September 10, 2007
Happy Returns
We’re back after a five-month hiatus. No explanations will be forthcoming. Let’s get right to it.
This blog (if you can still call it that after five months) is no stranger to Japanese TV and movie themes, and, well, I did promise, oh, let’s see… five goddamn months ago… to post up some of these 7-inch records I purchased abroad, so let’s pretend this is the first in a series.
Jinzoo Ningen Kikaidaa was based on a comic book, and it falls squarely in the Tokusatsu category of action TV shows - or, if you prefer English, “nerds in funny costumes.” Jiro is a young guitar-playin’ man driving a sidecar-equipped motorcycle, who is, in reality, a crazy-looking robot android, Kikaida. With a bizarre half-semi-translucent head with pupil-less baby-doll eyes, rocket feet and super-strength, he battles the varied creatures/robots of the Dark Destruction Corps using space age weaponry and fancy karate techniques. If I was ten years old, I’d be all over that shit.
Stuart has an information-rich webpage devoted to the Jinzoo Ningen Kikaidaa television series. Unfortunately, it’s one of those sites where an mp3 suddenly starts playing really loud, and you have to make a split-second choice: do I scroll down in a panic while the page is loading and try to locate the player and hit PAUSE, or hit the Back button and hope my browser doesn’t trip over itself and freeze for the duration of the song? It’s nervewracking, that’s what it is. Be reassured that Toestubber Dot Com will never do that to you. On the plus side, after you silence his HTML, Stuart will tell you much more than you thought you ever wanted to know about our mechanical hero, even providing these hilarious drawings Stuart made when he was a young fan!
If you find you’re hooked, the DVD box set is for sale from this otaku store.
A very enterprising former kid (”Inframan”) translated the mighty words to Yuuki Hide’s rendition of the title theme song:
The guitared Jiro, our hero
He’s a gentle and strong robot
Battling with evil once again today
With a guitar punch, strikes them down
Finish off the Dark Robots
Side Machine, car of the future
Tearing up the atmosphere, it runs
Even in water it floats
At mach speed it flies off
Finish off the Dark Robots
Kikaida is an android
Like a jet, he flies in the air
The sure-death move is the Giant Swing
With the Double Chop he smashes
Finish off the Dark Robots
‘Nuff said.
On Stuart’s tribute page, the aforementioned translator delivers an amazing list of Kikaidaa episode titles that sound like a cross between a Chinese seafood menu and sci-fi hentai schoolgirl porn: 
“Making Babies Cry Red Devil Tigerfish,” “Sponge Green Lives Thrice,” “Blue Electric Eel The Evil Hands Glisten!” and “Madder Red Squid Targets The Pretty Girl Scholar” should whet your appetite.
I acquired this record (on clear blood-red vinyl, with 10-page cardboard booklet) for about six bucks, probably ’cause the former owner scribbled on the cover here and there, as you can see from the scans. Don’t curse the Japanese child. You’re getting 3/4 of it for free.
Jinzoo Ningen Kikaidaa Opening Theme (MP3)
Robot Drama: Track 3 (MP3)
Jinzoo Ningen Kikaidaa End Theme (MP3)
Rick at 12:35 am
April 15, 2007
International Male
The week since my return from Tokyo has been flavored with the worst jet lag I’ve ever experienced.
Eleven-hour sleeping jags punctuated with ridiculous insomniac episodes. As Yoshi says, in his most disdainful voice, “Of course.”
Anyway, the city was awesome, as predicted. I love this place. When I was younger, I would dream of traveling. Idle dreams. It didn’t become clear until later that international travel doesn’t just happen to you - you actually have to do things.
Of course, these days it’s a little harder in some ways. At LAX, on the way to my flight, an eagle-eyed, superstitious DHS airport screener literally yelped with glee to see my half-drunk bottle of water going through the xray machine.
Her: Oh! What’s this? You’re not allowed to bring this in here.
Me: There weren’t any signs saying that.
Her: It’s been on the news.
Me: Yeah, I just really thought we’d be over that stuff by now.
Her (deadly serious): Oh, no. It’s going to get worse! They tried to blow up a plane. As long as they can make bombs with this stuff, it’s going to get worse. We can’t let you take liquid on a plane.
Me: But that’s not true. It’s scientifically impossible…
Her: It is true, sir.
Naturally, I wasn’t allowed to drink the remainder of my potentially explosive dihydrogen monoxide on the spot, in front of her. This rule might seem kinda counterintuitive if - as I had assumed - the purpose is to screen out toxins and liguids other than water! But that’s some pre-9/11 thinking right there. Who knows if terrorists have figured out a way to combine a colorless, odorless liquid with stomach acids to form a time-released explosion with the power to depressurize a cabin at 35,000 feet? I think it was in that 24 episode where Jack Bauer’s adversary had the really awful diarrhea.
Apparently, Kip Hawley isn’t the only idiot around here. And here I am bitching about our Homeland overlords; that’s so 2003.
Anyways, back to the fun stuff: Japan! Please check out my 130+ gallery of memories… and don’t judge me for photo-stalking the Singapore Air hostesses. You haven’t flown a mile in my pants.
In the weeks to come, I will be sharing rips of some great-looking records I scored in Tokyo. I also got a lot of old weird japanese pop stuff from the bargain bin at punk store NAT Records in Shinjuku (Shinmei Building 2F, 7-33 Nishi-Shinjuku, Tokyo 160), but trust me, I made the rounds. This is only about half of the 7-inches that I nabbed, and we’re not even talking about all the magazines, comix and CDs. Just what I needed! (Sarcasm.) However, your gain is my loss, or will be, or something.
Anyway, I’d like to thank all my Tokyo pals for the warm welcome they gave me in spite of my rude ways and Western odor. Shout outs to Onoching, Masami, Wild OX, Terumi, Elizabeth, Mike, Nori, Atchan, Rockin’ Jellybean, Shaku, and all the other cool folks whose names I cannot recall right now. Special thanks to Kazuha for letting me crash in her Nakano manshon, among her literally priceless collection of 1950s porcelain, Funny Face and Weird-Ohs premiums, Sailor Jerry flash art, and her handsome tomcat Sue.
==================================
Miami soul singer George McCrae is mainly known for this monster disco hit from my childhood. 
There’s probably a good “A Star is Born”-style film drama to be drawn from his former romantic/management relationship with his hitmaking ex-wife Gwen McCrae (I like her records, too), but George was there first in 1974, riding the crest of the disco wave with some smooth crossover soul for those of us too young to Hustle. The steady rockin’ backing group is none other than KC’s Sunshine Band!
George is still going strong - check out his rather primitive webpage that makes my browser crash. Read his grandiose bio that, with its superstar hyperbole, deserves an audiobook reading by the guy from J&H Productions! No matter, this is still a great song. Now let me get back to my nihongo benkyo o suru. What? Oh, that’s French, baby. It means, “You are incredible.”
George McCrae - “Rock Your Baby”
George McCrae - “Rock Your Baby (Pt. 2)”
Rick at 7:42 pm
March 28, 2007
Shibuya Bound
Bye bye for the next couple of weeks… I’ll be over in Tokyo, getting showered with cherry blossoms, attending noise-rock shows and sleeping in the finest of capsule hotels. Not like I would have updated much anyway, but hell, if you’re still reading this blog I suppose you’re owed an explanation. A weak one.
To balm those injured feelings, enjoy this tune from Canada’s Del-Gators. It’s taken from the 2001 Pound Down! CD on Sympathy; the band featured King Khan’s cute sister Cocobutter Khan as well as other garage royalty. While you listen, picture me soaking in a sento bath. Don’t worry, there will be photos.
The Del-Gators - “Move Mr. Man”
Rick at 3:42 am
March 10, 2007
Got to Have It
From Rotten.com via Boing Boing, here’s a collection of horrible skin diseases from The Stereoscopic Skin Clinic, a 
New York-published 1911 atlas of 3-D medical photos - rendered as 32 hypnotically vibrating, creepy-crawly GIFs.
If, after that, you need to cleanse your mental palate (and who could blame you?), simply click on Marilyn Maxwell’s dreamy face on the right and watch the delightful 1942 short “Dreamsville, Ohio” starring Charles “Buddy” Rogers and Biff Morgan & his Cats.
Finally, more audio hilarity in the form of the legendary Bacon & Eggs Watch call - by a brilliant chain-jerk who sometimes went by the names Persimmon or Peach, and her unnamed boyfriend/husband. This epic bit of nonsense takes us back to the sad historical period when the Swatch company had a Beanie Baby-like buyer’s frenzy going on the collectables market. (Yep, that’s how I achieved my millions.) Answering an ad by an enterprising young couple who are hawking the newest limited-edition breakfast-themed Swatch timepiece, phone-sex veteran Persimmon and her amoral partner spend a half hour playing the speculators like a double bass, dragging them through improbable deals, lesbian come-ons, tears, insinuendos, bizarre Tourettes-style outbursts (”take the rose out of your ass!”) and escalating accusations of sexual impropriety. We promised this mp3 to ol’ Berliner chum Wi11iam13 a couple of weeks back, so here.
For the next couple of weeks I’ll be preparing for a 10-day visit to Tokyo, home to a few Toe Stubber fans, where I will be open to offers of food, sex or future employment. You can’t miss me. Fiery red hair. I’ll be wearing a dashiki.
Persimmon & Husband - Bacon and Eggs Watch call
Rick at 4:08 pm
February 24, 2007
A Larger Man
In the audio-trading underground, there’s a tinier subculture of folks who are tickled by the artfully phoned prank. Yes, we collect tapes and CDs of anonymous pricks fucking with unsuspecting victims over the phone. Okay… it’s kind of an infantile concept, I’ll admit. Socially conscious, mature adults should be above such shenanigans. Even so, there are certain recordings that prove my rule that there are very few fields so restrictive that within their confines, a superior mind can’t create a masterpiece.
Meet “Lou Merkert.” I was introduced to his (only?) work via a cassette procured in the early 1990s from John Trubee, a fellow who did a lot to popularize the medium in those years before the Jerky Boys killed the golden goose. 
Webpages from this guy and this guy could be a good place to start if you want some primary sources.
This audio clip is very much worth your while. Granted, if you don’t find Lou’s schtick immediately entralling, you might not be the target audience for the full 18 minutes twenty. As for me, the uncomfortably chummy, nasal timbre of his voice revives childhood memories of distant hillbilly relatives back in Virginia, W.Va., Ohio and Maryland. I can smell the secondhand Tareyton smoke, hideous bourbon, leftover Hut pizza and greasy thigh cream.
A question that usually comes to mind when people first hear this tape is “How did he get her number? Do they know each other?” Given the angle of attack, I always imagined them only distantly acquainted; in my mind, Shelly somehow screwed over a pal of Lou’s, arousing in Lou a desire to see justice done in the most perverse way possible - by wasting her valuable time.
Marvel at the methodical way Lou introduces the facts of his situation bit by bit until the whole horrifying portrait emerges. And how Shelly entertains the most outlandish negotiations - so long as Lou’s holding out the possibility of a cushy infomercial gig. See, he’s a dealmaker. Does that disgust you?
“Lou Merkert” - Homebound call
=====================================
UPDATE: Incidentally, anybody who I haven’t already harassed can now view my Academy ® -acclaimed star turn in Steve Hadden’s cinematic masterpiece Feces For the Fuhrer. I’m the guy getting pissed on and electrocuted. Typecasting, y’know.
Rick at 4:39 pm
February 13, 2007
Fucking Up is Hard to Do
Did anyone notice I was away, studying Japanese, trading CDs and wallowing in my own wastes? I hope so; a fella likes to feel noticed, even when he’s hiding in a dark apartment. Welcome to my world!
Let’s see… Whoa. Six weeks since my last post of any literary substance! S’pose it’s time to type some words again. And just so’s you don’t call me shiftless, here are some curious videos I uploaded to YouTube: douzo. I’ve also been spending my listening time on certain popular artists (like Cat Stevens) it might’ve been inadvisable to post about, given the current confused copyright climate (How’s that for an excuse? It’s all the fault of lawyers). Finally, in other Internet news, you can click on that right photo of the Goddess Bunny for additional pictures captured on my recent travels, proving that a hipster’s life is bigger than bloggery.
Upon first listen, this 1995 Blag Dahlia EP with Tania Hearst on the cover entitled Venus With Arms is not as good as the best of the Dwarves‘ albums. Apparently this was released during a two-year period when the actual Dwarves band was temporarily nonexistent due to drugs and some silly shenanigans with their record company; I wasn’t paying attention at the time. Anyhow, I was just about to chuck this CD into the trading pool when I played the fifth and last song, and suddenly my dick got hard. “Theme From the Vicelords” contains all the most lovable elements of the Dwarves: short, loud, filthy and fast, clever lyrics from the perspective of a self-described loser asshole, over-the-edge macho posturing with a sense of its own ridiculousness, anthemic chaos and Blag’s high-energy sneer - topped off with a completely retarded guitar phase-shifter siren sound in the second half. That’s comedy, my friend. I also dig the wooden Streets of San Francisco-style voiceover intro.
Sure, not everyone agrees with this assessment, but that’s why I have this bully pulpit - to bully you with my personal opinions. Let me point out that this is my second post in two months with the phrase “Fuck Up” in the title.
“Everywhere that we go / Everybody knows / You only can trust us / As far as you can throw…” Sing along with me, dammit.
Blag Dahlia - “Theme From the Vicelords”
Rick at 6:06 pm
January 20, 2007
Danny Wood
This YouTube video in this post has been removed per the request of the artist. (@10-7-2007)
Rick at 4:34 pm
December 30, 2006
Chirp Your Enthusiasm
My friend Miles who introduced me to the Welsh band Budgie always had a theory that they missed out on the sales and success of Black Sabbath (who sometimes had a similar sound - tight but sludgy guitars, falsetto singer - 
and who shared with Budgie the services of legendary producer Rodger Bain) because, looks-wise, Sabbath had medieval castles, graveyards and spooky crosses in their album art, while Budgie went with Roger Dean and that cute li’l parakeet.
In other words, Budgie neglected certain trappings of serious badass-ism (scowling, strutting, shirtlessness and pyrotechnics) in favor of monster rock riffs and finely-crafted psychedelia. Not that they don’t have a loyal following, but when you peer through the coke-bottle lenses of Burke Shelley’s proto-nerdcore spectacles, it’s easy to reach the conclusion that these guys weren’t overly image-conscious. (I mean, look at ‘em. They’re just having fun playing music. That’ll never do.)
Check out this awesome 1973 film of “Breadfan” (a classic tune later covered by some lesser lights) that I bagged from YouTube - sporting better fake-sync sound than yer average 2006 rap video:
(The direct URL is here.)
If you’re not into the hard rock, it can difficult to explain what’s so charming about Budgie. They aren’t over-the-top or chaotic sounding (their songs are sometimes absurdly mannered and precise) or emotionally distraught like metallish bands are “supposed” to sound. They make a “big” noise that somehow seems like it’s trapped in a small, dark room. 
They easily slip into sweet, folksy, pretty interludes - check out “Rolling Home Again” from the second LP, below - that might alienate a few Judas Priest fans (the two bands toured together in the early days). There’s a humble, wry sense of humor in the lyrics that imply it’s not to be taken all that seriously.
But man, what riffage! (Sorry, you have to use terms like that when you’re writing about this stuff.) When guitar demigod Tony Bourge starts chugging out one of his stadium-ready hooks, and drummer Ray Phillips dictates a slow, heavy groove, it’s too much trouble to fight the rhythm. Go with it. Somehow, the combination just works.
The original three-man lineup of those spry young whippersnappers is now gigging again, and of course they have a website. Marvel at the photos showing how well they’ve physically held up, compared to the shuffling,
jiving walking corpses of most of their contemporaries. Despite my normally strict policy against fogey-rock reunions, I’d definitely go see the ol’ birdies if I got the chance. This band deserved way more than they got.
From Squawk (1972):
Budgie - “Whisky River”
Budgie - “Rolling Home Again”
Budgie - “Hot as a Docker’s Armpit”
Budgie - “Drugstore Woman / Bottled”
From Bandolier (1975):
Budgie - “I Can’t See My Feelings / Rock Climbing”
Budgie - “Napoleon Bona-Part One & Two”
Rick at 10:36 pm
December 26, 2006
Experiment
I’m trying a little internets test: A little something about Britney Spears’ pussy (NSFW). Carry on with your lives and please forgive this crude interruption.
Rick at 12:17 pm
December 23, 2006
Fucked It All Up
Merry Christmas, goddamn it! Holidays mean nothing to me except for an unwelcome disruption, and this year, a long drive to Fresno to visit with the family. At best, it’s an opportunity to do some xmas shopping at Wacko and ogle that gorgeous Asian girl with the multiple lip piercings. 
Anyway, it’s not too late to buy me a present, if that’s what you’re into…
The Black Diamond Heavies are a neo-bluespunk duo that play a gimmicky but irresistible, stripped-down, raw, swinging kind of music that’s a little less highbrow than the Black Keys and a lot more cultured than Blues Hammer. They were apparently a three-piece until last March, when the guitar player quit the band, but have honed their crowd-rousing skills (before & since) by relentlessly touring everywhere, except where I live. I’ve never heard their earlier first record, but I aim to.
The first thang about the Heavies‘ sound that grabbed me was the booming, overmodulated Hammond bass drone that is a signature of their best tunes. 
It’s just a kick-ass blast of unrefined low-frequency sugar that makes John Wesley Myers’ precision burbling rhythmic organ riffs sound fresh. The drummer, Van Campbell, plays straight-ahead rock stomp with a twist of swing, except when it’s time to tone it all down for a quiet number. Some songs work better than others, but I can attest to the entire album’s solidity and staying power (i.e., you can listen to it more than twice without getting bored). It’s not often that I get hold of a band’s advance material (thanks, Patrick!), and like it, and get a chance to share it with my loyal 14 web readers. The two songs here are taken from a CD called Every Damn Time that will hit “the streets” in five weeks. Have a taste.
Of all the latest roots-punk singers that fall into the Captain Beefheart cookie-monster blues shtick, Myers is “one of the good ones.” There’s soul up in there. He’s also a member of the Immortal Lee County Killers. Sure, if you reflexively hate the crazy cool modern phenomenon of white boys playing a kind of reverse race card - something that falls between old-negro-worship and self-parody - why then, you’ll hate this too. But then, y’all probably hate punk rock, the Gories and the Oblivians. Fuck y’all. The rest of us will definitely be picking up this choice nugget at the end of January.
Black Diamond Heavies - “Fever in My Blood”
Black Diamond Heavies - “Leave It in the Road”
UPDATE 2-6-07: The lovely Rick Saunders has uploaded some YouTube videos of a stellar Heavies in-store performance last week in St. Augustine, FL. Check out parts ONE, TWO & THREE!
Rick at 9:34 am
November 8, 2006
Why I Don’t Drink
The Candy Snatchers are from the Norfolk, Virginia / VA Beach region of the Eastern U.S. They’ve toured all over the place.
This post will be about the Snatchers’ early 1990s career, since that’s what I know and love.
It started as a mild romp of nostalgia, then turned into one of those giant, painful, research-intensive projects that makes me wanna curl up under the covers. Doesn’t matter. Scroll down. I know y’all only want the mp3s, anyway.
My ol’buddy Squeaky (now web-publishing under the more dignified nom de plume “Sq. Dave”) has a blog called Rockin’ Monkey. He was probably the one who originally introduced me to the band, and especially their crazy live shows. Every time the Candy Snatchers played NYC, it had the feel of a violent but friendly homecoming party, an exotic mix of the city’s more open-minded garage kids, rockers and bonehead punx getting trashed and bumping into each other. One time an unknown group of Brooklyn crust-bums showed up at the Continental, overcoat-smuggling a huge dead fish. It immediately got kicked, swung and tossed around the dance floor until everyone found themselves covered in a rotten film of bloody fish guts. (One of the perpetrators of this vile deed can be seen on the back cover of the Pissed Off, Ripped Off, Screwed CD.)
Even aside from such audience participation, the band’s tried-and-true array of destructive gimmicks kept the bookers guessing. Depending on mood, singer Larry May or axer Matt Odietus would sometimes cut their own scalp, ’70s pro-wrestler style - up by the hairline or wherever the blood would flow most effusively. 
Once, at CBGB, Matt bled out so much he almost fainted, and eventually had to be carted off to the ER with a t-shirt turban wrapped around his noggin. Larry would smash glass bottles at random. Willy used lighter fluid to set his bass on fire, with the aid of excited audience members who’d often get outta hand with the flammables and torch Willy himself. Drums were routinely collided with and obliterated.
The song, however, was Job One. At any given moment in the set, Larry’s mic might be out in the crowd, the cord wrapped around three people’s necks; Barry might have nothing but a snare and Willy could be down to his last string and in flames. But as long as any two band members were still in play (sometimes only one), the machine kept a-rockin’. I came to love those insane minimal interludes in the set - when any normal band would have stopped the show, the Candy Snatchers combine kept banging away like an injured, high-speed locomotive.
They take their name from a very cool, obscure exploitation movie. After you see it, you’ll know that an ear is worth more than a finger.
The guys in the group talked amazing amounts of shit to one another. Drunken rehearsals occasionally turned into alley fights; alcohol and drug abuse were omnipresent. (Since I’d opted out of the chemical scene, I probably only glimpsed the tip o’ the iceberg). If you want war stories, poke around here! But they were always extremely generous hosts, and great friends to me and mine. I’m getting a little misty… thinking back to my own band’s performance, in front of a packed beach bar full of Norfolk crazies who went apeshit when we got to share the bill with their hometown heroes. Magic moments.
I kinda lost touch after moving to the West Coast. I saw ‘em play a couple of times in L.A. and Long Beach, but the vibe wasn’t the same, mainly because their shows only drew sparse crowds of macho meatheads, and there wasn’t a chick in sight. Hey, go ahead and chalk it up to old age, but without ladies, there’s not much reason for me to leave the house.
Now Willy’s out of the band, pursuing a life of drugs. Matt is still the guitar hero (back in the mid-’90s he and his girlfriend Andrea published a really good rock ‘n’ roll ‘zine that I can’t find right now) and Larry’s killer vocal chords are well in the game. Sgt Stash is maybe the longest-lasting of a long series of drummers. Barry Johnson (a very cool guy) drummed on these songs, but is now dead. Over the last decade or more, the boys have put out a suitcase full of records. What’s below are from the aforementioned Pissed Off, Ripped Off, Screwed collection of great early singles, and the self-titled debut LP produced by Dean Rispler, who wrote a much better bio of the band than I just did: here.
The Candy Snatchers - “Pinto Pony”
The Candy Snatchers - “Buzzsaw”
The Candy Snatchers - “Motion”
The Candy Snatchers - “Nightcrawler”
The Candy Snatchers - “Pain Stains”
And here’s a beautiful little video to one of my fave May/Odietus compositions. ‘Twas filmed and edited way back in the day by Joanne (formerly of the Hot Corn Girls and Kill Fuck Kill):
The Candy Snatchers in “Why I Drink” (.mov file, 25 MB)
============================================
While you listen, try drawing your own intestine using this ridiculous Flash tool.
Rick at 1:39 am
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