Firsts

 

Mance Lipscomb:

The first time I heard Mance Lipscomb was in 1991 on a Sunday shift at Smash CDs on St. Mark's Place. The shift was from 11AM until 10PM, but my co-worker Rob and I would get there as early as 9:30, so we could have coffee and bagels and enjoy a civilized breakfast before the East Village insanity began. Rob was deep into the blues, but he especially loved country blues. It wasn’t just the sound of the music. Rob loved the details, as well as the background of the artists. He’d listen to a live Reverend Gary Davis recording and notice birds chirping during the performance and that would elevate the recording to a higher place. He’d listen to Blind Boy Fuller and get lost in Fuller’s story of losing his eyesight well into his teens. He’d listen to a Magic Sam album and point out the different guitar tones from song to song, pointing out how Sam could go from straight Chicago blues to rhythm and blues with the flip of a switch. I was no connoisseur of the blues and what little I did listen to was mostly played by rock and roll bands. So when he pulled out Mance Lipscomb, I was transported to another time and place. I was hooked immediately. Mance Lipscomb was from Navasota Texas, and had impossibly long fingers that resembled talons, but his delicate and breezy guitar playing belied those beaten hands. The music was unlike any blues I had been listening to. He might have been singing about his baby leaving, or being mistreated, but the vibe and pace was speaking something else. It was joyful. This music turned dirty old St. Mark's Place into Navasota, Texas, or Thomson, Georgia for a few hours every Sunday, and to this day, when I listen to Mance Lipscomb, or any country blues, I think of those Sunday mornings with Rob.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Motorhead:

The hardest and loudest music I had been listening to in 1979 was Black Sabbath and King Crimson, tame when compared to the death metal and thrash music that was to follow. But one summer afternoon on East 19th Street in Sheepshead Bay, my friend Phil pulled up in his car, and what I heard coming out of his car stereo was quite simply agonizing, and yet I wanted to hear more. This was Motorhead and the song was “No Class.” Phil was a fan and had been seeing them perform live since they first came to the U.S. a few years earlier.  Lemmy, the leader, had been making music for years, first in the 60’s with The Rockin’ Vickers and psych rocker Sam Gopal, and then with space rock legends, Hawkwind. But in 1979, I had heard of none of these people. “No Class” sounded very familiar, and that was because it was basically ZZ Top’s “Tush” injected with bile and venom, turned up to eleven and sung with a voice that sounded like it was treated with booze, hot sauce and razor blades. I couldn’t get enough. I became a lifelong fan of Motorhead thanks to Phil and “No Class.”

 

I once played “No Class” for a friend and upon hearing the opening riff, he said, “I love this fucking song.” When Lemmy started singing and he realized it wasn’t “Tush” by ZZ Top, he said, “I hate this fucking song!” That’s what Motorhead seemed to do for their entire career. You either love them or hate them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Television:

It's just one record. That's all it took. One record, and I saw them live before that record was even released. Not at CBGBs, where they had been holding court for a couple of years, but as the opening act for Peter Gabriel at The Palladium in 1977. I was there for Peter Gabriel. I was hoping to hear Genesis songs, which did not happen. But by the end of Television's opening set, I didn't care about Genesis or Gabriel's solo set. That night was all about Television.

"Marquee Moon" was a game changer. It literally changed my life, because without that album or that live performance by these so-called punks who were playing jazz licks and extended jams over twisted vocals and melodies with as many hooks as your pop Top 40, I may have never moved forward and discovered so much music that quite frankly would have frightened me just a few years prior.

Tom Verlaine was a giant. Watching him stand there like the Frankenstein monster with that impossibly soulful, fingernails on a blackboard voice, stayed with me, even now, almost 50 years later. "Marquee Moon" remains one of my favorite records of all time. It's a record I play as often as any and it never fails to excite me the same way it did in 1977.

 

 

 

 

 

The Plugz:
My friend and co-worker Alan Landess was a punk, heart and soul. He’d react politely to the mixed tapes I’d bring to work because he had to. I was his boss. But I knew he detested most of what I listened to and so I agreed to let him man the cassette player one afternoon in 1988, as long as it wasn’t too offensive. No Crucifux or G.B.H. for the midtown office crowd. The first song on his tape was by an East L.A. punk band called The Plugz. It was called “Achin’” and both me and my pal Tim Vega exploded with delight. This was not only raw, as if the band had counted off 1-2-3-4 from inside the cassette player and started playing just for us, but it had a hook to die for. This track had everything in under three minutes. That was all it took. The Plugz became my new favorite punk band based on one single. The band only managed to record two albums before leader Tito Larriva broke things up to form The Cruzados, but hearing that single for the first time with Tim and Alan, is a video that automatically plays whenever I hear that song, even today. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Miles Davis:

It was 1982 and jazz was something I had only previously explored in small doses. I had just started my first full time job at Village Copier. The staff was small– two older women, one girl closer to my age and a gentleman by the name of Steve Harrow who happened to be a musician; a trumpet player. Everyone was friendly and accommodating and each helped get me acclimated to my new surroundings. It was Steve who seemed to be in charge of the cassette player in the corner of the shop and as we discussed the music we liked, he told me he was just off of a tour with Buddy Rich. I told him I was a drummer and that my band was just about to start playing some gigs around town. Then he pulled out a tape of what was then Miles Davis’ first new record in years, “The Man With The Horn.”

“Have you heard the new Miles yet?” he asked. I didn’t want to say I hadn’t heard any Miles before and so I feigned enthusiasm and said, “No! Put it on!” And he did. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I was hearing, which were these fat rhythms and big beats. It felt nasty and not like jazz at all. It was the track “Aida.” Steve had put Side Two of the cassette on first and so the very first notes I ever heard of Miles Davis were from Side Two of his new album and from there, like with so many other artists, I went backwards.

Five years later, after going deep and discovering classic Miles Davis albums like “Kind Of Blue,” “Sketches of Spain,” “Miles Smiles” and “Porgy & Bess,” I realized that by comparison, “The Man With The Horn” wasn’t so great after all. Still, if it wasn’t for Steve and “Aida,” I may not have become the Miles fan I am to this day and for that, I will always love “The Man With The Horn.”