Ennui in the 22nd century

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At home in the early 1990s, Star Trek: The Next Generation was a favorite of two of the three men of my house. Big Rock Head sort of pretended to like the show, but he confessed in much later days that it bored shit out of him and made him fall asleep. But Beer-D was fascinated by the bald-headed Shakespearean captain, the animalistic-looking Klingon security chief, the bozoistic first officer, and all the Industrial Light & Magic infrastructure. Over several recent years we revisited all seven seasons over biweekly dinners, episodes in order, as we affectionately decomposed all the instances of internally inconsistent logic, bullshit motivations, bogus technology as judged by 15 years of hindsight, and so on... not diminishing our enjoyment one iota. And since that time, we have also revisited every episode of that show's successor, Deep Space 9.

Despite the undeniable lack of "gravitas" reeking from the entire Star Trek enterprise (LULZORS!!!), as TV adventure fare goes, these shows generally achieved a reasonably high level of production value, attention to detail, and philosophical speculation. Owing to these attractions, I think, Beer-D had to be coaxed a bit to plunge into the original Shatner series, and I myself had not followed it closely as as a youth, and wasn't sure about the ultimate entertainment value.

I hunted down the original DVD release from an Amazon affiliate in order to get the undoctored Star Trek experience, without new special effects or any embellishments other than a clean transfer from the masters to a high-res medium. I did not want any of the "fakiness" sanitized away, both for aesthetic and historical reasons. I hereby declare that my purchase has amounted to a major entertainment score. The show is a true laff riot from bottom to top.

Tonight I won't offer any reviews or critiques of Gene Roddenberry's universe, but will help you dip a toe into the water of Trek context. The catalyst for all this exposition is a Tumblr photo site I saw mentioned on BoingBoing, which you can view directly here. The "Space Trek" site presents the enterprise in the full glory of its 22nd century banality. Behold: the Sick Bay!

Note the clean, modern architectural lines, painted in county-jail green. The rippled medicine cabinet glass elegantly secures the contents of the meds locker. We are viewing a workstation where the curvy space nurse can pose in a vinyl office chair while sterilizing the formica surfaces. Note the highly advanced, Space-Walmart-type sanitation devices. At least there's no danger of running out of Space Lysol on this tub, because our leggy nurse has two backup bottles at the ready... just in case. No need for labels, though. If she forgets what's inside, she can just summon Mr. Spock to logically infer the contents.

Saturday Night Fish Fry [updated]

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Went to buy some cheap detergent
Some emergent nation 
Got my load



"Can't Afford No Shoes" (lyrics here, because it's hard to catch most of them without reading along) was not an evergreen crowd-pleaser in Frank Zappa's live performance repertoire, but I don't understand why. The Recession/Depression economics theme was surely of concern to Zappa's audience from the time this song was released in the mid-70s well past beyond the sunrise in of St. Reagan's Morning in America. (It certainly was to me, as late as 1983!) And the composition was about as straight-ahead of a hard rocker as Zappa ever recorded.

The instrumental arrangement is explosive, as you will hear if you jam in your waxy little earbuds and crank up the volume. The rhythm section is really punchy, and the guitar tones are aggressive. Based on the liner notes in both copies of this album that I possess, it looks like Zappa is playing the slightly unhinged slide/Dobro-sounding solo about halfway through. He usually delegated this sound to Denny Whalley, who was actually playing with him in 1975 (maybe an album-credit oversight?). If there's a harmonica down in the mix on this track, and I can't tell on this low-fi YouTube clip, it is being respirated by one Bloodshot Rollin' Red, known in the personal mythology of all Zappaphiles as Captain Beefheart, the charming avant-garde multimedia artist what I composed a humble eulogy for yesterday.

The vocals are, in my opinion, somewhat marred by the inexplicable self-mocking delivery that seemed to self-sabotage any number of Zappa cuts that had all other necessary elements for a big radio hit. Johnny "Guitar" Watson, one of FZ's musical idols, is credited with vocals on two other cuts of this album, but I'm pretty sure I hear him in a supporting role on this track as well.

I think this song is "low-hanging fruit" for some band to revisit today and hit big with.

Can't Afford No Shoes, Frank Zappa And The Mothers Of Invention (1975, from "One Size Fits All," reissued as RykoDisc RCD10095), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Update: clarifying edits made to the first narrative paragraph in response to commenters. Thanks, commenters!!!

Mayor Pennypacker Comes Out For Equality

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Let's give in and all do the "brotherhood" bit.
Just make sure we don't make a habit of it.



The First Thanksgiving, Stan Freberg (1961, from "The United States of America: The Early Years," Capitol W/SW-1573), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Stan Freberg Modestly Presents

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"Surly to bed and surly to rise."



Unfortunately the needle skips a few times near the beginning of the musical number for the Declaration of Independence. The voice characterizations are a thing of beauty that awed a coupla shorties who overheard their dad playing this album in the early 1960s. Rocky and Bullwinkle fans will recognize the voices of June Foray (the voice of Rocky) doing all the female parts here, and Stan Freberg, who did umpty-nine wiseguy voices pretty much everywhere in Jay Ward cartoons in the early and mid-'60s in addition to his own hugely fruitful and influential output. Paul "Boris Badenov" Frees, is hard to recognize as the narrator. Freberg and partners did very hip and smart parody, and other tracks from this LP, The United States of America, display some pretty biting satire about the white man's relations with Indians (as we used to call Native Americans). I hope to revisit Freberg sometime in the future because he was a giant in 1950s and '60s pop culture, catering both to hipper adults and legions of kids.

Declaration of Independence and Betsy Ross and the Flag, Stan Freberg (1961, from "The United States of America: The Early Years," Capitol W/SW-1573), via YouTube.

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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Uno!
Dos!
One! two! tres! quatro!



This proto-lummox-rock speaks for itself. That said, I will briefly point to a few amusing features of this video, of which I do not know the provenance. First, the Pharaohs look more like Sheiks than what they purport to be. Second, Sam is costumed more like a Sikh than a Pharaoh, but maybe that was why he called himself a Sham. Third, the boys give us a fresh and clever application of go-go girl technology, namely being that the cuties are as motionless as mummies throughout the performance. And fourth, Sam didn't need no stinking lip syncing, as is especially evident during the last chorus as his voice tatters and he even cracks up at being busted with it on live TV. Probably either one run-through or tequila shot too many before rolling videotape. Everything about it looks fun.

RubberCrutch Bonus Trivia! In summer 2007, inspired by my memory of these antic lyric stylings of Domingo “Sam” Samudio whilst being browbeaten by my Chinese date and a small roomful of her equally Chinese students upstairs of a campus bar at a private karaoke party, I plucked this song from the tune menu they kept shoving up my grille. "I'll fix their wagon," I thought to myself. The crowd went wild, so I ended up doing two more by request. And significantly, there was no alcohol whatsoever involved! That's what Sam means by "let's not be L7"!

Wooly Bully, Sam The Sham and The Pharaohs (1966, unknown live TV performance), via YouTube. 

James Fenimore Cooper: hack literary prophet (featuring Samuel Langhorne Clemens)

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Apropos of nothing, my good pal Highly Osmotic Salami recently sent me the link to a rollicking 1895 critique, penned by Mark Twain, regarding the literary contributions of James Fenimore Cooper. You can read Twain's highly informative and entertaining essay here. Even if 19th century criticism is not your cup of tea or it runs too long for your tastes, I highly recommend that you scan the first few sentences, at least, and then sample some of the text after the numbered list, or else try the five paragraphs starting at the sentence that begins, "If Cooper had been an observer his inventive faculty...." Not only is Twain's use of humor devastating, as usual, but his application of language is at once both princely and accessible. There's barely a hint of old-fashioned rhetoric or vocabulary; mainly just the power of plainly written English, authored with craft and intent. I would be honored and amazed if I were able to roughly approximate Twain's elegant economy with words and discipline of tone. His late-life essays, which I devoured over 30 years ago but haven't much revisited, are never far from from the back of my mind.

That said, I think Twain was indulging in a bit of blood sport with the legacy of the late Cooper, who was considered a literary giant throughout 19th century America and also overseas. For example, although the point about Cooper's "singularly dull" word sense may be well taken, Twain's extensive catalog of the author's specific transgressions seems somewhat petty and academic, especially to postmodern citizens who have been forced to accept some unlovely aspects of rapidly evolving vocabulary and usage.

Having only once tried to read Cooper as 4th grader and becoming bored stupid within about 21 pages of The Last of the Mohicans, I can't claim any first-hand knowledge of Cooper's work or his career. But the absurd heroics that Twain amusingly deconstructs, such as the forest shoot-off where bullets hit bulls-eyes and then other bullets hit the earlier bullets, may have been intended less to withstand critical analysis and more to excite the minds and imaginations of young boys whose families were building new towns at the edges of frontier territories. If Cooper was a hack, then maybe he knew it and didn't care. Or maybe he even relished his role as a hack popular entertainer, endowing his canny woodmen and noble savages with the prowess of Olympians for pure diversion value just like Stan Lee and Jack Kirby did in the 1960s with their own lovable and highly significant hack creations like Spider-Man, The Thing, the X-Men, and even the mythology-inspired Thor. Perhaps Cooper became a literary force mostly because the cultural elites said he was rather than by his own pretense. You know: just like John Irving.

Anyway, I'll probably never read Fenimore Cooper, in large part because of Twain's critique, which I can't help but to honor even given the churlish* undertone of it. But one of Twain's most devastating observations about Cooper's incompetence at writing dialog attracted my own postmodern interest, not only as the literary insult intended but also as a possible hint that Cooper may at the same time have been 150 years ahead of his peers in this regard. Says Twain:

The conversations in the Cooper books have a curious sound in our modern ears. To believe that such talk really ever came out of people's mouths would be to believe that there was a time when time was of no value to a person who thought he had something to say; when it was the custom to spread a two-minute remark out to ten; when a man's mouth was a rolling-mill, and busied itself all day long in turning four-foot pigs of thought into thirty-foot bars of conversational railroad iron by attenuation; when subjects were seldom faithfully stuck to, but the talk wandered all around and arrived nowhere; when conversations consisted mainly of irrelevancies, with here and there a relevancy, a relevancy with an embarrassed look, as not being able to explain how it got there.

In the bemused mind of Twain, who presumably had not traveled a century into the future and attended various Lynn Street happy hours, Cooper's dialog was surreal and insufferable. But if Twain's characterization is accurate, then Fenimore Cooper's dialog may have amounted to literary prophecy. Sometime soon, sit unobtrusively in a bar or coffee shop sometime, or maybe your own neighborhood gathering, and listen. Try the break room at work, or the weekly staff meeting. Or the Sunday morning infotainment shows. Listen intently for the "relevancy with an embarrassed look."
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* I learned the term churl in 1965 when Lee-and-Kirby creation Dr. Doom back-knuckled a hapless lackey with his iron gauntlet as punishment for some offense, real or imagined by the supreme despot of Latveria, and publicly denounced the poor sap as a "WITLESS CHURL!"

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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Fire Water: makes ya spend every quarter...



I first heard of Stick McGhee (not "Sticks") about 30 years ago courtesy of my early "race music" advisor, Larry K. I don't know much about Stick except that he was the little brother of bluesman Brownie McGhee and that he died youngish. He came to my attention on a Larry K. mix tape of Carolina beach music that included this tune and another (in my opinion even better) side called "Whiskey, Women, and Loaded Dice," the latter of which you can listen to here on YouTube. I chose not to present that tune on this blog because some well-intentioned knucklehead pissed all over the song with an insufferably distracting video pastiche. But you go and listen anyway, I Command You. And I'll interject that some years ago Beer-D perceptively noticed that the melody to "Whiskey" is a traditional old timey tune performed as "In The Jailhouse Now" by the Soggy Bottom Boys in the Coen Brothers movie O Brother, Where Art Thou?

I'm not a musicologist but this music has a reedy, swinging New Orleans boogie woogie sound to it. Listen how it swings --- a perfect tempo and beat for kids dancing the Shag on sand-covered floors in Virginia Beach dives. Stick has a terrific laid-back delivery and a voice like a tenor sax. And the lyrics are just plain delightful: a tribute to all the wittily named "craft" moonshine the adults could get ahold of if they knew what to ask for. God help them all after the happy hour (6 - 8), when they could get two "Moon Graveys" for the price of one. Also, listen for the little gender-bending joke near the end --- quite sophisticated for the mid-'50s.

Six To Eight, Stick McGhee (1955, King Records), via YouTube.

Creeping meatballism (and related Night Person geeking-out)

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While plowing through a surprisingly tedious book about one of my pop culture heroes, radio humorist Jean Shepherd, I came upon a previously unknown (to me) reference to an article dictated by Shepherd for publication in the March-April 1957 "ish" of MAD Magazine. In the article, entitled "The Night People vs Creeping Meatballism," Shepherd warns his impressionable readers of a scourge then sweeping the nation --- a menace that threatened to transform America into a race of dimwitted robots who completely identified with The Pepsi Generation. (The text page also has links to graphic facsimiles of the original MAD pages.)

Shepherd's radio audience, The Night People, were fundamentally different than The Day People, but with a role reversal that had the zombies and vampires coming alive with the first drop of Maxwell House Coffee and prowling the earth until Bonanza was over and the kids were tucked in. The Night People were considered outsiders, both by The Day People and by themselves --- alienated, round pegs hammered carelessly halfway into square holes, not "getting it" like The Day People seemed to.

The text may seem tame by today's standards, but I don't believe anyone outside of Harvey Kurtzman and MAD were doing this kind of humor for relatively mainstream readers (albeit The Night People). The content was intended for impressionable adolescents and precocious kids, written by a premier New York City hipster, and Shepherd mean every word of it in grim earnest. To me, Meatballism provides a classic display of Shepherd's prescience regarding the decline and fall of Western Civilization, as it begins with mass conformity and loss of individual identity as driven by mind-colonizing ad agency vermin.

MAD's editorial intro to Shepherd's Meatballism recitation is clearly a fully savored fuck-you to the hapless WOR manager who fired Shepherd a few months earlier for not being commercial enough, and was then immediately forced to hire him back due to a fierce Night People backlash. The MAD editors, writers, and artists were obviously Night People, as were so many of their pimply fans. (And, for that matter, as was Stan Lee at Marvel Comics in New York City, who subsequently introduced an emergent nation of comic book geeks to the cry "Excelsior!", which was a Shepherd trademark.)

Fun Fact No. 1: if you're too young to know who Betty Furness was or why MAD and Shepherd were poking fun at her in Meatballism, then you might miss the irony that Ms. Furness later became a respected consumer rights advocate in the Johnson Administration even though critics felt LBJ had picked a bimbo for the post.

Fun Fact No. 2: Shepherd did not like his first name because, not being short for "Eugene" and being spelled the way the Frenchmen spell it, some Americans in Hammond, Ind., during the Depression perceived it as a "girl" or "sissy" monicker. Shepherd's pal Shel Silverstein immortalized young Jean's plight in the lyrics he penned for Johnny Cash's 1969 hit, "A Boy Named Sue."

So take that, you meatballs!