Childhood’s End; Or, Rockie Bee Meets The Boy Genius, Part Two

So Friday I went to see my old friend Dan play at the unbelievably boring old Ottobar in Baltimore (City Motto: ‘The Turd At Your Doorstep‘).  There was a sense of urgency in my wanting to see Dan do his thing this time that I’ve never had before, meaning: he’s come to town before, and I’ve missed him, and while I was bummed I wouldn’t say it ate away at me.  Frankly, the last several times he’s been thru Baltimore, he’s been stuck playing with Jack White, Jr. and His Poor Little Orphans, which is just a cruel thing to have to endure.   Gave me the torn feeling of simultaneously ‘really missing out’ and ‘whew! dodged a bullet there!’  But I’ve wanted to see my old chum since I learned Marty Eagle — a guy who gave us both a place to play even though we were nobodies (and pretty weird nobodies, to boot) — got sick earlier in the winter (he died a few weeks ago).

So I head out to the boring-ass Ottobar.  Not sure when Dan’s going on; although I do know he’s got a good relationship with the headliners, so I know he’s not gonna be done at 9:35 — the time I actually arrived.

Have I mentioned I don’t like the Ottobar much?  It’s no fun.  When I got past the hulking door stooges, I saw 30 of these guys, all in this pose:

This guy is always ten years older than me and wearing a Ramones t-shirt.

This guy is always ten years older than me and wearing a Ramones t-shirt. And Jeebus, even these fucking guys are wearing skinny jeans now.  HURRRK!

I can’t fathom the boredom of thirty of these guys.  I suck my gut in, squeeze past the shambling mounds working the door, clamber up the stairs, see if Dan’s enjoying the lounge.  He ain’t, but there’s 20 of these guys up there:

If the guy downstairs has a Ramones t-shirt under his motorsickle jacket, this guy's gotta be wearing a Motorhead shirt.  And skinny jeans -- whose reponible this?

If the guy downstairs has a Ramones t-shirt under his motorsickle jacket, this guy’s gotta be wearing a Motorhead shirt. And skinny jeans — whose reponible this?

I don’t drink anymore, so I don’t have a game plan for passing the time.  I stick my head in the sound booth, find a schedule when the Prep School Punxters finish their shit set. Danny boy’s up next, I only have to endure a sound check.  I go to the merch table, buy Dan’s new album, and a 45.  I hold out hope that the demo we cut a million years ago at ‘Flying High Studios’ in Hoover, AL has materialized and is in some digital form on the merch table, but no luck.  (I don’t even want it for the sake of impressing music-world dingleberries with my tenuous link to Today’s Stars Yesterday, I just want it because I remember that it sounded great.  Sure as hell I’d like to pit my memory up against some empirical proof!)

Dan comes out, starts his show.  Sure, he looks a little different than the last time I saw him; I’d be somewhat concerned if he showed no signs of aging in the 8-year interim since last we met.

When Father Time hits you all at once...LOOGOUT!!!

When Father Time hits you all at once…LOOGOUT!!!

Oh, I get it… you want to enforce the new ‘law of the internet,’ ‘pics or it didn’t happen,’ huh?  How’s this?

A Twin and a nice little Gibson hooked up thru a signal splitter, P-90s on the Jazzmaster. But what's really impressive is how I managed photograph MYSELF photographing my old bandmate.  'Rockie Bee, howjoo doodat?' ANGLES, my good man. ANGLES and MIRRORS.

A Twin and a nice little Gibson hooked up thru a signal splitter, P-90s on the Jazzmaster. But what’s really impressive is how I managed photograph MYSELF photographing my old bandmate. ‘Rockie Bee, howjoo doodat?’ ANGLES, my good man. ANGLES and MIRRORS.

Dan wound up doing a 20 minute set.  It never occured to me to be a hectoring stageside pest, but now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I think I should have called out some requests.  God damn, the real world gets lodged so far up my fucking ass it makes it so that when I see the one guy on this blue planet who can play Roy Rogers’ ‘Dust’ beautifully I fuckin’ forget to insist that he play it.

Dan played his 20 minute set of Ramones-inspired originals.  You know how I feel about Ramones fans.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

And his buddy, Exhibit B.  You catch these prize humps on Saturday mornings at SAT word problem prep.

And his buddy, Exhibit B. You catch these prize humps on Saturday mornings at SAT word problem prep.

Dan’s ‘Joey Ramone’ voice is as good as his ‘Johnny Cash’ and ‘Rick Nelson’ voices.  He gets a lot of the Joey Ramone nuances dumb-ass dickbags like ‘A’ and ‘B’ up above always miss.

So the set’s over, Dan and I shoot the shit.  Nothing heavy.  You just can’t lay that on people.  It felt great to talk to him, to talk, in essence, to the past without having to be obvious about (without using obvious conversational gambits like ‘Remember that one guy?  The guy who talked funny? With the droopy drawers?’)  Like I said, I’ve had a weird… anxiety? or something since I got the news Marty Eagle left us.  I think it’s because I’m never gonna get a gig with a stranger as easily as I did with Marty.  When I met Marty, I’d been trying to do music for four years and was mostly getting shit on in the most humiliating ways you can possibly imagine.  I met Dan at Marty’s joint; at this point I’m fuzzy as to whether we’d teamed up for the fuck of it, or just to get a gig at Marty’s.  Marty was a sweetheart when it came to booking unfamiliar weirdos.  All he asked was that you a) have 3 hours of material and b) not be particularly ‘punk.’ And you’d say to Marty, ‘Sure, I can play for 3 hours.’  And Marty would narrow his beady little eyes at you, estimate how full of shit your answer was, and BINGO! gig.  I’ve never had a booking go that smoothly unless I was a guest of some headliner, or had an intermediary set shit up.

ANYWAY, Marty booked Dan and me, and then we got other weird, cruddy ‘starter’-level gigs that weren’t as happy-go-lucky as they might have been at Marty’s.  I got the bare minimum of encouragement to bail on a life that had completely cratered in Tuscaloosa, chased the thrill and adventure of barnstorming across Alabama, trying to make music, meet girls, and drain every bottle in my path.

The last time I saw Dan — 8 years back —  he’d long ‘moved past’ his original material from when I knew him.  Which was a bummer; his songs then were every bit as good and solid as the songs from his then-current album, Vs. The Serpientes.  Truth be told, when I saw Dan in ’04 I wasn’t quite the fan that I became two years later after I got a load of Join. And I think my favorite songs from the summer/autumn of ’99 fit in without a hitch with the songs from Join. Inscrutable and completely obvious at the same time. Riddles set to a spaghetti western soundtrack.

You make up your mind.  Here’s my absolute favorite: ‘One Is A Crowd.’

Coming in at a close second is ‘Mexican Girl.’

If you’re a Dan fan, you’re gonna have to live with my vocals and guitar on these babies.

Shooting the shit with Old Bean, I was made to remember the elements that have long been missing from my music world over the years:  Secret Entrances!  Shit, when I played with Dan in the dying basement bar of some Five Points South hotel, we always got to use secret entrances and parking spots!  And when I visited with him at the shitty old Ottobar, he showed me a secret door– disguised as paneled wall —  to a backstage lounge.  I’d played that backed-up toilet twice and nobody ever showed me that!  I still smoked the last time I played there; I might have appreciated being able to burn a few out inside of doors rather than freeze my bidness off on a January night outside the service door.  LIKE A COMMON PYGMY!

So Dan and I yakked it up a bit, had a few laffs at the expense of night-time dingleberries lacking in self-awareness…

Like ME?

Like ME?

…and I said my farewell with as much social apparatus as I could muster.  Hit 83 North just in time to get stopped by the cops because of a car fire.

Dorkabilly flames.  The only way the car fire on 83 would have been MORE cliche is if the smoke spelled out 'Born To Lose.' Or 'FTW.'

Dorkabilly flames. The only way the car fire on 83 would have been MORE cliche is if the smoke spelled out ‘Born To Lose.’ Or ‘FTW.’

 

 

 

 

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Cake Boss

So tomorrow’s my daughter’s party for her fifth birthday.  She’s been amped up for a week; can’t sleep past midnight in anticipation of being the center of attention and getting presents.  She wanted a Barbie theme; Th’ Wife and I were unable to pull the trigger on that.  We didn’t introduce her to Barbie, either.  I think a neighbor kid did; next thing I know, the Sadie Monster’s got a sack full of second-hand Barbies and a wardrobe full of little tiny high-heeled shoes, ready to work a little tiny Haven Street.

Th’ Wife looked into ‘Barbie cakes,’ which I highly recommend you should Google sometime.  It — like every other toy-centered thing on the Internet — is a highly-developed subculture, and also of Super Mom Cake Art.  To her credit, Th’ Wife earnestly intended to make a proper Barbie cake at the outset.  It was only after viewing a vast array of Super Mom Cake Art: Subset Barbie that we gave ourselves a back door out of the whole ‘Barbie’ thing while still making a tenuous connection to stuff the Sadie Monster actually likes:

"I'd like to sing you a song -- a song of protest, if you will -- about something that really frosts my ass."

“I’d like to sing you a song — a song of protest, if you will — about something that really frosts my ass.”

Up until Th’ Wife and I put this mutant Cake/Golliwog together not four hours ago, I never had second thoughts about encouraging my daughter to do music-type stuff.  But now that I think about it, I think it’s actually worse than encouraging Barbie’s lifestyle of conspicuous consumption and rigid gender roles.  “That’s right, dumplin,'” I see myself explaining, “now that Barbie’s a musician, she doesn’t have a car or her own place to live anymore.  She’s what we grown-ups call a ‘mooch,’ or a ‘drain on society.’ She’s in her thirties and lives with her mom.”

"She'll be living with me 'til she's 50.  SWEET LORD TAKE ME NOW."

“She’ll be living with me ’til she’s 50. SWEET LORD TAKE ME NOW.”

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The Competitor

Came home from band practice Tuesday night, all excited.  Our drummer couldn’t make it; so rather than slave over the ‘originals’ we worked up some covers.  I got to sing one; if I’d figured out my guitar solo better at the time we recorded it (my 5th or 6th pass thru the song, keep in mind), I’d have posted it up on YouTube and probably crowed insufferably about it.  But anyway, back to Tuesday after practice: I played the new one, and the originals we’d worked up, which were about thiiiis clooooose to being finished, and I was anxious to get back to practice and get all this shit buttoned up!  I’d been so absorbed in my day-to-day mundane busywork I’d failed to notice how close the band was to actually having a full set of new stuff.  Just was not a priority for me, which is bitterly ironic, as many of my past attempts to work with other people have been a profound waste of time, and I wanted so badly for many of those projects to ‘go somewhere.’

But anyway, the covers were of the Dirt Daubers.  Not a big fan; they’re the current project for J.D. Wilkes, the lead guy for th’ Legendary Shack Shakers.  My dad and I visited Nashville a couple times in ’99 and ’01, back when the Shakers had a residency on Broadway at Jim and Leyla’s Bluegrass Inn, and my dad loved that band. Me? Not so much.  They were still a straight-ahead rockabilly band, and at the time I wanted nothing more than to be part of a straight-ahead rockabilly band.  So I looked at the Shakers as ‘competition’ they way guys who don’t have much experience do.  Watched them, grumbling to myself, “They’re doing it wrong” and “That’s so beginner…”*  I was shocked in ’04, ’05, when I found out the Shakers were a bit of a national ‘thing,’ I couldn’t imagine how.  ‘Til I found out the amateurish rockabilly costume spuds in the band had been replaced by scummy ‘road dog’ ‘lifers.’

So yeah, the Dirt Daubers.  If there’s a concept, it’s this: Do you remember the Squirrel Nut Zippers?  Yeah.  They sound like that, but with psychobilly lyrics.  And if that isn’t bad enough, precious girlie singing.   Here, I’ll let Hee-Hawg Herman, who is clearly a figment of my imagination and not representative of anyone alive or dead, tell you about them:

The Dirt Daubers?  Man, that shit is as gay as a goose! Um, not that there's anything wrong with that....HEE-HAWG OUT!!!

The Dirt Daubers? Man, that shit is as gay as a goose! Um, not that there’s anything wrong with that….HEE-HAWG OUT!!!

You’d take Hee-Hawg Herman’s word for it, right?  He’s cool, right?  Sideburns and a soul patch, that’s cold as ice, right?  I think we did a right good job with those tunes.  Sure, that guy on the edge of 1997 culture may not like them stripped of banjers and toy pianos, but I think they’ll do.

So I get a text today wanting to know if I want to do a 15-minute set on Saturday.  Do I want to play? You bet.  I’m proud of this band.  It’s not one of those deals where one grits one’s teeth thru another’s singing, waiting for the chance to play ‘hot licks’ or some shit like that, which ‘rescues the show’ from Tediumsburgh for ‘everybody.’

Ehhhhhh, and it’s not like I want it to be this way, I have a hard time viewing other music people as anything but competition, taking up space, time, acclaim, and for that matter, oxygen that should belong to me.  Believe you me, I don’t want to view the music world as a zero-sum game.  But it is.  I know two of the other bands; I’d say they’re familiars but I wouldn’t go so far as to call any of them friends.  And I like some of those guys!  And some of those guys are sorry me-first assholes!  I’d say it’s been difficult, watching the guys in the other bands ‘play the game’ while I went thru the trouble of getting my shit together in my ‘real life.’  I had a good year there before my daughter was born when I had the spare time and the money to pursue music to get to the point where people would answer my phone calls, and I couldn’t get it done in time.  I don’t so much blame my daughter for taking me away from music as I do hate barroom music people for being flaky assholes.  Cripes, unless you’re ‘out there’ all the time, lodged in some big-talking dipshit’s colon, it feels as is no one could possibly make the effort to remember you, your performances, or your music.  So in the five years since my daughter came along, I’ve watched Esskay Pea (of Esskay Pea and the Bloated Pissoirs)  go from ‘lone wolf’ ‘outsider’ status to ‘epicenter of happening shit.’  And he was a good guy back then; what bugs me is how long it took him to get people to work with him; he really had to work people over, cultivating relationships and contacts over years, until all the follower-type music people thought he was ‘big enough’ with which to work.

I won’t lie to you, I’m not looking forward to being in the same building as Putz Poodinski and the Nite-Liters.  I don’t like that fucking guy.  Bugs me that try as I might to get away from useless Baltimore asshole music people, I always have to run right into ’em again.

"These guys, they party hard, they black out at their own shows, they never record shit, it's like they think they're me: HEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAWG! YOW!!!

“These guys, they party hard, they black out at their own shows, they never record shit, it’s like they think they’re me: HEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAWG! YOW!!!”

My hope is that people will be in the back room at Olde Towne in Fredneck early to see us.  But, as you can well imagine, I have only the dimmest view of barroom music people.  I see Hilljack Suicide doing a killer set for the 6 people in Fredneck who don’t care that they aren’t in the same room at the same time as all the people they hang out with.  Fucking smoking laws.  God dammit, you used have to provide only a slightly more interesting experience for faceless herpetics than ESPN 8:  THE ALL AUSTRALIAN RULES FOOTBALL AND RUGBY SUPERSTATION with the closed captioning on, and you were, if not loved, then certainly deemed an acceptable professional musician by creep bar manager and creep bar patron alike.  But nowadays, people will step outside for an entire set if they aren’t close personal friends with a performer. And if I run into Teddy Toughnuts, Pumpkinhead, or the re-animated corpse of Paulie Macaroni, I’m finished.

Perhaps I’m being a bit harsh toward Putz Poodinski.  To his credit, he’s one of the few people to remember me and my music during one of the times I’ve thrown in the towel.  But that was a long time ago, and a little of that guy goes a long way.

Come to think of it, the last time I had to do a ’15-minute set’ at the last minute with a band was when I was in a band which shared several members of a more vintage edition of the Nite-Liters.  Which was a shitty experience, as it occurred shortly after I quit drinking.  We got a literal 15 minute set, everyone else in the band was gonna be playing all night and didn’t really want to cut too deeply into their drinking time.  I got done, looked at the shitty rowhouse bar cramped with band crap, noticed not one soul paid my band at the time any attention, was all amped up and pissed off.  Nice of me to come out, but ain’t nobody gonna interrupt their own good-timin’ no matter how close their friends are.  Can’t remember who the out-of-town band was that night, whoever the Nite-Liters were trying to shake down for favors.  So while I wanna serve notice and get those Olde Towne Fredneck debutantes and socialites all excited for Hilljack Suicide, I think we’re gonna get the bum’s rush after 10 minutes and get to watch another hour of sound check for our trouble.  ‘Cause I have a feeling we’ve caught a headliner between wanting to make road pals with other bands on the one hand and be a never-say-no-directly people-pleaser on the other.

*Hey man, I had a copy of The Humbler in those days.  I knew what stuff was supposed to sound like!

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Adventure!

When was the last time you left a movie theater humming a tune written specifically for that movie?  I can’t remember offhand; my guess is probably Ghostbusters.  Maybe Fletch Lives.  There’s always Tarantino films, but he not only licenses catchy songs, he licenses catchy theme music as well.  So yeah, I left Kill Bill humming ‘Theme from The Green Hornet’, ‘Theme from Ironsides’,  and cues from White Lightning, but none of those were composed specifically for that movie.  Also, I didn’t see O Brother, Where Art Thou? in a theater.  I will admit that John Williams’ work in the latter day Star Wars stuff was solid — to say the least — but I think I always left them feeling a little bummed that overall they weren’t a little better, and it hadn’t occurred to me that they might well be the last movies made with lush, capital ‘SScores.
Well, I’ll tell you the last time I left the theater intrigued by music: it was the last time I saw the trailer for The Hobbit.  I have been hot to see that music, on the basis of the dwarves’ song alone.  I got into music as a kid because of movie music, only to mature in a movie world where increased reliance on visual effects meant decreased reliance on the audio.  I think it’s because all the money goes into something money people consider sensible — such as computers making cleanly realized, if somewhat flat-looking scenes of mayhem and destruction — leaving little to go to an original score.  It must not make as much business sense as licensing a bunch of tunes that already occupy real estate in the pop-cultural collective and, until recently, selling that to consumers in a jewel box with a movie’s ‘brand’ on it.
But anyway, the dwarves’ song.  Under the Lonely Mountain, as I believe it is known in nerdlore. I’ve only seen the trailer about 3 times, so I could only remember about half the melody—

“Did somebody say ‘Half a melody?'”

— but that half of melody also sounded like one of my very favorite tunes by Hee-Hawg Herman: ‘Dirty Old Town.’

“Look, I know you didn’t listen to my totally rockin’ music. So I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes, Chester. The punchline is ‘…forty bucks and a chicken sandwich.’ Now scan back up the page and get the player CHOCKED IN! HEEEEEE-HAAAAAWG!!”

But wait.  It gets worse. I got up uncomfortably early yesterday morning, got ahold of the music from the new Hobbit movie, and since no one was up to bother me, learned to play it.

Mmm-hmm.  Went and put the movie music to the book verses.  And why not?  There’s a lot of apocalyptic imagery in there.  On the one hand, visions of the apocalypse were all part of your pop-culture landscape if your parents listened to country music radio in the lat 70s-early 80s; the most popular of these songs is Bocephus’ ‘A Country Boy Can Survive.’  Not only is it the rare Bocephus tune in which Bocephus doesn’t name-drop his famous friends and father (unless his ‘friend in New York City’ was actually George Balanchine), it’s opening line is ‘The preacher man says it’s the end of time and the Mississippi River is a-going dry.’  So obviously this version of ‘Under the Lonely Mountain’ is the work of a loon hard-wired for deep weirdness.

So, as far as it goes, I think I sound uncomfortably like Jandek.  So here it is, Waiting World, the one-man mash-up of Ernest Tubb, Hee-Hawg Herman, Jandek and J.R.R. Tolkien.  I wouldn’t burn any show-bidness ‘juice’ performing this out live, or inconvenience myself with a hellish open-mike night somewhere, but I’ll inflict this on the world this-a-way.  Click it or don’t, but I’ve warned you what you’re in for.

“That is some fucked-up shit. HEE-HAWG OUT!”

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Disappointing Trading Cards

My daughter and I spent the day together.  I asked her where she wanted to go after dance this morning, and she said “The museum with the PEZ dispensers.”  Meaning the Geppi Entertainment Museum.  The highlight (for my daughter) was the gift shop; of course, she got a PEZ dispenser.  The GEM gift shop had a box of trading cards, a buck apiece.  My daughter saw how much time and attention the Golden Boy got with his windfall of inherited baseball cards (the most ugg-moe of which can be seen ratchear.  Scroll down.) and wanted a slice of that sweet, sweet paternal attention pie.  So, for a buck, what the hell.  Among others, we got a pack of James Bond cards, and a pack of Elvis cards.

The James Bond Cards
I won’t lie to you.  I really wanted a Roger Moore card.  I’ve had my fill of Roger Moore bashing, as persons online weigh in with their dumb opinions.  When I was a boy, I was a Sean Connery man.  Sean Connery was ahead of his time, an actor with a serious slab of gym muscles.  Nowadays, that’s every actor.  You can’t even go to a diner in Hollywood and see dudes from MadTV without noticing that they, too, are ripped to shreds just so they can meet the bare minimum quotient of photogeniality and thereby play stunted child-men.  Whereas there is no modern analog to Roger Moore.  A gentleman who plays a child’s idea of a grownup and never, ever brings up such boring goddamn topics of conversation as diet and workout regime.  Really, I just wanted a banal factoid of Sir Roger’s life illustrated in the Topps ‘Baseball Guy’ style of the 70’s and very early 80’s.  Like this:

But I did not get a Roger Moore card, dammit.  Here’s what I did get.

“Tatiana Romanova was drafted by the Russian Ballet but slated for AA reassignment when a late growth spurt made her too tall.  KGB general manager Woot Hacken picked up her option from Moscow and traded her to Istanbul for a bootful of fezzes.”

Look, if you remember this character’s name, lobby to have it put on a milk carton.

Oh, sweet Jeebus.  More bilge from Tomorrow Never Dies.  Lane Myer’s math teacher from Better Off Dead is a highlight, though.  Still a shitburger!

Speaking of shitburgers, I’ve always had a soft spot for The Man With The Golden Gun.  Stephen Hunter tried to warn me in the Baltimore Sun‘s TV Week supplement’s capsule reviews back in 1986, but what can I say?  I was 12 and totally sold on Lebanese belly dancers, redneck car chases,  John Barry’s score and Lulu’s theme song.  Britt Ekland is about the least interesting thing about this movie.

FINALLY, A LIVE ONE! It’s Tevye the Milkman, who teams up with 007 in For Your Eyes Only to fight Cossacks and the brown shit that gets on your teeth from smoking too much. Havenu shalom aleichem, Mr. Bond!

The Elvis Cards

If the James Bond cards were underwhelming, the Elvis cards are almost beneath mention.  Almost.  Here’s the three that are almost interesting.

The Suspicious Minds 45 sleeve and fun factoids. I’m just annoyed that Suspicious Minds was the King’s only post-Comeback #1.  Kentucky Rain didn’t go to #1?  That’s a damn shame.  Certainly, Kentucky Rain was plenty popular; I first encountered it when it was a staple of country radio in the late 70s, and stayed there til the ‘Urban Cowboy’ fad was replaced by the ‘New Traditionalists’ movement and then found a new home when ‘Oldies Radio’ popped up on the FM dial.

Elvis: That’s The Way It Is is sad in a post-mortem way.  We watch Elvis begin to get quite full of himself as he rakes the TCB Band over the coals, rehearsing album filler like Patch It Up. Feh.

An Elvis fat suit.  The flip side mentions that EAP busted the ass out of these karate drawers on New Year’s Eve 1975. “And then Hamburger James cut the cheese!”

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Hee-Hawg Herman Looks at ‘Skyfall’

“Essentially, it’s a smokin’ riff on the novel and film versions of ‘The Man With The Golden Gun.'”

“The homoerotic antagonism, the psychosexual sadism — IT’S CHOCKED IN!!!”

“Man, if I have any complaints, it’s that the soundtrack ISN’T DISTINCTIVE AT ALL. But I’m totally chocked in with that. I haven’t seen a movie with a memorable soundtrack since ‘Lord of the Rings….'”
“I mean, uh, since MY COUSIN saw ‘Lord of the Rings.’ Hobbits are some nerd-bangin’ shit. Anyway, the only thing I was hummin’ after ‘Skyfall’ was the Animals’ version of ‘Boom Boom.’ Eric Burdon is a cool cat, but that shit was definitely not chocked in.”

 

 

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The Hills Are Alive

Hee-Hawg Herman, formerly of the Gumdrop Soaps, sez:

“If you came here lookin’ to read about disgraced former major league pitcher Rick Camp, you are CHOCKED IN! OW!”

I’d post more often, but mercy day I’m tired.  The only people that check out the Hive of the Hee-Hawg are weirdos who are brought here by search engines and, I’m guessing, want to learn more about Rick Camp, whose doofus appearance I ridiculed when I posted scans of my baseball cards.

The ‘Rick Camp’ search engine thing happened so often, I had to check it out for myself.  It appears our loveable doofus, Rick Camp

“That’s me. DERP!”

(cont’d.) ran some nursing homes or mental institutions, embezzled $2 million from them, and served a year and a half in prison. I think people drop by the Hive of the Hee-Hawg because it’s not the Atlanta Journal-Constitution photos site, it’s not Wikipedia, and it’s not some message board where some angry tavern-goer a-froths at the mouth about getting shitty and short with Celebrity Athlete Booze Bag Rick Camp.

“Me? I never touch the stuff! DERP!”

So yeah, time’s at a bit of a premium here at the Hive.  I’ve been working with a new band.  We’ve got a demo we’re supposed to ‘leak’ out; all’s I can do to help ‘publicize’ the band is to make a video and post it on YouTube.  Half the band was part of a well-liked regional band that split up 3 years ago.  3 years is about the maximum time a ‘normal’ person who makes the ‘out of the ordinary’ choice to get involved in local live music can hang, if they aren’t going to make it, play it, or otherwise be a bartender, tattoo artiste, or some other demimonde.  It’s like Narnia time, local live music-world time it is. After about 3 years as purely an audience member, people feel the pull of the Real World and find out they’d achieve more in their real lives if they didn’t stay out so late during the work week.
So I made a video for our song to leak.  I recently read on the Kindle Fahr I Want My Mtv, a history of that network covering 1981-1991, or, for me, third grade thru senior year, maybe a semester or so of college.  There’s a reason videos aren’t shown in favor of reality programming, and that is because music videos became ridiculous.  So, the new band is called Hilljack Suicide and the new song is ‘The Sound of One Man Choking,’ and the ridiculous tropes are all courtesy of Use Your Illusion-era Guns and Roses.  Motorcycles flying off of cliffs, histrionic singers spluttering in and out of tubs, and wreckage.  There’s no creepy violence against women, though.  The Action Figure Theatre has emerged from the basement storage tubs and they are on the job.

General Grievous plays the lead singer. It’s because he’s the most poseable action figure ever made.

“Gimme a C. A bouncy C!”

F’igrin D’an plays a guitar.

“Don’t let the sun set on you in Tulsa….”

Count Dooku plays a guitar.

“…If the sun goes down on you…”

Holograph Count Dooku plays a guitar (my old Kay Speed Demon).

“…If you’re still here, YOU’RE GOIN’ DOWN, TOO!”

And Lego Thinly-Veiled Version of Evel Kneivel sits in on drums.

“What was that? About the drugs, I mean?”

So you’re frothing at the mouth to see this, right?

Remember, that’s H-I-L-L-J-A-C-K (SPACE) S-U-I-C-I-D-E.

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