John Frusciante
The Will To Death
Inside Of Emptiness
(WB, 2004)

Former Thelonious Monster/on-off-on-again Red Hot Chili Peppers axeman John Frusciante isn’t kidding with the title of his fourth solo effort since 1995, The Will To Death. Though he’s still in his thirties, the talented six-string-slinger has spent much of the past decade battling a ferocious heroin addiction, a habit that eventually led to his simply walking off a Peppers’ tour and disappearing for months. Thankfully, he’s come out on the other side clean and at his most musically creative since his ground-breaking debut with Anthony and Flea on 1989’s Mother’s Milk.

The Will To Death and Inside Of Emptiness are two of a four-part series of solo work John’s releasing this year—and a smart move it is, too. These songs are thick, haunting, aural vignettes forged at an anvil of pain and self-loathing, so don’t expect much of the old RHCP frivolity. Frusciante wisely decided to parcel the piece out in perfectly timed batches, making the albums not only a more comfortable listening experience, but leaving the listener waiting for—and wanting—more. An old showman’s trick, to be sure, but hey, why fuck with a formula that works?

The most interesting thing about these albums is the way they really high-light the man’s superb guitar playing—no ass-thumpin’ Flea bass or Anthony Kiedis histrionics to deal with here—and allow him to spew verbally (his voice ranges from a likeable mid-range to a shocking, high-octave holler that recalls the vocal antics of ‘70s Dutch prog-rockers Focus’ front man, Thijs van Leer) about his addictions, his depression, and his eventual Phoenix-like rise from the ashes. All subject matters his pals in the Peppers—who have been continually plagued by junkie guitar players throughout their career, starting with the OD death of co-founder Hillel Slovak shortly before JF joined the outfit—have surely long tired of.

That freedom that may go a long way towards giving him some much-needed closure on the issues that drove him to the rig in the first place, and the very fact that he’s suddenly become so prolific can only bode well for his future as a clean, worldly-wise, killer guitarist/songwriter—solo or with his mates. A pair of (admittedly) fan-centric releases that manage to both shine a well-deserved spotlight on one of the greatest guitar geniuses of the alt-rock movement as well as serve as a dire warning on the dangers and consequences inherent in the genre’s very lifestyle. Fascinating and soul-soothing—and definitely miles above that terrible Jimmy Page cut-out-bin insta-classic Outrider.

LOCAL ROOTS-POP HILLBILLIES RELEASE ALT-COUNTRY ALBUM THAT DOESN’T SUCK!!

Brokenheart Jones
Winded
(Self-Released, 2004)

I love this band’s name. Maybe because it reminds me of the Cheech & Chong classic, "Basketball Jones," which I inexplicably loved despite the fact that I never got into sports and the only dribbling I ever did (that I’ll admit to in public) was when I over-drank offa can of beer and some ran down my chin. Come to think of it, that’s probably the best way to listen to this album of rootsy, from-the-gut pop nuggets by this local quartet.

The ‘Jones boys (Adam Bilsing, Ben Foote, Tim Greenwood and Mike Murray) obviously attended the Twin Cities School Of Garage Rock, graduated with full honors and a bottle of whiskey, and are excelling in their post-grad studies in local haunts and dives. A groovy mix of jazzy rhythms, funky axe riffs (the band’s covers of choice speak volumes about their musical influences—on any given night you might hear ’em knock off live renditions of tunes by such disparate artists as The Temptations, Bob Dylan, Britney Spears or The Smiths), heartbreak themes, and down-home spirit, Winded is a satisfying, punchy first (full-length) effort.

Opener "So Many Ways" is a rollicking, keys-and-guitar-driven stomper punctuated by strangled-with-emotion vocals and kick-ass, exasperated lyrical lines like: "If I was a car, would you drive me off a cliff?/If I was a flower, would you pull my petals off me?/If I was a song, would you change the goddamn station?" "Winded Soul" is a dreamy, melancholy rumination on love and loss, "A Civil Case" rides atop a bed of moaning slide guitar and a loping cow-poke beat, and "Bastard Son Of Jesus" showcases the band at the top of their game—A tailor-made, road story/song about a lonely, rail-ridin’ honky-tonk outcast who leaves a man bloody and sorry in a train’s dining car. Very cool stuff from a relatively new local outfit. Here’s to another year of pain and heartbreak, boys—but only if it’ll bring us another album like this ’un.

ALIENS DISGUISED AS PRISSY BRIT-POP
OUTFIT CLONE JANE’S ADDICTION STAR’S VOCAL CORDS; PROCLAIM, “WE’LL MAKE GREAT PETS!!”

The Music
Welcome To The North
(Capitol, 2004)

Sigh. I don’t mean to pick on the four English lads who make up modern-rock outfit The Music, I really don’t. I’m sure that once the hype cools down and the novelty wears off, they’ll go back to making—er—music that’s not quite so derivative (or has Perry Farrell actually undergone some kind of freakish alien body switch with the singer of this band?!) of so much other music. I mean, they did get off to a pretty good start with their 2001 EP You Might As Well Try To Fuck Me, but of course that one wouldn’t have gone over too well here on this side of the pond, where our little FCC/Clear Channel buddies are doing their damndest to make sure our virginal ear canals aren’t exposed to such immoral hoo-ha. Excuse me while I genuflect: (THANK YOU, MICHAEL POWELL. I BOW TO YOUR MOST EXCELLENT TASTE IN MUSIC AND FASHION!! WE LIVE ONLY TO SERVE YOU, OH OVERLORD OF THE CHURCH OF HOLY COMMUNICATIONS!!)

But I digress. The Music know how to play music, that much is evident. And it’s actually pretty good, here and there. Musically speaking, of course. Not the title track, though. It’s droning, over-produced and hypnotically evil in its dogged pursuit to suck you into The Music’s Farrell-obsessed world. Snaky, Middle-Eastern keyboards are layered over comfortably numb bass lines, and if you close your eyes and turn up the headphones, you just might think you’re listening to a Bizzaro World Porno For Pyros outtake.

"Freedom Fighters" packs a bit more punch, but only drives home the singer’s terminal Perry-itis all the more, and by the time the Jane’s Addiction clone single, "Breakin’" busts loose, you’ve got to make a critical decision: Are you going to sit around and wait for Farrell to release another kick-ass album or are you going to give in and let The Music serve as your near-beer replacement? What’s that? You can’t hear me because THE MUSIC’S too loud? Oh well, fuck it. Let’s crank it up: "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, yes I know I’m gonna bray-yay-ayk...." AHHHGGGHHH!!!

DECEASED FORMER RAMONES BASSIST LIVES ON IN PERSONAL HELL, DISCUSSING JOHNNY THUNDERS’ CAREER FOR ETERNITY!!

Hey, Is Dee Dee Home?
DVD
(Extinkt, 2003)

Now that Johnny—the brains/guitar/financial genius behind the legendary Ramones—is gone, it seems you can’t turn around without running into a video, commercial (that’s right, watch your network TV ads—the pioneering punk outfit’s catalog is being pillaged as you read this—come on, Tommy, didn’t you make enough ching as a producer to keep just one ethic alive?) tribute CD, indie film, or book about the band. That’s par for the course, being that society in general has become filled with so many pop-culture vultures, feeding off of the carcasses of actually-talented individuals and groups who’ve come and gone, but it still sucks.

That being said, I’ll freely admit that I’m a complete Ramones fanatic myself, which is why I requested this Lech Kowalski-directed 2003 documentary (shot and recorded back in 1992) for review. Did I get to see the definitive Dee Dee interview? Learn all the secret Ramones trivia we were all so sure lurked just below the surface all those years? Nawww. What I did learn was that Dee Dee was a sad, lonely, scared, ultimately sweet man with an absolutely vicious bent for self-destructive behavior—particularly mainlining heroin. Thing is, if you’re going into this film hoping to hear some Dee Dee solo jams, or even shaky renditions of Ramones songs, you’re going to be sadly disappointed, as I was.

This here feature is a classic example of "All Talk, No Rock," if I’ve ever seen one—the one time Dee Dee does pick up a guitar, he’s almost immediately discouraged from playing. Not that he was displaying Hendrix-like abilities on the axe, but I for one woulda loved to just hear him sing three or four tunes, man. Another buzz-kill here is that virtually every time Dee Dee starts to reminisce or sidetrack into some fascinating, Ramones-related story, the interviewer steers him back to the same, already-exhausted subject.

This documentary dwells almost exclusively (well, there is that one spot where he goes over every single tattoo on his body and why he got them and how his old lady disapproved of ‘em, but mostly she disapproved of his dope habit) on Dee Dee’s relationship with deceased New York Dolls/Heartbreakers guitarist Johnny Thunders, and the writing of the junkie anthem "Chinese Rocks," which Dee Dee and the Ramones apparently wrote (mostly Dee Dee) and then gave to The Heartbreakers (who added a few licks and lines to it) to record because Johnny Ramone didn’t want to record any more "drug songs." Of course, once the song became an underground "hit," Johnny R. reamed Dee Dee out for giving it away—always the businessman, that Johnny.

Dee Dee is probably at his most animated here (although he looks like holy hell, with concentration-camp-like features, a shaved head, and bones protruding through his sallow skin), as he insists that he was given permission by Johnny R. to pass the tune along to Thunders ("... he told me, ‘We’re not doing any more dope songs.’ So I said, ‘but that’s what we do! What about "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue?"’ And he says, ‘We don’t sniff glue anymore!’”). The package does include a few worthy bonus items—a live performance by Johnny Thunders (again, why not a live performance from Dee Dee? Urgh!), an out-take from the film “Born To Lose” (yes, again, about Johnny Thunders—boy, Dee Dee must be PISSED!), a poster of a junked-out, Lou Reed-lookin’ Dee Dee, and temporary tattoos so you, too, can look just like him for a few hours. (Track marks not included)

Maybe I wouldn’t feel so let down if they’d called this film “HEY, IS JOHNNY THUNDERS HOME?,” but I guess a little Dee Dee is better than none at all. Bottom line: A curiosity for Ramones and punk fans in general, an absolute must-have for Johnny Thunders acolytes. The general public still doesn’t know the first thing about Dee Dee or any of the other Ramones—living or dead—let alone Johnny Thunders and the history of a tune singing the praises of China White, so this won’t matter one way or another for them. All I really wanted to do after watching this was HEAR some music! So I threw on my vinyl copy of "Chinese Rocks." It really is the perfect junkie/musician anthem, too: "I’m livin’ on a Chinese rock/All my best things are in hock..." Nope, Dee Dee’s not home. For good.

That’s all she wrote for this week, my furry little friends. Tune in again, same Dial-time, same Dial-place, for more rock-a-rolla wamma-jamma. Until then, MAKE YER OWN DAMN NEWS!! ||

If you have local music news, gigs, CDs you’d like to see mentioned in this column, or you’d just like to argue that Dee Dee did more black tar than China White, send replies to: (temporary e-mail) jamescrouch_1@juno.com.