Blues for the RedBoy presents: She's A Haunted Betty Boop!

Made this mix with my own two hands for a certain Sister who, at the time, was as blue as a robin’s egg. Hopefully it did the trick and lifted her outta her doldrums. With a little bit of re-purposing, I’m sending this out to all those peculiar chicks and the men who go gooey for their ghoulish antics. See, behind every man is a good woman (or, if you are a smooth operator, several), though one cannot necessarily guarantee that that woman is not holding a carving knife or a spool of piano wire. Face it fellas, these witches keep you on your toes, if not by virtue of the rope they got slung around your neck, then by that weird whammy they got workin’ day in/day out. There isn’t much we as hot-blooded beasts wouldn’t do for a shot at that cauldron they got bubblin' between their knees, but don’t be fooled fellas…you are not in control. You may think you got the upper hand, but you are just one muttered hex away form frog-city. Give a spin and celebrate these weird sisters, warts and all, but do it with a rosary on your lips and your back to the wall, lest you wind up in the soup (literally)

You Are My Girl – Three Stooges

I can only assume this is not thee Three Stooges, however, there may just be at least one self-styled ‘fake Shemp’ involved in the production and execution. Cool tune about the endearing qualities of a monstrously ugly fiend who moonlights as a card-carrying member of the fairer sex.

Miss Frankenstein – George Jackson

In keeping w/ a general theme of skin-deep scarification, here is a mystery tune from 62’ about a butta faced Philly who requires a pork chop be tied around her spindly neck to facilitated some doggy love. Featuring ex-members of Baltimore Maryland’s vocal sensation the Plants. It’ll grow on you (Get it!?)

Vampira - Bobby Bare

This 1958’ cut by Ohio C&W legend Bobby Bare (aka. All American Boy Billy Parsons) has made the rounds for awhile now, but as anybody from Jersey knows, there is somethin’ to be said for “Two inch nails, micro waist, w/ a pale white feline face...” Any self-deprecating ghoul w/ “Inclination eyebrows” is free to suck my…neck, any time. Released on Challenge records subsidiary ‘Jackpot Records’, today might just be your lucky day (Get it!?)

Tombstone # 9 – Murray Schaff

Wanna hear something’ weird? While scheduling this post I realized that this test pressing was cut 53 years ago today (Don't beleive me? Check the fine print). Coincidence…I think not! Perhaps it is an ill omen? The lesson at hand: don’t give in, fellas! Even though these womens got the hard sell and are willing to give out free samples, you may just wind up at the business end of a post hole digger. According to particulars this tune was slated for release on King records, though I have never come across a copy proper. Anyone?

Queen of Halloween – Bily Snel

Here’s an obscure two-sider (see later posting for the flip) outta NY state which has eluded most comp-cobblers for awhile. Most of the copies that turn up are new-old stock, so chances are these beauties have been living out their existence in a tradesman’s closet. Good thing I am not above accepting anonymous charity.


Draculena – Aaron McNeil

This 1964 soul styling is in the same sanguinary vein (pun intended) as the above mentioned Bobby Bare disc. Though of a decidedly later comportment, ‘Draculena’ throws a littler Voodoo into the mash w/ some Marie Laveau inspired femme fatality. Hell, I'd follow Draculena to her grave.

Headless Nightmare - Villagers

A weird folksy number from 63’ concerning an ex-girlfriend who earned her ‘post’ status by getting her noggin’ clipped off by a speeding train. As can be expected, such a death rarely results in eternal rest, and more often than not insures a white-clad specter swinging its missing extremity down the tracks for all eternity. Get some new shoes, Daddy. Step on it!


Witch Girl – Ron Walden

One of my current favorites, Witch Girl has been piloting her broom under my radar for some time now, though how that’s possible w/ such a trashy solo is beyond me. Say what you will, but the devil knows how to pick them, I just wish Ole' Slue-foot could furnish me with some more info on this killer track.

Vampires Ghost – Jimmy Bowers

Never trust the ghost of a vampire who “Plays Cards Like a Man” not only will you loose your shirt, but you are bound to loose your white-bread soul in the process, and there aint nothin’ a self-respecting vamp likes more that white bread soul w/ a little dab of mayo and a barrel pick - no garlic, please.

So there you have it folks. If’un you wanna get down to brass tacks w/ yer baby, just slide this mix in, get down on one hoof, take her by the tentacle and tell her you’d marry/murder her all over again. Remember, you can always buy cemetery plots by the pair, and there ain’t nothin’ deeper than his and her graves, dig?

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Blues for the RedBoy Presents: She’s a Haunted Betty Boop!

P.S. Stay wood kid, stay wood!

"It's A Little Round Thing All Covered w/ Fuzz. Best Damned Stuff That There Ever Was!"

Parental Advisory: Explicit Fuckin' Post.

Short of ‘Rotten Cocksucker's Ball’ by the Blenders and ‘Poontang’ by the Treiners, can you honestly name the last time you heard a golden age filthy-fuck R 'n' R tune that doesn't rely wholly on entendre to drive the point home? Me neither. Enter: 'The Record Connection' in Pennsyltucky.



Ya gotta love a record shop w/ an X-rated section. Even though you invariably find yourself elbow deep in Red Peters (Yuck Yuck Yuck), once in a blue moon you might just find a real-deal dirty ditty that backs up the swagger w/ the sound.

Are these (J.C & the Cavemen) the pervert responsible?

I snatched my first ‘Yo Yo’ incarnation at the above mentioned establishment, and as the Quartercash label infers, the artist obviously didn't feel the need to hang a name on this opus. As for the subsequent copy on 'Fun'...well, I don't remember where the hell I found that one, but I am almost positive that Boliver Shagnasty is not his Christian name. But who is this racist/misogynist mystery man? Subsequent editions turn up on the 'Trash' and 'Allstate' labels, w/ such nom de plumes as J.C & the Cavemen (Originally the Nighthawks featuring Scotty Moore) and Shagmar Bullnasty (obviously a distant cousin). Popular consensus names the pervert responsible as either Rusty York (of ‘Sugaree’ fame) or J.C. Raynor. Damned if I know...said the big red rooster to the little red hen.

Yo-Yo - Unknown

Yo-Yo - Boliver Shagnasty

Tapping That Thing - Unknown

Tapping That Thing - Boliver Shagnasty

Note: The liberal use of purple cocks, in keeping with this post’s bawdy nature, is in honor of Devil Dick, whose insistence that my use of Roosters is pretentious calls into question the very self-aggrandizing nature of blogging itself. Enjoy the cocks, dick! Get well soon brother.

Strong Enough to Make a Bald Man Raise A Head of Hair.

A couple o' weeks back I posted a story about a moonshiner named 'Popcorn' Sutton who offed himself rather than serve a jail term for what amounts to preserving an American folk-craft. The news struck a chord w/ me for several reasons. One is that moonshine, like a Kashan rug, or a Shaker chair, is a work of art - the ultimate expression (next to fiddle music) of the uniquely American hybrid which results from the commingling of Anglo Saxon and Scotch-Irish culture. Two, good 'shine', contrary to popular belief, is unsurpassed in it’s smoothness ( despite the rough finish) and, in keeping w/ popular consensus, has the ability to completely wreck your shit like the proverbial ‘Hesperus’. As Faulkner once said, "Between Scotch and nothin', I suppose I'd take Scotch. It's the nearest thing to good moonshine I can find." Third - and this is a wholly selfish reason - Moonshine happened to be the livelihood of one of my distant relatives, her rather peculiar history having shaped (for better or worse) the fortunes of my family in the mountains of Tennessee and the neighboring Clinch river valley.

Mahala 'Big Haley' Mullins was my Great (x4) aunt Gincie's oldest daughter, and as the Knoxville sentinel demonstrates, she had a distinction almost as peculiar as her livelihood:

'Big Haley' weighed around 500 pounds, give or take an exaggerated 100 pounds. Though her girth, thought to be the result of elephantiasis, was renowned, tonnage wasn't the thing that immortalized her in the hills. It was moonshine. She and her sons made the finest in the region. In the late 1800s thirsty Kentuckians, Virginians and North Carolinians came by horseback and wagon to haul off loads of Big Haley's best. She made apple brandy from the Northern Spy and Limber Twig, two of the tastiest apples ever produced in the dimpled highlands of Hancock. From the corn came a creation of molecular superiority, a supple elixir, which she either sold by the dipper from a wooden keg or by the jug.

There have been many fetching stories about Mahala Mullins, but there is one that surfaced recently that might be the best yarn of all. In the days of the Whisky Tree, near the ridge in Snake Hollow, if a person felt the need for some liquid stimulation, he would ride by the hollowed out beech tree, put in 50 cents and take out a jug. It was the whiskey honor system. Nobody would ever dream of taking more than what they paid for, or taking any of the money. If they had, they wouldn't have gotten to the end of Snake Hollow.'

Her reputation for fine spirits began to irritate local law enforcement authorities, and a number of federal agents. A new sheriff decided that he would make a quick name for himself and arrest Big Haley. He got a judge, who was familiar with and had sampled some of Big Haley's best to issue a warrant. The old judge smiled as he signed the official papers, handing them over to the new sheriff. 'Don't fail to bring her in,' he admonished the law officer. Armed with the warrant, the sheriff set out for Newman's Ridge. When he got to her log cabin, the sheriff went up to the door, knocked and went on in. He announced that he had a warrant for Big Haley's arrest and had come to take her in. At this point the sheriff discovered one intriguing fact; Big Haley was too big to get through the door. He measured her, measured the door and shook his head. When he returned to town he reported to the judge, 'She's catchable, but not fetchable.'

When she died, the problem arose about what to do about getting her body through the door. They sawed the legs off her bed, boxed it up, and it became her coffin. They opened a hole in the back wall of her chimney big enough to ease the coffin through the fireplace and then replaced the brickwork after the funeral."

Bless you cousin Hailey. I'd drink to you honor, but some assholes from Lancaster finished off my last jar of "Jumpsteady". As for this here record, it’s another no-name guy on another no name label, though he does manage to beautifully capture, with the brush of the fiddle and some shaped-note singing, the essence of a criminalized American pastime. I like to think the 'likker' they are extolling the virtues of might just have come from cousin Haley's stoneware jug. And that, my friends, makes me extremely thirsty.

North Carolina Hills - Fred Mach & Trio

P.S. Popcorn Says "Fuck You!"

Deja Vu

I had initially intended to post his cut on 03/13 (See: Jinx!), but I couldn't for the life of me find it amongst all the clutter. You see, my filing system is decidedly non-linear. Add to that all the incoming detritus and you begin to get the picture.

It's just as well that this cut and accompanying sleeve looks like it was steeped in swamp water, as this tune is so lazy that it brings to mind the summer heat and Wisteria tangles of it's native Arkansas.

Montie Hall (dubbed 'Little' Montie Hall by fellow performer 'Little' Jimmy Dickens) was a staple of the Louisiana Hayride and the Grand Ole' Opry in the late 50's. He was, in addition, a disc-jokey of some note and was at one time considered the youngest dee-jay in the south. He cut several sides for Arkansas' Jemm records, including 'Moonshine'. Incidentally, these sides were engineered by Gene Sullivan of 'Bob Lewis & the Texas Playboys' fame.

Far from stagnant (despite the stains), Little Montie Jones lays out a cool little crawler w/ some sharp guitar across the face of this 1960 Oklahoma City rag.

Black Cat's Chasin' Me - Montie Jones

The Highest in 'Fi'

Wow. Here's another one boasting the mysterious Bill Fay's peculiar brand of scarification.

Sounds like a cross between Lefty Frizzel's 'Long Black Veil' and Johnny Horton's 'When Its Springtime in Alaska' (So you know right there its gonna be upbeat). It's so reminiscent of the latter, in fact, that it might as well be Horton singin' the whole damned thing. One thing's for sure, it certainly is an impersonal tune. Kinda apathetic, no? Perfect soundtrack to watch the world slouch towards Bethlehem through the bottom of a cut-crystal glass (He types while doing just that).

Buddy Long, longtime Spring Valley Arizona native, got his start backing Duane Eddy on his debut single 'Soda Fountain Girl'. Long went on to work w/ Ray Odum, Waylon Jennings and Bob Fite and the Western Playboys.

Produced by Lee Hazelwood, you know 'Nothins' gotta be quality w/ Jody Reynold's home away from home, Demon records, givin' it the horned treatment and all. Endless sleep indeed.

It's Nothin' to Me - Buddy Long

Sooooo Wild!

Here's some bonafide Rock o' billy from northern New Jersey of all places. That might seem strange for a genre pursuant of cotton plants and medicine shows, but it would please you to remember that the Mason Dixon line actually passes through Jersey (Technically 'around'-albeit Southern Jersey.

To put it in perspective, we're kinda like Pennsylvania - Yankee by geography, Southern by affectation. Shit, we even got our own species of hillbilly (see: Piney).

Anyhoo, Boonton NJ's 'Castle' label featured such cool customers as the 'Southlanders' and 'Ray Arlo' of 'She's My Steady Date' fame (I'm sure Devil Dick will be getting to that disc sometime soon). Rounding out the trio of 'Castle' releases, 1959's 'So Wild' was written by the 'Pete' portion of 'Pete & Jimmy' otherwise known as Peter Navaez and subsequently published by R'n'R demi-god Alan Freed (And just who the hell are you to deny the Moondog?)

As if 'So Wild' weren't enough to pad a whole post, I've also included the sentimental flip 'Bye & Bye' for a solid twin-spin. Better get to it before the Pineys eat ya!

Don't make any sudden moves...just back away from the post slooowly...




So Wild - Pete & Jimmy w/ the Rhythm Knights

Bye & Bye - Pete & Jimmy w/ the Rhythm Knights

Lovin' Honey

Perhaps not what the 'Ohio Players' had in mind, Morris' 'Honey' first made the rounds on Abeline's own 'Edmoral' label before getting picked up by RCA subsidiary 'Vik' in 57' (Home of Mickey Baker & Sylvia Robinson among others).

'Edmoral' Records, later 'Winston' Records, was originally owned by country legend Slim Willet, '4 Star' recording artist and author of country standard "Don't Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes". Evidently he didn't heed his own advice, as Willet saw enough moxie in Gene Morris to release 'Honey' as well as two subsequent singles by Morris sans Pages ('I Need it' and the awesome 'I Craw Fished') , though none would prove as viable as this sweet little honeycomb enclosed.

Since I ain't got no copy on Morris ( A slight historical oversight, I'm sure) check out the straight jaw on Willet instead.

"Born Winston Lee Moore on Dec. 1, 1919 near Dublin, TX, Willet received a BA degree in journalism in 1949 from the Hardin-Simmons University in Abilene. Following a short stint in the aircraft industry, Willet began broadcasting on Abilene country station KRBC. He remained a popular DJ at the station until 1956. He used his popularity from the radio show to form his first band, the Hired Hands. In 1950 Willet released his first single "Tool Pusher From Snyder." Willet and the Hired Hands made regular appearances on The Big D Jamboree up until 1954 on WFAA in Dallas, as well as becoming as the Louisiana Hayride for four years beginning in 1951. In the early 50's, Willet released a few hit singles on the 4 Star label including "Red Rose," "No Love Song To You," and his biggest record "Don't Let the Stars Get In Your Eyes." By 1954, Willet set up his own label, Winston, releasing sporadic singles over a ten year period culminating with "You're the Only Woman," his final release in 1966. Slim was working full time at KCAD in Abilene, where he was part owner, until his death in 1966 from a heart attack. "

"There is no Bee w/o the sting; Cleverness consists of gathering the honey nevertheless"

Lovin' Honey - Gene Morris w/ the Pages

Gettin' Ready to Gooooo to the Grand Ole' Opry Show!

Been in a country state o' mind these past few weeks, due in no small part to the general cold and ever present greyness that is Mid-Atlantic December. Sorry to say, but we got a good ground-hogs shadow to go before the leghorns molt and a fresh stubble of 'Jack in the Pulpit break ground, so I'm inclined to keep this yodel blue for a bit longer.

Not quite sure how a Jersey boy got Georgia on his mind, but god bless Hub Reynolds and Somerville New Jersey's own WGW records for waxing this here cousin-humpin'country bopper.

I've been combing the quaint suburbs of Somerville for awhile now, half expecting to turn up more choice cuts on this local favorite of a record label, but as of this writing this is the only example to be found in the field, though specimens frequently show up online @ arm/leg prices.

Perhaps most famous for their release of the BFTG classic 'Love's a Fire' by the Werps (Horns and all), WGW has seen a lot of strange and noteworthy recordings come out of the surrounding sprawl, including such acts a UGE, the Apostles and Leather Apple (not that anyones ever heard of them).

Wish I could tell you more about this particular release, but with history so tight lipped about the comings and goings of WGW records, wishes just aren't horses today, but if they were, I'd hitch em' up and hit that Georgia farm.

Georgia Farm - Hub Reynolds

Two Days a Week - Hub Reynolds

In A Recession...

If you think its "the thought that counts" then you got another "Think" commin. Seriously though, if you are looking for some last minute gift ideas for this here RedBoy, keep in mind that I take a 42' length shirt, size 10' shoes, or, you could do a sight worse than rustling me up some more country cuts like the one enclosed.

Take a cracklin' cue from the 'haze' here, "Please be careful. Get there on time. Last minute shoppers must wait in line."

Last Minute Shopping - Eddie Hazelwood

Shot Four Times and Dy'in.

Ya know, it's just like a Oakie screw to give you a runnin' start and then shoot you in the back - Four times no less.

Well, that's still more accurate then the NYPD @ any rate.

Born 1929 in Eagletown, Ark, Bill Carter was a regular on KBOX outta Modesto before the rock and roll bug took a big bite outta the cowboy circuit. Perhaps best known for the insane cut 'Baby Brother', Carter proves here in this 61' 'Tennessee Two' inspired track that despite the the tug of progress, there is still a little somethin' to be said for the squelch of the train and a liberal application of .38 Long Colt provided that one does not find themselves in front of either.

"Bill Carter was a native of Eagleton, Arkansas, but his family moved to Broken Bow, Oklahoma when he was eight years old. In 1943, the Carter family, (who were a farming family) moved out west to California to the town of Idaho, which was where Bill got his start as a professional singer.

He got his first how over station KREO, where he performed until entering the U.S. Air Force in 1950. Even while in the service, he managed to keep up his singing while stationed in San Antonio, Texas.

1952 saw him transferred to a military base near the Bay area in northern California. There, he met up with folks such as Cottonseed Clark and Big Jim De Noon. When he was discharged in 1953, he had a recording contract with the 4 Star label. He also appeared a few times on Cottonseed Clark's television show called "The Hoffman Hayride".

Shot Four Times and Dy'in - Bill Carter

Side Dish

When it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, I am a compartmentalist. What I mean is I cannot allow certain side dishes to intermingle. Understand, it is not that I am specieist when it comes to my food, its just that I am particular (see: crazy) and will not stand for the sullying of an annual meal, especially one as momentous as that which celebrates our total victory over those evil buffalo-humping savages who so callously stole all our small-pox blankets. Under no circumstances can sweet potatoes commingle with mashed potatoes, and likewise interact with my grandmother's orange/carrot Jell-o (Its better than it sounds - trust me). Bread is cool - it pretty much keeps to itself unless it's services are enlisted in some form of dipping or sopping. Gravy is one of the exceptions to the rule, as it effortlessly traverses the side dish barrier (see: Bread), thus bringing corn, stuffing and potatoes together in a thick slurry of carbo-goodness. And then there are cranberries...

Cranberries hold as special place in the hearts of New Jerseyeans. Much like corn, eggplant and tomatoes, Cranberries are a crop which is quintessentially 'Jersey' in nature (Sorry middle America, but your corn sucks). After all, cranberries require the down home charm of a bog for cultivation, and what is New Jersey besides a loose confederation of criminal enterprises separated by vast stretches of swamp.

As such, we of the garden State take cranberries very seriously. Nary is there another side dish, neither fruit nor vegetable which required its own separate plate, less it's acidic goodness spoil so much soul-food. Should one fail to observe such ritual, they would surely find themselves cursed with pink potatoes (not to be confused with mashed turnips) or - worse yet - fruity gravy...and that my friends is the very definition of Cranberry blues.

Cranberry Blues - Robert Williams & the Groovers

The Ghost Song

With October in full western swing, were gonna throw some corn-pones into the cauldron in the guise of a little creepy ‘country’.

There is a consensus amongst wise-witchy-women (not to mention assorted mountain folk), that a little pinch o’ salt is just the ticket to ward off evil spirits, not that harp blower Floyd ‘Salty’ Holmes can be put off by such chicanery.

Take this 1954 cut in which a vengeful frog-throated spirit seeks to settle old scores w/ the man who “Shot his Great Grandpa”. Besides being an all round unconventional spooker, this side illicits a certain sentimentality in this RedBoy, as my own Great Grandfather was shot in a barbershop during a Fairland Oklahoma bank robbery back in the 1930’s, though he managed to tuff it out and stick to this side of the other side.

I have to admit, it saves me a lot of trouble havin’ to haunt the man responsible. I mean, I barely have the time to post, much less orchestrate revenge from beyond the grave. Good thing then that ole’ ‘Salty’ here tows the infernal line for all of us:

“Holmes was born in Glasgow, Kentucky. He became a virtuoso on the harmonica, specializing in the style known as "talking harp" which imitated the human voice (much like Sonny Terry). He also played the jug and guitar. He formed the group The Kentucky Ramblers in 1930, who changed their name to The Prairie Ramblers in 1933 and began broadcasting on Chicago radio station WLS with new vocalist Patsy Montana. They continued performing and recording under this name until 1952, playing country, hillbilly music, gospel, and pop songs. They were the backing group on Montana's platinum hit "I Want to Be a Cowboy's Sweetheart". Group members included Jack Taylor on bass, Chick Hurt on mandolin, and Alan Crocket and, later, Tex Atchison on fiddle. They made over 100 recordings between 1933 and 1940, including as session musicians.

While a member of the Prairie Ramblers, Holmes befriended Gene Autry, who invited him to Hollywood to star in westerns in 1936 and 1944; among the films Holmes appeared in are Arizona Days and Saddle Leather Law. In a scene of Arizona Days, Holmes plays two harmonicas using both his mouth and nose. The Prairie Ramblers also backed Autry on some of his recordings in the 1930s.”

It’s worth noting that Holmes was married to Sun records honey Gene Chapel (Welcome to the Club / I Won't be Rockin' Tonight) for a spell, whereby they made the ‘Opry’ rounds before callin’ it quits in the late fifties. Yet of all their collaborative efforts, nothing stands the test of time like a brassed-off spook.

Ghost Song – Salty Holmes

So Easy Even a Caveman Can Do It!

Well, how about them VRD posts huh? I just wanna take this opportunity to thank JB over at 'The Hits just Keep On Comin' for allotting me a little corner of internet sky to shop my wares. Looking forward to next years swarm.

Now. On to the filthy business at hand.

Several weeks back I began a string of posts who’s common thread had threatened to degenerate into a testosterone fueled orgy highlighting the indiscretions of the fouler of the sexes – namely me. While that was admittedly fine w/ the Devil (He is, after all, a ‘natural man’), I found it prudent to spare the ladies my boorish behavior - far be it from me to offend my female constituency (all two of em’). That said, despite my best efforts, I’m afraid this monster can no longer be contained as it is bursting out of the proverbial button fly as we speak.

In the spirit of scientific inquiry, I give you “I Was a Teenage Caveman”.

Not since Nervous Norvus first opined on the very nature of the Pterodactyl has a record so succinctly summed up the Darwinian plight of the caveman (Only ‘Be a Caveman’ by the Avengers comes close, and even that is way too accessible for consideration).

Most wet brains are familiar w/ this minimalistic masterstroke from the Monster Bop comp, brought to you by the fine people over at Buffalo Bop records (I can never remember if it is Horror Hop or Monster Bop. Sue Me!). Comps aside, I myself scoured for it’s like in the tar pits for what seemed like a Devonian age before finally striking flint several years ago w/ a dealer just this side of Connecticut; and then only to trip over a spare copy at a junk shop right outside of Winston-Salem North Carolina. First single at the top of the stack. Go Figure.

Anywhoo, it should come as no surprise that there is precious little ‘Know’ on Randy Luck, suffice to say that he was undoubtedly torn to peaces by a pack of cave-women w/ a bad case of Dormitory Syndrome upon first air-play. Seriously, you would figure a poet who’s immortal input includes the line “So I smacked her around and I laughed real loud!” would have left some kinda lingering trail, at least a Domestic Disturbance charge, but alas, not a trace remains of Ole’ Lucky save this here fossil.

I can say with some amount of certainty that this pre-historic Rockabilly offering originated in the swamps of Florida - as any throw-back rightly should - on the cusp of 58’. In addition, it is more than plausible to assume the title was a least partly inspired by American International Picture’s ‘Teenage Caveman’ – released the same year – but as for the songs low-key maliciousness, I can only sit back and ponder like I would the meaning of my own existence (i.e. A complete Fucking Mystery.)

The artists intent now lost to time – it sounds like it was recorded by a homeless person w/ a ukulele in the bottom of a mine shaft – I’m gonna have to defer to the record label for this one, the aptly named ‘Art’ being the only true arbiter by which one can hope to judge a song of such…quality?!?! At least its art as I understand the word.

I Was A Teenage Caveman – Randy Luck

Twelve O’clock – Randy Luck

A Starr is Born!

That 'Harlen County' cut below yonder has put me in a ole' hickory mood as of late, and what better reason to cut a corner piece of this-here Rockabilly classic!

The essence of rockabilly is so indicative of it's region, era and cultural factors, that it seems almost pointless to try and duplicate it's sneer and cock-sure posturing, not that plenty haven't tried. Seeing as how I never could get galvanized over a pale imitation when the genuine article is always ever just a spin away, marvel with me as Mr. Starr, a man who lived every cliche associated with being an Arkansas rube, beats the 'King' (God rest his soul) to the punch w/ this 1956 cut.

Born Franklin Delano Gulledge near Combs, Arkansas, in 1932, he grew up in dire poverty, and was never far from the edge of delinquency, going over the edge, according to scholar Wayne Russell, when he pulled a pistol on a teacher -- by 14, in 1947, he had left school and was riding the rails and living life as a hobo. According to those who knew him, Starr had one talent in those days beyond a knack for survival, and that was playing guitar, something he'd picked up in his abbreviated time at home and never forgotten. He was 17 when the Korean War exploded and he signed up; luckily for him, someone noticed his musical ability and he was assigned to special services rather than to a combat unit, where his fate might have been very different. He formed the Arkansas Plowboys from the ranks of fellow southerners and survived his two years in South Asia, coming out a little bit straighter in life than he'd gone in -- he still drank, sometimes to excess, but he tried regular work in a factory in Kansas before moving to California. There, he and his brothers Bob and Clark formed a new group, also christened the Arkansas Plowboys. Billing himself as Frank Starr, he played lead guitar in the band and soon so outstripped his siblings in skill and seriousness that he left them behind, musically and literally. He packed up for Texas, and in the early 1950's was scratching out a living around Denison for two dollars a night, working some of the worst roadhouses and shanty-town clubs in the state, catering to military personnel and anyone else brave enough to enter -- by some accounts, nights without barfights and flying beer bottles and chairs were rarer than those with. But he hung on and built a reputation for doing an exciting show and generating a hot rockabilly sound, and in 1955 he parlayed a spot on local radio into an audition for Joe M. Leonard Jr., of Lin and Kliff Records. Leonard was impressed enough to cut four sides with Starr, two of which, "Dig Them Squeaky Shoes" and "The Dirty Bird Song (You Can't Hardly Get Them No More)", become his debut single. Although neither his first nor his second singles were hits, Starr managed to get work on the same bills with the likes of Porter Wagoner and Grandpa Jones. He also occasionally wrote songs, including "Rockin' Reelin' Country Style." Then, in 1956, he was forced to change his name -- he and Leonard got word of a performer using the name Frank Starr working out of California, which led to the Arkansas-born singer changing his name to Andy Starr. Joe M. Leonard Jr. was unfazed by the momentary pause, and was prepared to continue recording his most promising rock & roll act. He got Andy Starr placed with MGM Records, which opened his national recording career with the best record of his whole life, "Rockin' Rollin' Stone", co-written by Starr, who also played lead guitar on top of singing -- in the former department, he was no Cliff Gallup, but he had a distinctive style and a very raw, visceral sound. The B-side was the almost equally fine "I Wanna Go South."

Rockin' Rollin' Stone - Andy Starr

I Wanna Go South - Andy Starr