Had he lived, musician Marc Bolan would have celebrated his 60th birthday today. The UK artist who fronted T-Rex (originally known as Tyrannosaurus Rex in their pre glam days) score
d a ton of hits including the brilliant "20th Century Boy" (see video above), collaborated with David Bowie (he played guitar with Bowie and also shared the same producer -- Tony Visconti), and was arguably responsible for glam rock (thanks to T-Rex's Visconti produced sound, coupled with his unique & smart fashion sensibility including an affinity for wearing boas & sporting glitter onstage -- long before any other artists did). Bolan tragically died in a car crash at age 29 on September 16th, 1977. He was just two weeks shy of his 30th birthday. Today in the UK several low-key events are planned by fans of the late great artist, and in New York a concert event has been scheduled to celebrate his 60th birthday anniversary and will be attended by Tony Visconti, Patti Smith, Robert Gordan, his son Rolan Bolan and others.
One day it's the 1970's, I'm trapped in the kind of hell a youngster homo freak usually is trapped in, and hey, Patti Smith is the musical guest on Saturday Night Live. (Who in the '70's didn't watch Belushi when you were 9?) Suddenly, you realize you can stop jumping off the roof of any building you can scale the side of, you stop trying to figure out how to knot a noose, and you ... embrace life.Because you realize if this woman is on TV in America ... that there is hope. And when Gilda Radner did her Patti Smith impression--you loved Gilda even more. Crazy.
Next thing you know, a some 3 decades later, you are standing on the Santa Monica Pier watching Patti Smith from about 3 feet away. Life is so weird and magical.
And for the first time since Patti played her show at Amoeba Hollywood, I can feel my soul, I can feel your heart and I keep turning around to witness the joy in the people around me.
Yeah, she's a genius. Yeah, Patti Smith is an inspiration ... She is a force of nature. I think if there are any Gods at all ... they roar truth and power through her voice. But face it, she doesn't save your soul. You gotta do that. She shows up to do a non-profit,
save The Santa Monica Pier, and if you want to know without any question at all that the people do have the damn power--you show up, and you feel pretty damn grateful and powerful.
I went to go see Patti Smith at the Fillmore last night. If you have ever seen her before then you know how amazing she is to see perform live. She did an instore at Amoeba in Hollywood. You can watch the great interview with her and Logan by going here. I know I throw around the word amazing a lot. But nobody deserves it more than her. She really has some power that I can not even explain. This power sort of takes over everyone in the crowd and it is something that will stay with you the rest of your life.I never got the chance to see Patti in the 70's or 80's. It was not until about 6 or so years ago that I saw her for the first time. It was right after the release of "Gung Ho" and was also at the Fillmore in S.F. A sort of perfect place to see her. These days, I am often one of the oldest in
the crowd. So it is always weird to be at a show like this where I am one of the youngest. It does not really matter who you are though. She will put out her power over the whole crowd. I swear, she should just run for president or something. But I think she has already found her calling. She has created some amazing music over the years. Her debut, "Horses," came out the year after I was born. It remains my favorite of hers and I am sure the favorite of many. They actually just gave it a nice little reissue deluxe treatment a couple of years ago. Three years later came "Easter," which includes her awesome version of "Because the Night."
'I'm like the Rainman of the F train now because I now know every speck of that train,' laughed New York public space guerilla artist & recent subway prankster Ellen Moynihan. "Sixty seats, eight doors, and seven poles. And the overhead ads are exactly seventy inches by ten inches," said the ring leader of the spirited and highly creative four-woman House Of Malcontents crew, made up of Ellen and three other New York artists with a shared desire to reshape public spaces such as a subway car to make it more homey. This they accomplished last month when all four boarded an early morning F train in Brooklyn headed into Manhattan, and briskly and artistically made it over to look and feel more like ... home.
'No Train Like Home,' they dubbed the installation that took the four guerilla artists 40 minutes to carry out during early morning New York City commute hour. Carol Tessitore was one of the collaborators. The other two wish to remain anonymous because of the illegality of the maneuver. The idea for the 'No Train Like Home' came to Moynihan, who is also a writer (currently working on a book about Patti Smith), after checking out Mark Ecko's controversial graffiti on subway event in Chelsea a couple of years ago. Later, as she was riding the bland, drab, New York subway, she fantasized about how great it would be to make over the institutionalized-looking subway car into something warmer, to make it feel and look like your living room -- especially since so many New Yorkers spend so much time commuting by subway daily.
At first she thought, "How cool would it be to get a grant and get a lot of money and a subway car of my own to redecorate?" But soon after she gave up on the difficult task of trying to get a grant, and also on the idea of asking for permission. So she studied the subway to learn "every speck" -- taking photos and measuring in preparation for the perfectly plotted makeover morning (April 6th) when Ellen and her three fellow Malcontents went to
work on the train. They put a runner rug down the center of the subway car and taped down 'welcome' mats near the sliding train doors, covered the windows with curtains, tied flowers to the poles, put pillows on the usually uncomfortable hard seats, scattered magazines around to read, and nice art to look at instead of the ads already there. "We made copies of family portraits or paintings you'd see at home," said photoshop expert Carol, who also 'stitched together' on computer photo images of books on a shelf and later printed them out on the long reams of paper they had purchased. I am not alone.
I wrote the above sentence then leaned to my right, peering into what once was my kitchen and is now something resembling Dresden after the bombing.
And so it goes.
How this guy has managed to cram a huge ladder into a kitchen so small I barely have room for the second Pop Tart included in the packet, is proof that he is no amateur. (This is what I tell myself, hoping for the best.)
Sonically, I am hidden deep inside my iPod, which just made a seamless transition from Marvin Gaye & Diana Ross’ duet album (titled, mysteriously enough, “Diana & Marvin”) to that inescapable Amy Winehouse record. Every once in a while, on average twice a decade, I find myself enjoying the same album as the rest of the country. Such is the case with “Back to Black”. It makes for boring copy though; I mean, do we really need to hear anymore talk about it?
The answer is “no”, and thankfully there’s a workman in my kitchen providing us with stories.
Last week, amidst my well-documented Vicodin haze (I’m feeling much better these days, thank you), I walked home from Amoeba, as I always do (unless Patti Smith is performing), for lunch.
Whereas normally I am greeted by the meows of my “cat”* I instead walked into a scene from “Brazil”.
Ruling out the possibility of a suicide bomber (I realize they go through a lot of training, but I live on the fourth floor of my building) I found, amongst the sea of bric-a-brac, cleaning supplies and dishware - normally so organized in my kitchen - a lone man doing to my sink and walls what I imagine Jeffery Dahmer would do to a dinner guest.
And I’ll say this about myself: I really am polite. Even when faced with an un-announced stranger tearing my home apart, I start with a simple hand-wave and “Hi,” – waiting for the appropriate social cues from the other person to indicate we can proceed to a conversation. Perhaps about the weather, last night’s game, or maybe why he’s mistaken my kitchen for a newly discovered Egyptian tomb.
I wrote the above sentence then leaned to my right, peering into what once was my kitchen and is now something resembling Dresden after the bombing.
And so it goes.
How this guy has managed to cram a huge ladder into a kitchen so small I barely have room for the second Pop Tart included in the packet, is proof that he is no amateur. (This is what I tell myself, hoping for the best.)
Sonically, I am hidden deep inside my iPod, which just made a seamless transition from Marvin Gaye & Diana Ross’ duet album (titled, mysteriously enough, “Diana & Marvin”) to that inescapable Amy Winehouse record. Every once in a while, on average twice a decade, I find myself enjoying the same album as the rest of the country. Such is the case with “Back to Black”. It makes for boring copy though; I mean, do we really need to hear anymore talk about it?
The answer is “no”, and thankfully there’s a workman in my kitchen providing us with stories.
Last week, amidst my well-documented Vicodin haze (I’m feeling much better these days, thank you), I walked home from Amoeba, as I always do (unless Patti Smith is performing), for lunch.
Whereas normally I am greeted by the meows of my “cat”* I instead walked into a scene from “Brazil”.
Ruling out the possibility of a suicide bomber (I realize they go through a lot of training, but I live on the fourth floor of my building) I found, amongst the sea of bric-a-brac, cleaning supplies and dishware - normally so organized in my kitchen - a lone man doing to my sink and walls what I imagine Jeffery Dahmer would do to a dinner guest.
And I’ll say this about myself: I really am polite. Even when faced with an un-announced stranger tearing my home apart, I start with a simple hand-wave and “Hi,” – waiting for the appropriate social cues from the other person to indicate we can proceed to a conversation. Perhaps about the weather, last night’s game, or maybe why he’s mistaken my kitchen for a newly discovered Egyptian tomb.
