Wednesday, January 22, 2003

The Night The night blows wide open scary, like a terrifying pair of glasses, magnified, funhouse distortion, greasy blur, this awful expansion. The pinned bug staring up at the magnifying glass. It's like driving through a vaseline storm. Then, the most astonishing light, the hour between five and six a.m. The hour rolls over like a 600-pound man. Cecil Taylor stumbles up the sidewalk, headed home. And then, darkness vanquished ("The light shines in darkness...the darkness has not overcome it"). It's like looking out at the world from the inside of a restaurant lobster aquarium. Thank God. Ever have an ultrasound? There's your blood on the screen; those are your veins. That awful racket from the speakers, that horrible bubbling, sucking, slurping sound, that's your blood too, rolling around in your body. It doesn't get much stranger than seeing your blood reduced to media. All night that film was playing in my head, that soundtrack.   Rockin' Ronnie Rye The last time I saw him he was rollerblading with a loveseat on his back. Moving, I assumed. I think it was a loveseat, I think that's what you'd call it. I don't know, maybe it was patio furniture, maybe it was an end table. It wasn't like I had a good look; I was driving, on my way to work. I can't say it wasn't somehow satisfying to see him looking so sweaty and desperate. I'm not going to lie to you. He thought he was going to be huge, a big fucking star. Remember that? He had like a part in some shitty dinner theater production in Sioux Falls. Maybe if was Sioux City. Anyway, some summer stock thing, South Pacific, I think. A very bad mustache. Tanning booths came along and you'd think they'd found a cure for cancer he was so fucking excited. He looked just like a fucking gingerbread man. Rockin' Ronnie Rye. Big star. You'd go over to his house and he'd be wearing like clogs and a speedo, terrycloth robe, a margarita in his hands. Always said he had a script he had to study. Yeah, right. 4:41:15 PM

Rock Spawn Do you ever wonder why it is that the other high profile celebrity industries --I'm thinking of film and professional sports in particular-- seem to have a higher rate of eugenic success than rock and roll? Off the top of my head I could name dozens of actors and professional athletes whose parents also had at least decent careers in film, television, or sports, yet it's hard to think of very many good examples of rock spawn who have followed in the footsteps of their illustrious mothers or fathers with any real, sustained success. Who is there? Jakob Dylan, there's one, and the jury's still decidely out on what kind of career longevity he might have. And you have John Lennon's two ineffectual boys, Julian and Sean. They could form a band; too bad "Soft Boys" is already taken.There's also Rufus Wainwright, the son of Loudon Wainwright and whichever one of his sister-act wives he procreated with --the guy has married into pretty much every sister act short of the Shaggs. Who else? Brian Wilson's daughter Carnie, I guess --she apparently recently had most of her organs removed and lost 200 pounds. Or Roseanne Cash. Jeff Buckley (dead). The Iglesias lad. Shuggie Otis. Hank Williams Jr. (possibly dead) and Hank III. See what I mean? I'm drawing blanks. What you have so far is a pretty feeble roster, a package show that might draw a decent casino crowd. You'd think, though, that eventually some rock star is gonna produce a kid that saves rock and roll, or at least really lights up the sky for a few years. A rock Barry Bonds. God knows, many of the biggest names in music breed like rabbits, and there's really no decent explanation for the miserable track record so far. If there's any hope for the future, your odds obviously increase if you look at rock couples, those married or co-habitating duel-career celebrity pairings who occasionally stay together long enough to pump out a kid. Let's look at some possibilities: Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love: Little Francis Bean, or whatever her name is, doesn't have a prayer. I suppose there's always a chance she could have a brief, destructive Wendy O. Williams-sort of career, but I think it's far more likely that she'll end up somewhere with a house full of cats. Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon: I think they have at least a couple little nippers, but though I expect they'll probably turn out to be pretty interesting adults, I don't really see any of them making careers of music. More likely they'll become installation artists or graphic designers, with kick ass record collections. Cameron Crowe and the Wilson Sister He's Married to: I know Crowe's not really a rock star, but neither, really, is his wife. Their kids, if they have any, will be insufferable little private school bohemians and then...your guess is as good as mine. They will not save rock and roll. Cher and Gregg Allman: Elijah Blue, wasn't that their kid's name? If he wasn't going to amount to a hill of beans I assume we would have heard something from him by now. My guess is he's a fucked up mess. Nick Lowe and Carleen Carter: I think they were actually married for a time, but I don't know if they had any kids. If they did, the possibilities are tantalizing. A kid from this pairing would have a decent shot at a modest and interesting career, but would in all likelihood lack the ambition for superstardom. Chrissy Hynde and Ray Davies: I believe Ray impregnated Chrissy Hynde before she married that sap from Simple Minds. Until I get some more feedback and do a little bit more research this is the child I believe has the best chance to be the Future of Rock and Roll. Unless of course she discovered poetry or the Simple Minds character got his mitts on her and broke her of the will to rock. Either of which would be tragic. 12:37:50 PM

© Copyright 2003 Brad Zellar. Last update: 4/6/03; 9:58:18 PM.