Andy Seven's Blog, page 20

Every Bitch For Himself

12:45 PM. Union Station, Los Angeles. A tall man in his twenties with a torn t-shirt and Army boots strode out the front entrance of the train station with a grip in his hand looking around for an automobile. He fetched dozens of stares with his full head of silver hair, an almost artificial silver paint tone of hair. His name was Big Jason Gulliver. He quietly cussed out of his long, thin face which looked like the craggy side of a mountain. "Fuck!"

Holding his temper, he stomped over to a phone booth and plunked two dimes in, racked the dial seven times and waited.
"Hello?"
"I'M HERE PICK ME UP YA FUCKIN' CHIMP!" barked Jason and hung up.

Jason stoically stood at the curb waiting for his ride when a sleek Mercedes Benz convertible slowly cruised by, piloted by a middle-aged man with feathered hair, aviator glasses and a dark moustache. The Bee Gees were whimpering a disco song out of his car radio. The driver appraised Jason, who simply snorted two times and then hocked a huge sluice of green loogie just barely missing the expensive auto. The driver frowned and sped away in a huff.

HONKHONK!
"HEY FUCKER!" yelled a skinny blonde out the window of a dirty and dented 1974 Chevrolet Vega.
"Finally!" Jason yelled back. "You were supposed to be here already. Some homecoming, asshole!"
"BBIIIIIGGGG....JASON! Hahahaha! Get in the Shit Box!"
Jason piled in to the Vega which made a point of making the loudest screech, tires burning the asphalt earning everybody's attention.

1:00 PM. Allen Wrench drove the Vega down Sunset Boulevard towards the west, popping in a cassette of The Vibrators, screaming "YEAH!YEAH!YEAH!"
"Big Guy! Good to see ya back! What the fuck?"
"Good to be back from Frisco".
"How was San Fran?"
"A lot of pot smokers, ehhhh, even the punks smoked dope, it was lame. All the bands there thought they were like Richard Hell or some shit. A lot of poetry, a lot of art shit".

"That sucks, Bubs. Bet you're glad to be back!"

"Yeah, back in LA. Got some big plans, too...what's that fuckin' smell?"
"What? What smell?"
"It's like something's cooking, you know, burning Crisco, like a bad breakfast", Jason wrinkled his nose.
"It's the Vega, Buddy. Burns oil like crazy and smells like a horse turd".

Jason picked up a red licorice whip in a bag and it was melted into a weird shape. He chewed part of it and gave up. Allen Wrench's face lit up.
"Hey! Did you hear the news? Sack Face died last week, OD'd on some bad junk, probably cut with rat poison or some shit. Found him in a puddle of piss with his face looking bluer than the Scientology building".
"Sack Face died? No shit? Anybody tell his Mom?"
"Not me. Fuck that noise!"

Wrench wheeled the car over to the curb, making another screeching stop. "Welcome back!"
Jason leaned over to Alan. "Can you get the guys together tonight? I've got some big plans. Money making plans".
"Sure thing. And we can have a little send-off for Sack Face in style".
Big Jason smiled and winked. "Set it up for me, willya?"

Big Jason and Allen Wrench got inside an apartment that had beat furniture, an open Murphy Bed in the corner, singles, albums, and punk clothes strewn all over the floor.
"He's here!" Wrench yelled and raced off into his bedroom.
"Jason is that you?" a girls' voice yelled from the kitchen.
"I smell bacon and eggs. Is that for me?"

A tall, slender girl with dark skin ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. She had short, spiky black hair with bright red streaks shooting through.
"No! This is for you!" she ran over and kissed him in a tight embrace.
"Enough with the kisses. How about the food?"
"Not ready yet. How was Frisco?"
"It was damper than a baby's shit pants. Too many fat fuckin' punks, too. They oughta drop and do twenty".
"Hahaha, Jason. You're a fuckin' card!" laughed Raquel Tequila.

Raquel Tequila wasn't Latina at all, in fact she was high yellow and her real name was Selma Franks. Her resemblance to Raquel Welch and her fondness for eating only Tortilla chips and drinking cheap Thrifty Drug Store Tequila without throwing up earned her the name of Raquel Tequila. She had the most intense pair of hazel eyes and they were virtually hypnotic.

While Big Jason shoveled the food down his maw Raquel smoked a cigarette and kept ruffling his hair, delighted it was painted electric silver with black streaks.
"BJ! Who did your hair!"
"Now don't call me BJ unless you're planning on doing it!"
"Shut up, Jason!" she laughed, punching him in the arm.

"You took down The Clash photos and put up some Weirdos and Dickies pics. Cool!"
"Yeah, I'm not too hot on The Clash this week since Mick Jones grew out that hippie hair".
"Poseur", he blurted and gulped a glass of Hawaiian Punch.
Raquel took a drag of her smoke and brightened up. "Hey, did you hear about Sack Face?"
"Yeah. Sack Face died. Maybe we should put up a collection and raise something for him".
"Don't bother. Lily made an anonymous phone call to the cops and they picked up his body".
"Lily? She still working at the club?"
"Yeah, she even pinned a note on his chest with his parents' phone number on it".
Jason chortled. "Accommodating bitch".

3:00 PM. Jason Gulliver sprawled out on a bench in the laundromat watching his clothes spinning around. He looked around cautiously, leaned over his army pants and reached down to his ankle, feeling for the Colt .45 strapped inside his army boot. A little Mexican boy ran up to him and stared at his silver hair, making Jason straighten up and pull his eyelids down, making a Frankenstein face. The boy ran away frightened.

Jason tapped his foot nervously, humming "We Got The Neutron Bomb" to himself, wishing he had that melted licorice whip on him now. A buff punk in paint splattered jeans and cowboy boots came in snapping his fingers. He had a forked out thatch of brown hair with the back and sides of his head shaved off so that he looked like Fred Flintstone.

"Jace! Back from Frisk!"
"Robotman! Sit down, fag!" Jason pushed some newspapers with Jimmy Carter's face on the front page out of the way.
Robotman jerkily sat down and twitched a little. "Long time, man. Doin' your wash?"
"Never mind that. What are you doing for money these days?"
"You know I'm still working at the club".

"Ah, fuck that, there's no money in that shit. I have a way we can kick up some serious scratch. Are you with me?"
"Fuck, Jason, I'm your man, you know that. What do you have in mind?"
"I'll tell you and the guys later. Your brother still a big gun collector?"
"Yeah, that dick loves his guns. Even sleeps with one under his pillow".
Jason nodded his head, thinking. "Good....good...you still with Crazy Dahlia?"
"Don't call her that, it's just Dahlia, she's a cool girl".
"No she's not and look down your pants every once in awhile to make sure you still have your balls attached if she hasn't ripped them off yet".
"Aw c'mon, Jason".

"I'm calling a meeting at the club tonight. Get there about tennish and don't squeak a word of it to Dahlia, understand?"
"Alright, Jason, don't get pissed". Robotman got up and jerkily stretched himself. "Gotta return the car, Dahlia needs it, see ya tonight".
Robotman dashed out of the laundromat, snapping his fingers again. Jason chuckled bitterly. "Pussy whipped".

Peering around the corner of a washing machine was the little boy looking for more horrifying faces. Jason threw his head back and closed his eyes. The little boy made a pistol with his hand and pretend shot at him.
"Chooooooshhhh!"

NEXT WEEK: Chapter Two - Money Doesn't Talk It Swears, when Big Jason Gulliver meets with Robotman, Allen Wrench and the rest of the boys and reveals his plans. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

Even Angels Crash And Burn

Once upon a time Andy Warhol embraced the idea of creating a studio star system for his Factory, and among his new stars was a drag queen triumvirate: the exotic and funny Holly Woodlawn, multi-talented rebel Jackie Curtis, and a mysterious, quiet beauty named Candy Darling.

Candy was the most haunting of the three because she looked like a modern Carole Lombard and spoke in a measured Jackie Kennedy whisper. She was more beautiful than Edie Sedgewick or most of the scenester girls in New York, and unlike most drag queens wasn't even terribly sexual. She was primarily asexual and her biggest passion was to be worshiped from afar.

Her live-in boyfriend/companion Jeremiah Newton produced the documentary "Beautiful Darling" and appears through most of the film, not only because he was Candy's confidant but also because he was the recipient of Candy's personal articles from her mother who didn't wish to keep them after her death.

A few photos of the young James Slattery (future Candy) are shown and it's pretty obvious he was good looking even as a boy. Raised in a working-class conservative home that had no sympathy for homosexuality, Slattery briefly took cosmetology classes to perfect his drag look. A role in a an off-Broadway show written by Jackie Curtis caught the eye of Taylor Mead, which brought Andy Warhol's attention, and the rest is history.

Sandwiched in between archival footage are passages from Candy's diaries, ineffectively read by Chloe Sevigny as they are read too expressively. A real Candy voice would be completely deadpan, no matter what her feelings called for. Candy's deadpan humor was just as lethal as her looks.

Beautiful Darling could have also benefited from more film footage from her Warhol pictures, of which there wasn't enough, and the footage of her from the Santa Claus slasher pic "Silent Night Deadly Night" would have been nice, too. While I liked the documentary I didn't think it really went in deeply enough, other than the surprising dirt on his working relationship with Tennessee Williams during the production of his play "Small Craft Warnings".

The film ends with a wretched cover of Lou Reed's "Candy Says", a song as beautiful and haunting as its subject. But any Candy Darling doc is better than none at all, and if there's an immortal blonde as haunting as Candy its' the equally under- documented Veronica Lake. Some blondes just can't catch a break.

************************

If the lush piano introduction to Quicksilver Messenger Service's "Shady Grove" took your breath away then you've just heard the genius of Nicky Hopkins.
If the hard severity of the piano driving The Rolling Stones' "We Love You" gave you the chills and followed up the jail door clang brilliantly You've just heard the genius of Nicky Hopkins.
If the elegant tinkling of piano floating above the thrashing of a Who record, eg. "Anyway Anyhow Anywhere" or "A Legal Matter" you've just heard the genius of Nicky Hopkins.

Unimpeachably the most criminally overlooked genius of iconic Sixties and Seventies rock records is mild-mannered keyboardist Nicky Hopkins, who not only played on countless classic records, some credited and just as many without credit (especially The Kinks and Rolling Stones). To say he was a musician of merit on par with Eric Clapton, Keith Moon, or a Mick Jagger would not be an exaggeration. In fact, by virtue of the fact that he created all his arrangements himself and set the mood for a sweeping variety of musical moods is remarkable. It could even be said that many of the songs he played on would never have turned out as effectively had it not been for his amazing piano parts.

Julian Dawson's bio "And On Piano, Nicky Hopkins" is an exhaustive task as it goes into exhausting detail about Hopkins beginnings playing with Screaming Lord Sutch and Cyril Davies, the Davies connection opening up doors with what would become the biggest rock stars of the next fifteen years. His book is indispensable not just about his subject but for anyone who's interested at all in the British rock explosion of the Sixties.

The cover to this book is very telling: Hopkins on stage with a popular dynamic group sitting in a very dark corner of the stage but virtually unseen. It sets the tone for the whole book.

To read just a few of the recordings he played on is staggering: the clanging jail doors of "Jailhouse Rock" and quaintly melodic accompaniment to the raunchy "All Shook Up" with The Jeff Beck Group (Beck comes off as a painful prima donna, too); the lovely childlike lines that open "She's A Rainbow", the spidery blues lines on "Sympathy For The Devil"; the creepy barroom intro to The Kinks' "Death Of A Clown"; the chilly upper register tinkling of The Beatles' "Birthday" and Jackie Lomax's "Sour Milk Sea", and that's just his English work in brief.

Ray Davies also comes off as a Dickensian villain repeatedly using Hopkins for classic Kinks albums like "Village Green Preservation Society" and "Something Else" with no credit given on the liners but somehow justifying it by saying, "A session player is hired as a worker and doesn't qualify for an album credit". Um yeah, Ray, but this guy wasn't given piano parts - he wrote all his own parts, big difference. That's total genius.

A visit to San Francisco gave Hopkins a major boost in his rep by bands begging him to play with them, resulting in him leaving his mark on immortal SF albums like The Steve Miller Band, Jefferson Airplane's classic "Volunteers" and a residency with Quicksilver Messenger Service. Some even claim his presence elevated Quicksilver who needed a melodic base to counterbalance their previously incessant jamming.

Hopkins unfortunately hit the skids touring with The Rolling Stones on their notorious "Cocksucker Blues" tour where he bought the whole Elegantly Wasted aesthetic and began drinking heavily and developing a heroin habit, not unlike the kind Bobby Keys also fell for in his bio. (By the way, The Stones tried hooking a young Ry Cooder into their satanic dope circus and he very promptly blew them off, claiming The Glimmer Twins to be "sinister and reptilian". Hah!)

Hopkins later cleaned up his habit and embraced Scientology as well as played on Beatles solo albums, and also like Bobby Keys was the victim of many bad scenes with the not so saintly Yoko Ono. Hopkins' biggest clients towards the end of his career included his piano performance on Joe Cocker's schmaltz classic "You Are So Beautiful", touring with Leo Sayer and even a stint with Julio Iglesias (!). And you thought you resume was killer.

Julian Dawson should be applauded for taking such an exhaustive subject as Hopkins especially in light of the fact that his subject was a man who was so ubiquitous in rock and yet unheralded, ridiculously so. Thirty years on, the myopic Rock & Rock Hall of Fame still has not awarded this great man a spot in their not-so-hallowed halls.

Details in the Hopkins biography I didn't know:
1. Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane of The Small Faces played on Bill Wyman's track "In Another Land" on the Satanic Majesties Request album.
2. Clem Cattini played substitute drums for The Kinks and The Who when Mick Avory and Keith Moon fell ill.
3. John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin composed and conducted the string arrangement on The Rolling Stones' "She's A Rainbow".

"Every Good Boy Dies First" - the Electric Crime Novel is Out Now!!!!

"I can tell Electric Stories
Electric Stories that will surely blow your mind
People find that I can tell
Electric Stories very well"

-Electric Stories, The Four Seasons

"Every Good Boy Dies First", the bi-weekly serial run on my blog Out Demons Out has finally been published in compiled, full-length form for your reading enjoyment. The tale of a young musician's dream of playing in a band only to watch it degenerate into a nightmare of greed, power, and deception, just like any sleazy non-artistic corporation. It's the bitter pill no one wants to swallow: rock bands don't have more fun, and here are the reasons why.

"Every Good Boy Dies First" is the story of Griff (Sam Fuller's generic name for every hero featured in his films from Forty Guns to The Naked Kiss), Hollywood trumpet player who falls under the spell of both free jazz and punk rock and staking an original sound as well as a name for himself with his band Garbage Truck.

While Griff trudges around Hollywood setting up Garbage Truck shows his former music teacher, now homeless and destitute hovers around the old music haunts like a ghost. My novel basically sets the tone of story by presenting two different ends of the musical spectrum: a hip, promising young jazz player playing punk rock and creating new, exciting sounds; and the old guard, a failed big band jazzer, rotting on the streets of Hollywood after spending his life making traditional music. Did the ends justify the means?

The questions all through the book becomes: how far is Griff from becoming just like his teacher, Jeffrey Chandler, roaming from apartment building to apartment building like a vagabond, trying to keep hi home life together while maintaining his artistic muse? Will he eventually end up homeless like his sensei? Griff has to keep his head together while dealing with clueless radio DJs, parasitic fanzine writers and devious scenesters. All to a breakneck hardcore beat.

Garbage Truck play the hot clubs all over town but feel a degree of peer pressure to play a more accessible, alternative-friendly sound just to go with the flow. Because our story takes place during the grunge-fueled Nineties, the boys in the band plot to wrest Griff's ownership of the band and forego a less cacophonic punk for a more sludgy stoner metal sound. Griff's vision of exploring new sounds is viewed as a commercial threat to the more careerist rockers in the band.

Egging his band to foil Griff is an arrogant booking agent, played by Moish Wilson of Varmint Booking as well as shallow all-girl band Kitten Claws. While Griff feels the pressure to cave in to commercial vapidity - remember when Punk bands went New Wave in 1979? - he holds on strong to his creative muse, finally giving into a climax of extreme violence.

Because "Every Good Boy Dies First" is a punk rock noir novel first and foremost, there's a dead body in there somewhere, there always has to be, a sadistic nightclub bouncer with the IQ of a sack of rotting meat. When Griff discovers the stiff's carcass in a parking lot in the dead of night it's similar to Antonioni's Blow Up, a murder no one wants to believe, much less care about.

There are a couple of people who have groused about my novel being too depressing. I don't understand this mentality. I didn't set out to write a trite load of shit like Almost Famous or Rock 'N Roll High School. If the world of rock is so sweet and jam-packed with fun why do so many bands break up? Very few rock fiction novels ever delve into the struggle, bitterness and futility of playing music. "Every Good Boy Dies First" completely demolishes the false premise that every show's a party. If only they were!

The book market is already flooded with tons of useless memoirs barely scribbled legibly by old punkers reminiscing about their glory days. I think writing a fictional work about the old days of punk was probably a leap too far for them to deal with. With great cover art by Rebecca Seven, who's designed albums and tees for The Red Hot Chili Peppers, L7, Faith No More, and Frightwig, she was featured in the anthology of female lowbrow artists, "Vicious, Delicious, and Ambitious".

"Every Good Boy Dies First" is first and foremost a story about artistic freedom and the battle to defend it even in a forum as self-deceptive as the alternative music scene. Dressed in noir clothes, you'll feel the throbbing feedback guitars humming through your brain and smell the beer and blood-stained walls closing in on you because Griff plays trumpet like Gabriel, summoning up doomsday with every blast. Read and believe!

Links to get "Every Good Boy Dies First":

Amazon Kindle
http://www.amazon.com/Every-Good-Dies-First-ebook/dp/B00EPQ074O/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1377373472&sr=1-1&keywords=every+good+boy+dies+first Nook
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/every-good-boy-dies-first-andy-seven/1116757678?ean=9781483505794&itm=1&usri=9781483505794 Kobo
http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/every-good-boy-dies-first Sony Reader
https://ebookstore.sony.com/ebook/andy-seven/every-good-boy-dies-first/_/R-400000000000001104091 Scribd
http://www.scribd.com/doc/162212935/Every-Good-Boy-Dies-First iTunes
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/every-good-boy-dies-first/id691805561?mt=11

Sold at Punk Rock prices - $2.99!

Self-Portraits and Soda Water

Somehow somewhere someone thinks that posting pictures of themselves holding a cell phone into a mirror shooting a pic of themselves with bottles of cleaning fluid and dirty towels is a great idea of a self-portrait. Thank you, Instagram. Somehow the owners of Flickr aren’t losing sleep. Believe it.

If you want to take a good picture of yourself invest in a damn tripod and then learn how to use the timer on your camera, yes those funny things that Canon and Nikon make. You can’t make phone calls on them. Sorry. Once you hit that button for the 10 second timer get in the shot and pose.

Let’s talk about posing. I know you think you look awesome from every angle, otherwise why are you posting pictures of yourself on Instagram? Unfortunately, and even movie stars know this, is everyone has a good side and a bad side, or rather, one side of the coin looks like a head and the other side looks like a donkey’s tail. Check your face from both sides and then decide which one looks the least ghastly. It won’t take very long.

Your face isn’t the whole story, thank God, you need to pose your body, too. You can’t just stand there like a slab of Grade A Sirloin, even Michelangelo’s David struck a pose. You need to learn how to pose, let’s start with your legs. One leg should be in front of the other or spread apart if you’re standing. Put your hands on your hips or have them hang on your belt buckle, or even go for the proud farmer pose with your hands holding your jacket lapels. It worked for Jefferson Airplane!

Getting back to the face, always leave your mouth slightly open so people can see your lips. Keeping your maw closed gives you a dumb, surly expression on your face. (Great advice from Vicki Berndt when she shot my album cover).

Another disgusting habit people have is overdressing for a picture. The world doesn’t need to see your entire wardrobe in one shot. It’ll look outdated in two years, anyway. Avoid wearing a coat even if you’re posing in a Canadian park in December. And keep your accessories down to one per wrist and a small necklace if you have to. There once was a recording artist on IRS Records in the Eighties who thought it was New Wave to wear ten watches on his wrist, and needless to say he never sold any records and got dropped. All because he wore ten watches in his photos.

Thick, stocky, sturdy, and/or husky people should never be shot from the ground up or they’ll look like a human balloon. In fact, our heavier neighbors should be shot from the waist up. Which brings me to another subject: unless your taste in footwear is impeccable and your pants are from a high-end designer nobody needs to see you from top to bottom. Editing your photos is your best option, or more bluntly, check your ego at the door.

So if you’re going to thrill us with more hot, smoky photos of yourself on Facebook please follow some of my advice so you won’t look like a trailer park Dita Von Teese. There’s already too many of them on television, and TV’s losing money every day.

Preparing For The Prog Rock Revival

Some people have to brace themselves for a tornado while some people have to brace themselves for a hurricane, but if there’s one thing people haven’t braced themselves for is an impending prog rock revival. Prog, short for Progressive Rock, also known as Art Rock was a curious music form popularized from the Psychedelic Rock days of 1967 until Punk stamped it out into the ground in 1977. What makes it curious is that unlike most rock it showcased classical music forms with lyrics that owed much of its imagery from science fiction and fantasy tales. While it lacked a worldly universal appeal it captured the hearts and souls of record buyers for its 10 years during its powerful reign.

Why am I making a case for Prog Rock making a major comeback? Well, all the earmarks of its influence are rolling right back to us again:
1. The popularity of The Hobbit films and Lord of The Rings series being bigger than ever, Tolkien exerted a considerable influence on British prog.
2. The tripling if not quintupling in numbers of people attending fantasy shindigs like Renaissance Faire, recalling records by Jethro Tull, Genesis, among others.
3. Cosplay is bigger than ever, and that totally works the whole fantasy aspect of bad prog music. It would be nice to see someone cosplay that nutty Peter Gabriel flowerpot man.

Prog Rock, according to the BBC special “Prog Rock Britannia” started with Procol Harum’s single “Whiter Shade of Pale”, which in their words referenced “Percy Sledge and Johann Sebastian Bach in the same song”. While I agree with that statement, I think Procol Harum were a little too eclectic and wider in scope than the average prog band – they could swing the blues better than a lot of other bands, what with Robin Trower on guitar and Gary Brooker’s very soulful vocals. The first blatantly prog band was probably The Nice, Keith Emerson’s power trio who shed their guitar player after their first album.

Well, what if you hate prog rock for its precious lyrics, fussy instrumentation and overt snobbery? Are there any songs a prog hater can enjoy without falling into the pit of pretension? I’m glad you asked. Believe it or not, there are a few numbers you can enjoy without sitting through a ten-minute suite of stuffy classical melodies. Submitted for your review are my personal recommendations. You can thank me later:

1. America (The Nice) – Notorious for Keith Emerson’s burning the American flag on stage during this number, it’s still the most simultaneously explosive yet jubilant instrumental I’ve ever heard. Emerson’s organ playing is positively breathtaking, melodic and funky at the same time. Equally of note is his amazing cover of Dave Brubeck’s “Blue Rondo A La Turk”. By the way, the kids that were offended by the onstage flag burning probably missed the intro to America featuring a dirge played to the sounds of slaves being whipped.

2. Silver Machine (Hawkwind) – Lemmy played prog in this acid nightmare side show, how bad is that? Hawkwind were at their best when they kept their songs short, like on tunes like “Quark, Strangeness And Charm” or “The Right Stuff”. Anyway, The Sex Pistols rocked this great song on their last tour, so whatever goes around comes around.

3. Selene (Gong) – French acid gypsies led by ex-Soft Machine Daevid Allen. Their mythology was more cartoon than Middle Earth and served equal doses of sex and humor, which many prog bands severely lacked (paging Gentle Giant).

4. 21st Century Schizoid Man (King Crimson) – The greatest prog track of all time, devastating upon its release, sounding like John Lennon howling over a Black Sabbath dirge describing a doomsday that quickly degenerates into the most demonic, whirlwind cop show instrumental ever played. Robert Fripp and Greg Lake became stars and Ian McDonald made the poor decision to disappear into Foreigner. Nevertheless, an essential record.

5. Piece Of Mind (Curved Air) – Another wild dirge with Sonja Kristina singing in a haunting falsetto that oddly works well, transitioning into a jazzy tune changing on the down beat, winding over into a kinetic Greek dance kaleiodoscoping with color and then slowing down to a synthesizer lullaby. Has to be heard to be believed.

6. Play In Time (Jethro Tull) – By the time Jethro Tull hit the scene shortly after their appearance on The Rolling Stones’ “Rock & Roll Circus” they incorporated many influences in their music, but this foray in noise/music concrete screaming above Ian Anderson’s wistful flute was probably the most radical thing they ever played, and it’s over in three minutes, too.

7. Knife Edge (Emerson, Lake & Palmer) – ELP made a few silly records but Knife Edge from their first album is a tense piece of work with another Greg Lake vocal, singing: “Tread the road cross the abyss, take a look down at the madness On the streets of the city only spectres still have pity Patient queues for the gallows, sing the praises of the hallowed Our machines feed the furnace, if they take us they will burn us”. Harlan Ellison couldn’t have said it better!

8. Killer (Van Der Graaf Generator) – Peter Hammill’s dramatic David Bowie-like vocals about a shark are so suave it’s an instant classic. The great demented David Jackson saxophone break in the middle when the band goes kabloeey is something for the ears to behold, I mean this is why records were invented in the first place. Hammill’s brilliant lyrics make the correlation between a deadly shark and a malevolent outcast.

Bands that aren’t prog: The Moody Blues (too pop), The Crazy World of Arthur Brown (much too much R&B and blues, but try Kingdom Come), Kraftwerk (too electro), again not Procol Harum, Pink Floyd (lyrics too contemporary and music not classical sounding enough), Soft Machine (same reason as Pink Floyd), and nobody’s talking, but The Stranglers allegedly started out as a prog band before they jumped on the punk bandwagon. Dave Greenfield’s keyboard playing certainly bears this out.

So, that’s my Prog Blog. I know, I didn’t mention Yes or Rick Wakeman - the less said the better, although the intro to "Roundabout" was sampled at the beginning of a Germs single back in 1978. Actually, Roundabout's the only decent song in their rep, and Rick Wakeman’s soundtrack to Ken Russell’s movie “Crimes Of Passion” was very good, so there’s a positive in everything. So, button up your overcoat, get plenty of supplies and water, shutter your windows, because prog rock is coming back. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Widows Walk (red COFFEE Chapter 0)

After all I’ve been through, I was a nervous wreck. I felt like I was a nervous wreck. Just to make sure I got a second opinion from my agent, Miss Lilywhite.

“You look like a nervous wreck”, she surveyed me with no shortage of severity. “Why, just look at the sight of you. Are those crow’s feet developing under those beautiful eyes of yours? Tsk!”

“Can you hold it down to a scream? We’re in public and I don’t want you –“ my voice lowering to a rasp, “-calling attention to my imperfections!” I looked around the room nervously, noting three dowagers finishing their teas, each one festooned I jewelry and wearing hats more fancy and plumed than the next one.

A tiny, thin, dare I call him petite Filipino man in a starchy housecoat and ducks stepped into the parlor we were all roosting in like a pigeons, and commanded, “The séance is about to begin, please follow me”. He curled his finger and led us in to the main room.

Miss Irene Lilywhite thought that acting like a second mother to me was part of her job as a modeling agent, so she came up with the brainstorm of taking me to a séance in the hopes it would be nifty for quick laughs.

Unfortunately, everything about the joint we were hanging out at gave me the creeps. It was like something out of an amusement park, like the penny arcade machines with the opium den jazz of jade statutes and stuffed animal heads and Chinese bric-a brac and even some Hindu hokum and enough jasmine incense burning to make your eyes tear. Brother! Some laughs!

Like a herd of black sheep we docilely followed him into a larger parlor with dimmer lights on to make it seem spookier and I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t give me the heebie-jeebies.

We all took our places around the long table. Our host was already at the head of the table, some swarthy female dressed in red silk with a golden turban covering the black hair on her head.

“Good day, ladies”, the woman spoke, quiet and in measured tones, “I am Madame VeDanta, who knows all and sees all. I am your bridge to the afterlife and consider me your vessel to all your loved ones whom you are no longer able to converse”.

I nudged Lilywhite. “There’s more corn here than there is in Kansas!” I whispered in her heavily ringed ears.

“Ssh!” she shushed. I just pouted.

“We are all gathered here this late evening to seek audience with our recently lost loved ones”, Madame VeDanta folded her hands together from deep, long kimono sleeves. As I looked closer at her face in the dim lights I noticed she was not Hindu at all but more half-cast negroid, and in fact the slight hint of a shaved thin mustache even made an appearance above her lips. Perhaps her quiet tones denied a more masculine persuasion to her deception. I’ve heard of mediums being full of hooey but this was the limit. Madame VeDanta was as much a dame as Louis Armstrong.

“Before we begin with the journey may I ask if everyone present has made each others acquaintance? If not, please introduce yourselves. Madame, if you please?”

“My name is Irene Lilywhite and I furnish models to department stores across town”.

“I’m Lois, I model for artists and designers. I recently lost a friend of mine, well, not a close friend, but a swell guy I just met”. My mouth suddenly felt dry after revealing too much about myself. It was time for the three old buzzards to explain themselves.

“I’m Mrs. Edna Beecham, recently widow of the prominent Crocker National banker Mr. Beecham”, the heavy-set woman in the thick mink stole announced with haughty tones. If she was grieving over her loss it was probably over hearing that someone else got cut in as beneficiary of Big Daddy’s will. This woman probably had ice cubes pumping through her bladder.

The second woman was thin as a broom and had trouble getting the words out. “…Uh, well, let’s see, where do I begin?” her hands fiddled nervously in front of her, fingers festooned with glittery rings and wrists cased in bright, sparkly bracelets that almost lit up in the darkness. “My name is Violet Cranston, widow, well, uh, my dear husband Mister Jasper Cranston was head stock broker of Western Fidelity, got in right after The Crash, a good Christian, respected freemason, and um, what else?”

“That’ll do fine, Widow Cranston, yes”, Madame VeDanta shot quickly, a little bit o’ Southern country racing out of that Hindu mouth of hers.

The third woman dabbed at her eyes with a scented monogrammed hankie periodically since we came in, and continued with her dabbing. “I’m, uhh..so sorry, I’m the widow McCormack…sniff”, the woman’s face was red from all the tearing in spite of the beautiful head of silver hair she had piled up on her head. “My husband was murdered, and …sniff sniff, I want to get to the bottom of who did it. No one knows!!!” She broke down crying, prompting even Mrs. Cranston to give up the Nervous Nellie act and quietly console her.

“Well, yes, that’s why we’re all assembled here”, Madame VeDanta picked it up, “Yes, all our losses were unfortunately…untimely, so through the medium of séance our loved ones can pass on any information to bring their killers to justice”.

I looked hard at Mrs. Beecham who just looked down at it all, her mouth turned down. Her name sounded familiar but I just couldn’t place it anywhere, I knew I heard it somewhere before, but where?

Someone, probably the little houseboy dimmed the lights even more than before and the incense made more smelly smoke, the room looking smokier than a Saturday Night hotel fire. If it got any smokier then all of us would start dabbing our eyes!

In spite of the darkness and smoke a small globe placed in front of Madame VeDanta glowed. “Let us all join hands, EVERYONE! Close your eyes and visualize your lost one, reaching out to you, joining you for one more moment, I see them, they are coming closer, they are getting nearer, they are now entering the chamber, they are here with us!” I opened my eyes and saw Madame’s upper lip trembling.

“Husband Beecham, are you with us?” Mrs. Beecham had one eye open, peering at Madame VeDanta, her face suddenly turning gray when the sound of creaking and scratching loudly made itself heard. It was probably still the houseboy.

“Have you a message for us, Husband Beecham? What, pray, is your message?” Madame VeDanta then did the old transvestite trick of going from lady voice to the gruff Paul Robeson voice.

“Someone…someone here is somehow connected to my untimely exit”. Everyone, even Miss Lilywhite gasped. Mrs. Beecham stared at me with a pinched expression for not gasping along. Where did I hear her name before?

“Husband Cranston…arise and speak to your grieving bride…she is awaiting a word of hope, a sweet blessing to give her courage…what have you to say? “

Mrs. Cranston opened both her eyes, nervously closed them again, then looked around to make sure no one noticed her opening them again.

VeDanta went back into Emperor Jones voice. “I feel an odd presence among us and I must leave!”

“NO! Darling, p-p-p-please don’t go!” Mrs. Cranston let go of her neighbors’ hands and pounded her skinny fists against the table. “You come back, Jasper, right this instant!” Suddenly a crash of a serving tray, ice cubes and glasses came from the kitchen in the back, the houseboy cursing in his native language. Jeepers creepers, if he’s busy washing dishes in the back who’s making with the horror movie stuff in the parlor?

VeDanta went back into her woman voice. “No, my dear, you cannot command the departed. Perhaps they’ll return in the morrow, but for now…” she sadly smiled. “Let’s join hands once more, yes all of you…”

We all got back into the routine holding hands and all that jazz. “Husband McCormack, are you still with us, your dearest one wishes communication…”

Mrs. McCormack stopped bawling long enough to ask a question. “Elmer, just tell me one thing…in all our years of wedded bliss, before the eyes of Jesus Christ our Lord, were you ever unfaithful to me?”

Beecham, Beecham, Beecham…then my face turned white. That’s the name of the guy that got iced by the creepy straw men downtown a few weeks ago. These must be the wives of the fat cats that were executed by The Scarecrows. Wait’ll I get Miss Lilywhite outside, of all the nights, why if she was any smarter I’d say it almost feels like a set-up.

“Husband McCormack would you like me to repeat the question?” VeDanta asked quietly.

Then she went back into her Harlem basso profundo. “I must go. The room has gotten cold, why it’s freezing cold, I feel it towards the center of the table. Someone assembled here knows about my demise, she knows all about our deaths, and it is –“

VeDanta popped her eyes open and leaned across the table at me.

“-THIS WOMAN RIGHT HERE!!” She screamed, pointing right at me. Everyone jumped up in their chairs, startled, eyes wide open and staring at me. They all yelled at me at the same time.

“I KNEW IT, ELMER YOU WERE TWO-TIMIN ME WITH THIS CHEAP BLONDE-“
“YOU’RE NOT GETTING A CENT FROM MY HUSBAND’S BEQUEST BRAZEN-“
“I KNEW IT SHE’S TOO YOUNG AND PRETTY TO LOSE ANYONE SHE PROBABLY CATERED TO ALL OUR-“
“SHE PROBABLY TRIED TO SQUEEZE OUR MEN AND WHEN THEY WOULDN’T-“
“BOOHOOHOO!”

“Ladies, ladies!” Madame VeDanta appealed for silence, clapping her thick, enormous hands together. I jumped out of my chair, trembling.
“Child!” Miss Lilywhite grabbed my shoulder, trying to make me sit down. “Surely there’s an explanation for all this!”

I reached for a nearby pot of tea and threw it at the bitches. They shrieked. Madame VeDanta went into her man voice. “YOU LITTLE BITCH! TOOONNNYYYY!!”

The houseboy ran into the room and clicked open a switchblade, slowly stepping towards me. “You go now but first you pay!”

I dashed over to the end table and picked up a thick jade jaguar statuette, swinging it madly in front of him. He shrieked like a little girl and sidled backwards.

“FUN AND GAMES, EH? LOTS OF LAUGHS, WELL LET ME TELL YOU…” I snarled at the lot of them, all judging me in their furs, jewelry and white obesity. “I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYBODY”S DEATH, SEE?
NOW I’M GOING TO WALK OUT THAT DOOR AND ANYBODY WHO TRIES TO STOP ME GETS CONKED IN THE PUSS WITH THE KITTY CAT, YOU HEAR?
TO HELL WITH THE LOT OF YOU, - AND MADAME - SHAVE YOUR CHIN A LITTLE CLOSER NEXT TIME, A LITTLE MORE BLUSH, TOO, YOU WOULDN’T FOOL A CHOIRBOY WITH YOUR LADY ACT!”

I swung the statuette a few more times to insure no one had any ideas, and knuckles white, turned the door knob and raced out into the moonlight. Shaky as hell, I gripped the jade jaguar another five blocks until I threw into a trash can by the Red Car stop.

Knowing Miss Lilywhite she was probably still in there apologizing for me and offering to pay for damages. I’d swear on it over a stack of Bibles, and in fact she told me so the very next day.

Photographs by Edward Steichen

The World Isn't Coming To An End Just Because You Want It To

This will probably go down in Los Angeles history as one of the worst summers ever. Here we are in early August, and while the rest of the country is sweltering and sweating here in LA every morning has been cloudy, gloomy and downright cold. If it ever gets warm at all it doesn’t last long, and there’s always a glacial wind to cut down on the warmth. In other words, it’s Springtime In July and Springtime In August. Who knows what’s going to happen in September?

Because of this shit weather the general disposition of LA natives is pissy and angry – an equally shit economy and a rapidly decaying grasp of patience/attention span doesn’t help, either. People are angrier than ever.

Negativity seems to work for a lot of people. There’s no concept of perhaps making the most of a bad situation, and Heaven help you if you try to say something positive or you’ll get shot down, so I won’t. I’ll just post this great video from Supergrass.

Supergrass are not only one of the best bands to come out of England in the past 20 years, I think they’re heirs to the throne once inhabited by The Kinks, The Who and The Small Faces. Their output of perfectly crafted British pop songs is considerable, the first three albums in particular, I Should Coco, In It For The Money, and Supergrass, are flawless, brilliant rock albums and have more balls and spirit than the rest of their overrated contemporaries. Plus they look totally cool!

If Supergrass doesn’t cheer you up then check out this amazing video from Mississippi Fred McDowell. Not only is this song amazing, but the video of “Shake ‘Em On Down” is ultra-cool, giving us an uninterrupted look at his flashy fingerwork across the fretboard. If this isn’t one of the best guitar lessons you’ve ever seen, then you’re not a serious player. Really.

I wonder what guys like Son House would say to these spoiled brats crying about not making their first million or realizing their projected plans for world domination? Idiots like Kanye West could learn a lot from House’s “Death Letter Blues”. Maybe not. Kanye West is retarded, and his fans are even more retarded than him. Look at me, I’m starting to sound pretty angry myself. Maybe I ought to listen to some Les Paul and Mary Ford.

Now that’s better. Les Paul and Mary Ford played music for the sheer love of it, just like Memphis Minnie and Howlin’ Wolf. Maybe if I post their insanely sunny take on that hoary old Gay ‘90s standard “In The Good Old Summertime” that motherfucking sun will finally show its face. Or maybe El Sol is busy nursing his big hole, like the ones in everybody’s empty skull these days.

Painting: Ol' Black and Blue Eyes Is Back by Rebecca Seven

Tokyo Gore Police (Japan, 2008)

If the Chinese dazzled us with creepy psychic horror films like The Ring and The Eye, then Japan responded with insane, erotic fetish, over-the-top gore with humor to spare movies. The most sensational output comes from a genius make-up and special effects artist, Yoshihiro Nishimura. Nishimura references Salvador Dali as one of his biggest influences in the way he depicts distorted body parts in surreal settings. His sci-fi/horror classic, “Tokyo Gore Police” has enough erotica and surrealism to make Dali beam with pride. It serves up outrage the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the college revival house theater days of Jodorowsky, Makavejev, and crazy Fernando Arrabal.

Tokyo Gore Police is the story of Ruka (Eihi Shiina), a police officer for the Tokyo Police Corporation, a now-privatized police force who excels as an Engineer Hunter. Engineers are serial killers who have the ability to make their severed body parts morph into deadly weapons, whether it’s a chainsaw or a sawed-off shotgun, all courtesy of a mysterious stranger dressed in black named The Keyman (Itsuji Itao). It’s up to Ruka to find The Keyman and stop him from his evil task. Unfortunately, Ruka is a flawed person herself, a cutter who inherited her bad habit from her mother to punish herself from not preventing the murder of her father.

Just like Jodorowsky, though, the plot is almost secondary to the Garden of Surreal & Erotic Outrage breaking up the plot from time to time. In between action scenes you’ll be treated to:
1. Blood showering out of a severed limb like a wedding reception fountain.
2. Chainsaws flying straight into a man’s mouth and ripping open his head.
3. Commercials hawking cool cutters for teenage schoolgirls with cute colors and promising it makes “blood taste better”!
4. Punk kids on the subway chuffing down live earthworms and night crawlers. Yum!
5. Amputee leather slaves walking on prosthetic legs made of samurai swords.
6. The Keyman’s severed upper head grows two gun barrels that shoot out bloody ginsu knives.

Ruka’s colleague, Officer Barabara-Man (Jiji Bu), decides to let off steam by going to a kinky S&M club that specializes in back room sex with mutant girls, like a Snail Girl and a Girl with Crocodile Jaws Snapping Between Her Legs. Whoa! He picks Door Number 2 and gets the girl with the croc jaws who bites off his dick, which naturally provokes another Wedding Fountain of Blood. He gets the Engineer Key and needless to say, his empty crotch morphs into humongous red cock cannon! He takes his Gigantor cock cannon and goes berserk at police headquarters, firing deadly cannonballs at his fellow officers.

Ruka finally corners the Keyman in his crummy apartment, and instead of killing her confesses that he’s the son of the Police-sanctioned hit of her father, executed at an anti-police privatization rally. His father also killed by the now-privatized Police Corporation, he devoted his life as a genetic scientist by injecting himself with the DNA of psychotic killers like Ed Gein and Charles Manson, all bottled up and labeled in his laboratory. That’s right, another Mad Scientist movie! To Ruka’s horror she’s trapped by him with an Engineer key installed in her against her will.

In the meantime the Tokyo Police Corporation has gone completely batshit crazy and begin arbitrarily torturing and murdering citizens en masse, so Ruka hits the streets with her newly acquired Engineer mutation, one crocodile arm which rips the face off a policeman’s head. Now that Ruka knows who the fascist madman behind her father’s murder is she has a final showdown with him using her best samurai sword skills and that badass crocodile arm.

Tokyo Gore Police ends with the Tokyo Police Corporation no longer privatized, with the slogan in big screaming letters: MORE GORE COMING SOON! Love it or hate it, Tokyo Gore Police is punk as fuck and makes no apologies about itself. It’s easily the only movie that can kick any video game’s ass with a cock cannon around the block!

Also recommended: THE MACHINE GIRL, almost as demented as Tokyo Gore Police and well worth your time.

"Then Play On" - Fleetwood Mac (1969)

There has never been a blues album like Fleetwood Mac’s “Then Play On” as it effortlessly transcends the blues genre while committing to its cardinal rules at the same time. It would be the last album group figurehead Peter Green would record with the band amidst a firestorm of controversy in the British music scene. The third album by the band and released in 1969, it was also their breakaway from Blue Horizon Records and the beginning of a very unique genre that wasn’t and still isn’t so easily defined.

The original Fleetwood Mac sound was that of a scruffy garage band bashing out classic Elmore James-styled 12-bar blues with a lethal dose of fuzz on the guitars courtesy of Green and Jeremy Spencer, whose incendiary slide guitar style hinted at more of an abrasive acid rock sound than simply adhering to trad blues conventions. Mick Fleetwood’s explosive drum attack was also more hard rock than South Side shuffle. All that would change by the time of “Then Play On”.

The band changed its approach to a dark, somber surf guitar sound with lyrics that progressed from standard blues issues to a more existential angst, questioning a man’s existence as well as his role in God’s creation. It is almost the blues equivalent to Syd Barrett’s album “The Madcap Laughs” in its vision of despair and loneliness, however, there were signposts up ahead that hinted at this new direction in sound.

Several tracks from past albums hinted at this new departure for them; on the first album there was the spare, bleak cover of Robert Johnson’s “Hellhound On My Trail”, Peter Green singing along to a very quiet piano; there was also “The World Keep On Turning”, Green singing alone to his acoustic guitar: “Nobody saw me crying, nobody knows the way I feel, the way I love that woman, it’s bound to get me killed”, and of course on the second album “Mr. Wonderful” there was “Black Magic Woman” and another quietly sad number with surf guitars, “Man of the World”: “I guess I‘ve got everything I need, I wouldn’t ask for more, And there’s no one I’d rather be, but I just wish I’d never been born”. Not exactly boogie time.

The darkest number in Fleetwood Mac's set up to that point was a live cover of Blue Horizon label mate Duster Bennett’s “Jumping At Shadows”: “Everyone points their hand at me, I know I’m just a picture of what I used to be, I’ve been jumping at shadows, thinking about my life”.

In “Man of the World”, the BBC documentary on Peter Green, Jeremy Spencer and Mick Fleetwood recall the turning point for the band when they arrived in Germany while on tour and were met by an attractive German jet-set couple who whisked Green and third guitarist Danny Kirwan from the airport to their chateau for an acid-drenched party that marked the two guitarists for life. Fleetwood and Spencer agreed that Green & KIrwan were never the same again.

The original plan for “Then Play On” was to make it a loose jam session as an antidote to the Top 40 singles success of “Albatross”, “Man of the World” and “Black Magic Woman”. The album does indeed have a schizoid relationship between bracing, fiery guitar jams, impeccably played like “Searching For Madge”, “Fighting For Madge” and the more cerebral “Underway” and “My Dream”.

On the other hand there are the dark, moody compositions like “Closing My Eyes”: “Someday I’ll die, and then I’ll be with you/ So I’m closing my eyes to hear the people laugh”, or “Show Biz Blues” with the immortal lines, “Tell me anybody now do you really give a damn for me”. The lightest point on the record for Green is his ode to masturbation, “Rattlesnake Shake”.

Danny Kirwan begins to shine on this album with full-bodied melodic compositions that lighten the mood somewhat, the Everly Brothers-influenced “Like Crying”, the Buddy Holly-sounding “Although The Sun Is Shining” and the pre-Santana influence “Coming Your Way”. His songwriting became even more refined and melodic on the more rocking albums “Kiln House” and “Bare Trees”.

But it’s still the rapidly diminishing shadow of Peter Green that dominates “Then Play On” with “Oh Well”: “Don’t ask me what I think of you/I might not give the answer that you want me to”, or the defeatist sound of “Before The Beginning”: “I’ve got to find a place to sing my words, Is there nobody listening to my song?” Green followed up “Then Play On” with his darkest and most legendary composition, “The Green Manalishi”. Following the release of the single he left the band, dabbled in several religions, released an album titled “End of the Game” and began a downward spiral which sent him in and out of several mental institutions. Although Green eventually bounced back – he still seems a little odd in his documentary – Kirwan never fully recovered from his breakdown and has been homeless for years.

What makes “Then Play On” (taken from the William Shakespeare line, “If music be the food of love then play on”) a legendary work of rock music is the way it stays within blues constraints yet takes it to a place that goes beyond sex, drugs, love, liquor or anything materialistic: it’s the blues of a mere mortal on God’s earth and the utter feeling of powerlessness. The musical palette the band creates on this album completely sets a tone of darkness and isolation that evokes feelings of sadness that the blues are meant to express. And that’s why “Then Play On” is one of the most timeless blues albums ever recorded.

Next month Rhino Records will be releasing an extended version of “Then Play On” with “The Green Manalishi” and its B-side, “World In Harmony”, among other extra tracks.

Werk! Werk! Werk!

“My week beats your year” – Lou Reed, Metal Machine Music

If there’s no rest for the wicked then we have been very, very wicked. There was the assignment to do linens embroidered with Gary Baseman images for his upcoming show, “The Door Is Always Open”, which is now showing at The Skirball Museum in Bel-Air. The show replicates Baseman’s surreal vision of a middle-class Jewish household and all the century-old traditions and customs twisted through his surreal vision. Rebecca skillfully reproduced all of Gary’s characters and idiosyncratic lettering and embroidered them to his specifications.

We created chair slipcovers, a dining room tablecloth and a bedspread with Gary’s many images embroidered them. In addition to sewing the fabrics I also had to digitally edit the images prior to embroidery. Placement on the linens had to be done with absolute precision, otherwise the desired effect would be lost. The results turned out very well and Gary’s opening was a big hit. Also on display was Rebecca’s tapestry she created for Gary’s “La Noche De La Fusion” Culver City show in 2009.

After the job we wanted to take a break but the phone rang with an assignment to fabricate 350 waiter outfits for Napster co-founder Sean Parker’s wedding in Big Sur, California. The outfits ran a large variety of sizes which had to fit the staff that couldn’t be present at our studio for a fitting, so in some ways we were flying blind. Any alterations had to be done at the wedding site before the ceremony.

The outfits involved quite a lot of detail, and most of the outfits once brought up state fit pretty well. The wait staff outfits involved a lot of pleating which I handled pretty well after the first 200. Just kidding, the costumes were designed by Doug Hall who did wardrobe for the movie “Sling Blade”, and any comments, any direction came directly from New Zealand where she operates.

During that job Rebecca got a call from Nick Cannon’s costumer requesting a James Brown-style Uncle Sam outfit he can wear for the season premiere of “America’s Got Talent”. This entailed a star spangled tail coat and long striped slacks as well as a big cray cray top hat. A lot of time management came into play for this one, i.e. we were up all night cutting and sewing this whole extravaganza. Once completed it was given to Mr. Cannon who didn’t want to take it off and spent the whole day dancing around the set with it on posing for pictures.

After the Napster wedding job was over I stopped to scratch my ass when the phone rang and we got the assignment to make a C3PO outfit for film star Alexis Denisof, who was going to wear it when he ran for the fund-raising Course of the Force, held at George Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch. Course of the Force is a multi-day benefit in support of the Make-A-Wish foundation and begins at Skywalker Ranch and ends at Comic-Con in San Diego, California. Jeeeezus!

The C3PO outfit involved a lot of gold spandex with a few mixed-media items. Alexis chose to wear runner shorts to keep his lower extremities family friendly. Several vents were built into the outfit so he wouldn’t suffer heat prostration in the dead of summer. I thought the outfit turned out brilliantly and the photos of the event looked terrific. Alexis looks happy just like Nick, just like Gary, and baby that’s where it’s at. Keep the customer satisfied – Paul Simon said it and he probably got it from The Bible. Or Mr. Blackwell.

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I'd like to say a few words about Lorna Knight's book "The Dressmaker's Technique Bible: A Complete Guide to Fashion Sewing". It is absolutely indispensable! Yes it's a $30 sewing book, but it's the best sewing book you'll probably ever own. Every component used in the craft of clothesmaking is explained in simple detail, from the design of each outfit to fitting weird body parts (pear shaped bodies, big bootays, big hips, yow) to the essential art of finishing, etc. Every page is jam-packed with helpful illustrations and broken down point by point that even a little greeen man from outer space could follow. If you were previously too scared to sew this is your life preserver.