Requiem for Unkgee

Gerry Rafferty, the Scottish-born singer/songwriter who gave us smash 70s hits like "Stuck in the Middle with You" and "Baker Street," died this week at age 63 from liver failure brought about by years of alcoholism.

While most will remember Rafferty for his music, I also remember him as the involuntary linchpin for a "Gerg and Zub's Fast Food Review" of Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits published by the weekly broadsheet 15 Minutes back in 1997.

This occasionally factual review appears below in Rafferty's honor.

I'm Popeye the Chicken Man!
Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits, 1978 Baker Street

Zub and I met when our dads formed the nucleus of the rhythm section behind a pre-"Stuck in the Middle with You" Gerry Rafferty. Gerry was like an uncle to us, hence his nickname "Unkgee." During the summer, our pops would let us traverse the country with the band in a dilapidated custom Chevy van with pot seeds all over the carpet. Those early tours with Unkgee made us wise beyond our three years.

We were also hungry a lot of the time. Our dads' cut of the gig take was even more meager than their share of the cocaine, so we subsisted mostly on crackers and Fresca. This lifestyle never set well with our mothers (whoever they were), but no piss-ant child welfare law was gonna remove Zub and myself from that happy, bouncy van.

One particularly joyful reminiscence of those high times is from 1972 when Unkgee pulled the van into New Orleans for a Tulane University show opening for Johnny Winter. It was raining, and we were cold, but our hearts were quickly warmed by the capacious hospitality of the promoter, a rotund Bossier City-bred cracker by the name of Sergeant Roofus Boudreaux.

To this day, neither Zub nor myself have heard words so sweet as those Sgt. Boudreaux spoke as we struggled to bring my dad's orange bass cabinet in through the back door of the auditorium: "Boys, drop your load and have some chicken!"

The Sgt.'s fried feast was the best darn food we'd ever tasted. Unkgee ate seven pieces of the delicious chicken along with several large handfuls of mashed potatoes and Cajun gravy. In fact, Ol' Unk would have choked to an early death if not for the whack of Zub's dad's hi-hat stand on the back of his fat neck.

"Hey, Roofus," uttered a blue-hued Unkgee. "Where's this good meat come from?"

"Why, I got it over at the Popeye's on Dopholopous Boulevard," said the proud Sgt. "Them spices will grow hairs on places your lady won't like."

Unfortunately, this batter-coated bash was short-lived. During that night's show, Zub's inebriated father played an unscheduled drum solo that went on for about 17 minutes. Immediately after the show, Unkgee fired him from the band. My dad protested by spitting a mouthful of Jax beer in Unkgee's face and calling him an ungrateful bastard. For his insubordination, he too was given the proverbial big pink slip.

Suddenly, us and our pops were shivering out in the smelly New Orleans rain without a song. Somehow, we'd all have to get back home to Worcester. Zub's pop said we could afford to bus it as far as Kentucky, but then we'd have to hitch. Unkgee had sold us right down the line.

The grounds for revenge were obvious even to the young minds of Zub and myself, but our dads could not decide the means from within their collective stupor. At that precise moment, a lightbulb went off in my tiny crown, and I began to shout, "Steal his wheel, Daddy! Steal his wheel!"

Our drunken dads began cackling like sailors. Zub's pop produced some tools, and our two heroes quickly removed the steering wheel from Unkgee's van. The journey home was rough, but every time things looked down, we pulled out that wheel and had ourselves a chuckle.

Of course, it was Unkgee who had the last laugh when "Stuck in the Middle with You" skyrocketed into the Top 10 shortly after this incident. Rubbing salt into the wound was the name of Unkgee's band: Stealers Wheel.

Which brings us back to Popeye's, the place where New Orleans is only a taste away. Sort of.

Popeye's modern chicken variation will never live up to the spice of that faraway evening, but this fried fowl still beats the cluck out of KFC. All fried material at Popeye's (fish, shrimp, onion rings, dogears, fries, etc.) has the same subtle seasoning to it that sneaks up on you like a flashback. And those red beans & rice and whipped potatoes are abused with an adequately Cajun-style gravy that makes other fast food taste vanilla by comparison. As an added bone-us, there's always plenty of Cajun Sparkle on hand to give your grub a bit of zip.

Let's face facts: Popeye's has about the biggest can of culinary whup-ass in the fast food industry, and Zub and I both will spare no measure to open up the aforementioned can on Mr. Gerry Rafferty's weenie-butt if he ever tries to play Sneakers.

Whastsa matter, Unkgee? You chicken?

Dorothy "Dot" Hewitt R.I.P.

Former Dot's Place owner Dorothy Hewitt died Saturday night. She was 71.

If you never had the opportunity to eat at Dot's when it was located on W. Orchid Ln. in far north Austin, you missed out. Regular servings of Dot's beef tips and rice made having to work in the awful industrial office hinterlands at the intersection of Kramer and Braker almost bearable.

Dot's was housed in a run-down edifice that looked like it had been crudely added on to one too many times. The dining rooms were spartan and cooled by overworked window units, but the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and greens made up for that. In 2005, the restaurant burned to the ground. The ever-resourceful Dot set up a trailer on the site of the burned-out restaurant years before such things became de rigueur on South Congress.

The last time I ate at Dot's was at this aforementioned trailer in November 2005. My pal Kevin Fullerton was visiting from Seattle and his luggage had been stolen out of my car the night before while we were watching the Diamond Smugglers at the Continental Club. After filing a futile police report for insurance purposes, lunch at Dot's did plenty to restore our faith in humanity.

My Elvis Year

As I enter my 42nd year on the planet today, I’ve thought a lot about the day in August of 1977 when I walked to the Circle K down the street from my grandparents’ house in Victoria, Tex. and scanned a slew of “Elvis Presley Dead at 42” headlines while waiting to pay for a grape-flavored Slush Puppy.

I realized Presley’s death was undeniably tragic, but I also remember thinking, “Well, 42 is pretty old.”

And I guess it was if you were an 8-year-old kid whose parents were still in their early thirties and not cocked up on pills.

42 doesn’t seem so old anymore, though.

I’m vaguely aware of being well beyond the vaunted 18-34 demographic, but I never felt like I was at the zeitgeist to begin with. One part of getting older that I’ve always sort of looked forward to is the prospect of “aging into” the curmudgeonly nostalgia that was part of my personality even as a child.

Becoming a father has definitely made me feel older, but that’s more a function of parenthood than age. I still don’t feel the sociocultural gravitas I thought I’d feel at 42. I have a family and an accidental career in civil service, but I haven’t put away childish things and have no intention of doing it voluntarily.

I’m glad that spending most of my days garbed in jeans and a T-shirt just like my infant son makes me a thorn in the side of sphincter-lipped scolds like George Will. Let them choke on their dull, grey notions of maturity and propriety – plum-dumb commode humor has sustained me through far too much to give up on it now.

Talk Bossy to Me

There are a lot of things to question about the emerging hagiography of the late New York Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, but I think Matt Taibbi's obit raises a good point by using Steinbrenner's demise as an opportunity to question why Americans have such a soft spot in their hearts for egomaniacal aristocrats:

In no other country do people genuinely love their bosses the way Americans do. They'll go home after 12 hard hours of capricious superiors peeing in their faces, and the very first thing they'll do is call up some talk radio show and denounce the graduated income tax that gives them a break at their bosses' expense.

And once you've been trickled down upon by "wealth creators" for 12 hours, you probably wouldn't dare question the fact that because Steinbrenner had the good fortune to die in 2010, his heirs will pay no federal estate taxes on his estimated $1.1 billion estate, resulting in a potential tax savings of almost $500 million.

Remembering Ron Turk

I found out last week that my old friend Ron Turk has passed away. The initial shock of this unexpected shard of news gradually gave way to sadness, longing and – most of all – profound appreciation for Ron’s friendship over the years.

Ron and I met 25 years ago in sophomore biology class at Bellaire High School. Even back then, Ron was a great conversationalist, which may explain why my biology grade went from A to C as we got to know each other better. I'm pretty sure he was the only person in class who thought it was hilarious when I stood up from my desk one day and turned out the classroom lights because I mistakenly thought I heard the teacher ask me to.

Ron was both smart and wise. While I was immersed in the obnoxious words and deeds of generalized adolescent rebellion and blanket disdain for convention, Ron was able to see beyond all that. He sought out the good in people and didn't allow himself to be constrained by social boundaries.

Our friendship continued when we both landed in Austin to attend UT. We had a couple of auditorium-sized undergraduate classes together and I admired the way Ron would get to know the professors. I was always too shy to do that. A few years later, Ron had the ear of the UT System Board of Regents when he led an effort to get UT to divest its tobacco holdings. He understood the incremental nature of social change and knew studied pragmatism would take his causes much further than a thousand holier-than-thou rants.

Many times over the course of our college years, Ron listened patiently to my inebriated, self-depreciating discourse on being perennially lovelorn. Deep down, I bet Ron knew the culprits of my condition were emotional immaturity coupled with abject fear of rejection, but he never blew me off with a blunt summation like that. On the contrary, his counsel was always offered with a great deal of both wit and affection. When you were talking with Ron, you were talking. The things he said stuck with you.

Even though we'd only been in touch sporadically in the post-graduate years, I always thought in the back of my mind that Ron and I would reconnect over beers one day and pick back up right where we left off. Days after hearing the news, I still can't fully believe I won't see him again, but I will always treasure memories of the times we had together. He is truly a friend for the ages.

In memory of Steve Harrington

We got some very sad news yesterday. Kate’s cousin Steve died in a skydiving accident in California late Wednesday. He was a longtime skydiving enthusiast who had just completed a charity jump with 68 others to set the U.S. record for parachutists in formation wearing wingsuits. Today’s Boston Globe has a nice obituary.

I first met Steve and his husband Adam on Christmas in 2007 at Kate’s Aunt Charlotte’s house in Wellesley. Several months later, Kate and I would follow Steve and Adam’s lead by having our wedding in the backyard.

We’d just gotten engaged and it was my first holiday gathering with the Harrington family. I immediately took note of the tight, quick-witted rapport between Steve and his brothers. It reminded me of my dad and his brothers when they’re together. They heartily welcomed me into their family and I felt privileged to be there.

My heart goes out to Steve’s husband, parents, brothers and everyone else who loved him.

The ultimate career move, revisited

If pop catalog albums weren't ineligible to appear on the Billboard Top 200 albums chart, Michael Jackson would have the top three albums in the U.S. for the week ending June 30. Thriller, The Essential Michael Jackson and Number Ones moved over 315,000 copies combined. I'm guessing 98 percent of those albums were sold after 5pm last Thursday.

This is the first time since Billboard began using Nielsen SoundScan to track album sales in 1991 that a pop catalog album (let alone three of 'em) sold more copies than the current number one album. It doesn't speak highly of the Black Eyed Peas, whose The E.N.D. will go down in history as the week's number one album despite selling fewer than 86,000 copies.

The Manboy in the Mirror

I was at Sound Lab recording studio on W. 5th this afternoon for the production of a work-related radio spot. As I pulled into the parking lot around 2pm, Jammin’ 105.9 was playing “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” I had to cut the engine right as Michael Jackson got to that “tee-hahaha!” breakdown. Little did I know it would be the last time I heard a Michael Jackson song while he was still alive (to the best of our knowledge, anyway).

As the recording session inched toward closure, our assistant account executive said Michael Jackson had just died. Conflicting news reports made this difficult to confirm, but by the time I got home, everyone but CNN was reporting Jackson’s death as fact.

In November of 1984, I saw the Jacksons perform at the Astrodome in Houston on the Victory tour. The tour set a new bar for fevered hype and there was widespread outrage at the lofty $28 ticket price. I had no plans on going myself, but on the day of the show, a high school pal offered me his extra ticket as a birthday present.

The opening act was a guy who juggled to Beatles songs. Then they showed the S&M/jungle-themed video for “Torture,” which allegedly featured a wax dummy stand-in for Michael and was the only hint that the Victory tour was ostensibly undertaken to promote a new Jacksons album called Victory.

Finally, the Jacksons took the stage, opening with “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” Although they ran a perfunctory medley of Motown hits, the brothers focused on the scintillating Quincy Jones productions from the 1979 template,“Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground)” all the way through to “Billie Jean.” Despite the Astrodome’s lousy acoustics, it was a pretty amazing show.

Although his death was shocking in its suddenness, I can’t say I’m surprised Michael Jackson didn’t live to a ripe old age. Succumbing to a massive heart attack at age 50 is tragic, but taken alongside Jackson’s post-Thriller unraveling, the suspected cause of death seems almost conventional.

As Jackson stood trial for child molestation, hearing the 10-year-old Jackson deliver his timeless performance of “I Want You Back” became a sad exercise in dissonance. Putting aside the question of did he or didn’t he, I couldn’t hear him sing without wishing that 10-year-old kid something better.

R.I.P. Sky Saxon

Sadly, Sky Saxon passed away this morning at St. David's Hospital. The leader of 60s L.A. garage rock titans the Seeds had just moved to Austin and played his first show as a resident last Saturday with Shapes Have Fangs at Antone's. I'm really kicking myself for not going to that show or his Fuzz Club gig a few weeks back.

Five things you might want to know

Legendary Texas sportswriter Edwin “Bud” Shrake died this morning at age 77. The longtime companion of former governor Ann Richards was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer last August.

Though not as well-known as Texas A&M’s Aggie Muster, UT has been quietly memorializing its departed associates for 21 years with its “UT Remembers” ceremony. The tower lights will be dimmed tonight in honor of 157 UT students, graduates and associates who died this past year.

The former Gap Women location in the Central Market shopping center off N. Lamar is now a regular Gap with clothes for the menfolk.

Gunther von Hagens, the creepy-looking German doctor who brought us Body Worlds, has opened a controversial new exhibit in Berlin that features skinless, plasticized corpses "having sex."

Why not have a quick guffaw at the expense of hipsters and families who made the mistake of having their photos taken?

Stooges guitarist Ron Asheton found dead

Sad news out of Michigan this morning. Stooges guitarist Ron Asheton was found dead in his Ann Arbor Mich. home earlier today. He was 60.

Asheton and his drumming brother Scott formed the Psychedelic Stooges in 1967 with vocalist Iggy Pop and bassist Dave Alexander. The Stooges’ self-titled debut (1969) and Fun House (1970) helped lay the foundation for punk rock. Alexander was fired in 1970 and he died of alcohol-related causes in 1975. Asheton moved to bass for 1973’s Raw Power, making room for guitarist James Williamson.

The original surviving Stooges reunited in 2003 with Minutemen/fIREHOSE bassist Mike Watt filling in for Alexander. I saw them perform a short live set at the Austin City Limits studio for Seattle’s KEXP during SXSW 2007. They only played songs from their disappointing comeback album, The Weirdness, but it was still great to see those guys in person.

Paul Benedict R.I.P.

Eminently likeable character actor Paul Benedict, best known as Harry Bentley on The Jeffersons, has died at age 70. I especially enjoyed him as the beleaguered hotel attendant in This is Spinal Tap and the elusive namesake “theater critic” in Waiting for Guffman.

Unbeknownst to me until I read this morning’s L.A. Times obit, Benedict wasn’t British - he was born in Silver City, N.M. and grew up in Boston. I also didn’t remember he played the “mad number painter” during the early days of Sesame Street. Here’s a clip of Benedict using condiments to paint 3s on bread that is voraciously wolfed down by a young, hot Stockard Channing.

Crime watch

Kate and I were walking around the neighborhood around 9pm last night when we heard a bunch of sirens screaming by. It turns out there had been a fatal shooting on the other side of the railroad tracks.

This is the second murder we've had in our area this summer. Both have occurred near slummy, run-down apartment complexes that dot the neighborhood. It's a bad situation that seems to be worsening along with the economy.

Hopefully APD can step up their presence and weed out the criminal element so the people who live even closer to it than we do can rest easy at night.

Black Moses R.I.P.

I was saddened to hear of Isaac Hayes' death today at the age of 65. The man gave us a lot of great music, both as a songwriter and a performer.

You cannot dissect cool without watching footage of Hayes' arrival onstage at Wattstax to the tune of "Theme from Shaft" while emcee Jesse Jackson just completely loses his shit, screaming "Yeah, yeah, yeah!" over and over again. Anyone who can stretch "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" past 18 minutes deserves to be in the dictionary next to cool.

In 2007, I stood about five feet away from Hayes at Antone's during sound check for the Stax 50th Anniversary Revue show with Eddie Floyd, William Bell and Booker T. & the MG's during SXSW. Hayes was there to introduce the show and he looked absolutely regal in a red caftan. At least one person asked for an autograph, but I didn't have the nerve.

So Long, Lucky Puppy

This is a photo of my parents' dog, Lucky. My mom had to put her down yesterday.

Lucky had a large tumor pressing on her digestive tract. This made it impossible for her to keep food down or drink water. Keeping her around would’ve been prolonging the agony. Although it would've been ideal if all this didn't happen just as my dad was boarding a plane to India, my mom did the right thing.

Lucky was 14 years old, which is a good, long life for a dog. She was a Jack Russell Terrier who could dig almost her entire body underground in her younger days. My mom and dad really loved her. So did I.

I can't say Lucky was a friend to many because she snapped at almost everyone she didn't know well. In this regard, she epitomized the old adage about the risks of petting strange dogs, but Lucky always had a sweet, docile disposition around me. I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but it made me feel special to be let inside her very small bubble of confidants. I’m going to miss her.

Evel Knievel R.I.P.

Evel Knievel, Greyhound bus-jumping hero to all American boy-children of the 1970s, has died at age 69. For a man who lived like he did, making it to 69 is roughly equivalent to a mild-mannered salaryman living to 112.

Despite the “don’t try this at home” mantra that accompanied every TV broadcast of Knievel’s stunts, you don’t have to look far to find men of my generation who still bear scars from trying to jump something on a bicycle. For me, it was a rusty chain about two and a half feet off the ground that blocked a driveway at West University Elementary School in Houston.

Emboldened by Knievel-style visions of my bike sailing over the chain in a graceful, photo-worthy arc, I attempted this brave feat at age 8 without the aid of a ramp. Unfortunately, the laws of physics conspired against me. I crashed straight into the chain, flew over my handlebars and landed on the pavement in a heap of ignominy.

Although no bones were broken and no organs were ruptured, I sustained a nasty cut to the elbow. When the school principal applied hydrogen peroxide to the cut, it stung my wound as well as my ego. Then he summoned my horrified mother to pick me up from school. She rushed me to the pediatrician, where I received stitches of some sort.

To this day, there remains a scar on my left elbow to remind me of my failed attempt at daredevil greatness. Tonight, I will pour some alcohol on that scar in honor of the man who inspired me.

So Long, Marvin

I'll never forget the first time I heard, "Maarvin Zindler, Eye-witness News!"

I was 6 and we'd just moved to Houston from Dallas. I couldn't believe they'd let someone pontificate so indignantly right in the middle of the TV news. It was kind of scary.

Zindler died yesterday of pancreatic cancer at age 85. KTRK-TV has a nice tribute section here.

Although he was best known for setting off the political firestorm that closed down the famed Chicken Ranch bawdy house (subject of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas and ZZ TOP's "La Grange"), Zindler's "Action 13" segments on KTRK typically focused on more mundane matters like setting things right for "little guys" wronged by businesses and bureaucracies. His weekly report on area restaurants that had failed health inspection made "Slime in the ice machine!" a catchphrase.

I can't say Zindler's personality-driven excoriations portended good things for TV news in the sweeps-happy Age of Murdoch, but he helped out a lot of people over the years. Houston TV won't be the same without him.

Former Astros PA Announcer Dies

Sad news for Houston Astros fans. Longtime Astrodome PA announcer J. Fred Duckett died Monday night at age 74.

You might not know him by name, but if you attended Astros home games during the 80s, Duckett was the guy who boomed “José Cruuuuuuz!” whenever the beloved Puerto Rican outfielder was at bat.

Duckett announced Astros games from 1969 to 1992. He also handled PA duties for the Houston Oilers, the Rice Owls and the Texas Relays.

"Becoming Ill"

Some poor fellow died yesterday after "becoming ill" in his Jeep Wrangler while driving and running into a sign pole in the middle of downtown Houston.

What exactly does "becoming ill" mean, anyway? I suspect it's a euphemism for vomiting, but it could mean a heart attack for all we know.

I wish the police and/or the papers would be more straightforward about that sort of thing.

The Randomizer

Austinist published an open letter from Factory People insinuating that SXSW somehow orchestrated the city’s permit raid rampage on SXSW after-parties last weekend. While the fruits of FP’s open records request remain to be seen, my hunch is that their $250 white leather belts are cinched a little too tight. It sucks to have a show or party shut down by the cops and/or fire marshal, but don’t hate on those guys too much because all it takes is one of these to ruin the party forever.

Late Night with David Letterman icon Larry “Bud” Melman (born Calvert DeForest) has died at the age of 85. Melman appeared on Letterman's NBC show starting in 1982. Because NBC owned Late Night, Melman had to start using his real name when Letterman jumped to CBS in 1993. I loved when they got him to hand out hot towels at the Port Authority bus station. His cameo in RUN-DMC’s “King of Rock” video is also priceless.

Good golly, Little Richard is playing a free show here this weekend! The rock pioneer will be at UT’s 40 Acres Fest on Saturday with the Jungle Rockers, Black Joe Lewis and the Weary Boys. The show starts at 6:30pm on the South Mall in front of the UT Tower.

UPDATE (3/23): It turns out SXSW sent the fire marshal’s office a list of non-SXSW parties, which the fire marshal’s office took as an official complaint. Assistant Fire Marshal Don Smith told News 8 Austin's Andy Langer he was unsure if SXSW's complaint led to the Factory People shutdown, though. I can understand why SXSW thinks non-festival parties should have to adhere to the same regulations as official venues. It's also important to recognize that the quickest way to kill off all the non-SXSW events is for SXSW itself to fail. The after party circuit exists because of SXSW, not the other way around. That said, I don't like the idea of SXSW pointing the city toward non-SXSW events for code enforcement. Whatever competitive parity might've been gained through such a tactic is likely to be offset by the unsavory public reaction to it.