"The Fuzztones
are the kings, the best, numero
uno, heck, the undisputed masters
, perfect
in every detail from the screaming Vox
organ down to their pointy little Beatle
boots. And lead singer Rudi Protrudi
is actually a really big star in Europe.
Considering they've been living in
your backyard the last few years, like,
"where the hell have you
been? " -L.A. Weekly
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In a man's, man's, man's world, a return to the golden
age of the 50's kind of a kind of a Ralph Kramden world,
where the Flintstones and the Jetsons, bowling and the
fights ruled the tube, Italian guys like Dion DiMucci and
Frankie Avalon, Frankie Valle and Fabian Forte, Johnny Maestro
and Bobby Rydell and Joey Dee got all the hits and the babes;
what I mean is, in an Andrew Dice Clay kind of world, all greased
back and jangling loose change on the corner, razzing chicks,
and dangling an unfiltered tip cigerette, before the ERA and the
PMRC and FM Radio and MTV and Rolling Stone Review of Records and
"Tommy - a Rock Opera" and Don McClean and Two Live Crew and the Bill
of Rights infected the scene with redeemable social values; in
that kind of a primal, twangy, rock 'n' roll world, the Fuzztones would
be number one.
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Unlike
your canny Big Daddy, who plagiarize the noble and
holy '50s in order to subvert the present, and unlike your
well-intentioned Dave Edmunds or Brian Setzer, who worship
at the feet of the pristine and boring '50's, to present
a vision that is ultimately stulitifying and derivative, and
totally unlike the insipid Sha-Na-Na, an off-off-Broadway
made-for-Saturday-morning TV cartoon of the 50's as innocuous
as it is vacuous, the Fuzztones are the true induring
eternal bearers of the timeless unique spirit of the 50's,
(which ended, of course, in 1963, with the coming of Trini
Lopez and the Serendipity Singers) - festering, earth-shattering,
subterranean, indefensifly satisfying.
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Which is not
to say the Fuzztones could not have existed in the
50's, when The Singing Nun was guarding the temple. Whatever
you might think in retrospect, about the frightening
overnight public imorality unleashed by Elvis' pelvis (from
the waist down), like a national breakout of psychic polio,
the relative impact of "A-wop-bop-a-lu-mop-a-lop-bam-boom,"
"Be-Bop-A-Lu-La, she's my baby" "You ain't nothin but
a hound dog," "Oh Maybelline, why can't you be true" and
"Whole lotta shakin goin on," was hardly more than gob of Max
Factor's Crewcut on the ducktail of prevailing pop culture.
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I mean, Lawrence
Welk wasn't exactly giving up his weekly TV spot to
the unwashed motorcycle hourds of pagan rock 'n' rolldom.
Dinah shore, Ozzie and Harriet, Beaver and the rest of the
Cleavers, even Pete and Gladys weren't about to miss the
latest episode of Make That Spare to attend an Alan Freed jamboree
in the boondocks. I mean, by 1960, most of those cool Italian
guys in leather jackets, like Dion, were singing standards like
"Where or When." The raging, demented, uncontrollable lewdness
of rock n roll - when it wasn't pure, unadulterated, unadult
jibberish - was being summed up, if you'll recall, by towering jewels
of sophisticated euphemism such as "Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weeny Yellow-Polka-Dot
Bikini" and "Let the Little Girl Dance." Alan Freed was busted,
Little Richard was preaching the gospel and Elvis was singing arias
("It's Now or Never").
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Meanwhile the assorted
nefarious Fuzztones were getting themselves together
in junior high cafeterias, scarfing cheese sandwiches and
making stupid noises with their arms, in class rooms wiling
away the days 'til June by dropping their pencils to look up
girl's dresses, transistor radio in one hand, pea-shooter in
the other, waiting, watching, listening, smirking, frustrated by
how society was lousing up their music (Buddy Holly was down, James
Dean was down, Eddie Cochran was down, even the Everly Brothers were
in the Army and Dion was singing Rodgers and Hart!) preparing their
own moment of divine retrobution, restitution, re-evaluation.
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They announce as much
on IN HEAT, a concept album - low concept to be sure
- in the Farfisa organ and twangy Gretsch and Rickenbacker
guitar voice of the mid-60s garage band hey-day/swansong,
last rock 'n' roll gasp before Norma Tanega's "Walking My Cat
named Dog" and all hell broke loose, removing rock 'n' roll forever
from the candy store comedians who'd once so lovingly owned it.
Primal and primitive and more outspoken than rock 'n' roll ever
could have been about the unspoken, undivine truths that moved it
to almost conquer, the Fuzztones concept, in epic odes to that candy
store era when men wore shiny black Italian dancing shoes and drove their
father's Oldsmobiles,
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and girls were either
cheerleaders or tramps, but all the same in the dark
in the back seat, like "Me Tarzan, You Jane," "Everything
You've Got," "In Heat," "Hurt on Hold," and especially
the gargantuan, droll, piquant, poignant, breathlessly
picaresque "Nine Months Later," is as daring as Bart Simpson
blowing up a school room or Roseanne Barr singing the National
Anthem; that is, tasteless, irrespressable, irredeemable,
offensive-everything for which rock n roll was made famous long
ago, but hadn't actually been for a lot of us since Napolean
XIV crooned "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Ha!" in 1966,
or before that...ever.
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Which is not to say the
Fuzztones are not entirely without morals, scuples,
the type of in-depth lyrical conceits of which your major
works of post-rock n roll artistry are comprised. I mean,
only the most unconscionable (and unconcious) rock critics
could fail to place right up there alongside the giants of
rock/poetry, reciting with and holding its head high among
monoliths like America's "A Horse with No Name," Michael Jackson's
"Ben" and "the Streak" by Ray Stevens, the Fuzztones' mega-anthem/remembrance
of traumas past, "It Came in the Mail." Complete with the voice
of Alan Freed, and all the appropriate hail-and-farewell dedications,
this is a slice of true, shivering greatness no Arlo Gutherie-handheld
big-budget-buckskin-cinemaverte-Alice's Restaurant-pinko-hippie
could possibly fathom. You had to be a juke box duking, motorcycle
dancing, beer-guzzling, patriot weened on Gene Vincent to halfway
understand.
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The Fuzztones appear on
their album cover like some psychedelic San Fransico clones
of the Rolling Stones. In actuality, Rudi Protrudi, Jordan
Tarlow, "Mad" Mike Czekaj, Jason Savall and John Carlucci probably
spent most of their hours after high school beating up on similarly
clad boneheads dumb enough to invade their turf. But they got a record
label now, same as the Cult, you got to expect some compromises along
the way to ultimate domination like Man Mountain Dean over Killer Kowalski
(or was it vice versa?).
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Anyway, you say your ma threw away your old baseball cards, the candy store turned into a Roy Rodgers, and your leather jacket shredded years ago? History has rolled over you like a wave at Muscle Beach the kind you used to ride forever, showing off while Frankie chased Annette. Nowadays the juke box plays nothing but country music and the 45 has vanished, along with the Farfisa, the nickel Coke and your perfect waistline. I'm not gonna say the Fuzztones will restore your hair, trim inches from your thighs, or add them to your bustline, or kick sand in the face of your enemies. But I'm not saying that they won't. - Bruce Pollock, Co-Editor-In-Chief GUITAR FOR THE PRACTICING MUSICIAN |
JASON |
JORDAN |
RUDI |
MIKE |
JOHN |