A Little Christmas Spirit, Ghostly Haunting Deadly Spirit
Roky Erickson: “Don’t Slander Me” (Pink Dust)
I’ve tried everything — raccoon tongue, lizard kneecap, vampire lung — but I can’t get this album out of my brain. Even with a new resurgence of this guy’s popularity, the actually fairly amazing documentary about him that came out a couple years ago, and more and more bands than ever claiming him as an influence, I still felt it dubious that an album of his music could wow me from start to finish. I just didn’t think I could get behind a rock record, as there are few genres more useless and stale in my opinion. I can’t tell you why I pitted this underknown gem from twenty-two years ago to such scrutiny (perhaps because I’ve been hearing this guy’s name here and there for the past seven years or so), but what I can tell you is that this album delivers. It sends you to a decrepit Texaco on the moon and asks you to pull its bloodsucking finger.
Personally, if the Rolling Stones’ entire catalogue (save for “Some Girls”, natch) was deleted from public consciousness, I wouldn’t really shed any tears about it. Similarly, I haven’t listened to the Misfits with intent since about senior year of high school, so why am I so enticed by this album, which basically melds those two bands (a bunch of times letting the Buddy Holly flag fly as well)? Am I really that swayed by images of Lucifer, ghosts, and the Bermuda Triangle? Is there a part of me that wishes I could listen to this leather punchout album while cruising down a Louisiana highway in search of fresh human blood? Or do I simply find a perverse fascination in the spurious, fucked up but redemptive story of Erickson’s life? The answers are a) yes, b) certainly, and c) “it’s complicated”.
While it may be true that taking this album out of the context of Roky’s life story would be be futile if not nearly impossible, on the same token it has to be listened to with 2008 ears, and those are pulled, deadened, chapped ears that can barely process the potential armageddon and pervasive paranoia blowing through them. It’s redundant to say that the best art is timeless and can instruct any listener with any number of applications, but the fact of the matter is, Roky Erickson (in spite of having a period-steeped prominent low end and far-away chilly synth work) is like the rock and roll equivalent of the guy who’s been on the street corner for all time, jawing about apocalypse and eternal torment. Except he was and forever shall be right. No matter if we are under the confining homey eye of Reagan or fiendishly awaiting the end of the folksy ineptitude of Bush, we are all indebted to the moon and to blood and each one of us must struggle with evil. There’s nothing in this album that says any of these trials are easy, but they sure as fuck can sometimes sound fun!
And album closer “The Damn Thing” is pretty much the most bad-ass night creature rave-up ever, and must have provided Guns n’ Roses with at least 40% of their whole stock shtick.
