"Mutts" and Zappa

I'll admit I don't (yet) know much about the comic strip Mutts. I'd seen it a few times a long time ago, I have some friends who have posted some favorite panels to forums I frequent. Shoot, quite a few years before I was even really very aware of Mutts as a daily strip I redrew (using resolution-independent vectors in Adobe Illustrator-click on image at left) one of the main characters—a cat named Mooch—uttering an iconic line from the strip..."YESH!!!" for a cousin who wanted to use it for a birthday card for her friend. I'm a newcomer to the comic, having only started reading it regularly when—a couple months ago—our local newspaper consolidated their morning and evening editions into one publication per day. I always got the evening paper, it was in the morning paper. Now, we get the comics from both editions. Nice!

On the surface, I find it to be a cute strip. I like the minimalism of the art, and the stroke styles are simple and sublime. The gags are usually pretty basic (and thankfully absent of the inane smarminess of a strip like Fred Bassett or the cloying precociousness of Marvin). Upon first glance, that is. Despite the seeming simplicity, though, every once in a while I've noticed some pretty clever and well disguised cultural references that might belie the superficial sweetness and light of the strip's appearance. I don't really know much about Mutts creator Patrick McDonnell, but I have a feeling we may like some of the same music.

Why do I make that claim? Please read on and I'll explain...

So, I'm eating lunch today and reading the paper and I come across the Mutts strip, below:

For those of you who know me—and even for those who don't—I'll remind you that I'm a died-in-the-wool fan of Frank Zappa. So when I saw those lines in panels 2 and 3, I was certain McDonnell was a fan as well. Because, you see, "Help, I'm a rock!" is a notable reference from Frank Zappa's 1966 debut double album Freak Out.

Now, you may figure that those words in the comic strip are just a coincidence, but I know they aren't. How do I know? Because about a week ago I was doing some heavy research on some obscure Captain Beefheart info on the Captain Beefheart Radar Station fan site, when I ran across the following:

(Click image for full size, or go here to see where I grabbed it from)

Now, anyone who knows much about Zappa and Beefheart knows that they are inextricably linked in the annals of musical culture. The color image is an homage to the landmark 1969 Zappa-produced Beefheart album Troutmask Replica, and the actual comic strip references at least 3 of Beefheart's songs, as far as I can discern. Given that Mr. McDonnell has made these two references (and probably more, I'd bet, if I looked through his Mutts archives), I'm willing to bet that the guy would probably be pretty fun to hang out with at a pub for an evening.

Maybe I'll shoot him an email and see what he's doing this weekend.

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Rory Gallagher Stunned Me When I was 13!

After haphazardly trying a few times in Google Earth, I finally found the location on Google Maps of what was probably the first real rock concert I ever attended. Back in September of 1972, I was 13 years old and just beginning to get serious about playing guitar. Thanks to an older brother, I was exposed to many bands I probably wouldn't have heard of at the time had I only paid attention to the usual radio fare. Along with guys like Johnny Winter, Rick Derringer, Mick Ronson—Rory Gallagher was a huge inspiration for my budding interest in guitar. We had a couple of his albums and were both pretty keen on how good he was, and how different, compared to some of the more well-known players of the time.

I had the great good fortune to see Rory Gallagher play in a tiny venue WAY out in the boondocks of central Pennsylvania. It was at a place called "The Lodge"; it was actually the lodge for a small-and-failing ski area. Local bands played there on the weekends; Harrisburg PA-native Dan Hartman played there at least a few times that I remember with his band The Legends.

The place was tiny—150 people pretty much packed the house. How they managed to get Rory Gallagher booked to play there will remain a mystery to me forever, I suppose, but it was an extraordinary event. Bands at The Lodge played at floor level, and there I was, a snot-nosed kid of 13, just starting to get serious about playing guitar, and one of my favorite inspirations was there blowin' the roof off the place. I stood about 5 feet away from him the whole time, through 2 hour-long sets and about another hour of encores. There was all the keg beer you could drink, they weren't checking IDs, and I was in heaven.Visit my arcane addition to Google Maps, and don't forget to click on the tiny little blue skier icon. Full Story & Permalink

Murray Roman - Forgotten Hippie Comic

Thought you might enjoy this exhaustively researched article from WFMU's Beware of the Blog about a long-forgotten hippie-stoner-era comic named Murray Roman (short career synopsis at Wikipedia).

Author Kliph Nesteroff (MySpace page) builds an extraordinary tree of branching connections between Roman and the whole stable of writers from the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, Super Dave Osborne, Rob Reiner, Mason "Classical Gas" Williams, The Doors, The Baja Marimba Band, Ren & Stimpy, Mad Magazine records, The Monkees, "That Girl!" and on and on and on, are amazing.

The full album that is referenced to start the article is available as an mp3—just look for the link— and is unique in the way it's produced, segueing as it does between comedy bits, music and some psychedelic sound effects. The comedy is kind of dated, but I've never heard anything like this production.

This is one for the iPod!

Thanks for the great article, Kliph!

http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2007/10/the-forgotten-m.html

Update:
In an article entitled "Murray Roman: Reflections of his Contemporaries - Pt. 1 and posted on Sunday 4 November 2007, author Kliph Nesteroff says:

"The Forgotten Murray Roman was the name of an article I posted a few weeks ago about a counterculture stand-up comic who is none-too-famous today. I have since removed that article with plans to repost it sometime soon, as I have since had the chance to speak with several people who knew and worked with Murray. Their insights have changed the shape of the article dramatically. Perhaps the one living person who can tell us the most about Murray Roman is the man who hired him as a writer on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, Tom Smothers. Here is the transcript of a conversation I had with Tom a few days ago."

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Bless You & Thank You, Patti Smith

I repost the following N.Y. Times Op/Ed piece by Patti Smith in its entirety just in case visitors here find themselves locked out of the NY Times site.

In it, Ms. Smith wrestles with the conundrum of accepting accolades from the very cultural establishment whose apple cart she was instrumental in upsetting. Her words are at once both poignant and hopeful, with a dash of sentimentality to patch the bridge between the past and the future.

Thank You, Patti.

---

March 12, 2007
Op-Ed Contributor
Ain’t It Strange?
By PATTI SMITH

ON a cold morning in 1955, walking to Sunday school, I was drawn to the voice of Little Richard wailing “Tutti Frutti” from the interior of a local boy’s makeshift clubhouse. So powerful was the connection that I let go of my mother’s hand.

Rock ’n’ roll. It drew me from my path to a sea of possibilities. It sheltered and shattered me, from the end of childhood through a painful adolescence. I had my first altercation with my father when the Rolling Stones made their debut on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” Rock ’n’ roll was mine to defend. It strengthened my hand and gave me a sense of tribe as I boarded a bus from South Jersey to freedom in 1967.




Rock ’n’ roll, at that time, was a fusion of intimacies. Repression bloomed into rapture like raging weeds shooting through cracks in the cement. Our music provided a sense of communal activism. Our artists provoked our ascension into awareness as we ran amok in a frenzied state of grace.

My late husband, Fred Sonic Smith, then of Detroit’s MC5, was a part of the brotherhood instrumental in forging a revolution: seeking to save the world with love and the electric guitar. He created aural autonomy yet did not have the constitution to survive all the complexities of existence.

Before he died, in the winter of 1994, he counseled me to continue working. He believed that one day I would be recognized for my efforts and though I protested, he quietly asked me to accept what was bestowed — gracefully — in his name.

Today I will join R.E.M., the Ronettes, Van Halen and Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. On the eve of this event I asked myself many questions. Should an artist working within the revolutionary landscape of rock accept laurels from an institution? Should laurels be offered? Am I a worthy recipient?

I have wrestled with these questions and my conscience leads me back to Fred and those like him — the maverick souls who may never be afforded such honors. Thus in his name I will accept with gratitude. Fred Sonic Smith was of the people, and I am none but him: one who has loved rock ’n’ roll and crawled from the ranks to the stage, to salute history and plant seeds for the erratic magic landscape of the new guard.

Because its members will be the guardians of our cultural voice. The Internet is their CBGB. Their territory is global. They will dictate how they want to create and disseminate their work. They will, in time, make breathless changes in our political process. They have the technology to unite and create a new party, to be vigilant in their choice of candidates, unfettered by corporate pressure. Their potential power to form and reform is unprecedented.

Human history abounds with idealistic movements that rise, then fall in disarray. The children of light. The journey to the East. The summer of love. The season of grunge. But just as we seem to repeat our follies, we also abide.

Rock ’n’ roll drew me from my mother’s hand and led me to experience. In the end it was my neighbors who put everything in perspective. An approving nod from the old Italian woman who sells me pasta. A high five from the postman. An embrace from the notary and his wife. And a shout from the sanitation man driving down my street: “Hey, Patti, Hall of Fame. One for us.”

I just smiled, and I noticed I was proud. One for the neighborhood. My parents. My band. One for Fred. And anybody else who wants to come along.

—Patti Smith is a poet and performer.

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