Wait 'till the fire turns green

I've been meaning to post this interview with former Pere Ubu synthesizer/sax wizard Allen Ravenstine at Perfect Sound Forever for ages but wasn't able to get around to it. Now I have. And there's appropriate musical accompaniment, of course. 

I'm sure you know what this is about.

A link with various teasers from the Lennon interview can be found here, but you'll probably have to get a copy of the print version in order to be able to read the entire thing. 

My feeble brain actually grasped the concept that Reckless Records might have a web sight by now. It used to be one of my favorite CD stores (before certain economic realities dropped a piano on my head a few years ago) and it's still worth your while.

Hey, it's a meme. Deal with it.

Okay, so maybe this (or perhaps this) is old, but it's about time Cheap Truth got hawked by somebody in fandom again.

(Ah, screw it. Go find some SF magazine links of your own if you're feeling up to it.)

What was it in the local California water supply that gave Frank and The Captain these strange powers over musical notes, anyway...?

Could've been the same stuff that gave Masamune Shirow his powers over artwork.

Or the stuff that made Chrome one of the most appealing avant-rock bands in the bay area back in the 70's or 80's outside of the Residents?

It hasn't been a particularly good time to be a favorite pop icon of mine. A few years ago, Hunter S.  Thompson unceremoniously blew his brains out and one of my favorite writers  -  regardless of his mediocre later output - was silenced forever.  Recently, Freddie Hubbard - a white-hot blowtorch of a trumpeter on tons of releases by the Jazz Messengers and VSOP, among others  -  passed away. And even worse, Ron Asheton - the incredible noise-making abuser of Fender Stratocasters who made The Stooges and Funhouse two of my all-time favorite LPs to aggravate my hearing to when I was growing up - died shortly after a recent heart attack.

Sometimes it just doesn't pay to have idols. 

Granted, I'm sure some dope out there is going to complain vociferously about how I would choose to lionize three different countercultural figures and not some lame choice of their own, especially since at least two of them (and HST would probably count as 1.5 all by himself) were hardcore drug abusers at one time or another. They would've said the same thing about Richard Pryor (another favorite of mine) as well, so screw 'em. People as mentally deranged as Pat Robertson, the Ayatollah Khomeini and Joseph Kony  -  the murderous freak who runs the Lords' Resistance Army in Uganda - have led far "cleaner" lives of supposed religious piety, and at least two of them have been directly responsible for murdering a slew of  innocent people. Give me the supposed degenerates any day of the week the likes of them.   

Many moons ago - actually, it was Reactor here in Chicago in October 2005 - I went out at bought a bottle of Austin Nichols' Wild Turkey 101 Proof to celebrate the life and passing of HST, and - unsurprisingly  - that bottle of Kentucky Bourbon made me and the friends I shared it with wince because of the a-yii-yii level kick.  It wasn't the first time I've ridden the Turkey,  but the fact that it stung like hell this time around was almost proof that Dr. Gonzo himself was having one serious practical joke on us for daring to drink his favorite and not have proper reverence for his memory. If my theory's correct, my ears will bleed the next time I hear Freddie's trumpet on "Green Dolphin Street" on Eric Dolphy's Outward Bound or the three fuzzed-out, snarling chords Ron plays at the beginning of "I Wanna Be Your Dog". Maybe I deserve it.

So Rest in Peace, all of you. And here's hoping that Khomeini's shade is being driven completely insane by having to hear "TV Eye" by the Stooges blasted over and over again somewhere in Hades*.

(*Actually, the thought of Khomeini ending up anywhere else beside 72 Virgins Land  - much less one dreamed up by Hellenic pagans, no less  - would nearly be enough of a rude shock to the miserable SOB. Nearly, but not quite.)