03/11/2020

You'd think it would be, wouldn't you? Enough, that is? Well, hardly. Banish the thought. I owe you PLAYLISTS, Gentle Reader(s)! I know you've been thirsting for them, dreaming of them, lusting after them! Well, so have I. I made my triumphant (if scarcely noted) return to the Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge just shy of a year ago, unsure of whether or not I still had the stuffe required to reclaim and retain my prior position of glory in the deluxe DJ booth. Well, I did, or so it seems. No one has complained, or perhaps they just haven't gotten around to it yet. After 12 years of service I still love Ye Olde Matador and I love bringing a bit of musical enjoyment into the lives of our esteemed clientele. It's been good to be back and, with a bit of luck, I'll stick around for a while longer.   So there!  
08/08/2018

In late 1969 the Rolling Stones were touring the United States for the first time in three years, having suffered through a variety of legal hassles and harassment at home and the departure and subsequent death of the group’s onetime leader and guitarist, Brian Jones (replaced by the young virtuoso Mick Taylor). A lot had changed a lot since 1964 and the T.A.M.I. Show and Mick’s lack of formal neckwear didn’t seem quite as scandalous. The band had decided it was time to bust a cinematic move and they hired the Maysles Brothers—Albert and David—and Charlotte Zwerin, to film and direct a document of the tour in which the Stones presented their bonafides as ‘the Greatest Rock n’ Roll Band in the World.’   By the time ‘Gimme Shelter’ was released in December, 1970, everybody knew perfectly well what had transpired at the tour-ending free concert in Altamont, California. The film starts setting up the horror from the very beginning with scenes of Jagger and Charlie Watts in an editing suite looking at film clips and listening to recordings of radio broadcasts from just after the concert. Sonny Barger of the San Francisco Hell’s Angels, calling into a radio show, deflects all the blame for the Altamont disaster onto drugged up hippies and the Stones. Mick looks perplexed, Charlie mutters ‘What a shame.’ A shame it was indeed and ‘Gimme Shelter’ looks it directly in the face, recording everything with a disconcertingly unflinching eye. The movie ricochets from one locale to another, jumping to Mick and Charlie back in England on a photo shoot for the cover of ‘Get Your YaYa’s Out.’ Next, the Stones are bopping around in an Alabama motel room (with journalist Stanley Booth), hanging out backstage at Madison Square Garden, crammed into a small control room at Muscle Shoals Sound listening to mixes for ‘Sticky Fingers.’ Everyone looks zoned out. Charlie gets into a staring contest with the camera. The scene bounces from riveting stage footage at Madison Square Garden to lawyer Melvin Belli’s office in San Francisco as he negotiates to find a last-second venue for the free concert. The energy and momentum build and for a few moments the mood seems somewhat upbeat.
08/02/2018

In reference to rock journalism, the late Frank Zappa once famously posited that it was ‘written about people who can’t play, for people who can’t read, by people who can’t write.’  Zappa made this observation in 1977 and one can’t help but wonder whether it might be more or less true now than it was then. Either way, Zappa’s epic cynicism would probably be severely strained to accommodate contemporary levels of mendacity. His riposte was witty (there’s a reason why people have been quoting it for the last 41 years) but I must take issue with Frank. I think, or rather I know, that there has been some excellent writing done by people who can write about people who can play for people who can read (amongst whom I number myself, in the third category at least). I’ve been reading about rock music since I were but a wee lad and some of it has been genuinely informative, insightful and moving… but we’ll have to leave that for another day.   The topic of the moment concerns a different medium: Film. Specifically, rock and roll on film. To extend Zappa’s hypothesis: Movies about people who can’t play/act, for people who can’t watch, by people who can’t write/direct? In some cases, undoubtedly, but there have been numerous notable exceptions over the years and some films that arguably rise to the realm of true cinematic greatness. In the early to mid 1950s, before rock and roll had become a fully viable form, there were a few notable films that managed to communicate something of the essential rock and roll attitude. Foremost among them is ‘The Wild One’ of 1953, the progenitor of the outlaw biker movie genre. Marlon Brando stars as Johnny Strabler, leader of the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club, and in a classic bit of dialogue he expresses an attitude that extends from early Elvis to the Who to the Sex Pistols to late 20th/early 21st century punk:    Girl: Hey Johnny, what are you rebelling against? Brando: Whaddya got?   The essence of rock and roll in a nutshell.
06/28/2018

This missive is intended to address the myth and the mystery of three great albums of late ‘60s/early ‘70s rock n’ roll that have, to various degrees, disappeared from public circulation and from the collective sub- or un-conscious. None of them is completely gone—the original albums exist on the margins of the marketplace, on eBay and in the rarities bins of collector vinyl emporiums (emporia?) and some have been reborn in modern guise—but they remain largely obscure relics of special interest only to pathetic dorks such as Your Humble Narrator. Each one of these albums was important to me as a wee lad back home in New Orleans and I listened to each one of them countless times on my plastic close-and-carry record player back in the days before digital anything and Oranguntans-in-Chief. Ahhhh, thems was the days.   The recordings in question are ‘Live Yardbirds, featuring Jimmy Page’ by the Yardbirds, ‘Coast to Coast, Live: Overture and Beginners’ by Rod Stewart & Faces, and ‘Time Fades Away’ by Neil Young. All three of these recordings disappeared from the record stores not long after they were issued, largely due to the artists’ subsequent dissatisfaction with their quality. They languished in cut-out bins for a while, available for $1.99 or thereabouts before eventually vanishing altogether. In two of these three cases, those of the Yardbirds and Neil Young, only recently has the material been rehabilitated and reissued, nearly 50 years after the fact. As for Sir Roderick of Stewart, I suggest not bothering to hold your breath in anticipation of his following suit.
10/11/2017

Welcome back, Gentle Reader(s), to the third report from New Orleans for 2017, with the added bonus of Ye Olde Matador Playliste. It has been nearly two months since my last posting and in the intervening days I have been traveling back and forth betwixt and between Ink North and Ink South whilst doing my best to keep body and soul in a relatively sound state of repair (the mind being another matter altogether). Central to the satisfactory pursuit of this goal is regularly climbing aboard the varied fleet of Inkcycles resident in my far flung locales to take to the streets and trails to observe and consider life’s rich pageant. Riding the bicycle is an undertaking of quasi-religious import for Your Humble Narrator, providing exercise, pleasure, excitement, contemplation, and a much-needed respite from the woes and cares of life in these trying times. I am resolute in my conviction that the bicycle is not only the finest mode of transportation ever devised, but also one of mankind’s greatest inventions overall. Regardless of whom one credits the origination of human-powered two-wheeled transport with (the various claims are well laid out here, through the good graces of Wikipedia), the bicycle makes the world a better place. This I truly believe.
04/02/2017

I can't recall when I first saw Michelangelo Antonioni's Blow-Up, but it was certainly on television in New Orleans sometime in the early or mid-1970s. Back in those pre-cable days the few broadcast stations that there were (NBC, CBS, ABC, PBS, and a couple of UHF channels) either went off the air after a certain hour or they showed movies with minimal commercial interruption, particularly on the weekends. I was utterly transfixed by European art cinema as a kid, thanks to my parents (who took me regularly to see films by Fellini, Buñuel and others) and the remarkably adventurous late-night presentations on local television. Considering what a ruckus Blow-Up created in the cinemas back in 1966, the version of the film that I saw on television must have been edited quite extensively, but despite the censors' snipping it still made a huge impression.
07/08/2016

  A thousand pardons are begged of you, Gentle Reader(s), for the regrettable paucity of postage as of late. The usual distractions of travel, beisbol, work, beisbol and more travel have been in play with the addition of summertime bicycular activities, the inevitable result being that time spent wracking of the brain and pounding of the keys has suffered. Back in early June I was getting ready to add my two centimes worth of sentiment regarding the passing of the great Muhammad Ali when events such as the horrific massacre at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando and the mind boggling Brexit vote across the pond came crashing down. Next thing you know you're wallowing about in a bewildering swampy slosh of WTFs?? and OMGs!! for which there are no answers and no easy explanations. A bit overwhelming. I attended the Orlando vigil on the Santa Fe Plaza on Monday the 13th, presided over by our estimable Mayor Javier Gonzales and I felt that it did some good. It was a display of solidarity and community in the face of hate and intolerance—a display only, perhaps, but better than doing nothing at all.
05/18/2016

Welcome back, Gentle Reader(s) to this humble compendium of verbal effluvia that flows, in fits and starts, from the thinky thing what resides betwixt and between the earholes of Your Humble Narrator. The Ides of May are nigh upon us and it has been a while since my last riposte, what with preparation for travel, travel, and recombobulation from travel taking up an exceptional portion of YHN’s time and attention. I have grabbed this brief moment to consider an opposing pair of epochal events that are marking 2016 as being a year of Exceptional Portent (in both the ominous and auspicious meanings of the term).   On the auspicious end of the spectrum, the Cubs of Chicago have begun the season with an epic tear that, at the time of this writing, finds them playing .806 beisbol, having emerged victorious from 25 of their initial 31 contests. It is a truly amazing situation the equivalent of which has had not been seen in Major League Beisbol since 1984 (the Detroit Tigers, 26 and 4 through their first 30 games), or in the National League since 1977 (the LA Dodgers, with 24 wins through their first 30 games). This is after the shock of the Cubs losing their power hitting left fielder Kyle Schwarber after a season-ending knee injury in game three and with hitting ace/first baseman Anthony Rizzo batting only .282 (respectable, but nothing amazing). How, pray tell, can this be?
02/29/2016

Welcome, Gentle Reader(s). As I’m sure you’re very well aware, my last Matador Playlist featuring live (sort of) Grammy Awards blogging went down like a House On Fire so I’m doing again it for the Oscars! Well, to be honest, ‘House On Fire’ might be gilding the lily… ‘House With The Heat Turned Up A Bit Too High’ might be more accurate. Or ‘House With Something On The Stove’? Perhaps ‘House With Something Warming In A Toaster Oven’? Well, you get the picture…   It’s the red carpet pre-show show. Michael Strahan appears backstage at the Oscars wearing one white glove. A spontaneous Michael Jackson tribute? No, apparently it’s so that he can handle an actual Oscar award without besmirching its gold plated magnificence as he chats with the representatives from Pricewaterhouse-Cooper, one of whom (as Strahan notes) looks quite a bit like Matt Damon (with a case of rosacea). Once again, the red carpet features a perky blonde woman (Lara Spencer) towering over an array of much shorter men and women. No, Sylvester Stallone is not standing in a trench. Neither is the diminutive Kevin Hart.   Michael Strahan appears again, sans white glove, with the perpetually stunning Charlize Theron in a fire engine red sheath dress with a plunging neckline. She says the best thing about the Oscars are the backstage hamburgers. Okay, now I’m hungry. Russell Crowe and Ryan Gosling are next to be cornered by Strahan, engaging in some awkward sports analogies and ribbing of one another. Russell says ‘Just go with it, man.’ Strahan seems a bit jittery.   Robin Roberts is at the front of the hall with Mark Ruffalo and his lovely wife—the deep plunging neckline seems to be de rigueur tonight and I, for one, have no problem with that. While discussing the film ‘Spotlight’ Mark Ruffalo invokes ‘fellow liberals’ and Robin Roberts can’t end the segment quickly enough. The ‘L’ word! Gadzooks!   Okay, here we go.
02/16/2016

This eagerly anticipated installment of the one-and-only Matador Playlist blogg represents an excursion into unexplored and potentially exciting terrain, Gentle Reader(s): Live (sort of) blogiating from the 58th Annual Grammy Awards, presented on the Tiffany Network, CBS, this very evening. The Grammys are usually held on a Sunday but considering that yesterday was both Valentine's Day and the night that new episodes of Downton Abbey air, the brain trust behind the primo music awards ceremony decided not to compete with the distractions of unbridled shagging that Downton Abbey inevitably inspires and put the Grammys off to the following night. The Dowager Countess of Grantham would doubtlessly approve.   Okay, here we go.