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Hunter S. Thompson: Champion of Breakfast (two orders of excess and a side of Hot Damn!)
I got an email from a guy high atop my honor roll today. He chimed in with a quote from a natural born spark striker and main influence, the Good Doctor himself, Hunter S. Thompson. My cracked cohort and I have shared many a near Hunter experiences in the past. We've bought tickets and taken rides.
Fortunately we never went over that vaunted edge that HST used to speak of (hence we are still living)...but we came close a few times. Somedays you need a little edge to jumpstart the engines. Today the old pipes got a bit of a rattlin' when I received this in an email:
"Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner. I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast.
In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home — and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed — breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert.
Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music…. All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked."
- Hunter S. Thompson
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Give this bit of audio a listen. It is a reading from the 25th anniversary of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. While listening to this, my advice to you is to start drinking...heavily.
Ode to Robert Mitchum: Red-light, Moonlight and Highlights from a night spent skulking in Montmartre Paris
I was in Paris on business, but I was surrounded by pleasure. My hotel was right next door to the Museum of Erotica. Across the street, bright neon signs blazed on about "Porn Shops", "XXX Store", "Sex Toys". Up the road on the way to the Moulin Rouge were handfulls of cat houses and skin joints where front door pimps lured hard-up locals and hopped-up tourists looking to trade cash for dry-humps and weak drinks.
It was near eleven pm and I had been skulking around Paris' red-light district in Montmartre for close to two hours. Its easy to skulk in this area of Paris. There are many skulkers and many places to skulk in Montmartre, especially nearby the Moulin Rouge. I was skulking not because I need to hide or hide something. I was skulking because it seemed like the right thing to do.
"Paris was a place you could hide away
if you felt you didn't fit in"
- Rod Stewart, "Every Picture Tells a Story"
I ignored all of the invites from the pussy-pushers and dope-dealers. It wasn't a decision, it was a reaction; I looked, but I didn't touch. I was on the hunt for something else. I strayed the main drag to skulk the side streets. I was looking for a scene...some place that I could prop up on a stool, pull back pints and, hopefully, find good tunes on the box (a "place I could hide away").
As my luck would have it, I found my Paris hideaway half way down a dark street that was well lit from the bright full moon. I found it because of the music. I had my antennae up as it was, but I didn't expect to get much reception. I was looking for the blues...not jazz, as there are many clubs there for that...I was looking for some blues and maybe, just maybe a bit of country. Shit, if I could find something close to either it would have been perfect.
I got as close to perfect as possible that night as a Paris street skulker could.
This one little bar on the corner had about a twenty people sitting outside. Near three quarters of them were singing along to the heavy, cock-sure sounds of the Howlin' Wolf that were rumbling out of the open-front bar. I near shit myself: The Wolf was out on a night where the full moon's beams were shining bright. Hot damn!
I walked inside and pulled up a stool, rested an elbow on the bar and called out for a pint of the local. The barkeep was in control and not just from behind the taps. He was spinning the tunes, too. He had that box humming with all sorts of rockabilly, country, soul, blues and hyped-up Gene Vincent/Link Wray slashing guitar.
I was in shock. This guy had some real-deal taste. He wasn't fucking around...you could tell just by looking at him. He looked like a cross between the first Rocky movie Balboa, Clark Gable and rivet pounder from the 1920's. He had bold tattoos up and down each of his arms: skulls, roses, knives and a massive (early) Elvis portrait on his right bicep (It was, bad-ass).
He could see that I was on to him...that I was a pro. When another gunslinger comes into town, there's usually a showdown out on main street where pine boxes are propped up on fences waiting for the man with the slow hand. Not this time though. There would be no showdown on this night. We weren't fighters; no, we were lovers...lovers of those early American sounds.
We did a bit of talking between songs. He'd play something and I would try and guess the artists (I got stumped a few times). It wasn't until I called out, unprompted, one of the craziest, "how the hell did you know that" rabbits out of my ass of all time: Robert Mitchum's, "The Ballad of Thunder Road".
I love this song...always have. It came from the movie of the same name and Mitchum played the lead role. I've never seen the movie, but I sure as hell know the song. My throw-back bar tending buddy was as appreciative of the fact I knew his songs as he was surprised. I could see by the look on his face that I made his night with that call. You can guess that my beers for the next little while came free of charge.
Mind you, the barkeep didn't speak a lot of English and my French sucks...as in I can't speak the language. There was hardly any English speaking patrons in there...French, German, Dutch, Italian. No matter...we all spoke the same language: music.
Within twenty minutes of that song, the place had turned into a sing along (about 20-30 people in there at 12:30 am). I recorded a bit of it and attached it here. It makes me laugh when I listen to it. I'm a transient in Paris, sitting in bar after midnight, back slapping and singing along to 1950's country tunes with people who can't speak English and me not able to speak French. Shit, yeah...that's my kinda fun. Life is coolest when it is unplanned.
It is only a minute or so long. Have a listen and sing along if you like.
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The lure of going around had worked it's magic once again. I left that bar walking tall and feeling like a proud peacock: a skulker no more. Rave on...
The Blind Taste Test: C'mon you music aficiandaos! Tell me what you think of this song
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I have something for you. It is a song...a new song by an artist I know. He is about to release a new album. This is one of his own creations. Are you experienced? Have you ever been experienced? If not...have a listen.
As I always say, the only thing better than listening to music, is sharing it. So...my gift you.
This is a blind taste test. I give you no other information other than what I said: This is a self-penned song from a guitarist and it appears on his forthcoming album.
Put your ears to it and tell me what you think. I tell you what I think once you have had your say.
The Blind Taste Test: C'mon you music aficiandaos! Tell me what you think of this song
(download)
I have something for you. It is a song...a new song by an artist I know. He is about to release a new album. This is one of his own creations. Are you experienced? Have you ever been experienced? If not...have a listen.
As I always say, the only thing better than listening to music, is sharing it. So...my gift you.
This is a blind taste test. I give you no other information other than what I said: This is a self-penned song from a guitarist and it appears on his forthcoming album.
Put your ears to it and tell me what you think. I tell you what I think once you have had your say.
The Lure Of Going Around is strong in Honeyboy Edwards: A front-row review from when he brought the Mississippi Delta to London last weekend.
(Me & Honeyboy)
Either prior to or while reading my Honeyboy Edwards experience, you may want to play this bit of audio from the show. I was close enough (front row) to capture near the last 25 minutes on my iPhone. If you want to wait until after, fine. I'm sure you will be playing it more than once.
Oh yeah...those two instances where you jerk your head upwards and say in amazement..."HOT DAMN"!...after you hear what you hear, are at 7:35 and 15:23 in the recording. Enjoy.
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I am standing four feet from David "Honeyboy" Edwards and my needle is in the red. I am rooted hard where I stand, up against the front of the stage...but I feel like vapour. I feel like I am a massive exhale exhorted out in to the atmosphere, swirling around to make sure everyone understands the significance of what is about to happen next.
At any moment, the Blues is about to emerge from a hole in wall and walk right up on the stage, sit a spell and play awhile. Yes, The Blues. The Blues will be here tonight. Not in black and white; not in folk or lore; not in contemporary mimicry. The Blues will be here, live and in the flesh, and it is going to show us just how blue you can get.
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I am in a small London bar cum music venue cum makeshift Mississippi-backroad juke joint. The stage is a rag-tag collection of folding chairs, assorted bits of rug, wires, microphone, amps and opened guitar cases. The stage is flooded in a velvety red glow from the dim white lights bouncing off the old ragged red curtain that is draped behind on the wall.
The house is three-quarters full and the opening act has just finished his set. People are rushing around to refresh their drinks. Some are grabbing two or three beers at a time to last them for the entire next set. Some are knocking back ceremonial shots of whiskey to prep themselves for what they are about to experience. For some, moving nary an inch from where they stand is not an option.
For these people...the non-movers...us...nothing could be more important right now than the anticipation of what is about to happen. One of the last two, and the only touring, living legends of the Delta Blues is about to play. David "Honeyboy" Edwards is 94 years old. He has played the blues from the Mississippi's Delta on up to Chicago and all the broken down juke joints in between. The list of the blues legends he has played with can drop jaws: Tommy Johnson, Son House, Charley Patton, Robert Johnson, Sonny Boy Williamson, Lightnin' Hopkins...utterly staggering. He has played with them all at one point and tonight he channels them for us.
Ninety-four years old. This ain't no oldies act. This man knows what he is doing. He knows who he is and what he represents. He knows why he is here and what he must do. Ninety-four. If it is true that age brings wisdom, then Honeyboy Edwards must be one of the smartest motherfuckers on the planet.
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If you have been reading along on this blog you know I am a fan of the blues...to say the least. This gig was a bow-down event for me. One week after I move to London I visited Rough Trade records in Notting Hill. I am in the store and I see a concert bill for a Honeyboy Edwards show. There are a lot of old posters and playbills on the wall in Rough Trade and I assumed this one was an oldie and goodie. Not so.
I was in disbelief and disoriented at the thought of actually being able to attend this gig. I rushed home to get tickets online. I couldn't miss this show for anything. I had to be a part of this. I had to be one in the crowd, clapping for and cajoling Honeyboy to play those country blues.
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We got to the gig early I cemented myself in the front row to what would be Honeyboy's left. The first act, Les Copeland, proclaimed Honeyboy to be his hero. He played his set and played in a respectful manner that greased the skids for Honeyboy. I'm sure Les could have played with a bit more glint and flash; his subdued set was more than enough to let us know he has chops.
Near the end of Les' set, Michael Frank came out to play an accompanying blues harmonica. Michael Frank is Honeboy's manager. he is also an eccentric, a music producer and owner of Earwig Music. Honeyboy and Les are Earwig artists. Michael played one song and then went out back to get Honeyboy.
Oh shit: Here come The Blues. Steady, Judd...steady.
Honeyboy came out dressed in trademark shirt, vest and flat-rimmed "Chicago" baseball cap. Ninety-four years old. I wasn't sure what to expect. I anticipated feeling sympathy for the old buck. Surely the show was going to be more a figment of the blues than a fertile reading of it. Oh, how wrong I was.
Honeyboy Edwards played like a man possessed. Not possessed by the devil nor any other fabled figure...but with the spirit of youth. I can only surmise that it is the passion he has for what he is doing and what he represents that allows him to play with such vigour and showmanship as he did last Friday night.
He played smooth and he played dirty and he did each with a knowing confidence. He was engaged with his music and engaged the audience with kicks and gestures that were both a play to crowd and a natural reaction. He played for 1hr and 45min without a break. He played lead guitar (with Les playing rhythm far in the background), he played slide guitar and he played dobro. He played it all with a gusto and sincerity that only a man who has played as long as he has, could.
I was completely blown away by his slide work...especially when he brought the dobro out. It was a slashing and stinging sound that called for attention. In the audio clip I have provided for you, be sure to have your ears open for the 15:23 mark. Honey tears of a slide riff that give you the chicken skin (that is me with my knee-jerk "Whhooaa!" when the Honey takes off).
Yes, there were some bum notes, but no one cared. Honeyboy Edwards was serving some authentic Delta Blues and the crowd was lapping it up (just listen to us!).
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I didn't move the whole night...literally transfixed with a huge, shit eating grin plastered on my face. Honey was looking at me a few times during the show. I was hopeful that my expression was egging him on, letting him know that he was nailing it and to keep stoking it. He must have thought I was some crazed lunatic. I could stop grinning.
Why should I have? This was the living Blues. A seminal figure who has toted the Blues Legacy around with him for many a year. I am so thankful for the opportunity to see Honeyboy live. He has a presence and I was in it. He is Honeyboy Edwards, but he is also the Mississippi Delta, West Side Chicago, South Side Chicago, Junior Wells, B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, The Allman Brothers, Stevie Ray and Keith Richards and so many, many more.
He knows his past and he knows his future is a day-by-day uncertainty. Friday night he played like neither mattered. He was in the moment playing his blues, the real Delta Blues, for the people...as he has for the last ninety-four years.
Thanks, Honeyboy.
Honeyboy's website
Earwig Music's website
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Seeing as I was so close I was able to capture some sights and sounds of the show. In addition to the audio above, I have some snaps and some short clips of video (no disrespect to Honeyboy and his management intended...I just want to share).
The Goods
Honeyboy Gig Photos: Here are some snaps from the Honeyboy show. I only had my iPhone 3GS with me, so the pictures are not of the highest quality:
A short video clip of Honeyboy taking the stage and warming up:
Two quick clips of Honeyboy: Honeyboy giving his manager the business & a short clip of Honeyboy in action.
Poorman's Podcast: "Grab a beer...don't cost nuthin"
First day of college and the bar was set high...or was it set low? Who cares...free beer for freshman!
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Mojo Banter: That Feel
I know, I know...I keep talking at The6149 about Mojo Music, "my" record shop here in Sydney. I can't help it. I love that place and the guys who run it. It is my Friday night regular haunt. I can talk up a storm about it, but it is much better to be there to get That Feel. Ah, That Feel.
Like with anything that hits bone, you feel it. Mojo hits bone for me. That Feel I get from it is a thick-realness. There is no false pretenses at Mojo. Just real people, real music (the "The Trinity of Musical Truths") and a real good time. That Feel is alive and well at Mojo Music.
I thought I'd share some of That Feel with you. Here are some audio clips of some Mojo Banter for you. Real people, real music, real good times...
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Two music heroes of mine are Tom Waits & Keef Richards. Keef joined up with Tom to write a song for Tom's "Bone Machine" album. If anyone knows That Feell its Keef and Tom (in their own very distinct ways, mind you). The tune really jells when Keef starts croaking out his anti-harmony vocals that somehow blend perfectly (everytime). This is a slow cooker, but it's hot shit. Here is the tune and the lyrics:
That Feel - Tom Waits & Keef Richards
Well there's one thing you can't lose
It's that feel
Your pants, your shirt, your shoes
But not that feel
You can throw it out in the rain
You can whip it like a dog
You can chop it down like an old dead tree
You can always see it
When you're coming into town
Once you hang it on the wall
You can never take it downBut there's one thing you can't lose
ANd it's that feel
You can pawn your watch and chain
But not that feel
It always comes and finds you
It will always hear yo ucry
I cross my wooden leg
And I swear on my glass eye
Itt will never leave you high and dry
Never leave you loose
It's harder to get rid of than tattoosBut there's one thing you can't do
Is lose that feel
You can throw it off a bridge
You can lose it in the fire
Yo ucan leave it at the altar
But it will make you out a liar
You can fall down in the street
You can leaveit in the lurch
Well you say that it's gospel
But I know that it's only churchAnd there's one thing you can't lose
And it's that feel
It's that feel
Your pants, your shirt, your shoes
But not that feel
You can throw it out in the rain
You can whip it like a dog
You can chop it down like an old dead tree
You can always see it
When you're coming into town
Once you hang it on the wall
You can never take it downBut there's one thing you can't lose
ANd it's that feel
You can pawn your watch and chain
But not that feel
It always comes and finds you
It will always hear yo ucry
I cross my wooden leg
And I swear on my glass eye
Itt will never leave you high and dry
Never leave you loose
It's harder to get rid of than tattoosBut there's one thing you can't do
Is lose that feel
You can throw it off a bridge
You can lose it in the fire
Yo ucan leave it at the altar
But it will make you out a liar
You can fall down in the street
You can leaveit in the lurch
Well you say that it's gospel
But I know that it's only churchAnd there's one thing you can't lose
And it's that feel
It's that feel
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Mojo is has an in-store event on the 31st July. If you are in Sydney, come check it out (see you there):
Friday 31 July is Party Night at Mojo Music. And to kick off proceedings we will have an instore performance by up and coming local band La Mancha Negra. The band will be crankin' from 7pm.
For the uninitiated, La Mancha Negra combines diverse elements such as jungle beats
lt;/span>, fuzz bass, surf guitar and blues harp to concoct a unique and exciting sound.
Admission is FREE - so we'll see you then for what will be a rockin' good night!
"Strike another match, go start anew..." (Goodbye Sydney, hello London)
Here we go again. Four and a half years ago we landed in Sydney ready for a new experience. Now, we move on to London ready for more.
Keep on, keepin' on...
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Words of Wisdom: The Gonzo Way (Audio Download)
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I'm a massive fan of the Hunter S. Thompson, the man, and of his work. I miss not having him around and hearing his take on things. I was recently having a twitter conversation with @raoulduke and he was saying how much he didn't miss The Good Doctor. Apparently he always felt that HST was glomming off of him. I told him I didn't want to get in the middle of it all.
Like Van Morrison says: "Professional jealousy, makes other people crazy. When they think that you've got something they don't have".
One thing that HST had (that maybe Raoul didn't) was Wisdom. In a previous post I talked about the book Hunter's wife, Anita, put out, "The Gonzo Way" (have a read of the post at the end of the "previous post" link provided for more detail on what I am about to discuss). The video I made has almost 7,000 hits on YouTube. I still reference the book on a daily, if not, weekly basis. I agree with the premise/philosophy/"Way" of Hunter Thompson...the Man.
In an effort to keep it top of mind, I recorded an audio version of the summary of the book I created for the video. I play it in the car on the way to work. I'm attaching it here if anyone wants to download it or just have a listen from time to time. It is only five minutes long, but it will stick with you all day.
I already sent it to Raoul and even he agreed it is a king hell message that only fools would ignore.
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