Gen-F ( Las Vegas concert review never sent) 2000 – Albert

I was elated when Nirvana killed hair bands. If Nirvana hadn’t have done that I would probably be wearing make up right now. Nirvana and Pearl Jam bid us to rock from the heart. I had been unconscious, figuring that if there was a meaning to the term “unskinny bop” then they would surely tell us.
Somewhere down deep I knew that my generation had it in them to produce something soulful. I secretly believed that there were causes that should be stood up for, societal things that needed our attention that our leaders Tommy Lee and that guy from Twisted Sister weren’t telling us about.
After Nirvana, boys soon forgot about feminizing themselves to fool women into giving them sex. The grunge movement began. Guys wore old, plaid lumberjack shirts and blue jeans so that women would know they were all man, yet sensitive and caring. I’m not sure how that worked, but it did. I was very glad it did because that was all I could afford to wear anyway. The bullshit sexual dynamics of the day were then totally re-arranged so that men and women had to re-learn how to screw each other over according to completely different rules.
Generation X itself was eventually tossed to the wayside, however, as all generations must eventually be, to make room for the next batch of hep, raw potential. We figured out our alienation problems and now all we do is go to our jobs and wonder why we’re not billionaires. We’d even accept being millionaires.
Welcome Generation Y. I don’t know a single person who would proclaim themselves a member of generation Y. That is because I’ve never met a young person who knows what the Y stands for. It is obviously a false tag most likely created by an advertising firm somewhere. It’s not even original. It’s like a tire company having as their slogan “got tires?”
The first generation to get a tag was “The Lost Generation” of the 1920s. This was coined by a very famous lesbian writer named Gertrude Stein who told us truthfully that a rose is a rose is a rose. I personally think that statement was only worth about five minutes of fame, but it got her fifteen.
She was referring to writers like Ernest Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald and the poet Ezra Pound who were living in Paris at the time. I think it is because of her that it is expected that a generation needs to be lost, the more lost the better. It seems to give a sense of solace if you can think that you are not the only loser within your age group.
The Baby Boomers were an exception to this rule in that they were named by din of sheer numbers. They were falsely accused of being the Pepsi Generation for awhile, but looking up out of their purple haze realized that it had just been a joke. While they dreamed of eggmen and walruses the competitor of Coke was working overtime to capitalize on this generation’s newfound consciousness, installing subliminal commands of future haircuts into their brains: teach the world to sing/globalization…you get the idea.
The Lost Generation arose because of a group of eclectic artists. The Baby Boomers came from a lot of people having a lot of sex all at the same time. Generation X came from a group of kids rebelling against other kids whose only sense of purpose in life had been to get laid and compare hair spray.
Rap music started getting the little pink knees of America bopping in the eighties, but we were still just a bunch of Bon Jovi’s li’l cowboys at heart. It wasn’t until the early nineties that popular music was able to convince white children that it was actually good to listen to rap. We started selling our breakfast cereals to it. You didn’t even have to be irate and carry a gun. It was that much fun to play at being angry. Heretofore the sound of extremely irate black males, irate white boys had joined in on the fun. Pretty soon we had the Beastie Boys using their screechy, Brooklyn voices rapping to us to party on, yet it sort of sounded like rock. It was anger-light.
But it wasn’t until the early to mid 90s, really, that gangsta-rap grabbed the white boys by the balls and squeezed hard. There was one great convulsive movement in America and it twisted every single baseball cap around. Our teen boys thumped their way through the streets garnering dirty looks by one and all, pink fellows aching for pigmentation or something which could make this music their own, for it was obvious that blonde hair and daddy-bought BMW does not a gangsta make.
Somehow “death metal” came to the rescue. I’m not sure how, but it did. This is the insane white boy contribution to today’s music scene, the driving, pulsing, frenzy, kill your neighbor, show your tits aspect of the bands that helped burn down Woodstock. Some of the bands, most notably, are Korn and Limp Bizkit.
Death metal has been around since I can remember. It had always just been the bastard child with an extra limb of rock and roll. It is the music that Satan uses to sing his spawn to sleep with down in Hell. This isn’t your grandfather’s heavy metal.
Now, in the year 2000, rap has totally infiltrated rock through this broken board in rock’s back yard fence. Many of these new artists turned out a few weeks ago at the Silver Bowl for X-107s Our Big Concert 3.5: Static-X, Cypress Hill, System of a Down, even the girlband Kittie.
It is the only music powerful enough to tickle the cool meter of the “wassup” kids with blonde hair. Through the energy flowing at the Silver Bowl, emitted by the testosterone-pulsing, danger-promising boys and No Fear, tit-proud grrrls, the human conundrum is exposed: Master Violence and Lord Sex feeding one off of the other in the realm of mankind’s shady other side or Let’s fight a lot with other males then find a mate, a bush, then fuck.
Here is a hungry animal tired of being told to behave, a prowling beast that wants to destroy, wants to devour, to conquer or be conquered. This concert exposed its nature; a new tribalism, modern rompings to life’s oldest libidinal impulses. If stored away too long this beast can stew and fester inside, bringing with it such things as quiet deviancy, unfulfillment, even the possibility of murder.
Without a controlled confrontation with mortality, sexuality, the killer instinct, our own fear of injury and its connection with our souls -all which this music provides- then we often fail to understand why we strive through the more mundane yet necessary daily tasks of living. We become too safe. We don’t dare to eat a peach. We go inside of ourselves, surround ourselves with houses of comfort that reek of silent pain. Sometimes we need to artificially induce fear to provoke the animal out of its hole.
It was somewhere during the middle of the show that I realized I wouldn’t use Generation Y anymore. I noticed how on the radio and television everybody is using the F-Word these days. Commercials are saying it, bleeping it, but acting like they never said it. It’s boring already and now that it is getting commercialized, just plain ugly. But one thing is for sure, it is the first time that the media has allowed it to go this far. It must be something within the age itself. So, I said, okay, if that is the case, then let’s give the kiddies what they want.
Welcome, my friends, to the Fucked Generation. F-Gen. It’s a little more original than Generation Y because at least it has some meaning. The word incites, it forces issues, disputes adult arguments that kids don’t understand. With it there is no need to feign intelligence. Any F-Gener knows that everything in the adult world is “so gay” anyway. It’s what’s in the gut that matters.
But in a more real sense, it does seem to demand a listening to from those too caught up in the madness of our society. It rages at our loveless system with the tenacity of a poodle, yet with just as much fear. It balks at and rebukes bus stops at 112 degrees, status wars practiced by everybody, and the panic in the slow discovery that our world can be a monster.
It claims existence as guiltlessly as a lion devours it’s prey.
Plus, you’ve got to admit, it’s even more loser-like than “lost or even “X.”
Gertrude Stein would be proud.

Published in: on February 27, 2010 at 8:24 pm  Leave a Comment  

Shifting Worlds

TR: You are a part of it!
D: No I’m not!
TR: You are a part of it!
D: No I’m not. I’m just trying to get this thing…done…
TR: You are a clown, a lost one. You are a clown gargantuan.
D: It don’t matter what you think.
TR: You are a clown gargantuan.
D: It doesn’t matter what you think.
TR: You are a part of it. Wanting to place placards where wreaths should lie.
D: Indeed, no, not me.
TR: Indeed, you, not me
D: Indeed, not you and not me
TR: Indeed not me and not…
D: Where you going?
TR: You’re a clown gargantuan!
D: Great. Great! Great!!! Watch for your own shifting worlds as you walk away. You might get whisked away in the vortex.

Half- truths spoken. Half -truths denied.

On a democrat trying to solve a problem with a tea party republican.

Published in: on February 14, 2010 at 7:36 pm  Leave a Comment  

Jewish American Princess – Moxy

I don’t say much anymore. What’s to say? This world is a merry-go-round and you better not fall off. I met Jed back, oh, back a long time. I admit I’ve been something of a mother hen to him for the last ten years. He couldn’t get off the shit. The rock and roll wasn’t what it was. Hell no. It was the drug. If I knew that Jed had been taking heroin when I met him I would have slipped away. I would have so Moxy Priestessed him he wouldn’t have known what it was that happened to him. But he had a car and I’d taken a clunker down to Nashville, thinking there was something big in music going on there, but was really looking for Hollywood. I was always a showgirl, not a city girl and I wanted to prove that there was nothing wrong with that. I could kick up my heels better than most of those girls on the ballet stage, but I didn’t want to. I’d listened to Elvis when I was girl because that’s who my father liked and he was a composer for the Broadway stage. It’s funny how things happen.

Now I’ve got my husband back from the drug, but I picked up a family along the way. Sometimes I don’t know what to make of the fact that I live on a mountain near Millsville in Tennessee. Realistically it’s ideal for a person. I’ve got a nice home in the country, my husband is near his family. I’ve got a beautiful little girl. But I’m bored. Simply put, I’m bored and I don’t want to drag Jed back to the city. He’s not ready. He may never be ready and I love Jed. I’ve loved him from that first day we met in McDonalds, I think. It’s just been a strange transition, that’s all.

To think that I’m trading in my city girl status by staying here is hard, it’s like losing perspective on who I am and sometimes I take it to mean that I want to go to temple again. I deny this to Jed, but I do miss it sometimes, that firm grounding in the Jewish faith that I grew up with. I take Minnie to a Methodist church, but I’m thinking of telling Jed that we’re going to start going the little synagogue over on Maple Street. I think that If my Minnie has a little bit of that then maybe I could keep a little bit of home near me and then I’ll want to stay and me and Jed won’t get in a stupid fight and break up. I can feel it in the air sometimes. Oddly enough, it seems that this request I’m going to make to Jed today isn’t all that’s out there working in our favor. Albert’s little play about Princess Diana is making Jed pick up his guitar again. He even had me come up with the feel for a song Albert called Coconut Jerk Chicken. It was fun, we had Minnie dancing around the house and when we were done me and Jed had written the first song by Moxy Priestess that was ever written without a trace of heroin in Jed’s veins. That little victory felt good.

Overall I’m happy here on Annabelle Mountain. The mountain is beautiful. We’re near the top. We can afford to do this since neither one of us has to go into town and work. We still get some royalties. Jed spent most of his big money, but I invested wisely and we are well to do now. They say there is an angel who lives on this mountain, the spirit of a young girl who died here. I don’t like to think about that story. I don’t much like the subjects of angels because that means that God does have need. I sometimes wish that God would just dismiss all of the angels because the angels are always made up of the spirits of those who didn’t deserve to die. I guess Albert would say that Diana is an angel. On our mountain, the little girl from the civil war era, Annnabelle, is an angel. The trouble with angels is that we want more and more of them, but nobody wants to volunteer to be one.

That is, I think, the predicament that Jed’s brother finds himself in. He thinks that if he can pay tribute to Princess Diana then he is saving her soul. But I wish his tribute could have been written while she had been living. That way she too would be able to believe in angels. It’s not easy to see the realities of coping with this life. Albert is coping, that’s plain to see. Jed said that he would cry when the music stopped playing sometimes when they were alone in his room. Jed loves his brother. That’s another reason why I can’t insist on moving. We’ve been here over a year and each day is feeling a little bit longer, but Jed’s not ready. He needs as much time here at home as he had away from home. My parents always loved me and made it clear to me that they did, so I must be the stronger one. I will take Minnie to the synagogue and turn her into a little Jewish princess like I was and it appears that Jed will spearhead the return of Moxy Priestess, something I thought would never happen in a million years.

Published in: on February 13, 2010 at 8:23 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Duping of the people of the United States of America

i am covered by an ocean,

I am a man at the bottom of a placid sea

I see sun as sparkle, nothing there for me

the world cackles itself to death,

America bathes in ruins

too many of our people reacted without thought

in killing others our Campbell’s soup got cold

we lay near lifeless, collective heart withering

but we won’t stop till the last loud voice is heard

all loose ends tied neatly for this project

we shout loudly against kindness in the street

when one asks we tell them that Jesus sent us and they go away

the next day the corporate heads look serious on t.v.

another victory  furthering  the demise of the United States

oh, they say, you’re on that team while we’re on this

yet call themselves citizens of the United States of America

the laughing fat men behind curtains chomping cigars,

hats suddenly in hand, oh good citizens listen to what the stars tell you (cue the stars)

more of the machine demands more of the man

and we will give and give until we are sour with our selfishness

but others won’t give and will walk, leave our country for its having left us

for those who control know that you can kill a country by removing its kindness

but they will not care, for America was never their country to begin with

and the Jesus starers who didn’t know that they were being duped

will continue to stare and wait for the devil to rise higher and higher, such beauty!

and the devil will smile and trod gracefully back over to the huddled masses,

fangs bared, blood red lips that we will kiss over and over and over again

Published in: on February 12, 2010 at 8:18 pm  Leave a Comment  
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On Petals – Jed

I always thought that if I could write I would write a novel about the tears that my mule couldn’t shed simply because mules don’t shed tears. Albert wrote a story once with a line in it and he showed it to me and he described something as being “sadness beyond sadness beyond sadness, the subtleties of sadness squared.” I thought that line was mature beyond Albert’s years because it seems I’ve known it, lived it rather.

I’ve finished Coconut Jerk Chicken, Moxy helped. Actually, Moxy did most of it. She did the words and then gave me the beat. I just came up with the melody. I don’t know where Albert came up with that one, probably stole it off of a drunken friend. He’s like that. He’ll sit around at the coffee house in Millsville where all the other fated artists meet to be around fated artists and he’ll listen to people. Albert’s the coolest hippie in town, but he doesn’t think of himself like that. When he was seven years old he would come into my room and listen to me play guitar. I never once told him to get out. I wasn’t thinking I was giving him a musical education during the most impressionable years of his life. I was thinking it was good to have my little brother there beside me when the whole world has gone to shit. Those drugs I took back then, they messed up my head. I was one of those guys who got mean when he took drugs, not mellow, although sometimes I got mellow too. I shouldn’t say mean. I never wanted to hurt anybody, not really, in my life. It’s just I got to a place where I didn’t take shit from anybody, nobody and nobody gave my family shit either. That’s why I beat that kid up at the roller rink. Nobody did violence to my family, not after what happened to my father. Nobody. That’s all.

Anyway, Albert. Little Albert. He’s over six feet tall now. I look up to the kid, but he’s not a kid anymore. The kind of kid whose got to have his day, his fifteen minutes of fame, but the kind of kid who you think sort of shouldn’t get it if you know what I mean. Over in North Carolina was a writer Albert told me about named Thomas Wolfe. He called Wolfe a pantheist, that’s somebody, Albert says, who believes God is in everything. I’d call that a schizophrenic myself, but Albert calls it a pantheist belief. He tried to explain to me the levels of Petals and I just couldn’t get it. That doesn’t mean that I don’t think it should go on, it will. What it means to me, though, more is that, somehow, if somebody says there are different levels that you can’t see in a work and the work espouses nothing but love, logic has it that love has many levels and therefore it takes time to get to those levels and if I don’t do his rock opera on a level of musicianship even higher than what I achieved with the Priestess, then I’m selling short love itself.

So since being back there’s no real rhyme or reason behind my life. I don’t do anything and that’s okay. Or I haven’t anyway. But now I will. I’ll write the music, or rather, I’ve been writing the music to Petals.

Petals, A Rock Scenario. Fifty-one pages of pure Diana Tribute. Enough Diana tribute to have Albert hung up on the stake by all those people out there who think just the mere mention of her name is Di-ploitation. Jed Jones of Moxy Priestess, disappeared for ten years off the music scene and here he is. Who would have thought, washed up, beat, a nobody now, trying to exploit the Princess for all he can before he completely becomes an old man and everybody forgets his name. So where do I begin:

Exit Music (For a Film) by Radiohead. Albert wants me to replace this so I will. He gave me the CD, OK Computer and I’ll listen to it. I tuned my guitar this morning. I have a different manner in which I write songs. It’s not the same thing as other people do. I hear the song in my head for a while before I know it’s complete. I put it down on my strings only, everything else is in my head. I’m writing the song in my head right now.

There’s no way to relay what it is that music does. I’m lost to trying. It’s better to give in and acknowledge there’s no way to explain anything to anybody, especially the idea that we all die, including Princess Diana, especially Princess Diana who you’ve got to admit seems like a person you didn’t expect to die or ever want to. This piece, well, I’ve heard it before. I’m going to listen to it again now and then try to explain to you what it says to me so maybe when you hear it you’ll understand, taking into consideration that Albert chose it and Albert’s gone through a lot of pain, being the man of the house for so long and yet being the baby, no dad, no brother, being the baby and then being all alone except for a woman who is really sad inside for being alone. One moment and then I’ll explain to you how my song will go since we can’t use Radiohead’s song in the Scenario although it’s worthy, truly worthy, and that’s why Albert picked it. Albert’s gave me the lyrics to help me to put together the music. His working title is Go.

Go: Wait. Don’t go home. Sleep. Time will let you know if you’re going to go. Don’t sleep without your pillow fluffed. Dreams are too important. Give away all that you know. Seek your own soul. Hey, you, don’t cry. Don’t sink down. Live into the night’s embrace, lean there and sigh. Go. Go. Don’t cry! Don’t sing a song and then say goodbye. Spy her there, Dodi, live for her breath that so slowly seeps away. Go. Go. Dream away. Go. Go. I hope you go.

The following song, Let Down is also by Radiohead sung by Camilla Parker Bowles: Albert’s is called I Love You which is really the second part of Go.

I Love You: Go home to sew the love in your coat and your torn up sleeve, bring it back to me with you inside and I will inspect your wounded pride and give to you all the love that you need and nobody will make you cry and I will sing a song for you then, my love, because the night it deems itself, deems itself better than goodbye, sounds off like sudden hits on tubular bells. I love you. Go. Go. Go. Don’t cry Charles. But Go, oh King, oh Go. I Love You. So Go. And let the lovers win. And come home to me.

There’s definitely some spirituality involved in this work. I don’t know if Albert is a good writer, but I’m starting to think he’s not pulling all of our chains. If you listen to the idea that Radiohead sparked in him then it seems that you’ve found somebody who can hear a work of genius. It makes sense. Albert, and I’m not saying this to be conceited, but Albert listened to my most accomplished works when he was a kid. I mean I formed songs such as Labyrinth and Tuesday Schooling under this kid’s nose. The opening of Pianissimo came out of me one day because I was staring at the calm in Albert’s eye while he listened to me, and it seemed so quiet. How can there not be a correlation between what Albert is doing and what I’m doing?

I find it impossible to think, now that I’m working on this play, that my musical shelf life has expired. Despite all of the shit and horror that I’ve seen, despite all the pain I’ve caused my family, I have to admit that with the reunion of my brother and I there has been a heightening of my own creative powers. Where I understand the physicality of the music only as I play, Albert understands the meaning and the physicality’s effects so he can hardly function, so he has to put the music in his head to words. Albert tells me he sings too now. He wants to play Trevor in the Scenario. He’s the man on the mountain, my brother, and finally, finally, I have somebody who I can call my friend, a peer, a musical peer finally, one who understands the music that I was reaching for in a way that even I couldn’t.

Published in: on February 3, 2010 at 4:04 pm  Leave a Comment  

First Time – Jed

Over the years after hearing that little tale about the little girl being cooked by the cackling witches of Brierson Brook, I thought about it a lot. I never believed it because I always thought that if witches were cackling it was because they had gained a victory over somebody, one worth having. No witch would gain a victory over a little girl by eating her. You’d have to do a lot more to a little girl then eat her. You’d have to be a sicko and do unmentionable things to her, but not eat her. That’s a story for fairyland.
In the town of Millsville there was a lady who ran naked in the woods now and then. She didn’t live anywhere near Brierson Brook. She didn’t need to. You could hear her laughing and screaming as she ran through the woods, well, a certain part of the woods every day, and only me and a buddy knew about her secret spot.

One day I went out there alone and there she was. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I had no idea who she was, who she belonged to, but I wanted to get closer so I did. I carried a fishing pole with me and pushed from behind the brush making believe I was going to go fishing in the creek. She saw me and looked at me for a moment and then slowly began to put on her clothes.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said and I walked by her.

Her eyes were black and her lips red and full. She hadn’t put on her pants as I walked by and yet she didn’t act shy.

“You’ve seen me before,” she said.

I stopped a ways away from her and looked back at her. I shook my head.

“No.”

“Oh, yes, you’ve seen me many times. I know because I’ve seen you.”

And she walked towards me then and I ran. I turned so fast and ran that it wasn’t funny and after I ran a little ways I turned back around to see if she was still there, but she wasn’t. I figure she went home to her husband or whatever and I hated myself the rest of the day for chickening out on the most exciting experience of my young life or what would have been. But I’ll always remember the way that she laughed. It reminded me of the way a woman would laugh If she were worshiping something other than God. After my encounter it reminded me of the way she would have laughed had she had me on the ground and we had started rolling around and she being the older and the smarter doing to me what I had no way up to then any way of conceiving other than through pornography. And because those moments were sharp in my mind as pure fear I ran.

But after spending an hour or so fishing I knew it was time to go back. I went back the same way I came and I looked for her through the trees and brush on my way, but I didn’t see her, not until I came to the creek and she turned around, her breasts pert and pointing up at me, her shoulders squared and her eyes making half-horizontal moons, the black of the iris low and the lids drooping as she stared at me.

I walked up to her and kissed her neck. She kissed back and I pulled her up out of the water and laid her on the grass beside the little pond and hustled to pull down my pants and do unto her what it seemed God had ordained. When I was through I got off her real quick and put on my pants again.

“Where you going?” she said.

But I wasn’t listening. It had been too much for me and I was ashamed and scared. I ran off quick, but catching up to me almost as though laughter can have fingers pulling you back, I listened to her cackle, it was every bit a cackle as those of the witches of Brierson Brook, I’m sure, but that story didn’t mean nothing to me anymore as I ran through the brush, jumping over dead branches, dodging trees, knowing that I’d had my first time and that first time had been with a witch no less.

Published in: on February 2, 2010 at 8:04 pm  Leave a Comment