"Cos I'm ALIVE! A Live Wire!!!" -Motley Crue

I still might have some flyers stuffed in a milk crate somewhere of this band called SLAMHOUND from when I first lived out in Hollywild. I missed the show, cos I was probably comatose in the back of that bar they keep near pitch black over on Cherokee, but it was the singer's dumb Russian looking furry hat that'd caught my attention. Looked like something only me or Roth would be obnoxious enough to wear. Some years later, I was back in Silverlake, actually rehearsing in Lizzie Grey's practice space and talkin' with some friends about forming still another destined for sudden breakup glam band, and I'm askin' everybody on the scene at Goldfingers who the next big thing local rockgroups were, and I remember hearin' talk about the Exies, Tangerine, Twenty Cent Crush, and BUCK CHERRY. People out West were down on Buck Cherry from the start, cos the singer, Josh Todd, was one of them guys who were just really fucking good at behaving badly. He was a rule breaker and apparently didn't like to wait in lines. Reputedly, just another asshole-drug abusing-tattooed-Axl Rose wanna-be, who'd slinked around the Sunset Strip forever, center of the crowd, talkin' much too loud, runnin' up and down the stairs, and it seemed like his number had finally come up to many of our embittered rock pals-it was just his turn on the assembly-line-his own short, sweet, crash and burn ride on the corporate stardom merry go round and round-just some more lucky "White Trash Wins Lotto" action, cos Lord knows that 'ville is forever teeming with dozens, and sometimes hundreds, of spastic, blackhaired, would-be frontmen--and as for the band-well, they seemed to many like movie-set carpenters. Like they worked as janitors or grips at Fox, and were in weekend Candlebox and Staind cover bands. It seemed like a totally "put together" line-up, but ain't that a big part of what that elusive Hollywood Rock Dream has ALWAYS been about? ASSEMBLING the "right" line-up of big mouthed frontman and various competent players to transform their collective suffering and come together to make some magic outta misery?

Yeah, they all looked like plumbers, or roofers, with gym memberships to me, too-and how many times a day d'ya think me 'n' Sleaze have to hear about another group who's supposed to be the "Next Guns N Roses"? But none of us minded the bald, goateed, totally grunge looking drummer, or the guit sling Keef's dumb bowling shirts, and Sharps stained wife-beaters, when we finally heard the urgent opening strains to "All Lit Up". Nobody cared if all three chords were cadged unapologetically from some old, long forgotten KISS song, or if this manic yabbo lead singer had long ago been written-off by the L.A. in crowd as just another slut fucking, meth crazed jerk-off in an old AC/DC t-shirt. That riff was just too undeniable to give a rat's ass about any politics, or jealousies, or scene-police gossip, cos all that usual bitchiness goes right out the car window when a song comes along with the dumbfuck intensity and thuggish, common sense beauty of "All Lit Up Again". Dead Kurt had moaned about being "on a plain", while wasted and wan in his Mr. Rogers sweatered self-emasculated heroin womb, but this-this shit was like the miracle tonic cure-all to all that gloomy, fake grunge bullshit. Everybody was sick to death of snivel to a roar, tattooed, muscle-bound rap metal jocks in million dollar fetal positions pretending to be depressed heroin users, while singing in that horrible, nasally, Eddie Vedder/Hootie & the Blowfish/Alice In Chains/Bush/STP/Ethel Merman/Matchbox 20 voice. We all hated Creed. We all needed freed from Creed:

"I'm on a PLANE with COCAINE! AND YES I'M ALL LIT UP AGAIN!"

Whoo! This shit really DID rock like AC/DC,  I've always MUCH preferred unintentional self-parody to hipster tongue in cheek gimmickry in my metal, so I hadn't shared in much of my former peer's glee over Nashville Pussy, or the Upper Crust, but when BUCK CHERRY came along, I really did feel there was some new hope for real rocknroll! Corporate band? Studio hacks? Cock Rockers? Weight Lifters? Big mouthed poseur fuckwits? Didn't matter. They fucking ROCKED, man.  Like uh, Rose Tattoo meets Mott The Hoople! But much, well, dumber, more feral, and ferociously fun. Josh Todd was bringing excitement and shamelessness back to rock. It was exhilarating stuff, really. Glamour and hedonism and girls in leather minis-you KNOW that's what yer hungry for-ESPECIALLY after years of being shit on, and abused by all these snotty, pretentious, totally contrived, cutey-bear college types who bored you to death with their love of Stereolab and Spencer and Beck and the Beastie Boys and whatever fey and twee "K records" Olympia feminist rot about enthusiastic amateurism (just means they can't play) the American glossies and Brit tabloids were all championing all through the nauseating 90's. The college town I got stuck in was overrun with eleventh hour suede jacketed college dropout indie/alt. scenesters who always tried to make life hell for anybody who actually liked ROCK-just like in that Crystal Pistol song! It was harsh, people, it was like the whole Devo versus Van Halen debate all over again. Between the riot boi novelty band  thriftstore clothes wearing, vintage synthesizer playing, headphones up to his ear, turntable scratching, skinny-tied, rich, white, pseudo-hip hop influenced Casio shit on one end....and the date rape in a rubber monster mask/ backwards baseball cap wearing rap-metal on the other, we were all jonesin' for some real Back In Black whiskey raunch that strippers would WANT to pole-dance to. At least I WAS! I know there are some of you who claim you never liked BUCK CHERRY, and stubbornly held-out... for the Darkness (?!) but to me, it was OBVIOUS that Buck Cherry were adroitly smoking all the trendy MC5 ripoffs and Swedish throwbacks that the come-lately underground press relentlessly hyped for the past ten years. Please deliver me from furthur Van Halen versus Dire Straits or Scorpions debates. There WAS never ANY debate, right? Well, that's the exact same kinda breach that existed between Buck Cherry and all the sub Turbonegro/Hellacopters/Kyuss wannabe legions. _________________________________________________________________________________________

The first Buck Cherry record was one of the last records I've fully dug, all the way through! I know Sleaze is probably hip to some current heavy hitting flash metal up and comers who might flirt with a Buck Cherry level of high premium glam metal excellence-I hear mutterings on the chain gang myself from time to time about Crash Kelly, or Robyn Black & The Intergalactic Rockstars, or H.I.M., or the Backyard Babies. Neil Leyton's probably got a new band goin', or I'll hear something about Silver, or the Sinisters or somebody...I'm always kinda rootin' for Billy Hopeless, and Kevin Junior to release something really fresh and devastating...That last crop of Slash City Daggers, Napoleon Blownaparts, and Confessions all came and went before I had a chance to even hear much from 'em... but think about just how seldom we really get to hear new records by current bands that have alot of really top shelf SONGS to accompany their exciting stage acts, and really legitimize whoever's purty ugly self destructive rocknroll badboy rock images? Half the songs on Velvet Revolver's "Contraband" album seem like weak attempts at rewriting Buck Cherry's pounding, riff-rock stormer, "Crushed"!

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Ya ever seen those famous pix of uber sex goddess, Angelina Jolie, in the see-through yank-top, slurpin' on a poorboy of Southern Comfort, all come-hither like, in the doorway of some funky $90/wk. motel? THAT'S what half this record makes me think of-the roller coaster of love, babies!

The insufferable comedowns when you've actually managed to woo and win the unattainable pussycat doll ("It's when the woman of my dreams, oh my God, that's the woman on the floor..." -J.Carroll) and she ditches you for some squarehead granola business type, the moment you let yer defenses down, and started feelin' a little attached! Back to the dive and you're lookin' for another one. A blast while it lasts but the breakup's a bitch. Summer's coming on again here, and them perennial, same old sinister urges and wild-hearted impulses start swirling up in the chests of men who should know better by now! It's irresistible , though, innit?! That annual magnetic pull we all must feel when spring returns and that razor blade feeling you've been having all winter starts giving way to all your chewing gum memories and rockstar fantasies ("I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes/I have to turn my head until my darkness goes..."-M. Jagger) It's a good thing maybe that I don't have a dollar right now, cos wherever I go, the liquor store's only ever about a block and a half away. I'm certain JOSH TODD still has the same problem on days like these. Handcuffs and skull belts and the taste of cold Corona on her tongue lime spritzes cleavage-you don't forget that, babies! That's the trouble with ultravixens when you got a pornographic memory and it never fades away. I'm lookin' out the window down a long bustling city street listening to Janis Joplin and feeling that urge to move on down the neon highway again. ("Cos I'm not entertained by the simple life/and my mama's disgusted!") I don't wanna live on reality tv. I don't like job interviews. You can't fire me cos I quit. Me and haircuts don't get along. I totally relate to every note on the first 'Cherry record. 'Makes me think of wingin' off one of those times on a spontaneous roadtrip with a couple waitresses I'd just met at another deadend restaurant job-one of 'em, the brunette, was named Betty ("C'mon Betty, let's go steady..."-J. Easdale) and she was singin' Janis Joplin songs to me the whole way while I was wolfin' down a bag of Krispy Kreme donuts and two or three bottles of Johnny Walker's red AND black, and by the time we wokeup my ex-bandmates in a far off city, I was pretty sure that this Betty was THEE only one for me, and how many more times, Lord, how many more times? Oh, babies, rocknroll is gonna get me sooner or later. You know it and I know it, and what can you do? Once you've bitten from the proverbial apple, it never leaves ya, does it? __________________________________________________________________________________________

I used to say my version of Sinatra's quip would be, "I don't work-don't ask", but that was before a long series of unfortunate circumstances put me back in the polyester uniform again, but I digress....

Imagine an intimate summertime cookout on the back porch of your ghetto digs refashioned by your various criminal associates to function as a sortof preposterously delightful Sanford & Son style beer garden with a gas grill that mysteriously appeared there one morning - same as the condom machine from the neighborhood gas station men's room with the giant purple "Ribbed For Her Pleasure!" sticker on the front, and some upscale teal deckchairs and a full keg that's long gone warm cos nobody bothered picking up a tap, and a lifesaver from some holiday inn swimming pool and two of these expensive, garden store, green iridescent lights that look like palm trees, and a bunch tiki torches and three cases of American brand shit beer, right? And a couple hot young college babes you just met at the jock bar the night before (first time in years you wore your leather jacket out) just brought bags of groceries over fresh from Wild Oats, the yuppie grocery store-fulla vegetables for shiskabobs and fake meat italian sausages-yer favorite, and some overpriced Mexican beer and a cold bottle of Jose Gold tequila, right? All the ice your roommate put in the baby pool's just starting to melt a little, and you're feeling good and lookin' cool and hoping none of your often asinine, scummy friends make too big horses-asses of themselves in front of your cheerful new acquaintances and your fat pal's firing up the grill in his stupid chef's hat and everybody's kinda groovin' and relaxed and happy to be there, happy to be together, happy to be alive, right? THAT'S what Buck Cherry's "Borderline" makes me think of...heckling fratboys from the barber chair on the front porch right as the pink sky starts going down and we still got fireworks from Tennessee inside!

GOOD TIMES - man, it's been a long, long, lonely time since we've seen many of them, but y'know---another thing  what was cool about that lanky lout Joshua Todd, was that he has some soul, y'know? So he doesn't have to force it, or fake it, or make a big deal about trying-like say, Little Caesar, or summa those lesser-corny biker metal white boy soul bands from the past--J.T. just HAD it, effortlessly-he was emanating light even in the gutter back around the time of that first album, people, it wasn't something he hadda TRY, he just stayed in the moment, so it became him. The moment was his. I loved the cat against my better judgement, just like with Axl. All my friends except the Sleazegrinder missed out on the wild 'Cherry. They were all too cool for corporate cock rock, apparently preferring the Richmond Sluts or Superbees or Cheerleader 666 or whoever. The only band who was rocking remotely as hard as the 'Cherry back then, was, undoubtedly, AMERICAN HEARTBREAK. They were great, too-but that was about IT for me. I was hoping those two groups would tour together, but obviously, I'm no longer in charge. But oh yeh-if you do find yourself in a fortunate enough scenario, this summer, like I was describing above, where you're surrounded by some good friends and some pretty women and that "Dance The Night Away" magic's in the air, if it ain't original Van Halen, the Faces, Slade, the Stones, or Sam Cooke blaring from the broken speaker, it might as well be the foist BUCK CHERRY album, and like I always remind you kids, remember to have a spare Slip 'N' Slide, a fire extinguisher, some conga drums, and alot of cans of whipped cream on hand, in case of emergencies. And if your DJ roommate happens to slip on Libertine's "I Don't Belong Here", just make sure to follow it up with some classic Furs to teach the girlfriends the difference, and the Sweet's "Fox On The Run"...again. I mean, I can't be the only surfer in town who's missing that ungraspable, fleet, sweet, drowsy, satisfied vibe, when the butterflies of limitless possibilities are carbonating through ye, but you could be just as content to curl up on a grassy blanket in them backyard weeds and dream peacefully without the anxieties of adulthood in the crass age of Trump, W, that weasel shithead David Spade, and that mook from Fear Factor. When the MAN and his auditions and job interviews and clocks and banks and snap judgments and false standards and never ending demands to cut your hair again just don't even faintly, factor-in, at all! No wonder so many of youse are so into smoking the ganga, eh? It just don't work on me. Otherwise, I'd be one of those backpack Platinum card wielding poseur hostel hippies camped out in the backwoods, smoking up, philosophisin' for the barefooted Fiona Apple lookalikes, underneath my lean-to: "You just call me Treebeard, darlin'..." unfortunately, I despise the Dead, Phish, John Maher, pot - all that - so right now, I just got to be content with my thriftstore paperbacks and cassettes and trying to stop smoking cigarettes. Some nights, it's alrite - still existing down here in these merciless times, even with this live skull cluttered fulla fractured memories of gorgeous yesterdays and girls you wouldn't believe, that can never be reclaimed, or even meaningfully emulated, in spite of all the loom loom looming shadows as articulated so perfectly in David Olney's song, "The Suicide Kid", and the sad fact that all our favorite bands and classic songs are being reduced to manipulative corporate tools and all day long, we're bombarded by the cheapest come-ons and smarmy slogans trying to convince us that khakis are sexy cos the best minds of my generation all sold their souls and went to work for the evil empire on Madison Avenue and now it feels like my own many stilletto'd youth is gone wasted getting drunk, but I still hear good ole STIV BATORS singin' in the back of my mind, that, "There's still time...There's still time....There's still time....."

If you can't get Axl, don't call Jason McMaster-call Josh Todd, right? Apparently, they DID jam together at some benefit for one of Ozzy's dead drummers or something at Steven Tyler's recommendation, and rumours flied that Slash Co. were gonna call the new band CHERRY ROSE, for awhile! I, for one, was excited about it!

All I can say for Weiland is that his stylist has excellent taste in vintage clothes-she deserves a raise--and he DOES do a mean Peter Murphy snake-dance live, but JOSHUA TODD was the one who really brought back the danger and unpredictability and ungovernable rocknroll attitude to the forefront that poor lost followers like Weiland have to plan all out, see somebody else get away with it first, think it through for awhile, practice in the mirror, find the right hat, check with his girlfriends, accountant, masseuse, financial planner, stylist, probation officer, hairdresser, DUFF, and then, well, kinda fake it. JOSH TODD was the raw deal. He just spun like a top, y'know? Like a hyperactive "Bad Kid" from a bad home, still trying to get back at all his abusive step dads! Whereas, Slash Co. might be able to recreate the early 80's Sunset Trip Tropicana nightclub's sicko seedy ambience in their video, but BEHIND THE SCENES, Duff takes classes in ACCOUNTING, advising Scott and Matt on their stock portfolios, and more crucially, which faded concert t-shirt will best help Scott obtain some kinda unlikely street cred while simultaneously emphasizing all the hard work he's done with his dietician and personal trainer on his gangster rap abs. Poor malleable Scott Weiland idolized neutered, sad, self emasculated Kurt Cobain, who represented death and giving up. Joshua Todd with the same highly marketable lifeguard stomach muscles, represented defiance, rebellion, never surrendering, fighting back, not giving up. So even if Josh has to go through all these growing pains of not being able to adequately replace his old band, and the unfortunate humiliation of having made a sub-par solo album, and trying to (defiantly) market himself from his own website, I guess I'm STILL glad that Josh Todd didn't end up becoming Slash Co.'s silly marionette foil/kickdog/whipping boy to merely justify going out on tour to get away from all the annoying, spend-crazy rockstar wives and girlfriends and piss off Axl some more. All these former heroes of mine just got too much money and they all got baffled and regressed to playing out these junior high school social games. Showing up with the girl who puts out to try and make the cheerleader you really like jealous. It's insane.

Even if Josh Todd, oftentimes, comes off like a shrill, cocky, macho, dumbass, bullying, pseudo-intellectual creep, when titling all his solo songs after chapters from books on war or chewing up and spitting out naively supportive young journalists, it's alrite, ma. I'm holding forth that Todd's got a noble enough spirit to see and learn from some of his missteps and make a big stinkin' right-the-fuck-on, full fledged grandiose comeback. We always got to get back to LOVE. With a little love. Always got to get back to love and bringin' back the show! Reports on various msg. boards have it that he's kissed and made up with his old cohort Keith, who MUST be tired, by now, of carrying all those heavy shingles up that ladder all day for his uncle's roofing business, I'm hoping J.T. pins his demons down, and emerges from the smoke and rubble, wiser, stronger, and ultimately, VICTORIOUS. He knows how to tap that pure source of real inspiration. He just needs to remember. Go with that deep, true, snotty, perpetually teenage heart we know you got in ya baby, and it'll all go fantastic all over again, just DON'T CRAP OUT. Ferris Bueller Can't Lose. Rudie Can't Fail. Lord Of The Thighs. You were the Little Dreamer...

*I’ve been wrong exactly twice in my, say, 23 years of journalistic rock n’ roll analyses. Once with Time Bomb, the second time with Josh Todd’s ridiculous solo record.  I really thought these fuckers were on our side, but everything that happened with 'em post 1999 suggests that Buckcherry ain't about nothin' but bitches and money. Ultimately, “Timebomb” and the JT solo album are nu-metal tinged NOTHINGS. But fuck it man, long live Buckcherry anyway. They still might come to their senses. Anything can happen. Some people even still hold out the hope that Pepsi and I are gonna come to out senses one day.