A Street That Rhymes at 6 A.M.

For your wonderment, below is a clip of criminally-obscure folk inamorata Norma Tanega performing the eponymous song from her long-lost LP "Walkin' My Cat Named Dog." This dazzling record was the only non-Mitch Ryder release on producer/mogul Bob "Generation" Crewe's very short-lived label New Voice and was one of only two albums put out by Tanega before she disappeared back into the ether. Pretty absurd she's not more well-known, let alone appreciated for contributing such a headtrip of a folk-soul breakdown totally uncharacteristic in the glacial fudge crop of hung-up protest troubadours in the mid 60's. As the back of the jacket proclaims:

It could with reasonable certainty be supposed that the "Sixties" will leave us drowned in the seas of Protest and Dissidence. We had seen Tom Dooley (h)ung, the Death Of An Angel, Patches, and 1,247 Teen-agers have lost their lives in song. More recently, we have perched on the Eve of Destruction, and it has become hip to dig war ballads.

Early in February of this year [1966], a movement toward the positive side was begun by a young lady Walkin' Her Cat Named Dog. Her name: Norma Tanega.

I could go off on a tangent here about the inexcusable, MAOI-induced lameness of current "oldies" radio programming and why entrancing, warm-sweater jams like this aren't crashing the total butthole cologne music regime is but one true indicator of the fucking toiletburger sub-species presently in supposed control of the western mind; however, I digress in lieu of our beloved leaders' intentions to perpetuate the flabby status quo as humiliating reward for "Longest Tour of Duty!"

Brie and Butter and Bye

Below is my word-blather write-up pot shot habnab for Jasper Just-Ice'ses Cool Youth Mega Kill art show I think he had a year or so ago here in Birmingham. i have no idea if it ever made it to press. there is a form.. 

Cremating mistakes, you know 

casts my youth keeks, 

clogs monotony, yokes know-it-alls' 

certainty much yabber, knits 

chance margaric yoni koans! 

 Consider moonlight: yare kludge 

chicanery might you kow-tow 

cislunarly! Moreso, yes, kink 

coagulates mercilessly yakking kelpen 

come, messengering yolks karstward, 

congratulatorily marqueed yabyum knurl! 

 Clangor maestros yahoos' kneeling — 

"Courageous Melee Yields Kleinbottler!" 

 Can me, you know, 

coefficient multimediaspora yegg katzenjammer, 

clobber mediocrity yashmak klansmanship? '

Course! Mosdefnitly! Yeppers! King-Kong-Kitchie-Kitchie-Ki-Me-O 

clandestine marshmallowghost ylem kisser! 

Cloudbursts molt yodels, keelhauling: 

COOL MEGA YOUTH KILL

MEIYROA/ASOGIZN

scrabble has lead me here

Google Image Mittenmash Search Installment 3

characters struck: bal
Result

That'll flat git it!

So, last installment I said I'd get down to business about Autry Inman. To be honest, there's really not all that much information on this Florence, Alabama native who started off doing the rockin' hillbilly thing and ended up punching out adult comedy LPs or squirreling around as a member of the Grand Ole Opry. He is listed in the Alabama Country Music Hall of Fame and apparently holds the record (where?) for "most songs written and recorded in a single year." He was also on the bill for Mr. Lovesick Blues' "lost" Charleston show!

The only album I own by Autry is a self-titler put out the Mountain Dew label from 1963 and is two sides of real bummer, berzerko and reluctant self-isolation. A peak on the back jacket of the LP may lend a clue as to the awkward beauty of this songwriting fool:

Autry Inman is very active in uraniam mining. Several years ago, he discovered the valuable mineral on his property and has spent a good deal of time in developing his claim. Between his mining venture, his personal appearances, Autry Inman still finds time for other things. A little known fact about Autry Inman is his tremendous success as a composer. He has written hundred of "hit" songs. These songs have been recorded by name artists both in the popular and country field.

URANIUM MINING?! Tracks that stand out as somewhat testament to Autry's possible overexposure to radiation may include "I lost you when I found you," Standing in the shadows," The darkest corner," and "We couldn't get together on the time." I don't know where I was going with that but like I said, I've yet to hear any other stuff by the guy which, in the computer age, is no excuse when I could set up some file sharing thing, but that's just too much for my attention span to manage right now. The shape of his head may also give away his hobby.

Speaking of which, it's great to read articles like this, with quotes like:

"The U.S. Army's not going to pay the bill for you to get on MySpace and YouTube," said Maj. Bruce Mumford, of Chester, Neb., who is serving as the brigade communications officer for the 4th Brigade, 1st Infantry Division, in Iraq. "Soldiers need to know what they can and cannot do, but we shouldn't be facilitating it."

I guess it's justifiably so when you take into consideration articles such as this. Normally, I don't mind getting screwed from out of nowhere, but this, among many, many other pertinent things, is really something every Joe Schmoe should get to know before blindly praising our "freedoms" and extolling the supposed virtues of this country stolen outright to begin with, while sharpening the blade of xenophobia on the bloated whetstone of fast food, strategically inefficient automobiles mass-churned during times of pre-emptive warmongering, cologne and, of course, Crocs, visors and Bud Light.

But I digress. It's not the sheeple who are to blame, if anyone is, but there painfully obviously isn't enough questioning of the total crap that parents unwittingly lay on their offspring and grind into their psyches, the same putrid one-dimensional blindfold which was laid on them when they were offspring and so on until the picture is truly gotten. And modern American "culture" does nothing but reinforce these inherently boring yet ultimately insidious "lessons."

Eff Boosh; leave me behind, robot!

What dissonance don't squirt, if not just a little?

According to my "broken glass hiccupping behind my cheek" sinuses, cheap cabernet sauvignon, among other cheap red, not to mention white, wines, has lots of histamines.
Here's two non-english links chanced upon, utilizing the "mittenmash" style of keyboard implementation, in Google image search for "d4a" as I close the blinds and sit on my own face in the lathering twilight wondering why I'm not listening to any records as I wander in the rowboat of Cort Johnson.

Since I don't have any records by Cort Johnson, and my good compatriot Matthew Huck is the only person I know personally who has a copy of either of the two LPs available by this mysterious and crazed brain, and he, Matthew, is currently on tour with Them Natives (see previous post), I am pretty much stuck with nothing to work with. And now that I am getting obviously sidetracked, observe the web presence of these rollickers before I initiate my gab about the WEIRD world of Autry Inman, soon to come..

¿Is the whole block smokin' Prozac?

Why did I have a bacchanalian urge to sop wine as the sun set on yet another precipitationless early evening? Oh, that's right, because the glares from the neighbors and passers-by compelled me to retrieve my weedwacker from the AC Temple and get to working on my hunch-over lat-cramps, which can only be achieved by using a non-professional-grade weedwacker. I sincerely believe they designed these things for people no taller than 4' 11". Why, when I get this urge do I always have the urge to call friends from far and near to talk turds and discuss things?? OH, that's right, because I'm not a fridgin' robot!
Anyway, I guess I'm going link crazzy because I guess I am guessing a lot at this attempt. And thanks to Metafilter, it would seem that I am devoid of any original material. Regardless, here's a great link to some obscure, some not so obscure musical traditions. And yet another one, which is the blog that comes up when I hit the "next blog" thing on this blog. I link it because, 1. It pretty much makes itself clear with regard to the "No Child Left Behind" malarky, which is pretty much malarky, and all those complete dullards and cretins in Washington know it too but just can't grow the mustards to take a stand while their snuggly paychecks are at stake (and provides a link). And 2. It has a link to the Phil Spector trial, which, while I'm guessing haphazardly, I could really give two plops about, but it's somewhat fascinating, in that, "I know people who have almost had that gun pulled on them by Phil" kinda way.

Getting sidetracked, I guess one of the other things I've wanted to ruminate upon is the recent scourge of bands whose contrived album / poster / promo art all include drawings or caricatures of galdanged BIRDS or DEER or some other animal. When did this cage open and the green light glow to announce to all the hipsters, "Hey, while you're wearing bandanas, or better yet, scarves around our necks where nooses should be, why don't you start doing kitschy, trendy, and ultimately terribly unoriginal artwork which centers around a bird or winged creature? Am I correct in understanding I think the most recent rash of fowl-biting started with Wolf Eyes' "Burned Mind" album, or maybe even the overnight popularity of Animal Collective? I'm speechless and directionless from this point out, so here's some creature droppings to dollop on your cowboy snap-n-hornrims yo:



Enjoy, and more later, I guess..

TOTAL SUCCESSION

So I'm actually following through for a change and distributing my advance upon this otherwise somnambulant bit-rate of an humid spell.
In other more important news, The “Exposições Gerais de Artes Plásticas”/ The General Exhibitions of Art has been blowing my pudding head to shreds. Urinate away your preconceptions of the last century, at least to the extent that the Arte Povera is concerned. Wait I have to find the radio..

Privileged Underground!

SO yeah the data is slowwwwwly streaming in, not that far off from expectation in the information age. Half the time I really don't know what is being typed here, but it's also difficult to refuse myself the opportunity to blast forth semi-anonymously from Birmingham, AL, as if that geographical admittance should warrant some recognition while I prepare to be fired from yet another job for no reason.
The image to the right was inspired by this search for yet another random image to draw attention to an otherwise and seemingly aimless blog. Please bear with me as I'm very wet behind the ears, for lack of a more corruptive cliché. I wish, at this moment, I knew what the Stuckey's is going on with it. Okay, wait. The more I read on this site, the more I realize how incredible this particular show is, especially with reference to its influence on modern art. Where am I? Wait, maybe I'll devote the next blog to this show, depending upon my attention span and the time it takes for me to realize exactly how important this stuff is.
Hody Cdap!

It's more than just a floor

Them Natives "Chemtrail of Tears" (Christian Science Fiction) Tour Spring 2007 spurted off east Wednesday. Enhance your ministry immediately! HOLD THESE GODDAMNED CHICKENS! Whew. I need a cart.
Anyway, post no bonds for the upcoming new edition. No one wants to know! Wait, I'm receiving some information. Yes! This photo courtesy of an experiment, or at least for the sake of publicizing my random internet curiosity satiation, this blog, and perhaps the following posts, may resemble the random Google image search. Set your preferences for NO filtering and type in "kuvy" and check out page 2. Anyway, the salsa I made tonight was way different than the last batch I made about a week ago, and this time I neglected to use the way-too-expensive cardboard-like "fresh" tomatoes in favor of the organic tomato sauce I bought for 50¢ at Big Lots. Let me post this and then figure out what in the filbert is going on. Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DORIS!!!!!! I love you.

(I shouldn't have to) punch) the vampire hologram

I think the first thing I heard on the radio this morning was a story about recovery of U.S. soldiers' bones from the Korean War. I guess war is almost always capitalized. Almost like domestic cuttlefish behavior analysis while lots of people starve. That seems like a paranoid analogy, but in lieu of the current jet stream, I'd rather be an obscure thief than a famous fool.
UPDATE. I can't recall the actual date of this blog but if you're that interested and a hardbuff for current events, well, then, make the moves.
SOoooooooo, the course of the blog has taken a turn for the obvious as I transmogrify the intent toward a more relevant. Please wait here while I record Rodger and his new folk ditty, "I'm constantly hungry for strange," a so-called pussy-ballad refrained from the ancient in retrospect from Rodger's perspective from the wad-end of "That Town."
Like, how do I did it? Next up, more lies..

Tuggin

BOTTLETREE FRIDAY: DAN SARTAIN & FRIENDS (FOR A GOOD CAUSE!)
FRIDAY APRIL 6
8PM

DAN SARTAIN, The Magic City's darling man-child, fresh from tanning his axe all over Europe, will be greasing out a bunch of new songs w/drummer

OBESE VEGAN is Bham's newest and most refreshing scuzz metal fester-core that will more than likely have you reconsidering that whole revolutionary cap-n-black hoodie look thing

PONY BONES from Stone Mountain is a beautiful sanguine tombstone hurled at the reflection of the moon in a river of Old Granddad. Defitinitely for fans of seminal, totally unknown southern poet and blade-cuddler Frank Stanford

HENRY DUNKLE is Bham's blazer sportin, perma-grin troubadour ala Dock Boggs, Alabama's own chuckle-strummer Autry Inman, and maybe even a hint of Corndawg, come down from the hills to croon a ballad blue into your cheating heart.

DJ Scorchy Tawes will be providing intermission tunes from odd records

Dress warm!

BOTTLETREE
3719 3rd Ave S
Birmingham, AL 35222

The full moon looks just like an asshole

Dropping your drawers? Chances are you are, or already have, or maybe you're currently losing a bet WI-FI-ing sans culottes "down" at ASTEROIDMONIES, thinking up clever names for a trophy dog you plan on buying.

Wow. Am I the only person who really digs most of Three Times Dope's "Live from Acknickulous Land?"

So I finally went to the doc about this previously very weepy poison oak I somehow managed to wrestle by myself from a tree in the backyard late-night after pounding some bronsons. Got a shot, got some steroids, got much cream.
Man, speaking of fucking three dimensional roid relief — when in the hell is this celebrity-pocked mound of celluloid going to infiltrate my skull and get seemingly uselessly lodged there forever upon some mirthful cloud of synapse lusting playfully at its chance to turn its faucet on to similarly minded pudge-KULTure scavengers? What Wouldn't Eliot Gould Do?


BREAKING NEWS:
ARTHUR MAG LIVES!!!!!!!!!!
from Myspace bulletin earlier this evening...

ARTHUR RESULT OVERTURNED

Sweethearts of the rodeo,

Arthur has been recalled to life.
I bought Laris's 50 percent interest in the magazine thanks to the efforts of family and friends.
Now I own 100% and am moving forward with all Arthur activities as quickly as possible.
Sorry for the interruption in service.
To celebrate the occasion, we've posted the whole ALAN MOORE ON PORNOGRAPHY piece from Arthur Magazine V1 N25 online on our Magpie blog.
http://www.arthurmag.com/magpie/

in gratitude,

Jay Babcock
Editor/Owner, Arthur Magazine

In other news, what's up with Forest Park? First, this house gets several noise complaints via our landlord and, apparently, voicing your concerns about volume levels with the owner of the property, not the current tenants, us, the folks residing next door every day, is to truly roll executive style on the Botox chariot in the faceless information age. A month or so later, I hear someone walk up the steps and the sound of paper being slid through the door, which I open to see what I at first thought was a city police officer shambing off to her patrol car as the pink note falls to the doormat. Turns out it's an obviously ennui-racked brownshirt from the Birmingham Police Environmental Gestapo who, upon my questioning of what her love note really means, informs me of the completely-unnoticeable-from-the-street- unless-you're-snooping-up-on-somebody's back yard's compliance with the city's visible grass overgrowth height! Unfortunately, she experiences a lot of difficulty elaborating about my inquiry into the logic of this warning, especially after attempting and failing miserable to interrogate her as to how the hidden yard warranted such unprecedented scrutiny. Did I mention that the grass in contention was no more than a few (six) surly tufts, each of which, although maybe 9" at best, could easily be yanked up by a fist? I mean, how did she know the land wasn't a backyard wildlife refuge? Now, forward to yesterday morning, where I'm greeted on the front patio by yet another piece of paper, this time from a passively 'tuded Tudor-owning neighbor I'd never met but ended up clandestinely luring over later in the day by passionately watering the very recently planted verbena and bulbs on the front mound (there is no front yard but rather a hill of dirt humping up to the stone patio wall). The letter sort of insinuates that thanks to our shabby rental property upkeep (?), some potential buyers of his fresh on the market waddle-n-dauber had actually backed out!
Did I mention that there is no trash anywhere in the front of our place? The bullshit appears to be already in full bloom. I guess things were smoothed out after our talk, but I can't help but still feel a little leery, especially considering those prospective buyers didn't mention anything to my neighbor about the character-drenched apartments two doors down from him where all kinds of eventful activity can be experienced on any given night in the shabby-chic parking lot of said units. Maybe it's time humanity got a little more in touch with its non-posturing biological energy, and just in time for Wilhelm Reich's archives to be opened! I think I will invite the piquant pharmacy drop-off lady I met while dropping off my prescriptions who involuntarily gnawed my head off, as well as the tightly-coifed noggin of a co-worker, at the Clairmont CVS yesterday. I hope she is toilet trained other than in her mouth.

Road trip anyone?