Boo Hoo In Tinseltown Dept. - Dennis Hopper

The Last Movie was fucked up by Antonioni in the cutting room. Hopper was splicing the whole thing together when the Italian genius berated him for his conventional narrative approach and insisted he adopt William Burroughs' dated "cut-up" technique to disrupt the flow and disorient the audience, making them do the work of assembling the story. Result: a movie only projectionists and people physically unable to move sat through. Apparently this story is wrong - it was Alejandro Jodorowski. And he denies it, saying his version was the one that made narrative sense. "It has been suggested that Jodorowsky’s version still exists somewhere, though it has never been found".

There's a great movie in there, and it's a continuing mystery why nobody has stepped up and done the fan edit that would restore the narrative. It took until The Year Of The Plague 2020 for someone to get around to releasing this here soundtrack album, a Record Store Day special.

As a FoamBonus™, you get the swell The American Dreamer [FoamFeatured© antecedently - Ed.] and Easy Rider soundtracks bundled in at no extra cost! Hoo boy! Are we having fun yet?

This post made possible through the generosity of millionaire philanthropist Lupine Assassin.

Th' Sunday Slugfest Dept. - George "Giblets" Benson Vs. George "Beaujolais" Benson

Yes, subscribers, it's been a while since we pitched a couple of ill-matched glove-tossers into th' cage! And on today's card we gots the same dude, swatting hisself in th' kisser! Who's gonna leave the cage standing up?

Scowling jazzbo purists will be betting on the young punk who cut It's Uptown in '66, but the seasoned fight enthusiast will bankroll the 1980 Benson of zillion-selling Give Me The Night, saying class and experience win over youthful pep, vim, and moxie!

Place yer bets in the comments, pals!

 

Kreemé's Box Is There For You!

In yet another cutting-edge tech update, Kreemé [19 my ass - Ed.] is proud to present our almost totally new SEARCH BOX feature! Our backroom boffins have been hard at work for months on this secret project, and boy, are we ever excited!

HOW IT WORKS

Looking for, say, Eric Clapton on th' Isle O'Foam? No more scrolling through the thousands of confusingly-titled posts to locate the talented English white bluesman! It's as simple as 1, 2 ... !

Find Kreemés box at the top of the sidebar over there to your right (if you're on a phone, you're screwed). Here's what it looks like (you won't see the arrows, I put those in to help you through the process):

Now follow these two easy steps!

1 Type in who you're looking for, or the name of the album, if you can remember either. Put it right in her box. You can so do this!

2 Click the "SEARCH" button you'll find just to the right of her box!

Through the magic of modern computer-style technology, you'll see AT A GLANCE where Eric is hiding on th' Isle O'Foam©!

We're so proud of this feature we're considering building a bigger box that would search the entire internet! Not that there's anything worth searching for out there.

It's A Factory Record!

Those expecting something from Manchester miserablists New Order, Joy Division, The Smiths etc. will be disappoint. And those hankering for loft-art-noise from Andy Warhol's evil succubi will be equally ill-served. This is the swell album made by most of Little Feat before they became Little Feat, as The Factory. Typically, they disown it (even in the liner notes), and they're damn wrong. It's brilliant psych-pop-rock, and the tracks recorded in '66 are jaw-droppingly ahead of their time.

This version has the added bonus of no prototype Little Feat tracks (bundled as a sales incentive to the CD) which sound better - and right - on a Little Feat album. The CD release also had a below-par Neon Park cover, wrongly suggesting a below-par Little Feat album.

The group featured in a couple of TV shows, and I'll put the clips here if I (or you) can find them. EDIT: Yay!!!!!!

Sitarswami sent in a couple of super-precious B-sides, which I've seamlessly integrated into the whole, and added an improved cover redolent of the times. All this available at no extra cost in the comments. Note: The early Little Feat tracks are not included, because this ain't Little Feat. I'm finding a home for them - stay tuned, subscribers!

"You Can Cut That Bit Out" Dept.

Martin & Lewis get NSFW on our asses, plus a bunch of parody bits. Discogs has everything that humankind knows: https://www.discogs.com/Various-The-Caddy/release/12052250

This post made possible by The Lupine Assassin Academy Of Performing Seals.

The Oddly Normal And The Strangely Strange Dept.

Did you/do you shorten band names when talking to your mates about them? "The Floyd" was the most obvious, along with "the Dead" and "the Stones". But we got creative elsewhere, calling the Velvet Underground "the Undies" - I'm sure they wouldn't have minded - and, obscurely, Dr. Strangely Strange "the Strangelies". This was an ur-hippie combo unfairly blister-packed with "the Incredibles" [I.S.B. - Ed.], because they sat cross-legged next to streams. Nobody except Leprechauns in the U.S. ever heard of them, and even they couldn't get hold of their albums.

But now, thanks to the magic of copyright violation, you can share their impish, drug-enhanced take on getting it together in the countryside. The first is acoustic, the second less so [feat. Gary Moore, gtr. - Ed.], and Halcyon Daze a swell collection of outtakes. House Marsupial JJ Wombat adds that difficult third album in the comments.

Less irritating than the Incredible String Band, charming, fun, and utterly Irish, the Strangelies remain a secret pleasure for those not violently opposed to wind chimes and dreamcatchers.

(I just wiki'd them - apparently they called themselves the Strangelies, too.)

Norrie And Velda Schnörblatz Invite You To Their Psychedelic Pool Party

"You should see us in body paint!"

How many invites you get this week? I'm not talking about emails from Nigerian princes, or chat-room come-ons from fifty year-old guys pretending to be Japanese schoolgirls, or valued customer deals from your local Hill O'Beans© stuffed under your windshield wipers. I'm talking about swell high society invites from upstanding citizenry. I'm guessing none, you deadbeat bum.

Well, Norrie and Velda Schnorblatz, of the Crotch County Schnörblatzes, invite you, the Four Or Five Guys©, to their swank Psychedelic Pool Party, hosted annually at their lovely Spitball Gulch homestead!

Yes, subscribers, this is your ticket to a swell acid-head freakout, catered by Schnörblatz Gourmet Tinned Chicken©, "The King Of Gourmet Tinned Chicken™"!

"We'll be spinning some cool vinyl to ensure a far-out trip," chuckled Norrie yesterday. As a taster, he's sharing a couple albums he and his lovely bi-curious wife Velda have found ideal soundtracks to their lysergic excursions! 

"Hank down at Hank's Feed n' Record Shoppe, on Gut Street here in lovely Spitball Gulch, suggested these," added Velda between bong hits, "so I'm sure they're far fucking out!"

 

 

Something For Sunday Dept. - Charles Mingus, And Also His Jazz Groups

Charles "Chuck U." Mingus is one of the many, many musicians whose work would be unavailable if the Supreme Court Of Character had its way. He was an asshole, apparently. Behavior deemed inappropriate to these woke times. And that's enough to lock him up. Along with Miles, Sinatra, Buddy Rich ... the list of great musicians who had human failings is a long one. It's so much nicer to listen to music made by nice people, isn't it? Even if their music is a bit shit. Knowing an artist is a nice person - what could be more important than that?

As the great Fran Lebowitz said to a friend who didn't "like" Hillary Clinton - "you don't have to like her - she's not going to call you."

Mingus Dynasty is, above all else, a massive overload of f-u-n. There's nothing remotely elitist or difficult about it. You don't need to wear black and knit your brows to get at its essence, to understand what the artist is saying. Fuck that. This is rambunctious, bodacious, and copacetic all at once. If you have a rug, now's the time to cut it. If you have any stuff left, here's where you strut it. Parrrrtayyyyyyyyy!!!!!!

Dennis Wilson - "Brother - The Music Of A Beach Boy"

Appreciating Dennis Wilson's work in the context of the Beach Boys is like (some suitable metaphor here, please). It's scattered far and wide and deep. But gathered together, as this collection shows, it's a far more impressive œuvre [Fr. - egg - Ed.] than you might have thought. Or at least I might have thought. There's a hefty double album of material that's astonishingly consistent in terms of quality.

Swell new cover!

For Brian, there was nothing more important than music. Nothing. Ever. But Dennis liked getting out there (in every sense) and doing stuff (in every sense). He was, famously, the only surfer in the group. Given the choice of (and excuse me, ladies) draining down into a teenage groupie or sweating over another take in the studio, he listened to his dick. It's surprising he found the time to produce such a body of work in such a short time, and of such artistic value, when there were so many, uh, distractions.

His talent seemed to emerge fully formed with the deceptively slight Little Bird, and there's not a song here he doesn't invest heart and soul into, or remains unrealised. From the delicate and subtle (was there ever a song as evocative as Steamboat in anybody's canon?) to the overpoweringly emotional, he's an artist without peer. Nobody else wrote like this or sounded like this. He let his demons out in his music as in his life. It's unfortunate that he encouraged them, because they never let you alone, and you die unhappy. But his art is the whole man - romantic, blatantly sexual, and occasionally terrifying - and the world is richer for it, and for him.

 

Lawrence Hammond Dept.

No jokes today, no bikini babes. Just a couple of albums that might just have passed you by while you were having your nap or enema or whatever. Lawrence Hammond was in Mad River [Foamfeatured antecedently - Ed.], and cut Coyote's Dream for Takoma in '76. It stiffed. In '12, Shagrat issued the shelved second album, Presumed Missing, with the same core band [feat. Byron Berline, fiddle fans! - Ed.]. If anything, it's even better than the first. He reins in his vibrato a little.

Hammond's come in for a shitload of "witty" snark for his vocal style, but it's idiosyncratic in the best sense. It's him, and it's not like he can't hit the notes. The songs are top-drawer, the lyrics worth listening to, and it's one of life's minor mysteries why you don't have these swell recordings in your collection (unless you do, of course, in which case - kudos!).

The Lawn Boys - Long Promised Road

I know, I know. Okay? Nobody gives a flying crap about (finger-waggle) alternate albums. Nothing can ever replace the originals. What's the point? Do you know better than the artist? Etcetera. Back when I was listening to vinyl albums, I'd make mid-side lunges at the turntable to lift the tone arm over tracks I didn't like. This is that. And because I lovingly micro-manage these albums to my own taste - which has been lauded by the crowned heads of Europe, I'll have you know - they can replace the original versions. Like the antecedently Foam-Featured 20/20 - Do It Again, the original seems strangely less satisfying thereafter, and leaves both a chalky aftertaste and unsightly residue on your cherished upholstery. Anyway, this is the last Pimp My Beach Boys album, so you just grit your false teeth and wait for the next post, you ingrate.

Surf's Up? Well, we can't use the same title, so it's called Long Promised Road. And the new cover is Peyote Americana, an artful and persuasive collage of three (3) different paintings. Yes, it is fantastic. Hey! Lookee here! The tee-pee is like also a road? A long-promised road, through the waves ... look ... straight to the event horizon of my miiiiiiiiiind ... oh wow ...

Which tracks get flipped into the slop bucket? Not too difficult. Mike n' Al's execrable Student Demonstration Time was loathed by Carl, Dennis, and Jack Rieley, so I'm in good company. I know - you like it - go away! And Al - on a roll - gets his Sunflower reject Take Good Care Of Your Feet kicked to the curb. If it wasn't good enough for that, it's not good enough for this. Right. Moving on.

Dennis comes in gangbusters. Three swell tracks - there are other possibilities, but these were chosen because they fit and flow. Quality Control. The Axis of Evil - Mike n' Al - get two between them. Lookin' At Tomorrow is actually pretty nice. And leave us not forget it was - I think - these two who got the great Jack Rieley involved. Carl - at the top of his incredible game - gets two. Bruce gets Dizzernee Gurls, which is not only swooningly gorgeous but fits with the whole what the fuck is happening to America? concept. Bri gets four, showcasing his Many Moods. Well, four of them. We get the goofy H.E.L.P., the sublime Surf's Up with the epic tag, the melancholic 'Til I Die, and the heart-wrenching A Day In The Life Of A Tree. Which we need to talk about.

A Day In The Life Of A Tree sounds like an ecology song, and a not particularly subtle one. Over-wrought, even. But Brian recognized himself in Rieley's lyrics. It was too close to him. He couldn't bring himself to sing it, even at the distance of metaphor. So he used Jack Rieley's gnarly, creaky vocals. You can hear Van Dyke Parks in there, too, another tree-voice. When the song connects, when the emotion carried by Rieley's affectless voice and that gorgeous melody hit you -

"If you're listening to this right now ..." - thank you.

Bikini Babe Applauds Bold New False Memory Foam© Inclusivity Initiative Dept.

Latently talented Outreach Officer Kreemé [19 my ass - Ed.] was the first to offer plaudits for th' Isle's new non-discriminatory policy unveiled yesterday. "Us babes have been sidelined in favor of skeevy old guys for like, ever," she enthused. "And it's a sign that wokeness has reached our distant shores when a babe like I can have equal transparency than, like, the bunch of creepy old slobs in the Tiki Lounge, what with their male gaze and ear hair. Yeeuch."

That's right, Kreemé! And to celebrate our new diversity, we're proudly platforming a couple of swell country rock albums from Delbert McClinton and Glen Clark!

 

 non-contextual content alert - sambgodot has upped some swell dillards material in the comments to the dillards piece: https://falsememoryfoam.blogspot.com/2020/08/true-life-stories-of-rock-pop-n-roll.html

 

The Lawn Boys - Twenty-Twenty Vision For 20/20 In 2020

We can fix this. Be a come-with Four Or Five Guy©. Humor me. 20/20, as the larkiest merry-andrew knows, was the last album The Beach Boys recorded for Capitol, and it's generally pushed to the side of the plate when forking up the most delectable of their offerings. Because not that great. It's a botched job. Leave us de-botch this sucker. Leave us Do It Again, and get it right this time.

Sleeve first - a no-budget paste-up by the print shop. Get this into perspective. It followed the three great sleeve designs of Smiley Smile, Wild Honey, and Friends. Real Art. Capitol didn't give a shit, so that's what they gave us. Let's imagine - beause we can - something like this new one [above left - Ed.]. Could be better, but it's at least headed in the right (art) direction.

Feeling better already, huh? This is the point were we snap on our latex gloves, reach in, and extract the shit. First slippery nugget is the Bruce Johnston solo instrymental The Nearest Faraway Place. No album is improved by a Bruce Johnston number. Not even his solo albums. Next to get flipped into the bucket - Bluebirds Over The Mountain. Not only does it stink, it's co-produced and co-sung by Bruce Johnston. Fuck him and his eternal shorts and white socks. I'd rather have Mike Love than this toothy, boyish tub of nose paste. He's gone from the cover, too.

Although absolutely and totally and completely not shit, Cabinessence and Our Prayer get reverently laid aside. Their rightful place is on Smile. I know what you're thinking - Cotton Fields is next. But that's A1 [ISWYDT - Ed.] Jardine material, and it stays. As does what's left.

Still with me? I know this is a lengthy op-ed piece, and what with your ADD and bladder problems you're making a heroic effort, and I thank you.

20/20 is a real bipolar album, from Brian's blissed-out airiness to the naked animal lust and dark heroin nightmares of Dennis. Charles Manson is in the house. But set in their place, Dennis's songs come across as powerful, almost overwhelming pieces of music. And unique - nobody else has ever sounded like this. Especially not The Lawn Boys. They're balanced by Brian, who at this time was "institutionalized" and unwilling to helm the album. Tying the whole thing together is Carl, stepping up to fill his elder brother's skunky sneakers.

So here it is, using outtakes and other contemporary material, one crossfade and one added tag. It's gorgeous. It fits right between Friends and Sunflower, and makes for a swell listening experience you'll be proud to share with family and friends!

 

 

"We Take Drugs Seriously At Our House" Dept.

It was the gateway to human evolution that we somehow bungled. Between the CIA, the counter-culture, big pharma, law enforcement, and the rest of us, LSD became an illegal recreational drug and/or approved medical treatment for the very few institutionalized patients who qualify. As a result of vested interest and "business as usual" the opportunity was squandered. And the media didn't help. Efforts to understand the drug by those who never took it inevitably focused on addicts leaping off buildings, and the sick threat to the very fabric of society.

Here's a period piece that pretends to offer insight. Likely bought (when bought at all) by The Concerned Parents Of America, who played it once (when played at all) and forgot about it, Capitol's "Audio Documentary" is a sincere attempt, but an attempt to do what? Certainly not to encourage LSD use. The kids, meanwhile, treated this (and other media coverage) with amused contempt, and played Electric Music For The Mind And Body instead.

This download (for which thanks go to jcc) includes a bunch of scans which add to the unreality. The Grateful Dead appear in a glossary of terms as "a West Coast rock n'roll group under the entrepreneural aegis of Owsley Stanley." Entrepreneural? Typo or super-smart pun? You be the judge, subscribers!

Oh - it's in head-widening mono.

Richard Deacon's Country Rock Cavalcade! Dept.

You'll know handsome, bookish Richard Deacon as Uncle Knuckles from TV's popular The Morty Muffin Show. But did you know he's also a keen Country Rock afficionado? He didn't either until I sandbagged him into the CIA's top secret mind control Black Op, Operation Mindfuck!

Yes, subscribers, after a week on mind-altering drugs, listening to nothing but country rock albums, Richard "Call me Dickey!" Deacon is a life-long convert to the popular musical genre!

"Yessiree Bob!" he said yesterday from his bivouac high on th' Isle O' Foam's© dormant yet rumbling volcano, "Can't get me enough of that country rock! And I'll be featuring scads of it right here in my regular feature, Country Rock Cavalcade! Uh - where is right here, apparently?"

Today's offering, courtesy Foamster Hazy Dave, is Wilderness Road's sphincter-shrivelingly rare second album, which isn't really country rock at all, but their first was, so here it is again, as well, also, too, in addition. Plus. Again.

(Incidentally, blogger has totally fucked everything up with its "new, improved" interface. I can no longer add captions at the correct small size, just the same size as the text. And a host of other "features" as welcome as a swarm of hornets.)

 

The Lawn Boys Recycle Their Clippings Dept.

Hawthorne's finest - The Lawn Boys!

The Lawn Boys was rejected as a name in favor of The Beach Boys. The rest is history. Nothing they (or anybody) ever recorded now qualifies as rare, but here's a couple of officially-released comps that you don't see too frequently.

They will only appeal to sad, delusional old men still clinging to their summer dream of a sunkissed Californian heyday they never shared. Elderly and pathetic individuals who yearn for the days when there were two girls for every boy. Desperate, lonely old fools who get weepy when they hear The Warmth Of The Sun or When I Grow Up (To Be A Man). Me, mainly.

I'm going through a bit of a Beach Boys binge at the moment. It happens every few years. But they're always there, in the back of my mind. Surf's up if you want it to be!

Thank you, Brian.

The Almost Unbelievable Story Of Euphoria

Klaus at left, Otto right

The story of Euphoria is one of the most fascinating - and least-known - in rock, pop n' roll. In the mid-sixties, the Yggdrasil brothers, Klaus and Otto, out of Spindleburg CT, decided their music career would be different.

"We had this cough syrup we was fond of what was called Euphoria Patented Linctus," recalls Otto, "So we kind of took the name for this imaginary band we had." The imaginary band soon became a reality with the addition of a couple of friends, and they invested their gig takings into recording time. By then the friends ("lousy nogood bums") had been replaced. The album, Euphoria, was "as swell a bunch of tunes as we could come up with, ideal for radio play or mixed company." In spite of a dedicated window display at Spindleburg's  Irv N' Merv's Record Shoppe, the album didn't sell, so a rethink was necessary. Klaus has this to say: "We decided to use the name as a brand, and that every album would be different than the one before."

The following year, 1969, saw the release of Lost In Trance, which had a harder rock sound reflecting the amount of drugs they were doing. The two musicians hired for the project, Dibbsy Blake and Hy Afferbeck, were later found drowned at Third Eye Carp Lake, a popular haunt for Spindleburg beach sex enthusiasts. "A terrible tragedy," rues Otto today. The album attracted the interest of Capitol Records, who advanced the Yggdrasil brothers enough money to hire new musicians. 

In spite of being super-swell, the album A Gift From Euphoria failed to shift enough units to satisfy the label's expectations, and the Euphoria project fell apart. The Yggdrasils changed their name to Wachowski Brothers and the rest is history.

Otto, in toupée, left. Klaus at right.

Skeedle Loo Doo And Diddie Wa Diddie Dept.

Strangely hard to find, Blind Blake's recordings are the real thing. He can sing, he can play - holy crap can the man play guitar!

Let's not get into the Millennial "gotcha" thing of calling him out for his personal life, eh? Play the music, essay a creaky shuffle across the living room. Rag, Poppa, rag.

And if you don't know what Skeedle Loo Doo and Diddie Wa Diddie mean - well, they mean Jelly Roll.

Higher Than A Cat's Back Dept. - Primal Scream

This shouldn't work, but it does. Like the album

Primal Scream has one of the most bonkers, wayward, and inexplicable careers in what we're calling pop music. Every career decision was a betrayal of the crowd the previous album attracted. Fey jangle-pop, hard rock, psychedelia, dance, gospel, house, dub - they ate it up and spat it out. When the planetary forces of drugs and music aligned, they made Screamadelica. It is what it is, and what it is is everything. Some credit producer Andrew Weatherall for its success, but it's very much a group effort. The sound is organic; detailed and sumptuous, as rich and sparkling as anything coming from the West Coast. It's cavernous with burbling synths, spacey drones, exotic instruments, horn charts, FX, and swell chick vox. But underneath this technical mastery and audacious swagger are actual songs. Good songs.


Movin' On Up is the best Stones song they never wrote. There's an accomplished version of Slip Inside This House that shows the taste and class you don't expect from '91. Brian Wilson is here in spirit - an acknowledged influence - and Inner Flight in particular could almost slip onto Friends with nobody noticing. The whole thing shimmers with hedonistic bliss, and of course it couldn't last. Follow-up albums Vanishing Point and Echo Dek are darker in tone, and the thrill is gone. As their drug intake diminished, so did the good vibes. The music became more bitter and shoutier as they got the monkeys off their backs. But they left Screamadelica for us. Never fails to lift me up and blow me away.

I ironed in the Screamadelica single (inexplicably left off the album) and some worthwhile bonus tracks. In 2011, NME voted it the druggiest album ever made. It's also one of the best.

The Obscure Genius Of Paul Giovanni

Nobody with hair this great should look this miserable.

"Genius" is pushing it a bit, as it generally is when used in the context of pop. But Paul Giovanni deserves a little more recognition. Look him up on wiki. Interesting guy - rock musician, singer, playwright, performer, soundtrack composer, he left a body of work so slender if it stands sideways it disappears. But the music is pretty damn extraordinary, starting with the sole album by Side Show from 1970.

Produced by the great Arif Mardin, who didn't squander his rep on just anybody, the album is lush, crafted, beautifully composed and produced, and emotionally affecting. The other guiding light on the album, Greg Kreutz, disappeared from the music business (he was also responsible for the crap painting on the cover). Three years later, Giovanni turns up in the U.K. scoring the cult original version (not the Nic Cage comedy remake) of The Wicker Man, and the music has only tenuous links with the pop-rock of Side Show. Featuring traditional songs alongside Giovanni originals played by a group called Magnet, it has also gained a cult rep. There's a weirdness to it entirely appropriate to the mood of the movie that takes a few spins to establish itself. Unlike many soundtracks, it's a standalone album that works without the visuals.

After that, playwriting, producing, and directing the U.K. tour of Amadeus, then teaching at U.S.C. He died from AIDS-related illness in 1990, aged 57.

New design from original poster

Both these albums make swell additions to any music fan's collection. Especially yours, and you're not just any music fan.

Play "Who's In My Box?" With T.V.'s Joan Rivers! - Dept.

You'll know hilarious, outrageous comedienne Joan Rivers from her hilarious, outrageous appearances on daytime chat show clips on YouTube - or maybe you've been lucky enough to catch her "in the flesh" at one of Las Vegas' prestigious gambling clubs!

"We were getting ready to make love and my husband said, let me help you with the buttons, and I said, I'm naked! He wanted to make love with the light on, but I said, you shut that car door!"

All kidding aside, few know that Ms. Rivers is a keen collector of psychedelic vinyl! She houses her collection in a secure vault originally built for germ warfare, such is her concern for the preservation of this musical genre.

Yesterday, she opened her vault (to call it a "box" is misleading and insulting) to share her favorite obscurity. Download the sample I scraped from her vault wall, and see if you recognize who's in there!

 

Great Classics Of Literature Out Th' Ass Dept. - Edika

Edika is something of a comics hero in France, and unfortunately for Four of the Five Guys© his work is mostly in French, as it is here. But the illiterate and unlearned of you will still glean boffo laffs from his insane artwork. It's sexist, racist, human-beingist, and totally crude and vulgar. That's only part of why it's funny.

Clark Gaybeul is the family cat of Edika's revolting, terrible and entirely typical French family. Like Fat Freddy's cat, he gets his own strips from time to time. He interacts (that's the polite word) with humans in a way that F.F.C. cannot. To preserve his modesty, he wears disgusting underpants. Here's a representative albeum of his adventures. If you get caught reading it, tell her you're learning Farangsay!

NON-CONTEXTUAL EMERGENCY INTRUSION: Check Santana comments below

De-Tuning The Firesign Theatre Dept.

Click for small

A while back, I posted an edited version of Phil Austin's *cough* "solo album", Roller Maidens From Outer Space. For the following two reasons: 1) The songs stank up the album. Dull, inessential, pointless, they tainted the rest of what is fine ensemble piece.
B) It qualifies as a Firesign album, because they're all on it, and it sounds exactly like a Firesign album. Ergo - it is what it is.
4) It had the most barfworthy cover of any Firesign album, an !UN-SEE! exercise in wannabe rock star vanity that strengthens the argument for sanding off mens' nipples at birth.

Click for big

Four Or Five Guy© Hazy Dave recently requested a re-up (good to see somebody going through the crates in the crawlspace), and mentioned that the Proctor & Bergman *cough* "solo album" TV Or Not TV also suffers from tuneblight. Now, get this, subscribers - I'd already edited the songs out for my personal consumption. Mere chance? Coincidence? Or Dame Fate playing Whack-A-Mole with our souls? You be the judge.

Anyways, here they both are, de-tuned for optimum performance. The shame and the tragedy of this is that you just don't care. Well, that's you for you, isn't it? Hazy Dave and me are cutting the soles off our shoes.