Something For Sunday, On Sunday! Dept.

Jimmie Spheeris. Four beautiful albums, 1971 - 1976, when his contract with Columbia  contract wasn't renewed. There's nothing I can find on the web to fill the gap until '84, when he was killed by a drunk driver "hours after completing his last album." That album, the eponymous Spheeris, is as impossible to find for free now as it was to buy when finally released by Sony Special Products in 2000.

If I copied his early story (traveling carney family) here you'd think it was typical FMF© horseplay. His sister Penelope is a rarity, a dame who's managed to carve herself a career as director/producer in the big swinging dick jungle of Hollywood. Wayne's World is hers, and she's made a bunch of independent movies, too. Respect. And schwiiiing. EDIT: zigzagwanderer zigzags in and out the comments leaving the stuff you wanted from me but didn't get!

Thanks, Jake!

Jake Baker, of the band One, has left a swell comment on the piece titled "Reality D. Blipcrotch Is Alive And Well" (turns out no-one knows for sure if he is or isn't).

Head on over to here.

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

If you missed the first batch of Oz Magazine posted a while back, you're out of luck. But for those cunning enough to grab issues 1-12 of the era-defining smut rag [FoamFeatured® antecedently - Ed.], today's Fabulous Foamapalooza™ Freebie of issues 13-24 will make a swell addition to your Library Of Books!

Relive those fabulous sixties! Give yourself a headache trying to read orange-on-purple type! This selection includes the head-spinning all-Martin Sharp Magic Theatre issue [above - Ed.]. The man is a genius.

This post made possible by the Woololongabonga Institute Of Hi-Tone Literature, especially Margaret "Muffy" Mangletrouser.

Wilf Brimley's Crawlspace Collectibles Part The Twoth

Wilf Brimley made his first appearance at th' old House O' Foam© nearly twelve years ago, and soon became a favorite with th' Four Or Five Guys©, what with his goodnatured cussedness and homespun homilies and private supply of M.I.T. acid! But we lost contact when we shut the old place down and sailed across the ocean to our new socially-distanced demesne here on Fabulous False Memory Foam Island©, so were were delighted [yeah, ri-ight - Ed.] when his raft washed up on the shore yesterday. We revived him with a healthy brine n' seaweed facepack, and these words croaked from his parched lips -

"I figured [wrongly - Ed.] you'd be wanting the rest of them Mainstream albums whut I found in the crawlspace, so I spent the last decade or so paddlin' my raft across the Pacific Ocean to gives 'em to yeh. Say - is Cody hereabouts? Been lookin' forward to seein' that gal agin! Hih-hih-hi- *KAFFKAFFKAFF*"

Pushing him roughly aside, I pounced greedily on the box of albums he'd traveled so far to share with us. The Tangerine Zoo, The Art Of Lovin', The Growing Concern, The Jelly Bean Bandits, and The Tiffany Shade. Five first-class examples of second-rate psychedelia.

"Gee! Thanks a bunch, Wilf! I expect you'll be wanting to get right back home! Sorry you couldn't stay! So long, old-timer!"

Metallic Pastry Dept. - "Nice Vibe, This Crowd - Think It's Drugs?"

Setlist is five hours of live Danishness. Fifty-two tracks. Not for the archivists out there, because they're sourced from different and unspecified sources, sourcewise. It's dated 2003, and there's songs from Everything Must Go, 2VN, and all the way back to Rikki, taking in a few rarities on the way.

What makes this a super-swell audio treat is the quality of the recording. No hissy audience cassette or iffy soundboards here. Everything clear and balanced. Great solos, great everything. Why not replicate the live experience in the privacy of your own lockdown? Applaud and whoop and shout out requests between numbers! If you sneak a peek at the playlist, you can request what's coming next and pretend they listened to you and decided to play that song because you shouted it out! Hoo boy!

TL-DR Dept. - Sonny Rollins' Eyes

I didn't know it at the time, even though it was obvious to everyone else, that these were the last days of my first marriage. We married (too) young, stayed together because breaking up is hard to do, and twenty years down the line ...

The Victoria Hall in Geneva is a prim, flouncy, puckered chocolate-box of a venue with a narrow auditorium and balconies around the sides and back. We were up there toward the back somewhere, having to lean out a little and look sideways to see the stage, which my wife didn't want to do on account of blocking the view for others. The place was packed with immaculately turned-out Swiss burghers paying respect to one of the great tenor players. Silverheaded men, some sporting crisp Van Dykes, wearing their specially-ironed Jazz Shirts. Going a little wild for the evening. Wives dressed more for the hall than the music.

So Sonny and his band come on, and it's clear they aren't intimidated by the respect and the politeness and the suffocating Swissness. They start blowing, loud and free, and at the end of the first number they get a thin wash of golf applause, gray heads nodding like dashboard toys. I'm getting annoyed and frustrated and - sick of my fucking life.

During the next number (this is early 'nineties Sonny - basically Afro-jazz dance grooves - no standards) I can't stand it any longer. I sneak away, down to the side, downstairs, and find my way back in through the door leading into the empty orchestra pit. The stage is right up in front of me, an almost head-high wall behind fencing off the audience. I'm standing, I can move, and I can see every bead of sweat spray from the drummer's head. A security guy follows me through the door, puts his hand on my arm. Sonny says "hey! it's okay!". At some point I start moving a little. Sonny's running the voodoo down and the band's a jungle storm, all tigers burning bright and twisting snakes, and the drums, the drums, the heartbeat. I'm sweating. I know what life is, and I'm swept up by it, into the current.

At the end of the gig, Sonny comes over, leans down and clicks a finger pistol at me with a mile-wide grin, and I see his eyes, burning behind his shades like stars.

(Another of those dates where the dame don't speak to me on the way home.)

Memo From Tech Dept. Dept.

In its infinite wisdom, Blogger has chosen to improve things by making them worse, in the time-honored fashion of remastering music. Fewer options for type size and color - just what we wanted! Image upload now refuses some images - oboy! Post preview impossible to back out of! And best of all - RANDOM FUCKING FONT SIZE CHANGES THAT ARE IMPOSSIBLE TO CORRECT WITHOUT STARTING OVER.

Thanks, guys. THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH. I know I'm getting this for free, so it ill behooves me to complain, but I have a question - why the actual fuck?!

Anyways, here's Kreemé to remind us that the good things in life ain't free. Not even affordable, by George.

The Recapitulation And Restitution Of Rod Stewart

After the career rebound of Time, Stewart cut the limp and disappointing Another Country, which followed the same moves to much less effect, including some truly cringe-inducing moments. It sold okay, but there was a feeling his Time had passed. Three years later, he released Blood Red Roses. When he was seventy-three years old. Seventy-fucking-three. It's a stormer. He's co/writing as well as he ever did, singing better, and the playing, arrangements and production are a joy, with imagination and skill and spirit present in every beat.

Whether he intended it as a summation of his career or not, that's what it amounts to. He breezes through folk songs (the rollicking title track and the heartbreaking Grace), disco-inflected dancefloor fillers, brassy Vegas rave-ups, and sad farewells to old friends and lovers. He belts out Rollin' And Tumblin', croons a couple of sappy love songs ... and the variety works. It's not a bag of disconnected bits - it's an album, a great old school pop-rock album.  "I’m making albums for me and a few friends," he said. That'll be me, then. And maybe you.

Rock purists - a strange term - will smile knowingly and refer you back to Gasoline Alley and [YOUR MOST CREDIBLE ROD STEWART ALBUM HERE], but this as as great as anything he's ever done. It's that good.

As a service to listeners, I've stripped off the three bonus tracks, because, unlike on Time, they detract rather than add, and the album should end with the beautiful melancholy (he does that, too) of Cold Old London. I've also tried to come up with a couple of alternative sleeves - neither quite works, but they're better than the official horror. Take yer pick.

TL-DR Dept. - Kwai Chang Does A Drive-In Double Feature!

Kwai Chang [SWELL TRADING CARD AT LEFT! - ED.] inked this movie review in a '49 Nash at his World Famous Seamonkey Drive-In Movie Farm© at Pickledish, MT.

Sea Foam And The Body Of Christ

Move over Alejandro Jodorowsky!

The director of El Topo and The Holy Mountain says a good movie actually affects the viewer to a degree that he/she exits the theater afterward...a changed/different person. But, what about a movie that leaves the viewer in need of repair?

Thankfully, very few such productions have ever entered my cognizance. Surely, the world today is so desensitized that perhaps nothing can infiltrate the senses. However, there was a cultural point in time that everyone was a bit delicate and we could be neglectful and careless when heading to the local walk-in cinema to escape into a double feature matinee for reduced prices and plenty of sunlight to emerge into afterward. I'll never forget begging my parents to take me to the local cinema in 1970 to see a double feature: The Cry Of The Banshee(Vincent Price) and the 2nd billing The House That Screamed(La Residencia). There was no reason to deny me...however their plans were such that they would not be able to pick me up afterward. It was a Friday night and they insisted that my younger brother accompany me AND that after the showing we would walk to our grandmother's house which was two blocks from the theater. All I remember is that I was so frightened by the movies that we walked down the middle of the street(s) because I was terrified to walk next to the parked cars. My brother was 8 years old...I was 10. He clung to my arm the whole way and I didn't mind...I would have insisted on it anyway. That was the longest walk of my life.

So, imagine my astonishment to find two movies on a website that both seemed to harken back to the zenith of the matinee era. Their respective synopses seemed to compliment each other beautifully and I would be in my own living room without need of transportation. The first title was The World's Greatest Sinner (1962). It follows the plight of a disgruntled insurance salesman's political aspirations that snowball into a religious desperation and beyond into a vortex of egotism and reflection. Things happen too quickly for his own comprehension and soon he's playing poker with God in a game of high stakes and NO limit to the ante. It seemed harmless enough as introspection can do funny things to anyone's pursuit of it. But, that didn't prepare me for what I witnessed in the brief 1 hour, 16 minute running time. Without giving away too much...the plot is enough to do the damage. And, the cinematography torques the images onto the psyche like a pneumatic impact driver with a complete disregard for balanced application. Thus, I found myself warped after viewing the movie...which seemed to last less than 20 minutes. Afterward, I realized there was no auto club that would provide the roadside assistance that I needed.

To be honest...I liked this movie. First off, it took me about 5 seconds to realize that I knew the main character from The Monkees HEAD movie("Don't never make fun of no cripples"). I have never seen the actor in ANY other production...but WAIT...who else IS in HEAD that we ALL know? Why it's Francis Vincent Zappa and wouldn't you know it, he is credited with the music("Zappa"). The hilarious part is that 3 names are credited to Lighting and I was sure that NO lighting was even used. Well, except for the last scene when an high intensity brightness overtakes the screen. The main character is played by Timothy Carey(from HEAD) who also wrote, directed, produced and distributed(?) the film although, the movie was never released until recently(Amazon Prime). More trivia: Zappa discussed his involvement in this production with Steve Allen when he guested on Allen's show with musical bicycle in tow! Apparently Frank said that it was the worst movie ever made. And bits and pieces of the soundtrack were actually released over various Zappa/Mothers albums ranging from Lumpy Gravy to Weasels, 200 Motels, Uncle Meat and beyond!

But, nevermind that hyperbole! The movie utilizes completely amateurish shots, angles, lighting(pure darkness), editing and every scene appears to have been filmed after a single dressed rehearsal in one take. The Sum Of The Parts Dept: It all adds up to a seriously disturbing exercise in genuine sacrilege and completely devoid of morals and ethic creating a non stop barrage of tastelessness that would give Freud, Jung, Nietzsche (et al) a serious scare in symbolism. I think the movie wasn't released for 50 years because of a startling scene whereby the main character(God Hilliard) smacks his daughter(a minor) to the floor. So despite the amateurish technique, the movie plays like the real thing. Sadly, I believe the occasional out-of-focus camera work robbed the viewer of some coherency since the long 'stripe' of snake slime that leads to his house and onward to his upstairs bedroom resembles a hose that would be included with a rented submersible pool pump. But that doesn't really spoil the plot. I had predicted the ending would be Hilliard petitioning God to prove his existence and when nothing happens...he swats the butterfly that had lit on his arm. That did NOT happen but what did happen was even more vile. Furthermore, Zappa fans are now obligated to viewing this as it hints at the Studio Z shenanigans that led to Frank's arrest for producing pornographic soundtracks in Cucamonga in the early 60's. So, there I sat...on my sofa...with a blown head-gasket and mayonnaise all over the dipstick. Sinner is a UNIQUE experience and I recommend it to everyone.

I hate discussing Religion with anyone but myself.
God Hilliard should never have asked for proof! Why?
Because God is an Atheist...
Let us now turn to the Book Of ACTS...(ahem...amen)

Second on the bill was an unknown slice of Americana entitled MONDO DAYTONA!

What a relief. There is a space/time elasticity that is also a characteristic of cinematography and this movie is overflowing with it. The World's Greatest Sinner had popcorned me across my living room and fortunately I was spared the not-so buttery landing of silverware on linoleum By MONDO DAYTONA. This movie reached out like a time machine with a Paxton supercharger bolted to the intake manifold and I landed back on Earth like a dreamer into a field of poppies. The movie is a beautiful exercise in nostalgia that almost made me think Bruce Brown(Endless Summer/On Any Sunday) was trying to make Summer last from 1966 to 1968. While I really wanted to see Grand Funk, I was treated to a very thorough overview of vintage sunglasses and classic cars driving on the salt-water playing field of Daytona Beach. I lived in Florida from 1973-1976 and visited Daytona Beach as a 16 year old. Let me tell you, things were already different and this homage to the glory days had already been decorated by less(is more) bikini fabric and no balcony diving. It only takes one Spring 'break' to put the E-brake on such carefree approaches to life. So, it was an very innocent tour of memory mythology and(thankfully) no mention of the race track. Heck, this movie even preceded SPF sun screen and the Paisley shirt worn by Freddie Weller(later of Paul Revere And The Raiders) was about the closest the festivities came to any kind of mishap...except, perhaps, an overtly high number of sun-poisoning distress calls. Coors in a tin can!?!?! Somebody was showing off. Coors wasn't even sold in Florida at that time. The only disappointment was that I didn't hear a single note from Mel Schacher's Fender Bass during the all-too-brief Grand Funk Railroad footage. Otherwise, there was lots of fine wool with an abundance of innocent attitude that is nowhere to be found today! E-Type Jaguar driving on the beach? Wow!

In the context of redemption...a beautiful way to be rescued from Sin! So, if you've got 3 hours to spare and some popcorn in the cupboard, HEAD to the matinee. Preferably, in the afternoon!

This post made possible through the generosity of the Lupine Assassin Foundation For Seamonkey Repair And Rehabilitation

Country Rock "Made Sneakers Smell Of Asparagus" - Soccer Mom

Gladstone were the Gladstone Brothers, Terry and Tommy, who joined the Duck's Neck, CT, Mariachi Marching Band before hitting their teens. "We hit plenty teens later," laughs Terry. "The Regulars was Duck's Neck's only garage band. We actually played the filling station." Tommy concurs - "We'd set up by the pumps, and it was like, dollar gas, check the oil, wipe the windows and a medley of Yardbird hits."

One of the customers turned out to be Earl "The Duke" Gunkelfinger, owner of the local radio station W-ANK. He saw promise in the boys and drew up contracts that netted him 115% of their earnings. "He said 15% was standard industry practice," laments Terry today. "We didn't know what per was - we were dumb kids who missed school to play in a band."

The band broke up after Gunkelfinger was arrested for burning down the Duck's Neck Grain And Feed Hall during a Battle Of The Bands.

"Then we took a Country Rock correspondence course and everything got good for a while," Tommy smiles. The brothers now own and license Koyne-Klene©, the successful coin-operated coin-cleaning franchise.

If It's Thursday, It's The Saturday Slugfest! Dept.

Today's cagefight card is filled by simpering sisters Shirley & Dolly Collins bellying up against Monsters Of Röck Motörhead. Before you place your bets, though, leave us listen in to the pre-bout psyching-out session at the weigh-in. The winsome warblers together weighed in at 200lb, while Lemmy Out Of Motörhead tipped the scales at 180lb, so it looks like the duo have a slight weight advantage over the warty bass-botherer.

S&DC: With a hey nonny-no, and a trilly-rilly-dee ...

LOOM: SHUT THE FUCK UP BITCHES!

S&DC: O the lark she sings in the morning-o ...

LOOM: FUCK YOU!

S&DC: With a rilly-down-dilly-down, all the way from Nottamun Town!

LOOM: OI! CUNTS! SUCK MY SMELLY BALL-BAG! 

S&DC: O my love he wears a ribbon in his hair ...

LOOM: 'E'S A FUCKIN' POOF THEN INNE!

S&DC: With a fol-de-rol-de-

LOOM: RIGHT! YOU ARE FUCKIN' DEAD! SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Place your bets in the comments. If you need to hear any of this stuff before you throw your money away, let me know.

Hall O' Foam© Dept - Jimmy Durante Inducted

"Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are."

The Schnozzola. They don't make them like that now, and they didn't back then, either. I'm tempted to cut and paste from Wiki, but if you don't know his story it's worth trekking on over to read. Wotta guy.

Today's Schnozzle Schelection™ is Jimmy Durante's Way Of Life. Yes, it's as sappy as a Bing Crosby Christmas, but it's from the guy's big old heart. Sentiment and romance disappeared from popular culture when we all got smarts, and we're the worse off for it. You won't want to listen to this to the total exclusion of Trout Mask Replica from your life, but life is big enough for both.

EDIT: The Foam Postbag has been simply overflowing with requests from thousands of you [Dick and Muffy Thousands, Pork Bend, WIS. - Ed.] literally screaming for more Schnozzola! To satisfy the appetite for things proboscisian, Club Durante is added to the rhinorecordings! It's less of the catering-quantity sappiness, and heavier on the thirty-weight, with swell duets and boffo yoks!

Crack Wise With Th' Four Or Five Guys© Dept. - Nathan Nothin' Does His Thing

Nate sez HIYA GURLS!

Nathan Nothin' [SWELL TRADING CARD AT LEFT - ED.] ain't exactly a prolific commenter, but he left this scented nosegay at my doorstep because he's tryin' to impress some twist wit' his deft wordplay. Rotsa ruck, Nate, and leave us know how it plays out for yez!

Dewey The Freak

Dewey used to work as a freak in a sideshow at the Carnival.

When Dewey was still a young lad he got all bent out of shape. He started wearing his heart on his sleeve. He had a crush on a cheerleader, but she crushed him instead. She gave him the cold shoulder. Since then he’s had ice water in his veins.

He’d taken to saying that beauty was only skin deep, but he could really get under your skin. He’s such a bare bones kinda guy.

He got a job in the sideshow when the Carnies noticed he was pig-headed & two faced. He was a bald faced liar having a bad hair day. He had a big mouth but he was armed to the teeth. He was always biting off more than he could chew. He often spoke with a forked tongue, but he was always getting tongue-tied, except when the cat got his tongue. He was incredibly thick headed. He had mud in his eye & egg on his face. He used to keep his nose to the grindstone, but the pain was unbearable so he cut off his nose to spite his face. His eyes are bigger than his stomach.

Ever since the cheerleader fiasco, Dewey had butterflies in his stomach. His stomach was tied in knots. He was busting a gut. He had a bug up his butt. He had an ace in the hole. He was ass backwards & had ants in his pants.

His left hand didn't know what his right hand was doing. That’s why all the time he’d be getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then he’d offer to give you a hand but he’d be all thumbs.

After that, the Carnies gave him an earful. Dewey was all ears. Even with a frog in his throat, his mouth was writing checks his body couldn’t cash.

When he lost his job at the Carnival, he really had his back against the wall. He didn’t have a leg to stand on & he was getting cold feet. Even though he had two left feet he felt like he was getting off on the wrong foot. He tried to tell his brother Hewey, they were joined at the hip, but he put his foot in his mouth. He felt like he had one foot on a banana peel & the other in the grave.

His brother split. He said Dewey had changed. He had a stick up his ass nowadays.

All of Dewey’s friends will tell you...he’s a real freak. He’s a walking cliche.

Play "Who's In My Box?" With Moviedom's Brigitte Bardot!

Oh Gaaahd - my heart just stopped. Give me a minute.

Ooh la la! I can't think of anything else to say. Nor could any other person of the male persuasion on getting an eyeful of this tomato, who single-handedly [perhaps not the best phrase in this context? - Ed.] did for France what smelly cheese and table wine [alcoholic beverage made from furniture - Ed.] had failed to do since the dawn of time - made the country sexy. Before Brigitte Bardot, French dames were famous for being religious screwballs (Joan of Arc, the Broad of Lourdes etc.), and not using soap.

So I was thrilled when the young B.B. volunteered to play Who's In My Box? for th' Isle O' Foam©. "I am, 'ow you say, ze beeg fan of Meester Trocquemontaine an' ze Quat' Ou Cinq Mecs!" she giggled yesterday. "Zanque 'eaven for old mairns wiz zair 'airy nostril an' big ear!"

The rules? Why - they're simplicity itself! Themselves! Whatevs! Using your skill and judgement, identify the single track in the download link and tells us Who's In B.B.'s Box!

EDIT: Curt Newbury was hiding in B.B.'s box, as a couple of th' Four Or

Five Guys© grokked. Newbury was the son of Otis Newbury, the "Shoe-Lift King" of Caddo Parish, Shreveport, who claimed to have added over one thousand miles in increased height to the citizens of America.

Kamen Over To My Place Dept.

Michael Kamen couldn't break wind without it sounding like a bassoon cadenza. The guy had musicality out th' ass. He formed the New York Rock & Roll Ensemble at the Juilliard State Prodigy Penitentiary while serving five to ten for failing to resolve a lydian chord progression on the tonic.

Ahmet Ertegün told him "Youse guys play all the right notes on all the wrong instruments!" but signed the band anyway, and their first album, in '68, was a pioneering blend of classical instruments in the rock idiom. Yes, I know, it's hard to care these days, but that's more a reflection of how jaded and exhausted pop music has become as a form than a valid appreciation of the music, which is pretty swell.

Reflections, a more serious and baroque piece of work, was recorded next but released third, after Faithful Friends. Its more academic tone lost them a bunch of listeners unwilling to ditch the rock n' roll. So ...

... they made the smart move of dumbing down for Roll Over and their move to Columbia and th' Big Time. They still performed live with penguin-suited orkestries, but ...

... by '72's Freedomburger they no longer had anything to distinguish themselves from any number of straight-ahead bands with a propensity to rock out, so decided to go their separate ways while they still had bus fare.

Kamen got his solo album New York Rock together in '73, and went on to become a phenomenally successful movie soundtrack composer, as well as arranger for major rock acts. Look him up on wiki and wonder how normal schlemiels like youse and me manages to achieve bupkis in way more time.

The Warren Report Part I

Wanted Dead Or Alive slipped out almost by mistake in '69, when no-one - especially Warren Zevon - knew what to do with him. Kim Jong Fowley, L.A. talent vampire and walking S.T.D., hustled a deal and hustled himself out when he realized he didn't have the jailbait magnet he needed. Our old pal (and Kim's) Skip Battin plays bass, and Drachen "Son Of Dracula" Theaker is on drums. The album performed worse than a dancing horse with no legs, and Zevon tried to atone himself before God by musically directing the Everly Brothers. Hotcha!

"Eleven Bees, Four Wasps, A Turtle ..."

Artists aren't always the best judges of record production. This shouldn't be a surprise - engineering and production require skills other than getting blown on the tour bus and disintegrating your septum. Ray Davies always seemed an odd choice for the Turtles to produce their Turtle Soup album, and the result was nothing too special. There was something dry and flat about the sound, the aural equivalent of cereal box card. Well, turns out that his production was hacked about after the event, and a load of lush stuff either blowtorched or hammered into the studio floor. It sounded too much like the Turtles, apparently, and not the kick-ass rock band the portly comedians wanted to sound like. You can read the story on an internet, but that's the crux of the biscuit.

So flash forward to (DATE HERE ED) [go fuck yourself - Ed.] and Rhino and Kaylan and Volman decide to restore Davies's original production for re-release. Swell idea, right? Except that somehow - maybe leaving Davies out of the deal didn't help - they fucked the whole deal up and produced this rotten-sounding piece-a-shit "remix" that's even worse than the original rotten-sounding piece-a-shit, which now sounds pretty nifty in comparison. They also dressed it up in a facepalm WTF? cover - a Rhino speciality at that time. Why pay a designer when the kid down at the copy shop will do it for a free album?

Will we ever hear the great album that's hidden behind all this? Do the tapes still exist? Why am I asking you? Anyway, I'm guessing that's where Ray Davies's outside production career stalled.

TL-DR Dept. - Skiffle Cures Tuberculosis Claim Upheld

"Is there a Seymour Butts here?"

Four Or Five Guy© JJ Wombat [SWELL TRADING CARD AT LEFT! - ED.] chisels this screed into the rock face of our collective consciousness.

First Gig What I Remember (or how I got to love music)

I suppose a fever hospital is the weirdest place to be your first rock’n roll gig but that’s what it was like in the 'fifties.  Our local infectious diseases hospital was built between 1899 and 1901 and, by the time I had my first rock’n’roll experience, it catered for tuberculosis patients.

So where did the rock’n’roll come in?

I remember an open-air concert at the hospital in 1957 featuring Nancy Whiskey and the Chas McDevitt Skiffle Group and hearing them sing their big hit song Freight Train (written by Libba Cotten).  I can hear the song now (it’s playing on the Tube) but, in my mind, I can still hear their second encore and the thunder of applause.
That was, probably, the first million-selling record by a Scottish artist.  They even performed on the Ed Sullivan Show on a tour of the States in the 'fifties.  

But this was Skiffle NOT rock’n’roll.
 
How did this tune become rock’n’roll?  According to Mark Lewisohn, in The Complete Beatles Chronicles [YAWN - Ed.], the Quarrymen performed it live from 1957 till at least 1959, if not later, with John Lennon on lead vocal.  So, in 1957, I was hearing what would become the foundation of the setlist of one of rock’n roll’s greatest bands.

In 1964, I went to see the Beatles in Blackpool.  They didn’t sing Freight Train that evening, and I wouldn’t have heard it anyway for all the screaming girls, but this was another indelible mark on my journey through listening to music.
I still love music and go to gigs but I can’t forget my first live gig sixty-three years ago.  And I can’t forget Freight Train - Garcia and Grisman are playing it now on my stereo!

Da Boids Is Da Woid - Part Th' Antecedent

The Jet Set. Their story is the stuff of legend. Three Grit newsboys singing harmony at the local maltshop were spotted by itinerant carney huckster Bert "Bertie" Buglebuster and forced to sign a contract requiring them to behave like assholes for the rest of their lives.

"He promised us chicks," laments Jim-Roger McGuinn (lead guitarist). "Yeah," avers cuddly Davy Crosby (drums),"we's really swell guys and th' greatest buddies an' he made us behave real bad we wus ashamed to tell our moms whut he made us do th' drugs an' bitchin' and whinin'." Gene Clark, the quiet intellectual of the group, puts it thusly - "signing that Faustian contract was a curse. Sure, we became world-famous, but at what cost? Whither the merry newsboys of yore?"

Still, here's seventy-nine tracks [79 - Ed.] of protonymical ur-Byrds you'll be too daunted to sit through what with, you know, your *cough* little problem.

Great Classics Of Literature Out Th' Ass Dept. - Hup!

R. Crumb's Hup comic was pure Crumbiness of the highest order. Full-color covers on art stock, hi-kwalidee paper, and all-new work. Four issues appeared in '89 and dead tree reprints are still available from his official site, so whet your appetite here and then donate your bucks to a good cause.

As he sings with his fabulous Cheap Suit Serenaders: Honey I'm a fine arteeste, and honey I deserve to be keeste.

Administrative Error Dept. - Wrong Picture Uploaded By Mistake

So - who's looking at the horizon?

Rod The Mod is generally written off (Ed - you're fired) as a creative artist after [YOUR SHARK-JUMP ALBUM HERE - Ed.], and forever cast into perdition by simpering rock snobs, although he did okay by the record-buying and tour-attending public. I tried posting a Great American Songbook album a while back, and I'm still scraping off the rotten soup greens and furry white tomatoes that were hurled at me. Well, fuck you!

The blanket dismissal of everything the guy does is baffling. He's made a bunch of albums I don't listen to, but no more than say, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, or Van Morrison. When Time appeared in 2013 it got predictably short shrift [shrift is always short - Ed.] from those who didn't need to hear it to know they didn't like it. But it drew reasonable responses from critics who listened. They noted Rod's re-involvement with songwriting, and a return to the folk-rock organic sound of his classic iconic album classics.

But he made the mistake of singing about his happy home life - never a good look for a rock star. Rock bores and Millennials alike demand gritty seriousness and borderline depression - they don't want to hear somebody having a better time than they are. And Rod's having a party on this album. He wears his heart on his sleeve [where else? his collar? - Ed.] and unashamedly gets off on sentimentality - who else does that?

During the course of my in-depth research for this timely and provocative

She's back there!

think-piece, I listened to Every Picture Tells A Story and this, back to back. Picture has Maggie May and Mandolin Wind, but also a bunch of songs that are really no more than grooves, including the title track. Time is more consistent in quality, more varied in tone, and the high point Brighton Beach is as good as anything he ever co-wrote (with old mucker Jim Cregan). And - his singing is better. No - come back! It's no longer the cartoon rooster crow of the young rocker, but has the warmth and flexibility of a singer matured into his craft. You don't give a shit.

This edition has all the associated bonus tracks, and they're really worth having, including fantastic versions of Here Comes The Night, Corrina Corrina, and - especially - Shake Your Moneymaker.

(I don't know how this candid surfside snap of Kreemé got uploaded instead of the album cover, but I can assure you that it was entirely accidental and in no way intended to hook you into a piece about somebody you think turned to shit decades ago. Perish forbid!)

COVID Dept. - As Restrictions Ease, Wisconsin Guy Still Can't Get Laid

Wasted manhood, yesterday

Pork Bend, WIS.

"It's a damn waste of manhood, is what it is," lamented Pork Bend resident Bundy Q. Pole yesterday. "I am available! I am primo stud material what any girl would be lucky of gettin' action with, frankly, an' after these weeks of like, jackin' off to PornHub this bad boy is rarin' to go! My balls are fukken GRENADES! But these fukken bitches, Jesus, I swear to God, they're like, no? NO?"

Local hot babe Jensen Carbody (19)

Hot babe, yesterday

tells it differently: "Us girls been social distancing that asshat since he learn to walk. Like, when he was eight? Don't even think about it, no way, not even with a full body mask in a tub of bleach, buddy."

"Uh ... Clem"

Clem Alford is kinda-sorta the U.K.'s Collin Walcott. They should swap names, you ask me. Nothing more Brit than Collin, nothing more U.S. than Clem.

Both play the sitar, see. Not just sprinkling Eastern fairydust over whiteboy Pilsbury hash cakes, but actually mastering the thing, which takes some moxie. And then incorporating it into music that we can sit through without falling asleep.

Magic Carpet used to be rare, back in the Old Normal days when you could rub greasy shoulders with swivel-eyed collectors in any store that had a box of albums on the floor without catching anything worse than dandruff. Dem was th' days, huh pals? I had to find this twice to get both a good sleeve and minty-fresh vinyl. From '72 - you'll think earlier.

Whip-pan to '74, a time slip which is only evident in the startling-in-context synth patches on the second track of Mirror Image. Jeez - wotta chapati-n'-cheez cover. Recursivity may be swell in principle but difficult to accomplish, as demonstrated here.

Today, Clem is still asking the musical question why does the porridge bird lay its eggs in the air? His latest band - the snappily-monickered Uniting Of Opposites - a name I'll have forgotten again by the time I reach the end of this sentence - made this fabulous thing, Ancient Lights, in 2018. It's as gorgeous as its cover. Who's it by again?

No, You Don't Gots, Yes, You Do Wants Dept.

Style to spare on th' Isle O' Foam©!

Lupine Assassin is the Indiana Jones of music collecting. He's spent most of his life exploring weird, unfrequented corners of the world - like the internet - for the rare, the outré, and the strange.

His latest is a doozy even by his standards. Look at these guys! They discovered th' Isle O' Foam© before it became a brand! This is Jerry & Mike, soon to become a household word in your household, householder!

Get your reading glasses, Gramps!

This slab o' wax from 1970 (yeah, ri-ight) is their only rekkid, and it's called DUCK #1, which is the best name for a record, like, ever. It is factually rarer than The Holy Grail.

That Discogs text in full:
Spoken word and blues album by Jerry Olds (electric bass), Arthur Steinman (electric guitar) and Michael S. Levinson (poetry). Label notes: This record is produced in a limited edition of 500 copies of which the first 50 copies are signed and numbered. 

I love that "first 50 copies" signing! Lazy-assed bums!


This post made possible through the generosity of Lupine Assassin, gentleman and scholar.

Dis-Association Dept.

Credibility issues plagued The Association from the get-go. They used session musicians and outside songwriters, they had sunny, poppy hit singles all over the radio, they looked straight outta Squaresville (the pose of hipness never came naturally to them), and, like the Monkees and the Mamas And The Papas, and to a lesser extent the Beach Boys, never stood a chance with the hippies. It's that San Francisco superiority complex that few L.A. bands (the Doors and the Byrds, for example) cracked - a sneering suspicion of anything professionally produced. Plastic, man!

They're still relegated to the back burner of music. Their record labels consistently and bafflingly fail to do them justice. The credibility issue, unjustifiable back then, is no longer relevant. The records stand as perfect examples of 'sixties pop, and 'seventies pop rock.

You'd of thought, would you not of, that given the sheer amount [amounts are always sheer - Ed.] of talent across the group, solo projects would be abundant, but they ain't. There's only three bony-fido solo albums. Russ Giguere's Hexagram 16, the only contemporary release, from '71, includes bandmates Jerry Yester and Jules Alexander (who contributes stunning album high point Pegasus) in the A-list credits.

Caveat: This is binkerbo's rip from vinyl - thank you! - with authentic crackles. If you have an improvement, please feature your generosity and good taste in the comments!

If we leave out the Henske-Yester/Rosebud albums, because not solo, we had to wait until until 1990 for Japan to release Jerry Yester's terminally obscure Just Like The Big Time, Only Smaller. I'm still waiting. I've never found it and it's driving me nuts. If you have it, I will be your pal forever - or not - your choice! Pass Your Light Around, from 2017, is a gorgeous compilation of "old" tracks that's at least as good as anything by the Association (or Rosebud), and which stirred up surprisingly little excitement on release. FoamFeatured antecedently, I suspect newer readers might have missed it, so here it is again. It's a sublime, good-spirited, uplifting and (of course) impeccably-made album, and although I don't have the credits, I'm damn sure that's FoamGoddess™ Judy Henske lending her vox.

Inclined To List Dept.

Sometimes, you know from the very first few seconds of an album that it's going to be right for you. You've wasted your life listening to rock n' roll - one of the very best ways to waste it - and you know what you like without having to weigh it up or analyze why or examine the sleeve notes. All those little interior boxes are checked. Although the musicians had no idea at the time, they were making the album for you - bespoke. Custom-built to your specific requirements.

That's the way I felt on first hearing Donnie Fritts' Prone To Lean. I'd never heard of him at the time, and he wasn't too energetic following it up with a solo career, which is our loss if not his. If for some reason you don't know it (and let's face it, the guy wasn't exactly on fire with self-promotion), here's your opportunity to pretend you've championed him since '74, the Golden Year of Albums Like This. He died last year, God rest his great soul.

The Allmusic rating for this is an unbelievably shameful two stars, and nobody can even be assed to write a review. So here's one:

Outstanding. Five stars.

Country Rock "Soured Popsicle" Claim

I never heard of these guys until today. I was adding the decals to my Revell MAD Firebird Funny Car model when the dial-up tone alerted me to an incoming email from longtime FoamLurker©, Moviedom's Dabney Coleman.

HEY FARC (it read) THESE GUYS ORPHAN IS THE BUSNESS HOW COME U DO'NT BOOST THEIR CARERE BY SHOWCASING THEM AT TH' ISLE  O' FOAM© THEY IS FUN GUYS MY REGARDS AS ALWAYS "THE DABSTER" PS THERE 3 ABLUMS ATACHED

How can I refuse a request like that? I haven't found the time to listen to them yet, on account I was soakin' me feet, but you go ahead and tell me how swell they are!

EDIT: "Orphan also had long association with Tom Rush and went on the road with him during the seventies."