The wise words of Douglas Adams are always worth keeping in mind, but especially so now, because the entire MediaJunkie family of blogs—which includes The Philter—will soon be going offline for a server upgrade. The outage will begin pretty much any time now and last for about a week. I know that many of you can’t begin your day without my invaluable guidance, but one of these mornings you’re going to wake up and find this site gone. When that happens, you’ll want to throw yourself off the roof of the nearest tall building, but please, I beg you, don’t. Just take a deep breath and remind yourself that this, too, shall pass. I’ll see you again in the brighter and bigger world of next week.
]]>pinchcock: a clamp used on a flexible tube to control the flow of fluid through it
In a word: ouch.
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While we’re at it, can anyone tell me why they appear to be standing in front of a Confederate flag?
I really thought I was over being amazed at what a doofus our Commander-in-Chief is. I mean, it’s old news, right? But every once in a while, I see something that gets me shaking my head all over again.
For instance, a couple days ago, Pope Benedict was giving a speech at the White House. Not necessarily my favorite person, the Pope; but still, this is a very important figure on the world stage, the spiritual leader of hundreds of millions of people. When the speech is over, George W. walks up to him, and here’s what our beloved leader has to say: “Thank you, Your Holiness. Awesome speech.”
Awesome speech. I…ugh. Never mind. It’ll all be over with soon enough.
]]>Dad to approximately four-year-old son: We need to get some bananas. Want to help me pick out some bananas?
Boy: I’m an apatosaurus.
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According to news reports, John Cleese has offered to write jokes for Barack Obama if (when) he becomes the Democratic nominee for president.
Monty Python legend John Cleese is to offer his services as a speechwriter to Barack Obama if he wins the Democratic nomination to become US president, he told a British newspaper out Tuesday. The British comedian, who lives in California, told the Western Daily Press regional paper that his jokes could help the Illinois senator get into the White House.
Call me cynical, but it doesn’t take a genius to see this for what it really is: a shameless, transparent ploy for an appointment to head the Ministry of Silly Walks in an Obama administration.
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One week I opened the show for Linda Ronstadt; she sang barefoot on a raised stage and wore a silver lamé dress that stopped a millimeter below her panties, causing the floor of the Troubadour to be slick with drool. Linda and I saw each other for a while, but I was so intimidated by her talent and street smarts that, after the ninth date, she finally said, “Steve, do you often date girls and not try to sleep with them?”]]> Or Martin Mull:
Martin’s wit was Sahara-dry; he performed onstage sitting on living room furniture and sang his own comic songs with titles like “Noses Run in My Family,” “I’m Everyone I’ve Ever Loved,” “(How Could I Not Miss) A Girl Your Size,” and “Jesus Christ, Football Star.” On opening night at the Great Southeast Music Hall, we were both nervous about meeting each other. I was sitting in my open dressing room when Martin walked by, carrying his stage clothes on a hanger. Unsure whether to say something to me, he kept going. After a few steps, I called out, “Nice meeting you, too.” We’ve been friends ever since.
Or, last but not least, The Elvis Presley:
I got a welcome job in 1971 with Ann-Margret, five weeks opening the show for her at the International Hotel in Vegas, a huge, unfunny barn with sculptured pink cherubs hanging from the corners of the proscenium. Laughter in these poorly designed places rose a few feet into the air and dissipated like steam, always giving me the feeling I was bombing. One night, from my dressing room, I saw a vision in white gliding down the hall—a tall, striking woman, moving like an apparition along the backstage corridor. It turned out to be Priscilla Presley, coming to visit Ann-Margret backstage after having seen the show. When she turned the corner, she revealed an even more indelible presence walking behind her. Elvis. Dressed in white. Jet-black hair. A diamond-studded buckle.]]>
When Priscilla revealed Elvis to me, I was also revealed to him. I’m sure he noticed that this twenty-five-year-old stick figure was frozen firmly to the ground. About to pass me by, Elvis stopped, looked at me, and said in his beautiful Mississippi drawl: “Son, you have an ob-leek sense of humor.”
The name of the music section of this blog—“Dancing about architecture”—is inspired by the oft-quoted line “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” In my description of the category I attributed this quote to Elvis Costello, but with something less than 100% confidence, because I was pretty sure I’d seen it attributed to others over the years. Today I ran across a Web page that credited Steve Martin, and so I decided to investigate.
Turns out there is no definitive answer to the question of who first uttered this pithy phrase. A very informative brief put together by one Alan P. Scott—which you can see here—dissects the matter in some detail.
]]> As Scott notes, in addition to Costello and Martin, the line has at one time or another been attributed to each of the following people:It’s quite a diverse and accomplished group, and I think that it must be a very great honor to have the saying attributed to you. With any luck, some confused Web surfer of the future will honor yours truly in this way.
On balance, the most likely suspects seem to be Costello and Mull. Scott cites an interview with Costello in a 1983 issue of Musician magazine in which he is quoted thusly: “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture - it’s a really stupid thing to want to do.” This does not firmly establish, however, that he was the first to say it.
Several sources—including, apparently, Costello himself—name Martin Mull as the originator of the phrase. I find this especially interesting in light of the Steve Martin connection, S. Martin and Martin M. being always linked in my mind as groundbreaking ironic/musical comics who went on to become noted Hollywood art lovers with increasingly undistinguished acting careers. Since I’m a Mull fan, and I think he never gets the credit he deserves as the author of such classic tunes as “Santa Doesn’t Cop Out on Dope” and “Licks Off of Records,” I’m going to go ahead and award the prize to him. Let it be so noted.
]]>I also get a lot of junk comments on this blog. For some reason the entry titled “Bauhaus, Back from the Dead” seems to be a particular spam magnet. Today it drew the following comment which, although rather prosaic, struck me somehow. It seems like a commentary on modern economic realities, with a surreal, sinister twist at the end. (Note: Line breaks are mine.)
Hi all!
Home equity
Lines of credit cheap
Life insurance online car insurance
Bay Area car donation
Debt free home equity rate
Smokey mountain knife
Bye
The spring has sprung The grass has riz I wonder where The flowers is?
Although, actually, I know exactly where the flowers is: all over the back yard, thanks to the diligent Leila, who has also somehow found the time to take up blogging. Want to read some amusing anecdotes about Dear Abby, road signs, anxiety, and cheese? Then click here.
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It sure looks good. In contrast to the old Bauhaus albums, all of which were predominantly black, it is almost entirely white. The cover image is some kind of angel (or devil) (something with wings, anyway) with its back turned. All the text is in white as well—the embossed title on the front is easy to read, the song titles on the back much less so. But with some squinting I can make them out: The first song is called “Too Much 21st Century,” the last song “Zikir.” Further study reveals that in the songwriting credits David J. is using his last name, Haskins, for the first time.
I find this change in art direction interesting given that the last song on the last original Bauhaus album, “Hope,” was uncharacteristically uplifting for a band whose modus operandi was to live on the dark side. Will this album pick up from there and be all inspirational-like? The song titles “Black Stone Heart” and “Endless Summer of the Damned” indicate otherwise.
Alright, time to stop pussyfooting around. It’s 10:22 and the shrinkwrap is coming off.
]]> Inside there’s a white-on-black sticker that seems to show what the cover would have looked like in Ye Olde Bauhaus Style. There’s a little more information in again very hard-to-read text on the inside cover. Apparently the cover image is something called “Bethesda, angel of the healing waters” by Dominique Duplaa. The disc itself has the Bauhaus logo in a similar white-on-white motif.10:27: The disc is in the player.
10:28 “Too Much 21st Century” begins with a grinding guitar riff; the rhythm section kicks in; and there’s Pete Murphy’s voice. We’re in business. The guitar sounds very Love and Rockets-ish; the bassline reminds me of “Rain” (the Beatles’ “Rain,” not Tones On Tail’s). Lyrics reference “Swing the Heartache.”
10:32. “Adrenalin”: Fuzztone guitar, some sort of Latinate muttering from Murphy. Later he starts shouting “Shift, crank, pull.” Then back to the muttering. Is it German? Who knows?
10:38: “Undone”: Not the Guess Who song. Not a great song either. Getting a little worried.
10:42 “International Bulletproof Talent”: Some sort of glam-rock. First line a reference to T. Rex. There’s David J. (Haskins) on backing vocals; haven’t heard Daniel Ash’s voice yet, I don’t think. Seems like kind of a waste.
10:46: “Endless Summer Of the Damned”: Sounds most like old Bauhaus so far. More rough edges, loud, Murphy summoning up that demonic bellow. But sort of catchy too. Two thumbs up. End of Side 1, I guess?
10:51: “Saved”: Sax intro from D. Ash. Operatic vocal, makes me think of “The Three Shadows” or “Crowds.” What’s that bit at the end? Let’s rewind real quick. “You are entering a pearl corridor/Lying on your crimson spot/I become unconscious/Saved.” Always was hard to tell what Murphy was talking about.
10:58: “Mirror Remains”: Some kind of statement on aging? “We put the clocks forward/we put the clocks back/the mirror is never fooled.” Dialogue in the middle. Peter: “Needs a solo there of some kind.” Daniel: “This is the solo!” One-note piano at the end.
11:03: “Black Stone Heart”: There’s the title: “I come with this darkness and go away white.” Reverb guitar (see also: “Movement of Fear”), whistling, piano again. Nice groove from Los Bros. Haskins. Multitracked Murphy vocals over squealing Ash guitar. Me likey.
11:07: “The Dog’s a Vapour”: Classic Bauhaus with a touch of Hot Trip to Heaven-era L&R. Guitar kicks in at about 4:15 mark. Builds to a powerful crescendo, climax, whatever you want to call it.
11:14: “Zikir”: The denoument. Quiet and atmospheric; Murphy chanting “Loves me. Loves me not.” Things finish on a mysterious and ambivalent note.
11:18: And there we have it. I can breathe a sigh of relief; I’m not completely blown away, but there’s a lot of potential here. I think it’ll grow on me. But in the meantime I feel like listening to Mask, Burning from the Inside, Pop, Express, and maybe Earth-Sun-Moon. Back in a few hours.
]]>I don’t consider myself much of a judge of fashion, but I thought Christian’s stuff was weak. It was somehow both over the top and monotonous, not to mention profoundly unsexy, looking more like battle armor than clothing. Rami’s work was subtle, sleek, and classy, and on the whole he just deserved it more. But why should I care so much? I need to take a deep breath and get on with my day.
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Three minutes later I was in possession of the following facts:
• Goldar’s wife was named “Silvar” and his son was named “Gam.”
• The show was called “Space Giants” in the U.S., but in Japan both it and the Goldar character were named “Ambassador Magma” (for fun, say that aloud to yourself in your best Dr. Evil voice).
• “Ambassador Magma, despite his robot-like appearance, is not a robot, but actually, a living giant forged from gold.” (says Wikipedia)
• Far from being forgotten, as I would have thought, “Space Giants” is currently at the center of a trademark dispute between Powerslam Productions and one Bernard Schulman. Powerslam gives their side of the story at some length here. For some legal reason they are no longer selling the (11-volume!) DVD set but “giving it away” when you buy an autographed “Space Giants” comic book. Even so the price is more than my idle curiosity tinged with nostalgia warrants spending, and anyway I don’t need 11 more DVDs cluttering up my living room. But I’m glad to know it’s out there.
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Gang members hatched a plan to kill Jagger at his holiday home in Long Island, New York, the BBC claimed.
“The Hells Angels were so angered by Jagger’s treatment of them that they decided to kill him,” Tom Mangold, the presenter of the program, was quoted as telling Britain’s Sunday Telegraph newspaper.
He said the plan was disclosed during an interview with Mark Young, a former FBI officer, for the BBC’s “The FBI at 100” documentary.
Mangold said the men tried to reach Jagger by sea. “The boat was hit by a storm and all of the men were thrown overboard,” he was quoted as saying. They all survived but made no other attempt on his life, Mangold said.
As several comments I’ve read online have already noted, there’s a lovely slapstick element to this. Just picture a group of Angels, loaded to the gills on beer and speed, rowing a dinghy across Long Island Sound on their way to snuff Jagger. The boat springs a leak and a bearded 6-foot-5 biker named “Tiny” jams his thumb in the hole while dandling his old lady on his knee and chugging Jack Daniels with the other hand. But when the wind whips up they’re swamped by a wave and tossed into the surf, where they struggle and sputter for air, comically out of their element in full-dress leather. Were I an animator, I would make this into a short cartoon for your amusement. Instead, I’m going to have to ask you to close your eyes and imagine it for yourself. You may want to add Hunter Thompson looking on coolly from a nearby cigarette boat, as Jerry Garcia and Ken Kesey giggle hysterically on the deck of a Mississippi paddleboat painted psychedelic purple and green. Suddenly the Beatles surface in their yellow submarine, mercifully pull the Angels from the drink, and are gone again as quickly as they came. The last shot is of Yoko, clad in Nazi regalia á la The Rutles, swimming for shore with a knife clenched in her teeth. Or you can picture it however you want; it’s your head, after all.
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For instance, after a year or so of faithful bathroom reading I just finally finished Bill Graham Presents, a big book about the life of, duh, Bill Graham (born Wolfgang Grajonca). A damn fascinating life he had, including a childhood exodus across WWII-era Europe, the details of which are already long gone from my memory.
Later in life, of course, Graham achieved success and fame as a concert promoter, and in so doing helped to create live rock’n’roll as we know it today. The book is loaded with anecdotes about Graham’s interactions with artists like the Grateful Dead, the Who, the Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, etc. One of my favorites is this one about Jimi Hendrix:
]]> The Voices of East Harlem were on that show along with Jimi and his Band of Gypsies. Billy Cox on bass and Buddy Miles playing drums. I had to be in San Francisco for New Year’s Eve itself because we had a big show at Winterland with the Airplane, Quicksilver, and the Sons of Champlin. I flew to New York to see Hendrix’s show on New Year’s night. They were recording that weekend, looking for a live album, and when I got there, they told me that the recording had gone so-so the night before.