Great Guitar Songs Part 1

A couple weeks ago my friend Susana hipped me to Rolling Stone magazine's recently published "100 Greatest Guitar Songs" list. She figured I'd be interested in checking it out (she was correct), and mentioned that she'd be interested to hear my opinions on the subject (incredibly, also correct). I generally agreed with most of the RS picks—They had Chuck Berry at the top, as it should be, and for the most part picked bands and songs that I myself would have picked. (I certainly wouldn't have included U2 or or Rage Against the Machine or Sublime, but that's their prerogative/mistake.) Rather than pick bones with their list or tread the same ground that they already covered, I've begun an attempt at presenting some lesser know, or at least less obvious but no less great, guitar songs. As is generally the case with my lists, this is not presented as a "TOP 20" or "greatEST songs" list, but simply as songs that I think deserve praise. Susana asked for, and I plan to provide, a list of 20, but as soon as I started, I realized that my verbosity would make a list of twenty songs incredibly long. (Not to mention it would take me forever to complete.) So I thought I'd do it in installments. Here's the first five. Enjoy. Or not. Same price.


1) Swamp Oaf "Extra Eye": In the beginning, there was the Bags (NOT the Alice Bag Band from LA, but the Bags from the Boston area). The Bags were an amazing power trio that blended Ramones-style punk with '70's style heavy rock with stoner-type progressiveness and came out sounding like none of it and all of it at the same time. Great instrumental prowess, excellent (and often incredibly absurd) lyrics, familiar-sounding yet idiosyncratic unto themselves, they were (I'm told) revered in their hometown area and largely ignored everywhere else. So naturally, soon after releasing their debut album, they thought it necessary to pseudonymically record an album of incredible strangeness so that the masses could ignore them some more. And thusly, Swamp Oaf. In some ways, the Swamp Oaf album is the most Bags-ish of all Bags-related projects since it includes snippets of just about everything under the sun all performed with the Bags characteristic sense of devil-may-care indulgence. "Extra Eye" sports more great riffing madness than you can shake a late-'60s British supergroup at. It starts out with a sorta Aerosmith-y riff and bellowing Howlin' Wolf/Beefheart-ish vocals singing such verities as "What good is an eye that is dead? Just a spot, just a dot, painted on your forehead", accompanied by falsetto yodeling and later, a spoken word bit. And then GUITAR! Crispin Wood launches into a great screaming fuzzy wheedle-deedle wah-wah wang-bar tirade with Jon Hardy (bass) and Jim Janota (drums) going absolutely berserk with the support, breaking it down, winding it up, making it weird, and pummeling back into shape. It is just plain god-like. Seriously. And lucky for all of you, who I assume have been ignoring the Bags and Swamp Oaf for years, you can actually hear this album online at: Vinyl Preservation Project. (I'm pretty sure this is all totally legal, the vinyl is long since out of print and it has not been reissued on CD.) I seriously and enthusiastically encourage you to download the album (RealPlayer .ram files) and listen to the entire thing. Not just once, but repeatedly until you either: A) Fully understand how the Bags/Swamp Oaf are the nexus of the entire universe, or B) Admit you are an idiot. And when this album is (hopefully) re-issued on CD, go buy at least a dozen copies to somewhat compensate for your years of insensitive ignorance.

2) Fleetwood Mac "Albatross": I'm pretty certain everyone has heard of Fleetwood Mac, and I'd bet that most of you know that they started as a very serious blues band and later mutated into a bucket of steaming meat-poop (i.e. a very talented but entirely ubiquitous-to-the-point-of-obscenity hit-making machine). "Abatross" emanates from the blues period despite the fact that it is almost entirely not blues. Though I suppose a lot of the riffs are, in fact, blues riffs, but they are played in such a laconic manner they sound more surfy or Hawaiin than bluesy. And it does have slide guitar, but there are no Elmore James- or Robert Johnson-isms here. Though Elmore James did have a song called "Blues for Hawaiins" or "Hawaiin Blues" or "Palm Tree in the Poi Pot", or something. So maybe I'm making nothing out of something. But you can bet your boots that this song IS something! This is one of the most gorgeous instrumental songs EVER. EVER! The guitar harmonies from Danny Kirwin and Peter Green are simple but elegant. The rhythm section is understated, which is an understatement. I'm pretty sure drummer Mick Fleetwood does nothing but gently strike a floor tom, and bassist John McVie sticks with half-time root notes throughout. Though for all I know, Fleetwood und Mac didn't even play on this song, perhaps they brought in session aces like Petula Clark and Winston Churchill to lay down the rhythm tracks. But whoever was responsible deserves credit for keeping things simple. As a result, the song, in my arrogant opinion, is perfect. A solid rhythmic/harmonic base with delicate-yet-resonant guitars floating above. Atmosphere, ambiance, euphoria. I consider this right up there with "Sleepwalk" (which it sorta resembles, in mood if not in actual notes.) as one of the greatest and most transcendent instrumental songs of all time. ALL TIME!

3) Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps "Race With The Devil": Culturally and historically, Gene Vincent will probably always be best remembered for "Be-Bop-A-Lula", a slow-burning bump-and-grind slice of early rock 'n' roll, as well as his wild performing style and somewhat tragic personal life. But musically, his greatest achievement may have been hiring Cliff Gallup as his guitar player. Galllup was to become enormously influential on many guitar players from the obvious (Brian Setzer, Billy Zoom) to the not-so-obvious (Jimmy Page, Jeff Beck). Any collection of Vincent's work with His Blue Caps will contain tons of stellar rockabilly guitar-playing, but for my money the best of the lot is "Race With The Devil". The song absolutely cooks, the entire band stopping and starting on a dime as Vincent delivers a surprisingly (but effectively) subdued jive-talking lyic, and when the solos come along, LOOK OUT! Gallup throws out everything: Speedy triplet pull-offs, double stops, Charlie Christian-inspired single note lines, subtle bends, and twangy bass licks, all delivered with a stinging but smooth echo-drenched sound. And when the entire band modulates up a step to introduce the second solo—PAYOFF! Throughout the song Gallup is riffing along like a maniac, propelling the song along without getting in the way of the vocal. In you want a great primer in rock 'n' roll/rockabilly guitar, you could do no better than start here.

4) Velvet Underground "What Goes On": It's no secret that the Velvet Underground were highly influential not only for their often decidedly squalid lyrical content but for their instrumental attack; they could be mellow and sweet or acerbic and psychotic. They effectively toed the line between technical facility and inspired amateurism and, with some notable exceptions ("The Gift", for instance), rarely let their pretensions overwhelm, or limitations restrict, their ambitions. "What Goes On" is one of their more straightforward tunes, a groovin', poppy rocker that trucks along leisurely but insistently. The nearly-funky, chopping rhythm guitar provides the main propulsion for the song, with the droning organ chords helping out considerably. Then along comes the solo, a masterpiece of melodic simplicity. Beautifully fuzzy and reverbed, two guitars playing almost, but not quite, in unison, staying very near the vocal melody at all times. No freak outs, no showing off, just playing exactly what the songs needs in a manner that escapes most over-exuberant guitar-slingers (myself included). A testament to how special VU was is that, despite the fact that their songs have been covered thousands of times, it is rare that someone does it really well. I have tried, in three separate bands, to cover this song, and it just never really worked. I could never figure out precisely why, but in retrospect I think we were just trying to hard. The beauty of this song is in how unforced it sounds while still retaining a passionate feel. (I was "this close" to choosing "Foggy Notion" instead of this song. I think anyone who knows that song, and knows me, can figure out why.)

5) The Dictators "Faster and Louder": According to conventional music critic wisdom ('scuse me a sec, my oxymoron detector just went off), the Dictators bridge the gap between proto-punk (Stooges, MC5) and the American (primarily NY) punk scene of the late '70's. They were loud, fast, and scientific, funny, and (perhaps) surprisingly skilled. Their debut album (Go Girl Crazy) appeared in 1975; "Faster and Louder" is the lead-off track from their third (and arguably best) album, Blood Brothers. The entire album is full of cranked Marshall stack guitar glory, but I think "Faster and Louder" is a perfect showcase for guitarists Ross "the Boss" Funichello and Scott Kempner, and is a near-perfect encapsulation of everything that was great about the Dictators. Power chords, chunka-chunka chicken scratches, blistering leads, dual guitar riffery, Chuck Berry boogie-isms, breakdowns, rave-ups, the whole nine yards and even a few extra inches. (According to legend, you can even hear Bruce Springsteen screaming "1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4" right before the last chorus. I can verify that the screaming is there, but I cannot say definitively whether it is the Boss doing the yelling. I mean, the 'Tators already had their own Boss, did they really need another?) Plus, you get poignant lyrics like, "I can SCREW (faster and louder), I can talk (faster and louder), walk the dog (faster and louder), mow the lawn (faster and louder)". Fucking brilliant. They are undoubtedly The Next Big Thing.

1:19 AM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Ten Great Shows: Alice Cooper "Brutal Planet" Tour

[A while back I posted a blog listing ten great live music shows I have attended. This is a rather lengthy account of one of those shows.]

Alice Cooper, 2000, Memorial Auditorium, Sacramento

Alice Cooper is one of the earliest, dearest, and most enduring musical inspirations for me. I don't recall precisely how I first discovered him, but it was definitely during his late '70's post-Welcome To My Nightmare mainstream visibility and, some would say, descent into self-parody. (I don't necessarily agree, but I am most assuredly biased.) Which means I didn't latch onto him until the original Alice Cooper band had dissolved, his "glory days" (musically/culturally with the original band, and commercially with the "solo" Nightmare) were past, and he had become something of a joke to "serious music fans". I recall seeing him on "The Muppet Show", which I'm sure made "original" Cooper fans cringe but, to a 10 or 11 year old kid, seemed really cool. Right around that time my brother and I found a stack of records sitting outside a used record and book store, and, being of an age where "finders keepers losers weepers" seemed not just a snappy saying but an actual, enforceable law, decided to help ourselves to whatever we could carry away. Within the stack were two early Alice Cooper records, Pretties For You and School's Out. For the uninitiated, Pretties is EARLY-early Alice Cooper album when the band was just plain weird. School's Out was a few albums down the road, and by that time the Alice Cooper band had really hit their stride. I was fascinated by both albums because the music was truly was unlike anything I had ever heard (ignoring for the moment the fact that I had no doubt heard the song "School's Out" before). This was (straight/)bizarre stuff, but somehow I was hooked instead of shocked. Subsequently, my brother bought the next album Cooper released, 1980's Flush the Fashion, which, though not a "classic" Cooper album, remains one of my personal favorites. My buddy Mike, who had a cool older brother with a bitchen' record collection, made me a great Cooper compilation tape (which I still own and play), and I eventually acquired a pretty comprehensive Cooper album collection (mostly the classic early stuff, but also some of the later releases).

However, as much as I love Alice Cooper, I never got to see him live. There were opportunities to see him during his late '80's/early '90's "comeback", but for whatever reasons, I never did. (I did spend Halloween 1986 at home, on the couch, sick as a (monster) dog, watching the Kane Robert's-era Cooper "live" on MTV, instead of going on a very-rare-for-me date with a pretty hot girl. My cancellation effectively ended our very brief romance. Such is high-school "love". A couple years later, at a record distributor meet-n-greet I got to meet, and greet, Alice and he signed my Billion Dollar Babies album. I have pictures to prove it.) I regretted not seeing Cooper when he played with Motorhead in Stockton in…1989?... though my buddy Steve-O has often assured me that I didn't miss much. So I accepted the fact that I just hadn't been in the right place in the right time, and that I never would enjoy the live Alice Cooper experience.

I was wrong.

In 2000 Alice released a new album, Brutal Planet, set out on a tour, and scheduled a Sacramento stop at the Memorial Auditorium. My buddies Steve-O and Snyder, who had seen many shows and the Memorial during their teens, and who are both HUGE Cooper fans, had already decided to go. When Steve-O invited me onto this bandwagon, I quickly agreed. I didn't really expect to be blown away, but I figured it would be fun to finally see Alice Cooper live. The fact that it was being held in a reasonably-sized venue (not intimate, but not enormous), and that I would be accompanied by two great friends, was too good to pass up. The kicker: They scored kick-ass seats, third or fourth row center. How great is that?

[The only thing that could have made it even greater is if our friend Skid, also a big Alice Cooper fan, had been there. I'm pretty sure we asked if he wanted to come along, but for whatever reason, he couldn't make it.]

The night of the concert we met at Steve-O's conveniently located abode for some pre-show beers. We then set out for the Memorial, found parking relatively easily, and headed inside. (I seem to remember some stupid hassle with security about my wallet chain and pocket knife. I think I had to run back to the car and ditch the "weapons". Though maybe I'm thinking of the Soundgarden/RFTC show from a few years earlier.) We bee-lined for the beer line, grumbled about the price, paid our money and set sail for buzzville. (Actually, I think we had already painted Buzzville red by this time—we were probably getting our third sheet ready for the voyage to Inebriation Island.) We found our seats and were forced to endure a painfully boring opening set by the Donnas which was only barely made tolerable by additional beer runs. Thankfully the set was short and before long, it was time for Coop.

The show opened, predictably but understandably, with a couple of songs from his new album. Though I hadn't heard the album, and was admittedly one of those dickheads who was there primarily to hear him sing "the hits", I thought they sounded pretty good. The songs themselves were a bit too White Zombie-ish for my taste (the sort of cyber-industrial-metal shit that was really popular at the time), but the band was energetic and skilled. But after the requisite new stuff, they started dipping into the back catalog from both the Alice Cooper Band and the solo era, and Steve-O, Snyder, and I were in heaven. They were playing both "hits" and fan-favorite album tracks, and the six-dollar beers and the presence of my good friends and the tight, professional band made me feel like I was in junior high. (This Cooper band did a good job of staying faithful to the feel of the classic songs without being too stuffy, which is not easy to do.) I was grinning ear to ear and singing along at the top of my voice like an absolute moron. And I was happy as hell.

They played most everything one would expect—"(I'm) Eighteen", "School's Out", "Under My Wheels", "Welcome to My Nightmare", "I Love the Dead"—as well as some surprises, most notably, for me at least, "You Drive Me Nervous". This is one of my favorite songs from the original band, but it's not really a "hit", so to hear it live was a dream. I remember looking over at Steve-O and Snyder every time they started another song and giving the "Can you believe they're playing THIS song?" look. And, as I said, the band played great, Alice was in good voice, everything was on.

Alice had managed to incorporate many of the props that he had used from the early days into the Brutal Planet stage set. He had the sword, the dead babies, mannequins, the refrigerator, a guillotine, the huge ballons, and "The Cane". And thus commences my recollection of the single sour memory from this amazing evening. (Don't fret. Though it is only one bad note, I will hold that note for a long, LONG, time.) Toward the end of the show, Alice tossed The Cane into the audience and, low and behold, it sailed right to yours truly. I quickly grabbed it with a death-grip and started to reel it in, but met with some feeble, though not insignificant, resistance—someone else had hold of the other end. I KNEW I was going to win this battle since I not only had most of The Cane's length under control, one hand on one end, and the other more than half-way toward the other end. And I already had it pulled into my body, against my chest, and I was facing forward and on higher ground, so it was going to be pretty difficult for ANYONE to yank it from my grasp. Furthermore, aside from my physical control over The Cane, I was armed with superior entitlement: I KNEW I was a much bigger Cooper fan than the person on the other end. Throughout the show, as me and Steve-O and Snyder grooved and screamed and sang along with every song, this person sat nearly motionless, apparently either unmoved or unwilling to exhibit any demonstrable physical proof that the show was bringing them any joy whatsoever. Victory was undoubtedly mine.

But something went wrong. As I held The Cane tight against my body, simply waiting for the other person to give in to the inevitable, I shot a glance at Steve-O and gave him a smug "Look at what I got" grin. He responded with a resigned head-tilt-eyebrow-raise-shoulder-shrug and pointed over my right shoulder toward the center aisle. I turned my head to find three burly security dudes in attack formation. They were all giving me menacing "We are waiting for a chance to kick your ass" glares, and the point-man started yelling "Let go! Let GO!" and vigorously jacking a thumb-extended fist up and down as if he was trying to flag a ride, though I astutely recognized that this was the accepted ASL sign for "Let go of The Cane or I'll kick your ass outta here!" I replied with my best "You gotta be kidding me!" head-roll/body-slump and reluctantly accepted that I had been defeated, not by my adversary, but by my own immutable desire to see the end of the show and avoid a busted eye-hole from the Evil Enforcers of Unfairness.

It was only in the aftermath of the scuffle, when scrum cleared away and my opponent stood up FOR THE FIRST TIME OF THE ENTIRE EVENING, that I realized what had happened: I had been beaten not by superior forces (ignoring, for the moment, the muscle-headed bouncers and my indomitable wussiness) but by misguided and improperly administered charity served with a side of (most certainly phony) chivalry. For you see, it turns out that the hand on the other end of The Cane had belonged to a GIRL, and not just any girl, but DISABLED girl. Not that she had a permanent disability; she simply had a cast on her foot and a pair of crutches. No big whoop. She probably got stepped on at a KORN show, so she deserves to suffer. But she does NOT deserve The Cane! (And fer crissakes, she already HAD crutches, she didn't even NEED The Cane.)

Now, I know I'm being a dick. Maybe she WAS severely disabled, perhaps she was born with a baboon's ass where her foot should have been or something. And perhaps she WAS a major fan of Alice Cooper, but because of a neurological disorder she is unable to show emotion until AFTER she receives preferential treatment. And normally, I'm not the type of guy who sees any point in scrambling and fighting for souvenirs. (If I'm at a ballgame and I catch a foul ball, I'll give it to the first little kid who doesn't have his hat on crooked. And if I see a little kid who DOES have his cap askew, I whing the ball at his noggin. I really don't care about keeping the ball. See how magnanimous I am?) But this was different. This was my first, and no doubt only, Alice Cooper show. I had waited years for this opportunity. I was the first to touch and have possession of The Cane, and I clearly had control during the entire tug-of-war. I had drank $51.50 worth of beer (I spilled a few dollars worth on my pants) to put me into the frame of mind where I believed that no one except me was worthy of receiving The Cane. I was WITHOUT A DOUBT the ONLY person who should have walked away with The Cane. But it went home with Heather Hop-a-long, who probably lost it or gave it away or, worse, fashioned it into a toy for her 17 cats to play with. And that's what irks me the most: I simply CANNOT believe that The Cane meant as much to her as it did to me. I am utterly convinced that she only went to the show because her boyfriend made her go. (Yes, the boyfriend who did NOT lift a finger to try to help her take The Cane from me. Even he knew The Cane was MINE.) If she had exhibited at least a modicum of Alice Cooper appreciation, I would not have been so disgruntled. But she didn't. And it pissed me off.

Despite my bitterness, I enjoyed the rest of the show immensely. But I couldn't entirely shake my feeling that I had been cheated of the spoils that were rightly and justly mine. After the show ended, we hung around in the auditorium, soaking in the last sights and sounds of what had been a glorious event. I carefully scanned the stage looking for something I could steal that would, in some small way, compensate for the fact that The Cane had, literally, been stolen from me. I seriously contemplated attempting to pilfer a skull or dead baby but, fortunately, my finances had prevented me from drinking the last few beers that would have thrust me into drunken (and most likely clumsy and thus, risky) burglary.

After the show we went back to Steve-O's for a nightcap. Of course, I wouldn't shut up about The Cane. But even Steve-O, whose level-headedness and quick assessment of the odds had prevented me from continuing my doomed struggle, admitted that The Cane had, indeed, been rightfully mine. He agreed that I had been the first to grab it and that I had, without question, been in full possession, save for a little tiny bit at the far end. "But," he said, "When I looked over and saw the security guys, and then looked at who was holding the other end, I knew you couldn't win. Either you would cooperate and give the girl The Cane, or you would take The Cane from her, and then Security would have taken it from you and thrown you out. You were stuck." In consolation he gave me an "Elect Alice Cooper" bumper sticker he had bought and a piece of one the big balloons. "At least now you have something from the show."

To this day, having no doubt heard The Cane story countless times, Steve-O's daughter says, "GB should have gotten The Cane, not that stupid girl". (Hell, I'd probably have given The Cane to Steve-O's daughter 'cause I know she DOES like Alice Cooper.) Luckily, not even the supreme injustice of The Cane episode can significantly sully the memories from the show. I got to see Alice put on a great show in the company of two of my greatest friends. Canes come and go (or get made into cat toys), but great music and great friends are timeless.

5:28 PM - 11 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

The Cassette Tape Trials: ZZ Top

DATE: 6/3/08
ARTIST: ZZ Top
ALBUM SIDE A: Tres Hombres (plus select songs from Rio Grande Mud)
ALBUM SIDE B: Fandango (plus select songs from Rio Grande Mud)
DESCRIPTION OF MEDIA: Maxell XLII90, taped from CD (Tres Hombres and Fandango) and vinyl (Rio Grande Mud).
IMPRESSIONS: When I was younger and foot-looser I used to spend a lot of time in my dazzlingly earth-tone-appointed 1980 Toyota pick-up. I loved driving and gas was (relatively) cheap, so I thought nothing of hopping in the car and heading to the Bay Area, Southern California, Colorado, or even just driving in circles out in the country. As long as I had drinks, smokes or sunflower seeds, sunglasses, and music, I could spend all day driving in my truck. When I first got the truck, it had a Radio Shack AM/FM radio/cassette deck. When that system crapped out I upgraded to a Sony boombox (I think I spent more on batteries than on gasoline). Later on I got a hand-me-down car stereo from a friend and installed that in the glove-box with the aid of plumber's tape, plywood, and a hacksaw. That car never had a good stereo, but always had a stereo.

Anytime I embarked on a jaunt that was expected to last more than an hour, I brought at least 20, and usually closer to 80 cassette tapes (I haven't been able to stomach radio programming since I was 12). I knew I wouldn't listen to ALL of the tapes, but I never knew precisely what my mood would be at any given point in the journey, so I liked to be prepared for any musical whim I might encounter. But there were a few tapes that were pretty much ALWAYS in my truck: The Ramones' It's Alive (with Road to Ruin tacked on the end), Freddy King's Just Pickin', the Clash's The Clash/Give 'Em Enough Rope, Motorhead's No Remorse, and the above-mentioned ZZ Top cassette. These cassettes were standbys that never failed to please, and they were especially helpful on long drives through the night. I'll never forget driving home from Colorado in the middle of the night during what was probably the most intense thunderstorm I have ever experienced with ZZ Top oozing from the speakers. I was scared shitless, but the Top kept me moving on down the line.

I know that for many people, ZZ Top are just "those dudes with the beards, matching guitars, and a Ford coupe hot-rod filled with busty broads". Which is true. But before they hit MTV paydirt as sharp-dressed men, they were the "Little Ol' Band From Texas" who kicked serious boogie-butt with two distinct but equally-talented singers, a powerful but sneakily-funky rhythm section, funny and at-times absurd lyrics, and gobs and gobs of great guitar. I mean seriously crank-yanking, from the gut into your pocket and up and down your spine guitar genius. If you like blues-based guitar rock, but think that Billy Gibbons was nothing more than some pinched harmonics and recycled riffs, you NEED to check out their early albums. There's a lot more there than you might think.

Anyhow, I suspect it's obvious that I LOVE this cassette. It has the entirety of Tres Hombres (arguably their finest album ever), the good stuff from Fandango (I omitted the inanely boring "Backdoor Medly"), and all but a couple songs from Rio Grande Mud, which is in my opinion tied with Deguello for second-best ZZ Top album, after Tres Hombres). From front to back this tape is full of beer-drinkin' and hell-raisin' precious and graceful rock 'n' roll. There's only one song that I truly dislike (the no-doubt tongue-in-cheek but still pretty stinky "Mexican Blackbird"); everything else, from slow-blues to boogie to straight-ahead rock, is damn near perfect. Even the overplayed classic-rock radio staples ("La Grange", "Tush") still sound fantastic to me.

However, there IS a major problem with the cassette: Both Tres Hombres and Fandango were taped from the remixed/remastered CD's from the stupendously misguided Six Pack box set, wherein "they" (I assume ZZ Top and their producer, Bill Ham, and perhaps the guys from Depeche Mode) added a bunch of modern effects to the guitars and drums to make the old albums sound more like the septakajillion-selling Eliminator. Now, I'll be honest, when I first heard the Six Pack CD versions, I noticed they sounded different than my old vinyl, but I thought it was just the "digital-ness" of the CD. This was in the early days of CDs (I didn't even own a player at the time, I taped this at work), so I just figured the brighty-pants sound was an inevitable artifact of the digital transfer. I had little trouble adapting to the "new sound", and I enjoyed the hell out of this cassette for years. (Perhaps the fact that my car stereo was only one evolutionary rung above the Victrola helped mask the techno-hanky-panky as well.) But a couple weeks ago I got the newly issued "original recording remastered" versions of these albums on CD, which strips away the Eliminator-ization of the earlier versions, and DAMN! What a difference! This is the way these albums are supposed to sound—raw, greasy, and groovy. After putting the "original recording remastered" versions of these albums in my iPod and hearing them in my car, I cannot stomach the Six Pack versions on this cassette. Luckily, I no longer have to.

VERDICT: Trash it. It's a bummer that Rio Grande Mud hasn't been reissued in its original form yet, but I'm optimistic that the "orginal recording remastered" process will continue to include this and their other early albums.

5:35 PM - 10 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Don’t mind my mind...

I've been at home, sick, the last couple days, so I've spent a lot of time listening to records. Yes, records. I have so many albums that I wish I could listen to more often, but I don't have them on CD, so it is rare that I get a chance to turn it up and sit back and enjoy. Some thoughts:

Soul Asylum: I pulled out two of their mid-80's Twin Tone albums (Made to Be Broken and While You Were Out), and confirmed to myself that, indeed, they had moments of brilliance in their early days. Great ragged vocals, loud guitars, and pretty good lyrics. Unfortunately, as time progressed they ran out of ideas and lost their fire. But those early albums still stand up, despite the odd clunker here and there. After their '90's descent into alt-rock mediocrity, I occasionally wondered why I ever like 'em. These albums remind me why.

The Fluid: One of the greatest live bands I have ever seen, and probably my favorite "Sub Pop" band, even though they were from Denver, not Seattle. (My other favorite Sub Pop album is by an Australian band, the Cosmic Psychos, so go figure.) Their records didn't always catch fire, at least not consistently, though all of them had truly great moments. Roadmouth is probably the most consistent of the lot, and paired with the Glue EP (as was the case on the CD issue), is a good testament to their powers. And they were super nice guys to boot. I just found out they are reuniting to play the Sub Pop 20th anniversary festival this summer and DAMN I wish I could go. Probably won't happen, but I'd love to see them again.

Beasts of Bourbon: My buddy Frenchy recently talked about one of their albums, I think Axeman's Jazz, as one of his personal favorites. I don't own any of their albums, but I have two 7-inches (actually, three, since one is a double disk) with songs from their Sour Mash album. One song in particular, "Hard For You", is enough to justify their entire existence. Many people, including myself, have written "Fuck You" songs, but I don't know that any of them are as direct and menacing as "Hard For You". Listening to these singles make me want to track down the albums, but unfortunately, they are either out of print or only available as very pricey Australian imports. Too bad.

The Minutemen: "Double Nickels on the Dime" is often cited by critics and music fans as a landmark release, for the band, for "punk", and for music in general, and I definitely concur. This album never fails to lift my spirits and make me long wistfully for the days when life's possibilities and promises seemed real and obtainable. For me, this is a record that celebrates all that is great about being young, idealistic, and full of your own ideas about how to live and create and think.

T.S.O.L.: My daughter definitely enjoys music, as most toddlers do, but there are not many of "my" bands that she specifically requests. The Beach Boys are one (though she calls them the "Jungle Monkeys", since the album I play for her is Endless Summer, the cover of which is a painting of the band with long hair and beards nestled in tropical foliage). The other band, much to my surprise, is T.S.O.L. One day my wife asked Baby GeeBee, "Do you want me to play a record?", and she proceeded to fire up the stereo. The record on the turntable was Change Today, and, though I love the record, I seriously didn't think Baby GeeBee would be similarly entranced (it's a dark, aggressive, and menacing album, much different than "Surfing Safari"). But to my surprise, at the first moody notes of "Black Magic", she began dancing. She now asks for this by the name "Crocodile", since the cover shows a green-tinted pair of hands that, sure enough, look pretty crocodilian.

That's all for now.

11:51 AM - 22 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

The Cassette Tape Trials: Screaming Blue Messiahs "Bikini Red"

Haven't done one of these in a while. In fact, this one was written many months ago, I just forgot to post it. Lack of time and a new iPod sorta sidetracked this series, but I'm going to try to pick it up again. (Perhaps I'm trying to ride Sleazy's dirty Phoenix coattails.)

DATE: 4/25/08
ARTIST: Screaming Blue Messiahs
ALBUM: Bikini Red
DESCRIPTION OF MEDIA: Pre-recorded cassette, promo copy (Elektra Records)
IMPRESSIONS: If you read my review for the Messiahs' first album, Gun Shy, you already know that I really liked this band. So as you might imagine, I was excited when the follow up, Bikini Red, was released, and immediately obtained a copy (free, thanks to my record store job). Upon first listen I thought, "THIS sounds more like it!" The production was fuller and more aggressive and Bill Carter's guitar sounded great. The album kicked off with "Sweet Water Pools" which just may be my favorite Messiahs song ever. It begins with a stuttery guitar riff and some deadpan dialog, like a twilight zone "La Grange", before kicking into the steamroller one-chord vamp that makes up nearly the entire song. Great fuzzy washes of tremolo/wah guitars mix with slashing chords, broken up by occasional, and brief, almost dub-like dropouts. Awesome.

It would be nearly impossible for the rest of the album to maintain the intensity of the first track; sadly, almost nothing even comes close. There are a lot of great moments, both musical and lyrical, scattered through the album, but in my opinion the parts never come together quite as magically as on the opening song. The title track is a nice mid-tempo groover with an inscrutable sci-fi storyline. "Too Much Love" has a great, chunky main riff in service of pretty mundane lyrics. "Big Brother Muscle" is a hard-charging rocker. "Jesus Chrysler Drives a Dodge" and "All Shook Down" both contain great slabs of noisy guitar, and "Lie Detector" is a fun, almost frat-rock number that would be much better if it were about half as long. And then there is "I Wanna Be A Flintstone", the novelty number that, regrettably, is probably this band's most enduring legacy. It's not a completely terrible song, but it's pretty cutesy, and really isn't very representative of the rest of the band's oeuvre. I wouldn't be surprised if the Messiahs themselves wish the song had never seen the light of day.

Still, I think this is a good album. Carter's guitar-work is impressive and unique, and the band as a whole sounds really good. Overall, I love the sound of the album, I just don't love all of the songs. There are no complete clunkers (even "Flinstone" has it's charms), and I can enjoy the album as a whole, but when I examine it closely, I see an inordinate number of flaws.

VERDICT: Keep it. Despite my criticisms, I still really like the album, and until I can get it on CD, I'll keep the cassette.

10:03 AM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Mr. Burdon Goes To Washington’s Soft Red, White, and Blue Jelly Belly

Tonight the family was dining at our favorite local Italian eatery, and I did something that, to the best of my recollection, I have never done: I spilled an entire glass of wine onto the table, across the booth, and all over everyone at our table (women and children, even!). I've drank a lot of wine and spirits in a lot of restaurants. I've spilled a few drops here and there. But I've never put a right-cross to a piece of stemware and splattered merlot every which way. And you know what caused this catastrophe? Political jelly beans. Yes, you heard right: POLITICAL JELLY BEANS. Oh sure, in hindsight it makes perfect sense, but I certainly didn't see it coming.

You see, our little caffe is conducting a political "poll" to determine which Democratic nitwit their patrons are planning to vote for in the upcoming presidential election. (We live in Self-Righteous-Liberal-Ville, so they naturally and haughtily assume that no one would be gauche enough to vote for a Republican nitwit.) The methodology of the study is quite rigorous and dignified, to be sure: At the conclusion of the meal, each patron of voting age is given a jelly bean and asked to place it into a jar with their favorite candidate's caricature pasted on the front. The entire operation is quite a testament to our society's political astuteness and a fitting tribute to the reverence we the people direct towards the ideals set forth by the architects of our nation's Constitution.

Anyhow, in accordance with the strictures and structure of this "intelligently designed" fact-finding mission, our waitress duly brought us our jelly beans like Nurse Ratched bringing Thorazine and Nembutal to Murphy and the boys. (Seriously. I saw the tiny paper cup and was certain that Ms. Waitress was bringing me my nightly "for the good of yourself and everyone else" sedatives.) The Mrs. was holding Toddler GeeBee, so I quickly snatched the cup of politically-charged sugar-gel capsules so as to deposit them in an unobtrusive location. (That is, get them out of T. GeeBee's sight.)

In case you haven't guessed already, in my haste I deposited the jelly beans to the far side of the table and the contents of my wine glass pretty much everywhere else. (This after T. GeeBee had already splattered the inhabitants of an adjacent booth with milk and had subsequently made fast friends with the bread-stick sharing tenant of the OTHER adjacent booth, thus ensuring that there were plenty of witnesses to my idiotic and embarrassing display.) There was wine on the table, wine on the Mrs., wine on the T., wine on me. Wine everywhere except where it oghta be--in my belly. As I grumbled and cowered and did my best to clean up the mess, the Mrs. tried to reassure me: "It's not a big deal, everything can be cleaned". But she didn't seem to understand that I wasn't worried about the carpet or the clothes, I was pissed off because I just lost 4 oz. of my buzz because of someone's shit-brained attempt to make sense of the infinitely and irreparably illogical. I can abide a lot of nonsense (I've seen "Strange Brew" at least a dozen times, fer crissakes, and I own EVERY Austin Powers movie), but when politics interferes with my well-deserved nightcap there is something seriously wrong with the universe.

Thankfully I have an enormous bottle of Bombay gin (thanks Mrs.!) and a stack of vinyl LPs that are helping to erase the regrettable ramifications of my Jackson Pollack-ing of the wine. But it still bugs the hell out of me that I not only committed an unprecedented faux pax, but also slightly-though-significantly hindered my well-deserved blottonomy, because some ass-blister thought it would be fun to make a farcical game of our already-credulity-compromised political system. Believe me, I think politics and politicians earn and deserve all the ridicule (and more) that they receive. But I think my buffoonery tonight is further proof that politics in any form (even jelly beans) makes people stupid. So for the love of Bacchus and meatball sandwiches, can we keep politics away from my food and drink so's I can eat and imbibe without forcing my family into an emergency trip to the cleaners?

11:18 PM - 15 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

creeping along with a song

I uploaded a new song called "Bat Face, In Place". Though calling it "new" is being generous, since it’s simply a generic ’60’s soul instrumental. Sounds a bit like Booker T. and the MGs, that is, if they had gone to a recording session after a 24-hour drunken bare-knuckle boxing match.

I started this song over a year ago. It took about 5 minutes to write and about 5 hours to record. I spent the remaining 13 months tinkering with the drum-machine programming and trying to get a good mix and master. I’m pretty proud of the former, I think the drums sound pretty good--for a drum machine programmed by an idiot. As for the mixing, I finally gave up. It was the classic dilemma: Sounds good on headphones but sounds crappy in my car, sounds good on my computer speakers but crappy on my recording monitors, etc etc. And the mastering? Fuck that. I really tried, I did. I wanted my recording to sound "professional", but you know what? I’m not, so it isn’t, so there.

I hope some of you have a listen, I hope those that listen enjoy. I welcome any and all comments, positive, negative, or neutral.

9:43 PM - 10 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

GeeBee’s Top Ten Live Music Shows: Stevie Ray Vaughan, 1984, Freeborn Hall

Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble
11/24/84
Freeborn Hall, UC Davis
Davis, CA

This was a momentous event for me: It was the first rock 'n' roll show that I attended on my own, i.e. un-chaperoned. Actually, come to think of it, is was really the first rock 'n' roll show I ever went to, period. Prior to this show, the most "rock" show I ever attended was a John Denver concert. Which was cool, 'cause I liked John Denver, but it wasn't really ROCK. So this was to be my proverbial "rock concert cherry buster", and GODDAMN if it didn't bust me seven ways to Sunday (whatever that means).

At the time of this show I was about two weeks from my sixteenth birthday. Through my love for bands like the Stones and Jimi Hendrix I had begun to explore the world of blues, which was to be without a doubt one of the most important and pervasive influences on my own guitar playing. I had only just begun to hear of SRV, since he had recently played on a couple David Bowie songs, and (according to legend) performed (or at least, was asked to perform) at Mick Jagger's birthday party. I don't think I had even heard his records yet; I went to the show solely on the hearsay that he was a hot-shot high-powered blues guitar player.

When I say I went to the show by myself, I am being absolutely literal. Not only was I sans Mom and Dad, but I didn't even have the company of any friends. I had precisely one friend who liked the blues, and why he didn't go to this show I don't remember. Maybe that was the day he sprained his uterus. Anyhow, while I truly went to the show by myself, once I was there, I had plenty of company. Even though blues was far from popular with the masses at the time , there were enough fans in the area to completely fill Freeborn Hall, which accommodates, I think, around 1500-2000 people. It was general admission, no seats, just everyone standing on the floor. The place was packed, and it seemed like damn near everyone there looked like a biker. Except skinny little doofy-ass me.

There was an opening band and, to this day, I cannot understand the logic behind the booking unless I rely on that old maxim, "Concert promoters are witless dumbasses". The band in question: Bourgeois Tagg. To be fair, I have nothing against Bourgeois Tagg, they were definitely talented and professional, but putting them on a blues-rock bill? Not exactly an exhibit of genius marketing. Surprisingly though, the reaction from the crowd was not hostility, but ambivalence. I guess everyone was more than happy to have a little background music while they smoked their weed in anticipation of the main event. And smoke they did. Aside from the Dead shows I went to, I have never experienced a larger smoke-to-oxygen ratio. Not even at Reggae Sunplash.

I do not recall exactly how SRV and Double Trouble took the stage, but considering their combined wealth of talent and experience, and the ferocity of what followed, I would guess they looked like fighter pilots walking to their planes, or like the archetypical gunslinger walking into a saloon—men with purpose and ability who didn't need to be showy about their power. To be sure, SRV was a showman, and he later pulled out every guitar-player trick in the book, but even then it didn't seem like he did it to show off as much as to just make it clear that "I can do ANYTHING I WANT up here ANYTIME I WANT". He had no more problem playing searing licks with the guitar behind his head or back than a trucker has lighting a cigarette while changing lanes. It's just part of the job. For a kid like me who had only seen stuff like this in pictures, it was mind-blowing to see this mix of nonchalance, exhibitionism, and passion.

But all the flamboyance in the world means nothing without substance behind it, and GOOD GRACIOUS these guys could play! Not just SRV, but Tommy Shannon (bass) and Chris Layton (drums) as well. This was chrome-plated, fine-tuned, fuel-injected roadhouse music, played hard and tight and with the creative abandon that only comes with total command of your craft. Once you are good enough to "quit thinking" and just FLOW, that's when the magic happens. And there was magic all night. The fast songs motored and pounded, the slow songs grooved and glided. The could go from rocket-loud to whisper-quiet in an instant, and stop on a dime. Certainly not before, and rarely since, have I ever seen a band so absolutely ON!

For the entire show I stood mesmerized, just soaking it ALL in, thinking, "Holy shit! Is this what ALL rock concerts are like?" (They are most definitely not.) I was absolutely stunned and transfixed by the entire show, constantly amazed that a band, mere mortals, could play with such intensity for so long without even looking so much as slightly fazed. The highlight, partially because it was the only song I knew by name, and partially because it was an astounding display of musicianship and showmanship, was a version of Hendrix's "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)". It was just beyond anything I can even describe.

To date, this is the only show I ever attended where the music actually caused me serious physical pain, not just in my ears, but my entire body. And I've been to plenty of too-damn-loud shows. It wasn't just that it was loud (though it WAS loud), but for whatever reason the throb and pummeling of the entire band made my chest feel like it was going to collapse and my bowels feel like they would empty at any moment. Seriously. By the third or fourth song I thought I might have to leave, I felt like throwing up, but I didn't want to miss any part of the show. I toughed it out. (SRV was playing what looked to be about a half-dozen amps which were all shielded by panes of plexiglass. From what I've heard, he pretty much ran everything full-tilt dimed, and I believe it. And I'm pretty sure Shannon's bass rig and Whipper Layton's drums were on 11 too.)

I saw SRV a couple more times before his death, and though those shows were good, nothing ever compared to that first show. I've often wondered if my perceptions of the show were a bit skewed due to my tender young age and the fact that it was a bit of a milestone "rite of passage" event for me. However, just this week a longtime friend sent me a soundboard-quality bootleg CD of this very show, and I can say with absolutely no reservations that this was, in FACT, a blisteringly good show.

7:06 PM - 12 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Really BIG shews (for me, at least)

There was a time in my life when I went too a lot of live music shows. I saw well-known "big time" acts and nobody-but-me-and-three-of-my-friends-have-ever-heard-of-'em groups. I went to big stadium shows (though I never liked this kind of setting), I went to theaters both ornate and dumpy, I went to tiny bars, I saw bands play in living rooms, bedrooms, garages, barns, backyards, skate-parks. I saw bands I loved, bands I hated, bands that were good but boring, bands that were shitty but damn entertaining.

I don't go out and see live music much anymore. Think of any excuse that you, or someone you know, has used for "not going out anymore", and I've probably used it. I use 'em all, one-at-a-time or by the fistful.

But I still believe that seeing and hearing live music can be one of the greatest joys life has to offer. (It isn't always, but when everything comes together, it can be glorious.) For some reason, maybe because I don't go out anymore, I've been ruminating about shows I saw in the past.

Listed below is my "Top Ten Live Music Shows". For now, I'm just going to leave it as a list. I hope to subsequently expand each entry and to explain why each show made the list. As is usually the case with my "Top Ten" lists, future revision is not only likely, but is almost guaranteed. However, I can safely say that at least half of these entries will ALWAYS be in my "Top Ten". The list:

GEEBEE's TOP TEN LIVE MUSIC SHOWS
(Not necessarily in order):

	Band/Artist	Date	Venue
1)	Stevie Ray Vaughan	1984	UCD Freeborn Hall, Davis CA
2)	Alice Cooper	2000	Memorial Auditorium, Sacramento CA
3)	The Fluid	1987	UCD Silo, Davis CA
4)	The Rolling Stones	1989	Oakland Coliseum, Oakland CA
5)	The Flaming Lips	1988 or 1989	UCD Coffeehouse, Davis CA
6)	The Smithereens	1986	Club Can't Tell, Sacramento CA
7)	The Figgs	1998	The End, Nashville TN
8)	Thin White Rope	1987 or 1988	Aggie Hotel, Davis CA
9)	Top Jimmy and the Rhythm Pigs	1987 or 1988	Barney's Records, Davis CA
10)	The Replacements	1987	The Gift Center, San Francisco CA

12:38 AM - 19 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Snake, the Trees, and Me

[Author's note: I wrote the original draft of this essay back in mid-August. It's about as close as I come to 'stream of consciousness'-type writing that my revision-obsessive compositional 'style' will allow, though I have done a little editing here and there. Since the piece's inception (see how pretentious I am, I call this blog entry a 'piece'), I've debated with myself whether I should post it. I really don't want it to seem like a plea for sympathy or commiseration—that truly is not the intention of this essay. At least, such things were not the primary motivations (I don't think—the subconscious is a tricky doohickey to figger out). Anyhow, I finally decided to post it for the same reason I wrote it: In hopes that doing so would 'get it out of my head'. "Closure", as they would probably call it on "The View". Also, I've been listening to Husker Du's "Zen Arcade" on my drive to and from work this week. That album always generates a certain amount of nostalgia in me, as well as general feelings of exhilaration and melancholy. Why is that important? For the same reasons this entire exercise is 'important': I don't know. And yes, I realize that my 'intro note' is longer than most people's actual blog entries. If I knew how to 'cut to the chase', I'd end up with too much time on my hands, and idle hands taste like deviled pork-chops.]

Snake, the Trees, and Me

Every day on my drive to work I pass a grove of redwoods at the end of the arboretum. Every time I pass this spot, or walk through it on foot, I think of my buddy Slither. Doesn't matter that I do it every day, or that I've been passing this spot for years—without fail, he pops into my head.

Back when I was a teenager my buddies and I used to come here from time to time and do what teenagers do—hang out, shoot the shit, drink, smoke--basically pass the time. I don't know why we came here, or how it was that no authority-types ever hassled us (except that one time, of course), since it isn't that remote and, I would imagine, must be on The Man's list of "places where ne'er-do-wells may congregate". Perhaps we were just lucky.

Slither and I used to fight like cats and dogs on occasion, though more out of sport more than out of animosity. He was a real smart guy, very opinionated, with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. He was the anti-intellectual intellectual-type, a 'question authority, stir-shit-up, say something outrageous' kind of guy but with the brains to back up his bluster. He talked about political stuff in the way that idealistic-but-irascible youngsters tend to do. I cared very little, and knew even less, about such things but still liked to stick myself in his craw for the hell of it. He loved music, mostly angry, (pseudo-) intelligent, 'righteous' (and it seems mostly English) stuff—The Clash, Stiff Little Fingers, Subhumans, Billy Bragg. That's where we really meshed, our love of music in general and particular. I loved a lot of the same artists, though probably not in the same way, or quite as exclusively. But we agreed that honest, intense music was one of the greatest things going.

Slither died about 15 years ago in a single-car crash. There were some whispers of 'unsavory' or 'suspicious' circumstances and details surrounding his death, but I didn't, and still don't, know if there was any merit in any of it. I didn't really know him well enough to know anything for certain. He and I weren't 'that kind of close'. I'd know him probably as long as I'd known anybody—we went to the same church and had endured catechism together from an early age, went to high school together, and spent a lot of time hanging out after we graduated. But I just didn't know his 'deep' personal information. We always talked about the Pogues and the Ramones and where to get beer—not feelings.

I was here on campus (as a student) when I heard of his death. In that pre-cell-phone era, I used to call home during the day to check my messages to see if any new gigs or band news had come up. Someone, for the life of me I cannot remember who, left a message saying Slither was gone. As would be expected, I was kinda stunned, wandered into a building where I almost never went, and found an area upstairs with benches that was pretty deserted. I didn't make any type of hysterical display of myself, just sat and stared out the window and, I guess, tried to let it sink in. I sat there for a long time, but to this day I'm not sure it ever has completely sunk in.

Ten years ago I went to my ten-year high-school reunion. I met up with a bunch of the old gang at, appropriately enough, someone's parent's house. We got liquored up, then hit the reunion, and proceeded to continue the liquoring. After the reunion ended we went back to the house and liquored some more. We drank and hung out by the pool and played billiards. At some point in the wee hours Slither was mentioned, and some drunken and emotional discussion and debate about the details of his death ensued, and I started bawling like a girl. I don't know exactly why, but I guess the whole thing—his death, the fact that he wasn't with us, the fact that people were still bandying about what I considered 'tawdry' and highly-speculative questions about the details of his death—bothered me to the point of making me cry.

My 20-year reunion is happening this sometime this month. I'm not going. It has nothing to do with Slither, or any particular dislike of such occasions, I just don't feel like doing it this time. I don't know what that has to do with this matter at hand. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything.

I consider myself somewhat fortunate in that I have not had many close friends die in catastrophic or tragic circumstances. But I've encountered my share of death, of friends and family alike. For some reason, Slither is the only person I've 'seen' in the years since his death. I don't mean in dreams or visions. Rather, in normal, waking hours (and while totally sober), I've spied someone walking or riding a bike and thought, with complete credulity, "Hey, there's Slither". Almost immediately I will realize, "Of course that's not Slither, he's dead". But for a very brief moment, I absolutely think that it truly IS him. Not a 'ghost', not someone who reminds me of him, but REALLY him. It's happened a handful of times through the years. To my memory, I've never had a similar occurrence associated with any other dead relative or acquaintance. I don't really think it's anything mystical or mythical or meaningful, just a weird circumstance. But it is odd that it only occurs in relation to Slither.

I've long wished to write a song for Slither, but have also resolutely shied away from the idea. I never wanted to write a maudlin 'poor pitiful me, my friend died and I'm sad' dirge. That sort of thing always seems solipsistic and crass, even when it is totally sincere. (Of course, this very blog post can and should be accused of those very infractions.) But since the greatest bond I had with Slither was through music, writing him a song has always seemed appropriate to me. Maybe someday. Maybe an instrumental. Maybe never. I don't know.

On a whim one day, I Google'd Slither's (real) name. The first, and so far only, link that I found was on a Billy Bragg fan-forum. Imagine that. The woman who wrote it appears to be Slither's girlfriend from the time right before his death. (From what I heard, he was on his way home from her house when he crashed.) She mentioned that it was Slither that introduced her to Bragg's music. She said that soon after Slither's death, she found a Billy Bragg cassette that he'd left at her house, and that, understandably, she's had a deep emotional connection to his music ever since. I know what she means. From the rest of her post it sounded like she's gone forward with life like everyone else does and should. But I admit I thought it poignant that she mentioned Slither, and felt some weird comfort in the whole thing, as odd and absurd as that may seem.

This morning, after, as usual, passing the redwood grove and thinking of Slither, I wanted to hear some Billy Bragg, but I don't have any on CD or in my music library on my work computer. I did a web-search hoping to find at least a few free MP3's, and ended up at Bragg's myspace site. The songs on the page were all recent (not, of course, the old stuff I was hoping to hear). I figured I might as well take a listen, and I chose a song that has 'space race' in the title, since that particular subject has been of interest to me as of late. I didn't really know if the subject matter of the song would actually have anything to do with THE space race, and didn't expect to like the song much anyhow (I haven't followed Bragg much in recent years). As it turned out, the song was, in fact, about the space race (to a degree) and I totally loved it, it was the type of Billy Bragg song (i.e. the non-political kind) that made me a fan so many years ago. Also made me think of one of my favorite Billy Bragg lyrics, from "A New England": "I saw two shooting stars last night, I wished on them, but they were only satellites, it's wrong to wish on space hardware, I wish, I really wish you cared."

I remember at Slither's funeral debating with myself over whether I should talk with his parents. I wanted to tell them my high opinion of their son, give them my condolences, and perhaps convey how much he was not only liked but also respected by his friends. But I decided against it, feeling that I would be 'piling on' grief at an inopportune time. They were, naturally, inundated with "well-wishers" at that point, and I felt that the last thing they needed was another person saying, in essence, "Your son was a wonderful man. It's a shame he's dead." I decided it might be better if I wrote them a letter after a few months; I decided against doing that as well, thinking, "Why re-open old wounds?" I still see his dad on campus from time to time, and wonder if maybe I should just go up and say hello and tell him that his son still has a place in my mind and heart. But I don't, and almost certainly won't.

I don't know why Slither continues to occupy my mind this many years down the road. Sure, there's the normal, "He was my friend and he's gone" stuff, but my preoccupation seems to go beyond that. I don't think I'm obsessed with the whole affair; I don't sit and mope about it or anything. And it's not like I continually dwell on his death and absence. But it does seem like it enters my mind in some capacity more frequently than one would expect. There's probably a half-dozen plausible explanations, though perhaps none of them are accurate, and furthermore, it probably doesn't matter at all whether I understand WHY I have these thoughts and feelings. The reality is, they are there, they probably always will be there, and in the end, its probably good in some way that they are there. Or maybe its not good or bad, just a neutral, perfectly natural reaction to an event that, apparently, impacted me greatly, perhaps not so much consciously but maybe in some 'deep' psychological/emotional place. Maybe it's normal, maybe it isn't, maybe its' justifiable, maybe it's not. I suppose I don't need answers to these questions any more than I need pity or sympathy or commiseration. Nothing can be done, nothing changes anything, life goes on and all that.

So why the hell did I write this deluge of gobbledygook? I really don't know. Maybe I hoped that putting it here will take it out of my mind in some fashion. Or maybe I just needed to see the words, hoping I'd find by 'reading' my thoughts some insights that I don't get from 'hearing' my thoughts. Or maybe I just simply felt like documenting the notion that sometimes you just don't have control over what affects you. I don't fucking know. Maybe it's the Valium talking. (Of course, there's always the explanation, "I was looking for attention", but that's a given on myspace, innit?)

What I'm certain of is that he's gone and I wish he wasn't and I think it's a shame.
Even though he and I very likely would have drifted apart as people tend to do as they get older and get on with their lives, I still wish he was out there somewhere instead of gone forever. And it may be a cliché, but I still feel bad for his family. I don't know how you ever get over that, and I bet if I asked them, they'd say, "You never do".

You know, I think I just accidentally stumbled upon at least part of my motivation for this whole thing—my own fear as a parent. Everyone that knows me knows what a worrier I am, and becoming a parent has increased my anxiety many-fold. This doesn't explain why I continued to think of Slither for all the intervening years (between his death and Baby GeeBee's birth), but it certainly might explain a little of what his death has come to signify to me now. I don't think I'm 'obsessed' with Slither's death, but I am definitely obsessed with the fear that something bad will happen to MY baby, and I just do not know how I could ever handle that. I want assurance that nothing really bad will ever happen to her, but that is impossible, which bothers me to no end. I suppose it's the same for all parents. I keep trying to establish some kind of "safety chart' in my mind, as in, "Once she get past this point, I won't have to worry anymore". But I know, even as I do it, that the whole enterprise is futile. Slither's death proves that. He made it through childhood, adolescence, puberty, any number of conflicts with parents and authorities over transgressions serious and silly, and he "ended up" fine. He was cruising along in college, had the love of a girl, had brains, good looks (and great hair, a gift from his mom), lots of friends, was (I think) heading off to Europe to 'see the world'. And then, literally, overnight…he's gone.

I'll stop now otherwise I'll go on forever.

12:04 AM - 26 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment