Legs

Ever since I discovered that a small amount of the world's population were what are commonly referred to as "musicians," and that they released collections of their respective work called "albums," I've made it a point to try and absorb as much music as I can. I've also been lucky enough to write about the music I discover. I first got the music journalism bug while swiping my father's Rolling Stone magazines. Those Rolling Stone's served as a gateway into harder stuff, including Q, No Depression, and SPIN.
I started reading SPIN magazine in high school. Back then it seemed hipper and edgier than Rolling Stone. One of the writers I gravitated toward was Legs McNeil. I was a latecomer to punk rock at the time, and between his musings about music and his political writing, I quickly became a fan of McNeil's work. It wasn't until later that I discovered that McNeil had indirectly helped coin the term punk as it related to music, and had started a magazine, also called "Punk," while still in his teens. After leaving SPIN McNeil started writing books. Two of his best are "The Other Hollywood," which is the history of the porn industry told by the folks that were there, and "Please Kill Me," which does the same for the punk rock movement.
I started following McNeil on Facebook a couple of years ago. He's actually quite active on the social networking site, posting awesome black and white photos of moments from the New York City punk rock era in the 70's and 80's, always with a single caption of "YES!" Then one day last month McNeil posted that he was looking for venues in Charleston and Savannah to hold readings of "Please Kill Me" with co-author Gillian McCain, I immediately sent a message to my pal Johnny Puke at Tin Roof in West Ashley. As it turns out, Puke was already on the case, and so this coming Monday I will get to meet one of the main reasons I'm doing what I'm doing right now. Even better, Puke got me McNeil's phone number. "Give him a call," said Puke, "He's a nice guy." So I did, and he was.

I started my interview with Legs asking if he'd heard that SPIN, the magazine the where he was a Senior Editor, was going to cease its print edition and go online only. "I heard it went under," said McNeil, who was in Philadelphia at the time. "It should have gone under years ago. I don't think I read an issue of SPIN after I left." These observations end with him laughing.  I ask if the Internet is where he felt the industry was heading. "It seems to be, yeah, but you know Salon.com has become like the New York Times of the Internet. I think the New York Times will always exist, and I think now Salon.com will always exist. It adds more options. With an iPhone you can Google anything at any time. You can forget a guys name - and my memory is getting shot - and we can just Google it. It's really good for us people with early alzheimer's."

On the subject of "Punk," the magazine he helped start with Ged Dunn and John Holstrom in 1975: "I didn't want to start a magazine. I thought it was the dumbest idea in the world. I wanted to be a movie director. I thought I'd get more girls if I was a movie director. But Holmstrom said 'No! No! It'll be great!' John had this vision of merging comic strips with rock and roll. He really saw the magazine for what it was. He wanted to call it 'Teenage News,' which I thought was the dumbest title ever. I finally came up with 'Punk.' I came up with the title because of the song 'Weekend' by The Dictators, and because it was what I'd been called all my life."

On being able to witness, not to mention to be part of, the punk rock scene of the 70's: "John had seen The Ramones already, and he was like, 'yeah, here's another group and they wear black leather jackets,' and I said, 'Cool! Let's go see them!' I didn't even know that there was this whole CBGBs thing going on. So we saw the Ramones, and they were great. As soon as we came up with the idea for Punk things just started falling into place. It was so much fun." (For much, much more on that subject you can read "Please Kill Me." Seriously, please do. It's one of my favorite books about music. You'll dig it even if you don't like punk rock.)

When asked if today's music measured up to the 70's punk scene:"Yeah, there's always good stuff. I was just listening to the Libertines, and my young girlfriend was giving me an education on the punk bands of today. I love Broadcast, this band  from England. That's what's so great about the Internet and all of this digital stuff. You can sample all of these sounds, although once you find what you like you want to get it on vinyl."

On how the readings with McCain got started: "I started in the fall of last year, because I'd been writing since March and I needed a break. I'd been writing ten to twelve hours a day. With 'Please Kill Me' and 'The Other Hollywood' it was about other people, and this new book is about me. It's kind of a memoir. I was nervous, because I wondered if anyone really cared about me and my dead girlfriend."

Expanding on what his new book, "Live Through This," is about: "It's about this affair I had with this girlfriend. She told me that she had been a heroin addict, a heroin dealer, actually. She said she was clean now, and I believed her. Then she shot up black tar heroin infected with necrotizing fasciitis, which is the flesh-eating bacteria. They amputated her leg, and she didn't survive the operation. After she died I was on Xanax and valium for ten years, with an incredible amount of anxiety. I was stuck. The way she died brought up a lot of stuff in me. I hadn't dealt with my own shitty childhood. I had my leg chopped off. I was born with one leg longer than the other. Two inches on the right side. They did what was called a femoral shortening. They cut two inches off my right femur. I never really dealt with it as a child, and now I was having to deal with everything. I went to this treatment center for trauma last year, and my therapist said to me, 'What is therapy but putting your life in a narrative. Sit down and write it, asshole.' I got home from the West Coast in March, and that's when I started writing. It's been very therapeutic. I'm no longer on the meds. It's the hardest thing I've ever done too."

On Monday night McNeil and McCain will be reading from both "Please Kill Me" and "Live Through This" at Tin Roof in West Ashley. The event begins at 7:30pm, and tickets are available at the door for $6.  

Am I Blue

I have two sons, ages three and six. Since the day I found out I would be a father, there are certain scenarios I've played out in my mind. Some are situations every parent probably daydreams about; the first steps, first bicycle ride without training wheels, first touchdown, graduation from high school/college/law school. For me though, I have always imagined what sort of arts my kids will be drawn to. Will my six year old be a classic rock guy or into hip-hop in his teens? Will my three year old be so taken by the cinematic arts that he makes his own low-budget film that wins a film fest award and gets him into NYU film school? Hey, what can I say? I like to dream big. While I've made it a point to try to expose my kids to as many aspects of the arts as possible, I've tried to be careful not to shove things down their throat. I've cherished the little victories, like how it seems to amaze them that I know every song on Sirius/XM's Classic Rewind channel, and sing to them as we ride home from school/daycare. I'm also particularly proud that my six year old seems to be acquiring my taste for silly novelty songs, the kind that Dr. Demento compiles into CD collections. You know, stuff like Spike Jones' "Cocktails for Two," Weird Al Yankovic's "Albuquerque," and Cake's primo cover of that Muppet classic "Mahna-Mahna." Playng those songs in the car on Spotify is guaranteed to elicit giggles from the kids and eyeball rolls from my wife.
Given my older son's penchant for weird music, when I heard that Blue Man Group would be coming to the North Charleston Performing Arts Center as part of the Best of Broadway series, I knew I had to take him to see the show. I had seen BMG about a decade earlier when they performed at the North Charleston Coliseum. It remains one of the coolest and most original productions I've ever seen at the venue. For those not familiar with what BMG is about, there are basically three blue-skinned men dressed all in black on stage, and during the performance they use unconventional means (PVC pipes, LED figures, Cap'n Crunch cereal) to perform an act that is part musical, part comedy, and all weirdness. I'm doing my best to describe the experience, but really, the only way to properly explain the BMG experience is to go see them. They have permanent installations of the show in places like New York City, Boston, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles.
As my wife, my son, and I drove to last Friday's BMG performance at the PAC, I attempted to explain to my son what he was going to be seeing. Honestly, I didn't do much better than the preceding paragraph, and the look on my son's face made it clear that he was on the fence about whether he was going to like the show. Then I remembered that I had taken him to the Best of Broadway production of "Shrek" a couple of months back, which he had loved. "Nigel, you remember when we saw those people performing Shrek on the stage? Well, we're going to see a different show tonight at the same place, an even cooler show." My son's interest seemed piqued, at least more than before. Still, I worried that he might not get the show.
I needn't have worried. From the opening of the show, which featured the Blue Men's silhouette's projected on huge screens as they beat on drums and PVC instruments, my son was mesmerized. A lot of the BMG's show deals with sight gags and pantomime set to music, since none of the performers speak. As the show continued, we laughed and clapped as the Blue Men spat paint onto canvases, caught what seemed like an impossible amount of marshmallows in their mouths, the congealed mass of which one performer then deposited in an audience member's purse, and turned breakfast cereal into a percussion instrument with their mouths. My son particularly liked the way the Blue Men stopped the show to point out a couple of latecomers, complete with alarms, sirens, and spotlights following the tardy folks to their seats. When the Blue Men interacted with a trio of giant "GiPads," sticking their heads behind them to give the illusion their noggins had grown by about five sizes, my son cackled when the third Blue Man's head came up not as his own, but of a giant chicken's.

There was also some audience participation during the show. The Blue Men wandered out into the audience twice to bring unsuspecting folks up on the stage for some unorthodox fun. The first victim was a woman who was invited to share a meal of Hostess Twinkies with the Blue Men. After the use of a vacuum, a jigsaw, two lamps, a candle, a fire extinguisher, and several snack cakes, the sequence ended with the Blue Men apparently regurgitating Twinkies from their chests, which were then shared among the snack time guests. To the woman's credit, she was a remarkably good sport. Later a man was brought up on the stage, shoved into a white jumpsuit, and then spirited away backstage, where a bit of camera trickery made it look as if he was splashed with blue paint, suspended by his feet, and slammed into a large canvas to make a piece of modern art.
My son also loved the show's climax, which involved the Blue Men leading the crowd through a list of patented rock movements ("The one-handed fist pump," "raising the roof"), then directing the audience to shake their booties, while the video screens displayed dozens of euphemisms for one's posterior (My favorite "The place where the burritos go," while my son preferred that old standby, "Heiney"). My son also surprised my wife and I by dancing his little heiney off. As neither my wife nor I are really into dancing, it was a revelation to see him getting down. Then the Blue Men started chucking giant multi-colored balloons and confetti streamers out into the audience, and I thought my son's head was going to explode. I've included a picture of him in mid-boogie, and the expression on his face says it all.

We left the show much like every other audience member; with huge smiles on our faces, and I like to think that I was able to let my son experience a truly unique life experience. I look forward to him getting older and gravitating toward his own artistic tastes. Hopefully we will see eye to eye on some bands, movies, visual art forms, but I will also relish seeing him strike out on his own, discovering what he likes through immersion. Mind you, I'm not wanting him to grow up too fast. It seems like only yesterday that my wife and I were bringing him home from the hospital, and now he's a curious first-grader. Whenever I have a chance to expose him or his little brother to an experience like BMG, I'll drag them to the event if necessary. Be it Spoleto performances, concerts at the PAC or the Coliseum, visual art exhibits at the Gibbes, or a film that redefines cinema, I'll get them to as many experiences as I can. There's a lot to see out there, and I aim to see as much of it as I can during my short stay in this world. Having a family of open-minded companions to experience these art forms with me just makes that experience all the sweeter.  

         

Different Strokes For Different Folks

Just about everyone has that one band that they really like and yet keep secret from their friends and family, fearing ridicule. It might be the tattooed biker with a penchant for Enya, or a seemingly mild-mannered old lady that secretly listens to metal guitar virtuoso Yngwie Malmsteen. I'm actually one of the folks immune to this phenomena. I listen to what I like, no matter how much the band or singer in question might affect my social standing or reputation. One of the bands that would be on my list, if I actually cared to compile one that is, would have to be Hall & Oates. "But wait," you might be saying, "Hall & Oates are a pretty hot act right now." Sure, what with the inclusion of "You Make My Dreams Come True" in the film "500 Days of Summer" and appearances on shows such as "The Voice" and "Dancing with the Stars," it seems life is good for songwriters Daryl Hall and John Oates. The band has always had its detractors, as I'm pretty just about any act in the entertainment does. Many knock them for writing catchy pop songs about girls and love and the like. In my opinion, the folks that do knock great bands like Hall & Oates are the same kind of people who listen to Sufjan Stevens just so they can drop the name "Sufjan" into everyday conversation.

Now before all you hipster doofus types get all bent out of shape, there's nothing wrong with the music of Sufjan Stevens, so long as you actually listen to it before you talk about it.

But I digress...

I prefer to wear my Hall & Oates fan patch with pride. I've been listening to the band since I first heard "Private Eyes"on the radio as a kid, and all through the 80's I enjoyed the long string of hits that were released by the songwriting duo. To me, you can't make a list of the great American songwriters of the last half-century and not include Daryl Hall and John Oates. So when it was announced that they would be playing the North Charleston Performing Arts Center a few months back, I made plans to be there. To be honest, I was a bit worried that the turnout for the show would be like that of another great singer-songwriter who played the venue; Lindsay Buckingham. That show found the PAC only half-full, despite Buckingham's background as a member of Fleetwood Mac. Once I got to the PAC this past Wednesday night though, my fears vanished. The place was packed. Turns out the show was sold out.

When the band hit the stage just after 8pm (no opening band) and launched into "Out of Touch," the crowd exploded with an appreciative cheer, and started singing along with the band. Over the course of the next 90 minutes Hall & Oates did what they've come to be known for; giving the people what they want musically. From deep cuts from early in their careers like "How Does It Feel To Be Back" and "Las Vegas Turnaround," to well known radio hits such as "Maneater" and "You Make My Dreams," The guys basically covered it all. I will admit that I was a bit worried when the band ended its main set after just 9 songs, but the musicians came back out for two encores resulting in 5 more tunes, including Hall & Oates' cover of "Jingle Bell Rock," complete with the 80's era video playing on the screen behind the band. The show was everything I was expecting, and I didn't talk to a single person in the lobby afterward that felt differently. Word on the street is that Hall has either rented or bought a house in downtown Charleston, and will be spending some quality time in the Holy City. Here's hoping he is able to get out and sample some of Charleston's rich music scene. He'll probably like what he hears.

The night after Hall & Oates show at the PAC I found myself next door at the North Charleston Coliseum, attending the concert by Eric Church. To be perfectly honest, I didn't really know a lot about Church going in. I'm not a huge modern country fan, mostly because the majority of what s called country these days is actually pop music with a little twang thrown in. Again, nothing wrong with that sound for the people that dig it, but I just don't happen to be one of them. As it turns out, Church is one of the current rising superstars in the country music world. Once again the crowd seemed to be at capacity, and there was much hootin' and hollerin' going on. As much as I'm not a fan of modern country music, I actually like going to concerts by modern country artists. The fans of these performers are some of the most faithful and enthusiastic fans out there. They buy the CDs, go to the shows, buy the merchandise, and support their favorite artists way more enthusiastically than other music fans. I've also found that a large contingent of them seem to binge drink at shows more than your average rock or R&B fan. More on that in a moment.

I arrived at the Coliseum a little late, and as a result of some pretty heavy security, I missed the opener, Kip Moore. I guess Moore was really the opener for the opener, though. Justin Moore was up next. Another fast rising star in the country world, Moore turned in a satisfying set of songs, and seemed to play well of the energy of the crowd. When it was finally time for the headliner, I honestly had no idea what to expect. My friend Kim had come with me to the show, and being a big Eric Church fan, she advised me it was going to be a good show. He certainly made a big entrance, emerging from a hidden staircase in the floor of the stage while a giant curtain dropped to reveal a multilevel stage decorated with wood and beer kegs.

I have to say that it only took a couple of songs for me to get into the groove. Church is one of those outlaw country artists who has no problem blurring the lines between country and rock. In addition to the music being played by Church and his band, much of which was actually agreeable to this modern country music hater, there were some pretty incredible production values being displayed on the stage. If there was a country fan at the show Thursday night that hadn't ever experienced a concert with pyrotechnics, lasers, backlight, or any of the stuff normally reserved for the likes of KISS, then they experienced it all Thursday night. It was overall a great show that renewed my faith in pop-country music.

During the show I was seated in the upper section of the Coliseum, about two rows down from the ceiling. Toward the end of the show, random fights and scuffles began breaking out in a group of twenty-something guys a couple rows before me. They were all clearly drunk, and eventually the North Chuck Police had to be called in to restore order. Now, I'm all for enjoying a beer or two at a show, but if you're at a show that you've presumably paid a few bucks for, and you choose to spend the evening fighting, puking, or passed out in a seat, then why not just stay home next time. I saw a couple of other women on the same row as the troublemakers who basically had to move to another row or risk getting caught in the middle of a shoving match. That's not what we came to see.    

So Tell Me, Do Ya Feel Lucky? Well Do Ya, Punk?

I listen to my share of punk rock music, but I was never really what you'd call a connoisseur of the genre. I was too young to fully appreciate the rawness of the musical style when it was at its zenith in the '70's, but thanks to a couple of dedicated friends I hung out with in middle and high school, I learned to appreciate the finer works of bands like The Sex Pistols, Dead Milkmen, The Cramps, and The Misfits. While some of my classmates went whole hog in high school, sporting mohawks and leopard-print creepers, I gravitated more toward punk's quieter, more polite, more melodic cousin; new wave. Elvis Costello, ABC, The Cure, Adam and The Ants? Yes please. Still, I kept up on the various punk rock bands that took their shots at stardom. The 90's was a good time to be young and punk, as bands such as Bad Religion, The Offspring, and Green Day cleaned up thanks to the burgeoning grunge movement. Sure, Green Day is not really a punk band, especially with it's recent releases of 3-album sets and conceptual albums, but the general spirit is there.
Charleston has seen it's own share of punk rock culture. Anyone remember the guy who ran Prism Records back in the 80's? I vaguely remember visiting that store, which had the best selection of imports and hard to find records, back in the 80's and what I remember most is that the guy had a big cage of domesticated rats right in the middle of the store, which he'd play with. Then there was Club Dog Alley, which I managed to completely miss due to living in Europe from 1989 to 1991. Folks still tap about that legendary club, which hosted nationally touring punk bands such as Flat Duo Jets, as well as local bands like The Archetypes. Over the years bands such as Steve Hit Mike, The Woodies, Cletus, and Flamin' Anus have graced stages both here in town and around the country.
One of Charleston's longest running punk acts is FLK, short for Funny Looking Kids.

Comprised of bassist Tom Duke, singer Kevin Taylor, guitarist Clint Fore, and drummer Jason McFarland has been doing its thing since forming in 1996 in McFarland's bedroom. Talking with McFarland recently at a house party in Mt. Pleasant, McFarland reminisced about the band's humble beginnings. "Back in 1996 someone bet me I couldn't get a band together that could play the Music Farm before Unjust," said McFarland, who adds that he won that bet. Over the years FLK has played everywhere possible, opening for acts like The Aquabats and Fishbone. Despite being together for nearly twenty years, McFarland says that FLK has pretty much been stiffed by local media. "There are some folks in town that have always supported us," said McFarland. "Folks like Clay Scales, Jimbo Webb, Johnny Puke, and Andrew Higdon, they've always had our back. Only Ballard (Lesemann) is one of the few music journalists in town who has ever shown us any love."
FLK was performing at the house party on Joyce Street, just off Coleman Boulevard in Mt. Pleasant.

It was a double bill with another stalwart in the local punk scene, Hybrid Mutants.

The couple who own the house throw a party once a year, setting out an impressive spread of food and drinks. The bands play in the house's backyard patio, and while the party-goers enjoy the music several men take turns skateboarding inside the yard's empty swimming pool.

There's a loose, casual atmosphere to the whole gathering, something that McFarland says also applies to FLK's music. "We've always played what made us happy," said McFarland. "I don't worry about the audience. I look up to see if the other guys in the band are having a good time."
Folks interested in seeing FLK live and up close will have a chance this Saturday, as the band performs in West Ashley at Tin Roof. Doors are at 8pm, and Hybrid Mutants and Actual Size open. There won't be any swimming pool skaters, but if the vibe is anything close to what it was at that house party, then it's going to be a hell of a show.