Rick Johnson, R.I.P.

http://www.rockcritics.com/interview/rickjohnson.html

LikeArcheology. Dig ?

"When word first leaked that Talking Head honcho
David Byrne was slated to produce the new B-52s
album, it made about as big a splash as Cartoon-
land's first mute penguin. Pairing Barney Google
with such an impeccably trashy, intentionally fun
outfit sounded like the snorestorm of the year.
B-52s fans everywhere took Shirley Feeney's advice
and said grace under the table.

I think it's OK to come out now. Byrne has pretty
much kept his mitts off the merchandise, sticking
to separating and defining activities as though
he had one monstrous orb on the charts.

No problem there. The most popular fear--that
he'd riddle the product with jungle jelly or
Bush of Ghosts scare tactics--turned out to be
dud fear. There are some extra percussion sounds
and special effects, but not enough to make you
feel like you're at a pygmy acidhead reunion.

The runner-up fear sprouted from the press
release that announced the $5.99 list price
of this disc. Amid the economic flak and
"groundswell of demand" figures was a seemingly
harmless closing remark by group mgr. Gary
Kurfirst that appeared in many publications:
"[The $5.99 list] allowed them to be more
experimental from a musical standpoint."

More experimental is one of those phrases you
don't like to hear applied to a record, like
"bold and uncompromising" or "as long as your
arm." It usually means the artist, like
California growers, is awash in avocados.

No need for panic though, as Mesopotamia veers
little from the group's previous efforts. The
big beat is still in confident control. Cindy
still wails as if her application to chiro-
forestry school has been unjustly denied. Kate
washes her keyboards regularly and guitar man
Wilson scratches for his Tender Vittles.

These bombers do dance this Mesopotamia around,
applying their trademark snakey rhythms strongly
enough to rattle the frames of all six cuts.
Byrne's juggled the outfield a bit, sketching in
percussive intros and leaving more air-space for
oddball noises, including a heartfelt zzznni,
the beloved yonk-patooie and the previously
thought to be extinct zeet-zeet-zeet.

Biggest difference, though, is the unaccounted-
for disappearance of vocalist Fred Schneider.
No sense mounting a Fred-is-dead campaign yet
--he still gets his licks into "Throw That Beat
In The Garbage Can" and manages some of his
patented advice-to-grade-schoolers tongue in
the title cut. I can see now that Herman Munster
must have been referring to Fred in his famous
"no water-cooler Casanova" speech.

On Mesopotamia then, Kate and Cindy are the
stars of the show, Kate as writer and Cindy
as singer. Their additional two-ply harmonies
on "Nip It In The Bud" sound good enough to be
their first really big hit, if somebody would
go kill a lot of program directors. And their
wacko conversation about devil-or-angel-food
in "Cake" carries enough sex appeal to guarantee
more than casual "round laundry" status.

Undeniably cost-effective at $5.99.
Dealers: pitch to B-52s pigeons and similar ilk;
others deserve a singing Ford dealer."

The Catherine Wheel

"David Byrne--what a creepy looking guy! Rogue eyeballs
and an Adam’s apple that calls its own shots. So stiff
that, if he stood in a draft, he’d twang (as Cher pointed
out in a recent Scooby Doo episode). Seems like he’s
coming to take you to his leader, or maybe on a suicide
Pepsi date.

A far off voice on the telephone told me that this Byrne
album is "more important than Jerry Harrison." Big deal.
So is Dacron, Bosom Buddies, new improved Lysol "I Love
My Carpet" and the square egg machine.

What are we to make of a bushel of songs commissioned
for a Broadway dance production? (Do I hear "mincemeat?")
Well, choreographer Twyla Tharp says her piece is about
"the horrible family, featuring images of love, war,
apocalypse and pineapples." Take that, Cricket Blake!

Byrne’s songs can be broken down into four categories.
Some like "His Wife Refused" and "What A Day That Was"
are fairly typical Talking Heads type tracks, with
totally unexpected blips and doots identifiable as
pretty stuff in the latter. Sounds like our boy’s
been playing his Devo albums upside down again.

More interesting are the instrumental cuts. "Big
Business" and "Two Soldiers" are friendly enough to
be used as background music in a transit authority
radio commercial. Ditto "Eggs In A Briar Patch,"
which has the extra play appeal of consenting vibes
until somebody starts playing tapes of either Walter
Brennan or George Wallace that were left over from
Byrne and Eno’s Bush Of Ghosts LP.

Speaking of the cold hand of Brian Eno, wait’ll you
hear what the credits refer to as his Prophet Scream
on "The Red House." Sounds like the Bloodless
Pharaohs throwing brass nail grooming kits and
magnetic backgammon pieces at a talking soda machine.

Even further out is "Cloud Chamber," featuring Byrne
on Kitchen Metals, a credit rarely seen on labels
other than K-tel. Boing, conk, p-toot, wacka, yovo,
klute, dinka-dinka it goes.

Final category is stinkers. "My Big Hands (Fall
Through The Cracks)" is a plain old dead man’s rap
and the aptly entitled "Poison" is the album’s think
piece. "When time is tight/Huh?" he sings, "You
can use it/Uh huh." Uh huh.

Also included is this declaimer for hard core fans:
"The time limitations of a single long-playing disc
do not allow for a complete presentation of this
work--all 73 minutes of songs and instrumentals.
The entire musical production is available only on
The Catherine Wheel cassette." That’s the first
and last time you’ll see a plug for tape on an
American record.

Nebraska, surprise naps, delighting your friends
with ceramic rabbits, diplomatic immunity at
dogtracks, Mac Davis, utility infielders...oh
yeah--other things more important than Jerry Harrison."

I admit I had to guess at that number (not having any of my Creem's on hand to verify). The interview was done in 2002, and I assumed he stopped writing for Creem mid-80s at the latest, but if he wrote for Creem Metal later in the decade, that's obviously incorrect. "A dozen" years is more like it.

RIP Rick.

It's been a while since the death of any mere MUSICIAN has depressed me this much. R.I.P.

A shame that his stuff was never compiled in a book.

Seems to me that this could be a sign of something to do.

I am depressed now. Fuck.

RIP.

(Try Moosehead beer. - Ed)

Proud to have known Rick By Stacey Creasy, editor of the The Journal, Macomb, IL
Rick Johnson died this week. He was someone many people thought they knew, yet few people knew him.
Those who did not know Rick probably thought he was quiet, reclusive of sorts. He was quiet and low-key.
If you really knew Rick, you knew him because if Rick knew you, he was the type that wore a smile on his face and his emotions on his sleeve if you were allowed to see those emotions. What you saw was what you got. Rick was one of the most real people I've ever known.
When you talked to Rick about anything there was never any doubt where he stood on an issue or how he felt, if you asked him.
Rick managed Cady's smokehouse for years. To show how synonymous he was with the store I've heard at least two people refer to him since his death as Rick Cady.
His last name was not Cady of course. He did not own the store, he simply managed it.
What many people do not know is Rick was a rock journalist. He is literally part of a dying breed - journalists who were in it for the love of the work, not the money or any fame that came with it.
If there is a rock 'n' roll Heaven, you know they have a helluva band, and I'm sure Rick is enjoying every tune.
Rick wrote for Creem magazine from 1975 until the publication folded in 1988. Rick was a correspondent by today's standards. He resided in Macomb and sent his stuff to Creem. From 1982 to 1984 Rick was actually in the Creem office, working as an editor at large or editor on staff.
For years Rick was one of the most popular writers with the fans because of the no-nonsense, humorous approach he took with each piece.
In fact the famed columnist Dave Barry, who is now syndicated everywhere on the planet, the Starbucks of syndicated columnists, said Rick's style of writing inspired Barry when he was a young smart-alec to take a humorous approach to his columns. For Barry the rest was history.
For Rick. Life was filled with uncertainties once Creem folded.
Rick grew up in the south-Chicago suburb of Dolton. He moved to Macomb in 1969 to attend Western Illinois University where he attended school for four years. After Creem Rick knew he loved Macomb so he came back and began to run Cady's. Rick did not settle for Macomb. He wanted to be here. No one settles for rural Illinois. If you live here it's because you want to be here.
Rick stayed in touch with most of his friends from the Creem days. As a writer, he was like a man without a country. If you ever read Creem you would know there is no other magazine out there like it, and if your writing catered to Creem and Creem fans, once it folded, you were left with no where to go.
That is how and why I got to know Rick, as a writer. I was an entertainment journalist the first six-seven years of my career.
In the early-mid 80s I wrote entertainment articles for the Journal and a publication called Prairie Sun, published in Peoria by Bill Knight , who is now teaching at WIU and has several projects going, including a syndicated column that we publish twice a week.
During my early days I would go into Cady's to look for certain magazines, including Creem. Rick would offer words of wisdom and gave me some valuable contacts.
I looked up to him because he was writing for the best magazine in the land at the time in my opinion.
During the early 90s I worked as a reporter for the Journal but I also turned Happenings into a weekly entertainment section that readers turned to for movies, videos and to find out what bands were playing where that weekend.
When I asked for advice Rick gave it and I listened because he was so talented and honest.
I left Macomb in 1993 and spent the next 11 years in Indiana. When I returned to take the editor's job in 2004 one of the first places I went was Cady's. Rick was still there. When I told him why I was back he was overjoyed. Rick told me how he felt about the Journal and mentioned the entertainment section was long gone.
Still, he offered words of encouragement and told me what he thought the paper was lacking (three days later I headed back to work -just kidding).
We made some major changes in the paper. Everytime I stopped in Cady's Rick pumped me up by telling me how much he enjoyed the paper now.
There were mornings when I would be outside, having a smoke during the wee hours of the morning and Rick would cruise by on his bike. He always said something along the lines of "keep up the good work."
I had not been in Cady's for several weeks prior to Rick's death and I feel bad about that. Rick's death reminds me that none of us are promised a tomorrow , so we should take advantage of every today we receive.
Rick did.

Rick Johnson was an amazing creative and talented writer. I truly regret never getting my nerve up to drive down to Cady's and saying Boy Howdy! to the man. Creem's shotgun marriage of intellect and irreverence have forever warped by world view and certainly Reek played a large part in my deformity. Godspeed to the man.