If you want a movement to catch on, you have to participate. Therefore I am publishing this Friday edition of Heathen Disco on Thursday, so as not to break the general strike of January 30th. I hope you follow suit no matter what your line. It’s gonna be a cold one anyway. Might as well sit it out and shut down so we can power up later.

This is also a free edition of the newsletter. If you like it, support it with a subscription.

In the news: three new fan clubbers. When dudes get low, they press records and they and everybody else gets up. Find these wherever discerning goods are sold.

THE VELVET UNDERGROUND Sunday’s Clown LP (no label)

One hates to get a (foggy) notion of history from fiction but at one point in Soderbergh’s The Limey, Peter Fonda’s character, while flossing his teeth, reads the following Lem Dobbs dialogue: “Have you ever dreamed about a place you never recall being to before? A place that maybe only exists in your imagination? Someplace far away, half-remembered when you wake up. When you were there, though ... you knew the language. You knew your way around. That was the Sixties. It wasn’t that, either. It was just ’66, and early ’67.”

But actual history proves us right. People de-centered, moved without moving. Sunday’s Clown gets in that position. What some forgot is now remembered. Sound with pictures. The Torso cover comes to life; the band you see drowning in oil projection on the back of VU & Nico finally has an audio component, captured at the Exploding Plastic Inevitable in Provincetown, MA, 1966. They play “I’m Not a Young Man Anymore,” the unreleased song discovered on the gynasium tape. They play “Little Sister” with Nico, and Lou on keys, if only for an excerpt that squeals into an “All Tomorrow’s Parties” with some incredible, sitar-leaning guitar work from Lou. There’s a really touched up “Venus in Furs,” a drumless “Black Angel’s Death Song,” and one of the more manic takes on “Heroin” out there. The set closes with two non-Lou efforts from Chicago ’67 (see below), and an unreleased outtake called “Feeling Alone” that waltzes between sincerity and first-take vocal laffs; solemn, moody, very emo, and freed from a NYC institution that had held it previously. Lou’s Clues. As with any VU boot, you don’t need me to tell you that you need it, but this one’s really different, and makes it seem like even in this shit-ass era, there are MOMENTS.

THE VELVET UNDERGROUND Tune In – Drop Out 1966 LP (no label)

Deep, commuted, Lou-less lost blues across two sides – kicks off with the same Chicago ’66 “Heroin”/“Venus in Furs” medley from Poor Richard’s, with Angus Maclise subbing in on vox, but you’re here for the rolling smog of deeply lost, form-destroyed rolling tonal polygon and discovery that fills out the rest of this session. Could be anybody but you know who it is. Essences of the truest, deepest juice from the core seeping out like melting ice cream on a sidewalk in the August NYC sun, activated by the tears that fell when it came loose and the ants that came to its rescue. Not a drop is wasted. If you’re here for the known, some of that’s here, but the rest is unlike the Velvets that casual fans know. Excellent presentation, multi-colored paste on sleeves with a poster, on smoky brown vinyl. Contains more or less the same material as the 1966 tape also available wherever erudites sell music to one another.

TELEVISION A Tight Toy Night LP (no label)

Jan. ’75 at CBGB with Richard Hell still in the band, at a crux, still in that act of becoming, the same way Wire would between ’76 and ’77. Doesn’t sound like a full house and I’ll bet you could see your breath inside. Whoever’s holding the tape wisely moved a bit during “Fire Engine” to get a little more of the rest of the band; sound quality is as good as it’s gonna get, and it’s a little hard to discern Verlaine from Lloyd at times (Tom’s amp is very forward), but you’re also hearing him working through the gum-cracking bite of the world of guitarists we know, and into a singular presence; even the relative refinement of Double Exposure isn’t around yet. First moment of true greatness comes in the solo on “Prove It” where he’s playing up so high and with so much feedback it sounds like he’s got a delay pedal, and after that they are off to Aqueduct on a bullet train trifecta. New to everyone’s ears, really, it’s another opportunity to catch Television in pupa form, hearing parts that were refined or discarded, solos that scorch with insane, drop-the-entire-scalding-tray-of-pizza rolls -from-your-bare-hands intensity, hearing the bluesy parts of “Blank Generation” that would burn away (and Hell with it). “Friction” has this stomp to it that completely removes the elegance we’ve come to expect. At the encore, someone’s moved yet again and the separation between guitars becomes more apparent, Verlaine still firing off more traditional but eyelash-curling solos with very little in his way on “Poor Circulation” and a go-for-broke take on “Double Exposure” that bridges a gap that never existed, between the Dolls and Rocket from the Tombs. If you like Television enough to own more than one record, this should already be in your now-blistered hands, once you take them out of the cold water.

FUCK ICE — Doug M