February 22, 2013


So much writing has been going down here on the homefront that there has not been much time nor brainspace for any sort of spare thoughts, they are all tangled up in f/t freelance hustling, bringing home the bacon so I can make it rain puffs into the eager little mouths 'round this house.

I wrote a primer, of sorts, on Labelle. Just a surface scratch. Because, really, Labelle needs its own book and all we have so far vis a vis Labelle books is Patti's cookbook. She's tight with Emeril now.

I wrote a rill long thing about Fleetwood Mac and Rumours for Pitchfork which entailed reading most all of the tell-nothing tell alls about that time, including the one by studio engineer/Ken Caillat, perhaps more notable for the part where shortly after the initial tracking had wrapped up in NorCal, he returned to LA and was making out with some lithe 20 yr old freeloving gal and scratching his beard. She checked and was all "you have crabs" and they go to her crab-medicine doctor hook up, she lovingly combs the solution through his beard, rinses and then they continue their lervmaking, fireside, while Steely Dan plays. The seventies are exactly how you thought they were. There is also A LOT about the dudes dog in the book.

Then there was the time I took Tegan and Sara to the Sears (nee Willis) Tower. We are all the same size, had similar haircuts and Sara and I wear the same perfume (word to Bertrand Duchaufour)--it was like meeting cousins I never knew I had.

For more regular updates, which is to say, retumbls of galeries of Stevie Nicks hair over the years, please direct yr attention to the tinyluckygenius tumblr.

There is plenty I am leaving out, incl. a scene report from Richard Hell's score-settling, I-was-there-first autobiography that I just finished, which I liked ok and then nearly hated and then at the end he cops to being a rill asshole and then discloses that like 6-7 years at the end are kind of just a long monotonous slog of drug addiction and ripping off friends and I just felt sad for him. It's like a less sexy-sharp Tosches, though Kathleen Hanna's blurb on the back compares it to Little House on The Prairie. So many people from that era died young and flamed out and so naturally we get the winners historiesm the survivors histories, but still there is so little document of what it was for women then other than the rough descrips of their musedom, who and how they blew, how their lives seemed in the eyes of men who used them for money and gratification. Patti being prime exception, but also, Patti being prime exception to the rules of that time becaise she was Patti and she transcended so much by wit and inchoate starpower. So, please, someone, dial-up one of these CBGB girls who fucked and scored for and inspired these old boys and give them their deal, their pages, their platform.

Posted by jessica hopper at 09:33 AM | TrackBack