A Chat with CHRIS SPEDDING

Author/journalist Joel Gausten talks with legendary musician Chris Spedding about his new album of Little Richard covers with the Swedish band Diamond Dogs (Macon Georgia Giant), his work with Robert Gordon, producing The Sex Pistols' 1976 demo, and much more.

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A Chat with KNOX CHANDLER and BOBBY PREVITE

Author/journalist Joel Gausten talks with veteran musicians Knox Chandler (Psychedelic Furs/Siouxsie and the Banshees/Cyndi Lauper/The Golden Palominos/R.E.M.) and Bobby Previte (John Zorn/Iggy Pop/Tom Waits/Jamie Saft/Elliott Sharp/Terry Adams) about their new collaborative album, Previte Chandler, and a few highlights from their respective careers.

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A Chat with SPIDERS

Author and journalist Joel Gausten talks with Ann-Sofie and John of the Swedish band SPIDERS about their extraordinary new album, Sharp Objects.

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WORDS FOR MARIANNE FAITHFULL

"When you remember who I am, just call."

The lyric above is from "There Is A Ghost," one of the ten tracks on Marianne Faithfull’s 2003 album, Before The Poison. If you’re unfamiliar with the song, give it a listen some 3 a.m. after the wine bottle’s empty and the ashtray’s full. It’s a real motherfucker. Trust me, she’s not singing those words as a chat-up line; she delivers them with equal parts desperation and resignation.

Before The Poison was heralded as a "comeback"— downright silly, considering that everything she’d done since 1979 had been lauded as her return to relevance. Then again, it was always a surprise when she showed up with a new collection of songs and reminded the world that she was still above ground, having cheated death once again.

The Reaper finally got her today. I could take the lazy scribe’s way out and fill this post with a few hundred male-gaze-driven words about her beauty in her youth, her roles as a '60s “it” girl and muse, and her eventual descent into addiction, painting her as just another beautiful broken doll. But that would sell her — and myself — short.

My spiritual aunt deserves more than that.

Right. Broken English. Sigh … where to start? That album has shattered my heart and put it back together again more times than I can count. A cracking voice emanating the sound of strength amidst diminished dreams. Mental illness set to melodies. Enough to make Pele weep amongst her boys. A gorgeous goddamn thing and the most nakedly and honestly human recording in my possession. Nearly 46 years after its release, its grooves still bleed.

You can’t sing with that much pain and truth unless you’re the real fucking thing.

Her rendition of “The Ballad of Lucy Jordan.” My God. I’ve known a few Lucies in my lifetime. We shared secrets. Often a bed. Ladies who dropped their kids off at school before dipping into their secret stashes of Oxy. Women who fucked with the lights off so I couldn’t see the cut marks on their thighs or left the bathroom with the faint smell of vomit lingering. Marianne sang for them — and helped me see them, love them, and hold them close, despite it all.

There’s more I could say, but there’s no need. Her albums are in print and utterly perfect. They already say it all. If you’re new to her work, start with Broken English. It may not speak to you, but if it does, it will always be there when you need it.

Farewell to Marianne — and to all our dear Lucy Jordans, when their time comes.

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A Chat with DAVID OLDFIELD of TMA

 Author and journalist Joel Gausten talks with former TMA frontman David Oldfield about the classic '80s New Jersey Hardcore band's history, discography, vinyl box set, and more.

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A Chat with KEVIN SHIELDS (DETENTION/BIGGER THOMAS)

Author and journalist Joel Gausten talks with '80s/'90s New Jersey underground music scene veteran Kevin Shields (Detention/Bigger Thomas) about his history in Hardcore and Ska and the new Detention retrospective release, Dead Rock 'N Rollers, on Left for Dead Records. 

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WORDS FOR DAVID LYNCH

 

I’ve never slept very well.

One evening in eighth grade, my insomnia drove me downstairs to my family’s living room to catch some HBO. It was around 3 a.m. on a Sunday. I turned on the TV just in time to see the opening scene of a film called Wild at Heart. Immediately captivated, I watched the entire thing. I haven’t been the same since.

Don’t ask me to describe Wild at Heart or my favorite Lynch film (and favorite flick of all time), Mulholland Drive, to you. I can’t. The man’s work always evoked something intangible – pieces of art meant to be felt rather than understood. What did I feel when watching Wild at Heart for the first time at 3 a.m.? Transported to another world, full of bright colors and grim darkness. And cigarette smoke. Lots of cigarette smoke. And extraordinary music. (Thanks to you in the Great Beyond, Angelo.) I felt at home.

Mulholland Drive engulfed me years later. His masterpiece. I've seen it 28 times.

No other filmmaker has moved me more. Not even Wim Wenders and his extraordinary Wings of Desire. Most women I’ve shared a bed with over the years have been given the tests: the Club Silencio scene in Mulholland Drive and the accident scene in Wings of Desire. If they’re not moved by either, they’re not at my side for very long.

But I digress.

2003. The Parlor in West Hollywood. A place I loved. I’m part of a crowd waiting to see Rebekah Del Rio perform. There’s a guestbook at the bar. I write a message below one that reads something like, “Rebekah – you’re wonderful. David.” I think nothing of it. There are a lot of Davids in West Hollywood. Hell, there were a lot of Davids in and out of The Parlor in those days (Including J., he of Bauhaus/Love and Rockets fame).

I give Johnny Depp a nod as I leave the bar and make my way toward the stage so I can cry along to Rebekah’s “Llorando.”

Priorities.

A few days later, the LA Weekly noted that Mr. Lynch had been at the show. I had been in a darkened, speakeasy-style room — a place that could’ve easily been in one of his movies — with the man and didn’t know it.

I like that.

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