Nothing in particular, just riffing like a jazz musician.
Saturday night with Henry Rollins' ridiculously eclectic Harmony In My Head radio show out of KCRW in Santa Monica, CA. I've learned more about music in the six years I've been hip to this show than in my first thirty years of being a music fanatic. For the musically adventurous, every damned episode is available for download at the lovingly-curated Rollins Archive. Understandably so, Henry gets under many a motherfucker's skin, and even if you're one of these people, especially if you're one of these people, you should check out this show. Make it one of your 2012 resolutions to get through a dozen of these broadcasts, and I guarantee you won't want to stop.
I often wish that I wasn't a music fanatic, or a literature fanatic, or a horror movie fanatic, or a Dachshund fanatic. I'd likely have a much easier time in life if I were a Denver Broncos fanatic, or a Jesus fanatic, or a business-management fanatic, or a financial-planning fanatic, or a car-selling fanatic, or a paper-filing fanatic, or a Dockers-wearing fanatic, or a power-abusing fanatic, or a floor-mopping fanatic.
The store manager of the wage-slave hell that is soon to be a bad memory for me once told me that he is passionate about running a grocery store. He went on to say that it's the highlight of his day comes when he sees a display, presumably to sell avocados or hot sauce or potato chips. built. I'm not one to judge a person based on his or her passions, but I guess this makes him a don't-get-out-much fanatic.
Someone who might not be getting out much for a few years is the cheap-ass loser who, up until a couple of weeks ago owned the hell that is my place of wage slavery.
The salient facts of the case can be gleaned from the above article, and while I'd never stoop to such a level, I'm not condemning the guy for wanting to pay for a piece of ass, even if it was presented as underage. A law that prohibits one from selling one's body for sex is a law that says that one's body, and thus one's very being, is the property of the state. Regarding the young stuff, every seventeen year old (except those with Morrissey records) is screwing every other seventeen year old, and it's perfectly legal. Why shouldn't a piece of young stuff be able to get a piece of over-the-hill stuff? Again with the ownership of one's own body thing.
No, my problem with this dumb motherfucker is not his morals, nor with his seeming inability to get laid on his own. My problem with this turd is his utter inability to smell a fucking vice sting operation when it's practically fucking telegraphed to him! That someone with this complete lack sense can run a multi-million dollar operation and otherwise prosper in life, while I subsist on ramen noodles ("When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?" - Allen Ginsberg, America) , is all to proof I need that there is no god. Perhaps the highlight of this teen poon fanatic's day will come in the form of a daily ass-rape in some Arizona shithole prison. God, if you want me back, here's your chance.
Personally, the highlight of my day comes from a great line of literature, a great bit of music, a blowjob, a loving look from my Dachshund, or, what Daivd Bowie once referred to as a daily zenith of thought; daily satori if you will. In any case, I'm not picky.
Speaking of David Bowie, your hero and mine turns a spry 65 years old today. I've been a nut for him since 1993 when, tired of the crop of Pearl Jam imitating bands swept up, signed, and spit out a few years later by the bastard record industry (gutless fanatics) of the grunge 90's, I began to go backward into The Rolling Stones (Chess Records fanatics), The Who, T Rex, Johnny Cash, Alice Cooper (Seagram's Seven fanatic turned Jesus fanatic), and David Bowie. I figured if Bauhaus and Morrissey (a lapse in judgement I'm still making) dug the cat, then so would I. The first Bowie record I picked up was the RYKO re release of the soundtrack to Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture. The moment I heard that motherfucker, I knew where Steve Jones got that Sex Pistols guitar sound (and not just the actual guitars he stole from that very gig !). I knew where the mysterious Peter Murphy got that style and stage presence. Total Blam Blam!!!
For a while, I was the weird guy listening to a bunch of old music (and admittedly missing out on some great music of the time), but I wasn't alone for long. Pretty soon, all of my friends were Bowie fanatics. My motley crew of music geeks, stoners, rockers, dope-fiends, poets, and general miscreants all came to love Bowie. As for our pre-punk heroes in the glam 70's, Bowie was our soundtrack to underage drinking, reckless driving, cigarette smoking, and getting naked in the back seats of cars. Although he's no longer the musical accompaniment to three of those activities for me, I'm never far from a Bowie record new, old, or even from the wretchedly tasteless 1980's.
I first saw him in 2002 on a Moby-organized festival called Area 2. On the bill were Ash (good), Blue Man Group (not as revolutionary as they used to be, but good), Busta Rhymes (surprisingly good), Bowie (God), and Moby (fucking awful) . Having dyed my hair orange and not cut it in six months, I quite thought that I resembled a young, paranoid, coke-fiend Bowie from the film, The Man Who Fell To Earth.
Bowie, on the other hand must have thought differently, as he seemingly recoiled in horror at the guy in the front row with the stupid haircut. Maybe it just didn't work without the cocaine.
A few years later, when Bowie toured for the very fine Reality record, he played a surprisingly small venue when he hit my town. It was a tour in which he played stadiums (dig the wonderful A Reality Tour DVD and recently released CD of the same name), yet in Denver, he hit stage at the wonderful Fillmore Auditorium, a place I've seen the Stooges, the White Stripes. Slayer, Morrissey, Medeski, Martin, and Wood, Motorhead, Social Distortion, the Mars Volta, Jane's Addiction, Rob Zombie, and other medium-sized acts, yet no one of Bowie's magnitude. Although I didn't make it up front to scare him with my bad taste, it was an amazing night, but not just for us Bowie fanatics. My girlfriend of the time was screwing some other guy that night. I don't hold that against Bowie, though. He was that good. I should note that on both occasions that I saw Bowie, he commented to the very hip Denver audience how much he loved our local book store, The Tattered Cover. I believe he even said that it was the best book store in America. Yes, I shop at the same book store as Bowie, bitches.
Shortly thereafter, he had a wee heart attack, and seemingly disappeared from public life. As much as I'd love another record from the geezer, I'm elated that I've merely been able to have so many of his records as my soundtrack to dastardly deeds (and perfectly lonely nights). I'm elated that I've seen two absolutely perfect performances from the guy. Happy birthday, Bowie, and thanks!
To celebrate Bowie's birthday, I suggest throwing a few discs of his into the stereo (I've been on a Bowie At The Beeb tear for the last few months) and reading a book by the late Hubert Selby, Jr., an author Bowie greatly admires. Dig the video for more.
Stay sick.
Post Scriptum. In honor of Bowie's 65th, the good people at Slicing Up Eyeballs have put up video of eight full Bowie shows spanning 1978 - 1994. Dig 'em here.
Bowie is one I loved from pretty early on, although Low is an album I got only in the past year. Can't say I love it yet. I know it's a critics' favorite but I've given it a few spins and I'm sure to give it more over time. I'll join your happy 65 to the man.