Twelve Angry Fingers

This Is Hawkwind -- Do Not Panic

2007-11-09 18:08:35

In the late afternoon, a ray of light that originated in the heart of the sun roughly twelve minutes ago slips through the blinds behind me and re-shapes itself as six-inch tall, black-and-white dappled column on the upholstered walls of my stale cubicle. This interspace traveler is my only connection to the world outside this office, and it exists for barely a dozen minutes a day in a constantly shifting pattern of cubes and polyhedrons too thin for me to perceive as anything other than a flickering, two-dimensional representation of its life-giving glory.
I find it no great coincidence that the universe has seen fit to place my late-afternoon visitor's point of departure at just such a distance from my own position in this universe; roughly twelve minutes is the exact same slice of time it takes Hawkwind to power through "Time We Left This World Today" on the digitally-restored edition of Hawkwind's live album, Space Ritual.
There are no coincidences when it comes to Hawkwind. Light and sound move at completely different rates of speed - only the passage of time seemingly links the occurrence of light's passage to Earth and Hawkwind's passage through a song. But look closer - time is the link, and Hawkwind is time. One must accept that Hawkwind is, was and will be; that is all. The Church of Hawkwind makes no rules for its pilgrims. The music is the sacrament, the holy days occur whenever you take the sacrament, and there is no dogma other than "keep an open mind" -- a state that can be obtained merely by taking the sacrament. Hawkwind is, was and will be; that is all. Time is, was and will be; that is all. Hawkwind is Time is Time is Hawkwind. Any confusion you are experiencing is purely temporal.
Step into my four-dimensional parlour and let us discuss further the transubstantiation of Time via the mystery of Dave Brock's pineal gland.

]]> The bald facts of Hawkwind can be laid out thusly: British in origin; space-rock in direction; one-time home to Lemmy Kilminster; collaborators have included the science-fantasist Michael Moorcock, the poet Robert Calvert, the dancer Stacia; the drummer Ginger Baker; common thread is the involvement of Dave Brock, a multi-instrumentalist who sings or doesn't as the mood takes him; recorded history stretches back to 1970; most recent live show to happen in December in England of this year. But bald facts do no more to reveal the grandeur of Hawkwind any more than the adjective "wet" does to describe the ocean. If you wish to know, you must immerse yourself in it.
And so it is that for the past few weeks, Hawkwind has again been my constant companion. The "Collectors Edition" of 1973's Space Ritual was the first sign; a two-disc set with a bonus DVD audio mix, a deluxe booklet and a nice gatefold approximation of the original album art officially released at the end of August, it appeared in Vintage Vinyl in mid-October. The sound is lush, so rich you can actually hear Stacia dancing. Listen to the second version of "Time We Left This World Today" on disc two through a pair of headphones; DikMik's hot electronics chatter away in the left channel like an insect's mandibles while Nik Turner's saxophone riffs up and down with Dave Brock's guitar in the right channel. Dead center in your head sits the rhythm section of Lemmy's earth-bass and Simon King's steady-banging drums. The whole mechanism pulsates like skyscraper-scale engines propelling a starship through the endless void, the stars their destination. A rising and falling approximation of the solar winds flanges by the portholes; Brock's guitar slaps and tickles on a slight delay, then slips into a keening note that mimics Turner's sax. The last known communication of starship Hawkwind is a spectral blur of echo and Turner's bleating oboe, a Morse code that comes dimly through the subspace transponder, Captain. And it lasts just long enough for that mysterious ray of light to dance on my cubicle wall. I became aware of the light while listening to "Time We Left This World Today." Hawkwind is Time is Time is Hawkwind.
The incarnation of Hawkwind that recorded Space Ritual was fleeting; Hall of the Mountain Grill and Warrior on the Edge of Time are the next albums with the same line-up. Mere days after acquiring Space Ritual, Mountain Grill appeared at Vintage Vinyl. Then Xin Search of Space. Then the first album, Hawkwind. Then Live in Nottingham 1990 -- all albums I had been searching for the past few years, as more of my tapes wore out and snapped. (I assume Space Ritual is calling them to me, or perhaps they're arriving one per day on that beam of light. California Brainstorm showed up just moments ago, according to VV's Web site.) They're arriving out of sequence chronologically, but does the order matter? The Hawkwind of 2007 is not the same as the 1973 model or the 1990 model or the 2010 model, but Hawkwind is Hawkwind regardless of era, epoch or local chronological variance.
On the night of November 3, "D-Rider" soars through the darkness on billowy waves of keyboard and the stuttery down strokes of Brock's chiming guitar. It's an epic Hawkwind construction, unfurling its wings with a stately flourish. The volume is maxed out so that the sound waves seem to pressurize the interior of the car; it feels like being overtaken by a massive thunderhead that flicks out splinters of lightning without breaking open entirely. "Our course determined by our stars, our mum knows just where we are/the earth is calling far below, our records show which way to go./Spacing out we're spacing in/facing out by facing in/turning in by burning out/lifting off and gazing in." The message was first transmitted in 1974, and I'm on my way to an anti-war play in 2007. This is not the first time I've heard "D-Rider," but it's the first time I've really paid attention to the lyrics, written by psychic wizard Nik Turner. That "facing out by facing in" line is all about introspection, looking deep into your soul for answers. The idea of contemplation of the self leading to a universal understanding, that from the knowledge of a man comes a knowledge of Mankind - what some might call empathy, or perhaps The Golden Rule -- is the theme of this evening's play. Thirty years on and Turner's still offering advice to a wayward race bogged down by suspicions and an unshakeable faith in agreements brokered by the barrel of a gun. Did I notice this in 1974? Did he write this in 2007? Time's ligaments snap and unravel in looping backtracking coils and all things are possible in this instant of cognitive dissonance.
On the morning of November 5, great carpets of leaves have dropped from the trees overnight. Hawkwind's "Born to Go" is percolating through the back brain when I enter the park; a wild and reckless stomp that recycles the chant "We were born to go" over and over as its main rhythmic thrust. Did Brock and Calvert steal the phrase from Brion Gysin's book Here to Go? Gysin's phrase refers to his belief that it's humanity's biological destiny to evolve out of our physical bodies and then leave this planet. I've been reading Terry Wilson's book about Gysin the past few days. But now, unbidden by any conscious thought, Howard Nemerov's poem The Consent bubbles up. The Consent memorializes the phenomenon of the sudden leaf drop and questions what causes it:
"What signal from the stars? What senses
took it in?
What in those wooden motives so
decided to strike their leaves, to down their leaves,
rebellion or surrender? and if this
Can happen thus, what race shall be
exempt?
What use to learn the lessons taught by
time,
If a star at any time may tell us: Now."

Nemerov wrote The Consent in 1975, mere moments (in the grand scheme of things) after Hawkwind wrote "Born to Go," which came on the heels of Gysin's after Here to Go. And yet all three have collided near the duck pond on an otherwise non-descript morning. I watch the yellow leaves flicker and dowse to the signal that only they can hear. Brock and Turner are in my head, singing "We were born to go, and leave no star unturned." The leaves let go with no regrets and drift through space to their ultimate destiny, rippling and slipping through the sheets of sunlight just climbing over the horizon. And they look just like the motes of light that fracture and reform on my cubicle wall for a dozen or so minutes every afternoon. "We were born to go, as far as we can fly/we were born to go, to blow the human mind" sing Brock and Turner, Lemmy's maniac bass flying along unhinged through universe - it's the signal the trees have obeyed for the whole of time. The universe is smaller than we comprehend, and greater than we imagine.

Evil Is as Evile Does

2007-10-12 14:40:42

Nostalgia.
It�s not as good as I remember it.
In the summer of 1985, my musical world was tumped on its pear-shaped ass by the arrival of thrash. Thrash was terrifying � a new species formed from 80 percent metal, 20 percent hardcore punk. The joke metalheads shared prior to the birth of thrash was that hardcore sounded like metal played by people who didn�t know how to play their instruments; it was all speed, no technique or skill. Well, unless you count slam dancing as a skill. Thrash took hardcore�s balls-out speed and applied it to metal�s love of the solo, be it guitar or drum. Thrashers played so blindingly fast that guitarists stood rooted in one spot, for fear of flying off the neck of the guitar. The only motion was from the shoulders up, as guitarists banged heads to the whirlwind of double bass drumming and no-bullshit riffing.

]]> But it wasn�t just the sound of it, it was how thrash manifested that caused such fear. There was no warning, no transitional band that represented a developmental stage between the two arch-enemies of high school smoking lounges. (And one should never forget that up until around 1985, punks and longhairs hated each other with a violence that was beautiful to behold.) I went to bed in a world where the New Wave of British Heavy Metal (Motorhead, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden and to a lesser extent, Saxon) represented the fastest and loudest bands in the world, and woke up in a world in which thrash�s �Big Four� -- Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax and Megadeth -- left those bands for dead on the side of the freeway. How powerful was thrash? Cr�me de la Hardcore band D.R.I. went metal for the Crossover album. Agnostic Front went metal. Corrosion of Conformity went metal. And yet no metal band went punk. (Rob Halford went gay, however, but that was more than likely a pre-existing condition).
Notice the past tense usage in reference to thrash. �Was.� Thrash had a good, loud run, about four or five years, and then it was over. The Big Four are still together, still releasing albums, but none of them are really thrash bands anymore. Hell, only Anthrax could even be considered a good band anymore � and they haven�t released an album of new material in four years. Thrash imploded almost as quickly as it exploded, it�s status as �most extreme� usurped by Death, Grind, Black Metal, Industrial, Nu Metal, Metalcore and whoever the fuck headlines Ozzfest this year.
How low has thrash fallen in the last 20-odd years? Allmusic.com doesn�t even acknowledge that any thrash band started up after 1989. Of course, Allmusic also lists Motorhead as a �3rd generation� thrash band, despite Motorhead existing for ten years prior to the development of thrash. Long story short, Allmusic should go get it�s shinebox.
But is thrash dead? Germany kept thrashin� for years (see: Kreator, Destruction, Tankard), and Rik Ernst�s documentary Get Thrashed may or may not inspire a new generation to take up wearing jean jackets with back-patches and pummeling low-slung Jackson Flying V�s. But if anything is going to bring thrash back, it won�t be the movies or the Germans: it will be another absolutely brilliant band. A band that appears from out of nowhere, banging out heavy machinegun riffs with their heads down while audiences destroy themselves in a mosh pit that makes the Kumite look like a ticklefight.
England�s Evile may be that band.
Look, I�m an old man. I forget all sorts of shit. I just rambled on for 600 words before I got to my point. I occasionally drink so much that I piss myself (I call those �weeknights�). I could be totally glorifying the good ol� days while sipping lemonade brewed by a beautiful woman who neither swears nor works outside the home. But stick with me on this: I think Evile has a very good chance to be the greatest legitimate thrash band that�s surfaced since the Big Four � and I also think that if our boys fight the good fight, we�ll have the Kaiser licked by Christmas, or January dickety-two at the latest.
But I�m not just old � I�m also a scientist. I have the beard and the pipe and everything. And if I�m going to throw a crazy theory out there, I�m doing the research to back it up.
I�ve spent the last week listening to nothing but thrash. I listened to bootlegs of Tankard and Sabbat, I played Voivod�s War and Pain (I actually listen to that one about every other week), I bought a CD version of Exodus� Bonded By Blood when my original cassette snapped in the tape deck, I skipped class and got high in the woods and I very studiously listened to the debut albums of Metallica, Anthrax, Slayer and Megadeth, all to set a baseline vis a vis �thrash awesomeness.� My neck hurts, my ears are ringing and I may be responsible for the hole in the wall of the third floor men�s room.
And I can very confidently state that Evile�s Enter the Grave deserves to be considered on the same level as the Big Four�s debut albums.
Is Enter the Grave perfect? No. Is it at times derivative of Metallica�s Ride the Lightning? Yes. (Hell yes. Guitarist/vocalist Matt Drake cites James Hetfield as �the reason I play guitar� in the liner notes.) But it�s also the most fun and thrashy album I�ve heard in many years � probably since I first heard Ride the Lightning, come to think of it. Perhaps that has something to do with Danish producer Flemming Rasmussen, who helmed those first classic Metallica albums and twists the knobs on Enter the Grave as well � but it has much more to do with the songwriting, the riffing and the overall feel of the music.
It should always be about the music. You can have all the technique in the world, but it don�t mean a thing if it ain�t got that swing. Listen to that opening staccato riff in �Thrasher:� it�s a classical �chukka-chukk-chukk-chukk-chukka-chukk-chukk-chukk� thrash riff that underpins the whole song. Matt Drake�s rhythm guitar outlines the entire song structure in the first 40 seconds, embellishing the basic riff with a few single-note ornaments; his brother Ol chases him with a run of his own, then the brothers race to the solo after the first verse. It�s a skidding-on-ice, one bar outburst that whets the appetite for Ol�s full-blown bent note, speed-up/slow-down pile-up of a solo later in the song. That interplay of one guitar barking out the tempo while the other guitar adds color and tone is vintage thrash, as is the heads-down charge of the rhythm section (bassist Mike Alexander and drummer Ben Carter). Alexander and Carter punch open the album�s epic track, �We Who Are About to Die�, with a heavyweight stomp that provides the perfect backdrop for brutal riffing and some rather tasteful soloing. It�s the album�s heaviest song, a big ol� thrash monster with a titanic drum sound and dead-nasty vibe. The louder you play it, the more fun it is to headbang along. What�s the last album that you couldn�t stop playing? What�s the last album that made you want to throw shit around and turn your living room into a pit? Enter the Grave does both.
Enter the Grave could have been written in 1987; it�s that true to the spirit of the classic thrash era. Hell, by the end of the third song, I looked down to discover I was wearing huge white sneakers and the knees were blown out of my jeans � and my dad had driven across town to pound on my front door and tell me to �turn that shit down.� I haven�t found a volume loud enough to satisfy me yet.
But is it just nostalgia?
I don�t think so. I still rank Metallica�s Kill �Em All as the best overall thrash debut, but that�s mostly on the basis of Cliff�s bass playing; Megadeth�s Killing Is My Business is a very close second, and Evile�s Enter the Grave would be right behind those two. Twenty years ago I didn�t think anybody could even come close to those two albums � now I�m anticipating Evile�s next album to see how it stacks up against the Big Four�s sophomore albums.
I just hope in another 20 years I�m not watching Evile�s full-length documentary about their therapy sessions and looking back on this particular moment as the band's good ol� days. Keep the faith, Evile. All us old timers need you.

Geezer Butler Rules

2007-09-20 12:17:38

Geezer Butler is the bassist/lyricist for Black Sabbath, Birmingham, England�s finest contribution to the music world. Butler�s seismic bass playing figuratively and literally laid the foundation for heavy metal. Try to imagine a world without Black Sabbath � it�s no world I would want to live in. Butler�s a staunch supporter of Aston Villa Football Club, a vegan and a hell of a nice guy in person. Many years ago, I worked in the same neighborhood that Geezer lived in, and he�d occasionally come into the shop for a quick snack. Always polite, always friendly, he put up with a ridiculous amount of stammering and awkward conversation as I and my co-workers tried to figure out a way to say �You fucking rule!� without sounding like total jackasses. We usually opted for the suave, �You fucking rule, Geezer!� Only once did he come in while we had a Black Sabbath album playing � it was The Mob Rules, the band�s second with vocalist Ronnie James Dio, and a personal favorite (I�ve been through two cassettes and one CD since that day). Geezer just smiled and made no mention of the strange coincidence.

]]> The Mob Rules version of Black Sabbath � Geezer, Metal God Tony Iommi, Metal God Ronnie James Dio and drum legend Vinnie Appice � is currently touring America under the name Heaven and Hell, in support of a compilation album of the Dio Years material. The live album from this tour, Live From Radio City Music Hall, came out just days before this interview occurred. The band sounds fierce, the new songs are some of the best Sabbath material � under any name � in years, and you can witness the majesty of Heaven and Hell live and in person at the Family Arena on Sunday, September 23. Tickets are still available, so get on it.
And yes, Geezer�s still just as friendly and down-to-earth as he was all those years ago when I first met him, and I�m still just as awkward and mumbly.

About sixteen years ago, I sold you a bag of popcorn in a strip mall in Chesterfield. What were you doing in Chesterfield?
GB: (Laughs). Yeah, we had a house there, �cause me wife�s family is all from there. Me kids were born in St. John�s Hospital there. We had a house in England and in St. Louis, so we used to spend a lot of time in both places.

Do you have fond memories of St. Louis?
GB: Oh, yeah. I spent loads of time there. We�d go down to McGurk�s, the Irish pub. Loved goin� down there. When I was younger, I�d go down to the Landing a lot. Mississippi Nights and places like that.

They actually just tore Mississippi Nights down.
GB: Yeah, my bass tech�s called Terry Wellesely [sp? Sorry, Terry, if that's wrong], he�s a guy from St. Louis. He keeps me informed of everything that�s goin on.

So when you�re out here for the show, are you gonna have time to visit with people and see the sights, or is it going to be a quick in-and-out stop?
GB: Me family�s gonna all be there, and all me friends from there are gonna come to the show. So I�ll be hanging out with them after the show for a while. But I think it�s just an in-and-out kinda thing, �cause we got Denver the next night.

The day after the Chicago show on the first leg of the Heaven and Hell tour, there was bootlegged footage up on Youtube. Does that sort of thing bother you, or do you find it flattering that people are so devoted they�re sneaking in cameras?
GB: (Chuckles) It�s just, to me, an incredible phenomenon. I think it�s better like that, rather than you know, one guy coming in with a movie camera and doing a bootleg of the whole show. This way, on Youtube, it certainly gets your name out across the whole world. And it�s just snippets and stuff, instead of whole shows. So I think it�s great.

The guy who put it up said he was in the fifth row, and then other people who were there that night started chiming in with their opinion of the footage, but more about the show. Everybody said it was a great show, and he got a lot of hits. People were rabid to see how you guys were after all these years.
GB: Yeah, it�s amazing. It is free publicity. And when you�re in the entertainment business, that�s the greatest thing you can have.

That guy must have a great phone, because he had good footage and good sound.
GB: Yeah, I saw one (Youtube clip), and all you could hear was the bass � and it was the one night I made a mistake! (Laughs). That wasn�t very flattering.

The new Radio City CD/DVD version sold out at the store I visited (Now Hear This in Kirkwood � your source for all things metal), so it seems like people in St. Louis are snapping it up.
GB: It�s doing amazingly well. It�s number one in most of the countries in Europe in the DVD charts, it�s number two in the American DVD charts.

Yeah, I could find the album, but nobody had the DVD version after the first week. People really want the whole package. But I noticed in the liner notes for the album, Tony mentioned that the band had problems with the hall on that night and couldn�t get a soundcheck or a camera check. At that point, did you have a band discussion and talk about �are we gonna go on and film this?� Were you worried about technical problems?
GB: Yeah, we were worried about it � but there�s absolutely nothing you can do about it. �Cause it costs a fortune to have the cameras and everything fly in, I think a lot of them were from the West Coast. And some of them, like the directors, were from Germany. And so it costs a lot of money to set the whole thing up, and with all the gigs we couldn�t do a soundcheck, it was that one. We couldn�t get the camera angles, we couldn�t . . . you know, it was really worrying on the night, because we had to do the monitors while we were playing, the monitor mixes onstage. And it wasn�t until the fourth song maybe that the monitors were right for the place. You know, it�s always the way with us. When we do a live album, there�s always a bomb scare or something! (Laughs).

At least on the album part of it, you can�t hear any difficulties.
GB: Well, it�s just for us, the soundcheck. For all that investment into something, and you�re not allowed to do a soundcheck. It�s like the basic thing of a gig is doing your soundcheck, to get your sound right. And when you haven�t got a chance to get your sound right, or the camera angles, it�s panic time. But fortunately, the director had been at a lot of the shows, and we�d done a dummy run-through of the show in LA with the director there, so he knew what to expect.

During those first four songs, when the monitors weren�t right, did you think, �Oh, it�s not going to work out."
GB: Oh, yeah. In case you mess the whole thing up. �Cause I could hear that Ronnie and Tony and Vinnie were playing great, and it�s sort of, �I hope I�m not the one that�s gonna completely ruin this whole thing!� (Laughs). It is a bit of a panic until you settle down.
Plus, it�s New York, which is always a nerve-wracking place to play.

Still? After all these years of playing out, you still get nerves?
GB: Yeah! �Cause you get all these fanatics who come to see us in places like New York and LA. They�re like �ultrafans.�

One of the bass magazines recently went into great detail analyzing your playing style when you play with Ozzy in Black Sabbath and Ronnie in Heaven and Hell. Do you think there�s that much difference in how you play with the two of them?
GB: No, not to me. I just get on with it. (Laughs). It�s still me, you know? You�d have to bring in a different bass player to have a different style. You can�t possibly change your style just for the same kind of music.

The guy who wrote the article had this theory that because Ronnie wrote lyrics, he had more influence on the melody line.
GB: I think the songs are probably more intense (with Ronnie), that�s for sure. There�s definitely more bass notes in the songs, because the songs are more intense and bit more complicated. There�s a lot more chord changes and stuff in the Heaven and Hell line-up. In the original Sabbath, it was like a basic approach to stuff, and we got the ultimate heavy sound. Whereas the Dio Era is more melodic, more chord changes, musically more technical.

In your section of the album�s liner notes, you say this stuff is pretty challenging to play again after not playing them for years. On this leg of the tour, are you having fun doing these songs again?
GB: Oh, absolutely. Now, you know them backwards, so you start throwing in different things every night, which is another great thing about this band: There�s no two shows the same now. We do quite a lot of jamming in a couple of the songs. Like �Voodoo� and �Heaven and Hell,� they�re different every night.

All right, do you want to talk about Aston Villa�s chances this year?
GB: Yeah! I think they�ve got a great chance this year. In the top six, anyway.

Yeah, they drubbed Chelsea.
GB: I know, two-nil. I watched it on the Fox soccer channel.

The table was upside down, with Man City sitting at the top, but then Arsenal pulled ahead.
GB: I think it�s gonna be Arsenal or Liverpool this year. You know, I actually went to see the LA Galaxy against Chelsea in Beckham�s first game.

What�d you think?
GB: (Long Pause). It was OK for a . . . um. �Cause there was about 12,000 Chelsea supporters there, believe it or not, so it felt like a proper game. And then the second game, I watched it on TV, and it was terrible.

Did Beckham make a bad choice coming to America?
GB: Oh, definitely. I think the Galaxy made a bad choice getting Beckham. Now he�s not gonna play till next season or something.

Other than that Chelsea game, do you go to a lot of Galaxy games?
GB: Not Galaxy. I used to go in St. Louis to see the indoor soccer.

The Steamers?
GB: Yeah.

They�ve folded again. The closest pro team is in Kansas City now.
GB: That�s surprising. St. Louis is one of the top places for soccer. One of my neighbors when I lived in St. Louis was from the actual USA World Cup squad from the �30s or something.

And at this awkward moment, time was up. As I said, Geezer's still a friendly guy, and I'm still a big dork. Maybe if I'd been serving him popcorn, it would've been easier.

We Are Groundlings, All

2007-09-12 18:13:39

It�s three days later, and I�m still thinking about Hydeware Theatre�s outdoor production of Macbeth. It�s a very good production, a smart and honest production with a few problems � but I don�t know that I did it justice in a short review. A three-actor version of a Shakespearean play is a bold decision � there�s so much that could go wrong, and a poorly-handled production of Shakespeare is excruciating. And there were definitely elements of Richard Strelinger�s direction that gave me pause. Namely, the lackluster fight scenes, and the use of Rage Against the Machine�s �Killing in the Name Of� as a soundtrack for the climactic fight between Macduff and Macbeth. RATM is such a cheesy, short-hand version of �angry political band� that the music is actually offensive, and not in an �I�m outraged!� kinda way; it�s more of a �You could cut this suburban angst with a paper knife� kind of eye-rolling outrage.
But that�s such a small, small portion of the evening.

]]> And I sorta see what Strelinger was going for there: Two families locked in a death-struggle, one fighting for personal revenge and honor, one fighting for self-preservation and to desperately maintain a position of stolen power. The high school term paper argument will be that Macduff is nominally fighting for a noble cause, Macbeth is fighting for ignoble reasons, and a B-plus is practically guaranteed. And yet both of them are willing to kill to achieve their personal goals: Does the reason justify the action? That�s your A paper right there. What the RATM song rather artlessly discusses -- "What are we killing in the name of?" -- is what Shakespeare�s lovely and nasty little play holds up to the light and examines with profound intelligence and, better still, illuminates those same questions with a preternatural understanding of human nature.
And what Strelinger�s cast � Brian Hyde, Ken Haller and Ember Hyde � bring to the evening is that human nature. All of them are excellent at quickly and subtly crafting a character through posture and voice, although the first twenty or so minutes of the play severely undercut their individual talents as they have to rapidly cycle through characters. And Ember Hyde is truly chilling as Lady Macbeth. After Duncan has been killed, Lady Macbeth and Macbeth (Haller) have a scene together; Haller plays Macbeth�s doubts about the murder with a hesitating, stutter-stepping regret � and behind him on the stairs of the Whitaker Pavilion, Hyde lounges casually, weighing the still-bloody crown in her hand, turning it to examine it in the light, completely entranced by the power contained in the golden symbol. It is a far more evocative indictment of the seduction of power than anything in the RATM song, and Hyde manifests it all through a sly smile, a wistful look and a slouch. It�s just a beautifully staged and acted scene, and a memorable piece of theatre.
But this brings me to my other doubt about Strelinger�s use of the song: Am I over-thinking this thing? It�s easy to do with Shakespeare. His work is the domain of academia and intelligentsia and a couple of other �-ia� that all imply deep thoughts and tweed blazers with elbow patches. Because that�s who Shakespeare was writing for, right? It�s a conversation between the adults, and you�re still sitting at the kids� table, just trying to keep up, yeah?
No.
Shakespeare wrote for everybody � he had to, because there was never anything good to watch on TV when he was alive, so the theatre was where everybody went for their entertainment. If you were a working class yob, you paid your penny and you stood on the ground in front of the stage and you watched Macbeth just like the scholars and the gentry. And Shakespeare was definitely in the entertainment biz � he inserted comedic elements for these groundlings, and sword fights, and ribald double entendres about sword fights, and if the upper crust got the jokes, so much the better.
But this boisterous, everybody in the house element is mostly lost these days. Shakespeare has become Theatre, and it�s no place for the groundling.
Strelinger and Co. have made room for the groundlings in their Macbeth, however � and that�s not just because we�re all spread out on the asphalt in front of the stage eating and drinking in true 17th century-audience fashion. Ember Hyde plays the drunken Porter with gusty delight, leaving the stage to venture into the crowd. She roams freely, accusing people of various faults, then cries out the first of her �knock knocks.� And when a few people in the audience respond with a faint, almost embarrassed �Who�s there?,� she wags a finger at them and grins while delivering the next line. Every repetition of �knock knock� brings a louder response from the crowd, and more laughter, and suddenly what is a confusing monologue on the page is a marvelous bit of comedy. That�s a sweetmeat for the groundlings right there.
But there�s another in the fight scenes � yes, the same ones I think are too slow and stilted. The Whitaker Theatre is also known as Tower Grove Park's Pool Pavilion, and this being early September, kids are still splashing in the fountain on the back side of the stage during the show. And there�s a boisterous volleyball game going on to stage right. A couple times during the play, someone would come wandering around the Pavilion to see what we were all watching.
One of those someone�s was a kid who inched along the retaining wall that butts up against the pavilion stairs, which are doing double duty as the stage. He sees Ember Hyde wearing black sunglasses and holding a pair of matched sai, in character as Ross, the assassin Macbeth sends out to get rid of Banquo (Brian Hyde). That kid parked his butt as soon as he saw her, then waited around to find out what she was going to do. Another kid, even younger, crept along the wall to sit next to him. How long can Shakespeare hold the attention of a nine-year old and a five-year old? About five minutes, or two minutes for each sai and one for the shades; then the pair wandered back into the evening.
But when Banquo and Ross have their showdown, both of those kids come running back to the same spot on the wall, drawn by the heavy-metal guitar riff that scores the duel. The older one has a can of Pringles with him, and he never takes his eyes off the fight as he�s shoveling chips into his mouth. And why would he? Banquo�s swinging a goddamn battle ax around his head, and Ross is sticking him left and right with his own dagger after losing the sai. The boys actually creep so close to the stage after the fight, somebody from Hydeware has to come out and quietly ask them to scoot back a bit.
But this time, they stick around for quite a while.
When Banquo�s ghost appears, swathed in black and wearing a hood, the smaller kid ducks down behind his brother; big brother claps when the hood is removed and it�s clear the guy he just saw stabbed to death is now a ghost. And they�re both still perched on that wall during the final confrontation, as raptly fascinated by the outcome of Shakespeare�s Scottish tragedy as I am � although I don�t know that either of them finds Rage Against the Machine as trite as I do.
You know what? Fuck it. I�ll accept the song as a daring choice on Strelinger�s part. He didn�t put it in there for the reviewer � he put it in there for the groundlings. And the fact that he was thinking for the groundlings, that�s about as brilliant a move as I�ve seen a director pull this year. I�ve seen better fight scenes (Jason Cannon and Brian Peters in Hamlet have the best fight of the year so far � and I doubt that anyone�s gonna take that away from them), but I don�t know that I�ve seen a fight scene so true to the spirit of why the fight is in the play. Strelinger�s choice of weapons, the sunglasses, and yes, even the damn song, are what Shakespeare was all about: Popular appeal. That may have been the first stage combat those kids have ever seen, and it�ll probably stay with them for quite a while � just like my memory of Ember�s languid, self-satisfied Lady Macbeth toying with the kingdom�s essence in the aftermath of cold-blooded murder.
A lasting memory is a fantastic gift for a director to give an audience member � and Strelinger is just handing them out left and right.
So the song? Good choice.
Hydeware�s doing Macbeth on Friday, Saturday and Sunday (September 14 through 16) at Tower Grove Park. If you go see it � and I urge you to go see it � try to see it with new eyes. Or maybe just with young eyes. And don�t be shy about throwing a few bucks in Hydeware�s collection baskets � the popular appeal is still measured in dollars, just like in Shakespeare�s day.

The Geddy Lee Chronicles: Episode Now

2007-08-24 21:39:22

In the summer of 2007, I was an old man of 52. Laughter, hope, joy; these concepts were foreign to me. They had been supplanted by the terms work, duty, obligation; words that taste like ashes and have no happy associations. Adulthood and its attendant responsibilities had rendered the world nothing more than a blurred background mostly ignored while I continued my Sisyphean march towards the next pay check. I had somehow forgotten the glories of youth, and was even on the verge of forgetting that such a time ever occurred in my own life.
But tickling at the back of my brain was a nagging thought, a persistent germ of an idea that roused something other than resignation in me.
August 24, 2007. August 24, 2007. August 24, 2007.

]]> Over and over throughout the course of the day, that date had risen to the forefront of my mind, flickered briefly and then faded away. What did it mean? There was something familiar about the date, a hint of half-remembered promise.
August 24, 2007.
At 8 p.m., while reviewing the same sheaf of papers that I had reviewed at least a half dozen times this week, the thought returned, but with an additional piece of information appended.
Today is August 24, 2007.
August 24, 2007, is the day Rush comes to town.
Whatever shreds of happiness still lingered in the bleak outlands of my heart were summarily ground into a fine, chalky silt by the weight of this realization.
There I was in a mostly abandoned office on a Friday night, nipping at a flask of Rittenhouse and trying to make sense of what had happened. I�d been gleefully anticipating this show for months � how did this slip by me? Where is the oversight in the Watchmaker�s Universe? Who does one blame when there is no obvious person at fault?
Work. Duty. Obligation. Not for the first time, this dead-eyed trio had conspired to trample my desires underfoot, sublimating my dreams in their uncaring service of the real world�s needs. No matter how old you believe you are, you double over at the realization that you have become too old to live the life you envisioned for yourself when you were young. When the soundtrack of your life involves a clattering printer, discussions about next week�s schedule, the minutes of staff meetings -- that is depressing; when you realize this soundtrack has grown so overpowering that you have so lost yourself in the quotidian sameness of it, you�ve forgotten any other life -- that is devastating.
This is how hermits die: Smothered in a cocoon of insanity, another uniform layer built up laboriously with the passing of another uniform day; unconscious and yet active participants in their own destruction.
And in this moment of great despair, knowing for the first time since I was ten years old that Geddy Lee could not come to save me, I wept, under the impartial fluorescent lights of corporate America.
�Philosophers and ploughmen, each must know his part. To sow a new mentality, closer to the heart.�
I can not explain where the voice came from; I do not care to. I heard the words, delivered in the clear, nasally tones I had come to love for all their quirks and nuances. And what matters more is that I felt the words, as if this was the first time the song had been sung, and that the song was written solely so that I would know it.
�You can be the captain, I will draw the chart. Sailing into destiny,� -- and at this moment the flesh on the back of my neck rippled in anticipation of that voice rising and cracking into that same howl of youth that I now felt stirring inside � �Closer to the heart.�
In the long, drawn-out cry of that single line, I knew that once again, Geddy Lee, the enigmatic lead singer of Rush, had saved my life.

If Mama Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy

2007-08-23 19:22:21

Somewhere out there in the real world, there's a reader who's had a rough year. Took a bad spill on her bike, and had a coffee incident that�d make Juan Valdez shudder. She's banged up, but don't worry, she's on the mend. She has to get back on her feet soon -- her daughter's gettin' hitched in a short while, and mom�s got a seat in the front row. A wedding is something to look forward to, but it also means her only child is growing up a little bit more, and experiencing one of life's singular transformations -- and that's never easy for a parent. It's exhilarating, but it also weighs on a mother�s heart. Sunrise, sunset -- swiftly flow the years, etc, etc.
For that reader, 12 Angry Fingers lays down its sword and offers only flowers.
Oh, and this.

]]> If it ain�t fabulous, it ain�t shit.

Fabulous moms of the world, represent. Dance to it when you get the chance.

The Geddy Lee Chronicles II: Electric Jambaroo

2007-08-21 16:36:27

In three short days, Canada's greatest intelligent rock band returns to St. Louis. In honor of yet another visit by Alex, Neil and Geddy, let us turn back the clock to that moment when Rush earned my lifelong admiration and respect and love: The moment when Geddy Lee saved my life.

]]> In the spring of 1979, my father decided it was time to up stakes and move across the country. It may have had something to do with TWA declaring bankruptcy. Again. But back then, the financial solvency of major airlines wasn't really my business. What was my business was getting psyched up about the impending Great Adventure -- a journey by RV over the Rocky Mountains, following the well-blazed trail burned by the frontiersmen of legend: Kit Carson, Daniel Boone, Jim Bridger and me. A quartet that doubled as a modest proposal for a second Mount Rushmore, or as I liked to think of it, "Mountain of Cool."
We were somewhere in the rugged wilderness of Colorado when the RV's engine overheated. Nothing to worry about, it happened occasionally. And this brief pause in the mountains gave me the chance to find some trail, blaze it, and perhaps carve my name on something soft with my commemorative Indiana 500 pocket knife (not quite a Bowie knife, but still). So, without bothering to alert Ma or Pa, I set out from our temporary camp to find fresh water, or beaver lodges, or whatever shit I thought a frontiersman would do. If I'd had time to grow a raggedy beard and smear bear fat on it, I would have. Commitment.
Perhaps those of you familiar with mountains know what happens next. The lightheadedness, the confusion, the shortness of breath, followed by the panicked realization that I didn't know what direction I should head to get back. And so, I kept walking through the trees. Jim Bridger dragged himself several miles back to humanity after being mauled by a bear, after all; surely I could find a large, bug-spattered recreational vehicle.
After an indeterminate period of time, I heard voices. I broke through to a clearing and discovered a small gathering of teenagers, most of whom looked like they'd smeared their raggedy beards and ratty hair with something much more pungent than bear fat. They lounged across this small patch of earth, mandolins and banjos at the ready. The lankiest/greasiest of them counted off a weedy "1-2, 1-2-3-4" and the rest of the degenerate horde struck up a tune.
It was horrible. A wandering, pointless, limp approximation of the "Beverly Hillbillies" theme song perhaps? But no -- it was much worse than that. A circular rhythm that dogged any known time signature, a godforsaken keening bereft of meaning or soul. This was the music of the damned, certainly, and I felt myself paralyzed by the terror of an evil that consistently rooted out its own tail without ever catching anything. Ouroboros' scaly coils found purchase in this realm through this Moebius Strip-nightmare of flat-picked caterwauling.
A hand gripped my arm and dragged me roughly back into the trees, further and further away from the awful tableau. As the sound receded, I found myself able to move again. I craned my head up and saw an open, friendly face caressed by cascades of chestnut hair spilling out from under a coonskin cap. The man, lithe as a young Kit Carson, smiled at me.
"Those Yonder Mountain String Boys'll kill you as soon as look at you," he said.
I had no idea what he was saying to me, nor did I care, as this brave man dressed in buckskin had clearly saved my life. He pointed ahead; I could see the looming bulk of an RV through the trees, and I knew my family was nearby.
"Are you a frontiersman?" I asked.
He laughed and winked. "We call 'em 'Coureurs de bois' up North, son." He seemed to meld with the trees, and I heard his parting words echoing in my head that night as I fell asleep: "You have to go into the darkness to come out from under the shadow."
I am convinced that this man was Geddy Lee, and that once again Rush's enigmatic bassist had saved my life. But for what purpose?

The Airing of Dirty Linen

2007-08-20 17:47:33

A recent post on this very blog was found by a certain reader to be insulting to the character of Blackmore. That would be the character of Brythunian Soldier/Thief Blackmore and not his namesake, the English guitarist of great renown, Ritchie Blackmore. The proprietor of 12 Angry Fingers would very much like to take this opportunity to apologize to Certain Reader for the misconception, and would also like to note that this apology is in no way the result of a certain Nordheimer berserker being backstabbed by a Brythunian Soldier/Thief during a particularly frantic moment in the action at this past installment of the Friday Night Role Playing Game Roundtable Argument Society. While it�s true, at the time of the (purely accidental) shivving of the aforementioned Nordheimer berserker (who was indeed a favorite character to play � emphasis on �was�), the other members of the FNRPGRAS were called into duty to separate Certain Reader and the proprietor of 12 Angry Fingers, that was merely the heat of the moment. In the rational light of another day, it is patently obvious that the backstabbing was merely an unfortunate occurrence in the hurly-burly of the fracas, and no ill will was implied or assumed, on either part.
Also, the proprietor of 12 Angry Fingers would like to state, publicly, and also under no duress whatsoever, that �Having entry music for your character is an awesome idea, and forget what I said about it being an egregious anachronism.�
In fact, in a remarkable show of good faith towards our disgruntled comrade, we shall now discuss Ritchie Blackmore�s current project, Blackmore�s Night.

]]> After spending the better part of the �80s and �90s vacillating between reuniting with Deep Purple and reuniting with Rainbow, Ritchie Blackmore set course for a new direction: The Renaissance.
Canst thou say �zounds?�
Blackmore�s Night, an ancient music ensemble Ritchie founded with his lady love, Candice Night, is not a historically accurate representation of pre-modern music in the same vein as the works of Anonymous 4; let�s say instead that the music of Blackmore�s Night is inspired by the spirit of the Renaissance. Night does the singing and plays a bit of chanter, Ritchie provides the guitars and some hurdy-gurdy, the Sisters of the Moon (Lady Nancy and Lady Madeline, respectively) provide the harmony vocals, and in a shock twist, Anton Fig (of the David Letterman house band) plays the drums. In addition to the anachronistic drum kit of Mr. Fig, there�s some keyboards and an electric bass in there, at least on the band�s most recent album, The Village Lanterne. These concessions to the present are mollified somewhat by the band�s propensity for dressing like refugees from a Ren Faire (read: Stevie Nicks� closet), and for Blackmore�s classical mustache, a nice touch if ever there was one.
The music? Well, it�s kind of a hodge-podge of rousing Celtic rock, leavened with a touch of New Agey something or other, and a generous helping of classic British Folk. Blackmore�s playing is as fit and fiery as ever, although it�s his evocative work on the acoustic guitar that rouses more passion here, truth be told. While he provides a few electric leads throughout the album, his heart seems to be more involved in his acoustic work. The instrumental �The Messenger� is a shining example of the things Ritchie Blackmore can do to a guitar, as he summons melancholy vistas of hazy Andalucian plains through a cascade of notes. A cover of Ralph McTell�s �Streets of London� suffers a bit from too much frill � a superfluous, bubbly keyboard progression mars what begins beautifully with just Blackmore�s playing and Night�s breathy voice. The electric numbers, such as the anthemic �Just Call My Name (I�ll Be There)� seem a little over-heated by comparison; the commercial sheen that Blackmore developed writing for early-�80s Rainbow is a touch too strong here, and it�s incongruous with the band�s quieter numbers, distractingly so. Strangely, an actual cover of Rainbow�s �Street of Dreams,� with Joe Lynn Turner guesting on vocals, sounds much more fitting. Blackmore�s gift for a melodic hook and a gradual build-up are aided here by a slower tempo than on the original version of the song, and Turner�s voice blends charmingly with Night�s.
Perhaps the strangest moment comes when the band segues from the foot-stomping folk of �Mond Tanz� into a cover of the Deep Purple chestnut, �Sweet Child in Time.� �Sweet Child in Time�s� simmering, Bolero-esque march is one of the greatest pieces of recorded music; the rhythm section�s ascending triple thuds provide a rocking canvas for Blackmore�s soaring bent notes, while the vocalist (whoever it is in this particular installment of Deep Purple) howls a wordless inversion of the riff. On the Made in Japan version of the song, Ian Gillan skates briefly along the line between �ecstatic� and �shrieking in tongues� before giving in to the latter, howling like a zealous anchorite. The Blackmore�s Night version has a different timbre of howling spirituality. The rhythm section has a stripped-down dryness, lacking the insensate wildness of Deep Purple�s Hammond/electric bass/jazz drum core; it makes up for the loss with the twinned vocals of Lady Nancy and Lady Madeline, soaring along with Night�s own searching voice. Blackmore, as ever, drives the song with a series of well-balanced flourishes, most of them familiar to fans of the original, and all of them on the electric guitar, sadly. It�s a prettier but less frantic version of the song, and when it suddenly reverts back to the thumping folk of �Mond Tanz,� it�s an abrupt reminder of what the song might have been this time around. If Blackmore�s Night had committed fully to an all-acoustic rendition, it might have been a masterpiece. As it is, it�s a near-miss, but a miss on the right side of entertaining.
Blackmore�s Night�s �Sweet Child in Time� perhaps indicates that Ritchie Blackmore can�t escape his musical past, and that he hasn�t quite rectified it with his present. Still, despite the album�s failings, I�d rather have him making new music than just circling the globe with whatever incarnation of Deep Purple exists these days.
And speaking of circling the globe, Blackmore�s Night is scheduled to be at the Chicago House of Blues on October 18. And you know what�s awesome? Fans who dress in period garb receive preferential seating. Time to buy that cape and doublet and get a seat down front. Huzzah.

A Purple so Deep It�s Black(more or less)

2007-08-16 16:14:01

The recent release of re-mastered versions of Deep Purple�s lost albums, Stormbringer, Come Taste the Band and Made In Europe, led to the inevitable Friday Night Role Playing Game Roundtable Argument Society discussion of the big question � who the hell wants those albums on CD? Seriously, right? Those three albums, dating from the Mark III version of the band (Ritchie Blackmore, Jon Lord, Ian Paice, Glenn Hughes and David �Whitesnake� Coverdale on vocals), haven�t been available as domestic CDs for something like two decades � there�s gotta be a reason for that. It�s a supply and demand economy � and all of Deep Purple Mark II�s albums have remained in print, after all.
Still, a certain member of the FNRPGRAS contingent who shall remain nameless (he knows who he is) is such a devoted Ritchie Blackmore fan that he has not only made a Brythunian Soldier/Thief modeled on Ritchie (cleverly named �Blackmore�) for our Conan: RPG campaign, but this sad little man of course bought the two albums he could find -- Stormbringer and Made in Europe -- and special ordered Come Taste the Band. And to top it all off, he then he insisted on using the live version of �Burn� from Europe as his character�s �entry music,� because being a big dork with a character named after his favorite guitarist is apparently not shame enough.

]]> It�s evenings like this where very little role playing is done, and we mostly just rag on one another�s horrible decision of days past � and since we�re grown men playing RPG�s on a Friday night, there are many, many poor decisions to catalog. Like the fact that our Blackmore fanatic gave his character seventeen ranks in Performance, but wouldn�t clarify what, exactly, his very talented character was so good at performing. Epic poetry, fellatio, shadow puppetry and Lambada, the Forbidden Dance, were all bandied as possibilities, but he finally relented and announced his guy was a really, really good lute player.
That wouldn�t be electric lute, now, would it? Jerk.
And yet � and it�s like failing a Fortitude Save here to admit this � that goddamn Stormbringer is one funky little sumbitch of an album. We eventually quit ragging on each other and just listened to it, then started arguing about why it went out of print in America.
Let us first dismiss the possibility that it was because David Coverdale is the vocalist. He�s not nearly as histrionic on any of these songs as he is on your average White Snake cut (how could he be?). Coverdale�s got a nice, burly voice, and all his parts are doubled by bassist/vocalist Glenn Hughes, who has a higher, cleaner voice. The effect is a rich, classic rock-sounding vocalist who detracts nothing from the proceedings (sorry, Ian Gillan fanatics).
No, the problem with Stormbringer is that most of it sounds nothing at all like Deep Purple�s preceding albums, which were big ol� slabs of classic rock. The title track has been the only song to survive the mid-�70s, and only then because it�s on the easily found Very Best of Deep Purple compilation. But nothing else on the albums sounds like it. �Stormbringer,� with it�s epic refrain �Stormbringer comin�/time to die,� is a boss-ass rock song that hints obliquely at a passing knowledge of Michael Moorcock�s fantasy anti-hero, Elric, and his infamous black blade, Stormbringer; it�s one of those �power chords/verse/more power chords/slightly daffy guitar solo/keyboard thing� compositions that straddle hard rock and prog rock � you know, classic Deep Purple. It�s a re-statement of purpose from a band that had just chucked the bassist and the very-popular lead singer � for the second time � and were trying to not lose any fans, and hopefully make a few more.
The rest of the album, however, veers wildly from Motown-style funk (�Love Don�t Mean a Thing�) to Allman-esque country rock (�Holy Man�) to Steely Dan-type jazz (�Hold On�). Crom help us, but there may not be a more �70s-sounding album ever recorded. Blackmore has writing credit on seven of the eight tracks, and he�s stretching himself here in ways he never really did on the earlier DP albums. He�s working from the same bag of tricks, playing with his fingers instead of a pick, keeping the effects minimal � although he�s using a lot more flange and phaser than he ever did before � but he�s not just laying on the power chords. Instead, Blackmore�s got quite a bit of chicken scratching going on, some funky looseness in the chords; it works well with Jon Lord�s dirty blues figures, which don�t sound all that far away from something Al Kooper would have done. It�s downright weird coming from the men who launched a half-million monolithic rock riffs. But weird is good, right?
Look, Stormbringer is no Deep Purple in Rock; it didn�t have to be. The fact that the core of the band � Blackmore, keyboardist Jon Lord and drummer Ian Paice � took so many chances with this album is what makes it sound so fresh and interesting now. Nothing they did before or since sounded like this; even Made in Europe, the follow-up live document, is a bombastic, burning rock album � no funkiness allowed. Gotta give the people what they want. And in 1975, DP fans apparently wanted no part of the weirdness that is Stormbringer.
But now? Now Stormbringer�s a quaint little lost treasure from the hazy days of yore, and it�s good to have a re-mastered CD version of it.
Or maybe it�s just that I failed my Willpower save, and Blackmore, the Brythunian Soldier/Thief, has enchanted me with his beautiful, beautiful lute playing on this magical evening. That'll happen when you stack a high Charisma bonus with seventeen ranks of Performance.

Some Lame Pun on Gustav Klimt's Famous Painting Whose Name We Can't Quite Remember

2007-08-13 15:58:06

Out of the blue on a hot-as-the-dog's-balls Wednesday morning, Paul Stanley called. It wasn't entirely unexpected; we did have an interview scheduled for later that afternoon. But something came up on his end, and he wanted to know if we could either move the interview back an hour, or do the interview right then.
Paul Stanley has done about two million interviews in his career, and not only does he still make his own scheduling phone calls, he's willing to work around the interviewer's schedule. It's a nice touch, a personal touch, and if the rest of the celebrity world found out how the big names work, they'd be ashamed of the machinations of their press flacks. Anyway, I of course chose to interview him right then: he's Paul Stanley, and he was nice enough to ring me up.
Despite the high-energy stage persona he's crafted, Stanley on the phone is sedate and laid-back. We discussed art, his philosophy of creating and what, exactly, the critics of the world can suck. He's a thoughtful man, and he took a great deal of care in choosing his words. Regardless of what you think of his art, Stanley obviously finds painting a deeply satisfying pursuit and he takes it seriously. It sounds like Art saved him when he was in a personal low point (I didn't pry when he brought that up, and if you'd heard the delicate path he picked in that part of the conversation, you wouldn't have either), and he's grateful that he has a lifestyle that allows him to paint while the rest of us have to go to work. If Art's not the answer to life's woes, then take it up with Paul Stanley; I'm with him on this one.

]]> 12AF:So, the press materials state you went to the New York City High School of Music and Art as an art major; was that a lot like going to the high school in Fame?
Paul Stanley: It was a great school, in that all of the outcasts - and that was kinda synonymous with talented - from all the schools around NY would take these tests to try to get into that particular school. And a handful were chosen from the art and music field, and the ones that did performing arts went to the sister school. But it was very much like that film, Fame. It was a great creative environment where there was no emphasis put on how you looked, it was all about doing your work. That's pretty much the norm now, but back then, school attire requirements were pretty strict in most schools, with hair length and a whole lot of other nonsense. But when you got into that school, you were pretty much left to your own style choices as long as you did your work.
I went in for fine arts, but I'm one of the few who probably holds the distinction of failing art. Which says volumes about my problems with authority figures.

Were the classes helpful for you? Did you feel like you were learning what you needed to be an artist?
PS: I have to say if it helped me do anything, it was complete school. School for me in general was not a whole lot of fun. I tended to find myself the blackest of the black sheep no matter where I went, so when I went there, it was pretty much everything was OK. It was a very liberal school. Although I didn't find myself excelling in any particular area, it made it possible for me to finish school. And it also kinda cemented in me that I wanted to first pursue music. My first love had been music and rock & roll, and that's what I decided to pursue first.
Although, because KISS is such a visual band, I got the chance to design album covers, tour books, stages, things of that sort. In the last seven years, I wouldn't say "I've returned to art," because I found art in different ways (in the band). But it's been tremendously rewarding for me and exciting - about seven years ago I was going through some turmoil, and one of my best friends said, "You need to paint." And I'd never really painted surprisingly. But for whatever reason, that really resonated with me. So I went out and bought canvases and paints and brushes, and started painting. And for me it was very much a journey into . . . getting to know another side of myself. I was never interested in the idea of making a table and chairs look like a table and chairs, and I was never interested in depicting reality literally. I was more interested in almost a stream of consciousness using color and texture instead of using words. It was more about emotions, trying to convey emotions and things that were going on.

But you've made your living writing lyrics. . .
PS: It's very different than that. It's very different because you have many less limitations and boundaries. The framework that you have to work with when you write music consists of music, melody, lyrics - everything has to fit. Whereas with art, the only boundaries are the edge of the canvas. What you do on it is up to you. For me, I really started painting very much as a personal expression. And yet as soon as I put a piece up in my house (and I didn't sign it), it was the painting everyone was drawn to and wanted to know who did it. I think when you do something initially for yourself, you're bound to connect with other people. You run into trouble when you try to second guess the people who may be seeing whatever you're doing, whether it's art or music. You're always better off, first and foremost, trying to please yourself.
I think ultimately if you please yourself, you'll find someone else you please in the process. It really became about me trying to connect and almost purge whatever was going on inside me.
I tend to approach the canvas like a journey. You know, I won't know where I'm going, but I'll know when I've got there.

Is it tough to fit painting into your life now?
PS: It's much more easy than before. I tend to compartmentalize my life. And when I'm not working on music, I'm free to do whatever I want. It's very easy for me to disconnect, disassociate myself from one aspect and go into another.

So when you're on the road, you don't itch to get the canvas out and paint?
PS: No. And when I paint, I don't itch to play the guitar. They're very separate realms. But I find it really interesting, you know, the amount of people acquiring my art has been pretty staggering. No doubt, my success and who I am gets my foot in the door, but it doesn't stop anyone from slamming the door. I certainly get an advantage in getting my work seen, but that doesn't mean anybody's going to want it. Because somebody likes your songs doesn't mean they're going to feel obligated to acquire your art. At the end of the day, money changing hands kinda says all, you know? And that's been pretty phenomenal (that people want to buy them).
People ask me when they look at a painting whether there's a hidden face or something else in a particular painting; and because I tend to create impulsively and instinctively, a lot of things will wind up in the painting that even I'm not aware of. But I always try to tell people, instead of helping them to see my reality, I'd rather they find their own.

Talk about how you go about painting: Do you just sit down and go at it? Do you listen to music?
PS: Well, you know, I like music. I'll have music playing, and I'll just have some time for myself.

Part of the KISS mystique is that everything is bigger than everyone else. Do you find that element comes into play when painting? That you look at it and think, "It's not good enough, I can do better?"
PS: I'm my own harshest critic. Always. And I'm not of the belief that bigger is necessarily better. Sometimes bigger is only bigger. It's what's behind it, or what it's made of or what it stands for. I'm not somebody who's impressed with numbers or size or anything like that.

Your artist statement mentions that you're drawn to the school of Abstraction and also Expressionism; what's the appeal of those styles?
PS: Mainly because I believe that emotion is a more universal language. I'd rather have people connect with my paintings on an emotional level than an intellectual. I'd rather people respond to something and like it and not try to figure out why they like it. That's secondary. I think that something we all can have in common is an emotional connection.

Let's return to the compartmentalization theory of your life. Do you set yourself a schedule for painting?
PS: I do now. People may say that they only paint for themselves or they only create for themselves. That may be true initially, but I think it's nonsense. The only person who ultimately creates purely for themselves is a person who doesn't appeal to anyone else. The fact that you succeed gives you incentive to create more. I'd be lying if I said that the fact that my art has been accepted so widely doesn't make me want to paint more. No artist ever starved by choice!

Do you schedule yourself to the point where you have a quota, like two a day?
PS: Oh, gosh no! I would have to have ten arms to do two a day. But besides that, no; I look upon creating as part of my day. I don't believe in the idea that you sit around waiting for inspiration - you create inspiration. We'd spend a whole lot more time under a shady tree waiting for inspiration; I'd rather go find it.

Do you believe it's your work ethic that sets you apart?
PS: Of course. My work ethic has always been about applying myself to something, and that's what gets the results. And being proud of whatever I do. At the end of the day, I can live with whatever criticism I get, as long as I don't believe it.

You've had eight or ten shows at this point; have you been reviewed seriously? Have critics showed up and then torn you apart?
PS: I think that critics are the downfall of any art that they become a part of. They exist by intimidation. They exist by making people believe that they're necessary, and that people on their own can't decide what's good and bad. And that's unfortunate. Many people miss out on great opportunities to experience theatre or art because they feel that they're not qualified to decide whether or not something's good or bad - and that's absurd! When you go into a restaurant, you don't need someone to tell you the food is good or bad. If you spit it out, you know it's bad.
If art connects with you, it's good. If theatre connects with you, it's good. You don't need somebody who's got a better grasp of the English language - perhaps - than you do to tell you why he likes it. No one's opinion is relevant except your own. So, I don't ever concern myself with critics. They certainly don't live in my house.

They also don't tend to buy the paintings.
PS: Right! They also go to concerts with free tickets, so how important is somebody's opinion who didn't have to work to acquire what they have?

You're going to be in town for a few days; Are you gonna check out some our museums this weekend?
PS: I'd love to. You know, it's humbling to see how much great art is being created that will never see a museum. You pick up a copy of Art News, and the amount of art that's being made that's world class is staggering. I'd love to get to the museums, and if it's possible, I will.
I'd also like everybody to understand that these shows are in an art gallery; it's not a memorabilia signing. I'm happy that you have CDs, t-shirts, tour books and photos, but they won't be signed there. This is an art gallery, and it's the wrong place and the wrong time. But if you wind up seeing a piece of art that you like and you acquire, then we'll get to spend some time together. I have a champagne reception for all the people who pre-buy a piece.

Paul Stanley displays his art Friday and Saturday (August 17 and 18; 6 to 9 p.m. both evenings) for an exhibition of his paintings at the Wentworth Gallery at Westfield Shoppingtown-West County (I-270 and Manchester Road, Des Peres; 314-821-8884 or www.wentworthgallery.com). Admission is free, but as mentioned, he's only hanging out with buyers. Visit the gallery's Web site for information on how to pre-purchase a piece so you can hang out with Stanley at the buyer's reception.