QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “It wasn’t called ‘Heavy Metal’ when I invented it.”
— Dave Davies

SONG OF THE WEEK: “Living On A Thin Line”
— The Kinks

First, though, I’d like to say here and now that Davies is barely exaggerating in this edition’s Quote Of The Week; sure, the highly esteemed and influential ’50s axe-slinger Link Wray wrung some damn fine psuedo-metal growls outta his mo-chine, and a few obscure garage-rockers farted out some impossible-to-find nuggets that mebbe twitched a horny middle finger metal’s way, but there’s no doubt that today’s metal was born the minute Davies stabbed his amp with a pen and blasted out the first five wamma-jamma burps of “You Really Got Me.” And it’s a rare and freakish rock ’n’ roll guitar player who won’t admit to experiencing, at the very least, goose-bumps, and, more likely, absolutely psychotic paroxysms of pure-dee soul joy upon the de-flowering of their virginal little ear canals as Davies’ literal attack first seared its vicious brand upon their doomed souls forever. Whew. Wotta sound!!

Me, I feel supremely lucky and highly privileged to have been privy to an absolutely overwhelming live Dave Davies gig a few years back (May 15th of 2002) at First Avenue. Along with a gaggle of Turf Club pals (a big shout-out to R&L Rule, Mark J., Dave R., Dave W., Johnny E., all da Mammys, and the rest o’ the gang!), my girlfriend and I watched as Dave proved beyond a shadow of a doubt who was always responsible for the energy, spirit and rock ’n’ roll hijinks that made those legendary Kinks shows of the past so, well, legendary.

Hearing live, impossibly-loud versions of classics like “Til The End Of The Day,” “Death Of A Clown” and “Living On A Thin Line” (one of my all-time favorite late-period Kinks tunes, along with a certain tune from Give The People What They Want that inspired the very name of this column) done so straight-forward, honest and true, with none of the usual irony, embarrassment or hackneyed eye-rolling caused by playing/hearing a song that’s been done to death, well, that wasn’t exactly an unpleasant experience, if’n ya know whut ah mean. No, the Davies show—even a good portion of the new stuff Dave was playing from his recently-released (and gleefully strange) solo album, Bug—was most definitely one of the all-time highlights of my First Ave. experiences over the years—right down to my getting a chance to shake hands with club manager Steve McClellan and personally thank him for bringing Dave to the Cities.

So what’s up with Dave now, you ask? Well, I’m glad you did, because I did a little research, and here’s what I found out. He is well on his way to recovery, possibly a full recovery, after spending a fair amount of time in a London physical rehabilitation center. A BBC online report said he was, “... paralyzed on the right-hand side of his body, but he retains some feeling and he can still hold a guitar plectrum.” (Plectrum—that’s a good ol’ fashioned “Pick” to us Yanks.) A quick glance at the man’s official website, DaveDavies.com (and if ya want totally in-depth, up-to-the-minute Davies info, check out RavingDaveFans.com, a site that’s totally outta sight) proves that the docs were probably right. He’s been busy painting lately, and has photos up of several of the acrylic works he produced during recovery. Very cool stuff, and indicative of Dave’s fierce, independent rock ’n’ roll spirit. He’s also got a new album out called Rainy Day In June, a live recording of a gig he did last June 13 at the Stadtwerke Festival in Potsdam, Germany.

One other note on the Davies’ front—oddly enough, at the time Dave fell victim to his stroke last summer, his brother and Kinks’ co-founder Ray was still recovering from a gunshot wound to his leg that he’d received the previous January in New Orleans, where he had attempted to chase down two muggers who’d stolen his girlfriend’s purse. According to some reports, the boys were in the middle of discussions about a possible Kinks’ reunion to celebrate the 40th anniversary of their first No. 1 hit, “You Really Got Me.” Here’s to the two making full and complete recoveries and following through on some variation of those plans—the world could sure use not only a reunion tour from these two magnificent, politically and socially-aware artists who’ve influenced so many musicians, fans and fads over the past four decades, but some new material could help augment the universal musical revolution we’re all achin’ to see. Speedy recovery, gentlemen!!

And now, it’s on to our regularly scheduled DVD and cassette reviews. Yep, you heard me right, we’re gonna review a genuine, old-fashioned, rickety-rackety cassette tape this week. Don’t worry—it’ll be worth the ink, I promise. But first up, let’s dig into some fine visual rock ’n’ roll from the height of the punk revolution.

Dead Boys
Live! At CBGB/OMFUG, 1977
(Plasmatics Media/MVD, 2004)

Whattaya say about the Dead Boys, man? They were more of a brute force of nature gone very wrong than any sort of “real” rock band—especially by 1977 standards. Criminals, perverts, dope fiends, misogynists, social outcasts, pariahs, white trash anti-heroes, rogues to a man. Stiv Bators, Cheetah Chrome, Jimmy Zero, Johnny Blitz, Jeff Magnum. Five guys who’d as soon puke on the shoes of a major label exec than sign a contract, purposely antagonized pussy bar owners, stunned disco-era club-goers, and freaked out scads of clueless, polyester-wearin’ parents. Sounds like all the right ingredients for a band I’d love the shit outta, that’s what!

And if you dig balls-to-the-wall, no-bullshit, pure-as-the-driven-slush punk rock, well, you will too. This show contains one of the Boys’ most powerful, ear-slaughtering, crowd-dousing, string-breaking extravaganzas ever put to video, and it’ll go a long way towards explaining why artists as diverse as Guns ‘N’ Roses, The Beastie Boys and Pearl Jam are as big of slobbering fans as I am. Kicking off with the band’s best-known track, “Sonic Reducer,” (a spot-on homage to one of their biggest influences, Iggy & The Stooges), Stiv and the boys attack their limited catalog (they only had a couple of official releases, which is another reason why this show is so important to have captured on disc) with a primal intensity that nearly matches their garage-spawned forebears.

There are no fancy, $200 faux-punk haircuts here, kids. No Rodeo Drive New Punk fashion, no extras, no smoke, no mirrors. Bators, who looks like a junked-out, Bizarro-world version of some Irish bog-elf, is sporting tight black leather pants, a ragged T-shirt, and a skinny tie that looks more like something he’d hang himself with than a fashion accoutrement. He slithers, slides, hops, stamps and humps his mic stand like it’s the last woman on earth, as the band swirls around him in a nearly hypnotic pattern. Songs like “All This And More,” “Not Anymore” and “Revenge” fairly fly by, the audience (an odd mix of hippies, street freaks, glassy-eyed college girls and a smattering of actual punks) both revolted and riveted by the display in front of them.

And yet, for all their ratty, so-NOT-New-York-it-eventually-defined-the-scene imagery, all the snide commentary by the music press of the day on their musicianship, their songwriting abilities (or proposed lack thereof), and complete ignorance by the general public about their existence, this band actually makes a habit of—not just accidentally slips into—genuine “Anthem-dom” throughout this gig. And, I suspect, just about every gig they ever did. Sadly, Bators bit the proverbial dust in 1990, ending any chances of a Dead Boys reunion. On the positive side, there’s plenty of musical evidence, from their official stuff to loads of bootlegs, fan compilations and tributes from fellow musicians out there, to keep followers and the curious entertained and educated for years to come.

The gig ends with a rousing cover of Iggy & The Stooges “Search And Destroy” (apropo not only because of the obvious links, but also because Cheetah Chrome took part of his name from the first line of the tune—“I’m a street-walkin’ cheetah ... with a heart fulla napalm ...”), and all the evidence is in as the entire audience comes alive, comes together, more people than you’d expect mouthing the lyrics to a song from an album and a band that most label execs thought dead and buried years before, done up with fire and brimstone by a band that those same shit-heads thought would never claw their way out of the ground in the first place to stake out their own claim in the glorious Boot Hill that is the past, present and (hopefully) future of punk rock: The Dead Boys KILLED!! Amen, and pass the bullet, baby, I needs me a bite!!

Lots of extras here, as well—cool interviews with the band from that era, a ‘77 promo clip, new interviews with Cheetah Chrome and Hilly Kristal, the executive producer of the video (which, I should mention, was directed with style and rock ’n’ roll spirit, in color, with three cameras, by Rod Swenson), bonus clips and alternate camera angles. Makes ya wanna be a Dead Boy, I tellya!

Various Artists
Please Warm My Weiner: Old Time Hokum Blues
(Yazoo/Shenachie Records, 1992)

Ahhh ... just in time for the coldest, most brutal time of year in the old Twin Towns, I’m proud to bring you, you lucky ‘Dial readers, this most soul—and bun, and other body parts—warming collection of great, lost nuggets and gems from the vaults of some of the world’s weirdest music collectors. This batch of too-odd-or-perverted-for-Dr.-Demento tunes came out in 1992—a freakish year for music if there ever was one, what with G-N-R and Whitesnake about to give way to Nirvana and Soundgarden on the ol’ airwaves, foolish kiddie rap and horrific mall-rat culture clogging up the long-dead playlists of MTV and VH-1, and the nation lost in a post-’80s haze of no sex, no drugs, no fun. It’s no wonder this album slipped under most people’s musical radar.

Me, I was lucky enough to have a pal who was both a huge blues nut as well as a wonderfully twisted pervo, and he slipped this little treasure of a cassette into my sweaty palm a couple o’ years back in the middle of summer as a kind of anti-Christmas gift. (Dick Houff—you, sir, are a genius!) I’ll admit, it didn’t have the same kind of humor and urgency during a two-month heat wave in the ghetto, but this winter, I was sure glad to find it tucked away in a bag of old bandannas, Smarties wrappers and mismatched gloves. I must’ve thought it’d make a great winter listen sometime, and stuck it away in the closet with the rest of my discarded winterwear. Woo hoo!

Featuring such giants of the genre (that genre being “Blue,” or “Colored” music, so named both because it was usually produced by African American artists, and because it was usually a little naughty, for the times, anyway) as Memphis Minnie, Bo Carter, Georgia Tom & Tampa Red, the Hokum Boys and Papa Charlie Jackson. The “weiner warmers” here kick off with Whistling Bob Howe and Frankie Griggs dueting on a cock-eyed little collection of double-entendres and piano tinkles called “The Coldest Stuff In Town.” Sample lyric: “You say you’re the coldest man around, the hottest stuff in town, in the winter you’re good to have around ...” Not exactly Red Shoe Diaries material nowadays, but in an era when even married couples weren’t allowed to be seen in the same bed on television, it was pretty—er—hot stuff.

Memphis Minnie (she of “When The Levee Breaks” fame) lays down a mattress-burner called “Banana Man Blues,” wherein she rejects the idea of buying a certain banana-shaped sex toy with the indignant shout of, “I can’t use that thing, I won’t have it sittin’ out on my floor!” Just when you think she’s puttin’ on airs and actin’ too good for a little kinky home-spun fun, she lustily spits out the line, “What’s that man got in his hand? How much? Fifteen dollars? That’s all?” “Yes, I want that thing, yes, I want that thing, don’t care where it goes!” Killer stuff.

A bizarre couple by the name o’ Butterbeans and Susie contribute a call-and-response number called, “Elevator Papa (“You always wanna go down!” she complains), Switchboard Mama (“You got the bummin’est connection in town!” he burns back at her)” And, well, those old double entendres just fly through the air thick as excuses at a Bush appointee inquiry from there on out. Tommy Bradley and James Cole do up “Adam And Eve” with a hillbilly/blues bent, putting a tastefully nasty spin on the old Bible story, and the Hokum Boys weigh in with the decidedly disturbing “I Had To Give Up Gym,” a genuinely perverted, banjo-driven little wink-and-a-nod to the wonders of puberty.

Bo Carter provides the good-time-y title cut, while Papa Charlie Jackson gives us “You Put It In, I’ll Take It Out,” a song that would surely still give the Powell/FCC album-burners nightmares; the Yazoo All-Stars turn in dazzling takes on “Hometown Skiffle, Parts 1 & 2”; and Buddie Burton breaks all known barriers of good taste and sanity with the madness-inspiring “Ham Fatchet Blues, Pt. 1.” All in all, more fun than most of us deserve after bitching, complaining and whining our ways through our collective, gray winter workdays, but what the hell. If being an American doesn’t include kicking back with a hearty drink, a well-rolled stick of muggles, and a butt-load of wonderful, ancient odes to the joys of sex, well, what the hell’s the point to it all, anyway? HIGHLY recommended.

NOTE

After the overwhelming response (I just caught up on the orders!) I received to my offer of free CD copies of my Round The Dial radio show, I’ve decided to print the info once again for those of you who may have missed it the first time. For a free copy of the Round The Dial radio show (heard on Earwig Radio “0”), send your name and address, along with $3 for shipping, handling and materials costs, to: Tom Hallett/Round The Dial Offer, 13104 Silver Rod Street, NW, Coon Rapids, MN 55448. If you have e-mail, you can drop me a line in advance and let me know your order is on the way—that’ll speed things up. Please allow 3-4 weeks for delivery.

That’s it for this edition of the ol’ ‘Dial, boogie chillun. Keep your backs to the wind and your asses by the fire, and when it all gets too much, think back to that insufferably hot summer day when you said, “Jesus! I can’t WAIT until winter! I hate this humidity!” Mmm-hmm. Now don’t ya feel betta? I know I do! Tune in again, same space, same time, for more, more, more—including my brutal castigation of FCC head Michael Powell, who just announced his impending retirement. Until we meet again—make yer own damn news. ||

If you have local music news/gigs/events/CD’s you’d like to see mentioned in this column, or you’d just like to congratulate me for penning over 260 weekly columns without ever once seriously using the word “didactic,” send replies to: (temporary e-mail) jamescrouch_1@juno.com.