TV's Reg Varney Reviews Latest Jazz-Rock LP! Dept.

Foam-O-Graph© - "Making Your World - Make Sense!"

 

You'll know cheeky diminutive funnyman Reg Varney [above - Ed.] from TV's long-running series Blimey! You Can See Her Knickers! but did you know he's something of a jazzrock authority? [I'm guessing not Ed.] That's right, music enthusiasts! Reg kept the great cow-faced British public happy thru the war years [up to '69, then - Ed.] with his cheery chuckle and lecherous eye for the ladies, so he seemed the obvious choice to review Mrs. Santana's new jazzrock waxing! Take it away, Reginald!

And a big hi-de-hi-de-ho to all you jazzrock fans out there! Ding ding! Room for more inside! Farq lent me this new LP by Cindy Blackman Santana to review. Apparently hubby Carlos gave her permission to make her own record, and I'm all for the little ladies being allowed their time outdoors. It's the times, innit? The more bras burned the better, say I! Phwoar! But on a serious note, Mrs. Santana plays the drums, and I'm sure even the most feminine feminists would agree with me that this is a man's job! We men are built stronger in the muscles and frankly have you ever known a dolly bird be on time? (laughs) So all credit to her for trying, say I, but don't forget hubby's dinner needs to be on the table!

What's the record like, then? Well, in all honesty like, I ain't played it. I'm a bit put off by the Blackman thing to be honest - what's that about? And like I say, a girlie playin' the drums goes against common sense! Do me a favour! They'll be drivin' the buses next! Ding ding! Fares please! (cackles)

Thank you, Reginald! Th' Four Or Five Guys© may have noticed [again, my guess is not - Ed.] I have substituted my own cover design for the original, which made my brain hurt. Here it is:

 

This looks like ... nope, I give up. It defies coherent thought and rational analysis. It makes the cover for Foreign Tongues look strangely beautiful. What has she got on her feet? Elf sneakers? What are her legs doing and where are they going? It looks like her image has been cut out with safety scissors in a school project for blind children. The phrase what the actual freaking fuck seems applicable. Here's my replacement, suitable for framing:

 

 

Anyway, as on previous Mrs. Santana albums, hubby Carlos and barbecue buddy John McLaughlin contribute fretwork, and they're the least interesting tracks on the album. Only occasionally during the over-long running time do I yell stop playing the goddamn drums already! and it's a very creditable outing in The Genre That Refuses To Die. Download in the comfort of your own home as the world burns.

 

This post inspired by a thwarted desire to charitably reassess Mr. Varney's elusive genius. I was right first time. 

Review This Album And WIN!! A Magic Scented Ass Bracket!!

 

Say, fellows! Wanna be a supercool record reviewer, huh, do yuh huh!? Oh boy! Do those guys ever get the dames! Plus also FREE record albums from the latest recording stars! That's right! Major publications pay BIG BUCKS for some pencil-neck jerk's opinion about the new Rolling Stones album! That pencil-neck jerk could be YOU!!

Roll up those sleeves, crack those knucks, and pen a review of this here above record album [above - Ed.]! Just any old shit that comes into your pointy little head! If your review is chosen to be the best submitted, you will WIN WIN WIN this wonderful FREE GRAND PRIZE!!

SNIFF this Magic Scented ASS bracket! SNIFF IT NOW!!

 

This post funded by Otis U. Poodlepecker, Warehouse Operative, Holeville, TX
 

TL-DR Dept. - Jim Morrison

Unusually Sensitive and Artistic editorial illustration from Foam-O-Graph©

Yes probably, Morrison was the insufferable, sulky, belligerent drunk he's written off as. So what? It's not like he's going to come by your house and piss on your couch while slurring half-remembered lines from Baudelaire. You don't have to put up with his inconsiderate egocentricity, so what's your problem?

A mediocre poet, you say airily. Well, being a mediocre poet is more than not being a poet at all, which is what you are, you bum. And he was a better poet than many poets who didn't look so good in leather pants.

When the still sea сonspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted currents
Breed tiny monsters
True sailing is dead

Yebbut, he was so-oo pretentious! As I never get tired of hearing myself type: pretension is the mother of art. Without that vaulting ambition, nothing is achieved.

He couldn't actually, you know, sing? Here's John Mayer, who understands the technical aspects of singing better than I do:

He’s most commonly described as a baritone because his voice sits comfortably in a lower tessitura, with a dark tone and chest-dominant production. His range wasn’t about flashy high notes—it was about power, color, and attitude.

• Comfortable power in the low-mid range
• A naturally darker, thick tone
• Strong speaking-to-singing connection
• Less emphasis on bright, ringing top notes
• Slow, confident timing
• Controlled roughness
• Minimal vibrato (often more straight tone)

Morrison didn’t build his identity around vocal acrobatics. He built it around command. Here’s the big mistake: people think Morrison equals “sing low.” What he actually did was sing heavy.

This is good stuff, right? Read the whole piece here. So yes, he could sing. Like a motherfucker. And he had one of the most immediately recognisable voices in rock (or anywhere).

Morrison was one of the great frontmen. Yes, I know about frontwomen, we had Gracie here a few days back. There are no frontmen no more, no larger-than-life figureheads, not nohow. None. Guys who can command the attention of an audience through sheer intensity of performance, through their wild, burning presence. Elvis, James Brown, Iggy Pop. And Freddie Mercury, perhaps the last of the breed, not that I give a toss for his Saturday morning car wash music.

What we have today in the place of this magnetic electric planetary pull is niceness. Paradigm: Chris Somebody, the singer with Coldplay (is that a group?). Performers today are respected for niceness. All that testosterone strutting is a bit cringe, right? Mr Somebody is doubtless a nice guy. So, I'm sure, are Tedeschi and Trucks. None of them is likely to get his [or her - Ed.] tackle out on stage. I doubt there's a line of groupies at the stage door eager to suck them off or blow coke up their ass through a bendy straw. A shoulder pat, perhaps! A shared shy grin? ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL! Being in a Coldplay audience must be like wallowing through a sloppy sludgy soup of niceness and affection. I'm like, literally crying with niceness here! Which may be preferable to a mosh pit hammer party, but I'm not sure.

Morrison was our last bastard Dionysian, howling down the ancient days; stoned, immaculate, and absolutely live.

"It's the pictures that got small."

 

 

Perfect Tens Dept. - Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass!

Herb's "Going Places" in style! Gaston! Dos cervecas!!

 

It's a fair criticism that th' IoF© doesn't feature a whole lot of ethnic musics from the more diverse parts of the world. The Young People Of Today are properly respectful of Mongolian Nose Flute albums and Funeral Disco Chants From Tanzania, mainly because their own music is so shit they're prepared to give anything a try.

pmac in Seville, yesterday!

 

So it's in this spirit of benign cultural appropriation that the latest Perfect Ten features in our coveted Perfect Ten feature. Those of you alert enough to have read the title of this piece (and I'm taking nothing for granted these days) will already know who I'm talking about - go back and read it now if you're still in the dark. As an extra clue, I've used AI technologies to produce a pixel-perfect blurry reproduction of the original album sleeve [above - Ed.].

For why does this album garner musicdom's most coveted award? On account which there's nothing wrong with it, ya doofus. And boy, do those Spanish-type bossa rhythms ever cheer a guy up!

Herb n' Lani, 2021. Does you good to look on such a blessed state. Human beings can be great.

 

 

This post prompted by a laudable desire for inclusivity. 

"Snob Music For Posh Twats" Dept. - Arnold Bax

Arts copyright False Memory Foam™ Art Department O'Art© Dept.

Arnold Bax is this Brit what wrote big violin music for them bands what need a stiff in a tux pointin' at them wit' a stick. Currently holed up in a palm-leaf hut on th' IoF© to avoid his creditors, Arnie and me chatted poolside whilst [grammar - Ed.] Rholonne Déodoranté served crispy hens' knees on a bed of surgery waste [Kreemé is currently interning for Bob Dylan - Ed.]

Rholonne Déodoranté

FT3 So tell us for why you got into this longhair music, Arnie!

AB Duh. To get laid. Why does any guy go into the music business? 

FT3 Did it work?

AB Oh sure. Dames fall for dat sufferin' artiste shit, like you wouldn't believe.

FT3 How did you come to write that First Symphony album?

AB I wants to write a Fifth, like dat one Beethoven guy, so I gots to start somewhere.

FT3 Talk us through the composition process, Arnie!

AB What? I don't know. I just sits dere at th' pianny wit' like dis big book o' pages wit' like lines on dem, and I put dese li'l dots in? Den some dame sashays in wit' her robe open an' drapes herself across me lap and I gets distracted. Den after I takes her roughly from behind on the piany stool, why, I casts her aside like a dog race ticket! I stands there pushin' me fingers thru me hair sayin' how is the artiste to compose when dames such as like you puts temptation in me way? She's hangin' on to me ankles and I'm draggin' her across th' floor.

FT3 This really happens? 

AB You kiddin'? You're dumber than you look. Composin' snob music for posh twats is no way to pick up dames. I shoulda bin in dem Rolling Stones. They do all right.

 

This post approved by Velda Sputnik for the Commies Code Authority©