Jukebox Antagonist – Episode 8: A Long Story About Regulars, Vultures, and Compilations

31 Oct
The term “album” originally applied to a compilation of documents, manuscripts, or other items assembled and preserved in a “book” format, i.e. photo album.[1]

juke8-photoalbumSiam-Joe_1571549cBeginning in the 19th century, the word was related to anthologies of printed sheet music and poetry.

The invention of the gramophone gave rise to what we now call records or simply, vinyl. In the early 20th century, collections of related 78rpm records were packaged in book-like portfolios or albums.

When long-playing records (LPs) were developed, a collection of tracks on a single disc was logically called an “album.” The popular music compilation album can be traced to the mid-20th century, when music publishers began distributing “samplers” of artists on their roster.[2]

juke8-Rock_with_Bill_Haley_and_the_Comets_coverThe earliest known LP release of the rock n’ roll genre, Rock with Bill Haley and the Comets (1954), also happens to be the first rock compilation album, featuring singles released by the titular group in 1952-53, including the hits, “Rock the Joint” and “Crazy Man Crazy”.[3]

Most jukeboxes are heavy on compilations, and there’s really nothing wrong with that. Give the people what they want. The jukebox is a sort of electronic compilation “album” in its own right, if you think about it in a certain way.

The items (records) have been compiled (placed in the jukebox) and presented in a book format (carousel of CD title pages).

Besides, I like compilation albums. I’m generally pleased when a box has David Bowie, Changesone (1976); it contains one of my favorite Bowie songs of all-time, “John, I’m Only Dancing”; and it precludes Let’s Dance by seven long-ass years of pastel suits, shoulder pads and saxophone solos.

So Changesone is a positive sum record. I lose out on “Heroes”, but don’t have to sit through “Modern Love” or “Cat People (Putting Out Fire)”, the latter of which was co-written by Giorgio Moroder, the Godfather of Disco.

But of course, some kid is probably going to play “Space Oddity” and that’s a risk I’m willing to accept.

Tell you what, “Space Oddity”? I’m gonna be looking forward to the interlude that follows the crescendo of the bridge:

Planet Earth is blue / And there’s nothing I can do

That’s a hot little riff, man, the way he creates the illusion of a new time signature (6/8) by strumming three beats against the four. Kudos. P.S. The above video was home-edited to capture just that riff for context, and the clip is only 22 seconds long.

juke8-ChangesonebowieFrankly, I’m always grateful when the next song isn’t by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I’ll take five hours of “Space Oddity” on a recursive loop before a single spin of “Give it Away”.

Over the years I’ve developed an acute emotional sensitivity to music and in the same way my liver has developed an aversion to alcohol, the problem is the result of abuse, and neither my temper nor my liver has much control over the situation.

One of main reasons I prefer to drink in dive bars like Baltimore’s Inn: there is absolutely zero chance of hearing Limp Bizkit or Beyonce – music which would upset my equilibrium.

You think I’m joking but the other night I heard some new music by a group of terrorists named Maroon 5, and I’m telling you straight-up, no hyperbole, no bullshit, I couldn’t see straight.

juke8-Rod-Stewart-The-Mercury-Antho-8753So down at the Balt, are we gonna hear Dire Straits and Motley Crue? Probably. Hopefully. It’s much easier to tune out something I’m familiar with.

Bear in mind, despite a deep level of involvement and commitment to the lifestyle, my life didn’t exactly revolve around the jukebox, or the pinball machine. Lots of nights I came in to drink my beer and shut the fuck up for a few hours so I could think.

Anyway, a guy like me has all-time favorites for just about everything, including compilation albums, with several sub-categories, i.e. All-time Favorite Compilation Album for Long Distance Driving.

Rod Stewart, The Mercury Anthology

Without question, my All-time Favorite Compilation Found in a Jukebox:

Squeeze, Singles – 45’s and Under (1986)

juke8-squeeze_-_singles_45s_and_underEven if you’re merely a casual fan of rock music, you must get to know this album. You don’t have to like it. And to repeat myself from Episode 7, while it’s impossible to say exactly what records should be in every jukebox everywhere, when I roll up on an unfamiliar dive bar and plug a few bucks into the box, this is the record that makes me say, “All right! This joint has things dialed in. These people understand Jukebox.”

Yeah, the Ray Price compilation is a nice touch, I agree. But it’s not enough to seal the deal.

Although I’ve owned several other Squeeze albums (Argybargy, Cool for Cats), it was instinctive and invariable to reach for Singles whenever I needed to refresh my memory on how to write and record a decent song.

The compilation contains 12 tracks, and every one of them is a keeper. Somehow, this record sheds a bit of light on how mainstream rock music could go from the Beatles to the Sex Pistols and back to the Beatles in little more than a decade.

juke8-squeezecreem3As a band, they were flawless. Glen Tilbrook (lead vocals and guitar), Chris Difford (guitar and vocals), Jools Holland (keyboards), John Bentley (bass) and Gilson Lavis (drums) constitute the “classic line-up”, although they continued to make great music with Paul Carrack (vocals and keyboards) in place of Holland.

John Bentley and Gilson Lavis. These are two names that don’t get mentioned nearly enough.

Also, Difford is a brilliant lyricist while Glen Tilbrook is one of the most under-rated guitarists in the business. Seriously, man, I forget about that dude.

Check out this live take of “Another Nail for My Heart”, and be sure to stick around for the guitar solo.

Squeeze – Another Nail for My Heart


Due to its location at the edge of Fantasyland proper, as well as its seedy reputation, there was hardly ever anybody in Baltimore’s Inn that you could call “normal.” Yours truly included, obviously.

At the same time, Baltimore’s was a good place to breeze in for a quick drink, score some dope, and catch the seventh inning of a baseball game on TV before rolling off to the next destination. The regulars and vultures hardly bothered with unfamiliar faces until they became familiar faces, which could take anywhere from a week to never.

The regulars were people from all walks of society who had jobs and generally something on the ball. Thus, the joint was a place to come and relax, a clubhouse. As a matter of fact, it was regulars who kept the bar in business, not the tourists or the vultures.

juke8-coke-Ryan-preparing-Regulars showed up anywhere from 5:30 p.m. until 1:45 a.m. at last call. They played pool, bought shots for their friends, tipped a buck on every drink served, and did lines of cocaine in the bathroom. They brought co-workers and family to visit. They loved the joint as much as anybody could. The bar was a substantial part of their identity.

There were certain “sets” of neighborhood regulars who partied after-hours at each other’s homes. Some regulars were more popular than others. There were special regulars who provided a product or service.

However, a regular never ignored another regular; it was based on a bizarre form of common courtesy. There were a bunch of regulars who I wouldn’t have missed if they stopped showing up, and one or two that I hoped all the bad things in the world would happen to them and them alone.

For instance, many nights I’d walk in and see this one dude named Swede sitting in roughly the same spot at the bar. He was an ugly, craven and narcissistic fellow; a true sloth in his habitat; a would-be vulture except that he owned a dry cleaning operation and didn’t drink during the day; and even though I despised him for a multitude of reasons, I greeted him, or acknowledged his presence without fail.

juke8-vulturesOn a random Tuesday night, I rolled in right at 11:00 p.m., which was early for me. I breezed past him and said, “S’up, Sweets?”

“It’s Swede,” he replied, dramatically perplexed and instantly exasperated. “How many…?” Gasping at Fred the bartender, “Fred, this guy is on my nerves every single fucking night.”

“Swede is a stupid nickname,” Fred asserted. “You’ve got about as much French in you as a Thai hooker.”

“That makes no sense, Fred,” I countered. “You need to seriously look at a map of the world.”

Swede was simply thrilled that someone was paying him any mind.

“It’s been my nickname since I was in grade school, elementary school! Did I tell you the story? What do you want me to do, change it? Now? After all this time? Look, it’s on my goddamn driver’s license,” reaching for his wallet, “see here, in the state of California…”

Fred handed me a beer, took the fiver from the bartop, and waved me down to the back end of the bar. “Dickhead. Why do you always have to get that guy yammering?”

juke 3 - pit magic 2“I’ll be over at [Theater of] Magic if anybody calls,” cheerfully.

“I hope you tilt. On every ball.”

“Hey! No Blue Oyster Cult, Fred,” at first laughing and then turning deadpan. “For real, Freddie. ‘Member, last night?”

The previous evening I had proposed a bet over pinball, despite Earl’s dead-serious, paranoid ban on gambling of any kind in the bar. One ball each, highest score takes the prize. I win, Fred doesn’t get to play B.O.C. for one night. Fred wins, I don’t get to use the jukebox for one night. In a remarkable stroke of good luck and serious table mojo, I crushed him by double-digit millions; an impressive blow-out considering Freddie’s pinball wizard status. It was the ball of a lifetime, and I don’t ever remember beating him again.

The point is, Swede was a regular and as much as I wanted to pay him no mind, I didn’t. Courtesy can be found almost anywhere you’re willing to look for it, even in a desperate, dead-end shithole like Baltimore’s Inn.

juke8-fatsally-south-parkThe vultures were a transient group of a dozen regulars who did nothing but show up anywhere from 8:00 a.m. up until noon, sit at the bar, hunched over their rotgut vodka and sodas, broadcasting thick waves of bad vibration. They even had a woman in the crew, Fat Sally, easily the most vile and detestable creature within a 50-mile radius. Somebody would mention her name and I would stop the speaker in mid-sentence, “Not another word. I don’t want to know.”

At 30-minute intervals the vultures staggered out and decamped to the sidewalk for a smoke. Though harmless to the general public, vultures were known for vicious infighting, and occasionally an argument would erupt during the smoke break, prompting the intervention of local law enforcement. I’m told that before my time, there was an inter-vulture stabbing which took place right there in front of the bar. The dispute was over five dollars, which the stabbing vulture accused the stabbee of swiping from the bartop.

juke8-vodkaAll vultures were extremely under-employed, or unemployed and living on some sort of social welfare, be it food stamps or a monthly compensation check for a phantom disability. At least one of them was drinking an inheritance. Besides, being an ill-tempered, full-blown, vodka-for-breakfast alcoholic was like a job – a fucking career – for a vulture.

At some point in the afternoon, the group would splinter, with some buzzards going home to eat something, while the others either ordered a pizza for delivery or took the bus up to 6th Street and Wallace for Chinese food and a couple of drinks at the Golden Girl on 21st Avenue. [Nobody had a car or a driver’s license anymore; all of them had at least a couple of DUIs on their records. At least. This one vulture named Gary had done time for vehicular manslaughter, so you know the type of dirtbag we’re dealing with here.]

They’d all reconvene at the Balt before sundown, throw back a few more drinks, and the early birds would fly home for the evening.

By 8:30 p.m., there would be one or two vultures left at the bar, topping off the tank, so to speak.

You might be wondering, “How does this guy know the intimate details of the so-called vultures’ habits and routines, unless he spent time hanging out with them?” And that’s a fair point to ponder.

First and foremost, I lived around the corner from the bar. One hundred and sixty seven steps. Second, I worked nights, so I was home during the day. My usual coffee shop was another 220 steps west of Baltimore’s, so I would pass by the joint at least twice; once in the morning and once in the afternoon. This apparently concurred with their smoking schedule on countless occasions.[4]

On quiet mornings I couldn’t help myself from poking my head in the door to see what was cooking. Plus, there was at least a dozen times I went down there during the day to argue with Earl. This doesn’t even account for all the times I simply left my fucking house and couldn’t help but see these vultures.

juke8-vulture2Finally, whoever relieved Big Ted from the day shift usually had to clean up after the vultures, because I’m told Big Ted was not a big “cleaning” type of guy. As a result, whether it was Al, Stacy or Freddie, there would always be grousing about that day’s events. So whatever gaps in my knowledge of the vultures was filled in by the bartenders, and by mingling with the few stragglers who miraculously made it past midnight. That Gary son-of-a-bitch had extraordinary endurance.

Because vultures were technically regulars, the regular-regulars were uniformly polite and courteous, no matter how surly or out of line they got. And getting out of line seemed to be their entertainment. There were countless incidents where someone would say to a vulture, “Listen, Eddie, I’m not going to fucking hit you, OK? Just chill out. Damn.”

Most of all, the vultures leered. They would just sit and stare at you like they had x-ray vision. You’d be talking to somebody and all of a sudden, catch Eddie staring at you from across the bar. You’d think, “Really, Eddie? Come on, man.” God only knows what kind of horrific illusions were spinning through his mind.

As far as bartenders were concerned, the award for Closest to a Normal Human Being would be a toss-up between Stacy and Al.

Big Ted was the one bartender I couldn’t deal with. He just creeped me out – and he was king of the vultures. They flocked to him like disciples to Christ.

juke8-carharttHe was in his late 50s, a legitimate Vietnam Vet who definitely saw combat; a big old dude – as the name suggests – with long gray hair and beard, and two motionless marbles in the sockets where his eyeballs should have been. Always wearing the same pair of vomit-olive Carhartt overalls, hands all mangled from masonry work. Big Ted was there, but he was really never there.

I’m 1,000% sure Big Ted was a real nice cat before all the terrible shit that happened in Vietnam, but I wouldn’t go anywhere near him if I didn’t have to.

Conversely! Stacy had a gregarious personality and a pair of sparkling Irish green eyes. Actually, she reminded me a lot of my sister. She was also easily distracted and absent-minded; it was exceedingly common for her to get sucked into a 15-minute conversation with one of the vultures while ignoring the rest of the bar.

Some nights I wouldn’t be in the mood for pinball, so I would sit and jawbone with one of the fixtures of the joint, a quasi-vulture named Grabby – the one with the inheritance, who was highly educated and hence, one of the only vultures capable of intelligent conversation.

Grabby and I could talk about absolutely anything from astronomy to zoology, but we were consistently marveled by Stacy’s lack of awareness and overall bartending competence. At least once a week, one of us would mutter in disgust, “She has got to be the worst bartender in the history of alcohol,” staring bitterly at the empty bottles in front of us.

Every so often, Grabby would get up, walk to the other end of the bar, pretend to put money in the jukebox, only to turn around and interrupt loudly, “Hey Stace! Remember us? We’re a coupla thirsty dudes down there, babe.

That was my cue: “It’s like we’re ghosts!”

Of course, Stacy would come scooting over and she was so nice that you couldn’t hold it against her. Grabby said, “She’s a lovely person inside and out…unfortunately.”

And in her defense, if it was busy, Stacy did her best to stay on the ball.

If Freddie or Al were on the job, the next drink appeared almost instantaneously. Snap your fingers – it appeared. Wait. Back it up. Never snap your fingers in a joint like the Balt.

juke8-raypriceAnyway, Al was telepathic. He knew the level on your beverage at all times, sometimes without even looking. Al knew when you needed a beer before you did. He was the embodiment of old school Fantasyland bartending. He was the Ray Price of bartenders.

A native Fantasylander – or as they called themselves, Fantasian – Al was a former city beat detective and college football star; short but stocky – est. 5’6”, approx. 200 lbs. with Popeye forearms, bushy moustache. He had deep booming voice and big old bear paws for hands, his pinky as thick as my thumb. He had a death grip for a handshake, and you shook his hand twice – on arrival and departure, every single night – it was mandatory.

Now in his mellow early 50s, it was still pretty clear that you didn’t mess with Al. The Jimmy Buffett shirt and nerdy eyeglasses were a ruse. From day one, I made a conscious decision to never discuss music with Al.

There was one time early in my tenure when a fight broke out among some cats playing pool, Al came out from behind the bar to break it up and he was tossing kids around like cardboard cut-outs. It was also the first time I had seen someone literally thrown out of a bar, courtesy of Al.

He would always warn guys if they were getting out of line; we saw that a lot. If everybody is a bomb, Al had a fairly long fuse, and he’d let you know if you were getting close to detonation. That was the cop in him. Just the way he would talk to a guy usually diffused the situation. He would say, “WE don’t have a problem right NOW, pal, but YOU are about to have a REAL big problem. So, cool your fucking jets.”

And one of the vultures named Wayne slurs, “Dude, trust me… You don’t…want to mess…with Al.”

Jets were invariably cooled.

juke8-talking-gi-joeOne Friday night this military hothead G.I. Joe had been holding court at the bar since 9:00 p.m. when I arrived on the scene a little after midnight.

G.I. Joe had been in the bar at least a couple of times in the past month. He boasted of being a former Marine, serving “Special Ops” in Iraq, and now working for Blackwater. Whether or not that was bullshit didn’t matter. He wasn’t overly scary or threatening; he was just a loud mouth. He talked shit so people would respect him. I wouldn’t even make eye contact with the cat.

Stacy was behind the bar, but Al and his lady Marianne were down at the nook end – the small elbow of the bar furthest from the entrance – having just arrived from a wedding at the Masonic Temple down on Mercer Avenue, all decked out in their finest duds. Marianne, one of the coolest women I’ve ever met, also happened to be a cop in a neighboring county.

It seemed like everybody was in good spirits. G.I. Joe had a circle of people that took up the back half of the bar and spilled out over to the pinball machine. Thwarted – albeit temporarily – from playing my beloved Theater of Magic, I made my way toward Al and Marianne, avoiding G.I. Joe like a gaping sinkhole in the middle of Midland Boulevard.

Before my butt even hit the stool, Al nudged me and said, “I don’t like this guy” referring to G.I. Joe, who was extraordinarily loud and increasingly obnoxious. I’d only been in the bar for maybe 30 seconds, so I was somewhat indifferent.

“Yeah, whatever.”

juke8-hookersIMG_4610There were a couple of chicks in the G.I. Joe posse that may not have been “sluts” or “prostitutes”, but to quote Dave Chappelle, they were wearing the uniform. My eyes glazed over.

G.I. Joe snapped at Stacy a couple of times, “Hey! Bartender! Where are those shots I ordered?” which caused Al to bristle and grimace. He was agitated. His fuse had been lit and it was burning fast.

But Stacy was cool. She gave G.I. Joe the stink-eye. He winked at her and Stacy said later that he was a very generous tipper, and she didn’t mind his gruff demeanor, which she described as a “primal form of flirting common with military goons.”

Maybe 10 minutes passed, and G.I. Joe was now clearly talking shit. I heard – we all heard him say, “The bitch didn’t say that when my dick was in her mouth.”

Cringing in embarrassment, I said, “Marianne, cover your ears!”

Marianne’s ears were pitched forward. She either saw or smelled something wrong.

All of a sudden, a super loud “Whoa-ohhhh!” came from the G.I. Joe crew followed by a hush. One of the chicks had just tossed a drink in G.I. Joe’s face. It was probably a drink he had paid for, too.

The chick was saying, “You fucking asshole…” Etc. There was a mixture of laughter, disdain, and “Hey, hey – relax!

From my angle, I couldn’t see exactly what G.I. Joe did next, but somehow he made contact with the woman and she would up on the ground, screaming bloody murder. Everybody was screaming at this point, actually.

A canon chorus of disapproving “Hey!!!!” erupted from around the bar.

Al was up and on G.I. Joe so fast that I didn’t even notice he’d left his seat. Pow, Bam, Scrunch. Al got the dude in a Full-Nelson and dragged him out on the sidewalk within a matter of seconds. Marianne got some handcuffs out of the trunk of her car, and the local cops were there like Shazam!

Despite his alpha male status, Al had a couple of curious, not-so-normal features, the most notable being his love of Tom Jones. Al revered Tom Jones like I worshipped Eddie Van Halen – for the first 30 years of my life. Then I gave it up as a bad job.

juke8-cd-tmjonesgreatestAt any rate, of course we had Tom Jones, Greatest Hits – The Platinum Edition in the box, and if Al was behind the bar, you were guaranteed to hear “Sex Bomb” every hour, on the hour. At some point, I just got in the habit of using one of my selections on “She’s a Lady” to save him the trouble – a move that invariably scored me one on the house.


In the broadest of terms, I have to admit that owner Earl had more on the ball than I give him credit. He was in fact responsible for Singles – 45s and Under being in the jukebox. He also bought an updated wireless remote for the jukebox that he kept in the right pocket of his football-style jacket. The original remote only featured a VOLUME knob and CANCEL button. The new version had more buttons than the TV remote. You could do all sorts of crazy things with it.

juke8- remote-oldOf course, everybody (who cared about the jukebox) was anxious to get their paws on that remote, but Earl kept a tight watch on the device. And I completely understood his rationale, which was that it should only be used in extreme emergencies. He believed, as I do, that if somebody puts their hard-earned cash in a jukebox, they deserve to hear what they selected, in the order it was selected. End of story. In other words, no bumping.

“Bumping” was the term used to describe the jukebox version of cutting in line. There was another dive bar on the other side of town that I frequented where bumping was extremely common. They did it to me, once. According to Earl, with this new remote, you didn’t have to completely delete (or bump) a selection; you could, but there was another method via remote using FUTURE MODE, which allowed you move a jam or a set of jams to the back of the cue. I never did bother to find out of if he was bullshitting us. FUTURE MODE seemed like an awful lot to ask of a seven-year-old jukebox in 2003. You know? I smelled fish.

Regardless, as a bar owner, Earl was as absent as he could get away with and not have the joint get burned to the ground. He opened the doors at 8:00 a.m., stuck around until Big Ted showed up, then cut out to bet on the ponies at the track or lose his shirt at the Indian casino, and head back down to the Balt around 6:00 p.m.

Whenever he and I were at odds, I would say, “But Earl, I don’t get it. You love Squeeze just as much as I do; yet you also love Power Station. How is that possible?”

juke8-roweavi-100The Rowe AMI Compact Disc Jukebox contained up to 100 discs, which is a lot of ground to cover. Earl kept a keen eye on what was being played, and most definitely didn’t always concede to Freddie.

The box contained an equal number of standard albums and compilations, but it was always the best-of selection that surprised me. For instance, we had (at some point) best-of collections from The Cure, R.E.M., David Bowie, Radiohead, Talking Heads and the Clash. On the flipside, we also had Dave Matthews Band and Pearl Jam.

In a joint like the Balt, which had all the aesthetic appeal of a biker bar in rural Oregon, you might be thinking more along the lines of George Thorogood and the Doobie Brothers. Oh, we had those, too.

juke8-Endless-SummerOne Sunday afternoon, I rolled down to Baltimore’s with the express intention of arguing with Earl about his apparently arbitrary decision to replace The Beach Boys, Endless Summer with Foreigner, Complete Greatest Hits.

Earl was a fairly mild-mannered cat, and he always weathered my interrogations with healthy doses of humor and patience. If he saw me come through the door before sundown, he knew I wasn’t there to watch the Raiders’ game.

“But we haven’t had any Foreigner [in the jukebox] for at least a year,” Earl responded.

“We don’t need any Foreigner.”

Earl shrugged and said, “It’s one of those records we really should have.”

“No. Their first record is arguably a must-have, but their greatest hits? You know how many times I heard ‘I Want to Know What Love Is?’ last night?

“More than once.”


“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Earl backed off from the bar and resumed polishing beer glasses. “Seems like you’re the only one who cares about the Beach Boys. I never liked them in the first place.”


“No, I’m serious. Never liked ‘em. They didn’t even know how to surf. How fucked up is that?”

juke8-Foreigner-Greatest-Hits-531074“That’s not true, Earl. Dennis Wilson was a fairly accomplished surfer.”

“Do you think,” his voice rising, “that Brian Wilson ever paddled out past a break?”

“Fair enough, Earl,” I backed off. “Obviously – your bar, your rules. But I can’t see Foreigner being the appropriate replacement in any situation. I mean, we only have one Sabbath record [Paranoid].”

And then Earl said something that forever destroyed any credibility he might have had with me, Squeeze notwithstanding, “Yeah, but the problem with Black Sabbath is that if I put [the albums] in the box, people are going to play ‘em. It’s going to be Black Sabbath all night, every night.”

From that point forward, whenever the subject of music came up with Earl, I proposed that he simply buy a second-hand iPod from a panhandler at Fisherman’s Wharf, and get rid of the jukebox altogether.


A lot of compilations contain enough filler that maybe half of the songs are justifiable “hits.” Take for instance a band like Boston, who didn’t drop a best-of collection until 1997 – 25 years after the band was formed; an eternity in the music industry.

Ijuke8-bostongreatest’ve got a lot of respect for that kind of commercial restraint, especially in an era where bands (labels) put out a best-of collection after the third album barely dented the charts. Ahem.

However, Boston’s Greatest Hits contains 16 tracks, maybe four of which are standard classics:

  • “Foreplay/Long Time”
  • “More than a Feeling”
  • “Peace of Mind”
  • “Don’t Look Back”

Throw in “Rock n’ Roll Band” and “Smokin’” and make it a grand total of six palatable jams, five of which are on their eponymous debut album (1976).

Go back and revisit those numbers. Sixteen and six. Seriously, I kind of have a sweet spot for “Hitch a Ride” – also on the first album – but don’t tell anybody. Sixteen and seven. Still, not a good ratio for a compilation album.

Right, so… “Don’t Look Back” is the only hot track from the second album of the same name (1979), and everything they’ve done since then doesn’t rate. In fact, a lot of it does nothing but offend. The extra nine or so tracks on the best-of disc are just asking for trouble.

In the case of an artist like Boston with a handful of hits, but those jams are super-massive hits, it makes much more sense to skip the compilation and go with the debut album which contains the bulk of what people want to hear, while at the same time, denying them the opportunity to jam us with extraneous bullshit.

You only have to sacrifice “Don’t Look Back” in order to keep people from playing “Amanda”. This is heretofore known as the Boston Dilemma.

juke8-bostonfirstBoston was one of the cases in which I was able to prevail over Earl and get him to swap out Boston’s Greatest Hits for the 1976 debut album. Nobody noticed. We still heard “More than a Feeling” on a nightly basis. And nobody threw a fit because they couldn’t play “Amanda”. Even Freddie hated that song.

Furthermore, a lot of bands have downright dangerous compilations. Take for example, Heart, a band with eight different best-of collections. At least one of those compilations, Greatest Hits/Live (1980), features only their hard rock stuff, and honestly if the band had stopped there, I probably wouldn’t be throwing so much shade at them. But they didn’t.

Tragically, down at Batlimore’s Inn, we wound up with Heart, These Dreams: Greatest Hits (1995) and no amount of bellyaching to Earl was going to change that. Like I said, after Earl’s Black Sabbath comment, my attitude about the jukebox made that gesture of dismissal and disgust which equates to the opposite of bowing down.

Heart is a band with maybe three or four good rock songs. One could argue for a few sleeper tracks (“Heartless” is a gritty little number) but generally speaking, the rest of their catalog, though apparently popular with soccer moms and karaoke singers, is terrible. I don’t like it. And please be reminded I’m speaking purely from a Rock with a capital R – music perspective.

The problem with Heart’s These Dreams: Greatest Hits goes beyond that fact that it contains “All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You”; the disc’s sequencing is purposefully insidious. You might wonder what sequencing has to do with content.

The way in which Heart’s Greatest Hits is laid out, the record opens with “Crazy on You”, which is a solid jam. No qualm or beef with that one. Disc 78 – Track 01.

In my mind, there are only two songs that could possibly follow: “Magic Man” or “Barracuda”; one or the other should be Tracks 02 and 03.

juke8-Heart_Greatest_HitsUnfortunately, on These Dreams those songs have been sequenced to appear as Tracks 08 and 17, respectively.

What’s in between? Gut-wrenching, over-wrought power ballads like “Alone”, “Never”, “Who Will You Run To?” and “These Dreams” – among other non-desirable tracks.

We’re in an establishment where alcohol is over-served, and I saw this scenario unfold time and time again. We as a species under the influence are borderline incompetent when faced with simple yet electronic tasks, such as programming a song on a jukebox, which requires at least the fundamental ability to read, count, and press a series of buttons.

Dude is on his sixth beer and rumbles over to the jukebox. He sees Heart’s Greatest Hits and thinks, “Hell, yeah! Let’s play some jams! Barra-cuda!!

And that’s how you wind up getting pounded with (A) shit nobody wants to hear and (B) a track that wasn’t what the dude intended to play; which is usually followed by more money being fed into the box – an attempt to program the right track.

Bear. A. Coo. Dah.

The really nasty bit comes derives from the Rowe AMI Compact Disc Jukebox itself. When programming a song, it requires the two sets of two-digit numbers as described above; four numbers in total and in sequence. Disc number, followed by track number. So if a patron wanted to hear “Crazy on You”, they would enter the following four numbers in sequence: 7801. That’s it.

Ajuke8-keypad2_indexs soon as that fourth digit – in this case, the “1” was tapped on the keypad, the jukebox automatically assumed that’s the jam you wanted to hear, and in fact, it was officially programmed. There’s no ENTER button on the keypad, or anywhere on the machine for that matter.

OK, but isn’t there a RESET button? Yes, but it’s only effective up through three digits. So if you got antsy and pressed 781 – thinking, “Hey, it’s Track 1” and not realizing it’s actually Track 01 because you’re silly drunk – you still had a chance to make things right.

The correct response is to catch the mistake and immediately hit RESET and start over. Instead, most people either press 0, thinking it will adjust the second set of digits, or 1, because they’re fucking stupid.

Thanks to Dude and his failure to discern between Disc 78 – Track 01 (“Crazy on You”) and Disc 78 – Track 11 (“Dreamboat Annie”), we’re going to hear half of Heart’s Greatest Hits – the shit half. So order another beer and settle in.

Meanwhile, the dude was also trying to program “Magic Man” – Track 08 – a digit off from Track 09: “What About Love”. How he confused Track 07 (“Straight On”) for Track 17 (“Barracuda”) is frankly beyond comprehension, but stranger things have happened.

And it’s not only blurred vision that complicates the mix. Sometimes it’s simple math. The number 08 looks a lot like 09. The vicious circle continues. More dollars, more tapping at buttons, more mistakes. And we still haven’t heard “Barracuda”.

juke8-Little_Richard's_Greatest_Hits_1965On rare occasion, a disc might be mislabeled and the running order would be wrong. For instance, Little Richard’s Greatest Hits (1965) was completely wrong from Track 03 on down, thanks to a secretarial omission of “Tutti Frutti” from the running order listed on the CD tray card.

Fortunately, I was the only one at the Balt who ever played Little Richard and I didn’t care which of his jams came next. In fact, that’s how I really got acquainted with some of his lesser hits like “Oh! My Soul” and “Send Me Some Lovin’” – by punching wrong numbers on the keypad. And for that, I’m eternally grateful, because I wasn’t exactly sitting around at home listening to Little Richard for snicks.

However, it’s my understanding that the majority of untended selections were the result of human error. If you played “Stairway to Heaven” when you meant to play “When the Levee Breaks”, you had no business messing with the jukebox and it was probably time to call it a night.

On the other hand, many bands have multiple compilations, and in a few instances, you can pretty much program any song on the disc and it will be OK. Queen’s first Greatest Hits (1980) is one such record. Any one of the Beatles’ Anthology series is a full-time winner. You could throw at dart at the Stones’ Hot Rocks and probably hit a solid cut. However and unfortunately, compilation albums cannot be created equally.

juke8-who-meatyThe Who have dumped a total of 26 different compilation albums into the market, many of which are chock full of tasty cuts. This is because starting from 1983’s Who’s Greatest Hits, these records are virtually identical. They haven’t had a hit since 1983, so nobody is lacking. The only Who record you’ll find in my jukebox is Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy (1970).

juke8-goldnplatskynyrdOver the last 20 years, the first three Lynyrd Skynyrd albums have grown on me unlike any other band or artist. When I think of how far I’ve come in my appreciation for Skynyrd’s music, from “Yeah, they’re cool” to “Oh my God!” there is no other artist that even comes close.

The summary transformation has been the equivalent of being the bass player in Slayer, waking up one morning and suddenly having an irresistible compulsion to audition for Celine Dion.

Guided by Voices has really grown on me, but I’d survive on a deserted isle without Alien Lanes (1994). I wouldn’t make it a month without at least one Skynyrd record.

Anyway, aside from the first three albums, the rest of Skynyrd’s catalog – from 1975’s Gimme Back My Bullets forward – has some hits and some misses. However, Skynyrd was and is special; they’re like the Beatles, Stones and Hendrix; it would be an insult to their music and their legacy to simply put a compilation album in the jukebox, for instance, Gold & Platinum (1979) and call it day, which is exactly what happened at the Balt.

Here we face a variation of the Boston Dilemma. The problem isn’t that people play the same jams, night after night; it’s that you’re only allowed to play the hits. Most of my favorite Skynyrd jams are the deep cuts found on those first three records.

juke8-Jimi_Hendrix_-The_Cry_Of_LoveLikewise, The Essential Jimi Hendrix compilation is a fine record, but you also must have a regular album in there as well – to allow for deep cuts. The Cry of Love (1971) would be an excellent choice, by the way. Moreover, you can have the Beatles 1967-70, but you also have to include Revolver.

Pause for a moment. Sigh.

The debut, Pronounced ‘Lĕh-’nérd ‘Skin-’nérd (1973) is a staggering work of heartbreaking genius. The only problem is “Freebird”. If it’s my joint, we can’t have that song on the box. Period. Down at the Balt, it’s bad enough the jam is already on Gold & Platinum.

The aptly-titled Second Helping (1974) is almost as good, but it contains “Sweet Home Alabama”, which is such a tasty cut that it too deserves to be retired forever. Likewise, you’re not going to hear it in my joint.

juke8-Lynyrd-Skynyrd-Nuthin-Fancy-137866Changing the angle for a moment, we could consider a live album, One More From the Road (1976), but again, it’s mostly big hits and… “Freebird”. Furthermore, it doesn’t have anything from Street Survivors (1977), particularly one of their best-ever cuts, “That Smell.” So, no and no.

The third album, Nuthin’ Fancy (1975), is probably my favorite of the trio, and another record that can define a jukebox. Its big hit was “Saturday Night Special” which is certainly my favorite of their charting singles, and you’d hear “Made in the Shade” on late night album-rock radio stations. The genius of Nuthin’ Fancy is found in deep cuts like “On the Hunt” and “Am I Losin’?”

In the end, sometimes a compilation album is simply not enough. It doesn’t say anything about an artist except that they had a few hits. In the case of a band like Squeeze, whose best jams all happened to be hits, the mediocre stuff is for aficionados and doesn’t belong on a dive bar jukebox. Squeeze was awesome, but they were nobody’s Lynyrd Skynyrd.


[1] The word album originates in the early 17th century: from Latin, neuter of albus ‘white’ used as a noun meaning ‘a blank tablet’. Taken into English from the German use of the Latin phrase album amicorum ‘album of friends’ (a blank book in which autographs, drawings, poems, etc. were collected), it was originally used consciously as a Latin word – whatever ‘consciously’ is supposed to mean in the context. I dunno.

[2] It could probably be traced back even further than that, but who cares?

[3] If You Care: BH&tC’s first three albums were compilations; they didn’t begin making “themed” albums until 1956, beginning with Rock n’ Roll Stage Show.

[4] I know I’ve told this story before somewhere, but it’s a perfect example of my relationship with the vultures. I’d been living out there for two years when one morning around 9:00, I set off for the coffee shop and came upon a group loitering in front of the bar. Most prominent was this Irish guy named John, an itinerant house painter, who I didn’t know very well.

juke8-irishmanNormally, I would nod at the group in general and keep walking. No real reason for pleasantries, unless someone engaged me. None of the vultures noticed me coming up the sidewalk except for John; we made eye contact at 20 yards. As I approached, without warning or provocation, John snarled, “The fuck you lookin’ at, lad?”

Dumbstruck, I said, “I’m not lookin’ at anything” and kept walking by.

“Fuckin’ shandybagger.”

I turned around, “What?”

“Fuckin’ pillowbiter, that’s what you are.” At this point, the other vultures had taken notice.

“Whatever, John. Isn’t there a house somewhere that needs to be painted wrong color?” Wayne and Larry cackled. But it was true. John once worked on a crew that painted a house green when it was supposed to be painted blue. It was not a fact that John willingly shared. The boss of the crew used to be a vulture as well.

John was steaming, “Watch your tongue, lad. Someone might have an idea to cut it out for ya.”

“Goodbye,” I said, spinning back around, “have a nice day.”

“Little fuckin’ cunt,” John rasped.

Two nights later, I got cut early at work and posted up at the Balt around 10:00 p.m. The place was jumping, as I had forgotten it was the birthday of a well-regarded regular, this dude named Thomas. Everybody was in attendance. Earl, Al, Stacy, Big Ted were there. Freddie was behind the bar, which was lined with vultures.

So I joined the festivities and bought a round of shots for Thomas, a certified nurse working toward his EMT, and one of those rare, genuinely nice guys that didn’t have a bad bone in his body. Not a pushover by any means, Thomas just seemed to always find a compassionate response to any situation. So we jawboned for a while. Then Thomas’s lady, Gwen came over, and in turn introduced me to her friend, a young woman named Colette.

An hour later, Colette and I had hit it off and were chatting while leaning against the rail that separated the bar area from the pool tables. All of a sudden, I felt an arm across my shoulder and the hot breath of an extremely inebriated Irishman on my neck. It was John.

“I fuckin’ love this wee lad,” he gushed in Colette’s direction, and tried to kiss me on the cheek as I struggled.

“Dude, get off of me,” I squirmed.

“No, I’m serious,” he wouldn’t let go of my shoulder, “I absolutely love this guy. He’s a prince.”

“That’s nice,” Colette smiled awkwardly.

“John, go away.”

“If I were a faggot, and I’m not, I swear, I’d want to fuck this guy,” John continued to slobber, pointing at Colette. “You could do a lot worse than bag this wee lad, sister. He’s a keeper.”

“Earl!” I shouted. “EARL! Get this fucking vulture off of me!”

Thomas was nearby and stepped in, separating John from the scene without further incident.

“What was up with that guy?” Colette was puzzled.

“I dunno,” I mused, “must be the spirit of the occasion. Just the other day he was threatening to cut my tongue out.”

Jukebox Antagonist – Episode 7

17 Oct
Fantasyland. It was just like being home except home wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about having me around. Despite a litany of things to do, people to see, and places to be, it was inevitable that I would spend some time at Baltimore’s Inn.

One night Freddie was behind the bar. It had been over a year since I’d been back, but very little had changed. A few vultures had come and gone. Different vultures had taken their places. Theater of Magic was still there; so was the jukebox.

Later in the evening, Fred slid down the bar with a goofy smile and eyebrows arching. “Hey!”

“Hey, what?”

juke 7-chink demoindexHis eyebrows continued to dance. “So…? Chinese Democracy.”

He was referencing the new Guns N’ Roses record, not my country of residence.

“What about it?

“Have you heard it?”

“One song on [local radio station]. But I don’t need to hear the whole album* to know that it’s complete garbage.”

“Yeah, but don’t you remember sayin’ it would never come out?”

“I don’t remember making that exact prediction, but it sounds like something I would say. Yes. Your point?”

“Pay up! Twenty bucks! We shook on it. Klaus was there. He was the witness.” Looking across the bar Freddie hollered, “Klaus! Get over here.”

Sigh. Klaus. That fucking guy.

We’ll get to Klaus before the Jukebox Antagonist series reaches its finale.

Anyway, it’s impossible to name one record found in every jukebox in the Western world. “Happy Birthday” notwithstanding. There are a bunch of records that every good jukebox should have; however, the Association of Jukebox has never reached a consensus, so to speak.

juke 7 - eaglesThere are at least a dozen records that have reached such blockbuster status they are nearly ubiquitous in jukeboxes everywhere. From my experience, the following records have an appearance rate of 80% or better:

  • Nirvana, Nevermind
  • AC/DC, Back in Black
  • Metallica, The Black Album
  • Bob Marley, Legend
  • Santana, Supernatural

The following records have an appearance rate of 85% or better:

  • The Eagles, Greatest Hits 1971-1975
  • Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon
  • Fleetwood Mac, Rumours
  • Led Zeppelin IV
  • A record apiece from the Beatles and the Rolling Stones

juke 7Michael_Jackson_-_ThrillerOnly two records appear with greater frequency, the first being Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

It seems no matter where I’ve been, Thriller is in the box, and somebody is going play a track, guaranteed. And that’s cool with me, since I have never owned the record, and thus, it almost always sounds fresh to my ears. Even “Billie Jean” and “Beat It” are enjoyable, since I haven’t allowed them to be jammed down my throat.

It’s no coincidence that these and several other records are much more likely to be in the average jukebox, because the above-mentioned are among the best-selling records of all-time.

juke 7 -Appetite_for_DestructionThe second record which I have spotted in virtually every jukebox that’s ever accepted my dollar bill is also one of the best-selling and most overrated records in the pantheon of rock music: Guns N’ Roses, Appetite for Destruction.

GN’R’s debut album might have sounded cool and edgy in 1987 – a fairly dull and pretentious year in rock music (c.g. Michael Jackson, Bad; U2, The Joshua Tree) – but like Nirvana’s Nevermind, it wasn’t that great of a record to begin with, and on its own merits has not aged well.

Likewise, music with mass appeal generally speaks to the lowest common denominator. Despite featuring one of the greatest opening tracks in rock music – “Welcome to the Jungle” – Appetite for Destruction contains three good songs and a bunch of Aerosmith B-sides. And Aerosmith was interesting for a very brief period in their long and illustrious career. They were done after Rocks (1976).

juke 7-oasisMoreover, I consider Guns N’ Roses to be one of the most overrated bands of all-time in any sub-genre of rock. No band has gone farther with less than GN’R. They are even-steven with Oasis on the scale of rock n’ roll mediocrity. To be fair, I have never owned any GN’R records, played one of their tracks in a jukebox, or seen them live. But hang out in dive bars for 20 years and you’ll be as familiar with their work as any diehard fan.

Not only was Appetite in the box at Baltimore’s Inn, it was also one of the most played records, if not THE most played record. Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet got an ungodly number of spins, too.

Anyway, GN’R was also the subject of the longest-running thread of contention between me and Freddie the bartender – that is, a subject other than Sammy Hagar. In fact, once we established our boundaries, we tended to stay away from Sammy, mainly because it always wound up with someone’s feelings getting hurt.

So every now and then we’d go to our corners and come out when the bell sounded. On the subject of GN’R, we could come out swinging like Mike Tyson because neither one of us really cared; and by this time, the band wasn’t even a parody of itself. And in a way, Fred was as disappointed in the band as I was dismissive of their music.

juke 7-GnR--UseYourIllusion1Unfortunately, the box also contained Use Your Illusion I and II, which are not considered overrated because to the best of my knowledge, no one with any credibility has ever said they were good records.

And at the same time, you couldn’t defeat my stance against “November Rain”; easily the most bloated, plodding ode to Elton John not written by Elton John. Holy smokes, I’d be embarrassed for them if it weren’t for the fact of royalties. Dudes got rich on that crap.

Let’s get this out of the way. Axl Rose can’t sing – it actually seems oddly redundant to have to articulate this – but being able to sing is not a requirement for the front man of a rock n’ roll band. There’s no question Axl was a charismatic entertainer, and thus, cannot be criticized for something he never set out to do – sing.

Listen, I’m not letting that slide this time. Twenty-eight million copies is a lot of anything. Somebody has to be held accountable. Ozzy Osbourne was never a great or even good singer, but at least he could carry a tune, a melody. Axl? Not so much.

Those three good songs on Appetite for Destruction: “Welcome to the Jungle”, “Paradise City”, and “Sweet Child o’ Mine” are undeniably classic tracks that continue to bristle with energy.

The rest of the album (total time of 54+ minutes) is nonsense running the gamut from lame to offensive, and Steven Adler plays drums. Thanks to him, I still refer to this record as Appetite for Cowbell. In fact, I was surprised to learn that the infamous Saturday Night Live skit “More Cowbell” featuring Christopher Walken, was not based on this album.

juke7-steven-adlerMan, I’ve got no beef with Steven Adler as a human being. I’m familiar with his story. However, as far as Rock n’ Roll Hall of Famers go, he’s got to be one of the worst drummers in the history of music to have that honor. He’s the Peter Criss of late 80s faux metal.

Over the years, I sat stoic as bar patrons violated the jukebox with tracks from Appetite for Destruction. Only on occasion would a certain jam spark another futile diatribe (on my end) or testament of greatness (from Fred). I think it would be a pussy move to simply say such-n-such album stinks without backing it up with substantial reasoning and example. Thus, it is very much in my nature to want a track-by-track rundown of the entire album.

The majority of ideas that follow were at one time expressed by yours truly while arguing with Freddie at the Balt.

Welcome to the Jungle

As mentioned before, that’s what I call an entrance! Fantastic intro followed by a solid and aggressive verse. If every song on the record were this good, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Almost everything about this jam is phenomenal including Axl’s infamous bit:

Do you know where you are?
You’re in the jungle, baby
You’re gonna die!

Here’s an imaginary scene that I like to believe took place during the making of this track.


A tiny screenplay* by Christian Adams



The FINAL CHORD of “Welcome to the Jungle” reverberates through the studio. The BAND – AXL ROSE, SLASH, IZZY STRADLIN, DUFF McKAGAN and STEVEN ADLER – has just run through their 21st take of the song; they appear weary and dissipated, awaiting a response and evaluation from producer MIKE CLINK.


Seated at a massive mixing console, CLINK and NAMELESS ENGINEER exchange UNINTELLIGIBLE CONVERSATION and simultaneously shake their heads. The BAND is partially visible in the window which separates the two rooms. After a brief pause, CLINK takes a DEEP BREATH and addresses the band over the talkback microphone.



Guys, that was great! We’re almost there. Take it from the top.


(almost simultaneously, groaning)

Aww, man…the fuck…come on…pfffft…that’s bullshit!


(vaguely concerned)

But, um… Hey Steve, listen. You’re tempo is insanely uneven from bar to bar. Can you maybe…?


Quick zoom on STEVEN ADLER sitting behind the drum kit, twirling his sticks.



I can’t play to a click track, man.


SLASH LIGHTS A CIGARETTE while IZZY and DUFF take turns DOING LINES OF COCAINE off the top of an unused amplifier. AXL remains off-screen, COUGHING.


(off-screen, heard through loudspeaker; cheerfully)

Right. No, of course, a click track is out of the question. I wasn’t suggesting that, Steven.  Just tighten it up a lil bit, huh? And… Um, I think you hit the cowbell a couple of times in there, too. Don’t do that.


(barely audible, apparently speaking to AXL, who remains off-screen)

Yeah, man, that’s what I was sayin’



What are you talking about, man? I don’t even own a cowbell, man. Who do you think we are, Blue Oyster Cult?




Blue Oyster Cult!



No. I’m pretty sure you’re hitting the cowbell during the first half of the chorus, Steve. But that’s OK. Just don’t do it again. ‘Right? From the top! Take 22.


* Screenplay based on the following video, which preceded Appetite for Destruction by little more than a year, and one of those songs where I tell myself, “You can’t possibly like this” but in fact, it’s actually quite good. Hell, I’ve said it before but this is one of the best AC/DC songs of 1986.

Cinderella – Somebody Save Me


Back to the program following that curious but necessary theatrical interpolation of sorts.

OK, so “Welcome to the Jungle” is a smash hit. Track 2… Show us what you’ve got!

It’s So Easy

I gave you the live version here because it shows the band at its ostensible prime. The song itself? Primitive chord progression, zero vocal melody, and WHAT’S WITH THE FUCKING COWBELL, STEVE? Meanwhile, the bridge is a direct lift from every Ozzy Osbourne song in existence.

Otherwise, the guitars sound good, but the riffs are dull and based on 4X – which means, repeat four times. Then move to different, unrelated riff. You can literally count how many times they go through the riffs and it’s almost always divisible by four. And that’s lazy fuckin’ shit. Meanwhile, Axl is singing about how “easy” it is to get over on groupie chicks. Whatever, man.


Night Train [sic]

Starts off with COWBELL, COWBELL, and MORE COWBELL. Promising? The intro guitar riff is cool but quickly dissolves into a static choogle and Axl’s sophomoric automotive sexual metaphors. Again, the cat isn’t really singing and he isn’t saying anything in particular. His vocal parts are the aural equivalent of a prison tattoo.

juke 7SNL_Fever_Cowbell_Black_ShirtSlash is particularly squealing, but Izzy Stradlin is holding down the rhythm. Izzy was my favorite Gunner, by far. Oh, and Steve, if you hit THAT FUCKING COWBELL ONE MORE TIME, YOU”RE FIRED! OR I QUIT. YOUR FUCKING CHOICE.

Meanwhile, Slash’s guitar solo is probably a compilation of multiple takes, since I actually have seen the cat live (Slash’s Snakepit circa 199-?) and there’s no way he could pull that off in one shot. Just keeping the hat balanced on his head seemed like a full-time gig for the dude. So I guess I’m saying the solo is actually pretty good.

Moreover, I like Slash as a cartoon character. He seems like a cool cat. In a hat. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. He isn’t fat. His father is a diplomat.

The last two minutes of the song is “I’m on the night train” and two of the longest minutes in recent memory.

Out to Get Me

I refuse to list the title as it appears on the record because. Just because. Musically, this is an uninspired, four-on-the-floor, mid-tempo stomper. There’s one neat little guitar riff in there somewhere, otherwise, this might as well be Cinderella.

Listen to Steven Adler attempting some tricky little double bass triplets during the choruses. And then he’s holding on for dear life during the double-time at the end.

It’s funny how the drums are buried in the mix. I’m going to go on record right here and say that I’m a better drummer than Steven Adler, and that’s not saying much.

The harmonized guitar bridge is quite interesting in the sense that it sounds like they’re trying to do a Brian May/Queen thing, but they got distracted along the way, and it sounds like the ELO cassette is warped.

Best Lyric:

I’m innocent, so you can suck me
Take that one to heart

Mr. Brownstone

The worst song on the record, even if people think it’s got that one great riff. Has the Paul Shaffer Orchestra ever covered “Mr. Brownstone”?

Whenever I hear a guitar player move to the Wah pedal, the first thing that goes through my mind is, “Oh great! Pentatonic blues scales!”

This is one of those songs where you can literally hear the band running out of ideas in real time.

Best Lyric:


Paradise City

First time I heard this cut I thought, “Christ, John Cougar has really let himself go.”

The whistle signaling the end of the intro? Priceless. Like we needed a cue, Ax.

My biggest rock n’ roll pet peeve is a song with a chorus that tells me to do something, usually RIGHT NOW!

Many bands have utilized the dictatorial chorus trope, and I’m not pointing fingers at this stage of the game. However, the reason I hate those types of songs is that when my roulette wheel of a brain stops to think about, for instance, what the lead singer of Kansas is telling me to do in “Carry On Wayward Son”, I’m annoyed that it’s even become a discussion. Don’t come at me with your Sunday School nonsense. Peace? There will never be peace, even when I’m done.

“Paradise City” has another such dictatorial chorus and a pretty selfish one at that. This dude wants me to drop what I’m doing and take him home – Paradise City – where he can ostensibly roll around in the green grass with a bunch of naked chicks. Listen, pal. I’m not taking you anywhere. Walk your lazy ass down to the Greyhound station and get on a bus. I’m busy.

juke 7-Spinal-TapThis needs to be pointed out because other than the chorus, the lyrics are pretty damn good, even by Aerosmith’s standards. None of it really makes sense, but at least he’s trying to transcend the stereotypical “Pink Torpedo” type-shit endemic to the genre.

Captain America’s been torn apart
Now he’s a court jester with a broken heart
He said turn me around and take me back to the start
I must be losin’ my mind
“Are you blind?”
I’ve seen it all a million times

For rock n’ roll, that’s definitely passable. Slam that up against any other hot faux metal jam of the era and it stands up quite nicely. But then he’s gotta get the listener involved – it is after all, another rock n’ roll trope. Axl and I both know what he’s doing. But he could have just as easily said:

I’m going down to the Paradise City
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty
I’m going home

Anyway, P-city is also one of the few songs on the record on which STEVE DOESN’T HIT THE COWBELL. But you can hear him fall off the beat on several occasions – most notably in the intro. It’s too bad that time-keeping isn’t something you can cook up in a spoon and shoot into a vein. If heroin was rhythm, Adler would be the second coming of Buddy Rich.

The back end of the jam proves to be a variation on the “Freebird/Hey Jude” motif: Two minutes of a great jam, and six minutes of filler that just…goes…on…forever.

Slash is absolutely flying on the outro solo(s). There are more than a few Joe Perry riffs tucked in, but by that point, enough is enough. They lost me somewhere around the third minute of the cut. Still, I’d put this on a list of Top 100 rock guitar solos.

Meanwhile, if you really pay attention to the drum fills before the outro jam, it’s popcorn popping. Steve is trying to be fancy with a bunch of rapid-fire John Bonham triplet-rolls and he just…can’t…pull it off.

I’m really surprised they let that slide, but they probably figured, “Hey, fuck it. We’re not Steely Dan and it’s already four minutes into the jam. Nobody will notice.” If anybody involved in the making of this record actually thought that was good drumming, they are far more incompetent than I imagined possible.

My Michelle

Hey, the Scorpions called, they want their intro back.

Of course, it dives right into a shitty, repetitive riff, and HERE COMES STEVE AND THE COWBELL.

juke 7-Chuckie-familyAxl sounds like Chuckie. I can’t sit through this crap. His falsetto is an attention-grabber, but a disappointment nonetheless. He has absolutely NOTHING to say, but as a front man, he had to do something to get over the noise of the band. And while a phalanx of singers were doing it and doing it much better, Axl, at the very least, had a good sense of where to use it – usually on the last 4X of the 128X chorus.

Think About You


Seriously, this is complete shit. The guy can’t sing. The riffs are exhausted. The whole band sounds dehydrated and disoriented, like they’ve been wandering lost the desert for a week, looking for a hook.

All of a sudden they’re gonna be Cheap Trick in the sub-chorus and outro? This is embarrassing. Cut and paste amateurisms. Twenty-eight million copies of this record and counting? No wonder the rainforests are disappearing.

Sweet Child o’ Mine

I got nothing bad to say about this track, except Axl allegedly beat the shit out of Erin Everly, as in, daughter of Phil Everly. That’s not cool.

You’re Crazy

A case could be made for 1987, and this was actually pretty cool for the era. But there’s nothing beyond the surface of the scratching and screeching. It’s a bunch of sad riffs pieced together and a kid screaming over the top. He’s saying nothing of relevance, in the most offensive way possible.


Down at the Balt, there were plenty of nights where Freddie and I had nothing to say to each other, particularly when sporting events were on television. There was a period of time when he wouldn’t engage me in conversation unless drugs were involved. As the tide came and went, so followed the running dialogue.

juke 7A_bigger_band_album_cover_(Wikipedia)One of our most memorable discussions was borne by the release of a “new” Rolling Stones record, A Bigger Bang (2005).

Earl had wasted little time getting the disc into the jukebox. The band had recently announced a North American tour with a scheduled stop in Fantasyland, and rumors were rampant that Metallica would be the opening act. Regardless of that particular incongruity, the fact that the Stones were still putting out records really got under my skin.

One night I walked in and Freddie nodded, “Hey, man. New Stones in the box.”

“Not interested.”

“What?! I thought you liked the Stones.”

“Pffssshh. I said I liked Beggar’s Banquet.”

He opened a bottle of Budweiser and sat it in front of me. “Have you even heard any of the new stuff?”

“Not that I need to hear any of it, but in fact, I have heard two songs on the radio, both of which were awful. Tuneless. Shameful. The sound of old men getting older. And I don’t need that kind of aggravation.”

“Ah, come on. This is their best record since Steel Wheels.”

“Which blows, too. Not setting the bar very high, are you, Freddie? That’s like saying the new Bon Jovi is the best thing they’ve done since New Jersey. The new Stones record represents everything that’s bad about rock music.”

“OK, so what’s so bad about it?”

“What? Rock music or the Stones? The Stones are making piles of shit. It’s horrible music. It stinks.”

“Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it stinks.”

“Actually, it does. That’s exactly what it means.”

“I think it rocks.”

“And you have terrible taste in music. What does that tell you?”

“So who made you the final alberter of music?”



“The final arb-i-ter of music. You said alberter.”

“Whatever. Who made you the final arbiter of music.”

“First, I’m impressed that you’ve tried to introduce that particular phrase into the conversation, because I’m sure I’ve used it with you before, and even you are capable of learning new tricks. As for the question itself. I did.”

“You did what?”

“I made myself the final arbiter of music AND good taste.”

Fred scoffed and turned away. “You know, I don’t know why I even bother with you.” He wagged a finger at me. “You’re just one of them guys. Not a hipster, not a snob, something else. You’re just one of them. You’re a hater.”

“Fred, listen. Are you familiar with a writer named Flannery O’Connor?”

“I dunno. Did I have to read him in high school?”

juke 7-oconnorc478“Her. You probably did not have to read her in high school. College English major? Yes. You’d be up to your ass in Flannery O’Connor.”

“Where you goin’ with this?”

“I’m going to draw an analogy to” – I pointed back and forth – “this, our conversation, using a line from one of her short stories.”

“Oh boy. Here we go.”

He genuinely laughed, put his foot up on a milk crate, and rested an elbow on his horizontal thigh.

I continued. “It’s at the end of the story and this bad guy is about to shoot this woman. It doesn’t matter why he’s going to shoot her, but he is. He says, ‘She would have been a good woman, if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.’ What this means is if the woman could have lived her life at gunpoint, more or less, she could have gained the self-awareness that she was woefully lacking. OK, now. Think of your taste in music as the woman in the story, and think of me as the guy who’s going to shoot her. I’m just here to make sure you live at gunpoint, so to speak.”

“You know, man. Fuck off. The Stones rock and you suck. They’ve sold millions of records, and you’re sitting here, doing what? Nothing. Playing pinball and talking about how I have no taste. Listen, pal, I don’t give a fuck what you think of my taste.”

“Fred, it isn’t personal. I’m just trying to get you to see things from a different perspective, that’s all.”

“Your perspective. Ha!”

“No, from a realistic perspective.”

“How does this relate to the new Stones record?”

“Just think about all the time, effort, and resources put into the Stones. Sure, they sell concert tickets as a nostalgia act. But for the money they spend putting out a new album – which isn’t really new or an album, it’s an excuse to mount a world tour – with the same amount of record label juice, they could put out 50 records by younger and more relevant bands. And they could still make money. What have the Stones ever done to help up and coming bands, other than opening slots on world tours? All they’ve done is line their pockets and perpetuate their brand. And everybody is expected to bow down to royalty. So fuck them.”

“I saw GN’R open for the Stones at the L.A. Coliseum in ’89. Drove down there with Earl. It was awesome.”


Anything Goes

Hahaha. Please. This is Aerosmith without the Aero or the Smith. Trash.

Oh great, a talkbox solo. Is that Joe Walsh? Assholes.

Rocket Queen

We’ve made it this far without hardly mentioning Duff. Fixed that for ya.

Slash tries his hand at slide guitar.

The porno sounds are gauche. And then, we’re treated to a detour into power pop. Bizzare. But you know we’re going back to the “Rocket Queen” chorus, it’s only a matter of How?

No detectible cowbell on this jam. Thanks, Steve. But lots of Slash.

At the end of the day, I’m not surprised this record has sold 28 million copies and counting. It reminds me of Shania Twain, Whitney Houston and Nickelback. People really enjoy listening to shit music. And frankly, I had a pretty good time with this track-by-track review. It brought back some amusing memories, like the year or so I used to wear a bandana. Or that I used to own a tie-dye t-shirt but never liked the Grateful Dead.

No matter what I think of GN’R and their insipid music, I guarantee every one of those clowns has a pad in L.A. with a real groovy swimming pool. I’ll bet Steven Adler’s pool is shaped like a cowbell.

* Editor’s Note: The author would like to point out that he’s listened to Chinese Democracy several times since these events took place, and would like to append the following comment: It’s not a bad album, but it’s Pro-Tooled to fuck. You can hear it being chopped up into compatible pieces. I’d be willing to bet the best song on the disc (“Shackler’s Revenge”) was recorded in different studios with different guys behind the board, and pieced together over a period of several years. It’s uneven as my first haircut. However, with Axl’s voice, everything seems to work I give it 6/10.

20 More Questions with Beldone

7 Oct
beldone2-jawboneIt had been a while since we sat down for a solid jawbone with Rajah Cheech Beldone, King of the Gypsies, one of our all-time favorite pseudonymous characters hailing from Alberta, Canada.

The interview questions were answered online over the course of two days. Shortly after receiving the original twenty Qs, Beldone wrote back, saying roughly: ‘Hey man, can we change Questions 2-8? I really don’t feel like talking about that. It’s boring.’

My initial response was, “I understand what you’re saying, but… Remember that the vast majority of readers are NOT in Taiwan. They might be interested in your story.”

A summit was declared for later that evening. We met after sundown at the usual destination. Beldone was already seated at the table and halfway through a Tsingtao tallboy when I rolled up.

“Sorry, man,” Beldone said.

There was more to the story than what you read on the screen. We’ve discussed the subject(s) on many occasions. It’s not really a point of contention, but we don’t always see eye to eye.

“Fine,” I replied, “I’ll give you some different questions. But look, you have to answer the questions. Even if it’s ‘No comment.’ That’s how interviews work. What I think would be cool is if you answered [the questions] with the same level of disdain you’re showing me right now. If you think the questions are bullshit, then that’s your answer. Explain yourself. But you still gotta go through all of ‘em.”

He did and he didn’t.

beldone-2-the-monkees-1966Who was your favorite Monkee – if you have a favorite?

Hey! Remember that I’m old enough that I saw the show when it originally aired. I was their target audience. The show premiered as I was starting first grade, and next to Batman, which had premiered earlier that year, it was one of my favorite shows.

To answer the question, Mike Nesmith, no question. He was the shit, man. You know I’m kind of a hat guy, even as a little kid, so his wooly hat – or toque, as they’re known where I come from – really appealed to me.

Also, Nesmith was much wittier and subtle, as opposed to the other Monkees. He was the Groucho Marx to their collective Jerry Lewis.

When did you come to Taiwan?

November 17, 1992.

beldone-2-nesmithWhy did you come to Taiwan?

I had an emergency root canal last night, as you know. It was a slightly more pleasant experience than having to plow through this tired-assed, horseshit of a subject.

OK, I was engaged to this girl at home and I was supposed to come here and work and save money to go back to school and get some kind of qualification that would allow me to get a proper job so I could marry her and support her.

Can I go now? Apparently not.

What’s your favorite thing about Taiwan? [Aside from your wife and child, of course.]

Uhhhh, believe it or not, it’s the people. I worry, on a day-to-day level, about my family and their well-being, a tiny fraction of how much I would if we were in North America. And, people really really leave me the fuck alone here, you can’t put a fucking price tag on that.

Did you ever consider leaving Taiwan for good?

Fucking hell. “And then in Feburary when I was four, I got a cold from going outside without my mitts. And then in March…”

Yeah, things didn’t work out with the engaged thing, and I stayed. In September of the next year I was actually preparing to apply to Marine College in Manila.

If it’s not too personal, what kept you here?

What if it is too fucking personal?? In a startling turn of events that I’m sure nobody saw coming, and I may well be the ONLY guy in the world this has ever fucking happened to, I met my future wife. Blahblablablah.

I can plunk me ass down in front of any convenience store and get liquored up while smoking my fucking brains out and soaking up the jam of my choice, 365 days a year, for like TEN BUCKS U.S., and nobody bats an eye or gets in my fucking grille, fuck, beat that.

beldone-2-Krispy-Kreme-donuts-jpgWhere’s the best place to score a doughnut in Taipei?

This is one of them deals like the Cheez Whiz thing, where people who never really had it where they come from, they go like “That’s not CHEESE“. Yeah, nobody’s saying it’s cheese. It’s Cheez Whiz.

Europeans see a proper donut and they’re like, this is the worst pastry I’ve ever eaten! Fucking morons. Add to that the rampant online gastro-hypocrisy practiced by so many foreigners here, and the whole thing gets shit all over, but, come on, man, Krispy Kremes, it has to be. It ain’t a Napoleon, it ain’t an Oat Bran Muffin, it ain’t Raspberry Truffle. It’s a fucking donut, and it’s the absolute perfect one, pushing the absolute envelope of sweet, greasy, and chewy. I get a dozen originals twice a year, on me birthday and Christmas.


Jersey James at Amore, as you well know.

Night market snacks?

I’ve been twice in the last four years, but Tonghua Street seems to have some cool stuff. The night market snack is one of those things where you really don’t want to think too much about it, or you’d never put it near your face. And, as you’ll commiserate, the departure of Hot Dog Auntie was a blow to the place from which I doubt it will ever recover.

Aside from the food, what do you miss about Canada?

I got no straight answer here. I was back, as you know, about a year and a half ago, on family business, and pretty much everything that I dug, lifestyle-wise, is ancient history.

The summer, I guess. You know, when it’s minus-45°C for months on end, and the sun comes up at nine and goes down at five. When springtime comes, everyone kind of goes mental. When it’s 35°C (but like 15% humidity, the dry air coming down over the Rockies) and the sun sets at like 10 p.m. and you got the fucking aurorae going on all the time, people just never really go inside, you know, every restaurant has outdoor seating, every house has a porch or veranda, every apartment has a balcony, it’s very invigorating.

I guess I also miss being out in the country, at least in my part of Canada, you know.

The landscapes combined with the ridiculously low population density. Near where I grew up, it lists the population density as 742 souls/sq mi. In my current neighborhood, it’s 53,000 souls/sq mi. I ain’t making that up.

Oh, and fuckin Kubes, of course.

Oh wait, you said no food.

UNDATED Pete Rose The Enquirer/Ed Reinke Scanned February 9, 2007.I’m pretty sure we’re on the same page about this, but what did you make of the Pete Rose betting scandal.

What do you want me to say? The rules say you can’t gamble on your own team.

For or against, it’s against the rules. Chuck Hustle broke the rules. Even fucking so. You know the only guys in baseball that are worse then the owners are the Commissioner and league officials and shit. I hate them pricks, and that asshole A. Bartlett Giamatti was the worst of them. Seriously, how big of a prick do you think you have to be to become the President of the fucking NL?

[Giamatti] already had a fucking hard-on for Pete after that whole shoving match deal with that one fucking ump…[Goes and checks] Oh yeah, Dave Pallone there.

“Amid reports that he had bet on baseball, Rose was questioned in February 1989 by outgoing commissioner Peter Ueberroth and his replacement, Bart Giamatti. Rose denied the allegations and Ueberroth dropped the investigation. However, three days after Giamatti became Commissioner, lawyer John M. Dowd was retained to investigate these charges against Rose.”

“The Dowd Report documented his alleged bets on 52 Reds games in 1987, where Rose wagered a minimum of $10,000 a day. Others alleged to have been involved in the activities claim that number was actually $2,000 a day.”


“The Dowd Report says, “no evidence was discovered that Rose bet against the Reds,” but investigator Dowd stated in a December 2002 interview that he believed Rose probably bet against the Reds while managing them.”

Well fuck you, man. All the really lurid details of his case, the stuff that really vilified Rose, none of it was ever proven. These guys are such assholes [Barry]Bonds and The Rocket [Roger Clemens], they’re eligible for The Hall of Fame, and THEIR proven misconduct directly affected their performance on the field, for the love of fuck.

Two fucking takeaways here, pal.

beldone-2-Pete Rose_Bart GiamattiNumber one:

Giamatti died of a heart attack on September 1, 1989, eight days after announcing Rose’s suspension. Well fuck you, bub.

And, much more importantly:

On September 11, 1985, Rose broke Ty Cobb’s all-time hits record with his 4,192nd hit.

Read that last one again.

OK, you’re free to go.

What bands or artist(s) that make your skin crawl?

I’m not sure if you mean that (a) I’m grossed out by the actual individual or (b) I just hate them? I’ve always thought Marilyn Manson was a real douche, you know? Me and my best friend Rob got high at lunchtime at his house while listening to Killer and Raw Power, and we stole some of his Ma’s eyeliner and mascara and wore it to school. That was in eighth grade.

Dave Matthews, Phish, Jack Johnson, and John Mayer.

Amy Winehouse, may she rest in peace, she just looked so fucking skeevy, it just repelled me so bad I never even heard her sing, even though I hear she’s pretty good.

Not that they make my skin crawl exactly, but a couple of guys who I get a lot of abuse for not liking even a little are Paul Westerberg and Alex Chilton. Like I just don’t even hear anything, for me those guys are like I’m a gopher looking at a sewing machine; I don’t have any reference at all.

Oh, and of course, as discussed, Sammy Hagar. Sammy. It can’t be repeated enough. About a bazillion others.

I’ll tell you a very Special Mention.

As we’ve covered in the past, I spent many many years worshipping at the Altar of The Boss, Bruce Springsteen. There was a while where I would have told you in dead seriousness that if I couldn’t be Springsteen, I didn’t want to be anything.

beldone-2-born-in-the-usaAnd then? Along came Born in the USA. And, specifically, “Dancing in the Dark.”

In Canada, the song was premiered on MTV with the video, on a Friday night.

Watching that abomination unfold before my eyes, it was like walking into the skankiest, grottiest, most depraved snakepit of a club in an alley off Patpong, and seeing your little sister up on the stage juggling ping pong balls with her hoo-haa.

The worst part was that the Boss’ People mobilized such a pervasive campaign to convince the world that the new record was The Best Work He’s Ever. A guy like me felt like it was my fault; that the revulsion and horror I felt was the result of something lacking in my perception or appreciation.

What cookbook(s) do you have and/or use at home?

Wowee, I haven’t used a cookbook in forever, man because, you know, Internet. I just think about something and then go fucking find a recipe I like. But I don’t think I ever really used them, not that I recall. I’d always just get the recipe I needed, if I don’t already have it, from me sainted Ma (may she rest in peace) or my Grandma or an auntie or something.

Favorite spice?

Spice or herb? Spice, ahhh, maybe smoked paprika. Herb, dill weed, probably.

Oh no! that fuckin fresh basil they got here, I fuckin LOVE that shit, yeah.

How often do you laugh during a given day?

Nowhere near enough. I had the bi-monthly summit lunch yesterday out here with Stubacca and Twin Peaks, in which circumstance I normally do more straight up belly-larfing in 90 minutes than I will do all month, yesterday being no exception. Plus, you and me hung out last night, which had more than its fair share of hilarity.

I can’t complain, my kid and wife are both really funny, they both crack me the fuck up on a regular basis. Which is good, because I don’t tend to find most popular media more than mildly amusing, at best. Farrel, Sandler, Schneider, that shit all pretty much bores me to tears.

beldone-2-tumblr_n71d6fw5wQ1s3zerco1_500Did Canada have their own version of Poppin’ Fresh Pies aka Baker’s Square? Are you a fan of banana cream pie? I love that shit.

Is that a restaurant? No, we didn’t have nothing like that, like a chain. Look, man, when I was a kid we never had them cream pies, I don’t know why, I guess it was just a family thing. We only ever had fruit pies. BUT, and you probably don’t know this, but out West we have the Saskatoon, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amelanchier_alnifolia

(it was a berry first, then it was a city) which is a little bit like a blueberry crossed with…I don’t know what. Anyways they grow like stink, everywhere, when we’re kids we’re always going out picking them and then they’re made into pie, best shit anywhere, seriously good eating.

Then, when I grew up and married the first ex-Mrs Beldone, I did all the cooking, every meal, every night, for eight and a half years. She had a pretty sweet tooth and I made like a pie, or a pie and cake every week. And she was really into the cream pies, so I had to learn how to make them. Her favorite was lemon meringue, but chocolate cream and banana cream were also heavy in the rotation. From scratch, by the way, no mixes or anything.

What’s your favorite Frank Zappa album?

I think I’m a bit of an anomaly because I always preferred Frank’s work when interpreting more conventional forms, so I’ve always been a big fan of his actual “songs”.

So I’d have to say, off the tip of my tongue, Overnite Sensation, most of which I could probably recite word for word from memory. Oh, and definitely Joe’s Garage. But only Vol 1. Everything else, of course respect into the middle of next century, and I think he was one of the most important figures in the history of fucking music, but those are the ones I’ve always enjoyed listening to the most.

beldone-2-Frank-Zappa_Overnite-SensationWhat’s your favorite Ramones album?

Man, I don’t KNOW any Ramones albums, just songs, but not in album context.

Oh, wait I know that one that Phil Spector produced? Where they cover all those girl group songs? End of the Century, is it? Anyways it didn’t blow no wind up me skirt.

Who or what was your high school’s mascot? Did you ever dress up in the mascot costume?

Fuck man, I don’t know what the fuck it was. I played a little football and wrestled a little, but mostly I played in the marching band. So yeah, I had a lot more to contribute than sticking a rubber fucking animal head on.


If you could own any painting in the world, which would you choose? Use reasons and examples to explain your answer.

Hmmm, not really my area, to tell you the truth. Probably Sugar Shack, by Ernie Barnes, or pretty much anything by Ernie Barnes, I love that shit. Even if it weren’t the cover of my favourite Marvin Gaye album (which was also my 150% Sure Thing Foolproof Guaranteed To Get You Laid Album of All Time).

Why Does September Suck So Bad?

22 Sep
big-star-september-gurls-staxBlanket apologies to readers with birthdays, anniversaries, and/or otherwise significant events which fall in the ninth month of the Gregorian calendar year, but September is by far the most bleak, hopeless, and depressing month of all.

Summer is over. We now stare headlong into the eve of autumn and the abyss of winter. It’s also back to school time, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing unless you’ve already got the whole “school thing” figured out.

Meanwhile, September’s music is almost always unpleasant.

September Morn – Neil Diamond

September – Earff, Winnin’ Fire-ah

Wake Me Up When September Ends – Green Day

Just kidding, I’d never link to a Green Day video.

September Song – Willie Nelson

Even one of the hottest Big Star songs, is kind of a bummer, especially if you’re a December boy.

Big Star – September Gurls

Here’s an ode to a brilliant woman we lost this month, Joan Rivers, interviewing one of my favorite people of all-time, David Lee Roth.

Jukebox Antagonist – Episode 6: Scotch Clickbait

17 Sep
juke 6 Flag_of_Scotland_(navy_blue).svgEvery time a controversial international political issue takes hold in the mainstream, it inspires me to learn something about the place in question. Perhaps this silly obsession is a result of knowing so very little about the world at large, despite being a citizen thereof.

The Scottish independence referendum is a matter to be decided between Scotsmen, no doubt; but we’re all welcome to discuss the potential implications of the outcome, aye or nay.

Big Country, Steeltown (1984)

Big Country, Steeltown (1984)

No matter what happens, it’s still going to be called Scotland and I’m still going to think Big Country’s second album, Steeltown, is my favorite Scottish rock record of all-time. Feel free to argue.

Before we proceed, even though Bon Scott, Angus and Malcolm Young were born in Scotland, AC/DC is an Australian band. Bagpipes notwithstanding.

That said, some of the greatest music ever made was political in nature and design. The problem with overtly political music is that often times it’s merely a reaction to a particular incident or social condition, instead of a solution. Without the Vietnam War, 1960s protest music would have increased its focus on Civil Rights, which was ultimately the much more important issue, and something that still hasn’t been resolved. That’s simply my perspective, having grown up in the aftermath of the Summer of Love.

juke 6 - reeses-peanut-butter-400x400On the home front, music and specifically American political issues are uneasy bedfellows at best. For the most part, I don’t want either one in, on, or around the other. Artists with political agendas are Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. They matter, but the world and everything in it would still be a fantastic, wonderful place, even if chocolate and peanut butter hadn’t come together in 1980.

So rock bands – musicians in general – are really good about pointing things out like injustice and corruption, but generally unable to do anything about it. “Rock the Vote” is a great idea but it fails to address the underlying truth – every election is a choice between the lesser of many evils. Likewise, musicians have little or no credible advice on how to go about changing the world to make it a better place, other than starting your own band. I’m not even sure that’s the best advice, either.

Via this prolonged interpolation, I claim political neutrality not just as a creed or motto, but an indifference that pervades every fiber of my being. It’s the been over a decade since I have voted for anything except opinion polls on CNN and ESPN, and Zagat restaurant ratings – don’t ask – and even then, it was out of a sense of civic duty, which I really didn’t appreciate getting jammed on. As many pundits are quick to point out, my lack of participation only makes your vote count that much more. You’re welcome.

It’s not that I don’t care. I care a whole bunch. I just know the level that I’m eligible to participate – as a citizen living overseas – the only thing that really matters to me is that our President isn’t a psychopath. If I were voting in California general elections, which I could if I really wanted to, who or what would I be voting for or against? I dunno. Probably would ask a bunch of my friends what they think, and therefore, my vote would be shaped not by active participation and interest, but what my friends are supporting.

Here’s what I voted on the other morning:

Which Saturday college football result was more surprising?
#1 Florida State 37, Oklahoma State 31
#2 Alabama 33, West Virginia 23

My heart was saying Florida State, because the football team – as opposed to the loose-cannon basketball team – usually covers the spread; and nobody thought Oklahoma State, an 18-point underdog, could hang. The Cowboys lost by six points, beating the spread by 12 points. West Virginia was a 26½-point underdog and lost by 10. So my head was saying, “West Virginia, West Virginia…” All day. The unranked Mountaineers chopped 16½ points off the line, and they went 4-8 last season. Therefore, that kind of sweetens the deal in their favor. OSU is never really “bad”; they haven’t had a losing season since 2005. All in all, I think Alabama is almost always over-ranked, and probably definitely not the #2 team in the country. Alabama’s coach is great at recruiting, but not so much at actually playing the game. So…that score is not surprising. In a way, I’m surprised WVU didn’t win the game. How did I vote? Guess.

juke 6 - 21336_bay_city_rollers_146Upon reading about the recent independence referendum, the first thing that popped into my mind was: for such a relatively small country, Scotland has produced a disproportionate amount of good rock music. Scottish rock first appeared on my musical map in 1975 when the Bay City Rollers broke the U.S. market with “Saturday Night” – all of which, the year, the band and the song – I loathed from the minute my sister saw them on the cover of Teen Beat and ran out to buy the single. At some point, I was given a pair of tartan pants to wear with my white patent leather shoes. That was a dark day in Christian history.

Despite not being a fan of the most popular Scottish bands: Mogwai, Franz Ferdinand, Travis, Belle and Sebastian, Deacon Blue, Del Amitri, and Primal Scream, they clearly create music that makes a lot of people happy. Huzzah, fans of Billy Bragg! Meanwhile, some of the newer bands like Biffy Clyro and Admiral Fallow sound great, but they’re not really my thing – whatever my thing is. However, I’ll have you know that prom theme song for Hinsdale South High School Class of 1986 was “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” by Simple Minds, perhaps the most “Eighties” of all rock bands in general.

Steve Lillywhite

Steve Lillywhite

I bought Simple Minds’ Sparkle in the Rain when it came out despite their earlier singles (i.e. “Promised You a Miracle”) because I liked Big Country and U2; and one super extra big reason: it was produced by Steve Lillywhite, who is unfortunately not Scottish, but a god nonetheless. Like Roy Thomas Baker, Lillywhite has the Midas Touch. Nearly every record he’s been involved with is sonic gold. Here’s a list of records made under Lillywhite’s watch – limited to a single decade, 1980-1990, with the ultimate caveat in that I owned and enjoyed every one of these records (though some were much more enjoyable than others, for sure) at some point in life, back when I still had a record collection.

[Personal Top 100 Album selections in green].

If I Should Fall from Grace with God, The Pogues

Naked, Talking Heads

The Joshua Tree, U2

Dirty Work, The Rolling Stones [1]

Get Close, Pretenders

Reggae Greats, Steel Pulse

Juke 6 - Simple_Minds-Sparkle_In_The_Rain-FrontalSparkle in the Rain, Simple Minds

Steeltown, Big Country

The Crossing, Big Country

Wonderland [EP], Big Country

Field Day, Marshall Crenshaw

Under a Blood Red Sky, U2

October, U2

Talk Talk Talk, The Psychedelic Furs

Walk Under Ladders, Joan Armatrading [2]

Black Sea, XTC

Boy, U2

Peter Gabriel , Peter Gabriel [3]

The Psychedelic Furs, The Psychedelic Furs

Drums and Wires, XTC

So Alone, Johnny Thunders[4]

The Only Ones, The Only Ones

The Scream, Siouxsie and the Banshees

Simple Minds had a lot of the same qualities and characteristics as U2, and for that reason they may have been overlooked. Jim Kerr was a great frontman, and the fact that he married Chrissie Hynde, the greatest frontwoman of all-time, gives his credibility a solid boost. “Up on the Catwalk” was the big hit from the record, but this is my favorite SM jam.

Simple Minds – Waterfront

Taking what little I know about Scotland other than the most prominent and well-known stuff – Scotch whiskey, Groundskeeper Willie, bagpipes, peat moss, and haggis – it never fails to amuse me that one of the funkiest bands of 1976, the Average White Band, were Scottish. Haha. Anyway, before we go any further, here’s Bert Jansch. Let’s hope Jimmy Page has cut him a really nice check.

Bert Jansch – Black Waterside


The Only Ones – Another Girl, Another Planet

I’m almost positive I acquired this jam during a raid of our high school’s radio station circa 1982-83.


The Skids – Working for the Yankee Dollar

Before Stuart Adamson was the voice and face of Big Country, he was the lead guitar player the Skids, perhaps the most criminally under-rated band this side of John Foxx-era Ultravox.

The Skids – The Saints are Coming

The Skids – Into the Valley

Aztec Camera – Jump

The best cover version of any 80s rock song, ever. Here’s something I’ve always wanted to say. Eddie Van Halen claims to have written the now-infamous synth riff and arrangement for “Jump” several years before 1984 was recorded, and furthermore, that David Lee Roth had rejected the now-infamous riff for at least two years. Meanwhile, it’s common knowledge that both Roth and producer Ted Templeman were opposed to keyboards in Van Halen’s music.

Eddie Van Halen is a competent keyboard player. No more, no less. When 1984 came out, everybody loved this jam – it’s the only VH song to reach #1 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 – but I was outraged. Until I heard the rest of the record, which in my mind contains five great songs: “Panama”, “Hot For Teacher”, “I’ll Wait”, “Top Jimmy” and “Drop Dead Legs”. The point is, DLR and Templeman were right. Keyboards had no place in their music, especially cheesy synth sounds from an Oberheim OB-Xa.

“And the Cradle Will Rock” and “I’ll Wait” remain the only two VH songs to feature keyboards that I can stomach. And a little known fact is that “I’ll Wait” was written as a collaboration between Van Halen and Doobie Brothers singer Michael McDonald. Just…ew. Yuck.

Back to Scotland’s rich and oft-overlooked musical legacy. If you didn’t know Al “Year of the Cat” was a Scotsman, you do now. And no, I’m not going to post the video.

The Incredible String Band – The Half-Remarkable Question

Love these cats. Wonder whatever happened to them.

The Jesus and Mary Chain – Only Happy When It Rains

Frankly, I was never into this band – ever – even though I bought the cassette of Psychocandy on the strength of its associated 80s indie cred. Thus, it was quite difficult to find a song I would feel comfortable posting here.


Gerry Rafferty – Stuck in the Middle With You

I’ll forgive Gerry Rafferty for “Baker Street”, which despite Foo Fighters spot-on cover version, is one of my least favorite songs in existence – right up there with “Sultans of Swing”, “Year of the Cat”, “American Pie”, and “Sailing”, rounding out a really solid Top Five of unfortunate radio songs. On the other hand, “Stuck in the Middle” is the best Dylan song since “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding”), and well, the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs. Enough said.


Ultravox is not really a true Scottish band, but Midge Ure was born in Cambuslang, Lanarkshire, a suburb of Glasgow, and was lead singer during the band’s most commercially successful period. But Ultravox as a band is an interesting story, and very much A Tale of Two Cities.

Ultravox – Young Savage

Now, Ultravox with Midge.

Ultravox – The Man Who Dies Every Day


Without Kurt Cobain, few people outside of the U.K. would have ever heard of The Vaselines. It’s kind of shame. They were pretty good. They Might Be Giants ripped them off all day, all night. Fuckers are writing songs for Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Catchy tunes either way.

The Vaselines – Son of Gun

The Vaselines – Lithium

Gun – Word Up

I know less than zero about this band except they’re Scottish, and this version of The Cameo jam is straight-up brilliant. Very very very 1994.

Donovan – Did you know Donovan was a Scot? Me neither.
Sheena Easton – For a year or two there, Ms. Easton was seriously smoking.
Teenage Fanclub – Do these guys even have a “best song”?



The Beta Band – Dry the Rain

Kind of Beck-ish. Folks rave about this band, but despite owning a couple of their records, they never really did much for me. This is the best song in their catalog.

Edwyn Collins – A Girl Like You

This cat was Amy Winehouse before Amy Winehouse became a household name. When this song came out, it was like of like, “Who the hell is this guy?” As it turns out, Collins was a member of Orange Juice.

Orange Juice – Rip it Up

Now I know why they never “made it”.


[1] This is nowhere near my favorite Stones record, not even by a long, long, long-ass shot, but it does contain IMHO one of their few really good songs of the 80s, most notably “One Hit (to the Body)”, which, Trivial Pursuit fans, features Jimmy Page (guitar solo).

[2] The Queen of the Cut-Out Bin. You’ll find more $1.00 Joan Armatrading records than Pablo Cruise, the Carpenters, and Little River Band combined.

[3] Definitely my favorite Peter Gabriel solo record.

[4] True story: The ONLY reason I owned this record for a brief amount of time is that I was looking for an obscure song by what I thought was the New York Dolls, but to this day, still haven’t tracked down. I can tell you this: it sounds like T. Rex, but just a little more “fruity”; and Johnny Thunders couldn’t have been anywhere near the studio when it was tracked.

Johnny Thunders – You Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory

Thank You, Internet: The Honeycombs, One the Juggler, and the Chris Holmes Pool Interview

3 Sep
This is sort of a stop-gap post while hard at work on the next installment of the Jukebox Antagonist.
thanks 1 2 live

Oh, I’ll shake somethin’

The original search started out for banned, censored or otherwise prohibited music. Most of the results were commonplace. Elvis got banned for shaking his hips. Most rock bands…were never banned for anything. So it gives me a chance to get brushed up on my 2 Live Crew, heh.

Somehow, I wound up on a Small Faces jam, next thing you know I’m listening to “Telstar”, and in the sidebar, I saw the band name – The Honeycombs – and thought, “I’ve never heard of these cats.” For a second, I thought it might be one of Ronnie Lane’s earlier bands. And so I clicked on it, and watched for a little while, which I heartily suggest you do as well, without any context whatsoever.

The Honeycombs – Eyes

At about the 0:38, you might have a question, as I did. “Is that…a…?” At the 1:22 mark, you will definitely have a question, and it might take a little time for it to be answered. As you can see, I’m prolonging the reveal. That’s not because I’m a tease. It’s because I didn’t know exactly what I was looking at until I opened another tab and searched “The Honeycombs”.

Well, that cleared things up considerably. My question was answered and actually, I was a little disappointed. I was really, truly hoping that drummer Honey Lantree wasn’t born a woman, and I was looking at perhaps something even more rare than a female drummer in a Beatle-era rock band.

OK, so…wow! If Ann “Honey” Lantree isn’t the first female rock drummer, she’s definitely the first one prior to Mo Tucker of the Velvet Underground.

I had just read another Buzzfeed-style bloglist which named Lantree the most noteworthy drummer in rock history.[1] Here’s the skinny on the Honeycombs. Formed in London in 1963 by hairdresser Martin Murray (rhythm guitar), the five-piece hooked up with songwriters Ken Howard and Alan Blaikley. The group auditioned for record producer Joe Meek, recording Howard and Blaikley’s “Have I the Right?”, which went to No. 1 in the U.K. and No. 5 in the U.S. in late 1964.

thanks 1 TheHoneycombs1Soon after their first record hit the charts, the Honeycombs went on an international tour, becoming huge stars in Australia and Japan. Despite maintaining an association with Joe Meek, none of their follow up singles – including “Eyes” – made much of an impression, and the band limped along until the main core of founding members split in 1966. According to their Wikipedia page, variations of the band have continued to perform under the Honeycomb banner, but Honey Lantree is reportedly retired from the music industry and enjoying her life as a grandmother in Essex.[2]

To be honest, I couldn’t find a reason why “Eyes” was banned. But then again, I didn’t try very hard.

One the Juggler, Nearly a Sin

One the Juggler, Nearly a Sin

The second clip is from another obscure British band, two decades removed, called One the Juggler. This song was originally released as a single in 1983, but included on their major label debut album, Nearly a Sin, RCA Records, 1984.

In 1984, I’m 16 years old, with a driver’s license, access to a car, and a part-time job. I have mobility and the means to pay for it. This means at least once a week, I can jet over to one of several record stores and pick up some hot new (to me) jams. One occasion, I was at the record store in Downers Grove, and I was there specifically to pick up a certain record that I cannot identify at this time without spoiling a surprise. Anyway, as I was paying for the purchase, the clerk took the opportunity to upsell me. “Hey, listen…if you like __________ then you might like this band.”

And that’s how I wound up buying Nearly a Sin. Fortunately, it’s not a bad record, but don’t take my word for it.

One the Juggler – Passion Killer

Though their appearance was that of a band of gypsies, One The Juggler were a musical marriage of Bowie-esque glam, eccentric folk and melodic pub rock (with a bit of The Only Ones thrown in for good measure). This, their debut album, was recorded over a two-year period and featured all of their single A-sides up to that point, plus some brand new tracks. “Passion Killer”, “Damage Is Done”, “Django’s Coming” and “Are You The One?” were all fantastic singles and fit perfectly in amongst plenty of other like-minded tracks. “Enjoy Yourself” is a great album opener, kicking into “Mr. Wolf”, which careens into “Passion Killer”, and then the album never really lets up. It’s a strange trip, and one that does not seem that it would have had the commercial push that it did in the UK. Albums like this are made for music fans, not for new wave kids (which could account for it’s lackluster performance in the charts).[3]

The last clip is sort of the grandpa of the group in that I’m sure some of you might be familiar with it, from the The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years, a documentary film directed by Penelope Spheeris about the Los Angeles heavy metal scene from 1986 to 1988.

The Chris Holmes Pool Interview

Haha. Where I came from, if you liked W.A.S.P., there was a 100% chance that I didn’t like you.

thanks 1 wasp

[1] http://cassavafilms.com/list-of-9/the-nine-most-noteworthy-female-drummers-in-rock

[2] http://britishinvasionbands.com/the-bands/the-honeycombs/

[3] Review by Steve “Spazz” Schnee. http://www.allmusic.com/album/nearly-a-sin-mw0000848631

Jukebox Antagonist – Episode 5

28 Aug
To save everybody the trouble of reading or referencing Episode 3, during the mid-Oughts, I used to hang out at a joint in Fantasyland called Baltimore’s Inn.
My favorite MLB manager of all-time, Earl Weaver.

My favorite MLB manager of all-time, Earl Weaver of the Baltimore Orioles.

The jukebox at The Balt was something of a conundrum. It was a situation that refused to resolve itself. Here was the rub. The owner of the bar, Earl, had final say over everything in the joint, rightly so. On the downside, he was Cosby sweater adverse to change. Very little about the bar, specifically its decor, had changed in at least 20 years.

Meanwhile, The Balt had a semi-permanent rotation of bartenders: Stacy, Al, Freddie, Big Ted – who only worked on Saturday afternoons – and Earl himself on Sunday morning during the NFL season. And this one cat named Vince would occasionally cover a shift. Anyway, for the most part they were all good bartenders and decent folk.

Freddie and Al seemed to have the most influence over Earl, and of all the bartenders, Freddie cared the most about the jukebox and the pinball games. Anyway, when Freddie was in good graces with Earl, the jukebox would be top-heavy with Freddie’s selections – they had a strange friendship that I didn’t even want to know about. But this is where things start getting subjective. Freddie had what I considered to be exceedingly poor taste in music. He liked rock, just all the stinky stuff. I’ll get to that in a minute.

This is how Freddie saw himself.

This is how Freddie saw himself.

Fred was stocky dude about my height with jet-black hair and Tom Selleck mustache, who claimed pure Sicilian heritage – and probably most likely had a serious _______ habit. His bartending uniform consisted of Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts. Sometimes he had a backward baseball cap, but he always wore Air Jordans. He loved Air Jordans. In winter, he wore an Orioles baseball jacket. He said been bartending at The Balt since high school, long before Earl bought the place from the original or previous owner. And I believed him.

Freddie and I were not always friendly. We eventually developed a cordial repartee – he always let me stay for after-hours – but things got off to a rough start, and it was my fault, too.

That very first night after moving into the neighborhood, I went down to the joint for a couple of beers. Freddie was working a couple of regulars at the bar – grizzly, old dudes. The familiar dive bar stink – stale beer and ammonia – wafted through the air, and I chuckled to myself when I first saw him. “Check out Aloha Guido!” I sat down and soaked in the shithole atmosphere.

And this is how everybody saw Freddie

And this is how everybody saw Freddie.

“What can I get you, buddy?” His voice kind of matched his appearance, but his tone and delivery wasn’t truly intimidating. There was something almost child-like about him. Well, maybe high school student.

“Bottle of Bud, please.”

Freddie eyeballed me, “Are you over twenty-one?”

“I’m thirty-five,” I replied, slightly proud.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I’m going to ask you again.” He rested his paws against the bar and leaned toward me. “Are you over twenty-one?”


“That’s all I wanted to hear. One bottle of Bud. Two-seventy-five.”

Frosty introduction aside, I had really hoped to ingratiate myself at some point in the future. So I sat and quietly drank the beer. Ten minutes crawled by. Ordering another beer, I made my way over to the jukebox, and then perused the pinball machine.

Upon returning to the bar, Fred made change from the five-spot, and the beer was waiting for me. Vaguely familiar rock music came from the jukebox. The voice was something I’d heard before; couldn’t place it. Derivative blues rock with some kid screaming nonsense over the top. I wasn’t sure. Could it be Montrose? It wasn’t “Rock Candy”, which was the extent of my Montrose familiarity. But damn, I knew that voice.

Montrose, 1973

Montrose, 1973

Freddie was air-drumming and bobbing his head to the beat, a visual cue I should have picked up on. It’s queer how I noticed he was jamming to the cuts, but I still wound up being a jackass. And I certainly wasn’t looking to cause trouble. Most of all, I was just trying to make conversation.

“Excuse me, sir,” I called out. “But what is this [music]?” pointing at the ceiling.

“Hey buddy,” Freddie said. “I’m not your father. Don’t ever call me ‘sir’ again.”

“OK…what should I call you?”


“OK, Freddie…. What’s playing right now?”

“Are you kidding!? It’s Montrose. With Sammy Hagar.”

“Oh…” I took a long pull from the beer.

“Oh, what?” Fred prodded. The vultures were staring me down from the other end of the bar.

“Um, that explains something to me,” I mumbled, “something…sth…personal.”

“Explains what?”

“Nothing. Sorry,” backpedaling in a hurry.

Freddie did not look pleased. “You said it, pal. Explains what?”

This is Van Halen. Accept no substitutes.

This is Van Halen. Accept no substitutes.

“Why it sucks, basically. Sammy Hagar. No offense. He ruins everything. Destroyed Van Halen.”

Freddie pulled the beer from my hand, pointed to the door and said, “Get out of my bar.”

I hesitated and then briefly shuddered in shock, “Huh?”


“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious. You want to be a smart ass? We ain’t serving smart ass today. Take it somewhere else.” He scooped up my beer, wiped the spot where it sat, and again pointed at the door. Facing indifferent stares from the trio of vultures down the rail, I drifted toward the door. The vultures cackled as I stepped out on to the sidewalk. Apparently, in nature vultures don’t really cackle as much as they make gurgling sounds as they feast on dead flesh.

A week went by before I returned to The Balt with my fingers crossed that Freddie wasn’t behind the bar – he wasn’t, it was Stacy, a total sweetheart. We bonded almost immediately and at some point, I told her about my earlier run-in with Freddie, and she said, “That figures. The guy is such an asshole.”

Stacy clued me in to the bartender’s rotation. As long as I avoided Friday nights and weekday mornings – not a problem, thanks – I wouldn’t have to deal with Freddie. And so I became familiar with the rest of the crew. A couple of months went by and one night I walked in expecting to see Stacy behind the bar, only to find Freddie.

“Well, well, well, look who it is. You got anything smart to say about Sammy tonight, smart ass?”

It was one of those slow-motion situations – a full-body wince – and I wanted to turn around and walk out, but I’d only wind up looking like a chump – and besides, what I said in the first place wasn’t wrong. I honestly believe that Sammy Hagar is a lackluster talent. And then, any hope of escaping vanished when Vince spun around and acknowledged my presence. “Hey there.”

“This guy,” Freddie said to Vince, “had the balls to tell me that Sammy Hagar sucks. Do you believe that?”

Glassy-eyed and slurring, Vince said, “That’s…probably… something you should have kept to yourself.”

Being humble yet resolved makes a situation more or less reset itself. In a word, I was contrite. My apologies accepted, Fred brought me a Bud while Vince patted me on the back, shook my hand, and said, “Welcome to…the club. Fred has 86’d me for far less…egregious offenses.”

By the end of the night, it was me and Freddie playing pinball, arguing about which was better – the original versus classic line-up of [the] Scorpions. Personally, as I told Fred, I don’t think there is any comparison between Lonesome Crow-era Scorps (1972) and the band that made Blackout (1982), and to prove my point, I use this jam from Lonesome Crow to emphasize the disparity.

Scorpions – Action

As the years went by, music was pretty much the only thing Fred and I ever talked about. He never asked about my life or what I did for a living, and I never asked why he was riding around the neighborhood on a kid’s BMX bike with a bridal train of scratch-off Lotto tickets coming out of his back pocket at six o’clock in the morning.

Some of Freddie’s favorite bands – off the top of my head, the ones I remember arguing about – were (in no particular order, and in addition to the Scorps):

Asia, Starship, Blue Oyster Cult, Blue Oyster Cult, Blue Oyster Cult, Blue Oyster Cult, Kansas, Molly Hatchett, Dire Straits, UFO, Foreigner, Guns n’ Roses, Dokken, Metallica, Pat Travers Band, Robin Trower, Uriah Heep, Y&T, George Thorogood, Montrose, Quiet Riot, Hawkwind, Ratt, Doobie Brothers, Saxon, Accept, Styx, Heart, Journey, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Eric Clapton, Deep Purple, Vanilla Fudge, Van Halen or anything else with Sammy Hagar.

And this freakin’ guy, Canada’s answer to Bon Jovi, though it was never really a question.

Aldo Nova – Fantasy

In all honesty, that’s a pretty damn good intro to a crappy MTV rock band video. They rented a helicopter! Hello, 1982!

Nevertheless, there was one band that Freddie inexplicably despised: R.E.O. Speedwagon, a band I personally loved at the age of 12, and this caused me a ridiculous amount of unnecessary existential angst. I lost sleep thinging about it, for real. How could it be possible? If a dude is onboard with Journey and Styx, he’s gotta take R.E.O. with him, too. That’s like saying you like people but small talk is not your thing.

R.E.O. Speedwagon circa Hi Infidelity (1980), at the height of their popularity

R.E.O. Speedwagon circa Hi Infidelity (1980), at the height of their popularity

Of course, Freddie liked the Stones, Beatles, Kinks, Who, Zappa, Zeppelin and Hendrix – he loved the Bobs, Marley and Dylan. But here’s the thing, if Freddie was going to put some Dylan on the jukebox, he always played “Hurricane”; eight minutes of Oh My God and Stop It Now For God’s Sake, Bob, Goddammit.

Bob Dylan, "Hurricane Parts 1 and 2" (1976)

Bob Dylan, “Hurricane Parts 1 and 2″ (1976)

The pinball machine for a long time was located just a few steps from the jukebox. If I happened to see Fred make a move for the box, I could ostensibly scoot over and cut him off – we had more than a few scuffles – but a lot of the time I’d be mid-ball, and couldn’t move. In that case, I’d yell over at him, “Come on, Fred. No Dylan tonight!”

“You don’t want Dylan? OK, whaddya want?”

“I want you to step away from the jukebox.”

And so, our arguments would generally start with me saying, “Dude, you gotta do something reasonable about the jukebox.”

“Like what?”

“Asia? Come on, man. We don’t have any Yes, King Crimson or ELP, but we have Asia? That’s low class.”

“Asia? That’s Earl’s record, but I freakin’ love ‘em. Steve Howe, Carl Palmer, John Watson, and uh, what’s his name, from the Wiggles?”

“First of all, it’s John Wetton. The keyboard player was Geoff Downes, and the band was the Buggles. ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’? ‘Member?”

Starship, Knee Deep in the Hoopla (1986)

Starship, Knee Deep in the Hoopla (1986)

Our conversation is interrupted by the intro to “We Built This City”.

“Jesus Christ, did you just play Starship?”

“What’s wrong with Starship?”

“What’s right with Starship? Name one thing. I dare you.”

“Aw man, Mickey Thomas…”

“’Fffffhhhh. Maybe ‘Jane’ is a great track, but that’s Jefferson Starship. We have Knee Deep in the Hoopla. Man, everything they’ve done since 1978 is awful, horrible stuff. You realize that if you have ‘We Built this City’ on the jukebox, some jackass is going to play it? That jackass being you. It happens, man. All the time. Why not put Rick Astley in there?”

“Ah, you’re just bitter. OK, I’ll play ‘Peaches en Regalia’ for ya on the next round. How ‘bout ‘Willie the Pimp’?”

“No, man. We’re lucky enough to even have Hot Rats in the box and all you ever play is ‘Willie the Pimp’. Play ‘The Gumbo Variations’.”


“Track five.”

Five years of that, people.

Now about Sammy Hagar, and this is almost verbatim of every jawbone Freddie and I ever had about the subject. First and foremost, Hagar’s a Rock n’ Roll Hall of Famer, and who the hell cares what I think of him, his music, or his tequila? In the manner and style of Wesley Willis, I say, “Rock on, Sammy Hagar. General Electric, we bring good things to life.

This is like watching the Yankees play the Cubs - I want them BOTH to lose.

This is like watching the Yankees play the Cubs – I want them BOTH to lose.

Next, I’ve gone through every phase of Hagar’s career from Montrose to Chickenfoot and I can’t find a single song that I would ever want to hear, under any circumstances. When he was in Van Halen, I did not participate. That 5150 record is nonsense. Pure shit. I hear that and all I think is, “Cocaine is a hell of a drug.” When Sammy left VH, my heart felt a little lighter.

And then one night in the middle of an argument with Freddie, it hit me. There is one Sammy Hagar song that I think is quite funny – in its banality. “(There’s Only) One Way to Rock” is one of the most vapid, stereotypically “rock” songs in the pantheon of rock music. This song speaks to the lowest of the lowest common denominator. Sammy wants you to know that he’s traveled the world, banged a bunch of chicks, did a bunch of drugs, and now holds the Secret to Rock. He knows there’s “a million ways to make love” but only one way to Rock. He just never gets around to saying what it is. There’s just one way though, man. Make no mistake.

Perhaps the absence of self-awareness – the delinquency of logic – is what availed Mr. Hagar to rock so hard, for so long. Please look at these lyrics:

Crank out the drums / Crank out the bass / Crank out my Les Paul, in your face

How about we don’t crank anything in my face, Sam? That’s hilarious to me because I’ve written some pathetic lyrics. We don’t even need to point out the implications. Next thing you know, I’m going to start talking about Loverboy. So, here on my jukebox, the closest I could ever come to playing anything related to Sammy Hagar – as the antagonist – is a song that name-checks him. And so, here’s one of the essential Southern California punk bands, Circle Jerks.

Circle Jerks – Heavy Metal Weekend


While we’re in somewhat of the neighborhood, let’s check out seminal Northern California punk miscreants of roughly the same era, Flipper.

Flipper – Talk’s Cheap

The pure, amateur delight of Flipper may never again be duplicated. Every now and then, we need to lighten the mood. Anyway, we saw Flipper at Cabaret Metro one time in like 1986-ish(?), and they were easily the most fucked-up band I’d seen to date. These dudes made the Replacements look like Latter-Day Saints. Flipper also holds what I believe to be the record for Most Original Members to Die of Heroin Overdose, with three (Will Shatter, John Dougherty, and Kevin Williams).

Ice-T, Original Gangster (1991)

Ice-T, Original Gangster (1991)

Aside from disco, the only other type of music that Earl refused to put in the jukebox was rap and/or hip-hop. We had tons of old school soul, R&B, and funk – Little Richard, Sly Stone, Al Green, Marvin Gaye, The Spinners, The Temptations, and Ohio Players – they were all represented – but the closest we came to rap and hip-hop was the Aerosmith/Run D.M.C. collaboration from a best-of compilation. At the same time, I was thankful that we didn’t have Saturday Night Fever, so I considered it a wash.

Occasionally, I would come in on Sunday morning to watch NFL and have a chat with Earl, specifically on my part about either the jukebox or the pitch on the new pinball machine. Though I lobbied really hard for at least one record by Public Enemy or A Tribe Called Quest – for chrissakes, De La Soul would have been acceptable – my pleas fell on Earl’s deaf ears. There was one time when I had Freddie convinced that it wouldn’t hurt to have Dr. Dre’s The Chronic. When that fell through, I pushed for Body Count, Ice-T’s metal band. Never happened.

Ice-T is one of music’s all-time great storytellers. The next jam comes from Original Gangster (1991), which was remains his biggest album, and one of those tracks I like to play for people who say they don’t get, understand, or otherwise like gangster rap. This is about as gangster and articulate as you can get. I mean, yeah, Chuck D. and Public Enemy were spitting truth, but Ice-T is spinning yarn, baby – he’s knitting a goddamn sweater. Public Enemy was never gangster anyway. The point I’m trying to make is no matter how many times I hear this jam, I have to listen to it all the way through, just to find out what happens at the end.

Samples: “Black Sabbath” by Black Sabbath, “When the Levee Breaks” by Led Zeppelin, “9mm Goes Bang” by Boogie Down Productions, and “I Ain’t No Joke” by Eric B. & Rakim

Ice-T – Midnight


Regardless of its veracity, Ice-T tells one hell of a tale, and I’m inclined to believe him. Kind of. Most of the time. Likewise, there are some lyrics that need decoding.

Midnight chillin’ at A.M., P.M. / Coolin’ drinkin’ apple juice / In Evil’s BM

juke 5 ampm-resizedAM/PM = a convenience store chain with branches located in several U.S. states, including Arizona, California, Nevada, Oregon, and Washington.

Evil’s BM = BMW

The sounds up loud to attract attention / Armor-All’d tires on a lowered suspension / Nardi to steer with / Alpine deck was glowin’ / Bumpin’ Big Daddy / And the n—- was definitely flowin’

Alpine = Stereo system

Nardi = Steering wheel by Officine Nardi, an Italian automobile and racing car maker, named for Enrico Nardi

Big Daddy = Big Daddy Kane. Here’s what Ice-T had to say about Big Daddy. “To me, Big Daddy Kane is still today one of the best rappers. I would put Big Daddy Kane against any rapper in a battle. Jay-Z, Nas, Eminem, any of them. I could take [his song] ‘Raw’ from ’88, and put it up against any record [from today]. Kane is one of the most incredible lyricists… and he will devour you on the mic. I don’t want to try to out-rap Big Daddy Kane. Big Daddy Kane can rap circles around cats.”

I was ridin’ shotgun / Donald and Hen in back / Look thru the tint recognized a jack

juke 5 nardi bmwLook through the tint = Tinted windows

Jack = Car-jacking in progress; (v.) to take something from somebody at gunpoint

Two brothers strolled up / Talkin’ bout get out / Donald D blazed / Shot one fool thru his fuckin’ mouth / Why would they step / When they know we’re strapped? / I never cruise L.A. / Without a Gat in my lap

Step = Attempt to jack another brother

Strapped = Armed

Gat = Pre-Prohibition name for any type of gun, in reference to the Gatling gun, a Civil War-era rapid-fire precursor to the machine gun. Seems like common knowledge, but a lot of fools think it’s a reference to the sound a gun makes.

The other fool shot / Caught the E in the shoulder blade / I busted thru the car door / That’s where the n—- laid / Hen jumped out / Dropped two nines in his forehead / Evil was bleedin’ bad / The car seats were turnin’ red

Dropped two nines = Shot the dude in the head twice with a 9mm pistol

Looked to my left / There were two more carloads / N—-s in hats and hoods / In an attack mode / And they hadn’t yet begun to fight / E hit the gas / It was one past midnight!
We boned down Vernon / Right on Normandie / Left on Florence / Gettin’ thru the E.T.G.s / Spun out on Vermont / Made a left on Colden / Right on Hoover / “E, where we goin’?” / He didn’t even answer that / Checked the rear view / They were still out back / Where were these brothers from? / What made these brothers come? / Bang! our back window was removed by a shotgun

juke 5 tee-gee2E.T.G.s = The 83 Gangster Crips (ETGC) also known as Eight Tray Gangster Crips, are primarily an African-American street gang located in the area formerly known as South Central, L.A. Their neighborhood spread from Gage Ave to 79th Street, between Western Ave and Vermont Ave. Named after a popular residential street called 83rd Street in the heart of their neighborhood. The E.T.G.s are considered by everybody on the planet to be one of the most violent street gangs in all of Los Angeles County, with over 300 active members. They originated from the Original West Side Crips, led by Stanley Willams (Tookie), in the early 1970’s.

Now Hen G was shot / Don caught a ricochet / These motherfuckers was ill / They didn’t come to play / Bust a right turn, parked / And then we got left / Hid in the bushes / Shot the gas tank to fake death / But would this really keep them psyched? / Three of us bleedin’ / It was ten past midnight!

Keep them psyched = Fooled, tricked

Shot the gas tank = Here’s where the story begins to slip just a little bit. See, I’ve seen this on MythBusters

Myth: A gas tank will explode when shot by a bullet. (From Episode 15)

juke 5 bustedplacard-728291

“It has already been proven that when shot by a normal bullet a gasoline tank will not explode. However, if a gasoline tank is shot by a tracer round from a great enough distance so that the round can ignite with air friction, it will cause the gasoline to catch fire. By the time this happened the tank was so riddled with bullets (from previous tracers that were fired too close to ignite) that there was no contained pressure, but the MythBusters surmised that had the tank been properly enclosed, it may have exploded; but overall it remains extremely improbable.”

So I believe all the stuff about getting shot, but the chase part is on shaky ground. They didn’t blow up Evil’s BM, that’s for sure.

I really didn’t like how this shit was goin’ down / Wrong night, wrong time, wrong fuckin’ part of town / Ya see we was deep in the Hoover’s hood / Three n—-s bleedin’ / That shit don’t look good! / See over there red don’t go / Some places red’s all they know

Hoover’s hood = Ice-T and his crew appear to be in Crips territory, and though he doesn’t mention any gang affiliation, according to his bio, he associated with Crips – who wear blue. Bloods of course wear red. It’s unclear what he means other than a couple of guys bleeding in the hood: no bueno. Nobody is coming to help them, basically.

But not our luck / Tonight we was real fucked / Broke down an alley and we instantly had to duck / Fuckin’ police on a gang sweep / No time to deal with one time / So we had to creep / Broke thru a back yard / Ran thru a vacant lot / E, Hen and Don kept up / To be some n—-s shot / Shit was gettin’ crazy / So I had to get busy / Hen was bleedin’ worse / And Evil was gettin’ dizzy / Looked in a parking lot / I needed a snatch bar / Had to hot wire / So I moved on an old car / It was a bucket, but fuck it, it had to do / Started it up and scooped my whole crew / Two blocks later / We saw fuckin’ blue lights / The pigs were behind us / It was half past midnight!

juke 5 9mmSnatch bar = No conclusive evidence on the translation for this term, as all searches led to erroneous meanings.

Bucket = old, beat-up car. A rust bucket. The rest of it is all pretty self-explanatory, I think.

When they pulled us over / Shit got worse / I waited till they got out and then I hit reverse / Fucked ‘em up, I seen one cop fall / Threw it in gear, yo I’m outtie y’all / Don’t know how but somehow we got away / Lost the jackers, the cops, dumped the G.T.A.

Outtie = Run from the cops. All right, now Ice-T and his crew are in some real trouble. The felonies are multiplying exponentially here. Would L.A.P.D. pull over a stolen vehicle in the heart of South Central without their weapons drawn? I dunno. That’s a little sketchy, too, but even more unreliable is the part about not knowing how they got away.

G.T.A. = Grand Theft Auto. The stolen car. What they would have been charged with had they been caught.

Made it back to the hood / Fixed the crew up / And even though Evil’s car blew up

Evil’s car blew up = No, it didn’t, Ice. That didn’t happen. I’m tellin’ you.

We made it home and then I crashed out / Thinkin’ bout my all-night death bout / Then somethin’ woke me up / From my dark sleep / The sound of fuckin’ police / When they’re tryin’ to creep / Broke thru my door with no goddamn warning / Looked at my watch / It was six in the mornin’!

Yes – South Side of the Sky

Progressive rock is the stinky French artisan cheese of the rock world. A lot of folks don’t appreciate it, but those who’ve acquired the taste are fabulously in love with the stuff.

juke 5 camembertIf King Crimson is the Camembert de Normandie of prog rock, one of the most pungent and yet savory of all cheeses, then Yes is the Brie de Meaux; a very mild creamy cheese that should appeal to anyone who says they don’t like cheese.

Personally, I can take about 20 minutes of Yes in one sitting, and then Jon Anderson’s voice starts grating on my nerves. I’ll say this about the band: They had some of the most trippy album artwork of all-time, by Roger Dean.

“South Side of the Sky” is from their most popular album of the classic era, Fragile (1973), but was overshadowed by massive radio hits “Roundabout” and “Long Distance Runaround”. If for no other reason, I’ll put this on just to hear Steve Howe’s amazing guitar parts. That kid could really play.


Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass – Whipped Cream

Commercial Break #1

When you think of Black Sunshine Media, don’t just think “media.” Think of the entire spectrum – the sounds, the sights and the sensations. Think of our fascinating stories, intriguing dialogues and crisp editorial insight. And best of all, we can cater your next special event! Black Sunshine Media – we bring dark things to light.

Jukebox Antagonist – Episode 4: The Manager

18 Aug
Back in 2007, I briefly managed a bistro-type joint in an unfamiliar neighborhood of San Francisco. The gig lasted about two months before I went back to waiting tables at my old job, which was infinitely more amenable to my lifestyle. Deeply humbled by failure, I was relieved and yet more determined than ever to escape the restaurant industry, once and for all.

Anyway, one of my few enjoyable responsibilities at the bistro was maintaining the music for front of the house – they had a five-CD changer in the back office. To be honest, the system was kind of a mess; the previous manager – a DJ-type persona – had cleared out all of his gear, so the remains were jerry-rigged by one of the bartenders acting as manager. One of my first tasks as manager was to straighten out the sound system.

Before I even took the gig, I was repulsed by the bistro’s music agenda. During my first reconnaissance visit as an anonymous customer, I heard Enya, Kylie Minogue, Ricky Martin, Stereolab, and horrific acid house electro jazz techno-nonsense by artists I don’t even want clogging up the arteries of my memory. It was pure garbage – crap I would expect to hear blasting from a hair salon in the Castro, where it belongs. That’s when you ask yourself, “Am I willing to work in a place where I can’t stand the music?” Survey says: Maybe…

Weeks later, I would meet the previous manager and it would all make sense. The music part.

So two days after I took the gig, I went to the owner and said, “Hey, would it be cool if I mix up the soundtrack?”

He said, “Sure. In fact, take $150 out of petty cash and go buy some CDs. Do whatever you want. Make it your joint. No problem.”

On my first day off, I went down to Amoeba Records on Haight Street and went wild, but in the meantime, I brought in some of my own CDs to the joint. Almost overnight, staff and customers were commenting on the change of music. Several people said, “You know, the music was the one thing I never really loved about this place.”

As you might imagine, from the perspective of the Jukebox Antagonist, I was thrilled. But it was fleeting. In truth, the difference in music was nothing but a ripple in the sea of doing business. The regulars were coming back no matter what kind of music you piped in.

Amoeba Records has an amazing selection of used records in all formats. With a buck and a half plus a few sheckles from my personal kitty, I wound up with almost 20 discs, a few of which I already owned on vinyl and played at home on a regular basis. I think I paid $3.99 for Led Zeppelin’s Coda, mainly as an afterthought, the last CD in the basket. It’s a record you have in your collection, but never gets played. Name a song off Coda. See, you can’t.

Every day I would only change two of five CDs in the player from the previous day. So each record would be in random rotation for at least two days, that way it would give staff and extremely regular customers a chance to get more acquainted with the second Velvet Underground album. That was something I thought about on a daily basis. Meanwhile, I was completely dropping the ball on just about every other aspect of the gig. But the music was tight.

juke 4 Led_Zeppelin_-_CodaThough I probably should have been thinking about what kind of music really sets the tone for the restaurant as a dining experience, I was much more motivated by turning people on to cool music. Of course, this was just one small aspect of the managerial experience, but I was glowing with pride when I caught one of the bartenders unconsciously grooving to “Baby’s On Fire”. She was feeling it, man. You could see it. She wasn’t shaking her ass to impress anybody – the place was empty – she just got the jam. And eventually she asked, “Who is that one band with the baby on fire song?”

“Why, that’s Brian Eno, sweetie.”

And I wound up turning her on to Roxy Music, too.

So I was tickled the night a song from Coda was playing over the P.A. when one of the regulars said to me, “Is this Led Zeppelin?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“What album is this from? I’ve got every album, but I’ve never heard this.”


Led Zeppelin – Ozone Baby


You can hardly find a decent Zeppelin song that hasn’t been played to death – until we happen to chance upon this jam. Recorded during sessions for the band’s final studio album In Through the Out Door in November 1978, “Ozone Baby” was one of three songs recorded yet omitted from the ensuing album due to time constraints; the other two being “Darlene” and “Wearing and Tearing”. Featuring harmonized vocal effects from Robert Plant – a rarity in the band’s catalog – this track is one of their most straightforward and up-tempo numbers, with slight hints of new wave and post-punk urgency. Alternate selections: “Friends” or “Out on the Tiles” from Led Zeppelin III (1970)


Deerhoof – Come See the Duck


From the Green Cosmos EP (2005), purchased during the Amoeba spending spree.

Deerhoof is an incredibly interesting and sometimes challenging band that I have never seen live, but have much respect.

juke 4-Mates_of_State_My_Solo_ProjectDeerhoof and Mates of State were two major influences as I transitioned from being in a band to working (mostly) on my own in Aztec Hearts. At any rate, I had records from both bands in heavy rotation at the bistro, particularly Mates of States’ debut album, My Solo Project (2000).

This “Come See the Duck” jam makes me chuckle every single time. When Green Cosmos became part of the bistro’s rotation, I suspect nobody really noticed because it always seemed to come on during the busiest rush of the evening. I knew it was playing, but I don’t think anybody else gave it a second thought.

The owner usually came in just before closing, and sometimes he’d stick around for a chat. One night, I was clean-up bartending and he was having a snack – nobody else in the joint but the kitchen staff, and they were on their way out, too. All of a sudden, “Come See the Duck” comes on and the owner stops in mid-chew of his food. He looks at me; I’m buffing a wine glass and just kind of smirking, also a little buzzed.

“Christian, what…?”

“It’s a local band. They’re called Deerhoof.”

“Have you been playing this all night?”

“What do you mean by ‘play’?”

The next morning I replaced Green Cosmos EP with (probably maybe it’s impossible to say my favorite Deerhoof record), Apple O’ (2003). Nobody said a word about it, for the duration of my employment.

King Diamond interview with Joe Franklin


Perhaps even more incongruous than Joe Franklin interviewing a Danish metal singer is the fact that Joe Franklin isn’t one of the most popular radio and television host personalities of all-time. For whatever reason, he was strictly an East Coast phenomenon.

juke 4-Abigail_(King_Diamond_album)On the other hand, King Diamond was a late 1980s phenomenon, and there was a period of about six months when I was into metal. I don’t regret it at all, but I’m glad it didn’t stick. Then there was a period in the late 90s when I first moved to S.F. that I listened to KUSF college radio, and I got turned on to a bunch of second wave Norwegian black metal, particularly the bands Emperor, Mayhem and Thorns. Those were a gruesome couple of months – plus, I was doing carpentry for $13 bucks an hour. Those Norwegian cats will bring you down, man. It’s the aural equivalent of an appendectomy without anesthesia.

The bistro’s all-Hispanic kitchen staff came in early morning, and I’d roll up around 10:30-11:00 a.m. Doors opened at 5:00 p.m. for dinner service. Of course, the crew would be rocking the Ranchero music, which I love, and so I wouldn’t even bother to turn on the main sound system during the day. One of the prep cooks was a younger cat who always wore metal band t-shirts: Megadeth, Slayer, Deicide, etc. One day we were talking about music – I said something about his Avenged Sevenfold shirt – and I said, “Have you ever listened to King Diamond?” The kid shook his head. No, I never heard of them.

The next day, I brought in a copy of Abigail (1987), which is just about the right amount of King Diamond anybody needs in their collection. Just sayin’. Anyway, the kid loved it, and so I gave him the disc. But from then on, me and that dude would exchange song lyrics with each other, like, I’d sing (in King’s falsetto), “I am alive!” and the kid would respond with, “Inside your wife!” Shit was funny to us. When I was super-high, I’d walk around the joint howling, “Miriam’s dea-eh-ead!” True King Diamond fans will be all over that shit.

King Diamond – Abigail


King Diamond – A Mansion in Darkness


Tom Waits – Clap Hands


What did I pay for this? $6.99? Customers and staff loved this record; it received the second most commentary and praise, behind the all-time favorite…


Stevie Wonder – Love Having You Around


The first record in the basket was Music of My Mind (1972), of course. It’s a Personal Top Ten. Had to have it.


Off Broadway – Stay in Time

juke 4-1980_04_05__musicradio_89_wls_chicago_1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJOTXWoeIew


This is for all my Chicago people, especially my fellow comrades who got to see Off Broadway perform in the Hinsdale South H.S. gymnasium circa 1980-81. I’m pretty sure I was in eighth grade. The band hailed from Oak Park, Illinois, just a hop, skip and a jump from my hometown.

This track is of course from their debut album On (Atlantic Records, 1979), which reached #101 on the Billboard 200. “Stay in Time” hit #51 on the Billboard Hot 100 singles charts, and #11 on the WLS Musicradio 89 survey of top songs for 1980.

And I found in the cut-out bin for $.99 at Amoeba. A couple of people in the bistro asked, “Is that Cheap Trick?”


Off Broadway – Full Moon Turn My Head Around


Exactly two weeks before I bailed on the bistro gig, I had come to the conclusion that things weren’t going to work out. That morning, I realized that I had crossed over from caring about the gig, to thinking about the best way to get out of the gig. It was a day I will probably remember for the rest of my life. Sun was shining. Unseasonably warm day. Around noon I took a short break and walked up toward the cleaners to get my evening shirts, when I crossed an alley where a homeless woman had laid out all of her possessions on a blanket, in typical impromptu S.F. street sale style. She had a decent stack of CDs that caught my eye, and almost without thinking I approached the woman and said I’d give her ten bucks for the CDs, sight unseen, cash in hand. She snatched the bill from my fingertips.

juke 4 folk MI0000082082There were 13 CD cases in total, four of which did not contain a disc, so nine for the price of 10. Among the first records in the stack was Troubadours of British Folk, Volume 2 (Rhino Records, 1995), which featured the usual suspects Lindsfarne, Nick Drake, and Fairport Convention. Under that, was Burl Ives, and under that, a homemade compilation of sea shanties entitled Irish Pirate Songs. And then: Abba, Arrival (1979); Warrant, Cherry Pie (1990); Journey, Escape (1978); TWO Joan Armatrading records, and a Donna Summer best-of that made a loud thwack as it hit the back of the dumpster. All in all, I thought, “That’s about the most ‘San Francisco’ collection of CDs I’ve ever seen.”

Upon returning to the bistro, I loaded up the CD changer with my latest scores. Every record I scored from the homeless woman wound up in the rotation, including Warrant, which brought more than a couple of confused and furrowed brows. Anyway, I’m running out of time here, so I just wanted to say that Troubadours of British Folk Volume 2 turned out to be one of my favorite records of the year, and my favorite cut was the super obscure “Mr. Fox” by Mr. Fox.

Mr. Fox – Mr. Fox

The Slightly Less Terrible of Two Terrors

12 Aug
Terror“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”

- David Foster Wallace (1962-2008)

Jukebox Antagonist – Episode 3: Special Pinball Edition

8 Aug
From Chicago to San Francisco to L.A. to Manila to Taipei to places beyond and between, my favorite places to drink are dive bars; unpretentious, bread n’ butter, good old-fashioned “watering holes.” The drinks are cheap and equitable, the bartender is vaguely congenial but no-nonsense, and the regulars seem like a rough bunch of characters, but once you get to know them, they’re a bunch of fluffy kittens. Most importantly, nobody is there to “make the scene.” A dive bar is the antithesis of a scene.
Pittsburgh's Pub, San Francisco, CA

Pittsburgh’s Pub, San Francisco, CA

Over the course of a drinking career, every sports bar and nightclub has a time and a place – you’ll see me at Slammer’s and the Foo Foo Lounge, too. The object of the game is to make myself comfortable anywhere booze is available. I like to think that just about anywhere I go is a potential drinking establishment. Anyway, the term “dive bar” never carried a stigma or negative connotation, and at least some of my affection for the low-rent atmosphere came from reading Hemingway and Bukowski, and falling for the romance of functional alcoholism.

My favorite dive bars have two things besides booze: Pinball and a jukebox. If we can smoke inside, even better, but not necessarily a deal-breaker in temperate climates where smoking out on the sidewalk isn’t a form of nicotine-shaming.

The jukebox accepts bills, the pinball machine does not. A dive bar by definition shouldn’t have a bill changer. The till usually has a decent supply of quarters, but it’s always a good idea to have some on hand – at least a buck’s worth – just in case. There’s a 24-hour Laundromat just up the street if you’re in a pinch.

juke 3 - action baseball

Action Baseball (Williams Mfg. Co., 1971)

Other than music, pinball has been my longest running joint. I went through phases with video games – particularly, Asteroids – but I always came back to pinball. In the mid-70s, my family took a camping trip in southern Colorado and stayed at a series of KOA campgrounds. At every stop there was a small recreation center with a vending machine and couple of arcade games for the kids. We’d have a couple of hours to kill before lights out, so I’d head up to the rec center and spend my candy money on pinball. The first game I clearly remember playing and getting good at was Action Baseball (Williams Mfg. Co., 1971).

As the years went by, pinball became my game of choice at Showbiz Pizza and Chuck E. Cheese, where half of all peer-based birthday parties were held in Darien, Illinois, circa 1980. With the emergence of major amusement parks, we’d go to Six Flags’ Great America at least twice a year. Much to my parents’ aggravation, I’d spend most of my time in the video game arcade.

No matter if it was Disney World’s Magic Kingdom, Disneyland, Kings Island, Busch Gardens, Old Chicago, Noah’s Ark at Wisconsin Dells, Santa’s Workshop, or Six Flags’ St. Louis. The lines for the rides were unacceptable. I didn’t have the patience to wait an hour for a two-minute rollercoaster, sweating like a slave, especially when it was nice and cool inside the air-conditioned arcade. During the average Six Flags visit, I’d maybe hit Logger’s Run for a splash of cool water, and take a couple of spins at Winner’s Circle Go Karts. The Roto-Rooter was also amusing and there was never a line for that joint. But then it was back to the arcade.

Most of all, I liked the physicality of pinball, that you could use your body to influence the playing field – it’s a matter of finesse; ride the machine too hard – meaning, move it around too much – and you’re going to tilt, and lose a ball. After a while, you learn how to “feel” the ball on the flipper and how to dislodge a ball from a stuck bumper without tilting. Pinball was one of those games where I could be content to play without any social interaction whatsoever, except maybe to order a slice of pizza and get more quarters from Mr. Munch at the cash register when the bill changer was out of order.

juke 3 - mr munch_lg

Hey Mr. Munch. Gimme two bucks worth of quarters.

Pittsburgh’s Pub in the Outer Sunset District of San Francisco is probably my favorite dive bar of all-time, mainly because I spent more time there than any other joint in my life – the better part of five years. Like everything else, there were stretches of weeks and months where I avoided the bar, which was pretty hard to do considering its location: 173 sober steps from my apartment.

The other reason I loved Pittsburgh’s: They had pinball and a jukebox. Actually, they had several different pinball machines over the years, but Theater of Magic and Star Trek: Next Generation had the longest tenure. Indiana Jones: The Pinball Adventure and World Cup Soccer came and went on several occasions. And – and! Depending upon the bartender, if you were welcome to stay for after-hours, you were allowed to smoke inside. In fact, we had to smoke inside because they had to shut and lock the front door. Genius. After-hours were great. But that’s a different subject.

During my run in the neighborhood (2003-2008), Pittsburgh’s had something of an unsavory reputation, especially among people who remembered the bar from the early and mid-90s when it was operating under a different name. The joint wasn’t particularly known for physical violence or shit getting really out of hand, but everything else was on the table. There was a persistent yet almost comfortable element of vice on Friday and Saturday nights – it was there if you wanted it.

My closest friends who didn’t live in the Sunset frowned upon the joint, and never – not once – accepted one of the invitations to meet me at Pittsburgh’s for a drink, which stopped coming after a couple of years. Eventually, I befriended a crew of local regulars – the after-hours set – and that took on its own social orbit, separate from my pre-existing life, which had another division of friends between work and being in a band. Among my friends from the bar, we called it The Pit.

The Pit was also home to the just-about quintessential dive bar jukebox. It had everything you would expect a watering hole to have: Hank Williams Sr. to Little Richard to The Clash to Blue Oyster Cult. In fact, it was a little heavy on the B.O.C.; when simply a greatest hits compilation would have sufficed, we had two or three albums to choose from. And I loved B.O.C. – when I was 12. Sure, “Godzilla” is a great jam, and “Burnin’ for You” is a fun, senseless, one-groove boogie track. If you were a teenager in the 1980s. But then there’s this…

Blue Oyster Cult – Shooting Shark

Please do me a favor. I really want you to watch the B.O.C. video for at least the first minute. Number one, it’s a casino in Michigan. Number two, band introductions? Don’t get me started on that shit. So I’m not even going to post the video where they do a Macarena dance during the guitar solo intro to “Don’t Fear the Reaper”. Google it. The clip is from the same show. Anyway, THIS is why rock music blows. It’s because of THESE guys.

Just stop already. Get a hobby. Learn a skill.

And so like every jukebox, The Pit’s had its share of stinkers; some people really really like Bon Jovi, and they have to hear “Livin’ on a Prayer” one more time, even though Slippery When Wet is cued up in the cassette deck of their ’84 IROC parked right out front. They also like Asia, Starship, Kansas, Dire Straits, Foreigner, Guns n’ Roses, Dokken, Metallica, Pat Travers Band, Robin Trower, Uriah Heep, Y&T, George Thorogood, and Deep Purple. Who am I to begrudge them?

This documentary on Deep Purple’s 1975 tour of New Zealand is one of the most neckbeard, Spın̈al Tap things I’ve ever seen in my life. No, seriously. Check out drummer Ian Paice’s neckbeard. At the same time, David Coverdale is actually pretty damn cool. He oozes rock star. [For Purple fans only: Bear in mind that this is from the Mark III era, so there’s no Ritchie Blackmore.] And it’s got a bitchin’ intro.

“Auckland International Airport, 9:00 a.m., November 13. A yellow Boeing 707 freighter lumbers to a parking space on the tarmac. About the same time the plane lands, in a stadium not ten miles from the airport, men race the clock to build a giant outdoor stage. The yellow plane is being chartered for five weeks by English rock band Deep Purple. Cost: a quarter of a million dollars.”


At any rate, The Pit’s jukebox was a little quirky but satisfactory by even my malaise-faire personal standards.


“Making the scene” at The Pit

The narcissistic appeal of the jukebox never dawned on me until I started drinking and hanging out places like The Pit. Why would people pay to hear music in a joint that’s already charging them to be there? Early on it seemed to me that he onus of entertainment fell on the operator of the establishment; the atmosphere of the joint should be included in the price of the drink. Either that or there’s a cover charge for live music. At any rate, perhaps a year into my drinking career, I had a minor revelation: Nothing is free and you get what you pay for.

Consider arcade games. A dive bar owner is basically trying to squeeze every last quarter out of the joint. It’s not that he’s necessarily greedy, but he’s running a business, not a fraternity. Likewise, many dive bar patrons need something to do. Billiards, darts, pinball, foosball and first-person shooter video games are the perfect distractions. Generally speaking, these activities are never free – ever – even if your buddy has a pool table in his parents’ basement, somebody paid for it.

For one thing, if the jukebox were free, some sour jackass is going to jam us with Diana Ross and the Supremes all night. And there is nothing worse than a dive bar with Frank Sinatra on the jukebox – meaning all of them. There’s always that one closet case macho man with a crush on Frank. That shit makes my skin crawl. Sinatra is great – in elevators and beer commercials – but I don’t want to hear “Luck Be a Lady” tonight or any other night. Take that nonsense somewhere else, like Bingo Night at the Elks Club.

It’s a fact: You can’t throw a party and let just any old drunk have access to the sound system.

Consequentially, I did not begin to appreciate the value and power of the jukebox until I was in my late teens, early 20s. Traditional jukeboxes with vinyl records had long been a thing of the past – except at Johnny Rocket’s, and what the hell are you doing in that patch of tourist quicksand? Did you get turned away at the Hard Rock Café? Geez. And half the time, those old machines malfunctioned, so you’d program “Let’s Go” by the Cars and it would play “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet” by Bachmann-Turner Overdrive – and talk about getting ripped off. It only cost me a couple of quarters before I learned the lesson; if I want to hear something, I can do it at home.

Much better than the old way.

Much better than the old way.

Right, so when I started getting into jukeboxes, it was all CDs – and you got to see the cover art and a track list. The entire experience was a dramatic improvement over the old school way.

Nowadays, most joints have digital audio players and the bartender usually creates the sonic atmosphere. I’m sure it varies. When I was hanging out at Sam’s Club, they had cable music programming coming through the flat screen and house speakers, and they’d always let me pick the station. There’s a joint in Taipei called Roxy Rocker that has a DJ who takes requests, which by definition is what a true DJ should do. Ask Bob and Ron.

Speaking of Bob and Ron and their delightful Record Club, I’d like to congratulate them upon reaching a milestone – their 50th podcast on the Steve Dahl Network. Here’s my favorite Bob and Ron episode from the archives.

Bob and Ron’s Record Club Radio Archive – Episode 56


Back to the jukebox. Having the power to dictate the music in a semi-public setting is a type of self-expression that is equal parts share and show-off. And then there’s just wanting to hear “Runnin’ on Empty” while sipping your Budweiser and playing Gin Rummy with Wanda. At any rate, you have no more than three minutes and thirty seconds to make a point or set the tone.

When you’re on the public transportation and there’s some kid blasting music on his headphones or smartphone – God forbid, an old school boom box – he’s not doing it because he wants to turn you on to the hottest and latest joint from Wu-Tang; he doing it to show his contempt and utter lack of respect for everybody in the vicinity. When you’re driving down the road and stopped at a light when a dude rolls up in a monster truck with a 5,000-watt P.A. system in the bed, and the deafening thuds of Nickelback are rattling your doors – again – this cat isn’t saying, “Hey y’all, you should hear this cut. It’s smokin’!” No, he’s saying something more along the lines of, “I have self-esteem issues.”

A band that needs no introduction.

A band that needs no introduction.

When you’re putting ostensibly hard-earned money in a jukebox, you’re making a slightly magnanimous gesture to your fellow bar patrons. You might be thinking, “Let’s liven this place up a lil bit!” Or: “If there’s any Sex Pistols in this muh-fuh…” There’s never any Sex Pistols in the jukebox anyway, but that’s not the point. You’re willing to shell out a few quid on everybody’s behalf so we all don’t have overhear our exceedingly inane conversations.

On the other hand, the issue of controlling the tempo, setting the pace, and imposing your will on the people is obvious, but you’re not really thinking that when you’re flipping through the jams, making your selections. At least, I know that’s not what I’m thinking.

The Velvet Underground, Loaded (1970)

The Velvet Underground, Loaded (1970)

No matter how weak or shallow the range of selections may be, I try to go as deep as possible. For instance, if – and this is a huge sloppy if – the jukebox happens to have The Velvet Underground’s Loaded (1970), I’m going to skip “Rock n’ Roll” and “Sweet Jane” and get right to “Cool It Down”, which is partially motivated by desire to show off my knowledge and familiarity with VU. At the same time, it’s a super sweet jam – probably my favorite on the record. My compadres will feel its groovy vibration. “Oh! Sweet Nuthin’” is another sleeper that doesn’t get much airplay.

The Velvet Underground – Cool it Down

My m.o. during those years was to post-up at The Pit just after midnight, having worked a shift at the restaurant gig, and puting a couple of tallboys in the tank during the 45-minute Muni crawl from Embarcadero to the Outer Sunset. The years when I was driving, I would go home first, drain a bottle of wine and then roll up on The Pit. Either way, I’d come in, shake off the cold, say hello to the regulars, Ray or Kelly would crack open a beer and set it on the bar, and I’d make a beeline for the pinball machine, provided someone wasn’t playing already. In that case, I’d wobble over to the jukebox and look for something that hadn’t been played a million times.

Over the years, I can recall making a few friends at the jukebox. Every so often, someone would wander over and ask, “Hey, whatcha gonna play?” or I would do the same – if I was feeling social, which happened from time to time. I had my moments. Up until mid-2004, I had never made a friend over pinball. It just wasn’t part of my routine. I drank, played the game, and kept to myself. There were a few occasions where another pinball enthusiast had invited me to go two-player, but 95% of the time it was just me and the machine. Pinball was such a personal experience – somewhat like masturbation, I guess – that you don’t want someone looking over your shoulder while you’re playing. It’s not a spectator sport. Besides, watching someone play pinball is just below knitting on the scale of visual experience.

My beloved Theater of Magic at The Pit

My beloved Theater of Magic at The Pit

One night I came in to find a vaguely familiar-looking guy playing Theater of Magic, which by the way, is probably the most beloved classic game in pinball history [Bally Mfg. Co., 1995]. So this guy, he’d recently started appearing in the neighborhood. He always wore a frumpy denim jacket – that was how I spotted him out on Judah Street, down by Java Beach Cafe. My first impression was: Sloppy but cultured – world-weary yet not inapproachable. I guessed him to be around 27-32 years old, and definitely not a native Californian. It was the first time I’d seen him in The Pit, so I took more notice than usual.

Anyway, he had the machine and a free game coming to him, so rather than intrude, I hung out at the bar and waited for my turn. Eventually this new guy balled out and went to get another beer. When he returned I drifted over and introduced myself and asked if he was interested in two-player. He was.

Max Edwards was the first reasonably sane person I ever met who could consistently out-play me in pinball and that became clear from the beginning. Most of the pinball wizards I’ve met are out of their minds. There was one regular named Johnny who was a bonafide wizard – he held the top five high scores on every pinball machine they ever had. And Johnny was certifiably insane.

 "Not even magic can help you now!"

“Not even magic can help you now!”

Over the course of a few weeks, Max and I became drinking-slash-pinball buddies. He turned out to be a very erudite and articulate cat, hailing from Minnesota by way of Tampa, Florida – I’m not sure in which order he descended. What we had in common was living within crawling distance of The Pit and we both liked to stay up late. We’d play Theater of Magic until bar time, and occasionally stayed for after-hours. If he wasn’t there, I’d just drink and play by myself, since hardly anybody except for me, Max, and Johnny ever touched the machine.

It wasn’t until several months later that Max told me he was a musician and played in a band. That was as far as it went. Our conversations hardly went beyond the game or “Ready for another beer?” However, at some point we began commandeering the jukebox, which was right next to the pinball machine.

This added the world of music to the unfolding dynamic of our friendship. We clashed almost immediately. Max likes Bob Dylan, I do not. Etc., etc., etc.

And so one night, I told Max that I too was in a band right here in San Francisco. He said something about, “I just assumed you were a musician.” And again, the conversation trailed off to something else. It seemed like neither one of us wanted to talk about our musical pursuits. Everything that happened in The Pit was completely unrelated to our everyday lives. It was a dive bar. There was one clock on the wall and it was always ten minutes fast.

Lifestyle of Wigs EP

Lifestyle of Wigs EP (2005)

Sometime late spring of 2005, Max mentioned that his band, Lifestyle of Wigs, was based in Minneapolis, and he was going back to play a few shows. He explained that he’d followed his girlfriend out to S.F. when she took new job. He took a miserable, low-esteem gig with a P.R. firm, and it wasn’t working out. Something like that. Anyway, Lifestyle of Wigs was recording and playing shows up until the time Max left. That’s all I knew

As for the other members of the band, drummer Ryan Lovan (Roma di Luna, Minor Kingdom & Brad Senne, Haley Bonar, Mandrew) and bassist Taras Ostroushko, Max didn’t say much except that he missed playing with them, and implied that the band was no longer together.

Not long after that, we began hanging out more often, particularly after bar time – 2:00 a.m. – usually at my place, since I lived alone and we could make as much noise as we wanted. We listened to records and talked about stuff, but we’d both be hammered by that point and none of the conversations are memorable on my end, except that we had them. But I’ll never forget the very first night we were at my house and Max picked up my acoustic steel string.

“Hey Christian, do you mind if I re-tune this thing?”

‘Not at all. Have at it.”

He tuned the guitar to a version of Open F# – with no 5th on the 6th string. So it went: F# F# C# F# A# C#. And then he proceeded to play an original song, which sounded pretty good.

My band at the time, Henry Miller Sextet, had gone through some shit and we sort of spun out in late ‘04/early ‘05, just as we’d finished making a new record. So I started concentrating on Aztec Hearts. I had a bunch of songs that didn’t really work for HMS, in my estimation. These were written in standard tuning on guitar, or piano. After reviewing the demos, I decided that only a few of those jams were keepers – I needed more songs.

One night, probably a week after Max’s first visit to my crib, I heard something in my head and reached for a guitar to snuff it out. Grabbing the Max-tuned acoustic, I instinctively formed an E-chord, fully expecting to hear a standard E major. Wait a minute. That ain’t right. It’s kind of cool, but it ain’t right. Oh…Max.

Juke 3 - Winners Cricle

Winner’s Circle Go Karts, Six Flags Great America

The guitar itself had sat unmolested for a week, but the tuning had slipped down a half-step. And thus my love affair with Open G tuning was born. But that’s a different story. What’s essential to this story is that if not for Max, I probably would not have truly embraced this “alternate” tuning as tightly as I did. Believe me, I’d experimented with guitar tunings, a bunch of ‘em. But I heard some of the melodies Max was coaxing from the instrument and I thought, “I could use that.” Ultimately, I kept that guitar tuned to Open G exclusively.

Three months or so passed. Max went back to Minneapolis and upon his return mentioned the shows in passing, but he gave me the impression that LoW was done and buried. Taras, the bass player, had left the band. Anyway, it was good to have a real friend in the neighborhood. Then I invited Max to see my band play at Bottom of the Hill, and it was probably a decent show – in terms of how we played. The joint was probably empty, I dunno. Honestly, I can hardly recall bits and pieces of shows here and there. From 1989 to 2007 is basically one show, and nobody came.

Out of the blue, Max asked if I’d be interested in playing bass for LoW during a couple of shows this coming September.

“In Minneapolis?”


Max gave me a copy of the LoW EP – along with a couple of studio tracks – and I was immediately impressed. Recorded live at the Turf Club in St. Paul, the EP is a document of an edgy and electric performance. It wasn’t perfect, in fact, it was a little messy at times, but Lifestyle of Wigs was a band that I would listen to even if Max were not my friend. They were utterly original but I heard traces of Television, Neil Young, Palace Brothers, Guided By Voices, Fugazi, Minutemen, Sonic Youth, Big Star and even hometown heroes, Hüsker Dü.

Lifestyle of Wigs EP (2005)


It had been a fairly decent stretch of time since a friend had given me one or more of his CDs and said, “Tell me what you think.” Max didn’t even really say that, either. He said, “I need someone who can play like Taras [the original bass player].”

OK, I’ll try. I guarantee I’ll try. So it was settled. We booked our flight for early September and I spent the next month learning the jams.


Sadly, this is the only picture I can find of Max and Ryan – from the backseat of Ryan’s car somewhere in St. Paul, MN, September 2005

Upon arrival in Minneapolis, we had two practice sessions as a group before playing the Turf Club in St. Paul, opening for Rank Strangers – one of Max’s favorite local bands – and a groovy outfit called Little Man. Max was pretty nervous, and I think Ryan was, too, but I was cool over there on bass. Didn’t even have to worry about backup vocals.

The next day we played a live radio show called The Current on Minneapolis Public Radio. And then the last night we played the Hexagon Bar with two phenomenal bands, Duplomacy and Seawhores. The shows were good. Max and Ryan didn’t seem too pumped though. That was just my impression. I think they missed having their pal Taras on bass.

Overall, it was a fantastic experience for me. First, I got to play bass almost anonymously in a band that I dug and respected. Second, who doesn’t like traveling? It had been seven or eight years since I’d been to Minneapolis. Furthermore, we stayed at Ryan’s house, which is where I met his wife Sarah, who would wind up singing on the first Aztec Hearts record, literally a month later. Meanwhile, most of Max and Ryan’s friends were super cool – truly beautiful people – and it was just a party from start to finish.

On Sunday night, Max and I flew back to San Francisco and that was the end of that.

Max and I went back to the routine of playing pinball at The Pit and after-hours at my crib, until a month or two later, he moved down to L.A. with his lady. He came back and stayed with me for a couple of weeks before moving on again – I think he went to Tampa. He’s in St. Paul these days.

It turned out to be a one-off thing, but I had a blast playing with Max and drummer Ryan Lovan. No matter what, “Triptic” will be one of my all-time favorite jams. [Just to clarify, that’s not me on bass; it’s Taras Oustrushko.] The band may be long gone, but the music of Lifestyle of Wigs – what little of it survives – deserves to be heard and shared.


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