Our Man Funk Gets the Bluesfest Blues, Part 2: The "End Of Summer" Bummer

Okay, where did we leave off last? It’s only because an acquaintance recently stuffed the July issue of Showcase Chicago in front of my face did I know that I'd promised the publishers of this magazine in-depth coverage of a scintillating rhythmic movement occurring some 300 miles south of Chicago in a place they call the Gateway City. It's reassuring to hear such things, especially for me these days, what with a series of nasty confrontations in Chicago which have left me heavily distressed, discouraged and downhearted about the music biz in general. But first of all, why is it that, my report on the "burgeoning R&B scene in St. Louis" has yet to be filed?

When I last gave consideration to this newspaper and its readers, I was moving through St. Louis at dawn, past downtown and onto Gravois Road, heading southwest on a portion of what remains of old Route 66. For many years, my '63 Riviera has been a faithful son of a bitch of an automobile, but on the trip down from Chicago, the oil light continued to pop on, all the more visible in the darkness of the night. When frequent checks of the level revealed minimal oil usage, I ventured on until, along Gravois Road, the goddamn light stayed on, just about the time I came upon Phil's Barbecue. This is when I heard a simultaneous pop & thud, which damn near shook my balls off. Well, I know enough about cars to realize that the beast had blown a $20 engine part. I proceeded to lose all the oil in a matter of nanoseconds, causing the engine to seize. I cruised slowly until the Buick began arching up the hill that turns into the parking lot of Phil's, "the only barbecue joint in town serving breakfast." Unfortunately, by the time the Riv came to a stop, the tin ass of the thing was still hanging out on the main road.

Most vehicles as old as 1963 have no emergency lights, so I put on the parking brake and went around to sit on the trunk, waving around what few cars driving by may not see me sticking out in the lane in the early morning hours. A couple of hookers, apparently just in from a night's work, were across the street and, spotting me, waved. I balked, instead giving them a wave to come over my way. They galloped across the street, stumbling in their five-inch. The black one stepped out of a shoe and had to go back in the street to retrieve it, which didn't matter; the streets in St. Louis are empty at dawn - at least, in this neighborhood. The white one - a freckled redhead with about twelve extra pounds of Budweisers emitting from her tight cut-offs and rubbing beneath her crotch, asked if I needed a "morning pick-me-up. Only ten bucks for a tongue twister!"

"No thanks, honey, I can't deal with it right now; I've got a dead motor vehicle on my hands here in the middle of the street. Why don't you and your girlfriend here give me a hand? I'll buy you both breakfast. How 'bout it?"

The black one, with her skinny, weak legs, sat in the car and steered the thing, while Little Miss Stout and I pushed the Buick up and over the hump, into the parking lot. I had an extra pair of sneakers in the trunk which I gave her to wear so she could get a grip.

* * *

In fact, the place was not open 24 hours, but the cleaning crew was in and so was the chef, so I persuaded him to throw some chow together for the three of us. He brought out bowls of scrambled eggs, has browns and baked beans, a plat of pork ribs, a stack of white bread and two pictures of Busch Beer. ("You know, I can get in a lot of trouble for service liquor this early!") I explained to the ladies that I was in no position to rent a car and had no choice but to bring my personal mechanic down from Chicago, with a replacement car in tow, and have him haul the Riviera back the city for an engine transplant.

Meanwhile, I had to continue to work; to pursue the story. The whores, revealing their innocence, were impressed by my coolness of manner and resiliency in the face of this latest hurdle that had been rudely placed before me.

"We could use somebody like you, somebody who is really in business. We can't get any of the local.... dealers to.... represent us. They say we're too young. So what about giving us-"

"Whoa, shit - I'm no pimp. Besides, I've got a job to do for the gang back in Chicago. They've sent me down here to check on your music scene. I don't have time to get into the sex business right now."

Delilah, the black one, spoke up. "Hell, I can help you there. I know most of the club owners around town. I can get you in. But you have to help us."

While finishing breakfast, I told them that I'd have to think about that one. In the meantime, I was in bad need of a shower.

Marjorie, the white girl, just stared at me from across her empty plate and, as beads of sweat ran down her neck and into her cleavage, mixing with the barbecue sauce that had dripped into the same place, said, "Oh, we can help you with that, too."

* * *

TELEGRAM - June 8, 1994

TO: Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago
FR: Mad Bomber

RE: "St. Louis Rhythm & Blues" Assignment

BUICK GROUNDED. STOP. STORY IN STATE OF FLUX - PROCEED WITH AUGUST ISSUE. STOP. STRANGE ENCOUNTERS WITH LOCAL "BUSINESS" - GREAT PROFIT OPPORTUNITIES. STOP. NEED INVESTMENT - SEND $2,000 CASH ASAP. STOP. NO - $3,000. STOP. FURTHER INFO/CORRESPONDENCE BY JUNE 15. STOP. JF.

* * *

The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over;
Thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard.
- Katha-Upanishad (From The Razor's Edge by Somerset Maugham)

Living a life of righteousness and nobility in search of truth and salvation brings with it many burdens. There are sometimes decisions to be made which don't exactly adhere to the old adage, "if it feels good, do it," but in the final outcome, such decisions are often Right. The arrival of my mechanic in St. Louis the day after my encounter with the two hookers shot a dose of reality into my veins that, I suppose, was necessary. The ladies had been kind to me with regards to my need to freshen up. So when my mechanic showed up at the Best Western in his 1958 Buick Centurion, declared that he had no spare cars and that I would have to accompany him back to Chicago, I was forced to consent, much to the dismay of the ladies. But it was too late; I was gone, thus bypassing a once-in-a-lifetime chance to be part of a world of which even I had little knowledge, outside of what we've all read in police reports and obituary columns.

For the battle with the St. Louis rush hour (not to mention the five hour drive back to Chicago) we grabbed a case of Michelob, a fifth of Cuervo and a half-dozen limes. Then we returned to Phi's Barbecue to hook the Riviera onto the back of a Buick even five years older which bore a strong resemblance to a US Army issue tank. Battling traffic, we ate rib-tips-to-go, drank beer and listened to Neil Young's Harvest. As we crossed the Mississippi, into Illinois, I asked what I'd missed in the last week.

"To tell you the truth," my mechanic reported, "lots. My sources tell me that the new Stone that's set to hit the newsstands portraits a Chicago band called Veruca Salt as the Next Big Thing. And sure enough, they seem to be all the rage around town and in the local rags. Just as well; I've stomached all the news on Urge Overkill and Liz Phair that I can take."

"I know what you mean," I said, cracking open another Michelob. "I happened to catch Urge's act some weeks ago and it was enough to me want to go home and hurl my old JVC receiver through the window and out into the yard for anyone who'd be able to lift it and take it away. They represent everything that's wrong with music today. I left the show early; first time I'd ever done that."

Which was true. I'd never left a musical performance of any type before its conclusion, no matter how appalling the content. But in the case of Urge Overkill, it was much more than Bad Music. The entire shtick was sickening, from the boring, uncreative songs to the lackluster, mediocre musicianship to the matching shirts worn by the four band members that cleverly spelled out URGE. And the audience loved it. At least the ones on the floor. Most of the people in the balcony began conversations with each other from the middle of the second song, on. But on the floor, in the Mosh Pit, they were going bonkers. And that's because they were supposed to do so. The music press had shoved Urge Overkill down their collective throats as The Happening Group, so they must like them; it was their duty to accept this overrated pack of posing impersonators as musicians. Marketing had won again. It was a hideous spectacle and as I sat there watching a few attendees begin to actually leave twenty minutes into the set - purses were gathered up, good-byes were exchanged - I speculated that I could have had these thoughts about some of the Bands Of The Day even twenty years ago. But this was today and one would think that the music industry, or even the buying public, had learned from the past. But they had not.

With those "uniforms," they reminded me of Devo, except that Devo had recorded a few catchy tunes in their day. Those new URGE shirts fit tightly on their skinny bodies and, though it appeared they weren't quite used to them yet, it was obvious that the boys were happy and proud to be wearing them. And shouldn't they be? This was their bread and butter. Sadly, they seemed so preoccupied with their veritable trappings, that they lacked the ingredients that can overcome bad songs and no talent - emotion, passion, drama and energy. I remember thinking "No wonder Kurt Cobain spread his brains all over the kitchen floor." In this was the initial indication of the legacy to be left and cared for by the disciples of Nirvana, Cobain probably sensed it and decided he wanted no part of it.

Thirty minutes into the set, I walked out myself to look for dinner.

* * *

"Are you guys still cooking?"

"No, the cook left about an hour ago. You wanna beer?"

"Sure, a Leinie, with two shots of Jim Beam."

Why not? I was having no luck fining a bar with a grill still open and, considering that I was in the area fondly known as Wrigleyville at 9:30 on a Sunday night, I really shouldn't have been surprised. The crowd in this neighborhood - most of them, young and old alike - go strictly by the book. Dinner at six, followed by the weekly laundry chores. They've been out for the weekend and they're not about to screw up their Monday by going on a third consecutive binge, especially when most of them can barely handle the first one. During the week, it's bottled water, or maybe Coca-Cola for breakfast, but come Friday, by God, it's straight from the office in all their sartorial finery, to some downtown bar for Coronas (with limes) and a Happy Hour Buffet. Come Saturday morning, it's a headache, though one not so harsh that a good workout over at Century Mall can't cure. Now they're all revved up again for a Saturday night out at El Jardin Restaurant for that lousy food and a couple of those infamous margaritas. (This is not to be confused with the El Jardin Cafe that has some of the finest Mexican food in Chicago.) Anyhow, that's all it takes to have them vomiting on each other the next morning, missing mass for the third Sunday in a row. So, yes - Sunday evening, they're ready to lay low. Which is why it's damn difficult to locate a tavern with an active grill in that location on a Sunday night, other than take-out pizza and hot dogs.

When the girl behind the bar brought me my beer, a glass and two shots of bourbon, she gave me a look with a strange edge and tilt of the head.

"What's wrong? You look depressed."

"I guess I am. I feel like I've just witnessed the end of rock and roll as we know it."

"Don't tell me - you just come from the Metro!"

"Good God, I did! How'd you know?"

"There were some guys in here earlier swinging deals for Urge Overkill tickets. Said they were playing there. Tried to get me excited, but I wouldn't be interested even if I wasn't working. I just don't get the joke, I guess."

It was obvious that she wasn’t caught up in the typical hype that seems to accompany so many of these fly-by-night bands.

* * *

My mechanic wasn't one to get caught up in the hype, either, and was sympathetic to my complaints.

"But I tell you, these Veruca Salt girls are it. You'd be wise to give them a listen. I'm going to pull over in Williamsville for a piss. Hand me that tequila, will you?"

Right, I thought....and this is the man I'm relying on to restore the Riviera to its original glory. But first, I needed to find alternate transportation for a return trip to St. Louis. When we pulled into Chicago, I called the Fat Man.

"Hey Jocko, you still have that LeSabre sitting in the garage?"

"Yea, what about it?"

"Why don't you sell me that beast? I blew the engine in the Riv and I'm desperate. I'm ready to meet your price."

"Excellent," Jocko replied slowly. "Come and get it."

Unfortunately, the price was a steep one, but I was in need and the time was right. The Fat Man had a 1968 Buick LeSabre Convertible that had been sitting on blocks since 1977. I put a new battery in on the spot, filled the tires with a compressor I'd brought, hand-turned the crank via the fan a few times, poured a little gas down the throat of the carb, and got the thing over to my mechanic for a tune-up and a brake job. The next day, I'd be back on the road to St. Louis to dive knee-deep into this R&B story. Or so I thought.

"Let's go hear some music before you leave town again," my mechanic asked me. "Those guys you know - Valhalla - are playing all over the place. I'd like to go check out that double-neck guitar player."

Which was true. I did know the guys in Valhalla, to a degree. I'd interviewed their guitar wizard some months back but had never seen them perform. So a week later, we went to check it out. Unfortunately, we arrived during the last song of their set, but it was enough to make me understand what all the hoopla is about. This was no ordinary guitarist. The two-handed, "piano-style" technique, which Valhalla's Scott Stenbroten has virtually perfected, is a sight to behold. Mind-boggling as this was, it was another, related occurrence which left me dumbstruck and prepared to contemplate the entire idea of what rock and roll is about and from when it came, lo those many years ago.

Perched at the bar as Valhalla dismembered their stage set-up, I asked some guy sitting to my left if the entire set had been impressive.

"Oh, I don't know....it was a little 'in your face' for my taste." (Huh?) I'm in the other band; we booked them to play with us, but we didn't think they'd be so.... different."

Too in your face? Too IN YOUR FACE?!?! What exactly is "in your face?" What the fuck does that mean? Was it the music or the message? My Lord, isn't that what Rock & Roll is? IN YOUR FACE? This is why the most popular bands in the world are so.... popular. Because they are.... IN YOUR FACE! ABRASIVE! EXPLOSIVE! The most renowned art in history is IN YOUR FACE! Look at the rappers. Look at Johnny Cash and revel in his resurrection. His material is, and always has been, as bleak and honest and in your face as it gets. Consider Hector Berlioz, the nineteenth century French composer who wrote his masterpiece while in the throes of an opium binge he hoped would kill him. And the masterpiece itself? The Symphonie Fantastique, which is based on the love and desire Berlioz felt for a Shakespearean actress of the day. Realizing he could not have his way with her, Berlioz attempted to poison himself via an opium overdose, then dreams that, in a fit of jealousy, hills her and is sentenced to the guillotine. How in your face is that? Music that survives is music that is in your face. Yet there are those, like my new found friend at the bar, who are content with mediocrity; with blandness; with safety. God help them.

* * *

The Taste of Chicago is not for the weak, but I attended, nonetheless. I set out to catch the Cathy Richardson Band. I'd never seen them, much less heard them, but my 'ole buddy North Johnson, who publishes this magazine, raves about Cathy and the band, so I figured, what the hell, there's really no rush to get back to St. Louis to cover this ever-evasive R&B Thing. I had plenty of time before the August deadline, right? Yeah - go down to the Taste, drink a beer, catch the CRB and get the hell out.

But that's difficult to do at the Taste of Chicago. There is enough chow to keep one happy for many, many hours. Not to mention the strange and various musical happenings that I would discover. For example, I didn't expect to see Santana twice, but that is what it seemed like, what with the dead-on Santana cover band that played the small stage in the middle of the afternoon. I also did not expect to see an Irish folk bank singing Spanish. I remember thinking how difficult it must have been getting these guys together. "Okay, we need a bongo player, a percussionist, a guy to play a 12-string ukulele, a 6-string guitarist and a flute player right out of Camelot." But they pulled off whatever shit they were trying to communicate.

I also didn't expect to get the life kicked out of me by the members of a local band I had lambasted in the local music press some months back. Of course, they had their thugs with them now that they had made the Big Time, and they did some damage. Luckily, I didn't last long; I was too many beers down the path to respond with any sort of defense. The first punch, which went to my gut, cause me to spew vomit all over my attackers, not so much because of the force, but due to the liquor and the disgusting "crab sticks" I had just consumed. The second punch went to the mouth and I guess it scared them when I blacked out, because they ran like rats. If not for the blood on my photographers' vest, I could have been taken for just another bum in the park. But about twenty minutes after I had been lying in the grass, a cop woke me asked if I was all right. I told him I was fine and thanked him for waking me; by Jesus, I had to get over and catch the CRB. Later, the same cop would spot me sipping Jim Beam from a sterling silver flask in order to deaden the pain stemming from the nasty gash on my lip. Recognizing me, he was generous and looked the other way.

After my adventure, I did make it back in time to catch Cathy Richardson Band. Fighting the crowd, I was able to get within thirty feet of the stage and a prime position to witness one of the oddest, yet most entertaining of dancing couples out in the audience: A one-legged man dancing on crutches – maybe 50 years old – and a fireplug of a girl in a bikini top and gym shorts. It was obvious that they didn't know each other, and he was dancing by himself for some time. Soon she joined him, embracing him and twirling him in circles on his one leg. In one motion, he lunged at her, hugged her and, pulling away, made a sweeping grasp, ripping off her bikini top and watching closely as her top half swayed in the air. But she just kept dancing, eventually pulling her dancing partner into her. It only took seconds for the cops to appear and have her cover herself again, but they were glorious seconds for which her dance partner had probably waited all his life.

As this was transpiring, the Cathy Richardson Band ripped up the stage with a sound that . . . well . . . I am not going to try and describe it; that would go against what I have been preaching lately. This tendency to categorize every kind of must that's played in order to simply force someone to listen. I understand that the record stores and MTV have to categorize music for the sake of business, but I refused to do so, when I mention to a friend "You should go see this band over at..."

"Well, what kind of music do they play?"

You want to know what kind of music they play? Now before you go spend your measly four dollar to hear them? Forget it! Go see ‘em, Hank Williams, Miles Davis, Robert Johnson, Jimmy Page, Sly Stone, Bob Marley, The Beatles, LL Cool J, Elton John, U2, Ice T, Black Mali - it's all MUSIC, and for those who attempt to pigeonhole...you’re missing out.

So, no, I won't tell you what kind of music Cathy Richardson and the boys played except to say that, for me, it was revelation of the highest order. An exercise in passion and energy and emotion that was a long time coming and much needed after this dismal summer of music. I would be witness to similar enlightenment a few days later when I would come upon a band called Love playing an outdoor festival. Because they covered Black Sabbath's "Sweet Leaf", some may consider them Heavy Metal. But that didn't matter to the cowboys and blacks and punks and yuppies with families gathered around. People were DIGGING IT because these guys it was evident that these guys were truly pouring out what was bottled inside them: sharing what was in their soul for all to absorb. And with great enthusiasm, absorb they did.

* * *

MEMO

AUGUST 15, 1994 - Strike Day

TO: Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago
FR: Mad Bomber

RE: "St. Louis R&B Piece" (Again) / Whereabouts

Greetings from atop of this beautiful mountain, looking down on Lake Ouachita, a glowing 30-mile-long pond that sits about 12 miles west of Hot Springs, Arkansas. I was forced to place myself in this serene environment some three weeks ago due to Unusual Tension which had pushed me to the brink of insanity, coupled with Bad Music Vibe Syndrome. But I haven't forgotten you, Nort, and promises made will be promises kept.

What has happened is this: As I entered the Gateway City - St. Louis - with the intention, once again, of exploring the ultra-hot Rhythm & Blues scene which lights up varying portions of this city each night of the week, I realized that I was in serious need of a vacation. There was admittedly, a bit of redemption in the Cathy Richardson Band performance I had viewed a few weeks prior, but not enough to give me the strength for what I might face in St. Louis. So I passed on Saint Lou, continuing on Interstate 55 toward Memphis, then headed west on 40 in the direction of Little Rock.

Checking in with the home office, I did, indeed, get a message from you. But the local pay phones up on the main road - some 200 yards from this cabin - have been vandalized beyond use and the main cabin is very odd about phone calls going out of there. (It was all I could do to use the fax machine.) But with the promise that I'd be heading out of town soon, refreshed and ready, I figured I'd touch base with you once I got back to St. Louis. Fear not; I'll be on the case by the end of August and we'll get this bugger knocked out yet.

* * *

Indeed.... the baseball strike has begun (again) and tomorrow I'll be off, up another Blue Highway (U.S. Route 67) feeling sad, for in the coming weeks, Stevie Ray Vaughan will have been dead four years and a new Liz Phair album will emerge; both depressing thoughts. But there's no baseball and that's good news – anything to give music a chance.