issue #02 pdf - Razorcake

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sugar bowl," it'll be Jerry Lee (to decoratively quote his saucey lil' song, "It'll Be Me"). 4) Ritchie Valens... Personally, I feel that Ritchie's frenetically festive rendition of "La Bamba" is one of the most joyously upbeat rock- 'n'roll ear-titillators of all time. This slick coolcat kid from the smog-enshrouded LA area was a blazin' bundle of fireball fury who smoothly crooned and uncontrollably yelped with supreme Christlike vocal divinity... he strummed, streaked, walloped, and wailed along the well-worn fretboard of his guitar with wizardlike precision... he meticulously created a cosmetically perfect assortment of sounds that was all-at-once tender, frenzied, and audaciously invigorating: bluesy, ballsy, and robustly self-assured sonic panache! When he seductively roars, "C'mon, baby... just rock, rock, rock... oooooh, my head!" (from the appropriately titled "Ooh! My Head"), you feverishly feel compelled to grab the proverbial bull by the horns and live life to its fullest and most extreme. Ritchie charismatically personified the goodtime frenzied giddiness of rock'n'roll's strikingly buoyant and brash spirit... he brilliantly blasted meaty fat chunks of sonic splendor with a suavely debonair sophistication far beyond his years, and he aurally embellished it all with spicy Latino-flavored exoticism that gave his music an awe-inspiring air of inimitable originality. But at the zestful age of 17, he blazed across the dark winter skies (like a fiery streak of celestial scintillation) into the eternal hereafter on that fateful night in early February of '59... the illuminous brilliance of his music will forever flicker and gloriously shine with timeless youthful vigor and struttin' energetic zeal. RIP, Ritchie... you musically created the moon! 5) Eddie Cochran... Man, Eddie is undeniably the king coolcat of rock'n'roll's illustriously wild and colorful checkered past... he rowdily growled and screeched like a virile young tomtabby on the prowl; he crooned with suavely cultured refinement; he flawlessly strummed and intricately picked his guitar as if it were a birth-given extension of his arms. He defined "cool" (visually, aurally, and otherwise!)... he looked the part of a dangerous prettyboy rebel with a cause, and he craftily constructed ballsy swaggering songs that deliberately defined his "live fast, die young" image (when he insolently grumbles, "Ah, who cares?!?" with gravel-throated glee in the anthemic "C'mon Everybody," you can bet your sweet bippies that he assuredly doesn't give a shit!). I mean, hell in a handbasket, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to realistically conclude that such raucously roaring aural romps as "Jeane, Jeane, Jeane," "Summertime Blues," "Nervous Breakdown," "My Way" ("I'm an easy goin' guy, but I always gotta have my way..."), "Somethin' Else," and "Boll Weevil" are the ear-blasting end-all-be-all epitome of rock- 'n'roll's moral-bashing rebelliousness. Eddie fuckin' rocks, and his riproarin' spastically spirited songs say it all in a frenzied burst of outand-out unadulterated savagery. Yep, that's more than reason enough to justifiably designate Eddie Cochran as the forever reigning crown prince of rock- 'n'roll... all hail Eddie! Okay, kiddies, stay tuned for the second (and final) installment in our fearless search for the cacophonously coolest catdaddy most worthy of Rock'n'Roll's coveted royal crown (comin' soon in the very next highly anticipated inkstained issue of the divinely devilish Razorcake mag!). As to who will supremely prevail and regally rule the consecrated Kingdom of Rock: some of you will ultimately be surprised; some of you will knowingly nod your heads in wholehearted agreement; some of you could care less; and some of you (certainly the ones who could care less!) just need a violently sincere swift kick in the ass. And the jumpsuit-attired ghost of Big El is just the hip-thrustin' karate-choppin' entity to deliver such a hidehurtin' wallop of whup-ass! Until next time, buuurrrp... ya'll come back now, ya hear!!! -Roger Moser, Jr. The incredibly rare photo of the one and only show Elvis and Eddie Cochran ever played together. That’s little Roger Moser leaning on the speaker.
The Dinghole Reports By the Rhythm Chicken (Commentary by Francis Funyuns) [Edited by Dr. Sicnarf] [Excuse me. Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Sicnarf. I have a degree in mathematics and currently hold down four jobs having nothing to do with math, whatsoever. Somehow, that qualifies me to edit the written words of... a bird. I would like to apologize for my limited input in the Chicken's last column. He and Francis can tend to horde the spotlight at times... - Dr.S.] Outta my way, Sicnarf! Go shove that sliderule up your dinghole or something! How dare you start my column without me. What is this, the Differential Equations Reports? Now you've gone and ruined my big ding-tweaking introduction. Next thing you know, Gary Coleman will show up. [Hi everybody! - G.C.] GET HIM OUTTA HERE! He's 24 got no business This installment is dedicated to those special moments when chicken meets cop. Like matter and anti-matter, they clash on the field of battle! invading MY Dinghole Reports! Francis, I thought you secured all the entrances. (I guess I forgot to take the doggie-door into consideration, Mr. Chicken. - F.F.) Alright, men. Empty your dingholes. I wanna make sure we ain't got no more stowaways! (Wow, you really ARE from Wisconsin! - F.F.) [Uh, guys? I think Todd is waiting for some material here. - Dr. S.] Fine then. Is it too late to start over?... shit. The Rhythm Chicken vs. the COPS! That's right! This issue's installment of the Dinghole Reports is dedicated to those special moments when chicken meets cop. Like matter and anti-matter, they clash on the field of battle! Shaken-bake vs. serve-n-protect! When a chicken is playing the drums at the corner bus stop, it's only a matter of time before Johnny Law gets confused enough to flex his authoritative muscle. I knew from day one that I would have to face the force. I just never thought it would be on day two! Dinghole Report #4: I bombed at Atomic (Rhythm Chicken sighting #3) The first gig of the "Count Your Eggs" tour was across the street from Milwaukee's Atomic Records, a pedestrian-heavy area just starving for ruckus. Draftee tour stagehand G-Money helped throw together the chickenkit while yelling to confused passer- Shake-nbake VS. serve-nprotect! bys, "Prepare for the Rhythm Chicken!" Within seconds I kicked off the tour with the signature opening drumroll. Ruckus, confusion, and general curiosity drew customers and employees out of Atomic, Subway, and Cousin's Subs. Traffic slowed, cars honked, and Milwaukeeans cheered. Then within just a few minutes of the initial blast, there they came, the agents of darkness, Milwaukee's men in blue, the uniformed party poopers. I was expecting to hear "This is the Milwaukee Police. The party's over," to which my proper reply would have been, "Yeah, CLUCK YOU, MAN!" Their actual salutation was more along the lines of, "Just WHAT do you think you are DOING?" I stood and uttered a few clucks in their direction, to which they replied, "Ok, buddy. Just move along and we won't have any trouble." The squad car pulled away to the boos of the ragtag audience. That's it? No apprehension? No reading of my rights? No boots to my feathered tail? No being thrown into the iron coop? Let me tell you, my first run-in with the fuzz was anything but a challenge. Since I had a tour to finish, I acquiesced and grudg- ingly moved on. Cops -1, Chicken -0. buck buck buck... (Wow, Rhythm Chicken. What kind of self-respecting ruckus-raiser gives in to the cops? - F.F.) Hey! I was young and ignorant, a mere chicklet! Cut me some slack, Funyuns. Besides, what happened with you in Indiana? (Next report, please. - F.F.) I thought so. Now, shut your dinghole! [Oh my! - Dr. S.]
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Page 50 and 51: A SHORT ANATOMY OF FANDOM How Leath
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of the Swell Maps is so damn unique
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five bands play hardcore of varying
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THE WAR AGAINST OBLIVION: THE ZAPAT
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THE BARFEEDERS "Wyoming" (It’s a
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