All of this comes out of the nexus of Rocket from the Tombs, the Dead Boys, Pere Ubu, and Peter Laughner. I love this kind of fuck you attitude, loose, spongy, baggy, raggedy man and spontaneous.
Dying young is a privilege and an honor. It takes a combination of luck and guts. Rocket from the Tombs will never die. They will always be a part of our cultural patrimony. I sincerely hope that Peter gets through forever on their coattails. Ubu is still delivering echoes of Peter's attitude. I thank everyone involved for their enormous efforts. Fellows and girls, I love your work.
Cats die with class. They know it when it's time, and they walk their range looking for the perfect spot to die in. The time comes and they go to their hidden spot and lay down and then, they're gone. Very different for humans. We must be wired to fight it, or maybe find some importance. But there isn't any. No more than the cats. This song sums it up. We live too long and we become a nullity. We become invisible. We are reduced to a fading photograph, even to ourselves. I wish that I had died young.
Always the self promoter, please allow me to point out that I was a regular reader of Melody Maker after the English Invasion took hold. Melody Maker, and to a lesser extent, Rave magazine, were the only places to discover things that were happening under the radar in UK rock/ pop music, which is to say, beyond the charts. That's where I first read about projects like Gong, David Bowie, Fairfield Convention, the Creation, the Incredible String Band, and Tyrannosaurus Rex.
It wasn't every newsstand that carried those publications. You had to search a bit. I had to get off the subway, go upstairs, walk about a block, and then backtrack and pay another fifteen cents to get back on the subway. It was worth it.
I do not approve of the current ambiguation caused by the mixing up of Tyrannosaurus Rex and T. Rex. Predictably, I also totally approve of T. Rex as a band, and I had/ have all of their records. But T. Rex was later on and it was a completely different animal than Tyrannosaurus Rex. As you can hear. This earlier iteration was a lo-fi labor of love and a desperate cry to the rock-gods to "fund me!" Tyrannosaurus Rex really got my attention. This shit is boss, and it was also a bit otherworldly. It was simple, weird, ambitious, catchy, and charismatic.
This video is really a high water mark for both video and music. I've been to whole cities that didn't have this much life in them. Twenty years ago I had a one hour per week radio show in mountainous, small town, northern Thailand. It was called English by Songs. Most of my song list was chosen for a certain combination of musical quality, clarity of the English, and a story that was easy to follow. I played Ray Charles' Unchain my Heart; I played Lulu's To Sir With Love. One week I told my listeners that I had a special treat for them. I just said, this is what great American music sounds like...I told them not to worry if they couldn't follow the story, just see what it feels like. And I played this. I had that show for about a year, and it was funny. At first, people didn't admit that they listened. After about six months, people started to admit that "at first, I didn't like the music that you played. But now, I like it." This is Asia, don't forget. Most of the locals had to be taught how to swing.
Ohio, and in particular Cleveland, was like an explosive star-nursery in the 1970s. This generation digested the music of the 60s, and out came a rush of originality and talent that glowed and vibrated in new ways. Peter, certainly, Rocket from the Tomb, Devo, Pere Ubu. Stretch the web a bit and you get Destroy All Monsters. Any local aficionado could expand my little list. Maybe it was something in the water. It was flammable, after all.
Fun fact: all through the 1970s, Ohio was the country's biggest market for Krautrock import LPs. Plus the few German bands that had American releases. Think Kraftwork in, I believe, 1974. Coincidence? I don't think so.
Mr. C is: a reformed lawyer; a religious atheist; a useful "Handy Man;" an amateur social scientist; a beloved teacher; a well liked husband and father; Ambassador Emeritus from, and to, Planet X; a freelance professor; taxi driver to the stars (Joe DiMaggio and Ronald McDonald, both out of uniform); an excellent fire fighter; an enthusiastic but untalented musician; an experienced counselor; a top-notch disk jockey; an all around get-along-guy; a cunning linguist; a would-be lifestyle victim; a Masonic wannabe; a frequent reader; Professor Irwin Corey's Ph.D. adviser; an accomplished driver and motorcyclist; a famous rockologist; a reliable but indifferent bullshit detective; a poor speller; a proud United States Navy veteran (honorably discharged, barely); the Ayatollah of Ass-o-Hola; a drug legend; a Returned Peace Corps volunteer (Thailand); a generally charming man; nationally and internationally known from coast to coast; a legend in his own mind; a cultural-anthropological critic-at-large; an avenging angel who coolly bides his time; Soul Brother number 37; and a friend to the poor.