rock and roll musings by Tim Byrnes

OK, THIS IS GETTING WEIRD: TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES ALL OVAH DA PLACE!

      Gonna try one more time to see if my last post shows up. It's called 'SECOND VERSE, SAME AS THE FIRST' and if you see it, please tell it I'm looking for it. It shows up in preview mode but not when I just go to the page from Yahoo Search. Not wanting to repeat myself, I'll check in Wendsday to see if it arrives. Me and computers, y'know. Don't worry, yr not missing much, just me complaining about not getting to play or record this weekend and how I need to move from this smalltown and the difficulties presented by having to do so w/2 cats and a dog and how I'd never leave w/out them and how I'm not gonna let my latest string of self-inflicted bad times get me down and how James Brown rules.

     And you know he does, don't you?

Posted by: timbyrnes at 22:56 | link | comments (2)

SECOND VERSE, SAME AS THE FIRST: FUNNY HOW TIME SLIPS AWAY

(Author's Note: I was unable to get the promised guitar this weekend and the birthday gig was cancelled, so 'The Murder Weapon' will take a bit longer to record/convert and post. The following are just the random thoughts of a slightly depressed old man)

     Life goes on and gets in the way at times. If not one's own life then certainly the lives of others. My friend Amanda, who was going to lend me her guitar this weekend, left town to see her new girlfriend in Denver very suddenly and apparently forgot about our arrangement. No biggie, really, I'm I firm supporter of young lesbian love (and, yes, I know that looks suspect in print. This only goes to yr mind and my mind skydiving to the gutter). What really bummed me out was the birthday gig getting cancelled. Apparently my buddy Kenny didn't lay the proper groundwork (that is he never really cleared it with the club owner, or the drummer or anyone really. Maybe next week.) I shouldn't be surprised, really. These type of things happen all the time out here in the sticks. People and things move a lot slower and folks, especially my buddy Kenny, tend to do things in a lacksadaisical fashion. The Rasta mantra of 'soon come, mon, soon come' seems to be like the county motto out here.

     In the grand scheme of things, another wasted weeked (I did write some more lyrics, but lately all my stuff is either too hateful to be taken seriously outside of a teenage death metal cult scenario) or another, lesser rewrite of 'Catholic as Hell') isn't that big a deal. A disappointment yes, but not the end of the world. But, I gotta  tell ya, put enough of them together and it wears on a man. Job hunting has slowed to a stop as I have to wait for my next check to come in to gas up the car to get anywhere, although I still haven't gotten a solid 'no' from the convenience store that's literally next door to where I live so all hope is not lost.

     Just a lot of it.

     Due to my current situation, I've been spending a lot of time inside my head lately and it's not that great a neighborhood. Too much time to go over (and over and over and over) all the mistakes I've made throughout the years that led me to my current state. I know enough to not give into the real negative stuff, but the facts remain I've screwed up job after job and relationship after relationship, among other things and my solution to this always seems to be to either write about rock and roll or to play rock and roll. It's a pretty sad thing, when you think about it, a man of my age still thinking he can somehow identify (if not save his life, both figuratively and literally) with the music of the teenage wasteland. Especially when living in a rural, agricultural community.

     I need to get out of this place.

     The prospect of moving, daunting enough for one so impoverished, takes on the scent of impossibility when I consider that I'm not alone. I have to move not only myself, but also Buster, Bleeker and MacDougal. I know, I know. Many might say"screw the dog and cats, get yr life together, son, Yr using the critters as an excuse!" To that I say 'fooey!'. Buster and the cats have been keeping me sane lately, giving me something other than myself to consider and I could no more abandon them than I could fly under my own power.

     Gosh, I'm whining. Sorry but I gotta vent a little here. The idea of recording a home-made cassette and posting it online and selling it was/is a last ditch pipe dream. I know that. But it's what I have to offer, really. I'll settle for selling lotto tickets and coffee. Hell, I'll be glad to have a job, any job that doesn't require freezing to death at slave wages and constantly being reminded of my own inadequacies, but I want, need, deserve and shall have more!

     Gee, I feel better already.

     I guess I'm at what they call a 'stuck point'. On the plus side, I'm still sober, have enough of my rent paid up that I don't fear imminent eviction and have friends who are helping me through the lean moments. On the minus side, it's all a little 'here we go again'. I'm all too familiar with the patterns of behavior that leave me, once again, unemployed and a little hateful toward the world. I still feel trapped. At least this time there's no one to blame but myself and I won't have to waste time mentally bitching at someone else. Music will me made, jobs will be found and I swear I'm gonna get myself and my furry family away from this sinkhole of a town. Somehow.

     On the musical side, James Brown rules!!!!

Posted by: timbyrnes at 17:53 | link | comments (4)

WHAT CAN A POOR BOY DO?: NOTES FROM THE SKIDS

     Oh man and boy howdy yr humble reporter really fixed it this time. The farm job shorted me like $100 on my check. Their reasoning being that anything over the figure they sent would HAVE to be reported to the IRS. Made sense to me at the time so I deposited it. That's when the trouble began. Seems that a store where I had written checks for cigs and dogfood while I was painting those houses (remember them?) held on to them for like 6 weeks and they all hit my account at the same time. Now I know it was my responsibility to balance my checkbook and keep track of these things but what can I say? I'm a guy and a newly single one, at that. In any event, these checks completely wiped me out. Luckily I was able to withdraw enough to pay rent and get my car insured and gassed up, but me and the animals are running waaaaaaaaaaay low on food. I've applied for 6 different jobs both here and in Pueblo some 30 miles away and am expecting another check in about a week and a half.

     The good news is I've effectively quit smoking.

     And that's the secret to weathering hard times - at least for me - look for any kind of silver lining you can find. That and never truly give up hope that things are gonna work out. Hell, they always have up until this point. Besides the worst that can happed is I starve to death (unlikely, since I still have friends and hopefully SOMEBODY'S gonna need their lawn mowed or house painted sooner or later) and then all my troubles will be over. Just kidding, I'm not yet desperate or even depressed, really. Plans have a way of backfiring or plain old not working and this ain't the 1st time I've been this down. It is, however, the 1st time I've been in a like position and NOT felt the overpowering need to find someone else to blame and throw full metal hissy fits nigh onto threatening suicide.

     And why is that? you might ask. I know I sure have, I think a lot of my newfound faith in the future is due to this page and the folks who read it and comment. With prb I've opened up a lot of doors and storm windows into my heretofore locked up world of spite, regret and blind hatred. Rock and roll therapy. I've always maintained (for days at a time, honest) that rock and roll had a vital spiritual element to it. Now I know I haven't been writing about rock and roll bands or the form itself exclusively lately, and I think that's gone a long way towards my keeping a more healthy perspective.

     Oh the ramblings of an old man. Sorry, but until the new Kate Bush record drops, I don't have much to say about music. Life and all it's entanglements and wonder has jumped out the bushes and grabbed me of late and old self-referential me has decided to jump back into the fray, stop worrying about not having state of the art equipment and just DO IT.

     That's right, the new record should be finished by Monday. Here's my plan.

     I have about 30 pages of lyrics just waiting to be edited, arranged and put to music. My friend Amanda has agreed to lend me her acoustic guitar this weekend. I DO have a pretty decent cassette recorder, so I'm a-going the unplugged route. Gonna sit on the couch in my apartment and play the songs over and over until I get both decent performances and recordings. My ex-wife claims to be able to convert it to CD so I can post it at lulu and I'm sorry to say this, being a punk rock revolutionary and all, but I'm gonna have to charge for it. Maybe 10 dfollars? Too much? Anyway, having had problems in the past with friends offering to convert cassettes in the past, the work will also be available on cassette (the wave of the future, don'tcha know?) for I guess $5. So after like 2 years of not recording I'm gonna make the truly 1st record of the 21st century (at least for me). Anyone interested in hearing more contact me either here or at timbyrnes@antimusic.net.

     I apologize in advance to Howard and the motimer crew if this type of shameless self promotion isn't allowed here. As I've seen advertisements on otherblogs I'm hoping this doesn't present a problem but, like my mother always told me, it's easier to get forgiveness than permission.

    In other rock and roll news, Sunday is my friend and bass player Kenny Morgan's 51st birthday. Everybody say 'Happy Birthday' to Kenny. We've talked a local club owner into letting a whole bunch of local musicians to set up at their bar Sunday and have an old fashioned jam session. I'm borrowing a guitar and amp from another friend and hope to shake off both the ghosts and these doldrums of failure by cranking out yet another version of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. No money involved, just a bunch of friends getting together on a Sunday afternoon to have some fun playing the old tunes and maybe invoking that holy spirit (no, not THAT Holy Spirit, Simmons. Well maybe it's all the same, huh?.) of Johnny B. Goode himself  in a celebration of all things gloriously useless.

     And, oh yeah, we're gonna tape it!

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:16 | link | comments (9)

WELCOME TO THE WORKING WEEK: BECOMING WHO YOU ARE

     There's been a lot written, especially here, about the act of re-invention as an integral part of the (at least) rock and roll experience. Declan becomes Elvis who becomes the ages etc. And can't the simple act of waking up each day be considered an act of invention, if not reinvention? Guess it depends on how you act once you get out the bed. I woke up to a completely blank slate this morning. Farm job gladly gone but little on the horizon (besides more housepainting and landscape gigs. I'm not gonna starve) in the way of an actual future, dig. Guys my age talktalktalk about being 'survivors' like that's the ultimate goal. Admittedly, dying kinda has a way of ending the crapshoot but this old man is tired of 'surviving', no this ain't another suicide post, I WANT A LIFE!!!!!

     Survival is, of course, the primary goal. Can't achieve anything personally when dead, although as a source of inspiration, it's hard to beat a corpse (ie: Elvis P., Jesus C. etc). But, speaking as a still living human I can attest to the fact that merely getting from Monday to Sunday isn't cutting it anymore. So, what to do, what to do, what to do? Well, what can you (I?) do? In my case I've pretty much proven that I'm not a farmer and, although I have some of the talents neccessary, I'm nether ggrat shakes at being a store clerk or a telemarketer. I can write a little, but there's not much call for my style of violent verbiage here on the prairie, thus my yodeling here in cyberspace.

     I've been told a play a pretty mean guitar and can write a song when pressed. So as a result I've decided to attempt to build a cottage industry based on the 200 plus songs I have recorded over the last 174 years. The lulu page was a start, but I'm stuck. Having moved so many times this past year I find I no longer am in possession of any of the CDs I had made of my old stuff and am even, at this time, bereft of a copy of 'Debut CD' or '1900', the most recent of my 'albums' to be available. So Carl, if yr reading this, I #$%^^ed up and lost even the Envelopes CDs (lost is a harsh word, I'm sure they're in one of these boxes but I'll be durned if I can find 'em).

     And this, unfortunately is the story of my life. Great ideas, lousy execution. I need a manager or an agent and certainly some investors who'll help me become the new Dylan that I just KNOW I'm capable of becoming. In the past I've depended on goodhearted, albeit unqualified, people to help me fulfill my 'vision'. From the drummers who couldn't handle time changes to the bass player who couldn't remember parts to the webmasters who uploaded 7 minutes of noise and called it my CD and beyond I have half-assedly tried to get my music to the world.

     It's barely worked. I must admit I'm at a loss as to how to proceed now. I've got literally hundreds of songs on cassette, have been writing lyrics my ass off, although without a guitar it's been hard to write actual songs. Having to use the library computer makes it impossible to upload music or even make lyrics available, time constraints (and the library staff's complete lack of computer knowledge) keeping me from getting the job done.

     But I have hope. The worst part's over now. I've finally realized that music is what I have to offer and I can quit wasting my time trying to be what I'm not. Now it's time to become who I am. I am a writer and musician who has, through no one's fault but his own, fallen yet again on hard times, but that's cool. Adds to the mystique, don'tcha know? Gotta come up with some kinda 'sold his soul at the crossroads' myth to add heaviosity to the whole 'rep' thang.

     Ain't that a load of crap, though, the whole mystique routine? It's easy to blame MTV for it's overbearing focus on the visual, but let's face it, rock and roll's been over half smoke and mirrors from the beginning. Gotta look this way, gotta dress that way, gotta say this, can't say that etc. I just want to be a guy with a guitar singing, recording and, yes finally, selling songs. I got this anti-Catholic hook going on but a) I'm genuinely antiCatholic and b) that's not exactly the kinda hook that sells records in large numbers. But that's OK, I neither want nor expect to get rich and famous, but it sure would be nice to eke out a subsistence living doing what I love and would like to think, I do best. So, does anyone think there's any kind of market for a 50 yr old never-was?  Although one way to look at is, even though I never released a record these last 20 years, I've still recorded as much as Lou Reed. Mine just isn't recorded as well, but I'd go song for song with the old Death Dwarf and hold my head high.

     Anyway, I'm rambling in as self referential a way as old Snagglesnoot Townshend ('.. let me tell you a little more about myself.') and am even boring myself. I'm gonna go google 'investors' and 'angels' and see what I come up with. Way I figure it, 3 grand and I'm a record company!

Posted by: timbyrnes at 21:04 | link | comments (2)

NOVEMBER WILL BE MAGIC AGAIN: CAUSE FOR HOPE

     My habit of checking amazon to see what new releases might be forthcoming has finally been rewarded. According to the venerable site November 7, 2005 marks the return, after a 12 year absence, of the truly wonderful Kate Bush. The CD's entitled 'Aerial' and will mark the 1st time since the 1999 release of '1965' by the Afghan Whigs, that I will wake early and run to the record store to buy a CD the day it comes out. '1965' was, to me, something of  a disappointment as Dulli had gotten treatment for his depression * in the year or so between 'Black Love' and '1965' and the music had, again - to me - lost much of the blood and frenzy that made them the last great rock and roll band to me. It was also their swansong so maybe even they knew the magic was gone.

( * I guess it says something disturbing about me, or at least my taste in music, but it seems I've been time and time again drawn to the work of artists w/serious alcohol, drug and/or emotional problems and always lose interest in the work after the artist gets clean. sober and/or therapy. This list includes the aforementioned Greg Dulli, Paul Westerberg and Lou Reed. Now of course I'm happy for the actual people, having enjoyed the benefits of sobriety myself, but I guess happy people don't make, to me, great records. At least not anymore. I know it's one of the lies I mentioned in the Costello post, but I never promised to be consistent. In any event, this bears further investigation.)

     But magic, that is indeed the purview of Kate Bush. Beautiful in person and voice, her work always stood above whatever pack of modernity wrestled over fame and chart positions at her feet. Stand back, I'm gonna romanticise the bejesus out of this woman's work, because it's always been one of the few things in this mess of stewed humanity we call the world that I've even considered defining as holy. Longtime readers know that me and God don't see eye to eye, but when I listen to Kate Bush, I know that there is good in the world.

     Springing forth fully grown from the brow of David Gilmour in 1978 w/'The Kick Inside', Kate brought beauty and a decidedly Victorian, old world charm into a punk besotted summer of hate. Now keep in mind 'Victorian' can mean both pomp and useless circumstance as well as mad aunts held prisoner in attics. Kate embodied both extremes at once and at will. Songs with actual storylines, not easily reveales upon 1st listening, at a time when pop music was rife w/slogans and chants on it's way to today where half of the folks penning lyrics refuse to (or can't?) write a complete sentence. A perfectionist in the studio, which accounts for the length of time between records - although 12 years is an unprecedented stretch for her - or even Boston - Kate combines everything from ancient Celtic instrumentation to ultramodern sampling/synthesis to quasi operatic swoops to drunken shrieks to what I consider one of the most beautiful sounds in the world ; the mysterious voices of Bulgaria. Her most recent CD, 1993'S 'The Red Shoes' featured the Trio Bulgarka, Eric Clapton, David Gilmour (he was an early mentor and supporter, so I guess I could cut Old Floyd Face some slack, huh?), Prince and my hero, Jeff Beck playing one of his most sublime solos on 'You're The Only One I Want' a love song of such heartbreak and yearning as to bring tears to this old reprobate's eyes EVERY TIME I HEAR IT!

     There's a video available of a rare 1979 Hammersmith Odeon performance that is at turns both embarrassing and prescient in the production numbers Kate mounted replete with male dancers tossing her to and fro and stage sets that presaged the Madonna/Janet Jackson extravaganzas of today but no, I repeat, no lip synching!  Kate early and wisely decided to forego live performances in order to concentrate on honing the art of the studio and as a result has released some of the most sonically stunning CDs to come down the pike lo these 25 years.

     If you've never heard her work I'd suggest starting with either 'The Dreaming' or 'The Whole Story', the former being perhaps her most dramatic and varied work and will serve to seperate the men from the boys, so to speak, while the latter is something of a Greatest Hits collection that offers a strong overview to Kate's body of work. Blessed (?) with some of the most rapid fans EVER (Morrissey's flower totin' disciples can't hold a lovelorn candle to Kate's uberfans), Kate Bush has never failed to reward the often startling adoration she receives with one phenomenal record after another. I have no doubt (and how often does THAT sentence leap from my keyboard??!!) that 'Aerial' will stand tall in that most wondrous of catalogues. So expect a review that I'm sure will glow on November 8th.

     Although I'm sure I'll be back many times between now and then w/torrid tales of punk rock sociology and just plain gibberish.

COMING SOON: The writing debut of Bleeker and MacDougal. The piece should be done as soon as Bleeker convinces MacDougal that Def Leppard isn't really a disabled jungle cat. 'So noble' say Mickey. 'So stupid.' says Bleek.

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:10 | link | comments

MEANWHILE,  I'M STILL THINKIN': THE MAN WHO WOULD BE ELVIS

     Back in the day, I hate that expression but when yr talking about 1977 and thereabouts the phrase qualifies, back in the day(s) of the first bloom of the punk rose, shufflemarketed amidst all the pistol packin' ramonesclones was an angry young man who called himself Elvis Costello. His 1st record 'My Aim is True' may have lacked the frenzy of Bollocks but more than made up for it with it's wit and cunning. More importantly, MAIT, even as a debut record, had the ring of an established artist at work to it. One could easily guess that the Pistols et al were likely to burn bright and hot for a short time, make a little history, get co-opted and wind up in phone commercials.

     (And don't call/write in about 'Watching the Detectives' being the theme song for History Detectives. That's on PBS and, as such, exempt.)

     But Elvis brought more than rage to the table. Of course he brought mucho rage and guilt and revenge and the basic spit and vinegar that marked punk, but even that early on, it was evident, at least to this reporter, that we had a live one on our hands. Perhaps the 1st lomg term artist since Dylan. I'll let the real rockcrits battle that one out. Suffice to say, the works of Elvis Costello throughout the years can hold it's own against the best rock has had to offer and frankly, in terms of both quality and quantity, decimates most of the competition. Now I know it's not a competition and I often rail against the 'my punk rock can beat up yr punk rock' contingency, but just try to sing 'At the Other End of the Telescope' from 'All This Useless Beauty'. Go ahead. I'll wait.

     Didn't think so. The man's talent as a vocalist, composer, arranger and especially lyricist are mind boggling. And, as a guitar player myself, I am always surprised and delighted with the things this E.C. comes up with on the Fender Jazzmaster. OK, enough of the technical drooling. Let's get to the meat of the matter: what does it represent? To me, growth. Or to be more precise, the overwhelming possibilities for growth when a great talent trusts itself. In the beginning (lightning flashes) Elvis played into the punk mien, exhibiting the requisite antisocial behavior, usually fueled by alcohol. But rather than the cartoon antieverything pose of much of our forefathers, Elvis was truly ugly. The most infamous incident was when he, drunk in a bar in the middle of America while on tour, he dissed Ray Charles w/the N-word and wound up getting decked by Bonnie Bramlett, a footnote in the then'declining hippierock scene.

     He also blasted tapes of  white noise through his pa system in small clubs to clear the crowd out. What I drew from THAT move was the realization that punk rock hatred extended to me as a member of the audience. I was immedietly reminded of Dylan at Newcastle urging Robbie Robertson to "...play fucking LOUD.' as the crowd booed. There's another Dylan comparison and we're not even up to the 2nd record, which was 'This Year's Model' and featured the debut of the band that would back Costello through the heights of his early career, the magnificent Attractions. Steve Naive is the mad piano player from hell, Bruce Thomas the most lyrical bassist this side of (gulp) McCartney and Bruce Thomas a strong and inventive drummer, kinda like Keith Moon without the drugs. Over the course of the next 15 or so years, they hugged the corners of Costello's ever-increasing stylistic Tour Le Monde with grace, wit and fire. I'll go down on record as saying NEVER has/had a singer/songwriter had a more sympathetic or hotter 'back up band' than Elvis when he rode with the Attractions.

      'This Year's Model' was another bucket o' spite for the punkpunters, containing the blistering 'Radio, Radio', as righteously angry a song as ever recorded and, for int's inclusion alone, guarantees 'TYM' it's place in the rock and roll sun. Costello put records out every 6 months back then, just like the Beatles had and KISS continued to do. The music changed abrubtly, often from cut to cut, let alone record to record. 'Armed Forces' ( the Attraction's muscles flexing under tales of political and personal paranoiac rage), 'Trust", (enter the supper club of Costello's soul), 'Get Happy" (the funky cocaine record), 'Taking Liberties' (the 20 song b-side set running the gamut from white noise to 'My Funny Valentine'). The records kept coming, each one revealing another layer in the sound and psyche of one of rock's true geniuses.

     Along the way the blind rage subsided, as it must, allowing gentler and more complex emotions to slither and flash amongst Costello's wordplay. He's released whole CDs of country and western covers ('Almost Blue' a wonderful introduction to great American songwriting among other things). A collaboration with the Brodsky Quartet ('The Juliet Letters) and collaborations with artist as diverse as Bill Frissel, Burt Bacharach and Marian McPartland. Just a few weeks ago, his duet with Allen Toussaint on 'Lord Have Mercy' was THE highlight of Wynton Marsalis' Katrina benefit aired on PBS (still exempt, mind you.) I know the word 'mature' is verboten in rock and roll (hell it killed the Replacements) but Costello is a shining example of the beauty of the artist who allows him or herself to develop by not accepting any restrictions on their art, be they from an audience, a record company or even the artist's own sense of survival.

       To buy into any myth concerning creativity, either the one that says 'ya gotta be wasted to make great art' to 'don't fix what ain't broke' (although I love both the Ramones and ACDC for following that one...) is a sure way to cripple one's work. Safely stagnant but stagnant none the less and I prefer my art alive, thank you very much. There's a line from the song 'My Science Fiction Twin' from 1993's 'return to form' CD 'Brutal Youth' where Costello sums up all that I find admirable in his work. To wit:

"His almost universal excellence
Is starting to disturb me
They asked how in the world he does all these things
And he answered "Superbly"" 

     That's the secret to Costello's greatness: he accepts it, trusts it and runs like a motherhubbard with it. Having suffered crises of confidence almost continuosly all my life, I find that now, at this late stage of the old existence, to be ready to take this advice to heart. Under the 'links' section page leftwards, there's a link to 'tim's music'. I've been recording my own tunes as a one man band to 4 track cassette for way too many years now with only 7 or 8 people ever hearing them. At the page the link takes you to are 2 of my more recent songs available for free download with more to come soon. No I am NOT equating my work to that of Costello's, I haven't exercised my hubris bone enough for that (yet), but I'm tired of being what I'm not and find now that maybe the songs I've been carrying around on tapes for all this time might just be my own light under the bushel and what I truly have to offer.

     And if you don't like my rock and roll, do what millions of others have done before ye: blame Elvis.

Posted by: timbyrnes at 20:19 | link | comments (13)

FARM REPORT: TAKE 2 (THE EXPLAINATA)

     Greetings, poetry lovers. I must first apologize for the brevity of my last post. I was on my lunch hour from the farm and rushed for time. The original Farm Report was a 6 page handwritten attemp to tie together the Sex Pistols, Suicide, Spirituality, the No Wave and my own search for self down on the farm into something less than a manifesto, more than a whine. It was, to me, roundly unsuccessful so I'm gonna try to get to the gist of what I've been feeling lately and hopefully include more recent events inthe concise and entertaining manner that readers of punkrockblues are accustomed to.

     So, here goes.....

    As I stated earlier, Lydon/Rotten went from the gutterblast cleansweep of all that sucks in life with the Sex Pistols and presented an entirely new approach to music/art/life with the original PiL. That that band eventually devolved into nothing much more than a might fine danceband was perhaps inevitable, but sad at the same time. It seemed to me that, amidst the hordes of punk clones stretching from the Dead Boys all the way up to Green Day and Simple Plan, only Rotten gave the impression that he meant the vitriol he spat and, more importantly, knew that bitching wasn't enough. Also I felt that amongst all the mott the hoopla of the punk scene Rotten alone understood, and was not cowed by, the responsibilities and opportunities that that stage and microphone represented. On the bootleg of the Pistols' last show I have he ends the set with the classic line "Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?" He has reported that he was referring to himself, that he felt cheated out of the opportunity to be understood by an audience that couldn't see past the safety pins and vomit, abetted by a media that couldn't (wouldn't) see past the freak show aspects of the band and the 'movement' that tried but failed to congeal around them.

     I believe him. Punk rock was, to me, about reinvention. A spiritual housecleaning that could lead one to the 'better person within'. Hokey, I know, but when one has a complete lack of core beliefs, as I do, one is apt to look for salvation in strange places. My choice ( a poor one as it turns out) was rock and roll and punk rock in particular. Bands like the Pistols and my dear Suicide HAD to be acting out of neccesity. Screams looking for mouths (I'm not sure if Lou Reed said that or Hubert Selby Jr, but what a great line, huh?) unafraid of ridicule and certainly unconcerned with commercial success. Suicide in particular were a force to be reckoned with. I remember one night at Max's Kansas City seeing a film of a Suicide performance and being riveted in my drunken chair, the very bejesus scared out of me. I regret never gatteing to see the band in person, but maybe the film was enough. Rev's keyboard drone grew exponentially in pitch and hysteria while Vega, mouth bloodied, shortless under a black leather jacket roamed through the floor of a Berlin nite-club, swinging a tire chain, breaking glasses and giving the punters absolutely no quarter as he intoned over and over aagain: "They're fucking us over"

     And I had no doubt that they (and we all have our own 'they) were, much as they still are every day unto this day. Of course the 'art terrorism' approach of Suicide, as well as the relentless noise assault of much of the No Wave movement (Mars, DNA, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, James Chance etc) offers little in the way of a true solution to real and imagined social oppression but sometimes just the venting of the rage is enough to clear the mind to the point where one can plot their next move. The beauty of the No Wave, to me, was the chances that these bands were taking. Appearing on the heels of the Pistols' breakup, the scene was wide open. Too many bands were like Little Pistols, regurgitating and repeating ad nauseum, poor imitations of a truly great band. The Pistols did it right. One album (never mind the repackagings and live crap available on Amazon.) Bollocks was/is the only Sex Pistols record, perhaps the only punk rock record that was really neccessary. It stated it's case: rock and roll had become top heavy and bloated and had become a weapon of the enemy. So too had the Pistols in a way but at least not by their own volition and at least Rotten knew enough to split while the getting was bad and at least made an attempt to move on w/PiL. 'You never listened to a word I said' he sang on 'Theme', 'you only loved me for the clothes I wore.' A line that Lester Bangs reviled repeatedly in print, but to me an honest statement of regret on having been so totally misunderstood, much like when Ronald Reagan wanted to co-opt 'Born in the USA' for his 84 campaign. Another case of not seeing past the style into the substance. The Pistols statements of 'no feelings' were not a celebration of such, but an horrific admission that numbness was suddenly becoming a sought for conditioned by far too many people. The shock to the system that Bollocks represented was absorbed and codified quickly by a media (and I'm including the notorious 'rock press' in this silly indictment) that was afraid of the connotations that this facing up to represented and the difficulty, the plain hard work that responding to this throwdown and the throwdown of PiL. Just like we qall got off the bus when the Beatles offered love as a solution to the world's problems ten years earlier. Too much work, we'd rather smoke pot.

     OK this is still garbled babbling, but I'm getting on to something here. The reinvention process has been a constant companion in my life, particularly in recent months due to the survival instinct kicking in throughout the many, many moves and situation conversions I've encountered since my divorce, just a little more than a year ago. I've been tossed by circumstance into the role of stepfather (neither the woman and child involved nor I was equipped in any way, shape or form to pull this off), unwanted houseguest (the whole Denver debacle: see posts from Jan-March of this year for details) to my most recent adventures as a self employed yard worker and house painter leading up to my most recent incarnation as perhaps the worst farm hand to ever confuse a pitchfork with a pig (not really, but you get my meaning, right?)

     I've been on that hary, mousebitten search to 'find myself' for far too long now. I've been here all along and have been trying for far too long to fit myself into too many others' worlds and worldviews. Trying to become something I am not in order to keep the peace and food on the table. Take the farm job (please). I've been working (myself into a lather) for some very nice people that I have zerozilchnadanothing in common with in a vain attempt to 'fit in' and a not so vain attempt to make some money. Survival has been the name of the game and I've been surviving. Buster and the kids are eating well, probably better than I and that is of course the priority but I have to STOP THIS SHIT and get on with My life!

     Over the last year I have shed many identities/titles: Husband, Boyfriend, Guitar Player, Brother (my sister's still not speaking to me and apparently my brother has been in town twice this summer and failed to look me up, so I guess I'm the black sheep again.), Vidstore clerk, and finally lawnworker/housepainter/farmhand.That's right I'm leaving the farm. I explained to my boss that this job just isn't for me. Seeing as how  over the course of less than a month I've almost gotten killed driving a tractor across the highway (forgot where the brake was. Cut me some slack I'm a New York psuedo-intellectual liberal who had never been in a tractor until 2 weeks ago), poured antifreeze into the gas tanks of another 5 pieces of machinery (hey, a hole's a hole, right?) and generally taken far too long to accomplish things a real farmhand could do in his or her sleep, the boss didn't give me too much argument trying to change my mind. He did however berate me for 'not sticking with it' and suggested that if I did indeed 'stick with it' that I would learn to do the job better. Of which I have no doubt but to what end? To further isolate myself in this small and small minded community? The boss came right out and told me that the reason he was so het up to keep me on was that I was/am a White guy (little does he know..) and that he didn't want a Mexican on the farm (the only people willing to work the ridiculous hours of hard work for the ridiculously lowpay this job offers: $300/week for 7 days a week work, amounting to more than 70 hours a week or less than $4/hr). I know that this is the reality of the agricultural 'experience' and all, but I really want more than a future of listening to this man talk of the 'Brown Plague' that is destroying America while I freeze my skinny ass off at 5 am feeding his cattle for the aforementioned slave wage while he rakes in the dough, traversing the spaces between here and Denver in one of his 3 private planes. Viva revolucion!

     So, no, I have left the farm. I've worked there long enough to gather a little money, enough to get my car insured, pay my rent and allow me a few weeks to find a job more suited to my talents in the closest thing to a 'big city' out here on the prairie. And you know what? I feel good about it. I didn't say 'piss on this' and bolt the 1st day. I proved to myself that I could do the job, after a fashion. I got hung up for a while worrying about the 'resposibilities and opportunities' that that tractor and pitchfork represented and agonized over the decision to leave (ie: 'there you go, quitting another job you lazy useless etc' the sounds of my father in my head yet again) but this time I just said no (thanks, Nancy). The prospect of a future spent (in honest labor, no doubt. No disrespect to the American Farming Community is intended here) traversing snow packed fields at ungodly hours in the company of only 1 or 2 other (nice) people who I'd never be able to discuss anything more involved than hay with, scared me more than the prospect of finding yet another job. I need to extricate myself, slowly of course but a little quicker than I've been, from this small Colorado town. I need a city, a place to meet new people in the flesh, a place to play music again in more places than Dan's basement, a place where I can be myself and not 'Tara's brother' or 'Lynn's ex-husband' or 'Jackie's ex-boyfriend' or 'that New York guy who can't hold a job" or whatever (if anything) passes through the minds of this settled (and settling for) smalltown populace when my black clad frame crosses their collective visage.

      God save the Sex Pistols and the spirit of renewal that blast from the past represent(ed)s. God save the working man. God bless the motime universe and God help me during the next few weeks. Be back soon. Sorry this was so long and garbled but  in many, many ways, so am I.

peace and noise,

tim

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:51 | link | comments (12)

FARM REPORT: SUICIDE, SPIRITS AND ALL THAT FREE JAZZ

     I found a true, for me, understanding of spirituality via the Sex Pistols. At the time (late '80s) I was about at the middle of my struggle to get sober and was using my opposition to the whole god/higher power trip as an excuse to keep drinking. I eventually 'got it' - the not drinking part that is. I mean I'm still lost on the nature of god - and happily so - but I got a real handle on the nature of, and the need for, spirituality thanks to the Sex Pistols.

     As a self professed Atheist (which, when you give it a name and fundamental premise, is much the same as being a believer and as such, a little silly upon closer inspection) I balked continually at god, still do kinda, but more telling and detrimental to my health in this pose was my denial of anythinhg I couldn't touch. Or drink. Or break. I was also back then always recording songs on my 4 track. I had written one and was telling a friend it had been done in the SPIRIT of the Sex Pistols. Not the sound or stance, but the spirit. That which listening to the Pistolss made me FEEL.

     OK you got me. Spirituality exists and sometimes it rocks. The spirit of the Sex Pistols (to me) was that of a slate being cleaned, a frontier claimed upon the wasted lands of yesterday. The Death of Rock and Roll with the Pistols sounding both the rattle of that death and the birth cry of something new.

     Immedietly followed by scores upon scores of Pistol clones, all lightning bugs to the Pistols actua;l lightning. John Lydon shed the Rotten sobriquet and took up the challenge of producing a truly new music with Public Image Ltd, only to have the punters miss the point again. Folks forget that Lydon fronted not just one, but two of the most important bands in 'rock history' and the fact that the PiL gets lost in the shuffle is a damn shame. So, too a shame is the criminally overlooked Suicide, without whom etc. etc.

     As confrontational a 'rock band' as anything since Iggy was a Stooge, Suicide was the braincchild of Alan Vega and Marty Rev (vocals and keyboards respectivley) who's 2 man assault cleared roomed and blew down doors for bands as varied as Sonic Youth, Glen Branca and the whole 'No Wave' movement.

 

more on this later, as I gotta get back to work. ciao!

Posted by: timbyrnes at 20:54 | link | comments (2)

SORRY SORRY I'M SORRY, REALLY I AM SO FUCKING SORRY....

     Hey everybody in the motime universe! I'm sorry I haven't been around but the new job has got me hoppin'. Lots of hours and, as one might imagine for an aging punk rocker (I'm NOT an old hippie, dammit! I'm a young beatnik!) suddenly finding himself down on the farm w/ a heap o' chores to do I haven't a freaking CLUE what I'm doing. That haveing been said, I'm learning fast and, believe it or not, am having the time of my life. Not sleeping much, but what I get is the sleep of the just.

     Grabbed a few minutes on my lunch hour to check in w/y'all and to assure you that I'm not lying dead under some tractor in the middle of nowhere. Have absolutley nothing to say about music right now as I've been even more out of the loop than usual these last few weeks. Hope to be a little more settled soon, and w/a paycheck or 2 under my (now cowboy) belt, will have own computer soon and can write these things at 3 in the morning again, the way they should be written!

     Anyaw, gotta go walk Buster and get back to work, we're actually mowing the actual lower 40 this afternoon. So, if yr driving through Manzanola Colorado this afternoon and you see a  tall skinny guy dressed like Lou Reed running a tractor w/Mozart blaring on the radio, give us a wave, OK?

peace and noise,

tim

Posted by: timbyrnes at 20:38 | link | comments (5)