There's a rumble in the graveyard tonight! Pass it on!
Mack Allen Smith - Skeleton Fight (from a 1964 single; collected on Monster Bop, 1994) - All the cool cats and kittens who have passed from this world with honor are gathered by the King's sweet betties and delivered to the Juke Joint of Glory. There they jive and wail and slick back their hair in preparation for the coming Ragna-rockabilly.
Pay attention, cats and kittens, because I'm only going to go through this once. This is how Miss Melody Lane...
In response to yesterday's post, reader Dave L. of Springfield asked "Prexies?"
The etymology of the word is presumably tied to "prexy," a bygone slang term for a college president which ended up being applied to the high priesthood of Pat Boone fandom. The notion that "Mr. Nice" had a large, organized fan following may strike some of you as a really quaint and bizarre phenomenon, but keep in mind that a lot of what we think of the "Fifties" is a artificial construction of post facto nostalgia.
We tend to conflate eras with their associated "hip" fads and subcultures (greasers, hippies, punks, et cetera), creating a skewed image which fails to reflect the historical reality. My father graduated from high school in 1968 and my mother in 1969. A quick flip through either of their yearbooks fails to turn up a single example of freak or flower child, just page after page of neatly groomed lads and lassies at odds with the psychedelic popcult perception of the late 1960's.
Such things did exist, to be sure, but as fringe elements whose disproportionate cultural influence and mediagenic power color our collective historical mythology. It's reductive (as all shorthand is by definition) and it plays toward expected flavor rather than nuance...especially when the nuanced version is perceived to be tres unhip. There are far more people willing to boast about how they bought the original 12" pressing of "Blue Monday" back in the day than there are folks who'll cop to buying Toto IV, despite what the sales figures state. I'd much rather wallow in the warts'n'all version of the past than the rose-tinted and romanticized facsimile passed off as the genuine article.
Besides, who am I to lob stones at late 1950's Pat Boone fans and their byzantine organization? At least there was a manic sense of sincerity in their devotion, which feels quite refreshing in an age when the Hannah Montana and Camp Rock blocks are waging a relentless war for merchandised supremacy in the aisles of every superstore in the country. (The battle will not end until the last tube of hemorrhoid salve has been brought into licensed compliance.)
While the subject of Pat Boone fandom seems ideally suited for the Lilekian "Ha ha! Look how stupid these people were back then" school of mockery, I find it difficult to lob haughty cheap shots at targets that range from quite sad...
...to downright tragic...
See what I mean? Cruel mockery becomes redundant when dealing with those who get squishy whenever they hear "Love Letters in the Sand" or who celebrate their devotion to blandly innocuous pop music through verse...
Okay, that's just fucking creepy.
Ill Repute - Clean Cut American Kid (from Rodney on the ROQ, Vol. 3, 1982) - How about a little Nardcore, prexies?
Screamin' Jay Hawkins - Little Demon (from Cow Fingers & Mosquito Pie, 1991) - I find this b-side to 1956's "I Put a Spell on You" serves as a nice vaccine against the ravages of pure strain Boonitis.
Abigail Mathilda "Ma" Hunkle -- mother, shopkeeper, and the original Red Tornado -- takes the good fight straight to the Reichsfurher's mustachioed kisser:
Some things -- like face-punching Hitler or vintage rock'n'roll classics -- never go out of style.During the Spring 1993 semester, I composed a series of "morning poems" which took the form of doggerel glosses scribbled in the margins of my class notes. Only fourteen of the original set of nineteen poems have survived the passing of time; the other five have been lost to various purges, though it is possible that a revised complete set still dwells in the documents folder of my wife's old Packard Bell 386. (Not that I'm in a hurry to find out, as I think the incompleteness adds a certain air of mystery, a la lost silent films and classical texts.)
Of all the things I've written, the morning poems are the things I am proudest of, or rather "least embarrassed by" -- not because they're even remotely good, but because they lack the usual self-consciousness that marks my other written work.
Here's the first entry in the sequence:
Morning Poem #1
Again, my friend?
What could you possibly be thinking
In bringing such a crime against pastry
To the desk next to mine?
A danish, you say?
Nay, it is a coiled turd of dough
Scraped off the sidewalk
And glazed in sugar.
I was present
When the carcass pits were peeled open
And the skies over North Woburn turned ochre
With death's heady perfume.
That charnel house tang
Is balsam and lavender
To the smell of your so-called "danish."
Does your nose not function?
You laugh loudly
In response to a joke by your overpainted doll.
A constellation of soggy crumbs
Sprays from your lips.
My head is hurting.
Your gut must be hurting.
Do us both a favor next time.
Buy a donut instead.
It may be good to be the king, but it also sounds like a heck of a lot of work. I guess that's what separates the royal born from us mere peasants. That and chunks of paraffin crammed into the nasal passages.
Elvis Presley - King Creole (from King Creole, 1958) - If the late monarch of the House of Tupelo had chosen to stuff his face with wax instead of fried banana sandwiches and amphetamines, he might not have died so unceremoniously upon his throne.
Belly - King (from King, 1995) - Belly's second album got a bad rap from critics and fans who were hoping for a clone of Star, but I really enjoyed the band's shift to a (mildly) rockier sound that still retained elements of their signature esoteric indie pop vibe.
Carter USM - Speed King (from the "Let's Get Tattoos" CD single, 1994) - The inclusion of marvelously re-interpreted cover songs (like this take on a track by These Animal Men) made it worth buying Carter USM's single releases even when I didn't particularly care for what was on the the a-sides.
So remember I couple of days ago, when I was whining about what I thought was just a bad head cold? I think it has turned out to be something a little more complicated.
Last June, when I made my long-postponed trip to the dentist, I was told that two contiguous teeth on the upper right-hand side were candidates for root canals, due to the fact that both had been cracked open and left untreated so long before being filled. My dentist wrote me up a referral for an endodontist, and was supposed to set me up an appointment for the initial consultation.
The thing is that, for whatever reason, I never got a call back from the endodontist. I didn't pursue the matter, since I had a dozen cavities that needed filling, my dental coverage was scaled back (modestly, but still) when I switched unions, and root canals are expensive. Better to nip the numerous small problems in the bud, I thought, rather than blow the entire year's benefit on a couple big procedures that, let's face it, rank rather low on the "things we prefer to experience scale." (My wife, who has had a root canal done by the same people not too long ago, says that the process is completely different these days, and that she fell asleep in the chair while it was being done. Even so, I notice she isn't hoping to undergo the experience again any time soon.)
Besides, I figured, how bad could things get in the eleven months before the next fiscal year? The rotten chompers were already sensitive, I had lived through the white hot pain of countless canker sores, and I was not going to be intimidated by some bush league toothache. Sure, my friend recounted some over-the-top horror story about a classmate of his whose jaw abscessed due to similar neglect, which made the poor kid hallucinate and speak in tongues, but my friend has similar stories for every health issue from hangnails to cerebral hemorrhages.
Despite all my rationalizations and calculations, the answer to "how bad could it be" turned out to be "pretty damn horrible, actually." I've spent the last 48 hours distracted to the point of near madness by a throbbing, itching ache in my upper jaw, the inflamed nerve endings broadcasting all sorts of nasty sensations through my sinuses, cheek, and throat (which is why I though it was a head cold at first). As much as a canker sore feels like a blowtorch being held to the fleshy tissue inside the mouth, it's an acute pain and can be blocked out with a bit of effort. Until I finally took my wife's advice about the wonders of ibuprofen (O, glorious OTC pain reliever!) this morning, I was reduced to a state where I began to consider the merits of unconventional treatment as practiced by Bruce Willis's character in 12 Monkeys (fortunately I couldn't remember where I put my hunting knife) or by the learned triumvirate of Howard, Fine, and Howard...
Bill Haley & His Comets - (Now and Then) There's a Fool Such as I (from The Decca Years & More box set, 1991) - Tell me about it, Bill.
The Upsetters - Toothache (from The Complete UK Upsetters Singles Collection, Vol. 2, 2002) - The only kind of toothache worth having.
As you may have already heard, today is supposed to be "No Music Day." While I have nothing but admiration and respect for Bill Drummond and the KLF, as far as this participatory bit of performance art is concerned, I'm taking my cue from these Welsh masters of minimalist post-punk:
Young Marble Giants - Include Me Out (from Colossal Youth, 1980)
Because, really, a day without Esquerita is like a day without sunshine...
Esquerita - Rockin' the Joint (from The Capitol Collectors Series, 1994) - A bit like Little Richard -- who was strongly influenced by the man otherwise known as Eskew Reeder Jr. -- only a little less sedate and refined.
Our sordid tale begins within the pages of Avengers #71 (December 1969), where Earth's Mightiest Heroes found themselves being used as pawns in a high-stakes wager between the Kang the Conqueror, a time-travelling despot, and the Grandmaster, a cosmic-powered version of Jimmy the Greek. As part of the contest, a group of present-day Avengers were transported back to Nazi-occupied Paris where they got the opportunity to tussle with the Golden Age versions of Captain America, Sub-Mariner, and the Human Torch:
It's pretty entertaining stuff for what it is -- bombastic Silver Age superhero melodrama told in the Mighty Marvel Manner -- and the arc is reprinted in its entirety in the very affordable Essential Avengers, Volume 4.
So what if the versions of the Golden Age characters don't match up exactly with the stories printed back in the 1940's? It's not as if little details like the shape of Captain America's shield or the cut of Namor's trunks really matter in the grand scheme of things, given the nature of disposable serialized adventure stories. Even if some clever fan were to point out the discrepancy, it's nothing that can't be taken care of with a glib comment in the letters page and a hastily mailed No-Prize.
Unless you happen to be Roy Thomas, the Grand Guru of Foolish Consistency (and honorary muse of Armagideon Time), that is. Thomas's minor gaffe as writer of Avengers #71 haunted him for years. So much so, that eight years later he would dedicate the forty-odd pages of the first Invaders annual towards setting things right.
Have you ever spilled a couple drops of red wine or India ink on a white carpet, and in the process of trying to scrub it out, turned some barely noticeable specks into a massively conspicuous stain? Sometimes the best course of action really is to just let things be. It's one thing to backfill details such as why Captain America is using his old shield in 1942 or Black Panther mixing up which year the Avengers actually travelled back in time to, but...
...when we reach a point involving Nazis stealing the underpants off an unconscious Namor, the solution outstrips (pun semi-intended) the problem. Have no fear, concerned parents of America, it's all for the sake of science:
Today we have an excerpt from "The Diabolist Method of Classroom Discipline in Practice: An Illustrated Case Study" by M.F. Stopheles. Ed.D; from Parapsychological Theories in Education, Autumn 1972 issue) :
Step 1: Diagnose the source of disorder.
Step 2: Consult the writings of the thrice-damned rulers of the netherworld in framing a suitable response. Remember to follow standard safety protocols -- protective goggles, warding circles, Satanic apron -- while conducting your forbidden rites.
Step 3: Administer the means of unholy retribution. It is vital that you remember that this method of discipline works best if your students are unaware that you are practicing it. While a viridian bolt of flesh-searing eldritch energy lobbed in the direction of a habitual note-passer will make a dramatic impression on your charges, it may very well create more problems than it solves.
Providing that you've properly phrased your demonic pacts, and followed the instructions in the arcane codices to the letter (or "rune," depending on the text), the results should not be long in coming:
Of course, proportionality is key, though standards of acceptable discipline may vary from district to district. (Ironically, the more religiously devout a community is, the greater its tolerance for harsh punishments, as long as one remains circumspect about the source of one's power.)
Generally speaking, however, you will find that successful results will speak for themselves, especially in today's cultural and political climate.
(Images taken from "Assignment in Fear" from Chilling Adventures in Sorcery as Told by Sabrina #1; September, 1972 -- a comic that dares to answer the question "What would an issue of EC's Vault of Horror look like if it was drawn in the Archie house style?" The answer is "pretty effing bizarre.")
Donovan - Season of the Witch (from Sunshine Superman, 1966) - Do you think Plant, Page, and Company were big fans of this track? Compare the first minute or so of "Season of the Witch" to that of "Ramble On," and you'll see what I mean.
(Edit: As aTom Ten pointed out in the comments, future Led Zeppelin members John Paul Jones and Jimmy Page were involved in the recording of the song, which would explain the similarities. The AMG write-up on the song has all the details. And thus I have come one step closer in my quest for the Unified Field Theory of Classic Rock. Jeff Lynne is the key to unlocking it, I just know it.)
Specimen - Hex (from Wet Warm Cling-Film Red Velvet Crush, 1997) - A delightful bit 80's goth pop, despite the fact that the song's title reminds me of my inability to locate a copy of this much sought-after cinematic oddity. A supernatural-themed biker/western flick set in the immediate post-World War I period? I must see this film.
Screamin' Jay Hawkins - I Put a Spell on You (from I Put a Spell on You, 1958) - And so great is its power, there shall be no saving throws for half damage.
Rand: It just so happens that I've had some amazing adventures that a lot of people would like to read about.
Rook: You're cute, but you're dumb.
- Robotech: New Generation, “Symphony of Light”
Kevin’s post from yesterday reminded me that I had been meaning to do something similar for a while now, but have been putting off for various reasons. There are about twice as many of you out there reading (or more likely scratching your heads over) Amagideon Time now that there was at the beginning of 2007, if my logs are to be believed, so I should probably provide a meet-and-greety, mission statement sort of dealy-o for those folks who have only recently tuned in.
My name is Andrew. “bitterandrew” was an affectation carried over from my precursor journal, so as not be confused with these guys, but “Andrew” is what I usually go by. I’m a 35 year old quasi-techie type (explaining exactly what I do would take more effort than it’s worth) who shares a house on a hillside northwest of Boston with his wife, two dogs, a family of rabbits, and many, many cats both feral and domesticated. Oh, and there’s a chinchilla around there somewhere, too.
About a year and a half ago, I got the brilliant idea to start up a music blog after discovering the mp3 blogging scene. My previous plan was to create a comics-oriented site, but I was never able to figure out a proper angle for the project that wasn’t already being done better elsewhere; music felt like a much better fit. It started off rather mundanely, as I tried my hardest to color within the lines of “real” musical criticism, but I soon jettisoned any pretenses along those lines, decided to play it by ear, and let the site mutate into what it is today -- Tristram Shandy as written and musically annotated by a popcult obsessed slacker in his mid-thirties. I tend to be own harshest critic, but the formula -- an endless series of digressions from one hobbyhorse to the next -- seems to work more often than not. (I have been told by more than a couple folks that I have a knack for casting the mundane in epic light. I’m not sure what to make of that.) Who knew there was a modest audience for rambling, recursive messes incorporating autobiographical, polemical, and trivial musings set to music?
As for the musical selections, I’ve worn a lot of subcultural hats in my time. None have fit as well or been as loved by me as the punk rocker’s chapeau, though I’ve long since given up on pigeonholing myself into a single narrow role. Most of the material I post has a retro cast to it, though more recent tracks do pop up with some regularity. Armagideon Time is not, however, about plugging away for the current BIG THING, as most of that stuff falls outside my retrologist’s purview and there are hundreds of other music blogs covering that beat already. The choice and presentation of tracks on Armagideon Time has been likened to the concept behind the Back to Mine series of compilations, which --besides being a massive compliment -- is a comparison that captures the essence of what I’ve been (informally and unintentionally) doing here without having to go into messy over-explanations.
I’ve you’ve been enjoying Armagideon Time, great! If my tortured prose hasn’t entertained or enlightened, I hope that you’ve least enjoyed the music, and perhaps have been turned on to some artists and genres you may not have been aware of (and made use of the kickback-free purchase links to follow up on that interest). Feel free to comment, too -- but no pressure. I’m sparse with the comments myself, so I understand. I can always be reached at the email address in the sidebar to the right, should the need arise. (It may take time for me to reply, depending on my current situation.) I also have last.fm and Twitter accounts for those of you into those sorts of things. (My last.fm account is configured to scrobble only what I listen to at work, so the tallies are a bit lopsided.)
Something of a musical grab bag today, featuring some favorites which may or may not have been featured in previous posts:
The Clash – Armagideon Time (from the b-side to the “London Calling” single, 1979; collected on The Story of The Clash, Vol. 1, 1988) – The spiritual alpha and omega of the blog that bears its name.
Bill Haley & His Comets – Rock Around the Clock (from The Ultimate Collection, 2006) – This slice of teenage rebellion holds up pretty darn well after five decades, while Puddle of Mudd’s latest CD turns stale in the time it takes to take the shrinkwrap off the case. It makes you stop and think, doesn’t it?
Jamie Wednesday – I Think I’ll Throw a Party for Myself (from the We Three Kings of Orient Aren’t EP, 1986) – The jangle pop precursor band to Carter USM knows the right way to celebrate.
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