The Electric Prunes “Mass in F Minor”

I felt like I had a handle on The Electric Prunes (unless I got them mixed up with the Chocolate Overcoat), but I never pegged them as Christian rockers—so what gives? So I had to resort to the ol’ ’ternet and got something like this: after the band’s first couple of records, their producer hired a classically trained composer to write this religious based concept record—but the guys in the band couldn’t play the crap—so they brought in studio musicians. That’s the crazy Sixties for you! (If they’d asked my opinion, I would have suggested, at that point, that they rename the band—The Eclectic Prunes.) I can only imagine some turmoil there, but the good thing—some version of the Prunes is still together to this day! Oh, wait, that first song, “Kyrie Eleison” is familiar—it’s in Easy Rider—I think the gross dinner scene in New Orleans, just before they get wasted at the cemetery. It’s a scene that always really creeped me out for some reason—it must have been this music! (It’s almost as creepy as the dinner at the commune, earlier, with the mean hippie.) I guess I have to credit that movie, anyway, for compelling me to give psychedelics a wide berth! (I had enough problems with the store-bought and all.) Anyway, I almost took this 1967 record off the player and flung it somewhere—within minutes—if I wanted to listen to chanting, I’d put on beads and an itchy brown robe. Which might be appropriate—after all, the name of the record kind of spells it out—and the cover shows a silver crucifix hanging from some multicolored beads, hovering over what I can only guess is an… itchy brown robe. The back cover, however, is a collage of b&w band photos, with instruments, including one with a dude playing an autoharp—and that one must have sold me. I mean, there is some fine guitar, bass, and drums here, but chanting in Latin—it makes me want to run in any other direction. And I took Latin in high school—wait… maybe that’s at the heart of my aversion. Though, I’ve gotta say, it’s kinda growing on me. (Don’t know what, exactly.) Could work as mood music—if your evening includes incense, bota bags, and shrooms.

Iron Oxide “Bass Response EP”

Iron Oxide is a “Noise” band from Cleveland, Ohio—Jeff Curtis and K Stewart—I’ve known both of them for some time and I played in several bands with JC. I believe they refer to themselves as a noise band, but I’m not sure—still, that would be my assessment—though, at one time, similar music might have been called “industrial” or “no wave” or “experimental” or even “punk.” What’s in a label? I don’t know if they’re still performing as Iron Oxide, but I did have the pleasure of seeing a live show featuring them back in 2013, at a bowling alley, memorable for me because of the inspiring performance—at one point Stewart “played” a taco.

This is a 2005 release—it’s an “EP,” due to having two songs a side, I suppose—though it’s 45 RPM. I suppose you could try playing it at 33 RPM—though it’s not recommended. It’s got an attractive red and black cover with some stylized “modern” art which would have been comfortable in the Sixties. There are humorous liner notes, written in an odd way that makes you feel a bit off-balance—my take is that the style mimics English as a second language—and is somewhat a parody of the “audiophile” records from… I guess, the Fifties and Sixties, which exploited the new (at least for the squares in the suburbs) fetishization of hi-fidelity sound equipment. The label is “Coffee-Hut Records” (named after Youngstown, Ohio’s legendary Coffee Hut), and the vinyl, which initially appears black, when you hold it up to the light reveals that it is actually coffee colored! It’s the best vinyl color I’ve ever seen—and may be the only coffee-colored vinyl in existence (though probably not—it’s a big world).

There are four songs. Starting with Side A: “Anglegrinder”—a word which describes it well—just in the title. An instrumental. I don’t think I have the authority to elaborate. Next is a cover, “Not Moving”—which is a DNA song, written by Robin Crutchfield. There is singing in this one, lyrics I can’t make out, except for the chorus: “Not moving, not moving, etc.” This also features the Farfisa organ, and some complex noises, the origin of which I can barely guess. Oddly, I recognize this song! From the DNA tracks on the “No New York” record, a concise document of some 1970s downtown New York “No Wave” bands. I’ve told this story before, but it’s a funny one—after I worked at the Strand Bookstore for a year, 1985, 1986—I moved back to Ohio, and reunited with my records (didn’t lug them to NYC), I got out the “No New York” LP and said, jokingly, let’s see if there’s anyone I know on here—and then noticed Robin Crutchfield, who worked at the Strand. Sadly, I hadn’t gotten to know him—he had worked in a spooky computer shack in the warehouse (as I recall). There’s a lesson here (which I still haven’t learned—because I’m not exactly sure what it is).

Side B starts off with a live song called “Heat Death”—again, an apt title. If you can imagine the massive gush of flame coming from the mouth of one of those dinosaur-like Japanese monster movie monsters, you’ve got the first part—followed by something less menacing, but no less grim, like a haunted sawmill, back in operation just for the hell of it. It’s not unlike the unknowable drone coming from some part of the hi-rise apartment building they built next door to me during the lockdown—except that noise is unpleasant and ceaseless. The song on the record is intriguing and… it ends. Then, finally, another Farfisa song, the organ part repetitive enough to make you second-guess your needle’s dedication to the groove’s progression inward. Interesting—the organ is about six inches in front of you, and then further back there is what sounds like something happening—involving barrels and electricity—but I mean really, really further back—like a block away—yet in the same building. Then it ends, confidently. Did I mention that there are multiple bass parts, throughout—I’m guessing electric bass—bass guitar—not the fish.

Philiac “This Appalling Ocean”

This record is quite a presentation—it’s clear vinyl, which I love, and the grooves are cut in such a way that when you look at it on the turntable it looks like it’s moving back and forth, rather than spinning. Pretty cool. The cover opens up to what’s mostly a fish and scale flavored abstract composition—though there’s a prominent clean, white skull of some kind. I’m not sure what. Someone who knows skulls would know right off. It almost looks like a cat—but I’m not going to think about that—for me, one of the great injustices of the world is that cats aren’t all immortal. Inside, the images are arranged in a loose collage on black: fish, a bird head, a hand, a snake, etc. It’s generally pretty creepy. You’ve gotta work to make out the credits and messages (aka song titles) rendered in barely legible liquid paper. As well as some scrawled credits. Some people want to see their name up in lights. But then some people would rather sneak in like with evidence of a crime. I definitely get that sentiment.

There’s some really heavy guitar and drums-based rock music (not heavy metal—though I don’t really know what heavy metal is, these days). The singer has a really low voice that sounds like it’s coming from the dungeon (but I don’t mean that death-metal kind of singing)—I can’t make out the lyrics (but then I’m never good a making out lyrics)—but then I don’t need the words for the mood—it’s definitely on the doomed side of the tracks—not a happy-go-lucky feeling, here. There are some other noises, too, synths maybe, that sound a little sci-fi and apocalyptic—which is nice. An extended instrumental part, now, is really reminding me of some of the prog-rock, I guess it was, I listened to as a lad—the early Genesis, and some German bands like Nektar. When the vocals return, though, it’s now bringing back Joy Division (must be somewhat of an influence) which also makes me happy (in an odd way)—I guess the most extreme versions of that stuff, back (was it really nearly half-a-century ago?) was like nothing else. There’s a repeated line I can make out, “I’m never going to see you again,” and I guess that gets right at a certain sentiment I’d rather not dwell on—but that’s followed by an instrumental part that recalls, for me, someone like Black Sabbath—I mean, just slightly, but that’s enough for me to escape into nostalgia.

John Phillips “John Phillips (John, The Wolfking of L.A.)”

This is one of those records that just sits out there by itself—don’t really know what to do with it—well, I put it on the turntable a lot—I haven’t gotten tired of it yet. I guess it would go in my “desert island crate”—if I’m allowed a crate (on the S.S. Minnow). Every song is really good—John Phillips is a great songwriter. It’s essentially a country record—with the Wrecking Crew, some country legends, and great backup singers—in the studio. It’s one of those that I prefer to listen to as a whole rather than as a collection of songs—but if I had to isolate one, the sing-a-long, “Holland Tunnel” is the one I’d put on every mix tape—if I still made mix tapes. This is a record where I’ll buy an extra weed-saturated copy whenever I find it, intending it as a gift—but then decide I need a “backup.” Also, you’ve got to consider the gift thing, because with John Phillips, there’s a lot going on. You need little more than the internet to read some pretty awful stuff about him—which may or may not be true—so, you’ve got to decide yourself if your eyes are bigger than your stomach—or something—wrong metaphor—if you can stomach even the rumors. I read some of his autobiography, Papa John (1986), and there’s a part where he said he left members of the Rolling Stones to babysit his kids while he went into town to score drugs. I don’t know if it’s worse to admit something like that or brag about it, but besides being kind of funny, and horrifying, pathetic, (maybe charming?)—it gives you a taste of an unimaginably exotic and messed up world. So it’s up to you, the listener (and reader—you don’t have to read this) how you want to spend your money and time. The money’s not going to him (he died in 2001), or the label—it might be $3 going to your local used record store.

The other thing, for me, is even more imaginary—something about John Phillips’ image over the years, as a larger than life character, rock star, what have you. I am a big fan of the Mamas & the Papas—though I wasn’t when I was a kid. I don’t know when that happened. I guess some of their songs somehow managed to stay fresh for me—even after hearing them a thousand times. (See: Chungking Express (1994).) They were a fascinating band. I’m spellbound by any old, live (or fake live) footage I come across. Mama Cass was the real star of that band—but it cracked me up how John Phillips seemed to be trying to disappear, hide behind an acoustic guitar, despite being a head taller than the rest of them and wearing some nutty fur hat to accentuate that. Then, later images of him, you can imagine the personification of the creepy old hippie. But this record (1970)—somewhere in between—strikes me as kind of the pinnacle of his recording career—him at his best. Did he feel that way? And how much of the sordid stuff is just Hollywood-style conjured image? Probably a lot—but the back cover of the record—a photo of him on the beach with a demonic grin, sporting a top hat and fur coat, and looking just really dirty—horrified me and fascinated me to a degree that I attempted to write a short story about it. I planned on placing it as the last story in a book of stories—and I attempted to draw (with oil crayons) a version of that photo on the back album cover—intended for the back of my book. I ended up rejecting the story—not sure why—it didn’t work. But it occurs to me now that that story is why I’m getting the nagging feeling that I’ve written all this before. So, no, I’m not high, and it’s not déjà vu. And, okay, I’ll admit it—it’s my favorite record.

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.

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).

Minnie Riperton “Perfect Angel”

Besides being one of the classic album covers of the Seventies (Minnie Riperton holding a melting ice-cream cone like it’s a… microphone. Or, an ice cream cone). It’s an image that makes me feel the melting ice cream running over my fingers—I’d say that anyone who’s eaten an ice cream cone has had that experience. Despite her warm weather ware (bib overalls with no shirt) the image doesn’t have to be sexual, okay? I mean, if someone gave me the choice between sex and ice cream—well… I don’t know. That has never happened. This is a great sounding record—it sounds like 1974 to me. I mean that in the best way. Probably no more charged year in my life (I was 14, a crazy year for anyone, but also… I won’t go into personal details. Both sadness and that transition between child and adult). Great songs on this record, and they’re all very different. There’s even a little bit of country, there’s ballads, rock, funk, soul, pop. They’re all by Minnie Riperton and Richard Rudolph—except for two, which are by Stevie Wonder. Among my favorites are “The Edge of a Dream,” “Every Time He Comes Around,” and “It’s So Nice (To See Old Friends).”

I guess Minnie Riperton is famous for being able to hit those otherworldly high notes—which is impressive—but there’s some other quality to her voice that I particularly like—it’s too easy to say “soulful,” which it is—maybe there is something weirdly familiar about it. I don’t know why I think that… I only have a few of her records. I don’t know. The playing on this record is particularly good, throughout, too. Who’s that bass player? Reggie McBride, on every song. A young guy, from Detroit—he’s played on a million records. Also, a lot of piano and some other instruments credited to the mysterious (*). (That’s an asterisk inside of parentheses.) Which you, of course, follow down the bottom to learn is: “El Toro Negro.” Good luck figuring out who that is, in 1974, but the internet of today tells me it is Stevie Wonder—performing under this alias because of a conflicting label affiliation (something like, he was with Motown, and this is CBS?—but don’t quote me). The most well-known song is “Lovin’ You”—that’s the one with the bird sounds—credits say: Mocking Bird—credited to God. And I’ll take that mocking bird over harmonica any day. The title song is one of the Stevie Wonder compositions, which is nice and breezy, cool and jazzy—and his other song, “Take a Little Trip,” is my favorite here—it’s the weirdest—very odd, kind of off-kilter, also a bit jazzy, and very quite cosmic.

Spirit “Clear”

I’ve been intrigued with Spirit enough to buy a few of their early records—it also helped that I could find inexpensive copies—though they’re all beat to shit—but they still sound good! I haven’t written about any before now—though I did recently freak out over a Randy California solo record—and he’s in this band, as you know. I’m not going to read about them—just yet—I mean how the individual dudes melded to make a whole—who might be the leaders, and who might be jilted—too many guys—too many names—not enough time! This is pure sound I’m going on. I did glance at their discography—this is their third LP—I like that they’re on Ode Records, with the yellow school bus cheapo looking label. One thing fun about them is you don’t know what’s coming next—they mash together hippie blues, psychedelic pop, progressive rock, ballads, instrumentals, jams—lots of percussion, lots of guitar, various singers—though… the lyrics elude me at this point—the few I’ve made out sound like they were hard-earned. In pictures I’ve seen of them, including this album cover and back cover—the five of them look like a band—all quite hairy—except for one guy, excellent jazz drummer Ed Cassidy—who was actually Randy California’s stepfather—the “old guy” in the band. (Much older than Jack Casady (not related, different band), and even older than Jack Cassidy (father of David, Shaun—the musical Cassidys just keep coming), and even older than Neal Cassady, who probably died during the making of this record (also not related).) Ed Cassidy is as bald as a cue ball. Remember, back in 1969 bald guys weren’t a dime a dozen like they are now—virtually no one was bald but Yul Brynner, and the cast of Kung Fu (and even that was 1972).

Well… I really like this record, so I’m going to describe it the best I can while listening and being free with my observations. I’m not going to list songs (there are six to a side) because I feel like they are conforming to song structure somewhat against their most natural instincts (I may be, and am probably, wrong about this, but it’s what I’m hearing). So I’m going to pretend it’s a single musical piece, only restricted by the two sides of an LP. Why there are “bombs falling” sound effects (like Flipper’s “Sex Bomb”) during a song about a “dark eyed woman” I have no idea—maybe there are metaphors working in both directions—of course there are. Already, a percussion break—nice—tempo change in the next “song”—solid—but at this point we think we’re in for a whole record of hippie guitar blues, so I’m happy to report we’re now selling something—not sure what—happiness? And now… one of those sex songs disguised as a fairytale. And next… they’re moving off down the tunnel of death, until… someone had a little too much zappa with lunch. After running some errands, maybe a siesta… hitman from south of the border… movie score. What’s this, a harmony-rich psych-pop ballad? —you can fall either on the side of beautiful… or cornball. While I’m deciding, it’s back to drug-rock (songs with “Truckin’” in the title are 100% about drugs, 0% about the conveyance of goods). Less than brief interlude. Sleaze. Sly cartoon cat is up to something. Best for last… a compact (4:24) fervent mini-opera about futility.

Randy California “Kapt. Kopter and the (Fabulous) Twirly Birds”

For some odd reason I’m especially attracted to records by people named “Randy.” Maybe it’s because Randy is such a goofy name. It’s a name you should never give your kids, unless you want them to go into show business, fail, and suffer a broken heart. Anyway, this obsession has sometimes backfired, and I’ve bought some real clinkers over the years, but also some all-time gems, like Randy Lee’s Soakin’ with Tears. And there’s always Randy Newman. And I’ve always been fascinated with Randy California and the band, Spirit. I read on the unreliable internet that Randy California got his handle when he was in a band with Jimi Hendrix and another Randy, so Jimi named them Randy California and Randy Texas. (I’m glad I wasn’t in that band, or I’d be going around as Ray Indiana!) Anyway, I was thrilled to find this LP—the cover is great—it looks like it served for a time as a urinal splashguard—yet it still plays brilliantly. Before even touching needle to vinal, however, I started a review based on the gnarly cover photo and credits, which went something like this: “When you get this jambalaya of odors together—weed, whiskey, BO, menthol cigarettes, patchouli, and dirty hippie feet—which one dominates? That’s kind of a rhetorical quiz question, actually, but all I’ve got to say is, thank god for the patchouli! Is that a way for me to describe the absolutely filthy sound of this record? Well, all I’ve got to go on is the righteous sound, and the black and white photos on front and back—unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately)—no olfactory sensations.”

SO, I was wrong to be dismissive, but right about the filthy sound—you almost sense that you’re going to need to clean your stereo after playing it. Besides the gnarly rockstar photos, the song listings and credits are enough to scare away the most reckless bargain bin gambler. No less than two Lennon-McCartneys (one will sink most records) and a Paul Simon! And then… musicians named Henry Manchovitz, Cass Strange, and Clit McTorius! It’s “Danger Will Robinson.” But… I thought I should at least listen to it—and I’m glad I did, because it’s not only an awesome record, it’s become the soundtrack for my life. This is a record where I’ve got to go through song by song—because one gets the impression that they stumbled into the studio, pulled off side one, went out for a bucket of fried chicken and a few drinks, and then went back in for side two.

The first song is aptly called “Downer” and sounds like it never gets fully formed before it falls apart—which is, I mean, great—they sound like they have no respect for their instruments, and that’s cool. The record came out in 1972, which is when I had my first band, and we didn’t even have instruments. (We’d already broken my mom’s guitar, so we were stuck with an autoharp, piano, pots and pans.) We also had no helicopter, like, who I assume are the band members, seen approaching on the back cover—wait… that’s the same helicopter on the front, and they’re right under the blades—they should really be ducking down! And do they really not have cases for their guitars? Next song, “Devil,” is not doing it for me—not converting me to the Twirly Birds or Satan—way too much backwards guitar. Apparently, at some point, someone sang some Satanic messages and then played it backwards on a record to hide the message from all but the Satanists—and ever since, anything played backwards is like shorthand for “Satanic.” I get it. The next song, “I Don’t Want Nobody,” starts out sounding like the Edgar Winter Group, but then the singing starts (RC), sounding a lot like the James Brown song this has shortened the title from. It’s great—this is the one that hooked me—but weirdly, it sounds nothing like James Brown, and is now totally making me think of Fuzzhead—but it couldn’t be influenced by Fuzzhead—not without a time machine. At any rate, now I’m in. I’m into it. So much so, that by the time we get to the next song, “Day Tripper,” I’m open to the idea that it might not be a steaming turd. And it’s actually a lot of fun—it kind of sounds like a cover band at the grange hall who are actually really good—but perhaps helped and hindered by a variety of substances. Last, and the weirdest cover song choice, is Paul Simon’s reggae song from that year, “Mother and Child Reunion”—and sounds nothing like it—but apparently the song is about Chinese food, so maybe the band was ready for a lunch break.

Side Two kicks off with a cover of Sweathog’s excellent song, “Things Yet to Come,” along with some effects that sound like someone squirting some 409 spray cleaner all over the place—maybe it was, but why? Again, this one really reminds me of a Fuzzhead song—but still, no time machine. But then it occurs to me, maybe Fuzzhead was influenced by this very record—I mean literally the one I’m playing—it very well could have spent some time in a basement. After that epic, Alvin and the Chipmunks visit the studio (either that or someone’s having fun with helium). After which the band launches into some unlistenable audio-lame-joke-playing as an into to “Rain”—one of the more druggy Beatles songs (and one of my favorites)—and they kind of continue with the tradition here—drugs, drugs, more drugs, Satan, drugs, and so forth. Nice. After that epic, you figure it’s about time for another snack, but no, there’s another song, called “Rainbow”—the best original on the record—sounding a bit like Hendrix. I can’t make out the lyrics, but the chorus sounds like, “I need protection,” over and over. Think about it—he needs protection from a rainbow? What’s that all about?

Joe Wong “Nite Creatures”

Once in a while I feel like the best approach to an album is to put myself in the cinematic flow of the feelings I get as it takes me along—it’s usually a record I like, as I do this one. It works best when I get the sensation that I’m watching something—not necessarily a movie or anything narrative, but not abstract either. It’s often my most enjoyable version of a journey—neither weighed down by dramatic convention nor floating on an unhinged dreamscape—but something in-between—maybe a combination of memory and discovery. At any rate, it’s more fun than trying to isolate instruments or nail down influences. I can make out the lyrics, here, but there’s no lyric sheet included, which is sometimes good because the lazy approach is to isolate and analyze text. But first… this is a 2020 release—the Decca label looks like an old one, but the vinyl is heavy-duty, the way the kids like it. The cover is nice—a double exposure of either Joe Wong and Joe Wong, or Joe Wong and Crispin Glover (though, that would make no sense, but such is the nature of double exposures). Joe Wong and Mary Timony are credited with most of the sound—along with a few guest artists, and some orchestra. If I’m going to use one term for the music, I’d say psychedelic pop. Side 1 ends with a lock-groove. I wish Side 2 did, as well—in fact I wish all sides of all records ended in lock-grooves, seeing how I don’t have an automatic return turntable.

Okay, I guess I’m in Los Angeles, a town—whenever I visit—that I fall in and out of love with, within a week’s time—a microcosm of my relationships. It’s over. What a good place to start. I’ve reached absolute bottom, and now I’m walking. Well, that’s what one does in L.A.—not drive, that’s a myth—which is good because whenever I’m driving in a dream it’s all about not being able to hold a tight corner at high speeds. I’m walking along the boardwalk. Is there a boardwalk somewhere? Maybe I’m not in L.A. after all—never did make it to the beach. I come to a church, but it’s an old one, like a mission—not one of those new, drive-in ones. I either begin to pray or pretend to pray—I’m not sure—but then it occurs to me that it doesn’t make any difference. Did you ever dream in church? Did you ever kiss someone in a church? And why am I dressed in a cowboy costume? I was named after Randolph Scott, who looked comfortable in cowboy gear but miserable in a suit. I stop at a busy and hip pizza place, now, on a street populated with hustlers and insane dreamers—but I’m not eating—I’m taking in smells, perfumes, flowers, pizza—I can live on the wafting odors—which connect directly to the part of my brain that resides in heaven. Past midnight, now—adventure. I’m in a car, as a passenger—it’s an open convertible. We’re going somewhere—a surprise—there’s fear and anticipation. Then… the lock-groove of death.

The next morning, I’m walking along the beach. Finally made it to the beach! Something (could it merely be a good night’s sleep?) has made me feel invincible! I can do anything I want to do. Well, short of surfing—but I like watching the surfers—for once they’re not annoying, but beautiful. Well… I guess I’m performing my own version of riding the waves. Yeah, but it couldn’t last. Now I’m stranded in the haunted hills, and someone lent me some shitty sunglasses that allow me to see every single thing that happened here in the near and distant past. I’m a passenger once more, this time in an old VW bus, taking the hilly curves way too fast—though maybe we’re actually gliding just above the road. How’d I end up with these cats who are each dressed in a different satin rainbow color? Fortunately, they let me out at my girlfriend’s house (to be clear, this is a woman I’ve never met—yet she seems to know everything about me). She is absolutely everyone I’ve ever known condensed into a B-movie actress. As the sun is setting, now (in the east, for some weird psycho-geographic reason), I’m walking in slow-motion through lovely, old Union Station, lit, tonight, exclusively with candles. The huge, antique train is waiting for me, steaming and shaking, like a giant horse, and I pretty much am certain that once I get on it, all of this will be lost. Except for, you know—not the memories—but a single pearl—that they tell me… if you roll it ’round a roulette wheel it will never land. That’s all, folks! Thanks, Joe Wong, for the dreamy trip, and the trippy dreams. Keep ’em coming.