The Runny Pen

The Roseland Theater sits inconspiculously at the corner of Burnside and NW 6th Avenue in Portland, Oregon. It is within stumbling distance of Voodoo Doughnuts, Chinatown and skid row. On Monday July, 13th Lamb Of God took the stage with Hatebreed and Three Inches Of Blood supporting them. A cyclone pit spun from the opening song. A bloody vortex during the entire three and a half hours of grindcore metal bands.

It was the first metal show I’d attended where I didn’t know any of the songs. I didn’t know any of the acts. A friend of mine gave me the ticket. I’d seen the t-shirts for years but never heard the music. Three Inches… sounded like many technically competent, but run of the mill thrash bands from 1985.

Hatebreed was amazing. They took the stage with authority and the rambunctious crowd energy exploded. Their singer wore the Mike Muir/bandana look and their guitarist had his hat brim flipped up in that Suicidal-style. Chunky muscular riffing. I later learned they cover Slayer’s “Ghosts of War“, one of my faves. The sweaty ocean of longhairs sang every lyric right back to Hatebreed. The balcony was on its feet. It would’ve been a great night if the show ended right there.

But then Lamb Of God took the darkened stage. Blackness. Acoustical melodies rose as a thousand bodies ebbed and flowed like a human tide. L.O.G. shifted gears into the speed-riff structures they’re known for. Southern-groove metal (in that Pantera-style) and a devastating speed-crunch dual guitar attack.

Lamb Of God was the real deal, they commanded their instruments and the crowd. The band just finished a year opening for Metallica on the ‘Death Magnetic‘ tour. The pit spun out of control as fists pumped and a thousand throats barked the choruses. At the end of their set, I knew I’d be purchasing new music. I watched videos for “Redneck” and “Set To Fail” the day before the show but none of the songs stuck in my head long enough to recognize live. They have since.

People pried themselves from the pit, hurling dehydrated torsos towards water and the bathroom at the rear of the club. Many exited the pit nursing various stages of injury. I counted three broken noses, two split-lips, a guy who just collapsed to the floor, and plenty of near-heart attack-desperate for breath people. Yes, people. Death metal with a twenty-percent female crowd in attendance: a first for me.

Lamb of God originally went by the name Burn The Priest which might be the gayest name ever. Glad they changed it. I know their music well now, since the show I’ve burned through hours of YouTube. It sounds corny but the night represented everything great about metal. The most enthusiastic crowd imaginable. Technical guitar mastery. Maximum energy. Vikings. Freedom. Primal scream therapy.

If you find yourself bored with your local radio station’s glam-rock…er, I mean…modern country music, if you’re tired of the Kenny G muzak whispering from your office speakers or if a reggae show just wont do it, this lineup is on tour for the next few months.

And if high school was twenty-three years ago (as well as the last time you saw Judas Priest) you’re definitely overdue for a metal show. Pump devil horns in the air, get drunk on vodka (cab), then catch the show the night it pulls into your town. Even if you haven’t heard any of the music from any of the bands.

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If you abruptly interrupt your girlfriend by turning up the radio when you hear the DJ announce the Canadian trio will soon perform at your local sports franchise’s facility, then you my friend are a certified Rushgeek.

You know these three men to be the most proficient trio within all that is rock and roll. “Moving Pictures” takes you back to an idyllic time in life. The innocence of Reagan’s first few years as commander in chief are heard within the opening chords of “Red Barchetta“. Every Rushgeek will sit up in their movie theater seat as the archival footage of the band brings a smile in the dark. The new documentary RUSH: Beyond The Lighted Stage tells a different sort of rock’n'roll tale. It is the story of three humble, passionate and relatively level-headed musicians who stuck to their principals and produced some of the finest progressive rock in history.

You learn about the band from the tongue of KISS bassist Gene Simmons who uses the word “fearless” to describe their aesthetic, but couldn’t understand why the members of Rush never joined the orgy when the two bands toured together. Devoted family men, the bond between Alex Lifeson and Geddy Lee extends back to the mid-sixties where the two sons of immigrants became life long friends and business partners, whose music strongly influenced a wide range of modern rock bands including Death Cab For Cutie, Metallica, Smashing Pumpkins, Primus, Tool, Pantera and Rage Against The Machine. The introduction of (best living drummer) Neil Pert into the lineup is one of those jaw dropping tales of fate. We’re all luckier for Pert having the good sense to leave his father’s auto parts dealership.

There are welcomed appearances from Metallica’s Kirk Hammet, Billy Corgan of Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails’ Trent Reznor speaking about Rush’s influence upon their musical growth and their utter confusion at the band’s lacking nomination into the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame (good question). This movie is appealing because it lacks all too familiar self-destructive byproducts of fame and fortune. These guys are enjoying their lives, grateful for the position they’ve achieved where forty years after their inception, Rush still regularly sells-out every night, every town they play.

But it seems no band can avoid the tolls of the the rock-n-roll highway. This chapter in the documentary is titled GHOST RIDER. It occurred for Rush at the end of the ’90s, when drummer and chief lyricist Neil Pert lost his teenage daughter to a drunk driver, then six months later his wife of twenty years succumbed to cancer. For a four year period, the continuance of the band wasn’t even discussed and the trio hardly touched their instruments.

Pert put his belongings into storage, sold his house, and drove his BMW motorcycle 55 thousand miles over a three year period, from The Yukon south along the western US, Mexico and Costa Rica. And like the great artist he is, Pert channeled his psyche-splintering journey into a novel (Ghost Rider) and one of the best Rush albums to date entitled “Vapor Trails“.

But even if you’re not a Rushgeek, this documentary is a welcomed break from the Bummer Doc or another theatrical release of an episode of VH1 Behind The Music disguised as a biopic. The Metallica documentary “Some Kind of Monster” is a cautionary tale, whereas the Rush story is one of passion, gratitude, fierce instinct, principal and humor. Seems this is the sole band to discover the path through the labyrinth.

Three hard-working intellectuals with attuned sensibilities (and sensitivities) defied genre and industry expectations over the decades by staying true to their ethics, and creating intricate songs with oddly singable choruses. Rolling Stone panned their albums, the mainstream never fully embraced Geddy Lee’s squeal or their many time changes within one song. And the rock’n'roll intellegista has never given them much recognition. Writers rarely pontificate about Rush’s importance in the history of hard rock, though they’ve easily earned their place alongside Sabbath and Zeppelin.

The band lacks the legions of female fans other acts easily attract. Rush does not have the cool factor associated with heavy music, their fans are usually males with above average intelligence. But even with the absence of media praise and female accolades, the band has thrived since the seventies. And so, for those of us who love and appreciate their music, who know that which many others do not, we are a cult of Rushgeeks.

It was a natural progression for her. Roller Derby. Over whiskey tumblers we brainstormed for pseudonyms, double checking availabilities on the net.  Portland, Oregon summer of 2008. Me, Trevor and Yvo… well, the athlete in search of a team.

Velvet DeVil is the name she’s known by. She’s on the practise squad (Fresh Meat) competing for a spot in the starting lineup this season. The brutal injuries she’s endured would stop most mothers of three (hell, most men) from pursuing this ambition. But Velvet continues onward. Like Jim Brown rising after a five man tackle she slowly stands, bruised but not broken.

I cannot wait to see Velvet in the lineup, dropping jammers or passing the pack to score on her own. Female warriors beating the shit out of each other on roller skates is more than good sport, it is good for the soul. Everyone should witness a roller derby match at least once in their life. Because roller derby presents the uniquely intriguing splendor of women engaged in violent competition. And they wear hot little outfits as well.

For deeper insight, watch the documentary about these sexy and completely badass women of the Pacific Northwest. Brutal Beauty: Tales of the Rose City Rollers. I will be on the sidelines, my throat bloody yelling support for Velvet DeVil screaming around the oval.

So there I am, Italy, the Tuscan countryside, August of 2003. Italy was experiencing a 110 degree plus heatwave which eventually claimed the lives of more than twenty people over that freakishly hot summer.

But I was there to create the art of reality television. Joe Millionaire 2. The operator I usually assisted bailed on the show at the last minute and I was there with his Jimmy Jib Triangle ready to assist whomever the show hired to operate the jib arm. I knew only a handful of people from The Bachelor who were also working this gig.

At dinner one night, I got to talking with one of the sound guys over a second bottle of the local chianti. The man was funny. The man was insightful. The man knew his ‘7os filmmakers. The man was Kamal John Iskander.

Hugely supportive of my feature screenplay and the main sound operator on my short, Johnny has become a damn good friend over the past seven years. During the five week span of the JM2 shoot, Johnny broke down a short script his friend had written and told me his slant on how he’d direct the piece.

Folks, I completed a short, but Johnny created a GREAT short film. A Texas film festival loved it as did the Cannes Film Festival. The film stars veteran character actor Steve Eastin (”Up In The Air”) and is not some pain in the ass, pretentious short film.

No, Iskander’s aesthetics are funny, clever and uncompromised. This isn’t video labelled as film, it wasn’t shot with the latest digital technology. This black and white beauty is pure 35mm celluloid….

The gem of the festival circuit. JESUS COMES TO TOWN.

He was only five foot-four but his authoritative voice commanded Black Sabbath! Heaven and Hell, The Mob Rules and Live Evil were recorded between ‘79 and ‘82. Afterwards, he immediately formed Dio and hit the radio with Holy Diver and The Last In Line. And both those albums were instant classics. That’s five fucking great albums released over five years. How many artists from any genre have produced that many consistently awesome albums within that time span?

Even the most cynical punk rockers such as Henry Rollins and Kurt Cobain loved Dio and his flamboyant metal theatrics. His songs often began with acoustic, almost flower-power guitar melodies, and then (led by his operatic baritone) the song shifted into the heavy sludge that would later inform bands from Soundgarden to Mastadon.

After purchasing my ‘Holy Diver’ vinyl back in 1983, it didn’t leave my turntable for months. That album was the sound of early eighties metal. Those first two Dio albums bring good memories of smoking pot in Annadel State Park with Ronnie bellowing from the boom-box, encouraging our hackey sack circle atop a hundred-foot tall water tower.

Dio’s voice would’ve been perfect to narrate The Lord Of The Rings audio books. I feel older today because Ronnie James Dio is dead. I blew it and never saw him in concert. So today, I’m gonna crank “Invisible” and throw metal horns to the sky.

Ever seen one of those old pianos playing by itself? Nobody seated in front of the thing but the keys are depressing and music somehow boils from its innards. Jazz guitar wizard Pat Metheny expanded the concept of these machines exponentially. His new album “Orchestrion” is another brilliant offering from the man with more Grammies than anyone on earth. Seventeen!

He came through Portland Oregon on Wednesday, April 28th and completely fried the packed house at The Aladdin. I hadn’t listened to ‘Orchestrion’ before the show so I wasn’t quite prepared for the performance. I’d last seen Metheny at The Raddison Hotel in Sacramento on a scorching hot July afternoon in 1995. Back then he toured supporting the “We Live Here” disc accompanied by his wicked band of sorcerers simply known as The Pat Metheny Group. The group members (including Lionel Mays on the keys) are so talented, their sound so lush, each of their solos elicited standing ovations from the crowd of wine soaked Californians.

But last Wednesday in rainy Portland, Pat was surrounded by solenoid powered robotic arms striking a wide variety of instruments. Just before he hit the stage, I realized his group of musicians would be absent and I was a little bummed. But disappointment was soon slaughtered by Pat Metheny, musician from the planet Genius. He began the evening with an acoustic guitar then moved to a freakish, double neck electric with a harp off the bottom corner. Jaws were scraped from the floor as he spoke to the crowd about his new project between songs. Of course, Metheny explains The Orchestrion better than myself, so follow the link.

I was thirsty for a shot of musical inspiration. The last concerts I attended were back-to-back nights with Metallica at The Forum in LA, 2008. And live music is an essential component of my spiritual homeostasis. Many people ask why I never learned to play an instrument.

But I tell them I did. The Keypad. It distills my passions, infusing me with the power to sing the praises of musical innovators such as Pat Metheny.

In August of 2008, Vince Li used a Bowie knife to behead Tim McClean on an overnight Greyhound bus trip across the Canadian prairie. That’s right, en route decapitation. The other passengers reported there was no rage in Li’s face as he proceeded to dismember and cannibalize the corpse. His gestures were robotic and methodical. When finally arrested, police found an ear in one of Li’s pockets and a nose in the other.

Just before I boarded an overnight, 12 hour bus ride from Sacramento to Portland last week, my friend Pete Halmos felt compelled to call and remind me of this grizzly tale. Needless to say, my overhead light stayed on the entire ride as I polished a novel. I didn’t sleep a wink.

I recently posted about the joys of riding Portland’s Tri-Met bus system. Still love it, but that’s local transportation and its blend of environmentally conscious and lower income folks, students, and the elderly sitting next to the random homeless person. Another crucial distinction; it’s only a twenty-minute ride. My rationale for taking the half-day bus ride from Sac to P-town was the $140 I’d save on a last minute plane ticket, plus, Southwest would take 2 stops and 6 hours to complete a two and a half hour flight plan. And what the fuck; I’d never done it before.

Diana and Alee huddled close to me, shivering at the bus terminal in downtown Sacramento as they bid me a sincere farewell. Everyone in the terminal looked as if they were on parole. A black woman with a nappy weave yelled “Fuck you mothafucka” at the security guard who escorted her to the unforgiving street. As the girls hugged and kissed me good-bye, I cursed myself for not purchasing a refundable ticket.

We boarded 40 minutes later than the designated departure time. Many passengers carried plastic bags for luggage and the bus reeked of Old Spice and rotten fruit. I counted twelve confirmed meth tweekers. Just as a novel about cops and bikers absorbed my focus, an 18 year-old from Kentucky (information offered not solicited) craned over the seat behind me to explain the intricacies of some video game I could give a fuck about.

We switched drivers in Redding and the new guy’s first piece of information was: “secure those drink bottles because if one rolls all the way foward and gets lodged underneath the brake, this is not the Titanic folks, I will not go down with the ship. I’ll bail out the side door and y’all can fend for yourselves!” I can’t say I’ve heard that kind of delivery from a Southwest airlines pilot.

Around 2 a.m. I debated killing the light and trying for a bit of sleep when suddenly the acrid stench of baby shit flooded my sinuses. The chick two rows behind me was halfway through a diaper change. So, I flipped through another hundred pages until sunrise. We proceeded to stop in Medford, Eugene, Corvalis and Salem, each stop punctuated by the driver’s loudspeaker: “We’re stopping for five minutes folks and five minutes only. If you can’t be back on the bus in five you will get left behind.”

My head snapped forward after maybe a ten minute nap. A freeway sign promised “41 miles to Portland”. When we finally arrived, I went to pull my camera bag from under the bus carriage. A violent shake to the baggage handler’s shaved head as he shot me the evil eye: “Don’t even think about it.”  There is nothing quite like that Greyhound employee charm.

It was about noon when my trusty neighbor Larry picked me up at Union Station. Larry asked me to coffee but I just wanted to crash. Of course my eyes didn’t close until ten that evening. Cleansing the trip from my body and psyche with a scorching hot shower, I questioned how much that extra $140 in the wallet was really worth.

The trip’s highlight was killing twelve monotonous hours with the novel NO ANGEL by Jay Dobyns. His two year undercover journey as the first ATF agent to penetrate the inner circle of the Hells Angels is a blistering page turner.

And luckily, I didn’t get my head chopped off.

Check out the new video for JBOOG featuring Richie Spice shot by my cousin Dylan Maddux, a photographer and video director out of San Francisco. He shot this in Jamaica. So hire him, the man will travel!

In the fall of 2009, I began volunteering at a non-profit called Living Yoga. Yoga is something I would have cynically driven into the ground ten years ago. But after my Nana died last fall (she was a life-long yoga practitioner), I became attracted to the practice.

Many people come to yoga seeking serenity and relaxation, maybe escape from the pace of modern life. I came seeking back pain relief. After a life-time of doctors scratching their heads regarding the source of my vertebral pain, prescribing opiates and a couple weeks of physical therapy, I had a powerful experience at my physical examination last Monday. My new doctor, Dr. Norris (the first random physician at the top of my healthcare’s list of docs accepting new patients) took one look at me and said: “Interesting. Did you know you have rotatory scoliosis?” He gave a name to my pain for the first time in 41 years. When I asked the kind doctor about a cure, he suggested yoga.

I’ve taken Liz Eisman’s class on Friday mornings at Amrita Yoga (in the same building as Living Yoga) for the past two months. Liz is a talented teacher, full of enthusiasm and genuine empathy for her students. Her classes focuses on specific regions of the body, sometimes the legs, sometimes the torso, always ending with Savasana or ‘corpse pose’. You just lay with your hands at your sides for five minutes in Savasana. Last week I fell sleep. I call it ‘milk and cookies’ pose because I feel like I’m back in Kindergarten taking a nap. I always look around the room for a second, at all these adults, from mid-twenties to late sixties, still in need of that nap.

Living Yoga is a non-profit outreach program teaching yoga as a tool for personal change in prisons, drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, transitional facilities, and other populations who do not otherwise have access to yoga. Since 1998, Living Yoga has been offering services in the Portland, Oregon community for youth and adults, providing yoga as a platform for transformation and growth.

Experience and research has shown that yoga is invaluable for rehabilitation and recovery; it develops the skills of serenity, mindfulness, impulse control, discernment and emotional regulation, as well as interpersonal skills. Ultimately, yoga provides a transformational experience that is spiritual in nature and can affect permanent, positive changes in behavior.

The difference between spirituality and religion is simple; religion is a story you believe and spirituality describes the way you behave in the world. Yoga is an action, a behavior, something you do. You can believe in something positive, but if you do not practice positive actions you are not spiritual.

And this is what I love about yoga. An energy is built in the room. Their is no division between Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists and Agnostics during that hour. It is simply a room full of yoga practitioners. Something about stretching your body opens your mind. You do not leave the yoga mat angry even if you first sat down in anger. Flowing spinal fluid restores human beings. Everyone is recovering from something. Maybe it’s bad news from afar, or a skiing accident, or a shouting match, a traffic jam or a lay-off. Or maybe it’s just a bad DVD rental

I now have friends at Living Yoga. Amy and Nancy and Liz and Jim and Susana and Jill and Warren all seem happier than the average person I encounter at Wal-Mart. The proof is in their practice. Action opposed to theory. Recently, my friends at LY turned me onto a Sunday morning class at The People’s Yoga on Killingsworth.

Nick Manci taught the class this morning in a style different from any teacher I’ve experienced so far. Nick is confrontational. He constantly reminds you to breathe throughout the class and I was able to engage my lungs in a way I never have before. He asks that you not turn away from negative emotions that arise. Nick is not a flowery guy, he believes in the practicality of his teachings and told us about a ‘Fight Club’ yoga class he is establishing, a masculine approach to the pragmatism of yoga. I was dripping sweat and physically, it may have been the best yoga class I’ve taken.

So, there are different styles out there. There are silent classes and others with chanting or Eastern sounds emitting from iPod speakers. On our backs last Sunday, the fire-red-head Michelle (owner of The People’s Yoga) pulled our necks as we finished class, her strong yet delicate, lavender-scented hands releasing final stress reserves. But so far every teacher has ended class with prayer hands at their heart, thanking the students. And the students thank the teacher. And we all thank ourselves for making time to practice yoga. “Namaste”.

It was a weekend of compulsive ping-pong. Weisenberger found his serve and I was behind in points. He hesitated, then reached for his backpack. I just had to hear this New Zealand reggae band he’d recently discovered. I was annoyed because we were close to game point. But Weisenberger ignored my complaints. “Settle, lad. Settle.”

Layered horns and a smooth bass. I set my racquet down. I recall hearing reggae that lush and silky back in the mid-eighties, the True Democracy album by Steel Pulse. But this was not them. The song took its time to build, and then an uptempo, almost R&B style of reggae made me smile. The singer’s phrasing sucked you into the groove. “Who is this?”

Fat Freddy’s Drop from New Zealand is the best band you’ve never heard of. They formed near the turn of the century, gathering a world-wide following since releasing their “Based On A true Story” album in 2006.

For years I’ve played a game while hiking trails with other musically obsessed friends. The game is called “Dumb Name/Cool Name”. It doesn’t matter whether you love or hate the band, you have to objectively state whether their name is dumb or cool, separating yourself from your feelings for the group. For example Metallica is a dumb name (you’re just so metal that you included the word in your name?) as is The Beatles (a bug with a beat?). Conversely, Earth Wind and Fire is a cool name as is Massive Attack or Soundgarden. Pink Floyd and Steely Dan are names that could go either way (all punk bands are exempt from the game because they all have cool names, i.e. The Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, Minor Threat, etc.).

Following this logic, the name Fat Freddy’s Drop sounds as if though it could fall into the category of the dumbest names of all time. But digging deeper, I learned that one of the band members owns a small record label called The Drop where they spent an entire weekend recorded their first single “Hope” under the influence of LSD. The band was inspired by the icon of Fat Freddy’s Cat (a hippy version of Garfield from The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers underground comic) stamped across their tabs of blotter acid. One can take acid or do acid, but the more appropriate verb to describe embarking on the adventure, is to say you are going to drop acid.

Checking their website, I don’t see American tour dates on the itinerary. But that can change once their music is featured on the soundtrack of the next chick flick or summer blockbuster. The band’s live shows around New Zealand are notorious for improvisation. And if FFD piques your curiosity about New Zealand reggae, listen to the soundtrack for Once Were Warriors.

This morning’s conversation with Weisenbereger explored the realm of emotions. Why do we have them? Why don’t human beings just eat, shit, sleep, fuck and acquire shelter? What was the intent of some higher power creating a race instilled with emotion (drop some acid and ponder)? Blissful emotions cause people to fall in love or win the Superbowl or paint canvas or adopt children or blast reggae on a Saturday morning. But unfortunately, we must also feel the agony of genocide, divorce, hate crimes, breast cancer and…Yanni.

Feel free to bypass the pondering and just experience the emotional lift provided by this intoxicating and unique brand of island reggae. Allow your heart beat to thump in time with the rhythm, release that smile and groove around the house in your slippers. Do yourself a favor and get acquainted with Fat Freddy’s Drop today.