Tod Goldberg

Jane Says

An old friend of mine is putting together the Jane's Addiction box set for Rhino and asked me to send him some old photos from a private concert they did on top of Mount Baldy in the summer of 1990 (it was probably right around this time of year, as I recall, since I was out of school for the summer and working at a record store at the time...and I think they actually sold records there, along with a lot of cassettes, and some new fangled thing called CDs...) for possible use in the liner notes and such; so, after getting the old negatives transfered to digital, I thought I'd put up a few here for those of you who might have been fans back in the day, or are fans now, or don't believe Dave Navarro ever did anything before that reality show about his marriage. (Footage from the concert was later used in the video for "Stop" and I think some of it is also in The Gift.)

More after the jump

Rosa Parks Didn't Call Shotgun

The day rap music died.

The Book Of Love

I've just been told that the good people at Indie 103.1 have posted a shortened podcast of my appearance (along with with the lovely Robin Benway, the high-on-Go-Girl Christopher Rice and the LA Times czar of literature David Ulin) on Jonesy's Jukebox from last month on their website. Unfortunately, because it's shortened from 2 hours to 45 minutes, some of the conversations don't make as much sense as they should since we all refer back to previous bits of conversation, but it's still pretty entertaining and, as you'll hear, it took me about five seconds to say something that would eventually cause Wendy to ask, "Do you ever think before you speak?" (Quick answer: Not so much.)

The Definition Of Whack: Everlast Edition

My friend Jarret asked me the other day to add a new feature to this blog where I talk about albums no one remembers that have inexplicably held up well (specifically David & David's Welcome to the Boomtown, which I just listened to and, surprisingly, it has held up well). I just may do that. But I think it might be wiser to also look at truly god fucking awful music by artists that somehow redeemed themselves later. So, for the first installment, here's Everlast back when he was the male model of Ice-T's Rhyme Syndicate and opted to sample My Sharona in his bid for rap immortality:

And for the sake of comparison, here's his new song:

In all fairness to Everlast, I don't think I'd want there to be video evidence of what a fucktard I was in 1990 (though, somewhere, I suspect there is...I wore a lot of Greek lettered clothing...I dated a lot of  women with extensive scrunchy collections), nor would I want anyone reading anything I wrote in 1990. Or 1995.

Moment of Zen

I think we can all agree that when people think of me, the first thing that comes to mind is: Rock God. Okay, maybe that's not precisely the case, since it's not as if I spend all of my  free time astride a sand dune with my ax and my hairy chest, but let's not forget that I was a contestant on Rock-N-Roll Jeopardy (and would have won had I not found it impossible to answer every fucking question in the "Songs By America" category with "What is Ventura Highway?" except for the one question that actually was the answer to, which I offered up a "What is Sister Goldenhair?" in response to instead) and actually won Rolling Stone's College Music Trivia World Bantamweight Title (or some such thing) in 1994 (I was part of a team with two other guys in my fraternity, Jeremy Padow and Chris Rager and, as I recall, the answer that put us over the top was "Hippy Chick" by Soho. Our winnings? A year's supply of ice cream, a denim jacket with the Rolling Stone logo on the back, and a bunch of catalog CDs, like Steve Miller Band and REO Speedwagon. The next year, after I graduated, Chris won it by himself and received a Mustang. Not that I'm bitter, naturally), so I know music. It's in me. If I could play a guitar, i'd be out on a fucking sand dune right now making it cry, yo.

I bring this all up today for two specific reasons:

1. On Friday, at noon, I'll be a guest on Jonesy's Jukebox on Indie 103.1 in Los Angeles, along with the author Robin Benway and two people as yet unknown to me. What this means is that I'll be talking with Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols about music for two hours. This is pretty much the culmination of my life's work. (If you don't live in LA, you can still hear me make an ass of myself by going to Indie1031.fm and listening online.) I'm not precisely certain how I got asked to do this, but I'm going to pretend that it's because I'm super cool and I'm the spike in ratings they've been waiting for and that Steve Jones is a big, big fan and has always wanted to meet me. My feeling is that what's likely to happen is that the folks at KCRW will hear me, will immediately fire Michael Silverblatt and I'll have my own bad ass radio show all about books, where my main objective will be to, you know, glorify myself. I'm thinking: Would it be wrong to bust out my much vaunted Michael Silverblatt imitation on Indie 103.1? To maybe do the entire show as Silverblatt? You know: "Steve, I was transfixed by your transcendent work with the Sex Pistols, and by transcending, I mean..."

2.  I was informed today that there is an Austin-based band called Riot Like Words who have a song on their new album called Fake Liar Cheat. Now, I have no idea if this song is actually in any way related to my book of the same name, but I went and listened to the song on the band's Myspace and I'd like to be able to tell you that the lyrics gave me a clear and precise understanding that, yes, I am the reason they make music. I'd like to be able to say that the song's lyrics convey, in music, the difficult life of a man working a dead end job at Staff Genius, who meets a dangerous woman, who makes him do dangerous things, who makes him, uh, maybe not put a vital 3rd act into the book for reasons still unclear to the author, makes him go off into an ambiguous ending that still, 8 years later, prompts angry emails from 17 year olds demanding answers (if you haven't read the book, skip this next line, since I'm going to finally answer the question that has so plagued a nation of millions: I am of the opinion that they die. There. I said it. I'll probably change my mind at some later date, but there's your answer: they are dead, sorry for the confusion.) and then segues into a much better second book. But the thing of it is, I can't figure out what the fuck they're saying. The music is pretty good. Sort of Jane's Addiction meets Kyuss. I think. Who knows. But it sounded pretty tight. Here's a live version that was apparently filmed in total darkness:

So, yeah, I'm pretty much a rock superstar.

In Eight Years There Will Be More Choreographed Dance Sequences

...and women will wear Plexiglas triangles on their wrists, at least according to Rick Springfield's video for "Human Touch" with takes place in 2016 AD.

On the upside, it looks like mullets will be back in style by then, as well as clothes one could normally only purchase at Chess King and Merry-Go-Round. Now, where did I leave my bottle of Drakar Noir and my sleeveless Chams shirt...

Vacation Viewing: The Golden Age of Meaningless Songs and Their Gaelic Videos (Castles Optional)

Before I left town, I mentioned that I'd recently downloaded Run Runaway by Slade and that it was, certainly, one of the very worst songs I'd downloaded all year long. I then got an acid flashback of a video featuring, you know, a big ass castle and bad hats. I also had a vague sense that there was probably a smoke machine in use. And some Gaelic shit. Turns out I was right on all accounts:

Then, after watching this, I thought, you know, this song sounds a lot like Fields of Fire by Big Country. I recalled the video for that feeling pretty midevil, or at least pretty fucking Gaelic, and it turns out I was correct again:

Now Playing Left Field And Batting Clean-Up For The San Francisco Giants...Dr. Dre

I have a general rule that I don't say anything about anyone ever associated with Suge Knight -- even people who are his avowed enemies as, well, I don't wanna get stomped on by some gangstas next time I'm in Las Vegas for a Tyson fight -- but I have to break my silence tonight to note that Dr. Dre's new album is more likely to be called BALCO than "Detox." If you didn't see him on the VMAs, here's how he looked just prior to hitting his 756th home run:

Maybe I'm wrong. It's possible that Dre came by his muscles honestly. It's also possible he's auditioning for a role in the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie. It's possible he's covered in cysts. It's possible he has alien hand syndrome and, while he sleeps, his hand makes him work out. It's possible Eazy-E is growing like a Manitou inside his delts. It's possible that he's a cyborg assassin whose skin is made of alien alloy. It's possible he's JaMarcus Russell. It's possible that while he don't smoke weed or sess, because it's known to give a brother brain damage, and brain damage on the mic don't manage nuthin, it is possible that he and Barry Bonds have been rubbing flax seed oil on each other. It's possible that his trapezoids were actually built by ancient Egyptians in tribute to the Pharaoh Yella Boy. It's possible that while motherfuckers forgot about Dre, Dre was getting busy on his Bow-Flex 18 hours a day. It's possible that Dre really is a doctor and can write prescriptions for HGH. It's possible that his nut sack is now roughly the size of a peach pit. Yo, Dre, stick to producing before people confuse you with Ronnie Coleman.

   

The Music Video That Turned Me Into An Author

The first time I saw this video, Todd Harris and I were watching the California Music Channel -- a terrible little Bay Area music video show from the early 80s hosted by a rat faced mustachioed & permed VJ named Rick Kurkjian, a man whose screen persona was somewhere between annoyed and ashamed, with a dash of confused and alarmed, as I recall -- on the floor of his family room. It was 1983. And it was awesome. Vowels meant a lot to me, even then...

The Greatest Moment In TV History

Earlier today I heard the old Kenny Loggins & Stevie Nicks song "Whenever I Call You Friend" and had the strangest memory: I recalled sitting in the family room of my childhood home tape recording Rick Springfield and Cheryl Ladd singing it together off of the TV. In my mind, Rick was wearing a pink suit. I was going to call my sister Linda, arguably the world's foremost authority on Rick Springfield, to see if she remembered it, too, and then decided to instead see if I was actually just losing my fucking mind.

Turns out, I wasn't:

Now, if I could just find video evidence of pygmies climbing into the ear of an elephant and cutting their way out through its stomach, my quest to confirm every childhood TV memory would finally be realized.