From: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org (fegmaniax-digest) To: fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Subject: fegmaniax-digest V7 #308 Reply-To: fegmaniax@smoe.org Sender: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-fegmaniax-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk fegmaniax-digest Saturday, August 15 1998 Volume 07 : Number 308 Today's Subjects: ----------------- Re: Prunes/Rhodes ["Best Man Poor Man" ] Dylan loses popularity in UK [tanter ] Re: Dylan loses popularity in UK [MARKEEFE@aol.com] Rufus Wainwright [Terrence M Marks ] Re: The Creatures! [KarmaFuzzz@aol.com] Re: Rufus Wainwright [Eb ] Re: Rufus Wainwright [Terrence M Marks ] Re: Rufus Wainwright [Eb ] MS Found in a Bad Book (some cone content) [Jon Fetter ] Re: live tape chatter + MORE! [MARKEEFE@aol.com] Re: live tape chatter + MORE! ["Capitalism Blows" ] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Fri, 14 Aug 1998 14:45:30 -0700 From: "Best Man Poor Man" Subject: Re: Prunes/Rhodes Eb dixit: > Rhodes isn't really easy to Kevinbaconize. I don't think any of the other > Merry-Go-Round members went on to do much else, and since Rhodes' solo > albums were basically one-man shows, there's not much linking potential > there either. However, Hal Blaine and Larry Knechtel play on his first > solo album "The American Dream" (a *wonderful* record, by the way), and > those guys played with EVERYONE back then.... > Okay, here goes: Emmit Rhodes --> Hal Blaine (drums on "Pet Sounds") --> Brian Wilson --> Van Dyke Parks. - -g- )+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+( Glen Uber Email: uberg@sonic.net ICQ UIN: 13311304 Web: http://www.sonic.net/~uberg Linux: Because a 486 is a terrible thing to waste! )+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+()+( ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 14 Aug 1998 22:09:49 -0400 From: tanter Subject: Dylan loses popularity in UK Pop study shows the times they are a-changing By Tarquin Cooper BOB Dylan's reputation as one of the most influential musicians of the late 20th century received a serious blow yesterday in a survey of Britain's musical tastes. Once regarded as principal spokesman of his generation, Dylan might well reflect now on his 1964 hit - The Times They Are A-Changing. For in a new study of the 100 most popular singers and groups, he is beaten by Boyzone, the band noted more for their looks than for inspired songwriting. The picture is still worse for Jimi Hendrix, the guitar-smashing legend, who comes in at No 95, in the wake of such contrasting luminaries as Harry Secombe, James Last and Vera Lynn. Even Matt Monro, the cabaret crooner who sang on radio and in dance halls in the Fifties and Sixties beats him by more than 20 places. Others among the greatest hard-edged and hard-living rock stars of the Sixties and Seventies fare only slightly better in the survey, compiled for Mojo, a music magazine, by the British Market Research Bureau. The survey put The Beatles at the top, followed by Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra. Mat Snow, the magazine's editor, said: "The poll is truly representative of the nation's tastes in music, and reflects as accurate a cross-section as you're going to get." Almost 5,000 people from a wide range of social backgrounds were questioned and the breakdown of class and sex offers some of the poll's most revealing insights. Cliff Richard, for example, ranks 7th, but only nine men voted for him. Celine Dion, whose My Heart Will Go On was the theme to the film Titanic, also owes her success at number six to her popularity with women. Of the 118 who voted for her, 89 were female. The Beatles' five per cent share of the total vote was held equally between the sexes but the majority were over 45. One of the surprises of the survey is the revelation that Daniel O'Donnell, the Irish country singer, is more popular than Led Zeppelin. Many of the best singer-songwriters of the 1970s, such as Joni Mitchell, Neil Young and James Taylor are notable by their absence, as are Punk Rock bands such as The Sex Pistols and The Clash. Despite so many absences, the survey is still a blow to contemporary artists. The only 1990s band to get into the top 10 is Oasis. The secret to gaining a prestigious place, Mr Snow continued, was for the music to be "pleasing, healing, memorable and, above all, radio-friendly". He said: "The high number of easy listening entrances reflect the tastes of older people." ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 01:39:19 EDT From: MARKEEFE@aol.com Subject: Re: Dylan loses popularity in UK Well, I'd have to seriously question just how "representative" that poll was. And, if it *was* representative, then I have to seriously question the tastes of all Britain-kind. I mean, zero votes for the Clash?! C'mon! - -----Michael K. ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 03:42:02 -0400 (EDT) From: Terrence M Marks Subject: Rufus Wainwright After hearing (but not buying) the Rufus Wainwright CD, I've got to belatedly add my comments to the discussion that has since died down. The arrangement sounds a little like Harry Nilsson[1], and the singing reminds me of Jeremy Enigk. I think the disc is ok, but I don't see what you-all are raving about. 1: The lush, orchestral sort of sound he had on his first four albums[2], mainly. 2: Pandemonium Shadow Show, Aerial Ballet, Harry and The Point. I heartily recommend these albums, especially the last two, to any of you. In addition to good arrangements, Mr. Nilsson has the best voice I've heard on any singer. Terrence Marks normal@grove.ufl.edu ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 03:44:58 EDT From: KarmaFuzzz@aol.com Subject: Re: The Creatures! i couldn't make it to see Cale/Creatures when they were in SF (damn), but i would like to say that i really, really like the new Creatures EP, "Eraser Cut." the finest product ever on the Sioux Records label* very creepy and sexy. *the only product on the Sioux Records label..... ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 00:51:21 -0700 From: Eb Subject: Re: Rufus Wainwright Terrence: >The arrangement sounds a little like Harry Nilsson[1], and the singing >reminds me of Jeremy Enigk. I think the disc is ok, but I don't see what >you-all are raving about. > >1: The lush, orchestral sort of sound he had on his first four albums[2], >mainly. > >2: Pandemonium Shadow Show, Aerial Ballet, Harry and The Point. I >heartily recommend these albums, especially the last two, to any of you. >In addition to good arrangements, Mr. Nilsson has the best voice I've >heard on any singer. I find it highly suspect that you compare album after album to the same tiny set of your own pet artists. Are you sure that the Rufus album doesn't sound like the Monkees or Moody Blues? Eb ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 04:16:52 -0400 (EDT) From: Terrence M Marks Subject: Re: Rufus Wainwright > I find it highly suspect that you compare album after album to the same > tiny set of your own pet artists. I've got a very large set of pet artists, thank you. I'm not going to name them because no-one really cares which records my collection features. I happen to think that Mr. Wainwright's music has a very Nilssonesque feel to it. And "Death of the Matinee Idol" reminds me of Jeremy Enigk's "Carnival". (There are a few other songs that invite comparisons.) I can't think of any more appropriate comparisons offhand. > Are you sure that the Rufus album doesn't sound like the Monkees or Moody > Blues? Not poppy enough by half to sound like The Monkees. I don't have my CDs with me, but I don't recall them doing any of the sedate, understated sort of thing that Mr. Wainwright. As for the Moody Blues, well, there's no organ. Can't have a Moody Blues song without some sort of organ. Terrence Marks normal@grove.ufl.edu ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 01:23:48 -0700 From: Eb Subject: Re: Rufus Wainwright Terrence M Marks wrote: > I've got a very large set of pet artists, thank you. Any of them not seamlessly produced and mildly psychedelic? > I happen to think that Mr. Wainwright's music has a very Nilssonesque feel > to it. And "Death of the Matinee Idol" reminds me of Jeremy Enigk's > "Carnival". Well, a) it's "Matinee Idol" and b) it's pretty obvious that "Matinee Idol" is pulling a Tom Waits, and Wainwright has said so himself in interviews. > > Are you sure that the Rufus album doesn't sound like the Monkees or Moody > > Blues? > > Not poppy enough by half to sound like The Monkees. I don't have my CDs > with me, but I don't recall them doing any of the sedate, understated sort > of thing that Mr. Wainwright. As for the Moody Blues, well, there's no > organ. Can't have a Moody Blues song without some sort of organ. Um, you weren't supposed to answer that question straight. Eb ------------------------------ Date: Sun, 16 Aug 1998 01:55:51 +0800 From: Jon Fetter Subject: MS Found in a Bad Book (some cone content) Some few of you might remember a previous post of mine concerning Darwin, quails, and some wacky going-ons on the HMS Beagle involving a Seaman Barclay. What I have to tell you now has been brought about by one of those improbable chain of events that make fiction great (if credibility is sustained) and reality unbearable. On my trip to Thailand in June I was looking through the over-priced fare offered in a second-hand book store on Khao San Road in Bangkok which is often frequented by travellers. I came across a copy of Piers Antony's "On a Pale Horse." Holding back my rising gorge, I picked it up to browse through it and re-live my incredible disappointment experienced on my first reading of Piers' putrid prose, and also to re-read the self-laudatory notes in the back of the "book." A bookmark fell out. The horrible apparatus of the universe clicked, spun and whined. What I thought was a bookmark was really three pages of yellow legal-sized paper. Unfolding it once, I found a traveller's list of banal things to do in Bangkok, including the selling of second-hand books. Opening it all the way, I found a manuscript in a different, smaller, yet more extravagant hand. The pages I found were only three of probably thousands, so I can only guess at the whole picture. Well, enough suspense. I quote the MS below: ****** Captain Fitzroy was in a fine pickle over the disappearance of Barclay on the island, and given his proclivity for fits (later found to be hereditary, as expressed by his uncle Lord Castlereagh's suicide and his own later zealous opposition to Darwin's theories), we all gave him a wide berth. I was feeling very guilty over the lashings I had been giving Barclay, and thought that they had caused him to desert, but he had seemed to enjoy it so! Ah, the innocence and gullibility of youth. So relieved was I by Barclay's return, but also so sure of his forgiveness for my previous eagerness with the lash, that I fainted dead away when the captain declared that Barclay was a deserter and subject to 20 lashes by me! After his punishment, I tended his wounds personally rather than the doctor, but Barclay was a different man, and remained taciturn, quite unlike his old self when, after a good ten chained to the grating, he would still beg for more, and when refused, would smile quietly to himself. Three days later Barclay was dead and that THING first entered my life. If only I had not been so vigilant a bosun, it might be someone else writing this today and I would lie in an unmarked grave in India! If only...oh, curse all contingencies, my life lies straight ahead without variance but that one I dread. The quail-horror had been swept overboard, but I had a feeling something so lethal could not be so easily dispatched. The crew, Fitzroy, even Darwin seemed to put it out of mind almost immediately when it failed to reemerge shrieking for man-blood from the blue Pacific. I was caught in a double-bind of my feelings for Barclay and my fears. And so I took the extra-duty of night watch. I was watching from the bowsprit, looking straight ahead into fathomless clouds of uncertainties when I heard the first exhalation behind me. Exhalation, I say, as I am still not sure they breathe as we do. I wheeled around just as the first tentacle wrapped around my neck and there I stood face-to-face with all seven feet of proof that the race of Adam is cursed by its creator. Eight more white whips whistled and wrapped around my neck. I was lifted off of the deck bodily and brought to within a foot of those hell-forged burning eyes. The skin around the eyes was white, corpse-like and flabby, and stretched where it joined the larger, external beak. As I struggled voicelessly I chanced to look above the eyes and saw the first great shock of my now horribly twisted life. Where should have been an apical feather on the head of any normal quail was a thickened, fleshy knob about six inches long. But what really shocked me to the spine was that there was--oh God, Barclay's face tatooed in stubby-feathery outines on that fleshy spindle. Maybe at that time it was hallucination, but I heard HIS voice mumble mockingly "The cat, henh, henh, lash me, Barnaby Allspice! Lash me! I beggggg thee" I started at my name and struggled anew, but at the same time the hellish hmuh quickly began to elongate and twitch, the image of Barclay distorting to the aspect of a damned soul funnelling down to blazes before the tip lunged and forced into my mouth. No chance to scream, no chance to dream, I was immediately knocked into fire-lit mansions of near-memoriless sleep, except for brief moments of struggling to consciousness only to shudder back to a senseless heap. There were others huddled there, and a great coming and going at all times, and a sense of an outside to those grey wet halls where the quail-call echos unchanged from the first twitter in that first epochal morning, "Come out, come out, man! Why die of thirst when outside lie fountains of white wine!" But those calls also had a brazen sound of trumpets to them, and I'm no hero. I also half-remember, and sometimes dream of, waking on a narrow ledge high up the side of some black cliff, unsure of which world I was in. A terrible, metallic "D-LANG, D-LANG" sound thundered on my ears. Turning my head I beheld a limitless plain studded with massive revolving cones, their basaltic sides studded with immense pictograms. The meaning of the pictograms became clear after a full revolution of the cones, as their turning revealed new drawings, giving them a semblance of movement akin to animation. Revolving before my revolted eyes was the history of an ancient, alien race, banished from their own dark planet to Earth millions of years ago and forced to assume the diminuitive shape of quails. Two days later I awoke screaming in my hammock. I was treated with distrust by everyone, since I bore the same marks as Barclay, and I was relieved of all duties till the surgeon would clear me. I was made to stay in a storeroom, which was locked, for fear of a repetition of Barclay's "accident." There I sat on a case of Darwin's mollusc specimens, waiting for the inevitable like a French royal for the guillotine. My appetite diminished and I became increasingly lethargic. The morning of the crucial fifth day came and a watch with muskets was posted in front of my door with orders to shoot on first sign of trouble. I removed my shirt and gave it to a friend, as I saw no need to have it ruined in the bloody emergence to come. I think he burned it. But that day passed, and another. I began to regain my strength, if not my appetite. Finally, after a week of good health and a general exam by the doctor, they let me out. I resumed my duties, and exept for a few of the more superstitious members of the crew, was accepted as normal. When the Beagle returned to Portsmouth, I was paid and discharged with the rest of the crew. I immediately sought more expert medical help. Alas, the best of London was little different from the worst of the navy, and after being bled, leeched, and simultaneously told to seek fresh air in high altitudes and thick air in bogs, I set off upon the sea again. Ten years later, at the age of 33, I was shot through the eye in an ambush by Indian rebels in Madras and left to die by my panicked comrades. I recovered the next day and caught up with them. They fell away from me in fear. I ignored them till one brought me a shaving mirror and showed me my newly regrown eye! To top that, as I continued my travels I continued to have the same youthful appearance of a 23-year old man, and the same youthful energy. My appetite even eventually returned to normal, except ********* End of the first page. The next page is in the same handwriting, but from my understanding of it, it is talking about events at least 90 years from the Voyage of the Beagle. ********* ...and with this degree I was able to begin an internship at a hospital in Chicago. I always sought to work late, and finally the night came when I could sneak into the X-Ray room and take that first chest x-ray, something I had dreaded yet had needed to do on first hearing of the first x-ray pictures years ago. I clamped the developed image onto the light table. I think I hesitated before turning on the light, but glimpses I had caught of the unilluminated image had already confirmed my long-running fear. When the light came on I was only half-surprised to see the fetal QUAIL curled up in a sac formed out of a section of stomach lining. The eyes were full-formed, and seemed to look at the source of the rays with a malevolent consciousness. A blur above the head confirmed that the hmuh was formed and currently active. A form of umbilical cord connected to the beak and branched out into my stomach and into my small intestine like a silver tapeworm. It was still alive...and my incredible longevity and extended youth...These thoughts raced through my brain as I sought to piece it all together as I ran to the men's room to throw up. As my nausea diminished I noticed that the outlines of the commode were becoming vague, that the tile walls were taking on a cold, grey, stony, appearance, and I heard the same savage calls which I had first heard on the Beagle while in a coma. I was later to learn that I had been given a large dose of a hallucinogen by the fetal quail directly into my bloodstream. At the same time, my stomach convulsed. Was this the time of emergence? Was my long waiting over? The bathroom mirror shifted into a stone window. I stumbled to its ledge and looked out over an abhorrent city of stone built in an incomprehensible architecture. Through the bathroom walls walked three large quails, hmuhs waving with sinister intent. They surrounded me, their hmuhs lashing over me. At first I winced, but as I felt no impact, no pain, a part of my mind told me that they couldn't harm me, even though they were aware of me. Although struck with horror, I mangaed to relax enough to lower my shielding hands. Just then the embryonic quail's hmuh pushed out of my chest. I fell to the ground, staring at those hate-filled eyes 5 inches before my face. It seemed to take great delight, if possible to such things, in emerging as slowly and destructively as it could. I felt no pain, though the horror caused me to pass out. I recovered to see the embryonic quail in an apparent conference with its elders, hmuhs enwrapped. From my right I was aware of the sound of approaching footsteps and I saw a shadowy group of figures approach. I took some dim hope in their human-like forms, and even dared dream of some kind of rescue, but when the first figure could be seen clearly with its Egyptian Thoth-head on a man's body, my hopes dissolved and my mind was numbed by the hideous menagerie that passed me by in chains. I shrunk back as twelve short men with long black heads, a cobweb-weaving platypus, a floating phosphorescent wombat, a vinegar-swilling be-hmuhed pack of nuns riding monstrous prawns, and mushroom-headed hippoes in Elizabethan garments passed by. This grim parade was driven on by a giant meerkat whose head had been replaced by a bright orange cone turning like a tank turret, out of which a quail's head projected. The grey walls started to assume a tilish look as the quail calls reached a deafening volume. The quail imp, with a look of menace, left the giants and like a lightning flash dashed back into my chest as the calls twittered away like a departing train. Back fully into the men's room of the hospital, my paralysis left me as my hands reached convulsively to rip open my shirt. Nothing, no sign of the gaping hole I had seen. Taking the x-ray negative with me, I walked home with a new determination to study biochemistry and to drink lots of milk. ******** The third page is the shortest and most recent. The ink is from a cheap ballpoint pen and has already begun to fade, where as the other two were written with a fountain pen. The paper was the same throughout. ******** With every advance of medical science, I learned more and more about the creature in my chest. CAT scans gave me clear pictures of the thing and its activity, and with ultrasound I could sit and watch it squirm and twist in its confinement. Confinement indeed. By some freak chance of my genetic make-up, I was dealt a gene that was highly effective in producing calcium compounds. This condition would have caused me trouble later in life, but it never got the chance. My body, sensing the foreign presence in my gut, went to work and for all intents and purposes locked the quail in stone. Its embryonic membrane was completely calcified, frozen in what I take to be the third day of development. The quail still had its food suppy from my digestive tract, and its connection to my blood stream. But it couldn't develop any further. I suppose it managed to put itself into some form of stasis, still secreting the chemicals that have given me an unchanging existence and regenerative powers, until that x-ray woke it up. The thing is a biochemical wonder. I have found and analyzed completely new compounds floating in my bloodstream, the subsequent synthesis and commercial application of which have made me moderately rich. Stopped in its development, it decided to play a waiting game and keep me alive until the day when it could complete it's growth and kill me. The chemicals that checked the aging process must have been released soon after it knew it was trapped, as I have not found any compounds extant that could be responsible for this "phenomenon." I have identified the regenerative componds, but I dare not release the results. I dread a race of superhumans, of people who would have no fear of injury and thus of their careless actions. As for the hallucinogen, I have also kept its composition from the eyes of others and am still seeking some form of antidote. Modern methods of study of the embryo are much less intrusive, so my "trips" to the "city" have become less common, thank God. I have long consoled myself in literature. A young Argentinian writer soon became one of my favorites--his short stories reflected my daily dilemma. I still remember the day I read his story about a city of immortals...I fear he had firsthand knowledge of such a place, as did his muse, Homer. Ah, but they went blind, and I, Ha! Still, all my letters to him seeking to meet him were returned unopened. And last week I received a package at the GPO from "Reginald Fane" again, no return address other than "NW Territories," and inside yet another tape of "Quail Calls of the World." I don't know what IT's waiting for. An attack of the planet by quails? After reading and then meeting Lovecraft, I dare to think that perhaps it is waiting till the stars are right. ********* ********* That's all. I combed the bookstore for more such scraps of paper, but didn't find any more. I doubt the Antony book was his own; just a fellow traveller's who, in seeking a bookmark, must have borrowed these pieces from the author. I assume he has once again sought a life upon the road. Poor guy. No more floggings. Well, maybe Singapore... Jon - ------------------------------------------------------------------- "They are grubby little creatures of a sea floor 530 million years old, but we greet them with awe because they are the Old Ones, and they are trying to tell us something." --Stephen Jay Gould ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 11:34:44 PDT From: "Judas Wedgewood" Subject: Re: live tape chatter i don't have it on tape, but at robyn's '96 seattle show opening for billy bragg, he mentioned something about jimi hendrix being buried in seattle. someone from the audience corrected him, "renton!" robyn though she'd screamed out, "rented," and was pretty horrified by it. after he'd got it cleared up, he did a funny improv about hendrix' body being rented out to various groups for supper parties and whatnot. also, at last year's sleater-kinney bumbershoot show, some guy yelled out between songs, "have my baby, corin!" she responded, "ok, *you* carry it." this was actually at robyn's last and final gig at the backstage. and you've got to imagine it with the british accent. but that's...*unamerican*!!! still a toss-up between neutral milk hotel and robbie robertson. yes, i admit it, i just wanted to get in another plug for CONTACT FROM THE UNDERWORLD OF REDBOY. don't forget full-on opera! he also does a good dylan impersonation/parody. springsteen, too. Are there not instances when the refusal to serve is a sacred duty, when "treason" means courageous respect for the truth? --Manifesto of the 121 ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 15:00:20 EDT From: MARKEEFE@aol.com Subject: Re: live tape chatter + MORE! In a message dated 98-08-15 14:36:18 EDT, you write: << i don't have it on tape, but at robyn's '96 seattle show opening for billy bragg, he mentioned something about jimi hendrix being buried in seattle. someone from the audience corrected him, "renton!" robyn though she'd screamed out, "rented," and was pretty horrified by it. >> Oh, man, that was hilarious! I wish I *did* have that on one tape. There was this great little thing that was something like, "Now there's a third option after you die: 'Would you prefer burial, cremation, or rental?' " That's massively paraphrased (I probably couldn't accurately recount a three- word sentence 2 minutes after it was spoken to me), but that was the gist of it. In fact, that little improv solidified for me just how brilliantly quick- witted Robyn really is. I mean, that's the kind of schtick that Robin Williams is famous for. On the other hand, I don't know how good Robyn would have been in the role of the therapist in _Good Will Hunting_ -- well, maybe it wouldn't be a question of "good" or "bad," per se; I just think Robyn would have been a poor choice for a film that was making a stab at the Oscars . . . maybe in an earlier Van Sant film, though. In fact, this begs the question: In what film roles would Robyn have been perfectly suited? Rhet Butler? Chewbaca the Wookie? Dirty Harry? No, really. Whaddya think? - -------Michael K. ------------------------------ Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1998 13:25:04 PDT From: "Capitalism Blows" Subject: Re: live tape chatter + MORE! me, too. he was really on that night. one of the two or three best times i've ever seen him. you'd have dug the great american music hall show in april. this drunk jackass that was standing next to me kept yelling out all sorts of idiotic responses to robyn's comments. i was just about getting ready to pop him, truth be told. but then, robyn made some sort of comment about, "whichever beverage you prefer" or something. the jackass yelled out, "scotch!" and robyn went on this hilarious improv about scotch and mary, two people who take their eyeballs out and wash them. then, later on in the show, he *referred* to scotch and mary again. it was damned funny. along the same lines, Element of Air...i mean, i'd probably put it in my top ten robyn songs of all time. to think that it was completely made up on the spot is just mind-boggling. Alien Chuck, Rabbit Train, Rock and Roll Radio Train, Donna Summer, The Librarian, etc., are all fun songs. but they *are* novelty songs. Element of Air, on the other hand, should be on a damned album. he shoulda put it on YOU AND OBLIVION. ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com ------------------------------ End of fegmaniax-digest V7 #308 *******************************