http://www.driveinmovie.com/OK.htm

The music and the sounds of my upbringing will be with me as they always have been.

They have remained inside me since I first saw the wild buffalo roaming on the plains of Oklahoma. I once could see what the Indians could see: the flat belly of fields spewing oil, wet from blood, not naked but derelict, huddled in the debris that the white man salvaged for them.

In Oklahoma, when my heart first heard music-or rather, first listened to what music would become-I saw what replaced the Indian dreams.

In the distance, the pull of the giant screens emerging from the flat earth like the stones of Easter Island-another mystery I have no time for-lured me daily. I could not drive past them with my preacher father and teacher mother without hoping that, the next night, under the dark sky covered with yellow stars, I could catch a glimpse of giant red lips or the bare leg of a monstrous goddess.

The drive-ins calmed the plains while the buffalo roamed behind the screens staring in to the bright lights of the automobile. My family's pink Mercury station wagon rolled over the bumps, blinding these ancient creatures, parking weekly at night in front of the images reaching toward God.

What god, the Indians would ask?

Before I heard music, the gods were Walt Disney, Alfred Hitchcock, and Jerry Lewis. The images of their films projected out into the universe of Oklahoma, over the beat-up convertibles and flat-tops and crewcut haircuts, through the dark peace that only the Indian knew-and that I had heard once. What an unearthly peacefulness it was then: challenged only by the drive-ins and oil and fading cowboys.

I have not known such peace since then.

Guest Post this week from Bree Sharp (remember Bree?) whose new project with Outlandos darling Don DiLego, Beautiful Small Machines, came as a surprise to even them. It's fun. It's pop. It's dance. Apparently, it's even humpy. And they even got Simon Le Bon to hop in on it. No kidding. Take it away Bree...

Dear Closet Door Frame Humpers,

Although you may be humping the door frame of your closet, I am, however, referring to the clandestine nature of your habit, and not the location of it. You may be humping your closet door frame, your kitchen door frame, bathroom door frame, the door frame of your neighbor's attic, or favorite local restaurant vestibule door frame; either way, you're out there and you know what you're doing. And i'll tell you something...

I'm into it.

Big time.

So much so that I'm currently making a comprehensive documentary on the subject and using some of the footage for my next video.

Because I know that late at night, when Master Shake, Xander Crews, and Jan and Wayne Skylar have gone to bed... Or early in the morning when the first of five daily showings of "A Few Good Men" is starting to air on TBS... Or midday when you can hear Spanish radio drifting into your room from cars driving by four stories down as the first of spring's breezes blows in... I know you're thinking about it. Splinters be damned!

But you know, I'm not here to judge. I'm going gray and i still use Proactiv. So what can I say? It's an imperfect world. However, I can share with you this:

So far my research shows that while little is known about you, DFH (Door Frame Humper) and your growing phenomenon, it is thought that the humping is not necessarily sexual in nature and is mostly executed while the humper is, in fact, clothed It is also thought that age does not play a role in determining who will be a DFH and that participants are reported to be as young as pre-adolescents and as old as nonagenarians. Duration of the hump seems to be indiscriminate as well and can last anywhere from a few seconds to several hours (although the latter is supposedly much more rare and thought only to be present among DFH's who are single or unemployed).

My thought for today: research what the cow's milk (that is meant to turn a 50 pound calf into a 400 pound cow in 60 days) is doing to your body. And then maybe ask yourself how much space you think one chicken needs from another chicken before they start pecking each other out of madness. And when the answers blow your mind, go hump a door frame. But you know, it's just a thought...

For the DFH neophyte i've compiled the following small list of "Music- To-Hump-Door-Frames-To" suggestions: [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

Presbyterian guilt and random ruminating...

By Coco Hames

I can outdrink everyone in the Casbah like Marian in Indiana Jones.  But what does that mean?  What higher level have I reached?  Is this an accomplishment?  Should I be proud?  Sometimes I am proud.  But the resulting hangovers can keep me in bed all day.  All day.  Today, for instance.  All I was able to do was slowly read a pamphlet on cooking classes.  And that's it.  All day.  Because yesterday I got up really early to go to church, a feat I accomplish once every year, usually at a different church in a different city, which invariably results in a night of heavy drinking.

I was raised Presbyterian in the south, and that's pretty good, because I can roll with it.  My best friend was Catholic, and I was fascinated by the differences in our churches and prayers and ceremonies, but I never wanted to go with her to her church, because I thought it was totally creepy.  I hate ceremony.  I hate dressing up and performing creepy rituals, especially with other people.  I've even been married, and made sure that went down with little more than a handshake in front of our parents.  I just really can't be bothered. 

So yesterday, I went to a church in Nashville that was supposedly "cool people church", a term I throw around to represent everything from liberal theological studies in Los Angeles to various Unitarian services around the south.  And I ended up with this really nice group of people at a chapel, shined up with a cold biscuit, prepared for some cool people churchery.  And it started fine, I wasn't too fidgety, even though nowhere in the program did it mention "Christ the Lord is Risen Today", the best Easter hymn ever.  My mom even said yesterday, "I was humming it while I was brushing my teeth this morning!"  But then I noticed that that wasn't the only difference from what I was used to. 

I looked over the program some more.  There were words.  Catholic-y words.  Ceremony-y words.  "Eucharist".  "Communion"... It was about to get real ceremonial, real quick.  So I shuffled out of my pew as quietly as I could (which was not at all quietly, because nothing is quieter than church, and no one is more clumsy and accidentally noisy than me) and totally bailed.  Bailed!  On Easter!  The one day of the year I try to behave and do anything moral and normal! 

But then I went to the zoo, which is way more my kind of church, especially the petting zoo, where I chatted up the keeper on Nubian goats.  They'd be good goats for me.  And then, this sheepie pulled a trick on me.  I was petting this sheep, and he started breathing really heavily and quickly, like he was overheated.  He was of course covered in wool, and it was sunny out.  So I thought, oh no, is he sick?  Should I go find somebody?  And I put my head up to his body and listened.  I heard gurgling.  Loud gurgling.  And of course I knew it right before he did it.  Sheep are ruminants and he was just ruminating, and he burped in my face, it was fuuuuucking gross.

Blurt "co-co-editor" Coco Hames fronts The Ettes - Hames on guitar, Jem Cohen on bass and Poni Silver on drums - whose latest album Look At Life Again Soon (Take Root) is still a hot item, and they also have a new EP, Danger Is, released by Take Root on April 7 and also available digitally, www.myspace.com/theettes), and a Dan Auerbach-produced limited-edition single. They are currently ruminating upon their next full-length, but meanwhile, they  head overseas later this month for a European tour.

[Ettes photo by Heidi Ross]

Ten-year Old Kids with Mohawks

You know what's cool about a 10-year-old kid sporting a Mohawk?

Not a damn thing.

At the risk of coming off like a 30-something Andy Rooney, I'm going to start off this blog with a rant and a final plea to save punk rock. The argument I'm putting forward is certainly not new, but worth being made at least one last time.

I was at an outdoor festival in Atlanta this weekend and lost count of how many pre-teens I saw walking around with Mohawks and Ramones shirts. When did punk become just another accessory for the Sponge Bob set? Mohawks and anarchy symbols used to scare the crap out of parents, now they're just another cute look for little Dylan and Kara, by couples desperate to be thought of as the cool parents (and don't think I haven't been there. I have two little girls and my wife was the only voice of reason that kept me from buying Sex Pistols onsies off of Ebay). And putting a Clash sticker on the back of your minivan doesn't make it any more cool to be seen in (again, I speak from experience).

 Trust me; it's safe for old punks to age gracefully. Not all of us can tour the world in shitty vans and make great music. Leave that to your heroes. Keep rocking the boat in your chinos and changing the system from the inside, but don't try and turn your kids into a punk rock mannequin to prove how cool you still are. 

Which brings me to my second rant... as a freelancer punk writer, I am about to throw my hands up in defeat. Born in the early 70's and coming of age in quite possibly the worst time in the history for music (hair metal anyone?), I withstood the auditory assault of bands like Danger Danger and Pretty Boy Floyd for years before finding salvation in the music of Bad Religion, The Buzzcocks and The Clash. For the past two decades or so I've kept up with the evolving music scene, watching punk move from basement shows and VFW halls to arenas (not necessarily a bad thing). What once was a mail order business is now neatly packaged and priced inside your local Hot Topics (again, not the end of the world. Punk rockers deserve to make money too). You used to discover new punk bands thanks to poorly dubbed tapes passed on from a friend; Now you can hear "punk rock" on The Hills (ok, nothing good can come of that).  The most jarring change, however, is what is currently being peddled as punk rock. I am certainly open to all genres of music (I, for one, am lobbying for Willie Nelson be added to Mount Rushmore), but I have a problem with the bait and switch tactics being perpetrated by publicists and record labels lately.

If you make pop music, be proud of it and call yourself a pop band. Punk rock was a reaction to crappy, bloated corporate rock of the 70's (Styx, Journey, etc.). It railed against oppressive authority figures, racism, sexism and homophobia. It was not 12 mediocre songs about high school crushes on your self-titled debut, with liberal use of Auto-tune , currently being peddled under the guise of "pop-punk". It was about rebelling against the status quo, wearing homemade clothes with hand-painted messages of defiance, not wearing those tacky neon-logoed t-shirts and hoodies you picked up at the mall and pair with matching Ray Bans.

That's not to say there is not legitimate punk rock being made right now. Anti-Flag is still fighting the good fight (with a new record out soon) and the Teenage Bottlerockets might actually be The Ramones reincarnated.

Here's the deal, if you play punk music, play it loud and play it proud. If you play pop music, call it what it is, make a ton of money and be happy.

I've admittedly strayed a bit from my general thesis, but here's a recap: Aging hipsters, you're getting older, so deal with it. Don't try and turn your kid into Lil' Johnny Rotten just because you're getting fatter and losing your hair. Blare NOFX as loud as you want in the minivan, just keep the windows rolled up at the stop lights. And kids, don't try and pass yourself off as the next Joe Strummer when your punk rock influences go back no further than Blink 182's third CD.  You're in a pop band, no matter what the guy in the fancy suit tries to tell you. Rock on pop star!   

Music worth listening to this week:

Left Alone‘s self-titled record (http://www.myspace.com/leftalonepunx) and Ninja Gun's "Restless Rubes" (http://www.myspace.com/ninjagun).

The latest spinning at Outlandos HQ...

1. Mike Gent, Mike Gent

A pop masterpiece. Seriously. It's easy, it's smart, it's fun, AND it has balls. Speaking of, Mike's other band, The Figgs, has long been one of my favorite live outfits. Read more here. Hear it here. Buy it here.

2. Found, Let Fidelity Break

Scottish outfit. Couldn't get enough of them in Austin. This is off their new EP, The Fidelities EP. Quirky, catchy, techno psychedelia. And funnily/sadly, occasionally relatable. Hear it here. Buy it here.

[...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

Mel Brown Greases the Grease

Mel Brown passed away just as this edition of Sonic Reducer was posted. R.I.P. to a class act.

If you've ever wondered what greasy blues funk sounded like in downtown L.A . in '68 or '70, you're in luck; Mel Brown is here to show and tell you with Eighteen Pounds of Unclean Chitlins, subtitled And Other Greasy Blues Specialties. Needless to say this is a vintage vinyl release we're waxing about here. It has, amongst it's many analog and old-school virtues, one of the best two sided covers ever; a platter of very greasy chitlins and sides on the front, the same plate ploughed thru on the back, capped with a cigarette butt in the middle.

Guitar player Mel Brown has had a long career and is still putting out records, playing blues festivals, etc. Eighteen Pounds..., released in 1973, collects eight previously released tracks of high-grade, vintage funk blues that lives and breathes the murky air of Los Angeles. Everything you need to know about the grooves is right there on the cover and in the songtitles; subtle it's not, greasy it is.

 "Chunk A Funk" is the first song, and if it sounds like they're telescoping here, directing you in a greasy direction, well, right on brother. Both "Chunk A Funk" and "W-2 Withholding" feature the great Clifford Solomon on tenor sax and the twin caveats "unidentified organ, bass and drums. Recorded in Los Angeles, probably early 1968." How unassailably cool is that?  To be so out-there that you don't know the when or the who?

Subtly is not Mel Brown's favorite mode, at least not back in these days. As a guitar player he leads and punches hard, alternating between super juiced, frantic bursts of rocked-up blues neck wrangling, and, occasionally, more laid-back, groove-y runs. As a band-leader he knows when to back off and let's the rest of the crew stir the pot, although he's typically in the middle of things.  The two lead off tracks on side 2, "Time For A Change" and "Good Stuff," are brassy funk jazz, with pumping horns and Jimmy Davis' or Cliff Coulter's funky organ and piano pushing the groove. I love the way you can just feel the grease and exhaust and dirt of the mean streets of Los Angeles working it's way into the grooves of the record. There's something definitive here, a captured feel of time and place, with Watts burning in the background, and Woodstock just over the horizon, and these guys just want to party. Think these boys partied hard? I'd bet on it. The whole thing is loosey-goosey even when it's tight, definitely Out There even when it's actually In There.

The centerpiece is the title track and has be heard to be believed. "Eighteen Pounds of Unclean Chitlins" is an extended psychedelic mind-fuck, 12 minutes of warped and tweaked guitar, minimal drums and Cliff Coulter's wheezing, junked-out organ. The effects (other than a wah wah pedal and generous use of an echoplex) seem to be either Brown or an engineer manipulating the volume on his guitar, creating playful, super-low-tech psych-blues dub. I found myself wondering...honestly, sorry, what can I say...what kind of drugs were they taking? Just booze and cigarettes and coffee and greasy food? You think? "I'd Rather Suck My Thumb" is almost as good, and has such a great title that it could be Brown delivering pizzas and still be a classic. Jazz cat Herb Ellis shows up for the final track, "Home James."

FYI, Mel Brown's slippery first record, Chicken Fat, has been reissued on vinyl by Euphoria. And, needless to say, both the title and songs are suitably greasy.

As always, the idea is that what unites us is more than music, an axiology that extends from the music to our music-lover lifestyles: how we vote, what we drive, what we eat, what we wear, etc. The point is, we're a tribe connected by vibe... hence, this month's economic self-stimulus compendium: 1. Razor Saver [...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new-music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

"I'll be waiting for you in the parking lot and I'm gonna kick your ass". I'm sure these words have been uttered more than once but I'll never forget the first time I heard them. They came out of the mouth of my best friend, who was usually a quiet, peaceful guy, but on this particular night alcohol was using his body like a ventriloquist dummy. It was his birthday and it was Friday night. In the New York suburbs of Long Island in the 70's, that meant drinking alcohol and lots of it. It was a pastime that my friends and I started in our early teens. It came with the territory as we grew up in the infamous place called Levittown. Levittown was a development built in the late 50's and was touted as a place that young families from NYC could easily afford their suburban dreams. It later became known as a place that hosted wife swapping and drinking parties and more recently has been documented by the TV show "Desperate Housewives" which is supposedly based on life in this fine town. Suburban Hell.

"Excuse me Mr., will you buy us some beer" was the battle cry of this 13 year old weekend warrior as my three friends and I stood outside the local delicatessen on a Friday night trying to obtain a couple of six-packs of the cheapest beer available. Amazingly we almost always found someone willing to do our bidding and on most Friday's the four of us could be found sharing cans of Gennesee and listening to records at Quack's house. We all had nicknames that we still use some 35 years later, and these nicknames were all based on our last names. Quack was short for Quackenbush and rarely does a person get to carry a more accurate surname. Quack was the clown of our clique, a guy who's comedic and musical talents always left me in awe of him. It was at his house that our Friday night parties usually took place, mostly because he had the best record collection. Quack was cheap entertainment as he never joined in on the drinking and was just happy to turn us on to new music or revel us in the entire dialogue of a Bugs Bunny cartoon, imitating the voice of every character with uncanny accuracy. Quack's father on the other hand loved to drink and had no qualms about embarrassing himself when he did. I think this is why his son usually stayed away from alcohol, he didn't want to act like his Dad. Like the one Saturday morning when Quack came over to my house in a panic and asked if I could help him get his Dad down from up in a tree. I went down the block to his house and there was Mr. Quackenbush, in a tree with a rake, shouting "I'm tired of waiting for these god damn leaves to fall out of the tree". Embarrassing indeed.

Bone, Jab and Hippie(me) rounded out the circle of misfits. We had all known each other since Elementary School. It was music and sports that drew us together. In our early teens you might find us together at the Nets basketball game or a Led Zeppelin concert as we crossed the line between "Jock" and "Hood" with ease. We discovered pot in Jr. High School but beer was always our buzz of choice, mostly because it was easier to procure. And we often did some stupid shit while under the influence. Things that had once been innocent pranks evolved into psychotic episodes. One in particular really stands out. As pre-teens we would often hang out on the streets of our neighborhood being mischievous. One harmless prank we practiced was done right at dusk when the impending darkness made this prank possible. Two of us would stand on each side of the street making a pose as if we were holding a piece of rope across the street. The object was to get cars to stop so they wouldn't hit our imaginary rope. Once they did, we would laugh and the usually red faced driver would drive away. One night Quack decided to bring our little prank to the next level. His folks had just bought a new color TV and he took all the Styrofoam packing material and soaked it in gasoline, making a slimy gel. He then poured a thick line of it across the street just as it was getting dark. When the next car approached he lit a match and ignited the gel. Whoooosh...a 2-3 foot wall of flames appeared across the entire road. The car's driver slammed on his brakes and jumped out of the car cursing. Quack, in a panic, tried to stomp out the fire but the Napalm-like material just stuck to his shoes while still in flames. He was last seen that evening running away, feet on fire, and the rest of us were laughing our asses off, much to the chagrin of Mr. Veins Popping Out Of His Forehead, car driver. Just another day in our wacky neighborhood.

One Friday night, when we were about 15, our little gang made our first excursion into a bar. It was under unusual circumstances. There were plenty of local clubs that catered to the "18 and Over unless you have a fake ID" crowd. These clubs had names like Hammerheads, Uncle Sam's and Rumbottoms and they usually had live music. The bands that played these clubs were mostly cover bands and each specialized in their own genre of music. For instance The Stanton-Anderson Band played southern rock, Rat Race Choir played progressive music ala Yes/ELP and Zebra had the Led Zep sound down pat. On this particular Friday, Rumbottoms, which was about a mile from my house, was hosting The Bonnie Parker Band. The highlight of their show were explosions and flashpots and on this particular night they caught the ceiling on fire. Hanging out on the streets we heard the fire trucks, could see smoke in the distance, and hopped on our bikes to go view the carnage. We stood out there and watched the club burn into the early morning and when it was over, and the Police and Fire personnel had all left, we noticed the back door to the club was open. We peeked in and saw what had to be their liquor storage room! We each ran in, grabbed a couple of bottles, and high tailed it home. We were in my backyard admiring our haul when my Dad came out to see what was going on. We proudly showed him the smokey bottles of cheap liquor like Crème De Menthe and generic Tequila. He shook his head in disgust and said that if we were going to risk getting caught stealing, we should at least grab something worthwhile. He then rattled off a few brand names like Chivas Regal and Grand Marnier and suggested that if we went back we should grab them instead of the putrid Crème De Cacao we were so proud of. After that night we decided that we would start using the front doors of these clubs while they were open rather than the back door when they were closed/destroyed.

I was the youngest of the group, but looked the oldest. It was pretty easy for me to get phony ID and in the summer of '73 we started our journey into the local club scene. Nickel beer nights, cheap Tequila Sunrises and shots of the ultra sweet Alabama Slammers provided many a buzz for me and my buddies. Quack would usually just stare at the band, sober and wishing it was him up on the stage playing guitar. Bone would be earning his stripes trying to pick up the underage girls who had also used fake ID to gain entrance, while Jab and I tried to prove who could drink the most. We became regulars at the local spots, those within walking distance. Second rate clubs with second rate booze and second rate bands.....until the night we saw local legends, The Good Rats. The "Rats" were unlike any band we had ever seen before. They didn't just play music, they put on a show. A show that would whip the crowd into a frenzy and helped them gain a following like no other band on the Island. The Good Rats were an enigma, a group of street tough hoods who played original songs that were ½ Blue Oyster Cult tough and ½ Steely Dan jazz swank. The band had been started by the Marchello Brothers, Mickey and Peppi. Peppi was the frontman, a singer of great range and deep feelings. The rumor was that he had been in the Yankees farm system as a promising baseball player but had given it up for music. Peppi was often seen holding a metal garbage can filled with rubber rats that he would beat in rhythm with a baseball bat while flinging the rubber rats into the audience. Their drummer Joe Franco was the best I had seen and to this day the only drummer who's solos I could tolerate. Their lead guitarist John Gatto's playing could be summed up by the title of their second LP, "Tasty" Bass player Lenny Kotke and rhythm guitarist Mickey Marchello rounded out what was to become our favorite band. We became full fledged Good Rat fanatics and for the next 2 years we tried to see them as much as possible which wound up being at least 50 times. We knew the words to every song. We knew what order they were going to play them in. And we knew that more often than not a fight was going to break out in the club as Peppi would antagonize the drunken crowd and beer muscles would appear everywhere. It was a blast.

For the next two years our nightlife revolved around the Good Rats.....if it was one of our birthdays we'd celebrate at one of their shows. Back then the legal drinking age was 18 and by late '75 I was the only one of our group who was not yet "legal". It was Quack's birthday and we planned on going to Ubie's OTJ club where the Good Rats were considered the "house band". As I mentioned earlier, Quack didn't usually drink, but when he did, watch the fuck out. Later on in life I spent some time as a bartender in various clubs around New York, but I never saw alcohol have a stronger and more adverse effect on a human as it did on Quack. This quiet and gentle soul would transform into an absolute beast when he drank. And on this particular birthday he drank.....a lot. We started drinking at the house and continued all the way to the club. By the time we were inside of Ubie's we were pretty buzzed. And Quack was in rare form. All the hang ups that usually prevented him from approaching women had been washed away by booze as he hit on any female within earshot. His failure with these ladies just made him more agitated. Our salvation would be when the Good Rats hit the stage and Quack would be hypnotized by the music like the proverbial savage beast. But this night took a weird turn. Before the Good Rats hit the stage an announcer took the mike and introduced the "Opening Act", some unheard of comedian who had the daunting task of entertaining a room full of rowdies. And boy did he suck. His attempt at jokes were amazingly unfunny and the crowd let him know it. It reminded me of a comedy routine I once heard Albert Brooks do about opening for Richie Havens at an arena in Texas. He concluded that a comedian had no business opening up a rock and roll show. And this night was living proof he was right.

Five minutes into his act the "comedian", and I use that term loosely, had lost control of the crowd. In desperation he grabbed a conga drum and proceeded to jump off the stage shouting "Conga Line" attempting to calm the crowd down into some sort of controlled mayhem. Within seconds he was able to lure a few drunk folks to start following him around the room while he banged the conga drum and shouted some unusual cadence of grunts. It was surreal. But as they made their way past us Quack did what any drunk Quackenbush would do, he took a swing and the poor guy. A bouncer immediately grabbed him and escorted him, and the rest of us, outside. As we were exiting, above the sounds of the bizarre conga line, you could hear Quack shout these words at the opening act........"I'll be waiting for you in the parking lot and I'm gonna kick your ass". Well we didn't wait around for the comedian to leave the club and fall victim to Quack's seriously intended threats. We calmed him down, got in the car, and went home.

About 6-8 months later on a week night I was sitting in my families den with my Dad watching TV. He was watching a lame variety show called something like The Dick Van Dyke Summer Replacement Show. I was reading a magazine and half heartedly watching the show. Now you need to understand that my Dad was cut from the same cloth and raised in the same place as a well known character of the time, Archie Bunker. He was never bashful about speaking his mind and is never one to be what we now call politically correct. So when he said "Look at this wack-a-doo, they'll let anyone on TV these days" I didn't think much of it. Then I looked up at the TV and HOLY SHIT....THAT'S THE GUY QUACK WANTED TO BEAT UP!!!! Yep, that beyond lame comedian had somehow made his way to major network national TV. I was stupefied, how the hell could this have happened? As I watched it seemed like the guy was melting down, just like he did that night at Ubies, right there on my TV screen. This audience wasn't "getting it" either and it was all very uncomfortable to watch. I told my dad the story of what had happened that night and he said something like "This guy looks like he needs a good ass whupping, he's not funny, that's for sure". The next day I asked all my friends if they had seen "Mr. Unfunny" on TV and none of them had. They found my story hard to believe, how the hell did THAT clown get on TV. But over the next couple of months they all believed me. This guy was popping up on TV on almost a weekly basis and shortly thereafter appeared on our favorite show Saturday Night Live. And somehow, he was starting to be funny. Weird, but yeah, kinda funny.

I'm now 50 years old and there have been very few comedians during my lifetime that I think are truly genius. Lenny Bruce was one and his legacy is both groundbreaking and important. It's unfortunate he died so young as it would have been interesting to watch his comedy evolve through the tumultuous late 60's and 70's. Bill Hicks is another. A guiding light through the chaos of ignorance and hypocrisy and another one that was taken way too young. And then there is that also deceased crazy ass fool we first saw open for our beloved Good Rats. You know him as Andy Kaufman.

Rich Haupt is a noted music industry outsider and nationally recognized
non-entity. Co-founder of the Rockadelic Record label in the late 80's his
passion for vinyl has consumed his life and made it difficult to maintain
personal relationships. He does not own a cell phone.

With friends like these...

By Coco Hames

Some might say I am bossy and controlling.  To those people, I say "duh".  Basically, I just know what I want and I go and get it.  I like to think of these traits as "resourcefulness" and "gumption".  We moved to a new neighborhood when I was two years old, and I found myself in the market for a new best friend.  As it was, I currently employed a best friend, albeit an imaginary one named John Provost.  John Provost was the name of the actor who played Timmy on Lassie.  He was a good friend, and everyone treated him with respect.  But one day, you know, he had to leave, so he hitched up one of those long sticks with a handkerchief (you know, tied up on the end with his travel victuals) and hit the road, so I found I had a vacancy in my limited friend space: anyone can tell you, I can kind of only handle one at any given time.

So my mom had gone over to introduce our family to our new neighbors, and it turned out they had a two-year-old little girl, too.  Mom came home and reported this to me, and so I walked over there and knocked on the door, and a man answered.  I said, "Yes hello, I believe you have a little girl?"  And the man said, "Um yes we do, would you like to meet her?"  And I said, "Yes please, just bring her on down, I'll wait."  Then I knocked over his bike.  Twice.  But eventually a tiny Lebanese/Serbian Catholic mute appeared, and I said to myself, yes, this will work just fine.

Her name was Midge, and we had a great time.  Or I had a great time, and she did a good job and pretending to have a great time.  Yes, I always made her be Ken when we played Barbies.  Yes, I stole her clothes.  Yes, I kept her from doing her chores, therefore getting her grounded.  But we were best friends, and that was that was that.  Until grade school.

Midge went to private Catholic school and I went to the local public school, so while I assumed general social pleasantries were expected whilst AT these separate institutions, it was well understood that the friend position was filled, for both of us, in terms of serious friends stuff, like sleepovers and play dates.  Until one day, when I noticed a strange girl playing with Midge in her front yard.  So I quickly devised a totally plausible excuse for strolling over there (I piled my little sister's dolls into the Radio Flyer) and made my visit.

I said, "Oh hello MELISSA [which was her real name, only to be used in very serious situations, Midge was a family nickname] who is your little FRIEND?"  And Midge said, "Oh that's just blah-blah-blah from school."  And I am not kidding, this girl gave me a REALLY snooty look, I mean REALLY snooty.  And Midge saw it and said to me, trying to change the subject, "So, what are you doing today?"  And I looked at the dolls in the wagon and said, "Oh, I'm just walking my sister's dolls for her, you know, afternoon stroll."  And Midge's little friend goes, "That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard, walking your sister's dolls?"  And so, I pounced on her.

I swung that girl around Midge's front yard by the hair on her head, like the Trunchbull in Roald Dahl's Matilda: I shot-put that sassmouth clear over to the mailbox.  And then I left the dolls and scooped up Midge's cat (a little crosseyed Persian named Velvet) and marched home.  There were windows alongside the front door to my house, and both girls came running up to my front door, banging on it and saying "Give back Velvet!!!"  And I held Velvet by the scruff of her neck in front of one of the windows, swayed her gently, and said quietly, "Send her home, Melissa.  Send her home, and I will happily give back Velvet.  Or..."  Then the mafia thumb-drawn-across-the-neck gesture that was very clearly understood.  Midge sent the girl home (who I never did see again) and of course, always true to my word, I gave Velvet back, just as sweet as could be. 

Some might say that is not a story representing a very well-adjusted third grader, but let me ask you this: if I'M the crazy one, why is Midge still voluntarily and actively best friends with me?  Hm?  Stir that into your cup of coffee and just think about THAT.

*****

Blurt "co-co-editor" Coco Hames fronts The Ettes - Hames on guitar, Jem Cohen on bass and Poni Silver on drums - whose latest album Look At Life Again Soon (Take Root) is still a hot item, and they also have a new EP, Danger Is, released by Take Root on April 7 and also available digitally, www.myspace.com/theettes), and a Dan Auerbach-produced limited-edition single this month. They tore it up at the Hold Steady showcase At SXSW in Austin, by the way. The real Austin, not the Sims-world Austin.

About four hours northeast of what used to be Gomorrah, South Carolina (formerly the wretched home of Heritage U.S.A. founded by Jim Bakker and Tammy Faye), rests a haven for the weary of heart.....Rocky Mount, North Carolina.  For pilgrims who travel to pay homage to the sacred shambles of the former Praise the Lord (PTL) Empire, the town offers solace and sustenance in the form of barbecue and grace. The Red Budd Holy Church remains an old landmark in downtown Rocky Mount. 

Since 1959, the pastor of this church has been the great Rev. F. C. Barnes, and for several years, he was assisted in his ministry by the stately Rev. Janice Brown.  Their church remained a holy and solid institution, firm in its beliefs and nurturing to one and all.

 Many of its members share the Barnes name.  Few shadows darken the brick walls of the church, and those that do pass through are healed.  This anchor in the community owed much of its stability to the preaching, praying, and especially singing of the Reverends Barnes and Brown.  As messengers of the Holy Ghost, both ministers once held an apparent bond, their voices surrendered to God. 

Their singing together was not planned.  There was not even the slightest acumen of what was to come the Sunday morning that Rev. Brown was scheduled to sing a solo on Rev. Barnes' radio broadcast in the 1980s.  As God willed it,  Rev. Barnes offered to assist Rev. Brown, and this solo became a duet.

The rest of the story is best told by the gospel authority Anthony Heilbut from his definitive book The Gospel Sound:  "By far, the biggest gospel hit of the 1980s was "(I'm Coming Up) The Rough Side of the Mountain," a duet by F. C. Barnes and Janice Brown, the pastors of Red Budd Holy Church in Rocky Mount, North Carolina.  This was traditional gospel with a vengeance, without form or fashion-basic rhythm tracks, simple tune, sturdy vocals.  "Rough Side" was as much a product of the Reagan Administration as Jesse Jackson's campaign; its message confirmed by the latest unemployment figures.  In fact, in many ghetto record shops, the record outsold Michael Jackson's Thriller."
For years after this record hit, I would see Barnes and Brown whenever and wherever I could.  I never tired of their uplifting message and powerful stance.  It was as if Dr. Martin Luther King's message had finally been encapsulated in a hit song. Proverbs 23, verse 10, reads:  "Remove not the old landmark; and enter not into the fields of the fatherless."

In the new Obama Nation, the old landmarks are still with us.  As for me, that's where I'm headed.