During the sessions for The Man Who Sold The World, the trio of Ronson, Visconti, and Woodmansey - still under The Hype moniker - signed to Vertigo Records. The group recruited Benny Marshall from The Rats as vocalist, and entered the studio to record an album. By the time a single appeared, The Hype had been re-christened Ronno. “The Fourth Hour of My Sleep” was released on Vertigo to an indifferent reception in January 1971. The song was written by Tucker Zimmerman, a friend of Visconti’s, and not Bob Dylan as many sources have suggested. The B-side was a Ronson/Marshall composition called “Powers of Darkness”. The Ronno album was never completed.
1. Listen to the birds. That’s where all the music comes from. Birds know everything about how it should sound and where that sound should come from. And watch hummingbirds. They fly really fast, but a lot of times they aren’t going anywhere.
2. Your guitar is not really a guitar Your guitar is a divining rod. Use it to find spirits in the other world and bring them over. A guitar is also a fishing rod. If you’re good, you’ll land a big one.
3. Practice in front of a bush Wait until the moon is out, then go outside, eat a multi-grained bread and play your guitar to a bush. If the bush dosen’t shake, eat another piece of bread.
4. Walk with the devil Old Delta blues players referred to guitar amplifiers as the “devil box.” And they were right. You have to be an equal opportunity employer in terms of who you’re bringing over from the other side. Electricity attracts devils and demons. Other instruments attract other spirits. An acoustic guitar attracts Casper. A mandolin attracts Wendy. But an electric guitar attracts Beelzebub.
5. If you’re guilty of thinking, you’re out If your brain is part of the process, you’re missing it. You should play like a drowning man, struggling to reach shore. If you can trap that feeling, then you have something that is fur bearing.
6. Never point your guitar at anyone Your instrument has more clout than lightning. Just hit a big chord then run outside to hear it. But make sure you are not standing in an open field.
7. Always carry a church key That’s your key-man clause. Like One String Sam. He’s one. He was a Detroit street musician who played in the fifties on a homemade instrument. His song “I Need a Hundred Dollars” is warm pie. Another key to the church is Hubert Sumlin, Howlin’ Wolf’s guitar player. He just stands there like the Statue of Liberty-making you want to look up her dress the whole time to see how he’s doing it.
8. Don’t wipe the sweat off your instrument You need that stink on there. Then you have to get that stink onto your music.
9. Keep your guitar in a dark place When you’re not playing your guitar, cover it and keep it in a dark place. If you don’t play your guitar for more than a day, be sure you put a saucer of water in with it.
10. You gotta have a hood for your engine Keep that hat on. A hat is a pressure cooker. If you have a roof on your house, the hot air can’t escape. Even a lima bean has to have a piece of wet paper around it to make it grow.
SAVED BY THE BELL: THE GRAD SCHOOL YEARS.
BY TEDDY WAYNE
- - - -
INT. THE BOYS’ HOUSE—DAY
(SLATER enters the living room of the perpetually dark three-bedroom house he sublets with ZACK andSCREECH. He wears flared warm-up pants, a neon spandex tank top, and horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair is tied in a ponytail.)
SLATER: Did you do the Milton reading for our Early Modern seminar, preppy?
(ZACK sits on a futon under framed posters of T.S. Eliot, John Cheever, and Bret Easton Ellis.)
ZACK: Just because I’m writing my dissertation on the anxiety of influence of Tender Is the Night on Richard Yates’s midcareer short fiction doesn’t mean I’m a preppy, you medievalist.
SLATER: Yeah—and Screech isn’t a dweeb for studying the intersection of science and the gothic novel during the 18th century and its relation to Pynchonesque paranoia.
(SCREECH crawls out from under a mountain of library books, simultaneously reading an academic book on leeches and a heavily dog-eared copy ofGravity’s Rainbow.)
SCREECH: Hey, is someone talking about me?!
(A loud, impatient knock at the door.)
ZACK: Here’s an Austinian performative utterance: “Come in!”
SCREECH: Technically, “I am coming in” would be the performative utterance, or illocutionary act.
(SLATER smacks SCREECH on the head.)
SLATER: “I am hitting you.” How’s that for an illocutionary act?
SCREECH: According to the Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, pretty accurate … and hard!
(JESSIE opens the door. She’s clad in a black leather jacket, her hair is cut short and jagged and is dyed blue, and she’s chain-smoking Marlboros.)
JESSIE: (Excitedly.) I’m so stressed; I have two papers due tomorrow; I need some whiskey.
ZACK: Jessie, you’re not back on those caffeine pills, are you?
JESSIE: No, why?
ZACK: I want to give a few to Nerdstrom; I need him to be sharp: he’s writing my application to the Fitzgerald conference in Maryland for me, in exchange for being introduced to some girls in the sculpture program at the next Graduate Council mixer.
JESSIE: Ugh, Fitzgerald. You boys and your reverence for dead white males. What chauvinist pigs.
SLATER: Oink, oink, mama. And I mean that in the most Orwellian and neo-Freudian senses.
ZACK: As Henri Bergson might say, “Time-out!” Can you two ever have a conversation without it devolving into a dispute over phallologocentrism?
(LISA pokes her head in the window, struggling to get through with her Afro.)
LISA: Salaam alaikum, brothers and sister. My Shakespeare study group meets in an hour—what can I say about othering and the male gaze in Othello?
SCREECH: Well, Stephen Greenblatt argues that homosocial tensions in the Globe Theatre may have contributed to—
ZACK: No, you homophone—the male G-A-Z-E, not G-A-Y-S.
(KELLY joins the group. Her ripped T-shirt reads “FREE MUMIA.”)
KELLY: Are you guys busy?
KELLY: Sorry. I could use your opinions on the title for my colloquium presentation: “Disco Balls and Lyricless Synthesizer Music: A Situationist Critique of the Prom in Post-Vietnam Literature.”
ZACK: Who cares? It’s happy hour at the Max—let’s toast to Bacchus like the Lost Generation 2.0 we are.
SLATER: I hope we don’t run into Department Chair Belding there.
JESSIE: That guy is so creepy—I still can’t believe he joined an accelerated Ph.D. program at Stansbury, followed us all out to Berkeley, and somehow politically maneuvered to become head of the English Department.
LISA: He’s such an imperialist oppressor—a Kipling without conscience. And no fashion sense at all with that tired, leather-patched corduroy jacket from 1973.
KELLY: He always hits on me by reciting the same Marvell poem and asking if I want to work with him on an independent study—gross!
SCREECH: Compared to him, I’m a regular Dom Juan!
SLATER: Yeah, what a knavish, elf-witted coxcomb.
(They repair to the Max. After several pitchers of PBR, ZACK sleeps with KELLY [the audience oohs] and asks her not to tell anyone, SLATER and JESSIEget in a fight over gender essentialism before sleeping together [the audience oohs again], and SCREECHunsuccessfully attempts to woo LISA with his postcolonial reading of The Tempest before dropping out and returning to Bayside High to teach ninth-grade English.)