September 21, 2005

Thank You, New York!

Passion_pop_selfcontrol03After 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.

Continue reading "Thank You, New York!" »

August 02, 2005

Spazzy Answer Songs

Answer_3MP3s: 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.

Continue reading "Spazzy Answer Songs" »

July 06, 2005

Shut Down Part 3

Bb_surfer_girlI 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.

Beach_boys_monumentcloserjpgSeemingly, 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.

March 28, 2005

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.

Arctic1Typically, 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...

March 07, 2005

Monday Evening 7:43pm

SammyIt 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-

February 24, 2005

The Beached Boys or The Best Record You Never Heard

SurfsidersOne 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!"

February 16, 2005

The Weird World of Blowfly

Blowfly_shirtHere'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.

February 08, 2005

Squalor By the Sea

Wonder_wheel_3Coney 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.

Astroland_3In 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.

Logo-Rama 2005

  • Winner (T-shirt): Gregory Jacobsen
    We received such an outpouring of extraordinary listener artwork submissions for our recent logo design contest that we just couldn't keep it all to ourselves.

    Hold your champagne glass high, extend your pinky, turn up your nose, and take a stroll through this gallery of WFMU-centric works from the modern era.