Fantasies of a Country Clown

File under Comedy/Fantasy: Miserable Moe Bandy's 1979 vinyl turd, It's a Cheating Situation.

Sorry, Moe, but you're dreaming. That said, I doubt your sister (or right hand) will mind.

Fat Stevens

Following the photo shoot for Swedish folk singer Cornelis Vreeswijk’s homage to Evert Taube, the six-string acoustic cradled in the sweaty embrace of Cornelis’s ample, unburdened loins required months of intensive counseling and a full refinish. So traumatized was the guitar, nicknamed “Raggmunk” after Cornelis’s favorite potato pancake recipe, he (yes, it's a he) never played the same again. Some say that the humiliation Raggmunk was forced to endure at the hands of a hack photographer bent on transforming his subjects into steamy sex symbols caused Raggmunk to lose his will to carry a tune. Nevertheless, the guitar remained close with his owner, Vreeswijk, often spending many hours with him on the couch—not playing, though, but watching their favorite films, Lee Hazlewood’s Cowboy in Sweden and Torgny Wicket’s Anita: Swedish Nymphet. And when Vreeswijk succumbed to liver cancer in 1977, Raggmunk mustered the strength to perform an elegy to his mate at his funeral. Appropriately, it was a meditation on the song “Nudistpolka” (no translation necessary) from the infamous Cornelis sjunger Taube LP (“sjunger” means “sings”). It was also Raggmunk’s last performance. As he downstroked the final chord of his poignant tribute, Raggmunk did so with such cathartic force that his strings snapped, filling the mouse-quiet cathedral with a ringing cacophony of profound sorrow. Raggmunk then collapsed on the altar, just a few feet from Vreeswijk’s coffin (a reinforced refrigerator box), his neck breaking off in the process. Sobbing, Cornelis’s brother, Gard, scooped up the broken and now deceased Raggmunk and placed him tenderly in the cardboard casket atop the corpse of his brother. Luckily for Raggmunk, this time Cornelis was wearing pants.

Yes, this is a work of fiction. No need to get upset.

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers Redux: Wicker Up Front

We may never know what begot the wicker chair trend of the 1970s, but it hardly matters. The fact of the matter is that these specimens of dreadful design exist and continue to haunt the bargain bins and thrift stores near and far. Besides, who in their right, sober mind would claim credit for conceiving these Sears-studio-quality jackets? Because let's be honest: they're all likely the product of the same art director, who, along with his or her one idea, bounced from label to label, starting with the wonderful Al Green (whose album is pretty stunning despite the jacket; have you listened to "Look What You Done to Me" lately? The Late Teenie Hodges' gorgeous and sublime guitar work is just the beginning.) and ending with the miserable Ron Hudson. The only thing missing from these album covers besides tasteful graphic design is a lap dog ... or cat. 

Music to Be Murdered By

Long before they instigated the Good Friday massacre, during which they torched dozens of churches and committed innumerable heinous acts of violence and in so doing transformed a normally tranquil if hopelessly clumsy Norway into an unimaginable dystopian nightmare. Long before they slaughtered their pet goats and drank the blood, donned corpse paint, rechristened themselves as Demonic Infestation, and unleashed a towering inferno of black metal chaos so menacing and intense that it induced legions of young evil-doers to take up guitars, embrace the southern Lord and wreak unrelenting havoc across Northern Europe. Long before all this, they were Norway’s most delightful export since lutefisk, a husband-and-wife folk duo known as Mike and Else.

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers II

Since when is pinning down and forcing one’s self upon an incapacitated and presumably disinclined partner a “Serenade for Love”? A year after this controversial record hit stores (only to be withdrawn and deleted by the label), Dick Hayman found himself donning a new set of stripes. This time it was he who was the unwilling recipient of another man’s “Serenade for Love.”

A forgotten Bourbon Street fixture, Rev. Bob Harrington achieved a bit of infamy in the 1970s for changing booze back into water, and tacky wallpaper into blazers.

What could be more terrifying on Halloween than a “Christian perspective” on the holiday? Fear not. Come October 31, this record won’t be knocking at your door for a trick or treat. All known surviving copies—four to be precise—have been consigned to haunting the basement of a small, dilapidated chapel in Beaver Dam, Kentucky.

Barbra Streisand: Unmasked, Unplugged, Ungodly!

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.

Single Minded

Everyone's joining clubs these days, on account of it being the new year and all. I, too, joined a club, but not one of those. No, I now belong to the uber-exclusive Sub Pop Singles Club (well, I actually signed up last year). And I'm quite happy about it. For a one-time payment of $90, I can look forward to a vinyl 7-inch record arriving in my mail box every month for a year.

I missed the first go-around of Sub Pop's legendary vinyl clique. And the last one, too. During the original run, I was in college and broke. Not to mention, I didn’t know about Nirvana until 1990, so there was no way I would have been hip to the band’s eventual $1,000 collectable Singles Club offering, “Love Buzz.” I won’t pretend I was there from the beginning. Yes, I was living in the Northwest before almighty grunge eruption, but I was residing in Spokane, well east of grunge ground zero, and was pretty clueless, too, even though Seattle bands would occasionally stop through town (usually for a piss break, sometimes for a show) along 1-90, on their way home or eastward toward Minneapolis. As far as indie labels go, I was just discovering SST records, thanks to Bad Brains. I got into Bad Brains because somebody put I Against I in the reggae section at record store I frequented. Expecting a roots reggae experience I was instead stung by the sonic assault of hardcore Jah. And so began my entry into punk and hardcore and soon Sub Pop, grunge and indie rock.

After finally tuning into Sub Pop’s frequency, I still failed to register for its single of the month club (missing out on another Nirvana single, the Nirvana/Fluid split from 1991—and the only good record the Fluid ever had their name on). I was just too poor to subscribe. I did however manage to get my hands on some of the precious color sides when whatever surplus copies trickled into indie stores I started haunting. And when I was music director of a college radio station, Sub Pop occasionally sent me promo copies of Singles Club releases (I still prize that clear wax Dead Moon 7-inch). (By the way, my college station spun every Sub Pop release, no matter how bad, much to the chagrin of the radio guy at C/Z Records—Sub Pop’s Seattle junior competition at the time.)

In 1993, as the mainstream mutation of grunge continued to fascinate the “Alternative Nation,” Sub Pop pulled the plug on its Singles Club, citing waning interest. At its height, the club boasted almost 8,000 subscribers. By the end of the first run, fewer than 2,000 belonged. Malaise soon spread to the rest of the label. Sub Pop quit signing local bands. Its roster started to suck and the label no longer held sway as a proprietor of hip and cutting-edge music. Not to mention it courted with financial ruin more often than decent new bands. Sub Pop still had plenty of attitude, of course, just not the music to back it up (i.e., Jale, Hardship Post, Five Style, Mike Ireland, Hazel, Grifters, Chixdiggit, Green Magnet School, Heroic Doses, Six Finger Satellite, Combustible Edison, Blue Rags, Heather Duby, 10 Minute Warning, Trembling Blue Stars, Yo-Yo's, Plexi, Supersuckers—according to lore, every record the ’Suckers sold of 1995’s Sacrilicious Sounds... cost the label $50). Nevertheless, I still kept tabs on the label, both as a frustrated fan and as a music journalist. (Sadly, my friends the Makers failed to revive the label, and the Murder City Devils’ massive hype didn’t equate with strong sales.)

But even though the label had been “going bankrupt since 1988,” you could always expect Sub Pop to throw more money at a problem. So right around the turn of the century, just before bands like the Shins, Hot Hot Heat, the Postal Service and Beardo the Folk Singer (you’ve probably heard his songs in a commercial) rescued the label from certain doom, Sub Pop revived the Singles Club. True to form, I failed to enlist again. Not sure why—I could have made a fortune on eBay with that White Stripes single, or even the Bright Eyes, Death Cab for Cutie and Bonnie Prince Billy sides. Oh, I remember why I didn’t fork over the cash: I was barely eking out a living as a writer (surprises me, too). Which is how I managed to get my hands on a couple of these exclusive records—Modest Mouse, Ugly Casanova and Zeke (thank you, Chris Jacobs and Steve Manning!). Oh, and I scored the Kent 3 single, too (which is still very easy to get and very worth getting). But interest in Singles Club redux didn’t amount to more than 2,000 subscribers and went defunct after a couple years.

Like a true record-collecting dork, I’m in the vinyl trade. I collect and sell records. I’m one of those jerks who earns a decent return on limited-edition, mint copies of color pressings of whatever band you’re into presently, but didn’t hear early enough to have scored a copies of that band’s early output. So you bid and I make a handsome profit. Think Melvins, Ween, Mr. Bungle, Pavement, Guided By Voices, Modest Mouse, Sunny Day Real Estate, Murder City Devils, Desert Sessions, etc. (Though, truth be told, I haven’t actually hawked anything on eBay in almost a year.) As you might imagine, I was ecstatic when Sub Pop announced last summer that as part of its 20th anniversary commemoration, it would bring the Singles Club back for another encore—but only for one year. Twelve months, one single per month, starting in August, 2008. And they would only make 1,500 subscriptions available. Seeing instant profit potential, I didn’t hesitate to join this time (expectedly, all subscriptions were quickly claimed). Funny thing, though: in all my time peddling records on the Internets, I’ve only bid on and purchased Sub Pop singles, I’ve never auctioned any.

The first installment of Sub Pop Singles Club 3.0 arrived in August. It was “Gebel Barkal” b/w “Version” by Om, a band originally composed of Sleep’s rhythm section—bassist/vocalist Al Cisneros and drummer Chris Haikus—and whose recent album Pilgrimage (Southern Lord) was a favorite on the home hi-fi. This particular single—stamped on flesh-colored vinyl with a sleeve design that harkens back to the Sub Pop singles of yore—marked the first recordings with Grails’ Emil Amos who replaced Haikus on the drums. Within a week of its arrival the single was fetching as much as $50 on eBay—not a bad return when you think about the cost of each single (roughly $6.50 per). But I wasn’t about to part with it—even if it’s not quite as significant as anything off Pilgrimage. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good, but it’s not quite satisfying: Just as the tidal force of Om’s swelling rhythm is about to thrash itself on the rock, the band abandons ship. And the flipside is merely a dub rendering of the A-side, complete with the requisite, if cliché, drum reverb and melodica. But it’s single, after all, and one unavailable to the masses at that.

I’m also keeping the other SP singles that have since arrived on my doorstep, records by Unnatural Helpers (featuring members of the Catheters, Double Fudge and Kinski), L.A. girl punks Mika Miko (who get loose and lo-fi on two sides of opaque yellow vinyl), Black Mountain (thankfully minus Amber Webber’s vexing fake yodel) and most recently Brooklyn’s Blues Control (abstract in the abstract).

So far the only of the five Sub Pop singles eBay vinyl fiends aren’t clamoring for is Unnatural Helpers’ four-song pounder, “Dirty, Dumb and Comical.” I guess no one cares about the band’s pedigree or that the propulsive title track which kicks this thing into motion packs a mighty wallop—easily one of my favorite riffs in recent memory. My advice, bid on this one; you’ll get a hell of a bargain.

As for what’s on tap for January, who knows? I’ve yet to see anything new listed in the Discography section of subpop.com. Nevertheless, I’m happy to finally be part of the club.