And in more fun news, happy birthday to Gene Vincent!

I fully realize I've already posted all over my Facebook wall about today being the birthday of the one Fifties rock 'n' roll pioneer who was likely the degenerate thug rock's detractors claimed all rock 'n' roll musicians were in the day. (Dammit, I really need to think twice about FB posting material that might be better for a blog.) But Eugene Vincent Craddock deserves celebration. He was primal, lusty, lowdown, and could still sing like an angel when needed. Elvis Presley's drummer, DJ Fontana (who was a Blue Cap for six months when Presley was drafted into the Army), verified that Gene and his Blue Caps were the pre-Keith Moon definition of rock 'n' roll hellraising on the road, to the point where he had to quit the band! And Gene's music? It had more thump, sex, swagger, and menace than anyone this side of Elvis. Case in point? Click below....

"Be Bop A Lula," the record that started it all. It confused Gladys Presley to the point she called her boy Elvis on the road to congratulate him on his new hit, "Be Bop A Lula!" What you just saw is Gene and the Blue Caps' immortal performance of it in the best Fifties rock 'n' roll film bar none, Frank Tashlin's The Girl Can't Help It, also featuring Eddie Cochran, Little Richard, Fats Domino, and Jayne Mansfield's million watt sexuality. Does it get any better?

Unlike Elvis and many other contemporaries, Gene suffered a leg injury in the service which prevented him from indulging the hip-thrusting gyrations other early rockers employed. Once he got to England, UK rock impresario Jack Goode draped him in black leather and chains and urged him to limp even more pronouncedly, turning him into some Shakespearean villain of rock. It drove the English and Europeans wild. Dig Gene in Belgium in the early '60s, predicting punk rock with a crazed performance of "Long Tall Sally," complete with a crutch-hurling entrance that's just pure rock 'n' roll attitude!

I only just discovered today, however, that Gene made contemporary, small label records during his '60s commercial twilight that were as vital and rocking as any he cut in the Capitol Records Tower in his heyday. Such as this garage punk (!) screamer, "Bird-Doggin'," featuring Gene backed by The Wrecking Crew getting low-down and dirty. Glen Campbell, of all people, even turns in some crazed, fuzz-drenched lead guitar!

I was even hipped to Gene having done some credible Byrds-influenced folk rock in this period, none of which is embarrassing. Think about that: Under the radar, Gene Vincent was still contemporary and vital. The only other peers of his doing strong, modern work at that time were the Everly Brothers and Dion. Elvis was losing his touch in Hollywood, wondering what the hell had happened. And Gene just rocked on....

Happy birthday, Gene. You really were the Living End....

Okay, it's ALMOST a corn dog pic....

...and given how he's currently the most vehemently anti-gay presidential candidate running at the moment, I'm sure none of us would be surprised if photos surface with something more fleshy entering Rick Santorum's gob than this ice cream cone. And the clown cars continue unloading these over-sized goofs....

Okay, so it isn't a corndog pic....

...but the idea of these assholes being shipwrecked is kinda appealing, isn't it?

I know this was already posted at my Facebook wall, but isn't this as good an opportunity as any to note I have a new "Letter From America" post at Louder Than War? Follow the bouncing links for the latest sarcasm about American politics, as well as some praise for The Jim Jones Revue and OFF! See you there!

Year-End Inventory III: Books I Dug

Alice Bag greets you from the cover of Slash,  May 1978.

Greetings, my Irregulars, from Your Irregular-In-Chief. It's a chilly, sunny Sunday afternoon in Denver. I'm in my friend's apartment, X live bootlegs on the hi-fi, a glass of cool, fresh water at my hand. My leg is healing nice-like, the advent of an ACE bandage doing wonders in my recovery and mobility. The leg's still tender and I have to be careful with it. But the pain's more like a dull ache now, rather than the skull-piercing shredding of my nerve endings it has been, which has made me a prisoner of a bed or couch for a few weeks now. That feels like a massive improvement. So, back to work for real, tomorrow.

I come to you today realizing I'd promised a reading wrap-up for last year. I do have to say that, due to funds, etc., that 2011 was not a year I either purchased or read much that was new. For the most part, I caught up on oldies I'd yet to read from either other pals' collections (such as Charlie Solus' vast James Ellroy archives) or things I found in thrift stores or used book stores for cheap. In the case of Ellroy, I had to marvel at his crisp, clean language, the brutal honesty, the ability to use real life events as a literary springboard, and his amazing ability to capture marginal life in mid-century Los Angeles (as well as pulling back the rocks and exposing the worms and snakes crawling beneath the city's showbiz surface). What strikes me as Ellroy's peak, American Tabloid, goes well-beyond the L.A. city limits to encompass the whole of America in the '60s, which is a rather daunting task. Still, he accomplishes that with ease, and the rest of his oeuvre definitely places him as the latest in a long line of great poets of Los Angeles' underside: Raymond Chandler, Charles Bukowski, even John Doe and Exene Cervenka. Bless him for that.

Then there are my other newfound discoveries: Alex Cox's X Films: True Confessions Of A Radical Filmmaker (Soft Skull Press, Berkeley, CA, 2008), which not only offers frequently hilarious behind-the-scenes accounts of the making of Repo Man, Sid And Nancy, and various other Cox films that aren't as well-known, but also serves as a primer in how to be an independent artist in an increasingly corporate world, with all the joy, rewards, and ugliness therein; Mark Evanier's Kirby: King Of Comics (Abrams, New York, NY, 2008), a huge, lavish, hardbound celebration of the man who was arguably the greatest comic book artist ever, Jack Kirby; Billy F. Gibbons' Rock & Roll Gearhead (with Tom Vickers, 2008; softcover edition from Voyageur Press, Minneapolis, MN, 2011), loads of hilarious philosophy and autobiography around the edges of beautiful photographs of the vast twin guitar and custom car archives of the ZZ Top guitarist – eye candy deluxe(!); and John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy Of Dunces (Grove Press, New York, NY, 1980), possibly the funniest novel I've ever read, and certainly the best I've read set in New Orleans or in the early '60s. How this has never been made into an equally epic and hilarious film is beyond me; Jack Black would certainly make a great Ignatius J. Reilly....

Of the few new titles that jumped into my shopping bag last year, my favorite was Alice Bag's Violence Girl (381 pages, $17.95 softcover, Feral House, Port Townshend, WA 2011, feralhouse.com). Subtitled East L.A. Rage To Hollywood Stage: A Chicana Punk Story, this should clue you in to what's great about it: It's not just another punk book. True, Alice Bag is as iconic figure as Darby Crash or anyone from that Masque scene. She was of that original generation of fierce punk rock women (Patti Smith, Penelope Houston, Joan Jett, Exene, The Slits, Poly Styrene) who made questions of gender irrelevant and inspired with their brilliance, their ferocity, and their righteousness. But there's a lot more to this book.

Like I said, this isn't merely an L.A. punk history. This is Alice Bag's story. So we get taken back to that environment which spawned Alice: From her parents' origins in Mexico to the Los Angeles barrios where she was raised. We see that Alice was given an odd mixture of love and abuse, mostly due to her father. He would tell young Alicia she was exceptional, that she could do anything, and nurtured her artistry...then lash out in drunken rage at her mother in the next breath. She was equally shaped by weight issues and her own ethnicity, until a mix of the Chicano and glam rock movements in the early '70s helped her burst whatever shell was there and gave her pride and determination. Then came punk and the formation of The Bags. And Alice Bag emerged a sexy, rampaging, intelligent force.

L.A. critic Ken Tucker tries to turn the town onto The Bags...and then undersells their 45?!

Fortunately for her, despite some inclinations in that direction, Alice only dipped into the debauchery and self-destruction inherent in punk rock Los Angeles. Moving back into her parents' home midway through might have helped, giving her some literal and philosophical distance from the damage that was developing among her peers. And even after The Bags' imminent death, Alice kept creating, either musically or in other areas, and eventually graduated college and became a school teacher. As a teacher, she remained an activist, centering on educating and encouraging the underprivileged, even spending time teaching in Nicaragua in the mid-'80s. She continued following and acting on her principles and beliefs, and has benefited for that.

Amazing, what can be done with some photo booth strips and a Bic pen....

Like the Alex Cox book I mentioned earlier, Violence Girl should serve as an inspiration to the young artist and rebel: For once, the heroine doesn't self-destruct. Alice Bag stayed on the course, rose above, and keeps doing what she set out to do. Punk rock doesn't have to kill. Nor does environment. Yes, there are happy endings in punk rock – and life – sometimes....

Putting the "limp" in Olympics

Greetings, my Irregulars. I know it seems I've pulled another of my frequent disappearances. For good reason, this time around.

I've been forced by circumstances to lay a little low. Over two weeks ago, as I was walking to work at the temp service I'd been toiling at since I was suspended at my fund-raising job in late October, I slipped on some black ice and injured my right leg somehow. Not sure how, as I'm one of the mass of Americans with no health insurance. So no, I haven't seen a doctor.

Hence, since I had to move out of where I'd been living two days later, I've spent the last two weeks at first at one friend's house, then another, where I've finally settled 'til I've found a new place. I've no internet service there, and my cellphone is off for non-payment. I've essentially been isolated, in a lot of pain, my injured leg elevated and on ice, playing lots of guitar and writing a new song or two, and watching loads of cool and weird films provided by my buddy Tom. We're talking Russ Meyer homages, '60s Italian westerns, James Bond parodies, even the occasional rock documentary. (Thanks all that great eye candy, Tom. Your gift is a true sanity saver. BTW, Dear Reader: You should really check out his Denver Eye blog, at this link.)

Am I any better? Not sure. I'm just trying to get back into the world, on my way back to work at my old fund-raising job, as funds are low. I've been checking in daily, the last few days, at a coffee house along the bus route, to take advantage of the free wi-fi. But yes, I've found myself limping home and spending hours on ice to bring the swelling back down. I think I'm getting better. But this sure isn't healing as quickly as I'd like.

I know I promised to write about books and other eye candy I dug this past year. That'll have to wait for the next installment – an update was necessary this time around. Meantime, enjoy your non-crippled legs. I certainly look forward to the day I'm not channeling my late, arthritic grandpappy. (I mean, shitfire! How am I supposed to execute those flying scissorkicks when I'm hobbling around like this?! Although the introduction of the ACE bandage to my life has been quite revolutionary, I must say.) Be there. Aloha.

Year-End Inventory II: The Music

"Personally, I like the Bern Elliot and The Fenmen reissue!"

This is always the time of year your fave-rave cultural journalists love to compile Top Ten Lists of the stuff they got sent for free that they feel was important. I never enjoyed doing those lists - how egotistical can you get, making such grand pronouncements? Fact is, taste is individual, the brain is an imperfect memory bank, and something's gonna get left out that'll offend someone or other. Then again, most of my actions offend someone or other, it seems. So, what the eff...?

So, despite having retired from the rock critic fray in 1998 and only occasionally writing about music for pay in the years since, I know there's scores of people out there who still look at me as being a (*gulp*) "rock journalist." Not that they likely care what my opinions are on anything....

Still, for some odd reason, I can't resist doing a recap for the past year in culture. Guess I crave punishment, for some weird crime I'm unaware of....

Record Of The Year 2011: This had to have been the oddest musical year in my memory. I don't know about your memory. But I think we have official evidence of the destruction of the music business by the Oughts' technological revolution now being complete. I no longer have any accurate compass on new music, new bands, etc., etc. Now that music has been fully democratized and placed in the hands of The People by technology, it's harder to find the cream on the surface for the flood of people starting bands and releasing every note they play on MP3, etc. And my tastes are no longer in synch with Da Yoof, so I don't really know or get what people with a lot of facial hair like.

Yeah, I guess I'm officially old.

I do know that what filtered through to me last year were a number of strong releases from veteran bands, some of which I wrote about in this blog (Gang Of Four, Michael Monroe), some of which I didn't (Motorhead, UK Subs). But two records (yes, I still call 'em that, whether the source is digital or not) stand out in my mind from this past year: The New York Dolls' Dancing In High Heels Backwards (which I wrote about here) and one I didn't write about and should have, The First Four EPs by OFF!

That Dolls record, like everything the reformed New York Dolls have done, has been rather controversial. Some people are just never going to get over the absence of Johnny Thunders, Jerry Nolan, and Arthur Kane. And many expressed to me that Dancing.... sounded less like the Dolls to them than the previous pair of studio albums by the reunion lineup. That actually might be one of the strengths of Dancing....: It broke from the sound of the last two albums, and even broke from Dolls tradition with its strange, almost avant garde production. Less reliant on raunchy guitars and more on atmosphere and songs, this also may have hewed closer to the Dolls' classic spirit than anything they'd done since their heyday. Why? Because it's almost surely the Dolls' tribute to their girl group roots, right down to the faithful cover of Patti LaBelle and The Bluebells' "I Sold My Heart To The Junkman." It's a solid album through-and-through, and one of the two new discs I reached for the most this past year.

OFF!'s Steven McDonald (l) and Keith Morris (r) sandwiching yours' truly, Denver, CO., Oct., 2011 (pic: Adams Pinkston)

The other release, by OFF!, is both a throwback and a shockingly vital, brand new blast. Fronted by punk rock force-of-nature Keith Morris (do I have to tell you he was in Circle Jerks and Black Flag?!) and featuring members of Redd Kross (Steven McDonald), Burning Brides (Dimitri Coats), and Rocket From The Crypt (Mario Rubalcaba), this is hardcore punk as it was originally intended: A solid blast of intensity. This isn't about speed or politics (except in the most personal, real-life terms possible). This is about raw power, anger, and sheer release. Keith's performance, on this record and live, is especially potent. He's unleashing something, and you can't help but pay attention to this unfiltered torrent of emotion and spleen. This band could be a one-band revolution all in themselves. Bless 'em.

Coming soon: My picks in books, movies, etc. Enjoy!

Year-end inventory

No, I don't share the sentiments of the above photograph, humorous as it may be. Believe it or not.

Yes, today, the last day of 2011, finds me low on cash, moving out and into temporary digs on the couch circuit again, and hobbling around from what I guess is a torn calf muscle after slipping on some black ice two mornings ago. (I don't know for sure - I'm yet another of the millions of Americans who can't afford health insurance.)

Yes, this is the year I had to leave Los Angeles (hmmm...where have I heard that before?), and discovered after arriving in Denver that my so-called relationship was a sham.

Yes, a few days ago, I did announce at the "RADIO NAPALM" Facebook group that I finally decided the show was over, that I no longer had the time nor energy to produce it, and that I had tendered my resignation to Woody Radio.

I could list endless negatives for 2011. In fact, the last few years have not been great ones.

But, I actually think this was a better year than most.

Denver has turned out to be one of the best places I've lived. My health has certainly improved since leaving the poisoned Los Angeles air. I also find this place friendlier and more affordable than any place where I've lived in awhile.

I latched onto a job that has paid me and treated me better than any I've held in ages. (Yes, I was suspended briefly, and forced to work low-paying temp jobs to keep money coming in, however scant the pay was. But I return to the real job on Monday.)

I gained the focus, perspective, and inner peace to realize that I needed to strip my life down and concentrate this next year on two goals: 1) Returning to music with a new Hormones lineup; and 2) finally finishing and publishing my novel.

Hence, you won't see a lot of rock journalism in the next year from me. Radio is out of the question, too. Not sure how often I'll blog.

But I like the idea of working hard the next couple of months, finishing getting the musical equipment I need, and beginning the assembly of a new Hormones in maybe February or March.

I like the idea of finding a small place of my own around that same time.

I like the idea of the novel being done, and beginning a new literary life to parallel my musical one.

Those are the two things I do best: Write and rock. I don't enjoy working as a rock journalist, and haven't for years. Yes, I'm good at it. That doesn't mean it doesn't wreak havoc on me and my psyche.

Yes, I'm good at radio. I don't like how it takes over my life, and sucks away energy I could spend earning a living and playing rock 'n' roll.

No, 2011 was a good year. At least, it was on a personal level. I learned many a valuable lesson, and didn't have to pay too dearly for the education. I can see things are actually on an upward trajectory.

So, onward! All of you readers: Live. Love. Create. Don't get ground down by life's cruelties. The only way we change this world is by changing our personal worlds, and living as if the change has already happened.

See you in the New Year.