The Bus Bench

Fun On A Sunday, While Awaiting A Bus. . .

Being an olde fan of Dr. Demento (his radio show dominated my Sunday evenings in the early 1980s) as well as philology and general nerdiness, I wanted to share this classic humourous tune.

 

-BusTard

Bobby Matos Afro Latin Jazz Workshop Orchestra at Braille School

Having done considerable volunteer work for the blind—I have a soft spot in my otherwise blackened cinder of a heart for those bereft of sight—it were no surprise to find me at the Braille Institute on Tuesday for the lunchtime concert. (Oddly enough, I find sight the least appreciable of the five recognised senses, whereas hearing I deem the most important.)

This time round featured the 20-piece Afro Latin Jazz Workshop Orchestra directed by Bobby Matos. A wide variety of music by composers such as Tito Puente, A.K. Salim, Rene Hernandez and several others is what the group plays. Below is a brief video (just under one-and-a-half minutes) from Tuesday's performance. The ensemble will again assemble on Sunday, 02 March at 5 p.m. for a show at The Echo on 1822 W. Sunset Blvd in Echo Park.

 

-BusTard

If they have nothing to hide. . .

. . . what the hell are they worried about?

Perhaps this.

The police state has constantly encroached under this seemingly polite phrase, and now that the figurative sunlight is threatening to disinfect their dark secrets (and after living for many years in Pico-Union dealing with the assholes at Rampart, I can tell you there are LOADS), I offer my sympathy on the strength of the same bullshit line as well as an apt answer.

-BusTard

Bomp KOs Creem. Burbank 12/15.

Got a hold of the Crèem book and after reviewing that and the Bomp book, the Bomp retrospective vastly superior.  The Bomp book was shockingly superior, especially considering Creem was put out by HarperCollins and Bomp was put out by Ammo.

Who the hell are Ammo?

Well they are pretty awesome, at least in regards to this book.

That book is fucking beautiful.

I’m not a music person. I could care less about it. I also am pro east coast, so I say this with much “oh fuck man” that Bomp is a better book.

Creem is full of pictures and bullshit. I mean Creem had so many great people, but wow, it was very fluffy. The book is very Tiger Beat fluffy.

“Hold on, Creem was not Tiger Beat. Creem was Eric Clapton and Tiger Beat was Leif Garret,” BusTard the crusty old bastard.

Keep in mind I do not know about music. I’m 29 years old (info on my dirty 30 party coming shortly) and I have no idea what Creem was supposed to be. I’m saying what it looks like it was. If you read the retrospective, Creem seemed pretty weak, possibly they should have gotten some better editors. I think people like me were editing that book, maybe not like me, because I would never be stupid enough to try to edit a music book about the 1970s. Creem reminded me of a hardbound teen magazine, but with people who are old.

Now Bomp you get a true retrospective of the era. Or what it ideally was like. The book felt gritty and filled with information, the musicians were secondary. It was the writing and the production that made that magazine great.

It’s been nearly 30 years ago. You would think that Creem would get that their audience is now sober and nearing retirement.

Now I don’t know if that’s how it was during the actual era, but if you read both retrospectives Mick Farren and Suzy Shaw with the Bomp book have honored the past in a much more respectful and cooler way.

Bomp with it’s copies of the mimeographs of the magazine and copies of the proof pages, it is very artful. The Bomp book is also casebound with fucking beautiful paper, not that vanished shit. I hate varnished paper.

Varnish is for books you masturbate with.

The meat of the magazine is splayed out in it’s all hand drawn hideous glory. It’s a beautiful book. Bomp is a beautiful and a substantial book.

For a person like me who doesn’t care about music, it was quite entertaining.

Another music book for non-music, but appreciate the art of it people:

Fucked Up + Photocopied

I have to go drink my enhanced brandy.

Browne

An inadvertent rehearsal for Dia De Los Muertas

'Nuff stated:


Osk2007
Video sent by shametrainla

Bustard's Blind Movie Review for the end of October

Over the previous fortnight, I accidentally killed off a couple of the less admirable BusBenchers. One of them told me that one of the others took a sip from my favourite crystal tumbler of single malt, and before the blood had fully spilled, someone else screamed something about a joke, and another BusBench brawl was on. Most folk wake up two days later in jail; I have this bad attitude of waking up two days later still swinging amid a scotch-soaked flurry of others' blood.

Suffice to state, The Bus Bench has space for a few new writers, photographers and whatnot. And I am stuck with a possibly perennial punitive measure that starts with this movie "review," a measure that may well extend into music reviews.

My inadvertent closet-cleaning prompted Browne to demand I pull out some olde talent by way of music, movie, book, art review and other crap. "OK," said this shaved sasquatch from somewhere well east of anything canadian. For some reason, Browne failed to realize the new cesspool she had just sanctioned; before she had locked my cage door I had gilded my trusty olde shit-shovel from fanzine days of Flipside, MRR and Ben Is Dead:

Martian Child

A "Kramer vs. Kramer" for the decidedly R generation—"R" being for "Retarded"— that best describes the Internet age, where brevity and buzzwords rule the collective tiny mind.

A Dustin Hoffman look-alike, unburdened by marriage—let alone the idiot shit about love (thanks, God, for fucking up a perfectly brilliant business plan that worked for so many millions of years, by introducing that shit that catholics, et al, push about "love"!)—approaches child-rearing like the greeks: bereft of women and from the rear.

Then a woman enters the picture, and all hell erupts—one perhaps not unlike when Friederike Krabbe and Barbara Mayer met to reform, too. Or so my tiny mind imagines: as my column title debut suggests, I could not bother to waste any more time than what was wasted watching the trailer on broadcast TeeVee.

So get ready, folks: I have some fifteen years of writing more reviews of things barely heard, read, watched and whatnot, under names you may well know (which is why I fly my bad attitude under different colours) but a fashion that I insist is at least damn well entertaining in the one colour we all know get the quickest attention: red.

Rick James. Cocaine. Book Market. 9/27

I ran across this gem of a book a few weeks ago.

 

The book didn’t come like that. That’s my cocaine on the cover.

Rick James as you know is dead. My friend Glenn did not know that.

“Maybe you could get him to sign it,” Glenn.

I just kind of stared at him.

Glenn is from Costa Mesa, though I don’t think that counts as an excuse per se, but we’ll let it count (just for today.)

All of us (the staff of Shametrain LA) are sort of amateur book “collectors”. We got that LA Rex book simply because we thought the guy who wrote it was bound to get killed since he’s an active duty cop.  After his untimely death that book would jump in price and we would all be rich or at least have enough to order beverages with top shelf vodka for a week at one of the better bars.

One where the kind of people who think beer is an acceptable beverage don’t frequent.

We got three hardback covers of LA Rex with his signature, but you know after I met him I felt kind of bad about that. Will is a cool guy and the book though it has some spots. It is entertaining in a Die Hard/Training Day kind of way.

BusTard will be pissed about me calling it entertaining in a Die Hard kind of way, but that’s not an insult. It is what it is. It isn’t Proust, Camus or Dostoevsky. I couldn’t read Proust all day. Variety is good and Will Beall is a good writer for a diverse library. He is good writer in regards to LA wrongness. His book is modern day literary noir. If he can manage to stay alive and write some more books, he’ll be a force.

BusTard thinks Will Beall is god.

He is, but it’s not his writing that I so much admire at this point and time. He is very, very cute.  He is first date get laid kind of cute.

Sorry let me move on to Rick.

The only way “Memoirs of a Super Freak” would be worth anything at all (still probably wouldn’t have been that much, because people like him are total whores and have already signed lots of stuff, so their signature is usually worthless) is if I could have had Rick James sign it, which would have been impossible since the book came out after he died.

He died as we all know of “natural causes” or some reports say an “existing illness” at 56. He died after years of drug abuse, specifically the various forms that are created with coca leaves. I think considering everything he lasted awhile.

Whoever designed the cover should be shot or given a hot shot (to keep with the theme.)

Three fonts on the cover?

Why?

I’m getting a little tired of shitty production quality in regards to books. I understand the internet has taken over, but if you’re going to be a publisher, please give a damn or just put out ebooks.

Please be artful.

I would liken this book to…how would say this without sounding like a dick. Oh it’s like macaroni and cheese with bacon bits. If you like that sort of thing it can be very good, but it will kill you.

His book is interesting only on the basis that his life was crazy as hell. If he had been an accountant with a normal mom who wasn’t a numbers runner for the mob, then this book would not have been nearly as entertaining, but he is not an accountant. He is Rick James.

Rick James was a person that trouble just seemed to find. I simply look for trouble. He seemed to be the kind of person who was just walking up the street and trouble was just like, “You want to hang out. Play some basketball. You want to see some naked pictures of my sister? She’s real hot.”

It was a rambling mess of a book (that needed an editor, I’m a horrible copyeditor and I was finding errors,) but I did read it all the way through.

While he’s no writer, this book was worth sixteen dollars. That’s one Black Dahlia and a shitty tip.

Rick James was partying I know up until at least 2000/2001. Back when I was in college this woman who I met at a coffee store in Venice invited me to a Rick James party, but I didn’t go.

“He’s not dead,” me.
“No, he’s totally alive. He would dig you,” possibly swinger sex party type girl.

This book is all about drug addiction, sex and partying. If he would have had a real editor or publisher possibly this book with some editing, better pictures…well it could have been so much better.

I don’t want you to think I’m judging his life, because I’m not. I’m simply judging his publisher’s shitty job at the production and editing of this book.

Drugs are great. I can totally see how a person can become a crack whore.

That is hell of a drug.

Trust me.

by Browne

Guess how many CDs, Win a jar of jelly beans

Many years ago, Dim Mak Records usta be an advertiser in my magazine. I say that now because, while book-shopping at Out of The Closet on Hollywood and Western the other day, I found what was easily a collection of still-sealed, in-the-box CDs. All were from the aforementioned label, and still in their Warner distro boxes. At 50 CDs per box, and—as can be seen from the photos—perhaps nine boxes per level, and eight levels. There were a few opened boxes scattered round. I would imagine approximately 5,000 brand new CDs.

What happened? Did a dodgy WEA employee realise Amoeba Records would not take them? Did Dim Mak go out of business? Did Warner cut the contract with the little label?

We here at The Bus Bench would like to know.

Well, judging from the jeers in the background as I type this, I would like to know.

BusTard

The little trainwreck that could aka Amy Winehouse

The little trainwreck that could aka Amy Winehouse.

I love that girl. She's so fucked up and not fucked up in a Brittany Spears, Nicole Richie jr. high with a driver's license kind of way. She's fucked up in a not going to make it to 2008 kind of way.

We haven't had a rad rock star death since Kurt Cobain.

Amy is not ok. She's cocaine and heroin fucked up, not pot and beer fucked up.

I'll tell you. I'm so sick of the pot people.

They don't think pot is a drug, but yet they still think they are outlaws for smoking it.

"Screw the cops, I can smoke pot if I want," pothead.

Yeah you keep rocking your rebel ways.

Potheads are completely boring. You smoke pot and either stare or talk about nonsense.

Potheads are about as dangerous as Michael Jackson's other mitten.

No one smokes pot and tries to kill their significant other and jump off of a buildings.

Now that's hardcore right there.

Me and my friends got together to watch the little trainwreck that could on Saturday Night Live (which maybe I'm late on this, but Saturday Night Live is excruciatingly bad. They are now doing a parody of a parody, remember Wayne's World? Someone is doing that with the same music and everything. Why not redo John Belushi's Samurai or Eddie Murphy's Mr. Rogers, why redo the shit of SNL?)

Of course Amy didn't show up.

She's FUCKED-UP.

Who did they have to replace her? Bjork, oh great. She's the emperor has no clothes of "unique" rock star princesses.

Bjork used to be super fab. When she was with the Sugarcubes, when she put out her first solo
album, but now lets be honest all of her songs sound the same and she's a Juilliard trained Yoko Ono.

Someone needs to slap her and drop her in New Jersey.

She sang two songs that sounded just alike and she gyrated on stage like a freak. Not the good kind of freak.

Oh Amy please don't kill yourself before I can see you perform live. I'll go to the UK to see you. You give me faith in the pop music scene with your dirty bloody ballet shoes (I know how much those feet hurt, I used to do ballet too, it's because you did a Pirouette on the rocks, I get it)  your matty hair, British teeth and your "fuck your handlers" attitude.

You have breathed a little bit of life into the sterile land of manufactured pop stars who always shower and show up for their gigs.

You're too cool for Saturday Night Live, if John Belushi was still alive it would be ok, but you're too rad for them now.

Browne Shametrain LA

The Crenshaw District. African Market Place. 9/2

Bustard, Glenn and Browne took a trip to the Crenshaw District, to attend the African Market Place (that’s what I call it, some people call it South LA others call it South Central, but to me, South Central is more east like around USC, Watts…if there are a lot of black people, an area automatically gets called South Central when sometimes its not. I’m surprised sections of Carson aren’t called South Central.)

Bustard and I (I being Browne took the Red Line to the 212) and Glenn took the 105 we usually ride the bus together like the three Musketeers, but Glenn had spent the night at his on again off again girlfriend’s house. I call her Ms Priss. She sometimes doesn’t like that. But you know she does that knitting bullshit and orders cosmopolitans and she's very serious about it. A person like that is a priss right?

The 105 runs sort of iffy on the weekends. The 212 runs pretty well, its just a heavy old people line meaning if you sit in the front seat you’re probably going to have to get up for old lady, old man, wheelchair person. I remember once I was taking the 212 and there where two wheel chairs and 5 canes in the front. And the people are chatty on that line too, owing to the fact that they are old.

“You seem like nice girl, where are you from?” chatty old lady.

For some reason people assume I’m some kind of an exotic foreigner.

Does Canada count as an exotic locale?

“You need to make up something cooler, when you say Canada it is a bit of disappointment. How about saying you’re from Madagascar?” Bustard

With BusTard with me, people were less chatty and more stare-y. Wondering why such a nice girl such as myself was traveling with someone who looked like he was of questionable character.

Old ladies are usually scared of bald 6’4 tattooed guys.

I am an old Jewish and black lady magnet. That demographic loves me and I have no idea why. They are always giving unsolicited relationship and career advice on the public transport.

This old Russian Jewish lady who can barely speak English who I always see on the Los Feliz Dash is always asking me about who I am dating and tells me I should stop fucking around and get someone with some cash before I get too old. And this old black lady from Texas who I see on the Blue Line is always telling me to go back to school and do something sensible like be an accountant or a teacher.

"I heard they give teachers houses," old black lady trying to talk me out of my present career of freaky artist.

I think I’m going to make BusTard a t-shirt that says, “I’m not a skinhead, I just play one on TV.”

I think BusTard thought the stares were because he was white, which it probably was a little bit, but also BusTard is a lotta bit of a freak. When we go out in Los Feliz people stare at us. A bus full of old people in a section that is still off limits to even the most tattooed and pierced hipster (unless they are tutoring somewhere), yeah they might give a bit of a glance, but unlike jerks in downtown and the new Los Feliz the old ladies in the Crenshaw District will still say hi to you and smile, even if you are a freak like BusTard.

Anyways the African Market Place was nice. I was kind of disappointed by the lack of diversity in people. Glenn and BusTard where the only white guys under 40 I saw there just to be there and not trying to get people to sign something.

Scientology was there.

Gentrification is bad, but you think in this day in LA people wouldn’t be afraid to go into a black neighborhood and it’s kind of obvious that the average person still is.

The environment at the festival was very heavy hippie dread girl.

“Would you like some oil sister, this will cleanse your mind.”

Luckily they had a bar.

I love new agey people, but I prefer them in small doses. Not a whole army of them. This is how I ended up leaving that festival with ten bags of incense.

In general we had a great time.

Glenn who usually has about 37 cents on him talked to a guy about buying some elephant tusks and he was serious. “So they are 2,000 dollars, do you guys ship?” Glenn.

Glenn works in "the business" (that's show business for people not in LA) so sometimes he has insane amounts of money, “Do you guys want to go skydiving off the cliffs of Mexico? My treat.”

And other times he has nothing.

“I need to borrow five dollars, so I can buy some peanut butter.”

He’s in a dry spell right now, so thankfully he realized that and did not get the elephant tusks.

There was lots of food, but some places it was a bit of a wait. The longer the line the shorter the wait the shorter the line the longer the wait, very odd.

We didn’t know this rule and went to a place where no one was at. We went to nun looking lady, who we later figured out was actually a Muslim lady.

"Assalaamu 'alaikum."

Muslim lady took 20 minutes to prepare our veggie burgers.

She was a bit obsessed with keeping everything clean and tidy. It was like a grandma with attention deficit disorder trying to make you a sandwich.

I don’t think she was understanding that getting the sandwich to us was more important than getting it to us neat as possible, but she was a sweetie. Her grandkids where kind of funny. I assuming that they were strict vegetarians, because they cooked the veggie burgers in a separate pan and when someone ordered meat her grandkids giggled in the back as if to say, “Ha-ha you have to cook the meat.”

Most of these neighborhood events/festivals are filled with hipsters who think they’ve discovered something. None of the townies even go to the more popular neighborhood festivals anymore. Apparently the Tofu Festival might get killed off. Sunset Junction, well you read BusTard take on that. The Los Feliz Village Street Fair, well you know that one is actually better. It used to be very dumb, but now it’s better, though there are too many people. In regards to neighborhoods changing I like what they have done to Los Feliz, I don’t like what they have done to Silver Lake and are doing to Echo Park. Los Feliz always wanted to be Beverly Hills east, they never claimed to be bohemian, there were some bohemians in the mix like the Onyx and Amok Books, but you could feel that Los Feliz always wanted to be a snob. Los Feliz now has her Prada shoes. I’m ok with that. LA needs all types, but what happened to Silver Lake, that’s just sad. All of the art and fun has been strangled out of it, now it reminds me third street in Santa Monica.

We saw Gil Garcetti former LA District Attorney.

Remember when the LA DA wasn’t a self righteous hardball hypocritical asshole. Gil is super nice in person. He looked weird without a suit though. Very chatty. We bought his book he signed and went on and on and on. Maybe something about going south of the 10 just makes you more chatty or something.

I also bought the Rick James biography. Glenn thought that maybe I could have Rick James sign it. Glenn is a bit out of it.

by Browne

AfricanDance2007
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