Holy mother of pearl. My throat is in shreds. Just got done with a 23-page script for the next episode of Ned Trek, a now-regular feature on our podcast, THIS IS BIG GREEN. Spoiler alert: I do the voice of Reagan. Well….
All that yakking can make a man sore tired. And tomorrow I play the 47th in a 194-part series known as the reunion gigs of Puttin’ on the Ritz, a band of many, many strange people (and I am one).
But that is not what you’re here for, to be sure. No, no, I’m sure you’re anxious for me to conclude my three-part explanation of the 21 songs contained on Big Green’s new album, Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick. It’s like waiting for the next episode of Downton Abbey or Breaking Bad … except that those things are, well, good-ish.
Anywho, here’s the splainin’ … and then, to bed, damnit.
Santorum From Behind – Sounds obscene, I know, but it’s necessary, believe me. Now that he’s out of the race, Rick is just trying to give old Mitt some helpful hints about that that object in his rear view mirror that’s closer than it appears.
Santiny – A meditation on Santorum, the Rick with the unsearchable name. I hear he keeps a fetus in a jar … a fetus named “Santiny”. You gotta pray.
Aw Shoot – In a world beyond time … Okay, this is like the theme song to a bad Euro-Sci Fi flick, except it’s about Rick. Unnamed German band takes the long view of Rick’s run, with hilarious consequences. Aw …. shoot.
Am I Really Rick Perry? – A thoughtful Rick contemplates the nature of his own identity, the thingness of things, the rightness of right, and so on, bidding a fond farewell to Andy Breitbart. Kind of a fifties vibe to this one. L.S.D. did exist then, didn’t it?
Poor Dick – Our cousin’s hero, Dick Cheney, is in trouble deep. Who better to save his considerable bacon than Ranger Rick himself. What’s the caper? Find a suitable ticker for transplanting into the heart of darkness. Poach it from another true believer… with hilarious consequences. Another country number, pure and simple.
Flying Up Ricky – Hit with the rapture, Rick disappears into thin air, leaving behind a crew of lamenting braceros, ever grateful for his able abuse. Ah, gratitude. A bit of ersatz salsa on this one.
Lone Star – Our cousin finds his true calling at the Lord’s side during his temporary sojourn in the great beyond, remembering all there is left for him to do in his desert home. Think Susan Boyle after a sex change operation (and major throat surgery).
What’ll You Do Now, Rick? – Next steps are always tricky, expecially when you tripped over most of the previous ones. Someone drafts a legend for Rick. Rock-ish.
It Should’ve Been Me – The last word from our good cousin: “You’re never alone in Texas when you can play with your dong.” Country exit reminiscent of country entrance.
What is it? My wristwatch of course. I thought I left it in the local watering hole, but it’s here, in my sock drawer – it’s here! Now if I could just find my socks. (Note to self: check the watch drawer.) Oh, right… and a box came. Not by itself, you understand. A truck dropped it off. It was a biggish box, but not too big. A box full of discs. Not chock full, exactly – what I mean to say is that there were discs in the box. Discs called Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick.
Wait, I heard something. That beeping noise. Did you hear it? Go out and take a look, will you? I’ll just sit here and finish this cardboard sandwich. What? That’s the microwave beeping? Turn it off, then. There’s a good chap.
Well, once again, you are encountering me in the midst of some level of astonishment. Seems like I spend half of my life sore amazed and the other half just plain sore. (I am definitely in the sore second half.) Anyway, never mind my poor self control – these are indeed heady days here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in now waterlogged upstate New York. There’s so much shit hitting this fan, it’s hard to see your face through the fertilizer. Or something.
Some have told us that we should have called the label Hammermaid, like Milkmaid condensed milk. We don’t listen to some people, particularly if they are Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has a particular liking for condensed milk products because they remind him of motor oil. In any case, we don’t take a lot of pains over trifles like imprints and logos, because in all honesty, that’s not what we’re about. We are the original discorporate rock band. We say no to corporate hegemony. We’re off the grid, man. (Aside from all that stuff involving money, paying for things, etc.)
Well, most of our homeland in upstate New York is under water today. The abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill is practically floating away. What better time to crack out an advance copy of our new album, Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick? What else is there to do, right?
I was just thinking back to the bad old days in the 1970s when television was king and the internets were just a twinkle in DARPA’s eyes. On about five million occasions – maybe slightly more than that – I can remember watching an ad for 120 Classical Masterpieces introduced by the well-known character actor John Williams (not the classical guitarist … nor the composer of the Lost In Space theme song). Now that we are on the verge of releasing our third and perhaps silliest album ever, Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick, I only wish we had a marketing powerhouse behind us like John Williams. Or even Guy Williams. (Except that he‘s dead too!)
What would I do with all that brain power? Well, for one thing, I would get our next album out a bit quicker. Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick seems to be in perpetual becoming mode. I know you’re sick of it, I’m sick of it, Matt’s had it up to here, the president has started complaining, the ambassador from Madagascar has issued a protest against Big Green – suffice to say, no one is happy. Hey, well … we’re working as fast as we can. It takes a while to bake all those discs, especially without a convection oven like the big, famous groups have. And then hand painting all those covers. Jesus!