The Moralists

Barrel Of Monkeys by Ruppert and Mulot

The first time I mentioned Ruppert and Mulot on this site was about a year ago, in a review of the Tunes rock ‘n roll comics anthology. Amidst a collection of strips predisposed to fawning homage toward their subjects, their “Elvis” contribution stuck out as

“… a plain middle finger extended to the artist or America or both, which alternates between Elvis’ ignominious end on the toilet and a giant Elvis climbing atop various skyscrapers in the New York landscape, with possible allusions to King Kong or 9/11 – it’s hard to parse; either way, our final image is that of the King expiring on his restroom floor, pants down and strewn in vomit.”

To judge by Barrel Of Monkeys – the first English language collection of strips by the artists, ferried to our shores by the good graces of Rebus Books – my wary observation was on the mark. Such easy knocks at celebrity iconography are absent, but there’s no mistaking the comics contained herein as anything other than a systematic series of “fuck you”s, with, say, Johnny Ryan (per Joe McCulloch) or Takashi Nemoto as good points of reference. (Describing the book seems to bring out the best in its champions; blurb-wise, Dash Shaw refers to it as “evil and mean-spirited” and, from Lilli Carre, “an enjoyable slap to the face”.) Like those Veterans O’ Vile, Ruppert and Mulot specialize in provocations, spits in the face of propriety; there’s nothing perverse about the strips, insofar as there’s no private logic being obeyed, no fundamental compulsive innocence guiding the artistic soul, Darger-style – a spit in the face is meant to be felt as such.

More specifically, the typical strip here looks a lot like what would happen if you removed the two blithe sociopaths in Michael Haneke’s Funny Games from their metatextual context and put them in a world fitted to suit. It only occasionally reaches those horror show heights, but the same coy smirk (hi-jinks!) accompanies every bit of misanthropy which promenades across the page, with the two aforementioned male figures, near-ubiquitous all throughout, recognizable as obvious authorial surrogates, signatures too difficult to ignore. Narratives aren’t a priority here, just contrived situations where wafer-thin and damn near homogenous characters do awful things or watch awful things happen. Children are slapped and humiliated, bestiality is a frequent punchline, disabled folks are mocked and objectified, prostitutes are mutilated, etc. – all stuff which might give presumable customs agents cause for pause, their red red red stamp ready to brand (a proper seal of approval), were they willing to press on beyond the layers of deadpan formalism and distancing surrounding every strip’s sweet center.

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Any notion of cackling jollies and excess is pretty much defused on first contact; Ruppert and Mulot overlay a neat willfully artificial aesthetic over everything, far from Ryan’s default Klassic Kartoonist Karicature or Nemoto’s Grimy Grotesquerie, one of scratchily rendered figures – all bearing semi-expressive but mostly mask-like angles on their face in lieu of features – framed by a rigorously maintained proscenium arch and performing their actions against nondescript backdrops within a mise en scene best described as “perfunctory”. Once a panel has been read, it’s been read – there’s beauty here to be sure, of the “stark and elegant” variety, but you never luxuriate in an image or consider the figures and objects in relation to each other; whatever your reaction to the stuff, the artists have indisputably conjured up a new and singularly elaborate approximation of Stick Figure Theater.

From that stylistic monotone often hangs a play on images, a blatant story-specific gimmick, thematically apiece with the content but sectioned off from the surrounding naturalism, a cool (as in cold) and ornate package which gathers the most overtly transgressive elements at play for the sake of a proper presentation – the punchline, basically.

They’re impressive set pieces which prod the reader along into a little extracurricular work, activities of interpreting, deciphering. Dialogue, in one story, is conveyed to the reader entirely in sign language, with a helpful key below each panel. Another, the story which frames the book, comes with a set of distorted images depicting sexual congress between an elephant and a woman (women?), replete with a series of steps on how to fold the picture in such a way as to perceive it properly, making it something like an unwieldly Al Jaffee affair. In “Phenakistoscopes With Dad”, one of the crueler strips here, the story in whole is made up of instructions on constructing the eponymous devices – simple optical devices which present animated images via a revolving paper wheel and a mirror – as relayed by a father to his son with verbal abuse in the vein of “Listen to what I’m fucking saying, you fucking moron; why the fuck are you crying?” punctuated by smacks to the head; the phenakistoscopes themselves, there to be cut out by the enterprising reader (or here, if you don’t want to damage your copy) are, naturally, patterns of motion illustrating idealized images of paternal love.

This “you can play along at home, kids – just follow the directions!” notion isn’t novel, but, more than most artists, you can feel a debt to Chris Ware in Ruppert and Mulot’s work : the artists giving these ancillary devices enough weight so that they’re integral to what surrounds, widening  the field of play beyond the basic sequential grammar of images to achieve a desired effect.

A set of scissors may not always be necessary, but this aspect of participation, crossing some not-considerable but nonetheless certain distance to meet the story on its terms, is consistent. These puzzles tend to tax the reader about much as a connect-the-dots page in a coloring book, but they assure some degree of self-conscious engagement, the reader more aware of him or herself as a reader and so, on some level, complicit in the book’s panorama of unpleasantness; as much of the work has roughly the depth of a Bazooka Joe strip (R. I. P.), there’s nothing too distressing about this state. That’s the common denominator though: the silly mean shit all throughout never happens in a vacuum, for its own sake ala a gag strip, but is instead a factor in a relationship between observer and observed, performer and audience; virtually every moment is premised on a foundation of “watching”, seeing as an explicit or implicit action.

Consider “The Portraitists”, the book’s key recurring strip. The titular figures are, as expected, two males and the purpose they serve is in their title – to photograph portraits, ensure that pictures get captured. Most of the stories are concerned with the commissions they undertake – their subjects and the circumstances under which they wish to be photographed, where and how they want to be seen in the picture – though sometimes they get creative, pursuing their own visions, much like their creators. In any case, stuff does happen – the world intrudes, wackiness ensues – but our portraitists stay outside the scene and focused, seeing everything to completion; they’re there to look, and to make certain that their looking produces results.

What emerges at the conclusion of every “Portraitists” story isn’t a visual hook or a bit of cleverness to be maneuvered through, but a still image – a man beheaded by a boomerang, a child dressed in a suit of armor which doesn’t cover key lower parts of his body, a prostitute bound on a bed with a rat shoved down her throat, a man bleeding on a floor, a man standing proud and victorious with a female sword-swallower chained to his belt serving as the sheath for his sword, etc. – with a frame around it. Removed from time, it is now something which exists entirely to be seen, the endpoint of a process of objectification or, less politely, dehumanization. It has become a portrait – something mobile, there to be possessed, sold, or discarded.

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I’m In Love (Part 4)

(And how we got here: UNO, DOS, TRES. Should this suit your fancy, those may be worth a look as well.)

8. “Roadrunner” (Live 1973)

If both versions off The Original Modern Lovers would seem to come with the immediacy and energy of a live performance, this one genuinely is live, and the difference makes itself known pretty quickly. Which is understandable; even the most haphazard recording session comes with an implicit layer of self-consciousness – the performer aware, more than usual, of the song as a text and reacting accordingly. It’s close to yet not quite perfectionism (which is probably antithetical to “Roadrunner”), but there is a certain tidiness from the listener’s POV, each version a concentrated attempt to get something right.

Whatever it is, it’s notably absent here. It works within the general standards of classification which arise as I go about essayin’ and assayin’, cataloguing, putting things on display and all in a row, i.e. it’s early and noisy. But relative to the versions which surround it, it speaks only to its own moment, a moment which lasts exactly four minutes and fifty-five seconds.

For one thing, the tempo is slower than usual, slow enough that, as one Youtube commenter notes, it’s easy to hear the seedy endless glory of “Sister Ray” underneath, the Velvet Underground song from which Richman filched “Roadrunner”’s main chords. Even when we’re past the Stop-N-Shop and well down Route 128, et cetera, you half-suspect the song could, in fact, turn into “Sister Ray”, no big deal – why not?

It’s that kind of performance, by which I mean it’s a performance which largely deflects drama and tension, the lynchpins of every other version. With not much velocity, the song, like “Sister Ray”, becomes an exercise not in movement but in repetition – the lyrics come in quick steady bursts, with enough space between them to stall momentum so each line seems a self-sufficient event, disconnected phrases spoken with intensity but no urgency. Compound this with Richman not so much venturing way outside the song’s stock lyrical motifs (a first impression) as twisting them, gleefully fucking around, and you’re left with a funny state which makes the vocals register to the ear as all upper-case but without exclamation marks, each one a near-non sequitur-ish placard: “HEY KIDS, DON’T YOU LOVE THE DARK?”; ”WE THINK LIKE ROADRUNNERS”; “AND WE LOVE GOD’S WORLD”; etc.

The pace encourages you to sing along, “Louie Louie”-style, which you would – with time-travel-assisted first hand exposure and maybe a little alcohol in your system – if anyone could sing along to “Roadrunner” beyond the first verse and the punctuating shouts of “Radio On”. Even Richman can’t escape that heavy sway, not giving much of the typical push and pull in the closing climax – he’s just sputtering phrases, and then near-random syllables, against it, the obvious loser in this bout.

None of which really leads anywhere or at least anywhere of overt significance – lyrically, there’s no “x marks the spot”, no bumps to slow us down, the textual concerns here happily tossed to the elements, the elements being tonight’s audience, whatever chemistry has been established between them and the band so far, the adrenaline that’s accrued as the songs on the playlist have been checked off, et cetera. Why should the song go anywhere when we’re clearly somewhere already, locked in a nice vortex of a groove, a force strong enough that the song becomes a joyous expenditure of energy, running on its own fumes. We’re all in this together!

So naturally you wanna move, or at least bob your head a bit.

9. “Roadrunner (Thrice)”

This was released as the flipside to “The Morning Of Our Lives” single by Beserkley back in 1977. It’s another live performance, though quite different from the last; less a ramshackle bit of circumstance than a complete statement, something cohesive, thought through.

I don’t know when exactly it was recorded, but it feels like a definite notch on the timeline, ’74 or ‘75; various details – the coming shift Richman’s music would take in the mid-seventies and his consequent dismissal of his earlier catalogue (“Roadrunner” being the obvious emblem of that catalogue), this version’s eight-and-a-half minute length (the longest readily available; there may be longer ones, but I’ll leave those to bootleg collectors keeping the faith, wily torrentors, and anyone with patience enough to venture far into all those double-digit Youtube pages), the overall wistful mood (of which, see below) – conspire to make “(Thrice)” feel valedictory. It wouldn’t be the last time Richman would play the song but, relative to the other versions, it feels conclusive, the probable endpoint not of the song, but of Richman’s relationship to the song.

It’s a curious “epic”, insofar as you’re required to call it one by virtue of duration, eight-and-a-half minutes being just a slight violation of the common boundary of “pop song” and a footstep past the threshold of “imposing bit of reality”. It’s not that Sigur Ros song that played on my college radio station for three years straight or “I Am The Resurrection” – there’s no striving for effect, no presumption of effort on the part of the listener or the performer. It’s very much “Roadrunner” in its everyday ambition, the familiar dramatic structure of countdown, acceleration, bridge, and culminating chorus – the song isn’t built for flourishes. Or, rather, the song is a flexible and durable machine built precisely for flourishes, but not for excess. It can carry all the weight you, I, or Richman care to place, which is why that “finally” seems so false, why I’m writing this silly self-evident essay.

More specifically, “(Thrice)” is close tonally to “Roadrunner (Once)”, beginning with calm certainty (“Well here we go…”) and proceeding very simply from there; Richman’s voice takes a spot a few feet above the music, absolutely secure there, devoid of any tension, making sure to pull both the sound and us along with him as he journeys through the Boston outskirts. About two-and-a-half minutes in, just beyond the opening verses, the speed of the music subsides, slowing to a basic necessary movement; the song then unfurls into a catalogue of sensation, Richman patiently surveying what there is to see and feel, letting the memory at the song’s center decompress and expand so that the landscape comes anew. It’s salient to “Roadrunner” but it can get lost as we (or rather, I) listen to it repeatedly, as it becomes just another pop song, the perfect opening track on a playlist or a mix cd, a thing-for-use with a generalized meaning which has slowly and subtly overtaken what it actually is: an exploration without a pressing goal, only intent upon seeing what there is to see.

And everything there is to see elicits a quiet astonishment, these places taking care to reveal themselves to us while time blinks by in the freezing night. The song is always a present tense affair but here you can feel it receding into the past, when the urgency and haste have dropped away and all that remains is the world, uncluttered with notion or purpose, this place or that place as it was at the moment when it crossed the eye for a few seconds and let itself be seen. Across versions, this is the narrative we can read, one not of progression – the song remains its ineffable self however you play it – but of approach: the rush through the night slowing so that a world of lights and pulsing abstraction becomes one of stark beauty.

It’s a full meal, covering its chosen space meticulously, enough so that you could use the song as a handy travelogue, which is exactly what Laura Barton did in a very fine essay for The Guardian. The aforementioned objects of his affection – loneliness, the modern world, whatever – are present, but what’s inescapable is the literal terrain; by the time he states “I’m in love with the land where I grew up”, he’s being redundant. All my preoccupation with solipsism, the self, perception, and so forth slides easy, frictionlessly, off “(Thrice)” – I can say no more than the song says.

When the climactic round of “Radio On” comes, there’s the expected surge of energy, the song returning to its default mode, but Richman doesn’t lose himself in its frenzy (as is typical in every other version) – his stance is controlled; he’s still there, pointing our way toward the exit as ever, but just a little more distant from the moment, the better, maybe, to savor it and not let it swallow him whole. Whatever release was there came earlier if you were paying attention; it’s enough that the song snaps back into shape, that the momentum returns to see us off.

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I’m In Love (Part 3)

(Parts One and Two there to be glanced at.)

7. “Roadrunner #2” (not to be confused with “Roadrunner (Twice)”)

“Roadrunner #2” is also off The Original Modern Lovers, recorded by Fowley in 1973, the album’s final track, as I mentioned earlier. It’s the shortest version I know of, not quite breaking the three minute mark.

“#2” doesn’t even bother with the “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6”, beginning straight away with the dominant riff, which is played by the band, whoever the Modern Lovers were at that moment (Richman claims, in the liner notes, that Mars Bonfire (i.e. the dude who wrote “Born To Be Wild”, apparently) played guitar on this version, instead of him), as tightly as it can conceivably be played, so it emerges into view machinelike, an engine already in motion. If “#1” veered in and out of its set path, reckless on its own energy, “#2”, like “(Once)”, has a beat close to an unwavering metronome, a gallop which never wavers. We enter in medias res and our job is to keep up.

“Roadrunner”s #1 and #2 share the same brand of you-are-there energy, the inimitable intimacy that can only be engendered by some shitty overworked amps in a controlled setting (Fowley’s is a specific brand of non-production); what really distinguishes one from the other might be this tension, the feeling of being a step or two behind. And apparently, Richman feels it too, at least during the first few seconds, hollering his roadrunners as he tries to assert himself in the opening verse. Unlike us, he manages it soon enough, getting a foothold into the groove when he states “I’m in love with my own loneliness”. Its presence is especially notable as it takes the place of the more typical “I’m in love with the modern world”, a line which will come later, blurted in the final climactic “Radio On” frenzy.

(And, Christ, can you imagine anyone else singing that line, singing it outside of the template set down by Richman? As a self-sufficient sentiment, divorced from context, it has, no doubt, launched a hundred thousand bad songs, valentines to entitled self-pity sung with either a lazy sneer or ponderous self-regard. They don’t say “I’m in love with my own loneliness” but by God they mean it, loneliness cultivated for effect and as affect, the emphasis on the “I”, “I” having no real interest in meeting up with you, sharing anything really, the sole reason for the song being “I”’s satisfaction in your willingness to cross that distance and so validate the presence of “I”.

How Richman makes that otherwise isn’t quite alchemy but, hell, it’s probably close, by which I mean he’s just Richman, i.e. his voice has the quality of meeting the listener face to face – it’s a piece of crude simplicity which he points in one way or another to get the job done, all purpose, all intimacy, no fuss.)

As the song proceeds, Richman returns to this, mentioning his loneliness, being alone, lonely, not having a girlfriend (“…but I don’t mind”), every statement emphatic or made so by the rapid succession dictated by the song’s short length, so that first mention can’t help but stand tall. It’s been embedded in the song all along – why else embrace the cold loneliness but the lack of any other embrace? – but here it feels foregrounded, given full vent.

In a neat and probably unintended bit of sequencing on The Original Modern Lovers, “#2” follows “Girlfren” (the name given on the back of the album but known everywhere else as “Girlfriend”, true believers), a song not so much preoccupied as in helpless thrall to that feeling. It’s one of the more pensive early Modern Lovers tracks, a quiet cracked voice confession of vulnerability set to a country-blues-ish guitar twang; Richman wanders around Boston, to the Museum Of Fine Art to look at the Cezannes, to Fenway Park – social places, places of comfort and consolation, things he wouldn’t need to search out if he had a girlfriend.* That’s the essence of the song, Richman full-on indulging in one of the most likeable forms of female objectification: the idea of a girlfriend, the mid-to-late adolescent male (mostly) longing for that idea, the conceptual girlfriend who’s less than a salve for lust than a salve for (yup) loneliness; someone who’s a vague ache throughout the day and a distinct absence – the hand that you’re not holding – when you’re idle.

Instead you just hold your heart in your hands and hope someone will notice – thanks to the juxtaposition, it’s easy to imagine Richman carrying it from one song to the next, his voice still cracking, no longer crying but with his tear stains visible in the night, lust and frustration sure to carry this Roadrunner along well after the fuel gauge hits E. You can chart the songs in relation to each other beyond this anecdotal progression – we might peg “Girlfren” as “loneliness as a stark burden” and “Roadrunner” as “loneliness as a strength”. Or, more elegantly: “loneliness defining Richman vs. Richman defining loneliness”, passive versus active.

Correspondences of that sort in Richman’s early work, the songs that lean angsty and introspective, are a given. They don’t so much sprawl into a web of connections as form a straight line of continuity, 90% of that catalogue comprising a before-and-after scenario, two different kinds of frustration: the pure naïve longing for a girlfriend, lust and intimacy intertwined as they often are in real life (“Girlfriend”, “Astral Plane”, “I Wanna Sleep In Your Arms”, “Someone I Care About”, etc.) and the messy actuality of having made that connection (“I’m Straight”, “She Cracked”, “Hospital”, “Dignified And Old”, etc.).* (From the way this latter category often boils down to desperate pleading for the other party to come to her senses, realize herself, and change her ways, evidently Richman was fond of self-destructive ladies.) “Roadrunner” works as something like a bridge between these two, a makeshift one – Richman’s still lonely, still without a girlfriend, but “the highway is your girlfriend” and he’s in love with his own loneliness. Straddling those categories, a song which stands as a consummation, an expression of absolute satisfaction, without want – there’s only Richman, the music, and the world.**

“Roadrunner #2” isn’t the exception which proves that rule, but of all the versions it may come closest; if the song is a race, here you can get an idea of what’s to be outrun.

8. About a decade ago, when I was in school, I listened to “Roadrunner #1” constantly, at least once a day for roughly a year, more or less (maybe less, probably more). As far as obsessions go, obsessions with a pop song are the least debilitating, the most common, fixations which fit easily into most daily routines, so I like to think I was alright. My first exposure to the song was inauspicious: it was good, probably great – not quite a fully immersive experience, a stop-everything-for-the-next-few-hours epiphany like say “Heart Of Glass” or “You Got What You Got”, but, like most songs I like, a notable event with a few lingering sensations, stray bits of resonance I’d happily return to.

I got stuck on it via a cognitive leap or two. “I’m in the modern world”… It’s a wonder of a phrase. bold and stupid and brilliant, multivalent enough to mean anything. Like much of the song’s ever-changing lyrics, it feels like something spoken in the heat of the moment,  with conviction but without much forethought – a declaration of love like you see in the third acts of movies, the kind which, if it had been spoken earlier, would have saved our lovers a lot of trouble. But here it’s, more often than not, spoken well before the first verse ends, so you’re stuck with it. “Roadrunner” is full of a whole lotta love, “the modern world” being just one of a collect-‘em’-all set, but, as I said earlier, if there’s any phrase remembered in its wake, this is it.

As it is, it’s one of the finer “fuck you”s to uncertainty you’ll find, really, attractive enough that you wanna hold tight to it. Or at least you do if you’re twenty-one and you’re lonely and you’re half convinced that you’re doomed and half convinced that you can make up the rules of the game as you go along, no sweat. What it really means, who can say? The only way to vouch for it is to say it out loud and taste the conviction as it exits your mouth.

To Richman, it probably means nothing more than the world outside the windshield, “…the modern suburban bleakness” as he calls it in “Roadrunner #2″, with a lot of rough equivalents besides – Massachusetts when it’d dark outside, etc. (the lyrics change alot, man) – to cover its ass interpretation-wise; this isn’t Broadcast or mid-period Scott Walker or “She Came In Through The Bathroom Window”, y’know? Richman’s songs mean what they say and say what they mean; they’re about crushes on bank tellers, wanting a girlfriend, Vincent Van Gogh, the undue social weight of “marriage” versus love and fidelity, about feeling more alive than you’ve ever felt before.

“Roadrunner” is a grasp at the sublime, putting it in modern suburban bleakness terms – a direct statement like the rest, but also an invocation of something else, a listing of a set of conditions surrounding an inherently undefinable state. So maybe it’s okay to stew in this love for the modern world, let it fall from the song as a payload of ambiguity.

Carrying the line around with me like charm, I’d dwell on it and, naturally, it would haul the rest of the song along with it. You don’t need the ability to write a song as brilliant as “Roadrunner” to get as drunk on your surroundings, to stand properly in awe of the vague all-encompassing generalization of stuff, as Richman is – not to be too on the nose, but I had my own love for the modern world, albeit one a bit more solipsistic, aestheticized.  Like the song, I’d let music serve as the soundtrack to what I saw outside my (passenger seat) car window, with the buildings and road signs outside the glass there as patterns of circumstance, an accompanying rhythm. Sometimes (frequently) I swooned to people in hallways, moving in every direction, obeying their own rhythm, people being only themselves, pursuing their own plot – a perfectly coordinated chaos worth contemplating, with no overarching occasion to bind them in this panorama of motion beyond, let’s say, a Thursday afternoon in early June. Or, at the party I was at last week, seeing tree leaves glistening under a fluorescent street light from a light constant rain at 5:30 AM, not so much reflecting as absorbing the light into themselves as a weak pulse aglow against the violet sky, with excess light dripping onto the ground. There were plenty of situations like that, mysteries in the capital-M sense which dot the day. You fall out of sync with things and you get a glimpse of something else.

These little things, they were always there – the song came amidst them, giving things a name, an encapsulating phrase. I’d listen to “Roadrunner #1” and “#2” in frequent proximity, as the bookends they made on the Bomp comp or just as random components of whatever today’s soundtrack was, so a love for the modern world and a love for your own loneliness – lines which jut out easy after way too many replays have worn most of the other details down to barely perceptible nubs – bound together in my head. As I perceived them, they weren’t interchangeable but connected, parts of the song’s private equation, being in love with your own loneliness the likely flipside to upending your reality to the rhythm of the radio or, more precisely in my case, the next song playing on the mix in my headphones – the solitude which is a precondition of that freedom.

In that light, it bears stating: these buildings, these people, these glowing leaves seen when I was near exhaustion from dancing for five hours straight, don’t exist as beauty without me, the gilded frame of perception I can’t help but tote around wherever I go (even the bathroom!). It’s not too hard to shift the song like a kaleidoscope and read it from this angle – the music, the world, this love for whatever, as a pretext for exuberance in the void, getting lost in yourself, a reverie about venturing out into the familiar and find yourself lost in the hall of mirrors. (Somewhere between the earthbound and ethereal associations the song conjured up was a little realization: to declare your love for something is simply a way of saying you’re not a part of it.) Following this trail of thought (half-thought, really), you’d fall – or just dive – down a trapdoor into the comfy chasm of solipsism, uncovering that beneath this love for the commonplace beauty of chance (or something) was, one supposes, an assertion of the self. Was that “this modern feeling”? Weighing yourself and teeming miraculous horrible reality on the scales and finding the two balanced? Is that why so many of the lines leave Richman’s lips as epiphanies realized the instant he says them?

Within those parameters, you don’t necessarily need to set course down Route 128 or any hallways of happenstance. Whatever the “modern feeling” was, I’m pretty sure I mainlined it daily way back when, carrying my modern world around with me, a place which for the sake of this ramble I’m imagining as a lot like one of those scenic painted backgrounds which were pedaled into motion for amusement back in ye olden times. It was (and is) a place not so much constructed as curated, culled from books, movies, music, everything I could find, past and present there to plunder for salient pieces, “Roadrunner” among them, to form its impromptu pattern. When I first heard the song (and maybe forever) that was me; I may have worked at a movie theater or a bookstore, but my real job was being the most active passive receptacle I could be. Which isn’t to say I lived in denial of the world, receding into my little shell of obsession and reducing my interaction with folks to three or four trivial and increasingly irritating topics of conversation – no, my disconnect was probably more minor: drifting along, playing the expected role of “student in his early twenties”, but rationalizing everything outside of my head within some ingenious and delusional precept of “change thyself and the world will follow”. Maybe you can relate? I didn’t pin the sacred objects of my taste like butterflies to a board as gather details from the margins – “Ray And Maggie Down At Leo’s”, Rosalind Russell pulling the image toward her while speaking on the phone amongst an audience of character actor reporters in His Girl Friday, the sudden wall-of-sound intro to Belle & Sebastian’s “Dirty Dream #2”, time portrayed in basic sequential motion and as stuttering  movement by the strobe light cars at the intersection in Happy Together, etc. ad infinitum – to form “chains of rapport and intimate knowledge”, to quote Manny Farber, a very mutable environment made up of intuitive links and correspondences; most importantly, it was a place to be, ever-shifting but always fitted to suit. “Roadrunner” stood as something like a synecdoche of that life, giving myself a glimpse of my own turtle-like way of living inside my own head, when maneuvering through each day often seemed like a little lonesome reverie – a part representative of the whole.

But enough. That trail of association can go on for a while. Plainly, I listened again and again and again, to see if this swirl of detail meant the same thing this time as it did when I heard it last. If I did drive, the song would have accompanied me wherever I went and I imagine every day would be a closed system, listening to a song about listening to music while driving while driving***; instead I rode the bus (with a set of headphones welded on tight), so it was an imperfect one, but pretty damn potent in broad strokes.

Footnotes

*“Roadrunner”, content-wise, is apiece with “Girlfriend”, “Walk Up The Street”, and maybe a few other songs I’ve forgotten about, all of which boil down, in terms of content, to “wandering around, being lonely”; “Walk Up The Street” is about roaming around your neighborhood and nearby environs when you have nothing else to do, making a base effort to escape boredom and loneliness. It’s not especially interesting – a bit of perfunctory punk which won’t wreck the atmosphere, something best heard between two better songs.

**This paradigm ignores a few songs. “Modern World” and “Old World”, earlier mentioned, are both appreciation pieces, off-hand manifestoes about a love for the day to day in its totality. The glorious “Government Center”, included as the final track on later editions of The Modern Lovers, puts those manifestoes into action, i.e. it feels like it was smuggled in from Richman’s post-75 period. It’s a song about putting on a show for a bunch of hardworking office drones stuck at the government center, making them feel alright with the power of rock ‘n’ roll. It’s short, sweet, and awesome.

***Classic rock, after all, exists for a reason. It may have once, and probably briefly, referred to the popular standard of rock, but that notion has long been superseded by a specific use – it is music convenient for driving. You can have a fine time with any music (especially “Roadrunner”) on while driving, but this is music which serves that exact purpose, music which is subordinate and functional, ala Erik Satie and muzak; it doesn’t demand one’s attention and, as of now, is there to only enhance the driving experience, fitting itself into the rhythms of the road. No one has listened to a Foghat song outside of a car since December 3, 1987.

Click here to head on over to the far less autobiographical and far more conclusive Part 4, because why not?

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I’m In Love (Part 2)

(Why not take a gander at Part 1, should you be so inclined?)

6. “Roadrunner #1” (not to be confused with “Roadrunner (Once)”)

“Roadrunner #1” was released on The Original Modern Lovers – not the first “official” album, but a hodgepodge compilation put out by Bomp of two Kim Fowley sessions from ’72 and ’73 (the “original” in the title is dubious, or so Richman claims in the liner notes). Fowley’s production, here at least, is in the punk/garage tradition of “as long as there’s not too much hiss, stay the fuck out of the way” which might go a way toward explaining why it’s my favorite version – it sounds nice and harsh, as if its ideal format isn’t a CD but a mix tape, something I recorded off the radio, its proper place sandwiched between “Soldier Boy” by The Shirelles and “Said Serial” by Unwound. A more obvious reason for my bias: it was the first version I heard, and so it’s the real Secret Origin of this essay, anecdotal points of entry be damned.

That this version feels like Ground Zero doesn’t hurt. It was recorded in the summer of ’72, after “Roadrunner (Twice)”, so it isn’t a “first” anymore than “(Once)” is a “finally”, but the raw power on display makes it feel like a song with something to prove, the kind of challenge only a white and unsullied canvas can provide. Listening to it is a lot like watching an unskilled but talented and eager rookie cross the football field, ball in hand, certain of only two things: a. the goal to be reached, and b. that moving is the only way to get there, so it just moves moves moves helplessly, all antsy clatter as it rushes and stumbles its way toward its conclusion. Most versions fit as “raw and unkempt”, but “#1” feels more singular, a spilling over of nervous energy.

That was my first impression of the song: a necessary ceaseless movement which begins by counting down to that movement and ends with saying goodbye to it. Everything in between those two actions is a whirlpool of association, one detail frequently indiscernible from the next – something about “love” and “Boston” and “faster”, a matrix of key words bouncing off each other. The only bits of stability we can seize onto in that tumult are Richman’s speed through the Massachusetts night and a statement indelibly phrased: “I’m in love with the modern world.”

That last one really sticks (and stuck, but more on that later) and it’s spoken as an honest affirmative, at that; there’s simply no space for posturing or an ironic sneer, no room to properly wield those big cudgels of sophistication – our only imperative is to move forward, to say what we mean! Had I heard the song in the context of the first Modern Lovers album (i.e. had Hogwild Records had it in stock), with the speedy but more coherent “Roadrunner (Twice)”, things might be a lot more convenient – I might have assumed this beloved modern world was apiece with the “modern world” described in the song “Modern World”, both of which were apparently opposed to the old world mentioned in, well, “Old World”, and every world named absolutely embraced by Richman. As it was, all I had was another version of “Roadrunner” at the end of the CD for comparison (consider those two in constant proximity and this essay seems inevitable).

Right now, though, there’s only this segment of time to go by, four-and-a-half minutes which pass in roughly fifteen seconds, an instant too dense for proper reflection; you grasp onto what you can, not quite certain what it is. We reach the climax, with Richman’s voice trying to outpace the song’s speed, losing and finding and losing himself as he more freely associates to the Modern Lover’s reliable shouts of “Radio On”, skillfully using them as punctuation or tripping over them haplessly; it’s a chaos which hasn’t so much been built up to as finally released, having been held in check since the first second, so the song is essentially all dramatic climax, a double splash page of a thing, thoughtless and confident.

This version, at least.

Click here for Part 3.

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I’m In Love (Part 1)

1. In part, this began a few years back, when I was hanging out with a friend, listening to music. Or rather, singing and dancing ridiculously to music, because playing it cool in most contexts, music foremost, isn’t our style. I put “Roadrunner” on, probably “Roadrunner #1” – thankfully we both knew it well, so our silly singing and silly dancing were executed with confidence, which may or may not have been more entertaining, but it was certainly something.

After it ended and before we could begin another furious round of singing and dancing to whatever song came on next, she asked me a question:

“Who played that?”

2. Another seed was planted when I read Lipstick Traces last year. Greil Marcus opens his section on “Roadrunner” with this: “As Richman finally recorded it, ‘Roadrunner’ was the most obvious song in the world, and the strangest.”

Well who doesn’t love a bit of hyperbole, especially as delivered by Monsieur Marcus? Before you’re halfway through reading it, you’re already immersed in the slight echo the sentence makes as it resonates, steady and unwavering, through a large and dimly lit lecture hall. And who am I to disagree? The anecdote I relayed above certainly testifies to the song’s “obviousness”. The “strangeness” fits as well, but I’ll come back to that in a bit.

If anything in that statement irks, it may be that “finally”. It implies cause and effect, as if the song’s distinction resides in a specific gesture or a last dab of paint, the x-element common to the heroic narrative of the artist which transforms a pop song into “the most obvious song in the world, and the strangest.” One can somewhat understand Marcus’s position – it simplifies the essayist’s job tremendously to state at the onset that this is a closed matter, that the aesthetic object at hand is a concrete thing; the man has an underlying thesis and Jonathan Richman and “Roadrunner” are only stepping stones there – that “finally” obliterates any number of pesky footnotes.*

3. “Roadrunner” isn’t quite as stable as Marcus makes it out to be. You can, like my friend, let the song’s exuberance carry along, fully partake in that “obviousness” and “strangeness” without having heard “Roadrunner (Once)” – the common title for the version Marcus speaks of, a title which highlights itself as a creature of circumstance – or any of the other versions Richman recorded between 1969 and 1975, when the song was still a going concern for him. She knew it from covers, live performances, as a standard among punk and garage bands, as a song you could love for itself, something shared rather than fetishized, as perhaps befitting Richman’s own Statue-Of-Liberty-like generosity.

4. But if – like me, like Marcus – you can’t help but follow a trail back to a presumable point of origin – some easy signifier of authenticity, recording-wise – the path quickly becomes diffuse. There are, let’s say, eight versions direct from the source, all recognizable relations to each other, each a subtle or grand shifting of the song’s emphases – the road markers along the song’s path are identical, but a constant flux marks the lyrics and speed. They’re distinct enough that the term “version” seems more apt than the more hierarchical “variant”; none of them quite override each other – like any song, the best version is the one you like.

So you can generalize “Roadrunner” quite easily into “music and the road and the night” – key ingredients to plenty of good songs (“music and the road and the night” – both the title of a poem and the poem itself) – along with many an attendant theme for the listener to latch on to: rebellion, escape, lust, alienation, teenage kicks, [insert subject here]; those work within it, some quite well, but the song isn’t reducible to them. “Music and the road and the night” is really what the song is about entirely, detail compounded upon detail – nothing more than the grandeur of the world seen on a freezing night from behind a steering wheel travelling down Route 128 with the AM radio as your personal soundtrack. Even when the song reaches beyond those specifics, when Richman declares his love for something, something concrete or abstract, indeterminate, but absolutely in love – with the modern world, with loneliness, with Massachusetts, with whatever – it’s something which refers back to this hermetic state, as he drives for the sake of driving alone in the night. From performance to performance, “Roadrunner” feels out that exact moment, sees how much weight it can carry, and relays it to the listener as a concentrated burst, an anecdote elaborated upon at length, or some form in between. Nostalgia is too weak a term – better to invoke Proust and describe it as Time Regained.

The song is a memory continually unfolding.

5. Fittingly, “Roadrunner” made its verifiable Billboard-approved mark on the culture as a thing dispersed, with two of those versions – “Roadrunner (Once)” b/w “Roadrunner (Twice)” – released on a seven-inch which hit #11 on the UK charts back in 1977 (Holy Moley! Top Of The Pops! Dancing ladies!).

“Roadrunner (Once)” was recorded (“finally”, perhaps) in 1974 and first released as a split seven-inch with Earth Quake, “Friday On My Mind” being their contribution. The song next appeared on the Beserkley Chartbusters Vol. 1 compilation before ascending to said seven-inch glory a few years later as a UK-only release. As it is, it’s a perfectly formed piece of pop, with all its energy pointed inward, an unfussy exercise not in adrenaline but in effect, a full flexing of the charm and exhilaration implicit in the song, clean and deliberate. This is the version with the Greil Marcus Seal O’ Approval and there’s little to add to his own excellent analysis in Lipstick Traces. It may be the only version of the song you’ll find not intended as a demo or originally recorded live, something maybe intended as a final draft, though who knows? The only other version of “Roadrunner” with such production value is probably a cover of “Roadrunner”. 

“Roadrunner (Twice)”, the flipside, may be the earliest version recorded, originating as a demo produced by John Cale in 1972, making it the possible alpha to “(Once)”’s omega. It arrives in the ears fully formed, in no way a rough draft, but how could it be otherwise? For many, this is the definitive “Roadrunner”, labeled as such, no numeral nomenclature attached, as the opening track on The Modern Lovers album, a collection of those Cale-produced demos along with extant tracks – the first LP and so the bearer of a not-insignificant amount of authorial weight. This, pre-internet, was the version most readily available, the one you’d find at your friendly local independent record store, the first remastered for CD. It’s perfectly fine on its own – one can imagine the joy of discovering it after “(Once)”, the raw and unkempt counterpoint to the completely calibrated a-side – but relative to the other versions it feels muffled under a thin layer of gauze, the immediacy and intimacy embodied in varying degrees elsewhere present here only theoretically.

The other versions soon followed – bootlegs quick to become official releases, live recordings assigned places on b-sides – all emerging after the fact. Well before the song had made mass impact Richman had put it to bed, playing it (along with pretty much every song he’d written up to then) infrequently, if at all. He’d written it in 1969 and played it, one can presume, as the certain set piece for every Modern Lovers show from then until the mid-seventies. Had it remained a regular bit of repertoire, it might have settled down, stayed in place like your more typical monuments, weighed to the earth by the burden of a pedestal. As it is, it’s a thing in motion.

*This essay can be read as that series of footnotes.

Click here to read Part 2…

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In the middle of the world’s highway

A brief excerpt from my current project – an autobio/travelogue piece about a day, a night, and another day – put here with a view toward this site not lying fallow for too long. There’s more non-memoiristic critical musings galore sometime soon, should you be one of, oh, three people who long to hear my thoughts on That Comic About The Guy or “That Song I Really Like” (both actual projects).

On the way off (waaay off) chance that there is something like a clamor for more of this piece (ha) – or I simply become bored enough that I convince myself that the world needs a glimpse of me conferrin’ with the flowers and consultin’ with the rain – I may put the rest up.

Maybe.

The moment I exited the bus station, it began to rain.

A few days later, when there’s enough distance for these events to recede into narrative, a closed system with something like internal consistency and a happy ending, I play with the idea that this drizzle is just my anxiety made manifest. Befitting that anxiety, it was only a small rain, my anxiety being surprisingly low considering the fact that I was (sort of) throwing myself to the elements: I’d ventured to Austin via bus, no car, no phone, and, hey, no umbrella. My contacts in the city at this point in time had either moved or fallen away over the previous year or so, so there was no one to rely on for company or, more importantly, a couch on which to crash. The only set points on the itinerary I set were to arrive and to depart sometime on the next day – everything else was a series of question marks, to be made up as I went along.

This foolhardiness may be thrown into relief by the past month, a lost month effectively. I had spent two weeks of it as ill as I’ve ever been in my life – for much of that time my existence was reduced to the ten feet between my bed and the bathroom, my time taken up largely by chronic diarrhea punctuated, for the sake of novelty, by occasional bouts of vomiting. Otherwise I just lay in that bed as an inert lump, feverish and weak, killing the hours with the only thought that arose without effort: a desire for sleep. I never bothered to learn what virus struck me down, nor whether it was a “virus” – like a hardliner in a fifties b-movie, the mere fact of an alien presence, something to be rid of, was all that concerned me. I think I left that bed ten pounds lighter, let’s say, and just in time to slog through finals. Cadging notes from passing acquaintances, I rigged up a vague idea of the classes I’d missed, something to scour that I hoped resembled Topics Discussed; I could only aspire to mediocrity. And so, having weathered these plagues, I awake one sunny Saturday morning with a single thought: Out. Austin, a seventeen dollar bus ride away, is a logical choice.

With a view toward all this, the tiny tempest which greeted me may have been an acknowledgment, a welcome back to the world. Every story needs a deus ex machina – this one just happens to come at the beginning; if I had the sense of this moment as a moment rather than just another moment, I’d have stuck my tongue out and I’d be able to describe here what a punchline tastes like. But playing spectator felt pretty redundant at that moment, seeing as I’d just spent three hours on a bus doing just that, staring at the passing landscape and wondering what I was doing, at what I had done without hesitation.

It was about two o’clock, “about” because I’d also neglected to bring a watch – I’d conspired against myself effectively. If freedom was foremost in my mind in the morning, a notion I clung tighter and tighter to with each passing mile away from San Antonio and up I-35, I then hit upon what some watching my actions might have surmised the moment I purchased my ticket: I’ve come to test myself, to see if I can extend that shitty month by two days. Whatever reason I was really there, grimacing at the rain, it wasn’t “escape”; losing yourself in these circumstances isn’t an option. I’m obliged to be present for every moment, to see that my feet keep moving forward, to earn the copious perspiration which will accumulate on my skin in May in South Texas, when summer has already staked a claim. After you’ve shitted liquid into the toilet forty times a day for four days in a row, regularly found yourself incapacitated by the effort of speaking, and undergone a week of waking up to hallucinations at 3 AM, you may need to assume some power, to endure in another, more controlled, set of circumstances.

But this may be overstating things. Austin is only a minor obstacle course, its “weird”-ness entirely appropriate for a bumper sticker, fit for the like-minded and left-leaning mass rather than the individual and eccentric. It won’t be difficult to manage a lifeline should the unassuming urban elements therein prove too much – a friend or a relative, their voice exasperated in response to me explaining my stupid-ass predicament over the phone, which may either be a pay phone or one I managed to borrow from some hapless passer-by. “There’s always a way,” as my hero Superman likes to say. I won’t find my preferred last-two-acts-of-After-Hours experience here, much less the maximum security prison New York of 1997 I navigate in my dreams. Passing through it for the sake of a night out has the feel of a board game, an environment where it’s hard to get lost, a course you can follow with every location reliable and lively; if San Antonio comes and (more often) goes, its tiny corners of excitement fading as quickly as they flare up, Austin – or, at least, the Austin you encounter in passing – is a hub or incident and event, a place you can wander through and find yourself entangled in some larger scheme.

Slacker leaps to mind for a few reasons as I write this, partly because it’s a movie dedicated to Austin as an environment – not many movies give you that sense of covering ground, large swaths of continuous movement over a given area, unless you’re wandering hallowed ground in Russia, ala the Zone in Stalker or the Hermitage in Russian Ark; our movements intersect a few times, most obviously at our beginnings, our adventures starting at the same bus station. Another Richard – Linklater, the director – stars in the film’s first sustained scene; he takes a taxi from the depot to a friend’s house and considers aloud to the indifferent cabbie how every alternate method of departure and path he may have taken just now, including hoofing it and taking a regular bus, creates its own possible universe, possibility breeding possibility, most in fact preferable because he’s low on funds and taxis are a luxury. Me, I’m equally broke but thoroughly secure in my place in my universe, having had the common sense to print out a Cap Metro map (public transportation, natch) before I left: I know how I’ll get there, though “there” is always changing. What makes the movie really mesh with my own wacky sojourn as a bum for a day is the movie’s form, insofar as the typical random Austin scene you encounter – or, at least, any random scene you encounter should you follow the chains of connection designated as “youth culture” – tends to feel like a “scene”, everyone you see starring in their own little movie, their every action you glimpse none too far from its intended purpose; you can include (off the top of my head) Brandon Graham’s King City and Tati’s Playtime in that list as well, very different works which play with democratized space, their narratives exhaling every now and then to allow certain moments to serve as series of moments. And maybe that’s why I tend to write about Austin – every time I enter I suspect I’m wandering into story space, as evidenced by that the right-on-cue rain, reflective of something or nothing.

A further compare and contrast with Slacker is probably irrelevant, a tale of two Austins, and not this Austin and the Austin of 1990 but Linklater’s little dream of Austin 1990, a reflection of a brief mood preserved on a Criterion two-dvd set, and the Austin which lay before me, a place rife less with “characters” than self-consciousness. There’s less a sense of the people you encounter creating themselves than aspiring to a set niche, a spot allotted everyone, whatever your subculture or lifestyle (except maybe the mole men), a state probably right in step with the early twenty-first century when most subcultures aren’t as sub- as they once were, the market none too keen on neglecting any consumer base. (Except those mole men – they can go fuck themselves.)

Anyway, there are no schedules attached to my Cap Metro map, just a handy-dandy series of numbers repeating across an image of the city – Austin, as ever, looks like a pork chop. After orienting myself so that my eyes resist the urge to slide off the page, I wander in the rain a few blocks in the general direction of a spot where five or six of the numbers meet up. I find the bus stop soon enough, benches and a canopy all occupied by families and groups of teenagers, a cross-section of the weekend patrons  of your average mall, your average mall a glass monolith in the background about three hundred feet away.

I debated whether to run in quick to use the restroom, restrooms being an important part of any prolonged passage through an unknown environment, to be used at every opportunity regardless of need – and all the better if, like mine, your bladder is tiny and inexhaustible. Every area is a façade for a restroom – regardless of whatever identity a place may assume, there must be a space which tethers it to necessity, acknowledges humanity at its most absolute. As such, you can leave whatever plot you’re immersed in at the restroom door; from thereon, everything is defined as utilitarian, starting with you, now reduced to the status of the faceless icon often there to greet you as you enter, your actions a functional series of steps to be executed. It’s a biological rite which frees up your higher functions nicely, all the better to plan the next move on your mental map (or my literal map). (It’s a wonder I didn’t return home to collapse on my bed from another unknown illness contracted from the many I visited – hell, maybe the same illness, come back in defiance of my immune system to finish me off.)

As I made a few tentative steps toward the mall parking lot, ready to inaugurate this trip with an affirmative stated on behalf of the human race, my bus arrived. The sun took care to arrive with it, popping up seemingly within seconds of me entering inside; we keep missing each other, like characters in a drawing room comedy…

REVIEW QUESTIONS:

WILL THERE BE ANY MORE ESSAYISTIC MUSINGS ON RESTROOMS???

WILL THERE BE AN ACTUAL CAMEO BY RICHARD LINKLATER HIMSELF IN THIS STORY??? (HE’S LIKE IN AUSTIN? I THINK? IT COULD HAPPEN!)

WHAT PIECE OF FOOD DOES YOUR [CITY/TOWN/VILLAGE/PRIVATELY OWNED ISLAND] LOOK LIKE ON A MAP???

EXCELSIOR, ETC.!

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House Of Cards

The Bulletproof Coffin: Disinterred #5 by Shaky Kane and David Hine 

The Bulletproof Coffin’s shift from narrative to all-around general whatsit continues apace! Even before the latest two issues, it seemed a thoroughly hyperlinked work, its images and details easy exits and entrances for the reader to another moment in “Our ‘story’, so far…” The key novelty of Disinterred #4 – 84 different moments that both invited and rejected the urge to place themselves within a whole, each instance fertile, multivalent, and pointing to some slippery, maybe nonexistent, association, with the firing of the reader’s synapses intended to echo the formal fireworks on the page – may be the plain way it made that interactivity explicit.

As such, it seems natural the issue following would be a 180-turn – if the earlier issue cast we helpless readers everywhere and nowhere along a sea of images, #5 of Disinterred may be the series at it’s most blunt and direct. Well, for one thing, these images come with numbers, making it a sequential narrative which wears its sequence openly, a comfy converybelt of a comic just like the funnybooks of yore. Reinforcing this is the issue’s illustrative quality, each page a single panel depicting few “moments” but many definite situations, so there’s always the sense of time subtly manipulated, nudged a bit to get all the necessary information across, with all the words refused entry, made to linger below the image. Which is just a way of saying it’s a comic skewed more than most toward a storybook aesthetic, an appropriate style given that it positions itself as a set of bubblegum cards.

Bring on the pop pastiche! This series of trading cards – The Hateful Dead – comes with the Mars Attacks!-type can’t-miss premise of zombie soldiers in Vietnam and you can bet that a good portion of the images which just flooded your head at the mention of that idea are present in this issue. (ALSO: “’Nam-bies!” Jinx.) And when you’ve got a stupidly awesome idea like this – so close to fanboy pandering but for the fact that it feels so right – you’re obliged to run run run with it, which makes this issue a mighty showcase for visceral effect – something you can, in good faith, pass along to someone not in the know (but with an appetite for carnage). Heads mounted on pikes! The zombie immune to the flames which gush from his beloved flame thrower, his flesh now roasted meat! Eyeballs as a spoil of war, decorations fit only for the hardier grunts! And many similar blood-soaked antics under the East Asian sun. Yeah!

The more typical pleasures of the series – the constant metatextual concerns; the ever-unfolding central plotline – lay in wait for those, like me, who can’t help but stare too hard. The issue concludes with The Hateful Dead exiting through a portal toward a post-apocalyptic landscape; veteran Coffinauts have a good idea where they’ll end up – in issue #3 of the original series, ready to do battle with Steve Newman and Ramona, Queen Of The Jungle. Or maybe not – this sea we’re in is tumultuous, always shifting, and we can’t play Ismael with this Coffin; who knows what story down there awaits its end? What we can cling to is the backmatter of that earlier issue, which presented a summary of their rise-and-fall “original” context, the uproar which ensued when these good n’ gory cards first came into contact with children. The layering of fictions is charming, but more interesting is the fact that more than half the images in the current issue derive from those two pages, the cards laid out around the article’s text, often just redrawn with little variation.

On one level, it’s another aspect of the conceptual brio which has overtaken this here series – the issue reveals itself, to no small extent, as an exercise in reappropriation, with marginal elements already present made more potent through a modest recontextualization. More concretely, it ties into the structural conceit which announced itself on the first page: the cover of a collector’s album book specifically intended to hold these precious relics (collect ‘em all!) – this one belongs to Timmy, the boy seen playing with his tuff tuff toys a few issues prior. It’s something of a return to the first series’ approach: a deliberate remove, a fiction within a fiction, a collection of Hateful Dead cards. What makes it stand out is that last bit – it isn’t simply a set of images but a set of images collected; an object.

And so, it defines itself as something of independent value, or at least gestures at it (insofar as a comic entrenched in the floppy format can gesture at another medium, grasping at whatever faithfulness it can get by effectively destroying it, reformatting its front and back, image and caption, within a single page*). Regardless, we have only the text to go by, a text which premises its existence before our eyes upon its status as something pre-loved, an assemblage borne into being thanks to a collector’s passion, circumstances which make it the most elegant iteration yet of the series’ materialist concerns: the joyous junk which clutters its contents and the skein of uncanny associations which come attached to them – a lure which leads to a trap – here rendered equivalent in depiction and expression.

The Bulletproof Coffin has always had its eye on this notion: making its format an ongoing event, with all the ancillary elements of the traditional floppy tied into Coffin’s central narrative, everything allotted some space within the roomy collective copyright symbol of David Hine and Shaky Kane (beyond the back interior cover, typically an Elephantmen ad), making it alot like, say, 1963 by Alan Moore ‘n Pals, along with sundry other titles. The series manages more postmodern heft with this device though – a device which which reaches its greatest resonance in this issue – thanks to the above-mentioned ever-present ambivalent materialism, every installment a casual affirmation of the medium-as-the-message.

The series may exist best in single issue form, its most vulnerable and porous state, the one it greets the surrounding culture with before it crosses the threshold of approval and gains the robust weight of bonus material, a sturdy spine for support, and an armor of blurbs for protection – fragile, disposable, and thus more ready to accrue whatever value said culture wishes to impose, whether it be the (very unlikely) value of monetary investment (mint/near mint or bust) or the ability to fulfill the function I value, its readability, as represented by the basic care I take as I cart this issue around for the purpose of writing about it, placing it in a bag-and-board prison cell lest it become smushed or torn by the other items in my bag, where it sits not three inches away from me, itching for freedom (and, perhaps, vengeance) as I jot down these notes during my lunch break.

There – I’ve had my say. You can take or leave it as you’re so inclined. What we do know is that you owe me a Coke.

* And, of course, I’m discussing the destruction of a hypothetical object. Looking for love in the hall of mirrors…

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