The HORROR of the BLOOD MONSTERS!

Outrageous! Crazy cult movie! THEY EAT HUMAN FLESH!

John Carradine lets himself down, he lets the family name down, he lets the school down. BIG STYLE!

Occasionally, I feel like I'm in a little bit of a rush to try and get a good example of just about every aspect of my psychogarageabillytrash cornucopia (except perhaps the Cramps. The day the internet needs me to tell it about the Cramps is the day I finally invent my time machine and go back, create the internet and post about the Cramps). And, it is in the spirit of this, of trying to fit in as many of the different aspects of the aforementioned cornucopia as possible, that I bring this post. It also seems to have a lot of commas in it, so if punctuation turns you on, loosen your pants!


Marble Orchard - It's My Time b/w Agent Invisible (Estrus; 1992)

A: It's My Time
B: Agent Invisible


Ah, Estrus. Sometimes, I like nothing better than the feeling of finding a record label that is enough by itself to seal the deal. Estrus is one of those labels, and they will doubtless be making repeated appearances in this here mess of words. If I can stop ogling the revolving wonder of the blue marbled vinyl of Took That Thing by the Monomen long enough to remember to rip it, that is.

Marble Orchard. Why weren't Marble Orchard more widely acclaimed? Perhaps it was because your man there (Ron Kleim, probably) couldn't sing too good. Well, that's perhaps a touch harsh - he does well enough on several tracks on the full lengther that followed (Savage Sleep) - but the b-side is one second longer, twenty times better, and minus all the singing. Don't get me wrong, "It's My Time" by itself would have warranted this post and Marble Orchard's place in my disorganised and by no means in order of preference hall of fame. It rocks along quite garagetastically, putting the rock back into garagerock in the grand Estrus style. But the flipside is THE side. Without a voice in the way, the guitar expands really quite gratifyingly, matron. In fact, the whole thing does its best Gas Huffer instro crossed with Mudhoney fuzz number impersonation and tugs wildly at my socks, occasionally threatening to knock them off during the throaty, rumbling verses (for want of a better word. You know very well what I mean. There's probably a big stupid muso term for it, but I'll be buggered if I'm going to either find out what it is or use it if I accidentally did).

The 'Orchard (as absolutely nobody calls them) didn't really manage much else, as I recall. There was the album (also on Estrus, and disappointingly purchased on CD as Eastern Bloc didn't have the vinyl the fools), and a few compo appearances (again, mostly on Estrus). A cursory scouring of th'internets reveals Ron to be searching hopefully for someone to release his recording whilst maintaining a frankly abysmal tiny website. It's a little sadmaking, but it doesn't change the fact that fifteen years ago, "It's My Time" and, to a greater extent, "Agent Invisible" was the greatest thing in the world for well over a week - no mean achievement in my head, then or now.



Gas Huffer - Firebug b/w Jesus Was My Only Friend (Black Label; 1989)

A: Firebug
B: Jesus Was My Only Friend


Feels a bit stupid typing out a tracklisting for a two track single, what with it all being listed in the title and that. But I'm a creature of habit, with the emphasis on the creature, so deal with it. Gas Huffer. Where would the world be without Gas Huffer? Up shit creek with the paddle rammed up its stupid arse, that's where. And where would the world of music be without Tom Price? Nailed to the bottom of said boat, that's where. Now, I occasionally read some guff here and there about Gas Huffer peaking way too early by having this as their debut single. That's quite patently nonsense, as the next part of this post will comfortably prove. But it is true that it's quite frankly perfect in every way. You'd be hard pushed to find 1m47s put to better use (unless you are once more rubbish at the sex). They certainly set themselves a ridiculously high standard to be measured against, that's for damn sure. It's a rowdy blitz through Tomtastic guitars, battered drums, howling and lyrics about broken hearts and arson. In short (and boy, is it short), it'll tear your tiny head in two. In a good way. The b-side is none too shabby as well.



Gas Huffer - Mole b/w Body Buzz (SFTRI; 1992)

A: Mole
B: Body Buzz

Sympathy was another label that stood tall enough for me to purchase on it's merits alone, but you didn't always quite know what you were going to get. Which, I guess was part of the charm.

The shop had two copies, one in a green sleeve and one in a pink sleeve. I really quite desperately wanted to get both, but I had only enough money with me to buy one. By the time pay day rolled round and I went back, the other had gone. Which was probably a good thing, as I would probably have been a bit of a gimp to have bought two copies just for different sleeves. I got the green, if you're wondering, with clear orange vinyl. This things are important, although I know not really why.

A small war rages in my head from time to time as to whether I prefer the riot of Firebug or the garage groove of Mole. Over the years, Mole has managed to gain the higher ground and has succeeded in holding off Firebug, but boy is it close. How do you choose between two stonking Tom Price-fests, one about broken hearts and arson and the other about a mole? "And when you dream, deep beneath your sleepy head / that mole is diggin' where the livin' put the dead". That's how you choose. That and the fact that Matt is slightly more superb vocal form (plus he plays lead on the excellent instro b-side).

Gas Huffer are now sadly no more, having bowed out last year. Drummer Joe Newton is now something crazy like deputy vice art directing editor for Rolling Stone now (not that crazy given the persistence excellence of the band's artwork) and Tom has apparently been diagnosed with Parkinson's. Which sucks. With a capital shit.



The Fuzztones & Sean Bonniwell - The People in Me b/w Gonna Make You Mine (1998)

A: The People in Me
B: Gonna Make You Mine


Hot Bastard Damn! The Fuzztones will get their own spot on their own merit (okay, so they could be a little too slavish and stray into almost being a caricature of themselves occasionally, but there is still plenty of top guff in there), but this has Sean Bonniwell! Yes, THE Sean Bonniwell! Long since shorn of his Music Machine, Sean pops up here to the join the 'Tones (as possibly one or two twunts call them) on a rendition of his masterpiece and their mastercover. Given away free with issue #16 of Misty Lane, this is a curious little curio deserving of a place in the venerated record collection of just about anyone. Provided you have the original, of course. And the 'Tones cover. And the rather wondrous St. Thomas (Pepper Smelter) take too. Lacks the splendid grunting that made the original (and both other covers) such a beast of a song, and is also quite naturally more Fuzztones than Music Machine (which is a little bit of a shame - the Fuzzers (pretty certain no-one has ever called them that before) could possibly have tried something a little different instead of just covering their own cover). However, there is something quite undefinably special in hearing Sean partially reclaim his own territory, ably assisted by those who profited most obviously from his early adventures. He leaves Rudi and friends alone on the b-side, where they tootle through a solid take on another classic, but that isn't what we're here for. It's Sean, and it's Sean's song.

Hngh, hurgh, hurrh, HAH.



Screamin' Jay Hawkins & The Fuzztones - Live (Midnight; 1984)

A1: Alligator Wine
A2: I Put a Spell on You
B1: It's That Time Again
B2: Constipation Blues


Now THAT is one party you'd want to be at. The second in a bone-shakin' Fuzztones and special guest twofer. And what a special guest it is. If anyone ever earned his sobriquet, it was Screamin' Jay. And what form both he and Henry are on, too. If only he'd always had the backing of a band treating his talent with the effort it deserved. And if only the Fuzztones had let a little of this grand ole dirty swamp into their own efforts now and again, too. The world would have been a happier place and there would be twenty percent less kitten suffering. Maybe not, but I'd have been a mighty satisfied man, that's for certain.



The Mono Men - Took That Thing (SFTRI; 1992)

A1: Took That Thing
B1: Shakin' All Over
B2: Mr. Eliminator


In a perfectly ordered world, I guess I would have closed tonight's little mini disc festival with another Marble Orchard single for symmetry. Fact is though, there isn't one. I suppose I could have gone for second best and punted out another Estrus single. But no, the confused mutantrocker that I am, I found I had painted myself into a corner by mispegging the Mono Men's joint finest moment, thus disordering the record labelness. But what does that matter, with this mighty beast cleansing the inner pathways of your gourd? Absolutely bugger all, that's what it matters. I must have played this about forty consecutive times when I got it home, just sat in front of my turntable in wonder. It must have been all of a week before I found out I liked the b-side nearly as much. Being a flighty sort, I'm also swayed by artwork, and this artwork swayed me. No, not the really obvious tits. Well, not just the really obvious tits. Anything in that cartoony Coop-influenced style is going to part me from my hard-earned dough, no problem. And stick a titan of a song inside that revs up like the biggest dragster on earth and then powers its way along the strip to blow a happy hole in your head, and it's fun, frolics and cheap bourbon all round. The fact that the b-side rumbles menacingly round and round in the gaping hole punched by the a-side, well that's just the mint in my mojito.

I couldn't be making it easier for you here. Bite sized snippets of wonder for you to tickle your lobes with, barely a comment and a click away. You don't even have to read the words. Although you'd be missing out if you didn't, even if I do say so myself, and I'm not usually one for blowing my own trumpet (I can't reach for a start).