To celebrate James Newell Osterberg Jr.’s 71st (!!) Birthday on the 21st, I pop into the trusty ol’ Pig Player a DVD whose opening credits state, and I quote, “On September 3, 2010, Iggy and the Stooges performed Raw Power live in Monticello, New York. Six fans filmed the concert and interviewed Iggy and the Stooges after the show.”
I was digging through my tape drawer this week (yes, I still have cassettes) and while not bemoaning the death of tape, did bemoan the lack of success of a handful of incredible treasures which I have only on tape. To my knowledge, they have never been available on any other format, though I am not sure. Three of them— the only three commercially available— may have suffered because of that. More than one person had made reference to cassette as a non-format in their world— to paraphrase them,“better to miss the music than have it on tape.”
When adults started wearing Beatle Wigs at their cocktail parties and tried to dance to I Wanna Hold Your Hand, a lot of kids were so embarrassed and angry that Mom and Dad were attempting to join the club, I was surprised most of the parents were allowed to live.
How dare they love what we love, how can my stupid parents join the party and ruin our fun? Why are OUR Beatles sooo lovable that even OUR PARENTS approve of them?
…and in response, a benevolent and caring God created the Rolling Stones. From Part Two
One of the jobs I have laid out before me is writing reviews, not just of music I love but books and other things which give me delight. It is fun most of the time but lately I am beginning to wonder if I have not taken on more than I can handle. Mentally, I find my self flagging, stacks of CDs and numerous digital files and the occasional vinyl LP/EP, ready to review when I first received them, still there, not reviewed. I want to get to them but for some the words don’t come and for others there is just not enough time. The problem is the listening. I have always prided myself on listening to each album numerous times before putting word to paper, as it were, but if I continue that I will eventually either quit out of frustration or guilt.
Back in the days when music ruled the world, we all had our benchmarks. The night The Beatles played Ed Sullivan. That day at Altamont. The many deaths of greats and those who would have been greats, from Buddy Holly to Duane Allman and too many others. Musical moments which marked where you were in your life and how important music was. Because music used to be that important.
Rock and Roll, that most American hybrid of Country and Blues had come along and dethroned the OTHER American music, Jazz, and looked to be numero uno for many years. The burgeoning generation that became known as Baby Boomers were reaching puberty and beyond, and they were the largest segment of the population. Rock and Roll DID have a good run…but it wasn’t the Americans who took it to prominence the world over…it was those fucking kids who looked like girls and could barely play. – From Part One
It plays like a loop in my head, the first time I visited Music Millennium. I remember the drive to Portland from Eugene, parking down the hill on East Burnside, the walk up the street and even opening the door. Had I filmed it, it could not be any more clear. I had been in many record stores before— in fact, the guys with me were all denizens of Eugene’s House of Records— but this was different. This was the famed Millennium, the seller of imports, the mecca of what record stores should be as far as many of us were concerned. Tower Records may have had stores open at the time (it was the summer of ’72, though I have been saying ’71 for years and have only recently discovered my mistake) but the Pac Northwest didn’t know it. Why should we have cared? We had the Millennium!
Bullseye Records of Canada
