In recent years, summa my stubborn old farmboy mechanic and over-caffeinated biker friends have stupidly told me how they still hate Morrissey, to which I’ve responded that “First Of The Gang To Die” was the second best Mott The Hoople song that Ian Hunter never wrote and that Mozzer was the only rockstar I knew of who rocked significantly harder in his fifties than he did in his twenties. Well…I may have been wrong about that last bit, ’cause Showbiz Al, lead mojo risin’ of CIRCUS OF POWER, is still churning out a steady and prolific stream of books, videos, and satisfyingly old fashioned, long-player, full-length albums on compact disc, that rocks every bit as hard as the classic lineup of Circus Of Power, and sometimes, even delivers exactly what you’d hope a modern-day CIRCUS OF POWER song would sound like-all shiny chrome, black exhaust, red brassieres, and voodoo dolls. I’m still not used to reviewing loosey goose individual tunes available on I-Tunes and Youtube and shit, but I think this tune was on his last silvery disc but only now made it to the big little screen, but it is positively anthemic and life affirming, even as it laments the death of our dreams of liberty and fairness, decency, and justice…I so vividly remember staring at that rising sun Circus Of Power album jacket for hours while I blasted “In The Wind” and “Call Of The Wild” and “Needles” through the p.a. speakers at my old jam house in the country, “come on baby turn up those jams, goddamn” was our way of life, back then.
Me and my buddies Bastard, Dave, Mick, and Cowboy Bob used to travel thousands of miles to see that band whenever we heard they were playing. We were totally into that band as an unruly teen pack of leather clad ruffians, we even covered summa their songs, but we were all aces and eights and had to play the hand we were dealt. After lighting many candles, waiting vigil for the other guys year after year, Al’s finally assembled another band lineup that sails under the old flag and while I haven’t learned their names yet, they bring the old danger, so even if you diehards are still missing Gary and Ricky, Zowie, and Ryan, or even Al’s chief henchman of more recent years, genuine space ace, Lunar Billy Tsounis, who co commanded that Battlestar Galactica rocketship, CAPTAIN ZAPPED, Al always manages to locate all the meanest mothers on the planet to fill out his snarling sonic and celluloid ranks and believe me, you wouldn’t wanna run into any of these guys on an L.A. overpass in the middle of the night. They all look like killers. Gang members. One percenters. People who failed their audition for Suicidal Tendencies. American Monsters. His tune is like an Allen Ginsberg cinematic protest poem from another time about how this country was built on Sitting Bull’s land and pillaged by ruthless honkies and slave owners and prison builders and deep state spooks who killed JFK and Martin Luther King on tv and crowned those MK Ultra’ed teenage queens and how even Superman can’t save us now, he’s released it with impeccably perfect timing, now that one of Howard Stern’s frequent old scandal spewing, outrage peddling, shock-jock, talk radio guests has become President and made Rex Tillerson, the Exxon exec, into Secretary Of State. Scotty Slam directed this kickass video, filmed on rooftops as a nod to the old “Vices” era, and featuring Finnish Vampire, Jyrki 69, muttering Manson girl witchy incantations, while Alex Mitchell and his latest motorcycle gang play the shit out of this driving, hooky song, that makes you wonder how the movie stars and muscle cars of Jim Morrison’s phantastic old L.A. all became the panopticon hellhole of present day NSA and NDAA and TSA prison-culture nightmarish modern ‘Murkkka, “ride that death machine, crown that teenage queen…” Even in his middle age, Showbiz Al is still a commanding and visceral screen presence with his Bryan Gregory bone necklaces and witchdoctor pimp sticks. They filmed part of this in what looks like some fortune teller parlor, and it really captures the dizzying, stopless, all night ambition of America’s coked-up population of stockbrokers, rats, dirty cops, acquisition junkies, control freaks, I-phone zombies, war profiteers, and hungry ghosts, all rat racing to nowhere, or Home Depot, or Hooters, flooring that pedal to beat you to the next red-light. Go! STOP! Go! STOP! Go! STOP! Go! STOP!! Alex Mitchell is a beloved underground anti-hero, one of our last really good, red blooded, brave hearted, all-in, lifer-dedicated rocknroll entertainers who can write, sing, and perform with style and class and an easy confidence and a social conscience and guts, urging us to freak freely even in the unblinking face of hateful fascism. Dig it!
Veglam 