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.

BOOK REVIEW! NEW MUSICAL EXPRESS BOOK OF ROCK (a guide to rock in the seventies) 


Gotta kick myself for a lotta things that I didn't do during the seventies, and one of these things (besides not getting up the courage to try the Velvet Underground earlier. nor recognizing the utter 'tardoid brilliance of the Stooges upon first spin and somehow operating under the impression that all intelligent and cohesive rock 'n roll sprang from the font of Frank Zappa instead of Lou Reed) most definitely was not having the money or smarts to have winged a subscription to the NEW MUSICAL EXPRESS my way! Well, considering the extra cost us overseas readers hadda endure to get this British weekly sent here airmail 'n all I'm sure it wasn't like most kiddos'd've been able to afford it, but frankly if I were one of them New York upper-midclass suburban pampered brats with the money to afford not only a NME sub but one to CREEM 'n ROCK SCENE, I wouldn't've hadda put up with having to go to the library once every so often to scam the latest issue of ROLLING STONE like most poor folk hadda. Of course we all know that the minions at STONE had their heads up their expansive Whole World Catalog butts for way too long, but as you might have guessed sure as shit smells I wasn't that smart to realize it from the outset. If you really wanted a taste of what rock 'n roll was supposed to be (as a teenage source of high energy thrills and expression) it was NME all the way.

True that paper, along with every once-viable source for high energy jamz, eventually sunk into the grasps of eighties self-conscious political piousness (as could be judged by the reams of poems and cartoons sent in by readers who mourned the death of Lennon with a snide anti-Amerigan sneer on their faces and jumped heavily onto the no cruise missiles bandwagon which in retrospect just looked as hippie as all of the rest of the New Left ventures over there), but in its prime NME delivered the total eruption no holds barred goods. Great writing, great writers (led by Nick Kent, Charles Shaar Murray, Mick Farren and even Lester Bangs) and a great attitude that seemed to have favored the high energy and smart new bubbling under trends could be found in each and every issue. While chief competitor MELODY MAKER was concentrating on the budding progressive rock market and looking upon the growing punk populace with ever-increasing bewilderment NME had the bared-wire underground intensity all summed up as if each and every reader couldn't've seen the onslaught coming for at least a good five years! Frankly I don't even think Chris Welch and his minions knew what hit 'em, but throughout the seventies NME was on top of the game not only with their bright stable and outside-the-hype suspicion, but with their snide attitude and cult of energy stylizings which really set them apart from the competition. Heck, Cliff Richard wouldn't even allow a copy of it into his abode, and that was something Nick Kent wore as a badge of honor!

The various NME book collections that feature some of the better moments of the paper's then-recent writings are definitely worth owning (especially with the way newsprint yellows and crackles and all that), and no self-respecting rock 'n roll library should be without 'em. The same goes for this 'un, a rock encyclopedia so to speak that was made by collecting the weekly inserts from the paper and puttin' 'em together inside a glossy full color cover. I think this eventually came out as a legit slick book inna early-eighties, but this 1973 timepiece is just the thing for doofoids like myself who really coulda used such booty back inna day but were too poor or too ignorant to find out!

Nice effort, and of course all my faves like Kent, Murray and maybe even future Generation X manager/WHO PUT THE BOMP cartoonist Jonh Ingham have contributed even if their particular writings weren't credited. Well, I'm sure you can sense out who wrote what without much guesswork, especially if you're aware that Shaar and Kent were the "punk" cheerleaders and the likes of Roy Carr concentrated on the fifties aspects of the quest!  And considering how this "encyclopedia" came out during a time which I would call "transitional" (post-sixties rebellion/pre-seventies underground upheaval) it is important in its own right as a gauge as to where rock 'n roll stood at a time when there was plenty of innovation, yet the forces of dull were more'n bound to overtake the landscape and act as self-appointed "spokesmen for a generation" for kidz who were either too stoned or too wired to know or care.

Some interesting listings here...por ejemplo the term "punk rock" was still being used to describe the mid-sixties Amerigan local acts who were or most likely weren't having hits local or otherwise. I was hoping that whoever wrote that entry would have included some then-recent examples of the form if only to spur me onto finding some heretofore lost item but that was for naught. Not so strangely enough, the entry on the Stooges once again brings up that quote about Iggy being "the Robert Johnson of Heavy Metal" which goes to show you that the definite battle lines between musics that seemed the same on some levels yet polar opposites on others haven't been drawn yet. And even more curiouser is the Alice Cooper entry which mentions how their first two albums didn't do "anything to distinguish them from countless other dull and crude garage bands" making me wonder exactly which other groups the writer was thinking about (as you can tell, I am one of the few people who enjoy those early albums!).

As far as the "underground" portion of the book goes this is about as far as it gets (even the Velvet Underground entry is totally lacking in the descriptive verve [!] that say, the Lillian Roxon entry in her own book had). Naturally the rest seems to fall into typical early-seventies place (at least the John Cale entry brings up the use of "the possibilities inherent in noise and monotony" which made up an important part of the early-Velvets style). Most entries fall into standard rock history (meaning, you've known about it before and probably wouldn't want to know about it again), though thankfully the writing steers far away from the weepy and stuck-on-itself narcissism that had overcome way too much "youth culture" writing of the day. So it ain't like you're gonna gag on the usual "we're so persecuted" moanings of upper class armchair revolutionaries when you read it, and thankfully the people who compiled this knew enough to just stick to the facts and don't let any of the rhetoric get in the way.

And perhaps it was nothing special when compared to some of the other rock as an "International Youth Language" bromides that were being pumped out at the time on both a pro and fanzine level, but next to what else was being pushed on us empty-brained peons regarding rock as a part of our lives (everything from gulcheral screeds to weird treatises tracing the early-seventies peace music movement back to "Get a Job"!) this book does rank alongside the better entries in your personal rock 'n roll library. Sweet, smart, and to the point even if the typical bigotries and strange dismissals of potent rockities do seem to creep in at times...

Hokay, one could nitpick about the usual errors (such as Stevie Wonder's real moniker being "Steveland", not "Steven" Judkins or Link Wray's birthday being '29 'stead of '30), but ya gotta remember that back then it wasn't like all of the truths and inner workings of rock 'n roll were being laid out in front of us like they are now. Of course even these days a whole lot remains buried, but as far as representing a good hunkin' portion of just where, what, who and why rock 'n roll was you couldn't say this book didn't try.