Wensdy Krumbtacular! Dept.

Say, subscribers - it's been a spell since we made obeisance at th' feet o' Dame Literature! But bettering ourselves is a swell ambition - and who better than R. Krumb to raise our appreciation o' th' Yartz! Yessir! These swell publications shew Man at his Best! And every tale has its edifying moral - perfect bedtime stories for th' little 'uns!

Three Heritage Volumes await your perusal - why not suggest a class reading at your local kindergarten or church social? Remember to take a basket o' homemade hash cakes to sweeten th' deal!

Great Herberts Of Jazz Funk Dept.

 

Man-Child is arguably the least-known of the three core Headhunters albums, which is a damn shame, you ax me. It went like this: the astonishing Headhunters in '73 got everything right - the first jazz album to sell over a million copies. A startlingly brilliant cover by psychedelic poster artist Victor Moscoso didn't hurt.

Thrust, the following year, nailed the funk to the floor. It didn't have the impact of Headhunters - how could it? The sense of it being a follow-up was unavoidable, but it was damn fine, in every way Headhunters' equal, compositionally perhaps superior, and the cover - painted by Robert Springett, who did the less polished Crossings and Sextant covers and Van Morrison's bonkers Hard Nose The Highway - was cosmically delicious - if less iconic. Hancock seems to have a hands-off [clueless? - Ed.] approach to the way his music is packaged, resulting in as many misses as hits. The third in his Headhunters trilogy, '75's Man-Child boasts possibly the worst cover art of his discography [below - Ed.] - and there's some stiff competition. Think it doesn't matter?

First impression: a back-catalog item, pre-dating Headhunters. Designed by Dario Campanile, who also did the cheap-ass disco pimp packaging for Hancock's Sunlight, it has a dated, amateurish look that you'd expect to see on a budget ambient collection. There's a grumpy baby Buddha head stuck in some toxic green surf, bubbles, and mystic Hallmark calligraphy suggesting The Desiderata reproduced in the gatefold. It's butt-ugly, and a piece of shit, and of course it matters. So I spent some quality senior time mocking up an alternative [above - Ed.]. It may not be as fantastic as I think it is, but it fits in the line-up better. Add Flood, the initially Japan-only live double, and you have the Herbiehunters set dressed for successfulness.

Hancock's decision to augment the core band was the right one, giving the album a greater tonal variety. Sales were good, but not spectacular, starting a slide in popularity ended by the genre-bending Future Shock almost a decade later. Man-Child is an addictive, timeless, absurdly enjoyable album. Sugar-rush popping bubblegum funk, with some juicy chromatic harmonica from Stevie Wonder. If it's your first time - hard to believe, but stranger things have happened - snap on your ear goggles, inflate the bass, and parrr-tay!

Are Fronds Electric? Dept.

Four Or Five Guy© Bambi garners a swell trading card for his long-awaited IoF© premiere!

I'm sure [writes Bambi - Ed.] some of the Four Or Five Guys© will be familiar with The Bevis Frond, but I'm betting not all of you. The Bevis Frond is essentially Nick Saloman, who does vocals and plays guitar, bass, drums, and keyboards. He is also the producer and songwriter. Between 1986 and 1990 he recorded and released five albums on a home studio setup, playing it all himself. Although British they are more popular in Germany and Italy than in Britain. 

As a record collector, I would often get the train to London, to check out the great record shops the big city provided. On one visit in 1990 I bought Any Gas Faster by The Bevis Frond, this was it, punky, psychedelic music with most of the songs about four minutes long and I loved it. This their/his sixth album was recorded in a proper studio, with some help from his friends. Soon I was able to buy the earlier albums and many of those that followed, and they were all good, yet none of my friends seemed to know much about them. It is also rare for me to enjoy everything an artist releases, and particularly for over 35 years. Their cult status making them 'my' band, probably has something to do with it.

The Bevis Frond became a touring band in the '90s, with ex-Hawkwind bass player Adrian Shaw being a constant friend and accomplice. Drummers would come and go, but every time they were great live. Now a two guitars, bass and drums band, I hope they return after the current situation eases.

 

So what I hear you say! Well, I really loved Nicks voice, the songs and musicianship are great, and I believe more people would like them if only they had the chance. So I've compiled an hour of tunes, recorded between 1990 and 2000.

 

The first five songs are from the New River Head album from 1991 - this is regarded as one of the best Bevis Frond albums. High in a Flat is from a 7'' single that came with The Bucketful of Brains Fanzine. Hole Song 2 is from the 1997 album North Circular. Busted is a bit of a freakout credited to Scorched Earth from Fed To Your Head 2001. The final four tracks are from a Cliff Richard and the Shadows covers ep released in 1993 featuring Nick's daughter on vocals on one track, and I believe only ever available on vinyl.

 

I hope some of youse enjoy what you hear and investigate the Bandcamp page. Unfortunately on e-bay cd's and vinyl are quite expensive to buy, but I'm sure there will be mp3s on blog or torrent sites for those freeloading bums amongst you. 

 

A T-shirt design what Bambi designed for a T-shirt [left - Ed.]
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's a great concert introduction to the band, and properly filmed for German T.V.:

 

 

If You're Going To Detroit City, Be Sure To Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair Dept. - The Frost

I've ignored The Frost for decades because they're part of that sweaty, bare-chested, hard-rocking, gravel-voiced Michigan scene that passed me by completely, as culturally remote as Melanesian Root Music. I understand the appeal of, say, the Stooges, but I was never front n' center, never gobbled 'ludes, and never held down a real job (or real unemployment) in my life, so that whole scene is pretty much a closed book to me.

Color was made illegal in Michigan just after WWII, when an inexpertly-drafted law was passed and never revoked. "Public display and/or use of pigmentation in any form or media" was the blanket legal term, still in force today. In the late 'sixties, black-and-white T.V. coverage of the West Coast youth movement prompted many a teen to trek beyond the state line, and The Frost were among the first on the bus.

Their first album defines 'sixties psychedelia, from San Francisco dance hall freak-outs to swimmy raga-type trips. But the cover [left - Ed.], none more black at the band's insistence to allow sales in their home state, was totally misleading. If you've been as narrow-minded/discerning as I have, and missed out on this swell Pslab-o-Psych™, pick this up. Quality singing, for one thing, a surprise. Varied songs, for another, and everything as saturated with lysergics as this swell new cover, adapting a forgotten artwork by Rick Griffin, what I done yestiddy.

 

EDIT: A useful compendium of Vanguard psych, Follow Me Down, is added in the comments.

This post made possible thru th' patronage of Hymie's Hummin' Human Hymens©, Ann Arbor - "Th' Home Of Hummin' Hymens!"™

 

 

 

The Psychedelic World Of LeRoy Neiman Dept.

Foam-O-Graph© Beauty With Utility!™

You'll know LeRoy Neiman for two things: being the inspiration for iconic Mad Magazine mascot Alfred E. Neiman, and painting the world's most Artistic paintings! But few know his passion for obscure 'sixties psychedelic albums!

"Obscure 'sixties psychedelic albums? Why, they're my passion!" the Baron of Brushwork said yesterday from his swank bachelor love nest high atop the Veeblefetzer Feed Co. grain silo at Fort Despair, ND. "It all started back in the 'sixties at Hef Hughner's legendary parties at the Playboy Mansion! The most beautiful women in the world! Dressed as rabbits! Because of course they were! Everybody totally tripped out on lab quality acid Timmy Leary got from the C.I.A.! The finest domestic Champagne on tap! Hef used to get all these albums sent to him, and I'd be inspired by the covers to paint some of my most challenging and collectible work! Gee, but they were swell times. Whatever happened to the good times? Haw! I guess we had 'em all! Tough shit on Millennials! Have a cigar!"

This week's pointless eyestraining conundrum is - note bold brushwork on painting behind th' Great Artiste? Note vibrant palette? If you can name album what served as inspiration, leave clew in comments! Don't name album/artiste! Hint, Clint! Allude, dude!

Here's another clue for you all [left - Ed.]!

 

This post made possible by Marmosets For Albania, the Non-Governmental Agency with a mission to encourage Albanians to join the conversation about marmoset-related issues. Visit their website to learn more! marmosetsforalbania.com

 

 

Psychfan's Trip O' Th' Week Dept. - Th' Amon Düüllls!

Amon Düül II

Amon Düül was originally the house band of a radical political commune in Munich, Germany (formed in 1967) that embraced a communtarian spirit when it came to band membership. A core group of the more competent musicians split off to form a band based on a more conventional strategy of vetting band members and Amon Düül II was born.

After signing with United Artists  in 1969 the band recorded several LPs mixing German and English lyrics,  and psychedelic and progressive rock. Renate Knaup provides distinctive female vocals and the quality is pretty consistently good across their albums during this period (Original band Amon Düül itself is another matter).

After 1975 they moved to what was intended to be a more commercial sound, though that didn't seem to have the intended result outside of Germany (and maybe not even there).

A recent discussion of Pink Floyd and space rock led to a mention of Amon Düül II, and the comparison is valid (up to a point). The Best Of The UA Years 1969 - 1974 is a very nicely programmed best-of that will provide all needed reference points.

Holistic Krautrock Yurt Music Dept.

Michael Rother eschews challenging free-form hoodoo of noise-ninjas Amon Küürner to deliver soothing-type sounds ideal for chakra rejuvenation parties, herbal third eye spa mask sessions, or just Sunday morning levitation mat work!

Yes, subscribers, let these swell long-playing L.P.s with their homeopathic doses of melody over mystic washes of sound be your soundtrack to the upcoming global apocalypse!

And if you needed further sales talk, everybody's favorite drummer, "Maestro of Motorik" Jaki Liebezeit is on th' trap stool for both albums, paradiddlin' yer synapses!

Which One's Pink? Dept. - Now With Added Beef!

Were the Floyds a prog band or not? Sometimes lumped in with the Greatcoat Diaspora, they check some of the boxes - songs about elves, Mellotron, side-long tracks - but leave key boxes blank. No fast-slow bits, widdly guitar, librarians' time signatures, dressing up on stage as vegetables (or whatever it was), no "nods to the classics", no cod-medieval minstrelsy, or cod pieces. The Floyds were spacey. Prog is many things - too many things - but the quality of spaciness is not one of them. And when they lost the spaciness, they lost me.

Not you. You love Dark Side and the increasingly manic-depressive albums that followed. But this isn't about you and your Army Surplus rucksack albums. It's about the Pinks' Imperial Period, from that stunning, unprecedented first album through to Meddle. Music, mostly, to lie down to. On Malc's Mum's front room carpet after she'd gone to bed, where we skinned up and followed the Floyds on their trip to the heart of the sun, seeing the universe in the static of the T.V. screen. By Dark Side, it was all over, and the Floyds were once again a pop band, but not in a good way.

Point Me At The Sky was the aborted early collection to be replaced by the dull and wrongly-titled The Best Of The Pink Floyd. You have all the tracks already, because that's the type-guy you are, but this is the best to way to hear the material left off the early albums, a proper "missing album" if ever there was one.

The B.B.C. Archives/Sessions are Primo Pinkness, recorded for the Bakelite Boffins at the B.B.C. with electric microphones and hot tea from an urn. Them wus th' days, eh? Kids today? Cuh!

EDIT: As an added FoamBonus©, this swell live recording from 1970 is now available for grifting in th' comments!

 

This post made possible thru th' ægis of Handy Harv's Collectible Collectibles, Fishpelt, OR. 

Sir Bendigo Wrestles With Women Dept.

Women, eh? 

Some years ago, [writes Sir Bendigo Wonglepong - Ed.] I was in a charity shop in the Cotswolds with Lady W (or Mrs W as she then was, before my ennoblement). I was riffling listlessly through the singles, wondering exactly how many Bellamy Brothers singles were still in the hands of their original owners, when I came across something rather special. It was a copy of Johnny Dankworth’s African Waltz (Columbia 45-DB 4590, 1961, c/w Moanin’).

Now I’m no vinyl fetishist. The family Dansette went to meet its maker (J. & A. Margolin Ltd of London, since you ask) many years ago. I take my music digitally and have done for at least fifteen years. I have no particular love for African Waltz, come to that. But I can’t resist a well-turned single, even though I have no means of playing one. And this one…the vinyl was as black and virginal as the day it came out of the Hayes pressing plant all those years ago. The green label was unsullied by the scrapings of autochanger arms. The original Columbia sleeve, with its multicoloured concentric circles, was in no way dog-eared. It was, in short, mint.

I was gazing at this phenomenon, calculating the odds against it staying in this condition for well over fifty years, when Lady W whipped in and bought it, just like that. ‘Lovely mid-century vibe,’ she said by way of explanation. 

As I followed her out of the shop, she marched over to a bin, took the record out of its sleeve, and dropped it straight in. My howl of pain could have been heard at the other end of the high street. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I hissed. ‘I don’t want the record, do I? I want the sleeve, I’m going to cut it up for an artwork,’ she said unapologetically. 

It’s very rare that I feel the need to speak firmly to Lady W. But although she’s an artist to her fingertips, she is also Australian and therefore lacks historical perspective. Fishing the record out of the bin, thankfully unsullied by its close acquaintance with McDonalds boxes and Tango cans, I gently reunited it with its sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t come over here and destroy our priceless cultural artefacts without so much as a by-your-leave,’ I said. ‘How would you like it if I…’ But who? Slim Dusty? Rolf Harris? Best leave it at that, I thought. 

So I did. She had no idea what I was talking about anyway. The single sits in a box with other singles and will no doubt find its way back to a charity shop when I cark it. Or I could sell it on Discogs for anywhere from 24p to £6. But that’s not the point, is it?

 

 

 

 

Fairy Dust Dept.

 

This was going to be a Blink And You'll Miss It piece, but with the hits it's getting, I'm leaving it up.

 

 

 

 

 

https://workupload.com/file/LmE34GUCd7J

Professor U. U. Gefiltefish Answers Your Questions Dept.

 

Regliar visitors will know The Professor as our "back room boffin" here on th' Isle O' Foam©. He's responsible for autoclaving bloated, rain-forest-destroying 320 rips down to a sustainable, shade-grown and ethically sourced 192. But "Uncle U.U." as he's affectionately known at th' IoF© also has impressively framed fake diplomas in philosophy, accordian repair, gynecology, and bovine husbandry

Left: Cody n' U.U. pitchered poolside, yestiddy!

For the first of what we're sure will be a popular feature featured among our many featured features, we coaxed Cody [28 my ass - Ed.] out of retirement to ax U.U. a question what he is is well-qualified to answer! Cody?

Cody: Hi guys! Wassup!

U.U.: Hi Cody! Which you gots a question-type query to ax of me, sweetcakes?

Cody: (jumping up and down excitedly): Ooh! Ooh! I got one!

U.U.: (chuckling indulgently): Go right ahead, young lady! Uncle U.U. is here to help!

Cody: (wrinkling nose thoughtfully) Uncle U.U. - what is truth? 

U.U.: Truth, Cody, was a rock band back in the 'sixties. Which they released a couple albums.

Cody: Gee, Uncle U.U.! You know, like, everything!

But does he, subscribers? Loaddown these philosophical-type long-playing L.P.s and discover - The Truths!

 

Psychfan's Trip O' Th' Week Dept. - The Churchills

Political events in Israel last week served as a reminder that there are political and cultural divisions there that parallel those in the U.S. and the U.K.That was true 50 years ago as well, as illustrated by this album, recorded in Tel Aviv (the San Francisco of Israel) in 1968.

One of very few psychedelic LPs to be released (at that time) by an Israeli band, it's a winner and was at one time the rarest psych LP in the world.

The tracks alternate between psychedelic and a slightly harder fuzz infused sound that, along with the all English vocals, make them sound like a US West Coast band. A couple of tracks (notably Debka) incorporate a slightly more Middle Eastern sound.

Bonus tracks include covers of Led Zepplin and The Beatles (a version of She's A Woman that rocks pretty hard) as well as a B side called Sunshine Man that is more psychdelic than it's 1970 recording date would indicate.

The band recorded a second album in England in 1971 under the name Jericho Jones. That LP, titled Junkies, Monkeys And Donkeys and also included here, doubled down on the heavy while mixing in some melodic folk rock (oddly, the first two tracks) and retaining some psych flavor here and there. The songs are mostly good, and Haim Romano's strong lead guitar is easily recognizable.

Beatlemania Dept. - The Thirty Shades Of Gray Album

The irony! Just when the Beatles started believing in their own myth, their audience started seeing through it. Magical Mystery Tour arrived on a great blue wave of post-Pepper excitement and good will, which broke into gray scum after a few uncomfortable minutes of viewing time. The backlash was almost universal - the Beatles had at last alienated the Man In The Street and the Man On The Clapham Omnibus. They’d tested the public’s patience with the unsettlingly weird Strawberry Fields Forever and the less whistlable parts of Sgt. Pepper, but this shabby, vaguely unpleasant, and above all ballsachingly boring home movie effectively squandered the affection of a nation. Beatlemaniacs will scoff at this, but we’re not here to pander to fans, who are by nature strangely unbalanced. We’re here to understand why love affairs go sour. 

The Beatles believed they only needed a Super-8 camera and a bunch of C-list pals sitting in a bus and a movie would happen. How hard could it be? They didn’t bother with a script - genius is above such mundane travail - so there is no story. Brilliant! They made a colossal error of hubris by premiering it on primetime television. Had they kept it a private project to screen in their living rooms it could be forgiven, perhaps even loved. But they believed it was a product of Beatle-genius, worthy of national exposure, and cleverly hedged their bets by telling us not to take it seriously. A bit of fun for the Christmas holidays! Fuck us if we couldn't take a joke, right?

Except nobody was laughing. There was nothing remotely fun, or even entertaining, about it. Not a single line has been filed at the quote bank - there’s no “it goes to eleven” here. No scenes are replayed among friends, or even recalled with pleasure. Remember the bit where ...? Nope. Maybe where they’re dressed as animals, miming to I Am The Walrus. Or when someone explodes from over-eating. Oh wait, that’s another movie. It was the first time Beatle fans had to defend their idols, and it was hard going for the most articulate of them. Surrealist, brave, non-conformist, the Liverpool Lads cock a scally snook at the pretentions of cinema as art. Or something.

 

The movie, with its insulting absence of talent, craft, fun, excitement and charm - all signature Beatle qualities to that point - set the stage for an album that bafflingly remains a cornerstone of pop; "The White Album". Magical Mystery Tour was forgotten, maybe forgiven. This was The Big One. Even the title was shouting at us - this wasn't an album by the Beatles, this was an album about the Beatles. The impact it had on release is unimaginable for anyone who wasn’t there. It was a global event. That brilliant, brilliant cover. A double! How revolutionary was that? Well, not very, actually, but hey! They printed the track timings! Wow! That’s really ... uh ...

 

I’d been one of the believers defending the Mystery Tour, even though the sour acid of I Am The Walrus and the miserablist Blue Jay Way, the irritating triteness of the title track and Your Mother Should Know, and the disposability of the instrumental Plodding left only the Clever Paulie song Fool On The Hill to actually like. Hopes that the new album would be a return to form (although that phrase was unheard back then) were put on hold by radio previews. The songs, apart from the throat-slashingly horrible Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da, were stubbornly unmemorable and, crucially, un-fun. Still - this was The Beatles! I’d get up to speed. The spokesmen of a generation were leading us to a new level. I ponied up for the album - about the price of a small family car, as it seemed - and started to learn to live with it. I studied the poster, the portraits and the small print as I listened, like a homework assignment. I could find nothing to love. It was a joyless, depressing thing. I had to be wrong. This was The BEATLES.

 

Although I lacked the courage to voice my doubts, I smelled a rat, and I smelled it from the first seconds of the first tuneless track. Sound effect of a plane? He's just flown in? Well, gee whiz. The song left me baffled. Was it meant to be funny? Satirical? Was the target Chuck Berry, or the U.S.S.R.? The U.S.A.? Fuck knew. Or cared. The strongest radio presence was the cringing knock-off ska of Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da, covered by twinkling teenybop popsters The Tremeloes. Or was it bouncing bubblegum combo The Marmalades? Whatever. It was another Stupid Paulie song that not even a Joe Cocker could - or would want to - save. Ska was not their only smirking musical affectation. There was the not-even Yer Blues, the Clumsy Rock Helter Skelter, the Simpering Twenties Honey Pie, the cod psychedelic Glass Onion, the uneasy-listening Good Night, the potting shed C&W Rocky Racoon and Don't Pass Me By, and so on and on and on. Nothing was real. And the songs that weren't half-assed stylistic gestures were just ... half-assed. I'm So Tired, Happiness Is A Warm Gun and others fell into a listless torpor, musically uninspired, and lyrically about nothing - because the Beatles' contempt for the writing process (cf Magical Mystery Tour) led them to believe that the first words that came into their muddled heads were good enough - poetry, even! Harrison's shrewish world-view, as always, extended as far as his bank statement - Piggies was yet another ugly sixth-form whine about his tax dollar putting bacon on the tables of the decadent rich. Still - nice to be reminded of a time when billionaires actually paid taxes.

 

The material was partly written at The Maharishi’s Meditation Camp, and we can imagine the nurturing atmosphere, perfect for song-writing; planeloads of spoiled Western pop stars, WAGs, scenesters and spiritual pilgrims (saintly Mia Farrow!), all sitting painfully cross-legged, struggling to control the eventful vegetarian diet, while Ugly Bearded Guy mumbles into his love beads. The Beatles, to their credit, fell out of love with the greasy-eyed slob pretty rapidly, but their *cough* search for inner peace was symptomatic of end-of-the-decade malaise, the overriding mood of the Gray Album. The Beatles, the ’sixties, everything was falling apart, and nobody wanted to admit it. Their retirement from live performance, because the poor dears “couldn’t replicate the sound of their records” (something that didn't seem to bother any other band on the planet) was the beginning of the end. They'd always been hot-wired to what was happening on the street, supernaturally adept at appropriating an idea so quickly it looked like their own. Now, they locked themselves away in their pig-sty manor houses and stared at the bathroom tiles for inspiration. Blank white squares.

 

In the absence of inspiration and experimentation we got ... reference points. Fans love this, claiming it to be the first (finger-waggle) "post-modern" pop album. It may well be. But it was not clever enough, or too clever by half, a sterile vacuum rather than bubbling cauldron. Who gives a shit about "post-modernism" except "post-modernists"? And who gives a shit about them? A very few songs escaped through the Irony Curtain, their sincerity intact. Mother Nature’s Son is sheerly lovely. Julia wins - barely, on points - its fight against mawkishness. Clapton clearly hadn't read the memo, his guitar wailing passionately instead of gently weeping. Gently fucking weeps?? Jesus wept.

 

It’s the cookie-cutter Glass Onion that tells the story. The psychedelic effects were already, in ’69, quotes from the past. Beatle History 101: “I told you ‘bout Strawberry Fields ...” Stop right there. John is telling us he told us. That distance - self-referential, "post-modern" - pervades this melody-dodging shopping list of a song, and the entire album. There’s nothing remotely as direct and dazzling as Strawberry Fields Forever or Penny Lane. Nothing as thrilling as A Hard Day’s Night. As heartfelt as Help. As compassionate as Eleanor Rigby. The Beatles were history, and "The White Album" is their Coles Notes.

 

Nobody wants to admit a love affair - a marriage - is over. Relationships are dragged into the shit because we don't want to let go. The Beatles were waist deep and we willingly followed in their wake, in denial of the stink. The scuttlebutt was that the album was recorded mostly solo (sorry - soli) because all the evidence pointed towards it; the music-biz gossip and tabloid tattle of breaking up, the scatter-shot lack of direction (sorry - dizzying eclecticism), the separate mugshots. And here’s another clue for you all - the trash-thrown-on-the-floor poster. All this told us what we didn't want to know but knew already.

 

The recent cash cow box set spun a different story for the suckers. Jolly Giles Martin decided the sessions were warm and fuzzy, a real team effort, the lads on a creative roll and having fu-un in the studio. Maybe - we weren’t there, but neither was he. Scag-panda Yoko Ono was, though - nobody’s idea of a good idea, except her smacked-up husband's. Geoff Emerick and Ringo Starr both walked out of the sessions. How toxic do things have to get for Ringo to walk out? Paulie bitching about his drumming, that's how. Giles Goat Boy’s happy revisionism is nothing but marketing strategy - reassess this timeless classic in a fun new light! As with the yoks-free Mystery Tour, there’s no evidence of brotherly (or sisterly) love in the grooves. "The White Album" is Thirty Shades Of Gray.

 

For the first time, nobody played a Beatles album from beginning to end. Its unendurable length (sorry, its epic scope) is another clue. They knew they couldn’t come up with another Pepper, so they kept flinging shit at the wall. Didn't know where to start, or when to stop. The hubris that fueled the Mystery Tour is given free rein. There’s an entire album’s worth of filler in there - Even Beatle Shit Stinks. It’s a popular fan exercise to try to construct the single album it might have been (the Doll’s House), but none of them works because there simply isn’t enough material to make a great single album. Godammit, there isn’t enough to make a great single.

 

Meanwhile, out in the real world, the Rolling Stones confronted the times head-on with Beggar’s Banquet, a blast of honest, unironic, and uncompromisingly adult music beyond the scope of the Beatle-babies in their sound-proofed playpen. The Stones stayed together and went on to shape the 'seventies, while the Fabs broke apart in cat-fight spite and sobbing sulks. Cry baby cry - you're old enough to know better.

 

I wrestled with this four-headed monster until I believed in it. I indoctrinated myself, and treasured my original lo-number mono and stereo vinyls, bestowing on them a liturgical status, beyond criticism. I came late - but not too late - to the realisation that my first impressions were on the money. Falling out of love with the Fab Four was a long and mostly unconscious process, but now I'm down to four (or five) albums I occasionally listen to. "The White Album" was first for the dumpster fire. I loved 'em back then, but I don't pore over old love letters and photographs of ex-girlfriends. When you’re in love (as millions still are with the luvverly lads) you’re blind to faults. You believe in being in love. Belief frees you from having to think and see and question and doubt. The Beatles are a religion with an enduring recorded scripture, but forget about the Second Coming - their happy clappers haven’t accepted the First Going. The Thirty Shades Of Gray Album is both holy text and temple for the faithful, but for the Man In The Street, the Man On The Clapham Omnibus, and The Man Who Fell To Earth after years in the ozone of romance ... it stinks.

Jordan Alexander [who he? - Ed.] gushes over the Emperor's New Clothes ...

 

“The greatest record ever made, not only in terms of its innovation and its strange, impenetrable, endlessly suggestive beauty but also because of its place at the apex of the Beatles’ career and its role as an aesthetic keystone for nearly all the rock-and-roll recordings that have followed"

... and Nik Cohn sees right through them:

 

“Boring beyond belief.”

Who's Between Myra's Thighs? Dept.

It's Tub Time! Which means "time for fun" as Mrs. Myra Nussbaum relaxes in bosom bud Liberace's luxurious chamber of ablutions [Eng. - salle de bain - Ed.]!

But who's responsible for that soapy 12" popping up between her thighs? Recognize today's lucky artistes and win swell long-playing L.P. record!

How to play this grand all-new game? Why, it's as easy as Sunday morning!

😳 Study above Foam-O-Graph©, paying special attention to area between Myra's legs!

😳 Leave smart-type clew in comments! Don't name artiste or album directly! Allude to identity thru clever use of literary devices! Don't give freeloadin' confreres benefit of lifetime wasted on knowing shit like this!

And that's all there is to it, subscribers! Are we having fun yet? You bet! 

 

 

 

The Filth, The Fun, And The Mystic Pyramid Of William Harkin Dept.

Hauntingly evocative Foam-O-Graph© taken on the ley line between consciousness and desire!

 

The iconic (wupes - I said iconic - too late to edit out) pyramid stage for the second Glastonbury Festival (yclept Fair) was positioned on Michael Eavis' farm at the point where the dowsing wands crossed over a blind spring, because 1971. Bill Harkin's stage design was a one-tenth scale replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza, and although it has to be said one pyramid looks pretty much like another, his research into the proportions and positioning is impressive. Bill wisely eschewed stonework, opting for scaffolding and sheet metal. You really do have to rush over here to read his story. I'm not kidding with this. It's a great insight into how counter-culture worked, bringing people together to create something bigger than the constituent parts [holism - Ed.], and incorporating Arcane Knowledge of the Ancient Mystics. Only don't tell 'em we sent you - Old Hippies can get suprisingly litigious if they find you giving away their free festival.

Today's absurdly generous offering made possible thru th' ægis of Lupine Assassin and Altoid, in whose path we strew the rose petals of Heliogabalus.

 

 

Archie Valparaiso Explains Dept. - Why Bob Dylan Is Shit

Put your hands together, youse bums, for longtime lurker and blushing wallflower Archie Valparaiso, who pops his IoF© cherry (about fucking time, Arch) with this nuanced and timely piece about some folk singer from the 'sixties. Clutch your pearls, girls! 

 

The Shamrat of India, Broadway Parade, Crouch End, London N8, mid-to-late ’80s, a wet Tuesday evening in late winter. If we’re being picky, the slop factor of their saag aloo arguably fell on the wrong side of the line, but the place was only a short walk from home - ideal for a why-the-hell-not takeaway - and all the other checklist essentials were just as they should be. The blood-red flock wallpaper. The cumin-heavy air. The big velvet painting of the Dumbo-headed deity on the back wall. The too-many young waiters in their white nylon shirts and flappy black pants, with nothing to do except wait for their moustaches to grow.

 

As was the norm for a midweek night, the joint was anything but jumping. Three guys were chatting and passing the chutney to and fro at the table right behind me, while I perched awkwardly on a too-tall bar stool and snapped a courtesy poppadom, waiting for my order to be boxed and bagged up. How did we kill time before we all had phones for moments like this? Glance around at this and that, I suppose. Soak up the vibe. The pile of plastic-coated menus the size of pulpit bibles on the corner of the counter? Logged. The spike for cheques next to the battleship-grey NCR till? Duly registered. That’s the visible covered; what about the audible? As a regular, I was well practised at tuning out the piped adult-oriented raga, so the murmur of conversation from the table behind me had all my attention. The topic seemed to be music in general and heavy metal in particular. One of the voices stood out, though, triggering a full-on multiple-synapse memory alarm. American, definitely, and that tell-tale nagging, drawling, raspy whine was ... no, it can’t be. No way. I span [spun? - Ed.] slowly and uneasily on my stool, oh so casually, to check out my ridiculous hunch. 

Bob Dylan was picking at his biriani, sitting opposite Dave “Trotsky Beard” Stewart and a younger guy. I remembered how the Eurythmic was said to have converted an old church just around the corner into a recording studio, so the surrealism of the moment was offset by a certain logic. As for the other guy? No idea. The tape op, maybe? 

In my peripheral vision - it’s rude to stare - I clocked with approval that Bob Dylan was cosplaying Eighties Dylan to perfection: the cloud of auburn curls, the black leather jacket, the messy white muslin scarf. The two on the other side of the table leaned forward a couple of inches. The Prophet had a point to make. 

“Heavy metal? They grow out of it. It’s just a phaaaase.” (You did the voice in your head as you were reading that, right?) 

“Your order, sir.” What? Oh, yes, sorry. I paid and left, swinging my steaming plastic bag like a priest with his smoking censer. Don’t look back. Bob Dylan Live at the Local Tandoori. Tangled up in ghee. 

Rewind about a decade. Recently arrived in London, I was living the life: holed up alone in a tiny Earls Court bedsit with rising damp and an uncooperative gas meter, chain-listening to Bob Dylan. I owned all the albums up to and including the newly released Street Legal - even Self Portrait, more fool me. And that night the man himself would be performing at the exhibition centre across the road for the first time in the UK since the “Judas” tour, ’twas-in-another-lifetime ago. I’d managed to scrape together the cash to bag tickets for every gig, six nights straight, with just enough left over for the Blackbushe bash with Clapton & Co. later that summer. 

It was a religious experience. A foretaste of the Rapture. Even though the acoustics were dreadful (no surprise for a concrete hangar built to house motor shows), even though all the gigs were practically carbon copies of the first night, even though that Scarlett woman’s Stuka screech of a violin was a regrettable error of artistic judgement, even though the setlist bafflingly eschewed “Visions of Johanna”, and even though our hero’s interaction with the audience was limited to announcing the interval by repeating night after night, word for word, “We’ll be right back; I gotta make a telephone call,” who cares? It’s Bob Dylan, crysake. He didn’t need to talk to us, because his art spoke to us – it spoke for us. 

Since then, it’s been downhill all the way for Bob and me. For our relationship, I mean. Our thing. I made it as far as Slow Train Coming before I found myself listening to each of his new releases in full before I was ready to decide whether to splash out on buying the thing. Without my noticing, a new Dylan album had become just an album, like any other album by any other artist, to be judged on its actual merits rather than as an article of faith. And those merits proved to be ever fewer and far-betweener as the years rolled by. 

Fast-forward to 1999. Well, whaddya know? Bob Dylan was coming to play a show in my adopted hometown in Spain, and a friend who worked for the promoters got me guest-listed up. Was I thrilled? Not exactly. Would I have gone if I’d had to queue up and pay for the tickets? Maybe, for old time’s sake, but maybe not. 

Little had changed in the twenty-year interim since the last time I’d seen him, at Blackbushe, and nothing had changed for the better. Having left the leather-’n’-muslin look behind not long before, he was now decked out like a Lithuanian production designer’s idea of what an Albuquerque undertaker might look like. The sound was even worse than Earls Court, the arrangements were generic mid-tempo background Americana, the vocals were a monotonous drone with a weird upspeaky note tacked onto the end of every line, making most of the songs unrecognisable (Play “Visions of Joanna”, Bob! He already did, pal), and he didn’t say a word all evening - not even a paltry mumbled thank you to acknowledge the inexplicable applause, let alone any kind of cute telephone-call spiel to connect with the kids. It was, no question about it, the most disgraceful, fuck-you live performance by a major artist I’ve ever attended - and, yes, I’ve seen Van Morrison. The last vestiges of my once-burning faith were being tested to the limit. 

Five years or so later, Chronicles: Volume One was published, to be met, inevitably, with awed critical acclaim. That’s when the long-creaking-under-the-strain levee finally broke for me. This was partly because when I read the book I was irked no end by the apparent lack of any copyediting whatsoever - “He’s a poet; don’t you dare change a comma,” I assume the internal meeting must have gone - but what finally made me turn my back on the holy cause was Bob Dylan’s cheatin’ heart. His prose was found to be pebbledashed with phrases he’d stolen, like a sugar-rushing jackdaw, from an improbably diverse variety of original sources. He not only heisted Hemingway, mugged Mark Twain and hijacked Jack London, but he also filched and pilfered at will from Sax Rohmer’s Fu-Manchu potboilers. He even saw fit to describe someone’s desk by lifting, practically word for word, a lengthy description he’d found in an encyclopedia of desks cleverly titled An Encyclopedia of Desks. 

His paintings follow the same metatextual, ahem, approach to repurposing, ahem, creative content. For every Cartier-Bresson photograph he’s daubed in oils, supposedly depicting a scene from his own “travels in Asia”, you can find some backpacker’s holiday snap that he’s purloined from Pinterest and painted over, just because he can. 

Keen to squeeze every last bit of potential from his M.O., he even blagged chunks of text about Moby-Dick from some SparkNotes website when he was forced to give a Nobel Prize (!) acceptance speech. You know, as one does. Well, maybe as one does if one is a teenager with an unwritten assignment to hand in tomorrow. 

Dylan with Dave van Ronk, 1962. The photographer's focus tells the whole story

Bob Dylan is a fraudster, a phony, a charlatan, a conman, a grifter, an empty vessel, a plagiarist on an industrial scale and a lazy-ass liar. Like the proverbial asylum inmate, he’s the self-identified Napoleon, in rags or dressed to the nines. He’s both the joker and the thief. 

But so what? That’s not the point. He’s Dylan - in italics, like Che is Che or Mother Teresa (another chancer) is Mother Teresa. He moves in mysterious ways, his blunders to perform. And, anyway, isn’t it all about the form, not the content? The how, not the what? 

Let’s review the evidence.

Lyrically, even at his peak (generally accepted as having been his mid-’60s three-album run from Bringing It All Back Home to Blonde on Blonde, with Blood on the Tracks as a tardy afterthought) he was little more than a run-of-the-mill post-beatnik who riffed on random snippets of sub-Symbolist imagery for shits and giggles. A poundshop Rimbaud or a budget Baudelaire. Do you view life or loss or truth or justice or love or - cough - theft any differently because of the insights you’ve gained from a Bob Dylan lyric? Me neither. (If you actually do, congratulations; the comments they are a-waitin’.) He can turn a tidy phrase from time to time, I’ll grant you, but, shit, so can Tim Rice. 

Musically, he’s a klutzy joke, as cackhanded as Lou Reed or any Sex Pistol. (For hilarious proof of this, watch the YouTube videos of his attempts to master his part during the recording session for “We Are The World”, as even Quincy Jones goes down with an acute case of the awes in the Holy Presence, finding himself incapable of uttering the all-too-obvious words: “Just get your goddamn act together, man.”) 

Instrumentally, even on a good day he’s a bedroom guitar player, with a sense of metric structure so wayward that in live performance, with no producer on hand to have a discreet word, you’re as likely to get a middle seven or a middle nine as a middle eight. His melodies are unremarkable and mostly forgettable, his chord changes are hackneyed and predictable, and his whole approach to songwriting is derivative at best and out-and-out thievery at worst. (If you think I’m overstating my case, check out Paul Clayton’s “Who’s Gonna Buy You Ribbons?” and you won’t think twice again, alright?)

Vocally, he’s certainly got a characteristic timbre - no argument there - but so does, say, Tom Waits, yet try to imagine Tom Waits pitching an album of old Sinatra songs or Yuletide ditties to his record company. 

So how the hell has Bob Dylan, after six decades and despite all the shameless chicanery and musical mediocrity outlined above, managed to retain his bulletproof status as Dylan? What’s with the enduring hagiography? It’s simple. He hit lucky. He was plucked from the pack in the early-’60s folk boom to be the one who’d receive the juiciest recording contract and the concomitant PR hard sell. It could have been Dave van Ronk we’re revering to this day and chucking all the Pulitzers and Nobels at (if he’d lived), but it happened to be Bob Dylan who drew the golden ticket. It wasn’t long before everybody who was anybody was covering “Blowin’ in the Wind”, so he rode the zeitgeist to the max - as we certainly didn’t say then - and then he dug in his spurs and rode on as the movement formerly known as protest morphed into hippiedom and beyond. 

Leonard Cohen, Paul Simon, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Jackson Browne, Tom Waits, Bruce Springsteen ... a good few singer-songwriters are just as deserving as Bob Dylan of being anointed as The One, but they all emerged too late. The king had already been crowned and he wasn’t about to abdicate his throne.  

Bob Dylan was, and for many people apparently still is, the poster boy with nothing of any particular note to say for those with nothing of any particular note to think or feel. He encouraged his reputation as the enigmatic and unfathomable genius because there was precious little there to fathom. But for the once-faithful members of the flock like me to openly admit to that now would be to recognise that we allowed ourselves to be duped like gullible rubes. Nobody forced us. We don’t even have that excuse. We gulped down the tincture in the “Drink Me” bottle of our own volition, swallowing every last drop of that heady, addictive brew, in blissful denial of what had been - or should have been - staring us in the face since about 1964: that the Great Wizard was just a little guy behind a curtain with a panel full of knobs and levers, which he’s still pushing and pulling sixty years down the line. Hey, wouldn’t you, if the shtick still works? 

I’m out. I scaled the perimeter fence and abandoned the compound. Now I feel much the same way I imagine an ex-Moonie or a renegade Scientologist must feel. So, how does it feel? Well, it’s a bit embarrassing to confess that I once tumbled so willingly, heavily and unsuspectingly into the embrace of the ultimate long con, but, hey, we all make mistakes. Mostly it feels great. Liberating. A burden lifted. I heartily recommend it. You shall be released.

Archie Valparaiso is Master Of Quoits on the games deck of luxury cruise liner The Hastings Banda, proud flagship of prestigious Cruise Bargains n' Containers™ line. Why has it taken him two furshlugginer years to ink screed for th' IoF©? "My role as Master of Quoits is both demanding and rewarding, leaving little time for yarn-spinning, and anyway fuck you," he yelled yesterday from Number Three Hold.

Isle O' Foam Newsdesk Dept. - Lazy Assed Bum Awarded Honorary Gum Card

 

Clickbait Babes Sez: "Hi-Fi Enthusiasts! Join Our Lively Conversation!"

FT3 looks on condescendingly as Foamettes® get sticky fingerprints, sand, all over his vinyls, yesterday.

Who doesn't like to brag about their Hi-Fi system! Do you have Stereo? Auto-change? Can you spin discs at 16rpm? Or do you do what so many of the Young People™ are doing and "tweet" your tunes out of a telephone? Why? 

The reason I bring up this timely and compelling topic is that I've had something of a life-changing experience. Please take the time to read this heartwarming and gently amusing piece, and why not add your comment in the space provided! If I've interrupted your daily bowl of gruel, or electrode shock therapy treatment, do come back later when you've been wiped down with a damp cloth and "join in the fun"!

Back in Europe, an age ago, I had a mid-to-high level separates system for my enviably hip collection of C.D.s and long-playing vinyl "L.P.s". Speakers hand-made by some French bloke in Paris, who knew what he was doing. Respected brand turntable, amp (not valve), C.D. player. Then all that had to go, because I needed the cash for my permanent relocation on this planet. For maybe a decade, my home music experience has been delivered from iTunes via external speakers plugged into my Mac [personal computer - Ed.]. I use a T.V. speaker set, big woofer behind the screen, treble pods to either side, and I recently discovered Boom 3D, a utterwy bwilliant app that turbo-boosts sound and makes you feel like an idiot for missing out on it so long. Believe me - this is not just another irritating limiter/tone control (like they give you on a Mac). It's audio Viagra, a quantum improvement in quality and volume. It enables you to tweak the 32 band (!) equaliser on the fly for the album you're listening to, which makes sense, as they were all recorded individually, and one standard setting will inevitably be a compromise. So I've been very happy. Until ...

I bought an entry-level (but smarter than me) Samsung phone, pushed in a S.D. chip, and, after a little beady-eyed research, downloaded the music player Musicolet, in spite of its confidence-draining name and shit icon. It's free, although it seems a damn shame not to throw currency at the guys who made it, because it's everything iTunes is not, and sounds ... sensational. It's made my iPod cringe with shame. And that was with J.B.L. buds, on a string with a plug. Which I thought were pretty nifty until I impulse-purchased a pair of ...

RealMe Buds Air 2 [me neither - Ed.]. I'm in Hi-Fi Heaven©. Short of sitting in front of a high-end system, this is the best music quality I've ever enjoyed. They come with an app, which makes most of the sound processing in Musicolet unnecessary. Couple all that with a hidden treasure on my phone - Dolby Atmos - and color me astonished. I'm hearing albums almost for the first time, and I can understand why audio nuts use overheated prose in their attempts to describe the indescribable. 

Th' Foamettes© [above - Ed.] want to know how the Four Or Five Guys listen to their elpees! Satisfy their girlish curiosity with a comment!