The other day, an eagerly anticipated vuh-deo showed up in the mail from my good buddies at Netflix: a Blu-Ray DVD of the Stones’ legendary Ladies and Gentlemen, the Rolling Stones concert documentary.
In general, it didn’t disappoint: the band was hot (gotta give out mad props to Bill Wyman and a surprisingly eager Charlie Watts), the song selection was choice (how could it not be in 1972?), and — well, it was just pretty dang great from one end to the other.
Except for one little problem: Mick Taylor.
Seriously, I’m a huge Mick Taylor fan. I even love his 1979 solo album! But, for crying out loud, every time the camera was turned on the dude, he brought the party down. Don’t believe me? Check out this clip, of Keef, Mick, and the boys blasting their way through “Happy.”
I swear, this bit of film gives me goosebumps — until MT takes his solo. Instant softie! Come ON, Mick Taylor! Aren’t you feeling the drive, the desperation, the swagger, the booze-n-heroin infused, grab-you-by-the-nutsatchel urgency of this song? Why you gotta go all Steve Howe on us now?! Save that standing in place, showing no emotion shit for some other tune, like “Midnight Mile” or something. No fooling, you don’t have to let the groove take over your body all the time — but, shit, man, would it hurt to give in to the music and at least tap your feet once in a while?
Townsman Andyr, aka the Velvet Foghorn, aka “Velv,” suggested the following:
I’d say the banker in London who called the police and got the [Beatles’] rooftop concert stopped was the biggest douche!
He may have a strong case there. But how about other fan faves? Mike Love, anybody? Allen Klein? I’m not tossing my hat in the ring–yet–but I have some definite thoughts on the matter. For now, the question is: Who’s the biggest douche in rock history?
I look forward to your responses. For now, Velv has the belt!
I hear a bunch of you asking: Who’s Bobby Farrell? How can you not know! He was the strange, somewhat spastic dance accompanist to the three chicks who made up the meat and potatoes of awful Euro-disco supergroup Boney M. You know, Boney M: the guys who brought you “Ma Baker,” “Daddy Cool,” “Rivers Of Babylon,” and many, many more awful mega-global disco smash hits in the 1970s. (And by “global,” I guess I mean everywhere but the USA.)
We like to make fun of Mr. Farrell in the Hall—and to a certain degree, he deserved it. One of the original—pun intended—pop stars manufactured by the same guys who brought you Milli Vanilli, he kind of didn’t do anything besides jump around a lot and growl a few words into the microphone. And that’s what he did in live performance; in the studio, he did nothing at all.
Still, Bobby Farrell died on December 29, and that’s not a good thing. He amused us, and gave us all something to make fun of. Lots of people are worth less to me than Bobby Farrell was. He brought me joy.
Even in death, Bobby Farrell has given us one more thing to marvel at: the fact that he died somewhat mysteriously in St. Petersburg—the same town—and on the exact same date—as Grigori Rasputin, who Farrell used to “play” onstage during performances of Boney M’s smash 1978 hit of the same name! Eerie!
Anyhow, here’s looking at you, Mr. Farrell. The increasingly un-showman-like business of pop music will be a lesser place without you.
Oldsters on the list know the “Battle Royale” drill: everybody brings their best/worst to the squared circle of geeky rock combat and attempts to wrest the imaginary “belt” from the Townsman/woman who lays previous claim to it. We argue vociferously about who deserves to win the “battle,” and–if he’s so inclined–Mr. Moderator (in his role as RTH Commissioner Jack Tunney) eventually comes down from on high to declare a winner. Remember: this is not a “Last man Standing;” this is about bringing your best–or in this case, your worst–to the table.
I’ll start with a song I truly despise; one made even worse by its incessant use in retail settings this year: pre-adenoidal Michael Jackson (and his Jackson 5 siblings) screeching his way through “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Ugh! Make it stop!
Greetings, fellow townspeeps! Readers familiar with our ongoing Mach Schau series will know what the drill is here. Essentially, we’re looking to you to help explain why the performances we post are as compelling as we think they are. And by we, I mean me, of course. This time around, though… there’s a twist!
Following are three clips–all featuring the same song, “Treat Her Right”–a big hit in the early ’60s. The first two versions you’ll see are performed by the man who originally made the song a hit, Roy Head. Head was a white Southeast Texas soul man who got his start–very unusually for that time and region–playing in black clubs and juke joints. He was so convincingly “black” on record, in fact, that he would routinely shock audiences when the curtain rose. Then he’d get to moving and grooving, and, well, the following two clips will explain why the color of his skin no longer mattered.
Treat Her Right by Roy Head #1
Treat Her Right by Roy Head #2
Anyhow, the third clip is of the same song, this time as performed by perennial Schau-Stopper and RTH fave Tom Jones. You’ll see a different interpretation on display, but one which I venture to say is no less compelling.
Treat Her Right by Tom Jones
In any case, the drill remains the same: Discuss. Explain. Elaborate. Pick a favorite if you must.
Here’s a thought I had while walking the dog this morning: the Internet, as wonderful as it is, has really fucked up the process of loving rock and roll. Like some gloriously bad drug, it’s made the process of finding stuff so easy and instantly rewarding that it’s put another important human experience — the process of seeking — to sleep. And that process of seeking was one of the things that put the world of recorded music up on a pedestal; that gave rock its mystery — its Godhood.
Please recognize that I was only walking my dog five minutes ago, so I can’t claim to have properly beard-stroked and pipe-tamped my way through this one. That’s your cue to chime in and help me.
The genesis of this thought-bomb occurred last night, as I was driving home. I had the wonderfully eclectic and entertaining Stiff Generation CD in the stereo, and was bouncing about between tracks, when the player alighted on “Peppermint Lump,” as performed by Frisbie. (I found this out later; I’d long since lost the CD cover — another side effect of the digital age that’s demythologized rock and roll.) Anyhow, as I tooled down the byways of northern Virginia, I thought to myself: “Man, that sure sounds like a Pete Townshend song. But what on Earth would he have been doing on the Stiff label?”
I got home, and popped open the laptop. About 60 seconds later, I had my answer — and a YouTube “audio” of the original track in question. This was satisfying at a certain level, but at another, it really bugged me. It was so easy!
About 10 years ago, I found out that Harry Vanda and George Young (of Easybeats and AC/DC producers fame) were very briefly involved in a studio lark they called the Marcus Hook Roll Band. I think I learned about the MHRB in the liner notes of an obscure Australian Easybeats greatest hits album — and the story excited me. Supposedly, in 1972 or thereabouts, Harry and George — on a legendary studio Lost Weekend — had gotten drunk and thrown together some simple, balls-out rock and roll for fun, involving George’s younger brothers Angus and Malcolm. Then they sobered up and largely forgot about what they’d done. Somehow, some way, a record exec heard these tracks and flipped out, thinking they were huge hits in the making. Back in the studio they went, and cranked out a whole album’s worth of this cock-rock stuff, laughing and winking at the silliness of it all.
Anyhow, 30 years later — but before the internet really gained the ability to help — I began my quest to find some Marcus Hook Roll Band. The long and short of it is that I had to enlist the services of a friend who lived in Holland, who scoured local record stores and online used/bootleg CD outlets until she finally found one. Which she then mailed to me. Turned out it sucked. But it was like buying a lottery ticket — half the fun was waiting to find out if you’d won, and imagining how much better your life would be if you did. That’s what you spent your money and time on — and now that pleasure is largely gone.
The end of the Rock Holy Grail doesn’t necessarily mean that the God who once supped from that chalice is dead. But he’s been demystified in a critically important way. And that’s a bad thing. You may discuss when ready — I look forward to your responses.
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