The Lonely Goddess Ascends (red COFFEE Conclusion)

When I regained consciousness something wet was running down my head. I was lying flat on my back strapped to a pair of black wings and looking up at Lieutenant Sparta and Detective Ted Braintree. There were a few police cars parked around us with their headlights puncturing the darkness. A few policemen were looking at a man lying on the ground in a pool of blood several feet away from me. He was dressed up like a scarecrow and didn’t seem to be moving.

Detective Braintree leaned down and looked at me funny.
“Don’t move a muscle. You’ve just survived a traumatic automobile accident. Do you know your name?”
"Of course I do. It’s Lois Angelus”. A sheet was draped over the prone figure, placed on a stretcher and carried away to an ambulance. “What’s happened to him?”
“I reckon he’s dead thanks to a gunshot through his face. I taught you well, Lois. You’re a regular Annie Oakley”.
I stared up at him looking puzzled.
“Don’t worry, kid”, he patted my arm. “We’ll get you the best medical attention the City of Los Angeles has to offer”. He smiled.
The last thing I heard was police car radios crackling loudly and policemen spitting, whistling and laughing. The last thing I saw was two nurses picking me up and putting me on a stretcher. Then I passed out again.
____________________________________________

I awoke in a white room wrapped up in a bolt of creamy fabric. A tube was connected to my arm and my head felt tight, like I was wearing a turban. The texture of this creamy fabric was definitely a cotton blend of some sort and felt like I was lying in a tub of cool butter.

The room was an atelier and occasionally a tailor’s form would roll in and stick a pin in me like I was some damn pin cushion. Other times it would call out the door and another tailor’s form would roll in on its wheels. They would both mumble words like “beautiful” once in a while. I also heard a lot of starched fabric rustling by my ears every time I was sleeping.

Another time I opened my eyes a little bit and squinted them to get a better look at a little girl standing by my doorway. She held a couple of dolls in her tiny hands.
“Mommy, what’s wrong with that lady?”
“She’s broke, just like when Betsy was broke and Pa had to fix her”.
“Betsy wants to stay with the broken lady”.
“Carol! Come back here! Don’t disturb the poor woman!”

The little blonde girl ran up to me and stared at me very seriously. “Betsy, take care of the broken lady”, she said quietly and left a tiny blonde doll by my right hip. Then she ran away.
“Mommy! Betsy’s going to take care of the broken lady!”
“Oh, Carol! How many times do I have to tell you not to speak to strangers?”
My eyes got heavy again and I passed out.

______________________________________________

“Oh, look, she’s waking up”, I heard a voice say to someone. My head hurt something awful when I moved it and reluctantly opened my eyes into clear white light. Lieutenant Lou Sparta and Detective Ted Braintree were sitting by my bed staring at me.

“How long have I been here?” I asked with my dry mouth. I smacked my lips to get some moisture and Teddy reached to the bed stead and poured a glass of water.

“You’ve only been here for a couple of days”, Lt. Sparta answered, twirling his hat in his hands. Teddy put the glass to my mouth, helping me drink. “You suffered a pretty hard concussion. We thought it would be best for you to rest here for a few”.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Teddy asked.
“My head hurts a little, but I think part of it’s these bandages on my head. They’re a little tight”.
“Oh, that’s okay. The doctor says they’re probably coming off tomorrow”.
“Well, that’s grand. How’s Ida?”
“She’s fine, Lois”, Lt. Sparta responded, “We rounded up all those thugs and got her to safety”.
“It’s a funny thing about those thugs”, Teddy said, “Our friend Shep Rogers had a little gang organized and they sort of squatted in that drive-in theatre that was getting built in the hills. After we carted those mugs off we investigated the grounds and found crates of guns and a list of prospective future victims. It was quite a list!”
“Well, we won’t have to worry about Rogers or his thugs again”, Sparta added. “Some of them even supplied us with all the missing links in their killing streak”.

“Oh, and by the way, Lois, do you notice anything different about me?” Teddy beamed.
“No, I can’t say that I have”.
“Well, you are now looking at Chief of Detectives Theodore Braintree”, he bragged, smiling.
“Why, that’s great, Teddy. Congratulations”.

“Excuse me, Miss, but there’s a two-person visitors limit to each patient”, I heard some matronly nurse say.
“But I’ll only be a minute!” I heard Ida’s voice.
“Miss, you’re not permitted-“
Ida burst in the room and ran over to the bed with a newspaper. “Lois, I know you don’t like to miss the society column for all the world. There’s an item about Myrna Loy you just HAVE to see!”
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave!” An old, mean nurse came racing in after Ida. There was no question why she wasn’t allowed to come in.
“Alright, Momma, keep your girdle on!” Ida followed her. “Page Three, Lois. Don’t miss it!”
“Why, thank you, Ida. The Herald-Examiner. My favorite. I can’t wait to read what that Myrna Loy did this time”. I picked up the paper and turned to page three.

The headline read, “LA COPS FOIL MILLIONAIRE MURDER PLOT”
“A reign of terror over Los Angeles’ richest model citizens ended Friday night by crusading Detective Theodore Braintree of the Los Angeles Police Department with the apprehension of a killer gang-“
“Oh, I hope she makes another movie with that dashing William Powell. They work so well together!” I read on. If I could make my smile freeze any harder on my face I swear it would have cracked.
A picture of Shep Rogers dead with a bullet hole through his face was posted next to a staff photo of Teddy. “Leader of the terror gang, calling himself The Grinning Scarecrow, was shot and killed by upstanding law enforcer Detective Braintree after refusing to surrender in a storm of gunfire”. I got sick to my stomach.
“That Asta is the cutest dog, isn’t he? That Nick and Nora, you’d think they were a real-life married couple!”
“Lt. Lou Sparta told reporters that Detective Braintree will surely be promoted to head his Department for his intrepid heroism. We applaud his efforts in apprehending The Grinning Scarecrow, Los Angeles’ most horrific killer”. My head hurt even worse than I imagined.
“Well, how about that!” I put the paper down. “Well, won’t that give that Jean Harlow a run for her money!”

Teddy got on his knees nervously, and now he was spinning his hat in his hands. “Gee, Lois, I was thinking. We could be even better than Nick and Nora Charles. With my crusading crime-fighting strength and your good looks we could make quite a team. We won’t need Asta, I have my cat Punchy. And just think, we’ll have babies and do it regular, and ordinary folks”.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Well, heck yeah, kid. I’m crazy about you and I hope you kinda like me a little bit. Whadda ya say?”
“What about Ida?”
“Well, the kids are gonna need a governess, and you know how those colored girls are good at sewing and cleaning and stuff”.
“I don’t know what to say, Teddy. I kind of like modeling, I don’t know if I’m ready for kids”.
“Well, that’s out. We’re gonna have so many kids, you won’t have to time to show off your legs anymore. Besides, I don’t want a bunch of dumb lugs ogling my wife, but we can talk about that later. We’ll have lots of time to talk about it”.

Sparta relaxed his posture in his chair and barked, “Come on, Miss Angelus, you’ve got the newly promoted Chief of Detectives for the LA Police Department on his knees. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll do it!” I smiled.
“Yipppee!” yelled Chief of Detectives Theodore Braintree, jumping for joy.
“Hahahhahahahahahahaha!” laughed Lt. Lou Sparta.
“Hahahhahahahahahahaha!” Detective Braintree laughed harder.
“Hahahhahahahahahahaha!” I laughed the hardest, looking at the two biggest saps I’ve ever seen.

___________________________________________________________

Long Beach, 6:10 AM, Monday morning. Ida Parker was already out of the taxicab and heading up the ramp to the ocean liner RMS Queen Elizabeth.
“Come on, Lois, we’re already late. Let’s go, we can’t miss our boat! They’re holding the ramp for us!”
I tipped the cabbie who took out our bags and then tipped the porter to lug the bags up the ship for me. “Lady, jeez, how many bags are you luggin' on board anyway?”
“Close enough for fashion”, I smiled.

I finally got up on deck and smiled at Ida, who was dressed smarter than I’ve ever seen her dress.
“Nice dress, Ida, but once we get to Paris I’m going to doll you up and make you the talk of the town”.
The boat started tooting and howling as it left the harbor.
“Tell me one more time what it’s going to be like in Paris”, Ida smiled.
“Again? How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Come on, you owe me”.
“Okay, one more time. Paris is filled with chic cafes, friendly people, food like you never tasted, fancy dresses, gorgeous jewelry and even better, the handsomest guys you ever did see. And what’s even better is they give a square break to folks like you. Why, they even made a colored girl a movie star in France”.
“Oh, Lois, you’re gonna be the biggest model in Paris, I'll swear to it”, Ida was beside herself with excitement.
“Yeah, I can hardly wait”, I said as the city of Los Angeles shrank further and further away from us in the distance.
Ida looked at me seriously for a moment. “It’s too bad the way things turned out between you and Teddy”.
I looked at the shifting aquamarine waves below us and sighed, “Well, you know what they say. I might have been born yesterday, but yesterday wasn’t April Fool’s Day. C’mon kid, let’s make nice with the ship’s Captain, he ain’t half bad lookin’ for an old guy. We could use a drink!”
We both brightened up and laughed. With the ocean sparkling like sequined fabric, the sky a lush blue bolt of silk and the sun shining like the brightest gold satin, I traded in the City of Angels for the City of Light, and the future was as bright as the sun.

The Los Angeles River (red COFFEE Chapter 15)

It was getting onto midnight, and I was driving at break neck speed following a white line gleaming in the darkness. I was tailing a motorcycle and it left a white line from the tires running over concrete powder. There were only three problems: One, the white line was getting thinner and weaker, two, I had just stolen a police car, and; three, I was driving well above the speed limit, and I never drove a car before. All I could do was try to imitate the way cabbies drove whenever I rode them.

The white line looked like a ghost trail and dwindled to a few drops, but my quarry was ahead of me, a red Indian motorcycle. He must have seen me in his rear view mirror, because he picked up a broken piece of asphalt and smashed the chained lock holding a gate. He then kicked open the gate and drove down the ramp that led to the Glendale Narrows, the entrance to the Los Angeles River. VRRROOM>>>

I hit the brakes a little too hard and almost flew out the windshield. I’m going to have to tap the brakes a little softer next time. I looked down the ramp and saw him riding down to the river and I guess I had to follow him. Nuts!

The Los Angeles River is hardly a river, and least not certain parts of it because it’s bone dry and a wide stretch of concrete channeling clear across Los Angeles County. What I had ahead of me was the task of pursuing Shep the Scarecrow down a long concrete channel that runs for miles and has no connection to city streets unless you drive up a ramp that appears every few miles. So it was basically just him and me isolated from anyone nearby.

I drove down the ramp very carefully, almost steering off the steep ramp. This was my first time behind the wheel and I wanted to get the killer before I killed myself with bad driving.

As soon as I reached the surface of the river Shep the Grinning Scarecrow was gone by a few miles. He tore out as quickly as he could, so I stomped my foot on the accelerator and raced after him. The car occasionally slipped and slided around the road as there was still a weak trail of water running down the river, so while I was in hot pursuit the car would jerk in weird ways.

While I was racing down the river the radio dispatcher called over the police radio like some broadcast from Hell. “KGPL, Car 4DO68, please copy, over?” a man’s voice calmly requested over crackling distorted transmission. “KGPL, Car 4DO68, you have been called in as abandoned and/or stolen, please copy”. Either Detective Braintree or Lt. Sparta must have already called in the car as missing.

I caught up closer and closer to The Grinning Scarecrow and he leaned over behind to look at me and the slashed smile painted for a mouth on his mask was leering at me. He gave me a taunting look under that mask and I swore I heard him yell, “COME ON GIRL, COME GET ME!” GGGRRRRRWWWWW>>>The motorcycle growled ahead of me. I then made the biggest mistake ever; I thought it would be clever to take the car and spin it around in front of him and corner him against the wall. I got a little ahead of him and then spun the wheel to close him in and my wheels spun, I lost control of the steering wheel and the car slammed into the wall of the river. It was I who was now stuck.

GGGGGRRRRRWWWWWWW>>>>>The Grinning Scarecrow slowed his cycle down and scratched his chin thoughtfully as I revved the engine trying to pry myself out of the wall. I pumped and pumped the pedal but the engine as flooded. The auto groaned and coughed trying to get itself started. “Come on come on come on come on help me”, I whispered. The radio crackled and beeped loudly in my ear. In the rear view mirror I could see The Grinning Scarecrow pulling out a medium sized scythe out of his saddle bag and advancing towards me.

“Hell, this is too good!” he chuckled and clucked to himself. His grotesque grinning mask loomed larger and larger by my window until he jumped on top of my hood and began slamming the scythe into the windshield. BAMBANGBAM! As he beat against the windshield he cursed and screamed. “Open up the door, bitch, and accept your punishment!”

BAMBANGBAM! “I killed the money changers and now I’m going to kill The Queen Whore!” He beat away at the windshield which was cracking under his demolition. I stopped pumping for a few beats and then hit the accelerator. VRROOO>>>>The car reversed from the wall, sending Shep spinning off the hood, dropping his scythe, his head hitting the pavement.

“I’m way out of my league, I’d better just look for a cop nearby and get out of this lousy pit”, I said, looking for a ramp that would get me out of the river. I drove down the concrete river looking from side to side to find an exit out. I don’t know what came over me, you can call it exhaustion, maybe shock, but as I drove down the river I saw dark figures of dead men in tuxedos hanging from trees. Some of them looked like photographs of the victims they showed me at the police station. Contorted faces of strung-up millionaires flashed by me as I drove quickly down the river.

The radio continued to crackle, feed back and squeak at an ear- piercing volume. . “KGPL, Car 4DO68, please copy, over?” The dispatcher’s voice sounded a littler more impatient this time. GGGRRRWWWWWW! A growling motorcycle noise overcame the sound of the radio, and for good reason. The Grinning Scarecrow was now pursuing me! Leaning over his bike with scythe in one hand, he began pounding on my rear fender, banging it and bending it.

He finally overcame me and beat on my windows, cracking them. I drove faster and faster, but it didn’t help. I helplessly watched him shatter the windshield and my vision was distorted from the broken glass. The he did something I didn’t count on: he took his scythe and chopped my right front tire.

The car spun out of control and I hit the brakes, which only made the car spin around even worse. The tire hissed and the car flipped several times until it landed upside down. My head banged against the steering wheel and I almost fainted from the blow. Smoke was pouring out of the hood and I was afraid of being trapped in a flaming automobile so I crawled out from my window.

I heard the motorcycle stop and The Grinning Scarecrow slowly unmounted his bike with the scythe held behind his shoulders. The blow from the steering wheel made me fade in and out of consciousness, so I had to fight to stay alert. “Reckon I never did any butcherin’ but there’s a first time for everything”, he mumbled as he ambled towards me.

He stood several feet ahead of me with his scythe ready to attack as I lay on the ground in my black wings. He came closer until he stood above me. “Too bad you got such a pretty face as I see I’m gonna have to chop it clean off your head. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. No more hangings, just chop y’all up”.

I reached down to my breasts. “That won’t work, lady. Once a whore, always a whore”, he spat, and then lifted his scythe to kill me. “Zero in on one object - just like an eagle, Lois”, I heard someone say. So I pulled out the Colt .45 taped inside my bra and shot straight into the smile on The Grinning Scarecrow’s mask. The last thing I heard was noise from the car radio. THKSQKTITCHSKRL!....

Then everything went black.

Smokin' Like A Villain

I’m not going to justify my enjoyment of smoking and drinking because it will inevitably result in a debate with some blue nose, usually female, who takes great pride in leading a supposedly sanitized lifestyle. The argument usually culminates on how the sanitized female will live forever, which of course raises my favorite question: Who the fuck wants to live forever? What are you looking forward to? Economic recovery? World peace? Another awful contest show on television?

Now that I’ve got that off my chest, I want to talk about smoking. I first started smoking when I worked as a clerk in bustling downtown Los Angeles in the 1970’s. Girls in skimpy outfits stood on street corners around 5 o’clock handing out free packs of Winston cigarettes, and they just wanted to get rid of them sitting on those trays hanging around their necks. I liked Winston a lot, and soon tried out different brands to taste the difference in the tobacco.

I tried Kool menthols which made my sinuses freak out worse than pot, I tried lights which felt like smoking toilet paper, and I even tried old school unfiltered brands like Lucky Strike, Pall Mall, and Chesterfields, which Captain Beefheart once said should come with your own iron lung. I stayed with Winstons.

Owning cigarettes was only part of the ritual: Zippo lighters were the next step. I got a great one with an image by Robt Williams that Amphetamine Reptile used to sell back in the day. They sold lighters with images by Pizz, Dennis Worden, Gary Panter and Kaz, to name a few. Then you had to have a rockin’ cigarette case because those crush-proof boxes were garbage. I got a nice metal one with a Chinese dragon on it to match my Chinese dragon bracelet. A vice is incomplete until one acquires the proper paraphernalia for it.

One of my favorite stops in Palm Springs used to be The Tinder Box which had at least three cigar stores on every block. There’s a good one in West Hollywood, too, and I always like checking out all the smoking paraphernalia, like smoking stands for your sofa for that old lounge vibe. Cigarette holders are pretty weird, too, the longer the better. Some of the best smoking paraphernalia can be found at truck stops, so on that next trip to Vegas keep your eyes peeled for that Winchester rifle lighter.

I do confess to calling a moratorium on smoking several years ago when I started chain-smoking and having choking fits, which I no longer do and no longer have. When I did chain smoke, I didn't do it as weirdly as I've seen some people do it, which is lighting the next cigarette with the butt of the previous one that's burning out. Even as a smoker I found that practice creepy, quite frankly. These days things are different. I have one coffin nail a day and even skip a few days here and there. It’s not that terribly important like it was 20 years ago, so when I skip a few days I don’t start nervously twitching or overeating.

But if there's anything weirder than chain smokers it's the actual haters themselves. While some people object to cigarette smoke in patios they think nothing of toting their dogs. If there's an odor more offensive than Marlboro Lights it's the smell of a wet dog when I eat. Then there are those hipster parents that shoot daggers at me when I light up in front of their children like I'm the devil. These are the same clowns that think nothing of dragging their kids to the supermarket at 10 pm. Perhaps these Orwellian moms and dads are bugged because the kids look a little excited to see my cigarette case, lighter, and other tobacco toys in action. Roll over, Joe Camel!

The most extreme case of smoking hatred might be the time someone posted a movie review on the Independent Movie Data Base (iMDB.com) ripping into an old Cary Grant movie because he counted people lighting up 35 times in the film. His review didn't critique the nice set design, cool Edith Head wardrobe or dazzling performance by Cary Grant, no - cigarettes were lit up and smoked 35 times in this movie, so he hated it. What a freak!

Why do people smoke anyway? Why do people consider this recreation relaxing? I’ve always felt that smoking is the only time one can breathe deeply in a social situation and not look like a total freak. The calm inhaling of tobacco makes the body relax and stimulate the mind. So the next time you see me and my friends standing twenty feet in front of a building out on the sidewalk puffing away it’s because we’re chillin’ while the healthy blue noses are insanely screaming at each other driving on the road.

Rip, Rig and Panic

Back in the Pleistocene era of punk rock (1977-1979) the top fanzines of the West Coast were Slash (Los Angeles) and Search & Destroy (San Francisco), which were both written and designed by people that worked in the field of graphic arts, cinema and publishing. This meant that both fanzines not only covered the new music that was emerging at the time, but also covered cutting edge artists, filmmakers and performance artists. Performance artists got an extraordinary amount of coverage in Slash/Search & Destroy, and a lot of these artists were every bit as exciting as any punk band.

In an era of Siouxise Sioux, The Slits, and Cindy Sherman, no other artist embodied femininity gone awry better than Johanna Went. Playing every feminine role with the manic ferocity of a mental patient, Went portrayed nuns bathed in blood carrying crucifixes, violent housekeepers throwing flour around the stage with baby dolls tied around her neck, speaking in tongues, babbling and shrieking into a microphone. A terrific jazz-noise combo would punctuate her whirling dervishes, creating an aural wallpaper as disturbing as her I Am Woman nightmarisms. She even released a great EP of jazz-noise bludgeon called “Hyena” (available on eMusic with bonus tracks, yes!).

 

If there was a British Music Hall act from Hell it would be The Kipper Kids. Two stocky men who favored a cross between British lorry drivers and The Blue Meanies from “Yellow Submarine”, a performance from them would include: a boxing match between them clad only in jock straps – who would you root for, Harry Kipper or Harry Kipper?, a version of The Velvet Underground’s “Heroin” on ukulele, or an argument between them in a language only they knew. And of course, a lot of blood, animal entrails, food product and fluids all over each other, which is the sort of “Johnny B. Goode” or “New York, New York” of the performance art world. No performance artist could complete their show without making a mess all over themselves.

But performance art was more than just a spectator sport. When I lived at The Masque (1978) I once woke up to the sounds of metal being banged around, kind of like a garbage can fighting its way out of an alley. When I got up to see what the racket was all about I saw Z’ev auditioning on stage, which meant him hurling a gauntlet of metal cans, pots and scrap metal all tied together and creating a cacophonous metallic soundscape. I thought he was great, but I wanted to jam, so I busted out my saxophone and walked into the hall blowing some wicked atonal tenor saxophone. Z’ev looked shocked and probably a little pissed that I was playing along, but Brendan Mullen and company were entertained by my contributions.

 

Word got around The Canterbury (where I lived after the Masque) that Hermann Nitsch was doing his“Orgien Mysterien Theater” (trans: Theatre of Orgies and Mysteries) at The Otis Institute of Art and if you had a horn you were invited to play. My neighbors Don Bolles of The Germs and Pat Delaney of The Deadbeats were going but I couldn’t make it, and I was bummed. The day after the performance Pat had dried blood all over him, and he said I missed a great show. Naked men and women were tied to crucifixes behind hacked animal carcasses as Nitsch poured blood and cow entrails all over them while the horn players blew a wall of noise. I kicked myself all week for missing that one!

Another phenomenon that was fairly big at the time was tons and tons of loft parties in the warehouse district in Downtown LA where all you had to do was show up with your horn and blow. Sometimes with a band, sometimes just by yourself along to prepared tapes, it was important for the maximum effect of the loft party. Nobody played crummy rap records, it was all about the originality of the environment and even if youdidn’t know the host of the party you were welcome to play. Shit done changed after all these years. People need to loosen up!

At the risk of writing yet another whiny piece about how cool the scene used to be I just want to testify that there was a time when punk rock was more than just a lot of bands and party merchandise. It was a living, breathing wall of sound and vision, and I’ll always fondly remember those days of watching, listening, and even participating in the sonic outrage of the Seventies.

"A Salty Dog" - Procol Harum (1969)

It all happened one beautiful Sunday afternoon in Beverly Hills. I walked into the Burberry boutique to view their fiendishly fashionable Prorsum line, and the first thing that hit me was “The Wreck of The Hesperus” by Procol Harum booming over the Burberry speaker system. So sweepingly cinematic, it brilliantly complimented the dramatically beautiful and quintessentially British Burberry fashions in the boutique. Matthew Fisher’s airy vocal melodiously drifted through the room, making us all feel as if we were out to sea, singing the maritime lyrics of Keith Reid:

“We’ll hoist a hand, becalmed upon a troubled sea

“Make haste to your funeral”, cries the valkyrie

We’ll hoist a hand or drown amidst this stormy sea

“Here lies a coffin”, cries the cemetery, “You will surely see”…

Majestic English horns blew fanfares while Robin Trower’s guitar conjured an endless seascape as 1,000 strings laid a melodious pattern of sheer ardor. I almost forgot I was supposed to be looking at the new Burberry Prorsum line.

It’s been an eternity since music had the power to transcend its environment, but then again I haven’t owned “A Salty Dog” in years. Although I enjoyed “Shine On Brightly” I forgot how unique “A Salty Dog” was, one of the great albums that never really received the attention it deserved.

Procol Harum released their third album in 1969, an album so eccentric, a much too British maritime-themed album that it turned American listeners away. 1969 was a year for outrageous album covers, i.e. Blind Faith, Trout Mask Replica, and the great Blodwyn Pig cover that still disturbs people, etc. “A Salty Dog” featured a take-off on the Player’s Navy Cut cigarette box; rather than show a respectable English sailor a shaggy gob of indeterminate origin wearing a cap with the name “Herod” stitched on top. That got my five dollars in a flash. I thought it was cooler looking than some ugly naked girl holding a toy plane, really.

Most of the tracks on the album are dirges, the most notable one being the title track, the lyrics articulating feelings of hopelessness on a restless and poorly charted sea. While the keyboards and strings play staccato minor notes, Gary Brooker sings mournfully,

“Across the straits, around the horn: how far can sailors fly?

A twisted path, our tortured course, and no one left alive…”

“We sailed for parts unknown to man, where ships come home to die,

No lofty peak, nor fortress bold, could match our captain’s eye…”

Ironically, while many of the songs allude to distress and despair aboard the ocean blue, the lyrics also define the despair of drug addiction. “The Devil Came From Kansas” reflects these feelings:

“There’s a monkey riding on my back, he’s been there for some time,

He says he knows me very well but he’s no friend of mine…”

“For the turning and the signpost and the road which takes you down,

To that pool inside the forest in whose waters I shall drown…”

While Gary Brooker leads a monkish sounding choir chanting the chorus, Robin Trower’s blistering metal guitar screams over a tattoo of tribal drums, setting this anti-Wizard of Oz fable in a tail-spin with descriptions of “a dark cloud just above us” and “for the sins of those departed and the ones about to go”.

The lost-at-sea analogy as drug damaged casualty is also expressed in the blues dirge of “Crucifiction Lane” (dig the pun):

“Tell the helmsman veer to starboard, bring this ship around to port,

And if the sea was not so salty I could sink instead of walk,

In case of passing strangers who are standing where I fell,

Tell the truth: you never knew me, and in truth it’s just as well”.

In spite of the fact that the tempo to every song is slow like the languid waves of a calm sea (with the exception of “Kansas” and “Hesperus”) there is enough sonic seafaring to keep the record from sounding like one monotonous moan. I don’t know why I set this one to the side, but I’m glad it’s back on my deck. And to think, a trip to Burberry Beverly Hills made it all possible. I wonder what they’re playing tonight?

All lyrics (c) 1969, Keith Reid (Onward Music)