Artist & Creator

 
The gentleman hiding behind the tote bag is David Liebe Hart.  He is an actor/comedian/musician/public access host.  He has appeared on such television programs as "Good Times," "What's Happening," and "Tim And Eric Awesome Show Great Job."  He recently performed in Portland, Oregon at Valentine's, and I was lucky enough to attend.


It was a bit of an odd night.

Bearing in mind that this was some of that "outsider art" that people go on about, I showed up an hour late, hoping to bypass at least one of the opening acts.  Unless they are legitimately nuts themselves, the class of people who get roped into opening for this sort of thing are either half-assed "experimental" "artists" or annoyingly unfunny "comedy" acts.   My luck running true to form, there was one of each on the menu, and no, I hadn't managed to miss them.


The first act was called "Sustentacula" (I know, right?) and it was one of those two-dudes-and-a-ton-of-gear-making-white-noise propositions, which is usually fine with me as long as the set stays under twenty minutes.  Unfortunately, one of those dudes (I think his name is Dude With Beard) started singing.


He had one of those affected, pseudo-folky, Neutral Milk Hotel/Decemberists kind of voices, and the fact that he was singing over a bunch of atonal electric gurgles meant that he didn't really have to stick to any sort of melody, instead opting to intone lyrics like "Fish tale mammary inside the pelvic womb, impale the menstrual heart June cocoon."  Not exactly, but you get the idea.  He'd also get up occasionally from his bank of whoosh-makers and do some preposterous performance-arty antics... hopping on one foot while windmilling his arms, or leaning backwards while flapping his lyric sheets like flippers and then scowling.  That sort of crap.


It was while he was doing this second bit that something amusing actually happened.  When Dude With Beard finished flapping his lyric fins, he tossed them "contemptuously" toward the audience, then sat back down at the Gurgle Controls.  At this, David Liebe Hart LEAPED to his feet and scrambled over to pick up the lyric sheets.  He carefully dusted them off, stacked them neatly, and placed them on top of DWB's stack of gear.  It was great.  DWB is trying to be all "I'm a Supes Intense Artist" and Liebe Hart is just like, "Oh, dear, you dropped these.  Let me help you out, buddy."  Classic.


Eventually, the gear stopped burbling and the dudes went off to shave or something.  Then a group of ladies (allegedly) got up, all dressed in fancy-ish dresses with loads of makeup on (one lady also had her hair tied under her chin like a beard, which I guess created a bit of artistic unity with the first act) and began doing some of that "performance art" you kids seem so keen on these days.


They were called "Galactic Daughters of Passion", and I include their name here so you will be able to AVOID THEM AT ALL COSTS.  Their act basically consisted of a bunch of tantric breathing exercises done at irritating volume into a microphone... and then they started rubbing their crotches on each other's legs... and talking about how they're "gonna come".  And then one of 'em tore her dress and put on a warped old blues tape and stood on a table... and then I don't know what happened because I got out my Mike Tyson book and focused on my Manhattan.  People were laughing, so I guess it was supposed to be funny... question mark.


Look, I can find transcendent qualities in art that is stupid, in art that is vulgar, in art that is amateurish, in art that is awkward, and in art that is annoying.  But when your art is stupid AND vulgar AND amateurish AND awkward AND annoying?  You can pretty much fuck off and quit wasting my time.

Thankfully, David Liebe Hart finally got up and did his thing.  He did not bring any puppets with him, which was probably for the best, as it allowed us to focus on the man and his music.  He was accompanied by his partner Adam Papagan (visible at extreme right in the video) on guitar and THAT'S IT.  No frills.  No antics.  Just a man with delightful, life-affirming songs sung with a strong voice and a rockin' guitar.  And the occasional interlude about being seduced by alien women who look like Betty Page.


And sometimes, that's all you need.  Easily the best live performer since Jonathan Richman, and all the idiots who walked out (passing DIRECTLY in front of David Liebe Hart, btw) are the worst sort of scum.


Which is to say, they were fans of the opening acts.

Anyway, here's yr ipod filler for the day.  Only one jam, 'cos David Liebe Hart really needs yr money.  This is off the "Public Access" album from 2008.

A Squid Eating Dough In A Polyethylene Bag

 
The world is a smaller, sadder, less luminous place with the news that Don Van Vliet has left us land-lubbin' women alone.  While it is perhaps redundant for me to toss my humble scribblings into the deluge of Beefheart memorials, it is a testament to the Captain's powers that NO AMOUNT of hyperbole can really do justice to the man's art.  It is impossible for Beefheart to be overrated.  Despite being thirty-nine years old, the clip above is as assaultive, as mind-warping, as ALIEN as it was at its inception.  Even moving in Beefheart-saturated circles (as I do), there is no way to get used to this stuff.  No matter how many Arab On Radars, no matter how many Flying Luttenbachers or U.S. Maples I obsess over, Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band got there first, strangest, and best.  I could listen to these albums for the rest of my life and never exhaust their store of innovation, wonder, and energy.


Thank you, Don Van Vliet.  Thank you and goodnight.

The Cross Breaker And Bible Ripper...

A word of warning, gentle reader.  If you are easily offended, or at all faint of heart, this is perhaps not the post for you.  Please proceed to the next entry down, in which that nice Fred Schneider fellow "thinks outside the box" and earns my praise and prose through the creation of a rather excellent "rock" recording.

Mom, GO TO BED NOW.

Everybody else still with me?  Good.  Let's talk about Smoothe Da motherfuckin' Hustler.

In 1996, this dude dropped an album (Once Upon A Time In America) full of icy, dark, drugs-and-guns rap (well, not exactly full.  Three of the tracks were weak-ass sentimental bullshit).  Smoothe's flow was head-spinningly dense and, while lyrically harsh, also displayed an almost gleeful sense of the possibilities of rhyme.  Yes, the subject matter at hand is almost SHOCKINGLY ignorant (this post's title is actually taken from one of the album's LESS appalling moments), but the virtuosity on display here is undeniable.  Also, fuck you, pussy.

Now, I'd like to think I'm sort of okay at this writing business, but no description I give you will adequately capture the vertiginous pleasures of Smoothe Da Hustler's flow at its very best.  To help illustrate my point, I have included the two tracks that best exemplify what America has to offer:  "Broken Language" and "My Brother My Ace".  Perhaps you should go download them NOW.

The first voice you hear is not actually Smoothe.  This deep, menacing voice belongs to his brother, Trigger The Gambler.  Despite declaring himself the "Funeral servin' church preacher, your black hearse coffin seeker," Trigger is NOT the better rapper on this track, for soon, so soon...

Smoothe starts to rap.  His voice is a harsh, rasping croak.  This is fitting, as he quickly declares himself "The Human Asthma" (this is possibly the finest bit of rap braggadocio I have ever heard).  He goes on to proclaim himself (MOM.  I TOLD YOU TO GO. TO. BED.  You will not be pleased with this next part, for God's sake, LOOK AWAY) "The white girl gangbanger, the Virgin Mary fucker, the Jesus hanger."  After each phrase, Smoothe sucks in a quick burst of air, a small catching noise almost hidden under the echoing snap of the snare drum.  These brief flashes of visceral function throw the verbal pyrotechnics on display into stark relief.  As the song nears its conclusion, you are probably coming to grips with the savage flow and the bleak imagery, which means you are just about ready to have your mind completely blown by the next track.

A few low, hollow knocks of bass and then... Smoothe and Trigger begin trading lines in a bleak, smothering torrent of language.  One minute into the song, the finest thirty seconds in hip-hop begin:

Trigger:  Fake frontin' faggots, soft like fabric, I got gadgets, my craft go static, pussy niggas get dramatic.

Smoothe:  Dramatic get niggas pussy static 'cos craft my gadgets got a fabric like soft faggots frontin' fake if ya backwards...

Yes, he really did just rap his brother's line backwards.  And yes, it still pretty much made sense.  Hurry up and get yr head back in the game, 'cos here comes Smoothe again:  "Threats I move with, bruise shit, mentally confuse and lose shit, shit lose and confuse mentally shit bruise and crews slip."  Damn. Then, the beat drops out for one second, the piano note that provides the song's bass line echoes like a funeral, and Trigger sneers, "God gave me a gift, I'm givin' him one back... that's a black bag with a ribbon, sealed tight with a tag."


And so on.  No, the rest of the album is not as good as these two songs, but most of it is still pretty goddamn good.  And no, Smoothe's career after this album did not live up to his potential.  He provided a bunch of stellar verses on Trigger's (unreleased) album, did a bunch of cameos for other artists (his verse on Public Enemy's soundtrack to He Got Game is stellar...), and then disappeared for twelve years.  His 2008 comeback is, um... somewhat LESS than some of us were hoping for.


Anyway.  One devastating album is one more than most of us get.  Maybe on iTunes?  I dunno.  Give the man some money, it'll help keep him off the streets.  And you WANT Smoothe off the streets.

Sugar In My Hog

I hope you all are ready for some fun.

1996.  The B52's are on an indefinite hiatus.  I'm in Andy Yuhas's basement with, I think, Tyler and Kell.  We're watching 120 Minutes (this was a show on MTV that showed music videos by "edgy, alternative" bands.  I know, amazing, right?).  The "Video Jockey" (ugh) announces that they're about to play the new one from Fred Schneider.

And then Rick Sims from The Didjits is on TV.

"Well," thinks twenty-year-old me, "This is weird for two reasons.  One, someone at MTV has clearly been drinking, as they have just announced Fred Schneider before playing a new Didjits video.  Two, MTV is for some goddamn reason playing a Didjits video. Oh, and I guess this is weird for three reasons, because The Didjits have been broken up for two years.  Anyway, AWESOME."


Cue Fred Schneider.  It turns out that MTV were right all along, but somehow Rick Didjit is playing in the same surreal trailer park (it was 1996, alright?) as him from the B52's.  And there's the drummer from the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion!  And the bass player from Tar (full disclosure:  I could not identify anyone from Tar in 1996, and I cannot do so today.  Neither can you, so shut up.)!  Anyway, AWESOME.


I'd post the video, but it seems like only MTV has it, and that's... more attention than I'd like to have at the moment, if you see what I'm getting at.  Anyway, here's a fistful of tracks from Fred Schneider's critically-despised solo album Just Fred.  This is the kind of thing that really reinforces my dim view of the critical establishment, 'cos this record is PURE FIRE.  Backing musicians include not just the luminaries mentioned above (under the dismal moniker "Deadly Cupcake") but also surf legends Shadowy Men On A Shadowy Planet (meh) as well as SIX FINGER SATELLITE.  Damn right, that got yr attention.
 
The rap on this record is that dude's voice was too... I dunno, SOMEthing to carry a bunch of fierce rockers of the sort on offer here, but I say BOO TO THAT.  Sure, Just Fred isn't an instant classic or anything, but any album that's one part Tom of Finland, one part drag racer, and one part killer cyborg has got MY vote.  Plus, Fred gets a decent enough snarl out of his admittedly limited pipes.  Shit, he sounds about a thousand times better than him from the Dead Kennedys, and the lyrics are better, too!

Contained within: three Rick Sims-led rockers (including a hee-larious cover of Harry Nilsson's "Coconut") and one from th' Satellite.  Do yrself a favor and google the "Bulldozer" video, so you can check out Fred's ill-advised facial hair and the coked-up antics of one Rick Sims (seriously, between him and the Six Finger Satellite boys, I'd wager that most of the advance on this record got inhaled.  I bet Schneider ain't no slouch, either.).  And swing by iTunes (feh) and drop 8 bucks on the whole album.  It's worth yr while (I purposefully left "Sugar In My Hog" and "Helicopter" out of the download so you'd be motivated) and Fred donates a lot of time and money to Atlanta-based animal charities, so... y'know... good cause.  Good guy.  Good album.

How I Learned To Hate The Makers

Do any of you people remember these assholes? They were a medium-big deal during the mid-90's garage-punk heyday, and I was actually a pretty big fan. Sure, they lacked the velocity and panache of the New Bomb Turks or the soul of a Billy Childish, but... well, they were assholes. And in a scene as based on sullen, inchoate rage as garage-punk was, there's definitely something to be said for a band who were legitimate pill-popping, fist-fighting, club-trashing ASSHOLES. Such were The Makers.

While perhaps not the greatest songwriters in the world (The Makers basically mined the standard 60's Count Five vein, but with super-snotty vocals on top), they did produce one bona fide masterpiece: the Hunger LP. Sleek, snarling, spiteful, Hunger delivered everything good about The Makers coiled up in a tight, violent, dexedrine-powered fury.

And then, somewhat predictably, everything went to shit. Their next album, Glam Rock Sex Turd (no, not really) showcased a bunch of half-assed attempts at "mature" songwriting, relaxed tempos (speed REALLY helped carry this band), and the debut of singer Mike Maker's dreaded "sexy" persona.

A digression on the alleged "sexiness" of Mike Maker: He Has None. Dude is like four-foot-three. He dresses like a hippie pimp (one of my friends once saw him walking around Capitol Hill in Seattle in a hat with a three-foot brim. In a WINDSTORM. Hilarious.). And you wanna talk about grease? Motherfucker EXUDES it. So if an oily dwarf pimp crooning about how much he wants to touch your parts gets you ladies stoked, then by all means pick up any late period Makers album. And get your ass a shot of penicillin, 'cos you nasty.

So, yeah. A string of bullshit albums followed (Rock Star God was probably the worst, and no, I'm not kidding about the title this time), the critics started swooning (I'd say this was inexplicable, but rock critics are a bunch of tin-eared wimps) and I became content to ignore The Makers as long as they didn't do anything egregiously stupid.

Well.

Here's this thing. It's Stripped (ew.) by The Makers, and this is EXACTLY what happens when you've had rock critics blowing smoke (and cocaine) up your ass for the better part of a decade. Stripped is The Makers rerecording all of their classic jams, 'cos, you know, those SONGS were great (they were okay), but The Makers have just grown SO MUCH since then (they fucking suck), and now they can really Do The Songs Justice (they're gonna sleepwalk through this because they're old and they haven't been able to score quality speed since they left Spokane).

Not to put too fine a point on this, but Stripped is an abomination. Every song is a good twenty seconds longer than the original version because The Makers are Tired Old Men. All the recordings are slicked-up studio hack crap, with all the raw edges sanded off the originals. And Mike Maker's vocals are at. their. worst. The rabid whine of their early work has been replaced by his smooth-smoothie act (still whiny, but now he's super gross) and he seems incapable of delivering a line correctly.

Check out the new version of "Tear Apart" (included alongside the original version and dueling versions of "Leopard Print Sissy", my pick for Best Makers Song Evar). What the fuck is up with the part where he says, "All my friends... smoke cigarette"?! And he really punches the "ette" super hard, so you know he did it on purpose? What, are all his pals passing around one communal cigarette? Back in the '90's there were enough smokes for everybody! What happened?

Ah, screw this. I'm tired (not as tired as The Makers, but still...). I'll leave you to it. You're smart people. You can tell how much better the originals are. You don't need ME to tell you how the break in "Tear Apart" is ruined by all the guitar scree cluttering it up, when all the original had was bass, drums, and MENACE. You don't need ME to tell you that the new version of "Leopard Print Sissy" drips irony like Mike Maker drips hair oil because now he IS the same sissy he was threatening with spinal damage back in the day. You don't need me, period. But you damn sure don't need Stripped by The Makers.

But check out Hunger, willya? It's swell.

I Just Saw God and/or Die Antwoord

For the unintiated, please view the above. The initiated could probably do with watching this fokken masterpiece again, anyway.

So, Die Antwoord were live in my town and I was really conflicted. This was, after all, an unabashed product of gross internet hype, a flash-in-the-pan bit of (shudder) comedy rap tarted up with some vaguely international cred. Culture tourism with rave beats. Comedy rap. Performance art intellectuals masquerading as sub-working-class South African slum dwellers. Afrikaans Ali G's. Did I mention comedy rap?

But the album was amazing and the videos were better, and the kind of people who sit on the internet wringing their (virtual) hands over "authenticity" are the lowest kind of scum, so I kind of wanted to go.

But years as a hip-hop fan have taught me one thing: rap shows fucking suck. Basically, if the performer is emotionally invested in their craft at all, you get some dude yelling at you while jumping up and down for an hour. If he's not invested, you get his weed carriers yelling at you while NOT jumping up and down. For twenty minutes. When the greatest live example of your genre is the Anti-Pop Consortium, you are in BIG FUCKING TROUBLE.

So I waffled. I thought about Cage, and how he sucked. I thought about Ghostface and how he sucked (yes, I'm white... how could you tell?). I thought about Mr. Lif and how even though he kind of ruled, he also pretty much sucked. But then I watched Die Antwoord's videos, and I wondered... is there any chance at all that I'm going to get this level of awesome? Is there any chance at all that this show will be a rave-rap black mass complete with hooded robes that have alien faces and horns on the hoods of said hooded robes? Can any simple stage show contain the Keith Haring Boner Party that is Die Antwoord's mis en scene? Will there be Prawn Hands?

So after much waffling, I paid my twenty bucks (more like conned my friend Bill into paying my twenty bucks, but I'll get him back later. IN THEORY.). I bought the ticket, I took the ride, as a wise man once said.

Alien face horn-hood? Check. Keith Haring Boner Party? Check. PRAWN HANDS?!?!?! CHECK!!!!

Also: Lesbian tit mouse-mask porn. Yolandi Vi$$er constantly threatening to display the lower half of her boobs but just not quite. Near-total Hipster Scum saturation. Epic five-minute intro of chanting monks droning while we stared at Leon Botha's face. "Portland, why are you so fokking cute?" Rave-rap tentacle sex armageddon. There were also two people jumping up and down and shouting at me, but since one was a four-foot-tall sex bomb, I didn't mind so much. Easily the best twenty dollars I almost spent.

Did I mention the mouse-mask porn? Fuck, I can't wait for the album to drop... and the album after that, etc.