"I need a bohemian atmosphere."

Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.  The environment of the study should be one of philosophical transcendence and inspirational bliss.  However, this late entry in the month of Saint Augustine has become cranky because we just finished watching Michael Caine in Harry Brown.  Yes, Michael Caine, that icon of '60s swinging London.  "My name is Michael Caine."  In his greatest film yet: Get Carter A Wheelchair.  We as moviegoers should be thankful that today's savvy industry leaders refuse to let the Charles Bronson Death Wish franchise disappear.  There is hope for every aging actor to become a revenge-driven vigilante.  My heart breaks at the thought that this brilliant writing formula didn't happen sooner.  How I would have loved to have seen Walter Brennan still active post-The Real McCoys, armed with an AK-47, gunning down drug dealers in Compton.  Can't you picture Wilford Brimley pistol whipping some hood in Griffith Park terrorizing a blue haired lady with her chihuahua?  But I digress.  Back to Michael Caine.  The swinging '60s icon.  What a load of crap.  Just because he wore black, horn-rimmed glasses as spy Harry Palmer in The Ipcress File didn't mean Monsieur Caine was a bookish, liberal intellectual.  I've enjoyed so many of his early films, but just because they were set in a certain time and space doesn't mean the actor himself reflected our particular sympathies.  Beware, my friend...Mr. Caine has always been a conservative Tory who will do any film as long as you meet his paycheck.  Remember all those disaster movies of the '70s?  The Swarm?  And certainly from that point on, Michael Caine is at his finest.  "I can't pick up my Oscar, I'm filming Jaws: The Revenge."  Remember how bad his glasses looked?  Hanging around with Joan Collins and all those questionable rich businessmen from Tehran?  Oh, those were the good old days.  I guess I'm going through a love/hate catharsis with Mr. Caine.  I still own the original The Italian Job, the original Get Carter (and I guess I can give Michael credit for being good in the original Sleuth as well as the remake), and I really did enjoy the film Flawless.  And I admire much about Pulp except for the animal killing.  I can quote dialogue between him and Oskar Homolka in Funeral In Berlin.  So what's the problem?  Harry Brown, for one.  And the fact that Michael Caine still does it for the money first and the art second.  For every Hannah And Her Sisters, there's The Island and four other god awful titles that I do not wish to flog you with at this moment.  Man, I am cranky.  I just wanted to talk about my digs.  Instead, here I am doing a bad Sight & Sound article about how Michael Caine's best films depend upon his director and screenplay writer.  Oh my god.  So how do I get out of this?  Oh, okay.  When Michael Caine was a struggling actor, he shared lodgings with another struggling bohemian actor, Terence Stamp. 

Whew!  Well, kids, there's nothing like those early artistic days for capturing the bohemian spirit.  I had those days, yes sir, Jim.  Before I got married, the Artist As A Younger Man enjoyed the environment and the enthusiasm that decorated it.  A man's home was his Kastle, and in my Kase, sometimes it was in the truest Kafka sense.  The hovel as a home had to reflect all of the passions that kept me young at heart, bladder and knee. 

So now we are tuned into the Home & Garden channel on acid.  Observe the neo-gothic, early Armenian, post-modern, pre-surrealistic, proto-psychedelic, art deco, with a hint of Swedish moderne, and a whiff of pre-Weimar, post-Bauhaus, early Russian-Turkish hallucination.  A Frank Lloyd Wright design after a heavy Mexican dinner.  A collision of Amish and Danish decor with Mayan/Pagan trauma.  This is perhaps initially and shockingly evident upon viewing the illustrations on display.  Note the cacophony of merging motifs and themes.  One can see the pilgrim's attempt at building a tower of Babel made entirely of vinyl.  Reaching to the heavens, this lost library of sound.  Like a memory of fabled Alexandria, from Amon Duul II to Zabriskie Point.

The rooms (which in debate, could be considered just one room, including the shower) were not unlike an early salon.  Tapestries on the walls, peacock feathers sticking out of German wine bottles, heroes and mementos on display.  Trash, works of art and magical things too.  Plus dust and wires.  "Dustin Wires?  Wasn't he that '60s actor who got it on with Anne Bancroft?"  And speaking of German wine, as has been noted in earlier entries, Space Pirate Radio shows were fueled on the power of German white wine.  Here now is photographic proof of the stockpile, strategically located next to the photo of Einstein on the back cover of the M album, the Japanese poster for Yellow Magic Orchestra, and the image of Pamela Stephenson as Magritte from The Face magazine.  For anyone interested in the obscure, the plastic glass in front of the vintage Coca-Cola tray and green glass container of collected matchbooks is, in fact, the one given to me by Roger Waters upon my first meeting with Pink Floyd at the L.A. Sports Arena.  The Chalice Revealed!

And scandalously we continue into the private quarters of the bedroom.  Note the sinful one-sheet posters for Emmanuelle The Joys Of A Woman, Nastassja Kinski in Stay As You Are, and the obscured poster of Laura Antonelli in The Divine Nymph. 

And finally, for adults only, the ultimate destination, the last place to hide, o banheiro surrealista erotico!  Oh my!

Oh my, oh my!  La salle de bains surrealiste erotique.  El cuarto de bano surrealista erotico.  Das erotische surrealistische Badezimmer.  De erotische surrealistische badkamers.  The erotic surrealist bathroom.  Where hygiene and art come together in collage.  I thought it was beautiful.  More beautiful than the Louvre.  Ironically, when I was in Paris visiting the Louvre, my parents who had an unexpected visitor, found themselves vacating their apartment and coming to stay at mine.  Oh dear.  Neither of them had ever visited the ESP (the erotic surrealist pissoir).  My father said that being in the bathroom was rather disquieting.  Wherever he looked, someone was munching on someone else.  After hearing this, I came to my senses, became a Catholic and entered the priesthood.  Sure. 

"By gad, sir, you are a character."

Slipping away from music for the moment and back to film.  One of my most guilty pleasures is the love of character actors.  As it has been apparent in previous entries, it is the character actors in the films that I tend to enjoy the most in my cinematic experience.  Stars or leading actors motivate me less into a movie house than the support characters.  With the release of each new film, it is the secondary names I look upon. 

This love of character actors comes from my early childhood.  Films of the '30s and '40s were always loaded with the interesting characters who were there to support, torment or bedevil the leads.  Their names are etched in monochrome: from Peter Lorre to George Zucco; Lionel Atwill to Martin Kosleck.  Many character actors could also be leads, like Basil Rathbone, Karloff and Lugosi, up to Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee.  But for me, more than often, the secondary and even third-tiered actors were the most interesting.  My god, the list is endless.  I would rather watch Gale Sondergaard or Anna May Wong over Katherine Hepburn. In a way, I prefer the character actor to remain in the number 2 or 3 spot, rather than becoming the star vehicle.  There are exceptions, including some of the names I've mentioned.  Myrna Loy and William Powell are two more examples. 

So we step into the Tardis and speed into my era, the Swinging Sixties.  And a whole new chapter of character actors pop onto the scene.  There are so many.  Hopefully I will have time to mention them all.  So stepping out of the police box, I find myself happy to be in the same time and place as the Santa Barbara International Film Festival.  Sixties?  No, it's upside down.  We are in the nineties.  In my current guise as Arts & Entertainment Editor for radio station KTMS, as well as the on-going entity of Space Pirate Radio, I now find myself lucky enough to rub elbows and other body parts, with actors who appeared in many of the cult films that have delighted my peculiar tastes.  In one 24 hour period, I have attended the film premiere of a movie starring Amanda Donohoe, a particular favourite actress of mine, who has worked with both Nicolas Roeg in Castaway and Ken Russell in Lair Of The White Worm.  The film was Diamond Skulls, directed by Nick Broomfield (a lovely gentleman and an artist in his own right, who took the photograph of me and Amanda).  I spent two pleasurable days in their company, extolling the joys of British cinema and many anecdotes about Oliver Reed. 

It was at this premiere that I had the incredible pleasure of meeting one of the most friendly character actors of all time, Clive Revill.  My wife who loves Star Wars still lets me in the house thanks to my close encounter with the original Emperor.  Despite my proximity to this master of the Dark Side, we had more giggles and fun with his work in films like The Legend Of Hell House, Kaleidoscope, Fathom, The Assassination Bureau, and Modesty Blaise.  He was so damned friendly.  I like to think that he was just happy to meet somebody in America who knew his body of work.  But seriously, he was genuinely delightful and thinking about it now, I could just give him a big cuddle.  I mean, I relate to this cat.  He has worked in so many interesting projects and with so many different people and yet, had none of the bullshit trappings of a showbiz entourage.  I have the deepest respect for his art and talent.  He personifies what it is about the character actor that inspires me.  I am almost regretful that I didn't hustle him up to my show for more anecdotes and insights into his life experience.

Over the years, the Santa Barbara International Film Festival presented to me the opportunity to meet many, many artists in the film industry, past and present.  I had the pleasure of getting to know the great Turhan Bey through the festival.  This incredible man from the golden age of Hollywood.  Another example of the classic character actor.  What a gentleman.  And what a voice.  His IDs for Space Pirate Radio continue to give me chills.  From his performance in The Mummy's Tomb to his work with Maria Montez and Jon Hall, and ultimately his career as a photographer in Vienna.  The man is a class act. 

It was also during this time that I got to meet Tyrone Power Jr.  He and his lovely wife at the time, DeLane Matthews, were premiering the film Healer which also featured Turhan Bey and David McCallum.  So Ty, who had never actually known his father, had inherited his father's good looks on top of an extremely muscular build.  I felt that if his career had been handled successfully, he could have easily walked into the Zorro franchise that his father had made famous. 

So now I'm not sure if this rant has been about character actors and/or the Santa Barbara International Film Festival.  I certainly met many interesting artists during my involvement.  Richard Farnsworth stands out.  The old school, of course: Robert Mitchum, Bradford Dillman, Karl Malden, Anthony Zerbe, Don Murrary, Carol Lynley, Anne Francis, Richard Widmark and Michael Parks.  Santa Barbara was the perfect eccentric city for character actors.  I remember doing a radio broadcast with a highly inebriated James Brolin.  And with him was Stuart Whitman, also equally lubricated.  This was radio.  And on the air, Stuart Whitman said that anyone coming into the restaurant that we were broadcasting from who was wearing a tie would have it cut off.  Whitman, threatened to cut my tie off.  This was very odd.  I was wearing a turtleneck at the time.

"Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make."

And with those words on the airwaves, the show starts. The music begins.

My wife loves concerts. She sees far more shows these days than I do. But blissfully, it was the music that brought us together. Now before I start sounding like Peter Fonda in that commercial for Flower Power, I...uh, oh nevermind. (I had dinner with Peter Fonda once, but that's another story. The Castle Of Otranto by Horace Walpole. That's another story too.) Sorry, I lost my mind there...

Oh, yes, the music. Concerts. Obviously, it was the music that inspired me to start Space Pirate Radio. However, most of my concert-going experiences happened after I began the show in 1973. As the show expanded in its range of music, I was able to attend more shows featuring the artists that I had played as import records only. My love of new, foreign music helped keep the discoveries coming. One artist or record label would inspire me to explore a different offshoot. If I saw a name of an artist or producer on one disc and found it on another, then that would tempt my curiosity to hear the sounds that were offered. This is what made it all exciting, folks. New discoveries. Archeology in sound.

My initial tendencies were to explore the experimental, electronic music from the Pink Floyd/psychedelic school that had inspired the Germans. Tangerine Dream, Ash Ra Tempel and especially Amon Duul II were the key inspirations for getting the show on the air. I was pleased to have the first show on commercial radio that aired these artists. Someone once described me as the John Peel of the US, but I was able to play the entire songs--full sides worth. The luxury of a 6 hour show late at night in the early morning hours.

There were, however, exceptions to the all-electronic mantra that the show seemed to pulsate to. But yet, there was still something magical and psychedelic and progressive to it all. One example came from the folk school. I used to believe that in the 60s, in London at the UFO Club, there were three schools of experimental music: space rock, as personified by house band, the Pink Floyd; space jazz, as represented by the Soft Machine; and space folk, as interpreted by the Incredible String Band. Each one of these three bands triggered off whole schools of musical experimentation by an unlimited variety of artists. Now I could do a doctorate thesis here, but I won't. Instead, I will detour with the space folk and mention Alan Stivell.

Alan Stivell at the time was a very interesting Breton artist who did for the Celtic harp what Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull had done with the flute. He made it jazz, man. Stivell was hugely popular in France and Europe but unplayed in the United States. His album "Renaissance of the Celtic Harp" was as spacey and innovative as anything else could be under the power of electricity. Space Pirate Radio was again the first place to showcase him on commercial radio. To listeners, his work was legendary. Quite magical. His live performances at such places as the Olympia Theatre in Paris were envied and appreciated. He had never performed in California. In 1982 that would change.

Stephen Cloud, a concert promoter in Santa Barbara, often took chances on shows that should be done for art's sake and booked Stivell at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History on February 11. Stivell would play the night before in San Francisco and follow the next day in Los Angeles with Robin Williamson of the Incredible String Band. Cloud appreciated Stivell's music but wasn't sure the show would do well due to its eclectic nature. It sold out and had to turn many away. The success of the show prompted Stivell to return the following year at the Victoria Street Theatre. Stivell was a lot of fun to be with. Very easy-going. All the ladies were charmed by him. He came over to my apartment, did a casual interview and some fun IDs.

So back to concerts. It was always a high point to see a concert by someone you had admired and shared with on the air. And then to either have them on the show or hang out backstage and talk about this and that...quite fun, really. I am blessed to say that there have been quite a number of those moments. I've already mentioned a number of them here. There are others I wish to go into length with later. Tangerine Dream, Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music, were quite special. My two days with Mike Oldfield were unique. Steve Hackett and Rick Wakeman stand out. My dinner with Robin Williamson and his wife Janet turned into a very memorable show.

Oh, there were concerts before my show. The Standells ("love that dirty water") and the Knickerbockers ("Lies"), an American band that wanted to sound like the Beatles, both played my decrepit high school. I saw Janis Joplin after she had left Big Brother, debuting with her Kosmic Blues Band at the San Bernadino Swing Auditorium in 1968. Brought her a bottle of Southern Comfort and hung out in the first row. Janis headlined the show along with Lee Michaels, MC5 and some new band called Chicago Transit Authority. Oh my. Those horns. Snuck into a Mothers Of Invention/Alice Cooper concert at Cal State Fullerton. Later I would have Frank Zappa on my show and redefine the art of interviewing. Story to come later.

Anyway, the heyday of concerts was definitely during the Space Pirate Radio era of 1974-1994. From 1974 until about 1985, KTYD had a lock-in with just about every concert. There were high points and low points, both at the historic Arlington Theatre. The zenith: a co-promotion with Gentle Giant for a wonderfully relaxed yet powerful performance. The nadir: The Clash, where I felt we were all extras in a monster car rally performing A Clockwork Orange.

It saddens me to think of the concerts that nearly happened but didn't. Tangerine Dream would have played Santa Barbara years before they did my 20th anniversary party for Space Pirate Radio at the Ventura Theatre. And Genesis was going to do The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway at UCSB, but the promoter cancelled it because Fleetwood Mac was playing the same weekend. This saddens me. The tears are coming. But saddest of all is thinking that we had to turn down a one night only concert performance of Zamfir with Joy Division. Moron, this later.