rock and roll musings by Tim Byrnes

Stark Raving Humanism: A Religion Even the Devil Could Love

     Well, this was inevitable. I've decided to start my own religion. I mean, we got scads of scammers in bad toupees swindling old folks out of their savings and young folks out of their minds all across this great (cough, cough) nation of ours so, being the dyed in the wool, out for himself true blooded Amerikkkan that I am, I figured I'd get in on it.

     Let's see, first thing we need is a dead guy, right? Hmmmmmm. Religions are always the province of those more than willing to twist the words of actually great men to meet their own interests. It's always best to wait till the cat's dead, you know, so he (and it's always a he, innit?) can't come back and redifne, recontextualize or even (dare I say it) correct you. More importantly, you gotta have a dead guy in combination with a book. Enter Lester Bangs, a great dead man. Under the guise of rock critic, Lester was above all else a bitterly disappointed moralist, a man who tried so damn hard to be human it arguably killed him. Yeah, I know the scuttlebutt says it was a drug overdose, maybe it even was (remember:Rule #1 - other than there are no rules - Believe nothing.) but, for the purposes of this religion - my exwife came up with the term 'Lesterfarianism' and I think I'm gonna run with it - I'm going to twist the perception of the overdose as being an immaculate example of the frailty of man, to be embraced, celebrated. No more pity.

      We got 2, no 3, books by going w/Lester as figurehead. Dig: There are 2 collections of his work 'Psychotic Reactions and Carburator Dung' or the Old Testament and 'Mainlines, Deadlines and Blood Feasts" or the New Testament. There's a biography of Lester also called 'Let It Blurt' which I guess we can use as like an Apocrypha or something. I recoomend any of these, no I mean I beseech, thee, brethren, to look to the word, I mean Word of Lester to find meaning and solace in this cruel, cruel world.

     Besides, he wrote the Stones off as old men in 1973 so we got prophecy covered.

     Another thing any 1st rate religion needs is a message. OK, here's the basic tenant of Lesterfarianism in one sentence:

                                   "Keep trying,thou art all OK."

     I figure if all these helmet haired televangelists can rake in the $$$$ while reminding everyone how they're unworthy in the sight of god, sinners all and essentially no damn good at the core (thus the need for a benevolent figure in the sky) then I should be a millionaire by Thursday w/the message that, yes we suck. A lot. But humanity as a species has the potential to walk through life harming no one and that should be the goal, and yes, it's a huge goal. Which means it's gonna take time. So, in this religion failings aren't punished, men and women are NOT deemed unworthy the second they hit the door or threatened with eternal damnation. See, I don't pretend to know what happens when you die, so I'm not gonna do a song and dance about how this gonna happen, that gonna happen. I don't know (say, there's a great 'response' for the 'call and response' section of the eventual service.)

      Celebrant (or Roadie): 'Who created the world?

      Brethren (you guys, in unison): "I don't know.'

      C: 'What awaits us when we die?'

      B: 'I don't know."

     And so on. Which reminds me, I gotta get Vonnegut involved here, but as explained above, will have to wait until he passes. Which I hope doesn't happen for a hundred years. Let's see, if we do take a collection, we'll open a food bank.Buy a pizza for the poor. Hell I am the poor, that's why I'm starting a religion!

     Oh, and in an unprecedented move in theological circles, I'm gonna tell y'all right up front I'm corrupt. As a human being, corruption is part of my makeup and, as such, a part of my religion. See we're shifty by nature, not criminal (at least not all of us) but shifty. I think it mostly comes from having to use denial as a coping mechanisn all these years. Stepping over the homeless on yr way to the Olive Garden wears on a soul. Lesterfarianism says, recognizes actually, that there is little we can do about this. At least not without drastically changing our lifestyles, taking actual responsibility for our fellow man, getting our hands dirty etc. And as we all know, this is just too much work. Not to be flip, but really, most of us are having enough trouble getting from Monday to Sunday without slitting our own throats because we know how lame we are.

     Lesterfarianism relieves you of that particular weight. Do what you can, we say, help those around you but if you can't, if you won't, well, that's OK too 'cause who am I to judge? I'm just a religion. We all have our own problems. Are you unfaithful to yr spouse? Well, shame on you, I guess, but that's between you and the injured party, innit? Gay? Cool, you bring the records! Smoke a little dope? Bring it!! Drink too much? If yr cool w/it so are we, but if you think you got a problem I'm sure somebody here can hip you a possible next move. Advice, not Commandment.

     Hey, I think I'm really on to something here.

     OK, what else we need? Dead guy? Check. Book? Got 3 of 'em. Physical leader on Earth? Well, that would be me. Hierarchy of politicized madmen in black dresses? Don't need 'em, don't want 'em. However, if anyone out there would like to buy their way into an upper management position ('cause you know, eventually the moneymen will come along and ruin whatever purity of thought existed here at the beginning anyway, so I'm just gonna invite 'em and hope I get my cut -  refreshingly honest for a clergyman, ain't I?) the going rate for becoming a Bishop is the same as the Catholics: $300 and a blowjob.

     Sacrament's you say? Invent yr own, invite yr friends. Sex, drugs, mayhem, whatever. This is your religion, yr life. Maybe you'll get judged after you die maybe not. That's the chance we all gotta take. So y'all decide if yr living right and I'll see you as a hail fellow well met and how you sleep at night is yr business.

     There's been a lot of back and forth here at punk rock blues as to the need for a Devil in this religion. I say we ain't got one, 'cause I don't want my religion to be defined by what we hate. For the purposes of this excercise there is no Devil and, it follows, there surely is no God. Just us.

     Justice?

Posted by: timbyrnes at 19:06 | link | comments (19)

Saint Francis is a Sissy: Why Animals Are Better Than People

     Living in what's essentially the ghetto in a primarily agrarian community (our zipcode is EIEIO) one sees all types of lives being led. There's the Fundamentalist Christian family who's homeschooled kids can't spell 'cat' and who's patriarch is often heard loudly, very loudly, calling said kids things I wouldn't call Nixon. There's the 4 Mexican migrant workers living in my old apartment who don't speak a word of English but we communicate through the shared love of animals. Every morning after I put on the coffee I walk Buster (yes, we have a yard now, but old habits die hard). I also have a pocketfull of dry cat food for the neighborhood strays. The other day, walking Buster past my old apartment I saw a beautiful thing: a full grown Chow w/4 six week old kittens curled up around her.

     I'm a sucker for kittens, animals in general. Anyway, I fill a small bowl w/food for the kittens as one of the workers comes out on the porch. He smiles, I smile, I pantomime handing food out to the barncats and he waves. I go back to the house to get some hot dogs for the chow and the 3 other dogs who are owned, but neglected by neighbors. On my way back to the dogs, here comes my smiling Mexican friend holding the biggest watermelon I've ever seen, handing it to me saying 'Gracias'. It made my day.

     Basically every morning I tend to Buster, Sammy, MacDugal and Bleeker as well as these new 4 kittens and their mamadog (I've named them Matthew, Mark, Luke and Ringo and the mamachow Brian Epstein), then there's Little, a miniature collie who's brother the owners let starve to death. Sarah, a white poodle who's owners never check on. She's cooped up in 3 sided garage w/board nailed to the front. I have to throw the food and water down to her. I've offered to take her but the owner always gets a little mad. Bet I could buy her.

     Then there's the cat contingency. Miss Patches is the matriarch, a sweet old lady who runs up to me and Buster the minute she sees us, as does her daughter Camille, a grey and white tazmanian devil, evil cat. I love her. Following her are her 3 kittens, Batman, Supergirl and Bottlebrush (you've just gotta see this kittens tail to understand the name). They all live in a shed and are owned by the same folks as Sarah, so I've adopted them in their own defense. Then along comes Speedy, a hopped up orange male who made friends w/Buster before me. He used to 'follow' us on our walks, running ever decreasing circles around us. I hope to have him in the house by winter as he's clearly MY cat now. Brought him into the house last week. MacDougal walked by w/no problem, but Old Bleeker ran him out, beating him like a rug. Maybe in a week or 2 Speedy'll want a rematch, but for now I feed him out back.

   Then there's Henry, Stratton and Handsome. Older cats whove been abandoned by other tenants, all of whom moved out in the middle of the night sticking my landlord w/a bill and our neighborhood w/these animals. These cats won't come to me, understandably, they've all been fucked by humans, so I leave dryfood out around the surrounding woods and behind my apartment. Somehow we all get fed. No matter how angry life makes me, and anyone who knows me even a little knows I get stupid angry sometimes, I can't help but smile when any of these aforementioned critters comes running up to me. Glad to see me. Happy, even.

      Yeah, I suspect it's all about the food for them but the joy is real. The feeling I get when I do something as simple as feed a stray cat offsets all the evilthought crap I roil around in my head regarding the concept of truth and it's illusory existence etc. etc. It's the only exchange I participate in that is what it is. A man feeding a cat. No agendas, know small talk full of lies, nobody trying to sell anybody anything, no politics, no religion, no devil, no god.

     When I die, as I suppose I must, I wish I could just have my body thrown into the woods so I could feed the animals one last time. We should all do that. Hell, we've eaten enough of them.

Posted by: timbyrnes at 19:21 | link | comments (2)

 

 

        Hey everybody (or anybody). It seems that life and it's duties, that is my job, has kept me from my little desk at out little library for far too long. So, now w/a few hours free I'm sitting here trying to think of something relevant to write about rock and roll, or punk rock or even maybe life itself if I may be so bold. I find myself almost ending the skid I hit about a year and a half ago, still coasting a little from the momentum of circumstance but no longer in complete spinout. This of course can change in a heartbeat but right now I feel like I've got sea legs happening and it's alright.

     So I can't really write another doom and gloom, this ought to depress Richards Lewis and Hell missive about the futility of human existence and the fallacy of god. Mind you, those thoughts still, will always, lurk off the top of my head (where the brain damage is most severe). I don't suppose I'll ever stop dwelling on the thought that we're doomed 'cause we really kind are, but what difference can my bitching about it do? None, of course, and while  those types of epistles have their entertainment value to me as they tend to upset believers of myriad religious sects when I attack the bulwarks of their perceived reality (never mind the bulwarks, heres the sects epistles*), they've ceased to be fun 'cause in the end, I'm the one left empty.

     Neither do I want to invent another Lester search or a dream sequence w/my cats 'cause frankly I'm too tired. Been doubleshifting at work 'cause a person quit. There was a lot of drama and for once I wasn't in the middle of it. I've somehow becomt the depaendable (see I can't even spell it) one. Coughing up yet another irony laced, dark comedy w/the punk rocker's cynicism would be lame, if not completely false.

     So, what to write about? I've become so out of the loop as far as new music goes I won't pretend to have any kind of informed view. And does anybody really need to read another love song to Patti Smith? (On a side note though: Hooray for Courtney Love staying sober. God, I love that woman) And I think we're all clear where I stand on the Afghan Whigs (Buy 'Gentlemen' and 'Black Love'. Tonight, really.) and though I wish there were a reat new band to hype, for me there sadly isn't. But that's cool. Maybe I can find my heart, my brain, my courage elsewhere and just learn to like or not like the record and just get on with it. So, I'll probably be even more absent here in the coming weeks as the new employee and scheduling shake(s) it(them)self(ves) out. 

     This is of course bad news for nobody, with the possible exception of Paul Westerberg who's solo CDs get very little press but is always guaranteed a rave review here.

     In the meantime, Buster, Bleeker, MacDougal and Sammy (who refuses to accept his new name of Marilyn Manson) and I say hello. I particularly want to thank everyone who's stayed w/the page this far. Don't have much to say (obviously) but wanted you all to know that.

     See y'all soon,

tb

Posted by: timbyrnes at 20:28 | link | comments (4)

Fear and Self-Loathing in Las Vegas: cbgb Goes West, Old Man

     Hot enough for ya? Been hovering 'round the 105 mark for the last 2 weeks here in the next to the middle of nowhere. Apparently, though, our great nation in it's entirety has been subjected to much the same prelude to hell these days. In these times of fragmented, channel driven media infostreams the concept of the shared experience has been all but lost.

      Don'tcha think?

     Having been away from the computer (and in the middle of another self-induced mess, everything's fine now. Thanks for asking) for over a week, I had to stop by my old pal antimusic.com to check e-mail and see what, if anything, was up w/that old debbil rock and roll. Two items caught my eye: The new New York Dolls record - there's a review at the following link: http://www.rocknworld.com/features/06/NewYorkDollsL.shtml

     This record has been uniformly and faintly praised in all the media I've seen, both mainstream and hatemetal website. Having seen the Dolls in their heyday on more than one occaision and managing, barely, to not cringe at the footage from their Meltdown Festival reuinion in 2004 I'm probably not gonna press my luck as far as damaging the dream goes. These are not yr father's, that is, my,. New York Dolls. David Johansen has pranced through more characters from his Jaggerobics in the admiteddly glorious original Dolls, to the quasi-Springsteen/Cougar of his Richard Perry solo albums, the Sebastian the Crab antics of Buster Poindexter, the earnest folksinger of his recent 'Harry Smith' experiments to, now, flailing away like a Mick Jagger I can respect again, atop grinding bubblepop guitars, sharing the stage w/the only original Doll left, Sylvain Sylvain, an enigma if there ever was one in rock; notable only for not being the late Johnny Thunders.

     Reunions like this are almost always tawdry affairs. After all, one can't go home again and all that never putting one's foot in the same river etc. I hope, of course, that the record sells millions and launched Dave and Syl into the TRL stratosphere, introducing a vast new audience to the power of a well tuned garage band going off. I hope Dave winds up marrying Christina Aguilera and sells phot rights to their first born to People magazine for an undisclosed sum somewhere in the gazillions. I hope the Dolls are so successful in their comeback that they bring back Suicide and Wayne County and the Electric Chairs, flinging them to the top of the charts as old school Lower East Side punkparty decadence becomes the sound of the age as it all falls apart.

     And, what the hell, let's make Richard Thompson a megapopstar. It's not like he hasn;t earned it and I bet he'd be a blast to watch.

     The other news at antimusic.com that caught my eye was a report that Hilly Crystal, the owner of venerable vomitdive cbgb, will be 'relocating' the club to some hotel in Las Vegas after it's closing later this year. I'm not sure if it's going to be a thempark thing, like cbgbland or something ("...... come on down, folks, bring the kiddies, ride the Patti Smith Sea of Possibilities water slide, watch Television on a 3-D televison screen crafted to look exactly like Richard Hell's haircut! etc) or an out and out relication of that tiny throat of wood and glass and sweat and alcohol and yards and yards of memorized style and not a few real memories. I'm guessing somewhere in between. A theatre of sorts, big enough to hold crowds the real cbgb could only dream about.  How is that gonna fly in the middle of the desert?

     How do any of us?

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:51 | link | comments (3)