As Fake Names Go...

One of the schticks on this blog has been harping on actors and others who change their names. If I weren't such a procrastinator, another gripe-post would concern Fresh Air, Terry Gross' middlebrow show on NPR, in which she asks rambling, two-minute questions with yes-or-no answers, interspersed with her "I'm indulging you" phony-sounding forced laugh.

But I am not a committed critic (read: die-hard hater), and can admit that sometimes I find Terry's show entertaining or informative, and that now and then there is a name-changer worthy of respect. Even though I find Fresh Air's tendency to rush to broadcast re-runs of interviews with the recently deceased to be gross, her stale airing of an old interview with the barely cold Paul Mazursky was a rare confluence of a good episode and a great re-naming.

I guess I've been aware of some things Mazursky did, without really being able to name him. The interview fleshed out this husk of awareness, and I liked the guy, not least because he sounded genuinely interested in looking for deeper meaning, "Even though I don't expect an answer," he said, after admitting to seeking out religious experiences ranging from Catholic Mass to taking ayahuasca in Peru. He was a great interviewee, picking up threads, finding laughs, opening up without becoming maudlin or confessional. He was funny, several times making Ms. Gross erupt in unmistakenly genuine laughter, giggles even.

Then came the kicker. He was not born Paul Mazursky. It's a stage name. But not one that sought to hide his Jewish heritage, one that during a substantial portion of his career also had the handicap of sounding Russian, or some kind of commie Eastern European. No, he was born a Mazursky. Irwin Mazursky, which he changed to Paul. He kept the foreign/Jewish surname, and replaced one non-descript  moniker for another. Great sense of humor, no sense of shame, and for that, I applaud this guy who I never paid that much attention to while he lived.

Meet the Meat Puppets

Cris Curtwood and Curt Criswood, the Brothers Kirkwood

Just last month, Procrastacritic glanced away from TV and TV-grade cinema to take up music, to the surprise and delight of none. Seems like the perfect time to respond with another D-flat foray. Also, an opportunity to expound on family and freedom.

The Meat Puppets came to my attention in 1984 or so, when I was a college radio station DJ at WAMU, then wired into the dorms and thus free of FCC regulations. The previous year, I'd used that freedum to play a shitload of "fuck"-ridden punk rock songs, but with a new and rotating caste of co-hosts, I explored the stacks of LPs and branched out a bit. Still in the thrall of hardcore, though, I'd pull out punk-sounding names only to be led astray, inadvertently hypnotizing myself with the Stranglers and floating away on the melodic riffs of the Meat Puppets.

Today, my daughters are a bit horrified/scandalized by the Meat Puppets' moniker, but not entirely immune to the instrumental flow of "I'm a Mindless Idiot" and other songs on an ipod. Back then, it was "Up on the Sun" on vinyl, which of course I stole from the station, rationalizing that nobody else appreciated it.

Multi-generational Kirkwoods, and Da Drummer. Enjoy that spotlight, Elmo.

Fast forward to now. Or a few months ago, which is Now in procrastincation time. I had once again finagled fieldwork in reach of civilization, featuring a concert by the Meat Puppets, alive and kicking (and, incidentally, DJ Bonebreak of X drumming for the opening act!). So alive, in fact, that the Puppets demonstrated reproductive fitness and evolutionary success in the form of a Kirkwood son playing with the band. More on the possibly moron son later.

But in the meantime, let's talk about UNcle Cris, on bass. Probe the internet, and you'll find all kind of stories about his ups and downs, but when I saw them, I hadn't peeked. All I saw was,....HOLY FUCK! A kickass player. Way into it, way good. A face lined by experience beyond mere age, he looked like fucking Charles Bronson, defying death, blasting out the beat, iron-man stomping across the stage. Seriously, looking on from right in front of the stage corner, all I could do half the time was stare past his brother on guitar (no mean feat, given the 6-string antics) and bask in the thrall of a giant. He looked like he'd picked up a full-on acoustic bass like it was a guitar, plucking the hell out of it. He laid waste to complacency.

Meanwhile, the guitar. Uncle Curt, melodizing. Chill. No rock-star clothes, just sweats and shoes worn comfortable by years. Fingernails glowing in whatever lights the house had going as they danced across the frets.

And on 2nd guitar, Kirkwood son Elmo. For some reason, he had fairly consistent banter-beef going on with the audience on that side. Maybe there was some obnoxious fan settng him off, but from my end, I had to wonder why he was so fucking belligerent. I mean, you're 20-something, it's the 21st century, and you're making a living playing music, which is kindof a miracle. Thank your dad and uncle for their decades of setting the stage, and deal with being 2nd or 3rd banana, kid. Yes, people are there to see your old man, and yes, you can play those riffs too (maybe), but no, you are not lead. Play rhythm and thank your lucky stars. 

Matchstick Men in Picture and Song

Matchstick men in fluid convergence

I was not quite 3 years old when Status Quo released their song "Pictures of Matchstick Men." Not quite 3 years into college (a time I refer to as my Second Sophomore Year), I heard the Camper Van Beethoven version. I love both, and not quite 3 decades later, it's about time to tackle the topic here.

In the usual google lead-up, I learned that there is a Nick Cage (not his real name) movie called "Matchstick Men," but I've never seen it, and cannot stand that guy. So much so that I will not succumb to the temptation to snark the hell out of him. Nick who? I forget, except for the withered appendix of my memory that still hates him for turning into such utter shit after getting my hopes up with Raising Arizona.

The other web-search surprise was learning about L. S. Lowry, the British artist whose paintings were chock full of angular people who came to be termed "matchstick men." I've not read art critics take him on, but wikipedia implies that quite a few of them wrote him off as a naive, not highly accomplished, artist of the ilk that insiders like to call Outsider (but without the allure of insanity or melanin-enriched ethnicity). Apparently he refused a knighthood and several other honors, so I'm inclined to admire his outsiderness.

What strikes me, though, about his paintings is not the angularity of the individuals, but the fluidity of the collective. Dozens or even hundreds of people walk through the frame, stiff in microscopic isolation, perhaps, but in the whole view of the painting, they illustrate the fluid dynamics of crowds. Converging on a football game as above, or streaming out of factories, weaving through plazas, eccentrically erasing grids.

Crowds of individuals, each maybe set on a line, collectively chaotic, but still expressing a Flow. Good paintings to squint at or view from across the room. Approach closer if you want, focus on an individual or a family (despite their simplicity of form, they are individuals, not a Waldo among them), but for me, the box of Matchstick Men scattered across the canvas of industrial Britain is more interesting.

I cannot really guess what Status Quo was aiming for with their song. Maybe just fame and money, maybe a message. What they hit was a psychedaelic nerve, and their song has been played and played again for decades. Not complex, "naive" perhaps, but an alluring and persistent flow.

Lowery with an "e" and Campany

Then there's these guys. Older than when they covered Pictures of Matchstick Men, and apparently much more sensitive to light, what with the sunglasses. The Camper Van Beethoven version of the song is one of those few covers that exceeds the original without being a radical departure. Faithful covers so often fall into the tepid soup of mediocrity, but not this one. Not that it's without original flourishes (especially live), but the simple power of the original riff cannot be abandoned and still be the same song. Alls I ever hear is it and you.