Are You Safe And Warm, Volume One

Are you safe and warm? Well, ARE YOU? HUH?

Sorry, I didn't mean to come off so aggressively. First impressions and all that jazz. What we have here is a compilation I've concocted and properly posted to a prominent for-profit mix hosting service. If you are so inclined, you can listen to it here. 

It seems like an appropriate sentiment, since a large chunk of the country which normally doesn't see any snow, suddenly got A LOT of it, and some of the rest of us – well, we got ice instead. I truly hope people are being safe and doing well during this exhausting nightmare.

A couple things before we dip into this tasty sound stew. First off, the compilation, as could probably be gleaned by the "cover" art above, is sourced entirely from 45 rpm records from my personal collection. Why? Anyone who has the sort of tastes and predilections that I do regarding music, will probably understand. There's something innately endearing about putting the single on the turntable and positioning the arm; about trying to make a fun, quality mix of tunes on the fly (as subjective as that might be); about that faint hint of analog media that can come across when playing vinyl; about the process of pulling records you might not have played in quite a while out of their boxes, blowing the dust off, inhaling the particulates and gasping while screeching "Record lung!" 

But I digress.

 

 In terms of content, all of these tunes are from the 1950s and '60s – what I believe to be a nice assortment of fun r&b, twangy instrumentals, honky tonk numbers and even some nutso oddball novelty tunes.  I hope you enjoy!

Herbert Hunter with Band - Dr. Feel-Good (Spar, 1962): We start things off with Mr. Hunter's ode to big women. He likes 'em 400lbs or bigger! 

 

Johnny Cavalier And The Keynotes - Rock'N Chair Roll (Hi-Class, 1959): We move from the kitchen to the living room with this one. Johnny C and the boys may have only released this one single for Hi-Class, but it's been comped frequently on some Buffalo Bop comps and other euro-released rockabilly comps of dubious origin.  Sure, Johnny may have some trouble with finding a key to sing in, and keeping time while doing so, but if you shut your brain off and get into the groove, you'll have a great time!

 

Danny & Gwen - Deep Dreams (Liberty, 1962): The Danny and Gwen noted is actually a duo comprised of Vikki Carr (Gwen) and Jerry Naylor (Danny), who took over as singer for The Crickets after Buddy Holly's untimely demise. This tune, however, is the b-side to their "Submarine Race" single, and is likely devoid of either of their participation. It might just be a couple of studio session folks making some instrumental filler to pad out this release for Snuff Garrett, but damn if it doesn't sound dreamy. In a deep way. 

 

Shaye Cogan - Ain't Nobody Home (Gee, 1957): Shaye Cogan, born Helen J. Coggins, was an actress and singer who cut a few singles for Gee Records between the mid 1950s and 1960. She appeared in a 1957 teensploitation rock 'n' roll film called Mister Rock and Roll with Alan Freed, Little Richard, Clyde McPhatter, Frankie Lyom & The Teenagers, etcetera. I know her best as Cousin Matt in Abbott & Costello's 1951 film Comin' Round The Mountain.

 

Junior Tamplin with Orchestra - Baby Is A Boxer (Mercury, 1953): There's a stompin' vintage R&B tune about pretty much everything, if you're willing to look for it. And as far as I know, this is the best one out there about being in a relationship with a lady pugilist (even if it might just be a metaphor)! 

 

Tommy Nelson and Band - Hobo Bop (Dixie, 1960): If you're looking for a romping rockabilly tune about ridin' the rails and living the Boxcar American lifestyle, then this is it, my friends! Tommy apparently only cut two singles between 1960 and '61, but went on to sling other singers' discs as a disc jockey for KGFF in Shawnee, OK. He reappeared in the late '60s and early 1970s with a single and a locally pressed country covers album.

 

 

Duke Jenkins And His Orchestra - Shake It (Cobra, 1957): It's hard not to obey a command like this when the rhythm is so right! If this won't put the zip in your step, then you might need a doctor.

 

 

Willis "Gator Tail" Jackson And His Orchestra - Wine-O-Wine (Atlantic, 1952): Willis Jackson, aka Mr. Ruth Brown, legendary jazz  tooter and bluesman, brings his tenor sax to eleven for this slappin' ode to sippin' grapes!

 

 

Billie (Smeeke Smoke) Smith & The Good Beat's - The Whammer (Rae Cox, ?): I have no idea when this single came out, likely sometime between the early and mid 1960s, based on the Rae Cox label's other output noted on Discogs. As for Billie (Smeeke Smoke) Smith or the Good Beat's? Another blank wall. Sure there was a glut of soulful instrumentals released in this time period, but the funky organ and sax combo here, backed up with the popping popcorn drums, make this one funky toe tapper that is likely to get your ear drums groovin'!

 

 

 

Denny Reed - Hot Water (Trey, 1960): Here's a fun one that I initially heard on DJ Henry's The Record Roulette Club radio program, and it genuinely made me laugh out loud. Something I definitely needed then, so I pass this along to you all in hopes that it provides a chuckle for you as well. Denny was an Illinois-born crooner who released a handful of singles sporadically throughout the 1960s, and then came back in '77 with his Elvis tribute/cash-in "The King (Has Met The King)" when EAP went to that jungle room in the sky. Back up vocals on this are by the Crunk sisters, Donna and Pam, whom I know nothing about but applaud their artistry.

Skip Manning - Devil Blues (Empire, 1960): Allegedly the Skip Manning this groovy Calypso-inspired beatnik popcorn torch song is credited to, is actually R&B legend Phil Flowers. Why he adopted the pseudonym for this one-off is unclear, but if you're looking for a tune to soundtrack your next groovy Halloween-themed espresso party, you ain't going to find a better one than this!

Joe Sherman And The Arena Brass - The Green Hornet (Epic, 1966): The Caped Crusader isn't featured in this particular compilation, but his less successful brother of the mid-60s crime fighting airwaves gets a stunning send up here thanks to NY composer and musician Joe Sherman.

Jeff Barry - The Face From Outer Space (RCA Victor, 1960): 1960 seems to be the landmark year for tunes in this mix, and while there are some wild ones in here, this one is destined to take the cake and do something insane with it! A visiting face from outer space (no body, mind you – or even a head for that matter!) comes to Earth and meets our narrator, then things get even weirder! Yowza!

 

The Artesians - Trick Bag (Norton, 2003): Just to be clear, the release date on this greasy garage stomper is 2003 because before the fine folks at Norton got a hold of the archival recordings, The Artesians hadn't released anything. Active in the Pacific Northwest garage scene that brought us The Sonics and The Wailers (among others), this group existed from 1963 - 1965, recorded seven songs but failed to actually publish anything before they went kaput. This is the first of two Norton reissues that are in this mix. If that irks you for some reason, please let me know and I'll give you your money back.

Little Sonny Jones - Winehead Baby (Imperial, 1954): New Orleans piano man gives us this bluesy romp about having a booze-dependent significant other!

 

 

The Shades - Shady Lady (Ardent, 1961): Another one-off instro from this enigmatic group.  This raucous guitar instrumental is a somewhat sloppier version of what The Ventures did so well, but smoking nonetheless.

 

 

Impacts - Soup (Watts, 1959): Soup is good food, just not for every meal. Or so I've been told. Here we have a culinary horror story in r&b group sound narration. The ending is perplexing though funny. Why would you need a doctor to point out that your wife has no teeth? This group recorded from the late 1950s into the early 1960s, sometimes under the name The Blue Chips.

 

 

The Copycats Featuring Kimo & Sabbe - The Abominable Snow-Man (Prince, 1960): I don't know anything about the Copycats, though there's destined to be a zillion or so short-lived garage groups from the late 1950s and early '60s with the same moniker. And Kimo and Sabbe? They are as elusive as the subject matter for this fun novelty tune. Sure, Bigfoot pops up from time to time in annals of niche jukebox singles (Googie Rene's "Big Foot", for example), but how often do you hear a jaunty tune about the yeti? This sounds like a lost Stan Freberg production or something!

 

 

Nervous Norvus - The Fang (Dot, 1956): Next we leave the snowy heights of the Himalayas, for the red planet Mars. "Transfusion" might be Nervy Norv's most well-known single, but why tread already trodden groove ground when we have this hefty slice of koo-koo nut cream pie right here?! With a title like, "The Fang," you'd think the tune might be about a werewolf or a vampire, but no, here we have a cool, hip Martian's ode to himself. He rocketed to Earth in his crib to show all the hep cats and cool chicks how to be way out! Zorch!

 

 

 

Benny Joy - Rollin' To The Jukebox Rock (Norton, 2003):  This is the second Norton reissue in the mix. I have no idea when the original was released, I'd have to guess somewhere between 1957 and 1959 based on the tune alone, and various compilations that have been put together of Joy's work over the years have either not identified it's actual recording or release dates, or given dubious ones like 1977, which might be when it was pressed to an acetate for collectors or something, but clearly not when it was originally cut. Rollin' to the jukebox sounds like a good idea, if you could travel back in time to find one that stocked tunes like this. When you think about wandering into a bar nowadays, realizing that if there is a juke box, it's likely to be digital and feature Imagine Dragons and Taylor Swift rather than anything like this, you might opt to just stay home with your records.

 

Joe Maphis - Lonesome Jailhouse Blues (Starday, 1964): The King Of The Strings picking out a tune of wrongful imprisonment and barred-window blues.

 

 

 

The Kelly Four - Guybo (Silver, 1959): The Kelly Four were a group of Hollywood session players who also served as Eddie Cochran's backing band until his death in 1960. You can tell these guys had chops, I mean listen to that guitar! Sounds like it's going to start on fire with strummin' like that!

 

The Blendells - Huggie's Bunnies (Reprise, 1964): This Mexican-American Los Angeles group had a minor local hit with their version of Stevie Wonder's "La La La La La." In fact, it's the a-side to this much more impressive instrumental. I have no idea who Huggie is, or what his bunnies are all about, but I bet they cut an impressive rug with this jam to dance to. Maybe the bass could've been miked a bit better for the intro, but who am I to say?

Nino Tempo with Pete Rugolo And His Orchestra - Jack The Ripper (RCA, 1960): So, I guess we have a contender for that Halloween-themed espresso party I mentioned with the Skip Manning tune featured on this comp. This is the b-side to a single featuring the theme to the 1959 British film of the same name, after American film distributor Joseph E. Levine bought the picture to distribute in the U.S. and replaced the score with music by Pete Rugolo. This hip finger snappin' ditty about the Butcher of Whitechapel makes it sound like he should be featured on an episode of Peter Gunn or Mr. Lucky! I don't know that we're exactly honoring the memory of the women slaughtered by the guy by referring to him as a "kooky spooky" like he's a villain in a children's cartoon, but it'll definitely get your turtleneck twitchin'!

The Caltones - Get Offa The Telephone (Verve, ?): To round things up we have this fun number from a one-off Verve release. I have no data on the release date for this, but why not go ahead and just say 1960-ish, huh? The flip of this one is another great ode to the Beats, called "The Beards." This kooky novelty tune may just be imparting a bit of sage advice we can all heed in this modern madness.

Enjoy! Another volume with somewhat different contents will arrive in another week or so.

Roll Out The Barrel Of Polka Records

 

 

 

 

 

Yah sure, yoobetcha! Today I'm talking about Polka!

It's odd to think it, but at this point there are possibly entire generations of youngsters who don't even know what polka is. Weird, when you think how culturally pervasive it was as recently as forty or fifty years ago. In the 1940s, '50s and '60s, band leaders, jazz musicians, country swing groups, and even household name crooners worked polkas into their repertoires, because it was such a popular art form!

Especially in the small rural communities here in the upper Midwest, it was a go-to form of social engagement to catch up with the community on Saturday night. Not to mention a key component to shaking off the stress from the previous week–on the farm, at the factory, what-have-you–and limbering up for that quickly encroaching Monday morning, where the reins of the ol' weekly drudgery would be dangling, waiting to be strapped on again.

 

What was once a major component of the country's popular culture has been diluted from the main stream, settling in stagnant pockets along the fringe known as "niche culture". Polka has gone from pop to outré. I mean , there was a time when Lawrence Welk was as big as Elvis Presley (albeit to septuagenarians)! Being from Minnesota, it's always been a kind of minor thread stitched into the fabric of my existence. I'm not sure when I first heard it or became aware of it. I'm sure being a lifelong "Weird Al" Yankovic fan helped cement it into my consciousness; but even aside from that, it had been steadfastly present in most of the corners of my life since I was a tot. My grandmother used to watch reruns of The Lawrence Welk Show, Saturday evenings on PBS, and occasionally my parents would drag me to some supper club or bar, like Bass Camp, in Minnesota City, where there would be a guy with an accordion and another guy with a tuba, rolling out the barrel, so to speak.  And maybe because older folks in Minnesota and Wisconsin embraced polka as part of their cultural identity, and much of my childhood was spent with senior citizens, it was difficult not to be aware of it while growing up here.

 For a long time I assumed it was just a Midwest thing. Of course, being a child who had never traveled much further than LaCrosse, WI, until I left for college, how was I to know that Polish, German and Scandinavian settlers had scattered across the country, setting up pockets of polka-happy peoples from upstate New York to Southern California? I was also under the early impression that polka music was a German thing, since nine times out of ten when I was subjected to it, the perpetrators were garbed in lederhosen and some sort of Tyrolean wool hat with a crimson feather jabbed into the hatband. They generally had the look of the stock "European villagers" from Universal monster movies. There was more than one instance where I sat patiently waiting for the Frankenstein monster to stagger through a wall and chase the oompah men away. Sadly, this never happened.

It was decades later that I learned that this is not the case. But go to any of the Gasthauses or Bierstubes in or around the Twin Cities area, and you'll be certain to see the expected polka band with the lederhosen and the Tyrolean hats, as if it's as German as Käsespätzle mit Weißwurst. Not to say it isn't recognized in parts of Bavaria, but it seems we Americans broadly associate it with Germany more than any given German might. Is it of Polish origin? A coworker once thanked me for playing polka music in the workplace on the shared office Pandora account, because it was "the music of her people." "People", it turned out, meant Polish. I don't know how Polish she actually is, she seemed predominantly Republican American, to me. But no, it isn't traditional Polish folk music. Polka is actually Czech in origin. Has it been embraced by Germans and Poles and incorporated into their own forms of folk music? Absolutely!

 Polka has also been wholeheartedly embraced and adopted by cultures throughout the entire world. Or at the very least other cultures have developed similar forms of music along parallel lines, prominently featuring the accordion and syncopated 2/4 time signature. Don't believe me? Listen to Mexican Norteño music. Around 2006 I was working as an "Entertainment Specialist" for a certain big box retailer. The store I worked in was in a Latino-affluent part of Saint Paul, and we not only carried CDs by Taylor Swift and Green Day, but also a lot of music from the likes of Los Tigres Del Norte, Los Huracanes Del Norte and a bunch of other Del Nortes.  The constantly cycling music video loop that would play on the TVs in the store's electronics department, would have Latin artists interspersed with whatever Rihanna and Justin Timberlake videos were all the rage at the time. The first time I heard it, I thought to myself "Hey, this sure sounds a lot like the polka music I used to hear as a kid." An experience similar to when I had been taking film studies classes in college, and suddenly I'm watching Emir Kusturica films and hearing Serbian music that sounded similar as well! And more recently, being exposed to the similarly different sounding work of Balkan brass band Fanfare Ciaocarlia, and the Serbian hornmeister Boban Markovic, that may have different instrumentation and play at different tempos than your standard polka fare, but has a similar spirit to it. At least similar enough to me to trigger the same synapses that make me think about the oompa-pa'ing I was exposed to as a child.

See?! We're all connected! Maybe the UN could benefit from a Polka Summit.

I've come around to polka. Not that I ever hated it, but as a child I felt more like I was subjected to it, rather than enjoying it. So why the change in attitude? 

 There's zero pretension to the music. Look at the album covers I've interspersed throughout this article; no one is posturing as if this were the game changing moment where the world wows at how cool they are. Not to say there can't be egos within the polka community, but ain't nobody gracing any of these album jackets referring to themselves as "The Boss", "The Edge" or "The Papa Roach." There's no reason for any of these people to be making any of this music for reasons other than fun and/or love of the game! No one here is too cool for school. With musicians calling themselves "Whoopee John", "Li'l Wally", "The Six Fat Dutchmen" and "Uncle Fuzzy And The Cousins", you know they're not taking themselves too seriously. 

Secondly, it's so goddamned happy!Yeah, if you've heard three polka songs, you've probably technically heard all polka songs, but try not to enjoy yourself while listening to it! There could be a tune called "Gonna Hang Myself With An Electrical Cord Because My Wife Is Shtooping The Mailman Polka" and darn if it wouldn't be as jaunty a half-step tune as any other given polka number!

I'm not saying everyone should love it, and even for someone like myself who enjoys it, a little can go a long way. But if you've been polka shy, or don't even really know what it is, I recommend giving it a try.

You can watch Dick Sinclair's Polka Parade, broadcast from Minneapolis's own KTLA in 1957 here. Try to tamp your vomit down when looking at those Farmer John's Meat Products!

You can listen to the recently wrapped but delightfully unhinged archives of WFMU's Dance With Me Stanley with DJ Stashu Program here. 

If you want to see what else is out there as far as weekly polka radio shows, upcoming events, etcetera, you can check out the MPA - Midwest Polka Association here.

You can take a peek at local PBS affiliate's Funtime Polka program here.

Unwrapped

Holy Egyptology, Batman! Here's a sequential unwrapping from Sensations Revue Mensuelle magazine number 13, 1949. A sublime slice of French cheesecake fluff titled "La Momie", definitely in the burlesque stage show vein of the Folies Bergére. 

One of the stills from this set was adapted for the cover art of the University of Vice Records release Primitive Paradise: Early Exotica 1920 - 1947, a great compilation that compiles forgotten 78s of Latin and Hawaiian tunes from the early days of recorded music, before the term "Exotica" became a household term for faux ethnography. I definitely recommend checking out anything University of Vice has put out. 

The Cat In The Cactus Mask

The door separating the office block from the warehouse slammed shut behind me, and I pushed a hand through my hair to brush off the dust of the day as I crossed the parking lot to my car. It was quarter-past five, and being October, the daylight had already dwindled to dusk. I hadn’t seen the sky–or natural light for the matter–since my lunch break at noon. Since then the bright blue had bruised over for the most part, and the few rags of cloud sleepily floating in the darkened blue-grey, reflected in their folds the ember-glow of the setting sun, which had lingered at the horizon long enough to cook the lowest strip of visible sky medium-rare before continuing its slide to the other side of the globe. 

As I reached my car I paused, keys in hand, sucking in the welcome fresh air and weighing the ritual inanities of my personal life. What to do with one’s self on a lonely Thursday night? I could haunt the aisles of my favorite used book store, but I still had a small cityscape of unread novels waiting for me near my nightstand from the last visit. I suppose I could have stopped at one of the handful of small, quiet restaurants I frequent, grab a bite to eat before heading home to read one of those books and wait for sleep to drive me to bed.

The routine was comfortable, but in all honesty it had become a bit stale. The gears needed greasing with a liberal application of joie de vivre. 

Well, I didn’t want to fall into the trap of watching the sands of my evening slip to the lower half of the glass while trying to figure out what to do with it, so I got in my car and headed home. Halfway there I decided to pull in to the grocery store and find something for dinner, maybe break up the dregs a little. And it was there, in the vestibule between the two sets of sliding doors, that fate dropped a whopper into my shopping basket.

I didn’t see it at first, and I wouldn’t have at all if a little kid hadn’t pushed it on me. Or, rather, me onto it. I was walking through the skrish of the sliding door, into the carpeted entryway, as a little boy and his mother were coming out. The kid had one of those small junior shopping carts they give to children to push around so they can feel like they’re doing the shopping too; helping keep their little hands and minds occupied, so they’re less likely to get fidgety and cause a ruckus, and training them to be nice little consumers in turn. I heard “Ethan, watch your cart, honey!” and then found myself dancing to the left to avoid getting said junior shopping cart square in the kneecaps. I ran slam-bang into the cork bulletin board on the wall, feeling the jab of several plastic pushpin ends in my shoulder blades. They must’ve caught in my shirt, because as Ethan and his mother pushed through into the parking lot, her giving me an “I’m so sorry, he’s really a good boy” expression, without actually voicing an apology, I stepped away from the wall and heard them clatter to the floor along with a couple of the flyers that they had been tacking up.

I grabbed the handful of pages off the carpet—mostly ads for local Daycare providers, carpet cleaning services and lawn care businesses, when I came across this sheet of yellow paper with the most enigmatic promise on it:

OASIS SLIM PRESENTS: DESERT BLUES

ONE NIGHT ONLY

OCT. 6th 7PM

Maplewood Cultural Center

Desert blues. There was no description beyond the title and time and place; no picture of the performer or tag to the come-on “Desert Blues” to build up what it might mean. I have to admit I was intrigued. Normally I don’t go for local cultural events beyond the occasional movie on the weekend, but I had just been bemoaning how stale my routine had become. Maybe it was worth checking out. Having taken Friday as PTO for a much-needed three-day weekend, it wasn’t like I had to be at work in the morning,.

I bought my groceries and headed home, all the while pointlessly weighing the possible scenarios of what leaving the house and trying something new might bring. It’s a little head game I play with myself. All it really accomplishes is building my anxiety and keeping me a misanthropic shut-in; but I get excited about something and then create these two ideals in my head—one this incredibly fulfilling experience, the other a banal letdown—and then I let the two wrestle it out in the arena of my psyche until one dominates and I either pull myself up by my sneaker laces and go, or decide it’s probably not worth it and just stay in; maybe read another book or go to one of those handful of small, quiet restaurants and tell myself perhaps next time. 

It could be great, I thought. It sounded so exotic: Desert Blues. I was a blues fan—the old stuff; everything from Slim Harpo, Big Maybelle and Lead Belly to R.L. Burnside. I was still mulling it over when I got home. An internet search left me clueless and frustrated. Whoever Oasis Slim was, he didn’t have any semblance of an online presence. No social media accounts, no website, not even a cryptic review of a past show on some online bulletin board somewhere, and the Maplewood Cultural Center’s website had nothing to offer beyond what  bare bones information had been enigmatically printed on the flyer. Was it some local guy who played in his garage on the weekends? Someone more invested in the joy of performance than selling CDs or working a regular gig? If so, that would explain the lack of information online. Especially if he was older and maybe not so internet savvy. In that case, though, what if he was one of these boring suburban Strat’ slingers that considered Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray Vaughn the apotheosis of the genre? I wasn’t in the mood for an evening of middle-aged white guy bar blues.

Well, curiosity battered caution in the last round of deliberation, so I ate, cleaned myself up, and with a film of hesitance coating the inside of my mouth, headed to the Maplewood Cultural Center. 

I honestly don’t know what I was expecting. I pulled into the parking lot, a blacktop  patch in a cubby hole flanked by identical beige strip malls, and found myself nearly alone there. There were two or three other cars parked near the front of the building, which surely had to have belonged to whatever MCC staff were present. Maybe the date had been changed? I made my way through the front door of the Center, a squat redbrick building with some dark wood facade embellishments, and a foundation-to-roof A-frame peak on the front that led me to believe it had been a small church at some point. Inside I found two middle-aged women sitting at a card table, garbed in chunky sweaters, tasseled wool scarves, and fluorescent lighting so pale it almost looked green. On either side of them stood a darkened doorway.

Both of the women smiled as I approached. “Welcome!”

I proffered the yellow flyer.

“This is tonight, right?”

The woman closest to me took the sheet from me and studied it through her thick-lensed bifocals. “Oh, yes!” she replied, her smile somehow stretching even wider. “Right through the door behind me.” She jabbed a thumb at one of the darkened doorways. “It’s five dollars for the show, and the money goes right back into our cultural event support fund! Would you like some literature?”

There was a look of eager expectancy on her face, the way her hand went to a stack of folded pamphlets sitting on the table before her, but I really wasn’t concerned with their events calendar or whether the five bucks went to pay for future events or bags of that pink hand soap one was likely to find in the bathrooms.

“No thanks,” I replied sheepishly, handing her the five. It didn’t seem to diminish her smile any. She took the crumpled bill and dropped it into a small aluminum-colored cash box, then pressed a small hand stamp into an ink pad and raised it in my direction.

Seconds later I was maneuvering the aisles of the dim auditorium, a smudged smiley face stamped on the back of my right hand. There was a handful of people scattered throughout the room: a bored looking couple sitting in the back row, an elderly man with a houndstooth trilby and a meticulously manicured white beard up front on the right, someone I couldn’t quite make out a few rows behind him. I chose a spot in the middle, near the aisle, and waited.

There was no announcement, no emcee who stepped into the blazing circumference of a spotlight to tell us what was going to happen next. The smiling ladies from the foyer didn’t wander in to thank us for our attendance and gleefully tell us about what wonderful programming might be coming to the Maplewood Cultural Center in the upcoming weeks. The dim lights simply lowered further until the room was in total darkness, and then some scalloped stage lights flared to life. The stage, which had previously been a dark, black patch at the front of the room, was suddenly illuminated. A pair of crimson curtains parted slowly over a platform about six inches off the ground, and there, on a simple metal folding chair, small amp between his feet and sky-blue Fender guitar in his hands, sat Oasis Slim. 

I was dumbfounded.

He wore a grey wool suit with a white button-down dress shirt. The two black strands of a bolo tie dangled at either side of the descending strip of pearl-white buttons on the dress shirt, crowned by a steel clasp set with a small bird’s egg oblong of turquoise. His scuffed black dress shoes bookended the small guitar amp as if it might run off if he hadn’t. And his face…well, he didn’t have one. Not that I could see. You see, Oasis Slim’s head looked very much like a cactus, pricks and all.

Was this a put on? Some sort of theatrical flourish? Is this what was going to make the music Desert Blues—a cactus mask? I noticed that the backdrop behind Slim was a very stylized western desert scene that could’ve been pulled from the cover of any pulp cowboy magazine or novelty postcard, replete with a series of sandy plateaus fading into the distance, covered with whiskery cacti. A sun-bleached steer skull and busted wagon wheel nestled in the foreground under the watchful eye of a hungry tempera paint buzzard. 

Oh god! Had I stumbled into some esoteric amateur comedy act?

Well, it was weird, but I liked it! I felt like I was seeing something that hadn’t been seen before. And, if it had, how had Slim kept the lid on it so well? Someone—one of the couple in the back row—had chuckled at the reveal; otherwise the room was silent.

Finally, after seconds which had seemed to draw on for hours, Oasis Slim moved. His hand jerked from his guitar to his face—or his cactus rather; the movement quick and jerky, as if he were an animatronic display suddenly switched on. With a thumb and index finger, Slim chose one of the bone-colored needle stickers that covered his head, one from the area that would’ve been his right cheek had he had one, and plucked it out.

Without so much as a second’s hesitation, Slim gripped the needle between thumb and finger like a guitar pick, and began to play.

Whoever Oasis Slim was under that cactus mask, he must have been either damn good, or blind and playing purely by feel and muscle memory. There were no eye holes that I could see anywhere on that bizarre, bulbous green head. Slim started to play a basic twelve-bar blues riff without so much as a word of introduction. Just picking and pressing the strings into chords.

I noticed, a few minutes in, that the room seemed to grow warmer. I began to swab the roof of my mouth with my tongue, noticing my saliva had evaporated and leaving me with a bad case of cotton mouth. I could feel sweat start to bead at the back of my neck, right at the hairline, and trickle down my shoulders and spine like small beetles scurrying for shelter.

Slim played on but the music seemed to fade into the background. The songs were all instrumentals, and didn’t really have a beginning or end, at least not that I could tell. I felt a bit disoriented. I could still hear the tremolo of the strings around me, as if the soundtrack to some movie I found myself in, but the shadows and silhouettes of the dark theater had glommed together and become somehow faded, less definite. It was as if I’d developed some sort of miasma. I could see very little; all was a barely-lit darkness. I could swear, as the music continued, that I could feel the unfiltered heat of a desert sun baking my neck and face until it hurt. I felt downright feverish! I became aware of the coarse grit plastering my pores, the lethargy tempering my joints and muscles. 

There was the dry-hinge squawk of vultures somewhere overhead, but I couldn’t see them. The sensation of something brushing against my ankle caused me to grope for it in the darkness. For a second I froze, a cloud of ice blooming in my chest as my fingers found something rough and dry scuffing their tips, but a second investigation found only the coarse cotton weave of my socks.

Eventually the sensory spook show ended. The deluge of strange sensations ceased,   the darkness evaporated, and I found myself in the same raggedy seat in the same dark auditorium I’d sat down in. Slim, however, was gone. The few other people who had been in the theater were missing as well. 

I took a second to collect my thoughts–or to try rather, but there was little likelihood of any cogent brain activity. My skull was buzzing like a kicked hornets nest. 

Once I was sure my faculties were more or less in working order, I made my way to the lobby. The two women were still there, this time out from behind the card table and one was dragging a broom across the parquet floor, the other was half visible through a half-propped restroom door, doing the same with a mop.

“Have a good night!” chimed the woman with the broom. I wasn’t sure what to say, or necessarily how to say it, so I just nodded in her direction and kept moving towards the door.

Once I got home and sat down, made myself a cup of tea, I sat and tried to piece the evening together. An hour had passed from the time I’d walked into the Cultural Center to the time I’d gotten back into my car. And the kicker was, I wasn’t even entirely sure what had happened.

It was an experience, though. I have to admit that even though I wasn’t sure how to process what had just happened, my gamble had paid off in spades! I wasn’t likely to forget whatever it was for some time! More importantly, my thoughts strayed to Oasis Slim himself. How had he done what had he done? And, perhaps more importantly, that cactus head of his had just been a mask, right?