Román Leão

Tag: rock-music

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: A Prisoner at the Palace (Pt. 2) [ficção]

    With Shane’s solid presence gone from the scene, the concrete bunker seemed to close in on the pair left alone for the first time since they left the airport.

    “So…” Rosenda began before being cut off by a recalcitrant Cole.

    “Look,” the fallen star looked down at his bare feet, “I’ve been a right twit, and I’m sorry. For everything.”

    “No, it’s all right,” Rosenda sought to diffuse whatever heartfelt confession was coming her way. If pressed, she actually preferred her musicians to be unrepentant messes. If Cole was going to start blubbering on about how he grew up playing in bomb sites and the like, she may have to pitch him into the lagoon herself. Everybody had their own bombsites to navigate, and it was by living vicariously through free spirits like Cole that made them feel as if there just may be a way out.

    “I can’t do this anymore.”

    “PCP? I think that’s probably a good idea,” Rosenda offered.

    Cole chuckled in spite of being in some sort of obvious torment.

    “No, not PCP, although, come to think of it, that has just made the list. I mean this, all of this. The whole business of fame and art and bullshit.” Cole sat down on an overturned five-gallon bucket and stared at his hands.

    “Come on, Lucious,” Rosenda sought to snap the man out of his funk before she had to slap him. “You’ve got it made. So many people would kill to be in your position. Albert King is opening for you tomorrow night. Albert fucking King!”

    “My position? Do you have any idea what my position costs a person? Did you know I had a wife and a kid?” Cole asked.

    Rosenda was shocked, knowing—and even somewhat admiring—Cole’s roguish rap sheet. “No, I guess I didn’t,” she began.

    “You wouldn’t,” Cole explained. “A beautiful little daughter. It doesn’t fit the profile does it? The thing is, I bought the hype and became this “Lucious Cole’ wanker. The wife packed up their stuff and left one night when I was out doing God knows what. And that was that.”

    “I’m sure that she still cares…”

    “No. That was that,” Cole rued. “I’ve been told by her South London gangster brothers that if I so much as phone, I’m a dead man, and I am predisposed to believe them. Sometimes I wish I was a dead man.”

    “Come on, Lucious!” Rosenda exploded. “Get your act together, man. So your old lady ran off with your kid, do you think that’s the worst story you could hear within a block’s radius of this building? Let alone in this city? Jesus. You have a gift that helps people forget all the shitty things that have happened to them. Maybe just three minutes at a time, maybe for a few hours; but man, that’s magic. Can’t you see that?”

    “How can I help others forget when I can’t even help myself?” Cole answered her indignation with a primal wail. “I didn’t sign up to be their fucking psychiatrist. I certainly didn’t sign up to be anybody’s priest. Why do you think I stumble around this shitty planet high out of my mind? I can’t bear being left to my own thoughts. Do you know what that’s like?”

    “No,” Rosenda conceded, starting to feel a little empathy toward the man she had primarily seen as a cartoon rock star. “I guess I don’t.”

    “God bless you, then,” Cole offered, more than a little jealousy creeping into his voice. “I hope you never learn.”

    He began to sing in a mournful tenor, the sound filling the hollow concrete chamber and reverberating until the air was wholly suffused with his song. “The wind doth blow today, my love, and a few small drops of rain; I never had but one true-love, in cold grave she was lain.”

    “That’s beautiful, Cole,” Rosenda whispered as the last word hung in the air, a catch in her quiet voice. “Is that one of yours?”

    “I wish,” Cole gave a sad snort. “No, love, that song is older than this here fair city.”

    “What’s it called?”

    “The Unquiet Grave.”
     

    The damp cold followed Shane under the colonnade as he returned carrying a bag of ice and a twelve pack of Olympia, which he promptly dropped when he saw Rosenda tied to a wooden chair in the middle of the room. Several bottles shattered when they hit the floor and cold beer seeped out of the carton and began to pool on the fresh concrete.

    “What the fook ’appened?” His secondhand accent surfaced as Shane rushed to untie the woman. “Where the hell’s the English?”

    Rosenda had been crying, and Shane naturally thought that it was either from the non-consensual bondage or the thought of what Avidan was going to say when he found out that his star had flown the coop.

    “Don’t worry, Karoline,” he tried to soothe her, “we’ll get ’im back. They aren’t too many places to hide in this town that I don’t know about.”

    “Forget it, Bear,” she sighed, looking up at him as he worked to undo Cole’s rope work. “He’s gone.”

    Follow the story:
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Serafina’s Gift
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 1
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Kumalo 1
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Karoline Rosenda 1
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Meets The Stick
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Ride a Painted Pony
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Fadeout (Rock Hound Magazine, 1970)
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Tibetan Bells & a Bird from Hell
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Enrique Bravocado 1

    Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Khumalo 2
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Karoline Rosenda 2
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Enrique Bravocado 2
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Don’t Poke the Bear (Pt. 1)
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Don’t Poke the Bear (Pt. 2)
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 2
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Khumalo 3
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 3
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Chae Burton 1
    Kingdoms of the Radio: Enrique Bravocado 3
    Kingdoms of the Radio: A Prisoner at the Palace (Pt. 1)

  • Put on This Record: Astral Weeks Live at the Hollywood Bowl—Van Morrison [2009]

    On the list of things I never thought I’d see (or hear), Van Morrison revisiting his seminal 1968 album, Astral Weeks, has lived at the top of the leaderboard for more years than I’d care to count.

    Over the years, the Man has developed a thick-skinned persona that holds stardom and the chasing of an easy buck at a disdainful arm’s length. He is not going to be your trained monkey, no matter how badly you might want it. You want another Moondance? Bollocks. I wouldn’t presume to ask Morrison to look backward any more than I’d ask for his autograph while getting ice cream at Fusco’s.

    However, a closer read of his journey reveals threads that tie disparate pieces of his career together, an ever-present turning toward certain tropes: the streets of Belfast, the green hills and mountain streams of an Irish dream state, a town called Paradise; it all weaves together to create one of the richest imaginary tapestries of any artist living or dead.

    Morrison has said he has always wanted to properly record this group of songs with a string section—the way he heard it in his head back in ’68. Right off the top, the violin prominently featured on the lead track, Astral Weeks, adds to the sonorous gravitas of the original.

    The master’s voice has deepened with age and has taken on more of the characteristics of a band instrument—at times honking like a tenor sax, at others, vibrating and humming low like a cello cradled between the legs of a ginger lass, or more appropriately, an aging Dublin transvestite.

    Which leads me to the most striking difference between the original album and the new performance: the sequence. Morrison has shifted around the order of songs, which fits the dream-like nature of the record. Astral Weeks always struck me as ephemeral, the more you tried to grab it on to it and put it in a box, the more likely it was to turn to smoke.

    To me, the two final songs after Madame George always felt like a coda, or a post-coital afterglow. In any case, coming right after such a masterful vision of humanity at its most exposed and fragile, they weren’t exactly in the best light to be recognized as the subtle masterpieces that they are.

    Slim Slow Slider and Ballerina are recast here as shamanistic trance state-inducing chants guiding the listener toward the heavy hitters of Sweet Thing and Madame George respectively and the state of bliss that Astral Weeks always promised.

    I’m not going to ruin the surprise of all of the little tweaks and changes that Morrison has made to these songs. The hungry 22-year-old singer-songwriter had become a 62-year-old veteran by this time, and some perspective was bound to creep in.

    Half the fun of diving into the updated versions is comparing them to old mental tapes earned from spinning the original record hundreds, or possibly thousands, of times over the years.

    It’s rare for an artist to fully grasp what a particular work means to its admirers—to be able to put his or herself outside a personal memory of the process and see what others see, hear what others hear. I’ve read interviews in which Morrison claimed to not know where these songs came from, and listening to these fresh interpretations, I tend to believe him.