Who Knew?

I suppose pasting up posters around town is one way to get the word out. Seems a bit old-fashioned, though. I must say Paul looks relieved. Younger, too!

Songs of Drugs and Devotion

It’s a tragedy that some of the most brilliant and inspired music of the 20^th century languishes in the limbo of America’s junk stores, awaiting resurrection in the digital age. One such album that’s yet to transition to the almighty digital format is The Addicts Sing by the Addicts (a.k.a. Nine Former Addicts—formerly recovering addicts, that is). Issued on the Christian music imprint Word Records in 1963, just months before the arrival of the Fab Four, The Addicts Sing was a God-send, a true revelation. For this album marked the first time American audiences could delight in the sublime exploits of authentic drug addicts without feeling exploitative, shameful, or guilty. Sure, drug abuse and addiction was common in music—from smack in jazz to booze in blues—but it wasn’t part of the show: musicians kept their habits concealed—confined to the backstage, the shooting gallery, the back alley, public toilets, mom’s basement. The Addicts changed all that; they embraced and celebrated their addictions and the drugs that fueled them. No longer were fans left to wonder whether their favorite band were a bunch of strung-out junkies, speed freaks, pill poppers, hash heads, etc. The Addicts proclaimed with defiance, “So what if we are.” And just look at the album cover. Notice the not-so-subtle sky scraper puncturing the pink type? Might that be a hypodermic needle in disguise? And just what of big, bold, bright hot pink lettering: The Addicts Sing. You couldn’t dream of a flashier billboard. Flip jacket over and what do you see, but a graphic illustration of a dude shooting up—and he ain’t mainlining insulin. If that weren’t enough, take a look at the Addicts Dodge tour van, the original Mystery Machine. Imagine seeing that bombing down the highway. Smoke ’em if you got ’em! Indeed, the Addicts had declared war on the undeclared war on drugs. Still, they knew their progressive message might meet resistance, so to allay the fears of worried parents, the Addicts chose not pitch their circus tent in the country’s juke joints, roadhouses, or after-hours clubs. Instead, they went to America’s churches and sang about Jesus. How could a parent not feel good about that? “Well, gosh, Mabel; these drug-addled dirtbags are going on about the Lord! I guess they ain’t so bad. I mean the Lord did say to love your fellow man—even if they smell bad and have hepatitis C.” By the time the Beatles, Stones and their merry prankster contemporaries got around to dreaming up their own acid-laced, smack-tastic fever dreams later in the decade—and to worldwide acclaim—they had Addicts to thank.

Magic Mustache Ride

Their name is Bastard, although Orphan seems more apt a handle—for why would any sensible parent lay claim to this mustachioed sausage party? Thankfully, Bastard’s story is a short one. Conceived backstage at Toto concert in Brussels in the spring of 1975, Bastard was the product of a rather strange tryst involving the roadies of opening bands, Bulge and Fanny, a men’s room handicap stall, Robert Plant’s prosthetic, and a female centaur AWOL from a trashy sci-fi paperback. Nine months after the curtain fell, Bastard, propelled by a drummer named Toto (told you!), slithered and oozed onto the pages of Kerrang! (three full years before the magazine began publishing) and into the back-alley cabarets of Hamburg, where, in a moment of true serendipity, they successfully propositioned the very man who awarded them a record deal. The resultant album is the only one emblazoned with the Bastard name and the band’s four-headed dog logo (so many heads, so few balls). The record is notable but for one thing, and that thing has nothing to do with the music on it (no one will actually admit to dropping the needle on this plastic turd, myself included). See the sleazoid second from the left with the porn ’stache and the patches on his jeans? Yeah, that’s right; he tore those swatches from the AIDS quilt and stitched ’em to his crotch. Fuckin' bastard!