Fegmaniax Digest <==----------==> (Send posts to the list to fegmaniax@nsmx.rutgers.edu) (Send adminstrative requests to majordomo@nsmx.rutgers.edu) (Send comments, etc to the listowner at owner-fegmaniax@nsmx.rutgers.edu) <==----------==> Volume 3 Number 110 Today's Topics: ------- ------ CRD: Bass Discovering Robyn Dreams. I often dream of ... Lyrics...a few ideas. Rollo, part one The other things i've got to say video tree update [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Mon, 17 Jul 1995 01:06:39 -0400 (EDT) From: Terry Marks Subject: Dreams. To: Pretty Girls and Anglepoise lamps I remember reading about someone's dreaming of Robyn in here...I have been having a similar experience, except 1)I'm honestly not sure if I was dreaming or daydreaming on this one 2) It wasn't Robyn, it was Syd Barrett...It's not exactly Robyn, but I honestly think that it would fit better in here than in Echoes...it's just one of those things.. It's circa 1967 or so... Roger, Rick and Nick are onstage [The guys who play Bass, Keyboards and Drums] somewhere. It's a fairly large stage for a club. The lights are set up so that you can't see anything behind them or the audience. It looks as if they are just standing in the middle of nothing. They start up the first few notes of Scream Thy Last Scream, when suddenly, Syd Barrett [guitarist, singer, leader of the band. Not entirely sane at this point in his life] comes out of the darkness to take a place in front of the other three and start playing and singing. Thing is, though, he's not carrying a guitar, he's carrying a torch. Not like a flashlight or something, but an honest bundle of sticks tied together and lit. He starts singing the song...well, not quite singing, he's sort of singing only he's screaming it also. Also, he's mostly incomprehensible, as if he could only remember the last few words of each line and the rest that he couldn't remember had turned into a violent progression of vowel sounds. And while this is going on, he's waving the torch about violently, and it's a healthy flame, so it looks like it arcs as he does this. The rest of the band just sort of tries to play along with a screaming lunatic gesturing frantically with a pyrotic. That's all I've got...Let me know what you think, I guess.. Terry "The Human Mellotron" Marks a013645t@bcfreenet.seflin.lib.fl.us [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Mon, 17 Jul 1995 02:59:35 -0500 (CDT) From: "Jeffrey with 2 f's Jeffrey" To: Rick Leslie Cc: fegmaniax@ns2.rutgers.edu Subject: Re: Discovering Robyn On Sun, 16 Jul 1995, Rick Leslie wrote: > >On Fri, 14 Jul 1995, squaring the circle and studying Zen, Nick Silva wrote: > > > >> > >> Maybe he didn't like you??? Maybe he doesn't like giving autographs, much > >> like Paul Newman refuses to do it, and the bathroom encounter was humorous > > > >I saw him play an in-store in Madison, Wisconsin, several years back > >('87?), and someone came up to him after the show asking him to sign a > >few pieces of fresh fruit. Again, he seemed amused and complied fairly > >readily. > > Must like in-stores in Madison better than he likes in crowds at Shank Hall. > > --Leslie > > > Funny thing is, it was, I suspect, that very show at Shank you're referring to that I was thinking of giving him the soft crab ("Better talk, buster, or we're gonna give ya the soft crab!"). Sounds like a good thing I didn't--apparently, in a bad mood that night. --Jeff HOGGEREL (n.): To enter in the unconcealing beingness of the always already Jeffrey Norman immanent being-for-itself; University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee or, "Louie Louie." Dept. of English & Comp. Lit. --The Big Dictionary of Actual but Obscure e-mail: jenor@csd.uwm.edu Words Rather Dubiously Defined [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Mon, 17 Jul 1995 06:51:53 -0500 (EST) From: tracy aileen copeland To: fegmaniax@ns2.rutgers.edu Cc: ELIEM@delphi.com Subject: I often dream of ... On Mon, 17 Jul 1995, Terry Marks wrote: > I remember reading about someone's dreaming of Robyn in here...I have > been having a similar experience [...] > That's all I've got...Let me know what you think, I guess.. > In the past six years I've had several dozen dreams about Robyn Hitchcock, perhaps ten about other Egyptians or Soft Boys, two about Cynthia (I don't know which Cynthia) and one each about Rosalind Kunath and Raymond Hitchcock, but I'm not going to talk about them. Instead I make the following confession: I dreamed I met efrat at SXSW and he spoke in all lower case letters; I dreamed Eve was showing me her latest art exhibit, which was made up of photographs and paintings of Roseanne Arnold and was intended as a "soft feminist" examination of the media's portrayal of successful women who don't fit societal standards of beauty; I dreamed I visited woj while other people were furiously newgrouping things like alt.personals.fegmania and woj was philosophically deleting them; I dreamed Mike Delong and I were driving along the Gulf Coast in a silver Catalina convertible with a white interior, and the water in the Gulf was as transparent as glass; and I had three dreams about Jay "Capy Toad Blast" Lyall, one in which he was revealed to be a stout African-American standing about five foot nine, with a low-top fade and black jeans and a blue sweater with red and green stripes. In another I was living in an Irish shanty and trying to make improvements on it without the landlord's finding out and raising our rent, and Jay was living in a cabin on the next farm and was always wearing an enormous Napoleonic hat covered with braids and medals. I can't remember any details about the third dream that can be expressed in ordinary language. Tracy "and I'm sure you'd rather not hear about all those toast dreams" [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Mon, 17 Jul 1995 10:23:55 -0400 (EDT) From: ha ha snowsuit To: Terry Marks Cc: Pretty Girls and Anglepoise lamps Subject: Re: Dreams. The only Robyn dream I had was a few years ago, and I think he was symbolizing someone who was completely unreachable. Anyway, I was on a train (surprise), and I got up to use the toilet. While in there, I glanced in the mirror and noticed that I had very thin, teased blonde hair fashioned into a boufant (sp?), my face was covered with thick, gaudy make-up, and I was wearing a slinky dress made out of my Grandmother's easy chair cover (green faux crushed velvet). In the dream , I remember thinking that I looked extremely sexy. Anyway, I went back to my seat and Robyn Hitchcock wa sitting there. We smiled at each other and he stood up. The train stopped and we disembarked, although I'm sure that I had been planning to stay on the train for longer. Where we got off the train there was a huge lumber yard where a guided tour was just beginning. We joined the small crowd, and at the end of the tour we both bought commemorative baseball caps at the gift shop. Then I woke up. I have a rather embarrassing leaning toward having famous people in my dreams. In dreams, I've been kidnapped by Paul McCartney, tied down and serenaded by Eric Clapton, I once took Bob Pollard of Guided by Voices to my Girl Scout camp in a dream. Oh, and once I had a really great dream about vomiting on Dave Kendall, that horrible former host of 120 Minutes on MTV. I woke myself up laughing. -Pam * ****************************************************************************** "At the end of the day, all you've got is yourself and your mind." - Henry Rollins ****************************************************************************** [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Mon, 17 Jul 95 08:31:53 From: Russ Reynolds To: fegmaniax@ns2.rutgers.edu Subject: Discovering Robyn To the person who had a bad experience meeting Robyn-- I've learned to avoid to forming an opinion on someone's behaviour based on one meeting. Several years ago, for instance, I had the opportunity to meet baseball hall-of-famer Bob Feller. I found him rude and irritable, which went against everything I had heard about him up to that point. About a year later I met him again, and he was very friendly, signing autographs and carrying on conversations with fans. I chalked up that first meeting to a "bad day"...we all have them. Perhaps Robyn was having one when you approached him. Perhaps all he needed was a good piss (thus explaining why he'd sign for a guy in the mens room after snubbing you). Russ rreynolds@ksjo.com HEY, BAYARD--did you get my address? [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Mon, 17 Jul 1995 01:10:39 -0400 (EDT) From: Terry Marks Subject: The other things i've got to say To: Pretty Girls and Anglepoise lamps This is more on topic.. Just noting...there's *nothing* tabbed out from Can of Bees.. I'm also wondering if anyone has got any Kimberly Rew riffs from his Soft Boys days worked out...I feel like learning how to play like him, but have no idea how. If anyone has anything he's played worked out, send it to me. Or if anyone has any better ways to learn how to play like him, send it to me also.. Btw...got a CD-ROM drive today...first thing in there was Can of Bees.. Hmm..it's a quad-speed...maybe I can get those songs playing four times as fast :) Terry "The Human Mellotron" Marks a013645t@bcfreenet.seflin.lib.fl.us [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Tue, 18 Jul 1995 00:53:30 -0400 (EDT) From: Terry Marks Subject: Lyrics...a few ideas. To: Pretty Girls and Anglepoise lamps Re: Yip song... Noticed in Spectre that Robyn quotes "Foster Sweetheart" as "Force's sweetheart"... Got to thinking about "Vera Lynn" and how it might just have started out as "Virulent", considering what the song seems to be about... Also, if my mythology serves me right...[and mythology does serve people like me right..] "A harpy bird is a filthy bird" ^ Terry "The Human Mellotron" Marks a013645t@bcfreenet.seflin.lib.fl.us [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Mon, 17 Jul 1995 21:57:37 GMT From: Rob@nimbus.demon.co.uk (Rob Collingwood) To: fegmaniax@ns2.rutgers.edu Subject: Re: video tree update In message <199507132241.XAA06381@prinny.pavilion.co.uk> Andy Holyer writes: > At 9:22 pm 13/7/95 +0100, simon roberts wrote: > >> There must be other TV appearances through the years. > > > >The only time I've seen him on the box (which was also the first time I > >heard him) was in about 1985 on BBC2's "The Whistle Test" presented by > >Mark Ellen (as in "Clean Steve"), where he played "Brenda's Iron Sledge" > >with the Egyptians and probably another one at the end of the show. I > >didn't have a video at the time, and I'd never heard of RH anyway. But > >because of that viewing I'm here today. > He also played "Heaven", as his first number. Believe me, it was a classi= c. > There is an NTSC version of this floating around: I know because Trudi got > me to convert it. Cost =A330 I seem to recall... > > Andy Holyer, Brighton, UK > At Home, +44 973 405836 > I posted something about this too, but I think it must be broken down on the hard shoulder of the information highway. Anyway, what I said was that I had a video of RH on The Whistle Test, but I said he played at least 'The Man With The Lightbulb Head' and 'Uncorrecte= d Personality Traits', and also that my video of it was kaput so only those two songs remain viewable. -- Rob Collingwood Warrington, Cheshire, England E-mail: rob@nimbus.demon.co.uk or: rac2@student.open.ac.uk [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Tue, 18 Jul 1995 15:48:59 +1200 To: The statues in my bathroom From: james.dignan@stonebow.otago.ac.nz (James) Subject: Re: CRD: Bass Cc: Terry Marks Okay, lemme at it... :) >BASS >D ? C >We're overheating in a small town world >D ? C >We're overeating in a small town world >G D C >I hear the sound of several different crimes >D ? C >The distant eel and the silver chimes >G D C >Lieutenant Hodges often said to me >D ? C >I see a shoal of them far out to sea >D C >Bass ... This isn't how I play it (or how it is on the EoL album). There, it's: Intro: Bm E |-----------------| |-----------------| |-----------------| |-------0---------| |-2-2-2---2-012---| |---------------0-| E D We're overheating in a small town world E D We're overeating in a small town world A G I hear the sound of several different crimes E D The distant eel and the silver chimes D G Lieutenant Hodges often said to me A E I see a shoal of them far out to sea Bm E Bass ... A He'd never make love to a loaf of bread F#m Unless of course he found one in his bed D Now frogs are reproducing on your back B7 E And bubbles keep emerging from a crack E D It's not a cormorant it's not a shag E D E It's only something in a plastic bag James Dignan, Department of Psychology, University of Otago. Ya zhivu v' 50 Norfolk St., St. Clair, Dunedin, New Zealand pixelphone james.dignan@stonebow.otago.ac.nz / steam megaphone NZ 03-455-7807 * You talk to me as if from a distance * and I reply with impressions chosen from another time, time, time, * from another time (Brian Eno) [][][][][][][][][][] Date: Sun, 16 Jul 1995 21:55:16 -0400 To: fegmaniax@ns2.rutgers.edu From: jojones@mailbox.syr.edu (John B. Jones) Subject: Rollo, part one Hi all its the weekend, i am bored. i remembered in my boredom that a year ago i promised to type up ROLLO, a short story by Robyn. Its not THAT long, but long enough to type and send out in 3 parts. hope you enjoy it. ROLLO Story by Robyn Hitchcock Originally appeared in Raygun magazine, October 1993 Reprinted without permission. Sorry. Had to do it. In a very overgrown garden on the south coast of England, I found a rusty breastplate. It was wedged under a collapsed chimney, half ensnared by the ivy, bust as I tugged it away, I knew that it was sound. A doomed nettle straggled through the corner where the left arm went, and as I pulled that nettle up, I could see the crest of arms on the breastplate. A wolf peered through a portcullis. It looked as though it was thirsty. I held the piece of armor over my chest long enough for a snail to attach itself to my shirt. Through curling brambles I lumbered to a window frame that lay on some dank bricks. The frame was open and from it gushed a spray of bramble roots. Gazing down the line of thorns that jagged up from the bramble, I saw a metal finger beckoning from the heart of the roots. The finger turned out to be one of five all belonging to a tarnished metal glove. I tugged at the finger, but couldn't free the glove from the brambles. But I did feel my feet wobbling on a sheet of corrugated iron. On impulse, I bent down and grasped the rusty flaky edges. Something fluttered in the bushes. With an effort, I raised the sheet of corrugated iron a foot or two above the rich, damp earth, but it was so latticed with pale creepers that I could not fully upend it. I had to coax the corrugated iron up from its resting place by flapping it up and down like a slow, metal wing. Eventually, I had it pushed up next to my chin and could almost breathe the worm-riddled soil beneath. I flung the troublesome metal wing back, but instead of a satisfying crash, the thing nearly sagged against the brambles. "A boxer on the ropes," I thought. "Would it counter attack?" Before my boots lay a tender square of soil, chocolate black. Colorless tendrils twined through its almost edible surface. I saw a marble eye peer sightlessly up through the earth and a thousand wood lice, that's roly-poly bugs over here, scuttle along their branch lines bewildered and jolted by their sudden exposure. A wood louse the size of a railway carriage would mean business. And there it was- an upside down foot. "Over here!" It was a woman's voice. "No, here." Whatever it was lay in the bush behind the ruined chimney. "You must be able to see now." "What should I be looking for?" I inquired. "I'm the head!" "Head of what?" The voice snorted with muffled contempt but said nothing. I had, by that time, slid as far as possible into the thicket that billowed out behind the chimney. Rods of elder fanned out from a miniature clearing. In that clearing sat the helmet and visor of the suit of armor, resting atop a rusty, enamel bowl. A surprisingly vivid purple feather jotted from the helmet's top. "Hello," said the helmet. In person it seemed more friendly. "How do you do?" I replied. "I'd do a lot better with the rest of me attached," replied the helmet, frankly. The incongruous thing was not that the helmet spoke, but that it spoke with a female voice. The voice sounded no more than 30, but the armor could have been there for a century. "I can get your foot for you, if you like?" I replied helpfully. "And I think I saw your hand in the brambles." There was no reply from the helmet. The sky had a bruised look, but the air was still. I found a wild strawberry at my feet, remains of the abandoned back garden from Queen Victoria's day. I rolled the strawberry around on my tongue and swallowed it. The helmet belched. "Sorry." I approached the helmet for the first time and squatted over the lilies that blossomed around it. Nothing inside was visible. I moved behind it and casually brushed the purple feather. What happened next was so fast and so unlikely that I can barely describe it. An electrical qu iver shot from the purple plume through my fingers, propelling me backwards and upright. As I fell to my feet, a shriek of a thousand female voice-some appearing to yell "no!" and some others "yes!"- blared in constant all around me. It was louder than a football crowd, reverberate and shrill, but dying away without an echo. As it did so, the visor snapped upright and a raw tongue of flesh, the dimensions of a skinned rabbit, shot briefly out into the gentle evening air and retracted. I had only time to glimpse it crawling with ants. The visor slapped down after it. "Bloody hell!" said I. "What did you do that for? I had only brushed the feather by accident." There was no further sound from the helmet. I turned and blundered out into the open air. A flock of dark birds wheeled out to sea and then headed inland. Without thinking, I began to collect the armor. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- John B. Jones e-mail: jojones@mailbox.syr.edu "Look at the massacre on cable/ But you know it won't happen here, We're all too busy watching massacres on cable/ Oh yeah." -Robyn Hitchcock -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- [][][][][][][][] End of this Fegmaniax Digest. 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