Tony Iommi circa 1980 alongside his SG Custom guitar with crosses on the neck made by luthier John Birch.
 
Cocaine was the most popular party favor during the 1980s. In light of this, it’s reasonable to think that cocaine might have helped fuel a strange article edited by a journalist going by the name of Andrew Epstein, published in the December 1980 issue of Record Review magazine. In a feature called “Bits & Pieces,” Epstein relays a story regarding the alleged theft of Tony Iommi’s prized SG Custom guitar with a 24-fret neck with cross inlays made in 1975 by luthier John Birch who has also made instruments for Iommi’s bandmate, Geezer Butler. The guitar is significant for several reasons including the fact it was the primary guitar Iommi used on the albums Technical Ecstasy, Never Say Die, Heaven and Hell, and Mob Rules. Iommi used this SG heavily in live performances during this time period and fans would get to eyeball the machine, synonymous with the guitarist himself. Now that we have established the importance of this mighty axe, let’s get back to the maybe true story of how some lunkhead thought it would be cool to lift Iommi’s iconic guitar from Black Sabbath’s equipment van during, what I can only presume based on the “facts” in Epstein’s piece, the U.S. leg of the Heaven and Hell Tour.

In the article, it’s noted that the guitar was stolen while the band was in Chicago—this would mean (according to Sabbath’s tour schedule for 1980) this was when the band played the International Amphitheater on August 18th. This is also where the article starts to sound like Black Sabbath fanfiction.
 

Iommi and his John Birch 1975 SG Custom.
 
The story goes on to dramatically describe how Iommi mourned for his sweet SG until it was returned to him on a “cold, moonlit night” with a note attached. The note was not-so-shockingly from the “thief” who felt the need to return the guitar to Iommi after his life was turned upside down (and not in a good way) after he had lifted the instrument. The thief describes how his life has become one of “unending misery,” which culminated with a traffic accident which sent him to the hospital. Here are more alleged words from Iommi’s guitar grabber:

“Take it, take this cursed thing from my life so that I may never see it again.”

After reuniting with his SG, Tony’s guitar would be stolen again in Dallas—this would have been at the Convention Center Arena, though a quick review of Sabbath’s tour schedule, it would appear Epstein might have gotten his dates confused as Sabbath stopped in Dallas on July 5th, 1980, and then hit up Chicago on August 18th. The distinct possibility Epstein transposed locations does give this bit of magazine mythology some legs—until we get to the part where it reports that Geezer Butler put a “hex” on the second thief who likely only existed in Andrew Epstein’s imagination. Here’s the “warning” issued by Iommi to the thief:

“I know there are a lot of people who won’t believe this, but I’m very concerned about the person who has stolen the guitar. It’s bad luck for anyone other than me to have that axe, and I don’t want anything terrible to happen.”

Continues after the jump…

 
For a man as superstitious as Federico Fellini the omens of 1973 were not good.

Too many friends were ill or dying; his private life was the focus of the paparazzi with claims of affairs with various young starlets; his relationship with his wife Giulietta was almost at an all-time low—though she continued to appear with the great director at functions like, as one acquaintance suggested, a politician’s wife out canvassing voters; and his usual life of extravagance was severely curtailed as the tax man was after him for non-payment of taxes. Things were not looking good. And Fellini was about to turn fifty-three which, by his own estimation, was on the back slice of life.

That summer, in need of money and a desire to keep working, Fellini agreed to make a movie on the life of Casanova for producer Dino de Laurentiis.

Fellini had often hinted that he would one day make a film about Casanova. He used it as a ploy to raise money for his other film projects—-Yes, yes, I’ll make ‘Casanova’ one day but now, now I want to make this….whichever film was his latest obsession. Fellini probably never had any intention of making a film about the great lover as he loathed Casanova. He saw in him some of his own negative traits which he hoped he could exorcise by making this damned film. He said:

“After this film, the moody and unreliable part of me, the undecided part that was constantly seduced by compromise—the part of me that didn’t want to grow up—had to die.”

Fellini was also aware that he perhaps subconsciously placed all his fears and the “anxiety [he couldn’t] face in this film,” adding that “Perhaps the film was fed by fears.” This unease sapped Fellini’s confidence and led him to believe he should have let this film project go as he feared Casanova would be “the worst film I have ever made.”

De Laurentiis was aware of Fellini’s misgivings but chose to ignore them. He knew with Fellini’s name attached to a film about Casanova, he could break the American market. Indeed, he favored an American actor to play the lead. He considered Marlon Brando, then Al Pacino, before finally deciding on the newly crowned “world’s sexiest man” Robert Redford to play Casanova. One can see the cartoon logic—world’s greatest lover must have considerable sex appeal. Robert Redford has sex appeal ergo Redford is Casanova.

Fellini baulked at the choice. He wanted Marcello Mastroianni—an actor he could depend on. Unfortunately, Mastroianni was unavailable. While de Laurentiis searched for another international name (he also considered both Michael Caine and Jack Nicholson) to sell the picture to the US, Fellini started writing the script with his collaborator Bernardino Zapponi.

Zapponi brought his experience as a writer and knowledge of Casanova to the project. He arrived at Fellini’s office with several volumes of Casanova’s biography, only for the director to tell him such source material was not needed, as facts were anathema to imagination. This, Fellini explained, would not be a biographical film but rather a movie that filtered the director’s own thoughts on sex and death and aging thru the prism of Casanova. As Fellini later explained:

“I never had the intention to recount complacently, amused and fascinated the amorous adventures of Casanova.”

Instead he was to be:

“A prisoner as in a nightmare, as immobilised as a puppet, he reflects continually on a series of seductive and disturbing faces which succeed only in incarnating each time a different aspect of himself.”

Or as he had once said in an interview with the BBC:

Everything is autobiographical. How is it possible to live outside of yourself? Anything we do is also a testifying of yourself. If a creator makes something that pretends to be very objective, it is the autobiography of a man who is very objective…

...How is it possible to do something outside of your myth, of your world, of your character, of your history, of yourself?

It was becoming slowly apparent to de Laurentiis that this was not the sex ‘n’ costumes film he had intended to make. In July 1974, de Laurentiis pulled out, telling Variety other work commitments prevented him from giving Fellini’s Casanova the attention it demanded. Fellini sought to raise the money himself and eventually brought in Alberto Grimaldi to produce the film. He also managed to raise money from Universal Studios by bringing in Gore Vidal to write a new script. While Vidal’s script was shown to the studio to raise cash, it was never used in the final film.

During all these behind-the-scenes manoeuvres, rumors spread through the press that Donald Sutherland was to star as Casanova. It’s difficult to ascertain who exactly first suggested Sutherland but his “candidature” for the role was “built up from simple repetition of the rumor.” To help this rumor along, Sutherland sent Fellini a highly flattering letter and twenty roses. Fellini wasn’t convinced. He still wanted the unavailable Mastroianni.

Looking for advice, Fellini visited a clairvoyant, Gustavo Rol, who claimed to have made contact with Casanova. During a seance, Rol filled page after page of notes from the great Casanova aimed at helping Fellini make his movie. When he left the seance, the director read some of the notes Rol had transcribed, which offered the sexual advice never to make love standing-up or after a meal.

Without Mastroianni, Fellini agreed on Sutherland to play Casanova. When asked why? Fellini declared:

“I need him. He’s a sperm-filled waxwork with the eyes of a masturbator!”

Sutherland told Time Out that he would not have played the role for any other director:

“I’m not playing Casanova. I’m playing Fellini’s Casanova, and that’s a whole different thing.”

It certainly was different as Sutherland soon found out when they met:

Walked into La Scala, him warning me that they wanted him to direct an opera and he was not going to do one. I remember three guarded doors in the atrium as we walked in. At the desk the concierge, without looking up when Fellini’d asked to see the head of the theater, demanded perfunctorily who wanted to see him. Fellini leaned down and whispered, truly whispered, “Fellini.” The three doors burst open.

With that word the room was full of dancing laughing joyous people and in the middle of this swirling arm clasped merry go round Fellini said to the director, “Of course, you know Sutherland.” The director looked at me stunned and then jubilantly exclaimed, “Graham Sutherland,” and embraced me. The painter Graham Sutherland was not yet dead, but nearly. I suppose the only other choice was Joan

Sutherland had two millimetres filed from his teeth, his eyebrows removed and his hairline shaved back by two inches. He wore a false nose and chin. Fellini had turned Sutherland into a puppet—a mere mechanism for telling his story. On set, he never called him “Donald” or Mr. Sutherland” but addressed him as “the Canadian.” He offered little in the way of direction or support and could be very disparaging. “That poor guy,” Fellini said, “He believed he was going to become him.”

“Sutherland!—the incarnation of a Latin lover. He had two tons of documentation under his arms. I told him: ‘Throw out the lot. Forget everything.’”

Yet Sutherland was magnanimous in writing about his experience working with Fellini:

I was just happy to be with him. I loved him. Adored him. The only direction he gave me was with his thumb and forefinger, closing them to tell me to shut my gaping North American mouth. He’d often be without text so he’d have me count; uno due tre quattro with the instruction to fill them with love or hate or disdain or whatever he wanted from Casanova. He’d direct scenes I wasn’t in sitting on my knee. He’d come up to my dressing room and say he had a new scene and show me two pages of text and I’d say OK, when, and he’d say now, and we’d do it. I have no idea how I knew the words, but I did. I’d look at the page and know them. He didn’t look at rushes, Federico, the film of the previous day’s work. Ruggero Mastroianni, his brilliant editor, Marcello’s brother, did. Fellini said looking at them two-dimensionalized the three-dimensional fantasy that populated his head. Things were in constant flux. We flew. It was a dream. Sitting beside me one night he said that when he had looked at the final cut he had come away believing that it was his best picture. The Italian version is really terrific.

The film’s production was delayed by strike action and then seventy-four reels of film were stolen and ransomed. This meant Fellini had to change his film. Some scenes were dropped, others edited to fit the footage available. The finished movie bombed with the critics. At best, it was considered a misfire, at worst a disaster. Sutherland was given the unenviable task of attempting to deliver an intelligent and considered performance to a director who only wanted a marionette to play the role. Fellini’s abhorrence of Casanova undermined his ability to make a work of art or even a film that would resonate with an audience. The film could be admired but not always liked.

Fellini’s final verdict on Casanova was that it seemed to him his “most complete, expressive, courageous film.”
 

 

 
More ephemera from Fellini’s ‘Casanova,’ after the jump…
 

 
When Marty Feldman met Francis Bacon drink was involved.

Before he became internationally famous for his performance as Igor in Young Frankenstein, Marty Feldman was a very successful and hugely influential comedy scriptwriter with his long-time writing partner Barry Took.

One night in London, sometime during the almost swinging sixties, Feldman and Took had been working late finishing off another episode of their hit radio show Round the Horne. It had been a good day, a productive day, and now Feldman was on his way home to see his wife, Lauretta. As he walked through the city he heard jazz coming from an art gallery. The band were playing “Night in Tunisia.” It piqued his interest. Feldman had started off as a jazz musician when he was fifteen playing trumpet with his own band and occasionally filling in with other combos. He wandered towards the gallery. A small crowd stood around clinking glasses. Ah, jazz, art, and free booze.

Feldman snaffled a couple of cocktails and had a look at the paintings. Not bad. Interesting. Certainly different but not really to his taste. Against one bare white wall there stood a man who looked like he was losing his battle to keep himself or the building up. He had the look of an aged choirboy gone to seed. A round turnip head, with dyed hair slicked back, and just a hint of rouge on his cheeks. He wore a leather jacket, a white shirt (top button undone) and blue paint splattered denims. Feldman thought he looked familiar but wasn’t quite sure where from?

What was said, we can only imagine, but it apparently began with the man against the wall commenting on Feldman’s distinctive face.

“I could use that face,” he might have said
“Well, I’m using it myself at the moment,” Feldman replied in our imaginary dialog.
“Your eyes,” returned the first.
“Yes, they’re my eyes.”
“You don’t understand, I. Have. To. Paint. You,” almost like Edith Evans’ “handbag” in The Importance of Being Earnest.

The man against the wall leaned towards Feldman as if attempting to capture something invisible between them.

“I,” he continued, “must paint you. You look the sort of man I could do something with.”

Feldman thought what sort of things this man might want to do with him then decided this strange character was trying to pick him up.

“Here, take my number,” the man said. He wrote something down on a scrap of paper. Feldman took the paper and watched the man who was no longer holding up the wall stagger off into the night.

The next morning, over breakfast, Feldman told his wife Lauretta about the man at the gallery who had tried to pick him up. “He wanted to paint my portrait, ” he added.

“Who was it?” Lauretta asked.

“Dunno. He wrote his name down.”

Feldman retrieved the slip of paper and said, “Francis. That’s all it says.”

Lauretta asked Feldman to describe this painter. He did. Lauretta then suggested her husband had met Francis Bacon.
 

Francis Bacon in his studio.
 
Moving forward a few months: Feldman spent the day writing with Peter Cook and Dudley Moore in a local pub. It was a long day’s writing and drinking into the night. Eventually, the threesome were “poured out of the place hammered” trying to remember who they were and where they lived. Somehow they got lost and ended up (surprise, surprise) at another art gallery party.

Once again, Feldman tucked into the cocktails, this time joined by the equally drunk Cook and Moore. And once again, there was that man Francis holding up a wall. As Feldman recounted the incident in his autobiography eYE Marty:

I spotted my old pal Francis standing at a distance and pointed him out to Peter, who knew my story because I had become obsessed with what-ifs. Bacon’s work was fetching high prices and it would have been fun if he’d painted a portrait of me and I hadn’t told Lauretta, just inviting her to a gallery and pretended it was no big deal.

Cook told Moore about Bacon’s offer to paint Feldman’s portrait.

Without hesitation, Dudley went up to Bacon and told him that Marty was now ready to be painted.

Unfortunately, the temperamental Bacon told Moore that he had “never seen or talked to [Feldman] in his life.”

Though Bacon may not have known Feldman, he was bound to be at least acquainted with Cook and Moore, as he had often visited Cook’s Establishment Club, and had been at parties also attended by Pete ‘n’ Dud. Perhaps, as Feldman suggested, Bacon saw the state the trio were in and thought they were just “a bunch of drunken wankers.”
 

Pete ‘n’ Dud.
 
More shenanigans from Feldman, Bacon, and co, after the jump…
 

Clint Eastwood pictured on the sleeve of his 1962 single for “Rowdy” and “Cowboy Wedding Song.”
 

“He will never make big as a singer.”

—Lyricist and record producer Kal Mann on Clint Eastwood’s prospects as a singer in the early 60s.

Well, Kal Mann—who wrote songs for Elvis Presley and Chubby Checker—wasn’t exactly wrong, but Clint Eastwood didn’t care. In fact, twenty-plus years after Mann declared Clint’s musical career was a pipe dream, he and Merle Haggard would occupy the number one spot on the Hot Country Singles chart with “Bar Room Buddies” in 1980. Eastwood’s love of music is well documented and, in addition to his many other talents, he is an decent pianist. In all, Eastwood’s musical career spans nearly five decades dating back to 1959 when Eastwood landed the role of Rowdy Yates on the television series Rawhide. There are several occurrences of Eastwood singing on various episodes of Rawhide, and the actor would leverage this experience and record his first EP in 1961 containing two singles put out by Hollywood record label Gothic; “For All We Know,” and “Unknown Girl of My Dreams.”

Eastwood was not a bad singer—but his baritone vocals and style were rather unremarkable within the country genre. Eastwood’s material was pop, but crafted towards a more country & western kind of swing, keeping in line with Eastwood’s Rowdy Yates character in Rawhide.

Eastwood would continue to tap into his success as the star of one of the longest-running TV westerns programs by finally putting out a full-length album 1963 strategically titled, Rawhide’s Clint Eastwood Sings Cowboy Favorites. Clocking in at under 30 minutes, the album contains mostly standards including “Don’t Fence Me In” written by Cole Porter and Robert Fletcher (and first popularized by Gene Autry). It’s not without its charm as at times Eastwood sounds like he is channeling Bing Crosby and his version of “Don’t Fence Me In” from 1944. Posted below is an assortment of audio from Eastwood’s early recordings—others can be found online. CD’s of Clint’s musical contributions are easily found on eBay should you want to add some Clint to your music collection. (PS: you should want to.)
 
Clint Eastwood sings, after the jump…

DEVO.

“Everybody writes about the same things in their songs—sex and death—and we just present it with a different viewpoint.”

—Mark Mothersbaugh of DEVO

Here’s yet another reminder to anyone still clinging to the disinformation that the 80s were a terrible decade for music: in 1980, DEVO unleashed their third record, Freedom of Choice which yielded the monster hit (and their only gold-certified single) “Whip It.” Along with the positive reception of the first single from the album “Girl U Want,” and the title track, “Freedom of Choice,” the album put DEVO and their energy dome hats on the mainstream map. DEVO would make numerous television appearances following the May release of Freedom of Choice and the video for “Whip It” was wildly popular, though it did generate some controversy due to its content. According to DEVO bassist Gerald Casale, the band lost a booking for what Casale recalls was on the Midnight Special in 1981 due to the video for “Whip It.” Apparently, host Lily Tomlin saw the video which, as you may recall, features a woman having her clothing “whipped” off by whip-wielding Mark Mothersbaugh. Tomlin allegedly told producers to “Get rid of those guys!” which they did. So, yeah, not everybody “got” DEVO or “Whip It” (Mark Mothersbaugh has gone on the record saying the song was a kind of “pep talk” for Jimmy Carter who was running for President against Ronald Reagan in 1980 as well as a knock at Reagan being an actor).

But this didn’t stop the band from trying to enlighten the public and their fans about what made them tick. This brings us to the point of this post—a fantastic interview with both Mark Mothersbaugh and drummer Alan Myers published in Record Review magazine in December of 1980.

The interview, conducted by long-running journalist and author Jeff Tamarkin, occurred prior to Carter’s defeat in the November 1980 presidential race, and both Mothersbaugh and Myers weighed in about their thoughts on politics—and many other things, including demystifying their songs. Here are some of the highlights from the four-page interview, which does not disappoint:

On the political climate in 1980:

Tamarkin: Is there political significance behind the title of (the album) Freedom of Choice?

Alan Myers: Yes, there is. The significance is that people are being asked to use their freedom of choice in the presidential election. But it’s really ludicrous. It’s like a non-choice.

Tamarkin: Will you be voting in November?

Mark Mothersbaugh: We might be voting for Ronald McDonald. We’re going to put on blindfolds and just walk in, waving our arms.

Tamarkin: Do you find that your concepts keep proving themselves?

Mark Mothersbaugh: Yeah, look at the Republican Convention.

Alan Myers: It’s really true, though. Every time we come to New York, it’s filthier than the last time we were here.

Tamarkin: On the subject of nuclear power, if you were asked to do a benefit like the MUSE (the Musicians United for Safe Energy formed in 1979) shows which were filmed for No Nukes, would you do it?

Mark Mothersbaugh: I would do a pro-everybody that has anything to do with the nuclear power plant, as far as corporate structure and the people that govern it, being made to live within one mile of the nuclear site benefit. If they can get all those smart missiles together and they can’t even make nuclear power plants…that’s the worst end of capitalistic values. It’s perverse.

On Groupies (yes, DEVO had groupies):

Tamarkin: Does DEVO have groupies?

Mark Mothersbaugh: I don’t think you can call them groupies. If you mean do we have fans…

Tamarkin: No, regular groupies.

Mark Mothersbaugh: The kind of girls that are interested in DEVO and that we are interested in, are not your typical girls who take drugs and get as much out of you as they can and trade it in for a suck.

On why nobody seems to understand “their potato”:

Alan Myers: A few people do, though.

Mark Mothersbaugh: We’re misunderstood, that’s true. But we’re holding on, and we keep restarting the case.

Alan Myers: We keep trying to say things in more common terms. We always thought we spoke in common terms, but people think…

Mark Mothersbaugh: that we’re too bizarre and oblique.

Alan Myers: In their private conversations and things, people are capable of applying irony and interpreting things. But once you become a mass object of investigation, then people don’t take things past the first level of comprehension. So we’re learning how to communicate exactly what we want to say.

 

A photo of the legendary Spud/Spudocaster guitar.
 

On the future of Booji Boy:

Mark Mothersbaugh: Probably future mutations.

Alan Myers: Marriage, family. Nine-to-five job.

Following the release of Freedom of Choice DEVO hit the road in a big way and embarked on a tour with 77 stops across the world—recording two shows which were released as a DVD in 2005, DEVO Live in 1980. The back cover of the double-disc includes a quote from Gerald Casale who accurately sums up the impact DEVO made 39 years ago:

“This lone artifact offers indisputable evidence that in 1980 Devo had reached a turning point. We were no longer just art monsters, we were mainstream performers too.”

Footage of DEVO broadcast on the French comedy television show ‘The Collaro Show’ (air date June 18th, 1980) performing “Girl U Want” somewhere on the streets of Paris while Mark Mothersbaugh licks an ice-cream cone.

 
When I was young, my mom gifted me a subscription to Dog Fancy magazine. It was definitely one of those scenarios that sounds great in theory, enriching even - until the back-issues begin piling up. Oh great, another one? Add it to the stack… I still have about a year’s worth of The New Yorker sitting under my bed. I’ll get to it.
 
The main reason why I was a subscriber of Dog Fancy wasn’t because, at age eight, I wanted to learn the ins-and-outs of the cutthroat canine industry. It was because I thought my two Shetland Sheepdogs would enjoy it. But, guess what? They could not have cared less. I mean, Dog Fancy is sooo “basic.” It’s like a dog reading Martha Stewart Living. Sure, my dogs could barely see, but at least they had class.
 
Years later, I discovered that there had been a few late-eighties parody magazines, specifically Canine Quarterly and Dogue, written for the classy, sophisticated dog of the modern American home. Although cleverly tongue-in-cheek, the content within is presented in an entirely serious manner, as if its audience was wholly made up of trendy, upscale pooches. Topics range from your typical leisure digest fare - relationships, diet, style, travel, home, and fitness. There’s a cover story on Spuds MacKenzie (Bud Light mascot and the “Original Party Animal”), a section on dream doghouses, hound-friendly dinner recipes, canine couture, pet horoscopes, and a gift guide for their favorite human. It is truly, as they say, “paw-some.”
 

 
The most rewarding thing about picking up a copy of Dogue or CQ are its advertisements - mostly just spoofs on popular clothing brands, jewelry, and cosmetics. It is very clear that the author had a lot of fun creating these, especially since a number of other similar satire publications had popped up in the years surrounding, like Cowsmopolitan, Playboar, Vanity Fur, Good Mousekeeping, and Catmopolitan. Just don’t purchase any of these thinking your pet would be interested in reading - it still isn’t food.
 
Take a look at some of the most clever advertisements and other photos from ‘Canine Quarterly’ and ‘Dogue,’ below:
 

 

 
More after the jump…

Not a real product, sorry Deadheads.
 
As if the title of this post wasn’t strange enough, before a toilet that once resided in Jerry Garcia’s master bathroom was stolen, it was purchased at auction by online casino Goldenpalace.com for $2,550. After beating out a dozen other bids for Garcia’s commode, Goldenpalace.com announced its latest acquisition would join actor William Shatner’s kidney stones and a grilled cheese sandwich with an image of the Virgin Mary on it in a traveling exhibit. It was also said people would be able to actually sit on Garcia’s old master-bathroom toilet and pose for pictures—for a price. Because nothing says “throw away your money here” more than a traveling exhibit sponsored by an online casino full of kidney stones, an old grilled cheese sandwich, and a funky toilet once used by the King of the Deadheads, here’s a little bit more about Garcia’s throne from its description in the auction:

“Located in Garcia’s master bedroom suite on the second floor of 55 El Mirador Dr. in Nicasio, CA! Overlooking the pool with a view of Mt. Tam and Mt. Diablo! Salmon color! 25″ deep x 19″ wide x 16″ high!”

In total, Goldenpalace.com purchased four of Garcia’s crappers spending a total of $5000 on the bathroom items from Garcia’s former home in Nicasio, California. Also offered in the auction (held to benefit a now-defunct charity assisting children and families in need, The Sophia Foundation), was Garcia’s stereo, his two-person jacuzzi, a bidet, and his kitchen sink. The salmon-colored toilet in question was outside former Garcia homeowner Henry Koltys’ house in Sonoma, California, waiting to be picked up by representatives from the casino when it disappeared. As far as the theft of this costly used toilet was concerned, the police had almost no clues or leads to pursue. Here’s a statement from Sgt. Greg Miller on the great/gross Garcia toilet caper of 2005:

“If somebody tries to sell it as Jerry Garcia’s toilet, there’s a possibility we could get it back. Frankly, I wonder if they even know what they have.”

To date, Garcia’s lavatory has never been recovered, which may be reason enough to believe that someone knew exactly what they were swiping and the latrine is now part of some sort of Grateful Dead/Jerry Garcia shrine, where Deadheads gather to pay their respects. On the other hand, it might be residing in less lofty conditions in the home of a toilet thief.

Below is a recording of “The Weight” taken from the soundboard during a Grateful Dead show on July 18th, 1990 in Deer Creek.
 

“The Weight” with shared vocals by Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, and Brent Mydland. This would be one of the last live appearances of Brent Mydland, the longtime keyboardist for the Grateful Dead, who would pass away eight days later on July 26th, 1990.

The 180 Gs’ ‘Commercial Album’

When Negativland’s DVD Our Favorite Things appeared a dozen years ago, it came with a bonus CD called 180 d’Gs to the Future! The Music of Negativland as Performed by the 180 Gs. Negativland claimed the disc’s astonishing a cappella interpretations of “Christianity Is Stupid,” “The Playboy Channel,” part of Helter Stupid and other catalog classics were the work of a “talented posse from inner Detroit” known for its gospel, R&B and doo-wop stylings.

Naturally, I suspected these were lies. While I marveled at the technical skill of the 180 Gs’ performances, the expert blending of their vocals and the creativity of their SATB arrangements of essentially unmelodic material, I thought Negativland had probably hired some guy for scale who records call signs for radio stations, or maybe processed and layered the honeyed voice of Richard Lyons using some 21st century harmonizer as yet unknown to me. The novelty record seemed to be another Negativland hoax, along the lines of their supposed role in a multiple axe murder in Minnesota, or their supposed discovery of a new primary color.

Even today, the 180 Gs’ Manhattan Transfer-ized rendition of “Christianity Is Stupid” sometimes gets stuck in my head, but I hardly thought about the group until last month, when the excellent Klanggalerie label associated with the Residents released the 180 Gs’ Commercial Album, an a cappella performance of all 40 one-minute songs on the Residents’ 1980 LP. A Google search led me to the Bandcamp page of one David Minnick (who actually does, it seems, hail from Motor City), where the 180 Gs’ cover of the Cardiacs’ Sing to God also resides in its double-CD entirety.
 

The 180 Gs (via Soundcloud)

The Residents covers are a gas, as Homer Flynn of the Cryptic Corporation affirms in his liner notes for the 180 Gs’ Commercial Album:

WHY? What inspires someone to take on such a monumentally demanding and difficult job, especially one so highly unlikely to escape the shadow of the original. After tossing this question around for a couple of days, I could only come up with one answer - FUN! And it sounds like fun, making me smile again and again, hearing their voices imitating synthesizers, guitars and basses, whistling to re-create keyboard parts and beating their bodies as mock percussion. But the thing that’s most impressive about the album is that the Gs are not merely imitating the Residents’ masterpiece of minimalism, but reinventing it, while staying completely faithful to the source material. Like the originators, the 180Gs are creating their own alternate musical universe, just as curious and original as that of The Residents. […]

Listening to the 180Gs singing Fred Frith’s singular guitar solo, while imitating Andy Partridge’s eccentric phrasing on Margaret Freeman is a delight, not unlike their mimicking of Snakefinger’s vocal and Frith’s bass playing on Ups and Downs. And sometimes they add their own little twists, like making Give It to Someone Else a bit less sinister while creating a curious exercise in joyful voyeurism.

Below, I’ve embedded the 180 Gs’ take on “Frownland,” the first cut on Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band’s Trout Mask Replica, and further down is the entire Commercial Album. Find more at David Minnick’s Soundcloud and Bandcamp pages.
 

 
Longmont Potion Castle is the alias used by an anonymous—and infamous—prank phone call artist. LPC has been releasing recordings of his strange, hysterically funny calls for decades, yet has largely remained an enigma. A new, appropriately off-kilter documentary shines light on this mysterious figure.

When I was first exposed to Longmont Potion Castle, his style reminded me of the absurdist prank calls made by Gregg Turkington (better known as his character, Neil Hamburger) that were included on the 1992 album, Great Phone Calls. Even more so than Turkington, LPC incorporates technology into his work, using tech to further confound his already confused “victims.” An example of this approach is heard on “Nash” (from Vol. 4), one of LPC’s most famous calls, in which he pranks his local record store.
 

 
The documentary, Where in the Hell is the Lavender House? The Longmont Potion Castle Story, is currently making the rounds. Here’s the IMDb synopsis:

Two filmmakers attempt to make a documentary about an anonymous phone-work artist called Longmont Potion Castle who’s been releasing albums of surreal and hilarious pranks for over thirty years. In spite of a semi-successful crowdfunding campaign and the involvement of celebrity fans, the filmmakers succumb to their own infighting and bad luck leaving an unpaid camera operator to finish the film.

Okay, while it IS a documentary on LPC, is what’s presented in the movie—as cited above—really what’s going on? From the get-go, there are moments that will make viewers wonder if they are being duped by the filmmakers. Considering the subject of the doc, it’s all very fitting.
 

Probably not Colin St. John.

One celebrity fan, actor Rainn Wilson, appears in the film, and is most certainly in on the joke. Wilson has described LPC’s blend of surreal artistry and improvisational comedy as “Salvador Dali meets Adam Carolla,” perfectly summing up the modus operandi of the legendary prankster. 
 

 
Eventually, the filmmakers meet up with Longmont Potion Castle, who gives unprecedented access to his world, though his face is always obscured. In one sequence, LPC creates an elaborate crank call for the cameras. Dangerous Minds is pleased to have the web premiere of that segment…

Watch after the jump…

Freddie Mercury in a white satin outfit designed by Zandra Rhodes in 1974.
 
Sometime in 1974, fashion designer Zandra Rhodes received a phone call from Freddie Mercury asking if he could meet with the designer to discuss the possibility of Rhodes creating some stage clothing for Queen. Rhodes wasn’t aware of Queen at the time so to help her understand what the band was all about Mercury told her they were “the most absurd (or ridiculous) band ever.” Rhodes was intrigued and invited Mercury and Brian May to visit her small studio located in an attic at her home. Until her meeting with Mercury and May, Rhodes had not expanded her clothing designs to menswear, though she had made some tops for Marc Boan, who had a penchant for flamboyant fashion.

In 2018 Rhodes spoke to Vogue about her first meeting with Mercury and May when they arrived at her studio after hours:

“Queen came one early evening, and I told them to just pick things off the rails and to try it on. I wanted them to run around the room and jump around and just see how it felt, how it would feel onstage. Mercury went straight for a cape shirt in heavy ivory silk that had an embroidered bodice and giant pleated butterfly sleeves. It was the top of a wedding dress idea I had. It came with a matching skirt, and I’d designed both pieces during what I like to call my ‘Field of Lilies’ period.”

Rhodes then made some sketches for Mercury based on the wedding dress cape shirt which he and the band dug, and Rhodes whipped up Freddie’s white satin stagewear (and other garments) which Mercury first wore at a sold-out show at the Earl’s Court Olympia. The band invited Rhodes to the show which she attended with her artist friend (and Syd Barrett’s former roomie, Duggie Fields) where she witnessed her clothing become intertwined with Mercury’s persona. If you have seen the recent biopic Bohemian Rhapsody, then you have seen the white satin ensemble Rhodes made for Mercury over forty years ago. The costume designs in the film are reproductions made by Rhodes herself based on her original designs. During her interview with Vogue, Rhodes was photographed wearing her original wedding top which would become one of Freddie Mercury’s most memorable fashion statements—and clearly, that’s saying something, given Freddie’s ever-evolving, shape-shifting looks throughout his all-too-short career. Below are images of Mercury, Queen, Marc Bolan, and Rhodes herself dressed to the nines in her designs.
 

A photo published in The Daily Telegraph of Freddie Mercury modeling the pleated batwing tunic made by Zandra Rhodes with models Marianne (left), and Louise (right), June 7th, 1974.
 

A photo of Queen with Brian May and Mercury wearing clothing designed by Rhodes.
 

Mercury pictured in Rhodes design sans the flouncy satin top.
 

A magazine clipping of Mercury wearing Rhodes’ famous design.
 

Marc Bolan wearing a top designed by Rhodes. The purple top (which you can see here) apparently sold at auction in 2013 for $5,000.
 

Actress Natalie Wood modeling some of Rhodes exquisite textiles in American Vogue in1969.
 

Designer Zandra Rhodes modeling the original wedding top which inspired Mercury’s look. Photo by Dafy Hagai.
 
HT: Vogue