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The first signal of his approach is the abrupt appearance of a small
black dog, hauling its thoroughly pregnant belly behind a couch just
quickly enough to cause you to disbelieve your eyes. Seconds later, a
head pokes around the corner with all the caution of a vaudeville
comedian who wants to get the feel of an undetermined audience. Then,
assured that the audience is friendly, he falls into a grinning puddle
on the couch.
He still wears the look of a neglected British pop star; taller,
perhaps, than you might have expected, but thin enough to send any
Jewish mother scurrying for the stove. Those unmistakable sagging eyes
are framed with shaggy clumps of hair that show traces of red and
yellow streaking through the brown. Though the faded jeans say that
today he's wearing his lounging clothes, the burgundy smoking jacket
and shiny silver boots would be proud additions to any tastemaker's
wardrobe. He's not exactly what you would call pretty in the silver
screen sense, but he's certainly fun to look at.
"I'm not sure, but I'm almost positive, that all music came from New Orleans."
—Ernie K-Doe, 1979
There are some loves that are meant to last a lifetime. You can tell
the first time you feel them. That's the way it is for New Orleans and
me.
It was a quiet week in Memphis. Monday, January 4, 1954. Everyone easing into the new year. Nobody paid any attention when, around lunchtime, a truck from Crown Electric appliances pulled up outside the Memphis Recording Service shop front at 706 Union Avenue and a teenager with greasy blond hair climbed out, carrying a battered acoustic guitar.
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This is Siouxsie and the Banshees/They are patient/They will win/In the end. Siouxsie is the frail-faced, tough-minded, strange-light-in-her-eyes voice/performer of Siouxsie and the Banshees.
NEW YORK: Big Pink is one of those middle class ranch houses of the type that you would expect to find in development row in the heart of suburbia rather than on an isolated mountain-top high above the barn architecture of New York State's rustic Woodstock.
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It is sometimes extremely difficult to separate an artist from the
trend he's involved in; even if there's only a single element that
makes him a part of that trend. Tom Waits falls victim to that dilemma on
two counts.
"After you trip, life opens up--you start doing what you wanna do...c'mon, C'MON let it happen to you..."
-- "Roller Coaster," 13th Floor Elevators, '66.
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Of all the great groups to have emerged out of San Francisco since the mid-sixties, Santana have retained a musical credibility that surpasses their home town bretheren.
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Clapham, that exotic part of town where folk of differing creed and colour mingle suitably inebriated with natural joie de vivre, will soon gain immortality not merely because yours sincerely has taken up residence within its sacred borders...
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I can tell you I was worried about this Pretenders thing. I thought they'd be too much for me--well, not so much "they" as Chrissie Hynde herself. Going on image, what I'd read in the music papers, rumors and the mutterings of acquaintances, I expected her to have the sort of voracious sophistication I've met in certain dyed-to-the-bone-marrow rock 'n' roll people and that it would wreck me.
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There is something about David Blue that screams "Handle With Care." Perhaps a quality attributable to a glass figurine that you hold up to the light, turn around and try to see into.
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