Pig In A Poke

Fickle Pickle. Carve their name with pride. If you know this band, you'll probably have an expanded reissue (there are a couple). If you don't, this original version will be enough to leave you gagging for more, which is the way it should be. A UK studio supergroup of sorts, they were big in Holland but managed to avoid success anywhere else.

It's a blisteringly great sixties pop album, which apparently nobody but the Dutch were looking for in 1970. Perhaps its tuneful good vibes seemed inappropriate to the grim times of its release, when UK counterculture occupied itself with drying its drizzle-sodden greatcoat on the bedsit radiator and skinning up on the cover of Taste's On The Boards. Sinful Skinful is just way too happy, too melodic, too lovingly played and sung. Too pop.

If you don't have this already, prepared to be Blown Away (track 9).

Lance LeCocque's Sunday Smewtheness

"Hi! And by hi, I mean helloo ladies! I am Lance LeCocque, and I am the answer to every woman's  prayer. If you're a dude,  I'm the answer to your woman's prayer. I am on the ladies like sweat on a milk carton. When I enter a room which ladies are present, I bother them. It's my Love Vibrations what I exude. They become restless, agitated, which a sensation like electric is in their panty parts. Sometimes I look at this lady across the room and she's, like, trembling and shaking with Animal Desire what she has never experienced before. If I choose her from the ladies vying for the Look of Lance she will enjoy a near-death experience when my hugeness fills her panty parts, such she cannot contain the Overload of Desire what I am bringing to her. The Love Lance has cured ladies of the Curse of Lesbianity - this one time I went through the US ladies football team in the showers and they were like dragging me back in for more!

And what, I hear you ask, is that tune in the background as I bring the Lucky Lady to climax, again and again? What is the soundtrack to Lance LeCocque's lust?

Smewthe Jazz. Take it from the Love Lance. There is nothing like Smewthe Jazz for setting the stage for love's fulfillment."

But don't take Lance LeCocque's word for it - why not try for yourself? Today's aural lube job is Stanley Turrentine's Sugar. Check that cover! Stanley knew what he was put on earth to do - set the stage for love's fulfillment. So spray on the Axe Titanium©, ease into your Angel's Flight© slacks and a tight sateen shirt, and throw a pair of panties over the bedside lamp. If the broad don't come across for all this and the fifty bucks, then why, she ain't got no pulse!

Saturday Slug-Fest!

Older readers - if their meds kicked in - may remember our epochal cagefight a couple weeks back, where The Carpenters narrowly beat Last Exit in a competition that drew up to three responses. Hoo boy! Today's bareknuckle bruising has a sophisticated European flavor. We're pitting rigorous Teuton intellectual Karleheinz Stockhausen against pert n' pouty French shantoozie [Fr. singer - Ed.] from France, Vanessa Paradis.

Karlheinz "call me Chuckles" Stockhausen is represented by his space-rock double Hymnen, a personal favorite because side four (or "Fourth Region" as he insists on calling it) is the most cranium-unscrewing thing I ever heard. It makes Hawkwind sound like the Banana Splits. It is very nearly as great as Tago Mago, is how great it is. But unless, like me, your favorite White Album track is Revolution #9, you may want to skip the first three sides.

Gallic nuisance Vanessa Paradis is represented by her first, europopcentric album M&J, recorded when she was, like, nine or something. Since this chipmunk-styled debut, she's made a series of fantastic albums that may be future-features at th' House o' Foam©, but I've chosen this to make the contest less equal.

Who will win? Raging Hun or whiny pre-teen? Let's see those votes in the comments!

Bonus Blisterpack

Kelly checks for artefacts in th'
FMF© Bitrate Conversion Facility

If you grabbed any or all of the following, you need these swell extra tracks like you need air. They're bundled together, but tagged to fall in behind their respective albums in a pleasingly ordered fashion when you kick them over to your media player of choice.
Honeybus Drizzle Pop (June) Beautiful BBC session from '67 (?it says here)
The Travel Agency How An Obscure ... (July) Extra tracks from re-release.
Michelle Phillips My Nite ... (September) Couple extra tracks, effectively making this a swell 23-track Compleat version.

A spin o' th' propeller beanie to sambgodot and th' Lupine Assassin for their help!

For Men Only

Bergen White, perhaps best known for his work with Elvis, has a fascinating history. Born 1939 into the Amish community of Strasburg, PA (later changing his name from its original spelling of Burgen), he joined the fledgling NASA in '58 as part of a government-funded program to represent indigenous US religious communities in the space race (as it became known). It was there he met the young Plymouth Brethren Wayne Moss. When the program's funding ceased with the ending of the Eisenhower administration the two cut the collectible 45 No Buttons On My Spacesuit for Houston's Parade Records and drifted apart, reuniting in 1970 to record the sublime For Women Only, which languished unnoticed until the Japanese collectors' market gave it the attention it deserved.

The cover here is the original, which got pulled because nobody thought to ask Bardot & Birkin their permission. The download includes the extra tracks from the 2004 re-release, some of which I can live without, frankly.

From The Disco Decade - Folk-Rock Dancefloor Favorites

Shawn Phillips' finest album? Beats me. Sometimes I think it's Faces. Sometimes Bright White, sometimes just about anything else he recorded prior to leaving A&M. He's made a bunch of albums since, but nothing you need to cuddle up to. It was at A&M that he made his most personal, accomplished, and varied albums, with top-tier session support.

Rumplestiltskin's Resolve (me neither) is effectively the last of them, with only the worthwhile vault clean-out Spaced before a move to RCA and the disappointing Transcendence. All his qualities are here - an idiosyncratic way with structure and melody, a wilful avoidance of convention, and a joy in shared musicality. There isn't a second during the course of this album that doesn't repay attention with delight. His faults are close siblings to his qualities; a tendency to shoehorn in as many obscure syllables to a line as possible (the "effluvium of excess" indeed), and David Crosby's political depth. The strident hectoring of Wailing Wall made it a dealbreaker until I replaced it with We Came To Say Goodbye from the album sessions, a twelve minute Headhunters-quality jazz-funk workout that should have made the cut.

A glittering treasure of an album, and a constant companion over the decades. His best album? Right now it'll do.

Posted in response to Hairnets In Space's enthusiasm!

TL-DR Dept. - Elegies For The Last Golden Era

These albums, recorded months apart, are generally considered disappointing endings to distinguished pop careers, almost footnotes. Although The Mamas & The Papas' People Like Us received a probably now forgotten boost from Sean O'Hagan a few years back (decades? I've lost count), and enjoys respect from the ever-perceptive Japanese pop community, it still resides in the where-are-they-now category for most. I neglected it for many years for the usual reasons. It limped out on a budget label in the UK (where I was residing at the time), had no hits, and the group were then terminally nothing to nobody. Move on, nothing to see here, right?

Fast-forward to sometime in the late eighties, when I was in Berlin trying to finish a horror movie screenplay for a German independent producer ("the paper plane must fall with more melancholy!!"), an experience as grim as you imagine. But he had interesting taste in music, and one of the albums I pulled from the pile was People Like Us. He didn't rate it highly, laughing mirthlessly at the notion it was a lost classic, but I was hooked, and have remained so. The boilerplate critical dismissal always mentions the back story of a band already broken up, the lack of true ensemble singing, the sidelining of Cass Elliot, and yadda yadda. Color me I don't care. It's a beautiful album, made by people incapable of turning in a cynical performance. Cool as a dawn breeze off the ocean. The only album this group could have made at that time, and encapsulating the times with crystal definition. The end of the sixties, dealing with the damage, and the uncertainty of what was to come, yet still managing to enjoy blueberries for breakfast.

Waterbeds In Trinidad was The Association's last album, barely scraping into the Billboard top two hundred. We can assume that the irony of the title in combination with the cover image was lost on most. Irony is never a good marketing hook. But its monochrome nostalgia has something in common with People Like Us, and the music shares that mature melancholy my producer missed in the fall of the paper plane. Again, it's a sheerly beautiful album made by seasoned professionals, and if we consider it a lesser work than, say, Cherish we're doing the band, and ourselves, a grievous mis-service. No more waterbeds in Trinidad for these guys. No more love-ins and dancing in the park. The Age Of Aquarius turned out to be that chill dawn breeze off the ocean, and the sixties were already a dream.

Pcinemadelica Pspecial

Today's feature is an oddity. Before Dick Clark made Psych-Out, he'd pitched Freak Out USA to Paramount. Scripted by Betty Tusher, who'd work on Psych-Out, it told the story of a night on The Strip through the eyes of a nubile, innocent hippie chick runaway (a favorite theme of thinking men everywhere). Slated to helm the movie was Bob Rafelson, who'd worked on a handful of TV shows, including The Monkees. Also attached at script stage were Mamie Van Doren as "mom"; Will Geer (pre-Grandpa Walton), fresh from counter-culture cult movie The President's Analyst; Sterling Hayden - then in career slump - as "the cop", with the younger generation represented by Jack Nicholson (then filming Hell's Angels On Wheels), Marty Balin, and Louise Malone (who'd play Today in 1968's Revolution). Other roles were to be filled by Real Hippies off the street.

The movie got lost in pre-production, but Clark had already assembled the soundtrack album, and sold the package to Sidewalk. The rest is history, and history, as Randolph Hearst said, is bunk.

Little Boots VII

Amazon Reviewer Writes: I HAVE ALL THERE ABLUMS RPI LOWAL GOERGE U WAS MR "ROCK" NROLL THIS IS BUTTLEG RECORDING I GOT OFF INTERNET I HAV NEARLY 200 C'DS SO I KNOW WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT LITTLE FEET MASTERS OF HEAVY ROCK CD CASE WAS CRACKED PLAYS "OK"

My Country Rock Psoriasis Hell - Mother

A bounteous harvest from the fertile furrows of Country Rock Country to boost your fiber intake! Yes, dear friends, your musical diet is important. Millennial music is thin fare, lacking both nutrition and flavor. Sure, what it says on the box can be mighty impressive, but for real nourishing goodness and vibrant flavor, and that mmm-appetizing country kitchen aroma, insist on music made before 1975. Ish. Yes, for locked-in freshness, you can't beat Original Country Rock, the music that never passes its best before date!

Hailing from the year of Peak Country Rock, 1971, these swell dishes will go down a treat at your next clambake or hootenanny! The Rio Grande album features Pia Zadora on ondes martenot, and was awarded the prestigious Hiram Gumfoot Award For Terminal Obscurity. Boondock & Balderdash were Siamese twin hosiery models before breaking into the Pop Music Industry with their regional hit Popsicle Pie Baby.

Both albums have been lovingly remastered by the legendary Irving Forbush from the original eight-track tapes. The soundstage is immersive and dimensionally convincing. The highs are bright without being shrill, the lows rich, deep, and satisfying, while the mids are left to fend for themselves. My work here is done.

A spin o' th' propeller beanie to Lupine Assassin for Rio Grande!

Pool Party Sunday!

Gee! It's Sunday! What could be sweller than hosting your own patio party? Why not offer your guests a refreshing Colombian Cocktail when they arrive? Why not have Pépé serve them mood-heightening snacks while they relax poolside? Why not retain the services of an Ivankalike hostess to demonstrate watersports from the diving board? And why not have this grand Brazilian music from, like, Brazil or somewhere, playing in the background?

"Come on in!"

Why not? Well, I'll tell you why not. Those so-called "friends" of yours are nogood bums, and they're laughing at you, is why not. They might have been necessary company in the joint, but you don't want them puking in your pool and tossing your desk while you're frying franks. That's some nerve they have. The hell with them! Why not just enjoy this swell collection while you shuffle aimlessly around the house in your robe scratching your balls? It's not like you got anything better to do. It's Sunday!

My Nite Of Taboo Lust With Michelle Phillips

Never happened. Oh, she begged, she sobbed, she fell to her knees tearing the costly silks from her troubled bosom. But for naught! No, Michelle, I said firmly, a look of stern resolution on my finely-chiseled pan, it cannot be. I am High Llama at this lofty monastery here in cloud-capped Koreatown. Many celebrities, many beautiful women, prostrate themselves at my feet, offering their bodies and other unimaginable favors. This is not about selfishly assuaging your base desires, as urgent as they may seem. Take a ticket and get in line.

Unwilling to wait, Michelle sublimated her desire for me (hey - she's flesh and blood) by throwing herself into the creation of her solo album, Victim Of Romance (the song's about me, btw, as was Carly's You're So Vain). A gorgeous piece of work - and the album's darn swell, too. This version has most, but I think not all, the extra tracks, including Forever. If you have others - post 'em up, ya lazy slob! Give a little back! A shame she never recorded another album - maybe its baffling lack of commercial success dissuaded her. She seems easily dissuaded (never came back for my Karmic Chakra Readjustment Experience© at the Koreatown 24/7 Llamistery And Carwash). Her loss.

Mmm ... Nice ...

You know that feeling when you're introduced to someone at a party and you can't think of a gosh-darn thing to say? What's that? The only party you ever went to was a necktie party? Well, never mind. That's the way I feel right now. All I can think of to say about these albums is they're pretty swell. From that strangely aimless early seventies period when instrumental chops had been honed as finely as they could in a pop-rock context before becoming sacrificed to to the worship of Baal, the Dark God of Prog. Providence were from the US, and included more classically-trained string players than seems wise.

Dragonfly were a UK act who clearly wished they weren't. Their Left Coast harmonies and winning way with a tune weren't enough to prevent Almost Abandoned from being a hell of an ironic album title. Look at them waiting for the surf.

These albums aren't going to change your life. Not even your weekend. But they may help to pass a couple of hours in a pleasant and harmless fashion, and who can ask for more than that?

Om On The Range

The latest entry in our overwhelmingly popular "how to lose the love beads" series features the superbly-named Daily Flash. Don't you wish you'd had a band called the Daily Flash? I asked my good friend Mike Stax [Ugly Things Magazine - Ed.] about the band when he dropped by Th' House O'Foam© to pick up some, uh, Trini Lopez memorabilia. "Look 'em up on Wiki, doofus," he snarled as he loaded the Pelican case into the back of his Hummer. It's swell advice, and I unhesitatingly pass it on to you. Th' Flash were another of our Support Act Sensations©, touring big-time and opening for just about every tentpole act on the Left Coast. So why no album? They didn't write their own material, is why, since you're asking. What recordings they made were eventually scraped together by those impish scamps at Psycho Records [previously at FMF© - Ed.] in the mid 'eighties, who anted up for a lavish two-color cover (not this one here) on stock slightly weightier than baking paper. Those guys!

Reeling from the non-dawning of The Age Of Aquarius©, the band split, and two of them formed the country-rock combo Bodine, who cut a grand record for MGM in '69, replacing the perfume of incense with the authentic reek of the barnyard. The Daily Flash reformed sometime this century, and they have a website and all that stuff, so you should totally schlep on over there and buy their shit.

Give The Drummer Some - Please!

Zumpano released a couple of swell albums on Sub Pop in the mid 'nineties, which is a coincidence that shakes the very foundations of our belief in rational order, because here they are! What are the chances of that? Don't even begin to think about it.

Mr. Zumpano, a drummer, disbanded his previous group because he felt it was "artistically impure". Well, ooh-la-lah and get him! I'm not about to apply any standards of artistic purity to this endeavor, but Look What The Rookie Did is way better than anyone had the right to expect, given that it's a drummer leading the band and it's the mid-'nineties, when everything stopped happening and turned into sink trap sludge. Bristling with perky pop smarts, this is an album you and your deadbeat pals will want to frug like crazy to! Roll back the rug and break out the root beer!

The second is perhaps artistically a lesser work, but its fans number in the thousands (Penwipe and Hildegard Thousands, of Chowderhead Falls, Wis.). "Gee! Is it ever swell!" they aver. But the cover is shit on any and every level. Mr. Zumpano may be forgiven his hobgoblin fashion sense - this was the 'nineties - but trying to pull off a Many Moods Of Murry Wilson cover concept needs someone with the emotive range and rugged good looks of ... well, Murry Wilson.

Some moods the guy had!

Mr. Zumpano just looks like a prize-winning doofus here. Which I'm sure is a wholly inaccurate and unfair representation of a very fine and humble human being. Of course, we're not factoring in the main product of that terrible decade - finger-waggle - "irony". The whole thing might be, like, ironic? Brother, would my face be ever red! 
 
Did you live through the 'nineties? Are you sure? let us know what they were like!

Mushrooms And Apple Pie

It's worth bullet-pointing the career of The Apple Pie Motherhood Band, because if you wanted a narrative that checked most of the 'sixties counter-culture boxes, it's theirs, kind of like a CliffsNotes© of the era.

🍄 Start out as Boston garage rock band CC & The Chasers, cut single
🍄 Move to New York, get psychedelic, change name to Sacred Mushroom
🍄 Sign with Atlantic, change name to less druggy Apple Pie Motherhood Band
🍄 Cut single and album with Felix Pappalardi. Hendrix drops by
🍄 Line-up changes, support big league headliners in NY, Chicago and Boston
🍄 Weapons-grade LSD diverts attention during recording of second album
🍄 Label not keen on band's decision to relocate to Vermont commune
🍄 Band splits, joins production of Hair

And all this without hitting the Left Coast, which will come as a surprise if you don't know they were a Bosstown band - the California vibes are totally convincing. You wonder how things would have gone for them if they'd scraped together the bus fare to San Francisco. Fabulous stuff, and terrific vocals from Anne Tansey, right up there with Grace and Janis.

Make this movie, somebody!

Sunday Sundae

The Alessi Brothers wrote, performed, and produced some of the dreamiest, sappiest, and loveliest pop you may have never heard. They had global hits, global tours, and as far as the internet knows stayed nice guys, loyal to their fans. They hit the big time with Oh Lori in '77, probably the sweet spot of their career. It's a very smart piece of music, not at all the MOR genre piece you might think. There's a sophisticated, jazzy, European feel to it, and that light-as-a-feather trick is one of the heaviest to pull off in pop.

Before they were da bruthas, they were Barnaby Bye, with the splendidly-named Peppy Castro from The Blues Magoos. Sweet harmony pop for your Sunday Sundae!

(Back to Finnish Suicide Gore Metal tomorrow!)

Cage Fight Saturday: Last Exit Vs. The Carpenters

In what will be a regular feature, at least until I torch the whole place down in a fit of pique - which is likely, because producing entertainment of this quality is simply exhausting, darling - we throw two wildly different acts into Th' Cage O'Foam© and let 'em slug it out for our depraved amusument! Well pat my head and rattle my bridgework! What a swell party this is!

To open proceedings in fine style, Last Exit and the Carpenters go head-to-head, mano-a-mano in a bare-knuckle blood-fest that's not for the faint of heart! Are you ready? Wave the Finger O'Foam© for your favorite! The roar of the vuvuzela is deafening as our two teams step into the ring! Or, you know, hardly.

Iron Path is Last Exit's only studio album, helmed by beetle-browed jazz-orc Bill Laswell. Laswell's projects are always passionate and uncompromising, but this may be his finest accomplishment. Luring Sonny Sharrock, Ronald Jackson and Peter Brotzmann into the studio with bloody steaks torn from a gazelle, they laid down the sound of the universe simultaneously imploding and exploding, pausing only to refresh themselves with jimson weed. Their work done, they climbed into their onesies, had a nice milky drink, and fell into a dreamless slumber.

Offering is the first Carpenters album. That it slips into your consciousness like honey off a warm crumpet goes without saying. So why did I just say it? What may surprise you, if you are as unfamiliar with this waxing as I was until a couple of days ago, is its surprising adventurousness. It is a fantastic 'sixties pop album, with a beguilingly dumb cover. We don't notice how short you are, Richard, on account of you standing on a step like that! But is that sunflower stalk really necessary? Anyhoo, don't underestimate these guys' chances against the slavering beasts from Mordor ... there's a surprising strength in gentleness ...

Who's your hard-earned dollar on?

(A spin o' th' propeller beanie to Butterboy, over at Ryp's place!)

"Pretty Much Like New York" - The Lou Reed In Hell Interview

Speaking to the dead isn't like in the movies. There was no seance or ouija stuff involved. No crystal ball or trances or ectoplasm. It's pretty mundane. I was working on my quarter-scale model of The Golden Hind, constructed entirely from chicken fat, when Cody interrupted me. "You have a call on the red phone." I didn't even know we had a red phone, but there it was, glowing in the Conversation Pit Of Sound©. I picked up. That nasal drawl was unmistakable.

LR: Hey, Farq, this is Lou Reed. Love your work.
FMF©: You're, uh, dead?
LR: And in hell! It's pretty much like New York. I have a loft next to Andy's and the gang's all here. If it wasn't for everything being on fire all the time, it's like nobody ever died.
FMF©: Listen - I'm kind of busy right now?
LR: I just wanted to tell everybody up there I'm not here because of the Metal Machine Music album.
FMF©: It must have helped, though.
LR: Yeah, that and the eyewear with flip-up lenses. The fuck was I thinking? But it was Lulu that was just basically unforgivable. Not even David telling them it was my best album helped. Worked against it.
FMF©: Bowie?
LR: He's here for The Laughing Gnome. They have no sense of humor. He's like, it was a fucking joke! and they're like, ha fucking ha, funny boy, poking him with pitchforks. He has a duplex, blood coming out the shower, he's happy.
FMF©: You're happy? In hell?
LR: Me? Happy? But my point is, you post Lulu on your blog, maybe as a Pariah feature, the world can reassess it, and it'll get respected as an ahead-of-its-time classic. And they'll stop fucking playing it down here.
FMF©: [imitates dead line]

Powerpoprock

Stanky Brown ! Crazy name, crazy guys. You may have never heard of them, but they released three major-label albums in the mid-seventies, opened for major headline acts, supported their families, and had a fine old time doing it. As far as I know, they still live locally to each other, get together for gigs, and still have a fine old time. Life should be so good for us, right?

The music is an upbeat tune-fest, not striving for Angst nor Art (hey - dese are Noo Joizy boys!), and they can help you with that good time you're not quite having if you let them.

There was a reunion album which I'll post if the comments flicker above the flatline response I've been getting from you deadbeats. Jeez. I know you have mailbags to sew, but yeesh ... wave from the window or something.

Bubblegum Breakout

Cass Elliot's Dunhill albums [featured previously - Ed.] were far from bubblegum, but that's the image Dunhill wanted to project, refusing to let her record under her name of choice. RCA let her grow up, treating her seriously and giving her the respect she deserved. Her two solo albums from this period weren't a commercial success. It wouldn't be unfair to put it down to a couple of issues, the first being the unanswered question of exactly what kind of artist she was. She would always be the big-voiced Mama in the public's mind. She had the biggest physical presence in the group, the biggest voice, and the biggest personality. And here was someone called Cass Elliot, photographed like a 'thirties movie star. She wasn't a showbiz act, she wasn't rock n' roll, she wasn't exactly pop, she wasn't (crucially) a singer-songwriter. Who was she?

The second issue was her size. Sex appeal has always been a major element for any female act, and well ... Cass just didn't check the boxes for most. No, it shouldn't be that way, but it works for dudes too. Were Howard Kaylan and Mark Volman taken seriously? Fat is funny, or it's comforting, but it's sexy only for a niche market. Elliot's audience accepted her physicality in the context of the group, balanced out by the subtle, willowy eroticism of Michelle Phillips (brb). Standing out alone up there, with no-one else to look at ... uh ...

Today, neither of these issues is a problem for us. We have the recordings, and our reaction can be uncolored. Predictably, they're superb albums, drawing from the matchless bank of talent available back then. No lazy lo-fi Americana cop-out for Cass. They're the audio equivalent of a coach-built Rolls-Royce, beautifully engineered from the finest components, class and accomplishment in every detail. Settle back and let Cass take you for a ride. They don't make them like this any more.

Country Rock Influence On Climate Change "Significant" - Source

Here's a nice pair of follow-ups to an earlier post. Wayne Berry's second album, Tails Out, and Country Funk's second, Zuma, neither of which got released at the time. Tails Out boasts epoch-defining Norman Seeff lensing (have you seen his cover for Carly Simon's Playing Possum? Huh? Hoo-hah?) and an only slightly smaller army of musicians than his first. It sounds less expansive, too, and the mood is a little subdued - lyrics deal with ending of relationships, personal betrayals and romantic angst. The country element of country rock is mostly forgotten. Still and all, it's a fine, fine piece of work, and its obscurity in no way warranted.

Righteous dude, yesterday

Berry: “The album was done, pressed and released, but had a really limited run. There was this intrigue going on and a lot of mine fields got laid and in several situations, blew up. And I had a lot to do with it not coming out. The album was probably on the shelf for about an hour."

Berry is still one handsome dude - check the 'Tube clips of him singing at the Belmont Church, Nashville. "I am a blessed man," he says, and he looks it.

Country Funk have an almost insulting approach to packaging their albums - apparently any old shit will do for you, Mr. Consumer. I replaced the artwork for the first with something that took me maybe ten minutes, fifteen tops, and this here took less, the picture coming from their own website. Duh. You can get the wretched original design when you pony up for the album, which is pretty swell.

Note Neil Young connection - Berry covers Love Is A Rose, beautifully, and Country Funk calls their album Zuma, for no reason I can see.

EDIT: Ace internet sleuth EW has turned up quite a treasure - what appears to be Wayne Berry's unissued Capitol album. Check the comments for story and link!

Gruntry Rock

Here's couple of swells on the Grunt Label. Retelling the Jack Bonus story would compromise the fragile atmosphere of flippancy and whimsy we strive to engender here at Th' House O'Foam©. Let's just say things didn't go too great for the poor guy, and move on to the cover of his album, which is a towering work of art. You can keep your Sistine Chapel by Michaelangelo. Your Guernica by Picasso. I'll take the front and back of the Jack Bonus album.

Compositionally, it is balanced and harmonious. Note compelling use of complimentary colors, bold typography. Note creative art direction - setting styled down to the last detail. Note implicit tension in man-woman relationship. Note how back cover subtly continues narrative, suggests resolution to tension.

The music ain't bad, neither nohow. So raise a glass of Jack to Jack, one of the Swell Guys. And remember, when the Warden of your joint sez you don't know Jack Shit, you can reply with no, but I know Jack Bonus, ya doofus! and pass your time in solitary yokking it up at your fine wit!

Our second Grunt Goodie today is Gettin' Plenty (hmm - is a theme emerging?) by Richmond Talbott. Which never saw release. Or did. But only a couple. Or something. Anyway, it's rarer than a quiet night in the Tropicalia Trailer Resort, Coon County, NM.

Check out the Romo Grocery sign on the cover: tortilla factory beer wines. Sounds like our kind of establishment, right? I bet Jack's in there, making an impulse purchase.

And here's the back cover.

And the inner sleeve front ...

... and back, which tells his story, so I don't have to. It's reading glasses time!

A spin o' th' propeller beanie to Lupine Assassin!

"I Started This Whole VSCO Girl Thing" - FalseMemoryFoam© Staffer

Ed, yesterday

The resident sub-editor here at Th' House O'Foam©, whose name is Ed (that's how he got the job), confessed yesterday to being responsible for "that whole VSCO thing".

Wanting to set the record straight, I granted him an interview yesterday, at his walk-in dumpster home on the FMF© lot.

"It started out when I became a trending Instagram Influencer," Ed said through a cloud of bong smoke, "I was searching for a look that would set me apart from all the vapid, moronic, self-obssessed teenage girls who were following me. Man, they were a pain in the ass. So I thought, hey, Ed, why not create a brand look absolutely nobody will be dumb enough to pick up on? I called it the Very Stupid Clothing Organization. I put together a really restricted wardrobe full of overpriced and incompatible brands, combining - this is gonna make you retch - oversized t-shirts from Brandy Melville. Nike shorts. Vans, Crocs, Birks, and a fucking shell necklace. Tube tops and mom jeans. A hydroflask. Scrunchies. Huh? Me neither. Fjallraven backpacks - the fuck they are. A fresh and dewy look achieved with Mario Badescu facial spray. Which is made from goat semen, incidentally. You know, man ... I was just spitballing. Any old overpriced useless ugly fucking shit, preferably made by Chinese children chained to a bench. And the dumb bitches took me seriously. So this whole disgusting trend ... it's all my fault man. What can I say? I wanted to bring peace and love to the world and just made everything worse. Shoot me now."

Everybody's In Showbiz

Rebecca And The Sunnybrook Farmers don't have a Discogs page. Chunky, Novi & Ernie get the barest of mentions. Never mind climate change - this is an outrage issue. Why should you care? You'll have to get out your vinyl copy of Zappa's One Size Fits All, and your reading glasses. No, I don't know where you left your glasses. I'll still be here when you get back.

Okay, look for the constellation Agittarius, about the two o'clock mark. Three of the stars are named Chunky, Novi, and Ernie. These dudes formed a band back in '69 called Rebecca & The Sunnybrook Farmers, and recorded an album on the intriguingly low-rent Musicor label.

When that sold as much as everything on the label apart from Gene Pitney, they split and reformed in '73 as, well, Chunky, Novi, and Ernie. The guys could play. Chunky sang on The Grand Wazoo, and Zappa sang back-up on their Ted Templeman/John Cale-produced first album, Chunky, Novi, and Ernie, and Cal Schenkel did the (out-of-character) cover. For their second, titled, er, Chunky, Novi, and Ernie, they drew support from the ranks of the Mothers, Little Feat, and the Doobie Brothers. There's more - Google is your friend.

This is all good stuff. Varied, entertaining, adventurous, and thoroughly individual. Petition your Congressman/woman for their belated recognition. Stars are stars.