Glenn Conley – Glenn Hates Books – In Search of Captain Beefheart by Opher Goodwin – book review:

Posted on by Opher

I guess I made a mistake sending this particular book to Glenn. He hates Rock and detests the sixties. He saw the picture on the front of the book drew some stereotyped conclusions about weed, coke and sex and missed the whole structure of the book.

He got some things right though.

This is not a book about Captain Beefheart. It’s a book about Rock Music from the fifties to now. It’s the story of a quest to find music and the discovery. It is a bit of a journal too but it leads you through a journey in search of the good stuff; the music that sends the blood coursing, adrenalin pumping and brain buzzing. I like my music hot and I like it to feed my head too. I’ve been right at the front for fifty years.

This tells of the start with all that tentative excitement, the quest with all those discoveries that blew the mind, the uncovering of Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, Son House, Roy Harper, Captain Beefheart and all those others, and the end, the archeology of the remains and the new blood that still rocks.

It’s a bit of nostalgia that takes you through all those seminal years, reliving the great memories and sharing the times and feelings.

If you love music as much as me you’ll probably identify with all of this. You find a lot of the bands you knew and probably a number that you didn’t. You’ll relive the excitement and idealism with me.

If you detest Rock as much as Glenn you’ll hate it.

This is what Glenn said:

I think I’m too young for this book. Which is funny, because I’m 45 years old, for fuck’s sake. My hair and beard are full-on grey. I’m an old man, as far as I’m concerned. But this book makes me feel I’m a goddamn spring chicken. Because of the 60’s, man.

I fucking hate the 60’s. If the author of this book didn’t send me a copy, and request a review, I would have never read it. If I saw the cover in a book store, I would just keep on walking past. Because they’re hippies, man. Fucking hippies scare me.

This book is about music. From the 60’s, all the way to current music. It’s about being a goddamn groupie. A wanna-be. I would think that it would be easier to be a groupie if you were a hot chick. But the author of this book was up for a challenge. He threw his panties up on the stage, just like the rest of them groupies. That takes balls, man.

It’s the true story of how one groupie dude traveled the world to see all his heroes play great music. And I get that, man. I really do. I’ve just never been that interested in going to concerts. I mean, the music is on the fucking radio, man. Why do you need to go to a concert, and get your fucking ear drums blown the fuck out?

I’ve only been to two concerts in my life, and I fucking hated both of them. They’re too fucking loud. Which is funny, because I’ve been partially deaf my whole fucking life. So when I say they’re too loud, Jesus fucking Christ, they’re TOO GODDAMN LOUD!

Fuck, I sound like an old man. But I’m not. Not compared to this book. it’s just a long, boring, journal entry. It just dragged on and on. I went to this concert. I met this guy. I banged this chick. I snorted this coke. I did so much weed, man, you don’t even know. Fine. You’re a fucking hippy. I get it, man. But seriously, who the fuck cares?

Non-fiction books can be great. But they still need to have a goddamn story. A beginning, middle, and end. And exciting characters, that someone might actually give a fuck about. How about some goddamn development? A character ark. Something, man.

One guy who does this very well is Michael Lewis. He takes real-life events, and turns them into compelling stories. I reviewed his book The New New Thing. It was fucking awesome, because the characters were well developed, and there was an actual story to care about. He also wrote another book you may have heard of, Moneyball.

Don’t get me wrong, this Beefheart book isn’t completely worthless. If you’re really into music, as this author obviously is, I’m sure you’d love this fucking book. I just couldn’t get into it. I mean, music is great, sure. But it’s just music, man. Get over it.

I don’t remember the last time I even listened to the radio, really. I listen to podcasts in my car. Why would I listen to music, when I can listen to Adam Carolla sucking dick for hours on end? That guy can suck a dick, lemme tell ya.

2 of 5 Crazy-Hippy Stars

This is what Curlyview says:

No Slipped Discs Here.

By Curlyview!! on 20 Jan. 2015

Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase

The title is a little misleading; as it is not a book about Beefheart , but rather an account of growing up through the 60s and 70s in Britain. For people like myself 60+ year’s of age and like the author, a keen collector of records and tapes, this book will have a deep resonance. It was like living my early years of music all over again, as Mr. Goodwin kept mentioning the recording artists that I knew. An enjoyable read, made for the coach, train, or ‘plane trip.

 

Robert Johnson – Opher’s World pays tribute to a genius.

Posted on by Opher

 

Robert JohnsonRobert was the Big Bang from which the universe of Rock Music expanded. It all goes back to those two sessions in hotel rooms in San Antonio and another in Dallas. That’s all we have.

Robert was an itinerant busker. He wrote songs, performed in inns, at parties and BBQs and toured round Mississippi and the surrounding States. He was taught to play by Son House and went off and perfected a style that is so complex that people still wonder how he managed to make those chords and play so fast. He was a master. This is the blossoming of talent that led to the myth of him selling his soul at the cross-roads. I visited the cross-roads where that is reputed to have happened. I didn’t see Satan there or the ghost of Robert Johnson but it did fill me with wonder. I was walking in his shoes even if it did not happen like in the mythology. Robert perfected a style that went on to feed into Rockabilly, electric Chicago Blues and everything that came afterwards.

Those 29 tracks, with a number of re-recordings, make up the entire legacy. But what an incredible set of songs. The voice was clear with good diction, it had strength and emotional intensity, the guitar was spectacular, the lyrics were incredibly poetic and full of imagery, and the music sensational. This was the essence of Mississippi Blues. He was the master exponent and he was only in his twenties. There must have been so much more. He probably had a lot more that he did not get to record at the time. He probably had a large number of songs that he included in his repertoire for public performance. Those roving musicians were entertainers and did anything to please a crowd. They performed a lot of popular songs and did not restrict themselves to the Blues. It would have been great to hear some of those performed by a performer of Robert’s stature.

He recorded those tracks facing the wall. There is conjecture as to whether this was a symptom of shyness at being alone with a White man at the recording or whether he was merely using the wall to bounce and magnify the sound of the guitar. It’s all conjecture. All we know is that the quality of those recordings is exceptional given the jerry-rigged nature of the circumstances and crude machinery used to record them.

Robert was murdered in 1937 at the age of twenty seven. I talked to Dave ‘Honeyboy’ Edwards about this and he claims to have been with him on that night. They were playing together in a tavern/juke-joint near Greenwood in Mississippi and Robert had been infuriating the Landlord by making eyes at his wife. He had quite a reputation as a ‘ladies man’. Finally the Landlord put strychnine rat poison in some whiskey and passed it to the two of them. Dave declined. Robert drank it. Later that night he developed great stomach cramps and had to be helped back to his digs. Everyone thought that he would be alright in a couple of days but he died.

This murder was a tragedy in many ways. Not only did it deprive us of a wealth of other material that might well have been just as brilliant; it also deprived us of ever getting to see such a genius as Robert perform – though I was lucky enough to see Son House perform and he was the person who taught Robert.  Sadly John Hammond came along in 1938 to track down Robert Johnson to perform at Carnegie Hall as part of his ‘From Spirituals to Swing’ concert. He found that Robert was dead. Just think what might have happened if Robert had received that type of exposure? He might have become a household name and had an even bigger impact on Rock Music. His replacement was Big Bill Broonzy. I might have got to see him play? It was not to be.

I went to visit all three of Robert’s graves. There was just as much confusion over this as there has been over his talent, life and death. Dave ‘Honeyboy’ Edwards said that it was definitely the one at the back of the church.

Those twenty nine tracks have resonated down through the decades to reappear in form after form. This was the seminal music of Rock ‘n’ Roll. I suppose we should be grateful we had anything at all. Those recordings are more precious that diamonds, gold and platinum. They altered the world.

Sometimes you get a fulcrum point and someone causes a change that shifts everything. Robert was one of those.

Son House – Opher’s World pays tribute to a genius.

Posted on by Opher

Son house

History is littered with fulcrum points that turned things in different directions; it is littered with question marks and chance discoveries; it is full of moments of inspiration.

Son House is all of those. He met up with and taught Robert Johnson to play guitar. Robert Johnson was one of those pivotal points in the mid nineteen thirties which elevated Blues to a different level. That Blues fed into Rock ‘n’ Roll and Rock Music. So many Rock Bands owed a debt to Robert Johnson and Robert Johnson might not have been a musician if not for Son House.

Funny world isn’t it?

I’ve lived through the whole era of Rock Music and loved it from its inception to its present labouring death. I was lucky enough to witness Son House play and I can report that the experience was uplifting and amazing. I didn’t know who he was when he came on. He was someone special by the end of his performance but even I did not appreciate quite how significant the man was. I had witnessed the very beginning. It was like a scientist discovering the historic wisps of the Big Bang. He may have been in his seventies but the power still shone and lit up the universe. For me he was the primordial force in Blues music.

Son playing bottle-neck guitar on a magnificent National Steel. That was the guitar to play before amplification came along. It provided the power you needed to get over the noise in a crowded room or to draw the attention of a crowd when busking. Some say his style was crude but what it lacked in sophistication it certainly made up for in clout. Son’s crucial riffs took no prisoners; they rang out and assaulted your ears. He pounded and clawed at those strings eliciting the most glorious sounds. There is nothing quite like the force of the squealing strings of a well-played bottle-neck guitar. Son mainly used a copper tube to get the shrill effects but was not adverse to other means. His gravelly voice growled over the top of those riffs and told stories and tales. It was a rich voice full of the truth of a life well-lived.

Son had alternating between preaching and playing the devil’s music. The heavy drinking seems to have been an accompaniment to both. He also liked the ladies, gambling and had served a prison sentence in Parchman Farm for murder. As a young man he had roamed around with the other Mississippi great Charlie Patton. They must have been formidable.

Son’s songs told of the life he led and his most famous one ‘Death Letter Blues’, covered by hundreds from the Blues Band to the White Stripes, was concerned with the death of his young wife.

I was fortunate. Son was rediscovered in 1964 and paraded out in front of an admiring white audience. I was one of those fortunate enough to get a glimpse of history. I tell you it was awesome.