I guess this popped up in YouTube because Rollins is something of a spoken word poet, like Maggie Estep, subject of a previous post.
Rollins has the virtue of big muscles, a fearless conceptualization and a clear voice, which makes even fairly mundane ideas like this one come alive as music and expression.
In other words, good fun.
Maggie Estep died yesterday in Hudson NY of a heart attack. She was 50.
I vaguely remember her as a spoken word poet sort back in the 90s, but not much about her but her name. But her obituary in today’s Times says that this song became popular after it was featured and mocked on Beavis and Butthead.
I think that’s kind of amazing.
That’s the coolest tombstone I’ve ever seen (surely you guys can read that musical score). When Peter reminded us of how bad Alice Cooper became as a solo artist, it reminded me of how really good the Alice Cooper band was. A decent chunk of that really goodness was guitarist Glen Buxton, who veered off the path and died years ago already.
I ran into this excellent article on his life a few weeks ago and I’m sharing it now:
Iconic.
I was listening to Mott the Hoople today and came across this old elpee bit, which has this darling segue from American Pie to what is really a Bob Seger stomp.
Experience it here:
I was an Alice Cooper fan when I aspired to be Eighteen. I remember reading the Rolling Stone profile of Alice that centered on a golf course and a limitless supply of Michelobs, and that was the dream. I loved golf and I drank beer, both as much as I could, just like Alice Cooper.
Fast forward 15 or so years, and Alice lands on a song that he can deliver, while it delivers pretty much every crap hair band cliche in the world. That Alice Cooper turned this into a hit is a tribute to his theatricality (gotta love the red flag flying in the video as well as all the skin) and a really good hook from Desmond Childs. But in the end, crap is crap. So be it.
This is the legendary MC5 rock doc, A True Testimonial. I finally watched it a couple weeks ago. It’s fantastic. I learned a lot, particularly about the end days of the MC5. In fact, I think this now tops It Might Get Loud as my favorite rock doc of all-time. I’ve heard it’s available from Netflix, but options are truly limited. Youtube is your quickest and easiest bet. Or you could buy the DVD on Amazon for $299.99 (I’m serious). My guess is you 1960s guys will get a big boner watching this. Kick out the jams, Barbara Stanwyck!
This month my favorite TV network, TCM, is having their annual “31 Days of Oscar” leading up to the actual awards ceremony (to which I am fairly indifferent). During that span every film TCM shows has at least been nominated for an Oscar, and most have won at least one.
TCM is a treasure trove of cinematic brilliance, with the bulk of their offerings focusing on the heyday of the studio system in the 30’s and 40’s.
One of the standards in those movies was to toss in a song. Which is why in the middle of a dark and brilliant Noir film, like The Big Sleep, we see Lauren Bacall singing at a speakeasy operated by gangster Eddie Mars (he is to this film, sort of what Jackie Treehorn was to Lebowski).
So, this morning I was working with TCM on in the background when Howard Hawks’ (who also made The Big Sleep, and my favorite Screwball Comedy, Bringing Up Baby) Ball of Fire came on.
Written by Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder, the film is a great Screwball Comedy that deconstructs Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, placing the setting in Manhattan in the early 40’s, with Stanwyck playing the moll Sugarpuss O’Shea to Gary Cooper’s English professor Bertram Potts (Cooper is one of eight sheltered eggheads working on an encyclopedia).
A few other things:
Back to the movie, as part of the set-up, Cooper/Potts takes to the streets fearing his grasp of slang is already outdated, and happens upon O’Shea at a night club (he also goes to a ball game and gets some good slang there).
O’Shea is the singer at the club, and though her singing and the song are marginal, Gene Krupa and his big band are just deadly. So is the piano player and the guy who does the sax solo. Funny too, cos playing guitar was just a minor rhythm instrument, as you can see in most films of this ilk.
Anyway, Canned Heat et al all owe their boogie chops to this great scene.
And, just for fun, after the big number, Krupa and Stanwyck reprise the song with Krupa playing matchsticks instead of drumsticks.
I believe my experiment with death metal is over for now. I’ve played Entombed’s Wolverine Blues at least five times through and I’m waiving the white flag. I chose this album because it’s arguably the most important “death ‘n’ roll” album ever. I figured death ‘n’ roll might wean me eventually into straight death, but no such luck. I do enjoy the album to some extent when listening to it, but, admittedly, it’s a real challenge to stick it into the CD player. And I feel exhausted when it’s over. The unfortunate conclusion is, too much death, not enough ‘n’ roll. Be aware that I tried similar failed experiments with jazz and Frank Sinatra earlier on in my music science career.
I leave you with the opening song, Eyemaster. Please stick around until at least 1:30, so you experience the groovy ‘n’ roll riff.
Found this earlier today and can’t get its ferociousness out of my head.
