A Tale Told By a Lamp, Full of Sound and Fury, Signifying an Obsession with Robyn Hitchcock.
Did John Lasseter (writer/director of Cars, Toy Story, A Bugs Life, and Executive Producer of Wall-E) listen to much music by Robyn Hitchcock(eccentric British singer/songwriter famously obsessed with fish, death, sex, and insects) and the Soft Boys? Is there some kind of DaVinci Code-like clue that will explain the inspiration for everything Lasseter (whose obsession with visual in-jokes is well-documented) has done?
Partly because I didn't have a girlfriend at the time. And partly because I hated getting dressed up. But mostly because of the music. Sappy power ballads and crappy "dance music" played by a third-rate band or a bored, clueless DJ? "Celebrate good times, C'mon!"? Thanks. But no.
So I didn't go. And I might never have given it a second thought. Except for the music (which I was sure sucked because most of my classmates had musical taste that ran the gamut from mainstream pap to dreck).
A few months go by and a friend of mine tells me I should've gone to the Prom, I would've loved it – the Prom theme was “White Punks on Dope.” By the Tubes. Which suddenly made sense to me. It was literally like a light bulb suddenly appeared, shining brightly, above my head.
See, I grew up in a college town filled with angsty, disaffected White kids whose parents worked at the local colleges. In my High School, we never bothered to read Faulkner because we were too busy reading Kurt Vonnegut. Political correctness may not have been born in my hometown, but it definitely bought its first free-range organic kale snacks there.
Knowing my Prom theme transformed my view of my hometown. So for years, I would brag about my hometown, using our Prom theme as proof of what an amazing, progressive place it was. My only regret? Not going to the Prom.
For more than 15 years, I told people that story... and everyone would chuckle or nod, amused at the idea of a school cool enough to select “White Punks on Dope” as their Prom theme (and perhaps secretly wishing they'd gone to my Prom, too).
Then, a few months ago, I tell a friend this story and she stares at me, confused, then asks what the Prom theme really was. "'White Punks on Dope.' By the Tubes," I say. She shakes her head sadly and looks at me with pity. "No way in hell that was your Prom theme. Proms are official school events. School officials have to approve the theme. And there's no school official who would approve a theme like 'White Punks on Dope.' No matter how cool and amazing you think your school was."
And then I realized the worst part: the High School friend who told me this months after the Prom must have been joking with me. And I didn't realize it. Maybe this person was cruel or just didn't want to take away my enjoyment by telling me the truth. (And I can't even remember who it was to double-check.)
Suddenly, the story I'd told myself and others for years is just wrong. And in retrospect, my High School is just a lot less cool.
But in an alternate universe, there is a school somewhere that would select "White Punks on Dope" and have the school officials approve it. I'd give almost anything to live in that world -- even go to the Prom.
The ghosts of every dead rock star who'd ever rebelled against the overblown and the boring came back as zombies intent on hunting down and killing Hugh Jackman.
While Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix feasted on Australian brains, Peter Gabriel rose up and sang (the entire song, not just a 70-second snippet). And he didn't need any stinking robotic backing zombie dancers, either.
Then a tidal wave of new and interesting tunes rose up and washed away everyone who's ever sung on the Disney Channel or appeared on American Idol. (Info on artist Jean Shin and the Sound Wave Exhibit is here.)
Unfortunately, it was just a dream. When I woke up this morning, the clock radio was playing this:
Which some people think means the end of the world.
If you're looking for signs of the apocalypse, you can find them all around. But until recently, it seemed that music would offer us a way to rediscover beauty that would steer us away from the edge.
But a quick check of the interwebz indicates that the musical signs of the apocalypse are out in full force:
A quick check of YouTube reveals at least four versions of "Stairway to Heaven" played on the Banjo, including this one (perhaps inspired by the beer cans in the background, and featuring a pal holding up a lighter in front of the camera) by Sean Ray.
I drove past my old apartment yesterday. Stopped for a second and looked up in the window -- the one window that had a tiny sliver of an ocean view. Somewhere up the street, someone was playing the Hair soundtrack.
It was a neighborhood of outsiders when I lived there. Homeless people slept in the alleyways; the streets and the sand were not quite safe after dark. We recognized each other and our fellowship of not quite belonging -- like we were members of the same tribe of outsiders.
Outsiders and outcasts gather. Rejected by the cool kids, driven to carve out their own identity far from the warm embrace of the mainstream. Until that identity somehow becomes mainstream. And this is the irony of rock and roll -- the outcasts, haunted by unhappy childhoods and various demons, create something so compelling that one day the hippest and coolest of the cool (the ones who might, a few years earlier, have beaten up those very same outcasts) want in.
I once saw Milos Forman near my old apartment. He was the ultimate outsider -- a Czech who lost both parents to the Nazi death camps and was more sympathetic to the outcasts and madmen of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Amadeus than the cool kids who ran Hollywood. Only an outsider like Forman (and writer Michael Heller) could make sense of Hair and transform it into something more coherent than James Rado, Gerome Ragni, and Galt MacDermot's raggedy collection of songs. I was born too late to be a hippie, but I've seen several great (and one horrible) production of the play and loved the movie version.
I guess not everyone in my old neighborhood thought we were a tribe. One day my upstairs neighbor was robbed at gunpoint. A week later, a homeless man was stabbed to death 20 feet from my front door. I moved out shortly thereafter.
The last time I was in Iceland, there was a production of Hair at the National Opera House, but I missed it by 6 days. In Iceland, they really are their own tribe -- in a country with fewer people than live within the city limits of Toledo, most people are just 2 or 3 degrees of separation from every other Icelanders -- so I wondered what a country bombarded by images of all the cool kids in Europe and America would have done with a show like Hair. I'll bet it was amazing.
Back in my old neighborhood, I looked up at my window, the one with the fragment of an ocean view. For a second I thought I saw myself from years ago looking down. But my past self didn't recognize my present self... and my present self didn't understand how my past self could afford the neighborhood as it is now (with million dollar condos and a complete absence of homeless people). Milos Forman and the hippies were nowhere to be found, so I put my car back in gear and drove 4 miles inland back to the present.
Even jangly mope-rockers. Which means, yup, even fans of the Smiths & Morrissey.
Which brings me to this video of comedian Dave Hill at a speed-dating event aimed solely at Smiths fans. As Hill says "You really can't lose. Unless you don't like the Smiths and Morrissey, in which case you could lose." (Link for Gmail subscribers.)
Speaking of Valentine's Day, I am slightly ashamed to admit that I first knew the song "Only You" from the Ringo Starr cover (and not the great 1950s version by the Platters). (I blame the aliens in Ringo's space ship.)
And by the way, how wild does your night have to be that you would wind up in the morning in a bathrobe on top of the Capitol Records building in Hollywood with two statues, a space ship, and a singing alien? (Link for Gmail subscribers.)
An important part of the mythos of John Lennon is the 18-month "Lost Weekend" he spent in Los Angeles after separating from Yoko Ono. The official account is that Lennon drank, got high, and screwed around with May Pang while getting nothing done. While the drinking, drugging, and screwing are certainly true, Lennon actually got a ton done during that Lost Weekend.
Sure, he was thrown out of the Troubador when he and Harry Nilsson drunkenly heckled the Smothers Brothers (with Lennon wearing a tampon on his forehead), but during that 18 months, Lennon also:
Produced the Nilsson album Pussy Cats,
Recorded a bunch of oldies with producer Phil Spector (as part of a settlement of a lawsuit brought by Morris Levy from Roullette Records, who claimed Lennon stole parts of "Come Together" from Chuck Berry's "You Can't Catch Me" -- but agreed to drop the suit if Lennon recorded three songs Levy's publishing company owned),
Spent time with his song Julian (whose grade-school drawing reportedly inspired the song "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"), whom he hadn't seen for years,
Wrote and Recorded the Walls and Bridges album (which featured Julian drumming on one song),
Recorded his single to hit #1 in his lifetime (not counting the dozens of Beatle singles), "Whatever Gets You Through the Night" (with Elton John on piano and vocals),
Performed three songs with Elton John live at Madison Square Garden,
Co-wrote and sang on David Bowie's song "Fame,"
Wrote, sang and played on Ringo's "Goodnight Vienna,"
Hosted a weekly jam session at a rented house in Santa Monica (almost everyone who participated in these jam sessions is now in the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame),
Fought back against attempts by J. Edgar Hoover and Richard Nixon to have him deported,
Reunited with Paul McCartney in the studio for a jam session that also included Stevie Wonder, Bobby Keys, and Jesse Ed Davis (widely bootlegged under the title A Toot and A Snore in '74,
Recorded a radio commercial for Tower Records,
Appeared on the Grammy Awards and made bad jokes with Paul Simon (when Art Garfunkle accepted the award for Olivia Newton John, who won Record of the Year, the first thing Simon said was "I thought I told you to wait in the car"),
And made these two TV commercials (links one and two for Gmail subscribers):
Not bad for a "lost weekend."
PS: Ringo, the aliens want their cheap special effects back.
Did John Lasseter (writer/director of Cars, Toy Story, A Bugs Life, and Executive Producer of Wall-E) listen to much music by Robyn Hitchcock 
(eccentric British singer/songwriter famously obsessed with fish, death, sex, and insects) and the Soft Boys? Is there some kind of DaVinci Code-like clue that will explain the inspiration for everything Lasseter (whose obsession with visual in-jokes is well-documented) has done? 
For more than 15 years, I told people that story... and everyone would chuckle or nod, amused at the idea of a school cool enough to select “White Punks on Dope” as their Prom theme (and perhaps secretly wishing they'd gone to my Prom, too).
While Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix feasted on Australian brains, Peter Gabriel rose up and sang (the entire song, not just a 70-second snippet). And he didn't need any stinking robotic backing zombie dancers, either.
Which means, yup, even fans of the Smiths & Morrissey.
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