x-x-x-x-x. Politics of Sex, Noise and Depression

There’s a book called Let it Blurt by rock critic Jim DeRegatis about the life and times of Lester Bangs. Apparently Lester was one of the first people, if not THE first to use “Heavy Metal” to define a genre of music. He was also one of the first cats to talk about “Punk Rock” and championed Iggy Pop and the MC5 before anyone in the media. I think he was the first rock ‘n’ roll critic. Previously criticism was reserved for “high art” and it was just teen pop magazines writing about youth music.

It’s a pretty intenst book ‘cause the guy was a major addict, totally passionate, funny, ingenius overgrown kid who wrote in a raw-ass, in-your-face style that pretty much spawned a whole (THE whole) school of rock writing.

Homeboy was right there at the forefront writing about (and hanging with) Blondie, Television, Voivoids, The Clash (who’s singer, Joe Strummer has just died), Bob Marley (who Lester illed on; regarding Kaya: “an LP obviously calculated to break Disco Bob into the American Kleenex market full force…”), how could I forget Lou Reed, Captain Beefheart. And he was raw with these motherfuckers when he wrote. Sometimes lauding and sometimes panning the fuck out of ‘em. Sometimes he’d at first tear some shit apart (an Alice Cooper record was a “tragic waste of plastic”) at first and then end up totally into it.

One of the things that’s so intenst about the book is the sense of passion in the whole punk rock scene. They illed on Zeppelin and the Stones not because the songs were bad or something, but because there was nothing more to it than the songs. They wanted someting to be part of. And that’s what we all want that’s so fuckin’ lacking in commercial music. It’s like, here is the rock star and here are the fans and we all know that it’s nothing new and we don’t expect nothing new ‘cause there’s never gonna be anything new. Just the “latest” version.

Nobody’s expecting any kind of revolution or free love or cosmic enlightenment. It’s there; Millions of people probably between religious sects and crusty punks and yogis and underground artists, pacifists, vegans, hip-hoppers. But there’s no sense of a united movement among the world’s citizens in any one direction or another. And maybe that’s the way it’s always been. And the minute the media trys to create something out of it, it’s already too late. It’s over. It’s all Santa Clause and Jesus Christ over here and Kwanza over there and shopping and bopping and stashing your money somewhere (hoping it doesn’t dissappear Enron-style) for fear of an unknown future projected by 88 year old ladies pushing their shopping carts through anxious crowds and taking the city bus home with frozen and canned dinners that serve as slow poison and help to pass the time while watching bad infomercials made by wannabe artists who hustle to meet deadlines to make the ching-ching to stash the bling-bling away somewhere for fear of an unknown future projected by 56 year old truckers who stuff their ugly stomachs at roadside whorehouses designed to look like Walt Disney cowboy sets with meaty poison which is cows fed on cowmeat from dead cows that ate chickens who were grown in vats of steroids and had their beaks sawed off at puberty so they couldn’t peck out their own hearts and it’s served on plates made in sweatshops by waitresses whos paychecks are sent directly to Philip Morris so they can stay hype-laxed for another 6 hours to hustle the tips and stash the cream cheese away somewhere in fear of an unknown future projected by 24 year old rap stars who flaunt their Jaquars and pimp clothes and big-ass hooker slut hoes and make no bones about sellin’ the illusion to alla da little millions of punks who wanna cash in on their own self-imposed slavery for fear of an unknown future.

An that’s not what it’s fucking about man. But why take it from a broke-ass, self-important fuck with entitlement issues who thinks it’s right to sit at a beat up laptop re-telling Last Poets stories in cut-rate Henry Miller/Jim Carrol when he should be figurin’ out his sad finances? So he doesn’t end up 88 years old, pushin his shopping cart through anxious crowds of Two-Thousand-Fifty-Someodd Christmas shoppers. And is this writing process really even fun? What the fuck IS fun and what do YOU do for it. (I guess it gives me some sense of self worth.) Rivka and I were talking about dignity one night driving from hell to highwater or some shit, while I cried and she’s like “There’s no dignity in this, (Sleeping on peoples floors, barely getting paid), we just hold our heads up.” But maybe holding your head up, and getting dressed and shit like your proud of your place in the world IS dignity. ‘Cause even if your George Bush or Rupert Murdock or Donald Trump or some crazy-rich Sultan or something, that can all get taken away from you. Dignity is personal. Definitely Dignity. Def Dig.

Oh my God. Last night took all these kids to a all-ages metal show in Seacuacus, New Jersey. Each band shows up with their friends and hands (at least) $150.00 to the “promoter” and their friends present the tickets and cram into this little black hole behind a strip club and start chain-smoking. They must have smoked 1,000 cigarettes in that place last night. My throat still hurts. And what do they do? Todays folk music, right? Simple tunes about working-class life. ANyone can learn it. Noisy-ass shit. But the kids all look good, dancing in the pit-style. And my homeboys Karamuya are getting tight. Slammin’ new drummer.

Would it be fucked up if I bought them liquor after the gig?

Happy Holidays.ill |

5/04/2001