I never would have imagined that anyone even remotely related to Loudon Wainwright III, the world’s crankiest living folk singer, could actually believe in love. But his openly gay 24-year-old son, Rufus Wainwright, not only believes in it, he structures his world around its complexities, frustrations and rewards.
On his self-titled debut of lushly crafted pop parlor songs (complete with Van Dyke Parks string arrangements), Wainwright poetically unfolds scenarios of foolish love and fantasy love, healing love and destructive love and love that makes you want to lose your sense of self just so you can find it again. “I don’t want to hold you and feel so helpless,” he confesses on “Foolish Love,” “I don’t want to smell you and lose my senses.”
No matter what accompanies the warm, chameleonlike creak and quiver of his voice — acoustic guitar, cascading piano, crashing cymbals or thumping timpani — Wainwright’s songs are all built on a similar set of angled melodies and hairpin turns of phrase. Yet each succeeds as its own distinctly intimate portrait of emotion and desire, whether he’s remembering the “charmingly daft” River Phoenix on “Matinee Idol” or offering desperate advice to the tragic opera heroes of “Damned Ladies,” whose arias “cause a stir in my sad, sad and lonely heart.” Wainwright’s willingness to so thoroughly accept his vulnerability as a way of life is a rare thing among contemporary singer-songwriters. Rarer still is that his search for grace persists — and once in a while, as in “Imaginary Love,” he finds it: a red face, a head resting on a lap in the green back seat of a cab, and the knowledge that what’s real can never be enough.
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Sean Lennon
INTO THE SUN | GRAND ROYAL
HEAR IT | BUY IT –>
BY DAWN EDEN | Sean Lennon’s long-awaited debut album is a surprisingly low-key affair, dotted with Brazilian-inspired rhythms and languid vocals. There’s also a strong low-fi sensibility, undoubtedly aided by producer Yuka Honda of Japanese dance-floor experimentalists Cibo Matto. Not coincidentally, Lennon is in love with Honda, and “Into the Sun” is an unabashed sonic valentine. The parallels between his ultra-close working relationship with Honda and that of his father and Yoko Ono are obvious. To Honda’s credit, she proves capable of separating business and pleasure. Far from turning Lennon into a one-man Cibo Matto, she seems to have made every effort to bring out his own unique sound — that is, inasmuch as he can be said to have one. His father aside, his main influence is Beck, and it shows in his use of analog synthesizers alongside prominent acoustic guitars. Also like Beck, he adores genre-jumping, giving nods to Stevie Wonder-style soul (“Two Fine Lovers”), tear-in-your-beer country (“Part One of the Cowboy Trilogy”) and piano balladry (the mordant “Wasted”).
Lennon’s voice is an acquired taste. With a nasal twang that would make They Might Be Giants blush, he sings below the notes. His melodies, however, are intriguing: “Two Fine Lovers” and “Queue” are sublimely catchy, with unpredictable chord changes in the manner of Burt Bacharach and Brian Wilson. As “Into the Sun” demonstrates, the young Lennon will be a potent force in 21st century pop if he continues to follow his own star.
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Mekons
ME | QUARTERSTICK
HEAR IT | BUY IT –>
BY MARK ATHITAKIS | The Mekons never said it was going to be easy. Not life, not love and certainly not rock music, which the band dismissed as “something to sell your labor for/when hair sprouts out below” on their finest record, 1989′s “Rock and Roll.” But the Chicago band (via Leeds, England) was making great rock even while they were uncomfortable with its trappings, anxiously searching for justice and sanity in drums, guitar chords and wailing violins. Twenty years after they started as art-damaged punk rockers, nothing’s changed, because the politics of rock haven’t changed; their chosen trade is just as polluted with greed, sexism and mediocrity as it ever was.
With all their deep thinking weighing down on the music, “Me” is rough going, both as rock album and political tract. Jumping from drum machine beats to country-folk to straightforward rock to absurdist lyrical rantings, it lacks the flow necessary to keep the deep thinking about sex and ego listenable; like most of the band’s recent albums, it sprawls badly. But from song to song, each song signifies, whether it’s Jon Langford’s nursery-rhyme chanting over the shambling beat of “Tourette’s,” or Sally Timms’ winsome vocals on the chirpy groove-pop “Mirror.” Cynical, joking, frustrated and philosophical, it’s post-structuralist pop for the next millennium.
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Joe Ely
TWISTIN’ IN THE WIND | MCA
HEAR IT | BUY IT –>
BY MEREDITH OCHS | Anyone who’s ever seen Joe Ely perform knows that he can captivate an audience with just an acoustic guitar and his gritty narratives, though he usually chooses to do so backed by a band that’s equal parts punk and honky tonk. The venerable roots rocker from Lubbock, Texas, was part of the legendary triumvirate of Texas songwriting talent (along with friends Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Butch Hancock) known as the Flatlanders, embarking on a solo career in the late ’70s that yielded a dozen albums. It’s dismaying, though, that Ely’s recorded output has often failed to reflect the dynamism of his live shows.
But No. 13 proves lucky for the singer/songwriter/guitarist. Recorded at his own Austin studio, the record is a satisfying amalgam of Ely’s many musical loves and pursuits. He tells his stories through border waltzes, barroom romps, Tejano twang, Neil Young-style rockers, jazzy blues and flamenco-tinged ballads, while guitarists who have recorded with him over the years — including David Grissom, Lloyd Maines and Jesse Taylor — add layers of sound texture and Southwestern imagery. Like Ely kicking his boots in the dirt — or on stage — “Twistin’ in the Wind” kicks hard.
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Dave Matthews Band
BEFORE THESE CROWDED STREETS | RCA
HEAR IT | BUY IT –>
BY LEORA BROYDO | Forget Viagra. “Before These Crowded Streets,” the third studio album from the Dave Matthews Band, could make even Church Lady feel like a sexpot. The release, which might have been more aptly titled “Before These Crowded Stadiums,” coincides with the start of DMB’s 54-show U.S./European tour, which is selling out huge concert venues within minutes.
The album delivers more of what has always attracted fans to the band: the jazzy rhythms and spirit-raising jams that have become the DMB’s stock and trade, as well as lyrical echoes of albums past; there’s hungry Dave (“Open wide, oh so good I’ll eat you”), thirsty Dave (“Let me drink you please, I won’t spill a drop, I promise you”) and, of course, merry Dave (“Come sister, my brother, shake up your bones, shake up your feet”).
If Matthews hikes up his skirt a little more here than on previous works, the world he shows us is deeper and darker than anything the band has laid down to date. Matthews takes his vocals to Araratian heights in “The Last Stop,” an emotional plea for Middle Eastern peace. In “Don’t Drink the Water,” Matthews does an eerie impression of Peter Gabriel and grumbles about greed with an angry (is she ever anything else?) Alanis Morissette singing backup. “Halloween” is a demented carousel ride ` la Tom Waits, backed with disturbing horror movielike tracks by the Kronos Quartet.
Matthews says of the album’s darker sentiments, “I don’t think the overall effect will be depressing.” He’s right. Somehow, when Matthews engages any spirits, be them dark or light, it’s a pleasurable experience.
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Scrawl
NATURE FILM | ELEKTRA
HEAR IT | BUY IT –>
BY GINA ARNOLD | Scrawl sings songs about the kind of things I care about, but though their harsh musical questioning of such common feelings as disillusionment, boredom and romantic regret can, at its best, banish one’s self-doubt by putting it all into words, the Columbus, Ohio, band has somehow missed the jump onto every all-girl bandwagon (foxcore, riot grrrl, angry women rock and so forth) that’s trolled by in the last 12 years. When I hear the low, rough-hewn voice of singer Marcy Mays set within these carefully crafted mid-tempo rock songs, I grieve at the knowledge that this stuff has no wide commercial appeal.
“Nature Film” is Scrawl’s new LP, but six of the songs on it are old ones, re-recorded for reasons of clarity and distribution (since the albums they come from are now out of print). “Charles” is one of Scrawl’s most famous tracks, a rewrite of Kiss’ “Beth” on which Mays tells her boyfriend that although she’ll be up all night playing with the band, he should wait up for sex. (“Put out or shut up/that’s the way it goes.”) It’s much faster than the original, and still works well, as do “Rot” and “Clock Song.” But the newer songs are the ones that show the most depth of feeling and emotional growth. “Standing Around” in particular is a lovely, heartfelt song about coming to terms with self-defeating mental stagnation, while “Nature Film” and “Guess I’ll Wait” explore similarly poignant and — to me — relevant life-themes. The record also contains a cover of PiL’s “Public Image.” In short, Scrawl’s not fit for Lilith Fair — and more power to them for that.
This week is my 40th birthday — March 25, the same day as Aretha
Franklin (after whom I named my daughter, as some of you may have noticed).
I’m on a tour of the American South, promoting my new paperback, “The Sexual
State of the Union,” and it took quite some doing to get me in the mood to
hit the road.
For starters, I am having every clichid, sour thought about growing
middle-aged. A few weeks ago, I recoiled in disgust at the sight of my own
visage on a local TV broadcast of one of my bookstore lectures.
“Look at me!” I wailed to my lover, watching alongside me. “I look like a
worn-out rag.” He gave a meaningful nod toward the tube just as the camera
zoomed in for a peek at my plunging neckline and evident bralessness.
“I wouldn’t say you looked like a rag,” he said, letting my
televised cleavage finish his remarks.
“No, you’re absolutely right,” I said. “I don’t like look a worn out rag. I
look like a worn out SLUT!”
And that was my moment of inspiration. I stood up in my wrinkly shirt and
holey underwear and announced myself like a candidate: “I am going to do a
whole new zine in honor of my fourth decade. The name of it will be Worn
Out Slut.”
Since that instant of clarity, everywhere I have traveled on my book tour
– from Texas to Florida to Georgia to New Orleans — I have called on my
fans to join me in my new project. When I tell them the title, I’m greeted
by a tremendous wave of recognition.
“If you’re laughing,” I tell them, “I expect you to contribute a story.”
Worn Out Slut will be the place for people who have Been There and Fucked
That. It is my spitting reaction to all those obnoxiously earnest feminist
tracks about the “joys and challenges” of growing old. It’s my salute to
the fact that tomorrow’s seniors are people like me who started the first
mosh pits — Killer Pussycat Amazons who don’t enter menopause with regrets
OR Prozac.
I realized as soon as I announced my plans at a bookstore in Austin that
whatever else we were, Worn Out Sluts are actually gender neutral. One of
the middle-aged fellas who asked me to sign his book wanted to shake my
hand “for luck” because he is going on trial next week for selling a
vibrator in the state of Texas.
You heard me right. I don’t know where the fucking ACLU is when you need
them. It’s illegal to own more than a handful of sex toys in the Lone Star
State for your own personal reasons. You can bet the erotically inclined of
Texas are exhausted from this reign of terror, and I encourage all of them,
men and women, to sign up for Worn Out Sluthood.
Texas, my first stop, was also where I got my initial inkling of how
profoundly the Internet has changed Southern people’s way of getting laid,
as well as just plain getting connected with like-minded spirits, in a
society so censored by Christian fundamentalism.
By the time I got to Louisiana, I was convinced that AOL is being kept
afloat by Southern horniness. A dozen different people explained to me that
they continuously change and improve their online “profile” (the little
paragraph that describes yourself for other AOL members) so that they can
keep their dating life fresh and exciting.
When I arrived in Atlanta, I got a phone call at my hotel from Dolores
French, a longtime whore and a prostitution rights activist who I could
easily call my new best friend. “Oh you poor child, I know what this book
tour is doing to your body,” she said. “I have taken the liberty of sending
someone over to give you a massage, a full-service massage.”
“Dolores, you are too much!” I collapsed on my bed to relish the thought.
“These are the kind of things that don’t even occur to Simon and Schuster
when they plan my schedule.”
Dolores was anxious to tell me that my masseur, Sonny, who she had
personally tried out, met her exacting standards, and that if he didn’t
satisfy me in every way imaginable, she’d be shocked.
Sonny, stepping in two hours later, looked exactly like a construction
worker, and that’s what he told me he did for many years before he made
the big change in his career. His wife, who apparently made the ascent from
crack addict to corporate ladder-climber (I’ve heard that story so many
times!) became flush with her success — and embarrassed to have a husband
in a hard hat instead of a suit. She divorced him, and he came out as
bisexual and went to the massage parlors to learn how to get set up in his
new trade.
While Sonny started rubbing me down, we talked about traveling and places
we’d like to visit again. “I always plan my vacations around the Southern
Baptist Convention, when they come to Atlanta,” he said.
“Oh yes, I can imagine how you’d want to clear out of town when they’re
around,” I interrupted.
He laughed at my naiveté. “No, I have to BE here when they’re in town. It’s
the busiest time of the year. I always take my vacations afterwards because
by then I’m completely burnt out.”
Well, he kept laughing because I couldn’t shut my gaping mouth. I’m sorry
to be so incredulous, but it just blows my mind that a few thousand
Southern Baptists would gather together to celebrate their faith and
coincidentally wear out the entire sex worker force of the greater Atlanta
area.
“How can they live with themselves?” I asked him, “Condemning sodomites all
day, and then calling you in for cocksucking all night?”
“They go to church on Sunday, and that makes everything all right,” he
replied. Sonny was raised in the same church himself, and maybe that’s why
he understands better than me how this one act of submission absolves
everything.
I’m in New Orleans now, the psychedelic jewel of the South, with its great
undulating dilapidation the very definition of divine deviance. I went
yesterday for a malt-pecan waffle with bananas and syrup at the Clover
Grill, where Diva Chef and Chief Waitress Earl sings, serves and writes the
meanest menu in the Quarter. “Don’t Cry Out Loud” it reads in bold, after
the egg dishes. “Members of our Staff May be Available for Private
Parties,” is at the bottom the sheet. An antique dealer down the street
told me Earl was in drag on the street charging $5 a peek during Mardi Gras
to look at his impressive genital inheritance, and attracted quite a
following of Japanese schoolgirls. I’m sure it was worth every penny.
There’s a beautiful woman in a red hat, white fishnets and blue polka dot
skirt singing outside my window this morning in the French Quarter. She
shared some of her po’ boy loaf with me when I walked out to see the fine weather
we’re having today and compliment her on her song. Worn out? Hell, yes, I’m so very very tired — but with
beauty and generosity like this, there’s some life in the Queen of the Mosh
Pit yet.
The strange saga of Bobby Fuller — and the hold he retains on listeners more than 30 years after his lone Top-10 hit, “I Fought the Law” — could only have started in Hollywood. It was there, in 1964, that the bright-eyed Texan and his group signed with Del-Fi Records, the label that had brought forth Ritchie Valens. It was there, in 1965, that they became the darlings of the discothhque set, performing their high-powered rock ‘n’ roll night after night before packed audiences that included celebrities like Ann-Margret and Nancy Sinatra. And it was there, in 1966, that Fuller’s bloodied body was found, covered in gasoline, in the front seat of his mother’s Oldsmobile.
“Never to Be Forgotten,” Del-Fi’s new Bobby Fuller Four box, doesn’t explain how Fuller died, but it does show why his music has survived. The set of three CDs, including a live disc, was clearly done with love — from the top-notch sound quality to the photo-laden booklet, which includes three essays and an interview with Fuller’s brother and bandmate, Randy. Unfortunately, the booklet does not include session dates and track-by-track song commentary, both of which are standard in reissues of this kind.
When the British Invasion hit in 1964, England’s rockers reeducated Americans who had long neglected their musical heritage. But while most American bands were happy to learn about Carl Perkins, the Crickets and other homegrown heroes via the Beatles, Fuller went straight to the source. An El Paso native, Fuller started playing plain and simple rock ‘n’ roll while fellow Texan Buddy Holly was alive and stuck with it even after the music died. By the time the Brits brought back the beat, the singer/lead guitarist and his band were ready to show America that a group didn’t need pointy boots to play kick-ass rock and roll.
While Del-Fi’s 1996 two-CD box “Shakedown! The Texas Tapes Revisited” covered Fuller’s years in the Lone Star State, “Never to Be Forgotten” includes nearly all the recordings he made after moving to Los Angeles in 1964. The Bobby Fuller Four’s first few Del-Fi singles failed, and it’s easy to see why. Although Fuller would later prove himself an excellent songwriter, at that point the group had yet to find its own sound, instead taking cues from contemporaries like Dick Dale, the Four Seasons and even the Beatles. After hearing those fair-to-middling 45s, disc jockeys must have been totally unprepared for what was to follow. “Let Her Dance” was an exuberant rocker, containing elements of practically every dance-floor classic to date — from Valens’ “La Bamba” to Bobby Freeman’s “Do You Wanna Dance” and the Beach Boys’ “Dance, Dance, Dance.” It promptly topped the L.A. charts, making the group stars in the land of stars.
The group followed with the superb “Never to Be Forgotten,” packed with twangy guitars and enough reverb to fill the Carlsbad Caverns. But it was their next release that would put them over the top. “I Fought the Law” originally appeared on a post-Holly Crickets album and was penned by the group’s guitarist, Sonny Curtis, who would later write “Love Is All Around,” the immortal theme from “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” Released in October 1965, the Bobby Fuller Four’s version, with its tight production and unrelenting beat, took their fame far beyond the West Coast. Come January, the group found itself sharing Billboard’s Top 10 with the likes of the Beatles and the Stones.
Although the Bobby Fuller Four managed a minor follow-up hit with another cover, Holly’s “Love’s Made a Fool of You,” most of the American public remained unaware of Fuller’s own songwriting talent. By then, his compositions had evolved from pleasant emulations of his ’50s idols (“Julie”) to finely wrought tunes, catchy yet meaty, that were worthy of Gerry Goffin and Carole King (“Another Sad and Lonely Night”). However, Del-Fi did not believe that Fuller’s originals were at the Brill Building level, so the group’s next single was a bona fide Brill Building tune, “The Magic Touch.” When it missed the charts entirely, things began to fall apart.
In July 1966, Fuller returned home to L.A. after a long and stressful tour. His band was on the verge of mutiny. The West Coast music scene was changing rapidly, with nascent stirrings of psychedelia. Fuller was uncertain of his next move. However, his friends and family did not think him suicidal. The discovery of his body on July 18 shocked everyone.
Everyone, that is, except his murderer. The LAPD ruled Fuller’s death a suicide, citing “no evidence of foul play,” despite the fact that he had been beaten. Randy Fuller claims that the police never even checked the car for fingerprints. The booklet for “Never to Be Forgotten” includes an essay that details six different theories about the still-unsolved case, including that of one man who saw it profiled on TV’s “Unsolved Mysteries.” He phoned the show’s hot line and explained, quite seriously, that Elvis did it.
guy Clark, an eclectic Texas singer-songwriter often slotted in country, is haunted by two facts: Other folks (Ricky Skaggs, Vince Gill) have had bigger hits with his songs than he has, and he can never seem to escape the shadow of his marvelous first record, “Old No. 1,” now 22 years old. While that album was praised, if a bit lost, in the swell of outlaw country records from the middle ’70s, it now sounds wiser and more subtle than the era’s supposed masterpiece, Willie Nelson’s “Red Headed Stranger.” Consciously or not, Clark presents a cycle of songs about time and its displacements — of generations, relations, societies and more. Shifting from L.A. freeways to the remote plains of Texas, some characters move on gratefully, some yearn for the past, a few make all the moments flow together. “Keepers” is Clark’s only live album, and its core is still songs from “Old No. 1,” but it’s his first collection you might buy instead of that debut.
Clark has said silly things about the new recording, such as that it wouldn’t be “a big studio record,” as though intrusive producers had spoiled his early albums — his most “overproduced” ’70s records sound like field recordings next to, say, U2′s “Pop.” His true problem is that he writes very slowly, and since putting out a single every two or three years will not sustain a career, he has released bales of sketchy or maudlin filler tunes. That is not an issue with “Keepers.” All the material hangs tough, and with a relaxed yet spry quintet behind him (including dobro, accordion, and son Travis on bass and vocals), Clark can highlight his voice, richer with dry, dusty creaks than ever.
APRIL 19 has become one of the most feared dates on the American calendar. Special security precautions are thrown up around government buildings and federal law enforcement agents look nervously over their shoulders. For America’s burgeoning radical right, it is a date that will live in infamy. The bloody attack on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas, is, for them, proof positive that the government is their sworn enemy. They have sworn revenge.
Four years ago Saturday — April 19, 1993 — the compound of the Branch Davidians was burned to the ground, ending a 51-day standoff with
the FBI. About 80 people died, including children and women. Two years later, on April 19, 1995, in a twisted form of payback, the federal building in Oklahoma City was blown up. It was the worst single act of domestic political terrorism in American history. One of the accused, Timothy McVeigh, had visited Waco and has said how profoundly its destruction by government forces affected his political thinking.
Such feelings are not the sole property of the radical right. Congressional hearings two years ago were highly critical of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms — whose botched raid in which four ATF agents died spurred the standoff — and the FBI. A startling new documentary, which has been airing in selected cinemas since Feb. 28, raises even more disturbing questions. “Waco: Rules of Engagement” presents evidence, some of it from previously unpublicized government videotapes, suggesting that both the ATF and FBI have consistently lied about both their motivations and activities at Waco.
Salon spoke with the documentary’s executive producer and co-writer, Dan Gifford,
a former news reporter for CNN, ABC News and “The McNeil/Lehrer NewsHour.”
In some respects, your documentary confirms the worst suspicions of far-right conspiracy theorists. For example, among the conclusions you draw was that the action that led to the Waco disaster — the ATF’s initial raid on the Branch Davidians — was primarily a publicity stunt.
According to interviews we have with former ATF agents, yes. At the time, their appropriations were due to be debated in Congress. They had suffered a number of recent debacles, including Ruby Ridge [the Idaho cabin in which fugitive right-wing militia leader Randy Weaver's wife, Vikki, and 14-year-old son, Sammy, were killed by government snipers in 1992]. “60 Minutes” had done a couple of very negative stories on the ATF, concerning sexual discrimination and harassment and racial
discrimination. There was even talk of disbanding the agency.
So, they needed publicity.
Which is not unique. Government agencies do this. They traditionally pull some sort of publicity stunt before they go in for a hearing. It’s a turf
thing, a power thing.
The documentary also suggested the ATF perhaps
launched the raid even though there was no sign of unlawful resistance from the
Branch Davidians.
That’s the claim of the surviving Davidians.
There’s no way to determine that absolutely because, as the film points out,
all of the physical evidence that might enable you to come to a conclusion has disappeared. It’s been destroyed.
In particular, a door from the compound that was riddled
with bullet holes …
Yes. According to the ATF, the portion of the door which had the bullet holes in it was destroyed in the fire. The Branch Davidians say the holes were caused by bullets coming in, but now there’s no proof. The ATF had a tremendous number of
video cameras out there but many of the tapes are amazingly blank.
You’re saying basically that the ATF raid was unprovoked.
There’s no way to prove it. The physical evidence has all
been destroyed. But if the Branch Davidians had the kind of weaponry the government said it had, they would have blown away the entire ATF force. Jack Zimmermann,
a former Marine colonel with a lot of combat experience who is now a lawyer for the surviving Davidians, made that point; so did the local sheriff. On the audiotapes you hear
David Koresh claiming that he went down to the door and said,
“Hey, there’s women and children. Let’s talk about this,” and the ATF
started shooting at them.
And in the documentary you show how the chief of the ATF operation, who was negotiating with Koresh, lied about the weaponry the government had brought to bear.
First, he claimed that there were no guns on the government helicopters, then saying, well, there were no mounted guns.
That was Jim Cavanaugh. You saw him later testifying in Congress
in a gray suit. That’s one of the things that amazed us when we were putting together the documentary — catching them in lie after lie after lie.
What other lies stood out?
The story that the FBI was telling everyone about David Koresh
promising to come out five times. If you listen to the audiotapes, you can’t find these five times.
You might also remember that the FBI said the Branch Davidians’ home video would show them to be a bunch of wild-eyed, crazy people. What it showed was absolutely the
opposite.
But most people, whether they’ve seen the
documentary or not, would still say Koresh was a sociopath, obsessed with Armageddon and a final face-off with outside
forces …
That was the assumption of Alan Stone, the professor of law and psychiatry at Harvard (brought in by the government during the siege to analyze the mind-set of the
Branch Davidians). He says he found that was
not the case, that there were some very intelligent and learned people in there.
A religious expert said that what Koresh preached was fundamentally no different from
what you’d hear in any fundamental Baptist church or charismatic
church, this whole thing about the apocalypse, the focus on the
Book of Revelations, the Second Coming …
But weren’t there complaints from the neighbors about gun-related activities at the compound?
Well again, that was the story that was sold. We found — and the
local sheriff verified this — that one person once
thought he heard automatic weapon fire, but there was no proof that was anything illegal. People we interviewed said the
Branch Davidians minded their own business, they had good relations
with their neighbors, that one of them came over
to shoot guns with them. That’s not the way the Davidians have been
portrayed.
But there was the congressional testimony of Kiri
Jewell, who claimed she was sexually abused by Koresh.
The issue of child abuse is totally irrelevant to what happened. Neither the ATF nor FBI has the authority or jurisdiction to enforce state child abuse laws. The local sheriff we interviewed said a case had never
been made — that there wasn’t enough evidence. Some of the allegations
apparently came from former Davidians who had had a falling out with
Koresh and left.
Yet child abuse was the reason Janet Reno gave for giving
the go-ahead for the final assault.
Yes, that was the reason she gave. It was told to her by the
FBI, which was clearly looking for a way to find her hot
button so she would give the go-ahead.
You imply that just before the FBI went in there was the possibility that the situation could have been resolved.
The Davidians thought they had a deal, that Koresh would finish
writing his Seven Seals and then come out. The reason they thought that was not
only that they were told that by the negotiators, but that the FBI had sent in
typewriter ribbons and batteries, as if to say, “Stay there, finish your
writing …”
But, you say, what the FBI had in mind when they finally went in was at least partly revenge for the shootings of the four ATF agents.
I’d say revenge is a fairly apt word. Whenever a law enforcement officer is killed,
what happens? Other law enforcement agents all focus on the people who did it. There was a lot of testosterone outside the compound, a lot of shoving matches, virtual fistfights. Henry Ruth, one of three independent reviewers brought in by the Justice Department to report on what happened at Waco, said one of the most stunning things: that the raid was in large part meant to scare the public, and to seek retribution and to
enforce the morals of our society. What he called the “psyche of right
thinking.”
It’s unclear from the documentary whether you believe the FBI started the fires in the compound on purpose or whether they were just grossly negligent.
We have a former Houston fire chief saying the
building was like a pot-bellied stove, and, with the
aerosol gas the FBI threw in, it was bound to virtually explode. We did not say that the FBI deliberately started the fire. But, again, there was this repeated lying that they did not have any munitions that would start a fire. We have an expert maintaining that the FBI used gunfire or some sort of projectile on the building. They had flashback grenades. Those were clearly incendiary things. They start fires.
Then there’s that infrared tape in the documentary where you seem to see people
trying to leave the Davidian building being shot at by government
agents.
That’s very disturbing. I’ve no doubt the FBI will say something like, “That was lightning bugs or a reflection.”
The official explanation is that the Davidians who were shot had committed suicide.
Well, look at the video. Here’s all this automatic weapon fire
being poured into the building, and the FBI is saying they never
fired so much as a single shot.
