Sgt. Pepper Trivia

Robert Stigwood has a lot to answer for.

Let's start with disco. RSO Records did more to inflict stupid records (built upon a foundation of insipid beats and mountains of cocaine) on the public than anyone in recent memory.

How about Saturday Night Fever? Not just the movie (best known to me as the movie where John Travolta, when asked about the future, responds "fuck the future" and his boss says "you don't fuck the future, the future fucks you!") but the soundtrack album.

And then there's this. (Click on poster for a larger view.)

It's hard to know where to start with this, the most horrendous of all bad rock movies, starring Peter Frampton and the Bee Gees (along with the about-to-break-up Aerosmith, Alice Cooper before he became a golf fanatic, Steve Martin, Earth Wind & Fire, George Burns, and Billy Preston -- who played with the Beatles and really should know better). I'd love to know exactly how high you'd need to be to think this movie was a good idea, let alone how high you'd need to be to predict that it would be the "Gone With the Wind of the 1970s."

A few facts about this movie to collect and trade:

The final scene of the movie (filmed on the old MGM lot), features a dizzying array of late-70s stars including Peter Allen, Mark Lindsey and Keith Allison (from Paul Revere & the Raiders), Keith Carradine, Bette Midler's backup singers the Harlettes, Leif Garrett, the lead singer from Black Oak Arkansas, Rick Derringer, Donovan, Yvonne Elliman, Ann and Nancy Wilson from Heart, Bruce Johnston from the Beach Boys, Nils Lofgren (now of the E Street Band), Nona Hendryx, Peter Noone (from Herman's Hermits), John Mayall, Alan O'Day (of "Undercover Angel" fame), DJ Cousin Brucie, Robert Palmer, Wilson Pickett, Bonnie Raitt, Helen Reddy, Chita Rivera, Minnie Riperton, Johnny Rivers, Sha Na Na (who also played Woodstock -- insert your own "from the sublime to the ridiculous" joke here), Del Shannon, Connie Stevens, John Stewart (the Kingston Trio and "Gold" guy, not the Daily Show guy), Seals & Crofts, Tina Turner, Franki Valli, Wolfman Jack, Gary Wright (of "Dreamweaver" fame), and many others.

George Harrison and Paul and Linda McCartney visited the set that day and planned to appear in the scene, but wisely thought better of the idea.

The movie was a critical and commercial disaster and wiped out all the disco profits RSO had amassed over the past several years. (Insert your own "pride goeth before the fall" and/or hubris joke here.)

Oddly enough, the movie was a smash in one country. Although rock 'n' roll music had been outlawed in communist Poland for decades, the ruling party allowed the movie to play in Poland in 1979. It became an unexpected hit, with more than a million Poles paying to see it. (This may or may not have anything to do with the late-70s popularity of Polish jokes.)

And, most importantly, my friend Sarah and her brother Alec -- diehard Beatle fans both -- picketed the theater in Washington, DC where the movie opened. Given how popular the Bee Gees were at the time, this was an act of true courage.


One more thing: Think I'm exaggerating about how bad the movie was? Take a look at this.

Corn Flakes with John Lennon

Speaking of John Lennon...

Robert Hilburn, the longtime rock critic for the LA Times (a once-great newspaper struggling to stay alive) is opinionated, passionate, and often annoying.

But at the end of the day, he loved music and wanted everyone to hear the music he was passionate about. And if he could hang out with interesting musicians, too, then so much the better.

Hilburn has a new book coming out called Corn Flakes with John Lennon (And Other Tales from a Rock 'n' Roll Life).

Here are three excerpts from the book:

In My Life

John Lennon Re-Imagining Himself, Then Gone

Bono and Jack White Wonder: Just How Immortal is Rock Music?

Imagine (in Iceland)

Sometimes the simplest, most playful ideas are the best.

Today is John Lennon's birthday. If he'd lived, he would be 69 years old.

That's almost impossible to imagine. And out of all the celebrities who've died in my lifetime, I took his death the hardest. (I never met him, I didn't even like all his music, but there was something about his spirit that I connected with at a very deep and fundamental level.)

In the same way, I connect with Iceland in a very deep and fundamental level. There's something amazing and spiritual about Iceland and it's reflected in their lifestyle, their music, and in their amazingly beautiful scenery.

Every year, Iceland holds a huge music festival in October called Iceland Airwaves. Every year I vow to get there, but I haven't made it yet.

Three years ago, Yoko Ono started construction on the Imagine Peace Tower, on a small island just off the coast of Reykjavik, Iceland. Since this project combined John Lennon and Iceland, I followed its progress closely.

The "tower" consists of a wishing well, on which is written the phrase "Imagine Peace" in 24 languages. Under the base of the wishing well are more than a half-million written wishes that Ono collected from people all around the world.

Two years ago, the tower was unveiled. Each year on John Lennon's birthday, the monument becomes a "tower of light" as 15 searchlights are bounced through mirrors and prisms to create a beam of light that stretches more than 12,000 feet into the sky. The tower of light is kept lit each year until December 8 (the day John Lennon was killed).

If you can't make it to Iceland, you can see live streaming video of the tower here.

Read more about the project here.

IMAGINE PEACE TOWER from Yoko Ono on Vimeo.

And once again this year, I vow to make it over to Iceland Airwaves... and to see this magnificent tower of light stretch up to the sky.

2 a.m. Zevonesque

Let Me Break it On Down

So it's 2 a.m. and I'm sitting in the hallway of a hospital, staring up at the ceiling tiles and contemplating making a run for it.

And meanwhile, I can't get this very NSFW Warren Zevon song out of my head. (Embedding's disabled, so click on the link; I'll wait.)

Which reminds me of going to dinner at Bob & Karen's place about seven or eight years ago. For some reason, we started talking about that song and about Warren Zevon in general. And then Karen casually says "he lives in our building." This is followed by anecdotes about people sending Warren cookies and casual encounters they had with him in the hallways.

And I'm thinking: Warren Zevon lives here? In this big, semi-anonymous building with the small pool and labyrinth-like hallways? How could that possibly be true? But when we left, I looked at the buzzer by the front gate. And there it was: Zevon.

But what do you do with this information? Do you ring his buzzer randomly and tell him how much you loved The Envoy? Do you mention how one of your friends still talks about the time he staggered drunkenly into her at a nightclub in the 1980s? Or do you bring him gourmet pastries from the bakery across the street and tell him how you thought about the song "Lawyers, Guns, and Money" every night when you went out with that waitress in 1983 (and looking back, maybe she was with the Russians, too)? And is there a way to do that without seeming like a dork or infringing on someone's well-deserved privacy?

And then you know what happened. Zevon got sick -- and the idea of randomly ringing his buzzer (which had always seemed iffy) just seemed wrong. But every time I was over at Bob & Karen's, I'd touch Zevon's name at the gate, hoping to send back some of the energy his music had given me over the years.

Now the building's had a face-lift. The outside's been painted and the pool's been spruced up. The front gate and buzzer system's been redone. And, of course, Zevon's name is gone.

Which brings me to last Friday.

I suddenly notice that I have what I'll call the OMS (Odd Medical Symptom). I Google the OMS and read all about various serious ailments, but none of them match my symptom (which, again, is very odd and came on very suddenly).

So I go on with the rest of my life until Saturday, when I push through and finally finish something I've been trying to get done for a long time. My sense of accomplishment goes away quickly when I notice the OMS again and wonder what it could be. I examine myself carefully, poking and prodding myself, and go back online, where I find what I'll call the PSI (Potentially Serious Illness).

Sure enough, the OMS is a major symptom of the PSI, but people with the PSI also reportedly have pain. And then I start feeling some pain, maybe because I've been poking and prodding myself for hours -- or maybe because I've been reading WebMD after dark.

And I think about how Warren Zevon avoided doctors for decades until he went to see one after years of pain (and was diagnosed with a terminal illness). Plus, WebMD says that people who have PSI need to be operated on within 6 hours. It also mentions gangrene and other side effects that scare me half to death.

My medical group has a doctor on call and I get through to her around 11:45 pm. I mention that I might have PSI and her first question is "How do you know about that?" I admit I Googled it and emphasize that I don't really have much pain, but I do have OMS. The Doctor says I should definitely go to the Emergency Room instead of waiting for the next morning.

So Mrs. Clicks and Pops and I go off to the E.R., where we hit the quiet time between late-evening accidents and middle-of-the-night, post-bar-closing catastrophes. Ten minutes after walking in the door, I'm examined and poked and prodded some more. I'm told that my OMS isn't that odd in the general population (even if it came on very suddenly for me and is very odd compared to my entire previous life). I'm sent upstairs where a very nice Slavic woman pokes and prods me again (this time with ultrasound), then wheels my bed out into the hall so I can stare at the ceiling tiles and think about Warren Zevon until I'm brought back to the E.R.

By this time, I'm feeling silly about the entire evening (and vow never to read WebMD after dark again). The final verdict: yes, I have OMS, but not PSI. Instead, I have a very common, somewhat annoying, innocuous and non-life threatening condition that requires no medical attention or treatment.

And I wonder if Warren Zevon isn't somewhere laughing at me, thinking "you should've brought the pastries over and rung the buzzer when you had the chance." (Link for Gmail subscribers.)

OK, It's Alright with Me

Shiny, Happy Monday Thoughts

Here are three things I love for the beginning of the week, all from blogs you should visit.

Steven at Stevenology 2.0 posted recently about singer/songwriter Eric Hutchinson, who clearly has a great pop sensibility and ready access to Adobe's After Effects program. Eric is currently touring with American Idol Kelly Clarkson -- and hopefully winning over tons of her fans. His music is simple and likable and too damn catchy to ignore.



Jim Bartlett over at The Hits Just Keep on Coming points out that it was 40 years ago today that Monty Python's Flying Circus first aired on the BBC. While the Pythons might not be together anymore, this fact is bound to leave them pining for the fjords.

And, on the subject of pining, Echoes in the Wind looks at the idea that couples need a song. For my take on the topic, click here.

Bonus: Ms. Mix & Bitch over at Mix Tape Therapy (sadly not covered under proposed healthcare reform legislation) runs down 2009's Top Ten celebutard baby names. (And the celebs who apparently don't care that naming a kid Spec Wildhorse will result in years and years of therapy...)

Look Back to Look Sharp

Is she really going out with the sax player?

Joe Jackson exploded into rock music in 1978, seemingly fully formed. His pop sensibilities were first rate, his musicianship was amazing, and his anger and punk sensibilities had no rival (Elvis Costello and Graham Parker notwithstanding).

And if there's a better out-of-the-gate one-two punch than Look Sharp! and I'm the Man, bring it on.

But Jackson was classically trained and was already growing tired of two-and-a-half-minute masterpieces. He thought he could channel Gershwin and the Ramones and no one would complain.

He was wrong. And when his third album Beat Crazy included ska and reggae rhythms, the public just wanted to know where the new "Is She Really Going Out with Him" was coming from.

So he broke up his band, assembled a group of jazz players and released Jumpin' Jive, a collection of swing-era blues songs originally recorded by Louis Jordan, Glenn Miller Cab Calloway, and others. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)


Some called this career suicide, but Jackson really seemed to let loose and have fun, playing some of the music he'd loved growing up.

In the nearly 30 years since then, his career has gone up and down. He moved to New York, then later to Berlin, recorded with Suzanne Vega, Ben Folds, and many others. He had a huge hit single from an album where he channeled Cole Porter and recorded the first album recorded live to a two-track master tape (preventing tinkering and later overdubs). His later albums included symphonic works, a concept album about Hell, and a sequel to the Cole Porteresque album. He reformed the original Joe Jackson Band for a reunion tour (despite having declared years earlier that life was too short to ever play with those guys again); they made a live album and great album of new material that would have been a hit in a universe where musical justice prevails. His last album Rain jettisoned the guitar player for a not-quite-rock, not-quite-jazz piano-bass-drums sound that delivers the goods while proudly defying attempts at musical categorization. And even if Jackson doesn't tour with a full horn section, he still occasionally pulls out a chestnut or two from the Jumpin' Jive era.

What does this all mean as the days get colder and the nights get longer?

Maybe the lesson of Joe Jackson is that it's always possible to change and start something new. And that doesn't mean that you can't later go back to something older. It's a lesson of hope... and God knows we need a few more lessons of hope these days. To quote one of those great Jumpin' Jive songs: "We the cats shall hep ya (so reap this righteous riff)."

Laser-Etched History Never Repeats

I remember the scar.

I wake up in the middle of the night. Burning with memory of texture, the feel, the way the years softened the color.

It takes a few minutes to realize I'm here and now, not there and then. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)


In the darkness, I remember.

It was just below her knee. She never explained it, never told me the childhood injury that caused it. It was just there. And whenever I'd touch it or kiss it, she'd pull back. So willing in other ways, so shy about the scar.

And if the scar was protected, the cause of the scar was walled-in, completely off-limits. And therefore endlessly fascinating.

She'd been to New Zealand. At a time when people just didn't go to New Zealand. And she loved Split Enz, whom she'd seen in New Zealand.

And she loved her copy of True Colors, the album that had images etched onto the vinyl with lasers. As a result, when light hit the spinning record, laser images of different shapes danced around the room. So we'd listen to the album at night, watch the shapes on the walls, and talk about everything.

Except the scar.

Years later, the CD still sounds good. The perfect pop songs are there. But there's no laser-etched shapes to dance around the room.

And she's gone, too. Took the scar and her secrets and went far away.

But late at night, when the moon reflects off something shiny, I watch colored shapes dance around the room. And I remember the record, remember her.

And, most of all, I remember the scar.