The 500 - #152 - Self-Titled (Debut) - The B52's

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #152
Album Title: Self-Titled (Debut)

Artist: The B52s

Genre: New Wave, Post Punk, College Rock, Dance Rock, Pop Punk

Recorded: Compass Point Studios, Nassau, Bahamas

Released: July, 1979

My age at release: 13
How familiar was I with it before this week: Very

Is it on the 2020 list? No
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Planet Claire

My love of the absurd has been well chronicled in this blog series. The late ‘70s was a golden age for surreal, avant-garde and boundary-pushing art, music and comedy, and it coincided with my transition from childhood into my teenage years. I suppose my fascination with offbeat, subversive farce began with syndicated episodes of the British sketch comedy program Monty Python's Flying Circus, which aired on the Detroit PBS affiliate WTVS on Channel 56. In a time before cable television was the norm, watching U.S. stations on the UHF dial was not easy and often required patient (sometimes surgically meticulous) manipulation of our television's antennae. It was always worth it for the Python lads.

Shortly after discovering the Monty Python series, The Dr. Demento Show became a Sunday night listening ritual on WABX 95.3 FM, also out of Detroit. Dr. Demento was the alter ego of musicologist and radio personality Barret Hansen who broadcast from Pasadena, California. His radio show began as a free-form rock program, but evolved into a showcase for novelty songs, comedy and absurd audio oddities. After Hansen played the song Transfusion by Nervous Norvus he was told he must be “demented” to have played it. Transfusion is a ridiculous and satirical take on reckless driving, told from the perspective of a driver who keeps getting into car accidents and requires blood transfusions.

At first, I felt alone in my love of the odd. My elementary school chums and the teammates on my hockey club were of a more conventional ilk. Sure, we talked sports, superheroes, stuntman Evel Knievel and network television programs -- especially The Six Million Dollar Man, Charlie's Angels and Happy Days.

The Tuesday Night Line-Up on ABC.

We shared plenty of laughs over mainstream sources like the kid-friendly satire of MAD and Cracked magazines. But we also found ourselves inexplicably amused by Wacky Packages -- those collectible stickers that spoofed popular consumer products with absurd names like “Crust” instead of Crest toothpaste, or “Dampers” in place of Pampers diapers. Looking back, it was a bizarre trend, and probably not as funny as we thought at the time. (See Below)

When I turned 12, my tastes continued to lean toward the mature, irreverent, and subversive -- even when I didn’t fully grasp the material. I started saving my babysitting and newspaper delivery money to buy National Lampoon, a bold, countercultural magazine spun off from the Harvard Lampoon and aimed at college-aged readers. Speaking of babysitting, that early job also introduced me to my greatest, contemporary source of absurd, experimental comedy and groundbreaking music: Saturday Night Live (SNL).

Each week, armed with a bowl of potato chips and a backed by a fridge full of pop, I’d commandeer a neighbor’s couch (once their kids were safely tucked in) and brace myself for a full-on comedic assault from the brilliant, unpredictable minds of the "Not Ready for Prime Time Players" -- Gilda Radner, John Belushi, Bill Murray, Jane Curtin, Garrett Morris, Laraine Newman, and Canadian standout Dan Aykroyd. Between Coneheads and Samurai Delicatessen sketches, or Weekend Update segments featuring Radner’s sweet but fiery Emily Litella hilariously mangling the latest news headline, SNL would drop in performances from the coolest, hippest bands of the moment. It was chaos, it was genius -- and it felt like it had been made for me.

SNL cast (1976-1980) (l-r) Morris, Curtain, Belushi, Newman, Ackroyd, 
Radner and Murray.

Over those first few years, 1975 - 1980, I witnessed rock history, through live broadcasts and reruns.

• The enigmatic Frank Zappa delivered a searing satire of television and mass media with his performance of  I Am the Slime, (literally and figuratively) oozing irony and biting commentary from Studio 8H in New York City. 
• Then came the ethereal brilliance of Kate Bush, introduced by that week’s host, Monty Python’s Eric Idle, as she performed her haunting ballad The Man with the Child in His Eyes and the whimsical, spiritually charged Them Heavy People. I had her lyric "rolling the ball" clogging my noggin' for weeks after.
• As I documented in my March 2020 blog for album #442, I vividly remember watching Devo unleash their frenetic, deconstructed cover of the Rolling Stones’ (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction. Complete with neon yellow hazmat suits, the jerky choreography, and robotic vocals felt like a transmission from another world.
• I distinctly remember February 16, 1980. I was at home watching Gary Numan perform his breakout synth-pop hit Cars and the shadowy, atmospheric Praying to the Aliens. My dad sat behind me on the couch, reading a book, clearly perplexed by this enigmatic, android-like figure who seemed more machine than man. I am sure the words, "bloody rubbish", went through his head, but he was kind enough to remain quiet and allow me my moment of pop-culture euphoria.

  

  Gary Numan performing in 1980 on SNL. 

Just three weeks earlier (January 26, 1980), host Teri Garr, riding the cinematic successes of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Oh, God! and The Black Stallion, introduced a quirky band from Athens, Georgia: The B-52’s. Comprising Fred Schneider (vocals), Kate Pierson (vocals, keyboards), Cindy Wilson (vocals), sibling Ricky Wilson (guitar), and Keith Strickland (drums), the group exploded onto the contemporary music scene with a sound that was as hard to define as it was to ignore. Their unique blend of surf rock, punk, new wave, and dance music, playfully layered with call-and-response vocals, kitschy lyrics, and vintage sci-fi and pop culture references, was unlike anything else I had seen.

The B52's in 1980, (l-r) Schneider, Pierson, Strickland, 
R. Wilson and C. Wilson.

Formed in 1976, the band had built a loyal following through the underground and college radio scenes. Athens, home to the University of Georgia, was a fertile ground for alternative culture, and the B-52s thrived in its creative soil. With their beehive hairdos, thrift-store fashion, and campy, colorful aesthetic, they were often seen by mainstream audiences as too weird or gimmicky -- which, of course, made them a perfect beacon for my avant-garde comedic and musical gaze.

The B52's performing - 1980s

Their debut record, which appears at #152 on Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, helped define the emerging new wave scene and positioned the B-52’s as pioneers of alternative pop. The single Rock Lobster quickly created a cult following, and then mainstream, and a chart hit. The album eventually went platinum.

I owned a copy of the debut on cassette and, along with a few other oddball new wave releases, including The Monks’ Bad Habits and Devo’s 1980 offering, Freedom of Choice, I wore them out on my home cassette player. (Note: It wasn't until years later that I would learn that Bad Habits was only a hit record in Canada -- and specifically in Ontario. The record is actually a spoof of the punk rock / new wave scene and was performed by members of the progressive/folk rock band The Strawbs")

When I think back on that young teen, who seems a stranger to me now, drawn to the offbeat, the absurd, and the wonderfully weird, these bands gave me something I hadn’t found in my middle school friendships: a sense of belonging. Those original group of friends and I had been thrown together by geography and circumstance, we were, like those Wacky Packages, randomly stuck with each other -- minus the hard strip of chewing gum. But through music, I eventually found people who got me. The weirdness of the B-52s, Frank Zappa and Devo, wasn’t just entertaining, it was affirming. It told me that being different wasn’t just okay; it was something to celebrate.

The 500 - #216 - Go Bo Diddley - Bo Diddley

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by Los Angeles-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #216
Album Title: Go Bo Diddley
Artist: Bo Diddley
Genre: Early Rock and Roll
Recorded: Checker Records - March, 1955 & September, 1958

Released:  July, 1959 
My age at release: Not born
How familiar was I with it before this week: Not at all

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #455, dropping 238 places
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Say Man

I have lost count of the number of concerts and live events I have attended due to the foresight and generosity of my friend, Steve “Lumpy” Sullivan. Some readers of this blog series will remember Steve as a guest writer for album #417, Boy, from U2, and #345, Stop Making Sense, from Talking Heads. He’ll be back again soon to contribute.

Steve (right) with his favourite comedian, Doug Stanhope.

Courtesy of Steve, I’ve attended the Just For Laughs Festival in Montreal; sat in a luxury box, enjoying unlimited food and beer at a Bob Dylan and Foo Fighters performance in London, Ontario; and watched Wrestlemania 18 from the front row. 

We actually had 2nd row seats, but the people in front of us 
did not show and we moved up.

That’s right. I sat ringside and witnessed The Rock defeat Hulk Hogan while more than 68,000 people looked on from behind me in Toronto’s Skydome (now Rogers Centre).

Poster for Wrestlemania 18.

Meanwhile, Steve has used his entertainment industry know-how to arrange for my wife, Angela, and I to meet the Blue Jays on the field before watching their game against the Chicago White Sox next month. His largesse is seemingly boundless.

The Blue Jays face the White Sox May 19 - 22.

In July, 2001, he secured tickets for us to see comedy legends Joan Rivers and Don Rickles perform at the Hummingbird Centre (now Meridian Hall) in Toronto. I have been a fan of Rickles since the ‘70s when I first witnessed his acerbic, insult-based wit on The Tonight Show and Dean Martin’s Celebrity Roast.

Rickles mugging to the audience on Dean Martin's
Celebrity Roast - 1970s.

In preparation for this post, I rewatched several episodes of “The Roast” on YouTube. I realize now that most of the jokes went over my pre-teen head. Regardless, there was something about the rhythm of comedic delivery and the idea of friendly tit-for-tat ridicule that gripped me.

Dean Martin Celebrity Roast.

My recollection of those verbal jousts was ignited while listening to Go Bo Diddley, the second studio record from legendary singer, guitarist and songwriter Bo Diddley. Diddley was born Ellas Otha Bates in Macomb, Mississippi, to the teen-aged daughter of a sharecropper. She and Ellas’ father, Eugene Bates, were unable to support a family, so the infant was raised by his mother’s cousin, Gussie McDaniel, who eventually adopted him.

A young Bo Diddley (1950s)

Gussie moved the family to the south side of Chicago in 1934 following the death of her husband who was, of course, five-year-old Diddley’s adoptive father. Active involvement in the Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church allowed the teen-age Diddley to learn trombone and violin. However, it was the joyful and rhythmic music he heard at the neighbourhood Pentecostal church and from local blues players that inspired him to take up the guitar.

Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church in Chicago.

Music wasn’t the only rhythm that enthralled the young Diddley. He, like me, loved the cadence and flow of comedic beats and was particularly enamoured with insult humour. The sixth track on Go Bo Diddley is a three-minute ditty entitled Say Man – a song that became his biggest hit, reaching #20 on the Billboard Top 100.

Say Man single on Checker Records.

Say Man began as a rhythmic, instrumental jam session in the Checker studios. However, instead of singing, Diddley and his percussion player, Jerome Green, traded insults in a word game known as "The Dozens".

Green (lower) with Diddley.

The Dozens has its roots in African American communities where two participants exchanged increasingly severe barbs that delighted audiences and themselves. The poisoned arrows of combat attacked each opponent's intelligence, appearance, competency or social and financial status. Many times, members of the family were targeted – particularly each other’s mother –the lightning-fast retorts cringing, but hilarious.

The game goes by a plethora of names. It is called "blazing", "roasting", "hiking", "capping", "clowning", "ranking", "ragging", "rekking", "crumming", "sounding", "checking", "joning", "woofing", "wolfing", “skinning”, "sigging", "scoring", "signifying" and "jiving". The insults themselves are sometimes called "snaps".

There are multiple stories about the origin of the phrase “The Dozens”. Some authors believe it came from a now-forgotten English verb “to dozen” - which meant “to stun, stupefy or daze.” A darker history is suggested by Mona Lisa Soloy. The author and professor posits that the term arose from the New Orleans’ slave trade where mutilated captives (often disfigured by punishment for alleged disobedience) were grouped into lots of a “cheap dozen”.

A sketch depicting the ships used in the Atlantic Slave Trade.

When listening to the song Say Man it is easy to hear the delight in the voices of Diddley and Green as they exchange barbs, such as, “Your girl is so ugly, she has to sneak up on a glass of water to get a drink.” The Dozens work because both participants interact willingly in a display of friendly rivalry. Historian Harry Lefever wrote in a 1981 academic paper titled Playing The Dozens: A Mechanism For Social Control:

“In the deepest sense, the essence of "The Dozens" lies not in the insults but in the response of the victim. Taking umbrage is considered an infantile response. Maturity and sophistication bring the capability to suffer the vile talk with aplomb at least, and, hopefully, with grace and wit.”

Indeed, sociologists believe the game is viewed as a tool for preparing young African American men to cope with verbal abuse without becoming outraged. In the time before the Civil Rights movement (and, sadly, after) this was often a survival mechanism for black men.

Seeing Don Rickles and Joan Rivers perform in 2001 was a high point for me. Both performers perfected the art of the insult and, on that hot July evening, the audience were the beneficiaries. Thanks to Steve, I was there, too.

When I met Steve in 1993, it was our mutual love of comedy that made us click. Over the years, we have played our own variation of The Dozens, friends hurling contrived barbs at one another. The laughter we have shared binds our ever-deepening friendship. And that is no joke.