A Very Bad Preacher

Rev. Timmy Runs 'Round with Richard Bacchus & The Luckiest Girls

2009-03-15T17:58:00.003-04:00

Lucky Me! I get to be the newest, Luckiest Girl! (also the tallest, smokin'est and most likely to ruin that periwinkle blue cashmere cardigan your aunt gave your last Christmas.)

Come on out and check Richard Bacchus and the Luckiest Girls in Tuscaloosa, AL, New Orleans, LA (with The Stalkers ) and at SXSW with The Urgencies.

This could be your only chance to see me play a guitar while standing up this Spring!

If my vertigo kicks in the thrills and spills will be doubled.

More info here.

Bigger Fish To Fry

2008-02-13T18:33:00.004-05:00

Will someone please explain to me why in the fuck Congress is holding hearings on Baseball!!!???

Anyone?

Hello?

Did we win those wars on Terror, Drugs, Poverty and Iraq?
(OK, smartass, for Iraq.)

Criminy.

I'm serious. Explain it to me.

Andrew Glackin 1963-2008

2008-01-17T20:21:00.000-05:00

If Drew was better at anything than music it was telling tales, hanging out and making folks laugh.
If you ever heard him play you know how tough it is to top his music.

I met him when he started playing lap steel for The Jack Grace Band and he always made me happy. Whether he was playing on stage or sitting by me telling me where he was going to next ( most every time I saw him he was getting on a plane the next day.)

My deepest condolences and warmest wishes to all his family, friends, band mates and fans.

Happy travels, Drew, you are loved and you will be missed.

Here's a site with some stuff to remember him by:
http://www.drewglackin.com/

And a fund to help with funeral costs, every bit helps.
http://www.drewglackin.com/fund.html

A remembrance from Jack Grace:

Drew Glackin, the most original lap steel player we have ever heard, one of the best friends we have ever had, and one of the most special humans this world was lucky enough to be treated to, passed away on January 5th 2008. He was unaware of an overactive thyroid condition that led to severe heart damage. Our thoughts are with his amazing family who has shown tremendous strength and love.

The world just got a little bit more boring without you Drew. Forty four years was not enough. We are all applauding, banging on the tables, demanding more. You made a difference, and we thank you so much for everything you brought us, who you helped make us to be. We hope to make you proud of the years we have ahead. We know how you'd like it to be. It's not like you were ever vague about what you wanted. Thank you so very very much Mr. Glackin sir. What an amazing time we had.

Amazing Indeed,

Jack Grace

JackGrace.com

There will be a Memorial show for Drew @ Southpaw Feb. 17 starting @ 3pm.

Check the Jack Grace site or his MySpace for details.

(Pooh pic pilfered from JackGrace.com)

19 April 2107

2007-04-22T20:25:00.000-04:00

When I came to I was already halfway through my set. That Carolina laudanum we got from the Shriners was really playing havoc with ay senses. The shatter and whoosh of several molatov cocktails lighting up one of the APC's out front snapped me back to clarity.

Slim’s Downtown.
Raleigh.
“Big Brass Finger.”
2nd Verse.
Right.

By the relatively small amount of tear-gas in the air it seemed the show had gone well. Those boys from Boston were still confined to their enclosure, distracted by some brandy and schnapps tossed into the pen by a well meaning, but reckless, well-wisher.

When the liquor was gone I knew it would be a flat sprint to the stage. Those nylon Walmart collars and shackles wouldn't hold them for long.

I finished “Hold My Watch,” set off a smoke pot to cover my exit and rolled away just as Red Invasion hit their opening chords. From my landing place behind the water barrels I saw a celebratory blizzard of brown beer bottle glass sieve through the stage-front chicken wire to stick to tight black pants and spiky punk rock hairdos.

Timing is everything,

I scrabbled up the back stairs to Jet Black's lair and found him sharpening his talons on his guitar player's, Joe's, mascara-laden lashes. Jimbo seemed to be in particularly good spirits as only one of the three pool tables had been overturned.

I caught up with Dave who was still DJing while applying a tourniquet on his badly bleeding left arm, the result of a short fuse on one of Shelby's homemade magnesium bombs.
She was busying herself on the roof 50-cal taking out her self-recrimination on any policeman green or brave or dumb enough to stick his head above the barricades. None of us, least of all Dave, blames her for the mishap. Supplies, especially armaments, have been unreliable since the Chinese swarmed into the Southwest and cut us off from our brother cells in Mexico.

Richard Bacchus and The Luckiest Girls hit the stage just as the police battering ram hit the door.

The sound was amazing.

(poster by RB pic by Dave)

Interupting All Programming

2006-11-28T13:05:00.000-05:00

Just in case you still felt like stopping by here, I can only offer you a redirect to the pirate radio of the info-super-hiway.

Go to Scott Wynn's Engine Room and download a monthly dose of fine, fine rock and roll radio.

So with winter closing in, I can only suggest you fill your apartment with sand, lay out a towel, turn up the heat and twist along with some serious tunes that really should be coming out of a transistor radio. (As soon as I find one with a USB port, I'll pass it a along.)

Requiem for a Beatle and a Stone.

2006-06-15T00:46:00.000-04:00

Alas, on the anniversary of my own personal passage into mono-nephroticism (for the sake of my Pa, who's doing fine, thanks) my favorite Beatle AND one of my many favorite Rolling Stones succumb to hypertension and kidney failure.

Billy Preston departed this hilarious, delightful, vicious con game of a planet having left it a much better, funkier place.

If his singles, Sticky Fingers and Exile ain't proof enough for ya, you belong in Outa-Space.

Rave on, brother, rave on.

Thanks.

Rev. Timmy meets the Wolf's Man

2006-03-24T14:56:00.000-05:00

Here' the Rev. with the one and only Mr. Hubert Sumlin, guitar sideman to the Howlin' Wolf for a better portion of his best sides.

Mr. Sumlin took the Rev.'s effusive rantings with the highest aplomb.

He can't have wanted an iced tea that badly.

What is Wrong with America?

2006-02-08T01:54:00.000-05:00

So me and my buddy Sake Mike agree that one of the problems with the good old U.S.A. (don't get me started) is that they are embracing NASCAR instead of the more America friendly NHRA.
Short attention span?: NHRA.
Explosions? NHRA.
Folks drivin' cars you could possibly drive? NHRA.

Driving 500 miles is me driving to Akron, OH from New York City.

Who wants to watch that?

Really?

Then you must've voted for that Bush fella'.

Twice.

Pirates of the Highway

2005-11-14T14:52:00.000-05:00

The good ship The Sweet Grievous Black Angel of Death docked at the Star Bar in Atlanta, and it turned out we had traveled many, many miles to enjoy an all Big Apple bill there. The Liquid Ghosts (#36 in your program, #1 in your hearts) warmed up the PA for The Heroin Sheiks, who tore up the joint with sonic renderings that would rub the fuzz off a peach. They related strange and savage tales of the port at New Orleans so we elected to postpone our pilgrimage to Memphis to go and see if there wasn’t still some good booty still to loot.

Hatches battened and every inch of canvas hung, Ricky’s buddy Richard waved from the dock and blew kisses as we set sail with Captain Shelby at the helm, yours truly having had more than his fair share of grog. With Ricky safely stowed in the bilge and myself manning the pumps, Capt. Col. Shelby navigated the reefs and shoals of the treacherous I-85 to bring us safely to port in Montgomery. A finer display of seamanship (easy, now) of which I have never heard tell. We ended up lashing Ricky to the mast for reasons all agreed were best left at sea, but otherwise fine sailing through stormy seas with an able swabby at the helm.

And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

Worth a Thousand Words? Really?

2005-11-14T13:13:00.000-05:00

Imagination shot?
Not fully abusing the unlimited bandwidth of your company's T3 line?
Collecting evidence on the misdeeds of Ex-DGenners or former Ohioans?
At the recommendation of DaveHimself (the Oscar to our Steve Austin, the Houston to our problem) we've elected to further clutter cyberspace with pics of our inane exploits.
Check out the Flickr photsets of the Liquid Ghost Tour.

Besides, reading is for suckers.
(sucker.)

We know when we're not wanted.

2005-11-06T16:54:00.000-05:00

As part of the grand anthropological experiment that is the Liquid Ghost Tour,

Ricky, Shelby and I enjoyed a visit to the local mall in Raleigh, N.C. As we wander farther from the safety of the mean streets of Gotham, we have come to find ourselves with a steadily increasing consumer itch that only malls and truckstops seem to scratch.

Despite the warnings of the sign on the door that our kind were very unwelcome, we extinguished our smoking materials, stowed our pamphlets and weapons (including a my new katana sword with “Virginia is for Lovers” laser etched into it’s scalpel sharp blade) in the Sweet Grievous Black Angel and set forth boldly in search of a digital camera. Shelby lost the last one in a bar bet that while painful to lose, was amazing to see performed live up close (So many ping pong balls, and such a petite lady.) We on the Tour feel it imperative to record our activities in as much detail as possible since extortion is a nasty enough business to begin with, let alone further sullying it with shoddy audio visual work. Also we had a very hard time when we were blackmailing people with drawings on bar napkins and etch-a-sketch renderings.

So, camera acquired, we set off to enjoy the “Main St.” of the 21st century. It would seem that there are a great number of policies that they don’t see fit to put on the entrance doors.
To whit:

Shirtless disco dancing is forbidden in just about every store. The explanation we were given was that body glitter really messes up the floor waxing equipment.
Hiding in Anne Klein clothing displays and leaping out at strangers; no go.
Inserting any body part other than your arm into the blood pressure vending machine cuffs will result in false readings.
Using a Sharper Image Taser, even on a Sharper Image employee, makes the Sharper Image Manager appear with the Sharper Image Pepper-spray-that-looks-like-a-leather-bound-Charles-Dickens-book(patent pending.)
Punching toddlers, though not explicitly forbidden, is frowned upon.
Likewise, punching seeing eye dogs.
Piercing Pagoda only does ears.
Mini-bikes and go-karts may only be ridden in a clockwise direction in the Food Court (By the way, if Food Court was like Traffic Court all the restaurants in the Food Court would be heavily fined.)
Even though someone is not really a cop, they still beg for mercy if you hold their own gun on them.

Our new digital camera was crushed whilst I attempted to scare a gentleman out of his cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory.

I see drunk people.

2005-11-06T03:49:00.000-05:00

When I walk into a bar and a kind gentleman in a Hellacopters t-shirt calls me by name and hands me a Makers, I’m pretty sure it’s some sort of trap.
The bar was Slim’s Downtown, Raleigh, N.C. the gentleman (and newest Ghost Boy) was Joe and the trap was only for Carolinian lovers of heapin’ helpins’ of mad sick Liquid Ghost Tour technology.

The rolling of the ball this Saturday night was kicked off by The Ghost of Saturday Night in top-notch ex-pat Gothamite style. Tales of streets and love and heartbreak to make one’s knees gooey and worthless made everybody wish they were a Regular.

My plate-spinning act went off to great acclaim. I had a brief scare during the ventriloquism portion of the show (which truth be told, actually added to the suspense) and all the trained lemurs remembered their cues and refrained from running up my pant legs. A top-notch entertainment, if I do say so myself.

Plates, dummies and lemurs cleared from the stage, King Richard Bacchus (that mad, twisted dwarf) called forth each and every Justified Ancient from MuMu to Zebulon and proceeded to breath fire in a manner surprising to even this observer (Listen to his Martin D-18 Dreadnaught go BANG!)

With Shelby’s lovely lady cousin witches, Meighan, Rebecca & Maria (much boil, much bubble, nary a sign of trouble) watching over us and Miss Min coming in with her merry band from Trasheboro, the room continued it’s thrumping well into the night, taxing Bartender Joe (he of the Hellacopter t-shirt) and his young ward and bassist, Jimmy, who came in off the bench for some stellar bartenditry of his own.

Slim’s Downtown is the bar that has set the bar high, America.

What you got?

Desperate Pink Living Flamingos

2005-11-04T18:11:00.000-05:00

With the wings of the Sweet Black Grievous Angel icing up, the Liquid Ghost Tour made an emergency landing in the town where husky drag queens have been cajoled into ingesting dog poo on camera, Edgar Allen Poe died and Johnny Unitas deigned to walk among mortals.

After we bounced to a stop, our Baltimore man-friday, Rudi, cut us out of the wreckage, put Bactine on our boo-boos and escorted us smartly across the street to Dangerously Delicious Pies.
To our surprise and bewilderment, they seemed to be expecting us.

Our spirits bolstered by sweet potato pie and Bohemian National Beer the Atomic Elf and I each delivered rousing performances whilst those in attendance grinned back at us through crumb and berry filling smeared faces.

Inevitably, things turned Marxist (Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zeppo) with performer and spectator alike tossing desserts with abandon. Things escalated to a dangerous level when Shelby got a spoonful of yummy peach cobbler right in the eye and laid low her attacker with the deft brandishing of a pie crust crimper and much honking on her Harpo horn.

Before things turned truly tragic, the melee was diffused by the musical stylings of the shop’s owner, Rod Henry, whose song about being a paper boy reduced me to sitting on the floor, rocking and wailing. Concerned that my carryings on would bring the authorities. We implemented a tactical retreat to the Full Moon to witness the twangy guitar wizardry of Al Wildcat in a smoky (up yers, Mr. Bloomberg) beer and costume filled atmosphere.

Then we were handed off to our hotelier for the evening, Wedge, who entertained us ‘till the itty-bitty hours in a salon type atmosphere with strange and wondrous tales of heart melting mercy and brutal, bestial savagery.

Next morning we were a bit frayed around the edges, what with the bon mots aplenty and the witty banter and all, but nothing the purchase of a bright blue 6-string ukulele couldn’t fix. That accomplished we barnstormed into Frazers on the Avenue for an impromptu set with our new ally Rockin’ Al Wildcat. Though the Ravens’ close loss briefly doused the spirits of those in attendance, joy was plentiful after an exhibition of crack Dodgeballsmanship by the local team who was then kind enough to all sign a ball and feed it to Dolly/Dali (urp.) The uke came in quite handy as Halloween brought the usual helping of zombie hula girls, vampire Don Hos and not one, but three people in full Sol Hoopi regalia.

Ricky and I managed to bamboozle a wiccan lady (who seemed to be channeling the spirit of a southern gentleman, say Jack Daniels or George Dickel, or both simultaneously and in great plurality) out of the phone number for a 12 year old guitar magi. All proceeds from his sale will go toward the Dolly/Dali Doggy Dodgeball Defense Fund.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door.

Little Doggies, Cheesesteak, Billiards, Blue Jeans

2005-11-04T11:48:00.000-05:00

First stop for the Liquid Ghost Musical Juggernaut: The City of Brotherly Love ( A love which Ricky, Shelby, your humble narrator, and yes, even Dolly/Dali proceeded to practice in all it's most vile, humiliating and satisfying manifestations.)

Off to Grape Street where our avenging angel and ablest of hostesses, Miss Missi, pistol whipped the chatty and Ruebenesque camp followers of the following acts into quietude, all to the syncopated beat of "Big Brass Finger" and "dub-dub-dub-dub-nacious". Now that's class. Further unpleasantness was avoided as the Bacchi caught up with their people and I was comfortably seated in front of a Flyers power play with $1 beer and whiskey. Only narrowly however, as we were being goaded to violence by a couple sweater wearing fellas singing a Cyndi Lauper song [this blog is rife with lies and exaggeration, this is neither.] Cooler heads and the promise of cheesesteak deferred violence temporarily.

Out to the Sweet Black Greivous Angel (our motor transport for our expedition into the betrayal of the American Dream) and off to South Street and Jinx Clothing Co. for a bit of a backyard fashion party, compleat with a steam tray spread, two adorably nasty looking pit-bulls in hoodies, cheesesteak sandwiches for which to nourish our tummys and our battered souls and the sacrificial burning of minibike tires in a roaring outdoor furnace.

After jimmying open the garage door, we popped 'round the corner to Tattooed Moms where King Richard and I loaded up the downstairs jukebox, only to wander upstairs to the shimmering strains of "Reign in Blood" and the cheerful "clack" of pool balls. As punishment for squandering our $5 and our record selecting abilities, we hustled the locals for every last dime (Ricky also took a fellow for a dazzling 3-piece, abalone inlaid pool stick that plays "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" every time you break with it) and beat a hasty Atomic Bitchwax fuelled retreat to Chez Missi and Jimmy.

There we debriefed, watched "Steel Magnolias" and tormented their mini-pinscher, Tia, into greater and greater displays of "fat lardishness".

Well rested, our merry band was off to Kim Montenegro's Very Bad Horse Shop for all manner of scintillating denim wear. Though I had trouble finding a halter in my size, Kim promised to tailor make one to my unique requirements and send it along directly.

An auspicious start to merry mayhem which will no doubt hold the entire country rapt as we caper nimbly across states, newspaper headlines and police blotters.

Nothing can go worng.

"...and a great pestilence swept across the land."

2005-10-27T22:31:00.000-04:00

The planning's over, the maps have been highlighted, all that remains is the execution (whether you believe in the death penalty, or not.)

Rev. Timmy and Richard Bacchus are off on
The Liquid Ghosts Tour - 2005

Lock up everything you hold dear as Ricky, Shelby, Dali/Dolly (das uber-hund) and the good Reverend embark on a journey so savagely ill conceived, even the Donner Party will shake their heads from their shallow, bone picked graves.

Keep up to date on the latest gossip, statistics and travel addled rantings of your favorite black sheep of a shepherd right here on the VeryBadPreacher Blog.

Or check Ricky's Blog for a dissenting opinion.

...Or Your Money Shot* Back

2005-09-19T11:53:00.000-04:00

So I just got The Fat Possum tribute record to Junior Kimbrough featuring the likes of Iggy & the Stooges and Mark Lanegan and noticed that Matthew Johnson of Fat Possum offers your money back if you get Junior's Best Of "You Better Run" and don't enjoy it.
This from a record company that has been perpetually going down for the last time almost from the start.

My thoroughly (and obviously) prejudiced opinion is if you don't like Junior Kimbrough, you should blow out the pilot light and put your head in the oven.

This is not a guarantee.

More on Fat Possum by my buddy Richard Grant.

*Money Shot is the recording studio where Fat Possum does a goodly amount of their fine, devilish work.

Acoustapocalypse Dog Chow

2005-08-02T18:49:00.000-04:00

Ricky, Dali and the Rev. bask in the afterglow of "The Four Horsemen of the Acousta-pocalypse" at Mickey's Blue Room on 26 July '05 just like Oppenheimer at the Trinity test.

Rousing performances were turned in as well by the other two riders: John "Bad Ideas" Kopf and Alex "Baby, Baby" McMurray.

We swore we heard Ricky mutter "I am become death, destroyer of worlds," but, he might've just been picking out a song on the jukebox.

Thanks to all who attended.
We can only reccommend you take your potassium iodide pills for a while.

That wasn't a "magic" mushroom you saw.

Underground Teenage Kicks in Beantown

2005-07-20T22:30:00.000-04:00

So last Friday it was off to The Abbey Lounge in Somerville, MA (next to Cambridge (next to Boston)) with Ricky & Shelby at the invite of Malibu Lou the Punk Rock Balladeer.

So many good folks to meet after such a long drive, so few hot dogs, so many beers and so much other good music, I can't begin to say thanks, or hi, or I'll get you and your little dog too. (Thanks, everybody. Hi, everybody.)

I did find a note written in ballpoint on my thigh to keep an eye or ear out for Dry County Sorrow.
Also, The Dents, who are visiting NYC Aug 6. Good God Damn.

Thanks to Shelby for the pic (it's funny, you can barely see the chicken wire) and for driving home while Ricky and I finished our "Ultimate Championship of the Universe in Full Contact Auto-Bingo."

Alright, best 3 out of 5?

We're all underground teenagers now.

Kukla, Fran and I'll bet I made it up.

2005-07-09T03:10:00.000-04:00

Does anybody else remember a movie on Kukla, Fran & Ollie where a little English boy on a homemade raft was sucked into a dam whilst his sister screamed from the shore?

Or was it all just some wonderful dream?

I wouldn't ask, but recently I found out, through the magic of the good old internet, that Johnny Sokko & his Flying Robot AND Ultraman (yes, even folk who speak Spanish, I think, remember him) are real.

Next I'm gonna find out there's a Santa Bunny.

Or that Lemmy's just your Dad all dressed up.

(I gotta say, if that last one's true, I'm very excited and very confused. Oh, and a little hungry.)

Fanning the Flames

2005-07-08T18:06:00.000-04:00

Dakota Fanning is really just two guys in a suit.

That's a really neat suit.

Much better than the Tom Cruise one.

Supersuckers Poster Found, Reverend Delighted

2005-07-07T14:08:00.000-04:00

Another triumph for indolence and procrastination on my part as Dave of GreedoNeverFired found the very poster I discussed last time on the Guy Burwell site linked in my previous post. (This should be an important lesson about relying on the internet for research materials. Or relying on me for your internet research.)

The other four posters in the series are solo shots of each Supersucker.

See what Santa (ckw) brings you if you're good?

Or at least good compared to "The Evil Kings of Rock and Roll."

You have to set the bar high, you know.

Them what gots, keeps.

2005-07-06T21:05:00.000-04:00

In order to recover from last Friday's show at Mickey's with Richard Bacchus and The Mad Juanas (I'm still trying to get you cats to all wear matching suits, a boy can dream, right?) I went out to Fire Island ("Isn't it really gay there?... Yeah, you probably shouldn't go.")
To recover from the Island, I finally hung my Christmas present from SlipofaGirl: A set of 5 coordinated Supersuckers Posters from Guy Burwell. That's one of his to the right from The Shame of Rock and Roll. Don't bother looking for the Supersuckers ones she gave me,I couldn't find them.

And the picture I took with my phone came out crappy.

If you want to see the 11 x 17 poster frames I used, go here.

If you want to see the posters, call early (well, not early.)
And bring a bottle.

Dawn of the Dead Boys

2005-06-29T12:40:00.000-04:00

Dawn of the Dead (1978)
Originally uploaded by revtimmyjames.

I've decided (and will not be dissuaded) that George Romero's Dawn of the Dead is the most punk rock movie, ever.

It says "fuck you" to, in no particular order:

racists
people on TV
the government
malls (duh)
clergy (even if one-legged)

And reminds us that, deep down, S.W.A.T. Team members really just want to shoot mannequins and tie camel colored sweaters around their necks.

It also makes the important point that Motorcycle gangs, while entertaining to have around for a while, will ultimately fuck your shit up.

I met Mr. Romero briefly while my friend was working on the remake of "Night".
I'll never forget what he said to me:
"Excuse me, could you pass me some napkins please."

Sage words, indeed.

Shredding it up with Terri Gross

2005-06-23T20:55:00.000-04:00

RobHalford
Originally uploaded by revtimmyjames.

Where do you go for your Metal, dude?

I'm going to NPR and Fresh Air with Terry Gross.
No, really...don't hang up.

Here's Rob Halford talking to Ms. Gross.
From both MikefromFlint and my brudderfromanuddermudder J. Scott Wynn I've heard Mr. Halford's a darn fine fella, and why shouldn't he be?

But wait, there's more.
James Hetfield dropped by a while back as well.

How long can it be before they get Lemmy in there to explain just exactly what's wrong with Social Security?

KKK in NYC

2005-06-16T18:35:00.001-04:00

gb001
Originally uploaded by revtimmyjames.

I got to wondering as to whether there was any Klan presence in NYC. (purely rhetorically, of course)
It seemed that starting a Klan chapter here in New York City would be really dopey, but then I considered who might end up joining the Klan and realized that they where starting from several points of dopiness well outside of the psychic neighborhoods I'm prone to patronize (granting that my usual neighborhood is a bit, shall we say, iffy.)

Here's a Real Audio feed from This American Life
about a fella who infiltrates the Klan and sics Superman on them.
A little later in the broadcast is Jello Biafra talking to the DA who prosecuted him for the whole Frankenchrist/Giger Poster thing.
(This American Life, Know Your Enemy, 3/25/05, Episode 285)

I know what you're thinking:
I'm just mad that they didn't make me Grand Dragon.

Satan is Real

2005-06-15T22:39:00.000-04:00

Satan is Real
Originally uploaded by revtimmyjames.

Here's the record that inspired the name of our house of worship.
It may interest you to know that this album cover was shot in a barn with real fire and all during the shoot those "brim"-stones behind them were exploding.

Whether your record collection is all Slayer or Serge Gainsbourg, you should do yourself a favor and go buy this record.
No doubt that Plywood Satan is patching a hole in some chicken coop somewhere.

Biding his time.

There is no patience like the patience of a plywood Satan.