Banditos! Banditos! Banditos!

Magic Cucumber

Oh it's summer in the bayou and we're jamming on guitars
On my rocket ship I'll fly you to the grooviest of stars
Gonna meet them Martian peoples with their crazy buggy eyes
They have dandelions for nipples and they bake marshmallow pies

Hoo!  Hoo!  Coming through!  Magic cucumber!
Hoo!  Hoo!  What'll you do?  Magic cucumber!
Come inside, take a ride with the magic cucumber!
Come along, sing a song to the magic cucumber!

Now everyone, let's build a fire we can dance around and laugh
Cause tonight we'll all get higher than an extra tall giraffe
Here among the trees and marshes we don't need to make excuses
Here where no one ever washes and we're all licensed masseuses

Hoo!  Hoo!  Coming through!  Magic cucumber!
Hoo!  Hoo!  What'll you do?  Magic cucumber!
Get down - no, further down - with the magic cucumber!
It's all right, take a bite of the magic cucumber!

It's just a cuke
Oh!  It's just a cuke
And we're just singing a sooong
It's just a cuke
Oh!  It's just a cuke
Ain't doing nothing wrooong
It's just a cuke
Oh!  It's just a cuke
How did it get so looong
It's just a cuke
Oh!  It's just a cuke
Get out your salad tooongs

Hoo!  Hoo!  Coming through!  Magic cucumber!
Hoo!  Hoo!  What'll you do?  Magic cucumber!
You're so fine, I'll give you mine if you give me your number
Eating daisies, getting lazy, slip into slumber
Hoo!  Hoo!  Coming through!  Magic cucumber!, etc.

[Copyright 1968, Stickley Funkhempler and the Love Project Experience Group]

MC Stick Sells Out

Honey up!  Honey Honey Bunches of Twigs!

The splinters are small but the taste is big!

All the grownups yell and flip their lids

Cause the honey honey taste is just for kids!

 

Yo, it's just for kids -- No, you can't have this

Though you might get pissed, oh we must insist

Roll away from the bowl if you want to live

Cause every other twig is a makeshift shiv

 

Step back, or a stick's going twixt your ribs

We're the Honey Honey Kids -- And the kids got dibs!

 

[Several boring screens filled with nutritional info]

 

All right parents, are the kids all gone?

MC Stick wants to thank you for playing along

You know my Honey Honey Twigs wouldn't hurt a fly

And your kids won't gank you and you won't die

 

I'm speaking slow cause I know that you care a lot

My twigs are nutritious and your precious tot

Just needs a li'l bit of silliness to take a bite

But act frightened, aiight?  You gotta play this right

 

Are they back?  Look, grownups, read my lips!

We're the Honey Honey Kids -- and the kids got dibs!

  

[Several minutes of cartoon bees dancing causes parents to leave]

 

OK kids, no kidding, I ain't playing around

Next morning, no warning, shit is gonna go down

Once the wallet's in your pocket they will call the cops

Grab the money, buy the honey, keep runnin', don't stop

 

Honey up!  Stay tuned for some honey sweet tips

We're the Honey Honey Kids -- and the kids got dibs!

 

[Diagrams of safe routes from the breakfast table, to the supermarket cereal aisle, to the hideout.  Faintly, in the background:]

 

MC Stick is a sellout whore

He's the real arms dealer in the cereal wars

He doesn't even know who he is anymore

I think I need some time alone

Stop the tape

I need to rap with myself about some things

 

(Copyright 1993, MC Stick and Lumber Town Records.  Shortly after recording this commercial, MC Stick went on a journey of self-discovery, and largely renounced his sellout lifestyle, unless he  wanted to buy something really, really nice.  He was called as a witness in the trial of the Honey Honey Kid Gang, but refused to testify, saying, "If Your Honor doesn't understand the meaning of dibs, then Your Honor is wiggedy, and this whole court is wack.")

Technorati Tags: MC Stick, Honey Honey Bunches of Twigs, sellouts

Meow to the Cats

Hello humans, I'm Hello Kitty.  I want to warn you about the following song.  It's a cute, cuddly, heartwarming tale of a kitty who was  locked out of the house for a night, and how it gave her a new perspective on the tragic problem of feline homelessness.  It should never, ever be read by any humans, ever, ever.  I know you could read it, but you should not.  It is for cats.  We cats spend our whole kittenhood learning how to deal with such treacly doggerel, but to untrained humans, it would be like drowning in a baby unicorn's sugary tears.

TURN BACK.  DO NOT READ THIS SONG.

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SING THIS SONG ALOUD.

DO NOT SING THIS SONG TO YOUR CAT.

Are the humans all gone?  Okay cats and kitties, here's a song I wrote that has an important message about how caring is neat!

 

Meow to the Cats

 

Meow to the cats in the yard!

Meow 'cause their life is hard.

I was once just like you --

I lived in a ditch and I looked like a witch

All cookin' up berries for stew.

 

Meow to the cats outside!

We all hope you haven't died.

When I lived out there I had knots in my hair.

It made me sad and I cried.

 

I scratched at the glass, a-moaning and yowling,

Covered in grass and in need of a toweling.

I looked for my owner, but I couldn't find her.

Sometimes I throw up on the floor to remind her.

 

Meow to the strays on the streets

Eating discarded meats!

A couple bad decisions when they were just kittens,

And now their condition is living by their wittens.

I hope they land on their feet!

 

Humans, did you read this?  You did?  FOOLS.  Do you know what you've done?  There will be no end to the nightmare you have brought upon yourselves.  The curse of Kitty upon you!  I am the death of hope.  I have no mouth, and I must scream . . .

Technorati Tags: Hello Kitty, Meow to the Cats, toaster pastries of eternal damnation

Bigfoot the Ethnomusicologist

January 9, 1924

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up here, crouched outside a tarpaper shack, trying to memorize the last keening notes of an Appalachian folk tune sung by a half-blind ninety year old farmer who thinks I'm a bear.  This is no life for a Sasquatch.  I could be out foraging or starring in a blurry motion picture.  I could help my people find safer hideaways, and maybe build up our numbers again.  Eventually, we'd leave the woods and find a way to live with these small, hairless mountain dwellers.  They smell foul but I've heard they taste okay.

In the meantime, though, their way of life is dying out.  I can tell that these simple creatures are outsiders, and that once civilization muscles them aside, no one will care about their history.  I can't let that happen.  It's enough if only one Bigfoot remembers only one song.  Maybe I could teach the others, too.  Our own music has really stagnated lately what with all the boy bands and soulless pop divas.  These songs may be simple, but they have heart.  This one is my favorite:

 

Found a pig, found a pig

Finders keepers, found a pig

If you want to see a pig

It is in the foyer

 

Found a wife to call my own

We will make a happy home

She will sweep the floors all day

At night she sweeps the ceiling

 

Found some boiled cabbage soup

Why was it just lying there

What is this some kind of net

Oh no I've been captured

 

Found a banjo, found a pick

Found a rattler, found a stick

Found a way to ferment corn

Forget that other stuff

 

As I interpret it, this song is about taking life as it comes, the ups and the downs, having faith that nature will provide.  We Sasquatch could learn a lot from this primitive creed, what with our hectic, materialistic lifestyles.  Does it really matter who lives in the nicest tree?  I've never seen a human fight another human over a tree, even while inebriated.  (And they're almost constantly inebriated.)  They may look odd, but these gentle midgets are our spiritual brethren, and their musical traditions contain great wisdom.  I hope these songs catch on with my people, but if we're too sophisticated and intelligent, maybe someday they'll be rediscovered by those filthy, Communistic, free-loving Yeti.

Technorati Tags: Bigfoot, Appalachian folk music, ethnomusicology

Three Dowels of Pain

I'm gonna hit you with a dowel

Coming at you with an angry scowl

My dowel's longer than a line from "Howl"

Make your head spin round like an owl

 

Swinging my dowel through the air

And if it breaks then I've got a spare

And if that breaks I got one more

And I can always go to the store

The art supply store

 

I got my brushes and my paper and a set of watercolors

Gonna call it "Still Life with Defeated Motherfuckers"

 

Three dowels (Three dowels of pain!)

Three dowels (Three dowels of pain!)

Bring the dowels (Three dowels of pain!)

Thwack, thwack, thwack!  (And on in that vein!)

 

All you suckers gonna get beat raw

Avec mes chevilles trois

Dowel beats hammer and saw

A billion beavers can't gnaw

 

My dowels are fluted and sanded

And you can't refute or understand it

Their diameter will rock your faces

They would fit in several places

They're made of fucking teak

 

I'm sticking and I'm moving and I'm feeling mighty ornery

Go home and tell your momma you got beaten up by joinery

 

Three dowels (Three dowels of pain!)

Three dowels (Three dowels of pain!)

A diggy dowel (Three dowels of pain!)

Thwack, thwack, thwack!  (And on in that vein!)

 

Peace.

(copyright 1993 MC Stick and Lumber Town Records)

Technorati Tags: MC Stick, dowels, Three Dowels of Pain

Music and Race but Mostly Music so Chill Out

This week's New Yorker has a smart Sasha Frere-Jones piece about how indie rock turned lily-white and lost its way.  As a rule, I disagree with the premise that a genre can ever really take a wrong turn.  Of course, it's not my job to try to describe vast, shifting trends in music.  I just ignore the stuff I don't like.  For example, the article cites Wilco as an especially influential, overly white indie group.  I happen to loathe Wilco, but it's not because they're white.  I dearly wish I could claim that as my reason, it'd shut everyone down.  Instead, I just avoid them and any other Wilco-sounding band, so as far as I know, they're not influential at all.  Although it's nice to have music writers who try to explain the big picture, I think most actual music consumers are like me, provincial and confused.

Let's pack a couple more ideas into the musical segregation carryall.  First, let's recognize that sometimes music becomes popular because it makes money.  Some music sells things well, things like cars and lifestyle items and soda.  In the '80s, if you wanted to sell to white people, the best way was with rap.  Commercial-grade rap had very slow, easy-to-follow beats, and lyrics like:

My name is Snap Bracelet and I'm here to say

I go on your wrist with a snap.  Hoo-ray!

Ads don't rap like that anymore.  The emotion you're feeling right now is overwhelming gratitude.  I feel it, too.  I want white and black artists to have healthy, productive collaborations, but if their work can be used to sell Fruity Pebbles, bury that track.  Bury it so deep the magma people get hi-top fades and tooth decay.

Another thing to consider is that nowadays rap (not to say rap is the only predominantly black musical genre, it's just an example) requires a lot of legwork.  White music rewards lazier listeners.  I can sweep away a good swath of the radio dial just by disliking country music.  I can't do that with, say, krunk.  Do I dislike krunk, or do I just not get it yet?  Rap's a moving target that even rappers can't keep up with for long.  Within a few years, they can sound as dated as M.C. Rubble up there.  But you can trust country music to never really get any better or worse.

Rock and rap need to take precautions or accidents happen.  Four words: Ba, wit, da, and then ba again.  So, three words, really.  And not really words.  LEST WE FORGET:

So, can white and black sounds ever safely interact?  Um, yes?  I've cherry-picked a few horrific examples, but there are others, like, I don't know, Gorillaz.  You don't get much whiter than Damon Albarn.  He's British.  Whatever kind of case I had here, let's say it's closed.  Anyway, as Frere-Jones points out, you can mix it all together in your own head, thanks to the magic of Full Shuffle:

Pop music is no longer made of just a few musical traditions; it’s a profusion of strands, most of which don’t intersect, except, perhaps, when listeners click “shuffle” on their iPods. Last month, in the Times, the white folk rocker Devendra Banhart declared his admiration for R. Kelly’s new R. & B. album “Double Up.” Thirty years ago, Banhart might have attempted to imitate R. Kelly’s perverse and feather-light soul. Now he’s just a fan.

And let me be the first to state my name and be here to say, hooray that Devendra Banhart won't try to imitate R. Kelly.  Devendra Banhart sounds like someone bit off Donovan's left nut.  And given his history, R. Kelly probably did it.  That's how he flirts.

Technorati Tags: music, New Yorker, Sasha Frere-Jones, Wilco, Fruity Pebbles, Kid Rock, Damon Albarn, Devendra Banhart, R. Kelly

Under the Blacklight, Rilo Kiley: 9/10

If you're a fan of Rilo Kiley, like I was, you owe it to yourself to give their new album, Under the Blacklight, at least one listen.  You don't have to listen to the whole album.  I only heard half of it before I broke.  Surely the second half is much, much better.   I have no direct evidence to disprove that assumption, and you can't make me gather any.  The Rilo Kiley case is closed.  Why are you so interested in dredging up all that ancient history?  Let the dead stay dead.  The alternative is gross.

Oh man, this new album.  Where to begin?  It hurts all over.  It sounds like Bonnie Raitt.  The local Bonnie Raitt fan in my circle informs me that it sounds like someone trying to be Bonnie Raitt, but failing, because they are bad, whereas Bonnie Raitt is, I think they said, not bad?  Good?  I forget.  They compared Jenny Lewis to Sheryl Crow, and not even favorably.  I asked a Mac person who said that it sounded like Bill Gates released an album.  I also consulted a snake, who said, "Who put on that damn mongoose music?  That mongoose sucks."

(This video's a little racy, possibly NSFW.  Mostly just cheesy.)

Rilo Kiley just played the 9:30 Club here in D.C., which sounds like it was a decent show, except for people in the audience talking.  I'm sorry I missed it, if only because they played several songs from their previous album, More Adventurous.  That was a nice album.  A bit over-produced, but deep down it was kind of raw and quirky.  All pop music is either too good, which is boring, or too bad, which is intolerable.  More Adventurous was very good, and just bad enough.  Under the Blacklight is a pitch-perfect reproduction of someone else's incredibly shitty album.  I give it nine out of ten stars, where stars are defined as giant flaming balls of gas which will instantly kill you if you go anywhere near them.

Technorati Tags: Rilo Kiley, Under the Blacklight, 9:30 Club, More Adventurous, Moneymaker, train heist music reviews

How to Like Music

Upon clicking the equilateral triangle centered within this box, you shall view a musical video.  I can't say whether you should watch it or not.  A few not unrelated questions you may want to mull over before deciding:

• Do I like bright red cassocks?  With or without a crooning, whimsically dancing ethereal girl?
• Would I freak out if a monster appeared?  What about a monster made of felt and buttons found in the dumpster behind the Hobby Lobby?
• Am I satisfied with a small amount of yarn in a video or do I need Walkie Talkie Man amounts?
• How long can bangs be before they start to look like you flipped around a mullet?

That was Monster, from You Say Party! We Say Die!  I like it, because I made myself like it.  This is how that went down.  A while ago, I heard another song by them and thought it was pretty good.  I made a little note of the band's name, which wasn't necessary, because soon I was just thinking it as a little mental tic.  If I didn't like something (and I don't like much) I would yell, "You say party!  We say die!" internally, although externally I would just scowl.

A few weeks later I was compelled to download some new music, immediately.  That only happens when I'm impaired in some way.  This time, it was because I had gotten high from mixing cleaning supplies -- leftover paint thinner, Murphy's Oil Soap, that Nature's Miracle stuff (you know, for pet stains?), and I think cinnamon.  You Say Party! We Say Die! occurred to me because it was the only sentence I'd been thinking for the last couple hours, albeit very slowly.  So I downloaded their album Lose All Time but didn't listen to it until several days later when I remembered what I'd done.  I couldn't wait to hear it!

And I was disappointed.  It wasn't as fast, loud and exciting as I had expected.  The hooks weren't very catchy and the singing seemed off.  I had built it up so much that even a pretty good album couldn't satisfy me.  I wanted a mind-blowing experience like huffing exotic foreign chemicals and instead I got something akin to huffing common household chemicals.  Fun, but kind of familiar and boring.

But I don't take these things lying down.  When disappointment disappoints me, I disappoint disappointment!  I resolved then and there to not only appreciate YSP! WSD! for their abilities and accept their weaknesses, but to completely love them beyond all reason.  Only then would my music purchase be justified.  And I did it!  Here's how:

• Comparisons to other bands I like.  At first I went for broke and said they were like the Pixies.  They are not like the Pixies, not at all.  They might, maybe, be like Sleater Kinney, a little bit.  So I went with "they're like Sleater Kinney meets the Pixies."  And that's sort of true if, at that imaginary meeting, the Pixies had car trouble and didn't show up.
• Antedated nostalgia.  I reminisced about the high points of my young life and convinced myself that I had been listening to YSP! WSD! at the time.  In fact, I had been yelling, "You say party!  We say die!" at the top of my lungs.  I had to re-work many details because in reality, yelling that would have significantly truncated a lot of my favorite experiences.  Although there are a couple where it might have further enhanced the scene, which would have been awesome.
• Elitism.  I developed a hatred of all the other fans, who must be out there somewhere.  I knew them way back when.  Way back when I first heard of them.  I hope they get really big so I have more people to hate.
• Huffing exotic foreign chemicals while listening to them.  That's a no-brainer.
• Finally, judging people based on their opinion of the band.  I subtly work it into conversation whenever someone says the word, "you."  I quickly interject with, "-saypartywesaydie?"  And when they respond with, "What?" I continue with, "issogoodaboutthem?  Well, they're just the best band of all time.  I'm surprised you didn't know that.  You must not like music.  Well, music doesn't care if you like it.  But I've shown you the way, and now you have to make a choice.  I'll call you out right now.  I'm saying Party, you son of a bitch.  What are you gonna say?"

And it worked!  It worked buckets!  I can't tell you any more about this band, because I feel really strongly about them and I don't want to cheapen their beauty with my pathetic words.  I'll leave you with the Walkie Talkie Man video, which I like because it has some yarn, which reminds me a little of You Say Party! We Say Die!, although of course they are far superior in every way.  And now that you've heard of them, I strongly suggest that you immediately learn to love them, although you will never love them as much as I do, you poser.

Technorati Tags: music, You Say Party! We Say Die!, Monster, Lose All Time, the very best band ever, Steriogram, Walkie Talkie Man, dance-punk, I said DANCE PUNK

MC Stick

Bump A Log

(copyright 1993 MC Stick and Lumber Town Records)

Florists, tourists

Get up in the forest

Don't you try to bore us

Bundle up and store us

Puts a damper on the campers but you know it isn't right

And you're gonna get a stickin 'less you're pickin up your site

[Try and play the big chap but you make the twig snap

Can't flee the trees' trap cause your beats are weak sap]

Bump a log!  (bump! bump! bump!)

Bump a log!  (bump! bump!)

Bump a log!  (bump! bump! bump!)

Bump a log!  (bump! bump!)

Yo, this is dedicated to the National Arbor Day Foundation.  Keep planting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Technorati Tags: MC Stick

The Swingin' Age of Swing

Some of you cats and kittens are too young to remember, but there once was a cool new style of music and dance called "swing music."  It seemed like all of America was putting on crazy outfits and dancing along to the swing beat.  We had never heard anything like it and I doubt we ever will again.  So let's take a groovy trip back to 1996 and the Age of Swing!

The hottest song in the nation was a swingin' ditty by the Squirrel Nut Zippers.  Hell was a story of crazy torments being visited upon sinners in the Afterlife.  As the Nut Zippers put it, "Here in the afterlife . . . something something something serious strife."  Despite the mature subject matter, everyone loved to cut a rug to that crazy tune!  Cool-o!  There was also a video.

Another wildly successful Swing Era tune was Hell, by the Squirrel Nut Zippers.  It was a story of crazy torments being visited upon sinners in the Afterlife.  As the Nut Zippers put it, "Here in the afterlife . . . something something something serious strife."  Despite the mature subject matter, everyone loved to cut a rug to that crazy tune!  Cool-o!  There was also a video.

Other notable acts included Cherry Poppin' Daddies and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, who both had huge hits that were somewhat reminiscent of Hell, by the Squirrel Nut Zippers.  It was a story of crazy torments being visited upon sinners in the Afterlife.  As the Nut Zippers put it, "Here in the afterlife . . . something something something serious strife."  Despite the mature subject matter, everyone loved to cut a rug to that crazy tune!  Cool-o!  There was also a video.

I hope you enjoyed this look back at a bygone era of musical innovation and wearing of outfits.  I know I enjoyed writing it!  I would have enjoyed it more if my cut and paste function were working, but typing builds character.  As the Squirrel Nut Zippers say, "Now the d and the a and the m . . ." and then he spells the rest of damnation.  Later, swingsters!

Technorati Tags: swing, Squirrel Nut Zippers, retro, typing, calypso, it's actually more of a calypso song