WFMU's Beware of the Blog

Dances That Make Me Nuts (Part 1)

Surfer's Stomp!

The Hasil Adkins Rejection Letters

This week marks the arrival (April 29, 1937) and unfortunately the departure (April 25, 2005) of The Wildest One Man Band Hunch Machine that ever stalked the planet. Hasil "The Haze" Adkins wrote, performed and lived out his wild-ass rock & roll dreams with a sincere ferocity unmatched by fellow humans north or south. Rattling the walls of his Madison, West Virginia shack, Hasil would croon sweet odes to commodity meat and serenade the fickle moon above with his hot dog reverie. Early on, he'd mail out his home-recorded concoctions to the country music stars of the day, hoping to place a song or grab a plum spot on a traveling package show. Like the rest of the world, Nashville would have to wait a few decades to get hep to Hasil's chicken walk-inspired genius.

She Said (Streaming Real Audio link)

Here's three rejection letters from three equally talented performers. (Thanks, Norton Records!)

Elektro the Robot's Sordid Stag Reel

It was during the heady mechanical man creating years of the late 1930s when a walking, talking, 78 rpm record playing robot emerged from the dank appliance division of the Westinghouse Electric Corporation in Mansfield, Ohio. Deemed unsuitable for doing dishes or even trimming the hedges, the plucky humanoid had over 700 words at his command and a litany of pithy one-liners to go with them. Grunt work's loss was entertainment's gain and soon the mundanely named Elektro was shipped to Flushing Meadows Park in Queens, New York, where he dazzled the World's Fair attendees twenty times a day, seven days a week.

In 1940, with Elektro's initially sensational reviews slipping, the Westinghouse lab boys scurried back to Mansfield with their notepads at the ready. Desperate for a new gimmick, they cooked up a companion for the oversized rust-bucket--the scene stealing bionic bone-nibbler, Sparko the Mechanical Dog. The attention-grabbing contrapt-a-pooch irked the jealous robot to no end with his fetching antics and purile parlor tricks. The situation worsened when the leaky little scamp nearly electrocuted Elektro on at least two occasions.

Disgruntled and increasingly unmanageable, Elektro dropped out of show biz and after an unsuccessful stint as mayor of La Hoya, California, he spent the next fifteen years crumpled in the forgotten scrap heap of broken robot dreams. By the time the World's Fair had shut down, Sparko's notoriety had peaked as well. In 1949 the tinfoil mutt was implicated in a bungled pet store robbery in Wappingers Falls, New York. He has since fled the country.

Elektro was eventually re-discovered in Los Angeles by MGM second unit director Ralph E. Black. The story goes that Black was taking his Buick in for an oil change at the South Central Filler-Up where he espied the disoriented robot in a dumpster out back. The former Westinghouse Pavilion star was loudly lubricated out of his metallic skull on used STP straight from the drip pan. Black needed a semi-willing robot to follow his commands--Elektro needed a squeegee. Together they appeared to be possibly unbeatable.

Black offered the intoxicated moto-man fifty bucks and a full tune-up (with a fancy Turtle Wax finish) if he would consent to clean up and appear in his new picture down at Metro. It was a Mamie Van Doren farce starring Marty Milner, Conway Twitty and Vampira. His frayed logistic circuits long since burned out, the anxious android eagerly agreed to essay the role of "Thinko" in the upcoming production. Elektro worked relatively well with the quirky ensemble and soon a smutty subplot was added to the shooting script in order to cash in on his unique skills. Aided by yet another down-on-his-luck thespian, Voltaire the Chimp, Elektro excelled in what could have been just another drunk monkey/midget butler/stripper sequence. His nuanced and natural performance was reviewed favorably in Cahiers du cinéma and in darkened theaters worldwide by discerning popeyes and transients alike.

Currently semi-retired in his native Ohio, Elektro mixes it up with locals and tourists several times a week. Any queries regarding his softcore past will only elicit a mechanical wink and his signature "Ha. Ha. Ha."

Elektro's smut reel after the jump. NSFW. Unless you work in a strip joint, but even then not such a good idea.

Unreliable Narrators

In the literary world, as in real life, all narrators are unreliable--some more so than others. Nick Carraway, Holden Caulfield, Benjy, Huck, even Snoopy; they're all dupes in denial--fictional titans in domains populated by clear-headed know-it-alls. Like corrupt Pottsville County Sherriff Nick Corey in Jim Thompson's Pop. 1280, they grip us tightly by the back of the neck and stubbornly steer us through landscapes of their own undoing. We might be amused or repelled, but we still identify with their delusional first person ramblings. As long as it makes sense to them, that's all that really matters, right?

Here's a handful of some of my favorite songs that rely upon this underused device:

Psycho - Eddie Noack
Aside from penning country smashes like I Love You Because, They'll Never Take Her Love From Me and Lost Highway, writer/performer Blind Leon Payne had a sick sense of humor. After taking in a screening of Hitchcock's Psycho, he dreamt up this cult hit which was first recorded by Eddie Noack in 1968 for the K-Ark label.

She Still Thinks I Care - George Jones
In the late 50s, songwriter Dickey Lee cut some decent (yet unsuccessful) rockabilly sides at Sun Records like Good Lovin' and Fool, Fool, Fool. He hit the charts twice in 1962: first for recording the schlub shantytown anthem Patches and second for writing the Stairway To Heaven of Denial Songs, She Still Thinks I Care.

I Never Loved Her - The Starfires
Pimply-faced protaganist and his tambourine wielding henchmen deny any romantic involvement in this 1965 scorcher on the G.I. record label out of Los Angeles.

Sunny Afternoon - The Kinks
From 1966, this is the first and finest of Ray Davies' forays into Drunken Music Hall musings. (Every '60s British rock act went Drunken Music Hall at some point in their careers but that's for a different blog.) The b-side is I'm Not Like Everybody Else.

I Don't Care - The Ramones
Originally recorded as a demo for their debut LP, it was eventually re-recorded and released on 1977's Rocket to Russia. It's the Ramones distilled down to their moronic/zen best.

(Streaming Real Audio links)

Games That Make Me Nuts (Part 1)

I don't remember where I was when I had the premonition that one day I'd host Family Feud. (I'm scheduled to assume hosting duties in the summer of 2023--after Jack Black and Andy Richter but before Cuba Gooding, Jr.) I know that I have a little time to figure this out but I'm still mystified as to exactly how the game's played. I figure that it somehow involves looking at a big board and making small talk with hillbillies while everyone cheers. There's some type of scoring system, but how the heck is that supposed to work? So much of life is a tortuous mystery, a brow-beating funnel of mocking despair and this particular TV show is yet another chimera that taunts my waking hours. For years I've stealthily searched in the bleak darkness, adjusting my rabbit ears and awaiting that "Eureka!" moment of sobering Dawson-like clarity. Until the Network Gods divine the correct cue cards upon me, I'll trod onward, measuring my life in Metrocard swipes and Junior Jumbles, assured that one day I'll finally unlock The Secret of The Feud and it will be then, and only then, that I will rejoice amid the bright hoopla and comb my real hair forward.

There's another stupid puzzle that makes me nuts also. That freakin' Name Game song!

Co-written by Shirley "Nitty Gritty" Ellis and her manager/producer Lincoln Chase, The Name Game shot up the national charts to #3 in the waning days of 1964. Now I'm not a total square from nowhere--I can grasp the five main rules (see chart) of said game--however it's the three sub-sections of the "contrary rule" where I lose my footing and tumble headfirst into the inky land of Bonana, Fanna and Fo. Those directions make no sense to me and they never will. And in mid-song, when Shirley says "if the first two letters are ever the same, I drop them both and say the name like Bob, Bob drop the B's Bo ob," I pray to sweet Jesus for the simplicity of The Nitty Gritty. Wrapping my brain around this mess is like getting instructions from Tim Conway on how to land a plane. Of course, none of that takes away from the fact that The Name Game is one of the sickest, most awesome dance records ever recorded.

Play it now and play it loud.

Shirley Ellis: The Name Game (MP3)

Good Morning, Mr. Kokomo (mp3s)

At exactly three forty-five on September 19, 1957, unemployed organ grinder Bob Hannon entered RCA Studio 4 and made monkey history with this two-sided tribute to Today Show Animal Editor Kokomo, Jr. the Talking Chimpanzee.

Side 1 [mp3]
Good Morning, Mister Kokomo
Pougheepsie

Side 2 [mp3]
Every Monkey Should Go To School
Mother Kokomo's Lullaby
I Like Everybody

My Favorite Mandrake the Magician Strip

Mandrake the Magician not only gestured hypnotically, he also dreamt hypnotically.

Mandrake creator Lee Falk spent his early World War Two years dispensing disinformation as Propaganda Director for radio station KMOX in Illinois. Aside from creating The Phantom and Mandrake, he was apparently nuts about theatre--he owned five of them. Falk wrote a couple of plays, produced more than three hundred and even filled the directing chair when he felt like it. His dedicated ensemble included Basil Rathbone, Shelly Winters, Victor Jory, Marlon Brando, Ethel Waters, Chico Marx, James Mason, Paul Robeson, Paul Newman, and Eva Gabor.

Falk wrote the script for Mandrake from 1934 until his last days hospital-bound in New York City in the spring of 1999. Tearing off his oxygen mask, Lee would dictate Mandrake's latest adventures to an attentive assistant.

One time Falk remarked:

"Each artist, out of his own interests and imagination, creates his own world in his strip - this is true of Peanuts, Beetle Bailey, Popeye, all good strips. And you accomplish this not by imitating others - you come up with your own idea. To me, The Phantom and Mandrake are very real - much more than the people walking around whom I don't see very much. You have to believe in your own characters."

This is my favorite Mandrake strip. It was one of the last strips that Falk wrote. I remember the rest of the week as being pretty stellar as well.

WPKN and the AP Machine

From 1982 to 1995 I hosted a radio show at WPKN in Bridgeport, Connecticut. WPKN ("The Purple Knight Network") is non-commercial and listener-supported, not unlike a certain radio station here in Jersey City. It's located on the second floor of the Student Center on the campus of the University of Bridgeport, a school I briefly attended in the early 80's while pursuing an ill-fated filmmaking career. Even though we all know FMU is the cats pyjamas, there are certain things I miss about about PKN. Their HUGE library is a massively sick room to behold. Every LP ever released since 1963 can be found in mind-numbingly chronological, non-alphabetical order. (You could walk up to a certain wall containing releases from the fall of 1965 and pull out no less than 300 LPs with covers of "Yesterday.") In a perplexing move, compact discs are filed in the same way--crammed in the wall in the order in which they arrived at the station.

In my early years there, I'd frequently slap on some album side of jazzbo or folk-rock crappity-crap and meander through the deserted Student Center hallways--a labyrinth of coffee-stained indoor/outdoor carpeting and concrete murals depicting the sad mascot of the basketball team, the indomitable Shmoo. Bridgeport's curious litany of hometown talent throughout the ages includes Robert Mitchum, Bill Haley, Bob Crane and right wing nutjob/genius cartoonist Al Capp, who donated the use of his Shmoo in a fit of nostalgic pride. When I returned to the studio, if I was feeling particularly creative, I'd play Kraftwerk and the Archies and early King Crimson at the same time backwards and forwards for five hours at a clip. I can't say I pre-dated the "mash-up" but I certainly perfected the "train-wreck." I'm indebted to PKN for letting me get that nonsense out of my system at a relatively early age. Similar to FMU, PKN shares a commitment to freeform broadcasting and dedication to the DJ's whims, which is all too rare in today's high stakes radio game.

15 Sons and Daughters of Country Western Stars Who Were Named After Radio and TV Personalities And Died Tragically

1. Steve Allen Lewis - Drowned in pool
2. Jack Benny Lynn - Fell off horse and drowned
3. Groucho Marx Twitty - Stillborn
4. Bocephus Williams - Braindead
5. Fibber McGee Parton - Jumped off cliff
6. Fred Allen Wynette Jones - Drowned in cereal bowl
7. Eve Arden Cash - Impaled on miniature golf windmill
8. William Bendix Sovine - Electrocuted
9. Joe Besser Haggard - Imploded
10. Richard Deacon Acuff - Drank Strychnine
11. Imogene Cocoa Tillis - Autoerotic asphyxiation
12. Liberace Scruggs - Helicopter mishap
13. Klondike Kat Judd - Microwaved
14. Red Buttons Whitman - Stepped on third rail at Space Mountain
15. William Shatner Jennings - Died of Embarrassment

The Steve Allen Rider

When it comes to funny show biz riders, as expected, Steve Allen set the funny bar way up high. Seemingly written in the third person, this contract has the micro-cassette-dictated, tell-tale fussy stamp of one Hi Ho Steverino--his "zany" bad-ass, banana-nibbling self. When it came to connecting the dots between fruit baskets and the "collapse of efficiency in America," El Steve-O drew that line with a thick goddamn Sharpie.  As evidenced herein, Allen challenged the mores and patience of well-meaning hotel clerks and hapless hair stylists from town to town for a good portion of the mid to late 1900s. From the elaborate hair dyeing ritual (1/2 oz. of #13 Fanciful Rinse by Roux, 1/2 oz. of #12 Black Rage by Roux) to the placement of his "unit," these pre-production shenanigans were more inspired than any skit or ad-libbed bon mot ever performed on or off The Tonight Show. Steve Allen was Steve Allen even when he wasn't trying to be Steve Allen--that's how Steve Allen he was. Let's journey back to those halcyon Steve Allen days of 1988, where "units" required 3 clips and the small refrigerators were supposed to be "placed in Mr. Allen's hotel suite BEFORE HE ARRIVES--NOT AN HOUR OR TWO LATER." This is an authentic document and it comes to you courtesy of a friend's brother's wife's brother's girlfriend who was briefly charged with the maintenance and feeding of Mr. Allen.

Dig Mah Mah Limbo (MP3) while you read this mess. Smock! Smock!

Movies To Spazz By

Last February I flew to Japan for a week and a half. I spent most of my trip turning Tokyo and Osaka upside-down looking for bagels for breakfast. I finally found some in a Shinjuku subway station at a store called New York Bagel. Just like Japanese bananas, they came in individual plastic bags and tasted like fish. I spent the remainder of my visit seeing some of the best rock & roll bands on the planet. These aren't complete clips--merely home movies I made with a cheap digital camera, but it'll give you a taste of the musical nuttiness that goes on there on a daily basis.

(See below -- Clockwise from top left: The Go-Devils at Rock Rider Club, 2/22/07, Osaka | The Mighty Moguls at Club Eddie's, 2/24/07, Fussa | The Jet Boys at The Shelter, 2/19/07, Tokyo | The Junglers at Rock Rider Club, 2/22/07, Osaka)

Here Are The Sonics!

The Sonics are one of the greatest garage bands ever--one of the greatest bands period. The Sonics reign was brutal, yet brief. From 1960 to 1966 they blasted their way out of the Pacific Northwest with a distorted punk rock fury the rock & roll world never saw coming and hasn't seen since. The noisiest and most rockinest band ever, mere words hold no meaning trying to comprehend this over-the-top 4/4 ruckus. Just slap on the Sonics right now--tell your stupid coworkers to buzz off cause you're gonna need to be hearing these rockers kinda loud RIGHT AWAY! Strychnine,  Busy Body, Psycho, Skinny Minnie, Boss Hoss,  He's Waiting, The Witch, Have Love Will Travel, Louie Louie, Maintaining My Cool. (Streaming Real Audio links)

The Sonics are playing their first show in decades at Cavestomp. For me, this is the highlight of what already has been a swingin' year of musical events.

And I know there's a chance this reunion gig might suck. I know the oldies circuit only too well. As with Life itself, you always gotta go into these things with lowered expectations. Statistics show that this event should be horrible. However, I subscribe to the Question Mark and the Mysterians Caveman In a Spaceship Exception Theory. In 1997, Q and his Merry Men time-warped like a Vox-fueled meteor from Planet 1966 and sounded better than ever. The Alarm Clocks (also playing Cavestomp) are another freeze-dried rock & roll anomaly that make you wonder what the Stones would've sounded like if they quit the biz in 1966 only to make a comeback 40 years later. And The Trashmen? Jeez--only one of the best shows I've ever seen (Las Vegas 1999). There's a unifying reason why all these bands kicked ass and continue to. Cause they're fucking great--that's why. Case closed.

Lead Sonics vocalist Gerry Rosalie can peel the paint off a 747 on a windy day. I'd catch his act if he were backed up by some terrible schlub oldies band up at BB King's. Only this ain't no oldies band. For the first time in 40 years: Here Are The Sonics!

...and here's an interview with Sonics guitarist Larry Parypa from my show back in 1998. Larry spills on his old man's Les Paul connections, the aborted Do the Witch Dance Craze, getting that Epiphone Riviera distortion sound just right and more. Larry comes off as articulate and forthcoming--I'm in complete Joe Franklin mode. Enjoy!

More Shemp Than I Know What To Do With

Improbable as it seems, my Shemp obsession crested almost fifteen years ago. It's been a long haul--from Besser Boulevard to DeRita Junction--I've been up and down Stoogeville and back. Having successfully banished Shemp Howard's ceaseless cries of pain and pleasure from my inner casaba, I can now finally work within the system. Heck, I'm a credit to my community at this point. My career as a NYS licensed organ grinder has brought stability and a reluctant tolerance amongst the townsfolk that I would've never imagined. I treat my profession like the way I treat my various worker monkeys: with respect and caution. (And diapers with shotglass-sized holes cut out for the tail.) This is the kind of gig where you get back exactly what you put into it. Some days it's sawbucks, some days it's bananas. Life is sweet now, sure--I can talk about it--even laugh about it; but years ago those Shemp voices in my head triggered my every waking thought, my every waking action--every goddamned Shemp Howard day of the week.

Nineteen Ninety-four: My dubious contribution to the FMU marathon was the Shemp Meditation Tape Volume 2. What a surprise. The usual frenzy of voices in my head compelled me to assemble an audio cassette tape of more Soothing Sounds to Shemp By. An unasked for sequel if there ever was one. Following the non-success of the Shemp Meditation Tape Volume 1, I once again strung up my cockroach festooned apartment thusly: A microphone pointed in the general direction of a TV set unspooling videotaped Shemp-era Three Stooges two-reelers, quarter-inch reel-to-reel Ampex tape running down the hallway at seven and a half inches per second--Mousetrap-like, speeding past pencils sticking out of thread spools held down to the floor with duct tape, bounced into two reverb guitar pedals, ricocheted into a Radio Shack 4-track mixer and then knocked back into the  Old Man's reel-to-reel Sony Furshluginner from Nineteen-fifty-something. What led to and what happened after that, I couldn't tell you--especially today. I was on a sleepless Shempified mission back in my clueless youth and fully under the impression that I was not alone. I listen back to these tapes and wonder what the hell I was thinking about. I realize now that neither mind nor flesh could resist the ethereal Eee Beee Beee Beeee--the calls to arms for chucklefucks everywhere to rise and to conk their collected coconuts to the funny sound effects glory of OW WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW!!

So here's The Shemp Meditation Tape Volume 2. You might want to operate heavy machinery while listening to this.

Pain (MP3)
Sleep (MP3)

? & The Mysterians

You'd have to search pretty hard for a more incredible rock & roll act than ? & The Mysterians. Formed in 1962 in Saginaw, Michigan, the Mexican-American teens named themselves after a late night TV sci-fi flick The Mysterians. They scored a #1 hit with 96 Tears in the sultry summer of '66, released a couple of amazing LPs and 45s and then vaporized from show biz and seemingly the planet. In 1997 "the voices from the future" called the boys back into action and The Mysterians dutifully heeded that call.

Beating the dreaded "oldies curse," the re-energized Mysterians delivered their Vox-driven rock & soul stage show to stunned audiences coast to coast. Bedecked in matching orange shirts emblazoned with large black question marks, the original band members laid it on thick with their soulful Michigan (by way of Texas, by way of Mars) rock & roll beat. Frontman Question Mark's boundless energy and sheer unearthly talent went uncontested as he rocked the Mysterians into the new millennium.

Coincidentally, three of the best live shows I've ever seen are Mysterians shows. First up was their NYC comeback at Coney Island High (recorded for the Can You Feel It? LP) where they scorched the place to the ground (musically speaking). Second was a few months later at Central Park Summerstage where Q appeared to have dropped out of the sky and turned a jaded daytime New York audience on it's collective ear. Third show was at Lakeside Lounge where they electrified the telephone booth-sized room as well as entertaining the passersby outside the window on Avenue B.

Question Mark's stats are simple: He hails from Mars, celebrates his birthday on the 13th of every month, his favorite color is orange (rumor has it a new favorite color is in the works) and he hates peanut butter. He's also one of the friendliest, funniest and coolest lead singer superstars working the circuit these days.

Last week Q's house (which also was home to his manager and his manager's wife) caught fire and he lost all of his possessions along with some of his beloved animals. Without any insurance, they're living in a trailer until better circumstances can be worked out. Benefit concerts are being arranged and info for helping out Question Mark can be found here.

Lost Someone

After decades on the road and an all night drive from Augusta,
Soul Brother #1 came home yesterday.

Abbott and Costello meet the anti-Christ (MP3)

I first heard this when I started on FMU years ago. It's from a Tellus cassette and it features Edward Haber and Citizen Kafka.

Six six six six six six six.... six six six... chick chick chick... CHIIIIIIIICKKKKKK!!!!!!!

You Bet Your Binky Dept.

It's like a Match Game question: "Jay Black is so broke (how broke is he?) he had to give up his BLANK!" No, not his bippy. After years of infamous notoriety, years of non-sobriety, years of wearing the mantle and stoking the flames of the Legend of Jay and the Americans, Jay Black may very well, before he knows it, be forced to trod the worn boulevards as lowly David Blatt- the defrocked Jay Black.

Originally coined "Binky Jones and the Americans," by writers and producers Leiber and Stoller, a gaggle of NYU wannabe's adopted the Jay and the Americans label with John (J.T.) Traynor as the fateful First Jay. After the weepy 1962 #5 smasheroo "She Cried," Jay Number One quit/was fired/I wasn't there and nether were you so who the hell knows? and a replacement was needed pronto. Enter high school gambling addict with the lungs of steel David "Jay Black" Blatt to belt out hit after hit after hit and then go back and belt out a few more. Lotsa hits that guy had. And a gambling addict to boot! Who knew?

Anyway, forty-so years later Jay gets himself into one heckuva gambling mess and now he has to claim bankruptcy and forfeit his signature moniker. Why? Because forty-so years after the fact, Jay Number One wants to rejoin the group! What the heck is going on here? What kind of world do we live in? How can this happen here?

OK, I'm upset and hopefully you are too.

So I caught Jay Black's act about ten years ago and I now file this report with WFMU's Beware of the Blog. [warning - highly offensive diatribe follows]

Gimme Krispies (MP3s)

Got lots of favorite Stones songs, but this one's way up there (MP3).

The Monkees weigh in the cereal wars with their own take on this standard.

Find two other perverts and dress up as the Rice Krispy goons.Or if you gotta brave it alone, dress up as the Crest Spinbrush. Or Marty Mad Chef.

OK- busy day here at Spazz HQ. Gotta go.

Thank You, New York!

After the inept and tragic events of the past few weeks, it's time to deal with debacles of a musical nature. Good intentions and a sliding scale of talent is usually the genesis for an event like From The Big Apple To The Big Easy- a five hour plus concert to raise funds for the Victims of Katrina.

As expected, there were moments of brilliance punctuated by talentless turns from Hollywood dopes and bimbos. I opted for the pay-per-view package which included many cable-only questionable perks. Between songs I was bombarded with innumerable shots of approving, rich, white people partaking of the fancy seat festivities. So many of them were clapping out of time, that at one point they all actually found a groove for about three seconds. I kept thinking of Ross Perot doing his funky little Popeye dance to Crazy. They also threw in some public service messages from ex-president puppets Bush and Bubba, and it was a lot like when Moe Howard and Larry Fine used to drop by the Officer Joe Bolton Show.

Things actually got off to a good start with the Rebirth Brass Band. They marched through the VIP section, without any apparent hassle, and then up to the stage. If you ever get an opportunity to see these guys, don't miss it-they're amazing.

Next, the Inventor, Creator, Godfather, of modern New Orleans music, Allen Toussaint, took the stage and blasted out an impassioned version of his hit Southern Nights. Toussaint, who still puts on a tremendous show, will be performing this Sunday afternoon down at Joe's Pub in the Village, in yet another benefit show. Toussaint is a genius writer, arranger, pianist, singer, and luckily he stayed onstage for a good chunk of time backing up the other acts.

Before long, Lenny Kravitz and Elvis Costello took turns underwhelming each other. Luckily, Clarence "Frogman" Henry saved the day, and showed that a performer forty years past his prime is still better than a Costello or a Kravitz any Tuesday. Frogman stunned the Garden with a stellar Ain't Got No Home, complete with little girl and frog stylings. He segued into his I Gotta Go schtick, and down in N'awlins that act can last fifty-five minutes. With the off-camera hook lurking, Frogman's I Gotta Go routine was infused with a fresh sense of urgency.

Spazzy Answer Songs

MP3s: 28 of them below the jump, plus a handful of streaming realaudio archives.

All these periodic payola inquiries would lead you to believe that the only way to get a song played on the radio is by delivering duffel bags full of cash, cocaine and Adidas sneakers to a station's doorstep. Not so. For several decades, another time-tested method was to shamelessly hitch your tune to an already established single, a phenomenon known as the Answer Song.

In 2003, Dave the Spazz collected 28 answer songs for his WFMU marathon premium CD, which are now presented here as MP3s, with a few of the originals linked as realaudio archives.

Shut Down Part 3

I keep saying, year after year, that this is the summer that I finally see the Beach Boys (before it's too late). It's eighty degrees, and the Beach Men are out there, tirelessly touring the globe, doing whatever the hell it is they do. And to all you purists, all I gotta say is: A Beach Boy and a half is better than none. This is not a debatable point. This is fact.

The bulldozed origins of the Wilson clan have recently been memorialized in suburban Hawthorne, CA. In the shadow of Freeway 405, sits a bronze tribute to those Wilson kids, their nutty cousin, and that next door neighbor guy. And that other next door neighbor guy. That's right–awkwardly enough, the 3-D base relief plaque sports six prospective Beach Men crowding the board. Think Beatles statue with Pete Best. Except they're all trying to hold the same surfboard. The text below the sculpture is appropriately cheesy and turgid. I've found that it helps if you read it out loud like Criswell.

Seemingly, non-feuding and non-litigious Beach Guys Brian Wilson and Al Jardine (or as my pal Wendy likes to call him, "Al Sardine") dropped by their former hood on unveiling day and belted out a couple oldies. (Anybody tape that?) David Marks also made the scene (he 's the bonus Beach Guy in the stunt Al Sardine spot). One of the one and a half of the legitimate remaining Beach Men checked in with UPI:

"Mike Love... turned down an invitation to the dedication. He told an interviewer he was too busy making a living."

I don't care what you say. I like Mike. Same way I like Ike.

A few weeks later, the humble plaque got tagged but good. The idea of twenty-four hour police surveillance has been bandied about, so you'd better plan your vacation soon. Directions to this mecca of dysfunctional surf can be found here. Spray paint (with I.D.) can be found here.

Almost Breathless

For thousands of years, when elderly Eskimos outlived their usefulness, they were ceremoniously cast out to sea on ice floes. In the world of Show Biz, when our musical elders outlive their usefulness, we force them to record Duet Records... then the ice floe.

Typically, these cheeseball outings trot out a Night Gallery of Rock's Has-Been Royalty to overdub their magic sauce (and all-important cred) onto the recordings. Even some mid-period sensations, like Kid Rock or Moby, seem to exist only to add their smathering of talent to this corny show biz hat-trick.

The sessions are usually marred by sub-par performances of the artist's classic repertoire. However, if the ingredients are all in place, and everyone's payed off the right way, this exercise in musical euthanasia can hit it big. Our hero gets a pat on the back, a push toward the Exit Sign, and thank you, goodnight. The suits ride home with armfuls of posthumous Grammies and a rich back-catalog to play with. Everyone wins here–except for the fans who have to listen to this crap.

Presently, Jerry Lee Lewis has one foot solidly in a Duets Record. Will The Killer outlive the Duets Record Curse? Stay tuned...

Monday Evening 7:43pm

It was partly cloudy and fair in New York City. I was working the schlub-watch out of Spazz Central. Bingo is my partner. The boss is Mr. Jiggs.

Jerry Lewis' agent, Rick Saphire, got in touch with me this morning. He was looking for the world famous Jerry Lewis impersonator, Sammy Petrillo, so he called me. In the netherworld of  staticy dreams and test pattern nightmares, there resides a chunk of real estate set aside for the creaky stars of yesteryear. That's where I come in. My name's Spazz. I'm a DJ.

Thirteen years ago I interviewed The Nutty Doppleganger on my radio show and later filed a report with the Department of LCD.

Petrillo has been residing in the MIA file for several years.

A world without a Jerry Lewis impersonator is almost as hard to swallow as a world without Jerry Lewis. If you have any information leading to the contact, and eventual capture, of Sammy Petrillo–you know what to do.

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The Beached Boys or The Best Record You Never Heard

One of the most intriguingly retarded LP's of all time is The Surfsiders Sing The Beach Boys Songbook. Little is known about this curiosity, but as far I can tell, it was one of those Beach Boys "soundalike" knockoffs peddled to unsuspecting kids back in the sixties. Kids like me–that hitched down to the E.J. Korvette's on Central Ave to pick up the latest cheapo kid-bait crap like The Beatles Story or Meet the Beetle Beats. The Surfsiders Sing The Beach Boys Songbook is essentially an insane smorgasbord of Beach Boys covers like California Girls, and When I Grow Up To Be A Man, as performed by what sounds like drunken studio louts and their parcheesi playin' cronies.

What sets this low-budget (no-budget?) record apart is the unmatched gusto that these anonymous troubadours attack the microphones with. In an apparent frenzy to not screw up the mimeographed lyrics thrust before them, our heroes belt it out like Mack trucks hell-bent on Surf! The Design Records houseband checks in hapharzardly with appropriate Don Martin-like retorts to every loopy shout: She's My Little Deuce Coupe! (BLAT! BLAT!) You Don't Know What I Got! You Don't Know What I Got! (BLAT! BLAT! BLAT! BLAT! BLAT! BLAT! BLAT!)

It's a far cry from the sun-dappled shores of Hawthorne by the sea, I can tell you that. These barbershop warblings (with a heavy dose of older white man oompah) swing along like Lawrence Welk in a speedo on a sunny day. Lotsa hoopla on this record. Somehow, the off-key harmonies and discordant horns reveal innocent qualities that lurk beneath the atonal madness. Or maybe I just don't know good from bad anymore. I don't know. The only thing that I can be sure of these days, is that I know that I like The Surfsiders.

On occasion, I've played selections from The Surfsiders Sing The Beach Boys Songbook (409 and Little Honda are in heavy rotation), but leave it to fellow fmu dj Gaylord Fields to bravely spin the whole freakin' thing in its entirety! Check out the show right here (Real Audio archive). I'll never forget Gaylord's telephone greeting when I called the studio during his Surfsiders fest: "Hello, WFMU. Sorry!"

The Weird World of Blowfly

Here's my interview with Blowfly from last week that turned out to be way too smutty for on-air broadcast.
NOT SAFE FOR WORK. OR HOME. OR ANYWHERE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER.