All About Me: The Music Edition...

Now I know you all come to this site to partake of my vast wisdom and knowledge about the film industry, but I don't really talk much about myself. And since this is a blog and prone to the whims of my immense ego, I've decided to talk about something that really matters. Me.

This time, I'm going to talk my career in music.

Yes, I did have a career in music, a long one, and this is my fascinating story of a life in music.

It begins in the late 1950s. I had just lost my job as a badger rancher when I realized that badgers do not make good pets, what with the psychopathic violence and all, and I needed a new career.

I got my start playing piano at the Leaky Tiki Lounge, a Hawaiian themed bar renowned for the fact that it had the leakiest roof in the Poconos. My music was considered perfect for bars and lounges because it seemed to drive people to drink.

One night I was discovered by a liquor company executive who envisioned my liver burning brand of smooth experimental jazz playing in every bar in the world. He financed my first album.
The album sold well to bars all over the world, though the staff did require to wear earplugs, for fear of drinking the profits, and it won the coveted Silver Liver Sliver at the International Wine & Spirits Convention in the Catskills.

That went on for a few years. But my music was overshadowed by the prevalence of Rock & Roll.

And since I've always been willing to whore myself, artistically that is, I jumped right into it feet first.

Then I realized that you need to play the guitar with your hands, not feet. And I released my first rock & roll album: Wanna Pluck My Twanger?

That album earned me a Tin record and a spot in the record books for the most times a performer has been slapped, punched or kicked when asked the title of his album. In fact, it's been credited with inspiring the British Invasion. John Lennon and Paul McCartney heard it and were inspired to form their own band. I think the exact term they used was: "We could do better than this shit." Which I think is his way of expressing his admiration.

Rock and roll changed and I changed with it. Looking for a new challenged I joined a group of trippy acid dropping toke-smoking hippie musicians named Psychedelicatessen out of the lesser known Haight-Ashbury neighbourhood of Moncton.Our self-titled debut album premiered at #76 on the Bulgarian pop-charts. Apparently all copies were purchased by interrogators with the Secret Police, but hey a sale is a sale.

Sadly, after our attempt to play Woodstock ended in a brawl, and drummer Gunther Farfignuggen getting his ass kicked by Joni Mitchell, I left the band...

....left, fired... it's all really the same. I was itching to try new things, and it was probably that itch that made me tell Joni that Gunther thought she was fat.

I joined a pair of struggling folk musicians named Crosby and Nash to experiment with a new sound I called "Gangsta Folk."Our cowardly record label rejected my proposed album title of Folk All You Motherfolkers, and just called it after the band. It was soon after the album's release that I realized that David Crosby and Bing Crosby were two completely different people.

Disappointed I decided to go solo again.
I've always considered The Wet Album my masterpiece. It's unique blend of free jazz, seagull squawks, and white noise was praised by the American Psychiatric Association as a more human alternative to lobotomies.

This record of my performance of at the Blue Ballroom at the Lake Flaccid Motor Lodge at Intercourse, Pennsylvania, has the unique distinction of not only being condemned by critics, but also every major religion, political party, and social organisation.
My next solo album Can I Borrow A Feelin'? had a more relaxed country sound due to my being deeply relaxed, thanks to my addiction to valium, percodan, percoset, novocaine, aspirin, bennies (as in Hill & Hana), quaaludes, alcohol, fire, ice cream, and toad licking.

In fact, I needed to borrow a feeling, because I had completely lost my sense of touch, smell, and taste, especially in groupies, and even more so in music as seen by this now forgotten funk album from 1972...
For some reason people didn't want to partake in a funky dance that involved giving your partner the plague. Excuse me for being scientifically accurate.

But I hadn't hit rock bottom yet.

My albums were still selling well in countries with low levels of English comprehension and high levels of tone-deafness. So my fame was seen as the shot in the arm that my old associates at Psychedelicatessen needed.
The band was re-formed as Furious D featuring Psychedelicatessen, and our album Funky See-Funky Do, hit Gold in Kazakhstan.

But things were about to take a turn for the worst....
I sort of feel responsible for the deaths of my old friends in Psychedelicatessen, partly because I cut the brake line on their tour bus when they fired me again, but mostly because I never told them how I really felt about them, mostly loathing. Still, it gave me a great album of what I call memorial disco that went platinum in Burma.
I went back to my experimental jazz-lounge roots, and melding it with disco, and although the album didn't sell very well, I did get an award from the Sweaty Hirsute Fetishists Society of Pomona.

Disco had died, and I took a moment from my narcotic haze to form a new band with the new sound of New Wave.Too bad it was 1986 and New Wave was dead too.

I was no longer making trends, but following them, long after they were dead and buried.

Now I had figuratively hit rock bottom.

I later hit rock bottom literally when I fell down a well, but that's another story.

When I got out of rehab and physiotherapy I tried to rebuild my shattered career, with a new album, a new sound, and a new look.
Sales of my blend of Latin beats and German industrial music were poor, selling only to radical church groups who claimed to use the cover picture to "cure" Gay men straight.
Awful by name, awful by nature, the less said about this album the better.

But a new sound had caught my ear, and it nested in there like a parasitic insect laying eggs in my brain. That music was rap. I was briefly a member of NWA, but the label made them drop me, because they thought a white man playing the bagpipes wasn't "street" enough. So I went solo...
Hip-Vibe Magazine voted me the "Whitest Rapper of All Time." Take that Vanilla Ice you punk-ass imitator. I was back on top of the charts again in Papua-New Guinea, Outer Mongolia, Inner Mongolia and Slightly to the Left Mongolia.

I decided to spread some of this success around, not in my usual form of STDs and paternity lawsuit payoffs, but by helping other untalented white rappers make it. So I formed a new group, the 2 Cool 4 U Crew with Eugene "White Chocolate" Olaffson, 5th wife Hildegarde "Ho In One" Hassenfeffer, and author, MC, DJ, and ukulele maestro John "Uke 'til U Puke" Updike.
Despite the success of the 2 Cool 4 U Crew in Cambodia, and our wildly popular tour of Lichtenstein, I had reached the limits rap could do and wanted to get back to basics. Plus Hildegarde got custody of Updike and White Chocolate in the divorce. It was time to get back to rock and roll.
I formed a new band with 7th wife Imogene Popanfresh, the former Miss Dental Hygiene UK, and bassist and drummer brothers Clyde and Otis Tubthumper to start the Furious D Band.

While Seattle was going Grunge, we went in a new direction called Sponge Rock. It was a clean looking band with filthy lyrics lying beneath the soft squishy music like fecal coliform bacteria on a kitchen sponge.

Folks, Imogene included, didn't really get the sound, or noise as most described it and she left me for the Tubthumper Brothers and formed a new band without me called The Smashing Pumpkins. But they got sued by another, already famous, band with the same name.

It was then that I realized that the music biz was just a horrible bitch goddess that ate souls for breakfast, lunch and supper, so I decided to look into a business where they treat people right.

The movie business.