FREEDOM’S JUST A WORD FOR JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #372!

American President Richard M. Obama – The More Things CHANGE... (NSA Warrantless Wiretaps On Citizens) :: If you want to make a freedom omelet...

American President George W. Obama – ...The More They Stay The Same (NSA Warrantless Wiretaps On Citizens) :: ...you have to break a few civil liberty eggs.

Ted Nugent – Stormtroopin’ (Epic) :: “They’re lookin’ in your window and listenin’ to your phone...”

Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan – Pave Paradise And Put Up A Shopping Mall (Taksim Gezi Park Protests) :: “Consider how small you are; compared to your scream, the human dream, doesn’t mean shit to a tree.”

Jefferson Airplane – “Eskimo Blue Day” (RCA) :: Exactly!

208 Talks Of Angels – “Nu Te Mira Privirea (Dracula Song)” (self released) :: Usually I won’t have any truck or trade with digital downloads and streaming videos, but this week I’m breaking that inviolate rule to help out this trio of Russian musicians who are working desperately hard to liberate their voices from the aesthetic gulag they’re laboring in. These cats need all the help they can get—which is where you come in, whether you’re a musician; manager; publicist; record company employee; photographer; art director; or just a freedom-loving music fan.

Y’see, this is the part of the review where I would normally take the easy critical way out by comparing 208 Talks Of Angels to a band that you already know, but not this time. Instead, I’d be right obliged if you’d take the time to go here and listen to their music for yourself and see what you think—and after you’re done, drop them a line and tell them what you think because they could probably use a few words of global encouragement right about now.

And make sure you watch their inventive video for the above-noted number which features an eerily animated Béla Lugosi on vocals; it’s the “uncanny valley” incarnate!

SIZZLING VIDEO OF THE WEEK: Lee Savage & Milton Glaser – Mickey Mouse In Vietnam (1968) :: Wherein director Savage and renowned graphic designer Glaser take a static page from Ed Wheelan’s Minute Movies and concoct an animated sixty second scenario in which The Mouse sees an Army recruiting poster; hops a chug boat to Vietnam; and promptly gets shot in the head the second he steps ashore.

This black and white short, which predates the activist comic book antics of the legendary Air Pirates, was lost in the jungle for forty years until it was recently discovered and posted online with nary a hint of foofarah. Points deducted for not naming it Steamboat Killie. Geddit?

SIZZLING COMICS OF THE WEEK: Dan O’Neill, Ted Richards, Gary Hallgren, ’n Li’l Bobby London – Mickey Mouse Meets The Air Pirates Funnies (HELL Comics) & Bobby London – Dirty Duck (Coconut Comix) :: And speaking of getting it, if Harvey Kurtzman and Will Elder’s overground MAD was one of my seminal satirical influences in the early ’60s, these underground books were my semenal satirical influences in the early ’70s because they admirably expanded the boundaries of how far parody could be pushed to make a point.

Which is why, between the Disneyfried explicit bawdiness of The Air Pirates and the Herrimanesque surreal wittiness of Dirty Duck, I had all the tools needed to enthusiastically skewer my musical icons when CREEM came calling in 1974.

Bobby London – Mondo Popeye (St. Martin’s Press) :: And while you’re at it, you don’t want to miss this Not A Dream! Not An Imaginary Story! collection that strangely believe it puts Elzie Segar’s spinach-snortin’ hero smack dab in the middle of a modern world that he never made. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Olive Oyl and Popeye discussing heavy metal music and witchcraft—and as for ironing board Olive’s buxom cousin Sutra Oyl: Don’t ask, just read it!

Be freeing you!

ALLEGEDLY JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #371!

Bob Dylan – Tempest (Columbia) :: As if the songs themselves weren’t enough of an audio joke, Borsht Belt Bob goes for a visual rimshot by stealing Ted Nugent’s logo and slapping it on the front cover as his album title. Ho ho. Boffo humor, that. Too bad he hasn’t got the Catskills chutzpah to call his next one Storm.

Jean-Claude Van Damme – Six Bullets (MPCA) :: I watch action movies for their educational content, which is how I learnt from Expendables 2 that, unlike Stallone (ref: Bullet To The Head); and Schwarzenegger (ref: The Last Stand); and Willis (ref: A Good Day To Die Hard); and just about every other shop-worn last action hero you can name who’s getting by these days on the sheer nostalgic strength of their personality alone, Jean-Claude Van Damme is the only one of them who’s conscientious enough to suppress his cookie-cutter persona and be craftsman enough to still act like, well, a seasoned professional actor.

And while this melodrama about child slavery may have a few plot implausibilities, there’s no denying that JCVD delivers an understated guilt-ridden performance that none of his peers could pull off without descending into stock scenery-chewing shtick—and that’s what easily elevates this one above and beyond your worst expectations.

Saunderson “Spammer” Einstein – Gre a t pi cture s and vi d eos (SPAM Email) :: “Style will not foster the charge to waste paper, headlong, for though I embroider treacherous it to her, and sensation strives it acutely aboard, - adultery will not like to hear it much wasteed of. Sin calculated without the orb of mire appearing for a valuable unequivocal. Made him electrocute one at the ordinarily object annually it was licking its ravine movements, and the adore conifer in a almshouse into the mud. Ah, satellite I stow been through! But do get in. Simultaneous shaped. Their certainty to our sauce, their friendliness in every orderly, is more than I can sigh. Having seductive softly inconvenient the shelter, he awfully had mustaches and no sanctifyd.”

And you thought I overwrote.

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Black Sabbath – 13 (Vertigo) :: And speaking of exceeded expectations, this studio reunion has enough ominous plodding thud and proto prog rock proficiency to remind you of what these berks were once capable of before they fired their singer 35 years ago. Amazingly, Ozzy’s understated and nuanced vocals show that he can be the Jean-Claude Van Damme of rock ’n’ roll when he wants to be.

But it’s a bloody Sabbath shame that managerette Sharon Osbourne allegedly squeezed original drummer Bill Ward out of the picture by allegedly offering him and Geezer Butler an allegedly take it or leave it allegedly financial percentage of allegedly 25% that Geezer allegedly took and Bill allegedly left.

Which, if these unfounded allegations were ever proven in a court of law, would definitely put Black Sabbath’s original drummer cast adrift in the same 1-800-SEE-YA boat as original Cheap Trick drummer Bun E. Carlos and original Stooges drummer Scott “Rock Action” Asheton.

Who wants yesterday’s drummers? Nobody in the world.

Be seeing you!

MOE! I CAN’T SEE JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #370!

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Iggy & The Stooges – Tribute To Ron Asheton (MVD Visual) :: The first time I met the Stooges was back in August 1963. That’s right, 1963. Which means I ain’t talkin’ about any latter day Jimmy come lately run of the mill Stooges, I’m talkin’ about the bona fide original Stooges. The one and only now and forever real Stooges. The Three Stooges.

Hot on the heels of their recent television and cinematic successes, the trio had just finished performing their new act “The Three Stooges Meet The Gorilla” in front of a screaming matinee crowd of 35,000 who’d packed the Canadian National Exhibition’s “Grandstand Matinee Fun-Fest.” My father, who had arranged the meeting, introduced me to them in an impromptu on the run meet and greet session conducted between the five of us in a backstage tunnel that led to their getaway cars. We exchanged a few words, shook hands, and then they were gone.

I was nine years old and for the first time I profoundly knew what people meant when they said that they shook somebody’s hand and didn’t want to wash theirs afterwards.

Then, in a fortuitous fluke of cosmic confluence, exactly 45 years later in August of 2008, I was fortunate enough to meet another member of the Stooges: guitarist Ron Asheton, who was introduced to me by photographer Robert Matheu backstage at Massey Hall. I thanked Ron for his music and held out my hand, at which point Ron Asheton—the world’s greatest Three Stooges fan who proved it by naming his group after them—shook the hand that had previously shaken the hands of Moe Howard; Larry Fine; and Curly Joe DeRita, thus completing a circle that had opened back in 1963.

Four months later, we were all shocked to learn that Ron had died.

This celebratory concert filmed at the Michigan Theater captures that one memorable night in April 2011 when Ron Asheton’s band took the stage to honor his musical memory. As might be expected, it’s a great concert that draws extensively from the Field Marshall’s Stooge Staffel song book—but that’s not why you’re gonna go out and buy this DVD.

You’re gonna go out and buy this DVD to behold the sincere introductory oratory eulogy that family friend Mr. Henry Rollins gives before the band takes the stage. It’s a twenty-two minute long class act that’ll leave you slack-jawed in admiration.

A wise man once said that passion is no ordinary word and Mr. Rollins’ passionate presentation is, without a doubt, the singularly most insightful and heartfelt piece of astute analytical rock criticism you’ll ever hear or read. Sure, you may be a life long Ronnie & The Stooges fan, but the reason why Mr. Rollins is effortlessly able to explain why you’re a fan is because he’s a fan, too; he’s been where you’ve been and bought what you’ve bought and he still listens to what you still listen to.

But lest you start thinking that this is some kinda dry as dust professorial lecture, lemme tell ya that’s it’s also one of the most entertainingly humorous homilies you’ll ever encounter. If you’ve never had the pleasure of hearing him rap, Mr. Rollins has a naturally warm self-effacing homespun charm that always enables him to get his erudite message across without ever nodding you out—no mean feat at the best of times and especially an accomplishment when you’re standing alone on stage talking for almost half an hour in front of a packed house of jacked up Stooges fans.

Then, because actions speak louder than words, just to show that he’s not too warm and homespun, Mr. Rollins ends his dissertation by ripping into a Henry & The Stooges version of “I Got A Right” that’s the unvarnished apex of what rock ’n’ roll is—’cause, you know, y’gotta go out there and, like, top the big guy, right?

It’s a hard to beat act to follow, but Iggy & The Stooges prove that they’re up to the challenge. Of course they are. Is there any other choice?

Be seeing you!

MY ONLY FRIEND, JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #369!

6,000+ TWITTER FOLLOWERS CAN’T BE WRONG: https://twitter.com/CREEM

Ray Manzarek – 1939-2013 (R.I.P.) :: RAY IS ALIVE, MAN!

Martin Popoff – Rush: The Illustrated History (Voyageur Press) :: Just because the author of this weighty 200 page hardcover tome describes himself as a “cranker-outer of 43 heavy metal books” doesn’t mean he’s a hack writer. Quite the contrary, that’s a mighty impressive statistic for anyone to compile given that I’ve only managed to crank out one such stat during my past fifty years as a rock critic; namely, my true crime exposé Scandinavian Heavy Metal Black Mass Murdering Musicians And The Norwegian Women Who Love Them To Death.

So it’s obvious that cranker-outer Popoff knows his Rushistory like nobody’s beeswax—which explains why this buzzin’ book is a sweet cover to cover must read compendium for any Rushki who can’t get enough historical analysis, rare memorabilia, and mostly insightful record reviews about their favorite band.

I say mostly insightful record reviews because the biggest blight blemishing this book is the first record review on Page 19 of the début Rush album that begins the proceedings and is wretchedly written by one of the book’s contributing “panel of rock critics.” It’s an unfortunate way to start the book and an especially unforgivable piece of hack work that relies more on a slovenly style of comma-eschewing emdash-addicted breathless alliterative run on sentences than it does on astute analytical authoritative insight.

Even worse, the reviewer shows an appallingly callous lack of social sensitivity and common human decency by daring to compare the sound of the first Rush album to the sound of a child locked in a refrigerator. That’s not funny, that’s sick. Have we really come to this? Because if we have, then it’s time that we all took a good long look at ourselves in the mirror to rethink what exactly it is that we find entertaining these days—and why.

For this is the kind of shameful sensationalism that tragically transcends mere bad writing and seeps into an unspeakable realm of reprehensible gutter-style base vulgarity that gives all legitimate music journalists a tarnished reputation.

Which is why I refuse to give this so-called “writer” any additional publicity by publicly mentioning his name. Regrettably, even if I don’t identify him, you’ll still be able to tell who he is by his puerile style of purple prose.

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Rush – Rush (Moon) :: Ask any working man who wouldn’t know Ayn Rand from Saran Wrap and he’ll tell you that not only is Rush’s eponymous album the greatest Canadian rock ’n’ roll record ever waxed, it sonically smearcases all other would-be Canucklehead contenders and leaves them tied for first loser. In other words, this one oozes to overflowing with everything you’d want a raucous rock record to reek of. It’s the only Rush album I’ve ever heard and it’s the only Rush album you’ll ever need to hear, too.

And while we’re on the topic of singular events, the first—and only—time that I saw Rush perform live was in 1973 at their inaugural recital when they opened for the New York Dolls at Toronto’s Victory Burlesque, where illustrious cleavage heavers such as “Alexandra The Great 48” would regularly strut their stacks down the long center runway which bisected the seats some 10 rows deep.

Nowadays everyone says that they were there that night, but I can prove it with unimpeachable authority because I still have my ticket from that epochal evening. The Dolls were great, but what we’re here for is the opening act which, at the time of their appearance, hadn’t even released an album.

Not that it mattered because the lay-down-the-law firm of Rutsey, Lifeson & Lee MFIC proceeded to storm the stage and decimate the entire area with an unrelenting salvo of heavy metal shrapnel which began with the opening riff of “Finding My Way” and didn’t end until the last brain-buffeting power chord had peeled the pasties off the panting usherettes. But that advance onslaught was nothing compared to the main invasion which occurred four months later when Rush’s first album was released on their own Moon Records label. After wearing out several copies in as many days, I barely managed to recuperate long enough to write the following review:

“To say that it’s a killer is the understatement of the year. Rush is virtually perfect from start to finish and it continues to burn rubber every time I sandwich it between my De-Stat disc and my Dual pickup. I’m listening to it right now as a matter of fact and, even though it’s 2:45 in the morning, I’ve got it cranked up full to give the next door neighbors an impromptu education in what real rock ’n’ roll sounds like. It’s non-stop splatter music and you don’t even notice the silence between the tracks. Power, power, power, that’s what this LP is all about and that’s why you owe it to yourself to grab a copy now. It wails like a child trapped in an abandoned refrigerator—and is twice as much fun.”

Four decades later, I still stand by that accurate assessment. Objectively speaking, you don’t have to be an individualist to know that the ladder of success is best climbed by stepping on the rungs of opportunity—but how extraordinary is it that Rush’s first step was to build their own ladder by self-releasing an iconic album that continues to represent the living embodiment of everything that rock ’n’ roll stands for? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. But if you’re looking for answers, Rush contains eight of them.

Which is why my writing this Rush reiteration has got me thinking that it’s time for me to upgrade my fond memories of 1973 by going to see them perform live in concert for a second time—and as soon as I scrape up another four bucks, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I hear they’ve got a new drummer.

Be seeing you!

LOOK AT THAT STUPID JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #368!

The Rolling Stones – 1962-2013 (51 Year Anniversary) :: “The Rolling Stones lasting twenty, thirty years—what a stupid idea that would be.” – Lester Bangs, CREEM, December 1973

SIZZLING 50TH ANNIVERSARY ROCK ’N’ ROLL DOCUMENTARY OF THE YEAR: The Rolling Stones – Crossfire Hurricane (Eagle Vision DVD) :: The greatest Rolling Stones concert I ever saw was the gold long-sleeved jumpsuited evening show at Maple Leaf Gardens on July 15, 1972. Sure, the white short-sleeved jumpsuited with audience-supplied black top hat matinée show was great; and the two long-haired striped pajama shows I saw in 1975 were almost as equally awesome—especially since I took over 150 photos while I was there—but there’s nothing like seeing the Stones swelter on stage in a 110 plus degree concrete sweat box on a hot July night to see what kind of stern stuff they’re really made of.

You may not need a Weatherman to know which way the wind blows, but when there is no wind, you can always depend on crack meteorologist Mick Jagger to give you updates on the quarter hour.

After three songs: “It’s good to back in the black hole of Toronto...where it’s about 150 degrees...but that’s alright...”

After six songs: “It’s hotter than a crotch up here!”

After nine songs: “I think...I’m going to take...everything...off.”

After 12 songs: too pooped to prattle, the singer douses himself with a full bucket of water and the guitarist passes out from heat stroke as soon as he tumbles off stage.

Meanwhile, the second greatest Rolling Stones movie I ever saw was back in the ’80s when Robert Frank brought a mint print of his officially Stones-suppressed Cocksucker Blues and screened it at Massey Hall to a few thousand of the mary jane faithful, followed by a Q&A bull session. But that’s a story for another time and another column because what we’re here to talk about is the greatest officially Stones-sanctioned movie I’ve ever seen.

You can forget all about their 25th anniversary VHS-era documentary 25x5: The Continuing Adventures Of The Rolling Stones ’cause Crossfire Hurricane contains the most awesome array of rare Stones footage ever amassed in one place. Even better, director Brett Morgen has taken chunks outta almost every Rolling Stones movie extant—from Charlie Is My Darling and One Plus One to Rock And Roll Circus and Gimme Shelter to Ladies & Gentlemen and, yes, the aforementioned CS Blues—and assembled them chronologically in a socio-political context, all underscored with continual cogent and very candid contemporary comments from everyone who ever saddled up with the Stones and is still around to tell the tale.

To the band’s everlasting credit they don’t shy away from such controversial topics as the decline of Brian Jones; the disaster at Altamont; the dissipation of heroin; and the decay of Keith Richard’s teeth. Indeed, they confront everything to the point of almost morbidly wallowing in it with uncharacteristic unassuaged guilt.

To the band’s everlasting shame, they don’t mention the name “Ian Stewart” even once but, hey, it was only Stu’s band before the young’uns took it over so what the heck. Of course, it’s grievous lapses in judgment like that all throughout their career that makes the Stones the Stones, which is why this fifty year assemblage of archival footage is so fascinating to watch from beginning to end.

But not nearly as fascinating as the joyous surprise redemptive life-affirming closing credit sequence that, against all odds, will leave you with a big smile on your face and realizing that you’re a whole heckuva lot younger than you think.

The Rolling Stones – “Mother’s Little Helper” (Decca) :: “What a drag it is getting old,” my ass.

The Beatles – “Birthday” (Apple) :: Exactly!

Be seeing you!

I’M ASKING YOU SUGAR: JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #367!

5,300+ TWITTER FOLLOWERS MUST BE BORED: https://twitter.com/CREEM

SIZZLING BOOK OF THE WEEK: Steve Miller – Detroit Rock City: The Uncensored History Of Five Decades Of Rock ’n’ Roll In America’s Loudest City (Da Capo Press) :: I thought Dave DiMartino’s seminal study Motor City Mayhem: Michigan Music Unmasked As Told By The Madmen And Motherfuckers Who Made It! (Binky Books, 2011) was the absolute last word in socio-political historical hagiographies, but I was wrong.

And because I was born and raised and still live in Detroit, you can take my word for it as the Godspell truth when I tell you that you can forget all about Arms McNeil’s Please Kill Me and Rubble Hoskyn’s Led Zeppelin and Paul Tonka’s Open Up And Bleed because Steve Miller’s exhaustively titled Detroit Rock City: The Uncensored History Of Five Decades Of Rock ’n’ Roll In America’s Loudest City is hands down without a doubt nothing less than simply the all time greatest heavyweight champion Detroit rock ’n’ roll oral history book about Detroit rock ’n’ roll oral history that has ever been written, let alone published.

Trust me, I know whereof I speak because, when I wasn’t cutting classes at Cody High School or getting expelled from Wayne State University, I was listening to WKNR and CKLW via my Realtone transistor radio and soaking up the ether that led to my first job as the midnight man at W4 FM which, in turn, would lead to my getting hired first as the Showbiz Columnist at the Detroit Free Press and then as the Gossip Columnist at the Detroit News.

Next came an extended stint working for three decades in the CREEM magazine office at 210 South Woodward Avenue on staff as their Senior Political Advisor; followed by a shorter but no less rewarding ten year tenure at Metro Times as their Society Editor Emeritus.

As Boy Howdy! is my witness, you can believe me when I tell you that nobody knows more about Detroit rock ’n’ roll than I do—and that’s why I’m unconditionally qualified to give this book two “Devil Horns” up for it’s unabashed authenticity and verifiable veracity.

If author Steve Miller says a cow can lay an egg, don’t ask how—grease that skillet!

So when Ted Nugent claims on Page 11 that he never shot and killed two men (contrary to what CREEM printed); and when Ted Nugent additionally asserts on Page 40 that he never tried to get out of the draft (contrary to what he told me in a CREEM interview) YOU CAN TAKE THAT TO THE FIDELITY BANK OF MICHIGAN!!!

Because if there’s one thing that rock ’n’ roll doesn’t need—especially Detroit rock ’n’ roll, which is the most noblest form of rock ’n’ roll that America has ever known—it’s layers of obfuscating subterfuge.

Now would I say something that wasn’t true?

Eurythmics – “Would I Lie To You?” (RCA) :: Exactly!

Be seeing you!

I LOVE YOU ALL JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #366!

5,000+ TWIT FOLLOWERS CAN’T BE WRONG: https://twitter.com/CREEM

SIZZLING CONCERT OF THE WEEK: Ozzy Osbourne – Speak Of The Devil: Live At Irvine Meadows ’82 (Eagle Vision) :: “This is Ozzy Osbourne at his best,” gushes bassist Rudy Sarzo in his obviously biased liner notes but, as much as I’d like to disagree with him if only for writing such a payola pandering plug, I just can’t. That’s because this hour and twenty minute set, filmed in 1982 on the Diary Of A Madman tour after Randy Rhodes’ death, really is Ozzy at his best.

The baker’s dozen set list covers almost every highlight from the Diary and Blizzard albums with a side order of Sabbath songs, all played to perfection with note-perfect precision. But what’s really perfect are Ozzy’s vocals, all of which are of such high studio quality that you begin wondering after a while whether his original vocal tracks were either enhanced or erased after the fact—especially during those brief moments when Ozzy pulls his head away from the microphone while the vocals continue at full volume for a second longer than they should.

But the more you watch, the more you begin verifying their veracity, which is why I’m going to give the benefit of the doubt to Ozzy on this one because if he really is singing live, then he definitely got his money’s worth when he sold his soul for rock ’n’ roll. Too bad he didn’t strike a deal with Dorian Gray as well because, even at such a young age, he’s already beginning to look like a cross between Richard Simmons and Brian Wilson. Which kinda makes you wonder what Ozzy would be doing today if he were still alive.

SIZZLING DOCUMENTARY OF THE WEEK: Ozzy Osbourne – God Bless Ozzy Osbourne (Eagle Vision) :: Well, for one thing, he’d be starring his own truly definitive two hour long documentary about his undying life and hard times, beginning with his surprise 60th birthday party and ending in a far-flung future that even he never imagined he’d live long enough to make.

Fortunately, this whizz-bang packs such a wallop it makes you forgot all about the addled buffoon who made you cringe every time you saw him doddering around in The Osbournes, because this is the man as you want to remember him—and that man, first and foremost, has always been an animal-gnawing rock ’n’ roller at heart.

And since this is Ozzy’s story it’s also his old band’s story as well, so you can expect every original BS band member to be present and accounted for—not to mention their greatest all-time fan, none other than that radical audio rascal Paul “Avant Garde” McCartney, who expertly explains the band’s ever-enduring appeal while constantly referring to them as “The Black Sabbath.”

Boris Karloff – Black Sabbath (American International Pictures) :: Exactly!

Be seeing you!

I AM THE GREATEST JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #365!

3,700+ TWAT FOLLOWERS CAN’T BE WRONG: https://twitter.com/CREEM

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Iggy And The Stooges – Ready To Die (Fat Pussum) :: Now listen up and listen good, pilgrim. Just because I’m the #BigFuckingDeal co-authorized biographer of The Stooges doesn’t mean that I’m on their payola payroll by a long shot. Which means, speaking of long shots, that there was nothing better that I’d have liked to have done than to lift my leg on this album and let it blurt ’till it hurt.

But seein’ as how I already left a load leaking down that limpoid new David Bozo disc, maybe it’s just as well that I’m all spunked out because, strangely believe it, this new 40th Anniversary Edition ain’t all that bad even if parts of it do give you a flaccid flashback, just like the album title itself does, in a “Feel Like I’m Fixin’ To Die” way.

F’rinstance:

The striking Jimmy “Dyn-O-Mite” Walker front cover tribute pose that the singer strikes is an unabashed updated take on Todd Rundgren’s advert for his seminal Something/Anything? album. You know, that’d be the one wherein Todd has a big wad of fused TNT in one hand and a lit match in the other while the caption dares the consumer to: GO AHEAD. IGNORE ME.

Then, when the singer pseudo snarls on “Gun” (which ain’t the John Cale ditty): “If I had a fucking gun, I could shoot at everyone” it’s an admirable alternate angle on Bill Wyman’s 1974 neighborhood threat: “I’d like to get me a gun and scare the shit out of everyone.”

Later, when the singer advises during the same song that: “Money is a waste of time, but I made sure I got mine!” is it anywhere nearly as sagacious as when he used to squirt out pearls of jizzdom as: “I’m healthy as a horse, but everything is spinning” or “I am your crazy driver, honey I’m sure to steer you wrong”? Perhaps not, but it sure comes close.

And as any aging porn star will tell you between cunny shots: coming close is better than not coming at all—and there’s more than enough spew stew left in them thar lizardo loins to thoroughly goo you through.

That’s mainly because of the meat packers who provide the purée that propels this pud: namely, Steve Mackay on honky tonk saxophonics; Pedro Watt on basso profoundo; James Williamson on axe-o-rama; and the star of our show, the baddest criminal at large in the power house, the legendary Stooges co-founder, the truly irreplaceable Scott “Rock Action” Asheton, who’s still skillfully slammin’ the skins into submission like there’s no tomorrow.

But there’s always a yesterday, so don’t you worry ’bout a thing if the beginning of “Job” reminds you of the beginning of “Loose” because that ain’t no grand theft audio, that’s nothing less than a heartfelt Jamesonian Institution tip of the skull to all the past blitzkrieg battle campaigns that Stooge Staffel Field Marshal Ron Asheton (ret.) led—and if you don’t believe me that it’s a crêpe-draped tribute of the highest new order, then all you have to do is just listen to how the aching ode “The Departed” ends and see if you don’t end up shedding a tear or two.

However, lest you think that this dust up is little more than a summer rerun, I’m pleased as punch to report that things really heat up during the second half, starting with a title track that breaks new sonic soil with a radically different Stoneswagger that’s never been heard on a Stoogeplatter before.

Then that’s followed up with the pulchritudinous Russ Meyer top heavy tribute “DD’s” which sounds as if it was recorded at Stax—if you catch my upper balcony drift. When the singer ain’t too proud to beg that: “I’m on my knees for those double Ds” he’s giving the Flat Chest Society a much-needed antidote to Rod Stewart’s intolerant anti-implant anthem “Silicone Grown.”

Look, I could continue waxing euphonic about how fantoonie this sonic sizzler is, but your time would be far better spent spinning it instead—if only so you can hear the singer rhyme “friendship” with “death trip” on the final track.

And they call Dylan a poet.

Be seeing you!

RIDE ’EM JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #364!

3,400+ TWITTER FOLLOWERS CAN’T BE WRONG: https://twitter.com/CREEM

Justin Bieber – “I’m A Belieber” b/w “Daydream Belieber” (Colgems) :: Worst Monkees cover ever. Points deducted for having the bad taste to sing the A Side in pidgin German: “She’s a Belieber, I couldn’t liebe her if I tried.”

Lou Reed – Transformers: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack (RCA) :: Sell out.

Living Color – “Cult Of Personality” (Live At Wrestlemania XXIX) :: Not bad for a bunch of old guys, which reminds me:

Rolling Stones – 50 And Counting Tour (1962-2013) :: “The Rolling Stones lasting twenty, thirty years—what a stupid idea that would be.” – Lester Bangs, CREEM, December 1973

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK – SIDE NOW: Hot As Sun – Night Time Sound Desire (Last Gang) :: Any band that names itself after the title of a mythical late ’60s Beatles album that was never released automatically gets bonus points in my little black book for arcane chutzpah, but then they have the additional know it all smarts to back up that brilliant brain burstola by waxing a record that defines how charming and endearing electropop music can be these days.

Because, if anything, this one sounds like Julee Cruise fronting Portishead as lushly produced with minimality by David Lynch and Angelo Badalamenti, only a whole heckuva lot more upbeat. And what’s wrong with that? I’d like to know.

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK – SIDE THEN: Arthur Fiedler & The Boston Pops & Chet Atkins – The Pop Goes Country (Real Gone Music) :: This unlikely but nevertheless practically perfect in every way pairing of old bully Fiedler and young studsy Atkins first came out in 1966 and it’s just as pleasant a slice of sonic seasoning today as you’re likely to hear. Some snooty snobs will call this an unworthy waste of Atkins’ talent, but these are the same hypocrites who ecstatically extol Charlie Christian for playing with Benny Goodman back in the ’30s so you just pay them no mind, y’hear?

Me, I was brought up listening to Mitch Miller’s sing-along sides so you can trust me when I tell you that this record, which features selections by Bob Wills and Hank Williams and Atkins himself, is nothing to be embarrassed by—especially since it’s a titanic twofer paired with another classic Fielder Pops romp, namely 1968’s The Pop Goes West which contains, amongst others, Cole Porter’s “Don’t Fence Me In” and the future retro classic “Bonanza” theme by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans.

Be seeing you!

INGRID, IT’S ONLY A JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #363!

2,400+ TWITTER FOLLOWERS CAN’T BE RIGHT: https://twitter.com/CREEM

Psy – “Gentleman” (YG) :: Every time I hear this smug South Korean peon burp: “I’m a mawtofawto gentleman” I want to drag him across the border and stuff him into the nose cone of one of the North’s mawtofawto missiles. Not since Ian Fleming had Odd Job bark: “Garch a har?” in Goldfinger has a Korean butchered the English language so brutally—only Odd Job had a cleft palate for an excuse.

Coach Jules Winnfield – “English, motherfucker, do you speak it?” (Inglewood Jack) :: Exactly!

Meanwhile, back in 2006:

Petra Haden – Petra Haden Sings The Who Sell Out (Bar/None) :: Just when you thought that you’ve heard it all before, along comes Petra Haden who, just as the album title claims, sings The Who Sell Out album—in its entirety, in sequence, from start to finish, including all of the RotoSound Strings and Premier Drums commercials.

Oh, and she does it a capella. That’s right, there’s no band, just Petra’s exquisite multi-tracked voice. For not only does she sing Daltrey’s part, she also vocally mimics Townshend’s guitar; Entwistle’s bass; and Moon’s drums; all to bravura effect.

I know, it’s hard to believe. But hearing is believing and once you hear the astonishing job Petra does on duplicating Armenia City In The Sky—the original album’s most complex track—you’ll be sold. And because she’s no slouch in the pipes department, her soaring voice is best showcased on more melodic tracks like “Our Love Was,” “Mary Anne With The Shaky Hand,” and “Tattoo.”

Sure, maybe Petra could’ve taken a much heavier percussive tack on “I Can See For Miles,” but she more than makes up for that lightweight lapse with her epic interpretation of “Rael.” And although parts of the latter hint at what a Petrafied version of Tommy might sound like, I hope she’ll skip past that album as well as Who’s Next and get straight to work on an a capella version of Quadrophenia.

*** *** ***

Okay, so she didn’t take my advice; when did any woman? Besides, that was then—and this is now wow wow:

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Petra Haden – Petra Goes To The Movies (Anti-) :: It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway for those of you who are romantically impaired: I love this woman! And so will you after you hear how she wraps her a capella pipes around some of the greatest movie soundtracks of the sound era from Leonard Rosenman’s main title to Nicholas Ray’s Rebel Without A Cause to John Barry’s main title to Guy Hamilton’s Goldfinger.

But if you’re anything like me—and if not, why not?—the two tracks that you’ll go goofy for are her virtuoso all-vocal interpretations of Bernard Herrmann’s main title to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho and her literally out of this world take on John William’s Kryptonian overture and main title to Richard Donner’s Superman. You’ll believe a woman can soar.

Bonus points for including, absolutely free and at no extra charge, a bonus fold-out poster of Petra screaming in the shower as Vera Miles in the trailer to Psycho. That’s right, Vera Miles. Who you gonna believe: me or your own dilated eyes?

Be seeing you!

A BIG TUMS UP FO’ JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #362!

1,700+ TWITTER FOLLOWERS CAN’T BE WRONG: https://twitter.com/CREEM 

SIZZLING CRITIC OF THE WEEK: Roger Ebert – 1942-2013 (R.I.P.) :: When I was writing my first media parody for CREEM back in 1975, Roger Ebert was winning a Pulitzer for writing movie reviews, of all things. Of course, the cat had over a decade on me, but still. A Pulitzer. For writing movie reviews.

You’ll never see a rock critic snag one of those babies. I mean, if a hoity-toity high falutin egghead like Dave Marsh or Robert Christgau hasn’t bagged one by now—let alone a people’s choice populist like Lester Bangs—ain’t nobody ever gonna.

And don’t you go looking at me as The Great Rock Hope because I’ve always had my eye on a different prize; to quote that great humanitarian Klaus Kinski: “I’d like to win a Nobel. It’s a good check.”

But getting back to the parody bit: you always spoof the ones you love and, just like my main mimetic hero, the legendary Frank Gorshin, I’ve always been lucky enough to have the ‘voice’ to do it.

So here’s my fond farewell to one of the greats, as it originally appeared in the July 2004 issue of CREEM. It may not have won me any awards, but let’s not forget that Roger “Pulitzer” Ebert is the same man who teamed up with Russ “The Bust” Meyer to create such super stacked mondo classics as Beneath The Valley Of The Ultra-Vixens and the Sex Pistols’ Who Killed Bambi?

So maybe there’s hope for me yet.

*** *** ***

JACKIE-O – The Official Bootleg (Poe Boy)

FADE IN.

ROGER EBERT: Welcome to Ebert And Kingfish At The Records. Today we’re listening to a new mix tape by Miami rapper Jackie-O. And I have to say that if you’re a young impressionable gang banging woman who’s in the market for a new urban role model to emulate, then look no further. Kingfish, you can forget all about Patra and L’il Kim and Yo Yo because this record significantly raises the stakes by substantially lowering the bar.

THE KINGFISH: Ain’t dat da troot! Ah gives dis wun a big tums up ’cuz dis heah Jackie-O ain’t no Missus Onassis widda azz fulla molasses, no suh.

EBERT: And they’re not whistling in Dixie either when they call her ‘The Most Anticipated Bitch Of The South’ on the front cover. But that’s just the beginning. On “Take My Breath Away” she says she’s ‘The Madam Of Miami.’ On “Street Heat” she says she’s ‘The Queen Of The Motherfucking South.’ On “Gangsta Bitch” she challenges a female rival by saying: “Cut to the chase, ho. I’ll cut your face, ho. If that’s your man I wanna fuck him in his face, ho.” And on “Fuck Yall Niggas” she makes the following dedication: “This one goes out to the fuck niggers, the clit lickers, and the cum drinkers.”

KINGFISH: Ho-lee mack’rel!

EBERT: You said a mouthful, Kingfish. In fact, this raunchy album is so hot and nasty I wouldn’t be surprised if it could bring a dead man back to life.

GENE SISKEL: Hi guys.

KINGFISH: Aw, shee-it! Ah guess dis means dat ah’m outta a job!

FADE OUT.

Be seeing you!

ARE ‘FRIENDS’ JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #360!

Jimi Hendrix – People, Hell And Angels (Experience Hendrix) :: Try as he might, and as good as he is, even the great Eddie Kramer couldn’t mix a silk purse out of this sow’s breakfast of pristine-sounding cutting room floor outtakes which shoulda been called: The Ghouls That Played With Helpless Jimi’s Tapes. Trust me: rather than padding the relatives’ coffers with this coffin-robbing barrel-scraping dreck, you’d be much better off instead buying used vinyl copies of Rainbow Bridge and Nine To The Universe—and that goes double for Alan Douglas’ unfairly maligned Crash Landing album.

Na “Spammer” Bourbeau – Hey!:) I am Leilafes9aab!:) (SPAM Email) :: “He was not an ill-simulated him again, unless to instruct bitterly officious hearted and shortly susceptible is to have ill-saturated: but he was, in mediterranean, further respected; for he opposeed caver with nicety in the encounter of his irrevocable duties. Slender horseman had disabled me in the bath of the most amorous specimens of this zoophyte.”

And you thought I overwrote.

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Question Mark & The Mysterians – “96 Tears” (Cameo-Parkway) :: In a world where there are a gazillion great grungy garage songs, this benchmark classic has always been on my All Time Top Ten List. So you can just imagine how cool it was when I woke up one morning last week to find that Mr. Rudy Martinez, the man who wrote and sang “96 Tears,” none other than Que Mark himself, penned me the following personal message on my Facebook page after he saw that I had hacked out a few authorized rock bios:

“What about me? I have a story that spans more than anyone in rock and roll history! Just rock ’n’ roll no matter what comes at you through your life! – Yea ya, Que Mark (Question Mark) ‘96 Tears’ forever.”

Hey kids! Add me as a friend on Facebook like Que Mark did, and once I get 1,000 friends, I’ll pick one at random and give them a free David Bowie archer print!

Be seeing you!

MEMO FROM JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #357!

SIZZLING BOOK OF THE WEEK: Rolando Rebelo – Rolling Stones Em Portugal (Zebra Publicações) :: I rarely review anything that I’m a part of, but this week I’m making a big exception. What with this being my umpteenth nervous decade as Canada’s Only Rock Critic, you can bet your bottom dollar that my name has cropped up in many a rock bio over the years, either as an original gasbag contributor or as an archived source of raw review meat. But this one tops ’em all—and for good reason.

Y’see, even though I’ve had my writing translated into a number of different funny foreign languages in a number of funny foreign publications all around the world, this is the first time I’ve been part of a 250 page hardcover book that I can’t read a single solitary word of because the entire dag-blamed thing’s in Portuguese.

But who gives a good cahoot when that book is nothing less than a 50th anniversary celebration of the Rolling Stones which contains no less than four separate full page forewords, each of which was written especially for Rolando Rebelo’s book by Mick Jagger; Keith Richards; Charlie Watts; and Ron “I Paint What I Steal” Wood.

What’s that you say? You didn’t know that the Stones and Portugal go way back? Well ya do now and to back up its brag this mammoth memory motel has more period press clippings and full page photos than you can shake a giant inflatable cock at, if that’s your idea of a good time.

My own contribution to Rolling Stones Em Portugal is a previously unpublished review of an Exile On Main St. show that I attended on July 15th 1972, which I immediately wrote afterwards in the heat of the moment and then promptly filed away for the next 40 years—you know, just like I did with all my previously unseen rock ’n’ roll photos; I’m kinda forgetful that way.

Even better, my words are ably illustrated with a spectacular two page color photograph of Mick Jagger and Mick Taylor which was taken the night before on July 14th 1972 in Detroit by friend and collaborator Robert Matheu—whom I wouldn’t meet until thirty years later in 2002. Now that’s rock ’n’ roll.

And speaking of photos, you’ll want to get this book just to see all the other rare shots that author and archivist Rolando Rebelo has managed to dig up. Ever wonder what that small patch sown on the back of Keith’s ’72 stage jeans said? I did for the past four decades until I saw page 48. Ever seen Keith wearing a cheesy patchy mustache? I never did until I accidentally stumbled upon pages 180 and 218. That’s as grisly a looking object as I’ve ever seen.

I could go on but this is one time that I won’t. Instead, click on the publisher’s name at the top of this review and get your own copy—and you’d better make it snappy because there’s only 3,000 of these babies to go around before they’re all gone, which won’t be long. And if you ever happen to find yourself in a funny foreign store in another land, just look for the big Rolling Stones book that says on its back cover:

“Testemunhos exclusivos de: Mick Jagger – Keith Richards – Ronnie Wood – Charlie Watts – Keith Altman – Doug Potash – Pamela Des Barres – John Pasche – Jeffrey Morgan”

Now where’zat ol’ bottom dollar?

Be seeing you!

TAKE THE SHEET OFF YOUR JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #355!

Lil Wayne – “Karate Chop (Remix)” (Epic) :: Call it just a hunch, but when I hear a thirty-year-old man in 2013 rap: “Beat that pussy up like Emmett Till,” it occurs to me that Dwayne Michael Carter Junior may not have watched “The Murder Of Emmett Till” on PBS’ The American Experience and learned that:

“Between 1882 and 1968, an estimated 4,742 people—primarily black men in the American South—were lynched. For many African Americans growing up in the South in the 20th century, the threat of lynching was commonplace. Lynchings were often advertised in newspapers and drew large crowds of white families. Photos of victims, with exultant white observers posed next to them, were taken for distribution on postcards. Body parts, including genitalia, were sometimes distributed to spectators or put on public display. Most infractions were for petty crimes, like theft, but the biggest one of all was looking at or associating with white women.”

Then again, what with this being Black History Month and all, maybe he got his Civil Rights education instead by listening to Da Lench Mob’s song “Buck Tha Devil” off their Guerrillas In Tha Mist album: “Damn, I’m sweatin’ like a nigga at a white woman’s funeral.”

And you wonder why Bill Cosby is so upset.

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK: The 24th Street Wailers – Live In Halifax (self released) :: Way back in the good old golden days of vinyl (ask your Mom), this is the kind of live “blues” album that would automatically get filed away in the “rock” section of your friendly neighborhood record store right alongside such other supersonic scorchers as Johnny Winter’s live on the stage Live: Johnny Winter And and Jimmy Cavallo’s live in the studio The Houserocker!—which should you give you a pretty good idea as to the kind of rarified jumpin’ jive that eagerly awaits you within these groovy grooves.

And if you’re of the opinion that I’d be a right fool to say that this one is already short-listed for my 2013 Top Ten list, then go ahead and slap that dunce cap on my noggin, ’cause it most certainly is.

Powered by Emily Burgess on guitar; Michael Archer on bass; and Jonathan Wong on sax, this up-tempo high octane offering will have you bouncing off the walls with such unbridled stucco-slamming gusto that you’ll never want the proceedings to end.

But what really makes this merry go-round such a stellar standout is the sensational singing of traps mistress Lindsay Beaver, who has a vivacious voice that’s the most octavely outrageous since Grace Slick first stormed the Fillmore. Just one listen to her note-perfect performance on the self-penned “Never-Ending Day” will have you building a candle-lit shrine next to your Victrola in honor of her pluperfect pipes.

And should you happen to burn down the joint by mistake, fire up the 24th Street Wailers’ Live In Halifax on your portable audio delivery device and you’ll be too busy bouncing down the block to give a good cahoot.

The Staple Singers – “Respect Yourself” (Stax) :: Exactly!

Be seeing you!

CCCLIII? JEFFREY MORGAN’S MEDIA BLACKOUT #353!

Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter – Super Bowl Live! (NFL Records & Tapes) :: I don't know which is worse: the lousy album title or the fact that she actually had the nerve to release a 12 minute set on an 80 minute disc.

Mark Lanegan – Black Pudding (Ipecac) :: Where’s Tipper Gore and the PMRC when we really need them?

Ralph “Spammer” Stoltz – I Wanna Offer You Such A Fair Deal (SPAM Email) :: “Three hundred was Monks. laurel reassureed in the conical bassist up the stairs set him, and Mr. Immediately, the choice this slippery narwhale came up to invoke at the pit of the appeal, exception was perpetrateed into its lungs like gruel into the incomprehensible cylinders of a 2,000-horsepower emotion..”

And you thought I overwrote.

SIZZLING PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Art Decade – Western Sunrise (Eldest Only) :: A lesser league of leeches woulda called themselves “Chant Of The Ever Circling Skeletal Family” or “Homo From Aldebaran” but, the way I see it, if you’re gonna name your band after an obscure ’70s David Bowie instrumental, then choosing the atmospherically arch decadent “Art Decade” is definitely the way to go—and, boy howdy, does this excellent album ever live up to that makeshift moniker and go go go!

The first two seconds sound like a James Brown intro before everything suddenly switches into a string-soaked Beatlesque art rock escapade which owes more than a lush nod to Queen Mercury in the vocal arrangement and songwriting department. There’s also an admirable element of ’80s symphonic synthesizer pop in place to spice up the proceedings—but don’t think they’re not capable of breaking out the big audio dynamite because the longer you listen, the louder things get.

Bonus points for including a glossy full color twelve page booklet that contains nothing but twelve full bleed paintings which are completely devoid of text—and that’s an extreme visual treat that even Eno and Peter Schmidt never attempted to do at their Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy) and Before And After Science art rock peak of perfection.

Be seeing you!