on the Byrds’ records. You guys are going to be as big as the Byrds.” He says, “Well, here’s our demos. Take them over to Dunhill.” I took them and played them to the head. He listened to “Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing” and “Mr. Soul” and tells me that if I think that is music, I don’t belong on Dunhill Records. They fired me for bringing in Buffalo Springfield. I took them over to Sonny and Cher. I had a friend who worked at the office there. I gave him the demos and he gave them to Sonny. Sonny doesn’t like them, but he sent them to Atco as a favor. The head of Atco turned them down until some kid listening outside the door said, “Hey if you let me remix this, I think you have a winner.” The word gets back, I get the tapes from Neil, they go to Sonny, they go to Atco, they go to the kid who mixes it and boom, they’re signed to Atco. I was then reinstated after their first hit. The Grass Roots. A new group comes in to take their place. Warren Entner, who had gone to Fairfax High, where I had gone—
Kim: Who were the Thirteenth Floor, right?
Phil: Yeah, they were working in town. I was at Gazarri’s, the Au Go-Go, the Trip and that’s how the Roots got signed. The point where it was getting close for me to be leaving was when the group had had a number of hits, but still had no money. They were on tour calling me in the middle of the night, saying, “Phil, we don’t have any money for food or for getting anywhere.” I’d go into the big man and say, “Hey look, these guys are out there working their asses off. Their instruments are breaking and they don’t have food.” He’d simply say, “They’re a dime a dozen. We can get the next group at Gazarri’s for nothing and send them off with nothing. What do you care? Why are you attached to them? I thought you were with us. Why do you care about these people?” That’s how I wound up leaving the Grass Roots. I wanted the group to have integrity. I was forcing them to write their own songs. I wanted to, eventually, not write any songs for the group. I wanted them to be their own musicians and the company was fighting me tooth and nail. “How dare you let their drummer play on their record.” But “Where Were You When I Needed You” was recorded by Bones Howe, not Hal Blaine, the professional hit drummer. Bones Howe was an engineer, who was a hobbyist drummer, but I wanted a drum sound from a guy who loves to play drums and Hal likes to play drums sometimes and loves to play drums sometimes, but he’s a professional and he can’t get the feeling of a passionate person who will play drums for nothing. Hal plays drums extremely well, but I wanted somebody who would make a mistake. I grew up listening to “Angel Baby.” Remember that song?
Edwin: Oh yeah.
Phil: “What key, what key?” The piano player actually says, “What key?” because he didn’t know what key to play and you can hear that, and the record went to number one. And Jerry Lee Lewis, if you remember “Great Balls of Fire,” the drum riff, he plays a double drum riff. Instead of playing a typical drum riff, the drummer was so passionate about what he was doing that he made a mistake. The song went to number one and that mistake inspired Mick Fleetwood of Fleetwood Mac. It’s mistakes that turn people on if they’re passionate and real. He said he became a drummer because of listening to the mistake that was made by the drummer for Jerry Lee Lewis. I wanted a drummer that wouldn’t be afraid to make mistakes. It was just the opposite of what Capital wanted for Brian Wilson. They wouldn’t let Dennis play because they said he made mistakes. I was telling Brian he’s the best, he’s up there with Ringo or anyone you could think of, because he makes mistakes. There’s something about a teenager who listens to music that is passionate because he’s supposed to take risks. He learned to do that instead of being perfect. It’s like yeah, that’s perfect, but I’ve got zits.
Edwin: It makes all the sense in the world. Without taking the risks, you aren’t going to expand the art form.
Phil: They’re not interested in the art. They’re only interested in the perfection of sales. That’s all they ever care about.
Kim: So you must have really dug punk rock when it came out.
Phil: Yeah, they dissed punk rock.
Kim: What about you? How did you feel about it?
Phil: My uncle had called me a punk when I was fourteen.
Kim: But it had a different meaning back then.
Phil: No, it was the same thing. It means anti-establishment. It means a person who is out to destroy society in their minds. The difference between destroying society and changing society and building society is that you first have to take down what needs to be repaired and build it up and that was a punk. Corporate rock had already taken over when punk came in. One of the first songs I ever did, “That’s Cool, That’s Trash,” was a garage band record that they sold…
Edwin: Was that the Kingsmen?
Phil: We did the record and then the Kingsmen covered it for their album.
Edwin: That’s a great song!
Phil: If you listen to it, it’s three chords punk. I liked punk because they knew what they were doing. They were trying to destroy the corporate message of rock, saying, “It belongs to me. It doesn’t belong to you. Rock and roll is what I feel, not what you can sell. It’s what I think, what I feel.” Corporate doesn’t like the fact that music belongs to the artist. It should be able to be cloned, manufactured and sold. They don’t like the idea of someone saying, “Music is this. It’s one chord with a broken string.”
Edwin: One of the biggest changes that the Beatles brought to music was the idea that this group of musicians would write the songs and perform them and do the whole thing.
Phil: The Beatles were never accepted in Los Angeles. The record labels never accepted them. As a matter of fact, they tried to sell the Beatles to Dunhill.
Edwin: They didn’t get the concept.
Phil: They got the concept. They were out to destroy it. They didn’t want the concept. They were biding their time. They tried to get rid of the Beatles after their fourth number one. Columbia turned them down for $50,000 because they said they never had a group that made more than two number ones. Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Capital. They didn’t know number ones. They thought the group was over at three number ones and tried to sell them for $50,000. Nobody would buy them. It was in Variety. “Beatles Are Through.” Fourth number one. There was nowhere to go but down.
Kim: I want to ask you about the song that Jim Webb wrote about you.
Phil: What about it?
Kim: Were you acquainted with him? Was he a fan of yours?
Phil: Jimmy Webb was turned down by every publisher in L.A. He was a kid from Oklahoma and Los Angeles doesn’t like people from Oklahoma. Los Angeles doesn’t like people from England. Los Angeles doesn’t like brown skinned people. They don’t like Japanese people.
Kim: Who do they like here?
Phil: They don’t like anybody here except L.A. people. He’s from Oklahoma so he was turned down. He met a woman who ran a recording studio called Harmony, where I had recorded when I was fifteen. She told him that he should talk to me. Jimmy was staying with this woman in the Hollywood Hills. I went in to see Jimmy and he played me “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” and “Up Up and Away.” He was working on “MacArthur Park” and he said, “I have to cut down the instrumental section. It’s way too long right now.” I asked him to play me the whole thing and he did and said he could cut it down and I said, “No, keep it in.” Tears were rolling out of my eyes while I was hearing these songs. He says, “So Phil, what do you think?” I said, “Every one of those are #1 records.” He just breaks down and cries and I’m crying and he said, “You’re the only person in the world that can hear this.”
Kim: When was this?
Phil: I was gone [to New York] by ’68 so it must have been ’67. It was at the time of the 5th Dimension that Jimmy got signed, I guess, by Johnny Rivers. They put out “Go Where You Wanna Go,” which was not a hit by the Mamas and Papas. At this time Barry McGuire’s next single after “Eve of Destruction” was going to be “California Dreamin’” with the Mamas and Papas singing background. The head of the company claimed that when he first heard the Mamas and Papas that he knew they were going to be as big as the Beatles. He didn’t like them and he said to me, “Phil, you produce them.” Barry had brought them in and so they became Barry’s backup group. John had written a song called “California Dreamin.’” I said to John, “Do you know ‘Walk, Don’t Run’?” He said, “No. I don’t.” I said, “I think that’s the way ‘California Dreamin’ should go.” We rewrote the song for Barry McGuire. It was supposed to be Barry’s next record. “Go Where You Wanna Go” stiffed so Dunhill didn’t think the Mamas and Papas were anything important.
Edwin: Did “Go Where You Wanna Go” become a hit later, like a second time around sort of thing?
Phil: Fourth time around. First the 5th Dimension did it and they hired Jimmy Webb to do the arrangements even though he was still an unknown songwriter. He called me up and said, “I’m working for the 5th Dimension. Why don’t you write a song for them?” I wrote “Another Day, Another Heartache” for them. He produced it on that session. After “Go Where You Wanna Go” stiffed came “Up Up and Away.” Then, boom, it was one thing after another. Glen Campbell and hit after hit after hit. Like I had said, all of these were #1 records. Jimmy had gotten to be a major mega-star, but he always wanted to be P.F. Sloan. In other words, for some reason or other, in his mind he associated me with the singer/songwriter that doesn’t get listened to. He considered himself a singer/songwriter, but no one was listening to him sing.
Kim: He’s a terrific singer too. I love his stuff.
Phil: He kept saying, “If P.F. Sloan can do it, I can do it.” In ’67 I left Dunhill and that was the end of a big part of the universe. Jimmy’s star was rising and mine was falling. I had come back from New York feeling broken spirited, working in the Village doing shows there.
Kim: Was that the pink loft?
Phil: Yeah, pink piano, pink loft and a beautiful blues singer girl. I came back to L.A. and had to recover and he invited me up to his house. He owns this huge house and I have no money. All of my money had been taken away by Dunhill under threat of death and suit. I’m living at home and Jimmy’s living in a mansion with the most beautiful woman in the world and he’s got an entourage of beautiful people. I open the door and they’re all sitting on the floor. Some guy jumps up and says, “Who are you?” I said, “I’m P.F. Sloan and Jimmy wanted to see me.” “You can’t just walk in. Get out of here. Who do you think you are? Hey Jimmy some guy just walked in.” Jimmy comes walking in like Marlene Dietrich, down the banister and he’s like, “Holy shit! Don’t you people know who this is?” and they’re like, “No, we don’t give a damn who this guy is. You’re the king.” Jimmy starts to cry and takes me over to a corner and says, “Jeez, what am I doing? I’ve got all these people and they don’t even recognize you. I thought these people loved me. If they love me then they love you.” They basically didn’t care. They just wanted to be around the money and Jimmy. This is a great movie story. I’m walking on Hollywood Boulevard, I don’t have two quarters to rub together, I just love it. I’m at this little hot dog stand at Vine and I’m having a cup of coffee for 25¢ and the Association are singing, “Looking For P.F. Sloan.” I don’t have the money for the cup of coffee and I’m wondering if I should tell this guy I don’t have the money for the coffee but I’m the guy in the song. No, it wouldn’t change anything. It’s like that and a quarter will get you on the bus. I thought, jeez, my day had come back. So I go and see Jimmy at the Troubadour to ask if he could help me, because I was going nowhere. Jimmy says, “Sure, just follow me and my car back to my place and we’ll talk about reestablishing your career.” Then I get lost. It’s like twelve o’clock at night and I never showed up and Jimmy was like, “Jeez, whatever happened to P.F. Sloan? He was supposed to be here.” And that’s where the song came from!

Linda Perhacs' First Major Interview (January 2004)

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 21:57:11 -0700

This interview with Linda Perhacs, conducted on New Years Day 2004, was the first time she spoke at any length about her brief musical career, creative processes, personal life and esoteric beliefs. The interview was conducted by Kim Cooper and Ron Garmon, and this appeared in Scram #19.

Linda Perhacs made just one album, 1970's Parallelograms. It sold sparingly, despite FM airplay in sophisticated rural markets where its dreamy evocation of nature and sexuality resonated most strongly. Linda recorded the album over a long period while working days as a dental hygienist. When MCA didn't ask for a follow up, she put all her energy back into her work. Years went by. Michael Piper, a dealer and reissue producer, decided to put out a CD of the record, a favorite of his since soon after its release. The project generated a nice little buzz among the international psychedelic collectors scene, and Michael sent a stack of copies and a letter to an address he found for one "Linda Perhacs."

As it happened, it was the right house-and in it, Linda was recovering from a serious medical crisis. Discovering that Parallelograms had taken on a life of its own and was treasured by young people all over the world helped Linda fight her way back to health. She shared her original dupes of the master tapes with Michael, explaining that the vinyl pressing was a disaster. Michael and his colleagues took the deteriorating old tapes back to New York and baked them, and after several years his label The Wild Places released the first edition of Parallelograms that sounded as Linda and producer Leonard Rosenman intended. The new mix was a revelation—what had always been an amazingly beautiful record now seemed positively otherworldly. This time the media paid heed too, with Mojo naming it one of the great lost records everyone should have and Rolling Stone giving it 4 1/2 stars. But the reviews were odd. Without any evidence beyond the text itself, the critics made assumptions about Linda, painting her as a dippy hippie sprite who somehow channeled these vast ideas unknowingly.

On New Years Day, Ron Garmon and I sat down with Linda in an empty business park to fill in the many gaps between the woman and her art. Unsurprisingly, she proved to be much more intelligent and complex than the two-dimensional fantasy that had been spun. What follows is the first in-depth interview ever granted by Linda Perhacs, a true artist who did nothing by accident. —Kim Cooper

Kim: What was your childhood like?
Linda: Straight. Very a-spiritual. I have a stepfather, and I lived in that household through high school. That was a very pedestrian life. We mostly watched Bonanza. I was very involved with school. Light touches of music, but they were important, and I would give a child much more support if I had seen any of those cues. I went into U.S.C., followed very straight, classic lines, biologically trained, had another whole career. And about age 27 I just made a complete pivot and went into another dimension of thought and creativity. There was very little support of that at home. Music just exploded in nine months. I absolutely started to wake up to where love was real. On that album people have said, “Why are there touches where it’s green and touches where you wonder why the whole thing wasn’t that exquisitely put together?” Because it came at me overnight, like a wave. I had no real prior training. The parts that are good are pure soul speaking to you. The parts that are green are because this was a person studying other things all her life.
Kim: Which song came first?
Linda: “Dolphin.” But the point I’m trying to make here—and I say this for the sake of any child—I was creating complex choreography and song and lyrics at age five, and no adult picked up that it was important. In fact I was told to stop doing it. But if a little child shows that kind of ability and it’s purely spontaneous and it’s complex and fully developed—they were full productions!—any parent ought to push that.
Kim: Do you remember this?
Linda: I remember it. I was disciplined in schools to stop; it was in the way of the curriculum.
Ron: It was an effort to stomp the art out of you.
Linda: They just didn’t understand. That’s the most important part of any child, whether they like taking apart clocks, or doing music, or directing other children. You’re looking at what their real gift is and it should be supported, ‘cause then it’ll come out earlier. But eventually that real part of them is going to come out, even if it’s at age forty. It has to come out.
Ron: So this whole thing was like a return of the oppressed, age 27—
Linda: No, it was more like something was already there, fully developed, but it was dormant. For it to start from zero and go to a full album in nine months means somewhere I already had that gift developed. It couldn’t have come out of nowhere. I remember standing in front of seventy people at Universal Studios, some of the best musicians in the world, including Shelly Mann, and Laurindo Almeida on guitar, and they’re all milling around after take six, and can’t get the feel they’re after. It was for a TV show. The producer and director were scratching their heads, saying, “That’s not right yet, try it again.” And finally in exasperation they asked, “ Is there anybody here who knows what’s wrong?” I was just called in as the lyricist and to sing on that one, and I said, “I know what’s wrong.” They gave me free reign, and I’m standing there telling ‘em what to do and I had the distinct feeling: I’ve done this before. That’s the best answer I can give you. It was the strongest feeling that I’ve ever had in music, that I’d already been there, already paid dues, and it wasn’t a new realm to me. But it was new to do it in this life.
Ron: So, you went to U.S.C. and studied…?
Linda: I had a scholarship. I didn’t want to file files all my life; I knew college was important, so I was taking it very seriously. And I chose dental hygiene—it was like nursing, but it allowed you the privilege to work one or seven days a week, to work four or twelve hours a day.

Drawing by Tom Neely from the book "Lost in the Grooves: Scram's Capricious Guide to the Music You Missed."

Ron: Did you pursue music in any way at U.S.C.?
Linda: Zero.
Ron: After you got out?
Linda: I think the thing that probably helped the most in terms of music, poetry, spiritual development was meeting the man I married. I stayed married to him for seven years, I still carry his last name, and he was highly developed as a sculptor, a painter, a photographer, engineer. Multi-talented person with a reverent, deep love for nature. He took me out of the pedestrian environment, took me out in the wilderness. We never went to a park. We would go (laughing) to the wildest country you could find, or skin-diving, but it had to be pristine, pure and wild. He just opened my eyes to the universe. It was sort of like having your companion be a combination of da Vinci and Michelangelo, and I owe him a lot for that. He still sculpts, using natural forms, dolphins, etc., for airports and things like that. He would say, “It doesn’t matter what you look at. If it’s man-made and you look at it with a microscope, you’re gonna be looking at mush the minute you go this far. If it’s made by nature, it doesn’t matter how far you go, you’re never gonna run out of wonder, order, precision, depth and incredible beauty.” That’s the kind of person that wakes you up.
Ron: His last name was Perhacs? What was your maiden name?
Linda: Arnold.
Ron: After Arnold, Perhacs must have seemed wonderful.
Linda: I kept it because it was so unique. It’s a Hungarian name.
Ron: So you rediscovered your gift for music that had been repressed—
Linda: Actually, Ron, a lot of this centers around the seventies. There were many, many people meditating at that time. One night a friend of mine came to the door, said, “Here!” and put a piece of paper in my hand. He said, “It’s really for the person you’re going with. I was trying to meditate last night and I couldn’t get my own things taken care of because this kept coming through so strongly. It’s a description of the things he needs to take care of in his life. Here, I’ve done it, I’m done, I’m leaving. I wanna go on and take care of my own things!” So I open the paper and it was a perfect description of the other person’s problems, and at the very end it said, “Linda will be helpful to you, but there’s something in her that’s dormant and hasn’t awakened yet.” I’m thinking, maybe it means I’ll be a better healer, maybe it’s in medicine—I had no idea what it was! But it was probably less than a year later that this music started to evolve. And I wasn’t young at the time—I was maybe 25, 26.
Kim: How did it first manifest, when you felt it coming back?
Linda: I felt that the world, the sphere with which my reality was existing, was too small. I felt the need to explore a bigger perimeter, and I noticed these funny people all around, dressed kinda funny, and I wanted to know what they were up to! (laughter) So I began to talk to them and ask questions. I started to read. I started to question. I started to buy different music—and it just exploded within me. But if all of a sudden you grow that fast, it’s already in there.
Ron: Yeah, I don’t think anything ever comes out of nowhere.
Linda: Sometimes these things happen to people in their lives—they were meant to paint, and just discover it late in life.
Ron: I started writing in my thirties. I was always loquacious, a bullshitter, and just discovered I could write.
Linda: It connects you more with the real part of you. This world is just too shallow unless you probe deeper than that. It’s like getting out of a boat and getting in the water.
Ron: Do you have a spiritual explanation for this, or is it just a product of a materialist society that prizes one dimensionality because it’s easy to mass-produce?
Linda: I have a lot of ideas on that subject, Ron. Can we save that question? ‘Cause I brought a thing that I wanted to present to both of you, and it’s in that realm. [Linda is referring to a fascinating book of turn-of-the-century spiritualist drawings representing visionary manifestations of music and emotion that she shares with us after the interview.]
Ron: Sure. Who were you listening to at this time?
Linda: Well, each time there’s a review of this record of mine, it mentions Joni Mitchell, and I would like to give her a lot of credit. That was an era when women did not have a lot of doors open to them. She was one of the first to write her own music, to express an intimate and a personal life, and it was unique and it caught a lot of attention. Judy Collins, Joan Baez were singing other peoples’ music. I don’t remember another person who was writing as much as Joni Mitchell was.
Kim: Maybe Carole King, but a lot of her songs were being done by other people.
Ron: Same thing with Laura Nyro, she would put out these low-selling records that other people would do covers of.
Linda: Yeah. It gave you an idea, “Hey, maybe I have something I’d like to express too, instead of singing somebody else’s stuff.” But it was a new idea, and people putting up funds for albums wouldn’t have thought of it until they saw her do it. When MCA came to me, they said, “Look, we need some competition. She’s on Warner Brothers.” And I’ll be very honest with you—I was honest with them. I said, “You don’t want me: I’m green.” And they said, “We do want you, because we like what we’ve heard. This is an era when it matters more to us that we have the spirit of what’s coming up from the streets, that it be fresh and capture the spirit of the young people than that it be from Julliard.” And I said, “Okay, if that’s what you’re really looking for.”
Ron: So this came about when you had recorded demos and sent them around, right?
Linda: No, here’s how it happened. You want the truth?
Kim: Yes!
Linda: Leonard Rosenman was my dental patient in a very upscale Beverly Hills periodontal office. His wife Kay, also. And we hit it off. They needed like ten appointments each, and we were friends by the end. One day Leonard said, “Linda, I can’t believe this is all you do.” And I said, “Well, I write little songs and I travel a lot; I have a very creative husband.” And he said, “Would you let us hear the songs? Because we need inspiration from the younger people. We have more assignments than we can take, to do movie scores and TV scores. Theme songs especially are not my forté. I can do the score, but a love song, the tender touches, Kay helps me with those because she has a big heart and a good sense of poetry.” So I said sure, and I gave him this little homemade tape—I thought it was good enough for campfires. They called me the next day, at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, and said, “How soon can you get here? Those are beautiful.” They thought of it in terms of ghost writing, that I would inspire them. Their home was like something out of Rome. Pianos everywhere, homemade Italian food, people coming in and out, all kinds of musicians. It was just electrical excitement, and beautiful to look at. I would just be over there sharing ideas with them. I brought the idea of “Parallelograms” to Leonard, and he looked at me in dead seriousness and said, “Linda, do you realize you could live a lifetime and get one idea like that if you’re lucky? On this idea alone I’m going to produce this album.” That’s how it started.
Kim: And what was it, as an idea?
Linda: Can we get back to that?
Kim: Absolutely.
Linda: Because I think that’s a very important question.
Ron: Now what year was this?
Linda: Has to be early seventies, maybe 1972.
Kim: I think the record came out in ’70.
Linda: Some of them were published in 1970, but I believe the record came out in ’72.
Ron: It’s widely assumed to be 1970 product.
Linda: It’s seventy-ish. In my memory it’s the year of my divorce, and that’s ’72.
Kim: We can check the other records that Kapp put out, this one is number 3636, we can see what 3635 was. [Parallelograms slots precisely between El Chicano’s 1970 and 1971 albums. -editrix]
Ron: Kapp was not a big rock ‘n’ roll label.
Linda: Well, the big parent company was MCA, and they wanted to start a new label. I’m not sure how well it did. Remember, I was pretty busy with the other career, too. And this took all my concentration. We were in the studio for about a year. It was when Leonard and I could get away; we were both working on other things.
Kim: Would you always bring the same session musicians in?
Linda: The person who chose these musicians, with all love and respect, was always Leonard. He knew the best, and all he had to say was, “This is Leonard, can you come?” But the two lead guitarists, I worked with them intimately in private apartments for hours, note by note, because I knew what I wanted, I just couldn’t play it like an expert. One of them even had a joke, he said, “Here comes Linda, I gotta put on my pink underwear and play dainty!” (laughter) It was hard for them to do that—they were gutsier. In fact Shelly Mann was playing during that session with the seventy people, he was playing like Shelly Mann, and again with all due respect, he’s the one I had to tell, “You’ve got to tone the drums down. I know who you are and I know how good you are, but this is not a drum song.” He finally ended up playing the sand ashtray! (laughter) And that’s the one that ended up on TV for a series for many years, and that’s “Hey, Who Really Cares?”
Kim: Oh, what show was that?
Linda: It was first called… I remember the words “Matt Lincoln” and then it had another name, too, Hotline—
Ron: Matt Lincoln? It was a cop show!
Linda: Yes. They called me and said, “We need delicate lyrics.” They were inspired by M*A*S*H—
Ron: “Suicide is Painless.”
Linda: Yeah, that delicate song on top of hard action. They said, now get this, “This is one of the first TV shows where we’re going to have (laughing) an explosion of cars running into each other”—all the things now that are passé, but that was the first time. They said, “It’ll be for young people, there’ll be ambulances, sirens, car crashes, police, arrests on the street. We show the hard action, but we want a delicate song on top.” So I was called in, and I don’t think they gave me but a night to write those lyrics. It had to be done the following morning at nine o’clock.
Kim: Is this version on the album?
Linda: Yeah.
[we move into a sunnier spot, gathering up all our papers and machinery]
Ron: It’s the facts we are piling up today. Gotta get the history right.
Linda: Well, I want to be honest with you and give you all the facts you’re asking for, but I have some other stuff that’s much more magical, and I think will give you more dimension. Because that’s the part nobody has reviewed on it.
Ron: What we’re doing now is going behind and correcting everyone’s facts. We’re open to anything—this is your interview, it’s about you.
Linda: I have something that has a lot more heart, so we’ll get there later.
Ron: You can tell by what we wrote, we’re just so touched every time we hear this.
Linda: Ron, I’m surprised by the number of people that have been touched by something that was truly done by—in this life—an amateur. I hope I’ll have another life where I can refine the instrumental and composition skills.
Kim: Maybe that’s what punk has allowed, that there’s no such thing as an amateur musician anymore.
Linda: If you’re coming from pure spirit—
Kim: If you’ve got inspiration you don’t need the technique—
Ron: Or coming from pure anger. (laughter)
Linda: There you go. I think that’s what they’re relating to. They’re hearing something that they also have, which is that inner spirit.
Ron: Or a cherished dream, or at least for me—Kim keeps saying my magazine [Worldly Remains] is all about my sexual awakening, but it’s—
Linda: It was a very sexual time in history, with our young people. But it was very spiritual, too.
Ron: Like a leaf pressed in a scrapbook.
Linda: It was a time when everybody was encouraged to go there, and right now they’re encouraged to maybe be a little hard on the edges like steel. That was not what was being encouraged in that era, no matter what career you had. Doctors, lawyers, technicians.
Kim: I just read a terrific book by a woman who went out to Esalen as a journalist.
Linda: I’ve been there.
Kim: She hung around for about six weeks, watched different groups of people come in, participated in some of the seminars, and she also just hung out with the Gypsy kids who were living on the land. It’s an amazing analysis of the different kinds of people coming in and the ways that they were changing, the ways that they were rigid.
Linda: It was not uncommon for me to be in an office building and to hear the executives say, “I’m going to Esalen. It’s helping my marriage. It’s helping me wake up. I don’t want to be so stiff, so cold. I don’t want to be so shallow.”
Kim: And they didn’t feel a need to be discrete or secretive about going up there?
Linda: It was okay to say those things then. Now probably people might say, “What are you, a flower child?” and laugh a little.
Ron: So, the recording process took about a year. You collaborated with these two guitarists, who put on their pink clothes.
Linda: Yes. And they were experts, they were really, really good. The main percussionist on “Moons and Cattails” was Milt Holland.
Ron: Oh! That’s a name to conjure with. Wow.
Linda: Shelly Mann didn’t do that one. Leonard called Milt and he arrived with a moving van full of drums from all over the world! He’d say, “What kind of sound do you need?” and bring in another drum. (laughter) The guy was incredible. But also, the Parallelograms score was not musical notation. It was a scroll. We didn’t have computers and electronic pianos to do those beautiful drones, those wonderful deep sounds that are all over The Lord of the Rings. But that’s the sound I wanted! I might have even used a bagpipe, but I was afraid people would say, “That’s too folksy.” So how am I gonna create this sound that feels like the universe humming, that supports the rest of the action on top? I created it in parallel voices. But today I wouldn’t have done that, I would have created the sound I heard in Lord of the Rings, that “mmmmmmmmmm.” I love that. You put a light, beautiful voice on top and it’s pure magic.
Ron: It’s like a very small boat in a very large sea that’s swelling up.
Kim: Overlapping voices are very powerful because it makes it so intimate. Did you have a sibling that you sang with, because it almost sounds like you grew up—
Linda: No, every voice is mine. But I showed it to Leonard in drawings, parallel lines, and I said, “I need something like a drone, and on top of that we want to create a sound-painting.” So when Milt Holland came in he said, “This is great! I don’t have to read sheet music for once! This allows me to create more!” And they loved it; they had a great time.
Kim: Well, it’s funny, because things on scrolls can often be extremely pivotal, influential artistic objects—and I’m not even gonna go back to the Torah. But, On the Road was written on a scroll, did you know that?
Linda: No!
Kim: Yes, Jack Kerouac had rolls of paper that he was gluing together, and he put it in the typewriter and did the whole thing on a single sheet.
Linda: Well, you can see the whole spectrum—this is supposed to be this many minutes long. I saw Leonard do the movies to a stopwatch, so I gave it to him in time increments.
Ron: The intimacy of a good film, a good record album, are unmatched. It helps pull the listener in.
Linda: Right, and I think that’s what we’ve lost in this era. They’re too concerned with a hit!—a hit!—a hit! Artists then were allowed to goof once in a while, and that’s where you get your real evolution and changes that are more life-giving to everybody’s creativity.
Ron: You can’t sell evolution when everyone’s interested in selling steaks.
Linda: They want a hit right now, and that’s not how you get life out of people. It’s how you kill an industry, demanding a hit every time. And that’s what we’ve done.
Ron: Who’s the Paper Mountain Man?
Linda: (chuckles) The one that received that note saying “here are your faults!”
Kim: Is that a real description of how to get to his house?
Linda: I described him accurately, yeah. He was a triple Virgo, and I loved him very, very much. But the pain he caused me when he decided on other ladies was excruciating. I never felt such pain, but I always say thank you to him, because that pain was so awful that I knew that either I was gonna die—and I say that with sincerity—or I was gonna aim upward. And that was the beginning of my spiritual climb, the pain from that relationship. And never again have I lost my balance to that degree.
Ron: You’ve got to know what out-of-control love is at least once in your life! You gotta be crazy. Any emotion strong enough is worth surrendering to. You have to be able to trust it to one degree or another because you can’t control everything in the world. No one can.
Kim: You keep telling me that.
Linda: What came out of that was understanding that there’s only one thing that can give that kind of love, which is really really that deep and forever, and that’s God. No person can be there for you to that degree. It takes a development beyond us. And I no longer ask that of a man—I had to learn not to. Now they’re my brothers, but I have to be okay with their faults and let them grow. And observe it but not get so disturbed by it, y’know?
Kim: Well, it’s not too much to ask that someone you’re with not go out with other women.
Linda: I figured I needed some development too, to even be worthy of that. I will say this: from the moment that I made that decision, that I wasn’t going to ask that of a man again, I’ve never had one leave me again. So there might be an important clue there. (laughter)
Kim: You loosened the reigns!
Ron: A lot of it’s about what your record is, because you go from very simple, homey things—it’s the literal cliché of finding the cosmos in your kitchen sink, or looking at a lover’s face with the sunlight coming down, looking at the lines in the face and having some brief, shattering glimpse of the structure of the universe.
Linda: Absolutely.
Ron: Where did the song “Parallelograms” come from? Because I hear in it hints of your methods of composition and even the way you experience the world.
Linda: Okay, let me give you a real honest answer. In the music world at the time, we were studying people like Joni Mitchell or—I love the Eagles, when did they come in?
Ron: Oh, they did their records in ’70, ’71, but they were a solid act with a big following in ’69.
Linda: And Crosby, Stills and Nash, I loved them. There was so many, other names I can’t even think of, Seals and Crofts did beautiful music.
Ron: They put out some nice records, with the harmonies, great production job. They get dissed a lot.
Linda: And I’m not mentioning some of the greats. All I remember is just this flood of creativity, from everywhere.
Kim: Yeah, the L.A. scene was very vibrant.
Linda: Oh, vibrant isn’t even a strong enough word. It was wonderful.
Kim: Were you hip to what Tim Buckley was doing?
Linda: Yes, I tuned in there, and I tuned in to other names. I mean, they were all neat.
Ron: My fantasy about you is you should have fronted Kaleidoscope.
Linda: Oh, I would have loved to. I never did any live entertaining. I was mostly in the studio because I was doing (laughs) my straight job at the same time. I’d go at night and work on it.
Kim: Wait! You mean that day-time record was all recorded at night?
Linda: Well, I think sometimes I’d go over during the days, but a lot of the interaction and meetings and talking and stuff was, yeah, after work. You asked about “Parallelograms.” If you can imagine the era and the creative people, they are dimensions of parallelograms that were Leonard’s inspiration. Because he was doing atonal music in a very classical context—
Ron: Schoenberg.
Linda: Nobody ever heard it. They only knew him for his movie scores. But when I’d visit, Leonard and Kay would play those private compositions on large speakers, and you would explode with creativity. I’d get out of there and my mind was just going bluah-bluah-bluah! And “Parallelograms” was written on the Ventura Freeway at three in the morning. (laughter) After a day with Leonard and Kay, where the music of my age bracket was flooding me, and their inspiration was flooding me, and the two of them came together. “Parallelograms” came—bam!—like that. I probably was half-asleep, driving on an empty freeway, and I just saw it all at one time, where you put light through a prism and you get many color choices, all representing a different frequency. I had already seen music do that. You play a high flute, it has a high vibrational wave, a gold-yellow tone. Color, corresponding with that high note. You play a bass guitar, it’s got a slower wavelength, and it’s got a green-blue tone.
Kim: That’s synesthesia. You actually see these colors?
Linda: There were times when I was meditating enough to see them naturally—we’re not talking drugs now.
Kim: No, it’s a brain thing—
Ron: It took me drugs to do it.
Kim: There are people who can taste smells, there are lots of ways that these things overlap, and they’re very consistent.
Linda: Absolutely. And I saw, okay, if I want to paint with sound, then the higher things are gonna have a different wavelength, so I literally drew it on a scroll with the understanding that I wanted three dimensional shapes. But yes, it was a concept that came quickly, like a light bulb going on. And I saw it all at once, as a full composition where you’re painting with sound, the words are coming out as sound creating those shapes. And the only way I could see to do it correctly today would be to use surround sound, maybe a rock group that does Celtic sound, and computer graphics on a video or a DVD creating the shapes that that sound was meant to create.
Kim: Or even projectors doing a three dimensional—
Linda: It should be done that way. It shouldn’t be a one dimensional CD.
Kim: So you heard the second part of the song—
Linda: I heard the whole thing.
Kim: It’s sort of like a vine that goes into a huge flower.
Linda: Yeah. The intro and the exit are traditional twelve-string guitars, and multi-layered harmonies, and I think some percussion. In those days I didn’t want to go to traditional Irish sounds, ‘cause then they put you in the folk world, and I didn’t wanna go there. So I tried to create it a little differently, but my soul was hearing what you hear in Riverdance and Lord of the Rings. Those were the textures I really wanted. But that took electronic and computer equipment.
Kim: Do you still have your scroll?
Linda: I believe so.
Kim: I would like to see that.
Linda: It was pretty rudimentary. I think I made a few different copies, but the one I took into the studio was probably as long as this table [about 3’ long].
Kim: For each individual song?
Linda: Just for “Parallelograms.” The other songs were more linear, more traditional. I made a tape first and we studied from the tape.
Kim: So the only one with an actual scroll was “Parallelograms.”
Linda: Because the music had to become pictures, and move. That song hasn’t been done right to this day. It still needs some of the equipment we have now. When I think computer graphics—I’ve even asked about pricing—I’ve been told that animation would be too expensive. I know Leonard would love to see this realized, too, because we only had one piece of equipment in the studio to do that song, and it was called a voice modulator. He was using it in his classical music.
Kim: Is that the same as a ring modulator?
Linda: Yeah. It modulates the voice. That’s the only thing we had in those days, but now you can do it with anything. It’s an idea before its time which hasn’t been done fully yet.
Ron: Now, would Rock Critic A be correct in assuming that some of your songs were influenced by direct experience with hallucinogens?
Linda: No, not me. My blood sugar can’t take it. I can’t even handle a teaspoon of wine. I go almost into a coma. I’m out.
Kim: But you were talking to people who were having these experiences.
Linda: All around me, are you kidding me?
Ron: You got a contact high. (laughter)
Linda: Oh, yeah.
Kim: Less of a hangover that way.
Linda: I’m sure that’s true, because when I touch patients, if they’re on some kind of medicine that’s strong, I feel it. If they’ve taken something to tranquilize them. I’m calmer just by touching them. If they’re highly agitated, my own heart beats faster. And if they’re angry, I get shocks, like needle pricks, in my ankles.
Ron: My lord, you’re a natural empath. It must be difficult.
Linda: They say in medical journals that nurses, doctors, dentists and chiropractors develop that ability after about thirty years of touching people. You’re really trying to protect them, but you develop this awareness of their distress signals. These are sensors we all have, but to do that kind of work you begin to develop them more. So contact high is real, absolutely.
Ron: This is gonna hit people the same way that hearing Frank Zappa never did drugs other than coffee and cigarettes! (laughter) It’s such an acid-head record.
Linda: I was surrounded with it. Well, let me take you a little further. My real father, in World War II, was able to tell people, “Don’t walk there. There are mines.” He could feel the evil. They used to put him on the bow of the boat and the front of a jeep to tell them where the danger was, and which kind of people were involved, whether it was Turks or Japanese or Italians that were hiding. He trained troops in the Alps in mountain survival, in climbing, in feeling nature so much that you could survive under dire conditions. His sensory perceptions to danger were pretty famous, and he saved a lot of lives. So I may come by this naturally. Even in the business world, if somebody has a contract for me that’s not good, I’ll feel a dark cloud a day or so before, if they’re intending to do something that’s not right, and I’ll check it out with a lawyer.
Ron: More musicians should be like that. Most of these guys are walking around blind without a cane!
Linda: The point I’m trying to make is that these things that people think are all drug related, we have these abilities in us naturally, to hear music and see those colors. I mean the Eastern yogis have talked about this for 5,000 years. These things are a natural part of our make up, if we would just develop them.
Kim: And just use the drugs as a sort of expressway to that sort of experience.
Linda: I think they maybe sensitize the nervous system to be more perceptive, but they can get you in a cul de sac and you’re trapped, too. I know that nature has given us these abilities; we need to develop them naturally. It’s already there for us. Once I was working in a dental office and—you may not believe me, but I literally saw a swirling, like a little tornado of black and brown in the room. I’m working on a patient and I’m looking at this little thing in the corner that I knew was in the spirit world, but I could see it! And I’m thinking, “Somebody’s mad at me.” I studied it and I said, “Now, Linda, don’t be scared, just figure out what this is.” And I caught the personality attached to it as the dentist. I thought, “Well, my boss is mad at me. I don’t know what he’s angry about, but he’s angry.” So I finished two or three days of work, and the boss came back into town, and sure enough he marched down the hall and was furious with me! And that’s what that anger was in the corner. And what it was was that I had dismissed a world-famous V.I.P. fifteen minutes early on a Saturday when he wasn’t there. It was someone in the Shah of Iran’s family, and I sent him away early because my blood sugar had given out and my hands were shaking, and the man knew it. He said, “We need to stop, you need to eat something, you need to rest.” So I cut his appointment fifteen minutes short, and my boss was furious, and that anger was that. But I learned from it that thoughts are a projection. A thought doesn’t just stay here. It can go where your anger is, or it can go where your love is, or it can go where your desire to protect is. But these are natural things, it didn’t take drugs to do that. He didn’t take any drugs! (laughter) And I wasn’t taking any, I was working on a patient. These are natural parts of our being if we just learn to use them. And we can sense danger, we can sense love.
Ron: Wonderful trips through interstellar space like “Parallelograms” are followed on the record by this plaintive loneliness of “Who Really Cares?” Did you hope to accomplish something by the sequencing?
Linda: The sequencing was done by MCA. I was too green to know that I should have been there at the pressing to know that it was pressed right, that I could make those choices. When I recreated my own little cassette that I would show people years later, I had the sequencing in an entirely different order, and it had much clearer sound.
Kim: And that was from the tapes that Michael used for the reissue?
Linda: Yeah. So essentially, Ron, some of what people hear in that era as being drug-related, there were a lot of souls that came into the world that were meant to be there at that time, and because what was going to happen was an arena where they could awaken and express more. They were meant to be there at that time, just like some of our young people now are very high-tech, they’ve come here because that’s the era that’s best for them. There’s a lot of people who weren’t necessarily taking drugs, who were very intuitive and very capable in a higher part of their being, and they were in an era that would allow them to express that.
Ron: One thinks that about Zappa—
Linda: Oh, Leonard loved him. I didn’t know that music very well.
Ron: And he did it all on coffee and cigarettes!
Linda: I think maybe I did most of it on coffee!
Kim: Coffee’s pretty powerful stuff for a sensitive type.
Linda: You’re right. I do use coffee. I run slow, so I have to.
Ron: I have these notes… “Little girl lost with her feelings in a world of odd shapes and sudden discoveries.”
Linda: I was pretty young at the time, in my development. I still had a lot of growing to do. I feel a better sense of balance now, especially with men. There were some painful times, and it is expressed in the songs. But that’s part of being 26, 27, 30 years old.
Ron: Having some past, but not a lot, everything is still new. Not knowing yet the sameness of what love is like, and how the sameness is what really surprises you at the end.
Linda: I love this line from Paramahansa Yogananda. He said, “Human love is meaningless until it’s anchored in the divine.” And I think what that means is that—don’t count on anyone else to be as fully developed as you hope they are. Be sure you’re anchored someplace that is really solid, and then you can enjoy them more.
Ron: “Morning Colors,” a song like that can be heard as a domestic lament to a man—or it can be heard as a song about a cat!
Linda: Oh, no. It was a man! (laughter)
Ron: Any man in particular?
Linda: It wasn’t an important man, but I think the song turned out really good. (laughter) The reason the song became so beautiful was in the studio, Leonard brought in his young nephew [John Neufeld], who was a very accomplished… with flutes. I know they say “flautist,” but I don’t like that word. This man could play the flutes very well.
Ron: It looks like “flatulence!”
Linda: Yeah, right! Anyway, he played an improvisation on top of the recording we’d already done, that we thought was a little bit naked, and it was quite lovely. And then we asked him, “Just in case the first take wasn’t the best, why don’t you do it again?” And he played a second improvisation. And then the engineer, Brian Ingoldsby, who was really creative, played it all simultaneously. And it was perfect. Some of this was evolution rather than pre-thought, and the reason that one came out so beautiful was that it just happened.
Ron: Porcelain Baked Cast Iron Wedding” is rather stark portrait of a captured hippie chick princess. You get feelings of oppression and bourgeois atmosphere. Is this about an actual event?
Linda: I was working in Beverly Hills, and I remember I was pretty disgusted with the cost of the weddings of the young girls around me, the sacrifices they were making, the shallowness of the love, and the whole atmosphere. Daddy was paying for these things that were just displays of grandeur rather than concentrating on the vows that should have been the central concentration. And it disgusted me. I kept wanting to say, “Where’s the love?”
Ron: It’s the material versus the spiritual. That’s the cast iron part of it.
Linda: Yeah, and one girl spent a year planning her wedding, at the office, in front of me, and I never heard her talk about the guy! (laughter)
Ron: He was a prop! A necessary prop, but…
Linda: I knew the cost was breaking her whole family, and I just wrote the song because it was disturbing me. I had compassion for the father and for the girl that were trying to put up these funds, and I had concern, is this marriage going to last? What are we doing here? So it was just a commentary on our society.
Kim: When my grandparents were married, my grandmother’s dad paid for it, and she said she wasn’t allowed to invite anybody. It was all for his friends, it was purely a status thing, and that was in the thirties!
Linda: There you go. They still do it. Whether it’s a funeral or a marriage, keep it simple. There’s only a few things that really need to be a part of that moment. The time I almost died, I got a real reminder of what’s important, and I think the people in 9/11, what did they have, forty minutes to remember what’s important? And they got on the cell phone and called the people they loved. There are times in your life when that essence should be there. And I don’t think you need a five-day wedding and astronomical sums of money and everybody coming in from all over the world that just want to show off. That’s a time for intimacy, it’s a sacred vow. But some people want it to be a bash.
Kim: What sort of promotion did MCA do for the album?
Linda: Zero. (laughter)
Kim: Did it actually come out as a legitimate release? My copy’s promo.
Linda: Yeah. There was so much music in that day that they had many opportunities for hits. They realized this was gonna be a slow mover, a sleeper. The FM people took it over, embraced it, played it a lot, but not Top 40. If you’re an MCA distributor and your income depends on big numbers—they had to put their time into Top 40 type sounds, to stay alive.
Kim: Did you get any feedback from the people who were hearing it at the time?
Linda: What they told me is that it was playing and selling the most—and this is predictable—not L.A.—Washington State, Portland, Hawaii, Canada, Colorado, Northern California.
Ron: Nature.
Linda: Yeah, people who understood those things. But Los Angeles was more acid-rock, I guess, harder, noisier sounds.
Ron: The psychedelic experience coming into contact or conflict with urban reality.
Linda: This album does best with earphones, with the little ones that sit inside your ear. There’s delicacies that—it doesn’t do well on a radio in a car.
Ron: Which is where I first heard it, and I was taken by it.
Kim: What went wrong between the recording studio and the pressing plant?
Linda: They told me, “It’s going to be shipped to New York, and it’ll be pressed.” I said, “What does ‘pressed’ mean?” “Put onto vinyl.” “Oh, okay.” And I took off for Northern California to be with my friends and forgot about it! I didn’t push it, didn’t do TV shows. I didn’t know I was supposed to sign autographs. I thought, “We did it—it’s done!” The fact that it’s still moving, I’ve only now begun to adjust to it, but I’ve had four years of being told that now. I thought it was on a shelf, forgotten. I had no idea that it was in Japan, Korea and the Netherlands, the British Isles and Canada—except that BMI would send me these little things saying it was on Ironside [the show used songs from Parallelograms on several episodes], so it was played in Portugal. But that’s just TV shows.
Kim: Do you know how many copies have been sold, of the CDs or the original album?
Linda: I think if we could trace the pirating of it—and I say that in a kind way—people who just made their own copies, to have it, that that would be more complimentary, ‘cause that’s where I’ve started to get the feedback now. And the wonderful people who have contacted me, it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened in my life. I mean, these are really neat people, and they’re in all kinds of countries. And they have all kinds of musical tastes and all kinds of careers and all age brackets. The fact that under-30 is still talking to me about this—wouldn’t you be surprised?
Ron: No.
Linda: If you did a piece of work that was long forgotten?
Ron: I’ve always amazed when any reader of my magazine tells me about it.
Linda: Well, that’s the way I felt. And it’s given me a kick in the bottom—this is a responsibility. There’s some nice people out there that deserve to be answered, deserve to be communicated with, deserve to be told “You’re a brother, and you’re a sister, and let’s keep that kind of thing alive, because that’s really powerful.” And that’s far more genuine than just buying hit singles. There’s something, well, we were saying infinite light goes into finite life, there’s something about that to it, and I feel very responsible.
Ron: Why didn’t you make another record?
Linda: I didn’t know I was wanted. I thought it was shelved. And I went into my other career and gave it full concentration. And people have needed my help. It’s a money-making career, and you do well, and you can look five years ahead and say, “I can help this much.” You can project. With music you can’t project, so if I was total music I wouldn’t have been able to help in ways that I have. I’m a practical lady, I’m a generous lady. I would always want to be able to do that. Music, it can’t always be counted on, so I would always make music the balancer but not the only thing.
Kim: How did you first become aware of the underground following that your record had? Was it when you got the CD in the mail?
Linda: Yes! Michael Piper—
Ron: (chuckles) What a great way to find out.
Linda: It’s a beautiful story. I was dying in the hospital, and they said, “You’re probably not gonna live, and if you live you won’t work again.” It was pretty dire. And I came home on a walker, had to re-learn climbing stairs. Two days after I got home, in the mailbox was a package from a Michael Piper. I didn’t know who it was. Family members said, “Linda, you better open this, it looks important.” When I opened it there were the CDs! I had only seen this album years ago as a vinyl, and here were these CDs and this beautiful letter saying, “I’ve been looking for you for about 27 years, and if this is the right Linda Perhacs, I have taken the liberty to turn this into a CD, because there are a lot of people who still want this. I don’t know if you know that you have a following.” I had no idea.
Kim: You must have been flabbergasted.
Linda: I was. And that was about four years ago, so this is still all new to me. (laughs) And he said, “I’ll come out and see you, and I’ll give you the emails, and I’ll let you know the activity on the internet, and who’s actually been the most interested, I’ll put you in contact with them.” That’s where it started. Then he did that laborious work about a year ago, taking the original masters and turning them in to the better sound that we now have.
Kim: These were copies you had kept?
Linda: For some reason, when I was working in the studio I understood that the best sound was always your original, second best was the second tape, so I saved them all those years. And when Michael first introduced himself, I said, “Why don’t you listen to the tapes and see if you can hear anything.” Well, they were stuck together! And he had to go through heating them—
Ron: Baked them, yeah.
Kim: That happens with almost everything from that era. Very unstable.
Linda: So the fact that he pulled this off was a lot of work for him. I think there were about three people working on it.
Kim: It’s worth it, though, because the sound quality is so different.
Linda: It’s incredible, isn’t it? (laughs) Well, I knew that all along. The first pressing made me so mad I just went, “ugh!” Put it away. I wouldn’t show it to anybody. It embarrassed me, because I knew the richness that was lost.
Kim: The demos at the end are pretty sophisticated. How were you recording? Were you using multiple tape recorders?
Linda: Oh, I didn’t have sophisticated equipment. (pauses) Loreena McKennitt , I don’t know if you know who she is, but I was charmed to hear that some of her original work she did in her kitchen. I’m gonna humbly admit those were made in my kitchen.
Kim: Good sound in a kitchen. Kitchen or a bathroom. Off the tiles.
Linda: Yeah, yeah. Late at night, when things were quiet and nobody would disturb me, I would put up a rather unsophisticated piece of equipment—in its day it was okay, but right now you’d laugh. But I’d learned if you put the speakers like this and you sang into them, you would get an echo. And so when I recorded it I was capturing that echo, that was kind of like watercolors, blurring and softening things, and gave it a nice texture. And in the studio they were not able to duplicate that same sound. It gave sort of a watery, rainy texture to those songs.
Kim: So including those in this new edition sort of shows another facet of the work.
Linda: Yeah. And then anything that was homemade by me was made that way, singing into the speaker to capture the echo.
Ron: I’m going to blush redder than hell asking this question. It was easy to write, but it’s going to be difficult to say. (laughs) There’s so much sexual desire and satiation in your songs. Despite much of what’s said about this era, this pure sexuality is rare in music, especially when it’s done by women. And I just wondered if you could account for this.
Linda: I’ll try to, Ron. We were all expressing our love for one another, whether friendship or experimenting with man/woman type love. It wasn’t an era when you just were with one marriage. And it was a youthful time for me, so naturally I was thinking along those lines. But let me also say that nature was a great focus for me, and it’s not nature in a “let’s go camping and stay shallow way,” but a reverent, deep, penetrating love for the whole universe. And when you walk—well, visualize a three or a four year old, and you’re taking a walk with them, whether it’s a beach or a mountain, or through leaves that are blowing, or water trickling somewhere, or rain falling, what does a natural child do? They wanna taste it, feel it, smell it, jump into it, run with it, feel it. And that was an era when everyone was being reminded to do that. Now they’ll laugh at you, but that’s how an artist senses things. That’s how you create! You draw it all in. And the biggest inspiration for what people have noticed in that album as being sensual touches really more honestly came from my deep love of nature. Yes, it was a time to relate to men, because I was young, and it was that hormonal time in my life. I guess essentially you’re looking for love and for that partnership that will be forever, which for me (laughs) didn’t occur yet. I believe that I’ve transferred that love to God. I can always trust him as being forever. Those sensual touches are a very deep expressive penetration into water, trees, leaves, air, sand, wind, sound, with the depth of an artist, a poet, an author, a musician, you go there, you go deeper. And a prayerful, meditative expression.
Ron: You anticipated my next question, which is about so much nature imagery, and a definitely vibe of personal renewal through the senses, even that the senses are themselves God, or you can touch God, or God can grow through you, through your skin, your eyes and ears…
Linda: Mmm-hmm. There’s a wonderful Hebrew scripture that I found recently, which says that infinite light came down and kissed finite world, and poured into the finite. And that to me is why nature is so awe-inspiring. Because when you look at a sunset, you do sense something beyond the finite.
Ron: It’s a common way for people to think about God.
Linda: You know there’s more there than just gross material, and you begin to say, “Well, what the heck is there?” And then you start asking more questions and penetrating further.

The Haunted Hallways of the High Llamas by Jonathan Donaldson

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 07:05:25 -0700

Discovery is not always an endeavor of looking to the future. Time is modeled in such that it can sometimes allow us to look into the past or the future with the same clarity, like a reflecting pool. So whether you’re looking left or looking right, you’re bound to find things to see--depending on what you’re looking for. Something new? Something different? Or, as a music lover, are you merely looking for something that follows a kind of continuum? Buddy Holly to Beatles to Nick Lowe to Nik Armstrong? Who is to say that anything happening NOW is really modern? Especially since modernity really only refers to one specific type of art. So what exactly are you looking for…? These are all ideas that came to mind while speaking with Sean O’Hagan about his latest record Beet, Maize & Corn (Drag City, 2003). If you think that I’m talking about something old here, then start the introduction over.

What you probably should know is that Sean O’Hagan has been for fifteen years the heart and soul of the High Llamas, and before that a member of Microdisney. Sean has survived the classifications of alternative-, lounge-, retro-, orchestral-, indie-, electro-, international-, and pop-rock. He has been dubbed things, and he likes dub. But none of that has really lasted. There are fans that thrill in seeing where Sean is going to out-out them next. Then there are others that only know him as well as the last review they read. Meanwhile Sean, with his thick reddish-blond hair and kind, weathered face is somewhere; following his muse through haunted hallways of time.

Scram: Perhaps when you listen to some Jazz music there’s an oddness that you perceive—
Sean O’Hagan: Yes.
Scram: --that you want to bring into Pop music?
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah absolutely, and there were artists in the sixties and to some extent in the seventies who did that, to a certain extent. In the seventies it all gets a bit confused. There were in the sixties artists like the Free Design, the Fifth Dimension, people like that who did the fantastic little moves and changes and just you go oh that’s fantastic and it’s working in within the genre of Pop music and you go, God they’ve really reached out there.
Scram: Was it more rooted though in aspiring towards beauty or towards sophistication?
Sean O’Hagan: Beauty, I think.
Scram: Earlier you were talking about jazz harmony…
Sean O’Hagan: And ‘jazz harmony’ is a phrase that my friends who have been to music college use. When I was doing Gideon Gaye, I never would have used that phrase. I only use it know because I’ve realized that it’s kind of a cliché of language that people can pick up on. I interrupted you, I’m sorry.
Scram: That’s quite alright. You were talking about jazz harmony and Brian Wilson. When he was a teenager in 1962 or 1963, he was at a record store in a listening booth and he picked up the Four Freshman. And he thought, this is the new sound of music.
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah.
Scram: My impression of that is that here’s a guy who’s basically living in a bubble, and no criticism towards him, but here’s a guy that doesn’t know that all of this Jazz has been happening in New York for the past ten years and he’s saying that this is the new sound.
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah.
Scram: Basically what I’m trying to say is that something that is new to you isn’t always new to somebody else.
Sean O’Hagan: I freely admit that and its kind of an interesting experience that you’ve described there. As I said to you before, I didn’t have a Classical education--as a kid, it was something that you avoided, I would have thought it was a posh thing, it’s for certain kind of people. That it had nothing to do with the way I was brought up. I was brought up in this very much sort of, you know, Beatles, Monkees, blah, blah, blah…
Scram: Mmm hmm. Now are you Irish?
Sean O’Hagan: My family are Irish, and I lived there for a number of years. Yeah and you know now, now, here I am in my early 40s, you know, I heard in the last three years Delius for the first time.
Scram: Who’s this?
Sean O’Hagan: Delius---he’s a British composer.
Scram: Don’t know him.
Sean O’Hagan: Oh! Oh, astonishing stuff, it’s just like—and it was weird. He was playing music in 1900 which I was trying—I’ve been looking, when I was making Beet, Maize & Corn, I was trying to find that music, you know?
Scram: Mm hmm.
Sean O’Hagan: It’s a very strange mixture of kind of the European school of the late 1800s and Spiritual music—American Spiritual music--the kind of music that became the Blues. Literally, the Spiritual music from the plantations.
Scram: Spirituals?
Sean O’Hagan: He was a strange guy, he left England in the 1860s and worked in an orangery in Georgia.
Scram: I see.
Sean O’Hagan: And he heard Spiritual music. And instead of going down the route that maybe Stephen Foster did, he actually went back to Europe, studied at Leipzig, and started writing symphonic music that maybe had the flavor of Spiritualism. To me that’s amazing!
Scram: What I hear from--and that’s a remarkable story--what I hear from that is that there’s kind of a cross-pollinization that happens with a figure like that, and in the modern world, in the age of information, it’s harder and harder to find. That’s something that you might be saying in the chorus of the lead-off track from Snowbug…
Sean O’Hagan: “Bach Ze.”
Scram: Right, “There must be something worth seeking out.”
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah.
Scram: And you know there’s also a track on the new album, Beet, Maize & Corn, I don’t exactly remember the track, but the sentiment is somewhat similar, where you say, “does somebody else know this? Does somebody else feel the same way? We need to be looking for something new.”
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah, that’s “Rotary Hop.” You’re right, but the trick with lyrics for me is to create a story, and out of that you can extract little nuggets like that that where you think, “oh great, that’s actually true!” And the Snowbug example (“Bach Ze”), was “there must be something”… you know…God, I’ve forgot the lyrics, they’ve slipped me! God, I sing it all the bloody time, but that chorus is about, we’ll it’s about how there must be something out there to find, and there is. But, it’s also about how Johnson--and I don’t know if you realize this, and God I hope I’m correct in this--but Lyndon Johnson, brought the space program to Texas because basically there was a political move to bring it down there instead of to New Mexico, or wherever, And uh, he had this kind of whole scenario where he was like ‘there’s something out there, and we’re gonna find it, and it’s gonna—and in those days Texas wasn’t Bush’s Texas, you know, it was a poor Texas--and it was we’re gonna bring something of the future to Texas. And I just thought it was a great story, but it was very much--you’re right—it managed to create a situation where you were actually talking about space travel and sort of looking for something that might be out there. And “Rotary Hop” is about Beefheart. It’s just about Captain Beefheart, how he sat himself up in the desert and he was always looking for new people to play with, and new places to go to. Because he could never settle anywhere because he had a certain madness within him and within his music.
Scram: And even the title of the song, “Bach Ze,” is itself kind of similar to this Delius idea. Guy from the 1900s, European school, goes to work in an orange plantation Georgia, and you know, hears Spirituals in a new way—hears them for what they bring intellectually to the big picture of music.
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah
Scram: I kind of see it as, when I listen to your music, you’re kind of a conduit living in the age of information. You’re able to listen to Bach fugues, or music influenced by Bach fugues, and harpsichord music, and basically music that is free of tonal center and kind of flows and is kind of dulcet sounding. And then you’ve got Ze, is that how you pronounce it, Tom “Zee?”
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah.
Scram: Who’s this kind of fringe Brazilian figure.
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah.
Scram: And you’re kind of this person who’s able to say, “Well I think this is beautiful, and I think this is beautiful.” And I’m not necessarily saying that you marry the two elements.
Sean O’Hagan: Well, I did. You’re quite exactly spot on, that’s exactly what I did. It was just like when I was writing that song, you know, the kind of sedate feel of the nylon string was for me sort of like Bach’s music for the guitar, and the slight oddness of the chords, on the chorus where there’s just like these chromatic chords, it very much reminded me of Tom Ze, I was into Tom Ze at the time, it’s as simple as that, and I don’t need to--
Scram: Right!
Sean O’Hagan: And you’re spot on—it’s self explanatory to an extent, obviously to you but not to most people they’re like—where did you get that from?
Scram: There is a certain kind of canon feel to a lot of High Llamas songs, where you kind of find yourself coming full circle, , such is the nature of Pop music and the journey of the song is kind of introspective and moody. You’re not always very sure where your footing is. You know what I’m saying?
Sean O’Hagan: Absolutely yeah, yeah—well, you’ve got a choice in a lot of music. You can give people a situation where they’re gonna know what is going to happen—and most successful Pop music is successful just because of that very thing, because people know exactly what’s gonna come around and they’re waiting for it and here it comes and thrust a fist in the air and there you go. Or you can go, well you think that’s coming around the corner, well it’s not, it’s this. But then it does revert to the Pop music format somewhat in that you’ve got that unpredictability for maybe 8 bars, but that 8 bars, you know, is gonna happen as the second verse, and so you’ve familiarized yourself with that slight, unsure footing, as you’ve put it, and that’s an odd experience, it’s a sort of unfamiliar thing that’s become familiar very quickly, and it’s sort of like getting people used to sort of altered musical conditions…. A lot of the brass on the new record was very much informed by Carla Bley.
Scram: Huh. Interesting that you mention that, I keep hearing that name.
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah, She’s fantastic, just like her husband Paul, she’s just a great compositional Jazz arranger. She was influenced by Charlie Mingus and Kurt Weill, and she really made these records in 1968, 1969, the finest of which I think is called Escalator Over The Hill. It’s just that lovely loose brass, and this is very indulgent as well, it’s got that loose brass as well, I really love that, I really just wanted to capture that on Beet, Maize & Corn. I’ve been totally into it for the last couple of years. You know, there is a certain familiarity to everything from Gideon Gaye right up to Buzzle Bee, if you think, and for me Gideon Gaye, Hawaii, and Cold and Bouncy were all connected. There was a certain way of working that carried through very crudely from Gideon Gaye and I had perfected it by Cold and Bouncy. I stopped that, and I sort of jumped to another horse on Snowbug--that was the sort of loose feel and that was when the Brazilian influences came in. That carried through to Buzzle Bee, and on Beet, Maize & Corn, the big thing I wanted to do, the Big Big thing was to not reference--apart from Carla Bley who’s from the seventies--was to not reference the sixties or the seventies in any big way. Because you know, it’s still the cool thing to reference in music, whether it’s Beck, Tortoise or Matmos, referencing a little bit of the sixties but then, they’re very much cutting edge sort of digital electronics.
Scram: Mm.
Sean O’Hagan: And it’s, well one week it’s Serge Gainsbourg, and the next week it’s going to be um, you know, Tim Hardin.
Scram: It’s what you’re talking about--the Record Collector mentality of creating music.
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah, it’s Other Music, it’s people who love Other Music--well I love Other Music-- but you know, it’s that kind of thing which everyone in the states seems to refer to. And I just wanted to say, how are you going to make a different record? And the two things were: don’t reference those decades the way that everyone else is, so I said I’m going to reference 1958, 1959, and that really lovely odd little period of American music. And the other thing I’m going to reference is where the root of Jazz, as it is used in Pop music comes from, and that’s Ravel, Delius, and they informed Gershwin and Cole Porter. But I wasn’t going to go Gershwin and Cole Porter, I was going to go one beyond Gershwin and Cole Porter, go back fifty years. Where did they get it from?
Scram: I haven’t really picked up on so much of what you’re talking about, the ‘58/59 US period--
Sean O’Hagan: OK, it’s “Leaf and Lime,” it’s on “The Click and the Fizz”--
Scram: Okay, that’s a great song.
Sean O’Hagan: Strings, how those strings just kind of wander in and out of each other, it’s the reverb on those strings, on “Leaf and Lime,” that kind of dreamy beat box feel without a beat box, that’s very much in Bob Lind style—Bob Lind, who was just making music in 1959--and it’s a few of the sort of little moves with the arrangement.
Scram: The chromatic coming out of the chorus.
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah, just the ones that the guys in the fifties used to produce—everything was kind of--
Scram: Syrupy.
Sean O’Hagan: There was kind of an unnaturalness about it. I mean, if you listen to Doo Wop, Jesus, that is just the strangest music that you can listen to, It’s stranger than anything Hendrix ever did, The strangest Doo Wop is absolutely out there—and there was an unnaturalness about it. And it was all happening in the fifties. And when the sixties came along, everybody said, because they’d discovered feedback and fuzz-boxes, they thought they’d cracked the universe open. And they hadn’t cracked the universe open. You had to go back one decade, and these street corner singers were doing more unusual things. Go back two decades and Charles Ives was writing, you know, balmy, balmy music.
Scram: I know exactly what you’re talking about, and I think in your presskit that you mention Moondog. I don’t want to make too much of a departure but I remember when I first became familiar with Moondog--it was canticles that he had recorded, a series of rounds—and I thought, these are very brilliant and these drums are amazing, and it was all very modern. Modern because it fit my perception of what was “modern.”
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah.
Scram: Because I think that when you go on a musical journey listening to stuff, your next big thing is what’s the next-big-thing for you. And it’s what’s modern for you—you know what I’m saying?
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah.
Scram: Because if you discover Kurt Weill, that’s gonna be really modern for you at that time—or if you discover Moondog at the right time, or Beefheart--
Sean O’Hagan: And that’s a good thing isn’t it—you’re saying that’s a good thing?
Scram: Yeah.
Sean O’Hagan: It’s like I was saying, I didn’t have a Classical upbringing. I heard Stravinsky and the “Rites of Spring” at school and I was forced to listen and I thought, Jesus Christ, this guy. And I’m not very big into the Germans, Mozart or Hayden, whatever. And Beethoven used to bore the pants off of me until somebody said you’ve gotta listen to his string quartets, to his trios--and they’re absolutely crazy, they’re wonderful things. And Classical musicians, when you’re doing recording strings, you interact with these people who’ve been to music college, and they’re you know they know it all. And when you talk excitedly about something they’re completely familiar with, I think they’re looking at you slightly pitifully, or “yeah, so, didn’t you know?” And the answer is no, I didn’t know. And so, it’s something that’s fresh and exciting that you can use, and you can use it.
Scram: Well, you see it through the eyes of a child.
Sean O’Hagan: Yeah, exactly.
Scram: You see, and I think a lot of what art means to me is clearing away the perceptions of the world. I look at something and I say, I think it’s beautiful, and it could be a book that maybe somebody else thinks is trite, and you say, well I see a lot of beauty in this book, and that’s a very personal thing.
Sean O’Hagan: And it’s—the result is that it inspires you, and you actually go out and do something quite unusual because of it. That means that something good has happened. There’s been a good interaction.

Brute Force Speaks! An Interview with Stephen Friedland by Michael Lucas

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 13:50:34 -0800

This interview originally appeared in Scram #15

Brute Force Speaks! An Interview with Stephen Friedland by Michael Lucas

When presented with the contact information for Mr. Stephen Friedland by Scram editrix and amateur gumshoe Kim Cooper, I was somewhat daunted. Would the story behind the Brute Force legend (as captured on the Columbia LP Confections of Love, an album which has fascinated me for upwards of a quarter of a century) be worthy of the superhuman notions I'd developed around this enigmatic creation?

When I finally worked up the gumption to face the challenge, I was relieved to find that not only were the missing portions of the Brute Force saga anything but prosaic, but that Mr. Friedland was himself an extraordinary individual and extremely gracious to boot.

Brute's appearance at the Scramarama was, for me, a special highlight in an already stellar lineup. I don't feel that my life would have been complete without witnessing his awe-inspiring performance, which exceeded all expectations.

I could blather on indefinitely, but let's get to the main event instead. Ladies and gentlemen... Mr. Stephen Friedland... Brute Force!

SCRAM: What was your involvement in the music world prior to Confections of Love?
BRUTE: When I was 24 I had a girlfriend, Bunny. Her father was Rock and Roll Hall of Fame drummer Billy Gussak, who played with Bill Haley. Billy had a piano in his house and took a liking to my songs. We collaborated on "My Teenage Castle (Is Tumblin' Down)." Billy introduced me to record producers Hugo and Luigi at RCA. They recorded "My Teenage Castle" with Little Peggy March. They had also worked on "The Lion Sleeps Tonight (Wimoweh)" with the Tokens, and they turned me onto them. I went to the Tokens' office and played a few songs; they hired me as a songwriter and soon I joined their group, and became a Token.

SCRAM: This was after "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" and the hot rod album?
BRUTE: Yes, 1965. I was about twenty-five years old at the time.

SCRAM: You also wrote the classic "Nobody Knows What's Goin' On (In My Mind But Me)," which was recorded by the Chiffons. My editrix promised to flay me alive if I didn't get the scoop on that song.
BRUTE: What is a thought? Where does a thought come from? How does a person feel about their thoughts? About secrets? These are some of the questions which might prompt an understanding of "Nobody Knows What's Goin' On (In My Mind But Me)." Texturally, it's a love song: a person loves another person, to everyone's disapproval, and because of societal pressure (who knows: parental, peer group, cultural), everybody says, "Give it up." But what do they know? This leads the person to realize that, "Nobody knows what's goin' on in my mind but me," a flat out declaration of independence, of individuality and of privacy of one's thoughts. Freedom of thought. The song is very concerned with this larger issue of privacy of one's thoughts, and to that extent is courageous in this day of Big Brother. There is a point, however, which the song doesn't explore: the point when not expressing one's thoughts can be an unhealthy thing to do and all the energy, whatever it is, just keeps building up and can become too much to bear for the "thinker of thought." Secrecy is a subtextual element in the song. Keeping secrets, obviously, is a must when nobody else knows what's going on in one's mind. As a songwriter at that time I was exploring the workings of the human mind and, through a lovestory lyric, expressing my own feelings about love--interracial love perhaps--and the invasion of one's mind by friends, family or government. The melody, I remember, during its creation, as being especially entrancing in the chorus, almost hypnotic in its repetition, enhanced by the lyrics, floating over the chord pattern, which are concerned with the mind. The mind singing about the mind. The song was produced by the Tokens while I was a member of the group. It was a chart record, which was very exciting, and I still receive royalties. Years later, I recorded "Nobody Knows" as the b side for the Apple single "King of Fuh." I produced this with the Tokens: the cellophane wrapper from a box of Kool cigarettes, which I was chain smoking at that time, was used to produce a sound effect while I played piano. My rendition was very much more agitated and frenetic than the Chiffons' rendition. I haven't seen any of the Chiffons since that time, except on TV ads for compilation CDs, but I feel very lucky to have known them and to have had our paths cross and come out with a hit. And if you want to know any more, all I can say is..."Nobody knows what's goin' on in my mind but me." But you can always ask!

SCRAM: Was your split from the Tokens an amicable one?
BRUTE: Yes. We were still friends. They produced the second Brute Force album--

SCRAM: A second Brute Force album exists?!?
BRUTE: Yes, Extemporaneous.

SCRAM: Whoa, whoa. I've heard extremely vague rumors about a second LP, but since I could never find any real evidence of it, I thought that it was just someone's confusion of Brute Force with the Brute Force Steel Band.
BRUTE: No, produced by the Tokens in 1969 on BT Puppy Records, which was run by the Tokens and their manager at the time. It's a piano/voice and spoken word recording made at Olmstead Recording Studios in N.Y. City with approximately forty people in attendance. It's called Extemporaneous because many of the songs I sing when I perform are extemporaneous. The format of the album I planned in advance: I then added a lot as we went along. It was an electric evening during which everyone had lots of fun.

SCRAM: It's an extremely difficult record to find.
BRUTE: Yes, it was distributed in a limited manner. I've actually included it in the new version of my Tour de Brute Force CD. [Which is recommended in the strongest manner possible as an essential addition to any music lover's library, and also serves as an excellent introduction to Brute, if needed. -ML]

SCRAM: Were the songs similar to those on Confections of Love?
BRUTE: It was in what I'd term the Brute Force genre, "Heavy Funny" songs." Peace songs. Comedy songs. Spiritual songs.

SCRAM: Now, back to Confections.
BRUTE: That was made shortly after leaving the Tokens. It took about three months to record, as I recall.

SCRAM: The Brute Force persona seems to combine qualities of beat poet, suave romantic crooner, and holy fool trapped in a world not of his making. Did the character of Brute Force arise out of the songs which you happened to compose for the album, or were the songs written with Brute Force in mind?
BRUTE: The characters that you mention have appeared, Zeliglike, from time to time. If a songwriter becomes anything during the writing of songs, it is another degree of being a songwriter. This is the way I put it:

A FEATHER FELL, A TALE TO TELL.
A TALE TO TELL, A FEATHER FELL.

Here we have two ways to understand the phenomenon which is presented to us, to decipher half the truth...(We, the living, alas, can understand but half of what this reality is.)... Seeing the feather fall we can describe it in any of the ways available. Both descriptions are secondary to the phenomenon anyway, the seeing of the real feather, and the mental seeing of the feather, as one would write a story. One may be called fact. One may be called fiction. Take your pick. This is the fulcrum upon which the media matrix see-saws, back and forth, creating a delerium of confusion, of artsy, slick, award-winning confusion: blistering the eyes with impossible editing not meant to be understood by the eyes; puncturing the eardrums with commercials spoken too quickly for the ears to understand; ripping off the public's face with in-your-face moviescreen egomanical sex/sport/violence/playgames.
Now... the naming of the person, the ego who describes a truth or a fiction, compounds the illusion of communication and description. Should I have only been called Stephen Friedland, perhaps the whole trip would have been different. But the pseudonym was perceived as false by anyone and everyone, although people go along with the projection of the ego, for they themselves have an ego trip and are basically kind to accept Brute Force. However, my work and the appreciation of my person would have been initially appreciated in a more serious manner... young, Jewish songwriter. "Brute Force" incorrectly avoided that.

SCRAM: Many of the songs on Confections have a certain subversive quality, especially in the way you make social commentary through playing with cliché and convention.
BRUTE: Well, look at the liner notes. It's heavy stuff, although comedically spiced. "Mistress Peace sleeps with soldiers" might be considered a bit subversive, although my political view of the world is decidedly spaced out: observing space and understanding that conflicts on Earth are always in relation to the phenomenon of the Space Mission, the colonization of the Solar System and the creation of earth as a supply station for the Space Mission.

SCRAM: I'd like to get your impression of the individual songs, if I might. "In Jim's Garage."
BRUTE: Secrecy of younglove from their parents. "He may be greasy and dirty, but that's just the mark of his honesty" says it for Jim and I hope most of the blue-collar class.

SCRAM: "The Sad, Sad World of Mothers and Fathers."
BRUTE: Still applies to the gap between parents and their children, and the lack of communication between spouses who'd rather watch TV than find out what's happening with their daughter in a car outside with... him! I guess if the daughter was loved at home she wouldn't be in such a... position.

SCRAM: "Tierra del Fuego."
BRUTE: Love song, Latino, transcultural, fun with words.

SCRAM: "No Olympian Height."
BRUTE: Straight-ahead lovesong, extolling the lover, "Do what you will, I am yours." This was a poem written about a girlfriend, Abby. The line in the song about Grecian urns is a reference to "Ode On A Grecian Urn" by John Keats, in which we read:

"Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty.
That is all ye know on Earth,
And all ye need to know."

SCRAM: "Cuddly."
SCRAM: Dixielandish lovesong. Everyone, well almost everyone, likes to get cuddly with their love-mate. Singing of the lyrics, "Baby, dey don't make 'em like dat any more" was inspired by the great Jimmy Durante.

SCRAM: "To Sit on a Sandwich."
BRUTE: Absurdity of the world: we might as well go sit on a sandwich in our "advanced civilization." This song contains perhaps the most onerous pun of the last half of the 20th century: "Prepares for the wurst."

SCRAM: Brute's Circus Metaphor."
BRUTE: Love lost, the characters metaphorically played by circus characters.

SCRAM: "Brute's Party."
BRUTE: A sarcastic description of the boredom of parties.

SCRAM: "As Long as my Song Lives."
BRUTE: Our Art survives us. Long after I am gone
Will Friedlandishemusik live on and on.
So would it be with a love, with a friend
that knowledge of them need never end
should they be remembered in song
as words and melody play e'erlong,
and as long as your craft gives
then too my song in your work lives.

Long after the creator passes, the song lives on, and who does the song immortalize? The lover. See, it's as long as my song lives, which is forever, for a song is inanimate and not as frail as our flesh. A song doesn't die. It is embodied in a device, etched in marble, written on a page, a CD UFO zooming into the unknown to be enjoyed by a new generation.

SCRAM: "Tapeworm of Love."
BRUTE: I wrote "Tapeworm of Love" while I was still in high school. It was an authentic fifties song with piano triplets. When I played it for John Simon at Columbia he liked the lyrics very much, but felt that the fifties feel was not in sync with the year we were recording, 1967. Nostalgia for the fifties had not yet occurred, so I wrote another melody. I endeavored to bring the intensity of the whole metaphor of the internal gnawing and adventurous biting of the tapeworm inside the gut through the use of the sitar and an ancient Indian raga played on marimba. The song is a paradigm of Brute Force absurdism. Yet, a love song...

SCRAM: "Making Faces At Each Other."
BRUTE: Here's a new face I've just learned, it's called "making you happy baby" and is pretty self-explanatory. Making someone happy is wonderful. It's giving. To give. This song is pointing to the ability of people to respond to their genuine inner feelings rather than responding to the outer image, the face. "Love is the most beautiful thing on the face of the Earth. I wanna make the face of Love..."

SCRAM: Was it difficult getting such an unusual album released?
BRUTE: It wasn't difficult getting Confections released. Columbia released a lot, and what stuck to the wall they went with. My stuff was just too ahead of its time.

SCRAM: There were no problems from upstairs?
BRUTE: Sitting at a conference table with the executives was, as I remember it, uncomfortable, because they played some songs and I was sitting there, in this conference room at a big oval table, and I was probably high on amphetamines. I would know how to speak with them today. Exactly what to say.

SCRAM: But there wasn't any resistance to your lyrics, as being too "cerebral" or "intellectual?"
BRUTE: There was resistance and the album was ahead of its time. Now the story is changing. A trans-generational reality, occuring. There is a nine-piece band in Birmingham, England, Misty's Big Adventure, personnel averaging 23 years old, playing "Tapeworm Of Love" and "Hello" from Extemporaneous (email grandmastergareth@hotmail.com). At Scramarama, I met BF fans of all ages. Advertisements for BF are attracting fans from all over the world to write to Brute's Force, the Brute Force fan club, at brutesforce@aol.com, in order to obtain BF music. The buzz is exciting and facing the situation, becoming less anonymous, has combated the resistance. Kind of a guerilla in the war of consciousness.

SCRAM: Any comments about the poetry on the back cover?
BRUTE: Yes, the couplet, "Mother Nature washes our genes, in her worn out washing machine." When I looked at the back cover, I wondered why the next two lines were omitted. It's really a quatrain which continues, "They're hung up on the line to dry, by that old grouch, Father Time." It would have made sense in the context of the album: you know, Mother, Father... lovesongs.

SCRAM: Are there any other Brute Force recordings besides Confections of Love and Extemporaneous?
BRUTE: At Columbia, I recorded a song I wrote in Russian and English titled "Hello Moscow," a big band/ rock fusion. The session was catered, like a party, and attended by many invited guests, Leonard Cohen among them. The thread of the message was, "Hello Moscow, how are you doin'?" This was in 1967, the Cold War was in effect. In July 1968, with my lifelong friend Ben Schlossberg, I participated in an expedition to swim the Bering Strait from Alaska to Siberia. We made it half way to the Diomede Islands. It was documented in Life magazine, 9/20/68. The song itself, as was the expedition, is a natural extension of my weltanschauung. We live on a sundrop.

"There is one borderline, really, and that's the edge of Earth: that roundness, that fullness, that mountained and vallied, water filled edge of Earth upon which we all live."
(Copyright 1969 Stephen Friedland)

I make Pledge of Allegiance to the Planet plaques. I burn into redwood the words:

I pledge allegiance to my planet.
And to the universe,
all around and within me.
One Spirit indivisible.
With Eternity for all.
(Copyright 1980 Stephen Friedland)

The synthesis of business relations and trade treaties is the modern day approximation of planetary nationality, what the military-industrial complex/media-matrix calls "globalism."

SCRAM: And you recorded a single for Apple Records. How did that come about?
BRUTE: I had a girlfriend, Joanna. We were both at Monmouth College (now University) in West Long Branch, NJ. Around 1965, I moved to NYC. Joanna also moved to NYC, and by that time had met and hooked up with Tom Dawes. He was a member of the Cyrkle, who toured with the Beatles in the mid sixties, and were managed by Nat Weiss, a friend of Brian Epstein. I wrote a poem which turned into the lyrics, then composed a melody around 1967. Through Joanna I met her then-husband, Tom. Tom and I got to be friends and he said some good words about me to John Simon, who had been recording the Cyrkle for Columbia. I went to Columbia, played some songs live for John and that led to the, I, Brute Force, Confections of Love album. When I recorded "King of Fuh," late '68, I got the idea to bring a tape to him and see if he could get it to Nat and, who knows, maybe the Beatles. Well, that's just what happened. A 1/4" mix of the multitrack session of "King of Fuh," recorded at Olmstead Recording Studios, was given to Tom. He brought it to Nat, who, I have learned, played it for George Harrison. George thought it was great, and he added strings from the London Philharmonic and kicked up the drums a bit. They released Apple 8 in May 1969, but Capitol/EMI censored it.

SCRAM: Why?
BRUTE: Basically, language taboo. It was a very nice song about the land of Fuh, which was ruled by a benevolent King. Since he was the King of Fuh, he was also known as the Fuh King.

SCRAM: Ah, I see.
BRUTE: The latest twist is that Ken Mansfield, in The Beatles, the Bible and Bodega Bay, makes it clear that John Lennon also had a hand in championing the record and pushing for its release in the U.S.A. Incidentally, "King of Fuh" has been added to the censored song database of the First Amendment Project at Vanderbilt University in Nashville. Writer and software developer Antonio Caroselli, in Italy, is currently writing my biography, and a detailed account of the Apple experience will be included.

SCRAM: With what sort of projects are you currently involved?
BRUTE: To take my music around the world. To write songs and record them. To manufacture state of the art formats of my music and performances. To advertise and sell these products, and to stay centered amidst all the conditions: WORK, FAMILY, FRIENDS, MONEY, SURVIVAL, SEX, FEAR, WAR.

SCRAM: What is your act like these days?
BRUTE: I perform an off the wall, non-traditional musical variety act. Songs, jokes, props, characterizations and improvisational songwriting, and philosophic exhortations. Additionally, I perform my straight music, lovesongs, spiritual songs, along with pure melody, playing keyboard, and guitar."

SCRAM: Where can we catch your act?
BRUTE: I play comedy clubs and music venues nationally. Visit http://www.brutesforce.com/

It is possible to see me,
Look, at night into the sky,
see there the farther shore.
When you wake
to start the day
again a vision forward draws
you on to see me.
A need to go on.
A drive to pursue.
All that and so much more
within the orbs of your eyes
shall who I am filter through.
Think not this is fame driven.
Nor quest for moment's adulation.
For you shall see me everywhere
And not the censors of Capitol.
Nor the censors of EMI
shall stop
the "proclamation of Truth is Fearless."

A Night of Musical Board Games by your host, Vern Stoltz

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 13:42:33 -0800

This article originally appeared in Scram #15

A Night of Musical Board Games by your host, Vern Stoltz

There are many sad things one notices about the world as it moves further along the path of technical progress. Sure, CDs may sound clearer and be less vulnerable to scratches, but one loses the pleasure of holding a beautifully designed record cover in one's hands. Likewise, the evolution of computer gaming has allowed for incredibly realistic scenes to appear on a video screen, but at the expense of the visually appealing board game box. Many people have forgotten or never experienced the joy that comes with opening a box to discover a world of plastic pieces, dice, spinners, cards, multicolored play money, and best of all, the board that opens to display an exciting design.

Recently I gathered six friends to re-create that era where music and board games met in pop culture heaven. The goal: to play four long-deleted music-themed board games to see if they were still enjoyable today. This was not a scientific experiment, as the increased level of alcohol infusion through the evening may have resulted in biased results.

The Players:
1. Abigail: a collector of old advice books, and the personality behind the Miss Abigail advice column for the London Times. Miss Abigail’s Time Warp Advice website can be found at http://www.missabigail.com/
2. Ani: a painter, artist, and dedicated thrifter, newly relocated to Buffalo, NY
3. Jeff: the writer behind the often funny Wit Memo website http://www.geocities.com/~witmemo/
4. Jen: a school teacher in the Washington, D.C. area
5. Ray: a magician in his spare time, residing in Washington, D.C.
6. Suzanne: wife of Jeff (they met at a screening of the documentary I Created Lancelot Link)
7. Vern: collects old vinyl LPs and board games, and sometimes even plays with them

The Games:

1957—Name That Tune

This game was a form of musical bingo. Each player received a card with columns headed with the letters M-U-S-I-C, and a small pile of red wooden markers. These looked suspiciously like those red tablets they used to hand out in grade school—the ones you chewed, after which everyone laughed at the kid who had the reddest teeth (and the worst brushing habits)

The Name That Tune game came with a record album, containing the voice of George DeWitt, host of the television show. Mr. DeWitt would announce a certain letter/number combination (eg. S/42), and then an organist played a five-second segment of an unnamed musical selection. If the title of the song was on your MUSIC card, you placed one of the red markers on the appropriate square. Should you achieve five in a row, you've won and must yell out “Stop the Music!”

This 1957 edition of the game included no rock and roll songs. Instead the game centered around selections like "National Emblem March," "American Patrol," "The Merry Widow Waltz," and the "Triumphal March (from Aïda)." Soon after placing the needle on the record, I became concerned that the disk would play out to the finish without anyone being able to identify five songs in a row.

Fortunately, two things prevented this. The first was the large number of standards that are still well known today—"Row, Row, Row Your Boat," "Battle Hymn of the Republic," "Yes We have No Bananas," and "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" (aka the alphabet song). The other element speeding play was the irresistible urge of my guests to yell out song titles once they recognized them. You might never have heard "Sweet Rose O Grady" before in your life, but having the player next to you yell out its name permitted you to mark it on your own MUSIC card.

The game was much more enjoyable than I had envisioned. And the record, though comprised of cheesy organ music, was actually quite fast paced.

Name That Tune Player Comments:

Jeff: B+ A great game—if you were born in 1930. A lot of fun… great to "break the ice" at a party.

Suzanne: We’re gonna party like its 1949!!

Abigail: I won!! I won!!! And I didn’t even cheat too much!!

Jen: ‘A’ grade. I was inspired to shout out the names of the tunes and sing along with the rapid tempos. We are concerned about the red dye on our hands from the tokens

1967—The Monkees Game

This was a more traditional game, the type where one spins an arrow, then moves that number of spaces forward. The winner is the first person who advances through a path of musical notes to reach the Monkees car. Although the cover of the box is quite impressive, with its images of the Monkees in their souped-up wagon, the game-board is a bit disappointing. The four Monkee markers looked too much alike, and they were out of proportion with the tiny musical notes on the gameboard.

Recognizing that just spinning and moving ahead would be boring, the game designers introduced a little plastic guitar with a rubber band for strings. When a player landed on a whole note, he had to pick up the guitar and start strumming and singing the “Hey Hey, We’re the Monkees” theme song. Each time the verse was completed, that team could advance eight additional music notes, until either it was their turn again or some other team landed on a whole note, snatched the toy guitar, and started singing.

As an observer, it was quite amusing to see the players singing, and I enjoyed the fast action as the guitar was rapidly passed from one set of hands to another. For the participating players though, the experience was less satisfying.

The Monkees Comments

Ani: Monkees suck. Gameboard lacks aesthetic qualities. The notes are too close together.. This is like school. I was no good in music class

Abigail: C-, too humiliating and confusing. Thank God it sped up at the end and was over faster.

Jen: D. Evil!!! It was stressful and panicky when singing.

Jeff :C+. Just move by spinning with some awkward, embarrassing, and pointless FORCED SINGING! Big disagreement, over whether having to sing, or getting to sing, is good or bad. I think this game was rushed to market without sufficient R & D, to take advantage of the Monkee craze.

Suzanne: B, exciting, but utterly trivial.

Ray: I was told there wouldn’t be any singing.

1971—The Partridge Family Game

This was another "racetrack" game, where one shook the dice and moved ahead, with the winner being the first to reach the Partridge Family bus. For added excitement, one could land on a Partridge square and draw a card. These cards were quite amazing, with each having a bit of Partridge trivia that appeared to have no relevance to the instructions it gave. Some examples:

Laurie has a great curiosity about everything—Move back 2 spaces
Chris has a great appetite for pancakes—Move ahead 3 spaces
Laurie belongs to the "Now" generation—Lose one turn
Danny has gone off zipping on his bike—Move ahead 4 spaces
‘Danny enjoys eerie horror movies—Lose one turn

There were four markers in this game, representing Keith, Laurie, Danny, and "Mom." Chris and Tracy were not represented, nor was Rueben, the group's manager. There was a brief pre-start skirmish, as most players wanted to be Danny.

The game itself went relatively quickly, as one only had to travel a path of 61 squares while using two dice. Mom started this game with a huge lead, but Keith, with an exact role of 11, ended up reaching the bus ahead of everyone else. Overall, this game was the one geared to the youngest target audience, with several players noting the similarity to Candyland. It was very simple, yet oddly enjoyable, perhaps because of the cheerful, early '70s graphic design.

The Partridge Family Comments

Ani: Better than the Monkees

Jen: I like making fun of the characters—each has led such a colorful post-Partridge life

Abigail: B+. Cards were entertaining, even though they made no sense. Helps to listen to "I Think I Love You" and dream of Keith. So cheap that they only used one photo for box, board, and pieces

1973—K-Tel Super Star Game

Yes, K-Tel actually produced a board game in addition to all those budget compilation records that were heavily advertised on television. This game was unique among the four played, as it was the only one to address the role of business in the music world. The goal of Name That Tune was to identify five songs in a row. The Monkees and Partridge Family games required you to race along the path and become the first to reach your vehicle. The goal of the K-Tel Super Star Game was to amass a fortune by game's end.

This was the only game to come with play money, unfortunately of an inferior quality, without any fake famous people on the bills. The game was very similar to the popular Game of Life. Players progress along the track, and follow the directions of whatever square they landed on. One has the option of buying insurance (for protection from stolen musical equipment), and instead of collecting money via regular paydays, one earns increasing dollar amounts by passing special concert squares.

By purchasing a record company, player have the option of releasing singles and LPs into the marketplace. When this happened, one went to the stereo and placed the needle onto a special multi-tracked 45 RPM record. The record would then announce either "It’s a Hit," "It’s a Flop," or "Break Even." If the result was a hit record, the player would collect a special miniature plastic record token—perhaps the coolest thing about this game—which was redeemable for more play money when you reached the end of the track.

But even with the introduction of cool golden records, this K-Tel game bored everyone stiff. The game track, although very brightly colored, was 153 squares long, and took forever to traverse—especially since the game came with only a single dice. The instructions on each square were boring, simply instructing the player to collect or pay money. Even playing the hit-predicting 45, which should have been entertaining, ended up feeling quite anti-climatic.

Sample instructions on the board game and the various "Fortune" cards:

Pay motel bill $100
Bootleg album, lose $10,000 in sales
Swindled by phony guru, pay $10,000
Sell life story to teen magazine, get $1,000
That’s a no-no, pay $30,000

Near the end of the game is a square that says "You’re chosen musician of the year—Congratulations," and oddly enough, there's no mention of monetary reward at all. Perhaps that was what was wrong with this game. With the constant focus on money, it felt like you should have a calculator nearby to keep track of your financial status. You'd think a game based on rock 'n roll would have been interesting, but the lack of famous rock celebrities, or even fictitious characters, meant that the emphasis was on money, money, and money.

In an ill-fated attempt to increase the excitement level, I went down to the basement and brought up an old color organ project made in junior high electronics class. But even those swirling colors from the '70s were unable to excite the players. This game was so boring that everyone decided to quit before even making it through the outermost ring of the track.

K-Tel Super Star Comments

Ani: Records are cool; K-Tel game drools

Jeff: This game promises to go on as long as Monopoly, or Risk. Much too ambitious for its own good, or ours. Cries out for two dice, instead of the one it comes with, to PICK UP THE PACE.

Suzanne: B+, a bit long, but engaging, like Life for deadheads.

Jen: Too many rules for a simple concept. Too long and tedious. Much like Monopoly. Yawn. The accompanying record sucks and is pointless. Just wanted it to end

Summary:

Oddly enough, everyone agreed that the oldest game, Name That Tune, was the most enjoyable. A bit of research showed that this was a very popular game in the late '50s, and a second edition was created with a new record.

The Partridge Family and Monkees games were fun, but this seemed partly due to the joy of having people sitting around a brightly colored board-game, conversing and interacting. Half the attraction of these games is the pop culture fascination with musical celebrities. The K-Tel game, lacking the celebrity aspect, was much less interesting.

Overall though, everyone agreed that board games are still entertaining, especially when played with a bunch of fun people. Most importantly, almost all boardgames can be played late at night, under candle light, during the next power outage. Your computer might be dead, but as long as at least two members of the Partridge Family are able to travel around the board, there will be hope in the world.

Book Review: All For A Few Perfect Waves, The Audacious Life And Legend Of Rebel Surfer Miki Dora

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 10:43:44 -0700

Book Review: All For A Few Perfect Waves, The Audacious Life And Legend Of Rebel Surfer Miki Dora

David Rensin, 2008, HarperCollins, ISBN 978-0-06-077331-1

Very well then, the short review is “Get this book and read it,” ok?

The short review with a little bit extra tossed in is “Get this book and read it, and while reading it, try to keep the transcendent meanings of ‘good & evil’ always in mind, and watch in amazement as they morph from one thing to another, and even trade places with each other, shrouded underneath a nimbus of time and circumstance.”

Ok, that’s enough right there for those of you with dull sensibilities, sound-bite sized attention spans, or dogmatic world views that cannot admit to the existence of equally valid alternatives, other than your own constricted visions. You probably won’t read the book anyway, and even if you do, you’ll find a way to take the wrong message away from it after you’re done. You may go now, you are dismissed.

Now, as for the rest of you, now that we’ve gotten rid of the idiots, let us perhaps see if we can examine things in somewhat greater detail, shall we?

Ants reap all the benefits of life in the colony, and succeed mightily as a result and have taken over the world, but in the end they must always remain ants.

Edward Abbey did not think very highly of ants, however. Go read Desert Solitaire sometime. Might just do you some good. You never know.

Dora shared many of Abbey’s approaches, although I’m none too sure that either curmudgeon would have approved of the other. But I could be very wrong here, since I do not really know wherefore I speak.

Dora seems to have approved of very little, actually.

And he was a lying thief with a spiteful mean streak, too. A real small-timer. A bum. A failure.

And yet…

And yet again…

He somehow rose above it all to truly ethereal heights where few have trodden, aside from a very few saints and madmen.

And this of course is both the problem and the solution, all at the same time.

Surfing is so overburdened with counterintuitiveness and self-contradiction, that it would seem that it could not stand another log to be thrown on to that fire, lest the entirety of it self-immolate and disappear in a cloud of smoke, leaving a bitter residue of ashes behind in the mouths of those who would seek to understand it.

Dora seems to have thrown the entire forest into the blaze, and yet he got away with it somehow.

His story is allegory, and it enfolds and encloses no end of substories and branching paths that lead off into the murk with nary a street sign to show the way.

Some of these places are pretty nasty, but others seem to shine from within by their own ghostly light.

This review is already turning into the worst sort of bullshit.

Considering the subject matter, could we have expected otherwise?

Probably not.

I’ve been long convinced that there is a book the likes of which few have been written, lurking within the Dora cloud. A book that could use this impossibly fertile ground to nurture and coax from the black and fecal substrate, a grand tale that examines the core issues of what it really means to be human being.

I’m not quite convinced that this is the book, but I may be wrong. Right or wrong, this book is a thunderclap of a good effort, and may even provide the launching pad for an as yet unknown or unborn Shakespeare to really sink their teeth into things and extract that which needs to be extracted and distill it into a Worthy Thing.

And, as with its subject matter, it presents one face even as it hides other faces in plain sight.

It’s easy enough to let this one pass through your fingers as a mere recounting of things that were, things that were said, and things that were done, and no more.

But there’s a lot more than that going on underneath the surface, for those with the time, patience, and eyes to see any of it.

Up on the surface of things, this one is drop-dead simple: A tale of the man’s life, from start to finish, as told by those who were around at any given time, as well as the occasional cryptic snatch of prose from the man himself, with a few black & white photographs tossed in for good measure.

Easy, yes?

Of course it is.

And yet…

And yet again…

Patterns self-assemble and evanesce with their own sentience, as the story minds its own business, plodding forward in time.

Dora took the measure of those and that, all around him, and found nearly all of it wanting.

At which point he very reasonably decided to keep his own counsel, and veer off on a path of his own choosing, opportunistic, never permitting anything or anyone to dictate terms to him.

Except for the waves.

The waves dictated his entire life, and he was content to everlastingly dance to their tune.

But the ways of waves and men run counter to each other, and following one will cause grave problems with the other.

Dora had no doubt whatsoever as to which one was worthy. Which one was real. Which one was the Right Way.

And blast and damn any and all who might seek to interfere.

Which is the entire nub of the matter, in similar fashion as a single molecule of DNA is the nub of each of us, one and all.

Much flows from this deceptively simple premise.

Dora, perhaps more than anyone ever has, and perhaps ever will, in a world of proliferating security cameras, biometrics, secret databases, and jackboots, took this disarmingly simple premise to its furthest logical conclusion, paid dearly for it, and yet never looked back and never reconsidered his choice, once it had been made. Despite the Gordian knot of falsehood that he partook of, surrounded himself with, and promulgated, he remained true in the most adamantine definition of the word true that can be imagined.

All of this is woven into the heart of this book, at sub-basement level, and illuminates all that happens within it.

David Rensin presumes his readers to have sufficient intelligence to work things out for themselves, and mercifully assembles the tale with a feather-light hand. The story itself can do its own talking thank you very much, and it’s a breath of fresh air to encounter a writer who has tackled such a profound subject and yet dispenses with the pedantic, the didactic, the morality tale and the fable, and instead simply lets things speak for themselves.

Like I said before: “Get this book and read it,” ok?

A Proposed Scram Cover design by Gary Fields

Tue, 06 May 2008 09:33:18 -0700

Gary Fields was gracious enough to create this pitch for a future Scram cover, not realizing the print magazine is on indefinite hiatus. The design was too nifty not to share, so here 'tis.

Go visit Gary's blog to see more of his work.

Nick Tosches’s Satisfaction by Michael Bloom

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 23:00:54 -0700

Nick Tosches, Photo by Michelle Talich

The first work of Nick Tosches’s that I ever read was just this last year. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. How could I be in my late thirties and never had read anything by Tosches? Scram readers are an erudite bunch when it comes to all things rock-’n’roll, so you’ve all probably been fans since his early Creem days, and have no doubt read his books like Hellfire: The Jerry Lewis Story. For the completely pop culture set, you will recognize Tosches from his work as a Contributing Editor at Vanity Fair, where his stories have included the meticulously researched origins of a screen saver, “Autumn and the Plot Against Me: The Mysterious Origins of a Windows Desktop Image.”

How did it all begin? I was at the Strand Bookstore searching through the medical section, as I’m currently going to technical school at Bellevue Hospital, when I saw a darkly stylish silhouette on the cover of a book called King of the Jews. I noticed the author was Nick Tosches and remembered the author’s name being mentioned by bassist and Dictators founder, Andy Shernoff. After spending my summer vacation reading this uniquely styled biography of Arnold Rothstein, I was hooked. The work delved deeply into subjects ranging from the preternaturally magickal beings known in Judaism as the Elohim, to several translations of Caesar’s famous expression as he crossed the rubicon, “The Die is Cast.” These may seem like tangential elements of style, but when you examine Rothstein, the Godfather of the Jewish mafia, then you should pray for a whole lot of angels ready to answer your call for help, and a shit load of luck because “the fix” is definitely in.

Afterward, I sought Nick out as a “friend” on MySpace and happily found he had a page. However, at the time it was being managed by a “fan” instead of the man himself. One night after some Jesus Juice I wrote a nice little nasty message (my favorite kind) to this fan, accusing him of masquerading as Tosches and being a fraud. The next morning I got a reply indicating I should pay more attention and look a little closer. Turns out the man himself had recently taken over control of the page, and so began my true friendship with St. Nick.

Deciding to work my way backwards through his catalog I then tackled In the Hand of Dante. This novel is a Great Work, and on Tosches’s MySpace page you can hear an audio clip of Johnny Depp reading from the first chapter. Shortly thereafter Nick posted a blog seeking someone to help out with his MySpace page in exchange for “all the beer you can drink.” I won the prize, and a day or two later found myself in his Tribeca apartment listening to “That Smell” by Lynyrd Skynrd and talking about everything from the slogan above the entrance to Auschwitz to the Gnostic Gospels. I brought along a copy of The Bellevue Literary Review as an offering, and left with, as he called it, a “bum-sized bottle” of scotch whiskey.

So now, after hoarding my favorite pen-pal for almost a year, it occurred to me that before either he or I get hit by cement truck (or a bicycle messenger), that you faithful Scram readers deserve a little Q & A. So here we go…

Sports

MB: The first book of yours I read was King of the Jews, about Arnold Rothstein, which featured the heady days of horseracing at Saratoga and the infamous “fixing” of the World Series. How can good-hearted sports gamblers get a fair shake if so many of these games/races may be fixed, and what sports do you get satisfaction from watching?

NT: Chariot races were probably fixed. It’s just another aspect that needs to be factored into gambling when the bet goes down. It’s sometimes intrinsic to the aleatory process. Mathematicians talk about the stochastic nature of gambling, the random-probability distributions or patterns inherent in it. But it’s not always a stochastic helix. For the gambler it can be a double helix, a double stochastic helix: the random-probability-pattern helix and the helix of the fix, which cancels out the other helix for the very, very few who are aware of it, but which only compounds the stochastic quandary for the vaster many, the outside-dope gamblers. It’s as they say, “fair” is where the hicks go to see the pigs race.

I sometimes get satisfaction from watching professional football, both the NFL and soccer, and sometimes from watching a good horse-race.

Drugs

MB: Is sobriety the new drug? My relatives take presciption drugs like oxycontin and percoset. Am I an idiot for not shaving a few pills off the top? What gives you satisfaction?

NT: If you define sobriety as a state of calm and clarity, I don’t see too many people out there who are sober. The world’s on speed. I’m not necessarily talking about meth. Sure, there are people out there shooting, snorting, and popping speed, washing it down with Red Bull or whatever. But even those who aren’t seem to be spun out on some sort of culturally and cerebrally induced adrenalin overload. All these people jittering blindly down the street jabbering into cellphones. If a drunken, drug-addicted fool gets off the booze and the shit, he or she is still a fool, a sober fool maybe, but still a fool.

No, you’re not a fool for not shaving a few of those pills off the top. Though, even if you didn’t put them down your own gullet, you could probably make a few bucks off them.

Through the years I have been called both an alcoholic and a drug-abuser by various characters, both doctors and people who didn’t try to pick up members of the target sex by sticking stethoscopes in their breast pockets like foulards. Whatever. The truth is I get the most satisfaction from being clear and lucid—what I’ve defined as sober—and alcohol and hard drugs can never be a part of that. Never. But I also derive satisfaction from getting fucked-up, wading in oblivion, getting drunk and maybe snorting a little smack every once in a while, maybe a few times a year. There’s a price to pay for that, however, and I’m not talking in terms of dollars but in terms of physical and psychic after-effects. Calm and clarity are free, and if you can lead yourself to them, they in turn lead to further freedom, true freedom. I also enjoy one or two glasses of good wine now and then, a glass or two of really good wine, which doesn’t interfere with the calm and the clarity. Cheval Blanc. Margaux. Haut-Brion. If you want to get in my good graces, give me a bottle of any of those. I enjoy reefer sometimes, but I smoke it only very rarely. Lately my favorite cocktail, taken in solitude when circumstances grant me some time to relax, is a glass of cold milk and a Valium. My favorite drug is opium—real opium, good opium—but you can’t get it, not in this part of the world. So, yeah, I get my greatest satisfaction from calm and clarity, which, like opium, are hard to come by.

Nick Tosches with Opium Master Chiang

Music

MB: What music gives you satisfaction from listening to these days?

NT: I listen to Bach cello suites. Only his cello suites. The rest of his shit: fuck it. A little Arvo Part. A lot of rock ’n’ roll, mostly old stuff. I’ve got a playlist of sixty-five of my favorite rock-’n’-roll songs, Nick’s Picks, on my computer. Another playlist of thirty-five Stones songs. Another of twenty-six Dylan songs. I listen to whatever I want to hear at any given moment, whatever the breezes lead me to, whatever the demons demand.

Influences

MB: Who are your literary influences? Can you touch on your relationships with other journalists as well, e.g. Hunter Thompson, Lester Bangs, Richard Meltzer.

NT: My literary influences are, off the top of my head and in no particular order, Hesiod, Sappho, Christopher Marlowe, Ezra Pound, William Faulkner, Charles Olson, and God knows who else.

I never really knew Hunter.

Lester was a lost soul. If he wasn’t such a pain in the ass, I would have felt more sorry for him than I did. De mortuis nil nisi bonum…

Richard is one of the most brilliant characters around. We haven’t spoken much in the last few years, but that’s only because he now lives far away and I’ve become increasingly telephonophobic. Whether we talk or not, he’s still like a brother to me, and I love him. We went through a lot together: the best of it, the worst of it, and everything in between.

Politics

MB: You like Obama, but don’t you think that in the down and dirty world of politics that a two-faced hypocrite like Hillary Clinton is the best one to handle the snakes of Washington considering she is one? Which socio-political philosophy gives you the most satisfaction?

NT: “Like” is maybe too strong a word, but, yeah, O.K., let’s go with it. That said, I like Obama only because I so dislike the other two lying assholes. We need some new lying-asshole blood. Not that it will do much good: this country’s had it. But, speaking of old songs, don’t start me talking. And no, Hillary Clinton is not my hypocrite of choice. She is indeed one of the snakes, but she will not “handle” them in any way that is beneficial to anyone but her and them. But people are so fucking stupid that the whole situation is hopeless. Working-class flotskies in the sticks actually believe she’s on their side, one of them. I don’t know who should be shot first, her or them. Fuck it.

Personal

MB: I originally believed your name was pronounced TOE-sches until we met and learned it is pronounced TAH-sches. What is the origin of your name?

NT: The name is Italian, with distant roots in ancient Albania, across the Adriatic from Puglia, the only place in the world—in particular the village of Casalvecchio di Puglia—where my family name is common. My grandfather came to New York from that village in the late nineteenth century. In Italy the name is pronounced TAH-skes, because in Italian “ch” is a “k” sound. Here, though, yeah, it sort of rhymes with “washes,” or with the last two syllables of “galoshes.” That’s how I’ve always pronounced it, anyway. Some people who have known me for thirty years still fuck it up. I think I would sell more books if I had a more easily pronounceable name.

Sex

MB: The Pope was recently here and briefly apologized for the pedophile debacle. Recently 400+ children were taken from a religious compound in Texas under suspicion of sexual abuse. From Babylon to Boston humans don’t ever seem able to get enough satisfaction from sex to just call it a day. Can you talk about what satisfaction you’ve derived from sex and about humanity’s inability to get sexual satisfaction?

NT: Fuck the pope and fuck the rest of humanity. I have derived great and beautiful satisfaction from sex in my life. Lately, I’m getting old, and there’s not so much of it in my days or nights. My prick has moods of it own and goes on strike whenever it wants. And I’ve tired of the obligatory conversational preludes, and grown sort of jaded with the whole routine. These days, I’d rather have sex with a pretty girl’s legs, and even then only if the legs are exceptional, rather than the usual stuff. As the spirit of Aphrodite once whispered to me: gams are the one true god.

I wrote a song called “I’m in Love with Your Knees.” I remember unsettling some girl one night, telling her over dinner, “I prefer not to make love to the whole woman.” Sometimes I have more fun fucking with people than fucking them.

The other day I collided with a messenger in Times Square because we had both turned to stare at the same pair of legs while continuing to walk across the street.

Nick Tosches, Photo by Gardabelle.

Health

What kinds of food and what beverages do you get satisfaction from consuming?

NT: Any food that tastes good and doesn’t make me feel bad afterward. No: simply any food that tastes good. Water is my favorite drink, then wine, the wine I was talking about before. I derive the most satisfaction from pork. I cook pork better than anybody else in the world. Pork beats all meat. I like a good steak. All sorts of fish. Everything. I’m an omnivore. You have to eat the flesh of your lessers.

Life

MB: George Carlin once said the meaning of life was Plastic. Robert Anton Wilson said that the meaning of life was for the Universe to be able and see itself. What is your belief or beliefs about the meaning of life? What is the meaning of life and where/how/when do you get the most satisfaction out of life?

Nick Tosches, Coney Island, Photo by Frank Fortunato.

NT: It is human arrogance to feel that there can be any great depth of meaning in something as finite and fleeting as life. But if they’re into this shit, I would suggest that people look to the original teachings of Ch’an Buddhism, and, maybe even more so, to those lines in the Gospel of Thomas: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” When we figure out what this “what” is, we’re there, we’re free.

As to where, how, and when I get the most satisfaction out of life, man, the list is too long. When I’m right with it, it’s right with me. Sitting on the couch with a smoke and a cup of coffee. Lost in a storm in an unknown distant land. Loving. Being loved. Sitting on a busted fucking bench watching a bunch of stupid fucking pigeons. Colliding with that guy in Times Square the other day and ending up laughing. Walking down the street, seeing the sky subtly change. Feeling the immense blessing, the great gift, of every fucking breath. Pork chops with sauteed onions and potatoes. Everything. When I’m right, it’s right. To wait for it to work the other way around is a sucker’s racket.

Psyched Out: The Technicolor Web’s Online Sound Revolution

Sun, 24 Jun 2007 19:55:57 -0700

Psyched Out: The Technicolor Web’s Online Sound Revolution

by Tony Sclafani

What is it about the psychedelic music of the 1960s that continues to intrigue new generations of people?

Maybe it’s because psychedelic music was a genre where almost anything went, and all possibilities seemed endless. Artists under the spell of psychedelia seemed blissfully unaware of commercial conventions, and were the first rockers to make full use of extra-long songs, nonsensical lyrics, massive distortion and sound effects.

Another reason for psychedelic music’s appeal is that it allows you to “travel with your mind,” as the Seeds put it on their psych-rock opus “Future.” During the psychedelic era, artists created their own little worlds for listeners to explore. Formula love lyrics gave way to songs about everything from jolly little dwarves to 30-year-olds who still played with toys.

Psychedelic music essentially offers a vision of a make-believe world that often seems a heck of a lot more fun than the real one. In the Psychedelic World, cyclists whiz by on white bicycles at midnight, you can hear the grass grow and the skies change from orange to marmalade (some women even have marmalade hair!).

No other music delved into the fantastic like psychedelia, and the genre couldn't be less timely. The trend in lyrics today (especially in the country and rap genres) is to reflect goings on in the real world, not to create an idiosyncratic fantasyland. How can today’s teens get any escape from the often-harsh real world if even their music fails to provide that? True, there are video games, but their dog-eat-dog ethos is reflective of real-world strife. If you were looking for escape circa 1967, all you had to do was turn on the black light, stare at your day-glo posters and groove to the sounds of Clear Light or The Blues Magoos. Voila! A new world. Like, why go out at all?

Laugh at psychedelic music if you will. But it’s instructive to remember that when artists of any post-1960s era have looked to make big statements and take their careers to a new level, it’s psychedelia they usually tap into, for instance Prince’s “Around the World in a Day,” Robert Fripp’s “Exposure” and Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” and "Beautiful Stranger" (directly referencing Love's "She Comes in Colors").

Psychedelic music is crawling all over the media landscape again these days, since this summer marks the 40^th anniversary of the Summer of Love and the Monterey International Pop Festival. And while it’s hard sometimes to know exactly where to start to get into this music (Blossomtoes? Ultimate Spinach?), there is a 24/7 source for psychedelic sounds, thanks to Internet radio.

The Technicolor Web of Sound (www.techwebsound.com) is an online station that serves up a non-stop selection of songs of vintage psychedelic origin. The station, which is powered by Shoutcast streaming technology, is run by Wisconsin native and music buff Paul Moews. Moews, whose name is pronounced as “maze,” was doing Internet radio back before most people even knew what it was.

“I started the station around 2000,” says Moews by cell phone while commuting to his job as an electrical engineer. “with one or two listeners max on a dial-up modem. I was excited when I’d get over three people listening at a time. Now I’ve got hundreds on there.”

Moews’ site stands out not just because of his micro-niche focus, but because his station has a Web site that provides details on the artists he plays (most Shoutcast Internet stations don’t have Web sites, much less intricately-designed ones). There are no disc jockeys, except when the station broadcasts a programmed show called “The Pop Shoppe,” put together by Oregon disc jockey Gregarious. What Moews has done is created a lengthy playlist that intersperses obscure tracks with vintage radio commercials.

“The playlist has been manually designed,” Moews explains. “There’s no randomness to it. It’s such a long playlist that when even I listen a lot of the time I still won’t remember what song is coming up next. One of the keys to its success, I think, is the transitions between the songs, and having the ads in there. If you were to do a random playlist, the ads wouldn’t work at all -- you wouldn’t have good transitions. With the ads, you need to have three or four in a row to mimic an original or authentic FM station
broadcast.”

What can you expect to hear on The Technicolor Web of Sound? Here’s a sampling of the Web site’s “most recent tracks played” list as of June 19, 10:30 a.m.: John’s Children’s “Desdemona,” Pink Floyd’s “Arnold Layne,” Bear’s “So Loose and So Slow,” Stone Country’s “Life Stands Daring Me,” Ill Wind’s “People of The Night,” Steppenwolf’s “The Ostrich,” The Charlatans’ “32-20,” Cosmic Brotherhood’s “Sunshine World,” Painted Faces’ “Black Hearted Susan,” Neon Pearl’s “Forever” and a Jefferson Airplane Levis Ad done by Spencer Dryden.

Moews’ music choices sometimes fall beyond the boundaries of psychedelia, which waters down the station’s appeal (for example, why is Led Zeppelin played at all?). But for the most part, most of what he plays is unheard anywhere else, especially on terrestrial radio stations. Even Satellite Radio is starting to shy away from potentially uncommercial formulas. Moews says he’s able to earn enough money to keep the station running free from any commercial considerations. If there’s anyone Moews takes his musical cues from, it’s his listeners.

“I gradually ended up getting a fan base that started sending me more and more music,” Moews notes. “My audience actually exposed me to a good percentage of what I play now. Plus, bands contacted me as well. I’ve received CDs from various bands, and not just obscure ones, some of the mid-level bands. And that’s exposed me to some music I probably would not have been exposed to if I didn’t have the station.”

Moews says he gets listeners as young as 16 who e-mail him and say “I love your station!” Moews himself also missed the first flowering of psychedelia, having been born in 1968.

“I wasn’t there, but I still like the music,” he says. “I’ve liked that type of music since I was in grade school -- I heard it from a buddy that lived a couple of doors down from me who had a lot of older brothers (with psychedelic albums).”

As for the issue of the proposed royalty rate hike for Internet radio stations (set to take place July 15, 2007), Moews says he’s “riding it out to see what happens.” As countless news outlets have reported, there is still a chance Congress could step in and prevent the US Copyright Royalty Board from making Internet radio stations have to pay more in royalty fees (including retroactive fees) to the collection entity SoundExchange.

“It’s a shame that when internet radio stations … introduce thousands of people to music they have never heard before and actually generate more record sales, that the Record Industry still wants to charge us even more for our efforts,” Moews writes via e-mail when asked about the royalty situation. “It almost seems that they’re trying to suppress certain types of music.”

The Technicolor Web of Sound also helped spawn another radio station that’s probably its only competitor in terms of Web radio programming.

That station is called Beyond the Beat Generation (www.beyondthebeatgeneration.com) and it plays an array of 1960s garage bands so obscure they makes Moews’ playlist look like the Billboard top ten. It also has an exhaustive Web site with artist interviews, photos and even videos.

“I helped (Hans Kesteloo) set up that station,” Moews says. “He’s from Germany and he’s an avid collector. In fact he turned me onto some stuff.”

Like the Technicolor Web of Sound, Beyond the Beat Generation’s site has a rotating “song history” listing. On the Technicolor site, you can click on the name of the artist in the song history and get a biography. On the Beat Generation site, the song history listing tells you the label, serial number and release year for each record and also tells the hometown of the artist. And you thought you were obsessive about records.

Here’s a segment of the Beyond the Beat Generation’s playlist as of June 20, 2:37 p.m.: Jarvo Runga’s “Long Walk Home,” Phyllis Brown’s “Dead,” The Syndicate of Sound’s “Get Outta My Life,” The K Otics’ “Double Shot,” The Dawn 5’s “A Necessary Evil,” The Yardleys’ “Your Love” and Moving Sidewalks’ “Stay Away.”

If you don’t want to be relegated to listening to all this music on your computer speakers, you can send the audio signal to your stereo via a $20 device called the Dynex®-Portable Wireless FM Transmitter (which you can order online at Best Buy). For serious music fans, all of the above technology has pretty much made commercial radio stations irrelevant.

You can also take the MP3 streams from both these stations, dump them into your Winamp player, toggle between them, and never hear a familiar 1960s song for hours on end. It’s, like, a total alternate reality, man.

Absolute Grey interviewed by Mike Appelstein

Tue, 03 Apr 2007 10:35:30 -0700

One of last year’s nicest surprises was a deluxe double-CD reissue of Absolute Grey’s 1985 debut album, Greenhouse. Absolute Grey was a four-piece from Rochester, a small city in upstate New York known mostly for its colleges and Eastman Kodak’s world headquarters. The Greenhouse reissue collects the original LP’s eight tracks and adds a bonus disc of live material. What's fascinating is how dated it sounds now. I don’t mean this in a negative way. Some LPs are timeless; they could have been recorded any time in the past forty years and sounded fresh and new. Other albums end up date-stamped--you can tell exactly when they were recorded and what their probable influences were. Listening to Greenhouse, it's easy to guess Absolute Grey's influences: R.E.M., Dream Syndicate, Sandy Denny-era Fairport Convention, perhaps a little Bay Area '60s psychedelia. In other words, the typical things smart kids from small college towns were listening to in the mid-1980s. The guitar tones are jangly, and lead singer Beth Brown has clearly been influenced by Michael Stipe's early moaning vocals. Many bands of the time had the same influences, but precious few took them out of the realm of imitation. Absolute Grey were one of those few. Rather than sounding embarrassingly derivative, Greenhouse sounds like a welcome dispatch from an earlier era.

The live tracks add a new dimension as well. Songs that were moody and pensive on record take on a much more raucous, discordant tone. They don’t sound like psych-pop avatars at all in person, but rather excited kids playing rock music for local friends and fans. It’s also nice to hear so many songs that previously existed on demos if at all.

Greenhouse remains Absolute Grey’s most celebrated release. The band continued on for a few more years, releasing the What Remains LP and Painted Post EP on Midnight and Sand Down The Moon LP for the Greek label Di-Di. The former members are now scattered between the East and West coasts. However, it looks like their story’s not done yet. Three of the former band members (minus guitarist Matt Kitchen) are planning to record new material under the Absolute Grey moniker. There are also plans afoot to issue Sand Down The Moon domestically.

Vocalist Beth Brown, drummer Pat Thomas, and bassist Mitch Rasor were kind enough to answer some questions about their early days. I have been wanting to do this interview for almost twenty years, when I first fell in love with Greenhouse via college radio…

Scram: Let's get the basics out of the way first. How did the four of you get together?

Beth Brown: We were from Pittsford, one of the nicer, more sheltered suburbs of Rochester. I had been in a new wave band right out of high school in 1979 called Hit & Run. We did originals and some covers: Blondie, Patti Smith, the Cars, Tom Petty and Talking Heads. We did some recording, and one of our songs was chosen to be on a Homegrown record. Homegrown was a radio show on rock station WCMF in Rochester, which interviewed and promoted local bands. We played a record release party and were introduced to all the "cool" musicians from the city. Nobody knew who we were, but when we played all eyes were on us and we got a really good reception. Hit & Run only lasted a year. Some of the guys went off to college.

A few years later, I was living at my parents' house when I met Matt and Mitch. I came home one night from working at the record store, and my younger brother was playing Dungeons and Dragons with a bunch of guys. Matt and Mitch were among them and I thought they were really cool right off the bat. They were in a band called the Cads (what a great name) with Matt's older brother, Will. They were doing their own material and although they weren't that great, there was something so artistic and intriguing about them. They knew I had been a singer in a band, and we decided to start playing together. They were seven years younger than me, but I didn't care in the least. We tried out a few drummers and that's when we found Pat.

Pat Thomas: Matt, Mitch and Beth had already been doing a bit of rehearsing when I met them. They had one original song. I saw an ad that Beth had put up in the record store where she worked. At the very least I thought I'd check out what Beth was all about, as I'd noticed her strutting through the record store.

Mitch Rasor: We made these stupid arty posters and put them around the city. They showed a frog playing lily pads and we said we were looking for a lily pad player. Some of the lily pad players we auditioned before Pat were truly bad. Pat came in with these tight mod striped London pants and a very 1970s porn star mustache. It was love at first sight.

Pat: My memory of that first rehearsal was that Beth was high-strung and intense, Matt was kinda shy yet friendly at the same time and Mitch had a certain charming confidence. For whatever reason I was into making music with these three people, even though they had no real songs yet.

Scram: I didn't know until reading the Greenhouse liner notes that Matt and Mitch were so young. What was it like being in a professional band at that age? What did your parents/classmates think of the project?

Mitch: My parents were completely supportive. We practiced in their basement; they came to many shows. My mother and I had a ritual of going out to lunch downtown and buying a new set of Rotosound bass strings the day before every gig. The band was the antithesis of the conformity, geographic isolation and intellectual frostbite of high school. Because of the band, most my friends were older, more educated and better medicated. People in school were not aware of the band; it was a different world based in the city compared to the suburbs. Ironically, after the freedom of the band, the travel, attention and camaraderie, I found my first year at Oberlin to be restrictive and confining, even though it was a place of incredible musical experimentation, politics and intense friendships.

Scram: Pat,where are you from originally, and when did you hit town? What was your musical background prior to the move? Did you have designs on forming a band in Rochester?

Pat: Like Beth, I was a few years older than Matt and Mitch. I grew up in Corning, NY, and moved to Rochester in June 1982 to work at Kodak. Before Absolute Grey, I was in many garage and cover bands. I'd also written and recorded some of my own songs, which had a strong Lou Reed/Bob Dylan vibe. When I first moved to Rochester, I was actually searching for a prog-rock band to join. I wanted something more along the lines of early King Crimson and Brian Eno. My taste has always been all over the map, but just before I hooked up with Absolute Grey, I'd gotten a bit tired of prog and really started getting into the Dream Syndicate as they reminded me of my big faves, the Velvet Underground.

Scram: Please describe the Rochester music scene of the time. It sounds like a friendly, close-knit scene. Did touring bands make it through town often? Did you have a supportive radio station or club scene? A good record store?

Mitch: I look back on the scene with some nostalgia because in hindsight, Absolute Grey was very hip in one area code. The scene was a close group of bands, friends and weirdoes brought together by the music. Rochester did not have real artistic depth, but it was an important stop on the national tour circuit between Cleveland/Chicago and New York.

Pat: There was a great record store, the Record Archive, where Beth worked. They stocked a lot of indie-rock, etc. (Now the store is kinda lame.) There were two great college radio stations, WITR and WRUR. A club called Scorgies, where we often played, had tons of great touring bands--Dream Syndicate, Long Ryders, Rain Parade, dBs, the Neats, Love Tractor, Let's Active, Lyres, the Three O'clock, Game Theory, Alex Chilton, True West. We often opened up for these bands and/or hung out with them. Most of the local bands were cool to hang with; we had a special relationship with Invisible Party. They made one hard-to-find seven-inch single, but later split into two separate bands called Lotus STP and the Ferrets.

Beth: The Replacements graced the Rochester stage with their presence several times.

Mitch: Rochester was not Los Angeles, but in our isolation we created something cool, which in some ways makes it actually more meaningful and culturally critical. Our critical mass was always about to unravel. It was more like fending off extinction than trying on a lifestyle for size. I prefer the edge of things.

Scram: Did you feel naive or isolated in Rochester?

Pat: I felt very isolated. I knew in my heart that if the band was based in New York or Boston, we'd have gotten much more press, a better record deal, etc. This is why I begged the others to do more touring. We did a few mini-tours, but everyone (well, at least Matt and Mitch) had other things they wanted to do with their time.

Mitch: I did not feel as naive then as I do now. I thought we could do anything. That is the attitude you have to have. Listening back through our veil of influences I can hear the naïveté, but we were 15, 16, 17 years old, and most kids at this age can't even masturbate properly. As I like to say, we somehow rose above all the opportunities handed to us in life to make meaningful music.

Scram: How soon after forming did you start recording? At what point did you feel ready to make an album?

Mitch: This question is really for Pat. He brought both musicianship and professionalism to the band.

Pat: The basic time line goes amazingly quickly. Band forms in October 1983 with no songs. In January 1984, we play our first shows with all original material; in April 1984 we record our first demo tape in a home studio; in July 1984 we record Greenhouse. In December 1984, Greenhouse is released. Pretty amazing when I look back on it. I guess it was all that youthful energy.

Mitch: I cannot see how we could have recorded and proceeded more quickly than we did. We really saw ourselves as musicians at varying degrees of the tortured artist scale. Pat was probably the most tortured, but also the most professionally ambitious. It was almost as if Matt and I couldn't be bothered with commerce. That was naive, but then again I was living at home, my father was an executive, I belonged to not one but three tennis clubs. I mean, why would I have to think about commerce in practical terms? I could master my serve and volley game and compose music.

Pat: It was the members of [local band] Personal Effects who suggested we make a record. I think they were talking about a single, and I quickly decided that wasn't good enough--I wanted a whole LP! I tracked down a decent studio run by Dave Anderson, raised some money and we went for it. We didn't have any idea exactly what were doing in that studio and Dave knew just a bit more than us. Somehow it worked.

Scram: How did the songwriting process work? Did everyone bring in songs, or were you more into jamming?

Beth: Mitch did the majority of writing and introduced a lot of ideas and we would build upon them. I wrote the melodies and lyrics. Mitch wrote a lot of lyrics, too.

Pat: Beth and Mitch were a good songwriting team. We were all a good support to that.

Mitch: Each song was a bit different, but to my recollection I wrote most songs on the guitar and bass and Beth and I split the lyrics. Of course, the same songs or ideas could have been a total disaster if Pat and Matt did not flesh them out through hours of rehearsals. The songs are not that unique, but Beth brought real feeling to them. She made the band in many ways.

Pat: Early on, both Matt and Mitch seemed to come forward with song ideas, but after awhile, Matt brought less ideas to the table and Mitch brought more. The key thing, as I remember, was the whole band worked on the arrangements of the songs and whipped them into shape. It was rare that someone would walk in with the whole song totally mapped out from start to finish. We didn't jam much, but we certainly jammed on actual song ideas and structures to finalize the song arrangement.

Scram: Were you trying to emulate a specific sound or approach? Who did you feel your peers were?

Beth: As a singer I was not trying to sound like anybody else, but I'm sure we alI had our influences. Our peers were local bands like Invisible Party and Personal Effects.

Pat: When the band started, none of us had really heard the Paisley Underground bands. We didn’t map out a sound in advance; we just plugged in and started playing. As time went on, we seemed to discover bands that we felt sounded similar to us. People would point out bands that they thought we sounded like, from the Jefferson Airplane to Echo and the Bunnymen to various Paisley Undergrounders. I think R.E.M. was a strong influence on us all. I certainly felt we had something in common with other East Coast bands such as Dumptruck or Salem 66, but mostly I looked towards the West: Dream Syndicate, Rain Parade, True West, Clay Allison and others. I was pleased when I found out that 28th Day were listening a lot to Greenhouse as they started developing their own sound and songs.

Mitch: I don't think we were trying to emulate any bands in specific, besides maybe churning through secondary source influences like Chronic Town, Heaven Up Here, Entertainment! and Seventeen Seconds. We knew we had something that was ours. The bass had a melody role along the lines of Joy Division/New Order, rather than holding the bottom with the kick drum. The guitar often sounded like Echo and the Bunnymen. Thank god Pat and Beth had better taste in music and introduced us to Fairport Convention, Big Star and Suicide. I remember Pat doing this solo Suicide type thing at a 24-dance marathon, of all things, and people were dropping like flies.

Scram: Please describe the sessions at Saxon Recording.

Pat: Saxon was a friendly goofy guy named Dave Anderson several years older than us, with an 8-track reel to reel, half way decent equipment, located on the third story (the attic) of a large old house. He and we learned as we went along. He was easy to work with and cheap, so other bands like Invisible Party started going there. Without Saxon, I'd say probably less records would have happened--I certainly don't remember any other local studio trying to get our business. In many ways, our April 1984 demo tape and our final album, Sand Down The Moon, sound the most like Absolute Grey did live, as they were recorded by my pal Bill Groome in his kitchen and living room in Corning, NY with fairly crude equipment (in comparison to the slightly better pro equipment at Saxon). Bill had more of an ear for what we were trying to do, I think, than Dave did.

Mitch: We had no idea what we were doing in the studio, and our "greatness" got lost somewhere between the mics, the mixing board and the compressor of the month. Sometimes I wish a young Jim Dickinson or Joe Boyd was running a studio in Rochester when we were around. Not only would the albums sound better today, but I can imagine our songwriting, as influenced by the recording process, would have been more fine-tuned. Not to be rude, but I think the recording process was an unrecording of our sound. I don't mean stripped down and direct in the style of Steve Albini, but that when we walked into the studio the band was left at the door.

Scram: What made you decide to re-release Greenhouse? What was it like going through the old live and studio tapes?

Beth: This is a pet project that Pat did on his own. He's the Keeper of the Absolute Grey Flame.

Pat: Now that we live in all digital world, I felt that if Greenhouse wasn't put out on CD, there would become a time when it wouldn't really exist at all, as if it never happened. I remember something John Lennon said about when he heard a Beatles song on the radio: he said it brought him back that session, who was doing what and who said what, just like a time machine back to the actual recording session. It was little bit like that going back to the original reel to reel multi-track tapes of Greenhouse. I'd never done that before, and here I was hearing us talk between songs from 20 years ago. I was hoping to find some outtakes. I knew that there weren't any unreleased songs, but I was surprised to find no other versions of the same songs. For example, we did record a version of “Memory Of You” in the studio during the Greenhouse recording, but it wasn't on the master reel. I also found out that we slowed down the tape down when Beth overdubbed her vocals and for the mixing. In other words, we recorded some of the songs very fast in tempo in the studio (probably because we were nervous) and we must have realized later that the tempo was too fast for Beth to sing on top of it. The live stuff was interesting, as again I hadn't listened to it in years, but I for one was very happy with the overall sound quality and performance.

Beth: I think when you're in the studio you have a tendency to try to play everything perfectly, so that's your focus. When we played live it was all about excitement and energy and putting on a good show. You can hear the difference.

Mitch: Thankfully there are live recordings of the band, but to this day I believe live shows and studio recording are very different playing and listening experiences and should be kept that way. The studio is a totally controlled environment, and it is a pretense to think otherwise. In the end, I wish there were better studio recordings of us with less of the direct acoustic guitar sound and more full bass tones… but as I listen to the remastered Greenhouse right now, the recordings were not complete failures.

Pat: Frankly, when we went in to record Greenhouse we had no idea what we were doing from a studio or production point of view, nor did some of the people recording us. I think performance-wise we were successful, soundwise we were not. I remember spending hours trying to capture our live electric guitar sound in the studio; we tried about a dozen different amps and guitars and none of us were ever satisfied. We felt that Greenhouse didn't really sound like "us"--and "us," at that point, was our live show. I remember many Rochester fans being disappointed by the sound of Greenhouse because they knew what we really sounded like live. But outside of Rochester it didn't matter.

Scram: How come there are so many early live tracks that were left unrecorded? How come gems like "Watching Waiting" and "Candy Canes" never made it to official release?

Mitch: I can specifically remember my Spanish teacher (who also played some keyboards on Greenhouse) asking me why "Candy Canes" was not on Greenhouse. I said it was too stupid and obvious. We thought the songs had to be long and minimal, like "Notes." To a certain extent, we were right. “Watching Waiting” was our first real song, and I think we were sick of it by the time we got around to recording the first record. Also, if I remember, we recorded "Watching Waiting" and "Candy Canes" on our first cassette/demo tape release and we simply wanted to record the latest songs for the first album.

Scram: Give me your memories of the live version of "Getting Me Down." Beth sounds drunk; true?

Beth: I was often drunk at shows, but so was the audience. It will be a new experience to play out with my new band without imbibing first. I don't know what I'll do with my nerves.

Mitch: We were not notorious drunks by any means, but I do remember a show when we were so drunk we kept making mistakes. Finally I dropped my bass and started spray-painting it. I then announced that people could get their money back at the door. Quite a few did.

Scram: Who was Pet Casket, referenced at the end of “Getting Me Down?”

Pat: Alex Chilton hadn't toured for many years, or least hadn't come through our neck of the woods… it was a couple of months before Feudalist Tarts. In the meantime, the legend of Big Star had grown, so we (a couple of the bands in Rochester, mainly Absolute Grey and Invisible Party) were all super eager to open for Chilton at Scorgies. We decided the only fair thing to do was to form a one-time-only supergroup with members of both bands, plus Bob Martin from Personal Effects. That way we could all be Chilton’s opening act! Instead of playing our own songs we mainly played covers: Velvet Underground, Beatles, etc.

Scram: Absolute Grey seems to have had a relationship with Dream Syndicate; you covered "Tell Me When It's Over" live, and Steve Wynn has fond memories of you. When did that begin, and how long-lasting was it?

Mitch: Pat was the Steve Wynn connection, although we all loved Dream Syndicate. One of my favorite concerts of all time was a Dream Syndicate show at Scorgies. At the end of the set, the owner jumped up on stage and yelled "open bar," and there was this tidal wave of people to the back of the room. Then the band started playing encores. Last week I was eating dinner with the band New Year, and bragging to Chris Brokaw that I saw and knew Steve before he played with him as part of Come. Chris quickly put me in my place and said that he met Steve in 1983. But I have fond memories of being backstage with Steve, smoking pot and studying for a test the next day. I don't think he remembers anyone in the band but Pat.

Pat: Early on, like a lot of people, I really got hooked on Days of Wine and Roses and sought Steve out. He saw a like-minded soul and welcomed me into his life, giving me his home phone number and really supporting my own projects, such as the solo recordings that I did outside of Absolute Grey. When Steve broke up the Syndicate, that relationship continued with Steve playing on some of my own songs and recordings. We did some shows together in the US and Europe. Most recently, I produced two Dream Syndicate reissues for Rykodisc--digging thru old tapes (I hold a good chunk of the Dream Syndicate tape archives), writing liner notes and picking unreleased songs. Currently I'm co-producing a Best of Steve Wynn solo CD.

Scram: How much touring did you do outside of Rochester?

Pat: In April 1985, we played CBGBs. In July 1985, we went to Albany, New Haven and Boston. In August 1985, we went to Toronto. We did a few other adventures such as Hamilton College and Buffalo. In August 1987, we did Albany, New York and New Haven.

Mitch: I wish we had done a full European and US tour at the time. Maybe a road show with the Dream Syndicate and Rain Parade.

Scram: What were local shows like? What kind of crowds came to see you?

Beth: We had a lot of fans. It was a huge party scene. There were a lot of local bands and we would go to each other's shows and meet a lot of people. A lot of kids from Matt and Mitch's high school would come and see us.

Pat: We'd draw a couple of hundred people easily, mostly between the ages of 16 and 22. We got a lot of local airplay. Then when the drinking age went from 18 to 21, it made it hard for those 21 and under kids to sneak into shows. Scorgies went of business because of that change.

Mitch: The live shows were special events: entertaining, visual, loud and memorable. Two filmmakers/photographers were quasi-band members, which was Pat's nod to Andy Warhol's Factory. We created events. We played in all-white modernist galleries with films projected on every surface. We played in crowded, wonderfully disgusting college living rooms with beer everywhere. We even did a guerilla-style acoustic tour of Rochester laundromats.

Beth: When we had our first record release party there was a blizzard. It was snowing hard with no sign of stopping. I was so worried that no one would venture out to see us, but when we walked into the club it was totally packed!

Scram: After Greenhouse came out, you signed with Midnight Records, at the time more of a garage label. How did that come about? How do you feel about the way they promoted/distributed you?

Beth: I had only met J.D. Martignon one time when Pat and I visited Midnight Records in NYC. He looked like a real creep and didn't say two words to me. Sure enough, as soon as he had my number, a drunk J.D. called me one day and made several inane and inept passes at me over the phone. I think he thought I was gonna jump up and hop a flight to NY to go sleep with him so he'd actually do some work promoting our record on his small-time, crummy label. What a sleazebag. Being on Midnight was a huge mistake. We could have put the record out ourselves and Pat would have promoted it in spades compared to what J.D. did. Midnight ruined our momentum.

Pat: I think Beth's story says it all. Again, it was me networking, this time with the wrong guy, but sadly J.D. was the only one who showed any real interest in signing us.

Mitch: As a business venture it was a fiasco, but at that age and even today there is a certain caché in being signed to a label, no matter how small. Truth is we did a better job promoting ourselves, holding marketing package parties and letting Pat use his phone at Kodak to call anyone who would listen.

Scram: After Midnight, you signed with Di-Di, a Greek label. How did that come about? (I don't remember ever seeing those records in a US store!)

Pat: Somehow the Greeks liked us freaks. Absolute Grey was popular in the Greek underground from the beginning, due to some crazed fanzine editor. So, this fanzine guy hooked me up with his Greek pals, for better or worse. Mostly worse, as the label in Greece was... I don't what it was, but it was something, I can tell you.

Scram: In fact, it sometimes seems like Absolute Grey was better-known in parts of Europe than in your own country. Did that bother you, or perhaps amuse you?

Pat: We had support in England via Acid Tapes releases and Bucketful Of Brains magazine reviews, then there was the Greek thing. We seemed to get airplay in France, got reviewed in Italy.

Mitch: We were thrilled, but always wanted or thought we deserved more. The fact that we were better known and respected in Europe is good dinner conversation more than anything. I was in London a couple of months ago for meetings and it did not hurt that the day before there was a review of the Greenhouse reissue in the London Sunday Times!

Scram: You released an album and an EP under the Absolute Grey name. Painted Post, however, is as a two-piece. What happened with the band between What Remains and Painted Post? Was it a "breakup" per se? How did you reconcile for the last album, Sand Down The Moon?

Pat: When the band started, Matt and Mitch were both in high school. As What Remains was being made, they graduated and began making plans to go off to college. Beth and I begged, pleaded for them to delay college for just one year to see if we could make a go of it as a band, do some touring, trying to keep the whole thing rolling. They refused--no surprise, really, from Matt, as his heart was never 100 percent into the band, but without Mitch we didn't have a band. Mitch was young and headstrong, and felt that going to college was where he wanted to be. So, in my mind, the band was pretty much over. I had left Kodak and had no reason to stay in Rochester without doing the band. When Mitch got to Oberlin, he sort of freaked out and realized how much the band meant to him. He asked me if I'd stay and wait in Rochester for him, doing the band during the summer and school breaks. I had no desire to wait for Mitch to come home for the holidays--plus, as I explained to him, touring schedules and chances to grow don't fit around school breaks. What if we got offered a tour for the following week after school started again? So I split for Copenhagen for a year of reading Kerouac and William Burroughs, hanging out in Danish cafes, and developing my own songwriting.

What Remains came out in spring 1986 while I was in Denmark. I received an official letter from "the band" (now down to Beth and Mitch) telling me that Matt had quit and I was being kicked out, and that the $1,000 that was sitting in the band's joint bank account was being kept by Mitch and Beth to fund the band's future. That was the part that pissed me off the most, as I should have received a check for $250 with my kiss-off letter. Ironically, Mitch now said that he was ready to tour. But he and Beth never found anyone they were satisfied with--and the band played no shows without Matt or me.

Beth: Painted Post was a Mitch/Beth project. Mitch and I kept in touch when he was going to Oberlin. We made the record one summer when he was home from school in Rochester. I'm not sure where Matt was but I think he was out of town, too, and not available. We happened to all be in town when we made Sand Down the Moon, but it was after we had officially broken up. It was like a short-term reunion album.

Mitch: Basically, Beth and I were the two songwriters from the band and we stuck it out for a while through the mail and then made a record. An overlooked record, fortunately.

Pat: When I got to back to Rochester in early 1987, heads had cooled out a bit and Beth asked me if I could handle playing some percussion; she and Mitch wanted to play acoustic shows to support Painted Post. When Matt heard I was back, he seemed eager to rejoin. The next thing we knew, we were back together for one long summer of 1987, a short tour, writing more songs (or I should say, learning songs that Mitch had already written and a few bits from Beth as well), and to record what I think is our best album (besides Greenhouse), which is called Sand Down The Moon.

Mitch: I wrote the Sand Down the Moon songs during my sophomore year and the following summer we somehow got back together to play. Again, Pat has the complete annotated transcripts. It was a great time. We played some drunk shows that summer after a tour promoter screwed us and then at some point I mixed the album in the town of Painted Post, NY, of all places. I think this record gets closer to what we were like as a band. Not because I mixed it, but because Bill Groome recorded it.

Pat: By this time, we knew what we wanted from a recording. Beth was kinda pissy the whole summer as she knew it was the last go-around, but other than Matt and Mitch getting on my nerves from time to time (and me on theirs), I enjoyed myself for the final fling.

Scram: When did the band break up for good? What circumstances precipitated it? What regrets, if any, remained? Are there any unrecorded/unreleased songs from that time?

Beth: The band's demise came when it was time for Matt and Mitch to go to college. The band was just something for them to do in high school, but it meant a lot more to me and Pat and we wanted it to continue. We should have agreed to take a long hiatus to do some living and then gotten back together so we had new, fresh ideas to put on the table. I think we had a good chemistry as a band and wrote naturally and easily together. I would have been very interested to regroup, but the others showed no interest. Everyone lives in a different state, two in the east and two in the west, so we can't easily get together.

Pat: In my mind, the band broke up for good at the tail end of August 1987. We drove in two cars coming back from a short tour--Mitch and me in one car, Matt and Beth in the other. When we arrived back in Rochester, Matt and Beth had already gone their separate ways. I never saw Matt and Beth for many years after that. I dropped Mitch off at his house, and didn't see him in the flesh for awhile either. Mitch and I kept in contact, however, and either argued about old bullshit and tried to torture each other or discussed our own separate music careers. I always respected Mitch as a musician, and I helped get a few of his solo CDs released in Europe. The one thing that the Greenhouse reissue has done has allowed Mitch and me to really drop the old shit and get together again as both friends and artists.

Mitch: It is sort of a blur, but I think Pat started making his own music and found a life in that and I also think he moved out west and got things rolling with his Heyday Records label. I then proceeded to start recording my own records. They did well, and now Pat and I have active lives as musicians (mine has been inactive while raising twin girls the last three years, but I will record with a new band this winter). I also went on to graduate school and got into the arts, and there is only so much time. Pat and I still play music everyday and Beth is working on new material. I could see us making a CD EP, but only if it was about now.

Pat: I think Mitch realized how much the band meant to me when I surprised him with the new Greenhouse by sending him a few. I didn't tell him in advance what I was doing. The CD also showed us how little Matt really cares about his past. He's not bitter, it's just not important to him, nor does he play guitar anymore.

Scram: Pat, you moved to San Francisco and formed Heyday. (A belated thanks for releasing Barbara Manning’s Lately I Keep Scissors, by the way.) Where did life take the rest of you after the band--not just musically, but otherwise?

Pat: Just wanted to say I'm working on a Barbara Manning Scissors box set. There's a ton of out-takes, demos and live material from the Scissors time period.

Beth: I went to art school in Boston. I had a child in 1995 and opened an artists' cooperative gallery in the Berkshires, Mass. I had a renewed interest in music in 2000 and started playing guitar and writing songs. I'm now pursuing doing a studio project and forming a band.

Mitch: I have a studio and house in Maine and a studio and apartment in Basel, Switzerland. Not Williamsburg and London. There is something liberating being outside of what everyone thinks is important. I mean, people in my town wear trucker caps with absolutely no sense of irony and I am grateful.

Scram: Perhaps the biggest news is that Absolute Grey has reformed to record new material! How is that coming along?

Pat: Well, it's a two-step process. The first step is that Mitch and I are going to remix Sand Down The Moon and release it on CD, probably under the title of For Some Reason. In my mind, this is like a new album, as pretty much no one outside of Greece has ever heard it. Secondly, Beth has written a batch of songs that I think would be really good with Mitch coming in and helping her finish them off. Beth and Mitch haven't really spoken much in the past couple of years, so there's a getting to know each other again process going on, which as I write is moving along nicely. Not because we don't want him, but Matt won't be involved in any new recordings (his choice, not ours). It's a safe bet that Chris Brokaw would be playing guitar, which is totally fine by me.

Scram: Beth, I read that you're planning to release some solo songs. Please elaborate, and let us know where we can find them.

Beth: I'm living in Ithaca, NY right now, but I plan to move to Rochester in the spring of 2005. I'm working with some musicians there who are old friends and I will be recording my album with Dave at Saxon. It will probably sound quite different from Absolute Grey. My voice still sounds good after all these years, possibly even better because of my life's experience. The album will be most, if not all, my own material.

Scram: In the 15-odd years since Absolute Grey broke up, there's always been a small groundswell of interest in what you did. Have you had experiences with people tracking you down or approaching you about the band?

Pat: I often don't think we made much of an impact, and then I'll get surprised. A Google search will show a few bands being compared to us, which is cool. One funny experience was in the early 1990s was watching this English indie-folk duo Evergreen Dazed play in San Francisco. I heard a song that seemed oddly familiar; it took me a few minutes to realize they were covering a song from Painted Post. As Byron says in his liner notes, because we never over-hyped, we never wore out our welcome in people's minds. I certainly was honored that well-known music critics like Byron Coley and Jim DeRogatis still felt Absolute Grey worthy of their time and attention in 2003 to write liner notes.

Beth: There are still people in Rochester who are fans, so I'm looking forward to playing there. I'm sure I'll have a lot of support.

Mitch: Pat has more connections with people interested in Absolute Grey. He was the most notable member.

Beth: As I said, Pat is the official keeper of the flame. He keeps our memory going.

Mitch: Pat is much more involved with music. My life is consumed with running my urban design/landscape architecture studios (www.mrld.net), teaching, showing my work, writing, raising my daughters and working on a new record every couple years. It is interesting to note the current wave of indie-folk artists would not have been heard through the din of post-rock a couple years ago. I hope now that people are more aware of other music, Absolute Grey might get some more attention. And for me, the music I keep making is just an expansion of the music I wrote with Absolute Grey. I have not really changed styles or instrumentation. I hope the songs are better. My daily life with music and musicians is still very satisfying and recent tours have been fun. I enjoy the process more now than in Absolute Grey because most of the pretense is gone and it is just about making music.

(This interview originally appeared in Scram #20)

Lost Amusement Parks by Chas Glynn

Mon, 26 Mar 2007 12:04:13 -0700

Lost Amusement Parks
by Chas Glynn

When I was quite young, I went with my folks to Playland at the Beach, a San Francisco amusement park that was about to be torn down. Researching it now, I realize that the oldest I could have been would have been was seven. Even as a child, though, I had a sense that I was visiting something that was ending, something that belonged to another era. Having an architect dad may have helped—many family trips revolved around visits to historic structures that were on the verge of demolition. When we visited Playland, it was winter, rainy, and the Wild Mouse and most of the other outdoor rides had already been decommissioned. The indoor fun house, however, was still open for business. One entered the fun house through a door topped with a giant clown (looking back this may explain my lifelong clown obsession). Even in its dotage, though, the fun house was... fun. There was a big wooden slide (which I think may be the one on the cover of the Cowsills' album) a vast tunnel which rotated as you attempted to walk through it, and the house of mirrors. I remember my dad grumbling about the state the place had fallen into—the slide was slow because hadn't been waxed to a high sheen, the panes of glass in the house of mirrors were covered in dust and countless fingerprints. I was enthralled. Shortly after our visit, Playland was torn down and condos built in its place. Across Ocean Boulevard, the Camera Obscura remains as one of the few leftovers of this urban seaside amusement park, although the part service, loath to be burdened with a decaying relic perched on an unstable cliff, continually threatens to tear it down. As with many people, amusement parks left a strong impression on my young mind. And having the site of these memories disappear leaves a certain nostalgic sadness. My own experience inspired me to look into other amusement parks that have come and gone. In tribute to these lost places, here are some amusement parks and attractions that live on only in memory, as well as one magical individual's visions of what a park should be.

I first read of The World of Sid & Marty Krofft amusement park in Dynamite magazine, which had an article on the then-planned park, and featured a breathless description of a unique new ride in which one sat inside a giant silver ball as it careened through an enormous pinball machine. Hearing nothing more of it in ensuing years, I assumed it was a pipe dream, but I later found out that it had opened and operated, although for less than a year. Located in Atlanta’s Omni International complex, TWOS&MK opened in 1976. This was an indoor park—more of an amusement mall than a traditional park. Visitors boarded a giant escalator which carried them to the top of the six-story complex, where they entered through a gateway composed of a pair of enormous, balloon-wielding mimes. Guests then passed into the Kroffts’ personal fantasy world. In addition to the pinball ride, there was a 60-ton "Crystal Carousel" which floated, hovercraft-like, on a cushion of air. Most familiar was a re-creation of Lidsville, from the psychedelic Krofft TV series of the same name, where visitors were invited to "celebrate amid giant hats." A short trip down a simulated mine shaft conveyed visitors to the "Living Island Adventure," where they could view a pageant starring characters from the H.R. Pufnstuf series.

The park, intrinsically tied to several popular television series, could have been a success, but various factors caused it to fail. It faced many problems—the pinball ride caused a number of injuries, and kept breaking down. Indeed, most of the attractions were built from scratch and faced frequent mechanical problems. And the summer of ’76 proved to be a bad time for tourism. High gas prices, coupled with relentless Bicentennial boosterism (which created the impression that popular tourist spots would be packed with celebrators) meant that many stayed at home that year. And then, too, the Kroffts' vision was just a little… odd. While the warped and vaguely disturbing aesthetic of their TV shows meant that they would long stick in the minds of kids growing up in the '70s, it didn’t necessarily play well with parents taking their kids out for a day of fun. What was amusingly weird for a half-hour on Saturday morning became a bit unnerving when one had to spend a day stuck among it in a windowless complex.

Strange as The World of Sid & Marty Krofft was, it paled in comparison the transcendental meditation-themed amusement park long planned by Doug Henning. TM combined Eastern mysticism and pop-spirituality to become a fad in the '70s, but it’s hard to conceive of it as natural fit for the hurdy-gurdy world of the amusement park. Magician Doug Henning thought differently, though. In 1987, he put his career on hold to begin the creation of Maharishi Veda Land—a theme park to be built in his native Canada, close to Niagara Falls (with a planned sister park in India) which was devoted to Vedic wisdom and enlightenment. In a press release he stated: "We are taking Maharishi's knowledge and then structuring it into entertaining and magical exhibits, rides, and films. There will be boat rides through an ancient Vedic civilization where everyone lives in perfect harmony with natural law. In this exhibit we see enlightened men flying through the air, making objects materialize and vanish at will. We will be able to walk through the Courtyard of Maya where everything we see is an illusion that fades away at a second glance." Doug used his illusionist skills to design such features as piles of money and jewels that disappeared as people grabbed for them, levitating buildings, and boulders metamorphisizing into people. Featured attractions were to be the Magic Flying Chariot Ride (which took visitors on a Monsanto-inner-space-like journey into the atomic structure of a rose), the Corridor of Time (in which parkgoers went on a trip from the birth to the death of the universe), and the Seven Steps to Enlightenment (a series of tiered pavilions which were designed to lead the visitor toward full consciousness). Henning boasted that "one time through and you will never see the world the same way again." Doug Henning died in February 2000, but he earmarked much of his fortune to ensure that work would continue on his beloved amusement park. However, despite over a decade of planning, Maharishi Veda Land seems still to exist largely on paper. Only time will tell if tourists of the future will flock to this park to mix spiritual enlightenment with their thrills and spills.

Less odd, but still very much a personal vision, was one man’s attempt to recreate the mythical world of Oz. Atop North Carolina's Beech Mountain (a popular winter resort), Grover Robbins enlisted the help of designer Jack Pentes to construct the Land of Oz theme park in 1970. Eschewing traditional rides, it endeavored to give visitors the experience of visiting L. Frank Baum's literary creation. Beginning in a Kansas farm (which featured a petting zoo), visitors went through a simulated tornado and embarked on a walk down a yellow brick road into a place adorned with colorful Styrofoam scenery and dancing, costumed characters. One could visit the Cowardly Lion's cave, peer into the handcrafted Scarecrow's house, or take a Wizardly ride in a hot-air balloon. Unfortunately, the remote location made travel to the park an ordeal of twisting mountain roads, and the area was prone to frequent flash thunderstorms, which sent visitors scurrying for shelter. Park employees soon adapted, and would kick off their shoes so as not to slip on the yellow brick road, which became treacherously slick when wet. In 1975, a fire swept through the park, destroying many of the attractions as well as the original dress worn by Judy Garland in the film version of The Wizard of Oz, on display courtesy of Oz-ibila collector Debbie Reynolds. What remained of the park was kept in operation for several more years, growing increasingly more vandalized and decrepit, until it finally closed in 1980. Occasional reunions of park employees and Oz fans take place among the ruins, and Dorothy’s house has been incorporated into the nearby Emerald Mountain vacation development, but this Oz now largely exists only in memory.

Disneyland, of course, is in no danger of disappearing, but many parts of it have faded away. Over the years, rides and attractions are updated, subtly or radically altered, or removed altogether. Tom Sawyer's Island initially featured a fishing pier, with rods provided by the park, but this was closed very shortly after the park’s opening. It quickly became evident that the successful anglers would be burdened with an unwieldy dead fish for the rest of their visit, and many were abandoned in trashcans or lockers. The nearby Swiss Family Treehouse experienced a more recent renovation. Following the release of one of Disney’s animated Tarzan movies, the attraction was renamed Tarzan's Treehouse, with revamped signage and various modification to the set dressing. In an odd oversight, however, Swiss polka music still plays on speakers hidden throughout the treehouse.

Those who visited Disneyland in the '70s and '80s may recall a rather dated version of the future presented by Tomorrowland. Gone now is the Submarine Voyage. Disneyland once had the third largest submarine fleet in the world, after the US and Soviet navies, although Disney’s could only go a few feet underwater. Despite the continued popularity of this ride, it was eliminated in the ’98 revamp of Tomorrowland. Gone too, is Monsanto's Adventure Through Inner Space. Visitors would board buggies and be "miniaturized" to travel through the world of atoms and molecules. (A former girlfriend of mine, as a child, broke her leg hopping from car to car on this ride and entered the hallowed ranks of those who have been injured on amusement park rides.) Also gone is the rather dated House of the Future, which offered such marvels as plastic furniture and a microwave oven. One missing attraction that may not ring a bell except for hardcore Disney fanatics is Captain EO. This large-screen 3D multimedia presentation opened in 1986 and was directed by Francis Ford Coppola, produced by George Lucas, and starred Michael Jackson as a space explorer who transforms an evil planet through the power of pop music. In 1997, it quietly closed and was replaced by the "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience" 3D movie.

Tomorrowland has been fully overhauled, and now attempts to present a vision of the future from a millennial standpoint. Rapidly advancing technology, however, makes today’s gee-whiz gadget commonplace within a few years. Also, the future seems much less a magical wonderland than it did in the mid-20th century. Some of Tomorrowland’s appeal may well have been that it took visitors to an antiquated, but much more appealing, vision of the future. Touchingly, the original Tomorrowland is commemorated in a mural visible over the revamped Tomorrowland.

While Disneyland looms large in shared memory, many have their own personal memories of more obscure amusements past. Mike Lavella, publisher of Gearhead magazine, recalled White Swan Park in his native Pennsylvania. Distinguished by its swan-themed rides, it closed after a number of accidents and fatalities marred its reputation. The country-themed Opryland amusement park is no more, replaced by a more lucrative mall. And while there were many Luna Parks, the one located smack-dab in the middle of Manhattan is viewed by many to be the first modern American amusement park. Featuring landscaping, neoclassical architecture and permanent installations of rides and attractions, it strived for a more tasteful environment than the typical tawdry carnival environment of the day. Present-day park operators could well learn a thing from this industry pioneer.

I'll close with another personal memory, not of a vanished park, but a vanished ride. The Cave Train at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk wasn't thrilling or state of the art—in fact it was worn at the edges by the time I visited the Boardwalk in the mid-'80s. One rode a miniature train through a stalactite and stalagmite-laden tunnel of sprayed stucco, featuring smoke-spewing volcanoes, black light illumination, and fanciful cave scenes of dinosaurs and cavemen in odd, humorous situations, It was obviously built some decades before, and I always got the impression that it was the product of one person's odd vision. I couldn't ever ride it without thinking of the Cramps' song "Caveman." It's gone now, replaced by some prefab spin-n-puke ride, and I feel the Boardwalk is the poorer for it.

Researching this article, I became aware of the vast number of lost amusement parks, and the weight of memory that they have for so many people. While it would be impossible to catalog them all, I hope that those who read this will remember amusement parks from their past, and perhaps seek out decaying attractions remaining in their communities.

(originally published in Scram #14)

Rock Gods & Famous Monsters: Gary Lucas interview

Mon, 05 Mar 2007 15:51:24 -0800

Rock Gods & Famous Monsters

Gary Lucas interviewed by Michael Bloom

Gary Lucas in Denmark, photo Jonathan Kane

On Friday March 23^rd, guitar virtuoso Gary Lucas brings his band Gods & Monsters, including Jerry Harrison on keyboards, to Safari Sam's in Hollywood. I only become aware of Lucas back in January while attending a book release on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, for Steven Lee Beeber's The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB’s: A Secret History of Jewish Punk. Gary was on a panel with Beeber, punk auteur Legs McNeil (Please Kill Me) and writer/professor Vivien Goldman (The Book of Exodus). Lucas mentioned his love of Famous Monsters magazine on the one hand, and his nuevo soundtrack for the 1920 silent film classic The Golem. Since the panel was about Jewish punk, my question concerning Richard Meltzer's influence on the era sparked his interest. When I got home and went to his website, garylucas.com, I discovered the immense latitude of this artist, and realized Scram readers would enjoy a full-length interview. Little did I know it would include stories about his experiences with everyone from Lester Bangs to Aleister Crowley. Here it is.

Gary Lucas with Yale Marching Band 1972, Photo by Jeff Johnson

You studied at Yale. Did you major in music?

Actually I studied English literature at Yale: Shakespeare, Chaucer, Victorian novels, stuff like that. I took one music theory course there for exactly one class, before quitting: when the professor played a recording of what is essentially the pop schmaltz tune "Love is Blue" (derived from a portion of Prokofiev's "Lt. Kije Suite," which is what he actually played), and asked us to write out the chords and bassline by ear, I knew a formal study of Music there certainly wasn't for me--especially when one keyboard virtuoso jumped up front of the class, sat down at the piano, and proceeded to play it back perfectly to the class, by ear...I can read and write music okay, but prefer not to....it gets in the way for me, and I generally don't need to for what I like to do with it...as Captain Beefheart (Don Van Vliet) used to say: "Music is just black ants crawling across white paper..."

Captain Beefheart was one of your musical influences, and you later became his friend and bandmate. What specifically about Beefheart's music 'inspired' you?

I think the moment I became "possessed" was when I really listened to Trout Mask Replica a couple times...and having first drawn a blank on it outside the obvious spoken-wordjazz of "The Dust Blows Forward" and "Orange Claw Hammer," couldn't really get a handle on it. But gradually the structural beauty and sheer awesome "overwhelming technique" on display sank in, probably around my third listen to "Ella Guru", which was the closest thing to a "pop song" with a hook I could readily grab onto...and I was smitten. This was after my initial sheer bewilderment/first acquaintance with the $1.98 cut- out of Strictly Personal which was just too grungy sounding to my ears after the surface prettiness of polished studio psychedelia like Sgt. Pepper, Traffic, "Good Vibrations," Van Dyke Parks' Song Cycle and other classics of the era I was enjoying...just sounded kinda amateurish and muddled on my first coupla listens, so I filed it away quickly, not to replay it till after cracking the code to Trout Mask. After that everything by Beefheart was sheer gravy, especially Safe as Milk and Lick My Decals Off, Baby, which I inhaled next (at the same time!) up there in New Haven in 1971...

You were a musician and "writer", as well as Radio Station Manager at Yale. Can you talk about the early rock criticism that may have also influenced you...Lester Bangs, Richard Meltzer and/or others? Did you ever get to meet these early pioneers? Any experiences you can share?

Actually, I was the Music Director at WYBC, Yale's radio station, following in the footsteps of Mitch Kapor (early computer geek/visionary who invented the Lotus Spreadsheet and promptly retired at an obscenely young age)...and yep, I wrote music criticism while still in high school for Cogito, the Nottingham High underground paper, which was banned from being sold on the school premises by the reactionary administration. I remember reviewing Jeff Beck's Truth and the Incredible String Band's Hangman's Beautiful Daughter albums for them...later at Yale I wrote for the Yale Daily News about Family, an English band I loved, and also wrote for Zoo World, a tabloid-sized newspaper rock mag out of Florida trying to take on Rolling Stone, a few articles/ reviews about Beefheart, about my experiences playing electric guitar with the Yale Symphony Orchestra in Vienna in '73 performing Leonard Bernstein's "Mass," a review of King Crimson's Lark's Tongue in Aspic, said review of which was reprinted in the booklet accompanying their Young Person's Guide to King Crimson and is the only negative review in there!

My favorite music writers of my youth were definitely Sandy Pearlman and Richard Meltzer, they really blew my teenage mind with their outrageous and hilariously abstruse over-intellectualized analysis of what is essentially something as basic as the air one breathes (what music really is, or rather, its primary constituent). Richard was definitely much more tongue in cheek, Sandy more formally clinical in his approach, but together they represented a new NYC Jewish-intellectual driven (piss)take on what was hitherto considered to be, basically, packaged goods one consumed without too much thought beyond the fanboy enthusiastic gush of Crawdaddy editor Paul Williams (who I also liked, don't get me wrong)...Lester, when he appeared on the scene, I instantly pegged as a sub-Meltzer derivative/disciple, but he quickly took up the cudgels on behalf of the music the Man can't bust sincerely and with much brio, and exponentially expanded in stature, in my eyes, when Richard and Sandy more or less bagged it from the diurnal (diurinal?) grind of reviewing-- Richard evolving into a general across the board cultural pundit once he got bored with what he saw as an essentially played-out medium (rockaroll) by the mid-'70s, Sandy morphing into a hip and witty lyricist/producer/Svengali for the Blue Öyster Cult and later the Dictators (Richard of course was along for the occasional lyrical ride with him). Those two were the best, in my book, and still remain so in the Golden Age of Rockwrite (Nick Tosches is up there too, there were a few more I dug also like John Mendelsohn...

I encountered both Richard and Sandy personally at different times, on different occasions--strangely enough, never together at the same time-- Richard first, when he came up to Yale in my sophomore year there for some stoopid symposium on rock criticism (or something like that). We bonded and I later crashed at his pad on Perry Street (actually right down the street here in the West Village where I've lived for about 30 years now) a couple times when I'd come down to NYC for some r and r, he and his girlfriend at the time Roni Hoffman were always gracious that way in letting me stay at their place. I remember him keeping small dead animals in aspic (well, Jello) in his fridge as part of his overall avant- aesthetic, and a squawking nastyass parrot that, uncaged, used to flap and fly all around their apartment and occasionally excrete multicoloured, multitudinous parrot shit which streamed down a large mirror he had propped up against one wall in his front parlor and congealed into long colorful bas-relief Crayola-like streaks and strips on that mirror...their tv was on constantly, and the toilet didn't flush too good there...

Sandy I met at the first (and only) Rock Writers of the World Convention in Memphis in '73, basically a gigantic freebie gig for every dissolute no-account rock critic who could muster some kind of critical rep to get themselves on the Stax Records invite list. This was also where I first met Lester-- Sandy blew into Memphis one night there on the heels of some BÖC gig somewhere in the general vicinity and we had cheeseburgers and talked to the wee hours. He impressed me mightily with his intellectual acumen and world-historical overview, totally brilliant and slightly crackpot conspiracy theories on everything under the sun and then some, I liked him a lot...both were as intellectually challenging/intriguing to chat with as reading their writings..

Lester later became a friend when I moved to NYC, and my best tale about Lester is when I had him and a bunch of folks like John Morthland over to listen to a first pressing of Beefheart's Doc at the Radar Station album which I was helping to promote as Don V.V.'s erstwhile manager/guitarist--after hearing me perform my solo tour de force "Flavor Bud Living" on side two, Lester asked benignly: "So, which part were you playing, Gary, the top or the bottom?" "That was all me, Lester, in real time," I replied...confounding the ear of the great Lester Bangs was one of the best testimonials I ever received to my guitar playing.

Jeff Buckley was a member of the earliest version of Gods & Monsters. You also co-wrote a few songs with him on his album Grace. Can you talk a little about your experience writing with him?

Jeff Buckley with Gary Lucas, 1992, photo by Chris Buck

Sure, it was profoundly easy, in a way...much easier than a line by line thrash-out with another collaborator-- I would first come up with fully realized instrumental compositions ...motifs, chord structures, rhythms intact, all there...mail them or play them directly to Jeff...he'd go away, sometimes for months, usually just weeks...and damned if he didn't always come back with PERFECT lyrics and a PERFECT melody line that sinuously entwined/enshrined itself inSIDE the matrix of my instrumental, for all time...only once or twice did he offer any modification at all to the basic underlying music, such as asking me to repeat one section of "Mojo Pin" to stretch it out to double verse length because he had more lyrics that he wanted to fit in that section...and he added a vocalese section over the bridge to "Grace" when he came to ultimately record it for his one and only official Columbia studio album (which, incidentally, was named the #1 Modern Rock Album in Mojo last year, their criterion being any album released since they began publication in '92... Number One, my honeys-- over Radiohead, U2, Dylan, Bright Eyes, Arcade Fire, Outkast --over any other artist/album you might care to name...and yep, I co-wrote 2 songs on that album, the title track and the opening track--actually I wrote about a dozen songs with Jeff Buckley--and five of them still haven't officially been released...several of them as good, if not better, than those hits of his that I'm known for...

Jerry Harrison produced the latest Gods & Monsters album Coming Clean and appears with you in your upcoming show in LA. Can you talk about what it is like to work with him?

Jerry's a cool customer, very diligent, a bit of a technocrat-- and a good guy to have in your corner, another renegade Ivy Leaguer (he and my bass player Ernie Brooks were roommates at Harvard before joining the Modern Lovers)--he has a way with sound I totally respect...also a way with a keyboard that treats the sounds he produces more like sonic architecture than music per se..

How many different instruments do you know how to play? What do you think about "odd" instruments like the theremin? Are there other "extraordinary" instruments you know about?

Basically I can play the guitar really well... and also several different brass instruments not so well (my primary brass instrument was French horn, which I was more or less forced into playing having scored a perfect score on a musical aptitude test that our fascist band leader had all the kids take in order to winnow out those with enough inclination to fill the ranks of the school band and orchestra...French horn was hard enough, as if you look at a photo of me closely it will become apparent that I barely have enough upper lip for a really good embouchure! I can also play a little trumpet, baritone horn, Euphonium...also bass, a bit of rudimentary piano, harmonica, percussion, vibes...you know, if I had some of these instruments lying around my place and had lots of free time I could get much more proficient on many of them I'm sure, as I have a really good ear and am naturally "musical" by nature...but due to lack of space and general boredom with the rote mechanics of "practicing" I choose/chose not too, would much rather read, for instance...or waste hours on the computer...the guitar pretty much says it all for me, a virtual orchestra at your fingertips.

Theremin--I actually had a brainiac/certifiable genius friend attempt to build one for me in high school after getting fired up to possess one after reading about Lothar and the Hand People in the pages of Hit Parader (the ur-Crawdaddy, and the only music mag worth reading before that , and later, Rolling Stone, in the mid-'60s...at once both laughable and fantastically "wrong" lyrics throughout its pages, which was the primary reason most people bought it for!...but actually, for me, it boasted spot-on reportage of early progressive/psychedelic weirdness a'sproutin' in the music biz courtesy of editor/writers Don Paulsen and Jim Delehant....anyway this genius friend (a Harvard boy, natch) never got my theremin really working, it basically squawked and made uncontrollable rude noises, waving your hands in front of the antennae basically made the cacophony worse (this mad scientist is now an ordained minister and high mucky-muck in the Rev. Sun Myung Moon's Unification Church--he was actually married in a mass Moonie wedding ceremony at Madison Square Garden in the mid-'70s).

Extraordinary instruments--Percy Grainger, whose music I like alot and have covered in the past (a solo guitar arrangement of "Children's March" a/k/a "Over the Hills and Far Away", on my compilation album Operators Are Standing By) reportedly invented an electronic gizmo in the '50s which produced sliding glissando tones--which sounds like a proto-theremin to me...

Your side project the Golem is quite interesting. The Golem, or a humunculus, is a creature born out of the mythology of Jewish mysticism; and is steeped in both kabbalistic and alchemical traditions. Do you have any interests in these areas of magick? Do you have much knowledge of Aleister Crowley, and other mystics who have influenced musicians such as Jimmy Page and Carlos Santana? Are there any mystics you think are worth exploring?

Gary Lucas plays his live score to The Golem at 2003 Venice Biennalle, photo by Riccardo Schwamenthal

Yep, I have read a bit of Gershon Scholem and a smattering of the classic texts, but find them pretty unreadably dense and, well, boring, to tell you the truth--as I do alot of overtly religious texts of any persusaion...I'm sure Madonna and Britney and Paris know alot more about Kaballa hthan I do!...I'm interested in the concept but in a much more culturally curious way, rather than as an actual practitioner--the way I heard it, Kabbalah was an area of Jewish philosophy reserved for elderly tzadik-types who could only be entrusted or could only handle the discipline of studying it thoughtfully after years of preparation (that's what my brother the Orthodox rabbinical student told me anyway)...not something for the casual browsing bourgeoisie...but hey if watered-down Kabbalah ushers in an era of world peace, I'm all for it...alchemy too-- yes I like looking at alchemical art and reading stories about Paracelsus and such,and have perused texts in the past-- but not to the point of obsession...Crowley of course I find fascinating, having read several biographies, piqued by Colin Wilson's classic account in his book The Occult...I loved Crowley's Diary of a Drug Fiend which I read coming down from acid in Taipei after fireworks and a wild motorcycle ride the night of the actual Bicentennial...I certainly am aware of Jimmy Page's interest in Crowley regalia/property. This could have further propelled me to investigate him as I used to dig Jimmy Page alot as a player/producer/composer (I've been called "the anti-Page" by Roy Trakin in Hits--hey, I am NOT anti- Jimmy Page!)...

Mystics I like? Wyndham Lewis would have abhorred that appellation—but check out his book The Wild Body, esp. the essay "Inferior Religions;" also his novels Tarr (the original version), The Apes of God, Self Condemned and The Childermass--critical philosophy such as "Time and Western Man," "Men Without Art", and "The Diabolical Principle and the Dithyrambic Spectator"--plays like Enemy of the Stars and The Ideal Giant--magazines like his Blast and The Tyro--and all of his paintings and drawings, which are fucking unbelievably beautiful--and tell me Lewis is not a mystic genius, and a prodigious one, right alongside James Joyce and other seminal 20^th century modernists (Joyce was a peer and a friend of his actually)-- shamefully unsung...Don Van Vliet is another one, for sure, and I have the distinction of turning Don into a rabid Wyndham Lewis fan and partisan...in music, Arthur Russell was pretty damn intuitively on the mystic wavelength...there are very few others...

What is the last really good book you read, and who are some of your favorite authors?

A Terrible Love of War by the Jungian scholar James Hillman--essential reading to make sense of our current precarious teeter-totter on the lip of the abyss... Isaac Bashevis Singer my favorite author, Ulysses my favorite book...I also like Knut Hamsun, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Jim Thompson, Phillip K. Dick, Saul Bellow, Lewis of course, Isaac Babel, Apollinaire, Nabokov.... I'm sure I'm leaving some out here...

What kind of food and drink do you enjoy?

I love Chinese, Indian, Italian, deli, steak w/ frites--I'm easy—I love sweets and chocolate too much...I don't drink really—but occasionally like to sip liquers (Becherovka, Slivovitz, Amaretto)--my favorite Scotch is Laphroaig (10 years aged smoky single malt)

Gods & Monsters has been around for some time, in many incarnations. You developed the title before the movie with the same name, I presume.

Yep I came up with it from the same source that film derived its title from (the original Bride of Frankenstein,where fruity Ernest Thesiger as Dr. Praetorious toasts maniacal Colin Clive as Dr. Frankenstein with the immortal line: "To a New World of Gods and Monsters!" Used to run it as a sample in our show, right after our little "Ride of the Valkyries" heavy metal fanfare...

Gods and Monsters live at the Bowery Poetry Club 2007, photo by Eva Apple

photos courtesy Gary Lucas