100 Proof (Aged in Soul) “Somebody’s Been Sleeping in My Bed”

I grabbed this album—beat-up as it is—because I had no idea what it was—the cover is a photo of a bird nest with an egg (looks like a chicken egg) with a red question mark on it. Meaning? I have no idea, but considering the record’s title—when that egg hatches, will it be my offspring or this joker who’s been sleeping in my bed? On the back cover the nest is empty, and there’s a dead bird—kind of ominous. The label is Hot Wax—there’s a funny cartoon drawing with a flaming turntable and melting letters logo. My copy looks partially melted—it’s a little warped, the edge ragged, and beat to hell—but it still sounds great. Apparently the band was from Detroit—only released a couple of albums—this one from 1970. I bet I heard a couple of these songs on Motor City AM radio at the time.

The title song has a good funk groove and some great lines, like: “Cigarettes in the ashtray, and I don’t even smoke.” Kind of alternates between mellow soul and energetic funk—lots of fun songs. “One Man’s Leftovers (Is Another Man’s Feast)”—can’t go wrong with that title. “I’ve Come to Save You” is a standout—a really pretty number. “Ain’t That Lovin’ You (For More Reasons Than One)” starts off with spoken dialogue—a smooth talker trying to seduce a woman—followed by some ultra-smooth soul singing—a lovely song. Then we return to them in the middle of the song—he’s still trying—and then even lovelier (if that’s possible) verses, chorus, bridge. It’s an epic. And then, finally, at the end of this very, very long song—it sounds like he’s worn her down. It’s a little disconcerting, honestly, but also a pretty great song. Another good one is “Too Many Cooks (Spoils the Soup)”—a sentiment that holds especially true if one of those cooks is sleeping in your bed.

Pink Floyd “Animals”

I was never a Pink Floyd guy, really—some of my friends had the early records—I thought they were cool—and like everyone else, I bought Dark Side of the Moon—but then missed Wish You Were Here (my favorite Pink Floyd record). By the time The Wall came out (1979), I was over them—but this one, when I was 17, was the Pink Floyd record for me. It still takes me back to my confused brain at that confused age. It’s almost painful to listen to. I took in the lyrics without really digesting them—I read George Orwell in high school, but never connected this record to Animal Farm—I didn’t really listen to the lyrics—just took it in as apolitical weirdness. I guess I’ve been bad about making connections my whole life—is there are learning disorder where your brain doesn’t make connections? Like say, you know the word, “Pig” and what it is, but you don’t connect that to the animal known as a pig? That would be me. Maybe it’s not a learning disorder at all—just dumbness. Is being a dummy a clinical condition? If it is, that’s me.

It’s almost painful to admit now how much this record was an influence on me—at a time when I was doing art (collages and drawing), writing songs and playing music (our “band,” the Chinese Electrical Band), and writing poetry. Wiser people than me would go back and round up that 17-year-old Pink Floyd inspired poetry and eradicate it with extreme prejudice—but that’s not me. I admit it, and I can live with it, and I can laugh at myself. When I first put this on, as a new record (1977) and listened to the 1:24 acoustic first song, “Pigs on the Wing (Part One)” I wondered for a minute and a half if the whole record would be acoustic guitar folk music—and then the second song, a 17-minute song called “Dogs,” answered that question. It’s depressive, wanky guitar rock, but kind of lovely, too—I think, now—because it’s relatively sparse and minimal. “Pigs (Three Different Ones)”—over 11 minutes—has a wonderfully dated sound—a steady cowbell from yonder barn. The 10-minute “Sheep” so much influenced music our band was playing at that time, it makes me want to go hide. But that’s funny. All these songs might be grim, serious, doom-laden, preachy, even a little scary—but underneath all that, pop-song hooks come first.

I loved the album cover—I assumed it was a factory in Middle Earth (I guess it’s an old power station). Could be a photo, could be a painting—beautiful and harsh, dramatic and mundane—how long did it take me to notice the pig floating between the smokestacks? When a band could refrain from putting any words on their record cover, I was always impressed. It opens and inside still no words, just a dozen black and white photos—could be a first-year photography class critique—I was impressed/not impressed. Anyone could airbrush a floating pig on a landscape, but when I went to the Pink Floyd concert (most likely that summer) at the old Cleveland Stadium, there were actual floating pig dirigibles (I’m thinking other animals, too, but I can’t remember—I was no doubt smoking something, but not anything that good). It was fun going to that concert—it was the largest group of scarily stoned people I’d ever been around—but also disappointing—since we were so far away from the band that they could have been anybody. The sound system (some kind of “quadrophonic” deal) was really impressive, but still, I more or less swore off stadium rock shows at that point. And one day, I didn’t put the record on anymore—and so it’s been, what, maybe 45 years? My Pink Floyd records didn’t survive all the moves, and they usually don’t show up in the cheap bins—but someone named “Judy” rendered her name so confidently in the clouds between two smokestacks—I had to look online to see if that name—about the same size as the floating pig—was part of the design. It isn’t—thus the discount price, in case Judy comes calling for her rightful heirloom.

The Cowboys “Supermarket” / “Teenage Life”

Not to be confused with The Clash’s “Lost in the Supermarket”—which came out a year earlier on the London Calling record, and is one of the wimpier Clash songs I remember—kind of a disappointment from “the only band that matters.” I don’t mean to always pick on The Clash—they were a great band (my fav at one point)… but their name is dumb. Now, The Cowboys—that’s a fucked up punk rock band name—a very good one. And The Cowboys’ “Supermarket” song is better—it’s a pretty great song—I probably like it better now than back then—this is a song that’s aged well (unlike the other side, “Teenage Life”—which is nonetheless nostalgic). It’s a reggae-tinged pop punk song about the middle-American middle-class dream—Ohio, the middle of the country—1980, when things were looking grim (had we only known…). Malls were still thriving, and rebellion might have been choosing not to get a “square” job, and not watch the TV shows on the three major networks. It’s kind of a weird song, really. “Up top in a supermarket”—what’s that mean? Am I hearing that right? I never thought about it. Is it from the point of view of the little kid in the grocery cart—those funny little seats? I remember riding in the grocery cart—pulling things off the shelf. My mom would keep me quiet with a Mad Magazine. I probably rode in those things up to an inappropriately old age—but I’ve never heard a song about it before. It’s got some great lines: “Beautiful music is everywhere, hey, hey I’m lost in space,” then, later, “You can’t learn until you learn to listen, but I can’t sit still, is that real?”

It’s funny how we don’t use that term, “Supermarket,” anymore—even though some of those big ones are bigger than ever. Though—maybe I’m wrong—maybe it’s a regional term, and in some places they use it. Or maybe it’s what people say in the suburbs. But I can’t remember the last time I heard someone say, “I’m going to the supermarket.” These days, it’s nothing to celebrate—I usually face it like a grim task—I go to the “grocery store,” and generally it’s a nightmarish hell. I used to know a couple of guys who worked at grocery stores (back around when this record came out), and I like to remind people (particularly younger people) how that used to be a really good job. Supermarket jobs were union jobs—and you could get married, have kids, buy a house and a car. Or you could work third shift, overtime, sleep all day, and save enough money to start your own recording studio—or buy an island with a lighthouse.

The other side, “Teenage Life,” is a pretty typical sounding punk song from the time—it’s fast, noisy, guitars wailing, and it sounds like it’s running downhill into oblivion—one of those end of the world punk songs. “I sit home and watch TV, nothing satisfies me.” Even if you’ve never heard this, if you’ve heard punk rock, you’ve heard it. It’s got a dropped in guitar solo, and it wears out its welcome quick enough. But like I said, nostalgic. It’s funny to hear non-teens doing a song about “teenage life”—though I don’t suppose they were far removed from being teens. I believe these guys were all a year or two older than me, and I was 20 when the record came out—on Tet Offensive label, which was the record label of The Offense zine (which I used to read all the time and write asinine letters to). It’s got a seven-inch paper sleeve with a degraded pink square on the cover (like it was some unknown red object, photographed and blown up a million times). Plus, some typed info, from a broken typewriter, that’s purposely illegible. It’s non-self-congratulatory and very punk rock.

I eventually knew a few members of this band, in Columbus, Ohio, who were all very nice—very cool guys—including Pete Stackelberg, who passed away in the Nineties. Brian Emch may or may not have played on this record, but he was in The Cowboys at some point, and later played with the Royal Crescent Mob—another great band from Columbus. The singer, Billy Lee Buckeye, used to write for The Offense (very good, funny stuff)—I’d seen him play acoustic at one of the local “Nowhere” music festivals—pre-Cowboys, I believe, and I was instantly a big fan. Later, using his real name, Mark Eitzel, he played with the Naked Skinnies (their record, reviewed in these pages, was also put out by Tim Anstaett/Offense Magazine), and that band moved out to San Francisco. Later Mark Eitzel started American Music Club—one of my favorite bands ever—and I saw them play, and him play, over the years, approximately once a decade. Lately, I’ve seen him play twice in Milwaukee (pre and post pandemic) in those intimate living room shows (most recently about a month ago). Of all the punk rock people I knew (or kind of knew) I feel like he went the furthest—into other realms of music, I mean—not just success. But in some ways—say, seeing that recent, live, solo show—and now he’s maybe 64—and he’s still punk rock in the best way—and he continues to be inspiring.

Johnny Cash “A Boy Named Sue” / “San Quentin”

The only thing worse than a novelty record is a live novelty record—but this one, from 1969, has an odd place in my heart. I still have (somehow!) the same record I bought when I was nine years old, though I haven’t actually listened to it for probably near half a century—having turned against it at some point. Hearing it again, now, though, is funny—it brought back the progression of thoughts I had about it over time. It’s written by Shel Silverstein and was a big hit for Johnny Cash, who I used to see on TV—it seemed like regularly—and no doubt at least once singing this one. I liked him, and listening to it now, I can see how compelling he is, even doing a joke song—the band is also very good, stripped down, and tough. Most likely the first thing I noticed, as a kid, was that I was able to understand the irony in the story—a kid’s dad named him Sue in order to toughen him up by having him deal with ridicule. Neither amused nor appreciative of the gesture, the kid spends his young life hunting down his dad to kill him—eventually they fight, but then Dad explains why he did it. After my initial understanding, though, a few alternate ideas set in. Why did this piece of shit parent use such a shortcut? Why didn’t he stick around and maybe teach the kid in a more conventional way? And then, why was the bullying that the kid was subjected to simply accepted as inevitable? The thing that saved the song, for me, was the double ironic twist at the end where the kid appreciates his dad, finally, but vows, if he has kids—a boy—to give him a boy’s name! It’s a good, disarming ending. But I was still bugged by the other problems, and by that time, too, I was beginning to be against fighting. Though, ultimately, the thing that might have turned me against the record was it being overplayed—on TV, the radio, and at home (I only had a handful of choices). A humorous story song like this soon wears out its welcome.

The other side is “San Quentin”—both songs were recorded live at San Quentin Prison—this one written by Johnny Cash. As you might guess, a song in which he sings: “San Quentin… I hate every inch of you…” goes over pretty well among the audience there. The main sentiment of the song, besides hating the prison, is that the experience of prison will do no good as far as changing the prisoner for the better—it’s simply punishment, but there’s no reform—nothing good about it, whatsoever. Again, the band is great, just guitar, bass, and minimal drums, and there’s also some women backup singers, briefly, which I didn’t remember—almost not there—on the instrumental break, singing “San Quentin” all of like two times. I didn’t like this one as much, as a kid, but I think I appreciated the “plain talkin’.” There’s no ironic twist at the end of this song—it’s short and simple. Focusing the hatred on the place, however, rather than the people responsible for the place, is interesting. Plus, he sounds like he’s singing from personal experience—though, in this case, there’s no intriguing admission of shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die (fictional or not). At any rate, he’s convincing—what a voice! —I’m sure when I was a kid, I really believed that he was a hardened criminal. With a voice like that, he could convince you that he’d been retrieved from thirty days in the hole just that morning.

Spanky & Our Gang “Anything You Choose b/w Without Rhyme or Reason”

I missed out on Spanky & Our Gang—among the sunshine pop purveyors from the Sixties—too young, so I was more in the bubblegum camp, I guess—I was still watching the Little Rascals version (I was also too young, pretty much, for the Young Rascals). I wonder if I didn’t see them on one of those late-nite rock shows—I guess that’s likely—but they never registered with me. I bought this record solely based on the weird cover—it is acid casualty yellow with red and blue highlights—a photograph of the band high-contrasted to beyond the pleasing. The name of the band is so abstracted I couldn’t make it out until I was at home and worked on it for a while. Five dudes with moustaches (Our Gang) and a woman (Elaine “Spanky” McFarlane) in a band pose, probably wearing normal hippie threads, but because of the extreme pupil-dilation-view, they look like they’re wearing radiation suits. The first thought I had was this was a crew hired to go into dangerous radioactive disaster sites to perform heroic deeds. The inner sleeve is even more psychedelic with kaleidoscopic band images carrying over, even, to the actual label—on Mercury, who I guess humored them, though they couldn’t have been huge stars. Though maybe they were—or it was going that way—this is their third LP, from 1969.

They do that indulgent, annoying thing—naming the sides: “Side A” and “Side 1”—okay, we get it, but that’s not helpful for us not free enough to just put on “whatever” side first. The music is all over the place, from: “Rather annoying, might not put this on again anytime real soon,” to: “I really like that song a lot and want to hear it again and would put it on a mix tape if I still made mix tapes!” So what I’ll do is ignore the stuff I don’t care for and list the stuff I really like—starting with side… I don’t know… whatever. “And She’s Mine” is an infectious pop number—at least until you listen to the lyrics—“She’s good, she’s sweet, she’s kind, and she’s mine”—which strikes me as a little square. “Yesterday’s Rain”—the singer (Spanky?) sounds a little like Grace Slick—and the multiple backup vocal parts are inventive—I’m guessing it’s political (“rain”). As is, “Give a Damn”—and I like the sentiment—made easy to swallow with this soaring approach—which could be the best Pepsi ad ever conceived (Pepsi wishes). “Without Rhyme or Reason” is as smooth as can be, with its Brazilian stylings—and someone’s playing one of those wooden fish, which always cheers me up. “1-3-5-8” is one of those “row row row your boat” vocal goofs (I don’t remember the name of the form), but they really take it to an adult level (should be called “1-3-5-8-11”). “Jane”—another nice pop love song—and I’m guessing it’s about Jane. “Since You’ve Gone” starts out as the prettiest song on the record (my favorite stuff is when Spanky’s singing)—then has a weird bridge that sounds like people “literally” fighting. I don’t know if “you” left (they were fighting) or died (they were really fighting). Pretty and disturbing (an intriguing combination).