That nasty man Luther “Luke” Campbell has been working hard on behalf of the Liberty City Optimist Club. The effort includes a big celebrity golf tournament this weekend (see “The Calendar” listings). The other night I watched a Frontline documentary called A Kid Kills, which concerned hard life and quick…
The way Homeboy DC (who I must note immediately is not a “black” person) tells it rings true to anyone who’s been wrung out in this town for more than a day or two. Three years ago cops stopped him on a DUI, took him to the station, where he…
It must be nice to be able to kick back, relax, and recount glorious and memorable moments from a world-circling, who’s-who-filling, three-decade-long spin around popular music’s inner circles. So Master Henry Gibson does. That screamy noise on Donny Hathaway’s “The Ghetto,” that was little baby Lalah Hathaway…Curtis Mayfield is hanging…
Remember Charlie Pickett? Ah, too easy. Remember the Flamin’ Groovies? Charlie always seemed to, and Melbourne’s magnificent Screaming Iguanas of Love certainly do. Formed in San Francisco in 1965, the Groovies went against the granola by ignoring the Brit Invasion and the mushrooming of psychedelia to instead perform nifty little…
The telephone has been ringing off the hook ever since we published Todd Anthony’s piece “Dead Men Make No Sales” in last week’s ish. For those of you who read nothing but “Program Notes” (Hi, Mom!), a brief recap: Anthony’s essay theorized that Springsteen died a few years ago and…
Sex sells but it’s illegal to sell sex. Go figure. Did you see that big blue and red ad in last week’s ish, the one with the blonde humping the Harley? The point is her point was covered with a red “censored” bar, where the nipple would be. New Times,…
Those were great and scurrilous times. Picture it: A roomful of upright, high-level journalists, circa 1985. Some are suffering oxygen deprivation to the brain from wearing ties (a malady common to newspapermen). Each is an individual, but all are locked in the ivory-tower, black-and-white mentality typical of newsroom employees at…
“There’s a void of knowledge in the system.” Thus spaketh Frank “Rat Bastard” Falestra, rightfully bemoaning the top-secret appearance of My Dad Is Dead at Washington Square last night (the 19th). “This guy’s put out six albums in five years, every one of them has gone Top 20 in the…
Last week the dailies reported that the stepdaughter of Broward sheriff Nick Navarro committed suicide and left a note alluding to sexual abuse involving Navarro. Her widower, for whom the note was intended, expressed his hope that the matter would not turn into a media circus. I won’t disappoint him…
Instead of watching the riot-lootin’ be televised, my baby and me plugged in some classic footage of Billie Holiday performing – singing, vocalizing, whatever you want to call it – her revolutionary piano-and-voice protest/masterpiece, “Strange Fruit.” With that song Lady said it all – music can transcend reality, censorship can’t…
“We deeply regret having to write this at all, so please forgive the impersonal form.” So begins a fax I requested last week from DB Recs in Atlanta. Sorry, but I feel the same way. Cold, impersonal. Stunned, maybe. And very uncomfortable broaching this in a stupid-ass newspaper column. But…
Hear that thunder? The concussive ricochet of stick on skin, mortar-fire drum licks kicking this most compelling song along, then lightning guitars flashing and crashing, and a perfect rock and roll voice roaring, “Out on the streets your chances are zero.” You’re never out of danger here, and the only…
May belongs to the Mavericks. Guitarist David Lee Holt arrives in town May 3 for rehearsals. On May 8 the ‘pokes play what they’re calling a “warm-up” gig at the venue where they were born (if you don’t know, too bad). Then they tape a show for cable TV. May…
Many have tried, most have failed, but I tell you there are some new bands, not new at all really, doing everything musically possible to make geezers like me feel young again. Maybe due to their rejuvenating powers, or perhaps because they’re simply great bands, these acts are hot fodder…
The soft glow of innocence in a child’s face. The meeting of two souls who will become one through love. The all-consuming pride of parenthood. Frankly, I’m sick and tired of the trend in music that scoffs, mocks, and berates such sweet and pure notions. There is goodness in this…
The wanna-be rock star basking in the spotlight at Washington Square or Cactus Cantina or Churchill’s Hideaway might get up the next morning to deliver pizza, handle retail customers at a record store, go to school, or program computers. (Those four occupations seem most common among local musicians with day…
I’m going to visit a psychic. See, I don’t believe in anything – nothing – not God, not ESP, not fate or karma or luck. “Coincidence,” to me, is nothing more than a human descriptive for a human conception. There is no reality here. (In the world, I mean. This…
Tim Dog is a real mother for ya, as Johnny G. Watson might put it, make ya wanna run for cover, or at least poke a b-hole in the break-bad front of alleged gangsta rappers and chart toppers N.W.A. Yo, I know you’re already down with the dispute: West Coasters…
Pierre Leach comes from a small town in Michigan called LeRoy, population 275. Five churches, no place to buy beer, everybody knows everything about everybody else. A community. Thirty years later, he was seeking a similar close-knit sense in his Hialeah neighborhood, Mango Hill, a crowded area that covers about…
One night in September, after a jumping set with his band at Churchill’s Hideaway in Little Haiti, sweat-soaked singer-guitarist Hank Milne stood on the sidewalk out front, pressing flesh and fielding compliments. Everyone, it seemed, had something nice to say about the Volunteers’ debut concert. Except one attendee, who passed…
All music is local to somewhere. Here at New Times Music Central, we’ve always believed, and tried to express, that music should be judged by its merits, not its geographic point of origin. The recordings reviewed below are examined using the same criteria we’d use for any other release, be…
Told ya I’d say more. Greg Brown’s latest masterpiece, Dream Cafe, has been released, and might even be available in better record stores. (If you can’t find it, call 800-695-4687.) The album is studded with mind-boggling guitar inventions – the acoustic glides of “I Don’t Know That Guy” perfectly accentuate…
