Bands That I've Been In
Aug. 1st, 2013 02:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
koganbotAs some of you know, I've performed in a number of rock bands, though my first group was a folk trio. We were high-schoolers playing a student dance, doing rousing sea chanteys and battle anthems in a headlong, banjo-picking style. We excited the crowd. (I was in elementary school, age 11 or 12, when I first came up with the idea; can't say I had much of a clue yet what would excite an eventual high-school crowd.)
In early 1967, just when I'd turned 13, John Lennon quit the Beatles to form a band with me. I had two intense, emotional melodies that became hit songs. We toured the country, playing smaller halls, despite Lennon's fame. The small venues fit the sparer, more emotional music I had in mind. The two melodies did in fact exist; I remember one of them still, though I'm not sure it's all that intense and emotional anymore. Neither of the melodies ever got any words or became real songs. The only actual song of mine up to that point was a funny one called "Out on the Autostrada" that I’d composed at age 10 on a trip from Rome to Sicily. Its lyrics, in their entirety, were "Out on the Autostrada/We put some ham in their chowder," auto pronounced "ow-toe" in the Italian way, chowder pronounced "chow-duh" in the Boston way.
I don't distinctly remember the bands I put together right after the Lennon one. I'm sure there were many. I do remember that at age 16 I briefly had a band with Grace Slick. Grace was a goddess to me at the time, though a very scary one. Lots of male rock stars were up on my wall. She was the only woman among them. I was in awe of her and completely infatuated but very intimidated too. "Either go away or go all the way in" really unnerved me. She was beautiful, but I don't know how much I was attracted to her. I almost never have sex fantasies about stars, anyway. I prefer people I know. I had a masturbation daydream about Grace, once, that eventually succeeded, but it was work. I kept picturing her hard unblinking stare; I didn't know if she'd relent to actually liking me. Maybe if I were to meet the real Grace — loud, emotional ex-drunk that she's supposed to be — my fantasy life with her would improve.
After the Grace band, I would play with no more stars. I was the star. Generally, I was either speaking the truth to power or dancing up a storm. Sometimes in the former mode I’d stare down a Tipper Gore parental-controls PMRC–type crowd and sing "Ain't it fun when you know that you're gonna die young," or I'd unsettle a gathering hosted by the Clintons with "When the smack begins to flow, and I really don't care anymore." The point was to show the gulf between political rhetoric and emotional reality. Speaking of gulfs, I was once — in real life — in a band with the ex-wife of the actual "Ain't-It-Fun" guy, and my own drug-death song (about my friend Rich, who's still alive, as far as I know) was far more ambivalent, even than those two songs, about such romanticism. "He's better than me 'cause he's sick all the time/Not like I get sick or you get sick but REAL sick," I sang to a real audience. Both Charlotte and I had watched self-destruction in all its boringness by then. Yet it still had symbolic appeal.
Most recently, there's an act I've got up that has me, accompanied by a full Afro-disco band, going into a long, apparently random rant that builds up associations and meaning and then devastates the audience when I pull it all together. This leads into a killer version of Mory Kanté's "Yéké Yéké," with new words by me. I have no idea what the rant or words will be. I doubt I ever will. I do like the thought of manipulating an audience. I once saw Mott the Hoople at a theater in the Times Square area. Ian Hunter was stalking across the stage, doing the song "Sucker." A girl in the front row, all dressed in white, an adoring fan, held out a flower to him. He moved up to her, as if to take it, putting his hand out. As she reached to put the flower in it, he moved his hand a few inches to the left. She reached to put the flower there, and he moved his hand a few inches to the right. As she reached again, the chorus came around, he pulled his hand away, put the mic to his lips, and sang the lyrics "She's a sucker." I've always wanted to make song and act and spontaneous audience reality come together like that, to make a shattering point.
[I wrote this memoir in August 1997, submitted it to Jeff Pike's zine, Tapeworm, but the issue it was to appear in never came out; over the years I tried several magazines that pay, tweaked it a little, tried another fanzine that never made it to a first issue. I suppose Livejournal will irrevocably crash between the time I post this and when anyone gets to read it. H/t Jess Harvell and Mark Sinker.]
In early 1967, just when I'd turned 13, John Lennon quit the Beatles to form a band with me. I had two intense, emotional melodies that became hit songs. We toured the country, playing smaller halls, despite Lennon's fame. The small venues fit the sparer, more emotional music I had in mind. The two melodies did in fact exist; I remember one of them still, though I'm not sure it's all that intense and emotional anymore. Neither of the melodies ever got any words or became real songs. The only actual song of mine up to that point was a funny one called "Out on the Autostrada" that I’d composed at age 10 on a trip from Rome to Sicily. Its lyrics, in their entirety, were "Out on the Autostrada/We put some ham in their chowder," auto pronounced "ow-toe" in the Italian way, chowder pronounced "chow-duh" in the Boston way.
I don't distinctly remember the bands I put together right after the Lennon one. I'm sure there were many. I do remember that at age 16 I briefly had a band with Grace Slick. Grace was a goddess to me at the time, though a very scary one. Lots of male rock stars were up on my wall. She was the only woman among them. I was in awe of her and completely infatuated but very intimidated too. "Either go away or go all the way in" really unnerved me. She was beautiful, but I don't know how much I was attracted to her. I almost never have sex fantasies about stars, anyway. I prefer people I know. I had a masturbation daydream about Grace, once, that eventually succeeded, but it was work. I kept picturing her hard unblinking stare; I didn't know if she'd relent to actually liking me. Maybe if I were to meet the real Grace — loud, emotional ex-drunk that she's supposed to be — my fantasy life with her would improve.
After the Grace band, I would play with no more stars. I was the star. Generally, I was either speaking the truth to power or dancing up a storm. Sometimes in the former mode I’d stare down a Tipper Gore parental-controls PMRC–type crowd and sing "Ain't it fun when you know that you're gonna die young," or I'd unsettle a gathering hosted by the Clintons with "When the smack begins to flow, and I really don't care anymore." The point was to show the gulf between political rhetoric and emotional reality. Speaking of gulfs, I was once — in real life — in a band with the ex-wife of the actual "Ain't-It-Fun" guy, and my own drug-death song (about my friend Rich, who's still alive, as far as I know) was far more ambivalent, even than those two songs, about such romanticism. "He's better than me 'cause he's sick all the time/Not like I get sick or you get sick but REAL sick," I sang to a real audience. Both Charlotte and I had watched self-destruction in all its boringness by then. Yet it still had symbolic appeal.
Most recently, there's an act I've got up that has me, accompanied by a full Afro-disco band, going into a long, apparently random rant that builds up associations and meaning and then devastates the audience when I pull it all together. This leads into a killer version of Mory Kanté's "Yéké Yéké," with new words by me. I have no idea what the rant or words will be. I doubt I ever will. I do like the thought of manipulating an audience. I once saw Mott the Hoople at a theater in the Times Square area. Ian Hunter was stalking across the stage, doing the song "Sucker." A girl in the front row, all dressed in white, an adoring fan, held out a flower to him. He moved up to her, as if to take it, putting his hand out. As she reached to put the flower in it, he moved his hand a few inches to the left. She reached to put the flower there, and he moved his hand a few inches to the right. As she reached again, the chorus came around, he pulled his hand away, put the mic to his lips, and sang the lyrics "She's a sucker." I've always wanted to make song and act and spontaneous audience reality come together like that, to make a shattering point.
[I wrote this memoir in August 1997, submitted it to Jeff Pike's zine, Tapeworm, but the issue it was to appear in never came out; over the years I tried several magazines that pay, tweaked it a little, tried another fanzine that never made it to a first issue. I suppose Livejournal will irrevocably crash between the time I post this and when anyone gets to read it. H/t Jess Harvell and Mark Sinker.]
The dream is dead
Date: 2013-08-01 08:43 pm (UTC)Links
Date: 2013-08-01 09:26 pm (UTC)Sea chanteys
Either go away or go all the way in
PMRC
Ain't it fun when you know that you're gonna die young
I was once — in real life — in a band with...
Charlotte
Yéké Yéké
Sucker