Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Post-Teenage Lust

LUST, 'BLITZKRIEG' b/w 'M.I.A.' (Criminal Records, 1978)

If the verdict was ever in doubt as to the nature of this blog being akin to a Midwestern kangaroo Court Of Star Chamber, then hopefully this post can be the one that finally sends the peacekeepers packing.

Routinely dismissed as hick fly-over pastureland by its detractors or – perhaps nauseatingly worse – lauded as beer city maaaaaaan, Wisconsin in general and Milwaukee in particular is one of my favorite places on Earth. Being Southern by birth and Southern Baptist by the sense of humor of God, I fully understand what it’s like to be regarded as backwards, benighted and perhaps even more than a little barbaric. The same way Faulkner took all the awfulness of Mississippi and didn’t shy from it, instead making it a center-piece or point of pride with his writing, is the same style of thing I saw go-on with the gob of mutants I ran with in my few years spent in the good land. And I loved it even though my living situation was personally very miserable.

And I’ve said all that merely to say this:

And now I can finally stop talking in hyperbole and start talkin’ bout LUST!








…which, as a city, is about as metal as Oshkosh (the clothing line or the town).

Who Lust were – if they were natives or just recorded there – is a mystery best left unto the younger scion of the Haupt clan. What we do know about Lust is that both sides of their lone single S M O K E with likely accidental NWOBHM speed und froth. ‘Blitzkrieg’ gets my vote likely due to my own preoccupying occupation, but the punk-y lyrics of ‘M.I.A.’ also have much to recommend themselves.

Enjoy now a deep double-draught of Lust: the band that made Steven’s Point famous!



Sunday, December 4, 2011

Keyword Cuneiform

THE LAST OF THE UNKNOWNS, 'SHE'S GONE' b/w '1,2 Many X'S' (Thundermen Records, 1989)

Having seen this single go for a fair amount of cheddar a couple of times in the last few months, I thought time would now be opportune to post up both sides of it as well as to reveal the startlingly non-biker psych hard rock lineage of some of its players (the clue is in the label name and the proof lies in the cheese fries).

The Last Of The Unknowns from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, bafflingly trace their roots all the way back to a mid-60s instro outfit known as the Thundermen (name likely inspired by cross-state neighbors, the Fendermen, who hit pay-dirt with their tuff rendition of ‘Mule Skinner Blues’) with a clutch of singles to their credit. If The Last Of The Unknowns constituted some last-gasp incarnation of the group or merely came out on their label imprint is unclear, however, the internet copyright database does list the songwriting credits with surnames shared by some of the thunderous T-men. Oh, and a year.


So…go ahead and divorce yourself from the notion that this record had anything to do with the likes of Raven, Circuit Rider or Strychnine, as the band’s ambitions likely lied much closer to the fret-wanking formations of Joe Satriani or Yngwie Malsteem. That said, both sides remain remarkable – especially given the locale and year of release – with fuzz thick enough to rival Terry Brooks and Strange and budget production moves that give the impression of a garage band flash-frozen in 1968 thawing out thirty years later under the gated-reverb lights.

Also, attention must be lent to the bizarre field-hand/lover-man vocal breakdown in ‘She’s Gone’ that sounds like a bowling alley bar band of balding divorcees pouring their fifty-cent-pitcher hearts out(the harmonized refrain to the chorus’ question – ‘we don’t know where’ – is beyond boned-out). While ‘1,2 Many X’s’ lite croonerisms don’t exactly stand up to its top layer (what could?), the song’s title and lyrics do lend credence to the theory that a prerequisite for membership within The Last Of The Unknowns might be female trouble instead of exact musical aptitude.

The Last Of The Unknowns: self-help book psych for weekend hog riders. Enjoy their pain and pass the cheese curds.


"1, 2 MANY X'S"

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

School's Out

YEEUH! Guess who’s back!!!!


In keeping with my sub-McRib frequency of posting and joint-custodial attempts at purchasing viewer affection, instead of the usual single serve, today I am going to post up for your perusal an entire SIXTEEN TRACK PRIVATE PSYCH SCHOOL BAND BREAKS L@@K LP and promise you that daddy is never ever gone leave you again lil bloggy. Now just tell the nice case worker that you wanna live with me, baby.

Copied straight from the Acid Archives and purchased straight from the local library for .25 cents, ‘A Celebration Of The Individual’ is study hall psych for public speaking real people (and before you ask, my copy didn’t come with either of the inserts or lyric book so don’t bother asking me who these clowns were). My individual picks to click are the sub-O.Rex giz-rockin’ ‘Musclemania’ and the no-child-left-behind fuzz electives of ‘Proclamation I.’ 'Drive Your Own Bus' is also an excellent foray into the seldom documented public transit D.I.Y. busker psych genre. There’s some stank bad shit on here too, but the majority is good. And don’t come at me complaining about the pops and skips either – IT’S A GHETTO PRESSIN, B!



DAYBREAK, ‘A Celebration Of The Individual’ (Dome, 1974)

‘A high school project LP with the typical amateurish mix of fuzz rock and folk moves. This one is cruder than most and does hit a certain atmosphere, in addition to the strange effect created by the vastly differing skills of the participants. A folky track with crude female vocals has showoffy John McLaughlin guitar runs for no particular reason and the exaggerated ambitions and liberal band membership policy make for a few numbers that are bordering on chaos. The contrast between the simplistic folk and jazz-rock backing is a rather unusual experience, I must say. There’s also some piano-led singer-songwriter tracks for that special school auditorium feel, while the second half of the albums brings in a more commercial 1970s folk and folkrock sound. There are some pretty songs in there, such as the introspective “Antonia” with dual female vocals, while “The Soulful Fighter” is an entertaining disaster of genre confusion and musical incompetence. One of the singers sounds too old for a high school kid. I wonder if the music teacher is responsible for the terrible piano ballad “I Strive To Make You Happy?” Despite the incongruous nature, this LP works pretty well and covers the 70s school project LPs’ bases so well that it could be used as a yardstick for the style. The only thing missing is the lame poetry recitations, but there’s a dopey scat-song that almost qualifies. Lots of tracks and long playtime, because everyone wanted in! [PL]
















Sunday, October 9, 2011

Trippin' Jack Daniels

ZADEN, 'CRAZY LADY' b/w 'HARMONY' (private 45, 198?)

Yes! My favorite drive-in calculus: Camaros and chest hair with a six pack to go (and maybe a one-hitter smuggled into the visitor’s side bathroom). Infectious, retard pop-metal out of Shreveport, LA boasting future author of rip-off Harry Potter children’s literature on lyrics and (I’m guessing) singing. ’Crazy Lady’ is stutter-step swag probably swinging for Van Halen, but failing the field sobriety check and landing (in a heap) just south of Starz. ’Harmony’ on the other hand starts off sounding - dangerously - not unlike Three Dog Night before pushing on into the forbidden zone of big thought lyrics and some truly nimble pinky flexes on them old frets. I’m not sure which side is finer. Both, However, are prime exemplars of the regional sub-genus of Louisiana butt rock.

And yeah Yeah YEAH, more pops and crackles than a reunion of the ’74 Vikings defensive line - BOO HOO! You wanna buy me a better copy - be my guest!

In my opinion, TOASTED/HAMMERED & HEAVILY PARTIED is the only way discs like these should ever be enjoyed. If you don’t have to crank up the tone-arm weight, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!




Monday, September 26, 2011

Endless boogie...

Hi. How are you? Fine I hope.

Well, seeing as how I am no longer blogging from the library or the men's restroom at McDonalds ('Free Wifi!'), I will now attempt (not commit) to conform to the tighter strictures of posting party discipline (or at the very least a starting pitcher's rotation). And because I have been so lax in the discharge of my duties, this time I will give you two sides of an entire LP instead of one measly little 45, though, likely after hearing this tepid collection of white soul with boogie brown sauce, you will not be thanking me for my indulgence.

V/A, 'LIVE AT THE ZODIAC' (Zodiac, 1973)

If ebay listings, collectorsfrenzy and the Acid Archives are to be believed, this 1973 Jackson, MS. night club live album is tee-total 100% KILLER UNKNOWN HEAVY PSYCH ROCK through and through. I didn't know Santana and Sly Stone covers were called psych these days, but I guess that's what it means to be a life-long learner.

Of little interest probably to anyone save local collectros and (maybe) the most fanatical of mid 70s rock supremacists, the 'Live At The Zodiac' LP remains an enjoyable if unintentionally amusing portrait of regional, backwater club rock. The covers (8 of the album's 11 tracks) are mostly between two and three years old, the style of playing is either rote, rudimentary or Blueshammer and the one winner (if there is one) is also probably the least hard rocking thing on offer ('Your Love Took Me By Surprise' by Sweet Fever - a nifty piece of bubblegum/Philly Soul which I could see doing well on the Northern scene if Northern diggers were into picking up obscure 70s dirt-rock LPs; also a 45 on Malaco).

What else...

The discretion at which many of the songs are faded out tends to be arbitrary. The sound-quality on some cuts is much better than on others, giving the impression that some tracks may not be live at all. The DJ announcers between songs are not annoying nor are they particularly memorable; most of the time they just sound bored, as if unable to convince even themselves to feel excited about the bands they're supposedly hyping, though I was amused to find a young Walt Grayson counted amongst the credited on the album's rear side. Nowadays he hosts a rustic Mississippi travel program week-nights on PBS. If nothing else, after listening to this LP, I can understand why Ed Nasty was so pissed off.

Too bad there were no Lou Reed covers, as everyone represented on 'Live At The Zodiac' was most certainly still doing things that he gave up years ago. That backwards tendency above al makes me proud to hail from the Magnolia State. Enjoy?












Sunday, September 11, 2011

Nat Turner's pinstripe dump

DAILY PLANET, 'LIFE' b/w 'PAY' (Riff Raf, 1980)

Yes, I will continue to write in the tedious first-person.

For those that know me, you are likely already well aware of the direct correlation existing between the length of my hair and the depth of my inner square. Similarly, the limit to my dick’s limpness (or color in 1972) should come as little surprise, requiring no advanced equations or line-judge booth reviews. It’s taken me a long time to accept, but... I am a nerd. I am just a power pop turd. And I can live with that. I’ve made peace with myself and my life-partner (a small fluffy white dog). We had a lovely ceremony last year at a lake-side chalet with matching vests and the singer from Off Broadway acting as the officiate. This is me, ya’ll! And I can finally, honestly and proudly now say that yes, I am a slave.

…anyway, mixing my anti-power pop song lyrics there. Thankfully less dangerous than mixing my drinks. And listening all about Los Angeles’ Daily Planet, you have to wonder if Bobby Soxx or M.Saunders/G. Turner might have been painting with too broad a brush.

How many promising new wave combos must suffer for the sins of the likes of Phil ‘N’ The Blanks or the Naughty Sweeties?????

Answer: most of them (like a skinny-tie Sodom).

Impossible to say or recreate the climate of the time, but I find it doubtful that Bobby or the Samoans would have found much with which to take issue (get it?!) with the sound/style being mined by Daily Planet. Recorded live at L.A.’s Club 88, both sides of D.P.’s lone single recall the Rickenbacker/high-energy spit-roast of groups like The Rockers or maybe even The Nerves if they had worn matching striped shirts instead of three-piece suits. Some of the members were originally from Chicago and apparently soldiered on in the Planet until at least ’82, at which point the writing was well and truly on the stall and it read DROP DEAD BABY.

A cool uncomped breath of fresh air before hardcore idiocy/Posh Boy mediocrity set in and made southern California safe for board shorts and Social Distortion tattoos forever.

Derp Burps For Lerp Twerps.



Sunday, August 28, 2011

M for the Mark


Complete credit/big-ups/whatever to Clayton S. for digging this one out. Imagine Robert Johnson (the caucasian close personal crony, not the Mississippi crossroads soul seller) meets The Pop! by way of Arlis!. ...or any other inparticulate prairie powerpopper with an exclamation point in their name for that matter.

Classy beyond belief with great words, great Mark Campbell vocal, great Soulshaker guitar, great sleeve; so much so that it moved a known Texas punk collector to distraction, describing it blithely as 'Awful b/w Worse.'

WHATTA PUNKS KNOW ANYWAY! Good music is wasted on bad (wasted) ears. And now I'm reeling in the years (which is just 'So It Goes' by Nick Lowe with different words five year earlier anyway).

DIG ON MARK CAMPBELL & SOULSHAKER, FEEBS! This blueberry wine tastes great! Mark is still out there too and available to meet all your Humble Pie and Bad Company cover band needs as they arise; don't be a stranger! Also, if you can't get with these lyrics, you for sure can't get with me.



Sunday, August 21, 2011

Down on inland beach

As I'm still getting settled in here in the land of the brain-eating amoeba, I thought I'd cheat a little and recycle something I wrote and originally posted over on waxidermy last year. It's not much, but I truly hope this meager repast finds favor in both in your ears and your innards.

DAVID CRAWFORD, 'CEMENT CITY' b/w 'HARD TIMES' (Phase Two Music, 197?/198?)

Waxidermy BRAVE OLD WAVES READERS likes to rock; there’s no denying it. Aerosmith, AC/DC, maybe even a little Queen – it is still Rock ‘N’ Roll to them! So let’s keep on rockin’ in the US of A! From the Frisco Bay to Nags Head, VA, all the way down to Lake Charles, LA with David Crawford & Phase II!!

Times are hard in Lake Charles – the Cement City – if the a 'n' b-side to this record and Dave’s strikingly homemade t-shirt are to be believed. And I do (believe). In fact, I didn’t know they issued nicknames to towns this lousy. I thought they were just called dumps. Dave and Phase II aren’t exactly local boosters overflowing with civic pride either. There’s nothing on the street or in the record store, the night time’s shining, but the daytime’s blinding and even the phone is out (which is just as well as there’s no next of kin or friends to call). So sequestered in the cellar Dave and the Phase stay and – happily – have a taut and tasteless rocker to show for it.

The guitar rampage on ’Cement City’ reeks of Motor City residue; the gymnastic histrionics of Sonic’s Rendezvous most particularly. …which is likely just an off-target result of aiming for Ted Nugent. A bleak take on bleak living. The A-side’s good too, but ’Cement City’ is the real star. …well, co-star, if you count the photo insert. Phase II is Fortune Teller sick! And I don't even want to guess what Phase I must have looked like.



Friday, August 12, 2011

Land of 1,000 cancers

To my faithful readers - all three of you - I will be going on short hiatus as I establish residency in my new home-base of New Orleans, LA. Once on my feet, I will, as they say, be going hard, out in these streets, stacking up mountains of the raerest black mould. All day, every day. Yaheard? ...or something like that. In any case, enjoy some actual good music from me for a change and see you when my long march concludes.

Monday, August 8, 2011

There was an old lady who lived in a pyramid


When you are a no-selling, fringe figure on the margins of a major American new wave scene, you have three possible long-term career arcs (none of them dignified).

You can (A) attempt to ret-con yourself into the prime real-estate of the official histories through embarrassing reunion shows, catalogued citations of how many times you played with the Zippers and Pearl Harbor & The Explosions or (more often) over-taxation of the poor saps who bite into your bait and actually want your crummy 7'' at approximately the same rate Virgil might try and gouge you for an autographed photo (READ: $40 and up).

Alternately, you could always (B) tape your dick back and make sweet synthetic love to Patrick Cowley and find fame as both as a Hi-NRG dance pioneer as well as an early victim of GRID...I mean, AIDS...assuring a type of immortality amongst both drag queens and hanky code crackers.

Or (C), frustratingly most often, maintain a web presence making tantalizing mention of your unimportant musical past while focusing or rather fixating on the sort of tin-foil hat, U.N. black helicopter, politburo ponzi scheme babble usually confined to the waiting rooms of free clinics or flea market tables selling records.

And, if you're at all curious, one may take the most cursory of google stabs to quickly discover which flavor of filling flows inside our boy Davey. The one and only single by Mr. Doolittle - on NEW WAVE RECORDS in you case you hadn't heard! - shows definite sonicness kinship to the style of Larry Lazar, however, this is not so much the sound of the LONE ROCKER, but rather the LONE OFF HIS ROCKER!

'Three blind mice, man. Think about it. We're the animals, bro. See how they run. Just look at the sleeve...it's all there.'

Moving on...unsure just what nursey rhymes and malaria have to do with each other, but I'm sure Davey knew (a revelation which I'd just assume he keep to himself as the b-side is unlistenable Neil Diamond drivel with horns). Whatever the matter, it's clear that Double D, like Saint Vitus or Wesley Willis, was scarred by the heavy burden of possessing THE REAL TRUTH.

...access to which can be yours for only the most nominal of investments, guaranteed to triple your initial amount in less than six months. Let me show you some figures...


Monday, July 25, 2011

No t-shirt time

TERRY HUGHES, 'TIME TO TURN' b/w 'SO GLAD' (Rubber Ball, 1982)

It’s a good thing there are several states separating Terry Hughes and Justin Trouble, otherwise I’d expect there’d be a Johnny Thunders imitation showdown at the Loveland corral (winner earning a one-way trip to New Orleans and death).  Fairly inexplicable and simply irresistible shirtless guido junk rock plus Stones-y pop moves circa 'Between The Buttons' with definite ideological nods (tambourine, Jagger vocals) towards the late 60s.  The first of three single-servings along Mr. Hughes’ rather unpredictable flight-path - his second is hesher-lite party rock, while the third is total G.G. Allin worship with the lyrics to ’Don’t Talk To Me’ changed to insult some skank from Bayonne. After Damian & The Criterions, I think Terry Hughes is definitely my second favorite New Jersey rock loser.  And he’s STILL GOING STRONG! 


Also, would like to dedicate the b-side of this record to my friends Daniel and Megan who got hitched over the weekend and whose wedding I only slighted ruined by forgetting the rings to their ceremony.  Thanks for allowing me a chance to redeem myself guys!  Have fun in the DR!




Sunday, July 10, 2011

Hyped 2 Life


As the great soul-patch philospher and unmatyred monochrome t-shirt saint Aaron Lewis of the band Staind might say:  'It's Been A While.'

Been a while since my last real post and definitely been a while since it was fashionable for good, long-loined, round-eyed American wimp rock to garner any attention round the roost of this here blog.  And to that I say no more!  No more!  With this post I demand a return to North American normalcy!  A risorgimento of suburbanity!  A return...to responsibility AND an excuse to post both sides of the Responsible Teenagers' excellent lone single!
Familiar to most from their track on Teeline (and to Evan Dando enthusiasts for containing a couple of pre-Lemonheads), this was the Responsible Teens' lone NYC bow from 1980 on their own Responsible imprint.  Despite the 'R & R Warhead' tagline, the R.T.'s keep it short and play it clean; two beer limit cos they borrowed mom’s Volvo.  And while the presumed A-side to this double B-side single has hogged the majority of the Hyped2Death spotlight (thus far), I'll stump like Stephen Douglas and go to my grave believing forever that it is the faux-Byrds-y, out-of-tune D.I.Y. flipper that is the true Most Likely To.  Also, if you harbored any illusions as to the dwindling amounts of cache remaining within the reservoirs of Max's Kansas City's back- room at the dawn of the Nineteen Eighties, you need only glance at the rear-side of the sleeve and catch the trio of dweebs slack-assing (bespectacled unabashed) to realize that the well had long since been wrung dry.

Hop in the new wave car pool lane ahead for both spotty sides:



Quaalude dial-up

....that is the approximate speed at which my computer is currently moving.  Sludgier than Lilian Roxon at a truck-stop buffet.  Still, I VOW - like MacArthur - to return with more bountiful offers of bad music very soon.  In the meantime, here's a snapshot of L.A.'s favorite Punk Rock jock in happier times.


An Epistle to Timmy

TIMOTHY, MR. MOONLITE (mono/stereo) (Segue, 197?)

When it comes to ecclesiastical real estate, it’s hard not to feel pity for the dozen or so books that precede Revelations. As obscure today as the membership of the Hanseatic League, with messages ringing nearly as relevant as the slogans for Smoothie King or the Sunglass Hut (’Free Shipping! Free Returns‘), the intercalary New Testament glut ’a gospels as personified by the likes of 1st, 2nd or 3rd John combine to truly put the piss into epistle. And whether or not Jude, Titus or Philemon were the unwitting victims of some unforeseen, corrupt canonical ‘bubble’-scheme or if the position afforded them today is ultimately fitting in regards to their Baltic-Avenue-urban-sprawl-level of contribution to the greater overall logos is not for this humble, non-ecumenical blog to speculate on. What is infallible fact is that Timothy - the Saint - was deemed worthy of a measly ten short chapters - a veritable Biblical memo - of Saint Paul’s time, spread out over the course of two equally svelte books. Whether we should thank Paul here for his brevity or feel a tad bit narkey for our Tim is a matter better off left to Nicea. At the very least, Saint T garnered much more in the way of recognition than his late 20th century namesake from Pittsburgh, PA (but should he?).

Timothy Wahler is a mystery, that is, I‘m not sure if he was circumcised or not. That said, if for the one song that comprised both the ‘mono’ and ‘stereo’ sides of his lone single, it is clear that Timothy deserved better. Recording for the Pittsburgh-based Segue label in a late-night, ragged, pop psych style reminiscent of the Sidewinders or Michel Pagliaro, ’Mr. Moonlite’ offers yet further proof of the incipient, pre-punk 70s pop underground Greg Shaw seemed forever to be trumpeting. No date on the label, but in the early 80s Wahler relocated to New York City and formed Racer X with Allan Zane of the Speedies (the one with the big perm) and recorded a mini-LP for France’s New Rose Records, which is sporadically sweated by power pop collectors, before tragically contracting HIV and passing away in 1987. For ’Mr. Moonlite’ alone, Wahler should be beatified or accorded minor sainthood. R.I.P.

Listen to ’Mr. Moonlite’ below...



In the beer belly spirit

THE NEW CACTUS BAND, 'DADDY AIN'T GONE' (mono/stereo) (Atco, 1973)

This song really has no business being good. A fake, reformed Cactus (yes, that Cactus) trying to go mainstream boogie-woogie with future tax-scam impresario Mike Pinera and a few other bros from Iron Butterfly along for the ride, sadly, not including Doug Ingle (because – as everybody knows – when Doug’s there it’s insanity). However, in this case Doug’s absence may in fact be a mental mercy of sorts, as the prospect of this record not aurally resembling the 'Ot ‘N’ Sweaty' waistbands of Canned Heat roadies already borders on Burmese write-in candidate odds as it is (‘madness’). This record’s palatability is akin to going to see one of the three touring version of L.A. Guns or Ratt at the county fair or catching ‘The Four Tops' at a reservation casino and enjoying one’s self without the intake or assistance of drink, drugs or comp tickets (or funnel cakes).

All that said, ‘Daddy Ain’t Gone’ is a tasty, if inexplicable denim home-brew, with the residual foam left behind in your flavor-saver perhaps most suggestive of an American Faces and with that first, great, guitar-draught striking pure, unintentional pop gold in the vein of Estus, Frankie & Johnny, Appaloosa and a million other similarly happy accidents. Not a home-run maybe, but still a strong at-bat. And, if what is written on my copy’s label is to be believed, there also apparently exists an album from whence this fine song was drawn. Still, as fun as the NCB prove to be at 45, something inside tells me that I shouldn’t make the New Cactus Band's acquaintance at 33 a top personal priority.

Move over Magic Dick, it’s these poseurs’ turn now!


GET DOWN MAMA with ‘Daddy Ain’t Gone’ right here chere below:

It's Great Apes!


Jack Kevorkian expired over the weekend and to commemorate an event of such significance we here at Brave Old Waves thought we would offer up a note from the back-pages of another prominent Royal Oak, Michigan native that is sure to have the crust punk coterie flying their butt-flap flags at half mast and (hopefully) the more sexually insecure Still Single subscribers reaching for their razorblades.

That’s right: it’s Marshall Crenshaw - pre-Beatlemania!, in the basement with some buds, shotgunning anything saccharine they can lay their hands on into the double barrel of their lone private issue single, circa 1974. Often and very disingenuously hyped as hard rock or even proto-punk, Astigafa enjoys much more in common with the smooth early 70s style of Hall & Oates mixed with the MOR/pop revival approach of, say, Emitt Rhodes or Todd Rundgren (all of which being VERY good things!). The band’s name is supposedly some obscure Beatles’ reference, but I don’t have the energy to figure it out now (they do have a website – complete with pictures and blow-by-blow – for anyone who must know the truth). While the A-side is the obvious cup-winner of this set – with Crenshaw’s distinctive sparkling wine vocal delivery already firmly in place – the B-side stands a close runner-up with its very clear debt to the Beach Boys by way of Steely Dan.

Even though my spirit rests eternally with the brothers Gruberger in the holy year ’73, Crenshaw and his crew kind of have me curious now to find out what happened next. Did it really all end up coming back? Greg? Allan? Gene? ANYBODY??!?!

Enjoy both sides of Astigafa below!

'Oh My Lady'


Lethal, hate and obscure

Let the appalling lack of all quality controls commence!



A true blues for Jack Ruby as recorded by and delivered in the severely damaged twang of one Kenny Smith. Recorded at Indiana State Prison - no year provided - though from the subject matter it would appear that inmate Smith never quite got over the traumatic events of November, '63. Both sides deal in weird, late-night conspiracy babble about the Kennedy assassination, but it's on the record's B-side that Kenny truly lets his inner Legendary Stardust Cowboy shine with frighteningly bizarre results. What I can only assume were intended to be backing vocals on "The Triangle" sound more like budget haunted-house sound-effects or post-lobotomy psych ward groans. A truly fried affair with proto-late-night-Art-Bell-call-in-show moves, made all the more puzzling by the Baton Rouge, Louisiana label which released it. Maybe Kenny was the man Jim Garrison really needed to talk to.

Slip inside "The Triangle" below:

Affronts to Decency - Coming Soon!

Get Bummed!