WFMU's Beware of the Blog

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.

-30-

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.

Squalor By the Sea

Coney Island: A low brow oasis of crud found on the southern shore of Brooklyn. It always has been, and will no doubt reign, as the ultimate symbol of sleazy entertainment. From the grisly Victorian joys of electrocuting an elephant to the vomit-encrusted Hell Hole and beyond, it's the ultimate pit stop on the slob highway to nowhere. The world's seen a lot of changes in the past hundred years, yet Coney has remained true to its questionable nature more than any other NYC landmark.

In these wintry times, I tick off the days until I can once again bike down to Coney and toss my back paws in the polluted surf. There isn't an earthly object that can't at some point be glimpsed in Coney's infinite maw. If you ever flushed it down the toilet, there's a good chance you'll run into it down here. Cigarette butts, broken, green glass, needles, tampons–all sorts of refuse float by in a pungent chorus line of yecchhh for your entertainment pleasure. Nothin' like summer in the city. If it's the trash of a culture that truly defines it, then this undulating museum of the sea holds no secrets.

A smattering of Coney's famously sleazy amusements remain open year round for you connoisseurs of good times. The Eldorado Bump Your Ass Off Arcade and Ruby's Bar on the boardwalk hold frozen vigil on the seashore as we speak. Catch up on Coney's sordid past and grim, colorful future over here and here.