You may have noticed that I’ve taken about a month off from Beat This
recently. The reason was simple, I busied myself taking care of things
intensively that called for my complete attention at the time, my lack of a
home, and I’m proud and pleased to say that at long last I’m lolling on the
floor of my new home curled up with a keyboard and surrounded by boxes and
honestly I really couldn’t wait to get back to my writing schedule.
Yes indeed i am back and honestly I’ve got a ton of things to write about, a
few of which happened during my break and a few things happening currently.
But first and foremost I was overwhelmed with utter sadness and disbelief
when I heard that Lux Interior the incredible front-man for the psychobilly
institution The Cramps had shuffled off this mortal coil after living like an
immortal for 60 years of good rockin’, creating a band in 1976 that remained
as brilliant as their first recordings, for a life-span of 35 years and
enough LPs to choke a horse, each just as good as the last and maybe funnier.
Now Lux has left us for the graveyards he’s always sung about. With the
news of his death my thoughts immediately went out to Poison Ivy, his wife of
37 years and the hottest dominatrix to ever play rockabilly guitar with a
sexy raw and stripped naked style that perfectly set the stage for lux’s
manic performances and unforgettable vocals. He’s the voice I hear when
rockabilly is ever mentioned, and his vocal on the song “All Tore Up”
stutters and pops better than Elvis could a wanted. And Ivy, well she can
make a guitar sound like a chicken, a fly or a swamp with moss growing on it.
Together they made rockabilly dangerous and scary again. They met hitch-
hiking and were together from that day on, and this world is a far better
place with The Cramps. I also think that Lux is one of the few dynamic
performers whose onstage antics and full tilt madness in the live realm came
even close to Iggy Pop at his finest. Few really tore it up like them,
bleeding at the sets end, just going a bit further than a human ought to.
One of my favorite Cramps songs is now especially poignant when you
consider the lyrics:
Well when I die don’t you bury
me at all, Just nail my bones up on
the wall, Beneath these bones let
these words be seen, “This is the
bloody gears of a
boppin’ machine”
rock on
roll on
Raw Bones
Well I still got all the rythm in these
rockin bones.
It’s Just like when Curtis Mayfield died and I insisted that readers go out
and buy some of his music, the same goes with The Cramps. They have a vast
catalogue of great stuff and much of it you just need to know and love, and
many of you do already I’m certain. How can you not love “Human Fly” “The
Way I Walk” or “People Aint No Good” with a chorus sung by a group of
children simply acknowledged on the liner notes as The McMartin Pre-School
Choir? How cool is it that they played live in a State Mental Hospital in
Napa in the late 70’s just because they wanted to? Who can resist the
call of “Lets get Fucked Up”? I cant believe that Lux is gone, but in
some ways he isn’t. It’s just too bad we’ll never get the chance to
see him tear it up at the Filmore on Halloween again with a microphone
shoved down his throat, naked from the butt crack up, a light coating
of spilled drinks and blood covering his torso. Long live Lux
Interior.
The next most important rocking item that happened during my absence
from these pages was the brief west coast reunion tour by The Murder City
Devils. They were a great Seattle band from about maybe seven years ago who
were just so good they simply couldn’t go on. When they sold out two shows
held on the same date at The Great American Music Hall without a single
mention in any of the papers it really struck me profoundly that I wasn’t the
only one who loved this band with a certain passion and hard-edged lust.
These shows sold out in minutes. I guess their pretty solid body of work—
four main full length releases had really captured the ears of many more
people, impacting them more during the post-break-up years that were
punctuated with one seattle-only reunion show around the five year mark. I
was just a bit surprised by this wild surge of popularity, and couldn’t think
of a more deserving exciting band to be enjoying such attention.
The sudden reunion could have been viewed as a bigtime cash-in ploy,
as the band was marketing a special box set vinyl only limited numbered
edition package of their four main records and loads of unique goodies, like
old set lists, original artworks, stencils, polaroids, etc and calling the
box set Feather Bed Whiskey Blanket, to be sold one per person for $150.00
only at the live shows on the mini-tour. In addition to this Sub-pop had re
-released all their catalogue on black and white marble vinyl to be sold at
the shows for all the vinyl enthusiast of which I am not. I was however
thrilled at the prospect of getting a new copy of one of my all time fave
rock and roll t-shirts by them that had ended up in tatters or lost and I
did—it’s a rather enduring image in the history of fashion but i love it and
had to have it again. I may just get it tattooed on my arm soon actually.
The essence of The Murder City Devils has always been an almost mythological
rock and roll personification or a collective distilled purity of spirit and
chaos and rebellion and danger and sex. Live they’ve always given a little
bit more in performance than a lot of bands do, they hit it hard and head
straight for over the top, spicing things up with antics like lighting the
drum kit on fire or the guitarist approaching an audience member for a same
sex make out while he plays and a general enthusiasm for alcohol and hardcore
partying. Certain of their songs clarify their enthusiasm for artists that
just give their rock and roll all in a way that inspires and makes life worth
living, namely “Johnny Thunders” and the ultimate tribute to Iggy Pop,
“Broken Glass,” which is definitely a crowd favorite as Spencer screams the
lyric, “I like the sound of you rolling in the broken glass.” They consider
it a respectful duty to bring awe and intensity to a rock show, and
this has always come through in spades with the Murder City Devils,
along with a lot of heart. As Spencer says in the song “Dear Hearts”,
“I’ve got a preachers mouth/ and a rock and roll heart.” I’ve never
found that absent from any of their records or shows ever. I’m glad i
got the shirt because mine was completely drenched by the shows end
and theirs is a
name I’ll wear proudly, especially after witnessing their set that
night. Plus it was dry.
They were always good but this night they were stunningly in command
and goddamned shattering. They delivered with a frightening intensity
a perfect set of all their best songs and nothing had mellowed or gone
soft with age. They all looked great, vocalist Spencer Moody
especially with his new dignified Captain Nemo-like beard. No one had
seemed to age much at all really, Leslie on keyboards was still
beautiful, they all looked spry and lean and energetic and my favorite
devil, guitarist Dann Galucci was as always the lean irresistible
tattoed bad boy guitar god that i could go super fanatic on at the
drop of a hat. Great kisser too. Anyways, being a part of this
assembled throng of hardcore MCD fans was needless to say astonishing.
I was completely shocked at the crowds roaring along with the lyrics
in unison, the wave of motion born simply of folks screaming along
with every word. It was one of the most intense and focused crowds
i’ve braved the front of for a long time and i met a very nice young
man up there, 20 years old who was such a huge fan. I told him the
first time i saw MCD was there at the Great American Music Hall
opening for Nashville Pussy. He said he heard about that show but
back then he really wasnt old enough to see bands unless they were all
ages. I felt a little old but thrilled that the young people had
obviously tuned in to this great band for all the right reasons. It’s
nice to bond over rock and roll, in fact its great.
Now I’m off to catch some excellent shows presented by the Noise Pop
Festival–you’ll be hearing about it soon–at weekly intervals again.