I had the privilege of seeing Geezer Butler, Tony Iommi, and a phenomenal drummer named Tommy Clufetos the other night in Philadelphia. There was also a front man who waddled around in a stupor(sober as can be) singing Black Sabbath songs along with them, inbetween endless head dunks in a water bucket and a handful of teleprompted cliches. His name was Ozzy. Lets just say(then go on to comment in torrid detail) that the only song he should be singing is "Mama, I'm Coming Home. Home to rest. Rest up, drink tea and watch the History Channel until the bats crawl up into the belfry one last time.
Ozzy Osbourne has lived many lives and survived several deaths and conquered many arenas of heavy music and high pharma in his 64 years. He, along with Keith Richards will outlive all of us to entertain the advanced strain of cockroach left after the next and last apocalypse. I mean, the guy just got out of his 30th rehab and makes an album and decides to tour. But even after all of the hype of a true Black Sabbath Reunion, and the Bill Ward in/then out drama, and the Tony Iommi health issues, I decided to go and see the old gang.
Tony Iommi has cancer. Tony Iommi went back and forth from England to Los Angeles this past spring to work long hours in a studio on one end of the trip and take a chemo drip on the other end. Tony made the call to move on after Bill Ward's non committal stalemate took hold. Tony wanted to beat the devil. Finish the album. Tour the world maybe one last time. Tony came on to that stage the other night with something to prove to himself, to his fucking disease and his fans.
Mission accomplished. The SG blazed. The capped fingers flew. The tri- tones triumphed. The problem was not the problem. His health was a total non issue, even evident from the ridiculously overpriced nosebleed vantage point. The victory was spoiled. The man in trouble is not Tony. The man in trouble is Ozzy.
Ozzy can't sing anymore. Yeah. Yeah. We expect Ozzy to be the spectacle.The shaky prince of darkness that he is at this advanced age, and after all of the damage. But this is deep doo doo, for 50 dollar cheap seats and the darkest of dark dark blasphemy for the 100 floor seats. But why take the piss on us Yanks? Either there was no possibility he was tour ready, or there's just plain no possibility at all anymore. He was off key so bad during War Pigs/ Into The Void/Under the Sun/Black Sabbath/Behind The Wall Of Sleep and N.I.B. that my thoughts went from giggly anger to blatant concern. I kept thinking his old mates Geezer and Tony(as amazing as they were) just didn't have the nuts to throw a flag somewhere on this tour, let alone that night. Disclaimer: I've perused footage from the other tour stops with carbon copy set lists, and the Ozzman doesn't Cometh. The Ozzman Isnt Eventh Therefh. Ditto, people. Back to Philly though: He pulled out all three of the standard stops on the mic between songs ad nauseum to the point where I kept thinking "I wanna see your hands!!!!" and "We love you motherfuckersssss!!!!" were the only things non- teleprompted that he could think of to say. The waddle, the clap-stomp, all in force and enforced in drunken robotics. Sharon gets more dog jewelry, I guess.
Sad Shite. Sabbath Cruddy Sabbath. And I'm feeling a bit fleeced. Even the outstanding out of body- like drumming of Mr. Clufetos(very you tube worthy) and the most brain- cuddling contact high I've
had since my mullet was in check didn't change my sentiments.
And no new tour t shirt sold by any band (geriatric or not) is worth 40 bucks, even if they were made from black headless goat hair and printed with bat blood.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Saturday, August 03, 2013
so faux so foe
Precious minimum of care. Repercussions like land mines in the sand next to my toes on a phantom vacation. On every other day the spirit leaves, the spirit comes back to a larger room with the soul hollowed out just a little more. Just a little more. A little more to give, to wring out of the day, like a bloody towel used to wipe up the puddles of blood beneath the thrashed . A little more to take. Take cover take charge. Take cover take charge. Bide time . Bid on extra years for improvement, bid on the priciest wet bag of lies in the silent auction. Screen your callers. Reinforce your pillars, so faux, so foe?
Please don't line up the candles. Trade ten of mine to give her a decade more to get her house in order, to strip the blame from her husbands mouth, to shame the mother into proper exile on an isle of lepers and lifers. To thrust this beast I do the dirty spoon with into oblivion. Instead, we wallow in the wreckage , the shadow stealer and I bring the rear up to new lows . we wade through puddles of dust rapel down cliffs of frozen blood. we land on the moors of the annointed forgotten. we rub bones together for fire.I pitch the shards and shrapnel as a screenplay to myself. I wear the pigs head. Fully catered with yesterday's bones and gizzards and smut gluttony to set a course unpaved and ahead, behind, beside, beyond, within.
Where to go from here but another dog eared page in the beat pleading for contact, kneaded wafer thin in need , cooked on the corners, raw in the middle of nowhere. Ah the laughter cued up, aligned with the film, cooked into melted focus by the burn of the bulb. A quick edit, a stealth exit. Whipsmart agony from dragging the deep forbidden lake , sizzled in the coals rake.
The endless serenade. The quelled chorus, the heady refrain. Cheer up Charlie, your golden ticket is one way, southbound, hot to the touch. Window seat please.
Ghosts with the skin peeling off in the napalm mist, in their molten grip, they hold your boarding pass.
Free at last.
I know a man
I know a man who's family dynamic broke apart not once,twice but three times in his life. Mother leaves because she's a selfish distraught lesbian who couldn't take being a mom or a wife anymore, abandons her pre teen son and has a restraining order placed on her own daughter. Years later she turns into a broken down grandmother who never sees or contacts her own grandchildren,who makes promises , obliterates those promises and becomes a fucking pariah who wouldn't even know her own grandson if he was standing in front of her while she smoked her 20th cigarette of the day , skin leathery and loose from all of that time in the Florida sun wandering codependent and aimless.
Beloved sister dies, a best friend, a replacement matriarch for the absent mother. Instead of every family and friend member that remains forming a bond full of love and honor and remembrance, they split, un amicably and end up incommunicado, avoiding any sort of conflict or discussion . The children left behind don't even know each other as cousins, friends or anything resembling a normal family relationship. The miles,combined with fear and bitterness ad up to a fading photograph of a long gone era, that ended a mere 5 years ago.
Man marries the wrong person, they make each other miserable, they have monumental differences that lead to betrayal and abuse. Their only child is in the middle of an ebb and flow of a horrible situation which at times borders on alienation. The verbal abuse of the man continues, and he is helpless to do anything about it because lawyers can only help if you pay them, which the man cannot do. Man has been awarded something but will never collect on said judgement and even if he does, his life will be made even more miserable by the anger of the aftermath. Man chooses less misery, and chooses to let go of the energy it takes to fight, in order to conserve it for the energy it takes to be a single dad on the
low end of a pay scale, in a job with no benefits or paid vacation. Man has to fight to get by every single month. Man has no family, few friends, no partner in a city he feels trapped in for the next twelve years.
Man loses interest in the music and the written word which were once his foundations and ensconces himself in the glorification of self pity, depression and anger. Man is fully aware of the scale of the problem and has very little to complain about when there are people out there whose bodies are riddled with disease, are homeless, whose children have been lost to war, abuse, terrorism, addiction, etc.
But man sees no real..finite end in the endless cycle of fear,loss, anger in his life despite temporary pauses filled with hope and fleeting contentment.and devotes himself instead to the raising of his son, alone...with no family to help, no network to rely on, no money to burn. It has become his identity, his dominant reason for being, and sometimes his burden. The exhaustion causes the feeling of it being a burden from time to time, the exhaustion holds the lead and the chain.
Man knows the ex wife will read this and laugh and either use it against him or ignore it all together. Man is well versed in her etiquette of calling him a useless, selfish loser who doesn't groom, or a piece of shit who is a lousy father and half of a man. Man has been put through the motions of being spat on in public and slapped in front of his child. Man can take it.
Man wants to stay here on earth.
Man wants to be able to feel good for at least 24 hrs straight before his son is old enough for college and he can wander this earth looking for truth, looking for self. Parents lose most of that when bringing up children. Those who are partnered make time for the other parent to continue his or her search.
Man doesn't have this benefit. When he is not with his son, he works, wanders or wallows.
Man writes on this blog just to write. The anticipation of pity, glory, conversation or reciprocation is moot. The Internet is the ether. The feelings expressed are merely easier to find here than in a moleskine or composition book.
Man realizes how silly this all is.
Man realizes how stupid this all is.
Man realizes how serious this all is.
Man will forget this
Beloved sister dies, a best friend, a replacement matriarch for the absent mother. Instead of every family and friend member that remains forming a bond full of love and honor and remembrance, they split, un amicably and end up incommunicado, avoiding any sort of conflict or discussion . The children left behind don't even know each other as cousins, friends or anything resembling a normal family relationship. The miles,combined with fear and bitterness ad up to a fading photograph of a long gone era, that ended a mere 5 years ago.
Man marries the wrong person, they make each other miserable, they have monumental differences that lead to betrayal and abuse. Their only child is in the middle of an ebb and flow of a horrible situation which at times borders on alienation. The verbal abuse of the man continues, and he is helpless to do anything about it because lawyers can only help if you pay them, which the man cannot do. Man has been awarded something but will never collect on said judgement and even if he does, his life will be made even more miserable by the anger of the aftermath. Man chooses less misery, and chooses to let go of the energy it takes to fight, in order to conserve it for the energy it takes to be a single dad on the
low end of a pay scale, in a job with no benefits or paid vacation. Man has to fight to get by every single month. Man has no family, few friends, no partner in a city he feels trapped in for the next twelve years.
Man loses interest in the music and the written word which were once his foundations and ensconces himself in the glorification of self pity, depression and anger. Man is fully aware of the scale of the problem and has very little to complain about when there are people out there whose bodies are riddled with disease, are homeless, whose children have been lost to war, abuse, terrorism, addiction, etc.
But man sees no real..finite end in the endless cycle of fear,loss, anger in his life despite temporary pauses filled with hope and fleeting contentment.and devotes himself instead to the raising of his son, alone...with no family to help, no network to rely on, no money to burn. It has become his identity, his dominant reason for being, and sometimes his burden. The exhaustion causes the feeling of it being a burden from time to time, the exhaustion holds the lead and the chain.
Man knows the ex wife will read this and laugh and either use it against him or ignore it all together. Man is well versed in her etiquette of calling him a useless, selfish loser who doesn't groom, or a piece of shit who is a lousy father and half of a man. Man has been put through the motions of being spat on in public and slapped in front of his child. Man can take it.
Man wants to stay here on earth.
Man wants to be able to feel good for at least 24 hrs straight before his son is old enough for college and he can wander this earth looking for truth, looking for self. Parents lose most of that when bringing up children. Those who are partnered make time for the other parent to continue his or her search.
Man doesn't have this benefit. When he is not with his son, he works, wanders or wallows.
Man writes on this blog just to write. The anticipation of pity, glory, conversation or reciprocation is moot. The Internet is the ether. The feelings expressed are merely easier to find here than in a moleskine or composition book.
Man realizes how silly this all is.
Man realizes how stupid this all is.
Man realizes how serious this all is.
Man will forget this
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Good Dad Bad Dad Stage Dad Sad Dad
I had a kid. I had a plan. I'm sort of a has been/ never was rocker with a plethora of pride in my step when it comes to being a rock purist. I have my foundations, my pillars of rock architecture and cultural touchstones with which, no matter how far I got as a musician, I knew I could pass on to my offspring as a good old kick start to his or her own legacy as a musician.
For surely my kid is gonna be a musician. For surely my kid is gonna know so much about rock music that he/she would just fall into the prodigious nature of musical study and appreciation, piano, guitar, drums, production, voice....those were the avenues. The streets with names for the he/ she that he/she would be allowed to drive down, blindfolded with passion. I ended up with a boy. A boy who was listening to the Beatles in utero. A boy who had a Led Zeppelin onesie. A kid who had his first drum set at three, his first guitar at four, his first keyboard at six. He wrote his first song as a five year old..lyrics and melody. His music teacher said he was advanced and should be in lessons right away. It was all headed in the right direction, weaving into my chosen path.
My plan was to not be overbearing rock dad inundating him with heavy guitar rock to confuse and overload his little ears. That would have been selfish and stupid. After his mom and I split up, I chose to expose him to everything and anything but sugary, overproduced throwaway pop songs, and misogynist based hip hop riddled with ridiculous braggadocio, knowing that this decision was based on my opinion of what was good and what was horrific and bad.I taught him all about the songwriting process, let him ask questions about the artists and the instruments, and how a certain sound was made.I let many genres wash over him and watched him soak them in. He was always fascinated, inquisitive, engaged.I believe I've been successful from that standpoint so far. So far.....
So far that plan is riddled with snafus. I've been sandbagged. I've been sabotaged.I need a kinder gentler approach...because last night my seven year old son went to the Taylor Swift concert...and liked it. He likes all of it. He knows the words to mommy's songs and none of mine. He sings them and knows that it upsets me. Yeah it upsets me. Who is the child here, right?
I have to be realistic. He's just a kid, right. He's more drawn to the big machine pop and the sunshiny chick rock that his mother favors because its easier to sing in the car. It's less moody. Simple arrangements, shiny happy chord progressions and melodies which are catchy, especially to a kid who just wants to be happy and laugh and grow at his own pace. He may never like what I like and may never be influenced by what I've passively, gingerly tried to program him with. I get that.
So why does it suck when he says to me that he "doesn't like rock" and doesn't want to sing in a "rock band".
Why does it hurt so bad. I could be over reacting. Projecting on my son my own "failures" as a musician...being in the wrong place at the right time over and over again, saying no to more than a handful of promising projects, the frustration with lack of DIY mentality when a lack of management led to a loss of direction and output...etc. As a parent you always want your child to do better than you did. That seems to be a rite of passage. I guess I'm using my own wanna be rock star model from 20 years ago model as the opposite of what I want his to be.
Right now, I have to ask myself, has my course load overwhelmed my young musical paduwan or was it never his in the first place. The suspense is killing me.
For surely my kid is gonna be a musician. For surely my kid is gonna know so much about rock music that he/she would just fall into the prodigious nature of musical study and appreciation, piano, guitar, drums, production, voice....those were the avenues. The streets with names for the he/ she that he/she would be allowed to drive down, blindfolded with passion. I ended up with a boy. A boy who was listening to the Beatles in utero. A boy who had a Led Zeppelin onesie. A kid who had his first drum set at three, his first guitar at four, his first keyboard at six. He wrote his first song as a five year old..lyrics and melody. His music teacher said he was advanced and should be in lessons right away. It was all headed in the right direction, weaving into my chosen path.
My plan was to not be overbearing rock dad inundating him with heavy guitar rock to confuse and overload his little ears. That would have been selfish and stupid. After his mom and I split up, I chose to expose him to everything and anything but sugary, overproduced throwaway pop songs, and misogynist based hip hop riddled with ridiculous braggadocio, knowing that this decision was based on my opinion of what was good and what was horrific and bad.I taught him all about the songwriting process, let him ask questions about the artists and the instruments, and how a certain sound was made.I let many genres wash over him and watched him soak them in. He was always fascinated, inquisitive, engaged.I believe I've been successful from that standpoint so far. So far.....
So far that plan is riddled with snafus. I've been sandbagged. I've been sabotaged.I need a kinder gentler approach...because last night my seven year old son went to the Taylor Swift concert...and liked it. He likes all of it. He knows the words to mommy's songs and none of mine. He sings them and knows that it upsets me. Yeah it upsets me. Who is the child here, right?
I have to be realistic. He's just a kid, right. He's more drawn to the big machine pop and the sunshiny chick rock that his mother favors because its easier to sing in the car. It's less moody. Simple arrangements, shiny happy chord progressions and melodies which are catchy, especially to a kid who just wants to be happy and laugh and grow at his own pace. He may never like what I like and may never be influenced by what I've passively, gingerly tried to program him with. I get that.
So why does it suck when he says to me that he "doesn't like rock" and doesn't want to sing in a "rock band".
Why does it hurt so bad. I could be over reacting. Projecting on my son my own "failures" as a musician...being in the wrong place at the right time over and over again, saying no to more than a handful of promising projects, the frustration with lack of DIY mentality when a lack of management led to a loss of direction and output...etc. As a parent you always want your child to do better than you did. That seems to be a rite of passage. I guess I'm using my own wanna be rock star model from 20 years ago model as the opposite of what I want his to be.
Right now, I have to ask myself, has my course load overwhelmed my young musical paduwan or was it never his in the first place. The suspense is killing me.
Monday, June 10, 2013
I'm Over Mick Jagger
Right now, I have Mick Jagger at the very top of my list of Biggest Assholes in Rock.
I bet Mick hasn't had fun in the Rolling Stones since around Some Girls.
The lippy dictator told Bill Wyman (who is 76 years old) on this current 50th anniversary tour that he could perform two songs. No more than two songs per show. He was so nice that he invited Bill on the whole tour.....for two songs a night. Bill said fuck you very much.
He did the same thing with legendary stones saviour Mick Taylor, but Mick took the bait..and probably needs the cash. Mr. Jagger, Mick Taylor was gold to you and your legacy from 69-74....the best years your band ever had. Take that to the grave with all of your filthy lucre. Please make sure that the great grandchildren of your seven children(a stones record) are taken care of.
I love the recorded Rolling Stones right up to Steel Wheels.....just for the record. Why am I bitching now?
it's been a perfect storm of bad reviews, bad hype and just plain snobby greed...that I'm seeing.
I've seen the Stones 5 times...mostly way back when they were in their 50s. I never thought about it until now but Mick Jagger was going through the motions then and the bullshit has been piled on thicker every tour since then.
His lyrical output has always been underrated (from 19th Nervous Breakdown to Tumblin' Dice to Shattered)...its all good, bumping the borders of genius in some places..yet the stage banter is a disconnect, has been for decades, emotionless, scripted blasphemy. ...it used to make me sad to see him phoning it in on stage...now Ive seen footage of the latest tour...and he looks so robotic, so bored. Who gives a shit about moving like jagger, Mick. Try singing like Jagger.
Maybe its me....but these guests he's bringing on stage, including Carrie Underwood and Katy Perry, dont' make the Stones look hip Mick, it makes you look like creepy Gramps in black Danskins about to yell some version of "Hello Cleveland" any given moment between a missed lick by Keef or Ronnie.
Try not charging an average of 275 a ticket at age 70, Mr. Business first...rock second....wait, cricket is second, then comes merchandise, then fucking(however well septuagenarians fuck). Goddamn, why didn't you fall out of a coconut tree..it might have given you some perspective. Also, try having some respect for Darryl Jones who has been your bass player for 20 years and has never been in a press photo and is probably still hovering around hired gun status....try making me believe that "Its Only Rock and Roll".
..and maybe I'll like it.
I bet Mick hasn't had fun in the Rolling Stones since around Some Girls.
The lippy dictator told Bill Wyman (who is 76 years old) on this current 50th anniversary tour that he could perform two songs. No more than two songs per show. He was so nice that he invited Bill on the whole tour.....for two songs a night. Bill said fuck you very much.
He did the same thing with legendary stones saviour Mick Taylor, but Mick took the bait..and probably needs the cash. Mr. Jagger, Mick Taylor was gold to you and your legacy from 69-74....the best years your band ever had. Take that to the grave with all of your filthy lucre. Please make sure that the great grandchildren of your seven children(a stones record) are taken care of.
I love the recorded Rolling Stones right up to Steel Wheels.....just for the record. Why am I bitching now?
it's been a perfect storm of bad reviews, bad hype and just plain snobby greed...that I'm seeing.
I've seen the Stones 5 times...mostly way back when they were in their 50s. I never thought about it until now but Mick Jagger was going through the motions then and the bullshit has been piled on thicker every tour since then.
His lyrical output has always been underrated (from 19th Nervous Breakdown to Tumblin' Dice to Shattered)...its all good, bumping the borders of genius in some places..yet the stage banter is a disconnect, has been for decades, emotionless, scripted blasphemy. ...it used to make me sad to see him phoning it in on stage...now Ive seen footage of the latest tour...and he looks so robotic, so bored. Who gives a shit about moving like jagger, Mick. Try singing like Jagger.
Maybe its me....but these guests he's bringing on stage, including Carrie Underwood and Katy Perry, dont' make the Stones look hip Mick, it makes you look like creepy Gramps in black Danskins about to yell some version of "Hello Cleveland" any given moment between a missed lick by Keef or Ronnie.
Try not charging an average of 275 a ticket at age 70, Mr. Business first...rock second....wait, cricket is second, then comes merchandise, then fucking(however well septuagenarians fuck). Goddamn, why didn't you fall out of a coconut tree..it might have given you some perspective. Also, try having some respect for Darryl Jones who has been your bass player for 20 years and has never been in a press photo and is probably still hovering around hired gun status....try making me believe that "Its Only Rock and Roll".
..and maybe I'll like it.
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