The Doors, “The End” Live at Isle of Wight Festival

The Doors, “The End,” at the Isle of Wight Festival in the UK, 1970. From the album, Live at The Isle of Wight Festival 1970, not released until 2018, believe it or not!

Of course this is one of the greatest songs ever written, that’s obvious to anyone who’s ever heard it. This is the live version. I usually don’t like live versions better than album versions, but I’m familiar with the album version very well, and this live version was something special. He’s making a lot of stuff up here and there’s a lot of improvisational jamming but if ever a chaotic song was written about the beauty of chaos and entropy, this is it.

So this live version is really something special. I’ve heard this was a great concert, sort of the British version of Woodstock. Don’t know anyone who was there, though. The hippie movement was pretty big in the UK too, by the way.

It wasn’t just a US phenomenon. It was happening all over the most of the West to the best of my understanding. There were absolutely hippies in France, Sweden, and especially Denmark and Germany. Much of the rest of Europe was part of the Eastern Bloc, and they were not friendly to the movement.

Outside of the West, I’m not sure how big the movement was, but I suppose one can argue that some places in the world are just naturally “hippie,” so to speak. Aspects of Indian, Nepalese, and Moroccan culture absolutely come to mind.

The Beats headed to Tangier in Morocco, and India and Nepal were flooded with hippies in search of enlightenment and paradise. In a way, these were precisely the places to go. For when the hippies went to India and Nepal (or Afghanistan for that matter), after all, they were only going home again, to the Subcontinent, where the roots of the movement were birthed long ago.

There were definitely hippies in Peru in the 1970’s though, I can tell you that much. And no doubt in other parts of Latin America.

If anyone has any anecdotes about the hippie movement outside the West, let me know in the comments.

Joan Baez, “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands”

Joan Baez, “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” from Any Day Now: Songs for Bob Dylan, 1968.

Wow, I have heard this song title and I think I have heard of the song. It’s on one of his albums, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard it. This is definitely the first time I’ve ever heard the Baez cover. Dylan wrote the song for the woman he started dating after he broke up with Joan, which makes it particularly odd that she’s singing it here: a love song for the new girlfriend of her ex after she broke up with her ex.

Bob Dylan and Joan Baez made quite a couple. They were perfect together and perfect for each other. This was in the middle of the hippie era, which Dylan and Baez both embraced.

Paul McCartney and Wings, “Beware My Love”

Great song from Paul McCartney and Wings, “Beware My Love”, Wings at the Speed of Sound, 1975.

This came after Band on the Run, one of the greatest albums of the 20th Century. McCartney’s solo career started out pretty well. Linda sang along with him, and he soon got an excellent band together called Wings. Most of the first 4-5 albums from 1970-1975 were excellent. Nobody talks about them anymore, but at the time, Paul McCartney and the Wings were one of the most popular bands in rock and roll.

I vaguely remember this song from back in the old days. I heard it again recently and checked out. Sure enough, it’s awesome.

Can’t say I’ve found out
I can’t tell you
What it’s all about
Don’t know who does
Tell you to

Beware my love
Beware my love
Beware my love
Beware my love
Beware my love
Beware my love

Oh, oh, oh
No, no, no
I must be wrong, baby, yeah

But I don’t believe
That he’s the one
But you insist
I must be wrong
I must be wrong

I have to leave
And when I’m gone
I’ll leave my message
In my song
That’s right

Beware my love
Well, he’ll bowl you over
Beware my love
Before you’re much older

Hey, he’ll sweep you up
Under his carpet
You’d be in luck
If you could stop it

Come on now
Beware my love

Let me tell you

Well, he’ll wear you out
And in a minute
You’ll hear a shout
And then you’ll be in it

So, so now beware my love
‘Cause he’ll take you under
Beware my love
The sound of his thunder
Yeah!

I don’t believe
That he’s the one
But if you insist
I must be wrong
I must be wrong

But I have to leave
And when I’m gone
I’ll leave my message
In my song
That’s where I’m gonna leave it, baby

Come on

Beware my love
Don’t you know
He’ll bowl you over
Beware my love
Before you’re much older

He’s gonna
Yeah, he’s gonna wear you out
When in a minute
You’ll hear a shout
And then you’ll be in it

Baby gonna be there
Yeah, beware
Yeah, I’ll be there
Oh baby, beware
Beware, beware, my love
Yeah, any minute, oh

I don’t know
If I can stand it anymore
‘Cause I’m just gonna say to you
My love, that you better be there

Can’t say
I’ve found out
I tell you to
Beware my love
Beware my love

“Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down”, Gram Parsons and the Flying Burrito Brothers

“Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down”, Gram Parsons and the Flying Burrito Brothers. Another cover of, yep, a Merle Haggard song, from, once again, Sleepless Nights, 1977. Go back a couple of posts to see the rundown on this album and the sessions in early 1970 that made it up.

I’m a bit of a bottle fan myself I suppose. I take that bottle of hard stuff and cradle it in my arms like a baby. And it calms me down like a babe in arms, just like that. Life’s not easy. Sometimes we need a little help to make it through without grabbing a gun or a handful of pills and buying it ourselves before our time. Better to sip slow, watch the pain fade out, and let nature take it’s cruel course.

And in case you are wondering, yes, I sleep very well at night. A polygraph examiner told me that once after I finished the test. He said, “I think you sleep well at night, don’t you?”

“Yep,” I said. No regrets.

I suppose if someone asks you what the most important thing in life is, you could always say, “To sleep well at night.” To behave well enough that you don’t have much to feel sorry for, or if you don’t, to forgive yourself for whatever transgressions you stumbled into on your way down the road.

Do you sleep well at night? I hope you all do. It’s so important. There are few things worse than insomnia and ill sleep. Pure torture.

Flying Burrito Brothers, “To Love Somebody”

Great song. “To Love Somebody” Gram Parsons and the Flying Burrito Brothers, Close Up the Honky-Tonks, 1973. Recorded during the Gram Parsons era, 1969-1970, but it was not released until after his so untimely death.

They took him away from us. Stole him away. Away in the night.

In the desert night, with a full moon, with the coyotes howling, the gorgeous hippie girl he had just met for the first and last time in the  lobby, a mere waif of a woman, carefully, even reverently, sank the morphine needle into his vein. Gram Parsons looked out the window of the hotel room, five double Tequilas already under his belt, and saw a sky full of stars.

The Joshua trees outside seemed to be swaying to some strange music only the desert knows. God closed the chapter of this gorgeous book of a man that night.

Just before he blinked out, Gram looked out the window at the sky in a morphine and Tequila haze. It had been so covered with stars that it was nearly white as snow. But now there was not a star in sight, nothing but black ink all around. Gram, a son of God if there ever was one, nodded his head and closed his eyes for the last time in his life.

They say sometimes if you go to a certain spot in Joshua Tree National Park at night with no one around at a certain time of year and the weather is just right, and you are just high enough on whatever you can get your hands on, as you dissociate in the cold still night, you can barely hear, off in the distance amidst the howling coyotes, the sound of Gram Parsons’ guitar and wailing voice.

They took him away but he’s also still with us. For now, maybe forever.

Flying Burrito Brothers, “Sing It Back Home”

Flying  Burrito Brothers, “Sing It Back Home”on Sleepless Nights, 1977.

Gram Parsons and the Flying Burritos covering Merle Haggard’s great song. This song was recorded in early 1970 when Gram Parsons was still with the band. The songs on this album were intended to be released for a new album that never got released. Actually these songs were considered to be simple studio dabblings that were never intended for any finished product release.

The Flying Burrito Brothers were one of the greatest bands of the 20th Century, but almost no one has ever heard of them. Their first two albums featured the great Gram Parsons. After that, they fired him and he went on to issue a couple of solo albums before he OD’d on morphine in Joshua Tree National Park in 1973. Dead to soon.

Why do all the best ones leave us too soon? It’s almost as if they are doomed to die young – flash bright like a shooting star and then burn out before 30. What happens? Do they burn too fast? Too fast for life?

A lot of artists are nuts. That’s part of the problem. Art is all tied up in various forms of insanity and lots of artists are crazy in all sorts of ways, in particularly, self-destruction.

No one quite knows why this is, but being an artist is the ultimate anti-Normie act. The artist is giving the finger to the Normie world every minute he is alive and producing great art. He’s a permanent outsider. An outsider’s life is painful, and many artists live lives of intense pain. Perhaps the pain is necessary to produce great art. If we were all perma-happy Pollyanna Normies, what sort of great art would we produce? Anything.

Anyway, life is painful. And it’s not easy. You would think that life would be quite simple, but it’s not. In part this is because we are not completely rational. If I were completely rational, my life would be a lot easier, but instead I’m fucked in the head, so life is a bit of a chore. A happy chore but a chore nevertheless.

Alt Left: Tammy Wynette, “Stand by Your Man”

Tammy Wynette, “Stand by Your Man,” from 1968! One of the greatest country songs ever written!

Lyrics, simple but just perfect:

Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman
Giving all your love to just one man
You’ll have bad times
And he’ll have good times
Doin’ things that you don’t understand
But if you love him you’ll forgive him
Even though he’s hard to understand
And if you love him oh be proud of him
‘Cause after all he’s just a man

Stand by your man
Give him two arms to cling to
And something warm to come to
When nights are cold and lonely

Stand by your man
And show the world you love him
Keep giving all the love you can
Stand by your man

Stand by your man
And show the world you love him
Keep giving all the love you can
Stand by your man

Tammy Wynette,  “Stand by Your Man” Live. A bit later in her career.

She wasn’t very famous before this, but after this, she was a superstar.

Tammy once said:

I spent 15 minutes writing this song and an entire lifetime defending it.

Exactly.

And isn’t that why this song is just so great?

In 2010, this song was selected by the Library of Congress to add to the National Recording Registry, for songs that “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.” In other words, that Registry is for the greatest songs ever written in America!

The Alt Left officially endorses this song, by the way. After all, we are the “Conservative Left” – liberals and Leftists who are at least somewhat conservative on social issues. I’m sure feminists hate the idea of this song, but they can go pound sand! I never knew how great this song was before.

Like most Leftists, I hated this song because it was anti-feminist and oppressed women and all that crap. It was a song for Republican social conservatives. Except it’s not and it wasn’t.

But that was before I had a few girlfriends who actually, literally, stood by their man, meaning me, that is. One was Jewish! Would you expect a Jewish woman to do that? Well, who knows?

The feeling of having a woman who will stand by your side through thick and thin and especially to live her life through yours is one of the greatest highs a man can experience in this life. Better than sex. Better than love. Well, it’s love with an extra helping of chocolate syrup on top, let’s put it that way. But what a syrup that is!

The strange thing is that a woman who truly loves you actually wants to be like this. She wants to stand by her man. She wants to live her life through you. She wants to be dead jealous of you.

I had one girlfriend who was so jealous of me that she used to say, “I will cut a bitch! No woman is getting near my man!” Stand by your man!

She told me she had a tattoo on her ankle, and I told her I didn’t like tattoos. She immediately resolved to remove the tattoo! If my man wants my tattoo off, it’s coming off! Stand by your man!

Hey, I like that! She wants to dress you in the morning, pick your clothes and cologne, watch you shave, iron your shirts, and listen intently to how your day went when you come home. Stand by your man!

I think most of you men on here really do want a “stand by your man” woman. Trust me, there’s no better kind.

This must be a deep-rooted need in women, in tandem with femininity, submission, a need to be dominated, ferocious jealousy in keeping other women away from her prized man. It’s got to be genetic.

If you have ever seen a woman dissolve into femininity (often because she is madly in love with you or very turned on by you sexually) you will see that she seems to melt in place right there. You can tell that she’s in her special place; she’s hitting her sweet spot. Deep down inside, this is where most women truly long to be.

Feminism is a lie. It tells women that femininity is evil and oppressive. Like Hell it is. It’s the life blood of womankind. Take it away and they go nuts. Look at modern women. Look at how nuts they are. They’re having their femininity taken away from them. Of course they’re going nuts. How else would they act? They think this is what they want because feminism lied to them and told them that and believed and fell for it. Of course it was a lie.

Once again, the Cultural Left goes to bat against Nature and the weight of 200,000 years. And once again, Mother Nature on the mound mows down another row of the Left’s pathetic pinch-hitters.

Mother Nature 200,000,  Cultural Left 0.

Harry Nilsson “Everybody’s Talkin'”

Harry Nilsson, “Everybody’s Talkin'” 1969 (Soundtrack to Midnight Cowboy

A truly great song. Just heard Iggy Pop, of all people dammit, cover this song. It was really good, much better than I ever would have thought. I guess a great song is like a classic fairy tale. It’s pretty hard to ruin it, and most don’t even try, thank God. And probably even when they ruin it, you can still see and here the glints of greatness blinking in the well-intentioned ruins. Some things are just too great to kill.

The movie itself is out of this damned world too. Hard to believe this movie and song is from half a century ago. No way! Is it reality or a fever dream? Wake me up when it’s over!

Remastered version from 1989. Dig it, baby, dig it.

Linda Ronstadt, “Long Long Time”

“Long Long Time,” by Linda Ronstadt from Silk Purse, 1970

From her very early solo days. Her first solo album. Still very much an LA hippie girl.

I’ve been hearing this song forever but I never knew it was her! Never knew the name of it either, and I’ve barely heard of Silk Purse.

Since 2012, people have believed that Ronstadt has had Parkinson’s disease. However, last year she was re-diagnosed with progressive supranuclear palsy (PSP). A lot of people think Donald Trump has this same condition. However, Trump is also thought to have fronto-temporal dementia (FTD). Making things more confusing, there is a progressive supranuclear palsy subtype of FTD. Some people think that FTD and PSP are the same illness. In both cases, your brain cells are slowly dying off.

Ronstadt was definitely a cokehead for a while there, living in that house of hers in the Hollywood Hills.

The 1 AM party people come over, and then at 3 they leave, and the 3 AM party people come over. At 5 they leave and the 5 AM party people come over…

– Linda Ronstadt in the cokehead days.

Linda Ronstadt and the Stone Poneys, “Different Drum”

A truly incredible song. From 1967! Linda Ronstadt from the hippie era! She was one of the original hippies. Later a solo artists and girlfriend of Jerry Brown. And noted cocaine user. She had several operations on her nose due to excessive cocaine use. I believe she likes girls too if I am not mistaken.

This is one of her best songs ever. LA flower power from the Summer of Love! Yep, there was a hippie movement here in LA too. You better believe it. Go ask Jim Morrison. Mostly around Hollywood, Santa Monica, Venice and around UCLA. Later around Venice, the Hollywood Hills, and especially Malibu. It wasn’t quite San Fransisco, but it wasn’t that far off either.

A lot of tie-in with the film industry of course.
Jim Morrison went to film school at UCLA, remember? My father graduated from there. My Mom spent her freshman year at UCLA. 18 years old and homesick the whole time. A mere girl. I was supposed to go there but I couldn’t pass high school Algebra 2, so I couldn’t go. My father was very disappointed.

And the music industry has always been headquartered right here in El Lay.

Hollywood and Las Vegas: Two Fun but Cruel Towns

Polar Bear: As far as Hollywood as a gay mecca, Eyes Wide Shut is the closest most will see of it, but there are always VIP orgy gatherings. Kat Williams, Richard Nixon, and others have walked into some gay shit. Spirit cooking parties, Bohemian Grove, etc. are on record. I don’t believe they’re all gay, but gay sex is part of the rituals.

The music industry is highly involved in this stuff too. Check out Celine Dion promoting transgender baby clothes.

Any A-list star with long lasting fame has done some rituals. Don’t do the ritual? Go make low budget movies. If you don’t play ball, you’re a one-hit wonder or an underground artist.

I am afraid that Polar Bear is onto something here. I was around that place for many years. Hell, I practically lived there on weekends. It’s a blast but it’s insanely fagged out and so degenerate it almost makes you want to puke. And I’m a libertine!

Hollywood is a mean, vicious town. It literally eats people alive, chews them up, and spits them out when it’s done with them. Las Vegas is another cruel town. It also eats people alive and bulimically vomits them out when it’s done. Neither town gives a damn about you – or anyone, really.

Both towns are all about money and the nice things that money can buy, like everything in the world, including humans for sex – sex which is pretty much pump and go to the club to grab a new one. There’s narcissism everywhere in  Hollywood. Hollywood literally breathes, eats, sleeps, and even shits narcissism. Narcissism is the gas, Hollywood is the engine. No narcissism, no Hollywood.

Both towns are predatory, with the rich preying on the poor suckers filled with the naive hope of fame or riches in both places. Both cities seem soulless and post-Christian or possibly never even Christian in the first place, as in heathen.

Both Hollywood and Vegas are in a race for the bottom behavior-wise, and no one gives a damn in either place. No one gives a damn about what? Anything. No one gives a damn about anything.

A lot of people move to Hollywood and LA to party their brains out for a while and then die. LA is literally a suicide trip for a lot of people. If narcissism is the gas for the Hollywood engine, nihilism is the exhaust.

Check out Sunset Boulevard in cinema, Nathaniel West or John Rechy in literature, or the Eagles, X, and the Germs in music for more. LA’s right on the edge of the sea after all. One earthquake and it all falls into the surf. LA is literally the end of a continent, and after you spend some time there, it really feels like it. It’s a lot of fun if you can take it, but it’s basically a stone evil town with pretty much zero morals about anything.

Pretenders, “Stop Your Sobbing”

The very early punk rock or new wave album came out in 1979. This was their debut album. The singer is named Chrissie Hyde. Her singing is absolutely glorious and all of the songs on this album are great. This album stayed on my turntable for a long time. That was a great time for music. So much great music produced then, nothing like nowadays.

This music came out 40 years ago!

It is time for you to stop all of your sobbing
Yes, it’s time for you to stop all of your sobbing oh oh oh

There’s one thing you gotta do
To make me still want you
Gotta stop sobbing now
Yeah yeah stop it stop it

It is time for you to laugh instead of crying
Yes it’s time for you to laugh, so keep on trying oh oh oh

There’s one thing you gotta do
To make me still want you
Gotta stop sobbing now
Yeah yeah stop it stop it

Each little tear that falls from your eyes
Makes, makes me want
To take you in my arms and tell you
To stop all your sobbing

There’s one thing you gotta do
To make me still want you
And there’s one thing you gotta know
To make me want you so
Gotta stop sobbing now
Yeah yeah stop it stop it

The Jim Carroll Band, “People Who Died”

The Jim Carroll Band, Catholic Boy, 1980

Teddy sniffing glue he was 12 years old
Fell from the roof on East Two-nine
Cathy was 11 when she pulled the plug
On 26 reds and a bottle of wine
Bobby got leukemia, 14 years old
He looked like 65 when he died
He was a friend of mine
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died
Jimmy and Georgie let their gimmicks go rotten
So they died of hepatitis in Upper Manhattan
Sly in Vietnam took a bullet in the head
Bobby OD’d on Drano on the night that he was wed
They were two more friends of mine
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died
Mary took a dry dive from a hotel room
Bobby hung himself from a cell in The Tombs
Judy jumped in front of a subway train
Eddie got slit in the jugular vein
And Eddie, I miss you more than all the others
And I salute you brother
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died
Herbie pushed Tony from the Boys’ Club roof
Tony thought that his rage was just some goof
But Herbie sure gave Tony some bitchin’ proof
“Hey,” Herbie said, “Tony, can you fly?”
But Tony couldn’t fly – Tony died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died
Brian got busted on a narco rap
He beat the rap by rattin’ on some bikers
He said, “Hey, I know it’s dangerous
But it sure beats Riker’s”
But the next day he got offed
By the very same bikers
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died
Teddy sniffing glue he was 12 years old
Fell from the roof on East Two-nine
Cathy was 11 when she pulled the plug
On 26 reds and a bottle of wine
Bobby got leukemia, 14 years old
He looked like 65 when he died
He was a friend of mine
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died
Jimmy and Georgie let their gimmicks go rotten
So they died of hepatitis in Upper Manhattan
Sly in Vietnam took a bullet in the head
Bobby OD’d on Drano on the night that he was wed
They were two more friends of mine
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died
Mary took a dry dive from a hotel room
Bobby hung himself from a cell in the tombs
Judy jumped in front of a subway train
Eddie got slit in the jugular vein
And Eddie, I miss you more than all the others
This song is for you my brother
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died

A very interesting figure from the very early punk rock days in New York. Although he was heterosexual, he worked as a rent boy on the streets of New York to get money for his heroin habit. Lots of young straight junkies do this in New York. Johnny Ramone did it. You would be amazed at how many straight men will have sex with men for money, especially if they are drug addicts. It would boggle your mind.

He hung out with Patti Smith, Richard Hell, the Ramones, Johnny Thunders, William Burroughs, and all the rest of the New York punk maniac crowd back then. I remember William Burroughs came to give a reading in LA in 1980, and though I wasn’t there, the place was full of the craziest LA punkers – all the local maniacs were there.

Burroughs was a punk icon as he was a Beat icon and even a bit of a hippie icon. In the hippie era, there long-haired young man backpacking through Europe with a copy of Nova Express became something of an archetype. Face it: Burroughs is a hipster – the ultimate hipster.

All the people in this song died young. They were all shooting stars – after all, every shooting star burns out after a brief flash of glory. A lot of these types have an air of doom about them from early on. They seem headed in only one un-veering final direction with no way to stop them. Get out of the way before they take you with them.

It’s a great song though from back in the day. This is one more example of how great early punk rock was!

Amazing how many people this young man knew who died. Sort of reminds me of Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side too with the list of wild characters and crazy behavior – the crowd that loves to bet it all, to throw it all down and tiptoe on the tight wire of life for no particular reason, or just for the Hell of it.

Jim Carroll RIP.

Boys Don’t Cry

SHI: I think one should not very hard on themselves. It is OK to go “soft and high-pitched” sometimes and let out those timid feelings. Even in the presence of women. They won’t judge you for it, especially the normal ones.

I have cried in front of women including whores. It is fine as long as you don’t go overboard. I mean once you let out those nasty suppressed feelings, you feel better anyway. So, why suppress them? Just wipe your tears and girly shit once you come to your senses and be a man once again.

“She-men” are the ones who CONSTANTLY whine and gripe about their lives. Everyone’s out to get them, life is unfair to them, they’re just melodramatic and won’t stop. EVER.

It’s perfectly fine to let out those buried emotions once in a while. Even if you’re a man.

Yeah but you’re from India. Indian men are supposed to be more open with their feelings like that. It’s no big deal for an Indian man to cry as long as he does not do it too often. India is sort of a let it all hang out society.

The US? Especially White US culture? Nope. Boys don’t cry. Period. You cry when someone dies. You can cry when your dog dies. That’s about it.

Women here will crucify for crying – they hate it. They hate all weakness in men really, but so do Hispanic women and possibly Black women. I think all women feel this way, but I don’t know women from other cultures very well. Maybe there are cultures that are ok with men showing weakness as long as they do not show it all the time.

Some of our pet cats died. There were times when my father put them in boxes and took them out to the back (we had 2 acres) to dig a hole and bury the box with the cat in it. My mother told me afterwards with the deepest look that I still find very hard to describe, something between amazement, shock, profundity, compassion, and deep empathy, “He cried when he buried the cat.” The thing was my father didn’t cry much.

He did cry sometimes. One time as a very young man in college there was a wild fight at our house of the glorious kind that we often had. My Mom even slapped me in the face. Thinking back, I clearly deserved it, but at the time I didn’t think so, so I pushed her down on the stairs. I didn’t push her down the stairs. We were on the stairs. I pushed her down while we were on the stairs.

There was wild fighting and I took off with my brothers to the park where we smoked pot. For some reason they stuck up for me, even though I was being a huge asshole.

I think the fight was about pot. The stuff’s practically legal now so no one cares, but you all have no idea the Hell the rest of us went through back in the day when we smoked that stuff. It was literally a war, a civil war. You were living in wartime.

The pot-haters were everywhere and the shouts, condemnations, admonishments, and abuse were regular and ferocious. A lot of people our own age really hated it too, so there were  continuous conflicts on that front. Not to mention at work where things got really weird.

I came back later and my Mom said my father had cried after the fight. He  had taken my picture on his drawer and turned it face down. My mother said with a sense of gravity and amazement, as if announcing some rare but profound event, that he was crying as he did this. My face was turned down on the drawer. You couldn’t see me anymore, only the back of the frame.

What was he doing? Killing his son I suppose. Or saying goodbye to his son, an emotional funeral for his favorite son, the apple of his eye. The light of his life, the dream of his days, his favorite boy – was dead and gone. My father had absolutely adored me as a boy. I was his hero and his alter ego. He projected himself right onto me and loved the reflection flowing back.

In adolescence, I rebelled against him in a ferocious way about a variety of reasonable things. He thought he had a right to tell me what to do. I didn’t think so and I still don’t. Nobody tells me what to do.

There was fight after fight after fight. There were even fistfights, but I found that when my fist neared his face, it somehow lost a lot of its power. Hitting your own father full force was too much for me, no matter how much I despised him.

Apparently this rebellion of his favorite son, his dream son, was too much for him. I don’t think he ever forgave me for that. We had good times after that, but things were often rocky in adulthood.

The last couple of years of his life I stayed with him a lot, and we made a sort of peace with each other. I think he knew he was near the end, and it was finally time for an armistice. And I am starting to cry as I write this – my eyes are watering up. Because let’s face it: it’s a sad song, my father and I. So you can see I do cry. Just rarely and not too much.

I am happy I can still cry. Thank God for those tears! Thank God I am still human!

But still, at the end of the day when it’s all gone bad, one last hard thing remains, and that’s:

Boys don’t cry.

I would say I’m sorry
If I thought that it would change your mind
But I know that this time
I’ve said too much
Been too unkind

I try to laugh about it
Cover it all up with lies
I try and laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes
‘Cause boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry

I would break down at your feet
And beg forgiveness
Plead with you
But I know that it’s too late
And now there’s nothing I can do

So I try to laugh about it
Cover it all up with lies
I try to laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes
‘Cause boys don’t cry

I would tell you
That I loved you
If I thought that you would stay
But I know that it’s no use
That you’ve already
Gone away

Misjudged your limits
Pushed you too far
Took you for granted
I thought that you needed me more

Now I would do most anything
To get you back by my side
But I just
Keep on laughing
Hiding the tears in my eyes
‘Cause boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry

My Musical Preferences

Shesinparties: Regarding music, I like it less and less as the years go by. Maybe old age, but that doesn’t make much sense in my case.

Before I was born: 1955-1979 (birth of rock n roll through 70s) similar to my 80s taste, and nearly as strong. I like it.

Preteens: 1980s- Love Black and White music. Macho, chicky, and gay types of music. Love a variety of White music (punk, new wave, metal) Strong White underground scene. The zenith for me.

Teens: 1990s- Love White music still. But I gave up on Black music at this point. Like macho, but less chicky and gay music.

2000s music- Like White music still, but less variety. Not into chicky and gay types of music.

2010s- I only like White chicky music. Not into man music at this point.

I went from liking a variety of music to White chicks music. I wonder what I will like the next decade. Gay Arabian music?

Gay Arabian music is hot. You need to check it out. Very underground scene.

I  have really only listened to what could best be called White music all my life, although I did like disco, Motown, and funk, all forms of Black music. Hendrix wasn’t playing Black music.

Never been into any other ethnic music, sorry, although King Sunny Ade and Sun Ra Arkestra West African music is damn good.

Not into Black jazz or R & B either. Some soul music is ok. I like Stevie Wonder a lot, and I do like James Brown.

I like a lot of genres within White music though. Face it, rock and all of its forms and offshoots, folk, country, and electronic music are all de facto White music; non-Whites can definitely play this stuff, for the most part they don’t.

What the Hell is chick music? I have no idea what that even is.

What the Hell is fag music, I mean gay music? Village People? Soft Cell?

1955-1979 (Birth of Rock n Roll through 70s) similar to my 80s taste, and nearly as strong. I like it.

I was listening to this music only in my teens and early 20’s. I didn’t listen to any music as a preteen. Of course this is my favorite.

Preteens: 1980s- Love Black and White music. Macho, chicky, and gay types of music. Love a variety of White music. (Punk New Wave Metal) Strong White underground scene. The zenith for me.

I do like this but especially towards the early 80’s when I was much more into it. I love punk, new wave, and underground. Probably not gay, Black, or chick music though, whatever that means.

Teens: 1990s- Love White music still. But I gave up on Black music at this point. Like macho, but less chicky and gay music.

2000s music- Like White music still, but less variety. Not into chicky and gay types of music.

2010s- I only like White chicky music. Not into man music at this point.

I don’t know much about music during these eras, though it seemed to me that early 90’s music was pretty good. Music went downhill for sure after that, however, good music continues to be made.

Dick Dale, “Miserlou”

Speak of the Devil. What do you know, Miserlou itself, rising from the ashen surf.  This version the famous one from 1962 by Dick Dale and the Deltones.

He didn’t really write this song. it’s actually called “Misirlou”. It’s origins are in the late days of the Ottoman Empire, possibly with Greeks and Armenians living in Anatolia and Arabs living nearby in the northern Levant and Mesopotamia. I believe the origin is probably with Greek musicians, possibly Pontic Greeks living in Anatolia. Hence, this joyous song sprung right up from the blood-drenched soil of genocide.  Perhaps the song represents a rebirth?

The earliest known version is by a Greek band from 1927. In the early 20’s, it was played by Greek, Arab, and Jewish musicians. There are also Turkish, Iranian, and Indian versions of the song. It does sound like belly dancer music if you listen to it, no?

From the “Pulp Fiction” soundtrack, which was of course one of the greatest movies of the past half-century or so. This is probably Tarantino’s swan song. The bisexual man John Travolta was incredible in this movie. I really didn’t know he had it in him. I thought he would play his Saturday Night Fever character the rest of his life. Another great movie by the way. From the late 1970’s, the ultimate disco movie.

Samuel Jackson was incredible too. One of the finest Black actors up there. I swear he’s as good as De Niro and Hoffman.

From the Disco Scene of the 1970’s: A Look at Two Mostly Straight Bisexual Men

David Bowie, “Starman”.  Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. 1974. That sure is awesome music though. They don’t make music like this anymore.

Bowie in his bisexual phase. I think he is correct that he was never gay. He was just fucking guys because it was the thing to do, a fad. A fag fad. Haha. David Bowie loved women as much as any man alive. Iggy Pop said he had never seen a man get as many women as David Bowie:

“From waitresses to heiresses, he got them all.”

It was 1976 and my friends M.H. and R.L. worked in jewelry and retail clothes, and those industries are swarming with gay men. They’re also swarming with gorgeous but rather histrionic drama queen women. A lot of them are bisexual, but hardly any are lesbians. Lesbians are like men; they don’t dress well. Boots, corduroys, jeans and a boy’s haircut. Count me out.

My friends dealt with gay men all the time. They were always imitating gay men and making fun of them. I went along with the fun. I learned a lifetime’s worth of fag jokes. And I can imitate a gay man with the best of them.

A few years later after our friendship ended, I learned, not completely to my surprise, that both M.H. and R.L. were fucking guys.

They both fucked hot women and neither was into guys when I knew them, but they sure talked about homosexuality a lot, so maybe that was a giveaway. I was a bit perplexed, like, “Why the Hell are these guys talking about fags* all the time?” They were both fairly masculine guys.

M.H. had some weird masculinity hangup. Macho father had wanted him to play football but he couldn’t cut it, so he wasn’t a man. He went into super-faggy theater arts instead. Dad was disappointed to say the least. M.H. had failed his father. He wasn’t a real man, he knew it deep down inside, and damn, that hurt. Did this hangup lead to him sucking cocks later on? Who knows? Who knows why men do these things?

M.H., I must say, was a damned good actor just to see him from day to day. Very narcissistic, but all actors are like that.

The theater M.H. was a bit faggy like so many men in the theater. There was yet another M.H., who was a hot, macho surfer stud. And he was pretty good with a board too. Once again, the masculinity crisis or the split personality – macho/faggy which quite a few bisexual men have.

I will say though that the year or so that I spent hanging out with M.H. and R.L., male model handsome, clotheshorses, disco ducks, music freaks, and studs, was one of the best years of my life. We had a lot of good times, and both guys were mostly very good to me. Scarcely an unkind word.

M.H. later married a woman, got a great office job, bought a house, and raised a family not far from when he grew up. The bisexuality was just a phase. I have known a number of these guys, and the gay stuff is just a young man thing they did when they were young, dumb, and full of cum.

They’re all married by their 30’s or living with a woman. Often they have a family. From what I can tell, the gay stuff is a mere memory. They go back to completely straight. Unlike gay men, these men seem fairly happy, and by their 30’s, they’re just like anyone else. Perhaps the reversion back to full heterosexuality grounds them back in the bedrock of life.

M.H. was mostly straight. I knew he loved women. He couldn’t stop talking about them. No gay man talks about women like that. But now and again he betrayed some “other” interests in what you might call extracurricular activities.

I’d put him as a true bisexual, leaning straight like most of them do. These men are misunderstood. They like pussy as much as the rest of us do if not more or way more. Most are maniacal pussyhounds. They just like a little cock on the side too.

A lot are surprisingly masculine, but now and then they betray a bizarre “faggy” side to their personality. When you first see it you are shocked. You wonder if they got body-snatched. But these men are still on the other side of the divide from gay men. They’re more over with us straight guys.

Most so-called bisexuals are not truly bisexual –  either basically straight or basically gay men. The old adage, even from my own mother, that bisexuals tend to lean pretty heavily one way or the other, is true.

The real bisexuals are not that common, but I have met a few. One more thing – they are often extremely handsome. And they are often wild sex addicts.

*Back then, gay men were universally called fags. They even called themselves fags. It could be pejorative or even a compliment, but mostly it was simply descriptive. Gay men were simply fags. No disrespect necessarily intended. We have one word for gay men. We have two words for gay men. People hate that. People want one word for gay men. Hence, fags.

Actually I still use that word for gay men in a lot of my daily conversation if I think the person is ok with the word. I don’t necessarily use it pejoratively, but I could. You would have to listen to my tone of voice to see if it was pejorative or simply descriptive.

Village People, YMCA

Village People, YMCA. 1978.

This song was gay as Hell. Produced by Jacques Morali, a producer who was also gay as Hell. This represents what the gay scene in LA, San Fransisco and New York was like in the 1970’s. Cruising? Check. Short haircuts? Check. Little moustaches? Check. They all looked alike, which was why they were called The Castro Clones after San Fransisco’s uber-gay Castro District.

Each character plays a typical gay icon or stereotype. The muscleman, the leatherman, the construction worker,  the cowboy – these are all get-ups that gay men warp into when they go out cruising for sex. Like dress-up theater with lots of perverted sex.

It’s all fantasy, but then gay male life is mostly fantasy anyway, right? How much of it is actually real? Probably not much.

Gay life is all illusion.

The old ones comfort themselves by buying the young Peter Pans. No one wants the fat ones. Forget the ugly ones. You think straight women are superficial? They’ve got nothing on gay men.

You’re a gay man. By the time you’re 30, you’re nearly washed up, and you’re already not prime meat. Hit 40 and it’s over. Nobody wants the old ones. In your 50’s, neither you nor your friends are getting much. By old age, you’re already dead. Most don’t make it to old age. I saw one figure that said only 2% of gay men live past age 65.

Gay life is like a meteor. It burns white hot bright for a bit, then it’s over with cruel bang and a fade to pure nothingness.

This was a somewhat homophobic era, but it was more in the sense that homosexuality was the worst thing that a man could be, so no one would ever suggest that about you unless they had some pretty good evidence. The default was straight and everyone was straight until proven otherwise.

Effeminate men were not well-liked. I was in a class with the girlfriend who liked my scarf below, and she hated an effeminate openly bisexual man in the group. She said he gave her the creeps.

Mostly you never saw or even heard of gay men, so why talk about them? Homosexuality was the “unthinkable,” the “unspoken.”

Everyone makes fun of disco, but I was way off into it. People called me a disco duck. Velvet pants, silk shirts, corded belts, silk and cotton scarves, four inch high purple platform heels. I was all set to dance the night away.

Thing was back in the disco era, you could wear all that stuff, and no one would think you were gay.  Well, most people wouldn’t. Even back then, there were a few ugly homophobes, but they weren’t common. Most people weren’t like that.

Anyway, gay men don’t dress like that. Nor do women. No woman dresses like that. It’s like the Dolls, totally unique, the true pure androgynes of the disco, glitter and glam rock era.

I worked as a valet car parker at a disco in 1976. We were required to turn all of the tips in to the head valet for some stupid reason. My friend and I thought that was bullshit, and since we were both semi-criminals like any young man worth his salt, we devised a scheme to steal a lot of the tips from him.

My friend had hatchback truck, and we left the rear hatchback unlocked. We would go by his truck on our way back to the valet grounds and throw a certain amount of the bills into the back of the truck. Then we would give the boss a certain amount of the rest.

We monitored it all the time because he always called us crooks and suspected us of stealing from him, but he could never prove it, and that really pissed him off.

We figured out how to turn in just enough tips to make it seem kosher while still stealing as much as we could. We were always talking about how much to steal and adjusting the amount we gave back to him based on his suspicions du jour.

I told you being a criminal is fun, right? The rush is like no other. That wild excitement, combined with sheer horror! crime’s a blast. The thrill of getting away with it. The fear of getting caught.  Adrenaline junkies love it.

We ripped off that poor guy for months and he could never prove it! He kept grumbling that we were ripping him off while we swore with our best lying poker faces that we gave him every nickel.

We were revolutionaries in a sense. We thought it was disgustingly unfair that we had to turn all of our tips in to him. Don’t tipped workers usually get to keep all their tips? He represented the bosses and we were the poor afflicted proletarians. Valets of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your tips!

At the end of the night, we would open up the back of the truck, dive into the glorious pile of bills, and count the loot. It was usually a pretty good haul. Sometimes we got $5, $10’s, $20’s, even a $50. Disco ducks had money to burn and liked to throw it around for whatever reason.

Remember this was when a record album cost $4, and a ski lift ticket cost $8. A concert ticket was maybe $10. Everything was dirt cheap and more or less affordable. Now none of those things are affordable. Only if you’re rich. It was a special time.

The idea that being dressed like me above meant you were gay was a joke. Women loved outfits like that. I had women tell me that when they saw me with that cotton scarf on, they wanted to jump on me right there.

Back then a guy dressed I was above was the opposite of gay. He might drive a Porsche. There he was, sniffing lines of coke in the backseat of his sports car in the dirt parking lot of the damned disco itself with two gorgeous model types all slutted up, one ready to suck his cock before the other one fucked him. This is how men like that lived.

There was not a lot of homosexuality in the disco scene. I believe that discos were divided into gay and straight because the gay men sure had their discos all right. But so did we. The discos we went to were the straight discos. The men all disco ducks, the women all disco sluts. Pure hedonism, 1970’s style. We thought the night would never end. Then the 80’s hit, and it was all gone as fast as it started.

The Surfriders, “The Lively Ones”

Just heard this for the first time today. Sounds a lot like Miserlou of Dick Dale and the Deltones, the original of surf rock. Of course I grew up in this part of California, right next to the beach, so this music is near and dear to my heart.

This is an awesome track though. I don’t care how much it sounds like Miserlou. Miserlou‘s a great song in and of itself. I don’t understand why more people outside of the US don’t get into surf rock. There is something so simple, glorious, and yet timeless in that music. It really plays with the strings in your heart and makes you smile with the knowledge that at least you are alive.

Plastic Bertrand, “Ca Plane Pour Moi”

Roger François Jouret or Plastic Bertrand, Ca Plane Pour Moi. 1978. The song had actually been originally sung by the man who wrote it, Lou Deprijck, who recorded it with sound engineer Phil Delire for RKM/Vogue at Studio Morgan in Brussels. The song was a worldwide smash it, but Plastic Bertrand only got .5% of the royalties. Rock artists get screwed like this all the time.

Probably it doesn’t matter that the lyrics are in French.

French lyrics here:

Wam! Bam!
Mon chat, splatch
Gît sur mon lit
A bouffé sa langue
En buvant dans mon whisky
Quant à moi
Peu dormi, vidé, brimé
J’ai dû dormir dans la gouttière
Où j’ai eu un flash

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
En quatre couleurs
Allez hop!
Un matin
Une louloute est v’nue chez-moi
Poupée de Cellophane
Cheveux Chinois
Un sparadrap
Une gueule de bois
A bu ma bière

Dans un grand verre
En caoutchouc

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
Comme un indien dans son igloo

Ça plane pour moi!
Ça plane pour moi!
Ça plane pour moi moi moi moi moi!
Ça plane pour moi!

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
Ça plane pour moi!

Allez hop! La nana
Quel panard!
Quelle vibration!
De s’envoyer
Sur le paillasson
Limée, ruinée, vidée, comblée

“You are the king of the divan!”
Qu’elle me dit en passant

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
I am the king of the divan

Ça plane pour moi!

Allez hop t’occupes t’inquiètes
Touche pas ma planète
It’s not today que le ciel me tombera
Sur la tête
Et que l’alcool me manquera

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
Ça plane pour moi!

Allez hop ma nana s’est tirée, s’est barrée
Enfin c’est marre, a tout cassé
l’évier, le bar me laissant seul
Comme un grand connard

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
Le pied dans le plat

Ça plane pour moi!

But don’t worry if you can’t understand French. Because they don’t make any sense even translated to English!

Here’s the English translation:

Wam! Bam!
My cat Splatch
Lies on my bed
Has eaten his tongue
Drinking my whiskey
As for me
Few slept, emptied, bullied
I had to sleep in the gutter
Where I had a flash

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!

In four colors
Come on, hop!
One morning
A louloute is coming home
Cellophane doll
Chinese hair
A plaster
A hangover
Drank my beer
In a big glass
Made of rubber

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
Like an Eskimo in his igloo!

That plane for me!
That plane for me!
That plane for me!
It’s ok for me me me me me!
That plane for Me!

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
That plane for me!

Come on hop!
The chick
What a panard!
What a vibration!
To send each other
On the doormat
Limed, ruined, emptied, filled
“You are the king of the couch!”
That she tells me by the way

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
I am the king of the couch
That plane for me!

Come on, worry about worrying
Do not touch my planet
It’s not today
That the sky will fall on me
On the head
And that I will miss the alcohol

That plane for me!

Come on, my girl
Pulled herself out
Ran away
Finally it’s tired
Broke everything
The sink, the bar
Leaving me alone
Like a big asshole

Hou! Hou! Hou! Hou!
Foot in the dish!
That plane for me!

The lyrics are all in French, but it’s great anyway. This came out right when punk rock was starting and this song was always popular with punkers. Bertrand started his first band, Hubble Bubble, as a punk rock band in 1974. Did punk rock even exist in 1974? Maybe The Dolls? The Dolls were proto-punk at the very least. But it officially started with the Sex Pistols in 1976.

Actually, Punkers had great taste in music. They liked a lot of music that was not necessarily punk at all.

And some of you wonder why I’m a rocker and I say I’m going to rock til I drop. I’ll be rocking into my 80’s if I make it that far. Rock music isn’t for the young. The young at heart? Maybe so. It’s for everyone of all ages!

Listen to the beat on this track. I guess I am mystified at how anyone could not be a rocker, much less out and out hate rock music. My Mom’s generation thinks it is simply loud and obnoxious, but I played a pop music song for her on the radio the other day and I can’t believe she actually liked it.

Assuming you have to problem with noisy music, how can any human being not love this kind of music?

I know Black people don’t particularly like rock and that’s ok. But how can Black people not dig a rockin’ beat like this? Color me mystified.

Rock music is great because it actually infiltrates your body and gets it moving in some pretty wild and often sexual ways.

I remember I had this young woman friend over at my house. She had a male friend with her. We both recently graduated from university. She came over to buy some LSD for herself and her roommate because I was dealing acid at the time. Haha.

She was a rather tense and uptight young woman, and I am not sure if she had had a lot of sexual experience. Anyway ,she had her male roommate here with her. I put on a Germs track, “Lion’s Share” off the soundtrack to the movie, Cruising. By the way, great movie!

The beat started pounding out, and at first she looked shocked and stunned like she had gotten an electric shock. Then I saw a wave of energy pulse through her body, jolting it around like she was having a tiny epileptic seizure. That’s rock and roll! It literally grabs your damned body, goes right inside of it and starts jolting your body energy this way and that! It’s almost like a recreational drug in that sense. You experience rock music at a purely physical level./strong>

A Theory of Aesthetics: Great Art Affects One on a Level Beyond Simple Understanding

As I showed you with that song by that German gothic band earlier, it often doesn’t even matter if you can understand the words to a song.

A great song can be sung in a foreign language and it matters not. Because the glory and beauty of music goes far beyond the pure meaning of whatever lyrics are being sung. Often the words are beautiful even if you can’t understand a word!

How does that work? I suppose you don’t have to understand any particular work of art for it to be great. I had no idea at all what was happening most of the time in Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, but it didn’t even matter! I read along anyway, and the fact that I had no idea of a plot took away nothing from my feeling that that was one of the greatest novels ever written in English. It was a great story! Who cares what the confounded plot was?

Perhaps the best way to see this is to posit that art and its beauty (for art is nothing without its beauty) and its affect on one’s mind and soul goes far beyond a simple understanding (which we can call “intelligibility”) of the work. It’s affecting you on a whole different level than ordinary intelligibility, perhaps on a higher level of perception where meaning and intelligibility doesn’t even matter. All that matters instead is what I might call “pure perception” and the experience of such. All that matters is the emotional reaction to the work of art.

By the way there is a whole subfield of philosophy dedicated to the study of art and its beauty called Aesthetics. It’s pretty interesting stuff. Even the Greeks had a lot of interesting things to say about Aesthetics. James Joyce deals with this subject in Portrait of an Artists as a Young Man, (highly recommended – the easiest Joyce novel to read) quoting St. Augustine, the great Christian mystic as part of his argument.

Augustine (City of God) was far more than a theologian. He was an incredible philosopher, and both philosophy and theology advanced dramatically after his thinking was published.  Pretty good for a guy living in the 1200’s. I need to check out Augustine some time. I heard it’s great stuff, especially City of God.

Sekou Sundiata, “Shout Out”

I normally don’t like this type of Black rap poetry, but this poem is just out of this world. It’s by a Black activist, poet, musician, and playwright named Sekou Sundiata (an adopted African name). This is from an album called The Blue Oneness of Dreams from 1997. This album won a Grammy award that year.

This is some incredible stuff. Some Blacks can write superb poetry, some of the finest poetry of all.

I get hammered when I say this, but this is an example of what I call “the Black genius.” Now that’s not to say that there are Blacks geniuses who can partake of the other genius styles, but I don’t think they’re as common as this type. It is in this style of genius that the Black man and the Black brain for that matter, truly shines bright as day. I suppose other races can display this genius style, but you sure don’t see it very often.

I can’t help thinking that Black minds or Black brains are different or at least tend to be different on average, and pure Black geniuses often look different from pure White geniuses, who tend more towards the airy philosophical world of ideas. This rapid-fire rapping type poetry, commentary, or even rap music can be found as a conversational style by Cornel West, Earl Ofari Hutchinson, Micheal Eric Dyson.

Listen to these Black geniuses (West is the best, but Dyson is also very good, and I’ve always had a soft spot for Hutchinson) and you will see that they all talk something like the Sundiata is in this video. It’s a very fast verbal brain at work, almost spewing out words so fast you can barely keep track of them.

Blacks do score higher than any other race in verbal memory and Africa never had writing. All they had was this oral tradition. Who knows, maybe they even selected for it? Is it beyond the realm of possibility. I really love this Black genius type with the rapid fire super-genius brain rattling off the perfect words in the perfect rhythm often with the perfect musical pitch to the spoken word.

Some White men can do this too, especially comedians. I am thinking in particular of Lenny Bruce, a Jewish comedian with an almost “Black” stage style and even Andy Kaufman at his best.

I keep hearing this poem on my radio station and I keep wondering who this is. Tonight I memorized a few lines and put them in Google and wa-la! Ladies and gentlemen, we have an answer!

I’m thinking right now that if there’s a heaven, there’s musical poems like this being played up there.

This poem is just too perfect!

Here’s to the best words
In the right place
At the perfect time to the human mind
Blown-up and refined.
To long conversations and the
Philosophical ramifications of a beautiful day.
To the twelve-steppers
At the thirteenth step
May they never forget
The first step.
To the increase, to the decrease
To the do to the do
To the did to the did
To the do to the did
To the done done
To the lonely.
To the brokenhearted.
To the new, blue haiku.
Here’s to all or nothing at all.
Here’s to the sick, and the shut-in.
Here’s to the was you been to the is you in
To what’s deep and deep to what’s down and down
To the lost, and the blind, and the almost found.

To the crazy
The lazy
The bored
The ignored
The beginners
The sinners
The losers
The winners.
To the smooth
And the cool
And even to the fools.
Here’s to your ex-best-friend.
To the rule-benders and the repeat offenders.
To the lovers and the troublers
The engaging
The enraging
To the healers and the feelers
And the fixers and the tricksters
To a star falling from a dream.
To a dream, when you know what it means.
To the bottom
To the root
To the base, uh, boom!
To the drum
To the was you been to the is you in
To what’s deep and deep to what’s down and down
To the lost, and the blind, and the almost found.

Here’s to somebody within the sound of your voice this morning.
Here’s to somebody who can’t be within the sound of your voice tonight.
To a low-cholesterol pig sandwich smothered in swine without the pork.
To a light buzz in your head
And a soundtrack in your mind
Going on and on and on and on and on like a good time.
Here’s to promises that break by themselves
Here’s to the breaks with great promise.
To people who don’t wait in the car when you tell them to wait in the car.
Here’s to what you forgot and who you forgot.
Here’s to the unforgettable.
To the was you been to the is you in
To what’s deep and deep to what’s down and down
To the lost, and the blind, and the almost found.

Here’s to the hip-hoppers
The don’t stoppers
Heads nodding in the digital glow
Of their beloved studios.
To the incredible indelible impressions made by the gaze as you gaze in the faces of strangers.
To yourself you ask: Could this be God? Straight up!
Or is it a mask?
Here’s to the tribe of the hyper-cyber
Trippin’ at the virtual-most outpost at the edge on the tip
Believin’ that what they hear is the mothership
Drawing near.
To the was you been to the is you in
To what’s deep and deep to what’s down and down
To the lost, and the blind, and the almost found.

Nosferatu, “The Night Is Young”

Nosferatu again. I can’t get enough of these guys. Off of The Best of Nosferatu, Volume 1, The Hades Years from 2001. Only 18 years ago!  They still made good music in the 21st Century! Looks like it never appeared on any of the studio albums, but they added it to the Best of album.

Nice evil lyrics there…”The Devil lays down your salvation.” Haha. Oh, you bad, bad boys. Mommy’s going to have to give you a spanking!

We move in silhouette
Loved in candlelight
Can’t you feel the night is young
Come dance with the ghost
Step in through my door
Don’t you know the night is young
In the city lights
A pale reflection’s calling
How we love the night so young

Hanging from horizons eyes
See the faces crystalline
Trace your foot steps, follow through
Down on the ground and kiss those black lips
Back upon you, waiting on
Sound of heartbeats, breathing’s drawn
Tasting your temptation
My dark embraces revelation

We move in silhouette
Loved in candlelight
Can’t you feel the night is young
Come dance with the ghost
Step in through my door
Don’t you know the night is young
In the city lights
A pale reflection’s calling
How we love the night so young

We move in silhouette
Loved in candlelight
Can’t you feel the night is young
Come dance with the ghost
Step in through my door
Don’t you know the night is young
In the city lights
A pale reflection’s calling
How we love the night so young

Up above the skyline high time
Look across the evening’s cries
So many empty hearts just wasting
Time they don’t have left to kill
The moonlight guides the darkness near
To a place where desire waits
In cold anticipation
The Devil lays down your salvation

We move in silhouette
Loved in candlelight
Can’t you feel the night is young
Come dance with the ghost
Step in through my door
Don’t you know the night is young
In the city lights
A pale reflection’s calling
How we love the night so young

Nosferatu, “Torturous”

I am really starting to like these guys. I am listening to a lot of Gothic Rock last couple of days, but this band always seems to stand out for some reason. I love those heavy jangling guitars. They sound a lot like Joy Division, but so did that Xmal Deutschland band I posted earlier. Joy Division really laid the trail for this kind of music. Ian Curtis, RIP.

Listen to the drums. That’s what really makes this song. Rat Scabies (lol) formerly of The Damned (also a gothic rock but also a punk rock band) is on drums here. I played on a number of their later songs.

That guitar is killer too though, face it. So’s the damned piano.

This is also off of Lord of the Flies, 1998. Sounds like they might have peaked around then.

X-Mal Deutschland, “Incubus Succubus (Live)”

Here’s that song I posted yesterday again. This time its live. The band was German, they were actually an all-girl band, believe it or not, and they even sung in German!

This song is said to be a Gothic Rock classic, and some think this is the greatest Gothic Rock song of all time. I can’t believe I am just hearing this song for the first time 37 years after it came out. And I was into the Goth scene at the time, too.

I just discovered listening to this music that I am not sure if it matters what language great music is sung in. For instance, this song  sounds awesome in German! I haven’t the faintest idea what they are singing about, but it doesn’t even matter! You can’t make out the lyrics on a lot of music like this anyway.

I had an excellent post-punk song by a French band I never heard of on tape long ago. I loved that song even though I didn’t understand a word of what they were saying.

This is where having an intuitive mind versus a logical mind comes in handy.

A logical mind would get furious because it couldn’t understand the words.

The intuitive or holistic mind doesn’t care because it’s looking for the Gestalt (great German word there), the whole picture, the experience in totality, the overall vibe, the case where the sum is great than the whole of its parts, the “I can’t put my finger on it but I know it when I see it” feeling, the “I feel it in my gut or body” feeling.

The intuitive (female or feminine) mind is holistic. It looks at the forest and misses the individual trees.

The logical (male or masculine) mind sees the individual trees but can’t make out the whole forest or the picture in totality, hence where we get our phrase, “Can’t see the forest for the trees.”

Es tanzen die narren
Ein herz aus eisen
Über den wolken
Unter der erde

Incubus succubus
Succubus incubus
Incubus succubus
Succubus incubus
Incubus succubus

Feuer, feuer, ohhh!
Feuer, feuer, ohhh!
Feuer, feuer, ohhh!
Feuer, feuer, ohhh!

Romanze der nüchte und glut
Leben und tod sonne, mond
Kalt und heiß
Schwarz und rot

Kürper und geist
Liebe und chaos
Erweckt neues leben
Für meine kräfte

Ooooh

Incubus succubus
Succubus incubus

Ganz tief unten, wo es kein licht mehr gibt
Dümonen, am himmel ist kein platz für uns!
Am himmel ist kein platz für uns!

Incubus succubus
Succubus incubus
Incubus succubus
Succubus incubus

Vom himmel fiel ein morgenstern
Ein neuer gott
Für unsere mächte

Incubus succubus
Succubus incubus

Ganz tief unten, wo es kein licht mehr gibt
Hexensabbat regiert die nacht
Hexensabbat regiert die energie der nacht
Hexensabbat
Regiert die energie der nacht
Die energie der nacht
Die energie der nacht

Incubus succubus
Succubus incubus
Incubus succubus
Succubus incubus

Nosferatu, “Witching Hour”

Really nice. Another perfect Halloween song.

I am not sure if I ever even heard of these guys.  British Gothic Rock band.

At first I thought this was more 80’s Gothic Rock, but this song is from 1998! That’s only 21 years ago. What do you know? They actually kept making good music into the 1990’s. Apparently this is called Second Wave Gothic Rock, the earlier stuff being the groups I posted earlier such as 45 Grave, Xmal Deutchland, etc. I had no idea that they had first and second waves of Gothic Rock!

I am really starting to like these morbid Gothic Rock stuff. Perfect for a sick mind like mine.

Nosferatu, “Witching Hour”, off Lord of the Flies (1998)

Overland, you could take these lifeless hands in yours
Breathe into me things I gave up praying for.
Tired of shadow play through a darker gaze,
Will you take what I want you to?
Will you forsake things you never should?
It’s time, time to set the world alight.

Set your spirit free
Come across the sky to me
Give in to insanity
The witching hour
Wait for me behind the door
I’ll throw your body to the floor
We will be apart no more
The witching hour

Can you feel the fire that’s burning me inside?
As your touch darkens your betraying smile
Cast unrest aside, it’s time to come alive
I don’t think I need to tell you
Such a mirrored ride

Set your spirit free
Come across the sky to me
Give in to insanity
The witching hour
Wait for me behind the door
I’ll throw your body to the floor
We will be apart no more
The witching hour

45 Grave, “Evil”

Perfect song for Halloween.

Think it came out in 1982. Early LA punk rock. This is Horror Punk, Deathrock, and Gothic Rock. These folks fashioned themselves as some sort of devil worshipping maniacs. Lead singer was a woman named Dinah Cancer. Paul Cutler was the main guy in the band. I saw them twice, once in Long Beach and a year later in LA.

I went to see this gothic rock band and 45 Grave was up first. I was dating the female lead singer, and she’s slightly famous. I was also dating her best friend at the same time.

I had met them both at the same time at a rock show at the Rainbow. They both had their hands all over me as soon as they met me, total strangers. They seemed drunk. The lead singer said, “You smell like popcorn.” She had this insane look on her face. She often had an insane look on her face. That was one of my favorite things about her.

Anyway I met Paul Cutler after the show backstage. He was extremely friendly and immediately took a strong liking to me. Maybe he thought I was smart. This guy had been living in the city way too long. He was going on about some dream he had of a city of the future with trams and high speed trains going at three or four different levels all at once. The whole city was mechanized and lit up. Blade Runner style. He’d probably never been on a hike in his life.

Xmal Deutschland, “Incubus Succubus”

Another perfect song for Halloween! Band is called Xmal Deutschland. From 1982, almost 40 years ago. The music is called Gothic Rock. Bauhaus, the Cure, the aforementioned 45 Grave, Christian Death, Joy Division, etc.

Actually this sounds more like Christian Death than anything else. I saw them once at the Anticlub in 1985. They were fantastic. That was right before Rozz left when they were at their peak. Perfect wall of sound, as good as Phil Spector but dark as Hell. Dark as life, that is.

I set a record that night. I picked up a woman within three minutes of walking in the door! Anyone ever done that? Walk right into a party, a nightclub, Hell anywhere, and pick up a perfect stranger in only a short period of time. If you can do that, my hat’s off to you. You’re the man.

Jazz As Pure American and Pure Black Music

I always wondered why is Jazz so popular among people living in former Soviet bloc countries.

On the other hand, I met many Brits (and Americans) who not only hate Jazz but any of its paraphernalia. You just have to mention Jazz and the conversation will end right there. Maybe it’s old-fashioned today to be swinging to Jazz beats? But then there’s Latin Jazz which is phenomenal.

Maybe my experiences were subjective. But, I did encounter so many Jazz-haters. I couldn’t believe my ears: “how can anyone hate such a soulful, melodious music.”

I love Jazz because it has a hint of romance in every beat. Jazz is the rhythm of the most beautiful life.

Most of us rockers don’t hate jazz. At worst we find it rather boring. We hate jazz fans or jazzholes as we call them! See below.

Jazz is very nice music and it is often also very good music. The great Black jazz musicians like Coltrane and Miles Davis were absolutely out of this world. I mean they were in another category altogether – sort of on a higher plane.

I don’t like “jazzholes.” A lot of jazz fans are like that. They are anti-hipsters who hate rock and roll and think it is stupid and lowbrow, except that it’s not. They think they are intellectual and sophisticated, often wear suits even as young men, despise hipsters, refuse to smoke pot or do any drugs at all and instead prefer to drink alcohol, preferably the hard stuff in mixed drugs.

I always considered them to be a bunch of squares and never liked them very much. Jazz versus rock got caught up in the anti-hippie culture wars on the 1960’s-1080’s which at its mildest form simply hated rock music and pot and at its worst hated long hair and the whole nine yards.

Jazz isn’t British music. British music is rock and roll!

Jazz came out of the US and it all came from Black people. The roots were all the way back to the 20’s and it was long associated with a drug-using, mostly Black underground in big US cities like New York where the scene was big Harlem.

I have no idea why jazz is so popular in the former Soviet bloc.

The Marriage of Drug, Black, and Jazz Cultures in the Earlier Days of Jazz Music

The jazz underground has always been associated with Black people and drugs even from its early days in the 1920’s.

The drug back then was mostly marijuana which was widely demonized back then because it was mostly used by Blacks and Hispanics. Whites who used it were more or less White niggers or wiggers so to speak.

The Pot Makes You Violent Bullshit

My Mom has believed this garbage her whole life. She keeps bringing it up. She got infected with this propaganda way back as a girl. This shows how strong propaganda is and how it has the potential to override all reason.

This is where the myth the crazed psychotic violent pot crazed murdering maniac comes from – the fact that most pot users were either city Blacks or low-skilled Mexican workers. These people were considered to be violent types – and they are more violent than Whites. They also used pot, so it was assumed that the pot and violence went together except that it didn’t and if anything it probably calmed them down.

There were also a few notorious cases in which unstable pot smokers went wild and committed some savage murders. The relationship of pot with these cases is unknown but back then, few people smoked pot, but one thing was for sure – almost all criminals, even White criminals, smoked pot. In fact it was seen as a drug of criminals which is why a lot of people didn’t want to use it.

The completely serious movie (now a so bad it’s great movie) Reefer Madness is emblematic of the anti-pot propaganda of the time.

A man named Henry J. Anslinger headed the Drug Enforcement Agency back then, and he had some sort of a hard-on for pot for some crazy reason. He led the anti-pot campaign in the US for many years starting  in the 1930’s. He was more of a brainwashed (and racist) fool than anything else, but he damaged the lives of a lot of innocent pot smokers.

Of course anyone who has smoked pot knows that it calms you down. I knew Jack Herrer, a famous post activist.

He told me that when he was in jail and prison, prisoners who smoked pot always calmed down a lot and became less aggressive and violent. He said some of the wardens even turned a blind eye to pot use for his reason. In fact, the passivity that this drug causes is one of its biggest problems, as people get lost in their bong hits and become apathetic as the world passes them by.

This amotivational syndrome is mostly an issue for teenagers and young adults and it is quite common among young potheads. However, I have hardly ever met an adult past age 23 who had amotivational syndrome, as most even very heavy pot-smokers develop the work ethic needed to survive in our society by that age.

Teenagers and young adults are notoriously apathetic and poorly motivated as it is, since they have not yet been beaten over the head with the Reality Stick of Life. Encapsulate such a young person in a perennial cloud of pot smoke, and it just makes the laziness and lack of guidance, direction, and purpose typical of this age group all the worse.

Anyway, the jazz scene lingered in mostly Black and rather sleazy nightclubs in ghettos where nevertheless a lot of lowlife White types who lived my sort of lifestyle liked to go to slum it up on weekends. White men have been slumming it up forever. There is a cool element to it as long as you do not get too taken in by it.

Ghetto Drugs and Non-Ghetto Drugs

Cocaine and heroin were also pretty widely widely used in this scene – cocaine all the way back to the 1920’s, when we were already getting warnings about the insidious nature of this drug. Heroin was always around too, as it’s always been in the ghettos. It got more popular in the 1950’s and many great Black jazz musicians become junkies.

Psychedelics were never popular, as not only were they not around then, but also people in the ghettos and barrios of big cities have never been big psychedelic fans.

Psychedelics actually do expand your awareness and exaggerate whatever environment you are in. This is great for self-exploration if you have a fairly cozy life, but if your life blows for any reason, you might just have a bad trip.

I kept a hit of strong LSD in my refrigerator for two years until I finally felt that my head was perfectly clear and sane enough to take the stuff. The importance of what is called set and setting is extremely important for drugs like this.  Psychedelics are not escapist drugs – they are the opposite.

As Blacks and Hispanics in city ghettos and barrios are usually living anywhere from a hardscrabble to nightmarish existence, the last they want to is to take a drug that makes that very existence about 10 times as powerful as it is.

On the other hand, PCP  was popular in the Black and Hispanic communities, but it is not a psychedelic per se, as it is more of an anesthetic – it was originally an animal tranquilizer, and people used to refer to it as “elephant tranquilizer,” which was exactly what it was used for.

Yes, that stuff was actually used to literally knock out massive elephants. Now think about a drug that is strong enough to put an elephant on its ass and try to imagine what it will do  to a comparatively puny human.

The PCP experience can be profoundly weird, but I suppose it is also a form of escapism, as when you use PCP  you are basically traveling to another  planet right here on Earth. Going all the way to another planet while never leaving your own is about as powerful as escapism gets, I would say.