Monday, March 1, 2021

New Recording!: "Spring Comes To El-Rio Beach"

El-Rio Beach is a little beach right by a bridge in a backwoods part of New Castle, Pennsylvania USA.   In the late winter/early spring as melting snow and rain increased the water flow, the Neshannock Creek could often be heard from my home far above the creek.   I always knew spring was near when I heard that sound around that time.  This song, written in 1993 or thereabouts, is basically a little reflection on spring fever after a long winter.   El-Rio Beach comes to mind because it was a weird place along the creek.   Every spring there always seemed to be somebody getting murdered there or a body washing ashore or something.  Despite the sinister undertones of the place and its general weirdness, it was a fun place to play as a teenager.  It had caves not far away to explore, plus the surrounding woods leading down to the creek, plus the creek itself, and even some ruins from an old factory or something abandoned a half-century before.  The people living down there were also a different breed, reminiscent of the characters in Deliverance.  It was a little bit of country right in the middle of a small city.  I remember one time even getting chased by a brood of chickens down the beat up road down there.   The road was so beat up, that part of it, called Snake Hill, now is closed, but when I was a kid you could still drive if you were adventurous enough to try a twisty, barely maintained road on the edge of a gully.   By the time I left town, it was pretty much only traversable by bike.   Now, you'd have to be half-nuts to even try walking down the hill.  In any case, some of the song's lyrics are based on fact, some on fancy.  There really was a strange man wearing only underwear who would jump out of the bushes and try to surprise passerbys down there.  Conversely, the reflection on death at the end is just a general reflection that historically spring was the deadliest time of year.  Nowadays, if you're hungry in the spring, you just head to the local grocery store and find foods grown from all over the world so that it doesn't really matter what season it is.  In the past, even a hundred years ago, that wasn't the case.  By the spring, the store from the previous harvest was pretty much gone, and the new crops hadn't come in yet, so people had to make due with foods such as dandelions that one would only eat perhaps when one was really hungry.  The various spring fasting rituals such as Lent seem to basically be a cultural way of clamping down on people complaining too much about the lack of food.  Spring's my favorite season, but that's based mainly on the hope spring provides that things are getting warmer and better after the winter, not on everything being hunky-dory right away.  Yeast? played this song a few times, but it always seemed to be better solo.  In this recording, I fleshed it out though.  For the weird instrument, I tried a keyboard drone that just sort of flowed through the track like the creek does past the beach.  I like the guitar sounds near the end, particularly when everything pauses before the last line of the lyrics.

For more music, check out this Yeast? 7".

Sunday, February 21, 2021

"Firm, The" Video!

This song is so short, I shot way too much footage for it.  Oh, well, I guess I can always use the unused footage somewhere else.  While it would have been awesome to just use a trailer for The Firm movie for the video, I doubt whatever media behemoth (what are there, 5 left out of the original 50 or so Ben Bagdikian warned about in the first edition of The Media Monopoly?) owns it would have gone for that, so I had to settle for some fair use clips.  I tried to make the connections between the verses obvious with the old military recruiting ads used on a couple of the choruses.  I also threw in a couple of shots of the Yeast? cassette that has the original recording of the song.  Other than that, I went for a creepy mode like the graveyard shot for the character of the book, movie, and song who feels persecuted.  The video gives the stupid song a bit more depth than it has on its own oddly enough.  As usual, I had fun making this video (if I didn't, I suppose I would stop making them).

For more tomfoolery, please read my latest novel Edna's Employment Agency!

Monday, February 15, 2021

New Recording: "Firm, The"!

This song was a Yeast? attempt to write a song even dumber than "Belsen Was A Gas" by The Sex Pistols.  I don't know if we succeeded, but it is pretty dumb.  It's also pretty fun to play, which is why it's managed to hang around for almost three decades.  It's all of three chords, so maybe it's just easy to remember.  It first appeared as the bonus track on the Party At Kitty & Stud's cassette.  We left some silence at the end of the cassette and didn't list it as a track, so anyone who was enjoying the silence would be surprised by one more song.  The best add-on track like this is, of course, The Clash's "Train In Vain", which was added to London Calling at the last minute when a flexidisk deal or something fell through.  Another favorite is the end track on Nirvana's Nevermind, which always gave good value on the jukebox at The Town Tavern in Kent, Ohio USA.  I could put on "Something In The Way", then enjoy a few minutes of silence (and confusion from other patrons when no music was playing) before a very obnoxious Nirvana song came on.  This might have also been one of the last songs our original guitarist, Chris, was involved with.  He disappeared before the next recording session, and we became a power trio unexpectedly (I was a much better guitar player at that point, so maybe he knew subconsciously he wasn't really needed anymore).  Lyrically, the song is based on the commercials for the Tom Cruise movie The Firm playing incessantly on television at that time.  Based on the popular John Grisham novel, the film seemed ridiculous, and the commercial seemed especially melodramatic.  To this day, I've never read the book nor seen the movie, but thanks to this song, I certainly remember them.  Most of the lyrics are an absurd reduction of the plot of the book/movie based on what the commercial related, but it also includes some lyrics inspired by the recent Persian Gulf War.  Really, mafia protection rackets and military invasions of other countries aren't that dissimilar.  They're both awful and expose the greed of some humans to bully others up to the point of killing them.  Unfortunately, at this point in my songwriting, the irony was probably lost on some listeners who might think it's a violent punk/metal song instead of a satire of the macho insanity of military recruiting, thriller movies/novels, and gangsterism.  I hope this arrangement makes that aspect of the song's reason for being clearer (though, of course, ultimately, it's still a pretty dumb song, though dumb can be more fun than smart at times).  For the weird instruments, I added some keyboard pipe organ, and a chair as a bass drum.  Other than that, it's the usual guitar, vox, percussion, and fake bass keyboard.  I don't know how long this song will remain in the current set, but it's definitely tenacious, outlasting many more sophisticated songs that I've written.  In some ways, it's the last song of my early songwriting.  The songs that would come after would be a little more complex.

To hear what Yeast? sounded like after this song, check out the first 7"!

Tuesday, February 9, 2021

"My Man Frank" Video!

Once again, I tried to follow the lyrics in this video, but, you know, it was winter, so I skipped the whole "lie naked with me outside" line. Some of the juxtaposed images were amusing such as the similarity between the Reagan speech crowd and the Capitol Mob. I also skipped most music shots because a lot of those videos are kind of boring. I went for interesting images to complement the music. If some music shots fit well, then I would have used them, but a one man band isn't exactly the most exciting things visually, though I did think about showing the chess game shaking. I filmed (videoed?) a lot of this video outside, which explain why the camera at times has water spots on it from the rain/snow mixture at the time. I don't know what the cops were doing (I tend to avoid anyone walking around with guns), but there were a few of them milling around the shopping area I was in. I tried to mix in the depressing economic scenes that matched the song lyrics, so there's a bit of retail apocalypse mixed in here (even Game Stop, despite the stock surge, will be unlikely to survive as video games go more and more purely online). I don't know whose grocery list that was, but, never fear, I made sure to recycle it after it got abandoned in my shopping cart. Alas, I did not buy the items on the list though (it looks like they had a fun night, however!). As usual, I had fun making this video (if I didn't, I suppose I would stop making them).

For more tomfoolery, please read my latest novel Edna's Employment Agency!

Wednesday, February 3, 2021

New Recording: "My Man Frank"!

This song dates from the Yeast? era.  It wasn't on Crisco Disco, but it made an appearance on the first full-band cassette (not counting the little demo we made to get gigs at The Penguin Pub and stuff), Party At Kitty & Stud's.  Then the song kind of disappeared until The Joslyns dug it out of the closet, and it's hung around ever since.  It's a fun song to play.  Written in 1992, the lyrics reference being the president's kid, which would have been George W. Bush, which made it odd in 2004 or so to be then singing about his kids (Of all the people in America, did we really have to have two Bushes as president?  Say what you will about Donald Trump, but at least he saved us from the horror that would have been a Jeb Bush presidency).  Most of the song comes from watching H. Ross Perot run for president and his worrying about the deficit and national debt.  That's certainly where the subchorus comes from ("I didn't throw the party.  I just clean the room").  Though old Perot never got to be president, he certainly laid the seeds, for better or worse, mostly worse, for the political rise of Donald Trump with his failed Reform Party politics (in fact, Trump first ran for president as a Reform Party candidate).  The chorus just comes from being amused when drunk people would tell me how much they liked me but think my name was Frank.  All this silliness eventually coalesced into the song, though it does make some serious points such as the strangeness of working class people voting to give rich people tax cuts and for the rich people to be able to more freely loot the public treasury (a major factor in the rise of the aforementioned Trump).  For this recording, I got to try out recording on a new computer.  After working out some latency issues, I managed to get a recording I am fairly happy with.  I assume future recordings will be easier having worked some of the bugs out here.  As usual lately, I got a bit drum happy, so what should be a garage rocker goes slightly techno mental.  The weird instrument this time is a chess set that folds in half (the pieces sound great when you shake them).

To hear more music from this era, check out the first Yeast? 7", not reissued, just never sold!

Sunday, January 24, 2021

drinkdrankdrunk: "The Hand Of Montenado" by Mark Justice

I am a dead man.  I know that now.  My greed has brought about my death.  I can already begin to feel the cold chill of the grave pressing against me, tightening around my throat.  Is that a shadow?  Is that Death?  The howls outside … are those merely cats, trees bending in the wind, or is that Montenado?

I should explain.  I received a package today, a plain box, with my name on it; but my name is irrelevant.  All you need to know is that I will soon be dead, thus my great haste to share my story.

I opened the package.  Inside was a small bag made from the most exquisite purple velvet.  I opened the bag, and inside was the hand of Montenado, Count of Spain.  The hand was severed, its fingers grasped tightly in a vicious claw as if it still were in the grip of pain spasms from being chopped from its arm yet still looking as if it were trying to clutch at something.

Inside the hollow of the palm was a small manuscript.  I took the parchment out and began reading.  When I finished, I knew I had brought about the deaths of three others as well as my own demise.

Count Montenado was rich, powerful, vain, and arrogant.  Upon his right hand, he wore a signet ring, a deep blue sapphire with a diamond set into its face, the Count's emblem on it.  Rumor had it that this ring had properties far beyond the sapphire, diamond, and gold from which it was made.  That's what gave the Count all of his powers.

I wanted that ring.  I wanted that power for myself, so I hired three men.  Their names aren't important.  Three men from the lowest strata of civilization, if you could call it that.  Petty thieves and thugs.  Their mission was to steal the ring off the hand of Montenado and return it to me in exchange for a hundred gold pieces.

I sent word to these men, months ago, and heard nothing in return.  I thought they had vanished, had run away with the ring themselves.  Then, when the King's courier came into town, crying that Count Montenado had been assassinated, I knew they had been successful in their mission; but where were they?  No word had been given, no message, nothing.  I thought I had been betrayed by the thieves who I hired, myself stolen from the very thieves I hired to steal.  Now I know my suspicions were wrong, as this parchment plainly shows, written in the hand of the last thief.

They snuck in, past the guards, to where the Count was.  He had had a party, had been drinking heavily, and was entering his chamber to sleep.  The thieves snuck in and attacked the Count en masse.  One stabbed him in the heart, and another stabbed repeatedly over his writhing body, enough times to kill many men.  The Count lay still.  Surely, he was dead, but the Count was not.  He grappled with them, cursing and muttering something under his breath.  Finally, the Count succumbed to the repeated stabs to his belly and chest, the blood pouring freely and spilling onto his bed.

They struggled but could not pull the ring off.  It was as if the ring were inexorably part of his hand.  They took out their long knives and began to cut through his arm, severing the hand at the wrist.  As one thief tore the severed hand free from the bloodied arm, the fingers contracted into the claw I now see before me.  Startled, the thief let loose of the hand, but the fingernails sank deep into his flesh, causing him to scream.  Ripping the nails out of his skin, he put the hand into a bag and ran from the room, just as the palace guards made their way into the bedroom, to the floor that was now slick with spilt blood.

The thieves celebrated their victory that night in drunken wantonness.  They began to squabble about who was to watch the hand.  There was fear that one would to try and take the ring and kill the others.  No one trusted the other.

They decided who would keep watch over the hand by a game of contest.  They threw knives at a wall in their sleeping room.  One of the thieves won and took the bag with him.  The next morning, the two thieves went to his room and knocked on the door.  There was no answer.  They began to get suspicious, to think that they had been duped, and that he had stolen the hand in the night.

They kicked the door in.  Inside the room, lay the thief on the bed, his head twisted completely around, his neck one large purple and blue bruise.  His tongue was hanging out of his mouth, swollen, bloated like a slug.  The smell of death filled the room.  Some kind of eerie scratch marks were found along the walls of one side of the room, from the window to the thief's body.  On his throat and face were distinct impressions, like fingers.

Quickly, the two remaining thieves grabbed the bag and looked inside.  The hand was still there.  The ring was still there.  They were frightened and didn't know what to think.  They decided to stay and watch the hand together in case someone, or something, tried to prevent them from returning the hand.

The next night, the thieves were staying in a common room, waiting for the passage that would bring them back here to me so that they could get paid.  They could feel the chill in the autumn night.  A thick cold mist began to move around like a shroud in the night air.  The noises outside ceased.  They could feel their hearts pounding in their chests, throbbing in their foreheads, beads of sweat dropping.  Their breath came quicker, fast and shallow.

They began to see the shadow in the fog, but it wasn't quite a shadow.  There was a strange, uncanny blue glow to its translucence.  Was it the moon, a trick of the eye?  They looked closer into the form and saw a man's face begin to take shape.  He raised his left hand up and began tapping on the window.  He raised his right arm, and there was no hand.  They knew right then that this was Count Montenado.

They began to scream and pass the bag back and forth, trying to pawn off the hand to one another.  "What do we do?  What do we do with the hand?" they cried.  "Do we give it back?  How do we prevent a ghost from getting us?"

They tried in vain pushing the chest of drawers against the window, but it fell like a child's toy as the glowing, ghostly presence entered the room, the outstretched hand, the stump of the other.  The thieves saw the look of evil, of anger, of hatred, of hell itself burning in the eyes of Montenado as he began to slowly move toward them.

They began to panic.  One held the bag, then the other.  They screamed and clawed at the room's door, but it would not budge.  They beat against the door and screamed mercilessly, howled as if their lives depended on it; but it was as if the entire world was dead.

The ghost began to move toward the thief who held the bag.  The thief’s knees buckled, and he collapsed on the floor, sobbing, whimpering "no, no" as Montenado continued toward him, his hand outstretched.

The ghostly fog enveloped the thief and muffled the sobs and pleas for mercy.  The other thief could see Montenado's hand reaching as it clutched around the throat of the thief on the floor and began squeezing.  The other thief heard the man choking, gasping for breath, then the sickening wet snap, the grinding crunch of neck vertebrae breaking.  The dead man's head fell limp; he dropped to the floor with a heavy thump and released the bag.

The thief looked at the ghost, who turned around, looked toward him and smiled.  A cold snap and flash of red and white flashes in the thief's head made him woozy.  He waited, not breathing for he forgot what it was to breathe, then watched as the ghost oozed back out the window, his eyes never leaving their fixed gaze upon his, his smile never changing.

The thief wasn't quite sure what to make of this.  Why didn't he kill me? he wondered.

The next night, the lone thief took the bag, put it in a box, and shipped it away, happy to be rid of the hand of Montenado.  That night, he lay down, happy, thinking that all of his troubles were over.

He began to feel the cold air again, the night grow silent, the fog thicken and billow in around his window; and he knew that Montenado was waiting there for him.  He knew there was nothing he could do to prevent his death; so he began writing quickly, hurriedly, as he had only minutes to go.  He wrote this note, the very one I now hold in my hands, that Montenado would not rest until all those who took part in his thieving of his life, in the thieving of his hand, in the thieving of his ring, would meet their own dooms.

As he finished the note, he put it in an envelope, slipped it under the door, put my name on it, with a gold piece.  Now, I have to assume that the thief is dead, as he writes:  "I can feel Montenado's presence in the room.  He is starting to congeal right now in the fog.  He is coming for me; I am undone, doomed for stealing from him.  You are next, doomed for hiring us to do the wicked deed …” 

That's the last thing he wrote, and now I have the hand of Montenado.  My greed, my undoing.  What have I unleashed?  What have I done by sending these thieves out to steal this man's ring?  I have unleashed this harbinger of doom, this evil avenging spirit.  How can I put it to rest and save my own life, for I now believe that Montenado is after me?

What?  What is that?

There is a sudden cry outside, a shrill shriek as if an animal was in danger; then it suddenly stops.  I feel the wind howl.  I think it's the wind.  The moon is bright tonight, and there's a fog creeping in, but we're nowhere near the water.  What is this fog, and what is that mysterious shape within it?

My heart begins to pound.  I know this is Montenado.  I can feel his presence growing thick in the room.  I must write this to you, to anyone who'll believe.

I know that he's after me.  I know that my time is short.  I will soon no longer dwell among the living.  I can feel him already.  Damn my greed!

I write this now to warn you.  Because you now know the secret of the hand of Montenado and of his ghost who roams, you have become a co-conspirator in my crime.  When you lay down your head to sleep tonight, look outside.  If you feel the wind begin to change and grow cold and feel beads of sweat grow on your forehead, and if you see a fog roll in, know that it is your doom.  Know that Montenado is after you and will not rest until all who know this dread secret are dead like him.  The fog will thicken, the room will grow dark, and you will feel his hand clutch around your throat, slowly strangling the very breath you take until you are dead.

Now that you know, good luck to you; but I fear nothing will save you, for we will all be dead men by the hand of Montenado.

Mark Justice is the author of several books.  His latest is Toxic, a nonfiction work.  I am pleased to run on his work on drinkdrankdrunk!

Sunday, January 17, 2021

Literary Fan Magazine

King Wenclas of New Pop Lit has revived his old print zine Literary Fan Magazine!  I quite enjoyed the original, so I applaud its return.

On a sidenote, I wonder if there will be a return to print now that many Internet companies are censoring content (Wenclas's revival has nothing to do with this by the way as far as I know).  Regardless of the creepiness of the content they are yanking down, freedom of speech as a principle generally is only for speech we don't like since no one has a problem with speech they do like.  The answer to bad speech is good speech as always, not trying to erase the bad speech.  People tend to think bad thoughts whether they feel free to express them or not.  The expression can actually be healthy as the cognition will emerge at some point, probably in a less pleasant manner if it's been repressed for some time.  Conversely, it is wise to pay attention to nasty speech as it is often the precursor to nasty action.  Anyway, I never liked the social networks much.  There was too much garbage on them, and they were creepy in general (I thought this long before I saw the interesting Social Dilemma movie).  I deleted most of my accounts a few years back.  A blog may be so 2003, but it's also a lot more fun.  Since I own my own domain name, even if my webhost took this site down, I would just pop up elsewhere.  Maybe I would even have fun experimenting with running my own server.  As the old line goes, freedom of the press belongs only to one who owns one.

Anyway, back to the King!  He asked me to contribute something, so I wrote a new "What Wred's Reading" for him.  I will let you know when the zine is published (keep in mind that zines publish irregularly, so it might be a while).  It's nice to see the King still publishing.  Many of the other old zinesters have faded away, not publishing in print or online (in some cases, this is a good thing, however).  That makes sense because many zinesters had a particular need to publish and once that need passed, so did the publishing.  Some of us are lifers though.  Fortunately, most are the interesting ones (alas, some are not).  I'm about halfway through my rereading of my Zine World collection and about to the point where I left the staff to concentrate on writing The Pornographic Flabbergasted Emus, and at that time, there was a big debate about online publishing (one bonehead even strangely hijacked a staff meeting, which was basically a zine itself, to complain about the dissertation I wrote that explored how electronic publishing was affecting zines, and it was clear that she nor any of the others she roped in didn't actually read the dissertation).  It is interesting to note that the most strident voices against publishing online then have almost all disappeared from publishing in print or online with only one exception I can think of (but he's been boring readers since 1969 or something).  The people who saw online publishing as yet another interesting tool in the toolbox, even if they took a while to come around to it, such as Wenclas, seem to be more likely still publishing.

In any case, I look forward to the King's new venture!

If you can't wait to read my contribution to the King's zine, then please read my latest novel, Edna's Employment Agency!