From one disco legend to another, Nile Rodgers has just posted this to his Facebook wall, saying:

“Our pre-CHIC tribute to the Bee Gees “You Should Be Dancing.” Robin Gibb RIP”

The Big Apple Band was indeed Rodgers’ pre-Chic project, and are not to be confused with composer Walter Murphy’s disco outfit of the same name. The sound of The Big Apple Band is rawer and grittier than either Chic or the Bee Gees (even though the Chic rhythm section of Rodgers on guitar, Bernard Edwards on bass and Tony Thompson on drums are all present and correct).

Rodgers says this of the Big Apple Band (who have another clip, this time performing Earth Wind And Fire’s “Get Away,” here):

It’s The Big Apple Band, which is us pre-CHIC playing live in a video recording studio. It was made by Kenny Lehman, the co-writer of CHIC’s debut single “Dance, Dance, Dance.” Kenny was also a booking agent who was trying to get us gigs doing high-school proms. We never got one prom gig but did lots of gigs on the chittlin’ circuit, and the seeds of CHIC were being planted.

In my memoir “Le Freak,” I tell how Bernard and I were developing into sophisto-funkers while others around us weren’t quite convinced. Notice that only he and I are wearing suits while our band mates are more Rock & Roll casual. The band was forced to change its name after composer/arranger/producer extraordinaire Walter Murphy, had major success with a great disco reworking of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. He called it “A Fifth of Beethoven” by Walter Murphy and the Big Apple Band.

It’s been a bad few weeks for fans of disco and soul, with the passing of Donna Summer, Donald Dunn and now Robin Gibb. Rodgers himself has been very ill recently with cancer (which he writes about movingly on his blog), so here’s hoping he’s not added to that list.

And here’s a great testament ot the songwriting genius of the brothers Gibb. Rest In Peace Robin: 

The Big Apple Band “You Should Be Dancing”:
 

 
Photography, says Scot Sothern, wasn’t so much an interest, when he was growing-up, as something he was born into. His father owned a photographic studio, for portraits of weddings and baptisms; and Scot’s earliest memory is tied to a photograph.

‘My first clear memory correspond to a photograph and because of that I’m not sure if it’s a memory I would even have if not for the photograph to ring the memory bell in my head.

‘My father was a photographer with a wedding and portrait studio in the Missouri Ozarks and back in the fifties when I was about four years old cowboys were all the rage for boy tots like myself and portraits of little boys dressed in cowboy drag became de rigueur. I remember we were out on a farm and my dad wanted to set me on a rail fence, I guess the way cowboys were supposed to do. Anyway, it was too high and I didn’t trust my balance and freaked out when my dad set me there and so he had to take me down and let me stand in front of the fence instead. I remember him being irritated that I was acting like a pussy.’

Last year, Scot released Lowlife, a collection of his photographs and writing of his experiences amongst prostitutes in the 1980s:

’When I pulled off the freeway into San Diego, I had a single twenty dollar bill in my wallet. My car, a 1973 Toyota station wagon, rattled my teeth and died in idle. At stops I had to divide my right foot: heel on the brake, toes revving the accelerator. I had barely enough gas to get back to Los Angeles.

‘On El Cajon Boulevard I drove slowly and studied the street walkers. In their eyes I could see desperation-induced madness, premature death. In my eyes they could see my craving for the nasty little secret I kept from friends and family. I could give my twenty dollars to any one of these women. I could buy a quick sex fix and she could buy enough crack to put a smile on her face for an hour or so.

‘In the passenger seat, belted and buckled, frail and beautiful, my four-year-old son, Dashiell, slept curled around his best friend, a pillow-sized stuffed facsimile of Hulk Hogan. It was Sunday night and my weekend with my little boy was over.

‘When we arrived at his mother’s house, Dash awoke. He cried and clung tightly, arms around my neck. He didn’t want me to go. His mother Sylvia, my ex-wife, was happy to see me go, but first she wanted money. I made lame excuses. She called me a jerk and pried our son from my embrace. I took my twenty dollars and drove back to El Cajon Boulevard.’

 

 
More from Scot Sothern, after the jump…
 

 
During its limited theatrical release in 1983 Rock & Rule was discounted by critics and ignored by audiences. But over the past three decades it has steadily gained a cult following, particularly among movie geeks who get a thrill out of watching anthropomorphic animals singing new wave songs.

With its amusing cyberpunk plot, clever direction by Clive Smith and a pretty fine soundtrack by Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, Cheap Trick, Debbie Harry and Earth, Wind and Fire, Rock & Rule kept me engaged and entertained for the duration of its tight 77 minute running time…which is saying quite a bit considering I have little patience for animated movies. And it’s hard not to like a movie featuring an evil Mick Jagger in the form of a large cat-like humanoid.

If you like Ralph Bakshi and Heavy Metal, you should get a kick out of Rock & Rule.
 

 
Robin Gibb passed away today (May 20) after a long brave struggle with cancer. While we all suspected it was only a matter of time, his death still hits hard. The fact that Gibb managed to keep death at bay as long as he did is testimony to the man’s inner strength and courage. It almost looked like he might beat the disease. After all, he had done it once before. But it was not to be.

Spirits Having Flown is a NBC TV special (named after the Bee Gees 1979 album) that was filmed during the height of their Saturday Night Fever fame. The show includes interviews with David Frost, the group at work in the studio and live performances, including guest appearances by Willie Nelson and Glen Campbell.

Spirits Having Flown  is lightweight but energetic fun. It’s also been hard to find, having never been released on VHS or DVD. By no means a great document (it was produced by Robert Stigwood), it still provides enough moments of Bee Gee goodness, both on and off the stage, to please fans and admirers of the Bee Gees’ music - classic pop songs that transcend trends and will endure.
 

 
Here’s a little something from the Dangerous Minds archives:

Undeniably influenced by the West Coast psychedelia of The Jefferson Airplane, New York’s The Group Image released one album in 1968, A Mouth In The Clouds, that managed to go largely ignored by critics and rock fans. Despite having a wild stage show and a dynamic lead singer in Sheila Darla, the band received little national exposure.

The Group Image played for two years in various locations in Manhattan, NYC, including its own productions / shows at the Palm Gardens, and the Cheetah Club, and shows with the Grateful Dead in Central Park and the Fillmore East, and other outdoor shows in parks such as Tompkins Square Park in the East Village.”

While Sheila Darla shares some of Grace Slick’s hippie allure and a similarity in vocal style, her stage performance bears a striking resemblance to Patti Smith rather than the cool and collected Slick. One wonders if Patti ever saw Darla in action.

Time Magazine reviewed A Mouth In The Clouds in their November 18, 1968 issue. I don’t know who the reviewer is, but it’s amusing how hard he/she tries to get down with hipster lingo. “Liquid Eden” indeed.

This is the first recording by the Manhattan hippie tribe that has been turning on with sound and light in a couple of off-Broadway ballrooms; it will soon open its own permanent ballroom in the East Village. The five-man band has a driving, express-train beat, and a sharp and shimmering harmony, and a high voltage singer named Sheila. Their sound is all their own, but there are some familiar touches of The Lovin’ Spoonful (Grew Up All Wrong) and Jefferson Airplane (Banana Split). In Banana Split, two electronic zaps project the listener, as through a time warp, into a liquid Eden of tinkling bells and clicking percussion. The Group Image calls it the Twinkie Zone, and it’s a pretty good place to be.

By the end of the video, the band erupts in a punk rock frenzy worthy of the Plasmatics.

Presenting The Group Image performing “Hiya,” featuring my new obsession Sheila Darla.
 

 
The fact that The King’s Speech beat The Social Network for best picture at the 83rd Academy Awards is another example of artsy acing art.

Colin Firth, a very fine actor, won kudos and an Oscar for his role as King George VI. The Academy loves to give awards to actors who play characters who struggle with physical or mental disorders.

Here’s Firth’s award-winning stutters and stammers. And with all due respect to people who stutter, the video’s cumulative effect is quite funny. I don’t think the intent of this montage is to make fun of people who stammer as much as it is a poke at the movie or simply an amusing tone poem.
 

 
Via Supercut.

 
On the occasion of Facebook’s IPO, someone decided to spend a ton of money making a really stomach churning video.

At first I thought the “Thank You Facebook Song” was an elaborate, well-executed parody, but it looks like it’s for real.  The song is the brainchild of motivational speaker Deborah Torres Patel and musician Gianluca Verrengia and if you check out their web pages, there’s not a hint of irony in anything they do. This not a Spinal Tappish anthem created by a bunch of jaded fucks at the Onion. In this case, what you see is what you get. And what you get is enough to gag a garbage disposal.

So wrong in so many ways. Waiting for the auto-tune version.
 

Joey Ramone in Denver with my friend Eric. 1977.
 
Okay, if you follow my posts on Dangerous Minds you know I’m a hardcore Ramones fan. Along with The Clash, Patti Smith and Television, the Ramones defibrillated my rock n’ roll heart in 1976 with their debut record - 14 songs pounded out in under 30 minutes.

With the exception of some glam bands, reggae, jazz cats and old blues re-issues, I wasn’t listening to music in the early 70s as fervently as I had during the psychedelic Sixties. But the year 1976 changed all that. When it came to rock n’ roll it was a very good year. And The Ramones first record made it a very very very good year. I was so knocked out by the “brothers” from Queens, that I started my own punk band, The Ravers, and a year later opened for The Ramones in a small club in Denver.

In 1977, The Ravers re-located to New York City and I spent almost every night at either CBGB or Max’s and my band played both clubs countless times. It was inevitable that I’d come to know Joey Ramone. While we were by no means best friends, we did share more than a few beers with each other and passionately exchanged our views on the one thing that mattered most to us: rock music.

Joey was a shy guy, almost painfully so. But if you gained his trust and he got comfortable with you, he was a wonderful person to talk to - smart, with a dry sense of humor and a sweet disposition. I liked him…a lot. And I miss him and Johnny and Dee Dee profoundly.

When rock n’ roll is your religion, as it is mine, you feel a deep debt to the indispensably essential artists who rescue the music during those critical times when a combination of greed, narrowmindedeness and apathy threaten to destroy what means so much to you. I measure my life not in years but in increments rooted in memories of a string of epiphanies related to rock, sex, drugs, books and movies.

I have forgotten so much over the years. But there are things I’ll never forget, things wrapped around my DNA tighter than a cock ring on John Holmes’ pecker: my first fuck, my first introduction to Kerouac’s On The Road, the first time I saw El Topo, my first acid trip, my daughter’s birth (definitely a rock n’ roll moment), and the first time I heard The Ramones. Like gods hovering over Olympian mountains, these memories loom large in my brain and lodge themselves in my body like invisible visceral tattoos.

It may sound shallow to admit to such a pop culture oriented theosophy, but I’m a shallow motherfucker and, as much as I’d like to think otherwise, I’m heavy into the cheap thrills that keep my prick hard, my heart pumping and fuel the ongoing urge to get up in the morning.

Some people draw spiritual sustenance from Jesus and Mohamed. Some from a diet of brown rice and bean sprouts. Others get off on yoga asanas and mega-doses of vitamin B. And then there are the freaks like me who find God in the almighty power chord that resonates thru my flesh and bones transforming my being into a 190 pound tuning fork made of meat, blood and cum. Hallelujah! 

Happy birthday Joey Ramone, you’re a fuckin’ god!
 

 
New Directions recently re-issued Patti Smith’s book of poems Woolgathering, which has been out-of-print for almost 20 years. The new edition contains a previously unpublished autobiographical short story called “Two Worlds.”

Woolgathering is an evocation of Smith’s childhood and early days in New York City delivered in sensuous prose that flutters at the edge of consciousness like the iridescent wings of a Luna moth. The writing is vivid, intoxicating and haunted.

“I had a ruby.  Imperfect, beautiful like faceted blood.  It came from India where they wash up on the shore.  Thousands of them—the beads of sorrow.  Little droplets that somehow became gems gathered by beggars who trade them for rice.  Whenever I stared into its depths I felt overcome, for caught within my little gem was more misery and hope than one could fathom.”

In the video below, Patti reads from Woolgathering and shares memories of growing up in Jersey and New York. She is, as usual, totally charming.

This was shot at my favorite bookstore on the planet, the Strand. For 25 years I lived just a few blocks from the Strand and would spend at least 10 hours a week there hunting and gathering. I have the books to prove it. Thousands of them.
 

 
Documentarian Richard B. Weide likes to focus on the lives of comedians in his films and in Lenny Bruce he has powerful material to work with. Combining rare archival footage and interviews with Lenny’s mother Sally Marr, ex-wife Honey, daughter Kitty, Paul Krassner, Nat Hentoff and Steve Allen, Lenny Bruce: Swear to Tell the Truth manages to be both richly informative and emotionally engaging. It’s a terrific movie.

With lean narration by Robert De Niro, Weide digs deep into the life of a comedian prophet driven to an early death by drugs and a government hellbent on shutting his mouth. Bruce was a punk Jesus who railed against hypocrisy and injustice with the low key deadliness of a man armed with the truth and a razor blade tongue.