The Rebel Pulpit

  • Wednesday 12-2am
Genre: 
Free Form Music

Somewhere, out beyond the horizon of what is seen and what is known, lies...The Fringe.
Where silver-screen vamps stain non-filter Pall Malls with candy red lipstick, while mohawked bruisers shout Marxist Poetry and Kerouac politics. Where, at the drop of a coin in the jukebox, switchblading greasers, fishhooking mods, and bleach blonde bikini babes, all meet on the dance floor to do the Twist.
Where all the Freeks, Freekettes, Lovers, and Losers congregate to celebrate the soul of the weird, exalt the spirit of sound, and worship at The Rebel Pulpit.

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The Rebel Pulpit's Blog

Jan. 24 2017

I sat the bar, trading shots of Petron with Death. We cleared the air about a slew of misunderstandings between us, mostly about the people I knew who were on the receiving end of his bad days. He said he never had bad days...or good ones, for that matter. They were all just days at the office, and I needed to learn to let it go. I downed another shot and obliged, knowing he held all the cards.
"How about we play some chess?" I asked him.
"I prefer checkers," he said. He nabbed one my cigarettes from the crumpled pack on the bar. "Ever since Bergman, everyone thinks I play chess."
"I bought into it," I said, lighting my cigarette from the glowing tip of his. "You seem like a worldly dude. I figured it'd be right up your alley."
"Don't believe everything you see in the movies," he said. Death turned to the guy next to him and lifted a dollar he had set on the bar for a tip. The guy was mad, and wanted to pick a fight about it. But one look into the abyss underneath Death's hood, and the guy knew who he was dealing with, so he started a fight with his girlfriend instead.
He handed me the buck and told me to play the jukebox. I asked him what he wanted to hear.
"Play some Steely Dan," he said.
"How does 'My Old School' sound?" I asked.
"I'm on vacation," he said. "Don't make me come back to work early."

Dec. 20 2016

If P.T Barnum was right about a sucker being born every minute, then there must be about 12 hours worth of music critics, club owners, industry insiders, and various other stragglers, leeches, groupies, and albatrosses who wrongly thought that the Ramones were an absolute mutation, unfit to orbit the bloated belly of 70’s rock excess and glitter-fried disco. But, at the time...who could blame them?
Nothing on paper suggests that a gang of juvenile delinquents from the borough of Queens, with a penchant for solvent inhalation, street hustling, bad haircuts, and leather jackets won with Bazooka Joe wrappers, would be allowed amongst the general citizenry, let alone be left unobserved and allowed to form a band. But they did.
They took disparate elements of street sleaziness and scuzz, effortlessly melded them with melodies unconsciously culled from hours of spinning 45’s from the Golden Age of Rock and Roll, and touched off with a wicked sense of humorous pop culture schtick. Fed through a filter of over-distorted guitar and rapid-fire drumming, and there you have it...The Ramones. A band who proves the existence of either meticulous fate, working with great focus to put things just-so, or of Chaos Theory, where nothing means nothing.
As long as I have my copy of Road To Ruin, then I’m cool, one way or the other.

Dec. 20 2016

If P.T Barnum was right about a sucker being born every minute, then there must be about 12 hours worth of music critics, club owners, industry insiders, and various other stragglers, leeches, groupies, and albatrosses who wrongly thought that the Ramones were an absolute mutation, unfit to orbit the bloated belly of 70’s rock excess and glitter-fried disco. But, at the time...who could blame them?
Nothing on paper suggests that a gang of juvenile delinquents from the borough of Queens, with a penchant for solvent inhalation, street hustling, bad haircuts, and leather jackets won with Bazooka Joe wrappers, would be allowed amongst the general citizenry, let alone be left unobserved and allowed to form a band. But they did.
They took disparate elements of street sleaziness and scuzz, effortlessly melded them with melodies unconsciously culled from hours of spinning 45’s from the Golden Age of Rock and Roll, and touched off with a wicked sense of humorous pop culture schtick. Fed through a filter of over-distorted guitar and rapid-fire drumming, and there you have it...The Ramones. A band who proves the existence of either meticulous fate, working with great focus to put things just-so, or of Chaos Theory, where nothing means nothing.
As long as I have my copy of Road To Ruin, then I’m cool, one way or the other.

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