Nico: Chelsea Hotel from a Chelsea Hotel room

She's the classic image of the fräulein as femme fatale: tall, blonde, diamond-cut features, eyes that burn like dry ice, and the sultry parched voice of a luftwaffe interrogator in silk lingerie. Maybe I'm projecting a little bit, but that's what I hear.



Nico was the name I wanted to give my daughter (eventually it was demoted to middle name status). For the eponymous original the name was awarded like all great destinies, casually and without much deeper significance. According to legend, she was bestowed the name by a photographer in the early days of her modeling career, being the name of his lover at the time. Presumably, her given name of Christa Päffgen wasn't sufficiently intriguing. Now, of course, it's hard to imagine another word more befitting of her. Nico's uniqueness may come in some part from her limitation: She was deaf in one ear. Her voice does seem to circle the pitch at times but her flatness, if that's what it is, only adds to the mystique. It makes her tone sound more metallic and wintry. And aloof. She can sing a Jackson Browne song, drain it of all it's twee sunny So Cal Singer-songwriterliness, and transform it into a yellow-eyed night in the black forest. If Jim Morrison's The End was a taste of the dark night of the soul, her's paints it black without even trying. Her's is the sociopath's take. At the end of the hall Morrison gave us his his Oedipal fantasy; Nico – the character her voice embodies, that is – would not only do it, she'd go to work in the morning with her coffee and scone and not upset her stomach about it.

Her singing was as much about her as an iconic symbol as it was about the sound of her voice. In this sense she was like a classic Hollywood actor, a Betty Davis, Greta Garbo, or James Cagney. They couldn't pretend they were someone else, even in the role of someone else.

In her summit of the 60s and 70s, she took celebrity lovers, influenced films, and had songs written for her. Later, she would ravage her life and body in a long interlude with heroin (permanently scarring her model good looks and pretty white teeth). Eventually, she'd get through it. In her later years she undertook a healthier lifestyle and diet. While on a holiday in Ibiza with her reunited son, she experienced a minor heart attack while riding a bicycle that caused her to fall and strike her head. Left unconscious, she was discovered by a taxi driver and taken to a local hospital. Complications with admittance and a misdiagnosis later and she was dead of severe brain hemorrhage. She was 50.

Imagine Souixsee without her. Death may've thwarted her legacy as a American Idol judge but the musical one continues.

Bowie on Extras

Proto-rock and Roll, Etc.

The Treniers may be the Adam gene of all rock and roll bands as they're considered to be the first self-contained rock and roll group ever. Their's was a version of proto-rock heavily influenced by the swing era that gave birth to them and other musical mutations of their age, namely Rhythm and Blues. The hybrid version they played, with its heavy backbeat, walking bass lines, caterwauling yelps, and jumper cables to the nipples surges of manic energy would later be known as Jump Blues. (For a modern equivalent, think the Brian Setzer Orchestra.) The Treniers began in earnest in the post-war 40s and reached their peak in the mid-50s. It was during this period that they amassed a thick portfolio of songs with the words rock and/or roll in the title ("Rockin' Is Our Business," "Rocking on Sunday Night," "It Rocks! It Rolls! It Swings!"). If they don't own the word outright you could at least say they had first squatter's rights.





Led by Mobile AL born twin brothers and Claude and Cliff Trenier, with more Trenier brothers joining in and the Gene Gilbeaux Orchestra behind them, their sound is slightly hipper and less loungey than contemporary Louis Prima's. And like much of the rock and roll that would soon follow, dancing and singing weighed equally on the performance scales. The song featured here, Ragg Mopp — later pinched famously by Art Carney on the Honeymooners (imagine Ralph's slow-burn reaction) — has since disappeared from our collective golden-age-of-novelty consciousness comes from the group's heyday of the early 50s. The Treniers would persevere through the rock and roll era, and in some form or another to the lounges of the present, but the shadow had fallen. Like to many of their back-beat challenged brethern of the pre-Elvis era, rock and roll would be the death knell. Sad, because as you can see here, the influence of their musical/performance DNA is still very much apparent today.






Presenting above, Al Simms and Leon James, otherwise known as Al and Leon. (Forgive the video's low quality, the contents make up for it.) Two more proto-stylists whose dance and presentation style would feature large in the culture to come. If their DNA is not in the actual substance of modern pop, their hereditary stamp is certainly represented in their attitude. There's an exhuberant and impudent kind of free-style going on here, even within the confines of a form like the Charleston. But for them, the Charleston is just something to leave their footprints on as they ascend a ladder spiraling into the wild cultural future.

In this they stand beside The Treniers.


For a little more perspective: Below, dancer Bill Bailey (brother of Pearl Bailey) from a performance in 1955. Bill is credited with being the inventor of the Moonwalk, first documented in a performce from a film in 1943. What is pop culture but a pirate's enterprise?

Killing Joke: Asteroid (live)

I've a theory as to why musical tastes tend to change with age. That is, why as we scale up in age do our music choices tend to mellow down? The reason, as I've unscientifically concluded, is that as noise in our lives increases — career, marriage, mortgage, kids, etc. — the less we want it in our diversions. I think this goes a long way in explaining the popularity of banalities such as Twilight and Barry Manilow. But mellowing down doesn't have to be all vanilla. Even though I'm now on the ripe side of middle age myself I can't imagine how senile I'd have to be to enjoy, say, Rod Stewart's diddling over of The Great American Songbook. Or to book passage on the next Air Supply cruise. Take the "a" and "t" from adult and you're left with dull (then add another "l"), but it doesn't have to be that way.



E.g.: Killing Joke, a relic from my post-adolescent musical formation of '78 - '81 (after that they continued without me). For those who don't know, Killing Joke is considered one of the fathers of Industrial and is an admitted influence on many bands that followed (Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Ministry, Jane's Addiction), including metal (Metallica, Tool). Interestingly, Asteroid was originally recorded during a more recent reforming when remaining original members ages were deep into pattern baldness and middle age spread. Grease-painted vocalist Jaz Coleman — already wearing a precursor of his retiree's jumpsuit — became an ordained minister in 2003. (KJ songs are larded up with scriptural references.) His ordainment followed periods of dabbling in Alister Crowley and the occult. In the early 80s he convinced other band members to join him in Iceland to wait out the impending apocalypse. (That's all right, Jesus missed that call too.)
If this latter day sound is also Industrial then it's of the most wizened and vintage variety. Asteroid is repetitive and coarse, transgressive is the word reviewers used, like a buzz saw ripping through 24 gauge steel. Yet, somehow all that bash comes out remarkably hypnotic as well — kinetically so, if that's possible. (That phrase may be as oxymoronic as "High-impact Yoga" but you get the idea.) What works for my ears is the intensity of the sound; I don't believe there's another sound in the universe that quite conveys what only an overdriven guitar and a vocal with that kind of force thickened rasp can. Our emotional soundtracks aren't all violins and twee singer-songwriters huddled over acoustic guitars. Killing Joke's sound is a great symbol of the working life: Coarse, repetitive, droning, and yet with a kind of stuttering rhythmic balance. Maybe it's the fact that it's a sound pounded out by guys with AARP cards (like me) that speaks so well to me. (Although, judging from audience's young faces, the sound isn't limited to an age group.)

And maybe it's the touch of humanity within. Hear the plaint in Colemen's shout; He may be singing about the world's demise but he's not quite ready yet (as none of us are ever likely to be). I'd guess he's no more ready now then he was when he ducked into the Land of Trolls.

In conclusion: The sound may travel in a clenched fist but it arrives with an open hand.

The Worst Album Cover of All Time

I overstate: Actually, the above is considered only one of the worst covers of all time. An honorarium bestowed by both The Guardian (the British national daily) and Pitchfork Media (according to Wiki). The cover is from the album Noah's Ark (2005) by the sister duo CocoRosie.

The art was created by sister Bianca Casady (the "Coco" part of the duo). As best I can tell the image appears to depict a train of three copulating unicorns, each situated in a different level of the hierarchy: A top, a sandwich, and a bottom. The sandwich appears to exude a rainbow out of its horn which could be a symbol of radiating pleasure, a migraine, or inspired contempt for the exchange (the gray/black elements near the brow could indicate a mix of feelings). The bottom has been described as "vomiting." As unicorns are often accused of farting rainbows maybe they can blow rainbow chunks as well. Or, it may be salivating vigorously. Vomiting is consistent with a coercion scenario; salivating, on the other hand, could either be arousal or "roofies". The top seems to have dropped its pants. The dark clouds overhead support the coercion theory which also makes the use of unicorns rather unpleasant and ironic. In addition, there's an unsavory element of specieism and bigotry as the bottom appears to be the only zebra of the three.

For more contenders for worst album cover, see here.

Tokyo Jihen: OSCA

Perhaps not so well known in the occidental world, Tokyo Jihen (translated: Tokyo Incidents) originally formed as a backing unit for successful singer Shiina Ringo (Ringo Shena as listed in the video). It must've become apparent immediately to all involved that this was to be way more than a band of celebrity waterboys.

There has been trouble with getting this video in the U.S. before so this may not be up for long. Enjoy while you can:

Tokyo Jihen - OSCA from Roberto Kerveros on Vimeo.

Unfortunately, for some reason this brilliant video has been suddenly banned from Western eyes. I couldn't find it anywhere. So, instead a live version along with another song, Kabuki—OSCA is the second song:


Tokyo incidents - KABUKI,OSCA[JCB] by uooron

Thus, the member's roles expanded into song writing and production as well. (Bass player Seiji Kameda [Sage Kameda] was already a prolific producer and arranger in his own right.) And it paid off: Despite Ringo's prodigious talents and a 20+ year career as a solo artist (her solo work veers a little close toward MOR for my taste), it's her work with the band that stands out most. Note the stellar musicianship at every corner: They've the skills to be as pretty, dirty, smooth, dissonant, or with any combination thereof as the situation requires. And Ringo herself is no punk: A capable instrumentalist with a voice that's as versatile, colorful, and as searing as it wants to be. When they're on the spot, as they are here, this band can rock as hard as anybody out there.

(There's a version of the video without the dancers, but there's an insolence to the dancing I find irresistible. Maybe it's their indifference to synchronization. Or, how the dancer who begins it all with a fat slug from a flask.)

We definitely need more of this in the West.

They're The Stooges and Not for Nothing

The term stooge implies comedy at one's own expense. The stooge is the butt of the joke. In comedic hierarchy he is the underling, the lackey. In this video capsule from 1970, the Stooge otherwise known as Iggy Pop shows himself to be the most brilliant of clowns. (Feral clown, might be the better description.) On this night he entered the stage a Stooge, but left as something else entirely.





Hallelujah! for whatever dysfunctional circumstances that came together to bring us a creature such as Iggy. Whatever else he's done in his career, for this performance alone we should all construct altars of thanksgiving in our homes. The sound, like the man himself, is raw and crude. (Primal is a descriptive often used here, primate may be a better one.) But you don't need to care one whit for the band's sound to appreciate the un-boundaried performance here. Nearly common enough to be considered banal now, it's easy to forget that once Stage diving was tactic used only by fourth wall breaking avant-gardists. Iggy may be the first to bring it out of the extreme margins and into the (small) arena. When Iggy dives here, it's more the act of a gladiator entering the death cage for his bout with the audience. The audience's response is nothing less than amazing as well (and unrepeatable, I'm sure). Watch as they lift him to stand on their hands like the laurel-crowned victor, given the rabble's blessing to go forth and slay the king. (Note that someone in the crowd offers Iggy a large jar of peanut butter (!) like a bouquet of victory flowers, to this he responds appropriately by spreading it on himself. In a stroke he becomes both hero and feast.) Like no one else Iggy breaks the boundary of the stage. This is what is meant by a Dionysian Frenzy. The actor thrown into the maw of the crowd to do with what they will: Their peanut butter-flavored fetish object. All of these antics could've easily gone completely out of control and it's Iggy's risk averse-ness that makes it so sexy; a fact of civilization that probably hasn't changed since Dionysian times. This is the stuff that Jim Morrison only dreamed about: While Morrison (whom Iggy admits as an influence) may've unzipped his pants (and was nevertheless arrested), Iggy would actually pull his out. Though many of his reported stage antics have the yellowy glow of legend (vomiting on stage, exposing himself, rolling on broken glass, striking himself with a hammer), there is enough extant photographic evidence to substantiate enough of the claims to confirm that he is indeed the genuine article.

As a recording unit, The Stooges found little success either commercially or critically. As is often the case with history-in-the-making moments, the critics were as mystified as the multitudes; it certainly wasn't for the want of a good producer (John Cale, David Bowie, and Funhouse's Don Galucci, the producer of The Louie Louie fer cryin' out loud!). As for their reputation, as this early television performance shows, the legend required no assistance from multitude or critic. As for this particular night in Cincinnati, you could say Iggy is either the model of extremely aggressive self-infatuation or the most lowly self-sabotage case study imaginable.

Whichever, I think it's an act of genius.