You know, I’ve gotten a few death threats because of the Beachles, but no one took Clayton-hatred further than one sad little guy, a dreary twist of a man by the hideous name of Kirk Benbenet. Or something like that. He’s written me in excess of three hundred letters in the past month, but that’s not even the beginning. Kirk had the nerve to sarcastically call my Mrs. Miller post “cutting edge.” Well, yes, Kirk, it is  significantly more cutting edge than your website, truth be told, and unlike you, I’m not going to spend the rest of my days impotently endeavoring to dissect this record. It’s been made, downloaded millions of times, played on the radio, listened to, and enjoyed by people vastly more intelligent than you. And the world can never have too much Mrs. Miller, jackwipe. Kirk’s also tried to slip in thousands of links in my posts’ comments. He has so much free time, it’s a wonder that his tragic “visual art” site has received even a single hit. Probably mine. It looks like a preschooler’s homepage, so I won’t bother fulfilling his dream by linking. And people wonder why I moderate my comments. I only censor for style, guys. One need merely be articulate, friendly, or insane to make the grade around here. I’m not going to be a Great Big Referrer to your wee widow website, Kirky. Have a gweat wife. You know what to do. I’m not going to spell it out for you, but it starts with “suck,” and it ends with a very important part of my masculinity. Now, it really does seem to me that far too many people spent far too long explaining why my record made them impossibly stupider, but aren’t there better things to worry ourselves over? War, famine, disease, lycanthropy, Republican pedophiles, gay marriage, whatever turns you on. Didn’t you guys have better things to cry about for the past month? Like your lives—you know, shit like that? It’s the Internet, so get with it. Embrace it like the good little robots we are. Here’s a gift to get us started: Top 5 Aural Substantiations of the Anthropomorphization of Robots, Part 1.

1. Connie Francis - “Robot Man”

  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.

2. Rufus Thomas - “Funky Robot”

  Be sure to click on this picture to enlarge it, and then look closely at the guy to Rufus’ left. I want that damned outfit. I swear to God, I’d wear that shit to the grocery store. Okay, this is more a song about the robotization of anthropoidal varmints, but who’s counting? Rufus Thomas had some of the greatest dance numbers in history, and this is one of them. So many classics, in fact, with so many amazing titles, that I may have to write a short history and include some more songs in a later post. He even has a street named after him in Memphis. He’s just that  right-on. This song is most likely the first to refer to any kind of “robot” as a dance move. The fact that it’s a funky one makes it that much more appealing. And believe me, Rufus meant it. If you failed to do any number of funky items or barnyard animals, you were just a huge disappointment to him.

3. DEVO - “Mechanical Man”

  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.”

4. Oliver Onions - “Miss Robot”

  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.

5. Fabulous Poodles - “Bionic Man”

  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.