Category Archives: Punk

Sex Pistols US Tour 1978: The Last Rock and Roll Band on the Last Rock and Roll Tour

How is that these shows were played a full forty years ago?!

I’ve seen testimonies by people who were at these shows. They typically go like this: “My friends and I saw this concert. It was incredible. None of us were ever the same after that…” There are things called peak experiences in life. This must have been one of them.

“Anarchy in the UK,” Sex Pistols at The Great Southeast Music Hall, Atlanta, Georgia January 5, 1978.

Wow! That’s one of the most exhilarating performances I have ever seen. For the whole 37 minutes, they never stop cheering once. Too much man, too much!

Johnny Rotten is actually in top form; he’s better here than he was just starting out. It’s barely even rock and roll anymore. It’s shading off into pure performance art.

Notice the crowd is cheering wildly all the way through the song. I’ve been to more concerts than I can count, and you almost never see that at a show – a crowd roaring with raucous cheer from the beginning to the end of a song. Notice that the crowd doesn’t stop cheering when the song ends and they are already cheering before the song begins. I wish I could have seen one of those shows, but they only came to San Francisco. I knew some punks in LA who actually bought plane tickets to fly up to Frisco to see the Pistols.

The band deliberately booked shows at rowdy redneck dives in the South and Southwest. They were trying to book in the places where they would be hated the most and would provoke the strongest reaction. Johnny Rotten played his part. He would start out the shows in Texas by screaming, “You cowboys are a bunch of faggots!” After that it was on, of course.

The punks vastly outnumbered the cowboys at every concert. The punks were mostly happy, even overjoyed and good-natured at all of these shows. There was very little fighting or violence among them. Why should there have been. They  should have been happy. They got to see the Sex Pistols!

Sex Pistols at Cain’s Ballroom, Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1978.

People who went to this show said every punk from 90 miles around was at that show.

Check out the Jesus Freaks with the 1970’s long hair. I used to have hair exactly like that. We think it’s corny now, but women and girls went nuts over long hair like that. Mine was a head full of curls and females of all ages were always going into trances, saying, “I love your hair..” and rubbing their hands through it. Young, hyper-religious, often long-haired former hippie super-Christians were called “Jesus freaks” back then. Nobody really hated them, but we thought they were a bit of a drag. They were mostly male. There were not many Jesus freak chicks, thank God.

The Jesus freaks outside this show are insisting that the Pistols are from the Devil and they are playing the Devil’s music. This is interspersed with wild shots from the show. Looking at Rotten on stage, you can’t help but wonder if the Jesus freaks were right about this band.

“New York,” Sex Pistols at Randy’s Rodeo, San Antonio, Texas.

The problem with this San Antonio show was that a bunch of idiot cowboy rednecks showed up just to hate the band and cause trouble. The shit-kicking rednecks were booing, yelling, throwing stuff and trying to incite the band to violence all through the show. You can see at the end of this song that Sid Vicious hits one of the rednecks in the head with his guitar! The redneck deserved it as he was trying to start a fight with Sid. Be careful what you wish for, rednecks! Sid also hit another redneck with his guitar when the cowboy tried to climb on stage. Then a redneck threw a half bottle of beer that blew up on Sid’s bass! Sid picked up the broken bottle and slashed his chest with it!

That’s punk rock, dammit!

After that, the rednecks calmed down and backed off. Rednecks love to fight with dangerous people, but nobody wants to fight a crazy dangerous person.

“New York” by the Sex Pistols, from Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols, 1978. 

This song “New York” is very misunderstood. It is usually parsed as the Sex Pistols attacking the New York Dolls because they hated the Dolls. Not so. The Dolls were a bit influence on the Pistols. You can draw a straight line from the Dolls to the Pistols, with the Heartbreakers bridging the gap. In fact, the song was about the Japanese tour where McLaren had the Dolls dress up in patent red leather outfits and perform under a Communist flag. The tour was a failure and many British punks at the time thought it was a sellout. The song is the Pistols attacking the Dolls for this sellout tour.

An imitation from New York
You’re made in Japan from cheese and chalk
You’re hippy tarts hero
‘Cause you put on a bad show,
you put on a bad show
Oh don’t it show

Still out on those pills
Oh do you remember
You think it’s swell playing Max’s Kansas
You’re looking bored and you’re acting flash
With nothing in your gut
You better keep yer mouth shut
You better keep yer mouth shut
In a rut

Still out on those pills
Do the sambo
Four years on you still look the same
I think about time
You changed your brain
You’re just a pile of shit
You’re coming to this
Ya poor little faggot
You’re sealed with a kiss
Kiss me

Think it’s swell playing in Japan
When everybody knows Japan is a dishpan
You’re just a pile of shit
You’re coming to this
You poor little faggot
You’re sealed with a kiss

Still out on those pills
Cheap thrills
Anadins Aspros anything
You’re condemned to eternal bullshit

You’re sealed with a kiss
Kiss me
A kiss a kiss
You’re sealed with a kiss
A looking for a kiss
You’re coming to this
I want to kiss
You do just about anything
Oh kiss this
Eh boy

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Filed under Music, Punk, Regional, Rock, South, Texas, USA, West

Trailer for William S. Burroughs Documentary

Human faces tentative flicker in and out of focus. We waded into the warm mud-water. Hair and ape flesh off in screaming strips. Stood naked human bodies covered with phosphorescent green jelly. Soft tentative flesh cut with ape wounds. Peeling other genitals. Fingers and tongues rubbing off the jelly-cover. Body melting pleasure-sounds in the warm mud. Till the sun went and a blue wind of silence touched human faces and hair. When we came out of the mud we had names…

…Larval people whispering flesh. Eyes ejaculated spine mud. Black gum in member. Old junky coughing limestone in the obsidian morning: the sale mirror to red sky. Manipulated spasms puppets vestigial meat. Pulsing pink shell. Red pagodas and crystal accounts. Wet dream eyes hanging in lust of dead flesh patios. Boy chrysalis in streets of postcard. Eating birds patrol black lichen. Catatonic sports sear lungs of dream clay. Lust of mud bubble coal gas the insect street. Flesh ejaculation. Penis in the broken mirror rocks of Marwan. Serving the crystal dawn photo of sex. On the Brass and Copper Street…

An evil old character with sugary eyes that stuck to you…They were ripe for the plucking forgot way back yonder in the corn hole—Lost in little scraps of delight and burning scrolls…The man opposite me didn’t look like much—A thin gray man in a long coat that flickered like old film…in these times when practically anybody is subject to wander in from the desert with a quit claim deed and snatch a girl’s snatch right out from under her assets…When the boy peeled off the dry goods he gives off a slow stink like a thawing mummy…Crab men peer out of abandoned quarries and shag heaps some sort of vestigial eye growing cheek bone and a look about them as if they could take root and grow on anybody…

William S. Burroughs, The Soft Machine, 1963.

William S. Burroughs is one of those authors that people either love or hate, but that’s the objective, the purpose of his work – to be a human lightning rod of gesticulating and mercurial passion. Like yours truly, in other words.

Always wanted to see a good movie about this maniac, who has always been one of my favorite writers.

I gave out Naked Lunch to a few of my friends, and they would bring it back warily with shaking hands convinced that I was obviously gay. Well, Burroughs’ writing is full of gay sex, but that’s not a reason to read it. The sex is boring and repetitive anyway, but the descriptions of it like all his writing are often beautiful. Gay sex scenes usually disgust me, and I end up throwing the book at the wall. This often breaks the spine and pages fall out, but it’s just as well. That book deserved that wall for the audacious travesty of daring to put that awfulness in there. But Burroughs, that I can read.

Anyway, 90% of the people who read Burroughs aren’t gay. Burroughs is so much more than a gay writer. For a while there, he may well have been the greatest writer in America.

I read almost all of his writing. Most people thought I was a freak for liking the guy in the first place. But Burroughs is not only a Beat but the original avant-garde writer and the forerunner to punk rock. More than that: Burroughs actually was a punk, decades before his team. He’s been loved by hipsters, artists, and cutting edge freaks and psychos for decades. He’s very much worth reading.

His writing is a lot of things, but it’s often also beautiful, which is strange given its often ugly subject matter. But to find beauty in the awfulness of life, the sublime amidst the squalor, is one of the purposes of life.

Viewed one way, half of life is glorious and the other half is sad. Half of life wonderful and the other half is horrible. And that’s if you are lucky. I have counseling clients who are sad. I tell them that sadness is a natural part of life and that half of life is sadness, even if the other half is radiant happiness.

“When you feel sad,” I tell them. “Say to yourself, ‘Thank God for that feeling! Sit back somewhere alone and just immerse yourself in the sadness of life. Don’t kill yourself or do anything drastic. Just be part of the reality of life’s essential sadness.”

If half of life is sad (and that’s being generous – Jack Kerouac often said that that Buddhists said, ‘All of life is sadness’ – and in way he was correct), then it only makes sense to make yourself aware of that fact and even bask or immerse yourself in it if you dare. If you do that, you may find that there is even an a transcendent beauty in sadness, something the great artists and mystics have taken about forever. Ever seen a great sad movie that moved you to tears. It was awful and beautiful at the same time, right?

Burroughs led a very interesting life. He lived in Mexico City for a while with some other Beats. One night he was playing “William Tell” at a drunken party with his wife Joan (yes he was married for a bit and even fathered a child named Billy), trying to shoot a drink glass off her head. He missed and shot her in the head instead. Police interviewed and determined it was an accident and let him off. Talking about this with a friend who liked Kerouac a lot more than Burroughts, my friend shook his head, “He definitely went crazy after that,” he said. Maybe so. But Burroughs was always pretty crazy, even as a boy. The great writers and artists often are after all.

Your task: Identify the following famous Beats and hipsters in this short film:

  1. Allen Ginsberg
  2. Lucien Carr
  3. Patti Smith
  4. Herbert Huncke
  5. John Giorno
  6. James Grauerholz (twice)

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Filed under Cinema, Literature, Music, Novel, Philosophy, Punk, Rock

Germs, The Other Newest One

I feel your body’s close to mine
I hear your breath and mine in time
I know I’m nothing but it’s you that I need
I touch your skin and it starts to feed

You’re not the first you’re not the last
Another day another crash

My eyes meet yours in secret glance
Our bodies locked in ancient stance
You whisper something and I know it’s good
You’re acting crazy just like I knew you would

You’re not the first you’re not the last
Another day another crash

Embracing my life between your thighs
We will perform in the deadly skies
Reducing my mind to endless nights
You send my dreams to their demise
Realized by your last breath …

I take your hair in to my hands
I pull it tight to fit your demands
Feel my body into yours
I Know it’s right cause that’s my soul you stir

You’re not the first you’re not the last
Another day another crash
You’re not the first you’re not the last
Another day another crash
You’re not the first you’re not the last
Another day another crash
You’re not the first you’re not the last
Another day another CATCH

In case you are wondering, this is about a homosexual love affair Darby had with another boy at the Hollywood Arts Free School he went to. But no matter. Naked Lunch is a great book, and Death in Venice will never be matched. Art does not abide our petty preferences. This higher calling is meant to transcend your petty prejudices. Art’s not about right and wrong. It’s about beauty, even when it’s ugly as sin.

God, I love this music. Very, very hardcore punk rock from the bowels of Los Angeles late 70’s to 1980. It’s so vicious it’s almost evil, but that’s why it’s great. Anyway I’m a bit of a Germ myself, infecting the bowels of this decaying nation.

I’m certainly contagious, good and bad. Just ask some of my exes.

No wait.

I saw these Germs maniacs in concert once at the Hong Kong Cafe. We got there and there were these angry punkers throwing bottles against the outside of the building. They glared at us, and we looked at them like, Hey not us, guys. We got inside, and we knew some of the local maniacs in there.

Diane Chin of the Alleycats was there. She really liked me one night, but she gave me 10 seconds to make a move. I didn’t do it, so she treated me like dog crap under her shoe for the rest of the night. I looked up at her wailing away on the stage. She seemed to be glaring at me. Apparently I just failed Shit Test 1, and there wasn’t going to be another.

Some of these psychobitches give you one damn chance. You need to move on them very aggressively in 10 seconds or so. You need to walk right up to her, put your arm around her, and drag her  off with that look in your eyes that says you know you’re going to do this baby, no one can turn me down. Of course that violates #metoo 101. You just committed sexual assault, sexual harassment, and sexual misconduct, and if you play your cards very carefully, you commit rape later on that night if she’s willing.

These psychobitches actually want to be more or less raped by a brutish man. They want you to walk up to them, grab them, and start kissing them like they can’t say no. They want to be dragged off by their hair like the cavemen did. They want to be told what to do and ordered around. They want the confidence of Superman and the brooding danger of Marlon Brando. If you can’t measure up, you’re a pussy, and she wants to kill you.

She wore all leather, but that doesn’t mean much. Most punker chicks were submissives deep down inside, like all normal women.

Anyway there she was.

My friend points to her and says, “See that chick there? Diane Chai of the Alleycats?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s nuts!”

I look over at her.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“When she does her slamdancing thing…”

“Yeah?”

“That chick! She…actually…breaks…tables!” His eyes are falling out of his head.

Well I knew she was a psychobitch, and now that was confirmed. I made a mental note not to impersonate any tables that night.

My friend’s sister was there along with her best friend, a perpetually scowling punker chick with leather and frizzy hair. You would think she was a dyke looking at her, but no way. She softened up and went submissive if I tried to talk to her. That means, “I like cock.” Dykes don’t to that. Dykes send in reinforcements when you try to talk to them, unless you’re gay, in which case they might like you and treat you like their little boy pet.

I went to the bathroom. There was the great Darby Crash, lead singer of the Germs! Famous! Sort of. A complete maniac! No really, read a biography. He’s all dressed in leather like a street tough. He’s got this sneering snarl that’s rather appealing if you’re a mountain lion. I’m washing up. He sees me and smiles/sneers whatever. It’s not exactly unfriendly. He’s just saying Fuck the World, and he hopes you agree. He looks like he’s  going to bust out laughing. His life was a bad joke, so he probably should have.

“Got any Tuuuuuuuuuinalssss?” He asks me with the not unfriendly James Dean sneer, a smiling laugh waiting to bust out and blow up the room.

His voice is is faggier than the Castro. He’s making limp wrist gestures. This dangerous maniac is actually a flaming faggot! What the Hell, man? The leather, the homicidal look, the deranged masculinity of a caged animal, and wrap it up with a mincing queen. It’s not even a product. It’s an April Fools Joke. Nothing about it even makes sense.

He’s asking me for Tuinols. Those are downers, barbiturates. Also called Blues. Popular back then.

Take one, and it’s like drinking a six pack.

Drink on them and you might die. Get behind a wheel, and all bets are off.

Give one to a chick, and she’ll turn into a half-conscious slavering nympho who won’t remember a thing in the morning. These pills do have their uses, you know? Girls liked to take them so they could have slutty irresponsible sex with the excuse that they were too wasted to be responsible, with the added benefit of being amnestic the next morning. Who knows what the truth is?

The thing is probably just a confession booth in a capsule. “I now absolve you of all responsiblity!” A blue excuse.

Well, I dealt drugs of course. I did for many years. And never got caught. Neener neener cops. I never sold pills though. Those are dirty and ugly. Sell them to some idiot, and he crashes into a bicyclist at night. You’re on the hook for felony murder and a guilty conscience til death no bottle can wash away.

“Nope, sorry,” I said. “Tuinal cigarettes. All I have are Tuinol cigarettes.” Well there’s no such thing. That’s an assholey thing to say, but then, Darby was an asshole, so it was probably appropriate.

“Tuinol cigarettes!?” he scoffs, realizing it’s a stupid joke. Part of him wants to hit me, and the other part wants to bust out laughing.

He starts sneering, and bursting out laughing in outrage, snarling out the door holding back the laughter.

I decided that I sort of like the guy, and now I just met a famous and very dangerous punk rock musician.

We go back to the club and buy Heinekens. My friend’s sister goes submissive, crumbles when I say hi. All the evil in her wrings out like a sponge. Now she’s a ragdoll, waiting to be taken. I get it. She wants to be raped too. All these scary punker bitches do. They’re all little girls at the end of the day.

Rape!? Well. Consensual rape. Let’s put it that way. You know, the way most mammals do it?

All you have to go is grab her like a maniac. And no, you don’t ask permission, you #metoo boneheads. Asking permission is pussy. It’s fail. A man doesn’t ask permission for anything. He takes what he wants, caveman-style.

I’m too chicken, so it’s a fail. Been listening to too many feminists. The only way to seduce her would be very roughly anyway, and that violates sexual misconduct, sexual harassment, and assault right there, with (consensual) rape later on if you get lucky. I’ve turned pussy. It’s all the fault of feminists and paying too much attention to my mother. About certain things, a man should never really listen to his mother. Listen to his father? Maybe.

The first show is Joanna Went. Apparently she’s actively psychotic or something. Her act is some sort of a schizophrenic breakdown on stage. I’m wondering if she’s really crazy or just a maniac like all the rest of these animals.

“Catatooooonic!…………Schizophreeeeenic!……..” She wails at no one and nothing. Her eyes look crazed. She’s got football player shoulder pads on like a circus freak. On a chick with pink hair. Well. That’s weird. Partway in, she starts ripping at the pads. The pads come open. They’re filled with shredded cheddar cheese! That makes perfect sense!

She’s grabbing handfuls of the cheese and throwing it out into the audience, wailing like a crazy woman the whole time. The maniacs in the audience are picking up handfuls of cheese and throwing it everywhere. Pretty soon the whole audience is caught in an actual blizzard of cheese. Like zero visibility. We are all covered with cheese. We’re pissed off, so we reach down and grab handfuls of cheese and start throwing them at Joanna. Hard. As hard as possible. That bitch. She threw cheese at us! For some reason, she likes this and smiles. She wants you to hate her. She’s trying to piss you off. It’s Duchamp and Man Ray, half a century too late. Dada, get it?

This nonsense is called Performance Art. I am not sure what the artistic statement is. Apparently that she’s crazy, we’re all crazy, and the rest of the world is nuts too. I think she could have said that without creating cheese blizzard, but it’s ok. Now I have another cool story to brag about.

The Germs come out.

There’s an air of menace in the club. It’s scary, you might get hurt. But that’s exhilarating too. Like war. The rush of impending potential violence. You’re on edge, but you’ve never been so excited.

The drummer is Don Bolles. He looks like a maniac.

The guitarist is Pat Smear. He looks like he’s criminally insane.

The bass player is this hot blond reform school runaway chick. She looks dangerous too.

Hell, they’re all dangerous. So’s the audience. That’s the general idea here. After a while, the dangerousness infects you, and you start getting antisocial yourself. I’m starting to feel pissed off. I guess that was the plan.

The band careens off into their set. This is some of the most terrifying music I’ve heard. Pure savage wailing raw animal menace. Perfect for a predatory animals like us. Apex predators. We forget that too often. We can kill everything else.

I’ve got nothing to be mad about, but I hate the world anyway. I’m not sure what the problem is, or if it’s even a problem. I want to hate the world, so maybe it’s adaptive. But why? I’m probably just not getting laid enough. But even if I was getting laid, I’d still be pissed off. I was 23 years old.

And now I’m gonna be 22!
I said a…Hey hey!
And a boo hoo!

– Iggy Pop and the Stooges, 1970

Or…

Speed jive

Don’t want to stay alive
When you’re 25

– Mott the Hoople, All the Young Dudes, 1972

You get the picture. Young men don’t need a reason to be angry.

Look back in anger.

What are you rebelling against?…What do you got?

Who knows what causes this aimless and meaningless anger of young men? It’s probably all down to testosterone poisoning.

The set’s halfway over.

Darby Crash has that same wild sneer and the 5150 look. He looks like he needs to be Baker Acted, and soon. He’s crouched down on the stage like a wild animal. Like a tiger. Or lion. Same man-eating look.

Everybody is starting to hate him. That’s the idea. Why? He’s an asshole! Just look at him! He wants you to hate him, get it? It’s not even serious. It’s a band of provocateurs.

People are throwing stuff at the stage, mostly at Darby because he deserves it most. The more people throw stuff, the more he smiles, crouches lower and screams like a man-eating feline. I’m starting to hate him. He’s really pissing me off.

We have cokes full of ice. There’s only ice left. I am grabbing handfuls of crushed ice and throwing it this freak on stage. Hard! Try to him! Hit him!

But why?

Because he’s an asshole! Just look at him.

The more ice that gets thrown at him, the more he smiles. It’s all a bit sado-masochistic. But as long as I’m dom, it’s all good.

The show crashes on until it ends, a freeway pileup in the fog on a sound stage.

We stumble out of the building.

It’s New Years Eve, 1979. Tomorrow will be a whole new decade.

The 70’s are over. Bye bye Hotel California. Bye bye paradise. Call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye.

Hello Germs. Hello Hell. Hello Other Newest One.

It’s the end, the end of the 70’s! It’s the end, the end of the century!

We lurch out of the building and into an alleyway. A crazed, drunken man stumbles into our path. He can’t even walk. He careens nearly into us and crashes to the ground. He picks himself up and looks back at us wildly. We stop. He has granny glasses. He fell on his face, and one lens is smashed. There’s blood all over his eye. It’s Clockwork Orange and Night of the Living Dead combined. Pure horrorshow, droogies.

Maybe he’s gone blind. Who knows?

It’s horrible. There’s blood pouring out of his eye socket. He puts one hand up to his bleeding eye and lurches off ahead of, fertilizing the dawn of the new decade crimson red in his path.

It’s a whole new decade. Things are getting scary. Reagan just won. Nothing makes sense. Everyone’s pissed off and, no one knows why. A new decade looms ahead, glowing ominously with pregnant danger.

We shake our heads at the horror and the spectacle.

A whole new decade has come crashing in filth and fury. We drive home in near silence on the freeway. After all we saw, there’s no words to add. The words are sucked out of us for a good hour. We still don’t quite believe it happened, and we are trying to take it all in.

And that was the night I saw the Germs.

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Filed under Art, Barbiturates, Depressants, Feminism, Gender Studies, Heterosexuality, Homosexuality, Intoxicants, Man World, Music, Punk, Rock, Sex, Women

Cascada, “Because the Night”

More Electropop, this time out of Germany. Check out the statuesque Tuetonic blonde Nico type fronting the band.

This is actually a new musical movement called Eurodance. This did indeed come out of House and Techno DJ dance music of an earlier era, moreso than Electropop.

The original song is by Patti Smith, and it is excellent. I cannot recommend Patti Smith highly enough. She was one of the original punk rockers and she was actually a poet. Her music is real poetry set to music. She even shacked up with playright Sam Shephard for a while. She’s a bit butch, but she was always heterosexual. This is what I liked about the genderbending of the 1970’s. You could be an androgynous man like the guys in Mott the Hoople or Queen, Bowie’s band or the Dolls and still be 100% heterosexual. Mott were actually hyper-heterosexual, but a lot of people said they dressed like faggots.

Similarly, sure, Patti Smith is a bit butch for a woman, but she is ravenously heterosexual. Once again, in 70’s thinking, even fairly masculine women can be wildly heterosexual, and no one cares.

We are really getting away with this with the insane Cultural Left modern gay culture and the much more insane Trans Culture. We are getting back into essentializing gender again. I thought feminism was the opposite of that? The 1970’s were definitely the opposite of that. Gendered behavior was uprooted from sexual orientation. Men could be feminine. Chicks could be masculine. All without being faggots or dykes. Yay!

The crazy way we are now, most fairly feminine men have either gone over to gay somehow or are quite likely to be bisexual, often by preference and not biology. Worse, feminine behavior in men is seen as proof positive that you are a bit Tranny. There are even radical Trans activists who insist that all gay people are really trans and they all need to come out and transition and get it over with. Gay Politics birthed its child, Trans Politics, and now the offspring is attacking the parents. Once again the Cultural Left keeps sprouting and watering the seeds of its own destruction. Sort of like, you know…capitalism? Cue Marx.

Masculine women who would have been straight in the 1970s are now almost all lez or bi if not out and out transmen as gender has once again been essentialized moronically by the Cultural Left. What is nuts that is that another Cultural Left wing, Feminism, has always hated the essentialization of gender. This hatred is the raison de etre or feminism itself. So the Cultural Left’s various factions promote their own contradictions (cue Marx again) and the contradictions go to war against each other, tearing the host asunder.

If a man is as feminine as Bowie or Marc Bolan or the Dolls nowadays, he’s nearly always gay or bisexual if not out and out trans. All of these men, if growing up nowadays, would have gone seriously bi if not gay and at least Bowie would probably be a damned transwoman by now.

Do you see how the modern Cultural Left has limited the options of men and women. Straight men and women are once again shoved into masculine and feminine boxes, and you step outside, that’s prima facie evidence that you’re not straight and probably not cis anymore.

Way to go Cultural Left! Thanks for bringing 1950’s gender roles back to straight people.

Fucktards.

SMH.

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Filed under Cultural Marxists, Culture, Feminism, Gender Studies, Glam, Heterosexuality, Homosexuality, Left, Man World, Music, Politics, Pop Culture, Punk, Rock, Sex

Talking Heads, “Road to Nowhere”

From the 1985 album Little Creatures, which I am not familiar with. This is as good as Fear of Music (1979).

Great music! When they came on board, they bridged the 1970’s and the 1980’s. They were called early punk rock because no one could think of anything else to call them. I prefer to call them Art Fag Rock. I mean they came out of Art School, what else do you call bands that come out of a venue you like that. I actually interviewed an early LA punk rock group called the Art Fags. They were really cool! And they weren’t gay at all of course (this was 1979, remember?) although nowadays they would have to be.

I saw them in 1979 at UCLA in one of their first US performances. Oingo Boingo was there! It was great! Outdoors concert. I will have to look it up to see the date. You guys missed it. A legendary great early punk rock show at UCLA, of all places. The ghost of Jim Morrison was looking on from the second floor of the Art Building. He was smiling because his voice was still alive in the City of Night where he started it all so long ago.

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Filed under Music, Punk, Rock

New York Dolls, “Subway Train”

God-damn that is some good, fine rock and roll. From 1973, ladies and gentlemen, the greatest rock and roll band ever, the New York Dolls!

That’s me. I’m the New York Dolls. That’s me on the cover too. No wonder people used to think I was gay. I’m a straight androgyne. So sue me!

PS All the Dolls were straight, 100% completely straight, believe it or not. Nowadays they would have to all go bi or pan or trans or genderqueer or nonbinary or some bullshit, but back then, you can be a straight man and dress exactly like that. I think dressing up like chicks was just part of their gag, their shtick. But did they even dress up like chicks? Not really. No woman dresses like that! That get-up was just a huge transgressive fuck you to society, nothing more, nothing less.

Of course it helped that they were all ultra-masculine street tough gang types straight off the streets of New York. That combination of extreme masculinity and femininity is awesome! Reminds me of Jagger, Iggy Pop, the Stooges, Queen, Mott the Hoople, Lou Reed and some others. Glam rock FTW! Glam rock forever!

Here they are live in San Francisco! That’s even better. It’s like Rolling Stones transvestite punk rock. Love it!

Lyrics!

I can’t ever understand
Why my life’s been cursed, poisoned, condemned
When I been tryin’ every night
To hold ya near me
But I’m a-telling you
It ain’t easy

Ever since I been ridin’
Right on the subway train
You can hear the whistle blowin’
Ya might think I’m insane

And now your friends
They’re fillin’ up my car
But you’re so busy readin’ Suzy Says
Ya can’t look now
You didn’t see your lovers
They’re all dressed in rags
Ya know ya had us pushin’ up roses
Just tryin’ get your fare

‘Cause we was all ridin’
Right on the subway train
And you can hear the captain shoutin’
He thinks I’ve gone insane

‘Cause I keep on ridin’
Keep on ridin’
‘Cause I keep on
Ridin’, ridin’, ridin’
Keep on ridin’, yeah

You stop and you stare
As I’m leavin’ my favorite place
We have no regards
You can’t even find a trace
Ya gotta get on back to Daddy
That is all it’s gonna be
He got the poison black arts of the pimps
But don’t ya st- st-

I seen ’em travel
Right on the subway train
And you can hear the captain shou-ou-tin’
He thinks we’ve all gone insane

‘Cause we keep on ridin’, ridin’, ridin’
Keep on ridin’
‘Cause we keep on ridin’, ridin’, ridin’
Keep on ridin’

I see the train gettin’ on an open track
Well I’m a-hopin’ it’s gonna bring my baby back

‘Cause I guess I said
Dinah wontcha blow
Dinah wontcha blow your horn
Dinah wontcha blow
Dinah wontcha blow your horn
I said someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah
I know whoa, whoa, whoa
I said someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah
I just know
I keep on ridin’, ridin’, ridin’

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Filed under Glam, Heterosexuality, Music, Punk, Rock, Sex

Last Known Photograph of Johnny Thunders

Johnny-Thunders

Last known photograph of Johnny Thunders.

This is the last known photograph of the great rock guitarist and singer Johnny Thunders, famous for being in the New York Dolls and later in his own band, the Heartbreakers, a seminal early punk rock band. In fact, the Heartbreakers were playing what I would call punk rock or proto-punk rock in 1975, before the Sex Pistols even existed! Thunders was a long term heroin addict, a junkie, and also liked to shoot cocaine. Like most junkies, he died young at age 38.

In this photo, he looks like death warmed over. It was taken between April 9-15 in Thailand, where he went to buy some silk suits. He also shot up a lot of heroin while he was there.

There are videos of him playing his last recorded shows in Japan around January 3-6. He looks surprisingly good in that video, but towards the end of his life, he was using a lot of makeup to cover up the yellow spots he had all over his face. One day he would look fine and another day he would look like the walking dead. He went to the famous Henry Wong’s tattoo parlor in Bangkok where he got a tattoo. This is one of the most frightening and deathly photographs I have ever seen of any ambulatory human being.

From April 19-22, he was in Berlin recording songs. His manager relates that they walked around Berlin and Johnny was giving away wads of cash to every bum and street person he saw. Only three days later, he would be dead. It was as if he knew he would be dead soon.

On April 21, his manager saw him leave on a plane for New Orleans where he was going to record some music. His manager said he had a terrible feeling as he watched Johnny departing on the plane. It was as if the manager knew he would be dead soon. In fact, he would be dead two days after the manager saw him on leave on that plane.

He stayed in a hotel there next to Link Wray’s house exactly two days. He was found dead in his room two days after he checked in. He had leukemia and he also had methadone in his system. However the amount of methadone was not fatal and the leukemia had not progressed enough to kill him either. His death was called “death by misadventure.”

He stayed in his room two days after his death and when he found, his body was twisted into a pretzel shape by rigor mortis. Furthermore, his body was found under a closet. In addition, $10,000, all of a huge supply of methadone, his passport and many other personal items were gone. There had been a robbery at some point when he was staying there. A good theory is that he was robbed and then killed by the robbers, possibly by giving him a large shot of methadone. After he died, they shoved his body under a closet. A couple, a man and a woman, both junkies, are suspected in the crime.

However, New Orleans police never investigated the crime as a murder, instead calling it a drug overdose. Broke junkies come into New Orleans all the time and die there, often of overdoses. Johnny Thunders was just one more down and out junkie who came into New Orleans and overdosed on heroin in a cheap hotel. The NOLA police saw this sort of thing all the time and it was considered to be not a matter worth investigating.

These crimes may have been seen as what cops called NHO crimes, for No Humans Involved. The victim(s) and the killer(s) are such scumbags that the police don’t even care to investigate the crime much. Some crimes like this are also called by the police Public Service Killings, when some scumbag or criminal gets killed. No one cares that he is dead and it’s as if the murderer committed a public service by killing this scumbag.

Johnny’s terrible appearance is due to leukemia which only he knew that he had, long term heroin and cocaine abuse. We have recently heard that he also had Hepatitis C and there is a good rumor that he was also HIV-positive. So those two things added to the night of the living dead appearance in that photo.

This is one of the saddest damned photographs I think I have ever seen. It’s heartbreaking to even look at it.

This is a very rare photo. I am glad to have stumbled upon it, as horrible as it is.

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Filed under Celebrities, Crime, Law enforcement, Music, Public Service Killings, Punk, Rock

Talking Heads, “Heaven”

From 1979!

Great song! This is one of my all-time favorite bands. They were one of the first punk/new wave bands out, in their case out of the New York art school scene. All band members met in art school. David Byrne is a damned genius, and everyone else in the band was also very smart. I always loved Tina Weymouth, the chick on guitar. Their first album was actually called More Songs about Buildings and Food and was usually listed as a punk album alongside the Clash, the Pistols, etc. though they were always more weird and arty than punk.

Fear of Music, which this song is off, was the second album. It came out in 1979. It’s one of the best rock music albums ever made! This song is great, but really they are all great. The whole album is great from start to finish.

If you have never heard of this band, check them out. They’re glorious.

N.B. I saw the Talking Heads live at UCLA of all places in the summer of 1979 with some friends of mine. This was one of the first punk rock shows in LA. There were a lot of arty/nerdy college kid types there. UCLA is a very selective school, and you can’t get in unless you are wicked smart.

It was a great show! Oingo Boingo (if you have heard of them) were also there. That is another great old punk/new wave band from the old days.

Here are the lyrics. Even if you’re an atheist, it’s as great a song about Death and Heaven as has ever been written.

“Heaven – heaven is a place. A place where nothing – nothing ever happens.”

I’m not quite sure this is what the authors of the Bible had in mind, or, Hell, maybe they did. World-weariness is a thing as old as our race (and it’s always just a bit charming, especially in a handsome man of a certain age). It didn’t just sprout up in the age of Information Overload. No matter how much you love to run, you always reach a point where you just can’t go anymore, and you’ve just got to lie down, dammit. And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel good.

I was talking to a friend once, about death. What else is there to talk about, after all? All roads lead to the same destination. Think about it.

I asked him if he was scared.

“I don’t know Bob. I’m tired, Bob.”

Sure. Well, yeah. No train runs forever. They all run out of steam at some point, and there’s always an end of every line.

Then again, maybe Heaven is like a Chili’s where they never quite run out of applewood bacon. Which, you’ve got to admit, would be pretty cool right there, n’est pas? Better than most of my life anyway.

Last call! Last call!

Last call for alcohol! Last call for alcohol!

Hurry up boys, it’s time! Hurry up boys, it’s time!

See ya all on the other side!

Everyone is trying
To get to the bar
The name of the bar
The bar is called Heaven

The band in Heaven
Plays my favorite song
They play it once again
They play it all night long

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

There is a party
Everyone is there
Everyone will leave
At exactly the same time

It’s hard to imagine
That nothing at all
Could be so exciting
Could be this much fun.

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

When this kiss is over
It will start again
It will not be any different
It will be exactly the same

It’s hard to imagine
That nothing at all
Could be so exciting
Could be this much fun.

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

Heaven
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens

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Filed under California, Music, Punk, Regional, Rock, USA, West

Theme Song of My Life

Seems like a lousy song to have as a theme for your life, but I am quite happy with it and even proud of it. I am not sure if that makes sense to you.

John Cash! I just heard this one today and damn it is so good. 1989 (late Johnny Cash),

Motorhead! Not as good as the other three but still pretty cool especially if you like Lemmy.

Social Distortion! This one is so awesome! Punk rock! 1992 (late punk rock).

I was brought in this world 1962
I didn’t have much choice you see
But by the time I was eight
I could tell it was too late
I was already barking up the wrong tree

When I was in school
You thought I was a fool
In trouble, Breaking all the rules
I was absent from class
My Daddy spanked my bare ass
But I sure tried hard to be cool

[Chorus:]

Born to lose, was what they said
You know I was better off dead
Born to lose
You’re just bad news
You don’t get a second chance!

It was a hot summer night
In mid July
A hangover and a black eye
Your Momma said I was a loser
A dead end cruiser
And deep inside I know that she was right

[Chorus:]

Born to lose, was what they said
You know I was better off dead
Born to lose, you’re just bad news
You don’t get a second chance!

I tried to get myself a job
Because that’s the way that things are
Wanna have nice things and go far
Well I’m sorry honey
I ain’t got much money
But I can sure play this here old guitar

As the years went on, I made a few mistakes
It was a troublebound for this young man
The police knockin’ at my door
“Well he don’t live here no more
and he’s playin’ in a rock ‘n’ Roll band.”

[Chorus:]

Born to lose, was what they said
You know I was better off dead
Born to lose
You’re just bad news
You don’t get a second chance!

And my favorite of all far, Johnny Thunders! In other words, my alter ego. That’s photo of me in the video in back of the song. The original proto-punk rockers. Punkers before there was even punk rock. The whole punk rock movement grew directly out of bands like this. 1977 (early punk rock).

That’s the way you go
This city is so cold
And I’m, I’m so sold
That’s why I’m know

I said hit it
Born to lose, born to lose, born to lose
Oh baby I’m born too loose

Nothing to do
I’ve nothing to say
Only one thing that I want
It’s the only way

I said hit it
Born to lose
I said hit it
Born to lose
I said hit it
Born to lose
Oh baby I’m born too loose
Oh baby I’m born too loose

Living in a jungle
It ain’t so hard
Living in the city
It will eat out, eat out your heart

I said hit it
Born to lose
I said hit it
Born to lose
I said hit it
Born to lose

Baby I’m born too loose
Oh baby I’m born too loose
Oh baby I’m born too loose
Oh baby I’m born too …

 

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Filed under Music, Punk, Rock

Sonic Youth, “I Wanna Be Your Dog”

Iggy Pop and the Stooges cover with the singer doing an excellent Iggy Pop imitation. At first I thought the lead singer was a really hot, sexy skinny long-haired blond chick and…it’s a guy…no it’s a chick, no wait a guy…no, a chick…Ah the Hell with that! It’s a human goddamnit!

Trip to Wikipedia: Turns out this is a chick after all! Kim Gordon! So she’s an androgyne, so what? So am I. So’s Joan Jett. So’s Suzi Quatro. So’s Bowie. So’s Jagger. So’s Marc Bolan. So’s Lou Reed. So’re all the sexy people!

Wow! I never thought too much of this band, but boy do I love them now. This was what early LA punk rock was like in the late 1970’s-early 1980’s.

Check out those horns! James Brown!

What about that ominous sound? Mott the Hoople. Of course the Stooges. And before that, what else? The Velvet Underground!

I’m looking at that band in back of her and I’m thinking…the Ramones! I’m also thinking…New York City punk rock! Late 70’s-early 80’s. CBGB’s and all that. That band is so New York. Over to Wikipedia, yep I was right, early New York punk band. Formed in 1981. I’m a psychic! Isn’t that weird how you can just read the vibes of something and pin it down place and time almost perfectly? Must be intuition. Can’t possibly be logic. Woman thinking. The genius of the woman.

What else is this? What’s the general vibe, the Gestalt, the reading, the “smell?” It’s the goddamned end of civilization, that’s what it is! Oh no but it’s so much worse than that. This music is actually a perverse celebration of the end of civilization. And that’s so much better, you know? Rockin’ to the Apocalypse!

I am sitting here listening to this song…and everything’s getting darker…and my heart’s sinking into my stomach…and I’m thinking…”Jesus Christ, man. This is the last rock and roll band on Earth!” And you know what is so much worse than that even? “And tomorrow…after they play this song and stomp off the stage…the world is gonna end!” And you know what’s a whole universe way worse than even that? It’s that oh man isn’t that most gloriously beautiful part of it all! Let’s have a wake for mankind. Have another drink, on me. Drink up one last time as the Titanic goes down!

This is what rock and roll is all about!

Rockin’ til I drop!

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Filed under Music, Punk, Rock