Tag Archives: music

Carla Bozulich from The Pages of Sex & Guts 4

From Sex & Guts 4. While I was editing the proof at a coffeehouse in Los Feliz, a young homeless guy with black, crusty feet, wearing a dress and hustling the passers-by, noticed one of these pictures of Carla. He freaked out, saying that he had seen the Geraldine Fibbers in Atlanta and then followed the band to LA. At first I was dismissive, thinking it was the schizophrenia talking, but I found out later that he was a real stalker. A total creep. Of all the madmen that called Los Feliz home, he was one of the most frightening. He terrorized the locals and started fights. I’d seen him get his ass kicked on more than one occasion for talking trash to the wrong dude. The cops must have picked him up twenty times that winter. Whenever I was in the neighborhood, he harangued me about the book, when it was coming out, asking if I could pass a message on to Carla. I avoided him at all cost, but he was impossible to shake once he noticed me. Eventually, he became so unbearable, ignoring my requests to back off, that I poured a hot cup of coffee over his head. He didn’t even blink. Just smiled, like I’d done him a favor.

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MY AX

My ax wasn’t much, a black imitation strat the old man bought me from Toys-R-Us. It originally came with a speaker built into the body, but I removed it, covered the hole with electrical tape and plugged into a Kalamazoo amp. I made a royal racket. Except that’s all I could do, since I didn’t know how to make chords or even tune the damn thing. I just positioned my fingers on the fretboard based on pictures in rock mags and went to town.

I was supposed to take guitar lessons when I was around ten. My mother even let me use an old acoustic from her beatnik days. But on the day of my first lesson, when we got to the place where the classes were to be held, they told us the building had burned down the day before.

Disappointed, I told my next door neighbor, a guy slightly older than me who played the guitar pretty good. He offered to give me lessons. Except, instead of teaching me the chords to “Iron Man” like I wanted, he made me watch him jerk off and then gave me the change in his brother’s dresser. Even though I made out with a buck fifty, which was a nice chunk of change, I never went back there for another lesson.

After that, I fiddled around with my mom’s acoustic until she got pissed off at me one day and broke it over my head.

I never stopped dreaming about being in a band and being a rock star though. But I didn’t really see myself as a lead guitar player or a singer. I wanted to be more like Malcolm Young, the rhythm guitar player for AC/DC, who stayed in the background, doing his thing, while Angus got all the attention.

— from A Masque of Infamy

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Show Review: Texas Terri at the Sunset Junction Street Fair 2001

The 2001 Sunset Junction really was a madhouse of hipsters and leather clad exhibitionists, extremely hot with little shade and overpriced EVERYTHING, including the bullshit $5 “donation” at the door.

I avoided most of it because of the heat but made sure not to miss Terri’s set. When I walked up they were blasting through “Raunch City” and then went right into “To The Top.” They played (uhmmm, I’m trying to remember the set list) “Oh Yeah,” “Situation,” “Mafia,” and others I forget. The usual set-ender “On the Street” was made even more phenomenal when T-Ray passed his bass to Mike Watt and they broke into “I Got A Right” by Iggy and the Stooges… fucking stellar!!! T-Ray then proceeded to jump into the swirling moshpit as I got elbowed against a stage monitor, where I remained for the rest of song watching Mike pump that bass for all it was worth!!! Most likely to keep up with Terri and the remaining Stiff Ones who were playing full-tilt!!

This write-up in the LA Weekly suggested that Mike played the whole set, but it was just one song.

Nevertheless, I have to say it was up there as one of my favorite shows, just for sheer energy and because people were actually mixing it up.

Here’s a list of the rock bands playing at the Junction that year.

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Nostradumass flyer

Flyer I helped design for a Nostradumass show at Al’s Bar with the Fireants, Third Grade Teacher and White Trash Debutantes. Nostradumass formed out of the ashes of El Ron Hitler by Cake Nunez.

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Chris D. by Lydia Lunch

Chris D. is a writer, producer, director, actor and musician. He produced three seminal albums of the LA punk and paisley underground scenes: “Fire of Love” by the Gun Club, “Days of Wine and Roses” by Dream Syndicate, and “Gravity Talks” by Green on Red. He wrote directed the movie “I Pass For Human.” With his bands the Flesh Eaters and the Divine Horsemen, he has released numerous records. He is also an authority on japanese film and is the author of several books.

These photos were taken by Lydia Lunch for the book I published in 2003 Sex and Guts, which featured an interview with Chris D.

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Take Care of Your Records/Take Care of Your Needle

Some helpful hints from an old Columbia inner sleeve:

Take care of your records…

Take care of your needle…

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The Great Thrift Store Post-Punk LP Score

From the Things I Wish I Still Had files:

On my way home one day, I stop by the Out of the Closet on San Fernando for a quick glance. It’s late, they’re almost about to close. I scope out the books, see nothing, then move over to the vinyl. That’s when I spotted the boxes. The instant I started going through them I was pulling out gem after gem. There was another guy there, but he was only taking a few things. I got the rest. I went up to the counter with about 75 lps, and they said there were a couple more boxes in the back. In those boxes I found the Decline of Western Civilization and the No New York. I was sweating and freaking out so much it was hard to pick and chose. I couldn’t take them all (I didn’t have enough money in my account), but all told I got about 150 lps, and they only charged me $100. This is a sampling of about a quarter of them, the ones I ended up selling to finance a … well, it was important at the time. It’s kinda painful to remember the ones that are gone now, especially this one, the piece de resistance:

TATER TOTZ: Alien Sleestacks from Brazil
1988 Gasatanka/Giant Records
GR16010-1

Unfinished Music Volume 3
Features Jeff McDonald, Pat Fear, Steve McDonald, Pat RuthenSmear, Trace Element, Ricky Starr, and Danny Bonaduce. With Michael Quercio, Dave Landry, Dave Nazworthy, Qwynne Kelly, Rebecca Tucker, Tim Ferris, Doug Graves, Steve Robertson, Tuesday Starmaker.

Give Peace a Chance/We Will Rock You
Let’s Get Together
Tomorrow Never Knows
I’ve Just Seen A Face
Bat Macumba
Don’t Count The Waves
Bharta’s Boogie
Part 1: Elvis has Left The Building
Part 2: Now That The Buffalo Are Gone (Revisited)
Part 3: Revenge of Bill and Barbara (Lidsville and the Turbov Incident)
Part 4: Man Who’s Teeth Were All Exactly Alike
Part 5: (not available)
Part 6: Sick Sixx
Part 7: Rita Lee Superstar
Part 8: Child With Child
Part 9: Wendy’s Got A Laugh Track
Sing This All Together
Bat Macumba (Reprise)
Don’t Worry Kyoko (Mummy’s Got Her Hand In The Snow)

Yes, it was still sealed. And no, I didn’t get a lot of money for it on ebay, which made selling it all that more painful.

Here are some of the others I parted with:

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Queens of the Stone Age show review

Queens Of The Stone Age
live at the Universal Amphitheater, Oct 25, 2000

Ok, so this is one of those reviews that focus on the writer’s experiences just as much as the concert itself. However, the circumstances that led up to my arrival at the Universal Amphitheater to see Queens of the Stone Age open for the Foo Fighters played a vital role in my appreciation of the event and cannot be avoided.

Scheduled for a Wednesday night, I was already overworked as the dreaded “dreadline” of Angry Thoreuan MagaZine loomed just mere days away and the 2 drug minimum rule had been put into effect the previous weekend. By Tuesday morning I was almost completely out of mind on speed and pot, coasting into the 4th day of intense drug abuse. I had articles to write, an interview to set up Tuesday afternoon and a quarter of the ad copy to procure so that the editor, Rev Tin-ear, could get the magazine to press on time. It was a hectic week to say the least.

But I was not going to miss out on this show. I failed to see Queens of the Stone Age perform at the Ozfest this summer, and even though this was only a warm-up spot, I had a ticket waiting for me at Will Call and I was only a train ride away on the red line. So I was determined to make it.

I had been a Kyuss fan since ’94 when they opened for Ween at Slim’s in San Francisco. The show was sold out by the time I arrived, but inebriated on LSD and unable to figure what else to do with a head full of acid, I sat outside the club and listened to the pulsating rhythms that reverberated into the street and fixated on the black & white symmetrical lights that flashed on the upper windows, which were either a part of the show or my own psychedelic imagination.

Regardless, the next time I saw a Kyuss CD, I purchased it and was satisfied that at least the solid musical performance I experienced that night was in fact a reality. The transformation of part of the band into Queens of the Stone Age just about implied my appreciation. And everything I had heard up to their latest opus, R, was more aural bliss, but this new album sent all my expectations over the edge, like scoring an uncut bag of cocaine. The disk stayed in my changer for months and everybody I exposed it to along the way were converted as well. Beyond all the hype, R is truly my favorite album of 2000. So I was NOT going to miss them perform this time. Even if I perished along the way.

By Wednesday afternoon, however, I began to have doubts whether I could pull it off. I was maintaining a steady intake of speed and bonghit after bonghit of schwag to ward off the heebie shakes but my entire body rebelled and demanded recuperation. But still I persisted. Despite what felt like a pinched nerve in my right shoulder and a total lack of sensation anywhere else on my body. As 8 o’clock approached, I snorted my last line, hit my bong several more times, collected my smokes and made my way to the Pershing Square subway entrance.

As I waited for a northbound car, I learned against a pillar and tried to stay awake. Some freaked out ex-convict solicited legal advice from me and even though I mechanically agreed with him that, yes, the prison guard was most likely being racist in her decision to not let him visit his girlfriend, he continued to badger me for affirmation of the fact until finally the northbound train arrived and I collapsed into an empty seat with a knee under my chin to keep my head vertical.

I instantly became nauseous and since I had only consumed an ice cream sandwich earlier that day, figured it was a result of lack of nourishment. I closed my eyes and hoped I could get a hot dog at the Amphitheater before the show.

When the train arrived at Universal City, I was running late and even though I had never been to Universal City before, I remained confident that I would catch at least the majority of the Queens of the Stone Age performance. I headed towards the exit and as I was making my way up the escalator, a group of young hipsters were chattering about the Foo Fighters in front of me. I attached myself to them and inquired if I might follow them to the venue, as they seemed to have a clue how to find the place. The chilly evening air did nothing for my fatigue and I blindly lagged behind the group as they made their way up an unforgiving hill. At times I wondered what my fate would be if I failed to resist gravity and fell back down what was quickly transforming into a mountain. Would these kids rescue me? Leave me for dead? Steal my wallet and impersonate the indi-zine journalist I made myself out to be? Nonetheless, with my legs buckling and my pants slipping down my waist from the weight I had apparently lost due to the mountain trek, I tailed the group through the crowds of tourists that filled the faux-streets of the City Walk as smoke filled the air, lights and monitors displayed all the magic and splendor that was Universal Studios.

Darting through the crowds, we made our way to the Amphitheater and instantly spotting Will Call, I broke away from the expedition to claim my tickets. I rushed into the theater and found my seat. Queens of the Stone Age were already into their set. Fortunately I only missed 15 minutes or so as they were in the middle of a song off Desert Sessions as lasers bounced off a disco ball on the stage and Joshua was tearing into the neck of his guitar with a fury that reached into my amphetamine drenched being and opened each of my drugged-out synapses, directing all the crystals out of my body through my pores. When once I was almost too exhausted to continue, I was now entranced by the Queens’ subdued stage presence as they moved from the older stuff to heavier, more riff-oriented versions of the material off R. Stripped off all the major label polish, these songs were now the Queens of the Stone Age as I had expected. And so much more. I wanted to move, I wanted to contort my body into the perfect receptacle so that every pounding bass riff, each guitar lick and all the drumbeats would penetrate my wasted body and extinguish what was left. I wanted to push my way through all those saps that just stood in front of the stage so that I could be closer to that energy, plug my cranium into an amplifier and just fucking surrender every nueron I had left to the electricity that fueled this rock and roll, and then pass out right there in front of the stage with smoke billowing out of my ears to show my appreciation.

And then, it was over. The house lights came on to scattered applause. Joshua thanked the audience and informed them that Foo Fighters were up next. “So get a cup of coffee,” he said, and I thought now it was time for a beer. And food. However, that thought would be one of the last I remember from the evening due to the $7 price of a beer and the fact that I only had $10 on me. Food or beer? I opted for the latter and since I woke up the next morning with a Foo Fighter’s song in my head, I would imagine that I saw at least part of their set, but can’t imagine it being as memorable as the rest of the evening.

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Tristania at Metalfest 2000 November to Dismember

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Fireball Ministry at Metalfest 2000 November to Dismember

photos by Kelly Dessaint for Lacerated Magazine

 

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