In My Opinion
Ian Stephen has been
writing a monthly column in RHYTHMS Magazine Australia for six years.
Below are some previous articles. This is not the entire collection.
-- these are not on the server--
Confessions of an Internet Junkie
Hicks From a Parallel Universe
-- these are not on the server--yet
ARTICLES are BELOW
Nashville Nightmare
It's a Saturday night and I'm in a run-down building in an unpopular part of town, just wondering what the hell I'm going to witness in the next room. This is Lucy's Record Shop at 1707 Church Street, and it's packed with 16-25 year olds wearing an oddball assortment of regalia. There are dogs wandering around, general disorderly mayhem, and the strongest substance openly available is Pepsi-Cola. I absentmindedly flip through the cds on sale as I wait for the next band to come on.
There are five bands playing tonight, and I have arrived somewhere in the middle of the action. I believe I may have found the motherlode of alternative music here in Nashville as I peruse an amazing collection of independant releases and immediately wish that my credit card was not already backed up to the max. Soon I hear movement from around the corner which leads me to believe that the next band may be about to come on.
I walk into the next room only to witness them tuning up for about three hours, (I'm exaggerating, but it was a long time). Two nerds on electric bass and lead guitar respectively, who must be brothers, a drummer who looks like.....a drummer, and a thin, greasy singer who looks like Pee Wee Herman meets Don Corleone from the Godfather. One.. two.. three Ah!
It's a cacophony of sound, but it's... great! It's so fucking loud and there are guys standing so close to the front of house that their ears must be pulsing blood. "People Program" are a very strange and exotic band from Chicago, who are a cross between The Ramones and Captain Beefheart and then some. I am greatful that they appear to have rehearsed a lot, and I wish that everyone who picked up a musical instrument showed such thoughtfulness. Well I just enjoyed it immensely but I had to leave as the desire for a strong alcoholic beverage took over so I took off for a place called "The Lava Lounge" which sounded quite interesting. Instead I found myself on Elliston Place, location of the Exit/In and some lesser known musical establishments. Frankly the Exit/In just didn't look too happenin', so I opted for a place three doors down called "The Sherlock Holmes Pub". I left America out on Elliston Place and entered the world of Jolly Olde England for a while.
In a place where beer is almost a cheap as petrol, it was a shock to find out that in this establishment that a pint of Guinness cost me five bucks! The music was good however, and the clientele interesting enough for me to want to remain there for the rest of the evening. The pubs music is provided by five fellows who basically sit around drinking beer whilst endlessly perfoming exquisite Irish/Celtic? toons on a variety of stringed and wind instruments. I really don't know what you call it, but it sounds like that Riverdance crap on valium. (I'm joking) It was actually very soothing and I could have sat there sipping expensive, imported Irish stout until my wallet ran dry. The next day I discovered that the battery in my car had been fried and that drove me into a state of deep despair. I only had myself and George Hamilton the Fifth to blame for this, so there was no point crying about it. Here's the thing. It's so incredibly easy to buy a car here in Tennessee that one can get a little reckless with ones purchases. There is no such thing as a pink slip, green slip, roadworthy check or any of that stupid, annoying shite that poor, miserable, ripped off Australians must endure to have the priviledge of owning a car. I know it's good to be safe but does it have to cost so bloody much? All you need to pay to own a car here is a yearly license tag fee of $23. Yes, that's $23, not $233 or $600 or think of a number and double it as is the case in 'Stralia.
I say, "Let The Revolution Begin!" and soon. Let's not even begin to speak of the price of petrol.
Now I have owned many cars but this one takes the cake. I knew it was going to be trouble when I saw it. It's a sapphire blue, 1966 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, Limousine edition. This is a monster of a car, a behemoth, the last of the full size American auto maker excesses before the Middle East troubles put the frighteners on everyone and jacked up the price of crude. It's a mothership, and it's the coolest thing you'll find in any part of town. In a country where a lot of vehicles look spectacular, this vehicle is The King Of The Road. Baby, it's Big Daddy!
It also doesn't lock and has certain peculiarities that give me reason to think that it may be possessed. Having said that I love it and wouldn't swap it for anything less than an 85 Lincoln Town Car, as driven by Geo Jones. It's also loaded with extras like electrically heated seats, automatic station seek, cruise control, electrically operated everything, (including the little vent windows at the front and rear), and little pull down mahogany tray tables and footrests in the back seats, so's y'all can have a table to write a number one toon on, and in comfort on your way to yore next engaygement.
Speakin' of engagements, I have been playing a couple of places since I got here. One of them, 'The Wagon Burner' , down on Broadway, finally closed it's weary doors at the end of December and I had played there a couple of times to mixed reaction. The second time I played the Wagon Burner, I cleared the room. It wasn't really that hard because the room was pretty darn clear to begin with. I was basically a guest of George Hamilton V during his regular weekly stint down there. This night was particularly fun because we had the writer of that wonderful Geo Jones hit song, 'Yabba Dabba Doo, The King Is Gone' (and so are you), playing rhythm geetar. I'm proud to say that Roger also played for me on the debut performance of a new song of mine called, 'I May Be Moody (But I Ain't Blue)'. The Wagon Burner is totally weird and it may be a good thing that it's gone for good. Pat, the woman who ran the establishment, was not the friendliest of people, and in fact, had many times chased customers out of the place because she didn't like the shoes they were wearing or some such trivial reason. Of all the people you may cxhoose to run a bar, she was not the most gifted at keeping the place solvent. Think of Moe's Bar in the Simpsons and you're getting close. Come to think of it, Pat and Moe would make the perfect couple
I have had a torrid time. My house is haunted and I think I'm going insane. Every afternoon at sundown a big monster called depression comes out of the hallway and roams about the house scaring the hell out of me.
The cranky old man next door has gone away, and the house on the other side has been vacant for the duration of my stay here. This thing is starting to get to me, and I feel like I won't get out here alive. It sounds like I'm being melodramatic, and I can see the foolishness of this train of thought, but nevertheless the feeling is real and quite frightening. Stupidly, when I left Australia to come here, I made rash statements such as, "I'm leaving and I'm never coming back", which gives you an idea of my dissatisfaction with the path my so-called career had been taking. Now these words have come back to haunt me, and I feel like I will never get back to The Land Down Under. I can't, for the life of me, ever see myself back Australia, and in my fevered mind, I picture myself the victim of any number of tragic mishaps. Yesterday, two employees of the local Captain D's seafood restaurant are shot in the back of the head execution-style and left in the freezer, as the robber made off with the cash. A local school girl doing a part time job and the 26 year old manager with a wife and two kids, blotted out forever by some creep, who probably wanted money for drugs. It's appalling and it makes me scared to venture out doors. I can't stay indoors either, and so I am perpetually wandering about the house frightened out of my wits.
I have bought a video camera in a effort to document my adventures here, and one night, as I am taping myself talking into the lens, I see the hallway light which is reflected in the tv screen, go out behind me. I play back the tape and just as I say the words, "I've had a happy time and a sad time here in Nashville", the light goes out on the word "sad", as if on cue. I am really spooked now, and so I decide I must get rid of whatever it is that is making my life some kind of zombie like hell. I didn't obtain that mailorder $25 Doctorate of Divinity from the back pages of the National Enquirer for nothing you know.
The next day is Saturday, and I'm now holding a full scale house cleansing session with candles, incense and prayer. I have subsequently learnt from George that the folks who lived here previously had experienced some phantom activity, particularly in the hallway, which is where I am now conducting this ritual. Suddenly a great gust of cold wind blasts out of this area and hits me square in the face. I can't believe this is happening, and all at once I feel an immense wave of sadness come over me. I actually start to cry at this point, because I feel such terrible unhappiness, and then it seems to move away. I am saying "It's ok, you don't have to stay here, you can leave this horrible place, go towards the light." When in doubt, I can safely recommend that one. Just to be sure, I keep a candle burning in the middle of the floor in the hallway for most of the rest of the day, and after a long while it splutters and finally goes out. I don't have any more trouble with spooks after that, so maybe I was successful. If you do have unwanted spirits lurking about, call me.
I decide it's time to leave Nashville. I'm running out of money and the haunted house business has left me feeling like a complete wreck. I don't think I can achieve much more at this stage, and I really need to earn some money, which I can't do legally here anyway. It's not something that I want to do, but I don't want to stay here like this either. I'm stuck in limbo like the spirits who were trapped in the hallway, only I'm alive, thank God.
A few days later I get a call back from a major record label, and the conversation goes something like this, Record Co Guy: "Hey howya doin',whatcha got goin', what's happening?"
Me: "Aaah, I'm slowly going insane."
Record Co Guy: "Well I'm quickly going insane, that's what this place does to you, you know. What is it that I have of yours, can you fill me in?."
I explain to him about the tapes that he has, the video, the bios, the reviews, the letter saying I will kill myself if they don't sign me, etc etc, and he promises to have a listen and get back to me real soon. I leave the country before he does. (if he ever does)
Packing up and leaving ain't easy, and I have acquired a number of large items of a household nature along the way. I have a TV, a couch, a beautiful mahogany coffee table, and a 1966 Fleetwood Brougham Cadillac which will definitely not fit into my suitcase. I go and get my hair cut at the "Sanitary Barber Shop" on Charlotte Avenue. My barbers name is Merle, and I ask for a Shemp Howard haircut, which he obligingly renders to my head, all the while giving his assistant, Bill, numerous putdowns regarding the merits of do-nuts versus bagels. Merle is for do-nuts. (good man) The last few days seem to unravel in slow-motion, as I try and gather all the loose ends together in preparation for leaving. It's been a big, horrible mess of trouble, but all is not lost. The story goes on, and will probably continue for many months, if not years to come. Nashville ain't done with me yet, and I ain't done with Nashville. I have written a whole albums worth of songs while I've been here. I've made some good friends. I've become addicted to non-dairy whitener, do-nuts and Krystal hamburgers, (look to the Krystal!), I've de-haunted a house and I've survived one of the worst winters physically and emotionally, that I've ever had to deal with, in one of the strangest and saddest places I've ever visited. Now I know some people are going to think that I am crazy and that it's not Nashville at all. I'm not the only one. Some people have found it hard to leave their hotel room because of this awful, brooding presence that seems to inhabit Nashville. I am relieved to find out that it's really not out to get you, it's just playing with you, as someone said.
My first week back in Australia seems to pass in a dream. I can't believe how green and lush everything is, and it's so goddam hot that I'm melting. Looking back on the last four months I can see that I've done a great job really. Nothing that a crack team of assault troops with a few flamethrowers and ground to air missiles couldn't have achieved in the same amount of time. I do love Nashville though, and it's not the reason for my problems. Nashville intensified a situation that was already in the first stages of deterioration. It brought it out into the open and slammed it against the wall until it smashed into a million pieces and then burnt the remains. On the day before I left, I visited the local library to find out more of the history of the area. It seems that the early explorers, upon arriving in the Middle Tennessee Valley, discovered hundreds and hundreds of burial sites from one end of the region to the other. Thousands of people from an ancient and highly advanced civilization which preceded the Native American tribes are laid to rest in this part of the country and nobody knows anything about these people. They say that the Indian Nations never settled in the valley, only using it to trap and catch food. The Unhappy Hunting Grounds perhaps? Bloody battles with much loss of life raged up and down Tennessee all through the Civil War and that wasn't too long ago neither. George was writing songs for a new album while I was there and one day he played me a tape of a new song that he had just written.
This is Georges new song about Nashville, and it's called, "I Love This Town"
I LOVE THIS TOWN, DON'T ASK ME WHY
MAYBE IT'S THE SMILIN' FACES AS YOU'RE PASSIN' BY
THEY SAY HELLO, AND WHEN YOU GO
IT'S Y'ALL COME BACK AGAIN, AND SEE US NOW AND THEN
AND IF YOU GOT SOME CASH, YOU CAN STAY AWHILE
EVERY DOOR'S ANOTHER STORE THEY'LL DRESS YOU UP IN STYLE
IF YOU AIN'T GOT NONE, THEN YOU'D BETTER RUN
OH YOU DON'T BELONG IN PARADISE IF YOU CAN'T PAY THE ASKIN' PRICE
BUT DON'T YOU LET THIS TOWN BRING YOU DOWN
IT'S A REAL NICE PLACE TO VISIT AND MAYBE EVEN HANG AROUND
WHEN YOU LEAVE JUST PICK YOUR DREAMS BACK UP DOWN AT THE LOST AND FOUND
IT AINT NOTHIN' BUT A BIG HOLE IN THE GROUND BUT I LOVE THIS TOWN
I LOVE THIS TOWN, YEAH THAT'S A FACT
I'VE LEFT A COUPLE OF TIMES, BUT SOMETHING ALWAYS BRINGS ME BACK
IT SURE AINT THE TRAIN, COS IT DON'T STOP HERE
SO I GUESS IT'S JUST THE ATMOSPHERE
MOST EVERY DAY,DOWN ON BROADWAY
THEY'RE TALKIN BIG AND MAKIN' DEALS AND SPINNIN' ALL THEIR WHEELS
IT'S A SIGHT TO SEE,YES INDEED, SO LET IT ROLL AND SELL YOUR SOUL
IF YOU'RE LUCKY YOU'LL STRIKE GOLD
BUT DON'T YOU LET THIS TOWN BRING YOU DOWN
IT'S A REAL NICE PLACE TO VISIT, MAYBE EVEN HANG AROUND
WHEN YOU LEAVE JUST PICK YOUR DREAMS BACK UP DOWN AT THE LOST AND FOUND
IT AINT NOTHING BUT A BIG HOLE IN THE GROUND
BUT I LOVE THIS TOWN C 1997 GEO HAMILTON V
Just before I left, I emailed my buddy to thank him for his hospitality and kindness, and to tell him to make sure and look after the only car I own, and I got to thinkin' about the big hole in the ground theory. Sure it is a big hole in the ground, but sometimes you've got to dig deep to find the gold that you're looking for. Some people dig themselves a hole that they can't get out of, and some people just scratch the surface. Me, I'm having a temporary rest, but I'll be back to dig it some more.
Mission To Memphis
Stoopid Elvis, Why couldn't he have died during a more favourable season? Instead he had to go and drop dead in the middle of summer, when being in Memphis is tantamount to a small approximation to hell.
I'm in Memphis because of a giant guitar. A giant Elvis guitar to be precise. My friend and travelling companion, Rosalinda McGovern, has created this huge work of art called Tupelo 1, which is basically a giant flying coffin for the King, and now the conveners of the Third International Conference on Elvis Presley, want it for their art show. First it had to be packed in huge crates and then shipped by air to San Francisco via Chicago and then on to Memphis by truck, but that's another story altogether.
Moments after we arrive we are told that the Art Show has been closed down by a small group of Elvis fans who object to some of the works. There is an Elvis on a cross a la Jesus in his underpants, an Elvis Madonna and Child and an Elvis with ants crawling all over his face, controversial, it aint. It turns out that these people, one of whom is the president of the local Elvis fan club, came to the gallery a week before we had arrived and said they would, quote, "get every Elvis fan in town to picket and they'd take down the building brick by brick and kick in every painting" unquote.
Free Speech being what it is, and Memphis being what it is, the Elvis fans won the day, and the show was closed, meaning that now, very few people would get to see Tupelo 1, somewhat of a drag when you've come halfway across the planet for that purpose.
Nevertheless, we were there, and there seemed to be some interesting speakers on the program in the next ten days, so what the hell, perhaps the controversy might spark some interest in the conference?
A series of concerts was also planned in the Overton Park Shell, where Elvis had made some of his earliest performances, so that could be fun, and it would have been if the first two acts had lived up to the high standard that Elvis had set thirty years ago. I don't know what the general perception of Elvez, the Mexican Elvis is, but I just didn't dig it man, but then I'm not too big on cabaret. I forget the name of the support act, but it was, um, forgettable.
The next day we fronted the conference bright and early only to discover that most of the people there were also participants, meaning that there were actually only about thirty people attending in total, quite a few less than we had imagined. Most of the speakers were academics who had written theses or books or papers on Elvis which at times made it seem like we were at the University of Elvis with the fun strand missing. There were a couple of speakers I was keen to hear, Larry Geller, Elvis' hairdresser and guru, and Howard Finster, oddball primitive religious artist, whose work has been used by Talking Heads, and more recently REM. Larry Geller arrived on Thursday complaining of whiplash, (he'd been in a car accident, on Elvis Presley Boulevard), and related a story, which he'd never told before, about how one day he had found Elvis sitting in his bedroom reading the National Enquirer or some such magazine. Elvis was shaking his head in disbelief at the headline which stated that he (Elvis), had become a hermit, inconsolable in his grief over the loss of his mother, unable to deal with reality anymore etc, etc.
Elvis said to Larry, "What they don't realise man, is that I never had chance to get over my mothers death. I was in the Army when she died and then I went to Germany and I never had a chance to properly grieve over her loss, and sometimes it hurts. My life has been just one big roller coaster, I was dirt poor and then all of a sudden I was rich beyond my wildest dreams, and things have just been moving so fast that sometimes it just makes my head spin."
It turns out that Elvis was pretty down to earth according to Larry, and could recite any page of the mystic tome "The Prophet" on command.
I asked a question, "What would Elvis say to us about religion if he were here today?"
Larry. "Elvis would say, know yourself man. If you want to know about religion start by finding out why you are here on this earth, what is your purpose being here, and love, love others as you would yourself, that's what Elvis would say."
At times the conference seemed to take on an almost evangelical air and no more so than when Howard Finster spoke about painting and how Elvis had inspired him to paint Elvis pictures.
Howard is about 110 and frankly, if he wasn't a celebrity weirdo artist, he would be certified and locked up. His "talk" consisted of a rambling sermon about Revelation, Jesus, Elvis and painting, though not necessarily in any order or logical progression. I think he's basically a nutball, but a hell of a nice old man, and his paintings are mighty fine too.
Howard graciously agreed to bless Tupelo 1 with some badly needed Scripture, and after painstakingly writing it on the neck with his own hand, the guitar now carries a passage from the Bible, Romans 10.9. Look it up.
We had to go to Graceland, it was inevitable, and so with 50,000 other fans we got on board those funny little coaches that take you across the road and up the drive to Els house. These days you can't take any kind of a tour of anything without having to wear those dangblasted headphones attached to a dodgy walkman which you have to keep on whilst a disembodied voice tells you what you're looking at. It's annoying because you can't share the experience with anyone else, and everyone comes out with exactly the same experience. Me being the rebel I am, took them off, much to the suspicion and alarm of the security people.
Ah, Graceland, Grace-lessland, once you catch sight of those packs of morbidly obese people wearing summer fashions from hell. Still the wreathes were excellent. "Elvis, we love you tender, from your devoted fans in East Mongolia." Nice to see the Elvis Teddy Bear getting a good look in these days as the international symbol of disaster and grief.
There were camera crews and journalists by the thousand camped out on the lawns and all getting the same stories. Interviews with the aforementioned fans conducted one syllable at a time. Heady stuff. I had enough time to write a song, while Rosalinda took pictures of the floral tributes, (there were a lot of em), until finally I had to drag her ass outta there. We had spent three hours, which I thought was about two hours too many, besides we had to get to the Elvis Mass at a Catholic church not far from Graceland. When we arrived there were some nice ladies with placards outside the building saying that it was a sacrilege to be having an Elvis Mass particularly on the Day Of Assumption and most particularly because Elvis wasn't a Catholic.
The priest giving the sermon was an Elvis fan however, so that made it alright I guess.
"If Elvis were alive today he would say, Love Me Tender and I'll always be, Loving You." When was the last time you heard that in church? Groovy.
The feeling throughout this whole week was that Elvis was beginning to take on Saint-like qualities, if not God-like. It was an unsettling kind of a creepy feeling and I like Elvis. It's beginning to look like Elvis is taking the place of less happenin' deities in the hearts and minds of some of our brethren. I know that Johnny Topper and I started a 'Church of the Latter Day Elvis Presley' way back in the early eighties, but it was a JOKE for goodness sake! I give up. Hopefully we won't also have a 'Church of the Latter Day Princess Di', but in England it's probably well under way.
Well, the 3rd International Conference on Elvis Presley finally ground to a halt on the Sunday with a big closing party which must have finished one whole hour after it had begun because everyone had left by the time we arrived. A big whimper. We had to hang around until the following day to repack the guitar and hope that our friend the customs agent was still willing to take care of the piece for however long it was to remain in Memphis.
The director of the conference Vernon Chadwick, was nowhere to be found and it appeared that the whole exercise had taken on an even more flaky turn, after we tried to find the travel agents who had paid for the shipping of the art work from Australia to the US. It seems that Pamela Anderson, the woman who had arranged for the shipping had not been authorised to do so, and Mega World Travel had mysteriously moved their offices to.. where?? We couldn't track them down, so we left for Kentucky, vowing never to visit Memphis in August again unless somebody paid us a lot of money to go there.
Once we got the hell out of there things improved considerably and we even managed a side trip to colourful and historic Arthur, Illinios, which is home to lots of Amish and Mennonite people. With one church per about five head of population, things are well looked after in the religious department. Oh, and the local butcher can also process the deer you just shot too. Driving around and looking at those black horse drawn wagons and oddly dressed people set my mind a'thinkin about what an Elvis religious colony might look like in the year 2525 (if man is still alive). I didn't have to go back more than a week ago, though, because I saw what it would be like. Big is beautiful, Obese is better, Elvis Nazis rule. The King is a Saint. This ol' world will never run out of Presley songs/films/candid portraits/books/revelations. There is so much recorded Elvis stuff, such as live concerts taped from the soundboard during the 70's, that a new album could be released every year for the next 20 years. The Elvis restaurant in Beale Street had long lines every day and somebody is making a lot of money on them T-shirts. As a trademark and corporate identity, EP is looking very healthy thank you very much, just ask Priscilla. It will be interesting to see if all the attention that Diana, Princess of Whales (my spelling), manages to inveigle itself into the multi-million dollar cult of worship and long term financial sustainability that very clearly puts Elvis ahead of the pack in the hardest- working -dead -person - in -show -biz, stakes.
Frankly I don't think she has a hope. No records, no films, no free cars, nothin'.
If anything the attendant hysteria surrounding her death marks the end of final chapter in the story of the British Empire, and good luck!
Tupelo 1 now rests in a climate controlled warehouse just south of Graceland, awaiting further instructions and is, in the words of Larry Geller, " Worth money, A LOT of money" If you find yourself with a spare $250,000, it can be yours, but you'll have to go to Memphis to get it.
I haven't wanted to listen to Elvis much lately, I still prefer Southern Gospel anyway, and my enjoyment of the Elvis phenomenon took a disturbing turn when a couple of boneheads managed to shut down a fairly innocuous art show, because in their words "It's about a sick mind."
I have no doubt E would be the first one to say "There's only one Jesus, and He aint me."
One of the speakers at the conference, a burly ex cop from New York named Jack Cataneo, was our resident conspiracy theorist, with the real truth behind everything from Watergate to the Oaklahoma bombing. (did you know that Deep Throat was actually Pat Buchanan?)
Jack's theory is that Elvis Presley was murdered by Richard Nixon via his personal physician Dr Nichopolous because he was perceived as a threat to Nixon's presidency and to national security. It was also revealed during the conference that Elvis had called Jimmy Carter several times at the White House to ask for clemency for a policeman friend, (whom it turned out had not even been charged with anything), in a drugged and excitable state.
All of Jack's papers are heavily underlined and embedded with notes and highlights, just in case you miss the relevant, secret clues that are crying out from the page.
There was one that took my fancy and I think Jack's probably working on this one even as we speak. At the bottom of a particularly long winded article about the end of Nixons Presidency, Jack has scrawled in a big black pen," The Chronology of recorded events of the Nixon White House from Nov. 68 to RMN resignation Aug. 74, proves that Elvis Presley naively walked into the middle of a monumental political criminal conspiracy. IF MOTHER TERESA HAD RUNG THE WHITE HOUSE DOOR BELL ON 12 DEC 1971, SHE WOULD NOT BE HERE IN 1997.
Hmmm........
SOMETHING IS WRONG
“I remember the day when the Lord saved me!” “If you love Jesus give Him a big hand clap of praise tonight!” “If you have to go around with a long face all the time, you don’t have religion, you’ve got indigestion!”
“It’s alright to get happy on a McGruder video!” “I’m about to have one of them shoutin’ spells!”
When was the last time you heard anyone say things like that on a live recording? Unless you are a dedicated southern gospel follower, the chances of you hearing that sort of thing are quite remote. Frankly I think that’s a shame.
In January my girlfriend and I took a Norwegian business colleague of hers to a well-known RSL club in Sydney for a taste of the local color. This lady had only a few days in Australia and as it was her last night in town what better way to spend it, than in the company of Ian ‘Turps’ Turpie, and a few disinterested, beer sodden revelers. We hadn’t really gone out looking for ‘Turps’, but, lets just say we were on the turps and all of a sudden we found ourselves staring into the face of what appeared to be Ian, three quarters of the way through a set of songs that had been written and/or performed by dead people
The Turps didn’t look too alive at that stage and the band definitely had one, if not both feet in the grave. What the hell we said, it ain’t often you get to see a legend in concert, so we stuck around.
Let me say that Turps plays a pretty damn fine version of ‘Misty’, on the guitar and that, for me was the highlight of his whole career so far, and I’ve been following him for a long time. There was no “Give the Lord a handclap of praise if you love Him!” so I couldn’t say it turned me on too much. Helle, from Norway loved it though, although I think the splendid vision of two Turps crazed women punters on the dance floor doing all the actions to “Blame It On The Boogie”, had a lot to do with it. The act finished up with a medley of fruit. Actually it was a medley of Chuck Berry songs, but I wished it had been fruit. The key words here, I think, are had, and been. I wished I had been somewhere else. Heck, the drummer was excellent, and there was plenty of room at the bar, so give the Lord a handclap of praise for that.
Helle left for New Zealand the next day which happened to be Australia Day, thereby denying herself the pleasure of still more Oz culture and eccentricity.
It’s always a fun day and it led my thoughts back to last year. I was living in Nashville at the time and I watched President Clinton deliver the Annual State of the Union address the American people. I had been impressed enough to email some selected Australian media sites with my take on the whole Australia Day deal, comparing Bill’s enthusiasm for the future to our present regimes lacklustre dreariness. I got an instant response from 3AW in Melbourne, who wanted me to participate in a talkback segment for their drive time program.
To cut a long story short, I was the most hated man in Australia for about five minutes, and listening to the callers comments, anyone would think I had burned my grandmother and sold her into slavery for the price of a box trifecta on the third at Moonee Valley. It was a unique experience to say the least.
My favorite was the guy who rang to say, “I live in Doncaster and I’ve got three kids and I’m really happy!” Fair enough buddy.
At any rate I don’t really think it matters where you are, as long as you are happy. Ain’t it so?
Which brings me to the starting point of this article, which I was going to call, “Great Moment In Gospel Music”. The thing about it is, they are all great moments and that’s what makes gospel music so compelling. It’s a pity that we don’t have any true gospel music stations in Australia. Oh sure, you’ve got your contemporary Christian stations here and there, but nothing to really ‘git down to’, if you read me. I’m talking about black and white gospel here, and I long for the day when, in an interactive universe, a magazine like this will be available on the internet and have a button for you to press and you’ll instantly be listening to “Lord Please Make Me Whole” by the Angelic Voices of Faith, or “I’m Going Home With Jesus”, by the McGruders. That day is almost here.
We all need gospel music in our lives, just like we need to have something to believe in, even if it is that the song that you wrote will be included on the next volume of Princess Diana’s greatest hits and sell 20 million copies. (and you’ll actually get to collect the royalties).
There are many that will say that religion is bad and gospel music is crap, and who can blame them? When I say gospel music, what I really mean is positive, uplifting music that doesn’t seek to destroy the spirit and cloud the mind. Music is food for the soul, and you are what you eat brothers and sisters.
This month I got my copy of the Singing News Trade Review, which is an industry publication pertaining to southern gospel music. In it was a listing of the most popular songs of 1997. I was most pleased to note that the number one song of last year was, “We Want America Back” by the Steeles. It’s a compelling little ditty, penned in anger and frustration.
Like all great songs it has a monologue, and although it is quite long winded I feel compelled to share it with you. It goes something like this …..
“I love America, but I do not love what she has become. Scripture says, Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord, and America has forgotten the godly foundation upon which she was built. SOMETHING IS WRONG. Our children are asked to attend public schools that in many cases resemble war zones, without even the basic right of any soldier. The right to pray to the God of heaven. Many times the wild eyed, drug addicted, gun carrying teenager is allowed to stay in school, while our Supreme court decided to expel God from the classroom over 30 years ago. SOMETHING IS WRONG. Television daily bombards the senses of our nation with the idea that wrong is right, that the abnormal is normal, that the abhorrent is acceptable, and that what God calls an abomination is nothing more than an alternate lifestyle. And it’s had an effect.
Thirty years ago the number one program in America was the Andy Griffith Show, look what we have today. SOMETHING IS WRONG. When our government can pass out contraceptives to children in school without parental consent, and yet the Gideons can no longer pass out the Bible on campus. SOMETHING IS WRONG. When our leaders can say to your children and mine that premarital sex is all right as long as it’s ‘safe’. Yes, SOMETHING IS WRONG, and I for one am ready for a change. I will say to my government, I’m not raising dogs in my house, I’m raising children, created in the image and likeness of almighty God, and I’m going to teach them the Bible. If the Bible says it’s right it’s right.
And if the Bible says it’s wrong, it’s wrong. The only hope that America has, is that godly men and women of character will stand together as one mighty army and declare to the immoral, the impure, the obscene and the foul. Your days of unlimited access to the minds of America are over. The army of God that has been silent too long is taking America back. We want America back! ”
Something tells me it’s too late. Believe me it is a great song though, and it’s all in the delivery.
One day you’ll get an instant replay of that monologue at the touch of a button on your computer screen as you read this, but until then you’ll just have to imagine how good it is. If you’d really like to hear it, email at the address below and maybe I’ll make a cassette for you or something. Words fail me in describing just how good I think this song is, so I’ll leave that task to another man of monologues, southern gospel style.
In the words of Randy Perry, lead singer and MC of God’s Little People, the singing dwarves, the shortest gospel group in the world, the Singing Perrys,
“This song sums just exactly how I feel, up!”
Ian Stephen
‘We Want America Back’ c Jeff Steele 1997
One Nation---One Network Ian Stephen 1998
They're not listening!
I know Pauline, I know exactly how you feel. Anyone who has ever released a music project independently is eventually going to have to face the question of radio promotion and airplay.
Unless you are prepared to take a chance on word-of-mouth sales, or opening up a market stall somewhere, radio and TV airplay are still the main conduits (apart from playing live) through which Joe Public gets to hear what you, the artist, has to offer.
I've been down this road before and I don't like it much. The problem is not so much with the artist, but with the programming directors of the radio stations that you are trying to convince to air your music. Part of the problem, of course, is the marginalisation of radio these days. In between talk back jockeys, good time oldies, the worst songs of all time, and sport, sport and sport, and for those who don't like sport, all of today's sporting action in our big sports roundup, ( Thank you Monty Python) there is little room for anything at all.
Now, you can call me a cynic, but the chances of your music being played on a big time commercial radio network without major record company support are looking a little slim. This I understand, I wasn't born yesterday, and I know how these things operate. Think on it this way. Do you really want your music played in the midst of toilet jokes, forced comedy routines and mindless gabbling? Of course you do. But wait a minute, there is a non-commercial alternative, I hear you say. Why, here in Australia we have our very own, national, non-commercial, government-funded, independent radio network with all the resources and funds to enable practically everyone who owns a radio to be able to tune in and listen to your music. They should your first port of call, after all they're not subject to the same pressures that the commercial networks have, and surely they have an interest in promoting Australian music!
Do they?
To answer the question, I honestly don't know, because I can't listen to it. Triple J is Australia's national "youth network", and therefore it's charter must be to, presumably cater to Australia's "youth", who ever they are. I know I'm probably treading on dangerous ground since I don't listen. Perhaps I should say "any more". I think I stopped listening like thousands of others when they changed it all. (It's an old argument and not worth going into again.) I'm probably way out of their demographic anyway, but I have tried tuning in and I very quickly tuned out. It's not so much the music that is played, but the music that is not played. How many of the artists that are featured in the pages of this magazine are on Triple J's playlist? How many are on any radio station's playlist? (Apart from community stations)
Why should the "youth" of Australia have to be force-fed what some knucklehead radio programming dude thinks is contemporary and relevant? Just because Triple J music programmers are musically ignorant why should Australia's "youth" have to be deprived of hearing some new and different music? I think music directors of government funded radio stations should be made to take a course in the history of popular music. Then we might start to get a little bit of variety, richness and musical diversity coming from them. I'm not saying it should become the conservatorium of Rock and Roll, but why is it necessary to sound like commercial radio with a monotonous playlist and moronic DJs, who are all starting to sound alarmingly like Tim Fisher?
What's all this youth crap anyway? Surely it is discriminatory to have this stupid, ageist labelling of a radio station? If the youth of Australia have got Triple J, then what do the rest of us have, ABC Radio National? Forget it! When do you stop becoming a youth? Does it mean that they're only going to play music made by people under the age of 30? Let me put it another way, there must be a hell of a lot of middle aged youths out there. Look, I think most radio stations are just about unlistenable so I've got a jaundiced view. The only local station that I ever thought was any good was North Harbour FM in Sydney, and that was because I was the owner, manager and president and I chose the playlist! (Thank you SCTV!) That's my solution, and by the way, I am happy to consider reasonable offers of employment as music director and/or presenter if you're looking for talent to get the sound of your station up to speed, but I think I'm better suited to television. In summary, I think it's a bit of a shame that we have a Government funded national radio network, that is, for all intentions and purposes, the same as commercial radio, (albeit youth oriented) I could be wrong. If I am wrong, I'd be happy to spread the good news. Whatever.I'm tired of talking about it and I'd rather look on the positive side.
Finally, I must mention a CD which I listened to the other day. It's called "Rough & Ready Rockerbilly", and it has been released for a while now. In fact, I've had it in my possession for about three years and occasionally I bring it out and play it. If the names 'The Autodrifters', 'The Pelaco Bros', 'The Fabulous Nudes' and 'The Relaxed Mechanics' mean anything to you, then you'll know what I'm talking about. If they don't, then buy this CD and experience a golden age of Australian hillbilly rock. Forget Nashville's BR4509, or whatever they're called, the Auto-Drifters were doin' it in the late 70's, and with a lot more wit and sophistication. Check out J Toppers extraordinary lyrics on "I'll Be A Dag For You Baby" and "Come Back-a-Baby" and dig the way those cats groove with basic instrumentation and el-cheapo recording budgets. These boys broke through that boring 70's thing that was all-pervading at the time, and the tracks are as fresh and full of energy as the day they were cut. I vividly remember one New Years Eve, when I found myself with a bunch of people, one of who was (Auto-Drifter) Rick Dempster, in Carlton, drunk and confused and looking for a good time.
I think Rick may have been having a little bit more of a good time than the rest of us since he was having trouble staying vertical. I remember watching with mild horror as he kept falling down off his chair only to hit his head on the side of one of those large concrete plant tubs that they probably still have in Lygon Street. He must have fallen down three times, and each time 'bang' on the back of the skull. After effects?
Nosirree! Now that's a boy with a hard head! Oh those golden days. While I'm on the subject. For some true wit and satire, somebody please bring back the Beat Pest Beatles, the only group in the world who became the object of what they started out satirizing. I could go on, but there's only so much space in this universe for reminiscing. This column will, hopefully, appear every month from now on, unless I am offered a program managers position on Australia's new space station, but then there's always good old reliable and free email. The beauty of baud as they say.
Ian Stephen
Behold The Master Cometh
Cementville is finished, it's done, I can't take it no further, it's as good as it gets, and it can't get no better. It's been a long, hard road, and a tough, uphill climb. I've been in the valley and I've reached the mountaintop. I've supped with the devil and walked with angels. I've been washed in the blood of
Calvary!! Er.... No, that's another thing altogether.
Some of you who may be reading this column for the first time might be scratching your heads at this point and asking, 'Just what the hell is 'Cementville'? Well. I'll tell ya.
It's the recording project I've been slaving over, struggling with, getting abusive, nauseated, seethingly mad, and sometimes even quite pleased with, and about for about the last eighteen months.
It's my goddamn CD, and I'm glad to be rid of it! If you've never made a record then you'll hopefully find this entertaining. If you have, then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
It all starts with a song. 'Without a song a man ain't got a friend...'etc, etc. Thank You Elvis! Actually it all starts with this horrible, unsettling feeling that you must DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIFE!! And before you know it, you're
spending hours and hours of every single day, just listening. Listening, listening, screaming, cursing, listening. Watching the Midday Show, but trying not to listen to it, scribbling furtively and playing your guitar. Hitting the
record button, and before you know it, there you are. You've got a whole bunch of songs on various tapes and, by crikey, it's starting to sound like an album. Now I'm not going to do a track by track analysis of what each song means, or why I wrote or even what or how and where I recorded each one. (not today anyway) That's not what I want to talk about. I want to tell you about the most frightening process of the whole recording schlemiel, Mastering.
Have you ever been to confession? Have you ever been to a shrink, a counsellor, a doctor for some embarrassing physical complaint that you'd never even tell your friends about? That's what it's like mastering a CD. Oh yeah, you've got your hot tapes, you're done recording, you're feelin' pretty good until it comes to mastering. Mastering is like putting every single thing you've recorded under a powerful microscope and examining it note by note. All those little things that you carelessly tossed into the mix, all those insignificant mistakes that didn't seem to matter at the time, all that echo and noise that you didn't notice when the track was sounding just perfect in the studio. Then one day it all comes home. Mind you, all the good things just keep sounding better too, and that's really the whole idea. Mastering makes it better. You can generally tell after the first couple of tracks whether you've wasted your time or not. A good mastering engineer is multi-skilled, and must fulfil the roles of priest, surgeon, psychiatrist and coach. For example; 'There's absolutely no vocal there to speak of.' 'No problem. How loud do you want it to be?' 'Ah…..Can we cut 20 minutes out of that song and crossfade it into track six and add some liquid smoke?' 'Sure, easy.' 'Oh, you've stupidly erased part of the only copy you have of that song? Don't worry I'll fix it so that nobody will notice.' And so on. It's torture, yet probably the closest you'll ever pay attention to what you've spent many months slaving over. The best thing is that when it's all finished you know it's going to sound a lot better than the last time you heard it. Mastering rooms have deadly, cruel and unforgiving monitors. They are transparent, meaning they don't add anything to the sound or take anything away. The crimes you committed to tape are exactly what come back to haunt you. It's merciless and mean and far from relaxing. That's not to say that I am dissatisfied with the results. Far from it, I couldn't be happier, but what I started with was pretty good to begin with! Nevertheless I am glad that it's done, well pleased with the results, and I thank you for this indulgence. Now I want you to have it, so look in this magazine for a special offer this month.
I guess there ain't too much opinion here, this time, so I'll just swing round and take a shot at the first thing that moves. Elvis Nazis….AKA 'The True Fans'. Some time ago I wrote about taking Tupelo 1, The Giant Elvis Guitar to Memphis. Seemed like a good idea at the time, until some 'fans' objected to some of the other art works which depicted Elvis in poses and situations other than 'Aloha From Hawaii' circa Jan 1973. They threatened to 'kick the building down brick by brick', if the offending art was not removed, and so in the interests of public safety, the show was shut down. Almost unbelievably Andres Serrano's 'Piss Christ' suffered the same fate later that year in Melbourne, in some kind of weird synchronicity. Well the 4th Annual International Conference on Elvis Presley is on again this year and some of the fans are at it again, criticising one of the proposed community art projects, because it is seemingly taking the name of Elvis in vain. This year's conference is titled 'Are You Lonesome Tonight, Elvis and the Dysfunctional Family' and aims to bring together people from all walks of life for a respectful, sensitive and honest exploration of Elvis' personal struggles, especially of the last years of his life. The conference will undertake to study Elvis' sufferings in order to better understand the burdens of celebrity and some of the social ills of the late 20th Century. Thought provoking and interesting stuff you might say, but not what the 'true fans' want. For some unfathomable reason these people seem to have overlooked the fact that Elvis was a seeker of knowledge and spent many hours reading all kinds of books on spiritualism, the occult, esoteric wisdom and suchlike, not to mention The Bible. Are we entering some kind of new millennium Dark Ages, where dead celebrities like Elvis and Diana have been elevated to an almost god-like status, and therefore beyond criticism or rational application of thought?
What the hell is going on? Is God dead? Has He/She been usurped by the cargo cult of New Idea? Is Elvis coming back? Is Diana's beatification just around the corner? The world seems to be getting dumber yet in a curious paradox, technologically more sophisticated. We can look at live pictures of the surface of Mars yet millions weep over a wealthy misguided nitwit, who helped perpetuate that curious and grotesque monument to inequality called 'The British Monarchy.' I'm not even going to mention 'the war'. Lord A' Mercy, We livin' in strange times indeed!
Ian Stephen