66 Minutes

[Jim Hofmann <hofmann@AMSAA.ARPA>]

Charles Bukowski, Hostage (1985, Rhino Records, 1201 Olympic Blvd, Santa Monica,
CA  90404) Recorded at Redondo Beach, CA (1980)
     If you haven't heard of Bukowski, you should.  The first time I met up
with his writings, coincidentally not long after this was recorded (1980), I
was working 3rd Shift in a foundry as a core cleaner.  The core machine 
operator was a guy named  Gene, longhaired, tatooed, motorcycle-type who 
didn't talk  much and I didn't talk much to him.  The machine cycle was such
that he would be idle when I was working, and vice versa.  One night, I noticed
he was reading a paperback rather than his standard newspaper or Easyrider zine
and he seemed to be crying and laughing at the same time.  At the end of the
shift, I asked him what he was reading and he tossed me the thin book and said
I could borrow it for the day.  I lay in bed and read it and didn't sleep for
the next 24 hours.  The words pumped new adrenaline into my veins and I spent
that summer day racing on my bike at warp speed with the words and weird 
phrasing of Bukowski still ringing through my head.  Years later, I realize
this was the symbolic end of my rebellious adolescence and the beginning
of a corrupt adulthood and that, fuck, there was nothing wrong with that as
long as I stay human.
	And the man who started it was a beery sot whose setting never
went beyond the bedroom, the bar or the race track.  I always wonder if
Pan, the half-god of lust, were still around if he would show up and kick
Bukowski in the butt.  And maybe Bukowski buys him a drink or punches him out.
Maybe Bukowski is ... nah, couldn't be ... I think.
	Well, me and Bukowski went our separate ways as I struggled through
college and every so often I would see his name on the cover of High Times
or some other equally trashy publication and I would pick it up and laugh
and cry alone, knee-slapping happy in the knowledge that we as adults could
still reach our potential as humans in an increasingly material society
and I would pass the magazine on to someone else so they could draw their
own equally half-ass conclusions about this enigma, Bukowski.
	So when I saw this recording, I naturally snapped it up and I certainly
don't have any regrets.  Running nearly 66 minutes, this hilarious artifact
features a captive (or hostage if you will) berating, dazzling and ranting
at his audience. ( I wonder if Rollins and his familiars would have the
forum for their scribblings if not for Bukowski).  You can hear Bukowski
and the audience getting rapidly drunk as the reading goes on.  Perhaps
the booze permits some sort of mystical understanding of Bukowski's stuff
but I really don't think its necessary.  His poetry applies gutter language
to primal archetypes ("My father's feet stink/and his smile was like
dogshit") and he improvises hilarious one-liners ("I wish I could meet a
dentist who would suck my dick").  Most of all, he exhorts the audience
to exert themselves, to yell out, to challenge him much like punk and 
hardcore in its best moments strives to do.  When someone finally
(inevitably?) yells out "Fuck You", he says "thank you, I've been waiting
for that all night."  
          Bukowski is especially known for bringing that lofty once salty
dog, poetry, back down to "our" (the layman's) level and I guess the same could
be said of the emerging breed of punk poets (Lunch, Rollins, Tesco(?)) and this
recording is proof positive that in this respect he is successful.  There
are no "wine and cheese" types available for comment here and if there were they
 would probably have left soon after Bukowski talks about waking his wife with a
 fart ("like a foghorn") or his diarreha at the racetrack story.  'S too bad 
because then they miss the highlight of the night, which is his peom about 
Toulouse Lautrec (sp), the guy who originated band posters and his infamous 
whorings.