Black Crowes
Southern Harmony & Musical Companion
Warner Brothers, 1992
By Pepsi Sheen
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"To Lessen My Troubles, I Stopped Hanging Out With Vultures, & Empty Saviors Like You..."  

Yeah, I think initially, it was universally perceived as kinda cute and endearing really-this 115 lbs. when wet mouth of the south in eyeliner, silver bangles, and Tom Petty's oversized "Don't Come Around Here No More" style Lennon spex who had the shameless bravado to cover Otis Redding, but Christopher Robinson never seemed to evolve much beyond that petulant child showing off kinda stage- he seemingly stepped right outta the verses of "19th Nervous Breakdown", what with his constant yakking and bragging like a rapper and the nerdish music press kept rewarding his brattish behavior with non-stop coverage back then. He seemed to get such a buzz off their easily impressed bespectacled academic-y attentions that he never once stopped yapping except when singing or to take another long suck offa his four foot purple bong with the dancing bear decals. His sheer audacity knew no bounds.

Bigmouthed Georgian blues rawk narcissists, Chris and Rich Robinson were obviously well-groomed, much beloved products of some kinda upscale background-clearly they were both spoilt and cultivated and fussed over by indulgent parents, as they've never stopped acting-out and competing for their attentions, since their legendary stint as a supposedly R.E.M. influenced janglish bar band called Mister Crow's Garden that steadily morphed into the way more blue eyed soul-infused Allman Bros./Stones influenced combo that shook it's moneymaker to the top pf the pops way back whenever.

Their first big hit was "Hard To Handle" which was a refreshing throwback in that particular era of MTV shit, but soon they played it to death like they did with "Sweet Child O Mine" and the big Soul Asylum record until it kinda became hard to appreciate any of it anymore. The sad part of the Crowes utter domination of the airwaves was that they eclipsed loads of other bands that also mined  the whole southern boogie cowpunk thing like Rock City Angels, Jason & The Scorchers, Georgia Satellites and the whole late eighties country rock underground that most famously spawned Lone Justice, Mojo Nixon, and K.D. Lang but was populated by lots and lots of real badass broken hearted ramblin' men and outlaw singers. Ask Ol' Lonesome Bob, or Hollywood Bob Starker from the Sovines-they'll tell yas all about it. The real rub was that the Crowes also overshadowed the far superior, way more FACES influenced classic drink-rock of England's glories, the beautiful if damned, DOGS D'AMOUR and LONDON QUIREBOYS.  ___________________________________________________________________________________  

Much opinion spewing, Memphis hip shaking, Rod the Mod style microphone stand twirling and Tyleresque scarf dangling ensued, (can you imagine what that tour bus smelt like?) and eventually  the gaunt paisley wearers found themselves being managed by Pete Angeles (former DLR best friend) best known for his recurring role as the other Fabulous Picasso Brother and being produced by hitmaking rock svengali and frequent Sleazegrinder doppelganger Rick Rubin - come ta think of it, ya ever seen Rob Zombie and Sleaze G. in the same room together? If I don't remember, it coulda happened. Anyhoo, only Axl Rose made a bigger stink in the world o' rock back then, I mean if you never had patience for Jovi, Poison, Motley or the Skids. Meanwhile, there are many of us who still adamantly believe that the London Quireboys masterpiece, "A Bit Of What You Fancy" , absolutely  smoked "Money Maker", in terms of songwriting, style, soul, and feel and that Spike and Company were the more rightful heirs to all that next big thing "New Stones"/"New Faces" hype and hoopla that was always being force fed to us by the Black Crowes corporate press juggernaut. Fuck, "Dynamite Jet Saloon" was a way better record, too. Song for song-go see fer yerself, but lacking the big money production and mainstream promotional machines, those gorgeous classics were all but forgotten in the dust and sweat and black concert t-shirt hawking and arena packed fanfare that surrounded the Crowes. If you own "Graveyard Of Empty Bottles" by Dogs D'Amour you know that's probably the only remedy you might need for whatever ails ya besides y'know some uh, tonic for medicinal purposes and maybe a blackhaired girl named Cherry to keep ya company for the weekend.
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TIPPLIN' A JAR IN JACKSON....

In the interest of full disclosure I might as well come right out with it, though, and admit upfront that 18 some years of being regularly addressed as "Look-it's da Black Crowes guy" or "Hey, Chris Robinson" by every third cop, jock, or dumbfuck townie who've apparently never seen a guy with shoulder length hair and a hoop earring before has done little to warm my heart to the blustering "Caw-Cawing" Mister Crow. This loudmouth pair of velvet flares just shot his big piehole off so much that he was bound to piss off everybody at some point who coulda lived without his patronizing tutorials on the proud traditions of rocknroll. Some might say we ranters are nothing more than frustrated crowd pleasers--while this is undeniable in my case, especially--I still sez Chris Robinson is a frustrated rock critic.

Forever congratulating himself fer getting his group kicked off that ZZ TOP tour for obnoxiously pontificating about their typical beer sponsorship, and relentlessly insisting that based upon his obligatory junkie girlfriend ballad alone, we all shoulda bowed to him with the kinda gravitas usually reserved fer Mick or Keef, or Robert Johnson, or George Thorogood or Steve Marriott. ZZZZZZ.

Now I dunno about you, but I was just never that titillated by his boring sibling rivalry with his nearly-AS-annoying, primadonna wank bruddah, Rich. Jaded as I am, by the last 2 and half some decades spent associating with dozens of frilly  blouse wearing wouldbe rockstars, most of 'em notorious for even frequently penning their own press-kits, my gut instincts even tell me it was Chris m'self who came up with that whole, "The World's Most Rocknroll Rocknroll Band" pull-quote.

While inarguably, a rockin' little trashy blooze outfit in their earlier years, I was jes never as smitten with the Black Crowes as many of my compadres were. I mean, to these ears, they mighta penned say, halfa dozen really good songs over the course of twice as many albums ("Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye", "Thorn In My Pride", "Sometimes Salvation", "She Talks To Angels",....see? I'm already reaching. And "Remedy" was an obvious rip-off of MOTHER LOVE BONE'S magnum opus, "Chloe Dancer/Crown Of Thorns". I mean, yeah, wot with their bigshot producers and pianos and horncharts and Hammond B 3 organs, and black chicks goin', "Do Do Do", the Crowes did manage to affect some memorable Creedence and Stones-like spooky, swamp atmospheres, and Robinson has admittedly penned some fairly stellar lyrics here and there, but, c'mon, are you sure any of their stuff was really much better than all them forgotten junkie glam groups like Kevin Junior's Mystery Girls, Chatterbox, the Jezzebelles or Joneses or Bounty Hunters? I'd rate their first and second albums a couple notches above maybe the JuJu Hounds or Slim Dunlap's first solo record, but so, so many bands from our twilit flash metal underground netherworld totally outrocked the Black Crowes-they just never got adequate access to big record label recording budgets. I can see clearly why civilians and Lenny Kravitz fans love the bloody Black Crowes so much, but pretty much everybody I've ever known was Johnny Colt, y'know? Johnny Somebody. Black hair, big hollowbody guitar, cowboy shirt, and blue suede Keith Richards elf boots with the concho straps and spurs. All my friends are Johnny Colts.

I do remember being vaguely inspired by the croaking crow's own excitement about being able to  walk into a Tower Records and purchase every single last album he wanted on credit. He told this story back when they had sold their first millions and made the cover of the Rolling Stone, but also had the guts to write a tune called, "Darlings Of The Underground Press", and back then, I think I found that exciting and was able to live vicariously through the fantasy because it still seemed plausible in those days that I might, too, someday, get to experience such pleasures, instead of being reduced to begging former associates to burn me compilation tapes cos I never have the money to buy new music and all my exes made off with all my music, so from where I'm whining now, his anecdote ain't nearly so charming, but dem grapes was sour ones. Pass the Boone's Farm. Light another cigarette butt. Falling ash burns thigh. ______________________________________________________________________________________

SHE NEVER MENTIONS THE WORD ADDICTION

Seems like every heavy metal chick who's ever snuck me into her parent's suburban basement with the wood paneling, crappy 70's decor from her parent's swinging days,  and the red velvety bar, hanging yellow velvet lampshades, and dusty foos-ball table and Kristy and Jimmy McNichol pinups from old "Dynamite" magazines, would inevitably start off still saucy from the bar, but quickly disintegrate emotionally to the teary-eyed strains of "She Talks To Angels" anytime they got me alone. The whole bit ended up being a bit redundant after awhile, the shitty drive-through take-home booze, the lousy dirt weed I disdain, a blonde suggestively crossing her fishnetted legs and dangling her pumps from her heel, smoking her menthols all sultry, like their Mom's, telling me the whole sob story about her stepdad, brother, ex boyfriend, and children by different fathers, before the evening climaxed on the floor her head plunged into the tapioca colored bean bag where you realized she's brought every other guy in the tri-state area with a leather jacket or illusion of power.

You still run into alot of these broads, all these years later, and it's still the same exact shit with more restraining orders and stretch marks. They still keep the lock of hair in their pocket and the cross around their neck and they still get all misty-eyed and sentimental whenever they hear one of them eighties dead girlfriend power ballads-hell, it could just as easily be "Fly To The Angels", or "Ballad Of Jane" or "Lisa" by Faster Pussycat or "Fly High Michelle", y'know? Most of 'em like the rap-metal ballads by Staind and Incubus, now, too. It kinda always seemed to me that the Crowes never minded capitalizing on the misguided Bible-Belt small town fantasy of being a romantic addict on the meanstreets of the big cities. They intentionally emanated that eighties outlaw, junkie chic, Kate Moss banging junkie chic shtick, but they themselves, were always basically imported beer guzzling, pot smoking, governing class hippies, at heart, not really gutter cats or slaves to junk. Eventually, they kicked Jeff Cease out of the band, replaced him with Marc Ford (from Burning Tree, I Think) and started hiring-in more and more obese black gospel lady singers, keyboard players, and conga sections and shit, and after their ill-conceived attempts at becoming the "New New Yardbirds" by collaborating with Jimmy Page ( get in line with Kingdom Come, Whitesnake, Bonham, Heart, etc etc) they started turning into these bearded, nauseatingly wealthy bare-footed Grateful Dead-Heads, y'know? Robinson's idea of rebellious behavior included getting arrested for spitting on a woman who insulted him at a 7-11 and putting an old "Hustler" crotch shot on the cover of "Amorica" but agreeing to rush out a censored version of it when Wal-Mart balked on stocking it.

The Black Crowes only really ever struck a chord with me on those first two albums, after they went all "November Rain" on me, I really lost interest. It was still sad seeing them sadly decline into this unaffected, generic jam band-trying to be the "New Santana", but ending up coming off more like that kid who badly imitates Dave Matthews. Once they made all their money and fired all the rock guys from the band , marrying actresses, and trolling Melrose hoping to get photographed in "People", Rich started spending all his time giving long interviews to all those guitar geek magazines and Chris started releasing some tired hippie folk solo albums. Some of my more ambitious old cronies seem to envision themselves and their busy wives somehow socializing with the Robinson's - sitting on big deck chairs drinking Coronas and taking long drags outta Chris Robinson's four foot purple bong with the dancing skeleton decals on the sprawling back balcony of Chris and Kate's, or Pamela and Kid Rock's, or somebody's ocean-front mansion, where they have dinner with Goldie & Kurt and watch the children play and dolphins frolic in the distance , etc etc

Me, I'm too tired for all that bullshit social climbing, I don't watch that much "Inside Edition". I don't even like Paris Hilton or Anna Nichole Diet Pills. I'd rather just keep the few real friends I got, and keep listening to all the forgotten rock bands that nobody else gives a rat's ass about anymore. (The Darlings on Bomp!, Uncle Sam, Black Halos, Chainsaw Kittens, The Hutchinsons, Silver, the Coma-Tones, Gunfire Dance, the Veins.)

I don't understand this world no more. Gimme the Jacobites and Only Ones and Scarce and Blackjacks and Unattatched and Snatches Of Pink and you can keep all those Carson Dailey mall punk bands, talentless teen bimbos, consumer-culture dupes o' gangsta-rap as well as the Black Crowes and all their latter-day, fake hippie, "Three Snakes & A Charm", "Lions", "New Earth Mud" stuff. I like some heavy stoner rock but the whole Cherry Garcia, birkenstock wearin', expensive outdoor camping gear having, tofu munching, credit card havin' laidback hackeysack world just leaves me blank and bitter.   Sheryl Crow, Counting Crows, Cameron Crowe...fuck all those plastic millionaire hippies.
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-FIN-

Further: Black Crowes official

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-Pepsi Sheen much prefers the FACES

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