Category Archives: 70’s

The Greatest Musical Performance of All Time and Space, in Any Universe, Anywhere

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I think I have that outfit at home, actually

I think I have that outfit at home, actually

Pretty much. Oh, you have your Rebecca Blacks. You have your Posh Spices. But you could have a whole Spice Rack of untalented songbirds, put them all together, and they still wouldn’t sound anywhere near as bad as this:

That is the immortal Jonathan Edwards on piano, accompanying his showstopper of a vocalizing wife, Darlene, performing the Bee Gee’s greatest tune, Stayin’ Alive. That’s “vocalizing” like Siamese cats vocalize when you slam their tales in car doors. And you have Bunk Strutts to thank for the fact that I have a new favorite musical act.

 

Jonathan and Darlene Edwards, explained. Sorta
Jonathan and Darlene Edwards, explained. Sorta

Jonathan and Darlene Edwards will always work. Some people have no tolerance for failed art. It just gives them goosebumps. The enlightened mind, however, has boundless appreciation for an artist putting him/herself out there and failing spectacularly. Even though the Edwardses (real names: were Jo Stafford and Paul Weston) were perfectly functional pro musicians (he pianoed while she sang), they are remembered now for acting clueless. The tragedy of artistic failure is deeply funny to me – even when faked – and it takes an artist of great courage to pretend they are completely inept. Apart from music like this, such failure can be found in Mystery Science Theater and various portfolio submissions from job applicants, but for differing reasons.

Jonathan and Darlene were truly underappreciated in their own time, despite a grammy win in 1960, but enjoyed a late renaissance in the Seventies with the release of this epic effort, along with the very of-its-time “I Am Woman.”

Greaser’s Palace: my next must-see DVD

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Greasers Palace

A Sixties stoner cowboy movie about Jesus: why not, eh?

Apparently the DVD of Greaser’s Palace exists, but only as a rare (and, thus, overpriced) collectable. But I must have it; the Youtubes and online references are simply too tantalizing. Don’t believe me? Check it out:

And a review from Badmovies.org:

You are probably thinking to yourself, “It couldn’t be that outlandish. Could it?” Go and look up “naive” in the dictionary. Now.

The entire movie is an anecdote [I think he means “allegory”] for religion, Christianity to be precise… Greaser’s Palace is a huge saloon in some tumbleweed town out west… Seaweedhead Greaser is the Catholic Church as represented by a gunslinger with itchy trigger fingers. Why in the world does he have a mariachi band and his mother locked in wooden cages? The musicians are easy to explain; they provide entertainment while Greaser tries to have bowel movements (which he is unable to do)…

Right from the start it is evident that Greaser hates Lamy Homo (pronounced as “lay me homo”). He shoots, stabs, and even dumps the little guy down a well. The Church’s efforts to eradicate his homo problem are to no avail; Jessy keeps bringing the reluctant Lazarus back. Lamy consistently recites the same story upon his return from the other side and it’s a trip. Readers old enough to remember when Puff relaxed immigration laws and all those runny noses invaded Honah-Lee (Honalee? Hon-a-lee? Who knows?) might identify with me. It’s that weird.

Any movie about Western religion would be incomplete without Martin Luther; so where is he? He is the man trying to perform a card trick for Seaweedhead. Check it out, the would-be magician does the old “pick a card, any card” bit. He then holds up card after card, inquiring “This one? How about this one? That one?” Poor Martin Luther, trying in vain to decide which interpretation is correct. History says the man finally gave up and just wrote something to the effect of “Figure it out for yourself!” Then he went to get a hammer and nails, but I’m getting sidetracked.

Not at all, not at all. It makes SO MUCH SENSE now. If only I’d seen this movie before I took all those Religious Studies courses at University!

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Michael Jackson cause of death

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When he died, Michael Jackson left the world confused, frightened, broken. And so was the world. We looked for answers, and now at last the ol’ raincoaster blog can reveal just what happened. Yes, we are about to tell you exactly how Michael Jackson died.
(stolen/adapted from Popbitch)

Farrah Fawcett

Farrah Fawcett died the same day as MJ, a few hours sooner. She reached the Pearly Gates and God was there to meet her, excitedly shoving a long-suffering St Peter out of the way to shake the hand of the blonde bombshell.

“Hi Farrah, I’m God! I’m your biggest fan!” he said, excitedly.

“Gosh, God, that’s terrific. I love my fans. Here, let me sign your toga…” she replied, whipping out a fountain pen. God giggled.

“Farrah, I’m never going to wash this toga again! You’ve made me so happy, I’d like to grant you a wish. Anything you want, just tell me and I’ll make it happen.”

“Gee, God, I guess I’d like for all the little children of the world to be safe.”

And WHAM! Just like that Michael Jackson died.

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Michael Jackson Stopped, Got Enough

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Michael Jackson, the late

Michael Jackson, the self-crowned King of Pop, is dead at the age of 50. Born an adorable, talented black boy, he died (apparently of heart failure, insert own bitter joke here) a bizarre creature somewhere between the aliens from Communion and Zombie Janice Dickinson, with a soupcon of pederasty for (as the kids say) flava. Alternately short of Money or Invincible, Black or White, Smooth Criminal or The Man, he remained a protean figure of scandal-scented mystery to his last days.

It’s just Human Nature to pursue a Pretty Young Thing, although his Monkey Business recreational tastes and pursuits brought him to the attention of the law on a regular basis. When finally confronted with the rap, he Beat It, claiming he and the boys were Just Good Friends who would Come Together in friendship. Known over the decades as a libel lawyer’s best patron (What More Can He Give?) when he felt Threatened, the eccentric musician had seemed in recent years to have turned around his notoriously aberrant behavior, although more cynical minds (like mine) figured that instead of pursuing free-range children, he’d just decided to grow his own: Blanket, Prince Michael, and Paris. Ah, the Lost Children.

I hope that, once his no-doubt vainglorious tomb is complete and he installed within it, Banksy can come up with something suitably memorable, although it’s hard to top that portrait. HIStory will judge him. Until that time, we have this, by DryHumourSteve:

His bones will given to the relatives of Joseph Carey Merrick

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WaHo Ya Know

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Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the gayest video of all time (including ElektronikSupersonik and all of the Village People):

WaHo (waffle house) by the Athens Boy Choir

Did you know that the Waffle House is a religion in parts of the US, and has its own Shrine? I did not. And did you know that there are significant numbers of songs called Waffle House? I did not. And it’s really late, I should have been done two hours ago and sleeping by now, and so I’m not going to root through the whole intertubes for the lyrics to this one. I’m sure you’ll be singing along in a couple of replays anyway.

And then you’ll turn gay!