my underground garage label-mate, kim fowley, goes all arts & leisure in the new york times. wonderful recognition for a man of our time and then some...
"music by the unknown for the unloved"...pure rock'n roll proust. enjoy, o
FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES - MONDAY, NOVEMBER 30TH
KIM FOWLEY
“One Man’s Garbage: Lost Treasures From the Vaults 1959-69, Volume One”
“Another Man’s Gold: Lost Treasures From the Vaults 1959-69, Volume Two”
(Norton)
Many have made profound records with a heavy hand and dumb records with a light hand. But making dumb records with a heavy hand: that is for the true hot-doggers, those who truly love their own scent and know that immortality in the arts is both a construct and the desired thing.
During rock’s middleweight years Kim Fowley turned out this sort of record by the dozen: doo-wop, surf, girl-group, novelty, psychedelia. A song about undercover cops posing as surfers. A song about yo-yos. Who is Kim Fowley? He’s a recording-studio lizard still living and working in Los Angeles, an old-fashioned producer, promo man and Svengali who eagerly sang or talked over the band when necessary. You may know him from his work with the Runaways, Joan Jett and Lita Ford’s mid-’70s band. It’s possible you know him as a producer of “Alley Oop,” by the Hollywood Argyles, from 1960; or as a writer of “Nut Rocker,” the 1962 instrumental that swiped the “March of the Wooden Soldiers” melody from “The Nutcracker.” Maybe, if you’re good at this, you know him as a credit line on lesser tunes by Kiss or Cat Stevens. Beyond that you might be in trouble.
An anthology of Mr. Fowley’s work, “Impossible but True,” totes up his successes, and another, “Underground Animal,” is dedicated to his obscurities, with a greater quotient of greatness. But here, in two volumes, are his abject failures, mostly small-batch 45s, some never let out of the can. This music is in certain parts nearly unjudgeable by musical standards. But it qualifies as West Coast social history, conceptual art and, possibly, a form of fiction
A few songs are great (“Bodacious” by the U.S. Rockets). Some are deeply inept (“Bounty Hunter” by Donnie and the Outcasts). Outside of their three minutes or less on vinyl, most of these bands existed mainly in Mr. Fowley’s head; he had a concept for each one. Rock ’n’ roll, he writes in his loud, profane and insightful liner notes, is “music by the unknown for the unloved.” Further, he writes, it’s “about the sun beating down on you and lemonade in your hand. It’s atmospheric.” That may be his credo or just a rationalization, but it’s very good.
In his early days there was no album-length work to undertake, and as he imagined his one-off happenings, Mr. Fowley jumped on meager opportunities with a brio beyond what they deserved. He took unused instrumental tracks made by bands with unpaid studio bills and rendered new songs upon them. He corralled misfits into studios and dreamed up band names in short order. He created his own labels: Kimco, Last Chance, Rubbish.
Here are a bad Shirelles (Althea and the Memories), a bad white Shirelles (Bonnie and the Treasures), a good California-beach “Susie Q” (the Renegades’ “Geronimo”), a corny satire about hippies (“Long Hair, Unsquare Dude Called Jack”). There’s a great creative wiliness behind it all. You can’t condescend to Kim Fowley as an outsider artist: he’s too mercenary, too self-conscious about the aesthetics of pop and too much of a thrill seeker.
BEN RATLIFF
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it's been a big year for marilyn monroe. first she joins me in singing "happy birthday" to little steven, now she's busted for going up in pot. is she or isn't she? smudge for yourself. best, o
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and here's me and marilyn singing happy birthday
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