Dear Sir or Madam...

Been in the middle of a big fat Beatles binge lately, largely fueled by a stack of bootlegs (or "Beatlegs" in geek-ease) I've recently acquired.

Among that stack were some of the Dr. Ebbetts remastered things (from mint original vinyl), and listening to those Beatles-supervised mono mixes has been like hearing much of this stuff for the first time (and I've probably heard these songs thousands of times). I've really developed an all-new appreciation of Paul's bass-playing, something the thinner stereo mixes concealed. I urge you to seek out these Ebbetts bootlegs. (For Paul's sake if nothng else.)

Anyway, for Christmas, my wife got me a shady-looking import Beatles DVD (from Russia, no less) that presents a ton of Beatles TV appearances and promo films in their entirity--not talked over, excerpted or spliced up.

Making my way to the DVD player, I was struck by all the misspellings on the package: "Hey Tude," "Paperblack Writer," etc. The ones I was really stoked about were "Paperback Writer" and "Rain," my two favorite Beatles songs and my candidate for the single greatest 45 ever released ("Good Vibrations" would be #2).

I'd seen clips and stills from these films before. Produced to promote the record without the Beatles having to actually make a series of TV appearances, these films may have created the music video as we now know it. They were shot in London's Chiswick Park in May of 1966, and directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg (who'd go on to direct "Let It Be"). The photo above is from that shoot.

The band's hanging out in Chiswick Park, miming to the record. Paul's got his Hofner bass, John his Rickenbacker and George a red Gibson SG. Ringo's drums are nowhere to be seen, so he just sits around tapping his feet. (Why didn't someone just throw Ringo's Ludwigs in a truck and run them over to the shoot?)

As music videos go, these are really not all that extraordinary. But it's the Beatles, it's 1966 and it's "Rain" and "Paperback Writer." In 1966, The Beatles, The Stones and Bob Dylan had pretty much cornered the market on Cool. And it's been a slow slide downhill ever since. It really don't get no better than this.

You can see both of these films on YouTube in fairly decent quality. Go look 'em up.

"A hand-me-down dress from who knows where"

So the other day, I hear that the much-lauded Velvet Underground acetate from 1966 is on eBay, going for big money. Like a lotta record geeks, I was well aware of its discovery at a New York yard sale back in 2002. And of how it contained completely different versions of a few tunes from VELVET UNDERGROUND & NICO. And of all the various theories, rumours and crap about how one of the most collectible records EVER ended up in a cardboard box for 75 cents.

Throughout all that, I used to ask myself, When am I gonna get to hear this thing? I figured the Velvets' label would buy it, clean it up and put it out to get their hands into our pockets yet again. (After all, we've already sprung for the regular CD, the box set and the Special Edition that contains both the mono and stereo mixes.) Evidently, the label DID try to get ahold of it, but nothing ever came of it.

So, with all that history, it was pretty weird to see it listed on eBay. And again, I asked myself, When am I gonna get to hear this thing?

With it popping up in the news, I searched it to really wallow in record dweebdom. (Googled it, to use a verb I detest.) And among all the news stories and fan-theory bullshit was some blog. And on that blog was a link. And at that link, was the acetate—in all its scratchy skipping digitized glory.

It ended up going for $155,401—to some dude who fessed up that there was no way he could afford 155 grand for a Velvet Underground record. The whole thing made the news again. (When I last checked, it wasn't back on eBay.)

However, no longer am I wondering when I'll get to hear it. Now, I can say "It ain't worth no $155,401."

But it is really, really cool.

"Plastic boots and plastic hat—and you think you know where it's at?"

Had dinner with some good friends last night, some guys I used to work with. And as often happens when my kooky friends get together, the conversation turned to music. (To be honest, that's about the only thing any of us can speak even remotely intelligently about.)

Somewhere along the way, somebody brought up "Freak Out" by The Mothers Of Invention. Now we're talking! This, as you may know, was Frank Zappa and the Mothers' first album. It's also considered the first double-album set in Rock N Roll history. Some say it's Rock's first concept album. Others, like me, just say it's great. Like really great.

How many records contain lyrics like these?

"Mister America
Walk on by
Your schools that do not teach
Mister America
Walk on by
The minds that won't be reached
Mister America
Try to hide
The emptiness that's you inside
When once you find that the way you lied
And all the corny tricks you tried
Will not forestall the rising tide of
Hungry freaks, Daddy"
(that's from "Hungry Freaks, Daddy")

I could go on and on, especially where "Trouble Every Day" is concerned.

It's hard to believe this thing was released 40 years ago (and recently commemorated by Lagunistas Brewing with Freak Out Ale). Zappa blasts stuff we're still dealing with: race, bigotry, our liberties, etc. Issues that should be relics, but seem to be hanging around here in 2006. Sure wish Frank was here to help straighten 'em out.

I was surprised at how many of the lyrics our gaggle of idiots had logged into our long-term memories. A sign of misspent youths or a testament to the power of Zappa firing on all cylinders?

"Mom, I tore a big hole in the convertible."

Why God Put A REPEAT Button On Your CD Player.

I guess most big-time record geeks have an album or two that they play the crap out of on a regular basis. Something that stays on the turntable or in the CD player for days (or weeks) on end, much to the dismay of anybody within earshot. My best friend used to play Bowie's "Diamond Dogs" for what seemed like months. Lucky for me, I love that album. Another friend drove his Toyota pickup from L.A. to Raleigh armed with only a cassette of "Nashville Skyline." (When you figure that thing lasts less than half an hour, and the United States is over 2,000 miles long, that's a lot of "Lay Lady Lay.")*

Here's one I occasionally play over and over till everyone wishes I was dead: "Field Day" by Marshall Crenshaw, from 1983. His second LP.

I was a freshman at North Carolina State when this thing came out, and it hit my heavy rotation almost immediately. I was struck right away by how Powerful it was, a pop record that really pounded out of the speakers, something I don't think I'd heard before. Power Pop people like Matthew Sweet and Sloan and stuff became real good at this later, but I'm gonna say MC was the first--and he took all the heat for it.

You see, while I was spending the Summer of '83 in absolute Power Pop bliss, thanks to this record, a lot of people were most certainly NOT grooving on it. You heard a lot of bad stuff. Muddy. Drums too loud. Over-produced. And all about the oft-mentioned, really stupid "sophomore jinx." We record collectors are such losers.

But as I said then, to anybody that gave a rat's ass (and come to think of it, that would've been, uh, NOBODY), this record is great. Marshall's lyrics are a little darker than on his debut from the year before. His vocals seem a little more world-weary (and that's a good thing), probably the result of a year of massive touring. And his guitar's crunchier--which is always a good thing, unless you're Joan Baez or something. All of these things, as far as I'm concerned, were improvements on the sound of his first. (Please don't think I'm dissing "Marshall Crenshaw.")

Response to the record's production (by Steve Lillywhite, giving it a sound much like he did on XTC's "Black Sea") was such that a few songs were remixed and released as an import EP. Basically, they tried to make this second record sound more like the first one that everyone loved so much. It didn't really help, though it gave me another import 12-inch to search for (there are now two copies in my collection; why, I don't know).

Anyway, I love this record. I even love the cover, which everyone (including MC) will tell you is awful. It's one of the few records from the Eighties that I still really appreciate as a whole.

I'd like to see it get the deluxe re-issue treatment Marshall's first album got (loaded with B-sides and demos and junk), to perhaps spur a tiny reappraisal of it. I ain't holding my breath. So, I'll go on pulling my old copy out every six months or so and playing it non-stop for about a week. Or until I decide to play "Fun House" by The Stooges non-stop for about a week, followed by the same treatment with "(The) Ventures In Space" and "Blonde On Blonde."

By the way, James, when was the last time you listened to "Diamond Dogs?"

* On a similar note, I once drove straight from Flagstaff, Arizona, to Knoxville, Tennessee, with "Everywhere At Once" by The Plimsouls playing the whole time. My other CDs were in the back of the car and I didn't feel like digging for them.

Just Thinking About It Makes Me Sick.

My family and I were riding around yesterday. Typical Saturday: breakfast, church sales, thrift stores, whatever. Along the way, my wife wanted a Pepsi. So, I pulled into the nearest convenience store.

This is the Triangle. (We were in Apex, to be precise.) Here, almost everything is shiny and new. Because everything that isn't shiny and new--anything with character or personality or history--has been bulldozed to make room for more shiny and new. Welcome to Stepford, North Carolina.

Back to the Pepsi. Like I said, I pulled into a convenience store. Not your good ol' bait shop, Toastchee, Natural Light, NASCAR collectible kinda convenience store, but the newer, friendlier fresh fruit/flavored coffee variety. Some people like 'em.

I walk in, and almost immediately I'm punched in the face--no, make that pummelled--by the reak of urine (with just a hint of bleach). It's like I walked into one of those rest areas along I-95 in Maryland. Nasty.

Had a toilet overflowed? Was the guy behind the counter (who seemed perfectly nice) a rancid mutant freak with a hygiene problem? These were questions I wasn't gonna take the time to answer. Leave!

Wait a minute. How long does it take to snag a Pepsi, a bottled water for my little girl and a Coke for myself? I can do this.

The drinks secured, I pay. With cash. Exact change. Anything to vacate me from the House Of Stench a second or two sooner. The register drawer shuts. I'm done. I made it!

Turning to leave, I remember that my wife prefers to drink with a straw. Grappling with The Stink, I'd completely forgotten. Quickly scanning the place, I locate the fountain drink/hot dog area. A box of paper-wrapped straws awaits. By this time, I'm taking deep breaths and holding them as long as possible. I grab a straw, take a quick breath to begin my dash for the door, the outdoors and aeromatic sanctuary.

It was then that it got worse. Much worse.

I hate ketchup. Hate the way it smells. Hate its taste. Really hate getting it on me. And here I am, a few feet from one of those condiment pump things like you see in sports areas. And the filthy stink of urine has been supplemented by maybe the only thing that could be worse: the horrid stench of ketchup.

The Hunts factory could not possibly smell any stronger of ketchup than this corner of this convenience store did.

Straw in hand, I flee, never to return.

No matter how much my spouse may crave the taste born in the Carolinas, no matter how parched my five-year-old may be, they can't get me back in that shiny, convenient Hell.

As I'm typing this, a wave of nausea comes over me. It's faint, but it's there.

The scars run deep.

"They Say I've Got Brains, But They Ain't Doin' Me No Good."

Saw on Yahoo yesterday that the Beach Boys' "Good Vibrations" 45 came out 40 years ago (on October 10). Wow. Go listen to it. Right now. I'll wait.

What this means is that everyone who endeavors to put music onto a piece of tape, or turn it into a string of zeroes and ones, has been trying like hell to top Brian Wilson's masterpiece for 14,600 days. And I don't think they've done it yet. (I'd hate to toil away under such a long, dark shadow as that.)

After spinning "Good Vibrations" a few times yesterday, I put on the "Pet Sounds" album in all its monophonic glory. And I told myself I was gonna get up this morning and write something about Brian and what an inspiration his music, his life, his creativity have been to me.

But I quickly realized that people have been trying to capture Brian and his work in words for decades. Most of them weren't, and I'm not, up to the task.


So I'll just leave it at this: Brain, I love you. And thanks from the bottom of my heart for every single note you've ever played.

Now I'm gonna listen to "Pet Sounds" for the 637th time this afternoon.

One of the greats: Seven Men From Now

I read someplace recently that you should never trust a freak’s opinion, especially when that freak is spouting off about the particular subject they’re a freak about.

So, don’t say you weren’t warned.

I grew up in the Seventies, with a film collector for a dad--this was in the pre-video days. So while other kids were playing with Barbie dolls or pretending to be Joe Namath, I was sitting in the dark, soaking up the works of John Ford, Anthony Mann, Don Siegel and the like.

Early on, I developed an affinity for Fifties Westerns. My dad loved ‘em, so there were lots of them around. They were typically darker than the Westerns of previous decades. (After all, audiences had been through Word War II—they knew what death looked like, and that the good-guy, bad-guy thing didn’t correspond to the color of your Stetson.) They had great actors in them like Randolph Scott, Joel McCrea and Audie Murphy. And they looked cool, especially the black and white CinemaScope ones. What’s more, they were short and had plenty of action. I could thread one up in the Bell & Howell right after school and still get my homework done before dinner. (During this period, my best friend James Graham and I binge-watched “Pit And The Pendulum” at least once a day for weeks, but that’s another story.)

One I never got to see, simply because it was nowhere to be seen, was “Seven Men From Now” (1956), directed by Budd Boetticher, written by Burt Kennedy and starring Randolph Scott and Lee Marvin. I heard about it into adulthood and it quickly rose to the top of my wanna-see list.


Well, I must’ve been living right all those years. Because now, it sits in the middle of my DVD collection. And what a wonderful thing it is. You see, "Seven Men From Now" was produced by John Wayne's Batjac production company, and most of their stuff has been unavailable for years. And while the works of Beotticher and Kennedy were being rediscovered and worshipped by critics and movie geeks worldwide, "Seven Men" was conspicuously absent. Everybody talked about how great it was, the best of Budd and Burt's films together, one of the greatest Westerns ever made, and on and on. I figured it was in the same way your long lost prom date was the most beautiful girl in school.

Well, in this case, turns out she was quite a looker after all.

What amazes me about this movie--and about most of the Kennedy/Boetticher/Scott films--is how much stuff gets packed into just 70-80 minutes. If you look at this thing strictly as an example of getting a story on film, it's without peer. The plot is deceptivly simple: Randy's wife was killed in a holdup; he's going after the men that did it. Within that story, there's backstory, there's character development for almost every character, there's a real sense of place (it was shot in Lone Pine, California) and there's plenty of great action scenes. And you're done in an hour and 18 minutes!

Anymore, a lot of people don't care for Westerns. And I can certainly see why. They made so many of them, and lots of them were either programmers or out-and-out junk. Same can be said for old horror movies. Because of that, it's so much sweeter when you come across a really good one.

Check it out. And see what a Western CAN be. You can spare 78 minutes, can't you?

I've made two huge mistakes in my life involving this movie. Several years ago, a restored print of the film was shown at a festival in New York. Boetticher spoke and answered questions and just generally soaked up a lot of people really digging his films. My friend James--the "Pit And The Pendulum" guy I mentioned above--invited me up. I didn't go. Around the same time, my mom and dad went to a film festival in Lone Pine, where they feature movies shot among their beautiful hills. Again, "Seven Men" was shown, along with other Boetticher/Kennedy/Scott pictures, and I didn't go. I can be so stupid.

Playing Cops & Robbers—With Real Cops!

A good friend and I signed up for the Citizens Police Academy offered by the Garner PD. It's a nine-week course going over various aspects of local law enforcement, from DWI stops to tazers. I've always been fascinated by police stuff, so it seemed like it'd be fun.

I had no idea how cool it would turn out to be.

Last week, we covered domestic violence and community-oriented policing. Some of the spousal abuse statistics were mind-boggling. This lecture was abbreviated, however, because we got the opportunity to observe some rapid deployment training being conducted at a local middle school. Plastic BBs and blue plastic pistols. Yelling and radio chatter. Loads of adrenaline and testosterone.

This was a training exercise to work on new procedures developed in the bloody wake of Columbine. Nowadays, rather than surround and contain the shooter(s) (which in Columbine meant that the freaks kept blasting while the cops waited outside), the cops "actively engage" the shooter. All law enforcement folks in North Carolina are trained the same way for this kinda stuff, using a four-person diamond formation as they make their way down the hallways. We were given the chance to try it out, and it's a beautiful thing in its simplicity.

The idea is that if the first four people on the scene are a combination of deputies and police officers or whatever, they can get inside the school quickly and make their way toward the shooter.

The idea is to take him/them out quicker--and to give him/them something besides kids to shoot at.

SOMETHING BESIDES KIDS TO SHOOT AT. In other words, you enter the school part law enforcement officer, part target. Hang a big "Shoot me please!" sign on themselves so our kids don't get hurt. Standing in the hallways the other night, hearing "gunshots" and screaming down the hall, I found the whole idea chilling. But the cops I met saw it as part of the job. And I admire the hell out of them for it.

Scotty's Chuckwagon Meets Frankenstein

Here in Raleigh, there was a shopping center called North Hills. Not the new North Hills, the OLD North Hills. Before it said hello to Mr. Bulldozer, it was on the same patch of dirt where the new one sits. Anyway, I went there a lot when I was a kid. It had a Woolworth's where my best friend James and I bought Aurora monster models, a very good hot dog place (with shaved ice!) called Scotty's Chuckwagon and a great big movie theater called the Cardinal (that in the ultimate crime against nature, was turned into a Buttblister Video).

During the summers, they used to run matinees on Saturdays. Not the kiddie-show swill they run now, these were Godzilla movies and cool stuff like that. James and I went to a lot of them. Our moms would drop us off, we'd go to the movie, have a hot dog perhaps and maybe head to DJ's Book & News for the latest issue of "Famous Monsters." It was all about monsters, you see. Good times.

James had a birthday last month and as I was trying to come up with something to get him, I thought of "Mad Monster Party," one of our Cardinal matinees. What a movie. Got him the DVD.


It's a stop-motion feature from Rankin/Bass, the cats that gave us "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer," "The Year Without A Santa Claus" (the great one with the Heat-miser and Cold-miser) and others. This time, it's a parade of all your favorite classic monsters--Frankenstein, Dracula, the Mummy, etc.--written by some of the freaks from "Mad" magazine. Like I said, it was all about monsters back then.

Monsters. Stupid jokes. Goofy songs (like "It's The Mummy"). Eastmancolor. A masterpiece.

Whenever I think of "Mad Monster Party," I'm reminded of something that happened at that matinee. There was a group of guys behind us, even bigger idiots than we were. And these bastards kept kicking the back of our seats. Maybe they were just squirmy kids, or maybe they were TRYING to piss us off. Either way, they pissed us off. James said something that I can't remember, though I'd bet money it wasn't very nice. A few seconds later, a tub of hot buttered popcorn plopped down on his head. In the dark, he looked a little like Weird Harold from "Fat Albert." Those kids bolted and James began complaining about how oily his hair was, a complaint that continued throughout the day.

Other matinees we saw included "War Of The Guargantuas" (starring Russ Tamblyn), "Godzilla Vs. Megalon" (I think) and "Godzilla's Revenge" (which stunk, even for a Godzilla movie).

I can't remember when I've had that much fun since.

An essential purchase (unless, of course, you're an idiot)

I'm not a big fan of Best Buy, but they've figued out a slick way to snag $20 of my hard-earned. It's The Classic Sci-Fi Ultimate Collection, an exclusive (and awkwardly-named) boxed set of great Universal sci-fi from the Fifties stuck on three DVDs.

You couldn't ask for five cooler movies: "The Incredible Shrinking Man," "Tarantula," "Monster On The Campus," "The Monolith Monsters" and "The Mole People." Okay, "Mole People" is actually kinda crummy, but it's a cool kinda crummy. All five are in beautiful black and white; "Shrinking Man" is in anamorphic widescreen.

The first three are the work of director Jack Arnold (who contributed the story for "Monolith Monsters"). Jack also directed "The Creature From The Black Lagoon," "It Came From Outer Space," "No Name On The Bullet" and a buncha episodes of "Gilligan's Island" and "The Brady Bunch."

Out of this box, "The Incredible Shrinking Man" is the best movie. The writing's great (by Richard Matheson, from his novel), the acting above par and the special effects ahead of their time. Thought-provoking stuff.

But my favorite of the bunch is "Tarantula." First, it's got Leo G. Carroll, Mara Corday, John Agar and Nestor Paiva. It's got giant insects, a sign of quality among Fifties monster movies. It's black and white. And the pilot in the climax is Clint Eastwood. What more could you want? It's a big drag that it hasn't been given the widescreen treatment: the dead space at the top and bottom makes it look a little clunky.

The other pictures are a lot of fun. And they get the usual top-drawer transfers from Universal. I'm glad to see them treat their sizable stash of classic monster and sci-fi films with respect. They deserve it--after all, they saved the studio from bankruptcy a time or two. But, again, widescreen woulda been nice (these films were shot full-frame to be cropped to around 1.78 or 1.85:1.

Not sure what the scoop is on the whole exclusivity thing. But for the time being, you can only get them at Best Buy. So what are ya waiting for?

Whipped Cream & Other Designs

If you've ever flipped through records at a yard sale or thrift store, chances are good that you've seen the classic LP "Whipped Cream & Other Delights" by Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass about 637 times. First, it's a running joke among record collectors--this thing is literally everywhere. Second, it's cover is unforgettable.

It's a concpet album: each song has some sorta food in the title ("A Taste Of Honey," "Peanuts" and, of course, "Whipped Cream"). The record itself is one of Alpert's better records, I'd say. Not significantly above par--at least not enough to explain why the record reached the Number 1 album slot and stayed in the Top 40 for months and months. Musta been that cover.

The woman sporting the whipped cream (actually shaving cream since the lights and whipped cream didn't get along) is Delores Erickson. She was three months pregnant at the time of the shoot, so the strategically-placed goo had to be a little more strategic than would've otherwise been necessary. Herb Alpert says he had to be convinced to use the shot--he felt they'd gone too far.

Not only was that album a smash, thanks to the cover (not to take anything away from Alpert and band), but the band's previous releases re-entered the charts, and the next album also did very well. And all sorts of records suddenly appeared with covers clearly derived from "Whipped Cream & Other Delights." Sometimes it was just the way the type appeared on the cover, other times the phototographer was in on the joke. Three examples appear here: The Frivolous Five's "Sour Cream & Other Delights," Pat Cooper's "Spaghetti Sauce & Other Delights" and Soul Asylum's "Clam Dip & Other Delights."

What prompted me to write this was hearing that Miss Erickson will be making an appearanceat at an upcoming local record show. This coming Saturday, the 23rd, at the Clayton Center in Clayton. It's an all-vinyl show. Looking forward to it.

Recently, "Whipped Cream" and a couple other HA & TB records were released on CD (by Shout Factory) in remastered editions with bonus tracks. Also, there was a new piece called "Rewhipped" that featured all the tunes from "Whipped Cream" in heavily remixed form, some with additional horn parts from Alpert. What you think of the music is a matter of taste, but for my money, the new cover pales by comparison to the original.

The Pinnacle Of Human Achievement: Where Eagles Dare

You know, that artificial heart valve was a pretty neat trick. The Panama Canal's kinda cool. And I'm a big fan of the polio vaccine. But when it comes to us humans really getting something right, there's no better example than "Where Eagles Dare" (1969).

It's got an intricate plot. Pretty scenery. Nasty villains. A truly great actor. An icon. A wonderful score. And, best of all, lots (and lots) of violence. [And for the more snobbish among us, there's a little Shakespeare thrown in for good measure: the title's from Richard III: "The world is grown so bad, that wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch."]

It's my favorite movie. Has been since I first saw it back in 1974. And I'm a little embarrassed (but at the same time, oddly proud) to admit I've seen it more than 75 times. That's more than 200 hours of my life dedicated to watching Clint Eastwood and Richard Burton put a major dent in the Nazi Party. Time well spent.

A perfectly over-the-top World War II action picture, "Where Eagles Dare" concerns a team of British commandos (and one American) parachuting behind enemy lines to rescue a kidnapped American general. Or something like that. There are a number of doublecrosses and plot twists along the way to keep us guessing. But the plot is never so complicated it distracts from all the action. Director Brian G. Hutton keeps things moving so fast, it feels like a 15-chapter Republic serial spliced end to end. One incredible setpiece follows another, all courtesy of stunt coordinator Yakima Canutt.

It's all nonsense—and that's a compliment. The bullets fly fast and furious, many of them coming from Eastwood. All kinds of stuff blows up in glorious fashion: buildings, airplanes, bridges, you name it. And your typical war movie dialogue—"Broadsword calling Danny Boy"—is elevated to high art by Richard Burton. I'd listen to Burton read the phone book. (By the way, towards the end of the film, as he drives the bus to the airfield, he looks a little tipsy.)

There are a number of mistakes and goofs along the way. Various types of military equipment that didn't exist at the time. Reflections of the camera crew showing up in windows. Bullet holes appearing and disappearing. And some rather 1969-ish haircuts worn by men in uniform. But who cares? It's all part of the fun. And since the whole film moves so fast, you don't notice stuff like that till you've seen it something like 57 times. Trust me.

For a second there, things were looking up.

I have a theory: any movie seems better when you have Raisinets. This hypothesis was developed when considering all the cheap, crummy monster movies I watched--and loved--as a kid, with a Coke and Raisinets always handy. I have a deeply-rooted appreciation for what makes cinema a true art form, so what else could be making me love junk like "War Of The Gargantuas," "The Crater Lake Monster" and "The She-Creature?" It ain't the acting or cinematography, folks. Must be the sugar.

When Nestle bought the company that made Raisinets back in the Eighties, they screwed them up. They just weren't as good, so I switched to Brach's and have been more or less faithful to them for the last 22 years.

Well, at the store the other day, my wife came across a bag of Dark Raisinets. I had to have them. This was just the sort of life-affirming event I've been hoping for.

But guess what? It's not real dark chocolate! They taste just fine, but pretty weak for "dark" chocolate.

They're loaded with fat and cholesterol, but brag on the package about their anitoxidants. I feel a little conned or ripped off or lied to or something.

But I'm gonna need another bag before long.

Great Moments In Cinema #33: Bikini Beach

The green metal-flake VW cruised through the drive-in lot toward the concession stand, its redline tires crunching in the gravel as it prowled in search of the best vantage point. Passing by the Beatnik Bandit, the Deora and the Silhouette, it found its spot, parked and waited for the feature to begin.

The concession stand was a shoebox. The screen was my parents' console TV. And the patrons were my Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars. That's how I saw my first Beach Party flick, "Bikini Beach." And it made quite an impression on a eight-year-old kid from South Georgia: I thought life on the California beaches was really like that. Anyway, I was hooked. And "Bikini Beach" remains one of my favorite films to this day.

At the time of its release in 1964, the critics' nightmares were coming true: the AIP "Beach Party" films were becoming a series. With the third one, "Bikini Beach," they'd truly hit their stride. It's got chicks in bikinis, rail dragsters, Beatle satire, Gary Usher songs, Boris Karloff, Don Rickles, Eric Von Zipper, Bonehead and Candy Johnson. All that, plus a fake monkey.

A masterpiece of Dumb.

Frankie Avalon plays two roles this time. He's Frankie, of course, and he's "The Potato Bug," an obnoxious British recording star. He handles the part surprisingly well, turning in a Terry Thomas-ish performance (aided by fake teeth). He does one satirically Beatlesque tune (complete with yeah-yeah-yeahs), playing a cool doubleneck Danelectro guitar. Of course, the two Frankies compete for the affections of Annette. (I have to stop here to mention that for some people, such as my wife, the Potato Bug subplot is the cinematic equivalent of Chinese water torture.)

Keenan Wynn's out to get the kids this time, using a chimp named Clyde (actually Janos Prohaska in a monkey outfit) to show up the gang by outdoing them at surfing, driving a dragster, etc. Plot-wise, that's pretty much it. But we're not here for the plot, are we?

Don Rickles does a lot for this film, returning as Jack Fanny who's now changed his name to "Big Drag," ditching the bodybuilding scene for dragracing and the arts. "...I got out of the Fanny business. That's all behind me now." (Smart move, Jack.)

Speaking of the drags, check out Clyde's dragster. It's The Showboat, a four-engine Buick-powered dragster owned by "TV" Tommy Ivo. (Ivo was a Fifties TV star who turned to drag-racing in the Sixties and provided technical assistance for this film.) The Showboat has four slicks and when it hops off the line at Big Drag's Dragstrip, it smokes up the entire track. How did anybody see to steer the thing? (A model of the car was available in the Sixties and, luckily, was re-issued in the Nineties.) However, it turned out that four engines were not necessarily an advantage in drag-racing: due to the extra weight, it was slower than Ivo's twin-engine machine. Dig it below, with Rickles.


Dean Jeffries' showcar, the Mantaray, also appears. The Potato Bug cruises up to the dragstrip in it. That's actually Jeffries, in the Bug's duds, behind the wheel. Jeffries is also the creator of the Black Beauty from the "Green Hornet" TV show.

All the racing stuff was shot at Pamona Raceway, with footage from the '64 Winternationals (including a run from "Big Daddy" Don Garlits). It don't get no better than this!

Another highlight is the appearance by The Pyramids, the crazed bald surf band known for their hit "Penetration." They do two songs, "Record Run" and the boss instrumental "Bikini Drag." (Both tunes finally appeared on a Pyramids compilation CD from the good people at Sundazed. Thanks, y'all.) "Little" Stevie Wonder also appears.

Around this time, "Famous Monsters Of Filmland" magazine held a make-up contest with the winner getting the chance to appear in an AIP film—and AIP getting their movie plugged in FM. The winner was Val Warren, which explains why there's a werewolf running around at times. Given the rest of the film, he seems right at home.

Floyd Crosby was "Bikini Beach"'s director of photography. At the time, he was also shooting AIP's Corman/Poe series. And he's former Byrd David Crosby's dad--and grandfather to Melissa Etheridge's kid, I guess.

I watch "Bikini Beach" about once a year, nowdays on a great-looking DVD from MGM. I was reminded of it recently when I happened upon a great blog: checkthecoolwax.blogspot.com. There you'll find some tunes lifted from the film, along with stuff from the rest of the series. You should also check out www.wediditforlove.com/diggers-Bikini-Beach.html for information on the cars in the drag sequences. And if you haven't seen the film itself, by all means do. It's really stupid. And really great.

Great Moments In Cinema #26: Gun Crazy

Growing up a second-generation movie nut in the days before home video meant helping Dad gather 16mm films from a sometimes bewildering array of resources. Not to mention a gaggle of Hollywood fringe people, hustlers, shut-ins and mom's-basement-dwellers. Among these people, there were a handful of movies they hadn't seen in ages but that they discussed in reverant tones, as they recalled when and where they first saw them. One was Joseph H. Lewis' "Gun Crazy" from 1949 (also known as "Deadly Is The Female").

It's a Bonnie and Clyde type story: two gun-obsessed lovers (John Dall, Peggy Cummings) embark on a crime spree with typically tragic results. What makes this B movie something worth seeking out (and these days that's as simple as plunking down $15 at deepdiscountdvd.com) is what Joseph H. Lewis, cinematographer Russell Harlan and the cast do with it.

Lewis was one of those directors who could do a lot with a little, and I'd argue that if he had had any real money to work with, his films wouldn't have been as good. He kept his pacing tight--there's no fat on any of his pictures. And he did some crazy inventive stuff to stretch his budgets. "Gun Crazy" features the perfect example: a single-shot bank robbery sequence (with the camera in the back seat of the getaway car) that plays more like TV's "Cops" than it does a late-Forties motion picture. It's a stunning piece of film that has been imitated or ripped off countless times in movies that spent more on catering than this film's total cost. And that's just one example: this is one of the best-looking B movies ever, filled with bizarre camera angles and weird lighting.

As an adult with a swelling DVD collection, I've had a chance to see a lot of the obscure films my dad and his collector buddies were such fans of.* Unfortunately, few of them have lived up to the years of movie-geek hype I was subjected to. "Gun Crazy" does. In fact, I think they undersold it. What's more, it even holds up to the psycho-babble and over-analysis film scholars have heaped upon it to since film noir became a big deal in the Seventies.

Other Jospeh H. Lewis pictures worth checking out: "Invisible Ghost"(1941) with Bela Lugosi, "The Big Combo" (1955) and the incredible Sterling Hayden western "Terror In A Texas Town" (1958). Good stuff.

* That availability has to be the true benefit of the home video revolution, with the downside being that we now see great works like "Citizen Kane" on the same box we use to view "Celebrity Fit Club." There's something troubling about that.

When You Have Volkswagen Magazines, Who Needs Porn?

Been doing a lot of thinking plotting scheming about my Volkswagen lately. If I had the finances to get all the work done, there'd be a lot less plotting and scheming and a lot more driving. But them's the breaks.

A couple weekends ago, we went to a small VW show and drag race not far from here. It was hotter then 40 hells, but still fun. (How could two vintage Beetles dragracing NOT be fun?) Got a few things for my car, looked over some nice rides and walked away having caught the Vee-Dub illness all over again. Since then, I've been digging through my stash of old "VW Trends" and "Hot VWs" maganzines (pornography for car nuts), flipping through catalogs and trolling the web. Oh, and just standing in the driveway looking at my car. Man, I got it bad.

One thing I've noticed about old Volkswagens is that the people associated with them are NICE, and they're almost all perefectly willing to spend some time telling you how they got a certain thing on their car a certain way. I believe the word is "helpful," one you don't hear too much these days.

There are few little things that need to be taken care of with my car, a '74 Standard (as in not Super) Beetle. Recently got a set of used EMPI 8-spoke rims; they've been cleaned but not restored. The windshield has a crack (courtesy of I-40). The new shocks need to be put on. And there's a dime-sized rust spot on the passenger side that needs some attention.

Then there's the big problem, which I'm afraid is my fault. The turn signals stopped working and it was due for an inspection. So, I went lookng for the hazard light switch--all sorts of electrical stuff runs through that switch. As it turns out, the switch for the '74 is a one-year-only part, and not too easy to find. I made a buncha calls and was told by a guy at a place out in California that they had one that would work. It didn't work. And to top it all off, the brand-new battery has now been drained to nothing. So, basically, right now my vintage VW is a large yellow paperweight. And I'm not too happy about it.
I've vowed to get the car running, spiffed up a bit and back on the road over the next couple months. Fall is a great time to cruise around in an old car, and I'm not gonna let it pass me by.

(By the way, the photo of the sweet custom Beetle was snagged offa cal-look.com.The one on the right is mine, taken just after I bought it.)

This Kinda Stuff Only Happens In The South #3: Blind Man Trying To Handle Gun, Food Fatally Shoots Wife

MORGANTON, N.C. (A.P.)-- A legally blind man fatally shot his wife while trying to balance a plate of fried chicken and a pistol, authorities said.

Kelly Honeycutt of Morganton was holding a .38-caliber pistol he found in a box while he and his wife were moving into a new home Monday night, said Burke County Sheriff's Sgt. Robert Beall said. He accidentally shot his wife Norita in the head after she handed her wheelchair-bound husband a plate of chicken, Beall said.

Beall said no charges were filed by investigators, but the case was sent to the county prosecutor's office for a final determination.

Beall said the husband was more than 50 percent blind, had limited movement and was in advanced stages of multiple sclerosis. His wife was his caretaker.

"They had a storybook marriage," Beall said. "No history of domestic violence, no indication of alcohol abuse. It just looks like a case of bad timing while handling a gun."

(Image boosted from www.sxc.hu)

Great Moments In Cinema #37: Danger Diabolik

One of my favorite Italian movies showed up in my mailbox stoday. It ain't no Fellini or Antonioni or any of that stuff: it's Mario Bava's "Danger: Diabolik" from 1968. Based on the famous European comic, and starring John Philip Law and Marisa Mell, this is maybe the best comic book adaptation ever. With certainly one of Ennio Morricone's coolest scores.

The DVD, which I have yet to watch, features the restored English language tracks, a new anamorphic widescreen transfer and a few goodies--all big improvements on the old laserdisc. Can't wait to crack this thing open.

It's stuff like this that makes The Internet great.

Just came across this on the Internet—The Remains' appreance on "The Ed Sullivan Show" back in 1966, doing a song they never recorded.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRfExX0zwaM&search=tashian

The Remains are one of those legendary, obscure bands music dweebs talk about in the same reverent tones Star Wars geeks use when they discuss Yoda or traveling mattes or something. I'm not ashamed to admit that I am one of those music dweebs and that I have talked about The Remains in just such a way.

From Boston, The Remains were Barry Tashian, Vern Miller, Bill Briggs and Chip Damiani. (Actually, the still are because they play around every once in a while.) They opened for The Beatles on their final tour, recorded some singles and an excellent album, then split up. The world has been a festering sinkhole ever since.

Their album (shown here), singles and a handful of outtakes were released on a CD called "Barry And The Remains." They recorded a new CD, " Movin' On," a few years ago. And the fine folks at Sundazed have put out a few great things, too: a CD of an amazing live demo recording, their album on high-grade vinyl, an EP and a single.

You can't go wrong with any of it. Not hearing it at all, however, would be a grave mistake.

Go dig The Remains.

Stuck Inside Of 2006 With The 1966 Blues Again.

At lunch one day, some freaks I work with and I got into a stupid (though entertaining) discussion: If you could go back in time and witness a particular historic event, what would it be?

Someone named the signing of the Declaration Of Independence. Somebody else picked an event from the life of Jesus—one of the miracles, I think. Another, JFK's assassination. Mine was a little less monumental, perhaps: Bob Dylan's 1966 European tour. I guess the one to see would be the Manchester Free Trade Hall show from May 17, the one where someone yelled "Judas!" right before Bob and The Band kicked into a really nasty "Like A Rolling Stone." That's the show documented on the "Live 1966" CD. Forty years have not blunted the power of this music. It's all energy, anger and spite. (And poetry.)

This photo is from that show. Dig that suit and how well it goes with the Telecaster. Don't you wish you'd been there?

Great Moments In Cinema #23: The Birth Of John Wayne

Today is John Wayne's birthday. Here he is in "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" from 1962, one of his last films with director John Ford. It's as good a Western as you'll ever see, one of Ford's finest films, and a criminally underappreciated classic. It was pretty much dismissed when it came out, and its reputation has grown steadily amongst us movie geeks ever since. By the way, this is the film the whole John Wayne impersonation "Pilgrim" thing comes from.

Next time you see it--you HAVE seen it haven't you?--pay attention to the steaks they eat in the saloon. They're huge! Served on plates bigger than most serving trays, the beef hangs off the edge as Jimmy Stewart passes them out to hungry cowboys like Wayne, Andy Devine and Lee Marvin.

Also notice that the bulk of the picture was shot on the backlot in pretty flat-looking black and white. Ford was paying homage to his silent film days, right down to the hat Wayne wears. Oh, the Gene Pitney song of the same name is not heard in the film.

Aside from being one of my favorite Westerns, "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" has special significance to me. My wife and I watched it on our honeymoon back in 1998 at a dude ranch in Wickenburg, Arizona. Even if it stunk, it'd be one of my favorite films.

Happy Birthday, Duke. If it was up to me, the banks and post offices would be closed, the kids would be home from school, and we'd all be watching "The Searchers," "Rio Bravo" and "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" on TV.

Great Moments In Cinema #6: My Darling Clementine

A great image from a great film, 1946's "My Darling Clementine." This is a John Ford movie, which kinda lets you know what to expect. It also tells you it's gonna be better than about anything else you've ever seen. Never been a huge Henry Fonda fan, but I sure love him in this one.

Wish I had this shot about three feet tall hanging above my fireplace.

Tom Verlaine: "Daddy, his singing's wobbly."

If you're looking for an objective review of Tom Verlaine's new CDs, best keep looking.

In June of 1996, I flew to New York to see Tom Verlaine at Tramps. Great show. He debuted a few new songs that night, one of which was this crazy, noisy thing called "All Weirded Out." Trapped in the Atlanta airport the next day, I had the chorus stuck in my head. (There's a bootleg CD of that show floating around.)

Almost 10 years later, I crack open "Songs And Other Things," Verlaine's first vocal CD since 1990's "The Wonder." Track 12: "All Weirded Out." And again, that damn chorus is nailed into my head.

This could be his best solo work yet, which is saying quite a bit. They're all different, all brilliant. Here, he may have found the perfect balance between his experimental and poppier sides. Accessibly weird, you could say. Or maybe weirdly accessible. Some have complained that the lyrics seem unfinished, which sounds like the complaints of someone who hasn't paid much attention to the lyrics of his previous works. (I love the line about the "five ugly bugs.") His riffs and solos are as amazing as ever, and he still sings like he has a mouthful of tapioca pudding. My daughter says he sings "wobbly." She's right.

1992's "Warm And Cool" was a collection of moody instrumentals featuring Verlaine's incredible, textured guitar. (Back then, everybody drew comparisons to the music from "Twins Peaks.") "Around" picks up where that one left off. Some of the stuff feels like fragments, chunks of bigger pieces. Others fall in line with what we think of as "songs." They've all got Verlaine's ringing guitar tone and veer off in unexpected directions. Billy Ficca, the drummer for Television, provides incredible support throughout, totally at ease with Verlaine's improvisations. Nobody plays jazzy drums in rock n roll the way Billy does.

Not much in new music does much for me anymore. I kinda collect records backwards, going back in time as I get bored with what I'm currently listening to: punk to garage to surf to rockabilly to country to easy listening to exotica. I haven't been this excited about a new release in a long, long time. Except maybe that T Bone Burnett thing that's on the way.

Watch this one again.

I recently picked up the DVD of the 1974 Clint Eastwood thing "Thunderbolt And Lightfoot." I'd seen it plenty of times, mostly as a kid when it used to crop up on TV.

But seeing it again, uninterrupted, and with its Panavision framing preserved, this movie impressed the hell out of me. Here, we get a hint at the kind of performances Eastwood would give later and a good, Oscar-nominated turn by Jeff Bridges. The film's successful juggling of comedy and drama simply wouldn't work if these guys weren't up to the task.

It's a pretty standard Seventies combination character study/buddy/road/crime movie, played for laughs much of the time. Eastwood is The Thunderbolt and Bridges is Lightfoot. I'm not gonna bother with the plot.

Michael Cimino writes and directs (for the first time), and we can assume he should be thanked for much of the picture's breezy charm. This has none of the bloat and pretense of his later "Deer Hunter" or "Heaven's Gate," but instead the pace and efficiency we know from Eastwood's own direction or his work with the great Don Siegel.

The capable cast--rounded out by George Kennedy and Goeffrey Lewis--give many of the scenes an improvised feel, quite rare for a genre film. (Eastwood and Bridges' scene at the park, when Bridges finds out Clint's the fabled crooked Thunderbolt, is a good example.) The heist itself is well done and exciting. And many of the set pieces along their journey are a real hoot, such as Bill McKinney's crazed, muscle-car-driving redneck.

Given the stuff that's turning up in multiplexes these days, I've found that a lot of the Sixties and Seventies action movies seem like true masterpieces. Unlike today's stuff, there's nothing in "Thunderbolt And Lightfoot" that feels manufactured or test-marketed. So, if you haven't seen it in a while, you might want to watch it again. If you've never seen it, by all means do--if you're a fan of stuff like this.

By the way, the poster art you see here was done by Robert McGinnis. McGinnis is known for his James Bond movie posters of the Sixties and Seventies and for thousands of paperback covers. You can check out his work here: http://www.graemeflanagan.com/robert_mcginnis/index.html

Great Moments In Cinema #17

Today, I'll keep it quick.

I'm guessing this was taken during the shooting of "Rio Bravo," but there's a chance it coulda been "The Sons Of Katie Elder." Whatever, it's a cool picture of two of my favorite people, John Wayne and Dean Martin, making spaghetti. Odds are, there's an adult beverage or two just out of the frame.

Snagged this picture off the web somewhere. No credits. Sorry.

It came from Thomasville!

Not that you should care, but I was born in Thomasville, Georgia. Small town. Pretty place. Hot and humid in the summertime.

By the mid-Seventies, I was living elsewhere. But as a monster-obsessed kid (and loyal subscriber to Famous Monsters Of Filmland magazine), I was damn proud to be a product of "The City Of Roses."

Why? Because Robb White had lived there.

Robb White wrote a number of books, often about naval stuff, that had been hits with younger readers. "Virgin Island." "Up Periscope." "Secret Sea." 21 in all.

In 1958, he teamed up with the great William Castle to write a handful of horror films, true masterpieces of hokum devised solely to scare the hell out of little kids--and make lots of money: "Macabre," "House On Haunted Hill," "13 Ghosts," "The Tingler" and "Homicidal." All featured some sorta gimmick to really drive the thing home. "Macabre" insured you against death by fright. "House On Haunted Hill" gave us Emergo, which floated a plastic skeleton over the crowd. "13 Ghosts" required a Ghost Viewer to see the various spirits. And "The Tingler" put little buzzers under the seats (Percepto) to give you an extra jolt during the climax. If movies ever got any better than this, I haven't heard of it.

Years ago, the Film Forum in New York brought back "The Tingler." My best friend, James Graham, invited me up for a day that ranks right up there with my wedding and the birth of my daughter.

Most of these films are available on DVD, "13 Ghosts" with its gimmick lovingly preserved. You need them.

And here's to Robb White, who really deserves a sign at the Thomasville city limits.

Oh boy, another blog.

So, here we are. Kinda like a couple on a blind date looking at each other awkwardly across the little table in a coffee shop.

Okay, I'll go first. Let's see. The name's Toby. I'm a freelance advertising copywriter. You know, ads, brochures, TV commercials, web sites, stuff like that. I love (good) advertising and I love my work, but there are times it makes me feel slimy and gross. I'm like the guy that pumps out your septic tank--can't wait to take a shower after work.

I collect records, have since I was 12 or so. Started with The Beatles (like most folks) and James Bond soundtracks and went from there. Lots of Sixties surf and garage stuff. Fifties easy listening. Rockabilly. Sixties country. Punk. You get the picture. Favorite Beatles LP? Either "Help!" or "Rubber Soul." Favorite LP of all time? Right now, it's a tie between "Funhouse" by The Stooges, "Arthur" by the Kinks, "(The) Ventures In Space" and almost anything Tom Verlaine had anything to do with.

Favorite movie? That's an easy one: "Where Eagles Dare." Greatest movie ever made? Probably "The Searchers." My dad was collecting movies before I was born--long before home video--so I'm a bit of an expert on old movies, especially horror movies, crime pictures and westerns from the Fifties and Sixties. (Thanks to my dad's collection, I had the privilege of seeing them on film vs. TV.) You can't beat a really good cowboy movie from the Fifties. For proof, check out "7 Men From Now."

Married. Have a five-year-old daughter named Presley. My family is truly great--and very tolerant of all my crap: LPs, CDs, books and other junk.

Lately, I've developed a bit of a thing for Sixties stereo equipment (like Marantz amps). Not sure why, maybe because it sounds better than the new stuff. Or maybe simply because it's OLD.

So why the blog? Hell, I wouldn't know. But it seems like something to do. And it lets me stick cool pictures and stuff on here for the three people who happen upon it to look at.

This first one is the Paragon, a swanky speaker system from JBL in the Fifties and Sixties. This thing now goes for thousands of dollars and weighs almost half a ton. Cool, huh? No, I don't have one. Dammit.