Karen Kirchhoff, the photographer who worked with me for the first few months of this project and occasionally returns to shoot select subjects (far better than I ever could), is working on a 'zine of photographs and text. It should debut at the San Francisco L!F!P! live event on November 16 and copies will be on sale at the November 22 show in Philadelphia. She's taken several of my color photos and retouched/color corrected them. She also did a new set of photos with Jim Shomo, as my originals were MIA. I've replaced some of my photos with Karen's improved versions and added a couple shots not previously seen on the site. Most look largely the same (still in color). I've added the new Shomo pics rather than removing my old ones (making him the man with the most photos on the site). You shouldn't notice any dramatic differences, but these new shots are clearly superior to my original versions and I hope you enjoy them. I'll put up information on how to get Karen's 'zine once it's available for sale.

"We're the majority, they protest. We must be listened to. I hear the word petition. I could tell them, had they not decided to be deaf to me, that numbers amount to nothing in such matters. Dissent is never counted; it is weighed. The master always weighs the most. Besides, they can't draw up a petition and fix it to the doorway of the church as other places do. It only takes a piece of paper and a nail, that's true. But, even if they had a doorway to a church, none of them has a signature." 

This from the novel Harvest by Jim Crace (2013), which I just completed. It's one of only two books on the shortlist for this year's Man Booker Prize that I was interested in reading (the other, The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton, won't be published in the States for another two weeks). Crace's book, the first I've read of his work, is as dark -- no, darker -- than most horror novels, though it's by no means a horror novel. While I urge you to read it, I hope you won't read much about it. Watching its nightmarish (and deeply metaphorical) scenario unfold, all told in beautifully evocative language, is a disquieting pleasure. Watch the smoke from the two fires rise and see where they take you.

I read Harvest as a ebook, which I think is the best way to go, as Crace peppers the prose with antiquated words that an ereader will happily illuminate and thus allow you to befuddle your friends with later.

One of my favorite of the recent interviews was with Frank Blank Moriarty. Frank was kind enough to contribute an essay that you'll see below. Like his previous essay, this was written exclusively for this blog. Frank is a terrific guy and I loved reading his story below, which expands on a tale he told in the interview and illustrates it with photos. Thanks to Frank for his very appreciated contribution.

Inanimate Companions

by Frank Blank Moriarty

Some guitars just have a soul, even though they’re inanimate objects. Those guitars become companions for years, compounding into decades. I know one of those guitars – a 1978 Fender Telecaster that I bought brand new. Though I’ve had other guitars come and go, this one’s here to stay.

In my interview with Joseph Gervasi for his LOUD! FAST! PHILLY! project, we talked about the events that led to this first guitar coming into my life, but I’ll briefly recount the tale here.

From the second I first heard them, The Clash ascended to prime-focus status in my world of music. I was beyond thrilled when I heard they were playing Philadelphia’s small Walnut Street Theater on September 22, 1979.

The band’s second album, Give ‘em Enough Rope, had been released ten months earlier (and in the U.S., …Rope oddly preceded the release of the self-titled first album). I’d obtained a CBS Records poster of the cover, and the afternoon of the show made my way to the Benjamin Franklin Hotel near the theater, hoping to get it signed.

That turned out to be no problem at all, as the entire band was hanging out in the lobby. Joe Strummer, the last to sign the poster, helpfully drew arrows from the signatures to the buzzards depicted in the album artwork, identifying who was who.

I then got into a conversation with Mick Jones, about music and guitarists. Mentioning some of the great players I’d been fortunate to see – including Jimi Hendrix – I trailed off with

regret that I’d never learned to play. Mick just looked at me a moment, then neatly summed up the punk DIY attitude in one simple challenge: “Why don’t you then? I’m no better than you are.”

Days later, I bought this black Telecaster. Though Mick had lit the fire, it was Joe’s passion and commitment that had attracted me to this band. As one example, the concert at the Walnut Street Theater ended with a drained Strummer coming back out alone, to hoarsely apologize for not being able to play more songs.

Despite his band’s growing status, Strummer didn’t act like a rock star. Months later, when The Clash were on the cover of Rolling Stone and playing a chaotic series of New York shows at Bond’s, I’d happened to take a photo of Strummer and his long-time girlfriend Gaby Salter on the street. It was a great, happy photo and, thinking Joe might want a print, when I was in NY for another Bond’s show a few days later I stopped by their hotel.

No, they weren’t all in the lobby again, but I did see a member of their road crew, Baker, heading toward the elevators.

“Hey Baker, I’ve got this photo I’d like to give to Joe.”

“Right! I’ll go get him.”

Within moments Strummer himself emerged from the elevator. Imagine that kind of encounter happening with any other band approaching mega-stardom. We had a great chat, and he – as I was surprised to learn in days to come – committed my name to memory.

So if a Tele was good enough for Joe, it was good enough for me.

And it proved to be a great choice. It was a reliable and powerful companion as my band Informed Sources played chaotic gigs throughout the early 1980s with bands ranging from Bad

Brains and Black Flag to Flipper and X. My own blood is splattered across the Informed Sources sticker on the pick guard, the result of a ripped fingernail torn by the strings early in the set during a New Jersey show.

Regardless, this guitar was utterly dependable. I sensed it watched out for me – even when I didn’t treat it so well. One night coming on stage for an encore at Philadelphia’s Love Club, I tripped on the top step – and fell flat on my face, on top of the Tele. Knocked out of tune? Not in the least. Rock solid and true. Ready to go.

That’s the kind of friend you can depend on. I do to this day.

... I interviewed these crazy cats at AKA Records.

L - R: Mega Jimmy Dougherty, me, Paul Bearer, and Mark Sargent.