Nick Tosches

                                 Nitro Nick Tosches

                                        His latest 

Eau de Newark- Tosches perfume label.

Nick Tosches has long been a, make that, the, most perspicacious observer of what is left of, dare I say it? Popular culture.

His latest book Save The Last Dance For Satan, published by Brooklyn paperback powerhouse Kicks Books (and perfume company) is essential reading not just for anyone who wants to know something about the history of rock'n'roll when it was actually fun, but as to why it no longer exists in today's world. Both the rock'n'roll and the fun. 

Expanded from a magazine article written for a publication so trite I refuse to type its name, Save The Last Dance For Satan examines the characters behind the scenes in the early days of rock'n'roll who were said to be "connected". Old Town's colorful Hy Weiss, motor mouth Philadelphia DJ Jerry "The Geator With The Heater" Blavant,  one time promo man (and later Madonna and Jacko's manager) Freddie DeMann,  Morris "Moishe" Levy, George Goldner, a guy named Wassel,  a guy named Bruno, and the true story of the Jaynettes' ethereal classic Sally Go Round The Roses, are all present and accounted for. I shall not ruin what I promise is a quick and gainful reading experience by telling you what it actually says about them in its pages, but you will learn how made guys and degenerate gamblers, girls who spell their name Lezli and guys who wore Velour jump suits, and of course Wassel and Bruno,  all colluded to perpetrate that music we remember as the real thing. The good shit. Rock'n'roll. And oh yeah, the pussy eating contest.  

As our world falls apart around us (Says Nick-- "I give it two years...at most"), and we watch those both at the top and at the bottom, both too dumb to and figure out where it all went wrong, scratch their assholes and moan; I quote from Save The Last Dance For Satan:

The true gage of the freedom of any community is the measurement of the degree of equality by which the fruits of malfeasance are shared by the rulers and the ruled, the cop on the beat and the man or woman on the street. The essence of democracy, as of capitalism is corruption. Only when the criminal in blue and the criminal in mufti, the peddler and the priest and the alderman and the drunkard--only when they are neighbors of common root and conspiracy is any neighborhood safe for the old lady on the stoop on a hot summer night, only then is there true charity, only then is there a justice that is real, and only then is there life in the air. As the social clubs close, so the churches empty. This is fact, not metaphor".

Amen. 

Nick Tosches will be reading from his latest work on Friday, September 9, at the Jefferson Market Library (425 Sixth Ave at 10th Street, New York City) at 8 PM, admission is free.  Tosches perfume (I kid you not) will be for sale.

In other Nick news, an article in Variety reported that art oaf Julian Schnabel will be directing Johnny Depp in a feature film version of In The Hand Of Dante. When questioned on the subject, Nick inhaled from his cigarette and grimaced. 

Gillian's Found Photo #65

Here's another from the Fang that reminds me of Hubert Selby's classic Last Exit To Brooklyn. Date and place unknown.
The guy on the left is all about the eyebrows, the drag queen on the right, well it's hard to say. S/he certainly spend some time on her hair, or is that a wig?
Perhaps s/he's a friend of Esquerita (who towards the end of his days worked NYC in drag doing biz as Fabulash), or Bobby Marchan.  Hell, until a few months ago I assumed Lady Ga Ga was man in drag.
All of which has nothing to do with our picture.  I wish I could think of a caption.

Kongo (1932)/ West Of Zanzibar (1928)

Top Three Clips from Todd Browning's West Of Zanzibar (1928).


William Cowen's 1932 soundie remake: Kongo.

Todd Browning, second from right. 
If I had to pick an all time favorite movie, it might just be William Cowen's Kongo, a 1932 re-make of Todd Browning's 1928 West Of Zanzibar.  In fact, both titles along with Cecil B. DeMille's Sign Of The Cross (making a rare big screen appearance this Sunday in NYC at the Film Forum), make up my top three.
  Based on the play by Chester DeVonde  and Kilbourn Gordon (which was titled Kongo and was a huge hit on Broadway), West Of Zanzibar/Kongo is one of the most gruesome, sensational and lascivious re-writings of Joseph Conrad's Heart Of Darkness ever unleashed, it makes Apocalypse Now look like a an episode of Rocky & Bullwinkle.
  The convoluted story line (which starts in London in Browning's version, although Cowen's remake cuts straight to the non-chase in Africa), revolves around a stage magician Dead Legs (the character's given name changes in the two versions from Phroso to Rutledge) who in an altercation over his girl gets his spine crushed and ends up a dead legged cripple.  In Browning's version Dead Legs is played by Lon Chaney (Browning's greatest leading man), in Cowan's by Walter Huston (who had played the role on Broadway).  Dead Legs follows his rival, Crane (an ivory trader, played by Lionel Barrymore in the silent), to Africa where he sets himself up as a deity amongst the the natives, controlling them with sugar cubes, tongue twisting torture, and his old stage magic routine disguised as folk religion.  When the rival shows up at Dead Legs' hut, the story then moves on to the long lost daughter of the now deceased woman they fought over. Thinking it was his rival's daughter, Dead Legs' takes possession of the girls upbringing, raising her in a sheltered convent only to degrade her in the jungle when she reaches her majority. I won't ruin the plot twist. But there's enough depravity for a dozen sideshows (Browning's specialty), my favorite being Lupe Velez as an alcoholic jungle nymph in Cowan's version of the story, although how a Mexican spitfire ended up in a shack in the Congo is never explained, I can't say I mind.  I give Cowan's version a slight edge for it's incredible dialogue, much of which revolves around the words-- "He sneered".  Browning's version looks a bit better, although both have an incredibly claustrophobic, sweltering, disturbing feel, much like Werner Herzog's wonderful soliloquy about the jungle heard in Les Blank's Burden On Dreams ("fornicating, writhing, strangulation,...the birds don't sing so much as scream in pain....").  It's hard to decide who was a better Dead Legs, Chaney has never been less than brilliant, or Huston who really brings something of his own to the role.  Either, or. West Of Zanzibar and Kongo are two must see films for anyone who likes their movies twisted, depraved, and sensational.  TCM shows them on occasion, or you can watch them in short segments on YouTube.

Brian Jones

Montreal, 65. Brian speaks up.

Brian and Anita.

Meeting the fans.

Dressed To Kill.

Pulling A Nanker.

Ruby Tuesday, with recorder, '67.

Lady Jane, dulcimer, same show as above.

A better use of the recorder.

At The Mellotron.

With Gibson Firebird, Where Is That Guitar Today?

                                     Brian Today.

If You Can Get Past The Commercial There's Some Great Early Color Footage Here.



Brian co-wrote this one, better than anything they'd done in decades.

I don't have much to add to what I had to say about Brian Jones (Lewis Brian Hopkins Jones, born February 28, 1942, died July 3, 1969) two years ago on the fortieth anniversary of his death. But I guess I still miss him.  In his best selling auto-hagiography Life, Keith Richards' downplays Brian's contributions at every chance he gets, even crediting the formation of the Rolling Stones to Ian Stewart.  Brian is still getting the shit end of the stick after all this time. Well, at least he never looked as goofy as Ron Wood, who could have taken at least a few fashion tips from Brian.  It's forty two years since Brian's death and I'm still saying my goodbyes.

Gillian's Found Photo #64

This week's found photo is dated Oct. '67.  Place unknown, but it sure seems like California. The kind of girl Brian Wilson wrote songs about. I imagine her dancing to the Byrds at Ciro's on the Sunset Strip.  A couple of years later she might have put in some time at the Spahn Ranch (as did Beach Boy Dennis Wilson), or with the Weather Underground or even at the Playboy Mansion. Today she would have half dozen facial piercing, or have her non-existant flaws rebuilt by a plastic surgeon for that ever popular "half melted Barbie" look that for some inexplicable reason some modern women feel makes them look better. Personally I like women just the way they are, flaws and all. Any one want to guess what she's staring off at?

All Fall Down (1962)

All Fall Down- Beatty as his sleazy best.


Hoo-boy. Hot on the heels of Splendor In The Grass, in which he plays a good boy so gosh darn good he wouldn't even screw carpenter's dream Natalie Wood, Warren Beatty starred in this little remembered but highly entertaining flick playing a women abusing sleaze bag. I'd say it might be his best role ever. I caught John Frankenhiemer's All Fall Down for the first time recently on late night cable where it followed Splendor... in one of TCM's theme nights, and it made quite on impression. With a script by William Inge (Splendor, Bus Stop, Picnic), and a solid cast headed by On The Waterfront's lip quivering co-star Eva Marie Saint as the thirty something virgin Echo O'Brien (great name),  Shane's Brandon De Wilde as Beatty's obnoxiously good little brother and Karl Malden and Angela Lansbury as the long suffering parents, this one really packs a punch. Beatty would go on to become a major scenery chomping star with Bonnie & Clyde (1966) and then a major embarrassment with Ishtar (1987) and the  rapping politician Bullworth (1998) (those two seemed to have effectively ended his career), but left to someone else's devices he was actually an excellent actor.  In this day and age of diminished cinematic expectations, All Fall Down stands out as a forgotten, if not classic, at least (low) class act.

Howlin Wolf at 101.

With Hubert Sumlin and a cool guitar.

Early deodorant ad.

Well worth the $1.00.

He just swallowed his harmonica.

At Sylvio's, '64.

Early shot, another cool guitar.

At home in Chicago, a White Sox fan?

Back at Sylvios.

Yet another cool guitar.

Upsetting the folks at a Folk Festival.



 European TV, '66.

Howlin' Wolf (born Chester Arthur Burnett outside of West Point, Mississippi, June 10, 1910, died January 10, 1976) would have been 101 today, had he lived. If they dug him up and stuck his bones onstage he'd still be better than 99.9% of what passes for blues or rock'n'roll these days. I've already blogged on him before (here and here), so I have little to add, except he remains my very favorite singer, and when ever I hear so and so (name your most overrated singer here) is a great "soul" singer, I want to stick a Howlin' Wolf 78 in their ear. If you are not familiar with Wolf's music, start with his early Chess and RPM sides, then the un-issued Sun Sessions, forget the psychedelic "birdshit" album, the London Sessions and SuperBlues jams unless you are a completist. For further reading I suggest James Segrest and Mark Hoffman's Moanin' At Midnight: The Life and Times Of Howlin' Wolf (Pantheon Books, 2004). Happy Birthday Wolf, where ever you are.