Taylor Swift's Lumpy Gravy

 

Image created by my own factory-fit artificial intelligence

 

One [grammar - Ed.] has to be very careful when invoking Taylor Swift's name. There are some very strange people out there and they bristle like warthogs if they suspect you're not a Ta-Ta Believer. And there's none stranger than Swiftie Dad™. My only opinion of Ms. Swift's music is that the little I've heard doesn't strike me as exceptional or even interesting, and that's as far as I need to take it. But that's already way over the line for Swiftie Dad™, who sees her in a Messianic light, capable of miracle healing, bonding families, and above all being above all criticism, both as a person and artist. This writer [Rolling Stone Magazine-style authorial modesty - Ed.] wonders what Frank would have made of Swiftie Dad™ - a song, at least. Ever the contrarian, he may well have expressed admiration for Swift herself in some ambiguous way, perhaps praising her public image engineering and steely business acumen. I doubt her music would be of much interest - it's neither dumb enough nor smart enough.

It's like sex, drugs and rock n' roll without the sex, drugs and rock n' roll

But there's one thing I can say with confidence about the toothsome Taylor: she will boost the page hits of this otherwise boilerplate piece exponentially, even without her permafrost Stepford smile used as chickbait. I'm hoping it attracts chicks ("Dude! This is 2024!") because th' IoF©'s resident population is trending like China's - it's a Stale, Male And Pale Pride Parade. So to all you Taylorbabes popping your IoF© cherries ("Dude! This is 2024!"), th' IoF© bids a warm welcome! Come sit over here with Fwiendly Gwampy Farq while he raps about Frank! Who he? Why, he be like our own Bizarro Taylor Swift back when music was totally created to PISS OFF our parents! O, M, &G!

I need this shirt more than life itself

Lumpy Gravy is a sneaky little sucker, ain't it? It snuck out in '68, two months after the epochal We're Only In It For The Money (as a kind of Part Deux) and everybody be like WTF??? LOL!!! Later that same year he "dropped" - Jesus Fucking Christ dropped - Cruising With Reuben And The Jets, another album that was seen as a side project, even though nobody used the term back then, and could in itself be seen as Part Trois of Money, making a tasty triple-decker of zircon-encrusted American Cheese. That's three perfectly-formed albums in a year, Millennials and Genwhatevs! He didn't take a five-year hiatus in a Mennonite log cabin to work through personal issues of loss, bereavement, and mental health battles, he stayed on the road and in the studio, making music. What a fucking Boomer.

Only thirty-two minutes long, Lumpy crammed in enough ideas to fuel an entire career. But it definitely wasn't a pop album, and it wasn't remotely classical in spite of the orchestrals. It wasn't rock n' roll, jazz or avant garde or easy listening, although all those tropes are present. It was, finally, only categorisable as Contemporary Music. And amazingly, against all the odds, it remains so. A dizzying collage of field recordings, improvised narration, sound effects, scored orchestral interludes, jaunty themes set to teen-friendly beats and ersatz jazz stylings, every brief mood is abruptly smacked into another in a continuously disruptive but coherent listening experience. That was quite a sentence, wasn't it? Would you like a snack?

Most pop enthusiasts who venture beyond Hot Rats into ZappaWorld© eventually list Lumpy in their Top Ten. Every play reveals some delightful and heretofore under-appreciated musical morsel. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

Thank you, Frank.

You Can Call Me Al Dept. - The Beach Boys 15 Big Ones

 

Way back in January last year, I posted a piece entirely created by AI. and asked what you thought was going on. After a few comments that missed the mark, someone guessed the image was AI, but the text passed the test. Nobody got that the whole thing was artificially generated from prompts by bots. To be fair, AI images and text weren't as widely used as they are now - this may have been one of the first blog pieces to be created by algorithms - one of the many Blog Firsts initiated by th' groundbreaking IoF©!

With the advances in AI capability, it's time to try the exercise again, to the same prompts. The difference is immediately apparent. The image, at first glance, looks like a real album. A shit design, maybe a Russian knock-off, it doesn't stand up to more than a moment's examination. But the improvement over the first attempt [left - Ed.] is startling. For one, the group name and album title is spelled correctly, which was absolutely beyond dumbass AI back then. For another, the font is a slightly warped Cooper Black, as used on the Pet Sounds cover. There are six members of the group, so they've reinstated Bruce for the album, which is a thoughtful gesture, even if it makes the Olympic Rings a tad inaccurate.

The text is an improvement, too. There's more detail, and it's more authoritative. It could be a typically anodyne review written by (say) an Allmusic or Rolling Stone reviewer. There's nothing brilliantly perceptive or original or witty about it, no sense of character, idiosyncrasy, or insight, but it's perfectly acceptable internet-corporate content for the undemanding phone gazer.

We'll do this again in another 20 months - if we're still around - and see how we stand. Be afraid. Be very afraid. We can shrug it off, but unlike AI use in music, its appropriation by evildoers to form opinions and incite action seems nothing but bad news. What, me worry?

 

 

AI Album Review: 15 Big Ones by The Beach Boys

Released in 1976, 15 Big Ones marked a significant moment for The Beach Boys, primarily because it marked the return of Brian Wilson to a more central role in the band’s recording process after years of being largely absent due to personal struggles. The album features a blend of classic pop standards and new compositions, and while it doesn’t achieve the critical acclaim of their earlier groundbreaking works, it offers a nostalgic look at their musical roots, mixed with the distinctive Beach Boys charm.

One of the most interesting aspects of 15 Big Ones is its dual nature. Nearly half the album is composed of cover versions of 1950s and 60s pop standards, with tracks like “Rock and Roll Music” (a Chuck Berry cover) and “In the Still of the Night” giving the group a chance to revisit the music that originally inspired them. While these covers may not be as innovative as their earlier material, there’s a sense of fun and energy, as if the band is rediscovering the joy of making music, with Brian Wilson’s production touches subtly evident.

On the other hand, the album’s original compositions are a mixed bag. Songs like “It’s O.K.” and “Had to Phone Ya” feel like attempts to merge their past sound with more contemporary sensibilities, but they don’t quite reach the same emotional depth or complexity of their peak period. Still, these tracks show glimpses of the Wilson brothers’ songwriting magic, especially when harmonies soar as they did in their heyday.

Brian Wilson’s return is, of course, the headline here. His presence on 15 Big Ones is palpable, but it's clear he's still finding his footing after years of absence from the band's creative process. His vocals are rawer, and his arrangements less polished than fans of Pet Sounds might expect. But there’s an undeniable emotional weight to his return, as though he’s trying to regain his place both within the band and in the musical world.

While 15 Big Ones isn’t among The Beach Boys’ best albums, it holds a certain charm, especially for longtime fans. It’s a nostalgic mix of old and new, with the band revisiting their roots while Brian Wilson steps back into the spotlight. Though not a return to form, it's a testament to the enduring spirit of a group that helped define a generation of music.

August Darnell - The Suit Is Zoot And The Pants Ain't Nuthin' But Pleat

August struts his stuff at th' IoF© Tiki Disco, last nite!

The Great Pleat Wars were dark times on th' Iof©. There was hatred. Contumely and rancor. Guys what was once pals turned on each other like feral dogs. It all started *FX HARP GLISSANDO* back when I defended Mike - he's always Mike to me - Nesmith's sartorial stragedy for the covers of Perfect Ten Infinite Rider On The Big Dogma, and The Newer Stuff. He sported a gentlemanly trouser, correctly pleated and supported by an elegant narrow belt, teamed with a wifebeater vest. Okay, I lied about the vest. But that would have elicited more muted passions from th' 4/5g© than the casual slax. The pleat, it seemed, was a crime only slightly less grievous than torching orphanages.

So - welcome, please, the Panjandrum Of Pleat, August Darnell! I can do two things at this point; rewrite extracts from his wiki page to make it seem I'm a fount of knowledge, or post a link to that page. Both seem too labor-intensive, so I'm opting for the third thing - leave the research to you lazy-ass bums. It's worth a couple of minutes of your precious time. Go ahead and soak your feet instead, if that's what you want to do, ya slob.

Under-vaunted quasi-genius? Probably. He threw everything into a Hell's Kitchen cauldron and whipped up a funky spicy stew with global appeal - the guy had hits. Plus! There was a Homeric concept behind the albums that makes Wagner look like the clueless hack he was; the epic search for lost Mimi ("me me") and the adventures he encountered traveling through a mythic land (New York). So - mind-boggling literacy, tunes out th' ass, and an utterly contemporary sound that owed as much to Cab Calloway as ska, disco, reggae, and funk.

For the sake of transparency, I should point out that slax (and polo shirts, and deck shoes, and white sox) have always repelled me; I have never knowingly rocked a pleated pant. But I defend the right of those whose sartorial preferences lean that way. We are a broad church, it is not for us to judge, and I urge restraint from commenters lest needless offence be caused. Thank you.

TH' SID SLAW SURVEY™

PLEASE TAKE A FEW SECONDS TO COMPLETE THIS SURVEY! YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US!

- Did you read the entire piece? #Y for yes, #N for no.

- Are you reading this right now? #Y yes, #N no.

- Would you like to see more content about tailoring details? #Y yes, #N no.

Score ten points for each YES answer, and minus 1,239.37 for each NO. If you scored TEN or more, let us know in the comments! You may be entitled to a grand *THREE ALBUM* freeload!! OBOY!!

 

 

You Can Call Me Al Dept.

 

"There's No Way We Can Do This" - The Doors Movie That Never Was

Reconstruction by FMF© Art Department Of Art Dept.

 

The Strip was a movie that never made it into the camera, leave alone the movie houses. Chris Kelso was a student at the UCLA Film School at the same time (a year above) Ray Manzarek. I found out about Chris and his Doors project through contacts I made at UCLA when working on the go-nowhere movie of my novel Helium. After an exchange of emails we spoke on Skype, Chris from his home in Spokane.

You were friends with Ray Manzarek?

We weren't what you'd call friends exactly. I never warmed to Jim, and he kinda went with the package. But Ray had the ideas, he was an interesting guy. Krieger I knew, he dated my sister a couple times. I can't remember ever meeting the other guy ...

John Densmore?

But I guess he was around. It was a very ... fluid situation back then.

So how did you get the idea for the movie?

We all had these student projects, these little movies we worked on like we were big time movie directors. They were mostly terrible, pretentious home movies, and we sat in director chairs at screenings and bulshitted. They've appointed an archivist to locate and restore these movies, can you believe it? Ray gave them my first draft, the later movie that never got made, and they got in touch. Crazy waste of time. But anyway, my little auteur masterpiece was called The Strip, and it was just cutups, found footage, footage I shot walking the streets, random crap. Based around Sunset Strip, on the Strip.

So it didn't feature The Doors in any sense.

It didn't feature anybody. A lot of blurred faces and artistic angles. Oh - I set fire to a trash can. That was the big statement.

But you resurrected the idea later, after they got big.

I thought I could leverage some of their record money, yeah. I wasn't a rock star. So I worked up a treatment and called Ray and said I got this movie about the Doors, The Strip. And we met and I did a pitch, just like back in school, we were kind of playacting. Stoned, too. He liked the story - such as it was.

So what was it?

The story? Morrison gets busted, banned from performing, thrown in jail, you know, creatively crucified by a brutal society, and the other three try to get him out, with the help of all these characters on the Strip. I didn't go into too much detail, I didn't have that much detail, but I remember the soundtrack album idea was attractive to him for some reason. He liked that better than the movie, I think. It would feature the Doors without Morrison, who'd be on the cover symbolically silenced by a Band-Aid over his mouth, like an X, you know, censorship. Ray reckoned not using the Doors name would let him bypass the Elektra contract, soundtracks weren't covered in his contract. A kind of side hustle without his label or agent skimming the take. We had a few more meetings when I'd worked up the first draft, and he gave me a tape of the soundtrack he'd been working on, which came as a surprise. He asked me to retitle the numbers - Morrison had been entirely stripped out of The Strip, it was all instrumental, base them on scenes in the movie, so I did that and we met again and by then I was pretty hyped, it looked like it was taking shape, but actually during this meeting, at the Brown Derby for some reason, a really square place. Red Skelton was at the next table, this big painting of a clown propped up in the chair next to him. Strange town. Anyway, a waiter brings Ray a table phone and he takes a call and looks pissed. He's not talking much, the occasional uh huh, and he puts the phone down and looks at me, shaking his head. That was Jac. There's no way we can do this, it's a mess, and Jim's changed his mind. And he got up and left. I had to pick up the check. Just another Hollywood story. It gave me a good reason to get out of town, anyway. And I met my wife on the bus, and that wouldn't have happened unless the movie didn't. I'm on my own now.

..........

Listening to the soundtrack album today, I'm struck first of all by how well it stands up with no vocals. There's always something interesting happening. And I'm struck by how perfect a soundtrack it would have made for one of those cheesy hippie-sploitation movies, real Sunset Strip go-go music. The difference in mood that Morrison makes is incredible, a real alchemy. Without him, the Doors were just another club band on the Strip, pretty good. With him, they were dark and dramatic and sexy and poetic and dangerous. The Doors.

 

This post made possible through the co-operation of Chris Kelso, and Rosa Gaiarsa at UCLA. My thanks to both. Soundtrack album to the movie that wasn't, available in the usual place. 

 

 

 

This Is The Internet So Here's A Picture Of A Kitten Dept.

 

Shocking Truth! Dept. - The Secret Scandal That Nearly Destroyed Pentangle!

Contemporary photograph shows a crazed Danny Thompson lunging for Bert Jansch as Jacqui McShee recoils in terror!

Pioneering UK folk-jazz group Pentangle's civilised acoustic arrangements of Trad Arr's beloved songs belie the dangerous passions behind their formation! Famed fatstring fiddler Danny Thompson, visiting th' IoF© on his Bucket List tour, revealed yesterday how they came close to never playing a note together! We relax poolside while th' Danster tells the shocking truth for the first time as a FoamExclusive™, and Kreemé serves her signature frothing stoups of mead.

Thompson, yesterday

DT It was like this, Farq, and incidentally what a buxom wench Kreemé is. Phwoar doesn't do her justice. If I were sixty years younger I'd ...

FT3 Yes, it's ironic that when you're old enough to know what it's all about, you're too old to do anything about it. Thank you Jesus, right? But let's get back on topic.

DT Right. Which was?

FT3 Pre-gig fisticuffs.

DT Right! First time I played with the Pents, that would be at Nether Scrotum, in Frottinghamshire, a pub called The Witch's Sleeve it was, gone now, don't look for it, they told me to sit down? I could not believe it. They were all sitting down, see, it's the folkie tradition. And there was me standing with my bull fiddle, tuning up, and Bert [Jansch, rhythm guitarist - Ed.] says, "okay Dannyboy sit down please and thank you. No showbiz grandstanding on our stage thank you very much". So I thought maybe he was joking, laughed, okay Bert haha. There were no lols back then, we only had hahas. So Terry [Cox, tambourine, backing vox - Ed.] chimes in with, "something funny, mate? We 're all sitting down. The audience is sitting down. You sit down". And I'm wondering what I've got myself into. Jacqui [McShee, synth, gong - Ed.] goes, "show some respect, you fat cunt". Quiet, like, polite, but she's not smiling. John [Renbourn, Chapman stick - Ed.], he leans over, like, and spits on me shoe. Big greenie, hawks it right up on the toe of me shoe. I'm still tightening the top string, doyng doyng doyng, I'm confused, and Bert shouts SIT DOWN! and the string snaps, DOYYYNNNGGGG! and so do I. I've had enough of this bunch of weirdos, and I lunge for Bert, punch him right in the nose, easy target haha, and they all pile in on top of me, Jacqui kicks me in the nads, wearing fucking clogs ... fuck me, what a fracas!

FT3 Unbelievable! So! How did the matter resolve itself?

DT (drains stoup of foaming mead, belches roundly) Well, Bert's throttling me, blood pouring out of his nose, and suddenly he starts laughing? And everyone falls away and they're all just laughing, can't stand up it's so funny. I get my breath back and the audience is laughing and everyone's killing themselves except me because I think my ankle's fucked, and John comes over and pats my cheek, like, and says, "it was a joke! A JOKE!" and everyone helps me to my feet and the audience is applauding. So naturally I see the funny side of it. Years later. Yesterday.

FT3 They let you stand up, though.

DT I couldn't. Jacqui's clog bust my ankle.

FT3 So the joke was on them, then. 

DT (laughs) Any chance of Kreemé getting me another foaming stoup of mead?

FT3 Did you bring a Nalbum?

DT (produces album from Afghan shoulder bag) It's a Very Special Edition of our first album, @192. It's from the box set, with slewage of extra tracks. Uh - Kreemé?

 

 

This story is the first in what is sure to become a much-loved regular FoamFeature©! Look for more Shocking Truths right here! Or not!

Perfect Tens Dept. - The Wild,The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle

Medical opinion differs as to the exact time of death of the 'sixties - as an idea, rather than the calendar narrative - with some observing the onset of rigor mortis as far back as '68, or even with The Death Of Hippie in '67 . What we can say with some certainty is that by late '73 the funeral parade had long passed. The British pop scene, as it was still called, was dominated by panto-pop and glam, end-of-the-pier entertainment for the end of an era that mistakenly thought of itself as the beginning of another. Serious Rock had knotted itself into the cat's cradle of prog to satisfy the demands of the Serious Rock Fan, recognised by his lank greasy hair, plutonium-strength acne, and the odor of damp Army Surplus greatcoats.

But hey. This was '73. As a Brit, I wasn't alone in listening to US music almost exclusively. We read Zig Zag and Rolling Stone (a fantastic and essential paper back then), we bought expensive imports with the beer tokens the government kindly gave us, and we wore jeans modeled on the gatefold to After The Goldrush, with patches from mum's rag box and a leather stash wallet hanging hopefully from the belt. But it was an odd year for UK music. Pink Floyd became Grey Floyd, making music for stereo showrooms. Led Zeppelin and Fleetwood Mac lost the plot. The Stones took a step back, not in a good way, the Kinks floundered into camp irrelevancy and everyone woke up after their long Beatles denial. They weren't coming back. Although folk and jazz/rock remained lively, they also remained niche, which was probably essential to their survival.

Proper Rock (and by that I mean proper rock music) continued to flourish and evolve in the US, entirely home-grown, drawing directly and unselfconsciously on a rich heritage that owed nothing to the UK invasion that had liberated it from the Elvis era. The Allmans, CSN(&Y), Lynyrd Skynyrd, Little Feat, New Riders, Zappa, the Dead, The Eagles, Steely Dan, BOC, Joni, Neil, Van Morrison (seen very much as a stateside act), plus too many solo artists to list, with the big MIA of Dylan. And, sneaking a first album into the racks unnoticed at the beginning of the year, somebody called Bruce Springsteen.

I first became aware of him from Pete Scrowther talking him up at the Golden Cross, one of the two places in town you were likely to score, or hear of the night's house party (the other being the Dive Bar, notable for a panoramic Lord Of The Rings mural, sticky floor, and cheap Newky Brown). But the Cross was where what was left of it was at, man. In the late 'sixties, the Diggers had made their Head quarters in the medieval ruins across the street, the "Digger Hole", and in '73 some patchouli still lingered. More importantly, it was where the hot girls lingered, in their charity shop fur coats, black miniskirts and coloured tights, with their long dark hair and red lips and cigarettes. Notably Jane Bayley, whose beauty poleaxed me, and whose eyes I can still see somewhere behind mine. I married one of the other girls eventually, one I wasn't too dumbstruck to talk to. Many, many years later (a lifetime or two) I contacted Jane, and she asked me why I never asked her out. I'm not sure she believed me. Beauty is blind to a mirror.

But yeah. Pete was raving about this album he'd just bought that we'd never heard of. "If anyone's the New Dylan, it's this guy", and as Pete was considered a very cool guy in those days, we - including a couple of others from Shitband, the band I played bass for (that wasn't our name but it should have been) trekked back through the freezing wet streets to his place after closing time to hear the New Dylan. Evidently, no parties that night. That was how you picked up on stuff, not through a pod-brain you gazed at and stroked instead of girls, but through conversation, references in the music papers, random rack flipping and a chance hearing on John Peel. It was enough to grow a network of human connections, a living, organic communal knowledge which was added to almost daily. I'm not saying it was a better way, but that's what I'm thinking. And typing.

Pete's audio set-up was impressive. A standalone turntable (still not a common thing back then) hot-wired through a Mystery Fuse to a guitar amp and a speaker cab the size of a domestic drinks bar, which it also doubled as. We took up positions as laid down in the manual - laid down - and passed the sleeve around, with a couple of poverty roaches, as the tone arm dropped onto one of the few albums I can say changed my life.

None of us spoke, not even when the album was flipped.

There was nothing quite like The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle. Maybe echoes of Van Morrison's Caledonian swing, something of West Side Story in its sweeping romanticism, of Dylan in its tumbling, clattering Beat poetry. Yes, but no. Springsteen, the guy from nowhere, had made his own album with the help of the best band in the world also out of nowhere and it was hands down no question the album of the year. Oooff. Who were these guys? Where the fuck was E Street?

Pete didn't have the first album, but assured us that this was the one to break Springsteen worldwide. How could it not? We agreed. It had to. It didn't, of course. Being a Springsteen fan back then was groovy. You could turn people on to him the same way Pete had for us. I can't remember any reviews except for Rolling Stone and  Zig Zag. There wasn't, incredibly, a buzz in the press about him - we had to order the album, and spread the word ourselves.

I made a list of Top Ten reasons why it's a Perfect Ten album, in no particular order, and I just deleted it, because it didn't come close to explaining or evoking or even hinting at what makes this album such a freaking masterpiece. And that is the indefinable magic captured in the groove, and at the heart of it is Springsteen's heart, bursting open with the joy of being in a rock n' roll band, and Vinnie "Mad Dog" Lopez batting the traps, the best drummer he ever had. You only have to listen to the title track and then Tenth Avenue Freeze Out to understand what the Boss lost. E Street is effortlessly, joyously funky and loose; Tenth Avenue a generic clomp nailed to the floor by Max Weinberg's dogged thump. Oh well. That was a couple of years away. Back in the tail end of 'seventy-three, we heard rock and roll future in Pete's front room, and the long walk home through the cold streets glowed with it.

That indefinable magic is still there, locked in the groove. Foreverandmoreagain, the spirit, the spirit, the spirit of rock n' roll, the light that never dies. Give me the beat, boys, free my soul ... I see the fireworks hailing over Little Eden, and I see Jane Bayley's eyes ...

This post dedicated to Ned Youngman, Shitband's guitarist, who was to gift me a ticket to Bruce at Hammersmith Odeon, as a wedding present.

Covfefe Preaupane Photobombs John Hiatt Album Launch Dept.

Covfefe Preaupane, making an honest living, yestiddy

John Hiatt made his first visit to th' IoF© yestiddy to mark a very special re-release of his first album, Hangin' Around The Observatory. As we were settling into th' famed Conversation Pit O' Sound®, the convivial atmosphere was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of Professional Swimwear Model And Tiktokker Covfefe Preaupane. "Hey guys, wassup?" she laughed, before being ushered away by Randy Randomguy, th' Isle's Security Officer. Hiatt, ever the gentleman, made light of the incident and we chattedly relaxedly about the album.

FT3 Heyyy! Johnny-boy! It's an overdue honor to welcome you to th' Isle O' Foam©! 

HIATT (laughs) I was waiting until I had something special to bring, Farq.

FT3 And this album is very special! Want to talk us through it?

HIATT Surely! It's a very special audio upgrade of Hangin' Around Th' Observatory [left - Ed.] to @192, exclusive to th' IoF©. I was always unhappy with the sound - as you know it was pressed @128, which was like the standard back in the day. So naturally when Bernie Grundman told me about the state-of-the-art digital compression facility here, the idea was born!

FT3 Bernie Grundman?

HIATT This old guy, wears like a hearing aid? In both ears? Studio janitor got mistaken for the engineer at a Grand Funk Railroad session. Never looked back. He comes in, switches on the mastering machine, all the levels flat, and picks up a check for twenty thousand bucks! Anyway, he's very respectful of your work here, Farq. And this new edition has an immersive soundstage with crisp highs, clearly separated mids, and a rich, buttery low end.

FT3 Twenty large? For switching on a machine?

HIATT What do you think mastering is? It's not like mixing or producing. There's no skill involved. Any fucker could do it, the right machine ... it's like one fucking switch, man, how hard can it be?

FT3 Wow. On the subject of your first recordings, we FoamFeatured™ the White Duck album here a couple days back.

HIATT (laughs) Currently residing in the where are they now pile.

FT3 With that early single, We Make Spirit b/w The Boulevard Ain't So Bad.

HIATT (laughs) Hey! I don't even have a copy of that myself!

FT3 I wanted to add it as bonus tracks but it's impossible to find. It's not even on YewChewb or any of those sketchy Russian sites. It's probably at Soulsulk, but those guys are weird (shudders).

HIATT Maybe one of the Four Or Five Guys© has a copy?

At this point Kreemé arrived with her signature Root Beer n' Espresso Cheerer-Uppers and a bag of pork scratchings, so we took a break while she performed an impromptu demonstration of Apartment Wrestling with Covfefe Preaupane.

This post protected by Johnson's Johnson Wax®

"We're All Bezos On This Bus" Dept.

Bezo rocking sensible slacks, from the days before he hired Vin Diesel as a body double

You'll know zillionaire general store clerk Jeff Bezo from his "share the wealth" philosophy that has made him a much-loved father figure to his loyal staff, and whose modest lifestyle is a model of ethical and sustainable living. But did you know he's also something of an expert on obscure pop n' rock vinyl? Nor did we. Turns out he knows shit about music and cares less, which is why we asked Sanjit Stockphoto [above left - Ed.], th' IoF©'s newly-interned Token Diverse Hipster to suggest today's album freeloads. All he could come up with was Porter and Winchester Mulberry's O Save Me O Dark Owls, a meditation on loss recorded in a brick outhouse during the pandemic. So he can fuck off, too. Just when I was starting to lose interest in this whole piece, Mrs. Myra Nussbaum [right - Ed.] delved in her Muff O' Music® and produced a couple of long-playing LPs that might be unfamiliar to you. So here they are.

Swell album, swell cover

John Hiatt makes his first appearance on record on the second [sophomore - Ed.] White Duck album, In Season [not at left - Ed.] from 1972, the same year they made their self-titled [eponymous - Ed.] debut [at left - Ed.]. As it's already '72, all pop and rock ideas [tropes - Ed.] are already established, and there's nothing original here. Those who pick on the occasional Beatles reference tend to forget that the Fab Four were a very malleable and influenced group themselves, dressing up in whatever garb seemed timely. So you'll hear a little of everything pop-rock here, including some psychedelic touches which in '72 must have sounded nostalgic.

Like many other recordings to wash up on th' IoF©, they're not lost classics, but they are well done, enjoyable, and if they were made today they'd sound extraordinary. Which is not to say that the Young People Of Today are shit, bless. Just that their music is a bit. Sanjit Stockphoto is back on Spotify, swiping through thousands of other songs a robot reckons he'd like on the basis of This Empyrean Loss (La La La) from O Save Me O Dark Owls. Good for him.

 

This post first postulated during a motivational weekend on Jeff Bezo's yacht FUCK DA POORS, Marina Del Asshats, Gulf of Microplastics, FLA. 

 

 

"... but the old men understand" Dept. - Van Morrison and David Gilmour

"Oi! Dave yeh gert gobshite! Oy was gave dis badge by the Quaine of Oirland, and yew wasn't!"

Van Morrison has been trying to out-do John Zorn in uncontrollable incontinence of new releases. Every album - "dropping" every couple of weeks or so - that isn't a cold bowl of bile-n'-spite stew, garnished with oxygen tent sax solos, is desperately clutched at by fans as some kind of return to form, even if that form was set sometime in this useless century. So Orangefield is a pleasant surprise - it's a genuinely enjoyable, good-spirited, well-played and sung live album from 2014, and why he decided to release it now is as much of a mystery as anything he does. On the basis of my recommendation you'll rush out and buy it, but there's an ear canal-crimping @192 in the comments, should you be a lousy grifting bum intent on bringing the music industry to its knees.

The sleeve design looks like Alice Coopers School's Out, and Hotlegs' Thinks School Stinks, but there's a warm human interest story behind it, very possibly the first - and last - in Van's career. Look it up, and have a hankie ready.

Dave "call me David" Gilmour can hold his own with both George Ivan and Rog Waters in the "fuck me I'm one fucking miserable millionaire, me" stakes, and his solo career has been a lesson in underachievement. Even rabid Floyd fans (anyone who hung in there after Dark Side, basically) lost interest in it half way through the first side of that first album nobody can remember the title of even though it was just his name. The best you can say of Gilmour's solo career is that it's modest - he's made like three albums in fifty years, and only his wife bought them. So turning in a pretty swell piece of work at this late stage is as welcome a surprise as Orangefield.

Is it fantastic? No, but it's the kind of album you'd have bought back in the day and "got into" without feeling ripped off. Which for an Old Dude is some achievement. Maybe a little bit fantastic.

This post sponsored by the good people at Senior Underpants Supply Co. Ask for their signature Hi-Waist™ Y-Fronts with the patented Leke-Prufe® security liner!

Rholonne Déodoranté's Classy Classification Class Dept.

Wholesome diet, strict discipline, clean thoughts, inspire classroom diligence

We like to pigeonhole music by genre ("file under popular"), but sometimes the definition doesn't quite fit. Rholonne Déodoranté, th' IoF©'s Religiousness Inclusivity Officer, teaches a popular course here at th' IoF©'s Modern Academy For Girls And Yes Okay Boys Who Want To Be Girls Jesus Christ Who Cares. The following text is copied direct from her course notes.

"Defining genre in popular and other forms of music is primarily a marketing tool used by the music business to target a consumer base. It also serves a valuable retail function in guiding consumers quickly and efficiently to their favored type of music. But sometimes the definition is hard to classify - music may crossover genres. Today's project is the Thorinshield album from 1967 because of course it is. Frequently referred to by reviewers as being sunshine pop, it has very few of the motifs and tropes associated with that genre."

 

 

 

Thorinshield were basically a duo, Bobby Ray and James Smith, augmented by drumster Terry Hand. Ray is FoamFeatured Antecedently™ HERE The production team is A-list; Steve Douglas, Chuck Britz, Hank Cicalo, and Wally Heider, so it's a little puzzling that the overall sound and feel of the album is less lush than you might expect. Arrangements are by Perry Botkin Jr., whose dad played some very nimble guitar for the Billy Mills Orchestra on the Fibber McGee and Molly radio show.

The album takes a few plays to get its hooks in, but its subtle individuality is absolutely worth your time. File under: quality.

This post rendered lint-free by Bertie Bristles Brush Barn, Pork Bend, FLA.

Sheer Lou-nacy Dept. - Metal Machine Disco Music

 

"If you get through four sides you're dumber than I am," said Lou, talking about his RCA kiss-off Metal Machine Music. If that double album wasn't enough, he'd planned a 12" disco version to ram the final nail into the coffin of his contract. It didn't fly. RCA kept him on the roster until Coney Island Baby limped out the following year, and the word on the street was Lou Who? But there's a white label test pressing out there, with the ten minute extended version on one side, and a five minute radio edit [as if - Ed.] on the back. We know that Lou used a PAiA programmable drum set, and the whole thing is just terrible enough to be an Art Statement.

 

 

The pressing got one public play, at David Mancuso’s Loft on lower Broadway. Metal Machine Disco Music got frisbeed into the crowd barely a minute into the groove. "It was a joke," said Mancuso, "but like all of Lou's jokes it wasn't funny." Reed never referred to it again.

Maybe its time has come. Probably not. Here it is anyway.

Vangelis Papapapathanathanassiou - King Of Free Jazz!

Vangelis Papapapathanathanassiou? Hairy-chested and slightly scary Greek composer of stirring synth anthems, he who once punched out an entire press conference because they thought he was Demis Roussos? Free jazz?

Hear me out. We're here to talk about Beaubourg, one of the least understood and most misunderstood albums of the twentieth century. But first we need to define terms: free jazz is associated with a saxophone being ritually abused over a cacophony of random percussion. But in its purest sense - improvisation free of musical structure, it absolutely applies to Beaubourg.

It's solo Vangelis, making shit up as he goes along, using a couple of Yamaha CS-80 analog synthesizers, with a side order of ring modulator, instead of making a sax sound like it wished it had never been born. In accordance with the strict rules of free jazz (no musical form has more rigid rules), he eschews melody, harmony, rhythm, and thematic development. Anybody can do that. If I could find a piano I'd eschew the fuck out of it right now. A child of five could.

But Vangelis is an absolute master of his instruments, and his hands are guided by instinct, inspiration, and superhuman skill, whereas mine could just as easily be fixing a sandwich. And lordy, his hands are busy. Coaxing these sounds out of a pair of CS-80s, in real time, is a virtuoso performance. So what? you opine, a sneer distorting your unlovely face, it sounds like shit to me hahalol.

This is what makes the music so ultimately satisfying; discovering what went into it. It's not unapproachable noise, a random result of pure chance. There is variation in mood, hints of melody, but it's the abstract sound that becomes so compelling, even addictive. It's analog/organic, and if you read my antecedent screed on Bernie Axolotl you may remember his quote: all notes played by hand. There's no looping here, no samples, no sequencing, and minimal overdubbing, maybe none (what do I know). There's a wild genius behind this, and to dismiss it, as some do, as a cynical contractual kiss-off to RCA is to display a musical ignorance of which they should be ashamed, them ignoramuses.

It is gawjuss, is what it is. A blissful soundtrack to ordinary life. Try listening to it - as loud as you can take - as you go about your grubby quotidian routine. Shopping for beans at your local discount superstore. Boosting the catalytic converter from your ex's Ram Truck, or getting your bunion pared. Beaubourg will make your universe seem unutterably strange. Let it work its subtle and extraordinary magic.

As an inducement, here's some slightly more accessible, but much less accomplished, Vangelis:

Swinging London scenemaker Giorgio Gomelski booked studio time in '71 to see if there was any mileage in teaming Van the Man with session jazzbos and fringe rock musicians. It led nowhere, and the tapes were shelved, to be released later very much against Van's wishes by a thieving bunch of crooks. Don't think of these as albums, which they ain't. Think of them as an opportunity to hear a bit of experimental improv for its own sake.

The Dragon gets the nod from fans, with its recognisably rock-adjacent sounds, but Hypothesis appeals for its Brian Odgers/Tony Oxley rhythm section, fresh from the mighty John McLaughlin's Extrapolation sessions.

 

 

 

 

 

Hilariously, there is online debate as to the most consistently accurate, pitch-wise, release of Beaubourg. Go for it!

Eden Ahbez - The Complicated Life And Times Of A Simple Man

Photographs of Eden Ahbez have one thing in common - an expression that does not radiate the contentment you might expect of someone who devoted his life to finding heaven on earth. He looks intensely unhappy. Not even a twinkle in his eye, the hint of a smile. Laughter is a lesson best learned early in life, and young George Alexander Aberle didn't get much chance to be happy.

Born poor in Brooklyn, 1908, sent to an orphanage, Aberle grew up in the depression, becoming a hobo, criss-crossing America in poverty. He got jobs where he could, played a little piano, and ended up in California, the promised land. In the 'thirties, he found welcome and a shared ideology with the Wandervogels,  a bunch of peaceful anarchists, mostly German, who'd rejected contemporary society and lived according to the back-to-nature tenets of Lebensreform. The Nazis had outlawed the movement, but kept the bits they liked - chasing each other naked through the woods, mostly - for the fun-loving Hitler Youth.

Aberle changed his name to Eden Ahbez, cut the soles off his shoes, sat in a tree and learned to play the flute. The first hippie? Not even close. Will Pester fled Germany to California in 1906 to escape military service, growing his hair and practicing free love and lap steel guitar in a Palm Springs shack, when shacks were the only real estate in Palm Springs, and Pester - almost unimaginably - the only white resident. Pester basically wrote the whole Hippie manual half a century before Today Malone sold flowers on Haight Street.

The original Nature Boy, Will Pester, inventing Americana, yesterday. Habitually naked, he dressed formal for the shoot. Note signed postcards - a source of tourist income - in shirt pocket.

Pester acted as mentor to Ahbez, who became the nominal leader of the Nature Boys.

Gypsy Boots top left, health foods pioneer and inventor of the smoothie. He'd later swing into Steve Allen's TV show dressed as Tarzan. Eden, looking unsure of himself, front left.

Ahbez wrote poetry and songs, and composed Nature Boy - ostensibly about Pester - in 1947 while living in a cave. The tune comes from a Jewish song - he’d learned Hebraic melodies at the Brooklyn orphanage. He finagled sheet music to Nat King Cole, who sat on it for a while before realising what a potential hit it was and hunting down the composer, then living rough under the Hollywood sign in some kind of personal manifest destiny. Cole's recording was a monster, monster hit, number one in the charts for eight weeks in 1948, spawning many cover versions by the biggest stars of the age. After royalties were settled, including a generous cut for a previous user of the original tune, but leaving out Dvorak and the anonymous traditional Czech folk composer who would have had an equal claim, Ahbez made a shitload of money which he didn't particularly want, or even need. Money couldn't stop his adored wife from dying of leukemia, or his son from drowning. Heaven on earth continued to elude him.

He cut an album in 1960, Eden's Island (The Music Of An Enchanted Isle). It was no match for even post-army Elvis pablum, and sat ignored in the easy listening racks alongside the straightest and squarest. These days, it's frequently referred to as a "masterpiece", and it would be wonderful if that were true. But he can't sing, and spoken word stretched over an album of bland exotica, featuring his uncertain flute playing, seemed like a product without a market.

Eden Ahbez was an honest, loving man at the genesis of a culture that would spread around the planet, a man who got lucky with one immortal song. He died in '95 after a car crash, aged eighty-six.

SMiLE, guys! Eden n' Bri, Gold Star Studios '67. Maybe the timing of the shot was unfortunate, but these guys aren't exactly communicating here. That's a wood flute Eden's holding. In case you were wondering.

This piece is a massively abbreviated account of an incredible, complex, and still largely undocumented life. An internet search will turn up a wealth of material.