Chapter One “The Coca Cola Prayer” continued

RECIPES? ‘applied aesthetics modus utilized’  ‘all of EVERYTHING’  ‘all of that’  ‘all of us’  ”Jungian juggernauts’  ‘a head full of pudding’  


When two of my master music teachers, David Bowie and Jimmy Page sat down with William Burroughs, I think I know what happened. Nothing. But that nothing is something profound and strangely reassuring.

All three of them goddam’d geniuses had created their own specifically unique method of applying the ‘K’ to the end of magic. Aleister Crowley had applied the 11th letter of the alphabet about 75 years previous to numerically correct and balance the construction of the word to his liking. And surely in his mind, the liking of the Invisible Jury to which hopefully most adept artists who apply their K to MAGICK strive to appease. The ‘Special K’ if you will. Hey, Kellog was a weird guy too.

Let me digress from the Burroughs, Page and Bowie meetings to exemplify a quick note from my own song book. “Theme For The Scientist of The Invisible” is the very first Masters of Reality track on the very first Def American released Masters of Reality debut album. The scientist referred to in the title is Rudolf Steiner. It’s hard to just label him an early 20th century philosopher. His work spanned linguistics (commissioned to translate Goethe’s ‘Faust’ from German to French at age 16) the official translation. Perhaps Germany’s most beloved literary work in the hands (and in the act of translation) the mind, of a 16 year old wunderkind, to Alchemy to founder of Anthroposophy philosophy. A system that beckons one to communicate and draw to and from co-existing spirit worlds. Then applying your expanded psychic pallet to whatever your earthly task is. Music, architecture, agriculture…. applied aesthetics, sharpened and shined from your MAGICK metaphysical ATM. Hence, The Scientist of The Invisible. And I wanted those worlds and their endless esoteric interpretations to be the music listeners first commercially released taste of my music, my recipes. To please the jury in a manner they’d experienced by my adept predecessors but without them knowing exactly why they were so pleased. A trick. A MAGICK trick. Without a LYRICK.

Of the three Masters which started this rant today, Burroughs, by his family nature, genetically predisposed and trust funded by a calculator fortune, could expound the ‘K’ theories in the most intellectually, scientifically organized manner. Whereas Page and Bowie perhaps were in a way more willing captives of it’s influence. Perfectly fine. Actually the best results of Grail searching land in the hands of the most modest of Knights. And how we love our Parcifals and Don Quixotes. Purity in task, sometimes careless of detail, but perfect in will. The Divine Fool. We’ll talk to him a lot.

Crowley once said that ‘musicians were the greatest magicians of all.’ Naturals. Didn’t need all this mumbo jumbo baggage. Spiritually Transportive by nature of their work. But it’s too damned interesting to me to leave it all on Chuck Berry’s doorstep.

And most importantly for me, esoteric and occultist pathways lead to creative doors that would never had been opened without Jimmy Page’s crafty hellhound in the fog sleight of hand on the ear and David Bowie’s mesmerizing wand work of lyrical vs melodic imagery in a labyrinth song-house of mirrors.

I only know I was and to this day, transfixed. By everything in sight. I think that’s what artists are supposed to be. As passionate as Holy Thursday in the Garden of Everything. The Coca Cola logos, the unlistenable din of most modern radio, great food trucks, bad food trucks, the success of the concept of food trucks, all things under the sun. And finding beauty in the least likely scenario. Even in what some would deem sinful. The desert’s natural beauty replaced by the awesomely new vast sprawl of Las Vegas. I’m a native crawling out of his cave, maybe like you, gasping at what has appeared. Oh baby, baby. It’s a wild world. And will always be. K?

Chapter One “The Coca Cola Prayer”

Part 1 *The Touch*  ‘Swatting swarming bees with a harmonica on my knees and hyenas chewing off my hands.’

By the time I truly grasped how my own applied aesthetics modus was utilized, my psychic sail had been tightly sewn by my family life and Catholic education. Both entities ran deep in romantic emotion.

Sister Mary Lilian, “When you hear emergency vehicle sirens, send a prayer, Jesus help those who are in trouble.” The nine year old ears were impressed. Just by thinking a thought, an act of will could be set into motion. Coincidentally, Beatlemania for four years previous, was a day to day master class of charismatic communication instruction. Reinforced repeatedly as each stage of their own self-awareness blossomed, from Maharishi dabbling to Ono and Lennon’s personal but massive conceptual thought movement. To this day, I hear Sister Lilian, John and Yoko singing out of the same song book. Imagine.

Subsequently, as decades passed, I’ve concluded that ALL of everything I cherish sings from that song book. I suppose all of that boils one down to a defined and stubborn Jungian juggernaut. But as all of us Universal Thought robots REALIZE, the proof is in the pudding. And pudding I’ve made. A head full. And it’s aside from my work as a songwriter that I’ve decided to jot down a few recipes for whoever is interested.

In 1977, during the punk enlightenment, which by the way, was as much retro as it was ‘no future’ (wrap around shades, simplified song structures, jerky Carnaby throwbacks etc), the optimistic innovation of the 1950’s was now twenty years gone. It was a year likened to hitting ‘Go To Jail’ on the Monopoly board. You could sit it out for 3 turns, roll dice to get out or use your freedom card. You can loosely apply those options to what faced  career musicians at the time. Career is not a bad word. It’s purely a matter of whose. But at that profound moment in pop culture, starting roughly in 1972 and crumbling in 1977, EVERY pop musical genre EXPLODED. Funk, stadium rock, prog, glitter, country, disco, one hit Cali-phoric beard guys, whatever… flew everywhere.

Here was the moment; The soft drink vending machines, in an effort to sell Coca Cola to a new multi-generational, post 1960’s, taste scattered rabble of undefined demographic targets, began using two separate slots on the machines to choose the same Coke. One panelized button you could push showed the classic Coca Cola ‘wave’ logo. The other push option was Coke (still used) spelled out in the plain-ish almost NYTimes style that was part of a weird print and buildboard marketing style that started in the 60’s and seemed to be reaching for Dick Cavett’s audience of depressed subway riders.

I stood in front of the vending machine. I was lost in a newly undefined sea of soda pop culture confusion. Who was I? What did I believe in? What’s wrong? What’s right? What the fuck? But maybe it’s important to know, in the midst of everything, I have always owned faith. Misplaced it many times, but like one who knows their lost car keys must be in the house because they’re  home.

I pushed ‘the wave’. The Coca Cola Prayer