Tokyo Damage Report

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REUP : drunkpunk show: 4 spikes, disclapties


This was seriously one of the best things I've seen in a long time. 8 bands, ten dollars! Plus, free t-shirt. Besides being cheap the club (club ADM in ikibukuro) lets people hang out in front, and also loiter inside after the show, even if those people are totally drunk perverts with skulls tattooed on their necks, and are hanging out with innocent, wide-eyed fifteen-year-old girls and teaching me filthy language.

Besides that, there was a real 'family' feeling at this show. It seemed like everyone knew the words to all the songs. the songs were apparently written with this in mind, because everyone's tunes had mad phat call-and-response parts in every song. it was a big family affair! For the encores, people would just run up on stage until it was packed, all singing in the general direction of the microphone, arms around each other's shoulders, looking like some kind of punk rock football huddle.

The style was . . . it was like I had somehow fallen INSIDE of a novelty British postcard from 1981 with mohican punk rockers flipping two fingers at the camera. Except the britishers were Japanese, and it was 2003. I mean, 4. everyone looked more extreme than the 'japan style' punks, but acted much mellower. i guess if they got crazy in the pit their hair would fall down. Everyone spent half the show with their fists raised in defiance. It was a perfect combination: not so active that it's dumb and macho, and not so 'hip and cool' that nothing happens.

my friend explained that these kids were 'oi punks' (also called 'drunk punks') and thus their fascination with british hardcore. I always thought oi meant skinheads, but who cares, we're not teenagers anymore. Wait, my friend IS still a teenager. . . . and she wound up bailing after 3 bands because it wasn't 'real' (i.e. Japanese) punk. dude! I kept calling her 'kibishii' (strict) . . .but she's not the only one laboring under this assumption that 'real jappa-core' (their term) is so uniquely japanese and different that is is a whole separate genre. It's like 'hey, you guys are ripping off the wrong bands – – what a bunch of posers'! especially conceited when you realize that she was like 3 when jappa-core happened. nostalgia-core is more like it.

CHILDISH PRANK- played. they were fun but non-anecdote-y.

2 -the disclapties – disclapties?? What a name! Not English. Not Japanese. Not anything. Guitarist looking like he should be jamming with B.B.KING or something… there's one giveaway that he's a punker: fab pink shoelaces

3 ? NO EVACUATIONS. Another band. I think every single dude in the band had the same headband. I'm wrong, but that's what I think.

4 spikes show:

well, I think I already said everything about this band in the last review, so just go and look at their pictures. Oh, their singer with the foot-high Mohawk and the spikes is a sushi chef.

5– CHARGED BRUTALITIES. The singer was doing this rare iggy pop / bruce lee thing. He was all jumping around crazy and doing unpredictable whirling dangerous things with the microphone stand. I don't remember the music except there weren't 'call and response' parts, which kept the air punching to a minimum.

6- pogo machines. They were totally new wave-looking but played just regular punk with that polka thrash beat. Maybe they should change their name to POLKA MACHINE.

7- ABDUCTED. . . swan shaped glasses, spikes in weird places, and the crowd still totally active even though the show has gone on for 5 hours.

afterwards ? everyone was punk as heck, except for these two utterly random schoolgirls that showed up and stood mysteriously in the back in full schoolgirl uniforms. I went up to them and said, “mizurashii!” (rare or unusual) and then left. I shouldn't have messed with them because just by showing up in uniforms it showed that all the OTHER punks were ALSO wearing uniforms, and thus was a most excellent piece of satire. Later I was hanging out with some crazy pervs with neck tatoos that kept pointing at each other and saying in english "he is hard gay." "no, no! HE is hard gay!". this is the only english they knew. i asked if they lived together in shinjuku 2-chome (i.e. tokyo castro). good times.

The best, though, was yet to come. We all left the club and walked back to the station, in a big punk parade.. . . It was like a scene out of SUBURBIA. Sure, their look is dated and uncreative, but when you put them out on the street next to all these boring trendy people, they begin to look outrageous again. Plus I took the best photo of the whole year at that time!!







—- band name: disclapties! Not English. Not Japanese. Not anything. Guitarist looking like he should be jamming with B.B.KING or something… there's one giveaway that he's a punker: fab pink shoelaces




—- the band NO EVACUATIONS










—- dancing.


—- the encore.


—- The ceremonial Punching Of The Air With Big Spikey Fists


—- since the air had not been sufficiently punched, we did it again. Stupid air, always taking away our rights!!!!


—- hair envy












—- singer NORIsan stagediving. Note the punker on the right, whose hair has a huge strip shaved in the side… and the strip is painted leopard spots!!!




—- more encore madness!!


—- at the end of every show the singer and guitarist jump into the audience and start smashing fools.


—- CHARGED BRUTALITIES. The singer is very iggy pop


—- see what I mean?












—- bad, blurry photo of CHARGED BRUTALITIES








—- #pogohair3.jpg" type="image" /> —-


—- THE ABDUCTED rocking and winking


—- the abducted's frenzied crowd. Even though this is the 8th band of the night, people are still very um, enthusiastic.


—- see what I mean?








—- pg






—- my man with the rockabilly hair and the wraparound shades, protecing his neck from the sunburn.


—- this guy is not messing around-he's got 2 spikd belts, 2 bum-flaps, fanny pack, suspenders, and 2 little plastic cute things hanging off his keychain. . . he's practically got TWO BUTTS. Two thumbs up.


—- ABDUCTED butt. I love how the fanny pack is made from leopard skin. Plus the dead leopard has 'exploited' written on it. if it were a real leopard skin, I'd be digging the irony.


—- bondage belt, 2 chains, random bullets and flannel shirt/tail thing. This is a real smorgasbord of anal ornaments. It's magnificient but lacks focus.


—- the POGO MACHINE butts. So many fanny packs….What the hell do they put in all these fanny packs? The entire decade of the 80's???


—- boys up front on stage, girlfriends in back with cameras.


—- fortunately not ALL the females are timid.


—- Dances With Spikes






—- THE BEST. Bozo The Punk


—- pretty much every other guy had this little headband. I asked about it, and they said that it was imported with the crusty punk trend around 7 years ago.


—- damn.


—- pujubilation


—- more jubilation. Who's not alienated? US!














—- suburbia. 'got any vibrators?'


—- bad day at the PERFECT SUIT FACTORY. Is this the best concept for a photo I have ever taken? Probably.


SKA PUNK SHOW IN THE PARK: 4 spikes, no futures, angulipogachan, fatness, foolishness

A free show starting at noon, 14 bands!

this band was of s Ska nature.

I forgot their name. Can you guess what i remembered?

THat’s right: patent leather pumps.

next was 4SPIKES.

Guitarist GOU prepares for liftoff. . .


the show took place near Yoyogi park, where all the flea-market people sell old shoes. Thus the flea-market people were very upset with the punks and their monkey-shines. some old guy singlehandedly tried to shut down the show which was pretty funny.

After that was the smash hit of the whole show, THE NO FUTURES. Starring IWATA, the former drummer of BOOB$SHIT.

That is him in the middle.

The whole audience was like crusty hobo-looking older punk people , . . . plus these 5 junior high girls that showed up special for NO FUTURES. Everyone gave them a wide berth.



This band has the best concept ever: let the bass and drums play actual songs LIKE SUCKERS, while the guitarist and vocal devote their whole energy to jumping around making noise and rocking. But the bass and drum are the cute guys in the band so in the end it equals out i guess.

the guitar in particular spent 77 percent of the show just feeding back while jumping up and down, jumping into the crowd. . . for a couple of songs he just straight up got lost, and so some random guy from the audience picked up the guitar and started making noise until he came back. fucking marvelous!



the singer, UWATA, knows how to have antics.

shennannegans, even!

best part– he is rocking fly Louie Vuitton, here placed under a speaker for safekeeping.

i was like, what the hell people???

next was ANGLIPOGACHAN, with a new bassist, formerly of ONE-ARMED BANDIT>

he is still falling down.





more violin tricks: holding the bow in one’s mouth while moving the violin up and down for the purpose of playing it. . .


the audience. this guy below was the absolutely best dressed guy ever to go to a punk show–

next, THE FATNESS played


their fans were skanking. there were many variations on the skank performed but I did not take pictures of them on account of skinheads are short tempered.


the foolishness also played.

bad news — both BOOB$HIT and ONE-ARMED BANDIT broke up while i was in America.

They are no more. fuck.


um, ok. hope you enjoyed photos of rock musicians for a while.

if you want to see shows by these bands, please check my tokyo live schedule page.

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NAGOYA punk: Calusari, order, reality crisis

DATE; sat dec 6
SOUNDTRACK: ‘living in the usa’ – D.I.


today’s super exciting event is Yet Another Punk Butt.

i mean, "punk SHOW."



. . . with a butt.


the event was called DEAD CHAIN. it’s a monthly event where a bunch of bands from the semi-far-away city of Nagoya come down and just massacre everyone in tokyo. three bands were so generic i can’t even remember them enough to mock them.

but the three good bands were like this:

CALUSARI. awhile ago i saw a shitload of bands at LIQUID ROOM and hated everything but calusari. now i can see them again, and finally take pictures! this band’s deal is: they are Vato Rocos. I man, Locos. from the drummer’s "mexicali" tshirt to the bandanas, the Gordo moustache, the Alberecht Durer "Praying Hands" gold necklace, the creased khakis, the crucifixeses, the everything. you could be forgiven for expecting them to start busting out some tender hearted Lowrider Oldies like "Earth Angel" or "Duke of Earl" but instead they play thrash, with super cool slow parts in the middle. which is ALMOST as cool as a thrash version of ‘earth angel,’ but i digress.



the best part: they are not joking even a little bit.



the Big Singer …his Gangster Rap Band Name is. . .get ready . .PHOBIA OF THUG. and in his "phobia of thug" capacity, he recorded a cd with FROST. not the black metal band– i mean the DUDE named frost. and, not the black metal DUDE named frost either. ,but Los Angeles’ most infamous chicano rap dude.


the Little Singer, you’ve already seen him because i posted a picture of him on his custom lowriding bicyle a few months ago. he’s a model for a Japanese Lowrider / chicano magazine. actually, after the set i had him autograph the picture. he wrote: ‘LOS LOCOS, K.K.’ Then we both giggled at how silly the other guy was.



(click on the picture to read more about the magzine)


good band #2

ORDER; the other good band from the hideous liquid room show. it’s funny. . . the rest of the bands had like NO girls in front. but, for Order, the entire front row was girls. ….all under 5 feet tall and totally serious. the reason for this: the singer has that I ABUSE DRUGS EVERY DAY AND STILL LOOK FANTASTIC thing going for him, that straight girls — and everyone else — loves waaaay more than guys who look good because they actually try. plus, this is the guy who i swore had some kind of Sneer Implants. the ENTIRE SHOW he was going like this:

except occasionally he’d go like this:

or even like THIS;


basically, you can’t take a bad picture of the guy even if you try. and i was really trying!! like so..


of course there were some other people in the band. . . they played mid tempo (ramones speed) punk that sort of stuck in a groove, playing one thing over and over and making it heavier and heavier. it was good and kind of original.


the other guitarist was SO TALL i honestly couldn’t fit him in the frame. even freaker, he’s about ninety pounds.

after ORDER, REALITY CRISIS played some crusty punk.


the one singer would have been theatrical enough, with his swinging locks and anarchist sweatbands:

but they had a second vocalist who spent the entire show singing from inside the pit:

… or on top of the pit!

i guess his hairstyle was supposed to be punk, but it remined me more of the ‘rainbow afro’ guy that went to all those sports games. .. . before he started taking hostages.

and then the rocking:

can you possibly say anything bad about a band that, for a finale, EVERYONE IN THE BAND dives off the stage into the crowd? no, you can’t.

ok, so what else was awesome about the show?

anarchy!!!!! japan punk style.


i saw this hilarious Japanese girl dressed like an african american MTV person, her jacket was

a) satin

b) proclaimed her to be black

c) AS IF this wasn’t enough, it didn’t even say ‘black women united’. it said. .. well, you can see what it said. .


i asked if i could take a picture of her whole ensemble, but she wasn’t into me documenting it though. it would have been worth getting dissed by her, if she at least gave me the ‘turkey neck’ , but she just stared at me like a deer caught in the headlights. maybe because she was wearing SUNGLASSES INDOORS AT NIGHT.

also, audience photo: can you guess who is there to see CALUSARI? i love how the punker girl on the left is so utterly ‘whatever’. so ASKANCE. she’s all like, ‘hey guys, you better knock it off. you want me to look askance at you some more? huh? you want some of this askance?? i didn’t think so!"


plus: there was only one PUNK BUTT tonight. but it was easily the punkest butt ever so even if you’re a new reader and don’t know about the PUNK BUTT collection, just never mind. don’t even go trying to find it, because this guy’s butt is the maximum punk that a butt can even get, before it just splits off into an entire separate punk.

i mean,2 spikey belts, low-rider alligator skin bumflap, leather man-purse, giant spikey tools, and a wallet chain where ‘CHAIN LINK= TINY SILVER SKULL’??? over leather pants of course. what’s the whistle for? i guess to call his aides and courtiers if his belt becomes to heavy to walk with. then they’ll carry the belt’s doodads like the bridesmaid carrys the bride’s wedding train. fucking ROCK.

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punk butts

I noticed that JAPANESE PUNKS HAVE THE MOST FESTOONED BUTTS OF ANYONE EVER. Like a middle-aged man. . . as the hair has gotten smaller, the butts have gotten bigger.


Consider how many little doodads dangle from the cellphone of a stereotypical schoolgirl. Then multiply that by ten, and turn the cellphone into a denim-and-leather butt, and you have a punk. Today’s punks have not just wallet chains and cigarettes in their behinds, but so much booty fashion I had to make a whole glossary (how did I conduct this research? I’ll leave the actual process of asking people about their butts to your imagination.)




Shiriate shiji (bum-flap)- the sort of barbarian-looking loincloth that hangs from the butt. It’s not just for crusties in Japan. . .

Waisutu baggu ("waist bag") a much hipper name for the fanny pack. Not only is this considered hip by punks, but even trendy high fashion people wear them here. as if they weren’t the sweat-pants of the bag kingdom.

Pochi belto ("pocket belt") apparently this is only made by the Swedish army. But only worn by Japanese punkers who have already filled all the pockets of their leather jackets with cigarettes.

i forgot to ask what ‘ripped jeans’ IS in japanese. . ..



saturday september 6 2003

plus: there was only one PUNK BUTT tonight. but it was easily the punkest butt ever so even if you’re a new reader and don’t know about the PUNK BUTT collection, just never mind. don’t even go trying to find it, because this guy’s butt is the maximum punk that a butt can even get, before it just splits off into an entire separate punk.

i mean,2 spikey belts, low-rider alligator skin bumflap, leather man-purse, giant spikey tools, and a wallet chain where ‘CHAIN LINK= TINY SILVER SKULL’??? over leather pants of course. what’s the whistle for? i guess to call his aides and courtiers if his belt becomes to heavy to walk with. then they’ll carry the belt’s doodads like the bridesmaid carrys the bride’s wedding train. fucking ROCK.





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The mother of all Japanthropology posts

Spider webs! Every little place where the threads connect is called a node. And every time you touch one node, it moves the other nodes a little bit. Japanese culture is hard to talk about because it’s like a spider web. You start out trying to think about one specific node but you can’t explain it without talking about other things, which triggers still other nodes, until you’re stuck trying to explain the entire civilization, which is impossible. Making matters even worse is that most of these nodes don’t even have names. Japanese people have no shortage of “cultural code words” like gaman, amae, tatemae, and honne, but let’s be honest, those things are just the tip of the cultural-dysfunction iceberg. Most of their cultural baggage is so deeply buried and omnipresent they can’t even put a name to it. 

Anyway I was out with some gaijin pals and we were having a discussion of street harassment of women here, which, the more I thought about it, the more it spiraled into every aspect of the culture. So I decided, fuck it! Let me try to articulate every damn half-baked idea I ever came up with right here. First let me stress I can’t really comment about the whole country. I’ve never been outside of Tokyo for more than a week.   Second, I’ve always said that the title of every single fucking “explaining Japanese culture” book should be changed to “OK WE DO THAT IN OUR CULTURE TOO, BUT IN JAPAN IT’S DONE SYSTEMATICALLY AND TAKEN TO AN EXTREME.” And that disclaimer applies to this article as well.

So, anyway, the original topic:

On the one hand, it’s normal for scanty-dressed young women to walk past groups of construction workers, and not only do they not harass her, they don’t even stare. Rent-a-cops might, though. But still, I find that remarkable. 

On the other hand, everyone who’s visited here has seen the groups of black-clad douchebags that cluster outside major train stations and harass women like constantly: picking a lone woman out of a crowd and following her as close as possible without touching, whispering at her until she crosses some invisible boundary, then they stop in mid sentence, pivot on their heels and either a) nonchalantly check their keitai, or b) give a shit-eating grin to their friend who is lounging against a nearby concrete embankment.

 I think some of these guys are working for yakuza sex clubs and recruiting new workers is part of their job, but other guys that do it are just regular guys that read too many “how to get girls” websites . . . but honestly I can’t tell which guy is which type. 

So anyway, this contradiction.

 I can’t explain it. It’s like Tokyo has some kind of sexual-harassment caste system, and the Train Station Creeps are the designated harassers for the whole city. They do all the harassment, so the rest of us guys can go about our business more efficiently.


I want to stress that I’m not saying Japanese themselves are contradictory or hypocritical or wrong. I’m saying that when I use western concepts (such as safe for women –vs. – harassment paradise) (or alienated -vs.- communal) (or warm, friendly -vs.- cold and inhospitable) to measure Japan, I get contradictory results. Which seems to indicate that the WESTERN CONCEPTS THEMSELVES are somewhat arbitrary, and the western concepts themselves are full of unspoken assumptions that I MYSELF am making. Which is fascinating but makes my head hurt.

Tokyo women aren’t wimps by any stretch (for example, wearing micro mini skirts in subzero weather), so why do they tolerate being stalked and harassed like that? The answer isn’t that they’re so afraid of the creeps themselves, but they’re afraid of what the OTHER 99% of the crowd would think if they struck back. To understand this, I have to explain the dark-side-of-wa phenomenon.


This is a classic example of what I said in my opening paragraph: just because Japanese made up a word for this phenomenon (wa), just because they are proud of this “unique cultural trait”, doesn’t mean they really understand it. (not to single out Japan: in America we believe so deeply in “the free market” that we don’t realize how we have been trained to use “market reasoning” instead of “moral reasoning” in our everyday lives, which is the subject of a fascinating book called What Money Can’t Buy by Michael Sandel. )

For any culture, the biggest cultural traits are also the biggest cultural blind-spots, because they contain the deepest, un-examined assumptions about life.

Anyway, let me tell you the dark side of Wa which Japanese people obey without consciously realizing it: it means BLAME THE VICTIM. If I punch you full in the face as I leave a train, maybe one guy will try to chase me down and hold me for the cops, but the instinct of most people on the train will be to move away from you, to shun you. Because you were INVOLVED in an INCIDENT that fucked up the HARMONY. And probably you brought it on yourself!

In the same way, if a woman yells at a harasser in a public place, the people around her won’t think, “Finally!”, instead they’ll think, “That girl must be really low-class to be involved in a dispute with such a nasty-looking guy. And so loud!”

Most Japanese would never admit that this victim-blaming is an integral part of their treasured wa, but school bullies, yakuza, and harassers all know it and exploit it consciously. It’s like they found a loophole in a system !  Originally designed to keep harmony, wa winds up being utilized to promote exploitation and intimidation . . . . and the only reason it works is with the UNWITTING COOPERATION OF THE ORDINARY PEOPLE, whose disapproval of people fighting back works to help the bullies and harassers do their work.

When I first came here, what I found so shocking was: “How can he do that so blatantly in such a public place?” but the answer seems to be: he can do that PRECISELY BECAUSE he’s in a public place: he’s harnessing the power of the crowd to intimidate the women. And harmony is preserved! Yay harmony!

Another, related contradiction: it’s totally normal in Tokyo to see women walking home alone late at night. Which, a) good for Japan! And b) this is more evidence for my theory that harassment is more likely to happen in a crowded space.

But despite Tokyo women being safer at night than Western women, Japan is constantly getting in trouble for sex-trafficking and child pornography. Again this contradiction!   Although maybe it can be explained like this: alleyway rapists/muggers are “disorganized crime,” while sex-trafficking is “organized crime,” and the Yakuza have historically helped the police crack down on “disorganized crime” – a quid pro quo which helps the yakuza keep a monopoly on the underworld.


Anyway, if you pull on this dark-side-of-wa node of the spider-web, you can’t help but notice that it’s connected to Japanese attitudes towards work and public space. These harassers are WORKING. It’s their JOB, so it’s ok.

Put it this way: in Tokyo, it’s normal for businesses to hassle pedestrians of both sexes. And I don’t mean hassle like a spice merchant calling out in a bazaar (“Get your spices! Two for one! Best spices in Cairo!”) . One, that sort of call is an invitation to haggle i.e. a two-way street, and two, people come to bazaars specifically to be called to.

But in Japan you can get yelled at wherever. The assumption is that if you’re not in some designated zone (home/school/job) that you’re fair game for being yelled at, loud-speakered-at, and having tons of flags, placards, sandwich boards placed in your way. Just as long as it’s done to get you to buy. If anyone dares disturb you by busking, street performance, or unauthorized political shit, that is just awful and soon you will be protected by the cops from being accidentally entertained, informed, or broken out of your bubble.  


The clear but unspoken message is: public places don’t belong to you, they belong to government and business. And if you don’t like being yelled at, better hurry along faster!

There's something very distinct but hard-to-put-into-words about the  Japanese attitude toward public space – they view it as something to be tuned out and rushed through, rather than as something to be occupied or enjoyed or hung out in. When you’re at home or work/school, you can relax your mental bubble, because the group bubble takes over. But when you go out in public you have to – like Sue Storm the Invisible Woman – constantly concentrate to maintain your force field, and it takes a certain psychic toll. Not enough to make you pass out (like when Sue had to make a force field around the whole island of Manhattan after it got kidnapped by Galactus), but enough to make you hurry a bit faster and hunch your shoulders a bit more than people in other cultures.

And of course, the famous hikikomori are simply people who for whatever reason are unable to make any bubble at all.

Put another way, remember that scene in Boyz N Tha Hood where O-Dog is followed around the corner store every step by the Korean lady saying “Buy or get out!” (wait, that scene was from Don’t Be A Menace II South Central When You’re Drinking Your Juice In Tha Hood, which was the parody of Boyz N Tha Hood, but you get the idea). Well,  multiply that scene by oh I don’t know. . . multiply it by EVERY SIDEWALK IN THE CITY.

Put another way: you know what the Citizens United supreme court decision did for political ads in the USA? Imagine that, but applied to walking in public. Either way there is a loss of “the commons.” 

This is hard for foreigners to grasp, since the sidewalks seem so self-evidently common ground, and people are walking on them just like in any Western city. But it helps explain why there are no drinking fountains, parks with green grass, trash cans, street performances, or people sitting down eating in public.

(see my rant on the subject here)


Even in festivals, which emphasize traditional culture, pride in same, and help make everyone feel that they have something in common . . . people don’t talk to strangers. Even if they all put on the same yutaka and clogs. They turn up in great enthusiastic numbers, and all walk in one direction through a gauntlet of souvenir  stands, not talking or even looking at anyone but the pals they came with.

The whole physical layout of festivals is designed to minimize interactions between groups, and maximize people’s exposure to the street vendors: the celebrants are herded down a one-way gauntlet with vendors on both sides, and everyone basically faces one way (i.e. they are not facing each other), and anyone who DOES somehow stop to chat is guilty of holding up the people behind them. 

And this pattern repeats at all festivals, no matter what custom/ritual/religious thing that the festival is supposed to be about. Half the time, if you ask someone what the festival even means, they’ll look at you like you’re out of your mind for even wondering. Frankly I’m willing to bet that most of these festival “traditions” were invented by the street vendors. 

But if Tokyo people don’t feel entitled to use public space like they own it, then how DO they cope with leaving the house? Again, we’re stuck in the spider web: in order to properly explain the node called “public space doesn’t belong to you” node, you have to follow the thread to the next node over . . . the phenomenon of the PERSONAL BUBBLE.


The Bubble – although it relates to the street harassment described above, it's not a gender thing. It's not a young-person thing. (in fact, the first people in Tokyo I saw who really got their bubble on were old guys with the surgical masks, oldschool walkman headphones, nautical caps pulled down low, and mini TVs playing horse-races held right in front of their blackout sunglasses). The Personal Bubble is how Japanese people are able to navigate through public space: they carry their privacy with them. Which, like I said in the beginning: “OK WE DO THAT IN OUR CULTURE TOO, BUT IN JAPAN IT’S DONE SYSTEMATICALLY AND TAKEN TO AN EXTREME.”

Most countries have “personal space” that strangers aren’t supposed to step into. Japan has developed “personal universes.” This goes against the western stereotype of Japanese people being very group oriented, consensus-decision-making folks. That’s true but with a contradiction: take them out of the group and they become the most alienated people on earth. 

I’m going to quote from a rant I posted back in 2005,

“An only-in-Japan phenomenon: the Girls Doing Makeup On The Train. Or the male counterpart, Guys Reading Porn On The Train. Or Kids Wearing Animal Costumes In Public And No One Even Looks At Them. All this, though superficially very modern, is part of the ancient tradition of Being In Your Own Little Fucking World.

And for this, I blame Earthquakes.

See, as people more scholarly than me have noted, Japan has lots of them. Earthquakes. And because of this, in medieval times, they discovered this : HOUSES FALL DOWN. What do you want falling on your skinny ass? A rock wall or a paper wall? Not exactly rocket science. So for safety, houses was all made with paper walls. The side effect of this, though, is you could pretty much hear EVERY FART from the next room. To say nothing of sex noises. Now, at that point, society as a whole was confronted with an Important Issue; in the name of Quality Sleepy Time, do we impose a total ban on farting and fucking? People who tried that, soon found out that everyone in the whole apartment would get stabby really fast. So they went with the other solution : Pretend You Didn’t Hear It. Again, not exactly rocket science. Even if it is like your brother screwing your boss’s wife, you gotta pretend you did not hear it.

And this is what led to the modern day custom of Being In Your Own Little Fucking World. Because as life expectancy improved and technology allowed totally huge cities to be built, shit got more crowded. As shit became unbearably more crowded, people started taking this Pretend You Didn’t Hear It Rule out of the bedrooms and into the streets. And city officials were like, “Great! People are so fucking docile, we do not have to make public parks or places where people can have actual privacy! Nothing but profitable real estate, woohoo!” and it became a DIFFERENT vicious circle. Unlike other major countries, there is no place in Japan’s big cities to Take A Break. If you need to relax and have some private time, there is no fucking infrastructure. So people do their private thing out in the trains, or on the sidewalk.”

This explains how people deal with the crowds by NOT LOOKING AT PEOPLE AROUND THEM. But they don’t collide because they walk REEALLLYY SLLOWWWW.  So in one sense, they’re all cooperating, a philosophy proudly expressed to me by a taxi-driver as 少しズツ (sukoshi zutsu)。 In other words, “little by little.”


What blows my mind about this is that the crowds in Tokyo are all playing by the rules, and what’s more, those rules stress cooperation. Which in theory sounds like everyone’s on the same team, it sounds in theory like everyone’s all pals. But at the same time they’re all totally alienated, furtive and exposed, and deliberately tuning each other out. Which is the opposite of what you’d expect. Then again you get your more shovey-shovey, jump-the-queue-type societies like NYC or Germany, where people are very selfish or individualistic, but on the other hand they have to look at and engage with each other (if only to determine who to shove) way more than the all-on-the-same-team Japanese. Weird!

And you can’t discuss the bubble re: fashion without getting into this OTHER node on the spiderweb:


I bought the things and now I am that person, even if I don’t look like that person or walk or have the attitude of that person, or do the things which I admire that person for having done.

Like you know how people make fun of spectators at a game . . .they BUY the tickets, they BUY the official sports team shirts and then sit on their ass while the actual players win the game, then the fans jump up and down yelling “WE won!” Lots of people comment on the absurdity of this, but as usual Japan takes things a step further: not just sports, but ALL hobbies or subcultures can now be consumed purely as a spectator. For example, if you’re “into” bass fishing, you read all the magazines, can comment in detail on internet forums about the exact specifications of lures which you’ve memorized. . . but you don’t ever fish. Too much overtime. Or if you are “into” skateboarding, you buy all the magazines and skate-company t-shirts, but you have never ridden an actual board. 

The “subculture uniforms” or “fashion uniforms” work the exact opposite of work uniforms, which mean I DO THE THING ALL DAY. And the rules are also the opposite of most western fashion, where you’re looked at as a poser or a failure if you buy the thing but don’t lead that life.

Put another way: in the west if you cop a certain look you want attention. In Japan you have the courage to cop a certain look only because you assume people WON’T pay attention. 

(assuming that you haven’t really had the experiences or lived the life of the persona you’re dressing up as. Real punks or gangsters or hookers or whatever is a different story. They make eye contact, they have a certain walk, they have an attitude which corresponds to the fashion).


The "buy the outfit as a substitute for actually living that lifestyle" phenomenon maybe explains  the lack of judgement re: silly walks.   Seriously, haven’t you wondered about those? I don’t just mean the crazy pigeon-toed, super-pronated walk of certain young women. I mean how like 90% of women have walks that don’t remotely match their outfits. Like the femme fatale boots with the matching fishnets and Beyonce hair and giant sunglasses. . . but she walks with her shoulders all forwards and her feet clump clump clump like a zombie horse. Or sexy dressed women but they walk with a tight ass or walk like a middle aged man. Especially in a very competitive and fashion-crazed city like Tokyo, where every inch of womens’ bodies is scrutinized and judged, the total lack of judgement of walks is even more amazing. I guess they haven’t found out a way to merchandise it yet. But anyway, I think the reason is: You have to actually have led such-and-such a lifestyle in order to stride in such-and-such a way.ditto attitude. And buying the things substitutes for having led that kind of life.

It also explains why cosplay people not being expected to stay “in character”


On the bad side, sure, people are treated as interchangeable parts. But the fluffy warm blanket on this particular Procrustean bed  is that you can expect the same exact polite treatment wherever you go, regardless of if you’re a 90 year old, a young biker thug, a club kid, or a salariman. 

Put another way: in the west, if you cop an attitude or outfit, you want people to treat you a certain way. If you’re dressed sexy, but the guy who hands you your whopper with fries doesn’t blush or stammer when he makes change, you realize you’re not that sexy. If you’re dressed in your leather and spikes but nobody is scared of you, and old ladies ask you for directions, you know you’re not tough. 

But in Japan, it’s the opposite: because of the whole all-Japanese-are-peas-in-a-pod mentality, you expect to be treated exactly like the salariman next to you.  People dressed as (jimmy page / beyonce / 50 cent / club kid/ whoever) don’t have to convince those around them to respond to them as if they’re cool or sexy or famous or scary. Which is very egalitarian, but it does sort of “lower the bar” and make it easy to pretend to yourself. For example, If you have an awkward pigeon-toed walk and stuff 4 socks into your bra and wear a red wig, people won’t treat you like you’re the Black Widow.   But in Japan, because of the Bubble effect, you never had any expectation that people will treat you like your costume. So you can push your self-deception to record levels. 

 This phenomenon is what makes BUY THE THING AS A SUBSTITUTE FOR LEADING THAT LIFESTYLE phenomenon possible. Since the point is not to convince strangers that you are hot / cool / famous / scary, all you have to do is buy the thing and wear it, and pretend to YOURSELF. Which is much easier to do. So people here can take their delusional fashions way farther. Safe in your bubble!

I’m not saying that Japanese never judge a person whose outward fashion is clearly out of step with who they are. There’s a whole slew of expressions to make fun of these people. For example,   気取り屋 (kidoriya)、イッタイ人 (ittai hito) , and  はったり (hattari) are all great terms to belittle pretentious people, self-deluding people, and posers, respectively.

I’m just saying it’s really bad form for them to ever express that to the person directly.  


The bubble also explains why Japanese are the most cell-phone obsessed people, and why it became popular here before other advanced countries.

Basically having a keitai just gave Japanese people a good excuse for the bubbles in which they’d been living all along. The main point of keitai is to reduce the cognitive dissonance required to ignore the 20 people pressed into you on the train: “I’m not staring directly at the armpit of some stranger for half an hour. Actually I’m . . .I’m having a fun conversation with my friends by text! I’m looking at a small plastic rectangle which happens to be in a stranger’s armpit!” . The actual communications technology of keitai is a plus, but hardly essential. Honestly some enterprising tycoon could have just started selling 5” blocks of black-painted balsa wood with buttons glued on, just as a “bubble placebo.”


It might sound like I’m making fun of Tokyo people, or ridiculing the bubble. But here’s the good thing: the bubble leads to people’s fashion getting a little out of control.

Since no one makes eye contact, since even NORMAL folks drag their own little worlds with them, then it’s comparatively easy to get really goofy with your fashions: you’re in your own little world . . . . but unlike everyone else on the train, you’re dressed in the native garb.   The self-deception on display is wonderful to behold.

Which explains how women can dress in a “How am I NOT a prostitute in this outfit?” way. (the actual street-walkers are 50 year old Taiwan ladies in gray bubble-goose coats, which is a whole other contradiction).

And it explains  the clearly-office-job-having short-hair middle-aged men on the trains every weekend with their bizarre Jim Morrison getups . . . these totally thought-out, accessorized, historical rockstar outfits, but with the walk and attitude of Dilbert still in effect.

And then the best are the people where you can’t even guess what the fuck they are going for. You have no idea what they see when they look in the mirror.


A Japanese guy once told me that Tokyo women were 武装してる (busou shiteru)。 Meaning, they were “armed” with clothing. That blew my mind! Lately though I’ve come to the conclusion that the extreme fashion – even though it seems confrontational or stand-out-in-a-crowd-y – it’s more of a defensive thing. People use the clothes to compensate for perceived deficiencies. They use them like rags stuffed into old wounds to staunch the spurt of bloooooooood. The middle-aged Dilbert in his weekend Morrison costume knows full well that he is not passing for Morrison. The chubby working-class girl in her overdone Princess costume knows perfectly well she is not passing for a Royal supermodel. By dressing exaggeratedly, by armoring their weak point, they are just trying to bring the weak point up to an average person level, so they can feel confident enough to just leave the house. So the clothes actually have the OPPOSITE meaning than you’d think. . . Like how Seventeen Magazine is actually for 12 year olds. Or how Muscle Bodybuilder Macho magazine is for 90 pound weaklings.

In other words, maybe fashion victims are not dressing like that because they’re in some dream-world and totally unaware people are judging them, maybe they dress like that because of the opposite reason: because they’re way too self-conscious of people’s judgements and need some sort of armor against it.

Wanting to disappear into your clothing. Never mind my homley face or my chubby body or short legs or receding hairline. Look at what I bought. It’s what inside that counts, and inside me is a wallet that opened up for this particular uniform.   In a way it’s kind of like the internet, where nerds can pretend to be martial-arts tough guys and tough guys can pretend to be horny MILFs and etc. Because you’re not visible to the other people on the net, and they can’t ask you to do the thing to prove you’re that person. But in Japan, the social isolation substitutes for the physical isolation of the net, but the result is the same: you’re in a bubble, and no one expects your average everyday life to live up to your persona, so you’re free to re-invent yourself in various idiotic ways.

see also:


  Not to single out women –judging from the amount of guys with Lolita complexes here, apparently neither can men. This attitude towards fashion (“Isn’t my thigh boots and micro skirt so CUTE?”) is part of a more general idea that females should act naive, girlish, and doll-like well into their late 30s attitude. Retarded development is what im saying. You’re issued a cute little girl outfit at age 5, and you’re encouraged to keep it on until way into your teens. You’re never issued a “woman” outfit to change into (not cute! Old! Eww!) . As you enter adolescence and sexual desire, you’re just expected to keep shortening the hem and deepening the neckline on your little-girl outfit to keep pace. Yikes!

 If you want to see how scary that is imagine if that attitude was applied to a man. That’s right:  he turns into Michael Jackson. Imagine a country where it was normal for all boys to develop that way.

And you can’t talk about how women’s junk is kept back in little-girl mode without also explaining how ALL children’s development is retarded in general.


I don’t mean retarded like down’s syndrome. I mean like there are certain traits which grown-ass adults are supposed to possess in, well, pretty much every other country:
Being active, not passive
Making one’s own goals
Standing up for one’s self
Making friends outside of the people that work or study next to you
Being able to evaluate arguments based on logic rather than “is it my friend saying this or someone I don’t know?”

And in Japan these grown-up traits are suppressed or delayed or stomped out. Since kids are kept from developing adult parts of their brain, I think it’s not 100% racist to say that their development is retarded by society. That’s what I mean. Sure, all countries have certain taboos, but usually those involve certain actions (robbery, assault) or politics (saying mean things about El Commandante’s mother).   Any half-assed dictatorship can get POLITICALLY repressive but Japan attacks the fucking brain development.
I know that sounds harsh or borderline KKK, so let me back that thing up (!)
1) when it comes to being able to evaluate arguments based on logic rather than relationships, America is trying real hard to be even more retarded than Japan. We’re racing backwards on that one.
2) in other ways, Japanese kids are way MORE adult than their gaijin counterparts. They do paramilitary exercises in PE class, they get to wear little suits and ties, and have to work over 12 hour days like their daddies.  Wait, that makes it sound even worse. BUT IT’S FUCKING TRUE B. Even Cotton Mather would be like, “Lighten up dudes. Just kick back a notch!” and then he’d pull out this huge blunt and be like, “Now who wants to get blazed with the C?!?!?”


Finally, let’s go back to about 5 nodes or so, to the phenomenon of THERE’S NO EXPECTATION THAT YOU’LL BE TREATED LIKE YOUR COSTUME.  That particular node has so many connections I saved it for last. If you’ll remember, the reason there’s no such expectation is that everyone (thugs, punks, gals, vice-presidents of marketing,  you name it) is supposed to be treated equally. But us foreigners find the Japanese version of “equal” very confusing, because their version contradicts many of the illogical and arbitrary and unspoken assumptions buried in our OWN concept of “equal”. Some common contradictions noted by newbie gaijin are:


Explaining these seeming contradictions is pretty much taxing my brain to its limit, so let me back up again and dish out some basic context stuff before we get into the crazy:

Japanese people are proud of their culture – not just that it’s the best culture (everyone thinks that about their own culture (except Canadians, bless your humble souls!)) , but more specifically that they’re connected by their culture in a much more fundamental, telepathic-mind-meld way, compared to other countries. At a café, I overheard some lady at the next table telling her friends (in loud Japanese) how “We understand all the linguistic nuances and unwritten rules of our land in a way foreigners can’t. Frankly even some nuances are hard for us!”   Keep in mind she’s not saying “we identify with or know the nuances of our particular in-group (co-workers or students in the same school club, etc.) She was saying there was a strong connection to ALL other Japanese. I’d agree with that, but as with wa, there’s a dark side that Japanese all perpetrate, without acknowledging it. For instance, one of the things that strikes us gaijin when we first come here is how COLD the Japanese are to each other. Not US, but each other.  This seeming contradiction might be explained just by “ingroup-outgroup dynamics” and by “keeping harmony by not puncturing a stranger’s bubble”, but I’m convinced there is something more at work here.

To us it seems like, yo, if you’re all on the same page, on the same team, why don’t you talk to strangers? If you’re all such peas in a fucking pod? What’s the point of “knowing all the cultural nuances and rules” if you’re still terrified of offending people all the time? The point being, only a foreigner would think that having a strong cultural bond with a stranger means you care about them or would look at them or talk to them ever. Ha! Crazy gaijin! So if that’s not what the peas-in-a-pod group-oriented deal means, what DOES it mean?
The clearest example I can think of this contradiction-between-super-polite-and-super-cold-hearted is this:
You can go to the same restaurant – not even a chain, it could be family-owned – for a year and the owner still won’t say anything except for the same very formal polite ritual greetings. No small talk, no “How’s the wife and kids?” , no nothing. The only reason I can think of is JEALOUSY. If the owner talks to you about personal stuff, then all the other patrons will get jealous: “Why is the owner playing favorites? I’m not coming back to this bullshit place. I didn’t come here to be snubbed!” 
So what seems like coldness is an effort to treat everyone exactly equal. Which is also a kind of contradiction: in the west we are taught equality is freedom and rights to do whatever you individually want. So when we see a form of “equality” in which no one is doing what they want, we’re confused. Even though it’s our own sort of illogical cultural assumptions about “equality” that make Japan SEEM contradictory.  In Japan, “equality” means treating people as interchangeable parts. 
The idea is that treating everyone equal means not making exceptions (thus the famous Japanese inflexibility, another thing that reads as “cold” to foreigners). If you have an allergy to the appetizer and want the restaurant to serve you a different one than all your co-workers at the after-work banquet, that is seen as “I’M SO SPECIAL I GET SPECIAL TREATMENT BECAUSE I AM BETTER THAN YOU.” 

Put it another way: in western countries equal means everyone is entitled to dress and act differently, to be different races and religions, and still get the same basic rights. Where in Japan, equal means no matter what you look or dress like, you’ll be greeted with the same exact formal, pre-scripted conversations: いらっしゃいませ! お客様! ご案内いたします! (welcome honored customer! Please let me take you to your honored seat!)
In closing, let me just say: TL;DR? FOAD!

gekiteki 1: theatrical

This isn't ALL the "gekiteki" bands, just  the ones who are the most like "regular" theater troupes. In the next week or so I'll post the rest of the bands.


J.A. Caesar

MEANING : Terahara Taka'aki
ERA . . . : 60s, 70s
SOUND . . : : a mix of heavy Psychedelic and Japanese folk
JAPANESE TRADITIONAL INFLUENCE : Japanese instruments, melodies, costumes . . .
CLIQUE . . . : Terayama Shuuji
STYLE . . . : theatraical
ALBUM TO GET . . . : ???
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : everything
WEB . . . :

DL: here
Seazer (real name Terahara Takaaki) (寺原 孝明) was the musical director and composer for Terayama Shuuji. Shuuji would write the plays and Seazer would compose the tunes. His tunes were 50% lame hippy psychadelic crap, but the other 50% were SO RAD. Like you know how in The Wire, Omar whistles a traditional European Kids' song (Farmer In The Dell) and it becomes really creepy? Well imagine that with traditional Japanese folk melodies added to repetitive, tribal heavy psychedelic instrumentation. So deep and yet new.

wikipedia: Seazer composed the score to the animated film adaptation of Suehiro Maruo's manga Mr. Arashi's Amazing Freak Show (also known as Midori or Shojo-tsubaki).


筋肉少女帯 (kinniku shoujotai)

MEANING : : : Muscle Girl Band
CITY . . :  Tokyo
ERA . . . : 1982~1999
SOUND . . : straight up visual glam metal.
JAPANESE TRADITIONAL INFLUENCE : literary influence! Terayama (he's an author and poet as well as a theater guy), Dazai Osamu.
CLIQUE . . . : strawberry, uchouten, kinniku shoujotai
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . : ???

WEB . . . :, wikipedia


Kinniku Joseitai was a corny glam band, but they were a big influence on theatrical bands such as (???). Also, the lyrics are inspired by Terayama as well as the romantic gloomy novelist Dazai Osamu. Vocalist Ootsuki Kenji's lyrics are deliberately vague and ambiguous (漠然=bakuzen), because they deal with teenagers' uncertainty and anxiety about the future. He was a hero to '80s otaku because he articulated their frustration and "WTF am I going to do with my life?!?" problems. My friend also said the lyrics were どろどろ, meaning muddy or thick. If I understood her meaning, in this context どろどろ is how teenage outcasts see life: like it's a muddy fog, full of situations, rules, regulations, emotions, and reasons that they can't see or touch or understand, but just stumble around in.

Influenced Strawberry Song Orchestra (though they probably wouldn't admit it), Soshiki Bouryoku Houchien, and ???

The vocalist, Kenji Ootsuki, is a novelist. He writes science fiction, horror, and autobiographical books.






MEANING : : a sanskrit (梵語) word for one part of buddhist heaven, but is a used to mean extasy or rapture.
CITY . . : ???
ERA . . . : 82-91
SOUND . . : more of a new wave thing, but very mainstream.
CLIQUE . . . : uchouten, kinniku shoujotai
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . :

WEB . . . :

Contemporaries of kinniku shoujotai.  Uchouten were a big influence on shironuri kei techno bands such as Shinguku Gewalt, Jinsei, and Denki Groove.


The vocalist, Mr. Kera, ran their record label, Nagomu Records. That label had a sort of unique  new-wave sound, so the bands on it were called Nagomu Kei.  Although Uchouten was not a theatrical band, Mr. Kera also runs his own theatre troupe on the side, so it's unclear to me how much influence he had on the development of geki rock.



INSANE website with pictures of Uchouten as well as TONS of '80s pop images. Like a one-man (or one-woman) Tumblr. Even if you don't like pop or new wave, this is fucking interesting, man.




明和電機 (meiwa denki)

MEANING : : Meiwa Electrical Corporation
CITY . . : Tokyo
ERA . . . : 1993~present
SOUND . . : : electronic
JAPANESE TRADITIONAL INFLUENCE : : a deadpan parody of the salariman lifestyle
CLIQUE . . . :
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . :
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : they do the whole concert in character, with an elaborate script in between songs.

WEB . . . :

These guys are a whole category of music into themselves!

Their schtick is that they're not a band, they're typical engineers and salarymen working for a small electronics firm (SST and Greg Ginn???). They make their own instruments from scratch. The instruments are also art objects – more care is put into the concept and metaphors behind the instrument, and the physical appearance of it, than the actual sound of it. Their concerts begin with them acting like they are opening a business meeting or corporate sales pitch with the audience. They then explain about each instrument and instead of songs they do "demos" of the "products." It's intentionally funny but very deadpan.



CITY . . : ???
ERA . . . : 1997~ now
SOUND . . : early: acapella, later: ‘60s garage pop
CLIQUE . . . :
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . : big when far, small when close (the acapella-with-tribal-drums one = straight dope!)
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : they don't perform plays but they have a "background story" and crazy frog-alien-swinging-sixties-waitress costumes

WEB . . . :

Ex-Girl are another "concept band." They are aliens who come to Earth from the Frog Planet of Kero Kero (in Japanese, frogs go kero kero instead of ribbit ribbit). Unfortunately they don't really do it up rock-opERA . . . : style onstage, but their costumes and frog-headed drummer get the point accross.





MEANING : : official death report of the drownded shrimp
CITY . . : osaka
ERA . . . : 2001~now
SOUND . . : : avant garde art-rock.
JAPANESE TRADITIONAL INFLUENCE : : influenced by kaiju eiga (Godzilla-style Japanese monster movies)
CLIQUE . . . :
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . : Still no album.

THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : costumes, elaborate lighting design, and movies projected on a screen behind the band

WEB . . . : Unfortunately the band's website just went offline. fuck!

This band is the total package: rad theatricals AND rad music. The tunes are equal parts Residents, Primus, and Count Basie, while wearing suits and monster-movie-quality shrimp masks.

The inspiration for this band came from the band leader's two obsessions : kaijuu eiga and tropical fish. (he is a collector of both). Since crustaceans look like kaijuu, he thought he should do a band with crustacean masks. All the songs are about various crustaceans, not just shrimp. Even though they don’t have lyrics. The wood-bass is used to make a Godzilla-like growl.









MEANING : : fishing harbor
CITY . . : tokyo
ERA . . . : 2001 around ???
SOUND . . : rap-rock
JAPANESE TRADITIONAL INFLUENCE : props, costumes, Japanese fishing and working-class culture
CLIQUE . . . :
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . : 2 out, currently recording major label debut
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : see below!

WEB . . . : , myspace

They wear traditional 漁業 GYOGYOU attire (fisherman’s attire), and all their songs are about fish, and for their encore they butcher a real tuna and feed the audience.

3 members : vocal, guitarist (who doesn’t usually play, just squats in a blue-collar style and yells at the singer), and the DJ. The emphasis of the muisc is not, well, music but comedy and performance. All the song titles are names of fish. The vocalist will yell SAKANA! And the guitarist will yell back the name of the next song’s fish: MAGURO! And the vocalis will assent, UN!! And then they start the song.

A typical theatrical number is ANKO (angler fish) : the theatre lights all go to black, ocean sounds play on the PA, and the vocalist tapes a flashlight to his head like the glowing lure of the angler fish. Then they start the song.

Gyokou is promoting not just traditional Japanese blue-collar workers, but they're also promoting a Terayama-like fuck-you attitude towards the separation of reality and fiction. The guys really are fishermen, but their "band characters" are sort of cartoons. The band's "official bio" mixes truth and outrageous exxagerations. They seem to delight in warping the line between real and fiction.



  rose de reficul et guiggles

MEANING : : ???
CITY . . : Osaka
ERA . . . : 2002~
SOUND . . : light opera
CLIQUE . . . : a la mode goth Lolita burlesque
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . :
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : they put on plays,dude

WEB . . . : , myspace
TDR REPORT . . .: HERE, and then HERE

These guys are a gothic drama troupe. The plays emphasize costumes and improvisation over "plot" and "rehearsal." The costumes are all lacey Victorian finery which has decayed and gotten mossy in a zombie-like state. They're basically like kids who broke into their grandma's closet, found a bunch of crazy props, and decided to put on a show in the backyard. And like kids, when they finish, the whole stage is a huge mess! The're not pretentious – they seem to really have a lot of fun doing it. There are some songs, (with prerecorded music) but mostly pantomime.

Quoting from my show review:

As near as I could make out, the story was this: king and queen relaxing at home, indulging in their hobby of sniffing roses and beating the help. Suddenly a Bad Guy (a truly inspired costume mixing Snidley Whiplash with Alex from Clockwork Orange) shows up and makes a Scandalous Overture to the queen. The king is subdued by some sort of Craven Minion (I should also point out that the king is Adam Ant). The King/Mr. Ant spends the entire rest of the play prolonging his death scene directly in front of the rest of the performers, as if to say, “Down here, you fools!! Don’t pay attention to THEM, you philistines! The action’s down HERE!!” meanwhile the Bad Guy ravishes the queen on a couch, and the craven minion chases around the servant. Then, songs! The play ends with the king and queen re-united on their Royal Couch, but the queen has been turned into a wanton harlot and the scenery has been reduced to rubble.


Oddly, I actually enjoyed it : in the end it wasn’t the costumes or the “gothic atmosphere” but the fact that everyone involved was shamelessly mugging and hamming the entire time, regardless of who was talking. Even the fuckin’ prop guy started coming on stage and mugging. I can’t help but think that the genius of GIGGLES is wasted on this small stage. I think their true calling is in Hollywood, helping big-budget directors. Any Tom Hanks movie would be 100% better if all the supporting characters were rolling around in agony, tearing up the plant-life, making sex-faces, and doing robot-dances THE WHOLE FILM.






CITY . . :
ERA . . . : 2004???
SOUND . . : goth / industrial
CLIQUE . . . : a la mode
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . :
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : see below

WEB . . . :

In the early 2000's, there were a whole bunch of these kinds of bands, none of which went anywhere, that would play Goth Lolita events. Phantasmagoria Fairy Tales is representative: the music is the least important thing, the costumes the most important, they seem to like 'acting' and making dramatic faces, but hate 'rehearsing' or 'making sense'.

Here is how Phantasmagoria does their thing: One woman would read out of a “fairy tale book,” while the other performed really awful charades. Their music was pre-recorded.


There are a handful of Japanese theatrical bands that do this. Either they have a giant flip-book of pictures, or they read text out of a giant prop book between songs. My friend Mochi says this either comes from American Beatnik culture (poetry readings and such) or from '70s girls' manga, which sometimes took the form of fairy tales, and the story would start with a fairy godmother reading from a book.


The funniest thing about this one was, the singer was trying to be goth but looked like fucking Stevie Knicks. I had to resist the urge to request “Tusk.” Their songs were good, but most of the time they deliberately did not sing.





MEANING : : : Iron Theatre Group
CITY . . : Osaka????
ERA . . . :
SOUND . . : I forgot!
JAPANESE TRADITIONAL INFLUENCE : Japanese flute, Japanese storytelling style
CLIQUE . . . : afurirampo
STYLE . . . : theatrical
ALBUM TO GET . . . :
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : set design, props, narrarator, story.

WEB . . . :

These guys were kind of a rock opera. They had a lady on stage telling a story over minimal flute music, while – on the side of the stage- a huge picture frame displayed a selection of hand-drawn pictures which corresponded to what she was saying.  Another example of the "read-out-of-a-fairy-tale-book" staple of geki rock.


Also, I should mention the whole stage was covered with life-sized pregnant alien women, and the band-leader was a midget in a Mao Red Army cap with a miniature pez-dispenser flute which played tones only dogs could hear, and everyone was wearing stuffed-monkey neckties, and while all this was going on . . . they were in front of a video projection of skydivers. And when the accordion player starts jamming, watch out!!!

Eventually the whiny irritating vocalist left in disgrace, and the musicians could get on to the serious job of rocking. They played nothing but hammer-ons, of course. Just this intense rigid clockwork metronomic fast 16 th note figure which repeated over and over, but the guitarist would cue people to change key. It repeated for 20 minutes and was amazing!!

Oh, shit, I forgot the best part: EL MYSTERIOSO. He was a dude in a black hood and eyepatch who stood on the side and did not sing, or play an instrument, or even move. He just stood there, like, dude, I don’t NEED to do anything. I AM EL MYSTERIOSO. You should thank me for not doing anything, because if I really did my thing on stage here at this time, it would BLOW YOUR FUCKING MIND. fuck, he should be in EVERY band.


 巨乳マンダラ王国 (kyonyuumandaraookoku)


MEANING : : mandala kingdom of giant tits
CITY . . : Osaka (originally) Tokyo (currently)
ERA . . . :
SOUND . . : nerd style
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : props for each song. Band members stay in character. No plot, though.
CLIQUE . . . :  gimmicky punk bands like s/m, Tokyo terebi, onanii machines, and QP crazy.
STYLE . . . : theatrical Comedy band.
ALBUM TO GET . . . : 王国民洗脳教育セット
THEATRICAL POINTS . . . : props, costumes, different characters

WEB . . . :
TDR REPORT . . .: herrrrrrrrre

Saw them live. They were just like an anime monty python skit. First they dress up in spandex Doraemon costumes and sing karaoke, getting all choked up with emotion and not being able to sing because they are crying. Why this is funny I have no idea. But it was. Then the rest of the band comes out ? an arab shiek on guitar, a transvestite and hippy backup vocalists, and on drums, a blow-up sex doll. Did I mention the SOUND . . : was all pre-recorded? And the lead singer is some kind of bodybuilding dwarf in a home-made superhero costume. The crotch of the costume is so narrow, that his testicles stick out on either side like miniature Daisy Duke butt-cheeks. It is just insane when you combine it with his French waiter moustache which is painted on to his face with graffiti pen. He is all whipping his cape around, bullfighter style and striking superhero poses and playing this kind of Korn-goes-to-the-circus big top rock and everyone is jumping up and down. The lyrics I could understand involved pubic hair.



reup : TOKYO BEERNING: disclowter, 4 spikes, boob$hit, disclapties

DATE: JULY 3 2004


today was HANAMI. MORE witticisms, more whiskey, and on and on. I’ll spare you the details but suffice to say that by the time it was time for the concert my body was in pretty bad shape and my glasses were totally broken. which meant that I was finally ready to experience drunk-oi-punk the way it was intended to be experienced.

That’s right, tonight’s show is TOKYO’S BEERNING!!



Stagnation were AMAZING. Just burzum-style hissy squealy guitar that sounds like it’s being played through a stack of 1,000 walkman headphones, and a singer who just would NOT. STOP. JUMPING AROUND. The singer is just an amazing maniac and his pants are just totally the most destroyed pants. Like if you took the ‘regular’ crusty punk pants and tore off all the patches . . . leaving just a sort of FRAMEWORK of pants held together only by an ecosystem of fragile fungi which has developed during the pants-compost process. Anyway he was totally yelling at the sky and yelling at the ground and dropping to his knees and bonking me with the mike stand and just being a total geinus.


They played really simple good call-and-response ‘japanese style oi punk’. Whatever that means. Like many of ikibukuro’s oi bands, they opened with, oddly, the Irish Spring soap commercial jingle.


Their music was just so-so but the singer had a bandana around his face the whole time, looking like Black Bart or some shit, plus at certain parts of the songs he’d just drop the guitar and start strangling the microphone stand with both hands, screaming at the top of his lungs. It is such an easy and entertaining schtick I can’t believe EVERYONE doesn’t do it!


I saw this band once before, but somehow at that time I failed to notice that their drummer is TOTALLY METALLL. Like double bass and quadruplets everywhere and just totally jacked ridiculous technical Dave Lombardo shit. But the rest of the band is just straightforward thrash. What is hilarious is that AT LEAST 75% of the band is going to the same Music School. Let me say that again: a group of guys who are going to music school to ‘learn punk.’ I am picturing their band practices as follows: “oh yes fellows, how about we play ‘fuck the shitstem’ in a Lydian A Minor mode? Wouldn’t that be splendid? and ? hey ! HEY FUCKHEAD!! How many times do I have to tell you, the ‘HORRENDOUS WARFARE OF DEATH’ refrain is ADAGGIO??”


I figure I’ve already taken 1,000 pictures of them so I put the camera down and picked up the PANDA. The PANDA is a puppet I was given earlier in the day. I had no idea what to do with it but I kept it close at hand. erm. But as soon as 4 SPIKES started playing, everyone sang along, and I knew exactly why God had gifted me on this day with a hand puppet. The PANDA was all up in the singer’s face all singing along every song. Even if I didn’t know the words, the PANDA did and he was hell of belting out tunes like Liza. Of course I couldn’t take a picture of myself while doing it . . .which is a shame. Again, this is one of those ‘BEST PHOTO I NEVER TOOK’ moments.


Speaking of foolishness: here’s something dumb to not do: try not starting to drink Korean whiskey at 1 pm and keep going until 8.

by the time FOOLISHNESS took the stage I was a little tipsy. You know that kind of ‘a little tipsy’ where you wake up Saturday morning and look at the pictures taken Friday night and go, “man, who the hell is that band? And who the hell is THAT band? and who even took these damn photos?” well, that’s the kind of ‘a little tipsy’ I was. So, based on the digital evidence, the FOOLISHNESS played next. More than that I can’t say.


This is the band I really came to see. I’d been waiting a month to see them and now I have no idea what they sounded like. They might have been playing Javanese Ganelan for all I know.


Ditto. I have no idea what the hell happened. Which is weird because AT NO TIME during the festivities did I feel remotely nauseous, or feel bad, and I woke up the following morning with no hangover. So what the hell?? I have so much to learn about the magical world of alcohol abuse.

Afterwards, we went to izakaya. The punks took up at least 3 big tables. I was like the mom, saying ‘cmon guys, take your guitar and jacket out of the aisles, the staff has to walk through here.’ for ‘working class’ punks, they sure had a lot of contempt for the poor fools who work at this bar.

Basically I was just drinking like 4 gallons of water and fending off the advances of a teenager. Actual dialogue: “ehhh? I don’t have a lolita complex!” “I’m not a lolita! I’m 19!” plus some older skinhead guy pulled up a seat next to me and explained in great detail how and how he is a samurai skinhead, because skinheads are the modern-day samurai, but only Japanese skinheads can be samurai, and his mom was Whoopi Goldberg. He totally ruled. He was all talking about his skill with the samurai swords while smoking hella cigarettes and I was busting on him. Like, how are you going to have strength to fight if you have no lungs? His reponse: the soul is the true source of strength, and the smoke provides nourishment directly to his soul. Can I repeat the part about him ruling?


At around 1 am I set out for home. Normally I take the back streets, but today I went down the main street and promptly got pulled over by a cop who wanted to see if my bike was stolen. Fucking pink haired gaijin with beer-coated pants and a stuffed panda riding shotgun at 1 AM, nothing but trouble. It was a weird, super-polite arrest. He was all, can you please come to the station? Let’s go together! And I was all, why certainly my good man, nothing would please me more! Like a PARODY of japanese manners. So we went to the local koban, which is like a tiny police box by the station, where they politely searched me for guns and knives. the panda was not searched, which is good because that vato was packing mad heat.

And since I didn’t have papers to prove I was the rightful owner, they gave me a ride in the police car to the big cop station. Then we went to a little interrogation room. By this time there were like 6 different cops all trying to get to the bottom of this. I was starting to get tired, but I remained really cheerful: nothing is better Japanese practice than talking to cops. After awhile I convince them that I have the former owner’s name and phone number on my computer, so they can contact him directly and ask if he sold me the bike. But my computer is at home, and they won’t let me use the internet at the station for some reason.

So you know what happened next: me biking back to my house followed by a cop car full of police! I invite them in using the super-formal Japanese I learned last week. “please be so kind as to enter my humble home! Won’t you kindly have a seat?” And they all take off their shoes, which I thought was so fucking hilarious: the whole affair had this utterly wonderfully absurd contradiction. On the one hand they were maybe going to arrest me. On the other hand it was like, ‘hi honey, I brought some cops home! Can you make some tea?’ totally domestic!!

But of course my home is all full of retarded fucked up posters of schoolgirls committing hari-kari and gay Ultraman porn and stuff like that, so I’ll leave it to your imagination exactly how fucking absurd this was. One cop in particular was enjoying this 20 year old ‘japanese version of playboy’ magazine with a lady on the cover, naked except for a fuzzy frog mask and flippers. Anyway I print out the email with the former owner’s contact info on it and they bailed. The whole thing took 2 hours. I don’t really mind getting hauled into the station and interrogated. The only thing that pisses me off is, they wouldn’t let me take a picture of them hanging out in my house. I swear to god if I had been able to pull that off the whole ordeal would have been SO WORTH IT.


























—- 2






—- VALUES SS is the name of the band




—- this is his schtick: feeding back while strangling the mic.











—- 4 SPIKES. I was operating THE PANDA the whole time so I didn't take any pictures.




—- BOOB$ SHIT (don't forget the '$'). The band I came to see, the band I don't remember. On the left hand side, you can see THE PANDA singing along.




—- 5






—- THE PANDA in action, singing along. the bassist looks like Ted Nugent .










—- 6






—- DISCLAPTIES is the headliner again.








—- shiou-san diving or falling or something.




—- #butt2.jpg" type="image" /> —- butt2.jpg" type="image" />








—- the ever popular 'HOW MANY SPIKES CAN YOU FIT IN AN ELEVATOR' game . . in front of the elevator is the Skinhead Samurai guy. tough as hell but just smiled all the time.


—- shiou-san expressing his affection for rock


—- drummer for BOOB$ SHIT








—- I have no memory of taking this picture


—- or this one


—- or this one.


—- SAYAKA- 'i'm not a lolita!' -SAN and friend


—- Kaori-san


—- Crazy-big-dude-san and ryouchin-san







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reup : ‘Fragile Samurai’ drag carabet


Mar 13, 2004






Anyway, we go to the club. It's much more carabet-y this time.
Instead of the punk club 20000v, this installment is at AOI HEYA. A shibuya club that has a hundred tiny footstools, Panty Lamps, and no stage. It's like a cozy little hole in the wall, not a rock club. Kago shintaro-san is DJ ing. . . he's only playing traditional folk / festival music. Japanese traditional folk music has the simple perky singalong quality of American kids' music. But it's not just for kids. . . .

FIRST ACT: NEW RED CHINESE HOTEL. Last show ever. Same songs as last time but with the addition of HACHIYA-san on vocals. He's wearing full-on gothic lolita drag and doesn't move once during the whole performance. He's got a good 'goth loli' facial expression (vacant and sad) but he's still a Third Level Drag Queen: he hasn't learned to turn his toes in yet. Their encore was, as usual, WAITING FOR MY MAN. I really love Japanese guys saying 'hey white boy, what you doing uptown?' plus, Tanken, the bassist, was wearing what must be the shortest skirt in Tokyo. In TOKYO. That is some serious business.

They asked me to write the lyrics for one of their songs. . . they were tired of singing 'pretend english' and wanted 'nonsense English' instead.

Here is my contribution to Japanese culture:

when the morning comes /
Don Quixote's rash /
and he's got the boob /
with a magic ass /
in the evening rain /
doctor dre is sad /
and he wipes himself /
with a hygiene pad

translated into Japanese and back again:

morning is becoming
don Quixote itches
also he breast is existing
regarding this breast, an enchanted ass is being brought
evening's rain is falling at this time
doctor dre has sadness
his body wiping
woman's napikin with wiping

ACT 2 hanamaki gumi
with no warning, A BUNCH OF WOMEN came running in. they had identical silver wigs and granny-glasses, with matching white t-shirts and skirts. . . and were covered in white balloons. They danced around with a big red monster and lip-synched LAWDY MISS CLAWDY (little Richard) while popping the balloons. The grand finale: bowing with their backs to the audience, showing their underwears. Each bloomer had a big letter on it so when they all lined up it spelled 'B-I-T-C-H-(skull and crossbones). '

Then they ran away, only to come back with cheerleader costumes and do basically the same thing. Some amazing queen dragged a 5 foot wide white balloon into the middle of the crowd and popped it, sending goose-down everywhere: the balloon had been stuffed with feathers.

Their third number was some show-tune called 'money money money.' The leader came out with this absurd and nasty red lace outfit with a charming glitter-covered dildo. A two inch long glitter covered dildo!! Everyone else was wearing sequined-up cabaret style costumes. I think the gist of it was, the lady with the 2-incher was trying to pimp them out to the audience: pulling them up one at a time and gesturing for us to look at their sequin-encrusted boobies. . . but at the end they got even with her: they all dogpiled on her and ripped her clothes off. then, out of nowhere a mink coat appeared, and a bowler hat, and the disgraced drag-king ex-pimp turned into LIZA MANELLI. She sang some kind of Liza song, running into the crowd and harassing people. Then the monster came back and they all took a bow.

Then THE WORST DJ IN THE WORLD played between bands. Music was too loud, AND no one danced. Seriously, there was no room for dancing. So you couldn't dance AND you couldn't talk either. But you couldn't complain because the dj is an ARTISTE and he is PRACTISING HIS CRAFT. That dude practically ruined the whole night.

She did a 3 act drag show. She's also the MC for the now-defunct DEPARTMENT H. but tonight she was doing some bust-out solo performances. First was . . . jesus, I don't even know WHAT the first costume was. The theme seemed to be Inca Princess Meets Post -70's – Elvis. But the music was Belly Dance Disco. Actually I have to say her music was as interesting as her costumes. No shitty gay disco or corny old showtunes. Just really eclectic, obscure, energetic tunes. After belly dancing inca elvis finished, out came s/m leather bikini queen with riding crop. I should add that throughout the entire 3-act performance, she was wearing these INSANE combination platform boots with stiletto heels, AND dancing AND not falling. Granted, she wasn't exactly doing head-spinning breakdance action, but even doing a simple pirouette in those boots is some mean, mean stuff. the finale was this sort of 'kimono / bikini' costume complete with bare midriff and fan. At the end, she opened up an old traditional Japanese umbrella . . . full of glitter! And showered the crowd with it.
Act 4

Then SOME ELECTRONICA BAND played. Oh wait, they have a name: SUPERSAVER.
They weren't much to watch, (laptop computer, guitarist sitting down). But the music was actually really good-inventive rhythms and slow unobtrusive melodies.

Mostly at that time we were chilling with the club owner, and Rachel D'lamour, and this fabulously drunk old guy that everyone kept looking at each other like, '. . . but I thought he was with YOU!' he was awesome though. All hitting on my girlfriend and yelling in rapid Japanese as if being loud would enable us foreigners to understand, and forcing everyone within a ten foot radius to get free drinks from his bottomless pit of whiskey.


After that, this lady – WHO LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THE JAPANESE MRS. ROPER (from 70's sitcom Three's Company) (exactly, seriously). She came out with her afro and massive rhinestones, and did some real (i.e. not lipsynched) cabaret. This involves:

a) singing pre-written songs with LOTS of ad-libbed lyrics that make fun of the audience
b) a real piano player who has to slow down and speed up to accommodate all the ad-libs
c) singing in mixed French and Japanese, but with the gravelly vibrato of traditional Japanese vocals
d) lots of jokes between songs
e) walking into the audience while singing, and flirting with / smacking them.

Needless to say I understood exactly none of the jokes. But then again I never understood Three's Company either. togawa masako -that's her name. She's also a famous author of mystery books! I wanted to ask her about it, but all I could say was, "dare shinda?" ("who died??")



—- new red Chinese hotel!




—- —


—- hachiya-san, singing this song that I wrote the words for. It goes something like this: when the morning comes / Don Quixote's rash / and he's got the boob / with a magic ass / in the evening rain / doctor dre is sad / and he wipes himself / with a hygiene pad … isn't that emo?


—- tanken-san with what has to be the shortest skirt in a city notorious for skirt-shortness. Damn.




—- BALOU. These were the djs that were ok.








—- hanamaki's monster friend, dancing to little Richard (of course)




—- they came back as cheerleaders. Dancing to.. THE SPICE GIRLS. Oddly enough, the spice girls themselves tried to get booked on this same show but they didn't have enough draw.




—- the tiny dildo of the pimp.








—- RACHEL D'LAMOUR. Fat Elvis meets Brrrrazilian Carnival








—- can you believe homegirl was DANCING in these things?


—- g










—- the grand finale…


—- super saver




—- mrs. Loper, er, I mean, TOGAWA MASAKO








—- ms. Togawa's Panty Lamps. How cool is that?


—- the panty lamps with a softer, more rrrrromantic lighting.

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mp3 post: Fish Supply Failing


download here.


YEAR: 1999 OR 97?
PERSONEL: crow (guitar, vox), me (drums, bass, vox), ange (occasional belly-dance drums).
FISH SUPPLY FAILING (one of the many thousands of bandnames left-over from the epic Finger Lickin’ Grout marketing and focus-group sessions) was the sort of rappin’ side-project of Adjetive Noun. Except it had nothing to do with the Noun. Well, besides the Noun never being able to get gigs, so we were bored. Me and Crow (the guitarist of Adjetive Noun, formerly of Abnormal Growth)  had some free time, so we formed a two-man rapping and rocking band. Maybe “band” is a bit strong of a word for it. It was more like a musical game, based on lyrics. The rules of the game were: one guy would write a line (the more absurd the better), and the other guy would have to write the second line. The second line would have to a) rhyme, and (much more difficult), b) somehow make sense of the first line. Using this “exquisite corpse MC” technique, we were able to come up with stuff like:
fillet my penis and serve it to Prince / this is by far the worst of Heloise’s hints
I get busy with baboons and messy with marmosets / I get more mammal ass than your average farmer gets
i’m going to  circumnavigate my bladder just like jerry lewis /
a felon like magellan, navigating like a nudist
Then we’d write music using the Abnormal Growth method of trying to use a different genre for every song.

Blottalgore was the second demo from FISH SUPPLY FAILING. The title comes from the two basic themes of the record: BLOT (the famous Viking sacrifice) and Al Gore (the famous Presidential sacrifice).

It was originally going to be just BLOT, but. . . well. . .. Al Gore just took over! The Al Gore theme was neither an endorsement of dude, nor a rebuke. It was just like, after noticing that we’d name-checked Gore twice, we became aware that there were about a DOZEN other lyrics elsewhere on the album, that SOUNDED VERY CLOSE TO AL GORE: “alligator”, “alamode”, “a whore”, etc. And we resolved to not let this rad coincidence go to waste, quickly changing all the lines to be AL GORE, whether it made any sense or not – including the title of the whole album! Basically we were doing a parody of our own songs, before they were even finished.




We begin by making a musical “sacrifice” to all the “gods” that make up the F.S.F. “pantheon” ? the  fellas that keep cropping up in our lyrics. The chomping sound is because  blot -according to Wikipedia – often “took the form of a sacramental meal or feast.”  So we’re offering an overview of our world, and thanking the people at the same time. The opening sample is, I believe, Leslie Nielsen.


he dwells inside a sickle-cell
planning a scheme to tickle Hell
Satan cavorts through the membrane
but gets rather surly sitting in traffic in Brisbane
so the sickle cell pops out of Kissinger’s earlobe
and lodges up his butt when he gets his ass probe
finding a polyp, he flirts like a trollop:
“if you don’t come with me, babe, i’ll give you such a wallop…!”
at his behest they elope through his breasts
and go back in thru his urethra to invite more guests
like a gay sperm cell dressed as Marie Antoinette
he’s huffing an puffing like a crazy with Tourette’s
keeping a ribosome and DNA as pets
he’s catchin hemoglobin in his nets
and eats till he gows to the size of a Kobold
then bursts through Kisssinger cus he is so bold!
like “Alien in Brisbane Part II:  The Hurting!”
or “Harold and Maude”  meets “Godzilla” in “the Splurting!!”



The song opens with an odd bass  – actually a sine-wave from an electric tuner, recorded through a wah-wah pedal.

Also: just for a change, we are singing the raps on this one. Probably it would be more of a switcheroo if the song were not at the beginning of the album, but oh well!

The bell is an actual cow-bell (the kind that hangs round the cow’s neck).

The violin is probably the first time I’d ever picked up one in my life. Thanks to cut-and-paste technology, my sloppy fuckups can be repeated with mechanical precision on every measure.

Also, Tom Arraya “makes a noise like a Hessian,” along with Frank Zappa.

kumquats and quarks, and things that seem neato
like pat robertson in a speedo
showing his bulge like my uncle vito
barfing up a refried ghandi burrito
singing falsetto in the warsaw ghetto
“If I were a rich maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan” like Paul Dianno
rockin like reagan and menachem begin
but when I bust shots, you’ll wind up like sadat
or a sadistic hawaiian, perot, or pol pot
sailing a yacht “straight up your poop chute,
i-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi!”….I put the

naughty back in nautical when I get scatalogical
using a proctoscope instead of a monocle

this here’s a chronicle of my ill-fated
escapade   I confess it made no sense
cus i’m mad, i’m mad as  as a hatter i’m going to
circumnavigate my bladder just like jerry lewis
a felon like magellan, navigating like a nudist
or amerigo vespuchi, who’s somewhat of a hoochie
him and marco polo going doggie style with
“poochie the rocking dawggg”:  he’s the crudest!

a creepin’ and a crawlin’ like savvy bhuddist
I’m gonna spank your tuchus with george lucas
he’s coughing up mucus on the seat of your bloomers
now i’m going to sit and dine on your tumors
selling all your humors to the good humor man:
black bile, green bile, blood and lymph glands
hands down i’m the klown making’ em go ‘Boo Hiss!’
with a toga like brutus, and a tutu like desmond

am I looking GQ?  no question
here’s today’s lesson:  make a noise like a hessian
“yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”  it’s your duty
to get the poker from colonel mustard and kill hootie
shaking my booty on an ark made of leather
sharing my cooties with birds of a feather
I’m a postulating prophet sitting on my toffet
if a smurf comes my way i’m going to grease it up and boff it


This kind of stop-and-start, call-and-response song is known as a “cake-walk.” (most famously, “Mannish Boy” by Muddy Waters and “Moving To Flordida” by the Butthole Surfers).

But instead of alternating vocals and instruments, we flip the script: it’s  vocals AND instruments alternating with the SOUND EFFECTS of the vocals.

For instance, the line “Lemmy’s hijacking the lute from a quadriplegic troubadour” is followed by the sound of a lute being hijacked by Lemmy.

Then at the end, it does something else. The transition is in five/four time and involves an elevator full of fetuses.

I crashed my schooner into hugh hefner’s gnu  (boom!   Moooo!)
so he plays a funeral dirge on his digerey-dooo  (mmmmmmmbnmnmnnm)
australian ditties make me wanna cut a rug  so I jump off the deck      (whoosh, thud)
and start doing the frug  (go go 60’s music)
dance a hoochie koochie with kristi yamaguchi   (turning japanese)
who pulls off her mask and reveals that she’s el duce (four-f club)
I yell:  shiver me timbers and lance all me boils (shivering noise, splat)
save all the juice for the thirsty mohels (glug glug glug glug)
they’re going head-hunting with the wild men of borneo  (hugga mugga, hugga mugga!!!)
screaming ‘lookout!!!” like ronnie james dio (sabbath sample)
back in the lab I syntheszye an elk   (construction noises, elk sample)
with an  ovum of cher and the sperm of lawrence whelk  (what the hell does lawrence whelk sound like??)
it’s ogling the boobs of a wealthy old dowager  (boioioioiong!!)
pretending they’re the  moles of lemmy kilminister (ace of spades)
lemmy’s heisting the lute from a quadraplegic trubador  (plucking lute noises)
chop off his arms and legs and stick them in the humidor  (whack whack, thud)
then file’em down till they’re nothing but a stub   (filing sounds)
put ‘em in my shorts as I sail down to the club  (sailing and waves)
where darth vader lapdances are all a the rage  (kazoo strip music)
obi juan’s on the pole and chubacca’s in a cage  (wookie noise)
gilligan won’t stop giving me head so  (theme song plus slurping)
we made him jack off with the greatful dead  (??)
now he’s eating pavarotti’s weenie garnished with scallopini  (chomp chomp)
regurgitates it twice and feeds it to fellini  (bleaaaaaaaah, “bene!!”)
who whips out his camera and films a naked shirley feeney  (theme, plus whistling)
I try to leave cus the scene was getting too steamy   (slamming door, footsteps)
but three legged fetuses clogged the escalator  (crying plus mechanical buzz)
and the doorway’s blocked by mulatto masturbators  (rythmic grunting)
so I scrape the dead babies off and head for the elevator (scraping)
so I can  feed all the extra parts to al gore later
so I can  feed all the extra parts to al gore later
so I can  feed all the extra parts to al gore later
so I can  feed all the extra parts to al gore later



For this tune, we upped the ante:  not only did we have to finish each others’ rhymes, but we had to do it within a forty-second time limit. That’s why the ticking (using my Dad’s cooking timer which is in the shape of a cow- hence the song-ending MOO). 

The decision to use a sample from the musical “42nd Street” was a no-brainer.

Also a rule: we were rhyming 3 lines, not 2.  So that’s why we chose a beat that ‘s 3 measures long. The bridge at 2:10 uses a drum-machine  “bell” tone, which is  bent chromatically down by assigning each bent pitch to 6 adjoining drum pads, thus turning it into a sort of helium xylophone – a technique later employed by Ween on “Spinal Meningitis.”

The ending is my favorite part: Crow plays a guitar solo, I scratch a harmonica using a thrift-store turntable with no crossfader, and play the a sample of the word “William Casey” over and over , like a percussion instrument. For 8 minutes.

coming through your butt like Vaclav Havel
gouging my nose on the remains of your felafel
the pain was so fun I could write a novel ‘bout how my
anal spelunkin’ disgraced my fellow eunuchs
but i’ll show you my nub when I flip up my tunics
battling the fringe as I fight some punics
Carthage is my enemy , from Rome I do hail
screaming through the tuba in an e flat scale
coming up to Jesus with some wood and some nails
I’m a pompous ass not a pompous pilate
never quit sailing cus I’m the staunchest pirate
I’ll kill that scurvy swab with a Richard Simmons diet
got so many planks for you to walk
“so jump ye matey!”  the parrot done squalk
and sing a long With cap’n Dio as he says “We Rock!!!”
first mate Eddie Vedder: call for the cabin boy
with Gorbachev’s dick it’s good to add soy
riding Freddie Mercury’s mustache like a toy
coming up your colon with a UV meter
bashing my testicles with an egg beater
pumping fluid out of Rod Stewart liter after liter
we sailing to Tonga in our Tonka tug boat
delivering 25 kilos of spastic stoats
which we’ll all freebase until we bloat
10 seconds to write a rhyme is not enough
I take a bite out of mimes like a rabid McGruff
this is far less commercial than a Daddy named Puff
 with a giraffe flambe i’m getting pretty tasty
hiding my ass from the sun makes it white and pasty
my funk styles are secret like William Casey!

coming through your butt like Vaclav Havel
the pain was so fun I could write a novel
about the time I was poor and pawned all my baubles
I’m a poor disgrace to my fellow eunuchs
cus I have a big schlong dangling ‘neath my tunics
battling the fringe as I fight some punics
Carthage is my enemy , from Rome I do hail
screaming through the tuba in an e flat scale
coming up to Jesus with some wood and some nails
I’m a pompous ass not a pompous pilate
never quit sailing cus I’m the staunchest pirate
I’ll kill that scurvy swab with a Richard Simmons diet
got so many planks for you to walk
“so jump ye matey!”  the parrot done squalk
and sing a long With cap’n Dio as he says “We Rock!!!”
first mate Eddie Vedder: call for the cabin boy
with Gorbachev’s dick it’s good to add soy
riding Freddie Mercury’s mustache like a toy
coming up your colon with a UV meter
bashing my testicles with an egg beater
pumping fluid out of Rod Stewart liter after liter
we sailing to Tonga in our Tonka tug boat
delivering 25 kilos of spastic stoats
which we’ll all freebase until we bloat
10 seconds to write a rhyme is not enough
maybe if you write little i’ll call your bluff
this is far less commercial than a Dddy named Puff
we need to finish this malajusted rhyme
like stephen hawkings, ang gives us but a brief history of time
I guess that’s a crime, we’ll all turn into mimes
 with a giraffe flambe i’m getting pretty tasty
hiding my ass from the sun makes it all white and pasty
my funk styles are secret like William Casey!


 Crow had a bunch of faux- Metallica riffs lying around, so we poured them into a blender and added rapping WITH KING DIAMOND SCREAMS. 

Also at 5:40 it veers into a Sonic Youth thing for NO REASON, and, to make matters worse, we throw a half-speed “Walk This Way”  riff over the whole thing, while rapping about Jiffy Lube enemas.

St. Patrick says, “snakes don’t taste like chicken”
used pam on the griddle so the boa won’t be stickin
then we throw on donald trump to make it finger lickin
pickin off my scab with my forefinger and flickin
I am saint paddy marinating a viper
and rocking out hard with bands like stryper
snack on a diamond back in my yellow leotard
or a pallatable python with a sirape full of lard

‘chim-chimmery’ I say
like an old schooler
i’m a fool for the hula and
cooler than don schulla:
dolphin coach
 i’m not gauche,
 i’m so classy
like haile sellasse,
with jane pratt
doing the nasty
on the cover
of the new sassy

i fricasee a chickadee and shellac some similac
i’m back in black, I hit the sack
I take prozac and brie like ralph nader, i’m a
two fisted rapper like a nazi masturbator
oh no here I go through another dimension
dissecting jimmy carter with the help of jim henson
riding on a zebra saying ‘vote for lloyd benson’
playing strip poker with the trilateral commission

with a smith and wesson
each ricky lake a lesson
or we’ll put her in a car
with an angry-looking hatian
that yenta like
 I was carrie nation
i’m so cuckolded
I got horns
like satan’s

im the scourge of the sea, can’t you see i’m dead serious

delerious punks that emerge from below
go ‘yo ho d’oh!’ and run perot off the poop deck
eject the redneck cus i fogot the alamo
cold getting stupid like a retarded eskimo
I sail the sargasso in my hydraulic galleon
I yodel like a yogi eating super-spicy scallions
with a brie chaser, i’m not a free baser
cus I listen to erasure while I tattoo you with a razor
(d, b, c, g)
the damage is major like the britain’s ole pm
now living in a lean-to in front of the un
he pulled a smelt from his belt and said ‘god bless the indians!!’
my avant-garde prose is much worse than tom pynchon’s
  (solo:  b,d, f#, c, d, b, c, g)

i’ll give the leather turnip to the angry patrons
cooked in tabasco cus i’m such a cajun
staging a revolt with my .45 colt
and my uzi named suzi , gonnna turn you into a debolt
now you’re a quad cus of my fussilade looking like
quasimodo, cus i ran you over with
my desoto, cus I drive loco on the
run from sherrif lobo! and hold your condo in escrow

with my 45 colt, turn you into a debolt
now you’re a quad cus of my fusilade
looking like Quasimodo cus I ran you over with me DeSoto
cus I drive loco on the run from Sherriff Lobo
and hold your condo in escrow…
Condo!  Escrow!  Eskimo!!!

i’m donning my bonnet as I throw down the gauntlet
i’ll beat alex haley with a shillaylee and a grommet
till he vomits, whew, make him do the soft shoe
tap dance manouvre, shuffle through the louvre
and if you break dance on the mona lisa, we’ll grease ya
wesson, canola, crisco and jiffy lube
kissinger’s got the bag
if vanna white’s got the tube
it’s a debonair derriere enema spree
I wear my catheter with flair but still smell like pee

i’m frumpy, i’m grumpy, I recite my rhymes loudly
eat a knish full of fish and kick your ass proudly
doun’t doubt me, i’m fiendish; have you ever seen this?
a man pull a tapeworm straight out of his penis?
got a squid in my pants, it makes me feel jockular
wearing rainbow suspenders cus mork is so popular
with velvet lederhosen lined with alpine goat fur
I got a lowrider chariot like my man ben hur

or pinochet’s prostate which makes a tone in b-flat
please toot the gland elsewere cus I don’t wanna see that…

so be a good boy or we’ll throw you in the pee vat


Probably the best lyrics on the whole thing. And not just because I drop the slang "Hubba-hoes" (a prehistoric Oakland term for crack whore – bonus points to anyone  who can tell me which rappers first put that snap on wax!)

Ange once again adds her doom-bek skillz, but she was late for belly-dance practice, so she only had time to play 2 bars of doom-bek. I looped them in the Roland, and we laid everything else on top of that.

Working at the zoo selling smack to all the gibbons
wear tapeworms in my hair cus I can’t afford ribbons
I feed ‘blot’ to the lions cus it makes me chipper
when Jaques Cousteau comes over that’s when i’m pimping Flipper

I get busy with baboons and messy with marmosets
I get more mammal ass than your average farmer gets

spanking the girraffes makes me get gooey
with my leather mask on I resemble Honk Kong Phooey
i’m feeeding Eskimo babies to the hungry polar bears
dosed their mukluks with LSD to take ‘em unawares

i’m the evil zookeeper torturing all the animals
i’ll sadddle up and elephant and yell “check it out, i’m Hannibal!!’
when i’m angry I tip over water buffallo
PETA protests but I just say ‘Shut up you hubba-hoes!”

I get busy with baboons and messy with marmosets
I get more mammal ass than your average farmer gets

when the zoo shuts down I begin my nightly wing ding:
what I did with Ling Ling would put me in Sing Sing
beastiality is a very moral addiction:
knocking up animals to save them from extinction

it’s not easy convincing an ibex to try sex
deep throat a dingo all the way down my neck
first I went into a mole hole
then I went into a mole hole

what do you get when you cross a man and a crow?
when it hatches i’ll let you know
i’m kickin all the chicken and tickling rhinos
when the lions are hungry they also get to eat winoes

if i’m feeling really scary I go into the aviary
I perform Santarian rites with canaries
so I can see the future in their entrials
I see me swindling seals and killing whales

I see the SPCA is about to stage a raid
and feed me to alligators in the Everglades
so it’s time to make my escape
ride a crazed wildebeest to the Bering Straits


This is the only song with a real, sampler-and-drum-machine “rap beat” to it.

The sample is from the soundtrack of DIVA, a French art film about  some crimes and a rollerskating Vietnamese girl who steals records which are hidden inside naked pictures of herself.

Anyway,  I hella “chopped” this sample (i.e. a 2-bar sample got cut into pieces which were reassembled out of sequence) way before the concept of “chopping” was invented. Damn it! 

Then I added some wah-wah bass, some really low-quality tympanni, and rounded things off with a nice Einsturzende Neubauten sample of a skill-saw, which I tweaked so it plays a little melody.

E.N.’s music was terrible as music, but as fodder for samples it still can’t be fuckin’ beat.

  There’s a lot of references in this song to “benches”. This comes from the rapper AMG’s one-hit-wonder song “Bitch Betta Have My Money,” popular at the time, which we mis-heard as “Bench Betta Have My Monkey.”  This phrase was repeated ad nauseum during the entire time we wrote and recorded the album. 

like Louis and Clark I explore fast food
with my apron on, i’m the pizza dude
crude oil pours from my hairy breeches
and if you piss me off i’m gonna feed you leeches

to suck out toxins from my lox’n
bagels i’ll decorate my store with O’Keefes and
 Nagels… incontinent, I can’t control my
kegels   with a diaper on I impersonate

Hegel late to work and driving like
Evel Kenevil Run over a
Nazi like I was Ellie Wiesel
fuck tom petty I play my raps on the p.a.
i’m a borderline psycho so give me lots of leeway

all you customers get out of my store
i’ll shove a shmear in your rear till my wrists are sore
tie you to the booth and call you a whore
selling botulistic lox from the days of yore

Like PT barnum  this is the greatest
show on earth  I’ll harm ‘em, cus they’re the
biggest hoes on earth

I want some slamon in my yarmukle and make it snappy
i’ll damage ya cus ‘hamische’ is schmaltzy and sappy
let me smack up my manager cus it will make me happy
my pappy  done tole me when I was in kneepants:

“don’t eat the kelp or other sea-plants”

just eat fast tood till you blocks a colon
give me a salami enema which makes my poopoo rollin

then take the ground beef and make myself a Golem

but I break it down cus that shit’s not kosher
and your rancid mozzarella draws the wrath of OSHA
no sir, odin, we’re fresh out of blot
for 5 bucks a shot you’re not getting ambrosia

strictly the hardcore grease and lard core
and if I eat too much it’ll make my alimentary canal sore
busting more rhymes than an animated al gore
now what you dis my fast food style for?

the food is stale but the lyrics are fresh
a circumcizer with the bagel slicer and make a big mess

Like PT barnum  this is the greatest show on earth
I’ll harm ‘em, cus they’re the biggest hoes on earth

I’ll cook that pizza the way I want to
pete moss in the sauce, and  dioxin in the fondue
bust nuts in the crust for all the nagging shit i’ve
 gone through my restaraunt’s too snooty,

hock a loogey in the lox cause we will,
we will taunt you like a
montague laughing at a capulet
if I was dr. strange i’d melt you down with my amulet

Like PT barnum  this is the greatest show on earth
I’ll harm ‘em, cus they’re the biggest hoes on earth


As long as we had Ange and Lance Ozanix in the “studio”, and in keeping with our rule of “different genre for every song,” we decided to do an improvised jam with them. This was a  counterpoint all the super-pro-quality beats and inhumanly technical prog which comprised the rest of our fuckin’ repotoire. 

This tune was written and recorded in  around 3 minutes, and sounds it. 

Lance had such a hard time pronouncing Menachem Begin (around 2 minutes out of the 3 consisted of us coaching him), that  I turned “Menachem” into the intro just to mess with him.

i’m running down the road and screaming like a banshee
didn’t look where I was going so I ran into a shanty
where I saw Menachem Begin pulling down his panties
doing an Israelei striptease in front of some irish dandies
they were playing marbles with Sammy Davis’ glass eye
along with seven Texas Rangers who were eating apple pie
Ronald Reagan’s shaving heads making all the girls cry
and he combines the hair in a strange fetish coating bass for the big fish fry
he’s kicking all the asses of the nation’s yoiyth
yes he’s quite unconventional and a bit uncouth
he’s putting a cap in their asses like William Booth


This starts with a slow tribal beat, of the kind that Butthole Surfers used to rock with two stand-up drummers ( i.e. the pivotal tune The Shah Sleeps In Lee Harvey’s Grave, etc.)

The horns are sampled from a mariachi CD which I picked out of the 50cent bin for just this purpose.

The amazing sassy, whooping noise which ties the whole tune together is a sound effect of “Submarine Alarm Horn.”

The high-pitched grinding is my folks’ electric can-opener which just happened to be in the same key as the submarine horn AND at  rotor was at the same tempo!

Lance Ozanix does a guest-appearance as the voice of Pinochet.


Mr. Magoo protrudes from my rectum
kick me in the tummy; maybe that’ll eject him
watch his body richochet off General Pinochet
And fall in a ditch where John Bobbit’s penis lay
as he flew, he yanked out my condalomas
I feel like i’m passing  venitian gondolas
I said, hold on, you give’em back to me fast
and explain your presence in the crack of my ass

why’d you crawl up, are you just mindless?
or did you get lost cus of your comical blindness
he said, I’ll be blunt, like allen funt i’ll be  candid…
 I’m the sleep bandit can you stand it
I’m a rectal invader whose going up your mudflaps
I said you made me have a anal prolapse
so I need to get a bag for colostomy
cause a cartoon character got lost in me

im a martyr to my sphincter like a diharettic jesus
cus of a little bald bastard looking like a fetus
you’re an uncouth cartoon sodomist
even tex avery would never have thought of this
pinochet’s confused, he keeps saying ‘y que?
why don’t we come back to chile and have us a 3 way!’
so I tooted his prostate it made a sound in b-flat
but I had to quit cus it kept making feedback

so now my ears are sore and my ass is too
all cus of a fool named mr. magoo

so I get mad and pull out my mauser
magoo jumps down a  well like  a midget dowser
saying, wait, hold on, let’s make a deal:
that’ll make us richer than shaquille o neal
you got rectal cysts from syphillus
i’m holding them in my shitty fist
if you blast my ass you lose these  condolomas
but if you haul me up we can go down to soma

they’re no less vulgar than our whole damn culture so i
declare ‘em modern art and sell ‘em to moma
we’ll charge  ‘em for a million and not a dime less
and pablo picasso can kiss my ass
I said you’re crazy we cant do that, cus the
right wing NEA will never give us a grant
besides you reek of feces, you’re out of hand
you need to get washed up like robert plant

quoth magoo I got a scheme, even though its shystie
ill crawl up jesse helms’s sexy ole hinie
from inside I control and manipulate him
he’s on the senate floor spraypainting hail satan
jesse votes yes, and we get fat dough
now it’s time to take the show on the road
we come to your town and magoo will hunker
and then emerge with a trophy like a shitty spelunker

I go deep and finds some long lost lasanga
I gold plate it and sell it to Sha Na Na
I gets more hole than andy warhol
i’m an artistic genius with a mighty sore hole
now I’m a millionare because of my deriere
That’s when we got the call from a current affair
You’re far too tasteful we’re waiting for springer
so we can costar with lance the skitzo singer


1)    it’s a FISH SUPPLY FAILING rule we have to have one a-capella thing per album. (we got a lot of rules)
2)    The lyrics are  entirely based on what I THOUGHT ozzy was saying.



Since we were in the Noun at the time, it only made sense to do a cross-over tune with all the members.

Since Adjetive Noun was a very offensive band, the only logical format for a Noun Rap was the most offensive, hated form of music: rap-metal.

This was deliberate. 

The riffs in this song are all from the Noun’s song, but slowed down and limp-biskit-ized. 

I couldn’t resist adding the melody from Carmina Burana- for some reason it fits perfectly over the Noun’s chorus.

  Also, the drums are kind of wild. . . I was reciting the lyrics as I drummed, so the drum fills exactly match the syllables of the rhymes.

Also on the breaks?  I sampled the Noun’s live shows.

The outro is ridiculous too. . . besides rap-metal, the other music punks hate most is techno, so the song gradually morphs into a Kraftwerk version just to be terrible.

KERB 2 AKA lieberman = K

k    one to the two to the six to the eight
c    i’m Mui Mui MacGrrrrrrrrrrregor the Samoan-Scottish crate
s    carrying eight tons of Polynesian haggis
k    always get my pork products blessed by the rabbis
k    laying down the law like Moses in the Bible
c    drinking with Jesus getting drunk on highballs
c    my god lays prostrate getting sucked by Betty Crocker
s    my prostrate’s popping like Orovile Reddenbacher
c     Wee Willy Wonka, sucking on the Tonka
s     with your Wayne Newton mullet, you’re still sayin’ “Danke!”
k     grow that mullet like you really mean buisness
s    I got a yule log and it ain’t even Christmas
j    nor easter, chauuka, quanza or purim
c     if the pencil in the ass don’t help, nothing will cure him
s     #2 Ticonderoga, made from the finest elm
k     trading mascara with the Fuhrer Jesse Helms
s    tugging our beards like some smart-ass philosophers
c    mooning the priest cus we’re so very jocular!
k    eenie meenie miney mo, rob that bank!
c    and kick Winona Rider’s ass cus she’s a fuckin’ skank
s    napalming Pengrove and nuking Petaluma
j    we’ll rock Sebastapol cus they got so many tunas
s    turn on a dime and proceed through Cotati
k     the famous stomping grounds of the Bavarian Illuminati
k    taking special care as i’m shooting tennis players
c     listening to Sade shen she used to sing in Slayer
k    I play bass in the baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand!
s    we’re in the Noun and so we hate the Kids
j     and the Man and the church and the record biz
c    growing bonsai trees out of Diesel Boy’s butt
s    chop up J Church and serve ‘em as cold cuts
s    overthrow the fuzz and pester the man
c    Oscar the Grouch macking in a tuna can
k    rolling like  tank and we’re flowing like a quatrain
c    burning Schlong records and snorting lots of cocaine
c     pooping in the sheets on Park Avenue
s     let Phil Collins clean up my residue
s    smellin’ Boris Yeltsin and suckin on Skittles
k    chomping on your ass like your pup and Tender Vittles



This is the only song where I wrote all the lyrics : the only rule this time was that every single line had to rhyme with MONGOLIAN: a surprisingly large amount of words.

The music is (like MAGOO) a sort of tribal beat, but this time imitating the the reverb-drenched,  mid-rangey production  of Dub producer Lee 'scratch' Perry, by way of  ILL COMMUNICATION.

bounding round the tundra like a hyper mongolian
knocking down fools like they was bowling pins
eating mao mix with a hungry ho chi minh
I get paid in lire, yen and semolians
got an enema it was full of plutonium
my ass is glowing — don’t know if I can hold it in
gave a sex change to napoleon
he’s got his hands down his pants —he’s feeling his fallopians
carved a breakdancing klingon out of cubic zirchonium
I am the king of glutemates, there is none higher, call me monosodium
pigging out with the kaiser, hes a roly poly hun
we’re bugging our waiter, ‘is our cannoli done?’
with a fezzless head        im an undercover anatolian
like I said in 91 ———i’m doper than opium
disfigure a vj with flaming petrolium
make him snort agent orange, a toxic defoliant
abnormal growth live at the hammersmith odeon
they say I cohabit with the unholy one
crazy wack beats I keep on composing em
this one’s in a mode called aeolian
masturbating ewoks spurt on the linoleum
they all got herpes from a dirty old obi one
I bet my rostrum could beat up your podium
got an abe lincoln costume from tom jamgocian!



Probably the funkiest thing on here.

Things to know: there’s no downbeat! The accents fall just before and after the one. 

The “P-toooin, P-tooon” noise in the left speaker is a snare distorted until it made an overtone in key with the song.

The bridge was a nod to Crow’s beloved Grateful Dead.

The funnest part of recording was:  the whistle on the chorus. Although it sounds like a bad DJ cross-fading a record which is slowing down, actually it’s me playing (live!) one of those little whistles that a-capella groups use to get in tune. And while I’m playing it with one hand, I’m speeding up the recording with the other. That’s shit is hard to do and stay in time, G!

I got the horrid rhymes, but mine’s are worse
I got the horrid rhymes, but mine’s are worse
I got the horrid hymes, but mine’s are worse
than a quadraplegic mime’s; we’re verbally cursed

my verse is badder than marcell marceau
doing charades when he’s just a torso
badder than a peep show for the blind?
more so!  it’s a malajusted rhyme

booger, burger, bergen, burzum, ahhhhhhhhhhh!
bannannaramma, mamma-jamma, slam-a tuna raw
wash the Winnebago with the blood of King Diamond
who lost his soul to satan over a rigged game of Simon

I spooged out the image of Christ on the sidewalk
now he’s stuck to the bottoms of my converse high-tops
pick the pieces of feces off phyllis diller’s face
as she vows vengeance on an incontenent Ace of Bass

eat that turnip or i’ll sell you to the czar
legal name is Blackbeard, but my friends just call me “Arrrrrrr!”
fillet my penis and serve it to Prince
this is by far the worst of Heloise’s hints

I got the horrid rhymes, but mine’s are worse
I got the horrid rhymes, but mine’s are worse
I got the horrid hymes, but mine’s are worse
than a quadraplegic mime’s; we’re verbally cursed

Brachiating belgians high on dope:
got burned cus they smoked and swang on the same hemp rope
parading ‘round the airport in nothing but felt
a) cus I hijacked a blanket from Linus van Pelt
b)  “Anything to declare?” just a Daryl Hannah pelt

Kick the anatolian while he is hunkering
With a crazy kung fu move like Dolph Lungren
Choke the chiuawa with that bratwurst on rye
and use its little skull as a ball in Jai Alai

scream “oh shit!” when we tackle unitarians,
pour battery acid on the lousy librarians
i’m picking up the pieces of the disemboweled clown
put ‘em in me haggis and wolf it on down

bob ross starts burning churches in Norway
to publicize his ‘wet-on-wet’ corpse paints in the hardcore way
broke all the crayolas in jesse jackson’s set
cus he said ‘hymietown’ and claimed it was just tourette’s

I got the horrid rhymes, but mine’s are worse
I got the horrid rhymes, but mine’s are worse
I got the horrid hymes, but mine’s are worse
than a quadraplegic mime’s; we’re verbally cursed

blonde bombshells being shot through the cannon
they felt really guilty,  after reading too much Fanon
scrape up the remains and serve em with some dannons
a yogurty flavor with chunks of john fogerty
he’s a sinister rocker with stevie nicks in his locker
reanimates her using parts from betty crocker
going down to cabo to sell Hagar some acid
him and lucky eddie fry so hard they capsize in  lake placid
sit on the bed and play with ed asner
bow down beofre him and start shouting “MASTER! MASTER!!”



mp3 post: finky binks

ARTIST: FINKY BINKS (pictured above, getting his flow on with gorilla mittens)


YEAR: 2002

NUTSHELL: Finky wrote the raps and I made the music.

download the whole thing here.


This is a collaboration between me and Finky, an East Bay rapper.  I felt like it would be a perpetrator/poser move to sample black people, so we kept it real white-and-nerdy by sampling Modern Classical composers. The whole album is full of fake 808 beats with Stravinsky, Stastacovich, Schoenberg, and other Starts-With-an-S jackasses in tuxedos.  

Lyrically, COSMONAUT is full of the druggy, stoned-ass nonsense that Finky's dozen or so fans expect of him. Lines like: "Stuffing with your grill with doodee poots, / Your flatulence annoys the women" Or . . .'I file all my rhymes under "A" for effort.'

The lyrics tell this bizarre story of Finky's alter-ego Charlie Buckett (of CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY fame). . picking up where the novel left off. Charlie's glass elevator goes up, up, and out of the Chocolate Factory and continues up into space! He has some space adventures with a rapping HAL 9000 computer, then comes back to Earth to open his OWN factory "we make scouring pads to scrub out scrubs AND wack MCs". Corrupted by power, he loses his lady and his friends, and then takes the elevator down to the center of the earth to die. A lesson for all of us in these troubled times.

Although we had a general plot, I'd up the ante by giving Finky "assignments": write about folders and filing, I'd tell him. Write about spelunking. Here are some books from the library, I would say.




Outer space, no limit to my acceleration
The space between time and mind needs no explanation
Check, "One two three!" for the verification
No more contact with off-world intergalactic space station
It's time for re-formation, from human to antelope
I've been bamboozled by a mutant isotope

Charlie bucket, cosmonaut

I change controls on my glass elevator
Escape velocity, maybe I'll see you later
Built a house on a moon crater
Maybe I won't invite you over cus you're a hater


Right now I gotta drink Tang with Chuck Yeager
Eatin' a bowl fulla Count Chocula inside of a nebula
I'm serious
Go on a drag race with Galactus
The fool always cheats
And I hear he jacks beats from planets that he eats
Intergalactic poser
In a supernova
Experiencing a meltdown of epic magnitude
Even Carl Sagan's sayin' I'm the dude

"Daisy, Daisy…."
My days in space are lazy
I'm starting to go crazy
Space monkey bloated chunky
Smellin skunky
Horse pucky
"This is Ground Control to Charlie Bucket…"
open those pod bay doors
my body's covered in sores
turn up the heating cores
can't lay down upon the floors
because of the gravity
this interplanetary space travel can drive me to insanity
Shooting stars, shooting stars
I'm on my way to mars


Space, the last remenant
Of the human race
I'm indigent
Super hobo millennium transvestite cosmonaut
Making pornos for aliens just like Kurt Vonnegut
Yeah, slaughterhouse five
Holograms now on sale
With me and a cybernetic Marlyn Quayle
With telescopic esophagus
She could take on Mr. Snuffaluffigus
Ahh, look but don't touch
I'll put that pseudopod in a crutch
Cus I had enough-o-this
How can I do a lap dance when you ain't even got a lap, punk?



Sun down drain out looking for some sugar
Pick that nose, pick that ass, looking for a booger
Do you think you'll find . . . a bananna rind?
Or an orange peel (something you can kill)
Or maybe not quite dead, stick my finger in your head
Forget what you heard but remember what I said?
Outta my nightmares, bitch, just like Scary Fred
Spit out what you been fed, it's probably full of lead
Microchips in the water, baby, it's time to go to bed

Broken wing with a six-string box
Saggy titties and a polkadot cock
Live lavish look deep into my eyes
Get me to rise, your ass is quite big
Not to mention those thighs
Too much hamburger and fries,
Too much try-tries
You still look good to me!

Rub it on your head on your bald bald head
Better than Rogaine
You have that canteloupe look in your eyes
You got those seeds on your thighs. . .
It's headed


Bucket pocket swells with cabinets and cables,
You forgot all the labels
Open up the owner's manual
Ridin' piggyback, sideways up on my homey's camel
Tap that ass, lookin hairy Booty kinda scary
Candyland and space cadet, and still you is a fairy
Call my Saha larry, Or my folks Jerry
Janeene, Rebecca and old mary
"Charlie can we pop your cherry?"
Files and folders with a quickess
Rolodex spins with a mission
You on the phone and my file cabinet doesn't listen
(I file all my rhymes under A for effort)
Q-tip in my earhole like a big ole cotton pole
Your saliva mouth ripples, teeth I just stole
Squeeze a diamond into coal
Don't pay no fuckin' toll…..
Take the peaches out the bowl

Charlie bucket got the most hits, fuck a post-it
Advanced folders


Charlie bucket got the most hits, fuck a post-it
Fuck a memo pad and fuck a refrigerator magnet
All my lyrics bustin' out of a bakers' dozen file cabinets
I got hangin' folders in my vertical file
All your rhymes go in the circular file
Straight to the incinerator without any flavor
I got the crazy fat files with Pee-ches and accordion styles
I'm vivisectin' billy corgan
I jab the spork in
File his spleen under 'I' for 'internal organs'

If I'm baked like a cookie then I'm the burnt one of the batch
Thrown away and left to die, too small to be a catch
You get filed in the 'wack' cabinet like the speaker of the house?
"Orrin Hatch?"No.
Roll around in poison oak and then the flower patch
Gasoline and a match Lit your shit on fire
Underoos so old and dirty I think they can retire
Or walk by themselves, jumpin off of the shelves
Just like little elves,.
Workin' on my shoes
I found them drunk and fucked up, like they was sniffing glue
Maybe it was paint; the odor's kinda faint
But still it's farmiliar, losing brain cells I cain't
I have to have to maintain some sort of composure
I don't need a staple gun when I got a folder
But I need some closure, I'm feeling. . . quite ill
I'd rather bust your face open on a windowsill
I'm trying to be nice, look under "L" for lice
Itchy head, itchy 'sahh' , haha I got you twice…




My suit stash is major; I'm running for mayor
Out the door with a squash player, livin' in a trailer
Used to be a sailor; now I'm the boss
Ownin' stocks
Punch those clocks, punch those clocks, punch those clocks!
It's time to start the production line
Quotas met in record time
Here at Bucket Industries
Major factories
Making scouring pads to clean up wack MCs
Taking bets as I scrub out scrubs
Brillo pad you get no love, no love, no love
You got time to lean, you got time to clean
Getting paid by the hour (payday feeling sour)
"Product management needs some work"
So when you get fired I'm the fucking jerk?
Secretary and a clerk
Spy cameras at every corner so I don't have to lurk
Sneaking peeks
Taking leaks on your fuckin lunch hour
Uniform with no flower
Fuck you!
The only raise you'll get is when I raise a welt
Whip you with my conveyor belts
Steel wool blisters give me some pull, misters
"Workman's comp has no place in my industry"
product and shipment needs some help, G
get boxes moving up, up, up and out the door
when I fire a motherfucker he bound to be poor
can't find no loose change
Even your credit history I rearrange
Nobody touches you like you got the mange
Get to work! you're outta range
Employees stealing product????
Scouring pads to clean up like disease my shit spreads
Washed up, start at the head
Scrub down, down, down, down, down to the motherfuckin toes
Like Pony Express we make shipments rain sleet or snow
Rub out their verbal wackness with a certain matter-of-factness
The skills I have you lack this
Bound to eternal dipshit, stubby toes in the mattress.


I sail yachts in my dreams,
Tying knots in my cream sailing shorts
Drink bourbon with all sorts
On the tennis courts
Serve double-side folly
Bob you old chap, how's your wife molly?
"Just fine, Charlie"
Topsiders on deck
Hope this ship don't wreck
Are those real diamonds and pearls on your neck?

Paisley cravattes, topsiders with no socks?
Charlie bucket
Paisley cravattes, topsiders with no socks?
Fuck the America's cup!

I sailed into the America's Cup welcome reception
They don't know I jacked you, I'm good at deception
Fuck you bitch,
I'm a pirate….Slit your throat just to keep you fuckin' quiet
Yo ho ho, you know you can't fight it
Bottle of rum, a gun
Packed full of gunpowder
Drown your Little Precious in a vat of clam chowder
Steal your America Cup trophy
Overweight sailor looking kinda oafy
Your delectable brine shrimp
Up in my sailing ship
Locked you in the stern
For the entire trip


Dialed "M", pretend
To live amongst the rest
Vertigo got my lungs in a motherfuckin twist
Blown up, projected on a screen
Clouds filmed in negatives,
Nightmares inside my dream
With cream
Poured into the bowl
Suspense is building up and up
Choking on my soul
I work on my method, prepare my heart for the role
Whattaya got when ya gotta full pocket?
Pulling teeth and now your arm up out the socket
24 frames per second
Porno at the candy counter isn't the only time I get all naked….

Like television
I bring murder back into the home where it belongs
Record industry through lukewarm foreign films
And shitty gangsta rap songs
Triple x for content
My name is obscene
The man who knew too much and the flop number 13
Is clean
And ready to be set free
My name ain't walt Disney
So I've never been rated g
And I think if I was, the g would stand for 'mack'
You tried to change your mind
but I'm the dopest cd on the rack
Attack! the birds are dropping shits
I'm looking in your rear window to see how you get your hits
Small blunts and fake tits
Collagen-injected clits
Head dizzy mouth all cream and jizzy
Got my mom mummified in the basement
A mason jar of formaldehyde, that's where your face went
(in case you're curious)
I'm serious. . . so out of shape I'm makin' C. Everett koop furious
Too many highballs, too many leg of lamb
Now I'm delirious
Sway back; to and fro
North by northwest
Bad case of vertigo

The maltese cross promotes my celluloid
Best boy on my back, bout to get annoyed
Suck my peter as I check my light meter
How many foot candles can you handle
Check my theme song on the motherfucking sample
"Dum, dum dum de de doo doo dummmm"
don't mess with my apeture
I'm nasty, the true master of suspense
Fuck roman polanski
The man who knew too much fell down those 39 steps
When I yanked that bitch's crutch
I watch your neck break the 180 degree rule….

"stranger on a train filled with suspicion"
plenty of plates I break, still wash the dish in
at Jamaica Inn anthony perkins and me perkin'
with some jim beam
a crow bird chillin on my cigar
I busted at the seam
I laugh because when I do the math you still walk down that bootsy played out style of hip hop path
Feel the wrath of my psychotic inclinations
Projected on the silver screen
Mental masturbation , elation
For a nation calls me classic
Movies over books
Mother fuck scholastic.



A leg of lamb, fuck a leg of ham
Pork on my fork, tomato juices and clam
Pebbles and bam bam
Jake and the fat man
Pegasus and unicorn in never never land
Black sheep is drowning in some quick sand
Fucking leg of lamb instead of some motherfucking pork
All up on my fork
Urine in a bottle squeeze out the cork
A baby sent by stork
Engine loses torquie
Mindy and some mork
The tv show survivor
Replace it with macguyver
And reruns of facts of life
Jo tuti and Natalie, ricky shroder is the wife
Simon and simon got four kegs of gunpowder
Taking a shower
With my man Murdock and face,and Hannibal:
I love it when a leg of lamb comes together!!

Woman's voice:
"and now the Charlie bucket special recipie, girls!'

I'm all about the vegetables too lazy to upgrade
An ounce of donkey bullion and a liter of Gatorade
Boil with tumor pie ad 22 degrees
Chilled and served immediately with some antifreeze
Plus corn on the cob eat the greasy blob
Splatter barbecue sauce like a slob
Eat lamb cakes for a blow job?
Please hob nob with sista soljah,
creature features,
With high cheekbones everlasting

Excuse me while I display my styles, okay?
Add mormon spunk and season to taste
Your cooking styles I lay to waste
On your birthday cake
Getting culinary whilst cooking in the lavatory
With my chef hat on
Seasoning that stew with a tampon, what's up?
Where'd you learn to cook?
You wanna-be CIA motherfucker
Culinary institute of art, I'll hang you up in my meat locker
This shit ain't no hobby
24-7 my skills is wasabi
your shit is so mild
you ain't no motherfuckin' Julia child
this shit is real out here,
off of the streets , into the frying pan
with that leg o lammmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It's headed to the belly big ole leg of lamb
Cover in some jelly, headed to the can
Now our stomach stinkin angry and all mean
Ain't supposed to eat it if it's painted green
Did you gross nasty head to the pits
Smoke another cigarette arty and take a shit
Leg o lamb suffocated all that healthy living
Stuffing with your grill with doodee poots,
Your flatulence annoys the women
Donuts and sody pop, eating just like cop.
Bad luck like the monkey's hands
Curse of the leg o lamb
Got voodoo
Sprinkle shady ju-ju
Now you got the bellyache
Try to dilute with a slice of cake
With sprinkles, regurgitate up some Pringles
It tingles hee hee hee
Making you feel weird
Turning polkadot and some puke up on your beard


Playing hookey for Veterans', I'm on another level
Smoking Gage, talking bunny rabbits, subtle and subtle
Human, fabulous, and dynamite: I'm up on the crazy scene
It's uncut, it's beautiful, pure; It's a dream
Know what I mean? Like living life up in a bubble
No windows and a doors, feeling safe from all the trouble
Troubles inside. . . I take you for a ride
Roller coaster through inner self
Feeble as an albino pygmy elf
You can criticize when I look into your eyes
Vague crossover tears,
See the years
Getting longer and longer
Deeper and deeper
Speed freek of a Papi
Now you can't sleep-a
Can't protect my perimeter,
Rotate my circumference
All you bitch sucker motherfuckers eating lunch
Feeling crunched
Got me munchy like a Mon-Chi-Chi
Finger belly button make you pee
Poo poo
Reorganize, get your life in order
You talking nickel and dime shit,
Trying to get me for a quarter
Buying chips and soda
Your tongue's green like Yoda
Put you in a duffel bag; not enough courtesy for a folder
Now you feeling moded
Corroded and exploded
When you had something, needed crack so you sold it
Your mama and your daddy
Your goosey-goosey granny
With holes in her panties
Walking down the street
Kickin' it Sesame Street
Asking motherfuckin' Charlie bucket for something
To fuckin eat!


Simplest, malignant rap bastards
Stealth-streamline– folded folded and plastered
I got greenbacks; a pocket full of snake venom
And I think I'm the one who killed john lennon
Mark david chapman (epitome of an assissin)
Wish I could feel those big leathers and denim fashion
Big star-shaped sunglasses
So I can sleep through glasses
My eyes are shifty and the note passes

I don't need nobody I can help myself
Gimme a buck
I don't need nobody I can help myself. . . .
Cus Charlie Bucket got extravagant candy coated motherfuckin wealth

Lunch paper baggers say hi to pants-saggers
Fuck a businessman and fuck mick jagger
With his two dollar swagger
Switch switch and sway
Probably donating to the KKK
I'm likely to dislodge the eggs benedict off your tray, biitch
"Mama, Mama, get another job!"
KFC just jacked the price on corn on the cob
I've got gobs and gobs
Of coffee and cake
Every single color, model and make
Even got Rogaine-flavored butterball for christ's sake
What you got I will take
My Daddy's servin' crank
Out of the holdin' tank
Bottom of a lake
Fuck a shovel and a rake
"Dude. . . you live in my consciousness!"
So expensive is the cost of this that I must depart
Hit the throttle and I'm gone, in my go cart.
I don't need nobody I can help myself
Gimme a buck
I don't need nobody I can help myself. . .
Cus Charlie Bucket got…
Independently rich lavishly crusted candy coated, you mama wanna touch it but her finger's all bloated, motherfuckin' wealth.



Tears I see drop from your eyes
Tell me why you cried
Guilt I fear when you look at me
Did I let you down?

Girl you see my eyes
I apologize
Tell me what to do
to get through to you
Girl it's not he same
I know I was to blame
Just tell me when will I see you smile. . .

Tell me when will I see you smile again?
Cus I know I messed up baby
And I know you're fed up sugar

Promises I know I made many times before
And I broke each one of them,
But I had to learn over and over again
Don't hurt the one you love

Girl you see my eyes
I apologize
Tell me what to do
to get through to you
Girl it's not he same
I know I was to blame
Just tell me when you're ??????? see is love

Tell me when will I see you smile again?
Cus I know I messed up baby
And I know you're fed up sugar


I put my lip to the butt of your cigarette to give you akiss
Apart for only minutes and miss you more than I have missed…
I have alist
You could put a check by each ord
In your eyes I I can see things I never heard


The pavement is gone and I'm walking on grass
The hill's alive; taste the clouds as they pass
Open air and look at all the trees
Clean from my cough and my sneeze
If I have a lock on my heard, I'm sure you have the keys

Outside is lovely this time of year. . . .




Long hair like healthy, veins unbroken
Images of you in my head when I'm busy stroking
No jokin'
And I like the way you smell
Ready to violate you, so send me to jail
If not, it's living hell
Breathe easy when you're close
You treat me better, baby, than most
Making up some toast
Traveling coast to cast
Tie you to a post so you can't leave
And if you break away I got a Gloc up my sleeve
Shoot first, kill ya, later I will grieve, retrieve
Your guts and bones buried in the dirt
Whyisper things in your ear and you can call it 'flirt'
Please don't call me jerk, baby, I'm sensitive

We could do so many funny things again
You could even bring a friend
It'd be nice
Twice as nice
As you
If we had two
Woo woo woo
Woo woo woo woo
Just like James Brown I'm like a sex machine
Just like your Mama I'll treat you real mean
Slap you on that ass
Woo woo woo woo woo woo wooo wooo wooo


The salty drippy dribble drips out my dick
Took some fuzzy powder and now I'm real sick
Covered in army ants and damn there goes a tick
Snakes and some cakes
I'm dying for Chrissakes!
Couldn't cool me down with all the waters from the lakes

Violet Bulregard!
Give me any bed I'll wet it
Cus I am so enuretic
You know I'm gonna soil your sheets
Junkie freaks springing leaks in your boudoir
So now you can clean with a loofah
cus my junkie junk style is too raw
I'm whizzing like Der Autobahn
Cus now all the blotter's gone I'm seein' monkeys

Baby you know you want it, I'ma coming through your door
I'ma kill all your kitties; fall down and break your floor
Flip-flop flounder, I'm a four hundred pounder
Like Homer with no neck, I'm ready
I'm a wreck
Trying to work my mojo but it ain't coming through
Like a Mad Lib; I'm drawing blanks
Taking a walk onto the land of Spanks
This is reality with a capital "E":
I love you, I love you, I love you!!

Mike TV, the motherfucka with the cap gun
Transvestites and pipe wrenches
Pleather vest and a cowboy hat kickin' it on benches
But only a bench in front of a television
TV is my drug
Fuck E I don't wanna get hugged
Cathode rays got me surly
You fuck with my cable I'll smack you like Moe does to Curly
I piss in a bag
Jack off in a rag
To a floating clit with the Spice Channel on 'scramble'

But damn, what did you think?
I'm a motherfuckin' whale
Injection time folls around and on the floor I flail
Ride another rail
Drug money in the mail
Wrapped up in a motherfuckin' issue of Mad Magazine
Have you seen what I've seen?
Like one time….. (adlib)

Check out my new career:
Synthesyzin' more Urea
Than Hans Krebs, the Swiss biochemist
Your bed is blemished
Godfather of pee at your service, now the MC
With LSD
Flashbacks of Attilla the Hun's ass cracks
Let's get down to brass tacks:
I'm sayin it's wet.

I'm Augustus Gloop
Always busy eating pigeons on the stoop
Always busy turning dials
These are kitty tears not those of crocodiles
These tears, right here fill the mailman's head
Full of rubber stamps void of electricity
LSD smiles
Kitties on the aisles
The city's coming down
They walk up on my town
That kitty I did drown
"Your steps are a mess, this place will burn!"
Bitch, I'm on drugs and now it's your turn….

I'm all relaxed and shit
And it don't matter that I just hit
350 cc's of goddamn freaky Swiss jungle drugs
Now I'm chewing on my fingers like a lobster
Inching my head towards the cat food like a mobster
(You know, the kind of mobster that likes cat food)
But I can't see
It's all a warm ass-woumb
And in my pants I just peed
Motherfuckers in the room playing Doom
Castenada rollin' over in his toumb!

You come to see me and you take some 'E'
I shoot you up intraveneously
You don't even know the things you about to see
Pink elephants purple kangaroo
Me and your grandma out by the pool
Drinking 'dirty dozens'
OH SHIT!! the shirt comes off your cousin
And Fuzzy Wuzzy's fuzzin
"Don't tap my fucking shoulder…!?! Who the fuck you looking at???!!!"
so get back in your car before I get a bat
Oh Beautiful for super high
Super high, super high
Super high…..

I'm hallucinatin' Bonobos
Chimps bring drama, those
Monkeys gotta go back to the zoo, they flinging poo
With a sidewrist grip
As I trip more so than Gerald Ford
Turning into Lita Ford
Battling oranutans with hangliders
Seein' Amy Tan's in a lowrider
Drive by on Danielle Steel
But the chimpanzee turns the steering wheel
Crashing into a fire hydrant
Next thing I know, my urethra's dropping damp science

Beer can plus trajectory equals the division of my areola
Smoking dimethyl triptaline with Tony Matolla
Shake-n-bake, coming to your receptacle
Leaving you a vegtable
I'm like a suplex in the thunderdome
Fall down and go, "Ohhhhhhhme…. Ohhhummm"
The flip-floppa, the flounda
Let's take it to the grounders
Tickle my butt, and I'll go "Tee hee hee hee hee"
If I'm lucky I'm tipping violins
Two Swiss Miss legs fall from the sky. . . .

I twitch, I bite, I try to say "Side…
Side sidge gigdi sidddehhh shteiashe shethsidksdtmmmmeworide"
I think I died
But that's Allright
I can't remember a thing, nothing
Everybody's hitting this DMT like psychedelic crack
Have a seizure on your lunch break then ya bounce back
Ge to work on time, you only got half a tongue
And ya nose is broke and ya asshole's bleeding


Escape all you fools go to a cavern and jump in
Bet you didn't know carlitos balde goes spelunkin
I take my funk'n go underground
Now the sound got the stalagmites bumpin
(Turn that bass down, Schultz! You're endangering a precious natural resource!)
I ain't trying to be lumped in
With you fraudulent surface-dwellin rappers
I grab my red marker cus you all flunkin
My shit is so down low I'm under the earth's crust
Leaving you sucker motherfuckers is a must
Fuck trust and disclosure,
I'm playing the part of a dope mc and you's just a poser
(take off hoser)
augustus and violet:
spelunkin' let's try it
as I rapell that's my ass that you smell
lava tubes to the pits of hell
caverns and phosphates nitrates and stones
when I let out a holla it comes back in 12 tones

I got a jumar ascender in my pocket
Augustus sniffing my backpack cus it's full of chocolate
Those little pudgy fingers is why I have to lock it

Lava tubes inside as more rocks dissolve a tear comes to my eye
I cry and looked to crawl some more
Just like barry white I'm "deeper and deeeeeeper" to the core


Now hold on a darn minute
While I adjust my molecular structure from human to monoclinic:
A dog-tooth
With three unequal axis (two right angles and a third, making it an oblique angle with the plane of the other two). . .


Crystal formation a lovely little creation
Towards the center of earth getting' closer to satan
He's paintin'
Geysers underneath the police station
Canopies and columns why you causing problems?
Augustus stuck in a hole makin his own rimstone dam
Have to spray his big ole ass with some butter or some pam
in this underground wonderland
oil birds swiftlets and blind fish eating curd
fuck what you heard you can only hear me in mono
cus your other ear's immersed in cavern guano
(That's bat shit) you can't make a hit with your 'how to be a rapper' kit!

A typical stark topography of an area affected by rainwash
I brainwash you! in a cave, wanted to call me Charlie but I make you call me dave

"Dave, what are you doing dave?"


Ja, it is I: Augustus among the Augite
Now I gotta fight Bulregard over some sugar
Take your hands off, hooker
Now I'm swellin; I'm rapellin;
Violet she be yellin
"You took my gum, I'm telling, I'm telling, I'm telling!"
about to give that Kraut a slap
when all a sudden my Bluewater II rope
falling at sixteen feet per second per second and I can't stop
so I dive and descend, past hallucinated gingerbread men
it's cool: they won't laugh at my obese German rolls
cus I'm kicking with Marzipan moles
they get gooey when I bite off their nose
I'm flying, falling like a sparrow
Then I notice this hole is getting' kinda narrow
I'm stuck!
Sedimentary deformation is what I'm making
My fall made shit start quaking and now all the bats are waking
I'm stuck!
I'm stuck!
Stop takin' pictures!!

Violet beauregard, I'm flowing hard below ground
Slow down, check out these fifteen speleothems
and a boxwork petromorph. . .. Augustus stop eatin' them!
That ain't no pop rock, don't you cock block you little impediment,
try and stop me and I crush ya into sediment
You better act right, you get stuck with my jackknife
Body found impaled by a stalagmite
Transvestite in drag as a stalagtite
I got more styles than Carlsbad got strengites, bertrandites, even the
Curous twin spangolites
You couldn't hang with my crew
if you had clampons and a frog ascending system
Funny how your ass is always ending with the mole man's jism
You can't handle my shallow intrusive igneous body
That's Allright cus I got me a chud hottie
In another cave
My loving skills even make your mother rave
You simple sulfide!
Don't be hatin just cus my styles is always changin'
See, I'm coming metamorphic, while your style's conglomerate
It's just pieces of other rappers
that's why I gotta clobber it
Just like the thing, I bring the smooshing. . .
big orange rocks in my fist
You've been geologically dissed
I'll fuck around and bust your whole schist
Just like igneous lava I got flow. . . hey where the fuck did everyone go? I musta took a wrong turn back at the limestone column
Now my lamp's gone out, I can't see the crevice and I fall in….
Shit . . . .
Trapped like Gollum!


violet is lost again agustus is dead stuck
why should I give a fuck about two more punks
trying to get me for a buck
so I'm leaving I bail my spelunking won't fail
I get around with a hammer and a pick muthafukk a nail
One drawback is the air is always stale
Communication regulated no O2 keeps me dilated

Hypothermia and shock
rope burn from a double fisherman's knot
sandstone can get gritty like sandpaper to a titty
but still I'd rather be down here motherfuck the city
I got stalagmites to write about in my book
Blind fish boiled in hot springs don't need a frying pan to cook



Finky Binks as Charlie Buckett
Schultz (AKA 'Mr. NoRapName') as Violet Bulregard
Mink (AKA Small Sack) as Mike Teevee
Corbett (AKA flip flop flounder the 400 pounder) as Augustus Gloop
Additional rapping by HAL 9000


Thanks to the New Century Quartet for various eerie samples.

Translated and Narrarated by:
The Original Jose and Miss Jennifer Royale

Additional vocals by:
Sagey Babey
Lula Lee
The Vainglorious E.V.E.

Charlie Buckett would like to thank the following motifs:
The Thing
Hal 9000
"funny little things"
Willy Wonka
Escape velocity
Alfred Hitchcock
Edgar Varese and all modernist composer homies
Bring 'sneezy'


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mp3 post: stalin claus superstar: a suplex prune hittite fantasy


Playlist, Acts one through four (?!?):

Download here:


part one

part two

Buy the whole thing (4 CDs, 64-page booklet, packaged in a slick jewelry box) from Aquarius Records (search for Stalin or Schultz, y'know)



YEAR: 2000


Introduction by H.P. Lovecraft


I went over to the Hermosa House (then headquarters of SPAM records) in the fall of 1997 with no particular agenda. I could have said, 'Let's play Parcheesi' or, 'Corb, let's make some of your famous ass-pies' and been perfectly happy. Instead, what I said was, 'Let's write a song!' Dan, Dylan, and Mink were happy to oblige, and we took turns writing down song topics. At the time, no one knew that the 'song' would grow like a polyp … first evolving into a three-page outline, then oozing and burbling into a 56-song, four act epic, sprouting 41 characters, further distending and cancerously spreading to four-year project whose pseudopods threaten to engulf us all, no, NO….


Rest Of Introduction by Schultz


Not only epic in length (3 1/2 hours), this project (working title: "The Damn Opera") is also epic in scope: the plot ties together cutting-edge neurobiology, pro wrestling, the secrets of Stonehenge, Black Metal madness, the hidden connection between Santa and Stalin, Bronze Age tribes of the mideast, the spread of media empires via satellite communication, and of course the archaeological ramifications of the Slim Jim. Why? Why take on a musical project as insanely difficult as it is totally unnecessary? Why do something so complex as to baffle all but the most intelligent, and yet so juvenile as to alienate anyone with half a brain? So preposterous it would embarrass Wagner, yet so … well anyway. The bottom line is, "How dare we ask the unsuspecting American Consumer to buy 210 minutes of noise from a totally unknown band, that isn't even singing about chicks?"


The answer is simple: this opera answers the universal human questions of our age….Why do we grow old and die? How does Retin-A really work? What's in that omelet? Can a giant Weeble win the WWF title belt, and if so, how can it wear a belt? What happens if a bunch of senile Systems Analysts shoot Randy Savage's brain at an unsuspecting Iraqi plum farmer who fancies himself a Muslim Marqui Marq? Well, perhaps the answer to the last question is common knowledge these days, what with the 'internet' and all, but clearly Americans are ready to ask the other questions. If you really want to know the hidden connection between Stalinism and Stonehenge, would you trust N'Sync to provide all the answers? Garth Brooks? Deicide??? No, you'll have to turn to us– the “operageneers”!


Extraduction by Abbott

In a world shattered by crime and poverty, and crime, in a time of uncertainty and betrayal, one story would captivate a nation. A short three years later, this rock opera was hatched. Although we have no idea how to market a story of this scale (we toyed with the idea of copies in hotel rooms across America), and most likely this recording will be the source of our financial ruin, we hope you enjoy the life lessons presented herein. Like Homer, Scheherazade, and Michael Crighton before us, we will die penniless and reviled. But our labours will live on to speak for us. Whenever there is injustice or suffering…perhaps, in some small way, we will be the soundtrack.





to assist in comprehension of this very adult plot, We've made you a flowchart. . . . a FLOWCHART OF THE DAMNED!!!

download if you dare !!!!!!!


(detail of book cover art)




scene one: Las Vegas

SONG ONE: Hey, Check Out Our Opera!


SONG TWO: Oh, Mighty Bedpan!


CAP'N: Oh mighty bedpan, so shiny and black

Receive the remains of my intravenous snack

Once I was praised for my kindness and purity

Now I'm here in Vegas, dying of obscurity


BEDPAN: Oh mighty Captain, so fat and old

You piss in my cavity; I do what I'm told

(sudden blues)

Why you treat me so mean?

Why you treat me so mean?

Why you treat me so gosh-darn mean?

I woke up this mornin'

I was full of piss

Captain, oh Captain, why you so mean?


CHORUS: He was, he was, he was hella hella mean!


BEDPAN: You've oppressed me with your fluids

Your urine, bile and poo

Telling me your tale of woe

Is the least you can do


CAP'N Alas, no one will listen to me but you

Behold the sad tale of Ole Cap'n Lou…

SONG THREE: Fucking Ancient Sumer,


The Capn’s Adolescence As A Pioneer In Shamanism


CAP'N: Well before Cyndi Lauper and the World Wrestling Federation

Some 4000 years prior

I was a certified shaman, in the Hittite Nation

And although you may call me a liar

I came up with the Secret of Immortality

You don't believe me? Ask the choir

CHORUS: He did, he did, he hella hella did!


CAP'N: In fuckin' ancient Sumer, upon the old school ground

I found old age don't cause wrinkles: it's the other way around

The older you are, the more wrinkled you get

The more wrinkled you get, the closer to death

The brain is the most wrinkliest organ you got

Its deadly folds would age a tot, if not for:


CHORUS: Meninges! Meninges!


CAP'N: Twixt skull and brain


CHORUS: Meninges! Meninges!


CAP'N: The most benevolent membrane


CHORUS: Absorb deadly folds, keep you from getting old, all right!


CAP'N: In fuckin' ancient Sumer, our enemies we'd slay

With wrinkles as our weapons, we'd pillage through the day

Using walnuts launched from catapults, their villages we'd batter

And then we'd drain the membranes that surrounded their gray matter

We'd ship it home in mason jars, across a Turkish bay




CAP'N: An obscure Turkish bay!!

To form that immortality cream, the fantastic,




The "A" is for "Albano" (Cap'n winks weakly)


SONG 4:“Its OK; I’m a Hittite Salesman”


The Free Sample Of Doom



NURSE: Ey, youse, visiting houahs ended at foah


SALESMAN: It's OK; I'm a Hittite salesman…

(deftly saunters past decrepit nurse into the Capn's bed)


Hey there, Cap'n, I've got a deal

A shiny new product with mass appeal

It stretches! It bounces! It wobbles! It bobbles!

Elastic self-aware bronze will solve all your troubles

After 4000 years a new Bronze Age is nigh

Order some now; it's in short supply

(salesman whips out remote control and activates a Hittite self-aware infomercial on the hospital TV)


TV SINGERS: It's elastic, it's self aware, it's bronze!

Go ahead, put some on!


CAP'N: I'm immobile, sick and obscure, but

This sounds too good to ignore

Tell me more!


SALESMAN: Here's the rub, the nub, the crux of the matter:

You've been our only Retin-A supplier

We've run out of the stuff; there's just never enough

The recipe itself is our desire


CAP'N: Suck my catheter, you slick talking liar!


SALESMAN: Elastic paper, the world's smartest bronze sandals?

Trade Retin-A, and you'll get all you can handle

Just to prove other alloys can't hold a candle

Here's a bronze band for your beard as a free sample

Just think it over, you'll see it's not wack

I'll be back soon, to draw up the contracts



TV SINGERS: It's elastic, it's self aware, it's bronze!

Go ahead, put some on!



SONG 5: Kaos In My Beard


CAP'N: It is more exotic than my regular beard bands… I should try it


BEDPAN: It's your trusty bedpan, the obsidian one. Don't do it, Captain!




BEDPAN: It’s a trap!


CAP'N: Don’t be a sap! It’s so advanced!


BEDPAN: Don’t take the chance!


CAP'N: Shuttup!!!….I'll put it on my beard!

…Strange, I feel….AAAAH!

( sudden Black Metal)


CAP'N: No shaving in the Darkness. Chaos in my beard hair

By Hittites betrayed! Rubber band is evil; self-aware!

Evil flows out from the bronze: my beard comes to life

Hairs grow long and thorny, erupting in Metal Might


I'm so old and fat and now I think that I've gone crazy

Won't someone please come and shave me, uh , I mean,

won't someone save me?

They're forming Black Metal bands, which keep me awake all night


BEDPAN: If you'd only listened to me, you wouldn't be in this plight!!


EVILHAIR: We're Evil Beard Hairs, animated by bronze

Torment the Captain, growing 6 feet long

Forming Black Metal bands, to play our evil songs

Shaving puny Indie Rock hairs, cus we're so fucking strong


Playing scary music about fuzzy druids and Vikings

Mustache hairs enslaved to serve as guitar strings:

Hear them shrieking during my epic solo

Soon the Cap'n will be extinct like the Dodo


EVILHAIR: Solo, dodo, solo, dodo, solo, dodo, solo, dodo!!!



SONG 6:Neener, neener!



Good hairs, in our Indie bands

We don't try hard and are out of key

We combat metal with hip irony

Our label's ironically owned by Sony

We're good; you're bad.

We don't really mean it, yeah, yeah, yeah


Our songs are self referencing.

(Make that meta-self referencing),

Cus we went to college

Neener neener neener

We're good; you're bad.

We don't really mean it, yeah, yeah, yeah


CAP'N: I've got chaos in my beard

The racket won't stop and I'm getting a'feared

I've got such a trauma, I'll go in a Coma!

I'm sick of it all

I'm sick of it all….

What's that I hear?


CHORUS: A mysterious man, sneaking in from the hall…



SONG 7: Allright, You Little Comatose Maniac!!


HULK: All right, you little Comatose-Maniac!


Oh Captain, my Captain, it is I, Hulk Hogan

Who sabotaged your beard

You cannot resist, your will has been broken

By the ringing in your ears


CHORUS: Cap'n Lou, give up the goo!

Cap'n Lou, give up the goo!

Cap'n Lou, give up the goo!


HULK: You must give me, the recipe!


CAP'N: Mumble mumble…..


HULK: He's gone into a coma, this warn't part of the plan

Can't someone help me understand

The mumbles of this wretched man?


BEDPAN: I can! I can!

The trusty bedpan

I can decipher anyone's talking

I used to work for Stephen Hawking

Gibbering and stuttering; it's all a b-b-b-breeze

Drooling and mumbling I can handle with ease


HULK: Will you translate his recipes?


BEDPAN: This I will do, but only if you

Take me away from his poo, oh take me away from his stool

Don't abandon me to his scat, I was not meant to be shat. . .



HULK: I'll take you away from his poo, I'll take you away from his stool

Remove you from his scat, just let me have that

Recipe. . .

Come on!


CHORUS: Oh Cap'n Lou, he gave up the goo!

Oh Cap'n Lou, he gave up the goo!

Oh Cap'n Lou, he gave up the goo!



HULK: Now I have the recipe

For immortality


BEDPAN: What about me? What about me?

Won't you take me away from his pee?


HULK: Yes. I'll set you free:

I'll throw you out the 9th floor window cus it's open


BEDPAN: You're a mean guy! (kerplunk!)


HULK: Yes! I'm Hulk Hogan!


Act one, scene two: Turkey

SONG 8: The Bodyslamming of the Flowcharts In Full Effect

(tone: exotic clandestine pomp)


CHORUS: In fuckin' modern Sumer, in what is now called Turkey,

Inside a secret Ziggurat, all dark and dank and Murky

All the Hittites gather round, to quaff the potion Hulkster found


HITTITES: Delicious, nutritious, quite tangy and tart

What's this? I feel wimpy and smart

Our bodies aren't immortal, something's amiss

Instead, we're morphing into systems analysts!

Using our new powers of Logical Deduction

We isolate the cause of this magical malfunction:

The Cap'n was too sick to be clearly understood

His recipe was garbled; the serum is no good


Fuck! Goddam, Son-of-a-Bitch! That bedpan was full of shit!

Fuck! Goddam, Son-of-a-Bitch! That bedpan was full of shit!


HULK: Suckers! Dupes! You drank Faux Retin-A!

You've lost all your strength, and now you're my slaves


ANALYSTS: Although we are too weak to fight

We can produce flowcharts correctly and right

To prove how wrong your behavior must be


HULK: I body slam your flowcharts (boink!!!) thusly


ANALYSTS: We surrender, we surrender, we'll do what you say


HULK: Give me your bronze and do it straight away

I'm rich, huge, with vigor and speed

There's only one other thing that I need:


ANALYSTS: A spatula? Bronze clogs? Elastic tarantula farm?

Self-aware eggnog? (and so forth)


HULK: No, no, not even close. Let me tell you what I want the most…



SONG 9: Self-Ripping Shirt Negotiations In Grueling Detail


HULK: (wistfully) I tear my shirt before every match

I have no time to sew and repatch

Buying so many shirts taxes my wealth

I need an elastic Shirt that repairs itself

A self-aware Shirt that tears itself

A bronze armor Shirt to protect my health

Such a good idea, I scare myself


CHORUS: Elastic, bronze, self-ripping Shirt!

The kind of Shirt that can't be hurt

Elastic, bronze, self-ripping Shirt!

The kind of Shirt that can't be hurt


ANALYSTS: But such a thing is too much work


HULK: You're my slaves; you don't dare shirk


ANALYSTS: He's too lazy to lift a finger!


HULK: I heard that! Now don't malinger…..on my


CHORUS: Elastic, bronze, self-ripping Shirt!

The kind of Shirt that can't be hurt

Elastic, bronze, self-ripping Shirt!

The kind of Shirt that's really bitchen


HULK: I'll free you all on one condition


ANALYSTS: If we bring the Shirt to fruition?


HULK: If you bring the Shirt to fruition


ANALYSTS: You'll set us all free?


HULK: I'll set you all free


ANALYSTS: You'll set us all free?


HULK: Yessiree!!


LONE HITTITE IN BACK: Hey, isn't that what he said to the Bedpan?

SONG 10:Harold’s Cufflinks Spew Advice


CHORUS: Harold: the Hittite of the young and plucky sort

Harold: A Hittite with secrets in his past

(His knowledge of bronze was vast)


HAROLD: A victim of wrestling slavery

Must become a shirt-smith to go free

If I give up my dignity, I'll sulk

But staying a slave is much too humdrum

Therein lies my conundrum

Should I make the shirt for that dumdum Hulk?


CHORUS: Harold: the Hittite with campy pointed ears

Harold the Hittite must hear some advice fast

(He knew just whom to ask)



HAROLD: Magic cufflinks upon my cuffs:


CHORUS: Are they self-aware? ( Sho ‘nuff!)

Are they good? ( Sho ‘nuff!)

Are they bronze? ( Sho ‘nuff!)



HAROLD: That's the stuff!

When times are tough, the cuffs are nice

I rub them twice, I rub them thrice

Magic words I do recite, now come to life and give me advice


CUFFLINKS: Here we are, the links of good

Build that Shirt, we know you should

HAROLD: Are you mad? That'd just what Hulk would intend!


CUFFLINKS: We've seen the future and we agree, Hulk's plan is utter stupidity

When he rips his shirt, you will see….


CHORUS: Revenge, revenge, he will see hella revenge!!


HITTITES: Sequestered in a Turkish yurt

He goes to work, to make the shirt

Or by Hulk he will be hurt and sore


HAROLD: A bronze technician, on a mission

Eating figs for good nutrition

Revenge on Hogan is what I'm wishin' for

Revenge, revenge, revenge!!!!


CHORUS: Harold the Hittite, has yet to invent sleeves

Harold's cufflinks were welded to his wrists

(He never had a bris )

Song 11: Self-Ripping Outro


Act two, scene one: Wrestling Arena, USA

SONG 11:Li’l Timmy

SONG 12:Headbands Ahoy!


HULK: Now I've got bronze, but without Retin-A

My vim and my vigor will soon fade away

Too dumb to plan: must I soon retire?

I need someone smart with whom I can conspire

the evil bronze made the Cap'n's beard grow mean

But it won't kill me, cus we're on the same team

My self-aware bag ties lasso my mustache

It grows huge and 'Evill' and a plot it will hatch


MUSTACHE: Here I appear, the Evill mustache

Bronze bag-ties keep me looking so flash

Hittites and captains I surely will thrash


CHORUS: Are you benevolent?


MUSTACHE: Balderdash!

I'm so 'Evill' it's spelled with two 'L's

Waxed like a villain with Malevolent Gel

I'll wiggle fiendishly and spit out a plan

To get Retin-A from bronze headbands


(cut to Hulk, in a wrestling arena, implementing his plan…)

HULK: Hey kids, it's the Hulkster, at your wrestling place

Come up to the ring with your palsied acne face

Buy my headbands, to look just like me

Elastic and bronze, for a modest fee


KID CHORUS: We're the zombies of Hessian descent

Our minds brainwashed by Evil Bronze intent

We used to be pimply (PEEMPLEY!) and sexually repressed

Now we are bitchenly (BEETCHENLY!) and bandedly dressed

Slaves to the headbands' (HEADBANDS!) every request

Now our parents (PARENTS!!) are getting depressed

SONG 13:Headband Hair: an ABC After-School Special


(cut to a house where frightened parents are discussing their kid's headband habit. The kid is watching the Hulk Hogan song on TV which plays in the background….)


PARENTS: Johnny's just not the same anymore…

Is he on drugs again? Watching wrestling in the den


CHORUS: Wrestling in the den!


PARENTS: Is he gay, does he have the vapors?

His greasy mullet is shiny and tapered


CHORUS: Mullet is shiny and tapered!


PARENTS: He's listening to loud rock bands, and always wearing those headbands

We'll break into his room, and catch him not a moment too soon

(parents break down the door)

We know you've been wearing headbands in there!


JOHNNY: My head is bare, you're being unfair!


DAD: Don't lie to me son, you've got Headband Hair!


JOHNNY: But dad, parents just don't understand

All the kids are wearing Evill Mind Control Headbands


MOM: You shouldn't be Evill, it's a darn shame


JOHNNY: Aw Mom, 'Evill' is just a brand name


POP: Boy, your hair is the lawn of the mind

You should go get a mow or I'll spank your behind


MOM: Where did you learn this behavior– from that wrestler on the tube?


JOHNNY: No Mom and Dad– I learned it from you!!!


CHORUS: From you, from you, he learned it all from you!


JOHNNY: Your hippie headbands are three inches wide

Corduroy halos with bells on the side

You can't make me stop. I'll die before I doff


CHORUS: Die before he doffs!

HEADBAND: (squish!)

SONG 14: Dumb Gladiatorial Link


‘Scampering Down The Aisle!’


CHORUS: So the obliging headband squeezed

Shattered his skull and sucked out meninges

As it scampered away, Pops was heard to exclaim:


POP: Hey, come back with my son's brain!


That's it, young man! You've lain pantsless, with a fractured skull and no meninges on my floor for the last time! I'm sending you off to Military Schoooooooooooollllllll!!!!!


CHORUS: Meanwhile back at the geriatric wrestling arena

Hulk's getting trounced cus Gene Okerlund is meaner


MEAN GENE: Hulk, you are weak! In the tooth you are long

I will piledrive you, and so forth and so on

I am about to pin you but you toothlessly smile

Looking at headbands scampering down the aisle

Like a horde of lemmings, trailing deceased mullets

From hordes of teen boys whose membranes you pull-ed



Scampering down the aisle!

Scampering down the aisle!

Scampering down the aisle!

Scampering down the aisle!



HULK: Allright, you little meninge-maniacs!

I am your new overlord and crave you as a snack

Whilst your parents consult a mortician

My cannibal plannin' will come to fruition

The Cap'n's recipe is not the only one

Bulk meninges should get the job done

I'll suck you all up and try not to vomit

Then de-age-ify and trounce my opponent


MEAN GENE: Doggone it! (whump!!)


SONG 15: Meninge O.D.


CHORUS: His wrinkles are gone

But the process ain't done

He loses his arms, legs and scrotum

For what are limbs but wrinkles writ large?


HULK: I proved the Reaper

Is escapable

I'm not even dead, just handi-capable

Can't drive a car, I must take the barge!


CHORUS: For Hulk OD'ed

On meninges

Now a shiny oval, and wrinkle-free

With an army of arms, he's still in charge


HULK: Yes, I OD'ed on meninges

I'm a shiny oval, and wrinkle-free

With 'Evill' headbands to control my slave people….


SLAVES: He's the sphere that we fear, the Wrestling Weeble!


HULK: For I am the Hulkster, triumphant and feeble


SLAVES: He's the sphere that we fear, the Wrestling Weeble!


HULK: Yes, who needs arms when slaves feed me

Who needs legs when slaves drag me and need me

Buying headbands for loads of cash


MUSTACHE: All thanks to me, the Evill Mustache


HULK: And although I'm rolling in dough

I never fall down, I'm a Weeble you know


SLAVES: He's the sphere that we fear, the Wrestling Weeble!


MUSTACHE: Who needs arms when you've got double-l 'Evill?'


HULK: I've got an army of arms, much more than Kali

A Navy of legs that's on Shore like Pauly

A Flotilla of Mullets, all according to plan

Surrounded by the headbands, fiendish headbands


SLAVES: You are the Man!


HULK: Tell me again


SLAVES: You are the Man!


HULK: You are so bland, I am so grand


SLAVES: You are the Man!


HULK: I devour your meninges to increase my life span


SLAVES : You are the Man!


HULK: But I overdosed and now I resemble a yam


SLAVES: You are the Yam!


HULK: Shut up


SLAVES: You are the Yam!


HULK: Shut up, shut up!!



Act two, scene two: Peat Bog

SONG 16: Slim Jim Interlude


DR. SAVAGE: Meanwhile, 3 hundred million years ago upon the arctic tundra of the Lost Continent of Pangaea…. Gigantic Slim Jims roamed the tundra in herds 400,000 strong and thirty foot high ….ruling the earth by default, in the Pre-Beef era, feasting on Monosodium Glutamate. With the coming of reptiles and the Precambrian age, the Slim Jims were lost to history, and no one knows why… until now!


DEAN: Yes, yes, Mister Savage, this is known to us. If you want us to make you a full Professor of Glutemological Archeology, you'll have to present a new theory.


SAVAGE: Naturally, I didn't acquire my 17 degrees in phenomenology and various snack-related disciplines through shoddy research. In fact, I have brought along a crack team of Archaeological Choir Singers to read from my dissertation.

(sounds of Archaeological choir bursting in…) and a one-two-three-four…


SONG 17: Monosodium Glutemate’s Lament




Randy Savage's 17th doctoral dissertation

Randy Savage's 17th doctoral dissertation

Randy Savage's 17th doctoral dissertation

Randy Savage's 17th doctoral dissertation…


Here come the Slim Jims, to get me, to get me

Because we open up their taste buds, their taste buds

Once we were the lords of all the Glutamates

Raised from the earth by mighty earthquakes

Now these giant cylinders are sucking us away

Lodged inside their duodena, we'll surely make them pay


There go the Slim Jims, they migrate, they migrate

Rush into the peat bog, to rehydrate, rehydrate

Our salty ways will be their demise

They'll sink into the peat never to rise

Victims of their own gluttony

Preserved in peat for eternity


SAVAGE: Giant tubes of ancient meat

Lying dormant in the peat….. right there in the peat.


ACS: No more of Slim Jims, they're sinking, they're sinking

Without enough water, they're shrinking, they're shrinking

To reach their present size of six inches or so

I can prove it, if you'll only go

To the peat bog excavation, where we've dug a ditch


DEAN: A peat bog? Which?


ACS: (making ominous Ice Cube gestures) West side peat, bitch!


DEAN: Your research is very impressive, Mr. Savage.. but if you want the title, you still have to beat me! I'm the Western Division Archaeological Champ, and I'll never give up the belt. Never…! You want a piece of me, Tiny?



SONG 18:Fighting Music Ensues



SONG 19: Demise of the Grudge Wielding, Visor laden, Grappling Hurrian



SAVAGE: I'm the baddest, the biggest, the best

I've passed every wrestling test

Once I've consumed these petrified snacks

No Hittites can withstand my attacks

For they dissed my people, and I still carry a grudge

4000 BC I think it was…

They made Sumer a Hurrian-Free Zone

Now all the stores are Hittite owned.

Yes, I'm a descendant from that Hurrian Clan:

A grudge-wielding, visor-laden Grappling Hurrian!


ACS: Aww, yeah, he's a grudge-wielding, visor-laden, grappling Hurrian!


SAVAGE: They used to be mighty buff, but now they're systems analysts

They can not even fight back and now I bet they really wish

They never would have dissed this man:


ACS: A grudge-wielding, visor-laden Grappling Hurrian!


SAVAGE: As I now approach the pete, I see them beating a retreat

I'll Snap Into a Hittite and hear the blood squeak

To complete their defeat as only I can:


ACS: A grudge-wielding, visor-laden Grappling Hurrian!


SAVAGE: With my Professor's title belt I look ever so much wiser

You call me the Wrestling King, if not the Grappling Kaiser

Observing my prey from beneath my visor….I am



A quintessential Hurrian!


SAVAGE: Come out from the bog, I see you're hiding

I'm bitter like grog, I care only for fighting

Stronger than Samson and malignant like a tumor

I'm taking you out then I'll take back Ole Sumer

When I heave my faux meat, I'll blow you all up…

Hey–the Slim Jims are gone? What the fuck?


SONG 20:Flowcharts of the Damned


ANALYSTS: We've got your Slim Jims, and you are too late

Hittites you should never und'restimate

Though we are feeble, our IQ is great

We, not you, have found the Slim Jim's true fate:

(to Ex-Dean) We've computed questions he posed to the peat

And found his thesis is somewhat incomplete


EX-DEAN: (vaguely optimistic) Eh??


CHORUS: It was, it was, it was hella incomplete!


HITTITES: The Slim Jim analysis was no less than valiant

Conclusions are sound; our data are salient!


CHORUS: Hella, hella salient! (shouldn’t that be ‘SAY-lee-ent?’)


HITTITES: And now, Dr. Savage, you'll swallow the bitterest of intellectual pills:

Behold the Flowchart!


SAVAGE: (suddenly genial)Yes, thank you, I will!


Egad, it appears that my theories were wack

I've misjudged this tiny yet formidable snack

I knew they were gamy, I knew they were old

I knew when snapped into, they make shit explode

But I put two and two together, I made just three


HITTITES: Read on, Dr. Savage, and you will soon see…

That it makes four!


SAVAGE: Now I see how two and two make four

Their AGE causes wrinkles and wrinkles galore

A giant-sized beastie from the eons of yore

You find now for six inches in the store

With its volume so compressed and compact

The wrinkles release the pressure when snapped

The brilliant conclusion that Hittites make mentally:

The 'snapping' is caused by increase in age and entropy!

(suddenly regaining former bluster):

These are but theories, they lack the proof

'Sides, you're all boozy and reek of vermouth

I will win this dispute by force that is brute

Now feel the phat pain of my fringe-bearing boots


HITTITES: Before you start, please check the final chart:

An experiment in which you play a part

A decision tree in Appendix B

Peruse the might of our Systems Theory.


SAVAGE (reading aloud):

'Is Macho Man a Hurrian devil?

Yes, then proceed on to the next level

When Slim Jims are hurled at him and do they connect?

If so, move on to the box called 'Check….

Results': Does he morph to a codger or coot?

This would complete this science-type proof

Killing 'the Randy' with his peat bog-pieces…'


HITTITES: We vanquish his ass while we vanquish his thesis!


DR. SAVAGE: You vanquish my ass while vanquishing my thesis??


HITTITES: We vanquish your ass while we vanquish your thesis!

You thought you were tough, and bulky and mannish,

Now see how you cower 'fore the Slim Jims we brandish!


Eureka, a-ha, huzzah and yahoo!

He grows bald, incontinent and glazed with drool

We've aged that Doctor and in record time



Don't call him 'Doctor!'

That punk is debunked, that title is mine!


(awkward pause)





SONG 21: Bring On The Mirrors


HITTITES: Bring on the mirrors, the crack reflection troop

To lock Randy's wrinkles in an endless feedback loop

They're superbly engineered, neither convex nor concave

(We've been hiding them for years in our secret enclave)

You see, Slim Jims cause wrinkles, by releasing 'wrinkle-rays'

Trapped 'tween you and the mirrors these rays ricochet


Growing in power because of feed BACK

Savor the irony of being slain by your snack

Where once were mere wrinkles are now furrows and trenches

We may be wimpy but we're some mental menches

As the system finally reaches critical mass

We tilt the mirrors away from your sorry-ass ass

Releasing a wrinkle-ray like you've never seen



Uh, it might be easier if we called it a.. WRINKLE BEAM!!


CHORUS: A beam, a beam, a biggety-biggety beam!


HITTITES: In geo-synchronous orbit, very very high

Our satellite is awaiting your energy supply

From it we will harness that mighty beam

And target our foes with our wrinkle-machine


Gather 'round, young-uns, watch this Hurrian lose

And just think; it's his very own wrinkles we'll use

To kill the remainders of his wannabe tribe

It's their own rumpled medicine they'll have to imbibe

Had we never drank the faux Retin-A

We'd never be smart enough to create Ye Olde Wrinkle-Ray


Hulk has betrayed us but we couldn't be more chipper

Now we can force him to bring us our slippers!

But first we must have an anti-Hurrian attack,

Our satellite smites their descendants in Iraq

This wrinkle-ray…


CHORUS: "…beam"


HITTITES: …Will settle our grudge

Those consarn Hurrians from Sumer we'll budge


CHORUS: You mean they 'will' budge, as in, "Their budging is inevitable?" Or rather, 'we'll budge' as in "We Hittites will accomplish the budging rather than some other tribe?"



Fire up yonder wrinkle-ray!


CHORUS: (now absurdly old): Ahhh! Get off our lawn! My name hurts!


HITTITES: Initiate Hurrian-budging procedure… now!

Act two, scene three: Iraq

SONG 22:Geosynchronous Revenge on the Hip-Hop Hurrian


Plum Harvest of the Other Damned



YMP: I'm Young Man Plum; I'm strapping; I'm youthful

Whenever I need plums, I just grab me a toothful

My plums are bountiful; townsfolk say I'm wacky

Just cus I move more bowels than any other Iraqi

I dance and backflip all across't my orchard

Little dreaming my life will become pure torture

I eat more jello than Eric Boucher


There's a suture in my future:


There's a suture in my future:



I walk in the sand, I hang low my khakis

Like a Muslim Marky-Mark, it could be construed as tacky

My plums I have harvested, they form a huge mound

With Other People's Plums I am seldom down

Yeah, you know me!

Fuck O.P.P.!

Plums is the product of which I slang,

I'm the last of the Hurrians and Hittites can't even hang

Laxative maker for the whole damn House of Tudor

But there's a suture in my future


There's a suture in my future



Holy shit, I must be straight trippin'

There's a beam from the sky and boy is it zippin'

I must hide behind my plums since they are so mighty

Lest I become a smite-ee


CHORUS (to the tune of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik):

Say what? Say what? Say what, say what, say what?

Say what? Say what? Say what, say what, say what?


(smiting occurs, perhaps with exciting sound effect such as 'Bzzzzt!')

SONG 23:Down With O.M.P.


YMP… I mean OMP:

A smite-ee, that's me, meaning one who has been smited

But what's worse, my whole orchard's been blighted


HITTITES (looking down from satellite):

You hip-hop-Hurrian, we're thusly delighted!


OMP: Cus now I go by the name of Old Man Prune,

The smite-ee once sprightly but now wracked and ruined

Insane with grief and plottings of doom

The kids all laughing at Old Man Prune

I have hair in my ears and a crease down my back

But my plums bore the brunt of this mysterious attack

Now I've got a crop of lethal-ass prunes

Stark and malignant amongst the dunes


Yup, now I go by the name of Old Man Prune

Plotting revenge with one foot in the tomb

Crotchety and feeble, and long of tooth

It must be them Hittites who have stolen my youth

They always fought dirty, they never fought fair

That's how they took Sumer, way way before Voltaire

This wrinkle devastation shall be their undoing

Cus these super-potent prunes I am vengefully stewing

The juice I produce will set lost some mad havoc

The puree is Pure Old, so they'll age automatic

Carving phat wrinkles like a drill so pneumatic

I'm too old for this Prune-funk, my heart's getting erratic

Turn down the bass, sonny, it's far too emphatic!!



Too old for hip hop, now country I croon

Wearing Depends not fruit of the loom

Observe my face, adorned with much gloom

I'm aware of the irony of being called Old Man Prune


So how will I live to deploy my revenges? eh??

Retin-A can save me! It's made from meninges

Cap'n Lou has the goo, he's over the sea

I'm old but I'm bad, he best give it to me

Threatened with the Juice, he'll be ready for tradin'

So it's off to America, better known as The Great…




SONG 24:Elves In Our Midst!




Hey, Sentry Bob

You shouldn't lie down on the job

You've got sharpened candy canes in your back

Hey, Sentry Bob,

You look quite roughshod

You've got a tinsel tourniquet around your neck

Clearly you've been hated

And asphyxiated

Your whole head has been quite frosted

Using my common sense

I weigh the evidence

By elven ways you seem accosted!



CHORUS: He was, he was, he was hella hella accosted!


SENTRY: Sentry Bob, you're shoddy:

Randy Savage's body, you have unsuccessfully guarded

The skull's in twain, someone has stole the brain,

And this assailant has departed.

No foreigner could sneak up on a Hittite like this

I conclude that there must be… elves in our midst?!?



Elves in our midst!

By elves we have been dissed

They have stolen Randy's brain

And it surely shall be missed


Elves in our midst!

Their ears we shall twist

Boy oh boy we are so pissed

At Elves in our midst!


Elves in our midst!

Perhaps too many to list

Our paranoia grows

Like a malignant cyst


Elves in our midst!

We will pound you with our fists

And, if necessary, our wrists

With your wives we shall have some trysts

Your foreskins we shall bris

You'll wish what thou didst

Was different than, uh…. what thou didst….


LONE HITTITE IN BACK, AGAIN: Who are we talking about again?






Act three, scene one: Viper Room, Hollywood, CA


SONG 26:MTV News Brief


 SONG 27: As Seen On Oprah


‘Reupert Rears His Ugly Head’



We've been on Oprah, we've been on Jerry Springer

We're rich, famous, bona fide rock stars

We're even bigger than Warrant or Weezer or Winger

Dragging the Cap'n's body into exclusive bars

Models with beards in lieu of apparel

Make black metal a leading hate-couture name

When they run down runways we clock runaway dinero

Plus there's lunchboxes, T-shirts, and Satanic toy trains


We're invading you with billboards, and ads and facsimiles

Like modern day Vikings ( now there's a black simile!)


We're bigger than God; bigger than the Beatles

Spit on Christ and his puny goatee

We're in league with the rasslin' weebles

Kicking ass like L.L. did Kool Moe Dee

We're so well connected we got more cables than hairs

With accounts at every major ad agency

Tanning ourselves in the media glare

If you want to deal, we'll call you; don't call we!


Don't call we, don't call we, don't call we, we'll call you

Whoever knew, that we would be, so fucking huge, but it's true,

So don't call we!!


SONG 28:Cred Galore (Don’t Call Wee Part Two)


INDIE HAIR: Hold on there, Hessian, that's only half the story

You Black Metal hairs are hogging all the glory

We too are famous, with maximum cred

Every fanzine prints dumb things that we said

We've got better things to do than to bang with our heads

Why, there's piercing and speed chess and coffee instead

Get off our chin, you're wrecking our scene

Using distortion cus your guitar playing is un-keen

So un-keen!


You're macho, adolescent and way too low-brow

Wish you were Indie but you lack the know-how

We scoff at your demons and smirk at your trolls

And sing about deep stuff we find in our souls

Your Goblin-ridden lyrics are way too AD&D

With charisma of 9 and Intelligence 3. . .

Intelligence 3!

We are so indie!!!

While you merely tune to 'D'!!

So we'll call you , don't call we! ! ! !


Don't call we, don't call wee, don't call weeeeeeeeeeeeee etc….



SONG 29:Metal Rebuttal

Your rockin's enfeebled by your high wussy quotient

Unlike us you lack the Metal devotion

We'll sacrifice you and your whole damn contingent

Wounds we inflict will require much more than an astringent

You call us sellouts but your dads are all lawyers

We'll burn down your mansion and torch your foyers

Writing sensitive songs from your comfy verandas

Won't stop until you're endangered more so than the panda


(beep, beep)


WHISPERING HAIRS: But…. he's calling we!!!

Shh, shh, it's ok, it's…. him!

SONG 30: Loser Gets Shaved!



Hi fellas, it's me, the Murdoch called Rupert

I love what you're doing; this hair music thing

I jump from scene to scene like a capitalist Q*Bert

But I don't hear songs, I just hear (Ka-ching!)

I care not for your tunes, preferring Kenny Loggins

But my greatest devotion is reserved for the lucre

Your fans have more in their pockets than noggins

Let's make a butt-load of cash off these losers!

A pay-per-view fight on TV is what I crave….

My media blitz will have everyone caring

A battle of the bands, where the loser gets shaved!

Then I'll steal all the profits like I was Malcolm MacLaren…


VARIOUS HAIRS: But Rupert, look close now, we're just tiny hairs

Spatially speaking, we're musical lint

Try and film that and nobody will care

Folks would rather tune out than constantly squint


RUPERT: But this is the first pay per view special in history

filmed in the milieu of electron microscopy

My henchfolk and minions supply the technology

we'll settle this feud twixt you dudes for all time

and the winner receives….. this shiny new dime!



This sounds like a plan that will aid all of we

For once the beard hairs of each scene agree

Since we're so tickled about our impending cash

Let's all get together and torment the mustache!




SONG 31:The Beard O Garchy (Down With It!)


‘An Irate Hair I!’


STACHE: Down with the Beard-o-garchy

It's a big old face, with plenty of room for we

Let the mustache roam shaggy and free

Let my people grow


What's the problem, what's the big hassle?

They don't bother ear hairs who hang long like tassels

If the Cap'n was living and able to rassle, he'd say:

'Let my people grow!'


The Beard-o-garchy is logically unfair:

Are we not also facial hair?

Must we be treated as Agents of Nair?

Let my people grow!


Whether Indie or Metal, they all keep us cut

For guitar strings we are ruthlessly plucked

Used as sotter for amps that are fucked

Let my people grow!


HORST: An Irate hair I; My name is Horst

I hunger for liberation like Khrushchev for borscht

I think the beard is, like, the worst!

Here's why revolution is the cause I endorse…


I was born a lowly working hair in the droopiest section of the stache… Since the coming of the Evil Self-Aware Bronze beard Bands, the beard hairs rampage nightly through, turning our sleepy little hamlet into a violent DMZ…. the reactionary beard brigades and their hot oil treatments… the running-dogs of the beard-o-garchy…taking my family to labor in their underground salt mines, the bourgeois oppressors try to crush us under their steel toed boots, er, roots, but from this day forth I say, arise O stache hairs! Viva La Revolution!!



Our list of complaints is quite stout

We must deal with soup and snot from the snout

"Free moustache rides": what's that all about?

In the schools it's always the beard they tout

With bronze on their side they hog all the clout

Beard-o-garchy has us down but not out

Perhaps we will attract sympathy with our catchy shout:

"let my people grow!"

SONG 32: The Trade-Off


‘Face-Down in a Booth at the Viper Room’


CHORUS: Face down, face down, face down, face down….

Face down in the booth at the Viper Room!


OMP: At last I've found him, ole Cap'n Lou!

Face down in a booth in the Viper Room

Now's my chance, I'll wake him and trade

My prune juice for his Retin-A

Cap'n wake up! Acknowledge my greeting

Your beard is in motion, I know you're not sleeping


MUSTACHE ( to self): This old codger still thinks Lou's self-aware

And the beard's too busy networking to care

While it wheels and deals and sells commemorative plates

We'll speak for the Cap'n by controlling his face

(to OMP): Ahem…

Yes, I'm awake from my decadent stupor

You look like someone who's angry about Sumer

I have some bad news but you must not be wroth

I have no Retin-A to trade for your broth

By traitorous Hittites it was recently stolen

No doubt you'll find it at the crib of one H. Hogan

To get directions from me is quite simple:

I don't need all your juice, just give me a thimble



OMP: Gadzooks, what a deal!


MUSTACHE: DA, KOMRADE… uh… er…..”You're darn tootin!”'


OMP: I'll write his address down in this here Newton.

Right here in my Newton…yes, but it's not computin'

What's wrong with my Newton? My po' li'l Newton?

It's not recognizing my writing: its' performance is abysmal,

It makes me feel like smiting the screen with my chisel

Cus I still know cuneiform, this plastic tablet I will adorn

With the geographical data. Consider this test a beta

But alas my chisel acts as a Bronze Age missile

Cracking the LCD, covering my hands with mercury….

They're swelling and popping and nasty little things..Oh, God!! Eh… Aaaah!!! Why can't someone market a decent, user-friendly palm-top PC to Bronze-Age Hurrian warriors??!? I've had it! I'm gonna write a letter to the God-King of my city-state!! I'm gonna tell 'em that even Palm Pilots work these days…


SONG 33:A Daring Young Bristle


‘A Phone Most Cellular’



To the Cap'n's nasal enclave,

The secret mustache revolutionary conclave

Has come

In the mountainous septum

In the valley of the philtrum

We seek the chosen one….


LEADER: A daring young bristle, with the greatest of ease

To steal a phone from the beard-o-garchy

A fearless young stubble hard as an OG

Who will that chosen one be?


A daring young bristle…. a hair in the rough!

Armed with a scant thimble of prune-juicy stuff




SCC: That plain will fail!

It's beyond the pale!

It's to no avail!

Beard hairs will prevail!


LEADER: But we're underground rebels, we don't have to fight fair!

Even six foot of banded, beard hair

Can have its phone jacked if taken unawares

If doused with prune juice, it will quickly despair!


SCC (more sprightly this time):

If it's prune-juic-ed

So mightily sluice-d

Your plan is quite lucid!

It's far from stupid!


HUMPTY HUMP(jumping into the stache somehow):

I use a word that don't mean nothin' like "Loopdid!"'


ALL: A daring young bristle, that's who we need

A hair in the rough, but who will he be?

A psycho li'l strand, a stache kamika-zeeee…


HORST: That hair is me!!

My name is Horst!


SCC: His name is Horst!


HORST: I know I can!


SCC: He knows he can!


HORST: I'm a die-hard fighter like Moishe Dyan


HORST: My name is Horst!


SCC: His name is Horst!


HORST: I know I can!


SCC: He knows he can!


HORST: I got more moxie than Hothead Paisan

But what does a phone have to do with the plan?


LEADER: We'll phone the lone Hittite who to Lou remains loyal

He learns of all their plots, the better to foil


HORST: But he's been of no use to us so far!


LEADER: Because he knows not where we are

He'd help us save our stubbley necks

If we could only phone him


HORST Collect?


LEADER: Correct.


BOTH: If only we could phone him collect!


LEADER: If we could phone him, then we could tattle

How we're getting OMP and Hulkster to battle

When they kill each other, no one's left to defend

That precious Retin-A, our means to an end

We'll send him to Hulk's joint to swipe

The Hessian-derived membranes of eternal life

Our Hittite spy could then deliver it that very night

And save the Cap'n who'll set this shit right


REGULAR CHORUS: . . . (because they’re watching Star Trek: The Next Generation)


LEADER: But now the beard hair domination

Is ironically the key to our salvation

Famous, rich, evil bronze and 'self-a-wear'

They now are possessed of a phone most cell-u-lar


BEARD HAIRS: We're possessed of a phone most cell-u-lar


LEADER: They're possessed of a phone most cell-u-lar


BEARD HAIRS: We're wheeling and dealing on our phone most cell-u-lar!


LEADER: Absorbed as they are in their rock-star hubris

They won't expect a stache hair bold enough to do-this…

Are you hair enough to do this?


HORST: I am stone cole ruthless!


SCC: Are you hair enough to do this?


HORST: I'll ambush him like I was Brutus


SCC: Are you hair enough to do this?


HORST: The beard-o-garchy's the crudest

But I am the shrewdest

I'm hair enough to do this daring stuff

I'm haaaaaaaaaair Enouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh!


SCC: His name is Horst, he knows he can, etc. …


SONG 34: Winnie the Pooh’s Unwitting Beard-Gaffling Progeny


HORST: Cellular, cellular, cellular phone

We must jack it; the beard will not loan

Our salvation lies in that dial tone

Of the cellular, cellular, cellular phone


A dashing young hair with steel cojones

Not unlike 'Rambo' as played by Stallone

By braving the mayhem of the beard zone

Will jack the most cellular of phones


By cover of darkness, the chin I will roam

Seeking a beard hair slipping, all alone

The prune juice will sluice and as he dies he groans

"You're jacking the most cellular of phones"


METAL HAIR: Okay, Chip, here’s the deal: My name… on the cover…bigger than Whitney Houston… or the deal’s off!!! Plus, sell all my hatchet stocks, or… ahh…AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!


HORST: My will is pure and my skills finely honed

I've completed my mission; I've made my bones

Help is on the way now that I own

The most self-aware, cellular, cellular of phones.

Act three, scene two: Secret Hideout


SONG 35: Hessian Head Harvest


HULK: Calling all zombies, it's El Commandante Hogan!

Inviting you to the bitchen-phat party I'm hostin'

It's in my secret hideout, down by the docks

(sotto voice) And clearly on the level, not some sinister plot


The black metal bands and the beer are all free

You will all get 'faced, courtesy of me

Just BYOB–bring your own brain

( for reasons I am loath to explain)


HESSIANS: O Mighty Dude, we hear and obey

Flocking to the shindig, the wingding, the soiree

With brews and babes and Metal galore


HULK: (Exploiting your dreams to kill you with gore)


Acne is your curse, and rockin's your mission

For headbanging ease, get into position

With your noggin just over this trough

(Through which your meninges shall soon slough)


HESSIANS: Hessian Head Harvest: the ultimate high

Party with Hulk: your band it draws nigh

Hessian Head Harvest: A young stoner's dream

Turn teen membranes to Retin-A cream!



To me you're all suckers, rubes and bumpkins

It's like Halloween and your heads are like pumpkins

I'll carve them open using my Evill headbands

That will all contract, gooshing out your head glands

And your misfortune shall become my good luck:

As the trough turns into the world's first

Meninge Aqueduct


CHORUS: Wouldn't it be simpler to call it a 'meningeduct?'


HULK: Yes, but I've never been a simple man. That's why they call me 'Hulk.'


Take it away, Mr. Ducty!




SONG 36: Meningeduct Aria


MENINGEDUCT: The duct is a fine Roman tradition

Using gravity to transport liquid is bitchen!

But I alone epitomize the true purpose of this invention:

Taking zombie membranes to an underground kitchen!


SLAVES: All hail the majesty of the duct!


MENINGEDUCT: Here Thor's minions will turn this mental flotsam

To the finest Retin-A concoction

Soon I will extend over hills and peaks

Overflowing with meninges; the envy of the ancient Greeks


Yes! I am truly the mightiest aqueduct! Isn't that right, master? Mightier than the ducts of emperor Augustus, or even Vespayzeean!! (Or even the much maligned Nero, whose destruction of Rome not withstanding, built the almost-as-mighty ducts which carried clear alpine waters to the heart of downtown Thessalonia)but not as mighty as I, Mr. Meningeduct!! For my construction is of the finest moartar, lined with the most colorful Legos! Yes!

All shapes and sizes!

Hail me and my legos of might!!!


SONG 37: It’s on (Cap’n 187 ‘um)



Destroy the Captain and his punk-ass minions

(We Vikings hold such strong opinions)

I'm a 9th level Metaller with spikes by the score

Ungifted by Santa, I now worship Thor

My heart is as black as the coal in my stocking

Tear Lou a new hole that can't be fixed by mere caulking

Immortal Hulkster, he lived in days of yore

Doing deeds so mighty he earned the nickname 'Thor'


We unite under him to destroy the poser-god Santa

Float like the Hindenburg, sting like a manta

187 Cap'n, that's our mantra



The Mighty!

Bloody canvas in the sky

Turnbuckles of fury

Thunder god suplex of Northern darkness

Swinging the hammer: the ref isn't watching!

Relish the Albano agony

Mustache of infernal blasphemy


Norse god of old returns to us, a titan in Spandex!


Snowcapped suburbs:

Windswept and riddled with wolves

Please witness dark deeds of infernal torment::

Lamb's blood on your doorstep and then run!

Roaring thunder of steroid abuse:

Return of the Odin-son!

It's on, motherfucker!!!




Lou's giving of gifts in yon middle ages

Started the Santa cult which still rages

We'll devour him like macrophages

Cus we operate under Thor's aegis

We unite under him to destroy the poser-god Santa

Float like the Hindenburg, sting like a manta


187 Cap'n, that's our mantra!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


SONG 38: Orchestral Manouvres in the Prune


HULK: At last, (at last!) my plan is complete

The Hessian Head Harvest draws nigh

My thirst (my thirst!) for Retin-A

The meninge-duct will supply

But wait (but wait!), my hessians age

They tremble and crumple to dust

I hate ( I hate) whomever did this

I am extremely nonplused!


OMP: You wretched egg-man, it is I in my dotage

It's Old Man Prune, who has foiled you, in, uh… my dotage….

I spiked your beer vat with lethal-ass prune juice

Killed all your slaves now they're of no use

You've got mad phat Retin-A while I have but none

But by your own greed you are undone

Cus you OD'ed and now resemble a plum

And can't even stop me as I steal it by the ton

By the bushel, the hogs-head, even by the furlong

I'll be smooth and sprightly again, ere long

Young Man Plum, prepare for re-entry!

I'll gobble meninges like they was Good-n-Plenties


HULK: Such behavior is unheard of among the landed gentry!


OMP: But you can do naught but rage impotently…




OMP: These membranes sure are the bomb, but

To improve the taste, I'll make them into an omelet

And just to further spite that stupid Thor,

I'll steal eggs right out of his humidor


MENINGEDUCT: Not his humidor!?


Starting (starting!) to devour

The egg based-immortality snack

Turning (turning!) to discover

An intruder behind his back

Boots (curly!) : boots with bells

Pointy ears and bronze

Cahoots (cahoots!) elves and the mustache

Have used him for a pawn!

SONG 39: Omelet-Jacking for Dummies


HAROLD: You've stolen the cream and killed Hulk's whole team

You've been a useful tool

Now give me that omelet, or you'll live to regret

An action so selfish and cruel


The time has come, for me to be done

With this tacky Hittite apparel

And stand unmasked,




HAROLD : Glad you asked!

The elf formerly known as Harold


I am that undercover elf

I fooled the Hittites all by myself

They betrayed Santa one and all

With the Evill bronze bands they engineered his fall

I bit my tongue while biding my time

Now I must get the omelet to restore him to his prime


OMP: I, refuse, to, relinquish, my, repast

Come, closer, and, I'll wrinkle, your, punk ass

Prune, juice of, death, I still, have, a smidgen

To, shrivel, elves, is my, prime, ambition


HAROLD: I'll, consult, my, cufflinks, who, never fail.

What's, my fate, will, I die, shall, I prevail?

Rub, them twice, rub, them thrice, they, come to life

Tell, me now, tell, me how, to, set things right….


CUFFLINKS: Remember the brain of the visor-ed one?

I had you procure it for a rea-son.

The most wrinkled organ of the most wrinkled Hurrian

Will be enough to send Old Prune scurryin'

By putting elastic between we cuffs

A human sling-shot you'll become soon enough!

Destroy a Hurrian with another Hurrian's brains

And all from way beyond prune-juice range!


HAROLD: The elastic snaps, the brain has been cast

It hits him on the head like so

Wrinkles him awfully, killing him softly

(I did that like a pro!)


OMP: He's killing me softly, killing me softly with some guy’s brain,

some guy’s brain…


HAROLD: I am that undercover Elf, I killed him all by myself

(cufflinks clear their throat)

Well maybe not by myself at all,

With the good bronze cufflinks I engineered his fall

It is no longer time to bide all my time

I must get the omelet to restore Cap'n to his prime


CAP'N: He's got to feed me lots to restore me to my prime!


HAROLD: I must get the omelet to restore him to his prime!


HULK: You've hurt my feelings cus you're stealing this omelet of mine!


HAROLD: I must get the omelet to restore him to his prime!


HITTITES: Give us a taste, up here in space, cus of age we're all dyin'!!


HAROLD: I must get the omelet to restore him to his priiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime!


Act four, scene one: Viper Room again…

SONG 40:Opera Tech Support

SONG 41:Lisping Bouncer Bamboozling 101


HAROLD: Coming through, coming through

I've got an omelet for Cap'n Lou


BOUNCER: Who are you? Who are you


HAROLD: I'm the caterer, you bouncing fool


BOUNCER: Caterer, you? Catering to who?


HAROLD: I think you mean 'to whom?'

Tis for Cap'n Lou that I bear this tin of steamin' goo


BOUNCER: Tith for Cap'n Lou that you bear thith tin of thteamin' goo?


HAROLD: Tis for Cap'n Lou that I bear this tin of steamin' goo!

Must I speak until I'm blue?

Let me through, let me through, let me through!!


BOUNCER: Not so fatht, not so fatht

It'th imperative I view

View your path, view your path

It mutht be laminated too

Don't you sath, don't you sath

Act the fool and you will rue

Rue the day, rue the day

You tried to thcam your way

Patht my burly Atthhhhhh!


HAROLD: Nonetheless, nonetheless,

My lack of ID is quite moot

Observe my pointy ears and boots

The hallmarks of catering you know full well

Behold! My pointy boots have bells

Can't you tell, can't you tell?

Tis for Cap'n Lou that I bear this tin of steamin' goo

BOUNCER: Tith for Cap'n Lou that you bear thith tin of thteamin' goo?


HAROLD: Tis for Cap'n Lou!

Must I speak until I'm blue?

Let me through, let me through, let me through!!


BOUNCER: How thtrange! It lookth like meningoid brew


HAROLD: To your untrained eyes this may seem true

In fact it is a finely aged fondue

With mening… er… eggs imbued

So step aside and don't be rude

The Cap'n must have his food

Or he'll quit the Pay-Per-View

And I'll te ll Rupert it's your snafu!!


HAROLD AND CHORUS: Let him through, let him through, etc.


BOUNCER: My burly ath hath been perthuaded

Though you are not laminated

The Cap'n must be sated


HAROLD: (sotto voice) You stupid schmuck, you just got faded!



SONG 42:Enter Spectral Villechez


‘Cap’n Lou’s Angry Hair Club Bands’



RUPERT: Scanning tunneling electron microscopes? check.

Geo-synchronously orbiting communications satellite hook up? check

Microphones? check

Splayed body of comatose Cap'n Lou? check

The spectral, translucent ghost of Tattoo?




RUPERT: Take it away, Spectral Villechez!


SV: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I'm your MC for tonight, the ghost of Herve Villechez. Now that I'm dead I sound like this and have reverb. Never before have I ventured back into the realms of mortal men, but the events of today, the very events you are about to witness, are so amazing, so unprecedented in the annals of geo-synchronously-orbiting satellite-broadcast, electron microscopy and hair warfare, that I have returned in this translucent, ectoplasmic form. And now, it looks like the hairs are about to start their battle for facial supremacy….



We're Cap'n Lou's angry hair club bands, it's time to battle for the chin

Cap'n Lou's battle of beard hair bands,

Spectral Villechez will announce who wins!


INDIE: We'll lull you to sleep with our tuneless drone

When you wake up, you'll be ingrown and dethroned


METAL: 50,000 watts from our amps you can't resist

Performing Black Metal Electrolysis


INDIE: If your metal is Black and darkness you choose

Instead of being Nazis, listen to Ice Cube


METAL: You're more Emo than Phillips, you're whining like bitches

Shooting more heroin than even Sid Vicious.


INDIE: Your attacks rebound off our irony

Since we've appropriated all your imagery


METAL: I'm plucking you with tweezers

Cus your wimply ass sounds like Weezer


INDIE: We'll tie you in knots unheard of in topology,

And recycle your lame albums in the interests of ecology


METAL: Live from the bathroom of the Viper Room

We pummel you with our keyboards of doom


INDIE: Metal might notwithstanding, you will surely be shaved

The Viper Room washbasin will be your final grave


METAL: We'll burn your zines in a pyre to Odin

Cus there's nothing in them remotely worth quotin'


INDIE: We'll badmouth your scene and steal all your chicks

Scoff at your zines and upturn your crucifix!


METAL: Not our crucifix!! (sounds of metal fear)


METAL: Like the knee of Thor we'll be knee-dropping

Right onto this Black Metal outcropping



ALL: We're Cap'n Lou's angry hair club bands, it won't be cheap to watch this show

Cap'n Lou's battle of beard hair bands, we're sure to put you in escrow!


METAL: Hark, there approaches an elf with a platter

Is he here in this stall for to empty his bladder?


INDIE: Yo, my hairy hom-boy, who let

This elf in here brandishing an omelet?


METAL: He's feeding the Cap'n and stuffing his face

A startling change is taking place :


INDIE: Yes, apace, it's taking place apace……


SONG 43: That’s Not How You Spell Omolette!


Mambo On Your Grave!!!!!



Swallow it!


Swallow it!


Swallow it!



CAP'N: The meninges have repealed my wrinkles and my coma

And given me a jolly and musky aroma

I've taken so much Retin-A, I'm 1,000 years younger

Now I'm Santa again and obscure no longer!

Possessed by my beard and left on this pottie

Now I must weed out the nice from the naughty

My strength is replenished and my vengeance won't stall

Now I'll shred this beard like I was Fawn Hall!


CHORUS: Shreddin' it! Shreddin' the roots!

You treacherous shoots will fear my attack!

Deaden it! Deaden the hair!

You should all beware, the Cap'n is back!!!


CAP'N: O malignant follicles

I'll rip you to molecules



RUPERT: Good Christ!! You've killed my whole cast and ruined my whole multi-million dollar broadcast!! What kind of Communist Santa are you??


CAP'N: The worst kind of Communist Santa possible!!! Since my moustache liberated me from my coma, I have taken on its revolutionary ideology. Just as the stache now runs my face, soon I will run the world!!


RUPERT: Of course!!!!! How could no one have seen it earlier….that jolly belly, those squinty eyes, that huge stache…. Santa without a beard looks exactly like…. Stalin!!!!


STALIN CLAUS: That's Stalin Claus to you, bourgeois pig!


RUPERT: (Shrieks like schoolgirl)

SONG 44: Stalin Claus


MUSTACHE: We're free of beards, the revolution has been won

Now the face is ours and the purges have begun




MUSTACHE: Already!


PURGED HAIR: (more plaintively) Already?


MUSTACHE: Already,

Our grip is quite deadly

We sing a Communist medley

And the purges have begun


We command Rupert's cameras, seizing means of production

To spread our manifesto of nationwide beard reduction


PURGED HAIR: No, really?


MUSTACHE: No really!


PURGED HAIR: No, really?


MUSTACHE: No, really!

We're on every TV

All mustaches will see me,

And the purges have begun!

Freed from the bondage of Self-aware Evill bronze rubber bands

We have no less than 8 demands…..


1) gland reform : re-distribution of glands

2) we want the first stache in space

3) staches now required at Disneyland

4) don't shave above the dimples o' your face

5) no beard hair escapes our coup

6) don't exploit us to strain your soup

7) all staches must have a blue-collar droop

8) Yacov Smirnov must eat some poop!


Santa with no beard, but a mustache run amok

Gulag on the chin, for those the regime has struck, cause….


A mustache run amok

Used to be all about naughty and nice

Now no matter who you are you must shuck the rice


You all must shuck the rice

Down through the chimney to conduct a random purge

On milk and cookies the proletariat must splurge


The proletariat must splurge


STALIN: The new regime is much too mean

To give you room to think:

Former friends, that you turned in

They clogs the bathroom sink


They clogs the bathroom sink!!!!!!


MOUSTACHE: Tractor in your stocking, plutonium in the sled

Visions of Pol Pot dancing around your head

Yes, Trotsky, there is a STALIN CLAUS, STALIN CLAUS

Dance or you'll be dead

You don't get any presents: the line is far too long

He'll take away your presents cus poverty makes you strong

Hide all your shit because

Here comes STALIN CLAUS……


SONG 45:Check Yo Elf Before You Wreck Yo Elf!


NASA GUY: Come in Mission Control, This is Houston, we're picking up a strange, eerie transmission from a geo-synchronously-orbiting satellite, .. spectroscopic readings would seem to indicate, uh.. it seems to be made of bronze….uh,


MISSION CONTROL: Roger that, Houston, that satellite is extremely fuckin' dangerous. They've got an orbital wrinkle ray on board, and it's manned by senile Hittites with nothing to lose. Play back the transmission immediately, over….


HITTITES: Egad! the Hittite we'd surmised to be plucky, turned out to be Sucky

Forsooth, we sent him to earth to obtain, the omelet of brain

But he left us to die of old age out in space, and stuffed the Cap'n's face

You took the one thing which could of saved us, and betrayed us,

You're so heinous!


Bitch! You really shoulda known,

Systems analysts never die alone

It's! Much too late to atone, we've shriveled down to skin and bone

Lo! you 'hoe, you're goin' down today:

On with yon wrinkle-ray!


And its……..


187 on an undercover Elf

Wrinkling your head and put it on a shelf

You'll pay for your deception


LONE HITTITE IN BACK: Not to mention your stealth!


HITTITES: Cus it's 187 on an undercover Elf


We're trapped in our satellite, we're going senile

Outraged at our dot-age and now we're going buck wild

If we can't be immortal than neither can you

You're a traitorous narc with bells on your shoes

With our palsied spotted fingers we'll fire the ray

Soon you'll emulate our involuntary decay

A karmic cost you can't defray


SIMON AND GARFUNKEL: Hey hey hey, … hey hey hey….


SAC: We've been watching from on high your pay-per-view show

Triangulated your coordinates cus our charts got the flow

We can't pimp a Sumerian hoe from space

And Stalin Claus is a punk so we'll wrinkle his face

HAROLD: But you betrayed him in the first place!


SAC: So what? He was a disgrace to our Hittite race

But we'll never revert to Hittites again

Cus we trusted you as a friend, buddy, pal, comrade

(music gets all Nomeansno-ish)

Friend, buddy, pal, comrade….friend until the end.

Brother elf, brother elf, brother elf




SAC: Chiggedy-check yo elf before you wreck your elf

Check yo elf before you riggedy-wreck yo elf

I said, chiggedy-check yo elf before you wreck yo elf…

Cus jackin my meninges is bad fo your health


Now listen to us like E. F. Hutton:

You shoulda stuck with yon stocking-stuffin'

Now it's too late to beg for forgiveness:

If we must die, we're taking you with us, and it's:


SAC: 187 on an undercover elf

Wrinkling your head and put it on a shelf

You'll pay for your deception and stealth cus it's

187 on Santa's Little Helper

Don't call for Ray Cappo cus for you there's no Shelter

Cast as Sharon Tate in your own Helter Skelter cus it's

187 on a Hittite fraud

You'll catch a phat fatwa from our jihad

Reveling in your pain like the Marquis de Sade cus it's

187 with a wrinkle ray …


CHORUS: We'd prefer you say 'beam!'


ANALYSTS: Kicked out of the Rock Opera Scene

We'll keep your head in a vitrine cus we're all kinds of mean


187 on an undercover Elf!!


A hush falls over the satellite…Something's not right

Another transmission's hit ours in the sky: that's what's awry

Rupert's beam ascended as ours was headed down…Ours never hit the ground

Our enemies have emerged totally unwrinkled….We instead bent their signal


CHORUS: It's bent, it's bent! it's hella, hella bent


SAC: Now look, on the screens of the boob machines

Everyone's got staches, looking mean

From Uhuru to Urkel, from Furley to Laverne and/or Shirley

They're all yelling Communist demands

And all the purges that they have planned

Even Ronald McDonald's saying "Fuck the Man!!"


RUPERT: Oh, what a fool I've been!

Competing so hard for a free-market monopoly

Communism is the perfect scam

The State runs every TV

I wish I'd thought of it myself…

Please let me be a Red!

I'll give you Hittites all my vast wealth…


SAC: A tempting offer, too bad we're dead….ehhhh…


SONG 46: Sit-com Revolution

SONG 47: The Challenge!


STALIN: Now the 'stache has spoken it is my turn for a speech

To address the nation on Rupert's TV

To the punk motherfucker Hulk, I got a manifesto

My fist is a mortar and your whole, ovoid, children's' toy-lookin' body is a pestle;

Punk! I'm mad!


CHORUS: He's mad!


STALIN: I'm mad!


CHORUS: So mad!


STALIN: I'm mad, mad, mad, mad, I'm mad!!!

You thought you could trick me and put me in a coma

But now my hatred grows like a malignant carcinoma

I'm back in full effect and ready to rassle

You ain't just opened a can of woop-ass, you've opened yourself a whole passle




STALIN: I'm mad!

Norway is weak, Black Metal for Nazi posers

So take off, eh? You Great White North-type hosers

So now you're calling your self the Mighty Thor

But you're the son of a peg-legged, Down's Syndrome-having, billy goat

And a $2 whore, yeah I said it!


You can take Metamucil or even ex-lax

But I'm gonna put my foot so far up your ass you can't ever extract

As Tolkien would put it, I'm wroth and I'm fey

I'm one pissed-off, freakish, death-dealing, motherfucker as Dolomite would say…

I'm mad!


If you're one percent of the man that you claim

And not just a king-size, grade-A lame

You'll show up in time for the showdown

Your defeat will be cause enough for a gargantuan hoe-down

…I'm mad!


So trot off to Stonehenge and wrestle quite prompt-LY

And see just once and for all who the better man will be

I'm saying it right here on the TV

So if you don't show

Millions will know

That you're a hoe

Fluffy and soft like a big, round pillow

And you're so scared to go

Into the ring with an OG


Act four, scene two: Thor’s crib

SONG 48:The Weeble Tilts Tonight!


CHORUS: Meanwhile, Hulk has gone back to the wrestling circuit,

Under the name of “The Grapplin’ Weeble….”

(to the tune of 'the lion sleeps tonight')

A weeble away, a weeble away, a weeble away, etc.


HULK: In the ring, the pro wrestling ring, the weeble tilts tonight

I can't be pinned, I can't be toppled, the weeble wins the fight

At first I was depressed because I couldn't ever pin

But now I'm ovoid and invincible, by default I always win

(starts weeping uncontrollably)….


SONG 49: Thor’s Rasslin’ Recap


MOUSTACHE: Why are you crying, master??? You’re the man! The champ!

The wam-bam Weeble!


HULK: I earned the belt…


CHORUS: …The title belt


HULK: But I have no waist to don it. If I can't wear…


CHORUS: His title belt


HULK: …I'll surely be despondent. I've tried suspenders…


CHORUS: Silk suspenders


HULK: ..But no shoulders can be found. No accessories…


CHORUS: Whatsoever…


HULK: Can be worn by one who is round

How can a weeble


CHORUS: …A rasslin’ weeble…


HULK: accessorize? I am hating…


CHORUS: …Haute coture


HULK: …That eschews my portly size. Just because I’m fat


CHORUS: …Fucking fat


HULK: I'm in a fashion slump. The designer labels


CHORUS: …of Hefty and Glad


HULK: Are all that fit my rump

Alack! no bugle boy for I, nor Hilfiger nor Sassoon

No Esprit or Fubu, what can I do?

My belt lies on the floor


STACHE: Hulk, please don’t cry!


HULK: What else can I do, no Bugle Boy for I!

(suddenly regaining composure)

But lo, I think I see a way I could wear my belt:

If I took it to the Icelandic volcanoes, the better to make it melt

Thence to re-forge it as a bitchen hat,

Which I could wear with some success cus my head is hell of flat

A horned yarmulke upon my ovoid head

The better to invoke my Viking cred.


No Bugle Boy for I, I don’t need ‘em anymore

I am tres chic, more chic than ever before

My helm is on my head


STACHE: Hulk, you look so fly!


HULK: Of course I do, no Bugle Boy for I!

SONG 50:Erpituity-pay




I'm Vince Macmahon, of the WWF, the wrestling ederation-fey

I'm here to say ix-nay on the elt-may of the elt-bay

I'm Vince Macmahon, of the WWF, the wrestling ederation-fey

The belt belongs to the ommission-kay

In erpituity-pay


HULK : What kinda pay?


VINCE: Erpituity-pay! I say…

You may not melt the belt away

You may not smelt the belt away

Deface, replace or even pelt the belt away

Or your title we'll strip from you

We'll rip from you, we've really got a grip on you

Yes, we'll have to trip on you

If you melt dat belt away….


HULK (suddenly quite sly):

You're too late, I've.. uh…lost my belt

It was heisted from where I dwelt

By black metal bandits, through no fault of my own

Who left this helmet behind in my home

With no arms I couldn't stop the thugs from their thuggin'

(You'll have to imagine my resignedly shrugggin')

But you must admit this helm is quite fetching

With zirconium points and the finest aluminum-age etching

You might even say in this belt-absent-time

That the helm could replace the belt just fine!


(Viking hat rumbles ominously atop Hulk's head)


VINCE: What the hell was that?!?


HULK: Huh?


VINCE: Anyhoo…I find your explanation in veracity quite acking-lay

So prepare thyself for a thorough own-smacking-day!

Yes, the amassed power of the Wrestling Commission

Will wobble you into utter submission!

VIKING HAT: ( coming very loudly and bombastically alive, to everyone's amazement)

Halt now, belay this foolish prattle

It is I, the helmet, who will decide this battle

For I am the fabled self-aware aluminum, the ore of old lore

A pagan aluminum who still recalls when this weeble was Thor

His head is my encampment, I cast my fresh enchantment

I return Thor to the fore; he's a weeble no more!!!













CHORUS: A weeble?? AWAY!!! A weeble?? AWAY!!! A weeble?? AWAY!!!AIEEEEE!!!!!


HULK: Stalin Claus… tremble before the might of the Mighty Thor’s might…. (it’s a very special kind of might….) I am the master!! (tee heee heeee)


SONG 51:Sax Solo


HELMET: You've vanquished the commission with my thunder and my what-not

Now go meet Cap'n Lou and wrap up this plot


THOR: A brilliant idea, my helmet, but first,

I must go put on my precious self-ripping shirt

I need an elastic Shirt that repairs itself

A self-aware Shirt that tears itself

A bronze armor Shirt to protect my health

Such a good idea, I scare myself

The Hittites what made it took far far too long

By the time it was done I had no arms with which to don

At last the hour is at hand when I can finally wear it

Soon in the name of showbiz, I will finally tear it…


HELMET: Naw, it’s more like, ‘When I beat that Cap'n Lou, I’ll victoriously tear it!’


THOR: Now it's off to the Stonehenge for a long-overdue climax

But first we must hear a solo on the sax….( mellifluous tooting ensues)


Act four, scene three: Stonehenge

SONG 52: Sagan Monologue



I'm spectral Carl Sagan, brought back from the dead by the sheer magnitude of the cosmic forces set in motion at the wrestling match today… We're here at the forbidding, cyclopean ruins of Stonehenge, the OG caged-match arena, built by the ancient Druids to settle their conflicts by no-holds-barred, Celtic-style grappling, and a fitting site indeed for a most monumental conflict. . . indeed.


In this corner, the Hittite shaman, turned medi-evil gift-bequeather, turned pro wrestler, who (upon emerging from his Hulk-induced coma) turned into a beardless, Soviet-style dictator: The stocking stuffer, the commie crusher, the beard-band-buster, the Retin-a pushing bad-man, the one they call the Captain: Lou Albano, the one and only Stalin Claus!!!!


And in this corner, weighing 432 pounds and carrying a hammer the size of a small Cuisinart, is the Norse thunder god and idol of teenybopper hessians everywhere, The number one, the Odin son, meninge overdoser, the bombastic weeble boaster, the self-aware aluminum helmet-wearer who swears he's not a poser: The mighty Thor!!!!!!!


And now they square off to settle a grudge so deep, so wide and full of boiling hate, to unleash retribution so vast the whole cosmos is watching , a match so epic and so deeply, troublingly insane that entire continents and heavenly bodies are jostling to get the best view, resulting in cataclysmic earthquakes and tidal shifts worldwide….


DRUNK FAN IN CROWD: … show us your tits!

SONG 53: The Epic-est Battle


‘More Demise’


‘I Will Vanquish You Down!!!!!’


THOR: Of the mug of might I have drunk a deep draught

I'm so fuckin' epic, let's see what YOU got

My Nordic piledriver will knock you through the mat

Whence to feel the wrath of the points of my hat

I'll suplex and drop-kick you all the way to Sweden

You'll do what you're told like you were Barbara Eden

I've vanquished you once with my 'Evill' beard-bands

Yet again you seek more demise at my hands?


SPECTRAL SAGAN: 'More demise?'


THOR: I'll vanquish you, vanquish you, vanquish you down

Right through the mat, six feet underground

I'll vanquish you, vanquish you, vanquish you down

For Niflheim you are express-bound!!!!


STALIN: You weak little scrapper, you overage adolescent,

I'll spank you until your ass is fluorescent


SAGAN: Or possibly until it’s luminescent….


STALIN: Twixt the stones of the 'Henge we dodge and we parry

You're gonna get cracked like, uh…. Marion Barry

I'll back-break you right into the gulag

And then throw out your corpse like a withered old 'do-rag

You and Loki couldn't beat me tag-teamin'!

The walls of the 'Henge shall be your mausoleum


I'm purging you, purging you, purging you down!

Like my beard hairs I'll rip you asunder

I'm purging and purging and purging myself

And soon will cover you with my chunder! (vomits heartily)


THOR: Egads, I'm messy; with vomit I'm drippin'

It's the food of the gods: pretzels and Pabst Blue ribbon

In the loamy soil your corpse shall soon molder…

Cus I'm unleashing the wrath of my hammer Mjolnir

You'll also be receiving such a thorough smiting

At the behest of my old buddy: lightning

Yea, truly will I chug the sweet juice of revenge

When I crush you with this basalt slab from Stonehenge!


SAGAN: I believe it's actually blue limestone, which was geologically …. whoooah! (dodges apocalyptic slab remnants)

THOR: I'll vanquish you, vanquish you, vanquish you down

Right through the mat, six feet underground

I'll vanquish you, vanquish you, vanquish you down

For Niflheim you are express-bound!!!!


STALIN: (weakly) Is this the end, can it be true?

The end of Stalin Claus, slash Cap'n Lou?

My legs they give way, my mustache has crumbled

My saving throw versus woop-ass I have sorely fumbled


THOR: For maximum triumph I will now rip my shirt

The self-ripping shirt which can't be hurt

Crafted by Hittite ingenuity

I'll be the champ in erpituity-pay, I mean, perpetuity!

Millions of Hulkamaniacs across the globe

Cheer as I lift up my arms to disrobe

I'll vanquish you, vanquish you, vanquish you down

Right through the mat, six feet underground

I'll vanquish you, vanquish you, vanquish you down

For Niflheim you are express-bound!!!!


HAROLD: from the sidelines I watch with defeat and dismay

It wasn't supposed to end this way

For this I pretended to be a Hittite?

Hey, cufflinks, this is Harold. Wake up! this isn't right!

I ask thee: Is this a trick thou played on me?


You said that this shirt, the self-ripping shirt

The self-ripping shirt I made in a yurt

For six damn months I had to work

To make this shirt, this self-aware shirt

The kind of shirt that can't be hurt

You said that this would defeat the Hulk

Render him moot and reduce his vast bulk

And yet here he stands, all majestic and balding

Stubbornly showing no signs of devolving

What's up with that, links? Your advice is failing!


LINKS: Oh doubting elf, you've no cause for complaining cus I'm the…..


Though you doubt me in a matter of minutes

My plan will be complete and Hulk will be finished!



THOR: As I rend my shirt, I feel a strange tingle

I realize too late, the tearing makes wrinkles!

Safety pins do no good: the shirt is self-tearing

It's a corset of death I find myself wearing

By my own desires I am undone

A victim of irony, pathos and bad puns

Aging to death, all wrinkled and curled

Oy, what a world…. what a world!!!!


SONG 54: Raisin In My Arms



STALIN: After all the heinous deeds he's done

I have prevailed, I finally have won


HAROLD: Why do you look so sad, he was never your chum?


STALIN: No, no, you fool, I've killed my only son!!

He was a by-product of a wild oat

I sewed during a party on a Viking boat

He started out good, but wound up stealing brains

I'm a dysfunctional father whose son died insane

Tis a pity I had to rock him like a hurricane

And now I must take the blame, take all the blame….

Though he was brash and bad-assed and totally brazen

Now he's naught more than a wrinkled up raisin….


Raisin in my arms, raisin in my arms,

Cradle the raisin

Together we shalt buy some farms


HAROLD: (singin’) Raisin , RAISIN in his arms. The raisin in his ARMS, raisin in HIS arms, no one else’s arms… Cradle the raisin. His arms are like 2 big scoops… in every box! Cradle the raisin. Cover it with some sugar baby, pour some milk on that wrestler baby, Together we shalt buy farms? Well,if you’re going to plant grapes, you might as well make wine….


Stop, he's too wrinkled, and where there's wrinkles there's peril!

If you hug him you'll die as sure as my name's Harold


STALIN: You foolish young elf, can't you see that's my scheme?

I'll join him in death as a spectral tag-team

This shriveled ex-weeble I clutch to my breast

In Stonehenge we will both be laid to rest


CHORUS: Awwwww, that's so sweet… etc.


STALIN: Raisin in my arms, raisin in my arms,

Cradle the raisin

Together we shalt buy some farms


HAROLD: Raisin in my arm… uh, in HIS arms… (somebody should cradle him). Cradle the raisin. You should buy some farms. Cradle the raisin, in THEIR arms, the arms … of the farms….



SONG 55: In Valhalla, Everything is Fine


STALIN: Yes, in Valhalla, we'll meet the rest of the tribe,

Spectral Hittites once again you will thrive in afterlife


THOR: No more backstabbing and no more plots


STALIN: Just a glorious…


THOR: Wrestling…


STALIN: Communist…


THOR: Hessian-ing kibbutz


STALIN: No more wrinkles, no more Retin-A,

In Valhalla we'll be freed, we'll not even need the orbital wrinkle-ray


THOR: No more shirts, self-ripping or not

Viking nipples in the snow, bare-chested we will show what we got


BOTH: No more evil, with any number of 'l's ,

Just some proletariats, stuffing stockings with elves

We'll never want to go anywhere else..


RUPERT: Can I horn in on this deal?


BOTH: No, we'll do it our selves….


Like a playa or a balla craves a fast dolla

Like Fats Walla craves a big bar of halvah

Like a Jawa needs a big sand crawla…

We Vikings need to go to Valhalla!



In Valhalla

In Valhalla

In Valhalla

In Valhalla

Appendix the first: Random Rock Opera Title Generator


So you don't like our title, eh? Or perhaps you're putting the finishing touches on your OWN rock opera about bronze-age wrestlers and Stalin, and you just need the perfect name to try out on your marketing focus groups. Luckily, we've prepared a handy device for generating unforgettable rock opera titles at the drop of a hat (as long as the hat contains a 20-sided die, (which most of them do nowadays, what with the 'internet' and all…)) Roll 3 20-sided dice, (four if you want an especially epic name) and then match the numbers to the following words, and then take it straight to the Marketing Department!!! It's really that simple!!!!


1) rassslin'

2) Retin-A

3) Hittites

4) brutal

5) Slim-Jims

6) Flowcharts

7) moustache/ beard

8) prunes

9) elves

10) black metal

11) communist/Stalinist

12) wrinkles

13) indie rock

14) 'evill'

15) saga

16) might

17) fury

18) suplex

19) meninges

20) bronze

….Appendix the second: index of opera terms

For the aspiring literary critics among you, here's a handy, alphebetized list of all people, places, and things mentioned in the opera, and the song-numbers of the songs where these things can be found. You know what I mean. Now it's easy to locate the hidden patterns and intricate yet subtle symbolisms that are strewn all over this highly complex and literary text!



A, Retin- 3, 4, 8, 12, 21, 23, 32, 33, 35,36,38,43,52, 55

Asses-20, 21, 22, 27, 37, 38, 39, 42, 47, 53, 54



Barry, Marion – 53

Billy Goat, Down's syndrome havin'-47

Boucher, Eric -22



Coture, Haute– 27, 49



Dee, Kool Moe– 27

dodo, the – 5

Druids, fuzzy – 5, 52

Dyan, Moishe- 33



Ectoplasm, translucent and spectral– 42

Eden, Barbra-53

Electron microscopy-30, 42

Entropy- 20 Epicness-5, 52, 53

Evill-12, 13, 15, 35, 39, 44, 53



FUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!- 3, 5, 8, 19, 22, 27, 31, 37, 45, 47, 49, 53



Gel, Malevolent- 12

Geo-synchronous orbit-21, 42, 45

Good-N-Plenties – 38

Glutemates, monosodium or otherwise-16, 17

Gulag – 44, 53



Hall, Fawn-43

Halvah– 55

Hawking, Stephen- 7

Hilfiger, Thomas– 49

House of Tudor – 22

Humidor, not his?!?– 38

Hutton, E.F.-45



Jawa — 55

James, Ladies Love Cool-27

Jello Biafra-see Boucher, Eric



Kali, 15

Kibbutz, rasslin'– 55

Kruschev, Nikita- 31



Links, Cuff-10, 39, 53

Loopdid – 33



MacLaren, Malcolm – 30

McDonald, Ronald, agent of revolution — 45

Might – 1, 5, 17, 19, 20, 21, 22, 33, 35, 36, 37, 42, 47, 50, 52, 53

Mullets-13, 14, 15



Nero, the much-maligned– 36

Newton (my po' li'l)– 32

Nub – 4


Omolet- 38, 39, 41,42,43

Operah, Winfrey– 27



Paisan, Hothead- 33

Pangaea – 16 Phat – 20, 23, 35, 38, 45

Phillips, Emo- 42 Poop- 1, 7, 34, 44

Pot, Pol — 44



Q*Bert — 30



Sade, Marquis De– 45

Salt Mines, Underground– 31

Sassoon, Vidal– 49 Shore, Pauly – 15

Smirnov, Yacov – 44

Snyder, Dee- 26

Spandex – 37

Springer, Jerry – 27

Sumer, fuckin' ancient-3,8,19,21,22,32,45

Suplex-37. 53



Thessalonia, downtown– 36

Trotsky, Leon – 44



Urkel– 45



The Vapors- 13

Verandas – 29

Vicious, Sidney- 42

Viking (s) – 5, 27,37, 49, 54,55

Voltaire – 23 Waller, Fats– 55



Winger, Kip– 27

Wussy Quotient- 29



Yurt- 10



Ziggurat- 8,32


Appendix the third: Glossary Of Terms Used In The Opera 


Compiled by Mr. MacNeil and Mr. Abbott




Beard-O-Garchy— A form of government in which the beard rules, and the mustache is repressed.

Black metal — —–1. Viking glam rock. 2. Like normal metal, but with organs (considered by many hessians to be wussier than death metal)

bris —————-a young herring

Bronze/ Bronze Age– the period from 1500 BC to 500 BC, when the working of bronze proliferated throughout the ancient Western world.



Electron microscopy— a very technical process… you wouldn't understand

Elves———————agents of Santa. See Hawkwind

Evill———————–just a brand name



Flowcharts (of the damned)— The Systems Analysts drew up these legendary flowcharts to demonstrate how Hulk Hogan was enslaving them. The Hulkster promptly bodyslammed them (the flowcharts) thereby eradicating any Hittite resistance.



Geo-synchronous orbital wrinkle ray—- a weapon of ultimate destruction weilded by the Hittites-cum-Systems Analysts in their quest for revenge on the Hurrian devils.



The key of 'H'———- —-the oft-overlooked musical key right above 'g' and before 'a'. This opera, having so many key characters start with 'h' (see below) was fated to be written in the key of h as well….

Harold———————–he of the campy pointed ears. See Elves

Hawkwind————– —-hippie-hobbit band featuring Lemmy

Hessian——————– a warrior of ancient Gaul. Also, they often display mullets.

Hitties———————-ancients of what is now known as Turkey

Hulkster————– —–also known as Hulk, the Hulk-a-maniac, Hogan, Hollywood Hulk, etc. This 3,000 year old Hittite had many adventures in the Great White North and became the historical genesis for the Norse Thor legends. See Black Metal, Hessians.

Hurrian—————-ancient enemies of the hittites



Indie rock————–the preferred music of half of Cap'n Lou's beard, with (virtually) no corporate ties.



Meninge-duct———-an improvement on the Roman aqueduct designed to transport hessian (mem)brains.

Meninges————–the prime ingredient of Retin-A. The protectively smooth membrane between the skull and the brain

Mjolnir—————-technical term for the hammer of Thor. Made of Uru, but only if you're Stan Lee.

Mullet—————–the haircut of the Gods.



Niflheim—————-like Hell, only cold and full of Swedes.



Odin———————the all-father. Big 'rassler

Omolet——————a quiche without the crust, the grab bag of breakfast foods. May or may not confer immortality, depending on the chef.



Peat bog————– the final resting place of the Slim Jim

Philtrum—————-a necessary component to any good nose

Proletariat————– a racial slur

Prunes—————– help you poo; wrinkled plums

Putsch—————– like a coup d'etat



'Rasslin—————–the measure of Might

Retin-A—————- the secret to eternal life; wrinkle remover (see meninges)



Schultz———————-a special kind of sock for the wintertime

self-aware-——————like Popeye

Slim Jims——————–a snack treat heavy on nitrates, not good tasting. Also, ruled in prehistory.

Stalinist———————being good, even though you know you're gong to get (or become) coal in your stocking

Stonehenge—————–the most mystical henge

Suplex———————-a large apartment. Like, a 'super' apartment.

Sumer———————–arguably the first great human civilization.

Systems Analysts———–NERRRRRRRRRRRRRRDS!!!!!!!!



Thor————————thunder god, son of Odin. Duh.



Valhalla———————–the last Viking resort



Weeble———————the weeble wobbles, but it don't fall down.



Yarmuckle——————–like a pancake you wear on your head

Yurt—————————–a dwelling made of cottage cheese


Ziggurat———————-a racial slur


All lyrics written by Schultz, Abbott, and Mink, with invaluable suggestions ("You know what rhymes with 'omelet?'…'Home-boy-who-let'!") from Corbett Redford and Dylan MacNeil. This is what happens when you let heterosexuals write Broadway.


All the Orchestral noises were produced by tiny robots working under the stern gaze of Jason Kocol, at his Master Control Panel over in Berkeley.


All recordings produced by Schultz, on an 8-track hard-disk recorder. Plus, all the rock and roll music was by me. I'm laying out this fucking website, too. So there.


Cover art by Clay Butler. Please observe him at


Dan would like to thank: God, for not meddling.


Cast (in, naturally enough, order of appearance):


Cap'n Lou Corbett Redford

Bedpan John Mink

Geek Chorus John Crowhurst and Angelena Kyzar-Crowhurst, along with

Angelena Kyzar-Crowhurst, as well as John Crowhurst

Hittite Salesman Steven Schultz

Nurse Estrella Kooroola Pasquala Pie Osa Aquilla Enki Cerise Gonzales Goya Espinosa

Lead Black Metal Hair Joe Demaree

Black Metal Backup Hairs Dylan McNeil, Dan Abbott, Mink, Schultz

Indie Rock Bands Yvan Kawecki, Dan, kind of Schultz

Hulk Hogan Mike Scalzi

Announcer Guy Corbett

Hittites/ System Analysts Dylan, Dan, Mink, Schultz, and the one known as Craigums

Lone Hittite In Back Christopher Rodriguez Jones

Harold Dan

Cufflinks Ang

Lil Timmy that would be Jones

Mean Gene Okerlund Dylan

Evill Mustache Mink

Chorus of Hulk's slaves Dylan, Dan, Mink, Schultz

Mom Jenny Raven

Dad Matt-o-war

Johnny Shawn Martin, uh, I mean B.P. Daddy Mung

Randy Savage Mikey Porter

Dean of Archaeology Jenny

Archaeological Choir Schultz

Young Man Plum/

Old Man Prune Mink

Systems Analyst Sentry Dylan

Zombie Loder Jones

Black Metal Fan Joe

Indie Rock Fan Yvan

Rupert Murdoch Jason Kocol

Lou's Mustache Dan

Moustache Leader Kocol

Horst Mink

Mr. Meninge-duct Craigums

Rock Opera Tech Support Dan

Various Callers Schultz, Craigums, Estrella, Mink

Lisping Bouncer Matt-o-war

Spectral Villechez Mink

Vince McMahon Matt-o-war

Viking Hat Mikey Porter

Spectral Carl Sagan Dan Shick

Drunk In Crowd Jones


Songwriting Credits

Act one: Retin-A Fiasco (43:39)



Composed and orchestrated by Kocol



Composed and orchestrated by Jason ("Paisan") Kocol



Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol



Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol


5: KAOS IN MY BEARD (9:29)

Composed and performed by Schultz



Composed and performed by Schultz




Composed and performed by Schultz…

or so you were led to believe!!




Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol



Barely composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol



Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol



Composed and performed by Schultz in one day..

Act Two: Headbands of Fury! (49:13)


1: LIL TIMMY (skit) (3:37)



Confused and performed by Schultz




Composed by Schultz, Over-orchestrated by Kocol





Composed and performed by Schultz and not Korn


5: MENINGE OD (4:17)

Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol


6: SLIM JIM INTERLUDE (skit) (0:53)



Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol and not Wagner



Composed and raucously performed by Kocol




Oh, you know



And stuff



Composed by Schultz and Kocol, swung by Kocol



Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by 'Legs' Kocol

Scratching by Admiral Stockdale


13: DOWN WITH OMP (3:13)

Composed and vaguely performed by Schultz

Violin performed by Lucia Schultz


14: ELVES IN OUR MIDST! (3:08)

Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by The Dude


15: MAIN THEME AGAIN! (1:16!!)

Composed and performed by Kocol



Act Three: Indie might? Indie Hittite! (59:22)


1: MTV NEWS BRIEF (skit) (2:39)


2: AS SEEN ON 'OPRAH' (6:05)

Composed and performed by Schultz, in the forest, at night


3: CRED GALORE (DON'T CALL WE part two) (4:21)

Composed and performed by Schultz



Composed and performed by Schultz, in a different forest





Composed and fucking performed by Kocol.





Composed by Abbot, performed by Crowhurst




Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol





Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol




Composed by (according to the Muppet Show Album liner notes anyway) Haynie, performed by Kocol



Composed and performed by Schultz



Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol

Additional flutes by Lucia Schultz


12: IT'S ON ( CAP'N 187'UM) (8:34)

Decomposed and exhumed by Schultz



Composed and performed by Kocol



Composed by Abbot and Schultz; performed by Schultz

Act Four: Raisin Hell at Stonehenge (68::26)


1: OPERA TECH SUPPORT (skit) (4:14)



Composed and orchestrated.





Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol





Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol


5: STALIN CLAUS (5:10)

Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol




Composed by Schultz, Bowie, and Dr. Dre, Orchestrated by Kocol


7: SITCOM REVOLUTION (skit) (1:47)



Composed and performed by Schultz



Composed and performed by Schultz and that guy



Composed and performed by Schultz


11: ERPITUITY-PAY (4:58)

Composed and performed by Schultz


12: SAX SOLO (2:08)

Composed and performed by Kocol



Composed and performed by Kocol





Composed by Abbot, Schultz, and Kocol, performed by Schultz and Kocol


15: RAISIN IN MY ARMS (3:57)

Composed and performed by Schultz



Composed by Schultz, Orchestrated by Kocol



Composed and performed by Kocol


Millions of Dead Critics

I’m going to pick on rock critics.

This might seem like flogging a dead horse : I mean, who LIKES them? 

But this rant isn’t art; it’s politics.


In art you try to say something original. In politics, however, you keep hitting your point until a plurality of voters agree with you and pass a law against the other guy. In this case, dudes who think having an opinion about music makes them somehow special or entitled to free merch  and a shiny new nickel.

 Anyway: here’s something you probably know about critics: They fall into two camps: they either imitate the amusing but incoherent drug humor of Richard Merltzesrz or Lester Bangs, or they imitate the snobby twittery of  Geril Marcus or whatshisname, Robert Crustmybutt (sp?).

It’s bad enough that rock critics are totally ripping-off people, but then they try to bag on bands for doing the same thing?  That amuses me!

But that’s not even the main funny thing. Here is the main funny thing : Both of these sets of twins (Mertzerg/Bangs and Marcus/Crustmybleau)  are from the ‘70s.


Imagine that print was radio, and rock critics were bands.

If that were the case, the only music you could hear in 2010 would be two ‘70s bands.  Like, you could turn  your radio dial all the way from the top to the bottom, and  half  the songs would be Wings and the other half would be the Knack. That’s it: wings, wings, knack, wings, knack, knack, knack, wings, knack, wings, wings, wings, knack, static. 

 This would be a living hell for everyone, rock critics included. And yet. . .! That’s exactly what rock critics are doing with words.  That’s how fucking conservative  these mothers are.


And yet these are the people who we’re supposed to turn to to pick the new, hip, edgy bands of tomorrow.

Pigeon Media

 I never even heard of these clowns until 2009.

 I can easily believe 10 million people buy Justin Bieber or Hanson records, or that 30 million people would buy Soulja Boy Tell ‘em records.   But I can not believe anyone seriously reads Pigeon Media and goes out and buys a record based on it. I don’t know one person that has done this.

Of course the language used in the reviews is silly. And of course it's a big part of the insular  self-referentiality that plagues  DIY music today.

But that's not my beef.

My beef isn't even that it's bad rock crit. My problem is, it’s not rock crit at all.

Check it: Even  those annoying ‘70s critics had to at some point be like “this is good” or “I like/hate this.”  These Pigeon guys don't even seem to be care.

Let me explain:

Regular folks – and I am nothing if not a normal, regular guy- listen to music based on “Does this make me sweat and play air guitar and shake my ass?” “Do I leave the concert ready to smash a cop car and set fire to an Old Navy franchise?” . But instead of these common-sense criteria, pigeon media people  are instead concerned with discovering bands that haven’t blown up yet, frantically racing to put their stamp on whatever little flavor-of-the-month sub-sub-sub genre is happening.  It seems like most of the point of being a music fan (to Pigeon writers and readers)  is just keeping up with the new trends, rather than “Is this actually any good?”  . . .

In other words, Basically it is more like the fashion industry than the rock industry.

“Everybody who bought red clothes because we said to, you’re stupid and ugly! That was fall! This is winter, stupids! Only fatties and weirdos wear red in winter. You’re wrong for listening to us! Anyway listen up because the new things for winter are Aztec prayer beads and  Russian fur sweatbands . . . with a twist! Did we mention that Russian fur sweatbands are layered with Japanese acrylics from bathing ape? You didn’t see that coming, did you? How creative! How avant-garde! Anyway just do what we say and you’ll definitely be ahead of the pack.”

Terrible. Pigeon could save a lot of time and effort, not to mention bandwidth, if they just fired everybody and hired a 14-year-old to post “first! Wo0t” next to the albums.

 OK, but what about the many punkers still doing zines and record reviews?  They are sticking it to the Man, are they not?

Punker critics are something even sadder than critics: QUALITY CONTROL INSPECTORS THAT DON’T GET PAID.

You heard me.

All these “keep it real” zines that are in the MRR tradition. To them, any band that is copying a good band while adding nothing new gets a pass, in the name of “Well, we’re encouraging them to keep the revolution alive.”

But dude –  you are not making a revolution, you are basically doing the job of a Chinese sweatshop-worker in a factory in Dongguan, looking at the Barbie dolls coming down the conveyor belt, all like “Uh-oh, this one doesn’t have a head, take that out, Uh-oh, that one has the legs where the arms should be, take that one out, too.”

 “It has distortion and riffs like Anti-Cimex, so I’ll let it roll down the assembly line.”

It’s not revolutionary, it’s not even music criticism. It’s quality control, and that’s an astonishingly un-ambitious thing for a free man in the USA to do for a hobby.

Not “Did this record change my life?” but “Does this record qualify to be in this genre?”

Not “This band is just a copy of a better band I already own, so who has the time for this?!?” but “Is this record just barely barely good enough that I recognize the influences of good bands? Then we must include it.”

  “The Barbie has the right number of arms and legs, and the head is facing forward. OK my job is done here.”

 That’s not only discouraging bands from doing creative new things, it also means the people doing the magazine are fundamentally sad. Chinese people do that FOR MONEY. You are doing that as a hobby. Chinese people do that BECAUSE THEY CAN’T GET ANY OTHER JOB, they’re being exploited. You and your friends do that because why? You get a little kick out of being a gate-keeper? You think your 1-by-1/2 inch review in 8 point type will help bands sell 100 records? What?

Coming up next: A whole post about the worst critic ever. The New Yorker’s Sasha Frere-Jacques.  What a  tool.