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suck tits like that either, admit it) (besides her twat was blocked by a full color print of a Carter Family— not the ones that married into Johnny's Cash but yes them rubes down White House way—all blowing each other while reading The Watch-tower) (enough to make any man or lesbian lose interest), he stopped masticating his fodder and said unto his spouse “Jesus’ lice, Irma, did you hear that? Lester Bangs finally got to fuck Cherie Currie and he isn’t even happy about it. What's the matter with those Hollywood hot-shots anyway? It's enough to make you cancel your subscription to People magazine!” His wife didn’t say anything; she was a deaf-mute; in fact that's why he married her; he didn’t mind her predecessor's odd sexual proclivities so much as that she just couldn’t keep her trap shut. But Irma, like so many deaf-mutes, blazed a Magna Carta phlegmspew of crystalline eloquence in the stalagtite nether reaches of her mutist's mind. She thought that Lester was just bored because he knew like she knew that to get back to the original subject of this aggressively pointless article Cherie Currie could never in an aeon of holidays be one-third the fuck that Helen Wheels was and is with one labial lip tied behind her ears which is why they’re still wet and all the boys wanna lick ‘em. And Irma, as usual, was right.

Back Door Man, July-August 1977

15That would be Delta bluesman Bukka White, whose 1940 “Fixin’ to Die” is a primo example of his melodically simple and rhythmically treacherous style.

liner notes to It Falleth Like

Gentle Rains from Heaven—

The Mekons Story

The Mekons are the most revolutionary group in the history of rock ‘n’ roll. They are also the finest artists ever to have graced this admittedly somewhat degenerate form with the grace of their aesthetic sensibilities, rarefied as a glimpse through a butterfly's wing. The muses gobbled cantharides for these fellows. Collectively they comprise a kind of Sistine Chapel ceiling ‘neath which the pathetic mess of pottage, which is commonly snickered off as the “rock scene” from PiL to Black Oak Arkansas, can but swash buboed forearms cross their offal-crusted snouts and recommence to grovel together in the La Brea-trackless depths of corporate swill.

Remember that scene in Lina Wertmüller's Seven Beauties where the concentration-camp inmate commits suicide by swan diving into a vat of festeringly clotted human excrement approximately the length of Troy Donahue's pool at the La Cienega pad he owned in the summer of 1963? And all because he would rather drown lungs full of shit than endure one more moment of this travesty posing as existence? Well, that's how John L*d*n told me he felt after hearing this new LP by the Mekons. “I must give it up,” he wailed, knocking over his bottle of Tetley's AND NOT BOTHERING TO GET ANOTHER ONE! He took his vial of crystal meth and poured it out the open window of Virgin Records’ offices, where it was quickly devoured by a passing train of abbesses who began to frug frenetically while lamenting as one keening dolorous wind-chilled whine their ignorance of the current whereabouts of “Killer” Joe Piro, as well as Monti Rock III….

“Man! I thought I had ‘em conned with that Public Image shit but these cats called my bluff! I’m a washout!”

Meanwhile the planet Earth is rid of yet another sniveling ingrate. The Mekons may now assume their proper place in the highest bowers of the hallowed Halls of Rocque (co-leased by Wolfman Jack and Sid Bernstein). THEY ARE BETTER THAN THE BEATLES. They are even better than Budgie and REO Speedwagon combined. They come not to bury the recording industry but to gourmandise it. They gave me fifteen hundred dollars for writing these notes. All their daddies are rich which is why they get to keep putting out this swill. I have never heard this album. I never will. I have better things to do, such as misting my begonias or playing Eno's Music for Pizzerias to my goldfish to wean him from his Valium habit. Music is all worthless garbage as obsolete as a lorgnette at a destruction derby in