Monday, September 6, 2010
Thursday, March 26, 2009
हैवी मेटल इस अ जोके
I'm listening to "Exile on Main street" right now and reading Bill Janovitz's 33 and 1/3 mini-book about the record. This will be my first time listening to the album in it'e entirety since the very first time I brought it home from Good Vibrations back in 1975. I've got headphones on to drown out whatever horrible television program is blaring in the background. It's the final high-quality Stones recording. Some Girls was a decent last gasp, but this album has that magic of a band still in the game. "Happy" is starting now, the "Keith" song. I used to get goosebumps as a kid hearing this song, thinking about how absolutely cool he was,the big reason I loved the band so much. I saw a picture in a magazine of him once passed out backstage with a bottle of Jack Daniels next to him and a mushroom patch sewn on the crotch of his jeans. I begged my Mom to sew a patch on my jeans just like his, and she was nice enough to do it. After my first listen to this record I never listened to it again all the way through. The dirty blues jams and lack of hit songwriting insured that I wouldn't embrace Exile Like I had "Sticky Fingers" or "Get your ya ya's out". I was just not equiped with the sort of deep musical appreciation to dig what the Stones were doing on this album. I was still, just a kid. 34 years later I am finally able to enjoy the full spin of this glorious celebration of ragged beauty.
It's funny about music. I'm having a sound flashback from all those years ago. The way the guitar gently falls apart at the end of "Let it loose" then jumps into "All down the line". It's like syrup dripping to a flame. I'm thinking about the black girls singing back-ups; I bet Mick fucked one, if not all, of them. Thinking about how Keith, all junked up, was more fun for them to hang around with , too wasted to even consider asking any of them to bed.This record makes me want to play electric guitar with a band that can really play some shit.
Now I'm listening to Suicide live at Max's Kansas city. Drum machine bleating and hissing, the sound of 3 people clapping. How were we born with the ability to accept this sort of musical expression? Maybe one out of 100,000 humans are somehow drawn to this sort of anti-social behavior set to music. I know I'm supposed to love the people of earth as much as I possibly can, but sometimes I wish records like this could just kill all the assholes of the world. At least just make them go away for a long time. Maybe there would be less war, less halftime shows. People have been hurt for playing music like this. It's the same thing that makes small town hillbillys beat up someone who's gay. It scares the fuck out of some people and makes them consider the possibility that they don't know what the hell is going on. It's apparent within moments of the needle hitting the groove. Thank God Suicide went out and played music like this in public and made those early records.
It's funny about music. I'm having a sound flashback from all those years ago. The way the guitar gently falls apart at the end of "Let it loose" then jumps into "All down the line". It's like syrup dripping to a flame. I'm thinking about the black girls singing back-ups; I bet Mick fucked one, if not all, of them. Thinking about how Keith, all junked up, was more fun for them to hang around with , too wasted to even consider asking any of them to bed.This record makes me want to play electric guitar with a band that can really play some shit.
Now I'm listening to Suicide live at Max's Kansas city. Drum machine bleating and hissing, the sound of 3 people clapping. How were we born with the ability to accept this sort of musical expression? Maybe one out of 100,000 humans are somehow drawn to this sort of anti-social behavior set to music. I know I'm supposed to love the people of earth as much as I possibly can, but sometimes I wish records like this could just kill all the assholes of the world. At least just make them go away for a long time. Maybe there would be less war, less halftime shows. People have been hurt for playing music like this. It's the same thing that makes small town hillbillys beat up someone who's gay. It scares the fuck out of some people and makes them consider the possibility that they don't know what the hell is going on. It's apparent within moments of the needle hitting the groove. Thank God Suicide went out and played music like this in public and made those early records.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Pat Leonard 1966-2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Pat Leonard 1966-2008
Pat Leonard was like my brother. We met when we were kids, growing up in Ipswich, Ma. we quickly formed a bond of friendship and musical camaraderie that would spread over thirty years. The connection we shared in our two bands, "Iron Cross & Moving Targets", was a true musical chemistry. Like many brothers, there were times of tension and disagreement, but underneath, always a reliable trust. Aside from my own father, he was the first guy to whom I ever said, "I love you man". We never had trouble letting each other know that we really cared about each other.
Playing music with Pat was always exciting, often explosive, and constantly an inspiration. He was a star in the best sense of the word. Playing live, he embodied the definition of stage presence, moving like a flamenco dancer with a knife held between his teeth instead of a rose. He played with such power and aggression that he became well known for breaking strings on his bass guitar (which is a pretty difficult thing to do). His handsome dark looks ensured that the targets had some sex appeal, and that Lenny would have some girls trying to get his attention while we blasted through our set. He was a force to be reckoned with on all counts.
Pat didn't have a mean bone in his body. He would do anything for a friend and never looked for thanks. Lenny never held a grudge in his life that I was aware of, and I always knew that he would be there for me if I needed him. There was a pure honesty that guided his personality that was rare and touching. I remember being on tour with him in 1994, and going to a party after a gig. Our host had a couple of guitars lying around and we traded songs in the living room, recalling our early days jamming in his basement. We played, "Castles Made of Sand" by Jimi Hendrix, and got teary eyed on the last verse because it's such a sad fucking song. That's what music meant to the two of us.
In later years after we no longer played in bands together, I would often (but not often enough) visit Pat at his home in Jamaica Plain. He continued to play music and started writing songs of his own, eventually building a home recording studio to capture his music, as well as making records for other bands. He just kept getting better at it, and would give me a call to come visit and hear his latest compositions. His songs had the intensity of The Targets, and the deep straight forward emotion of what was inside of him. I couldn't help but be proud of his accomplishments as a songwriter. It continued to be an important part of his life, and he put together some great bands along the way.
Through out the post Targets years I lost count of the number of times that fans and fellow musicians came to me to sing the praises of his talent as a player. He really was someone they all looked up to.
In the last year I moved to Los Angeles and spoke with Pat on the phone a handful of times. Three nights before I got a call from Pat Brady telling me that he had passed away, I had a vivid dream that the three of us were together again, playing music. Like many dreams, I couldn't make much sense of the meaning of it, but it was the second time in a week that he had come to me like that. I had been trying to contact Pat recently, but his phone was disconnected. I could only guess that these dreams were his way of trying to reach me. It still hasn't sunk in that he is gone. I'll never forget my friend and brother. I am grateful for the time we spent together and the music we made. Rest in Peace. I love you.
Pat Leonard 1966-2008
Pat Leonard was like my brother. We met when we were kids, growing up in Ipswich, Ma. we quickly formed a bond of friendship and musical camaraderie that would spread over thirty years. The connection we shared in our two bands, "Iron Cross & Moving Targets", was a true musical chemistry. Like many brothers, there were times of tension and disagreement, but underneath, always a reliable trust. Aside from my own father, he was the first guy to whom I ever said, "I love you man". We never had trouble letting each other know that we really cared about each other.
Playing music with Pat was always exciting, often explosive, and constantly an inspiration. He was a star in the best sense of the word. Playing live, he embodied the definition of stage presence, moving like a flamenco dancer with a knife held between his teeth instead of a rose. He played with such power and aggression that he became well known for breaking strings on his bass guitar (which is a pretty difficult thing to do). His handsome dark looks ensured that the targets had some sex appeal, and that Lenny would have some girls trying to get his attention while we blasted through our set. He was a force to be reckoned with on all counts.
Pat didn't have a mean bone in his body. He would do anything for a friend and never looked for thanks. Lenny never held a grudge in his life that I was aware of, and I always knew that he would be there for me if I needed him. There was a pure honesty that guided his personality that was rare and touching. I remember being on tour with him in 1994, and going to a party after a gig. Our host had a couple of guitars lying around and we traded songs in the living room, recalling our early days jamming in his basement. We played, "Castles Made of Sand" by Jimi Hendrix, and got teary eyed on the last verse because it's such a sad fucking song. That's what music meant to the two of us.
In later years after we no longer played in bands together, I would often (but not often enough) visit Pat at his home in Jamaica Plain. He continued to play music and started writing songs of his own, eventually building a home recording studio to capture his music, as well as making records for other bands. He just kept getting better at it, and would give me a call to come visit and hear his latest compositions. His songs had the intensity of The Targets, and the deep straight forward emotion of what was inside of him. I couldn't help but be proud of his accomplishments as a songwriter. It continued to be an important part of his life, and he put together some great bands along the way.
Through out the post Targets years I lost count of the number of times that fans and fellow musicians came to me to sing the praises of his talent as a player. He really was someone they all looked up to.
In the last year I moved to Los Angeles and spoke with Pat on the phone a handful of times. Three nights before I got a call from Pat Brady telling me that he had passed away, I had a vivid dream that the three of us were together again, playing music. Like many dreams, I couldn't make much sense of the meaning of it, but it was the second time in a week that he had come to me like that. I had been trying to contact Pat recently, but his phone was disconnected. I could only guess that these dreams were his way of trying to reach me. It still hasn't sunk in that he is gone. I'll never forget my friend and brother. I am grateful for the time we spent together and the music we made. Rest in Peace. I love you.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Alfa Romeo
My mother owned a red, 1967 Alfa Romeo in the early 70's, purchased by her boyfriend Jimmy Peters. He was a mysterious guy from New York who worked in the television industry. I think he was married at the time he and my mother were together. My mom was what would be considered "hot stuff" in those days. She had a friend from L.A. named Kathy who was connected to show biz, and she hooked my mom up on dates with Soupy Sales, Frank Gorshin (the Riddler on the Batman t.v.show), and maybe Frankie Avalon (she had a picture of them together in an Italian restaurant). I met Soupy once in Miami, and he gave me a stuffed animal with a radio inside. I think my mom dated some mobsters as well .
The Alfa Romeo was her pride, and joy and it became mine as well, once I discovered the extra set of keys she hid in her jewelry box. Whenever she would leave the house for a while with her friends and leave the little red sports car behind, I would grab the keys and give myself a driving lesson. I would grind the gears trying to figure out how to command a stick-shift properly. It's a miracle I didn't kill anyone or have an accident. She could never figure out why the clutch always needed work or replacement over the few years she owned it. I used to hear her bitch about it, but she never suspected that I was driving the thing around when she wasn't looking.
One fine Friday evening I was informed that she was going out on a booze cruise with a bunch of her friends. They would be out until 2:00am. She was getting picked up and would be gone for around six hours. I could finally get some real use out of the Alfa Romeo. Shortly after she left, I jumped in the car and made my way towards Griffith park, a place nearby, where all the older kids went to meet up and party. I pulled up and invited this jerk I knew and a couple of girls to take a ride with me. We bought some quaaludes and some beer, and headed for the beach. The 'ludes took effect pretty quickly with the beer I was drinking, and I started bumping cars ahead of me whenever I came up to a stop light. The jerk (who's name I forget), suggested that he drive for a while. I climbed into the backseat with the other girl and passed out a short time later.
I remember being woken up violently by my mother, on the front lawn of our house , with one of the girls passed out next to me. There was no sign of the Alfa Romeo. As she went inside to call the police, the jerk pulled into our driveway with the battered remains of the car. It looked like it had been in at least two or three collisions. My mother lunged at the kid driving it and started to beat the living shit out of him. The girl on the lawn awoke from her spot with vomit on her face and wondered what the heck was going on. The kid ran off and the cops caught up with him shortly after. After my mom filed the report and pressed charges, I was grounded for the rest of the year. The poor Alfa was junked. Its a wonder my mother didn't sell me to the Gypsy's.
The Alfa Romeo was her pride, and joy and it became mine as well, once I discovered the extra set of keys she hid in her jewelry box. Whenever she would leave the house for a while with her friends and leave the little red sports car behind, I would grab the keys and give myself a driving lesson. I would grind the gears trying to figure out how to command a stick-shift properly. It's a miracle I didn't kill anyone or have an accident. She could never figure out why the clutch always needed work or replacement over the few years she owned it. I used to hear her bitch about it, but she never suspected that I was driving the thing around when she wasn't looking.
One fine Friday evening I was informed that she was going out on a booze cruise with a bunch of her friends. They would be out until 2:00am. She was getting picked up and would be gone for around six hours. I could finally get some real use out of the Alfa Romeo. Shortly after she left, I jumped in the car and made my way towards Griffith park, a place nearby, where all the older kids went to meet up and party. I pulled up and invited this jerk I knew and a couple of girls to take a ride with me. We bought some quaaludes and some beer, and headed for the beach. The 'ludes took effect pretty quickly with the beer I was drinking, and I started bumping cars ahead of me whenever I came up to a stop light. The jerk (who's name I forget), suggested that he drive for a while. I climbed into the backseat with the other girl and passed out a short time later.
I remember being woken up violently by my mother, on the front lawn of our house , with one of the girls passed out next to me. There was no sign of the Alfa Romeo. As she went inside to call the police, the jerk pulled into our driveway with the battered remains of the car. It looked like it had been in at least two or three collisions. My mother lunged at the kid driving it and started to beat the living shit out of him. The girl on the lawn awoke from her spot with vomit on her face and wondered what the heck was going on. The kid ran off and the cops caught up with him shortly after. After my mom filed the report and pressed charges, I was grounded for the rest of the year. The poor Alfa was junked. Its a wonder my mother didn't sell me to the Gypsy's.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
KISS; Part 2
Two hours to go til they opened the front gates for the KISS concert. I was selling ten dollar packs of PCP to my left and right, and smoking doobies in the middle. I started to blow an occasional cloud of smoke towards the rental cops positioned in front of the box office. I was a twelve year old punk on drugs. This was going to be a great night.
At 7:00pm the gates opened and I rushed in, right into the waiting arms of those rent-a-cops I had been teasing for the last hour. They pulled me into a makeshift booking station located behind the box office and started going through my pockets, relieving me of a special-roll, pre-encore spliff. I still had a few packs of angel dust in a plastic baggie tucked in my underwear. Thankfully, my Mom still outfitted me in tighty-whities, a safe storage spot for contraband. I was processed, had my picture taken, and walked out to a school bus with wired-up windows for safe keeping. As I heard the muffled sounds of the band onstage, I wondered if this would constitute grounds for discharge from the KISS army.
After the concert had been over for a little while, state police cars began taking the detainees out for the ride to the station in groups of two. In the back seat were my possesions in a plastic bag, including my Polaroid camera. The trooper was pretty easy going and let me document the journey with a few pictures. I still have them in an old photo album. The kid in the car with me was kind enough to snap a couple of pictures of me to show my friends in school. After being booked, I was given a phone call home. My Mother let them keep me in juvenile detention for the weekend to try and "scare me straight".
At 7:00pm the gates opened and I rushed in, right into the waiting arms of those rent-a-cops I had been teasing for the last hour. They pulled me into a makeshift booking station located behind the box office and started going through my pockets, relieving me of a special-roll, pre-encore spliff. I still had a few packs of angel dust in a plastic baggie tucked in my underwear. Thankfully, my Mom still outfitted me in tighty-whities, a safe storage spot for contraband. I was processed, had my picture taken, and walked out to a school bus with wired-up windows for safe keeping. As I heard the muffled sounds of the band onstage, I wondered if this would constitute grounds for discharge from the KISS army.
After the concert had been over for a little while, state police cars began taking the detainees out for the ride to the station in groups of two. In the back seat were my possesions in a plastic bag, including my Polaroid camera. The trooper was pretty easy going and let me document the journey with a few pictures. I still have them in an old photo album. The kid in the car with me was kind enough to snap a couple of pictures of me to show my friends in school. After being booked, I was given a phone call home. My Mother let them keep me in juvenile detention for the weekend to try and "scare me straight".
Friday, May 30, 2008
KISS
We bought our KISS tickets at record town in north Miami. It was 1976, and the band was on the verge of what became worldwide rock n' roll domination for the greasepaint foursome. David Linhart and myself listened to KISS Alive all Saturday morning and decided to get an early start towards the Hollywood Sportatorium, a pretty good sized arena located in the middle of nowheresville. I'd seen the Greatful Dead, Ted Nugent, Aerosmith, Foghat, and countless other groups play there, but seeing KISS, was something different. These guys had a dangerous edge that the others lacked. I was always a tag-along for the other shows, and this baby was all ours. I was a charter member of the KISS army, and I had one whole wall of my bedroom dedicated to their exploits. I had my Mother sew my KISS army patch onto the arm of my dungree jacket, just in case there was any speculation on the matter. Arriving early to the concert served two purposes; a better shot at a front row seat (the tickets were general admission), and a chance to practice my new sideline as a drug dealer.
I had befriended Ernie, a surfer/burnout dude about a month earlier. when I was invited to hang out at his apartment through a mutual pal. He was in his late 20s, and always had a group of teenage kids around at his place doing drugs and trying to act cool. He lived below his Dads office in a place that was adorned with black light posters, lava lamps, and a surfboard that had been dry-docked for quite some time. He was like a large version of Sean Penn's character from "Fast times at Ridgemont High". I started messing around with PCP at Ernies and jumped at the chance to be a junior distributer for him. It would mean free drugs for me and add a little cache to my resume. It might also pay for my KISS ticket. I got a batch from him the night before, and he showed me how to divide it into ten dollar portions. I figured there was great sales potential at the next evenings show.
David and I took the bus out to the Sportatorium and arrived after 1:00pm to an empty parking lot. In my previous visits, I'd never seen the place so desolate and uninviting. We were basically the first ones there. We found a trail in back of the building and smoked a little pot and snorted some PCP. That familiar buzzing sound echoed through our heads as we wandered back to the front section. There were now a few cars starting to pull up, and kids were getting dropped off by their parents, with faces painted like their favorite band members. I'm not sure we were ready for the experience of being fucked up on this drug and looking at people with their skulls made up in grotesque masks of evil. We decided to head to the front gate of the venue to ensure a head start on the rush for seating and try to generate some sales.
To be continued...
I had befriended Ernie, a surfer/burnout dude about a month earlier. when I was invited to hang out at his apartment through a mutual pal. He was in his late 20s, and always had a group of teenage kids around at his place doing drugs and trying to act cool. He lived below his Dads office in a place that was adorned with black light posters, lava lamps, and a surfboard that had been dry-docked for quite some time. He was like a large version of Sean Penn's character from "Fast times at Ridgemont High". I started messing around with PCP at Ernies and jumped at the chance to be a junior distributer for him. It would mean free drugs for me and add a little cache to my resume. It might also pay for my KISS ticket. I got a batch from him the night before, and he showed me how to divide it into ten dollar portions. I figured there was great sales potential at the next evenings show.
David and I took the bus out to the Sportatorium and arrived after 1:00pm to an empty parking lot. In my previous visits, I'd never seen the place so desolate and uninviting. We were basically the first ones there. We found a trail in back of the building and smoked a little pot and snorted some PCP. That familiar buzzing sound echoed through our heads as we wandered back to the front section. There were now a few cars starting to pull up, and kids were getting dropped off by their parents, with faces painted like their favorite band members. I'm not sure we were ready for the experience of being fucked up on this drug and looking at people with their skulls made up in grotesque masks of evil. We decided to head to the front gate of the venue to ensure a head start on the rush for seating and try to generate some sales.
To be continued...
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
School
When I returned to Miami Shores Elementary for the beginning of 5th grade, I had really long hair like my idols the Rolling Stones (circa 1968). My Mom let me skip the barber shop that summer, and I was eclipsed only by my friend Brett Miller, who's hair was at least two or three inches longer than mine. I was another year from picking up the guitar, but I was totally focused on the rock n' roll look. I used to even carry a brush in my back pocket. It was 1975, so the idea of long hair on a male wasn't that big of a deal to most people. An exception to that rule was coach Gusman. He took serious offense to the look. He ran P.E. class like boot camp for kids and would often put longhairs in the girls line, or feminize our names. Gusman was a detestable character to be sure, but he was truly hated by the so called "hippies". He took great pleasure in singling out Brett and myself since we were actually liked some sports and he had to deal with us on that level. I was a pretty good runner, so he nick-named me "chicken legs". The guy was determined to make me suffer for 55 minutes every week. I would try and excell at certain activities just to piss him off.
1975 was the first year that I commited myself to completely ignoring school work and being a smart-ass towards most of the teachers. Looking back, I was just seeking attention of some sort. Maybe it was a cry for help. I started hanging around the wrong crowd and would do just about anything to prove I didn't care about the consequences. I broke my wrist playing football and got my very first cast. I had all my loser buddys sign it with the most disrespectful, disturbing things they could write. G.G. Allin would have been proud. I got sent to the principals office to explain the dirty words on my cast. When she saw what had been written about her on my arm, she closed the door, and actually made me pull down my pants, spanking me with an oversized, ping pong paddle. I laughed at first, so she put some muscle into it. She tried calling my Mother afterwards, but she was at work. My ass was pretty sore. I paid her back a few nights later by taking a dump through the mail-slot of the front door to the main office. Not very classy, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
The cast on my arm (with a new coat of yellow paint to cover up the grafitti) was starting to get pretty itchy. I always tried to move my arm around somehow to relieve the discomfort. I scraped a small opening on the underside of my elbow with the knife I always carried with me. The hole looked a little bit like a mouth, so I drew a face around it to make it complete. When I went to lunch that afternoon, I decided to spoon some jello into the hole to cool my arm down a bit. After the soothing effects of the jello, I followed it with a pour of milk. Finally, I was getting the relief I had been looking for. A circle of kids were watching me feed my arm with amusement. One of the lunch guards came over to see what the fuss was about. They grabbed my good arm to escort me for another trip to the office and for some reason I reacted by hitting them in the head with my cast arm. I ran out of the cafeteria and left the school grounds. This would be the first time I ever had the police called on my behalf. I hid out under a railroad bridge near my house until dark, and snuck through my bedroom window and tried to pretend I was asleep. My Mom came home a short time later. Boy was she pissed. The next morning I had my cast removed and replaced with a fiberglass one. I was allowed back in school a week later after a counseling session between the principal, the lunch guard, and my Mother (and myself). I was surprised they even let me come back.
1975 was the first year that I commited myself to completely ignoring school work and being a smart-ass towards most of the teachers. Looking back, I was just seeking attention of some sort. Maybe it was a cry for help. I started hanging around the wrong crowd and would do just about anything to prove I didn't care about the consequences. I broke my wrist playing football and got my very first cast. I had all my loser buddys sign it with the most disrespectful, disturbing things they could write. G.G. Allin would have been proud. I got sent to the principals office to explain the dirty words on my cast. When she saw what had been written about her on my arm, she closed the door, and actually made me pull down my pants, spanking me with an oversized, ping pong paddle. I laughed at first, so she put some muscle into it. She tried calling my Mother afterwards, but she was at work. My ass was pretty sore. I paid her back a few nights later by taking a dump through the mail-slot of the front door to the main office. Not very classy, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
The cast on my arm (with a new coat of yellow paint to cover up the grafitti) was starting to get pretty itchy. I always tried to move my arm around somehow to relieve the discomfort. I scraped a small opening on the underside of my elbow with the knife I always carried with me. The hole looked a little bit like a mouth, so I drew a face around it to make it complete. When I went to lunch that afternoon, I decided to spoon some jello into the hole to cool my arm down a bit. After the soothing effects of the jello, I followed it with a pour of milk. Finally, I was getting the relief I had been looking for. A circle of kids were watching me feed my arm with amusement. One of the lunch guards came over to see what the fuss was about. They grabbed my good arm to escort me for another trip to the office and for some reason I reacted by hitting them in the head with my cast arm. I ran out of the cafeteria and left the school grounds. This would be the first time I ever had the police called on my behalf. I hid out under a railroad bridge near my house until dark, and snuck through my bedroom window and tried to pretend I was asleep. My Mom came home a short time later. Boy was she pissed. The next morning I had my cast removed and replaced with a fiberglass one. I was allowed back in school a week later after a counseling session between the principal, the lunch guard, and my Mother (and myself). I was surprised they even let me come back.
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