Gene Simmons: Is there a bigger douchebag alive?

By pure happenstance I have been without a TV for roughly the past 2 years. By and large I find that life is rich and full without one. Once, walking along Haight Street in SF I saw a dead television propped in an open window at street level. On the screen in black electrician's tape were the words "Electronic Life Waster". That made a real impression. This past weekend, I was relaxing at LM's (who not only has a TV, but has cable) when I came across the eminently execrable and mildly entertaining Family Jewels program, featuring the above-referenced Douche of Douches. I have long loathed Kiss and its sub-par (and that's being generous) "rock". Everyone about them sucks: their songwriting, instrumental prowess, and lyrics are all shite of the first order. They have no groove whatsoever. I had the opportunity to validate this long-held opinion a few years back when I saw Kiss on a double bill with Aerosmith at the Forum in Inglewood. Aerosmith was everything that Kiss was not—tough swinging grooves and memorable songs performed with brio and panache. Kiss relied on fire-breathing, blood spitting and wires (for Simmons' demon to fly about) where their music was lacking (which is to say, in every conceivable respect). Kiss had all the rhythmic drive of toxic sludge, painfully oozing from a waste pipe and pooling, unwelcome, in my ear canal.
So there is Gene Simmons on the telly, seated at a restaurant with Bill Maher. When giving his order to the waitress he says, "I'll have the salad, and a lap dance". The waitress, who would have been within her rights to both slap him and report him to management for ejection, good-naturedly says something like, "I can't help you with that last one". This deeply shallow man, who, time and again trumpets his mantra that money is all that interests him, lacks the most basic instinct to treat women—not women that have signed up for leering or wholesale shtupping like his extensively inventoried groupies but a strange woman whom he encounters in public— with even a modicum of basic respect.
All the money in the world has not bought this prick talent, graciousness, or respect for those without his money and the standing and impunity that it buys him. What a fucknode.
And What the FUCK is that dessicated weasel that he has draped over his obviously bald pate?! You would think that all that money could buy him a more convincing hairpiece (or better stylist).
Van Gogh wasn't acknowledged as a great artist while he was alive. One can only hope that the same principle holds in reverse for Simmons and his trail of dross.

Highway 61 re revisited

There was really no excuse for me, a blues lover from waaay back, not having known that Highway 61 is the main highway running south from Memphis through the heart of the Mississippi Delta, but I didn't. Twin catalysts of longtime curiosity and a show by the Hives at a tiny bar in Oxford moved me to head south over Memorial Day of last year. That was when Dylan's album title and the mysterious geographic mother lode of the blues came together.
You can find a nice little photo essay of my trip here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/deedubnyc/sets/72157600306978872/

a bloodless Radiohead

Saw Radiohead in Camden the other night. Camden is a quaint little burg right across the river from Philly; quite scenic and worth a stop for a cappuccino on your next trip in that direction. I was struck by how mannered their stage show seemed. I've been following Thom and Co since "Creep" hit back in '94 and I've always loved the band and have all their albums. They essentially recreate their studio recordings live (which is hugely impressive and makes me think that those amazing records, with all of those great soundscapes and complex arrangements are probably performed live in the recording studio). In Rainbows is a masterpiece and the performances of "Nude" and especially "Videotape" (I can't listen to that song without bawling) were phenomenal. All of that notwithstanding, the show left me a bit cold. I can't help but wonder if it's not because I saw Iggy and the Stooges just recently and the gut-spilling anarchic raw power of that show was so blinding in comparison. The Stooges were really tight and well-rehearsed but as a performance there was something about it that was hugely compelling. Radiohead, with their gorgeous light show and impeccable recreations of their recorded material somehow seemed...a bit distant.

Iggy and The Stooges at Terminal 5—THIS FUCKER IS 60+!!

Went to Terminal 5 last night with LM to see The Man and had the joy of having my brain turned to jelly by the reconstituted Stooges (more than ably aided and abetted by the rockin' Mike Watt on thudstaff). To say that Iggy Pop is a force of nature is to give nature short shrift. The mad dervish is captivation incarnate and his voice sounds totally fantastic. The first Iggy show I witnessed was mid-80s in Oakland where he opened for the Pretenders who were riding high on a hit album at the time. The first thing Chrissie did upon taking the stage was to get down on all fours and kiss the floor saying, "I want to kiss the stage that Iggy Pop just performed on." She knows whereof she speaks. Ig's legend is amply justified; at 60 his intensity dwarfs that of front men less than 1/3 his age. Completely and utterly spellbinding. I can't imagine that this show was any less intense than a Stooges show during their first go-round. It was that good. From the top of the set and for the next 75 minutes he gave everything and then some. Watt stood right in front of his amp, legs splayed, pumping it out with relentless drive. My friend Vince Meghrouni has played drums on Watt's own tours and Watt holds Iggy in the highest rock regard so for him to be touring with Iggy, well...he's gotta be pinching himself every day. I noticed that when Iggy walked (which wasn't often) that he had a bit of a limp. LM said, "Yeah, if you had a swayback like that for 60 years you'd be limping too." She had expected to be underwhelmed. "Iggy Pop, really? I'm surprised you wanted to see this show." As we walked out onto 56th street with "I Wanna Be Your Dog" ringing in our ears (they did it twice for some reason) she was grinning from ear to ear and saying, over and over, what an amazing time she had had. Fuckin' Iggy, it doesn't get any better. The only band I've seen that comes close is the Hives—Howlin' Pelle will probably be just as great in 40 years.