Lost links & Re-ups

On any post, if the link is no longer good, leave a comment if you want the music re-uploaded. As long as I still have the file, or the record, cd, or cassette to re-rip, I will gladly accommodate in a timely manner all such requests.

Slinging tuneage like some fried or otherwise soused short-order cook

12 April 2008

Can I Get A Hell Yeah
















3
Teams of Horses


The war is dragging on, even though we brought it home. In irony of ironies I live in an apartment over the National Guard Armory. After days of mines & molotovs I'm finally alone. I need to do some hard, hard drugs. I need to feel the needle in the mainline, charley. I know that drugs are counter-revolutionary. I know that I don't care. The Jesse James Brigade will have to struggle on their own for a little while. I need to do some hard, hard drugs.

I glanced in the bathroom mirror. Catch a glimpse of Che & Lenny Bruce on the back of the bathroom door. Shoulda told me something...but nothin'.

Four ampules will be good...more than good. But a meat shot or a skin pop, no way. I want the heaven rush from the mainline. I squirt the 4 ml. into the spoon with the same amount of water. It looks thick & viscous, but I'll bump it slow & easy. I watch the rose blossom in the clear hub of the 25 gauge. Squeeze the grape gently, if a little over-eager. I boot it twice. Have just enough time to toss the rig. Grab the hard edge of the cold porcelain sink. Ride the rocket. Wait patiently on eternity. Drift in & out of time. My eyes focus momentarily on the tiny ribbon of scarlet running down my elbow. The too-bright white of this tiled cell. The smiling leer of Marxist Che. The leering smile of dead Lenny lying on the cold porcelain of his too-bright white tiled tomb. I know something is very wrong.

I am alone. Wrong place to be during an overdose. Jim, Jimi, & Janis should have taught me that lesson. I stumble out & down. Somehow. I ooze out into the dark of a final night. Somehow force myself to breathe & walk. Walk & breathe. Two blocks. I can go no farther. Find myself yet alone in Riverfront Park. In a sudden or eternal serenity I drop to a park bench. I gaze out across the glorious star-filled Allegheny. Clearer than the night, the thought envelops me...what a beautiful & peaceful place to die. Sitting on a park bench, eyeing riverrun with grand intent, Nepenthe Drug. Driving across the surface of the lapping placid river comes a team of black Hellhorses breathing fire. The smell of brimstone wafts like incense from the sparks their anthracite hooves somehow generate from the water's surface. I can hear a bullwhip made of human hide cracking in the night. I can hear the voice of Papa Legba calling out my name. Just as I'm about to see the judgment on his face, a Dodge Challenger RT screeches to a halt at the curb in front of me with a cloud of burning tire smoke that obliterates the horses from my view.

Petey & Jodie-boy wear diabolical grins. Grab me without a word. Throw me like a mannequin into the backseat. We depart with the alacrity of their arrival. I manage to grunt, "Pantopon OD."

I vaguely hear snippets of their gaiety from the front seat...high adventure...vanquished boredom...Crazy Nathan's Od'ing...haven't seen The Mole. Every bump down Penn Ave. jump-starts my heart. I grasp a breath. My muscles have turned to poppy jello, including my airsucking diaphragm & my blood pump. My tongue is the size of the beef one I put in my parent's 'fridge as a joke. I could die to laugh. We pull up in front of V & J Pizza, local nightspot. The jukebox can be heard wailing even from here at the curb. "Sympathy for the Devil". The Stones. Dr. Petey looks in the back with a sardonic grin & intones, "Ah, the triad of coma, pinpoint pupils, & depressed respiration strongly suggests opioid poisoning. I'll have to concur with Dr. Nathan's diagnosis." Dr Jodie-boy chimes in, "I prescribe three extra-large Cokes with plenty of ice." As they disappear, I begin to.

Now out of the still silent darkness, the Obstetrician gently ties one end of a velvet rope around my neck, the other end to the harness rig of a team of glowing angelic Arabian stallions. He cracks a bullwhip of umbilicus over the nimbus-lighted heads of the steeds. Their hooves sprout Mercurial wings. They begin to pull. I am ripped from the womb of mother night with a resounding plop into the afterbirth-scented backseat of a Dodge Challenger RT. Petey & Jodie-boy are pouring a second extra-large Coke with plenty of ice into my shirt this time instead of over my head, the third one goes down the front of my pants. The freezing cold rips gasp after gasp from my pulsating lungs. My heart is pumping like an amphetamine whore. I gulp mouthfuls of caffeine sugar syrup down my parched constricted throat. The Arabians are gone. So is my nest of womb & warm. Back into this so-called life.

Once again we are flying through the night.Yet now I hear Morpheus singing on the FM coming from the JBLs in the back. Petey farts in the front seat. I feel safe leagues away. Up & up we climb to the peak of the summit overlooking it all. They carry me out. Lean me against an oak tree. "To survive or remain," Jodie-boy says. My arms are leaden. I can not move. But I am at peace. They sit on the right side & the left side. They stick the pipe stem in my mouth at intervals. The sweet hashish demands I inhale. The expansion expects exhalation. I hear the drums & songs of the long ago Senecas. I watch a pair of ruby roans drag a chariot across the sky. The war, as I had wished it, is far, far behind me. My awakening erection makes me think of yesterday's girl, remembering her name, Lost Lenore.

3 teams of horses with 3 different reasons: birthing, dying, loving this spin of the wheel. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall not fear, for friends are with me. It is not yet my time to slough off this mortal coil. I have much to do. Many wonders to show. & yet many meaningless tales to tell.

Wave good bye to my mother
& hello to Old Nick...
Bile flavored vomit
as I double over sick.
3 teams of horses
riding out of the skies:
1 team pulls the casket
when another soul dies;
1 team pulls me out of the womb
into the world;

but that other team is glory,
spins my life in a whirl
dreaming about tomorrow
& yesterday's girl.

Enjoy,

05 April 2008

Now For Something Completely Different



Last month I posted some 45s from Scratch Bongowax & after I did, I looked through some old issues of EAT POOP! 'zine (a punk 'zine I put out in the late 80s & early 90s in inSane Jose with a lotta help from my friends).

We did shows & revu'd musick so I rely on the printed gospel to bridge the gaps in my brain-cell deficient, well, ...brain.

I found one from late '89, EP! ish. #11 that had relevance, then I found the following article, which I decided to reprint here, for your dining pleasure...a screed by none other than yours truly.

So, as usual, enjoy (& I posted up the playlist I'm listening to as I retype this to go along with the read),




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Juliana Says 'Punk is Dead!' (then it bit her)

Atlantic Records calls. Angelica, B.G.'s personal secretary. (B.G. is Atlantic's West Coast rep. for "alternative" musick - Matador, Disappearing Vinyl, & other small labels). Wants my fax #.

"Are you familiar with our 'zine?", I query, trying to be diplomatic while sensing imminent language failure.

"We've seen #9. We know all about you. S.J. Metro called you ' integral cogs' of the local musick scene. How about a friend with a fax # ?"

Holding back impolite laughter & an almost overpowering strangle reflex, still no sign of verbal awareness.

"What is this about?", obviously.

"Press conference Monday September 13 5pm San Francisco Above Paradise & tickets for that night's show for you & a guest at Slim's...Juliana Hatfield."

Now I draw a blank so I quickly check the next memory blur cylinder for a live round...a drunken night in a stolen car with a stolen keg (yo, fratdudes, thanx). It flashes through the haze...college radio...Taang thang...PoP (Aaargh!)...words like sincere & personal sting like the lashes of an electric whip...bad memories of a badder time, yet the fact I do remember might be a sign.

"Don't fax me, don't fax my friends. I'll be there. Two", thinking of free drinks & grub, "yeah."

We have an all-ages show the day before at Cactus Club. The owner, Calvin, doesn't even bother to mention the show in their Metro ad. "Not enough room." Has to get that Monday Night Football reminder in there in case some dumb jock forgets what night the game is. So the crowd, basically all the bands that are playing, plus their friends & our friends show up for a small but great funfest. What can be better than getting in to a show free, hanging out with some dear friends, getting free drinks, & listening to a line-up of bands of your own choosing? I'm working on a great frame of mind. The line-up is: Slip; Tina Age 13; Big Sissy Brigade; Route 69; Johnny Peebucks & the Swing Udders; & Scratch Bongowax. The show is incredible, & by the end, the stage is completely engulfed in discarded shirts, spewwed food, broken instruments, & dead drinks. The soundguy Wedge showed us after the show where's a broom to clean up & we laughed in his face as we beat a hasty retreat. The planned chaos had unfolded by its own design. Excellence!!!

So I'm primed for Monday afternoon's train ride to S.F. accompanied by fellow Poopster Fudgie D. Klown, awake for once in the evil sunlight, stewing in Fudge-only-knows-what juices. I'm even primed for the walk from 4th & Townsend to Above Paradise (11th & Folsom). I'm really primed, upon arriving, for free drinks...WHICH WE NEVER GET!!!...although everyone else does (like BAM can't write theirs off to business expenses, but EAT POOP! can buy their own...we've been here before). Atlantic might say they "know all about us", but now were here, & it all sinks in to their feeble minds...we're for real...HOW GAUCHE!

I spot Juliana, recognizing her habitual up-the-nose pose from her press kit, & loudly everything clicks into place, the hammer falls, my euphoric primer ignites the loaded explosive that is my remaining brain cells & in a flash it all pours over me like a spilled load of fresh manure... Blake Babies...PRETENTIOUS!!! A parasite of temporal truth crawls slowly but instinctively up my spine, as usual for my more cerebral stumbles...right time, wrong universe. However, in a parallel universe that this NOW calls HOME, Juliana Hatfield Trio...what a bunch of wankers. You can read in other sources represented that night about the first albums they all bought (one was Sat. Night Fever) or the first show they attended, their signs or mood ring colors. Juliana doesn't even have the class to take off her tres cool sunglasses in the 6pm evening club-denizen deep dark (the mainshit correspondents are im-pressed) & I want to suck the eyetruth from her orbs as she lipshits.

Q. - EAT POOP! : "So, like you know, like there are, like, lots of dudes, you know, who like, you know, love jock rock & like, a lot of womyn, like, you know, like, who like these dudes. Then, you know, there are lots of, like grrrls who, like, you know, like, love GRRRL rock, like, you know & like, a lot of guys are hoping, you know. But many EAT POOP! readers are disenfranchised young males & lost young womyn living in a serially dysfunctional world...what exactly do you say to them that will help them relate more easily to one another?"

A. - J.H. : "Duh, huh?"

Q. - EAT POOP! : "Okay, how about an easy one? I have a daughter, 11 years on this marble...she wanted me to ask you...do you really hate your sister & is she really the B-word?"

Before Juliana has a chance to be stumped again, an asshole of unusually large ego from some max rock rag who's ask about 85% of the previous questions asks another...

Q. - Max Rock Rag : "Are you really still a virgin?" (that question is right up there, or at least close, to my top-ten pertinent questions of the Century)

A. - J.H. : (who's in her mid-20s) "Well, I desire & deserve the 'perfect' man & so far I haven't met him, so, yes, technically actually I am a cherry. I masturbate but don't insert."

As if this were our post-hypnotic keyphrase, Fudgie D. & I rush to the front of the Blue Room, bludgeon the Trio boys, & quickly tie Juliana spread-eagled to the interview table. Like a crowd bitten by rabid mob-frenzy, everyone present gathers 'round, chanting "deflower...deflower". They proddingly rupture her poison hymen with appetizer breadsticks as we stand back & watch the mayhem we have spawned. When the howling throng begin dipping the sticks & slurping up the mucal dip with mirth & wit, we head for the exit. Above the ever increasing wail of approaching police sirens, we hear Juliana lamenting the loss of her hymen, her long-time friend that she lovingly dubbed 'Punk'. "Punk is dead, Punk is dead." We pass on Slim's & slither back to the pit.

"Punk is dead, Punk is dead." I wake up & bolt upright in my for-a-fleeting-moment-where-am-I? bed, cold sweating from the nightmare I had just dreamt & have just told. There is a Dark Bros. porno (Green Chicks Need Alien Dicks or something like that) on infinite replay on my leering wall-to-wall. For that lost first instant of non-remembering between sleep & waking, I had believed it...Punk was dead. But life is so much more fun than reality. Punk can never die, for punk means "life" in all its rawest wonderment. Punk is the zombie rebirth of Paul Krassner's hippie duck, but the sign around its neck now reads ANARCHY, as it runs around the Tonight Show stage until it's so dizzy it pukes on Jay Lame-o's shoe.




02 April 2008

Nasal Sex


 UPDATE: This post was 
re-uploaded 08/27/2013.
Enjoy, NØ

Here's some good mid to fast tempo DIY punk. This one is from some friends of mine, the CENSORED Bros., Joe & Rocci, & their friend Andrew Sacco. They lived in Morgan Hill, CA. at the time I was living in San JoeHaze. They were featured in EAT POOP! 'zine & did a couple shows for us. As far as I know this is their only vinyl, although they had tapes for sale at their shows that helped pay for this record.

Nasal Sex are: Joe CENSORED - percussion, backing vocals, castanets, & corduroy slacks; Andrew Sacco - all guitars, vocals, tambourine, & kaleidoscope; Rocci CENSORED - bass, vocals, slide trombone, & pressure suit; Dave Svec - backing vocals; & Mr. Rocksonrocks - drum machine programming on "Pray for Rain". Recorded July 30,1987, December 30,1987, & November 26,1988 at Creative Sound Studios, San Jose, CA. Engineered by Dick Dias.

If you're not sure here, try starting with "Social Suicide" or "Blur". Then see what you think. The song styles are actually quite varied within their genre.

Nasal Sex - Golly (Shove a Baloney Sandwich Up Your Butt)
Deep Nostril/Circo 005, 1989.
decryption code in comments

Side 666 -

Skin Damage
Choke Chain
Social Suicide
True Minions of Satan
Pastorgasm
Blur
Tongue Tied
Billy Club

Side of Beef -

Diode
Egocentric
The Strength to Laugh
Furburger
Insecurity
Pray for Rain
The Arms of America

Enjoy (I sure did),