Hi Arlo, Ron,
Makes me envious hearing all those names in live situations ...
I think that levelling of the act and the audience in intimate live
participation - the smokey bues-bar rather than the theatre / concert
venue environment - is very interesting set against the paradoxical
need for at least one member (front-man) of the act to stand out as
somehow special - in their "DQ presence" - when delivering the aural
and verbal poetry.
I'm limited here in Hunstville by so many covers bands and limited
intelligence to access the "happening", except for tip-offs from my
University age sons back in the UK - but needs must, I keep trawling
the bars for what can be found, wherever I travel. You may have
noticed my recent blogs I picked-up on a guy called Tommy Womack (ex
Government Cheese). He has it. ("Alpha Male and the Canine Mystery
Blood" should be compulsory listening). Interestingly he wrote a book
called "The Cheese Chronicles" - which apart from the predictable sex
and drugs and rock-and-roll bio story, actually has quite a bit on the
philosophy of what makes an act like that tick. Memorable events cross
paths with the likes of Lennon, Morrison (Jim and Van) and Joey Ramone
at CBGB's. You get a flavor of the bio from his songs ...
"Alpha Male and the Canine Mystery Blood"
came to town with "Death Cab for Cutie".
I stayed at home with my wife and child
and a six-pack of beer.
I pondered than name for fifteen minutes,
after I saw the poster stapled to a phone-pole,
on the corner of Grand and 21st
That was a couple of years ago,
I was already in my forties then,
And I didn't do out on a whim just to see
a band called Alpha Male and the Canine Mystery Blood,
just because I liked the name,
just because I'm 25
and every day's a stoned summer day.
My band was always gigging then,
REM was still kicking then.
I drove that Ford Granada
Mom and Dad gave to me,
after they got 'em a Ford LTD.
And there was music on MTV !
I smoked my manager's pot
and got laid quite a lot.
Planes hadn't flown into towers yet
and we didn't have a loose-canon president;
didn't have all this credit card debt,
hanging over the house like a cloud,
insuring there's not much more drugging allowed.
The body can't take it,
the wallet won't hang it.
I'm singing all the songs I've sang for years.
When it's a band gig, it's rocking.
When it's solo, the people talking while I'm singing
Make me depressed.
You think I could take a hint !
My time came and went, Hell,
there's many a night I came and went.
In a manner of speaking,
my conscience is leaking.
The world has changed and the good times are gone.
in an age of mistrust, surveillance and sleaze,
bombs in shoes and way too many enemies.
I bet their name was Menstrual Blood,
and the A&R guy said "That's no good !
Make it Mystery and then we can target
a broader-based, goth, dog-lover market !"
I love my boy. He's becoming a drummer.
Got a drum-kit from Santa, at this rate by summer,
he'll be keeping a beat in a world,
that needs a metronome shoved up its arse so hard
all voices will raise in a heavenly choir.
Shit'll get straightened, brothers'll hug,
and we'll dance like we did in the decades of drugs.
I'm spitting my genes in an ocean that's rising,
clinging to Jesus with some compromising,
of how it was handed to me from my Mom
and my Daddy the preacher,
who watched all that TV in a cream recliner
frowning through life like a stone-hard-liner.
You couldn't faze him, he knew Jesus
died for his sins and was raised from the dead.
And I've always wondered, why can't he stay dead ?
It doesn't change any good thing he said.
It's St Paul's trip, the resurrection, why ?
Why can't he just be a nice Jewish guy,
who was super clued-in and showed us the way
to salvation from sin. And that doesn't mean
if you're not quote-unquote "saved",
you fry like a piece of country ham.
It's a great big world and life is a joke,
Arabs and Christians, Pepsi and Coke.
People so gorgeous, it causes 'em pain,
and nobody gives any sympathy for something like that;
you suffer in silence - or form a band !
with a name that appeals to goth, dog-lovers everywhere,
on a poster that's seen by a 40ish bastard,
walking to work at 8:15, or 11, an hour, for all that he does.
You can't be a has-been if you never was.
Going all day long without eating,
'til all my nerve-endings are seriously over-heating.
My legs getting wobbly walking down the stairs,
to smoke me a cigarette in the cold fresh air,
wondering why I do all the things I do.
And I do 'em every day.
And it can't turn out good living this way.
But live my life I must,
and in some fuzzy god I'll trust.
I'll kiss my wife and I'll kiss my son,
And maybe some day I'll go for a run !
And maybe some day a song will stick
and I'll walk around like I got a big - boat.
Maybe someday my boy will drum
in a hippy jam band that plays out some.
He'll take after daddy, and get in a van,
going places only young people can,
doing things only young people do,
banging those skins at Bonnaroo,
rocking those dreadheads dancing in the mud,
before Alpha Male and the Canine Mystery Blood.
God go with him, Amen.
(Tommy Womack, 2007)
By way of aside, I think the direct aural visceral performance is part
of it the poetry too, not just the interpretation of earnest /
obscure-but-message-laden words. By way of extreme example - even
Billy Gibbons - superstar of household name ZZTop is one such. Largely
redundant lyrics and formulaic twelve-bar three-chord medium in arena
sized venues - but he has it too, and I've only seen him once recently
since back in the late 70's, when I didn't understand these things.
Regards
Ian
On Mon, Mar 17, 2008 at 9:03 PM, Arlo Bensinger <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
> [Ron]
> There was an energy so intense at that show. It was thrilling It
> scared the sh*t outta me.
>
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