Two Bands You’ve Never Heard of Because They’re Full of Degenerates That Don’t Exist

The other day somebody commented that I seem serious all the time and asked if I ever engage in humor.

Heck yah! And I take that seriously too.

As proof I present to you two (fake) band reviews for one of my friend’s upcoming ‘zines, Bands! Vol. 4

Cripple Carl & the Gurgles“Portuguese Penguins in Nambe”

Well friends, fall has fallen and winter’s laying a heavy trip on your fingertips and you know what that means: time to be relegated to the back rooms of your favorite pastoral social parlour drinking orb of night beverages in a desperate attempt to retain your body’s standard issue lukewarm temps. But fear not, there’s help on the way in the form of renowned four finger surf guitarist Cripple Carl and his difficult to decipher backing band, the Gurgles.

Carl is a familiar site to the denizens of Santa Rosa, California, where he penned such hits as “I told you to surf, mama,” “Timbuktu Torpedo” and “Barney Fife, You Ain’t My Police, Man.” But of course that was before his fantastic accident with a seafood truck popping up the coast on Route 1. Carl had been drinking too much moonshine and the driver of the truck had had a touch of the dreaded Burfaloo Sioux whiskey, known to surfers everywhere as “Bone Shatter” due to the inability of anyone to function under its influence and yet it’s curious propensity to encourage immediate, extremely radical surfing in even the most novice of waveriders. Thus influenced on both sides, it came as little surprise that Carl’s 1967 Chevrolet Gambit crashed head on into the truck and they quickly exchanged bodies, followed by engine parts. This was not an uncommon occurrence, given that “Bone Shatter” was manufactured and readily available in the nearby basement of Stromboli Sal, an Italian ex-pat who was racist but only against other Italians. What was remarkable was the confluence of geometry that collided Carl’s hand with the claw of a freshly caught lobster, thus completing one of the most unusual switcheroos known to man.When all was said and done, the lobster found itself with a human hand fused to his body and the permanent nick name of “Almost Carl.” Our good fellow, as you might have deduced, was now the confused owner of a lobster claw and thus the nickname Cripple Carl.

With his old bandmates in tow Cripple Carl retired to Nambe, New Mexico where he proceeded to write some of the strongest and strangest surf rock of all time, 14 tracks of which can be found on this fine album recently reissued on rare Lavender Vinyl. Tracks such as “Waddle on the Paddle” “Bam-a-lamma Black ‘n White Pajamas” and “Gumbo ain’t no mumbo jumbo” solidified his legend, and were well backed by some of the finest talent to ever play surf rock, including Bass Gurgle, Drum Gurgle, and Rhythm Guitarist Gurgle, whose legal names were, respectively, Pamplona McGovern, Kaa Feetfrees, and Rhythm Guitarist Gurgle (no lie, pie in the sky). The earth shaking bass lines suggest someone brought a bit of Bone Shatter eastwards, and combined with the stomp-y stacatto beats of Feetfrees and the guitar shredding claw of Cripple Carl’s this is truly a record to behold.11 out of 10 pincers to this fine, fine album.

Lock Stock Cock – “Cocky Cocks of the Walk

If you long for the days of arrogant, spit-all-over-y rawk and ROLL, BOY is there an album made just for you. If you miss the feeling of being denigrated, humiliated, and generally treated like the piece of trash that you really are, well, this is your record. Lock Stock Cock has released one of the most humiliating records ever made, featuring lyrics like “We’re filth and you’re filth for listening to this filth, filth” and “At least I didn’t pay money for this s*** record” and “May your first daughter be a masculine child, Corleone.” The dirty, nasty, filthy bass lines of Philadelpha native Sewage Steve are so muddied you’d barely know he played the 2-string bass, and combined with the horribly off timed snare and kick drum contributed by Lorenzo P. Corffin (affectionately known as Coffin Corffin) it makes for some of the least listenable music ever made. And what can I say about lead singer Pauls P. McPally that hasn’t already been said? It’s true he’s a degenerate borne of his mother and uncle, and can barely put together two slices of bread to make a ham sandwich, and that he once sent back a four course meal at the famous Boise Steakhouse and demanded that they serve him scraps from the garbage dumpster. To quote Pittsburgh Police Chief Tom Thurber, “he’s an animal, man.”
Fortunately for us guitarist Pappy Bourbon was the (only) functional member of the Lock Stock Cocks. Sure, he had his problems, including a medical condition so rare that doctors around the world constantly refer to it as “third leg” and a constant need to eat coleslaw twice a day. But he was one of the best, trashiest guitarists around. On hits such as “Cock is the Word” and “Stand on my face” his desperate licks scream out for help, in the form of therapy for the entire band.

Having seen them play once, at the old Pallindrome in Orville, Ohio, I can attest to their raw energy, and filthiness. I suggest you pick up this record immediately, particularly if you are in bad spirits as it will make you realize your life isn’t nearly as bad as these poor sops.


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