I want a hot rod. It'll go good with my glasses.

In a town lousy with Toyota's and BMW's and Jeep Cherokees, I wanna tool around in a hot rod. A '32 Ford. A Deuce.


Not some pampered trailer queen that gets hauled from show to show to protect its 32 coats of paint, but a working, road-worthy car I can actually go somewhere in. With air conditioning.

In my mind's eye — or is it the Driveway Of My Dreams? — it's black. A sedan — this is a family car, see? Cragar SS rims. Red line tires. Red leatherette interior. Mid-50s Chevrolet steering wheel. The top's not chopped, at least not much. The motor's pretty straight and possibly not exposed. The CD player's hidden in the glovebox. And did I mention it's got A/C?

Don't think I'll have exhaust pipes running along with sides lake-style. Burnt the Hell outta my leg as a kid getting out of my uncle's Corvette. That was one tactical error I actually learned something from.

I'd really like to think I was up to the task of building my own, either from a real metal made-in-Detroit donor Deuce or a quaity set of Tupperware (fiberglass body). But I'm man enough to admit that if I built me a hot rod, it'd be with a checkbook, not a socket set. I got no skills. What I do have is a pile of magazines (Hot Rod, Car Craft, Rodders Journal, etc.) and a ton of toy cars cobbled together over about 30-something years of seriously wanting a hot rod. Maybe it's research for when I do graduate to hot rod ownership. Or maybe it's just a buncha cool old hot rod junk. Either way's fine with me.

Guess all this plants me firmly in the Wannabe column. Let's hope that's a temporary thing.

"You'll hear the drums and the brush of steel"

Late Spring, 1983. North Carolina State University. There's only a day or two left in the semester, so I'm getting ready to head back to Doylestown, PA for the summer. I have no money.

This is a bad deal, because Wall Of Voodoo is playing The Pier in Raleigh's Cameron Village shopping center. I'd recently fallen in love with their "Call Of The West" album (it's still a favorite), all my friends had, and we were dying to see these guys.


So I'm packing crap in my dormroom, listening to the NC State radio station. The DJ comes on with this lame question and the promise of a pair of tickets to the first caller with the answer. He begins to play their cover of "Ring Of Fire" and asks who did the original version.

I won the tickets.

We got there early, I remember. At some point, I sat on the floor--actually on a skanked-out piece of carpet brimming with who-knows-how-old spilled beer--leaving my Levis and white Chuck Taylors with stains my mom never got out.

But what a show.

Wall Of Voodoo may be the perfect marriage of pop music and the avant garde. Sorry, Sonic Youth. With their cheesy drum machines, 80s synthesizers and reverbed guitar, they were like nothing I'd ever heard. Still aren't. All this is given some meat by Stan Ridgway's lyrics and delivery. They made two albums (the first was "Dark Continent), and Stan left. It made sense, they'd nailed it on "Call Of The West." What would you do for a followup?

Luckily, what they did next was they toured for it. A lot. Fuelled by the MTV-derived success of "Mexican Radio." And there I was with my free ticket, my best friend James and my beer-stained Chucks.

Okay, now it's 25 years later. Stan's made a string of excellent solo records. And now he's touring, and promising to do some stuff off "Call Of The West" as a 25-year tribute kinda thing. James is coming down from NYC for it.

The Pier is now boarded up, its underground entrance sealed up.

I'm in charge of the tickets again--paying this time. After all, I have a job and a degree and stuff now.

And in a time when not much musically excites me, I'm so stoked for this thing I could scream. It's the 31st. And I'll tell you all about it.

Not quite a hot dogger. But no gremmie, either.

This CD is a dream come true. But it coulda be a dream come truer.

The American International Beach Party movies are amongst my all-time favoritest things — of all time. Especially the mighty "Bikini Beach" from 1964. It's in my Top 5. Not just Top 5 Films. I'm talking Top 5 Things. Period. Ever.

I've found a few of the soundtrack LPs from these things. But they're not true soundtracks. There are a few albums of Annette singing some stuff from a particular movie. Another's got Frankie singing 'em. Or Donna Loren. And they're not bad. It's just they ain't what you hear in the movie.

So after all this time, along comes this CD. About 20 tracks, most from the AIP series. "Ride The Wild Surf" by Jan and Dean and some other stuff are on there, too. Some of the tunes have never been available on CD or LP before--coming direct from the actual soundtracks. Hooray!

So, while I'm rejoicing and thanking God (and the label, Varese Saraband) for this thing, I'm also thinking it coulda been better. With more than half a dozen movies to pull stuff from, it coulda been longer than 45 minutes. And it's a real crime against nature not to include one of the Potato Bug (Frankie as a British, Beatleque pop star) songs from "Bikini Beach." Or at least one tune from Von Zipper (Harvey Lembeck).

Anyway, it's great. Buy it. Also get the big fat boxed set of DVDs. Unless you're like some people (my wife included) who think these things were created by, and for, idiots.

Guess that makes me an idiot.