Rubber City Review

Back in the heyday of Cleveland rock radio, this wildman named Murray Saul – sounding a lot like Howard Dean when he blew up his campaign for President – would usher in the weekend with a full-throttle rant on WMMS-FM. Here’s a taste from one of the station’s TV commercials, circa 1975:

Typically, Saul would stick it to the “slavedrivers” who owned us all week at the office or factory. Of course, that was back when most of us had office or factory jobs. Today, Saul’s rants seem like quaint reminders of an era when 5 p.m. on Friday was something worth celebrating. If you’re lucky enough to have a job today, it’s probably one of three low-paying gigs that keep you working all weekend. If not, well, Friday is just another day to smoke weed and hone your Xbox skills while waiting for your mom to get home so you can borrow her car.

I sort of enjoyed the whole ‘MMS “Home of the Buzzard” schtick, even though I was turned off by much of the station’s hard-rock playlist (did we really need to hear Ian Hunter’s “Cleveland Rocks” every four hours?). Which led me to wonder, what if I were in charge of picking the song that would officially kick off a weekend of unholy activity? What homage to hell-raising would I unleash on the populace, whipping thousands of worker bees into a frenzy of drinking, drug use and other forms of debauchery? Sure as hell wouldn’t be anything by Loverboy (with all due respect to ‘MMS fans around the world).

In my alternate universe, it could easily be something by Southern Culture on the Skids. “I got eight slappin’ pistons ri’cheer under my hood”… kind of says it all, doesn’t it? Sure, “just wrap your legs round these velvet rims and strap your hands across my engines” is a pretty cool come-on for a lost weekend together. But here in the real world, you only have a few seconds to make the pitch. So I’ll defer to SCOTS frontman Rick Miller and his timeless ode to parking-lot dating. Besides, how can you resist a song that name-checks Tony Joe White and announces its presence with the mighty cowbell? Voodoo Cadillac

In honor of The Black Keys’ new release dropping on December 6, I’ll simply point out that my favorite song on the album could wreak havoc any night of the week. Unfortunately, I can’t sample the cut without getting sued by my nephew. So let’s go back to one of the band’s more overlooked efforts, “Magic Potion,” and a tune that’s destined for the Garage Rock Hall of Fame. By the way, where would one locate such an establishment? Maybe Boone County, West Virginia – home of the one-man garage band, the late Hasil Adkins… or how about Link Wray’s “Three-Track Shack” on the family farm in Accokeek, Maryland? RCR’s phone lines are open… Your Touch

Those of you who reside on more rural routes probably like to start the weekend with a healthy dose of twang. Forget about that overprocessed horseshit you hear on modern country radio. Let’s revisit a honky tonk classic and one of the great career launchers of all time – the very first cut from Dwight Yoakam’s debut on the Reprise label. Once again, cars play a key role (hard to spend a memorable weekend without one). And thankfully, the guitars are in the capable hands of Pete Anderson, who along with Dwight led the “Back to Bakersfield” movement in the mid-‘80s. If it’s possible to make hillbilly music hip, those two guys pulled it off with this one: Guitars, Cadillacs

So Friday night rolls around, you’ve put in your 40+ at work, the next two days are all yours… but it still doesn’t seem like you have anything to celebrate. You can always ease into the weekend with a little blues, Jimmy Reed-style. Might help you face the facts – like, for example, your boss is a dick and you don’t get paid squat. Maybe this tune and a little “liquid courage” will help you set things straight on Monday morning. Good luck with that. Big Boss Man

I can already predict the comments. “How can you get the party started without the Bubba anthem, Freebird?” Well, I’ve hung out with a few bikers over the years… spent an evening or two at a Bourbon-fueled bonfire… experienced the primordial forces within this storied ballad-cum-guitar throwdown. I get it. But I’d rather start the weekend with Lucinda Williams spreading her own brand of Joy. This tune has no use for a ballad-style opening. It jumps in with a snarl and then works itself into a barely controlled rage. Which is how most people feel after five days at a dead-end job. So don’t hire me as your Friday-night DJ if you’re trying to escape reality. Joy

What’s the best party ever thrown? Woodstock. What was the best performance at Woodstock? Santana, hands down. OK, Sly and the Family Stone gave them a run for their money. But to me, Santana playing Soul Sacrifice defines Woodstock. And I can’t believe Carlos played as well as he did, watching his guitar neck writhe like a snake while he was tripping on acid (which is only more discouraging for the rest of us who can barely play straight). If I were head of the Rock Police, all drum solos would have been outlawed after Michael Shrieve tore it up at Woodstock. That dude from Rush can whirl around all he wants – he can’t touch what Shrieve laid down in ’69 (video below).

Now that I’ve downplayed Sly’s performance at Woodstock, I have to admit that he came up with one of my all-time favorite Friday-night jams: Thank You (Falletinme Be Mice Elf Agin). How can you hear that deep groove kick in – fueled by Larry Graham’s funky bass – and not want to jump up and shake something? I’m pretty sure this song helped popularize that unfortunate dance known as The Robot. But I’m willing to overlook that (and the title) to place it at or near the top of my list of weekend kick-starters. Hell, you could put another four or five tunes by Sly on that list. In fact, just slap on his Greatest Hits and stand back – someone’s about to hit the switch on this ‘bot. Thank You (Falletinme Be Mice Elf Agin)

We’ll close by taking one step back from Sly and paying tribute to the Godfather of Soul, James Brown. Forget about songs that build to a climax… This next tune starts with an explosion of sound and never lets up. The guy driving the beat is the original “Funky Drummer,” Clyde Stubblefield – someone who I’m sure didn’t miss Michael Shrieve’s attention back in the ‘60s. For a number of years, Stubblefield had a regular Monday-night gig at a small club in downtown Madison, Wisconsin (I understand he’s now ailing and in need of a new kidney… if anyone has an update on Clyde, set me straight). If you need the aural equivalent of a kick in the ass, bring this to the party and watch your backside. There Was A Time

Santana at Woodstock, with a 20-year-old Michael Shrieve. The only drum solo you’ll ever hear on this site. It’s been 42 years since this performance… Can any modern-day jam band touch this?

From the sublime to SCOTS… The wizards of white trash extol the many virtues of the Mojo Box:

LeBron, post-LeBacle

The Cavs crashed and burned, the team’s fragile chemistry in ruins. LeBron’s making noise about leaving town. The Indians can’t hold a lead, and Asdrubal Cabrera broke his arm diving for a ball. Meanwhile, in my mom’s hometown of Milledgeville, GA, world-class whackjob Ben Roethlisberger is doing his best General Sherman as he cuts a wide swath of destruction through the countryside.

And that’s just the bad news in the world of sports. The economy’s still in the crapper… Dan of The Black Keys is thinking about moving to Nashville (Pat’s already in NYC)… Oh, and HBO’s “Treme” still sucks, for the most part – even though the music is first-rate.

I got the blues, baby, and I got ‘em bad.

Of course, the best antidote is more blues – or maybe a little old-school soul or rock ‘n roll. Anything to get my mind off this sad state of affairs here in America’s heartbreak… I mean, heartland.

Now, I won’t weigh in on the many rumors swirling around the Cavs following yet another gut-wrenching postseason in Northeast Ohio. And I have no idea who will show up to play when the team gets back together later this year for training camp. But I can’t help but think that “the plan” LeBron keeps referring to is all about getting a Ring for the King, no matter where he plays. Meanwhile, the goal of bringing the next major sports championship to Cleveland remains as elusive as Lady Ga Ga’s good taste.

Future home of RCR

Lots of theories about where LeBron will end up. I’m guessing Cleveland is now a long shot, even though the Cavs built the Taj Mahal of training facilities only minutes away from LeBron’s Dubai-scale house, which is just down the road from a large architect’s model of Rubber City Review’s new world headquarters (at right: pending stimulus grant approval). One theory has him hooking up with Dwyane Wade and several other A-listers in Chicago, where they could bring back the glory days of Michael Jordan and Scotty Pippen. But I think the great bluesman Jimmy Reed knew all along where LeBron would land – so if you’re from Northeast Ohio, listen and weep… Jimmy Reed

Actually, at this point I’m sort of agnostic when it comes to LeBron and The Black Keys leaving town (in Dan’s case, it gives me another cool place to visit). But I’m also not sure how it would help advance their careers. We live in a world where some punk kid skyping in his bedroom in Duluth can become a global phenomenon. Why would anyone think that someone like LeBron needs a bigger stage to achieve his goal of world domination? Hell, he’s already there. Might as well stick it out in Akron, where livin’ is easy and people pretty much leave you alone. And besides, it’s easier to find a qualified contractor who can maintain a home that’s the size of a shopping mall.

The Tribe? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over seeing them lose the ’97 Series – in extra innings of Game 7, no less – to this Frankenstein creation of a team from Florida. A team with absolutely no tradition. A team that was systematically dismantled the next year by its owner, like he dumped off a bunch of cats on someone’s farm after they killed all the rodents in his house. I was devastated. But I have to admit, I thought of this next song when I was sitting in a beach house in Captiva, watching Game 1 on TV with the snow falling in Cleveland… Muddy Waters

With Roethlisberger, I could take the easy way out and simply play “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” but there has to be a more appropriate song… one with a lot of big, dumb swagger – preferably by a band with a strong connection to the Deep South. Yeah, I got it right here. Just imagine this tune being reworked by that big-voiced blonde chick from American Idol. Whatever the hell her name is… Lynyrd Skynyrd

I can come up with a whole slew of songs about economic hardship. How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live, Money Honey, Depression Blues, All My Money Gone, Sidewalks of Chicago, Hard Times Killing Floor Blues… But I get tired of all that bitching about not having two nickels to rub together. In these times of short-selling scam artists and massive ponzi schemes, I want songs of retribution. I want to know that, even though my ill-conceived investments have tanked, some former Wall Street wunderkind is getting passed around federal prison like a joint at a jam-band concert. Time for a sermon from Rev. Scott H. Biram… Scott H. Biram

Then there’s “Treme,” which I already complained about a few posts ago. Fact is, even a half-baked show with great music is better than anything involving real (incredibly annoying) housewives or snotty rich kids from California.

So I’ll try to end on a more hopeful note. Here’s hoping that the Cavs rise from the ashes and the Indians rise above .500 and the South Rises Again and my bank account… well, you get the picture. But when everything seems to be swirling down the drain, the best way to lift my spirits is to play me some funky brass-band music – straight from a city that makes sports heartbreak seem trivial. Funky Liza/New Orleans Nightcrawlers

Everyone’s an expert… Dan and Pat of The Black Keys weigh in on LeBron and the miseries of Cleveland sports (starting at 1:25). Excuse the commercial at the beginning: