Mediados de los 60s. Un niño, de nombre Richard Meyer, sescapa del colegio en Delaware, con su amigo y compañero Tom Miller. No se van a un boliche a hacerle la cimarra a las clases. Parten rumbo a NY, a hacerle la cimarra a la vida. En el camino, Tom se cambia el apellido a Verlaine. Richard, a Hell. En NY, Hell prueba suerte como poeta. Autoedita revistas y libros bajo su propia editorial. Tiene suerte. Con tan solo 20 años, sus poemas son publicados en la Rolling Stone y otras revistas. En 1969, ambos fundan una banda, los Neon Boys. 4 años después, sacan un single. Se dice ques la primera canción punk. Por lo menosi obviamos a los Saicos. En escena, Hell usaba los pelos parados y la ropa rota, con unos cuantos imperdibles intentando mantenerla en su lugar, una indumentaria nuncantes vista. Se cambian el nombre a Television. Conversan con el dueño de un bar. Le preguntan por qué norganizamos una serie de tocatas para que las bandas de rock locales tengan un espacio para tocar. El dueño dice que bueno. Las tocatas se vuelven rutinarias. El bar se llama CBGB. Verlaine y Hell se pelean. La banda se separa. Hell toca con Johnny Thunder —ex NY Doll— por un año. Luego se arma su propia banda: Richard Hell & the Voidoids. La formación incluye a Robert Quine —quizás el guitarrista más talentoso del punk, compite con Verlaine— y al futuro Marky Ramone. Por esos tiempos, Malcom Mclaren —titiritero de profesión— está de paseo por NY. Entra al CBGB. Ve a Hell, con sus pelos parados y sus jirones de ropa y su banda, tocando una canción llamada Blank Generation. Esto me gusta, se dice. Vablar con la banda. Les ofrece ser su manager. Lo mandan al carajo. Mclaren se regresa con el rabo entre las piernas a UK. Allá forma una banda. Les para los pelos. Los viste con jirones sujetados con imperdibles. Les dice que toquen algo como Blank Generation. El resultado: los Sex Pistols y su single, Pretty Vacant. Al otro lado del océano, los Voidoidse separan. A principio de los 90s, Hell forma una banda con Thurston Moore y Steve Shelley de Sonic Youth, Don Fleming de los Gumballs, y Robert Quine. Sacan un disco y un EP, homónimos de la banda: Dim Stars. En la segunda mitad de la última década del siglo pasado, publicó una novela. Luego una colección de textos cortos. El 2005 publicó su segunda novela. Tuvo una relación —y una hija— con Patty Smyth, líder de la banda Scandal. Por su parte, Verlaine tuvo una relación —sin consecuencias— con Patty Smith, la mera mera. Ambos, Verlaine y Hell, son unos bakanes. Ya no están peleados.Richard Hell en Wikipedia (En inglés).
Tom Verlaine en Wikipedia (En inglés).
Robert Quine en Wikipedia (En inglés).
Lester Bangs hablando sobre su amigo Robert Quine y otras cosas (En inglés).
Robert Quine hablando sobre su amigo Lester Bangs y otras cosas (En Inglés).
Video de Richard Hell & the Voidoids tocando Blank Generation y Love Comes In en vivo, en Youtube.
Video de Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth) —con su colección de vinilos— contando cuando conoció a Mike Watt (Stooges, entre otros) y le contó su experiencia en las tocatas de los Voidoids, en Youtube (En inglés).
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3 comentarios:
Dear Reader (II)
To discover yourself: buy makeup, but reader
to fulfill yourself, say these words:
"My name is Frank Sinatra."
It's true, like everything
that's frightening--a speaker
in the flesh has disintegrated your body.
Horror, after all
is the basic ingredient
of each bite of butter,
Sugar,
each layer
of cake
Honey,
my lamb, illegible
Bozo sucked the scum and only
"Bo..o Tr....phant" remains to be scrutinized
by scholars intent on discovering
how those two words could be equated
with the gray and brown stains on bedsheets
as an expression of love communicated
across an infinite distance.
Reader, darling,
come closer.
Though we must employ the techniques
perfected in the production of endless television commercials,
still,
we can read between the lines, can't we...
We're three-dimensional, though, yes, you're right,
I've revealed my insecurity on that point, and
"my" may be too strong a term in this context.
The line of your forearm blurs
and you move it to convince yourself you're there.
We've become so close...
I've picked up your habits
...a Spanish accent...
a tendency to ego-disintegrate and passionately
identify with the cockroach one is compelled
to viciously crush on the kitchen floor
identify to the point of suffering with the
cockroach one has just...
identify...crushed to the point of
...identify the cockroach to the point of the...
floor...suffering...uncontrollably on the one
who has just crushed
crumpled
collapsed into a far more desirable object
superior in every way
to the ordinary "sheet of paper" human being...
Yes, we have so much in common
lying on the floor, a chromosome pool,
calculating all the possibilities and invariably
arriving at "I must have left something out,"
as milk flows from your mouth
and starry blood stamps on the accelerator to escape
the fate awaiting it
in your brain cells.
But if we could just hold onto each other, my sweetheart,
at night, inside artificial light,
the position of each object spectacularly
increasing its ominous presence
when the smeared mirror places a
triple white distance in advance of the blue wall and
is not conscious of its effect--
your presence alters these perceptions
when you are in my arms
as I am in your hands
right now.
But when every line exists
to cancel its predecessor,
"He wants to better himself,"
is all that remains to be said,
dear.
A thick head can be an advantage.
Must stupidity be held against the writer?
Must false modesty?
Must psuedo false modesty?
All I ask is your indulgence
for introducing myself
troduce...
lips...
one's lips...
Aren't they eloquent enough stationary?
Must they move?
We're of the same species
reader...
Could I please offer you mine as a friendly gesture
from another structure?
Consider them yours.
(poema del Hell)
Dear Reader (II)
To discover yourself: buy makeup, but reader
to fulfill yourself, say these words:
"My name is Frank Sinatra."
It's true, like everything
that's frightening--a speaker
in the flesh has disintegrated your body.
Horror, after all
is the basic ingredient
of each bite of butter,
Sugar,
each layer
of cake
Honey,
my lamb, illegible
Bozo sucked the scum and only
"Bo..o Tr....phant" remains to be scrutinized
by scholars intent on discovering
how those two words could be equated
with the gray and brown stains on bedsheets
as an expression of love communicated
across an infinite distance.
Reader, darling,
come closer.
Though we must employ the techniques
perfected in the production of endless television commercials,
still,
we can read between the lines, can't we...
We're three-dimensional, though, yes, you're right,
I've revealed my insecurity on that point, and
"my" may be too strong a term in this context.
The line of your forearm blurs
and you move it to convince yourself you're there.
We've become so close...
I've picked up your habits
...a Spanish accent...
a tendency to ego-disintegrate and passionately
identify with the cockroach one is compelled
to viciously crush on the kitchen floor
identify to the point of suffering with the
cockroach one has just...
identify...crushed to the point of
...identify the cockroach to the point of the...
floor...suffering...uncontrollably on the one
who has just crushed
crumpled
collapsed into a far more desirable object
superior in every way
to the ordinary "sheet of paper" human being...
Yes, we have so much in common
lying on the floor, a chromosome pool,
calculating all the possibilities and invariably
arriving at "I must have left something out,"
as milk flows from your mouth
and starry blood stamps on the accelerator to escape
the fate awaiting it
in your brain cells.
But if we could just hold onto each other, my sweetheart,
at night, inside artificial light,
the position of each object spectacularly
increasing its ominous presence
when the smeared mirror places a
triple white distance in advance of the blue wall and
is not conscious of its effect--
your presence alters these perceptions
when you are in my arms
as I am in your hands
right now.
But when every line exists
to cancel its predecessor,
"He wants to better himself,"
is all that remains to be said,
dear.
A thick head can be an advantage.
Must stupidity be held against the writer?
Must false modesty?
Must psuedo false modesty?
All I ask is your indulgence
for introducing myself
troduce...
lips...
one's lips...
Aren't they eloquent enough stationary?
Must they move?
We're of the same species
reader...
Could I please offer you mine as a friendly gesture
from another structure?
Consider them yours.
(otro poema del hell)
"Her name is Lydia Lunch; she used to play guitar in a way that has been compared with Chilean torture chambers"......¿?
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