Program Notes 18

Let's talk about the F-word. Buck you, not that F-word, this is a Family newspaper, you Fasshole. Sorry, I meant to call you a Flibbertigibbet. Look it up. I did. Brings me Felicity. Then there's Fetid. Fetid, which means "stanky," can be pronounced fehtid or feetid, and can even be spelled foetid. This is where the name fetid cheese comes from, but that's Greek to me. Fetish, too, has two correct ways of saying it, fehtish or feetish (which would be redundant to foot fetishists). It can also be spelled fetich. The word fete, as in a festival or feast, is either fayt or fet, and is often diacritted. But the real F-word is Feisty.

I steal this from a weekly in Indy called Nuvo, wherein some columnist pointed out that Feisty means Farting dog. Well, okay. But it's much more complex than a simple Farting dog. According to the dictionary (pardon my language) that we use around here, the American Heritage Dictionary (Second College Edition), Feisty comes from Feist, which can also be spelled Fice. A Feist is a small mongrel, a variant of the obsolete Fist, short for Fisting Dog. But in Middle English, Fist meant a foul smell and Fisten meant to "break wind" (pardon their language). I, of course, am not ready to accept that at its Face value. All of this feels fairly feculent to me. Let's just hope it doesn't fecundate. And if you think I'm feckless, it's probably just my feeze (as in vexation), because Feeze also can be correctly pronounced Fayze. Next week, we'll talk about Hair shirt and get Heavy into the H's.

Raw Motherjuckin' B Jae drops the new bomb, chummy, tomorrow (Friday) at Rose's. I've heard Raw B and Liquid Funk's Here's Your Daily Bread and it absolutely rules. Fantastic. Rich, thick rockin' rap (if "Stop Da Ignorance" isn't a hit, I'll kiss a fice) and gentle swingin' sweetness and all kinds of cool stuff, with exceptional backing work from D. Brown, Eric Haase, Chris DeAngelis, Javier Rivera, and John Roggie. Steal it, buy it, borrow it, hear it.

A fine weekend at Churchill's Hideaway. On Saturday, URSAminor flies in to flail with the Hard On Gang and the mighty Cell 63. Then, on Sunday, it's Livestock '94, that big festival you've been reading about in all the newspapers and magazines. Product, Diablo Tun Tun, Snatch the Pebble, and Budda Filled Briefcase perform. This one, quips Dave Daniels, is a bit cheaper than the fake Woodstock up in New Yawk. This one's free. And free parking.

Fascinate yourself with Dore Soul tonight (Thursday) at Rose's or tomorrow (Friday) at Squeeze. The Goods get good at Rose's on Saturday.

Not too often do we strongly recommend your presence at Hard Rock Cafe, but next Wednesday's different. That's when Vandal releases their new CD, Julian Day, which I haven't heard yet but expect will be pretty decent considering Vandal's hard-rocking track record. The event, which includes a live show, is free for you.

Last night John Fournier and Raul Midon -- Dos Almas -- were scheduled to be interviewed on Telemundo. Their eponymous album -- receiving airplay on a Latin music radio station near you -- is going international. They're currently working on an English-language version.

Nouns: lamp, camera, sun, cat, underwear. Verbs: lick, swim, chase, spill, scream. Go ahead. Okay, my turn. Sentences: Underwear chases my anus. Cameras scream at celebrities. The sun spills light on the madness. Cats swim before drowning. The lamp licks the moth's tender underside like nuclear radiation sears the pasty flesh of power-plant workers on a bad day. Your turn.

You won't hear Big White Undies on WKPX (the band's name is obscene, don't ya fucking know). But you can catch the Gainesville gods at Reunion Room tonight (Thursday) and at the Talkhouse tomorrow (Friday), the latter with Day by the River.

All-star band Coma falls into the Button South on Saturday. Tix available at the door only -- this might be the only big rock show in recent history from which Ticketmaster isn't getting a cut: no advance sales. No service charge. No rip-off.

Blowfish has a couple of cool Wide Open Mike nights at Squeeze. This Sunday it's Gravetree. Next Sunday, August 28, Six Silver Spiders serve up what they're calling a "special performance." Says Blowfish: "Who knows what that means. It's something no one has seen them do."

Catch the Elysian this Sunday at Chili Pepper.
Killer bill, with Load and Collapsing Lungs pairing up at the Edge on Saturday.

Butthorn of the week: Now that Plus Five isn't around to kick any more, a reader tosses a handful at the place. "They pulled the plug on Bellwether during their set. After Peanut Blender played, they threw the band out -- and their fans! Then the soundman just left during Subliminal Criminal's set." Damn, I miss the place already.

The media circus: Lobster Boy. I was reading a weekly called the Memphis Flyer and the guy who writes that paper's events column did a whole number on Lobster Boy, asking how the stubby pincered one was able to abuse anybody, considering, you know, that you could just run away from him. But a new detail emerged, one of Simpsonian proportions: Mrs. Lobster Boy abused him. Yeah, for example, she'd draw him a hot bath and toss in slices of lemon.

 
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