Bo Diddley died today. I don’t know what to say about him that hasn’t already been said. Of the original school of fifties rockers, he was definitely the most punk, as well as possibly the most influential–way more so than Elvis, Fats Domino, Jerry Lee Lewis, and even perhaps Chuck Berry. It was Bo’s beat that you hear in Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away,” in the Strangelove’s “I Want Candy,” in the Pretty Things’ “Rosalyn,” and in at least one song from virtually every rocker of the sixties, from Dick Dale to the Rolling Stones to Quicksilver Messenger Service to the Animals. He had a sexual swagger that topped even Dion’s “The Wanderer,” and the kind of self-aggrandizement (his first hit, “Bo Diddley,” was his own name!) that predated the hip hop world’s self-referential lyricism by a couple decades. And for those who say that American garage bands were simply clones of the British Invasion, just listen to some of those chords and congas from the Back From the Grave compilations, and oh yeah, you know they loved them some Bo Diddley.
Bo Diddley appeared in so many great film and television performances from his early years, but I think I’ll let Bo eulogize himself with this performance from London, 1972. No Mod Cons here! I think I see some Let It Rock patrons finger poppin’ in the audience.
UPDATE: I would be remiss in my obituarism if I didn’t include a performance by Lily Marlene of Diddley’s “Who Do You Love?” She’s so awesome. George Thorogood can suck my dick.
Filed under: Obituaries — prodigalsonnybono @ 8:42 am
Forgive me for not grieving too much. I know, he was a civil rights advocate in the sixties, but was that so hard to do, to be on the side of righteousness against a profoundly evil mindset? And I know that he was in some classic movies, but as a friend once said about Jon Voight, aren’t Heston’s movies good despite him? Don’t we delight in seeing Heston on the screen not because he’s convincing in his roles, but because he’s always been an American dinosaur, representing what we love to hate about ourselves and our country: the hypocrisy, the braggadocio, the beefy fist full of antiquated morality pounding against the forehead of progress? I don’t want to kick a man while he’s literally down, but jeezuz, this is the man who complained about Body Count’s “Cop Killer” while simultaneously supporting the NRA and its call for easy access to armor-piercing bullets that could literally kill cops. He’s incredibly lucky to die old, beloved, and rich, all for wearing a lot of tunics in the sixties and sweating through his stubble in some post-apocalyptic seventies flicks.
When I think of Charlton Heston, the second thought in my mind after “get your stinkin’ paws off me, you damned dirty ape!” is always this:
For you young’uns who can’t remember the late eighties, it really was the worst time in rock and roll history, more boring and corporate and conceited than the seventies ever were. But even worse than Bon Jovi, U2, and Paula Abdul was the type of fake-ass white boy electric blues that played constantly in bars, movies, and your friend’s dad’s car, as popularized by Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray Vaughan.
But in a nostalgic way, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Jeff Healey. Okay, I know that he sucks, and his sentimental blues ballads suckle straight from the teat of eighties Eric Clapton. But when I was twelve or so, all the slightly older nerdy guys I hung out with loved Jeff Healey. I was always hearing about how amazing he was on Boy Scout hikes and my church’s youth group get-togethers, and for people who are into that kind of blues and jazz guitar, I guess he he had-than-average proficiency (probably played the ballads just to get some coin). And as a DJ, I admire the fact that the dude collected over 30,000 old blues and jazz 78′s. And let’s not forget his role in Crow T. Robot’s favorite movie, Roadhouse:
Maybe there’s a curse on that movie, because twenty years later, one of the stars has lost a battle with cancer, and now, as my girlfriend just informed me, Patrick Swayze has five weeks to live! If I were John Doe, I’d definitely go get a check-up from the doctor and eat some fiber.
Like so many of my heroes recently, it looks like I’m going to have to give my final respects to Maila Nurmi, who created the character Vampira in the fifties, her tight corset and shroud proving that death and sex are two great tastes that taste great together.
I saw a documentary years back about her–then got to see her read poetry at Beyond Baroque in Venice (same gig as Ellyn Maybe and Pleasant Gehman) seven or eight years ago, back when I didn’t have a phobia about going west of the 405. Like Nico, Vampira was a beautiful young woman who aged into a gleefully haggard crone, who she seemed to delight in her witchiness. Oh, and yes, she billed herself as “Vampira” even when reading poetry in a sweater. Though she’s been out of the spotlight for years, she’s a true Hollywood legend and she’ll be missed.
For those who want to give her a rousing send-off, you may be reaching for a Misfits CD. Instead, reach for Bobby Bare’s “Vampira,” a slightly better tribute done when Bare was still a rough rockabilly cat. You can get it on Horror Hop from the Buffalo Bop label. With a line-up of songs that includes Mickey Lee Lane’s “The Zoo,” the Frantics’ “Werewolf,” and some other classics, you’ll be filled to the brim with ghoulish delight.
Dave Day, banjo player of the Monks, a former G.I. who spent the years following the breakup of the Monks as an indigent homeless man in Germany who forgot his native English, only to find his way back to the U.S., sanity, and happiness years later in time to play in a reformed version of the Monks at Cavestomp ’99, died yesterday of a heart attack that led to massive brain injury.
I met him a couple years ago, when my girlfriend and I went to the Don’t Knock the Rock Film Festival in L.A. to see You’re Gonna Miss Me, the Roky Erickson documentary. The Monks documentary was playing the next day, so he was there, decked out in Monks garb, as an honored guest. Dave and his wife got to chatting with us after the movie, and he was so nice. He even told me my girlfriend was a “lil’ cutie pie!” He gave me his business card and said we could come visit him in Washington whenever we were up there.
Well, I never got a chance to get up there and take advantage of it, or email him a thank you for being so awesome. And now sadly, he’s gone. If you’re near Renton, WA, you can find out more about his funeral service here.
Here is Dave rockin’ out on the banjo in happier times. I wish I’d gotten to see them play live during their reunion, but I’m so glad Dave got to be there to do it.
I just learned that an old friend, an amazing young guy who had a lust for life and a rapacious love for music, died a few days ago, brutally. I haven’t seen him in years and never got to know him better, but it’s quite a shock. He was such a wonderful soul, I can’t imagine what those who were closest to him are feeling now. Fuck death, and fuck the bony fingers he uses to take away the shining, glorious people among us, who cast such a love light on the rest of us in our dour ways.
I don’t know what Stubby would want played at his funeral, but for my own solace, for some reason I’m feeling that he’d like this tune. It’s mournful but also transcendant.
I really feel that the spirits of the departed live on when people get together and make merry and dance to music. I’m pretty much an atheist, but I don’t think that our feelings of connection with the dead are just a bunch of phantom limbs tickling the nerve endings of our lost love. There are glimmers of their personalities, and perhaps even a connection to the celestial, in art and in music especially. And I think that the reason I love ambient noise music is that somewhere in the hiss and hum of amps being plugged in or feeding back, of loose wiring humming, of John Cale’s viola shreeking, there is a strong connection to that other world. Anyway, I’m feeling that connection in Clara Rockmore’s theremin playing tonight.
Disclaimer–as my homie Vera points out, I should say that this is NOT the obituary of DJ Lance Rock, who has been hosting episodes of an amazing kids’ program for over six months now! That guy has been on the L.A. scene for a while, deserves all the acclaim he’s getting, and deserves his own blog from me at some point in the near future.
Michael Blodgett died today of a heart attack. He was only in a couple movies, but some of them were my favorites–he played the phantom lover that Peter Fonda imagines to be seducing his ex-wife (Susan Strasberg) in The Trip, and he had a role in Catalina Caper, ridiculed in one of my favorite episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000.
But more than anything (amongst my friends, anyway), he will be remembered for his role as Lance Rock, aka “Jungle Lad” in Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. He’s got the “bedroom eyes” that seduce the singer of the Carrie Nations, but ends up getting “a head” of himself in the end. I couldn’t find the “blade goes snicker snack” scene on YouTube, but here’s one of the most memorable quotes in a film full of memorable quotes:
Seriously, this movie has better one-liners than Groucho Marx!
Anyway, besides putting in some awesome appearances in groovy films, apparently the dude hosted a teen beach/dance party show in 1967 called “Groovy” that had local bands on (as told by newsfromme.com):
The show went through several versions but its first and most notable period was when it was done from the beach and hosted by [this gent]… His name was Michael Blodgett and he had a nice little acting career, which included the unforgettable Beyond the Valley of the Dolls before he moved on to considerable success as a novelist. He was a pretty good host on the Groovy show but I suspect even he would admit that he wasn’t the main appeal of the show. The main appeal was young ladies in very tiny bikinis — and by “young,” I mean sometimes fifteen or sixteen years of age, if that old.
Much of the show was, of course, teens dancing to records. There was one real musical act each day…usually a group that would come on to pantomime/lip sync to their current record, which made for an odd sight. There would be these musicians acting like they were playing on the beach…with their amps and electric guitars plugged into absolutely nothing. Most records of that era ended with the track fading out and I guess the acoustics out there weren’t great insofar as hearing the playback was concerned. As a song drew to its close, you could see the performers become unsure if it was through so they’d keep “playing” and then one guy would stop and maybe another. And then you could tell someone had yelled, “It’s not over! Keep playing!” And they’d scurry back into mime mode. Very odd stuff.
I’d love to see some clips of this show–it sounds very “Back to the Beach!” No wonder he was seen as a suitable addition to Catalina Caper.
You gotta give it up for a man with this much pivotal sixties and seventies film stuff under his belt (he was even in an episode of Night Gallery!). Suffice to say that this dude is the American Nicky Henson, and this fan mourns his passing.
P.S. Thanks to my girlfriend for the heads-up on this! I’m still so stunned by Ike Turner’s death, I haven’t been checking the obituary columns with my normal ghoulish zeal.
P.P.S. For some reason, today I’m loving! the! exclamation! points!!!
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