Halloween Countdown: October 5 - full soul transfusion

Dare you enter....the House of Franklinstein?

Okay, so he's not so much a "mad scientist" as a "serial killer with delusions of grandeur," but that's not an uncommon phenomenon. "It puts the Jheri curl activator in the bucket... HA! HA! HEE! HEE! HEE!"

Taken from the June 1977 issue of Fast Willie Jackson, a series that answers the question: "What would happen if an ambitious publisher swiped the style and tropes of the Archie comics franchise, but added a stong urban flava and made the stale gags even less amusing than the source material's?" The best of mercenary intentions can spawn a host of horrors, can you dig it?

too fowl for words

You know what contemporary superhero comics are sorely lacking in?

Duck-themed vengeance.

If the Spectre had been feeling especially vicious that day, he could have opted to inflict today's b-side offering upon his victims instead...

Rick Dees and His Cast of Idiots - Disco Duck (Part II) (the b-side of 1976's "Disco Duck" 7") - Because an instrumental version of a novelty song predicated on a sub-par Donald Duck impersonation makes perfect sense. Then again, we are talking about the 1970's; I doubt anyone looked up from their gold-plated coke spoons or custom-made bongs long enough to notice the absurdity of it all.

...and because one waterfowl-related musical travesty deserves another, I might as well lob this rotten egg into the ring, too:

Thomas Dolby, George Clinton & Other Folks Who Really Should Have Known Better - Howard the Duck (from the Howard the Duck OST, 1986) - There are certain cinematic stinkers from the past -- Xanadu, for instance -- that have improved with the passage of time. Howard the Duck is not one of them.

there is something goin' down

Today's post features a trio of tracks plucked from the grooves of Saturday Night Pogo, "a collection of Los Angeles new wave bands" released by Rhino in 1978. I found the album in the "various artists" Nuggets store in Kenmore Square sometime in the summer of 1992, and it set me back all of two dollars and ninety-nine cents.

Saturday Night Pogo also happens to be the only album I ever purchased the store, though I kind of regret not picking up the copy of Regina's album I saw in the dollar bin while I was there. That's not a dig at Nuggets, mind you. It had everything I could possibly want in a used vinyl store...except records I was interested in purchasing, though I did buy a number of old issues of Creem there (including the one covering the Sex Pistols ill-fated American tour).

Early punk compilations are always historically fascinating -- even when the material, as in the case of Saturday Night Pogo, is mostly uninspired -- because the genre's boundaries hadn't yet hardened into easily categorized shapes. In the early stages, punk was a matter of self-identification rather than a sonic template (three chords songs clocking in at under three minutes). While there were distinct sources of inspiration, the "anything goes" ethos allowed a host of acts -- whether cynically, cluelessly or sincerely -- to adopt the "punk" (or if they had commercial ambitions, "new wave") label.

In the case of Saturday Night Pogo, unfortunately, this meant a heaping load of so-so Stoogean and garage rock-inspired tracks with some cartoony "punk" efforts thrown in for good (and not-so-good) measure. The Dils (transplants from the San Francisco scene) and future AOR staples The Motels both contributed to the album, as did the Berlin Brats (who appeared with The Dils in Up In Smoke's Battle of the Bands), but none of the other major players associated with the early L.A. punk scene were represented. That wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing in and of itself, but it this case the end result comes off as a c-list predecessor to 1979's Yes L.A. compilation.

Like I said: a historically fascinating (and brilliantly-titled) album, but an essentially disposable one.

VOM - I'm in Love with Your Mom - It's cartoony punk-by-numbers, but manages to pull it off in the most blatantly crass manner possible. VOM was fronted by music critic and provocateur Richard Meltzer, and during its brief career specialized in over-the-top shock tactics at the band's live shows. A couple of the band's members went on to form the Angry Samoans after Meltzer's departure.

Needles & Pins - I Wanna Play with Guns - Good (but not great) femvox power pop with both 60's retro and 70's punk flourishes.

The Hebe Geebees - Night Fever - A throwaway gag meant to justify the compilation's title, but one that outshines the more serious efforts. It also anticipated this film by a good two decades.

seemed like the real thing

(from Blue Devil #3, August 1984; by Cohn, Mishkin, Cullins, & Martin)
Don't lose heart, Metallo! Kryptonite tickers may be hard to come by, but why not check out Armagideon Time's cardio-tastic line-up of replacement models? Our present stock includes several promising substitutes, hand-picked by our knowledgeable staff from a variety of materials and musical genres -- all guaranteed to get your blood pumping in style.

Lunachicks - Heart of Glass (from Luxury Problem, 1999) - This is for all those sad souls out there who've complained that Blondie's original version of the song sounded "too disco." Are you happy now?

Steel Pulse - Heart of Stone (from Sound System: The Island Anthology, 1997) - Soothing grooves for the end times, which seems kind of wrong yet sounds so right.

A Flock of Seagulls - Heart of Steel (from The Story of a Young Heart, 1984) - The New Wave at ebb tide. Be careful not to slice your foot open on some Big Pop flotsam; that shit can turn septic in the space of a heartbeat.

B.T. Express - Heart of Fire (from B.T. Express 1980, 1980) - WARNING: Individuals with hearts of fire should avoid wearing polyester suits, lest a real-life disco inferno occur.

the choice is made with a fresh resolve

It's a beautiful spring day up here on Mt. Misery. Even though I still have a little ways to go before I reach full functionality again, it's time I put aside the emo-rbidity of the past couple of weeks and carpe the diem.

Besides, I can think no better way to facilitate the healing process than with some fresh air and some infectious grooves. The windows have been opened and the playlist has been finalized, arbitrary standards of quality be damned.

Catch you on the dance floor, cats and kittens -- this party is just beginning.

David Naughton - Makin' It (from a 1979 single; collected on Super Hits of the '70s: Vol. 24, 1996) - An American werewolf at the disco! This was actually the theme song to the identically titled and short-lived sitcom (starring Naughton) made to cash in on the Saturday Night Fever craze. The series tanked, but the song was a hit, coming in at #14 on the Billboard Top 100 songs for 1979 and even finding its way into Meatballs, the 1979 summer camp comedy film starring Bill Murray and Chris Makepeace.

Looking back, I kind of regret that I didn't use "I've got looks/I've got brains/and I'm breaking these chains" as my high school yearbook quote.

MiniVIP - Miss Augusta (from Let's Boogaloo: Vol. 3, 2006) - One of the contemporary numbers from the third -- and best -- volume of this excellent series of "lost" and retro-leaning soul, dance, and funk compliations, and it's an absolute stunner, with organ-driven hooks that catch hold of the listener and refuse to let go. (Not that any right-thinking person would want to escape its aural snare.)

Fatboy Slim - Ya Mama (from Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars, 2000) - Not to be confused with "Yo-Yo Ma," though considering the Boston Symphony Orchestra's sad attempts to keep up with the trendiness curve (Ben Folds? Seriously?), I cannot rule out the eventual possibility of seeing a bunch of highbrow culture vultures tripping on E and waving glowsticks in time to a Norman Cook performance at Symphony Hall.

Shriekback - My Spine (Is the Bassline) (from a 1982 single; collected on Priests & Kanibals: Best of Shriekback, 1999) - At the present moment, it is my jaw that is pulsing out the beats and acting as my own internal rhythm section, but why quibble over details? Those peripheral axons lead to the same central trunk line, after all.

and it seems so long ago

Ladies and gentlemen, the wait is over.


I'm genuinely curious what this technology entailed, seeing as the ad appeared in the second half of 1981. The ad copy makes it sound like a precursor to Windows Media Player's visualization feature, but utilizing early Reagan Era technology instead of reams of inefficiently compiled code.

1981 also seems a bit late in the trend curve to be pitching a device designed to provide Supreme Disco entertainment. Not that disco ever truly died; it merely retreated back to its underground club roots, where it mutated and adapted and gave birth to a host of splinter genres. But the marketability of the fad was at a low ebb when the ad was published, which makes me wonder if C&E Electronics were aiming for the hardcore fringe holdout demographic -- perfectly coiffed boogie survivalists holed up in hardened bunkers beneath Bay Ridge and Astoria, living off their immense stockpiles of glitter balls, cocaine, and polyester as they attempted to ride out the rockist apocalypse, safely ensconced in a sonic womb of Latin percussion and elaborate string arrangements.

The Buggles - Video Killed the Radio Star (from The Age of Plastic, 1980) - It's more than a song; it's a sparking fragment of unrefined zeitgeist wrapped up in a exquisitely-produced prog-slash-new wave package.

Wilton Place Street Band - Disco Lucy (from a 1977 single) - When Rick Dees came up with the idea for "Disco Duck," do you think he had any inkling what horrors would follow in the wake of his disco novelty hit? (I admit I may be biased in my assessment, as the only thing I ever found even remotely entertaining or amusing about I Love Lucy was the backstage feuding between Vivian Vance and William Frawley.)

Halloween Countdown: October 28 – the litter of death

To honor the birthday of my wife, Maura, Queen of Animals, here's a heartwarming little tale from Unexpected #197 (April 1980). I'm positively certain she'd approve of its message.

Larry, a plucky orphan lad, has a job at the all-kill shelter run by the shify Mr. Griggs. (It's all part of the "This is how the world works; You better get used to it now, kid" vocational training/soulcrushing program enacted by the Bush Administration in 2002.)

Damn, and I borrowed against my cat-killing commission this week, too!
Larry hates the job, but apparently not enough to find work that doesn't involve the mass execution of felines. As his underdeveloped sense of morality wrestles with his need for pocket money, Larry has a fateful encounter with Miss Mildred, a somewhat sinister old woman who wants to repay Larry's previous kindnesses with a gift -- a pet cat.

Seeing as how you spend your day killing and cremating her feline kindred, I figured it would be just the thing to lift your spirits!
Because his orphanage has a strict "no pets" rule, Larry asks Mr. Grigg if he can keep the cat at the shelter. (Besides being morally confused, Larry is also a tad stupid.) Grigg agrees, but for his own sinister reasons...

This will bring me $1.25 closer to that new purple suit jacket I've had my eye on!
Gee, what a surprise. However, before Grigg can slip the poor kitty the needle...

Now, my children, now! Enact Attack Plan Felix! Meow!
And so, when Larry arrives at work the next day:

Wow, our feral cats usually just leave us dead moles as "presents." At least this crew left the head on their kill and didn't create Nasca-type patterns on the front step with Grigg's entrails.

My name is Midnight...and you'd better be nice to me.
Oh, and it turns out, by way of the the closing "host" segment of the story, that Miss Mildred was a witch, and the cat was a -- GASP -- witch's cat. That explains the accelerated maturation cycle of the kittens, although I think that the story becomes even better if one imagines Grigg being savaged to death by these kids. Milk teeth and undeveloped claws = a long, slow, horrific, yet highly entertaining and goofy death.

Cerrone - Supernature (from Cerrone III - Supernature, 1977) - I posted Erasure's cover of this Eurodisco classic as part of last year's Halloween Countdown, and now here's the original version of this danceable cautionary tale of the animal kingdom's vengeance. A musical and ideological favorite of Maura's, the track was co-written by Lene Lovich (who happens to be a musical and ideological favorite of my wife's, as well).

Happy Birthday, My Crazy Foo!

Halloween Countdown: October 2 – if it wasn't for your misfortune

Have you picked out your Halloween costume yet? Choosing the appropriate outfit can be an arduous process, given the sheer amount of options available. Adding to the confusion is the fact that a full 96% of ready-made costumes carry the "Sexy" qualifier -- because a "Space Mutant with Oozing Entrails" costume becomes that much better when it showcases one's cleavage.

I was thinking of simply reusing my costume from last Halloween, considering the amount of time and effort I invested in putting it together, although I might follow the example of this Italio-disco track...

Forbidden Fruits - Disco Halloween (from a 1986 12" single; collected on I Love Disco Diamonds Vol. 23, 2003)

...and go dressed up as a New Order song from the Brotherhood period. Come to think of it, I've got all the makings of a killer "Shellshock" costume already lying around the house...

and it's terminal

A tragedy, really. Though not as common these days as it was fifty years ago, Pat Boonitis (a.k.a. "The Wholesome Family-Friendly Disease") still remains a grave risk to the public's health and musical tastes. Symptoms include:

• cravings that can only be sated with an American cheese and mayo sandwich on Wonder Bread (sliced diagonally with the crusts cut off, natch)
• calling Pet Sounds a "hard rock" album
• considering a chaste peck on the cheek to be "getting to third base"
• taking fashion cues from H.R. Haldeman (males) or Pat Nixon (females) and/or exhibiting a fondness for pastel-toned cardigan sweaters
• seeing an ad for the local Methodist Church's "Christian Coffee House" in the paper and thinking that it sounds like a really hep scene
• believing the female orgasm is a myth propagated by the Communists and their feminist dupes
• wishing that you could have lived in Pleasantville before Peter Parker and Elle Woods ruined the place
• thinking that Andy Williams would have done a better version of "Say It Loud -- I'm Black and I'm Proud"
• voting Republican (This in and of itself could be potentially indicative of a host of disorders akin to Pat Boonitis, and should be considered as an ancillary indicator alongside any of the other symptoms listed above.)

If detected early enough, Pat Boonitis-A can usually be cured with the proper administration of Meet The Beatles! and James Brown's Live at the Apollo LP. Particularly extreme cases may require a crash infusion of G.G. Allin and The Scumfucs tunes, but extreme care must be taken lest the patient lapse into severe culture shock.

The B strain of Pat Boonitis is, unfortunately, incurable. Many sufferers are able to carry on with a semblance of life, despite their obsessive behaviors regarding golf, the capital gains tax, and why those goshdarn pinko Democrats hate the USA and Baby Jesus so much.

Fortunately for the human race, the highly virulent and contagious Debbie Boonitis mutant strain of the disease has not reared its head since the Great Pandemic of 1977. I was five years old, and the horror of that time left scars on my psyche that linger to the present day. The clouds rained blood and packs of feral dogs worried the flesh of the unburied souls whose lives had been lit up by the horrific effects of that MOR pop earworm. Just when it seemed all would be lost, the world received a most unlikely savior in the form of the Bee Gees' "How Deep Is Your Love." We were that close to going out forever. But three Australian brothers with high-pitched voices taught us to slow dance, disco-style...

Remember, kids: Forewarned in forearmed. The life you save may be your very own.

Mike Leander - Onward Christian Soldiers (from the Privilege OST, 1967) - From Peter Watkins' 1967 film about a fascist/theocratic British government of the future and how it uses a charismatic rock star to distract, indoctrinate, and otherwise control the youth population. Hey, it's sci-fi! No worries here, right? (This track originally came from the much missed 7 Black Notes.)

R.E.M. - Shiny Happy People (from Out of Time, 1991) - Okay, so there was one song on that album that I liked, due to the presence of B-52 (and Athens scene alum) Kate Pierson. Of course, it was the one song on Out of Time that my college drawing teacher would skip over during her maddening semester-long repeat loop of the album on the studio's CD player.

Vacation II: Day 9 - Burn, Baby, Burn

On this, the last day of my second (and entirely unproductive) week of vacation, I'd like to introduce you to....

...Sabrina Sultress, the Satin Satan! One the Des Moines Sultresses, and sole heir to the Sam Sultress Precision Auto Body fortune. (Free estimates! Open seven days a week! On the Beltline!) While her unfortunate name might have led a weaker-willed soul to resign themself to a career in the porn industry, Sabrina bucked her peers' expectations and earned a double major in Succubi Studies and Art History at SUNY-Geneseo. She moved to Manhattan after graduation in hopes of starting up her own business merging diabolism with disco, which set the stage for this two-part epic, "The Siren Song of the Satin Satan," from Justice League of America #179-180 (June-July, 1980).

This is where I'd normally provide a tongue-in-cheek plot summary, but that would happen to require that the story had an actual plot to summarize, rather than a collection of panels and captions randomly thrown together. Even by 70's JLA standards, the story is relentlessly incomprehensible. The two issues are a stark reminder of the hazards of being dedicated enough to a lower-tier character to pick up every single appearance of the same. (In this case, Firestorm, who joins the JLA in this arc.)

Let's see what I was able to decipher. Firestorm co-creator and JLA writer Gerry Conway Superman demands that Firestorm be given a place on the League's roster. Everyone is fine with this, except the perpetual ass-pain Green Arrow, whose argument against Firestorm's induction goes like this: He reminds me of myself. He's a self-centered jerk. I don't like him. Oh, to be able to so deftly combine introspection and cluelessness into a package of transferred self-loathing. It's a skill few ever manage to master.

Firestorm goes back to his NYC area of operation to hang with his high school classmates, a motley assortment of 'fro-sporting, Farrah-haired, and be-sideburned teens that truly capture that 1970's je ne se quois that all right-thinking survivors of that era have done their best to put behind them.

The brother of one of the crew has gone missing after having been seen leaving a disco with Ms. Sultress, and this being a 70's superhero comic and not reality, a weekend-long coke bender in a seedy SoHo apartment or an emergency trip to a VD clinic are ruled out in favor of his being led astray by demonic hijinx.

Firestorm pays a visit to Sabrina's apartment to get some answers, but ends up falling prey to her seductive powers in a delightfully primitive bit of fan service:

...and on that day, I became a Nuclear MAN!
He is able to reach his JLA signal device before his body completely stiffens (HAW HAW!) from the power of Sabrina's demonic liplock, and his teammates rush to the scene, only to find the apartment empty. The Leaguers split up to search the place for any clue to their whereabouts. Superman gives the place the once-over with his x-ray vision, Batman uses the micronized detective tools in his utility belt, the sorceress Zatanna sniffs around for residual traces of magic....and Black Canary does a thorough search of Sabrina's underwear drawer. (Ah, the difficulty of giving each member of a team so lopsided in individual power levels something to do.)

They manage to track the Satin Satan to her lair, the hands-down winner of 1979's Most Ludicrously Obvious Secret Headquarters award:
(INSERT LINDA BLAIR ROLLER BOOGIE/EXORCIST JOKE HERE)
Through her deus ex machina lazy plot-resolving powers that pretty much carried the JLA during this era, Zatanna (with an assist from Firestorm, who had been bound in "chains of moonlight") puts a stop to Sultress's plans to turn every lounge lizard in the Five Boroughs into metal-skinned automatons. (Points to the Satin Satan for setting up shop where the raw material was plentiful.) The unclean spirit in possession of Sultress's body is cast out, she thanks the League for setting her free, and all is well with the world again...

...OR IS IT? (It's sad how what William Paul termed the "comic beat of unending terror," the foreboding Parthian zinger, has become an even bigger cliche than the pat ending it was originally designed to usurp. We've grown so accustomed to it as an audience that when the guy who was graphically strangled with a chain doesn't show up after the climax, we feel confused.)

Angels, you're going undercover as characters in a lousy DC comic book.
Actually, I think that was the premise for one of the Shelley Hack episodes...

The Trammps - Disco Inferno (from Disco Inferno, 1976) - I used to use this song as an internal metronome to maintain a rhythm and flow for opening and date-stamping mail at my job. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I heard my boss and coworkers whispering behind my back.

Marsheaux - Dream of a Disco (from Peekaboo, 2006) - Both this and Marsheaux's debut album, eBay Queen, have been in heavy rotation at Armagideon Time HQ since Kevin Church brought the Greek electropop duo to my attention. The Amazon price for the albums is steep, but you can get both via eMusic for a song (no pun intended). New wave synth enthusiasts will notice the similarities between this track and A Flock of Seagulls "Space Age Love Song." That's a good thing in my book.

or could it all just be me

Last night, Maura was feeding the outdoor cat colony when she noticed that one of the cats, Sioux, had an ugly, suppurating puncture wound on his back. I cleaned it out as best I could with peroxide and a topical antibiotic, but because it was so deep and nasty looking we called the vet’s office to have it looked at. The appointment was at 9:30 this morning, so we figured that we’d take Sioux in, have the cut cleaned out and sutured, then drop the poor guy off at our house before heading into work. If only it turned out to be that simple.

The wound turned out to be a fight injury, which means that we’ll have to crate Sioux up for a minimum of forty-five days. (If we hadn’t gotten him vaccinated for rabies already, we’d have to quarantine him for six months. Being proactive and conscientious pays.) As the pus pocket and scar tissue formation were on the severe side, Sioux also required minor surgery to drain and clean the wound. Maura didn’t anticipate that it would come to that, so didn’t think twice about feeding Sioux this morning, which meant that the surgery had to be delayed until the early afternoon (and we weren’t sure until a half hour ago if we’d even be able to bring him home tonight).

Taking into account the commuting times to and from our jobs and the possibility we’d have to drop everything to pick up Sioux, our plans to at least clock half a day’s work were scrapped and we decided to get some things done around the house instead. In my case, it meant mowing the lawn, a task I happen to love immensely. It’s especially enjoyable when the mower blades come unscrewed while the motor’s running full-bore. Getting to the underside to bolt them back on involves flipping the infernal machine over and flooding the carburetor, thus killing the machine until it dries out. I employed the wait time wisely, watching The Guru on USA -- or more precisely, watching five minute segments of the film (which wasn’t that terrible, to my surprise) intercut with ten minute blocks of commercials.

I did finally get to complete the job, though not without loudly announcing “This will end in either victory or the utter destruction of both the machine and myself….Hopefully not myself,” within earshot of my neighbor who I didn’t realize was out in his own yard. (Eh, if my wife’s singing to the feral cats hadn’t already clued the neighborhood in to what kind of people we are, I’d be more embarrassed…) Because it was still early, and I had nothing else on my plate apart from waiting for the vet’s office to call, I even broke out the weedwhacker and pruning shears and added some finishing touches to the yard. It’s very impressive looking at the moment, although my pride in a job done well is tempered by the knowledge that we’ll back to Crabgrass City by the weekend.

Afterwards, I crashed out for a while and watched Trevor Nunn’s 1996 version of Twelfth Night, featuring Grant Morrison Barry Andrews Patrick Stewart Ben Kingsley turn in a decent performance as the fool, Feste. I’m not so keen on the whole anachronistic setting/costuming trend when it comes to things Shakespearean, but my love for the play (my favorite of all the Bard’s work) kept me from getting too distracted by the faux Victoriana vibe. The idea that anyone could mistake Imogen Stubbs in drag for Steven Macintosh did stretch my suspension of disbelief to the limits, though.

I came away from Twelfth Night with hankering for more dramatic art of the highest caliber, which I was able to find in the form of Mark L. Lester’s 1979 classic attempt to address the problems of post-industrial capitalism, love across class lines, and which leotard looks best with red-sequined roller skates. Shakespeare may not have written Roller Boogie, but he damn sure wishes he had:

Alas, poor Bobby James! I knew him, Jammer: a fellow
of perfectly feathered hair, of most excellent satin hot pants: he hath
done the eight-wheeled cha cha with me a thousand times; and now,
what a major bummer it is! my buzz harshes at it.

(Not many people are aware of this, but Xanadu was based on an early Folio draft of Coriolanus. The Japanese-only laserdisc featuring the original ending where Gene Kelly eviscerates Michael Beck during an elaborate tap dance sequence goes for big bucks on eBay.)

In the time since I began putting together this post, poor Sioux has come home from the vet’s. He’s a bit groggy and depressed, but doing well otherwise:

So there you have it, my day so far – an epic tale of mundanity, otherwise known simply as life.

Here are two relevant tracks by two bands whose fairly impressive bodies of work were overshadowed by the public awareness singularities called the “signature hit.”

---

Simple Minds – Life in a Day (from Life in a Day, 1979)

Modern English – Life in the Gladhouse (from After the Snow, 1982)

and kept my mind from wandering

I’m not sure what to make of this announcement. As a studio album, it would have been the pinnacle of conceited folly, but as a radio special, it’s a matter of fatuous inevitability. What has been revealed of the line up so far doesn’t instill me with a lot of confidence, just the anticipation that the end results will be overly reverent takes garnished with a side of ego tripping. (Travis’ major claim to fame, at least as far as I’ve seen referenced outside the rarified realm of the music press, was their mimeographed copy of “Getting Better” that was used in a Phillips commercial.)

If the producers really wanted to pay homage to the legacy of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, they should have gone wild when selecting the artists. For example, I’d love to hear Neko Case’s take on “A Day in the Life,” or have Underworld or the Chemical Brothers rework George Harrison’s self-indulgent boat anchor “Within You Without You” into something spectacular and different.

This sentence:

The BBC reports that Geoff Emerick, the engineer in charge of the original sessions, will use the same equipment to record the new versions.

…is a fine example of how gimmickry passes as relevance these days. It’s a level of hucksterism on par with a carnival barker’s patter (“The Great Wheredini will now attempt to escape from the same guillotine used to decapitate Marie Antoinette!”) or the sales pitch of Chaucer’s Pardoner when hawking his phony relics. (Speaking of which, who knew that Joan of Arc was an Egyptian human-feline hybrid? I need to get a revised prayer card for her featuring this image.) It’s a marketing ploy masquerading as significance, substance through association.

It’s not like this sort of nonsense hasn’t been tried before. The Beatles cast such a massive shadow over the realms of pop music and popular culture that it’s a given that those threads would be repeatedly picked up and pursued for reasons both noble and exploitive. Nothing can match the 1978 musical, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, in terms of sheer crapulent audacity.

For a while, a friend and I were engaged in an intense game of “can you top this” involving terrible movies. While a cheapo Turkish ripoff of Star Wars took the grand prize for all-around ineptitude, its incoherent mix of Islamic platitudes and shag-carpeted sasquatches is still more watchable than Sgt. Pepper’s is. Even as camp, it’s nigh unbearable, and this is from someone who will sit through Xanadu whenever it pops up on cable TV. It makes Skidoo look like Casablanca.

The film is, at its core, a paradox. It’s a celebration of the power of music against the corruption of the music business, but the film itself is as cynical, bloated, and venal as any of the villainous forces depicted onscreen. Each frame oozes pure, uncut 1970’s unctuousness as it attempts to ingratiate itself with the audience through a litany of overproduced and poorly contextualized renditions of The Beatles’ songs. It’s all presented with a migraine-inducing degree of literalness (It’s Maxwell and his Silver Hammer! It’s Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds! Hey, have you met Mr. Mustard yet? The Egg Man and the Walrus apparently walked out due to a contract dispute) that completely misses what made the original songs so damn interesting.

It also doesn’t help that the film features no dialogue, only the songs and narration (provided by George Burns). As a result, much of the characters’ emoting is done via broad pantomime. It’s a bold directorial move, and one that gives the viewer the impression that one is watching a grade school play performed by a gaggle of hyperactive (retarded?) schoolchildren. Poor Peter “Billy Shears” Frampton fares especially badly on this score, as he chews the scenery with clueless gusto. The Bee Gees just seem kind of confused and sad in comparison.

I’d love to see a deluxe DVD release of the film with an audio track of the director’s instructions during filming: “Happy, Peter, happy! Now sad! Sad! Now drugged! ‘Drugged’, I said, not ‘having an orgasm!’”

So, yeah, the bar has been set pretty low for not creating the worst Beatles tribute ever, but anything’s possible when the Gallagher brothers are involved.

From the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band OST (1978):

Steve Martin – Maxwell’s Silver Hammer

George Burns – Fixing a Hole

we like to throw our bodies around

It’s Friday night, a perfect time to cut loose and go crazy. The question is whether to rock out or boogie down. Both are worthy courses of action, which makes for a really tough call.

Then again, who said it has to be an either/or proposition? Not these folks.

Electric Light Orchestra – Shine a Little Love (from Discovery, 1979) – It seems natural that a rock outfit renowned for its string section would dabble in disco, although said section was dropped from the band at the time of Discovery’s release. Dig the use of sound effects lifted from the Galaxian video game, always a plus in my book.

The song feels like it could have been commissioned by NBC to promote its 1979 fall lineup, and I can’t listen to the instrumental parts without envisioning Eric Estrada and Larry Wilcox using their motorcycles to pull a chain of Peacock Dancers on rollerskates across a soundstage while Conrad Bain gives a big “thumbs up” to the camera.

As a side note, ELO frontman Jeff Lynne reminds me of one of my dad’s old fishing buddies. The line “Hey kid, fetch me a beer from the cooler in my van, ok?” would have made the basis of a superb sci-fi concept album.

Uriah Heep - Whad' Ya Say (from Fallen Angel, 1978) – They once roamed the land like magnificent denim- and fringe-bedecked dinosaurs, the hard rock bands of the Polyester Era, and when the opportunity arose to trade credibility for a chance at megaplatinium “crossover” success, they came a’running, visions of tax exile status dancing through their heads.

Their time has passed. Their few remaining acolytes hunker down in basement apartments, putting the finishing touches on their SCA apparel and next weekend’s Dungeons and Dragons scenario while lambasting the sorry state of modern (i.e. post-1980) music.

Alice Cooper – You Gotta Dance (from Goes to Hell, 1976) – Check out this skeleton I found in a certain shock rocker’s closet. It’s wearing a lovely peach leisure suit and a gold chain, and is that Jovan Sex Appeal I smell?

Alice does disco... only a year after the release of Welcome to My Nightmare and a good year before the runaway success of Saturday Night Fever convinced other rock acts to hop on the bandwagon. The man’s a true pioneer.

Halloween Countdown: October 19 – muah hah hah hah

Today’s track is a bit more lighthearted than my more recent offerings, but still in compliance with the Halloween theme. The track is “Monster,” a 1978 single from super idoru duo Pink Lady. Phenomenally popular in their native Japan, echoes of their cartoony blend of disco and pop can be heard in nearly every anime theme song recorded from the late 1970’s to the present day.

Their popularity didn’t carry over to this side of the Pacific, apart from one hit single, “A Kiss in the Dark”, although a dismal Sid and Marty Krofft variety show probably wasn’t the best vehicle to bring Pink Lady to the American listening public’s attention. The notorious Pink Lady and Jeff did provide me with my favorite “so terrible it’s great” viewing moments: Pink Lady doing a phonetic English medley of songs that begins with The Carpenters’ “You Needed Me” and flows into a mash-up of “Last Dance” and “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” where Mie and Kei are joined by an open-shirted, tight-panted, Farrah-coiffed Greg (BJ and the Bear, My Two Dads) Evigan. Evigan is a wonder to behold; so caught up in the rockin’ moment that the poor sap has no clue how utterly foolish he looks shaking his microphone around like a chronic masturbator, his male cameltoe visible to all.

That, my friends, is true horror.