liner notes: rock stand ins and substitutions hell even clubs storefronts as music venues
Liner Notes:
Stand Ins:
maria leon for margot robbie
ben leon for johnny galecki and charlie sheen
cbgb - the ramones showpiece as cannivalmarketeers - was the place where eleanor mc clanahan, as the wife of warrior soul bass player pete mc clanahan rhode island school.of design survivor,smiled at me once trying to get me to believe with all my parents fall guy might that an apartment share friend of theirs was a wife beater way before charlie sheen became two and a half men.or was it three?
I just read big bang theory was also a charlie sheen involvement.
I.ll look into it.
I guess since the advent to rock music by the great jean cunningham as the cannibal ingestor of my father.s body,after she killed him with bad medical equipment for being a swing musician, a chaos theory whoosh so great its repercussions were so extensive that, in all my life of loving music and art , going to gigs, I.ve never even seen a show by a real musician at all. YEARS:
Only spies, police informers for cops on a human hunt, cops on a human hunt, plainclothes jesuits, cannibals on s humanhunt, and religious terrorists.
The music.s good because it.s stolen lock, stock and barrel by real musicians who can.t get a gig
since 1945 after coming back home from world war two and being accepted only by hamilton.s english capture Columbia University on the G.I. bill.
And this in a section of town known as a music connoisseurs club environment, the East Village.
Anything but, then.
reasons to be resentful, a million, trillion gazillion and more.
The two worst moments in terms of gig exposure were:
1. At a show taking a gander at the warrior soul backstage and deciding to stay out: the clothes were strawberry meets kate spade record industry destroyer;
2. Bowery Ballroom the mother of all rock and roll showcase owner, jessie malin.s other intimate club berlin. He sat three bulky suburban blonde blue eyed kkk wives in jeans and t shirt at my table. I left and never went back. That club showcases bass players that touch the strings dreading the wear and tear on their manicure and con gigolo lantern bearing warhol boys. You even think of talking to people at the bar, you get shot down by a furious jealous proprietor girlfriend glance even if that was the last thing on your mind.
Coney Island Baby named after a song by bionic new york heros lou reed and david bowie as I sat writing, had a high school bartender girlie tell me I could whore for her. Two other staff males approached me disgusted at having to tell me to leave.
At the beauty bar, I was thrown out of the club for using the bathroom by another blonde blue eyed slob.
Things sho have changed since bands like the fleshtones have abandoned their avantgarde tristan tzara posturings to become full time slave catchers the minute you hit spring street books or walk in front of bowery electric.
I do miss late 70s New York City.
