I just learned that Coco Robicheaux — artist, musician, voodoo hoodoo, Louisiana legend, spriit force — passed away a few days ago.
Though of Cajun ancestry — his given surname is Arceneaux — he was born in California, but was Louisianne through and through, and settled in the bayou.
His adopted name came from the legend of child named Coco Robicheaux, whose soul is captured by a werewolf.
I know little else of him. But I never missed his set at JazzFest. His music is soulful, full with mystery and bayou gris gris. It’s as if he and his band emerged from the swamp, covered in moss and muck, as if in some B horror film. Then would break out into a grizzled tune that would cut to the core of melancholy.
Yeah, okay, it’s T G I F and your favorite team opens the basketball season tonight. (I know my favorite school does.) And it plays again on Sunday. (I know my school does.)
Sandwiched between those tilts your favorite team plays an important home football game. (I know my school does.) And then there’s a righteous concert tomorrow.
You know, your basic boffo autumn weekend in the offing. All the while getting to spend some time with your sweetie who has been out of town.
So you got to kickstart it, right? Get things movin’ in the right direction. I figure you might as well start at the top.
John Lee Hooker. Van Morrison. Doing a live version of one of the seminal rock & roll songs of all time.
There’s a new documentary coming out about the impossible to categorize band Fishbone. You can read it about here.
Frankly, I haven’t followed the group that closely through the years. So, I’m not familiar either with their repertoire, or their travails.
I’m sure they’ve made a lot of smashing music, the kind that makes you dance and think and smile. I’m just haven’t been that locked in. You know, a guy’s only got so many ears.
But this tune, “? Modern Industry,” one guy’s opinion, is brilliant. It certainly meets the American Bandstand standard of “Good lyrics. You can dance to it.” It is also satire and homage of the highest order.
The more I learn about the rock & roll I love, the less I know.
Reading the other day that Sylvia Robinson passed away, I immediately thought of her alluring, sensual duet with Louisvillian Mickey Baker on the 1956 hit, “Love is Strange.”
I frankly didn’t know of her importance as one of Sugar Hill Records’ founders, and her moniker as “Mother of Hip Hop.”
Nor was I aware that Bo Diddley claimed to have written the song, and actually recorded a version several months before Mickey & Sylvia. Read the rest of this entry »
So, this morning out of the blue, while I’m gathering my things to venture off into the day, and the Film Babe is loading the washer, she turn to me and says, “You know those girl groups? I’m really starting to like them.
“The songs are all sad, breaking up. But the tunes are so snappy. There’s that ‘Sally Go ‘Round The Roses’.”
Good ear, the Film Babe. I cut her a copy of “Girls, Girls, Girls,” a 2003 compilation of Girl Group hits that’s as well done a compendium as any in rock and roll. And, my gal, latched on to what is perhaps the most mysterious, beguiling song of the whole genre. As haunting a tune as there is in the pantheon of rock & roll.
(In her mid 50s, the Film Babe wasn’t reared with the same music as I. She remains a might reluctant about doo wop. “I just didn’t grow up with it like you did. It doesn’t have that same emotional resonance.” A few more spins of “In The Still of the Nite” and perhaps she’ll get it.)
There’s a whole lot of back story to the cutting of “Sally Go ‘Round The Roses,” a 45 B side. There’s an Abner Spector involved, but he’s no relation to Phil. About 20 people sang on the track. One of them was the daughter of Zell Sanders, the songwriter. Johnnie Louise Richardson is the Johnnie of Johnnie & Joe (“Over The Mountain, Cross The Sea.”) The song allegedly cost $60 large to produce, an off the charts amount for the time.
None of that really matters, except for those of us still in touch with our inner Shrevie. Most important is that the tune still mystifies a half century after it was released.
Today was the last day for James Bickers as morning show host on FPK 91.9.
I do film reviews on that show every Tuesday morning at a smidge after 8:00 am.
Frankly, the banter between my host and myself through the years had gotten, well, more than a little testy at times. We used to do a quiz in which he’d play a film clip and I had to ID the flick. He was rarely inclined to give me full credit for identifying the movies. Why? Well, you’ll have to ask Mr. Bickers . . . if you can track him down now.
I would attempt to engage the audience with cultural bon mots. Mr. Bickers lives a solitary life, so most references passed him by. Instead of displaying even the merest scintilla of interest, he would feign displeasure. It was, frankly, not a good feeling.
During our last gig together, Mr. Bickers, out of the blue, indicated the tension that many felt emanating from the studio was simply radio shtick. Imagine my surprise. He never, at any moment during our 8 year run, indicated it was all an act.
Anyway, I guess I need to let bygones be bygones, move beyond my justified resentments, understand I’m not the lowly weasel Mr. Bickers would portray me to be, and forgive. Oh yes, and forget.
Therefore, to honor Mr. Bickers, on his last day on the job. I offer this testimonial.
Sayonara, mon ami. Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door behind you.
There are but a few concerts that can even dare to claim the titles, “Best Concert Ever” and/or “Most Important Concert Ever.”
It’s clear to me that the T.A.M.I. Show was both. It was staged on two nights in Santa Monica in October, 1964, and released on film soon thereafter. The name stands for Teen Age Music International. It sits nearly alone in the throne of the pantheon of live rock & roll performances. (To hack up a metaphor.)
Beach Boys. Chuck Berry. The Barbarians. Marvin Gaye. Lesley Gore. The Supremes. Smokey Robinson & the Miracles. (You know, the more I think about it, even Woodstock can’t stand up to this lineup.)
And the Stones, full of themselves, insisted they headline the deal. Which is why I feel compelled to present 11 minutes plus of evidence why Jagger’s the pretender and James Brown the champ. As the Godfather of Soul is said to have proclaimed, “Nobody follows James Brown.” Here’s why:
I’m advised that available for purchase and consumption at least at one state fair — Iowa perhaps? — is this delicacy, Fried Butter.
Um, how cholesteriffic!!! You’d think they’d have the common sense to stuff that butter with a hard boiled egg, before coating it with sugared batter and dropping it in boiling oil. Then you’d have a real American treat.
While the Film Babe and I did not traverse the entirety of the fairgrounds last night, I don’t believe that particular menu item is available.
We did see a new perennial, the bacon cheeseburger with 2 Krispy Kreme® donuts replacing the usual bun. We did peruse a vendor’s stand, offering Fried Derby Pie®, along side a big ol’ tray of Fried Kool-Aid™. We scurried past quickly, our thinking that even inhaling the air around such foodstuffs might add avoirdupois and increase cholesterol readings. Read the rest of this entry »
The blown up black and white photo on the front of Donald Fagen’s keyboard told the story.
Sir Duke Ellington and his band.
It was a booming, brassy, big band-ish incarnation of Fagen and Walter Becker’s group — 11 strong + the 2 — that landed at the Palace, during this, their “Shuffle Diplomacy” tour. It was a good thing.
Frankly, it was not what I expected. Much to my delight.
Plus, the performance gave insight why the band took almost a score of years off from touring.
The thin, almost clipped arrangements and recorded versions of their songs — the ones we all identify as being uniquely Steely Dan — are but outlines for the duo’s final vision, penciled sketches for a later masterwork in oil, skeletons without flesh and sinew and muscle. With the addition of horns, added guitar and keyboard and crack back up singers, the songs have evolved as they were meant to. They are fleshed out, fuller, more complete, mature. Read the rest of this entry »
So after weeks and weeks and battles to the death, almost, with a talented but oh so stubborn web guru, my new site is up and running.
But, hey, you know that, you’re here checkin’ it out.
Pretty boffo, don’t you think?
Well, let me know. And, if you have any suggestions about other helpful tools you’d like here, let me know. Just click on that groovy “Contact Me” button at the top of the page.
I’ve got some new features coming soon. Which, to be frank and objective, I think you’re going to love. Announcements about same are, as they in the biz, Coming Soon.
How’s that for a tease?
So, anyway, welcome to the New, Improved, All Natural, Vitamin Enriched, Reduced Calorie CultureMaven.com. Check out the archives. Make yourself at home. Enjoy.
I just learned that Coco Robicheaux — artist, musician, voodoo hoodoo, Louisiana legend, spriit force — passed away a few days ago.
