Fact
or Friction*#!... 11/28/2002
Of
Orchestras and Rockers
Ah, Sunday night in November. Sweet relief from a monotonous weekend and an impossibly mundane week. Sleep, the great journey into the subconscious and the hope of physical, psychic, and, dare I say, spiritual rejuvenation beckons me. I welcomed it as the farmer welcomes the first rain that breaks a drought- with revelry. Six in the PM in this wanna-be west coast burg that sits 90 miles from the raging Pacific. Dull as usual. I'll turn it in early, get ready to meet the new work week fresher than the daisies on Kurt Cobain's grave, and brighter than an Oxford grad strolling along Picadilly.
Phone rings. In a moment of regrettably poor judgment, I pick up the receiver and I am greeted by the wild white monkey in heat howls of one Ricky Retardo, head bongo player (well they're often not really bongos, but air drums created with his tongue and the roof of his mouth), and alleged seminal instigator of L'Orchestre Retarde, Sacramento's answer to "What would it sound like if Aimee Mann and Syd Barrett dropped acid together then invited the Bobs to sit in on an impromptu studio session while John Lydon danced naked in the control room for punk rock inspiration?" I stretch not the truth mes amis. And yes, these kids work totally A Capella.
"Studio us man," Ricky chants, "we got the urge, we just need your producer lube to push us on to greatness."
What a line of shit. Remind me to never mention my cool audio recording gear to desperate musicians.
Before I slam the phone down with a "fuck you, some people have to work for fucking lawyers in the morning!" I ask in a not so coy manner,"is that hot Jewish babe, what's her name.."
"Aimee," Ricky says,"Yeah, she'll come along if that's the key to your four track, baby. I'll bring Lydia Lunch and Liz Phair if that's who ya want, man."
More smelly horseshit.
"She'd better," I say, "Or I'll fucking go all Mt. St. Helens on your lame Humboldt State educated ass."
Ricky howls a "bobbaloooooo!" and hangs up.
Aimee is a total far out freak from the Factory Freaklet Mall. She's kinda tiny, maybe 5'3" in platform roller skates, and thin as a bulimic junky on a crash diet. She's always wearing this Norwegian Wool Sweater that's ten times too big for her that her grandfather brought back from a Scandinavian adventure when she was ten. He figured she'd grow into it. Maybe she did, a little. She's always got on this beenie that covers her eyes. She's like that mumbling dude from Fat Albert cartoons, only she's got this wicked freak of the week smile that makes her look like she's on a nonstop magical mystery tour and can actually articulate a few words when she's not laughing at some stupid joke I toss out at her with her patented uber goofball guffaws. But the real winner is that she's got this enormous Jewish nose that makes me go all wonky. She looks almost, no, she flat out looks comic. Yet for some reason, when she's around, I want to start a litter of raging freaklets with her. It takes a special woman to render a procreation urge in the fanatically pro-zero-pop world of BJR. And yes, she smells gorgeous.
I think she was Ricky's dormroom bonemate back in their Humboldt State days which weren't but a few years back. In fact, as Sr. Retardo readily admits (after a few shots of Red Bull and Stoli), it was she who conceived L'Orchestre Retarde after sequestering herself in a cabin outside Crescent City for five days one spring break with nothing but a bag of pot, a bong, some cheese sandwiches, a discman, and the collected works of Nick Drake. Any normal person would have shot themselves, but Aimee had visions of Down's Syndrome children riding in a short yellow school bus singing Led Zeppelin songs in French. They even included clever A Cappella instrumentals. Yes, the prime Humboldt homegrown was laced with something, but Mlle. Aimee will never tell. She always referred to this week as her "Stairway to Heaven." Ricky says she's always been freaky, but she was only half as freaky before the Stairway week.
So Ricky, Fred, and Ethel (Aimee's nom de plume, musique,or whatever medium she so chooses at the moment) make it over in record time.
"Let's write a song," Fred says.
"Yeah, Basil Joe is in heartbreak city right now," Ricky smirks.
Aimee just laughs like a horse and beams her goofy grin. I must have a truly twisted libido for I found this incredibly hot.
"It's not heartache or heartbreak. I haven't had a real girlfriend..."
"Dude will you shut it," Rick snaps, "You whine on nonstop about that chick in SoCal as if she were the soulmate that spurned you."
Another attack of the goofies from Aimee and I give in.
"We'll do it on the fly," I say.
"That's how we work," says Ricky.
"Snort huh uggg ugghh snort huh.." goes Aimee.
"Give me maximum mic," says Fred and off we go.
After five hours, 3 pots of coffee, a red bull each, a near fist fight, and several "butt flashes" from Aimee for inspiration (and to redirect the overflowing testosterone in the room), we actually laid down a song.
It's very very rough, but we had a good time. Aimee liked it, so I'm not too disappointed. You can download the mp3 of the song below. (Windows users don't forget to do the "Right Click/Save Target As" thing. I don't know what it is with this latest version of Windows Internet Exploder and MP3 downloads. I miss the good old days of "Left Click/Where do you want to save it." Does Billion-Dollar-Mount-Ranier-of-Money Bill really think that you are gonna sit around for 5-10 minutes watching a blank screen while an MP3 downloads to be played. And that's on cable. People still on the old phone lines might wither and die before they get the file downloaded. Oi!)And yes,after everyone had given in at one in the morning, sweet Aimee hung around for another two hours. Upon departure, she kissed me goodnight. It was smack on the lips, creating a giant sucking sound on both the literal and metaphorical levels. She pulled back after several seconds and tilted her head so her eyes could meet mine from beneath the far drawn beenie. "Uggh Ughh Snort," is all she said before darting out the door and into the cold damp tule fog. The thing I remember most of it though is her big beautiful nose jammed into my cheek. Lovely!
Damn. A perfect sleep opportunity down the drain. I've been trashed all week. Haven't gotten a damn thing done at work, but I haven't been this goofy happy in a long, long time.
Cheers!
EXPOSURE by Basil Joe Rocker with L'Orchestre Retarde (mp3 encoded at 128kbps, 3.6mb)
Also, there was this other group of freaks I worked with back in A-town. They were simply called the Rockers. Unfortunately, their origins weren't quite on par with that of L'Orchestre. But here's a song we cut on the fly back in early 2001.
ALWAYS GLAD TO SEE YOU by Basil Joe Rocker and the Rockers (mp3 encoded at 128kbps, 4.5mb)
CHEERS!
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