Category: From the archives…

I was absent from the last issue of bay times due to a rather unexpected housing emergency.  I won’t go into the unsavory sordid details of it all but the bottom line is I’m being forced to end my nine-year tenancy in that perch above the bar My Place, the infamous funky hovel overlooking Folsom street.  It feels like the end of an era with my stay here coming to a close soon.  It seems a rather unconventional habitat in a lot of ways, residing above a noisy little cocksucker’s bar on a stretch of a once thriving and ever-changing party and nightclub strip.  People had a lot of pre-conceived notions about what it must be like, you could tell by the tones in their voices or the look in their eyes whenever I mentioned it, an undercurrent of sexual connotation inherent to the address and the almost invariable comment, “Well isn’t that convenient.”  Then there were all the bumbling drunks over the years that tried to slip in the gate and front door every time it was open as if my apartment were merely an extension or host to the activities common to the darker regions of My Place.  I can’t count the times I’ve had to make my little speech about this place being a residence where individuals lived, worked, ate and slept to some slavering sexual predator trying to slip inside my door, acting like an innocent retard who had been told it was okay.  Granted, this apartment was no cloistered monastery by any means, but come on!  It reminds me of a great song by one of the greatest American rock bands ever, X, called  “In This House That I Call Home.”  It may have seemed to be many things to many people, party house, sex club, tranny pit-stop, haunted, flop house, swinging bachelor pad, gateway to the underground city of druids, etc., but to me, above all, it was home.  “Nobody knows the party rules/ gotta get in but there’s no room/ in this house that I call home.”  I’ll never forget my near decade of living on Folsom street, some of my stellar room mates of the past like the vivacious Tauna and the caustic and hilarious Canadians Adam and Michael and the core nuclear family formed by myself, my loyal room mate Tish and that darn cat Handsome.  I will happily forget, as long as I live, the miserable force of bitterness, hypocrisy, jealousy, greed, and a pathetic maniacal quest for control that destroyed our longtime home.  Some things you can do without forever, and I plan to.

Rock and roll is one thing that remains consistent in my life and the lives of many and for this I am grateful.  It thrills me endlessly that my jobs are playing rock music in a couple of bars weekly and attending many live shows and buying new releases to review in these pages.  So many of my co-workers are also fully immersed in the whole rock and roll life, not only holding posts behind the bars that play rock and roll, but also being actual members of great bands, sometimes as many as three different ones simultaneously, or producing and recording their own bands as well as new and upcoming acts, or booking shows that feature young hardworking touring bands from all over the nation as well as locally, talented bands that could be well on their way to popularity and success that need to be seen, and even forming a variety of one-off tribute bands for special occasions, honoring certain icons of rock history familiar to everyone and executed with a slight tongue-in-cheek sense of humor yet performed with a definite respect-the-rock level of skill and expertise.  Musicians have always astonished me with their ability to create one part of a larger whole in the form of a powerful majestic song.  That talent is magical and when I see it or hear it, be it in a small bar, a large stadium, from my home stereo or a passing car, I’m reminded that rock and roll music really is everything I live for.  I’m so lucky that it is also seemingly the lifeblood pumping through the veins of so many of my friends, friends who understand what I mean when I say it’s everything I live for, because they embrace the rock and roll life even more fully than I do, they create the music.  I’m in awe of musicians in the same way I was in awe of rock writers, the people who chronicled the lives and critiqued the work of Rock Stars, writers like Lester Bangs and Robert Christgau and more from the pages of Creem Magazine and Rolling Stone and Hit Parade which I started reading when I was 10 or 11.  I was even fascinated by the groupies, the wild women, like Pamela DesBarres, Bebe Buell, Cynthia Plaster Caster, and even the actual wives of the rockers, or the series of fashion models, actresses and other musical artists who were romantically linked to rock and roll stars, sometimes wed, others notoriously un-wed and others even associated by merely a scandal—and legends grow rapidly in the world of rock.  One such fascinating character who has lived through a share of past associations with various rock figures, even got arrested with Mick Jagger for possession of marijuana in 1968, was a pop star in her own right, an accomplished stage actress, a symbol of London’s swinging scene of the 60’s, and an outspoken modern girl who advocated the taking of LSD on a British talk show.  This person was Marianne Faithfull, and that event was over 34 years ago.  Marianne’s star faded somewhat in the 70’s when drugs became a serious priority and the former songbird ended up homeless and broke and scrutinized heavily by the press, an example of a casualty of the excesses of an era.  Then in 1979 she recorded and released a comeback LP, Broken English, a startlingly honest and harsh collection of songs featuring one of the nastiest, dirtiest cuts about an unfaithful lover I’d ever heard, let alone by a woman.  It was called “Why’d Ya Do it” and it brought the outcast singer back to the fore with gusto and a remarkable vocal quality that asserted itself on the edge of broken, balancing between a hardened raspy quality and a velvety richness.  The world took note once again of this controversial figure in a new way.  Here was a surviving member of an extreme rock and roll existence, one that could have killed her but it didn’t, and she’s going to tell us about it.

Marianne has continued working since then, recording many LP’s, touring frequently, experimenting in other styles, applying her voice to the works of Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht which was a match to be reckoned with, as if she were born to sing those songs, and collaborating with other composers like Angelo Badalementi who scores films for David Lynch, Elton John, Van Morrison, The Chieftains, and the list goes on and on, leading us to her latest release Kissin’ Time, for which she matches up with a handful of contemporary artists like Beck and Billy Corgan and Will Oldham and Jarvis Cocker and they wrote songs together.  It’s a welcome return to the more pop and rock styles for her, having devoted a lot of time to the songs of the Weimar Republic and singing with just piano accompaniment or traditional orchestrations.  Kissin’ Time is possibly her best record in years because it is quite literally a celebration of her—her ribald nature, her sense of humor and irony, even a touch of self congratulatory survivor, and a sensitive personal one about her father and Nico and a truly epic song called “I’m On Fire” that has become my favorite on the record.

It wasn’t my favorite until last week when I caught Marianne’s show at the Fillmore and heard it performed live that I was so swept away by the greatness of this composition.  I’ve seen her live about 4 times over the years doing various material or pared down cabaret style versions of all her best songs or with an orchestra and this show was the first time I’d seen her with a band that even resembled a rock configuration since I saw her in 82 at the Kabuki Theatre when she was demanding 4 grams of cocaine backstage or she wouldn’t go on.  She was great then too, but nothing like the regal, stunning and consummate performer that owned the Fillmore stage and commanded it perfectly, leaving the audience awe-struck with the sheer power and skill of her talent and the unflappable presence and beauty of her soul.

She looked absolutely stunning and radiant as she walked onstage opening with a great old favorite “Fallen From Grace” diving right into to the deep end of her troubled personal life while the band kept the arrangement sort of upbeat and rolling.  Her voice has clearly developed into a masterful instrument, the characteristic imperfections, that raspy smoke-laden husky quality is firmly in place and effectively used, no longer hinting at vulnerability or the edge of breaking, everything about this voice was well placed.  The audience was responding with cheers mid song as she soared in complete control.  To me she’s never been in better voice.

The band was pretty amazing as well, creating a punchy funked-up throb on “Broken English” that actually got the crowd moving a bit, then perfectly adding distinctly western touches of slide guitar on a fantastic version of “Working Class Hero” and really hitting on the proper edginess and rage, weaving the perfect sense of menace into the haunted voodoo reggae style of “Why’d Ya Do It.”  When they finished that song Marianne said, “That one used to be our last song, but recently we got a new last song written by my friend Jarvis Cocker, and I should point out that he wrote the words, not me.” The song “Sliding through Life On Charm,” is a definite high point of the new record with Cocker’s poetic and clever lyrics summing up Marianne’s life and pointing out her undeniable influence and inspiration on others.  “The family tree was chain sawed Wednesday week/ so now I have to mingle with the meek/ Hey mister you have finally met your match/ Now everybody wants to kiss my snatch/ To go where God knows who has gone before/ I am a muse not a mistress not a whore/ Oh suburban shits who want some class/ All queue up to kiss my ass and I was only trying to please/ I never got any royalties/ Oh no –not me, I’m still sliding through life on charm.”  It’s a great new last song, and the encore of the Tom Waits original “Strange Weather” was a nice short and sweet way to close this set of perfectly chosen songs, an adequate testament to the brilliant career of a rock and roll survivor.

For some reason or another it seems I’ve neglected the subject of music in my past few columns, enough so that the proverbial cup runneth over with worthwhile live shows I’ve attended, new and important rock releases and things currently enjoying repeated rotations from the DJ booth.  There are even upcoming events to preview as well so I should just dig right in and catch all you readers up on what totally rocks.  Where better to start than The Eagle Tavern’s live music Thursday about a month ago when I stopped by to see a local act who have generated quite the buzz throughout the indie rock scene, opened for Sonic Youth at the Fillmore recently and are currently touring Europe, likely garnering even more great reviews with their powerfully agit-funk post-punk angular cerebral free-form exercises in tension and release.  The band is Erase Eratta, no doubt you’ve heard or read about them in numerous local papers as they rapidly rose to the level of indie-rock godhead with their crafty freshness and cool hard to categorize sound.  They are a great band, lots of fun live and the music has a certain brainy pop sensibility underneath the layers of skewed rhythms and sharp guitar parts flying like shards of glass or knives.  They have a sense of humor too and clearly enjoy what they do.

Because of all the buzz about Erase Eratta the Eagle was super packed, maybe busier than any past Thursday I could recall.  As I milled my way through the crowd of skinny androgynous young people with unfortunate haircuts and long-faced introverted pouts all I could think of was a joke that Larry-Bob of Holy Titclamps the zine and online guide covering all that is queer and more, told me one night.  He asked, “Why did the indie rocker cross the road?” I replied “I don’t know,” and Larry said, in a haughty tone with a roll of his eyes, “I can’t believe you haven’t heard this!”  That in a nutshell kind of summed up the crowd, so much so that I had to leave before Erase Eratta’s set even started. They were apparently better than ever, producing a wildly chaotic response, baby dykes dancing on the stage and pool table, making up for the indie boys hidden under their old stocking caps, horned rim glasses and hair, withdrawing into their skinny emo selves, sighing despondently.  I’m sorry I missed it but I really couldn’t handle the scene.  Perhaps it was because I knew I would be attending a show the following night and was trying to pace myself.

Fast forward to the following night, I’m seeing two young hot NY bands opening for Jon Spencer’s Blues Explosion, one familiar Yeah Yeah Yeahs and one I’d only heard about, Liars.  As soon as Liars took the stage I realized that I had seen them all at the Eagle the previous night in the crowd, and I believe I saw the Yeah Yeah Yeahs there too and for a moment I sort of felt like, wow, the Eagle was a full-on rock scene that night.  It had been a long time since it felt like that in San Francisco.  Oh look, there’s Bianca Jagger …and Kid Rock and Pamela…and Anita Pallenberg!  Everyone was there.

Liars turned out to be the biggest surprise of my music month.  Three normal looking young men fronted by a very tall thin guy who looked like a young David Johansen, calmly took the stage and started noodling with their instruments, the singer standing stationary with his eyes closed as if meditating.  Then with a driving drumbeat the band exploded into sound and motion, the vocalist whipping his lanky form all over the stage while the bass players undulations furiously bounced his instrument off of his hips and the guitarist doubled over his like he was subduing an unruly creature with slaps and punches.  Their aggressively danceable sound brought immediate comparisons to the agro-funk guitar assault of early Gang of 4 and a bit of the more rhythmic art-school explorations of Talking Heads and a host of other New York-based bands from the early 80’s like ESG (whom Liars borrow an entire backing track from for one of their songs, with permission and proper credits, of course) The Bush Tetras, and even a bit of the jazzy abstractions of The Contortions.  It seems a whole new crop of bands are forming the core of a New York scene that unashamedly mirrors the No-Wave scene of New York from over two decades ago, augmented by a growing number of electro-pop and dance oriented synthesizer bands growing in popularity as well.  As it often occurs in popular music, everything old is new again, but this doesn’t seem to make the music any less vital or exciting.  Liars drove that point home perfectly with intensity and passion and lyrical political angst during their taut energetic set. Their debut LP more than adequately backs up what I saw live and is one of the best I’ve heard all year.  Seek this one out.

I’ve been very anxious to see Yeah Yeah Yeahs ever since their debut EP, Master,

blew me away with just five songs of wailing, raw greatness and the beguiling voice of Karen O.  Her range from delicate and childlike to mow-you-down with no warning power is lusty and enticing.  I hear hints of greatness comparable to PJ Harvey, vocals that color outside of the lines unapologetically. This band is fresh and sexy and packs a big, loud punk wallop for just three people.  Live I didn’t find myself warming up to them so instantly, but eventually was won over.  Karen O is a wild front person, stalking about the stage like a cat, dancing wildly, always smiling, throwing martial arts kicks and gesticulating to the crowd, but the guitarist, a small man with a somewhat delicate New Wave look brought the necessary balance to it all with the type of guitar work that always makes me wonder how one player can get so much sound from their instrument.  It amazes me that his playing supplied a low-end bass tone plus two very separate sounding guitar parts all simultaneously.  Guitar wizardry always rates high with me and ultimately pulled Yeah Yeah Yeahs set up to the rather high expectations I had.  Look for their first full-length release in the near future and remember, David Bowie has given this band his glowing seal of approval.

Another show I took in recently was Wire at The Fillmore.  The great pioneering punk band with a rich catalogue of highly influential releases from the late 70’s to early 80’s then a reunion in the 90’s with a more atmospheric dance oriented direction, have returned 25 years since it all began and I really didn’t know what to expect from them.

Their set that night featured only one of their old songs, “Low Down” as one of their encores and the rest of it was all new material from two new releases, Read & Burn 01 and 02, both six song EPs that were on sale at the show and had only just recently been released.  One might have expected the crowd present to be possibly disappointed by this but Wire took the stage and proceeded, looking a bit like mild-mannered elderly gentlemen, to absolutely pummel and totally win over the audience with sheer skill and a brilliantly powerful and menacing guitar assault.  The crowd was transfixed.  Everyone I talked to after the show was fully knocked back by this dazzling display of rock and roll mastery.  I started to consider some of the Nu Metal acts all over MTV like Limp Bizcuit, Slip Knot, Papa Roach, Tap Root, etc. and their big tough harder than hard posturing and had to laugh thinking that four fifty year olds out of semi-retirement packed a punch that could wilt these tired acts effortlessly.  The Read & Burn discs have also become staples in my DJ sets and when ever I put one on I find it difficult to stop after just one cut.

Speaking of the DJ booth, I’ve got a few new favorites in rotation as well as some not so new things that I’ve grown to appreciate more lately.  One of the latter variety is the most recent LP by The Dirtbombs, Ultra Glide In Black which is about a year old and I didn’t fully appreciate this disc of covers by an all-star pack of prominent and influential Detroit music scenesters until I witnessed the magic live recently at Bimbos.

What can I say about a garage rock and soul influenced outfit boasting two drummers, two bassists and Mick Collins, a guitar slinging black man (a rarity in rock and roll) fronting the double-your-pleasure rhythm section monster?  It became apparent why Collins is such a highly regarded figure in Detroit.  They flattened the place with an infectious dose of rocking party funk that had me craving that disc immediately and far more often than before.

Another disc I cant seem to get enough of is Step Off the return of the legendary early 80’s group ESG.  Comprised of four sisters from the South Bronx whose parents bought them instruments to keep them off the streets, the Scroggins girls created a minimal fluid dreamy funk sound that was discovered by factory records Martin Hannet and soon after the group was opening shows for everyone from the Clash to the Talking Heads and as time rolled on their sound proved to be highly influential and often stolen literally for use in lots of rap and DJ dance mixes.  Step Off is their first record in over ten years and features three of the original sisters plus two of their daughters and it is magical.  It sounds as if it were recorded merely days after the rest of their material, as if no time had passed at all.  It’s simple and sparse and dreamily enticing, and no one else in the world can do it like they do, and believe me its been tried a lot.  Someone told me that those ever-specialized employees/music critics at Aquarius Records had been slagging this record off as a huge letdown, as did Spin or Rolling Stone I think.  Well, they are simply wrong, its brilliant and essential.  Buy it.

Recently my friend Ronnie brought me a copy of a new record by Butcher Holler, a band featuring two of my favorite girls who rock, Jorgee and Kim formerly of Stone Fox.  It’s a very fun record, showing a lot of stylistic variety but there is a definite standout cut that I’ve been playing a lot appropriately titled “Fuck Yeah.”  It’s a 6 minute Black Sabbath-y metal dirge that features the ever sultry Jorgee slipping her voice around some seriously filthy sexual lyrics, and its just the right combination of heavy metal guitar and slutty talking to be, as my mother would say, “just no damn good.”  Only bad girls sing things like, “Now you’re gonna get one good goddamn righteous fuck,” and play guitar so hard dirty and slow.  It’s such a great song from some talents I’ve missed a lot since the demise of Stone Fox.

I couldn’t have been more surprised the other night while catching Fabulous Disaster at The Eagle when Jorgee waltzed into the bar looking delicious and effervescent as ever.  She explained to me that Butcher Holler had just unexpectedly opened for The Foo Fighters show in this area.  They had been scheduled to play at Kimo’s but that venue was closed down again and Jorgee has been working for the foo fighters as a stylist and was bummed about not being able to play and she mentioned it to Dave Grohl who magnanimously invited Butcher Holler to open for their show here.  I told her how much I’ve been playing “Fuck Yeah” and asked her about the inspiration for it’s lyrics and she told me it was all stuff from that blaxsploitation comedy record called The Sensuous Black Woman.  She is so funny.  I can’t wait to finally see Butcher Holler live.

No sooner had I turned away from Jorgee when who do I see standing and talking with Doug Hilsinger, the Eagles resident rock star/booker/bartender, but another former Stone Fox member, the lovely Janice Tenaka, whom I had last seen on television at the MTV awards and on David Letterman as she now plays bass with Pink, who is now enjoying her fourth hit single from the album she co-wrote with Linda Perry, another former San Francisco musician.  Again I started to think The Eagle really is starting to be quite the rock and roll scene on Thursdays.

Another fun band that you’ll soon be hearing about as the next big thing, much like you have heard about The Hives, The Vines and The Strokes, is a New Zealand group called The Datsuns.  I’ve been playing a small handful of their songs I downloaded on the internet and they are definitely a furiously fun hard rocking blast of retro magic, aggressively spirited and apparently fantastic live.  They’re debut LP should be hitting the stores soon and I just learned that they are playing Bottom of the Hill on Nov 16 on a bill with The Bellrays, who are back from a lengthy European tour and The Sermon, a local garage/soul type band with a bit of a buzz going on about them.  Sounds like a great triple bill.  Be the first on yr block to say “I told you so.”

Also coming up on November 13 at Bimbo’s are the incredibly bizarre and brilliant and blasphemous trio The Tiger Lillies from England.  They have about 10 LPs to their credit and are comprised of an accordion player who sings in an otherworldly falsetto, a percussionist and a stand up bass player.  Their gypsy-ish, circus-like, old-world street-performer musical style reels very nicely around some of the most truly fucked up, dark and abysmally wrong lyrical content imaginable.  From crucifying Jesus to killing and fucking children and burning down buildings for fun, they touch on it all.  They have one whole LP about beastiality, okay?  I love them!  Live they are awe-inspiring and unforgettable.  Don’t miss this show.

Oh yeah, I just noticed that X in their all-original line-up is playing The Fillmore on November 26.  Get your tickets for that show soon.

There, I feel caught up now.

   I’ve been so busy with the huge task of looking for a place to live and moving from my almost former address that it suddenly struck me that it was Christmas time, the holiday season, a time to rejoice in our many blessings, a time to give gifts, bring tidings of comfort and joy, peace on earth and goodwill towards men, the whole nine yards.  So far the thought and concept of the holiday had escaped me completely this year.  I had neither considered it nor even worked up a vitriolic bah humbug nasty attitude to spew out at any and all disembodied chunks of cheer that happened to fly my merry way this season.  When the neighborhood panhandlers started interjecting their normal pleas for change with happy holiday phrases or started wearing Santa hats I didn’t pause and dig deep into my pockets for change, touched by the unflappable joy of Christmas even permeating the harsh reality of living and begging on the wet city streets for food or shelter.  Wearing the holiday season like a newfound affliction, a crippling physical malady that will earn them extra sympathy bucks actually seemed more like an honest response to the often-debilitating financial crisis inflicted upon us annually with loads of societal pressure and the underlying knowledge that our entire economy is completely dependent upon the dynamic of one last massive retail rally.  The news tells us every night if the overall sales are creating high enough revenues to essentially save our ailing economy, while the media shoves down the masses throats the multitude of material goods they are made to believe they truly need in order to be something beyond and above what they barely are anyway, lower income laborers, the working classes, people struggling to make ends meet, feed their children, get them proper medical care and shelter and education.  But that’s not enough, come December it’s time to give more, to make the sacrifice.  While bestowing gifts to your family and loved ones you give your great homeland the financial breath of life, the gift that keeps on giving, the best thing you can do as an American.  You create credit debt.

    Until I began looking for a new home I didn’t know just how important credit debt really is to America, and on so many levels.  This realization came about when I found a perfect new place to live and I filled out an application for it and placed a deposit on it and got a real sense from the building manager that I was in.  He merely needed to run a credit check on my financial past and then we could draw up a lease.  Well, I’ve always resisted getting a credit card because I wanted to avoid some of the many nightmares I’d seen others go through, over-spending their logical limits, maxing out their card’s limits, getting more cards as they became available to them and ending up filing for personal bankruptcy by the age of 25 due to out of control spending.  I decided to do things the old fashioned way, buy things when I could afford them, pay and be done.  I made due with just a checking account and eventually a debit card proved sufficient for renting videos or purchasing plane tickets or ordering things online.  Well, the day after I applied for the new place my report came back showing that I had no current credit history.  This in spite of a solid employment history, a signed letter from my past landlord confirming my timely rent payment, total move in costs available in cash, even an offer to pay two months rent in advance, it wasn’t sufficient for my becoming a tenant.  They needed proof that I was a part of the great American Debt machine.  The man who turned me down was very sympathetic and helpful with suggestions for building some form of visible credit that would make the difference on my credit report.  He also informed me that most every place renting properties in the city would run a credit check and would likely turn me down until I showed a few transactions of credit card bill payment.  I immediately went to my bank to apply for a secured amount visa card and was told that they no longer perform that process in person, that I would have to apply for a card by mail only, which of course would take up to a month.  This detail was going to be a major obstacle in the process of securing a new home.  Because I made a conscious decision to not permit myself to live beyond my obvious financial means, because I made the effort to keep credit card purchases out of my life, because I chose not to let myself be financially enslaved by this system, I am penalized.  Now I’m going to have to seek temporary lodging while I build up my credit record enough to rent a place of my own.  Merry fucking Christmas.  I join the ranks of the fiscally controlled.  I never knew debt could be so valuable.

    But enough about that, its nearing the end of the year which means it’s time to pick my top ten records of the year!  So now , in some particular order are the ten releases I found the most intriguing, important and unforgettable in the year 2002.

 

1.  Liars—They Threw Us All In A Trench And Stuck A Monument On Top:  This New York-based combo sprang up all of a sudden with a pretentiously long titled debut CD chocked full of similarly wordy and art school affected song titles like “Grown Men Don’t Fall In The River, Just Like That,” or “Why Midnight Walked But Didn’t Ring Her Bell,” or “Mr. Your On Fire Mr.,” and I was almost ready to hate it on principle for this self-serious intellectual preciousness but a listen or two plus the added attraction of catching a very charismatic and visceral live set by this young four piece has catapulted Liars to the top of my list.  As with many of my favorite discs of the year, this is a band with some firm and obvious influences from post-punk’s fertile past, like the taut and sharp militant funkiness of Gang Of 4 or the more languid dance throb of the indigenous and legendary band ESG (who are credited for the inclusion of a lifted rhythm track used as the framework for one of the best cuts on this disc).  Their apparent fearlessness of funkier elements detracting from the overall tension or hard-edged guitar driven punch creates a mixed-style dynamic that is far more effective and natural than any of the million selling rap/metal acts polluting Rock’s mainstream for the past few years.  Seeing this band live sealed their place on my list for the sheer power they effortlessly reflect onstage.  It’s nice to see a band flinging and contorting and whipping their bodies around so furiously that they blur the line between a band playing music and the music playing the band.  This disc is exhilarating, timely and very New York.

2.  The Music—This self-titled debut disc by the Leeds-based British act is a late inclusion that I’m certain you will be hearing about.  Released in the UK in Sept of 2002 and already gone gold with over 100,000 units sold, The Music will be released in the states in February on Capitol Records and they just finished a tour of the U.S. with The Vines.  From the first time I heard their single “Take The Long Road And Walk It,” I haven’t been able to get this one out of my head or out of rotation in my DJ sets.  They are four young men who have created a noise that is instantaneously ready for large stadiums.  It’s all about a huge atmospheric sound, a great high-pitched vocalist who bears an unmistakable resemblance to Robert Plant yet was probably still in diapers when In Through The Out Door was released and some amazing guitar flurries and layered planes reminiscent of the approximate ten minutes that I liked U2’s first record.  I kind of hate making comparisons to other bands when they don’t exactly capture what this band does, or I can’t quite put my finger on that quality that I find so appealing.  I think a great deal of what makes The Music so great is the pure classic Rock and Roll vocal quality, like the aforementioned Plant or the sleazy perfection of AC/DC’s Bon Scott, it’s a powerful element, and the instrumentation builds a fitting monument of huge dimension around it, and people are drawn to it like Mecca.  The Music have achieved a quite a lot with just their first LP.  It’s moody, groovy, psychedelic, mysterious and undeniably huge

3.  Queens of The Stone Age—Songs For The Deaf:  Simply put, this is the best rock and roll record of the year, innovative, brilliantly produced, executed masterfully and listened to more times than all others and I’m still not sick of it.  It’s rock and roll with brains but it still has an attitude and still makes a good match for bong hits too.

4.  The White Stripes—White Blood Cells:  Jack and Meg White, Detroit’s most valued post auto-industry export deserve all of the hype and attention they’ve garnered with this record, their third and most varied yet strongest release yet.  I’ve been stuck on this band since their first release and have seen them soar to levels of brilliance that left me practically speechless in the live situation.  They respect, or perhaps I should say worship, the power and virtues of roots R&B and seminal Blues and present it shamelessly with a reverence and truth that is distinctly their own yet captures the ghost and lays out bare the very essence of primal rock and roll.  From the mournful slurred blues guitar intro of “Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground,” to the fey innocence and childlike folk of “We Are Going To Be Friends” this disc doesn’t jerk your head to attention or slam your hips into motion, it shoots faith into your heart like arrows and shows you where the heart of Rock and Roll still beats unassisted by artificial means.  The White Stripes are the real deal, flat out.  I can’t wait for their next record.

5.  Imperial Teen—On:  With their third LP Imperial Teen deliver one of the freshest most clever and coherent pop records of the year and a testament to their critically heralded but under acknowledged genius.  I can’t really think of another band that makes me feel so happy to hear.  Their intelligent lyrics can seem silly or funny upon one listen then bristling with double meaning, sarcasm or cynicism the next.  Compared to their previous records this one has a definite pop sheen to it, with much more use and presence of keyboards and less focus on edgy guitar.  The overall compositions are complex and musically adept, with all members taking part in fantastic vocal arrangements, some verging on experimental/new wave while others possibly inspired by girl-group era Motown.  The record is bright and bubbly sounding, all four members instrumentally at the top of their game and seemingly having fun.  This record has mass appeal and I can’t figure out why Imperial Teen aren’t huge.  At press time there has been a change in their line-up with the departure of Lynne Perko, veteran drummer and total rock goddess and soon to be married lady (congratulations and best wishes!) but have no fear, for the band recruited another great lady of drums, Patty Schemel, formerly of Hole and definitely one of the best around.  It would take no less to complete this line-up.  On deserves a place in everyone’s collection.

6.  ESG–Step Off:  This record marks the return of the early 80’s group comprised of the four Scroggins sisters from The South Bronx whose parents bought them instruments to keep them off the streets and they ended up creating a fresh unique sound, were discovered by Marin Hannet of Manchester’s Factory Records and were suddenly opening shows for the likes of The Talking Heads and The Clash and in regular rotation at famous dance clubs like Paradise Garage and with the advent of Rap music became one of the most sampled and emulated groups ever.  Step Off is their first recording in over 15 years and the new line-up includes three of the original Scroggins sisters plus two of their daughters.  This family affair sounds like it was possibly recorded merely days after their last major release, that unmistakably minimalist funk, so fluid and atmospheric and soulful, connecting you to the beat between the beats, the beat that isn’t there.  Their music has such an inherent connected and anomalous sense of timing.  It must be instinctual or genetics.  This record is amazing.

7.  Yeah Yeah Yeahs—Master:  This five-song EP delivers everything a full length release should from a New York City-based trio fronted by the incredible Karen O whose vocals can sound frail and tiny on one cut to sexy and dominant on the next to a motherfucking force of nature, screaming in an unhinged ferocious way that might send a few listeners running for the door while for others it could be the most definitive moment of the year in rock.  This band has something completely sexy, untamed and on fire going on, a lot of sound for just three people and enough untamed rock and roll swagger for three bands.  Essential.

8.  The Kills—Black Rooster EP:  Another EP with only four songs, this record is very satisfying and plenty mysterious.  This male female duo is comprised of a 23 year old American girl ex-patriot and her British male counterpart and they both play guitar and create incredible blues-ish sort of country western songs that are simple and intense with an underlying deranged quality and a sense of respect for old blues and guitar playing and truth in expression similar to the White Stripes but not quite from the same place.  These songs come from a dangerous or darker place.  I visited their web site and it featured a new song for the listening called “Fuck the People.”  It was also great.  They are currently touring the UK opening for Primal Scream

9.  The Gossip—Arkansas Heat:  Not as great as their debut LP That’s Not What I Heard, but this disc carries the torch nicely with some great songs of personal freedom from the oppression of small town life, societal pressures about image, a touching song about the singers deceased Aunt, and possibly the best protest song of the year “(Take Back) The Revolution.”  This record makes me think of how much a band can mean to the people that listen to them, and how much change a record can instigate on a personal level by the messages they deliver.  I’m sure that this record can and will save a life or two from being put down for just being who they are.  The Gossip are pure rock and roll revolutionaries, and I’ve long been a convert.  Live their greatness leaves my speechless.  Look for their new disc this year.

10.  Missy Elliot—Under Construction:  I won’t explain…I just think she is amazing—and she says what she thinks.      

I’ve been watching The Osborne’s lately, the mtv reality show that follows the unusual lives of Ozzy Osborne’s clan and menagerie and I, like much of America, have developed a certain fondness for the endearingly dysfunctional nuclear family, swimming through life with all the luxury multiple millions can buy, the camera’s ever-present eye affording them much of this luxury.  The viewer is allowed to witness a great deal of simple family processes played out by the surviving wildman legend of gothic Heavy Metal, Sharon his brilliant sassy hard edged business manager, wife and mother of his two participating teenage kids Kelly and Jack and a series of personal assistants, servants, friends, trainers, a very cute teenage foundling they’ve recently adopted, and of course all of those little non-house-broken dogs.

This family is the antithesis of normal, which is precisely the reason this show was dreamed up and pitched to them by MTV, and definitely why it’s such a runaway hit.  People are obsessed with celebrity, and now in the wake of the reality TV revolution, people aren’t merely content with getting an insiders fly-on-the-wall eye view of the rich and famous and weird like the Osbournes or Anna Nicole Smith.  They are seeing that celebrities are or can be, in spite of the many luxuries, assistants, and other star-powered amenities, a lot like anyone else, even themselves. The wealth of television offerings involving long-term physical competitions with a process of elimination, or MTV’s The Real World now over a decade old, or the bachelor/bachelorette, marry a millionaire, marry my dad, boy meets boy, fashion make-over programs, American Idol, and even those shows where you do dangerous and disgusting things and eat bugs and animal testicles for cash prizes are all paving the way towards a massive change in the definition of celebrity.  It’s like Andy Warhol’s famous statement, “In the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes,” was less of a flippant pop-art revolutionary quotable quote and more prophetic and eerily coming true.  Can’t you just picture Kelly and Jack rendered in huge Warhol prints, like Liza and Elizabeth Taylor even though it could never have happened?  Warhol may have made that statement but he didn’t say that it would necessarily be a good thing.  Without a doubt I say it isn’t.

The Osbourne kids are by most standards quite spoiled, and now quite rich as well (all the money generated by the show and merchandising is split evenly between the 4 family members),Ozzy walks around mumbling and concerning himself with the simplest of mundane tasks in a fashion that makes one think he’s an idiot savant.  You almost forget that he’s a singer or performer at all, or wonder how he manages to do that one thing when he can’t figure out how to use an electric can opener.  To his credit, of all the characters in the household he is the one who acts the most natural, as if the camera crew isn’t even there, like perhaps he hasn’t even noticed them yet.  It’s quite clear that Sharon rules, controls and holds the entire family together, in quite a loving and logical fashion.

What I enjoy most about the show are the non-parental behaviors of Sharon and Ozzy.  Their reactions to certain situations do not mirror those of responsible law abiding parents.  For instance my mother would never throw a roasted ham over the fence into the neighbors yard because they’re too loud, or find a half empty booze bottle left by one of the kids friends and pee in it for the next time he comes over.  Nor would they tolerate hearing or ever say the word “fuck” out loud.  At the Osborne’s that word flows freely from all like hot running water.  The fun doesn’t stop there, in a recent episode jack and Ozzy discovered a turkey being slowly cooked in a rotisserie-style oven straight from infomercial land and they were trying to figure out what it was.  Jack asked, “What is that weird white stuff leaking out of it?” to which Ozzy suggested, “Smegma.”   That had to be a first for television.  Kind of like when Sharon openly fantasized about Puff Daddy or P. Diddy marrying Kelly and being her son-in-law, then went on to tell Kelly, “You should marry him, I bet he’s got a really big willy.” Kelly shrieked in horror like any teenage girl who’s mom just embarrassed her, but that usually doesn’t happen before an audience of millions. “Mother shut up, stop, stop talking about his willy,” to which she continued, “I bet it’s very long, and I bet his willy is oiled.”

The last time I watched the Osbournes, I heard a familiar voice suddenly, nattering on and on about, of course, herself.  I looked up and saw it was Courtney Love, in her underwear.  She’s one who knows a bit about celebrity.  She met Warhol.  She’ll be back.

I was DJ-ing at the Hole in the Wall on the night of the Dore Alley Fair, the new It-Fair of the entire street Fair Season due to the smaller more alternative flavor of the event as compared to the rampant commercialization and mammoth proportions of  The Folsom Street Fair and Castro Street Fair and the need for the community to define itself by taking the less beaten stranger, alt-fetish path to uber-hipness, when Eugene, a former Hole in the Wall DJ and a real cut-up, came up to the booth with a request. He asked, “Do you have an appropriate song to play for the guy who has been repeatedly asking and repeatedly been turned down by the same ten people several times over if they have a big cock and if he could suck it or sit on it?”  I had noticed him too, tirelessly and drunkenly dropping his pants and or dropping to his knees in front of every person in the immediate area in front of the DJ booth. He showed his total lack of discretion when he asked and tried to engage that horrifying regular customer/heretic with the bleach blonde Sammy Haggar hair who always aspires to be nude or as close to it as possible, touching himself inappropriately and brings his own tacky stemware to drink out of.  When I glanced out of the booth and saw the self-appointed and inebriated oral/anal hospitality host drop his pants and start to sit on something in the direction of the heretic’s lap, which could have probably been stemware for all he knew, I quickly shined the flashlight on them, hoping to deter this act that is not only illegal but might make people think they’re in My Place or something, which is wrong.  The Hole isn’t that kind of bar, we’re a bar where people can come and enjoy Rock and Roll music. The bright light did halt the activity, and drew a few dirty looks from customers with their minds on penetration and god knows what else, like I was some kind of adult chaperone spoiling their fun.  For God’s sake, enough is fucking enough!   The only penetration that should be going on in this bar or any bar really is “Penetration” the fourth cut on Iggy and The Stooges LP, Raw Power.   People don’t seem to realize that these activities are not only unsavory for someone to happen upon unexpectedly but can also jeopardize a bars existence if the proper authorities were to witness such acts going on, and believe me, in the current climate of relations between gay bars and the powers that be, it seems they’d be happy to shut down any of the few gay bars remaining in Soma in a heartbeat.

Granted, on those informal gay holidays like GLBT Parade Day, The Folsom Street Fair and The Dore Alley Fair, people have a far greater tendency to act out in more hedonistic and outrageous ways.  Sexual orientation and more specific sexual behaviors aren’t just focused on but completely celebrated by these events.  People are often dressed or undressed to this effect in varietal gear reflecting their active/passive roles in their chosen realm of sexual fetish and exhibitionism abounds.  Of course in the dark recesses of a bar on those days people are going to get carried away.  Hell, walking through Dore Alley Fair in broad daylight you can see men jacking off, people being pissed on, whipped, restrained, leashed, gagged, hooded, pierced, you name it, and boy were there a lot of cops there, real cops, did anyone notice that?

In my last column I set out to explain or exemplify some of the ways that music can be applied to ones life for relief from an abysmal or tragic turn of events, how it can bolster ones weakened or depressed constitution and provide the strength one needs to carry on or get through rough times.  I only managed to get to the listening to sad music as a way to feel better portion of music’s applicable healing properties.  I felt I should also extol the virtues of more aggressive less melancholy music and the cathartic effect it can have in helping one traverse a seemingly endless sea of depression.  Hearing an expression of anger, rage or discontent with a real fast head banging beat and searing crunching guitars (and in rock music there’s no shortage of such moments) can be an excellent way to recognize your anger and let it carry you away, get it out of your system rather than internalizing all these ill feelings.  To sense that an artist seems to be releasing personal demons through their music is generally enough of an indication to know that just listening sort of allows you to do the same, just as the more sad, wallow in self pity, slit-your-wrists-type music helps you feel less alone in your misery.  Music can guide one out of the doldrums or at least provide some point of identification you can relate to or rely on and even come to recognize as one thing that got you through a particularly hard time.

When you consider the musical style known as The Blues, I believe you touch on the precursor of all Rock and Roll, and you get artists who are generally expressing their personal laments, their own tragedies or mistakes in a certain musical style.   Subjects range from two-timing lovers, death, poverty, and racial oppression to some less heavyhearted odes full of sexual innuendo or songs to free a portion of the soul from the drudgery of hard thankless labor.  These are all subjects that can still apply to modern times so one can find the right song and have a real good lament-a-long with the blues, but what I really love about Blues music and much of the more fundamentally blues-based rock and roll is the evocative emotional qualities of the instrumentation.  A great blues guitar solo is a mournful sound; you don’t need to hear what they’re singing to know that this is the sound of a pained soul, or a sound that was created out of strife, an expression of truth and beauty born in the face of adversity, a triumph of the human will to persevere.  And you know that writing these songs was likely an act of self-preservation, like the fact that they expressed their feelings creatively could very well have saved them from another fate, one eroded by fear and hatred.  It’s no wonder there has been a sudden movement in contemporary indie or alternative music towards a very pared down specific and respectful focus on the Blues.  Desperate times call for a music that speaks to and for the people.

Lately there has been one tremendous, monumental release by a band who I have always felt had an uncanny grasp on both the mechanics and the true spirit of the blues, an unusual circumstance seeing as how they came from the U.K. and formed in the late 60’s.  That group is Led Zeppelin and their recent release, a triple disc live recording called How The West Was Won has totally rekindled a huge interest in a phenomenal legendary band who in my opinion have never fallen from the upper echelon of the greatest rock bands ever.  I never understood why The Sex Pistols used to site Led Zeppelin as an example of the very pompous overblown dinosaur rock band they considered an antithesis to themselves and everything they stood for or wanted to destroy in the world of rock and roll.  It seemed especially ironic after the demise of the sex pistols and the formation of John Lydon’s post-punk group Public Image, who often opened their shows with a spot on cover of the epic Zeppelin song “Kashmir”, but I suppose irony was the intention.  After repeated listenings to How The West Was Won, I don’t see how any band at all can deny their sheer power and otherworldly mystique.  It’s a brilliant testament of a band at their creative peak, with a paranormal virtuosity when it came to playing the blues style.  The authenticity was downright eerie, making one wonder at times if guitarist Jimmy Page really did have some kind of pact with the Devil that allowed him to play with the finesse and ease of some of the greatest blues musicians ever.  All contemporary bands should bow down to the monolith.  This could be some of rock and rolls finest moments, moments that have pulled me through the bad times many times over.

A friend pointed out to me the other day that for many people he knows, friends and acquaintances, co-workers, neighbors, Jack Osborne, etc., there has been a lot of drama, turmoil, tragedy, personal loss and emotionally shattering situations people have had to face this summer.  We of course thought it was just us who have faced trying or troubled times of misfortune and duress when in fact it has been many for whom the old Bananarama song “Cruel Summer” has held special meaning this year.  That song has always cracked me up, and for some reason I’ve always loved it, in spite of the fact that it’s basically mindless studio-pop drivel that I would generally dispose of with my nose turned up.  It somehow achieves a certain powerful quality, it’s metered tropical beat and sweeping and sweetened vocal harmonies manage to slip into my consciousness sideways and become appealing to me, uplifting my mood as if I could stand songs without guitars or desperate soul-baring vocal performances.  I’ve known other strict rock and roll fans who’ve also admitted a weakness for this cut.  And it has been a cruel summer.

This conversation continued, about the bleakness, sadness and tragedy of this sunniest of seasons and how we both find ourselves turning to music for the strength to face things like insurmountable sadness or intense anger or the color-me-jaded fog obscuring all images of optimism or a future that is bright.  You can’t just slap a few tunes on and suddenly life is rosy, rent just seems to pay itself, a devoted partner loves you unconditionally and you will grow old in comfort with your dignity intact.  It’s not like that.  Music is more like a point of association.   If you are feeling sad and down you might choose to listen to an artist whose songs are melancholy, sensitive and indicative of situations and emotions you can relate to or match your current state and you can wallow in your utter and complete misery knowing that you are not alone.  This can help a great deal, and artists that fit this bill are The Smiths, Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley, the Cure, Joy Division, Portishead, earlier P.J. Harvey, etc.  I’m sure there are a host of more contemporary bands that seem to serve a similar purpose with sad slow sounds and lyrical sensitivity like Dashboard Confessional and Black Heart Procession and Low, and a fair amount of  gay men are drawn to female vocalists whose lives have been notoriously filled with hardships and pain or struggles like Nina Simone, Billie Holliday, or Marianne Faithful when they are down and want to hear the results of  infamous or historical anguish.  I’ve recently found a few bands that really work for me on this level.  One is a Texas band called Knife In The Water who really have a gift for creating very realistic and foreboding and bleak pictures of people wasting their trust on others, finding no solace in drug abuse, watching themselves become people they don’t want to be and being powerless to stop it in the brilliant song “Party For The People of the Open Wound.”  Their sound is perfectly mournful country and western meets the velvet underground and the lyrics are simple and brutal, like “on the last of the pills from the courtesy tray / we found the speed wasn’t fast enough to wash the blues away.”  On another song “Young Blood In The Water” they tell the story of a transvestite prostitute found dead and mutilated in a river and capture the despair of the disenfranchised who spark such fear and hatred in others by being different.  Along these same lines, another group that does the sadness bit so brilliantly are The Mountain Goats, specifically their latest record, Tallahassee, a concept album that tells the story of a couple’s mutual destruction with lyrics like, “I am drowning/ there is no sign of land/ you are coming down with me/ hand in unlovable hand and I hope you die/ I hope we both die.”  It’s almost so sad and extreme it’s sort of funny.  Yet another band of this nature The Handsome Family, aren’t so much sad as they are brutal and honest with their glimpses of human tragedies told much in the style of hillbilly folk music, like cautionary tales of murder and death and ghosts and alcoholism.  The vocalist has one of the smoothest lowest country western drawls I’ve ever heard.  It’s a sad and huge voice, a bit like Johnny Cash with no gravel and a certain innocence.  It’s kind of odd that all of my choices of bands to listen to when I want to relish in sadness are all very country and western influenced, like I’m just a few steps away from big belt buckles, Stetson hats and crying in my beer at some honky tonk.

There is a completely different approach to utilizing music as a means to save yourself from the despair and pain of life, and I’m going to have to get to that in the next issue.  I will say that it involves extreme volume, repetition and bands like The Melvins, Motorhead, Turbonegro, that recent live Led Zeppelin 3 cd  set, and a plastic bottle of scotch if my “music as therapy” friend has anything to do with it

Nearly ten years ago I mysteriously received as many as three promotional copies of a particular album in the mail from Warner Bros., which was very odd as usually I had to hound some faceless entity in the publicity or promotions department on the phone just to get promo discs to review.  This one came unsolicited and consecutively for three days.  It was an artist I’d never heard of, Snoop Doggy Dogg and the disc was entitled respectively, Doggystyle.  I was not a complete stranger to Rap or Hip Hop music, having a few old school faves like Grandmaster Flash and Run D.M.C, and even following a more locally based rapper Too Short come up from selling his own sexually explicit homemade tapes to gain record deals and national recognition. I was mildly aware of N.W.A. and the shaping of a west coast Gangsta style of Rap but I hadn’t heard of Snoop Doggy Dogg.  Inundated by copies, I finally put one on and for the next six months I could scarcely remove it from my player.  Doggystyle became my favorite rap record of all time.  It was the most brilliant mix of style, musical reference (particular focus on George Clinton’s  Parliament Funkedelic) and smooth vocal flow. Each song seemed to unroll a complex vignette with characters and a mood rich with imagery and a cinematic feeling, riddled with harsh urban realism like bullet holes sprayed from an AK across the body of a low-rider.  It portrayed cops and the government and society in the truthful way that prompts protest from parents and organizations created to shield young decent folks from such harsh facts.  Snoop also shamelessly endorsed and celebrated smoking pot.

I learned shortly after listening to the record that it debuted at number one on billboards hot 100, the first time ever for a debut artist to enter the chart at the number one position.  This was no doubt fueled by the fact that Snoop (aka Calvin Broadus) was involved in a drive by shooting and faced charges as an accomplice to murder for driving the car that his bodyguard fired shots from, claiming self-defense.  The situation was told from his perspective in the song “Murder Was The Case,” and Snoop was eventually acquitted of the charges completely, defended by high profile attorney Johnny Cochrane

In spite of all the hype, the disc really stood on it’s own in my mind as one of the most complete and evocative views inside the life of a smooth talking tale spinning southern California gangsta rapper.  The aspects of his work that prompted a lot of criticism were the usual offenses pinned on most all rap records, the glorification of violence and the demeaning and derogatory treatment of women.  I felt that there was indeed a lot of violence depicted but there seemed to be a hint of optimism and self-preservation that in the future the protagonist would break free of it.  The commonplace negative portrayal of women is given a twist that’s so over the top it’s cartoon like and sort of negates itself.  Doggystyle not only portrays the gritty realism of urban ghetto life but captures the groove of the street that isn’t necessarily negative. It’s a brilliant slice of life from a very tumultuous time in hip hop history, an essential release that has never been equaled, not even by Snoop himself, not that his subsequent records haven’t done well for him, He’s built an empire over the past ten years, branching into film, creating his own label, clothing line, action figure and now he even has his own television show featured on MTV called Doggy Fizzle Televizzle.

I caught an episode of this new show the other night and I hadn’t laughed so hard in ages.  It was a very fast-paced series of vignettes, skits, fake advertisements for fictitious products or services, (Haterade, to replenish what your body needs to hate, a special herbal shampoo in a long phallic bottle that prompts an orgasmic response when used, “Oooh yeah, slap it daddy, slap it hard, slap me,”) questions from viewers, interviews with celebrities like Hugh Hefner (“Have you ever had a three-way?  Have you ever had sex in this pool? Have you ever had sex with her?” as he holds up a photo of Oprah), Snoop playing an English teacher to a group of foreigners working towards citizenship, “Repeat after me ‘Fuck tha police’” then a quick black and white flashback to his last teaching experience as he leads a group of second graders chanting “Take Drugs” in unison.  It was non-stop irreverent, ribald and just plain wrong, touching on issues of racism that probably had white liberals wincing in P.C. pain.  In short it pushed out the boundaries of taste and humor into areas heretofore viewed as forbidden, much like Saturday Night Live did some 25 years ago, or like the first season of In Living Color.  Doggy Fizzle Televizzle hit the comedy high marks by spoofing the current state of television and the reality-style programming that has taken the medium to it’s most brazenly low point.  Somebody had to do it, and Snoop Dogg is having his day.

I realized as I sat down to write my column for the Pride Issue that this year indeed marks my 20th Gay Pride Day in San Francisco, something I’m not so sure I should admit in such a youth obsessed nation to an even more youth obsessed community, but I was of course only seven years old for my first one in 1983.  If you believe that I’ll let you.  No, maybe I wont.  I think it marks an achievement of sorts to be a (gasp) middle-aged gay male here in the year 2003.  A lot of us didn’t make it this far and a lot of us still won’t, the AIDS epidemic making certain that we wouldn’t have to worry too much about a place to put elderly gays, out of the way so as not to serve as a constant reminder that growing old is indeed what happens to everyone…usually.

In the gay community you would think people would cool it on all that ageist once-you’re-past-30-you’re-over attitude, because here in San Francisco, the former Gay Mecca, we’ve had far more than the elderly to put us in mind of our own mortality.  We’ve had earthquakes, Jonestown, and the AIDS epidemic to name a few, and there were times when the harsh reality of living in San Francisco prompted many of us to really wonder if we would actually make it to see our forties.  Well many of us have and with a certain sense of pride and accomplishment, yet invariably surviving means losing many loved ones along the way and carrying and knowing the pain of such loss. It can get difficult to be thankful and positive about surviving this disease holocaust when the ones who helped you along the way aren’t here to share reaching this goal.  So here in the year 2003 not only are you “old” in the minds of many, the likelihood of bitterness is huge, and if you’ve been kicking around here for 20 Gay Days your view of the event and festivities is definitely going to differ from those attending for the first time or the fifth time.

Some of us recall when San Francisco was still clearly and unmistakably the Gay Mecca of the world.  I believe that our Gay Pride celebration still ranks as the largest of its kind but so many of the elements that made this city the singular homo destination point for millions of queers to flock to have systematically disappeared, often without much of a warning or explanation.  One example would be reasonable rental rates, remember?  Where did they go?   Another example would be the world famous Ringold Alley.  Sure, it’s still there, a half block off Folsom between 8th and 9th streets, but what was once a bustling 2:00 AM cruising alley lined with men is now fully dormant, thanks to the police practically arresting anyone for just walking down it.  You can’t stop to tie your shoe without running the risk of being arrested.  It still perplexes me just when martial law came to Ringold Alley and changed it forever, but it has.  The same thing happened to Dore Alley a few years earlier.  It’s amazing how many out of towners I’ve seen standing at the end of Ringold looking perplexed.  There’s nowhere to cruise, what kind of Gay Mecca is this?

Yet another missing element would be this year’s obvious lack of a definitive and huge Gay Nightclub, a void left by the demise of the long running Pleasuredome, the space being taken over for development like most property near the new Stadium.    I know there has been some new large club endeavors launched to fill that void but I haven’t attended any yet.  Along with the disappearing large venue, a host of small popular neighborhood bars citywide seemed to bite the dust as well over the years, including Maud’s and several other lesbian bars.  I could be in the dark on this detail but I think there is currently only one lesbian bar in all of San Francisco, The Lexington.  Doesn’t that seem odd?  Face it, we have less Gay Bars to choose from in this city now than we had ten years ago or even twenty years ago, less variety, less thematic choices and less devoted and identified crowds filling them up.  Add to this a once booming network of bathhouses and sex clubs ravaged by the AIDS epidemic in the early 80’s then eventually the banning of all such institutions in the city of San Francisco and it seems Mecca is lacking in some of the basic expected amenities of a world class city and hub of all that is Gay.   I don’t mean to put down the fine selection of great mainstay watering holes and clubs that remain here.   There are many excellent places to drink and convene and a few of these are definite San Francisco institutions with a lot of heart and history, (The Stud, The Eagle, The LoneStar, The Powerhouse, The Hole In The Wall, The End-up), but there’s just a lot less bars than there used to be.

Although I might seem to be setting myself up for a gloomy and critical and nonplussed Parade Day I assure you that a few things about the celebration never fail to thrill me no matter which side of the ditch I wake up on or how cynical my mood may be.  One is the traditional lead contingent of the parade Dykes on Bikes.  They never fail to make me smile with the roar of hundreds of motorcycles rumbling by, every manner of handsome, beautiful, and outrageous woman imaginable, of all ages, proudly showboating on their polished rides.  For some reason the dykes on Bikes make me feel safe, kind of like the rolling stones must have felt when they hired The Hell’s Angels to handle their concert tour security just before Altamont.  And safety is a continually pulsing tangible feeling radiating from the heart of Pride Day—and many people present are feeling a sense of safety that they have possibly never felt before, a different world than the one they came from where attacks and ridicule and harassment may have been commonplace.  That feeling is the truest most valuable dynamic Gay Day usually can provide, next to catching a glimpse of   the NAMBLA contingent (National Association of Man Boy Love) marching by but they haven’t represented in years it seems, leaving no need for you to scream “Hey Daddy, how come your “boy” is like 32 years old?”  Of course there are a few other highlights of the parade I particularly enjoy, one of which serves a distinct utilitarian purpose personally, and that is watching the gigantic Living Clean and Sober contingent and crossing people off my Christmas card list.  I might also test a theory formulated over my many years of Gay Days and that is, try as you may, no one ever gets laid by going to the parade.  Go ahead, try it.  You’ll see.  I’d love to be proven wrong.

As I mentioned earlier, sometimes the parade proves a bit difficult when you’re reminded of the many friends who are no longer here to enjoy it with you.  Their pictures start flipping through my mind, what they were wearing for the last pride day I saw them, where I ran into them, what we did, the moments we shared and eventually you realize that you’re doing exactly what you need to do to fill the void, you’re keeping their memory alive and that is all you can do and short of a massive head injury or amnesia or Alzheimers, no one can take this away from you.  Soon these memories will make you smile instead of feel sad because you’ve given them life again, as only you can.  I’m remembering right now my happiest Gay Day ever, about 3 or 4 years ago.  I can’t really provide much more of an explanation for my effervescence that day besides the fact that I was in the company of my boyfriend Jeffery Hicks and feeling very much in love, almost floating on air, talking fast and laughing at things together, eating meat on a stick, roughing up hippie-types for aggressively peddling rainbow painted crap in our faces, etc.  My whole world was right there, on my arm and all around me and I’d never been so happy for this event. I was with the love of my life and everything else felt like a reward to enjoy together.  I’ll never forget it.  My beloved Jeffery Hicks died on June 10, 2003.  I didn’t think I could muster the strength to go on, let alone celebrate Pride when so many things constantly reminded me of this loss, the pain, the anger, my inability to save him and a new sense of the word alone, one so extreme you start not wanting to endure it.  But my memories have started to synthesize into the strength I need, all that is left to construct any sense of what we shared, to hold onto and be proud of and never forget, and to know he would want me to continue doing the things and being the person that he loved.  That I will do.

So I’ll probably walk down and catch the Dykes on Bikes Sunday morning, I’m always happy to witness this display of freedom, individuality and spirit, it’s bound to be uplifting.  I doubt I will challenge the “nobody gets laid at the parade” theory this year though because I will be heading off to work, DJ-ing at the infamous SF Eagle’s beer bust starting at 3:00 pm and I’m very excited and honored to be playing rock and roll music for such a huge crowd at the Queer bar that rocks harder than all the rest, staffed by the best bar crew ever assembled.  And you know, I can’t wait to be there.  I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing for Pride day 2003.  This will be good.

There are several new and important releases available at the record stores, as well as a bunch of upcoming live shows you might really want to know about in advance, and there were even a few shows I caught over the past two weeks that I haven’t written about yet so I should just dig right in.  First off, if you read this in time on Thursday evening, you should immediately haul ass down to the Eagle Tavern for a very special line-up of entertainment, part of the 7th annual Mission Creek Music Festival, starting at 9 pm with the wonderful brooding dark and brilliant sounds of Waycross, a very under-rated local act featuring Doug Hilsinger, the man who runs Thursday nights live at the Eagle, Caroleen Beatty, a singer/songwriter of unyielding talent, Sunshine Haire on guitar and Bruce Ducheneaux on drums.  After that comes one of my favorite local acts, The Vanishing, with their spooky guitar-less synth sax and drum driven gothic disco, followed by Oxbow, a truly intense and harrowing band of  noise terrorists whose live shows are reportedly mind-blowing and confrontational and finally, a fantastic way to close on a high note, the incredible Extra Action Marching Band returns to the Eagle to inhabit the place like no other musical group can or ever has.  It is a spectacle not to be missed, so if you’re reading this, run don’t walk to the eagle, you got to see this great line-up of entertainment.

I caught a show about two weeks ago that was short sweet and formidably hard-hitting in that great old dirty angst-ridden renegade rock and roll way, and that band was The Kills.  Hailing from London, this male female duo, the girl a 23 year old ex-patriot from Florida who goes by the nickname VV and the guy a guitar slinging Londoner a few years older who calls himself Hotel and has one of the best rock and roll sneers I’ve seen since Sid Vicious, really tore it up live.  What’s even better is their debut LP, Keep on the Mean Side perfectly mirrors the fury and the blunt assertion of the authentic fundamental blues style The Kills have such  a firm grasp on. Unhampered by superfluous technological enhancements (perhaps taking a tip from the winning recording methods of The White Stripes Elephant, this disc was recorded at the same pre-digital facility with the same engineer), it burns white hot and exposed like the truth, like the symbiotic charge that passes between VV and Hotel when their eyes lock onstage and they are so intent upon each other the whole world drops away and what’s left is something primal, resonant with heat and totally alive.   The pared down approach of this band, a guitarist, a vocalist, and a drum machine with VV picking up an additional guitar for one or two songs, really didn’t make for any sense of inadequacy, what wasn’t there wasn’t missed, the stage, like their sound was complete. These two mysterious and explosive individuals have star quality in spades, punctuated by a reckless sexual tension and a gimmee danger attitude.  There set ended and I was totally thrilled and impressed by the fact that they didn’t return for an encore, it’s a tired ritual.  I stopped by their merchandise table and bought a button that says, “Fuck the people”.  I enjoy that sentiment.  I also just learned that The Kills return to Bottom of The Hill on July 28 so get your tickets now and buy Keep on The Mean Side, its one of the best listens of the year so far.

Speaking of great records, I was totally thrilled to see that The Gossip have just released a new full length LP on Kill Rockstars called Movement.  It’s their second LP, following last years Arkansas Heat, a six song EP that has some great moments but it wasn’t 12 full songs of ass-shaking, liberating, sexy sweaty soulful pared down blues genius sung by Beth Ditto, arguably one of the most exciting vocalists to burst onto the indie rock scene in years.  Movement is all that and more.  The disc drops in on a really wonderful band showing definite progression and growth while reinforcing the best qualities present at the core of their conception, that indelible D.I.Y. sensibility, the unstoppable spirit and belief in the power and transformative qualities of music, how creativity set them free from the small minds, prejudices and a stunted confining way of life their hometown of Searcy, Arkansas held in store for them if they didn’t get out.

If you’ve seen The Gossip live you know it’s like a sermon Beth preaches to the audience between songs, how to believe in yourself and not let anything beat you down, how to escape and break free of those places and people who want to confine you with their ideas, saddle you with their weaknesses, break your spirit.  The three individuals in The Gossip found their way out of Arkansas and to Olympia Washington where they were embraced by the established indie rock scene and in no time found themselves opening for Sleater-Kinney on a national tour, and they’ve been ardently touring and putting out records ever since.

With the first cut on Movement, “Nite,” Beth tears into the vocal with such urgent and startling vehemence it gave me chills, and in that first delivered vocal line when you think she’s hit the top of her vocal prowess, she continues with the ascent, climbing higher and going further than I thought possible and bringing to mind the legendary performance of blues legend Etta James on her famous live version of “Baby What You Want Me To Do.”  I’m not kidding, Beth Ditto’s already amazing voice hits upon relentless fucking brilliance with each song.  It’s hard to believe this full throttle intensity comes from a 21-year-old girl.  She shows a versatility and broadened capacity that her recent soulful duets with the unusual Har Mar Superstar, the 23 year old white boy who sings like Stevie Wonder and looks like Ron Jeremy, only hint at.

The band flexes some new muscle too with more complex and skillful arrangements as well as adding more meat to the bones of their basic blues and rockabilly riffs, achieving a more solid sound textured with layers of thickening distortion and at times a quicker and harder pace.  It’s very apparent that each member has become a better musician, in that way that only constant touring and playing can do.  Movement is an unstoppable celebration of a band borne of motion, which brings to mind another of Beth’s expressed beliefs, “If y’all aren’t dancing you might as well just get gone.”  After you buy this record you probably ought to buy yourself a ticket for their August 5th show at Bottom of The Hill because they definitely will sell out .

Another upcoming show of note is a double bill featuring a couple of formerly based in Sacramento bands who pulled up stakes and moved to New York about a year ago, joining a burgeoning New York scene of bands exploring the more danceable and rhythmic and experimental end of things.  They definitely were influenced and inspired by a lot of late 70’s and early 80’s bands who took the post-punk path towards ethnic rhythms, funk and experimental jazz elements like Talking Heads, Liquid Liquid, Bush Tetras, ESG, The Contortions, etc., yet an aggressive second generation punk aggression fueled their sound and energy.  The bands are !!! (pronounced chick chick chick) and Outhud and they are coming to Bottom of The Hill for two nights in a row June 24 and 25.  This double-whammie of two bands guaranteed to make you move is facilitated by the fact that they share a few members but who am I to complain?  Both bands have great records out and by the time this show rolls into town,  !!!’s long-awaited second LP should be out and if it is even half as exciting as their first it will be occupying my decks with regularity.  Be there if you wonder why you haven’t been out dancing in awhile.

Finally, there’s another great band coming to, you guessed it, Bottom of The Hill on July 9 and that’s The Soledad Bros., a duo from Detroit who put out two really stellar blues/R&B based rootsy retro rockin’ discs that have shown a real staying power in my DJ rotations.  They’ve got lots of integrity, skill and respect for their influences and I’ve heard they really can burn in the live situation.  It is also my understanding that one of The Soledad Bros. Is Meg White’s boyfriend.  This should be a fun show.

Gee, I had a few more records to write up but I ran out of room so I’ll just list them as recommended and you can shop accordingly

The Detroit Cobras—Seven Easy Pieces (this vocalist is fucking awesome)

The Murder City Devils—R.I.P. (live recording of a great band who are no longer)

Yeah Yeah Yeahs—Fever To Tell (believe the hype, this band has epic rock and roll swagger

The Mountain Goats–Tallahassee–a folk-y excursion through the hell that destroys one couple. Abysmally beautiful and sad