Kim Vincent Fowley (1939-2015)
A remembrance regarding my friend Kim Fowley who passed away on January 15, 2015 in Hollywood, CA.
Written By Patrick Brayer 2015
My introduction to counter culture figure Kim Fowley came in the mid-90’s at Studio Nadine in Claremont California working then on his solo project, Worm Culture. The session was being produced by country rock legend and local surf-folk Svengali, Chris Darrow, who was Fowley’s long time Inland Empire confidant in what he later referred to as his ‘tumbleweed days’ among us.
Fowley’s entrance could not have been staged any better or purer by David Lynch, or Clifford Odets. First off there’s a garagesque room setting of about four punk gothic musicians waiting for him,
Dressed in their deepest black lo-fi apparel, as if they all shop-lifted at the same store, aptly pierced, with ironed hair covering an eye or two. The big turquoise door swings biblically wide and in steps a tall handsome praying mantis of a man with a crime scene looking brief case and a make shift plus size suit, Kim Vincent Fowley. No introductions muttered, nothing.
(photo: Patrick Brayer)
“We’re not here to chit chat, this is rock hard business. He began: “Entertainment Tonight starts at 5:30 sharp and I don’t want to miss a lick of it, so let’s just do this dog shit.” He opens his beat leather case, pulls out a handful of polaroid pictures of his current girlfriend in blood red lingerie, and handed them around full circle to the boys in the band (to be named The Rubber Room Freaks by press time). As they ogle the pictures he says, in the way of a pep talk, in reference to the images. “First off, I’m Kim Fowley, I’m the king of things you’ll never understand, and here’s my urine.”
After ample pause and time for dazed looks to set in he continues: “O’K’ here’s the deal: Imagine you’re driving in a white van through a ghetto in San Berdoo, the van breaks down, you turn around and Jim Morrison is in the back of the van sitting on the spare tire, of which the walls are shag carpeted. That’s exactly the timber of how I want this to sound, so let’s start to finish this.
Right now as I sit here somewhat stunned in obituaryness, I don’t think of the endless reel of the illustrious and purposely outlandish career. All I see is the residue of kindness, the shear landmine of wit, and a man who had a profound chosen gift for accepting the underdog as heroic. In a sense he truly was Grapes of Wrath Jr. In that, and our friendship, he gave me something that can’t rightly be pilfered, misspelled, or exploited
I once wrote a song for him, inspired by him, and somewhat about him, called, The King of the Dust and Oranges.
(Icicles and Popsicles Gold Record in Fowley’s freezer)
One time while visiting him in Redlands, California I somehow curiously looked into his refrigerator freezer to see what this counter culture creature might eat, and sure enough, there it was, the gold record to Icicles and Popsicles by The Mermaids. With Kim Fowley there was always one thing that you could count on, that you would never be surprised by always being surprised.
King of the Dust and Oranges
(The Ballad of Billy the Kim)
he’s the king of the dust and oranges
stands before the clouds like a kindling fire
the darkness grows square / that is seen everywhere
but it’s the hours that I admire
the hours spent on the telephone wire
he has a beautiful house, or a beautiful shack
talking to Europe, Detroit, or Decatur / or just merely trying to date the operator
the worlds just a room to be worked
he’s got six tall brown file cabinets
full of fools cap paper and songs
and from each breath, he does bring back from death
that from whichever a teenager longs
he’s got a line of bus seats and gold records
and he’s 25 inches from noon
his hair straight back and clean / like a silver machine
eyes as heavy as bright sand dune
he won’t take the train or drive an automobile
says there’s enough right here at the door
for whatever’s out there / could never compare
that’s just for an imagination that’s poor
I once saw him with glistening meat in his hands
at a Redlands backyard barbecue
no butter-beans or potatoes / or green fried tomatoes
a little Jehovah smile breaking through
written by: patrick brayer
12-16-04
for sir“billy the kim” fowley / x-mas 04