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The Sick Comedy of Steve Almond

2011-11-03T13:36:00.004-04:00

Check out my review of Steve Almond's God Bless America:

And while you're at it, check out the trailer for the book:

Society's Child

2011-09-10T13:48:00.006-04:00

Remember when Ronald Reagan claimed that Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the USA" was a rousing patriotic anthem then used it as the soundtrack to his reactionary goosestep? Well, something similar just happened to me. A blog called "Society's Child" is loudly proclaiming that I have confirmed the existence of a worldwide Zionist conspiracy. First, allow me to state for the record, I am not proclaiming anything of the sort. Second, let me point out that the man who claims I am, also claims he has mites burrowing beneath his skin. Third, let me further note that said blogger has named his blog after a song by Janis Ian despite the fact she’s Jewish, lesbian and clearly singing in condemnation of intolerance. In other words, our mite-ridden provocateur is not exactly trustworthy – in fact, he’s outdone even the man who claimed ketchup was a vegetable in self-serving delusional thinking. Look, I’m sure there are special interests out there that are not always being straightforward with us, but why is it rightwing crackpots are always so convinced that it’s relatively powerless minorities (black, immigrants, Jews) that are doing the manipulating? Do I have power over anyone? Not that I can tell. Hell, even my dog rarely listens to my commands. And do I lust for power? Uh uh. If I lust at all it’s for the usual things everybody does. That’s right, huggin’ and kissin’. Perhaps if my friend at Society's Child removed his head from his ass long enough to take a real look around, he'd stop seeing plots everywhere and start treating his fellow citizens with compassion. Let’s see if we can help him do so. Here's a link to the blog in question. Feel free to bombard it with responses of your own: http://www.sott.net/articles/show/154359-What-a-Jew-can-say-others-can-t

p.s. You also might want to check out this post regarding his mite infestation. It's but one of many on the subject: http://www.sott.net/articles/show/234663-Morgellons-Disease-and-The-Quantum-Leap-of-Awareness

Amy Winehouse - A Shayna Maidel

2011-07-27T08:56:00.009-04:00

Poor Amy! I saw a video recently where she looked pretty fucked up on stage and the audience was giving her hell. She seemed like a kid at a birthday party gone bad. The center of attention, but not sure she wanted to be. Were the guests there because they liked her or because their mothers had made them come? And was she going to start crying in front of them? Or shouting, "Go home, everybody, just go home!" I wanted to think she was going to open her gifts and start laughing, but it didn't look good by the end of the video and the guy on stage beside her looked like he just wanted to get his paycheck and split. Sad. Hopefully, they'll let her have her grave and leave her in peace. The tattoos were only skin deep, after all. Inside, she was a shayna maidel, Cleopatra eyeliner or not.

Tattoo "controversy" -- http://religion.blogs.cnn.com/2011/07/26/winehouse-burial-raises-jewish-questions-about-tattoos-cremation/?hpt=hp_c2

And a bit of Amy "smoking bacon" -- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9QA-8QwWuY

JewPunk Playlists

2011-03-25T09:32:00.003-04:00

A very nice review with a great playlist. Reminds me of plans made to release a CD with the book. They didn't pan out, but I created my own playlists ... three of them, in fact. They were in my computer that got stolen last year, but perhaps someone out there who I sent them to still has a copy? If so, let me know! http://www.newsprint-fray.com/2011/03/23/i-used-to-shiver-in-the-wings/

xo,

sb

WHO Wrote That Book?!

2011-03-12T09:16:00.002-05:00

Check out the interview at the following link to see why I suffered momentary metaphysical crisis recently (be sure to read through to the final comments to get the full effect.)

http://guitarinternational.com/2011/03/08/robby-kriegerinterview-the-doors-gibson-guitars-and-jim-morrison/

Reading, March 9, Babson College

2011-03-06T13:11:00.004-05:00

I'm reading at Babson College this Wednesday, March 9 along with fiction writers Michael Martin and Rachel May.

The event takes place in Glavin Chapel, 6:30-8:00 p.m.

Here's a link for more info:

http://www3.babson.edu/Offices/AcademicServices/Upcoming-Events.cfm

Beefheart -- Conduit -- Hot, Sexy, Sultry, Sweaty

2011-03-02T11:55:00.007-05:00

HI Everyone,

A couple of new items to check out.

The first concerns Conduit -- the lit-mag I help edit. The link for the interview is below:

http://www.thereviewreview.net/interviews/hot-sexy-sultry-sweaty-conduit

The second relates to the passing of Captain Beefheart -- my super-fave, all-time, A Number One, Top of the Heap kind of rock star-poet-painter-role model. I had a dream about him once in college that involved my being invited to join his Magic Band. We were standing under a gazebo in a Van Gogh green landscape, and there was something vaguely surreal about the whole thing (the landscape was Van Goghian, mind you), yet still happy and calm to the point of nirvana (or at least a damn good cup of coffee.)

In any case, here's the link for that one:

http://memoriousmag.wordpress.com/2011/02/28/think-music-steven-beeber-on-captain-beefheart/

Rock on!

s

Billy Ruane -- Music High and Low

2010-10-27T13:08:00.007-04:00

Billy Ruane passed away last night. I can't say as I knew him well, but I knew him, had drinks with him, was consoled by him after a break-up, saw him dance wildly on more than one occasion.

Many have spoken of Billy's enthusiasm, his lack of guile, his support of the local music scene, his shirt unbuttoned to the navel.

Fewer have referred to the "demons," but they were clearly there and whether the music helped exorcise them to some degree is debatable, but I'd like to think so.

If anything, for me, Billy was a kind of canary in the coal mine. For those unfamiliar with the term, in those pre-technological days when there were no machines for gauging the discharge of dangerous gases, miners would take canaries down below with them since these birds would perish first, indicating all was not right in the subterranean depths.

Does Billy's death indicate all is not right in Boston? Or more generally, in this beloved land so inundated with soulless music? It might be cheap to look for metaphorical ramifications in the event of a tragic death, but I do know one thing. When I would attend shows at which Billy was present (most of them), I would often watch his face as the band played, and invariably his reactions were a good gauge of where things were about to head. It was like he was more attuned to the music than the rest of us, like he anticipated the ups and downs of the tunes and the energy being put behind them. Or maybe it just seemed that way, Billy and his enthusiasms providing at the very least an example of just how far one could go into joy. He raised the bar, and when he approached you straight from the literal bar with a clear drink in hand, his trademark pompadour recalling at once an earlier era and David Lynch, you felt as if an emotion embodied was moving across the room, coming at you a bit too sloppily, yet in the end welcomely, his hug around the neck and wet kiss on the cheek a charm that pushed you to a higher place on the emotional scale.

In chilly Boston, Billy was a gulf stream current, a tropical breeze blowing in, sometimes soothing, sometimes cloying, yet clammy or warming he never failed to impress one with the possibilities of life.

Others have said it before, but it bears repeating. Rest in Peace, Billy -- and may your presence continue to linger in the music scene like a sea breeze, soft and low.

p.s. Turns out there's a Billy Ruane / Warren Buffet connection. No, really. Check it out:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_J._Ruane

New Book - Excerpt

2010-10-05T13:46:00.005-04:00

A couple of weeks back I took part in a reading series called Four Stories. Held in a bar/club/dance-space known as The Enormous Room, Four Stories is, according to The Boston Globe, the "hippest reading series in town." Seeing as I never argue with the Boston Globe (at least not when it's making me look good), I'll politely avert my eyes and agree.

Seriously, hip or not, Four Stories is way fun. Rather than making literature all hush hush and precious, it throws it out there with the alcoholic beverages and flirtatious glances of real life, which is where it belongs anyway, not in some church-like mausoleum of a bookstore.

The piece I read is actually an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, "About the Author." I explain why it's called that and the basic story at the beginning of the attached mp3, so I won't repeat myself here. I will say, though, that the theme of the night's reading was "The Forbidden: Tales of Transgressions, Secrets and Sins." Be afraid, be very afraid...

http://www.fourstories.org/mp3/Four%20Stories%20Boston%20-%20Steve%20-%209.20.10.mp3

Captain Beefheart at The Magic Room

2010-09-11T18:27:00.002-04:00

A great show last night at The Magic Room in Brighton. Gary Lucas, guitarist extraordinaire, gave a "symposium" on the amazing Captain Beefheart. As guitarist with Beefheart's last--and great--incarnation of the Magic Band, Lucas had his subject down cold. And he brought along an amazing array of rare concert footage, unreleased tracks, unpublished poetry, Beefheart artworks (Beef-Art?) and more. Perhaps best of all, he performed some of the pieces he used to play while in the band. One of the films even featured him doing Flavor Bud Living, which was so often on my turntable during college that I think I wore the grooves off the record completely. Pure genius and, if this were a just world, it would be on every radio in every home at least once a week from now till the end of time. Hell, it should be on alarm clocks around the land, waking us each day to the flavorful living budding on our tasty buds each morning. No, wait, even better, it should be imprinted in our brains like those microchips in Philip K. Dick (not in him, actually, his work. Though I wouldn't be surprised if PKD actually had a chip of his own a bit north of his shoulder. And I doubt he would have been either.) In any case, a great show that proved how great both Lucas and Beefheart were and are. If Lucas ever comes to your town, be sure to go see him. His own career has been an amazing achievement, and I can't recommend his work enough. Ok? Nuff said.

Fug that!

2010-09-04T14:46:00.004-04:00

Just in time for Labor Day, I'm posting a link to an interview I did in honor of "ol time Jewish anarchist" and Fug, Tuli Kupferberg. The radio round-table was hosted by Abe Velez of WBAI's "Beyond the Pale" and featured musician/musical-historian Jeffrey Lewis. I join the interview about half-way through, so don't panic if you don't hear me right away.

http://www.beyondthepale.org/episode/2010/08/29

btw, my apologies to everyone in Atlanta who wrote wondering why I wasn't at my reading today at the Decatur Book Festival. Unfortunately, I had to cancel a few days ago due to work-related commitments. But I hope to be there next year, so stay tuned for further updates.

A New Podcast

2010-06-06T13:48:00.004-04:00

I was interviewed recently on Blog Talk Radio. If you want to check it out, here's the link.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/jewishshmooznetwork/2010/06/04/an-interview-with-steven-l-beeber-author-of-heebie

Insomnia Strikes Back!

2010-05-04T13:35:00.003-04:00

For those of you unfamiliar with my multi-genre anthology on insomnia, AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless, here's an interesting review. Read it and sleep!

http://www.darkskymagazine.com/2010/04/break-up/

Emily Dickinson - Jew Punk?

2010-04-28T15:03:00.001-04:00

I'm giving a reading and talk Thursday, April 29 at Mount Holyoke College. As you may know, MHC is the alma mater of the late, great poet Emily Dickinson. Though neither Jewish nor punk, here's hoping her ghost is in da house.

Info on talk:
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=111539758882183&ref=mf

A bit of Emily in pre-haunting mode:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nea1OtWrcxk

Top Ten Time

2010-04-16T17:19:00.003-04:00

I just posted something along these lines as a comment to a reader, but since I'd be interested in what others might put on their lists, I'm re-posting (that sounds a little like composing, doesn't it?) here for everyone else.

Basically, I'm interested in what your top ten rock 'n' roll reads might be. Here are mine in no particular order:

1. "Rock & Roll Will Save Your Life" -- Steve Almond (the MAN!)

2. "No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs" -- Johnny Rotten (the other man!)

3."Lipstick Traces" -- Greil Marcus (ok, ok, he's the man too)

4. "Please Kill Me" -- Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain (the man AND the woman)

5. "Elvis" -- Albert Goldman (hate him if you want, but it's a damn fun read and at least as regards Elvis' early recordings, SMART!)

6. "Revolution in the Head" -- Ian MacDonald (an amazing Beatles book)

7. "The Day John Met Paul" -- James O'Donnell (the imagined first meeting of the two based entirely on the factual record)

8. "The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones" -- Stanley Booth (cool and scary)

9. "Beneath the Underdog" -- Charles Mingus (not strictly rock 'n' roll, but the great jazz bassist's autobiography reads like a "Behind the Music" episode as written by Shakespeare.)

10. "Powerhouse" -- Eudora Welty (again, not strictly rock, but this short story about a blues organ player has one of the best evocations of music in words I've read anywhere. Great stuff!)

Oh, and one more has to be squeezed in:

11. "Chronicles" -- Bob Dylan (you've heard of him, right?)

Ok, I'm sure there are others, but these are the first that leap to mind.

Your turn!

Rock And Roll DID Save My Life!

2010-03-29T11:59:00.012-04:00

It's been over a week since my reading with Steve Almond and I still feel the power of his feedback-filled testament.

Steve's Rock And Roll Will Save Your Life is a stage dive into the mosh pit of hysteria, a hysterical version of A Fan's Notes written for the Teenage Fan Club set. Like the sports-lover in Exley's novel, Steve identifies with the drooling, desperate fans, realizing that despite their nasty skin conditions and even worse social skills, they still get closer to the music than the distant stars they watch.

Let me explain.

One of the greatest things about rock and roll is that it offers a Backstage Pass to bliss. Those same grease monkeys who perform lube jobs can also crank out garage rock, giving us all a spiritual oil change and firing our pistons before we head out on the highway. They may end up one-hit wonders not leading lives of inspiration, but they provide us with moments, their confabs with the spirits in the sky pushing us to move our hips and bite our lips and mouth words silently under our ear-buds till we perhaps scream Satis-FAK-tion!

Add up those moments and you start to get something damn important. A big heaping slab of the people’s words made as eloquent as a lover’s cry when the senses go guitar-crazy and reach for the stars and the high frets.

Do it, do it, do it till you're satisfied, whatever it is...

But wait, that's disco! Maybe I need another rock and roll injection. Join me in the shooting gallery of shooting the shit with the rawk writers like Almond, that fanatical fan's fan and the current fave on my literary play list.

Reading with Steve Almond

2010-03-15T13:29:00.009-04:00

I'll be reading with the super-funny, super-cool, all round super-duper Steve Almond this Thursday. The occasion is the release of Almond's book, Rock And Roll Will Save Your Life. I, as the opening act, will be doing my Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's thang. In other words, it will be a literary battle of the bands with the two Steves going line to line, comma to comma to see who will be King of the Rawk Writers.

The event begins at 7:00 P.M. at the New England Institute of Art in Brookline Village (see poster). More info on Steve's book at: http://www.stevenalmond.com/index.html?utm_source=Masthead

More on film

2010-02-01T22:47:00.002-05:00

I realized in my previous post that I didn't actually tell you about the folks trying to make the "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's" film.

You can get all the info you need right here:

http://zookmann.com/

A Call to Arms

2010-02-01T11:25:00.005-05:00

Hi Everyone,

A while back I mentioned that "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's" was going to be turned into a film. Well, here's an update -- and a call to arms.

The idea for this film is to make it more than a straight-ahead documentary. The frame for the picture will be my own quest to put together a Jewish-Punk reunion, and in doing so to relate the story of my own behind the scenes adventures in creating the original book. There will of course be lots of info about and great music clips of the Jew-Punks in action, but there will also be the outrageous and up to this point unrevealed stories from my own misadventures with the legends I wrote about. For instance, I will reveal how Richard Hell promised to "kill me" -- a fact that has led to my current book in the works, a faux mystery titled, "Please Don't Kill Me, Richard Hell."

Now, here's the awkward part. While the folks creating the film itself are super-enthusiastic and even more super-talented, they are--like the rest of us--not exactly rolling in bucks. So, I've decided to send out an appeal here to all of you in JewPunk land. If you're interested in seeing this film made and think that you or someone you know might be interested in helping make it financially possible, just say. Doesn't have to be a major donation, since every little bit helps. But if it's significant enough, we can talk about including you as one of the producers and hence one of those who actually sees some windfall from the project. If nothing else, you'll definitely be name-checked in celluloid and able to write off a chunk of your taxes as well.

Ok, enough about that. I don't want to feel as if I'm pressuring anyone. Just letting you know where things currently stand.

Oh yes, if you want to contact me directly rather than through the comments page, you can write me at slbeeber@comcast.net

Gabba gabba chey,

Online & On the Air

2010-01-20T09:54:00.004-05:00

If you're anywhere in the Santa Cruz area tonight at 7 p.m. (10 p.m. EST), tune into The Great Leap Forward on Santa Cruz Free Radio. I'll be talking about spirituality and punk.

Or if you're more in the mood to read, check out the following review on barnesandnoble.com. An interesting take on the Catholic contributions to punk -- and it name checks "Heebie-Jeebies".

A First Class Revolution

2010-01-11T22:39:00.011-05:00

In the spirit of the season, I made for family and friends this past December, going as far as Minneapolis in the dead of winter. Of course, when my plane was set to take off, I was told that I would end up stuck in Chicago for 36 hours, waiting for a connector that had been grounded due to a blizzard. Faced with the choice of either hanging out in O'Hare Airport Christmas Eve or going back home to sip eggnog and re-spin my dredel, I went with the latter.

Imagine my surprise then the next day when I returned for my rescheduled flight only to find I'd been bumped to first class. I can only assume that the very kind woman who bumped me from my original flight took pity on me and decided I should be raised a few steps in the social hierarchy, because if you know anything about me, you know I'm not exactly the first class sort. Or at least not in the button-down, formal suit, checking my IPhone for business texts sense. I mean, sure I'm a first-rate boychick ready to run rampaging through the village green with a leather strap in my teeth and a song on my lips. Sure I'm right up there with the brightest of these dimming United States, all those best minds splattered like potato salad on the asylum walls, screaming "Kaddish" while Ray Charles shouts blind on the stereo. Sure I'm first in line when it comes to posing the unpleasant questions, like what's the meaning of life, why are there still those who are poor, and which way do I go to find the rest room kind sir? Sure sure, you know all of this about me, and if you don't know it, it's time you do. I'm first in all things first and foremost, at least so long as they concern the big C's of Culture, Conscience and Cross Buns Nicely Toasted.

But when it comes to first class in the airplane sense? Hell no! I'm ready for that revolution in aviation when the proletariat of the economy seats rises up to demand free drinks and salty snacks alike, no longer willing to pay through the nose for a vodka tonic and a bag of peanuts.

Till then, of course, I will make do as best I can. And in this case making do meant making myself sit up there with the other Aristocrats, and drinking the free drinks and accepting (quite graciously if I say so myself) all the salty snacks I could snatch. In fact, I so made do that by the time I landed I was feeling a bit smiley and charitable to my oppressors and self-conscious betters, bestowing on them the tonic smiles of someone as refreshed as if he'd had a Vodka Colonic.

But here's the thing. I mean, I hate to grouse seeing as I'm ready for the revolution and all, but considering this was supposedly first class, I have to say I was a bit disappointed. After all, way back in the '90s, I was also once bumped up to first class, this time on a Virgin Airlines flight to England in the cool early days when Richard Branson was still offering amenities like eight music channels, at least half of them as good as anything found on college radio (I remember discovering Elastica that night, for instance). But I'm getting away from the main point (music has a way of doing that to me), the main point being that during that eight-hour flight, I was treated to one of the finest first class experiences I have ever come across in my years of hoping and praying to be bumped up to first class. Because, you see, on Virgin that night they not only doted on me like the President on Airforce One, they did so in a cooing, soothing manner that was aided and abetted mightily by their wonderful accents -- and their even more wonderful snacks: Fiddle Faddle followed by Brie, and Brie followed by sliced apples and wine; then custard pie and Ben & Jerry's ice cream, a paracetamol for my tum tum when it all became too much. And all the while all the drinks I could imbibe. But wait, hold on, I haven't even gotten to the best part yet. Because best of all, by far and away, was what they did with my nuts. Yes, they warmed them up. A bowl of mixed nuts as toasty warm as ... well, toast would have been had the foodstuffs been switched. Hot nuts. And fazed cookies. And me grinning idiotically over my seventh Jim Beam, thinking myself pretty clever for having avoided making a stupid remark about them warming my nuts (clearly, having done so here proves that we don't always get better as we get older. Just cornier.)

Ok, that's a bit of a downer to end on. So instead, consider this. While my first class experience on United Airways this past XMass consisted merely of free drinks and a single "snack box" of crackers, cheese spread, cheap cookies and "gourmet" potato chips, it was repeated twice in the course of my trip. That's right, when I got on my connecting flight in Chicago, I was pleased as punch to find that I was back in first class again. In other words, even though the same situation was in place (a single snack box filled with items not all that snackable), I did at least get to fill up in the end, the two meager offerings together forming a single sufficient one. It kind of reminds me of the old joke about the two Jewish ladies in the Catskills complaining about the food. "It's so tasteless and dry," says one to the other. "Yes," answers the first. "And such small portions."

Joey, as in Ramone

2009-12-26T14:27:00.003-05:00

In the spirit of the season, remember WWJD -- What Would Joey Do?

Merry XMass, punk!

2009-12-26T14:13:00.004-05:00

Happy Holidays to one and all. We're ecumenical here at JewPunk Industries, so our hearty best wishes to revelers here and around the world.

Speaking of revels, I am now in Minneapolis where I got to fly first-class because I'd been bumped from my original flight. This happened once before many years back on a transcontinental flight to the UK. Free drinks, gourmet cheeses, a cushy chair and they even warmed up my nuts (my nut mixture, for Christ's sake. Grow up!) Not this time, though. While I still got the round of free drinks (praise God!) my "snack box" was sub par, to say the least. A bag of chips, some miniature cookies, pre-fab cheese spread and some crackers to slather it on ... not exactly the sort of thing to warm up your nuts (ok, I'm being the immature one now. So sue me!)

In any case, I made it, flaming hips of attempted terrorists aside. I'm now ensconced in a blow-up bed that shares space with non-stop video games played by non-stop kids. Dig those crazy sound effects.

One last thing. It seems an interview I did recently has been posted on the blog Our Stage. Check it out at:

http://blog.ourstage.com/2009/12/25/punk-on-the-rocks-qa-with-steven-lee-beeber/

Space-Time Discontinuum

2009-12-22T10:41:00.005-05:00

For those of you looking for updates, I just posted one, but it appears further back in this blog -- on 7/26/09 to be exact.

I guess I've slipped into another dimension. Oh well.

Roll Out the Roller Derby

2009-10-16T15:23:00.005-04:00

Yes, we had us a barrel of fun down at the dear ol derby the other night. It was the Nutcrackers vs. the Cosmonaughties and our heads were spinning faster than Linda Blair's in our efforts to keep up with the game and our own excitement. I've got to hand it to the Boston Derby Dames and especially the Nutcrackers. Not only did they put on a damn good show, they showed everyone that girls can play as well (and rough!) as boys. I can promise you I'll never throw my hat in that ring. Not unless I'm wearing full body armor along with it.

With that said, I'll gladly attend another after party, because this one was as kick ass as the derby itself. Perhaps it's something about being dressed in a tiara and knee pads (not me, but one of the Dames ... and I'm sticking with that story!), but the dance floor moves to be seen were worth the price of admission. Muscle, music and mayhem were the alliterative words of the day, and I couldn't help but picture that old perv Robert Crumb getting up to boogie himself. Ok, ok, so it's not a pretty picture to share, I'm sorry. Better yet, let me leave you with this. Seeing as the after party took place at the Fez Room in the Wilmington Shriner's Auditorium, I also imagined those guys in the little cars buzzing around us. Not exactly the Derby Dames, but definitely good for a laugh.

Ostrogoths, Visigoths and Yudengoths?

2009-08-26T15:52:00.003-04:00

Remember last year when I went up to Hibbing to visit the birthplace of Bobby Z (Dylan)? Well, this year's trip to Minnesota (henceforth known as Upper Germania) didn't take me that far, but I did at least get to the see the Nordic Inn B&B (Bed & Brew). Informally known as The Viking Inn, the Nordic has a kind of rape and pillage theme -- or, wait, make that a "raid" and pillage theme, today's Vikings as prone to being PC as anyone. In any case, the theme is there in essence, with great horn-bearing helmets and fur-coated shields and leather armbands free for the wearing. There are also medieval shoe-like strappings for the feet, which are not optional, but mandatory, much in the style of those households that demand you remove your Doc Martins before you trod over their shag carpets and throw rugs. Best of all, though, is the proprietor of the Inn, Steinaar, a round-stomached, barrel-chested, stain-covered direct descendant of Ostrogoth (or is that Visigoth?) warriors. As Steinaar explained, the "aar" at the end of his name denotes warrior; and since Stein is a stein glass used for drinking beer, you can put the rest together yourself. Over a stein of Sam Adams and a smaller stein of homemade mead (the less said about, the better), Steinaar traded quips with us, most of which concerned his various orifices and appendages (that's right, plural). Since he demanded that we take names as well, I dubbed myself Crowbaar, later changing that to Wetbaar, while Tracey went for a variation on her last name and became Starkaar, though it turned out she could just as well have stuck with Stark since it's basically of Viking, or at least Germanic, origin. Anyway, as I was saying, the Inn was run on a theme, right down to the rooms themselves, ours being Odin's Loft, which not only had a hot tub and the classic Kirk Douglas/Tony Curtis film The Vikings, but also a bed shaped like a Viking ship. All night I tossed and turned, dreaming of fair-haired maidens and cheeks of red, the fjords pushing me on to ever greater adventures, until finally I found myself on the great plains of Greenland, only a hop, skip and jump from these blessed United States (which is most likely where I would have ended up had Steinaar's wake-up call not interrupted me; my apologies to the Sons of Columbus.) All in all, a fine time and a worthy lead up to our conquest of Chicago where the Heebie-Jeebies did its Viking-like thing and turned the unsuspecting populace into a quivering mass of acceptance before we departed. Now if only I could find my own Jewish-Viking lineage. If anyone has any leads, just let me know.

http://www.vikinginn.com/

The Professors Like My Looks

2009-07-27T14:09:00.004-04:00

Yes, that's right. Though I may be no Thin Man, the academically inclined of Germany are planning to meet in April to talk about my book. Will they invite lepers and crooks? And have they read all Fitzgerald's works? I don't know, but I'm pleased as punch, regardless. Bob Dylan eat your heart out

http://www.aviva-berlin.de/aviv /content_Juedisches%20Leben_Veranstaltungen.php?id=1425308

The shpilkes of punk

2009-07-26T16:09:00.003-04:00

Just looking through my old posts and noticed this one has sat in draft form on my computer without actually being visible to your eyes.

ignoblus, for the moment: The shpilkes of punk

I've got lots of similar stuff that I've never posted, mainly because the majority predates this blog.

So, if you'd like to see praise from both Vanity Fair and NPR--not to mention from Neo-Nazis and Islamic extremists--just say and I'll include it. But be forewarned: the Neo-Nazis and Islamic extremists also often condemn me. Go figure.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

2009-07-25T12:19:00.003-04:00

Hi there Jew-Punk People,

So it's been an odd week. On the upside, papers from the NYTimes to the Forward to Haaretz in Israel have been talking up "Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's." On the less than upside, however, there has been buzzing in the usual crank corners from Neo-Nazis, anti-Zionists and whoever else it is that hates Jews these days. I'll include a couple of links below, but before I do, one last good thing. Seems I'm going to be reading at The Book Cellar in Chicago on Thursday, August 20. Anyone in the Great Lakes region, or anyone at all who feels like chartering a Lear jet for the day, should head on out there and see me do my Heebie-Jeebies-Thang. Ok, here's the link for the reading, followed by a couple of others:

http://www.bookcellarinc.com/calendar/calendar.php?mode=flyer&date=2009-08-01&PHPSESSID=884715f37e1c96db76d5d0947826dd7a

http://thisiszionism.blogspot.com/

http://www.stormfront.org/forum/showthread.php?t=622827&highlight=punk

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1101800.html

You never call, you never write

2009-07-22T17:00:00.003-04:00

I've noticed something odd about blogging. Though you type your little fingers to the bone and spit out posts like valentines to the many, often it's like doing so beneath a bell jar. The echoing of your own heart beating in anticipation of replies is deafening, yet those replies often go the way of messages in a bottle. In other words, they're out there, they're not out there, who can say. It's all mystery and silence and the great question mark in the sky. Does anyone read this thing? If so, do they enjoy it? If not, would they bother to tell me this? And whatever the answer, should I just stop it and spend my time on more productive matters, like, say, cleaning out my refrigerator crisper?

No, I say! Never!! And not just because my crisper frightens me to no end (what in god's name is that fuzzy substance surrounding that vegetable matter?) I won't stop because to do so would be wrong. You are my virtual friends (as opposed to my "real" ones in the "real world".) You are the eyes and ears of Jew-Punk Ascendant. And I refuse to let you down. After all, what else would I do with my nervous fingers, these playthings of the devil? Best to write. And type. And scribble. It keeps me off the streets and in the coffee shops. And as a result it has the extra benefit of keeping my fish-belly-white skin snowy and fresh. No melanomas for me, no sirree.

Ok, enough of that. Just wanted to shout out a bit of guilt at ya. I'm sure that you can take it!

Oh, wait, one last thing. Turns out The Heebie-Jeebies... has been spotted yet again in Israel. This time in the more liberal of the two major papers. Check it out at the following link.

http://haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1101800.html

Till next time, Shalom Ya'll,

s

Sacha Baron Cohen, Tina Fey and "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's"

2009-07-19T16:01:00.003-04:00

Hi Everyone,

Big news.

First, I would like to announce that production is imminent on a documentary based on "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's." Can't say anymore for now, but stay tuned for updates.

Second, also imminent is a feature film starring Sacha Baron Cohen as a Jewish Punk Rocker. "The Adventures of Curly Oxide and Vic Thrill" is written by Tina Fey (!!!) and has a tentative release date of 2011.

I guess the only question now is which film will get the Oscar in the Jewish Punk category. And the envelope, please...

s

Punk Rock's Secret, Semitic History -- Forward.com

2009-07-17T10:46:00.002-04:00

Never mind the garbled look of the link below, it works.

Punk RockÃ¢Â€Â™s Secret, Semitic History Ã¢Â€Â“ Forward.com

Shared via AddThis

Jew-Punk Anschluss

2009-07-10T12:12:00.003-04:00

From the Ministry of Propaganda:

The Jew-Punk armies are continuing their march over greater Germania.

This weekend, Doris Akrap--translator of "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's"--will be reading from "Die Heebie Jeebies im CBGB's" at the Left Book Festival in Berlin.

And, last March, Frau Akrap did the same at the Underground Library in Vienna.

Clearly, the hills are alive with the sound of Jew-Punk. And tomorrow belongs to us!

America Looks Up, Goes "Ahhhh"

2009-07-05T13:12:00.003-04:00

That's right, the Fourth of July brought us the usual fiery display, all spiderwebbery skeins of sparkle glory.

Being the proud American that I am, I found a seat on Mass Ave, propped a Jameson's on my knee and proceeded to make yummy noises along with the assembled crowd.

"Ewwww," I went, as the kids behind me sang Neil Diamond (ironically, of course.)

"Ahhhhh," I continued, as the five-year-olds in front ran wild beneath their parents eyes.

"Ohhhhh," we all sighed as the final display kicked out the jams, reds, whites and blues mixing with oranges, yellows and greens that were meant to look jewel-like, but were more Starburst (the candy) seeming than anything.

Still, hard to look down on a sky filled with fire, man-made or otherwise.

Now if only we could get rid of that horrid anthem! "America the Beautiful," anyone?

p.s. Votes also accepted for "This Land is Your Land."

Sign of the Apocalypse

2009-07-04T17:11:00.002-04:00

Alert the neighbors!

Call the folks!!

Wake the dog!!!

A hot gaseous orb has appeared in the skies of Boston!

Be afraid, be very afraid.

Cannonball Heard Round the World

2009-07-03T17:01:00.002-04:00

Can I just state for the record how much I love The Breeders song "Cannonball"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AsId-qVIb4

Vive la revolution!

Iggy and Heebie invade Holy Lemonland

2009-06-29T16:52:00.003-04:00

During the past couple of weeks, one JewPunk sighting and one JewPunk citing.

The citing: Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's in The Jerusalem Post.

The sighting: Beeber Does Iggy in LEMON magazine.

Stay tuned for angry letters to the editors!

Jew Punk Time in New York Times

2009-06-14T21:58:00.009-04:00

For those of you who didn't make it to "Loud Fast Jews" at YIVO the other night, no need to worry. Turns out the New York Times was there -- and that they were namedropping "Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's" like nobody's business.

Seriously, it's a funny and interesting article and I'm thrilled to see my book was mentioned in it. Check it out for yourselves:

"Punk, and Jewish: Rockers Explore Identity"

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/13/nyregion/13punk.html

The Hora, the Hora

2009-06-11T13:15:00.006-04:00

Remember when Queen Elizabeth said she was having her "annus horribilis"? Sounded kind of dirty, but we knew what she meant. In 1992, not only did Chuck split from Di, Queenie was also forced to pay taxes. The horror, the horror.

In health terms, the previous twelve months have been similarly horrid for me. In addition to numerous colds, flus, coughs and sneezes, I just experienced a three-week bout with pneumonia. Hence, my latest disappearance from bloggerizing. Still, I'm almost fully recovered now, so the inane drivel begins again.

Most recently drivel-wise is a shout out to all of you to go see "Loud and Fast Jews" at YIVO in NYC tonight. Lenny Kaye, Handsome Dick Manitoba, Tommy Ramone and Chris Stein will be talking about the Jewish Origins of Punk. Hmm, sounds like a good idea for a book, doesn't it? I wonder if anyone's written it...

Till next time,

s

Punk 101 Gets a Backstage Pass

2009-04-09T18:32:00.005-04:00

Check out the website of the Boston Phoenix. There's a blog (with video) all about my Jewish Origins of Punk class meeting Balkan Beat Box and Sway Machinery backstage. Cool Q's, just as cool A's, and great footage of the show.

http://thephoenix.com/BLOGS/onthedownload/

or

http://thephoenix.com/BLOGS/onthedownload/archive/2009/04/09/field-trip-tufts-punk-rock-class-visits-with-balkan-beat-box-and-the-sway-machinery.aspx

Hanging onto Passover or Passing on the Hangover?

2009-04-09T07:16:00.003-04:00

No, despite the headline I didn't get drunk last night. After all, our forefathers weren't freed from slavery just so that they could go down to the local pub. Or weeeeere they? Seems to be a lot of talk of vineyards and grape-peeling in the good book (what, not the "best" book?), so maybe we've gotten it all wrong.

Still, as I say, no imbibing for me. I was a fiddler on the wagon, not falling off the roof, sipping OJ and munching on macaroons late into the evening.

But today's another day and I guess I could say I've got something of a coconut hangover. Just so much of the sweet stuff you can take. Like me and WE TV (Women's Entertainment Television). Enough of the Golden Girls already. Bring on the chainsaws and David Mamet!

In other news, two items.

First, none of you has yet to guess my favorite Beatle (aside from those of you who know who you are and are ineligible due to contest rules restricting friends, families and employees.) Come on people, it can't be that hard? I'm not pulling an overly clever trick here and including someone like Stu Sutcliffe or Pete Best (though Stu's pretty fucking cool, in my opinion.) Let's get those cards and letters coming. I feel the need to inscribe, and now!!

Second, I just came across yet another item about Jew Punk that also mentions the book and my personal thoughts on the subject. It's straight outta The Forward and concentrates on Can Can, a band from my native state of Jo-Ja (Georgia to the Yankees among you.) One thing I especially like about this band is that they're not only from GA, they grew up in Austell, a tiny town (at least in my day) where (drum roll please) my father had his dry goods (that is, clothing) store.

Vive l'Austell! Long live jeans, t-shirts and ladies slacks!

And of course, God praise Beat Music in all its forms.

xo,

s

"Name that Beatle" contest!

2009-03-31T18:51:00.006-04:00

As usual, I've been a bad blogger. Very bad!! Not only don't I post as often as I should, when I do, I post very little. Well, today's belated and overly short post is in keeping with this pattern, except for one thing -- it gives some indication as to why this is so.

And why is it? Well, basically, the halls of academe call to me with their siren song of youth productively instructed and hopefully not misspent. In other words, I am busy with my teaching duties.

But rather than tell you this, why don't I show it to you via an article that was just posted about one of my classes. The class, as you'll see, relates to my book on the Jewish Origins of Punk and it is quite nicely written and laid out. In fact, it features both a pic of the Ramones and a video of them in performance. Perhaps best of all, though, it presents me in classic Teen Beat magazine fashion. I just wish they'd asked me about my favorite color -- and fave Beatle.

Speaking of Beatles, the first person to name my favorite Fab will receive an inscribed copy of "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's" -- gratis! After all, the anagram of my name isn't Ever Been Beatles* for nothing!

* Okay, okay, so it isn't spelled exactly correctly, but come on, who said Fate was a good speller.

Corrupting the morals of Jewish America's youth

2009-03-18T19:45:00.003-04:00

Yes, I'm proud to say that apparently that's what I'm up to ... at least, according to the following article.

http://www.njjewishnews.com/njjn.com/031909/njArtistTakesFreshLook.html

Then again, I guess I'm also bringing them back to the fold.

Weird.

CBGB's book launch pics

2009-03-14T16:47:00.045-04:00

Just rediscovered these photos from my book launch at CBGB's. While I shudder at the sight of me bloated, pale and out of shape (that's what you get from being chained behind a desk for two years), I thought you might be interested in some of the highlights. Not sure how to make captions, but in order of appearance are Gods & Monsters (from left, Gary Lucas, Jason Candler, Billy Ficca and Ernie Brooks), me and Ross Friedman ("Ross the Boss" of The Dictators) and me and the Bellomo sisters ("Tish & Snooky" of Manic Panic and The Sic F*cks). Oh yes, one bonus pic -- me with the salami-gram that my parents sent me from Katz's Deli. Better than a Nobel, Oscar and Grammy combined!

The Morning After ...

2009-03-10T17:38:00.004-04:00

Just a quick note of explanation to my readers out there in blogga-land (you know who you are.)

So, I realize yesterday's entry may have come off as a bit harsh. Aside from the fact that I was genuinely annoyed by the unfair put-down I received (and it wasn't the first), I also must confess that I was pretty stressed.

During the past couple of weeks I've experienced (in rapidly ascending order): 1.) A mid-semester crunch (exams, papers, all-nighters!); 2.) The Move From Hell (80 boxes!!) and 3.) The grinding worry of my father being in the hospital(!!!) He's out now, as of today, but it was pretty scary off and on. Still, the worst has passed and bright lights are on the horizon.

With that said, I think it’s only hit me now how ragged out I've become. As a result, please don’t be surprised if I disappear for a while with a bottle of something soothing and a few classic DVDs.

I promise to return before long, back to my usual Zen-like self, letting all negativity roll off my back and down the drain.

Of course, if you believe that last bit, might I also interest you in a bridge in Brooklyn? It's highly traveled and the perfect investment in these troubled times. Just the thing to help you relax too.

Punked?

2009-03-09T09:37:00.009-04:00

This morning I received a very nasty email from one of the individuals who I interviewed for “Heebie-Jeebies.” She angrily denounced me for having wasted her time, saying I asked to see a number of her photographs then ended up using just one of them in my book. As I’d already explained to her on more than one occasion, I was looking for certain TYPES of photos and had to go with the best I could find. I’m sorry that this resulted in her time being unprofitably spent, but hey, I was doing research. That’s how it works!

Oh yes, she also called me a “JERK” and an “ASSHOLE” (in capital letters, no less) and concluded by saying that I would tell the students in my punk class “lies" just like "all the ‘supposed’ experts on punk.”

Ok, fine, this secondary player (at best) in the punk scene feels neglected and passed over. I’m sorry she feels that way. Still, why attack me? I mean, if she really thinks I'm just another “expert” who doesn't know anything, then why is she so determined to have her photos included in my book in the first place? Is money really that important to her? What about punk integrity and all that?

Speaking of money and integrity, can I point out that this person was treated to two dinners by me, including one where she drank nearly $100 worth of red wine? And that in return for those dinners and those rounds upon rounds of drinks, she "borrowed” a pre-release copy of The Ramones documentary, "End of the Century" that I’d been lent by director Michael Gramalgia with the express demand that I keep it to myself then return it ASAP?

Picture me later that night retracing my steps up and down Second Avenue, looking in gutters, in trashcans, under newspapers, hoping to perhaps find the video I thought I'd lost. Only the next morning did my dinner companion bother to tell me that she’d lifted it while I was in the bathroom and taken it home because she was determined to see how she came off in it.

Pretty stressful, as you can imagine. And pretty annoying. Still, I figured, once a punk, always a punk, and I decided to laugh the episode off, even though it had caused me to lose a night of sleep and worry that I’d alienated someone who had done me a solid.

Now I’m the “JERK” and the “ASSHOLE”!

I tell you what, my accuser, I’ll make like Lou Reed and be your mirror. Maybe then you can see how YOU look!!

Your Flesh Magazine

2009-02-24T22:13:00.004-05:00

Ok, it sounds like a porn mag, but it isn't. That is, unless you consider my inane drivel a form of porn. If not, check out the interview in the latest. I got to make a couple of lame jokes as well as send some shout outs to long neglected punk rockers and friends. Just remember -- if it appears all I'm doing lately is posting news about myself ... well, what can I say, I guess I am. It's the busy time of the semester and I don't have as much time to write here as I'd like, so I'm letting others who are writing about relevant JewPunk topics do so for me. If you're fed up with this line of blogging and you prefer I begin sharing the secrets of my soul yet again, just say. I'm here to serve you, my dear readers. Your wish is ... well, you know the rest.

http://www.yourfleshmag.com/artman/publish/article_1331.shtml

Happy Birthday Tommy Ramone

2009-02-08T10:23:00.006-05:00

Belated birthday wishes to Tamas Erdelyi, the quiet genius behind The Ramones.

Turns out the German newspaper Die Zeit ran a very interesting article on Tommy's special day. Also turns out the article spoke at length about Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's. For those of you who tune in here regularly, this is not the same article that Die Zeit ran a few weeks ago, but an entirely new one.

To check it out go to the link below. You can then translate it using one of the free online services such as Babel Fish. Or, you can click on the second link, where I've conveniently translated it for you. Unfortunately, the translation reads like something out of a Fortune Cookie Factory run by Chairman Mao -- it's damn confusing, in other words. Kind of like the Strange Flavored Chicken. Good luck!

http://www.zeit.de/online/2009/06/ramones?page=3

http://translate.google.com/translate?hl=en&sl=de&u=http://www.zeit.de/online/2009/06/ramones%3Fpage%3D3&ei=M_iOSdDNB6KBtweg0IGbCw&sa=X&oi=translate&resnum=5&ct=resultprev//search%3Fq%3Ddie%2Bzeit,%2Bbeeber%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26hs%3DGjB

Insomniacs on Film

2009-02-02T08:14:00.008-05:00

I was just alerted to this recording of a reading I did in Atlanta for "AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless," the anthology on insomnia that I put together for Soft Skull Press. Joining me for the show are Hub Cap City (former Chowder Shouter and Jody Grind leader Bill Taft's new band) and Tom Cheshire (poet, magazine editor and lead singer of All Night Drug Prowling Wolves.) The video's a bit dark -- but then again, so am I.

http://www.forum-network.org/lecture/awake-steven-lee-beeber

Punkadelic!

2009-02-01T10:22:00.006-05:00

Here's an odd bit of JewPunkocity that I just heard about. It's the Wednesday, January 28 entry in the Book Lover’s Page-A-Day Calendar 2009. Belated JP Day to you all!

Actual JewPunk Pics!

2009-01-25T16:07:00.007-05:00

Hello Juden Punks,

For the curious among you, I'm posting a pic of the translated edition of the book. In the next few days, I'll do the same with some pics I took while in Germany. If you can't wait till then, just stop by my Facebook page. I put a slew of them up there yesterday.

xo,

s

I LOVE Germany!

2009-01-20T18:32:00.002-05:00

Hey Y'all,

Sorry for the disappearance from blogland. I've been away (in Atlanta) then preparing for classes (I'm teaching four at three schools). When I get time, I'll fill you in on what might prove to be my favorite course -- it's at Tufts University and is called (drum roll, please) "The Jewish Origins of Punk Rock." Guess whose book I've assigned as required reading.

Since I'm just about to head to my writing group and am kind of burnt from my first day of classes at Emerson ("The City" and "Behind the Headlines"), let me leave you with a link to the latest wonderment from Germany. Seems Die Zeit, Germany's equivalent of The New York Times, reviewed my book this week. From what I can gather via the mangled (but free) translation provided by Babel Fish, they liked it (the book, that is). God bless 'em!!

Here's the link if you want to check it out. You can also try one of the free translation services provided on the web. Or, if you're actually seeing this in Germany, you can just take it in and feel smug. After all, we Americans are pretty pathetic when it comes to speaking anyone else's language.

http://www.zeit.de/online/2009/04/heebie-jeebies-im-cbgbs

Auf wiedersehen,

s

That Pan-Terrestrial Back-at-Home Jig

2008-12-30T09:25:00.013-05:00

Happy Jew Year Everyone!

In honor of the holiday season, I’ve decided to give you one final gift. That’s right, another post about my visit to Dylan’s birthplace!

What’s left to say, you might ask? Well, quite a bit actually. Because after I posted the tale of the walking tour and all the Dylan landmarks it contained, I realized I’d completely forgotten to share the highpoint of the story. An encounter with … well, read on.

It all began outside of Zimmy’s, a theme bar/restaurant located at the south end of Hibbing’s main street. Not far from the bowling alley where young Bobby Z won numerous trophies and the fancy hotel where the Zimmerman family celebrated his bar mitzvah, Zimmy’s is purposefully nondescript for two reasons. First, it has to blend in with the older, stately shops that make up Hibbing’s main strip; and second, like some medieval Gothic church, it saves its true riches for inside – much as does the body with the soul.

The riches were indeed splendorous, as Tracey and I quickly learned. After enjoying "Forever Young" veggie burgers and local beers, we wandered the room, gazing at the artifacts and holy relics: battered guitars, both acoustic and electric; photos of the pudgy-cheeked Zimmerman in sneering, cigarette-dangling Presley mode; an artist’s rendering of Bobby D in reverse-negative Johnny Cash aspect (wearing a white, rather than a black suit, that is), and, like it was a splintery piece of the true cross, a slightly chipped, but still clearly identifiable plectrum (guitar pick) used by the man himself.

Yet perhaps best of all was a tidbit of information imparted to me by Zimmy’s owner, and the subsequent rendezvous with destiny it inspired.

"Are any of Dylan’s old friends still around?" I asked, wisely avoiding my earlier mistake of seeming to conflate the MILF before me with the now Zayde-esque Bobby D.

"Oh sure, you betcha," she said, waxing eloquent on such local legends as Echo Helstrom, Dylan's all-too-symbolically named high school sweetheart, Mr. Z, a distant Dylan relative referred to only by his initial and (are you sitting down?), Leroy Hoikkala, a former iron ore miner, but at onetime the drummer in Dylan's first band, The Golden Chords.

"His first drummer still lives here?" I stammered, an adenoidal crack exposing my inner adolescent.

"Sure," she said. "In fact, he comes in here all the time. Want to meet him?"

Did I want to meet him? Did I want to touch the hand of God, or at least the hand that touched the hand of God, much less brought forth His righteous thunder?

"I guess," I said, feigning indifference. “Yeah sure. Why not."

And so, after a brief phone call and a seemingly unendurable five-minute wait, the backbeat of God himself entered the room and, spying us, sat down and ordered a drink.

As I did my best not to stammer or break-voice again, I took in the image of the man who knew Dylan before the beginning. Like John the Baptist or one of the other disciples (aside from Judas), the friendly Leroy Hoikalla sat before us, beatifically sipping vodka on the rocks. His crest of silver-blond hair curled forward like the prow of a Viking ship, his blue eyes and large white teeth called to mind fjords, his barrel-like chest--or rather, gut—all but echoed with the resonance of a drum, the slapping skin and whomping boom together heralding the way of the Lord, the Lord our GOD – Robert Zimmerman.

"So you knew Dylan as a kid?"

"Oh sure."

"What was he like?"

"Oh, you know, a good guy. Yeah, a real good guy."

"Mm hm. Well, was he different at all?"

"Different? How?"

"Different from other kids in the town?"

"Different?"

"You know, quieter, more creative, angry, that sort of thing."

Leroy tipped his glass slightly so that his ice clinked. Then he slowly set it down and looked directly into my eyes. The blue of his own suddenly seemed as powerful as glaciers.

"He wasn't angry,” he said, lowering his voice a half-octave and speaking slowly, so as to make sure I got his point. “He was just a kid like the rest of us. A friend of mine.”

“Okaaay,” I said, now speaking slowly myself, though more in the way a backpacker might to a threatening bear whose habitat he has trespassed. “I just meant…” But I wasn’t sure how to continue.

Evidently, Leroy took pity on me. Or perhaps he believed he’d put me in my place. Apparently he’d suspected motives.

“We all got along here, it wasn’t a matter of him being Jewish or not…”

Uh oh...

“It was just … well, he was like me, one of the outsiders. We were into rock ’n’ roll, motorcycles, that kind of thing.”

“You rode motorcycles?”

“Oh yeah!”

“Dylan too?”

“Sure.”

“That’s so cool!”

“Yeah,” Leroy said, pleased. “You know, I remember the time Bobby was almost killed on one of our rides.”

“Really?”

“Um hm. We were all out at the railroad tracks and a train was coming, and suddenly Bobby took off like he was going to make it across before the train blocked him. It was impossible, really, but we all liked doing crazy shit like that. He just tore off and when he realized at the last minute that the train was going to beat him, he took the bike down, into all the rocks piled up around the tracks, and he slid almost right under the train. He was just lying there as the side of it went right by his head. We thought he was hurt for sure. But after the train passed he just got up and brushed himself off. ‘Hey Bobby, are you alright?’ I asked. ‘I’m ok,’ he said. ‘You almost just got yourself killed,’ I shouted. ‘I’m ok,’ he said again. ‘How did you feel when you went down?’ another one of our group asked. ‘I was ok,’ he said. And though we kept talking about it for a while and would bring it up again in the weeks to come, he never said much more than that. He didn’t talk much. I guess he was different that way. He was pretty quiet.”

“I should say,” I said, marveling more at the fact that this story was almost like an omen, a prophecy of the mysterious motorcycle mishap of ’66, when Dylan disappeared for a year, only to return never the same. From the surrealist poet of the underground, he emerged the prophesying—and acoustic—John Wesley Harding. It was almost like in the New Testament where the miracles of Jesus fulfill prophecies foretold in the original Five Books of Moses. It was almost religious in its dimensions, and definitely mythic. But I didn’t say any of this to Leroy. I didn’t want to get back on his bad side with such a touchy subject.

Strangely enough, he did so for me.

“Yeah, Bobby didn’t talk much at all, you know. In fact, I remember this girl who had a thing for him and she asked him once what it was like to be Jewish in Hibbing and he didn’t say anything, but he looked unhappy. ‘Don’t ever ask him that,’ one of my friends told her. ‘He doesn’t like to talk about himself. Especially his private life.’ And I guess he didn’t really. Though it always seemed to me he was just quiet in general.”

“What about as a performer? Was he quiet then too?”

Leroy threw his head back and laughed, waving for another drink.

“Oh god no,” he smirked. “I still remember the first time we played together in public. It was at the Civic Auditorium. I think it was the first time he ever played actually.”

In Dylan’s wonderful memoir Chronicles (supposedly only the first in a series), he describes seeing the wrestler Gorgeous George here and being inspired to pursue a music career after the legend winked at him busking in the lobby.

“I thought the first time was at the school talent show?”

I’d read about this in the Dylan Museum time-line. Like the motorcycle mishap, it played out like a foretold prophesy, Zimmerman's classmates mocking him as he rocked much as Dylan’s former acolytes at Newport denounced him for going electric, the principal in this case playing Pete Seeger’s role and threatening to cut the cables.

“Yeah, there was that talent show,” Leroy said. “But this was even before that. It was his first public performance and his first professional one. We were so loud that they ended up shutting us down before we finished. Just cut the juice on us so that we had to stop.”

What? Now I was really confused.

“Didn’t that also happen at the talent show?”

“No, it was at the Civic Center.”

“But I keep reading that the same thing happened at the talent show.”

“I don’t know, maybe it did. But it definitely happened here.”

Hmmm.

I didn’t push it and Leroy didn’t seem to care too much either way. He’d said most of his piece about the Bobby that he once knew, and he was working on his third and final drink and feeling the mellow pull of home.

“Well, it was great meeting you,” he said, rising and extending his hand.

“No, great to meet you,” I said, genuinely excited.

This one-time link to the great man, this former drummer in The Golden Chords who brought forth the main volume on which the riotous first performance was based, was a down to earth, natural, easy going sort, completely humble and without pretension. He was faithful and loyal and all those other things that the best are supposed to be. And he did it all with a grace that belied his nondescript, middle-aged image. I could see how he had become Dylan’s friend. And I could see how he had been able to beat those drums. The shake he gave me in parting was powerful to the point of pain, though clearly not intended that way.

“See you,” he called from the door.

‘See you,” we returned in unison.

And it was only then that I realized I’d forgotten to ask the one question that had been on my mind since Leroy had entered. Like the rest of those we’d met, he had a pure Minnesota accent, complete with the laconic monotone slipping into singsong at the ends of sentences and the sures and you betchas. Why then, I’d wanted to ask, had Dylan sounded like Woody Guthrie when he first appeared, only later to speak like a black beatnik and Daffy Duck in turn? What was up with that? Had he always talked that way?

But the man who had helped bang out the word of God for the public was already gone. And God himself certainly wasn’t speaking. At least not to me.

“Damn,” I muttered.

“Damn what?” Tracey asked.

“Just damn.”

“Don’t curse.”

I looked at her, assuming she was joking, but she wasn’t.

‘We’re in Zimmy’s and they just did you a huge favor letting you meet Leroy.”

She looked almost maternal in her concern as she said it, and I realized she was right. It was wrong of me to curse, especially here. I was in Hibbing, at Zimmy’s, in a restaurant named after the great man. I was on hallowed ground.

---

P.S. Ok, so this turned out to be even longer than my earlier post about Dylan. What can I say? I got on a roll. And considering Dylan was in part revolutionary for breaking the formula of three-minute pop songs, it seems somehow fitting. Just be glad I didn’t throw in a harlequin or some circus imagery. Or Napoleon in rags, for that matter. And the language that he used.

*Regarding the asterisk above in reference to Bobby D’s cousin, a certain Mr. Z., I must admit that in my enthusiasm to track him down, I ended up going through the local phone book and calling all of the Zimmermans I could find. Though they were surprisingly friendly, considering the prank-phone-call possibilities inherent in my question (“Are you related to Bob Dylan?”), none claimed to have any connection. Damn.

On the Cover of The Rolling Stone

2008-12-22T16:24:00.004-05:00

Check it out! I've made the cover (or at least the Contents page) of Rolling Stone ... the German edition of Rolling Stone, that is.

Kind of like being big in Japan -- but better.

http://www.rollingstone.de/news/article.php?article_file=1227001976.txt

Sprechen Sie Punk?

2008-12-22T12:12:00.002-05:00

Hey,

Any of you out there speak German? Want to tell me what they're saying on this podcast?

http://podster.de/episode/829158

danke,

Stefan

Don't--and I mean DON'T--look back!

2008-12-20T14:57:00.010-05:00

Greetings,

I begin this post in Draft Letter form ("Greetings from the President of the United States...") because I've just received a note of almost equally disturbing proportions. I'm posting the entire message below, but let me state for the record that I hope it ain't so. I mean, I'm not responsible for the actions of strangers, still, if there's anyone with whom I would prefer not to share genetic material, it's the following. What was it they used to say in my grandparents day: Bad for the Jews? I couldn't have said it any better. Read it and weep:

Based on Jewish tradition that makes one Jewish if born to a mother of Jewish ethnic decent, Sarah Palin is Jewish, though she touts a mask of evangelical Christianity.

Sarah Palin's mother, Sally Sheigam, was of Lithuanian Jewish heritage and so were both of her mother's parents, Louise Sheigam and Shmuel Sheigam. Her father, Chuck Heath, also comes from Jewish blood because his mother, Beatrice Coleman, was of Jewish decent. Further information on Governor Palin's ancestors can be found in the vital records in the Lithuanian State Historical Archives in Vilnius (http://www.archyvai.lt/archyvai/index.jsp).

The Archives holds birth, marriage, divorce, and death records for the Lithuanian Jewish community from 1851 until 1915 when the Jews were required to leave the country because of World War I. They are in 18th Century Cyrillic script and Yiddish. Many of these records include the mother's maiden name and town of registration.

Palin's maternal grandfather, Schmuel Sheigam, was a Lithuanian Jew, born in 1912 in Vilkaviskis, Lithuania, The Sheigams' grandmother was a Jewess named Gower. At the Ellis Island Immigration Center, the name was entered as Sheeran, instead of Sheigam, a standard practice when immigration officers were unable to understand the pronunciation of non-English speaking immigrants. They are buried in the Jewish cemetery at Budezeriai.

{Matzav.com Newscenter}

Only 13 shopping days left!!!

2008-12-07T19:04:00.005-05:00

That's right, Hanukkah will be upon us in under two weeks -- Dec. 21, to be exact.

With that in mind, I'm forwarding you an article from The Forward (forward! forward!!).

It's about Jewish music mash-ups and name-drops a certain you-know-who, author of a certain you-know-what:

http://www.forward.com/articles/14653/

Enjoy!

jp

Those Subterranean Homesick Without a Home Blues

2008-11-26T10:48:00.022-05:00

Hi ya folks!

Since I’m finally getting down to telling you more about my trip to Dylan’s birthplace, I figure I might as well greet you in a manner befitting his native Minnesota. Home to America’s only wrestling governor, weigh station for Prohibition-era bootleggers and proud habitat of Babe the Blue Ox, Minnesota is also the friendliest, or at least the most well-mannered, of our forty-eight contiguous united states. You’ve seen Fargo, right? Well, Dylan’s local Hebraic brethren, the Coen brothers, nailed it when they sprinkled their classic with liberal doses of “you betcha”s issuing from thin-lipped mouths. Clearly, the Germano-Nordic immigrants who populated the land of a thousand lakes were determined to bring civility and order to their new surroundings, for these qualities remain there in abundance. Never anywhere in my life have I seen so many strangers making eye contact and saying hello, their pearly whites gleaming as if they were meeting long lost friends. While I’m sure there are folks such as the kidnappers, plotters and money grubbers in the Coen brother’s epic, apparently they keep a low profile when around, not so much revving their Hogs and peeling rubber, as staring off into blue-eyed space, their reveries of murder and mayhem kept politely to themselves.

Perhaps it was because of this that my experiences in Dylan’s birthplace seemed so ironic.

I’d been in Minnesota for nearly a week, first in Minneapolis (where my gal pal Tracey’s brother lives), then in the Braneird Lakes region (the actual site of the “wood chipper” incident depicted in Fargo). Armed with the friendly smiles and greetings of everyone I met, I decided finally to head for the hills, Tracey and I driving up the “iron range” of the North Country to check out the strip-mine-surrounded hometown of the former Robert Zimmerman.

It was a looping, loping drive as twisty-turny as a twisty-turny thing, but after three or so hours and enough Dylan CDs to make my froggy throat ache, we found ourselves pulling into the little town of Hibbing – emphasis on "little." With its main street all but the only street and its intermittently vacant storefronts casting a ghostly stare at our Toyota hybrid, I drove slowly and somewhat reverently to the nearest parking space, ready to head over the local library where I’d heard I could get a “Dylan Walking Tour” map.

On the way there, the almost too bright sun cast a glaring light on the fact that nary a soul was on the streets. It was as if all of Hibbing had been abandoned in anticipation of our visit, the locals tired of the tourists and gawkers and so avoiding the hard rain of inane questions bound to issue from their (or at least my) lips.

True to form, I set off in inane mode almost as soon as we passed through the library’s double doors.

“Any of you know Dylan in high school?” I asked, my eyes lighting on a female staff member who was obviously displeased to be considered a contemporary of the craggy one.

“Here’s your map,” she frowned, avoiding eye contact before turning back to her Dewey Decimal System.

I took it and posed arm-in-arm with the life-sized papier-mâché Dylan by the door, then, as Tracey lagged behind, I headed downstairs to the library’s “Dylan Museum.”

The “museum,” if you could call it that, was largely disappointing. Album covers, magazine clippings and short biographical blurbs one could have found anywhere greeted us first. Worse, as we looked at these, five or so librarians (or perhaps they were Kiwanis Club members?) sat around an oblong table in the center of the space, nattering amongst themselves. You see, the “museum”—a large rectangular room lit by fluorescent bulbs—was also a conference spot, a duel function that seemed to undercut the mystical strain in Dylan’s work just a tad. However, once the meeting ended and we passed from the initial exhibit to the illustrated time-line along the wall, things began to improve slightly. Not only were there pics I’d never seen (grainy black and whites of Dylan’s parents, childhood friends, local hangouts, etc), these were captioned with interesting bits of info that began to hint at what we would see beyond them: “The Androy Hotel, site of Bob Dylan’s Bar Mitzvah party” one read.

It was an intriguing introduction, made all the more so by my discovery back upstairs that I’d missed a glass booth filled with Dylan memorabilia. Among the copies of Dylan: Lyrics and Behind the Shades: The Biography, there were a surprising number of texts dealing with the gospel-era Dylan. Though that period had lasted only for about five years in the 1980s, the over-representation of it here in the library display case was noteworthy, especially when one further noted that it sat beside books with titles such as Restless Pilgrim: The Spiritual Journey of Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan’s Visions of Sin and Bob Dylan Approximately: A Portrait of the Jewish Poet in Search of God: A Midrash.

Back at the reference desk, speaking to another staff member now (the first refused to raise her head from her books), I asked whether Dylan had ever come to the library or offered to provide items for the exhibits.

“Oh, he hasn’t done anything,” she said, not exactly smiling. “He never comes here and he’s never taken part in Dylan Days [the town’s annual tourist-centric celebration of its native son]. He seems as if he doesn’t want anything to do with us.”

“He never did have anything good to say about us anyway,” the first librarian added, raising her head. “He pretended as if he wasn’t from here, and when he did admit it, he said things that weren’t very nice. We don’t need him.”

“And he doesn’t give anything to help the town, either,” the second librarian interjected.

“Not even with all his money,” concurred the first.

The irony that both were mad at Dylan for badmouthing the town, yet also mad at him for not coming back seemed to escape them.

It soon became apparent that this was the same with almost everyone else from Dylan’s birthplace. For while the town has set up a tour of pivotal landmarks in the young Zimmerman’s life, and a theme restaurant (“Zimmy’s”) has been opened by a true believer at one end of main street, most everyone you speak to about the local bad boy made good expresses resentment at both the kid he was and the man he refuses to be. They say that he was never very friendly in high school and that he wasn’t missed when he left. And they give him the good riddance sneer for his subsequent anti-Hibbing comments. Yet, simultaneously, they attack him for never coming back and, most importantly, for never contributing to the economic well-being of the place he fled as a teen.

From his father’s hardware business to his aunt’s clothing store to his maternal grandmother’s movie theater, one gains a picture of the early Dylan as separate both by choice and consequence, a member of the Zimmerman clan known throughout town for operating many of the town’s businesses, “which is what the Jews mostly did,” as more than one resident told me. “Not that this was bad,” they would add. “That’s just how it was. So you couldn’t avoid interacting with Jews. We weren’t separate, you see, we all got along.”

Well, ok, sort of, I guess. Still, the constant references to the store-owning quality of the town’s Jewish residents and their virtual monopoly on all the businesses in town was a bit disconcerting. As were the all but identical attacks on the former Bobby Z for never having returned to the ol sod, even though they were glad to have seen him go as a youth.

In short, Hibbing has a mixed relationship with its golden boy, one that became glaringly apparent at the tail end of the tour. Fresh from the synagogue where the young Zimmy had read his Haftorah (its congregation now so small its part-time rabbi’s forced to supplement his income as a floor manager at Walmart), we headed to the bar/boardinghouse out back where Dylan’s traveling bar-mitzvah instructor once had stayed during his monthly visits.

The Stardust Lounge was tacky-wonderful in that shadowy, primary-colored way one finds only in Houlihan’s-free small town America. It had an old oak counter lined with red-cushion-topped high chairs and directly across from these all kinds of bottles in front of mirrors filled with clippings from the local weekly’s comics page. The bartender, a too-thin woman with a post-birth midriff below her tank top and above it more teeth missing than in place, was super friendly and upbeat, but disturbing due to her apparent crystal meth abuse. She lined us up a couple of drafts as the somewhat bleary-eyed Ryder-cap-wearing guy to my right told her to stop.

“Where you two from?”

We told him.

“Here to see the Dylan sites?”

Of course.

“Rosy, get them a couple of Bull-Meisters.”

"You don't have to do that," we protested, not exactly sure what Bull-Meisters were.

“Don’t argue,” he said. “You have them. On me. I’ll consider it an insult if you don’t.”

Refusing to risk insulting a fellow patron already bleary-eyed at four in the afternoon (and this a “school day”), we set about taking our drinks in hand and chugging them down as instructed.

“Don’t taste – just shoot them.”

The shots, in all their overly sweet glory, were had, and two more immediately ordered by our new friend, who introduced himself as Jeff, “the guy who can tell you anything about this town.”

First, we wanted to know what Bull-Meisters were.

“Red Bull and Jagermeister. Where you from?”

Boston via Atlanta and Minnesota we explained.

“And you don’t have Bull-Meisters there? Well, you’re missing out ... You know, you look Irish,” he said to me, nonsequitarally.

For those of you in cyberspace who haven’t checked out my book jacket photo, I can tell you that I look anything but Irish. German maybe. Possibly Polish. But Irish? I’ve never heard that one.

“Actually, I’m Jewish,” I said.

His eyebrows went up and down and his bleary eyes focused.

“Jewish?”

“Yeah.”

“But I was talking about your nationality. Why do Jews always say they’re Jewish instead of where they’re from?”

Uh oh. The generic “Jews” who always say the same thing made my stomach tighten. Or maybe it was just the Bull-Meister.

“I guess it’s because the part of Poland where my grandparents came from was almost entirely Jewish since the Poles and Russians surrounding it were extremely anti-Semitic and separated the Jews from themselves since they didn’t consider them part of their country.”

The eyes focused again, revealing more than average intelligence and I realized the moment had passed.

“Ok,” he said. “But this is America.”

It was said more as a peace offering than a renewal of hostilities.

“Right!” I said.

We shared another Bull-Meister, this one on me, and as Tracey began talking to an even blearier half-Indian, half-who-knows-what (he looked like an Asian Jerry Lewis to me), Jeff, the bartender and I set about trading drinking war stories, all of us laughing as the jukebox finally came to my Dylan selection.

Now, let me backtrack just for a moment and point out that this bar, which appropriately enough provided a place of special reverence to its jukebox, did not, however, exactly fill said jukebox with Dylan music. In fact, among the countless albums by ACDC, Def Leopard, Bob Seeger and Led Zeppelin, there was only one disc by their native son, the greatest hits album, one found in jukeboxes everywhere.

How does it feeelllllll...

“So, do your customers not like Dylan?”

Neither the bartender nor Jeff had much to say on the subject.

“I heard he’s not exactly beloved by the town,” I continued.

And at that, I’d opened the floodgates. The same accusations and diatribes, though this time amplified by liquor, issued forth, both Jeff and Rosy the bartender getting in on the action before laughing it off.

“I mean, who cares,” said Rosy with a shrug. “So he doesn’t come back. That’s his choice.”

I worried that perhaps this wasn’t the time to mention what had been on my mind since we’d entered and why I’d originally come to this place (even if I was now finding that the Bull-Meisters had perhaps been more desired than I’d realized). But I went ahead, regardless. Best to do it now if ever.

“Do you have rooms upstairs?”

Rosy and Jeff looked at me skeptically before she said yes.

“Are they part of a boardinghouse?”

"They used to be," Rosy said. "Now they’re apartments."

“Oh, because I heard that Dylan, when he was a kid, used to come here to study for his Bar Mitzvah with a traveling Rabbi that boarded upstairs.”

They looked genuinely interested.

“In fact,” I added. “I read somewhere that it was during those visits, as he paused between his own practice chanting, that he heard his first rock ’n’ roll coming up through the floorboards from the bar.”

“Cool,” Rosy said.

“Yeah,” Jeff concurred.

“Yeah, this was where he first heard and fell in love with rock ’n’ roll,” I said unnecessarily. But I was excited by their excitement. Finally, a joint appreciation of Dylan.

“You should get that mentioned on the Dylan Walking Tour,” Jeff said to Rosy.

“You bet,” she said. “I’m way ahead of you.”

Ah, so that was it. Dylan wasn’t hated for who he was exactly. He was resented for what he wasn’t – or rather wasn’t for the town. A cash cow, a draw, a truly profitable attraction. The boy had gone off and become famous and bought houses around the country. But did that benefit the town at all? Not really. Or at least not enough. Dylan may have made a name for himself, but he hadn’t done so for the town that first called him by his name. He had gone off while they remained here and they wanted something for their pains, their contribution, whatever it was, to his development. They wanted a bit of that crazy, super known feeling. They wanted the riches of renown if not actual dollars. They wanted to know how it feels, you see.

How does it feelllllll, Dylan repeated.

Yes, how does it feel, indeed.

“Another Bull-Meister,” Jeff called.

“This one’s on me,” I replied.

Nazis and Punk

2008-11-24T15:54:00.002-05:00

Hey everyone,

Me again.

After posting my last blog--which had very little to do with JewPunk per se--I came across the following article on Nazi imagery in Punk. In addition to my book, it mentions some interesting info from others. Well worth the read if you've got time. If not ...

auf wiedersehen,

sb

http://www.newvilnareview.com/arts-amp-letters/jewish-punks-embrace-nazi-rhetoric-and-imagery.html

The Dry As Dust Bowl

2008-11-24T14:34:00.006-05:00

Howdy Jewsters,

Well, it's been another long week as an Academic Oakie. Traveling the highways and byways of Eastern, Massachusetts--from UMass Lowell to Emerson College to the New England Institute of Art--while singing rousing workers' tunes (like "The Internationale" and "Take This Job And Shove It"), I've decided this land truly is your land and my land too. Unfortunately, it's filled with strip malls and traffic jams and angry Bostonians giving you the finger. Not exactly what Woody G. had in mind. But then again, who would have had this in mind? A madman? A computer? A city planner with a hatred of urbanites?

In any case, I'm raring up for vacation, giving thanks that the big Thanksgiving holiday is all but upon us with its offer of resting one's weary head on the chopping block of tryptophan and sleep.

But wait, no tryptophan tripping for me. I'm a veggie-kinda-man, not a full-blown vegan with a hatred of eggs and cream, but enough of the not-meat-eating kind that I don't foresee any Big Birds appearing on my plate. More like a tofu mound shaped in the visage of Oscar the Grouch. You know, the one who lives in a garbage can. Dumpster diving has never looked so appealing as from the sidelines of the new Depression when the turkeys will all come home to roost.

Until then, though, I've still got some work to get done. Papers in all five classes are accumulating at a rate unheard of in modern times. I love my classes and my students (well, most of them, at least) and I'm not saying that the colleges where I teach are dry or boring. No academic Dry-As-Dust Bowl here. But I will say that it's not exactly easy to keep up when the papers keep coming in like mail, like circulars, like spam of all kinds, and needing to be waded through again and again.

No wonder our dear friends at the postal service have a tendency to get a bit jumpy at times.

Now, what does all of this have to do with JewPunk you might ask? Not much really, I'll admit. And yet, I want to explain to you why I've been out of commission for a bit and why there has yet to appear an update on my recent Berlin trip. It's trans-America--or at least trans-eastern-Mass--time, so there's no time for nostalgic glances back at Cold War sites, Holocaust memorials and new buildings that have replaced the bombed out old ones. No, no time for that. But in good time, don't worry, I'll get to it, in all its wonky glory.

So, until then, sleep tight ya bastahds!

Yours,

Holden Caulfield Salinger

P.S. For anyone interested in reading up on the Jewish origins of the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, be sure to check out page 31 of "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's" (which I hear through the grapevine is a pretty darn good read!)

Another interview, another planet

2008-11-17T14:52:00.004-05:00

Greetings,

Back from the wilds of Western MA and Eastern CT. A fine time was had by all. In addition to reading/signing/appearing in two of America's favorite bookstores, I and my gal pal Tracey were able to stay overnight in a reconverted mill-side B&B that reeked of New England charm and Boomer nostalgia. Our amazing hosts, Dennis and Francesca, bought a copy of "AWAKE!" (Dennis is an insomniac), then treated us to a wonderful afternoon snack of homemade hummus, wine, crackers, cheese, chocolate, carrots, wine and ... well, I'll stop there. The next morning, Francesca served up a special-made, vegetarian-friendly breakfast-burrito while Dennis regaled us with stories of his experiences at Woodstock, his 39-year-old battered ticket stub in hand to prove he wasn't making them up. I highly recommend stopping by the Old Mill Inn the next time you're near Enfield. Be sure to ask for the big-brass-bed suite we had (though you can also go for the Western-themed room across the hall if you so choose). Here's the website:

http://www.oldmillinnbnb.com/

Speaking of websites (how's that for a segue?), I just got an email from my new pal Tom Cheshire telling me that he recently posted an interview we did after my reading in Atlanta. Tom's a rockin' kind of writer who shouts like a Bobcat-in-heat when onstage -- and like a Bobcat-with-a-drink when off. He's also retro-looking in a rockabilly sort of way you don't see nearly enough these days. In other words, he's got style, so talking to him over drinks at the underground North Highland bar was the perfect post-reading wind-down. To read the interview, go to Tom's website Dry Ink -- just remember as you do so that the parentheses around some of my expressions mysteriously disappeared when being posted, making a sentence or two read slightly strangely (not that I've got anything against strange. I just don't want you to be confused).

http://dryinkmag.com/?p=126

Ok, other than that it's back to the books. I've got to finish reading paper proposals for my "Media Representations of the Holocaust" class. Then it's off for drinks with Hugo Burnham (former drummer for Gang of Four) and John Lay (former manager of Squeeze).

yours rockingly,

JPunk

Achtung!

2008-11-15T10:57:00.006-05:00

An interview with yours truly has been posted online. Go to the ingeniously-titled book-review webzine, Wonkavision, to read about both "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's" and "AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless." The title the editors gave it says it all: "If I Could Sleep, I Would Dream of Joey Ramone."

http://www.wonkavisionmagazine.com/webzine/issue1bookreviews.html

The interviewer was Ben Tanzer, a writer in his own right. Ben's new book "Most Likely You Go Your Way and I'll Go Mine" is supposed to be pretty damn great, and I definitely enjoyed his last one, "Lucky Man." Reminded me of the kind of kids I grew up with -- all that time spent smoking pot and hanging out and secretly worrying about growing up into something.

Ok, I've got to hit the road for my reading in Connecticut tonight. If anyone's in the Enfield area, come on to Barnes & Noble at 6:00 and see me. Same goes for anyone in Holyoke tomorrow, where I'll be reading at their Barnes & Noble at 2:00.

Yours wonkily,

JP

The Goethe Bop

2008-11-10T16:02:00.006-05:00

Hi Jewsters,

So, I went to a reading at Boston University the other night. Twas by the incomparable poet David Blair. In addition to being funny, wise and way cool, David warmed the cockles of my JewPunk heart by reading something titled Goethe Bop. Neatly conflating the famous German poet with those adorable Ramones, GB defied description -- and I mean that in a good way.

Afterward, over beers, beers and more beers, David discussed his origins in Pittsburgh, a town that sounded strangely like my own Atlanta in terms of its race relations. In other words, it was a funky stew of black and white, with a few Jews (like me) and Catholics (like him) thrown in. His poem about graduation (fittingly titled Graduation Poem) ended thusly:

Grandmothers rose in purple and orange crepes and waves
that washed this way from other big events,
the bat mitzvahs and confirmations and birthdays.
It was graduation for plastic combs and afro picks.
There were rolling mists from aerosol cans
at five p.m. in beauty parlors all over the city,
an attentive patting of so many hands and textures.
And now, pure nothing, the moon and stars out
through the crinkling cellophane of white sprays—
graduations are arisen like fireflies from grasses
in the smoke of backyards and embankments.

Yes, I remember afro picks and rolling mists and bat mitzvahs attended by girls named Coco. In fact, Coco's full name was Qua Vadis Amour -- Go Forth With Love, a mixture of Latin and French. Coco was tres frigus, even if she did tease my ninth-grade adenoids for bringing forth sounds like that most annoying of Little Rascal's. "Froggy, stop talking! STOP!! You making my ears hurt!!!"

Thanks David for bringing this all back. And thanks to Coco for joking me through the worst of adolescence.

Yours boppily,

S. Ramone

Jewced up and sloppy

2008-11-03T14:42:00.002-05:00

Howdy Jewsters,

So Saturday I ventured out of the house for the first time in days and took in a night of Halloween-inspired bands at TT the Bears.

On the bill were Roxy Music, The Velvet Underground, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and New Order. Sounds like a bad version of a country-rock song, doesn't it? "If they had a glam band in heaven, what sweet music it would play..."

In truth, these were local bands posing as the above -- and all down the line they were amazing. Highlights of the night included MeAndJoanCollins lead singer Bo Berringer as Alter Cocker Indie Rocker* Lou Reed and Sidewalk Driver frontman Ted McKitterick as Ziggy Stardust, the latter performing the entirety of the Spiders from Mars album.

The show was so hot I had to remove my long black Joey Ramone wig and scarf down a few cups of beer to cool off. As a result, when I bumped into the Virgin Mary (complete with musky perfume and soulful, bee-stung-lips), I recklessly asked her how it was she'd kept her "chastity" for so long. "Like this," she said, placing the V sign around her mouth and rudely wiggling her tongue. If an equally lovely (and musky) Sacred Bleeding Heart of Jesus hadn't touched Mary tongue-to-tongue and exclaimed "oh yeah!!" I might have been tempted to give up on JewPunk altogether and head over to "the other side." As it was, I paid my tab and went back to check out New Order. Obviously, I'd been beaten to the punch by a true believer.

To conclude, great show followed by relapse into sickness followed by panicky hours of last-minute grading now.

Pax vobiscum!

Steven "King of the JewPunks" Beeber

* Alter Cocker -- Old Fart in Yiddish

The Kommissar's in Town

2008-11-01T15:33:00.005-04:00

Happy Halloween JewPunk People,

I was googling myself this morning (what better way to procrastinate) and came across this review of "Heebie-Jeebies." I have no idea when it was originally posted and I haven't seen it before because it spells my name incorrectly, but it's nice and I'm in need of praise today, so what the hell, I thought I'd share it with you.

http://410media.com/_/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=189&Itemid=63

Why am I in need of praise? A couple of reasons. First, I just learned that the cold I've been fighting for nearly a month is not a cold at all, but pneumonia. Seeing as I'm up and around (if still basically sub-par), I guess you could say I've got the walking pneumonia (and the boogie woogie flu). Funny, I don't look fluish.

In any case, the sickness creates a bit of a malaise as the day goes on and my body wears out. I can see how an ongoing illness could really sap the spirit. I've only had this a month and I'm ready to whine for my bottle.

Aside from that, I'm overworked. Actually, let me rephrase that. In part because of that I'm overworked. It's hard to keep up with papers from five classes when you feel as if all you want to do is lie down under an IV drip and watch The Exorcist, but time (and grades) wait for no one, so I trudge on, hacking all the way.

The third, and perhaps most powerful problem, is that I cannot drink coffee. Fluids yes, diuretics no. So I'm running on autopilot so to speak, functioning on manual, free of all drug-induced pleasantries. How the rest of you do it, I'll never know.

But ok, enough, this isn't why you tune into Blogga Blogga Hey, now is it? Or is it? I realize that much of this blog is taken up with news of the most limited sort -- that is, news about the book and all that relates to it. As the resident JewPunk, I guess I could expand that definition a bit to include news about me, THE Jewish Punk.

So unless I hear otherwise, I just may do this in the future. You will be treated to epistles about my latest adventures in penicillin-land as well as my uphill battle against an onslaught of essays about T.S. Eliot. At the same time, I promise to include a bit about the book and its ongoing life outside myself. Among the latest is the pleasant surprise that it seems to be doing quite well in Germany. It's been Number 3 in books about Punk the past week or so, and within the Top Ten of books about Music History.

So there's something to take to my sick bed with me. I'll warm it up and put it under my head as a salve to my aching neck. Then I'll hack up some bitter bile over the state of "terrorist" shouting Americans and the election they threaten to fuck up.

See, now they've got me cursing!

On that note, I bid you a fond farewell.

till next time,

JP

Sister Ray Binowitz

2008-10-29T12:03:00.012-04:00

Hi Folks,

A couple of interesting JewPunk mentions in the news.

First, the blog Heeb 'N' Vegan (exactly what it sounds like) published a brief interview with me a few days back. A shame they had to cut out all the jokes, but still nice of them (Mike Croland, to be specific) to give me a platform on which to shout about my book.

http://heebnvegan.blogspot.com/2008/10/books-tying-holocaust-other-jewish.html

Second, looks like JewPunk (my JewPunk, at least) has finally made it to the Holy Land. The Israeli News Service namechecks my book in an article about Lou Reed's upcoming concert there.

http://www.israelnationalnews.com/News/Flash.aspx/154917

http://israeljewishnews.blogspot.com/2008/10/velvet-undergrounds-lou-reed-to-perform.html

Speaking of Lou Reed in the Land of the Fathers, what's up with that? What, Hymietown's not good enough for him (please see Reed's album "New York" and his reference to Jesse Jackson's fond moniker for that city before jumping all over my ironic ass).

Seriously, the Zayde of Punk in Israel conjures visions of Moses, the tablets and B'Nai B'Rith trips gone wrong. "Thou shalt bathe thyselves in White Light and White Heat; thou shalt have no other co-founders before thee (especially John Cale); thou shalt hit thy mainline; thou shalt hit it sideways; just like, blessed be He, just like, the Lord our God, just like, Sister Rabinowitz sez..."

Over and out,

Beeb the Heeb

P.S. Fond of finding JewPunk in the most unlikely places? Consider that Reed's family name was originally Rabinowitz and that the song "Sister Ray" conjures associations with that. Think I'm nuts? Consider then that fellow JewPunk founder, Daniel Rey of Shrapnel, was originally known as Daniel Rabinowitz before coming up with an appellation more stage-worthy. Hmmmmmmm...

Dylan, Berlin, Enfield and more

2008-10-27T09:21:00.006-04:00

Hey Everyone,

After a looong silence, I'm back and ready to fill you in on some news.

Rather than blather on at length about all that's happened, let me give you some brief previews of updates to come while also filling you in on a couple of readings in a couple of weeks.

First, the previews:

1. I recently returned from my week-long book-tour in Germany. LOTS of interesting stories about German punks, cold war sites and the proper way to spell schisse (shit). Stay tuned.

2. Before Germany I went up to Hibbing, MN, birthplace of Bob Dylan. Not quite Germany, and yet not as far as you'd think. Some truly amazing experiences there -- among them, drinks and chit-chat with Bob Dylan's high-school pal Leroy Hoikkala. For those unfamiliar with Leroy, he was the drummer in little Bobby Z's first band!

3. Speaking of Germany, this past weekend I went to the home of Dresden Dolls front-freulien Amanda Palmer. Amanda wasn't there (on tour in Germany, in fact), but her roomies and guests put on some rock-solid entertainments. In honor of Halloween it was covers night, "undercovers night" to be specific. All the cover tunes dealt with espionage and spies. A perfect rendition of "Secret Agent Man" by the Spy Orchestra--or "Spykestra"--was a highlight of the event. I also got to wear the Lenin medal I picked up in the former East Germany and to dance a near strip to the tune from "The Full Monty." Very scary.

Ok, so much for the previews. Now let me update you on a couple of readings:

I'll be in Western, Mass, Sat-Sun, Nov 15-16 as part of local PBS affiliate WGBY's super-cool book festival. Saturday at 6 PM I'll be at the Barnes & Noble in Enfield, CN, and Sunday at 2 PM I'll be at the Barnes & Noble in Holyoke, MA. Also on hand at 6 PM in Holyoke will be my old MFA pal Pam Thompson, who'll be reading from her fab new novel "Every Past Thing." She's not to be missed.

As much as I'd like to keep blogging, work unfortunately calls.

So, till next time, auf wiedersehen!

s

Whitney Biennial gets AWAKE!

2008-05-07T19:26:00.001-04:00

Hello Bloggers,

Want to raise your culture quotient? Then check in tomorrow at the Whitney Museum where I (or at least the virtual me) will be reading a story from the insomnia anthology "AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless."

The story is by superbad guitarist Gary Lucas, who I can't rave enough about, and it deals with his experiences performing a live soundtrack to the silent film "Der Golem." For those of you unfamiliar with Jewish lore, the Golem is a mythological (or so they claim) clay statue brought to life through the mystical powers of Kaballah (no wonder Madonna's so intent in her studies). They say that the Frankenstein story was inspired by this legend and they just may be right, though in my opinion The Golem is far better-looking (and, funny, he doesn't look Jewish).

So here's what you do. Tomorrow between 5 and 6 PM, EST either get your ass down to the Whitney or check out the event via the internet and you'll hear me reading backed-up by Gary playing -- in other words, you'll hear a sort of live performance by Gary in front of his story about a live performance in front of The Golem. Very post-modern, huh?

Info on Whitney event -- http://whitney.org/www/2008biennial/www/?section=artists&page=artist_npr

Live stream from Neighborhood Public Radio -- http://freeradiosaic.org/program/shows/117/

A couple of things to keep in mind. There will only be an excerpt from the story available at this "performance" since the exhibit in which it's involved is a sort of sound collage about reverie, sleep and insomnia. There will be a bank of radios provided by Neighborhood Public Radio, an experimental station out of the Art institute of Chicago that is making sure that, like Iggy Pop, you've had it in the ear at least once before you die.

If you can't check out the performance tomorrow, there will be a podcast, complete with arty (read "weird") images available about a week after. And while the Art Institute of Chicago will be keeping the whole shebang in its archives, I'll be doing them even one better. As soon as I figure out how to do so on my computer, I'm going to post the whole damn story, complete with music, right here for you. And I'll do so for free.

Such a deal. And it makes you look cultured. Who knew the Whitney Biennial could be so fun.

Till next time,

Audio AWAKE! - The Sounds of Sleeplessnes

2008-05-03T13:22:00.004-04:00

Hi Everyone,

I've been a lousy blogger lately and I'm not going to be much better today, but let me tell you about one fun tidbit here and a couple of other exciting things to come.

First, in the next few days I'll fill you in on the recent series of readings in NY, Boston and Atlanta. They were amazingly fun and interesting events that have taken me weeks to digest. Very soon, I'll sit down and expel this digested material. I'm sure you can hardly wait.

Second, later today I will be recording a selection from the insomnia anthology "AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless." This recording will then be set to music and included in an upcoming event that I'm sure will surprise and delight you. I can't say anymore on this for now, but rest assured it will be worth the wait.

Finally, in addition to the interview that I linked to in my previous post, I am now offering you a related podcast compliments of Ben Tanzer of "This Podcast Will Change Your Life." One word of warning -- the recording is close to thirty minutes long and I don't appear till near the end, so if you don't hear anything about AWAKE right away, don't touch that dial. Besides, the rest of the podcast is entertaining as hell, so settle in and enjoy.

http://www.imeem.com/people/WlWFno4/music/tUsZhnCI/ben_tanzer_hotrobotgirlfriend

Oh yeah, one other thing compliments of Ben (who's novel "Lucky Man" I've heard is great)

http://bentanzer.blogspot.com/2008/04/jewish-punks-and-insomia-what-else.html

XO,

s

What to Wear During an Orange Alert?: Reader Meet Author

2008-05-01T14:45:00.000-04:00

What to Wear During an Orange Alert?: Reader Meet Author

alert! Alert!! ALERT!!!

2008-05-01T12:47:00.001-04:00

http://wearduringorangealert.blogspot.com/2008/05/reader-meet-author.html

Sunday - April 13 - KGB in NYC

2008-04-13T10:19:00.003-04:00

www.kgbbar.com/calendar/event/2008-04-13_fiction_awake_a.html

Too Old To Rock, Too Young To Care: Heebie Jeebies in CBGB's (and at the Middle East)

2008-04-09T23:09:00.000-04:00

Too Old To Rock, Too Young To Care: Heebie Jeebies in CBGB's (and at the Middle East)

bigmouth indeed strikes again: "ASK ME, UH-HO-HO, ASK ME"

2008-04-05T14:55:00.001-04:00

bigmouth indeed strikes again: "ASK ME, UH-HO-HO, ASK ME"

FREE BEER, MUSIC, COMEDY etc

2008-04-03T14:31:00.004-04:00

Hi Everyone,

You are cordially (and exhaustedly) invited to the Boston-area book-launch for the new insomnia anthology, "AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless" (published by super-cool Soft Skull Press -- http://www.softskull.com/).

While I am attaching a press release about the book itself, below are details concerning the area reading.

First off, it's got free beer. Did you hear that? FREE BEER! And it's free. The whole damn thing. Live music, award-winning writers, prizes -- free free free!

Ok, now onto the basics:

The event takes place this Thursday, April 3 in the corner room of The Middle East in Cambridge from 7 PM to closing (approx 1 AM).

Readers include Pulitzer Prize winner Franz Wright, Agni poetry editor and Grolier Poetry Prize winner Beth Woodcome, former National Lampoon editor and award-winning fiction writer Steve Brykman and Grolier Prize Winner and television producer Myles Gordon.

Members of two bands -- Tiger Saw and Kosher Ham -- will combine to perform as Ambien Sounds. Get it? Ambien (as in the drug) Sounds. Not Ambient. Pretty clever, no?

The event is sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon and in addition to free beer there will be other prizes like books, T-shirts, PBR temp-tatoos and badges. In fact, the first ten people to say "PBR Me ASAP" will get a free copy of "AWAKE".

Perhaps best of all, we will experiment with combining the readers and the musicians so as to create poems and stories with live, improvised "soundtracks". As Franz Wright said, (and I'm paraphrasing) it's kind of like that old Beatnik coffee house thing. As I say, it's kind of like NASCAR for the literary set -- improvisatory excitement with the potential for dramatic, against-the-wall crashes.

Oh yes, there may also be other surprise guests,

Convinced yet? If not, just let me know and I'll be sure to fill you in on other secret tidbits I can't discuss here.

HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE!

PS Of course, I'll be on hand too, primarily as emcee (or, as I prefer to be called, E=Mcee2), though possibly reading as well.

PPS If you'd like more info about this or other readings -- including one April 13 at the KGB bar in NYC -- stay tuned to De Blog.

Lines of freeze-dried

2008-03-14T13:07:00.005-04:00

When I get too far gone from lack of sleep, I hoover up a couple of lines of freeze-dried and everything's alright.

Of course, if you're more inclined to just yawn through the sleepless interim so as to maintain some semblance of homeostasis in the heart, then here's what I suggest. Hurry on down to McNally Robinson Booksellers this Monday (March 17) and check out the latest in a series of readings for the insomnia anthology "AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless."

On hand at this extra-special event will be three anthology contributors who you won't want to miss. First, "the Great White Herring" himself, fisticuffs-friendly performance artist and author Jonathan Ames, will be intoning in ponderous tones his epic struggle to get back to sleep through assiduous use of his right, then left hand on his insomnia-ridden penis.

Second, Molly Kottemann, Yale biologist and researcher of all things living, will take us down the scientific rabbit's hole at the other end of the microscope's mirrored lens, proving once and for all that those left-brained docs can be just as creative as we right-brained artistes. Or, at the very least, that Ms. K. is possessed of two brains, a right and left, cerebrally ambidextrous as it were, G-d bless her.

Third on the bill is champion blogger and critic Ed Champion, a webbery-fingered sort who will spin audiovisual madness on par with an internet Spiderman. Feel his power and presence and be awed.

Oh yes, your friendly neighborhood JewPunk will also be on hand, dispensing sleepless wisdom and anecdotes as the E=Emcee Squared of this print-matter-filled starry night.

In other news, check out the following blog for an interview I gave to my new favorite writer and email-buddy, "Three Fallen Women" author Amy Guth. Amy is just the sort of person you'd like to be interviewed by in the Dick-Cavett-landscape of your mind. She's smart, funny, perceptive and convivial. And, best of all, she makes you sound even better than you are.

Dare I admit that I've developed something of a 24-hour crush on her? She's just the thing the pulsing river of trouble-tossed restlessness ordered, a veritable RIP (Rest In Peace) Van Winkle of the old days brought up to the present in the form of books carried home from school and pigtails gently tugged on field trips.

I hear the strains of that White Stripes song in my head, the one that borders on cloying yet is all the more impressive for risking and impressively avoiding that. "I be-lieve that we are gon-na be friends."

On that note, I return to the freeze-dried breakdown lane to park my tired carcass between the manic lines of freeze-frame memory.

See you all at McNally Robinson Monday!

The Exploding Plastic Inevitable Tired Jew Tour

2008-02-25T19:45:00.001-05:00

Hi Everyone,

I'm heading back on the road to launch 1.) my new insomnia
anthology, "AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless" and 2.) the
paperback edition of my JewPunk tome, "The Heebie-Jeebies
at CBGB's: A Secret History of Jewish Punk."

As usual, I'm a bit late in notifying you about the first event, but if
you can make it, I'd love to see you. Otherwise, be sure to make
note of what's ahead so that you can begin to plan your calendars
accordingly!

Oh yes -- as you'll notice, many of these readings involve music; but
not just music, music as aural support for the readings. Others also
include audio-visual presentations, actors and performance artists
(among them, Amanda Palmer of The Dresden Dolls). It's a kind of
Exploding Plastic Inevitable for a new generation. Show up and you
just might witness the birth of the next Velvet Underground. Imagine
being able to tell your grandchildren that!

Oh yeah, all events are free -- especially for invited guests like you.
And one even includes free beer. PBR to be exact.

RIP,

THE EXPLODING PLASTIC INEVITABLE TIRED JEW TOUR

1. Tuesday, Feb 26 -- Mercantile Library (NYC) -- Mark Mirsky, Claire
Moed and yours truly.

http://www.mercantilelibrary.org/events/

2. Monday, March 17 -- McNally Robinson bookstore (NYC) -- Jonathan
Ames, Molly Kottemann and Ed Champion with yours truly as emcee.

http://www.mcnallyrobinsonnyc.com/2008/02/14/awake-a-reader-for-the-sleepless/

3. Wednesday, March 26 -- A Cappella Books (Atlanta, GA) -- Area
actors read selections from both books, accompanied by Hubcap
City, the fevered brainchild of former Jody Grind frontman Bill Taft.
Hubcap City features guitar, banjo, concertina and saw!
http://www.acappellabooks.com/index.htm

4. Thursday, April 3 - The Middle East (Cambridge, MA) -- Steve
Almond, Beth Woodcome, Franz Wright, Steve Brykman, Myles
Gordon, Amanda Palmer (of The Dresden Dolls) and yours truly
backed up by ambient sounds duo "Kosher Ham" (who will be
doubling as either "Ambien Sounds" or "Kosher Hambient Sounds"
for the night). This reading/music-happening in one of Boston's
coolest clubs is sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon.
http://www.mideastclub.com/

5. Sunday, April 13 -- KGB Bar (NYC) -- Priscilla Becker, Catie Lazarus
and Bud Parr with yours truly as emcee. Also, amazing guitar work by
"the thinking man's ax man," Gary Lucas.
http://www.kgbbar.com/calendar/event/2008-04-13_fiction_awake_a.html

Sleepless in Deutschland

2008-02-02T13:31:00.001-05:00

Hi Everyone,

A quick one today, but a goody.

First, check out my piece on Jewish Hardcore in Zeek (originally appeared in the print version, now available online).

Second, get your wallets ready for the release of "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's..." in paperback this April. The book will also appear in translation in Germany this October -- as will I (appear in Germany, that is, though not necessarily in translation).

Third, keep your calendars open for readings/concerts centered around my new insomnia anthology, "AWAKE: A Reader for the Sleepless."

These take place:

1.) Tuesday, Feb. 26 @ The Mercantile Library, NYC.

2.) Thursday, April 3 @ The Middle East, Cambridge, MA -- (Will also include avant-garde music similar to that at Atwood's Tavern [see my previous blog], lots of local readers, and [are you sitting down?] free beer from Pabst!)

3.) Sunday, April 13 @ The KGB, NYC.

More details on all of these -- as well as additional readings currently in the works -- soon.

Auf wiedersehen!

New Year's Revolutions

2008-01-01T12:39:00.001-05:00

New Years is here and the time is right for violent resolutions. So let it be resolved that henceforth and hereon I shall update you more regularly on the goings on in Jew Punk land – even when these aren't necessarily Jewish or Punk in nature.

On that note, let me tell you about a recent gig in which I took part that had as much to do with insomnia – and my new book AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless – as it did with PunkyJewsters like yourselves.

This event was a bit of a last minute affair, at least for me, but I’m happier than someone pleased-as-punch that I took part. It took place at Atwood’s Tavern, a wonderful mostly-free-music bar around the corner from my house, and it involved everything from 1930s turntables to clarinets to a guy reading from Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape via a cell phone for the audience.

In other words, it was a “happening” in the original sense of the word, and according to the planners, I could do anything that I wanted. I could get up and take the stage and read from AWAKE or The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB’s or most anything really, whenever and for however long I chose. Unfortunately, this posed certain problems for me. After all, I am something of a split personality when it comes to the avant-garde vs. the ancien regime. At once thoroughly supportive of innovation, I also am a bit of an indecisive, careful, far-from-impulsive sort. As a result, I was thrown back on my existential resources and suffering a crisis. Too many decisions. Yet another irony of the modern condition. What to do and when to do it and for what reason … it’s a bit of a torture chamber for those of us who might have enjoyed the days when the net was fixed and God was safely in his kingdom. I mean, if anything goes, why not read from the back of a cereal box at this happening? Why not intone in portentous tones the instructional manual for assembling a portable commode, “Socket A Goes Into Slot B” the first line in an epic poem for a new millennium, the one with the KYJ problem?

Yes, I’m a silly old-world modern man, torn between this place and that: The Village Green Preservation Society. Give me the option to do anything that I want and I freeze in place; at least initially. And yet, once things start happening, I happen right along with them. So here for you now is what happened at the happening.

As the noise collective played (“bass banjo,” AM radio, something that looked like a guitar) and the cell-phone Beckett gave pause, I took the stage and began riffing on insomnia in all its wondrous glory. Without at all intending it this way, a pitch-bright ironic tone emerged from my lips in that thin high Bob Dylan mode, the spittle-flecked microphone meeting my mercury-singed tongue with the words of wisdom of AWAKE’s contributors. Charles Simic, Matthew Rohrer, Lydia Lunch and Priscilla Becker. All gave the crowd the derangement of the senses that it needed. Yet it wasn’t until I fell onto the page of “modern surrealist” (how, I’ve heard, he hates that title) James Tate and his tale of an archaeological dig in his back yard, that the crowd really began to “groove” and the noise collective to gel and the gelatinous spotlights of post-bourbon pleasure to glow with the words and music and fire. Tate’s piece, at once comic, dark and lightly deep, brought laughter in the “ah ha” (as in funny strange AND funny ha ha because it’s TRUE) mode, and made me smile as the crowd laughed. “Now we’re getting there,” I thought. “Now we got our Hojo’s workin.”

And quick as an all-you-can-eat clam fry, I Hopped over to your favorite other book – yes, the Jew-Punk epic Heebie-Jeebies (henceforth and hereon known as HBJB’s) – and rendered unto the assembled multitude the message of the Blessed Un-Virgin Lenny, Patron Saint of Jew Punks everywhere, Mr. Bruce of his dirty talk and clean-ass ways, his un-hypocritical anger and rage at hypocrisy’s daze, his restless days and nights in the clubs of America, declaiming in comic tones a jeremiad that might have put even chaste Jeremiah to shame.

“In the beginning was the word and the word was fuck...”

And so forth and so on, you’ve been there my previous readers, and you’re going there, in a hand-basket, the rest of you, so hop on board and brace yourselves, it’s going to be a bumpy night.

Happy New Year to all and to all a good whatever.

La Revolution lives.

We’re going to sleep tight in the streets.

AWAKE! - Because insomnia isn't just for Christmas anymore!

2007-12-26T14:15:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I'm a bit of a fair-weather blogger, but here I am, back at ya, and this time I've got some real news.

Just three days ago, on December 21, my latest book was released. Why December 21? Because it's the Winter Solstice, meaning the longest night of the year - and since the book is about insomnia, well, what better way than to force it not so gently into that bad night?

“AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless” is for the insomniac in you or the one you love. It's not a dry how-to-sleep guide, though. No cures here. And no (well, almost no) advice. This is more an homage to the act of sleeplessness, an evocation of the surreal un-dreamtime between the darkest midnight and the gleaming wee hours, that time when everything seems to glow with a luminescent aqua-green AM clock radio gloaming. In other words, this is a place for the sleepless, a between-the-covers rather than between-the-sheets experience of wakefulness in all its various facets and meanings. From anguished to punch-drunk hysterical to just plain nuts (in the best sense) this is the book that Salvador Dali and Franz Kafka might have written had their work mated to cerate a literary lovechild. It's one helluvah collection if I say so myself. And, well, I'm saying it, so there!

Among those included in AWAKE are poets, writers, artists, bloggers, picker-uppers of found objects, stand-up comics, creators of commix and even a photographer slash Suicide Girl.

Here are some names (see how many you recognize for an exercize in feeling in-the-know): Charles Simic, Joyce Carol Oates, James Tate, Margaret Atwood, Franz Wright, Aimee Bender, Simon Armitage, Lydia Lunch, Steve Almond, Lynne Tillman, Jonathan Ames, Shannon Wheeler, Neal Pollack, Howard Cruse, Davy Rothbart, Louise Bourgeois, Cricket Suicide and Catie Lazarus, just to name a few.

Oh, should I mention that among the above there are Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award winters, as well as acclaimed young stars on the rise, leading artists of the 20th Century and legendary punk rockers?

No, of course I shouldn't. You knew that. You're obviously in-the-know.

So why not help your less cool friends become the same? Run-madly shrieking, waving your arms in the air-to your nearest bookstore and insist, loudly, angrily and repetitively that they get this damn book, now, NOW DAMN IT! Then, once they do, buy it and buy it again. Trust me, you'll feel better after you do. Hell, you might even be able to get your sorry self to sleep. Or at least you might help me do so. I mean, it's not easy making a living putting together these entertainments for you. It's damn hard work. And it pays almost didlley squat.

Then again, that's not why I do it. I do it for you, dear readers, you my friends out there in cyberland. Thank you for being such a wonderful wonderful crowd.

Happy holidays … and Rest In Peace!

sb

P.S. Oh yes, AWAKE! Is published by super-cool Soft Skull Press. www.softskull.com/

Going into AA

2007-11-21T13:28:00.001-05:00

No, not Alcoholics Anonymous – Ann Arbor, Michigan. Better known to the locals as A2 (as in A Squared). And, to be completely accurate, I'm not going, but have gone. And returned. I'm now in a 12-Step Recovery process.

Why? Well, here's the thing. While my hosts for the Jewish Book Festival – Fran and Irwin Martin and their U.M.-attending daughter Stacey – were wonderful beyond belief (free meals, gift baskets, and even a tour of town that included a walk by the spot where JFK publicly announced the formation of the Peace Corps), I can't say that the rest of AA was quite so welcoming.

As I approached the lectern (bema?) for my reading, I saw an audience full of flat-line (as in no smiles) faces. And that barely changed throughout. Seemed aside from a few who were nodding along and smiling, the rest were there either because they were part of the festival and would have thought it rude not to attend (though not to stare blankly) or they had been coerced into coming for extra credit by their very smart/hip professor (more on him to come) and so had no real interest in the event.

As I chatted on about sex on Nazi flags and rebellions against parents and swastika-mocking Jews in general, I saw the yawns of the young 'uns boldly exposed to my face and I began having flashbacks to my first year in grad school when I taught freshman composition. Now, in case you've never taught freshman comp, the first thing you need to know is it's basic. The second thing you need to know is it's attended by kids straight out of high school. And the third thing you need to know is that those kids are, almost to the person, only taking it because it's a required course. In other words, they're there because they've had an academic gun pointed at their heads.

As a result, they're pissed. Not at you necessarily, but at the process. And yet the process isn't there to attack. Just you. You're the one making them string sentences together. You're the one trying to get them to organize their thoughts. You're the one forcing them to think in the first place. They're hung over for god's sake. Why can't you just leave them alone!

So what they do is either hand in the lamest of lame essays ("my grandmother was great because she was nice. Nice like … well, nice. I just don't know how to describe it") or they sit there and yawn in your face – and sometimes they even put their heads down on their desks and go to sleep.

In a way, I can't blame them. Writing the traditional five-paragraph essay isn't exactly getting to wax poetic. But, hey, it wasn't like I was asking them to write about the Federal Reserve Bank or why Dust Is Drier Than Dirt. I was letting them talk about whatever they wanted. I guess they just weren't sure what that was. I mean, how can you talk anyway when your mouth is full of Pabst?

I can only guess that was the same situation at the AA reading. I mean, these were kids form an American Studies class. You would have thought an American Studies topic focused on punk rock might have slightly interested them. But it was the day after the MAJOR Big Ten game between UM and Ohio State, and as I saw the night before when I arrived and spent nearly an hour going a quarter of a mile in traffic, these folks take their football SERIOUSLY. Even the Martins couldn't stop talking about it. In fact, they were in mourning to a certain degree, U-Mich (sounds kind of Yiddish, doesn't it?) had lost and lost in a big way. As Fran repeated, "It's bad enough to lose, but it's really bad when your team doesn't bother to 'show up.'"

So there I was, going on about punk rock and Jews – two decidedly football-challenged areas – and there they were, yawning and shifting in their seats and making me want to say, "Hey, listen up! Lenny Bruce died for your sins!!"

By the time the Q&A rolled around, I was greatly relieved. Not too surprisingly, there were no questions from the kiddies. But, as I soon realized, there were from the organizer of the festival, a woman in a sensible dress who looked as if she'd just stepped in something unpleasant.

"You talk about the punks making fun of Nazis. Is that really something that we want with such a tragedy of enormous proportions?"

I explained that it wasn't necessarily something that we wanted, but that the punks weren't making fun of the Holocaust, they were making fun of the Nazis to underscore how laughably absurd they were. As I go into at great length in one chapter of my book, the "camp" response to oppression is a way of underscoring how ridiculous the oppressors are and so robbing them of their power. Much the same could be said of Jewish humor in general. It's a way of mocking the oppressors and satirizing their ridiculousness.

"It's like Mel Brooks did in the Springtime for Hitler portion of The Producers," I concluded, thinking that was that.

But I was wrong. Sensible-Dress had a few more choice words for her book festival's final author.

"Well, I didn't like it when Mel Brooks did it and I wrote him a letter telling him so."

So much for the fabled Jewish sense of humor. And so much for Ann Arbor. I'm not sure that I'll be visiting their environs again anytime soon. Or at least not their Jewish Community Center.

I can only guess Comrade Mel feels the same.

Oh, but wait. As promised, I wanted to tell you more about Bruce Conforth, the American Studies professor with whom I shared beers and a fascinating chat.

Not only did Bruce tell me about his own Jewish youth playing in bands in the Lower East Side between 1969 and 1980, he clued me into the fact that he had a pic of a certain punk superstar all dressed up in her high school prom dress. Now, I can't say exactly who this is, since Conforth's students are forever trying to figure out what band it was in which he played, but trust me, to see this punkster in her prom dress is something of an impossible dream for me. And yet, if Bruce lives up to his promise, he just may send me a scan of it. And if he doesn't mind, I'll share that scan with you. Oh my heart, be still.

Ok, enough for now. Thanks again to the Martins, Dr. Bruce and the folks who asked interesting and provocative questions about the book both during the reading and after. But to the students and certain organizers of the festival, I bid you a not exactly fond adieu. A bit cheesy to treat a guest who you have come to see like so much cheesy fondue.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I say to you, Gobble Gobble Hey,

New Band, New Books

2007-11-14T15:45:00.001-05:00

Hello Jewpunks!

Since last we spoke, much has happened. Just this weekend, I opened for a self-described "lesbian, transgender, Jewish punk band from Brooklyn" called The Shondes (Yiddish for "shame" in case you didn't know). They were great and they thought I was great and so mutual admiration is the order of the day and I think I'll have seconds. If you haven't seen The Shondes and you ever have the chance, check them out. They're a bit Sleater Kinney, a bit klezmer (dig that wild violin), a bit ... well, they're own damn thing. They're tighter than tight and their lead singer is possessed of an oh-my-god voice that carries not only power but the stab of sincerity. I can't say enough nice things about them. So, with that said, I'll now shut up.

Or, at least I'll shut up about The Shondes. In other news, I'm heading to Ann Arbor this weekend to appear at their Jewish Book Festival. I'm going to be doing the reading/discussing thing at the area Borders Books, Sunday Nov. 18, so if you're there and The Shondes aren't in town, come let your Jewpunk flag fly.

Otherwise, various pieces and tidbits are worthy of note:

1. The paperback edition of "Heebie-Jeebies" is now in the works. It should be out in April. In the meantime, be sure to pick up a copy (or 22) of the hardback version this Hanukkah/Christmas. They're sure to be collectors items (hah!) and they'll be the perfect gift for the Jew, punk or honorary Jew/punk in your life.

2. Of course, if you've already got your copy of Heebie-Jeebies and you've already bought plenty more for all your friends, there's another book with my name on it about to hit your local bookshop. It's called "AWAKE! A Reader for the Sleepless" and it's an anthology all about the subject of insomnia. I edited the damn thing, and if I say so myself, it's got some pretty fab stuff. There are stories by Jewboy Jonathan Ames ("Insomni-Whack" -- all about his masturbation solution to the curse of sleeplessness), more by Jewboy2 Steve Almond (a portrait of Lincoln as a sleepless seer on the Mississippi with Frederick Douglas), yet others by honorary Jewboys/girls Nicholas Montemarano ("Hello David Axelrod Superstar"), Aimee Bender (a great entry I simply can't describe here), Joyce Carol Oates (oy, she's busy) and that's just for starters. There are also poems, essays, comix, found pieces (compliments of FOUND magazine's Davy Rothbart), art and even some pics from Suicide Girl Cricket Suicide. Oh yeah, there's humor too. And an introduction by me. What's not to like?

3. As those who attended my recent reading/discussion at The Shondes show now know, I am officially announcing the formation of my new Jewish punk band, KIKE! Our first single is now in the works, and includes on the A Side, "Allen Ginsberg Up the Ass" ("I felt my face mashed like potato salad against the wall as Allen stuck his poetry up my ...") and on the B Side "(I Am) The Switzerland of Love." Both metaphorical explorations of various issues relevant to JewPunks like yourselves, they're also rocking numbers that will set your toes tapping as you hum them behind the four questions at your next Passover. They also will feature back-up singers The Kikettes (who will themselves be backed-up by The Shiksa Goddess Trio) and will include on drums my good pal and Schvartz Shabbat founder Steve Brykman (who may even play one of his Klezmerized Black Sabbath covers for your enjoyment). Oh yes, Brykman is also in the insomnia anthology, dispensing laughs in the same manner that he did w
hile serving as managing editor at National Lampoon.

4. If you would like to support KIKE! be sure to order your buttons and/or t-shirts ("I LIKE KIKE!") today. Just let me know if you're interested, and I'll give you some idea of the cost. It ain't much for the buttons, trust me. And they have the added benefit of calling to mind those campaign badges of our favorite Jewish president, Ike "Isaac" Eisenhower.

till next time,

Calling all Jew-Punks!

2007-09-25T07:50:00.001-04:00

Hello my Jew-Punk brethern (both Jewish and not),

In the spirit of the age (the Bronze Age, in computer terms), I'm now offiicially launching my blog. In "Blogga Blogga Hey," I will update you on all the latest in the world of Jewish Punk, both old and new. I'll also be filling you in on some of the behind-the-scenes details in the creation of my book "The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB's: A Secret History of Jewish Punk." While I don't want to give away too much here, suffice it to say that there was LOTS of stuff that I couldn't include in my book, though it was definitely of interest. In coming posts, read about my bagel and lox with Joey Ramone's mom, the death threats I've received from Richard Hell, and my upcoming appearances at Jewish Book Festivals around the country (the next being in Washington D.C. on Oct. 9). I'll also be posting videos of panel discussions, excerpts from interviews, and other tasty tidbits (like my own personal best of rock songs about masturbation, a dream compilation I call "Beat the Meatles").

In the meantime, here's a recent article about the passing of Hilly Kristal that I wrote for Jewcy.

http://www.jewcy.com/feature/2007-09-07/the_moses_of_punk

Hope you enjoy. And happy belated new year.

Gabba gabba etc,

Watch for them at a bookstore near you!

2007-09-06T10:02:00.001-04:00

They're called Lucky the Wonderduck. Greatest punk band that never was.