The Old Days

Today I heard of the death this past weekend of a man I knew in the old days. Torr Skoog was the vocalist, songwriter, and driving creative influence behind Boston band The Kings of Nuthin'. I wouldn't describe him as a close friend, but he was a guy I knew, who was friends with other guys I knew back when my life centered around the punk rock scene in Boston. His death, and the memories of my young life that it has brought to bear, has me feeling rattled enough the talk about it here. I'll try not to get too maudlin about it, because maudlin definitely ain't very punk.

I drew this poster for a show we played back in 1999. I was the drummer in the Speed Devils, the rockabilly outfit you may remember me mentioning before. Mr. Airplane Man was a killing duo of girls, drums and guitar, playing blues the likes of which any band named after a Howlin' Wolf song should. The drummer went on to marry another good friend. The Konks were a favorite of mine, a band that was "garage" to the core yet somehow managed to maintain an originality that no one could touch. The Boston Bootleggers were the new guys at the time, and our man Torr was the frontman. They went on to become The Kings of Nuthin', local legends to those who cared, and in plenty far flung places too. This show was one of the best I ever attended. To have been a part of it was, in retrospect, a real honor. In true punk fashion, it resulted in all of us being banned from The Lizard Lounge forever. Someday I might get into the details, but I remember stepping across a bed of broken beer bottles to my seat behind the drum set when it was our turn to play.

We went on to play with the Kings of Nuthin' quite a lot over the next few years. They always brought a level of fire and energy to the show that could only make you smile. To call them the living essence of punk rock would be a disservice to them. For one thing, they weren't really what I'd call a punk band. There were seven of them, or eight, and their music was based in the black rhythm and blues style rock 'n roll of the late fifties. A big band by the standards of any of the rest of us at the time, the line up included drums, piano (always a real acoustic upright, hopelessly out of tune, that they took to every show. Heroic), upright bass, guitar, horns, and this crazy dude called Necro running around playing a washboard. They dressed in matching black suits and ties, which were constantly filthy, but they were sharp by the general standards of the scene. None of this silly studded belt and funny haircut crap, leave that to me and my friends.What made them the darlings of the punk crowd was the sheer release of energy that came blasting out of these dudes, every f*cking time. It was thrilling to see, and it never, ever got boring. A lot of that had to do with Torr. He couldn't really sing, but he wasn't exactly screaming either. What he was doing was performing in a compelling way that held the attention of each and every soul in the room each and every second of each and every set they played. His lyrics had the anthemic quality of old hard core about them, which really got the kids riled, but he was much more of a writer than that, because his lyrics were actually good too.

That's the poster for our own CD release gig (damn, why didn't I say record release?). The Kings had set them up good, and everybody was in full swing by the time we took the stage. About halfway through the set, I see this giant flame come blasting out of an air conditioning vent. Startled, I looked up while playing to see it happen again. There in the vent was Torr, breathing fire. Seriously, I'm not making this up. When I confronted him about it after the show, he merely shrugged, smiled, and put a finger to his lips. What could I say? That was Torr for you. 

I do remember him as being a somewhat enigmatic fellow. I know plenty of you think my tattoos and rock scene past are a little rough, but believe me I was nothing but a puppy in this crowd. These dudes were for real, and Torr was the realest. Sometimes homeless, sometimes living on a garage or some such crazy place, always working on some 1940s hot rod or other that was never really done, and covered in real, homemade crazy tattoos. Trust me, my shtick was downright pedestrian next to him. But for all that, you really couldn't find a nicer, more polite guy. He was disarming in his politeness in fact. It always caught me off guard a little. Once, I ran into him in The Model Cafe, then the high holy watering hole for real degenerates and wanna-be degenerates like myself, and he proceeded get us both drunk on beer and shots of Galliano, of all things. Weird.

I had just run into him, randomly, on the sidewalk in front of my job, only a few weeks ago. It was the first time I'd seen him in years, but he was just as friendly as ever. When I heard about his death this morning, it shook me up a little. He was a young man, probably not yet forty. I spent the whole day remembering those times, the people I knew and the person I was. It's funny, I often talk about all that stuff I was into, all those punk bands and silly shows, as a learning experience best outgrown when adulthood kicks in. But many of the friendships remain strong and the memories fond, and I don't regret a minute of it. It's a big part of the man I am today, even if most people might never guess it at first. Torr Skoog was one of the more dynamic personalities I encountered then, a truly memorable person. He may not have been a close friend personally, but he stands in my memory as a representative of a formative part of my life, my own version of the "good old days". 

R.I.P. Torr.

-Joey from Somerville

 The Speed Devils

In The Mix (a minor rant)

Its been said so many times that the earmarks of a well dressed man are all in the details, and its true. With what may seem a fairly limited arsenal of items to choose from (jacket, trousers, shirt, tie, shoes) all the punctuating differences are in the details. Pleats or no pleats, collar style, cut of jacket, shape of the shoulder and so on are just some of the bits that differentiate one style form another. Its worth knowing these things, but it can lead to fetishism and the rise of a clothing police force.

I think of this frequently when  I look around the internet at the men's clothing scene, particularly among devotees of the traditional American look. So many of them adhere so strictly to a set of rules as thought they were carved in stone and handed down from on high. No where is this truer than with the so called "Ivy" or "Trad" crowd. These are the guys who take style to be an exact replication of what an archetypal college man might have worn in 1962-67. Coats are three button and un-darted, with two button cuffs, trousers have flat fronts, and shirts have button down collars. All details must be in place at all times, and no one detail may be combined with details form any other school of style. While I do in fact enjoy that style myself and draw from its influence frequently, I find it highly limiting and anything but stylish to dismiss all else out of hand. I used to encounter this same strictness among the Rockabilly scene in the old days, guys who would measure the roll of your jeans cuff and chemically test the make up of your pomade for correctness. It's the difference between wearing cool old stuff and dressing in what amounts to a Halloween costume.

In the photo above, I've combined a continental style blazer with roped shoulders, darts, side vents and a ticket pocket with forward pleated side tab trousers and a button shirt and rep tie, both from Brooks Brothers. The coat, though made in New York, is European in style. The trousers, from the Andover Shop, are replete with British details, and the shirt and tie are as American as it gets. And yet I see no reason why these things can't all work together, In fact, by mixing them, the severity of any of them is diminished and a more interesting whole is created.

One of the hallmarks o what we call American style always was the combination of sporting and formal elements in this way. As I recall, it's actually as traditional to do this, if not more so, than to adhere strictly to a self imposed set of Ivy League standards. Charlie Davidson has been dressing this way for half his long life. My old boss Harold Simon was notorious for wearing 6x2 double breasted suits with forward pleats  with a button down collar, repp tie  and tassel loafers. The High Holy Fred was doing it in the 1930s, and he's one of the big shots.

It looks good. It looks more like you know about good clothing than simply that you've been reading the blogs the last couple of years. It looks more like you enjoy dressing and less like you enjoy being a crotchety old man obsessed with "the good old days". And anyway, those good old days weren't necessarily so good anyway. Just ask any woman or minority if they wish things were more like 1962.

This isn't to say that this is the only way either. My point is there is no "only way" and that "correctness" will only take you so far. Finding personal style lies in learning all this and then making bits and pieces of all of it your own. Putting it all together is where we find individuality while basically wearing the same thing. Use your freedom of choice.

For the strict types out there, Devo said it best:

Freedom of choice

is what you got 

Freedom from choice 

is what you want

Addendum: I wrote this in the morning using a photo from a week before. The very same day this was written, I wore this:

Kelly green 3/2 sack blazer by Brooks Brothers, with military khakis, ribbon belt and striped button down, both Brooks Brothers, and a plain navy tie, Andover Shop. I dig this too, I just see no reason to be one dimensional. Right?

The Jams

"I met this girl for the first time on Saturday night...."


Very early AC/DC, 1974. Dressed like rejects from the auditions for Queen, playing what is essentially a rockabilly jam, via Gibson, Fender and Gretsch. The beginnings of their tongue-in-cheek, fun filled and goofy brand of filthy rock n roll. It was a promise to be later fulfilled by the arrival of Bon Scott (more on him later), and lost in the wind with Brian Johnson and too much touring into too old age.

AC/DC has been with me for a long time. I found them as a teenager in high school, stuck with them through the punk years, and still enjoy them on the turntable with the volume way up. Despite their solidly cemented place in the annals of big bad bar rock of the 1970s, they managed to do it with enough humor to keep it timeless.

And for what its worth, Angus Young has been teaching me for years that there's nothing wrong with being the only guy in a jacket and tie if that's the way you're feeling it. In a world filled with jeans, t-shirts and beer, he was a king among men, always in a tie.

p.s. given the fact that for those of us with social lives, Saturday is for parties,my infrequent series of posts "the Jams" will now be a semi regular feature on weekends. It will give me an excuse to continue to dig up great moments in music the older among you may remember fondly and the younger among you can thank me for teaching to you.

The Jams ( a protracted discourse on kids stuff )

A trip this weekend to the ever overwhelming Todd Farm Flea Market netted this little gem:

Four 45s and two LPs for $14. A steal, given that I'd have paid that much for this little jam alone. The rest was simply frosting.

I saw Link Wray once. It was in the height of my days as a Pompadour and tight jeans wearing punk-o kid. I was in my early twenties, playing in a band that played a hopped up version of Rockabilly. Needless to say, Link Wray was nothing short of a god to us then.  He still is now.

The night I saw him play he must have been in his early seventies...seriously. "Reunion tours" are a plague that the world of punk and rockabilly is lousy with, and I usually did my best to avoid old timer shows. After all, youth and vitriol have so much to do with makes that music good when its good that seeing the old timers is often silly, and usually a bit depressing. Ever seen the Sex Pistols on the Tonight Show from their reunion? Punk is kid stuff, and it tends not to wear so well on the old folks.

Link's band was a couple of young dudes, very obviously thrilled to be on tour with a legend. They start playing one of those dead ahead thumping grooves that almost all of Link Wray's songs are built on. And then the man himself walks on stage. He's wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, tight black leather pants, a studded belt and black Ray Bans (like these). At his age, he should have looked downright foolish, but he didn't, because he invented that stuff, he played with as much fire and balls as he ever had, and he was Link Goddamn Wray. He gets a pass. So does Lemmy, a direct heir to the Link Wray School of Life:



You can call it heavy metal, but it kinda sounds like fifties music to me. This one, like Link, has some staying power. A handful of others do as well, but mostly its kid's stuff. You can hold on to the piss and vinegar feelings all  your life, even let them define you, but at some point, you gotta grow up.

Even if you grow up to be the kind of fop who wears a black silk knit tie with a pinned collar and a silk tweed jacket in Glen Urquhart check...

you can still wear silly socks sometimes (or even sillier slippers).

...and your kids may even choose one day to wear two skull and bones patterns together...with penny loafers. This outfit was of the boys choosing, and who am I to say no to this?

See what I mean about kid's stuff, though? When you're four years old, and you choose an outfit like this, it's killer. But it ain't for grown-ups...not even Lemmy or Link could pull this off, though the very thought of either of them in shorts is worth a laugh.

p.s. those Ray Bans aren't the only new item to hit the shop this week. There's a little bit of everything. Check it.