Sunday, September 29, 2002

Hi Peanut



Still in Mpls. till tomorrow.



feeling abashed for pretentiousness in previous post--why do i mention captain beefheart; why do i have to quote e.m. forster. trying to prove how intellectual i am or some shit. that's such a drag.



it's always hard to read your own diaristic emissions--like 2nite I had to clear out the hard drive from my old minneapolis dino-mac. this involved re-reading all the emails i wrote to matt welch four years ago when i was really fucked up struggling with self esteem junk, writerly identity confusions and heartsickness. plus of course there was no good rock, which really was the actual problem. no good rock was so hard. the only rock was that i had just discovered lester bangs by accident at the bookstore.



(Matt by the way if you're there i can't read your warblog tonight. you prolly know that already....)



i was so miserable. but the weird thing is, it's possible to have tons of fun when you're miserable. I think the misery actually makes fun stuff funner.



in a way, minneapolis is a fun town to be depressed in. there's always tons of funny, smart, embittered drinkers who'll back you up in any misanthropy or cynicism you're nursing.



well, fuck this minneapolis nostalgia. fuck that painful time. fuck misery, too, while you're down there.



i wanna go home.



love

kate

Saturday, September 28, 2002

Delicious Demons:



I don't even know where to begin.



Maybe I should be sensible, and start with the clothes.



I'm no fashion dragon, but last night I busted out with some "fits" that were so cool, I don't think anybody at the whole party even understood. Perhaps Simone, the hunkaluscious gay-boy photographer. Yes, perhaps Simone.



Bands are inevitably better performing covers (with exceptions--DUH) because they feel braver doing someone else's songs. Likewise, my outfit last night was a cover version of a look I have long admired. Let's call it "Mick and Bianca's Wedding."



The party was for my best friend Hillary's wedding.



My interpretation of Mick's look involved tight pinstripe trousers, a '70s pale grey polyester tuxedo jacket with velvet trim and wide-ass collars, a loose white tuxedo shirt unbottoned down to there, with flouncy sleeves hanging out, and some shitty white sneakers (or "trainers," as my date Suzanne called them).



This was a tribute to Hillary, my personal rock icon, and to the fashion pioneering of the early-'70s Rolling Stones. (It had nothing to do with the actual pairing of Mick and Bianca, which was clearly an unfortunate one.)



Hillary, the sage, said, "You're wearing what you want your groom to wear."



O, how right she was! I have long envisioned my groom wearing a white '70s tuxedo (with tails!) with sneakers. You got to dream.



But I really couldn't expect Her Majesty to give two shits what I was wearing, since yesterday she committed the rest of her life to Derek, the love of her life. (Whom I have recently anointed "D. Mo." His name is Derek Moran, and wouldn't you know it, he's a Top 40 radio DJ and music director! Yee-haw!)



I have never seen a groom look sexier and more relaxed (and more flushed-at-the-cheeks!). And I have never seen Hillary so lovely and butterfly-kissable.



For the moment, Ms. Hillary is the love of my life!



On Thursday we had a special girlfriends day, and had special spa treatments, lunch, and haircuts etc. At lunch, Hilly said, "I was thinking about soul mates. I was wondering if Derek is my soul mate. But I thought, nah. I already have a soul mate. Kate is my soul mate!"



Aw.



When I told my mom, she said, "I think it's much more common for women to be each other's soul mates. Women understand each other."



I sighed, and had to agree. It is tragic that men don't understand women better.



I, however, hold out hope that I will one day soon meet a man who really does understand me--as a girl, a woman, a Hello Kitty-kat, a man, a rock star, whatever I am, everything I am, everything I don't yet know I am.



One thing I admire, though, about Hillary and Derek, is that their love is a secret, just between them. It's their private wonderland, and nobody else knows. They don't parade it and they don't have to explain. It's theirs. And for all I know, Derek understands Hillary in a much deeper way than I do.



All I know is, they are madly in love, deeply down there in the secret depths, and ready to open their hearts so wide it seems impossible. They are happy.



All my love, all my hope, all my best wishes ever to Hillary and Derek and their beautiful new life.



Hooray for Hillary and Derek!



And hooray also that they got married this weekend, for it enabled me to witness the final show of the great Colin Blunstone/Rod Argent U.S. tour!



The second song they performed tonight at First Avenue is a song that I have been singing for two months. In fact, on the way to the airport on Monday, I listened to this song five times in a row, because sometimes, this song is really the only song in the whole world.



It's called "This Will Be Our Year," and it's a song for Hillary and Derek; Jim and Jean; and maybe me, in a way.



The warmth of your love's like the warmth from the sun

and this will be our year,

took a long time to come.



Don't let go of my hand, now the darkness is gone

this will be our year,

took a long time to come.



And I won't forget the way you held me up

when I was down

And I won't forget the way you said,

Darling I love you,

you gave me faith to go on!

Now we're there, and we've only just begun.

This will be our year

took a long time come.




Colin Blunstone is a soft hero, a blooming treasure, and he makes any song, however familiar, a work of poetic surprise. A highlight was when he sang lead vocals on the Argent song--and KISS cover-hit--"God Gave Rock 'N' Roll to You." In the middle, after a long-mid-section breakdown, he raised his hands in a "V" and, grinning, shouted "Rock!" like a child.



Argent's piano solos were better than anything I've even heard on a Zombies recording. It's crazy that they don't sound totally cheesy, because they could in a second--all noodly jazzy Hammond-wanking. But they don't.



The guitarist was fine, and at his best showed good Mick Ronson influence. And he rocked a cheesy metal solo on "She's Not There," which was hil-fucking-arious.



Bassist also good, a former Kinks person.



(Have I told you about my theory that "Billy Jean" is an attempt to rewrite "She's Not There"? After tonight I am even more totally sure. Check that shit out, yo.)



My only complaint was the drummer. He didn't fit stylistically, aesthetically, anything. He was an '80s power-drummer, macho and strong and sure and unsubtle, and Blunstone had to yell to be heard over him.



It is amazing how much a drummer can affect the sound of a band.



Still, the show reminded all of us (not that we needed it) what an important and blessed band the Zombies were, what a masterpiece Odessey and Oracle is, now and forever, and what a range of styles they could command.



And what fuzzy fuzz-hearts they are.



God bless the Zombies.



I love you, lovely Zombies, and I thank you for making music for my soul.



So I am going back to L.A. Monday and am psyched to begin work on a new column, on a special new songwriter in L.A. who totally makes you cry.



I wish I could stay here at the same time. Minneapolis is a dream.



I did have a tummy problem Monday night where I had to go to the hospital here. My dad drove me. It was the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life. It was psychedelic, man! It turned out to be nothing serious at all, and I am all better. Maybe a little wiser :)



One thing I have decided is that I am maybe through with pulling all-nighters once a week. I have always gotten a rush out of writing all night, smoking and maybe having some whiskey at the keyboard, listening to that Erik Satie "Trois Gymnopedies" record, with the window open and the skunks roaming outside... (or in Prague, the hedgehogs... or in Minneapolis, the indie rockers...) then crashing at 5 or 6 or 8:30, sleeping for a few hours, waking up and being loopy and stoned all day. It's really fun.



But now I am going to respect the all-nighter as I have come to respect caffeine: It is a drug, and must be utilized as such. My mind and heart want to stay up all night, but my body says, fuck you. And since I can't do anything without my body...



I met a 36-ish guy tonight at the Zombies show who injured his back so badly he lives in chronic pain, and doesn't work. He was on codeine and I gave him one of the Vicodins I brought to the show (for just in case). He lives in Milwaukee and saw them there last night, then drove here for the show tonight. That's a long-ass drive.



He said that when he hears their music, that's when he forgets about his pain. He said it heals him.



After the show he said he was going to look for a hotel closer to Wisconsin and finish the drive tomorrow. I wished I could do something to make him happy, but I didn't want to do anything more than give him beer and narcotics.



I wish I were sluttier. (OK, not really.) I just saw the movie "The Banger Sisters" today with my mom, and in that movie, the Goldie Hawn character sleeps with this really uptight celibate guy out of sympathy. She had a Sixties sense of sexuality.



I do not have a Sixties sense of sexuality anymore.



Only of Romance.



In high school I was really living in the Sixties, spiritually, and when we learned about the Romantics, I totally could relate. (The writers, not the band!) The way our English teacher explained them made them sound like total fucking hippies. I wrote a paper on the Romantics, and he accused me of plagiarism. I don't think I ripped it off--I think I was just really excited about the Romantics. Our teacher was sort of a hippie, of a certain literate Anglophile chain-smoking gay stripe. His brother was Captain Beefheart. He never ever talked about Captain Beefheart and since we didn't know anything, we didn't ever ask him. We never asked him about his private life, or about Captain Beefheart.



He insisted upon calling me "Kathleen" and he spoke with a bit of an affected English accent--especially when reading Shakespeare, which he did nonstop. One time I called him "Mr. Fake English Accent" behind his back--which me and my best friend, Debbie Urlik, thought was really fucking clever. So she passed me a note that said, "Fuck you Mr. Fake English Accent!" He, of course, demanded to see the note, and she got incredibly busted. For the rest of the fucking year I had to sit in the front row. He thought I was some innocent, but the truth is that I made it up.



My problem with him was that once I asked him, "Why do we read?" I really didn't understand the purpose of any of it. He took it as an offense, a questioning of his whole life--and didn't give me a real answer. He got flustered and gave me some rote bullshit about learning from the mistakes of characters--learning from Hamlet not to be indecisive.



Whatever, man. It took me years to figure it out. It's nothing so hoity-toity and cerebral as what he said. People read--I read, anyway--to be not-alone. To connect. With another, with everything. Like E.M. Forster said: Only connect!



rock,

Kate







Wednesday, September 25, 2002

Hi You Rascally Muskellung, You



I'm in Minneapolis, where it is chilly, drizzly, and very autumnal. The squirrells are fluffy again, for winter, and dark gray, and I see where some of them are making a nest in the attic next door. They climb through a tiny hole in a busted screen up on the third floor. They are going to be pretty well set for winter, I think. They will be the envy of all the neighborhood wildlife. They will have to throw wild winter parties for every variety of varmint tiny enough to fit through the hole. It's only fair.



After living the rich hippie life in Malibu just two weeks ago it's fun to suddenly be here in the land of winter working-class bars and hot toddies. Hot toddies are very common here. This is a whiskey town.



I stayed up all night on Sunday finishing my next column (out tomorrow--it includes my trip to a mortuary party Saturday night!) and cleaning, packing etc....and then I flew out here... but then the following night I had some major tummy pains that really fucked my shit up for a couple days.



I'm fine now, and the doctors said I'm healthy. Anyway, I did get some more insight into pain (which I'm saving for childbirth). And it was a good excuse to sleep for two days, eat Halloween candy nonstop, read Archies nonstop, and take Vicodin! Oh, yeah, and drink whiskey!



There are distinct advantages to being female--including lip gloss and general Womanly gorgeousness (not to mention Magic and the Power to Make Life Happen)--but our insides can cause such mayhem.







Love,

Kate







Sunday, September 22, 2002

Hi Surf Nazis,



Um, the post about Marilyn Manson was a big BOO BOO. I was working on my next column while blogging and then somehow it got posted and I couldn't unpost it for ages because, as mentioned, Blogger is a little Bitch.



Ooops.



Don't you love how I completely villify and libel the entity (Blogger) to which I owe all my joy and happiness?



(Well, lots of it, anyway.)



Hey, who said love was fair.



BTW, are you digging the harvest moon these days? Check it out.



I went miniature golfing in Sherman Oaks yesterday and I truly felt that we were entering a magical realm as we entered, because everything at this minature golf is in the shape of a castle. It is also full of candy elf houses that you want to live in, forever.



I got two holes-in-one. There is nothing like the feeling of a hole-in-one. It just feels like... Like you have tapped into the frequency of Perfection where some people, the Amazing Ones, spend most of their time. It is a plane of existence where the force of the universe helps you along, so that your perfect achievement is, in a way, effortless. It is on this plane where, for example, the riff to "Satisfaction" was invented. There was no effort there. The biggest effort was playing it into a tape recorder in bed so he wouldn't forget it the next morning.



I want to say that it was also on this plane where Van Gogh painted Starry Night, but I think maybe I need to work on the theory a little more. Because the other truth is that most great achievements are the result of endless slaving.



Got to go write now. Ok bye.

Kate

Saturday, September 21, 2002

My Precious Blubber Whales,



So Blogger is really insufferable but it's all worked out. I miss you so much I want to puke. The reason I haven't been writing is because of some dumb shit with Blogger.



I am not certain about the new "look" so if it sucks tell me: heykate17@earthlink.net



I like the star but the typeface is too dim--it should be lighter or darker. Is it hard to read?



I have to go to the gym now.



I have tons to tell.



I'm going to Minneapolis AGAIN Monday so maybe while I'm there we'll have some QT.



all my lovin,

kate







Hello, Dark Lords:

Blogger killed or temporarily maimed my Rockblog; it totally sux. I miss it so. And you prolly thought I was a snobby ass meanie for not writing anymore. I couldn't; Blogger ate my baby!

So this is the temporary shelter for the Rockblog till Blogger fixes the problem. If they ever do.

The name of this blog comes from my favorite Kinks song of the moment, called, duh, Wonderboy. It's just the most. The bad thing about this name is that it totally sounds like a post-Champion band name (if you know what I mean then you know what I mean, and if you don't, that's OK too). Welp it's only temporary so fuck it.

Here's a really old post; the last one that never went up:

Sorry for total crapitude lately. It's partly the fact that Blogger is being a Little Bitch and won't post anything I write, and partly due to some column/blog confusion in my lemon-sized Usable Brain Sector. Dunno---I'm trying to figure out how to write a cool column that feels like a blog, and also have a blog--it's all a bit writer-wanky to describe in detail. Unf the major casualty of the confusion is the blog.

Oh yeah also I've been going out like crazy, for my new job. (Which is so not a job. Lately I've been calling the whole shebang "my new life" cuz that's how it feels.)

Good things have been happening:

1. Wonderful party for Greg's art show--Emmanuelle and Tony already documented it. (sorry I'm too lazy to link proper and all.)

2. Blogger/L.A. Press Club party after which me and some conspirators went on a hunt for L.A.'s best jukebox. We found it, too, and then ended the night with overpriced yummy diner food at Swinger's at 2:30 a.m. That night Jane's Addiction was on all the jukeboxes--Ocean Size, Standing In the Shower ... can't recall what else. It reminded me of being in Minneapolis on a night when the jukeboxes are playing the Replacements for no particular reason except they're the great local band in everyone's hearts that night.

3. Driving the kids thru Hollywood that night I turned on Jim Ladd on KLOS, America's last full-time freeform DJ in commercial radio. He's become a terrible angry windbag in recent years and plays the most awful blues-rock horrors. But I still love the man for his passion about freeform radio. He was on his soapbox as usual that night, talking about the precious nature of radio freedom, and he said, "So some guy wrote in and asked me to play zydeco. I can't play zydeco, man! It's not in the format!"

Then he played a zydeco song and said, ettouffee. (sp?) (what does that even mean?)

This was all right.

4. Then the next night, driving home from Orange County on the 5 after a weird Morrissey show, I turned on KROQ. They were playing the "woo-hoo" song by Blur (which the Hives rip off totally for "Hate To Say I Told You So"). They continued to play popular songs that also happen to be great (White Stripes, some weird interesting techno thing--maybe Daft Punk?), and mixed them in a sexy way--no station ID between every goddamn song, no idiot DJ trying to sound "cool" and "casual." Just a string of songs that really didn't fit together stylistically except that each one had the urgency of fresh excitement. (That's how it used to be a lot on KROQ a long time ago.)

Of course, at 10 p.m. it ended and I found out it was a specialty show--a Friday night mix show by Mix Master Mike. So check it out next Friday, yo.

Mix Master Mike is a great DJ, but you know, most of KROQ's regular DJs could put together a happening Friday-night party mix like that--because they're all real passionate music people, far as I can tell. They're just completely muzzled by the evil overlords and the really old station manager who has no idea what young people want at all. He has no concept of how tired people are of slickness. Just how really dumb and boring and silly it is to try and make "perfect" radio with no mistakes, no weirdness, perfect production and flashy sounders and commercials and the whole muck--

What a total bore.

They'll figure it out of course but they'll never be genuinely cool until they let their DJs choose music and stop caring about making billions of dollars.

5. Yesterday I went to the beach way up north of El Matador with my friend Kristine. Man alive, was it fun. There were seven 15-year-old Latin boys bugging us nonstop, and they were very beautiful, and we didn't really mind at all. They were charming as hell, in a secret way.

6. Rotting Scone just gets more and more pukable with every issue. Last time they managed to ruin a potentially good cover story on the Vines---good band, great writer (Rob Sheffield)--with awful horrible editing. (I assume that was the problem, anyway.) Who the FUCK is editing covers over there? Rob Sheffield is one hundred and fifty MILLION times smarter, funnier, hipper, and more soulful than that article. What's really sad is that they don't get it that it doesn't matter who they put on the cover--if they don't let their writers rock like rock stars, they're still gonna be lame as fuck.

6 1/2. I predict Rolling Stone's gonna go bust within two years.

7. The one thing I liked was Rivers Cuomo talking about getting exotic massages. The lead singer of (now defunct) Buckcherry told me he does the same thing because he just can't deal with groupies anymore. He said he always attracts psycho-chicks and if he's not in love he just goes to Asian massage ladies. This guy gave me some lovelife-advice too (prolly two years ago now). He said that I needed to go to Al-Anon, because I was codependent. I guess that was when I knew I really had a problem. I mean, when the lead singer of Buckcherry tells you that you need to go to a 12-step group, you know you've hit rock bottom.

I didn't go to Al-Anon but I read a few chapters of "Codependent No More." It was pretty cheesy. And it just made me miss Minnesota.

So now I have to write, for Christ's sake--so here is something that Jonathan Gold wrote to me about Jane's Addiction. I found it interesting.

"...Eric Avery was the soul of the band. Which I have never heard anybody say before, but...

In maybe '89, I traveled with Jane's Addiction for what ended up being more than a week (a story in the late, unlamented California magazine), on a secondary-cities swing that ended up being the last real tour that the band ever played. (By the time they got around to Lollapalooza six months later, the performances had rotted into the stuff of mannerist tragedy.) The tour was total chaos, even by the standards of the rock 'n roll road. Eric and
Dave were working on their one-month NA chips, and couldn't stand to be around Perry, who was on a spree that left him legally dead a couple of times. (Stephen, who is just about the most amazing drummer ever, although
you can barely hear him on any of the Jane's recordings, was like a friendly puppy who just wanted to be loved by both sides.) In Indianapolis, they played what may still be the best rock n' roll show I have ever witnessed, a show so improbably filled with love by the time they got around to Jane Says that everyone was weeping tears, hugging strangers, practically floating above their seats. But the band couldn't stand one another.

Eric was accusing Perry of having stolen his youth, and was more than a little creeped out that the quiet, no-amp strummings of lonely moments in his bedroom had become something that required nine semi-trailers to support. He wanted out. Perry, who had come up with the idea for Lollapalooza just a couple of weeks earlier, knew that Eric's departure was the death of the band, and had already started talking about what would become Porno for Pyros. Because there was this: Whatever Eric played sounded like Jane'sAddiction. And even God knows how many milligrams into the wind, Perry knew it. And he knew that Eric hated him for everything he had done, but also for everything he hadn't.

That being said, it must be admitted that 1) Perry always came into the studio with the music and lyrics already written, recorded on crude demos; and 2) Eric has never done anything remotely listenable on his own. Also that
the pre-Jane's band Eric and Perry were in, Psi-Com, was just horrible.

But for a brief moment, which is what we're trucking in after all, Avery's rolling basslines were the whole of the world."



Sooner,
Kate
I'M DYING WITHOUT MY BLOG!



I HATE BLOGGER!



BLUGGER SUXXXX

Monday, September 16, 2002

Hello, Dark Lords:



Sorry for total crapitude lately. It's partly the fact that Blogger is being a Little Bitch and won't post anything I write, and partly due to some column/blog confusion in my lemon-sized Usable Brain Sector. Dunno---I'm trying to figure out how to write a cool column that feels like a blog, and also have a blog--it's all a bit writer-wanky to describe in detail. Unf the major casualty of the confusion is the blog.



Oh yeah also I've been going out like crazy, for my new job. (Which is so not a job. Lately I've been calling the whole shebang "my new life" cuz that's how it feels.)



Good things have been happening:



1. Wonderful party for Greg's art show--Emmanuelle and Tony already documented it. (sorry I'm too lazy to link proper and all.)



2. Blogger/L.A. Press Club party after which me and some conspirators went on a hunt for L.A.'s best jukebox. We found it, too, and then ended the night with overpriced yummy diner food at Swinger's at 2:30 a.m. That night Jane's Addiction was on all the jukeboxes--Ocean Size, Standing In the Shower ... can't recall what else. It reminded me of being in Minneapolis on a night when the jukeboxes are playing the Replacements for no particular reason except they're the great local band in everyone's hearts that night.



3. Driving the kids thru Hollywood that night I turned on Jim Ladd on KLOS, America's last full-time freeform DJ in commercial radio. He's become a terrible angry windbag in recent years and plays the most awful blues-rock horrors. But I still love the man for his passion about freeform radio. He was on his soapbox as usual that night, talking about the precious nature of radio freedom, and he said, "So some guy wrote in and asked me to play zydeco. I can't play zydeco, man! It's not in the format!"



Then he played a zydeco song and said, ettouffee. (sp?) (what does that even mean?)



This was all right.



4. Then the next night, driving home from Orange County on the 5 after a weird Morrissey show, I turned on KROQ. They were playing the "woo-hoo" song by Blur (which the Hives rip off totally for "Hate To Say I Told You So"). They continued to play popular songs that also happen to be great (White Stripes, some weird interesting techno thing--maybe Daft Punk?), and mixed them in a sexy way--no station ID between every goddamn song, no idiot DJ trying to sound "cool" and "casual." Just a string of songs that really didn't fit together stylistically except that each one had the urgency of fresh excitement. (That's how it used to be a lot on KROQ a long time ago.)



Of course, at 10 p.m. it ended and I found out it was a specialty show--a Friday night mix show by Mix Master Mike. So check it out next Friday, yo.



Mix Master Mike is a great DJ, but you know, most of KROQ's regular DJs could put together a happening Friday-night party mix like that--because they're all real passionate music people, far as I can tell. They're just completely muzzled by the evil overlords and the really old station manager who has no idea what young people want at all. He has no concept of how tired people are of slickness. Just how really dumb and boring and silly it is to try and make "perfect" radio with no mistakes, no weirdness, perfect production and flashy sounders and commercials and the whole muck--



What a total bore.



They'll figure it out of course but they'll never be genuinely cool until they let their DJs choose music and stop caring about making billions of dollars.



5. Yesterday I went to the beach way up north of El Matador with my friend Kristine. Man alive, was it fun. There were seven 15-year-old Latin boys bugging us nonstop, and they were very beautiful, and we didn't really mind at all. They were charming as hell, in a secret way.



6. Rotting Scone just gets more and more pukable with every issue. Last time they managed to ruin a potentially good cover story on the Vines---good band, great writer (Rob Sheffield)--with awful horrible editing. (I assume that was the problem, anyway.) Who the FUCK is editing covers over there? Rob Sheffield is one hundred and fifty MILLION times smarter, funnier, hipper, and more soulful than that article. What's really sad is that they don't get it that it doesn't matter who they put on the cover--if they don't let their writers rock like rock stars, they're still gonna be lame as fuck.



6 1/2. I predict Rolling Stone's gonna go bust within two years.



7. The one thing I liked was Rivers Cuomo talking about getting exotic massages. The lead singer of (now defunct) Buckcherry told me he does the same thing because he just can't deal with groupies anymore. He said he always attracts psycho-chicks and if he's not in love he just goes to Asian massage ladies. This guy gave me some lovelife-advice too (prolly two years ago now). He said that I needed to go to Al-Anon, because I was codependent. I guess that was when I knew I really had a problem. I mean, when the lead singer of Buckcherry tells you that you need to go to a 12-step group, you know you've hit rock bottom.



I didn't go to Al-Anon but I read a few chapters of "Codependent No More." It was pretty cheesy. And it just made me miss Minnesota.



So now I have to write, for Christ's sake--so here is something that Jonathan Gold wrote to me about Jane's Addiction. I found it interesting.



"...Eric Avery was the soul of the band. Which I have never heard anybody say before, but...



In maybe '89, I traveled with Jane's Addiction for what ended up being more than a week (a story in the late, unlamented California magazine), on a secondary-cities swing that ended up being the last real tour that the band ever played. (By the time they got around to Lollapalooza six months later, the performances had rotted into the stuff of mannerist tragedy.) The tour was total chaos, even by the standards of the rock 'n roll road. Eric and

Dave were working on their one-month NA chips, and couldn't stand to be around Perry, who was on a spree that left him legally dead a couple of times. (Stephen, who is just about the most amazing drummer ever, although

you can barely hear him on any of the Jane's recordings, was like a friendly puppy who just wanted to be loved by both sides.) In Indianapolis, they played what may still be the best rock n' roll show I have ever witnessed, a show so improbably filled with love by the time they got around to Jane Says that everyone was weeping tears, hugging strangers, practically floating above their seats. But the band couldn't stand one another.



Eric was accusing Perry of having stolen his youth, and was more than a little creeped out that the quiet, no-amp strummings of lonely moments in his bedroom had become something that required nine semi-trailers to support. He wanted out. Perry, who had come up with the idea for Lollapalooza just a couple of weeks earlier, knew that Eric's departure was the death of the band, and had already started talking about what would become Porno for Pyros. Because there was this: Whatever Eric played sounded like Jane'sAddiction. And even God knows how many milligrams into the wind, Perry knew it. And he knew that Eric hated him for everything he had done, but also for everything he hadn't.



That being said, it must be admitted that 1) Perry always came into the studio with the music and lyrics already written, recorded on crude demos; and 2) Eric has never done anything remotely listenable on his own. Also that

the pre-Jane's band Eric and Perry were in, Psi-Com, was just horrible.



But for a brief moment, which is what we're trucking in after all, Avery's rolling basslines were the whole of the world."



Far out, J. Go!





Sooner,

Kate



Saturday, September 14, 2002

you've never been in love until you've seen the stars

reflected in the reservoirs




(morrissey. i think that's the correct lyric. it's from a new song about l.a.)

Wednesday, September 11, 2002

"I am not interested in money. I just want to be wonderful."



Marilyn Monroe



























Hi Hippies:



Life is beautiful.



Whiskey is beautiful.



The Hotel Cafe is beautiful.



Went there a few nights ago, so tired I was almost hallucinating. Me and my GF Tracy first went next door for Bushmills shots at the empty Burgundy Room, where a group of seven randoms were all singing along to "You're Just What I Needed," and even the lonely old man at the end of the bar was nodding his head. Nobody can deny that song. (You know, the Cars.)



Then we went back to the Cafe, and we ordered yummy tea and shared a piece of chocolate magic cloud silken immortality pie. Well, I don't know if that's what it's really called, but you get the idea. Then I heard some music that flipped my wig twice, it was so good. I don't wanna tell you what it was, because some friends of mine from competing papers read the blog and they might get some funny ideas. I'm being paranoid, but last night at the Cafe the guys told me that now the LA Weekly is going to do a big, two-part feature on the Cafe and Gary Jules. (I did a column on them a few weeks ago that they posted on their website.) Good for them, as long as they do it good.



I cried at the Cafe quite a bit that night. Key changes and good lyrics can do that to a person. It wasn't sadness at all; it was just a physical response to beauty. I haven't witnessed raw, unannounced brilliance like this since the night I first heard "White Blood Cells" accidentally, not knowing who it was. I tell you, I've seen a star. A real star that doesn't need any fame, any buzz, any money or record for everyone in the room to know.



This is why my new job rocks: I get to write about this NOW. The New Times doesn't give a shit if a musician has a record, or even if they have a demo. They don't have to have a buzz, they don't even have to have apparent "mass appeal." If I think it's important, I get to write about it.



Can you even believe?



Sorry for gloating like this, but if you knew me over the past three years you would say, OK, you can gloat a little.



So tonight I'm going to the Rustic. That's what happened last year. I didn't talk to anyone but I gravitated instinctually to our old bar and, sure enough, everyone was there. We were pretty dazed, like everyone. All I remember is seeing Walter Cronkite on TV and going, Walter Cronkite's still alive? Where's he been all this time? I also remember talking with Ken Basart and Kim Thigpen, talking about dumb shit, and feeling comforted by that. That was the night I realized that Ken is a good and strong man, the kind of man who knows how to act during a crisis. That was also the first time I realized how important that quality is in the people you are close to. The quality of your life is determined in large part by the quality of the people you surround yourself with.



I'm learning how to surround myself with good people, and to let go of the downers.



And one thing I need in people is a kind of gentle solidity, the kind that really helps in a crisis.



So that's it for now. I hope you have a good night.



Love,

Kate











Tuesday, September 10, 2002

Hi Super Chickens!



(thanks, dan :)



So I'm not so sad anymore. Caffeine and some girl-talk helped me out of the hall of mirrors. Where would I be without my girlfriends? This time Tracy and Henya did the honors, two chicks I've known since we were little kids. Good God, it feels good to finally live in my home city again. It is a real luxury to be surrounded by people who knew you when.



Just finished another column, which happens to feature appearances from three of my most beloved beloveds, as well as the mother of my roommate and high school sweetheart, Jake. All these people are connected to music in L.A., in different ways. And I get to write about them! My job rules! I am having a total and complete Tony Pierce moment of Gratitude. What Stuart Smalley would call "an attitude of gratitude." Just wait till I get to write about Jed!



Got to fucking crash like crazy. Oh my God, I couldn't use any profanity this week in my column, because I interviewed a 10-year-old girl and she's really excited that she's going to be in the paper. It wasn't that hard, actually--but it sure wasn't as much fun, either.



love,

Kate





Sunday, September 08, 2002

Hi again, Sunday:



If you like the White Stripes or you like to laugh, check out some garage-rock kittens...



Wait for the stage-dive.



It's crucial.



Love,

Kate











Hi Space Invaders!



I was at a bar this week and they had that video game. That used to be my brother's favorite. I think it was, anyway. (Ben? You there?)



Sorry for being so quiet this week. I know it sucks when people don't post. I used to get all sad every time I went to Tony Pierce's blog and he didn't have anything new up. I felt so alone. I felt like, golly, Tony must have a way cooler life than me. He's not on his computer looking for a little human connection, he's out living his LIFE!



It is possible that I may have a cool life, almost as cool as Tony's. Possible. But you wouldn't know it by me, not today. It's Sunday, you know? It's truly, deeply Sunday. Even the sound of the word is sad.



I am sad today. This may be due to the fact that I haven't been eating, not in particular, and that I am a lady.



I know girl-bloggers shouldn't type about certain things, because they run the risk of becoming those bloggers. They also sacrifice their own sacred privacy. I generally avoid typing anything love-life related. (Beyond, of course, "I want to settle down and raise a family with Jack White, when we're older, and hold hands at barn dances." Which is at once true and completely schoolgirl crush stuff no different from wanting to "make love" in an enchanted English castle with David Bowie at 15.)



Love and dating are private matters.



I also think girl-bloggers should avoid typing about their female cycles (or their "lady time" as I prefer). I can't really back this one up, though.



In my personal life I am pretty open about this stuff. I have a lot of guy friends, and I see no reason to hide from them something so universal, and that affects me so profoundly. It's part of being liberated. It's a girl-power issue. (Thank God for the Spice Girls. They gave me so much.) Margaret Cho has a disgusting and really funny routine about this on her new record, "Notorious C.H.O." It's called, "If Straight Men Had Periods," and then, "If Gay Men Had Periods." Her point is that men are a little bit more liberated about body-stuff. (Except, of course, for the baldness issue, which is men's version of feeling fat and unloveable. When it comes down to it, women don't really, truly give a shit about baldness.)



But blogging about it?



No thanks, Mack. It's private.



So the intimacy of the blog has its limits.



I will write about it in the abstract: For example, doesn't it seem to you that side two of Jane's Addiction's "Ritual de lo Habitual" is highly menstrual? I can't explain it, but when I hear it, I feel that these guys know exactly what it means to be female and bleed, and be in pain, and also be crazy, and horny and in love, and also incredibly lonely and sad and grieving your childhood--and, in some secret way you hardly understand, to be a divine creator--a god.



Some men allow their music to become androgynous. Some at least let their lyrics expand beyond the confines of silly old-fashioned masculinity. When this happens, I get interested. It happened when U2 reinvented themselves with "Achtung Baby." It happened little by little with Nirvana. It happened all the time with Marc Bolan, of course. It happened with Prince, too, back when he was very, very good. Needless to say, it happened a lot and in beautiful ways with the Kinks.



The Stones are great. But they could never move me at the deepest level, because they aren't really very interesting emotionally.



(Then again, Tori Amos could never move me at the deepest level, because she's not very interesting musically. It's a balancing act.)



If I wrote about my love life and being female I could tell you why I'm sad. But I don't, so I won't! But maybe you can forgive me for being quiet this week.



OK bye.

Kate

Wednesday, September 04, 2002

Hi Zerberts



Something weird.



You know that annoying picture below that you can't open?



(the "high tech" one?)



Blogger won't let me remove or edit that post, even though I knew two days ago it didn't work.



And I'm too busy with a top-secret plan to save the world to figure out how to post the picture.



Sorry so retarded.



It's Retarded Wednesday.





love n coffee



me



Monday, September 02, 2002





Mmmm... beer.
Hi Buggy Bumpers:



I realized today that "Three Days" was written about.... a three-day weekend!



(A drug and sex three-day weekend!)



Like this one, perhaps?



Not for moi, but oh well. I just got home from a party at Willy Wisely's--an old Minneapolis friend. Half of the World's Greatest Cover Band, Two Tickets to Paradise, was there, which was great but somehow just made me miss Minneapolis more.



This is the real world

I really want to be a girl.



(that's sort of a bangles lyric.)



(sort of)



Anyway, also realized today, maybe that house on Wilton (see below) was Perry Farrell's girlfriend's house.



I have had "Three Days" in my head now for---oh, I guess about three days.



Today, in my head, i was checking out the intro. It begins with a bass riff. (Is that's what it's called?)



It's a clever and evocative bass line, something that could really inspire you to write a cool song around it.



Then I remembered, this friend of mine who's old friends with Jane's Addiction told me that all their greatest music was built on Eric Avery's bass lines, and that they broke up because Eric left the band.



Did you know that?



I mean, did you know he was the creative foundation of the band?



Now that I know this, their music sounds even better. It seems less pretentious. Just knowing it was born on the least glamorous, most naked of rock instruments, rather than being driven by the flash and personality of the lyrics or vocals or clothes or even the guitar.



Or maybe it's because Eric Avery's sister Rebecca went to Immaculate Heart. She was a couple years older than me.



I'm listening to Rodney's show. Listening to KROQ freaks me out because it seems half the commercials have voice-over from Fraser Smith, the late-'70s KROQ DJ. I wish he were on as a DJ. Oh well. The other funny thing is that they still run these Auto Insurance Specialist commercials with Richard Blade. Anyone who's an old-time KROQ listener suffered through countless Auto Insurance Specialist ads in the early '80s, just countless. When I did my oral history of KROQ, I found out the reason for all those commercials. The station was so poor, and poorly run, that most of the ads were trade-outs. (I.e., KROQ played an ad and then the advertiser gave them stuff in lieu of payment. This also accounted for a nice percentage of advertising in the late, great Prognosis newspaper--but that's another story.)



Anyways, those Auto Insurance Specialist commercials provided car insurance for a couple lucky higher-ups at KROQ, back in the day.



But enough bleeking nostalgia already.



Gotta check out.



love 'n' pie,

Kate