The Late-as-Usual News

So much has happened in the lazy, hazy world of the Leaving Trains since the last time I updated this section, just before Cinco de Mayo. For one thing, I've now seen all the episodes of FREAKS & GEEKS, rendering moot my previous lengthy fannish digressions in this space about BEVERLY HILLS 90210, a terribly inconsequential trifle next to the genuinely well-written, divinely acted near perfection of FREAKS & GEEKS.

For another, after years of living alone, I finally have a roommate again -- someone I love, in fact. He's a black-and-gray-striped kitten named Wolfie, who Miss Koko Puff and I found on the street one night near her house. Wolfie can play keyboards just like a young Amadeus, and he's a fast, if cryptic, typist. Meanwhile, the USA is still sending "observers" around the planet to "help" other struggling democracies conduct "fair" elections, while those of us marooned here may end up with a winning president chosen by that paternalist backstop, the Electoral College, again nullifying, I think for the second time in U.S. history, the actual vote of the people.

Personally, I demand a recount and runoff because I don't see why I keep losing these elections as an anarchist write-in candidate. I have the moral higher ground, even compared to the otherwise cool Ralph Nader. I'm the only viable candidate who would disband the government and military and the whole process and give the country back to the people who were already here hundreds and thousands of years ago. THAT'S democracy. The rest is moot until then.

And I think even Nader is a little vainglorious. He started to turn into one of THEM near the end, the messenger becoming more important than the message. I'm still disappointed about the last time he "ran" for office four years ago, wasting a lot of our energy and resources and faith when he half-heartedly put on a token campaign, only putting real energy and force into it at the very end when it didn't matter. So we're supposed to commit to him now? Of course, the George Bush clone is a coddled fratboy-elevated-to-bloodthirsty-tyrant and Albert Gore a putz. Better a putz than a coddled fratboy-elevated-to-bloodthirsty-tyrant. Yeah, they're both coddled fratboys who reached power through nepotism and class privilege. The monarchy system lives on in America. Gore and Bush mainly disagree on the issue of abortion and the total number of prisoners they'd execute (it comes easier to Bush), and I think those are clear enough distinctions.

Thanks anyway, America, for not voting for ME as president. Again. I don't like losing, and I hate having to continue living in a fascist pseudo-democracy instead of an anarchist paradise, but it's your choice. I've still got my guitar, as Jimi Hendrix would say. History will vindicate me in the long run.

As for the Leaving Trains, our lives keep getting stranger. Somehow, one of our songs ended up in a hit movie. "Kids Wanna Know," which first appeared on the LOSER ILLUSION, PART ZERO e.p. (and later on FAVORITE MOOD SWINGS: Greatest Hits), was used in BRING IT ON, a recent Kirsten Dunst movie about a cheerleading competition. "Kids Wanna Know" can be heard for a few loud moments when the main punk-rock-guy character is introduced early in the flick, entering the classroom. Perhaps getting our song into a big movie represents a victory of some sorts for us. Or something dumb and random. BRING IT ON is poorly written, with no real conflict or suspense. It's certainly not as dark and sinister and sadomasochistic and psychological as the cheerleading movie I would make. What can you do? I prefer to look it as: You can't go wrong with any movie about cheerleading, and this one ended up #1 at the box office.

Of course, we haven't received a penny for it yet. We still haven't seen any contracts, and we weren't invited to the premiere. Most of us Trains went together into Hollywood one night and paid to get in to a screening of BRING IT ON, so's I figure the producers owe us collectively $32, at least. I hope they paid Kirsten Dunst!

I guess it could be worse. I think the song was handled . . . tastefully, if that word can be used in association with the Leaving Trains. "Kids Wanna Know" sounded appropriately meaningless during the classroom scene, even if it did take me a few seconds to recognize my own song. Miss Koko Puff noticed it right away; when I eventually recognized the tune, I freaked out with excitement and weird, displaced confusion. Of course, the movie's skirt-flashing contextualization had little to do with the song's implied theme condemning the mainstream media's sick-o-fan-tic lapdog/warpig objectionably "objective" coverage of non-consensual world events like the Gulf War, but I appreciate the association with cheerleading. The song's usage could have been a lot worse, when you think about it. But shouldn't someone from the film industry contact us? I mean, shouldn't we get a free promo poster or T-shirt or something? How can we sell out or even consider selling out if we're not given the choice? Bring it on . . . .

I don't wanna sound like we've gone Hollywood, but there's a chance that another Leaving Trains ditty, "Can't Afford To Die," (from THE BIG JINX album) will end up used somehow in an upcoming project, A DEAD MAGICIAN'S DIRTY TRICKS,OR PROBLEMS IN MODERY DAY GRAVE ROBBERY. It's a movie about a magician who escapes death, and characters with names like Dr. Love and M. Pandemonium and Sinister Hipster intertwined "in a vicarious and eccentric scavenger hunt." Huh!

Speaking of bringing it on, a new Leaving Trains song should be released by the time you're reading this. It's called "Capricious," on a split 7-inch single with tracks from fellow L.A.-area bands the BellRays, the B-Movie Rats, and Texas Terri & the Stiff Ones. The single comes with the new issue of CARBON 14 magazine (POB 29247, Philadelphia, PA 19125; e-mail: carbon@voicenet.com). "Capricious" is another new song about my favorite lost Danielle, but this one's faster, with minimalist, opaque lyrics and Dennis' rat-a-tat-tat drum roll accents during the last verse. It's punk, dude! Produced by Andrew Buscher, "Capricious" features the Trains' current lineup of Miss Koko Puff on bass, Melanie Vammen on guitar, your narrator on vocals, and Dennis the Menace Carlin on drums and Bill Murray impersonations.

There's also talk from a label that might put out a full-length CD of new Leaving Trains material this spring. We'll know more about that later. Elsewhere, the folks at Happy Squid Records, who are mainly Kevin Barnett and John Talley-Jones of the Urinals, have compiled a CD version of the long out of print compilation, KEATS RIDES A HARLEY, which came out on LP in 1981. KEATS features the Leaving Trains' debut recording, "Virginia City" (not the same version as the later, quieter one on WELL DOWN BLUE HIGHWAY), as well as a weird instrumental track by the Human Hands, and the recording debuts of Gun Club ("Devil in the Woods"), Meat Puppets ("H-Elenore"), S-Squad, Earwigs, 100 Flowers, etc. KEATS RIDES A HARLEY is kind of like the great, lost early-post-punk-in-L.A.-plus-Phoenix compilation, when you think about it. The anticipated release on CD (details to come) will include bonus tracks from the original sessions by most of the groups (like an early version of "Cigarette Motel" by the Leaving Trains, "Preachin' the Blues" by Gun Club, "Sensible Virgin" by 100 Flowers, "Virgins" by S-Squad, "Fat" by Toxic Shock). In addition, they're slapping onto the CD version of KEATS the entire Happy Squid Sampler 7" EP from the same era, which includes the Vidiots' "Laurie's Lament," a sublimely great song, a crushed and condensed trippy Doors/Iggyish rocker taken beyond the literal by Rik L. Rik (F-Word, Negative Trend, the Celestials) on vocals, plus offbeat pop from Danny & the Doorknobs (the Last, Trotsky Icepick) and avant-garde artiness from Phil Bedel, Arrow Book Club and others.

But that was then and this is now or never. The Trains did end up playing a few shows in summer and even more in the fall, while also working somewhat privately on new songs and even sounds. But that seems cryptic. Good! We did indeed play with the Beautys on Cinco de Mayo (see Previous News for rhapsody) at Al's Bar, and they were as hard-hitting, melodic and sarcastic as ever. A really fun night. I even followed the Beautys to Anaheim the next evening to see them in the painted overgrown dollhouse coffeehouse called Koo's Cafe, where they really ripped, and I was divinely happy to get a second jolt of their amped-up surf distortions, even though it meant the heartbreak of missing the Sluts for Hire reunion at the same time back in L.A. I consoled myself by attending most of the Slut practices the week before the reunion. I did miss the Swingin' Neckbreakers and the Excessories, who also played that night. I had to choose. I couldn't be everywhere at once, and I HAD to see the Beautys.

Other cool things that happened in May: making the nerve-wracking trek to Beverly Hills (getting my van temporarily stuck in the low ceiling of a parking garage, tripping and hurting myself falling down near some construction that was blocking the sidewalk, stuck in traffic and generally feeling like a piece of trash when walking among the beautiful people) several days in a row to Museum of Television of Television and Radio to see special afternoon screenings of FREAKS AND GEEKS . . . Being amazed by the visual and musical splendor of X-Girl at Spaceland, their funny, cartoonish, trippy costumes and weirdly arranged, primal yet brainy music with delirious a cappella harmonizing. They were childlike and playful, with lots of strange, in-the-garden musical juxtapositions and absurd, surreal lyrics and theatrical pink dresses, brown stockings and white boots. Quite froggy, in fact! . . . I had one of my most amazingly heroic Sundays ever, on the 14th of May, driving all the way down to the Pond arena in Anaheim with fellow L.A. WEEKLY writer Hazel-Dawn Dumpert to see the Champions on Ice figure skaters, and then me splitting off just in time that night to catch England's Vice Squad at the Whisky a Go-Go in Hollywood. Believe it or not, it was the first time I'd ever seen Vice Squad, one of my favorite all-time punk bands, in person. And they were great! I crept close along the (audience's) right side of the stage, next to Jo-C, the singer of Piss Ant. I had been worried that Vice Squad might be too metal, but they were totally, fucking rocking, and played most of their best songs (except for "Take Too Many E's"), with lotsa hard rock punch, and plenty of punk rock revulsion and horror and sass. A pretty powerful band and great guitarist. And: Beki Bondage was ever so enchanting in person. What a dream! She's funny and engaging and spontaneous and spirited and in full lung bravado. I have such a crush on her!! Yeah, yeah, get in line. But I was so proud of myself that night. Instead of staying in again and giving in to agoraphobia, I threw myself out of my body and drove to the end of Southern California and back to see some kick-ass figure skating and then threaded my way to West Hollywood in time to properly worship Ms. Bondage & Vice Squad, all in the same day. Why isn't life always like this?

Even more ass-kicking came a few days later at the Silver Lake Lounge from the always head-banging Betty Blowtorch, with their lead guitarist especially out of control, spinning rad punk-metallic solos while crashing all over the place. Melanie, Dennis and Koko's other band, Pointy Kitty, also cranked out an especially hot set that night, but they had to go on so early, few people caught 'em. England's Svengali-controlled, semi-notorious post-teen gal garage-pop combo VyVyan played in between, and I liked them, though they also came off as kinda geeky, and either stuck up or scared. They were much thinner-sounding live than on record, and seemed tired. Jet lag, perhaps. They also didn't play my favorite song, "All Made Up." But that's just a lotta cheap, trivial complaining! VyVyan are a guilty pleasure, and it's embarrassing, and I'm guilty! . . . Then I recall being in awe during a rare, short solo Daniel Johnson performance at an art gallery in East Los Angeles. He strummed his guitar with passionate sincerity, his songs sprouting cool wordplay confusions and lonesome, cheerful melodies, and he was nervous but sweetly nice and daffy. His show ended when he suddenly bolted away from the audience and into the next room with the paintings . . . On Sunday, May 28, I got to Al's Bar too late to see Christine Darling and the Kirby Grips, but I did make it later to Goldfingers in time to catch the Chickenhawks, who were sexy, silly, struttin' rock & ruination. Later, I had fun hanging out with the band at Martin McMartin's Valley pad, and staying up all night arguing with Sioux City Pete about Mick Taylor vs. Ron Wood, and being cheered by the smart-aleck charm of that heartthrob, Tammy Gunn, who shocked and saddened a lot of us when she quit the 'Hawks not long afterward. Come back, Tammy!

Highlights in June: Being assaulted by the pounding rhythms and the multi-nefarious, elaborate prog-punk riffs of No Means No at the Foothill in Signal Hill, near Long Beach, on Wed., June 21, and a few days later at the same club, being amazed in a different way by the elemental trash-purity of the White Stripes. The two Whites are a striking couple, with their candy-striped duality. They're not brother and sister, but are rumored to be former lovers. Jack White writes some great, simple, memorable songs, varying from raspy Led Zeppy acoustic-blues and alternately grand, midperiod Kinks pop balladry and stateliness, mixed most of the time with garage-y, minimalistic soul. Detroit must be going through a major rock revival, based on these three Sympathy for the Record Industry label bands, anyway: the White Stripes, the Come Ons (who exude a serene kinda grooviness; I totally love 'em sight unseen) and the Detroit Cobras, led by a gal who's this dynamite-explosive soulful, incandescent, wailing singer. The Come-Ons and Cobras haven't been to L.A. as far as I know, but look for 'em anyway, and the return of the White Stripes . . . I also saw the Bangs for the first time, the band from up north. I had stubbornly refused to find out about them for years, because I felt they shouldn't use the name "Bangs," which the Bangles (more on them later, coincidentally) had used in their early years. But once I saw these Bangs, I fell in love and opened up my mind. They are way more punk than the Bangles, for instance, but still have catchy melodies and good original songs. Their cover of Cheap Trick's "Southern Girls" is my favorite, somehow delirious and daydreamy and raw punk at the same time, although I like Pointy Kitty's version as well.

Somewhere in there I made it to "No Talent Night" at Al's Bar to see one of the first live performances by our Web designer Merf's new band. I believe they're called Test Pattern now, although I prefer their original name, I'm Not Kathy. It's a duo doing subdued, innocuous seeming music, until you get closer and hear the inferred melodies and through-the-window-pane observations. Merf's song "The City" has kind of a haunting Sonic Youth type blurry pop catchiness too it, kinda abstract and reflective and subtly insistent. I'm not Kathy, but I know what I like, and they had good songs and an unusual, more experimental guitar-keyboards delivery, avoiding the retro.

July is harder to remember: Wandering among the doomy guitar explosions of the LOUD Caustic Resin at Silver Lake Lounge, at one point a wino wandered up from the dark catacombs of the bar and started singing highway wino blues and sounded good for a while, then his invincibility cracked, he got distracted, lost the beat, and started to suck. Brett finally had to ask the wino to leave the stage . . . I wasn't able to make it to concerts by Doppelganger, Mary Lou Lord and Alejandro Escovedo (but I love his latest album on Bloodshot Records, BOURBONITIS BLUES, with its slowed down twist of a Gun Club cover and the dashing, fencing violin feints of Al's hectic nu-klassic "Sacramento & Polk"), but I did catch the Urinals (with good new songs) with Monterey's Starlite Desperation (a lotta noodling, but a nice hard-rockin' group in an advanced Blue Cheer/Mudhoney kinda way maybe, and the only one I've ever heard of from Monterey that wasn't just a cover band) at Spaceland . . . I recall enjoying the sibling rivalry of Jeff Drake (the Joneses, Miss Amanda Jones) and Scott Drake (the Humpers, Suicide Kings) in their first collaboration, the boozy and woozy Vice Principals. Not always as fast and furious as the Humpers, but I think they've got the same brutal swanky swagger. My Veep faves include Scott's train wreck "When Girls Collide" and Jeff's Chuck Berry/Stones-style juice-up "Splitsville USA" . . .

The Leaving Trains played with the V.P.s and Texas Terri a few weeks later, Fri., August 4, down in Vice Principal territory at the Foothill, not long before that historic club (Johnny Cash and tons of early C&W stars played there in the '50s) was sold and closed down forever. I thought we were really sharp that night, doing new stuff like "The Lost Danielle" and "Capricious" and plenty of oldies too, and then I just stood back and watched Texas Terri and then Scott Drake take over the pre-demolition rituals at the Foothill. The V-Pals played most of the tunes from their debut LP, including covers of the Dave Clark 5's "Glad All Over" and Screaming Lord Sutch's "Jack the Ripper." The Vice Principals are the closest thing we've got to the Humpers and the Joneses, and, as Scott keeps telling us, they really are the greatest.

The big thrill in August for the Leaving Trains was peforming at the inaugural three-day Las Vegas Shakedown punk and garage band festival held at the Gold Coast casino. The lineup included luminaries like the Real Kids, the Dictators, Andre Williams and the Bobbyteens! We got there late on Friday after crossing the desert, and missed the Stitches and the Vice Principals, among others, but roadie Ames Evil and I did scramble over from our room in the sterile Rio hotel next door in time to see Nashville Pussy. I'd never seen 'em before, and although Ms. Parks, the fire-breathing bassist, was on sabbatical, I was most impressed with guitarist Ruyter. She was fierce. We then caught the Weaklings, and watched the singer do his best to annoy everybody a la a pocket Iggy, ultimately bloodying himself after a lot of goofy effort. It was weirdly entertaining and rude and stupid.

The next afternoon, we Leaving Trains set up for our early afternoon show in the downstairs ballroom and were surprised by a huge crowd, hundreds of people, maybe 700 or so, that woke up early enough to see us. The sound was kinda horrible and chaotic, but we fed off the audience and had an especially inspired performance, starting with "Leaving Train" and closing with "Dude the Cat," which segued into Dennis' bizarre "All the Young Dudes"/"Hey Jude (Dude)" parody. Getting our show over with Saturday made the rest of the weekend all the more fun, wandering around into friends' hotel rooms in the floors above the Gold Coast casino, taking the elevator up to get high in someone's room, then rushing back downstairs to either of the two ballrooms, where the bands played. It was impossible to see every group during the three-day festival with all that running around; sometimes two great bands would be on simultaneously in different ballrooms and you just had to miss one of 'em.

Black-leather-jacked punk dudes and their fishnet-snared, luridly made up girlfriends played the slot machines and blackjack at the tables in stark contrast to the drably dressed senior citizen tourists next to them. It was like sleepwalking, with ears ringing, through a movie: ANOTHER STATE OF MIND meets CASINO, with a little FEAR AND LOATHING (the book mainly) bleariness. A strange experiment. Ultimately the Gold Coast's old-style casino operators hated having so many punks in their not-yet-seedy hotel at once (rumors are that the next Shakedown might be held somewhere else). It wasn't the punks' (mostly mild) behavior that caused this loathing -- the cowboy rodeo crowd are much wilder and more destructive, but nonethless welcome at the Gold Coast -- the casino operators didn't like punks, period. We were the wrong crowd, scaring away the tourists.

I didn't see much evidence of tension. Most of us had a real cool time. I saw great sets by the Dragons (the San Diego parallel to Johnny Thunders and the Stones, who literally rocked so hard they tore down part of the ceiling above the upstairs stage), Texas Terri & the Stiff Ones, the Lazy Cowgirls, the Reds (a Texas band all dressed up in uniform green shirts with red stars, who played economical, intense punk, including an appropriate cover of the Urinals' "Ack Ack Ack Ack"), Pearl Harbour & the Explosions, Dead Moon (integral, pure garage rock; every song they played was a classic, from "54/40" and their ominous version of the Stones' "Play With Fire" to "Dagger Moon" and "Diamonds in the Rough," though they didn't do quite enough songs from their most recent CD), the Real Kids (debuting their beguiling new gal bassist and closing strong with "All Kindsa Girls" and some kinda swirling, stomping rave-up), a rare show from the Raunch Hands (whose highlight was a slow, saxy foghorn droning take of "The Stroll," which had the same decadent lurch and gloomy mood as Iggy Pop's "Nightclubbing"), Andre Williams, the Fevers, Loose Lips, Bobbyteens (trashwomanly-and-Russell rockers, who opened with their sexy and sassy version of the Rubber City Rebels' "Young & Dumb"), the Donnas, B-Movie Rats, the Vermin (who vomited onstage, and played their hard-punk classic "Girl Sez No" and a thrashin' "Bela Lugosi's Dead"), the Latest Flames, the Dictators and so many more. I ended up missing Buck and the New Bomb Turks, among others.

Like a dream come to life, I roamed in a haze through the hotel corridors and ballrooms, seeing so many legendary bands. It was my first Dictators show (they played late Sunday, near the end of the festival), and I was thrilled to hear "Stay With Me" and "Science Went Too Far" and everything else in person. I'd been worried that Handsome Dick would be some monstrous, moronic, violent thug, and he was of course, but he was so funny and entertaining, dissing the new, family-friendly boring Vegas with his contrasting delusions about the Sammy and Frankie era (it was his first time playing in Vegas, he said); and telling shaggy-dog stories about wrestling with his grandmother over control of the spatula during a family barbecue ("don't you know that I am no mere mortal, grandmama? because . . . I am right!"). And "Stay With Me" has stayed with me for months afterward ("I didn't use to be so mean . . . I've got no place to go"). That's a perfect rock song. The Dictators also did their really hot version of the Dead Boys' "Sonic Reducer," with Ross the Boss' gnarly lead figures that are better than the original. I usually can't stand it when everybody covers "Sonic Reducer," but the Dictators do it and make it sound scary again.

Wandering through the mirrored casino hallways and flashing lights and green-felt-topped gaming tables in the rooms between sets, I chatted briefly with famous celebrities like Mudhoney's Steve Turner, who apparently absconded with Miss Koko Puff's quarters, sending Miss Koko and Bob Cantu into mock horror . . . . or Miss Georgia Peach of the Short Fuses, whose hot Minneapolis band unfortunately didn't play the festival, but I was thrilled to finally get a chance to chat in person with her. That gal can really belt out a song, as she proved when the Fuses came to Al's Bar and Spaceland a few months later. At Al's Bar, they were especially fast and loud, with Travis Ramin ripping out these elaborate solos, and they surprised with a wailing version of the Humpers' "Hey Shadow." Wow! I'd hang out with Miss Peach in a cemetery anytime . . . And then there was the New Bomb Turks' Eric Davidson, who told me his dick size (I hadn't asked) and then raved about Italian tiramisu (I agreed) . . . or unofficial scene organizer Mary, whose husband is in local band the Real Creeps. Mary's a quite enchanting tour guide of the real, creepy Vegas aesthetic. She also introduced me to the rest of her all-gal punk band, but I can't remember the name of her group right now. It will come to me. Ask me later. And, keep an eye out for her hubbie's Real Creeps, who are like Nevada's answer to the Stooges . . . And to everyone I danced with over that weekend, thank you for making me look cool by osmosis.

When the Trains came back to L.A., we weren't surprised -- although we were still horrified -- to see that the police were beating up and shooting at a lot of our friends (and anyone else) who were among the protesters downtown during the Democratic National Convention. The LAPD have such wonderful euphemisms for how they hurt their own citizens: "beanbag projectiles" and "rubber" bullets. We saw the welts and bruises on our friends' chests and arms. Perhaps it's naive, but we were tired of feeling unimportant and voiceless. Thanks to Seattle's Vanessa Veselka, formerly of Bell and now with the Pinkos, a protest concert was organized at Al's Bar on Wednesday, August 16 to coincide with the conclusion of the Demon-critter Corn Invention. What the bands on the bill--the Pinkos, Leaving Trains and Mike Watt--had in common was a sense of general outrage about the ruthless and imperial direction of this country by big business, and the unnecessary brutality by the unprofessional hoodlums in the LAPD against protesters.

Some of the musicians talked a little about how they felt about what was going on, and I think we all played with more urgency in response to the violence that was occurring by the out-of-control police department just a few blocks away. The Pinkos' short set was a great debut, with Vanessa and her husky, low, warm voice and big, plugged-in acoustic guitar, and former Gits drummer Steve backing her up. I still can't believe that more people aren't aware of Vanessa's recent former group, Bell, and here she is already in a different direction with the Pinkos, but always that great voice. And memorable rock songs. Steve and Vanessa came all the way down to L.A. from Seattle just to attend the protests and do this show. I'd follow her into battle anytime.

Mike Watt was joined by surprise guest Wayne Kramer, and they of course did a hot version of "Kick Out the Jams." Master bassist Watt cranked up a lot of his rocking and jamming stuff, but I was most pleased that his lineup with guitarist Tom Watson (Toxic Shock, Slovenly Peter, Overpass) and drummer Vince Meghrouni (Bazooka) essayed more unexpected, artier, post-punk angular stuff that came closer to the feeling of the Minutemen than anything I'd heard Watt do in years.

That weekend, I saw another good Vice Principals set at the Garage (Fri., Aug. 18), and also Buck (Sat., Aug. 19), who seemed a little distracted, but were great nonethess, thanks to songs like "My Fascination." The Peeps came out again from Arizona, and were better than ever, with a lot of good, new catchy primal punk originals. Foxy bassist Chela seems to be breaking a lot of hearts, without really trying. They all were. It makes you want to fall at their feet like a screaming, helpless Beatlemaniac.

Another guilty pleasure was a secret, surprise show by the reunited Bangles at Spaceland on Fri., September 1, an unannounced warm-up to their concerts at House of Blues. I didn't get a chance to talk to anybody in the band, but I hung around in the back of the club, spying on them and totally loving it, guilty pleasure or not. Those girls can sing! Vicki Peterson was quite funny and charming, and solicitous to the needs of the audience. Susannah Hoffs sang a cool version of "Waiting for My Man" that magically appeared in the middle of one of their own songs. The Bangles opened with their Simon & Garfunkel cover "Hazy Shade of Winter" and closed energetically with Love's "7 & 7 Is," and in between played a long, satisfying set of some of their best songs, including a bunch of good new tunes. I would have liked to hear more songs from their debut EP, but it was a pretty fun show nonetheless. Then I snuck away . . .

The Chicken Hawks came back, but without Tammy, and it was hard not to miss her. But they were as good as ever, with Sioux City Pete carving out violent slide-guitar slashes, and Betsy snarling her lyrics like accusations while stabbing the stages of Club Mesa and Al's Bar with her black boots. The Helpful Nuns finally started playing again at the Al's Bar show, and we're actually a lot better now. The band includes indifferent, easily distracted genius songwriter-singer-lead guitarist Fred Manchento (EMA-3), drummer Chris Moore, guitarist Falling James (otherwise known as me) and new bassist Katie Na-Na, who sings the alternately childlike and terrifying "Yeti." In early November, the Nuns played again, in Phoenix area, at Hollywood Alley with the Peeps and Pointy Kitty. Unlike the Pointy Kittys, who drove straight out on Saturday and drove straight back to L.A. right after the show that Saturday night, we Helpful Nuns left on Friday and had time to sightsee in Sedona and at various places north of Phoenix, a big sprawling horror of a city. It takes forever to get nowhere there. So we spent most of our time elsewhere, higher in the mountains, where it snowed, among the strange, craggy formations of red mesas and cliffs. The contrast of snow among the red clay and the collision of cactus and pine trees in the mountains was enchanting, despite the brochures which told us so. We visited Cathedral Rock and other vortexes that were reputed to have energizing powers, raising our hands to the sky. We ate authentic fry bread from a small tent by the side of the road, and saw ancient cliff dwellings carved elaboratedly into the white limestone cliffs. On Friday night after driving up from L.A., the snow curled around us like friendly feathers as we sat in the car, listening to the enchanting, delicate sounds of Leather Hyman on Katie's stereo, while Chris Moore heroically and eventually a reasonably priced hotel room in Sedona.

The problem of course is that everything is out of balance. The wrong celebrities are too famous, the worst bands draw the biggest crowds, the most interesting creative collaborations aren't happening thanks to caste differences.

I resent the rich for not entertaining us with better lies while they rob us.

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