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Pigshit: WHO PUT THE BOMP?

Gary Pig Gold wonders WHO PUT THE BOMP?

Why, GREG SHAW, Of Course!

Personally speaking, I can solidly claim that the very first Bomp record ever released, the Flamin’ Groovies’ 1974 seven-incher "You Tore Me Down," actually caused the sonic earth to move beneath me in ways matched only by, I kid you not, you-know-who on The Ed Sullivan Show, my first discovery of Elvis’ Sun sessions, and my pal John’s bringing the first Ramones record home to our innocent little Canadian turntables via the Bowery, very very late one long-lost Friday ago.

Yessir, that little Groovies record, and the joyous singles (and albums) (and magazines) Bomp faithfully sent my way duly inspired yours quite truly start my own fanzine. Then my own band. Then even my own record label! You could say, then, that "You Tore Me Down" single-in-handedly spared me from a life of University study and squarely set me down the road to where I type today.

So! Just who was this Greg Shaw fella then?

He was born in San Francisco in 1949, raised on a healthy diet of Elvis, Fats Domino and sci-fi zines, and when not hovering backdoors at the touring Rock ‘n’ Roll Revues of the day could be found not only hanging with such folk as Robert Silverberg and Philip K. Dick, but immortalizing all of his thoughts and adventures of same in a series of crude, mimeographed broadsheets he fearlessly circulated to an ever-growing circle of friends, fans and followers.

Why, he’d soon published over 200 such "fanzines," as today they’d be called, one of which even earned him a write-up in the Saturday Evening Post. Come 1966, our hero happened upon a nearby street-corner labeled "Haight" and "Ashbury." Needless to say the next Shaw fanzine, Mojo-Navigator Rock & Roll News, became no less than the socio-musical template upon which another local rag, Rolling Stone, was soon to be intrinsically based.

Too bad. As usual, Greg was there first. But the scene, and the spoils, went Jann Wenner’s way.

Blueprint ruthlessly high-jacked, but energy and enthusiasm stubbornly unbowed, Greg by the Seventies had joined that elite-and-then-some tiny circle of scribes who not only knew, but actually wrote about such things as Raw Power and the still-New York Dolls …and in publications that us fellow music addicts could actually unearth and devour at the neighborhood newsstand! Consequently, Greg’s newest publication – and soon label – Bomp! quickly found a rabid, wide-eared audience which truly transcribed the globe.

Lest those ill-informed now be wont to cast all things Bomp onto the nostalgia heap, here’s a short-list of just some of the bands Greg helped bring to our attention. Ready?

Devo, The Plimsouls, The Romantics, The Barracudas, The Shoes, The Soft Boys, Black Flag, Redd Kross, The Pandoras, The Chesterfield Kings, Bad Religion, Lazy Cowgirls, Ray Campi, Spacemen 3, Ant Bee, Brian Jonestown Massacre, The Black Keys.

Some names therein you may not be intimately familiar with, but each and every one of ‘em are without a doubt acts which have proven, and shall continue to prove, instrumental in laying groundwork for most every pop ‘n’ rock genre-du-jour. And once again, each and every one of those acts, to varying degrees, owe their influence – not to mention their initial recording contracts – to Greg Shaw.

Closing words? They should really belong to The Man Himself. Listen closely, all of you (especially those who deign to nurture musical talent in whatever capacity yourselves). For here was a man who knew of what he spoke:

"I guess I’d most like Bomp to be remembered as a label utterly dedicated to the people who care most about music: the fans and collectors. I think it comes down to the fact that Bomp is an outgrowth of my love for music. Where many would view it as a marginal business that barely breaks even, I prefer to see it as a hobby that’s profitable enough to allow me to build my life around it. The opportunity to make more money elsewhere has never once tempted me – but it has drawn many talented people AWAY from this business.

"But we’re still here, doing what we want, on our own terms, answering to nobody, dealing with people in an old-fashioned "mom and pop" kind of way. It’s a satisfying life that I’d never trade for, say, David Geffen’s.

"If nothing else, maybe we’ve set an example that might offer an alternative to this increasingly corporate, impersonal society. Or maybe not. At least we’ve had a good time trying…

"…and we’re not done yet."

Greg Shaw passed away five years ago, October 19th.

www.bomp.com

www.GaryPigGold.com

Video: The Invisible Cities playing a cover of "You Tore Me Down" by the Flamin' Groovies

PIGSHIT: DENNIS DIKEN and his BELL SOUND

DENNIS DIKEN and his BELL SOUND

Discriminating consumers of only the best in rock ‘n’ pop have long revered Dennis Diken as drummer with those rightfully legendary Smithereens. Yet did you know that in between making Jersey beat, Dennis has penned some of my all-time favorite liner notes (The Beach Boys’ Lost and Found collection, for example), hosted some of my favorite radio shows on mighty WFMU-FM, written on and about anything and everything from Otis Blackwell to Allen Funt, and even popped up recently in reverent celebration of Ringo Starr’s 69th birthday within the pages of USA Today?

Now, having lived as I have in the New York City vicinity for nigh on twenty years, one cannot help but cross frequent musical paths with Dennis and his drums, accompanying Bill Lloyd one moment, Mary Weiss the next. But even all of the above totally failed to prepare me for the track which appeared circa 2001 in answer to my request for him to be part of a Gene Pitney tribute disc I was compiling: A wholly, perfectly roller-rink rendition of “Only Love Can Break A Heart” that featured Dennis on not only percussion, but vocals as well! Who knew?!!

I certainly didn’t. So an instant request for MORE! eventually brought several works-in-progress my way, each even more sonically love-breaking than the ones before. Still, there was so much else for Dennis to attend to, Smithereens primarily...

Until now — finally — comes an entire, full-length CD full of the man alongside co-writer/vocalist/instrumentalist Pete DiBella and producer Dave Amels. It’s called Late Music, and it is quite honestly one of the finest albums you or I will hear this, or any other year.

Nevertheless, having gotten a whole album from Dennis, there were still quite a few things I needed to know, you know.

Namely... www.conqueroo.com/dennisdikennewsclips

So, should you ever find yourself longing for a 2009 Wilson and/or Walker Brothers record, wondering whatever became of that “Bucket T.”-powered Who, or have just put down your Mono Beatles Box long enough to crave some real songs made by actual humans again, Bell Sound’s very own Late Music is the very first place I’d suggest you head.

It’s available right there at www.dennisdiken.com

www.GaryPigGold.com

EIGHT QUESTIONS For NARDWUAR (The Human Serviette)

Gary Pig Gold has...

EIGHT QUESTIONS For NARDWUAR (The Human Serviette)

The single greatest living Canadian since Stompin’ Tom Connors, whose latest Evaporators release “A Wild Pear” shares seven Mint Records inches with Andrew W.K., tells us all…..

1. Munsters or Addams Family: Which one’s for you, and Why?

Well, Munsters of course, since Yvonne De Carlo (Lily!) was born in my hometown of Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. By the way, since we’re speaking of births, why not mention death? Errol Flynn died in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. 1959, to be exact. With his 16-year-old lover. Like you care.

2. Who in the world, living or dead, would you most like to play a game of “Twister” with?

I don’t know yet. My dad once met John Denver on an airplane ride. Does that count?

3. How many Sid King & The Five Strings records do you own?

Gary, I don’t know who Sid King & The Five Strings are! Please, oh please tell me, Nardwuar the Human Serviette, who Sid King & The Five Strings are:
[Well, Nardwuar, simply check out my piece on ‘em in Visible Ink Press’ Music Hound Rock: The Essential Album Guide book, OK? And/or contact the very good folk at Norton Records. ]

4. Got any good Brian Wilson stories?

No, Gary. Please inform us, again. Yeah, tell us about Brian Wilson’s RAP album! I know he did a good rap album.
[ NO comment! ]

5. “Ginger” or “Mary-Ann”: Which one’s for you, and for How Long?

Mary-Ann, cuz she appears in a video by the band Squirtgun for the song, called strangely enough, “Mary-Ann.” Squirtgun features a guy called Mass, who also played in a band called The Potatomen with a guy called Larry Livermore who saw the Sex Pistols at Winterland and The Syndicate Of Sound kick it out in Detroit! Interestingly enough, I once interviewed Gilligan. Check the interview out on my Web site.

6. What single song, living or dead, do you most wish you’d written… and Why Didn’t You?

Different Strokes or Facts Of Life. That would make me Alan Thicke, a fellow Canadian, and someone my friends in the band The Smugglers have written about. In fact, here are some of the lyrics to “Alan Thicke” by The Smugglers:

Holy shit, is there no justice in the world that made you the king of this TV dream?
Oh, the Nielsens can just go fuck themselves:
You’re Canadian, you can work up here
Well I don’t give a shit about that bitch Joanna Kerns:
She’s got nothing; you carried the show
We’ll give you your own show on the CBC
And we’ll watch you every Tuesday night
From Tofino to P.E.I.
We love you, Alan Thicke
We love you, Alan Thicke

7. Whose Farfisa organ would you most like to be reincarnated as?

The Farfisa for the Five Canadians, a 1960’s group from… Texas. Yes, the Five Canadians were from Texas. Huh? They took the name because their manager believed (read carefully) “a band that people THOUGHT were from Canada would get more airplay.” Genius.

8. In 2000 words or less, Your Hopes, Aspirations and Goals, musical and otherwise, for your life and your country?

I just want everyone to smile, and I love cheese.

Check out “A Wild Pear” right there at…www.nardwuar.com/records/cleo18/

….and then, Don’t Forget www.GaryPigGold.com

So then, everybody, “Doot Doola Doot Doo...”

Pigshit: THE MAN WHO INVENTED THE SIXTIES

by Gary Pig Gold

HE MAN WHO INVENTED THE SIXTIES

If veteran rabble-rousing, uber-networking, visionary (“Blacklisted”) journalist Al Aronowitz’s lifetime of achievements should be remembered for but one solitary event, may I posit it be for what he managed to pull off in the immediate hours following The Beatles’ concert debut at Forest Hills Tennis Stadium, New York, one dreamy midsummer 1964’s night.

For it was within mere minutes after the final shrieks of and around “Long Tall Sally” wafted skyward that our story begins, with the Fab Four safely ensconced back upon the sixth floor of Manhattan’s Hotel Delmonico. Somehow, into that inner sanctum high atop the Beatle-manic corner of Park and 59th, was snuck none other than Bob Dylan, a bottle of cheap wine, and a fateful envelope’s worth of herbal libation.

Ladies and gentlemen, life as we knew it was about to abruptly cut from stark black and white to rich, fully-dimensional stereophonic day-glo from that momentous moment hence.

It seems Bob, misreading a certain “I Want To Hold Your Hand” refrain as “I get high” as opposed to “I can’t hide,” had been convinced to confront those four lyrical Liverpudlians he’d previously dismissed with that cruelest of epithets: “Bubblegum!” In the process, to break the trans-oceanic ice as it were, he decided to introduce his fabulous new pals to the hitherto non-rockin’ accoutrement known as, yep, marijuana.

Suffice to say it wasn’t just the Beatles’ consciousness which was forever altered that night, but the very course of rock and roll, the music business as a whole soon enough after, and as a result just maybe Western Civilization Itself. And it is in my wisened opinion that the singular man we all have to thank for that, for Rubber Soul, for “folk-rock” in the process and, really, for loading Dylan into his station wagon and dragging him towards the Delmonico to set all of these historic balls into motion in the first place, is none other than a dear, sweet man I had the pleasure to have known named Al Aronowitz.

FACT: With all apologies due Ralph J. Gleason, Al Aronowitz was the first widely-published man to ever take what we now regrettably take for granted as rock and roll “seriously.” His “Pop Scene” columns four decades ago in the New York Post, not to mention a litany of legendary Village Voice and Saturday Evening Post features, brought to widespread attention such figures as the fledgling Brill Building songsmiths, teen tycoon Phil Spector, and of course Bob and those Beatles to boot. Even prior to that above-mentioned hot August night at the Delmonico though, Al was busy forging crucial artistic bridges between hitherto insurmountable cliques and cultural divides. To cite but one cataclysmic example, it is SO plain to see how Al’s introducing Allen Ginsberg to a fresh-from-Minnesota Dylan eventually helped Beat meet Beatles, as it were, and in all the most ingeniously genre-busting of ways.

Al eventually compiled his Greatest Hits, so to speak, across the 615 history-packed pages of Bob Dylan and The Beatles: Volume One of The Best of the Blacklisted Journalist. The result is, without a solitary doubt, Required Reading for anyone and everyone who considers themselves fans, followers, students, or those just plain curious of the Golden Age of Popular Music, and how the players – Dylan and the Fabs especially – met, influenced, and eventually actually interacted with one another during those halcyon-indeed daze. Thanks in no small part whatsoever to the Herculean efforts of the man who, in his very own only slightly jocular words, would try to pass it all off by claiming “I was just a proud and happy shadchen, a Jewish matchmaker, dancing at the princely wedding I arranged.”

“I recognized Dylan and The Beatles as immortals, and I wanted to cop some immortality for myse lf,” Al told me. “I knew that bringing Dylan and The Beatles together would have exactly the result that it had. The result is that contemporary popular music changed for the better. Otherwise, every generation creates its own heroes.”

“Whether subsequent heroes will enjoy the same immortality that Bob and The Beatles attained, I am unqualified to predict. All I know is that Bob Dylan and The Beatles are hard acts to follow.”

As is Al Aronowitz, who passed away four years ago August First in Elizabeth, New Jersey. He was 77 years old.

His good, good work lives on, however, at www.blacklistedjournalist.com.

www.GaryPigGold.com.

Bob Meets The Beatles - The Meth Minute 39

Pigshit: SEVEN YEARS TOO LATE THE HERO: JOHN ENTWISTLE

by Gary Pig Gold

SEVEN YEARS
TOO LATE THE HERO:

JOHN ENTWISTLE
9 October 1944 – 27 June 2002

What I feel inside I can't explain. That John Entwistle should die in his late fifties is totally unthinkable. He was the indestructible one. He was the rock. He was the island. He was the fulcrum on which it all hinged.
(Mick Farren, Deviant)

John was the best. He made "My Generation," along with the other lads, one of the greatest records of all time.
(Peter Noone, the Artist formerly known as Herman)

Learned how to play bass playing along with "Happy Jack."
(Rick Harper, www.Rickenharper.com)

In his songs The Ox spent a lot of time playfully - and not so playfully - mapping types of hells, but that's just to say that beyond question his real place is in Heaven.
(Jeremy Gluck, original Barracuda)

For all bass players everywhere, it was Big Johnny Twinkle who opened the gate and let the horses out of the barn...for good.
(Mick Hargreaves, my favorite Jersey area bassman)

I think John was the pivotal member of the most exciting rock band to emerge on the British music scene in the Sixties.
(Brian Auger, Trinity)

There is a Zen expression that the way to go through life successfully is to "move like a cow" or, in this case, an ox.
(Chris Butler, Waitress)

RIP John Entwistle, I hope you are dancing somewhere with Peg Leg Peggy right now.
(Scott McCaughey, original Young Fresh Fellow)

Great rock groups are miracles of human chemistry. Without the solidity and musical instincts and unique personality of John Alec, we would not have had the outrageous creativity and genius and maximum rock and roll of Keith and Peter and Roger ...or The Who at all. So we must thank him for making modern music as we know it possible.
(Paul Williams, Crawdaddy Magazine)

Yes. Thank You, John. And as you yourself promised, You only die once in a lifetime.
(Gary Pig Gold, www.GaryPigGold.com)

Video: John Entwistle and his Chicago Typewriter

Pigshit: TOO TOUGH TO DIE: GOD SAVED DEE DEE RAMONE AND PUNK ROCKERS EVERYWHERE

by Gary Pig Gold

TOO TOUGH TO DIE: GOD SAVED DEE DEE RAMONE AND PUNK ROCKERS EVERYWHERE

“His speech was inarticulate;
His songs were not.”
(Carl Cafarelli, "This Is Rock ‘N’ Roll Radio")

“Dee Dee was the most important musician in the history of punk rock,
and probably the most overlooked.”
(John Holmstrom, editor/publisher, PUNK Magazine)

Seven years since his passing, with (punk) rock now routinely reduced to yet another noxious niche within the gigantic corporate crime-scheme of things, it does seem all too easy to forget the indelible impact Dee Dee and his fellow Ramones truly wrought upon a terrifyingly wide swath of humanity. Yes, their sound was forever first and one-two-three-foremost within their arsenal. But the band’s look, posture, taste, aroma and very thorn-in-the-craw omnipresence offered vital inspiration, and delivered desperately needed hope by the dumpster-load, to all of us who just refused to take Frampton Comes Alive or even Rumours lying down.

Lest we forget too that, within mere months of that first Ramones long-player, Paul McCartney finally discovered the overdrive position on his amp, half of Led Zeppelin and even The Who tightened up their pant-legs (not to mention song structures) considerably, and even the mainstream media itself was sufficiently baited to pounce upon what in retrospect we can see to have been the last great (Caucasian) threat to the melodic status quo.

No mean feats, were they, for four seeming Carbona-heads straight outta Queens, NY. And with all respect due to Joey’s Brill Building genetic programming, it was in fact Dee Dee who, just as Dennis Wilson provided his musical family, gave the Ramones their identity, spirit, and genuine sneakered, black-leather credibility. As no less a kindred spirit as George Tabb of New York Press perfectly stated, "Dee Dee was the bad-ass of the Ramones. The one who really took the drugs, sniffed the glue, hung out at 53rd & 3rd and WAS practically a teenage lobotomy."

Plus, need we neglect, Dee Dee’s musicianship duly inspired all the coolest Fender far-from-Precision bassmen of the time, from Sid Vicious all the way on down to my fellow budding Canadian pop scribe B.F. "Mole" Mowat (then skipping high school whenever possible to swing the bottom end for a dorky ELO/Alice Cooper cover band). Why, even acclaimed psycho-twangstress Elena Skye of that Demolition String Band, never once loathe to draw that simple pedal-to-the-floor connection between P-rock and Bill Monroe, admits to being "warped for life" after having first encountered the Ramones during her most impressionable dorm years: "I immediately cut my hair like Dee Dee's, with the bangs and all. I put my mandolin away, bought a black Rickenbacker with black and white checker binding, lowered the strap so it hit my knees and didn't look back for about twelve years!"

But don’t just take it from these good folk: "I believe Dee Dee influenced every kid playing bass that saw him perform," as no less an expert on the subject as Johnny Ramone stated for the obitual record.

"I remember seeing the Ramones at the Bottom Line after Sire Records signed them," recalls Ira Robbins, whose Trouser Press was essential in providing the band with early, pinpoint coverage. "It was their big up-from-the-underground-into-the-mainstream-light gig, and Johnny still had to tune Dee Dee's bass for him – onstage – after they came out. Now THAT’S the Real Deal, innit?" Yessir, hardly averse to being d-u-m-b whenever the situation warranted, Dee Dee employed his lowly four strings to replant an authentic, cranial-deep root back into the Rock and the Roll, while effortlessly penning several legendary additions to Pop’s under-three-minute/ less-than-four-chord canon along the way ("Rockaway Beach" alone must qualify the man for somebody's Songwriters’ Hall of Infamy, no?)

As if this wasn’t all more than well enough already, in his latter post-Ramone incarnation Dee Dee gamely cut a few new albums, wrote a couple’a books, and was even beginning to delve into the finer graphic arts alongside longtime henchman Arturo Vega when his number cruelly cropped up. But right til the very sordid end he kept his instrument close at hand, and would never fear to strap it on whenever the call to provide some genuine R ‘n’ R arose within earshot.

Finally, Dee Dee remained the coolest-looking (and talking) Ramone by far, even as he and his brudders crashed their final socio-musical barrier to become inductees into the so-called Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame circa Spring 2001. Wearing an entirely Bowery-worthy wine-colored jacket, and fresh from hunting down Gene Pitney for an autograph backstage, Dee Dee confronted all of the industry’s most pseudo-powerful within the wholly inappropriate Waldorf Astoria that night, and as every Ramone but Joey stood proudly alongside uttered these final, all-encapsulating words of characteristic rare, raw wisdom:

"Hi, I’m Dee Dee Ramone, and, uh, I’d like to congratulate myself, and thank myself, and give myself a big pat on the back. Thank you, Dee Dee. You’re very wonderful. I love you."

Now, what more can one possibly a dd to that?

http://www.garypiggold.com

Video: Classic Dee Dee Ramone Moment

Pigshit: IT WAS FORTY YEARS AGO THIS MONTH

by Gary Pig Gold

Believe it or not, the very first "real" concert I was ever allowed to attend as a wee Canadian tyke was The Jimi Hendrix Experience at Toronto's Maple Leaf Gardens, May 3, 1969. 



I'd already been a fervent fan for a couple of years, having spent most of my Grade 8 art class making swirly sketches of Jimi in charcoal. Plus the Are You Experienced? album was right up there – almost – with Monkees' Headquarters on my 1967 Most-Played List.


Fast-forwarding, Christmastime '68 was spent, between runs down the local tobogganing hill, digging all eight vinyl sides of The White Album AND Electric Ladyland and, most likely as a direct result, my gym-class rhythm section and I were just starting to assemble our very own semi-power trio when word filtered along the groupvine that the Experience were planning to stop by our very neighborhood in a few months as part of their possibly-Farewell World Tour.



In a word then? WOW.



My most-trusted pal Ric scored two tickets in the Gardens' nosebleed section and I fibbed to my parents that we were off to a hootenanny (!) for the evening. Yet no sooner had we approached the venue that word began a'buzzin' that our hero had just been busted for carrying a batch of non-pharmaceutical mood enhancers into Toronto Airport. Hmmm…

Undaunted, we climbed skyward to our seats, sat on sonic needles and pins through both opening acts (the pretty cool Cat Mother & the All Night Newsboys, whose big hit "Good Old Rock n Roll" my little band was already struggling to learn, followed by none other than, uh, Fat Mattress) til the one and only Jimi Himself sauntered on stage, miraculously only a few minutes late.



Now considering all the man had already been through that day I guess it was no real surprise the evening's set consisted of mainly down-cast tunes a la "Red House," though Jimi did graciously treat the teenage throng with a quick encore full of that fabled, fiery Foxey Purpleness of yore.

And then, suddenly, he was gone. Experience and all.

James Marshall Hendrix returned to town briefly that December however, just long enough to be completely exonerated of all narco-charges ("Canada has just given me the greatest Christmas present ever!" he exclaimed to the Toronto Daily Star), but I suppose one could question if, or why, that life lesson ultimately went unheeded. And I suppose it does say something that out of all the delicately detailed minutiae forever etched upon my grey matter concerning that momentous concert forty long, long Toronto May’s ago, I can still most vividly recall EXACTLY what Jimi was wearing (all Harlem-Asbury chic all the way!), what I was wearing even (don't ask), the appropriately brilliant weather, the commuter train Ric and I snuck on after we told our parental units we'd just be folking around ...hell, I even remember the proto-Bowzer moves Cat Mother & Co. deployed whilst performing their one hit wonder!



But do I recall a single sliver of the sounds and/or stylings of the Noel Redding-fronted Fat Mattress performance of that same, utterly magical night? No sir, I do not. Which reminds me: Mr. Redding himself passed onward and upward to that great big Gardens in the sky six years ago May 11th.

And the moral, perhaps, to this all? Well, I still find myself revisiting Electric Ladyland on almost as regular a basis as I do the Monkees’ Headquarters. So you see some things, I guess, shall never change.

www.garypiggold.com

Jimi Hendrix Interview:

Pigshit: MEMORIES OF JOEY

A Gentleman, A True Star: MEMORIES OF JOEY

by Gary Pig Gold

Late one night in very late 1976, a singer acquaintance of mine burst into the (condemned) house I was then sharing with the local bar band, shouting "You will never believe what I just saw in Toronto tonight! These four guys with Brian Jones haircuts wearing drainpipe Levis, singing all these really fast, short songs. Lots of em, too! And the best part? NO GUITAR SOLOS!"

Now, this being the absolute height of Frampton Comes Alive, it's hard to completely fathom today the socio-musical import of that final kernel of information. But of course I was hooked, and the next time the Ramones landed in Canada, I made sure I was there.

The Dead Boys were opening: Sure, Stiv was alotta fun crawling over and across the drumkit during "Hey Little Girl" I suppose, but the headliners truly were, in every aspect of the words, The Real Thing. So I duly invited myself backstage to conduct their first interview on Canuck soil, and despite nearly getting bounced for taking a snap of Danny Fields writhing beneath a fridge in search of a runaway pencil, I was made to feel totally at home by the band's deep-rooted, deep-seeded LOVE of all things Rock and especially Roll: Johnny's coming-of-age watching Elvis' Ed Sullivision debut as a child, Dee Dee bemoaning the fact that it was hard getting the band going "coz rehearsal halls wouldn't let us in, ya know," and Joey. Dear, sweet Joey. He asked all about my record collection, claimed Peter Noone and Ronnie Spector as his two primary vocal idols, then wondered where a good place was to go see some local bands play later that night.

How utterly, disarmingly Refreshing, to say the least!

So we drove the R. brothers straight over to Toronto's Crash and Burn club to see Teenage Head throttle some old Eddie Cochran and Swinging Blue Jeans tunes, ran into Phil Lynott somehow lurking by the bar, then we all went out for some classic Canadian pizza slices (...mainly crust 'n' cheese, Tommy was complaining). Through it all, and then during subsequent fleetful meetings, Joey remained every inch the diehard, gentle man FAN of Our Music, and despite the fact that he and his bandmates literally Changed The World, I simply prefer to remember the man instead as nothing but the tallest, and needless to say coolest Herman's Hermits fan I ever did meet.

Joey passed away eight years ago this month. Gabba Gabba, good sir, wherever you are.

www.joeyramone.com

www.garypiggold.com

Video: SQUiRT T.V. interview with Joey Ramone

Pigshit: MY FIRST RECORDS

by Gary Pig Gold

Although as a toddler Mom and Dad were already helping send me to sleep with their Big Band 78’s (plus I later learned to print by copying their labels onto the nearest Crayon-friendly surface), I didn’t really encounter a true musical awakening of my very own til Summertime, 1963.

Banished for two weeks that August to my Aunt Jenny’s cottage, and trapped inside her Guest Room with nothing but an old stand-up radio long past dawn every single morning, it was only a matter of time, I suppose, before I stumbled upon the raucous strains of Toronto’s Number One Top Forty station, mighty CHUM 1050 AM.

I am not exaggerating: My life has never been the same since.

Faint prior memories of "Telstar" in my cousins’ rec room notwithstanding, I’d soon made lifelong friends with Elvis ("Devil In Disguise") and even Allan Sherman ("Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah"), and Aunt Jenny to this day wonders whatever I was doing in that room those entire two weeks!

But one wacky one-hit wonder in particular, The RanDells’ immortal (Billboard #16) smash "The Martian Hop," became my closest friend that endless summer. Then, thirty-five long years later (thanks to that damned internet), none other than head RanDell Steven Rappaport Himself tracked me down upon reading yet another of my many on-line RanDell Reminiscences.

Most sadly, Steven passed away on the Fourth of July, 2007.

Returning from my Aunt’s care with an entirely new lead on life, my parents were soon forced to re-negotiate my weekly allowance (I now demanded one 45-RPM record per week in lieu of my regular 50 cents), and it was right around then that those Beatles arrived...just in time to save me from another month of Davy Crockett and Peter Paul & Mary singles.

For my ninth birthday, I was blessed with my very first BIG record (as in album) ...just like those shiny ones Dad carefully kept filed near the Home Entertainment Center. I hearby proudly proclaim that my initial twelve inches of monophonic bliss was something called The Beatles Twist And Shout [WARNING. Fab Four Fan(atic)s and/or Collectors out there, Don’t Bother Me: this is a LONG out-of-print collection of early tracks unique to Capitol Records of Canada].

However, I must admit that none other than the third Monkees album, Headquarters, made even more of an impression. Why? Because it was in something called STEREO. Meaning that when I lay my head under the console record player to listen (this was before my parents knew enough to strap headphones onto me), both of my ears began receiving totally different pieces of sound. Mike’s guitar over there; Micky’s voice way over there! COOL!

Within a year of that particular sonic revelation I’d acquired the first in an endless parade of cheap tape recorders, and you know what? I’ve been happily eeking out a living of sorts in Stereophonic Sound ever since!

Thank You, Aunt Jenny.

www.garypiggold.com

Video: The Martian Hop:

Pigshit: TEN REASONS WHY BUDDY HOLLY STILL MATTERS

by Gary Pig Gold

Precisely fifty years since the music supposedly died,
TEN REASONS WHY BUDDY HOLLY STILL MATTERS

1. THE CHIRPING CRICKETS
Buddy Holly, alongside rhythm guitarist Niki Sullivan, bassist Joe B. Mauldin, and drummist-extraordinaire Jerry Allison, formed the immaculately suited, fully self-contained singing/songwriting template upon which some of the greatest pop-rock bands since, from those Beatles most obviously on down, were inextricably linked at the hip.

2. BUDDY’S BUDDY
When no less than that up-coming King of Western Bop Elvis Presley first blew into Lubbock, Texas on tour in 1955, Buddy Holly was not only right there in the front row cheering him on, but afterwards appointed himself the Hillbilly Cat’s exclusive host, guide and confidant for the ensuing sixteen hours. Duly inspired, Buddy immediately revamped his burgeoning Crickets from an alt.-bluegrass combo into Lubbock’s very own Elvis, Scotty and Bill …so successfully so, in fact, that several months later, when Elvis triumphantly returned to town, Buddy Holly had graduated from mere tour guide status to that of official on-stage opening act.

3. LEARNING THE GAME
After somehow failing to impress the usually infallible Owen Bradley with “That’ll Be The Day” at a 1956 demo session, Buddy drove one thousand miles from Nashville to the Clovis, New Mexico studios of Norman Petty, where over the next eighteen months they turned a simple two-track facility into an audio workshop/lab from which came not only the look and attitude, but the very sounds of the 1960’s to come.

4. LISTEN TO ME
It may have lasted only twenty-five days, but when Buddy and his Crickets toured the United Kingdom in the spring of 1958, those watching closely and taking serious notes for future use were, amongst thousands of others, John Lennon and Paul McCartney (whose first-ever recording was a near note-perfect “That’ll Be The Day” shortly afterwards), Mick Jagger and Keith Richards (the former already proud owner of the Chirping Crickets album), Graham Nash and Allan Clarke (who soon grew their two-man Everlys act into the full, named-in-guess-who’s-honor Hollies), and pioneering British record producer Joe Meek …who subsequently became so obsessed over Holly that he not only killed his landlady, but himself on the eighth anniversary of Buddy’s own tragic demise.

5. NOT FADE AWAY
It did indeed take a Buddy Holly composition to first put The Rolling Stones securely into the American hit parade with, at the very height of Beatlemania, Lennon/McCartney’s “I Wanna Be Your Man” unceremoniously relegated to the single’s B-side! And speaking of whom…

6. WORDS OF LOVE
Buddy wrote the best song on the Beatles VI album; and, come to think of it, maybe even on Beatles For Sale.

7. FOOL’S PARADISE
Buddy’s wealth of songs have proven so adaptable, durable and downright sturdy as to withstand covers from the likes of Rush (who also debuted on seven-inch vinyl with “Not Fade Away” I kid you not), the Grateful Dead, The Knack and even Linda Ronstadt. Not to mention “It’s So Easy“ (-Off oven cleaner) and “Oh Boy” becoming “Oh, Buick!” television jingles at the behest of Holly’s supposedly sympathetic publishing magnate Sir Paul McC.

8. MAYBE BABY
Years before he was to become the serial tragic clown of television reality programming, that perennially short-pant-legged dust storm known as Gary Busey deservedly nabbed an Oscar nomination for his title role in 1978’s Buddy Holly Story. Now while its script may have taken inexcusable Hollywood shortcuts in recounting our hero’s life and music, at least Gary, alongside co-stars Don Stroud and Charles Martin Smith, became pretty damn garage-worthy Crickets all over the film’s soundtrack, performing as close to live whenever possible before the unforgiving cameras.

9. CRYING, WAITING, HOPING
Weeks before his last-ever tour, Buddy sang several song sketches into a tape recorder in his Greenwich Village apartment for what turned out t o be posterity, with covers of Ray Charles (!), Bing Crosby (!!), plus his own final compositions. Exquisite guitar-and-voice-only recordings, they are far more than simply “unplugged.” They are sublime, heartbreaking, and totally unique. As with most things Holly.

10. STANDING IN THE DOORWAY
“And I just want to say that when I was sixteen or seventeen years old, I went to see Buddy Holly play at Duluth National Guard Armory and I was three feet away from him. And he looked at me. And I just have some sort of feeling that he was — I don’t know how or why — but I know he was with us all the time we were making this record in some kind of way.”
— Bob Dylan, 1998 Grammy Awards acceptance speech for Album of the Year Time Out Of Mind.

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Video: Paul McCartney: Sonny Curtis canta Buddy Holly