Getcha Headcoat On Again

THEE MIGHTY CAESARS - John Lennon's Corpse Revisited

I was gonna write a lengthy screed about this album, but since I already covered Billy Childish months ago, I figgered what be the point? I also realized after rereading Lester Bangs' "Guide to Becoming a Rock Critic," that I'd already written the review a few weeks ago-- all I needed to do was make a few alterations:

…And Rob Tyner Brian Jones Saith from Thee Golden Halls of R&R Valhalla:

“Let there be young Japanese British men who would don thee garb of their native gangsters Thee Yakuza R&B purveyors the Downliners Sect! These torchbearers of Thee Rock shouldst also worship at Thee Altar of DEEE-Troit High Energy Exponents of Revolution like mine Olde Outfit, Thee MC-Fuckin-5 my once-viable outfit, the Rolling Stones! And so shall it be that these Young Men cannot pronounce “Machine Gun Etiquette,” thus giving them an original Nom de Guerre! And it shall be carved in Sacred Tablets that these Vessels of unbridled fury shall permanently bear blisters on their fingers! A-fucking-Men!”

But before this could come to be, Link Wray, drunk on the Holiest of Sacraments–Maker’s Mark, according to many an Ancient Hymn– chopped at the air with his Powerful and Much-Calloused Mitt:

“Silence, Robert Brian! I hath a Proclamation!”

After far too many moments of chilling quietus, interrupted only by occasional hiccups:

“Out with it Father Link! This chipping shit into stone with a spike and hammer is really fucking time-consuming!”

And Father Link rose from thee Pulpit, uncoiling himself to his full, Godly height, and fighting off a stagger howled into thee Hallowed Halls, “These little bastards are guilty of pinching many of my finest flash moves! Yet, they Doth Kicketh Mucho Hiney… So it is Good!”

Get Thou to thee comments. And speaking of St. Lester...


LESTER BANGS & BIRDLAND

...here he is with Joey Ramone's little brother, Mickey Leigh. The two of 'em put together Birdland over several rounds o' cocktails at CBGB. Now let it be said that as a R&R singer, Lester was a great rock writer-- that doesn't mean that this platter ain't worth yer attention though-- particularly if ya dig the idea of early Patti Smith without Patti, which to me, is a damn good thing (not a fan of hers, sorry. In fact, I think she's absolutely fucking dreadful-- not to mention pretentious without peer). With the mounds of incisive wit that he spewed all over the pages of CREEM and (to a lesser extent) the Voice, you'd expect some damn fine lyrics, right? Well that's whatcha get-- as well as a rare look at the man with his guard down-- his Jehovah's Witness upbringing, his father's early exit in a house fire-- all of the demons are put on display, albeit in Lester's ambiguous yet poetic prose.

In comments.