Let’s kick this weeks column off with a brand new video by guitarist Jon Gomm. This dude has worked his ass off to get where he is and deserves all the publicity he gets, which is a damn lot. Brand new and hot off the presses. If nothing else, Gomm is famous for spitting in Simon Cowell’s eye.
My yardstick for music is a simple one. If everyone likes it, it can’t be worth a shit. Think Hitler as a rock star. He, too, had a following, though few would own up to being part of it after the finale. What is it that makes everyone so enamored with this musician as opposed to this other musician who is playing practically the same thing? Hell if I know. How does one become a hit overnight? Hell if I know. Why are people attracted to certain artists, en masse? You guessed it. Hell if I know. But I can goddamn guarantee you that while you are talking about the Lady Gaga halftime show, and my guess is that most of you talking about music are, you’re missing a few thousand musicians worth hearing, some of them playing music way outside the formulaic box the Gaga has built for herself. Taylor Swift? I love some of her songs but there are songs as good as that out there if you take the time to listen.
I was sitting here navigating the social media this past week when I noticed a rockumentary I thought I had seen before— one on Ed Dougherty, who had headed up Oregon’s connection to rock music back in the sixties, booking acts both local, regional, and national in the Pacific Northwest. I was sure I had seen it, having written about it in more than one of my columns, but I was feeling nostalgic and took the plunge anyway.
The name doesn’t have the rhythmic cache of Biff Pocoroba or Phil Villapiano, but it has its own feel to it. Brock. How many people have you met named Brock? I’ve known a couple. Well, one. I’ve heard of a couple, though. Zeman. He’s the first one I’ve ever noticed. I say noticed instead of heard of because as sure as the rains down in Africa (apologies to Toto— the band, not the dog), I will now meet a handful of Brocks and damned if every other person will be a Zeman. I know. Never met a girl named Debbie until I dated one, then every other new girl I met was a Debbie. I’m ready, though. I have practiced and have at least ten or so unique greetings for the Brocks and Zemans about to be unleashed on me.
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Frank Gutch Jr: Due to circumstances beyond our control, you will be getting my column in two segments this week. I had the Notes ready to go but last night had to deal with a kidney stone the size and shape of the original Batmobile, and I am not talking the model. I was just about to take a sharp spoon and attempt to dig it out, kidney and all, when the pain slowly subsided and I was allowed some rest.
That would be Bullseye Records, Canada for those unaware, a label pieced together by DBAWIS‘s own Jaimie Vernon and friends— a record company caught in the digital tsunami which wiped out more than one music concern. In fact, if you define being wiped out as being wiped out, you could probably number them in triple digits, many being “absorbed” by major labels if they could find anything worth adding to their already bloated catalogues. I will tell you upfront that it is a tale of both success and crushing defeat, of both business and personal failure— not that it could have been avoided. When the music business started crumbling, it took with it most everything in its path. If you subscribe to the business as it was. If your yardstick was measured by the same standards the major labels had set up and followed for decades. Jaimie and his company took a beating, no doubt, but he is not down and out by a long shot. He has just, shall we say, been regrouping.
Short and sweet, that’s what this is. With Doug Thompson, Gary Pig Gold, and Darrell Vickers wrapped up for the month of June, it has fallen to me to provide read-y things for the last Monday of the month. I endeavour to do so with The Monday Filler. …and what, exactly, is The Monday Filler? Well, it is this….
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But before I begin passing out (No, wait! There is more!) awards and kudos to those who made a huge difference in my attitude and my life, let me point you all to a problem we in America (including the hat— that be Canada) should embrace— the media. Not that the media itself is the problem, but (as pointed out by Roxanne Tellier‘s DBAWIS column of just two days ago) how we have allowed politics to destroy it.
I’m like the A-Team’s Hannibal Smith in that I too love it when a plan comes together and love it even more when it balloons into an epic tale of adventure, lust and romance. The romance part, of course, would be my endless fascination for the music of the bands (past, present and future) which came out of the musicians who comprised Notary Sojac, the band few knew and even fewer knew about.
The first time I think I even thought about death was when Hank Williams died back in 1952. New Year’s Eve it was, but I only remember the headlines. I was five years old and Hank was a regular part of my day. Dad, the curator of the famous Gutch record collection, had only a few records at that time and Never Again (Will I Knock On Your Door) was one of them. I loved that song so much that I begged and begged Dad to play it every time he headed toward the record player and, usually, he obliged. I remember Dad humming along in a grunting kind of way, almost as if the music was going to bust out of him at any moment, but it seldom did. Dad was a lot like myself in that when the music was playing, singing along seemed a lack of respect.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 