Nick Cave Is A Horny Old Man

There's a scene late in Nick Cave's latest book that interests me a bit. The book is "Death Of Bunny Monroe", and the story follows the exploits of traveling salesman Bunny, who is clearly a sex addict of the highest or lowest order, depending on your particular slant on the subject. Bunny is married with a small boy-child, and his wife kills herself after suffering years of Bunny's infidelity. Bunny takes this as his cue to fuck more sleazy women and drink massive amounts of alcohol while dragging his child along on a drunken, womanizing, traveling sales hellride. The other things I can understand, but the traveling sales? I shiver in revulsion. The book, as you can imagine, is pretty good. The writing style has simplified quite a bit since Nick's earlier book, "And The Ass Saw The Angel" but is no less realized. You feel bad for Buddy, a completely disgusting, pathetic and selfish character, who cannot stifle his lower impulses, even when the guilt and shame is killing him. He is dragged by his penis from sleazy whore to lonely housewife to furtive masturbation and back again, and his feverish inner monologue while this happens is pretty compelling. Not to mention gross.

There is, however, this scene at the end, where Buddy rapes a junky girl while she is nodding out, perhaps overdosed, because she looks exactly like one of his sexual obsessions, one Miss Avril Lavigne. Well, there's no accounting for taste. This scene is sordid and terrible. But it's so very Nick Cave it sort of sums up everything you need to know about the book and maybe the author.

Nick Cave has been exploring themes of degradation, drugs, lust, murder, Biblical doom and squalid darkness since he fronted Boys Next Door in the late 70s and the Birthday Party in the 80s. His solo career has followed the same shame-ridden path, albeit with frequent glimpses of gorgeous redemption in the form of songs like "Straight To You" from the "Henry's Dream" album and similar gospel tinged ballads that followed. That's just my perception, but I feel like Nick has allowed more positivity to creep into his music as he's aged. He's in his mid 50s now, and seems to want, for the most part, to age gracefully in the style of someone like Leonard Cohen or Lou Reed.

His latest project, a band called Grinderman, is an even more interesting chunk of meat. Their first album explored many of Nick's usual themes, and one song from it, like that scene at the end of "Death Of Bunny", sticks out for me. It's called "No Pussy Blues" and it seems to be the tale of an aging stud who, um, can't get any. The music is a grinding, thrusting blues-fuzz wall of noise. The repeated line "she just didn't want to" is both hilarious and telling. And I must quote:

I changed the sheets on my bed
I combed the hairs across my head
I sucked in my gut and still she said
That she just didn't want to
I thought I'd try another tact
I drank a litre of Cognac
I threw her down upon her back
But she just laughed and said she just didn't want to

Perhaps Nick's most frightening lyric ever. The song begins with the lines "My face is finished, my body's gone..." what a drag it is getting old. Now, I'm sure Nick Cave, a married man mind you, and a rock star, could certainly find some willing nubile that "wanted to". The fact that he's willing to write songs like this for the rest of us though, well, that's very nice of him. I haven't really ever had any problem getting female attention, my ego insists I tell you. However as someone who is pushing forty (pushing VERY hard)I can relate to the disintegration of one's face and body. And my back always hurts. Always. And the bunions! Nevermind me though.

Nick had this to say about the song: "As our dreams and desires are hung on the butcher's hook of rampant consumerism, and the mirage and the illusion and the Nike trainers are served up on the trembling quim of an impossibly nubile girl-thing, No Pussy Blues tells it like it is. It is the child standing goggle-eyed at the cake shop window, as the shop-owner, in his plastic sleeves, barricades the door and turns the sign to "CLOSED". It is the howl in the dark of the Everyman."

Anyone who can use "quim" correctly in a sentence is cool beans with this rodeo clown. And that quote could also be used to describe "The Death Of Bunny Monroe" in it's entirety. So it ties together, does it not.? Consumerism, aging, sex, impulse,trembling quims. Now we get it.

Grinderman have a new album out, simply called Grinderman 2,and it is awesome. It's equal parts the Stooges, Howlin' Wolf and the Birthday Party, with some great raucous ugly guitar noise and the expected emotive gospel tinged ballad thrown in for good measure (pretty much every NC album since "The Good Son" has had one of these, and they usually end up being my favorite songs on the album because he doesn't seem to be playing a character in the lyrics. It seems to be the real Nick Cave singing, with the exception of the awesome "Nobody's Baby Now", which is another murder ballad). The lyrical voice is still there, and I for one am glad to hear the revival of Nick's hilarious yelps and howls, guttural sounds interjected into the noise that he hasn't really done much since the Birthday Party. I guess a good blues riff played on a fuzzed out bass guitar can bring out the inner Iggy in anyone.

"Mickey Mouse and the Goodbye Man" kicks of the record in a very Iggy/Morrison state of mind, with the aforementioned distorted bass snaking through a burnt out hallucination that may or may not be somewhat Biblical in undercurrent.

There's a vagueness to some of the lyrics, maybe an impressionism, that lets the listener throw their own subconscious garbage onto the meaning of the song. Like this snip from "When My Baby Comes":

Thank God we don't get all our hurts at once
That would be a really bad thing
When my baby comes
Thank God we don't get all our olds at one time
(Listen to me talking in my hospital gown!)
When my baby comes
Is there anyone out there wasted their lives?
On booze drugs husbands wives and making money?
When my baby comes

This might have a specific meaning to it's author but unless you're a 54 year old Australian alternative rock star (no, not Rick Springfield) you might have to think about that one for a minute. To me it's about aging, again, and the comfort of loved ones, or the lack of comfort of loved ones and the other things we devote our short lives to. To you, I dunno.

More straight forward, maybe, is "Worm Tamer", one of my faves:

You know they call my girl the worm tamer
She cracks lightning like a vipers' tongue
She leaves me every night and who could blame her
I guess that I've just loved you for too long

You know they call my baby the Mambo Rider
I cry storms of tears til the rising of the dawn
You know I'm only happy when I'm inside her
I guess that I've just loved you far too long

The longing, self deprecation and desperation here, as well as the putting on a pedestal of ones' loved one are intensely obvious. Whether he's talking about a lover or a god or an addiction, it's not so easy to tell. I hope it's all of those things. There's voodoo imagery and a semi-Bo Diddley beat and some irritating electronic noises and I like it quite a bit. Nick mumbles the lyrics like he's got a mouthful of brie cheese.

The record in it's entirety is full of blues references, musically and lyrically, and the electronic bleeps and static wails serve to modernize that timeless feel. It's blues as seen through Iggy and Morrison and Velvet Underground-colored glasses.

Well you have to be glad that people like Nick Cave still exist. That there is more out there than your Lady Ga-Ga and your Brendan Flowers or whatever's out there these days, I confess I don't really know. I've listened to nothing but the Jesus And Mary Chain for years, while poking myself in the balls with dirty forks. What I'm saying is, Nick Cave is cool. And he's old. And so am I. And probably, so are you. So put that in your iPod and listen to it all day.

I Still Believe In Glenn Danzig (Or: Why I Hate Tall People)

Me? I'm a short, neurotic, bristly mess of angsty bad breath. I'm full of insecurities and contradictions and confusion, and I don't really have any problem admitting this. You're all just like me, you just hide it better. I try to be a good person, try to grit my teeth and hold back the puke of dysfunction (even when the old cheeks are bulging like Dizzy Gillespie's with it) and get in the ring and duke it out like everyone else on this planet does. Not that I want a medal or an ice cream pop or anything. Oh, and I am also short. Bear with me here, I'm making a point.

Perhaps I should be going out of my way to overcompensate for these things. I would, I really would. But I'm also incredibly lazy.

Not so lazy was a teenage New Jersey music fan named Glenn Anzalone. He was short, yes. He was full of insecurities and neuroses, and he read way too many comic books. But this was the mid 1970s, and people were re-inventing themselves all over the map. A pimply, gangly British youth with a mouth full of painfully inappropriate teeth and a bad home life could rename himself Sid Vicious and become sort of a cross between a lobotomized Lou Reed and a taller Johnny Thunders. Problems solved! This was the majesty of Punk Rock!

So Glenn, not being lazy, and looking to improve his lot in life, changed his name and formed a Punk Rock band. perhaps the greatest punk rock band of all time, the Misfits. They were no Jem and the Holograms, but they were pretty rockin'.

He began working out in his mothers' basement, to carve his scrawny body into a sinewy block of muscle like the characters in the Basil Gogos and Frank Franzetta artwork he admired. He opened his mouth to howl, and learned he could really sing. REALLY. His voice had the sensuous croon of Elvis, smushed together like peanut butter and chocolate with the dark mumble of Jim Morrison. There was no voice like it in Punk Rock. Never would be. He changed his last name to DANZIG, after, quite unfortunately, a Nazi death camp in Poland. Look it up.

He then realized that all those nights not getting laid would pay off handsomely. He spent alot of his spare time reading comics, watching horror movies, reading books, and listening to all kinds of rock and roll. From Sabbath to the Doors and Elvis to Punk Rock and forgotten rockabilly and blues. Because of this self education, young Glenn found he could WRITE. Gorgeous, hooky melodies balanced firmly on top of sledgehammer punk rock chording, with some of the best and funniest lyrics in Punk, if not Rock itself.

He wrote of brain eaters, he wrote of astro zombies, he wrote genius lines like; "This ain't no love -in, this ain't no happenin', this ain't no feeling in my arms" to illustrate the similarity of hippies to the walking dead. It was brilliant and hilarious, and often completely obscene ("Last Caress", anyone?).

The Misfits donned a "Famous Monsters" and Kiss inspired array of black studded battle gear, and grew their hair into crazy reverse Elvis constructions known as "devil locks". They had quite a schtick going, as you may be aware. They toured, they put out their own records, they got big in the hardcore scene, then they broke up.

They would become massive, but not until long after their break up, when a thrash band called Metallica got big by wearing their T shirts and covering their songs. By this time, Glenn had already moved on into darker realms, with a band called Samhain, who veered slightly into metal and Goth territory.

When Samhain ran it's course, Glenn formed (with the help of Def Jam records impressario Rick Rubin) another band, simply called Danzig. This band would take the cartoon ghoulishness of the Misfits and the dark occultism of Samhain, and marry it to the bluesy chords of classic rock and proto-metal via Led Zep, the Doors, and Sabbath. This was awesome, for awhile.

Glenn Danzig, the pimply, shy young man from Lodi NJ, had become something quite different while trying to overcompensate drastically for his insecurities and shortcomings. No pun. He was still short, but he had become a tiny brick of overdeveloped muscle. He was still insecure, but he had become and expert on occult practices. He was still shy, but he had thrown up a huge wall of anger and uncompromising, strutting attitude.

Danzig made four classic, pummeling albums full of twisted pinch harmonics, Sabbath like dirges, Morrison like odes to depression and darkness, Elvis and Orbison '50s style ballads,and dark, dark, deep in the woods Howlin' Wolf blues. Glenn's trademark sing along "Whoa-Ohs" have been present in all of his bands'songs, but in Danzig they were used to their greatest possible power. Those first four albums stand up as some of the best music of the 90s, if not the rock era.

He wrote songs for Orbison and Cash, he formed his own comics company, he even made a couple of albums of dark classical music that are impossible to sing along or dance to, even if you try hard.

When hard rock sort of died out in the mid 90s, punk was firmly mainstream (for the most part) and the Misfits were mostly remembered for their T Shirts, Danzig started to falter. He developed an obsession with Trent Reznor style industrial music, which led to the creation of several albums that say Danzig on the cover but don't sound much like Danzig. There were good songs on all of these records, but the squealing guitars of John Christ, the barely audible but thudding bass of Eerie Von and the powerful slap of Chuck Biscuits' drums were long gone, as were those people themselves. Glenn's mournful wail was often buried under alot of electronic buzzing and beeping, sounding more like a tinny Danzig cell phone ring tone than one of the greatest rock bands ever. The songs could still creep you out, but they weren't going to rock you, not in the same way.

This is where alot of people gave up on Glenn Danzig. Sadly, I have to say I was one of them. The Misfits were back by this point, but with another singer who wasn't but a shadow of Glenn Danzig. He sort of seemed like something Glenn might have accidentally vomited, then left in a rest stop toilet. Their new songs were Ok, but largely silly, and they went about trashing the Misfits legacy for cash while Danzig watched, unamused, from the sidelines.

We've all seen the video of Glenn getting knocked cold by one punch backstage at some show somewhere. Alot of people laughed at that, because Glenn's image had always been toughest of the tough, blackest of the black. His "huge ego" was discussed often, and seeing the mighty GD felled by such a cheap shot seemed, to some, like justice. Alot of Youtube videos and comic books have made fun of Glenn Danzig, and some of it is pretty funny. But me, I just wanted the guy to make another great record.

What Glenn needed to do was silence the naysayers with a rock record so dark and heavy that one could only marvel and scratch ones' privates. He needed to return to that witchy, dark, alluring, bluesy style of old. He needed to return to the "Whoa-Oh's" and other such brutal sing alongs. He needed to get Eerie and John and Chuck back. He needed some pinch harmonics.

Well, it's 2010, and he's done it. OK, not all of that, but SOME. "Blood Red Sabaoth"
is Glenn Danzig's '68 Comeback Special. This is where the master returns to the stage and effortlessly proves he can still rock like the very devil himself, when his hearts' in it. Where he brushes aside pretenders to the throne like flies from his countenance. AFI and Tiger Army are slinking back to their condos in shame, as we speak.

While there is no John Christ here, there is a guitarist who knows how to do JCs schtick and add a little triple rectified muscle to it. Glenn played bass himself, like he probably did on alot of the Samhain records as well. The drums do not have the immediately identifiable Chuck Biscuits style, but serve the songs unobtrusively.

And what songs, bitches! It's like someone forced Glenn to listen to "Danzig 1 through 4" on repeat at gunpoint, then shoved a black Les Paul into his hand and told him to get on with the Lord's work.

"On A Wicked Night" is Led Zep meets Anton LaVey on steroids and muscle milk. "Hammer Of The Gods" is a slamming, pummeling chug along riff demon, squirming into your beating heart with razor sharp tentacles of, you know, like pain. "JuJu Bone" revisits the old backwoods, crossroads, devil blues with a fresh dollop of crunchy guitar smackdown added for flavor. There are no Elvis meets Hammer Horror, "Blood And Tears"/ "Sistinas" style ballads, but I'm hoping he'll bust one of those out on the next record. Fans of classics like "Twist Of Cain", "When The Dying Calls", "Am I Demon?" "Devil's Plaything" and "Killer Wolf" will no doubt be thrilled to the stitches on their black leather undergarments by these new tunes.

I still believe in Glenn Danzig. Because I don't care about Youtube videos, I don't care about comics depicting Glenn gettin' intimate with Henry Rollins, I don't care about people getting fat and going bald and having big egos. I care about music. Deeply. It's basically all I have, good peoples. And Danzig is back to making good music. You best believe it.

The Unbearable Swankness Of Being Unbearably Swank

So I haven't posted in awhile. I've been busy, but not busy enough to quiet the never ending voices of discontent in the old brain. It's true, I'm a man, and I cain't be satisfied, to paraphrase Dale Watson. I meant to spell it "Cain't". You just calm down, pal.

So a weekend trip to Austin, TX has informed my brain-thoughts recently. They have such a respect for country music there that the aforementioned Mr Watson (pictured) and other ridiculous talents like Junior Brown and Jesse Dayton can play five nights a week at various clubs and still expect a decent crowd each time they play. Of course, there are also thousands of other country artists struggling to eke out a meager living in Austin's busy hot spots. Popularity doesn't always equal talent, but in the case of Austin's most popular, it certainly seems like talent plus perseverance will get you a crowd anywhere you want to play on a Monday night.

Here in Boston, however, us Country type wanna bes have trouble even finding other musicians to play with. Oh, they're out there, but with day jobs, wives and girlfriends, and various stages of mental illness and depression, nobody's got time for shit. And of course, playing country covers on the shore is more lucrative financially than trying to form a tight band to play original(unproven)music.

But enough of my whining. DALE WATSON. This guy, he is amazing. He tosses out seemingly effortless country classics with every release, and he's been at it more or less non stop since the early 90s, despite a nervous breakdown, a divorce, and the death of a beloved girlfriend. Reportedly he did attempt to quit music in the mid 2000s, to move to Baltimore and drive a UPS truck. This didn't work out. High profile friends like Johnny Knoxville and Willie Nelson dragged him back to Austin (although I suppose there wasn't a whole lot of almost-persuasion needed)to keep the great man doing what he does best. Dale Watson as a singer-songwriter serves the world much better than Dale Watson as a husband, father and UPS driver ever would, one supposes.

Musically, he favors the 60s version of electrified country twang (Merle, Buck, Cash, more Merle), and lyrically, the man actually surpasses his idol Merle Haggard as a country Shakespeare writing almost-literary working class poems about whiskey, God, trucks, country music, jukeboxes, more whiskey, women and heartache. Basically, there's nothing else to write about.

If anyone ever has any doubt to whether the man lives the songs he writes, I can testify. When I saw him play, on a Monday night at the Continental on Austin's beautiful South Congress Ave., he lived up to all my expectations and more. Dale probably consumed three shots of whiskey and at least four beers within the span of the first seven songs. Still, his fingers never faltered on his battered Tomkins Telecaster copy, and if anything,his jokes got funnier. Of course, I was drinkin' too. However I can tell you that there was something both joyful and sad about the man in person. The music was miraculous. The band, which included Dale on vocals and guitar, as well as a drummer, an upright bassist, a fiddle player, a steel player, and a trumpet player (I think that's what it was), was tight and as effortlessly well rehearsed as only a band that plays five nights a week can be. This was Texas honky tonk music in all it's tears in yer beer glory.

As I've been a fan of the man's records for years, I've grown accustomed to seeing him in my head as he appears in his promo pictures and on his CD covers. There, he looks like a young Merle Haggard with just a little bit less resigned world-weariness and a little more rockabilly menace. In person however, his gray-white pompadour, grinning slouch and cuffed rockabilly jeans convey more of a Marlon Brando circa "The Wild Ones" vibe, albeit a bit more aged, drunk, and dissolute. In short, the man looks like what he is: the epitome of the honky tonk singer. Not as they've ever existed in real life, but as you picture them in your head, if you romanticize such things, and I sure do.

Another difference between country music in Boston and Austin: People actuallydance. In front of the stage, the floor was crowded with twirling Texas two steppers, as much a part of the show as the band and songs themselves. Here in Boston, even if it's a great show and people are enjoying it, you'll see a lot of folded arms and nodding heads in front of the stage, a few feet back, so as not to appear too eager.

While in Austin I also got to see an artist that I have seen a couple times in Boston, the inimitable Junior Brown. Here's another guy who's been on the alt-country scene forever and a day. Every time I've seen him, he's been confoundingly brilliant, but here in Austin in front of a hometown crowd, he was positively transcendent. The addition of his wife on acoustic rhythm guitar and harmony vocals (ala Johnny and June or Merle/Buck and Bonnie)gave the show some cute down home feeling that was absent from the Boston shows I've seen him play.



His ability to whip out pretty much any country classic one would require on cue certainly hasn't faded since I saw him last. His knack for blending virtuso playing with punk rock abandon all the while channeling the ghosts of Chet Atkins and Jimi Hendrix hasn't let up much either. His earnest, Ernest Tubb like baritone still carries the show, while his violent outbursts of guitar and steel guitar still amaze and delight. But this was Austin not Boston and there was something special about this night for me, even if it was just another evening in a honky tonk and a paycheck for him.

There's no one like Junior Brown in Country music, rockabilly or rock and roll. the fact that this man isn't a household name is a sign of the shameful times we live in where video games have come to mean more to people than music. Skinny jean hipster indie rock could never, ever carry the emotional weight that this 50 something man effortlessly carries on his black suited shoulder. This cat has more heart felt energy per song than a room full of Brooklyn based indie rockers could muster in their entire careers.

Anyway, vacations end, and I returned to the grind of work and of Boston itself. What a segue.Anyhoo, this is where I sought comfort.



It's been out awhile, but being prohibitively priced, I didn't get around to grabbing a copy till recently. I also kinda figured that being the rockabilly nerd that I am, I'd heard most of these songs. Not so. Even the songs I have heard time and time again gained quite a bit from the addition of the 50s JD exploitation movie ads that are peppered throughout the track listing, and the company of all the other amazing rockabilly obscurities.

Throwing this stuff in my iPod was something like getting sprayed with cold water on a sweltering day. All the weepy, fatalistic country music I had been listening to was washed away in favor of the razor sharp guitars and echo-laden good time lyrics of 50s rockabilly. By injecting the blues and RnB into the earthy working class twang of country music, all of the famous and unsung artists that grace this 4 CD compilation changed popular music, social reality, race relations, and the very fabric of the world we live in. They did this just by greasing their hair, turning up loud, and playing chords they learned on the wrong side of the honky tonk tracks.

It's some of the most fun, funny and life affirming music ever etched onto wax. Songs like the effervescent "Love Bug Crawl" by Jimmy Edwards and "Suzi Q" by Dale Hawkins cannot possibly fail to make your worldview a bit brighter, at least for three minutes while the song plays.

Some of these artists went on to worldwide fame (Elvis, Jerry Lee, Carl, Orbison) and some went back to the farms and factories, having had their fun. Doesn't matter. Every song on here is a winner, and whether the performer ended up in the main house or the poor house, what was left behind is what matters. The songs. The energy. The melding of black and white music, the melding of cultures and the rejection of musical and cultural divisions.

And never mind all that, even. The music rocked.

Sometimes I wonder why I, and so many others, reject the "new", "now" sounds that assault our lives on a daily basis in favor of the old forgotten relics of the past. Sure, it's just personal taste, but it's more than that. Early American morality was restrictive and stifling. Every aspect of human nature that wasn't so next to Godliness was rejected as outright evil, back in the day. Rock and roll and the melding of culture changed that. And that was good.

Now, however, 60 years on, the idea of right and wrong has mutated into pretty much an "anything goes" philosophy. Morality's rules have given way to an all out acceptance of almost anything. Maybe we've gone too far. Maybe having morals and standards isn't so bad, as long as we understand that not everything, not everyone, can be seen in such a black and white light. Maybe the great relaxation of strict morality that came with the advent of rock and roll was a good thing, but the great giving up of any kind of idea of right and wrong that has happened in the last forty years isn't so great. Maybe somewhere in between is where we want to be. Maybe I'm drunk.

Anyway that's my frickin' Blog. God I miss fanzines. Anyway, check out Dale Watson and Junior Brown on Youtube and via their records. Anyone in the Boston area that wants to play some house rockin' country music, let me know. I'm still out there in the wilderness lookin' for a toilet. Thank You and good afternoon.