FERAL MOTHERFUCKER

    I have not been the member of band, that is, a ‘full partner’ in a musical ensemble, since 1971. (Blue H’wy is a slight exception). I was hired in 1972 to play bass and guitar for a touring show-band (i.e., comedy bits, medleys, uniform costumes). I assembled a few temporary groups to work in the 70s. A group of show biz folks backed an LP, “The Player” in 1977. It was a small bump, but had it’s real effect much later. In ‘78 I began to work as a hired gun in Country groups. I played a dozen instruments and was regarded as a good choice for a ‘temporary’ member or substitute. The work generated enough money to live on.
    In 1983 I decided to ‘go solo’ and return to playing Blues and R&B. John Harrelson and the Falcons gigged for a few years. I recorded another LP (“Now Is the Time”) and tried, once again to reach for the Big Time. It was a good idea, but was buried beneath the sale of KMET and the steroid growth of post-Punk. The Falcons opened for the Fabulous Thunderbirds and signed to open for B.B.King (That show was cancelled over liquor-license problems). The rise of Rap, the polarization of neo-Rock-a-billy, and the marketing of hair-Metal interfered with any possibilities for my band.
    I suffered a heart attack in 1987. That caused a change in my thinking. My mortality challenged me to gather a chunk of money and record a new ‘album. “Elgin Movement” would be a sufficient legacy, if I died. 
    !989 saw the formation of several groups. I wanted to work as many nights a year as I could tolerate. I formed a “Jump” band. The repertoire was derived from Louis Jordan, Gatemouth Brown, and other late-40s artists. The Falcons continued as a trio. I played with a string band that worked about 25 dates a year. Bleu VooDoo was a project of love for New Orleans and Cajun and Zydeco musics.
    It wasn’t until 1994 that I had a stable musical environment. When I joined up with Blue H’wy, I worked 100 night a year for the next four years, We recorded three CDs, sold a thousand of each, and generally gained a place in the SoCal Blues hierarchy.
My first solo piano CD became available. It took 15 years, but I’ve sold nearly a thousand of them (“WhoreHouse Valentines”).
    Since the 2000, my health, my finances, my general world-view, has sucked pretty hard. My death and resurrection in 2006 capped my independence. All of the gigging I have done since then has caused debilitation that sometimes puts me in the hospital.
    Still, I go on. I go on despite many of musical ‘buddies’ do not support my efforts. I make things happen (The 909 Revue, Bleu VooDoo, producing recordings by others). I support the honest work of those who invest themselves in making music, even the pricks who don’t support my efforts.
    I’ve been feral for decades. I don’t enjoy it, but it is the only way I can get things done. Download my music, read my Blog, figure out that I do what somebody needs to do. And the rest of the assholes can fuck off… —JWfH

WHO AM I?

I am nobody. I know some successful folks (however tenuously). I used to see Ben Harper every week for a couple of years. I was present, on many occasions, when David Lindley was in the room. I have tiny direct connections with Taj Mahal. Alejandro Escovedo has talked publicly about my influence on him. I have jammed with Charlie Pride, Lee Michaels, and Taj.

I am nobody. I have opened for forty or more “stars,” from Janis Joplin and Led Zepplin to Louisiana Red and Davey Graham. I have written several thousand songs, recorded hundreds of them and remain anonymous. I have produced LPs and CDs for commercial consumption. Sixteen for sure, probably more.

I am nobody. I saw the Beatles. I saw the Rolling Stones twice. I saw Cream. I saw James Brown. I saw James Cotton. I saw Son Seals, Junior Wells, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Paul Butterfield, B.B.King, Charlie Musselwhite, Thelonious Monk, Kenny Burrell. I spent a whole day hanging with Howlin’ Wolf. I sat with Gatemouth Brown. I played on stage with Sleepy LaBeef and Dave Alexander.

I am nobody. I taught myself to play the bass, the harmonica, the guitar, fiddle, tenor sax, mandolin, pedal and lap steel. I spent 35 years getting pretty damned good on the piano. I was decent on the organ. I learned additive synthesis for the keyboard. I could diddle the flute, make a fairly good presentation of the kayagum. My vibraphone playing was pretty sharp.

Though I am nobody, I pursued, with some success, the styles of Merle Travis, Joe Pass, Robert Johnson. I know the ‘secrets’ of Keith Richards. I copped Albert Ammons and Meade Lux Lewis. Bobby Hutcherson was easy, Lionel Hampton not so much. Curley Chalker and Buddy Emmons were beyond me, but I never quit trying to get it. I touched on Stuff Smith, I studied all of the fiddlers with Bob Wills, Joe, Bob, Keith… I got a lot of that stuff, though not much outside the standard keys.

I am nobody. My meager “Classical” output shows the influence of Bartok, Satie, and Ives. I composed three string quartets, two brass trios, some pieces for the piano, a few for the guitar. Most of these are lost in the mounds of written and printed music that I have amassed over five decades.

I am nobody. My singing has been described as “emitting.” My grating voice is somewhere between Howlin’ Wolf and Bob Seger. My influences are Otis Redding and Hank Williams. I am not pretty, in soul nor visage.

I am nobody. I can hear “around corners.” I recall virtually every piece of music I have ever played.

I am nobody who recalls every kindness, compliment, inch-of-slack, and good thing I garnered as a musician.
I also recall every injury, scar, insult, slur, and the many omissions that I have experienced over my life.

I am nobody whose body fails more with each passing day.
I am nobody who remains angry because I gambled my life on my devotion and skill and have very little to show for my faith in self.

I am the nobody who has no children and is disappointed with each and every one of them.

I am nobody… That confuses me…

—JH  

        REFLECTIONS OF CIRCUMSTANCE

I wrote over 700 Blogs. Six hundred and thirty of them were contiguous. Since November, ‘09, I got sluggish. I got slow because I got tired of my whining and my anger. No matter what the subject might be, I was generally unsatisfied or unhappy with it.
Unlike Elvis, that anger and unhappiness has not left this building.

The atmosphere that is now upon me, the fog upon this L.A., is now the blanket realization is that only a very few people in my world can grasp the circumstance in which I’m mired.

I am a sixty-year-old man who has never released his goals. Since 1965 I’ve composed music… I went on strike in 1978 and returned to writing four months later. I’ve been performing since April, 1965. How many thousands of hours have I logged on stage? For how many thousands of people have I performed? Of how many bands was I a formal member? How many hired me temporarily? How many clubs, bars, theaters, open spaces, and parties have I filled with music? I might be able to recall all of the recording sessions in which I was a participant… but that’s still over a hundred.

With no shame I continue to write, record, and, despite the pain and misery, perform music. Someone is producing a film about me, (this, the fifth) nearing completion. God knows why they think anyone would care about a magnificent loser, but it’s their time and money.  

I know what death is and I have no fear of that dark process. I know what failure is, I am an expert on thwarted dreams. I know what love is as I have had more than any soul is entitled to know.

I just don’t know how to give up.
JWfH 

ANOTHER VIEW OF THE LIST  The Psychology of a Hater

Years ago I was told this anecdote;

    A young man was invited to a flashy party in New York City. While there, he spotted a famous young actress. He truly admired her work, so, he decided to approach her. He stepped to her and began to introduce himself. She made a small gesture and he stopped speaking. She looked him in the eye and said;
    “Honey, my list of friends is full. If someone dies, I’ll let you know.”

    Whatever you think of this, the point is that you can’t love everyone. Being intimate with everyone is like being intimate with no one. 

    This is why Little Feat with Lowell George is on my list and Styx is not. Larry Williams is on my list but P. Diddy is not. James Booker is on my list, Elton John is not. I want Wilco, My Morning Jacket, and the Drive-by Truckers on my list, but I am not convinced that they can earn a spot. I didn’t even hesitate to add Radiohead to my list, that was instant.
    I so wanted to add the Black Crows to my list, but they have only a few, half-finished songs. The White Stripes betrayed a certain insincerity, so I never supported them. The Black Keys have several things going for them, so they are on probation.

    I dropped Johnny Winter because, after the period where he aided Muddy Waters, he began to act like a Johnny Winter tribute act.  I could not tolerate the Grateful Dead without Pigpen, Out they go. The Gin Blossoms without their Doug Hopkins? You’re kidding, right? Eric Burdon, a great vocalist and interpreter of song… After that episode with Jimmy Witherspoon (in 1973)… the embarrassment was too great to tolerate. They both fell away. [Though ‘Spoon’s “Five Letter Word” LP redeemed him].

    The idea of the Traveling Wilburys is great. Unfortunately, anything touched by Jeff Lynn has a ‘suck quotient’ that, well, to quote somebody…”…don’t come around here no more…”

    I should add that Ron Carter’s foray into cello playing (1960) was terrible. Ornette Coleman’s trumpet attempt was abysmal (1961). However, as sad a junkie as Mal Waldron was, I still hold dear his piano playing, no matter the lack of focus.

    James Talley rates very high with me, though I have never spoken with anyone who knows his work. I have a problem with Steve Earl… that lucky son-of-a-bitch has had more re-do time than Lindsey Lohan. I can’t forget that… It bugs me.

    Wayne Shorter will always be high on my list. Wynton Marsalis is not likely to ever rate very high. Has anyone ever covered a Marsalis composition? I mean, besides his friends. Herbie Nichols was not that exciting as a pianist, but he has several compositions that should be covered… by somebody.

    I’ve never been a big fan of David Bowie, but he has several tunes that are fantastic. Lou Reed sucks, but I like, very much, some of the stuff he has made. Dylan rates very high with me, but not because he is any kind of genius. He has simply written some superlative songs.

    There is no time in my life for “young talent.” I call it the “Craig Hundley Syndrome.” Someone touts an eight-year-old or a thirteen-year-old as some pale Mozart and I must endure enthusiastic ravings about a youthful harmonica player or wizardly guitarist who, as time passes, will be forgotten because he could not live completely, his father’s dreams. Mozart was a genius, and did live-out his father’s dreams.

    I tell you, Ray Bryant plays the piano the way I like to hear it. James Cotton used to lead a smoking band that could rival many of the best. Paul Butterfield remains the finest of White Blues guys. The Ohio Players and the Neville Brothers cover most of the good features of Funk. Dave Edmonds is the generic center of the Rock galaxy… not John Fogarty. Eva Cassidy is the most honest female vocalist. The recordings are not equal to the talent, but I can have her in my head at all times.

    People who think Jerry Hahn is a Jazz guitarist, Harvey Mandel is a Blues guitarist, or David Bromberg is any kind of guitarist are woefully inadequate as judges of music. Jimmy Bryant, Hank Garland, Sam McGhee, Blind Blake, Peter Green, Martin Taylor [despite a shortage of representative recordings], Tal Farlowe, Brian Setzer, and five hundred others are guitarists.

    I have no interest in Buddy Rich. I like Elvin Jones. I have no fondness for the Knack. I did like what Badfinger did, except for the suicides. I’ve always thought that Joe Cocker and Clifton Chenier should have paid royalties to Ray Charles. I wish nothing good for John cougar Mellancamp. Tom T.Hall remains under-rated. The Dirty Strangers weren’t up to the opportunity. I guess that’s true for the Red Devils, too.

    Old Californio has promise, the Black Tongued Bells have possibilities, Solid Ray Wood should locate a producer.

    That’s it… for the moment. —JWfH

BLACK HISTORY MONTH —A minimal investment

I owe most of my practical music knowledge to African American musicians. I had hoped one day to acknowledge this in a material way. Well, that can’t happen now, but I can suggest that you invest 99 cents and download ONE piece of music by an African American musician that might add to your consciousness. My suggestions ignore the obvious, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Kanye West, even Muddy Waters. I hope you will be curious enough to consider Black musicians who have never penetrated White culture or commercial arenas.

1) John the Revelator- Blind Willie McTell
2) Statesborough Blues- Blind Willie McTell
3) Let’s Straighten it Out- Latimore
4) A Nickel and a Nail- O.V.Wright
5) Take Me to the River- Syl Johnson
6) Pouring Water on a Drowning Man- James Carr
7) Floating Bridge- Mance Lipscomb
8) San-Ho-Zay- Freddie King
9) Good Lovin’- The Olympics
10)  Fortune Teller- Benny Spellman
11)  Southern Nights- Allan Toussaint
12)  The Black Minute Waltz- James Booker
13)  Tipitina- Professor Longhair
14)  Ludella- Jimmy Rogers
15)  I’m a Hog for You- Coasters

The Meters, Ray Sharpe, Larry Williams, John Cephas, Abby Lincoln, Irma Thomas, Barbara Lynn (Ozen), Etta James, Jimmy Reed, Lightnin’ Slim, George Smith, PeeWee Crayton, Jimmy Nolen, The Crows, The Robins, Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson, Paul ‘Hucklebuck’ Williams, Hal ‘Cornbread’ Singer, Oscar Willis, DeFord Baily, Stoney Edwards, Charlie Pride, Shaky Jake, Marshall Hooks, Sonny Stitt, Carl Perkins (piano), Sonny Clarke, Robert Ward and the Ohio Untouchables, Howard Tate, Johnny Johnson, Bobby ‘Blue’ Bland, The Left Reverend Eugene McDaniels, Amedee Ardoin, Cornell Dupree, Robert Nighthawk, and an endless list that shouldn’t be missed by anyone who is interested in music.
—JWfH

I’M IN NEW ORLEANS…

…and, if I had my way, I’d stay in New Orleans until I died. 

But that ain’t gonna happen. The last time I had my way with successfully completing a goal was in 2000.
It’s no big deal that struggling is a way of life for me. Musicians, when they are fully committed to the ‘art’ or the ‘aims’ or the personal expression-of-self through music, have to struggle. If one is the son or daughter of a famous musician, of course, the struggle is as much with the legacy as it is with the business. If one is managed or handled by a Wizard, the struggle comes in the form of believing one’s own publicity.
It is, still, a struggle.

I’m going to New Orleans where musicians have always struggled together. A place where, no matter the flaws and disagreements that might flare, the musicians seem to have a great track record of supporting each other. Huey Smith and the Clowns, their first record? Sung by Bobby Marchand. Marchand made a portion of his living as a female-impersonator. Was he a member of the Clowns? Not really. Is it common knowledge? Nope.

When Big Chief George, of the Wild Tchoupatoulas, needed a viable touring band, how did they work that out…? The pay would not permit a real tour. Well, the Neville Brothers posed as the Wild Tchoupatoulas and supported the Chief on their own tour. They backed Earl King (“Come on, Baby let the good times roll..”) and managed to tour successfully as a package.

I could go on… Ray Charles wrote horn charts for Guitar Slim… Little Richard was backed by what was to become Fats Domino’s band… The Archibald/Longhair/Booker/Toussaint-axis.  It’s true that, to this day, Irma Thomas refuses to sing “Time Is On My Side” because she feels that the Rolling Stones stole her song… [Not caring that this was done a hundred times over, even a thousand times]. The Stones did the same with Barbara Lynn Ozen’s “Oh, Baby, We Got a Good Thing Going” and that, in fact, has kept her in touch with a public that never heard her name in the first place.

So, I’m going to New Orleans and I’ll see and hear Kermit Ruffin on Thursday. The Meters are having a ‘reunion’ gig at Tipitina’s on Friday. I hope to make that for certain. Maybe Ellis Marsalis still has his trio gig…. Man, he is old now.

Wolfman Washington, Wayne Toups, even Stanley Dural… There’s gonna be some music played… like every night… by musicians who team-up to get something done.

I’m hoping to meet a female or two of the Dionysian persuasion. God bless the Apollonian girls that I know, but I need some serious attentions. —JWfH

Since 1962 I’ve written stories. I’ve finished three novels, a novella, and dozens of short works. A couple of decades back I was told a true story. Soon after, I fictionalized the tale… a little. Someone might well recognize themselves here. Cheers, bro. —JH

__________________________ 

FORAY

They used to go out and get fucked up all the time. There was six of them. They would all pile into one car or another, depending on who had one and what car was running. Usually the driving was left to Danny or Shorts. Those two had good judgment on the road. They both could handle the cops, the shadows that cast themselves over the fun. Like hawks, the cops were always ready to set-off the looming-detector.  But the six of them didn’t scatter like pigeons. That’s one of the reasons that the cops hassled them. These weren’t punks, these guys were Punks.
Down in HB there was a pool place, fifteen tables and a bunch of arcade games. These dudes would go there and amuse themselves for hours. It didn’t matter what night of the week. It didn’t matter how late. The six would claim a table and spend hours cutting each other, accusing, abusing, laughing and generally partaking in the joys of fellowship. Milo was by-far-and-away the best shooter among them. When his quarter was up, the table was his until he made an error, a bad leave, an easy shot squirreled off because he shot on his back, or with his eyes closed.
One night, down there, some badass vatos were pissed off at the boys’ clowning. Their big guy challenged Milo for the table. Milo wiped his ass all over the felt. The vatos, then, wanted to take it outside. The six of them against eight hard-ass vatos.  The score came up about even, two broken noses for them, a broken nose and a broken hand for the home team. People had guns back then, but they were used only for dead-ass serious matters; you fucked over my sister, you stole my dope, you ratted me out.
They drove back to the IE and went to local hospital. It was safer to park your ride on home turf, just in case.
The very next weekend, there was a party at some chick’s parent’s house. There would be a keg. And Andy would be there. That meant that there would be skag. Only half of the six were into that shit, but all appreciated the flow of fun. Where the heroin is, that’s where Demerol, morphine, and mountains of weed could be copped.  And a live fucking band, les enfants morte.  They kicked ass.
Milo and David both liked to jam and they knew these guys pretty well.
It was a hot fucking night. But, well, it was that same old story. Somebody makes a move on somebody else’s girl, there’s a fight. Somebody sets the parent’s bed on fire. There’s general fucking chaos. The cops come. Then more cops come. It’s a bust. Dan rounds up the guys, they, well Milo is occupied fucking some girl from Hollywood, the five of them jump the back fence and circle around in the alley. They’re in the car and ready to roll out. Then Milo runs out through the little side gate, no shirt, Doc Martens in his hand, leather jacket half off, and jumps head first into the Chevy. Another narrow escape and they’re all laughing and jumping up and down. 

Milo has a zipper tattooed on his shaved skull. He got it done by a guy who was the best in Folsom or Atascadero or some shit. It’s cool. I hope that he never joins the Marines or Navy. He can’t hide that shit. 
Eric is one I haven’t told you much about. He is the philosopher of the crew. He has a Mohawk that he keeps down like Joe Strummer or Annabelle whatz-the-fuck. When he flies that  fucker, though, he’s a scary looking dude. He is open to try anything and will. If someone suggests that there’s no way to climb a fucking telephone pole, Eric is there, figuring it out. Then he’ll climb up, just to show you that he figured it out. And he can out-skate any motherfucker, well maybe not Salba, but anybody in this part of the world. He thinks about shit. Probably too much, he says. Why is territory so important to a sixteen year old? How many hairs on Chinese Crested? Why did Tony James turn out to be so wank? That’s the kind of crap he will think about.

One thing about these dudes, they all have killer moms. Milo’s mom is the petite little powerhouse. She’s so cool, though. She tolerates Milo’s crap, the drunken middle-of-the-night bomb outs, the chicks calling at all hours, strangers coming over to the house.  Shorts’ mom is an old school Hispanic woman. She wants her boy to behave, and all, go to church, not to cuss, y’know. But she really doesn’t care about him too much. She is very into her daughters. They have to stay at home, come directly home after school, no dating. So it works good for Shorts. So long as he stays out of jail.
Danny and David, they’re cousins. Danny’s mom and David’s dad are brother-and-sister. Danny’s mom practically raised David, too. I mean, David’s mom is pretty cool, but she spends most of her time doing shit like Chamber of Commerce and socializing with the mayor and politics and stuff. So Danny and David are connected that way.
Eric’s mom is an Indian, Cherokee or Iroquois or some shit. She’s kinda spooky, she has fetishes and sacred stuff and weird Indian rituals and stuff. She laughs a lot, too. She thinks that white people are goofy, that they don’t have their thinking straight. And she thinks that white people are dirty. I mean just that, white people don’t hook up with water enough. She says that water is like connected to the soul. White people don’t get it. So their souls aren’t as clean as people who get it.
The guy I haven’t mentioned much is Terry. Terry doesn’t really fit in with the guys in a regular way. He’s part of the team, he’s with them all the way, fighting, drinking, fucking around, but if there’s someone missing, it’s always Terry. His mom is a bad alcoholic. He’ll stay around and help her, keep an eye on her, if he feels he should. He misses some shit, but he’s part of the team. He is pierced up the wazoo but his mom hasn’t even noticed, I bet.

Last night they were out cruising. David wanted to talk to this chick and he said that she had a couple of friends over. The crew piled into the Chevrolet and headed for east Ontario or Cuca, or where ever she lived. Shorts pulled into a gas station and Danny needed to piss, so everybody gets out.  Some Marines are over at the other pump island. One of them calls over to Milo, “Hey, freak face, come over here and suck my dick.” Milo strides right the fuck over to him and, without missing a step, punches him, or one of them, in the face. Shorts is over the hood before the three leathernecks are all over Milo. David peels one of them off and is thrashing his head against the rail over the air hose. If Terry was there the guy’s nose would’ve been broken by now. Eric is chopping at the throat of the mouth-y one. To be fair, those Marines were young and really drunk. Still, a little reminder to the tourists; you may be a badass in Kansas, motherfucker, but not in my hometown. The guy inside, a middle-eastern dude, he comes out screaming that he’s called the cops, that he has a gun inside. His brother or cousin is echoing every word, I call-led da coppps (yeah de cops), you get da hell out, punks (yeah, punks). So into the Chevy and down the road, don’t pay for the gas, don’t look back.
Twenty minutes later, they’re up in Cucamonga, trying to find the chick’s crib. They drive down one street, it’s a dead-end. They spin around and find another curvy road; it winds up headed in the wrong direction. “I know that the street’s around here,” says David. “Yeah, and I know that you’re dick knows something, ‘cause that’s what’s doing your thinking.” Milo, the skeptic.
After another twenty minutes of searching, divining, poking around, the consensus is that this whole little exploit is a bust.
“Let’s just get some beer and go watch the jets land down at the airport.”
Down one of the wider streets of Cuca and into a liquor store. David asks the guy at the counter where such’n’such a street is and he says that he’s never heard of it. The boys laugh. Remind David that the exercise is over. “We’re going south, motherfucker.”

David is sure that he could laid if the group would cooperate. “No way, Davy Jones, you couldn’t get laid if had a twenty-inch pecker and a platinum credit card.”
The runway ran east. The Chevy had to be guided that direction, then south, over the freeway and onto a little access road that was a remnant of the pre-airport days. This is where, in the early 60’s kids would come to drag race. The asphalt was still marred by old paint that marked a quarter-mile strip. There was even a rectangle in mid-road where the starter could stand. The Chevy disregarded these cartouche markings and traveled to the intersection where there was a stop sign and required a near one-eighty to get to the runway’s end.
The chain link fence on the right was a sentry to discourage idiots from walking onto the runway. It was there to protect the strobes, each atop a small tower, that aided the pilots in their final approach. These were strong-ass beams that probably provided intermittent light for Martians, on the right nights.
Danny pulled off the asphalt, easing over the dust and gravel, around the tumbleweeds, the bushes, trying to tiptoe past the broken bottles, and over far enough that the car wouldn’t be seen from the road. Off course, the radio was blasting, who couldn’t hear that? As they piled out, a 727 was slowly placing its belly to the earth. They could hear the chirp of the tires, then the reverse thrusters full down; it was an entirely smooth action.
“What about hitting HB next Friday? There’s a couple of cool shows, both that night.” Eric, keeping the pulse.
“Yeah, right on it, man.” Shorts.
“”right on it, man’? You been hanging out with some Negro hippy, Shorts?”
“Why you gotta give me shit, Milo?”
“Yeah, Milo, why you gotta do that thing?” Mocking. “’Cause if I don’t, you’ll get to thinking that talking like an old hippie is okay. It ain’t okay. Okay?”
“Give me another beer, Shorts.”
He throws it to Eric. “Nice night,” says Eric, looking at another jet rocketing toward us. “Look at that shit. The pollution trail against the moon. All five of them are focused on this scene that Eric has framed.
David, beer in one had, cigarette in the other says, “I gotta piss.”
No one reacts. He walks a few feet away. “Fucking David, piss a little farther away from our picnic, squirrel nuts.” Cousin Daniel puts up with this shit.
Cigarette in mouth, beer in one hand, penis in the other, David moves around the bush. He is looking skyward.
“How much do you think a jet costs to fuel up?” Milo is really asking a question.
Eric comes back, “If you can time the fueling with a squabble with some Marines, nothing.”
The two bust out laughing.
As David shakes his prick, he looks down to see that he has pissed on a shoe. He wrinkles his brow. The shoe is pointing skyward, like the strobes. He looks further, deeper into the bush. There is a leg, well, khaki pants with a leg inside.
“Hey, guys…” The four turn to his tone.
Hey, there’s a dead guy here.”
Milo rockets to the spot. Shorts is reluctant to approach. Danny wonders what the fuck his cousin has done now. Eric strolls behind.
There, plopped down in the mesquite tangle, is a youngish man, Hispanic, maybe. His eyes are open, his mouth is agape, his shirt is torn, and he has an extra hole in his face. It looks like a burn that has had a hard time healing.
“Mi Dios,” says Shorts and he turns away.
“Fucking A,” says Milo.
“Shit,” says Danny.
They look on in amazement and curiosity. Corpses are not a dime-a-dozen.
“He was just laying here. I didn’t see him until I finished pissing.”
“As if you need an alibi, clown.” Eric is processing this.
Danny says, “I guess we should call the cops.”
“Fuck that,” says Milo. He turns and strides over the Chevy. “Hey, Danny, open the fucking trunk.”
“We’re not loading him into the fucking car, Milo, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Fuck you. Open the goddamned trunk.”
Eric steps up by his face. He squats down. The bullet hole is small, and probably delivered up close. He flicks his lighter and illuminates the face. The open eyes are creepy, but, unblinking as they are, there is the null, not-a-human-anymore ambience. Whatever the fuck brought him to his end, his worries are over.
“Scoot over man.” Milo has a camera. It’s cheap, but it’s here.
“Lay down next to him, Eric.”
“I don’t think so, Milo.”
“Shit. Then take a picture of me.” He hands the camera to Eric. He pushes the leaves and branches and shit back and settles down adjacent to the body. Eric clicks one.
“Hand me another beer. Give me two.” He looks at the deceased. “I think my new friend here is thirsty.”
“You’re sick, Milo.” Shorts calls from ten yards.
“That’s right, motherfucker. And I’ll have pictures to prove it.”  He looks at Eric. “Wait a second, dude.” Milo places his arm under the neck of the man. He turns to his face and raises a beer bottle.
Eric suggests the toast, “a votre sante, motherfucker.” He clicks another off and says, “The camera loves you. Make love to the camera.”
David is mute.
Danny says, once again, “Shouldn’t we call the cops? Isn’t this really illegal? Don’t you think that something is wrong with this?”
Then David speaks up, “There’s a car coming this way. I think it’s the cops.”
Everybody scrambles, except Milo. “I’m cool right here with my buddy.” No one is listening.
They are all Green Beret-still as the little Honda sputters by.
“The cops. Fuck you, David.”
“I thought it was.”
“Hey, Eric, finish the roll,” calls out Milo.
Another jet comes in and in the wash of decibels and turbulence and the radio blasting, and the air being filled with confused thoughts, the guys make a psychic agreement that the fun here is over.
Five minutes later, Danny has them headed north and west.
“Where can we go to get the film developed?” Milo is eager.
“Fuck dude, you can’t just take that shit to Thrifty. They’ll call the cops.” Danny exhibits some critical thinking skill.
“We’ll find some place.” Confident Eric.
The drive is quiet. A San Bernardino sheriff eyes them at a stoplight. He makes a mental note to stop them if he sees them around here later. As they pass through the next town, another cop does the same. 
It’s almost 2:30 when they park in the drive at Eric’s place.
“So, what’s up for tomorrow?” A bid for forward thinking from David.
“Why don’t we go to Pasadena tomorrow? We can check out that new club on Fair Oaks and look for skanks to party with?” David has a limited imagination.
“I need to score some shit. And I wouldn’t mind getting some new pussy. Yeah, let’s do that.” Milo has voted.

JWH

OH, CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN

I am awestruck. I am off-balance. Don van Vliet dies and more than a dozen of my FB friends post remarks.
I am not so curmudgeonly, so proprietary, so elusive as to think that Captain Beefheart was a secret from everybody. I know he has served to inspire a chunk of Zappa-philes. I know that there is a smattering of Howlin’ Wolf lovers who realize the more-than-circumstantial connection between the two sandpaper+ground glass vocal-izers. A few Blues fanatics have submitted to the domination of vernacular perversion that Beefheart served up in dissonant leather-masked polytonal clusters and made-to-break-your-anticipation rhythms.
    But, really, I had no idea that there were so many others who would express a degree of passion about the demise of one of my earliest heroes.  
    My first encounter with the chef d’pense of the Magic Band was the ripping snarl of “Diddy Wah Diddy” striking like an amphetamine crazed rattlesnake, unfurling from my radio. That sound of the unison riff of the guitar and the bass (That snarling, bear claw of a bass) clutched my gonads and gave a twist. One afternoon, I saw them mime this track on Ninth Street West or Lloyd Thaxton’s Show and I was seeing another Caucasian Bluesman…
    When “Safe As Milk” debuted I went directly to the Record Galaxy and plopped down my three dollahs Americahn and, stashing the bumper sticker away for its later proper placement, proceeded to listen, over-and-over to those mystical mysteries,  “Electricity,” “Grown So Ugly,” and, “Sho’ ‘nuff and Yes I Do.” 
    One needs to appreciate that the LPs that were frequently spinning on my turntable at that time (September, ‘67) were the two Paul Butterfield releases (“Pigboy Crabshaw” was weeks away). The Animals “Winds of Change” was new new, but “Animalism,” “Animalization,” and the third LP (w/”We Gotta Get Outta This Place”) were constants. Mayall’s “Crusade” was brand new… with that kid Mick Taylor. Sonny Boy Williamson was there everyday. Howlin’ Wolf was already ingrained. That “Sheldon” “Best if Muddy Waters” was getting worn out.
    And the Captain re-inserts himself.

    One afternoon I was in some record company offices on West Sunset. I traveled to Hollywood often, trying to get the elusive ‘record deal.’ I can’t recall if it was Kama Sutra Records, or maybe Original Sound, but an older man who was also in the waiting room, overheard me raving about “Safe As Milk.” He came across the room, introduced himself and said, “Beefheart has cut a straight Blues album. Chicago Blues, the real deal.” My heart soared.
    When “Strictly Personal” was released, I was anticipating a thrill… but, nope. This was not the promised release. In fact, the promised release was not real. “Mirror Man,” van Vliet told me, to my face (in 1973) was that LP. Hmmmph.
    In February, 1968 I saw Beefheart do two sets at the Whiskey. The first set was Blues… Hardcore, nasty, Blues. In the second set he did some old stuff (“Electricity”) and some ‘new stuff. During the second set he could not keep his lips away from the seven foot Tibetan temple horn that he used to punctuate each song.
“Trout Mask Replica” was a psyche-melting clarification. Captain Beefheart hears music from another dimension. Captain Beefheart makes music for the truly inquiring mind. 

    But when “Lick My Decals, Baby” was thrust upon the market place I had Beefheart for breakfast every morning for a month.

    “Rather than I want to hold your hand, I want to lick you,
    Everywhere it’s pink, everywhere you think,
    Whole kit-kaboodle and the kitchen sink,
    Whole kit-kaboodle and the kitchen sink…”


    The creation and release of “Clear Spot” was an amusing moment of hope. He might actually break through to a tiny segment of the mainstream. John Cale might, Ry Cooder might, Captain Beefheart might…

    I saw him a second time. The venue was at USC. When the opening act was finished (I will recall their name) and the Magic Band revved up, blue hair and gowns and black-ties flew to the exits. About 55% of the crowd stayed and witnessed the arrival of “the Mystery Guest” (Ry Cooder). Stayed and reveled in the assault.
    The next year I lived in Belgium. I saw few shows that required payment while I lived there… but when Beefheart played the Theatre 44, I was there for a third dose of magic. The opening act was the strangely progressive Henri Vauche (Henry Cow/Fred Frith). The concert was, again, an assault but was a fantastic experience. No Cooder, but a fireworks of guitar that had Zoot Horn Rollo driving his bass in unimaginable ways.

    My “successful musician makes record he always wanted to hear” record became impossible the next year when Howlin’ Wolf died. And, then of course, there is the fact that I was never successful…

    I got CD copies of “Safe As Milk” and “Lick My Decals Off, Baby” because my 6,000 LPs went into storage in 1995. “Big-eyed beans from Venus, don’t anything get in between us…” —JWfH

SRV: ELEGY, HISTORY, CONTEXT

Stevie Ray Vaughan is dead. He has been dead for twenty years. However, he remains with us and among us. This fact is a certification of his significance and his influence. But he would say himself that he was another in a long line of men and women dedicated to ‘playing the Blues.’ He, like thousands of other White folks, had found a perfect genre of music through which he expressed himself. This form of American Music was created and molded in the Black community of the south. It emerged, still flexible and pliable, in the early 20th century and continued to expand as a means of musical expression, flourishing in the late 1930s and booming world-wide in the 1960s.
If you are intimately familiar with this genre of music and its subtle cousins you already know that SRV based his guitar playing in the same tradition that Johnny Winter first explored in the mid-Sixties (the “Vulcan Gas Co.” LP). You also know that T-Bone Walker and Freddie King were essential building blocks that he employed. When he was “discovered,” he was incorporating the languid bends and ‘stinger’ bites associated with Albert King. This is the style that he played with David Bowie (Exemplified by “Let’s Dance”).
Because he was championed by John Hammond Sr., he was assured of exposure. Hammond had discovered a plethora of significant America artists, tracing back to 1933. Included are; Benny Goodman, Lionel Hampton, Count Basie, Billie Holiday, Charlie Christian, Bob Dylan, and Bruce Springsteen.
He began immediately to openly express his admiration for Jimi Hendrix. Of course, Robin Trower had made his reputation as a torch-bearer for the Hendrix approach, but SRV had actually internalized Jimi’s thinking without confining himself to a slavish re-creationist’s boundaries.
I am frequently asked “What did Stevie Ray Vaughan do that hadn’t been done before?”
Well, SRV did not invent a single new lick. Every note-combination he played had been played before. Some by Tampa Red, as early as 1932. Some by Chuck Berry, and by Kenny Burrell appear in his vocabulary simultaneously. He did not invent or introduce a ‘new’ chord. Hendrix had made the broad debut of the 7th#9 chord (Often referred to as “The Hendrix chord”). Jimi did not invent the chord, but used it as it had [almost] never been used before. (See “Sookie, Sookie” by Don Covay).
What SRV did was solve ‘the trio problem’ in a new way. A trio of Bass/Drums/Guitar is problematic in any context. Elvis’s backing trio was rarely aided by his acoustic rhythm guitar. Guitarist Scotty Moore solved the problem, the vacuum created by this absence, by finger-picking some phrases and using this finger-picking as a device for soloing.
When Hendrix and Cream emerged, both Clapton and Jimi ignored the limitations imposed on them by live performance, choosing in the studio, to over-dub as many as four guitars. Live they would restrict their playing by often incorporating two guitar parts into one.
Blue Cheer overcame the issue with sheer volume and fat, rubbery guitar tone. Taj Mahal’s group, like many West-side Chicago trio’s, embraced the silence or absence of a second chordal instrument in many songs of that era.
SRV however, ‘cut the Gordian knot’ by incorporating Chuck Berry’s double-stops, blending these with fat, multiple string Albert King licks and a quick shifting between single note riffs and rhythmic chord patterns.
Of great significance is the contrast between his rhythm section and that of Cream. Listen to the guitar solo on “Pride and Joy” and then immediately listen to Clapton’s famous solo on “Crossroads.”
For SRV, the rhythm section becomes more robust. The bassist’s quarter notes are deliberate and full. The drummer shifts to a loud ride cymbal, but retains allegiance to the groove. With Cream, the bass becomes hyper-active, busy in the extreme. Baker, the drummer, seeks to fill every nook and cranny with a sound. The intensity is large, but the groove recedes in importance.
If you seek to gain understanding of SRV’s feat, I urge you listen to Buddy Guy (w/Junior Wells) on “Somebody HooDoo-ed the Hoodoo Man” and the first Taj Mahal LP where Jessie Ed Davis uses his Telecaster to fantastic effect. Most of the aforementioned Chicago Blues guitarists employed a 2nd guitarist on their recordings, so only the rare Magic Sam or Otis Rush track is truly representative of their live presentation.
Stevie Ray Vaughan did a lot as Blues guitarist. He belongs in the lineage of T-Bone Walker, Freddie King, Bugs Henderson, Billy Gibbons, and Johnny Winter.
And, yes, I too, miss him. —JWfH

I’ve been fortunate to fall in love often. I still long for the sweet lips of Chrissie Hyndes. I dream of a young Ella Mae Morse. I’m certain that Veronica Lake I need to have an affair somewhere in time. I fell in love with a dead girl. The elegy…

Subject: Letter to Eva Cassidy

Dear Eva,

I read some more about you in the LATimes yesterday. It seems that someone has ‘discovered’ some more of those low-budget recordings you’d  made. Man, all those guys were really cool (and insightful) to make sure that you got recorded. It still is a shame and a sin though, how it worked out for you.

I can’t help but think that there was something going on when you just up-and-died. I mean, the voice you have, and the skill, that incredible skill to take a song into your heart, your being, and let it out like you do. That Sting tune, the “barley” one… now that was a good song, but a bit overblown for Sting… a little too sincere for what the man is…. but you let go on that thing and I am with you. I believe that you are who you claim to be… That is what music can do.

You, girl, are the exemplar of the power of music… and yet… you died…. Right at the fucking edge of recognition…. That cancer thing just nailed you and I have to live without you…A few recordings and a growing myth…That’s all you are to the world…

Of course, that’s not so bad from where I look at it… I’ll be lucky if I leave any real imprint on the sands of time… I hope to… and I’m getting old and still I’m trying… But I wanted you to know that there are a lot of us who think of you; you did leave a meager but powerful impression…. damn, I wish that you hadn’t died…. damn…

Love,
John 

—JWfH