Sounds of the Hall in roughly 33 1/3 minutes!
This is a dual production by myself and Ladymisskirroyale. It’s a follow up to Cliff Sovinsanity‘s recent summer-themed mix, and we gave it our personal spin as we gear up for our own trip to the coast.
[Note: You can add Saturday Night Shut-In episodes to your iTunes by clicking here. The Rock Town Hall feed will enable you to easily download Saturday Night Shut-In episodes to your digital music player.]
As most of you know, I recently became the proud father of a beautiful baby girl. Miss M turned four months old a few days ago, so her ability to understand human language is basically nonexistent… but I still found myself censoring a piece of music that came on iTunes shuffle this morning, as the Bakshi family was wolfing down our breakfast cereal. It was a strange feeling to have done so, almost instinctual. Certainly illogical, given her tender age. But I did it anyway.
A shiny RTH No-Prize to the Townsman or Townswoman who can identify which song I found too grown-up for my baby’s tender ears!
I look forward to your responses.
HVB
If this clip doesn’t inspire you to unlock your most guarded piece of rock ‘n roll news then nothing will!
Tramp!
Late last night I finished reading the Richard Hell autobiography, I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp, which the machinery family gifted me for my 50th birthday. I loved it. Thank you, machinerys!
Considering I once suggested that Hell was a member of the multi-untalented ranks, led by showbiz’s supreme multi-untalent, Ben Vereen, I was leery about cracking open this gift. I did, however, cut my teenage punk rock teeth on “Blank Generation,” never failing to edge up in my seat in anticipation of the song’s short, twisted guitar solos that endeared me to the Voidoids’ unlikely bald, bearded, professorial guitarist Robert Quine. The entire Blank Generation album, in fact, was special and energetic, if a bit clumsy compared to Television’s Marquee Moon, led by Hell’s original partner-in-crime, Tom Verlaine.
Ah, hell, I’m a control freak! I’ve always been Verlaine guy deep down. I figured I’d learn some stuff about him, Quine, Friend of the Hall Richard Lloyd, and other mythical figures from my teenage years, a group of punks just a generation or so older than me who were laying down their legacy 90 miles up the turnpike.
The first thing I noticed, as I read Hell’s tales of his childhood is that the guy could write. It’s rare to find an artist autobiography that not only has a voice, not only has the voice of the artist, but has something more, something not always evident in the artist’s work. I knew Hell had intellectual pursuits and was a poet and writer and all that jazz, but based on the Hell I grew up “knowing” through his music and original persona, I had no idea he could be so thoughtful and succinct. What did I know? This book was heading up to be an exercise in exposing my own ignorance and prejudices. When it comes to this form of exercise, I’m Charles Atlas.
Rather than try to pose as a book reviewer and come off even more idiotic than usual, I’ll simply list my 10 reasons for loving Richard Hell’s I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp. I highly recommend you picking up this book—well, most of you.
SPOILER ALERT: My 10 reasons will give away some key autobiographical details that are rolled out in the course of the book. Stop reading now if you don’t want to know in advance that Hell, for instance—oh, never mind!
Ever been to concert where the opening act didn’t really fit in with the headliner? Somebody tweeted the photo above and it made me think of the Ramones opening for Foreigner in the late ’70s — I didn’t to go the show, but a bunch older kids I knew did and they made fun of the Ramones — who they said basically got booed off the stage at the old Met Center. The Ramones tried to get the crowed chanting “Gabba Gabba Hey” — and the Foriegner fans were having none of it.
I once saw Ministry open for the Police — but that’s when Ministry was more a synth pop band than the industrial rock act it morphed into.
Cat Power opened for Billy Idol last month at Wolf Trap near DC — to predictable results according to reviews. The Idol fans talked and drank beer during the Cat Power set. The Washington Post writer who reviewed the show compared it to the uncomfortable pairing of The Replacements and Tom Petty in 1989 at Merriweather Post. That doesn’t seem so out of place now, but back then The Replacements were still seen as kind of edgy.
P.S. The Monkees are touring this summer — of course no Davy Jones but with Mike Nesmith. For some reason, THAT really irritates me — maybe it’s the heat.
When I think of all the musicians whose contributions to culture I don’t like in the slightest despite my suspicion that they’re probably good eggs if I got to know them, Huey Lewis tops the list. I don’t like a single song by his in the slightest. It’s not that I dislike many of of his songs to the degree that I dislike the songs of, say Journey or Billy Joel. I just don’t like his music—not a thing about it, not even the fact that he works in a meat-and-potatoes stylistic range that is a healthy part of my diet. Not even the fact that Elvis Costello used members of Lewis’ pub rock band, Clover, on My Aim Is True helps me appreciate the career of Huey Lewis. Perhaps John Mellencamp is the only artist working in my basic food groups who comes close to boring me as much.
Music aside, there’s one thing I appreciate about the public works of Huey Lewis, one thing that he’s done that actually takes more talent than simply being himself, or a close facsimile thereof: taking a piss in Robert Altman‘s Short Cuts. Lewis showed promise as an actor. Wasn’t he in a movie with Gwyneth Paltrow about 10 years ago? I was tempted to see it for his acting, but it looked like he was going to sing in it, so I didn’t bother.
Finally, there’s a second thing I can enjoy about Huey Lewis, although admittedly this is more a result of his good egg tendency: his opinions on pre-recorded music at sporting events. Read about them here (thanks to Tvox for passing this along). Despite getting some kicks over players’ walk-up music, I think Lewis is right. Let the sounds of the game itself, including the fans, reign. Give the real organ player some! Suit up the marching bands! Let’s hear it for dead air!
My lifelong fascination with Oliver Reed‘s appearance in the Ken Russell film Tommy gets this heaping helping of food for thought. Enjoy!
