Starfish-On-The-Toast…..Lost Woodbe Reviews!

Greetings one & all, let me introduce myself; my name is Doctor Sargent Pepper. Feel free to call me Sargent, or Doctor Pepper (I know, I know), but never Sarge. You see, I was a captain in the Marine Corps, so it just gets confusing. Besides, my nickname in those days was Zagnut. What happened was, one night back on Okinawa, I cracked open a coconut with my cock. I was pretty far gone at the time to say the least! But that was years ago. And what of it? So yes, Zagnut is off limits & Sarge is a no-no. Thanks for understanding.
But enough about what makes me tick. I’m here at the behest of the attorney for R.S. Woodbe, a Mr. J.N. Daggett, to provide an update on the continuing drama unfolding around his client. I’m afraid it’s not all good news.Recently Mr. Woodbe started an insurrection at our fat camp, then promptly disappeared, taking with him our entire clientele & majority of staff. We offer a radical high protein/zero carbohydrate approach to eating which we have found to have tremendous results in weight loss. Basically the diet consists of nothing but salmon for 60 days. It’s up to the individual how they would like it prepared & served, but the bottom line is-that’s it. Personally I don’t think it sounds so bad, but Woodbe, almost from the beginning, had issues . It culminated approximately 2 weeks ago during lunch in the cafeteria where he slowly began to chant, “where’s the crab, where’s the crab?”, next thing you know, he’s got everyone chanting along. The din was so loud, we thought the structure might collapse. Then Mr. Woodbe & company stampeded out of there, managing to get as far as Cordova, where they took over an old sports bar, The Coaches Whistle & ravenously ate the place out of business. Snow crab, king crab, dungeness, when they were finished, the pile of discarded exoskeleton looked like the Watts Towers. To say nothing of the scallop shells, shrimp heads, & vanquished bones of cod, mackerel & halibut. From there they impressed a fleet of trawlers & headed towards Kodiak Island. The last time Roland Woodbe-this, this…seditionist of fitness!-was seen, he was captaining a fish trap called ‘Derry Aire’, wearing mauve OR scrubs & a shirt reading, ‘It’s Better Nude’. Neither he nor any of his followers appear to be armed, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous. Roland Seward Woodbe possesses this beguiling ability to convince anyone of anything. When our intelligence becomes more up to date, either I or someone in my stead will be in contact. That is all.
When we later did room sweeps of the abandoned premises, we found on Woodbe’s computer this blog entry & summations of records. Attorney Daggett thought it best I make them public & with the assistance of an affable Amish fellow, I was able to transfer them to his care. These are the extant transcripts & have not been altered in any way either by myself or the core team here at Broad Nostril Farm. Thank me if you must, but the bottom line is-FIND HIM! Before he & his merry band of cholesterol junkies drive the market price for crustaceans into the stratosphere. It’s already outrageous. Thank you & happy reading.

Sargent Arthur Pepper (MD)
Head Nutritionist, Broad Nostril Farm
Delta Junction, Alaska (thereabouts)

There’s a whole peck’ve reviews what needs to be addressed now that I’ve got some downtime & had a look around. So allow me to reach back & have my say. It’ll be a respite to all the property chorin I’ve been deluged with. Harvest time is comin up here at Casa Woodbe & we is woefully understaffed. The Guild sent up up these two fellas what claim to be reincarnates’ve Roman legionaries. Call themselves Gauis Giaus & Titus Labius. I’ll admit they seem to know what they’re doin. I was half expectin’em to show up in toga’s or some such gear, but no. Theys partial to capris, linen tunic’s & Birkenstock’s. The one giveaway is them chapets they insist on wearin ’round their heads. Raises a few eyebrows, if you know what I mean. Plus, I can’t understand anything what comes outta their mouths. Latin-ancient or otherwise-is one thing, but these two dip into Greek & Etruscan to wheres all I can do is just stand back & marvel at the absurdity of it all. They love to leave notes around. Notes carved in stone. No one has any idea if theys to themselves or what. Amish says they look like directions on a map. Gauis Giaus came up to me early on, makin writing motions w/his left hand & said, “papuros est?”  I sort’ve gave him a bewildered, shrug shouldered “what?” He looked at me like I was a bug, smirked, then walked away, makin the same little writin gestures in the air. After that, it’s been one carved rock after another. Tim Bucktoo had a look at’em & said theys proclamations, more or less. To us or themselves, he couldn’t say. The one word he translated-said what was used over & over-was “cocksucker”. Needless to say, we all called bullshit. But Tim Bucktoo said he’d seen it scrawled enough times across walls in the ancient ruins of Pompeii & there was no disputin the facts. After that I figured I knowed enough. And by enough, I mean I was done tryin to figure it out. Finis. Gauis Giaus & Titus Labius was hard workers, no question. Theys got the job done. Hell, they built aqueducts to irrigate the plants, to say nothin’ve them set’ve mills they throwed up for grindin the wheat crops into flour. We’s gonna have bread comin out our ASS ’cause’ve these two. So in a few weeks if you see loaves’ve ‘Woodbe Rye’, ‘Woodbe Wheat’ or ‘Woodbe Spelt’ at alls the farmers markets, you’ll know why. I gotta admit, their weirdness kind’ve growed on me, but 2021 is just around the corner. So, Novus Annus, Gauis Giaus & Titus Labius, see you then. And until we meet again, futuo te ipsum.

Got this lp from a new bay area band called Piccolo Pete. Immediately some Walt Kelly character come to mind. Not necessarily out’ve Pogo, but then again, why not? The strip ran from ’48 till the mid seventies, surely that mythical section’ve the Okefenokee must’ve seen a beatnik or two. Or hippies, skinnydippin ‘n “foragin” in the loam ‘n moss. Piccolo Pete would’ve been that that character, perhaps a Nutria, definitely a rodent. An errant relative in Pogo’s extended possum family, whatever, he would’ve been there to bring a left-handed blunt to the daily strip. Piccolo Pete (the band) kind’ve operate in the same way. Theys lp, ‘Heavy Metal Detox’ is a woozy ride through a San Francisco that no longer exists. The conjurin’ve Thinking Fellers & Caroliner fire & brimstone is fierce, but this here’s Tesla country now fellas. Once upon a time these guys (probably) would’ve had a Subterranean catalog # , shared the bill w/Drunk Injuns, then a few years down the road, remaindered copies might’ve been available through Blackjack mail-order. But in 2020 it’s called Bandcamp. Check’em out here;

Lead is a duo out’ve LA w/2 bein they’s deuce’ve a release & one things for sure; it’s never too Lead! Get it? Okay, enough w/the pokin fun at Gone. Besides, Lead seem more like solid October Faction fans. This was my 1st time hearin they’s tunes spin. My initial thoughts was it reminded me of Pong the 1st time I seen it played; it was at a county fair, w/an arcade center set up under this huge burlap canopy. All them pinball machines was ancient, but there was one state-of-the-art game there. And that was Pong. Folks was lined up to play it, mesmerized by what they was seein; a blob bein blimped back ‘n forth. I have to admit, it was oddly captivatin. Then I got to thinkin-this is the future. And as one dimensional or infinitesimal as it looked, like the Huguenot fella up the tradin post always said, “it’s comin for your money someday”. Just think of all them releases over the years on Mainstream or Odyssey you just flipped by lookin for some psych record you couldn’t afford. To say nothin of lp’s on Wizard, Lovely, shit, even ECM. Eventually they came & you gladly ponied up, at twice the price. Lead’s simmering minimal Avant Garde-isms snap ‘n slurry the auditory vibes similarly. 2 is all them future pasts distilled into a present, prescient, melange. And for alls the snug-socked snoots out there, this is so far beyond Vanity, it’s practically Pinakotheca. Let the knob’ve infinitude twist with glee;

It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the cover art on Say No To Hate. Twas it deja vu, all over again? But the second the needle locks into this, that design swipe makes perfect sense. Like Harry Pussy, Bruce Russell & Noel Meek’s feral skree is letting you know there ain’t no seatbelts on this ride. Brakes neither. This is a white-knuckled thrust down a mountain of pure driven, pre meditated hysteria, fearless & thrilling. It’s so easy to get caught up in the piercin white light at the center’ve this euphoric chaos, you don’t even see the tree comin. Like the jabber in the talkies sez, “they never knew what hit’em”. Just make sure you got your boots on. People will talk.

Definitely the hangin’ist curveball to drop off the plate all year is this zoned corker by Barry Walker Jr. on the Holy Mountain label. Based around a pedal steel guitar, I dunno, maybe you think you’re gonna get some kind’ve Austin City Limits, dad pants, CBD zoner. Instead, Walker & co. transform the sandy, scrubrush landscape into a Krautrock, lysergic panorama. The vibe is way more A.R. & Machines than Speedy West. In fact, ‘Shoulda Zenith’ sounds like that Zweistein triple lp opus condensed into a single volume! That’s some psychedelic space/time continuum shit, for real. If you ever wondered how the back cover photo collage on ‘Dr. Byrd & Mr. Hyde’ would soundtrack in the future, all them sweet “what if’s” is tucked into bed right here.

*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freindschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners


Vulturous In The Aftermath…..Preening’s new lp + the return (?) of Roland Woodbe.

Hey folks, Amish here. I’ve been tasked with breaking the news that we’ve finally located Roland Woodbe. Didn’t miss him? Let me tell ya, you’re not alone. Hey, I kid! And when I say “we”, it ain’t no 1st person shit-I’m a “me” guy all the way-& by “locate” I should rephrase; information has reached the Woodbe compound that himself checked into an underground fat farm/spa somewhere in Alaska without so much as a toodle-loo. Last I seen him he was reading a biography of Diamond Jim Brady, while recreating the many lavish & gluttonous meals Diamond Jim was fond of. And then suddenly, there was no one breakin duck eggs for omelettes. I know there’s all kinds of secrets shit he’s into. Well, I don’t really know, it’s a secret, but I know that the secret shit is secret, otherwise it wouldn’t be secret shit. I get it, so I learned not to ask questions. The last thing he said to me before he vamoosed was “Amish, it weren’t ever my intention to live long, but just long enough to have a boring obituary because none of my contemporaries are alive to read it”. I was trying to sort out where that was coming from when he said, “Pecker Woodson told me that on his deathbed. Thems been my words to live by since”. Pardon my French, but, tout cela est tres estrange! So it was both a relief & a ponderance when we got this voice mail the other day from a fella who called himself Chip Pansing. Oh hell, I’ll just play it for you. What you can’t hear is the din of geese that the ornithologist we have on retainer determined to be that of the Bering Cackling Goose. So we zeroed in on the Pacific Northwest & well, took it from there. Chip Pansing says he’s a friend of Roland’s & was shocked to see him in such a state as when he showed up at his door, unannounced. Here, listen for yourself:
“Greetings to all within the Woodbe minion. This is Chip Pansing, I’m an old friend of the Dapper Dude, as he was known to all in foreign services a lifetime ago, & I’m calling to say he’s doing well in his early stages of recovery, please don’t worry. I must say, it was quite a surprise to see him at my doorstep a fortnight ago. Especially because his only items were a fondue pot, a 5lb slab of cured pork belly, a huge hunk of Taleggio & one skewer.  I got him inside & ran tests. His vital signs were blowing up everywhere. So I took the necessary precautions. I am not his attending doctor, you’ll hear from that person in good time. I’ll act as your liaison for now. Don’t try & trace this call, it’s impossible. What do think we are, C.I.A.? Just before his recent carrot juice submersion, he gave me this series of words strung together to read to you. He said all would understand & know what to do. It is in regards to a record entitled Dragged Through the Garden by a band called Preening. What any of the following gibberish means I cannot say, but please, if I may & I quote; ‘Not many folks is dialin up the digits’ve ‘ol Ted Milton these days, what with puppet enthusiasm being at it’s most nadiring nadir. But true puppet aesthete’s is never encumbered, know whats up & is dogged in theys pursuit of yarbling smithery. These ain’t the sotted puppeteers from your 8th grade graduation party all over again.  Unless yous was passed through in a post-COVID universe of the future & if that’s the case then I got, like, so many other questions to ask first’.
That’s it. All that spit out, pre anesthesia. I tell you, the man is a rock. More soon. Chip Pansing, out”.

To be continued…..

*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freindschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners

Baconeater or Baconator?…..Ted Yarm Returns!

Another missive arrived from our new amigo, Ted Yarm. He sure is a nosey dude, I’ll say that about him, askin all sorts’ve questions what’s above his pay grade. But it ain’t like I don’t know his kind. In my mind I imagine he’s like a less bumbling Hank Kimball, his bonhomie teetering between this projection‘ve eccentric “Doctor” & what’s not on the table (yet); full blown sociopath. But there’s no denyin his mind boggling familia fabula. Or taste in tunage. If theys ever make a Psycho III, someone ought see to it Ted Yarm gets an audition. Who knows, his crazy shit might open up a whole ‘nother franchise not even imagined yet.
Roland Seward Woodbe
Smithfield, Isle of Wight County, VA

Hello Roland!

Hope all is well with you, my fine lumpy friend. Much has changed around these parts, not sure if for the better or not quite yet, but the world continues to throw charming curveballs my way. For one, I am no longer employed at the Ghummbe Institute for Vertebrate Psychiatrics as I have lost my license. No, no, it was not forcibly taken from me in a humiliating farrago but instead I simply misplaced it somewhere (damn you Jacquins!) and they won’t let me back in the building without it. So I have embarked upon newer pastures with a fresh (temporary?) job. Yes, I am now a sales representative for Husband Ham. My wonderful son Stu Yarm runs the social media account and with his malformed foot (one is a good 3 inches wider than the other) in the door I was sitting pretty. At Husband Ham we happily carve up one of our delightful wet-cured hams into the visage of a beloved male spouse. I specify male because coarse and heavy masculine features are what we get out of those saws, like it or not! Many people have inquired about getting a version of thier wife made from our delightful wet-cured hams but ham does not do justice to graceful curves and feminine lines so unless they happen to look like Walter Matthau the resemblance just wouldn’t be there. You’d get mad, we’d get defensive- this is not the Husband Ham way. Please save your money and time! But for the husband- please come to us. We do the full body naturally (although we just put everyone in bathrobes, they being easy to carve and all), just like a casual midget porkman. And if your husband is an actual midget then I guess we just make them into a to-scale porkman. Is there a Mrs Woodbe, sullenly pottering around the house with her famous duster cleaning up in your wake? If so, I could easily get your family a discount on a ham version of you Roland!!! Imagine coming home from “work” (whatever it is you do), ready to relax, and in your favorite easy chair with a glass of your beloved Cazadores on the side table is a ham version of yourself! You would shit your pants in fright at first and then cackle like Woody Woodpecker! What a prankster Mrs Woodbe would be!
Anyway, on my first day in the office I came across some small personal items left behind by my predecessor in the sales representative department. Among the usual boxes of craisins, sandpaper, hollow wooden tortoise, eggnog recipe books, autographed Earl Kuck headshots, and salsa-smeared foam fingers was this lp by Ikuro Takahashi that I decided to put on. Glad I did! Everyone recognizes that name as having drummed for truly every incredible band in the 80s/90s Japanese underground, from High Rise to Fushitsusha to Kousokuya to Maher Shalal to Che-Shizu, and for that insane resume I’d like to think he’ll never have to pay for a beer again at his local. But a solo drum record is a tough sell, to me at least. I’ve seen some stellar sets by people like Chris Corsano and Tatsuya Nakatani but the visual element is equally important as the sonic one in these situations and seeing the dexterous goings on adds to the appreciation. Thus I don’t ever listen to those sorts of releases in the comfort of home or office. Hey, not even that Milford Graves/Sunny Murray really does it for me! Thankfully this has but one (very nice) track with a full drum kit, the bulk being given over to Takahashi’s electronic work. A number of years ago I witnessed him performing with an army of tiny buzzing oscillators, lining them up on a little rack while the shrill drone massed in force and volume while most of the crowd cringed away in the corners of the room. Most of the b side is devoted to a track much like that, a relentless hum of insectoid thrum. I assure you it is unsettling at any volume. The other tracks are much less harsh, with music boxes, plates, and metronomes being explored one at a time in fascinating ways. The record is dedicated to his sadly departed wife and collaborator, the dancer Yoko Muronoi. As these are all pieces originally performed by them in tandem it adds both a poignancy and a curiosity as what to what the intended work was like. As is, however, this is certainly a beguiling listen, and one that I keep coming back to.
Well Roland, you must tell me news of your life, and don’t forget to let Mrs Woodbe (if she exists) know about the discount!


Ted Yarm

Husband Ham sales department.


*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freindschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners

Calling Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise!…..Don 2’s Record Reviews

I have often said that Blog Of Roland is open to consideration as to the stylings’ve all comers. Not so much my idea, it’s part’ve the tenets of the Guild. But with or without their benevolence, you can be certain that the musings’ve a holistic pet therapist & a talkin turtle is gonna get some Blog time. As far as doctorin goes,  Ted Yarm sounds like he’s practicin somewhere between Dr. Seuss ‘n Dr. Pepper, but who amongst us don’t enjoy a soft drink & a fable on occasion? Don 2 seems like a regular Yackety Sax but theys no denyin his taste in tunage. And I gotta confess, how could I not be a fan’ve “someone” named after my two, favorite top fuel drag racers? Read & believe, folks, read & believe. 

Roland Seward Woodbe

Area X, Earth.

Hello Mr Woodbe-

You do not know me (personally at least but perhaps by reputation…?) so permit an introduction. I am Dr. Ted Yarm. To call my profession a pet psychologist would not be accurate.  I support a holistic, all consuming approach to recovery that could encompass anything from traditional “headshrinking” (as we call it in the “biz”) to Laotian cooking therapy (some very nice larb prepared by a troubled rabbit!). Your name has come up recently in a special list of people who live with pets who are named after previous pets who are named after famous drag racers (Don 2 is clearly named after Don 1 but I have not yet established if that is after Don Gartlis or Don Prudhomme ((Is your own Matty 3 named after Matty Box?)) Such things I am privy to due to a strictly professional nature. (Please do not ask me to reveal who funded such a list, I am not at liberty to divulge) Upon further investigation, you appear to be a guy who may appreciate our unconventional methods, as my story will hopefully bear out.Recently a most curious case has come to my notice. A certain turtle, Don 2, was given over to my restorative care. As we all know, a pet can sense his owner’s emotional state and it affects their own moods. It seems his owner was not an easy man to live with, alternating between alarmingly annoying enthusiasm and total intertia. This was causing the turtle to become, vis a vis, both lugubrious and skittish simultaneously. I was at a loss how to proceed. Dream analysis produced no helpful path to take, nor jazzercise, parachuting, primal screaming, or Dr Hilarius’ faces. Then my son, Phantur Yarm, had a bright idea. He had just moved to the city (!) and has, for the first time in his 26 years, taken an interest in music!  And even acquired a turntable! These things have really helped him meet some likeminded young urban individuals and he thought some music therapy may be just the trick to bring Don 2 out of his shell (ha ha!) and suggested some vinyl records by “BBF”, of whom he apparently meant the big 3 of the vinyl resurgence, Billy Joel, the Beatles, and Frank Sinatra. Well, I tried playing those to Don 2 and glumly report a dismal failure. Nothing to say, not even the merest sliver of an opinion about any of them! But then a light went off in my head: if his owner is known to spend hours at a time spinning endless records and drinking, only to break the monotony by suddenly shaking a TD Bank pen and shouting “booga booga!” at the turtle tank only to regress back into lethargy, might Don 2 perhaps have opinions about the records he’s forced to hear over and over again? I must say, the fellow somewhat opened up.

Alastair Galbraith- Seconds Mark III (A Colourful Storm): “Ah, yes, Mr. Galbraith! A timeless purveyor of delicate Barrett-esque hovering melodies and shards of noise! No clue why The Rip is deemed lightweight(?!?), it is a promising start to a wonderful body of work that includes the mightily moody noisy folk strum of Plagal Grind and the breathtaking Siltbreeze lp Morse. Now there are many releases between that and this, and the ones we’ve heard have been very nice, perhaps leaning more towards experimental sounds and song fragments than before, but worthy nevertheless. This particular release was warmly recommended by my friend Randall of Rahway, NJ and he did not steer us wrong! I do not think it would be too risky to proclaim this record to be what we Terrapene Carolina have been seeking! Songs are brief but memorable, guitars of both electric and acoustic persuasions are present, the mood is sometimes domestic, at other times offering a gentle stoned sense of wonder, and the overall effect is like sharing a bottle with a rarely-seen friend. And speaking of friends, David Mitchell even makes an appearance.”

I Can I Can’t-s/t (Low Company): “A now-defunct London band making thier first release a decade after the fact. Sounds pretty good! While the record does not get off to an auspicious start (swirling guitar chords abruptly turn into a thin chugging riff of the kind even Chokehold would have deemed too shitty to release) matters quickly resolve themselves into a satisfactory state during the next track when the abrupt appearance of patient keyboard drone and an overall calming atmosphere hang around before a strummed guitar brings things back to a properly agitated vibe. The first side alternates (often times within one track) between sort of bratty sounding chnk chnk rhythmic rock and more spacious sections where the percussion and electronic things come to the fore. Overall I think the quieter aspects are more appealing than the rock ones but a repetitive element appears in every song while the other instruments gambol around offering melodies and interesting textures and it is always effective. The second side is a bit different, with a more relaxed, burbling instrumental approach that is hitting the spot. They were an interesting band and I wish to have been able to hear them in a more high fidelity situation to better make out the details but what you see is what you get.”

Camizole & Lard Free (Souffle Continu) While this is not new (released in 2018) I have heard exactly zero people mention it so the situation must be rectified. It kicks complete and totalass! Lard Free are, of course, a prime example of the unclassifiable French freakiness of the 70’s that flirts with progass! Lard Free are, of course, a prime example of the unclassifiable French freakiness of the 70’s that flirts with prog but is ultimately too screwball and fucked up for the prisses. As for Camizole, I must claim complete ignorance! However a  brief internet search reveals they never released anything at the time but an archival cd on Spalax (home to many imported Kraut treasures back then!) did come out decades after the fact, and was indeed pressed on vinyl for the first time by Souffle Continu, which I will order immediately upon termination of this therapeutic session. Anyway, this record documents two different meet ups of the bands collaborating together, and such a spectacle must have made the crowds’ eyes bulge out like Beaker. Saxophones howl overtop a dense blanket of cloudy din. It’s as intense and churning as Airway! A wild free rock cacaphony! 1978?!? No way!!!!!”

*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freindschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners

Odin and Loki, sitting in a tree…..New lp’s from Forlag For Fri Musik!

I spent this past week at some top-secret conference on ethnic bioweapons where I was partnered up w/a fella from Pittsburgh I’ll call Pleats. His credentials seemed dubious to begin with & the more he’d prattle on, the more it became clear he knowed a little bit about a wide range’ve things, but even that seemed like horseshit. The only thing I come to truly believe was his PGH roots as he’d talk about’em any chance he got. He’d extend his right hand to shake, then say “1st time outta Polish Hill, ever” & before “excuse me ?’ passed your lips, he was on with some blather about steps & churches & la de da. He seemed genuinely surprised that french fries didn’t come on everything too. Case in point; lunch, the 1st day. A bunch’ve us was seated at a large round table & the waitress was takin orders. She asked Pleats if he’d like either soup or salad as a starter.”Make it salad, Hon, fries on the side.”

“So you’d like a side of french fries?”

Pleats clenched his teeth & said measuredly, “No, just the salad fries on the side.”

The waitress, thoroughly confused, asked, “what do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?”

A couple’ve fellow conference attendees interjected, saying french fries aren’t part of the salad’s construction. A huge “debate” ensued with Pleats finally pushin his chair away from the table, standing up & demanding to be driven to the nearest Peppi’s, immediately. The dining room went silent, then a voice shouted, “Bring me back a Big Wheeler while you’re at it!” & that seemed to break the ice. This was more or less how he conducted himself, like an uncouth boor. By the time he got around to explainin to me how John Foqua got the nickname, ‘Frenchy’, I’d signed out, claimin “flu-like” symptoms & headed off to Casa Woodbe quicker’n you could say Yinz. I arrived back just in time to greet Suffragan X_______X from the Guild, who was goin ’round back to the kitchen entrance w/a country ham & bag’ve eggplants for Frau Feldwebel. Amish had said he thought they was diddlin, but I didn’t dare ask. I tried jokin around with him, sayin whiles I had nothing against nightshades, I could go a spell w/o seein a potato. He gave me that worried look he always does, pinched back a smile & said, “Yes. Well, good to see you, Raul.” The casserole (& Rieslings) what was served later crushed. Maybe there’s something to all that Hexerei sorcery. It’s a fact their food always tasted better. Then I thought it’d been a while since I seen a newt on the property. Maybe they was bein gathered ‘n ground up for some hexobarbital potions? Boy, was the wine talkin now! Good thing nobody heard it but me. 

But that whole “powwowing” aspect’ve things seems dyed in the wool over to the Forlag For Fri Music label/collective. And since the Erntedankfest is comin right up, who knows, maybe they got somethin loomin. There’s two new crack lp’s what was dropped earlier in the summer, keepin their inculpable discography hoverin at 1000%. Treasury Of Puppies-as a name-comes in far below K-9 Sniffies in the forfeiture of currency appeal, but a Treasury Of Puppies in real time is a sight to behold. I recall once our English Setter bitch, Eunice, gave birth to a litter of pups, I think nine or ten of’em lived. Once they was old enough to be sold, they was quite a sight. They’d come out’ve the barn like one big puppy scrum, movin forwards ‘n sideways, gruntin & howlin, it was just about the cutest thing, ever. What made it even better was this duckling, Alphonse, somehow got it in his little duck brain that he was part of this…..treasury. So as them pups commenced to makin forward motion, there was Alphonse,quackin & bouncin along right behind’em. Maybe that sort’ve thing happens all the time in dog kennels across pagan Sweden. There’s a certain magic to a duck thinkin it’s a dog, that’s for sure. Treasury Of Puppies-the band-is (more of less) part’ve a progeny sprung from the creaking, alchemical promulgations’ve Enhet For Fri Musik. Like begat’s Private Arms & Amateur Hour, ToP excel in a dystopian overcast, relyin on ley lines what’s equal parts folk/industrial primitivism & swath’s of ecclesiastical psych to move the native tongue narrative. It’s a lot like what I’d imagine the 2nd un lp would’ve sounded like if they’d gone New Age’n sang backwards in their sleep. Treasury Of Puppies might not be no Archimedes Badkar, but take a look in the mirror. You ain’t no Steven Stapleton yourself.

Two’ve the label’s deacons-Dan Johansson & Gustaf Dickson-comprise the duo of Oroskallan & whaddya know, theys gone & dropped a 2nd lp. First time through it reminded me of a morning walk I once took around Dover England. It was a misty day & the fog had yet to rise, yet there was a rush you got from the Channel air. As I got closer to the city center, I realized alls the folks I was passin by, or could see on my horizon, was mutated somehow. Limps, twitches, bug-eyes & boils, to a person they was afflicted. Then I come across this woman who appeared to be most normal. She seemed to have a cheery disposition, even smiled at me whiles we was waitin at a crosswalk for a light to change. Just as it did, she kicked back & flew down on the ground, writhin in spasms. My counter-intelligence intuition ticked off & I lit the fuck outta there.

The whole city seemed under the hold of a Peter Watkins spell. And that’s how this ‘tva-ett barn glommer ingenting’ lp plays. It’s peacefully pastoral, but there’s the odd hiccup/tape splice to the subtle repetition that trips up your chakras. In the moments of confusion that follow, you suddenly can’t tell the difference between Terry Riley & Vini Reilly. It’s like when Vale & Revok have that telepathic battle at the end of ‘Scanners’ & they become the best’ve one. Alternatively, an argument could be made that it’s not unlike an elaborate ploy set in motion by the monolith from ‘2001’ where it’s hiding out on one of Saturn’s 62 moons, playing ‘Dome 2’ directly back to Houston, Texas to the everlasting befuddlement of Mission Control. Thems with glasses is sure it comin from Tethys, while the smokers say Mimas. But listen up folks-there’s nine moons that ain’t even been named! Theys could broadcastin from ANYWHERE. I’d say it’s just another day in the universe’ve Oroskallan, but after listenin to this, I wouldn’t presume to know how theys measure time.

*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freindschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners


Di mot ngay dang hoc mot sang khon…..Jukebox Interrogation with Bah Poc Phanc!

Finally pulled some R&R, so’s I took advantage of it & headed down to Greensboro to visit my old amigo, Bao Poc Phanc. Me & him run a whole bunch’ve covert operations in the early 70’s based out’ve Vietnam’s Central Highlands, workin w/the Montagnard’s. I won’t bore you with the details, but I will say Bao Poc Phanc was a kind of genius when it come to havin fun. He showed the Montagnards how to brew IPA’s, make pork hotdogs & even explained the rudiments of baseball to’em (he was fluent in Chamic Bahnaric). He’d say “when American game on radio, we drink bia, eat cha lua”! It wasn’t long before ‘the American game’ was the most important event in whatever hamlet we went to. Hell, one drop we got a couple’ve balls & a fungo bat. “We have fungo in the jungo!”, Bao Poc Phanc would shout & folks would come runnin. After that, we was like the Piped Pipers. But in ’74 a new set’ve orders had me packin. Bao Poc Phanc seen the writin on the wall & got a bunch’ve them folks evacuated off to the states. I reckon they settled in Greensboro & since he went with’em, there ya go. We’s keep in touch, but it’s been a while since it’s been in person. He keeps up w/the goings on at BoR & wanted to be included. Over the years, Bao Poc Phanc has become an ardent reader’ve The Wire magazine out’ve the UK. He thinks it’s very humorous & often asks me if it’s intentional or a peculiar form’ve British propaganda. I just say I don’t know, but it must be a fierce chore breathin whiles sittin atop such a high horse. That answer always breaks him up. Anyhow, he wanted to do his own ‘Jukebox Interrogation’, so that’s what we done. This interrogation was conducted on a screened-in back porch, in Greensboro, NC, Labor Day weekend, 2020, at approximately 10′ apart. There was a lot’ve shoutin (hence the caps) as it was hard hearin each other at that distance, but as Bao Poc Phanc said beforehand “we keep safe, you not die in my house, imperialist pig!” What a sense of humor. During all this, we was feted with jackfruit spritzers, fried rice cakes & red drum fritters. It was quite the time.  

Al Karpenter-If We Can’t Dream, They Won’t Sleep! (Ever/Never)
RW-It’s Al Karpenter.

Lewsburg-In This House lp (12XU)

RW (incredulously) MAN, YOU’RE REALLY GOING OUT-

B.C.F.W.-barragemirage megamultifurcation lp (Radical Documents)







BPP -(grinning broadly) I GOT ACRONYM FOR YOU-SOACD.



RW (completely flummoxed) WHAT IN THE FUCK-




*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freindschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners

The Legend of Hummingbird Ass…..cassette reviews!




First up, I gotta say I’m sorrier than a two-headed calf at a three-headed auction for the long silence. These is Covid times & I gotta be where I gotta be & it ain’t been behind a peckin board for a while now. My clearance is still tip-top, so’s I’m tucked away in some counterinsurgency forward post, but that’s alls you need to know. Anyhow, I met this fella what’s gettin rotated back, Theodore Chatterton Duckburg, who identifies as a Non-Obscurist. Which is ironic, cause he’d talk a blue streak about things nobody’d ever thought about, let alone heard. He was some higher up in the chain & when it come to on the ground, base building strategy, he was a VIP whiz. That’s right, he could build a ventilated improved pit (a toilet-sanitation ed.) quicker & safer than anyone. Teddy Duckburg knowed his shit, if you catch my drift. He claimed to have authored some chapbooks or treatise for latrine readin I’d never heard of. One was called Come Blow My Horn which he claimed was a defense of Little Boy Blue, but was really a salacious allegory about his carnal desires for Edwyn Collins during the Orange Juice years. The other was called Know Pun, a series of broadsides parodying Stooges songs by interjecting ‘meta puns’ (his words) into the lyrics. Thankfully I never laid eyes on neither or he’d probably be goin back in a body bag.  But I am nothing if not magnanimous, so’s I gave him carte blanche to try his hand at a tape column for the blog.  As far as bad ideas go, you be the judge. Personally, I am mystified by peacocks, strutting around the property in full plumage, callin to mind  the failed grandeur of a Confederate cotillion. Folks like Teddy Duckworth think the sun comes up to hear them crow. So give him a chance. Maybe it does.

Roland Seward Woodbe
Exact location classified, Earth
Suffering Succotash Through A Syringe
*musings by T. C. Duckburg*
Cuff your pants/and tie your boots
Get ready for the clown
Can you hear the chants/of the coots & toots?
Duckburg’s coming to town!
(lyrics from the song, ‘Pimpernel’s Promenade’  taken from the musical, ‘The Tin Ear’).
Greetings, salutations & hey, diddle diddles to all my fellow Non-Obscurists out in the Blogosphere.  Eternal gratitude to Ronald Woodbe for giving me this virtual megaphone  to espouse tunes into the tones & timbres as only I know how. I believe it was Anaximenes of Miletus who 1st believed that everything was composed of air. And in terms of the cassettes under review here today, some of that air may be hot. Ho! Ho!
We’ll delve right in with a study of two Bill Orcutt self released tapes, ‘Reel Feel Geel Reel’ & ‘Warszawa 06.10.2019’. Both of these were recorded during Orcutt’s tour of Europe last year & showcase two remarkably different approaches of play from his deck of Primitivo 52. There are very few contemporary guitarists whose panache matches their poker face as well as Orcutt’s. His non-hermetic blasts are tastefully complemented with passages of barren, windblown howl. The great Dutch free thinker, Gessert Van Der Poon released a set of impossibly hard to find reel to reel tapes of distorted tube frenzy in the mid 60’s entitled ‘Tuffets of Trepidation’ of which these Orcutt sets bear eerie reminiscence to. Der Poon would wrap his tuba in harp strings, then blow into the horn while simultaneously fingering the strings wherever his hands might find themselves. As the ardent observer, Marion Leavenworth, opined at the time, ‘it seems there’s a Fluxus amongxus”. I certainly concur. I highly doubt that the famous Bologna firebrand, Amaro Di Gestif, would snort in favorable agreement, but we must follow the only humane path there is left and not tell him. Silence is molten.
Public Puberty were a shortlived ensemble who graced the terra firma last summer in a series of jocular, neo minimal, post Fluxus frippery that was equal parts croak & caul. As the superb Theosophist, P. O. Ridge-Colde, would often refrain, “if you close your eyes hard enough, anything is possible.” So with that on the table, lets close our eyes REAL hard & imagine the set of ‘Hogans Heroes’-a stalag-was really just a hologram for a group of secular musicians-aka “downed airmen”- to hide behind & perform in secret at an FMP, Total Music Meeting. Jost Gerbers is no Colonel Klink. He knows a clambake when he smells one. And Wuppertal is a wurst town. And whatever is going on is going to get a lot wurst if Major Hochstetter shows up. I relish this sort of improvisational pickle. It has a good snap & through it all,  Daniel Dimaggio proves to be a 1st rate bun man. I won’t must-ard about this great release too much or I feel you’ll never ketch-up. Apropos of nothing; Sgt. Baker was no Kinchloe. That’s like comparing Roger Patterson to Ben Patterson, an afront I find practically Russian in nature. Is there goulash in the gulags? Don’t ask me. As the eminent North Vietnamese propagandist, Dieu Phong, was fond of saying, “Better call Maaco.”
I don’t plan to do this often, as I intend for this column to about contemporary meanderings, but every now again I can fudge the margins. And since Danny “Monster” Cruz (RIP) loved fudge, it seems only apropos. So his posthumous cassette release-with Bob ‘Sebadoh’ Fay (drums)& Matt ‘Sunburned Hand of the Man’ Robidoux (bass/guitar)-as Vanishing DMC gets a pass.
I’ve never been quite satisfied with the name, Sunburned Hand of the Man. Shouldn’t it be Sunburnt Hand? Can you get burnt in New England? These are the questions haunting me when I was going through my files & found my notes for the ultimate bacon, lettuce & tomato sandwich, aka, BLT. You should try it , my God, it is an astounding creation. My mommy made them for me all through summer vacations as a youth. As an adult, I wasn’t prepared for their, rather, particular construction. The addition of mayonnaise-aka, mayo-as a stand alone flavor compound-or condiment- is remarkable too. Forgive the meticulous nature of my comprehension,  I have perfectionist issues;
1-Begin construction of bacon, lettuce & tomato sandwich by toasting sliced bread 1st. Surprisingly, any bread works. Like the revered Cypriot beatnik, Imma Peppertoopolis, I enjoy a hint of chestnut flour, but it never seems attainable.
2-Fry bacon. This is crucial step. I used to think it came this way, as though ordained by a higher power, but no. Note; raw bacon does not work (too chewy). Fry bacon on each side until done. Granted, ‘done’ could mean a plethora of things, but you can probably tell. From here, move fried bacon slices to a paper towel for grease run off. You’ll thank me later for this tip. Let cool.
3-tear off a few leaves of your favorite lettuce. Or if you’re in the MAGA states, iceberg is fine. Lay flat on one piece of toasted, mayo slathered bread.
4-add strips of bacon directly onto lettuce. Bonus; if the bacon has to be cut in two & if your mayo choice is Kewpie,  feel free to incorporate a Half Japanese fanciful pun.
5-on top of bacon & lettuce construct, lay 2 or three slices of tomato. if available, sprinkle a few flakes of Maldon sea salt to them. Note to self-could this be the concoction of Maldon Pennypacker, the esteemed Libertarian taffyist? He once convinced me that 11 nickles & 1 dime constituted change for a dollar. I learned from that experience that I did not, in fact, know all that much about currency tables.
6-question, if you add additional ingredients, do you acknowledge? For instance, is a fried egg added, a BELT? or avocado a BALT? Are alfalfa sprouts, BASLT? Kalamata (pitted, of course) olives BKOLT? If you use ranch dressing instead of mayo does it even change at all? Or go with BLTRD? The acronyms can get pretty confusing.  Best to enjoy just what you have.
Recommendation-Y/N-do you cut this in half or eat as is? Toothpicks aren’t required for a split, but encouraged. If your cool about it, no one will mock you. Warning-DO NOT lick fingers should tasty goodness run down your hand. Priests & reprobates are all around. Cagily wipe hand off on the far side of your trousers./END.
Radical Documents know how to keep things interesting. This wonderful cassette of breezy-avant piano jams is the perfect caviar to fill the mother of pearl spoon I recently scored from the estate of celebrated Zurich street mime, Schmeedle Deetlemeier. Roe, roe your boat, Schmeedle. Ah, levity. ? Band’s cassette, ‘The Ivory Era’, would make the perfect soundtrack to the criminally neglected Fluxus silent film by the noted Lyon cineaste, Scoba D’ieu. Never given a proper title but known informally as ‘Moon Balloons’, it follows a group of petulant children who are all sucking on toffee candy hanging from a string of caramelized sugar attached to balloons. The candy can only be consumed by air, it can’t be manipulated by hand. If they tried to catch their breath between sucking, the balloon would fly away. If they sucked long enough, the caramelized string would melt the balloon would, of course, fly away. It’s a bloody brilliant piece of subversion. Balloons are the perfect metaphor of our youth & who hasn’t lost one & been crushed? There are tears. what’s more, they are compounded by fears, thus tears for fears. Now you know.
The honor of final entry in my debut column goes none other than to that pin-sharp dissident group out of a2, XV. Simply titled, ‘Basement Tapes’, XV strive & hone their agitprop post-punk postulations with devil-may-care elan. This could have easily chalked up a release # on the legendary It’s War Boys label in the salad days. Imagine the 021 in a beat the clock contest with the 012, while the Gang of Four-Andy Gill, Jon King, Hugo Burnham & Dave Allen-discuss Godard/Marxist variations as they pertain to Thousand-year-old-egg recipes with the Gang of Four; Jiang Ging, Zhang Chunqiao, Yao Wenyuan & Wang Hongwen. Ho, ho, hold onto your little red books my aggro Anglo comrades, that’s an ancient Chinese secret.
Well, I’ve spouted enough. Let’s call it a day, yeah? If you’re appreciative of any of these cutting edge, expert recommendations, I highly advise you to contact the editor of this blog & make a substantial donation. To me, T.C. Duckburg. I can even come over to your house for supper. I’m keen on tater tots & wild ales. But please, don’t make a fuss. The pleasure, to be sure, will be all yours.
Until We Bleat Again,
T.C. Duckburg
*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freindschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners

But The Spool Just Keeps On Rollin, Bringin Me Some Real Rad News…..Cassette Reviews!



Was just lookin at all them cassettes stacked up, thinkin if theys was a wall of toilet paper rolls it’d make a plushy, lil fort for a kitten. Or turtle. Some type’ve small, docile, domesticated critter. Snakes ‘n lizards need not apply.  What else is there after them? Gerbils? Never had no use for’em. Hamsters neither. Just about the most contrarian varmints they is. Plus, the people who abide’em put on a helluva snoot. Like theys on some higher plane.Hamsters-the ascot of pets. Let’s see what that ascot can do when you get an infestation’ve mice! Plus, I don’t think they’d do so well in the toilet paper fort. They’d be too busy eatin through it. Hamsters & gerbils, a couple’ve real brainiacs. You might wanna go back to the blackboard on that theory, Einstein. What a load’ve shit.

Sorry, got lost there. These tapes……some of’em have been sittin around casa Woodbe for a spell. My apologies to all the artists on the wait.If someone months ago had said,”what’s it gonna take, a quarantine?”, it never would’ve dawned on me to answer, “probably.” And maybe that’s why we’re here, or maybe it ain’t. But here we are. So let’s go.
By far the most dogies in this roundup belong to Max Nordile. I know Max primarily from his work w/Preening, but obviously he ain’t one to rest solely on them laurels. It’s hard to see the East Bay from here, but he’s either workin w/four arms or boosted into an 8 day week. If you’re familiar w/Preening, then you know he throws heat. He just wants more time in the rotation. Through the myriad of work collected here-three solo outings, ‘Primordial Gaffe’, ‘Go To Sleep Fool’ & aka, Nothing Band’s ‘Descension/Digestion’- 2 trios-‘Rosebud’ & ”Dolphin’-and finally in duet formation on ‘Vol. 2’, he never fails to deliver The Jack. If blue-collar clatter is your thing, you’ve come to the right foundry. His swabbin is as keen as Jason Willett, trowels like he was mentored by Han Bennink & whaps that rammer as if it was Kifkif himself. All in a day’s work you say? Shit, if the man went at it any harder, he’d a folk hero. Over there to Columbus,Ohio is a couple comers. ‘The Girl in Times New Viking’ is just what you’d expect; a solo gem from Beth Murphy (the girl in Times New Viking-Clarification Ed.). The material is archival, but if you didn’t know it, you wouldn’t know it (I guess that explains the present tense of the title). Anyhow, Murphy has a deft hand & ear for atmospheric pop. Her tunes float across this outing like sanguine clouds; crystalline & dignified, yet there’s a plaintiveness here too that’s undeniable.  On the whole it’s as high on the hill as Kendra Smith’s post Opal work & if that sounds like I’m cryin, then I’m dyin. Glad to have her back. Linda Trip is a group that might be made up’ve folks I know. But I don’t know who I know out there no more. No matter none, Linda Trip is a pretty crack distillation’ve Washington Beach huff,Harrisburg Players puff, 80’s High Street, even a tip’ve the Blatz to local humbug, Mick Divvens. Admittedly, I ain’t no Art Schlichter, but I know a winner when I’m at the bettin window. The folks over to Notice Recordings was sportin enough to send two label releases. ‘Scrine’, by Hands To, is a reintroduction to the name & work of Jeph Jerman. Dude’s been in the trenches for a few decades now & while his deft twitchery has not (yet) earned him tenure into the Schimpfluch-Gruppe proper, he is a brut-heart-cutter-outer par excellence. ‘Scrine’ is 11 pieces recorded inside the bowling ball’ve Pete Weber, on his way to a PBA title match. YES, there was snortin & drinkin.  YES, there was cursin & cryin. YES, there was fightin & fuckin. Good thing they never pulled outta the driveway. Jerman’s genius rests in his ability to not make it audio obvious. He’s tweaked the goings-on inside that El Camino (via a contact mike dropped down the thumb hole’ve Weber’s Storm T-Road Pearl) so’s it could be anyone; some disgruntled pyromaniac, maybe even the black box tapes off JFK Jr’s ill-fate Marthas Vineyard crash. You…just…don’t…know. David Blaine oughta get up on this shit. Maybe he’d learn somethin. This ‘Breath Fractals’  release is a 1st-time meetin for Chik White (jaw harp) & Xuan Ye (whatever else). You might think it’s a David & Goliath thing, but it ain’t. More like Alexander Graham Bell & Thomas Watson, though who is who, it’s impossible to ascertain. The 1st track charges at you like an attack by Shaking Ray Levis & it always warms my heart to be reminded of them guys. From there it’s cautious pronunciations & occasional skree. It could easily be the back & forth between the spotter & a pit crew chief goin over their cannabinoid inventory before a Cannonball Run.Tucumcari ain’t exactly next door. ‘Skip Skool’, the latest 2 track hellion via Razorlegs, is an artifact of heavy ponderance. The A side, ‘Transistor Lover’ wears its heart on its sleeve. It’s attack ‘n ferocity is every bit as unhinged as Red Transistor (if you go by the cave drawings or death bed confessions of those who was there). ‘Skip Skool’,(side B),  bears the alliteration one might associate w/Guru Guru. Which is handy, as this track sounds like a late night throwdown a’tween Trepte & Neumeier to see who gets the eat the last of the mayonnaise. Dr.Hurst keeps it deservedly primitive, but Fadensonnen has Hellmans runnin through his veins. My favorite of theirs to date. Can’t says I know squat about ‘haleta wellins winter mountain’. Except that the mountain here is Lexie Mountain, an artist who I love like a buffet. Which means I’d be down for hearin this even if I weren’t paid to ( He’s kidding!-Levity Ed ). Bearing two side-long pieces of voice, tapes & electronics it seems as much suited for a Spiritualist seance as it does an MFA thesis. Play this in a blacked-out room-esp. side 2-& see how long that lasts. Recommended for fans of Madame Blavatsky, MR James, Daphne du Maurier, fog, moors, hemlock, mandrake, blackthorn, United Dairies, crib death, warm cordials & toads. Don’t let the name, Hobocop, or the last-minute graphics on their ‘Hungry Freak In The Freak Mine’ release put you off. It’s all by design! Since I still got the ouija board out, a quick search suggests they’s might be Oakland based. They’ve got a welcomin lo-fi bonhomie to their DIY pludge, reminding me non-specifically of a few bands from the early 80’s who never did had a full length, yet always excelled on compilations. But this tape counts, so let’s be on with it. Matt Robidoux’s ‘Brief Candles’ just arrived & permeates w/an ennui that is capable of gripping anyone what gives it a listen. While ensconced in the bay area, Robidoux’s large band ensemble guff would have sounded very much at home in pre-pandemic days on Elliott Sharp’s Zoar or Vinny Golia’s Nine Winds imprint. Robidoux seems like he might already be in on the long con of the arts grant world, but if not, someone hire him a Henry Higgins & be quick about it! Lastly, we come to the nugs of the lot. The label, ZZK, has benevolently stopped their Ecstacy distro to unveil these reissues’ve super-obscure German NDW non-conformists.Since boths is new to my wizened ears, I ain’t got no intel on either. I didn’t really truck in the tape world back then, though I was as slippery in that country in them days as a Wurst queen at Octoberfest. Both of these-Didaktische Einhit’s ”Dosis 6′ & Pionier Serios’ ‘Berlin-are great transmissions of a world that may not have existed outside’ve their practice spaces. DE have a pretty good grasp of nascent DAF & Alu in their verschutten. Pionier Serios entry was evidently a promo-only until this edition & was described to me as a “paranoid sex dungeon masterpiece’. Well, I’ve seen a few East Berlin sex dungeons in my day-through surveillance footage only, of course-& while I couldn’t verify the masterpiece embellishment, the paranoid is pretty on point. The a side has a fella talkin a mile a minute-think VU’s,’The Gift’, but in German-while the flip has him schnapped ‘n content, singin along in his best beer-hall blubber, as the Stasi close in. I’m tellin ya, it makes me so fuzzy for the Cold War I could almost eat a John LaCarre book right now just to taste the deceit. Thems was the good old days.
Here’s a list’ve as much as I can track should you’s be curious on any of this;
Max Nordile;
The Girl in Times New Viking;
Linda Trip;
Hands To;
Breath Fractals;
haleta wellins winters mountain;
Matt Robidoux ;
*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freundschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners.

Time To Fill The Johnny…..Best Of List, 2019!



Greeting to alls in the year 2020! I was just set to fumble around on a 2019 list, even sat down at the writin table & began rememberin-it’s been a minute-when I got a call from Sampaguita-the Filipino gal what looks after my spot in the Fishtown (also a former Woodbe asset-Background ed.)-all worked up about a busted dishwasher. So I got in the car & drove on down to Philadelphia. Along the way, it occurred to me it was Friday, so I dialed up the bodega whats around the corner from the house & called in an order for a couple dozen of them homemade cabrito empanada’s to feast on whiles I was in town. So I get there & sure enough, the dishwashers got a glitch. Know why? She’d been runnin her underwear through it! The culprit; some tiny-ass thong had gotten all knotted up around the lower spray arm & stopped it from spinnin. Shut the whole thing down. But once I’d coaxed them undies outta there, it was fit as a fiddle. Sampaguita was watchin the whole time & when I spun around & dangled them panties in front of her, she squealed & blushed redder’n a pepper. As I handed’em over she smiled & said “sank you Rombys”, then gave me one of them coquettish laughs & asked if I wanted to go upstairs to watch her put’em on. I was all for it, but 1st had to dip ’round the corner & pick up that order. Them empanadas was waitin for me behind the counter, still warm & fragrant. I was almost out the door when Mrs. Garcia-the owner-come runnin up behind me wavin an envelope. “Senor Woods, hi, hi! Be a letter for you, senor Woods” & handed it forthwith. It had my name on it alright, but the address was wrong. Mrs. Garcia said the woman with the “Rod Stewart cat” had brought it in. Said she was scared to put it in my mailbox. Since it had gotten wet at some point, all the ink had run, smearin both the address & its return. Alls I could make out was the sender’s name; ‘Wadleen Ashat’. Never heard of’em. It had some heft to it & the stamps was foreign, but I couldn’t say from where. Intuitively I knowed it weren’t no bomb, but what if it was filled with a deadly powder? It was time to act fast. “MRS GARCIA, CONSUELO, TITO, BABY SILVIA, JOREL, CHARRO III, ALL OF YOU-STAND BACK”!, I shouted. There was a collective gasp as I tilted the envelope over a trash can, then the lot of’em scurried back behind the deli counter & peered at me through the display glass. I pulled my T-shirt up over my nose & poured’er out. Nothin. Then a second later, a letter-the sole content-plopped out. I reached down & picked it up. And it weren’t just any old letter-it was a goddamn best of list! I pulled the shirt down, smiled broadly, then threw a thumbs up sign back to the Garcia’s. “ALL GOOD, ALL GOOD! FALSA ALARMA! ADIOS, AMIGOS, HASTA LA HABA!”, I grabbed my sack’ve victuals & skedaddled the fuck outta there.

Once home, there weren’t no time for Sampaguita’s lascivious hijinx. I wanted to read this thing. It was five pages, handwritten, front & back. Lot’s of it had blotched from bein waterlogged, but for the most part, legible. Wadleen Ashat’s English might not be the Queens, but he/she knows what if/and is talkin about, even whens or/but can’t spell it. I done took the time to transcribe it for y’all so here it is. I still ain’t figured out how they almost knowed where I sometimes live-I never get up as far as him/her claims to be (3700 anywhere)-but that’s a pickle for another jar.

Anyway, have at it.
Roland Seward Woode
Tony’s Hot Dogs
Newark, NJ
Dead Roland Blog-
Greeting from windowasher at 3700 street. You remember, no? I wear a BETTER DAZE AHEAD t-shirt you ask most about. I fond out you are this Blog, which is my best one. (ink run, illegible) list for many tims, but I say to mine own self, “I will wite and try”. So please to read for and enjoy.
No ords are particaler, just all my favors for year.
Bill Orcutt-Live In L.A. lp (Fake Estates)
Is true that many white man, so smugs, some will be walk dogs-the American starter baby-like they doing your favors, gush for Bills ‘Odds Against Tomorrow’ lp. Is very good too, it could be his most Sunday best suit record of career. But who amongs want bortish pontificants from dull shrubbery? Your words for the mirror only. High road scribbles. Anyone listen, they know. The real line in the sans is on ‘Live In L.A.’ record. Here Bill makes construc (illegible)  Reich repetitions build laser chamber maze with Rat Bastards favorite hat held ransom. Bill know Rat will come. Mix drinks with real fruit & mezcal, then squark as result blow your head like Zapruder spritzer.
Doronco Gumo-Oldtribe lp (Selection)
Very confused that this uniques & uncharted album has no prsence. Maybe no radar at all! Doronco Gumo is not so unkown. Theres so gret lp on Holy Mountain lp once, also member of Les Ralles, so big in Japan. Perhaps not as much as Deep Purple, but was Gumo at legendary performances? Go ahead, ask him. On ‘Oldtribe’, Gumo has compose an audio language of future, almost like dog whistle music, as it is beyond most human ears. Perhaps only he (sorry, long blotch of ink run here) that once on Pinakotheca label. ‘Old Tribe’  is soundtrack for dance marathon too distant for squares. Legs are ears if you want it.
XV-XV lp (Life Like)
Most enigmatic record for 2019, yes. So very good, so very hard to get. Here am I write on Roland Blog when Roland Woodbe already describe their attak as Swiss Wave meets earliest Destroy All Monsters. And while is born of both, XV is freshest of each. If from old days, this lp could be made in an edition of 5000 or so & could you not find it now? Yes you couldn’t. So is same today. If  goal to olny collect records that are fantastic, this most top wanted fugitive for ( long illegible passage)  then weep.They will cut you.
Mosquitoes-Vortex Vearing Back to Venus lp (Feeding Tube)
No (blotch) that Mosquitoes are front and center most exciting band to floom down UK’s Avant headwaters. Like the language of Beckett, Mosquitoes enunciate in the posthuman. Their running narrative is brusque, reminiscent of early Jandek. Neither are literal comparisons, but mere guide stars to a spectacular constellation that continues its formation. Gaseous like a bean, botanical as a gin. Harry Parch called; he say, “eat a peach, oinks.”
Jacob Wick-Feel lp
This stupendous album examines the possiblys of Free Improvisation as exterminator. Not in Snuff Jazz mode as Borbetomagus. That lp collapse your synapses overland, like Roman assault on Maiden Castle. ‘Feel’ burrows deeply underground, through the tunnels of earth’s core, huffing in dense alloys, then suddenly breaching the surface to blurt them out in a stream of molten gold. What do Miles Davis, cocaine & a heavy bag all have in common? They make ( illegible smear)  a snow globe with ‘Feel’ as windup accompaniment. ‘Tis the season, motherfuckings.
Echo Ohs-Wild Weeds lp ( 1:12 Records)
Totally from-the-out-there bush of New Zealand’s contemporary bosh. The 1:12 Records label has seen its time, but I knew nothing of it until here. Excellent tribal thump hanging w/killer Wrayish reverbs and spooked vocal chanteuse. Things can get pleantly lost when is needed, but no worries. Ony your fears will lead to death. Echo Ohs don’t bear any grub steak for Flying Nun, nor is there any Onset/Offset DNA beneath their nails. More native than goth, but Goths was a native people too, once. You won’t hear Mary Briefcase, or even Flaming Stars ( wide blotch, illegible) Echo Ohs have own plot of beach & the sounds they burn on it resonate in the shower of embers that fizzle & smoke in the warm pools of high tide.
ZabloudilA-Hostkovice Live lp (self released)
Maybe only review I seen for this was Roland Blog. It can only to prove, fatsoes can never be trusted, psychedelic or otherwise. Imagine of wild boar run amok, inhaling the ‘Wasa Wasa’ of Edgar Broughton Band like an amuse-bouche, ravenously chewing through entire for catalog of Amon Duul, then snorting the black dust of Teenage Jesus (illegible) life affirming alkaline. This is not Book of Revelations, so is not too late. Until it is. Seems it can only be ordered direct, but is easy. Heed me; you’ll be patting yourself on the back for such bravery in no time. So go forth & plunk.
Spykes/Parashi-Braille License Plates For Sullen Nights 7″ (Radical Documents)
It is my estimation that John Olson has become the Lol Coxhill for his generation. All of t (entire content from here on blotted out & illegible).
Actually folks, that’s about all there is. The rest is too impossible to transcribe. Besides, it’s Sunday. Go eat a pot roast or somethin. And enjoy these tunes if you ain’t already. Tell’em Wadleen Ashat sent ya.
*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freundschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners

Low Smoke & Pound The Budweiser…..Overt Hostility’s ‘S/T’ cassette



Believe it or not, we get letters. No, not the old fashioned kind, but email ones. Usually, just thems what want an address to send things. But occasionally one comes in that fires me up, such as what’s printed below. I’ll admit, I’d been neglect. Thanks for the call out.

Dear Blog Of Roland-
I’ve been reading this thing & I have to ask; what is up? With, like, ALL of it? What are you even talking about? Are you making fun of The Song of Roland? Are you even related to Charlemange? Probably NOT! I will say that if I get high enough-which isn’t a problem because I live in Colorado where weed & mushrooms are, like, practically free-I can reinterpret all that hillbilly malarkey into laisses & if the shit is really good, alexandrines. They say that Theodore Roosevelt, after he’d eaten all the animals he’d killed that day & drank his weight in brandy, could recite The Song of Roland in the old French. I’d like to see you try that, MR Renaissance MAN! Yeah, write! Get it?
If you could take the time to include more cassette tape reviews that would be sick.
Thank You,
MaryBeth Hooter, Vail, CO.
Dear Ms. Hooter-
Teddy Roosevelt was an American sissy. Just ask Gore Vidal. It takes one to know one.
You want more cassette reviews? Sister, you got’em! Here’s one to stop to the bleeding.
It’s funny MaryBeth’s emal come when it did. I was visitin our spot in the Fishtown this past weekend, had a look ’round to make sure none of these dope boners had stole the pipes, come out & found this tape snug up under the back left tire. Folks here have a funny way of hittin you up. As it was, I’d drove down in the Grand Cherokee what has a cassette deck, so I was right as rain. What we’s got on this beefer is three extended workouts of that old chestnut penned by the Velvet Undergound’s 1st disciples’ve sound. The a-side is a two’fer w/the opener pretty much smashin it’s way across scrimmage & into the endzone, eschewin any Paris 1942 nimbleness in favor of Dredd Foole & the Din determination. Its counterpart exudes Second Fret vibes, shooting casually from atop the key, scorin at will. Both singe w/that you-had-to-be-there frenzy both on stage & off of which I, sadly, was not. The flip, though, is where the flames fan hottest. It bears an almost too uncanny resemblance’ve a set I witnessed in 08. Picture this; hush-hush late nighter, basement’ve LA’s JW Marriott, 10/14/08. A bunch’ve raucous up-for-anything teammates cheerin on the band’ve Matt Stairs (guitar/vox), Harry Kalas (bass) & Charlie Manuel (drums). They’d run through the same number w/a similar esprit de corps, though changin the chorus to ‘It Cracked’ referrin to the cover of the baseball Jonathan Broxton had served up a few hours earlier that Stairs had dispatched into outer space. It was such a barn burner, even Cole Hamels pretended he knowed the words! Charlie Manuel always said he weren’t  “much of a tub man”, but that night I would’ve begged to differ. Ah, the memories (sigh). Anyhow, this ain’t that, but it’s enough to remind me winnin ain’t everything. It’s the only thing.
*This blog is maintained by members of the Oley Freundschift Guild of Braucherei Practitioners and of the Guild of Urglaawe Braucherei and Hexerei Practitioners