This flyer was created and distributed by Lesbians Against Police Violence and The Stonewall Coalition in summer 1979 in the aftermath of the White Night Riots; likely drawn by Emily Siegel they say.

White Night, Big City, White Night

He held his arms out open wide

He had enemies on every side

A little man in a fit of rage

shot him down to make him pay

Yes, he held his arms out open wide

Last year I did an interview with with KnowTheMusicBiz.com with the unfortunate title of “What I know now I wish I knew when I was getting started in the music business”. (Not my idea). I went back and re-read it recently. Even though I say things I sometimes don’t mean, I still stand by this. So I’m posting it here. Plus I refreshed the thing with a new title “Just Fucking Do it”.

Enjoy,

C

What I know now I wish I’d known when I was getting started. Advice for musicians.

I wished I’d have guzzled lots less alcohol less and fucked lots more. I sort of wish I hadn’t bitch-slapped a promoter who cheated me. It seemed so important at the time. But what good would any crystal ball have done me?

Maybe try not to take yourself too seriously. Try not to be terribly precious —but it doesn’t hurt to be obsessive and dogged. To have some inner drive to get it right.

“Take the time to get things right.” Ike Turner taught me that.

I was always an Ike Turner fan. Especially his obscure solo records from the 70’s. In 1990, I saw an Ike Turner Soul Revue gig in San Francisco at the Last Day Saloon. There couldn’t have been more than 20 people there. It was gloriously unorganized. Ike and his band played Proud Mary like five times and then left the stage. Ike came out for the encore by himself and sang Alice Cooper’s Only Women Bleed at the Fender Rhodes. It was perverse, but oddly moving.

Odd. Moving. Cool.

We chatted him up, told him we were fans, musicians ourselves. Ike autographed a record for my friend Stephen Yerkey; he wrote: “Dear Steve, Always take the time to get the right people. Comeback next time, it will be much better. Sincerely, Ike.”

Seriously, it’s hard to say what I wished I’d known then… One thing that occurs to me is that I feel sorry for kids today with crappy MP3’s. When I was a kid I really had to seek things out. To seek out the music and find a culture weird enough for me to identify with. And most of that came from listening to records. It really opened up my world. And the literature and films and all that came with it…

It was the records that pointed me in those directions. From Ry Cooder to Wim Winders to the German Expressionist filmmakers… and Dylan to Woody Guthrie and Townes Van Zandt to Robert Johnson… The Clash led me to Joe Ely and the Sugarhill Gang back through the looking glass and inside myself.

I come from a fairly conservative, non-musical family. I begged for guitar lessons, got golf lessons instead. I just don’t think there’s much of anything dangerous about dropping out and joining a band these days. But if it’s fun, then I suppose it’s as relevant as ever.

What to look for / watch out for in managers, attorneys, band members

You mean like, ask for five references and call the last one first? Heck, I don’t know anything. You can hire lawyers and managers and all manner of sleazy ten per-centers/experts to help you navigate these decisions, but ultimate nobody else knows anything either. Some of the best guys are still one third bullshit….

It’s true. The best thing might be to just find someone you trust. If you have someone who’s a true believer in your corner, that’s worth more than an army of so called experts. You have to have blind belief in what you’re doing. Making a decent record is a lot like coaching high school football. You’ve got to be smart enough to do it and dumb enough to think it matters. It does matter. And it’s the music that fuels the business, if there’s any business at all to be had. But the buzz of doing it should be enough to get you off. If you’re out to make a quick buck steal car stereos for chrisakes.

As daft as that sounds, I really believe it’s true. Try not to be an asshole. But it doesn’t hurt to have an asshole friend or two who’s willing to shake it up for you. When people around me begin a statement or request or whatever with “In the future,” my guts churn. I guess the best advice I can give is to listen to from within. Shit, that’s what the Quakers do and they won the Nobel Peace Prize. If it doesn’t feel right, it’s probably not.

No man is an eyelid, and as much as everyone would like to cut out the middle man, there’s nothing like the power of a gang; in guys that have your back. So surround yourself with cool people. Work with the label. Don’t be afraid to take suggestions. You’re all in it together. There’s the writing, and the recording and the live show to worry about. And that’s a lot. Fact is, you’ll end up getting in bed with some good people and you’ll ending up getting in bed with some people you’ll come to find you don’t want to wake up next to. And really, it’s hard to tell until you’re in the heat of battle who’s got your back and who doesn’t. So, in order to get your music out there, just fucking do it.

I’ve done both, woken up in both of those beds. But ultimately it’s about the music. Every great musician has some bad decisions in his past. Don’t get too tangled up in the business side of things. Who wants to be in a band to listen to a cash register? Wait: don’t answer that one.

You need much more than a good lawyer. You’ll need luck. You’ll need lightning. Then you can pay a lawyer to give you his opinion if it makes you feel better. If you can stay awake.

Just pay attention to the lightning.

And listen for the thunder.

The advantages or negative impact of technology on the business

MP3’s are crappy sounding. That’s a fact. Vinyl has always sounded better. But I try not to get too hung up on how the music is delivered into my psyche. It’s easy to forget that it’s all about the song, the mystery, the magic in the grooves.

That’s the dope that you want. It’s the dope that’s important. It’s not the needle. If you got to have it, you just got to have it. On cassette, vinyl, CD or whatever. If you need to hear Dusty Springfield singing The Look of Love ,you’ll seek it out.

And it’ll echo forever.

Advice you would give your favorite independent artist or band

I think I’d be more likely to seek advice from them. How’d they get to be my favorite. They must be doing something I can learn from.

Which reminds me, that it helps to be a fan. Learn other songs. Learn them, then unlearn them. Substitute your own life, your own absurd observations, your own point of view or lunacy into the frame.

Everyone needs to work to get by. Try to get a job where you have some isolation to think. Thebest job I ever had was parking cars. I once had a job parking cars at KMEL radio station in San Francisco, “America’s Most Hip Hop” radio station. After I’d climb in behind the wheel, out of boredom more than anything else, I’d routinely root around the cars’ contents. Don’t know what I was looking for. I swear I never took anything more than an Altoid mint (or two). But I loved that job, it afforded me: I had a lot of time to think about songs and scheming and plotting new records. It was actually a very happy time for me. And the structure was healthy. Or so I think.

Step away from the computer. If you’re to inspire people, you’ll need inspiration. Inspiration is in everything, in everyone. Take the time out to visit the odd Hunting Lodge. The more taxidermied animals on the walls, the better. Also, find a guitar that stays in tune. If you can’t, find a guitar you love and play it every day. You’ll get to know it. And you’ll get it to behave and do things for you after a while. Get intimate with its personality.

I still play the same 1984 Fender Squire Telecaster that Green On Red bought me when I joined them. Yeah, yeah, yeah: I know there’s some kind of irrational attachment going on. I own others, but I’ve never played any other guitar than the Squire on a gig. Not sure why, maybe because it knows all the songs and I don’t. Like Excalibur’s Sword, it gives me power; or like that lucky pen—when I play it everything just flows through me. If just everybody had one of these things, I’d probably still be folding underwear at Nordstrom’s. But really, I can’t stress this enough: Seek out your own culture and your own music.

Seek things out.

Once, in a studio in Scottsdale, I ran into Lee Hazlewood. He was working in an adjacent room producing demo’s for a local New Country singer and he’d assembled a group of housewife vocalists out of the union book to sing a background part imitating a train whistle (“Whoo whoo”). One woman turned to me and asked, “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Is this guy for real?”

Yeah, he was. Lee seemed to enjoy holding court for us, he gushed enthusiastic over Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy (a big hit at the time) and told us “Gram Parsons would have shot watermelon seeds it he thought it’d get him high.”

Years later, Nancy and Lee did a reunion tour and Lee refused to give any interviews. But, man he spilled it that day around the water cooler. I still have the business card he gave me in the top drawer of my desk.

I’m a fan first. For me, every time I make a new record, it’s the same process. I assemble of group of talented, intense, difficult people. Many of whom I’ve work with before and a few I’ll probably never work with again and I pray to the gods we can capture more than just the music. Maybe a little spirit. But you need luck.

Never quit being a fan. I don’t really have any advice for my favorite artists. They’re more like teachers to me. And never quit learning even if you have to unlearn everything first.

The value of music and musicians

Oscar Wilde wrote “All art is useless.” And Oscar Wilde was a fine artist. It’s okay to believe both. Music’s art. After all, Andy Warhol said it: You’re getting people to spend money on something they don’t need. Chew on that concept.

I mean, if you can entertain yourself then there’s value. And if you’re having fun doing it, that’s something too. I’m not totally behind the everything should be free theory. I mean, if I really wanted to put that to the test I’d move into Chris Anderson’s house. There’s really no value. There’s a point between every other point, isn’t that what they teach you in school? Infinite. But does that mean you can’t walk home from school?

I know that in recent years there’s a been an increase in well-adjusted musicians out there. Fuck, even I might have become one of them. But I’m not sure that returning every e-mail or MySpace message makes anyone more interesting. And as much as I love the freedom the internet provides, I do miss mono-analog-vinyl culture. I like it when records bring people together. And I do agree with Robert Christgau when he says that people generally do a better job if they’re getting paid. These days, I see journalism really taking a rabbit punch and that’s sad.

I never really thought of music as a vocation. In fact, I don’t have a job. I’m not sure I’m actually making a living. You think you’re in control? Are you sure that computer doesn’t have YOU by the balls?

Just listen to what your guitar is telling you. Unlearn your songs. Then learn them again.

And watch for the lightning. It’ll come.

Come back next time, it’ll be much better. Sincerely, Chuck.

Chuck Prophet

Autumn 2009, on the road

Somewhere in England

Scott Compton and his Remedy cohorts feng shui’d (is that a verb?) the space. Now it’s time to get serious. The plan is easy. Consume super human quantities of snacks and perhaps write a song or two. Also, note to self: buy a fire extinguisher.

Van Christian (Naked Prey) reached out to me for some quotes for his new record. I listened to it. And it moved me.

By the way, not that it totally matters, but Van’s record was completely financed by running pot cross country for Mexican National’s. Shortly after Van finished his opus he got busted and served 3 years. He’s out now. And flying straight. Anyway, seek out the record. It’s worth the seeking.

—CP

Mom, Spitting in Her Hand

Trust me here - that weird title is a good way of thinking about Van Christian. Maybe I’ll be able to explain that. First, you know, we all ought to be a little bit more grateful. Maybe quit worrying so much about being graceful. Is there any single creature who made the Tucson scene more interesting, more fun? And am I grateful for him? Damn straight I’m grateful. Now you go and be grateful.

Seriously, did anyone make Tucson cooler? No. Any one more than Van fucking Christian? Name one and I’ll go down on you with the cameras rolling at the 50-yard line at half time on the Super Bowl where everybody in America is waiting for the high-dollar commercials and wardrobe malfunctions.

Way before Desert Rock was shanghaied by careeristas -shit-snipes who in a (forget perfect) merely fair world would be teaching Jazz Band at a second-rate community college in Los Posole, New Mexico or Glee Club in Pacomia - before there were even matches at Burning Man…

Before any of that, there was that crazed son of a doctor Van Christian. My opinion here. My opinion this time out is flat fact.

In the Zonie tradition - from Alice Vincent Cooper to Hector Molina - you’ll find the true Desert Rock where, I guess, people couldn’t go any further on the 10. Desert Rock: the skuzzy stuff, the truly good stuff, the skanky and skeezy right-off-the-bone real stuff. Rock and Roll. Loose, tight. Sloppy, precise. Clear-eyed and fucked up. Messy, Greasy. Revelations from the desert. The deep fried nausea, the pass the fucking bong I really think I’m Elvis lunacy.

That’s Van Christian. I don’t have to say this. I seldom get paid for anything and I damn sure don’t expect a paycheck from Van. No, this praise isn’t because of all the things he knows about me I wish he didn’t - and that grizzled dishwasher better take those tales to his grave. No. I want to say this because, hey! this time out he means business. He financed this record about the hardest of ways - but also sort of traditionally. When Black Flag were broke, Henry delivered Dominos in Venice. Or so they say. Van did his time as a deliveryman, but there weren’t many pepperoni with extra cheese thin crusts involved.

He stayed alive. That’s business. There’s an amazing - true - story about how that madman got called into his day-job boss’ office for a spanking at best and a firing at worst. The crazy fucker saluted his boss who was baffled by how Van looked - sort of like a chipmunk who’d been eating peyote buttons. But he started laughing. Couldn’t keep a straight face. And when he grinned, his boss saw that Van had somehow managed to get an entire hand grenade between his jaws and onto his tongue and then close his lips. But he started laughing. And his boss fled from the room.

There’s some sort of movie about Tucson music out there, censored/uncensored. What the fuck ever. But the Van Christian movie won’t ever be made. And for that I’m grateful; Van’s life has been a free flick you want to see over and over. Somewhere, those idiot desert rat new born transplants like Larkins are laying down that country club/high country groove. And for that the world shows it’s gratitude with rolled up twenties. But Van is under that radar. His new record says it all. Van is a natural, and his henchmen are perfect for the heist. Guitars into Memory Mans. Fuzz in just the right places. I can taste broken strings and I can imagine the bent spoons it took to cook it up. I smell the perfume of brain cells in the ozone.

This record is Van’s movie. It’s like Mom spitting into her hand to try to lay your cowlick down. It’s defiant. Stubborn. Perfect. The violin’s just enough out of tune to pull your ear. The record’s an assault in some ways, yes, but it’s tender and chaotic at once. Mostly, it’s sweet, the sweetly definitive Tucson record.

Maybe it’s better than sweet: it’s poignant.

I salute you, Van Christian.

Chuck Prophet, San Fransico/Los Angeles/Baja

This appears in its original form on IFC.Com here: http://www.ifc.com/blogs/indie-ear/2009/10/chuck-prophets-top-movies-of-a.php

I asked Chuck Prophet if he could list a few of his favorite films for me while he’s finishing up a documentary about the ill timed (swine flu) trip to Mexico he took to make a record.  Read this bad ass list he wrote up and if you need a breather, give a listen to this jam, “Sonny Liston’s Blues,” off his record ¡Let Freedom Ring! - due out Oct. 27.  It’s gonna take an aspirin!  ******************

Chuck Prophet:

These are movies that I’ve lived with and return to again and again. I’ve included a couple of small movies so good that if you’re like me, you can’t help but wonder, “Why aren’t there more movies like this?” I have to root for the underdog. That’s how I’m wired. And remember, in the immortal words of Ray Charles: “It’s easier to bone the President’s wife than to get a movie made.”

Crimes and Misdemeanors (1989)

Cliff Stern: “A strange man… defecated on my sister…”

Wendy Stern: [pause] “... why?”

It’s really two movies: One about a struggling documentary filmmaker (Woody Allen) trapped in an unhappy marriage and in love with a woman who doesn’t love him back.  And in the other, a classic noir story where Martin Landau is a successful doctor who has his mistress (Anjelica Huston) murdered. And gets away with it.

Some of Woody Allen’s later movies have a rather tossed off feel. But this movie is like a can of concentrated orange juice. Concentrated. You know, like before you add the water? It’s almost three movies in one. Thick. Dense. Bullet-proof.

At the end of the film Allen’s character, Cliff, listens to Martin Landau’s character pitch him an idea for a movie. Cliff tells him that in order to make a good film there needs to be some redemption in the story. It’s an achingly sad moment when Landau says to Allen, “You watch too many movies, this is about real life.” Just one of the many moments that stack up to make the torn half of the Admit One worth having.

And remember: “If it bends, it’s funny. If it breaks, it isn’t.”

I’m down for any Woody Allen. I’ll see anything he does. I’m sure people will be quick to disagree but I think Woody is incapable of making a bad movie. The same way Bob Dylan is incapable of being uninteresting.

All The President’s Men (1976)

“Print that baby!”

At one time I wanted to be a journalist. Took a few college classes before I got frustrated looking for parking and starting cutting class and going to matinees. Seeing this movie as a child with my mother probably had as much to do with my romantic notion of journalism as anything. Just the roar of all those typewriters rat-tat-tatting away in unison at the Washington Post hooked me. Or maybe it was the glee in hearing Jason Robards growl: “Where’s the fucking story?” Every scene is a diamond. It’s brief, but the Lindsay Ann Crouse (David Mamet’s first wife) scene where she has maybe three lines, is a movie unto itself.

It’s fascinating to look back at this now as a kind of period piece. As news papers are folding and Investigative reporting is dying all around us. Syndicated articles are passed around like cheap whores and papers can’t afford to keep on a paid staff to do any serious reporting. One more reminder of the apocalypse, now we live in a time where opinion and entertainment rule over truth.

D Tour (2008)

I was really knocked out by this informative rock documentary directed by Jim Granato about Rogue Wave drummer Pat Spurgeon who was born with one kidney that’s failing and needs another to keep living.

I learned a lot. Like being on the organ recipient list for a new kidney is no cakewalk. And being in a touring band while on dialysis is no day at the beach. It’s involved. I won’t tell you how this story ends but it’s a heart wrenching journey for sure. If you haven’t already, you might want to consider checking that box on your driver’s license.

Walking out after watching it, I thought about all the useful things I’ve learned watching movies:

1) Eric Stoltz picking a safe in “Killing Zoe.” You’ve got to have the right tools. You’ve got to have a talent for it. But it can be done if you know what you’re doing, apparently.

2) The proper way to spy on someone and get it on tape. Gene Hackmen following Frederick Forest and Cindy William’s conversation in the middle of San Francisco’s Union Square with a shotgun microphone in “The Conversation.”

3) There’s a right and a wrong way to talk to a girl after she catches you tricking her in to touching your penis by burying it like a prize in a popcorn box. Just ask Mickey Rourke! (“see Diner”). If you know what you’re doing she won’t even get mad.

4) The lottery-like impossible odds of transcending your background by playing b-ball (“Hoop Dreams”).

Back to “D-Tour.” Warning: there are enough pretty, open acoustic guitar chords and sweet harmonies courtesy of Ben Gibbard (and a host of celebrated indie rock semi-royalty). Enough of that to send you into a diabetic seizure. So, if you’re hypoglycemic, you might want to enter at your own risk.

Chuck Berry Hail! Hail! Rock ‘n’ Roll (1987)

Chuck Berry: “Don’t touch my amp!”

Keith Richards and a bevy of special guests get paraded out for Chuck’s 60 Birthday concert. But make no mistake: it’s Chuck’s show all the way. It’s the rehearsals where the real action is. And we get to watch. “Don’t touch my amp!” And take a Chuck guided through St. Louis. Chuck Berry is a complicated dude. This movie is endlessly fascinating. Rock and roll is Rock and Roll. And nobody tells Chuck Berry how to play Chuck Berry. Just ask Keith!

Meantime (1984)

I was torn between mentioning this film or the John Cassavete’s film “Gloria” (1980). Ah…. the 80’s. Movies from the drought.

I can still remember stumbling across this film by chance on BBC 4 one night in my lonely room at the Columbia Hotel in London and being completely riveted. There was something different going on here. What I didn’t know was that I was seeing my first Mike Leigh film. And as a bonus, making the acquaintances of Tim Roth and Gary Oldman, with their screen debuts. Something different was going. These weren’t just actors saying lines. They were the characters. Nobody makes pictures like Mike Leigh.

Badlands (1973)

I once read an interview where Terrence Malick said that the cops and much of the cast in this film weren’t actually actors. Anyone other than principal actors were civilians. He found that real people are less vain, he said. Felt less compelled to act. Naturally, the camera captures that. Knowing so was just one sign of Terry’s gift. Another was his amazing ability to have the audience feel - and feel deeply - for the villain.

And when the deputy delivers his line while Martin Sheen is handcuffed in the back seat magic happens: “I’ll kiss your ass if he don’t look like James Dean.” A scene I simply can’t forget. It’s creepy. Martin Sheen gets my vote for sexiest sociopath since Robert Blake in “In Cold Blood” or Tommy Lee Jones in “The Executioners Song.”

Art can do that. Get you rooting for the bad guys.

As a songwriter always on the lookout for something to steal, and shoe-horn into a song, I can’t help but notice the first line in Bruce Springteen’s song Nebraska is the opening scene of the movie, “Saw her standing on her front lawn, just a-twirling her baton…” Close your eyes or keep them open: it’s Sissy Spacek.

Dylan once said, “Oh yeah? Well why not write a song about that guy who went into a McDonalds and blew all those people away? I bet if he could speak from the grave he’d have a story to tell.”

But can you make us care for him?

Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse (1991)

“We were in the jungle, there were too many of us, we had access to too much money, too much equipment, and little by little we went insane.”

—Francis Ford Coppola

A documentary that follows the making of “Apocalypse Now.” Heart Attacks, millions of dollars in budget overages, lead actors fired after shooting starts. Now that makes for a great movie.

Having gone over budget making records as much as I have, I studied the scene where one of Francis Ford Coppola’s writers talks of quitting the project only to have the director convince him that he was making the first film that could go on to receive a Nobel Peace Prize and like that he’s back on the gig. That’s genius. Worth studying.

It was made by Francis Ford Coppola’s wife, Eleanor Coppola. She said somewhere that she suspected Francis gave her the gig just to get her out of his hair. Turns out “the brains behind pa” made a movie even more fascinating, informative, and intriguing than “Apocalypse Now.”

Ghost World (2001)

Seymour: “I can’t relate to 99% of humanity.”

A coming-of-age teen flick movie that pivots around Skip James’ “Devil Got My Woman” can do no wrong with me. And shouldn’t with anyone else.

Some kind of cosmic coincidence that mirrored my own world: I once heard Lorrete Velvet sing that same song at the Antenna Club in Memphis and also became obsessed. It’s a kind of blues Rosetta Stone. Everything else makes sense after you figure out what language it’s written in. Here’s a movie that was after my own heart.

I love the scene where Thora Birch’s character Enid after buying a blues compilation LP from Steve Buscemeis’ character at a garage sale takes the record home and hearing Skip James sing Devil Got My Woman” becomes totally obsessed and returns the next weekend to the garage sale. Asking Steve Buscemi’s character: “Do you have any other records like that?”

He says, “There are no other records like that.”

Last I heard, the writer (Daniel Clowes) was banging out a screenplay about three Mississippi kids who spent a good seven years in the 1980s making a shot-for-shot remake of Raiders of the Lost Ark. That’s mystifying. Anyway, “Ghost World.” It’s sad when friends grow apart, especially if your best friend is Scarlet Johansson. This movie nails that feeling.

Bonus: This is where we got the expression Blues Hammer. I don’t know how many people saw this movie but Blues Hammer is now part of the musician’s lexicon. It’s part of the vernacular. Like “gig-atoni”.

Rumble Fish (1983)

“California’s like a beautiful, wild… beautiful, wild girl on heroin…”

This is the movie that turned me on - made me aware what cinematography is or what it could be. Francis Ford Coppola was interviewed in a local rock magazine here called Bam Magazine when this came out. It was there I learned about the lengths they went through to make this movie look the way it looked. They actually painted the shadows on the ground. Lots of slo-mo rolling clouds, smoke and tweaked out Foley. It turned me on to moving making, to understanding that they’re made.

If you read the S.E. Hinton novel, you’d know that the Motorcycle boy was deaf. Explains why all the sound is muted when our soft spoken hero Mickey Rourke speaks. It’s disorienting.

Matt Dillon as Rusty James, Tom Waits as Benny. Diane Lane? Dennis Hopper? It’s a feast. The soundtrack by Stewart Copeland and Stan Ridgway is brilliant as well. Really ahead of it’s time.

Der amerikanische Freund (1977) The American Friend

“What’s wrong with a cowboy in Hamburg?”

This is Wim Winder’s take on “Ripley’s Game” Starring Bruno Ganz and Dennis Hopper as the sinister Tom Ripley, a loner cowboy making his way around Hamburg dealing in forged paintings, consumed with existential angst and all the freak you’d expect in this sideways take on classic noir.

And the soundtrack is right there, “Too Much On My Mind” by The Kinks. Bruno’s character Jonathan is humming it to himself while he works building frames in his little shop. It’s a beautiful moment. Counterfeit as art and art as counterfeit. Fucking rock and roll.

The Object of Beauty (1991)

“I’m worth it.”

Commodities broker, Jake, has just lost his nest egg. Now he and Tina (Andie MacDowell) are slumming it in a chic London hotel they can no longer afford. Or at least not willing to admit they can’t afford it. They get it on, and Andie MacDowell’s character takes forever to get off—but says, “I’m worth it.” Who’s to argue?

I’m not sure I’d want to hang out with these people. They’re nasty. But they’ve got each other. Even if they bounce a check here and there,—one has to do what one can to keep his gal in designer threads. But it’s a rare film. They don’t make movies about these kinds of people very often. Maybe we’ll see more of these recession blues films in the future. If I’m to believe what I read on the web, I hear Carrie Bradshaw’s new husband Big runs into financial trouble in the currently-in- production Sex and the City sequel. But heck, what would I know about that?

Paris, Texas (1984)

“What the hell?” (First line of the script.)

“Paris, Texas” came later for Wim Wenders. That was a kind of John Ford ass-buster for my generation. And here another European gently reminds us what’s great about our culture and nails it to a t-bone steak. Back then, I don’t know what they called this kind of thing. I guess they call it Americana now. I suppose this movie is really just a western. It ends with our hero Travis played by Harry Dean Stanton walking off in to the sunset, and those four notes Ry Cooder plays over and over? ‘Nuff said.

(PICTURED: Left to right: David Hood, CP, Calvin Russell, Jim Dickinson, Roger Hawkens)

Have faith in the process. Trust the producer. Listen to the songs. Never, NEVER, stop rolling! Don’t answer the phone in the studio, it could be the company telling you to stop! Don’t let anybody make you feel bad about what you’re doing. You can burn out but that doesn’t mean you can’t get lit again. I’ve seen in happen.

- Jim Dickinson (1942 - 2009)

I just learned that Jim died. I’m punched in the chest.

Jim’s presence here may be gone. And it was a big presence. But his music, his spirit? Well, hell, you know how this sentence ends…. I’m sad. Deeply. But the memories that swirl tonight under the ceiling fan aren’t sad at all.

Jim’s health hadn’t been good for some time. I reached out to his son Luther last week to see how Dad was doing. They were preparing for a benefit show for Jim and Luther sent me a text, “Dad woke up at midnight after sleeping all day, and started barking orders. Still producing!”

Dickinson: you might know him as the guy who produced Big Star’s 3rd, or the guy on the back of the “Paris, Texas” soundtrack rolling what looks like a round of duct tape across the keyboard of a Steinway grand piano (they opened tuned that piano, by the way. “It took days!”). Or playing with Dylan. Or maybe you know him as the man who played those three notes of tack piano on the Stone’s Wild Horses. Jim was a magnet. The people that stopped by the sessions were unreal. Sputnick Monroe? Sure. And Ry Cooder coming by and sharing a chat with us. Casually picking up every one of the 15 guitars laying and playing a half riff. Always searching.

He was a sensitive man. But full of mischief and fun. Corny as it sounds, he was like a father to me. I was definitely a student. I always feel his presence. He left his mark.

Jim was also a dedicated man, dedicated to the art of record producing and to his family. He believed making records was a fight of Light vs. Dark—but he refused to work Saturdays so he could watch his Memphis Wrestling on TV. A tangle of contradictions, his gruff exterior never hid his huge heart.

As a producer, when he sensed that Green on Red lacked faith in ourselves, fearing it was all hollow, a scam, Jim said, “Never let anybody make you feel bad about what you’re doing” . He offered belief. And made you feel your work was important. It was clearly important to him. What a gift he gave us.

Makes sense that Jim once wanted to teach history. Every session, every van journey, was a history lesson with Jim. Often in the morning of a session—and Jim was old school: he was punctual—Jim would play music to inspire us. Might be scratchy vinyl of Kerouac recitations, or Mac Rice demo’s on 7” reels he’d cribbed from Stax. (Tina the Go Go Queen was on there.) Or Black Oak Ark sessions Jim produced back when Ardent was still 8 track. Back when Jim engineered. “Sure, I used to go out and do the hand claps with the band.” It was all part of our extended education.

I made several records with Jim, including two-and-a-half Green On Red slabs, and the odd session Jim hired me for. With my band, we backed Jim on a live record. Jim had been a constant presence in my life. A mentor. A friend. Just the other day a Radio 6 DJ accused Jim Dickinson of producing my last record. She was wrong, but I said, “Yeah, well, it’s like he’s always in the room.” I told the truth. “Jim was always excited about new music. He loved The Cramps. He never got old.

“Yeah, you’re right this Johnny Dowd record is DANGEROUS. Gives me faith it can still be done this late in the game, Chuck.”

Some of my favorite Dickinson memories:

Green On Red picking Jim up at LAX back in 1986 or so, to take him to the studio. Jim mentioned he’d like some weed. No problem. We took a slight detour to Alvarado St. where you hold a ten dollar bill out the window and a kid runs off with it. Out of nowhere someone lowers a basket from a rooftop on a fishing pole with a bag of weed in it.

Jim later said to me, “Boy, you guys. I have to say I was really impressed.”

How happy Jim was when Dylan started performing Across the Borderline in concert? “Bob Dylan singing MY words!”

On over-dubbing the solo on GOR’s Morning Blue: “Come on Chuck, grow up, play something cohesive!”

Over-dubbing the backing vocals on GOR’s Zombie for Love, Jim said “make it sound like one of the black extras for the cheap horror movies: Eye’s a S-s-s-s-ombie/Eye’s a S-s-s-s-om-beee”. With Dan Stuart singing, Dickinson playing drums without sticks but those paint stirring things from the hardware store instead.

On showing me his version of Shake Your Money Maker, I asked ‘Is that on Elmore’s version Jim?’ “Hell no, that comes from the Fleetwood Mac version. It SMOKES over Elmore’s” . The immortal Jim Dickinson: Fleetwood Mac could smoke Elmore James.

The biggest honor (but I was mighty honored when he covered my songs) was that I was his first one in—calling me as soon as he got back from the Time Out Of Mind sessions. Sharing Dylan stories; Dylan needling Lanois: “Maybe if I took some more advice on how to sing I’d have a career by now.” On the passing of Sam Phillips: “They say God created all men equal. Still, I think God created Sam with just a little extra.” On tuning: “Tuning is a decadent European habit bordering on the homosexual.” Said with no malice, just his grin. And again on tuning but years later: “This auto tune is great. I’d run the drums through it if I could.”

On producing the Replacements: “Did you know Paul Westerberg wears make up?”

In the studio producing—David Hood and Roger Hawkins were the rhythm section—listening to those guys reminiscing about the Stones at Muscle Shoals. Hood: “Who was that chick with the camera that hung around?” And Hood again: “Jagger wore the same clothes five days in a row. Until Wexler showed up and Jagger came out of the hotel elevator wearing that white suit.”

Jim giving me a white label copy of Big Star’s Sister Lovers. There weren’t really cassettes back then. Ardent pressed up white label LP demos to try and get a deal for the cracked masterpiece that wasn’t to come out until years later. They even sprang for a tailored suit and sent Jim out to LA to play it for some A & R people out there. Jim showed up one day to a session wearing a colorful scarf and I asked where he picked it up. “That’s about all I have to show from Sister Lovers” . On the acetate he gave me he wrote in his inimitably crude style with a felt pen: “Big Star Sister Lovers—- produced by Jim Dickinson. Eng. John Fry. NOT 4 SALE.”

Rehearsing with Jim for a couple of gigs that later turned into the Thousand Footprints in the Sand live record, I asked, “Is that a major or a minor chord you’re playing there?”. Jim looked down studied his fingers at the keyboard and said, after a pause, “I don’t know, I just kind of float it.”

Once when Dan Stuart and I made the trek to Hernando for dinner at the Dickinson house: Jim said, “I was hoping you might be willing to go down in the basement and fuck with my kids”. And so we did. Went down there and fired up the Marshals and jammed with Luther and Cody on some thrash metal. When we resurfaced, Jim was really pleased. Just beaming. Jim and Mary did something right, because they raised two boys who are a couple of the kindest and most gentle men you’ll ever meet.

That was a long time ago. The dot where Memphis is on the map became a tunnel and a journey and a life’s work. And now the new heroes are the business men. It’s a mixed up shook up world. Indeed.

Don’t answer the telephone in the studio, it could be the company telling you to stop…

God bless Mr. Jim Dickinson. God blessed us with him.

—Chuck Prophet, Baja California, Mexico, August 2009

Milan was too short. Would have like to have found something meaningful along the lines of a crisp white Dolce and Gabbana shirt (I lost my one good white shirt somewhere back there), or a blood orange cocktail before I had to split.

But it’s up and at ‘em. Got a train to catch.

Milan’s gig was cool. A chic crowd. The boys from the band who won the Italian version of American Idle or some such came out. The band AfterHours. They gave me a button. Or a “badge” as the teabags call it. I’m wearing it now.

I know it’s hardly profound, but is there a simple pleasure that can compete with a three hour journey by train through the Alps, with the sun on my face and a ham and cheese toastie snack?

The wheels humming along turning over my internal dialogue like a record. Better times, and worse times….

Anyway, let me know if you find one.

Zurich: El Locale Club. It’s so close to the train station, the cabs that queue up for the big fares won’t take you. Act like they never heard of it. I climb in and show the driver the address, he puts on his specs and looks, throws the glasses on the dash in disgust.

I’d walk but I’ve got all this shit to carry. It’s murder.

Soundcheck.

The owner Viktor is big on gifts. (Swiss army knives, chocolate bars). He wants to give me a t-shirt as a kind of gift. I won’t accept; especially not since I heard that he gave Howe Gelb an ipod. I was thinking something along the lines of a Volvo station wagon would be an appropriate gesture. I won’t settle for anything less. I make a point of saying this on stage.

I took a shot. Ended up taking the t-shirt. I might need it. I’m headed to Serbia next.

Tonight’s Milano. My last gig in Italy. Looking forward to seeing Fabio and the gang.

My friend Andrea bought me some 60’s horn rimmed glasses in Pescara. I look like an Italian film director.

Your feet get cold on tour. I’m wearing two pair of socks.

The gig was a total gas. My Italian mission is now complete. Next stop Zurich.

For the final night of our Spanish tour, Howe and the boys invited me up for a sloppy but heartfelt version of Cash’s Ring of Fire into Dylan’s Every Grain of Sand. And if I’m not mistaken there was a slight return of Let It Be somewhere there in the middle.

It was glorious.

Next stop Italy.

Chuck: Dan, check out this Neil video, kind of makes me think of you. Is it retarded or genius? And like, what’s with the apple?

Dan: That’s his ipod.

Chuck: Oh yeah, duh, that’s hilarious.

Dan: He does think it’s funny… maybe he made a pipe out of it later?

Chuck: Genius.

http://neilyoung.com/forkintheroad/forkintheroadvideo.html

Feeling a little off today. I leave you with this poem….

Enjoy,

CP

Sick
by Shel Silverstein

“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

In the last few weeks I got a taste of Hollywood lunacy while choking the monkey with Songwriter/Producer trickster Angelo in Nashburg. We’ve been writing/recording songs for an upcoming film directed by Mark Ruffalo starring James Franco as “The Stain”.

What’s the saying? Dickinson told us: “You know the deal with Opera—they say it’s not over until the fat lady sings? Well, in rock and roll it ain’t over until the monkey chokes.”

Meanwhile we’re writing one more song over the phone. I think we’re getting closer. The whole project’s actually been a hoot for a couple of doofus’s looking to catch a break.

Meanwhile, did anyone else pony up for for the Manny Pacquiao/Oscar De La Hoya HBO pay-per-view fight last night? That was my reward to myself. I was corresponding this AM with Brink’s own Guy Williams aka The Swamp Dog (himself a bad-ass pugilist in his day). Boy, what an incredibly likeable pair Manny Pacquiao and his trainer Freddie Roach are.
Is it just me? How could you not pull for them? Roach with his Parkinson’s, and that little Manny smiling to the crowd, crouching down and praying on his knees in his corner. Those two—they’re like some Howard Hawkes western heroes. Manny as the small town Sheriff who enlists the over the hill cripple against the men in black. Very John Wayne.
Pacquiao came out sizzling. “Blinding damn speed” said Guy. Left hook raging. Round after round pounding on De La Hoya.

Between rounds, Roach was heard to say, “Son, you’re too fast for him, just keep doing what you’re doing.”

As so it went for 8 rounds until they threw in the towel.

Phew.

Good times don’t last forever. Open Mind Music RIP.

Yes, my friends, once again we must report that due to changing times, rising rents and greedy “super size me” developers, Henry Wimmer’s Open Mind Music closed it’s doors once and for all.

Before they toss up a Staples in its place, we celebrated with a kegger. I dragged my PA down, and we had a cluster-lunch of bands playing in the shop all day. The kegger shin-dig turned out to be a cool event. Crazy Horse minus Neil was riveting. Meri St. Meri came out of retirement. Tom Heyman played, Ray played, the legendary comedian Barry Sobel had us slapping our thighs. Hayes Carl and his gang came down the sidewalk wearing their guitars like gunslingers after their soundcheck down the street at the Du Nord, John Murry, Eric McFadden, Mike Therieau, Phil Crumar, Penelope Houston all brought it.

I wasn’t able to make my way through to the Soundtrack section, or the Country section at all. I had planned to get back to the store. By the time I did, it was tumbleweeds man. (see picture).

It was a great send off. It could have been a lot worse. A LOT worse. It could have rained! John Murry could have stiffed me on the Milkshake he owed me (he didn’t).

We could have run out of beer!

I might have a new career as a sound-man. I did get a lot of encouraging compliments on the sound. Thanks very much.

Power to the people,

CP

The Lee Hazlewood Tribute at the Make-Out Room

Tom Heyman and co. were the backing band for this cavalcade of starz singing a Lee song (or two).

Meghan Edwards, Meryl Press, Charlie Knote, Jeffrey Luck Lucas, Josh Polluck, Stephie Finch, Kelley Stoltz and more, all took turns singing Lee songs.

Some classic, some obscure, all twisted gems.

Marcos deserves a medal for the organizing the event. CVS ran sound.

When Dan Stuart and I met Lee, by chance, in a Scottsdale AZ. studio years ago, we asked him what if any new music he was into. Lee, who was genuinely surprised we knew who he was, started raving about Bobby McFerrin’s, “Don’t Worry Be Happy” which was a big hit at the time. Lee knew what time it was. Lee was a kinky dude.

Lee was a kinky dude. The Jim Thompson of rock and roll if there ever was one. When Lee Hazlewood passed away last year he left behind a mess of great songs. Like Thompson, he wasn’t fully appreciated in his time, and dismissed as a hack.

Not anymore.

Come to think of it, that’s the kind of plot twist those guys might appreciate.

Kelley Stoltz and I were off to see Randy Newman at the Symphony Hall.

I picked Kelley up on the way; when he climbed in the car with a stack of Randy Newman records, a Sharpie and a camera, I was like, “Kelley, what are you DOING with that stuff? I don’t roll like that “. Kelley said, “I can’t help myself, I’m a record geek, we HAVE to get autographs.”

And pictures too, it turns out.

We told Randy that we cut one of his unreleased songs on Stephanie Finch. He said, “Really? Take my picture now, I look happy, I’m thinking about money.”

I’m certainly no singer compared to Kelley, but clearly I’m the better photographer.

Stephie Finch quietly put an end to her recording hiatus a couple weeks ago at Decibelle Recording in Noe Valley… Kelley Stoltz, Rusty Miller, JJ Wiesler, and yours truly gathered to cut new songs. Last time around Stephie and running mate’s Go Go Market name-checked Lotte Lenya and Princess Lea. Now she’s back to being Stephanie Finch singing about Tina (who’s going by a different name), the joys of cherry apple pie, white sands, company men and exiles on the backstreets…. It rocked, it rolled, it got bleak, optimistic, velvety, abrasive, urban and suburban all at once. I can’t wait for part two.

We’re packing this AM for a 10 day trek through the Rocky Mountains. Yessir, we’re staring down a sixteen hour drive to Flagstaff for the first day’s drive. Then it’s up to Durango, Los Alamos and Taos, over to Denver, winding back around through Idaho and Montana for eleven shows total. This will be the last run of dates for a while. After this, we fold up the tent, and put it back in the garage for who knows how long.

I was thinking I’d pick a couple choice mix tapes for the journey, so I opened a drawer long ago over-stuffed with cassettes to see what jumps out. In this drawer are the tapes neatly filed in their original plastic cases replete with J-Cards etc. There’s a separate drawer one enters at their own risk of barely organized cassettes minus the cases.

Now honey, we might be broke but we got shelves full of records and blank cassettes for days. Okay, okay, we’ve heard it all before, hardly profound—I know, but it really is the simple things. There’s a warm feeling that comes over me soaking in my old records, a feeling like no other.

There’s a lot of fuss going on these days about MP3 vs. vinyl, cassette’s vs. CD’s, Trailways vs. Greyhound, Gibson vs. Fender, Bush vs. Shaved. Maybe we’re all missing the point; as my old running buddy Dan Stuart pointed out to me: it’s not the syringe, it’s the dope.

Cassettes are rare things though. Not only can you record over a cassette, but they pick up right where you left off, like a book. CD’s can’t do that. And although it’s been a while, I can’t imagine rolling a joint or chopping out a line on an iPod; and aside from the obvious skipping issues, vinyl doesn’t keep well in a hot vehicle. So don’t be dogging on the cassette now kids, I won’t hear it. Viva le Cassette!

This was never going to be easy, the drawer is overflowing with magic, but I have a fear of over-packing, so after much agonizing, I settled on three tapes.

1) Road Tape II “Top of the World”

When did I make this one? The cover is bleached and dashboard yellowed. Early 90’s maybe? Let’s see, we got Curtis Mayfield, John Prine, Jim Dickinson, Little Anthony and the Imperials, Canned Heat…

On the Road Again. Jump back, Jack Kerouac!

I toss the tape up front to Kevin and James in the Dodge Ram cockpit and they slip it into the player.

Listening to Curtis Mayfield through a dirty windshield is healing. I feel the cloud of depression melt away a little. Curled up like a pretzel in the back bench seat, I feel mellow, relaxed, gentle. This is the place to be. This is TM. This is van therapy. I feel like we could drive forever. Or in the words of his Bobness: “Until the sun peels the paint and the seat covers fade and the water moccasin dies.”

Or maybe just to the next piss stop.

I have an old childhood friend/surfing buddy from Orange County who landed a gig as Johnny Lydon’s personal driver. I asked him, “What’s that like?” And he said, “Well, mostly I get paid to drive up and down PCH while Johnny listens to tunes and drinks a 12-pack in the back of a Lincoln Town Car. Occasionally he’ll want me to stop at one of his favorite surf spots to check out the waves.”
Hell, that’s the gig for me.

Everybody’s got to have a hobby. Sounds like the artist formerly known as Rotten knows a thing or two. That’s the definition of success. Carbon hand-prints aside, my van guzzles about $25.00 of gas per hour according to Todd Roper’s estimation, one more reason I should start saving for my retirement now.

Curtis Mayfield, would you come down here for one moment? Let me ask you something: when did music get so angry, so mopey, so flat out uninteresting?

This tape seems to be going over well with James and Kevin up front, too. I spy the backs of their heads gently bobbing in time, occasionally craning back to ask what or who we’re listening to.

I’m haunted by my heroes. That’s what I’m thinking as I listen to Dickinson’s abstract   expressionist take on Gershwin’s “Beautiful Dreamer”. Dickinson, Dylan… must these guys follow me everywhere? Sure, I’ve picked up and discarded other heroes and mentors along the way, but some are harder to shake than others. Some won’t be shaken. Some you just don’t want to let down.

The real highlight of Road Tape II for me is a waltz version of “Top of the World” by my long lost brother Rainer.

This actually came off another cassette. One of those dodgy cassette to cassette dubs. There’s a back story to this song. You see, once on a GOR session, Randy McReynolds the engineer asked Rainer to “just play and sing a little” so he could get a recording level and Rainer just casually tossed this off.

Randy was a seasoned vet at this point, savvy enough to roll tape at all times. So with the red light on I sat there on the studio couch, holding my breath, arrested by this effortlessly soulful performance. Afterwards, I dubbed a cassette of Rainer’s unreal off-the-cuff performance. It’s now one of my most prized possessions. I’ve long forgotten whatever song me and Danny were wrestling with at the time, but this performance resonates to this day. Hits the spot like a motherfucker. Like TWO motherfuckers.

2) Denise Sullivan Mixtape (Untitled)

Someone makes you a mix tape, it’s an act of friendship. Here’s one from Denise Sullivan. I remember the day Denise dropped this tape off. She rode over on her bicycle with a pink basket with plastic flowers on it. I have to say I felt a little closer to Denise that day.

Denise left town to be closer to her sweetheart, but I’ve still got this tape. She’s writing a book on black protest music and I’m curled up in the back of this van. But I’m calm and happy, the Buddha of the van’s back seat.

Iggy’s “Success” is on here. This is where the idea hit me like a punch in the face to pitch the Iggy song to Kelly Willis. We recorded a cool Sir Doug inspired version of “Success” on her “Translated from Love” CD last year. Turned out to be a deft move. Thanks Denise.

3) “Verlaine Trash”

Tom Verlaine and I played an acoustic gig together years ago at the I-Beam in San Francisco. We’d known each other previously from a brief GOR/Tom Verlaine tour of the UK. In fact, we were at one time signed to the same label (Phonogram UK) by maverick record man Dave Bates.

Tom and I ended up cruising around the next day, hanging out and taking a tour of record and book stores of which there is no shortage of in SF. A couple weeks later I received this tape from him in the mail with Lee Hazlewood, Roy Buchanan, Cooder, and some scratchy psych 45’s from his deep stash. Looking at it now, I can’t help but notice, this tape was recorded over the Canadian roots rock band Blue Rodeo’s factory cassette.

Compiling mix tapes, I remember really suffering over the right songs, the right sequence, Type I vs. Type II; Chrome, Metal (both rip-offs). And like songwriting, I learned that suffering doesn’t necessary make the tape or the song better. Mix-tapes, like a lot of things, are a cruel art form. I try to build them from the gut. Make it for myself. And if I just purchased an armload or records, I try to include a sample of each one to get my money’s worth. One never knows what treasures are disguised as road kill along the way. I don’t need to know where I’m going; I’ll know when I get there. No outlines, no bullshit, no crutches. However, there is some real technique involved. My old band-mate Steve Croke taught me the trick of sticking your finger in the sprockets and the turning the spool back a quarterturn or so after each song, in order to keep the segues tight. (There’s a space between the playback head and the record head that adds a little delay between songs).

Home. Home with my finger in the sprocket and the spool turned almost a quarter-turn back. This is the place to be.

Be true to your school,

Chuck.

Dateline: Toronto, Canada. The El Mocambo club. A classic gig. The home of the Stone’s “Love You Live” album among others.

Today’s been a good day. We started out at the Whole Foods in Ann Arbor this AM, sailed through the K-9 sniffing border, and had a painless sound-check to boot (see pic of Dan the soundman).

Yvonne recommends the Vietnamese place next door for dinner. I feel calm, I feel mellow, gentle even on this warm summer night. It’s not all dirty socks, wrinkled shirts and deep-fried nausea out here.

Stephie is sporting a Canadian Tux (yes, she’s gone double denim to commemorate the occasion).

I can’t believe we started touring behind this record nearly a year ago. I feel spoiled. The band is on their toes, and have my back like no other. I can’t complain.

I won’t complain.

Tonight the sidewalks are spilling over. It’s the 4th of July. I take a walk to the 7-11 for a beverage. Pay with greenbacks. “Fucking Americans” someone says. I smile back as if to say, “Yessir, fucking Americans”. You got that right. My mood lifts a little more.

Back at the El Mocambo, the opening band comes off stage having played for 50 bemused CP fans, and the guitarist is bleeding something awful. Blood is running down his face. Nothing is wrong, everything is right. This is gonna be a great night, I can feel it in my bones.

Back on tour. Day two finds us in Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh is a very cool town. We always have a good time there. In the past, we’ve played the Andy Warhol Museum, the Club Cafe, Rosebuds, a free show at Hartwood Acres with Lucinda and once we even played a gig in a Sports Bar during a biblical downpour against the Steelers who were in the playoff’s or something, and STILL had a decent gig.

When Pittsburgh “Filmmakers” put on Media Tonic 3 and asked us to play, we didn’t hesitate. We played in the parking lot, and there were one-night-only art installations inside the media complex.

Pittsburgh’s indie film scene is as healthy as ever. And these folks have been doing the indie film hustle since the Dead Sea was sick. “Filmmakers” itself started out as a kind of equipment co-op in the 70’s and later evolved into a film school and now a full fledged digital media center (whatever that is). Most holier-than-thou indie movie geeks weren’t even born when Night of the Living Dead came out in 1968. George Romero dreamed up Night of the Living Dead in response to what he called the public’s “thirst for the bizarre”. We’re happy to report: The “thirst for the bizarre” is alive and well in Pittsburgh. Speaking of thirsty work, it was a record hot sticky one on the bandstand in the parking lot. Luckily, the VIP bar was open.

Here’s a fun fact:

They tell me that Waterworld (made in 1995 and adjusted for inflation) cost exactly $238,089,566.93 to make. On the other hand, George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead was made for $114,000, and it’s gone on to gross some $12 million dollars. Which almost makes George Romero the King of the Delta Blues or something to that effect. Anyway, do the math.

“We do not discriminate against race, color, creed, religion or budget!”

On the afternoon of our SOLD OUT show at the Railway Inn in the little English town of Winchester, the Chuck Prophet/Richmond Fontaine tour van took a detour to deliver Richmond Fontaine’s Willie Vlautin to his book reading at the Winchester University campus.

Willie read from his second and most recent novel “Northline” while Paul Brainard played hung-over steel. It was very moving.

As we couldn’t find a Sizzler’s anywhere, Oliver provided a picnic lunch. A good time was had by all. God bless Allison Johnson. And God bless Reno, Nevada.

Rock and Roll is one thing, surfing another, but even in the land of twenty dollar eight balls, nothing compares to food.

Yessir, even with the windows up and the air-co raging, it was hard to escape the tantalizing scent of the “Tico style” chicken shack; so Mark, ET, Neil and me had no choice but to make one last stop on our way to the San Jose airport.

Not sure how they achieve that nuclear yellow glow on the chicken, but apparently the preferred fuel for the wood burning fire oven is old two-by-fours (see photo).

After a week of drinking up the juicy nectar of the Costa Rican surf spots like so many milk-shakes (I drink it up!!) we were hungry. Luckily, in the land of the longest left, rotisserie-chicken stands are omnipresent. The succulent brick oven bird is king down there. Of course, everything including the “American breakfast” is served with rice and beans; but throw in some fried plantains and a mango shake on top of this fire roasted bird and dude, you’ll be in a trance. All for like three bones a head (it was Neil’s treat).

Chuck, and Penelope uncelebrate the 30th anniversary of the Sex Pistols at Winterland (supported by the Nuns and Avengers) by recording with Jean Caffeine at Decibel Studios in SF. At the controls were J.J. Weisler and Chuck Prophet.

We tried to make it 3.5 punks commemorating this festive occasion by calling Alejandro Escovedo but he didn’t pick up his phone.

Jean had a crackerjack band: Rusty from Jackpot on drums, guitar and piano, Ned Daughterty from Mushroom on bass, J.J. Wiesler on keyboards, and Sir Chuck himself on a bit o’ guitar.

Jean “My name is Jane rearranged” plunked a bit on her acoustic as well. Jean brought the Northern Soul (as in Winterland, Ontario soul), instant fun, charm, and effortlessly great songs.

Last week, Stephie spotted me walking toward her coming up the street from the market. She said:

“You might want to check your e-mail; there’s a message from Dan Kennedy (our manager, pictured below in baseball cap with Letterman catering donut), it looks like we’re doing Letterman after all.”

Oh balls, this kind of sucks.

Wait a minute. What? What am I bitching about?

I mean, it’s not that I’m not happy about the news, but shit, there’s so much crap to attend to. And I’m not even caught up on Season 4 of the Wire.

I’ve never felt more alone. Maybe it’s true what they say, it is lonely at the top. Maybe Randy Newman said that. Whatever, he’s certainly right. Edmund Hillary dies the same week I go on Letterman. Hell yeah it’s lonely at the top.

Heck, it’s all I can do to fasten these new license plates on the van and install the battery I bought for Stephie’s car so we don’t have to jump it every morning.

Months ago we were in the mix for the show but I’d put all that Letterman nonsense out of my mind.

I don’t need this kind of excitement right now.

On the other hand, Hey Ho Let’s Go! I may not be happy, but I know when I’m lucky.

People are strange. Indeed. Out on the campaign trail, everyone’s jockeying for position. Someone is going to inherit a fucking mess. And they’re killing themselves for the chance to sweet-talk the executor.

As for me, walking home I’m thinking I’d almost be happy to just tool around the neighborhood and torch a few of these Christmas trees that cover the sidewalks around the Castro.
Yeah: get one of those clicker lighters and light ‘em one at a time.

That might be all the excitement I need.

Seems everyone’s got their on version of what it means to have a good time.

Either way, we’re on. We had been booked weeks before the writer’s strike. As I understood it, we weren’t booked solid, but “penciled in”. Better pencil than invisible ink, am I right klippy?

When the writer’s strike came around, we figured that even if the strike was resolved sooner rather than later, we’d still be in the queue behind the guest bookings ahead of us looking to reschedule. Alicia Keyes and the like weren’t likely to step aside for us. Well, sure, they probably were, but we’re deeply dedicated to helping the struggling artiste. It’s not entirely lonely here on the top.

AIR TRANSPORT BECOMES INVOLVED

ANYWAY, crap to attend to. It’s off to work I go. I’ll need a new guitar tuner. Mine cuts out half the time. There’re guitar amps and drums to borrow or rent. And if we do Doubter Out of Jesus (as I’m proposing), we’ll need the horn section. Maybe even tubular bells. I’ll have to get on that. Who’ll write the charts? Who do I talk to? Paul . Shaffer? I don’t have a fucking clue about how to talk to Paul Shaffer.

Brad Jones will know. YES! Brad!

I decide to call Brad.

Crap to attend to.

I’m standing in line soaking up the ambience—Toyota Dealership-like beauty of the Guitar Center, waiting to buy said tuner when my cell phone rings. I picked it up and a certain singer songwriter says, “Wow, dude, I heard. Letterman, how’d you get that?”

“I don’t know. Guess I just bullshitted my way in there. I’m as surprised as anyone. I’m just a charmed son of a bitch.”

Not sure why, but I always answer my cell phone.

Oftimes, I’ll call Alejandro and his phone will say: “Sorry this phone is unable to take any more messages”. But me? I can go on an 8 week tour of the topless bars and bowling alleys of Tibet, come home and still my phone has plenty of room for messages? I bathe and brush my teeth and everything. So what the heck’s with me? Guess I could call Al and as him, but his line’s probably busy.

I digress.

Are we having fun yet? Will we ever?

Crap to attend to.

First call I make is Andy Taub. Why Taubers? Well, in the immortal words of Anne and Nancy Wilson, “Try to understand, TRY to understand, try, try, try to understand, he’s a MAGIC MAN.”

Calm down. Relax. Andy can do it, Andy can do it, Andy can do it.

If there’s a Farfisa organ, or a blue sparkle Kustom tuck and roll PA gathering dust, hiding in some basement in any of the five boroughs, he’ll find it and secure it.

To wit: Andy charmed the latter out of the shop owner in Manhattan where he spotted it in the window, how, I’ll never know. But I’m blessed: the Tauber’s my man.

As for the Mission Express: We will need to rehearse, so we do.

Down at “the Office” we run through the song a couple times, I suggest that the vocal chant at the end (“You could make a, you could make a… “ etc.) break into a round inspired by listening to the version of Down In the Hole from the fourth season of The Wire, sung by those Baltimore school kids, endlessly. Stephie sounds great and James picks up the hole she left behind.

Todd’s lower back is ailing him, but he keeps that brave face. He’s one of two or three drummers on earth who doesn’t drool, and I’m lucky enough to have him and Kevin slinging the coal to the locomotive. I start wondering to myself where I might get a syringe of steroids to shoot into his lower back before the show. I mean, Todd’s too old to play big league ball, right?, so what would it hurt?

Crap to take care of.

We’re allowed 3:30 time for our slot. Non fucking negotiable. We time the song once at get 4 minutes plus; we time it again and get 3:47 or so, finally, like Jacob, we wrestle the Angel into 3:37 and I’m quite satisfied.

Todd points out that if you want the Letterman hand shake at the end of the performance, better shave off a few more seconds. Maybe we should pick up the tempo. Compress the song a little.

We try again a little faster, time it, closer, but it’s all luck really….

The idea is to not suck. Anything else is gravy. Kelly Willis taught me that. But really, with these guys and gal behind me? How can I fail?

Fact is, like the man said: all a painter needs is a brush, a poet needs a pen, but a singer/songwriter needs an army. And I’m blessed (blessed? What a gay word) to have Stephanie Finch, Kevin White, Todd Roper and James Deprado deep in the shit with me on the battlefield.

Eventually, we’re standing in the cold rehearsal studio with our arms at our sides holding our instruments in silence when James says, “I might need to buy some new jeans…”

I say, “Don’t worry, after this rehearsal we’re going to take a little field trip. I have an idea”

An hour later, we’re a couple blocks away, on the fifth floor of Bloomingdales and James is sporting some $900.00 worth of designer duds.

Bloomingdales is happy to give me a Bloomingdales card and I top it off with a few more items for the fellows.

I make it clear to leave the tags on: Dudes, we’re RETURNING all this shit. Who pays $250.00 for a sweater vest? Are you insane?

The next afternoon we fly out to JFK.

NOT IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST, BUT GETTING CHEWED

We arrive zero dark thirty, drive around Brooklyn completely lost trying to find Andy’s studio to pick up the Farfisa organ he scored for Stephie.

Eventually, keyboard in tow, we check into the hotel at like 2 AM, east of the Mississippi.

We need to be loaded into the Letterman show by 8 AM.

I’m not sure I’m feeling so hot. There’s an echoing cavern in my head.

I wake up at 3:30 AM. My throat is ON FIRE.

Of course I got sick. Why wouldn’t I? I’m a charmed son of a bitch after all. I’m fucking blessed.

7:45 AM (day of show). It’s hard to prepare yourself for how cold it is in the studio. Say, 47 Fahrenheit or so. But you adjust. As long as you wear a long coat, a scarf and a hat.

Dan and I pose for Shea’s camera around the catering with doughnuts.

A truck pulls up and delivers the Tubular Bells. Good sign; somebody got my memo.

Five union guys standing around, trying to figure out where to put this monstrous THING make a real sight. Taking turns holding the mallet. Dumbfounded. I overhear them say, “How do you mike Tubular Bells anyway? Should it be here? No, how about here. Paul won’t want his back to the camera. Better yet, here”

We had an okay sound-check, I mange to blow one amplifier, otherwise it’s sounding good and I feel myself relaxing a little.

Back to the hotel, for a nap. My throat is ON FIRE.

As I was walking back to the hotel under the Late Show marquee, the thought creeps into my head that we still haven’t heard the bells and the horns, and that it’s going to be, at the very least, a treat. It was then and only then that I allowed myself to smile inside a little.

MATADOR? SHIT, THAT’S EASY. I CAN DO THAT

Studio 2:30 PM

We’re back in the Ed Sullivan Theatre to run it through for the camera blocking and the CBS orchestra.

I allow myself a piece of fruit off the deli tray in the dressing room and two bites of a tuna salad wrap.

Paul Shaffer and the band are running down AC/ DC’s Shook Me All Night Long down in the Ed Sullivan Theatre. Arguing over the chords and where the bumps are.

We’re summoned.

Paul Shaffer looks up, comes around and says, “Hi Chuck, listen baby, we got your notes. I’m thinking Will on the glockenspiel, Felicia on the percussion, and maybe—and I’m not sure how you feel about this baby—but would you mind if Anton hit an electronic drum on the claps?”

I said, “If we’d had one of those when we made the record, you know we’d have done it. Hell yes. Get all Bette Davis Eyeswith it.”

We run it down once. It’s rough. We run it down twice and it’s nearly there.

Every time Paul would hit the bells, he’d look at the hammer/mallet/whatever thing and then slowly turn to look at me, with a look of—dare I say, seeking approval.

He clammed the first few times. But he settled in. And then he’d turn to me with a kind of look that said, “did I just do that?” Strange. Strange to me like, Dude, you’re the master cylinder here, don’t be looking at me for approval. Get a fucking grip, man.

Felecia took the wood block part. But the pattern wasn’t quite right. And I had to correct her. I didn’t really want to correct her. I didn’t want to correct anyone. Shit, who else is going to do it?

We got through it.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Paul Shaffer was BAKED.

Paul takes me by the arm into the basement, to listen to the mix. I allow myself a few suggestions about the mix and they are duly noted.

Will Lee appears, puts his head next to me in the tiny room hovering over the board and says, “awesome”. When the horns come in he makes a face like someone just farted, turns to Paul and says, “there’s something wrong with the horns”. Paul looks at me and says, “they’re just a little out of tune”. Will says, “Yeah like a half step!”. Paul motions to rewind and squints his eyes, leans way into the speakers, puts his hand up as if forming a chord and says, “No baby, that’s the organ, she’s playing a dissonant note. Oh yeah, the rules are made to be broken, baby.”

That’s it. Back to the safe confines of the dressing room.

Make up applied.

Tom Brokaw holds the door for me as I pace down the hall, Stratocaster around my neck.

Tom looked like he was dressed up to be the captain of some sort of pretty large boat.

James had already tangled with Morgan Freeman in the elevator. Maybe Morgan wasn’t impressed by the Bloomindales tags hanging from James’ clothes.

Elvis and the Beatles are staring back at me from the walls. This is the Ed Sullivan Theater bitch.

Some friends and guests arrive too late to get a seat in the theatre and we’re all crowded into a closet size dressing room.

Andy pulls a bottle of elixir like Felix the cat out of his doctors bag. I squirt it down the back of my throat and I feel it cooling like Vick’s vapors.

We take the elevator down. The stairs are off limits.

Tune up guitars.

Set up in the empty space in 2 minutes flat, long enough for CBS to sell some cans of Ensure and maybe a few boxes of Lucky Charms. The Letterman is playing loud three feet away.

Letterman announces us. Todd counts us in, Stephie plays the intro and we’re off.

Felicia locked eyes with me and beat on that muted cowbell.
Ka, ka ka, ka ka ka ka.

And a as soon as it starts, it’s over.

Handshakes all around from The Dave.

Afterwards, Paul hovers around the Farfisa, talking to Andy and Stephie.

On the way out, he says, “See ya next time Chuck”.

FINIS

Now I’m standing out on the street waiting for a van to pick us up and deliver us back to JFK, as we were flying right back home. Tom “Bones” Malone, who you might remember from the Blues Brothers film, came out the stage door, recognized me and smiled and said, “That was cool. Really cool song.” And I was like, “Uh… nice charts, (and, unable to think of anything else to say:) I hope they paid you for that.”

(I had heard a rumor that these union guys get paid double or something if they compose the charts).

“Bones” looked down at the briefcase he was carrying and said, “ Did I get paid? Shit, you see this briefcase? It’s full of money.”

Actually, he had called me the day before about the charts, but my phone was dead and I never got the call. Bones got the briefcase and I never got the call.

Ate a piece of sushi at the Airport. Boarded the plane. Fell asleep, only to be jostled by Stephanie Finch, who said:

“Dude, you might want to check this out…”

Jet Blue has TV sets mounted in the back of each seat and there it is, Letterman in all his glory (east coast time).

You know, we sounded pretty goddamn good.

We fly into Oakland. The battery in the car is dead. We get a jump and make it home, 3 AM or so. Ah: home, home. Christmas trees to be burned, sure, but home.

The next day I charge up my cell and for the first time ever, my phone is so full of messages, it’s unable to take any more messages.

My mom said, “Honey, it’s not my favorite song of yours but, I’ll tell you what, it’s got a great beat.”

Barry Sobel called told me after he saw “Prophet on Letterman”, he’s now “halfway through his bucket list”.

I received an e-mail from Joan, “Oh you’re so big now, you can’t answer your phone? Your cell phone is not taking any more calls.”

And finally a phone message from Alejandro. Alejandro called and asked me, “How’s the air up there, bro? Is it really as lonely at the top as they say?”

Lisa says my guitar sounded “MEAN”.

And for anyone that’s curious about these kinds of things, I wrote that song with klipschutz. AKA Kurt Lipschutz. All the best lines are his. We’ve written tons of songs, among my favorites in my song bag.

There’s one more final verse that got left out. Goes like this:

I’ll be here as if you never left me,
Waiting for your footsteps on the stairs
Let the neighbors talk all night about me
I don’t care

And if I’m not the only one
I promise I won’t come undone
All over you
All over you.

Got to go. Clothes to return and Christmas trees to torch.

Yours,

C.