BRAZENBLOG WINS AN AWARD!

Well, my dear friends, BRAZENBLOG turns six months young on January 2. And in just that time it's already racked up its first press appearance AND first award, both at the same time! Yes, Bao Le-Huu of the prestigious tabloid Orlando Weekly, a longtime champion of the Brazen cause, has just named this blog "Best Music History Porthole" in his 2015 edition of the Undie Awards which celebrates the work of Orlando's best local talent! And not only that, but it's my second Undie in as many years, sitting quite comfortably next to my "Best Local Release" trophy I won last year for Ray Zinnbrann's Time Tunnel!

I am grateful and indebted to Bao and the Weekly for their continuing and unwavering support and love of all things Brazen. And I am also thankful to YOU, dear readers, for all the positive words I've received for this humble blog's revival, which have been plentiful and have come from folks too numerous to mention here.

Here's to a happy, safe and prosperous 2016 to you all! And stay tuned for much more in the new year right here on BRAZENBLOG!

Oh, and if you're in the Orlando area, and aren't doing anything on Thursday, January 7, please come out to Spacebar to witness the unveiling of my newest sonic excursion, ZBR. Hope to see you there!

SILVER APPLES, 1998

When I first discovered them, they were almost literally a secret cult. I'm talking about those two albums I stumbled upon one fine day in 1986 as I was pilfering through the massive record library at WFMU, that station I volunteered for and sometimes appeared on. One had its original cover and was called "Contact," while the other was a self-titled white label promo in a plain white jacket. The one album cover depicted two very stoned-looking long-haired hippie types sitting in the cockpit of an actual Pan Am jet on the front, and the same guys superimposed on top of a stock photo of a plane crash to make it look like they were just hanging out in the wreckage on the back. One of the two guys was playing a banjo in that shot and so I assumed I was in for some weird album of psychedelic banjo music or something when I put it on the record library turntable. Which it was... for two of its nine selections, anyway. The other seven tracks were just... plain... indescribable. Total electronic madness. Basically it was all one guy freaking out on a bank of oscillators and singing while the other guy played a huge, specially tuned drumkit. Sometimes it sounded tuneful and catchy, other times it descended into sheer chaos and confusion. But all of it was truly original and like no other electronic music I'd ever heard up to that point.

The mysterious duo was named Silver Apples, and their two albums were originally released between 1968 and 1970 on Kapp Records, a label generally known for anything BUT electronic, experimental rock music. I still half-cringe every time I think of Kapp's main claim Roger Williams' "Autumn Leaves" with his ridiculous cascading piano conjuring the falling of said leaves. Anyway, apart from the label and the names of the two members, one named Danny Taylor and the other simply called Simeon, there was nothing else in the way of information. It was obvious I wasn't the only guy at the station who was hip to Silver Apples, as both albums had warnings handwritten on their sleeves that serious consequences would befall anyone who attempted to steal either album. And soon I would become wise to the aforementioned secret cult of Apples fans which consisted of about half the station staff and a tiny handful of its listeners. It seemed like no one knew about them but us. In fact, the only outside reference we knew of was in some book about electronic music, the title of which escapes me, which had a single paragraph describing them, ending with this sentiment: "I think I may be their only remaining fan."

For a whole damn decade I wondered who and what and why about Silver Apples. How did a group this bizarre wind up on a fucking easy listening label? And who were these two guys who'd made this music, anyway? For awhile there was speculation that Simeon was the psych-rock alter-ego of another electronic musician, Morton Subotnick, who had released an album a year earlier called "Silver Apples of the Moon," but that was nothing more than all-too-obvious deductive reasoning. Nonetheless, a legend this good was bound to grow far beyond WFMU, and by the summer of 1996 bootleg CDs of their two albums had appeared, their German origin confirming that the intrigue had gone global.

And smack in the midst of that very summer, I tuned into WFMU one fine Saturday afternoon just in time to hear DJ Johan Kugelberg say "Stay tuned for a live interview with Simeon of Silver Apples." At long last the mystery had been solved! He told his story in detail and I stayed glued to my radio the whole time, hanging on his every word. They were indeed NYC-based, and the first band in history to play at Max's Kansas City. More than that, though, what really blew my mind was the fact that Simeon had been rediscovered at an art show which had taken place just down the street from where I was living at that time! It was there that Christian Hawkins overheard him identify hinself, offered to be his new drummer, and that was it -- Silver Apples were back in action for the first time in a full quarter century. With a new lineup and new setup, Simeon played several gigs in NYC and abroad over the next two years. I kept meaning to see these new Apples, but never got around to it.

Surely it was fate, then, that placed Danny Taylor in front of a radio tuned to WFMU at the precise point they were airing a song by... you guessed it. He called the station in earnest, was told Simeon (and the world) had been looking for him, and invited his old pal to see him at his home in the Catskills. While they were looking through a box of old Apples memorabilia in Danny's attic, they found a tape of songs they'd recorded for their unfinished third album, recordings which were thought to have been lost forever, just like Danny himself. The inevitable next move was to bring the Silver Apples revival full circle.

And again, surely it was fate that made September 18, 1998 the night I'd finally get it together to see them live at Maxwell's in Hoboken, NJ... just in time to bear witness to the first performance by the original duo in 28 years. My timing was perfect... as we shall now see.

I fully expected the place to be packed, but for some odd reason there were only about 40 or so people in the back room of Maxwell's. Flyers were passed out at the door proclaiming the special occasion and actually including the setlist for the show. Danny hadn't played drums since the pair broke up, so he bought a used kit at a pawn shop. The mysterious bank of oscillators called "The Simeon" had withered and died in Simeon's basement, forcing him to turn to more modern methods of recreating its sound. In spite of all this, they sounded pretty darn magical, though as you'd expect, a bit messy, with Simeon's voice occasionally cracking and Danny missing a beat or two. But that ragged quality added a certain charm to it all somehow, and with the small room and even smaller crowd, it felt almost like they'd come over to my house and set up in my living room.

You could feel the love for the band from the few lucky bastards (like me) who were there, and the love the band had for us in return, but most of all you could feel the love Simeon and Danny had for each other. I swear I saw tears in their eyes by the end of it. I may have had a few tears in my eyes too. In the final moments of their last song they rose from behind their gear, threw their arms around each other in a tight, brotherly embrace, then danced their way out to the last loop Simeon had left playing on his keyboard. A fitting climax to the absolute warmest, most intimate, most moving reunion show I'm sure I'll ever see in this lifetime.

I was damn lucky to be there that night, not just for the historic impact of it all, but also in light of what unfortunately happened next: just over a month later, after playing just two more shows, Simeon and Danny were involved in a near-fatal auto accident. If not for Danny's knowledge of CPR, Simeon, who had broken his neck, might have died before help arrived. It took him years to recover, and by the time he was able to play live again, Danny had passed away. It's kind of sad to listen back to the interview they'd given to WFMU the week of the gig at Maxwell's and hear of all the plans they were making for their future before fate intervened, which included a new album and a tour of Europe.

There is yet another subplot to my Silver Apples story: namely, their connection to a band from my current city of Orlando, Florida. The band is called Obliterati, and they've actually performed as Silver Apples with Simeon, an experience their drummer, the very versatile and multi-talented Nadeem Khan, told me was even more technically challenging than he expected; they also released an album on Simeon's own Whirlybird label in the late '90s. When I met the members of Obliterati here in Orlando, I was quite shocked when saxophonist Jim Ivy suddenly sprang to life as I spoke of seeing the reunion show at Maxwell's, then told me they had, in fact, opened for Simeon and Danny that night. I was, in turn, profusely apologetic for having ignored their entire set, opting to wait for the headliner at the bar with my friend. Yeah, I could have just pleaded ignorance, but truthfully, my mind was on only one band that night.

But all these years later, to my great surprise and delight, Simeon is suddenly about to bring his act to Orlando for a show at Will's Pub (to me, the city's equivalent to Maxwell's with its chill vibe and superb mix of interesting local and national acts) this December 2nd.  With none other than the recently reunited Obliterati opening once again, along with my clearly awestruck friends Moon Jelly. Sometimes you do get a second chance. I will be there for sure, marveling the whole time at how things just keep coming full circle for me since I arrived in Florida. (Check out the groovy poster for the show by my very dear friend, graphic designer Adam Ibrahim, above!)

MISSING FOUNDATION, 1986-1989

Of all the bands I've ever known personally in all my years of hanging out with fellow musicians, the absolute, downright scariest of them all has to be, without a doubt, Missing Foundation. They were more than just a band, they were a full-on confrontation. Emerging in the lower east side of NYC at the dawn of gentrification, they were hellbent on trying to stop it, and they stopped at nothing. The spray-painted upside-down cocktail glasses which were prominent on virtually every corner of the East Village in 1988 were no mere stroke of self-promotional genius -- they were a genuine threat. Missing Foundation were at the forefront of the local anarchist movement, and made it clear they meant business.

I first met Missing Foundation one fine day in October of 1986. I was hanging out at the studios of WFMU radio on a Sunday afternoon in which they'd driven out to East Orange to play live on the air. I'd never heard of them before, but was immediately blown away by their brilliantly rhythmic noise-punk, made even more incisive by its scrap-metal percussion section. Oh, and during their set, lead singer Peter Missing banged a big gash in his forehead with one of the studio mics and used the ensuing blood supply to paint Missing Foundation graffiti on the walls of the station. Little did I know he was only hinting at what I would witness from them in future meetings. Anyway, my first encounter with them is actually up on Youtube, and you can see my very enthusiastic (and painfully skinny) self in the background in a quick shot or two.

Did I say Missing Foundation was dangerous? Any band whose frontman would paint graffiti in his own blood surely had to be. And in late '87, I experienced just how dangerous firsthand. They were playing at a squatted location in the heart of what was then the creepiest part of the East Village, Alphabet City. By then they already had two self-produced albums out and I was an even bigger fan than before. William Berger was equally as enthusiastic about 'em by then, and the two of us went down there together. I don't remember which one of us suggested we snap up front-row spots for the occasion. I do remember we both wound up damn near regretting it. The band came on and in an instant the atmosphere went from peaceful to violent. Scrap metal flew through the air as Peter Missing, using a magic trick he'd learned, literally set his hands on fire... and then headed straight for me and William with his arms outstretched. We both turned around to bolt out of there as fast as we could, but were faced with a sea of writhing bodies to get through. Somehow this sea finally gave way as the panic spread to the back of the house and we escaped without injury.

We ended up watching the rest of the, er, show from the street. Warzone was more like it. From outside we could hear all the crashing and smashing. People kept on getting tossed out of the place, then running back in to rejoin the fight. At one point someone ran out, went to his pickup truck that was parked just up the street, extracted a tire iron from its tailgate, then headed back inside swinging. At another, the bassist got tossed out, bass still in hand. When he re-entered, he tried to shut the door so that no one else could escape. It was simply the most frightening twenty minutes I ever went to see live in my life. And then, just as suddenly as it started... it ended. The band finally stopped playing, and life went on as before. In retropsect that could well have been the night's eeriest moment.

The word was spreading quickly among local club owners: don't book Missing Foundation, they're trouble. Despite this, CBGB booked 'em in April of 1988. I wasn't at this one, but I've heard several varying accounts of what happened, one saying that they set oil barrels aflame, then rolled them off the stage, another saying they knocked the club's famous PA to the ground, and one claiming a huge pool of blood had to be cleaned up afterward. I can't say which tales are true and which are false, but whatever went down, the band was now completely blacklisted from all NYC venues.

Now, it's only fair that I point out that, in spite of their onstage demeanor, the members of Missing Foundation were actually pretty nice guys offstage, especially Peter Missing. I can personally attest that they always greeted me warmly and treated me with respect whenever our paths crossed on the street, which was fairly frequently. I especially remember running into them at a favorite Mexican restaurant just a few days after the CBGB debacle. I also recall Peter attending a gig by Van Gelder, a band I played drums for briefly, at ABC No Rio and looking quite amused when our frontman tossed handfuls of exploding snappers into the crowd. I believe all MF really wanted was to make sure their message was heard -- a message that nearly three decades later stands as a spooky, prophetic warning of the imminent transformation of New York into a rich man's theme park. Their live shows were a sort of provocative performance art whose confrontational nature forced you to pay attention to what they were saying. Anyway, I don't recall hearing of anyone getting killed at a MF show, much though it often seemed likely.

Tompkins Square Park, with its mix of anarchists and homeless people, had become ground zero for the anti-gentrification movement, and clashes between police and park denizens became more and more frequent, until finally, on August 6, 1988, things exploded in the form of a riot. Police had a field night breaking up a huge demonstration and beating up protestors. With damning video and testimonial evidence mounting against the pigs, someone had to shift the blame somehow. CBS News reporter Mike Taibbi went to the east side, noticed all the MF graffiti, and concluded that they were to blame for starting the riot in Tompkins Square, in the form of a special Channel 2 News report which ran in three parts that November. This, too, can be seen on Youtube, and is a masterwork of yellow journalism. I'll let it speak for itself rather than say more about it here.

I will say that although all sorts of threats were made against MF afterward, neither band nor police were ultimately prosecuted. In fact, just six months later, in a truly remarkable display of defiance, the band returned to the very park where the riots they supposedly incited took place, and played a short but triumphant set without incident as the cops stood idly by. It was the last time I saw them live, and I remember shaking Peter's hand and congratulating him afterward. Shortly thereafter, the battle for control of the park ultimately went to the city. But Missing Foundation surely had their say in the end nonetheless. Ultimately they took off for Europe and left the east side to the rest of us. Peter Missing has recently returned to NYC with a new lineup of MF and their message is still timely, though to be sure, their live performances are a lot less dangerous nowadays. in fact, I'm told he teaches art to kids now. Hopefully with a little dose of anarchy.

RAY ZINNBRANN'S TIME TUNNEL 1983-1988: A HISTORY...

This Saturday, October 17, is Cassette Store Day. In honor of that fact, and also the fact that my Illuminated Paths release "Ray Zinnbrann's Time Tunnel 1983-1988" is now both streamable on Spotify and available for purchase on Amazon, allow me to relate how it all began for me so many years ago, when I never thought my music would ever become playable in any form beyond the mighty cassette tape.

I was making home recordings long before I knew how to play an instrument or had any friends who were musicians. It was a very tentative process in the beginning to say the least. First I tried improvising my own lyrics to whatever instrumental recordings I had lying around, but I didn't like that. Then I tried just singing acapella, again making it up as I went, but that didn't seem to fly either. So finally I got an old beat-up guitar at a garage sale and without even learning to play it first, finally made up "songs" I delighted in driving my family crazy with. It was even better and more annoying sounding if my elementary school friend Zoltan or my 2-year-old cousin Jamey was around to bang on a piano while I banged on my guitar. We also had a big toy drumkit my mother had bought me at Toys-R-Us at our disposal; Mom still regrets the purchase of those drums to this day.

Just before I turned 17, I took a few lessons from my high school punk friends and finally learned how to play guitar well enough to write real songs at last. I wasted no time in getting to work, with nothing but a cassette deck, a cheap beginner's guitar and a very early fuzztone (pictured above) my aunt's brother gave me. I discovered quite by accident that if I plugged my headphones into one of the input jacks on my tape deck that it functioned as a microphone. I plugged my guitar directly into the other jack and I was set.

In February 1983 there was a huge blizzard which dumped over two feet of snow in North Jersey. To occupy myself while snowed in, I started recording these new songs I'd been writing. By the time the storm passed, my very first demo tape was complete. Calling myself Ray Zinnbrann for the first time, I made a few copies of it and passed them around my high school. One student I'd blessed with a copy proceeded to play it on a boombox on her school bus, not knowing it was Not Safe For School. I still wish I'd been there when she played the song that ended with me insulting the school's dean of discipline by name. She said it got a huge response!

At this time, the local NJHC scene was first being championed by WFMU DJ Pat Duncan. He delighted in turning the station into a weekly local punk party during his Thursday night program, playing seemingly any tape his guests would throw at him. I so wanted to be on the show myself, but for some odd reason the folks I knew who went to these little on-air meets were reluctant to deliver tapes of my music to Pat. Then came the fateful evening when one of them needed a ride there one Thursday night and asked me to do the honors. I accepted most willingly and made damn sure to bring a tape to hand to Pat myself. He aired it, and I was officially in. Now knowing exactly where the party was, I began attending Pat's show religiously, bringing tapes whenever I had new recordings to share. I would get the occasional compliment (and the occasional criticism) here and there, but my big moment came when I made a song about a female scenester I'd developed a crush on at Pat's shows. That song, "I Found Love at WFMU," got enough requests in the summer of '84 to finish at a respectable #40 on Pat's Top 100 list at year's end. My first brush with fame!

Irwin Chusid, the outsider music champion whose show followed Pat's at the time, picked up on the buzz generated by "Love at WFMU" and invited me to accompany him on a spoof of Suicidal Tendencies' "Institutionalized," which quickly became a follow-up smash and in fact still sees occasional WFMU airplay to this day. With a "crossover hit" under my belt in record time, I moved to expand my base beyond the hardcore scene in earnest. In early 1986 I met William Berger, who had just launched his "Lo-Fi" program spotlighting the now-growing home-taping scene, and found that he, too, craved a taste of Ray Zinnbrann. Soon I was giving all my new tapes to him, winning continuous airplay and appreciation. By then I had "progressed" to recording tracks on a boombox, then playing them back on my good deck while I did additional things over them with another tape going in the boombox -- now I was multitracking.

Two years' worth of "Lo-Fi" contributions and networking with other artists who had sent their music to the show led to the formation of the greatest music scene I have ever had the pleasure of being a member of. On February 10, 1988, we took it to the streets when "Lo-Fi Night" took place at the Lismar Lounge in New York. It was then that I finally got the chance to see for myself just how deeply my music had resonated. After years of making music exclusively in the bedrooms and basements of my hometown, I made my official live debut that night in front of a crowd of fellow "Lo-Fi" artists and admirers who greeted me with a thunderous ovation, sang along to my songs and left me feeling like I had "arrived" at last. I went on to collaborate with other Lo-Fi artists (most notably Jurassic Jet Screamer and the deeply missed Terry Folger) and carve out my own little path of musical mayhem that I strive to keep going till I die.

All of which brings me back to the start of this blog entry. The musical journey I have just related would not have been at all possible if it had not been for cassettes. And I never saw this glorious cassette revival coming either. The next generation is now seeing for themselves just how we did it, and embracing it with the same sort of passion, and it makes me very proud. Cassette Store Day is the wonderful antithesis of that bloated monster Record Store Day, and it honors a format that will always mean more to me than vinyl ever did (except maybe when said vinyl had music I'd made on it). They were inexpensive to produce then and still are now. And as we celebrate this Saturday, well, you may want to buy yourself some cassettes. Like this one. Or, perhaps, this one...