2-16-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job # 44 (Corrections! My Memory Might Falter -- But My Instincts Are Intact)

Dianne Athey gave me some input after my C. Hynde/Pretenders blog. She (kindly) pointed out that Nervus Rex did indeed open for the Pretenders: at Maxwell’s in Hoboken and at the Ritz in NYC. I imagine those places were packed. . . I don’t know how I toughed it out, as I have an aversion to crowds & crowded places.

Maybe that’s why being onstage -- and backstage -- is bearable. You’re not in the crowd, that way! I’m not a tall person, and too much humanity is just too much, dig?

Another thing: it seems that some people have an exaggerated opinion of themselves, and others -- like me -- do the reverse and downplay. I’m hoping to not be boastful, ever, but be “truthin’” on the whole. Always trying to learn how to toot my horn without blowing it. Anyway, yup, we did play on two bills with The Pretenders back in the day!

I’m gonna look for that silly cartoon that Chrissie did of “the Rex” -- you could tell she had a fondness for Dianne & Jon from the way she portrayed them, a tone one step beyond teasing. Shawn and I got off lucky, considering!

(One more thing: Jon Gildersleeve taught me a very valuable thing when I was in my early twenties. I’d arrive late to something he or the band was a part of and start apologizing and making excuses. From the git-go, he cut me off, saying, “Don’t be sorry, just BE THERE. Don’t give me excuses, just BE THERE or don’t be there. No excuses.” Or something along those lines. It made an impression AND it me a much more credible, reliable grown-up to not keep prattling on with babyish explanations and excuses! Thanks, Jonathan . . .wherever you are. . .)

2-15-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #43 (More Youthful Brushes with Greatness: Chrissie Hynde)

In Nervus Rex and in real life, Dianne Athey was tall and gorgeous, and had a lot of class (still is and does!). She grew up in Akron, Ohio and had a best friend who moved to England, did some rock writing, started a band, wrote songs, sang with devilish vibrato, and rocked harder than any other “chick” (Joan Jett excepted?).

Chrissie Hynde was Dianne’s best friend. And being D’s boyfriend for several years, Jonathan Gildersleeve was also a friend of “C. Hynde,” as he called her (Dianne always called her “Chrissie”). Both Dianne and Jon were ecstatic when The Pretenders hit the charts in 1979. We were in Los Angeles at the time as Nervus Rex, recording our debut LP with good ol’ Mike Chapman, producing.

We’d drive around in rented cars, singing along to Chrissie Hynde’s amazing voice on “Stop Your Sobbing,” “Kid,” and “Brass in Pocket.” That voice -- along with that tough, rockin’ attitude. Whoo hoo! We loved her and the amazing Pretenders.

So, once back in NYC months later, maybe in early 1980, The Pretenders -- and C. Hynde, of course -- came to town. Dianne asked her to come to one of our gigs (was it at Maxwell’s in Hoboken?) and since The Pretenders were so big, we didn’t get to open for them (unless I’m not remembering accurately -- which happens!). But Chrissie came to one of our shows, and made a drawing of her impressions of our band, Nervus Rex.

I’ll find it and scan and include in blogspot soon. . . it’s a cartoonish riot!

Anyway. Dianne and Chrissie had a very close friendship, and since I was also a friend of Dianne’s (and in her band!) she invited me along to hang out with her & Chrissie at D’s London Terrace apartment on West 23^rd Street (just a few blocks from the Chelsea Hotel, where Chrissie most likely stayed, at least, where she theoretically belonged!)

In February, 1979, Sid Vicious (Chrissie’s friend) died. His girlfriend was killed at the Chelsea Hotel, and Sid was being held as suspect. Anyway, in light of that grisly memory, perhaps the Chelsea wasn’t a shoo-in (the Gramercy Park hotel was also a music biz hotel, so maybe The Pretenders stayed there?).

Anyway, maybe Dianne remembers these details.

So I was sitting on the carpeted floor of Dianne’s beautiful one-bedroom/semi studio apartment that night with two older, wiser, very cool “rock chicks.” I did a lot of listening, I’m sure, and threw out whatever witty remarks I could muster. We laughed a lot. Chrissie had recently started dating “Ray” (Davies) and they were in a tempestuous romance. I’m sure that heavy drinking had a lot to do with it -- Chrissie and Dianne drank a whole bunch of wine, and I’m sure I stuck to other stuff (like coffee, diet soda, whatever).

Chrissie: skinny, sexy, scrappy, kinda cranky, quick-tempered, brusque, outspoken, dark-humored, cool. Likable, in a smart, rockin’, tough girl way.

At one point, I had told Dianne & Chrissie about my ambition to move to London, England, and write songs -- I guess in a way, similar, to Chrissie’s story. I just felt so out of it in the U.S.A., and I hated the political climate. . . I needed to find out where I belonged in the world, and NYC just wasn’t cutting it. I always WAS an Anglophile. . .

“All right, go ahead. Move to England. Sure, you move to England. Good luck.” I couldn’t tell if C. Hynde was being ironic or sarcastic. . . but looking back, she probably was. She didn’t tell me to look her up or anything. . . not that I would have presumed at the time, but if it’d happened NOW, you can be sure I would have contacted her!

Oh well. I was just so young, optimistic, and humble. But I truly, naively believed things would be great in London. . . a place of destiny for me, I thought. But to no two singers the same fate befells. . .

2-14-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #(Post-Valentine’s Day Blues & More Brushes with Greatness -- Almost)

Last blog, I dangled the promise of writing about Chrissie Hynde, or “C. Hynde,” as Jon Gildersleeve was wont to call her.

I never renege on a promise (which can be its own albatross, betimes), so in due course I will spill the beans on C. Hynde & her indelible effect on the weird trajectory of my life.

First, I want to get this Valentine’s Day thing off my weary chest: in my opinion, as a concept, it’s a cute notion -- to celebrate romantic love and all its trappings, especially chocolate, kisses, and champagne. Yes, it’s an overly commercialized holiday and one designed to make money for some (luxury item merchants, florists, chocolatiers, restaurateurs, card shops, musicians), and what’s wrong with that? We’re in America, so come on!

But in my personal experience, this hearts-and-flowers holiday has been kind of overrated. The expectations were always too high, and things always went tragicomically asunder that day when in a rocky relationship. And, come to think of it, maybe half my life my romantic relationships were rocky; the conflict-ridden ones are the only ones worth mention in print because otherwise, it’s just boringly “nice” and what fun is that to hear about?

Looking back (sigh), I realize I had a lot of anger and independence in me. Instead of walking slowly, hand in hand, quietly musing or laughing, I’d be quick to walk ahead, quick to anger, and quick to take offense, imagined or no. Even my keen sense of humor didn’t save me at times from my inner demon(s).

OK, so if you got a cookbook from your boyfriend of three years called “Single Servings: Cooking for One,” would that infuriate you & hurt your feelings, deeply? Especially after nobody said, “Hey, Single Servings -- isn’t that funny? Ha ha ha!” to show that it was a joke?

And how about the time I got a roomful of red roses and lavender lilacs, and several big, sappy cards -- only to be called up at three in the morning from that same guy, in a strip club, getting loaded with lapdancers?

I rest my case. So early in life, many was the time I’d flinch when the Valentine’s Day holiday came up. My mom and sister always sent me Valentine’s Cards, back in the day (and to this day, my true blue boyfriends always would, & my husband always does remember to sign & send a card that’s appropriately humorous or schmaltzy. . . )

Being taken out for a nice dinner, drinking champagne, and eating chocolate is great (in moderation), but as I was anorexic for quite some time, that was nigh impossible. So hey, call me lil’ Ms. Crankypants. . . and yes, I’ve mellowed out considerably, since.

My husband calls life with me “An Adventure” -- and I’m much more cuddly, much sweeter, now *-)

And -- I didn’t marry until I was 50. So now, Valentine’s is just fine, thank you. Nowadays, on that day, I go out and make as much money as possible -- and celebrate romantic love on a less commercial, crowded night!

Now that I’ve gone on and punctured myths about romantic love -- on to Chrissie Hynde! You’ve waited patiently enough. . .

2-13-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #41 (Nervus Rex’s First Recording Session & Our Growing Pains. . . )

Being that I’m a daring gal if nothing else (“too headstrong to learn the piano from me,” as my mother hmphed more than once), I’ll plow right through and recollect about some of the early N Rx experiences and growing pains.

(Of course I’ve been writing these blogs out of sequence -- they’re not paying me to be an editor and/or do a chronological blog -- and really, do we care??!!)

As before stated, our first drummer, Miriam, left the band to be with Billy Miller and become a Zantee and co-founder of Norton Records. Our then-bassist, Lewis Eklund, worked somewhere like a music store (if he’s out there or Shawn remembers, let me know where) he knew a slightly older guy who played drums by the name of Jonathan Gildersleeve.

Yes, I’m pretty sure we got Jon G. in the band because of Lewis Eklund. So we met with this guy, Jon, who was a big guy, tall & imposing, who had a great shag haircut and piercing, intelligent eyes. He had a crazy, lopsided smile, a quirky drumming style, and a love of gin -- but he knew pop music inside and out. At the apartment he shared with Dianne Athey and their cat, Natty Dread, he’d run a regular “radio show” at a given time every day. Jonathan would pretend he was a dee jay, and spin his favorite records for an hour or so. Such a music lover -- he taught me about a lot of new and old music that was cool.

The four of us -- Shawn, Lewis, Jonathan & me -- went into the renowned RPM recording studio (12 East 12^th Street) in the heart of Greenwich Village. Steve Israel co-produced two tracks with us, “Don’t Look” b/w “Love Affair.” Shawn and I both had roaringly awful head colds the day we went into the studio -- but it worked out advantageously, somehow. When the cold is in my head, not throat, I can sing high notes better -- funny, huh?

Now, I thought Lewis was a pretty great bassplayer --just listen to those cool bassparts on “Don’t Look,” very Stones-y, which was his favorite band after all. But his cocky personality and odd sense of humor didn’t quite jibe with Shawn’s -- or mine. So. . . after a year of working with him, Shawn was ready to switch bassplayers. I felt really awful about Lew being asked to leave the band (bands are really like little dysfunctional families, with problems but love and loyalties, usually).

Then, it turned out that Jonathan had a plan in mind: to recruit his beautiful, talented, artist girlfriend, Dianne Athey, into the band as our new bassplayer. I was very fond of her, and regarded her as an older sister more than a friend. . . she gave me lots of great advice about life, love, and finances.

Dianne was the first person to explain what a credit rating was, and why it behooved me to start building mine up by obtaining a credit card and paying it off regularly. Thanks, Dianne! That was one very useful life lesson I’ll always remember *-)

We greatly enjoyed the blue cheese/cashews/sprouts/pear salads at the Broome Street Bar, and had a good time in the band together. Because our boyfriends were in the band with us, and being young (and feisty), we were often at odds with our guys. And yes, being attractive girls, we did have our fans. . . but that wasn’t much of a head turner as much as the need to occasionally get away from the pressure of being in a much-liked band with demanding boyfriends who didn’t always act like grownups (as if WE were much better at that!).

Dianne also handed me my first alcoholic drink. We were at the Ritz, either hanging out or in-between playing a show there. The place was packed -- and I get so nervous being in crowds. Shawn was avoiding me, running after some model-type girl (or vice-versa). At any rate, I was so angry -- fit to be tied -- and Dianne saw how upset I was. She handed me a screwdriver -- and even though it tasted bad to me, I took it as “medicine.” I might have had two of them. Then I still wanted to kill that other girl! I think we very nearly had a “catfight” there, at the Ritz -- but my faulty memory, again, keeps that detail at bay. But OI do know that Dianne definitely handed me my first vodka drink. . . I don’t touch the stuff now, but it was like a rite of passage at the time, and kind of amusing in retrospect.

Dianne was tall and gorgeous, and once she was in the band, Shawn found a way to push me behind my keyboard stack (my Panther organ and synthesizer, which I used to add little parts to the musical mix, though I could never say I’m any kind of good keyboard player) more and more. . . Dianne was certainly the femme fatale in the band, and I was the cute little enthusiastic waif.

To this day, I admire and respect Dianne for her character, great laugh, good looks, and musicianship. She’s still a friend, whether we spend much time together or not. I only hope we’ll play again together in some way, somehow. . .

Until next blog, “Don’t Look” while Dianne and Jonathan’s erstwhile Ohio crony makes it big in the rock music world with a fabulous voice, look, and attitude: Chrissie Hynde comes to town.

2-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #40 (Summer of Sam & the Big Blackout)

A reader has requested that I write about the Summer of Sam. Hmmm. There are a few things I remember about it. . . Summer of 1977, in New York City. I had moved to “The City” just a year previous, was still in school (attending Hunter College), getting homework done, writing up a storm as Trixie A. Balm, and playing in the newly-formed New Wave pop band, Nervus Rex.

That summer, after breaking up with my other beau, JW, I was dating a young man who lived in the West Village, also wrote for Creem, loved to sing Everly Brothers harmonies and play the harmonica. He was a gentle soul whose initials, BA, were the same as my dad’s.

He didn’t like my being in a band and throwing away my writing career -- although he never seemed to have much positive to say about my writing. He saw that Shawn had designs on me. . . and when the big blackout happened in July (the 12^th or 13^th?), I was at the Krushenick’s loft, rehearsing music with Shawn. The blackout was pretty exciting -- I love candles and flashlights -- and I doubt we were very prepared for anything like that.

I stayed over and slept on the Krushenick’s couch that night -- it seemed too dangerous to go outside, and travel by subway up to East 65^th street (my then address) was prohibitive.

I know that BA was angry at me for not going home, but really, what could I do? And we didn’t have cell phones, so calling people was kind of out of the question. . . anyway, it was kind of a mess (though on a way smaller scale than the city, where looting and burning on Broadway reached epic proportions). I wrote a short story called “But Uptown’s Too Far. . .” and I’m not sure what happened to it, but I do remember writing it as a sort of apologia.

Meanwhile, back in Queens, my mom was worried sick over all that “Son of Sam” stuff going on. . . she always urged me to be careful and carry around mace or something for self protection. I didn’t tend to hang around at night by myself (even though I’d feel alone in my head quite a lot), and going out clubbing meant going somewhere we played, like CBGB’s or Max’s Kansas City.

I do remember the day that Elvis Presley died, August 16, 1977. On a sticky hot summer’s night, BA and I were walking around the village, on Eighth Street, crossing Sixth Avenue. I have no idea why I remembered that particular moment; memory is a tricky little beast. (And Shawn, we only started dating later in ’77, remember!)

My little apartment on East 65^th Street was kind of dark and small -- and I didn’t like being there too much. When I had a deadline -- which was often -- or some homework to do, I would gladly stay in, but otherwise, I’d try to hang out anywhere, even on my building’s stoop. I had no air conditioning, but luckily, it wasn’t roaringly hot in the apartment, being as it was out of the sun and on a lower floor (second floor, in the back, no elevator, of course!).

My neighbor, Kenny, and I became sort of friends. He and his family owned and ran a little newspaper store on First Avenue, around the corner from 65^th Street. He was a small, rather neurasthenic man, who wore glasses, had thinning hair, and was really into “juicing” -- using a juicer to extract vegetable juices.

. . . Not too exciting, but that’s all for now!! Next blog: Meeting Dianne Athey. . .

2-11-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #39 (Spring Break 1975 -- Remembering Lester Bangs)

Before taking off for a life in London, England in 1981 -- a foreign county where they “sort of “ spoke recognizable English -- Canada was the first “foreign” country I visited. To be specific, I visited Canada with a handsome escort. Well, maybe not the Canada of one’s dreams, like Lake Louise or the Canadian Rockies or the gardens of Vancouver Island -- but Windsor is still Canada, even if it’s not a visual treat for the eyes. And maybe not a classically handsome but goofy-handsome companion who talked a good spiel escorted me.

All right, so how’s this: a day trip to Windsor, Ontario, Canada -- with my then-editor, Creem’s own Lester Bangs? It happened one spring afternoon in 1975, when we were at the offices of Boy Howdy’s keepers, Creem Magazine.

Lester looked up from what he was doing, a plan hatching in his ever-active cranium: “Trixie, ever been to Canada?”

“Nah, not really. I mean, not yet.”

“Let’s go have a beer in Canada -- Windsor’s just over the border.”

Oh, goody, I thought: an adventure! And if Lester Bangs wanted to drive to Canada just for a beer with me in tow, I was SO ready to go. I’d somehow finagled a ride from somebody to Birmingham, Michigan, with Lester Bangs putting me up in his house. He had a really nice girlfriend whose name was Nancy, and she was a dark-featured, Greco-American beauty. They were both great hosts for the young, bubbly Trixie A. Balm who felt she needed to make a pilgrimage to the offices of Creem Magazine, the coolest place to write about music & pop culture for back in the seventies. (Georgia Christgau drove back to NYC with me in tow -- that much I do remember, even if who drove or how I got there originally escapes me.)

Lester had a loping step, a large, shambling frame with a plus-sized head (size-wise) to match, and the look of a loopy second cousin to the Frito Bandito. His longish, wavy, dark hair and bushy dark mustache would have been well complemented by a Mexican sombrero -- but then, I’m being a little silly and irreverent. How apropos! Lester and the whole Creem gang was, in principle, irreverent, silly, and even loopy.

I also remember, somewhere on his large head, a bulbous knob or a cyst that stuck out. At least, I was very aware of it. Appearances aside, I thought he was kindhearted, sweet, humorous, possibly bipolar, and insecure. Intelligence? That’s a given! Manipulative? Not with me. . . to this day, I’ll never know why he was so nice to lil’ ol’ me (just a writerly chick from Queens who changed her name and felt like having fun in print, along with the other misfits and brilliant wordsmiths at Creem).

For those of you unfamiliar with Lester Bangs and his work, he is known as the “America’s Greatest Rock Critic” (J. Derogatis). His writing was a combination of gonzo and erudite, both highfalutin’ and raunchy. He did the kind of writing that feels like he was staring at the stars from the vomit-strewn gutters, Rabelaisian in extremis. He died an untimely death, overdosing accidentally on a combination of Darvon, Valium, and Nyquil at the age of 33, in 1982.

So, that day in Windsor, Lester drove us to a bar he knew and liked, and ordered a Molson’s. He expected me to order beer, too, but I asked for a water. I was terrified of consuming beverages with caloric content, and didn’t like the taste of beer and so, I fear, I was a disappointment to him, but hey: thanks anyway, Lester, for treating me with respect and giving me the work I needed to keep going as a young writer.

R.I.P., dear Lester B!!

2-10-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #38 (Growing Up in Public at CBGB’s pt. 4- 1977 & the end)

All right, well, I was talking about change at the end of the last blog. . . and how I kind of

“grew up in public” at that great divey club on the Bowery, CBGB’s. So many good things happened there, esp. in the early days. I met Danny Fields, who I really liked because he was smart, cool, warm, humorous, and, well, if you ever met him, you know he’s a guy who not only knows rock music & legends (like the Doors and Iggy Pop), but he managed the Ramones early on. He was a great gossip but also able to keep confidences -- his expressive eyes and knowing nod gave a feeling of being in on something very intimate and exciting.

Anyway, I really wouldn’t want to hear any dirt about Danny Fields because I was very fond of him (not in “that way,” but just as a great human being) and he made you feel special just by paying attention to you. That’s what I want to be known for, too: making others feel special. And that, my friends, is a special talent. . . I also thought that Terry Ork, Television’s jolly elflike manager with the dark glasses and booming chuckle, was a laugh and lots of fun. Sadly, he’s gone now.

OK, so there were people who made you feel good, and others you just wanted to avoid. Some of those people were in bands, one of whom I won’t name but he was a guitar player in a band that played often at CB’s, a short and skinny guy who acted very slimily around girls and tried to stick his tongue down my throat one time when I naively accepted a ride uptown with him (to be dropped off at my then-boyfriend’s studio apt.). Ugh! Anyway, he’s deceased now, so I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. . . he did play a pretty good guitar and cut a good figure onstage back in the seventies.

So, come ’77 or so, the fun nights at CB’s came fewer and farther between. Unfamiliar faces popped up more and more, and where I’d formerly waltz in and see somebody I knew, it just didn’t happen anymore. On my 21^st birthday, I sat in the audience (rare for me -- I hate sitting down at clubs; leaning against a wall in the back is more my style) at CBGB’s while the Dead Boys played. They weren’t my faves, but I didn’t know where else to go and I was on a date with a guy I wasn’t too keen on. If we went somewhere with loud music, I wouldn’t have to talk or hear him talk. . . he was one of the few inane guys I (briefly) dated. Most of my “dates” were pretty darn interesting, or at least in some ways felt worth my while.

Well, in 1978, Nervus Rex were playing CBGB’s one slow February night, and two of our musician friends, Clem Burke and Jimmy Destri, were taking Blondie producer Mike Chapman out on the town in NY. As we happened onstage, the half-sodden Chapman was told by our friends that he should listen ‘cause we were good -- I think that’s what happened.

So, after our set, this drunken Australian nutter (skinny, med. Height, thinning reddish hair, big blue eyes) comes backstage to drawl, “I’m going to put you on the CHARTS!! I’m going to make you STARS!!” Ever the polite girl, my other’s pride, I nodded and smiled, yes, of course. Then I cornered our worldy older drummer, Jonathan Gildersleeve, to ask, “Jon, who IS that weird guy?”

Jon could hardly breathe, he was so excited. “That’s Mike Chapman!!!” he whispered.

“Oh.” I sort of knew who that was, but my cynical side wasn’t convinced of his ability to do all that Charting and Starmaking. I don’t know why. . . I just didn’t trust it. Shawn, on the other hand, went with it -- but I still am not sure how he felt at that moment.

Anyhoo. Once we got signed and started to work on our debut album with Mike Chapman and Nicky Chinn (of the ChinniChap Production company), the whole scene in NYC and at CBGB’s never was the same. Talking Heads, Television, Patti Smith, the Ramones, Blondie: they all went on tours and became recording artists of note. Nervus Rex didn’t fare too well once our album was in the can and held back for a year before it was released to lukewarm reception and low sales. The B-52’s came out before us, and we were labeled “B-52 like,” only not as good. It was sad, but that’s the breaks.

Things change, and if you can’t change with the times, He who marries his generation becomes a widow in the next (Leonard Cohen).

It was time to find another survival job and maybe ship out. . . so let’s talk about Chrissie Hynde, Squeeze, and running off to Blighty for 18 months to lick my wounds after Nervus Rex broke up.