Ok, ok,  ok, so for us who prayed to the gods for a Zeppelin re-union tour in our lifetime we now know it ain’t gonna happen.   I was trolling the web the other day and discovered that the official Led Zeppelin website has quite a generous offering of vintage videos (some in their entirety and other snippits) from the 1968 through post 1980 breakup; their most recent 2009 concert at the O2 Arena in London is not featured which is a bummer.

There are some very cool vintage performances featured .  I personally enjoyed the 1969 performance of How Many More Times (Danish TV ) & 1979’s performance of Nobody’s Fault But Mine (Knebworth).

Click here to check out what Jimmy, Robert, and Jonesy have made available for us.  

If they don’t ever reunite at least we have these incredible performances to enjoy. Check them out and tell us what you think!

***Please note that the link above is safe and will take you to the Official Led Zeppelin website.  However, when I googled “Led Zeppelin 1969 Danish TV” to find the remainder of the 1969 Danish show (How Many More Times) I found a website that had “supposedly” offered the remainder of the original broadcast, please do not go to this website.  BEWARE if you do chose to go to the website you get a nasty Trojan virus and Malware issue (do not fall for the bogus window that pops that looks like your hard drive saying that your computer is corrupted, it’s not, and do not attempt to download the offered software it too is a scam, so please be aware. 

Here at Hi-Fi Central we take pride in providing legit links to our content, please know that.

Acum 2 săptămâni eram anunţat de mama că nu a mai venit acasă Bonzo, fiind unul din câinii casei în varstă de aproximativ 15 ani (omeneşti, nu câineşti ) ). Mirat fiind .. cum mă să dispară? Adică stai o clipă? E Bonzo, căruia i-am făcut viaţa un calvar toată copilăria mea şi o parte din adolescenţă, cel care m-a muşcat…Bonzo, câinele care te mârâie şi dacă îl atingi, fiind foarte antipatic.

Întâmplarea s-ar fi petrecut în felul următor: A venit cu mătuşa mea până la magazin [el ştie să se orienteze singur, a mers şi prin oraş] şi când a ieşit din magazin, ia-l de unde nu-i. Ce-a zis…da, s-a întors acasă..şi a continuat să meargă la un alt magazin, de fapt en-gros, dar nu-i bai. Şi când a ajuns acasă: Bonzo nu era. A plecat să îl caute prin jur…şi neah.

Şi ne gândeam că l-au luat hingherii, pentru că na..el e şi bătrân, nu mai poate să alerge aşa şi nici simţurile nu-l mai ajută întocmai . Că de furat, cine naiba să-l ia? Adică înţeleg, iei un câine frumos, de rasă, ceva…dar nu pe Bonzo, care-i vai de capu lui, abia-şi mai târâie băşina. Deja ne obişnuisem cu ideea. Adică mama i-a aprins şi o lumânare pe hol. Eu începusem să îmi amintesc, cu puţin regret, pentru zilele fripte pe care i le făcusem. Când nu vroia să plece de pe hol, toate sticlele cu apă turnate pe el, uneori am trecut şi la clor , loviturile încasate, am pus alţi câini să-l muşte şi au cam şters cu el pe jos, bocanci aruncaţi pe spate, dorinţe de moarte, sabotaj , lovituri în plină meclă, role peste bot, pus la zid şi udat cu furtunul (bifat) … ce amintiri 8->. Eu sincer, nu l-am suferit niciodată. Mi se părea foarte antipatic. Mărăia pe toată lumea şii făcuse greşeala vieţii. Mă muşcase…şi nu odată. Adică stai puţin nene, că aici eu fac regulile jocului. Nu o javră de câine. Şi tocmai pe propriul stăpân. Mă rog, care nu e tocmai uşă de biserică . Dar să păstrăm totuşi proporţiile, om-câine. Adică nu trebuie să  muşte niciodată gura care îl hrâneşte. Că…fââşşt. Ştii cum? imediat ). Ştiu că nu trebuie să mă cobor la mintea unui câine. Dar ăsta aşa făcea cu toată lumea, te mârâia şi dacă era să continui te şi muşca dacă puneai mâna pe el, dar eu nu puteam accepta asta – cel puţin la vârstele mai mici, că după, parcă am mai realizat şi eu. În fine…avea şi el rolul lui, chiar dacă eu nu îl sufeream, era de-al casei. Ştii, parcă atunci când nu mai e persoana aia care să te enerveze, parcă nu eşti în apele tale.

Şi sâmbătă dimineaţă 14 nov. Mă trezesc eu şi evident, mă duc la baie. (ma rog, poate nu e aşa de evident ). Şi când deschid uşa, ce era pe preşul din prag? Un .. câine? De fapt, nu prea mai arăta a câine, o umbră de câine. Era foarte slab, şi păros. Mă frec eu la ochii, băăă, cred că visez. Dau 2 palme (au!)..şi mă uit. (heei, nu visez). mă las pe vine să văd mai bine, că încă aveam vederea în ceaţă. Bonzo? Nimic. BOONZO? nimic. BOoonzo? … Uhh.. Încerc să trec peste moment, mă duc la baie. [.......................................................................................] (Vă daţi şi voi seama ce a urmat). După ce ies din baie, merg la bucătărie (o dau din fanta-n cola ) ) şi o întreb pe mătuşă-mea: Cine este câinele ăla? Ea: “cum mă cine e? A venit Bonzo. ” Eu mirat … la care a continuat: “L-a auzit Camelia bătând azi noapte pe la 5.” Camelia fiind mama. Şi acelaşi moment i s-a petrecut şi ei. A crezut că visează. Parcă zici că bate Bonzo )).

Aşadar Bonzo e acasă. Mult mai slab, în schimb cu acelaşi mult păr cu purici incorporaţi, la fel de nesuferit. Ieri nu prea s-a mişcat, în schimb azi a mers, chestii. A mâncat… a fost în micţiune . Tot ce se poate.

Aştept să-şi revină complet să reîncepem luptele. Suntem ca în Kid vs Kat naibii. (Şi acolo a fost un episod în care a dispărut piaza rea). Momentan nu arată prea bine, nu că arata înainte, dar înainte arata ca fiind în ultimul stadiu de degradare, acum arată de zici că a ieşit din mormânt. Oricum, aşa cum discutam şi cu nişte prieteni, parcă nu mai era câine. Îl strigai, nu mai auzea. De văzut nu mai vedea bine. Abia mergea. De futut, nu mai avea cu ce şi nici ce, că n-ajunge el la curu lu Jessie, îi trebuie scăriţă )). Vă daţi seama acum. După nopţi în frig, ploaie, vânt, zăpadă, fără mâncare.

Se pare că nu scap eu aşa uşor de Bonzo, însă tot rămâne un câine lipsit de scrupule, dar care totuşi e deştept, îl duce capu ăla mic şi naşpa. Are orientare. Ce mai . Totul e bine când se termină cu bine.

Un  hombre intentó esta mañana “quemarse a lo bonzo” en la sede de Comisiones Obreras (CCOO) en Palma de Mallorca aunque una trabajadora y un hombre que se encontraba en el edificio se lo impidieron quitándole el mechero e inmovilizándole después de que se rociara con una botella de gasolina, según han informado fuentes de CCOO.

Fotografía obtenida de www.ambulancias-emergencias.com

El suceso ha tenido lugar sobre las 11 horas de esta mañana cuando el hombre, tunecino de 27 años de edad, entró en la sede sindical y se dirigió al Centro de Información para Extranjeros y Orientación para Afiliados, situado en la primera planta del edificio. Según testigos presenciales, se acercó a una de las mesas para recibir información pero le rogaron que esperara cinco minutos para ser atendido. Durante la espera, le explicó a otra persona presente que no tenía trabajo y que horas antes había robado una barra de pan en la barra de un establecimiento comercial, pero había sido descubierto por un guardia que le encañonó con una pistola.

Siempre según fuentes presenciales,  minutos después,  el hombre se roció el cuerpo con gasolina y justo antes de que prendiera el mechero, una empleada de CCOO se lo quitó de las manos y junto a otro hombre que se encontraba en la sala le inmovilizaron. Una vez fue neutralizado, agentes de la Policía Local y Nacional desalojaron a las personas que se encontraban en el lugar. Pasadas las 12.00 horas, una ambulancia del 061 trasladó al hombre a la unidad de Psiquiatría del Hospital Son Dureta de la capital balear, después de que un equipo de psicólogos le atendiera en la sede de CCOO.

*Fuentes consultadas: EFE y Europa Press

27- Girar 180 graus na cadeira erótica, berrando: “Ziiim, zíiiim!

26- Bater na porta da suíte ao lado e perguntar se foi ali que pediram um bacalhau.

25- Repetir a operação do item anterior nas outras 117 suítes.

24- Chamar uma garçonete e atender ? porta pelado.

23- Levar um grupo de amigos e sair vendendo tupperware pelos quartos.

22- Botar o carro na frente do quarto, levar uma mangueira e lavá-lo.

21- Na entrada do motel, perguntar ao porteiro se ele viu a sua esposa entrando ali com outro.

20- Levar um megafone e gritar da sua janela: “Rosânia, sua cachorra ordinária, eu sei que você tá aqui, lazarenta!!!”

19- Levar seu cão dinamarquês, ligar para a recepção e pedir água, camisinhas e ração Bonzo.

18- Ficar de pé na portaria do motel dando “oi” para os carros que entram.

17- Abrir as portas do carro dentro da vaga e ligar o som no talo numa música de Bruno e Marrone.

16- Antes de chegar ? recepção, baixar as calças, encaixar o RG no meio das nádegas e entregá-lo ? mocinha falando: “Boa-noite, sou um boneco de neve e queria uma suíte com ar condicionado bem geladinho”.

15- Dizer que é voyeur e pedir um quarto com vista para o quarto dos outros.

14- Ir desacompanhado e perguntar se a recepcionista não quebraria o seu galho.

13- Ir com a família inteira até a porta do motel e indagar ao vigia quanto custa o aluguel e condomínio das casas.

12- Perguntar ao segurança do motel se ele, por acaso, é michê.

11- Interfonar para a cozinha pedindo um peru e dois ovos.

10- Ir a pé.

09- Dizer ao atendente, na portaria, que está com um cadáver no porta-malas e que precisa de ajuda para colocá-lo na cama.

08- Tirar todos os produtos do frigobar e colocá-los dentro da sauna ligada pra ver o que acontece.

07- Ligar para a recepção pedindo uma bomba de encher pneu porque sua boneca inflável está vazando.

06- Antes de sair do quarto, deixar um despacho completo, incluindo galinha preta, charuto e cachaça, ao lado do cama.

05- Descolar tinta preta, pincel, brocha e promover uma pintura estilo dark na suíte.

04- Espalhar gel transparente em todo o quarto: lençóis, tela da tevê, frigobar, toalhas, abajures, tapetes, espelhos e paredes.

03- Levar um filhote de patinho e, ao ir embora, deixá-lo nadando na piscina.

02- Promover um apagão no motel inteiro jogando o secador ligado na Jacuzzi.

01- Pagar com tíquete-refeição.

Vi no ITZME

Bonzo and I talked today… we talked. He has hurt tremendously over the past year. I knew he would when we left. He hated not knowing why we left. I knew he wanted to know. He hated that other people knew even more. So did I. I knew that all this was tearing him up. He told me so. I knew that he had cried, a lot. It had gone on, and on. I was sure that I had destroyed him after yanking his whole world away from him. I had, and I hadn’t.

This past year, especially the past month, has put Bonzo through the ringer. I didn’t need to talk to him to know that it was true and it felt like a million pounds on my soul. I wasn’t looking forward to telling him. I was glad he would finally know, but no matter what, he had still hurt and therefore, so did I.

But not so much. I couldn’t imagine that relief would come, but it came. It came in something simple, and human, and spiritual, like it so often does. Bonzo laughed and my soul was relieved of it’s burden. We laughed and we joked, sometimes forgetting about the line of appropriateness. It was good because I know that after all God is good, and so is Bonzo.

El miércoles 30 de septiembre a las 19.30hs se realizara la subasta de arte moderno y contemporaneo en Roldan, subasta temática dedicada a los años 90 y 2000. Un importante conjunto de obras representan el movimiento que se originó en la galería creada por Jorge Gumier Maier en el  Centro Cultural Ricardo Rojas, donde artistas como Pombo, Harte, Londaibere y Gordín entre otros comenzaron sus carreras.

 
La subasta acompaña el interés internacional en este período del arte argentino, anticipándose a la muestra consagratoria de los años 90 a realizarse en el Blanton Museum of Art de Austin,Texas en 2010. Se rematarán obras maestras como “El niño mariposa” de Marcelo Pombo, una pieza historica de Gumier Maier que integró la muestra Escuelismo en el Malba, y una escultura de Miguel Harte que integró la última muestra del trío Harte-Pombo-Suárez. La actual generación emergente del 2000 está presente con obras de Duville, Macri, Becú, Bonzo y Bianchi entre otros. de Arte Contemporáneo Argentino de Roldán

EL NIÑO MARIPOSA, Marcelo Pombo

El remate es el miércoles 30 de septiembre a las 19.30hs. En Juncal 743- El catálogo puede verse en www.subastasroldan.com.ar

Il Teru bozu è un amuleto di origine giapponese da attaccare fuori dalla finestra per far cessare la pioggia e scacciare Amefushi, il demone del temporale.

Siccome piove ininterrottamente ormai da tre giorni, ho pensato di attaccarne uno anche al nostro blog, non si sa mai… quando si espone il Teru bozu (teoricamente fuori dalla finestra) c’è da recitare una filastrocca -il cui termine corretto è warabe uta-, dopo evere applaudito un paio di volte per attirare l’attenzione degli spiriti.

Teru Bozu by Elly

Teru Teru Bozu, Teru Bozu, portami il sole domani
Se il cielo sarà sereno come lo sogno ti regalerò un campanello dorato.
Teru Teru Bozu, Teru Bozu,portami il sole domani
Se ascolterai le mie preghiere ti donerò del sake dolce,
Teru Teru Bozu, Teru Bozu portami il sole domani
Se sarà nuvoloso ti staccherò la testa.

Amefushi in realtà non è cattivo, ha solo bisogno di sentirsi accettato dagli altri bambini con i quali vorrebbe giocare, ma visto che porta la pioggia viene sempre allontanato. Per questo, si vendica facendo dispetti a chi lo ha cacciato. Quindi vi serve un Teru bozu.

Come fare un Teru bozu: Il Teru bōzu viene costruito ricoprendo un oggetto sferico (che costituirà la testa) con della stoffa o della carta bianca, che viene fissata con un nodo fatto sotto la testa. Di seguito, si disegnano occhi, naso e bocca. Va posizionato fuori la finestra, appeso ad un ombrello  o in altre maniere. il Teru bōzu spaventerà  l’Amefushi e il sole tornerà a splendere. Se fa il suo dovere, ricordatevi di fargli un regalino.

Elly

Bonzo

Acımasızcasına sıcak bir gündü. Beykoz Beldiyesi Barınağı’ndan ormana atılmış çaresiz köpekciklere su ve yiyecek sağlamak üzere orada bulunan bir avuç gönüllüydük. Bu son derece merhametsiz hareket doğal bir felakete neden olmuş; başıboş köpeklerle, bebeklerle, hasta ve yaralı hayvanlarla, hamile köpekcikler ve daha yeni doğum yapmış analarla dolu bir orman… Her zaman aç ve her zaman susuzlar.

Kavuran güneşin altındalar, gönüllülerin yol kenarındaki yoğurt kocalarına doldurduğu bir yudum suya muhtaçlar… Piknikçilerin
çöpleriyle beraber arkalarında bıraktıkları kuru ekmek parçalrını kemirmeye muhtaçlar.

Bonzo‘yu burada bulduk. Uzman rehberimiz ve ormanın en bilge gönüllüsüne göre sürüde yeniydi. Diğerleriyle anlaşmaya çalışıyordu ama belli ki biraz dayak yemişti. Yüzü yaralanmış, yanaklarının derisi soyulmuştu.

Ne yapabilirdik? Bu binlerce köpeğin arasından hangi birisini alabilirdik? Hangisini alıp hangisini kaderine terk edeceğimize nasıl
karar verebilirdik?

Fotoğraflarını çektik, diğer bebekler gibi ona da parazit hapları verdik, üzgün yüzüne antibiyotik kremler sürdük. Ve sonunda onu bu
cehennemden çekip almak zorunda kaldık. Kalplerimiz geride kalan bebekler için sızlıyordu ama kim onlara “sevgi dolu bir yuva”
verebilecekti? Elimizdeki pek çok köpek yazı pansiyonlarda geçirmişti.
Neredeydiniz?

Bonzo 4-5 aylık, tatlı bir erkek bebek, aşıları tamam. Oyuncu, enerji dolu bu çocuk çocuklara bayılıyor ve diğer köpeklerle çok iyi geçiniyor. Toprağa dokunmayı seviyor, yani Bonzo bir ev köpeği olsa da, küçük bir kızın yatağından çıkıp geliyorsa da ona koşup oynayabileceği bir bahçe verebilmek harika olur.

Bonzo’yu ailenize katın, hiç pişman olmayacaksınız.

Her zamanki koşullar gecerli…

Viktor Larkhill

Let’s Adopt

V.larkhill@googlemail.com

—-

Bonzo

Bonzo…

It was a cruelly hot day. We were a handful of volunteers feeding and providing water for the unfortunate dogs of Beykoz, dumped by the Beykoz Municipal Shelter in the forest. This extremely pitiless act has created a natural disaster: a forest full of stray dogs, babies, disabled and sickly animals, pregnant dogs and dogs that have just delivered babies… They are hungry and thirsty, all the time.
They are there under the scorching sun, in need of a drop of water that is provided by the tireless volunteers in yogurt buckets… They are there to munch on pieces of stale bread and whatever else that the picnickers leave behind along with their rubbish.
That is where we found Bonzo. He was tiny, and new to the pack as our guide, a seasoned veteran of the forest told us. He was trying to fit in with the others but obviously he was beaten up a little. His face was injured, the skin had come off his cheeks.
What could we do? Amongst the thousands of dogs, which one could one take? How do we make this choice of who to save and who to leave behind to their fate?
We took pictures of him, gave him anti parasite pills like we did with the other babies,, put antibiotic creams on his little sad face. And in the end, we just had to grab him away from that hell. Our hearts ached for the remaining babies but where are the “loving homes” for those, even for the ones we have who have spent their entire summers in pensions. Where were you?
Bonzo is approximately 4-5 months old. He is a strapping male baby, vaccinations completed. He is a playful, energetic young guy who adores kids and gets on very well with other dogs. He loves to touch the ground, so although Bonzo is a home dog, straight out of a little girl’s bed it would be great to offer him a garden as well.
Add Bonzo to your family and you’ll never regret it.

Usual conditions apply.

Viktor Larkhill

Let’s Adopt

V.larkhill@googlemail.com

Hello dear friends! It’s seems ages since I wrote a blog post! But, never fear – I haven’t dropped off the face of the earth. And I haven’t lost interest in blogging, either. (I have so many ideas for posts I think I’m stuck with blogging for a good 6 more years!) I’ve simply entered back into service for my coveted degree, often times feeling like my head will explode with ideas, deadlines and lists of supplies I must buy or bring to class. (Don’t tell my profs, but I shouldn’t even be writing this now – I’ve got several projects I should be working on! Shhhh!)

Anyhow, my lovely friend Kate has kindly tagged me to participate in Elizabeth’s Two Sisters Tag. Here goes:

1. Do you like Greta Garbo? In general, like will I watch anything she’s in just because she’s in it? No, probably not. Even though actresses with accents are a huge favorite of mine, something about GG rubs me the wrong way. Must say though, before I get too much fruit thrown at me, I totally love Ninotchka. She’s brilliant in the comedic scenes- especially the one where Melvyn Douglas pops the cork on the champagne bottle and she falls to the ground blindfolded as if she’s been shot. I burst out laughing every single time I watch that.
2. In Buster Keaton’s MGM films, do his gestures and his plots resemble those of Harry Langdon? Elizabeth will be very disappointed in me when I say I have never seen a Harry Langdon film. But! Don’t feel too bad yet, Elizabeth because I did my homework and looked up Harry on Youtube. I see what you mean about his style and how it is choppy and staccato. I also watched a clip from The Cameraman (made by Buster Keaton at MGM) and I do see a resemblance in the physical styles. I think it’s highly believable Buster was channeling (subsciously or otherwise) Harry for his MGM films. We’re all inspired by everything around us all the time, so why couldn’t Buster be inspired too?
   
3. Who is your favorite director of silent dramas? Fritz Lang – just for Metropolis.
4. Do Harold Lloyd’s movies (movies, not shorts) drag along? Absolutely, positively not! Harold is my favorite of all the slient era comedians. He’s so sweet and kind. And I never felt his chase scenes dragged on. My favorite HL film is The Cat’s Paw. The last scene where he tricks all the bad guys with the magic secrets is totally priceless. I’m always spellbound during that scene. I love seeing the bad guys get their due!
5. Who made better silent shorts, Mack Sennett or Hal Roach? Hal Roach, no doubts at all.
6. Is Al St. John a genuine heavy, or a baby heavy? (This is based on the idea of the “Baby Vamp”, which was the character of the girl who was vampish, but not a vamp.) Although I have never seen Al St. John in a film, I say genuine heavy. Elizabeth says “heavy” means the villain, and in this case, I think it fits. Al St. John was rather handsome (in some of his early photos I found, he was quite good looking). A good villain should always have some appeal of some sort – he’s all the more dangerous for it! (by the way is St. John pronounced as it looks or in the English fashion: “sinjin”?)
7. Do you like 1920s musicals? In theory, yes. Sadly, I’ve seen very few. Just don’t have Joan Crawford dancing and we’ll be fine.
8. Do you like Al Jolson’s movies? No, no, no – a thousand times NO! Al Jolson is one of those people I simply cannot stand. In particular, his voice and conceited attitude grate on me to no end. I’ve seen The Jazz Singer and have a very hard time seeing why everyone holds him as a fine example of a classic film star. It looks like I agree with Elizabeth’s sister and Kate’s mom on this one.
   
9. Who is your favorite animal star? This is an incredibly tough one! And not because there are so many animals I love, but because I’m trying not to copy everyone else! First, I’ll just say I’m not a big fan of either Lassie or Toto. I hate crying over Lassie and worrying she’s going to die every 5 seconds and Toto was just not cute enough to be given such a major role. Asta from the Thin Man films would have been my first choice for this honor, but since I’m trying to be original here I’m going with choice #2: Bonzo from Bedtime for Bonzo with Ronald Reagan. I’ve talked about this film before, trumpeting the fact that it is an amazingly good film despite all the ridiculous bad press it has received. Besides dear Ronnie, Bonzo is one of the major reasons why it works. He’s adorable! I had no idea I could love a chimpanzee so much. Monkeys are usually not my cup of tea.
   

So! Many thanks to Kate for tagging me and Elizabeth for creating such a twister of a tag. You made me work hard for these answers, and now I’m just a little bit smarter about silent films, so thank you very much for that, too!

If you have a couple minutes you really should click through the links above and read the other responses to the tag. They’re marvelous! Happy day, my dears and I hope to have a new post for you soon!

Have a kick ass

birthday BM 

Esta humedad me va a matar. Es lo primero que oigo mientras viajo en el Saab de mi padre de vuelta a la urbanización, a la zona residencial, a casa. Carraspea y lo dice cuando ya hace un rato que hemos dejado atrás la estación de autobuses y los escaparates y los coches aparcados en zona azul. Sólo lo dice cuando lo que pasa al otro lado de las ventanillas ya no se puede llamar ciudad. Campos, descampados, naves industriales y otras cosas silenciosas que se extienden hacia el horizonte y que supongo le hacen oír demasiado lo que está pensando y le obligan a hablar de cualquier estupidez menos de lo que de verdad importa. Por ejemplo de que esta humedad le va a matar. Vale, es posible que al verme haya dicho Hola o haya emitido un gruñido parecido a un saludo. De hecho me ha parecido que me miraba a través del retrovisor y pronunciaba algo mientras yo metía mis cosas en el maletero. Pero lo cierto es que Esta humedad me va a matar es la primera frase de relativa complejidad que mi padre me dedica en mucho tiempo. Y yo no digo nada pero levanto la vista hacia el cielo nublado y no veo más que cielo nublado y luego la dejo caer pesadamente sobre las copas peladas de los árboles que bordean la carretera y zum-zum-zum-zumban al devolver rebotado el ruido del motor. Sus ramas están mojadas. Y la hierba y las señales de tráfico y los bancos del pequeño parque junto al que pasamos. Pero no hay gotas en el parabrisas y por un momento me pregunto si todo esto será cosa mía. Y en seguida pienso que qué más da, que el caso es que todo parece estar mojado y ser incómodo para sentarse a descansar o charlar o descansar y charlar. Todo, hasta o especialmente el asiento del copiloto/acompañante de este coche. Y es probable que la explicación sea que hoy vuelvo a casa después de seis años y tengo la impresión de que eso resulta mucho menos importante que el clima, las cotizaciones en bolsa o la nueva mesa de billar que encuentre en la sala de juegos en cuanto lleguemos.

Está empezando a oscurecer de verdad cuando nos detenemos en el puesto de control de acceso a la urbanización. Dentro ya no está el viejo de siempre. O el que para mí es el viejo de siempre. El que olía a tabaco, a alcohol y a sudor e iba mal afeitado pero resultaba agradable porque daba caramelos a los niños sin esperar nada a cambio. En vez de él, bajo el tubo fosforescente del techo de la garita hay un chaval casi imberbe que podría tener mi edad o quizá un par de años más y que tiene aspecto de no oler a nada en especial. Abre el ventanuco de la caseta y le da las buenas noches a mi padre y le sonríe de un modo que me parece sinceramente amistoso. Igual es porque tiene orejas de soplillo y en general una de esas caras feas pero que transmiten simpatía. Aunque a lo mejor, quién sabe, es un cabrón con algún interés oscuro. El infiltrado de una banda de atracadores albanokosovares o algo así. A mí me mira un segundo y me incomoda darme cuenta de que en realidad me siento incapaz de juzgarle. Sólo sé que si de ahora en adelante todo transcurre con normalidad veré a ese tipo casi todos los días. Y no me sorprende en absoluto que la barrera roja y blanca se levante y el coche arranque de nuevo sin que mi padre me presente al guardia de seguridad.

Nos adentramos en el entramado de calles de la urbanización y mi padre enciende la radio. Suena el último cd de Bruce Springsteen y es algo que no tiene nada de particular porque a mi padre siempre le ha encantado el Boss. Hubo una época en que yo también me aficioné. Por imitación, por estrechar lazos, no sé. Ráfaga de recuerdos mientras superamos badenes demasiado amarillos a la luz de los faros del coche. Debía de tener unos trece o catorce años. Menos de quince, eso seguro. Lo escuchábamos en el coche de camino al club náutico o a la clínica dental o a la fiesta en la casa de verano de algún amigo, vecino, conocido o colega. A veces incluso cantábamos discretamente los estribillos más reconocibles. En una ocasión mi padre me preguntó cuál era la canción que más me gustaba de todas las de Bruce. Por un momento me dio la impresión de que le interesaba realmente saberlo. No recuerdo con exactitud dónde íbamos pero sí que estábamos sentados en este mismo coche, en estos mismos asientos abatibles de diseño ergonómico, a un metro y poco de distancia el uno del otro, igual que ahora. Pero, en realidad, mucho más cerca que ahora. Porque también recuerdo que cuando me hizo esa pregunta sentí que nos aproximábamos el uno el otro. No físicamente, por supuesto. Lo que quiero decir es que noté que con un poco de suerte mi padre y yo podríamos llevarnos más o menos bien algún día. Fue un buen momento, aquél. Tengo la visión del perfil de mi padre recortado contra el trozo de cielo muy azul enmarcado en su ventanilla y el aire era tan agradable que por una vez no había conectado el climatizador. No sé qué le contesté ni si el me dijo la suya pero supongo que no importa gran cosa. Lo que cuenta es que aún pienso en aquel día como un día apacible, como uno de esos días en que sientes que quizá no estés en el sitio ideal ni con la gente perfecta pero al fin y al cabo tampoco estás tan mal. Nunca he vuelto a tener esa sensación. Y probablemente nunca vuelva a tenerla, pienso oyendo a Springsteen preguntarme si alguna vez he visto a un espantapájaros relleno de polvo y arena. Se me encoge el estómago y valiéndome de la vista intento dirigir mis pensamientos hacia cualquier otra parte. Pero afuera sólo hay enormes jardines negros y porches tenuemente iluminados y la tristeza es tan tangible que parece caer del cielo y arrastrarse por el pavimento. Así que me pongo a la defensiva conmigo mismo y me digo que la gilipollez de Bruce era uno de nuestros sucedáneos de comunicación, eso es todo. Mío y de mi padre, quiero decir, aunque en ocasiones también tenían cabida en él mi madre y mi hermano pequeño. Al fin y al cabo Springsteen es bueno, así que cualquiera puede utilizar su música para suplir carencias o llenar vacíos. Es lo que concluyo al tiempo que noto crecer a mi espalda, en los asientos traseros cuyo tapizado aún huele a nuevo, mis seis años de ausencia en viajes al extranjero, trayectos interurbanos e inclusos cortos y potencialmente peligrosos desplazamientos al centro comercial o al McDonald’s. E intento convencerme de que no había nada especial ni bonito en que nosotros también tuviéramos nuestros propios códigos para decir todas esas cosas que da vergüenza decir. Intento convencerme, en definitiva, de que no hay nada especial ni bonito en nada. Y apoyo la cabeza en el reposacabezas y me pongo a divagar un poco mientras mi padre conduce y yo intento controlar el ritmo de mi respiración sin que se me note demasiado el esfuerzo que ello me supone y ambos subimos y bajamos callados como muertos por las laderas de las colinas artificiales que hacen que este sitio se llame ridiculamente Beautiful Hills. Divago y me planteo cuántas personas en el mundo se encontrarán ahora mismo en el interior de un coche intentando encontrar cierto consuelo, fuerza, valor, ánimo, comprensión, esperanza, redención en la música de un artista endiosado al que jamás conocerán. Y me respondo que muchas, muchísimas, y cierro fuerte los ojos y quiero creer que empiezo a tranquilizarme un poco.

Llegamos al final de la amplia avenida de acceso a la urbanización y en la bifurcación mi padre toma el camino más largo para dirigirse a casa. No coge el que lleva directo a la zona de las villas más altas, donde se encuentra la nuestra, sino el que recorre las faldas de las colinas y luego, ya casi en la valla, gira y sube convertido en una pista de tierra llena de baches que sólo usa la patrulla de seguridad un par de veces cada noche para controlar que nadie intenta traspasar el perímetro. Sé que lo hace para no pasar por delante de la casa de mi amigo Jota. O del que fue mi amigo Jota. Mi familia le culpa a él y seguro que la suya a mí, no hace falta ser muy listo para suponerlo. Así que tomamos el camino más largo, absurdo y cobarde, pero no protesto. Porque me asusta la posibilidad de pasar ante su casa y que él esté recogiendo el correo del buzón o lanzándole una pelota a su perro o cualquiera de esas cosas que se hacen en sitios como éste y me vea y ni siquiera me dedique un gesto con la cabeza. Me da miedo que ya no seamos amigos después de toda esta gran mierda. Así que no protesto. Y cuando por fin salimos de la pista de tierra y el coche empieza a deslizarse suavemente por el asfalto que me conducirá a casa miro por el retrovisor y veo empequeñecer nubes de polvo de formas terribles y muy rojas al resplandor de las luces traseras. Y no puedo dejar de preguntarme si el infierno me perseguirá siempre o si algún día se cansará de mí.

Empezó hace algo más de seis años. Quizá pueda verse en Youtube. Empieza con Jota y conmigo un viernes por la noche en un cajero automático, dispuestos a llenarnos los bolsillos con el dinero de nuestros padres y pillar una de nuestras primeras borracheras sin sospechar que iba a ser la última en mucho tiempo. En la grabación de la cámara de seguridad se nos ve fumar torpemente y pasarnos entre risas sin audio una botella de Licor 43. En blanco y negro. También se ve un bulto al fondo. Un montón de mantas y trapos aplastado contra un rincón. Un vagabundo durmiendo o intentando dormir de espaldas al mundo. Huele a orines y a infección y a borracho, aunque eso no lo capta la cámara. Igual que tampoco capta que en cierto momento el tipo murmura que le demos un par de cigarros, por favor. Entonces yo desaparezco de la imagen y le dejo cuatro en un casillero de ésos que en horario de atención al público se utilizan para depositar las cosas metálicas cuando el arco detector se pone a pitar. Y tampoco se ve que me acabo el cigarrillo que estoy fumando pero como soy maravillosamente joven y quiero sentirme malo o algo por el estilo me llevo otro a los labios y le digo a Jota que me pase el mechero. Eso sí se ve en el vídeo: el Zippo Selection del padre de Jota centelleando en blanco saturado mientras cruza volando la pantalla. Y lo siguiente digno de mención que aparece en la grabación soy yo con mi nuevo cigarro ya encendido, jugueteando con el mechero y mirando a la cámara de frente y luego intentando verme de perfil como casi todo el mundo hace en esa situación. Jota se ríe y me dice que estoy gilipollas. Y probablemente tenga razón, porque sin ningún motivo me acerco al indigente y le digo Eh, tienes el tabaco en ese casillero pero el tipo no contesta y lo que también queda fuera de campo aunque esté ocurriendo justo en el centro de la imagen es que entonces me planteo darle un pequeño golpe con el pie para que reaccione pero al instante pienso que darle una patada a un pobre hombre es un gesto objetivamente despreciable así que, igualmente sin ningún motivo, me veo acuclillado junto a sus pies descalzos haciendo rodar la piedra del encendedor. Una estupidez. Algo absurdo que novecientas noventa y nueve de cada mil veces se habría quedado en nada.

Pero supongo que así ocurren las cosas en ocasiones, casi siempre: sin motivo, sin sentido. Las cosas buenas y las cosas malas. Puedes convertirte en un héroe si eres el primero en pasar por el lugar de un accidente de tráfico y tienes mínimos conocimientos sobre primeros auxilios. O tu amigo y tú podéis convertiros en los peores monstruos del país si por la tele emiten un vídeo en que se ve cómo él te lanza un mechero caro, tú te agachas junto a un montón de harapos y un segundo después un mendigo está rodando por el suelo envuelto en llamas, llenando el aire del cajero de humo rojo que en la grabación parece simplemente gris. Y da igual que no tuvierais la menor intención de quemar a un hombre a lo bonzo. Da igual que no tuvierais ni puta idea de que un rato antes el tipo había estado mendigando con calcetines pero sin zapatos por la gasolinera de al lado. Da igual que estuvierais borrachos. Lo que cuenta es que sois dos chavales de familia bien muy muy bien, con todo a vuestra disposición para ser felices y hacer felices a los demás o como mímimo estar estúpidamente agradecidos al mundo, y en cambio habéis carbonizado a un homeless en vuestro tiempo de ocio. Por pura diversión, dirán. Por no tener ningún respeto hacia el ser humano. Por fascismo, por xenofobia y por muchos otros motivos que suenan tan mal si no se comentan en privado. Cosas así dijeron durante semanas en los medios de comunicación y cosas así dirán mañana cuando se publique la noticia de que me han puesto en libertad. Las asociaciones pro derechos humanos pondrán el grito en el cielo y acapararán un poco de telediario. Y en ningún momento se plantearán que a lo mejor no saben una mierda de lo que están hablando. Pero no me importa.

Lo que de verdad me tiene acojonado es que ya entramos en el sendero de grava que recorre nuestra parcela desde la entrada hasta el garaje con capacidad para tres utilitarios y donde también hay un quad de aspecto flamante que supongo le han comprado a mi hermano como parte de su terapia psicológica para sobrellevar lo mejor posible el apestoso asunto de su hermano mayor. Alguna que otra vez he imaginado este momento desde el centro de menores. Casi siempre por la noche, cuando uno se permite más licencias para la nostalgia y la pena. Cómo sería mi regreso. Si mi familia estaría esperándome en el porche y correrían a abrazarme gritando de alegría. Pero mi padre y yo salimos del garaje y la gravilla hace scratch scratch machacada por nuestros pasos y eso es lo único que se oye y se ve alrededor. Entonces, mientras abre la puerta principal de la casa, mi padre me dice Sé… amable con tu madre; ya lo ha pasado bastante mal. Y me siento como si hubiera dicho Sé bueno con tu madre; procura no joderle/jodernos la vida más. Me siento como un problema, como una vergüenza para la gente a quien quiero. Y supongo que es normal que así sea.

Una vez dentro la primera persona a la que veo es la sirvienta, la chica. Me dice Buenas tardes, señor, mi nombre es Luci y se ofrece a subir mi equipaje a la habitación. Tanto por su aspecto como por su forma de hablar llego a la conclusión de que es peruana. Aunque luego pienso que también podría ser filipina. Y durante unos momentos siento la imperiosa necesidad de resolver esa duda. Quiero saber con quién hablo. Quiero saber dónde estoy. Quiero ir recuperando el control. Estoy a punto de preguntárselo cuando se abre la puerta corredera del salón y aparece mi madre. Luce un bronceado de solárium y parece bien de salud. Pero a medida que se me acerca reparo en sus ojos, rojos y vidriosos, y en las bolsas oscuras que cuelgan debajo de ellos, demasiado evidentes a pesar del excesivo maquillaje. Y cuando me abraza y me dice que me quiere y que no sé cuánto me ha echado de menos y que estoy pálido y flaco la noto temblar de pies a cabeza y tengo muy claro que no se debe a la emoción del momento sino a causas mucho más desagradables. Sé que no voy a tener que recurrir a la reserva de recetas que el psiquiatra del centro ha tenido a bien extenderme. Sé que cada vez que lo necesite podré acudir al botiquín de esta casa y coger una pastilla de Dumirox, Dobupal o Cipramil. Pero sobre todo tengo claro que cuando le contesto que yo también la he echado de menos estoy diciendo la verdad. Y eso me hace sentir raro. Mucho más raro que cuando mi hermano pequeño sale de algún sitio y me da un frío y blando apretón de manos en el que se percibe desdén y cierto odio. Rencor, al menos. Y supongo que es normal que así sea.

Suena el teléfono. Es probable que el motivo de la llamada sea yo. Quizá mi abuela quiera felicitarme por mi libertad. Es curioso, pienso: felicitarme por mi libertad… uno nunca se plantea que alguna vez vaya a recibir tal enhorabuena. En cualquier caso, aprovecho la distracción de la llamada para alejarme de ese pequeño centro de cariño y dolor en que por mi culpa se ha convertido mi familia y subir a mi cuarto. Está tal y como lo dejé, lo cual resulta bastante triste porque entonces era un crío de quince años y ahora soy un ex convicto. Pero lo peor es que huele demasiado a cristasol y a spray multiusos. Multiusos amoniacal, igual que el que hasta ayer me suministraba el centro para limpiar mi celda. Ellos la llamaban habitación. Pero era una celda. Esto que veo ahora sí es una habitación. Pero huele como una celda. Como mi celda. Y al cerrar la puerta y apoyar la espalda en ella me pregunto si algún día dejaré de sentirme un preso. El póster de Cobain no me va a contestar. Ni los cd’s que ya no me gustan. Ni los libros de cuando era niño. Así que me acerco a la ventana y miro directamente a la noche oscurísima sin estrellas y a las colinas y al valle atravesado por una carretera, y la sigo con la vista hasta donde ya no puedo distinguirla y todavía más allá y quiero creer que conduce a un sitio tranquilo. Y luego vuelvo a mi entorno inmediato, al sitio en el que tendré que intentar volver a vivir, a las grotescas Beautiful Hills. Vuelvo a esta noche de zona residencial, tan aparentemente fácil y cómoda. Tejados de pizarra más negros que el cielo, el resplandor de alguna barbacoa nocturna y piscinas decoradas con luces subacuáticas. Parecen pequeños zafiros o pedazos de hielo flotando en medio de la nada. Brillando. Me asombra ser capaz de establecer ese símil. Y también me reconforta un poco.

Mi madre llama a la puerta. Me pregunta si me encuentro bien. Le digo que sí y ella me dice Tranquilo, baja a cenar cuando quieras, no hay prisa. Pero no se va; noto su presencia al otro lado de la madera. Quizá quiera estar lo más cerca posible de mí, me digo. Y tengo la tentación de abrir la puerta y volver a abrazarla. Pero no lo hago. Simplemente sigo mirando por la ventana y entonces oigo que mi madre empieza a sollozar en el pasillo, muy bajito. Eso también me reconforta. Me gusta que llore. No he oído llorar a mi madre en seis años, no la he oído llorar por mí. Si yo me permitiera una lágrima no pararía hasta morirme. Así que me gusta que lo haga ella. Que llore por mí de una puta vez. Por tener veintiún años, el coche que me dé la gana y no saber conducir. Por tener veintiún años y como única experiencia sexual un intento de violación en el centro por parte de un joven psicópata. Por tener veintiún años y no poder alejar de mis fosas nasales aquel olor a carne humana quemada. A pesar de lo bien que la chica ha limpiado mi celda.

I morse var allt till en början som vanligt. Jag släppte ut mina vovvar Tasha och Bonzo på baksidan medan jag utförde mina första morgonbestyr i badrummet. Så gick jag ut på altanen och såg då hur båda vovvarna var och nosade för fullt på kompostgallret i underkant av vår grind i staketet….
Först tänkte jag inte mycket på det, men när jag tyckte de var väldigt ihärdiga så gick jag fram och kollade.

Där var små duniga fjädrar och blod på kompostgallret, och utanför tomten var det massor  med fjädrar! Både små duniga “under”-fjädrar, vanliga fjändrar och…. så såg jag nåt hemskt som fick hjärtat att stanna…

Två vingar….. som fortfarande satt ihop…. Två kompletta vingar från en fågel aningens större än en typisk småfågel, skulle jag gissa.
De var helt kompletta…. och i “roten” av dem båda var det fullt av blod-slamsor som höll ihop dem med varandra…. Jag hamnade som i chock… jag letade febrilt bland buskar och blommor efter en sargad liten fågelkropp utan vingar….. åh, hemska tanke!
Men jag hittade inget annat än massa fjädrar… så jag gissar att en katt eller nåt annat mindre rovdjur fått fatt på den.

Jag begriper fortfarande inte hur det kan ha gått till! Hur båda vingarna kan slitas från ryggen, men ändå vara intakta, genom att fågeln fastnat i kompostgallret… Usch så hemskt rädd den lilla stackaren måste ha varit!

Jag tog slutligen vingarna, bäddade in dem i gräs, la dem i en påse och gick ut till soprummet med dem… Jag ville inte att även de skulle slitas och dras i av katter eller andra fåglar…

Stackars lilla pippijogel..

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Så kan jag ju heller inte låta bli att spinna iväg i andra tankar…. ‘Är detta ett omen..?’ … jag har för mig att det finns en gammal sägen, som säger att om en fågel flyger in i huset så betyder det att någon ska dö den dagen….. Har för mig att det är nåt sånt…

Vad betyder i så fall detta…?!

this weeks’ music monday is dedicated to the drummers (you might notice a trend going on…rhythm section now covered, guess what next will be!).  now, my own personal favorite drummer is not featured on any online vids – with the exception of this one – at least that i’m aware of.  i do have some that hopefully one day soon (as i’ve said for a year & a half) i’ll upload…though, the members of the band known as lowfive that would become softer would most certainly object to it   so, in ian asher mcconnell’s place, here’s a video from animal of the muppets, one hell of a beatmaster if i do say so.  

now, onto the drummers you’ve likely heard of and who i am not friends with or are muppets.  i’d say my favorite drummer with those exclusions would be keith moon.  i realize that keith moon is not “the greatest drummer”, but it’s not about technical skill.  if it were, i’d have to put a bunch of prog-rock and dream theater vids in here.  lame!  moon was completely bonkers, and combined with his skill, it made for him being an amazing drummer, so much fun to watch.  one of my all-time favorite music docu-films is the who’s the kids are alright.  they – the REAL who – daltrey, townsend, entwistle & moon – are so incredible to watch.  here’s the moon the loon.

the question of greatest rock drummer typically comes down to john bonham or neil peart.  well, i don’t care much for rush, and though i realize that peart is a genius, i’m going with bonzo b/c i do what i want!  i think it’s complete sacrelige that the 3 surviving members of led zeppelin reunited and called themselves led zeppelin using bonzo’s son jason as a “fill in”.  guess what, putting sean lennon in his father’s place don’t make it the beatles!  bonzo was the most talented member of that group, bar none, and i think the lack of appreciation that drummers get is shown in that.  sans bonzo they’re just 3 old dudes on stage.  here’s why…

“i’m buddy rich when i fly off the handle!”.  buddy rich is widely regarded as the greatest drummer ever.  he was also a bit of a hot-head.  seinfeld was a big fan of these bootlegs that circulated with rich flippin’ out, and such lines as “if i have to tell you again, we’re gonna take it outside and i’m gonna show you what it’s like!” would be injected into the show.  speaking of buddy & tv, i love the episode of freaks & geeks where the neil peart obsessed nick, played by jason segel, is introduced to jazz drumming.  i’d say of all the instruments, jazz really takes the drums to another level that you just don’t get from rock & roll.  and this clip shows why.  from sammy davis, jr.’s show live in ‘66 it’s buddy rich -v- gene krupa.  amazing!

in the bassist installment of music monday, i gave much <3 to james jamerson, the man who made motown move.  his long time partner in laying down the bottom for motown as drummer of the funk brothers was benny “papa zita” benjamin.  again, check out standing in the shadows of motown.  the funk brothers gots to get their propers!  here’s an instrumental of martha & the vandellas “dancing in the street”.

now for drummers i just love.  a lot has been said about meg white being a bad drummer.  you know what?  I DON’T CARE B/C I LOVE HER!  seriously, she is so beautiful, i’d give a limb to be in her presence.  mmmmmm, meg.  here she is in all her glory.  the white stripes live doing “fell in love with a girl/dead leaves & the dirty ground”.

last week’s bassist bloog featured wilco’s john stirratt and i mentioned glenn kotche, and what a great drummer he is.  wilco live is a great experience, not only b/c they are an amazing band, but b/c they just put on an all-around great show.  kotche is a big part of that.  his solo work and side projects (on fillmore, loose fur, minus 5) are worth checking out, too.  here’s glenn from the modern drummer festival.

another rhythm section made complete by this weeks music monday is that from the clash.  now, topper headon was not the original drummer for the clash, it was terry chimes.  but, topper was there for the next 4 records.  and, his drumming style – like bassist paul simonon’s bass style – was very distinctive and incredibly influencial in making the clash the most important band in the world.  one song that really highlighted this was “clampdown”, a personal favorite of mine.  WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO NOW?!?!

i think larry mullen, jr. of u2 would be the first to tell you that he doesn’t belong in the pantheon of great drummers.  in fact, he’s been drumming incorrectly for 30 years which led to surgery on his wrists.  however, i think he’s amazing.  so there.  point proven   oh, and he has (maybe by now it’s had) a house in nyack, ny where i went to college.  during the summer between my junior & senior year while i was in maine he & his wife were frequenting the cafe i worked at.  i wept.  here’s mullen.

to end things off, i think stewart copeland is deserving of getting the nod.  i love his style of backwards playing, which he learned from growing up in egypt & lebanon.  he is also the sultan of syncopated beats.  and brings one helluva groove.  here’s copeland giving some lessons.

the other day i was driving and saw a bumper sticker that said “thank you, president reagan”.  i nearly choked on my iced coffee.  now, i have many friends who admire the former president, and conversely i have many who see him as the epitome of conservative, right wing evil.  his name did equal 666, after all (ronald wilson reagan).  i clearly do not hold any soft spot for reagan, or see him as having been a wonderful human being.  i think it can be said he was a great president by conservatives or for conservatives, but that’s around half the population.  he was a nightmare for non-whites and the working class (as street dogs frontman & union enthusiast mike mccolgan sings on the song “katie bar the door” from ‘06 “whatever happened to america? she was sold 26 fuckin’ long years ago!”, i.e. reagan’s first year in office.  and speaking of musical reagan “tributes”, i thought this music monday would be a good one to showcase such songs, as on this day in 1981 john hinckley, jr. tried to assassinate reagan in order to impress jodie foster (in no way is this a celebration of the heinous act, it just happens to be monday and i like these songs).  begin.

the beastie boys began in the early nyc punk scene, and were one of several hardcore bands that filled cbgb sunday matinees.  and then they decided to switch it up to hip hop and the rest is history.  but, here are the boys live in ‘99 doing a special cover of classic NYHC band reagan youth, and their classic “reagan youth”.

and speaking of nyc punk, here are the original punk rockers from the big apple – the ramones.  this is a feature from andy warhol’s 15 minutes, hosted by blondie’s chris stein, and has the ramones doing “bonzo goes to bitburg” (also known as “my brain is hanging upside down“) .

the violent femmes dedicated 39 glorious seconds to ronnie with “old mother reagan”.  it’s no “kiss off” or “blister in the sun”, but it’ll do.

ok, i think this chick was one of prince’s ladies back in the day, and that he wrote this song.  it’s gloriously bad 80’s dance music…with a message?!?!  it’s sheree with “ronnie talk to russia”.

what was that, you want to hear reagan rap?  oh, we’ve got that covered.  this was done by reathel bean (yeah, i hadn’t heard of them either), i present you with “rapmaster ronnie”.

believe it or not, frankie goes to hollywood made more than just the “relax” song.  they also did a song dedicated to reagan & the imminent threat of global destruction called “two tribes”.  it’s hard to take such a ridiculous band seriously, but hey, that’s the 80’s for you.

of course, you can’t talk about reagan themed songs in the 80’s without the genesis classic “land of confusion”.  a great, great video which supported my childhood misunderstanding that reagan was in fact superman.  hard to believe genesis was a critically acclaimed band in the 70’s when fronted by peter gabriel.  no, seriously.  

sting was one of many, like ol’ phil collins & co., 80’s pop stars (don henley’s “end of the innocence“, r.e.m.’s “exhuming mccarthy“, inxs’ “guns in the sky“, xtc’s “living through another cuba“, elvis costello’s “peace in our time“, and on & on) to talk about ronnie & the politics of the times.  his song “russians” is a bit cliche, but still good – i mean, it’s sting (not stinging or stung, but sting!).  ”mr. reagan says he will protect you, i don’t subscribe to his point of view”.

though made 8 years after reagan left office, nofx felt it necessary to make this tribute entitled “reagan sucks” in ‘97.  i’m not a huge fan of nofx, but they were one of the first bands to get me into punk, particularly with the classic “the brews“.  but, here’s the reagan rage.

the videos began with the beastie boys cover of reagan youth.  and, the early 80’s were full of hardcore punk bands expressing their rage toward reaganism very, very loudly.  of course one has to mention the dead kennedys and their song “we’ve got a bigger problem now“, DRI’s “reaganomics“, DI’s “reagan’s der fuhrer“, and there’s also one of the early thrash bands who brought hardcore to a wider audience with suicidal tendencies and their love song “i shot reagan“, and on & on.  and, there’s DOA, who dedicate this very subtle song entitled “fucked up ronnie”.  

there’s also “re-ron” by gil-scott heron, “ballad of ronald reagan” by the austin lounge lizards, “we begin bombing in five minutes” by bonzo goes to washington and “if reagan played disco” by the amazing MINUTEMEN! (song begins 1:00 into video), and many, many, many more.  now that’s a legacy.

Another excerpt from the book if for no other reason than someone asked me. Writing all this stuff up has brought back a flood of memories so I’m reaching out to a bunch of friends to help me remember the half of it. It’s a time I’m desperate not to lose any of them!

Book should be out May /June….. even quicker if I get round to replacing my laptop and a spot of writing in more exotic places than my kitchen.

So hear as a sprightly baby of fifteen years old did I get to meet the great Led Zeppelin…

I had tickets to see Led Zeppelin which my friend Ken had bought. They were playing the Free Trade Hall, June 1969 and I could barely contain myself with the excitement. Led Zeppelin in my home town just prior to world domination and I had a seat so near the front I could watch every Jimmy Page grimace and every Robert Plant gyration. I could smell the sweat off Bonzo as he thrashed his drums like a maniac. John Paul Jones’ bass lines went up my leg and in to my belly. This was something else, this was rock heaven. If the bass got so heavy and made me sick at least it was rock puke.

After the show we waited around and asked the old bloke in the foyer (I think they call them security now) if we could take a couple of posters down from the wall. He politely agreed and there we stood with two glorious Zeppelin posters, the one with the orange Zeppelin on the cover.

They didn’t sell merchandise back then so this glorious poster I had before me was set to become a major rarity and worth a small fortune. I got divorced, from wife and poster and the rest is history, or it could have been. Farewell my retirement fund.

We sneaked back in to the empty auditorium and watched as the roadies packed up the equipment…… Now this was rock and roll, this was serious. The Marshall speaker stacks were huge, I would have done anything to touch them, even if one could just fall over and land on me. Oh for the blood of Zeppelin……….

Suddenly out of nowhere Robert Plant appeared, leant down and nodded at us, ‘Want me to sign those fellahs?’ he asked. Dumb question Robbo, I kept calm secretly wanting to make him feel the pop star. No sooner were we staring at his autograph with deep admiration of the task completed than he waved us to the stage door. Now he wanted to see if we would like to meet the other guys…….

I looked at Ken, he looked at me…we looked at Robert (by now he was Robert) I shuffled and wriggled in my Levis to make sure nothing I had expected was going on down there……….

Is this for real? I pinched myself, it hurt. This was for real so why couldn’t I believe it? We had been summoned by royal appointment, His Royal Highness, the right honorable Robert Fucking Plant! If the dog had bollocks…then this was it!!

Led Zeppelin wanted to see us, no one else in the crowd, just us! And never have I EVER used so many exclamation marks in one paragraph! This had to be one of the twelve dreams of Dr Sardonicus, My Dreams of Milk and Honey, The Greatest Story Ever Told.

And I’m not done yet, I will conclude this fab day next time round..

Now that I’ve established my sweet, unassuming mother for good and all as the venemous head of the snake, to Rush Limbaugh’s ineffectual rattle, let me just show you the latest photo montage she deposited into my email box. I swear to god I am going to haul that woman before the FCC for abusing her goddamn fwd button — do not think I won’t, because I will.

Do you see what a pussy Obama is?

She sends me a picture of Regan, who’s about to saw off his own foot; a picture of Bush shitting on a tree (which I would never have suspected, were it not for keys’ recent enlightening post — otherwise, I would have thought Bush was just on another vacation); and Obama, who is helping out at a teen shelter. Her only commentary is her trademark smug, “Heh,” which, before you get the idea that she got that from someone else, let me remind you, that the woman has her ways.

I guess we’re supposed to learn from this montage that Regan and GW are real men.

Nummynummynummy!

Hi my name is George! And I like to shake, and when I shake, I make a BOOM earthquake!

Further, my mother called me today with a “word to the wise” (a phrase she also coined), to inform me that Obama’s tax break is actually a tax credit, so I’ll probably get about $113, $13 (thirteen)  of which will be considered income. Not many people realize this, so she thought she would tell me [emphasis hers].  And so I had better put that $13 into a  savings account, because next year I am going to have to pay taxes on it, and a lot of people are going to get screwed by the IRS for not claiming it. Just so you all know. You’ll probably only get about $5 out it.

Fröken Granberg som skänkte mig min finfina digitalkamera önskade att få se lite bilder av mina älskade älsklingar: Bonzo och Tasha – så här kommer de!

Min söta Tasha. Här har hon precis moffat i sig lite extra god mat i tisdags (20 januari) då vi firade att det var exakt ett år sedan hon kom till mig från Rumänien. Dessutom var det ju Obama-dagen också.

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Min vackra flicka.

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Här är vi ute på baksidan och Bonzo och jag leker med en pip-leksak som jag trampar på.

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*tugga tugga*

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Tasha står och ser sig om hellre än leker med pipen.

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Så var vi inne i värmen igen. Lilla sötnosen vill gosa.

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Å så bidde det kväll, och Tasha busar på en gräsplan och Bonzo är i faggorna han med.

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Det är mina älsklingar det! <3

“Out On The Tiles.”

Of all of my favorite Led Zeppelin tunes, this one would have to rank at number one.  Like a lot of Led Zeppelin songs, this one makes me strut back and forth like a rooster on the prowl.  The best songs by this classic rock band makes me feel a certain, intangible something that makes me want to live life to the fullest at full-throttle.

The same can be said about Led Zeppelin III.  When I discovered this album back in the early 80s, the band had already come to its end.  Bonham had passed on, Jones was taking a break, Plant had  released his first solo album, and Page was doing soundtrack work. Nothing that they were doing at that point was as good as the music they played together in the previous decade.  Even after they called it quits, their legend ruled the  FM rock radio stations in Los Angeles. Even as a kid in the 70s, I knew when they were in town; and, of course, my mom would tell me that I was too young to attend their concerts.

George and Tony, two Latino “hard rock-loving” brothers in my junior high school class, were Zeppelin freaks.  In South Central L.A., these two were the “keepers of the flame.”  Through my aunt Ava, I heard the first two Zeppelin albums, as well as their fourth.  It was pretty great stuff for an aspiring guitarist (me) to hear.  When asked by George and Tony if I had heard the third album, I told them I had not. The next day, Tony handed me a cassette copy of the third Zeppelin album in second period.  “Here, man.  Let me know what you think tomorrow.”

I listened, and I have to admit that I just didn’t get it.  It sounded nothing like the first two albums, which were filled with blues-based rock gems, some acoustic parts, and lyrics that I could understand -after all, blues lyrics were written for “everyman.”  After repeated listens that night, I walked away with 4 favorites, and let the others rest for a few years.

“The Immigrant Song.”  Two-note rock riff, driving drums, and a wail that sounded like someone conquering the world.  It shook me, and made me sit up straight.

“Celebration Day” came close to the galloping, swaggering sound that I had come to know as Led Zeppelin.  It was the classic sound, period.

“Out On The Tiles” was instantly my favorite song on the album.  There was something in that song that meshed perfectly with my musical brain.  It made sense.

“Bron-Y-Aur Stomp.”  I fell in love with “Thank You” from the second album, as well as “You’re Time Is Going To Come” from the first.  I could understand that Zep’s acoustic music could convey a strong message without turning up the volume and pressing the electric. ”Stomp” was fun to listen to, and the solo acoustic passages were fun to attempt on my first acoustic guitar.

It would be another 6 years when I finally got the full impact of Led Zeppelin III. I was a different person at 19 than I was at 13.  I could take in “the different.”  I started replacing my Zeppelin vinyl with new-fangled CDs, and I bought them in order and played the hell out of each one until I bought the next.  When I revisited Led Zeppelin III, it all started to make sense.

After those first two albums, Page and Plant went to the country to write.  It gave their music an emotional depth and power that would not have existed if they stayed in a London recording studio.  With no running water or electricity in their rented cottage, they were forced to go acoustic.  This was the Zeppelin album where Plant would start to become a formidable writing partner, tackling lyrics that went beyond his recycling the blues.  Dig “That’s The Way.”  There is very little on the first two albums that indicate that his lyrics were heading in a different direction.

Page, who originally started out as an acoustic guitar player in his early teens, creates some of the most moving acoustic arrangements to come out of rock music.  “Gallows Pole” still moves, bobs, and weaves its way through the minds of many guitarists today.  “Tangerine,” one of the most beautiful and moving pieces on the album, was one of the first songs that made me think, “I gotta buy the Zeppelin song book to play this correctly.  Playing this one by ear is an injustice to the writers.”  And so, I did.

So after 6 years, I finally got it.  And Led Zeppelin III would be the most played Zep album in my collection.  It’s not just “Zeppelin goes acoustic.”  It’s the sound of Zeppelin growing into the powerhouse band that would give listeners some of the most compelling and challenging music of all time.  And if that weren’t enough, this is the Zeppelin album that made it all the way to #30 in what was then called “Billboard’s Black Album Chart.”  Yes, even the brothers in the ‘hood were down with these funky English cats, man.

(Sidebar:  Turns out that Rolling Stone Magazine didn’t like this Zeppelin album.  They didn’t like the two that came before it, or the five that came after it.  When I discovered this fact, I started buying all of the albums that the magazine would pan; often I was delighted with my choices.)

January 9th finds Jimmy Page getting one year older.  I’d like to say thanks to Jimmy for being a prime inspiration in the development of my being a guitarist.  For my money, he is the true “riff-meister.”  Happy birthday Jimmy!  Next time you’re out in Vegas, I invite you to my place.  I’ll cook Italian if you’d show me how to play that sweet,opening solo from “Since I’ve Been Loving You.”

(One more sidebar: Will someone get smart enough to add “Hey, Hey, What Can I Do” as a bonus track on this album?  It was the B-side of “The Immigrant Song,” after all.  And it’s a sweet track, to boot!)

(Please note:  This album was originally released on October 5, 1970)

Currently listening: Led Zeppelin III By Led Zeppelin