In New York, subway and crosstown are verbs, too. They are time consuming unavoidable necessities, like eating and sleeping.

I crosstown bus and stare out the window as the bus turns and pushes west. Something about the slow journey brings out the crankiness in adults and the wile of children who seem to go out of the way to jump and sing so early in the morning. The traffic is ambivalent. It doesn’t give a shit about you. Pedestrians idle as they cross down the avenues, cabs edging into their right turns, their blinkers setting off hurried animosity. There is that one person who walks against the path of the bus and magically passes outside my window at every stop. I expect—maybe want—them to stop and wink. But they obey the laws of city traffic, totally oblivious. Everyone and everything is, whether it knows it or not.

The cassette I unearthed was dustier than this one, but at least mine had all the tape INSIDE!

Some days ago, a name from the past reappeared on my mailbox. That name was Stefan Cybichowski,  someone I hadn’t heard from for over 30 years. We used to share a flat in Derby, when he was a part-time drummer working at an electrical wholesalers, and I was a part-time bassist working at a power station.  Together, we were part of a band called “Crosstown Traffic“.  It was great to hear from him again, and it re-kindled a lot of old memories about those days. It also prompted me to dig around and I unearthed a dusty, badly-oxidized cassette of the band, circa 1978.  I remembered that we used to record things simply back then, to put it mildly. The rehearsals were recorded by putting a mono cassette recorder on the floor in the middle of us all, and using the built-in mic.  Needless to say, the sound quality left a lot to be desired, even on a pristine new tape listened to at the time, but stick on 30-odd years, and it takes on a strange quality, as though your past is an old, crumbling house and you are afforded a glimpse of it through murky cobwebbed windows.  It was fascinating, and I sought to clean up the tape as best I could. The results weren’t perfect, but after realizing what a fine set of songs we wrote, I am resolved to investing in some software to get the best out of these precious recordings.

One of the songs, “The Pimp” was re-worked and made it onto our Tubeless Hearts album in 1994, and you can listen to the ‘94 version here:

The Pimp

It was originally written in 1977. I would love to do a project where I re-record all of the songs with modern technology. A task appreciated perhaps by only the former band members maybe, but a labour of love nonetheless. The song I retrieved and sent to Stef last week was ‘Takin’ Time’. I salvaged it from the rehearsal snippets and tried to recreate its original format with some judicious editing. The sound quality is not great, but i think its worth persevering with. So listen to “Takin’Time” below, warts and all, and I’ll raise a glass to those guys that made making music such fun in those formative years:

Mark Bryan “Honeycombe” – Lead Guitar

Adrian “Fos” Foster – Guitar

Kev Moore – Bass

Jim Thomson – Vocals

Stefan Cybichowski – Drums

]]> http://thedailywrazz.wordpress.com/2009/09/02/dont-get-me-wrong-some-of-my-best-friends-are-pedestrians/ Wed, 02 Sep 2009 06:10:52 +0000 coryfrye http://thedailywrazz.wordpress.com/2009/09/02/dont-get-me-wrong-some-of-my-best-friends-are-pedestrians/

A week or so ago, blogosario Mike Henneke compiled a list of his pet peeves. I wracked my syrup-sloshed sponge for a passel of my own and came up with a cool zillion, but only one I care to acknowledge here. Because it so twists my craw and is so ridiculously petty, so Larry Davidian in its neurotic triviality, that it makes me laugh. Until it happens.

OK, picture this: You’re on foot, standing at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. It’s bad enough you have to cope with the pedestrian-oblivious piloting cars, you also gotta contend with the sentient sneaker ooze polluting our sidewalks.

What I mean is, let’s say you’re first to arrive at a particular corner. Naturally, it’s your responsibility to press for the “WALK” signal. Not a problem, no burden ‘t all. You apply one firm tap and clock out. Your work is done. Return your hands to your pockets and watch the world zip past, late for lunch, late for work, late for early, late for the rest of their lives.

Now let’s say you’re joined by another dude within, hmmmm, 15 seconds of your selfless act. He’s likely either seen or been within earshot of that motion. (Exempt from this otherwise hard-and-fast rule: children. They love to touch stuff.) But what does he do? In defiance of the unspoken civilian contract with the Department of Transportation, he squeezes right past you and hits the button. And not only does he hit the button, he hammers it, baby, he goes Clubber Lang on that shit. Rapid belts, hip checks, seizure slaps — he’s like an insistent wind pelting a pole with its tetherball chain.

It’s a behavior I didn’t notice until I lived in L.A. One day I was at a stoplight at Santa Monica and Avenue of the Stars, doing my mellow hang, when this flibbertigibbet of a tinsel-thatched fig materialized at my right shoulder, babbling moviebiz into his mobile brick, his every word split by an alien THUNKATHUNKATHUNKATHUNKA. I looked down and he was whacking for a “WALK,” unable to hack not being in perpetual motion. But I give L.A. residents a pass: They’re notoriously impatient, and, at the pace they live, deservedly so. The city’s a mesmerizing quagmire of sensitive artists, ruthless businessmen, and other wild eccentrics, and what they manufacture is vital to my life. But here where I live, THUNKATHUNKATHUNKATHUNKA just means your dealer lives on the next block.

In any case, don’t these people realize that one THUNKA is sufficient? One confident, commanding poke? Repeated blasts do not register as a priority at DOT central command. No one is going to fling his headset and announce, “I need a manual override at the corner of Sunset and La Brea; we’ve got 36 –  I repeat, thirty-six — pedestrians waiting to cross. I don’t care if it’s against regulations, McCord, what if one of ‘em needs to get to the Arclight? Goddammit, man, have you never had a dream?!”

But even the single-tappers get on my nerves. You saw me. The sound was still reverberating as you approached. And it’s a very distinct sound; you’re not going to mistake it for a leaf blowing past or a burger bag settling. The plot is already in motion. Enjoy yourself: you’re on a 40-second vacation!

When you decide to hit the “WALK” button, anyway, what you’re really saying is “Hmmm, guess I’m alone at this stoplight” or “Step aside, fellow stroller — you did it all wrong.” Maybe I lack the necessary credentials to put our joint request across. Who knows? Well, I do. When the little white figure snuffs the oppressive red hand, I know who made that progress possible. You’re welcome.

What silly thing drives you nuts?

I made it through Philadelphia, up the Jersey Turnpike, under the Lincoln Tunnel, and across midtown in one piece. All that with my grandparents in the car. I had threatened to pull it over if they didn’t buckle up, and I meant it. Then they bickered. I put on the AM radio and zoned out until I hit the Tunnel traffic back in Manhattan. At one point, as I almost hit a pedestrian in my fury to get back to my apartment in under two hours, I caught a glipse of myself in the rearview mirror and ripped across four lanes of Second Avenue. After a long weekend with my mom’s side of the family, I could see my dad’s eyes in the mirror. He was always a successful lunactic on the road. I smiled a little and reminded myself to call him. Sometimes, I am truly my father’s daughter.

I’ve been looking forward to the West End Festival, and it’s finally here.

Last Sunday was “Festival Sunday” and the day of the Opening Parade. Banking on my superior walking skills, with a high degree of speed and accuracy, I was in time for the parade, waiting at Kelvin Way along with a jillion other people. A jillion is not a fake word, it’s real, Chandler Bing used it. It is an unspecified, large number, typically large enough to be “unfathomable by the average human mind.” My mind is still trying to fathom whether the number of people there was unfathomable, but it certainly was the hugest crowd I’ve seen in Glasgow since I’ve been here.

Here are some photos from that day:

This man was leading Samba Ya Bamba.

She looked like Sean Young, circa Blade Runner.

This man was with Muleketu, “almost certainly THE best samba-reggae outfit outside of Salvador and winner of the 2009 Concours de Paris.” More photos of them from the live music that followed.

This soldier was with Darth Vader; they are the United Kingdom Garrison of the 501st Legion. I wouldn’t want to mess with him.

This young man was so serious, he had an air about him, he was like a surveyor on a mission.

That’s a “G” he’s doing.

They are the Woodcraft Folk.

Isn’t she a beautiful sight?

She is bendy; they all are.

This girl makes me think of Little Miss Sunshine. They played Jimi Hendrix’s Crosstown Traffic, what a blast that was; they had electric guitars aside from the horn section, I had to shout when I heard it, extreme happiness, you see, and the crowd of a jillion shouted and clapped with me.

That was the tail end of the parade, and I left my spot, hoping to catch up with the front end and see more of the charming, delightful revelers. But, with a jillion people around me, that was never going to happen. My superior walking skills notwithstanding, I was reduced to following a group velocity dictated by lovers holding hands and children on the shoulders of their fathers and people with their dogs and dogs with their people.

But that was good too.

He was camouflaged.

He had a tent all his own.

That’s a bipod, “a support device that is similar to a tripod or monopod, but with two legs. It provides significant stability along two axes of motion: side-to-side and up-and-down.”

*Music from Top Gun*

“Climate change kills people too.”

What better way to find your friends than have a magnificently muscled statue shout out their names for you?

She had a very nice sun hat on.

Live music followed.

After what seemed like quite a long time, I was free of the group velocity and my superior walking skills kicked in again, bringing me to the front of the stage that had been set up in Kelvingrove Park.

They are Bombskare.

They are the Brass Monkeys.

By that time it was 5:30, and I went to meet Jacq by the Highland Light Infantry Monument (1906), which “depicts a soldier or army scout of the Highland Light Infantry straddling a rocky eminence and is memorable both for his jaunty pose and for the attention given to the costume detail.”

A young man was walking around waving a flag, which amused this other young man.

We went back to where the music was, and after a short while Samba Ya Bamba were on, playing their first number for a very shiny Darth Vader, the third greatest movie villain according to the American Film Institute. Dr. Hannibal Lecter is No. 1.

“Clareees… Don’t you feel eyes moving over your body Clareees? And don’t your eyes seek out the things you want? Clareees?”

It’s true. With all my heart, I agree, he is the greatest villain there is, next to Mrs. Arroyo. I am petrified of him. That man cost me several nights of sleep in 1991. Of course, nothing of the sort will ever happen to me again. Ever. I’m much stronger and braver and have lots more courage now. Plus I steer clear of films that have even a remote possibility of costing me any number of nights of sleep in whatever year. Like The Ring (Japanese) series, which I have on VCD, yes, I know, it was a long time ago, but which will remain unwatched except for that one time with Ringu, which was brought about by a deadly combination of five hours of driving, enhanced brain activity and peer pressure, mostly peer pressure. That act of foolishness cost me several nights of sleep in 2003. Of course, nothing of the sort will ever happen to me again. Ever.

He was standing at attention the whole time they were there. He had nice gloves on.

The children were amused, naturally. Was she drinking beer?

And then the Imperial contingent left, and the music was on again, and this man really danced, along with several others.

Muleketu were among the crowd by then, and they really danced as well, which should not surprise anyone.

This woman was a bundle of energy.

Samba Ya Bamba.

I wanted him to have a halo.

To me, her expression sums up the exuberant mood that afternoon.

Then Muleketu were on, and although I’ve never heard samba-reggae played before, that I was aware of, I thought they were quite definitely nothing but fabulous at it.

For a panic-half-filled moment that thankfully quickly passed, I found myself sandwiched between the stage and Samba Ya Bamba, who were reassembling right in front of the crowd. Then Muleketu went off the stage, and the two merged with each other, a “Bolt in!” manoeuvre worthy of the Super Electromagnetic Machine Voltes Five himself, and the both of them played on, a duet if you like, and it was frenetic and beautiful.

The crowd cheered, and begged them for more, and cheered again, and showed its genuine appreciation, and that was Festival Sunday.

That’s how long it took me to get to work today. My normal trip is 17 minutes, door to door.

Stupid jack-knifed tractor trailer.

It was my adopted Uncle Anthony that turned me on to the Jimi Hendrix Experience.

It was the early part of 1980.  My uncle Anthony used to swing by the family compound in his cherry red ‘69 Chevy Chevelle looking for my genetic uncle, Will.  They were in the last phase of high school and the best of buddies.  I always new when Anthony was in the area because his car was like a great sound system on wheels.

One day, I heard him outside blasting a tune called over his system called “Crosstown Traffic.”  I hurried outside to greet him.  I still remember sticking my head through the passenger side car window, letting the music fill both ears.  He sat in the driver’s seat, singing and dancing and “bumpin’ those sounds.”  When the song was over, I asked, “Who’s that?”

“Jimi Hendrix,” said Uncle Anthony in his husky, molasses, southern drawl.  “Boy, you haven’t heard of Jimi Hendrix?”  I told him I had seen him in the Woodstock movie, but he seemed to me to be “a bunch of guitar noise.”  Anthony gave me the look that said, “Boy, this kid needs to be ’schooled’ in something other than Top 40.”  He motioned for me to hop into the passenger seat.  I climbed into his classic ride and got a lesson I will not forget.

He ejects the cassette from his deck, and slides in a copy of an album called Are You Experienced? He takes a few seconds to rewind the newly inserted tape, and tells me to listen.  “Now, tell me if this here is ‘noise.’”

This was the first time I ever heard a song called, “The Wind Cries Mary.”  Right off of the bat, the song his a airy level of “heaviness.”  I was automatically captured by the fluid, bluesiness of the guitar’s sound and 3 note opening line.  The vocals sound like a man who has just lost something very valuable to him.

After all the jacks are in their boxes,
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggerin’ on down the street
Footprints dressed in red

And the wind, it whispers Mary

The broom is eerily sweeping
Up the pieces of yesterday’s life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife

And the wind calls Mary

There was something so pure in the solo that followed those words.  It was melodic, rhythmic and hypnotic..  It was rock filtered through a scope of blues.  It sounded human.  It’s still my favorite part of the song.

When the song came to an end with the sound of drums, I sat there.  I had never heard anything like that on the radio.  It was an older sound, but still very hip and fresh sounding.  Anthony said, “That is Jimi Hendrix.  Now isn’t that a great song?”  Before I could answer, another sound hit my ear.  It was a pulsating riff that came out of left field.  It was playful rock, funk, blues-based, and called “Fire.”  It was a one-two combination of those songs that tore my head right off, and made me think “I should have these records to listen to.”

Just before the solo on “Fire,” my uncle Will comes out of the family compound and opens the passenger door.  “Okay, get out.  We gotta get to Pep Boys so we can get my car started.”  I hop out of the car with the tune still blasting away at my ears.  Will slams the door.  Anthony waves and the two are headed out into the warm Los Angeles night in search of car parts.

Anthony would later introduce me to other Jimi Hendrix Experience albums, including the beautiful Axis: Bold As Love, and the monumental Electric Ladyland.“  The music would go in both straight-forward and experimental directions in Hendrix’s short career,  and as a budding guitarist I would make it my business to investigate further and not to see Jimi Hendrix as some “noisy cat with a guitar.”  He would become not only one of my favorite guitarists but also songwriters, arrangers, and entertainers.

Thanks, Uncle Anthony!

November 27 marks the birthday of Jimi Hendrix.  Much as been written about his life and his legacy.  He was a man of music, and that has also been written about extensively.  With the passing of his drummer-in-crime Mitch Mitchell, the only thing that remains of the original Jimi Hendrix Experience is the music.  Believe me, it’s an experience that is worth seeking out.  Happy birthday, Jimi!

(Lex Neon is also known as Alex Oliver, the quirky and often eccentric musical genius of “sunshine pop / rock” band Poppermost.  Check out their music and Lex’s rock rantings at
http://www.poppermost.com ).

Please note: the original release date for this magnificent album was May 12, 1967.

Currently listening : Are You Experienced By The Jimi Hendrix Experience

So, I have a really special musician today – Jimi Hendrix!

When I was playing a guitar quite intensive in the past, I remember me and my brother trying to figure out Jimi’s riffs .

Well, I am afraid that I am not able to play them for some time.. but my brother still can .

So, let me show you a few Jimi’s songs to show to all of you, that he was really something!

Well, the first song – Crosstown Traffic – short, but full of energy:

The next one – legendary Woodoo Chile – the introductionary riff was actually the thing, that lead me to the Jimi’s music:

Purple Haze:

One of my most favourite songs – Machine Gun:

And the last one – pure and really nice blues – Red House:

You wanna know more?

J. Hendrix – official site

J. Hendrix – wikipedia

Have a nice day

RB

——————-

Czech version of this blog can be found here:

bednarik.blog.idnes.cz

Following a completely unrelated post on Cafe Crem, the subject of bass guitars arose, and it got me thinking about the many that have passed through my hands over the years. Sadly, not many have stayed with me, either through being strapped for cash or just plain stupid, or occasionally because they simply weren’t very good. I don’t have photos of me with all of them (which believe me, may be a blessing), but where possible, I’ll find a pic and post that instead.

So…the year was 1975. I’d had enough of the drums (and sitting at the back) I had been mightily inspired by Glenn Hughes’ vocal and bass performance on Deep Purple’s “Burn” album from the previous year and, somewhat optimistically, I thought “I want to do that.”

Much to my parents horror, it wasn’t long before the kit was gone and a brand new shiny CMI copy of a Fender precision was in my sweaty little hand. The other hand held a weekly payment book from HFC Finance. My life as permanently in-debt muso had begun. No sooner had I plucked my first note, than I cashed in a life insurance policy and armed with the princely sum of 70 quid, bought a second-hand HH bass head. they lit up in the dark, man! I was becoming seriously rock’n'roll!

A real Fender precision relaxing yesterday. not one of yer crap CMI copies like wot I had.

The drums became a distant memory as I gingerly set foot in the spotlight with my bass, playing covers with a local band called Spice. (with a girl singer- does that make her the original Spice girl?) Within weeks, I felt confident enough to realise this bass would soon outgrow its usefulness as a serious instrument. In a move that signaled further financial ruin, I traded it in for a brand new Shaftesbury Rickenbacker 4001 copy, upping the limit on my little payment book. This bass saw me through the formative years of bands such as Crosstown Traffic, (one of whose songs was to appear many years later on the Tubeless Hearts CD “Three” ), and crowd favourites and pub-punk rockers Midnight Express.

I always loved the Ricky shape and sound, especially after seeing pics of Glenn Hughes, the source of my original inspiration, playing one. It would be some time before I reconciled the Ricky look with something approaching quality, but that’s for the next instalment. For now, recoil in horror at the frightening image of me in full flow with Midnight Express at The Derbyshire Yeoman, now sadly a McDonalds (isn’t everywhere?) playing my shiny new ricky-copy.

Next time: hand crafted with more knobs than sense.….

Kev sports a pre-Oasis monobrow…

Kev Moore

Living Colour supplied this Orlando House of Blues crowd with an energetic version of Crosstown Traffic, during an encore in December 2001.