God Damn It's NAMM

Husband Material

Let's talk about girls, I can take them or leave them
If you can't feed them then don't even breed them
Getting married's like smoking in bed
When you come to your senses you're already dead

Tell me baby am I husband material
Tell me baby am I husband material
Tell me baby am I husband material

I've roamed every corner of this whole world
In all 50 states I've married a different girl
Gonna do it like the Bible have me 3,000 wives
I'll just keep getting hitched until the Federals arrive

Tell me baby am I husband material
Tell me baby am I husband material
Tell me baby am I husband material

I can't remember them all it's one big blur
Different colors, shapes, and sizes, all kinds of girls
Romancing then financing at the jewelry store
Hock your rings later for the next big score

Tell me baby am I husband material
Tell me baby am I husband material
Tell me baby am I husband material

That old ball and chain is starting to choke
I'm just going out for a pack of smokes
Telling you this story's been a lot of fun
Here comes my ex-wife with a loaded gun

Tell me baby am I husband material
Tell me baby am I husband material
Tell me baby am I husband material

c1993, Andy Seven (Scuzzbuster Music, BMI)

Cocktail Napkins

Played the Second Coming club with the stage festooned in flower petals. The petals on the floor made us slip and slide all over the stage. I had to keep the guitarists from falling on their faces and guitar necks. Later on the Lovedolls’ lead singer tried her cooch dancing routine and almost slipped and broke her neck. That’s entertainment!

The "Horses/Phantasm III" single got played in heavy rotation on KXLU. They had to pull the record off their playlist for awhile because it was getting too many requests. Cool.

Showed up at Jennifer Anus’ going away party at Al’s Bar but the fascist assholes shut the power off before we could play. The loser cunt who books the place wouldn’t let us play because she thinks I’m psychotic. Manny broke into a rad drum solo in protest. Bravo, dude.

Sold Rajis out at 10 PM. We were on the bill with V8 and Killdozer. A slam pit crammed up the floor and fist fights broke out while we were playing. When we played our encore of "One Eyed Car", Fugly the bass player in V8 tried hoisting Jack up on her skinny shoulders and he ended up crashing backwards into his amp. Fugly!

Midway through our set at the Gaslight the full-time loser/part-time sound man shut off the PA. Some bum who claimed to be part-owner of the club pulled a knife on me and told me I would never play the Gaslight again. The lads dispatched him, and we’ve played there ever since.

Lucas left the band so he could go to school in New York and live there rent free, so now Paul’s in. Paul doesn’t like anything so he’ll work out fine.

Recorded “Silver Surfer” for the Flipside compilation (the one that Offspring and Green Day also played on). When I was in mixdown with Joy Aoki and Donnell Cameron the VU needle shot into the red and sat there. Donnell fell off the stool laughing. “This is a very HOT recording!” Yeah.

Welcome to San Francisco

Nobody hits the streets of San Francisco expecting to knock 'em dead. If anything, if you go there it's to run away from somewhere else, and she was taking flight from French Canada, a chilly graveyard of smug and prim "rebels". She had dark skin of indeterminate race and platinum blonde hair. It shook up hipsters who swore they couldn't be shook up.

The locals didn't know what to make of her, but the drag queens did. They took her under their wing like the Seven Dwarves of Babylon: there was Miss Glamour Thing who had Tourette's Syndrome, "c'mere nigger bitch, get your pussy over here I'll show you how to sew a dress, whore". Sister Fred, who worshipped Boy George - "ker-azy about the Boy", he whined through his nose, and Jill Hershey Bar, inheritor of millions, at 300+ pounds and lover of scat, hence the title. The Girl once gave Miss Hershey Bar some dog shit for his birthday and he was so excited he broke out in tears.

Although she never had sex at all she was constantly in the employ of various sex industries - credit card checker for a 1-800 Phone Sex line or a custodian at a North Beach strip club. It paid for guitar strings, a fuzz-wah pedal, and rehearsal studio time. It was one night she got into the Nightbreak on Haight St. to see the Four Horsemen play. Sitting on the edge of the stage as the Four Horsemen played were two sluts with fried blonde hair kicking their legs up and down to the beat. They looked really smug like they were Sex In A Can. "How much more stupid can these bitches look?" she thought.

After a few beers she went to the ladies room. A minute later one of the fried blonde strumpets came in, too. The Girl turned around and sneered at her and said, "Plan on giving any diseases to the band after the show?"
"Fuck you, bitch", Fried Blondie yelled, and threw a punch at her. She ducked and missed the punch. She dived at her and ripped out clumps of the Fried Blonde's hair.
"I'll kill you!" the ugly stripper shrieked. The Girl tore the stripper's top off, and then got her on the ground using her wrestling medal-winning skills to good use.
"Let go of me!!" the stripper whined. The Girl then tried shoving the stripper's head into the toilet bowl. The stripper's friend came in to help her.
By this point there was such a commotion coming from the Ladies Room, the Girl's friends came in with beer pitchers and beat the strippers upside their heads with them.
The bouncers raced in and broke up the fight, kicking everyone out of the bathroom.

After the band's set, the lead singer of the Four Horsemen approached the Girl at the bar.
"Hey", he said, "I'm sorry about those girls. They followed us, I don't know who they are".
"Oh, that's okay", she said. He focused on a chip she wore around her neck.
"Cool", he remarked. "I'm in the program, too. How many days do you have?" He turned the chip around to read the inscription.
The inscription said, "GOOD FOR ONE DRINK".
He disgustedly pushed it back at her. But not so disgusted that he didn't give her his phone number in Hollywood before storming off.

Months later, she had a job cleaning at The Century Theatre. Two strippers came into the dressing room and froze when they saw her. It was the girls from the Nightbreak. As she was leaving, one of the strippers stopped her.
"I know you", she said. "I know you from somewhere. You look really familiar".
"Yeah", the Girl said, "You look really familiar to me, too".
"Do I know you from Hollywood?" she smiled, getting excited. "Did you ever go to the Scream?"
"Yeah, maybe. Have you ever been to White Trash A Go-Go?"
"No, no, no. Maybe the Seventh Veil", the fried stripper pondered, jogging her imited memory banks. She honestly couldn't place her from that explosive evening at the Nightbreak.
A week went by and the two strippers did their act, never recognizing the Girl. After their "engagement" was over at the club they left the Girl a large tip, and they just couldn't remember that night.

The Girl continued making clothes with the Seven Dwarves of Babylon and it worked out fine.

Hungry For A Real Fine Guy Like Me: Marklindsay.com

Eight years ago I bought all the Paul Revere & The Raiders CDs reissued on Sundazed Records, and they were brilliant. They rocked hard and looked like drunken Revolutionary War dudes that dumped all that tea into the Boston Harbor. Like many bands of their time they made the effortless transition from garage rock demons to psych golden gods. Great stuff, whether it was “Spirit of 67” or “Hard ‘N Heavy”. Of course, listening to the music wasn’t enough. I registered onto the Mark Lindsay website and the fun, just like Elvis, quickly left the building.

To call Mark Lindsay one of the most narcissistic, control freak rock singers of all time would do him a grave injustice. His controlling and rampant ego would turn Beyonce or David Lee Roth into paragons of modesty. After leaving his cheesy website it took me a year to listen to his records all over again, it was that bad. We’ll talk about Dave Clark from the Dave Clark Five later, that’s another horror story.

One of the first things you do at a website is log on to the Message Board so you can exchange your views on the Raiders with your fellow fans. Ohmygod, I was the only guy on the board and easily the only person under 40. Shit, what a nightmare. Picture if you will a bunch of angry Jesus Freak housewives from the corn belt who think that 16 Magazine is still in circulation with Sajid Khan and Donna Loren on the cover.
Half the threads were them daydreaming aloud about being alone with Mark Lindsay serenading them in various forms of dress and undress. The administrator to the website was Mrs. Mark Lindsay, and unlike most website admins was not terribly diplomatic. You could almost imagine her seething behind her computer monitor reading all these horny posts about her man nude singing “Hungry” or “Mr. Sun, Mr. Moon” to them.

Since I was an interloper (male) every post I typed was met with condescension, kind of like DVD Talk. After letting their guard down 3 months later they calmed down and warned me of certain rules: what you can’t discuss on the Mark Lindsay Chat Room, i.e. specific band members Mr. Lindsay hates (Harpo, Fang, Smitty, Joe Jr.). Apparently he hates Paul Revere too, but since he’s the fucking leader of the group there’s no turning around that corner.

One of the power moms posted, “Wow, it would be great if I could get a video of the Raiders on Happening ‘67”. I posted back, “Oh, I have a copy of an episode on video, send me your address and I’ll be happy to shoot a copy off to you”. Uh-oh!
I got an e-mail that night from Mrs. Lindsay: “You will never, EVER, discuss unauthorized material of the Raiders, for sale or for trade, on the board again or you will be removed from the site”. If Mark couldn’t make a dime off the video it was forbidden.

The man himself barely made an appearance at his own website, and when he did it was to post his incredibly exciting life:

“My brand new Jaguar purrs like a kitten. I looooove my fast cars!”

“Love my house in Kawauii. The koi pond rocks and after I’m done with my yoga I settle down for some fine dining!”

“Buy my new record on my vanity label. I sing all the old standards, just like Rod Stewart. I dedicate it to “Casablanca” and I’m dressed just like Bogie on the cover!” (Lindsay still wearing zany outfits 40 years later.)

There was hardly any recognition of his fans, just Mr. Wonderful occasionally popping in to tell the Wal-Mart witches that he was living a Hawaiian idyll they’ll never experience. What a dick.

The few pictures showing Lindsay at his present state showed his elfin features obscured behind a magician’s goatee and sunglasses dark enough to make Howard Stern jealous.

What finally made me quit the board? Combined with Mark Lindsay’s arrogance and the Dragon Lady playing rock police, some desperately dumb housewife posted, “The reason so many Jews died in the concentration camps is because they didn’t accept Jesus as their Lord and savior”. As someone who’s lost countless relatives that died there I thought I was going to lose my mind. Nobody contested her idiotic statement. These people are fucking idiots, I thought, and I left the website, never to return.

And I’m sure Harpo, Fang, Smitty, and Joe Jr. were dying to ask me “What took you so long?”

POSTSCRIPT: Since I got off the site Lindsay has moved from his glamour pad in Hawaii to Portland, Oregon and got a job DJing on a radio show. Sounds like all the money ran out, ha! And the Menopause Message Board is gone, daddy, gone. Happy endings are the best.