Tag Archives: Big Zamboola

What the hell is next – a boat ride?

2000 Years to Christmas

Yeah, we tried that. Nobody makes money doing that shit any more. Think of something else. What? Oh, god no. That’s not even a thing, dude. Where have you been for the last forty years? Right here? Oh, that’s right. Never mind.

Well, here we are, friends, facing the onset of another spring in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. This may be our twentieth, but I’m not entirely certain. Somebody page back through the blog posts. Don’t stop until you see Trevor James Constable and some dude who looks like a nebula. (If you run across Big Zamboola, you’re getting closer.)

Nickel’s worth of difference

Times being what they are, we’ve been scraping around for new ways to make a few bucks. So far, no luck. I’ve been polling everyone in our little entourage for new ideas. Even old ideas are welcome, so long as they come with a 90 day warranty. Trouble is, the members of our entourage pretty much don’t have lives, so they’ve got nothing new to say that we haven’t all heard fifteen times. It’s somewhat discouraging, I will allow.

Today antimatter Lincoln was piping up with a few tarnished gems. He suggested doing something called matching pennies, which apparently is a game for two people who have nothing better to do than to slap pennies on a wooden table in hopes of filling their pockets with loose change. Back in the day, he used to raise fifty, maybe a hundred pennies in a single day playing this game. When I slapped that idea down, he suggested something called matching nickels.

Hey, that penny matches your face.

New ideas in old bottles

I suppose when all else fails, we could just play music and ask people to pay us, like we used to do when we were younger. But where’s the challenge in that? It just sounds too easy. Aside from that, we live in the middle of nowhere. Actually, it’s more like the outskirts of nowhere. There aren’t a lot of good venues in this burg, my friend. Not that any good venues would hire us, but … well, you know what I mean.

Of course, back in the day, I would play practically any gig to keep the lights on. I played in clubs, in fields, in hotels, on boats, at casinos – you name it. One time I did a gig with a Dixieland band on a cheesy cruise ship. It’s the kind of thing you flog your way through, mostly fail at, then slink away with your pockets full of ill-gotten gains. Did I care, really? Nah. It was a job, man, just a job. But I was twenty-something then, and a bit short on brains.

Hey, check this out

All this week I’ve been posting songs from that April 1987 Factory Village gig on our YouTube Channel. Take a look and check out Big Green co-founder Ned Danison and me backing up our late friend, songwriter Dale Haskell, on stage at QE2 in Albany, NY – Eleven tracks in all, opening for Love Tractor.

Total recall.

No, no. Good monster. You don’t want to kill your benefactor, do you? Here … have some more porridge, there’s a good chap. (Hoo boy.)

Oh, hi. Yep, that’s right; I’m in the process of talking down one of Mitch Macaphee’s greatest creations (at least in his own estimation). Yes, it seems that Freakenstein, once set loose by Dr. Macaphee, did a tear around the neighborhood, pulling up lamp posts, opening fire hydrants, and generally making a nuisance of himself. He went into the local pawn shop and got a few items out of hock – items he, of course, had no personal connection with (since he was only just invented and has never known the joys of personal property) but nonetheless liked anyway. What did he use for money? No cash needed … when you’re Freakenstein.

Okay, so … predictably, the complaints start rolling in from all over town. And it’s clear that we need to do something about this. It was a bit like when Big Zamboola first got here and started throwing his hyper-energized magnetic fields all over the place. Or like Matt’s used vegetable stand (every item guaranteed recovered from passing produce trucks).  What do those things have in common? Not much, except the fact that people complained mightily about them. That’s what happened with Freakenstein, prompting us to ask Mitch to call his sorry ass back to the mill.

Well, so Mitch deputized Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and put him on the task. He was clever enough to fire up Trevor James Constable’s orgone generating device and point it in the general direction of the monster. Well, land o’ goshen, that worked like laying out breadcrumbs – he just followed that beam right back here, his arms loaded with ill-gotten swag (mostly from the pawn shop), some worn-looking Bean boots on his oversized paddles. Now it falls to me to talk him out of trashing the mill … even worse than it’s trashed now, that is. And hell, he’s feisty. (I don’t mean he likes listening to Feist, either. Literalist.)

Well, somehow in the midst of all this pointless activity, I had time to post another episode of our podcast, THIS IS BIG GREEN, now available on iTunes. Check it out, manzie. And keep an eye on your fire hydrants. Never know.

Special delivery.


What time is it? Okay, now… what day is it? Is that so? Right, then… seems like a good time to open the mail. Oh, yes – we get it. Don’t think it’s like writing to Santa. Just scrawl “Big Green” on the outside of any envelope, drop it in a box, and it will find its way to us… as if by magic. That’s right, I said MAGIC.

Right. So, let’s see… what do we have in the old mail bag? Ah… here’s something…

My name is Barrister Zul Rafique an attorney by profession, in my quest to find a reliable trustee to manage the assets/estate of my late client valued at only $3.5,000.00 (Three Million Five Hundred Thousand US Dollars) This is the reason why you are receiving this email from me. I shall be willing to supply you with more detailed information concerning this business project upon hearing back from you.

I am left with no other choice, but to carry out a discreet search for a reputable person outside the shores of my country and consequently seek your stewardship. If you wish to render your selfless service, but very rewarding, do provide me with the following information via my private mail box

1.Your full names
2.Tel & fax numbers
3.Complete Address
4.Your occupation and your Age.

Thank you, all inconvenience is regretted.
– Joe Lee Jeffrey Esq.
Principal Partner Jeffrey Lee & Partners

Well, thanks for writing, Joe Lee Esq.  I will be more than glad to provide said private information. In fact, I have entrusted it to my good friend, Big Zamboola, who will carry it straight over to you…. just as soon as he disengages himself from synchronous orbit over Aldebaran 7. (He is strangely attracted to that hideous little globe.) Give him a few thousand years or so. Orbits have decayed more slowly than that, to be sure.

Here’s another one:

Dear Big Green,

I am a freelance tree psychoanalyst. I keep seeing this tree in your blog images that appears either depressed or otherwise ill at ease. May I have your permission to counsel the tree?

All I need is the following items:

1.Your full names
2.Tel & fax numbers
3.Complete Address
4.Your occupation and your Age.

Please remit same at your earliest convenience.

Regards,

Franklin Pierce Nonentity

Hiya, Franklin. I’m thinking you should just get the info from Joe Lee Jeffrey Esq. You’ll find his contact info above.

Steppin’ into Eden.


That’s not a legitimate use of member funds. Take if from me – that would be considered, I don’t know, embezzlement or something. Don’t do it. Put the money DOWN!

Whoops, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was listening in. Well, this is kind of embarrassing. Actually, I was just giving a small piece of advice to Marvin (my personal robot assistant) with regard to what is acceptable and unacceptable when one is contemplating organizing a major religion. Not that I know all that much about it, but I think I know more than Marvin does, and I think that gives me “tell you something right now” rights and privileges. Especially with a bloody robot. (Don’t tell him I said that – he’ll start sulking again.)

Um, yes, you heard me right. Marvin’s other money making schemes have all been huge disasters. So he’s decided to take the Pat Robertson route and start a back-porch religion operation. Of course, being a deductive thinker (and not terribly inventive for a robot, I must say), his idea was lifted from a favorite (of his) episode of the original Star Trek television series featuring a tribe of space hipsters (or “groovsters”) who hijacked the Enterprise to travel to a planet called “Eden.” Often considered one of the most impossibly lame and pandering segments of a generally ludicrous show, it offers some unintentionally  hilarious musical numbers in a psychedelic rock vein. I give it one thumb up and one thumb…. Whoops… lapsed into television review mode. Cancel! Cancel!

Sheesh – now who’s the robot? (I guess that still would be Marvin.) Marvin was looking for a religious movement that would be, well, sticky enough to draw some fanatical adherents even in this forgotten backwater of Central New York. Kind of a back stoop movement, if you will. Marvin would do the organizing, with a little help from anti-Lincoln, who is himself a pretty effective fanatic. (Thing is, I don’t know if he can get the space-age guitar thing just right.) I am a bit skeptical, but even so… it could kind of work. Here you have a millennial movement whose goals – hijacking a fictitious space vessel and driving it to an equally fictitious planet – can never be realized, only hoped for – worshipped, if you will. Pretty much the stuff successful religions are made of. And hell, Marvin’s got his first converts: Lincoln, Big Zamboola, and the man-sized tuber.

Now if he can just keep his claw out of the till. Always the hard part. (Just wait till he starts broadcasting!)

Capital!


That thing you just said five minutes ago. Say it again. No, not that – the OTHER thing you said. The thing that wasn’t some dumb-ass comment. Whoa… calm down, Hemingway!

Sensitive artists, these rock musicians. Well, let me qualify that. I’m actually referring to the individuals, human and non-human, who hang around with rock musicians. I’m talking about your man-sized tuber, your Marvin (my personal robot assistant), your Mitch Macaphee, your Lincoln and anti-Lincoln, etc. We of Big Green proper (brother Matt, brother-in-law John, and I) have asked these hangers-on for suggestions on where we should take the next interstellar tour. Of course, this is a bit like placing 100 monkeys at 100 typewriters and hoping for Hamlet to pop out of one of the carriages. Still, you do get lucky from time to time, and just today – I swear – one of them made a suggestion that made sense. Actual sense, in a wholly non-ironic way.

What am I babbling about? I’ll get to it, I’ll get to it. (Ahem…) Mitch Macaphee spouted something that sounded like a reasonable suggestion – let’s begin the next tour on Betelgeuse, he said. (Not the exact words, but close enough. In fact, he may have been coughing up a stuffed grape leaf.) The logic behind this is obvious. Betelgeuse is enormous – many times the size of our own sun. Why not start big, right? Am I right? Okay… so maybe the logic isn’t so obvious. In any case, we’ve played in the Betelgeuse system before, and as I remember, those shapeless globs of protoplasm we found there listened better than most of our terrestrial audiences. (At least they appeared to; they were all bubbly by the end of the show.)

I’m sure you think we should find better things to do with our time than idly ponder the finer points of our tour itinerary when, in fact, it is totally out of our hands… and into the calloused paws of our promoter, Admiral Gonutz (ret.). Well, if you want to know the sad truth…. we don’t. This is the stuff that music biz is made of, friends. A little bit of playing and a whole lot of waiting around to play, as Keith Richards put it many long years ago. I personally prefer John Lennon’s response when someone asked him how he liked France, and he said something like, it was a car and a plane and a car and a room and a car and a plane. With us, it’s more like a skateboard and a rocket and an airless void and a volcano and an ocean and a steamboat and an ambulance and a mental ward.

Okay, anybody else got suggestions? Big Zamboola, perhaps? Marvin? C’mon, let’s have it, chaps!

Picture imperfect.


Please turn that thing off. No… I really do not want to be video’d right now, damn it. No! I’m washing my socks, for chrissake! Who the hell would want to see me doing this, man? Put the freaking camera away!

Whoops. Didn’t know anyone was browsing this side of the Web. Hope you’re doing well. Bit embarrassing, this, actually. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) recently got his prehensile claws on one of those super-shmeensy video cameras. He says he had to go broke to get it…. he had to go broke the department store window, that is. (Cue laugh track. I said cue it, Marvin! Do I have to do everything?) Anyhow… now Marvin has to video everything, committing our sullen, sordid lives to Quicktime day in and day out. What he’s doing with it all I can only guess. Posting it to YouTube? Burying it in a hole in the yard? Feeding it to Big Zamboola? Lawd knows.

While Marvin’s been capturing the fascinating sight of me washing socks in a time-honored fashion (using rocks in a nearby stream), our old friend sFshzenKlyrn has been at it again. Still not over the unintended offense I committed last week, he is continuing to rampage through our solar system, acting out his rage on unsuspecting targets… like that touchdown Jesus statue out in the “heartland”. Don’t think that was an act of God. No, sir… that was an act of sFshzenKlyrn. He’s been melting plastic devotional statues since Moses was a pup. (Hey… everybody’s got to have a hobby, right?) That’s part of what’s special about him. That and his specific gravity. (D’oh!)

What else has been going on? Well, a little bit of music making, one might say. There’s been some talk of a tour, it’s true – another interstellar excursion of indefinite duration and itinerary. Perhaps an inner-earth tour, though the mansized tuber may ask to be excused from that one. (As a root vegetable, he has spent more than enough of his life underground.) I have also heard mutterings about a possible performance in upstate New York, at an area music festival ’round the Mill somewheres. Can’t say more at this point. I’ll listen a little harder to see if the mutterings are generally in favor or opposed to the suggestion. Then I will amplify them with my trusty typing fingers. From their mouths to your ears – that’s my pledge. (I’m just a freaking middle man!)

Okay, well… I’ve got to get back to my socks. Marvin is now pointing his camera at a snake, so I think I can finish my laundry undisturbed.

Hard feelings.

Hey, what can I tell you? I didn’t intend to piss him off, guys. Not my intention at all. Nor was it my intention to destroy the planet Jupiter. Furthest thing from my mind.

Oh, hi. Just caught me in the middle of a little band meeting. (Bret? Here. Jermaine? Here. Murray? Here.) I’m being raked over the coals by my fellow Big Green members and our various hangers on – Mitch Macaphee (our mad science adviser), Lincoln, anti-Lincoln, Marvin (my personal robot assistant), the man-sized tuber… even Big Zamboola has chimed in. What’s the “issue”, as they say? Oh, hell… it’s about our perennial sit-in guitarist from the planet Zenon, sFshzenKlyrn. He’s been a house guest here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill for the past week or so. That is to say, he was our guest, up until he departed yesterday in a bit of a Zenite huff. (How do I know? His radioactive vapor trail was tinged orange around the edges. Sure sign.)

So, why the hurried departure? Was he on his way to, I don’t know, Joseph A. Bank to get two free suits after buying one overpriced suit? No, no, nothing like that. It’s down to me, I’m afraid. One of those obscure cultural faux pas you run into when dealing with the denizens of another galaxy – kind of like showing the soles of your feet to an Iraqi. I insulted sFshzenKlyrn in some way, apparently, when I turned down his generous offer of Zenite snuff. I believe that, combined with a hand gesture I made involuntarily, is the equivalent of telling a Zenite that his specific gravity is roughly equivalent to that of Yak dung.  (For those of you who are unfamiliar with Zenite etiquette, that is considered a particularly grave insult.)

sFshzenKlyrn left in a cloud of radioactive dust. I imagined he was going straight home, using his typical method of traveling between the dimensional layers of the wobbly thing we call reality. Not so. I guess he was a little madder than he looked, because he felt the need to act out his anger. And he did this by driving straight into the planet Jupiter, causing a bit of a disturbance. (I’m told he did that one time before, some few years back. Left a bit of a red spot, as I recall.) What this has meant to the inhabitants of Jupiter I do not know, though I suspect we will hear about it the next time we go on interstellar tour. (Late this summer, I believe. Stay tuned!) It did, however, cause quite a stir back home here, with people calling it a dramatic collision, a missile, an asteroid, and so on.

Nah. Just a pissed off Zenite guitarist, that’s all. And from the ‘splosion he created, I guess his specific gravity must be quite a bit greater than that of Yak dung after all. Whoops! Sorry, sFshzenKlyrn!    

Who’s Teller?

Down and down and down we go, round and round and round we go… Ah, I forgot what comes next. Oh yeah – it’s either “ker-splash!” or “crunch!”

Hi, friends. If you’re just tuning in (or browsing over), we’re working on a little under ground expedition. That crevice that opened up in the foundation of the Cheney Hammer Mill (our adopted home) apparently goes down to the core of our humble planet, and we’ve taken it upon ourselves to determine just how goddamned deep that actually is. First we sent Marvin (my personal robot assistant) down there, with less than his full cooperation (we had Big Zamboola give him a shove of encouragement). Our latest foray is actually tasked with finding out what happened to Marvin. This consists of the man-sized tuber with a flashlight and a web cam attached to his… well… head (or anterior protuberance, whichever you prefer).

Dropping him into the crevice is like dropping a potato down a well. In fact, I don’t know why I’m using a simile – it IS dropping a potato down a well, waiting to hear the splash. I know what you’re thinking, but just remember… the man-sized tuber did nothing but oppress us as mayor of our little town, and so he owes us, in our estimation. (No, I don’t have a mouse in my pocket. I’m referring to the entire Big Green entourage.)

There are better ways to spend our time, to be sure, and we’ve been trying to find them (blindfolded, with oven mitts on both hands). Like managing to record, rehearse, etc. – and yes, we’ve been doing both, between our little house projects. Still working on that live project concentrating on audio-visual explanations of all of our songs. This came out of playing, listening, and realizing that, w.t.f., we’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do, as Tom Coburn said to Justice Sotamayor. Take, for instance, this little number by Matt called “Edward Teller”:

You’re Edward Teller
Direct your lampshade to number fun
Those hidden equations are all pleasures to solve
Bless your huge genius
Now we all thank the son of a bitch

He’s tapped out our life support
And all he wanted was some swell friends
Threadbare daddy

Now, whereas some of us consider that entirely self-explanatory, others may wonder – rightfully – whether or not we have some mental issues. That’s not in question. (We DO.) We just want people to get the most out of our music, and that can’t be bad. (Or…. can it?)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to join Mitch Macaphee in hauling that tuber out of the hole. More later…