Let’s keep things in the key of Chili Peppers and drop my favorite cut the band ever did, this slap-happy funk bomb of psychedelic joy, “Show Me Your Soul.”
Dropped as a side nugget during the Mother’s Milk cycle, this song blew me away with Anthony Keidis (back in the long locks, sans porn ‘stache days), Flea, John Frusciante and Chad Smith humming on all cylinders. Probably the sexiest expression of newfound love, I still have the potential to just lose my shit cranking this one with no one around.
Every time I hear this song or watch the gleeful video, I always sigh at the end (a true sentimental gentleman), knowing it represents the end of an era for this point in the band’s history. The subsequent Blood Sugar Sex Magik and Californication changed the tide and the band itself, even with the momentary drop-in of Jane’s Addiction guitarist Dave Navarro for the rowdy if sometimes unfocused One Hot Minute.
Not a lick of it, with moments of greatness amidst the commercialized watering down of the band on those and subsequent albums, compares to the booming energy and love of roots this song shoves out with a wild alpha-omega blend of machismo and femininity. As I mentioned in the last post, I’m very fond of the Chili Peppers’ more recent albums The Getaway (a therapy album I needed during a rough stretch, and I played the snot out of) and the exuberant Unlimited Love.
Still, try putting anything following “Show Me Your Soul” against it. Limp noodle by comparison.
Wow, this game-changer came out 40 years ago. People tend to forget the Red Hot Chili Peppers started as a fast-moving funk punk band before settling into the pop rock juggernaut they are today. I remember vividly when I would stay the night at my dad’s in the early days of cable television and MTV, I would be up all night watching horror and action movies and music videos.
There was this foursome of day glo painted lunatics shaking, shimmying, dancing like absolute spazzes. Some goofball bassist named Flea thrashing his head twice the velocity as Angus Young at a mid-tempo song of savage weirdness. I’m talking about “True Men Don’t Kill Coyotes” from the band’s self-titled debut album from August 10, 1984.
Those insane images imprinted themselves upon me for more than a week after first contact. I came across RHCP again later being their coked-out, writhing, manic, costumed selves in 1986’s comedy Tough Guys. Who can forget Kirk Douglas bashing that mosher in the chops coaxing him to, “Slam me!” with the Chili Peppers doing their thing?
The Chilis became one of my all-time favorite bands and I prefer the first four albums and from their later catalog, The Getaway and Unlimited Love. Facing the facts, the Red Hot Chili Peppers are at their finest (in my opinion) when laying down the funk, preferably fast. “Get Up and Jump” from this first album being that huffing go-getter. My favorite Chili Pepper track ever? “Show Me Your Soul.” Psychedelic funk blasted to perfection, John Frusciante’s blistering guitar solo being RNR HoF worthy in itself.
Mother’s Milk is their finest hour, sorry. Many will disagree. I saw them on that tour and whatever they may have been laced out with, it was the most incredible display of raw power not even The Stooges had. Greatest live performance I ever bore witness to.
I tripped over this really cool shot someone from the Shore Leave event organizers took of me manning TJ’s space at Shore Leave at the Friday night “Meet the Pros” event that weekend. I can tell you exactly what was tumbling around my head here:
I’d interviewed more than 300 bands, artists, actors, film directors and authors in my 16 years covering the things I loved. Many being royalty of their respective genres. I just got used to talking to people of success in the entertainment world, except I hadn’t had any opportunities to cover sci-fi then. I was often backstage and on tour buses. I had film directors get so caught in the moment talking to me they asked me to wait around until they took their next appointed interviewer, THEN came back to me for a second round. I’d talked to many guitarists, singers and drummers who just opened up to me for three-hour chats. One even asked to collab with me for a biography and we generated six hours of footage until the artist torpedoed the idea.
All of that, and I’m still geeking here in this photo, landing the people with the names of renowned authors and marveling my wife and I started 25 years ago writing Darth Maul of Star Wars fan fiction together, a few of our first publication credits. We supported each other, cheered each other on. On our first date later in life, she reeled off the names of established and successful writers in the Star Trek and sci-fi-fantasy genre and I said “Wait, you know WHO?” I jokingly told her she’d trumped my entire side career.
Two years prior at another Shore Leave, she’d introduced me to whole lot of them, mostly in passing. I was the new, uncertain guy in her life, though I knew after our first date this was meant to be. I got a better read and fix on these popular authors this year and at the point of this picture, I’d told TJ, “Go see your friends, I’ve got this.” I’m smiling watching her talk to every single one of them and enjoying the camaraderie they shared with her and with each other.
As the night wore on, I got to know many of them myself in the hotel bar, then the second night, hanging in this circle of writer friends, I soaked the moment. It felt different than all the bands I’ve bro’ed down with, the directors who shared their own backstage magic with me, so to speak. All the incredible conversations I had with them, and I fell into that rhythm, engaging with the authors and always keeping to my credo, whether it was Alice Cooper, Rob Zombie, Mick Garris or an-up-comer. They’re all people too, just like you and me. Conduct yourself accordingly.
I believe when this shot was taken, I’d been approached warmly by two of the authors I now consider my friends as well, particularly the physical tokens of goodwill we’d shared with one another. They’d honored my off-the-cuff mentions or offers of trade, and I assure you, I got the better end of the deal, to quote one of them who’d used that of himself with humility, which gained my further respect.
I thought to myself, “Ray, you lucky bastard, you got the woman you need to finish this life with. You’ve been at this whole writing thing most of your life and FINALLY momentum is happening with your fiction.” Many of these people before you, you were reading years ago, some more recently. This is a tribe to aspire to.
I’m in a rebrand and rebuild mode, or a “new mode,” as Kudi Cudi sings about. I lost a sizable and loving audience who followed my career in journalism. At one point in time, I was writing for 13 simultaneous magazines and websites. I covered 8-10 concerts a month. I slept very little, turning in copy under deadline at 4:30 to 5:00 a.m., then back up at 8:00 a.m. for the day job. That haunted me last night watching the Jim Henson documentary. A man of passion, genius and outrageous drive, dying at 53 chasing after it all with little rest. I know better than that these days.
I did it for the thrill, for the love, because I wanted to matter, and I did. Hopefully I will yet again. Attending the panels and workshops at Shore Leave, I learned from some of the masters. Later, threw back some drinks with the masters.
My face here in this shot is the most hopeful thing I’ve seen anyone capture from me.
I am currently writing a punk based horror story in answer to a call for submissions. Got me pulling out this time capsule gem from the photo albums. McDaniel College when it was known as Western Maryland College, Westminster, MD. Washington, D.C. hardcore legends, Government Issue headlining a four pack of punk bands.
Carroll County hadn’t seen the likes of it before, nor after, but what an incredible night with Bob, Joel, Mark, Jeff, John and Mike, the days of crossover when metalheads and punkers bridged.
I marked a few of us off in this photo from the Carroll County Times, myself holding on to the floor amp belting out “Jaded Eyes” with the late John Stabb. This clip fueled my story I just finished the first draft for. These were our salad days.
Picture a brutal horror element at play here, if you will…
As we were leaving Shore Leave in its new location of Lancaster, Pennsylvania last week, we pulled into a drive-through to snag some cool drinks for the ride home.
I seldom get the luxury of lazing upon my surroundings in the car, but being the passenger this time, I spotted a pushed-off strip center shopping mall that no doubt went up during the 1980s if not the Seventies.
Now strip malls are still very much a thing as opposed to the megacomplexes that were the lifeblood of my generation’s teen scene. Thus, I was a little caught off-guard, despite being a thorough student of economics, to find a completely barren strip center like this one. With a kaleidoscope of barren marquees, no less.
I mean, this sucker was one hundred percent dead.
Nothing leased, only one other car slinking by in passing. At one time, no doubt a major source of local commerce, considering its otherwise prime location planted on the main business artery of Lancaster Route 30.
The problem, I see, and I think it’s becoming more commonplace with failing strip centers, is not so much the syndrome of online e-markets offering far wider choices and pricing landing somewhat closer to the targeted retail cost.
Route 30 in Lancaster, like most American commercial routes, is a lifeblood to the local economy, so much every possible mainstream food and retail operation you’re looking for is almost guaranteed to be there. So much there are three competing steak houses in close quarters, one of which gained our business for being on our side of the street, even with all three being a stone’s throw from the convention.
The difference I saw in the strip centers of Lancaster that were thriving with stuffed parking lots, is having closer access to the main road. The strip mall you see here was pushed off a smidge of a block from Route 30. You had to rely, back in its prime, upon a guidepost sign directing you in. It’s still there, empty of businesses, but who cares about it when you have three fast food emporiums, a coffee peddler and a closer berthed mini strip burying it?
In other words, out of sight, out of mind. Instant kill-off.
A shame, really, but what I told TJ as I snapped off these quick shots was, “If this was a zombie holocaust and this empty shell was our only safe haven between survival and becoming chow for the undead, we’d be royally effed.”
Hi, my name is Ray Van Horn, Jr. Author of Coming of Rage and Revolution Calling and later in 2024, my new horror compilation, Behind the Shadows. I’ve worn many hats as a music and film journalist and concert photographer for 16 years, a press release writer, a former NHL game analyst, local beat reporter, scribe of serialized superhero adventures and haunter of the open mike.
I’m a deep cut kind of guy, though there’s always a place for timeless hits in my heart. I’m currently grinding out the psychedelic bombast of Heavy Temple with the hip hop stylings of Kid Cudi’s Entergalactic soundtrack on deck. My son turned me on to Kid Cudi and I’m proud of that, because I’m sometimes a tough one to sell in music. I have way broad horizons in my music tastes, but the bottom line is I demand integrity, not filler, from you as a musician.
I beat my 54-year-old body senseless through fitness endeavors because I only know when to quit when the stakes call for it. I have maybe one more Spartan event in me come November at Fenway Park, but knowing my stubborn self, I’ll be scrolling the event calls once again next year.
I’ve hashed 27 years scratching coin in the mortgage title industry and currently hold a title examiner position. That’s a long daggone time in one industry as I’ve seen friends come and friends come again in a business we refer to as incestuous since everyone knows everyone. Now I’m seeing next to no one I remember. Read into that as you will.
This is my favorite picture anyone’s ever taken of me, by the love of my life, TJ, my best friend, catching me in a wee sloshy, mostly infatuated man who knows he’s struck gold in his life. I used this picture as an author photo for my first two books and other publications, but nothing makes me smile harder other than looking at pics of our wedding every single day.
Roads Lesser Traveled 