Monday, December 05, 2005

Slap on some pants (Trail mix remix)

We do not use the term "punk genius" at OGFP very often. Ever? You just can't throw lipsmacking lingo of that caliber around like a fully-loaded dinner roll, copy? Anywheat, Sam McPheeters is a certified 100% blueblood smarty guy. Dude made a five-inch record where he performed a speech by American revolutionary hero Patrick Henry, and is featured on the cover in full costume. You don't front on that. You put down the pitcher of Wild Cherry Haterade and the bullshit patties with ketchup and avocado polente sourkraut frommage on wheat buns you have in your messenger bag and you fucking recognize.

Men's Recovery Project, his band of the last decade, was so far ahead of it's time, so far into the deep end of any electro-dirt-think-fuck-rock olympic pool you call essential these days, that it's swimming near the grate and it's sinuses are starting to get that pinched pressure thing, and the bends are coming on soon. And look! Hammerhead Shark! MRP once did a concept record about European spies in the Middle East. Sam's sped up or slooooow over what are the sample songs on the $100 keyboard your Mom bought for Xmas in 1987 in order to "learn piano", only she never did and you ended up turning it into a really fancy homemade bong sometime during college. Your friends still can't believe that shit! Sounded to us like it was based off of some the chapters in Pynchon's V, too. Classy move. MRP is the sound of the major hallmark of our time: the entropy of communication forms into utter gibberish. Grown men talking like infants. People imitating computers. Computers imitating people. People imitating their bowels. Thirty second punk blasts about wearing pants. Funny keyboard noises. Children's songs for adults about job meaninglessness.

Some other McPheeters highlights: Shooting Spree and Error, two of the most brilliant and hilarious fanzines ever made. Born Against, duh. And masks. There are so many photos around of Sam and crew onstage in fucked-ass get ups of every description that it defies reason. You might think you are brave onstage in your body suit of carpet samples. Jigga, please. Have you ever rocked a devil mask, plaid bowtie, shirt and sweater-vest and white sox extened to the end of your feet? And that is it? As in ahoy Mr. Flaccid, how is it down there near the shrubs? Slam dunk! Anyway, his label Vermiform is now a thing of the past, and has been for a while now. Which is a major shame to us, but understandable. We hear he writes about music for OC Weekly occasionally, the high irony of which should be lost on noone.

Sam we know you are in the ether. Come to us! We want to interview you for Hit It Or Quit It!




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1 comment:

claire said...

"You put down the pitcher of Wild Cherry Haterade and the bullshit patties with ketchup and avocado polente sourkraut frommage on wheat buns you have in your messenger bag and you fucking recognize."

this sentence is itself punk genius.