Suck on This (Remix)
Here’s a recap. Last week, I turned the Camp Delta SOP into a giant MP3 using one of the Natural Voices from AT&T Labs. I have since reversed the audio and used Nuance’s award-winning transcription software, Dragon Naturally Speaking, to convert the sound back into text. I may be dabbling in some new kind of sorcery. It’s all here—AIG, Dick Cheney, Bush, Fannie Mae, the Hawk machine, anti-bonuses, the X-Men, the Shia Senate, Satanist Afghanistan, Mancini sanity, and even Satan himself. And presumably it also has something to do with Chinese pixies, anti-Sandinista taffy, and Santa Claus Mountain. Here is the full text. Interestingly, Naturally Speaking is still capable of a few formatting commands in dictation mode, resulting in a host of curious lexical phenomena: arbitrarily capitalized and hyphenated words; unexpected portmanteau words, some continuing for pages; random deletions, truncations, and substitutions; and tons of seemingly meaningless repetition, to underscore the urgency of what must almost certainly be a message of some considerable significance. Alien instructions, ghost echoes from the distant future, I’m just not sure yet. Next I’ll be converting the new text into audio, reversing it, and then re-transcribing it all, to be repeated for 23 iterations, or at least until some answers begin to surface. If you’re not yet familiar with the Israeli of energy, the Abilene genie, Islamized physics, or Sinatra motion, I urge you to spend a few minutes acquainting yourself with our impending doom. It’s hilarious.
Not many people have read the Camp Delta Standard Operating Procedure made available on 
So, I finally got around to creating a year-long MP3, and I’m about to show you how to reproduce the file on your computer, or make one of your own from scratch. Ultimately, the easy way may still take you several hours, but it’s much quicker than downloading 30 Gigs of audio, which could take weeks or even months. The week-long 
As some of you know, I live right in the heart of downtown Denver. In preparation for the Democratic National Convention, the city has spared no expense, installing thousands of cheap spy cameras and fire hydrants, removing trash cans, encouraging military helicopters to buzz the skyscrapers with no lights on, setting up police checkpoints—just the sort of arrogant and mostly ineffective bullshit you’d expect. And in all of Denver, you’d be hard pressed to find a man stupider than professional mouth-breather Dan Caplis. I’ve hated Caplis ever since I first heard his whining little bitch of a voice, and for the past couple of years I’ve pranked him as often as possible, with virtually no attention paid to his toadying Pretendocrat co-host, Craig Silverman, who can best be described as a mustachioed Master Billy Quizboy impersonator with a microprotonian brain resembling liquefied goat testicles. A few months ago, following a particularly imbecilic radio skit in which Democrats were repeatedly compared to Satanists, I made 
Originally, 
Whoo-hoo! The first My Bloody Valentine concert since to here knows when, in FLAC. Click 
Ah, summertime. For the past year or so, we’ve been serving up close to a million MP3s a month. It only seems fair that we should give something back to those who’ve taken so much. Over the coming weeks, we’ll be very slow in serializing the unfinished Bollywood masterpiece Kissing is Forbidden, a tribute to critical thinkers, Woody Allen, and PBS. Chronicling the unusual adventures of a telepathic used car dealer who—as you may have guessed—is strictly prohibited from engaging in even the most basic form of amorous interplay, Kissing boasts an ensemble cast whose unforgettable characters defy truly unbelievable odds, propelled into all manner of uncompromising situations which they must overcome in a host of uninteresting and increasingly unexceptional ways. Jam-packed with suspense, time travel, action, mystery, suspense, and (least of all) kissing, Forbidden is sure to leave you longing for the legalization of morphine. Each episode is approximately 30 minutes long, encoded as an .mp4. No plans to stream it at this time. Sorry. Ctrl-click or right-click to save. All rights reserved. Filmed in Narrowvision™.
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Clayton Counts passed away on Christmas Eve outside of Jamestown, Colorado. He was a vivacious, passionate, caring person, and he loved to make others laugh. At his request, several of his friends will continue to update this blog semi-regularly. If you would like to contribute music, please email us by clicking 
Recently I was invited to be a part of a comedic mash-up collection entitled It is to Laff. The project was curated by DJ Useo, and it features 19 international 
Below is a heart-tugging CD’s worth of overtly earnest celebrity PSAs, courtesy of the National Jewish Center for Immunology and Respiratory Medicine in Denver. It’s quite a lungful, I know, but try saying it in Hebrew. After listening to this a few times, it really seems like Lloyd Bridges spent the better part of his career making love to small woodland creatures. I’m not sure when these were recorded, but since both Phylicia Rashad and Raven-Symone appear, I’d say that it was sometime between 1989 and 1992. Too bad His Cosbiness passed on this. It could’ve been one Hell of a funny collection; perhaps with a lung-shaped Pudding Pop tie-in, or even a pair of dancing Audio-Animatronic lungs that exclaim “Gaw!” while rolling their eyes and making silly faces.
For a time in the 1950s, Louis Farrakhan was a calypso singer. He called himself “The Charmer,” a name which presumably has an origin similar to that of Jerry Lee Lewis’ self-styled “The KIller” nickname, which we understand means “Ladykiller,” because, you know, nothing kills with the ladies like making everybody refer to you by an idiotic name; perhaps something like LL Cool J’s abysmal “Ladies Love Cool James” nickname, or even crazy pinch-faced, squinty-eyed mushroom-head Claudia “Lady Bird” Johnson’s. In 1955, Elijah Muhammad demanded that all musicians in the Nation of Islam stop performing, and Farrakhan (then known as the very delicate Eugene Wolcott) subsequently turned down a lucrative offer from Pearl Bailey’s manager. It was for the best, however. His fake Caribbean accent is almost as racist as when he stated: “These false Jews promote the filth of Hollywood. It’s the wicked Jews, the false Jews that are promoting lesbianism, homosexuality. Zionists have manipulated Bush and the American government.” How charming. It’s the gay Zionists. They’re the ones wiretapping Americans and wiping their asses with the Constitution. Good thing we cleared that one up. Now we’ve just got to get rid of all the Jews. Khalid Abdul Muhammad wouldn’t have it any other way. 
Let me get this straight. Potsie was some kind of sex symbol? I thought that the whole reason Scott Baio joined the cast of Happy Days was because all of the other male leads appeared to have some kind of contagious flesh-eating disease. The intro to this song almost makes you think it’s going to be bearable, and then Anson Williams starts to sing. It’s not that he’s a bad singer; he just had some terrible luck attempting to make pleasant sounds come out of his throat. Fortunately, Ron Howard never fancied himself a recording artist, but I wouldn’t have complained if he’d done a cover of “Rock Around the Clock” with Pat Morita. Anywho, here are a few Happy Days extras courtesy of Otis Fodder. The Heyettes with “
I really hate people who think that Joe Pesci is some kind of great actor. All of his roles are identical, whether we’re talking about Once Upon a Time in America or My Cousin Vinny. He has no range whatsoever, but I’m still glad that he’s an actor. Let’s face it: no one plays the weaselly Italian runt better than Pesci. It’s in his blood. Long before his acting career, however, Pesci performed under the name Joseph Richie, cutting a record entitled Little Joe Sure Can Sing. The record also features the musical talents of Frank Vincent, who later fell victim to Pesci in both Raging Bull and Goodfellas, who starred as Phil Leotardo on The Sopranos, and whose voice should be instantly familiar to Grand Theft Auto fans as Salvatore Leone. I can’t share that record with you, I’m sorry to say, because this record is so much worse. It’s a dismal send-up of Blondie’s “Rapture” from his 1998 LP Vincent Laguardia Gambini Sings Just for You, and that’s all you really need to know. But also be aware that Pesci milks the Italian-American stereotype on every pitiful track. Not that we’d expect anything more. He probably doesn’t even realize that he’s been typecast all his life. 
Buddy Ebsen had quite a career. Best known as Jed Clampett from The Beverly Hillbillies, Ebsen’s name became synonymous with “lovable millionaire yokel” in spite of his Latvian-Danish heritage. Prior to his work on Hillbillies, Ebsen was known for a vaudeville act he performed with his sister, Vilma. They went on to Broadway, where his erratic dancing caught the eye of Walt Disney, who employed Ebsen as a motion reference for the animators working on Mickey Mouse cartoons. Originally cast as the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, he agreed to switch roles with Ray Bolger, who had initially landed the part of the Tin Man. This ultimately cost Ebsen his place in MGM history, after a severe reaction to the aluminum dust used in the makeup almost killed him. During his two week hospital stay, Jack Haley was given the role, and Ebsen would spend the next several years taking parts in lesser known westerns and returning to Broadway in the fittingly titled Yokel Boy. He lost the role of TV’s Davy Crockett to Fess Parker, and ended up playing the forgettable George Russell instead. Ebsen’s touching performance as Holly Golightly’s estranged husband in Breakfast at Tiffany’s proved to be his big break, though, and within a year he was known throughout the States as J.D. Clampett. The Beverly Hillbillies was panned by critics, but enjoyed tremendous ratings. CBS canceled the show in spite of this, allegedly because of advertisers’ reluctance to buy airtime. Today it is considered the most watched show of the 1960s, having garnered top ratings for the majority of its nine season run. Buddy would later star in Barnaby Jones, another successful role of seven years. He was also good friends with Ronald Reagan. Ebsen died in 2003 at the age of 95, five years after his final performance, a voice role on King of the Hill. Oh, and click 
Laverne and Shirley—like Mork and Mindy—was one of the more popular Happy Days spinoffs. And like Joe Pesci, the show was desperately reliant on its hackneyed stereotypes. Laverne de Fazio was the trash-talking Italian-American tomboy, and Shirley Feeney her equally dimwitted foil. And the supporting characters were just as predictable. Lenny Kosnowski, 89th in line to the Polish Throne, and Andrew Squigman, their annoying horndog neighbors. And who could forget Carmine “The Big Ragu” Ragusa, another walking stereotype and Feeney’s main squeeze? This number is arguably the most accessible track on Laverne and Shirley Sing. It’s hard to imagine that many kids rushed out to buy this record in 1976, especially after one listens to the horrendous covers of “
Cassius Clay, better known as Muhammad Ali, is the single greatest prizefighter in the history of boxing. Some moronic people like to dispute that fact, but rest assured that Ali can still knock the living shit out of those imbecilic naysayers. This guy did everything. He made fun of his opponents, fought tooth decay, and made a guest appearance on Diff’rent Strokes. He floated, stung, and objected to Christian war. He married four times, divorced a few times, and fathered a slew of kids, some as the result of affairs. And he did it all with class. Incidentally, his singing isn’t so terrible, particularly for a guy who abused people for a living and denounced miscegenation. In fact, it’s really pretty good, as are most of Ali’s recordings. Don’t believe me? Have a listen: “
Corey Fucking Feldman. At least Corey Haim still has some dignity. Corey Feldman’s like the tranny hooker who won’t overdose on painkillers. Listen, Feldman—you’re a grown fuckwit now. It’s time you learned to stop reminding people that you exist. You know, I do feel sorry for you. No one will ever forget that you used to dress like Michael Jackson with that stupid pinstripe suit and matching hat. No one will forgive you for it, either. Nobody cares that you starred in Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter with Crispin Glover. It doesn’t buy you any credibility. Likewise, nobody gives a damn that you’re buddies with Ron Jeremy. Nobody remembers that you were on Eight is Enough or The Love Boat, and they wouldn’t care even if they did. Believe me when I tell you: nobody—and I mean NOBODY—recalls that you starred alongside Corey Haim in a movie called Busted where the two of you showered together with a bunch of nasty, saggy-breasted Playmates. Oh, and they don’t remember that you directed that piece of shit, either. Or that it was straight-to-video. Or that it looks like it was shot on a PXL-2000. Well, that’s it, I guess. You’re in my thoughts and prayers.
Lenny and Squiggy were the Larry Dallas and Ralph Furley of Laverne and Shirley. A lot of people like to give this record a pass, mainly because it features Christopher Guest on guitar and Murphy Dunne of Blues Brothers fame on keys, but the truth is: 99% of the jokes on Lenny and the Squigtones are funnier and more daring than anything on ’70s television. Take the intro to this song, for instance. The fact that they were able to get away with casual talk of murdering the Cunningham family is pretty astounding. The music’s somewhat interesting at times, but the lyrics are what really carry this record. Instead of churning out the expected horseplay, these two actually seem to be having a good time making as little sense as possible. And rather than resign themselves to the inherent unfunniness of these characters, they find ways to make their roles more unsettling. For the most part, it works. At one point in the record, an audience member is referred to as a “son of a bitch.” There’s a vaguely anti-authoritarian discussion about religion. And just when you least expect it, the love theme from a horror movie materializes. Still, it’s Lenny and Squiggy, so it’s bound to make you cringe every so often. 
You know, I really want to hate Rick Moranis for all the crap movies he’s been in, but he strikes me as the kind of person I’d get along with in real life. This track is from his second album, The Agoraphobic Cowboy, which was nominated for the 2006 Grammy for best comedy album. As many of you know, I’m not big on comedic country music, but there’s something about Moranis’ delivery that helps allay my uncertainty. This song, however, is not one of my favorites. It’s a parody of Geoff Mack’s excellent “I’ve Been Everywhere,” and does very little to expand on the original. After all, if you’re going to satirize a country song, shouldn’t you pick a number that’s not already been aped to death? Well, I don’t want to be too hard on Rick. This version is better than most, but it seems a little too easy. Then again, this is a guy who starred in all three Honey, I So-and-Soed the Something-or-Other flicks. Yep, even the third one—straight-to-video. Now, if he’d get off his ass and make a sequel to Strange Brew, I might be inclined to nominate Moranis for exculpation. Or even if he just remade The Exorcist, Conan the Barbarian, or Flash Gordon. As long as Max von Sydow’s in it, I really don’t care. 
Yet another agonizing extra. Bernice Frankel, known professionally as Beatrice Arthur, was one of the first women to serve in the U.S. Marine Corps. This song is from Bea Arthur on Broadway: Just Between Friends. but by no means was this Bea Arthur’s first stage appearance. Before starring in Maude and The Golden Girls, Bea appeared as Yente the Matchmaker in the 1964 Broadway premiere of Fiddler on the Roof, and ten years prior she played Lucy Brown in the Off-Broadway premiere of Threepenny Opera. She won a Tony for her performance opposite Angela Lansbury in Mame, a role she would later reprise in the film adaptation opposite Lucille Ball. It is said that while she was working on The Golden Girls, Bea Arthur couldn’t stand Betty White. Not altogether surprising, but apparently the two have since patched things up. Anyway, I’m not sure where the somewhat disturbing connection between Bea Arthur and nudity originated, but 
2007 looks to be a great year already. Beginning January 1st, 
This has been one Hell of a year. People who don’t know me called me a bastard. People who do know me said that I was being too kind to the people who don’t. And some dimwit named Mitsy even said that I was talentless, all because of some remix I did as a joke, and in spite of the fact that I’ve been producing melodic experimental music for more than a decade. The truth is: I am too kind. Occasionally, giving you people all the free music you can stomach feels like a full time job, but I’ll manage. Oh, people have complained about everything this year. From the fact that the followed links on this page don’t change color, to the fact that I like to make fun of people, to the fact that I’m not self-effacing enough. Well, let me clear this up, once and for all. I make more fun of myself than any of you ever could. I’m exceptionally friendly, as anyone who knows me will tell you. And believe it or not, I am ridiculously humble, unlike many of my detractors. Now, if you want to bitch about the quality of my work, super. It must be exhilarating posting to web forums all your life. Yawn. 152 Tracks to Take Along With You on Your Bloodsoaked—Ah, Fuck It, Just Have a Great New Year, Everybody! 
All right, kiddies. It’s that time of year again. Those damned liberals want to steal our Christmas cheer with all of their cultural sensitivity masquerading as generic holiday greetings. Seriously, though, I know that I’ve been a little mean to some of you this year, particularly if you work for EMI. Or if you happen to be one of their barely sentient mouthpieces, the elderly and meretricious Lauren Gitlins of the world. Or if you have taken offense to practically anything I’ve said or done. But really, what do you expect of me? Quite a few of you have had some rather uninsightful things to say, but you know what? I’m going to murder you. Still, I encourage you to listen to some free music. Because, ladies and gents, all music should be free to anyone who wants to hear it. Any musician who would tell you otherwise is an imbecile. DJs still don’t qualify. To all the people who are visiting this website, friends and enemies alike—let’s break bread, bitches. I love you all, and that’s a fact. It’s true that I am guilty of mostly entertaining myself, but this post is for my supporters, because I don’t often speak to them directly. You guys are the tops, and I wish you the best this holiday season. Obviously, not all of these songs are worksafe, so listen at your own risk. Also, I realize that not all of these are holiday-related. And yes, some of these songs are horrendous. Sue me. 209 Tracks to Take With You on Your Holiday Killing Spree, Part 1. 
Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker are some creepy looking people. Let me rephrase that. What in the fuck HAPPENED to these people? Has there ever been a creepier TV couple? Donny and Marie, possibly. Ooh, I’ve got it! The Menendez brothers! Yeah, they were pretty fucking creepy, as I recall. But Jim and Tammy? The ultra-mother-effin’ creepiest. Yeuuungh! Because of transparently evil Christians like the vomitworthy Bakkers, Jesus is definitely frowning on all of us (and being genuinely creeped out) most of the time. Man, have I been on a Jesus kick lately. I’ve just finished reading the New Testament again, this time crudely translated into half-cowboy speak. It’s from the Cowboy Church of Llano, Texas. I swear to God. It’s a huge barn, with sawdust and hay covering the floor, out in the middle of nowhere. In no particular order: 13 Classics of the Jesus Hit Parade, Part 1.
Ah, Power Source. Time-honored source of veritably limitless power. I just can’t express how much fucking POWER this group exuded throughout the 1980s. Well, okay… twist my arm. They were the fucking SOURCE of that shit. They were so fucking POWERFUL, they self-destructed almost immediately. This dismal song of theirs made it to #1 in the States, but only because it featured an annoying, whining little white girl bawling her ceaselessly blackening little brains out about another little girl (most likely also white) who, the song alleges, was “beaten black and blue” by her parents. And like any good, Christian song that fetishizes child abuse, it invokes the name of Jesus loads of times. For a year or so, you couldn’t turn on a Goddamned radio without hearing hundreds of trillions of instances of this little girl begging the Lord to intervene. “Please, dear Jesus,” wept she, “God, sweet Jesus, please just put an end to child abuse, once and for all, and please let this poor, nonexistent little white girl die so that she may live on eternally in your blessed honky bosom.” Hard to believe that people in the ’80s actually fell for this horseshit. Okay, not really. Anyway, we find out that the girl singing the song is also beaten by her mother, which prompts a vocal response from a seriously freakish Michael Bolton-esque singer near the end of the song. It’s so out of place, you’ll almost want to beat a fictitious child to death in retaliation. 
Clarence Carter, known to his fans as Dr. CC, had a pretty rough childhood. He was blinded at a young age, and still managed to save the family farm. I believe it. Anyway, this is one song that brings a tear to my eye, and since I only have one eye for a tear to be brought to, Clarence’s story means all that much more to me. This song went to #4 in the U.S. in 1970, and up to the #2 spot in the U.K. Even today, it manages to get quite a bit of radio play. Carter taught himself to play the guitar by listening to Lighnin’ Hopkins records, though he is also exceptional on keys. He had a successful run with labels like Fame and Stax, but none of his later singles would do as well as “Patches.” Carter still tours and records music, and he has a new CD which you can purchase by clicking 
Of all the songs about nonexistent dying children, this one is bound to move you the least. For starters, it’s like listening to the audio track from a Bobby’s World episode about prenatal care. But even Howie Mandel wasn’t tasteless enough to write a song this manipulative. As if some clinic-bound teen would actually reconsider her impending abortion on the advice of some Mogwai. God, I hate cutesy, squeaky voices… especially when they’re coming out of overweight Christians who make their living singing for other overweight Christians. This guy has no shame. His real name is Mark Fox, in case any of you want to look him up. Or abort him. Please, I’m begging you.
Okay—the last thing these kids needed was “primary reinforcement” from some crazy bitch named Barbara. Somehow, a group of retarded kids were coerced into making this record, and it’s since become the stuff of outsider music legend. From what I gather, these kids weren’t exactly thrilled about being exploited in such a way, but what the Hell could any of them do about it? This record is so tasteless, it’s not even not funny. From the tacky synthwork to the asinine lyrics, it’s really quite amazing that anyone aside from retarded children worked on this album. It’s equally astounding to consider all of the takes that didn’t make the cut. Just what in Christ’s name were these people thinking? Money… that’s what. The Kids of Widney High shouldn’t exist, but fortunately for us they had no other choice. And fortunately for them, they’re probably no worse for the wear. Let’s hope Barbara is dying penniless in some gutter.
What is it about songs in which adults sing in annoying, squeaky voices? And why do the children they’re pretending to be always have to die so wretchedly? This song is one of those that sank their treacherous claws deep into my brain at an early age. Dolly sounds so creepy singing this number, it’s almost as if she wanted to teach us all a valuable lesson about the seriousness of child neglect. Of course, according to the lyrics, Dolly does absolutely nothing to save the frostbitten child. (Not to mention Andy, the kid’s insouciant dog.) Since this song, like so many others, is a shameless work of tug-at-the-heartstrings-style fiction, I like to imagine that there is a lost verse in which it is explained that Dolly’s character was as helpless as anyone, trapped in her lavish home beneath the snowdrift. Then I like to imagine that Dolly must eat the child and wear the dog’s skin to keep from freezing to death. Then, I like to imagine that Dolly perishes anyway, many painless years before starring in 9 to 5. And then Dabney Coleman stumbles in and consumes Dolly. This song would’ve been so much better if the kid had survived, only to sue Parton for not driving her to the fucking hospital.
Connie Franconero, a.k.a. Connie Francis, recorded more songs than any female performer of her day. She informed the world of her struggles with bipolarity in her autobiographical tell-all, Who’s Sorry Now?, but somehow she still manages to pull crowds of 5,000 in Malaysia. This tune is perhaps the earliest sonic exploration of robo-human intimacy, but I’m not sure why that would matter. The last thing anyone should want to see is this woman having a go with a robot. I never much liked the showiness of Connie’s put-on country drawl, either, but this song delights me to no end. Probably the line about the “robot tree,” or whatever the Hell she’s talking about. Being from Texas, I am allowed to criticize fake southern accents, you know. Especially since I sound more like a northern Californian who lived in St. Louis for a summer. Connie’s from Newark, New Jersey, by the way. 
Like Negativland, DEVO borrows its name from The Book of the Subgenius. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Hell, I don’t know. Look it up. Unlike Negativland, they were a #1 pop band. And don’t forget to capitalize all the letters in their name. Just as Esquivel!’s name must always be followed by a huge exclamation point, so must DEVO’s name remain in caps. It wasn’t until their recent greatest hits collections started coming out that the band’s name appeared in title case, and that’s either a major oversight or an indication that they’ve matured as a band. Maybe a touch of both. Anywho, this song needs no intoduction. From Hardcore DEVO, I now introduce DEVO’s excellent “Mechanical Man.” 
Even more robosexual tendencies. Maurizio and Guido De Angelis made quite a splash in the 1970s. They composed and performed on many soundtracks, including some for Ennio Morricone, and arranged for the most popular Italian vocalists of the day. They took their name from a noted British author, whose horror novella The Beckoning Fair One was an obvious inspiration for Stephen King’s The Shining. Funny thing is, to my knowledge King’s never mentioned it in any interviews. I’m sure the original Onions wouldn’t mind, as Beckoning is a billion times the story King’s is. And if George Harrison can steal a riff every now and then (or even a whole song) I suppose King can get a pass. From somebody else, though, ’cause I’m not giving him a Goddamned thing. 
I may be cheating on this one. The title character is really an android; not a robot to whom human characteristics have been attributed. No matter. This song is goofy and fun, and Fabulous Poodles had a pretty good thing going for awhile. Don’t ask me why this song was chosen for so very many ’80s compilations. No material aside from outtakes has been released subsequent to 1979, and their evocative sing-along “Tit Photographer Blues” is far more subtle. They had three records in the ’70s, opened for Tom Petty, and were known for their wild antics onstage. If you count the worthless American repackaging of their first two records, they had a fourth release, but I’m not sure that the States took notice. We were too busy eating scabby TV dinners and watching Gabe Kaplan at the 1978 World Series of Poker.
Elva Miller was a middle-aged grandmother when she recorded her first album, which sold a quarter of a million units in just three weeks. But that’s not the strangest part. Miller was an exceptional vocalist, and she could hit astounding operatic highs. Capitol Records listened to her demo, and thought it would be funny to use bits of her worst takes and early rehearsals, edited together as an “experiment” in novelty. She would later admit that she’d been unaware of Capitol’s sadistic intentions, and politely confessed that she had “resented it.” Of course, the plan worked, and Miller soon gained reputation as “the worst singer in the world,” yet she’s attracted an impressive fan base over the years. She appeared on countless talk shows, as well as a film with Roddy MacDowell. Her cover of Petula Clark’s “Downtown” even graced the Billboard charts for a time, but her success was short-lived. After being dropped by Capitol, she recorded Mrs. Miller Does Her Thing for Amaret, who attempted to transform Elva into a kind of desperate psychedelic in-joke. As with her Capitol stint, Miller was kept in the dark until after the record hit the shelves, but Amaret’s strategy was considerably less effective. She died in 1996, and is fondly remembered by all who knew her as a lover of music and a generous contributor to many charities. 
More than twenty years after its release, Pac-Man Fever remains one of the most ill-conceived records in music history. Jerry Buckner and Gary Garcia were childhood friends growing up in Akron, Ohio. Garcia played with the late ’60s band the Collection and Buckner was a member of the rock band Wild Butter, who were signed to United Artists but never managed to break nationally. The two moved to Atlanta, where they began writing jingles for radio and television, but it wasn’t until 1980 that they scored a minor place in the Billboard charts with their holiday single “Merry Christmas in the NFL.” In December of 1982, CBS expressed interest in one of their songs about a certain video game icon, and they asked the duo to record a full-length. The resulting album carried the same name as the single, Pac-Man Fever, and it was recorded in just two weeks. Thanks to their hit theme from WKRP in Cincinatti, the boys had two singles on the Billboard Top 100 at the same time. Gerald Mann even recorded a German language version of Fever, and the two seemed destined for greatness until CBS pulled the plug on their stirring tribute, “E.T. I Love You,” in favor of Neil Diamond’s own shameless Spielberg suck-up, “Heartlight.” Undeterred, Buckner & Garcia re-recorded Fever in 1992. This song, the second single from the original album, is an awe-inspiring ditty. Arguably in tune, but God knows why. 
The Dead Milkmen are one of the greatest bands of the 1980s. More than a comedic punk band, the Philidelphia group attained pop fame in 1988 with their single “Punk Rock Girl,” but many of their songs are more infectious and mean-spirited, notably “Life is Shit,” “Watching Scotty Die,” “Takin’ Retards to the Zoo,” and “Ringo Buys a Rifle.” Like Culturcide, the Milkmen had some timely responses to the decade of utter horseshit, and this song is one of the finest examples of how diverse and whimsical they were, musically speaking. While most of their songs were elaborately conceived and executed, this became a DIY anthem for every kid who hated Bronski Beat. With its use of a simple drum pattern and disaffected backup singers, it is painfully appropriate. Not necessarily one of the better songs of their career, but indisputably one of the more direct.
Like Mrs. Miller, the Shaggs have an unfair reputation for being one of the worst musical acts in history. Still, that didn’t stop Frank Zappa from saying that they were “better than the Beatles.” Or did it? Either way, I strongly disagree, but they certainly aren’t as bad as most people think. Not even close. For starters, their songs are indefatigably unique, which is and has always been an uncommon attribute, and the unmistakable purity of their lyrics and music is a strangely compelling force. The story goes that Austin Wiggin, Jr., got the bright idea to force three of his daughters to quit school and become rock legends. The girls took music lessons and began performing live, and they recorded only one album, Philosophy of the World. 
Paul Anka may be able to sing in key, but he definitely shouldn’t be allowed to do ironic big band covers of contemporary pop songs. There should be a law against this sort of thing, just as pep rally punk bands should be prevented from doing covers of TV themes and breakfast cereal jingles. It’s not as if Anka needs any more recognition. He wrote the English lyrics to “My Way,” had several hit records such as “Puppy Love” and “Diana,” and is quite possibly the only famous Lebanese-Canadian entertainer in history. Anyway, this song is taken from his ghastly collection of (you guessed it) ironic pop-rock covers, Rock Swings, which reached the #9 spot in Great Britain. I swear, this Britain place is seeming less and less great every motherfucking day. For this album, Anka chose songs by Soundgarden, Billy Idol, Michael Jackson, Van Halen, Lionel Richie, Spandau Ballet, Bon Jovi, and the Cure. He even covered “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor. I mean: did Pat Boone tell him to make this? If this song doesn’t do your head in, nothing else can. And believe me, I don’t recommend playing this for anyone, including yourself.
Y’see, out here in the real world, guys, there’s this strange, little-known thing called “harmony.” And every once in awhile, somebody borrows (or steals) a melodic notion, incorporating it harmonically into a new piece; a tradition that’s been going on for centuries in classical music. Skip ahead a bit, and in the age of sampling it’s become easier than ever to express new ideas, even dissonant ones. But here is a fun, innocuous number from a time not so long ago. Indeed, well before we had such things as mash-ups, this was one kind of evocative interplay between distinct melodies, serving much the same purpose by delighting the listener with overlapping auditory phrases. Round singing, they called it. Remarkable. This gem is from The Five Pennies, which, in spite of its sappiness and embellishment, is a tremendous musical film. It tells the story of jazz cornetist Red Nichols, played by Danny Kaye. With brilliant performances throughout, it comes as highly recommended as any jazz biopic. This song features a young Susan Gordon, Kaye, and, of course, the great Satchmo, doing what they do best—exactly what they were told to do. It’s a pretty good bedtime song, too.
In 1956, Dickie Goodman and Bill Buchanan pioneered a new kind of record called the “break-in” with their massive hit single “The Flying Saucer.” It utilized snippets of other performers’ work, including Chuck Berry, Don Cherry, Etta James, Smiley Lewis, Nappy Brown, Little Richard, and Fats Domino, and resultantly Goodman was taken to court on multiple counts of copyright infringement. In the end, Goodman’s song was declared a work of parody, and the matter was settled out of court. Although many people consider Goodman the father of sampling, musique concrete composers were the first to employ the idea. However, it is doubtful that the technique would’ve gained such widespread popularity, especially its use in radio bumpers, without Dickie Goodman’s contribution. Over the years, Dickie managed to record quite a few break-in records. One such record, a Jaws send-up entitled “Mr. Jaws,” would even grace the pop charts in 1975. Goodman took his own life in 1989, but his son Jon has continued to promote his father’s work, even releasing a break-in record of his own, “Return of the Flying Saucer.”
Every so often, a composer decides to borrow an idea from another composer. It’s really not that uncommon. To wit: Herbie Hancock said, “I could not play what I play had it not been for Ornette Coleman.” Coleman, a native of Forth Worth, Texas, has drawn from many influences throughout his career. His improvisational style has been compared to many jazz greats, but his philosophy can best be described by a word he coined, “harmolodics.” Ornette revitalized bebop with new ideas relating to spatial relationships, melody, harmony, and timbre, but harmolodics is a largely misunderstood theory, perhaps because Ornette himself has done little to disambiguate. 
Culturcide are my kind of band. For starters, they’re not really a band—they just scream highly questionable lyrics over other people’s records. But more than that, they’re from Texas. You know, between Ornette Coleman and the Butthole Surfers, Texas has a ridiculous concentration of musical weirdos. But Culturcide are a couple of freaks who really made a difference. Or at least got a little college radio play back in the ’90s. Anyway, they’re amazing and I love them. They sang about venereal disease over the Beatles’ “Yesterday,” and I really can’t think of anything funnier than that. Co-founders Perry Webb and Dan Workman carved out a phenomenal little niche back in the day, and apparently they’re still releasing material sporadically. I had the good fortune of meeting Webb years ago in Houston, but forgot to ask him if he was related to Jack Webb. Not that it matters—he’s a strange enough character on his own. But this song is the best response to the unabashed do-gooder hokum of the coke-addled 1980s that a deviant like me could hope for. Favorite lyric: “As Michael and Lionel have shown us, the World’s just TV. If children are starvin’, let ‘em drink Pepsi.” 
Negativland, like Culturcide, like to sing and scream and say things over other peoples’ music, but I like to think that they’ve done so a bit more tastefully. Also, just like Culturcide, they neglected to include the letter ‘e’ in the middle of their band’s name. Must be some connection there. This little stunt practically bankrupted Negativland, but the Universe is so much better for it. I’m sure that a few of you’ve heard this by now, and it is here merely as a further reminder that the satirical use of sampling has been around for a bit. But for those of you who haven’t heard it, you’ll never see Casey Kasem the same way again, unless you’re just staring at those ridiculous ears of his. And no, John Oswald didn’t invent mash-ups. If anyone, Robert Burns invented them when he mashed up one of his poems with a traditional song called “Auld Lang Syne.” Of course, we all know that Burns’ version isn’t the same melody heard at New Year’s celebrations the World over. That’s just the way it goes, kids. Out with the break-ins and in with the mash-ups. But mash-ups weren’t ever “in,” really. People listen to them a couple of times and forget about them forever. Just like DJs.
As some of you know, users of lame-ass Internet forums often subscribe to a uniquely repellent form of idiocy similar to that of nationalism. You know—that belief that makes the most hideous of your own government’s atrocities seem inexplicably superior to even the greatest deeds of all other nations put together? That is to say, the opposite of “rationalism.” Anyway, a few weeks back I decided to have some fun with mash-up forum 
I’m not sure if Judy Collins ever heard this version of the Joni Mitchell song that made her famous, but if she did I’m sure it was no worse than hearing her own version. I hate songs that are like, “I’m so depressed, but I’m learning to live with it.” Give me a fucking break and kill yourself. This tragic rendition by the apparently homicidal Mr. Spock is dedicated to the ubiquitarily AWOL and preoccupied Mayor Grant McSleazy. You know—GYBO’s reluctant Grand Poobah? Like Grant, our dear Leonard has a tendency, musically speaking and elseways, to bite off more than he can chew. Grant listed as a reason for banning me that I hadn’t held up to my promise of leaving on my own. Someone really needs to carefully explain to him the inanity of such reasoning. And what is it about DJs and their seemingly endless obsession with giving themselves stupid nicknames, anyway? Unless you’re Jazzy Jeff, Q-Bert, Count Bass D, MF Doom, or one of any number of talented craftsmen, producers, and turntablists, nothing could make any less sense than drawing attention to your unmistakably clueless unoriginality. I mean: I don’t expect that many of them would know anything about the pertinence of the Olduvai gorge, but c’mon. 
There’s really no good explanation for it, but David Hasselhoff is still quite famous in many parts of Europe, especially Germany. His debut album Night Rocker should’ve effectively laid to rest his career as a “singer,” but, in spite of widespread misconception, when it comes to picking great pop songs, many Europeans are frequently even less discriminating than their stupidest American counterparts. If you haven’t yet seen the wonderful claymation series that inspired this song, you really don’t know what you’re missing. Penguins and seals communicating in some kind of alien glossolalia, often with dark themes and equally uncomfortable and perilous scenarios. Click 
Since we’re on the subject of intolerance, let’s pay tribute to a song that even Pat Boone doesn’t want anyone to pay tribute to. I don’t suspect that Speedy Gonzales is a racist cartoon character. He seems to be rather friendly with a good number of Mexican rodents, you know. But good ol’ Pat Boone, like so many do-gooder Christians, is an unashamed bigot and self-serving hypocrite. He penned self-help books for teens such as Twixt Twelve and Twenty, which promises to transform you, the male reader, into an uncompromising patriarch and altogether insufferable sonofabitch. Still, it takes a good amount of faith in God… and not just any god, but the one and only Lard and Savior of the uber-conservative Church of Christ. Pat has since converted to Pentecostal, I guess. He has publicly lamented that his equally idiotic daughter Debby once “experimented with vegetarianism” and that her room looked like a “head-shop,” yet he decided in 1997 to release a wretched collection of heavy metal covers entitled In a Metal Mood: No More Mr. Nice Guy. That’s a full six years after Kurt Cobain singlehandedly murdered heavy metal, for those keeping score at home. I’d say Pat’s the one taking too many drugs. This one’s dedicated to the GYBO urchin calling herself Keeno, who is as ineffective and undistinguished as Speedy Gonzales is lightning-fast and keen on cheese. 
Many of you will recognize this as the theme song from The Tonight Show. It was written by Paul Anka, and, like “Suicide is Painless,” it is better known in its instrumental form thanks to the often unendurable horrors of syndication and network television. And at least in this case, that seems not to have been such a terrible idea. I present this gift in honor of Kitty Glitter. You know—resident GYBO urchin cheerleader and m3g4 u1+r4 5up3r14m3r 3x+r40rd1n41r3. Funicello wasn’t the only Mousketeer who American boys dreamed of playing hide-the-hamster with in the 1950s, but she was one of ‘em. But then the decade of perpetual abstinence ended, she grew up, and unfortunately for all of civilized society she refused to stop making unwanted appearances everywhere. I won’t bother to write a proper biography, as I would be compelled to mention Frankie Avalon, but I will say that every time I hear this song I think of Linda Lavin at her ultra-hammiest. I swear to God, Annette Funicello is the female Wayne Newton. And I’m the male John Wayne. And Kitty Glitter is a more troubled sort of Mousketeer. Look out, World. 
All right. Who in the fuck told Ted Knight to make a record? From his LP by the same name, this priceless gem is my olive branch to Linus, GYBO’s newly instated Cocksucker Emeritus. First, Linus became enraged that I would compare him to Shirley MacLaine or Agnes Moorehead. “They were both quite beautiful in their youth!” shrieked he, huffily. Yes, I know how ambrosial Shirley MacLaine was (the jury’s out on Endora), but there is little doubt that neither one aged well. Still, I expected such deliberate dissembling to be lost on Linus. He’s just about the finger-snappingest, most vainly inattentive homo I know. You know—Homo erecti. He also called me “homophobic” just because I asked if he was gay, but then spent the better part of the same reply letting everyone know how absolutely heterosexual he is. Oddly enough, I was the only one to notice. The crybaby n00b even had the nerve to complain that I poke fun at David Mamet. Listen up, jackass… if an award-winning dramatist can’t spell, I’ma make some Goddamned fun of him. One of us is a homophobe, Linus, but I’m sure as Hell not afraid of you, even if you do “work in the film industry.” Fucking Olivia de Havilland wannabe. Judy Garland vomit fetishist. Happy slurping, Monroe, and best of luck on the casting couch.
Okay, so everybody’s remixing this one and I thought I’d jump on in. Click 
Joe and John DeMasi have recorded a few albums with Chris Burke, better known as Corky from Life Goes On. I haven’t figured out whether the maniacs to either side of Corky are identical twin brothers, pedophilic homosexual parasites, or both. Not that I care, really. Corky’s innocence vanished along with any hope for work after Touched by an Angel. And besides, anyone who would let these creeps produce their record deserves whatever they get, handicaps notwithstanding. This song is pretty damned amazing, though. Unless you actually listen to it, in which case it always turns out to be pretty Goddamned horrific. 
Forget for a moment that you know who Jennifer Love Hewitt is. Now, listen to this song and ask yourself: “is this song really so bad?” Now, slap yourself around a little bit and answer the question. You’re right… it’s a terrible song. Her version of “Me and Bobby McGee” is arguably much worse, but I can’t imagine the sheer wretchedness of the parts of this song that were edited out. My girlfriend wanted me to post this, and I’m afraid that I have no choice. Not because she asked me to; in spite of my better judgment, I am forcing myself. This is simply one of the worst songs I have ever heard, and posting it here may hasten the end of time significantly. From her acclaimed release Barenaked, which, much to my surprise, isn’t her first and final God-awful record, Hewitt’s ditty includes perhaps the all-time worst tacked-on rap lyric in the history of music. Behold, one of many recent experiments in terror. 
Even hapless dimwit Hulk Hogan must’ve known that this song was in poor taste. It’s a tearjerker about a terminal kid who has passed on into the next life. Curiously, the liner notes refer to this song as a “poignant ballad.” Nothing could be further from the truth. Best known as the Village People stand-in who gets his ass kicked by Mr. T in Rocky III, the Hulkster has recently become the star of his very own reality show. He apparently enjoys whining nonstop about his son’s utter lack of interest in Hulkamania. Maybe his family would give a shit about him if he wasn’t the fucking Hulkster all the time. He’s basically the same person he was fifteen years ago, but infinitely more desperate. The terrible synthesized saxophone doesn’t even hold a candle to the line: “I used to tear my shirt, but now you tore my heart.” When did he ever stop tearing his shirt? And how many times can a person remind the world that there’s one less “Hulkamaniac” scampering about? One can only hope that he will be reunited with this kid very soon. 
Randy Savage has the right idea. Fuck trying to be poignant; just write songs about how much of an effeminate weakling Hulk Hogan is. I must admit, the Macho Man is and has always been excruciatingly cool. Whatever you think of his Slim Jim endorsements, there is very little doubt that he would make an outstanding presidential candidate. Just listen to how effortlessly he tears Hogan a new one, and tell me you wouldn’t like to hear him do the same to any of Bush’s entourage, the sniveling featherweights. Compared to “Hulkster in Heaven,” this song is “A Day in the Life.” Compared to “A Day in the Life,” however, it barely approaches Richard Harris’ version of “MacArthur Park.” I’d put a thousand bucks on Savage in a no-holds-barred match with that pussy Hogan. But of course the Hulkster would never agree to that. He’s far too busy paying tribute to some fictitious dead kid. Can’t wait for Savage’s first State of the Union Address, though. Oh yeah!
Aw, sheesh. This cover of “Sunny” is truly unforgivable. Appearing right alongside an equally appalling “
Here we have the next and greatest governor of Texas. As many of you know, I’m a proud native of the Lone Star State, and I can eat a giant steak in under twenty seven minutes to prove it. But Kinky Friedman is a special kind of Texan. One born in Chicago. Also, one who likes to piss people off, but who is a seemingly good-natured weirdo. Yes, the Kinkster is running for governor, and I can’t think of another person I’d rather see talking to congressmen about education reform. As the leader of the Texas Jewboys, Kinky found an audience who could appreciate his sarcasm. He then exploited that audience with a string of detective novels. Kinky is committed to ending what he refers to as the “dewussification” of Texas, and I’ll re-assassinate Treaty Oak if he succeeds. Anyway, I know this song has something to do with Jesus, but Jesus has nothing to do with the holidays.
Ah, Esrevnoc. Only the greatest pop group in history. Yes, of course I’m being serious. I’m the only person I know with an Esrevnoc shirt, and I even donated a framed picture of the band to my neighborhood coffeeshop. Somewhere between the Jackson 5 and the Japanese Chipmunks, Esrevnoc combined silliness with sadness, happiness and sappiness, corniness and horniness. These girls knocked me out with their first full-length, Better, although their followup was dreadful. But with this first record and a string of great singles, their hit-to-miss is just over 50%. Lead singer and guitarist Mittco Sky is divine, and I will most likely marry her one day. To a polyamorous sandwich with dayglo unicorns shooting out of its face. She’s charmed the pants off of some bees, and was alarmed to find that she’s the bee’s knees. Incidentally, their name is the word “converse” spelled conversely. How very Japanese. I need a better rhyming dictionary.
This is the greatest man who ever lived, and yes, I mean that. Aside from appearing in The Shining and countless other films (including one of the Tarzan franchise), Benjamin Sherman “Scatman” Crothers is the one guy who kids of the 1980s would’ve most loved to have as a grandfather. This song, performed by Crothers at the beginning of Ralph Bakshi’s unbeatable animated blaxploitation feature Street Fight, is a tune you’re not likely to hear on the radio nowadays. Its gratuitous use of the N-Bomb is, well… most gratuitous—some might even say unrelenting—and none of the kids of today deserve to be spoken to in the stark language of awareness that so permeates the hyperactive minds of the kids of today. But here it is, kids. Come and get your supper. It’s warm and delicious, but also incredibly nutritive. Whitey’s never written a number this amazing, and he never effing will. Even if you freedom-hating leftists somehow manage to ruin Christmas, you’ll have a hard time denying that this is one song that, if employed propitiously, could secure a victory for Obama in the coming presidential race war. 
Oh, how I cherish Walter Brennan. This guy was in more than 220 films, was painted by Rockwell, and once had damned near every tooth in his head kicked out by a horse. He sounded like a redneck, and for that I adore him. Best known as Grandpa Amos McCoy from The Real McCoys, Brennan had some of the most hilarious character names ever. Lanky Smith, Cappy Ricks, Pa Danby, Old Atrocity, Cornelius Burden, Jeff Slocum, Cap MacKellar, Old Man Clanton, Blackie Fletcher, Tammy’s Grandpa, Swan Bostrom, D.J. Mulrooney, Knobby, Rimrock, Stumpy, Uncle Jesse Jackson, J. F. “Thunder” Bolt, Brimstone “Pop” Courteen, Sam “Gus” Barton, “Legs” Garnett, Prof. Stephen Novotny, Hector Titus, Muff Potter, Chief Yeoman Henry Johnson, and Secretary to Sylvester J. Sutton Sr. There’s more. Pop Gruber, Col. Jeb Hawkins, “Doc” Butcher, Featherhead, Gramp Flynn, and Karp. And there’re still some other funny ones, too, but that’s what the Internet is good for. I think so, at least. Oh, and this song’s about a dead animal of some kind; a horse, perhaps. Maybe a dog. Or else a farmer.
This song could make anyone relax. I don’t care what your problems are… this is some golden shit. The lovely Bjork singing her ass off to the smashing guitar noise of the Jesus and Mary Chain. Personally, I think the Reids should’ve mixed the entire Sugarcubes catalog, but who am I to complain? (They should’ve produced the KUKL records, as well.) Hey, I know I said that none of these songs have anything to do with Christmas, and this one only relates in name alone, though the original title of the song is a bittersweet reminder of the birth of our Lord and Savior, old St. Nick, who was mercilessly slaughtered by wild-eyed Islamofascists. Peace on Earth and enjoy, strangers. I may still have a few holiday surprises for you yet. They’re not over until St. Patrick’s Day, anyway.
Ed Sanders is a noted poet, author, songwriter, and humorist. He started a periodical called Fuck You: A Magazine of the Arts, which tells us a little about how he thinks. His 1969 debut record, Sanders’ Truckstop, was a nice departure from all the pseudopsychedelia and hirsute hijinks the decade had to offer. Come to think of it, I’d rather listen to this record than almost any other. With song titles like “Pindar’s Revenge” and “Jimmy Joe, the Hippybilly Boy,” it’s hard to understand why Sanders isn’t well-known by the countless blunderbusses passing themselves off as wannabe hipsters nowadays. Brazen, unflinching, powerful, literate, wordy, and honest-to-God funny… that’s what this guy is, and this is one song that every smalltown psychopath should enjoy, for one reason or another. 
Hey, murderous assholes: if you’re not going to listen to your conscience, at least take some advice from Mr. Fucking T. No… I’m not talking about fashion advice, though sporting a mohawk and pulling your tube socks over your genie pants might not be such a bad idea. A lot of people might prefer to hear T’s stirring tribute “Treat Your Mother Right” for the zillionth time, but this song is so much cooler. It might be that tacky synthpop vibe, or else that T is at the top of his game with some solid rhymes. Um, sure. But make no mistake: this guy can pity some fools, and that apparently includes anyone who doesn’t heed his “commandment,” which I guess is to just be cool to your parents. Here we have a priceless example of how one man can utterly humiliate the rest of the world just by doing his job. I guess there’s really not much of a lesson to be learned here, after all.
Pimp Daddy Welfare makes “poor core,” whatever that is. Not that anyone cares. This nancyboy is really fucked up if he thinks he can take Mr. T, though. I mean: take a look at this idiot, for God’s sake. What in the Hell is he thinking? I’ve seen Mr. T knock out innumerable bad guys as they pointed guns at him, not to mention what he did to Rocky Goddamned Balboa. Mr. T has busted heads over much less, and I have every reason to believe that he will one day whip the living shit out of this little whiteboy hype. Not only that, but this guy is a worse rapper than Mr. T. I never thought I’d be saying that about anyone, but there you have it. Still, I imagine this song would be pretty funny to listen to if I was a simian jerkoff with a machine gun. 
Fans of Rolling Stone’s Matt Taibbi will already know of his exploits with this countercultural institution. Founded by American journalist Mark Ames, 
Enrico Nicola Mancini, better known as Henry, is one of the most beloved American composers of the 20th century. He scored hits for TV and film, including “Moon River,” “Baby Elephant Walk,” and the music from the Pink Panther movies. He won many Grammy awards, including two for his Peter Gunn theme, which went to #1 in the U.S. and much later had a resurgence in popularity as the adopted theme of the classic video game Spy Hunter. Like “Caravan,” this is one of those songs that most people only know as an instrumental, but Ray Evans and Jay Livingston wrote the lyrics for Mancini’s soundtrack to the 1967 film version of Gunn. Here is Sarah Vaughn’s excellent rendition, which many slobbering infidels should find exciting, if for nothing more than the fleeting sensation that their unarmored vehicles are fitted with cool spy gadgets. And one last word of advice to those overpaid yokels: next time you want to kill something, do us all a favor and shoot the guy next to you, then yourself. And then go to Hell.
In May of 1981, Sweden’s consummate spy-model Virna Lindt released “
Herve Villechaize is without question my favorite midget of all time. Once a highly skilled painter trained at Paris’ renowned Beaux-Arts museum, Villechaize was the youngest artist of his time to be featured in the Museum of Paris. Herve is better known for his acting, though, having starred in several films, including The Man with the Golden Gun, Oliver Stone’s directorial debut Seizure, and most notably Oingo Boingo’s indescribably outlandish and endearing low-budget musical Forbidden Zone. Of course, practically everyone remembers him as Tattoo, Mr. Roarke’s airplane-loving, tuxedoed sidekick on Fantasy Island, but the little guy made guest appearances on Taxi, Diff’rent Strokes, The Fall Guy, and The Ben Stiller Show, just to name a few. He also turned up in Burl Ives’ final picture, the worthless softcore skin-flick Two Moon Junction. In his prime, Villechaize was commanding an impressive $25,000 per episode for Fantasy Island, but he sometimes drank heavily and was prone to violent outbursts. Sadly, with his millions gone and in worsening health, Herve killed himself at the age of fifty. What percentage of his career was inspiration, and how much was desperation the world may never know. But we’ll always have this undying plea for universal peace, and for that I raise my pint glass to this rare individual whose tiny frame and humorous accent gave hope to the hearts of so many. One thing we can be sure of is: for such a small talent, he left us some mighty big shoes to fill. 
Good Christ—this is possibly the most debilitating song ever recorded. Father Abraham (or Vader Abraham, if you’re Dutch) made several records with the Smurfs, and much to my surprise one of them was massively successful, reaching England’s #2 spot in 1978. Abraham’s real name is Pierre Kartner, who has in fact sold millions of records. And as any hipster ought to be able to tell you, Kartner’s partnership with the little blue devils is no laughing matter. Take this record, for instance, which I first discovered on a road trip with an ex-bandmate. The little red cassette peered out at us from a rotating spindle at a Mississippi truckstop which doubled as a makeshift Civil War museum. And just as inexplicably, this song made us laugh hysterically for most of the long trip home. I dunno what it is about this one; the thought of Smurfs drinking beer, even the kind that doesn’t get you drunk. Or the image of Smurf Village being invaded by the disembodied head of a creepy Hasidic Jew who converted to Catholicism might also be a factor. Whatever the case, this song makes me want to torture people indiscriminately. I know that torture is illegal in much of the world, but if it’s good enough for Dick Cheney it’ll do in a pinch. If after listening to this you’re still not in the mood to kill anyone, listen to it for seven hours uninterrupted. Get ‘er done.
This is one of those songs that cracks me up whilst inspiring gleeful bloodlust. Wally Cox was never as famous as his longtime friend and onetime roommate Marlon Brando, but his crazy voice is instantly recognizable to any fan of Underdog. As the incessantly rhyming title character, Cox’s talents were appreciated by repressed American children the world over. He also had parts in films like The Bedford Incident and MST3K-favorite The Boatniks, as well as having appeared on The Twilight Zone and (probably a bit more often than he would’ve liked) Hollywood Squares. To say that this song hits new levels of absurdity is putting it mildly. Wally apparently was some kind of maniacal human synthesizer; part man, part yodeling machine. Brando, for the record, was in possession of Cox’s ashes for many years, in spite of reports that they had been scattered at sea. It has been suggested that Brando kept Wally’s urn on his mantle, and according to some he even enjoyed having lengthy conversations with the remains. When Brando died their ashes were scattered together in California’s Death Valley. The story goes that Cox stopped living with Brando because he despised his pet raccoon. I don’t know why that seems important to me, but it sure as Hell does. 
William H. “Shooby” Taylor needs no introduction. But if ever I were to introduce him, my announcement would very likely include the description “human horn.” Taylor has become something of a cult icon, thanks in no small part to Irwin Chusid and Andy Mardesich. Chusid’s excellent Songs in the Key of Z is essential reading and listening for any serious fan of outsider music. The book featured a chapter on Taylor, but at the time of publication he was nowhere to be found. Mardesich started a website to find Shooby, and soon thenafter Rick Goetz, Elektra Records’ senior director for A&R, took it upon himself to locate the legendary tenor. And like Shooby’s rise to semi-eminence, it turned out to be more than an overnight thing. Eventually Goetz did find Shooby Taylor, and their meeting would result in the timely unearthing of several previously unheard masterpieces. Shooby guest DJed on WFMU, was featured in The New York Times, and even turned down an invitation from David Letterman. This song is pure Shooby: take an existing track (in this case, one by hillbilly gospel singer Christy Lane) and scat your heart out over it. The result? Some really serious magic. Taylor’s music—an obvious inspiration to Texas weirdos Culturcide and the original, imitable Mic-in-Track compilation—is perhaps the most unsettling thing to play for someone while you’re torturing them. For this reason, I am renaming this list: Top 5 Songs to Play While Torturing Someone to Death. 
This guy creeps me out. James Travis Reeves was wildly popular in South Africa; outselling Elvis and the Beatles, starring in Kimberly Jim, the most expensive South African film of its time, and even recording a few albums in Afrikaans. For years, I couldn’t remember who sang this song, or even what it was called. All I could remember was that it was about a little boy with an unusual name and a hole in his pants. Needless to say, the Internet wasn’t much help. I heard this song regularly as a child, but by the time I hit my twenties I had completely forgotten it. At the time, there was no way I could’ve known that I would one day become obsessed with finding it. But that day came, and for years I asked people about it, giving the only details I could to help with its identification. It wasn’t until I walked my friend Helen home after a long night of drinking that I came to realize that I wasn’t crazy. She mentioned the song to me offhandedly, and—although I barely recalled Jim Reeves—the name “Bimbo” stuck out like a sore thumb. And when she began singing the song, I suddenly remembered every word and sang along. Victory at last. Unfortunately, Helen’s ever-so-slightly slurred rendition of the song was infinitely better than this steaming pile of redneck puke. Behold: one of the biggest letdowns of my adult life.
As lovable Sgt. Joe Friday, Jack Webb warmed the hearts of countless Americans with his puritanical banter and snappy anti-hippie comebacks. I like to imagine that he spent much of his alone-time eating children. This weepy attempt at high-brow camp (or is it?) can attest that all was not peachy in Webb’s personal life. Drink and women and some general despair, I would imagine, were what ultimately drove the Dragnet star to record this God-awful rendition of one of the best numbers of Otis Redding’s career; not to mention Sam Cooke, Flip Phillips with Dick Hyman, or Bing Effing Crosby. I wonder if when Woods, Campbell, and Connelly wrote this, they could see ahead to a near-future marred by the hideous beast that was producer, actor, and heap of rigid talentlessness Webb. Too bad Harry Morgan never had a record this bad. Or maybe he did. Apparently there were some LPs of rugby songs released by Sportsdisc Records in the 1960s featuring Harry Morgan and something calling itself “The Jock Strapp Ensemble.” I’m getting sick just thinking about it. 
It doesn’t get much worse than this. Legend has it that when Frankie strolled into the studio to record the Simon & Garfunkel classic, he refused to take a look at the lyrics. “I saw the Goddamned movie,” bellowed he. Or else I might’ve just made that up. Research it and get back to me. With such punchy ad-libbing as “so, how’s your bird, Mrs. Robinson?” it’s hard not to give Ol’ Blue Eyes some credit for being able to think on his feet. Unfortunately, he’d acquired those feet from a poor, crippled boy in India. “You’ll get yours,” Frank taunts the dissatisfied housewife, “fooling with that young stuff like you do.” Not that he would know anything about that. Whadda maroon! And by “maroon,” I mean: “irredeemable bastard.” Still, he’s so tight with Jesus that he calls him “Jilly.” That’s amazing.
Years before he worked with the Beatles, George Martin produced the early records of Peter Sellers. It has been said that the Fab Four were so taken with Sellers’ Goon Show that they jumped at the chance to work with Sir George because of his estimable history with the celebrated funnyman. But even Sellers, undisputed comic genius that he was, hit some frightfully low points. Take this recording, for instance, produced by Martin at the height of Beatlemania; an obviously tongue-in-cheek, albeit clearly misguided reworking of one of the Beatles’ best-known songs. It should be noted that this track landed a spot on the UK Top 20, which only goes to show how shortsighted the English can be when it comes to comedy. I mean: Mind Your Language, anyone? Fortunately, this blunder didn’t stop Ringo Starr from appearing with Sellers in The Magic Christian. Thank heavens. 
Ah, Ed McMahon. Fans of The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson will tell you that Ed is a shameless dipsomaniac, but in truth he is so much more. Boisterous oaf, loyal sidekick, and royal pain in the ass, just to get the ball rolling. What we never suspected of Ed was that he once had a Christian Doppelganger by the very same name. Yes, the same Ed McMahon who starred as a hairy-chested mobster in Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off. The same Ed McMahon who succeeded Telly Savalas as official Players Club spokesman. And yes, the same Ed McMahon whose name became synonymous with “gargantuan novelty check bearer” in the 1980s. This none-too-subtle advertisement for Jesus is just what the doctor ordered: a gazillion heart-stopping milligrams of hurt. Let’s be honest… who better to shill for our Lord and Savior than a maniacally cackling, obstreperous drunk who offers overpriced insurance to the elderly and shitty travel discounts to wannabe high-rollers? Sheesh. 
Aristotle “Telly” Savalas was never cool. Let’s stop kidding ourselves. It stands to reason that his first record—1974’s Telly—was the closest he would ever get. This song is best described in three words: a Kojak moment. Sorry. I just couldn’t help myself. Seriously, though, we’ve gotta go easy on Telly. He’s like the creepy uncle you don’t want to be alone with, but the poor bastard died of bladder cancer on his birthday. And besides, this ditty may be one of the most quotable songs in history: “Pickle bottles filled with plants / the cuckoo clock we bought in France.” Just what in the Hell was going through Savalas’ mind? Well, for starters, I’m sure he knew how ridiculous a venture this was. In the liner notes, he states plainly, “I was asked to make a record.” Even with classics such as Jobim’s “How Insensitive,” Savalas couldn’t have sucked any harder with all the lollipops in the world. To be fair, this is probably the best song on the LP, although his remake of Bread’s “If” actually flew to #1 in the UK in 1975. Amazingly, it graced the top for two weeks, knocked out by the Bay City Rollers. “People know that singing is not my bag,” Savalas riffed, “I can only make mistakes by pretending to be a great singer.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
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