This one's tricky for a number of embarrassing reasons. So let's be upfront. Reason # 1 is that Whipping
Boy's from Palo Alto, CA, about 5 miles from where I've lived most of my life. Reason # 2 is that I used to see Whipping Boy's albums in the stacks all the time but never bought them. Reason # 3 is I used to know a guy who played with them for a time, but Reason # 4 is, despite all these facts, I never saw them live, never listened to their records, never actually heard Whipping Boy's music until a week ago!
Okay, I've admitted it. Maybe Eugene Robinson should come over and punch me out. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe he will anyway if he reads this. I apologize, Eugene, for not taking the time to listen to you back when.
(Oh I should say, I knew Eugene's rep as a performer, and once heard a wild interview with him on KFJC, shortly before the end of Whipping Boy's run).
So, anyway, Reason # 5 that this is a tricky entry is, I don't have a lot of profound things to say about Whipping Boy, a band I should know/have known better. But I will say that after listening to their albums and seeing a tiny bit of footage of a Whipping Boy performance, they were a good band. A tough rock band that could play hardcore as well as anyone (think Black Flag as strongest resemblance) but could also stake out their own territory on Stooges/Velvets/Flag-influenced rock on songs like "Hero" (complete with Bo Diddley beat), "Revelations", "Breedo" and "Cracked Mirror", among others. After their first album they largely left hardcore behind, merging into a unique sound that merged punk rawness with metal attack, psychedelic and even industrial influences. They became something genuinely unique.
Frontman Eugene Robinson was the clear focal point. I'm tempted to compare him to Henry Rollins, but despite sharing a fair amount of territory, Eugene was/is his own man. He's an artist in his own right, and worth knowing about.
Whipping Boy faded late decade, and Eugene moved on to Oxbow, an interesting evolution from Whipping Boy who I'm just learning about now (maybe they'll get an entry someday). I can only say now I'm truly sorry I missed the boat back in the day.
I'm a latecomer to the Greg Sage party.
I'd heard of The Wipers. Back in the late 80's their name came up pretty frequently in the underground/indie/punk press. They were generally thought of as one of the Good Ones. And as a bit different from the hardcore run of the mill.
Still, for one reason or another, I just didn't hear a Wipers track (or at least one that I can recall) until this year. My ears were open, but these kind of records weren't easy to hear until recently, unless you went looking for them.
Well, the point is, I did, as part of a project I'm currently working on. And what I heard left me pretty impressed. Still I feel like I missed the boat. Aside from the obvious fact that The Wipers are no more, the truth is, if I'd heard them back in the day, I suspect they would have quickly launched themselves into the upper echelons of my favorite bands of the time. My hunger for hard-driving, high-energy, angst-ridden music has abated.
That's not the same as saying I don't like such music anymore, though. And no doubt, The Wipers made exceptional hard-driving, high-energy, angst-ridden music. Leader Greg Sage says he never thought of what he (Sage was the The Wipers, for all intents and purposes) was doing as "punk". Fair enough - but none of the better "punk" bands did. A better way to put it might be that The Wipers were doing something closer to "punk" in the 70's sense than hardcore (they most definitely were not a hardcore band). Closer comparisons might be The Ramones (in terms of stripped-down, high-speed attack) and the early Wire albums (think "Dot Dash" and "12 X U" and you're getting the idea). I've not seen where Sage ever cited specific influences.
The Wipers have been long gone for many years now, and a return doesn't look likely. Greg Sage records and produces in Arizona, and continues to march to the beat of his own drummer. More power to ya, Greg. Me, I'm sorry I never got to see The Wipers live.
The Wipers Box Setis the one to get, containing the first three albums (Is This Real?, Youth of America and Over The Edge), all of which are excellent, as well as contemporaneous singles, EP's, etc. The later Wipers albums and Greg's solo albums are worthwhile, but frankly less compelling to these ears. Your mileage may vary. I do not particularly recommend the Best Of collection. It's just not that representative.
This is another entry I was hesitant to write, simply because there's been more bullshit slung around this band than just about any I can think of, short of Nirvana (the key distinction being that at least the Pistols deserved so much attention).
Look, I'll make it simple for you. It doesn't matter that the Pistols music wasn't really unprecedented (please
keep in mind the audience for The Stooges, Dolls and MC5 was very small back in the day). It doesn't matter if Richard Hell had the tousled spiky hair safety pins look first and/or if Rotten cadged it off of him or not. It doesn't matter if Matlock was the guy with the gift for melody. It doesn't matter that Sid Vicious was a fuckup who tainted the whole affair with his death and possible murder of Nancy (blech!) Spungen. It doesn't matter that Malcolm McLaren claimed and got credit where it wasn't due (because some credit is due), or that he caught lightning in a bottle when he brought Lydon in to mime to "I'm Eighteen". It doesn't matter that Steve Jones went on to a non-career as a poodle-haired slick metal rocker. It doesn't matter that Johnny Rotten now sells butter, gripes about the poor manners of today's youth, and whores himself out to any TV show that needs a feisty curmudgeon as a host. It doesn't matter that the Pistols are now a professional oldies act.
None of this matters because if you slap The Filth and the Fury into your DVD player you'll at least get an inkling of how different and radical the Pisols were to Britain (and America) in 1976. They may have evolved from the British Invasion/MC5/Stooges/Velvets/Dolls/Alice Cooper line (in the US - and add Bowie and Bolan in the UK and probably some others I don't know enough about) - except for Alice, most of those acts were largely underground to the point of near-invisibility; a brief moment of infamy, loved by a handful of freakjobs, promptly dismissed by the reg'lar folks and then forgotten. In 1977 my grandmother had heard of The Sex Pistols, fer cryin' out loud! Johnny Rotten was different, and original, and one-of-a-kind (he still is, for that matter - and you're hearing theis from a guy who doesn't own a single PiL record) - different even from Iggy and definitely different from David JoHansen or Rob Tyner or Lou Reed. His closest comparison, in look and attitude, I suppose, would again be R. Hell - but, again, outside of scenesters, rock critics and music geeks, Hell was unknown and pretty much still is. Johnny Rotten? They were warning us about him on the evening news. Hey, make no mistake - The Pistols really freaked people out back then.
I'll make it even simpler. There's been only a couple million bands in the history of rock and roll with the same musical approach as the Pistols - play incredibly stripped down rock at an intensity level approaching feral. Most of them could deliver it adequately (after all, it doesn't take virtuoso-level skill - not exactly), a chunk of them better-than-adequately, but only a much smaller group could do it consistently and excellently - meaning they hit as hard as they intended. The music was like a punch in the chest. There's three at the top of that heap as far as I'm concerned - The Stooges, who did it better than anybody, The Who c. 1965-1970 (give "My Generation" a spin if you haven't for awhile), and The Pistols. It doesn't matter if there's filler on Bollocks - "God Save the Queen Alone" is the pudding wherein you find the proof. The Sex Pistols had a remarkable, if short, career, kicked off an entire subculture in the UK (what happened over here was something different, informed by and sometimes imitating, but always its own thing), inspired countless bands all over the world it seems (and still are inspiring them), conducted themselves with probably as much integrity as a rock band - esp. one in a situation practically exploding with paradoxes, probably could have, and made outstanding music - the second best "punk"-type band I've ever heard (after, again, The Stooges). And that is enough of an accomplishment for anybody.
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols all you need, man. There's some scattered singles and b-sides (I myself am very fond of "Don't Give Me No Lip, Child"), and a bazillion quasi-legal live recordings which are interesting but non-essential. The Pistols need to be seen in action live, not just heard.
Essential Viewing
The Filth and the Furythe Pistols tell their side of the story. Far superior to the incoherent and indulgent Great Rock and Roll Swindle, and all the good stuff from that one is in this film anyway.
D.O.A. a semi-incoherent documentary attempting to chronicle the rise of punk in England and the US, without any particular logic. But the footage of the Pistols on their 1978 American tour is often stunning. Also some nice rare footage of X-Ray Spex, et al. Amateurish, but a lot of fun and captures the spirit.
The Punk Rock Movie more great live footage, this time from the UK. Also good clips of The Clash, Heartbreakers, and Shane MacGowan dancing.
"Somewhere Somebody Must Stand Naked" Rock Scene October '74 By Patti Smith
One night before you turn out the light and slip into unconsciousness, try this: take off all your clothes, tie back your hair and look, really look, at your naked face and neck. The mirror is not meant to reflect but to reveal. A little shock moves up to see yourself so caught alone in the room with all the armour, the glitter and the studded leather lying in disarray on the bed. But fear is followed with a nude scene of triumph—a sudden flash of truth - of "batin" - a glimpse of the inner meaning. This sudden light you may wish to pass up. It's not so easy to go out on the streets showing all you got to show. The young gladiator clung to his sword and shield just as the child of rock'n' roll holds fast to the flash over flesh. This is cool, it's the rule of rock 'n' roll but somewhere sombody must stand naked. In the 60s we had the Stones, Yardbirds, Love and Velvet Underground. Performers moved by cold inspiration. They didn't hide behind an image. THEY WERE THE IMAGE. We are victims of media penetration. Television is image warm enemy number 1. It's like some alien form of life - flesherpoid parasites - sucking up the grand consiousness and translating it 2-D dot field. It's made our stars and our art (rock 'n' roll) into limp pasteurised versions of a once high raw process. Boycott rock 'n' roll on TV. Who wants an image of the image? Rock 'n' roll is not Hollywood jive. It's becoming flash theatre with less emphasis on the moment - the movement - the rhythm and alchemy of hand-to-hand combat. When Midnight Special comes on TUNE OUT. Accessible middle class. Killing natural action. Already a new group has begun an attack. Starting from the bottom with completely naked necks. A group called TELEVISION who refuse to be a latent image but the machine itself! The picture they transmit is shockingly honest. Like when the media was LIVE and Jack Paar would cry and Ernie Kovacs would fart and Cid Caeser would curse and nobody would stop them 'cause the moment it was happening it was real. No taped edited crap. I love this group 'cause they focus on the face. Close-ups don't disarm them 'cause they reveal everything. And the lead singer Tom Verlaine (initials TV) has the most beautiful neck in rock 'n' roll. Real swan-like - fragile yet strong. He's creature of opposites. The way he comes on like a dirt farmer and a prince. A languid boy with the confused grace of a child in paradise. A guy worth losing your virginity to. He plays lead guitar with angular, inverted passion like a thousand bluebirds screaming. You know, like high treble. And like Todd Rundgren he is blessed with long veined hands reminiscent of the great poet strangler, Jack the Ripper.
Richard Hell on bass is another cool picture. Real highway 61. Perfect shades, tufted hair and a suit Phillip Marlow mighta left behind in a piece of blonde luggage circa 1946. His bass is pure trash—metallic gold fleck. His movements are maniac Chuck Berry. It's amazingly disorienting to watch a guy straight outta desolation row doing splits. Richard Lloyd plays emotional and highly sexually aware guitar. He's the pouty, boyish one. The one most likely to get beat up in a parking lot. I love to watch him and Tom and Hell pumping on guitar. The three of them playing with such urgency as if each time is the last time or the first woman. Relentless adolescents. Backed by Billy Ficca (a tough Italian biker) on drums they present a picture made for the plague. A movement of inspired mutants that will take the slop out of rock. Television will help wipe out media. They are not theatre. Neither were the early Stones or the Yardbirds. They are strong images procduce from pain and speed and the fanatic desire to make it. They are also inspired enough below the belt to prove that SEX is not dead in rock 'n' roll. Their lyrics are as suggestive as a horny boy at the drive in. Songs like "Hard On Love", "One On Top Of Another" and "Love Comes In Spurts". Sexual energy is suppressed on TV but is the main ingredient of Television. They got the certain style. The careless way of dressing like high school 1963. The way they pulse equal doses of poetry and pinball. Their strange way of walking. Hell is from Kentucky. A runaway orphan with nothing to look up to. The others grew up in Delaware: A land of grids—one long oppressive gymnasium. Tom and Hell done time in reform school. Lloyd done time in mental wards. Billy been 'round the world on his BSA. They came together with nothing but a few second-hand guitars and the need to bleed. Dead end kids. But they got this pact called friendship. They fight for each other so you get this sexy feel of heterosexual alchemy when they play. They play real live. Dives, clubs, anywhere at all. They play undulating rhythm like ocean. They play pissed off, psychotic reaction. They play like they got knife fight in the alley after the set. They play like they make it with chicks. They play like they're in space but still can dig the immediate charge and contact of lighting a match. Tom and Hell started a forest fire in Alabama. They got sent up for watching it burn. Then they decided to burn themselves. No image of an image. The image itself. Billy always is laughing. Lloyd jacks off on his guitar. Hell is male enough to get ashamed that he writes immaculate poetry. And Tom Verlaine lives up tho the initials TV. He is a powerful image worthy of future worship. The way he moves like some junkie angel. I said, "Hey, Tom. The way you move on the stage like you're on the surf, like you been wounded with an arrow, like you got clouds in the brain." And he said, "Oh I know. I always feel like I'm floating. Feel like I'm falling. But you know, I'M not going to be falling forever." You can see the outline of his hips in his pants. And you get the feeling, as him and Television are tuning up, that he's naked as a snake.
Television Goes Prime-Time Circus, April 14 1977 By Toby Goldstein
Tom Verlaine is cold. He’s dressed in a sweater and overcoat, lighting up one cigarette after the next, hunched against a radiator, but Verlaine is cold. His is the type of cold that appears permanent, more suited to another time, when artists dressed in rags and starved in garrets all to insure the purity of their art. Considering that Verlaine’s group, Television, has been signed to Elektra Records fir a rather hefty sum, his believable squalor is even more astonishing. Television is just beginning to get off the club treadmill and onto the concert circuit, but it’s going to be a long hard climb. When they opened for Patti Smith at New York’s Palladium, “Patti let us borrow her equipment, thank God,” Verlaine sighs. “It’s a matter of money.” Money and Television, unlike the industry from which Verlaine took their name, do not have a lot in common. Television has been for the past years what is known in New York as “a CBGB’s group”, playing the half dozen punk rock venues in lower Manhattan for door money. They played at CBGB’s opening for Patti Smith, and started to build a reputation for their lengthy, doomy-shadowed compositions which many called reminiscent of the Velvet Underground. “We’re not very similar,” he urges. “Only in mood, definitely not in sound. I find it surprising that people idolize that sound.” Verlaine is a rough-edged mix of contemporary scene observer and 19th-century mystic French poet, Paul Verlaine, whose visions of “drunken boats” suit his namesake very well. Verlaine’s stick-straight dirty-blonde hair falls across his face as he puzzles out the ironies of writing seriously for a quick-buck world. “I read a review of us once that said we were the worst band, in a national magazine. That was written by a guy who auditioned for us a year and a half ago and who I told no. It’s meeting a quota or making a living. No offence to writers, but some people write for paycheck and some write without regard to whether they’re gonna get paid at all, which is my approach to any kind of work. But we got offered deals that were a complete insult. Absolute shyster deals!” He continues in a voice that is precise, almost clipped. “I suppose all the labels are signing bands from New York now. I guess all those CBGB’s groups are signed. One record company executive told me that with companies, it’s like they shoot 100 arrows in the dark, hoping one will be a bull’s-eye. There’s no regard to the content at all – it’s product.”
Verlaine would rather cut his own disc than be someone’s chance shot, and in fact, Television recorded and released a private single, “Little Johnny Jewel, Parts 1&2” about a year ago. A collector’s item from the moment it was pressed, the song has sold 6,000 copies in the US and Europe. “We did it on a 4-track machine in a couple of hours,” Verlaine recalls. “Just a few mikes and checkin’ to see that the machine worked, which it didn’t; it was supposed to be in stereo but it was out of sync, so we had to put it out in mono. It doesn’t really cost as much as you think to cut a record. We used to keep 10% of each gig in an account and press copies as they sold out.” Elektra’s sizeable offer to get Television on the label has pretty well guaranteed Verlaine and Co. won’t be forced to use their gig money pressing records. “Marquee Moon” captures the band’s well thought out, but somehow primeval sound on tracks with titles like “Torn Curtain”, “See No Evil” and “Friction”. Like the character of Tom Verlaine, who implies deep thoughts behind his “portrait of the artist as a young man” exterior, Television’s songs point to hidden feelings from other dimensions, all the stuff that lurks in the most powerful kind of rock and roll like Dylan’s or Lou Reed’s. Elektra may be best known today for the Eagles-Linda Ronstadt types, but Tom Verlaine’s heart is in their storeroom, keeping company with the Doors, Love and the Stooges, visionaries of bygone years.
Television: Knock, Knock, Knocking Boston Phoenix, June 6, 1978 by Deborah Frost
He's the kid in the back of every high school classroom -- the one you never thought could talk. The one you try to remember (and can't) when you see his face in the newspaper because he's had a tragic accident or committed some shocking crime. You'd least expect to find him a rock cult hero, purveying terminal romanticism to an amplified beat. But Tom Verlaine isn't your run-of-the-mill rock hero. He refuses to swagger; he couldn't strike a pose if he tried. If he's the Jesus of Cool, it's because, as he says, "I don't care." His drab T-shirt hanging limply over beltless Levis, he shuffled onto stage at the Paradise last Sunday, looking like John-boy of the Waltons after a close encounter. His singing sobbed and stuttered; his guitar leads sputtered. He even wiped the neck of his Fender Jazzmaster with a ratty sweater - but he wasn't trying to be coy. Every move, every note, every syllable was marked by a humility, that's almost shocking in the context of performance. The very ordinariness of the offhand gestures is what makes Tom Verlaine so incredibly strange. There's nothing arrogant, nothing spiteful about him. Unlike every angry young man from Dylan to Costello, Verlaine knows who's responsible for his frustration. He is constantly struggling to surmount his own imperfections, his inability to attain the glory as he describes it on Television's second album for Elektra, Adventure. Verlaine's 'glory' has nothing to do with the traditional trappings of success. He isn't looking for fame or fortune ("that ain't nothin' " as he might say) but for spiritual exaltation. Although his peers among the New York underground (Blondie, Mink DeVille, Talking Heads, Patti Smith, et al) scramble toward terra firma of hit records and slick production, Verlaine and Television remain primitive purists, defiantly resisting anything that would make them accessible to a mass audience. It isn't that the band hasn't developed and improved - they have; Adventure makes that obvious. The music has more crunch, more muscle than its predecessor Marquee Moon. Perhaps this is because of former Blondie bassist Fred Smith's increasing assurance. As he has become an integral part of the band, Smith's playing has become more assertive. But he is never obtrusive - he simply provides a steady rhythmic anchor for Verlaine's wandering guitar. Unlike Richard Hell, whom he replaced, Smith complements rather than clashes with the leader. And Television is, after all, Verlaine's vision.
Verlaine's dictatorship could have become self-defeating, but his single-mindedness has resulted in the group's new cohesion and overall refinement of technique. Adventure's songs may not have the emotional clarity of "See No Evil", "Venus", or "Elevation", but they are sparked by a spontaneity that Marquee Moon lacked. Verlaine has been able to let out the sails without the fear hinted at in "Carried Away" - that the "old ropes will grow slack." "Foxhole" may sound like a Deep Purple outtake, but its raw power points to Television's unfulfilled potential. The guitar interplay of Verlaine and Richard Lloyd is still serrated, the vocals often eat away at the listener's nerve endings - but in the Byrds-meet-Albert Ayler tonalities of "Days" and "Carried Away", is the haunting beauty Verlaine has incessantly strived for. Verlaine has been unflaggingly uncompromising in his quest - he refuses to utilize a producer who will polish the band's sound or burnish the arrangement. Both Andy Johns, who was partially responsible for the first album, and John Jansen, who co-produced Adventure, functioned as little more than engineers. It's easy to see why Patti Smith was attracted to him - without bluster, he manages to achieve the higher consciousness she only toys with. Ironically, Verlaine's goals are better expressed by "Knocking On Heaven's Door", the Dylan song included in live performance - than by anything on either of Television's albums. And if Verlaine keeps a-knockin' he just might get in.
Return of the Valve Heads Source: NME (September 19, 1992) by Edwin Pouncey
Hunched around a huge table which dominates the fancily decorated room that their new record company, Capitol, has allocated to them for interviews, the four members of the reunited Television wait patiently for my first question and their promised sandwiches. This is just the kind of head-on press/rock band encounter that has been grinding on since the early '60s. An exclusive exchange of ideas and arguments between rock journalist and rock artist over a silver salver of roast beef sarnies and a pot of coffee. It's such a classic cliche that I find myself close to laughing, especially when I have to struggle to extract a seat from beneath the dead weight of the mahogany table. But that's cool. Television know all the tricks of this particular trade, they've been through all these hoops before and have learned by experience how to coast through the craziness and boredom and still come out smiling. It has been 15 years since guitarists Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd joined forces with bass player Fred Smith and drummer Billy Ficca to record 'Marquee Moon', their still astonishing debut LP which won the band rave reviews worldwide when first released in 1977. "Of course, we deserved everything we got," laughs Richard Lloyd. "But we didn't get it," adds Tom Verlaine. "I knew it would turn around, though. I remember coming over here after 'Marquee Moon' was done, and on the day I was leaving I went to Pembridge Road and saw the band's picture on the front of a magazine. No offence to the practise of journalism, but it's all very come and go." Despite Tom's understandable cynicism, Television have always touched the soft spot in the gnarled and world-weary heart of the rock press, even though their second LP 'Adventure' failed (unfairly, it is now widely felt) to cause the same flare of excitement as 'Marquee Moon'. But what was really behind Television's sudden implosion? "We don't really remember," giggles Tom, reaching for a sandwich. "It was a general displeasure with the business world. We had no money, we'd done the huge tour, our manager told us that our money was in this band in Germany, we had to borrow $30,000 to get us out of the management deal and we had absolutely no relationship with our record company in the States, not even a person to call there. We couldn't afford to stay together." Tom's is a sad, but all too familiar, story that resulted in the demise of one of rock's most important bands. Verlaine and Lloyd signed up to Elektra to record solo projects, Smith joined up with Lloyd to play on his debut solo LP 'Alchemy', while Ficca decided to slap skins for The Waitresses, an oddball New York pop band who were fronted by one Chris Butler and produced a minor hit in 'Christmas Wrapping' for $ Records. Despite all this extra creativity since Television decided to call it a day, however, they have remained in touch, even if it's just to wave to each other across the street. Television had a secret plan to reform and record in 1992 and, as good as their word, that's exactly what they've done.
Listening to their new album, 'Television', it's almost like they've never been away. Those expecting a record to eclipse 'Marquee Moon' may well be disappointed as 'Television' is more of a natural progression down the road 'Adventure' was travelling. Tom, for one, is sceptical about the amount of praise 'Marquee Moon' continues to enjoy. "I really question that," he smiles knowingly. "I really think that people only drag it out and put it on about every three-and-a-half years and say, 'That stuff sounds OK!', Or else they put it on and go, 'God! That doesn't sound like anything I remember'." And yet the magic and mystique of that first record continues to drag in new generations of intrigued and impressed listeners. "You know where I heard it last?" exclaims Tom, "In Nashville, on a college radio station. The kid that introduced it was saying, 'Hey! I just found this new CD and I wanna play you all this song called 'Marquee Moon' that's really long!" "It was one take, remember?" reminisces Richard. "Billy didn't know that the 'RECORD' light was on." "There we were," laughs Billy, "playing along with the bass drum sliding across the floor." "They couldn't nail it down and it went scooting forward," Richard explains. Even though Tom denies that the past was of little consequence ("I don't think anybody thinks about their past much, unless they're in a mental institution") a fine time is being had by all as the memories surface. "Do you remember when we were picking the name and we all went away for a couple of weeks?" says Richard. "We were looking for something that sounded so common it was everywhere, but something that sounded modern too so that it cut through. Television was exactly that." The name also fit the way Television tried to sound on stage and in the studio. A modern powerglide '70s band who, if you stuck your ear really close to the speaker, echoed the same sonic static which throbbed from the late '60s garage punk records, old TV show soundtracks and the hum of something glowing brightly in the dusty darkness. "We're an analog band, we're not digital," announces Richard. Uhhh... Could you elaborate on that a little Rich? "When things come out on CD they have to be digitalised. There's a good engineer I know who says that analog is like film and digital is like video. If you put something you've filmed on video then it will retain all of its beauty and sheen on film. If you record something on video it will be grainy, and if you put that on film it will retain its graininess. We're analog... valve. We're valve people, not solid-state people." Talk turns to the songs on the new LP that Tom describes as "the flowering" of the band's skill. "In these songs, there is, perhaps, a relaxation of personal will to evaluate ourselves... I'm trying to be as pretentious as possible HAHA!" Richard, meanwhile, has a more earthy vision of how Television's latest tunes come across. "The guitar part at the end of 'Mr Lee' is kinda like a flower. But it was more like a rotten potato that's just burst! HAHA! Or like a bloated old melon that's just laid in a field and gone PLUGHHHH!!! Like the pods in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, did you see that movie? Where the pod cracks open and inside there's this half-formed person that becomes YOU... only without any feelings?" It turns out that such psychotronic monster movie epics are an important part of what turns Television on creatively. All cite films such as Invaders From Mars, The Brain Eaters and Fiend Without A Face as an influence, while Tom eagerly explains how a childhood model of the red planet influenced his 'Mars' song and that '50s novelty records could be responsible for the fractured atmosphere on 'The Rocket'. "I have a real warm spot for flying saucer songs and Frankenstein songs. When I was a kid the first record I ever really liked was called 'The Mummy', and the flip-side was called 'The Beat Generation' which Richard Hell later re-wrote as 'The Blank Generation'. I thought it was the greatest thing I had ever heard. I didn't like Elvis much then, but I was very young. When I was a kid I used to play that monster all the time!" Suddenly, Tom remembers something else from his youth that could easily apply to Television's current revitalisation. "That was another thing about the horror films, they had these trailers which said something like, 'They're back! They're big! And they kill!" Television. They're back! They're big! They're hungry and they've escaped from the basement!
The picture is still bright for Television Philadelphia Inquirer (21 March 2003) by Tom Moon
For the last decade or so, the enormously influential '70s band Television has mounted small, irregular little tours seemingly according to whim. The band, revered for the twin lead guitar attack of Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd, hasn't had new records (or even major reissues) to hawk since the eponymous Television came out in 1992, and its principals have been busy producing records and doing other music projects. "We are," Lloyd says proudly, "completely out of the capitalist marketing thing. Lots of bands say they don't care, but Television is the only one I know that truly doesn't care." Still, the faithful continue to turn out to see Television, the band with a tiny output by today's standards - just three full-length studio efforts - that has been credited with shaping the sensibilities of several generations of rockers, from U2 to the Strokes to current New York faves the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Lloyd, reached as the band was gearing up for a tour that will bring Television to the TLA Sunday, has a hunch about the enduring appeal. "When we play together, nobody knows who's going to do what," he said last week from his home in New York City. "It's like seeing a Maserati on city streets. Everybody turns and looks, you can't take your eyes off the car. You know it's capable of doing 220 [m.p.h.], and it's not. But you're looking at it because it could. With us, you've got two guitars, and don't know which side is going to go off, what might happen. That's worth looking at." That two-guitar attack, which Lloyd describes as "seamless, like passing sand from one hand to the other," has grown more intricate over the years, as the four musicians (including Billy Ficca on drums and Fred Smith on bass) have matured. But it was the driving force behind the band's transcendent 1977 debut Marquee Moon, one of the few unassailable classics of New York punk. Lloyd says that though the musicians weren't thinking in terms of creating a classic when they recorded it, they did have a clear idea about the sound. "One of the things we talked about then," he recalls, "was resisting production. Almost de-producing. We didn't want anyone to muck up. It was a time when people were adding everything. Without knowing it at the time, we were insisting on capturing the band as it actually was. You listen to the very first Doors record, it was done in a couple of days and it's very simple. It has its own integrity. I think Marquee Moon has that thing, too. We were clinging to honesty." Asked what's changed about the live show over the decades, Lloyd says the band does more new material "to please ourselves" than it used to. And, he adds, the current Television is much steadier than it was in the early days, when its shows were plagued by the usual rock vices (drink, drugs, etc.), and as a result tended to be erratic. "The roller coaster is not so evident anymore. We're relaxed. The intuitive sense of musical interplay is better. We're not one of those bands they trot out now and again and nobody's been playing - all four of us are deeply into music and really busy..... That makes it nice to fall back into the band. There's less train wrecks, more competency." Wikipedia: In 2007, Richard Lloyd announced he would be amicably leaving the band after a midsummer show in New York City's Central Park. Owing to an extended stay in hospital recovering from pneumonia, he was unable to take his place with the band for this concert. His place that day was taken by Jimmy Rip. Rip was subsequently asked to join the band in Lloyd's place. On July 7, 2011, the new lineup performed at the Beco 203 music festival in São Paulo, Brazil. In an MTV Brazil television interview, the band confirmed that an album with about ten new tracks was close to being finished. Essential Listening Marquee Moon (their first and far-away best album) Adventure (once underrated, now overrated, but "Glory" is my favorite TV song) Television (their 1992 reunion. Interesting. "Call Mr. Lee" is a fave of mine) The Blow Up (live in `78 - rough, muddy sound, but intense and powerful, with great versions of "Little Johnny Jewel" and covers of "Fire Engine" and a complete meltdown-version of "Satisfaction." Live at the Old Waldorf (a leaner, cleaner more professional performance [and recording] than The Blow Up, though lacking the sheer intensity of that document. Excellent, nonetheless) Poor Circulation (early demos and gigs with Hell. Rough, and a real surprise after hearing the post-Hell edition, but very worthwhile stuff) Double Exposure (more early stuff, also well worth hearing) UFO (a CBGB's gig c. 1975 - also worth hearing, esp. for the covers) Essential Reading Sonic Transmission by Tim Mitchell From the Velvets to the Voidoidsby Clinton Heylin Links The Wonder Allmusic: Television Television Wiki
Check this one out too (Blogger won't find it for some reason: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnnhWaRPy78
Penelope Houston, frontwoman of the punk ’77 band The Avengers, says in the early days, there were plenty of women on the scene. "A lot of the bands around Los Angeles and San Francisco had female performers, female musicians and singers. I wasn't the only one around." Still, she says, she would like The Avengers to be compared to other punk rock bands without any reference to gender—period. Houston can't escape an awareness of her sex, but it's not without payoff. "Women starting bands and performing because of The Avengers is always really gratifying to me."
Punk ’77 is a term that houses bands from around the year punk first blew up. That was back when no one had much of an idea of what they were doing, before a template took over. But there were only a few years before punk became subject to its own laws. "There are some sounds and behaviors that got codified," Houston says. "You see that in 1980 when hardcore came along."
The first few years, there weren't any regulations, and the bands from that period were vastly unlike each other. Nuns, Crime, The Mutants, The Dils—all very diverse San Francisco bands, different looks, different sounds. "When hardcore came along, it just turned into a homogenous thing. The rules started being made and they're still being followed to this day."
But don't idealize the early days of punk too much. "We didn't have the radio. There were very few clubs for punk. We never actually played off the West Coast back in the day. It wasn't possible. We didn't take it for granted that we would be able to go anywhere or get played anywhere or have a record made." Punk bands had to create their own clubs and sleep on each others’ floors after playing those limited venues. Actually, not much has changed there. The Avengers will still be couch-surfing for at least half of their 2007 tour.
The Avengers’ music has endured for 30 years, though the band was only around for two. The original group formed in June 1977 and played until June 1979. The band's last show was with the Sex Pistols at Winterland, having headlined dates with X, The Go-Go's and the Dead Kennedys. In those two years, The Avengers released one three-song EP on Dangerhouse Records. After the band split up, White Noise Records put out another four-song record. A full-length self-titled LP, a collection of previous recordings, came out in 1983.
An assemblage of live and studio material, Died for Your Sins, was released in 1999. Another official release, American in Me, hit the streets in 2004 and a revitalized Avengers (Houston and original guitarist Greg Ingraham atop a new rhythm section) performed a couple shows to support it. "Then suddenly we were getting invited to Europe and London," she says. "It's snowballed. The interest in having us play live just continued." The Avengers are playing all the classic material on this tour, and Houston says she hasn't felt comfortable writing any new Avengers songs. "Singing these songs is cathartic. It feels good to me now. We're in a political situation where being righteous is the right thing to do," says Houston, who raked politics and religion over the coals in her youth.
After the band's breakup in 1979, Houston performed as a folk artist, because the idea of singing in a really quiet situation was frightening and exciting, she says. "Back then, I sometimes felt like I was just screaming and screaming and screaming and people were hearing only every fifth word or something." Before The Avengers ended its run, Houston remembers telling people they were a folk band. "What I meant by that was folk as music belonging to the people, music made by everyday people. That was one of the defining things about punk—it brought rock music back to the users. It brought it down to this level where everyone could participate."
Essential Listening
Avengers-the album pictured at right, contains the cream of their crop, and more. All the essential tracks are here. You can get it direct from Penelope Houston's website.
Died For Your Sins has some alt takes and live material, and some worthwhile rarities. Also available at Penelope's website.
In the spring of 1976, The CRAMPS began to fester in a NYC apartment. Without fresh air or natural light, the group developed its uniquely mutant strain of rock’n’roll aided only by the sickly blue rays of late night TV. While the jackhammer rhythms of punk were proliferating in NYC, The CRAMPS dove into the deepest recesses of the rock’n’roll psyche for the most primal of all rhythmic impulses — rockabilly — the sound of southern culture falling apart in a blaze of shudders and hiccups. As late night sci-fi reruns colored the room, The CRAMPS also picked and chose amongst the psychotic debris of previous rock eras - instrumental rock, surf, psychedelia, and sixties punk. And then they added the junkiest element of all — themselves. — J. H. Sasfy, Professor of Rockology from the liner notes of The Cramps 1979 release Gravest Hits
It would be almost impossible to have never heard of The CRAMPS. Their career has been the stuff of legend. Dangerously bizarre but most of all cool, The CRAMPS represent everything that is truly reprehensible about rock’n’roll. Founding members Lux Interior (the psycho-sexual Elvis/Werewolf hybrid from hell) and guitar-slinging soul-mate Poison Ivy (the ultimate bad girl vixen) are the architects of a wicked sound that distills a cross of swamp water, moonshine and nitro down to a dangerous and unstable musical substance. Their cultural impact has spawned a legion of devil cults and dance-floor catfights, and created in its wake a cavalcade of cave-stomping imitators. As punk rock pioneers in the late seventies, they cut their teeth on the stages of CBGB and Max’s Kansas City and recorded their first record at Sam Phillips legendary Sun Studios, funded mainly by Ivy’s income as a dominatrix in NYC. They coined the now popular term “psychobilly” on their 1976 gig posters. Their hair-raising live performances are still a total, no-holds-barred rock’n’roll assault. After a quarter century of mayhem, they’re too far gone to even consider any other course. (from the Cramps website)
Cemeteries, rock `n` roll, old mansions, horror movies, a splash of surrealism-add atmospheric clothing (preferably black) and some tongue-in-cheek humor, and the list does a pretty fair job of delineating the wacko-Gothic world of the Cramps.
This is the band, after all, that signed its current contract with Enigma Records at Bela Lugosi`s gravesite in Los Angeles. The band that foreshadowed today`s concerns about nutrition and diet with a 1981 song that cautioned listeners not to eat stuff off the sidewalk, no matter how good it looks. The band that once played a free concert for patients at a California mental hospital after being told by someone: ``You guys ought to play at a nut house. That`s where you belong.``
Formed some 13 years ago after Lux and Ivy migrated from California to New York-and added drummer Nick Knox and second guitarist Bryan Gregory (later replaced by Kid Congo Powers)-the Cramps forged their sound in the Big Apple`s punk/New Wave scene of the late `70s.
But while their early efforts displayed a good deal of punk`s urgency, their primary stylistic stomping ground became an alternate-universe version of rockabilly known as psychobilly-a crazed, take-it-to-the-max form where standard rockabilly vocal hiccups became desperate gulps and gasps, and rockabilly`s sprightly rhythms became stark, dark exercises in the weird and the warped. (Tom Popson - Chicago Tribune)
Conjuring a fiendish witches' brew of primal rockabilly, grease-stained '60s garage rock, vintage monster movies, perverse and glistening sex, and the detritus and effluvia of 50 years of American pop culture, the Cramps are a truly American creation much in the manner of the Cadillac, the White Castle hamburger, the Fender Stratocaster, and Jayne Mansfield. Often imitated, but never with the same psychic resonance as the original, the Cramps celebrate all that is dirty and gaudy with a perverse joy that draws in listeners with its fleshy decadence, not unlike an enchanted gingerbread house on the Las Vegas strip. The entire psychobilly scene would be unthinkable without them, and their prescient celebration of the echoey menace of first-generation rock & roll had a primal (if little acknowledged) influence on the rockabilly revival and the later roots rock movement. (Allmusic)
This one's tricky for a number of embarrassing reasons. So let's be upfront. Reason # 1 is that Whipping 
