Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 2 of 1030)

Hooterollin’ And Rockin’ And Researchin’

New Hooterollin’! Is my body breaking down in new and exciting ways? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’. Are some of the emergent nightmares far too disgusting to even mention in mixed company? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’. Am I living through the second act of a David Cronenberg film? Yes! But there’s new Hooterollin’.

Did you know that Bobby–in addition to being a guitarist, singer, and cowboy–was a record producer? I did not, and I know a lot of stuff about Bobby. Luckily, Corry has abandoned the tenets of Without Research to, you know, look shit up and thus enlighten all with this ribald* tale of a Grateful Dead and one of the guys who wrote Mississippi Queen. Why are you still here? Go read something that makes sense.

And if you need something to listen to…

Here’s the Dead’s set from 4/9/70 at the Fillmore West.

And here’s Mr. Davis and the Lost Quintet (featuring Chick Corea on the Fender Rhodes):



*There is no ribaldry whatsoever in this tale. Everyone keeps it in his or her pants at all times.

RIP Chick

1969 was the Lost Quintet, so-called because the five musicians–Mr. Davis, Chick Corea, Jack DeJohnette, Dave Holland, and Wayne Shorter–never made a studio recording. Chick joined up in September of ’68, and was dragooned into playing the electric Fender Rhodes piano against his will.



“Dragooned” implies that it’s against one’s will. 

I said “fuck off.” I yelled it, as a matter of fact.


Yeah, huh?

Got anything else rattling around up there?

Not even the beginning of a thought.

Call it?

Sure. How about another pic of Chick?

Do it, pal.

That was nice.


I Fixed The Jenkins, And A Picture

I didn’t have the energy to write anything new, so I went into the “Jenkins” tag and fixed all the broken picture links. This, of course, was so much more work than the writing would have been.

But you all seem to like the poor bastard, and so do I, so here we are.

And here’s a picture of Laraine Newman in Paul Stanley’s actual KISS gear: He used to leave a set at photographer Lynn Goldsmith’s studio, until she started dressing her celebrity friends up in it and selling the shots to Rock Mags. Can’t really blame him for asking for his clothes back.

So there: Jenkins and a lady in semi-stolen leathers making a silly face. What more do you want from me?

That’s The Anthem, Get Your Damn Hands Up


“Here, sir.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“Not all of you, sir.”

“I am clad in sky, Jenkins. I am clad in sky. Oh, the breeze! Salutary on my niblets!”

“At least sit on a towel, sir.”

“The couch gets what I give it. Why are you here? Is this about the petty cash?”

“Oh, no, sir. Have you been dipping into the petty cash again?”

“Dipping? Never.”


“More like diving! I bought an oscilloscope.”


“They were out of Geiger counters. I’m getting into retrofuturism, Jenkins. Dials and knobs and what-have-you. And I’m thinking about carpeting the bathroom.”


“The retrofuture isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Lot more filthy than you’d imagine. Remember conversation pits?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The air can’t escape! Nothing but miasma. We’ll all be malarial within days.”

“No, sir. Bad air does not cause malaria. It is spread by mosquitoes.”

“Yes, yes. I also bought some skeeters with the oscilloscope.”


“Incredible deal, Jenkins. BOOGAMM.”

“BOOGAMM, sir?”

“Buy One Oscilloscope, Get A Million Mosquitoes.”

“I simply do not know where you’re finding these websites, sir.”

“Dark Web.”

“I’ll be on the lookout for a package that is both beeping and buzzing, sir. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Well, you’ve seen my schlong and abetted my embezzlement. What else is there to our relationship?”

“This new National Anthem you’ve penned, sir.”

“Ah! You’ve heard it! I call it America The Beautiful.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I had always thought it was written in 1900 or so by some religious fruitcakes, but it turns out I wrote it this weekend after eating a handful of loosie-goosies.”

“I thought you ran out of those, sir.”

“Found a stash. Ohhhhhh, did my goose get loose!”

“That makes a lot of sense, sir. I wanted to talk to you about the song.”


“It’s only eight lines, sir.”

“Symphony for the common man.”

“Fine, sir.”

“You’ve come to praise me?”


“Then you’ve come to bury me!? Et tu mama, tambien, Jenkins?

“I truly need you to let me change the language on your teevee back to English, sir.”


“What do you think that word means, sir?”

“I assumed it was the name of a killer whale in a sombrero.”

“You have an ear for language, sir. Speaking of which, that was what I came in for. To discuss the lyrics of America The Beautiful.”

“Well, why haven’t you brought it up until now!? It’s like we’ve just been bantering for 400 words.”

“As so often happens, sir. Getting back to the lyrics, sir: They make very little sense.”

“Explain yourself. And prepare your eyes.”

“For blasting.”

“You got it, buster.”

“Yes, sir. Let’s look at the first line: O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain.”

“Miraculous word placement, Jenkins.”

“No, sir. None of the words are in the right place. It’s not even backwards. It’s…sideways.”

“Well, you’re not the target audience.”

“Who is?”

“Patriotic aphasics.”


“People who love America and who are currently undergoing a mild stroke.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit niche for a National Anthem?”


“Go ahead. Speak French in my office again. I dare vous.”

“Where were you even keeping that thing?”

“It was with the loosie-goosies. When I stash, I stash.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“I’m like a squirrel with custom-made shoes, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”


“May we move on to the second line of the song?”

“Do what you want, baby. Goosie?’

“Maybe later, sir. For purple mountains majesty, above the fruited plain.

“That’s some good America-loving, Jenkins. Haven’t loved America like that since I was in Iraq.”

“You have never been to Iraq, sir.”


“Nor there.”


“That is a company that makes scientific equipment, sir.”

“Such as oscilloscopes?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, there you go. We brought it back around. Bully for us!”

“Huzzah, sir. About the mountains.”


“Mountains are not purple, sir.”

“Not the poor person mountains you’re allowed to look at, no. But I have access to far more mountains than you, and spiffy ones. You know K2?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’m allowed to view K’s 3 through 8. Soooooooo purple, man.”

“Moving on once more. Above the fruited plain?”

“I meant San Francisco, Jenkins.”



“You snuck a gay joke in there.”

“Wouldn’t be a National Anthem without some homosexual-needling. Healthy senses of humor on the gays. The male ones, at least. Not so much with the ladies, although who can blame them? Always burying golden retrievers.”

“I have no response to that, sir. America! America! God shed His grace on three.

“Good stuff.”

“Don’t you mean thee, sir?”

Nunca! I meant three! Me, you, and Evel Knievel.”

“Evel, sir?’

“Commies sabotaged the Rocketcycle, Jenkins.”

“How big was that goosie stash, sir?”

“So loose.”

“Uh-huh. And crown thy good with brotherhood. Seems like we’re leaving the women out, sir.”

“They’re busy.”

“Burying the—”

“Lesbians and their dead dogs, Jenkins!”

“–golden…I’m not even arguing with you on that point. I do like the bit about Sea to shining sea.

“Wraps it up in a nice, wet bow. Big sloppy salty bow. Say, Jenkins–”

“Have you talked yourself into wanting saltwater taffy, sir?”

“You betcha.”

“I’ll get the car.”

“Atlantic City, here we come!”

Thoughts On Super Bowl LIV

  • If you wanna get the taste of “Oh, is there a football game?” out of your mouth, then try this: 4/21/78 from the Rupp Arena in Lexington, KY.
  • It’s a lot like Super Bowl LIV, if you think about it.
  • Sloppy as hell and played in front of a quarter-full room.
  • BUT Tom Brady did not receive any accolades, and so therefore the ’78 is better.
  • PLUS every time you listen to 4/21/78, you’re giving esteemed archivist David Lemieuxlinrouge the finger just a little bit because he is insistent on releasing every show around 4/21, but not the actual 4/21, and I don’t wanna seem paranoid or anything, but I think he’s doing it on purpose to fuck with me because he knows how much I love the 4/21.
  • This passive-aggression will not stand.
  • I’m gonna sneak onto that little forest island DL lives on and dangle an avocado outside his window, and when he bites it I’m gonna yoink him into my boat and take a selfie with him and then maybe eat him.
  • See how he likes it.
  • I’m a Pisces, baby; I’m allowed to do shit like that.

Weren’t you gonna talk about the game?


Stay on target, you bag of skin and complaints.

  • Fine: Game sucked.
  • But–and I was reminded of this many times during the 60-minute contest which lasted four hours–the NFL did end racism this year.
  • See:
  • That’ll do it, I suppose.
  • Although the lack of punctuation muddles the message slightly.
  • Is it a command?
  • Is it a cry of despair?
  • “And in the end…racism.”
  • Maybe they’re saying that Tight Ends are allowed to be racist.
  • (That might be it, actually. Until relatively recently, Tight End was a historically white position. QB, TE, and Center. The Offensive Line was always pretty pale, but Centers were downright alabaster.)
  • Difficult to overstate how B-List the Show Biz portion of the broadcast was: It was like Match Game ’82 out there.
  • I kept expecting Richard Dawson to show up and half-ass it.
  • Sure, he died years ago but so did The Weeknd’s career.
  • That guy’s like the opposite of a cult leader.
  • I would not follow him anywhere.
  • And apparently the rest of the music industry shared my opinion: NO guest stars?
  • Shit, even Alicia Keys and John Legend said no, and they’ll show up to anything.
  • And then Bruce Springsteen, who is a cowboy despite being from Asbury Park, told me to go to Kansas so I can worship Jesus and find common ground with Nazis and Capitol-Stormers.
  • Now, I consider myself a fairly Centrist kind of dude.
  • A pragmatist.
  • Gonna be honest with you: I could make a deal with Mitt Romney.
  • Mostly because Mitt Romney doesn’t believe in Jewish Space Lasers, and that school shootings are hoaxes (possibly staged by Jews).
  • But here’s the important question:
  • Who let Andy Reid out in public like this?
  • From all accounts, the man is beloved by his team.
  • No one pulled him aside and said, “Coach, you look like a dying stork, but fatter.”
  • Plus–as the game was way more lopsided than the score would attest to–we were swindled out of everyone’s favorite running gag: Andy Reid Becomes Confused By The Game Clock.
  • Man’s been a coach for nine decades now.
  • Cannot figure out how Time Outs work, and I LOVE HIM FOR IT.
  • I think he tried to call two TO’s at once a couple of seasons ago, and the refs didn’t even throw a flag.
  • They were just like, “Yup, that’s our Andy.”
  • H.E.R. was great.
  • I’m gonna check her (H.E.R.) out.
  • But her performance of America The Beautiful did beg the question: Do other countries require TWO songs about how great they are?
  • Because after America The Beautiful, we had to sit through two semi-entities melismating through the Star-Spangled Banner.
  • ATB should be the National Anthem, anyway: it’s easier to sing, it’s shorter, and it’s not about blowing shit up; the song’s about how awesome our mountains are.
  • The worst outcome, of course, is that now Tom Brady can no longer be dismissed in any way as a “system QB.”
  • He’s got seven rings and that’s the end of the argument, but he’s a humorless son-kisser,
  • Sure, Michael Jordan was (and is, and will continue to be) a dick, but his dickishness is to such a ludicrous degree that it’s fascinating and entertaining and–as demonstrated by The Last Dance–highly memeable.
  • Not Brady.
  • He’s got dead eyes, like a doll’s eyes.
  • Gronk’s still all right.
  • And that’ll be it for me as far as football goes ’til next Super Bowl, because remember: With what we now know about the effects of the game on the players, watching the NFL is like watching vintage gay porn.
  • You know what the men on the screen are going to die of.
  • God bless America, y’all!

Not A Good Sign

I’ve heard so many glowing things about Phoebe Bridger-Walls, and I will be checking out her album after I finish re-listening to all my KISS records for the 90th time, but this…this is not a good start to our relationship. I was led to believe you were above the Sincere Acoustic Cover, Phobia Bridgerton.

Everyone stop fucking doing this. It wasn’t funny the first time, and now it bespeaks a feculence of thought.

More KISS Content That No One Has Asked For*

Yet more compliments for long-time FoTotD Mr, Completely:

  • Just does shit for other people because he’s kind.
  • Patrols and protects the Rose City each and every night in his role as Cascadia’s Champion, the Tree Octopus.
  • If you got a booger, or maybe your flag’s at half-mast, then Mr. C.’s gonna tell you in a chill and discreet way so as not to embarrass you.
  • Has never–not even for an instant–considered selling any of his family to gypsies.
  • Cleans up real nice so you could take him somewhere fancy, but can also throw on his jean shorts and get real loose with it.
  • Hustles back to play some D.
  • Only believes in the fun, old-school conspiracy theories, like “Grace Kelly wasn’t in a car crash; she was actually eaten by CIA robot cheetahs,” and not the scary, new-hotness conspiracy theories, like “The Jews did it.”
  • Hates a lot of the same things I hate, and that’s a huge plus in anyone.
  • Used to run the Chillout Tent at shows where they’d bring in kids who took too much; Mr. C. would talk those suckers down, and give them oranges and cigarettes.

What does this have to do with KISS?

Had you waited ten seconds, you would have found out. It was literally the next Bullet Point.

Hop to it, then.

I’ll hop up your asshole with a machete, muchacho.

You don’t have the balls to take on my asshole.

Shall we move on and pretend the last few lines didn’t happen?

For the best, I imagine.

Yeah. So, the point I was trying to make before I was so rudely interrupted is this: Once again, Mr. Completely has completed us. He kicks down three KISS shows from the Makeup Era: 4/1/74 from the famed Agora Ballroom in Cleveland, 6/13/75 from the Tulsa Fairgrounds, and 9/3/76 from the Richfield Coliseum (also in Cleveland). All three are Pre-FM feeds from the SBD, and quite acceptable as far as sound quality goes (and you know I’m picky about that).

These shows are a bit of a revelation: To hear the stories about early KISS and the legends about how much overdubbing was necessary to get Alive! and Alive II! into shape for release, you’d think the raw tapes would sound like deranged chimps banging on orphans. But no! They were a tight, well-rehearsed combo. I mean, they weren’t about to break into a set of Mahavishnu covers, but neither are they all playing in different keys simultaneously, unlike some semi-defunct, choogly-type bands I could mention.

Is Mr. Completely done? Has he finished his task and then withdrawn beatifically, leaving only joy and sunshine and a fresh, citrus-y smell in his wake? No! Of course not! He also points shit out, specifically the fact that KISS went–in just a bit over two years–from the 2,000-seat Agora to the 20,000-seat Richfield Coliseum, which is some impressive fan-garnering.

Download those shows presently, however: They’ll only stay up for the weekend. We close with a picture I like to call What? And leave Show Biz?



*Some of you may be happy to see this theme explored, but no one was like “TotD, can we have more disjointed and semi-random spewings on the Silly Rock band from the 70’s?”

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