From: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org (fegmaniax-digest) To: fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Subject: fegmaniax-digest V6 #2 Reply-To: fegmaniax@smoe.org Sender: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk fegmaniax-digest Saturday, September 13 1997 Volume 06 : Number 002 Today's Subjects: ----------------- Re: yea! [dee zed stroke zero one five ] Re: yea! [Terrence M Marks ] Re: yea! ["Fugazi Osbourne" ] fegActivities ["Fugazi Osbourne" ] (Fwd) RH Chronology ["Fugazi Osbourne" ] yay yay yay yay [lj lindhurst ] neat-o! [Jeff Vaska ] Re: (Fwd) RH Chronology [Terrence M Marks ] Trade anyone? [CKouzes@aol.com] re: you expect me, to treat you like a brother, after what you've done? ["Eddie Tews" ] The Doom that Came to the Feglist [Allen Ruch ] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 10:30:24 -0400 From: dee zed stroke zero one five Subject: Re: yea! also sprach Marcy: >Glenn Tilbrook was supposed to be doing ahow tonite in Northampton and he >cancelled due to "immigration problems." really? crap. i wonder if his show in new york is cancelled as well. i'm marginally interested in glenn, but rather curious about nick harper -- roy harper's son -- who is opening for him. will have to look in to this (nyc fegs who are also curious -- they were scheduled to play the mercury lounge on thursday). woj ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 11:53:40 -0400 (EDT) From: Terrence M Marks Subject: Re: yea! Reminds me... Big thanks to whoever reccomended Squeeze to me; (Got Sweets from a Stranger now, and really dig that.) Which Squeeze albums did Andy play on? Terrence Marks Remember-Jesus is your friend. normal@grove.ufl.edu ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 09:35:40 -0700 From: "Fugazi Osbourne" Subject: Re: yea! Terrence M Marks sez: > Which Squeeze albums did Andy play on? As far as I know, the only Squeeze album on which Andy played was 1985's _Babylon And On_. He was credited with horns and keyboards. Welcome back, - --g "Sacred cows make the best hamburgers." --Mark Twain ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 09:55:51 -0700 From: "Fugazi Osbourne" Subject: fegActivities fegs, Unfortunately, I was unable to attend Bumbershoot over Labor Day Weekend. It sounds as if everyone who was there had a great time. I'm looking forward to when he returns in the new year. On September 7th, there was a mini-fegGathering at the home of the very gracious Tom Clark and his wife, Coleen. Lots of good food, great beer (the Road Dog ale was excellent), wonderful conversation and the CD changer filled with RH, Beck, Zappa and Los Straight Jackets. I finally got to meet Bayard -- one of the nicest people around. Tom was his usual charming and hilarious self. The Rubber Shark brought his better half and it was a pleasure finally meeting her, too. It wasn't quite as fun without Mssrs. Reynolds and Winkworth, but we drank a few each in their honour, so they were there in spirit, so to speak. As a bonus, Mark brought the new Dan Bern CD and played it for us. Absolutely great! I bought it the next day. I recommend it to anyone who likes music that features one guy, one guitar, and stream-of-consciousness songwriting. Fabboo!!! We were also honoured to be able to see Mark Gloster and Big Rubber Shark's video for the single, "Dinosaur". Very cool, very weird, very intriguing, very Mark! If you don't already have it, pick up their album _Monday's Lunch_. You won't be disappointed. Listen to Uncle Glen on this one, ok? Contact Mark at or for more details and ordering info. The whole point of this post is to encourage everyone to have mini-fegGatherings whenever and wherever they can. As Bayard put it: "Fegs are the nicest folks around." Nice seeing y'all again, - --g "Sacred cows make the best hamburgers." --Mark Twain ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 09:55:51 -0700 From: "Fugazi Osbourne" Subject: (Fwd) RH Chronology While reading over the updated chronology page on the fegSITE!, I came across this: <> Does anyone happen to know if this is Roger Miller's 'Chug-A-Lug', or is it an original RH composition? The reason I ask is I've always suspected that Roger Miller had more than a slight influence on Robyn (listen to Miller's 'My Uncle Used To Love Me But She Died' if you don't agree with me). Miller was much more popular in England than in the US, so it's likely that Robyn heard some of Roger's best stuff at a very impressionable age. L8r, - --g "Sacred cows make the best hamburgers." --Mark Twain ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 13:24:02 -0400 (EDT) From: lj lindhurst Subject: yay yay yay yay ...yay! all of my imaginary friends are back. ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 11:18:38 -0700 From: Jeff Vaska Subject: neat-o! Glad this thing is back - thanks woj. I hardly ever participate in this stuff, and I even missed the seattle thing (which happened exactly ONE block from my office window), but I am very glad it still rolls on. Hi to everybody. Eddie - your tapes should be forthcoming anyday now. Sorry I missed the fun at b-shoot (I HAD to do corporate type things, dammit!). BUT NOW - I AM DYING TO HEAR WHAT I MISSED. DO TELL, PLEASE... Tschus...jv ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 14:46:08 -0400 (EDT) From: Terrence M Marks Subject: Re: (Fwd) RH Chronology > < petrol)>> > > Does anyone happen to know if this is Roger Miller's 'Chug-A-Lug', or > is it an original RH composition? > > The reason I ask is I've always suspected that Roger Miller had more > than a slight influence on Robyn (listen to Miller's 'My Uncle Used To > Love Me But She Died' if you don't agree with me). Miller was much > more popular in England than in the US, so it's likely that Robyn > heard some of Roger's best stuff at a very impressionable age. Is this anything at all like Chug-a-Lug by The Beach Boys? (and someone reccomended Harry Partch to me. I tried it and found him unlistenable in the most literal sense of the word. I tried his book (Genesis of Music) and found that unreadable. Can anyone explain what this man is talking about and why it's so appealing [beyond "We Need More Notes"]) Terrence Marks Remember-Jesus is your friend. normal@grove.ufl.edu ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 15:47:30 -0400 (EDT) From: CKouzes@aol.com Subject: Trade anyone? I have an extra CD of the "Pave The Earth" promo with the exclusive version of "Birdshead (live)". If anyone is interested in trading something for it, please email me privately. Thanks, Chris CKouzes@aol.com ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 13:02:04 PDT From: "Eddie Tews" Subject: re: you expect me, to treat you like a brother, after what you've done? >For Mike Godwin and James Dignan: I don't think you were on the >original list. I added you to mine. well, they *were* on the original list of 84. but, when i had to scale it back to 50, all of the international, sorry, comopolitan, fegs; plus a bunch of the new england fegs got cut out. here's the setlist. really, i bet any of you could list it off without even seeing it here: Gene Hackman Lysander (with a new story!) Serpent Clean Steve My Wife and My Dead Wife I'm Only You Beautiful Girl 1974 [electric, using pete's guitar:] I Am Not Me You & Oblivion [with "viva sea-tac boys:"] Chinese Bones Queen of Eyes Viva Sea-Tac i'd say it was a pretty disappointing setlist, except that capuchin would get angry with me. also, the acoustics in the opera house were so amazing that it could have been the prototype '97 show, were it not for the fact that is was so damned short, and that mr. keegan was absent. daniel's right about Bones, it was epic. but so were the other two band songs. if only they'd played three or four more, i could have been exceedingly happy. but robyn was in a good mood. and it was wondrously magnificent to meet many more new fegs. i really think we should all --well, at least the west-coasters-- meet up somewhere for the movie premiere. jeme, who is much better at it than i, can tell you all the details of the gathering. but let me add a few words about bumbershoot in general. reel big fish's reel excellent show included lita ford's Kiss Me Deadly, a-ha's Take On Me, and, apparently a duran duran song. the only duran duran songs i can remember are The Reflex, um, something about a jungle - --i remember a tiger or something in the video, Girls on Film...i guess that's it. but they said it was a duran duran song, so i suppose it was. karp. those guys are fucking maniacs! i was afraid to tape the show. honest to god. i thought that if i even plugged my mic in at the same time that the batteries were properly oriented, it would rupture the recorder. i did snap a few pics of them, though. if you ever get a chance to see those guys live, DO IT! sonic youth. you were right capuchin: it was just endless guitar wanking. i quite liked it. but, it was fun to watch the reactions of their hard-care fans (the ones wearing the t-shirts.) half of them were just flipping off the band all the whole time. the other half were trying to explain to their friends that they'd dragged along: "just wait 'til the singing starts! just wait 'til the singing starts!" beck was like the damn beatlemania. it was amazing. i didn't go into the fray because i wanted to tape it. but a friend of mine was in the third row, and he says it was about the most intense mosh pit he's ever seen. it was a wonderful show. beck is quite the entertainer. i got a few ok photos, but was too far away. goody blick and the country kind. we were just walking by the "bumbrella stage" and we heard this going on. it sounded pretty good. i said to my friends, "horse ridin' music! let's go see!" i liked it very much. we all did. a guitarist was wearing a russian ac/dc shirt. one song was sung in russian. kind of upempo folk, i guess you'd call it. it was a great little show, and i would've bought a cd, except that they were $16. sheryl crow was an absolute revelation. i've always liked whatever i've heard of her on mtv well enough. but i had no idea she has such an amazing band! we only went because it seemed like there was nothing better to do. i'm telling you, sheryl crow rocks! i didn't tape it because i didn't know it was going to be so good. then, when i realized it was going to be so good, i didn't want to tape just part of the show, so i skipped it altogether. now, i'm kinda wishing i had taped just a partial show. goodness was excellent. get their cd. now. forget whatever i've said in the past about tool being the best band in the world. they're not. sleater-kinney is. their concert at the bumberclub was one of the most sublime things i've ever seen. all my friends stayed at the rock arena after goodness to see soul coughing. apparently, they sucked. sleater-kinney did not suck. they ruled. sorry .chris, i didn't see spiritualized. they played on monday. and that's that. i had called the croc sunday morn. to see if robyn was gonna be there. if i'd been smart, i would've called the two bells after the sleater-kinney show. but i'm rarely smart. ...i don't know if it was the best bumbershoot ever. but it's the best one i've ever been to. which is probably why it was also the most crowded. one last thing. i was thinking of sending all the bumberphotos "on tour," a la lobstie's spoken chain tape. is there any interest in this? if so, mail me your address. i'd send them to cynthia first, because she's gonna manipulate them, then on to nick to put on his web page, then to parts unknown... the robyn photos turned out very pleasingly. the fegphotos are a little dark. sorry about that. As Nixon left the White House You could hear people say: "They'll never rehabilitate that FUCKER, no way" And...whirry, whirry goes the helicopter out of my way I got a president to dump in the void, uhhhh --Robyn Hitchcock 9:30 club Washington, DC 12/13/96 ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 15:04:01 -0800 From: Eb Subject: re: you expect me >karp. those guys are fucking maniacs! i was afraid to tape the show. >honest to god. i thought that if i even plugged my mic in at the same >time that the batteries were properly oriented, it would rupture the >recorder. i did snap a few pics of them, though. if you ever get a >chance to see those guys live, DO IT! Ow. When Eb says that a band is too weird for HIM, take heed.... ;) >sorry .chris, i didn't see spiritualized. they played on monday. You definitely missed a bet there. I saw Spiritualized about two weeks ago - -- EASILY the best show I've seen during 1997. Spectacular. Eb (no, I wasn't lost in the translation...) ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 97 15:42:40 -0400 From: Allen Ruch Subject: The Doom that Came to the Feglist THE DOOM THAT CAME TO THE FEGLIST I. Perhaps I am writing this in vain. Perhaps -- and I *must* steel = myself for this final revelation -- perhaps I am already too late. = But nevertheless, I must write. Though it may damn me and hasten the = conclusion of this sad comic tragedy which is my life, wretched as it = has become, I am compelled to send this electronic missive out to the = "new" Feglist. There may be one or two poor souls who are still what = they say they are; one or two poor innocents whose sad fate is to be = the new ground in which the Feg Ones may plant their hideous seeds, = re initiating a new cycle of unspeakable horror. Indeed, the very = fact that a new Feglist exists is proof that a few stragglers remain, = the wretched and doomed souls who compose the audience to which I now = address. Why else would They create a new List so quickly? My name is Professor Fane, and once, it seems lifetimes ago, I was = working for the Wilmarth Foundation, a group based from Brown = University whose sole purpose is to study cults and monitor cult = activity. Once, long ago, I posted a warning to the Feglist. You did not heed me. I told you not to trust this -- this "man" who called himself the = Great Quail. You did not heed me. I told you about the wretched fate of the Gong Fanweb and of the = Dylan Interpretation Newsgroup; and I told you to spurn him under all = his incarnations whether he call himself the Great Quail, the Big = Bobwhite, or the Mighty Magical Mystery Partridge. Again, you ignored my warnings. But perhaps I am being churlish: the time for recriminations and = accusations has long passed. Now I only offer one more warning, and = after that I must content myself with silence. I will escape from = this asylum and I will hide, living out the rest of my days with the = knowledge that I am as doomed as the poor denizens of the Feglist. . = . . Doomed, I say. Yes. I know that you believe it was "lightning" which = hit the server, an event that resulted in the Feglist going offline = for almost a month. There were a few questions, a few hesitant = postings --=A0all the better to pinpoint the souls still blissfully = unaware of the truth --=A0and then a longer period of silence as the = minions of the Feg Ones finished their task. Then came the mailings = from the so-called "Woj" and a promise of a new server, a new list . = . . . The signs, the portents, they were all there, out in the open. But in = today's world, who can believe such things? Yet there they were, = hiding in the open, like Poe's celebrated letter -- the greatest = irony is this: our much vaunted scientific advancement and postmodern = skepticism, those tools which have rendered us immune from a new Dark = Age, are the very elements which are so perfectly suited to cloak and = conceal Their nephandous activities and render our defenses almost = useless. Stoker put as much in the mouth of Van Helsing, who knew = that their greatest enemy was not the evil vampire, but the doubt and = censure of intelligent and enlightened men. As so in the late = Nineteenth Century, how so much more true one hundred years later. = Our elevated consciousness is the very thing which allows Them to = slither through the cracks in reality's facade and bring us crashing = down. Whom the gods would destroy, they first make proud. Indeed = - --=A0casting my cold eyes backwards over the List fills me with less = a sense of foreboding that a sense of ironic despair, for even I was = not fully prepared . . . the Quail's joking negations of his = Cult-Leader status, so like Caesar denying the crown three times, = pleasing and inflaming the crowd, skillfully trading mock humility = for blind loyalty . . . Woj's humorous confessions of an evil twin, = the dread "Debbie Flosshilde" diaries, and -- mayhaps the most = pernicious of all --=A0Mike Runion's attempts at mapping all the Fegs. What wretched, blind fools we were! They joked -- the japed and = capered and mocked --=A0and yet we *allowed* them to located us, we = WILLFULLY sent Them our addresses, web pages, and even our phone = numbers! And so I write to you, in a vain attempt to reach any not yet . . . = transformed. In the immemorial --=A0and now, punnishly ironic = - --=A0words of the Elder Hamlet's ghost: List! List! Oh, List! II. I placed my first foot on the path to damnation and insanity the very = day I contemplated the purchase of Robyn's "Uncorrected Personality = Traits." Ludicrous, of course --=A0did we really need another Robyn = collection? Did we already now own every single track independently = of the new compilation? Was there nothing new to offer us, not even a = demo version of a cover of a B-side of some obscure and = long-forgotten Dylan single? What was there that would make us own = such a CD? But we all know --=A0this was different. We *had* to buy it . . . and = why? Why -- I'll tell you why: because it mentioned *us.* There were = anecdotes of our own, our List, our tribe . . . and in that fact = lies a certain degree of horror. They baited the hook with our own = vanity. We can only lay the blame at our own feet. And so, undoubtedly like you, I decided to purchase the CD. But alas! = for I could not find it in my local store. Like any good consumer of = the nineties, I decided to order it online, and I turned my trusty = Browser to the Rhino Web Site. Eagerly scrolling down the list of = offerings I clicked my way through ELP, Allen Ginsberg, and the AMA = until I was at the Robyn section. Oddly this section seemed rougher = that the others, less polished and professional -- almost as if it = were an afterthought. And the second thing that struck a false note = was this: all the Rhino releases were there, each with a small = picture and a paragraph --=A0except for "Uncorrected Personality = Traits." That was just a small link at the very bottom. Intrigued, I = clicked it and was taken to a special page devoted only to the CD = - --=A0Ah, this was more like it! Interested, I perused it, searching = for an ordering address. Then I noticed that the background seemed . . . familiar. The = background GIF was different that the rest of Rhino's site, and it = had a hauntingly familiar quality that dogged the corners of my mind. = . . . Then I knew. I knew where I had last seen the background --=A0on Mike = Runion's Homepage. A coincidence? Feeling the first tongue of = apprehension lick the neck of my perspicuity, I backed my way to the = Main Rhino Page and I punched up their search engine. First I tried a = few normal Rhino selections, and of course I was directed to their = proper entries. All was well and good. Then I tried "Uncorrected = Personality Traits." Nothing. My response was this: "Selection not Found. Have you typed = it in correctly?" Sitting back and staring at that condescending and = unctuous message, I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. = Returning to the "Uncorrected Personality Traits" page, I then looked = up at the site address . . . everything check out, and -- Wait a moment . . . The official site was at "www.rhino.com," but the = URL of this particular page started with "wvw.rhino.com" !!! Did you see it? Look again more closely, patient reader. Insidious! After a few checks, I assured myself I was seeing the = truth: "double-yoo dot *vee* dot double-yoo!" It was so easy to miss = . . . I WASN'T ON RHINO'S WEB PAGE AT ALL! Which meant that the CD = was not . . . Was not *what?* Weirdly dissonant and atonal X-Files music skittered against the = soundtrack of my mind, and goosebumps erected a map of fear across = the terrain of my flesh. Outside my window I heard the sound of = children at play, a sudden awareness of background noise that threw = the whole scene into a sharp, hideous focus. . . . was it beginning = already? The sound of my cat startled me and brought my attention rapidly back = into "reality." But Reality was not to be so merciful as to soften = the edge of my sudden apprehension -- for the first thing I noticed = was a CD case tossed into the corner of my den . . . Gong's "Flying = Teapot." A disembodied voice floated through my head on a wave of referential = pop-consciousness: *It is happening again. . . .* Copying down the mailing address of the spurious CD, I made a fateful = decision: I would stop this. I would bring an end to this dread Cult = once and for all. III. I arrived at the address under cover of dark. I was hot under the = black jeans and sweater I wore, but I didn't want to take any = chances. I could feel the prickling of my perspiration under the = clothing, and the memory of the drive over was still alive in my = tired ankles and my numb backside. I was in New Jersey. . . . Near Woj's house, as a matter of fact. I know that it is now September, so permit me to take you back = through memory Lane. This was midsummer, shortly before the List was = visited by the fateful "lightning accident." Topics of conversation = were the Loud Family, the Bumbershoot, and the LA Feg get together. = We had just welcomed a few new Fegs to the List, and all was normal: = Eb was being contentious, The Quail was his usual arrogant and = narcissistic self, Susan was slowly returning back to her old posting = limit of twenty times an hour, Natalie was proving to be a = correspondent as eccentric as the rest of us, and Tom Clark was = bemoaning Bill Gates. . . . all seemed normal. The mailing address proved to be that of a small laboratory in the = New Jersey hinterlands, close enough to the Barrens to have a = desolated, spooky air about it; close enough to Philly and New York = to have access to modern technology, and close enough to Woj's house = to have a sinister air of suspicious intent. . . . There were several = vans parked in the driveway, black vans with no markings, links in a = malicious chain whose purpose was to soon become all too clear. = Lights illuminated the first floor windows with a soft glow, but I = could see naught but milky paleness behind their frosted glass panes. = Crickets filled the air with a chorus whose insectile susurrus only = tainted the atmosphere by reminding me of that mad Arab, Abdul = Alhazred, who claimed that the voices of desert insects were = communicating the secrets of the nether regions to him. After = transcribing their nocturnal symphony into the black book known as = the Necronomicon, he was torn apart on the streets of Baghdad by = invisible and malign forces. . . . Suddenly several figures emerged from the lab, carrying identical = medium sized boxes in their arms. Although they seemed human enough = at first glance, each walked with a most unwholesome gait that was = not quite a stuttering lurch, but not quite a shambling gambol. = Caparisoned in black labcoats and trousers that could have been = crushed blue velvet if it weren't for the fashion faux pas that would = have represented, each creature seemed directed, oddly intent on = their task, more like a cluster of dronish zombies than men and = women. And their voices . . . these ghoulish creatures, male and = female alike, did not speak in the tongues of men, but glibbered and = meeped to each other in a soft but thoroughly disgusting language = that had a disturbingly familiar sound to it, like the babbling of = subterranean birds. . . . *Microsoft employees?* I found myself = wondering, but they were more nauseatingly pathetic than blatantly = sinister. As this procession reached the driveway, each creature = detached and moved to a van, where they opened the back doors and = unburdened themselves of their boxes. After this act, which removed = the obstructive boxes that had been preventing me from seeing the = front of their black labcoats, I was rather surprised to find that = each member of this ghastly crew wore a small nametag, stitched into = their breast in the manner of professional bowlers and auto = mechanics. As they returned to the house, their names availed = themselves to my curious eyes, and I was able to peruse this gloomy = parade of epithets. With a dawning sense of horror, the names = aligned themselves in my consciousness, a roll call of infamy: "Adobe = Slugbelch . . . Milo . . . Mrs. Watson . . . Nick Winkworth . . . = Inspector Pobjoy . . . Linda Ryan . . . Dennis . . ." My God. All "fictional" Robyn Hitchcock characters! The last figure ("Steve") approached the vans not with a box, but = with a collection of large, floppy ovals which he was carrying under = his arm. As he peeled them off one by one and placed them onto the = sides of each van, I realized finally what I was witnessing, for with = a small magnetic "snik" their nature was revealed to me -- they were = counterfeit logos for Rhino Records. . . . Then there was a moment of complete quiet as all the horrible, = lurching minions lurched horribly back into the lab, and I was left = alone with my Greek chorus of crickets and my dramatically increasing = sense of horror. Gathering together what little courage I had to call = my own, I snuck to the driveway and scuttled into the open back of = the van at the far end of the driveway. With my penknife I pried open = one of the more out-of-sight boxes, and my inspection was rewarded = with the results I had been expecting -- as I am sure you, my reader, = have also been expecting. For in each box were assembled several = dozen "Uncorrected Personality Traits. . . . " Appalled but hardly surprised, I discovered that true horror was yet = to come. Creeping silently to the front of the van, I spied a truly = shocking thing -- even now I find my flesh crawling and my blood = slowing to a congealing cool. . . . for I had discovered the Thing on = the Dashboard. The Thing was affixed to the dashboard of the van with some sort of = putty-like material, and from its haughtily imperial position it was = able to survey the entire cockpit of the van with its cold and = inhuman black eyes. For the Thing on the Dashboard was none other = than an idol of a hideous god, and I fear that I have reached the = point in this paragraph where I must reveal to you what it was: A Quail. Carved from a mass of Sculpey was a terrible quailiform deity, = cobbled together in bands of roughly-hewn Sculpey of monstrous and = unspeakable colors. Gobs of sulphurous yellow clashed with bands of = Martian pink; strips of some nacreous and wretched purple mottled a = flank of unutterably loathsome polka-dotted mixture of bilious brown = and congealed-greasy grey never before used by any sane race of men. = Its bulbous body was squat, toadlike, and there were two things = clutched in its evil talons: a small packet of Taco Bell Sauce (Mild) = and a small figure of a human woman being crushed to death. The woman = was carved so as to appear alive and screaming, fully aware of the = terrible fate awaiting in the beak of the gigantic quail-bird. = Looking closer, I realized their was something familiar about her = face, and after a second or two of dire reflection I realized that I = *recognized* the sacrificial effigy, that I *knew* her and had seen = her face on a GIF she once sent me on an online dating service . . . = the poor wretch was none other than LJ Lindhurst!! Ah, Gods, the = horror! And yet that was not the most terrible feature of this idol, for I = have yet to discuss the head. Staring from this Sculpey head were the = most malicious pair of eyes I had ever seen, twin black beads of = inscrutable inhuman malice. Looking into their alien depths filled me = with terror, and I imagined I could see the cold voids of = interstellar space, the howling yet silent vacuum that was older than = our world, indeed was already old when the first stars were young and = still whispered secrets to each other. . . . I finally understood why = Max Ernst chose birds to represent inhumanity. But still, that was = not the worst -- no, that black honor was reserved for the feather on = top of the head --=A0that blasphemous hallmark of the quail some call = a "h'muh" -- for this feather was sculpted with an almost childlike = devotion, still carrying the imprint of the artist's damnable thumb. = And the color? This -- this *thing* was colored with some unearthly = spectrum never before seen under our sun, (Mauve?!?! my mind = screamed; tope?!?) and was molded and stuck on the head at an angle = that seemed to ensnare the eye and run it through a non-Euclidean = trigonometry of elemental evil. It did not directly rain terror upon = the soul, but the angle of the feather rather *implied* blasphemous = hints as too a perkiness far beyond the mind of a mere mortal to ever = contemplate without inviting soul-annihilating madness! How long I was enthralled by that unearthly Quail deity I cannot say; = but if it weren't for my choice in vans, I might not be here today. = For I was snapped out of my horrible contemplation by the sound of a = van door slamming shut, and I realized that the evil crew were = returning. Adrenaline flooding through my system, I pulled myself = into the back of the van and rolled out into the bushes, a mere = second or two before the creature named "Milo" slogged past and threw = the doors closed with a satisfied meep. The drivers glibbered a few confirmations to each other, then the = vans departed, their destinations all to obvious. As I watched the = convoy of death snake its way into the hot New Jersey night, I = realized suddenly that I was being watched. I turned to the open door and saw my destiny. . . . - --TO BE CONTINUED ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 18:33:38 -0400 From: dee zed stroke zero one five Subject: Re: (Fwd) RH Chronology also sprach terry: >(and someone reccomended Harry Partch to me. I tried it and found him >unlistenable in the most literal sense of the word. hah! terry, i think someone was deliberately trying to screw with your head. partch may not be the last thing in the world that i'd recommend to you, but he's pretty close to the bottom of the list! eddie sez: >sleater-kinney did not suck. of course they didn't. they packed tramps here in nyc this summer and did not disappoint. woj n.p. patty larkin -- perishable fruit ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 97 21:07:42 PDT From: Rob Collingwood Subject: Daily Telegraph interview (July 97) I always wanted to be a cult. by Neil McCormick, Daily Telegraph 24/07/97 Robyn Hitchcock has a hair problem. "Hair is one of the things you have = to watch out for in this business," declares the 44-year old singer-songwriter, running a han= d through long fair locks that are beginning to turn grey. "The hairs stay on the finger and = then you put them on a microphone and then you get them in your mouth. So then you put them = back on the microphone and when you come back in a week the hair's still there. And = if you don't get it in your mouth then, it follows you around the world. So if you left a hair = in San Diego, you'll get it in Winnipeg." Of course you will. A poised, deadpan surrealist, it is hard to know when to take Hitchcock = seriously. His conversation veers between eloquent discourse and sudden flights of fanta= sy with no warning and no change in his intensely serious demeanour. Back in 1978, when Hitc= hcock first came to the attention of the music business, he was asked by a journalist from= the NME what his ambitions were. Hitchcock said he wanted to become an obscure cult figure= . "I doubt it," said the journalist. But, on this occasion at least, Hitchcock was in deadly = earnest. "All the people I liked were routinely described as cults, so I thought = that would be a nice thing to be," he says. "And nearly twenty years later, I find that I am." Hitchcock's appearance at the Womad Festival in Reading this weekend repr= esents a rare opportunity for him for him to perform before a large audience. Normally,= he can be found taking his acoustic guitar around the type of venues politely described = as "intimate", where he talks and sings for a small but extremely dedicated following. Althoug= h he has sold more than a million albums worldwide, Hitchcock has never had a hit, and can = walk the streets with little danger of being recognised by anyone. Oh, perhaps the odd zealous = Japanese fan who has travelled thousands of miles to track him down to some cramped coffee= house, where they will call out for songs with titles such as Queen Elvis, Madonna Of = The Wasps or his early classic, (I Want To Be An) Anglepoise Lamp. "I broadcast on a very narrow waveband," he explains in his elliptical = fashion. "Unless you've tuned in to the frequency of what I do, it makes no sense at all. It's = more like an etching than a billboard. You have to get right up close and look at it carefully. But= the people who like me tend to really like me. Whereas, with enormously popular acts such as Phi= l Collins or Fleetwood Mac, I often wonder whether people really like them or if they = all just don't mind them." Hitchcock appears rather proud of always being out of step with popular = taste. His seminal band, The Soft Boys, appeared in Cambridge in the late seventies playing = "sedate hippie gibberish" when the music industry was being engulfed by punk rock. Confr= onted by widespread indifference, they broke up in 1981, though Hitchcock has cont= inued writing and recording in much the same vein ever since. He draws on the psychedelic = pop of the Sixties as the basis for melodic and emotional compositions, blending bitterness = and wierdness in unusual settings. There are many who would argue Hitchcock's sprawling = body of work (he has released more than 15 albums) remains one of the great undiscovered = treasures of modern pop. REM are among his biggest fans, although, as he points out, their endorse= ment in the Eighties came at a time when they were only marginally less obscure than = he was. Nevertheless, their support helped introduce him to American college audi= ence who remain his most loyal fan-base. His extremely middle-class Englishness may work = against him in the UK's style-obsessed music scene, where he is usually dismissed as a harml= ess eccentric. In America, it is almost certainly an advantage. "They like that Old World = thing, they think it gives a pedigree," he says. Bizarrely, for someone who seems so (how can I put this politely?) unique= , Hitchcock is actually carrying on a family tradition. His late father, Raymond Hitchco= ck, was a minor novelist with a decidedly quirky bent. Although none of the pulpy books = published in his lifetime made much of an impression, Robyn (who's first novel will be pub= lished later this year) is the proud possessor of a number of his father's unpublished manu= scripts. "He wrote books about MI5 making Stonehenge invisible, until Merlin the = magician turns up as a hippie traveller and sorts it all out. And there's one where a new = God comes into power and puts people's sex organs in their armpits, and one about a woman who = gave birth to a rubber tyre. Publishers didn't know what to do with it. My dad didn't fit= into any marketing category, and to an extent the same thing has happened to me." Hitchcock's public profile may be about to change. After a show in upstat= e New York, he was approached by a man who said, "D'you wanna make a movie?" and left a card= bearing the legend: Jonathan Demme, Film-maker. The Academy Award winning director = of The Silence Of The Lambs and Philadelphia had previously made performance-based films= about author and raconteur Spalding Gray (1987's Swimming To Cambodia) and (the now = defunct) group Talking Heads (1984's Stop Making Sense). Demme decided Hitchcock's humorous and individualistic performances would= be ideal for a similar documentary. The initially incredulous singer says, "I got my peo= ple to ring his people. Of course, he had more people than I had. But I got such people as I coul= d muster and once it was clear there wasn't going to be a slaughter then he filmed me doing= four shows in a shop window in New York." The result, Storefront Hitchcock, will be released this year, although = Hitchcock does not expect it to make him a household name. "It won't be on at the Basingstok= e Cineplex," he says. "It'll be shown at the sort of places where they have real coffee = and carrot cake." Which, Hitchcock is adamant, suits him fine. He has a pyramid theory of = fame. "It takes a billion nobodies to support one somebody, that's how our society is rigge= d," he explains. "Not just in economic terms but in psychological terms. You've got all these = people ploughing around with their noses in the dirt and at the end of the day they can = go and get Hello! magazine and read about this small elite of creatures at the top who are = leading a better life. "The smart star will say, 'I owe it all to my fans, without them I'm noth= ing.' But it means that once you're really famous you are public property. And the real example = of that is John Lennon. He was owned by all these other people and one day one of them = said, sorry, I'm not subscribing to you anymore. Bang!" So how, you might wonder, does the obscure object of minority obsession = Robyn Hitchcock fit into this pyramid? He pauses for a beat, before replying, "With extre= me caution." - -- Rob Collingwood Rob@nimbus.demon.co.uk ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 13 Sep 1997 16:14:50 -0800 From: Eb Subject: Re: Doom >Carved from a mass of Sculpey was a terrible quailiform deity, cobbled >together in bands of roughly-hewn Sculpey of monstrous and unspeakable >colors. Gobs of sulphurous yellow clashed with bands of Martian pink; >strips of some nacreous and wretched purple mottled a flank of unutterably >loathsome polka-dotted mixture of bilious brown and congealed-greasy grey >never before used by any sane race of men. Its bulbous body was squat, >toadlike, and there were two things clutched in its evil talons: a small >packet of Taco Bell Sauce (Mild) and a small figure of a human woman being >crushed to death. The woman was carved so as to appear alive and >screaming, fully aware of the terrible fate awaiting in the beak of the >gigantic quail-bird. Looking closer, I realized their was something >familiar about her face, and after a second or two of dire reflection I >realized that I *recognized* the sacrificial effigy, that I *knew* her and >had seen her face on a GIF she once sent me on an online dating service . >. . the poor wretch was none other than LJ Lindhurst!! Ah, Gods, the >horror! > >And yet that was not the most terrible feature of this idol, for I have >yet to discuss the head. Staring from this Sculpey head were the most >malicious pair of eyes I had ever seen, twin black beads of inscrutable >inhuman malice. Looking into their alien depths filled me with terror, and >I imagined I could see the cold voids of interstellar space, the howling >yet silent vacuum that was older than our world, indeed was already old >when the first stars were young and still whispered secrets to each other. >. . . I finally understood why Max Ernst chose birds to represent >inhumanity. But still, that was not the worst -- no, that black honor was >reserved for the feather on top of the head -- that blasphemous hallmark >of the quail some call a "h'muh" -- for this feather was sculpted with an >almost childlike devotion, still carrying the imprint of the artist's >damnable thumb. And the color? This -- this *thing* was colored with some >unearthly spectrum never before seen under our sun, (Mauve?!?! my mind >screamed; tope?!?) and was molded and stuck on the head at an angle that >seemed to ensnare the eye and run it through a non-Euclidean trigonometry >of elemental evil. Gee, I always thought LJ was kinda cute, myself. Does the Rhino website display the liner notes for Uncorrected Personality Traits? I have no need to buy the disc, but I'd be curious to see the anecdotes/testimonies from the Fegs. Eb ------------------------------ End of fegmaniax-digest V6 #2 *****************************