Albert Hoffman At Th' House O' Fun Dept.

Design by False Memory Foam© Art Department O' Art Dept.

"I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like" sang Syd Barrett [lead singer with The Pink Floyds beat group - Ed.] just before he fell off. Albert Hoffman [above - Ed.] is the patron saint of psyclists everywhere, and his game-changing bike ride is celebrated with this scientifically enhanced compilation.

I'm not usually a fan of Various Artists. I find their albums too diverse. But Acid Dreams is an exception. Older UK readers may remember Fun House Records, a grimy bootleg label and collectors' store from England's own Pismo Beach, Margate. They specialized in trampling roughshod over copyright law and reissuing rare albums at the lowest possible quality and selling them at the highest possible price to idiots like me. But at that time, pre-CD, it could be the only way you'd get to hear them. Their masterpiece was in-house comp Acid Dreams, issued in a dull op-art plastic sleeve [not above - Ed.] that was almost worth buying for the smell alone. It was supposed to come in psychedelic swirly vinyl, but mine was just muddy gray. And they said it was a German release, which was a fib, too. D'oh! You guys!

The music was chosen with a razorblade sensibility for the paranoid end of the lysergic market. It has seen numerous bootlegged versions (ironique, non?) over the years. I've pasted in a handful of crucial tracks (including the blindingly great 99th Floor, which improves everything it appears on) that those Fun House rascals didn't have room for. Or forgot. Or something.

Positioned nicely between the "smoother" sounds of Lenny Kaye's Nuggets and the gritty barrel-scrapings of similar efforts, it's the only psych comp that made the leap to my hand-held device of choice, and you might just dig it. Because it's keen!

 

This barn find post has been sensitively resto-modded to increase its investment value.

SERIOUSLY! DON'T MISS THIS! Dept. Thirty Blue, The Director's Cut Remix Reference Copy

"Why, this remix is th' ginchiest!" avers Rholonne Déodoranté, th' IoF©'s Diversity Outreach Consultant. Note bold seasonal Yultide attire!

 

The latest version (5 - Ed.) of Thirty Minutes Beyond The Blue Horizon did everything I wanted except sound as good as I wanted. A pal has bestowed his considerable tech smarts - of which I is sadly bereft - on what I thought was a sonically fucked file, basically, seeing as how I'd overlaid track upon track in my blind quest for narrative coherence and mystic transubstantiation. The remix is profound, revelatory, much better than I'd thought possible. There are actual dynamics! Tonal range! The thing shines like china! Sparkles like Japan! Grab it, trash the rest. It's not like you have to actually do anything except exercise your click finger, fercrissakes. You don't even got to lissen to th' sucker! Just download it and keep it in yer undies drawer! This is the last time you'll see it here, and it's a treat for th' ears. Th' eschaton has been imanentized!

 

My thanks to Archie Valparaiso. Dude.

Merrell Fankhauser's Mystic Clam Of Mu Dept.

In my wanderings in search of the strange, the weird, and the unearthly, the story of Merrell Fankhauser's Mystic Clam Of Mu ranks as one of the strangest, the weirdest, and the unearthliest [is this a word? - Ed.].  Come with me now into the realms of the strange, the weird, and the unearthly, as I recount a tale so strange, so weird, so unearthly I would scarcely give it creedence were it not for the fact I witnessed it with my own eyes! Kindly wishes, Your Host, Farquhar Throckmorton III

 

 

Lancelot "Lance" Steele was born in 1943 to Charles and Elizabeth Steele, respectively Professor Emeritus of Classical Literature at Yale, and first viola with the New York Philharmonic. As a young teen Lance developed a passion for rock and roll, but when he told his parents he wanted to quit high school to devote himself to his band Lancelot And The Knights, they would only allow it on one condition; he must change his name. Neither wanted the respected Steele family name associated with such a "transient vulgar fad".

Stately Steele Manor

With a mischievous sense of humor, his parents wrote unlikely names on slips of paper and asked young Lance to choose one from a top hat. The result, Merrell Fankhauser, should have been ridiculous enough to make him give up any idea of becoming a rock and roll star, but if anything it strengthened his resolve. The Impacts, once Lancelot And The Knights, now Merrell And The Exiles, moved to California where their wholesome good looks and happening teenbeat sounds soon garnered them a residency at prestigious Pismo Beach teen hangout The Clam House [later demolished to make way for MrDave's Fish Head Incinerator - Ed.].

From here, the story takes an almost unbelievable turn. In an interview with The Pismo Persuader, Merrell recounts the event that would change his life:

"We were taking a break from filming a scene for the new Fabian movie Teen Clambake From Mars, and I was walking along the oceanside when a giant glowing clam descended from the sky and spoke to me. It said Merrell, do some drugs, which to be honest I already was, but also Merrell, return to the lost continent of Mu, which I never heard of. And this glowing book like floated down from the clam, which had disappeared, and there it was on the sand next to a Thermos and a pair of huaraches. And a towel. The book [left - Ed.] felt strangely warm, like it fell out a glowing clam. I took it back to the movie set where I read it while Fabian learned his line, which was, gee whiz is this clam ever salty!" 

The rest is history. Fabian became a lush and married a Bituminious Coal Queen. The Exiles changed their name to Fapardokly, a Muvian deity, and two of the band members changed their names to Drumbo and Antennae Jimmy Semens. They cut a half-assed album before changing their name to Merrell Fankhauser And His Trusty HMS Bounty and cutting a swell album before moving to Maui and changing their name to Mu and cutting a swell album which like the lost continent itself sank without trace, only to wash up decades later on Fabulous False Memory Foam Island©!

 

What have these albums in common?

 

... read the comments for the astonishing answer!

This post autogenerated by a bot. Do not reply.

Is Anyone Listening Any More? Dept. - Quicksilver

Note compositional balance. Note harmonious color palette. Note integration of text and image.

The reason I ax is that I had a Thirty Minutes project in mind featuring Quicksilver, but on re-listening to their œuvre [Fr. egg - Ed.] it's apparent that everything anyone in their right mind wants to listen to again is on their first two albums, which are eternally groovy.

The first album [left - Ed.] is what we long-playing record enthusiasts call "underrated", but it's only underrated by them as ain't heard it. There's just not enough people what have. You can put this down to it being released a critical few months too late. A '67 release would have ridden the wave of debuts from Country Joe And His Fishes, The Moby Grapes, The Door, The Grateful Deads, and breakthru second albums from Jefferson And His Airplanes and The Springfield Buffaloes, when it would have had more impact. The downer cover did them no favors, neither nohow. Yes, I know, you like it, Rick Griffin, classic elegance etc. etc. but that funereal black ran not only counter to the times but also the music. It suited the godawful Velvet Undergrounds, but otherwise you're taking a risk. No girl other than a depressed junkie girl would find that somber shit attractive ("what's that icky thing like an exploded rib cage?"), and girls' instincts are sometimes on the money. Musically, the album's a real achievement; some half-way great songs, and swell playing woven into unusually disciplined structure - in some ways the album prefigures prog.

The breakthru second album [left - Ed.] got everything right. A glorious cover from George Hunter, shewn here in an accurate color balance because this stuff matters. '69 was Second Wave San Francisco; Santana, It's A Beautiful Day, and countless other bands that surfaced in the polychrome wake of '67. Happy Trails was avant-garde nostalgia, not only recalling the days of th' Old West, but the blissfully tripped-out San Francisco that was already a tourist attraction. Live Dead had the same elegiac vibe. Happy Trails' smartest trick was the seamless mix of live and studio. There is no better record of the Fillmore's imperial years than the extended Who Do You Love, which for my money out-deads The Dead with it's integral audience participation and absolute joyous freedom of expression. It renders all the later live Quicksilver recordings - of which there is slewage - inessential at best, disposable at worst. The studio tracks are up to the standard of the first album, falling short of greatness while remaining strangely wonderful.

From here on, it was diminishing returns. Shady Grove has its fans, but if I want to hear piano (which I don't) I won't listen to a guitar band. And the return of Dino Valenti ushered in a string of interchangeably barely-okay albums with degraded coloring book cover art. Not terrible, and that's the best I can say of them. A (too-) late reformation album in '75 fercrissakes showed them to be a little like The Eagles but without memorable songs, and who needed to see that happen? None.

 

This post completed under the pressure of anticipated breakfast.

Out Of Left Field Right Here Dept. - Akphaezya

In my relentless search for contemporary music I might want to listen to more than once (which excludes most of it, but always did) I occasionally stumble over something that recombines the familiar (which is what music does) into a pattern that unexpectedly taps the fun buttons.

I was hooked into this almost unpronounceable band by the unusually beautiful cover art. When a band recognises the importance of presentation and avoids the clichéd and inept imagery of "here's me with my guitar/hat/hair/self loathing", it's likely they put care and craft into their music, too. And it gives nothing away about the music other than perhaps literacy and a respect for formality. Maybe it's an exquisite song cycle by an Appalachian dulcimer consort, informed by loss and a sense of history? Is it fuck.

Research has revealed a common problem with genre definition, although goth/symphonic/experimental metal seems to be the general ball park, none of which would win air time on Uncle Farq's Bag O' Happy Tunes radio show (weeknights on most of these same radio stations).

It's demanding, but there's a mind-blistering amount of invention and style-shifting that makes it compelling and rewarding. Further description is a waste of time. Exceptional music. And, they're French.

This post mooted by Ents.

Susanna Hoffs Dept. - Who Will She Be?

You'll know Ms. Hoffs from her all-too frequent appearances on Fabulous False Memory Foam Island©, but did you know she's also an accomplished artiste with many recordings, both as part of girlie "punk" group The Bananaramas and solo, with other people? Me neither, until she parachuted in yestiddy with a bunch of rekkids under her arm! We relaxed poolside whilst [grammar - Ed.] Kreemé [below left and eighteen my ass - Ed.] served her signature brake fluid n' guano smoothies!

FT3 (studying Killer Sudoku) I'll be honest, Ms. Hoffs, but your constant reappearances here seem to suggest some kind of unhealthy obsession on your part. Yes, I took you beyond the limits of passion on a wild ride to the shores of ecstasy and taught you how to feel fully a woman for the first time in your life - but can you not move on?

SH Which I'm here to ax you a favor, Farq, and for once it ain't physical. 

FT3 That's a relief. A guy needs time to hisself, consarn it. How can I help?

SH It's my new album. It's got some great, sorry, swell songs on it, recorded back in 1999.

FT3 Wait - you made an album? Like a record?

Smoothie, anyone?

SH (wrinkles nose appealingly) Sure - another one? But I'm unhappy with the title, and the cover could do with a little nuance. Which you got out th' ass. Here -

FT3 Oh dear. The Lost Album? Seriously? How very original. And inaccurate. Should be The Found Album. Name it after a song, why don'cha.

SH What, like In The Year 2525?

FT3 Well, a song on the album, preferably.

SH Will you choose one for me? Couldja huh wouldja?

FT3 (sighs) How about Who Will She Be? Goes nicely with the image.

SH Love it! LOVE it!! Can you sprinkle some fairy dust on th' pitcher? Pretty please?

FT3 (whips out wax crayons, makes a few deft strokes) Voilà. And I made the font all lower case, which has a cooler look.

SH Why, Farq *snurfle* that's beautiful! *sob* How can I ever repay you?

[tape mercifully runs out at this point - Ed.]

 

This post funded in part by the Alfred E. Neuman For President (1955) Campaign 

 

 

 

 

 

Once More For The First Time Again, Again Dept. Thirty Minutes Beyond The Blue Horizon (Version 5.0)

On my meditative strolls around th' IoF© I often stumble across forgotten albums lurking shyly in the lush undergrowth (join me by pounding that Random Post button), but sometimes an album I'm pretty sure is here turns out to be completely buried in the golden sands of the comments. Just such an album is one that is very dear to my heart, and one which I've recently reworked. If you've read the title to this piece you may already have a pretty sharp idea what album I'm taking about. If you didn't, take this opportunity to scroll up a little and read it. If you simply do not have the time for that, simply read to the end of this sentence: it's Thirty Minutes Beyond The Blue Horizon, which some of you may have stashed away in your underpants drawer. But not this version, which is V. Or 5. Some big changes, a few small, but all exquisitely nuanced, adding a new dimension of sound to an already overwhelming audio experience! I'm posting this mainly for my own satisfaction [like everything else you do - Ed.], because I want it to be honored with its own FoamFeature™, because it's so very special. At least to je. Ax me why!

Random Four Or Five Guy©: Say, Farq, for why is this album so very special and so very dear to your heart? Huh? Hoo hah?

FT3: Gee, Random Four Or Five Guy©, thanks fer axin'! Full story after this message from our sponsor!

Ten cents off first order with this coupon!

 

FT3: Thanks for that, MrDave! Okay! Let's get stuck into the screed that no-one needs to read! 

TMBTBH is a concept piece, an immersive mind-movie, if you will, that takes as its lofty theme man's search for contentment as exemplified by the dream of the exotic, a mythic heavenly refuge right here on earth. This dreamed-of place has had many names, some of them embedded in the recording, Atlantis, Eldorado, Avalon, Mu, Xanadu, Shangri-La. But let's break up this TL-DR text with a pitcher of a Washington, DC drug store [head shop - Ed.] in 1942:

James Hilton's novel Lost Horizon was a childhood favourite, and gets re-read on a regular basis. Written before every square inch of this earth was spied on in real time by thousands of satellite eyes, it's at once a spiritual fable and a thriller. The possibility of his Shangri-La existing in physical form may have been a dream, but there was always the chance that somewhere over the lost horizon, beyond the rainbow, remained untouched by the monstrous clawing horror of Western civilisation. Now, of course, we know better. Pretty much everywhere's a shit-hole, and the spirit of exploration that drove men to the ends of the earth has been poisoned by TikTok tourism; every "exotic" locale relegated to a selfie background. It's a two-dimensional world of theatre flats lacking only your smiling self in the foreground. The exotic is dead, the familiar breeds contempt for the earth and its people. Sit in the lap of the Buddha and grin for the camera. Pose in front of the Dachau gate. Disneyland is Shangri-La.

So what's the dreamer to do? Switch off your phone. Take off your watch. Go for a walk without telling anyone where you're going because you don't know yourself. Lie on your back on some blue hillside and gaze at the clouds. Be alone, and forget about "sharing" your experience. Search for your own Shangri-La. Keep it secret.

Some notes on the recording:

Shawn Phillips, from the failed remake of Lost Horizon, blended with Tomita's Bermuda Triangle. At the 16 second mark, note an odd little sound cluster. Working with Audacity (the program I use for these exercises) is mainly visual - you're staring at waveforms of samples, and have to remember what they are. This little cluster of notes/sound, maybe a couple of seconds long, was an accidental overdub offcut. I have no idea of the sources. It's like the song of an unknown bird. It's embedded it at several points throughout the half hour.

"A haven of peace and beauty ..." That's James Hilton himself, who reappears at the end.

Shawn Phillips segues perfectly into Mu, Merrell Fankhauser's unlikely Maui combo. The eyes he saw watching over us weren't Elon Musk's. The myth of Mu is based on English eccentric James Churchward's pleasantly bonkers books.

Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwoʻole's version of  Somewhere Over The Rainbow. Yes, I know we all cringe at the song and gee whiz, is this guy carrying some extra weight around. But (and yes, it's a big one) the song is important because it expresses exactly the yearning the whole 30 Minutes is built around. Like all the other core songs used, it's edited down to a bare minimum, and treated to some sonic trickery, overdubs and segues. IZ's version is notable for reclaiming the song from its overblown show tune origins. He ignores the drama-queen octave leap in Somewhere, singing in an unforced, intimate style over simple ukulele accompaniment. It's a radical reworking that works.

Sopwith Camel's Oriental Fantasy, blended with samples from the soundtrack of the original (and superb) Lost Horizon movie with Ronald Coleman. Hallucinatory monks, clashing untuned cymbals. Then Billy Cobham banging the gong that should lead into the Between Nothingness And Eternity album but here is edited into the opening of John McLaughlin's Freedom One (or possibly Two). Note reappearance of Mystery Sound Cluster. I think we deserve a pictorial break, so here's a pitcher of a monk blessing my truck:

Mongolian music, featuring the throat singing that used to sound so exotic (remember how you felt on first hearing the sitar?), blended into Yma Sumac, into a strange violin-led piece I can't remember anything about, and possibly some more Mongols under the sound of the prop plane carrying Ronald Coleman to Shangri-La. South Sea Island harmonies, more Lost Horizon soundtrack (plus Mystery Sound Cluster), leading into Mike Nesmith's perfect rendition of Beyond The Blue Horizon. Polynesian chants, a brief snippet from ELO's Eldorado, and we're diving into the depths of sub-marine dub with Sly n' Robbie. Seagulls and sea, Shawn Phillips soars over Bali Hai, and at the surf's edge we find the Beach Boys' Little Pad, and the impossibly exotic beauty of Dorothy Lamour [below - Ed.], who sings Moon Of Manakoora straight, and seductively. Wotta dame.

Oh my.

 

(I've avoided anything "exotica", the Martin Denny genre. I know it has some fans, but I ain't one of them. I prefer going to the source of his tourist snapshots, or finding the exotic hidden in the familiar.)

Van Dyke Parks' Song Cycle is mined for some samples, interwoven with Bali Hai and Mongolian twang, and some temple weirdness whose origin I shamefully forget. Things get blissful with Steve Hillage's Rainbow Dome Music, and back-masked strings whose origin is lost in time. Mystery Sound Clusters, and Judy notices we're not in Kansas any more. The last minute is layered from Tomita, rowboat sound effects, Hilton's voice, and a fade suggesting this could be the start of something else ...

TMBTBH will provide a truly immersive soundscape which transports you, for a little while, into a pleasantly dreamlike state, without becoming dull or uninvolving (like I find a lot of ambient music). I listen to it a lot (but then I would, wouldn't I?). Headphones or earbuds are the best, and you will need that uninterrupted half hour alone. Before sleep and on waking are good. I hope you get a glimpse of Shangri-La. It's still there. Somewhere over the lost horizon, beyond the rainbow!

 

Some notes on the cover image:

That's the Lost Island Of Wherever, another iteration of Shangri-La, which was an isolated island surrounded by land. The surfacing diver is being reborn into paradise, out of the dark amniotic sea into the bright air. Up through the foam of memory, forgetfulness. Paradise means, literally, the Garden of Eden, a universal idea appropriated by Christianity. That tended plot behind your house is a model, unconscious or otherwise, of the innocence we have lost, and may yet regain.

This has been an unusually serious piece. If you read it, thank you. I hope you enjoy the music. Normal service resumed as soon as possible!

 

"They Wash Their Hair Every Night!" Dept. - The Pretty Things

Pretty Things, yesterday. Phil May, front n' center

What is the length of shrift given to the Pretty Things [not above - Ed.]? Generally shorter than Phil May's hair back in '63. They are a Top Tier U.K. band; innovative, wild, talented, with a charismatic front man and a berserker drummer. All they lacked was a knack for writing a string of hit singles, which put them behind their contemporaries the Stones, the Who, the *sigh* Beatles, and the Kinks. There are a few greatest hits collections out there, but you'll have a tough time whistling any one of them. Don't tell that to Mike Stax - he not only named his swell magazine after the band [Ugly Things - Ed.] but also stole the name of their bass player [not "Mike", the other one - Ed.].

I can live without the early raw R&B, while noting that it is R&B, and the transitional Get The Picture (Mike's favorite album of all time, bless), but S.F. Sorrow and Parachute have always been on my consolette autochange.

S.F. Sorrow, from '68, is a concept album - meaning, there's a story that nobody understands or cares about, much like Opera, or a Netflix series. But musically it hangs together nicely. It's very, very '68. And that's a good thing. A little heavier than '67, not as heavy as '69, the Goldilocks year for rock music. This version has slewage of extra tracks, and they're terrific, expanding the original album nicely.

Parachute was never Rolling Stone Magazine's Album Of The Year [1970 - Ed.], in spite of the rock myth to the contrary. But it should have been. After a startling, discordant opening, the album works through some of their most memorable songs, with inventive arrangements and beautiful harmonies - they never got the credit for their stacked vocals. Their best album, as good as rock music gets. That cover, though ... ooff ...

 

 

 

 

Bonus album #1: Swingin' London! 

Bonus album #2: "Best album ever made!" M. Stax

Bonus album #3: All the hits you can't remember!

 

 

This post funded in part by The Sitarswami Vinyl Upholstery Repair And Chakra Refurbishment Garage, Koreatown, L.A.

 

Teen Brains Turned Into Phosphorescent Frangipane By "Psychedelic" Music! Dept.

Actual Foam-O-Graph© shews teen brains turning to
phosphorescent frangipane by "psychedelic" music!

The threat is real. In suburban living rooms across this great nation teen brains are being turned into phosphorescent frangipane by "psychedelic" music! And Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public of Normalville U.S.A. remain oblivious! Perhaps Mom heats up meatloaf in the kitchen and Pop polishes his pipe in the den while the children of our brains are being turned into phosphorescent frangipane by psychedelic-type music! 

Those long-playing record albums are sold to our unsuspecting, wholesome teens by dope fiends, child molesters and communists intent on destroying the very fabric of this nation! Records such as Head Shop, and Trip Thru Hell are the heroin of the recorded music industry! The "far out" sounds, coarsely electrified guitars and hypnotic jig-a-boo beats are turning frangibrains into psychoteen phosphopane right here in our living rooms!

"Hello America? Get me the Youth of Today!"
J. Edgar Hoover, yesterday

What can be done to stem the poisonous tide that's turning the teens of our brains into frangidelic psychopane? We axed Top Cop and cross-dressing enthusiast J. "Edgar" Hoover!

"All parents must learn to recognize psychedelic-type music! I urge them to download these two albums so helpfully contributed free of charge by Farquhar Throckmorton III. Listen to them in the privacy of your homes while little Johnny and Judy are at school. It won't be easy, and many parents find holding hands and praying to Our Lord Baby Jesus helps. Then, when you have learned to cope with the strange experience, invite your children to a record party! Turn out the lights and place these albums on the autochange of the family consolette to show them you dig today's new sounds! Perhaps pass a spliff around to aid the mood! I myself like to put kids at ease by squeezing into a filmy negligée and Carole Lombard wig! Then, when they-"

 

[Audio lost at this point due to DNS attack - Ed.]

Brian Blessed's Manly Shenanigans Dept.

Old School Foam-O-Graph© - can you tell it from real AI?

You'll know TV's Brian Blessed from his manly shenanigans, such as freediving the Mariana Trench on one lungful of air, and eating the entire Auk population of Fernando Po for breakfast! But did you know he's also an enthusiastic collector of collectors' sixties-type psychedelia?

We chatted poolside whilst [grammar - Ed.] Kreemé served her signature Mexican tap water and gas station boner pill smoothies.

FT3 Good to have you here, Sir Blessed!

BB WOOOAAAARRRGGGH I FLOSS WITH BARBED WIRE!

FT3 That's swell, Bri! You brung an album wit' yez?

BB GGGGGRRRRRRRRROWF!

FT3 Is it the Autosalvage album?

BB ARRRROOOOGAH!!! BRROWFFF!

[Audio ends at this point - Ed.] 

Sir Blessed's choice of album is both informed and timely. Autosalvage was recorded 1968 in New York, as was the recently FoamFeatured™ Chrysalis, another self-titled debut that would be the band's only release. And there's a shared Zappa connection - Zappa was a fan, and named the band. Both albums occupy a kind of literate/art/semi-prog rock zone, and if you dig one you'll dig the other.

This post sponsored by Rusty's Barbed Wire Dental Floss©, Montana.

 

Under The Radar Dept. - Blondie Chaplin

 

Recentish photo for unrecent album, because it's great.

Leave us face it, Blondie Chaplin's weather-beaten pan ain't the type to make a dame swoon. Flinch, maybe. But inside that much-traveled luggage beats the heart of a gentleman musician. He's the type guy what gets along with everybody, and is possessed of [grammar - Ed.] a voice that fit right in with the Beach Boys. Which is worth thinking about - that's some set of pipes. After the Beach Boys gig ended - because reasons - he paid his bar tab by sitting in with anybody who'd have him. Obscure local combos like, uh, The Band. And The Rolling Stones. Fifteen years with the Stones. I mean gee whiz.

He also found time to cut some swell solo albums. The self-titled debut [left- Ed.] from 1977 is straight ahead rock n' roll (as the cover subtly hints) with all the stellar support Asylum could bus into the studio.

The Fragile Thread [above- Ed.] is a stone (SWIDT) delight, with Ronnie Wood, Keith Richards and Chuck Leavell providing the backing. Recorded in 2001, it was shelved for "business reasons" that obviously upset the poor guy, because he avoids the subject. You'd be upset too, if you'd poured your soul into your music and the legal department couldn't get its shit together. Here it is anyway.

 

Between Us, from 2006,  has a leaner, airier sound. That's enough music criticism. He writes, he sings, he plays some dexterous gee-tar. You should be so blessed.

Thirty Minutes Dept. - Songs That Nobody Should Have To Listen To Again - Important Update!!

Nuanced, elegant design courtesy FMF™ Art Department Of Art Dept. - Mister Businessman! Ask to see our portfolio!

That's Elvis Costello's dad leading things off in fine style, followed by the very wonderful Celtic Woman, possibly the most vacuous music act since GWAR. The Chipmunks break the mood nicely and lead us seamlessly into "Dame" Judi Dench's bowel-clenching version of Send In The Clowns. James Last's version of Mack The Knife is saturated with his signature cluelessness, and then there's some gay Scotsmen in skirts for one time only playing something not heard at funerals. Who better than Wayne Newton, barely able to stand, to husk his way through the evergreen My Way? It's the definitive performance. The Templeton Twins' epic Beatles Medley will leave not a dry eye in the house, and the Sons Of The Pioneers warble plaintively over the end credits and the Dolby® logo.

IS JUST IN THIS JUST IN THIS JUST IN THIS JUST IN TH

Berendina "Bernie" Hoefizger [left - Ed.], Curator of 20C Contemporary Music at swanky Smithsonian Museum (Wash, DC) has accepted Thirty Minutes Of Songs That Nobody Should Have To Listen To Again into the permanent collection! This is an honor that does credit not only to the lively online community here at th' IoF©, but also to other stuff I can't think of right now.

In her statement to the press, Bernie had this to say:

"Thirty Minutes Of Songs That Nobody Should Have To Listen To Again is testament to the courage and yes, the frailty, of human endeavor. Here is sadness, here is joy, here is the inexpressible yearning of the spirit of humanity given voice. Plus also, it's only like half an hour long, which is a boon for folks such as like I suffering from incurable disease such as like the ebolas I got, and only days left to live. Bless you, Farq, and th' Four Or Five Guys© for making my last days mo- *thud*"

Thank you, Bernie!

 

This post made possible thru the co-operation of th' Four Or Five Bums©

Spooky Synchronicity Dept. - Ted Templeman Predicts Future!

For the first time ever, again - the swellest album ever made! Now in bite-size chewy chunks!

Th' Four Or Five Guys© what can cast their frayed minds back to the last post, which looked like it was about Susanna Hoffs [below left - Ed.] but was really about Elephant Stone but was really really about choosing songs nobody should ever have to listen to again - will find today's post of shocking significance!

The intense selection process, wherein the finest minds on the planet - and Snorky - cast their votes for songs they'd rather pepper spray their own eyeballs than listen to again, threw up three Beatles songs. Yesterday, Hey Jude, and Something. Just those three.

As I started to curate the album, I remembered hearing a camp twenties version of Hey Jude, which I wished to audition for inclusion. Accessing th' IoF© data banks, I found The Templeton Twins' overlooked classic, Trill It Like It Was, antecedently FoamFeatured©. Scanning the sleeve notes, I was astonished to see three Beatles songs given the Trill Treatment. Can you guess which songs? No? Okay, I'll tell you. Yesterday, Hey Jude, and Something. 

This is conclusive proof that Ted Templeman, boy genius behind the Twins, could see into the future, rendering all existing models of time and attendant theories pertaining thereto redundant, and also slightly stupid-looking. I decided there and then to combine the tracks into a swell medley that would be the high point of the album, sort of like the second side of Abbey Road. Only shorter. And, it has to be said, funnier. Here's where the story leaves the realm of the supernatural and gets boring, so you can skip to the comments right now. If you've read this far. Which I doubt.

I'd originally uploaded a continuous play version of the album. Nobody likes these, and I doubt it got many plays. Looking at the waveform, I understood why I'd taken the easy way out. The gaps between the tracks are about one pixel [audio engineering term - Ed.] wide. It was cut as continuous play. But I wanted separated tracks, so I snapped on my Mad Doctor Eyeball and had Kreemé [left, 18 my ass - Ed.], fetchingly attired in nurse's uniform, pass me my sharpest scalpel. Long I labored and assiduously, into the watches of the night, refreshed only by Kreemé's delicate attentions.

As the first rays of the sun filtered through the high cobwebbed window of my laboratory, I gazed in awe at the result of my labors and, I confess, I cried in exultation! There before me, very probably for the first time ever in the universe, lay a version of this swell album digitally presented as eleven separate tracks. Do you care? Do I care if you care? Do you care if I care if I care? Hoo hah?

This post sponsored by Pat n' Matt's Beer Mat Hats©, out of Butt Butte, IA.

Susanna Hoffs Presents The Best Band You Never Heard Dept. - Elephant Stone

In rarely-seen image, Ms Hoffs aligns chakras in mystic Tibetan ritual!

Well okay, the th' Four Or Five Guys© are well versed in contemporary psych-rock, and there may be roughly three of 'em who've heard of this swell combo. Even they (the goddamn pencil-neck know-alls) will probably find something in this Bumper BlisterPak™ what they ain't gots.

Sultry, pouting Susanna Hoffs is no stranger to the scented shores of th' IoF©, in fact it's hard to get rid of the doll. When I let it slip I was going to FoamFeature© the Ellies - as absolutely nobody is calling them - she caught the next bathysphere out of Mandalay to host this very special Jangular Jamboree™!

We relaxed poolside whilst Kreemé served her signature Lighter Fluid n' Anchovy Smoothies and Susi waxed loquacious anent her favorite sitar-centric combo!

SH Doesn't that girl own any clothes?

FT3 My apologies. Her bikini is in the wash. So! Elephant Stone!

SH I am like so digging this band! I can't understand why they're not huge? I mean, elephants are huge.

FT3 Stones can be huge, too. But then they're more like rocks.

SH And talking of rocks - this band does!

FT3 Okaayyy - (looks at watch) I think that's enough content. Nobody reads this crap, anyway. Susikins? I have to go wait in the lounge? Nothing personal. There's this killer sudoku I need to finish (rubs palms enthusiastically).

SH Oh - sure. Can you send Kreemé out with some snacks, maybe a quart of silicone lube and an oven mitt?

[Audio runs out at this point. Contact me for security footage - Ed. ]

This post made possible thru' grants from Concerned Confederate Couchfuckers, a non-profit used furniture logistics initiative out of Perineum, TN.

Records What I Thunk Was Already On Th' Isle O' Foam© But Turn Out To Be Missing Consarn It Dept. - Chrysalis

This is a genuine solid lost classic album, no really. Just grab it and we can chat in the comments should youse bums be desirous!

(Still trying to find legible sleeve notes)

 

Shocking Truth! Dept. - The Forbidden Redacted Of Doris n' Rock! CLEAN VERSION

 

"I knew her before she was a redacted," as Oscar Levant, or someone like him, once said. Doris was the girl next door that guys felt a tad icky fantasizing about, like she was closely related. Finding yourself looking at her redacted was ... ooff. She had all the attributes of a sex goddess except the sex. Like a vegetarian meal, there was something very basic missing from a dish that looked good enough to eat. But privately, Doris was saving herself for the secret passion in her life, a steamy saga of backstage redacted that can only now be revealed!

When I told Doris she was to be the subject of a FoamFeature®, she caught the next dirigible out of Fernando Po to make an exclusive in-person appearance at th' Isle O' Foam©, promising to reveal all about H'wood Hunk Rock Hudson! Join us as we relax poolside while Kreemé serves her signature Pickle n' Dingleberry™ Smoothies!

FT3 Heyyy Do-Do! Lookin' good!

DD Likewise I'm sure!

FT3 I thought we might discuss your music career first, your influences and artistic development, but th' Four Or Five Guys© would reflex-click right out, so I suggest we dive right in - as it were! - to Rock Hudson?

DD He was an animal! A beast! I couldn't have kept him out my redacted if I wanted to, which I didn't! What all-American girl next door would?

FT3 None? I guess? How did you guys meet?

DD It was at one of Nancy Reagan's fundraising redacted Suppers? It was my turn in the box, and the guys paid a thousand bucks to put their, you know, through the hole! It was the most fun, and I was second only to Nancy herself in raising funds! So anyway, that night it was a benefit for redacted orphans, and I knew it was Rock's turn in the hole because he had this tattoo, with his name and phone number! So later I (finger-waggle) "got a ride" in the back of his limo to his swank Beverly Hills home, and from that night on it was BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! (laughs) He wasn't called Rock for nothing!

FT3 Ri-ight. Well, this kind of runs counter to the well-known fact he was redacted?

DD Let me tell you that Rock's career and private life were very expertly handled by his agent Hy Nussbaum, a dear, dear friend, and he very professionally created and manipulated the Is Rock redacted? narrative in order to protect me! My career depended on being perceived as the eternal redacted, and if word gotten out that I was being redacted by Rock it would have been the end for us both in Tinseltown!

FT3 But he died of redacted?

DD (winks lasciviously) Who do you think gave it to him? Rock, ever the gentleman, took our secret to the grave. I did the same, incidentally.

FT3 Well, this has been, uh ... anyway, you have an album for us?

DD Surely! It's a swell collection of beloved melodies delivered in my trademark come-hither contralto!

This post made possible thru th' mentorship of th' Monty Muntz Mentor Manor, Monticello, NY "Just in back of the bus station restroom!"