Enter the Mind of Danny Cohen
Posted on 10. Jan, 2010 by some guy in Music
By Jacob Sprecher and Danny Cohen
It might come as a surprise to some that one of the most accredited and cult musicians Butte County has ever known is a 60-something man living up in Paradise. Of course I’m referring to Danny Cohen—Hollywood-born darling and pioneer of punk rock (see Charleston Grotto circa 1961), late-‘70s mainstay at Brendan Mullen’s seminal L.A. club The Masque, and for the past six years a signed recording artist on Anti-, the same label that boasts the likes of Tom Waits and Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. So why haven’t you heard much about Danny Cohen? Well, because Danny doesn’t really care whether you pay attention to him or not. He plays intermittently, hype be damned. But it might be worth your while to check his latest release, The Fleas of a Thousand Dannys, which is held by many to be his finest solo work yet.
In any case, the following is not an interview: it’s just Danny being Danny, ranting the written word as he does so well. Because if you’ve ever hung around the man for even a minute, you know that any window into his mind is certainly worth a look.
DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF THE RIDGE
I awoke with a Swine Cold and oxygen deprivation (from central heat). I watched the remaining half of John Carpenter’s Prince of Darkness. A line rang true... “This is BULLSHIT! ... A JOKE... KHA-KHA…(in a whisper) kha-kha.” Medieval priests had turned the Devil into a giant green lava lamp; vomiting into the mouths of babes (to enslave), in a downtown L.A. church, now that there was technology.
My mom emerged with an AT&T bill. Every month she buried it in the debris on her bed and they sent a “cutoff” threat. She remembered they’d called Friday for her bank account number and routing code. I lectured her on divulging personal information, and called her local branch. I got an 800 number recording. “Can I have your account number and phone again?”
“AGENT!” I screamed.
“Okay. I’ll transfer you to an agent.”
“FUCK YOU!”
“Can I have the last four numbers of your Social Security?”
“Go FUCK YOURSELF!”
“I’m not sure I understood?”
“EAT SHIT!” I re-dialed and got the agent.
“Companies don’t do that, it sounds like fraud. I see no wire transfers, can I put you on hold?” I had him put a red flag up. He learned some companies do transfer money that way. “That stinks!”
“I agree.”
That was Howard Rosin’s line (oddly pronounced Roezeen) at the Highland Springs Teen Week in Beaumont, CA. It was a Jew-driven Catskills-style resort, with a Gentile Trojan horse of Aryan jocks, who said, “Have a hot dog it’ll make your hair grow longer” and “ladies before men.” (Rosin said “have a little pride in yourselves.”) Our band got $100.00 for a week of four-hour sets in the Hitching Post, where we played a two-hour version on “The Hole.” Brett Lewis wanted $25 for suggesting the gig (he lost his virginity there, to “Boobie!”) We refused; he stole some albums; I stole them back with a ruse to get him out of the house. The adventure was turned into a TV pilot, in which a guy with feathered hair and bell-bottoms played me (Parker Stevens?).
AT&T hadn’t taken the money. (Threatening to tear the recording’s esophagus out.) I called the numbers on caller ID; one was a friend’s angry dad I didn’t recognize. I called “the other” (Comcast). I hung up when I heard “This is Shaquille O’Neal...and Ben Stein.” How did I get their number? Had they gone gay? The lines were down from the storm; I waited. There had been a transfer the prior Tuesday (the bank didn’t catch).
I felt like the pock-marked average Joe protagonists from John Carpenter’s films (often with feathered blond hair, a handlebar moustache, and no acting skill). I’d conquered pure evil.
RANSOM TV
We got a Direct TV promo in the mail, $30 a month for a deluxe package (14 months only) with Turner Classic Movies, the only channel I’d watch. Comcast was $60 for basic. My mom said “do what you think best” when I explained it would be $7.50 a month for an extra converter box, plus $10 (I’d pay) for a special rate on TCM upgrade.
The Direct TV rep sounded like he came in off the streets, a real hustler. I tried to get the fine print info on extra charges, but he wasn’t forthcoming until the process was complete 30 minutes later! No installation charge, but $20.00 to carry the two dishes we’d need (had to give my mom’s credit card number and three-digit code. Could he use it?), plus state tax every month and a rebate on first month ($65) which took eight weeks. He didn’t mention the two-year contract.
Suddenly, my mom feared the different channel numbers and the dishes, despite my assurance she’d get Golden Girls on Hallmark. She thought I was referring to two plans on Comcast. I couldn’t cancel until the processing was complete unless I had a computer. I went next door but they hadn’t posted on my email. The rep I got refused to let me cancel without a 15-minute debate, in which he almost gave my mom a heart attack (I told him she was 90) after I gave her reasons and knowledge of the deal. What an asshole!
Comcast said the quick box hookup cost $20 unless I bussed to the outskirts of town and carried the heavy thing back to Chico (paying an extra fare and waiting an hour for my bus to Paradise). I decided not to accrue any more expense, remembering when TV was free, and there were short commercial breaks with better shows. Now all newscasts and gossip shows have the same stories at the same time with the same commercial breaks so you won’t surf. It’s all a diabolical conspiracy!
OF DANNY, DUFFERS AND DOGGIES
The shut-in next door died. Some bitch (a relative or recent caregiver) who never came by sold the place for a song two days later. I wanted to chastise her for the surprise floor work and fumigations, but she was in a nighty on a ladder with her back to me. She saw me in the window and stared over my back fence in retaliation.
The new owners are the quintessential “Ugly Americans” with new his-and-hers SUVs, though neither should drive. The son-in law parked across our driveway. I told him to move so we could get out. He put the truck there again so my sister couldn’t get in. They went on four summer sprees with the money they’d saved (with inside info), not informing us of a lanai to be built (destroying the view) by insulting workers, locked out and traversing our property. Their kids and grandkids yelled from the yard of the adjoining unit all summer.
They have a spoiled little dog that yaps day and night. The duffer walks it past my back gate, stopping there to allow the dog to accost me while staring into our living room (his wife did so with a look of disgust at my stuffed goose and figurines). He then goes on the hillock behind and stares in for several minutes, before coming round the front and walking across our property. Finally I called the dog a “little shit” in the tradition of Ricardo Montalban and Herve Villaichez. The duffer gave me the evil eye; “Fuck you asshole” I retorted, feeling guilty, as he may have been of the verge of Alzheimer’s, but then I thought of Reagan. I presumed they’d gone away, but were just laying low; I came home to miniature dog waste in our driveway. I used the Paradise Post to nudge the droppings onto their property.
Visit myspace.com/museumofdannys or anti.com.
