Robert Plant

I’ve now watched Robert Plant’s Conan O’Brien appearance 5 times. His new record, Mighty Rearranger, is so flawless that it will only sell about 3,000 copies. As great as the album is, Robert Plant and the Strange Sensations are magnificent on stage; there is no currently-touring rock band that even comes close to their dynamic perfection. That Plant is so much better live than on record is a delicious reversal of his Led Zeppelin days.

Zeppelin’s live album, The Song Remains The Same, just sucks, as do any live bootlegs I’ve heard. The studio albums are like a full-tilt, amphetamine orchestra, while the live album is like reducing the orchestra to only tympani and clarinet, with the clarinetist going on for hours! The band was adamantly a 4-piece on stage, thus making it impossible to recreate that album sound, so they took it in a different direction, honoring the distinction between studio and stage. Many wax poetic about seeing Led Zeppelin live, but it just didn’t translate well past that moment.

That makes sense, though, because Jimmy Page was a Studio Merlin the Magician. He’s remembered as a Guitar God, but I think many confuse his brilliant production work with his guitar prowess. Those indelible images of his skinny body arched back from the Gibson banging at his knees are the silhouette of an ax slinger, and I’m not questioning his 6-string authority, but when thinking of Zeppelin, we think of the way those albums - those songs - sound, and no one has ever sounded like that.

Each Zeppelin track was an expansive, elaborate production, with Page weaving a mad web of sounds that had nothing to do with a blues rock outfit, and everything to do with moving the Phil Spector Wall of Sound into the macho world of hard rock.

“Four Sticks,” from Led Zeppelin IV, is a prime example of his studio wizardry. The central riff and vocal line is a standard blues wallow until you double the speed, throw in a jungle beat and a loose, liquid bridge. That’s Page arranging. Triple track and condense the electric guitars until they buzz like hornets, fatten up the bass sound like Kirstie Alley, round out the drum so it sounds like tomcats fighting inside a velvet bag, and nudge the pitch control ever so slightly every time Plant careens into a squeal, and that’s Page producing. Break down the basic parts of that song, and it’s nothing special, but after Page stirs the ingredients, it becomes a vital piece of music that still sounds fresh and unique to this very moment.

Page turned the extraordinary into something extraterrestrial. Think of the opening drum riff on “When The Levee Breaks”: Jimmy knew how to make it sound like Bonham was beating sequoia trunks against the floor of the Grand Canyon. No way did it ever come across like that live, but who cares? Jimmy knew it was more important to get the ultimate sound recorded for all eternity rather than worry about acoustics in cement hockey arenas.

That he was such a production genius is not a surprise, considering his studio-musician-for-hire background. That he is usually over-looked for being a production genius is entirely his doing. You’d think the band was being charged a dollar a word for album liner notes because they were so scarce, and it concealed the less glamorous mechanics of the band while contributing to the mystery. Jimmy Page fully understood the yin and yang of the Zeppelin legend, and instinctively knew that the ponderous technical details of studio yin would seriously muss the aggressive Zeppelin yang, so he kept it quiet. Hell, he’s still quiet about being one of the greatest rock producers of all time, almost as if he doesn’t realize it was his greatest talent, his surest shot at immortality.

Page dried on the vine after Led Zeppelin disbanded, and Plant blossomed. He has successfully explored varied forms of musical expression with humor, grace and dignity. He works only when he feels impassioned to do so, and having no financial worries, can maintain the quality standards of his musical pedigree by hiring only the very best musicians.

One of his greatest achievements is giving the Zeppelin catalog proper live treatment by giving it full-bodied instrumentation. In the mid 90’s, he dragged Jimmy Page out of his hermit castle for a triumphant rethink of their musical partnership on the Page & Plant tour. In 2002, we saw him and his other-worldly band blaze through a spellbinding show. The personal highlight of that set was a version of “Four Sticks” so thunderous and primal that it literally knocked me back in my seat.

Robert Plant conjures and improves the magical Led Zeppelin album sound, and it’s not the reason for his being, but rather another reason he is a master.

Marilyn Monroe

There's a secret Marilyn Monroe shrine on the South Side of St. Louis City. It's on one of the busiest streets near one of the very busiest intersections (3723 South Kingshighway, 63109 for Mapquest purposes), and even though countless cars pass by 24 hours a day, no one notices an ever-revolving series of paintings in an abandoned storefront window.

I first saw it the summer of 2003. While stuck in gnarly traffic, a swirl of psychedelic pastel colors caught the corner of my eye, and there was Marilyn blossoming brightly within a sea of blackness. To verify what I saw, I investigated on foot a few days later.

This side of the street still retains its very early 20th century urban mass; shop fronts at ground level with apartments above. Marilyn was next to a corner tavern, encased in a display window painted flat black, with black curtains blocking any view into the shop, and one fake tree for ambience. There was no display lighting, dust covered all surfaces, and a small bullet hole pocked the glass near dead center of Marilyn's viewing area.

The painting was florid and evocative on its own, while its odd display made it captivating. Even though I stood on the sidewalk of a mad street, the loud sounds of traffic pounding behind, I felt magically isolated in another's adulation.

There was no signature on the painting, and nothing to indicate if it was for sale. Who was the artist? Why is it here? Does he /she live upstairs, in that room behind the zebra-stripe curtains? I took pictures to show other South Siders what we'd been overlooking, and looked forward to visiting Secret Marilyn every time I drove by.

Then a new Marilyn painting appeared! Turns out this space was the quietest art gallery in the city, and save for a brief portrait of Maria Callas, was dedicated solely to Marilyn Monroe. Fine artists usually work themselves raw for recognition, trying to attract gallery interest to attract patrons. But here was an artist who tucked their work into the background of urban chaos, loyal to the muse, silently consistent and seemingly content to pick up distant, random patrons.

Were these paintings for sale? Does one push a note through the store door's mail slot, hoping the artist finds it and contacts you? Or are they not for sale, just for love? When they place a new painting, where does the old one go? And, for the 25th time, who is this person?!



Finally, in the bottom corner of "Marilyn in Tears" (I name each one for documentation purposes) was a name!!
KABBAZ
A Google search gave up Janis Joplin, and the artist's very own website! It answered some of my questions about the artist and his muse, but brought up new questions to add to the unanswered pile.

For instance, why doesn't he sell them? The first painting that I noticed - plus subsequent works - had been floating in his collection for years. Does he still paint? And while he used to actively show, what's the story behind this current form of solitary display?

While he's had relatively few visits to his site, someone is still paying the hosting fees. Since he listed it, I e-mailed him. I never got an error message, or a response. All signs indicate he doesn't want to be bothered, so I won't. But my final question is: Do I love the mystery behind the Marilyn paintings, or the work itself?

Along with the anticipation of each new Marilyn in the window, I admired the work because of the unceasing dedication that propelled it. Now that I know some back-story, I love the work. Kabbaz quietly carrying the torch for Marilyn is no different than Joe DiMaggio consistently sending roses to Marilyn's grave while he was alive. Both men courted public attention because of her, but ultimately eschewed the spotlight to preserve their bond with her. Rather than another artist milking the iconic aspects of, Kabbaz appears to truly and deeply love Marilyn, which makes his some of the most genuine art I've ever seen.

Burt Bacharach & Angie Dickinson

If you were to find the very cotton-candy center of my unblemished, romantic heart, you’d see this:

I vividly remember the first time I heard Dionne Warwick singing Bacharach & David’s “Do You Know the Way To San Jose.” Oh, enchantment! My little tyke self instinctively understood what was spelled out in those rhythms, that glide, that smooth. I conjured images of cars gliding down LA freeways, a butterscotch lollipop against an azure sky, gas stations where stars pumped gas with white plastic sunglasses pushed atop blonde hair glowing in the sun… 

I bought into the California way of life without even knowing they were selling.

At that tender age, I also bought into the entire catalog of the Bacharach way of life. I knew nothing of lifestyle choices of the modern era, of suburban cocktail parties in green and aqua rumpus rooms. I understood nothing of Bacharach’s musical blending of jazz, classical, pop and rock, or Hal David’s seemingly light yet incisive lyrics, the two men a modern-day George & Ira Gershwin. I hadn’t even equated that all the songs that stirred the very core of my tiny tot being came from the same men, or that their vision was perfectly expressed through the voice of one or two women. 

I only knew that certain songs transformed the very moment within which I heard them. I could be absorbed in a coloring book when suddenly:
…bohm, bohm, bohm, bohm (kick and snare)
“Oh, L.A. is a great big freeway
Put a hundred down and buy a car”

I was transported into a new world of die-cast precision scenes that came not from any personal experience, but from tuning into the frequency created by Bacharach & David. Their wave-length could physically spin me like a top as horns and strings pounded madly at the end of “Promises, Promises” or skip me lazily through a gentle downpour of “Raindrops Keep Falling’ On My Head.” A sorrowful, insistent piano riff stopped my breath as a bank of ladies in sequined gowns chanted “Don’t stop/ Don’t stop” as a Garland-esque glamour girl wobbled past wailing:
“So walk on by
Make believe you never see the tears I cry.”

From Bacharach & David, I developed distinct notions that kissing boys gave one pneumonia, that the Lord would give us no more meadows until we got more of the love we needed, and that a lad named Alfie had all the answers but refused to spill the beans. 
I was perfectly content with this world view.

A little time passes, a grade-schooler distracted from homework by a TV commercial… Burt Bacharach at the piano with Angie Dickinson practically in his lap, frisky from both the vermouth and how utterly amazing they are. From that moment on, my ideal of love was based on the rosy glow surrounding Burt & Angie as they billed and cooed:
“Martini & Rossi on the rocks
Say yessss.”

Rather than sitting in our tiny little apartment in my polyester PJs, I wanted to be on the set with Burt & Angie, sitting on the hearth of that roaring fire, humming to the vibration that perfect love emits. My parents had just divorced, but Burt & Angie were together, perfect and gorgeous, the look of love was in their eyes.

I wasn’t yet sure what sex was, but I knew that “sexy” was Burt & Angie lounging by their Beverly Hills pool. I wanted a house near theirs, so they’d be my neighbors and come hang by my pool. In the afternoon sun, a massive stone BBQ pit smokes while a purring blender makes us frothy pink drinks with aqua paper umbrellas jutting out of the foamy crest. We all laugh as Burt tosses the tiny umbrella into my deep end…
”Together forever
That’s how it must be
To live without you
Would only be heartbreak for me.”

Being a musical genius married to a TV policewoman eventually spelled disaster for Burt & Angie, because by late 1978 they were separated and divorced by 1980. One can’t help but notice that Bacharach’s 15+ years musical winning streak also came to an end around this time. The spell had been broken and I lost my symbol of Ideal Love at that very moment when Kid Crushes grew into Going Out, a cut-rate Angie auditioning a row of Bacharach-less.

To my mind and soul, any Bacharach & David tune equals the sound of love. Unrequited or passionate, serious or casual, brand new or faded, they have a song for and about it. For every Burt there is an Angie, and then there isn’t…
“and so for at least
Until tomorrow
I’ll never fall in love again.”

Teeny Bop Magazines

A magazine rack is like my Encyclopedia Britannica. It stems from being deposited in front of them at grocery stores while my mother did her kid-free shopping, and I’ve gleaned, easily, 50% 0f my knowledge from this life-long habit. I also use magazines as comfort food; if I’m feeling blue, I’ll cruise through an issue of MAD magazine. A recent magazine expedition unearthed the ultimate comfort food, my macaroni and fish sticks, TIGER BEAT!!

I was shocked that it still existed, figuring it bit the dust around the same time as 16 Magazine. What’s even more shocking is that it’s still published by Laufer (1970s: The Laufer Company. 2000s: Laufer Media Inc.). Did I hold in my hand a nearly-unchanged concept, the key to a brief return to a more innocent time? I gladly paid $4 for a thrilling return to yesteryear (though I went to self-checkout, what with me being an adult buying a teen magazine and the whole Michael Jackson trial thing).

Did I overly romanticize the Tiger Beat return? Certainly.
It’s a whole new generation of pre-teen Prosti-Tots, and magazines wanting their abundant allowance money have to keep pace. On first read-through, the difference between today and yesterday issues is much like Victrola vs. iPod.

DIFFERENCES
The only punctuation mark used in the Old TB was the exclamation point. In these more somber times, the New TB uses them sparingly.

Old TB strived to help you connect with your favorite, with details on where to find him, how to dress and act to get his attention. New TB has put the kibosh on such tips due to stalking, celebrity murders and illegal underage sex issues.

Vital statistics (including neck, in-seam and shoe sizes) and questionnaires (What’s Your Favorite Cereal?) with handwritten answers were the backbone of the Old TB. The New TB would court lawsuits with questions like “What habit would you like to break?” and thus avoid it completely.

Old TB had few paid advertisements proper, and all other ads were for items directly related to the stars within (posters, paperbacks, pillows, fan clubs, etc.). New TB has just a few more paid advertisements, but obviously gets revenue from copious product placement within stories, a la In Style magazine.

Old TB offered endless contests that let the winner meet her favorite (“Fly To Hollywood & Kiss David Cassidy!”). New TB? See “illegal underage sex issues.” Now contains lots of “quiz-o-ramas,” personality tests and Jesse McCartney palm readings.

2 to 3 pages worth of wordy articles on the most popular favorites filled out every issue of Old TB. The New TB follows the short-attention-span format of lots of pictures with extended cutlines. Articles consist of very large pictures and up to 5 paragraphs of text.


SIMILARITIES
Tragedy befalling our hero remains a pre-teen staple.

Be it Susan Dey or Hillary Duff, all past and present female teen stars hate something about their physical appearance, yet persevere.

No matter the decade, teen stars with no musical background or talent continue to make records.

No matter the decade, all faves are assigned elaborate and poetic quotes that never once sprung from their lips.

Generic snail mail addresses are listed, and as always, the letters go directly into the dumpster behind the building it was sent to.

2-sided centerfold posters, pin-ups and a plethora of photos.

And posters would be the only reason these types of magazines still exist in today’s instant-access world. All major teen stars have elaborate web sites. DSL and satellite beams in any song, show or movie they want at the time they want it. But the typical 8 year old’s need for a large quantity of Ryan Cabrera photos on her bedroom wall cannot be met by Dad’s $75 HP printer. Tiger Beat, J-14, Bop, etc. are still the only way to create the perfect photo collage on your closet door.

The teen magazine publishers and editors know this, and thus, have let the rest of the content fall to sub-tabloid levels. Not to say that “Bobby Sherman – The Loneliest Day of His Life” was worthy of The New Yorker, but it was a lengthy, meaty article, giving a girl something to contemplate. Today, teen magazines provide only G-rated, watered-down rehashes of what Star and The National Enquirer reported 2 months ago. And what other choice do they have? When your media-savvy 7 year old discusses Tara Reid’s terrifying nip slip with her friends, J-14 is really not out of line printing a safe version of such. Child-like innocence is such an antiquated concept that thumbing through the old teen magazines is now akin to reading ancient fairy tales. It was once easy to keep the sordid reality of Leif Garrett and Andy Gibb off the pages of SuperTeen. But when your kids already know about Mary-Kate Olsen and Lindsay Lohan’s barely-disguised substance abuse, should teeny-bop editors blatantly ignore that information for the sake of childhood innocence? No, because they are money-making publishers, not parents. The current teen magazine industry can rest easy in knowing it has no power to set trends, only follow them.

Though, there is one grand tradition still in play, and perfected, for the 21st Century. The trick of the completely fabricated personality and talent that was once the exclusive rights of the rarified world of teen magazines is now a profitable multi-media concept.

Yesterday: Only after Leif Garrett had cemented his grassroots appeal did he earn the right to make records full of massive pitch control and compression. He was a real boy whose natural charisma allowed him to live a lie. Today: Ashlee Simpson is a lie that bought the right for the media to manufacture some charisma for her. Yep, seems even the creation of a falsehood was more organic in the old days.