"Doctor Said I Smell Like I's Been Baptized in Silver-Satin Wine."

I buy a lot of novelty records. It's a sickness, not unlike collecting every record w/ the word "bongo" in the title, or every song that has a "pt. 2". I'd be the first to admit that most novelty records are only good for a listen or two before the novelty wears off (clever), and you can only take so much of the Dickie Goodman break-in shtick (Insert 50's era top-forty sound-clip taken out of context)before suffering a psychotic break.

One of my favorite novelty discs eschews the predictable flying saucer invasion for a little Amos & Andy esque Tate ET Tate; where the shiftless 'Cornbread' is always getting the better of straight-man, 'Biscuits', all set to twelve bars of some sweet-back rhythm and blues.

First things first, I'll go for the obvious - this thing has Thunderbird product placement all over it (See: Two Birds, One Stone & and What's the Word), a fact which I find both socially irresponsible and totally awesome (Don't judge me)! Plus, Big Time Spender and the requisite Pt 2 (See, told ya!) gets extra points for not only 'weed' references, but the infinitely rarer 'heroin' acknowledgment tossed off so casually. Some copies of 'Spender' supposedly come w/ a sticker over the 'E' in Maske (Printing error)though I aint ever seen one (Can someone confirm?)

There's a sequel to this which I have yet to pick-up, mostly out of laziness. As it is my copy of 'spender' could use an upgrade, but to be honest, this kinda low-brow shit sounds better behind a bacon sizzle and a styrene fizzle, plus , you really don't have a choice...I'm just sayin'.

Big Time Spender pt 1 - Cornbread & Biscuits

Big Time Spender pt 2 - Cornbread & Biscuits

Mo' Taters, Momma

Woke up to my brain trying to escape through my right eye the other day (See: Chronic Migraines), yet the weather was such that after weeks of snow-bound dementia I’d be damned if I didn’t make it out into the sun to photosynthesis even a little (Gotta get that Serotonin flowin’). After and large coffee and self administer injection of Sumatriptan I made it down to a local record store, passing the time before it opened (Run by teenage punks- one can never truly count on it opening on time, and on a Saturday morning no less!) in an adjacent antique-shop. Pouring over the records there, it occurred to me that I had shuffled through all this crap before, several times in point of fact, and was just about to abandon ship when the familiar feeling came over me; every time I pass on a stack of records somebody dives in and come up w/ doubloons, so I grabbed a random stack and shuffled through…the result: Mo’ Taters.

Popularized by Crypt comp series Las Vegas Grind, this kinda late-in-the-game R&B is now generally referred to as a ‘Titty-Shaker’, though desperate attempts to quantify and categorize such a broad stroke of music seems woefully inadequate (Gothabilly and Surfabilly are two ridiculous subgenre’s that spring to mind). Unbeknownst to many, the Earthworms (Great name!) are actually Oliver Sain (of ‘Bus Stop’ fame) and his little protégé, Little Milton though one doubts he stayed very ‘little’ for very long, what w/ all that starchy intake of his (If his proclivity for Potatoes were to bear-out as the song suggests)

Be it Titty-Shaker or just plain old R&B; call it what you like, just don’t call Tater’s later for dinner, or else run the risk of a side-dish mutiny; the streets flowing w/ the chicken-gravy of the non-believers.

Look for the aptly named flip ‘Fish Tale’ on an upcoming BFTRB soul mix. Until then, pass the taters…

Mo' Taters - Earthworms

The Passing of a "Legend".

Charles Pierce, writer/director of the 'Legend of Boggy Creek'and the 'Town That Dreaded Sundown' died of natural causes. He was 71.

Charles Peirce is perhaps best known as the originator of the 'Documentary Style' horror film, 'Boggy Creek' in particular setting the stage (For better or worse)for modern films such as the Blair Witch Project', as wll as the recent sucess, 'Paranormal Activity'

Hey Chuck, when you make you way to the great unknown, tell Sasquatch me and Paulie K. says wazzup!

R.I.P. Charles Peirce

RedBoy XXXI

Be...the 23rd Rocker!

I’m sendin’ this one out to Mr. Brainpang, as he is somewhat of an authority on mad genius where musicality is concerned.

Just when I think I’ve plumed the very depths of self-styled outsider music, the bedrock beneath me gives way and I find myself in the company of yet another schizophrenic with a guitar, only this time he’s plugged in and he’s co-opted Roky Erikson’s mullet.

That last comparison, in particular, is fairly accurate for if I had to explain D.C’s Butch Willis and the Rocks, it would be that through some as-yet unknown providence, not one, but two Roky Erikson’s just happened to develop organically and wholly independent of one another on opposite sides of the continent; the prior, having become the poster child for psychedelia; the latter, being perhaps most famous for practically burning down a local cable access show with a faulty smoke machine (See: Below)

Makes me wonder if Henry Rollins will get around to replacing ole’ Butchee’s teeth as well.

Seriously though, the two sound identical, actively deal w/ the same neurological impairments and are generally singing about nothing that resembles reality as I understand it.

What makes this revelation even stranger is that the enclosed tracks were discovered on a sleeveless LP in a Redbank NJ thrift shop, far from its native DC and wholly out of place amongst myriad copies of the Firestone Christmas album and Psalms for Children. How did it get there? What kind of financial hardships would prompt someone to jettison this jewel of dementia for pennies on the dollar when it cultural value is immeasurable? Either way I am willing to take the blessing as it comes, though the journey says much more than the ultimate destination. Even the albums title ‘Of’ evokes mystery; walking a fine line between brilliant existentialism and the kind of head scratching that continually moves us record misanthropes forward…albeit by shorts steps.

I will now give you a moment to mentally prepare yourself…

Ready?

Short Steps - Butch Willis (& the Rocks)

Be the 23rd Rocker - Butch Willis (& the Rocks)

I Want'a Be A Rock 'N' Roll Star - Butch Willis (& the Rocks)

Currently Watching...

HAXAN (1922)

"Danish filmmaker Benjamin Christensen's obsession with bizarre lighting effects reached its apotheosis with his 1922 masterpiece Häxan. Beginning in a deceptively sedate fashion with a series of woodcuts and engravings (a technique later adopted by RKO producer Val Lewton), the film then shifts into gear with a progression of dramatic vignettes, illustrating the awesome power of witchcraft in the Middle Ages. So powerful are some of these images that even some modern viewers will avert their eyes from the screen. Though obviously a work of pure imagination, the film occasionally takes on the dimensions of a documentary, a byproduct of the extensive research done by Christensen before embarking on the project (incidentally, the director himself can be seen in the film in a dual role as Satan and the Doctor). Häxan marked a parting of the ways for Christensen and the Danish film industry; thereafter, he confined his activities to the German cinema, before answering Hollywood's call in 1928. A separate version of this film exists, with a shorter running time, retitled Witchcraft Through the Ages and released in 1968. It features narration by the legendary Beat writer William S. Burroughs (Naked Lunch) and a score by Jean-Luc Ponty."

RedBoy XXX

Your (Fourth) Chance to Do the Hump!

Reposted by popular request...and then subsequently reposted again, initially because Divshare's ass sucks canal water, but subsequently because of my own incompetence. Regardless, I bring you...

Igor's Lament - Tony & the Monstrosities



Igor's Party - Tony and His Monstrosities

Round and Around and Around and Around and Around And Around and...

There is a man who twists alone.... Though others might box step or (Gasp) swing languidly to the syncopated style of the Madison, this enigmatic individual twists with reckless abandon, twirling a path through a cold and incalculable stellisphere; the providence of brilliant maniacs and insane fools. There is a man who twists alone...for solitude is the Damoclesean (???) sword that forever hangs above the gyrating head of this humble folk hero. His is the thankless role of the fool, the hopeless, yet necessary fulcrum against which all truth and cosmic mystery shall be brought to bear. There is a man who twists alone...Yea, though we should know him by word or deed, he is forever an enigma, a microcosm of centrifugal force tearing a hole through the very fabric of existence. He shall be here long after we have passed into dust, for he is the lone twister.

Hosanna unto him.

Lone Twister - The Lone Twister

Special thanks to Greg for entrusting this gospel to mine hands.

P.S. Is it just me or do the vocals have this weird Mercedes McCambridge/ William ' Friedkin's Exorcist vibe goin' on

P.P.S. Around and Around and Around and Around and Around And Around and...

RedBoy XXVIV

Promethean Hubris, or...Fire In A Bottle

Oh, boy…

I know I said regular posting would commence shortly -- what w/ the new stereo acquisition and all-- but allow me to give you the brief rundown of the whore that is lady luck and her unfailing ability to kick me in the teeth.

Finally got the Wharfedales dialed in a little over a week ago, and I was in the process of cueing up sonic garbage for this repository of knowledge when -- and I shit you not—my laptop blew the fuck up and took my Fisher w/ it. The long and the short of it: A short (Pun) in the laptop power supply caused a surge to the Fisher, which would have generally not been a problem HAD THE FUCKING FUSE BEEN SOLDERED CORRECTLY by the joker I originally scored this from (He swore he had his tech go over it w/ a fine tooth comb, natch). The resulting arc fried the laptop and blew the output transformer without even tripping the fuse! Don’t’ fret though. After two weeks TLC w/ MY tech (i.e. the guy I go too when the shit get’s too real for me), we’re back in business, and w/ the addition of a new old-stock Soundcraftsmen PE2217 and a venerable laptop (Thanks, Sissy!) we now have twice the rock (w/ half the fat and ten times the grease).

Yeah, it might sound like a huge hassle where-as solid state is a bit more dependable, but what can I say: I’m ole’ fashioned, and besides, you can’t make rock w/o fire, and you can’t make fire w/o the venerable vacuum tube.

Thanks to Dennis @ Central Jersey Repair for bringing me back from the brink of boredom.

Now, on wit da show!

Gold Standard For A Tin Ear

Having replaced my stereo receiver, of course all of the little imperfections inherent to my audio set-up have come fumbling at my head.

First up is a torn cone in one of my Sony speakers which galvanized me to get my ass on craigslist and see if any local color were offering something of note that perhaps would not result in my getting raped and killed at an area truck stop. One phone call and an unmarked panel-truck later and I was on my way home w/ a pair of 1960’s Wharfedale W60s (note: even the most firm price is negotiable, and no, I did not blow the guy). I tell ya, these speakers are sweet as hell, especially in the mids. They tend to get a bad wrap for their apparent lack of low end, but since I haven’t been listening to any Gabber Techno lately (or ever), it ain't no thang that a good sub-woofy won’t cure (to tell the truth they don’t even really need it). These walnut bastards are pretty smart lookin’ too. Hell, they even came with the original wood floor stands! IKEA would blush down to their bones at the lines of these space-age marvels.



As for the turntable situation, I usually slop 45’s around on a twin pair of coffin laden Stanton’s in the interests of throwing the odd shindig, but I have been on the lookout for a solid performer for more critical listening. At first glance, a BSR would hardly be considered a fitting candidate, especially their low end consol models, but I came across a BSR 710 at a local trading post (see: den of iniquity) and managed to point out enough flaws to talk the guy down to a more wallet friendly agreement. I realize and automatic platter-stacker might seem like a strange audiophile choice, but after replacing the needle housing for a modern equivalent and adding a more complimentary lube to the drive-train (yes, this monster uses a drive train not unlike the average car; and yes, I said “lube”) and this machine runs as quiet as the grave, and with a solid wood base, is as heavy as the requisite tombstone.

Next up is and dedicated EQ and a tube pre-amp. Anybody sellin’?

Note: Dig the periodical the BSR ad is from.

The Scream of the Butterfly!

I hate caterpillars. Every summer they used to form huge communal cocoons in my families peach trees. We burned em' out with torches (WD40 and a lighter) with no appreciable decline in the local butterfly population. The peach jam which resulted was none the worse either (really good on beer bread - by the by).

Even though I abhor their squishy little bodies, and their ability to inch their way up every exposed cuff and each unguarded plate of tatter salad, it's their body of musical work which is on the plate here, with just as many legs under it (How many legs does a Caterpillar have, anyhoo?).



Here, by request, is the Stranger's Caterpillar Crawl pressed on California's Titan record label (See: Surfmen) and like those fucking' writhing viper pits which hang from the aforementioned trees, this post is practically busting at the seems w/ bonus bugs.



Case in point; I actually prefer the Roommates 59' version to the original. It kinda has a seedy locomotive vibe to it (Think 'Ghost Train' by the Swanks), and as for the Caterpillar Song by the Caterpillars, what can I really say but fuck them Beatles...the Caterpillars are where it's at... provided they don't molest my peach trees any further (There's Brandy in them thar skins).

Caterpillar Crawl - Strangers

Caterpillar Crawl - Dick Dixon (& the Roommates)

Caterpillar Song - Caterpillars

RedBoy XXVIII

Lookie Loo!

Fresh from an all expenses paid spa treatment and hummin' like a set of dumped headers, this-here Fisher 400 has now taken the place of my dearly departed, if not much-maligned stereo receiver (It blowed up). What can I say; it sounds so good that now I have to replace all of my other second-rate audiophile crap I scammed out of area garbage cans. Regular posting to resume shortly. Stay tuned.

1 Million Served; 1.6 Critical Violations Per Inspection

Four out of five recitivist offenders agree: syrup goes good w/ just about anything, even assholes. And while assholes are definitly off the menu, Waffle's, on the other hand, are a great & well balanced way to start off any post.




Being a man of my word, here is another gem from the Wafflehouse jukebox for those patient readers w/ an unnatural adoration of all things waffle-centric. Eat up...waffles, I mean.



Waffle Doo Wop - Eddie Middleton

Don't Forget to Pay Ur Exit Tax, A$$hole.

RedBoy XXVII

"Liquor Filled Statues of Elvis Presley; Screw His head off and Drink Like a Vampire!"

Here's to the only musician who's decapitated effigy I'd be willing to drink skunked Jim Beam out of...

Happy Birthday, King.

Something to Consider Should This New Year Turn Out Like the Old...

Suspiria De Profundis (Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow)

Thomas De Quincey (1845)

"Oftentimes at Oxford I saw Levana in my dreams. I knew her by her Roman symbols. Who is Levana? Reader, that do not pretend to have much leisure for very much scholarship, you will not be angry with me for telling you. Levana was the Roman goddess that performed for the new-born infant the earliest office of ennobling kindness,—typical, by its mode, of that grandeur which belongs to man everywhere, and of that benignity in powers invisible which even in pagan worlds sometimes descends to sustain it. At the very moment of birth, just as the infant tasted for the first time the atmosphere of our troubled planet, it was laid on the ground. But immediately, lest so grand a creature should grovel there for more than one instant, either the paternal hand, as proxy for the goddess Levana, or some near kinsman, as proxy for the father, raised it upright, bade it look erect as the king of all this world, and presented its forehead to the stars, saying, perhaps, in his heart, “Behold what is greater than yourselves!” This symbolic act represented the function of Levana. And that mysterious lady, who never revealed her face (except to me in dreams), but always acted by delegation, had her name from the Latin verb (as still it is the Italian verb) levare, to raise aloft.

This is the explanation of Levana, and hence it has arisen that some people have understood by Levana the tutelary power that controls the education of the nursery. She, that would not suffer at his birth even a prefigurative or mimic degradation for her awful ward, far less could be supposed to suffer the real degradation attaching to the non-development of his powers. She therefore watches over human education. Now the word educo, with the penultimate short, was derived (by a process often exemplified in the crystallisation of languages) from the word educo, with the penultimate long. Whatever educes, or develops, educates. By the education of Levana, therefore, is meant,—not the poor machinery that moves by spelling-books and grammars, but by that mighty system of central forces hidden in the deep bosom of human life, which by passion, by strife, by temptation, by the energies of resistance, works for ever upon children,—resting not night or day, any more than the mighty wheel of day and night themselves, whose moments, like restless spokes, are glimmering for ever as they revolve.

If, then, these are the ministries by which Levana works, how profoundly must she reverence the agencies of grief. But you, reader! think,—that children are not liable to such grief as mine. There are two senses in the word generally—the sense of Euclid, where it means universally (or in the whole extent of the genus), and in a foolish sense of this word, where it means usually. Now, I am far from saying that children universally are capable of grief like mine. But there are more than you ever heard of who die of grief in this island of ours. I will tell you a common case. The rules of Eton require that a boy on the foundation should be there twelve years: he is superannuated at eighteen, consequently he must come at six. Children torn away from mothers and sisters at that age not unfrequently die. I speak of what I know. The complaint is not entered by the registrar as grief; but that it is. Grief of that sort, and at that age, has killed more than have ever been counted amongst its martyrs.

Therefore it is that Levana often communes with the powers that shake a man’s heart: therefore it is that she dotes on grief. “These ladies,” said I softly to myself, on seeing the ministers with whom Levana was conversing, “these are the Sorrows; and they are three in number, as the Graces are three, who dress man’s life with beauty; the Parcoeœ are three, who weave the dark arras of man’s life in their mysterious loom, always with colours sad in part, sometimes angry with tragic crimson and black; the Furies are three, who visit with retribution called from the other side of the grave offences that walk upon this; and once even the Muses were but three, who fit the harp, the trumpet, or the lute, to the great burdens of man’s impassioned creations. These are the Sorrows, all three of whom I know..."

The entire essay can be found here.