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| Artist's impression |
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Perky, toothsome Doug Henning (TV's Mr. Magic) is justly famed for his acts of prestidigitation, legerdemain, and mastery of the Black Arts. But at the start of his career, his invocation of the demons Alastor and Belphegor at a children's party, and the subsequent bloody deaths, led to a different kind of spell [LOL - Ed.] in the state pen, where learned to make balloon animals and developed a passion for vintage Australian psychedelia. On regaining his freedom by floating over the prison walls while high on Jimson Weed, he vowed to eschew the Black Arts and devoted himself to becoming a professional stage magician, stunning audiences world-wide with his tricks, his hair, and his skinny dungarees.
I interviewed him on the stoop of his swank Camden, NJ, tarpaper "tiny home", overlooking the tire recycling compound, the acrid stench of burning rubber crimping my nostril hairs.
FMF©: So, Doug -
DH: Oh, call me TV's Mr. Magic! Please!
FMF©: Doug - how did you get into Australian psychedelia?
DH: Well! It was through a dear Australian friend! An Australian, from Australia, and he had this collection of records from that wonderful Australian country, which is Australia, and I just, I don't know, fell in love? [simpers] It really was ... magic!
FMF©: You have some music to share with us?
DH: I do! It's a wonderful album by Various Artists. Hmm - I wonder ... where ... it can be? [gestures mystically, fumbles CD from pocket] Oh wow! Where did that come from!
FMF©: You're fucking kidding me, right?
DH: It really is ... magic!
FMF©: Bull-shit, dude.
DH: Wait! There's more! [desperately tries to inflate balloon, passes out]
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| Camden Transit Center |
Pausing only to pick up the CD, grab his wallet, and his phone, and a souvenir snowstorm paperweight from Hawaii, and a lamp, and a Thermos, I made my excuses and left. In the VIP lounge at Camden's lush Transit Center [right - Ed.], I set fire to a Lucky and squinted through the smoke at Henning's wristwatch, which I had also disappeared. "And that's magic, pally! Oops - did I say that out loud?"
One of our regular contributors, a Mr. Anonymous, left an anonymous comment on our recent Byrds piece: "Thanks for this," he writes, under the cloak of anonimity, "but I noticed a couple of the tracks that are supposed
to be mono are actually stereo. Bells of Rhymney and Spanish Harlem
Incident."
Longtime readers will be familiar with our policy of zero tolerance when it comes to errors of this magnitude. We demand editorial rigor as a given; any lapses from the truth contravene our Terms Of Service and reflect badly on Th' House O' Foam©'s reputation for integrity in blogging. Unfortunately, the staff member responsible has let us all down in this way antecedently, but whereas every charity was then extended to her in the spirit of forgiveness, we feel that this time such largesse is not an option. Cody has let herself down, she has let me down, she has let the august institution of False Memory Foam© down, but more seriously has let you, Mister Valued Customer, down.
I have taken into consideration every aspect of this troubling matter before deciding, not without regret, that she is henceforth dismissed from every position she has held (and that's saying something) at Th' House O Foam©, and ceremoniously stripped of her uniform - the traditional mesh bikini proudly worn by every Foamette© - by TV's Mr. Magic, Doug Henning [to feature in his own piece tomorrow - and hey, good riddance and lots of luck back at the nailtician, Cody! - Ed.].
We salute Mr. Anonymous for his courageous and anonymous exposé of staff inefficiency. Thanks to him and his anonymous comment left anonymously, no more images of Cody will appear on the blog, and she will have to make her way in the world without our patronage.
Thanking you for your understanding in this matter, and assuring you of our best attention in the future -
(signed)
Farquhar Throckmorton III
Rosemary Clooney - wotta dame! But few know the sophisticated shantoozie was raised by marmosets after a dirigible crash in remote Peckerwood County, GA. Yes, it was deep in the mangrove swamps that little Rosie first learned to sing, her voice charming the forest fauna which gathered about her feet; gators and whippoorwills, snipe and jackalopes alike entranced by her husky, sensual tones.
A remark by Uncle Morty Marmoset - "Say, Rosie - you oughta be singin' for them swells in th' big city!" - inspired her to pack her meager belongings into a couple of steamer trunks and catch the Super Chief to Los Angeles, where a chance meeting with Duke Ellington on the station platform ("I sang The March Of The Marmosets for him") led to a successful audition and the recording of this here album, and gee, is it ever swell! [Citation needed - Ed.]
The transition from harmony pop to country rock took Spanky & Our Gang six years, from '69's Anything You Choose [Foamed antecedently - Ed.] to Change in '75. The band had broken up after their lead guitarist Malcolm Hale died, apparently from carbon monoxide poisoning. During that time, Spanky's Greatest Hit(s) was released, and a live album held over from '67. Greatest Hit(s) consists of largely re-recorded and extended versions with new overdubs, and is a beautiful album in its own right. I can't imagine that any of the four or five guys who hang at th' House O' Foam© is unfamiliar with S&OG, but this is the perfect introduction to an awesomely talented and great-spirited band and will not fail to pick you up when you're down. The magic's in the music and the music's in you.
Change, recorded by the reformed band, minus Hale, is an altogether different kettle of ballgames. The radical shift from their trademark sunshine pop confused any remaining fans still waiting for a new album, and gave their label and the radio stations problems. It didn't sell, has never seen a CD release, and remains a hidden masterpiece of the genre, with a challenging song selection, perfect production (aided by Jerry Yester and Fairport's Richard Thompson, yet), and their signature seasoned harmonies. There's also a real depth of emotion missing in most country rock - the elegiac I Wish We'd All Been Ready carries a real gut punch.
There's an amateurish-looking twilight album I'm not sure I want to hear (2009's ominously-titled Back Home Americana Vol. 1), but Change is not only a surprising swansong, it's one of the great albums of the genre.
(This rip is salted by a gourmet sprinkling of authentic vinyl crackles for your enhanced listening pleasure)
Deep in the endless pine forests of Finland, an obscure cult grew around a ruined church. Legend had it that the very earth was soaked in the blood of babies sacrificed to Väinämöinenguðmundsdóttir, the God Of Despair. Self-proclaimed leaders of the cult, Paul Chastain and Ric Menck, both from myth-shrouded Providence, Rhode Island, brought with them a copy of the Necronomicon said to have belonged to H.P. Lovecraft.
Strange rituals took place in that church, with hymns to Väinämöinenguðmundsdóttir specially composed by Chastain and Menck. The ruined building mysteriously burned down, with Chastain and Menck the only survivors. They have understandably remained tight-lipped about those events, but released the hymnal - played backwards - under the name Choo Choo Train.
Listening to this music now, one can only wonder at the unspeakable horrors that took place in far-off Finland. Certainly, Chastain and Menck aren't talking. All they will say is, "don't play Choo Choo Train backwards, if you value your sanity, and wish the portal between universes to remain closed."
With that urgent caveat - enjoy!
