Do you like American music?
I like American music.
It’s the obscure, the hard to find, the swell, the boppin’, the questionable, the inspired, the dirty, the they-don’t-make-music-like-this-any-damn-more.
If you’re a surf rat, blues hound, hep cat, baby doll, or swing daddy… well, if you’re any of those things, you’re probably well acquainted with WFMU*. But if you ain’t?
Brother, come on in…
If you’re looking to find the digital version of the vinyl collection you never had, start here: WFMU’s Rock ‘n’ Soul Ichiban. Go ahead, turn it on while you get lost in that blog filled with factual tidbits you can’t imagine living without, but never knew.
Oh, and if you think music stinks if it didn’t spin at 78 rpm? You’re an Old Codger and you’re taste in music is tops.
*Note: Take the time to pick through what WFMU has put together. Most of the Old Codger’s playlists can be found online, which is great: the songs run into one another and they’re most likely by someone you’ve never heard of. The blog for Ichiban is updated more than this blog, and full of goodies. Also, don’t forget to look up WFMU’s presence on iTunes, where you can find heaps upon heaps of music wonders. Music from phonograph cylinders? Yeah, they’ve got that. Cheers!
The Terrible Truth
Sid Davis Productions, 1951.
Another film by the great Sid Davis. This one’s big budget, with bona fides and technicolour: a real life judge from the juvenile court system in Los Angeles, and b roll footage of actual drug paraphernalia. I just love these docudramas… it’s like The Phenix City Story of mental hygiene films.
Not really. But I don’t see how Busby could have done any better if he had been asked to shill for GM and Frigidaire.
Come for the kitchen of the future… stay for the 45 costume changes of Tad Tadlock.
Guess who got to pick where to have breakfast in Bakersfield?
I was immediately vetoed on the idea of going to a truck stop, so when the decision came down to a breakfast cafe with espresso bar or a diner where you got an eight pound coffee mug with eight ounces of burnt coffee, well…
Zingo’s turned out to be catty-corner from the Crystal Palace. (Note: how is that not the first link when googled?! Incomprehensible.) What I didn’t know what that it also shared parking lot space with a seedy bar, was adjacent to a car wash, and within spitting distance of the Teaser Pleaser.
Surly, pregnant waitress? Check.
Parking lot filled with pick-ups? Check.
Heard the word “motherfucker” within 30 seconds of entering? Check.
Condom and sex toy vending machine in the men’s room? Check.
And it made me very self-satisfied indeed to see a framed, signed photograph from The Chop Tops hanging on a wall next to the kitchen.
Needless to say, Zingo’s wasn’t popular with anyone except… me. But I don’t go into these things looking for a dining experience. It was well worth the nauseated, semi-hungover feeling one gets from eating a large breakfast after a night of little sleep. I think we were paid back in spades upon seeing my brother-in-law’s family’s faces when we told them we ate there.
Now on to that truck stop….