La Vie En Robe

Roger Tillison, R.I.P.

Farewell to Roger Tillison, an enormously talented singer/songwriter and a lifelong buddy of my dear Uncle John Padgett, who took these wonderful photos of him sometime in the 1980s. Roger died Monday at the age of 72.

Born in Oklahoma, Roger made his way to L.A. in the mid-60s and Woodstock in the early 70s before heading back to his home state. He played and recorded with the esteemed likes of Leon Russell, J.J. Cale and Jesse Ed Davis; he co-wrote "(You Don't Have to) Paint Me a Picture" for Gary Lewis and the Playboys; his songs were covered by Cale ("Let's Go to Tahiti," "One Step Ahead of the Blues"), Davis ("Rock & Roll Gypsies," also recorded by Hearts and Flowers, Vinegar Joe and the Scruggs Brothers), the Kingsmen ("Just Before the Break of Day"), the Soul Survivors ("Hung Up On Losing") and even Billy Vaughn and His Orchestra ("Spanish Lights"); and his 1971 solo LP "Roger Tillison's Album" — which featured then-obscure songs by Bob Dylan ("Down in the Flood") and The Band ("Get Up Jake") — is rightly considered a classic of early 70s Americana.

But my favorite song of Roger's will always be "Ain't It Hard," which he recorded in 1965 as one-half of the folk duo Gypsy Trips, and which was tough enough to warrant covers by the Electric Prunes and the Chesterfield Kings.

Rest in Peace, Roger; you will be missed, but your music lives on.

In The Basement With DJ Silky D

Our NC/SC vacation is over, but the good memories linger on — not the least of which was the totally rockin' engagement party for Miss Howerton and me, which was hosted by Mark Connor last week at The Cave, his extremely funky Chapel Hill basement dive.

Not only was it wonderful to catch up with old friends, but two of them — DJ Midnight Cowbwoy (aka Brian E. Harris) and DJ Suggadelic (aka Erik Sugg) — also raised the roof (as much as it was possible in a place called "The Cave") with a delicious array of righteous sounds. I also brought a stack of wax of my own to the party; and when I wasn't too busy enjoying the conversations and libations, my DJ alter-ego Silky D enjoyed some time on the wheels of steel. And since I somehow managed to keep my 45s in order after I spun them, here's the playlist from my "set":

UFO — Doctor Doctor

The Move — Do Ya

Queen — You’re My Best Friend

Eddie Money — Think I’m In Love

Flamin’ Groovies — I Can’t Hide

The Floaters — Float On

Van Halen — Dance The Night Away

Raspberries — Go All The Way

Bee Gees — Jive Talkin’

Benny Mardones — Into the Night

Beach Boys — I Can Hear Music

Hollies — On a Carousel

Left Banke — She May Call You Up Tonight

The Kinks — Till the End of the Day

Pawnee Drive — Ride

Creedence Clearwater Revival — Long As I Can See the Light

Once again, I'd like to thank everyone who came out to celebrate with us — and of course Mark for letting us have the party there, and Brian and Erik for schlepping their records and gear to Chapel Hill. It was a truly unforgettable evening, and Miss Howerton and I were deeply honored to share the good times and good vibes with y'all.

(photo by Jay Winfrey)

Rock Hashanah

As great Jew of rock Paul Stanley might say, "Now Ah know — Ah KNOW-whoa — that a lotta you PEE-puhl like to ROCK HARD on ROSH HASHANAH! Aw YEAH-ah!" So in my latest humor piece for the Jewish Daily Forward, I hereby offer up nine sugestions to make 5774 rock like 2112.

By the way, this was supposed to be a Top Ten list, but I think my blurb for KISS's "Lick It Up" got chopped at the last minute for being a tad too racy. But since "The Robe" clearly has no editorial standards to speak of, I thought I'd include the missing blurb here:

KISS — Lick It Up
Though often mistakenly assumed to be lascivious in its intent, this 1983 hit actually also has its roots in the Rosh Hashanah meal. Born Stanley Eisen, KISS’s Jewish frontman Paul Stanley has ample experience with dipping his Challah loaf in honey, as well as slathering the sweet stuff on his apples; and as one who abhors waste, Paul is simply encouraging the listener to give thanks to G-d by consuming whatever is left over after the bread and fruit are eaten. “It’s only right, now,” Paul assures us.

Gut Yontif!

Farewell To A Righteous Swede

I awoke this morning to the heartbreaking news that my pal Ante W. has unexpectedly passed away. I am absolutely gutted by this, as I'm sure is everyone else who had the pleasure of knowing him. Ante was such a sweet man, and the closest thing I've ever experienced to sunshine in human form; I knew the guy for a decade, and I don't think I ever saw him when he didn't have a twinkle in his eye, a goofy grin on his face, and a hearty chuckle welling up in his chest. These are the kind of people we need more of in this world, not less...

I first met Ante and his wife Gerry in the fall of 2003, around the time that weekends in Palm Springs became a regular part of my life. Gerry and Ante were totally kindered musical spirits, both of them into the same groovy Sixties and Seventies sounds as I was, while Ante — hailing as he did from Sweden — knew even more about Swedish pop and garage bands of the Sixties than I did. The odds of buying a place in the desert just down the street from another Tages fan must have been infinitesimal, but such is the magic of existence sometimes...

We shared countless cocktails, barbecues, laughs and good times together, as well as countless conversations about whatever musical obscurities we were digging at the moment. Ante and Gerry had a late-Sixties Rock-Ola jukebox at their PS pad, and I'll never forget the sheer delight he radiated upon discovering that their particular jukebox had once been advertised in the trade magazines as "The Psychedelic Money Grabber". That was the sort of detail that deeply appealed to his taste for history and his taste for absurdity — and in Ante's case, both of those senses were always working overtime.

Ante also had great taste in threads, as evidenced by his leopard-print boots above, the Leon Russell t-shirt he's wearing up at the top, and this pic below, which was taken of us on New Year's Eve 2006/07. We were both big fans of the Richard Roundtree "leather car coat and turtleneck" look, to say the least.

We shared a similar fondness for exotic booze, though I had to draw the line at the bottle of Bäska Droppar he once gave me as a housewarming gift. A spiced Swedish digestif flavored with wormwood, Bäska Droppar is pretty much the liquid embodiment of "an acquired taste". I sampled a shot of it in his presence, and I'll never forget Ante's uproarious laughter when I told him it tasted like cedar chips soaked in urine and kerosene, or his knowing grin two days later when I told him that I still hadn't managed to get the taste out of my mouth. Far more appreciated was the housewarming gift that he and Gerry gave Katie and I last year: A six-pack of the Belgian brew Leffe (one of my faves) and two goblets to drink it from...

Back in early 2010, when I was going through the stressful process of selling the place in Palm Springs, Ante and Gerry were enormously helpful and supportive, offering my ailing cat and I safe haven for an afternoon or two while the house was being shown, and allowing me to store my records and DVDs at their place for months so as to make mine appear less cluttered and more saleable. I've never forgotten that kindness, nor forgotten Ante's mensch-y willingness to drive those boxes of music and movies to my new pad in L.A. in exchange for some Vietnamese food and a couple of Newcastles — and since he always loved the reference to Newcastle Brown in Humble Pie's "30 Days in the Hole," I'm sure he wouldn't mind me posting this immensely ass-kicking live version of the song for him right here...

Ante and I were last in contact about a month ago; he and Gerry were going to be back in the NYC area for the first time in ages, and he wanted some recommendations on things to do and see in the East Village. He passed away shortly after their return. I'm really glad that he got the chance to see the city one more time, at least. The last email I ever received from Ante went like this:

"Funny, I was listening to The Fugs while BBQ'ing earlier today. 'Slum Goddess' and 'Belle of Avenue A' are nice pieces of East Village poetry and sadly out of date, I guess. BTW have you heard Hollywood Brats?  UK glam punks Dolls style with a Canadian singer who escaped to Sweden mid-late 70's. I heard the brilliant 'Sick On You' on the SWE radio back in 77 or so, and didn't find it again until the other day. Good times!"

BBQing while listening to The Fugs? Yeah, that was Ante in a perfect nutshell, and the world is indeed a poorer place without him. I cried for him this morning, but I know in my heart that's not what he'd want me to do. So tonight I'm gonna crack open a Leffe in his honor, and crank some Hollywood Brats (and plenty of other loud n' nasty garage, punk and hard rock anthems) for him, as well. You should do it, too, even if you didn't know the guy; I'm sure his soul would appreciate a joyously noisy send-off.

Farewell, my righteous Swedish friend, and thank you for all the rockin' good times — and even for the Bäska Droppar, which remains in my bar cart as a fond memento. May you rest in sweet peace.

Do The Clam (And Other Treyf-Rock Classics)

We've been musically sub-genred to death over the last decade, with seemingly every minor variation of rock (and especially metal) assigned its own hyphen. And yet, no one has given Treyf-Rock it's due... until now.

I'm flying the flag — or maybe blowing the shofar — on behalf of this unsung, unclean genre in a "Top Ten Songs About Treyf" piece I wrote this week for the Jewish Daily Forward. The piece (which also includes some wonderfully humorous illustrations by Kurt Hoffman, like the one above) calls out everyone from Elvis Presley to Kanye West for their musical crimes against Jewish dietary law. Check it out...

My one regret is forgetting to include Cream's "Pressed Rat and Warthog" in the list. I (and probably just about everyone else) would rather listen to Eric Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" on a 24/7 loop than eat a dish as vile as that one...