Confessional autobiography blows. Personally I blame Charles Bukowski; no writer ever so deserved to be played by Mickey Rourke. Thanks to old Hank, nowadays every lush and dope fiend or lush/dope fiend-wannabe who can string together a sentence (and I've run across puh-lenty since I got hip to Buk's "Notes of a Dirty Old Man" while staying at a pal's crib on Pearl Street in Albany, NY, the perfect setting for a Bukowski story or even better, come to think of it, one by William Kennedy of "Ironweed" fame, back in the winter of '77) thinks they're A Writer and wants to publish a volume of their own personal true life experiences of squalor and degeneracy. I remember reading Dennis Johnson's "Jesus' Son" and thinking, "What a load of self-indulgent horseshit.ANYBODY I know coulda written this crap" - that is to say, many people of my acquaintance have drug/booze/violence/degeneracy stories at least as interesting, and the ability to write in the declamatory Hemingway 'I woke up. I took a shit. It felt good.' style that we all know and love. Jim Carroll at least had the decency to be saturated with Catholic redemption- myth as well as junk. (As my friend the acid-eating Catholic used to say after returning from psychedelicized Wednesday evening Mass, "The best costumes, the best rituals, the best religion!") "I just want to be pure..." Yeah, right, punk.

I even tried my hand at it, for four months after I started playing music again back in late '97 (when I was down in the dumps, into my third year of post-divorce blues, not seeing a lot of my kids, working three jobs, blah blah blah) and magically had the desire to write "creatively" for the first time in, I dunno, 20 years or something. The stuff just POURED out, I wrote like 20 stories which instead of shitcanning as was my usual practice I sent off to the Surviving Principals (that is to say, my drug buddies from 15 years previously who were still sentient), who responded in a variety of ways, ranging from mild amusement to "Jayzus Christ, I couldn't sleep for THREE NIGHTS after I read that shit! Did we really DO all of that? How did we SURVIVE?" Then one night I went to sit in with a band instead of writing and poof, the well was dry. I'd shot my wad. I'm superstitious about "creative" stuff I do; like a dumb baseball player, I'd failed to "respect the streak." So the world will be deprived of the opportunity to read about me and my drug pals and all the stoopid shit we did so long ago, and I'd say the world is a better place for it, too. But enough about me.

About this Tim Catz guy. He's from Boston. He drinks, does drugs, plays in a band, has shitty jobs, fucks girls, eats pussy. A regular guy. His stories are pretty much about what I just said. Oh yeah, there's one (of course) about a robbery he pulls, with his low-life friend Jack. Catz' prose reminds me of Dennis Johnson's a bit, only not as good - more "Look at me, I'm a writer!" self-conscious. Sure, he's young, hasn't experienced much of life, etc., etc., etc., but I mean, by the time he was NINETEEN, for Christ's sake, T.S. Eliot had written "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Hell, forget about bloodless Anglophiles from Missouri. Give me someone who respects THE CRAFT OF STORYTELLING, like, uh, I dunno, Tim O'Brien, say. Or if it's degeneracy you want, try someone like Irvine Welsh, who takes it ALL THE WAY (forget "Trainspotting" and go directly to "Filth," which my pal in Manhattan gave me when I showed up for his wedding and actually LIVES UP TO ITS TITLE)...describes the unspeakable horror and goes further, INHABITS IT. No cool observer's detachment for Mr. Welsh, thank you very much!

Alright Now" while at Faber and Faber) and Broadway composer Pete Townshend, speaking of the even more noted William Burroughs (possibly the most overrated writer of all time): "Page one, crap. Page two, crap. Page three, crap..." Most interesting info tidbit: on the copy of "Hangover Palaces" I got, the footers on the last three even- numbered pages inexplicably carry the title of Catz' PREVIOUS book, "Horseshoes and Handgrenades." Attention to detail is the hallmark of the outstanding typesetter.

It's hard to believe, after reading this book, that any record biz figure ever worked harder than Leonard Chess, and not so hard to believe that, by that virtue, he ended up with damn near the whole enchilada--label, stable, studio, pressing plant, distributorship, even a radio station--despite knowing very little about music at the git-go. Though most rock and roll fans would probably pick this up anticipating juicy stories about Wolf, Waters, Williamson, Berry, and Bo (and she does share a few), Cohodas' intention is to shine a light on Chess' hard-nosed and untutored business acumen, the complex interaction of two sets of Chicago emigrants (the Chesses, from Poland, and Mississippi-born blacks come to the Windy City for a better life), and the turbulent changes experienced by the record industry between the end of World War II and the assassination of Dr. King. In doing so, Cohodas writes, thinks, and researches so skillfully such fans will forget to be disappointed.

The predominant images of Leonard Chess the reader's left with by the last page are the "CEO" (how things have changed) busting his hump, driving from city to city to push his records; expanding his operations just ahead of the curve at every crucial moment, mainly through utter involvement, vigilant awareness, native intelligence, and indefatigable drive; expertly rifling his biz contacts for the right man to lead him to success in unexplored areas (fear of the unknown was unknown to this guy, as exemplified by his purchase of radio station despite no experience at all in running one--he turned it into a major success, of course); profanely cajoling his artists into top performances in the studio; and stubbornly keeping things simple and personal. It's really only at the moment that Chess begins to remove himself from the record-making process and expand his operations beyond the capability of his direct control--late in the game, nearly 20 years after he got his feet wet--that the quality of the company's music begins to fade. Even so, with artists like Etta James, Little Milton, and Billy Stewart continuing to score hits, "fade" is a relative term. Bitterly telling is what happens to the Chess machine almost immediately after the brothers sell it, but I'll leave that to you to find out.

I would assume that any reader of this page has heard claims that the Chess brothers exploited their mostly undereducated artists, and Cohodas doesn't shy away from these. However, she shows that, though the label specialized in creative accounting (Alan Freed getting publishing on "Maybellene" is the most famous example: would it have become a hit otherwise, one wonders?), it also specialized in, shall we say, generously blind accounting: no records were kept of hospital bills, mortgage and car payments, and bail Chess routinely, willingly, and promptly paid out to keep his artists on their feet. Paternalistic? Yep; Cohodas says as much. But that generosity exceeded what artists at other labels could expect, and, among the many Chess hitmakers quoted in Spinning, only Bo Diddley appears adamant in his claims, and even he seems to be losing intensity. Cohodas also reveals Chess as being passionately committed to serving the needs of the black community. He never jumped on the teen idol bandwagon; in fact, the only white artist to make a rock-historic mark with the label was Bobby "See You Later, Alligator" Charles, and he didn't even have a hit with his most famous composition. And when he purchases his first radio station, it's strictly programmed by and for the Windy City's black community.

Particularly inspiring is Cohodas' account of how Chess' wisdom, vision, and elbow grease, in league with that of the Biharis at Modern, Wexler and the Erteguns at Atlantic, and Phillips at Sun, led to a postwar independent musical revolution that soundly kicked the collective asses of the product turned out by the big boys. Could we use a repeat performance today! More effectively than any of the other indie heads, Chess was able to diversify what his company had to offer. Though the label's most famous for its blues catalog, its doo-wop, rock and roll, and especially jazz output put it on the competitive map. You will also learn about the Chess brothers' skill at building relationships with influential dee-jays, and their inevitable run-in with the federal payola investigators. If you're like me, you'll develop a new appreciation for what payola was, and find it difficult avoid vomiting when you realize that--after a genius like Alan Freed had his career and life destroyed--the industry has simply streamlined the practice into the perfectly legal stealth operation it is today, with one big difference: instead of a little money and modest "services" being paid and rendered to advance the cause of great music, we now have looooooooooooong green and blandishments fit for a sheik being proffered to turn shit into hits. Even sadder is Cohodas' picture of how a long, successful, potentially prophetic story of interracial cooperation and creativity was suddenly shut down by our culture's (government's) need to kill its most visionary leaders. As is also heart-breakingly examined in Peter Guralnick's Sweet Soul Music, thoroughly integrated studios like Chess, Stax, and Muscle Shoals found it impossible to continue in the usual catalytic manner after King's assassination. It isn't hard to see that things have never been the same, behind the studio glass or the doors of our own homes.

Maybe some enterprising young man or woman'll pick up this book, take a cue from Chess' fearlessness and work ethic, and launch an attack on the ever-more accepted belief that The Corporation has won and that one man might as well not even try. Doubtful. But Cohodas' detailed, impassioned story of an improbable and damn-near-total success is one we need to hear over and over again.

OK, I’m two years late on this book (though the paperback did just come out). Mama Coomers gave it to me for Christmas a while back and it got stuck under a pile, and I may have been slow getting to it for the same reason you may not have read it yourself: how many Elmore Leonard novels does the world need, and could he really write so many so fast if they were all that good? Well--as you may know if you’ve read much of the man’s stuff--I should have known the answers to those stupid questions: “As many as he wants to write, dummy!” and “Yes!” If you haven’t read much or any of Dutch’s writing, you’re missing out on one of our national treasures, because reading him is as easy as getting off on classic Stones records: he makes smart, entertaining storytelling seem as easy as Charlie, Bill, and Keith locking into that dirty, basic, but seemingly inimitable rhythm. And the great thing about Be Cool is that it’s actually a rock and roll novel.

Be Cool is the sequel to Get Shorty, in which crafty former shylock Chili Palmer, in Hollywood to track down a welcher, insinuated his way into the moviemaking business and wound up being crafty a brand new way. (If you didn’t read the book, you probably saw the film, which is damn near as good!). Palmer is a classic Leonard protagonist, a smart, steady, perceptive guy who dodges and feints his way around the world’s obstacles, usually presented by loud, stupid, and innately hilarious borderline (or fully-credentialed) criminals. One of best of the many jokes in these books is that despite Chili’s background (everyone thinks he’s mobbed up) he never packs a rod, or even needs to. What he intuits about his combatants’ character flaws is usually enough to manipulate them into inaction, even if they’ve come bound and determined to whack him.

In Be Cool, Palmer, disappointed by a watered-down sequel to his hit debut film and full of misgivings about the third in “the trilogy”, sidles/stumbles (via a contract hit he narrowly avoids being the victim of himself) into the world of music production and promotion. Soon, the reader becomes aware that the book’s a sequel about a making a sequel. The circumstances by which he’s introduced to record industry are so intriguing (in Leonard’s world, real life is always stranger than fiction) that he begins to plot the new movie according to the way the situation unfolds; in fact, he rather dangerously begins, by manipulating the other participants, to change the way the situation unfolds in order to plot a more interesting story! That alone would be enough to hook the general reader looking for some literary kicks.

But for our congregation, that’s only part of the fun. Along the way, Palmer meets a cast of rock and roll characters unmatched since Jim Dodge’s Not Fade Away. There’s Derek Stones of the Hollywood trash-metal band Roadkill, be-ringed and be-tatted, drinking and puking, throwing temper tantrums over pizza. There’s Linda Moon and her band Odessa, a principled, stripped-down unit from Texas that sounds like AC/DC backing Patsy Cline (hmmmmm...). There’s the quasi-criminal gangsta rappers Ropa-Dope, who start out ready to tear Chili’s throat out and within seconds become his lieutenants. There’s a panorama of industry types, from promoters talking eternal rivers of bullshit into their headsets to unscrupulous indie heads to persnickety sound men to secretaries 40 IQ points smarter than their bosses to know-nothing sleazeballs who stop at nothing to get a piece of the action. It’s a tribute to Leonard’s always-thorough research that the book serves as spot-on shorthand for Frederic Dannen’s Hit Men or Bruce Feiler’s Dreaming Out Loud, two of the best books ever written about the industry. Be Cool even features an argument about punk rock that knows whereof it speaks, as well as a very amusing cameo by Aerosmith.

Those readers (and filmgoers) who always fear the soft-focus and soft-headed ending will be glad to know that, though Chili, after “becoming” the manager for Odessa, is bound and determined to preserve the band’s rough edges and Texas soul, he finds that task more than a little difficult. Rock and roll reality abounds from Be Cool’s first page to its last; in fact, one of the most disturbing rock and roll realities of all is addressed directly. Nicky Carcatella, the head of Car-O-Sell records and owner of Odessa’s contract, points out to a frustrated Chili why the band’s first single has to be remixed:

The numbers in the first quoted paragraph is why this web page and others like it have a reason for being: of those 65-70%, lots are damn good and need to get recognized to keep real rock and roll alive. The realities of the third are a major part of what’s wrong with music today. And the pithiness and wit of the whole passage--which ain’t nothing compared to the rest of the book--are why you need to put this at the top of your reading stack.

Members of our congregation are no strangers to the magical musical journey, and two current movies, one new to video, the other to screens, dramatize that much-sought-after archetype. Contrary to popular belief about each, one fucking sucks, and the other fucking rules. Here at the First Church, we usually don’t waste our time on dogs (the Rev subscribes to the John Waters Rule of Reverse Acclaim, which is that the best way to bury dogshit is to totally ignore it), but the former has generated so much positive buzz that it compels comment, and the latter stands to have its virtues highlighted in contrast. Both Almost Famous and O Brother, Where Art Thou? set out to be, among other things, revelatory musical picaresques; one fails because it’s false, and the other succeeds gloriously because it is right on the money.

Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous (yet another cloying production by the Dreamjerks organization) is a sappy, mawkish tale based on the director/writer’s early years as a teen journalist. Though the film gets off to a decent start, as the protagonist is pried from a proto-politically correct mama’s orbit by his big sis’s record collection (the Older Sibling has been a saint in many a rawker’s dreams), it quickly becomes mucked up by the following lies:

The kid is a goody-goody little twerp. This should be repellent to any sentient rock and roller, mainly because the author has based the character on himself! I shouldn’t be surprised, as a plethora of self-congratulatory music-bizzers have risen to wide-spread worship--Steve Milk-mess, anyone? Solo album right around the corner!--but when we will get our fill of these mavens of self-regard? Also, he seems drawn to rock-lite: the band he’s assigned to cover and “learns to love,” Stillwater (becomes stagnant, right?), reminds me of the endless state-name bands that made the ‘70s a quasi-castrato/pomp-boogie hell (Missouri?!! Does anyone remember laughter?). And even though he consults “Lester Bangs” (quotes explained later), he’s too much of a damfool to act on his advice.

The “rock hero” who becomes the focus of the lil’ butt-weave’s attention seems to be a cross between Burton “These Eyes” Cummings and Mickey “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” Thomas, with a pinch of America (“In the desert/You can’t remember your name”) thrown in. Yum. Satire, you say? Well, I’m sorry, but if I understand my Horace and Juvenal, either you find something at the subject’s core to admire (only human, y’know) or you watch the subject viciously and hilariously destroyed. After dicking around band, wimmen, and teen critic, this dork gets all mooshy and interrupts the tyke’s post-tour nap in his own little rock-postered bedroom, but only after acknowledging to his mommy that she was right in telling him to “get real.” Don’t know about you, but my question is, “Where’s The Rawk?”

The groupies who mother the boy genius are beautiful, disease-free, and straight out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. They are also wise, and commit group statutory rape upon his person (I told you Crowe’s hubris was outta control). Goldie Hawn’s daughter, who plays the pixie-dust flake of a female lead, is even more annoying than her mother, a poor woman’s Heather Graham who’s nothing but a face and oughtta be run out of movies on a rail.

Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lester Bangs: how could that miss? Well, that question is what led me (and I’ll bet thousands of others) to even dare sampling this tripe. The answer is: it misses by turning him into Yoda. In Crowe/Hoffman’s interpretation, he’s cuddly, he’s sober (???), he’s a font of wisdom-sans-bullshit (an important distinction), and he doesn’t bitch-slap the child into reality. The closest Crowe comes to Lester Bangs without quotation marks is to run the MC5 behind one of Hoffman’s scenes: soundtrack as band-aid, soundtrack as substitute for hard-fuggin’-work.

This film has garnered nothing but positive reviews (just like High Fidelity, which also grated on my nerves), but even so, every one of ‘em I’ve read has used the adjective “rosy-colored” as if it were a compliment. Buddy Holly, even early Dylan and Beatles if you stretch it, could do “winsome” and come out alive. But they were smart, and “rosy-colored” and “winsome” aren’t even synonyms, anyhow. Anti-rock and roll disguised as the real thing, just like modern politics, just like Marsalis and Crouch yanking Ken Burns’ puppet strings--in other words, a must to avoid.

The Coen Brothers’ O Brother, Where Art Thou?, on the other hand, is an indubitable masterpiece. More than just an ironic tour of the pre-WWII South (with cagey allegorical referents to USA 2001), more than a (post-) modern adaptation The Odyssey, it’s a tour de force about the power of music that shows up Almost Famous, which purports to deal with the same subject, for the diseased chaff it is. Three fucked-up souls break away from a prison road gang, and in their flight experience the sound of America in its multiple manifestations:

And that ain’t the half. The film’s great for many other reasons--for one, it’s a visual feast--but few others in history have so truly captured the holy force of American music (I challenge anyone who’s seen Almost Famous to recall one scene where the music actually sets the story aflame).And it’s one helluva good time to remind people, too, of that power...if they manage to see it, and receive the message. Don’t believe the bemused reviews--the Coens’ movies (with the exception of Fargo and maybe Blood Simple) always take time to be absorbed--just get your ass in the seats. And buy the soundtrack after you leave.

"I, too, despised Almost Famous. What is the obsession with Cameron Crowe? I think if I would have seen this movie on cable and not heard much about it, I'd have thought it was mildly entertaining popcorn fluff. But hearing all these critics and such sing its praises and promote it for Best Picture...give me a fucking break. If anything, it completely demolishes my vision of decadent '70s arena rock bands. These guys are such pussies, I would have partied them under the rug."