We’ve all seen our share of punk rock docs. Decline, Another State of Mind, DOA, Urgh! I thought I’d watched just about everything at this point. But, as the saying goes - “Ask a punk.”
Having grown up in West Los Angeles myself, I can’t help but watch The Slog Movie and feel just a little bitter. I wanted that to be my youth. None of this Bird scooter, Snapchat, Tinder, bullshit. No one even hangs out at Oki-Dog anymore (nor should they). But at least someone was around to capture this moment-in-time sliver of punk rock magic. And that someone was future filmmaker Dave Markey, of We Got Power! fanzine fame.
Filmed entirely on Super 8, the 1982 film chronicles the lifestyles of the young LA punks who frequented the slam pits of the burgeoning SoCal hardcore scene. Low budget and entirely raw, humorous, and sometimes anarchic, the video fanzine-style doc serves up a blend of segments, candid interviews and genre-defining performances by those nonchalant forefathers of the period, like Black Flag (their first show with Rollins), Circle Jerks, Fear, Wasted Youth, Red Kross, and TSOL. There is also a cameo by Pat Smear hanging at Oki-Dog, scenes from “The Punk Shack” and the fabled Cuckoo’s Nest, punks at the Santa Monica Pier, an advertisement for Black Flag skate decks, “A Day in the life of a punk,” and a little trip up North with Markey’s teenage band, Sin 34.
The Slog Movie at once captures the substrata of L.A. 1st generation hardcore by hanging out with it in the backyards and empty matinee gigs it crashes around in. As there is only so much fun in tracking the brattitude of a band like Symbol Six, Dave creates vignettes of satirical attack on the inanity of lame rock culture like Ted Nugent. And booking the confounding and completely rocking Red Cross at an outdoor show on the Santa Monica Pier is a moment where real creative punk and poser punk is separated.
Watch ‘The Slog Movie’ in its punk entirety below:
“Bring her back / Drag her by her hair / Bring her back / The devil don’t care.”
I pat myself on the back because I jumped aboard the Adia Victoria train pretty early on—I’d read about her in a local free paper about a month before her debut album was released, dialed her up on Soundcloud and then I saw her play in a small club a few weeks after it came out—but by then Rolling Stone had already seen her coming. After releasing just one song she was selected for their “10 New Artists You Need to Know” roundup. She appeared on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert almost immediately.
I guess you could say that Adia Victoria is pretty hard to miss.
A single spin of the 21st century blues of her Beyond the Bloodhounds and, man, I was hooked on that album. What an original voice! What an amazingly tight band. Her lyrics stand on their own as poetry. Surely I’m not the only one who has noticed how gorgeous she is. And she can play rhythm guitar like Keith-fucking-Richards. Adia Victoria is the complete package. It’s difficult to appraise her talents and not conclude that she is an icon in the making, or even an icon fully-formed and just waiting for the public to catch up to her. She is going to be huge and she’s going to be around for a very long time. I can’t think of a stronger talent to emerge since… since I do not know who. Several people come to mind, but all from past decades.
Silences is the name of her second album. The first thing I want to say, right up front here, is that it is goddamned amazing. The second thing I want to get across is how different it is from its shithot predecessor. Beyond the Bloodhounds roared along like Charley Patton sitting in with the Gun Club fronted by Billie Holiday with a hellhound on her trail. Silences isn’t that. It’s a different animal entirely. Oh trust me, it could have been a sophomore effort showing but a bare minimum of artistic growth and I’d still be right here right now raving about it, but it’s not as much of a guitar-based blues this time. This time it’s even more sophisticated and certainly the arrangements are more complex, but to be clear I’m not trying to convey that it is actually a better album than her debut.
It’s the equal of it and you need to hear both.
On Silences, the lady is most assuredly still singing the blues, but she is doing it very, very differently from the way she did it on her 2016 debut. That album was swampy and it rocked out. Silences, as the title might indicate to you, isn’t that. The same amazing voice, the same extremely high quality of wordsmithery, the same sense of heightened drama, the touches of evil, the tension she is so good at evoking are there in the same measure—all very good things—but the sonic palette expands here dramatically to incorporate piano, strings, synthesizers, a horn section and other “serious artist” (and larger budget) embellishments. Victoria co-produced the album with Aaron Dessner of The National at his studio in upstate New York.
When an artist can plug so very directly into the source of the blues as Adia Victoria can, this is not a well of inspiration that’s likely to ever go dry. She’s got a quite a bit of the same artistic essence I find in Nick Cave’s work. That is a mighty goddamned statement to make about someone with but two albums under her belt, but I feel compelled to make it. She earns it. This is an artist who I would follow anywhere. When Adia Victoria writes a novel, I’m gonna read it. When she’s acting in a film, I’m going to watch it. She’s just that good.
Adia Victoria is about to finish up a short support tour for Silences, but I expect she’ll be back on the road soon enough, and on the festival circuit. Miss this truly great young artist at the beginning of her career and one day you will regret it.
In 1958, tenor saxophonist John Coltrane made quite the impression with his soloing on the song, “Russian Lullaby.” His work on this track was so impressive that it inspired jazz critic, Ira Gitler, to coin a phrase to describe Trane’s groundbreaking, frantic style: “sheets of sound”.
“Russian Lullaby” is an Irving Berlin composition from 1927, and was initially performed by singer Douglas Stanbury. Written to be played at a relaxed tempo, a swinging, 1939 instrumental rendition by big band leader Bunny Berigan upped the pace considerably.
John Coltrane’s version is the closing number on his 1958 album, Soultrane. The LP was recorded was recorded by Rudy Van Gelder at his home studio, which was located in the living room of his parents’ house in Hackensack, New Jersey.
Photo credit: Rudy Van Gelder/the Rudy Van Gelder Estate.
In excerpts from the liner notes for the upcoming box set, Coltrane ‘58: The Prestige Recordings, writer Ashley Kahn walks us through Coltrane’s head-turning “Russian Lullaby”:
Surprise factors into the presentation in a big way: a conventional, consciously elegant introduction by pianist Red Garland (Coltrane’s fellow sideman in Miles Davis group at the time) hits an exaggerated downbeat and suddenly the tempo shifts as drummer Art Taylor resets the pace with a furious hi-hat pattern. Coltrane leaps into the tune, blistering his way through the melody and into his ensuing improvisation as stunning in its ceaseless urgency as it is in the fluid, extended patterns of sixteenth notes that wash over and into the ears in a manner most unlike the “melodic propulsion” most members of the jazznoscenti favored. It demanded a letting go of expectations, and an aural generosity.
After Coltrane was done, gone was the lull in the lullaby, the original mood and message of Berlin’s song. But he had one more thing to say—all in a brief, explosive unaccompanied cadenza near the end of the tune.
In a mere thirty seconds starting at 4:57, Coltrane outshone the fury of his prior solo, and gave this new improvisation its own character, developing ideas in its breathless flow. His lines shoot skyward and he brings them back gently: rhythmically in control, emotionally on point. It wasn’t merely the speed of the statement; the first ten-second stretch contains almost 90 notes. It was the bravado and the knowledge: the amount of harmonic information being conveyed and the soulful precision of articulation.
Here’s the newly remastered “Russian Lullaby, ” from Coltrane ’58:
The 5-CD/8-LP box will be released on March 29th by the Craft Recordings label. Pre-order Coltrane ’58: The Prestige Recordings via Amazon; bundle packages are available on Craft’s website. The set contains every track Trane recorded for Prestige as band leader or co-leader in 1958.
In 1961, John Coltrane scored a hit with his interpretation of the Rodgers and Hammerstein show tune, “My Favorite Things.” Trane’s cover of The Sound of Music number became a signature song for him, and is a classic. Here’s Coltrane and his group performing “My Favorite Things” on the Belgium TV program, Jazz Pour Tous, in 1965:
On May 1 what is probably the ultimate piece of Soft Cell memorabilia will be published by Chris Smith’s Renegade Music in a strictly limited edition of 1300. To Show You I’ve Been There… is a 176-page oversized coffee table book featuring images of Marc Almond and Dave Ball taken throughout their forty year history, from the nightclubs of the north of England in the late 70s all the way to their sold out farewell performance at the 02 Arena last year. Photographer Peter Ashworth, who shot several album covers and publicity shots for the band has opened up his archives for the project, which include his contact sheets and fantastic early live performance shots. Additional photographs from Peter Anderson, Tony Mottram, Justin Thomas and many others round out the exhaustively compiled book. Each photograph is accompanied by comments and context from Marc and/or Dave.
Exclusive to the book is also a 7” clear vinyl EP (or digital download) of three recently re-recorded early Soft Cell numbers (and a cover of Fad Gadget’s “Back to Nature”) titled Magick Moments which has a cover drawing by Dave Ball. The book will never be reprinted and the record will never be repressed independent of the book. You can preorder To Show You I’ve Been There…HERE.
In anticipation of the book’s publication, I asked Soft Cell’s Dave Ball some questions over email.
The Mini-Korg 800 DV, Dave’s first synth.
First I wanted to ask you about recording in New York. It’s nearly impossible to truly convey just how jaw-droppingly insane NYC was in early 1980s to someone who who didn’t experience it. What was your first reaction upon arriving in the city?
NYC was a crazy place back in the early 80s. I’d previously visited in 1978. The city was almost bankrupt and there was a heroin epidemic. They had one of the highest murder rates after Detroit.
How old were you then?
I was 18 years old when I first visited with my mum and sister.
Had you seen Taxi Driver before you got there?
It was about the same time Taxi Driver came out and walking in the evening was very reminiscent of the film – steam coming out of the potholes and Checker cabs everywhere.
Did New York live up to your expectations?
I thought it was like a very intense version of Soho in London. One morning I was walking down 42nd Street towards Times Square and a guy offered me a pistol for sale.
On the set of the ‘Enterian Me’ video shoot.
Marc’s predilection for sleazy situations is, of course, the stuff of legend—literal legends, quite an achievement that!—but what about you? What are some of the more notable things you saw or did in Times Square?
When I returned to the city three years later with Marc Almond and Stevo it was a totally different experience. We fully immersed ourselves in NY club culture. Apart from our usual hangout, Danceteria, other clubs we visited and sometimes frequented were Paradise Garage, the Roxy, the Ritz, the Peppermint Lounge, Berlin, the Red Parrot, Negril, the Mudd Club and Studio 54, of course. They were mainly dance clubs but we also discovered there were some very different clubs where they didn’t just play music but also got involved in lots of live sex action. One night we ended up in Manhattan’s meatpacking district and discovered a sex club called the Hellfire Club where there were people having various kinds of sex everywhere. I guarantee we never actively took part, we were just there as voyeurs. There were also predominantly gay clubs like the Mineshaft and the Anvil.
At the Factory with Andy Warhol in 1982
Tell me about meeting Andy Warhol.
When we met Andy Warhol at The Factory he was just as I expected – very quiet, creepy, old looking with a very limp handshake.
Where did you guys meet Divine?
We met Divine in a club called Danceteria. He was really pissed off and said he hated NY and wanted to go home to Baltimore.
The Roland CR 78, the “Tainted Love” beat machine.
I know that the debut album was recorded very quickly. What were the sessions like? How solidified was your sound before you went into studio for first album?
We worked at Mediasound Studios on West 57th St. from 11am ‘til 6pm everyday except weekends. We worked very fast as we knew all the material inside out. We’d been playing it live for the previous two years every week in clubs around the UK.
How conscious was the notion that you were making music for people who were on drugs to listen to? I feel like that’s an important part of what made the Soft Cell sound so powerful. Psychedelic isn’t the right word, but “druggy” is a step in the right direction, certainly.
We were experimenting with a lot of different drugs on the NY club scene – cocaine, quaaludes, ecstasy, opium, acid, heroin, crystal meth & Special K (ketamine). Anyone wanting to read more should check out my forthcoming autobiography Electronic Boy coming out this summer from Omnibus Press.
Anita Sarko and Cindy Ecstasy at Danceteria
On his blog (Soft Cell producer) Mike Thorne says that he feels bad that Cindy Ecstasy is often described, unfairly he feels, as your drug dealer. That it was a more casual passing of drugs from one friend to another, but a friend of mine remembers her being at Danceteria and other clubs of that era and he says “No, she was definitely a drug dealer.” How did she enter your orbit?
Cindy Ecstasy’s contribution was great as it gave a little taste of the life we were living in NY. There have been all sorts of questions and answers about what became of her. The one that sounds the most plausible to me is she became a screenwriter in Hollywood, under a different name of course.
Cindy Ecstasy during downtime on the ‘Torch’ video shoot
The shots from the Non Stop album launch party at Danceteria look… rather interesting. What happened that night and who came to the party?
The NY launch party for Non Stop Erotic Cabaret was great. All the Manhattan clubbers were out in force. Some of the Warhol crowd, some John Waters people, notably Cookie Mueller who was a friend of my girlfriend, the late Anita Sarko. Mick Jones from The Clash was there and was very complimentary about us and a pre-famous Madonna was there doing her little dance routine as normal.
The Sound of Music ends with the von Trapp family’s escape from the Nazis through the Alps, crossing from annexed Austria into neutral Switzerland. Or that’s how the stage version ends; the closing shot of the 1965 film is ambiguous. In it, the von Trapps appear to be going in the wrong direction, fleeing into the Bavarian, rather than the Swiss, Alps.
In fact, the mountain at which Robert Wise chose to film the last shot of The Sound of Music was the Obersalzberg, the site of Hitler’s mountain retreat at Berchtesgaden. Once you recognize the location, the end of the movie takes on a horrible significance: as they hike up the Obersalzberg, singing “Climb Ev’ry Mountain (Reprise),” Georg and Maria von Trapp are leading their brood on a death march to the Nazis’ second headquarters. We can easily imagine these Hollywood von Trapps wandering too close to the Berghof after the last notes of the song have died in the chill air, and the camera, like the guilty eyes of Buñuel’s Christ in L’Age d’Or, has averted its gaze from earthly things.
Laibach’s new film “So Long, Farewell” begins with this cinematic wrong turn into horror. The group has been interpreting The Sound of Music since 2015, when, as the first Western (?) band ever to perform in North Korea, Laibach included a number of songs from the musical in their set. In this, the latest video from Laibach’s Sound of Music album, the singing family has not escaped the Nazis—note the swastika-shaped Christmas tree from John Heartfield’s “O Tannenbaum in deutschen Raum, wie krumm sind deine Äste!“ ripped from its parodic context, as a fir is cut from the earth—but, because it is a special time of year, the children are permitted to leave the basement for a few minutes to sing for the adults.
Speaking with a single voice, Laibach answered my questions about “So Long, Farewell” by email. The film follows our conversation below.
Please remind us why Laibach chose The Sound of Music for the performances in North Korea.
Laibach: Throughout our career we’ve been looking for an opportunity to sink our teeth into The Sound of Music. When we received an invitation to perform in Pyongyang, we knew the moment had finally arrived. The Sound of Music is probably the only piece of American pop culture that is not only allowed, but also actively promoted by North Korean authorities. For years now the musical has been part of their school curricula. It seemed only natural that we address the people of North Korea with something as universal as The Sound of Music, therefore we decided to create the concert program around our interpretations of the songs from this musical. The Sound of Music story really fits well into the North Korean situation and can be understood affirmatively, but also subversively – very much depending on the point of view.
It looks to me as if, in Laibach’s telling of The Sound of Music, the von Trapp family does not escape capture by the Nazis, and a sinister patriarch played by Ivan Novak takes the place of Baron von Trapp. The appearance of Milan Fras as the Reverend Mother further complicates the picture: does the abbess sanction this ghastly ménage by her presence? What is the scenario of the “So Long” video?
“So Long” is in fact more a short film than the music video. The original film is, of course, the first of all the apotheosis of Hollywood entertaining industry standards and clichés, but there are many – not even very well hidden – perverse twists in it, full of sexual and psychoanalytical connotations. Slavoj Žižek has a very thorough (and very Laibachian) observation, claiming that officially the film is in principle showing Austrian resistance to Hitler and the Nazis, but if you look at it closely, you see that the “Nazis are presented as an abstract cosmopolitan occupying power, and the Austrians are the good small fascists, so the implicit message is almost the opposite of the explicit message.” No wonder that Austrians officially don’t like this film much, or maybe they are only denying it on the surface and watching it secretly in their cellars. This “hidden reverse” may also be the reason why the movie was so extremely popular, Žižek argues, because it “addresses our secret fascist dreams.” (Which is an interesting assertion, considering most of the people who created the original musical were Jewish.) Catholicism, of course, plays a key role in The Sound of Music film, therefore it represents an important stance in the “So Long, Farewell” miniature as well. On the surface, Catholicism portrays itself as being all about harsh moral discipline and strict rules. But, under the surface, it provides opportunities for great license, including sexual license. You can have your cake (feeling righteous morally, identifying with this “morally strict” organization) and eat it too (providing opportunities to have fun and play around). According to Žižek the power of the film resides in its obscenely-direct staging of embarrassing intimate fantasies. The film’s narrative turns around resolving the problem stated by the nuns’ chorus in the introductory scene: “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” The proposed solution is the one mentioned by Freud in an anecdote: Penis normalis, zwei mal taeglich… Recall what is arguably the most powerful scene of The Sound of Music: after Maria escapes from the von Trapp family back to the monastery, unable to deal with her sexual attraction towards Baron von Trapp, she cannot find peace there, since she is still longing for the Baron; in a memorable scene, the Mother Superior summons her and advises her to return to the von Trapp family and try to sort out her relationship with the Baron. She delivers this message in a weird song “Climb Ev’ry Mountain!” whose surprising motif is: Do it! Take the risk and try everything your heart wants! Do not allow petty considerations to stand in your way! The uncanny power of this scene resides in its unexpected display of the spectacle of desire, an eros energumens which renders the scene literally embarrassing: the very person whom one would expect to preach abstinence and renunciation turns out to be the agent of the fidelity to one’s desire. In other words, Mother Superior effectively is a superego figure, but in Lacan’s sense, for whom the true superego injunction is “Enjoy!” But the real Maria and the real Baron didn’t marry because they loved each other; according to her autobiography they married only for the love of children.
Red is everywhere in this video: the mistletoe berries, the Reverend Mother’s rosary, the children’s Trumpian neckties, and the hot red light throughout. Instead of climbing to freedom in the snowy Alps at the end, it looks like the family descends into the fires of Hell. Does Laibach’s Sound of Music end in captivity and death?
Yes, in “So Long, Farewell,” the von Trapp family never escaped from the Hollywood Austria, annexed by Nazis. They were “trapped” and they just went a bit “underground.” Same in North Korea, people are trapped within the Pleasure Dome of North Korean controlled society (not that Western society is not controlled…). The Sound of Music certainly ends in captivity and death, like we all do.
When you first saw The Sound of Music, was the film censored or altered in any way? If Laibach were to censor the movie, what would you change?
We could in fact change the ending, that would give a different perspective to the whole film, but the scenario did loosely follow the real story of the von Trump family. We don’t recall that the film was censored anyhow when we saw it first time, but Žižek claims that the three minutes of the “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” song, with Mother Superior singing was in fact censored back then in Yugoslavia, as this is the most obscene moment in the movie.
“The von Trump family” is a wonderful parapraxis. When making this film, did Laibach draw inspiration from Mrs. Trump’s Christmas decorations at the White House?
Quite possible, especially if decorations in White House would be created as a classic Trumpian slip.
As far as I know, the few swastikas that appear in Laibach’s work come from the photomontages of the anti-fascist artist John Heartfield. In this case, it’s the swastika-shaped tree from Heartfield’s parodic poster announcing the Third Reich’s new “standard fir” for the holidays, a festive addition to the hearth of the von Trapp/Trump home. I wonder if, in the film, the proclamation of Heartfield’s poster has become a historical reality. In other words, is it mandatory for the family to display the “crooked” tree?
Using a straightforward reference to the classic Heartfield Christmas tree today would merely present the aesthetization of the subject, while the direct swastika-shaped tree becomes a mandatory festive background of historical reality, the aesthetization of a society that does not find it (very) problematic anymore.
Writing for Die Welt on the eve of Laibach’s first trip to North Korea, Slavoj Žižek discerned the image of the Josef Fritzl household in The Sound of Music. He argues that warmth, good cheer and sentimentality are not only compatible with brutal crimes, but hospitable to them; when Fritzl imprisoned his children in the basement and raped them, Žižek suggests, he did so with a merry song in his heart. Is there a place for bad conscience in kitsch?
Only if it is a bad kitsch. A good reference to this problem is also possible to detect in the Sharp Objects TV series, especially in its final episode.
Žižek also imagines the children attending an “upstairs reception in the Fritzl villa” where they sing “So Long, Farewell” before departing for bed, one by one. Is that where the idea for the film originated?
There are several different inspirations for the “So Long, Farewell” film miniature; there’s definitely The Sound of Music itself – a film full of latent sexuality within the patriarchal (and matriarchal) musical family with structural elements of fascism, then there’s an ultimate model of utopian, communist/religious (very musical) state, nominally led by the supreme Kim Dynasty, and finally there is a reference to the extreme case of Josef and Rosemarie Fritzl’s family from Austria – a raw model to the similar families around the world, potentially including some famous ones within political and entertainment/musical spheres as well.
Laibach’s The Sound of Music is out on Mute Records, and Morten Traavik’s documentary Liberation Day follows the band’s travels in North Korea. (Also of note, Laibach fans: MIT Press’ excellent book NSK from Kapital to Capital includes a contribution from Alexei Yurchak, the scholar who coined the term “hypernormalisation.”)
Things could have been so different for Sweet. On the verge of escaping their bubble gum pop/Glam Rock image to showcase their real talents as a hard rock band by supporting the Who at Charlton Athletic’s football ground in 1974, lead singer Brian Connolly was kicked in the throat by three thugs outside a bar in Staines, Sussex. Connolly had stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes. He thought the trio of ne’er-do-wells were about to trash his automobile when they set on him. Some thought it an act of wanton violence. Others, including the band’s bass player Steve Priest believe it was something “much more sinister.”
“It was a set-up job,” Priest says. “He’d annoyed someone. There were three guys attacking him and one of them kicked him in the throat. Brian heard him say, ‘That should do the job.’ The only one who knows the truth is an ex-roadie of ours, and he won’t tell.”
Connolly’s vocal cords were permanently damaged by the attack. He lost his confidence and started drinking heavily and taking drugs. The band pulled out of their gig with the Who. It was the beginning of the end of the Sweet. Connolly’s drinking led him to quit the band in 1979.
Sweet was always a hard rock band, despite the evidence of their poppier hit songs. Listen to some of the B-sides like “New York Connection” or “Rock and Roll Disgrace” on their classic hit singles and you’ll get a good idea where the group’s heart truly lay. Sweet was a long-haired denim and leather band. They should have been seen like Deep Purple, Judas Priest, early Queen (who on more than one occasion sound distinctly like Sweet) or even KISS. But Sweet tied themselves into an almost Faustian deal for pop fame with songwriters Mike Chapman and Nicky Chinn. This meant they were packaged as bubblegum/glam rockers with songs like “Funny Funny,” “Coco,” “Wig Wam Bam,” and “Little Willy.” Not that there’s much wrong with these tracks but they’re more suited to the Archies than say Ritchie Blackmore. Chinn and Chapman got nearer Sweet’s mark with “Ballroom Blitz” and “Blockbuster,” but they’re still not the full-on rock power of the group’s own songs like “Someone Else Will”—the uncensored version with the lyrics: “If we don’t fuck you, then someone else will”—or “Done Me Wrong All Right.”
Many of their fans recognized Sweet’s true potential as a hard rocking band, as did Pete Townshend who invited them to support the Who. But a kick to Connolly’s throat put paid to that. What’s also overlooked is the quality of Sweet’s musicianship: Andy Scott’s god-like guitar playing; Steve Priest’s heavy, heavy bass; and the sheer brilliance of Mick Tucker—whose innovation and style owes more to Gene Krupa than John Bonham—on drums.
At the frenzied height of their fame, Christmas 1973, Sweet played the Rainbow Theater, London. It ranks as one of the best concerts ever put down on tape—even if Tucker’s snare drums were missing from the multi-track recording and later dubbed in. It showcases the band’s ability to play bubble gum pop for the teenybop fans and high-octane rock for the more discerning listener. The choice tracks are the band’s self-penned numbers like “Burning”/“Someone Else Will,” “Rock ‘n’ Roll Disgrace,” “Need a Lot of Loving,” “Done Me Wrong Alright,” and “You’re Not Wrong For Loving Me.”
Part of this concert was released on Sweet’s double album Strung Up in 1975, before getting a full release on Live at the Rainbow 1973 in 1999. Take a listen and hear how great the kings of glam rock were as a balls-to-the-walls live band.
Set List: Intro—“The Stripper,” “Hellraiser,” “Burning”/“Someone Else Will,” “Rock ‘n’ Roll Disgrace,” “Wig Wam Bam,” “Need a Lot of Loving,” “Done Me Wrong Alright,” “You’re Not Wrong For Loving Me,” “The Man with the Golden Arm,” “Little Willy,” “Teenage Rampage,” Rock ‘n’ Roll Medley—“Keep a-Knockin’”/“Shakin’ All Over”/“Lucille”/“Great Balls of Fire”/“Reelin’ and Rockin”/“Peppermint Twist”/“Shout,” “Ballroom Blitz,” and “F.B.I.”/“Blockbuster.”
Somewhere Tom Hanks is weeping. For when the Boston Typewriter Orchestra performs, the primary musical technique consists of beating holy hell out of a bunch of vintage typewriters. The filmic embodiment of Chesley Sullenberger is known to be such a fan of old typewriters that he recently published a moderately typewriter-themed collection of stories called Uncommon Type, which (of course) was written on a vintage typewriter.
The Boston Typewriter Orchestra doesn’t collect typewriters—it punishes them. In their promotional materials they claim (boast?) that typewriters do not last longer than two years once they have been recruited as instruments for the waggish collective.
The combo, which occasionally calls itself “BTO,” has been in existence since 2004 and has a 2008 album and a 2017 10-inch to its name. It has never been idle, performing multiple times in every calendar year since then; despite logging dozens of performances in the New England area, they have never ventured further south or further west than Washington, DC. That changes next month when they play Phyllis’ Musical Inn in Chicago.
As will readily be imagined, the BTO’s primary mode of music is percussive, although they do get a lot of mileage out of the damned bell that chimes whenever the typist reaches the end of a line. (Then again, bells are percussion instruments too—Wikipedia’s description of a bell runs “a directly struck idiophone percussion instrument,” ahem.) Suffice to say that with a gizmo as complicated as an old typewriter, there are a lot of solid moving parts to fiddle with—you can bash the keys, bang on the housing, crank the platen around, slam the carriage back, and (as mentioned) twiddle on the bells.
Who are the relevant comps for a band like this? The BTO strikes me as a hipster’s cheeky version of a jug band, although I can see an argument for Einstürzende Neubauten. Visually the gang tends to adopt the garb of a midcentury office drone, meaning lots of jackets and ties.
It’ll be a while before the Boston Typewriter Orchestra passes the “other” BTO in terms of sales. I refer of course to Winnipeg’s greatest contribution to boogie rock, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, who released five gold albums during the 1970s. When are the typists going to release their version of “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet”?
In 2017 the group released a 10-inch (the title is adapted from George Michael) called Termination Without Prejudice, Volume 1. Etched in the runout of side 1 is the phrase “HOW MANY WORDS PER MINUTE?” You can buy it on Bandcamp.
Here’s Termination Without Prejudice, Volume 1, available on Bandcamp:
Bob Hope was late. Ten minutes late. But it was a ten minutes that probably saved his life. Hope was en route to entertain US troops stationed in Vietnam in December 1964. These troops were officially documented by the White House as being there in an “advisory capacity,” which gave Hope the opening for his show:
Hello, advisors! I asked Secretary McNamara if we could come and he said, ‘Why not, we’ve tried everything else!’ No, really, we’re thrilled to be here in Sniper Valley.
Hope’s flight had been rescheduled from landing at Saigon to the US air base at Bien Hoa. Saigon was considered too dangerous. The Viet Cong might just take a pot shot at the comedian. In fact, it turned to be something far more deadly.
After the show, Hope was to head off by car to the Caravelle Hotel in Saigon, but as his cue cards, on which his jokes were written, had become mixed up, his assistant, Barney McNulty was tasked with sorting them out. This delayed Hope and his entourage, which included Jill St. John and singer, former Miss Oklahoma and well-known homophobe Anita Bryant, by ten minutes. As they were driving to their destination, a car bomb exploded outside the Brinks Hotel just about a block from the Caravelle. If he’d been on time, Hope and his crew would have been toast. Instead, they got a ringside seat of the blast and its devastation which killed two, injured 60, and destroyed the Brinks Hotel.
Hope toured US military bases in Vietnam from 1964-1972. His intention was to boost the soldiers’ moral, and let them know the folks back home were thinking about them. His intentions may have been honorable but to many back home, Hope came to represent the folly of America’s involvement in Vietnam. It led to the saying “Where there’s Hope there’s death.”
In response to Hope’s “hawkish” pro-war tours of Vietnam, Jane Fonda started touring army bases in 1970 giving voice to the many dissenting soldiers and veterans who were against the war. She then teamed up with Donald Sutherland in 1971 to perform with a troupe of entertainers under the name F.T.A. which was sometimes known as the “Free Theater Associates” or more (in)famously as “Fuck the Army.” The idea for the tour came from dissident Howard Levy who wanted “to stage an anti-war response to the touring shows of Bob Hope, who thought the war was just peachy.”
These F.T.A. shows originally came out of the G.I. coffeehouse movement—“the loose network of coffeehouses that had sprung up around U.S. military bases as a way for GIs to plug into the movement in the U.S. against the Vietnam War.” The group performed satirical sketches and songs opposing the war. Though they faced objections from some senior military personnel, F.T.A. managed to perform at military bases in Fort Bragg, Okinawa, the Philippines, Japan, and all along the Pacific Rim. Fonda and Sutherland produced a movie documenting these shows which was released in 1972 but was “mysteriously” pulled from screenings not long after its release due to fierce criticism from politicians, the media, and (surprise, surprise) top army brass.
Directed by Francine Parker, who was one of the first female members of the Directors Guild of America, F.T.A. documented Fonda, Sutherland, folk singer Len Chandler, singers Holly Near and Rita Martinson, writer/actor Michael Alaimo, and comedian Paul Mooney performing a variety of skits and songs including Sutherland as a sports announcer describing an attack on a Vietnamese village as if it were a ballgame and Fonda as Pat Nixon. This was all interspersed with interviews from many of the men and women involved in the war—including African-American GIs describing the racism they faced in the field.
The film is a bit rough around the edges but is an important testament to the many soldiers (and performers) who opposed the war in Vietnam. The film ends with Sutherland reading from Dalton Trumbo’s 1938 novel Johnny Got His Gun:
Remember this well you people who plan for war. Remember this you patriots, you fierce ones, you spawners of hate, you inventors of slogans. Remember this as you have never remembered anything else in your lives. We are men of peace, we are men who work and we want no quarrel. But if you destroy our peace, if you take away our work, if you try to range us one against the other, we will know what to do. If you tell us to make the world safe for democracy we will take you seriously and by god and by Christ we will make it so. We will use the guns you force upon us, we will use them to defend our very lives, and the menace to our lives does not lie on the other side of a nomansland that was set apart without our consent it lies within our own boundaries here and now we have seen it and we know it.
Vocalist for The Runaways Cherie Currie on stage at the Starwood in West Hollywood covered in fake blood. This and the other photographs in this post were taken by veteran rock/nature/surfer photographer Brad Dawber. Dawber has generously allowed Dangerous Minds to publish his rare photos of Currie. Use of these copyrighted images without consent will get you in trouble.
I’m a blond bombshell, and I wear it well
Your momma says you go straight to hell
I’m sweet sixteen and a rebel queen
I look real hot in my tight blue jeans
—lyrics from “Dead End Justice”
It’s well known that The Runaways vocalist Cherie Currie drew inspiration from David Bowie for her own stage persona, as did the rest of the band who aligned themselves image-wise with other musicians like Suzi Quatro and even Gene Simmons. Photographer Brad Dawber was at the Starwood one summer night in 1976 and would capture Currie and The Runaways performance during which Currie would end up covered in fake blood. Here’s more from Dawber on that night and others he spent at the Starwood:
“Rodney Bingenheimer introduced the band that night. After the show, we went to Bingenheimer’s English Disco, and it was another scene there. Band guys, groupies, wannabes, etc. Sometimes Iggy Pop would make an appearance.”
As far as the theatrics behind the bloodbath are concerned, here’s a little backstory on the concept: During the band’s set, Currie “pretended” to hurt her ankle during the song “Dead End Justice.” Jackie Fox (Fuchs) and Lita Ford then used their guitars to “shoot” Currie, following up the fictional assault by “stomping” and “kicking” Currie while she was lying on the stage floor. During the for-show skirmish Currie would periodically puncture the blood packs she was armed with, and when she finally stood up after her beating, she looked like something out of a horror movie. The girls pulled off this show-stopper pretty regularly during “Dead End Justice” but nobody ever managed to capture it as vividly as Dawber.
The images shot by Dawber during Currie’s complete transition from ass-kicking vocalist to blood-drenched vixen are extremely rare, and it appears no video footage of the show that night exists. However, as it has been said before, sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words—and Dawber’s NSFW photos of Currie looking more like horror-film icon Carrie (played by actress Sissy Spacek in the film of the same name) at the Starwood absolutely fall into this category. Interestingly, Carrie was released in November the same year as these photos were taken—maybe Brian De Palma caught one of The Runaway’s shows during their blood splatter phase? A girl can dream about such things being true, can’t she?
Many thanks to Brad Dawber for letting Dangerous Minds share his incredible photos of Currie below. Dawber has been taking photographs for decades, and I highly recommend checking out his site and Instagram to see more, as many of his other images of Debbie Harry and other notables are available for purchase.
The German hard rock/heavy metal band, the Scorpions, has existed in one form or another since 1965. A decade in, they were still years away from achieving mainstream success. In 1975, the group covered two tracks by the popular glam act, Sweet, with the Scorpions using an alias when the recordings were released on a 45.
The single, credited to the Hunters, was put out by the German label, Colorit Records, and was distributed in that country by Electrola, a subsidiary of EMI. The covers of “Fox on the Run” and “Action” were sung by Scorpions vocalist, Klaus Meine, in the German language, with the titles changed to “Fuchs Geh’ Voran,” and “Wenn es Richtig Losgeht,” respectively. According to Wikipedia, the German lyrics for “Fuchs Geh’ Voran” concern a literal fox being pursued by fur hunters.
Though there are no personnel credits listed anywhere on the record, it’s believed the 45 was produced by Dieter Dierks, who first hooked up with the band for the Scorpions third LP, In Trance, which also came out in 1975. Dierks was at the helm for a number of subsequent Scorpions records, including their international breakthrough album, Love at First Sting (1984).
As there’s very little information online concerning the Hunters single, I’m going to go out on a limb here and speculate a bit. Regarding the purpose of the release and why it wasn’t put out as a Scorpions record: the original Sweet recordings of the songs had been big hits in Germany, and the 45 was an attempt to capitalize on that success by issuing cover versions specifically for the German speaking market; the project was a way for the pre-fame Scorps to make a few bucks on the side, and was never intended to be released under their established moniker (the band was signed to RCA, so they had to use an alias, regardless).
One thing that’s certain is that the single failed to sell. The 45 is now quite rare, and when it does show up, usually sells in the $250 range. Currently, there are a few copies listed on Discogs.
If you’re looking for one of those doctors who has taken the Hippocratic oath, Kool Keith may not be your man. “Fuck it, he’s dead,” Keith’s alter ego, Dr. Octagon, pronounced on his 1996 debut, as his latest patient expired of cirrhosis of the eye and a horse wandered the halls of the hospital. Truth be told, the bedside manner of his alter alter ego, Dr. Dooom, was not very comforting either. Doing harm was pretty much his bag.
But if you’re looking for a barber surgeon of the medieval period, who’ll do you for a bloodletting, a leeching and an enema—a specialist in taking apart who still needs some practice putting back together—no one will slice and dice you like Kool Keith. I think that’s why the line “Do not be bougie with the facelift” on “Blast” chills me to the bone: can you imagine how your face would look after a few hours in the operating room with Kool Keith? Emerging from anesthesia, feeling the new apertures for undiscovered bodily functions with which he’s pimped your head? Looking in the mirror through the eyes of an alligator and a shark? As Keith feeds you sashimi cuts of your own brain?
Heather Hunter Photography
Speaking of horrors, one of the best performances I have ever seen in my life was Kool Keith’s set at the 2004 Coachella Festival, the only year I attended the Southland’s annual historical reenactment of a dysentery outbreak in a Civil War infirmary. About 20 minutes in, Keith stopped rhyming and started counting: “one. . . two. . . three. . . four. . . five. . .” He counted to, I think, 27 before making an abrupt exit (“Fuck it, Coachella, we out!”—mic drop) that left his nonplussed hype man swaying on the stage, eyes darting anxiously from side to side.
So I’m pleased to introduce the music video below, a short slasher movie dramatizing Planet B’s (i.e., Justin Pearson and Luke Henshaw’s) remix of “Blast” from Kool Keith’s new EP on Three One G. (The record concludes with a mashup of “Uncrushable” and “Church of the Motherfuckers” by Dead Cross, the supergroup with members of Faith No More, Slayer and Retox.) Unless you work in a charnel house, it is NSFW.
You don’t normally think of Elton John and Iggy Pop together, but the two highly expressive musicians do know each other and did enjoy at least one noteworthy incident, when Elton pranked the Stooges by dressing up as a gorilla and interrupting a gig halfway through, without any prior notice. Remarkably, the prank came about as part of what seems to have been a serious bid to sign the Stooges to Elton’s Rocket label, which ultimately proved unsuccessful.
The year was 1973. The venue, Richard’s Club, in Atlanta, Georgia. According to diehard Stooges fans Per Nilsen and Jim Lahde, in mid-October 1973 the Stooges played Richard’s on several dates over the course of about a week—it’s worth noting that the energetic Stooges were playing two shows a day during this stretch! Elton was in the middle of his own rather more remunerative U.S. tour at the same time. On October 19 Elton John played the Georgia Coliseum in Athens, Georgia, but that show actually occurred a few days after the Stooges were done in Atlanta. It seems likely that Elton flew in on a free day expressly to prank the Stooges.
The legendary Detroit-based magazine Creem seems to have been involved with the prank on some level, and the whole thing appears to have been at least partly motivated by a desire on the part of Elton to sign the Stooges to his label, the Rocket Record Company, the lineup of which featured Cliff Richard, Neil Sedaka, Colin Blunstone of the Zombies, and the Dutch band Solution.
There’s been plenty written about this so I’ll turn the topic over to the more accredited chroniclers.
Several of the band’s fans, including Ben Edmonds of Creem, conspired to raise their morale with endorsement by Elton John. Elton was sweeping across United States on a hugely successful stadium tour that significantly outgrossed the performances by his friend and rival David Bowie, with whom Elton was engaged in semi-friendly sniping. Elton decided to signal his support for the Stooges, plus his own general zaniness, by renting a gorilla suit and planning a one-ape stage invasion during the Stooges’ stint.
Creem had prepared a photographer for the stunt. Unfortunately no one had prepared Iggy. Indeed, the previous night he had disappeared off with the usual local “Rich Bitch,” to use the Stooges’ term of endearment. Early in the morning she brought him back to the band’s hotel unconscious; she’d gobbled down her entire supply of Quaaludes. Scott Asheton and a friend of the band, Doug Currie, were called to lift his dead weight out of her Corvette; carrying him into the hotel, they dropped him and were overcome with a giggling fit, seeing him peacefully sleeping, sprawled over a spiky Mediterranean bush.
Jim was still hardly conscious that evening when Doug and Scotty carried him into the club (“God knows what the poor club owner thought!” laughs Currie), and after a quick discussion of what to do, Doug announced that he had some speed. James Williamson managed to find a syringe, and they duly shot their singer full of methamphetamine sulphate in order to get him onto his feet.
Unsurprisingly, during the performance for which Elton had planned his jolly jape, Iggy was “unusually stoned to the point of being barely ambulatory, so it scared the hell out of me,” he says. For a couple of seconds, as Elton emerged from the wings in his gorilla suit, Iggy thought he was hallucinating, or else a real gorilla was raiding the stage. The Creem photograph documenting the event is hilarious, showing James Williamson transfixing the uppity ape with a malevolent glare that signals, he says, his intent to “take him out. He lucked out, because he was smart enough to take his head off to let people know who he was, just in time.”
Once Elton had discarded the ape mask and revealed his cheery face, Iggy realized what was happening, and he danced around with the fur-clad Elton for a song or so. The event was duly plugged in Creem, with Iggy telling the magazine “Elton’s a swell guy.” (Off the record, he would tell people that Elton only pulled the stunt because he wanted to get in tough-guy guitarist James Williamson’s pants.) Yet, although there would be ongoing discussions with Elton’s manager John Reid, and his record imprint, Rocket, the encounter failed to lift the Stooges’ spirits, and soon the band was becoming more obviously frazzled.
Here’s the picture of the moment, as it appeared in Creem just a few weeks later:
At a Stooges show in Atlanta, Elton John showed up with his pop star retinue, commandeered The Stooges dressing room, and walked on stage wearing a gorilla suit. Iggy was in pretty bad shape when Elton chose to join him. He’d spent the previous night taking a mountain of downers and sleeping in the shrubbery. When he woke up in the bushes he couldn’t speak a word. “A doctor had to shoot me full of methedrine just so I could talk,” he said. “I was seeing triple and had to hold on to the microphone stand to support myself. Suddenly this gorilla walks out from backstage and holds me up in the air while I’m still singing. I was out of my mind with fear. I thought it was a real gorilla.”
Chris Ehring: “I went back to the dressing room when someone tried to physically stop me. I said, ‘This is our dressing room!’ Someone from the club said, ‘Elton John is in there.’ ‘Big fucking deal! What’s he doing in there?’ I go in and there’s Elton John getting into a gorilla outfit. ‘He’s going to go up on stage and sing with Iggy.’ I just laughed. ‘Fine. Maybe I should warn the boys?’ ‘Oh, no, she wants it to be a surprise. He wants to come out during ‘Search and Destroy’. He was supposed to scare Iggy! Scare Iggy in this gorilla suit? ‘You don’t seem to understand what these guys are about. They are from Detroit. They’re not going to let you up on the stage!’ Moments later, out of the dressing room comes Elton dressed as a gorilla, and he goes up on the stage. The band all look at him. ‘Who is this?’ James looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. Iggy looks over and walks away. The gorilla starts chasing him, pushing him away. It’s really bad.”
“Elton’s a swell guy,” gushed Iggy after the incident. “Be nice to see this mutual admiration turn into something more concrete,” said Creem.
After the performance out and told Creem: “I simply can’t understand why he’s not a huge star.”
Today on Dangerous Minds I present to you two of my favorite things; a vintage, upper-tier European horror film paired with the punk rock icon Billy Idol. The film in question, Les Yeux Sans Visage (Eyes Without a Face) is quite horrifying, though its director George Franju (the co-founder of Cinémathèque Française, an organization that holds one of the largest archives of film documents and film-related objects in the world), didn’t see it that way. Instead, he classified his film as a story revolving around grief and despair, and what can happen once one has reached the very depths of both valleys. Franju’s film was based on the 1959 book Les Yeux Sans Visage by Jean Redon for which Redon had already written a screenplay. Redon’s adaptation would be augmented by French fiction crime author Pierre Boileau, and the film would make its debut in Paris on March 2, 1960. When it was shown at the Edinburgh Film Festival later in the year, it was reported that seven people in the theater fainted during the surgery scene—and if you have seen Les Yeux Sans Visage yourself, this is entirely understandable.
One of my favorite pieces of horror history inspired by this film concerns that maverick of the horror genre, John Carpenter. Actress Edith Scob wore several different masks in Eyes Without a Face which were cast from her own face. Some were created for the many close-up scenes of Scob in the movie which, according to Scob felt like “thin skin glued around the eyes and lips” as well as a thicker mask which could be more easily removed. Carpenter has said the mask worn by Scob played a very important part of his concept for maniac slasher Michael Myers and the mask he wore in 1978’s Halloween.
Others have also been inspired by the film, including Billy Idol who penned what would become his first top-ten hit in the U.S., “Eyes Without a Face” in 1983. Now that the song is perhaps rolling around in your head, the dreamy words cooed in the chorus by Perri Lister (Idol’s girlfriend at the time) are sung in French “les yeux sans visage” and this is a super obvious hat-tip to Franju’s frightening film. The accompanying video for “Eyes Without a Face” was shot in a mere 48 hours during which Idol neglected to take out his contacts. Here’s more from Billy and his actual eye emergency (as told in his fantastic 2014 book Dancing with Myself):
“Back in the 80s I wore hard contact lenses, and after shooting “Eyes Without a Face” for 48 hours, I flew to the next gig in Tucson, Arizona. At that point, I had been wearing them for 36 hours. I hadn’t slept that much—if at all. While waiting for the sound check, I went outside to lay down and passed out on the cool grass outside the college venue. I still hadn’t removed my contacts, until, without warning, I was awakened rather rudely by a sheriff pointing a gun directly at me. I could only hear his voice distant and hollow in my head. When I opened my eyes, I could only make out the outline of his weapon, while tears came pouring from my eyes. Something was wrong! The pain was so intense, and my eyes were gushing. They rushed me to a hospital, and my eyes remained bandaged for two days until my corneas had healed.”
Hearing Idol talk about the pain he was in when his contacts fused with his corneas churns my gut much like the film which inspired his kind-of-creepy hit song. Criterion released a digitally-restored Blu-ray of Les Yeux Sans Visage in 2013, and it is full of some great extras including insightful vintage interviews with Franju, and a recent interview with Edith Scob. As I’d hate to spoil the film for anyone, I’ll refrain from posting images from Les Yeux Sans Visage. Instead, you can watch the trailer which should be plenty enough to entice you into seeing this film as well as footage of Idol, Steve Stevens, and Perri Lister looking good while lip-synching “Eyes Without a Face” during the Saint Vincent Estate music event in Italy in 1984.
Mingering Mike dreamed of making it big. The D.C. native came into his own during a period of turmoil in the nation’s capital, where drugs, crime, and political frustration ruled the streets around his home. His mother died from leukemia when he was six and without a father figure present, Mike’s oldest sister Cathy raised him and his siblings when she was just a teenager. Mike was shy growing up, still is today. He preferred to watch the world go by at his window. It was a challenging upbringing, but he had his music.
Mike still hasn’t learned to play a musical instrument. Cathy was part of two spiritual groups and would often sing at home. Mike liked to sing, too. He performed his songs in the bathroom where the acoustics were better. Oftentimes family members would contribute to his original compositions, lending an additional voice to mimic instrumentation. To date, Mike has written over four-thousand original songs, but only a few rough demos were ever recorded. When I spoke with him, Mike told me that he wants a hypnotist to help him recall some of his vast, forgotten discography.
Mingering Mike’s “There’s Nothing Wrong with You Baby.” Recorded in 1969
Music of the District’s African American community flourished in the Sixties. At the center of it was the historic Howard Theatre, where Mike’s older brother was a manager. The time Mike spent watching performers at the Howard, along with an early-age obsession with record collecting, led him to fantasize about the life of a famous musician. So he decided to become one.
With limited resources, Mike created his first album in 1968; the appropriately titled Sit’tin by the Window. The record was the first of many chart-topping hits, jumpstarting a prolific music career that would last Mike ten years. When he called it quits in 1977 to get a real job, Mingering Mike had self-released over fifty full-lengths on record labels he also founded. Of these releases were smash-hit live albums, greatest hits compilations, a tribute to Bruce Lee, a benefit for sickle cell anemia, and soundtracks to his many films. That’s right - Mike wrote, directed, and starred in over nine feature length films. He also produced and collaborated on legendary works by artists like Joseph War, Audio Andre, and the Outsiders. The ensemble traveled the world together and performed to sold out crowds.
It was a music career of infamy, but the thing was, Mike never actually released any music. In fact, his name isn’t even Mike. His LPs were one-of-a-kind, painted record sleeves with fake liner notes, copyright info and packaging. Each release even came with a cardboard cutout “disc,” complete with painted grooves. It was in Mike’s imaginative world that he was the soul superstar that he often dreamt about.
The records promoted social justice, protested the Vietnam War, decried drug usage. Like a true musician, Mike expressed his heartfelt emotions through his albums. When the draft slip arrived for Vietnam, Mike wrote the hit song, “But All I Can Do is Cry.” Refusing to serve, Mike went AWOL and spent most of his time working on music indoors, hiding from the military police. The unsettling environment of the era gave him a lot to think about.
Despite leading a bountiful career in an imaginative cardboard world, the fable of outsider artist Mingering Mike had remained unknown to anyone on the outside. After calling it quits in showbiz, Mike took a final bow and his discography was placed in storage. Once he fell behind on a payment, his entire collection and was sold off. In December 2003, crate-digger and soul devotee Dori Hader was scoping bins at a D.C. flea market and stumbled across the myth of Mingering Mike. Confused at its significance, Dori posted photos on the record collector forum Soul Strut and he, along with fellow discoverer Frank Beylotte, were able to track Mike down at home. Today, his story can finally be told.
In 2007, Hadar published the book Mingering Mike: The Amazing Career of an Imaginary Soul Superstar. The book contains scans of Mike’s incredible album covers and backstory. The Smithsonian acquired the collection and in 2015, exhibited Mike’s discography at the American Art Museum. David Byrne had even reached out to produce a tribute album based on the enlightening story. Today, Mike’s album imagery lives on through releases by Daptone’s The Ar-Kaics and R.E.M.’s Peter Buck. It had been nearly fifty years, but Mike had finally gotten the spotlight he had once envisioned.
Take a look at some of Mingering Mike’s iconic album covers, after the jump…
Mark Stewart and the Maffia live in Kentish Town, 1986 (Photo by Beezer)
Last month, when Mute brought out a double-LP reissue of Mark Stewart’s solo debut from 1983, Learning to Cope with Cowardice, we interviewed the man about the record and its historical, political, and musical context. Now we have a new short film by Charlie Marbles about the making of the album to show you.
If you’ve never heard Learning to Cope with Cowardice, it is a collection of sounds that wraps your nervous system around the spools of a cassette deck, then uses your brain to degauss the tape head and your cerebrospinal fluid to lubricate the capstan: a variegated cut-up of genres, styles, media, times, places, and identities. In the film below, Stewart and producer Adrian Sherwood describe the mixing and editing techniques they used to make this mental work of art, some imported from New York hip-hop and other audio collage forms—Stewart, in particular, credits Teo Macero’s work on On the Corner and William S. Burroughs’ tape experiments as inspiration—and some invented on the spot and probably never yet repeated, such as “scratching” multitrack tapes.
The singer and producer describe Stewart’s desires for unconventional sounds (Sherwood remembers a snare so trebly “it was actually cutting your eyeball off”) and his struggles to get them through the technocracy of the mastering process onto the finished record. Stewart:
I was constantly fighting with engineers about buzzes and hisses and noises, and trying to make helicopter sounds, and then they’d try and change it, they’d try and normalize you. I’m not gonna be fuckin’ normalized!
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