Delta Del Dept. - Red Guitar Blues

Th' Legendary Delecaster© - canine decoration by George Clinton!

 

It’s Sunday and I’m on a day trip to the Island.  I pop a penny into the seafront telescope and sweep the horizon.  No sign of a rescue ship, so I train it instead on a group of marine biologists frolicking in the Foam.  I empty my man-purse on them and move on.  I say hi to the neighbours, I take a ride on the famous Random Post Button.  I decide to buy a small cast-iron replica of the Random Post Button to take home with me, where I will place it on a shelf in my room alongside a baseball mitt and a photograph of Uncle Salvatore eating a lobster.  He’s dead now of course, and so is Uncle Salvatore.

Tired but happy after another False Memory trip, I’m making my way toward the Island exit.  I decide to pause and refill my pipe before leaving.  I find a quiet spot behind a dumpster full of Beatles albums.  Leaning back against the dumpster, my thoughts wander as I pack another bowl.  How did I end up here?  Surely the straight and narrow path cannot lead to an enchanted, mythical Island populated by music freaks and ruled by a mysterious joker-scribe?  I must have taken a right wrong turn somewhere.  But where?  I draw a hot lungful from my pipe and everything dissolves …

1963 and a semi-detached house in a semi-rural village 20 miles north of London … I’m a 9 year-old kid playing with my Dinky toys on the front porch when I see something amazing pass by … a lanky teenage boy with strange hair carrying a red electric guitar.  An un-cased naked bright-red electric guitar, and shining quiffed-up hair.  I’d never seen the like before, ‘cept maybe on our scratchy black & white TV.  Never in real-life living colour, never here in Little Nothinghappenton.  And I’m sure I made the connection between this lanky quiffhead’s electricity-guitar and the family radiogram.  A splendid hunk of furniture for spinning discs and sweeping the wavebands of the wireless world.  It dominated the front room, with a speaker as big as a little kid who liked to sit right in front of it and feel the waves.  The smell of hot electricity and furniture polish, the robot clank n' whirr of the record deck auto-changer, a green magic-eye tuning tube, and a connection leading somehow to red electricity guitars.  I was hooked early.

I stared at the village rocknroll rebel as he passed by a few times that year, always with the naked guitar.  And the fully dressed hair.  I guess later he must’ve got some wheels, gave up walking to the bus stop and left the village squares behind.  I hope he made a lot of rocknroll noise in his life, and got well paid for it.  I know he left junior-nerd me wishing I could get some of that red-guitar attitude.  And wondering exactly what is this strange power that can affect the shape of a man’s hair.

That was the beginning, the first sight of The Path That Leads Astray.  It took me another year or three to get my own electric guitar, and you bet it was red, bright red.  A Watkins Rapier, and somewhen in those early days an Audition amp from Woolworths.  Almost immediately, the strange power of electric noise-colours began to affect my hair.  It grew and it grew and it grew.  The parting set off from its traditional side-head position and made straight for the middle.  Soon the transformation was complete … I looked like a girl.  Shining quiff-related styles were yesterday’s thing, me and my budding-rockstar buddies preferred to look like girls.  And back in late 60’s Villageville, long hair on a boy really upset people.  Especially, and perhaps logically enough, the local skinheads.  So much abuse triggered by me lookin' like a gurl.  Maybe that's why I spent so many hours safe in my bedroom practicing on my red guitar.

So I’ve got the hair and I’ve got the guitar, now what?  Musical theory talks about the “circle of fifths”, it’s something involving chords and scales and stuff, I never got into it.  I got into the circle of spliffs … I pick up my guitar, I want to get high … I get high, I want to pick up my guitar.   An unbreakable circular connection.  And a perpetual motion thing so that 50 years later I’m still loopin that loop like a red-eyed hamster in a wheel.  I’d have grown tired of many a cage along the way if it weren’t for that wheel.  And yes us hamsters know that the wheel is built-in to make a cage seem OK when it really aint, but it feels good anyway so lets go round again.  Oh dear.

And now the Island sun is setting.  The dumpster casts a long shadow.  I have traced the beginning of The Path That Led Astray.  It’s time to continue my journey.  I tap out my pipe, in a cool latin-funk kinda way, and stand up, in a creaky oldman-stoner kinda way.   Myra appears, seeking a quiet spot behind a dumpster.  Hey Del howzitgoin … her eyes focus on my groin area …  Is that a cast-iron replica of the Random Post Button in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me? … I turn and run like hell into th' Foam.

The Delecaster [above - Ed.] 

I’ve owned this red guitar for a very long time.  It has a Hofner Colorama body with various tweaks to the hardware and electrics.  Coloramas date from the time I spotted the quiffhead, it could have been one he was carrying back in 1963.  The dog drawing was done by George Clinton at an album signing in Manchester (I pledge allegiance to the flag of Funkadelica). The un-tweaked version of this guitar once belonged to a hippy-biker called Misty who died when his bike left the road and hit a tree one Friday night in 1972.  Not knowing what had happened, I went round his house the next day for a Saturday afternoon jam.  Writing this I feel a faint aftershock from that awful day almost fifty years ago.

 

FT3 writes - hey, if any youse bums want to see your ax in this here Gallery O' Guitars, post an imgur link in th' comments! (You don't need an account to post something on imgur - just make sure you click the "private" button or whatever it is)

Who's In Kreemé's Kaboose? Dept.

Foam-O-Graph© - "A sight for sore eyes!"

 

Uh-oh! Kute n' kuddly Kreemé [18 my ass - Ed.] was about ready to roll when she noticed somebody snuck into her caboose while her back was turned! Can you identify our musical miscreant? Sneak a peek into her hot pink caboose and spot the stowaway! It's a swell game for all the family - why not invite neighbors to "join in the fun" for your own Kreemé's Kaboose Party!? Kreemé sez, come one, come all - the more the merrier! Climb on board! And why not award extra points (perhaps a bong hit!) for recognizing familiar IoF© "characters"?

Remember, gang - don't name act or album directly in comments - don't encourage legal action from much-loved artiste! Leave hint or clew!

Psychfan's Trip O' Th' Week© Dept. - Beacon Street Union

I grew up in Boston and I felt a flush of regional pride when MGM Records began a project that involved signing Boston area psychedelic bands (The Bosstown Sound). 

The thinking was that Boston was the East Coast version of San Francisco, an area with a large hippie population and the culture that went along with that. There must be a lot of great psych bands who can rival those of the San Francisco Scene (or so it was thought). 

This was not an irrational plan. Like San Francisco, Boston was (and is) a magnet for educated young people and the culture was there. What wasn't there was a Janis Joplin or a Grateful Dead or a Jefferson Airplane. Just as there was only one Motown, there was only one Haight Ashbury.

The plan to conjure another out of sheer will backfired spectacularly in the commercial realm, as is well known, but the end result was several psych LPs that are good, if not great.

 

This is an OK outcome from my point of view, as it means that there are several more good psych LPs in existence than there would be otherwise. Todays LP is a case in point. It features excellent psych guitar, good keyboard playing, lead vocals by future New England country star (yes, there is such a thing) John Lincoln Wright and production by Tom Wilson who deserves a post of his own (coming soon).

 

There are several theories about why the overall campaign failed. One was the smell of hype - The Bosstown Sound? Another, related theory was the idea that the bands were signed before thay had developed enough material to compete on a national level.

 

This one, for example, has psyched-up covers of Chuck Berry's Beautiful Delilah and blues standard Sporting Life mixed in with the mostly pretty good originals and the album as a whole is well worth hearing.

 

Second LP The Clown Died In Marvin Gardens, also included here, confirms the material shortage issue with a side long version of Baby Please Don't Go that you (probably) won't want to hear more than once. It does confirm the talent of the band, however, with several more good originals.

 

Farquhar Throckmorton III adds: The band changed their name to Eagle for a third album, the acronymtastic Come Under Nancy's Tent, which I've added to the downloads. Rumors that they were going to call it Vote Against Gangsters In North America are probably unfounded. A more consistent and focused album than the first two, it was too little too late. And it was 1970, which was a bit shit.

Sid Slaw's Psybient Psunday! Dept.

That's Sid, not Fred, fact fans!

Many Four Or Five Guys© will know Sid as Fred MacMurray's stunt double. That's him in Son Of Flubber, hanging off the flaming B-52 as it crashes into the orphanage! And that's him, providing stunt vocals for Fred's hit chart single The Flubber Song! But few know of his passion for psybient-type records, and in what we hope will be a regliar Sunday feature featured at th' IoF© Sundays, he'll be choosing some psybient-type tunes to share from his extensive collection!

I interviewed Sid yesterday poolside, as Kreemé [20 my ass - Ed.] served us her signature strawberry 'n liver tacos in a crisp baby seal skin shell!

FT3 So, Fred - I mean Sid! - what got you into this psybient-type music that's taking the nation's teens by storm?

SS [chuckles] Well, Farq, I guess it was the drugs. Everybody at Disney© was high as a fucking kite. All the time. Jesus fucking Christ! Planes coming in from Mexico, landing on the back lot! I have to tell you - we called it flubber! We got flubbered! That's where they got the name from! I mean - flying car? The tag line on the poster was fun scores a new high!?!?! Just how obvious could we make it?

FT3 Gee, this sure is a fascinating insight into Tinseltown, Sid! But it wasn't all about scoring a new high, was it?

SS Well, there was a bunch of sex, too. They had to strengthen the shocks on Angela Lansbury's trailer.

FT3 So - what psybient-type record have you brung us today?

SS Which it's - waittaminute - I forget! Shit, they all sound the same anyway!

FT3 Leave us sit back and enjoy Son Of Flubber while you try to remember!

SS [100 minutes later] I got it! It's Shakatura. Old Pschool Psybient from 2002.

FT3 Gee, and is it ever flubber-tastic!

SS [laughs]

FT3 [laughs]

Hamilton Reynolds Dept. - Joe Frank

Joe Frank managing pen storage, yesterday

Workshy Four Or Five Guy© MrDave [last submission, May 2020 - Ed.] delivers some swell screed about some guy what we never hear of, which is noteworthy, on account we hear about most guys here. Also - note smart-ass quality screedage! Hoo boy! Leave us hope it garners him some hot chick action on th' next Senior Hayride!

In the Venn diagram where surrealist first-person narrators overlap public radio personalities with two first names, two names stand out: Joe, and Frank. The Krème de la Krème [19 my ass - Ed.] of absurdist monologuing and existential radio drama.

Before Ira Glass' This American Life made David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell household names (for you coastal elites) and Al Gore (with his internet invention) made every one of your neighbors think that recording themselves talking for 30-60 minutes was a public service and viable career path, one man with a reel-to-reel tape recorder and a weekly slot on public radio spun elaborate, often dark and twisted first person narratives and improvised radio dramas week after week, year after year, decade after decade from 1978-2018 (RIP).
 

Ken Nordine - Pen Mug Pro!

And none has done it better or taken it further. Highlighting the absurdities of social and cultural constructs, wrestling with the riddles of existence, identity and meaning, navigating the minefields of interpersonal relationships writ large and small, and poking at the abscesses of the human condition while simultaneously probing its abyss, Frank's broadcasts are like taking shrooms without the bad taste. Or, with his similarly deep baritone voice, like Ken Nordine [left - Ed.] narrating your nightmares while psychoanalyzing their meaning and extrapolating their relation to the nature of human existence. Fun? You bet!! If you don't know Ken Nordine, it's your duty as a Four or Five Guy© to fix that, stat. See below for remedy.

While deep, dark, twisted and full of existential angst, Joe's shows are above all else friggin' hilarious. Not in the nudge-nudge wink-wink manner of the antecedently FoamFeatured© Firesign Theatre who shared a similar appreciation for the absurdities of modern life, but in the dry, sardonic, laughing about it because life is fucking ridiculous and what else can you do fashion. And they've got a good beat that you can dance to! We know th' 4/5G© are obligated to listen to such avant garde artists as Holger Czukay, Steve Reich, Popol Vuh, Hans-Joachim Roedelius, and FoamFavorite Brian Eno -- well, believe me, you'll enjoy listening to them a lot more while Joe seduces and entrances you with a magical tapestry of words taking you on epic journeys of surreality. Existentialism with a great soundtrack; what's not to like?

Joe, before he could afford a pen mug

Listen, bub: I hate spoken word as much as the next guy. I mentioned This American Life above but I lost patience for that long, long ago. Like after a few episodes. Podcasts? Nope (except for the occasional episode of  Heroin Buttsex and Lord of the Rings - "an evidence-driven debate show where panelists explore the three grand themes that weave through all of pop music"). Listening to other people talk is my least favorite thing in the world. But Joe Frank?! Joe Frank is entertainment of the highest order. A good time. Perfect listening for long late night drives or just wandering aimlessly around the apartment in your underwear. Perfect listening for mowing the lawn or just keeping an eye on the Honduran lawn boy while sipping a Mai Tai on the veranda ("watch those begonias damn it!"). 

You like Spalding Gray's Swimming to Cambodia? You'll love Joe Frank. You like - The Monkees?! Well - you might love Joe Frank too! Who wouldn't?!? Probably Trump wouldn't, but that's not you. You're the kind of gal or guy who appreciates quality entertainment like Joe Frank. You're on Fabulous False Memory Foam Island© for chrissakes - if there's an audience for this type-thing, it's YOU.

You want a taste before you commit yourself to the long term storage costs? Here's a bite size excerpt from a live show he did in 2010 with longtime accompanist James Harrah, whose exquisite guitar work you'll recognize from his work with Barry Manilow, Hannah Montana, the Slovak National Symphony Orchestra, and of course Bruce Willis's epic The Return of Bruno (I of course am more familiar with his work with John Prine, Herbie Hancock, and Ray Charles but that's just me): https://youtu.be/l6vVXzqOADo

As an enticement for downloading this collection of Joe Frank recordings, scraped from every corner of cyberspace and meticulously tagged for your listening pleasure (two days worth, if you don't sleep), I'm also including a generous serving of Ken Nordine recordings that every gal or guy should have on the shelf (a collection of all the Word Jazz Dot Masters plus Colors and a few less common releases). If you need more Ken Nordine than the six-pack of discs I'm throwing in here, you can download another 44 hours of his original Word Jazz radio broadcasts from archive.org: https://archive.org/details/word-jazz-radio

"Buy a ticket, take the ride."

 

 

MrDave is currently between busboy jobs in his hometown, Hives, SD, where he is president of the Fabian Appreciation Society. "If there is any chicks out there what dig Fabian, or anything, don't hesitate to get in touch!" MrDave said yesterday from his crawlspace condo.