parade of sub-stellar objects

Oh, how I miss those comics anthology series of yesteryear.

When I first started collecting comics, many moons ago, no trip to the flea market quarter bins (which is where the bulk of my childhood collection came from) was complete without an issue or three of Marvel Premiere, Marvel Spotlight, Marvel Presents, or any of the reprint-heavy "100 Page Giant" books DC put out in the early 1970's. This was before peer and industry pressure imprinted themselves on my tastes, and the criteria for selecting which comics to buy was based entirely on my own childhood whims. Thus my formative comics-reading years featured a parade of of d-list (or lower) characters...and as the twig is bent, the tree is inclined.

That the stories were utter crap for the most part didn't matter as much as the gnostic aspect of being the kid who eschewed Superman (boring) or Batman (tired) in favor of an optimistically-branded "sensational new character find of 197x" or a back-bencher given some solo face time. There's something magical about that mix of youthful enthusiasm and gullibility, where you're eight years old and totally jazzed about owning the first appearance of 3-D Man or The Torpedo. While there's always a chance that such affections can calcify into an unfortunate state of fan-entitlement and delusions of "ownership," that sincere fascination with the excitingly stupid and absurd is fandom's unpolluted state of grace.

It's not about collectability, speculation, or gratifying the yearnings for vicarious bad-assery -- it's about enjoying entertaining nonsense for its own glorious sake.

Comics publishing has changed since then, and despite calls from the usual armchair quarterbacks, the anthology format is a non-starter in the current evironment. Readership has contracted across the board, and publishers have retreated to the security of proven franchises. The days when straight-ticket Marvel or DC buyers could float a solo appearance by Woodgod or Monark Starstalker are unquestionably over...if it was even feasible to begin with. I didn't realize it back then, but the quarter bins I dug through in the early 1980's were filled with the previous decade's unsold stock.

The growing shift toward trades as long-term revenue generators has effective killed the incentive to publish one-off slush pile stories featuring obscure characters. If a franchise is deemed strong enough to merit publication, prevailing wisdom demands going with either a prestige format one-shot or a limited or ongoing series better suited for publishing in collected format.

While it saddens me that scattershot risk-taking wide-tapestry approach of thirty years ago has gone the way of the dodo, it is difficult enough these days to sustain sales on proven properties. Quality titles outside the major franchise boundaries (Manhunter, Blue Beetle, etc.) are lucky if they clear the two-year hurdle before their cancellation is inevitably announced.

Sure the next generation of pre-adolescent quarter bin divers won't have the joy of discovering the 21st Century's answer to Woodgod, but then again, what kid reads superhero comics these days?

The Innsmen - Things Are Different Now (from a 1967 single; collected on Green Crystal Ties Vol. 8, 1998) - Here's another fine piece of midwestern garage rock, this time from a Michigan outfit unafraid of letting the bassline call the plays.

your kiss is not on the current agenda

This man is clearly a visitor from an alternate universe.
Things that need doing, abridged version:

- get Super Lumina's brake pads replaced
- scale the cherry tree out back and unhook the windchimes before the bad weather starts
- clean off and store the patio furniture
- figure out what I'm going to do with pronounced WOO-BIN
- get my Christmas shopping sorted out before things go crazy
- migrate Armagideon Time to a Wordpress setup on my own webhost
- dig out the sumacs that have snuck their way into the raspberry brambles
- get a haircut
- mail out some packages to my friends
- complete the articles I promised for other sites
- finish sorting and cataloging my popcult archives
- quit kidding myself that making lists will aid me in getting any of the above items done

The Blue Things - You Can't Say We Never Tried (from The Blue Things Story, 1993) - I suppose it depends of what you definition of "tried" is. Mine might be a little more generous than most, and encompasses those transitory flashes of obligation I feel while playing videogames or otherwise procrastinating.

Not that effort automatically equals success, as Kansas's The Blue Things (later "The Bluethings") discovered when their rather nice Byrdsean sound failed to propel the outfit out of the midwestern regional market. Oh, well, there are worse fates than being a well-regarded 1960's garage rock obscurity.

coming home to roost

The present financial crisis, as explained and resolved in six panels of a Golden Age comic book:

(from Captain Marvel Adventures #112; September 1950)
A fundamental weakness in the underpinnings of market capitalism? Pshaw! It's all about telepathic waterfowl seeking to undermine our entirely sound and totally rational system of unrestrained greed, long since freed from the petty shackles of effective oversight. Thankfully, we have a government that is compassionate enough to insulate the titans of finance from their own self-destructive tendencies and is willing to commit as much of the taxpayers' money as is required to cover the speculators' losses.

Hey, it's an emergency. We can discuss accountability and regulatory issues later, after the the wheelbarrows full of cash and lines of low-interest credit have been dispensed to the poor, poor plutocrats who have already suffered so much. Please, pay no mind to the restructuring of the banking regulations that were created to prevent commercial banks from dabbling willy-nilly in the investment banking sphere. We need to be grateful that these entities were willing to buy out their failing cousins in a time of crisis, so just put aside any worries that this will pose an even greater economic risk down the line.

When the worrybird cackles, a quick response is required. As for those of you who will ultimately foot the bill for the bailout, and who have been suffering the most from the turmoil....well, you should have been more responsible with your financial affairs. Next time, don't take out a subprime mortgage to buy a home -- buy the firm that uses such mortages as security to game the markets. Then the government might be willing to slip you a share of that sweet $700 billion.

The Rare Breed - Beg, Borrow, and Steal (from a 1966 single; collected on the Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era box set, 1998) - This single was re-released in 1967 and credited to the Ohio Express, one of the many faceless bubblegum proxy groups used by songwriters and studio wizards of the period, though the actual touring line-up of the "band" hadn't yet been assembled. So don't expect to hear any similarities between this respectable slice of garage rock and "Yummy Yummy Yummy."

Action Pact! - Who's to Blame (from Survival of the Fattest, 1984) - It's a shame the 80's Britpunk scene imploded when it did, as there were a number of bands that were on the verge of breaking away from the formula (while not falling into the standard hard rock/metal/grindcore career trajectory) before it all came crashing down. You can hear it in the studio side of The Partisans' The Time Was Right LP, which sounds like nothing else recorded before or since, and you can hear it to a milder extent in Action Pact's second album, from which the above track was taken.

Wire - Let's Panic Later (from an EP included with, and later appended to 154, 1979) - It is impossible to calculate the creative debt indie rock owes to Wire....unless you're talking about Elastica, in which case the exact sum has been recorded in an out-of-court settlement.

Note: My other project, pronounced WOO-BIN, celebrates its second week of existence with a recital of the most sublime verses ever penned by human hands.

peculiar indeed

What's this you say? You're running low on nightmare fuel? No problem, I've got something that should carry you until the next service station of unquiet dreams...


Don't worry about returning the favor, friend. It's the least I could do.

Naz Nomad & The Nightmares - I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night) (from Give Daddy the Knife, Cindy, 1984) - In which The Damned's garage-rockin' alter egos barnstorm through the Electric Prunes' psychedelic classic from 1966. Don't let the mediocre reviews by garage rock purists put you off -- this album is retro-revival done right.

Friday Night Fights: She'd Break It Again

Mr. Tawny never told me he had a sister....

(from Tiger Girl #1, September 1968)
The Tigermen - Tiger Girl (from a 1965 single) - One 1960s obscurity deserves another, so I'm following up my tribute to a forgotten Gold Key superheroine with a garage rock rarity out of upstate New York.

(Fear his mighty roar!)

soon you'll all be singing along

(with the deepest of apologies to 1967's Fantastic Four Annual #5)
Pulp - The Fear (This Is Hardcore, 1998) - Of the unknown? Hardly. I know all too well what I'm afraid of happening on the fourth of November. Not even crash infusions of sublime Britpop can ease my anxieties.

Count Five - Psychotic Reaction (from Psychotic Revelation, 2003) - Superlative garage rock doesn't help, either, though not from lack of trying.

can't help wondering where I stand

Today is something of a proud day for me, as a routine check of the referral logs has revealed that Armagideon Time is currently the #1 Google result for "how to tell if you are wasting your time on a man."

Eat my dust, Dr. Phil!

I suppose that celestial concordance of specific phrasing and keyword usage obligates me to address the problem in question. With mild power comes mild responsibility, after all. While I do not possess any fancy formal training or a string of high-falutin' degrees, I do have a modicum of empirical wisdom which can be brought to bear upon the matter.

According to the immortal Bard (in Sonnet 116, which was incorporated into our wedding vows):

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken

It sounds lovely and dreamy, but it's actually a load of horseshit. Horsehit that smells like roses, but horseshit nonetheless. True love is a paradox, a mutagenic constant that threads all manner of alterations and revisions around and about the ever-fixed mark of loyalty and affection.

In the initial goo-goo eyes phase, one's beloved can do no wrong. In the infatuation hangover phase, the little and not-so-little flaws begin to reveal themselves. Providing that the bonds of devotion weather the stresses of reality, things settle into a pattern of acceptance of your partner's less desirable quirks and the conscious or unconscious attempt to control your own. It's not a perfect process, nor does it immunize you from the occasional dust up, but there is a sense of "US" which overrides two distinct or oppositional "MEs."

Or she realizes that you're never going to quit being a prick and you realize that she's never going to ditch those pain-in-the-ass friends of hers, and you go your separate ways. It can be a tough call to make, but there's no point in prolonging things when it's clear that the two of you will never, ever be on the same page. It's best to face things honestly...and by that I mean "not screwing up a good thing because I'm a restless, self-absorbed shitheel devoid of any sense of honor."

It all comes down to my dad's advice on vice, a maxim that also applies to romance: "If it brings you more pain than pleasure, it's time to give it up."

The Daughters of Eve - Don't Waste My Time (from a 1967 single) - In Narnia, where garages are few and far between, it's called "wardrobe rock."

Grassella Oliphant - Get out of My Life, Woman (from The Grass Is Greener, 1967) - Exorcism through funk. The power of the groove compels you.

I am my ideal

I had a drama professor back in college who was a bit of a rogue, but an outstanding instructor nonetheless. For some reason presumably tied to departmental politics, he was the person who usually got tasked with teaching the foundation courses in Traditions of Western Drama or whatever the prevailing uni-speak is for "reading a shitload of old plays and discussing why they matter."

These were the mandatory courses that every aspiring thespian or playwright had to suffer through before passing onward and upward to the sexier, hands-on parts of the curriculum, but this professor had a knack for making us care about the plays discussed in class. More importantly, instead of conducting the class as a watered-down English Lit course, he approached the material with an accent on technical aspects over critical theory. (Which is how it ought to be for a theater arts class, but in my experience often not the case.)

"Significance" meant less to him than entertainment value, and when the time came to discuss the dreary naturalism of Strindberg, Ibsen, and the like, he came right out and stated "These are historically important plays. They are important works of literature. You should all be familiar with them. That said, I would rather sit through a community theatre Starlight Express than suffer through a Broadway production of Enemy of the People with an all-star cast."

Hardly a divine revelation, but it's one of those moments that has stuck with me over the years even as other, arguably more important parts of my college education have slipped from conscious memory. The idea that a tenured professor of literature with an impressive resume could step outside the ivory tower and make case for entertainment value in and of itself made me realize that I wasn't just gaming the system and wasting my time at college, humoring the unfortunately high number of insular or clueless instructors that viewed appreciation as a gnostic process, removed from the vulgarity of the masses. (Seriously. I had one professor who was shocked, shocked, to discover that fans of romance novels were not a monolithic block of uneducated bon-bon munchers.)

Or I should have taken it as a clear warning that my lateral thinking processes and poor sense of self-discipline were fundamentally at odds with formal academia. Honestly, if I had to do it all over again, I'd have gone to trade school to be an auto mechanic and kept with the autodidactic route when it came to the the study of humanities.

In any case, the complicated relationship between entertainment and art is something I've addressed quite a few times already on Armagideon Time, usually in reference to the medium of comics or music. Despite recurring assertions to the contrary, quality is a relative concept when it comes to something a personal as "art," and while it is possible to establish a hierarchy of aesthetic value on a macro level, the boundaries tend to blur with closer examination. As always, keeping a sense of perspective is the best course of action, and that's something which is most easily achieved by observing the widest possible vista instead of limiting one's experiences to a single strata, be it lofty peaks of "high art" or the vulgar sumps of disposable entertainment.

Which brings us to AIP's series of Beach Party movies, director William (the real-life Mr. Samantha the Witch) Asher's sybaritic counterpart to Roger Corman's stygian Poe cycle of technicolor exploitation fare -- the Eros and Thanatos of early 1960's drive-in theaters.

Pal Dorian has dedicated this week to the antics of Frankie, Dee Dee and the gang, and his analysis of the series hits pretty much covers all the salient points I could possibly make about their enduring appeal.

The jokes are pure corn, the surfing scenes are almost avant-garde in their rear-projected fakery, the original musical numbers are embarrassingly dire, and the hokey bacchanalia of the privileged white "teenage" characters occurs in a world completely isolated from what was going down in America's inner cities or over in Southeast Asia at the time.

As terrible and cheapjack as the Beach Party films are, though, I can't help enjoying them nonetheless, and no summer vacation would be complete without a Sunday afternoon viewing of at least one the movies. (This year it was Muscle Beach Party and Beach Blanket Bingo.) Chalk it up to nostalgia -- nostalgia for a childhood when the films were staples of weekend afternoon UHF programming, for the lame-but-quaint tropes of vintage sitcom-style humor, and most importantly for the reassuring presence of various guest-stars drawn from the stable of character actors (Paul Lynde, Mickey Rooney, Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, et cetera) familiar to every heavy TV-viewing kid of my generation.

I wouldn't make a case that the films occupy a loftier cinematic position than, say, The Godfather, but I do know what I'd rather sit down to watch on a lazy summer weekend. Coppola's epic may masterfully dissect the nature of the American capitalism, but it does it feature lip-synched performances of either of these musical gems?

Stevie Wonder - Happy Street (from The Complete Motown Singles, Vol. 4, 2006) - A swingin' soul celebration, as featured in Muscle Beach Party (1964).

The Kingsmen - Give Her Lovin' (from The Kingsmen, Vol. 2, 1964) - Ginchy garage rock, as featured in How to Stuff a Wild Bikini (1965).

a short hike

From the pages of Josie & The Pussycats #69 (June 1973) comes this choice Melody Valentine moment:


While other comic book publishers were trending toward the lurid end of the spectrum back in the early 1970's, the upstanding folks at Archie Comics took pride in keeping things clean and wholesome....


Minnie & The Kneebones - Me & My Mini-Skirt (from a 1966 single) - Mini-skirts are fine and all, but I don't have the gams to carry off the look. What I really want is a ensemble like the one Alex is wearing in the above panels.

Josie & The Pussycats - I Wanna Make You Happy (from Stop, Look, and Listen: The Capitol Recordings, 2001) - Mission accomplished.

Friday Night Fights: Most of all, you've got to please her

From Frank Castle's Guide to Shared Intimacy (a.k.a. The Punisher's Love Journal):

1. Communication between partners is essential.

2. Try varying your foreplay routines to keep things exciting and unpredictable.

3. Always carry protection.

4. After the deed is done, indulge in some post-poital "cuddle time" with your partner.

Fighting and fucking, it's all the same in the Punisher's sad little world.

I used to to be a fan of Marvel's flagship sociopathic vigilante back in the late 1980's, but media oversaturation and the wisdom that comes with getting older killed my affection for Frank Castle and his one-man war on crime. Like butterfly knives and heavy metal music, the Punisher falls into the category of things that seemed really bitchin' to my teenaged self, but just feel embarrassing to me these days.

The above sequence of panels originally appeared in a story titled "Accounts Settled, Accounts Due!" which ran in Marvel Super Action #1 (January 1976), one of several attempts by Marvel to launch a more adult-oriented comics magazine. It was written by Archie Goodwin and illustrated by Tony DeZuniga and Rico Rival, and while I have an immense amount of respect for the late Mr. Goodwin's contributions to the comics industry, I have to wonder if he was freebasing Mickey Spillane manuscripts while he was scripting the story, which falls into the common comics trap of confusing "adult" with "lurid, titillating, and disturbingly violent."

The story does feature this panel though, so it's not all bad...

The stuff Chris Sims's dreams are made of.
The Fleshtones - Treat Her Like a Lady (from Vs. Reality, 1987) - In keeping with the proud garage rock tradition of doing sloppy covers of classic soul tunes.

The Misfits - Die, Die My Darling (from a 1984 EP; collected on the reissue of Earth A.D., 1983) - The track is actually a juiced-up outtake from the 1981 Walk Among Us sessions, which would explain why it's the only post-1982 Misfits release (apart from the "lost" Static Age LP recorded in 1978) that's worth a damn.

(Viva Bahlactus!)

this cat is where it's at

People of America, I'm sure you've heard what the other candidates are proposing as the solutions to the challenges facing this great nation of ours. Before you cast your ballot, however, you ought to ask yourself if another four years of politics-as-usual is really what this country needs.

There's another way. A better way.

It's time for a new species of chief executive. It's time for a Tawky Tawny presidency. As a tiger who has managed to pull himself up by his own foreclaws (notwithstanding scurrilous rumors concerning the patronage of a being of godly power), Mr. Tawny is able to rise above the petty distractions of professional politics and offer a true vision of substance for America:

EXPERIENCE!
SOUND JUDGEMENT!
FISCAL RESPONSIBILITY!
COMPASSIONATE CONSERVATISM!
DIGNITY!
TAWNY '08 - PUT A TIGER IN YOUR TANK!
Tiger! Tiger! - So You Won't Deceive Me (from The Kind of Goodnight, 2007) - This Atlanta-based garage punk outfit has jumped to the #3 slot on my Last.fm "top artists" list, right behind The Clash and Lush. Fitting company, indeed.

Paul Anka - Eye of the Tiger (from Rock Swings, 2005) - The diminishing returns of irony, clearly illustrated.

(A big thanks to honorary "Tiger Scout" Dave Lartigue for his invaluable assistance.)

ain't gonna give anybody any slack

Surfin' the zeitgeist with my homies! Woooo!
...which is why I need your help in getting my old lady's car out of here. I'll pay you ten bucks.
Making the Wu-Tang Clan look like The Lettermen...
Tough, yet with a tender side that yearns for the embrace of a pair of firm, 'roided-out arms...
Of the many words that come to mind when I think "cat," "tall" is not one of them.
So come up with a comprehensive community policing plan, a source of decent-paying jobs, and a midnight basketball program, quick!
...and I won't stop until you get enough! Ooooh! That goes double for you, Martin Bashir!
PROTIP: When pursued by Nigel, take cover behind the sloppily-rendered streetwalker.
I'm (not really) sad to say that I wasn't able to re-establish law and order in Center City's BAD part of town, as the game's shoddy digitized graphics, piss-poor collision detection, and painfully lame attempt to exploit popcult trends were too much for me to bear. Honestly, though, any town that allows itself to be conquered by the Gloved One probably isn't worth saving in the first place.

Back of Tha Neck - Hangin' Tough (from the Rock Vegas Boston compilation, 2004) - In which the local hardcore lads pay homage to Beantown's proud musical legacy.

The Uniques - You Ain't Tuff (from Uniquely Yours, 1966; collected on Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era, 1998) - Yer grammer an spellin iz two gud fer you two be a reel tuff cooky. Mebbe this slyce uv Louisiana garage rok will stiffn yer spyne.

Fluke - Hang Tough (from Puppy, 2003) - But never forget the importance of staying chill. Let Fluke show you how to do so in style.

pants on fire

I've been following the controversy regarding Hillary Clinton's imaginary exposure to sniper fire in Bosnia with a fair degree of bemusement. It's the latest tempest in a teapot in an election year driven by such ephemeral distractions. While I have no affection for Clinton as a politician, it seems that there are plenty of other substantive reasons to be troubled about her candidacy instead of harping over a standard bit of campaign trail Munchausenismo.

It's odd how the greater "we" have resigned ourselves to the fact that politicians are inveterate liars -- to the extent where this aspect of the vocation is accepted as a brute fact -- yet we still manage to conjure up some half-sincere shock and outrage whenever a petty falsehood is exposed. Big lies, on the other hand, dealing with issues of real importance and perpetrated by those who wield real power, tend to be swallowed with gusto and are seemingly unkillable, despite mountains of contrary evidence presented to dispel it.

Sexing up a story about a state visit in a campaign speech? The audacity of it! Using discredited evidence about WMD programs and links to terrorist organizations to stir up support for a disastrous war? Eh, it happens.

On a related note, I was impressed, even as I winced, with Obama's brief moment of candor that withdrawing troops from Iraq might be a more complicated process than anticipated, as he does not have access to the people and information needed to make a clear assessment of the situation at the present time. His campaign spokespeople have since downplayed that statement, so as not to alienate the bloc of anti-war voters (of which I am a unswerving member). When speaking of realities is unwelcome, it seems disingenuous to harp over distortions of the "truth," the quotation marks signifying the confirmation bias inherent in the term as presently understood.

So Hillary has her tale of high adventure in the Balkans, Obama his "I knew but I didn't hear" excuse about his pastor, and John McCain his story about Cuban torturers in the Hanoi Hilton (which could very well be on the level, but it seems like something lifted from a Chuck Norris film and rather conveniently appeals to an important voting bloc in a large swing state). These calculated pieces of window dressing provide ample opportunities to engage in petty sniping and childish taunts -- amplified and abetted by the mainstream media -- which have rendered the public political discourse at a level on par with a schoolyard dust-up. Substantial debate and well-considered policy positions are fine and all, but it's more entertaining (and sadly, more effective) to make fun of how much a rival candidate spent on a haircut.

One thing that I find interesting is that whenever a politician "misspeaks" about his or her personal accomplishments, the statments trend universally toward the positive, which is statistically unusual given the implied excuse of spontaneous, unconscious error. A candidate might "accidentally" tell a bogus story about the time they saved a litter of puppies and the Baby Jesus from a barn fire, but never one about the time they shanked a hobo for half a bottle of Thunderbird.

Funny, that.

The Castaways - Liar, Liar (from The Best of the Castaways, 1999) - Outstanding garage rock from the Twin Cities, this 1965 classic is a fine example of the stuff I used to look forward to hearing on the local oldies station...before its corporate programmers decided to quit trying and just pander to the blandest common denominator. Goodbye, wild organ riffs and falsetto vocals; hello, "Muskrat Love."

Sex Pistols - Liar (from Never Mind the Bollocks..., 1977) - I don't have to explain why I picked this track, do I? (If you answered "yes," there's a high probability you're reading the wrong music blog.)

Friday Night Fights: Simplicity at Its Finest

Nothing complicated or clever for this week's contribution to Bahlactus's Battle That Rocks the Cosmic Block -- just a fist, a face, and a constellation of hurt:

(from Captain Marvel Adventures #115, December 1950; by Otto Binder and Pete Costanza)
It's simple yet elegant, which means I don't have to explain the anti-television pogroms, phallic skullcaps shielded against Luddite radiation, and hot pants-wearing conquistadores which lead up to the featured punch-in-the-face action.

Swell Maps - Blam!! (from A Trip to Marineville, 1979) - In which the pioneering (and sadly deceased) Epic Soundtracks and Nikki Sudden chart a DIY postpunk course into Nuggets territory.

obligatory Oscar post

In keeping with current trends, Armagideon Time presents our own Oscar wrap-up..

...or is that "a wrapped up Oscar?"

A tense moment on the red carpet between Adeline McGillicuddy, Oscar Xavier Giuseppe Guevara, and the Plastic Dog.

Oscar celebrates his (half-)Mexican heritage.

An awkward encounter between Oscar and his estranged long lost twin brother.

Score! Oscar lifts a baby carrot from Maura's sack of swag...

...and efforts by the security staff to retrieve the purloined vegetable fail miserably.

"Hey, pal, are you planning on finishing that hamburger?"

Oscar responds to Ryan Seacrest's inane questions.

The Specials - Do the Dog (from The Specials, 1979) - Let's see if I remember the steps to the dance. Left-right-left-sniff your partner's ass, left-right-left-knock over the trash barrel in the kitchen, left-right-left-bark madly at anyone who passes by the house.

Boards of Canada - Oscar See Through Red Eye (from The Campfire Headphase, 2005) - Oscar see through googly eyes, actually. As a dog who takes his downtime very seriously, Oscar has a strong appreciation for well crafted chillout music and this track in particular.

Oscar & The Majestics - I Can't Explain (from Pebbles, Vol. 7: Chicago, Pt. 2, 1994) - Let me try to, then. As 60's British beat and mod groups took their cues from American soul and R&B music, American garage groups took their cues from the British beat and mod groups. It's a process akin to making a sloppy mimeograph of a grainy photostat, which sums up this wonderfully awful cover version of The Who's 1965 classic.