Reality 'D' Blipcrotch Is Alive And Well

Front. Probably.

Nothing anybody can tell you about this album other than it was by a band called 1 and called Come, on Grunt Records in 1972, is going to make anything any clearer.

Back. Maybe.

Not the Discogs page, nuthin'. Just accept there are certain events that defy our understanding; that human comprehension reaches its limits, not with the ineffable void or the value of Pi, but with this album.

Even the knowledge that Roger Crissinger was antecedently in Pearls Before Swine, the Illuminati house band, gets us no closer to explaining what's going on here.

Uh-oh.

Perhaps The Screaming Gypsy Bandits, who recorded In The Eye a year later, knew. Yes! That seems reasonable - let's ask them!

Great Classics Of Literature Out Th' Ass Dept. - Oz Magazine

Oz Magazine - or London Oz, as it was known in Australia - was the U.K.'s most notorious underground magazine. Dubbed "the worst magazine in the history of the world" by Richard Ingrams, grumpy and possibly jealous editor of Private Eye, it was an addictive and covert purchase for adolescent sickos and nervous thrill-seekers at the relatively few independent newsstands that risked stocking it.

It was wilfully antagonistic. Expensive. Changed shape and design every issue. Appeared when it appeared, and quickly disappeared. Much of it was nearly illegible because of the retina-wincing experiments in color printing, and that which was legible was often not very good. It was borderline obscene, and sometimes sick. Yet it was the most exciting publication on the newsstands. I.T. (International Times) couldn't compete for shock value, although it carried some actual journalism. You never knew what you were going to see as you turned the page of the latest Oz, and sometimes you wished you hadn't. And it had to be kept hidden from parents, teachers, and other establishment figures, which made you feel pretty revolutionary.

There was journalism going on in there somewhere, but in spite of Richard Neville's claims to the contrary, nobody bought it for the news stories or the polemic. We bought it because it was sensational, funny, pornographic, outrageous, and very occasionally - thanks to the graphic genius of Martin Sharp - beautiful. It showed what magazines (and, I suppose, life) could be like, freed from all constraints.

I had the entire run, which I fenced to a dealer when I offloaded All My Shit. I don't miss it (although I'd like to see Gandalf's Garden again, and those early Zigzags).

Here's the first dozen issues, with all the posters. More to come.

This post made possible by research grants from the Archive Of Depravity And Filth, University Of Wollongong. My thanks are due to Betsy "Busty" Snorkeltrouser for her intra-mural dedication.

Bikini Babes Flock To Self-Isolation Festival! Dept.

Souvenir postcard shews FT3 clenching buttcheeks for appreciative crowd

Th' Isle O' Foam© played host yesterday to Foamstock©, the First Annual Self-Isolation Festival For Babes! Oh boy! You should of been there! Was it ever swell!

FalseMemoryFoam© CEO Farquhar Throckmorton III gave an address [his own - Ed.] to the thousands of dames congregating surfside before moving among them to demonstrate virus-avoiding coconut butter oil body rubs, while house band The Belching Degenerates played an up-tempo disco medley of Wayne Newton hits. Twenty-four hours later, the exhausted partygoers crammed into specially-chartered Delta Air Lines flights for the trip home, each with a complimentary bacterial wipe and packet of nuts.

"I was like, OMG?" averred Sushé Parchesi-Laundreauxmat (19), Professor of Cognitive Neuroscience at Brandeis University.

Would she go back next year? "Totally. Because I will of forgot a bunch of stuff by then."

Da Boids Is Da Woid Dept. - Part Th' Penultimate

The cover is not-stink, too.

Further, Father? Wasn't it spelled furthur on the Merry Pranksters bus? In which case the schlemiel what drew the cover for the swell New Riders live album Field Trip needs a history lesson and a sound thrashing.

Leave us sling this hash on the griddle toot sweet, toots. Still smarting from the brickbats hurled at him for Byrdmaniax, Jim-Roger McGuinn and his latterday Byrdsband combat-crawled back into the studio under cover of night and swiftly cut this follow-up, vowing to never be overproduced again by anybody, like, ever. And making damn sure they kept to their nobly artistic vision by underproducing it themselves - that showed Terry Melcher! Haw!

What can we say? We can say it's our favorite Byrds album! because we're a dope who likes to flaunt our outrageous opinions. We can say it's underrated, because we're a bore with no real opinions of our own. Or we can just say, shucks, Hortense, the Byrds never made a bad album, not like the Beetles *snork*, and this is one of them.

Twenty-two tracks of not-stink rock music on this "complete" edition, including a great version of Tom Rush's Lost My Drivin' Wheel which should have made the cut.

It's Swing Time! Visual Pun Time Dept.

Note how caption adds interest, visual appeal

Anita O'Day, Cole Porter, Billy May. Why, it's poetry already! Miss Day has been Foamfeatured© antecedently, and so has "I take a portly" May, but here they toss a nickel into the cup of struggling Tin Pan Alley tunesmith, jingle jockey and Brill Building bum Cole Porter.

Porter gave up his profitable Chopstick Straw© business, selling out of a suitcase on Manhattan's swank Third Avenue, to try his hand at tunesmithery after his sales-pitch song became a popular hit:

"Youse can drink n' eat wit' dese here sticks, on account which dey're hollow! Sup an' sip wit' dis neat trick, th' patented Porter drinkin' stick! Tell yo' pappy, tell yo' maw! Chopstick Straw! Chopstick Straw!"

The signature song that lifted hearts during the Great Depression (famously being whistled by many ruined businessmen as they plummeted from skyscraper windows) is sadly not included in this collection, which features lesser compositions from his lengthy artistic decline such as Night And Day, I Get A Kick Out Of You, and other by-the-yard material.

Triple Twin Towers

Leaving aside the human tragedy for the moment, the World Trade Center  towers were terrible, terrible buildings. The official word is that "they were proof of New York's belief in itself" and "restored confidence and helped bring a halt to the decline of lower Manhattan". Well, uh-huh. They were always and only about the tyranny of money. Brutal fuck-off statements from an industry which has never given a fuck. I stood at the foot of those damn things and looked up, and I felt small and sick and overpowered, as I was supposed to do.

It wasn't just from close up - from across the river they looked terrible, too. Titanic funereal slabs that threatened to sink Manhattan with their weight, obscenely ugly monuments to greed. Manhattan is one of the most stunning cities in the world. The original skyscrapers are things of beauty that lift the spirit, even from the street. But those twin towers were an affront, and I wasn't sad to see them vaporized - inexplicably - into choking dust and a couple of truckloads of rubble.

Before they fell, they graced some mostly forgotten album covers for Dr. John (one of his better later albums), bonkers genius Lalo Schifrin (commendably towering above them)   and grouchy Alan Holdsworth, who dismissed this terrific album because he had nothing to do with its release. 

So here we are - the Titanic sank, the Towers fell but the band's still playing. The ephemeral endures.

Isle O'Foam© Official Merchandise! Dept.

My postbag has been bulging with responses to my How Do I Squeeze Some Dough Outta Th' Four Or Five Guys© piece!

Well, I floated some of your ideas to Kreemé (19) at our teambuilding isolation hot tub weekend, and she liked the Official Merchandising concept the best! Which just happened to be mine! Smart kid!

PPE [Personal Protective Equipment - Ed.] is on everyone's mind right now - how can you, the slob in the street, protect hisself from covidavinus and stay lookin' sharp? 

Luckily, False Memory Foam© Official Merchandise has the solution that's right for you! These all-over FoamMasks® guarantee protection against irksome airborne particles and keep you looking swell! Made from organically sustainable recycled materials, these hard-wearing yet durable hygiene solutions offer style and security in one easy-to-wear package!

Turn Pandemic into Mandemic with these husky lifesavers!

One size fits all! Colors: off-white, antique, burnt ivory, brownish, executive gray.

Singer-Songwriter Disowns Over-Produced First Album Dept.

"Dey ruined it wit' strings!" Thus lamented surly gobshite Van Morrison of Astral Weeks, and, in a slightly different accent, Arthur Lee of Forever Changes. They were wrong, of course. We know that because we know better.

But what of today's Coronavinyl Cornucopia™? Were the first albums by Randy Newman, James Taylor and Townes Van Zandt victims of heavy-handedness at the mixing desk? Would they have benefited from a lighter touch? A more intimate setting? Is an orchestral context fundamentally unsympathetic to the introspection of the lone minstrel? Why am I asking you? You're not even reading this garbage - you're down in the comments panhandling for a link, ya nogood lousy bum!

For what it's worth, just sayin', my five cents, IMHO, other opinions are available, the answer is a great resounding NUGATORY. Arrangements such as these are very much of their time, beautifully done, and not the kind of thing we will ever hear again. Unless we listen to this again.

As a bonus, you get the notorious "first" Jimmy Webb album, which is a bunch of demos orchestrated by the cheap grifters at Epic without his approval or input. Whether it causes you as much grief as it did him is up to you, buddy. I say it's groovy, but then I'm not as sophisticated as you. And your oh-so-smart college friends. Too good for your old pal, eh?

Exile On Main Street

The new Dylan "tunes" (I use the word in its broadest sense, outside the constraints of melody) sound like the last words of Dutch Schultz with hospital radio playing in the next room. None of it makes any sense. On any level.

But Living In A Ghost Town (on U-Chewb, with a fine and strangely moving video) is not only the best Rolling Stones record since [YOUR CHOICE HERE], it's a great record. At a time when everyone is in Exile On Main Street, it's a major jolt of positive energy and a reminder just why rock n' roll is such a very, very important thing - and probably best left to the old guys.

Today's Pandemic Playtime© is a pair of pulse-pounding bootleg recordings from back when hedonism and excess were aspirational values and ours by right. We're lucky to have lived through those times. And so are the Rolling Stones.

Whatever time we have is time enough to rock and roll. 


EDIT: FiveGunsWest adds this swell postscript:

"I saw them on the 72 tour in Mobile, AL, 2 days before my 16th birthday. An amazing tale of drug indulgence and pure good luck. Went mushroom picking on the way there. Had a baggie full of chocolate mescaline caps, weed, some shit that was supposed to be thc. Get there, there are no hotel rooms. Got on a list. Go to venue, it's sold out and I only have 20 bucks. I stay there planning to hide inside til the show. It's 10 am. Talk to a black janitor out back & he says the Stones got pissed at these journalists, the front center section 100 seats were now available. I cop 3 tickets, start selling them right in front of the box office for 10 bucks, then 20, then 75 and finally 150 a pop. I have the front row center seat, my friends were all over the place as they already had tickets, a couple were with me. We also got two suites of rooms, paid for all that. High as fuck for an incredible show....I have the boot. Somehow wound up alone after the show walking & a guy up the way asks are you following me, I sez no, he says he's lost, we walk toward each other and it's my best friend from school. Get to suites and it's an orgy developing. Just an outrageous scene. I forget the name of the gospel group that opened up but the singer was so thrilled with the adulation she had to be carried off stage, then an hour and a half of Stevie Wonder and two and a half hours of the Stones. Poor Bill Wyman had fallen off the stage the night before in New Orleans so his hand was bandaged but he didn't appear to be feeling any pain. A hell of a show for 6.50 cents a head & it was only a little 10k seater. Saw Zep there on the Houses of the Holy Tour later."

TL-DR Dept. - Rob Goes To A Grateful Dead Concert

COLLECT TH' SET!

Four Or Five Guy© Rob [SWELL TRADING CARD at left - Ed.] delivers this timely and provocative think-piece in a futile attempt to pick up broads:

Last Time with the Grateful Dead - Wembley Arena, Hallowe'en 1990

The show kicks off with a tight and exhilarating Help-Slipknot!-Franklin’s and it’s immediately apparent how much Garcia’s playing has been revitalised by Bruce Hornsby’s presence. His voice is definitely showing signs of strain, but the cracked weariness brings real pathos to the lost dreams of Must Have Been The Roses - ‘Faded is the crimson from the ribbons that she wore…’

The first set highlight is Bird Song. Garcia’s voice is shot, but his guitar sings for him. It’s mesmerising. You stop what you’re doing. You forget where you are. You listen. Hornsby underpins it all – the sonic thermals that lift Garcia up, sending the guitar soaring. You take flight along with it.

Scarlet-Fire launches the second set with a carefree energy – it sounds like kids in a playground having fun - ‘The wind in the willows playing tea for two’. The bright strands of the Fire riff are woven into place in a jam that’s infectious and irresistible. When the world’s greatest ever dance band, which of course is what they are, hit the groove you dance in your head, in your heart and with your feet.

Truckin’ is their anthem and they come at it like the world’s greatest ever bar band, which of course is what they are. Another effortless gear change and they’re into an ethereally sublime He’s Gone. Garcia’s timeless, timeworn vocals remind us again that he’s rolled down the track a time or two, and it’s no wonder a cylinder or two has cracked, but you still better not get in his way.

Space starts out quietly, meditative and mysterious, before taking a darker, scarier turn. ‘There must be some way out of here…’ All Along the Watchtower explodes in a passion of urgency and warning. Garcia’s heraldic guitar rings out that ‘The hour is getting late…’ And then … Stella Blue.

This is just sublime. A fitting finale encapsulating strength and vulnerability, regret and reconciliation, accepting the inevitability of the end, and the inevitably of facing the end alone. ‘It seems like all this life/was just a dream/Stella Blue.’

You can’t really follow that, but at least the world’s greatest ever rock’n’roll band, which of course is what they are, will bounce you smiling into the night. Garcia is more of sad old hound dog than a ravening beast on the Werewolves of London encore. But you still love him.

Damn it, you still love him.

Play "Who's In My Box!®" With Tinseltown's Tuesday Weld!

Early literary endeavor

While we wait for you literary genius types to relieve me of some of the crushing burden of "providing content" (*barf*), leave us play the game sensation that's sweepin' th' nation!

Isle O' Foam© residents will be familiar with the rules, so it behooves me to introduce this week's celebrity guest, by special request - Miss Tuesday Weld! [APPLAUSE]

FMF©: So, Tuesday ... that's a weird name, if you don't mind me saying so.

TW: Likewise, I'm sure.

FMF©: So, you were born on a Tuesday, or what?

TW: It's a long version of a contraction of Susan. My father's name was Lathrop Motley Weld.

FMF©: If I hadn't just looked that up on Wikipedia, I'd never have believed it. Lathrop Motley! Haw! What a dumb fucking name!

TW: Listen to who's talking. You want to look in my box or not?

FMF©: I guess so.

Click the link, play the game, and using your skill and judgement, tell us Who's In Tuesday Weld's Box! And while you play, why not peruse these fine Art Studies of Ms. Weld?

This works for me

We're Looking For Guys What Like To Write! Dept.

Famous Author, Farquhar Throckmorton III, hard at work on th' Isle O' Foam© yesterday

Bein' a writer is a swell way to pick up broads! Yes, dear friends, as one whom has devoted most of his life to th' Nobel Art of Fine Writin', I can attest to the variety of those words! Why, there's nuthin' attracts th' dames like a pair of hornrims, a pipe, and a moody gaze into middle distance!

Oh, sweet Jesus ...

Now, In a bold new Outreach Initiative supported by Kreemé (19) [left - Ed.], False Memory Foam© offers you, Mr. Four Or Five Guy©, the chance of a lifetime to join the august ranks of such respected book writers as Shakespeare, Dan Brown, Beethoven ... uh ... the Bible ...

What's that you say? Can't write for shit? Nuthin' to say? Step right up! You're the type guy we're looking for!

Be it your favorite K-Tel appliances, a think-piece on bikini babes, or just a shit album review, give it a whirl! But take a professional's advice - don't enter it direct into the comments, ya doofus. Type it up in Word or whatever, couple hundred words, whatever, and copy paste it into this here comment section below when you think you're stunned enough by your own genius, or reach two hundred words, whichever comes first.

If it ain't shit, you get your own blog post, and I delete it from the comments! If it stinks, I leave it in the comments! Hoo boy! You simply cannot lose!!!! Some fun, huh kids?!

Imagine the looks on your friends' faces when you tell 'em "I'm a published author! Words is my business!" Why, you'll have to beat off the dames with a stick!

Note: Write in your own deadbeat style - don't try to copy mine. Or go ahead. Whatever. I'm desperate here.

Signe Of The Times Dept.

Color me confused. Here's a swell collection of early Jefferson Airplane live recordings with Signe Toly Anderson, but the last is dated October 30th, 1966, and I am reliably informed that Grace Slick's first performance with the group was on the sixteenth of that month. I'm, like, huh? Hoo hah?

Maybe you can help? Maybe you can search back ... back ... through the misty halls of memory to solve this conundrum? Maybe not. Maybe you just don't give a damn. Maybe you're too busy grouting the tiles in the bathroom, or snorting coke off a hooker's cell phone, for shame. I don't know what the hell you do with your time AND I DON'T WANT TO. Yeesh.

But if you're the type guy what knows about this type thing, do give us the benefit of your wisdom. If not, take a wild guess, ya doofus.

Note swell cover design, by latently talented FMF© Art Department Dept. Note Skippy hanging back, insanely adorable Signe, Marty's super-sharp threads, Alfred E. Neuman standing in for Jack.

I may have posted this before. Ahh, who gives a rat's ass. You don't remember, neither.

This post made possible by the Hiram U. Quagmire Academy For Aquarium Repair At Home™.

Great Classix Of Literature Out Th' Ass Dept.

Zap Comix ran for seventeen issues over forty-six years. Do the math. That's two hundred and seventy issues a year [huh? - Ed.], the longest run of any (finger-waggle) underground comic.

It changed a lot in those years. We all did. From the early Crumb-led issues featuring cutesy-wootsie widdle animals delivering folksy moral homilies for the under-fives, the magazine was soon bought out by Condé Nast, who turned it into the sumptuous bible of elegant lifestyle familiar from your orthodontist's waiting room!

We're rebuilding the False Memory Foam© Library Of Books™ in an underwater dome just off Baitshop Bay here on th' Isle O' Foam, and this legacy collection is first up on the shelves!

Country Rock "Gave Cat Hives" Claim Disputed

Goose Creek Symphony's last studio album was in 2008. That date looks pretty recent to those who, like me, are still getting over the punk revolution of '76, but it's, what? Twenty years ago today? [Twelve, ya doofus - Ed.]. 

Here's their first three albums, arranged in coherent chronological and alphabetical order and placed upright in a cool place.

Older fans will think they remember one of these tunes as a theme for a radio show. Then they'll get distracted by a buzzing insect and wander outdoors to see if they've had their dinner yet. That's where I am, wondering where everyone went.

This post made possible by grants from the National Association For National Associations (NAFNA)

Our Salute To Dames On Parade! Dept.

It is to my way of understandin' that the Woke Generation - you know, them sleepy bums what stroke their phones for a livin' - claim th' stance of gender equality to be their own moral high ground. That they are the first guys what allow their old ladies time at th' mic. But previous generations have always held broads in the highest of esteems, an' today's package of pulchritude honors three hot tomatoes which through dint of bein' swell-lookin' as well as exudin' man appeal went on to record albums wit' professional-type musicians!

Raunchy Rosie Vela was maybe not the world's greatest chantoozie but who's countin'? An' she wrote most of these swell tunes! Those guys out of Skeevy Dan are on hand to lay down some smooth studio chops on what is a fine lite-jazz-pop album [sounds like straight-ahead 'eighties synth pop with a little disco thrown in to me - Ed.].

Va-va-voom Valerie Carter's second album didn't bother the charts too much neither, in spite of every single session guy in L.A. checkin' out her ass in the studio. 

Cute n' curvy Kathy McCord, FoamFeatured antecedently when we was workin' Vegas, delivers some breathy pop-jazz-lite that slips down swell while you're chillin' with the chicks at th' Tiki Lounge!

It is my fondest hope that this feature, strictly Dedicated To Th' Dames, will establish once an' fer all the Woke Credentials of False Memory Foam©! 

(This post made possible in part through th' auspices of tremolo.)

Ed's Treehouse Of Blessed Forgetfulness® Dept.

Ed relaxes in Treehouse Of Blessed Forgetfulness, yestiddy

Older readers - that's you, pally - have evinced scant concern for Ed, False Memory Foam©'s elderly Sub-Editor-In-Chief, who swam from th' House O' Foam© in bosky downtown Las Vegas to th' Fabulous Isle O' Foam© here in mid-mid-pacific. We thought we'd address this concern, scant tho' it be, by giving youse an update on his situation.

This interview was conducted via the latest T.C.S®. [tin can and string - Ed.] technology connecting surfside H.Q. and T.B.F.®.

FT3: (U-Tube unboxing video voice) Hey guys! Wassup!
Ed: Haw! You know this piece is going to get zero hits, Farq?
FT3: Tell the Four Or Five Guys© about the T.B.F.®.
Ed: Had to deforest half the island to build it!
FT3: Wasn't he Bones in Star Trek?
Ed: It's better than that dumpster you made me live in, leastways. I gots everything a guy could want up here ... seltzer ... homogenized salami ... some books ... and a lamp made out of the island's only surviving Pin-Toed Flamingo.
FT3: Great to see your concern for ecology made it out here intact, Ed! Say - what's that you're reading?
Ed: [PRODUCT PLACEMENT ADVISORY] Why, it's Helium, Farq, the swellest story what was ever wrote! At once hilarious and heartwarming, Helium is a white-knuckle thrill ride of emotions and feelings! You'll laugh at its snappy one-liners! Cry at the inherent tragedy of man's existential alienation! Throw up -
FT3: (cutting in) What's that I hear spinning on th' treehouse Victrola, Ed?
Ed: It's the blues.

FT3: I thought you eschewed the genre on account which depressing?

Ed: D'oh! Blue Jug, and Blue Mountain Eagle. Solid sub-strata rock for the geologist in all of us.


... and we are all of us, in a very real sense, living in the crawlspace of Ed's treehouse, and leave us not forget it.

Hot Hippie Chick Candy Sunshine Chooses Album Du Jour Of The Day Dept.

Candy Rainbow, yesterday

You wouldn't know from looking at her today that Candy Sunshine (real name Raylene Baumschwinger) was the hottest teen runaway on th' Panhandle back in the Summer Of Love.

Today, grandmother-of-six Raylene laments using up all the fun in the world back in the 'sixties. "Fun is a limited resource, like any other," she said yesterday from the Aoxomoxoa Terminal Respite Home, Blotter Creek, CA. "I think if we'd realised that back then, maybe we'd have saved a little for our kids. I mean, I'm looking at my granddaughter and I'm thinking, Good Lord, child, I was sucking cock backstage at the Fillmore at your age!"

Does she still believe in peace and love, given that world has turned to shit? "Heavens to Betsy, man! A bunch of us were just freaking out naked this morning! What was good then is good today."

Raylene ("Call me Candy!) was kind enough to lend us an album which has tender personal associations for her - "Bloomsbury People - oh my! I pulled a train for these gentlemen one time. No! That was Country Joe and the Fish. Whatever. Got any acid?"

EDIT: Four Or Five Guy© Crab Devil supplies link in comments to follow-up album so obscure even band hadn't heard of it! Kudos!

FalseMemoryFoam© Exclusive Interview With Covid-19!

Covey, in happier times!

You know Covid-19 as the deadly virus that's decimating the human race and causing untold misery and suffering, but few know the cute n' cuddly creature at the heart of the popular pandemic! Covid-19 (or Covey, as he prefers to be known) Skyped me last night as I researched broads in bikinis for an upcoming editorial on ... uh ... on ... [you got nuthin' - Ed.] ... and granted me this historic and exclusive interview!

FMF©: Hey! You're looking good, dude!

C-19: Wish I could say the same for the human race! [LOL]

FMF©: [LOL] But seriously, why don't you take this opportunity to tell the world your side of the story?

C-19: Say! That's a swell idea, Farq! Well, it all started [FX: harp glissando, wavy picture] back in the bat cave - no, not that one - I was getting tired of hanging with a bunch of bats, so when this science-type babe in a white coat suggested I move in with humans - wow! I leaped at the chance! The original idea was to infect Millennials excusively. They'd had their chance and they'd done nothing except make beer out of fruit and tend their beards.

FMF©: A noble mission, Covey, and one for which you get scant credit. Their music is shit, too.

C-19: Tell me about it! But these science-guys, gee, they weren't too on the ball? They gave me access to every human being on the planet! [LOL]

FMF©: Scientists, huh? [circles index finger at forehead]

C-19: So anyway, while I may bring down a bunch of Millennials - high five! - there's beaucoup collateral damage, a lot of good people catching friendly fire. This was never my intention, and it behooves me to broadcast my apology to the world. I'm grateful to FalseMemoryFoam© for platforming my regretfulness.

FMF©: It's been a pleasure, Covey! Say - have you got an album you'd like to share with th' Four Or Five Guys©?

C-19: Indeedy-doody-doodles! It's A Midsummer's Day Dream, by Mark Eric. Nice outdoorsy summery vibe, ideal for that beach party, toasting marshmallows with ... whoops. Oh well.

Yuletide Special Dept. - It's Those Scally Moptop Gobshites!

As the Christmas holidays are with us [eh?- Ed.], we're offloading a whole bunch of stock we have no room for here on th' Isle O' Foam©! First to get kicked into the surf is this tape recording of The Beetles [British beat combo from Manchester - Ed.] that my pal jcc smuggled over in his body cavities. During his hearing he delivered this heartfelt yet futile speech in his defense:

"The legendary Get Back radio broadcast. WBCN FM Boston, September 22, 1969. What's noticeable here, is that this is far and away the best sounding tape of this material you're ever likely to hear. WBCN obtained a reel-to reel tape of the actual reference acetates. Their broadcast was preserved on another high-quality reel, and a digital copy of that tape was used to master this LP. The Best Part of this album is the producers decided to leave in most of the actual commercials and announcements from the WBCN DJ. This provides a charming framework , and sadly reminds us of how much radio has changed."

Blow it out yer ass, jcc. No amount of period charm is going to polish this turd into a Hummel figurine fit to grace my escritoire. But I know a couple of th' Four Or Five Guys© dig these capering comedy lightweights, so Happy Yule to them!

Tom Rush Recovering From Coronavirus Dept.

I just read on an internet that Tom Rush had contracted coronavirus. A hasty search led me to the news that he's recovering. Let's pray he still is.

I've had Voices on constant rotation these last few days - it's much better and richer than I thought on first listen. Full of affection and warmth and strength - and humor. Think a folky JJ Cale with a shit hot Nashville band, and a bunch of songs you'll be singing - and whistling! - along to after a few plays. It's perfect comfort music for the times, and the nicest album of its type since Naturally.


NOTE: His albums re-upped - look for Take It Slow, February.

TL-DR Dept. Kreemé's Kovid Klinic©!

Adam and Eve in Eden, yesterday

In these times of troubled times, we could all use some comforting and wise words to help us live in these times in which we're livin' in. Who better to ask than curvy Kreemé (19), th' Isle O' Foam©'s Senior Entertainment & Media Outreach Officer?

Luckily, my trusty Pifco Brand® tape recorder caught our conversation as we relaxed surfside yesterday, and I transcribe it here for the benefit of th' Four Or Five Guys© what have made th' Isle O' Foam© their home from home!

FT3: I love that color on you. What is it, blue? A tad faster - whoopsie! That got it ...
K: Ew ...
FT3: So, Kreemé - have you got a message for the 4/5 Guys what will give much-needed comfort and solace like unto that which you just gave me?
K: Um ... no. I guess.
FT3: Okay, no biggie ...
K: You can say that again.
FT3: Let's ask Ed up in the Treehouse Of Blessed Forgetfulness© [activates tin can and string communications technology] Ed? Talk to th' Four Or Five Guys© about covid while I rinse off here ...

Ed builds treehouse, yesterday

Ed: Okay. First thing is, the world isn't going to get back to "normal" - the fuck that is - for a couple years. One year to find and test the vaccine, another to roll it out to the slobs in the street. During this time, the global economy is going to collapse, and the money/food/water issue is going to get as serious as the virus.
FT3: Gee, thanks, Ed. Glad I asked.
Ed: Second thing, the planet's taking a breather from all the harm we've done to it. Skies are clearer. Oceans a little cleaner already. Wildlife is venturing into the streets. The human race is a viral threat to the earth. Sure, we've done some swell things - the Pisces Aquarius Capricorn & Jones album ... Fisherman's Friend© Choco Mentho Mint Lozenges ... Tuesday Weld ... but on the whole, we fucked the place up badly. The earth is not about us. And there are just too many people. Nature tries to cull us from time to time, put us in our place. It's cool.
FT3: Cool? A fucking pandemic is sweeping the earth and millions of people are going to die in misery and you say it's cool?
Ed: Well, yeah, fuck it. We were all going to die anyway.
FT3: You got any advice in the mean time, the inbetween time?
Ed: The mean time, the inbetween time is the only time we ever get, but yeah - don't follow the news too much - make your own. Hey - I found some Fat Freddy's Cat comics in the crawlspace!
FT3: The Treehouse of Blessed Forgetfulness© has a crawlspace?
Ed: Yeah - it's called the earth, man [FX: theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey] and it's a wonderful place. Or it could be, again. No airlines, cruise ships ... in a gadda da vida ...

You skipped straight from Kreemé's picture to here, you rascal you! Well, that's okay. Today's Pandemic Panacea is a bunch - maybe all - of Fat Freddy's Cat comics. Enjoy, compadres!

Come Back! He's A Democrat!

"What, me worry?"

John Hall may be the only example of rock musician turned anti-nuclear power activist turned politician turned Member of the House Of Representatives, an office he held in N.Y. from 2007-2011. Yup, while major rock stars were shooting scag and fucking up their lives and getting paid to whine about it, John Hall got involved and made things better for people. And, amazingly, kept on making music.

Antecedently FoamFeatured© in the popular long-running series Who's In My Box?, Hall stirred up enough interest to warrant some kind of overview. Turns out his discography is large enough to tile over Lake Huron, including a bunch of A.O.R. albums that I would have skimmed over like plutonium back when I was a vinyl junkie.

Here's the swell Kangaroo album.

That first solo album, Action (correctly tagged this time).

And a couple of Orleans albums that address the timeless issue of go with the shirts, or not? I'd say with, every time.

John - if you're reading this - and the probability of that is a tad north of 100% - we hope you're staying alive and well, and thanks for being a stand-up guy. And putting your shirt back on.