You folks ever see the movie All That Jazz, with Ben Vereen, Jessica Lange and Roy Scheider? You oughta check it out, it’s great. And I’m not just saying that because it was one of the only ways you could see nudity on TV, as a kid of the 1980’s.Continue reading
Tag Archives: death
Break out the champagne, it’s post #400! After four long, thankless years, I have managed four hundred posts on this beast. And you know what that means, don’t you?
No, it doesn’t mean I’m spinning the chamber of a revolver loaded with a single bullet. Silly person! It means I’m announcing the next issue of Bands I Useta Like magazine!
Just look at what’s inside:
Long ago, in the Before Times, I was dating a woman with a very young daughter. I had not yet gelled as an artistic entity, and was in the process of learning that I’m really not cut out to be a father, even a surrogate one. This became apparent on two occasions. Both were attempts on my part to make a connection with a kid. Both failed hilariously.
The first was the purchase of a “children’s book”. I spent hours at Books-A-Million (down the block from Media Play) hunting for just the right one. It had to be colorful, clever, and not condescending. I refused to buy anything “kiddie”, on principle. It had to be something that enticed, thrilled, and sparked the imagination, like the books I read in my grade school library.
Let’s take a look back at 2016. Not in anger. In relief, that it’s done. I beg you all not to tempt fate as far as 2017 is concerned. Spoiler alert: more death.
2016 reeked so badly that even the lead singer of Motorhead wouldn’t go near it. 2015 was no plum, either, as it became obvious we were living in the alternate timeline from Back To The Future II. 2016 was worse. Continue reading
30 years ago, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off came out. If you build a time machine and go back to 1986, you might just enjoy that movie.
Here in Atlanta’s Little Five Points neighborhood, we lost another local musician to heroin. I won’t write his name here, because I don’t want to inextricably link him with the drug that killed him. But there’s an anguished frustration every time this happens, when the needle takes yet one more.
Junk has been a cancer on music since before Charlie Parker played a note. It has taken too many casualties to list here. It seeps into cinema and art like toxic groundwater. No one does better work while on heroin. It improves no experience; it only makes one atrophy. What it does, is put your soul in terrible pain, and then dulls it. Nothing it does helps you or anyone else in any legitimate way. Continue reading