- - I have been getting whiny letters from
a lot of you lately complaining about the general state of the
art. "What is all this shit?" you ask. "We thought
New Wave was supposed to be this awakening of New Avenues of
Self Expression and Freedom, resulting in new musical verities
and new insights into the human condition even! Instead we went
out and spent all this money, and all these records are shit!"
- - You're right about
about one thing at least: all those record are shit, and you
might as well have burned all those dollar bills. (Closer,
12 bucks, haw haw haw!) But those records aren't shit for the
reasons that you think: those records are shit because they're
all too good!
- - That's right. All those
stupid bands were so stupid they plumb went out and learned
to play their instruments, a process as ineluctable as the putrefaction
of a corpse. Teach 'em a chord or two, then just watch
those little bastards practice till they can switch off,
back and forth between those two chords (then three, then four
. . . never shoulda learned even one!) deft as Al DiMeola
if he wanted to play that which he probably will soon! Damn!
- - Which is why the only
hope for rock'n'roll, aside from everybody playing nothing but
shrieking atonal noise through arbitor distorters, is women.
Balls are what ruined both rock and politics in the first place,
and I demand the world be turned over to the female sex immediately.
Only hope. Valerie Solanas was so much greater a prophet than
Warhol that I can only pray she might consent to lead
the group I'm forming. The absolute best rock'n'roll anywhere
today is being played by women: the other night I saw God in
the form of the Au Pairs, the Slits are stupendous, the Raincoats
are better than London Calling or anything by Elvis Costello,
Chrissie Hynde doesn't count, Joan Jett deserves her place in
the sun if not reparations, Lydia Lunch is the Female
Role Model for the '80s besides being one of the greatest guitarists
in the world . . . the list is endless. (Patti, come home!)
- - But credit must be
given to the foremothers: the Shaggs. Way back in 1972 [sic]
they recorded an album up in New England that can stand, I think,
easily with Beatles '65, Life with the Lions, Blonde
on Blonde, and Teenage Jesus and the Jerks as one
of the landmarks of roll'n'roll history. The Wiggins [sic] sisters
(an anti-power trio) not only redefined the art but had a coherent
Weltanschauung on their very first album, Philosophy
of the World. Basically what it comes down to is that unlike
the Stones these girls are saying we love you, whether you're
fat, skinny, retarded, or Norman Podhoretz even. Paul Weyrich.
Don't make no difference, they embrace all because they are true
one world humanists with an eye to our social future whose only
hope is a redefined communism based on the open-hearted sharing
of whatever you got with all sentient beings. Their and my religion
is compassion, true Christianity with no guilt factors and no
vested interest, perhaps a barter economy, but certainly the
elimination of capitalism, rape, and special-interest group hatred.
For instance, in their personal favorite number, "My Pal
Foot Foot," they reveal how even a little doggie must be
granted equal civil rights perhaps even extending to the voting
booth. Hell, they let Nancy Reagan in! They also believe that
we should jettison almost completely the high-tech society which
has now perched us on the lip of global suicide, and return to
third world-akin closeness with the earth, elements, nature,
the seasons, as in my personal favorite on this album, "It's
Halloween," which emphasizes that seasonal festivals are
essential to a healthy body politic (why d'ya think all them
people in California got no minds?).
- - Unfortunately the Wiggins's
masterpiece was lost over the years -- it came out on a small
label, and everybody knows the record industry has its head so
far up its ass it's licking its breastplate. But this guy from
NRBQ had the savvy to rescue it from oblivion (in a recent issue
of Rolling Stone, he compared their work to early Ornette
Coleman, and he's right, though early Marzette Watts might be
more apt), so now we got it out on the Red Rooster label, which
of course is a perfect joke on all those closet-queen heavy-metal
cockrockers. How do they sound? Perfect! They can't play a lick!
But mainly they got the right attitude, which is all rock'n'roll's
ever been about from day one. (I mean, not being able to play
is never enough.) You should hear the drum riff after the first
verse and chorus of the title cut -- sounding like a peg-leg
stumbling through a field of bald Uniroyals, it cuts Dave Tough
cold and these girls aren't even junkies (of course!). They just
whang and blang away while singing in harmonies reminiscent of
three Singing Nuns who've been sniffing lighter fluid and their
voices are just so copacetic [sic] together (being sisters, after
all) you'd almost think they were Siamese triplets. Guitar style:
sorta like 14 pocket combs being run through a moose's dorsal,
but very gently. Yet it rocks. Does it ever. Plus having one
of the greatest album covers in history, best since Blank
Generation. God Bless the Shaggs. Now if they will only emerge
from (semi?) retirement (?) no one ever will have cause again
to say "Rock'n'Roll is dead, man . . ." Up an'
at 'em, Valerie.