Ah yes...LOTSA hotcha stuff to talk about this weekend with loads of new items to gab about courtesy of not only Weasel Walter 'n the Sediment Club but, if you can believe it, my own sweat 'n toil! In fact, this particular post is SO important and SO crucial to the entire concept of blogging as it stands in the 21st century that I even postponed the "theme oriented" entry that I had planned to use until next week so you know today's traipse into the realm of klassy kultural kurmudgeonness' gonna be a real dipsy doodle! And rilly, if you don't believe with your entire heart, soul and perhaps a few gizzards that this week's offering is the art of blogging at it's apex, a once-unreachable goal finally conquered for all to peruse, then as Madonna once said you cannot be my friend!!!!

So much material both good 'n bad to babylon about that I hardly know where to start! However, I guess the best place to do just that would be by writing about something other than rock 'n roll, old moom pitchers, old tee-vee programs or the sausage sandwich I downed but a few hours ago. Something that many of your readers would consider downright innerlectual, like (as they used to say on LEAVE IT TO BEAVER) a li'l "current events." An in the news hot topic that's on the lips, tongues and perhaps even other body parts of Amerigans both here and abroad for all I know which cuts to the core the inner workings and being of the sociopolitical clime in which we all live. Something that's bound to make one angry and say that such topics should be verboten in a blog such as this as I tear away at the bulwarks of modern day thought processes in hopes of getting to the raw, unexpurgated truth behind the story at large.

Perhaps I should give my long and drawn out opinions regarding the war, the economy or maybe even a li'l bit onna prezzy-dential contest unraveling as we speak? Naw, if I gotta talk about something that'll draw in the readers, I better make it something real "hotcha" like about say...s-x! That always brings 'em in, though if you ask me the sexual matters that I am going to blab on about today ain't anything that's gonna get you all hot and bothered or make you do a banana stand...in fact this story's so CRINGE-Y that I wouldn't be surprised if your own cajoobies head back up into your ribcage while you read this. In fact, if said cajoobs rush back up so fast that they slam the back of your tonsils I wouldn't flinch a bit because this saga is like, that sick if rubbernecking automobile pile up entertaining.

What I'm talking about is that current "HHS Mandate" which directs all private health service providers inna US of Whoa to dish out for the benefit of their employees coverage for birth control of all sorts including aborficants and other heavy duty measures that are commonly used to make sure that the sucker that's popped up in some belly doesn't even get the chance to make it to the launching pad. As I'm sure at least a good 0.000001% of you readers would understand, more'n a few bizzez are aghast at the thought of going against their own moral credo as am I...after all, forcing people to act against their deeply held no compromise beliefs no matter what they may be is rather frightening unless said belief has something to do with eating your first born or measures that most people used to find morally abhorrent before the recent neo-Pagan movement made these distasteful practices mere "choices." (Yes, there is such a thing as being "beyond the pale.")  Dunno about you (not that I care), but I find that the modern day leftoids and fellow clinger-ons who'd cheerfully force a hospital to pay for their employees' BCP's and IUD's or have them shut their doors for good to be frightenly akin to the same kinda folk who would be all in favor of forcing an Amish man to shave his beard, pay taxes and join the army (hmmmm, those Amish do have something going for them!), or making sure that a teetotaling Christian downs a fifth of bourbon or having an Orthodox Jew cook up a mess o' pork chops for that matter. Disturbing to say the least, though pretty much what you would expect in a world where the government is doing its best to trump everything from the private sector to industry and your very own brain cells in a fashion that would have been bound to give Josef Stalin a stiffy on his death bed.

Never mind that the US Senate said nada to any opt outs (which really goes to show you which side of the, er, bun the democrats who voted for it like to be buttered), it's the recent Sandra Fluck (no sic) brouhaha that really gets my very own babymakers in a twist. So the House or Senate or whatever has a hearing, and so this gal w/no real prerequisites comes forward to say just how terrible life is because the Catholic University she is a grad student at (Georgetown) doesn't offer contraception in their health care coverage, and so she has a whole bunch of the bleeding hearts in her audience soaking up tears in their hankies as she's telling 'em just how much she needs her birth control and how her college should pay the bill no matter what the Jesuits who run it think! Nothing really new here, and in fact the incident seemed so planned and scripted out that I thought I saw the entire premise on a Movie of the Week a good thirty years ago. Heck, this poor distraught flower, as well as the entire student body it seems,  is so upset over her chosen university's policies that she can even see the doom and despair on the faces of the students just because they can't get their free goodies, and oh look just how much this contraception costs the gal (or how much Georgetown has to pay for it...I forget)...$3000, which makes me wonder where the mattress she must have strapped to her back was when she was testifying.

Of course the collected democratic faces were just as drawn out as all of those Georgetown students Fluck described, hearkening back to the Golden Age of Deeply Felt Heartbleeding that the likes of Phil Donahue excelled in back during the eighties. The depth of their sorrow reminded me of the '92 El Lay riots when Rodney King was trotted out in front of the cameras and did his "Can't we all just get along" routine, and naturally Peter Jennings was shown directly after obviously moved to have heard such an eloquent, heartfelt statement as this. I'll tell ya, it made me wanna go 'n put on a pair of Puerto Rican Fence Climbers and give Jennings a swift kick in his very own babymakers just so he could feel some real pain 'stead of play act at being such a humble piece of human specimen who thinks he knows the meaning of true inner turmoil way more than any of us brazen hoi polloi could attempt to!

Then adding perhaps a drop of fuel to the fire (though from the sound of the detractors it seemed as if an entire gallon was dumped) none other'n radio personality Rush Limbaugh did what anyone with a brain'd do...mainly point out the obvious and call out Fluck for what she is...a slut who sure is having a hard time hiding her loose ways behind her sickeningly sanctimonious demeanor. Frankly, the use of that particular descriptor didn't seem as horrid as what most exaulted (and honored for some strange reason) leftoid pundits whip up when talking about people outside their bubble, but wouldn't you know it was enough to get all of those typical mooshy touchy-feeley types all aghast to the point where Limbaugh did what no sane man should have and issued an apology albeit a rather tepid one*. Heck, I even broke my pledge not to listen to the guy again (I figured that Limbaugh would be laying off his attacks on the more paleo/libertarian elements in the political sphere at least for a short while) just to hear what he termed a "heartfelt" mea culpa, and while it all came off about as honest as the time Howard Stern got into trouble over that dead Mexican singer at least the famed commentator did make a few interesting points. I mean, perhaps he actually was "sorry" about the "slut" part even though I sincerely doubt it, but everything else did stand about Fluck 'n her crusade to turn Ameriga into something that bears no resemblance to the place it used to be back when most people realized that Fluck and her sexual/social liberation kind were nothing but communists without the scratchy beards. As for the women...

The question as to whether Fluck is a slut (which is pretty much a given considering the three grand she needs to spend on birth control!) or not really isn't the thing that gets my goat. I ain't her daddy, so I guess she can whore it up all over the place as much as her libido-driven heart so desires. Maybe she actually does the rough 'n tumble an average of five times a day even though with those looks I kinda doubt it unless she's hanging around the eye doctor's office looking for potential triumphs. But what galls me is that the woman attends a Catholic university solely because she wanted to stir up this bee's nest of an issue and crybabies about it in front of congress in order to make her point in front of one of the most controlling forces in our lives (and it ain't the church or the military or the old white men who run everything either...let's face it but the New Jackboot is a rainbow coalition!). Then she pouts like a li'l lamb because somebody called her a nasty name which maybe rates a four outta ten on the nastymeter but that's more'n enough for this li'l frail flower of a being to have to endure! Sheesh, it's so obvious that the entire affair was one big set up worthy of Rosa Parks being arrested because she sat at the front of the bus while getting the proper attention because she looked so nice and innocent...in case you didn't know the same fix was tried a few weeks earlier but bombed because the woman who the NAACP used for their test run wasn't as attractive and went wild on the cops while swearing up a storm! Just wouldn't look good inna papers, y'know...

It is kinda frightening that people like Fluck want people like me (I guess) to stay out of her bedroom (oooh. don't tempt me to dish out the comeback to that 'un I have cooked up!), but really, if obviously snooping types like myself are supposed to stay outta the gal's private affairs where and when she can display all of her knowledge copped from repeated readings of de Sade then why should anybody no matter what they think of the Margaret Sanger revolution eugenics and all have to subsidize her libertinism? As well as her medical bills, her public radio/television, art or local symphony orchestra for that matter? I mean, if you wanna pay for it outta your own deep pockets go ahead, but some of us are saving up as much as we can just in case we do make it to old age!

I guess that's the crux of my anger, the fact that this Fluck person and all of those naturally unattractive feminist types who don't happen to be shrub scouts want to bed jump as much as their well-traveled velvet caves can stand but they want other people to foot the contraception bill for their wanton desires! Of course they mask it all in other extraneous hoo-hah (such as Fluck's lez pal who needs The Pill for cysts on her ovaries). But once you get down (pardon the expression) to the bare facts it'a all about pleasure screwing, and how everybody's gotta chip in no matter how small the cost may be (do you part, Ameriga!).

Like I said, it may not be any business of mine if this "lady" (or even "woman" for that matter) goes flat out for every braying donkey in the entire barnyard or takes on the college football team Clara Bow fashion, but then again why does it have to be anyone's business to pay for her trolloping affairs whether its you, me, or any organization that might find a whiff of promiscuity downright evil! Or support someone else's sexual matters in or outside of wedlock especially if we'd just like to save a little cash for ourselves or (if you're Georgetown) for something I'm sure would benefit the campus and its clientele as a whole rather than for a hole. Even if you think sex is for something other'n making babies why pay for some coed's night out when you yourself remain at home feeling like Calvin Coolidge? The fact is that if Fluck wanted her pills and foams and whatnot bad enough she could just trek to a nearby pharmacy and buy about a year's supply for much less'n the $3000 she wants Georgetown to dish out for her!

Sheesh, I remember back when people considered Joan Baez such a brave person for withholding a portion of her taxes that were earmarked for the Vietnam War, but nowadays these exact same folk believe that a Catholic organization has the "moral duty" to dole out money against it's own will for something that they find downright reprehensible (and for good reason given the dystopian present created by the past forty years of wall-to-wall screwing). And if anyone dares to balk you can bet the rampaging media and their political butt brothers will be out in full force to make sure they do the bidding, or at least die in the process!

Yeah, you might think that my entire argument's nothing but a mask and that I want the world to return to those grand days back when the Comstock Laws were in full effect and birth control was about as hush hush a subject matter as dirty little comic books and clandestine screenings of Candy Barr films. Well, in many ways YOU'RE RIGHT! After all, did you ever see what women used to look like back then? Really hotcha stuff, like Louise Brooks and Colleen Moore 'n that gal who posed for "Figure in Motion". They were not only sleek and curvy, but feminine (remember that word???), fashionable unlike today's rather dumpy breed, and overall very boss-looking whether they were in or out of clothing. And not only that, but they didn't smell as if they forgot to change their rag for the past ten years or neglected to wipe for whatever pagan reason that comes into their obviously hormone-soaked beings. Nowadays most of the "women" I see are nothing but overweight ugly buglies who think they're so special because they're female to the point where they end up chasing their sons around the house with hedge clippers threatening to lop 'em like any proud feminist should! And even the ones who do look pretty decent ruin their bodies with tattoos and shiny doohickies all over makin' about as attractive as a pile of horse plop on a Northeast Ohio country road! Which only goes to prove that the end result of all this feminism really was nothing but the go-ahead for women who are unattractive either by choice or by nature to destroy in whatever fashion they so desire all of their enemies real or imagined, or at least stomp their feet and throw the biggest temper tantrums on the face of the earth until they get their way. Judy Hennsler would be proud.

The best thing about the whole concept of femininity and masculinity which has been dumped down the well so-to-speak was that most  females weren't sluts back then because virginity and good taste seemed to be a choice value, and if they were well...there always was that front door door for daddy to kick 'em out of right into the falling snow! To the credit of the generation of my parents, they continue to feel this way about loose women and the wolves who jump all over 'em, only they do their wretching in private just because they're concerned about their public image and don't feel like insulting people right to their faces. Fortunately I'm not as cautious about such things which is why my own poll ratings are down there somewhere with Brad Kohler's, not that any of us really care anymore...

But sheesh, don't you miss the good ol' fashioned concept of women as nice looking, sweet smelling, soft, feminine cheerful and real get along kinda people? None of that hard-edge women's libber stuff that's ruined everything about the relationship between masculinity and feminity these past thirtysome years and turned the sex act into something only for total pleasure gratification performed by two people who actually hate each other's guts! But hey, once you think about it these new women have the most effective birth control method built right into 'em, mainly their looks and their overactive persecution complexes!

Back to the matter at hand (mainly, forcing people who should know better into doling it out for your throb thrills)...frankly, I thought this particular piece was as extremely informative as it was funny. Not to mention "offensive" which is something that anybody who reads this blog with his inner child smothered to death knows needs to be heaved upon the current band of shot-calling compassionists. But then again I gotta say that I pretty much find myself in agreement with a whole load of what Jim Goad says in his usually insightful and analytic way even though ten years ago I wouldn't even go near the fella...funny how time can soften a person, eh?

Or, as a commentator on TAKI'S TOP DRAWER said regarding the entire affair, "If you want to make an upper-middle-class woman squeal in indignation, tell her she can't have something."

(Final note...after doing a li'l more reading I discovered that Fluck is also in favor of having Georgetown University pay for sex change operations, something which is a springboard for yet another one of my fly off the handle yet particularly potent screeds! I mean, talk about subject matter to be used as an offensive, in your puss [no, not that all yez gals!] excuse to rattle off a whole slew of witty remarks bound to get the charter members of "Compassion Incorporated" all bound up like a rubber band on a toy airplane!!! But then again, with real life the way it is these days who needs comedy writers?)

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Unlike Davy Jones' passing two weeks back, Ronnie Montrose's demise last Sunday certainly did not affect me even remotely in the same fashion as Jones' surprise departure did. Undoubtedly this is because whereas Jones was at least partially responsible for a slew of high-quality, energetic and fun records that still stand the test of time Montrose was just another one of those superflash seventies guitarists that all of the box boy burnout types liked because he could play "fast" even though his stylings had about all of the soul and depth of....of a box boy burnout if anything. As most of you already know, once craftsmanship and a "clean" sound replaced grit and unbridled energy as the hallmark of what makes "good rock" (not even talkin' "rock 'n' roll" which as I've mentioned many a time is a totally superior beast all together!) the entire mode and taste of the music mutated into a style that I'm sure none of us wanted anything to do with. Montrose was definitely part of the problem as to where rock took that wrong turn, and as we all know the corpse of that once mighty music continues to linger on. I mean, just tune in to some "classic rock" radio for a nice nostril-singeing example.

's funny, but the same breed of kids who went for technical proficiency and smooth, clean, tonal guitar solos (as a requirement for their musical well-being) over hard-edged atonal scree (and these battle lines were clearly drawn '79 at the latest) really weren't that much different than their parents who were hi-fi Mantovani freaks who still marveled at the way the sound moved from one stereo speaker to the next as Charlotte Pressler once remarked!  After all, both pop 'n son based their musical preferences on just how clean, smooth, pure, professional and copasetic the music was with their own vapid, over-emotional lifestyles, and if Lawrence Welk could satiate the oldsters with his sounds of security then Montrose was custom made for Junior and his oversexed  late-seventies bong-filled meaning. Makes me glad that I'm made of stronger bile to the point where I don't think I could have ever made it in life without hearing Lou Reed's guitar solo on "I Heard Her Call My Name",  a solo which remains the perfect antithesis to all of that Montrose monstrosity that's been cloggin' up the FM airwaves ever since the late-seventies and early-eighties when rock 'n roll music was certainly taking a beating! Hey Ghost of Montrose, if you happen to be reading this lemme tell you that your slick musical skills will not be missed here...after all Lydia Lunch could say a whole lot more with her guitar playing and like, how many lessons did she have???

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Well, I guess that closes out the intellectual portion of today's post! Here are but a few of the new items I've had the chance to listen to and digest this past week. Interesting choice of items if you ask me, and although all of 'em ain't exactly whatcha'd call primo BLOG TO COMM fodder at least I had a fun time listening to 'n describing these items for the massholes whom I assume are just begging to be enlightened by my obviously etapoint and (in these sorry times) unique proctorockical examinations. And hey, if you just can't screw your minds into the overtly hard-edged all-enveloping meaning of it all what else can I say but what were you expecting anyway, Robert Christgau (I hope not!)???

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David Buddin-CANTICLES FOR ELECTRONIC MUSIC CD (ugEXPLODE)

Taking a break from the usual free jazz/post-no wave music that the label is noted for, ugEXPLODE dive head first into the modern-day classical avant garde with this album of electronic music by South Carolinian composer David Buddin. Funny, I didn't know that there were still any more of these types of composers around, but then again I wouldn't know considering how I don't read chic publications like THE NEW YORKER which I supposed still cover this music in between writing screeds on which solution to the Everyday Workingman Problem is the best from their lofty viewpoint (with #3, "the showers",  taking a far and distant first place). Maybe I shouldn't hold that against Buddin, whose CANTICLES bring back memories as far and as distant as those fuzzy college radio station waves that used to deliver these kinds of experimental musings in between baroque organ recitals and some feminist type railing on about some crank listener mailing in a can of Nair which really got the ol' gal off her rocker!

Yeah, maybe I should disqualify myself with the same quickness and brevity that Bennett Cerf would because he knew who the Mystery Guest was after espying him in the hallway right before airtime, but I won't. As you might have guessed, I really haven't paid attention to any of these new classical things for ages other'n some random Terry Riley/Phillip Glass/Obscure Records spins o'er the past decade or so. And although many of you think I'm not qualified to prattle on about anything perhaps I'd better lay off writing about the New American Avant Garde Music or whatever it's being called these sorry times.

However, in the interest of cranking out at least a halfway decent review I will give it the ol' college try if only because I do not want to return my review copy of Weasel Walter. So here goes...in many ways this electronic album does recall some of the releases on Eno's label of yore (Michael Nyman?) with a few references of certain late-sixties experiments ("HPSCHD"?) and maybe even some serialism if I only knew what that word meant. Aleatory perhaps, though I have the feeling that it was all planned to peak perfection by Buddin and executed with the aid of pre-programmed synths sorta like an update on those Conlon Nancarrow piano rolls that took all the hard work outta performin' these things manually. The results are synthetic clusters of notes sounding as random as can possibly be which most people would tend to think the work of a madman or worse yet a pretentious college student jacking off with some electronic gear in the music lab. However with the proper liner notes explaining the whys, wherefores and procedure behind it all Buddin is justified, provided that a load of big 'n esoteric words unseen since the days of Geoffrey Chaucer are being used to explain the music as it exists to twitch the brains of more'n a few beret wearing souls. Wait...this release comes with no liners meaning that we, the listeners, are more or less left on our own to decipher the true meaning behind these "canticles"! I hope that doesn't mean Buddin's a fraud after all because if so there might be a few aficionados of the form who are about to bow their heads in abject shame! Awwww...go geddit!

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Sphex-"Time"/"Leaving This Crazy City 45 rpm; TWITCH EP (both on the Supreme Echo label, Canada)

It's pretty amazing exactly what some people will market as "proto-punk" in a deceptively vague way just so's they can soak unaware bunsnitches like myself outta a whole lotta hard-begged cash. Heck, even I can remember long ago when May Blitz were being touted as just that in some record auction flyer which caused an acquaintance of mine to gag phlegm worse'n Camille on her deathbed! It only goes to show you just how misused this particular term had become even in the eighties when punk history was being scrutinized after a good two or so decades of germination.

True, a lotta these recordings that are tagged as being the precursor to all of the hotcha and boss high energy wailings of the mid/late-seventies (mostly of a local variety which makes it even harder for astute types like me to check up on 'em) are worthy of your time and effort, but a good hunk are nothing but the same tired ol' boogie riffs copped from too many Humble Pie albums that were recorded by the same friz-headed guys you used to see sneaking into those horrid X-rated movies at the multiplex cinema. And dear brothers in armpit odor, these Canadian releases which too are being marketed as proto-punk gems are nothing but more of that standard local rock shuck 'n jive recorded by groups custom-made for the "More New Bands" section of ROCK SCENE along with all of those guys slapping Kiss makeup on their mugs in order to hide more'n their lack of insight!

Ontario's Sphex were just one of the many local groups that were poppin' up all over the place back in the mid-seventies, and frankly there's nothing much on this disc to separate 'em from the rest of the batch. Sphex seem like the typical suburban schmuck types who listened to way too much English prog and Amerigan metal and decided to slap together their own combination of the two, the results coming off way more Grand Funk 'n the Stooges for my tastes. It wasn't anything that I would deem totally offensive to the senses the way many similar aggregates of those times (and ours) were, but as far as creating that high energy sound that bowls one over upon first spin well, Sphex seem to miss the mark by at least ten Imperial Miles.

On the other hand Twitch, hailing all the way across the continent in Vancouver BC, earn some goody goody points for having evolved outta a mid-sixties act called the Invaders who were definitely influenced by the "Northwest Rock" groups such as the Sonics and Wailers that were creating a mighty ruckus directly south of 'em. However, by the time Twitch arrived on the local scene they'd devolved into the standard type of hard-rocking power trio complete with Kiss-styled makeup and a fog machine that was bound to draw in not only all of the local teenage kids to the clubs but maybe even a few lumberjacks looking for a good fight as well! Musically their thud chops matched their typically grotesque looks though I will say that side two of this EP featured not only a stunning folk-rocker of a 1965 West Coast variety but a track that started off as a straight ahead country number then roars into a hard rock take of the same. Bet that's something that woulda made the tough working guys happy, at least until it turned into a standard pounce rocker which was bound to get the chairs flyin' all over the place! It's nothing that makes me see any new light at the end of the tunnel of modern rock, but it's a nice change from the standard clod mentality that one has to put up with not only on the radio but elsewhere on this monstrosity we call the internet.

No addresses are listed on either release, though there is a Supreme Echo Facebook page that might give you some idea of where these can be picked up. Better yet, you can find copies on ebay easily enough before all of the sources dry up sometime in 2020. Well, at least you can if you're interested enough after reading this review (if ya ask me, the money you could spend on these can easily be put to better use searching out some more exciting and entertaining proto-punk excursions, many of which have been reviewed on this blog o'er the past eight years...just search us out with the above application and be taken to some write ups which really rave on about the raw and alive sounds that have been all but suppressed these sorry days!).

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The Sediment Club-TIME DECAY NOW  LP (Softspot Music)

Listening to this debut from the same buncha upstart "no wave" kiddies (the leader who is the son of none other'n ex-Voidoid Ivan Julian and Bush Tetra Laura Kennedy) was enough to send me back to the dark and dank days of the v. early eighties. A time when underground rock seemed to be standing at the junction of some mighty forky road in which the music as a whole could shatter into a myriad asst. of directions that bore little if any semblance to where said music stood at least a good five years earlier. The jerky rhythms, angry if youthful singing and general lack of a "professional" "cohesiveness" (please note the use of quotation marks) really was the hallmark of  many an "indie" release of the day, much of which was so self-conscious, self-indulgent and center-of-the-universe stultifyingly boring but occasionally could snap up a few sparks of brilliance. Not that I was particularly caring about any of it at the time because well, it just didn't have that sixties/seventies bop to it that seemed born of the Velvet Underground and fizzed out around the time Talking Heads turned into that white funk band that had about as much soul in it as Jan Garber!

If you liked the Sediment Club's debut 7-inch EP from 2010 you're bound to like this. In fact I spotted at least one repeat from that "eponymous" debut (I used quotations this time because I never use the word "eponymous" in everyday conversation and don't wanna come off like an effete!), mainly the track that sounds a whole lot like Ex-Blank-Ex's version of "No Nonsense" which of course piqued my ears up like Bugs Bunny's upon first spin that fateful spring day. Overall, TIME DECAY NOW is very reminiscent of some of the under-the-covers rock 'n roll that was being made in the v.-early eighties, a music that seemed to bridge the late-seventies underground avant garde (which was in effect the ultimate end point in the entire Velvets/Detroit/local garage/Lester Bangs undercurrent of Amerigan teenage living) and something newer, perhaps starker in vision and approach. Sparse, brittle, angular, jagged, and all of those other terms that had brainy college kids runnin' to their thesauruses looking up adequate adjective in order to pepper up their fanzine reviews, only with some movement and soul which was lacking in a good portion of the early-eighties "post rock" experiments. I'd say they're even better'n Julian's own mother's Bush Tetras which might sound like utter blasphemy to some of you readers who swallowed the eighties NEW YORK ROCKER rant hook line and Sting, but then again I'm sure a whole lot of you still wear your Stiff t-shirts and Ronald Reagan campaign badges upside down in proud defiance of "the man" and why should I burst any pre-conceived balloons around here anyway?

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SANDY EWEN, DAMON SMITH, WEASEL WALTER CD (ugEXPLODE, see David Buddin review above for link)

It's about time somebody released these recordings of Adam and Eve Link (from the I ROBOT/Eando Binder short stories featuring the infamous Sci-Fi metallic man and wife) having their first go at conjugal nuts 'n bolts bliss! In fact, I think the cover snap is one of Eve's very own synthetic hymen after Adam's metallic tool permeated it upon first thrust! All kidding aside, these improvisations between guitarist Sandy Ewen, bassist Damon Smith and drummer Weasel Walter do have a primal mechanical power to 'em that would conjure up images of copulating robots, something which I will admit makes for some pretty engaging soundscapades that I love to indulge in more often than not. Irrhythmic free sound with a penchant for high-pitched wails and squeals followed by quiet spells and percussive madness. If you still have all of those old Derek Bailey platters and guitar improv albums that Virgin issued in the mid-seventies (and even listen to them on scant occasion!) I think something like this would suit your listening parameters quite well.

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Tim Carroll- LOOK OUT! CD (Gulcher)

Comin' in just under the wire's this newie from the former faux-Gizmos singer/songwriter Tim Carroll, a talent who does a pretty neat job on this album of originals ranging from bar band brouhaha to neo-Lou Reed detachment. It's all rather seventies, almost like a solo album on the old Bar-B-Q label out of Carroll's own Bloomington Indiana haunts which showcased a whole slew of similar-minded musical talents who, like Carroll, unfortunately won't find any true reward at least in this lifetime. But even though I thought some of this tended to come a tad close to the Springsteenian/Mellencamp mid-Amerigan veg-out there were more'n a few moments that shone pure hard-edged heartland whomp, "When I Have You" being the best example I could find. A nice mix and match, nothing that's gonna end the world mind you, but living proof that all of this Americana rock 'n roll with roots stickin' out all over the place doesn't have to be cornball!

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Plan on runnin' the post that was slated for this week next Saturday, that is unless I come up with another ton of hotcha interesting platters to blab on about in my typically unbridled fashion. Who knows, maybe there will be some other sociopolitical combustion that's bound to have be dust off the podium once again if only to give you all what for! But really, I can only hope for such luck as that! _______________________________________________________________________
*After some thought, I figured that this portion of the story was very similar to the situation a good fortysome years back when none other than cartoonist and political pundit Al Capp brought up the matter that the likes of Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin were calling the members of the "establishment" every filthy, foul mouthed name in the book yet uttered pure indignation and were deeply offended when Spiro Agnew responded by calling these rabble-rousers "coarse"! But then again, one of the hallmarks of today's left-leaning establishment is that, as one rather ill-informed commentator said about none other than myself, "they can dish it out but they can't take it" which seems all the more truer as politically correct touchy-feelyisms overtake logic and reason in the discourse. Naturally New York socialites and earnest and angst-filled anti-capitalist protesters are not supposed to "take it" given their lofty status in the upper echelons of modern day sainthood, but the typical everyday grovelers and bottom feeders such as myself as well as the more traditional elements in our society are because of our lowly status on the ladder of sociopolitical enlightenment! So I guess that's why these modern day neo-Marxists masquerading as comedians can fly off whatever handles they feel like it under the banner of free expression yet when I call a spade a spade or a dyke a dyke or an ineffectual blogschpieler a felchmeister you better WATCH OUT FOR FLYING HEADS!!!!!!!!

As you might know, one of the better "fringe benefits" of being involved in the fanzine world is that, at least for a few lucky bastards out there, such publications have been pretty convenient stepping stones into the bright and lucrative world of professional creative expression. Or better yet, a nice fat paycheck since eating unsold fanzines can be rough on the digestion. Well, at least the fanzines of yore were a good place for goombahs just like you'n I to start out 'n work their not-always-rehashed ideas into something a li'l more cohesive before they headed out into the big bad world to make their mark in life. Jerry Siegel and Jerome Schuster did it with their early-thirties 'zine SCIENCE FICTION (which I guess wasn't as overworked a term in '33 as it would be a good three or so decades later), while a good portion of the comic book industry grew out of the burgeoning sci-fi and comic book fandom of the forties onward which must have been a dream come true for all of those overgrown adolescents who have been running the business for the past umpteen years. As far as the "rock journalism" industry went, the likes of such professionals as Don Waller, Sandy Pearlman and Lindsay Hutton got their starts in fanzines and hey, even some of the big boys like Lester Bangs and Richard Meltzer were more than willing to toss some of their work that was too outre for CREEM to a variety of low-budget outings that most certainly could have used the BIG NAME front cover come-on to pull in an extra few sales.

Sure, most of the people who wrote for and published fanzines remained stuck in neutral never making the indent they most certainly craved to do (present company included), but the few who were able to go places were smart enough to take their fanzine-level acumen and make a indelible mark at whatever they were doing, just as long as they whored out and did what the powers that be deemed as all nice puppets do. That's undoubtedly the reason why the professional rock critiquing scene of today's such a sucky endeavor next to what had transpired a good fortysome years back...after all, why do you think Jan Wenner sent his attack pooch Parke Puterbaugh to badmouth Lester Bangs as well as Bangs bio author Jim DeRogatis when the latter's Bangs bio hit the shelves (which I guess was the modern day equivalent of Henry VIII ordering his men to desecrate the resting place of Thomas a Becket)?  And why high energy rock, once the cornerstone of the business, was eventually held in utter contempt while squeaky-clean post-hippoid musings eventually ruled the airwaves!!!

But why should I keep crying over lost hopes and what-should-have-beens if only to pad these nauseating posts out even more? Today I'm gonna tell you about a complete run of fanzines that I just got my paws on...not the originals which would set me back a good bazillion dollars but some early-eighties reprints that I've been wanting to read for eons. Fanzines that I'm sure nobody cares about these days lest they are staunch comic historians or satire nuts, and I think there are a few of 'em out there in the sample BLOG TO COMM audience, huh?

Actually if it weren't for the fact that FOO was published by a teenbo Robert (soon to be "R") Crumb I don't think anybody woulda paid attention to this obvious post-Kurtzman fanzine one bit. Well, that is nobody other'n the few other miscreants doin' the lampooning fanzine bit which was heavily influenced by the comic book version of MAD and the various swipes and homages that had sprung up as the decade was careening towards the early-sixties space age upheaval of coolness. There were a number of others mind you such as JACK HIGH (which was the earliest showcase of Jay Lynch's work), ODD,  Jay Kinney's NOPE, THE FARCE OF FANDOM and who but you could forget FANDOM FUNNIES.  Latching onto these magazines can also get to be pricey once a rare copy gets put up for auction on ebay (I bid on copies of all at various times and usually got outpriced within the matter of a few hours), so maybe that's why I figured that I better grab up this ltd. ed. rerun before even that's gone for all eternity because as we all know, fanzines such as these are nothing but cheap imitations of the real thing, and in these budget-strapped times the cheap imitation usually takes precedence!

 

As you can see I reprinted the fancy schmancy sleeve which encased these FOO's, since underground impressario and satire fanzine editor in his own right (FANFARE) Marty Pahls' sleeve notes give you a good enough historical background w/o me having to pop my own two cents in. But as you can read with your own eyes (just click it for larger type!), there was a nice budding "underground" of MAD fans who were willing to give the lampooning game a try as well as a lotta networking goin' on via the trading of various wares 'n letters which I'm sure are also hitting the high-priced market these days. I would guess that FOO was typical of the lot from the obvious MAD comic book styled cover to the various inside gag jokes and ideas that were pilfered from that classic read. Well, at least the idea of paying homage to your influences in this fashion wasn't hackneyed like it would be by the seventies and eighties with EC cover swipes galore and of course (in the non-mainstream record world) all of the mock up covers and labels that eventually looked silly unless it was Norton Records doing the mocking natch!

Of course one of the bigger surprises one's gonna notice while thumbing through these fanzines is that it ain't Robert who was the wit and wisdom behind FOO, but his older brother Charles who created all three of the fanzine's cover drawings and whose artwork clearly outshines Robert's various submissions. Not that R doesn't do a pretty good job himself with his early sketchy style but Charles' work is more evocative of the various qualities that he is honoring as well as parodying. The guy also does a pretty heart-felt if fannish homage to the EC horror comics in issue #1's "Revenge", the story about a guy who hates his father so much he buries him alive, and although it's nothing that'll make ya wanna gag'r anything it still is a nice encapsulation of the entire EC spirit if only through the pen of a teenage fanatic. And as far as noting and remembering a trend in comic books that's only been gone three years yet it might as well have been a million, I'd say that Charles did a rather noble job of it. Keen eyes will note a sly Jack Davis swipe on the fifth and final page of this downright unfunny saga that woulda been more in tune with one of the many EC drooling fanboy appreciations of the sixties, as if EC swiping wasn't anything new in comic fandom for the next forty or so years to come!.

R's contributions almost seem to be lighthearted in comparison with a lot of that fifties cool-thunk hipsterism that everybody from the likes of Stan Freberg, Steve Allen, Ernie Kovacs, Jean Shepard and of course Harvey Kurtzman himself used to wallow in. Maybe that sophisticado take on the do anything for a laugh schpiel didn't come off so hot a good decade later after Frank Zappa, Cheech and Chong  and ultimately Howard Stern copped that style and stretched it into areas once unthinkable, but back '58 way I'm sure there were more'n a few bedroom hipsters who probably wore glasses even thicker'n Crumb who thought themselves high-falutin' for osmosing these personalities' entire snatness. Ish #1's "Report From the Brussel's World's Fair" has a cartoon Crumb interviewing everybody from Bert and Harry Piels of oldtime animated beer commercial fame to getting involved in a food riot before finding a vendor selling hot dogs for two bucks apiece (which doesn't necessarily tend to make any big impression now, but in '58 the big controversy was when the price of dogs when up from a nickel to a dime!). Issue #2's "My Encounter With Dracula" once again has Crumb portraying himself as a ball (as in dance)-goer whose trip takes a rather strangeoid detour into the darker reaches. And #3's "Kruschev Visits US!!" and "Jack Webb's Noah's Ark" are remarkable for the fact that the former's a rather standard Cold War one-beat joke that woulda fit in just about any of the professional humor magazines that were cluttering up the newsstands at the time (and seems rather straight 'n narrow for a guy who would be doing class war drawings only a few years later) and the latter I have no idea as to what is being spoofed or how it fits into whatever Jack Webb was doing when this 'un hit the...er...streets.

The other contributors to FOO are what'cha'd call standard fanzine humorists who are mostly working in comedy levels so steeped in tired old gags and cliches that only I could laugh at their work. Mike Britt's "Bug Rogers" in ish one's a good example. David Landson's and W. Scully's contributions in # 3 are slightly clever, though you woulda thought they'd've sent their work to some higher circulation sci-fi fanmag where it most definitely'd fit in a whole lot better. But hey, what can I say other'n I really enjoyed the overall effort and results that went into these three issues, badgags, misfires and general obscurities aside. Efforts like this are engrossing even if the intended results seem to have strayed far beyond the intended target (which, as a former publisher/editor of a fanzine myself I can tell you is nothing outta the ordinary) and even if jokes fall flat or some snobbiod'd just look down upon the entire affair ("For an extra dime I can buy the REAL THING at the newsstand!") I can sure find a lot of worth and entertainment in these 'zines which might've floundered just a tad bit, but then again next to what I coulda done when we were their ages I think the results are marvelous!

Hope I don't get into any trouble reprinting the following story from the final issue which not only shows off more of brother Charles' developing style (this being long before he freaked out and became a "zen master" to rival Mr. Natural with the ability to swallow an electrical extension cord and defecate it w/o it getting all bunched up inside him) but of the style of humor the brothers were dabbling in during the time. The old TOM AND JERRY cartoons don't usually get the satirical treatment so let's just say this story, even with the weird twist it takes halfway through, is a welcome change from the usual comic strip/superhero lampooning seen in these fanzines. It's stories like this that go to show you just how fun and energetic those oft-loathed post-World War II/pre-hippie revolt days really were no matter how hard your usual sourpuss naysayer stamps his feet in abject protest before regaling you about the time he proudly took part in a tribal circumcision ritual while working for the Peace Corp in Burundi, and how he still has the scars to prove it (ouch!). So, as Jimi Hendrix said to Vin Scelsa in the men's room at the Fillmore East...dig it.

Yeah, not as much this week as I would have hoped. So what. I've been busy, and as Basil Fawlty once stated so long ago idle hands get in the way of the devil's work so you're lucky you get these li'l tidbits if anything at all. Besides real life sneaking up on me at an alarming rate, you could also chalk this zilchville post up to the lack of any real hotcha material headin' my way (heck, I'm already anticipating the next Rocket From The Tombs download 'n who knows how many years from now that'll happen!) as well as the hard-to-get-through-my-noggin FACT that rock 'n roll as that high energy all-encompassing music that we all know and love has more or less been underground since 1967 at the very latest. And as even a total dolt as George Carlin pointed out so long ago, "rock" is not the same as "rock 'n roll" which is probably the only point that a guy like he and a person such as I could agree on!

Davy Jones' death this past Wednesday did affect me as I'm sure it did a million saggy aged housewives, if only because his passing is yet one more reminder that we are all much older now than back when we were kids watching him on his own MONKEES tee-vee show not to mention his various seventies pop ups on everything from THE BRADY BUNCH to that disco-oriented series in the late-seventies that I remember reading about in the first issue of KICKS. And of course all of those Time Life "hits of the sixties" informercials where the makeup artists tried oh-so-valiantly to make this already sextagenarian former teen idol look at least slightly cute. Now I know how my parents felt back when I was a young 'un and all of their old timey favorites from Clark Gable to Rudy Vallee were dropping like flies, only my folks never would have considered the pop heroes of my youth to have been even slightly the caliber of their much adored Matinee and Singing Idols of yore. In fact, whenever they get the chance once in a blue moon they don't mind telling me so, kinda like the same way an uncle of mine actually told me that the Electric Eels were not going to stand the test of time the way the music of the forties had which I gotta admit is a statement that kinda/sorta makes me wanna do an Electric Eels vs. Kay Kyser...YOU Be The Judge article! Y'know, a piece where I can size up both acts on a wide range of issues from hair style (Dave E. vs. Ish Kabibble) to lyrics ("Spin Age Blasters" vs. "Three Little Fishies"). Really, the possibilities are endless...

However, the passing of Andrew Breitbart really didn't affect me at all, mainly because I surely do not pay attention to, let alone cozy up to what is passing for mainstream "The Thing That Used To Be Called Conservatism" (as blogger Mark Shea calls it) or anything remotely near the concept of it these days. You know my schpiel or at least think you do...but then again to many of you gathered readers who wear your radicalism oh so proudly on your berets and have the tendency to lump anybody you don't quite agree with into one big mass of ooze so why should I even bother explaining myself at all! And frankly, although he was a "conservative" 'n all (big deal!) Breitbart's views didn't quite go along with many of my own ideas regarding which direction this world of ours should be toddlin' off to at all which is probably the only reason I had been ignoring him for so long! Although we p'haps did cross paths on a few points here/there (but so do I 'n Bakunin!), that doesn't make him a friend as in the enemy of my enemy is my friend which always has been a load of hogwash! From where I stand EVERYBODY (except myself) is my enemy unless they dare to prove otherwise according to my own tastes and values!

I gotta 'fess up that I did read a rather detailed and heartfelt kinda obit which I caught on the always-worthy TAKI'S TOP DRAWER site written by Gavin McInnes, a guy whom I tend to loathe more often than not though he is a good source of stories regarding his visits to the Crass commune in Epping Forest. For the sake of Brietbart's memory, at least this piece made him out to be the sorta fellow who might have been sympatico with a few of my own pet peeves and general curmudgeoness regarding what we in grade school used to call "Current Events" but it didn't do anything to dispel my own feelings that this commentator was far too embedded into (once again, that thing that used to be called) the conservative mainstream. And like, whiy bother when there are too many people yammering from his corner of the ring who don't really seem at all that different from those who are yelling back from the other side, y'know???

Now, I gotta admit that Brietbart's major bowel movement on the grave of Teddy Kennedy right after that guy croaked was a welcome relief considering how too many people out there believe that we should say nada bad about the recently departed. That would be a nice gesture and shows compassion 'n all, though sometimes I relish the idea of doin' a li'l "corpse-kicking" when the time arrives! Perhaps this is because there are more'n a few people out there who certainly deserve such a rough and tumble send off, and if they didn't get it in life they most certainly do deserve it in death even if they're not gonna experience the humiliation face-to-face! In fact I am doing my darndest to stay healthy and happy long enough so I can engage in some MYSELF when the time is right, so if you're on the bad side of me and you're planning on doing the big exit any time soon be sure to keep your name outta the obit pages.

But yeah, I think ol' Teddy K. got some well-deserved beyond-the-grave noogies from Brietbart which as I said was a welcome relief from the solemn tone that surrounded his much anticipated demise. Just as (as we speak!) Brietbart's getting the heavy duty jeers on a variety of websites whose readers actually enjoy writing screeds about the mere thought of the guy getting sodomized by Adolf H. himself in the afterlife! Gotta admit that these sentiments are somewhat "typical" of the type of people who are popping outta the youth kultur these sorry times, though in many ways I find it strange that such opines would be spouted in the first place because those who are damning Brietbart to the place down there probably don't even believe in an afterlife to begin with*! Ah such sweet discourse, but given how the ever-encroaching even Newer Left than that New Left we hadda put up with back inna seventies is screeching and yammering even louder than ever I guess that rage of hate** that they spew is something that'll be with us for a long time t' come so we all better get used to it!

As for Brietbart, well even though I hardly knew ye, maybe you did have your worthiness about you somewhere. You were a hard-knuckled guy who could have been a big bastard if you wanted (as the McInnes article seemed to say twixt the lines), but having the likes of Michelle Bachman and John McCain eulogize you isn't exactly the way to endear yourself to someone as loathing of the entire idea of the modern post-Taft/Goldwater political deal as myself. Well, at least your passing made the media outlets...when personal fave (for all his faults, which weren't nearly as bad as some of the faults most leftist writers exude with a soul-searing passion!) Sam Francis died a good five or so years back NOBODY (not even the sole paper who ran his column but was forced to drop it because of that fag at Media Matters) dared breathe a word about it which is a fate that I could only pray happens to me when it's my turn to jump that great turnstile in the sky! But I doubt that will happen...us truly iconoclastic kamikazes wailing against the elitist snoot powers that be will either be vilified or, if extremely caustic, ignored and hopefully my own memory will undoubtedly fall into the latter category! Talk about sour luck on all counts, though I kinda get the feeling that after I pass on it ain't gonna be bothering me nohow!

I've been spending the week, twixt the drudgery and abject slavery of work that is, taking it easy-like watching THE ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN during my post-meal digestion hours (a luxury that I can afford at least until Daylight Savings Time kicks in and I'm more or less forced to do outside toil!). And although you probably already know but are too post-modern to admit it, SUPERMAN sure continues to work wonders with its smooth and spiritual ambiance that most definitely makes for some great settle-down-and-enjoy-yourself viewing that I just can't get outta BECKER reruns (which usually blast forth from the tee-vee room during the early evening hrs., not that I ever care to sit in with the fambly and watch it!). But REALLY, can you get any more "meaningful" than SUPERMAN, a series which drives a spike right into my very soul (and presumably yours, that is if you HAVE a soul [sometimes I doubt it!]) long after the last episode was cranked out during a time when most of us, or even most of our parents, were just a gleam in some eyes during a boring Friday night when there was nothing else to do?

Now that I own the entire series thanks to the current recession making Dee-Vee-Dee's a rather afforable affair, I can mix 'n match 'em and watch whatever episode I feel like just like when I was catching this series back inna mid/late-seventies when channel 33 would do the exact same thing for reasons only known to them. And man, do these episodes bring back the hidden memories in my cranium, not only of when this was airing weekends at noon back inna seventies but when I was a mere first grader'n 33 slapped 'em on weekday afternoons at five! And, to stretch my memory banks even further, I can barely recall when channel 21 was runnin' these during the early Saturday afternoon hours and since I was but a mere THREE at the time you can tell that my brain matter's definitely filled with idle flotsam such as this 'stead of the basic skills that are needed to survive in such a stress-filled, fast-paced world as the one we all live in!

Naturally it's been a real joy watching all of these episodes that I haven't seen in over thirtysome years (or perhaps sooner than that when I'd "invite myself" over to my cousins' place because they could pick up the distant independent stations on their sets whereas I couldn't). Of course re-watching various favorites really did send that tingle through my psychic whatziz that really jetted me back to my youth, or at least the good aspects of those days when I wasn't being bugged by my elders and could just vegetate in front of the boob tube with a dish of not-so-stale doritos and glass of kool-ade. Maybe it's because we're so jaded and ideas such as virtue have been reduced to cutesy-gootch Sunday School bromides that this show is resonating with me the way it is...after all, it's sure great seeing protagonists who come off likable 'stead of so squeaky clean you'd hope that the badskis'd off 'em before Superman could arrive, as well as a superhero who ain't a bundle of neuroses and nerves who acts like such a kvetch that you kinda hope that Doctor Octopus or Sphinc-Tor would get the best of 'im because at least those villains seem like thoroughly developed, reasoning beings!

After watching these SUPERMANs and digesting 'em all with all of those years of hindsight fully in place, my obviously matured mind must admit that my all-time favorite of the batch remains season four's "The Wedding of Superman"! I mean it, if not only because this one was a change of pace from the usual slam-bam episodes but because I really can empathize with the pangs of unrequited love that Noel Neill (who I gotta say remains my favorite Lois tee-vee or otherwise if only because Phyllis Coates was just too scary) has for our hero! I've often wondered why Superman never really gave Lois the time of day, and don't give me that jive about him being married to crimefighting either! The guy's either too cheap, or maybe (and I've thought this for years) he's afraid to conjugate with Lois because maybe there's something else about him that's faster than a speeding bullet! Ka-PWEENG!!!! That closing scene where Lois rejects the mystery box of flowers really gets to me here (thump chest at breadbasket for full effect), and while you're at it don't miss none other'n Ed Wood galpal Delores Fuller as Lois' beautician who gets all googly eyed when Lois introduces her to that superpowered fiancee who's been stringing her along all these years!

Hokay, enough of this chatter (or is it prattle, can't' decide which is the right world to use in this sitchy-ashin)...here za reviews!

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The Blackwood Apology-HOUSE OF LEATHER CD-R burn (originally released on Fontana)


When inspiration (and a particular platter to peruse) fails, there's always some bottom of the stack Bill Shute burn handy to break the monotony. And as far as monotony breakers go this 'un was a real surprise. If you think alla them mid-sixties NUGGETS bands either hung up their guitars and entered the real world or tuned  in, turned on and dropped acid until their brains were so fried they saw God in every shuckster hype to come down the line you are wrong, because as this particular burn proves the garage revolution of the middle portion of that controversial decade didn't exactly die out but manifested itself in new, different, and some might say even gnarlier forms that probably had about as much to do with the love generation as the Huffington Post has to do with the ways and traditions of ethnic suburban blue collar workers.

You heard it (of course!) in the music of the MC5, Stooges and the late-sixties Detroit hard rock scene which was obviously birthed from mid-sixties experimentation, not to mention the likes of Black Pearl who were fortunate enough to have two ex-Barbarians in their white blues scuzz ranks. And you certainly can hear it in this 1969 "concept album" about the Civil War which was performed by a group that actually features half of the all-important Castaways in their ranks, and that's not even counting the "special guest" who was also a former member of that class act! Y'know who I'm talking about, those one and onlys whose 1965 hit "Liar Liar" proved that ONLY IN AMERIGA can a buncha fifteen-year-old losers make good on the national record charts with their simple, primitive and totally uncouth music that would eventually shock the same sophisticado rock snobs who were initially drawn to these sounds back when they "didn't know better." Nowadays these same kids have no other choice than to blast the heads off their tormentors with a shotgun, which only goes to show you just how much we've devolved since those rather halcyon times that too many "above it all" wags out there hate because back then people were "nasty" to gays.

As far as concept albums go at least the Blackwood Apology did a pretty snat one that doesn't sound like a collection of pretentious Beatle swipes no matter how good  the swipes may be. Naw, these tracks sound like non-pretentious Beatle swipes with a few good SF and midwestern references tossed in for good measure. Psychedelic rock that doesn't dive too hard into the more tiresome aspects of the quest filtered through the entire late-sixties punk attitude resulting in a platter that coulda been sold for $40 on Shadocks but can be found easily enough by just doing a little computer dialing. And even if the concept theme is not as clear to you as it should be (let's just say don't use it as a source for any history term papers you might be doin') hearing these ex-Castaways singing about the South to the strains of "Dixie" sure is a lot more digestible'n most of the other concept platters that had been coming out in the wake of Sarge Pepper. Another one to add to your sixties garage files which continue to expand and surprise even a good fortysome years after it all came tumbling down!

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The Meat Puppets-HUEVOS CD (MVD audio)

Yeah, I know, this '87 Meat Puppets platter was the one that got all of their old fans madder'n Sammy Davis Jr. at a View Master demonstration, but for me it just shows ya what kinda of an expanding, all-enveloping kind of act that the Puppets were back when more'n a few groups were trying to "break out" of their hardcore beginnings. And while many other acts tried so hard to run away from their "punk" pasts as they could usually evolving into heavy metal acts just as tiresome as the entire idiom seemed in 1975 or (worse yet) art rock groups that proved that the only thing that the artist as he stands in society needed was a good scrubbing and perhaps delousing, the Pups showed us all that even with their late-sixties Grateful Dead licks and definitely non-trendo musings they were perhaps even more punk rock'n all of those precocious young souls and their overtly-sensitive worldsaving attitudes ever pretended to be! There's a definite late-sixties lilt to this that does hearken back to the early punk musings of a variety of acts, and the overtly psych elements don't make you wanna go 'n run for the safety of the nearest VFW either! As it was with the Deviants and Pink Fairies, the punkitide does make for a fantastic balance to fight off the Grateful Dead influence, or better yet both of 'em work in a nice yin/yang fashion keeping whatever excesses the other portion has in check! One of SST's last gasps of greatness during their long and sad decline before whimpering out with those jazz platters that I gotta say were neat enough nails on a coffin that perhaps shoulda been buried well before such snoozeroonies as the Alter Natives or that one Violent Femme solo album ever saw the light of day!

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Stardrive-INTERGALACTIC TROT CD; STARDRIVE CD (both available via Wounded Bird)

With the classic sixties/seventies archival digs gettin' even harder to find as the years roll on it's like well, a fella's just gotta take some chances. And yeah, at times I can gamble along with the rest even if the odds are stacked WAY against me, like when I'm on the prowl for some long-forgotten seventies sounds that just might somehow satiate my hunger for something new and exciting but more often than not tend to let me down lower'n when Kate Smith would take off her Maidenform bra.

Naturally there are many a hook regarding the worthiness of an act that might insert its sharp end into the flabby flesh of my mind. Maybe it's how said sounds tend to rate on the ever-popular underground rock scale if they rate at all, or whether or not there was some hotcha hubbub regarding said act that would make me want to give 'em a rather inexpensive try. Or perhaps if the recording star(s) in question played at Max's Kansas City or later on CBGB which many times can amount to a hill of beans given that not everyone who performed on those sacred stages was necessarily worthy of yours or my attention. But then again there's that slight possibility that said group/solo star woulda fills some sorta decadent quotient by merely setting foot within these places, so ya gotta take whatever aspects there might be regarding whatever hot lead you might discover via an old article or heresay and go on from there. Take yer chances as they say at the carny. And boy, have I been taking enough gambles on records to make Brad Kohler look like a piker!

This particular act called Stardrive seemed like a good 'un to try in my never-ending attempt to find some long-forgotten seventies jamz. Really, I thought this 'un'd suit me fine given the adventurous prospects of this group's two synthesizer-laden albums (performed on an early polyphonic synth created by group leader Robert Mason) as well as the fact that they appeared at the aforementioned Max's which like I said can mean nada here in 2012 but hard up me ain't gonna go to my grave w/o finding out first! I can't affort to pass up a possibly grimy underbelly rockism excursion along these lines no matter how lame or irrelevant said act will most undoubtedly be! I mean, I really was hoping that Stardrive coulda been a second Silver Apples just waiting to be (re)discovered, and if anybody was gonna be doin' any hefty rediscoverin' these days you know that the man would just hafta be none other'n memeME!!!!

So yeah, I plunk down some spare change for these relative recent reissues courtesy Wounded Bird Records and like well, settled back for what I hoped would've been an extreme experience in the realm of electronic rock 'n roll. Unfortunately both disques do disappoint quite a tad. Not that they're lousyville'r anything...in fact there are moments of pure addled electronic brilliance here that reminded me of what I'm sure some under-the-counter local En Why See group on the '75/'76 scene coulda whipped up, but if anything these platters just can't help but bring back memories of mid-seventies PBS programs such as AVIATION WEATHER and incidental music for roll-a-sage reclining chair commercials! Nothing I'd really wanna hear a steady diet of, but then again I gotta give these ozobs credit for flashing me back to my youthful dayze of discovery. Now all I need is a jar of Vasoline and an old ish of NEWSWEEK back when they'd sneek some bare juggined snaps of Brigette Bardot in their pages and of course a working lock on the bathroom door and the effect would be complete!

INTERGALACTIC TROT's got Michael Brecker on saxophones and session mainstay Steve Gadd on drums which sure ain't pointing at any startling epiphanies that I might have expected. The self-titled second 'un just features the standard synth/gtr/bs/drms getup and at least benefits from the lack of seventies careening sax lines that seemed to edge their way into just about everything during those late-Nixon times. And yeah, these recordings really do stimulate a seventies unconsciousness in me to the point where I'm sure they'll enhance my 1973 reading list just as well as when my sister's AM radio would blast Top 40 all over the place which sorta mingled with my own reading pleasures of the time. Tell ya what...I'm gonna get a stack of everything that was turning my beanie at the time extant and read it all while these two spinners do their thing, then I'll let you know their ultimate worth or not. Now lessee, where are all of those WEEKLY READERs I had stashed away anyhow...
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*I dunno if you agree with me or not, but don't you think that the comboxes of today where anybody from distraught housewives to far left activists to general trolls with a strong totalitarian bent are nothing but li'l soapboxes where even the most far-fetched and ridiculous comments can be made for all the world to read (and wretch at?). And, while we're at it, for all the world to take seriously as if the comments of a hit-and-sashay miscreant is supposed to hold any verifiable water in the first place. Given the tons of half-truths, distortions, outright lies and "personal" outlooks that one finds in most of the general comment sections, I get the strong feeling that these "sound off" segments have become the modern day equivalent of back when Phil Donahue would comb his audiences and some old bag, who usually had little if any information regarding whatever subject at hand was being discussed (or at the least had read a neato article the day before in some chi-chi uppercrust publication proudly adorning her coffee table) could make a statement that was to have been taken with just as much weight and as much credibility as some wizened college professor of military expert who's spent his entire life studying the field in which his expertise lies. Only now these proud proles don't have to wait for that microphone to be shoved in their faces for they can, with the mere peck of a keypad, make their ideas (and abject hatred) known to the entire world as if their ideas are to be given as much weight and credibility as those of people who know what they're talking about. A few of these comboxes do make for some excellent reading (you should see the replies Jim Goad gets on his various TAKI'S TOP DRAWER articles, some of which even make it past the censors!) but most of the time I feel as if I'm just osmosing the top of the head ire of some purely emotional and stunted heartbleed regarding whatever patented subjects might be up for discussion! Or worse yet, some Old Maid nut who still thinks that gramma was right when she said that alcohol was a truth serum (as one crotchety soul wrote a few years back!) which just made me wonder why the cops don't just get their suspects soused in order to accrue much needed information! If such an idea as this is the ultimate endgame in the farce of democracy, then we should have filled up the prisons (and built more!) long ago if only so we could all be free of these walking unwiped butts who seem to be cluttering up the world and "Occupy" camp outs these sorry times.

**Not that there's anything wrong with the concept of hate per se, but it sure seems strange to hear all of this off-the-handle vile venom (not that there's anything wrong with that as well!) being spewed from people whose claims to be so all-encompassing, inclusive, loving and so altruistic that they make Shirley Temple look like Spiro Agnew. Oh, but theirs is a highly conditional, selective love I guess which is why they may piss and moan about various groups who might get the raw end of history's cruel sword, but remain quiet or even support the brutal deeds and various assorted atrocities of the folk who are on their side of that Great Political Divide! Well, at least they're consistent in their own warped way!  

MOOM PITCHER REVIEW! SKIDOO (1968) STARRING JACKIE GLEASON!

First time I heard about this 'un was during a carpool ride back '78 way. Seems that this already decade-old film was playing at either some revival house or local porn palace "Midnight Movie", so in order to boost that all-umportant college kid attendance a particularly slimy commercial plugging said showing was airing on none other than the local top 40 outlet. From a good thirty-five years of brainfog, I most definitely recall this particular ad being one of the sleaziest and downright sickest things to have been allowed on the airwaves at least until the advent of birth control commercials...boy you could tell from the outset that the copy writers were trying hard overtime to make SKIDOO out as one of the most outrageous cinematic excursion extant since L'AGE D'OR, or perhaps even SALO with a little bitta ILSA, SHE WOLF OF THE SS tossed in for good measure! Still remember the snarling "hey kid, c'mere here!" tone of voice the announcer was using to reel us lumpen ignoramuses in, complete with the shocking revelations of a scene featuring co-star Groucho Marx smoking marijuana and of course that hoary old "Banned in 23 Countries!" come on that even David Peel got a whole lotta mileage outta! Not surprisingly, I recall similar ads being used around the same time for other revived cinematic excursions ranging from MYRA BRECKENRIDGE to that Sherlock Holmes film with the "quick Watson, the needle!" line...sheesh, I can't believe we were all that innocent to fall for such POOR WHITE TRASH PART TWO hype that promised the world but only gave us slight pseudo-innuendo and perhaps a gratuitous reference to VD!

After doing some research I decided that SKIDOO just hadda've been one of those typical late-sixties "Now Films" considering the lineup of stars from Jackie Gleason and Carol Channing on down mixed with the up 'n comers whose careers undoubtedly fizzled out soon afterwards. Naturally it wasn't like I was just champing at the bit to see it the way I've always wanted to catch a flick like say, THE BABY MAKER (which at least had Lois Lane herself Phyllis Coates and Beaver's Aunt Martha in it to hold yer attention). However, given the secrecy surrounding this feature as well as the utter pans and general unavailability (with director Otto Preminger's daughter sitting on the negatives for years on end) you gotta admit that curiousity got my cat's tongue!. And now that SKIDOO's finally available on disque well, you could say that at least one li'l cold case file in my gulcheral experience life has been closed though maybe I'm still trying to decide whether it was worth all of the time, trouble, wonderment and dishing out of hard to come by $$$ to find out.

But just how can one describe this film anyway other'n as an establishment freak out of the highest order? Trying to be one part "generation gap comedy" (think THE IMPOSSIBLE YEARS with an even more lascivious bent) and the other part mafia crime romp, SKIDOO stars Gleason as a retired mob torpedo who's not only living a respectable life running an automated car wash but is now married to none other than Carol Channing and coping with a typical curvy teenaged daughter played by some flash goin' by the name of Alexandra Hay. However, the sanctity of Gleason's new middle-class existence is shattered when none other'n a father and son team (Cesar Romaro and Frankie Avalon) show up at his digs to tell him that crime boss "God" (Groucho Marx complete with hair dyed worse than Jack Lord) wants Gleason to come out of retirement to rub out prison inmate Mickey Rooney before the guy blabs to a senate subcommittee. Gleason balks at returning to his old ways, though when he finds pal Arnold Stang stung so to speak his bulbousity decides to play along sneaking into prison in order to carry out the wicked deed.

As for the "youth market" portion of the film,  Gleason's daughter just happens to be an up-'n-sprouting hippie chick of the Gloria Stivic variety who hitches up with a '68 stock moom pitcher flower child played by John Phillip Law. This interesting subplot makes at least a small part of this flick an eerie precursor to ALL IN THE FAMILY with all of the proper components intact (Gleason as Archie, Channing as Edith...). With Gleason missing in prison, Channing opens her home to all of her daughter's hippie friends who proceed to "do their own thing" despite the objections of the local yokels who definitely want to keep their town nice 'n odor free.

The story gets a li'l more complicated from here, and since this ain't some late-seventies TIME magazine review which gives the entire film away I'll cease with any more detailed plot summaries in case you're just as puzzled about the whys of this 'un as I was. But as for my impressions of it...well, they're certainly a "mixed bag" as the Troggs woulda said. First off, it's kinda strange seeing a whole buncha these old H-wood hands acting in a moom such as this, especially when you consider that Jackie Gleason's one of the guys who was leading the charge against Jim Morrison's on-stage flasher incident a year after this was made. However in this film The Great One seems to be taking a kinder view to at least one of the Now Generation's favorite pastimes, mainly dropping acid. In the scene where he accidentally gets dosed with LSD, Gleason believe-it-or-not actually makes a subtle if perhaps effective case regarding the usage of psychedelics as a positive force for better mental health, which I guess is the reason why none other than Acid Guru himself Dr. Timothy Leary ended up endorsing this 'un! (See below for more.) And although I'm sure a good portion of your older relatives would probably relish viewing something along the lines of SKIDOO considering all of the old hands who've appeared in the thang, you know that if they actually were to give this 'un an eyefull they'd just mutter "what the hell was that all about anyway? Is this film pro-drugs??? Can't believe that! And how could a nice wopadago kid like Frankie Avalon be in this...oh the horror of it all!" Give it a try yourself...next time you go visit Uncle Ferd and Aunt Mabel take a copy along and offer to spin it for 'em! You'll see the look of anticipation turn into a swift kick inna ass right before your very eyes...and buttocks!

I like the mix 'n match myself, where the film on one hand looks like a typical sixties comedy that woulda got stuck on the CBS LATE MOVIE sometime inna early eighties yet comes off like a standard generation gap/brainy relevant film albeit not as strong a one as THE POOPIES NEXT DOOR, BILLY HACK or SOLDIER BLUE BALLS. But shocking enough in its own new morality way as were a great number of similar-minded films for the next four or so years that the folks in Hollywood for some reason thought we all wanted to see. A lot of SKIDOO is as ridiculous as you'd expect, though some parts such as the aforementioned Gleason LSD trip scene are about as "there" as the various acid trip experiences in all of those other late-sixties films you've endured lo these many years which might not be saying much, but frankly I'd rather watch Gleason tripping out than Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper anyday.

Of course considering some of the material that's juxtaposed in this 'un (the musical climax with Channing dressed like a pirate leading an army of hippies through God's boat being just one of 'em) you kinda wonder whether or not this was originally supposed to be a tender generation gap seriocomedy, only thanks to rewrites and editing it turned out to be something quite different. And if you're the type to ponder over something like this I guarantee you'll be doing plenty of head-scratching, especially during the escape scene where the entire prison clientele's tripping their brains out while Gleason and his cellmate (Austin Pendleton) make their grand escape via hot air balloon! Maybe you'll think (like I did) that the part where the prison guards manning the search lights (played by Fred Clark and Harry Nilsson, who also did those spright pop tunes on the soundtrack) hallucinate dancing trash cans comes off eerily like an outtake from 200 MOTELS that Frank Zappa had the good sense to leave on the cutting room floor, but then again maybe not.Well, I guess that an audience that would eat up the hipster hokum on LAUGH IN would've gobbled a scene like this hook line and flower power sinker, so let's just chalk it all up to period piece misfire!

As usual, I decided to pad this post out with the trailer for the film which features, besides Dr. Leary's endorsement, commentary by Sammy Davis Jr. who I guess just hadda be anywhere where the hip stuff was happenin'! Yeah, I know what you're thinking...just what was Leary on when he was watching this anyway? Well, frankly I think you already know the answer to that, but then again I think that the trailer's probably just as funnily terrible (but it's a fun terrible, and perhaps even terrible fun) as the film is, and worth it if only to see Leary and Sammy Davis Jr. juxtaposed with the likes of Peter Lawford, Fred Clark, Frankie Avalon, Burgess Meredith, Frank Gorshin, George Raft and Groucho Marx who were at least in the thing! If you make it through the following 2:19 having even a semblance of curiosity then you might just wanna dish out a few measlies for a copy of this 'un like I obviously did!

 

One final note of kultural significance that I should mention...as you can see by the poster that is reproduced on the left, SKIDOO originally earned the old MPAA "M" rating* when it first came out in 1968. This rating does seemed justified if only due to the at-times sexy nature of the film not to mention the scenes with actress "Luna" showing a good inch or two of her butt crack, the body paint that's been applied to quite a few nubile hippie chick juggins, the Green Bay Packers playing football buck nekkid and Frank Gorshin** uttering the oft-used yet verboten exclamation "God damn"...typical "M" stuff if I do say so myself. The odd thing however is that, after forty-four years SKIDOO is now rated "R" which really does stymie me since the only real bare boobs with clearly visible nipples one sees is on the pin up spotted in the tower guard scene (and way in the background at that) and the language does seem rather tame compared with the string of obscenities that can be heard in many multiplexes these sad 'n sorry times. I guess that the new rating downgrade (upgrade?) is in fact due to not just whatever femme body parts might be visible to young 'n tender eyes (which I guess were much sturdier when this film was made), but for SKIDOO's "drug content," something which I gotta say makes me wanna chortle and chuckle to no end considering how the drugs being used were certainly not being "glorified" but used totally for comedic effect. In fact, I consider the part where Gleason's cellmate doses the entire prison in order to facilitate an easy jailbreak to be a sly update on the ancient yet belly-shaking gag where uptight, usually strongly anti-alcohol types get stoned outta their gourds without knowing it! Yeah, I can see it now...some sick white liberal blue-haired old lady whose job it is to rate motion pictures just frowning up a storm thinking that a scene where Burgess Meredith and Peter Lawford are flying high is a danger to the youth at large..."we mustn't let our children see such...such dangerous and damaging frivolities, so this movie must be rated "R"!!!" Funny thing is, that ol' gal probably would not object to letting kids see something that's the equivalent of what they glom in any sex ed class these days which contain material that's probably graphic to the nth degree and more or less an enticement for kids to go out and scam some gamahootch themselves!

Frankly, sex in the modern age is a whole lot more dangerous 'n using the kind of LSD (extremely mellow!) that's being peddled these days so let's just say that once again we can all see just how skewered the collective consciousnesses of the New Moral Guardians can get when they' re left unchecked as usual! Yeah kids, whore it up all you want, but whatever you do, don't trip out!!! And while you're at it, don't tell me we're not living in the Bizarro World because I can see the cracks on all of your faces from way back here!!!

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*The "M" rating ("Recommended for MATURE audiences. Parental discretion advised") had been changed to "GP" ("General Patronage. All ages admitted")  in 1970 because many people were under the impression that ""M" films contained extremely strong material of a sexual and/or violent nature and that an "R" rating was in fact indicative of a milder movie for the whole family to see! Since most of the films of the day were getting "M"'s  it was decided that perhaps a new rating that didn't sound as strict would be less apt to scare of prospective patrons. So then came the "GP" (General patronage. All ages admitted") rating which nobody could differentiate from the standard "G" ("General audiences. All ages admitted") so kids, who were previously prohibited from going off to see those nasty "M" features, were now able to attend the screenings of such films as CAT O' NINE TAILS and RYAN'S DAUGHTER which even had a bitta bare titty in 'em (lucky kids!) and the parents never even knew! That's undoubtedly the reason why somebody at the MPAA finally had the brains to reverse the letters to "PG" ("Parental Guidance Suggested") in '72 thus giving folks at least a semblance of an idea as to what they were gonna be in store when they set foot inside a moom pitcher palace. I gotta say that I always did prefer the old "M" to those ratings that came after because...well, it sounded dirtier and like I could think of myself as being a cool tough guy by watching an "M" film 'stead of the goofy "G" stuff that people thought I should be watching lest my mind be corrupted by...well, whatever it is you see in "M" films that supposed to corrupt you!

**Gorshin, along with Romero and Meredith, were of course part of the BATMAN tee-vee ensemble which closed up shop shortly before SKIDOO went into production. Dunno how that would exactly play into the hands of fans of that particular series other'n as a strange coincidence, but it's a creepy enough of one to make note of even if it really means nothing to any of you regular blog tuner-inners.

NO IFS, ANDS, OR BUTTS ABOUT IT!


Yes, these are trying times where we all have to "stick it out", and with our assets having been exposed to some of the worst inflation in ages I guess we all have to put some of our usual frivolities behind us. Cut costs since the bottom has been falling out of most of our financial investments, and do with a little less until we can put the current recession in the posterior. As for me, I've been saving a few centavos by attempting to cut back on my grocery bill, like eating my burgers without the buns and there ain't gonna be any rump roasts around here for quite awhile! It's gonna be quite a few moons until I can afford that house I've always wanted with a southern exposure, though I guess that plan will undoubtedly have to be put on the back burner.

Perhaps that is why I am still all goshy-goo over these Care Packages that Bill Shute continues to send my way, for they at least help introduce me to new and (at times) hotcha/exciting sounds that I wouldn't be able to hear otherwise! And frankly, mentioning my old faves over and over again can get to be asinine. Even Brad Kohler thinks I'm milking a property for all its worth with my incessant title-droppings of old classics like Doug Snyder/Bob Thompson's DAILY DANCE and  LIVE AT CBGB'S over and over. The cheek of that guy.

So until I can work a li'l more money into my "entertainment allotment" it looks like it's gonna be these Bill Shute packages alla way, and while I most heartily await seeing my woes in the rear view mirror at least I have these burns and the like to keep me well 'n happy. So without further ado like well, here's the rest of the post!

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I guess that, considering how not only the fanzine that I used to crank out but perhaps this very blog is named after an infamous MC5 song which according to Chuck Eddy "doesn't exist,"  I should respectfully note the recent passing of that group's bass guitarist Michael Davis due to liver failure last week at the not-so-ripe old age of 68. Funny enough, if I had told some old fogy back in the late sixties that a member of a radical longhair rock 'n roll act like the Five would live well into his sixties I'd be more'n positive that this member of the silent majority would scoff at the idea, undoubtedly thinkin' that all of that partaking in drugs 'n an immoral lifestyle would most certainly off the guy before he could hit twenny-five! Funnily enough, many of those old fogies who used to sneer at the hippoids back then are still around and perhaps in some weird way think that Davis got just what was comin' to him even if it was over forty years later!!! Just goes to show you that some things just don't change, and you should be glad about it unless you're a dyed-inna-wood heartbleeder or lack the kinda sense of old-timey values that I most certainly adhere to!

As expected, the obit that I had glommed courtesy of Lindsay Hutton's THE NEXT BIG THING blogsite neglected to mention Davis' other groups, but considering how many outlets from AOL/Huffpost to CHRONICLES neglected to note Davis' death in any capacity maybe I should have been grateful that I got what I did. But yeah, Davis certainly was a major stalwart in that eternal rock 'n roll war against the jive, not only as the MC5's backbone between '65 and '72 but as the lead singer for the excellent post-Five avant rock aggregate Ascension (who've deserved the proper release treatment for nigh on thirtysome years!) as well as the bassist for Destroy All Monsters during their most active days. And just TRY to quiz me on the vast array of acts Davis had been with from the eighties on and you know that I'll flop worse'n a goldfish in a Roaring Twenties college student's belly...the only one that comes to mind off the bat's the one he had in Arizona with some former Giant Sand members and that's only because there was an interview with Davis (pix included!) which appeared is issue #23 (long gone!) of my aforementioned crudzine which came out sometime during the turn of the millennium.

Since there's probably a load of heart-rendering reminiscences and rheumy condolences elsewhere onna web I'll dispense with any hardcore emote for now. After all, it ain't like I actually knew the guy and the only "real" contact that we had was when he commented on a post regarding the identity of the drummer for the old Detroit group the Apostles who I spotted hanging around onstage with the Five in a photo reproduced on a picture sleeve (or at least it looked like him!). Taking the easy way out so-to-speak, I thought that I'd conclude this portion of our broadcast with the following clip of the MC5 (with Davis stage right in obv. SGT. PEPPER-inspired mustache and Nehru jacket) from Detroit television, the same clip that was oh-so-verboten to circulate a good twenny-five years back but now's so common that it pops up everywhere with alarming regularity! Even after all these years it remains a classic showcasing of the pre-LP Five avant rock sound if I do say so myself, and of course what better way to remember Davis than by watching this and listening to his records rather'n indulging in all that blah blah deeply-moving we miss you blubber sniff sniff crap that's not only so sickening, but in many ways so self-serving. You know the score, so do some private homage yerself and while yer at it lift a can of Pabst in his memory or something equally appropriate.

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The Sorrows-OLD SONGS, NEW SONGS double Cee-Dee burn (courtesy of Bill Shute)


The Sorrows...now weren't they that limey band that tried to make it big in dagoland where they recorded a number of songs inna Mama Mia tongue for the local fazools? And not only that, but one of their ex-members had a hit in England with "Indian Reservation" which of course Paul Revere and the Raiders did wonders with a few years later. Yeah, I remember readin' 'bout 'em in the British Invasion edition of WHO PUT THE BOMP was back when but considering my usual financial straits I never bothered to pick up any of their recordings. 's kinda like when Brad Kohler told me that he would buy reissues of old platters by the Poppees and Pezband if only there weren't all of those cee-gars and brews that were takin' up most of his entertainment allotment...as for me I probably woulda been buying Sorrows disques if there only weren't all of those speeding tickets and pork rinds that have been taking a big crunch outta my pittance of a pleasure allotment I let myself have each month!

That Bill Shute did send me a good selection of Sorrows material for me to sift through, and from what I could tell these guys were a rather capable if not quite hard-as-nails tough beat band. Of course they could've/should've been a whole lot gnarlier with the proper feedback drone applications of the day, but like a good portion of the European rock groups on the cusp they sure knew how to mix their beat and their psych to palatable effect.

The SORROWS IN ITALY portion is pleasant if standard Eurorock, where the freakbeat gets mixed up with what I'd call a tamed Kinks aesthetics and of course a few Eyetalian language numbers thrown in to wow the signoritas over there the same way  that "Sie Lieb Dietch and "Komm Und Holt Der Hand" had all the krauts burning their Horst Jankowski albums in defiance of national pride. A nice example of what was going on rock-wise not only in England but the continent during the time before the big progressive putsch got into effect (some references of which can be noted here if only by the appearance of two covers of Traffic's "Dear Mr. Fantasy" not forgetting the occasional sitar twang).

Platter #2's a mixed bag of early wop demos which display a good mix twixt the late-sixties freak familiar (as well as a cover of the Bee Gees' "New York Mining Disaster 1941" that goes to show you how pervasive the influence of those Australian twits were even this early in the game!) and the inner turmoil of whether or not to remain hotcha teen popsters or hard-nosed rock 'n' roll maniacs. The cover versions, Bee Gees and others, do show a much needed tension that was certainly slipping outta the Britpop scene at the time and who knows, if these guys had kept it up by '69 they might have given the late-sixties primal thud groups like the Deviants a run for their moolah!

Well, actually NO because the Sorrows actually lasted well into 1980 (not counting the recent reunion) and wouldn't ya know that their "original"  final gig is also included here. Mucho covers of the mid-sixties standards pop up which must've proven that these guys were more or less eking it out as a revival band, and although the set ain't as wowzer as I'd kinda've hoped it still woulda passed an audition for Stiff or maybe even Raw Records. Nothing to sneeze at and hey, many good groups went out way worse'n this. Perhaps you remember a few of 'em, like the Beatles and Rolling Stones...

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Various Artists-IMPRESSED 2 CD-R burn


I don't think it would be that insulting to the British readers of this blog when I say that the new UK jazz never did thrill me, or at least what I've heard of it never really impressed me the way I'm sure most people out there thought it would. Yeah, I can take the Soft Machine for what they were, and even the rest of those Canterbury groups did have some  interesting ideas about 'em. But for the most part this New English Jazz sounded just about as sterile and as non-chance-taking as a good portion of fluff that made up the entire MELODY MAKER reason for being back in the seventies, and next to what was being scribbled down in THE NEW MUSICAL EXPRESS and SOUNDS we all knew what a buncha pansies they were, eh?. (Just a cheap reference to my previous post...no offense inferred or intended.)

Not that playing it safe and cool and swiping from Amerigan reference points while making your own provincial statement with the sound ain't anything to be ashamed of. And frankly, I find that I can like even the most clunky or ill-placed imitations in their own way, which is why I sometimes find Fabian to have an entertaining quality about him. The artists on IMPRESSED 2 are kinda like that as well. I remember reading about a good portion of these acts way back inna late-seventies when I came across a book on the English jazz scene of the sixties and beyond, It seemed all so interesting to me, though other'n Harry Beckett and Barbara Donald little of what I heard in the interim was inspiring in that gotta have every recording extant obsessive/compulsive fashion that made up a good portion of my musical being.

Aww, it's OK, though far from the hard core of what most readers of this blog would consider the essential stuff that inspirations are built on. Much of it seems only a few steps removed from the likes of the Softs and their longhair brethren only without the more daring aspects. I guess most of you reg'lars'll wanna pass on it and I can't blame you, but since I'm so hard up I'll probably be spinnin' this for the next three hours straight...

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New York Art Quartet-35th REUNION CD-R burn, originally released on DIW Records in Japan)

Considering how I never play my NY Art Quartet album on ESP and believe Amiri Baraka to be a loudmouthed fanabla, it wasn't like I was exactly cherishing a spin of this '99 reunion show (with bassist Reggie Workman replacing Lewis Worrell). But wouldn't ya know these proceedings run on some might potent spark and flash I thought woulda been missing from these ever-aging musicians. Roswell Rudd never grabbed my gonads with his playing but he's outside the rim on this 'un, while John Tchicai proves that he is still one sixties survivor who continues to have just as much meaning with regard to this new thing (which ain't new anymore and comes off remains stuck in the mid-sixties, for which I cherish it all the more!) in the here and now as he did in the there and then. Of course Milford Graves remains just as thrillsome and as experimental as all get out (anybody out there have a tape of that CBGB Gallery gig with him banging alongside William Parker on bass and Peter Brotzmann on horns? Heard part of that one and thought it resonated like a session emanating from the bowels of hell, or at least from a fart-encrusted bedroom). And like, for once Baraka ain't gettin' into his sicko kill Jewboy riff either and in fact can prove that once he gets all of the goo goo muck outta the way he can sure be funnier'n even Moms Mabley! For example, take "Seek Light At Once" (please!) where not only does he rattle off a string of "poo poo pee pees" to harken back to your own toddlerhood but rants away with "The Sayings of Mantan Moreland" which had me rolling on the floor and chortling worse'n when Ed McMahon would over-react to Johnny Carson's various "Siss Boom Bah" and "Hat Full Of Ralph" gag lines! For the best merging of ESP-disk and Laff Records this one can't be beat!

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Denny King-EVIL WIND IS BLOWING CD-R burn (originally on Specialty)

Believe it or not, but sometimes these old white blues platters hit a certain clavicle in my body of musical karmic whooziz! Not only that, but at times these recordings don't come off like the skabby white trash pale imitation that I'm sure turned you off faster'n your mom used to do to the tee-vee when a feminine hygiene commercial'd come on. This Denny King guy's just one of 'em...yeah, you could just ignore him with your staid sense of pride intact, but strip away the prejudices and you too might be able to enjoy this obscuro (released on the same Specialty label that ripped Little Richard outta plenty cash)  that came and went before anyone noticed way back in the year of 1972.

King sounds a lot like early Beefheart on the tracks where he ain't sounding like some tb'd up Mississippian  bluesman with the cooties, and that would figure since his band consists of both Alex St. Claire and Doug Moon of Beefheart fame making this a must get for fans of the recently-deceased pilgrim. Most of the time the tone is straight early-blues period Beefheart which makes this an even tastier preposition for those scouring the depths of seventies strangitude. Naturally there isn't any of the inherent freakness that could be found in Beefheart's entire career, but King does it straight ahead enough that you don't exactly feel like filing this one next to your failed white guy blues jam experiments that were all the rage back in the late-sixties but sounded even sillier'n Maynard G. Krebs as soon as the seventies rolled in.

An undocumented surprise that I'm sure at least a few of you readers will want to discover on your own, despite the dated blippoid lettering that can be found on the front cover!

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The Devil Bat-FABULOUS SOUL CD-R (burned from a Sister Skull Rekkids release)

A newie from a group which also features a member of the boffo Texas Psychedelic rompers ST 37, an act I believe I reviewed a few times in my rather illustrious career! That mere fact should prove these gals' (and guys'???) pedigree is pretty high on the BLOG TO COMM scale, and not only that but the fact that this group's named after a pretty hotcha Bela Lugosi film has me paying a whole lot more attention'n if they were named "Love Story" or "Mercy Hummpe" for that matter. Lee Ann Cameron sings nice 'n sultry on these tracks that seem to borrow from a wide variety of psycho-sixties sources Texas and otherwise, while lead guitarist Lisa Cameron might have been channeling Stacy Sutherland from her lava lamp for all I know. And what's even better is that this group actually had the 'nads (!) to reshape the theme from THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN here 'n turn it into the next to last track entitled "Nothing Left To Say"! They did a pretty convincing job passing it off as their own, which I gotta say adds up to something if you're a sneaky kinda person like I am! As these recordings as well as those by such acts as the Tix and Plastic Idols would indicate, the soaring power of the Thirteenth Floor Elevators never did  escape the boundaries of the Texas! Try to seek it out, which in these times shouldn't be that hard to do (or so the guy tryin' to hook us up to internet keeps tellin' us).

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CASEY JONES AND THE GOVERNORS

It's amazing just how much the average "classic rock" doofus, who claims undying devotion to the mid-sixties rock scene and can tell you just about every Beatle story that he's copped outta fortysome years of ROLLING STONE all dripping with peace and love ginchy goodness, pretty much knows NADA about the music scene which the Beatles were part of nor the groups who were also doing their Liverpudlian darndest to make a dent. Yeah, I know that rock 'n roll ain't supposed to be just another version of history class...you know, "on which date did Mick Jagger develop his first herpes sore" or something equally odious, but if an entire generation of flower children claimed such a devotion to the fab four then why weren't they more interested in learning about the other acts who were frequenting the Cavern Club and creating a similarly-minded ruckus in the same clime and to the same clientele? I'll tell you why...them kids wuz spoiled ignoramuses!

This is a nice enough collection from Liverpool pals Casey Jones and the Governors, and if I do say so myself it sure sounds a whole lot better'n them Beatles ever were! Yeah, there was "more" to the Beatles, but it was mostly behind-the-scenes workings and Brian Epstein micromanagement that did it. Unfortunately acts like Casey and his Governors didn't have the big push beind 'em but that doesn't mean they weren't as hard-edged and as powerful as you'd expect any early-sixties rock 'n roll group to have been. Maybe if they wore love beads and technicolor mod jackets...

Thankfully they didn't which is why I sure have a whole lot more interest in these guy'n I do with the Beatles (especially during their latterdays when all they were wuz four solo acts who just pretended to work together). Of course that all will change after I spin some old Beatles bootleg I might chance upon in my collection, but as it stands at this very minute Casey Jones and the Governors are it!  And great buncha guys they is, real raver-uppers who not only romp through the standards of the day with mucho aplomb but even know how to re-arrange the classics to fit their own high energy levels. The results are just perfect for that one-man party you always seem to be holding in these ever-isolating times as the Governors rip through everything from "Lucille" to "Jack The Ripper" with a particularly ferocious attack. After listening to this you'll kinda wonder why it seemed as if the tamer English acts were the ones to get all of the attention while these wild ones kinda got pushed to the back of the burner so-to-speak.