My record collection is a minefield of potential pain: stacks of Ray Charles, Robert Johnson, Otis Redding, Elmore James, Muddy Waters, Freddy King, Bobby Blue Bland. And, in recent years, a creeping insinuation of country and western music. I was telling myself I was getting at the core of rock and roll, the music of rebellion. Blues is the soundtrack to otherwise ineffable pain, and C&W, the music of resignation.
By John Brizzolara, Aug 23, 1990 | Read full article
There is an underground music scene in San Diego. It begins along a tiny stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway in Encinitas that mimics, in a desultory way, Haight Street or the hipper end of Melrose or Second Avenue near the Bowery. On it there are several used-clothing stores; a shop where you can get leather studs. Doc Martens, and lace tights; and two independent record stores, Off the Record and Lou's.
By Gina Arnold, January 24, 1991 Read full article
The sudden rise and notorious image of Marilyn Manson is partly to blame for the misunderstanding. Klebold and Harris both listened to Manson; a musician who plays with some of the trappings of goth. He is ghoulish, androgynous, and angst-ridden. The New Yorker said recently that Manson "channeled the Marquis de Sade by way of Alice Cooper," which suggests that he is in fact what most local goths told me he is &mdash a poseur.
By Justin Wolff, Feb. 8, 2001 | Read full article
Rick Gazlay arrives looking like one of the Beach Boys from their post-“Good Vibrations” era or a psychedelic tennis pro. Shorts, paisley shirt, ponytail and red beard, a multicolored brow visor, guitar case. He greets Robin Henkel, who often plays around the corner from Gazlay in the Gaslamp, when Henkel is gigging at Croce’s and Gazlay is at Patrick’s II. An onlooker, also a musician, scans the five guitarists, grins, and says, “Roomful of blues, huh?”
By John Brizzolara, Dec. 17, 1992 | Read full article
You won’t find Dahmer’s Diner on the bill at the Cannibal Bar in Mission Beach. In fact, DD has been banned from all but two venues in town, SOMA and Cafe Chabalaba, though they are embraced at certain clubs in Austin, Dallas, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, among other places. While they have been interviewed by the punk rock press ’zines from places as far away as Holland, they have real trouble in San Diego
By John Brizzolara, Oct. 14, 1993 | Read full article
In Moby Grape’s heyday, Mosley was described by a Rolling Stone writer as a “gifted singer with a raw, earthquaking voice like some Viking warrior incarnation of Otis Redding.” He was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic in 1970 while in the Marines and is now merely one of this city’s thousands of faceless indigents, according to a court document filed by his mother.
By Jamie Reno, Feb 10, 1994 Read full article
“I had no clue why Scott [Weiland) picked me out of the crowd. I didn’t throw anything at the stage, ever, and that’s the truth. I didn’t hear what he said to the crowd before. I thought I was going to get to hang out with the band on stage. I went willingly. I definitely didn’t know they had violent intentions.”
By Jamie Reno May 26, 1994 Read full article
I think of all my poor records — how angry do you want me to be? I amass this massive stack — a collection, more than a collection, almost a library (people come over just to hear stuff; mags call me with “fact check” questions) — many many many of which will never be issued on CD.
By Richard Meltzer, June 30, 1994 | Read full article
Every drive into San Diego, screaming south down I-5 past Pacific Beach, I’d seen it out of the right of my windshield. The strange Moorish building with the domed tower facing the freeway. Red letters outlined in dead neon tubing spells “Restaurante Tablao Flamenco” across a large windowless wall. Moorish arches outline panels with large bas reliefs of flamenco dancers and bullfighters.
By Frank Chin, Oct. 13, 1994 | Read full article
"The only kind of guys that would smoke pot back in those days were guys that liked jazz, kind of hipsters. And the other guy, who was more of a thug, actually, into doo-wop, and wine, and getting drunk, and fighting and cutting — you know, go to the party and breaking the party up; the kind of guy who was doing that was the kind of guy that didn’t smoke pot. That’s too damn exotic for him."
By Al Young, Oct. 27, 1994 | Read full article
This is an essay by a nonteenager about a reissued CD, kind of obscure, joyful to listen to in its own right, and also a fascinating locus of semi-famous or legendary figures from the rock world in 1967: the first solo album by Nico, called Chelsea Girl. It spoke to me then (even though Nico was five, or maybe ten, years older than I was) to some extent, but I always thought (influenced by the point of view of fellow Velvets fans.
By Paul Williams, April 20, 1995 | Read full article
It was modish, especially in the latitudinarian ‘60s, to speak of the lyrics of rock as “poetry.” And to a degree a certain few lyrics — quixotic, inventive, careening or reflectively lyrical — came sufficiently close. We tend to listen to lyrics, ponder the words, heed and harken to their advice. “And rock is also educational,” said Frank Zappa. “How to ask a girl for a date, what love is like.”