This why I stopped and posted for---alternative SURF-MUsic=
DeadBolt--
Voodoo trucker picture---
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just yer average Surf Band--
the sound --"GET YOUR hands OFF of ME, Dooood"
Watongo-(beware you dirty hippy...
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WATONGOoooooo!
You don't Scare Me
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The Story--
- Red Devlin
rooted.com
Texas Trippin' to Deadbolt's Zulu Death Mask
Genre: Voodoobilly; think Link Wray licks with Boris Karloff vocals
Last week, in a state of dire listlessness,
I decided to drive up and down rural Texas State Highway 90A,
hoping to find an attractive teen runaway looking for
her showbiz break in the big bad city. I'd always heard
half-whispered stories of delinquent cheerleaders at odds
with the small town conservatism that 90A country
villages tend to exhibit. About an hour into the trip and
not seeing one attractive teen on the lam, I decided to
listen to my new Deadbolt CD I'd picked up in San Antone
called Zulu Death Mask. The title intrigued me, as well
as the neat gimmicky cover that transformed a non-threatening
African mask into a bloodthirsty spear-touting native at the
flick of a wrist. The record initiated an ominous note as
a surf-like haunted organ instro number called "15 Years"
filled the dry Texas air, punctuated with occasional mumbles
about some "old codger" from vocalist Harley Davidson.
I'm assuming it was revenge related. In any case it sounded cool
in a creeped out B-movie nudie-roughie kinda way. As the music went on,
I found myself falling deeper and deeper into the spell of this strange
twang/horror/surf/punk hybrid. It had all the ingredients:
half-ass, but endearing musicianship, random, seemingly drunken
lyrics, a nice steady drumbeat and decidedly apolitical, notably
un-PC lyrics (that alone makes it noteworthy in these modern days
of the whale-hugging, sugar-coated, don't hurt anyone's
feelings crapola mentality -- which is why I pretty
much only listen to instrumental twang and pre-1958
simpleton ballads). It was the perfect soundtrack for
my flagitious foray.
The CD was over before I knew it, and my stomach
was grumbling loudly. I veered into a greasy spoon
somewhere outside of El Rey, population in
the area of 89. I brought the disc inside to study
the liner notes over some huevos rancheros and
Dr. Pepper. The huevos were especially greasy and
the Dr. Pepper was syrupy. I can't really explain what
it was that made me do what I did next, maybe the
combination grease, sugar and amphetamines that
I'd been popping for three days, maybe it was the
influence of the corrupt music. But I suddenly
jumped on the table, pulled out my .45 (non-working replica
that is, if that'll make you feel any better) and
screamed at the waitress in a banshee-like howl,
"Turn the freakin' Selena off!" I then calmly walked
over to the counter, waving my gun around at
the simple country folk. There were two fat truckers
, a geeky teen couple and an old codger in his 80's
at least, plus the owner and his wife, a non-descript
type. You know – hard-working, never got a fair shake.
I then directed the waitress to put Deadbolt in their
new fancy-pants CD jukebox (probably cost -'em a mint).
As the music filled the air I could feel the tension,
it was exciting and made my bennies pump even harder.
I then announced that we were going to have a listening
party. I had the waitress pull the blinds shut, turn
the open sign over and sit tight. We listened to the
entire disc, then I asked for their reactions. They
were varied and unexpected, some refused to participate,
others wouldn't stop, and what began as a potential
hostage situation turned into a meat and potatoes
blue collar round table.
One of the ol' truckers piped up in a booming,
cigarette-ravaged voice. He was embittered, he'd worked
for Little Debbie snack foods for twenty three years,
felt screwed over and seemed to find some sort of solace
in the tune, "Burn, Little Debby Burn" A thinly veiled
sentiment no doubt shared by millions who've lost loved
ones to the Bitch Goddess Lil' Debbie and her sugar-packed,
artery clogging wares. He especially felt moved by
the lyrics, "burn, lil Debby, burn, hot little Debby burn,
cakes and pies, deception and lies, hear you're givin'
it to all the guys ... burn, lil' Debby, burn, fry,
lil' Debby fry, thanks for all the sweets, now
good-bye." He said he'd definitely buy the cassette,
since his rig didn't have one of "them fancy,
shiny record players."
Then the old codger spoke up, he proceeded to go on
and on about draft dodgers, then explained how he
enjoyed the song "Watonga," especially the part,
"one day you'll turn around, Watongo will be there,
holding a hippy's severed head ... by the hair."
He literally squealed with delight when Harley
mumbled the lines about "Watongo sees through his hand,
he sees that hippie begging on the street. A smelly,
dirteeee hippie" in a drawn out luxuriating tone
over the twangy bass. Seems the old fella thought all
musicians were hippie types, and it was a life-
changing revelation that after all these years he
was proven wrong, restoring his broken faith in
the youngsters of America. His time-ravaged
face bore a faint smile.
The geeky teen, a debate student no less,
immediately earning a place on my sh_t list,
was concerned with the seeming pre-occupation
with hand/arm abuse, citing the lines from
"Creepy and Weird." "The party, it's going
real nice, I stick my hand in a bucket of ice,
pull it out and I got frostbite, break my
thumb off, oh baby that's all right, my Tiki mans
eye light up, I drink banana ... beer from a cup"
and the line "I'd stick my hand in a deep fryer
baby" from "Burn lil' Debby Burn" respectively.
I mentioned that he might have a point and cited
the line from the exceptionally great "Voodoobilly Man,"
(from the Tiki Man LP), "I'm cruel, so cruel I'll
eat a dead rat, yeah, I'm mean, I'm an animal, oh yeah,
I can chew my own arm off, can you do that?"
This only added fuel to the fire as he became quite
affected that the youth listening to this "garbage"
might mimic the bands abuse of appendages as
"cool." I told him to can it already..............
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hey also been listening to George Jones and Merle-- good stuff
and some jazz but another time--
Come oN FEETs- 25 miles from home and my feets hurting -- but I got to KEEP on WALKIn...
I GOT TO WALK on--
COme on feet -dont fail me now 10 miles to go--
(Edwin Starr)
gone |
