FRIGHTWIG: REST IN POWER, CECILIA KUHN

(all photos from Brazen's own private stash)

The bad news just seems to keep coming too fast and hard for music fans everywhere. The great, great drummer and singer Cecilia Kuhn passed away on May 4, 2017 from cancer. She was 61 and a pivotal member of the San Francisco punk band Frightwig, who were deeply influential on many of the all-girl punk groups we know today. As I reflect on her life, my personal memories of being a Frightwig groupie during the band's peak period in the mid '80s, when they were spending practically entire summers in New York, come rushing back to me all at once. Indeed, this lady and her band were unforgettable, and I got to know them quite well way back when for awhile. Of all the accidental new musical discoveries I ever made in my life, one of the absolute happiest accidents of all was the night I discovered Frightwig. 

It was July 1985 and I was calling myself Ray Zinnbrann back then. I had gone to a seafood restaurant in Montclair, NJ to see a local experimental punk band called Children in Adult Jails open for them. Yes, that premise sounded strange right off the bat. And it was about to get even stranger that I could even have imagined. The word on the street was that Frightwig were not to be missed, so I stuck around for them. Suddenly, four of the wildest, kookiest yet loveliest looking ladies I'd ever seen in my life were playing the trashiest yet most wondrous rock & roll in the middle of a fucking seafood joint. They struck me at first as kind of a cross between Flipper and Kiss with a bit of Raincoats thrown in. Their playing was loud and crude, but it all melted into one big, glorious noise. And it all sounded like heaven to me... especially as I found myself in love at first sight with Mia Levin, their guitarist. She was a long legged, daisy duke clad vision of blue-dreadlocked heaven out to steal my freak flag-waving heart. And much though Deanna, Susan and Cecilia did their best to keep up with her, all I could pretty much see for most of my first Frightwig show was Mia.

But at the end of the show, Mia put down her guitar and took over the drum chair, and the tall, blonde drummer became frontwoman for the last song, "l'll Talk To You And Smile." The sweetness of Mia suddenly gave way to the fireball that was Cecilia, and with an open minded crowd totally digging it, she let it all out in a fiery yet controlled ball of rage, with humor injected in the form of musical quotes from "A Day In The Life" and several false endings after which Cecilia would jokingly ask, "Are you irritated yet?" It was one of the greatest and most dramatic endings to a band's set I've ever seen. She owned it, baby!

That was it. In the blink of an eye, my summer of 1985 had suddenly and gloriously become The Summer of Frightwig. Naturally, I didn't fight it -- I submitted full throttle without asking a single question. I met them after the show and they were the sweetest, coolest ladies you'd ever want to meet. I then followed them pretty much everywhere they went the rest of the time they were in NYC/NJ, which was pretty much all summer long. God I loved them. So much so, in fact, that I even remember the riffs to all the songs they played live but never released. (Oh, to hear "Summer Love" again... it surely fit the mood.)

I followed Frightwig to a live radio interview at WFMU where they were hosted by two of the members of the aforementioned Children in Adult Jails. I followed them to Danceteria, decked up in Frightwig magic marker tattoos (oh, to be young again!), where the ladies walked in on an argument between me and the asshole working the door who didn't want to let me in, and threatened to hand his ass to him if I wasn't allowed in at once, FREE... then invited me backstage to hang out. But the best night of all was when I followed them to Tin Pan Alley, one of only two gigs I've ever attended in the Hell's Kitchen area, where I finally got my wish to be alone with my beloved Mia for awhile... just indulging in something green and medicinal and talking about hip hop music with her before they played their second set, during which Deanna made me get up onstage and perform a male striptease during Mia's stunning rap showcase "A Man's Gotta Do What A Man's Gotta Do." I obliged down to my underwear as she tried in vain to get me to take it further still. Fortunately, there was no Youtube in those days.

Alas, my "romance" with Mia was doomed both to last only the summer and to end in heartbreak. On Labor Day Weekend '85, at the Peppermint Lounge, Frightwig turned up for their final gig before returning to Frisco... without Mia. I suspected something was up immediately, and my suspicion grew when I overheard two of them whisper to each other: "Have you told him yet?" "Uh, no." When they then went onstage without Mia, I knew the heartbreak was dead ahead. And I now confess I was a bit pissed off at them afterward for waiting all night to break the news to me that Mia had quit the band and returned home early with her husband (who was super-laid back and didn't seem to mind my fawning over his girl one bit) after finding out she was pregnant. In the end I forgave all involved (including Mia), but still, 'twas a very sad night in Wigland indeed.

Despite the loss of Mia, I still kept on loving Frightwig, and wrote them a sincere and heartfelt letter thanking them for making mine a wonderful summer nonetheless. A few months later, an envelope bearing the words "FRIGHTWIG LOVES YOU!" in big magic marker letters turned up in my mailbox. Inside was a long, lovely letter from Deanna, announcing the birth of Mia's child and telling me they were coming back to see me again soon. And indeed, Frightwig would return to the east coast in the fall of '86 with a new girl replacing Mia. Her name was Rebecca and her guitar talents extended to actually building her own axes. She added a new and somewhat darker vibe to her role than Mia, but I grew to like her. Shortly before they arrived, I walked into Pier Platters in Hoboken one day and screamed with delight upon finding an album with the new lineup waiting for me. You didn't stream new releases in advance on the internet back then either, folks.

During the fall of '86 I saw Frightwig three more times: at Irving Plaza with Sonic Youth and Firehose, at CBGB with 7 Seconds (whose drummer kicked my ass at pinball that night), and finally at the Lismar Lounge, the very same stage that would host my very first live performance in NYC just over a year later. I remember they were sick as dogs on the last night from food poisoning. But they played and I got all four of 'em to sign my album. Rebecca's signature read "Beware of Philly cheese steaks," while Cecilia simply wrote "Wig out!" I still have the signatures. I only wish I knew what the fuck happened to Deanna's letter. I'll never forget that on all the gigs in this tour, they extended "Punk Rock Jailbait" to ten minutes, with Cecilia once again stealing the show and my heart, and she and Rebecca getting into some harsh-noise guitar dueling during the song's extended finish. She was a tremendous performer who looked like she was always ready to burst out from behind the drum kit at any moment -- and always did at the end of every set.

I may have been crushing on Mia in '85, but after she left the band I admittedly took to fawning over Cecilia, and we ended up talking for hours after the Irving Plaza and CBGB shows. Looking back, I would have to say she seemed the most grounded of all the members, the one who looked after the others. She was warm and inviting and great to talk to about all sorts of things. We exchanged addresses but somehow never did get around to corresponding. It's unfortunate that we never did, for I think we could have been great long distance friends. I am deeply saddened to know she is no longer with us, especially since Frightwig had recently reunited -- complete with my lovely Mia back where she belonged -- and were sounding better than ever to these ears, even releasing some strong new material. I was hoping we'd ultimately meet again. Frightwig truly loved their fans, and their fans loved them back, and always will. I'm so glad I got to know such a great band, and a great lady named Cecilia Kuhn.

To conclude my wondrous Frightwig tale, you can see the legend for itself in the form of an almost hour-long video of the classic lineup (Cecilia, Mia, Deanna and Susan) playing a full set live in SF in '84, complete with a VERY definitive version of Cecilia's incredible showstopping finale "I'll Talk To You And Smile." It's enough to make you cry now.

Sigh. Goodbye, Cecilia. Wig out in heaven, sister.

A COMPLETE HISTORY OF RAY BRAZEN'S GIGS AT CBGB

For whatever it's worth, here now are my memories of all the times I ever set foot on the stage of that prestigious and hallowed hole in the wall, CBGB -- all two of them:

The first was totally unplanned and spontaneous. It was late '83 and Bedlam, the band my high school pal Tommy Koprowski had just  joined, was making its CBGB hardcore matinee debut opening for Adrenalin OD. They'd brought along a friend to videotape the occasion for posterity, and were open to the idea of my jumping up onstage to join them for their cover of the Flintstones theme song as I often did when hanging out at their practice sessions (which were often more pot parties than they were rehearsals). Midway through their very messy and noisy set, I took the stage and introduced my number. On the video of the occasion you can neither really see nor hear me, but I'm there somewhere, and I recall nothing of my performance but a total blur. Me being the cocky kid I was then, when the song ended I couldn't resist throwing in a quick "Thank you New York, you're a great audience!" whereupon Davey Schwartzman of AOD picked me up and carried me offstage as Tommy reclaimed my mic and proclaimed, "NOW you can beat him up!" Thus ended my first onstage appearance at CBGB.

My second appearance was a little over five years later, in early '89 with Jet Screamer in Living Guitars, and it happened on everyone's favorite night, Sunday a.k.a. CBGB Audition Night. For those unfamiliar, this was the night they would test the pull of various local bands to determine which were worthy of playing a regular gig there. Somehow we got our audition just two months after we'd formed, though we really had gotten fairly good in that short a time. We arrived early enough to witness the end of the hardcore matinee, which was ruined by a very pathetic bunch of Nazi skinheads. Naturally, we waited until they left before we even thought to load in our gear. Again, somehow in spite of the fact that it was unannounced and we were shoved onstage at 9 PM, we had a good turnout of friends along with a few folks left over from the hardcore matinee. I used to have a soundboard tape of this performance but it has long since vanished. I seem to recall that for some odd reason, this lost tape sounded quite a bit murky and echoey, which was strange considering CBGB's reputation for having one of NYC's best sound systems and the fact that our music had sounded good coming through it live.

As it turned out, Living Guitars did pass the audition -- for two gigs in the spring of '89 not at CBGB itself, but the CBGB Record Canteen that had recently sprung up next door, which also housed CBGB Pizza (which is still high on my list of worst pizzas I've ever had in my life). The first of these two gigs went so well we thought we'd found a potential new home of sorts there. But the second gig was a disaster and we never returned after that.

So there you have it. My illustrious performing history at that legendary rat cellar, CBGB. I hope you enjoyed this intriguing and action packed tale!

WRECKLESS ERIC, PART TWO

On March 3, 2017, I had the rare and precious honor of being Wreckless Eric's opening act at a show at Will's Pub in Orlando, Florida. It was a great experience to share the stage with a musician who has influenced me and my own music so deeply.

Sometimes I think there's not enough love in Orlando for the legends who matter most. I thought the show would sell out, but Will's would wind up barely half full for this one. A shame, especially since this is the guy who wrote "Whole Wide World." And lo and behold, there he was, Wreckless Eric himself, shaking my hand with a very firm and steady grip and welcoming me to his show. 'Twas a very strange feeling to be face to face with him again, particularly since I was his opening act this time, and naturally I felt humbled and shy in his presence most of the evening, though we did talk a fair amount and got to chat about mutual friends at WFMU, and even about that great Stiff sax man, Davey Payne.

Opening for Eric felt even more strange. Especially so when midway through my set, Eric suddenly wandered in fresh from his pre-show supper. I don't know how I managed to soldier on with the man himself in my audience, and didn't quite know what to do at the moment he walked in --- so in a bit of an attempt to impress him, I actually covered one of his more obscure numbers, "Waxworks," a move some in his fan base would later take into question when his humorous online remarks about it were taken a bit too seriously. But the man himself was okay with my little tribute -- "You got more of the chords right that I would have!" quoth Eric. Fueled by the situation at hand and the fact that we were playing my favorite stage in Orlando, Will's Pub, I somehow actually managed to play a good set, which was recorded and will be released as a live tape soon.

And then, of course, there was Eric.

Again, as with the first time I saw him 27 years earlier, just him and his acoustic and electric guitars. And though he's in his early 60s now, age hasn't mellowed him one bit, in fact he's even more fierce and cyncial now than he was in '78. He joked at length about Florida's turnpike and its abundance of pro-life billborards, and began "Reconnez Cherie" with some insight into how the song was written. He didn't play much from the Stiff days, doing only "Cherie," "Walking on the Surface of the Moon" (great to hear that one without the silly "Star Trek" effects!) and of course "Whole Wide World" with the crowd respectfully not singing along TOO loudly. There were songs from his excellent new album "AmERICa," and surprising experimental noise breaks which echoed the vibe of his very strange "Bungalow Hi" album and wouldn't have sounded out of place at the International Noise Conference in Miami. It was a different and even somewhat darker show than the one he'd played the first time I'd seen him, but seeing as how Eric and I are both aging now, there was that sense of mature wisdom this time that I found easy to relate to. Mark this show down next to the July '90 show as one of the best I've ever seen... and maybe the best I've ever played as well.

Eric was ever the gentleman to me and everyone throughout the night, chatting with all of us and signing my album and posing for a photo with me. And according to my collaborator and friend Joshua Rogers who was watching my merch table, Eric even stopped by there to pick up a copy of my cassette single. Pretty wild to think he owns one now! It was a once in a lifetime experience both to open for Wreckless Eric and to see him come through Orlando, and a lot of local people I know really oughta kick themselves for having missed this. It was truly one to remember, and one for the ages.

Thank you so much for playing, Eric. And thanks to Rich Evans for booking the show, and Alex Goldman for a great job with the sound, and Josh for doing his Broken Machine Films visuals during my set, and Rod Leith and Dave Scott Schwartzman for moral support. I couldn't have done it without you guys!

WRECKLESS ERIC, PART ONE

Once upon a time, in the land of the Sex Pistols, there lived a little label called Stiff Records. This label was like no other before it. It was a true original both in its overall presentation and in the music it chose to release. I first heard of it one fine day in late 1977 on a visit to my favorite record store of all time, Sam Goody's at the Garden State Plaza shopping mall in Paramus, New Jersey, a ten-minute drive from my house. This store not only provided me with many of the first punk rock records I would own, but would soon become a full-on sanctuary from the difficult world I was growing up in. A true eccentric suburban outcast was I, facing opposition from all sides, especially the kids at my school. I had hardly any friends back then, nor did I care to have any. All that changed, however, when some of the workers at this record store began to take note of my frequent appearances in the store's import section. Their curiosity about me soon baffled them to the point where some of them began reaching out to me when I'd visit. What exactly did a skinny little tween like me want with such mature-minded music?

These beautiful, beautiful people soon found out I was the only son of a cosmetics dealer at Bamberger's, the department store adjacent to Sam Goody's. And no sooner did they determine that my interest in all things punk and progressive was real than they became my very first real friends. Two of them, a lovely pair of ladies named Diane Walsh and Carol Tatarian, would eventually offer to take me out on one of their frequent visits to Greenwich Village in NYC, where Bleecker Bob's and many other seminal punk rock stores had sprung up in the wake of the '70s punk explosion. Thus began a series of punk field trips over the course of the next two years from which I gained much of my early knowledge of the area. Diane and Carol, along with pretty much the entire Goody's staff, embraced li'l me and my taste in music with nothing but love, warmth and compassion, and to this day sentimental tears still form in my eyes whenever I think of them. They may have almost literally saved my life back then, and I am eternally indebted to them for it.

But anyway, back to Stiff Records. The first Stiff artist I heard was Elvis Costello. My first listen to "Watching the Detectives" was a game-changer. That was all I had to hear -- I was a Stiff fan for life. And not long after, the folks at Goody's began to notice my resemblance to the new Elvis and quickly coined the nickname "Little Elvis," a moniker that would ultimately stick with me beyond Goody's borders and remain throughout my high school years. Which brings me to Spring Recess, 1978. On that Easter week, Mom let me pick out an album as a present, and on the strength of Elvis' appearance on it, I chose "Stiffs Live." As the name implied, it was a collection of Stiff artists performing live. Preceding Elvis in the album's track sequence was another artist I had not heard of before that day. And just like my first experience the previous Christmas with yet another Stiff artist, the Damned, I had no idea what I was in for, nor was I the least bit prepared for how it was about to impact me.

Smack dab in the middle of side one of "Stiffs Live," after two raucous cuts by Nick Lowe, the strangest dude I had ever heard on a record album in my life up till then suddenly burst forth from my speakers. His voice was like sandpaper and gravel, he seemed to know only two chords on his guitar, and he and all the members of the band backing him sounded drunk as skunks. All at once this album began to sound like a different record entirely -- ragged, sloppy, totally oddball, and just plain sludgey. I was completely confused and baffled, almost aghast in fact. How on earth did this mess wind up getting pressed onto the same record as Elvis Costello, let alone get signed in the first place? I am not lying when I say I didn't get it at first. In fact, I wasn't even sure I wanted to hear it a second time. Oh, but somehow I couldn't resist going back to those two tracks and doing just that -- and that's when it got to me. That's when I heard the sheer, utter brilliance and defiance and complete disregard for all tradition that lay deep within this hot mess of music. And that, my friends, was my formal introduction to the man who called himself Wreckless Eric.

I never thought a short, scrawny little cat like me could ever wind up playing his own music until I heard another short and scrawny cat from England doing just that. After hearing Wreckless Eric, my perspective changed forever. If he could do it, I reasoned, then so the fuck could I! I sent my mom back to Goody's to fetch me his first album, pressed on lovely blue vinyl. It was a tad more produced than his live tracks, of course, yet it still sounded no less odd and ragged and raw, all in the best way possible. But bubbling underneath the surface were some of the greatest pop sensibilities ever displayed by a punk rocker. To this day Eric's debut remains one of my all-time favorite albums, and the single biggest inspiration on my own musical aesthetic. It contains everything from his biggest hits "Whole Wide World" and "Reconnez Cherie" to the eerie "Waxworks," the brash "Rough Kids," and even an uncredited cover of the Benny Hill theme, to my ears the best version ever, powered by the insane saxophone of Davey Payne of another Stiff fave of mine, Ian Dury and the Blockheads (Davey, where are you now?). It's a punk masterpiece for sure, but far more than that, its oddness was what really endeared me to it. It was a record which surely would make all my schoolmates throw up their hands in disbelief and lack of understanding if they ever heard it, but which I myself somehow understood almost entirely. Which, in turn, made me feel like Eric was MY music hero and no one else's, and that sense of exclusivity surely added to his charm.

It took awhile for me to get up to speed on trying to play music myself. Initially I tried to sing in the same crazed, gravel voice as Eric, but ended up sounding like, well, a 13-year-old American kid trying to imitate him, and very badly so at that. I soon realized that I was definitely not Wreckless Eric, nor would I ever actually become him not matter how hard I tried. I finally realized, though, that it was still possible for me to be Eric somehow -- if I just borrowed whichever parts of his vibe fit in alongside my own equally twisted personality and outlook, and combined the two accordingly. An American Eric of sorts, if you will. Eventually I concocted my own persona, which I initially named Ray Zinnbrann, and that's when the pieces started to fit and I was able to put together an image and musical style that conceded to Eric's in some ways, but was ultimately my very own creation.

I freely admit to being a bit disappointed by the two albums which followed that monumental debut. I wouldn't blame it on Eric himself, to be fair. His songwriting was maturing quickly and in a very good way. But "The Wonderful World Of Wreckless Eric" still stands in my mind as one of the most grossly misproduced albums of all time. Its songs, like "Walking on the Surface of the Moon," "Veronica" and especially "Take the Cash" were very good, but would have been a hell of a lot better had they not been thoroughly vomited on by producer Pete Solley. To this very day I fantasize about sending out a lynch mob after the guy for his crimes against Eric, which include placing "Star Trek" sounds on "Moon" and adding chalkboard-screechy '50s-style female backing vocalists to "The Final Taxi." The "Hit And Miss Judy" EP was a fine return to form, but album three, "Big Smash" suffered a bit too, this time from Stiff's insistence on forcing Eric to collaborate with other writers, as if his work needed song doctors.

I do admit I let Eric fall off my radar after that. But he wouldn't elude it for too long. I still played his old records and sometimes wondered whatever might have happened to him after he left Stiff. I didn't have to wonder for too long, though. For in the summer of 1990, Wreckless Eric suddenly reappeared both when and where I would never have expected him -- at a music bar in the East Village called the Spiral. And one hot, sweaty July night, in the basement of that bar, he held me and an audience of fellow Eric admirers completely in the palm of his hand for almost two full hours.

When he walked onstage with just himself and a guitar and no band, I felt my heart skip a beat. "Fuck me, he's playing solo! How great is this gonna be?" I thought. Well, here's how great it was: the very first two songs he played were "Semaphore Signals" and "Reconnez Cherie." The very two songs he did on "Stiffs Live," the songs I didn't know what the fuck to make of when I first heard them 12 years earlier. Time froze, and stayed that way for quite awhile. So began my long, wondrous, magical journey through Ericland.

He told stories. He told jokes. And yes, he played songs on an old British Hofner guitar. All the hits, and some great new ones too. A particular highlight was my finally getting to hear "The Final Taxi" performed without those goddamn female backing screechers, in a new arrangement which finally brought its message home at last. And let me tell you, only Wreckless Eric can break a string, take almost ten minutes to fix it, and still not waste a single second of the audience's time. His stories were enchanting, his jokes were side-splittingly funny, and his slow, deep Cockney drawl could haunt you forever. And he still looked and sounded like Eric after all those years. For me the night was magic. I stayed out till 3 and joined a small group of revelers afterward whom Eric was kind enough to stick around and and entertain in the green room afterward. Just an unbelievable and unforgettable night in every respect, and one of the best shows I've ever witnessed.

(An interesting footnote: just a few months after that show, I saw a terrific and sadly short-lived all-girl band called the Shams perform at the Knitting Factory. One of the members of that band was a nice lady I'd met at WFMU a few years earlier named Amy Rigby. She's now Eric's wife. Quite an interesting parallel, eh?)

Fast forward to 2015. I'm now in Orlando, Florida, making a bit of a local splash with my somewhat Wreckless-inspired songs. My friend Dan of local comrades Yogurt Smoothness hits me up. "Yo, Ray, I've been wondering, have you ever heard of this guy named Wreckless Eric? I just got turned on to him and his music reminds me a bit of yours." WHOA. I aways knew I'd been a bit influenced by him, but I never knew just how deep a mark he made on me till then. I soon find out that many of my new Florida friends, most of whom weren't even born when "Whole Wide World" first dropped, are hip to him as well. And one fine day in this very year of 2017, a fine young local promoter named Rich Evans steps up to the plate and books Wreckless Eric into Will's Pub on March 3rd for his very first Orlando appearance, ever. The thought occurs to me -- does he need an opening act? I admit to being a bit bold in recording a cover of "Waxworks," posting it to Facebook, and publicly suggesting I might be the man. Rich, bless his heart, listens and agrees accordingly. And the next thing I know, I have a big, BIG date with destiny.


TO BE CONTINUED...