Who I buried in 2011

• Don Kirshner, Brill Building-era music publisher, TV host
• Roger Nichols, sound engineer for Steely Dan
• Gil Scott-Heron
• Clarence Clemons
• Amy Winehouse
• Nick Ashford
• Frank Dileo, Michael Jackson’s manager
• Jimmy Norman, songwriter who fought for credit on “Time Is on My Side”

You're still someone if Steve Jobs never called you at 3 a.m.

I was just sitting at home late one night, counting my money, when the phone rang. "It's Steve. That column you wrote was a piece of crap. Here are my ideas for the next iPod, iPad, manned space station and cure for AIDS. I am telling you all of this because this is what I do. I'm Steve Jobs, and I reveal myself in mysterious ways, especially when I confide in you. Now here is my plan for conquering Hollywood."

That never happened to me, of course. Like millions of others, my closest contact with Steve Jobs was in watching Apple's carefully choreographed video feeds, and through reading his endearingly curt, deus ex machina messages to customers on emailsfromstevejobs.com. ("Yep." "Nope.")

But in all the coverage of Jobs's death — a couple pieces of which I have been responsible for — you get the sense that everybody else in business or journalism had some kind of special lifeline to the great man, randomly accessed but always deeply meaningful. Writers of all kinds recalled Jobs phoning at odd hours with specific reactions to their pieces, underscoring the significance of their work. TV personalities dangled meaningless connections. Business leaders beamed about the abuse and cajoling they regularly got from him; like groupies recounting their encounters years later, they always eagerly gave in.

Many of these connections were surely real. Jobs did of course have a habit of calling some key journalists, like Walt Mossberg. But make no mistake: there are very, very few Walt Mossbergs out there. It reminds me of something my esteemed former colleague Bernard Holland once wrote about the many spurious claims of familiarity after the death of Glenn Gould, another famously private and irascible personality:

In death, Gould came to life. Music business operatives appeared suddenly and in hordes, claiming hitherto unnoticed intimacy with the great man and eager to share their experiences in articles, interviews and books. It was amazing how many had known Gould so well, spent so many hours exchanging deep thoughts during marathon middle-of-the-night phone calls to area code 416.

So take those stories of late-night calls from Jobs with a grain of salt.

Who I buried in 2010

• Willie Mitchell
• Jay Reatard
• Kate McGarrigle
• Doug Fieger of the Knack
• Mark Linkous, a.k.a. Sparklehorse
• Jim Marshall
• Pete Quaife of the Kinks
• Tuli Kupferberg
• Solomon Burke
• Teena Marie

It will also always be sad to me that on Christmas day last year I excused myself from my family dinner to write Vic Chesnutt’s obituary.

Press release of the day: Rhino Remembers Dio

Quite touching, actually:

R.I.P. Ronnie James Dio

The Rhino family is deeply saddened to hear about the passing of Ronnie James Dio. As a member of Elf, Rainbow, Black Sabbath, Dio, and Heaven & Hell, Ronnie was truly a pioneer in rock ’n’ roll, with one of the most powerful voices in the history of music.

Ronnie had a nearly 50-year relationship with the Warner Music Group family, from one of his first singles on Atlantic in 1962 to his platinum albums with Black Sabbath and Dio on Warner Bros. Records up to his final release with Heaven & Hell last year on Rhino.

Not only was Ronnie a true legend in rock ’n’ roll, but he was also a sincere, gracious man that we were proud to call a friend. One of our favorite memories from Ronnie’s many visits to the Rhino offices was the time he personally went from office to office to thank people individually for all the hard work they had been doing on his behalf — a truly sincere gesture that demonstrates what a generous, caring person he was. Today we take the time to celebrate his life and music.

Ronnie, your Rhino family is raising our horns up for you today. We know that is the way you would have wanted it.

My Dio obit here.

Epitaph

Playing Grim Reaper

It can be weird. Yesterday I wrote an obit for Bess Lomax Hawes, daughter of John A. Lomax and sister of Alan, herself a folklorist as well as a performer. She was in the Almanac Singers with Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie, and co-wrote “M.T.A.” (a.k.a. “Charlie on the M.T.A.”), a hit for the Kingston Trio that became the semi-official theme song of the Boston T.

After writing it, I was told that I had now buried two people in the above photo, which shows the Almanacs circa 1942: five years ago I did Sis Cunningham (at right, on accordion; Bess is on guitar). Until I was reminded of this by the amazing Jeff Roth, I had no memory of it whatsoever. Most people in that picture are now dead. From left to right: Guthrie, died 1967; Millard Lampell, died 1997; Bess; Seeger, alive and kicking; Arthur Stern, status unknown; and Cunningham, died 2004.

It’s as much an honor to have done this as it is somewhat creepy, and it’s also one of those you-ain’t-a-kid-yourself-anymore moments. Last year around this time I realized that I had obited two-thirds of the Jimi Hendrix Experience. So watch out, Michael Rother.

Dirty Orchjectors, and Chuck Biscuits update

Dirty Projectors has become the umpteenth touted, smart, beloved, but not huge-selling alt band to do the indie-orchestral thing, playing with the Los Angeles Philharmonic on Feb. 27.

It was probably inevitable. They follow Death Cab for Cutie, M83, Grizzly Bear, the Decemberists, Belle & Sebasitan, Air and Bright Eyes, all at the L.A. Phil; Joanna Newsom and, again, Grizzly Bear, both with the Brooklyn Phil; and Ben Folds with the Boston Pops. UPDATE: Even as I typed, Grizzly Bear was doing yet another orchestral gig, in London.

I didn’t expect when I got up this morning that I would be giving thanks to Henry Rollins. But thanks, Henry, for never singing “T.V. Party” with the Boston Phil at Tanglewood.

In other sorta Rollins-related news, it appears all but certain that Chuck Biscuits is alive and that his death was a hoax. Read more about it, if you’re not already too disgusted and offended by the whole thing.

Chuck Biscuits, RIP?

Very sad news, just in from The Daily Swarm:

Legendary hard rock drummer Chuck Biscuits, whose lengthy résumé included stints in such flagship underground acts as Black Flag and Social Distortion, died Saturday after a prolonged battle with throat cancer. He was 44… Chuck Biscuits was probably best known to the general populous for his work with Danzig. Beginning in 1988, Chuck played on that group’s first four albums, which are often hailed as Danzig’s best (thanks in no small part to Chuck’s powerful drumming style).

UPDATE: It's unclear whether this is actually true. James Greene Jr., the writer who first reported this, based on emails from someone claiming to be Chuck's wife, says that he has been contacted by family members, who deny it, but in an email to me he said he's still trying to verify it.

CMJ, MJ, obits

I’m covering CMJ like a chicken with his head tweeted off, including the four-word reviews that in the past people seem to have liked, though I haven’t done in a while.

The reason last night was my first out for CMJ instead of Tuesday: my report today on the Michael Jackson movie.

In other news: Alberto Testa, the Italian lyricist who wrote “Quando Quando Quando,” died on Monday at age 82. (Made famous in the U.S. by Pat Boone, in translation; Connie Francis did it in Italian.)

This follows news of the death of singer Carli Boni a few days ago, at 84. She did a lovely Italian version of “Johnny Guitar.”

Flea: ‘I felt profoundly validated to be accepted by Brendan Mullen’

Weird to be mentioning Flea — and to be writing about death — for a second time in two weeks, but today in the LA Times he has a nice remembrance of Brendan Mullen, the LA punk godfather who died on Monday.

Randy Lewis and Chris Morris also wrote respectful obits of Mullen, who co-wrote the oral history We Got the Neutron Bomb.

New York mourns Suzanne Fiol

Suzanne Fiol, who founded Issue Project Room, died this week, and there has been an extraordinary outpouring of affection and support, for both her and Issue. Considering the place that Issue has carved out for itself, it’s hard to believe that it opened only six years ago — and has been in three spaces since then, in two boroughs. (The Stone is only two years younger.)

Zach Baron at the Village Voice, Christopher McIntyre at New Music Box, Glenn Kenny (“Issue was a completely fucking awesome joint”), Matana Roberts (who is artist in residence this fall), Alex Ross, Vice, Edwin Torres (“Suzanne infused her fierce belief in experimental culture as a spark for artists to bring change into the world”), Kurt Gottschalk, the Brooklyn Paper (Lee Ranaldo: “She was a whirlwind of ideas and energy”) and Feast of Music (“Suzanne was equal parts den mother and junkyard dog”) all wrote touchingly about her.

Marty Markowitz, who gave Issue the $1.1 million loan grant that will allow it to renovate and occupy its amazing new space at 110 Livingston Street in Brooklyn, made a statement, and the Daily Swarm collected a wave of Twitter comments.

Fiol died of cancer, and she was disarmingly frank about it. When I interviewed her a few months ago about the Markowitz grant, the first thing she said was: “I have brain cancer, so if I freeze up in the middle of saying something just give me a minute.” She spoke enthusiastically about all the things she wanted to do at the new space, including a library or archive, even though I think it was clear to her and everyone at Issue that her illness was terminal. That was nothing, though. One person I spoke to when writing her obituary said that just a few weeks ago she had taken him out to the Standard Hotel to talk about fundraising and “drank me under the table.”

She got her start in the gallery world, and was an accomplished photographer. Among the shots you may have seen are the cover of Marc Ribot’s 2001 album Saints (left). Marc — who was one of the very first performers at Issue, with his Frantz Casseus project — told me that the ghostly/angelic figure in it is Suzanne’s daughter, Sarah, who I’m told is an artist too.

To mourn a carp

Until tonight I hadn’t gotten a chance to read this week’s Economist because on Friday, when it usually arrives, I left town for a much-needed weekend pastoral. But when I opened it up in my kitchen and flipped to my favorite section — the obituary — I saw that the eulogy this week is devoted to Benson, “England’s best-loved fish,” which died on July 29, “aged about 25.”

Benson was a carp, a female. And apparently so lovely a specimen of piscine femininity was she that the Economist rhapsodized her in its most honeyed and reverent language:

In her glory days she reminded some of Marilyn Monroe, others of Raquel Welch. She was lither than either as she cruised through the water-weed, a lazy twist of gold. Her gleaming scales, said one fan, were as perfect as if they had been painted on. Some wag had named her after a small black hole in her dorsal fin which looked, to him, like a cigarette burn. It was as beautiful and distinctive as a mole on an 18th-century belle.

Benson was a, um, full-figured fish. “At her peak weight, in 2006, she was 64 lb 2 oz.” I don’t know what that means in terms of carp BMI, but I take the magazine’s word that it was hefty. Poor Benson’s luxurious tastes may have been what ultimately did her in, as the obituary submits in its closing flourish:

She was said to have taken a bait of uncooked tiger nuts, which swelled inside her until she floated upwards. Telltale empty paper bags were found on the bank of the river. Or she may have been pregnant, with 300,000 eggs causing complications, or stressed after so much catching and releasing, those constant brushes with extinction. On the line between life and death, at Kingfisher Lake, she breathed the fatal air and did not sink again. And there she lay, like Wisdom drawn up from the deep: as golden, and as quiet.

Two years ago the Economist famously ran an obit of a parrot named Alex.

Oxford Collapse collapses

“After eight years, 450 shows, and four albums, we’ve decided that we’ve reached the end of the line,” the band says, via Sub Pop. (Which I saw via Stereogum.) I’ve liked them, and am sorry to see them go.

Their last shows are right here in New York (and Hoboken). Gotta love the fuhgeddaboudit service info for the second one:

Friday, July 17th
Maxwell’s (early show) (SOLD OUT)
Hoboken, NJ
w/Frightened Rabbit

Saturday, July 18th
Under the Tracks
508 W. 25th Street
New York, NY
w/CaUSE co-MOTION!, The Beets, Rape Excape
Starts at 9pm, won’t cost too much
(Don’t worry about advance tix—this place is huge!)

Ali Akbar Khan, RIP

In case you missed the obits over the weekend, Ali Akbar Khan, the great sarod player, who along with Ravi Shankar (his brother-in-law) was one of the foremost ambassadors of Indian music to the West, died on Thursday at age 87. I saw him live only once, at Lincoln Center in August 2000, and I still often think of it as one of the few times a big outdoor concert has really transported me.

Khan’s life had a heroic, old-world sweep that may not be possible anymore. Born in what is now Bangladesh, he started as a court musician — yes, like Haydn — and then got into the movie business and parachuted into New York. From William Grimes’s obit:

Defying his father, Mr. Khan moved to Bombay and began writing scores for films, including Chetan Anand’s “Aandhiyan” (1952), Satyajit Ray’s “Devi” (1960) and Tapan Sinha’s “Hungry Stones” (1960). His father, a friend of the director of “Hungry Stones,” went to see the film and said: “My goodness, who composed the music? He is great.” On being informed that it was his son, the elder Khan sent a telegram of forgiveness....

Intent on exposing Westerners to Asian music, [Yehudi] Menuhin brought Mr. Khan to New York in 1955 for a performance at the Museum of Modern Art, where Mr. Khan made what is believed to be the first long-playing record of Indian classical music in the United States, “Music of India: Morning and Evening Ragas,” for Angel. He scored another first when he performed on Alistair Cooke’s television program “Omnibus.”

In this day and age it’s not terribly easy to find Ali Akbar Khan records. There are no longer many record stores large or good enough to stock an Indian section with more than the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack, so you’re down to Jackson Heights or the long digital tail. Amazon has a decent selection, but Khan’s iTunes page is a rare ripoff: There are dozens of $9.99 “albums,” each featuring a single 20-minute raga.

eMusic is a little better, and even with their big price jump it’ll only cost you 40 cents or so per track. Both iTunes and eMusic sell this excellent album of mid-1960s recordings, which I’ve been enjoying for years.

RIP Japanese rocker Kiyoshiro Imawano

Billboard reports:

Japanese rocker Kiyoshiro Imawano, leader of the groundbreaking band RC Succession and later a solo act, has died in Tokyo at 58.

RC Succession started as a Ventures cover band in 1966 but moved on to be one of the leading rock bands in Japan with their 1972 hit record "Shoki no RC Succession." From that time the act was a staple of the Japanese rock scene and they also received international attention. In 1982 RC Succession took part in the high-profile "The Day of R&B" festival at which Chuck Berry headlined.

Unusual for Japan, Imawano was active politically and recorded anti-nuclear tracks as well as spoke out against war and for Tibetan freedom.

In his later years Imawano performed under his own name and was a favorite at the industry-leading Fuji Rock Festival. He appeared at the festival, which started in 1997, in 1998, 1999, 2002, 2004 and 2005. He was scheduled to appear in 2006 but was diagnosed with throat cancer and was forced to cancel.

Imawano succumbed to lymphatic cancer early Saturday morning.

You can see some of his Mick Jagger-style moves in this 1983 video. (Also look out for the priceless air windmills).

And here he punks it up:

‘Heaven Must Have Sent You’

RIP Uriel Jones of the Funk Brothers. I don’t know if he’s even playing on this track — a mostly instrumental version of a minor 1966 hit by the Elgins — but it’s a perfect example of what Motown was all about.

Blender pops

I’m very saddened to learn that Blender magazine is ceasing publication, effective immediately, according to the very reliable Nat Ives at Ad Age.

The music magazine ranks have been thinned in the past year or so, but this is a major blow. They did great work, kept the other mags on their toes, and in the five or six years I’ve been contributing I wrote a lot of pieces I’m proud of, thanks to ace editors Rob Tannenbaum and Craig Marks.

Paid subscriptions at the end of last year were 768,000, down 8 percent from the year before, according to Ad Age, while newsstand sell-through, the number that the bean-counters pay most attention to, was down 18 percent, at 44,000.

RIP. And, ahem, let’s hope that Alpha Media Group makes good on those freelance debts.

Philip José Farmer, RIP

Philip José Farmer, a science fiction writer who shocked readers in the 1950s by depicting sex with aliens and who went on to challenge conventional pieties of the genre in caustic fables set on bizarre worlds of his own devising, died Wednesday. He was 91 and lived in Peoria, Ill.

[...]

In his Riverworld series Mr. Farmer imagined a river millions of miles long on a distant planet where virtually everyone who has died on Earth is physically reborn and given a second chance to make something of life. In his Dayworld series, Earth’s overpopulation crisis has been relieved by a technical fix; each person spends one day of the week awake and the other six days in suspended animation. In his World of Tiers series, mad demigods create pocket universes for their own amusement, only to face rebellion from their putative creatures.

In a genre known for prolific writers, Mr. Farmer’s output was famously prodigious. At one point in the 1970s he had 11 different series in various stages of completion. Even some of his admirers deplored his tendency to write too much too fast. The literary critic Leslie Fiedler agreed that his work was sometimes “sloppily” written but found that that was a small price to pay for the exhilarating breadth of his imagination.

Mr. Farmer himself made no apologies for his excesses. “Imagination,” he said, “is like a muscle. I found out that the more I wrote, the bigger it got.” (NYT)

Any Riverworld or Venus on the Half-Shell fans?

Sam McPheeters on Updike

I still haven’t made my way through all the tributes to John Updike in the New Yorker, let alone everywhere else, but one of the more interesting ones I’ve come across is by Sam McPheeters, of Born Against/Men’s Recovery Project/Dear Jesus/Vermiform/Montel Williams/punk/art/etc. fame. It’s here on his blog, which I recently discovered and have been enjoying. (Although somehow I miss the good old fashioned clip art.)

This part stopped me:

I’m guessing that most writers who read Updike’s books cannot help but be spooked by his depth of field, and/or absurdly prolific output. His fiction and non-fiction [...] hold, for me, the same unnerving quality as Bruce Lee action sequences, or certain Queen songs, or footage from the Mars rovers; all share a precision that seems beyond the reach of humans. At his best, his fiction felt like reportage from an existing reality. I sometimes had the impression he was toying with his readers, dumbing down, and would occasionally open up his internal throttle only for his own amusement.

Somewhere I still have the handwritten Vermiform mail-order note from Sam, in which he answered my question by saying something like “Born Against broke up [he gave the exact date here] because of us sucking.”

Estelle

More on the sad life of Estelle Bennett of the Ronettes (center, above), who died last week at 67.