Michael Jackson Has Died.

It seems surreal, and very UNREAL, to be typing those words. I'm honestly shocked. I was shocked like this when I found out that Stevie Ray Vaughan, John Belushi, John Lennon, and Mayor Harold Washington had died. Those people... you just don't expect them to DIE at that point in their lives. It's almost like you want this to be one huge April Fool's joke, except 86 days late. Something tells me this won't be the case here. That really bums me.

I was a child of the '80s, and when Thriller came out, Michael was inescapable. And we all ate it up. I got both Thriller and Synchronicity for Christmas in '83, both wrapped in the same package. I never owned a single white glove, but I did sort of learn a half-assed version of the moonwalk, and took breakdance lessons at the Olympia Park fieldhouse. I remember Michael on the American Music Awards, and later that year at the Grammy's. Memory isn't serving me; I can't remember if he was a part of that very first MTV Music Video Awards, but I certainly remember him winning a whole lot of moonman statues that night. Now that I think of it, I think he WASN'T there, but that Diana Ross collected those statues on behalf of her close, personal friend, Michael Jackson. I still remember that on the LP of Thriller, the track "Billie Jean" (side 2, track 2!) has what appear to be zebra stripes on the surface. I know now that's because of the way that backbeat translates out to vinyl grooves, but at the time, people said it was proof that the song was a hit, or was powerful, or something. I remember that my folks didn't have MTV, but that my Aunt MaryJo did. I was staying overnight at her house around that time, and was finally able to watch the legendary, landmark video for "Thriller". Say what you will about it today, but at the time, that damn video was KILLER!! Especially for a 10 year old like myself. And for my generation, he was the new hardest-working-man-in-showbiz. He took James Brown's intense stage act, modernized it, and set the stage on fire. It was truly a fun time to be a Michael Jackson fan.

When Bad finally came out in 1987, I had moved on. I didn't begrudge him any of his success, but I certainly never was moved to go out and buy it. I do think that a whole lot of music industry executives (and to an extent, Michael Jackson himself) always asked themselves why they were never able to replicate the massive success that he had with Thriller. To me, that magical time of 1982 to 1984-ish represented a period when the man could do no wrong. When you look back at the red-and-gold-fringe jacket Michael wore to the AMA's, you think, "How the hell did he pull off wearing that crazy jacket??" But back then, none of us even questioned it. (David Lee Roth was afforded the same luxury; anyone who would have thought of wearing that crazy costume he wore for the "Jump" video would have been laughed off the planet. But DLR was given a pass... because he was DLR. Same thing for Michael.) Even back in the height of his popularity, most of us dismissed his peculiarities as, "That's just Michael." For him and his handlers to even have thought that he could even match the success of Thriller (or to be disappointed that they couldn't match it) was, in hindsight, delusion on a huge scale. Thriller was a once-in-a-lifetime event, that while it made Michael, very well could have ultimately undone him, too.

As the years went by, Michael remained an electric performer, and could still be counted on for great entertainment... until about 1995. At that point, his weirdness and scandals slowly brought down what was left of his good reputation. It was sad to see him dragged through the mud like that. I honestly always felt sorry that (purely in my opinion) here was a man whose childhood was spent being a superstar, to the point that he never truly knew what it was like to be a normal kid. Supposedly, he spent a significant portion of his adulthood (and fortunes) trying to be a kid again as an adult. This, of course, caused a boatload of problems for him, and probably not all of them his fault. Regardless, the man was the target of a whole lot of nastiness, I'm sure a lot of it undeserved.

I still don't believe it. But since no one is telling me otherwise, I guess I'm going to have to accept it. Michael Jackson is dead. Michael, thank you for all of the entertainment that you gave us; you will never be forgotten. May you be at peace now.

Some photos borrowed from www.photofeatures.com / Chris Walter. They are marked as such.

My Name WAS Earl; another one bites the dust

Why is it that ALL of my favorites go away? Prematurely ended in their prime before they get the chance to continue all that they have to say (except the Who; they don't know when to say when, frankly). It has just been announced that the recently-cancelled-by-NBC My Name Is Earl has just run out of its last "second chance". TBS was apparently very interested in picking up the show after ABC and Fox passed on renewal of the series. However, TBS could only accept the show if the show's producer, 20th Century Fox, could "cheap down" the show's production costs. The studio (sadly, to their credit), felt that this move would compromise the show's quality. And so ends another one of my favorite shows. And what a drag; it was technically on a cliffhanger episode; the identity of Joy's second child's father, always assumed to be Darnell "Crabman" Turner, has now been cast in doubt. Earl discovers that he is most likely the father to Joy's first child, even though she thought all this time that Dodge's father was Little Chubby.

Thanks to all of the cast and crew of that show; you really were my favorite on TV. This cancellation news really hurts.

This is starting to get me really nervous; I almost don't want to choose another "favorite show" in fears of watching it die a slow, inevitable death.

In the meantime, here is a clutch of Earl-related links. Go to the NBC website while you can, and watch as many of these episodes while you still have the chance.
The show's official NBC website
Examiner article on the show's ultimate demise
The show's Wikipedia page
Another article with a few more details and quotes on the show's fate

Thank You Friends: An Open Letter To Eric Lowen and Dan Navarro

Dear Eric and Dan:

This might be a tough letter for me to write; I really don’t want to leave anything out. As I’m writing this, I’m listening to the wonderful 100th Loft Session that you both performed on XM Radio with the incredible Phil Parlapiano. The three of you really know how to gel as a tight unit; you sort of re-define simpatico.

Last weekend, the two of you performed your final shows as a duo. I was not fortunate enough to have witnessed what I’m sure were beautiful, wonderful historic shows. But I have been fortunate, living in Chicago, to have caught you guys in concert twice. I’ve heard you on Steve Dahl’s show, cracking him up, playing music, and really sharing some wonderful stories with us. It’s through his show that I first really heard you guys. From that May 2006 radio show, I was skewered; I had to hear more. I’ve since gotten all of your CDs except the most recent one, and that omission will be rectified soon, rest assured.

Your music means so much to not only me, but to my wife and kids as well. When I played her the Steve Dahl show as well, she also ended up loving your music as well. My wife and I were blessed enough to catch you in January 2007; not long after that wonderful show, we found out she was pregnant with our daughter. We also saw you guys at the Taste Of Randolph fest; in that sense, my daughter has been to two LowNav concerts before she was even born in September. It’s been my tradition when each of my two kids were born to compile a lullaby CD for each of them. On my daughter’s CD, I included “Cold Outside” (the Steve Dahl show version, from May 2006), “Maybe Later”, “I Don’t Believe In Yesterday” (which, incidentally, makes a wonderful song to segue into coming off of John Lennon’s “Imagine”), and “Broken Moon”. My 5-year old son almost subconsciously sings along with “Cold Outside” whenever it comes up on that CD. Trust me when I tell you your music means a LOT to us!!

Not only have you blessed us with your wonderful music through the years, you’ve shown us humor, incredible strength, and grace when life deals you a crummy hand. Eric, the public face that you’ve chosen to show us in the face of your diagnosis with ALS has been so inspiring. For all of us fans, it’s been heart-wrenching watching the inevitable elements of this disorder play themselves out. But you’ve only chosen to share with us the fact that somehow, despite the horrors that ALS deals out to you and 5600 others annually, it is possible to continue to function, to continue to create, to continue to inspire, to continue to cause laughter, to continue to touch hearts, to continue to want to find a cure for ALS, but most of all, to continue to entertain. In that respect, you’ve never flagged. And Dan, you’ve been an inspiration yourself not only by being an active voice and advocate for ALS (you’re still an advisory trustee in the Greater Los Angeles ALS Association), but an unfailingly loyal friend to Eric. As cliché as it sounds, both of you will always be inspirations to me.

So now, as you’ve reached El Fin Del Camino, I’m choosing to see this as a beautiful, happy celebration. Eric, as far as I am concerned, you are retiring from performing life with full honors; you and Dan have given us a legacy of infinite music and laughter, genuine emotion and true beauty. I’m looking forward to reading your blogged thoughts on your website. You and your family will always be in my thoughts and prayers. Dan, I know that you are continuing on; I can’t wait to see you the next time you come through town. You will no doubt continue to bless all of us with your music, and I hope that you also continue to play with Phil Parlapiano. But as the performing duo of Lowen and Navarro heads off into the sunset, please don’t ever doubt the rich legacy of musical wonders that you’ve blessed the world with. You’ve certainly touched my life forever, and I know that you will continue to touch souls everywhere.

Sincerely,
Jack Murphy

BOOK REVIEW: Bullets: Growing Up In The Crossfire, by Kat Hibbard

For all that I gripe about it, my job as a field engineer in IT does introduce me to a lot of cool, interesting people. I go to client sites, resolving their PC workstation and server (and sometimes even network!) issues. About three weeks ago, I was doing an upgrade of ten users’ workstations when I met Kat, the author of this book. Transferring data from one computer to another is easy; making sure that each of the specialty programs which were on the old computer work on the new computer is the FUN part, letmetellyou!! So when I try to log her onto this company-wide application, the typical username wouldn’t log me on. Kat suggested a different name, casually adding to me that “I change my name every so often.” I can only hope I had my poker face on; it’s none of my business what a person does. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it mildly curious, like a lot of us might think. But a sense of professionalism compelled me to let it pass.

Work on her computer continued into the lunch hour, and while I’m working, we got to talking. I don’t recall how it came up, but she mentioned a time in her high school career that she had cut class for over thirty days. Astounded, I asked if she’d be comfortable relating the specifics of that to me. I found out that not only was she relatively comfortable sharing the details of that particular adventure, but that she’d written an autobiography detailing even more such colorful chapters in her life. She graciously gave me a copy of her book (and kindly inscribed it for me when I asked), which I set about reading a couple days later when my evening schedule cleared up.

I stayed up to 1:30am reading the whole thing in one sitting; it kept me rapt in attention. Silly me.

The next day, I jokingly complained to her that it was her fault that I’d stayed up late the night before!! She laughed, but thanked me when I complimented her on her book.

And what a story it is. Kat grew up in a home full of all sorts of discord, unhappiness, and strife. Her parents’ marriage was not a happy one, and she and her siblings grew up in the shadow of their unhappiness. To say that Kat has issues with her father is like saying there’s a little bit of water in the ocean. His behavior (in the book, she refers to her parents with a capitalized He and She) was erratic and abusive, fuelled by alcohol and bitterness. The book details all sorts of nightmare episodes where he brought his family down with him into despair and fear.

This turbulent home life led her to make a lot of other personal decisions under duress which she seems to imply she’d do differently had circumstances been different. The book details her truancy, battles with her weight, appearance and self-worth, and even struggles with drugs in order to be accepted socially. The struggles to overcome these trials of growing up are relatable to most of us; the degree of extremity woven in her own set of circumstances will make most of us really glad that in hindsight, maybe our own troubles weren’t so bad after all.

Yet in tale after tale, there isn’t a whole lot of time devoted to self-pity. The facts are presented brutally and unflinchingly raw in a lot of these tales, but there really isn’t a whole lot of hand-wringing or “woe is me” pervading the tone of the narrative. For Kat, these are just the stories as they went down, raw emotions and all. She’s not above casting aspersions on herself; she doesn’t only blame others for her choices. But while her prose does indeed conjure up the emotions of the time, they don’t beg for your pity.

The story does have a happy ending; Kat is a very well-balanced, happy person these days. I told her that after reading her book, I’m surprised that she still walks upright, that she isn’t broken by her past. She laughed, and told me that she has a good support system. She is a mother of two, likes her job, and relates her story to others in order to share with readers that it’s possible to emerge out of horrible circumstances in one piece, with a sense of pride and happiness. Her autobiography is a page-turner, and keeps your attention. I highly recommend it.

If you’d like to buy a copy of this great book, please email Kat here. Or visit her website for more information.

Blame Pete!!!

This was a piece that I wrote for Glorious Noise. Jake (ed. in chief) decided to judiciously edit it for space reasons; he might have had a point. Here is the unedited version of that article, plus a couple of additions and revisions. I will let you decide if he was right to "trim the fat".

Brothers and sisters, I gotta testify; my name is Murph, and I’m a Rockaholic.

I place the blame squarely on Pete Townshend’s shoulders. Roger, John, and Keith are just as guilty, complicit as they are in catalyzing so pervasive of a conversion to the Rock side of your loyal correspondent. But the songs were Pete’s, so he ought to get the lion’s share of the blame. I was only seven; my resistance was already low, when an album that came out three years before I was born pushed me so completely over the edge of no return deep into the depths of Rock fandom from which I will never emerge from. Not that that’s a bad thing, necessarily…

My very own rock opera

In 1979, my father got an 8-track recorder from my uncle, who had just made the upgrade to cassettes. At the time, Saturday Night Fever was still huge, so my parents borrowed the soundtrack record from my uncle and taped a bunch of Bee Gees, Tavares, and Yvonne Elliman onto the first two tracks of an existing 8-track that came with the recorder. But on the remaining two tracks were the greatest songs I’d ever heard in my 7 years of life; a deaf, dumb and blind kid who had an evil cousin, the Christmas he couldn’t appreciate, a quack doctor who couldn’t cure the kid, and of course, the fact that the kid was a pinball wizard. But best of all, the kid was named Tommy, just like me. I wore glasses at the time, and listened to that 8-track loudly on those classic black-and-clunky headphones, so I figured I was 2/3 of the way towards the same fate. But it killed me that my parents didn’t know who sang the album; their idea of great music at the time was Makem & Clancy, Helen Reddy, and John Denver. However, Santa knew who sang it; that year, under my Christmas tree was possibly the coolest present a kid could ever ask for: the glorious double record of the original 1969 Who rock opera Tommy, in its famous three-panel gatefold sleeve. Sure, I wondered what the hell that big ball on the cover was, and why the guys were inside the ball. Why were they waving their hands? But all that was secondary to the music: two records worth of the coolest songs I’d ever heard. I was hooked, and a lifelong love of Rock was born.

Who needs baseball cards when there’s Who’s Next?

Frankie O’Malley and I hit it off immediately in first grade; we were the only two kids our age who’d even heard of the Who, let alone had their records. Later, we found out that Mike Robinson was a fan. Mike got me The Who By Numbers for my birthday that year; like the kid I was, of course I connected all the dots on the cover, d’oh!! I also picked up the “You Better You Bet” 45 and (not long after that) the Face Dances LP. I didn’t know at the time that I was coming into the group at the nadir of their career, but even then, I knew that By Numbers was a far better LP than Face Dances.

Life is really so much simpler when you are in the second grade. Language gets taken for face value; multiple metaphors get lost at that age. Again, I was hanging out with Frankie O'Malley at his house, and wanted to show his mom that I knew how to play guitar (I think I'd been playing for two years at that point). So what song did I choose to play for her? "Squeeze Box", of course. What can I say? The song only has three chords, and it's easy to remember. Too bad that a second grader has absolutely no way of knowing that it's crude slang for female genitalia; back then, I thought it was just an accordion. Lord only knows how she must have thought her poor son Frankie's friends were already warped at such a tender age.

Some kids spent all their lawn-cutting money on baseball cards, video games, or candy. Not me; I distinctly remember borrowing a copy of Who’s Next from my guitar teacher, loving it, and saving my grass-cutting dollars to buy it at Rainbow Records in Park Ridge. The record store opened at 10am on a Saturday; I was there at 9:45, nose pressed against the glass like a cat eyeing a goldfish. And you know that it was worth the wait, to crack the shrink-wrap and set the needle into the groove to hear the bubbling synth of “Baba O’Riley”.

That year, the Who toured for their first “final” time. Mike Robinson had the proper pay-per-view channel which was showing the last show of the tour in Toronto. WLUP was simulcasting it as well. Frankie, Mike, Mike’s buddy, and I were all in second grade at that point, and had one hell of a sleepover party to see out the Who’s career (or so we all thought at the time). The music was cranking, and it was a blast.

Ain’t no cure for the Mom-intercepted-my-copy-of-Quadrophenia blues

When I was in fourth grade, our local Chicago Public Library actually had a copy of Quadrophenia in the stacks. Being curious about another Who record I hadn’t heard, I took it out along with my Choose-Your-Own-Adventure and Encyclopedia Brown paperbacks. But then my mom, as only a mom can, decided to take a closer look at the thick libretto that came with the Who’s second rock opera. Well, between the big picture of Jimmy the Mod with all the centerfolds on his wall and the drug lyrics in “Cut My Hair”, there was no way she was gonna let me listen to the album, despite my protestations to the contrary. Then, to top it off, we returned the record to the library without the book; my mom had to sheepishly return it weeks later as soon as she discovered what she’d done. Serves her right, I say.

Empty Glass extortion and other childhood lapses of judgment

Being a kid, I wasn’t able to wrap my brain around one tiny aspect of The Who Sell Out album. In the run off groove of the second side of the UK pressing, there is an actual track called “Track Records”, the UK record label which the Who had partial interest in. However, in their infinite knowledge, Decca Records in America had the bright idea to obscure the track’s only lyrics, “Track Records, Track Records”. To my ten-year old kid’s ears, they made the remaining noise sound like ghouls going “hah ha-hah, hah ha-hah”. I knew it wasn’t ghouls, but nonetheless, the sound made my skin crawl. So what did I do? I took a paperclip to the run-out groove to scratch out the offending sounds. Dummy… good thing it was a blue-sky label MCA reissue copy, not an original Decca pressing.

Little by little, the rest of my classmates caught up to me with their own musical tastes. [Name withheld for privacy; I was actually gonna use this guy’s real name when I first submitted the article.] knew I was a Who fan, and offered to sell me for three bucks his only-slightly-used copy of Pete Townshend’s Empty Glass, one I didn’t have yet. For three bucks, I knew it was a deal and a steal, and gladly offered to take it off his hands for him. But like a fool, I wasn’t wearing my poker face that day. When I got to his house to close the transaction, the price mysteriously had risen to an intractable five bucks. Despite all the names I called him, the price would not budge, and I begrudgingly parted with my Abe Lincoln, making a mental note to never do business with [this dude] again.

“Mom, can I cut class??”

Once in a while, your parents shock the hell out of you. You think you have them pegged, then they throw a fast one your way. In 1989, the Who miraculously reunited to celebrate their 25th anniversary with a tour. They were coming to Alpine Valley, and at the time, had only planned one show. Tickets went on sale on a Friday, a school day for me. But St. Patrick’s High School had a half day that day. That Wednesday, I took a long shot chance, and pled my case to my mom that I needed to cut class that Friday to buy tickets to see the Who’s glorious 25th anniversary reunion concert, fully expecting her to ix-nay the plan out of hand. In a move that still shocks me to this day, she agreed that it was okay for me to call in sick to school that day, so that I could buy tickets. Not only that, she drove me to the Sears in Golf Mill (which had a Ticketron outlet) at 3:45am so I could wait in line. In hindsight, she completely righted the damage done by the Quadrophenia fiasco. I bought four tickets, so my cousin, his two buddies, and I could enjoy what I still think to this day was a kickass concert. When they opened the show with a glorious rendition of the overture from Tommy, I knew I could die a happy man.

The death of the Ox

With the Who now essentially back in action on a more-or-less regular basis, I had the chance to catch them in 2000 with my now-wife, at the New World Music theater in Tinley Park. Little did we know we were witnessing the last time a truly viable lineup of the Who would come through Chicago. They still knew how to put on a hell of a show, and it was a thrill, if not as thrilling as 1989 for the sheer novelty’s sake of seeing a freshly-reunited Who.

John Entwistle’s death was so senseless; you’d like to think that Keith Moon’s death might have counted for more. As far as rock deaths go, it was pretty disgraceful to die of a coke overdose when you knew in advance you were suffering from a serious heart condition. The shame of it all was somewhat positively mitigated with a bit of good old-fashioned rock ‘n roll sleaze when it was later rumored that he died in the arms of a Vegas showgirl. It was John’s death that first inspired me to post to the Glorious Noise message boards, and find out how other like-minded music geeks took the news.

The remaining two continue to tour, and really ought to call themselves Who’s Left, if you ask me. I mean, it would be like Paul and Ringo going on tour as the Beatles. Pete, Roger, and John, I’ll buy that. But then there were two, and so ought to endeth the name the Who.

Pete’s scandal

When Pete got in trouble for admitting to accessing a child pornography website, it broke my heart the way it was sensationalized. First off, the whole thing is one of the most bizarre chapters in Who history. Don’t get me wrong; child pornography is a horrible crime against humanity. But I truly believe Pete’s explanation that he was trying to dig deep into his own psyche to discover whether or not he’d been molested as a child. Unlike Gary Glitter, Pete was not found with scores of images on his hard drive (that we know of). When he claims that he looked once and was repulsed by what he found, I believe him. However, I’m not naïve enough to believe that it could be that as a lifelong fan, I want to believe him. Regardless, I do think that he went about the whole thing in a wrong (and naïve) way; he probably didn’t need to go to that site in the first place. But worse was the treatment he received at the hands of a merciless, scandal-hungry press. I don’t think that much less of Pete for what went down, but the whole episode breaks my heart.

My (next) generation

Now that I’m a father myself, I’m introducing my kids early on to the classics; my son as an infant would fall asleep every night to a Beatles lullaby CD made by Jason Falkner. And one of the songs which routinely calmed him down was Big Star’s “The Ballad of El Goodo”. My daughter, though she is still sometimes shaky when she walks, tries to play the guitar with me whenever I am playing it. I created lullaby comp CDs for my kids, with Verbow, Tom Waits, and yes, The Who among the included songs. Unlike my own pre-Who diet of John Denver and Helen Reddy, I want to give my kids an appreciation for the finer tunes, or at the very least point them in the direction of good stuff. And who knows… if early signs are any indicator, the kids may take after the father and become music fanatics. Heaven help us if that happens; Pete Townshend will then be guilty of corrupting two generations of Murphys!!!!

What the world sees...

What I See...

Internet Weirdness

OK, just for fun, I was googling the terms "Dr. Teeth" and "inspiration" (yes, to see where my previous post falls), and made a very interesting discovery...

Someone in mainland China wholesale copied my page, put it up on some other weird page, and didn't attribute me.

I'm honestly not sure whether to be flattered, offended, or... I don't know. I mean, granted, the content of that last post of mine wasn't wholly original. But the concept of it, and the way I phrased it was mine. I gleaned all the images. If this is a way that Chinese people can get to read my blog that they otherwise wouldn't be able to, then I guess I don't mind. But to see my blog post just slapped unattributed up on someone else's anonymous blog-bot is a weird sensation.

And what the hell is a Sophia Lauren Wikipedia anyway, and what the hell does that have to do with the Muppets???!!?!?

More to come soon...

Dr. Teeth & The Electric Mayhem: A Primer

There's a certain subset of my generation for whom the Muppets will always hold a special place in our hearts. I still remember watching The Muppet Show faithfully every Saturday at 6:30pm, and seeing Elton John, Paul Simon, Olivia Newton-John, and a bunch of other celebrities mix it up with Kermit, Miss Piggy, and the rest of the gang. I'm doing my best to make sure that my kids know the genius which is Paul Williams' excellent "Rainbow Connection". To that end, my 5 year old son loves The Muppet Movie, and already is on his way to knowing the lyrics to that song by heart. If he takes away nothing else from my musical tastes, I've done a good thing.

Which brings me to Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, the house band of the Muppets. When you look at them closely, you see that Jim Henson and his merry men were clever when they conceptualized the members of the band. Each of the Electric Mayhem's members has some form of real-life couterpart, to whom they were created in tribute. Gentle readers, it is my pleasure to break it down for you all...

First up is the leader of the band, Dr. Teeth. It's relatively easy to see that he's based on New Orleans pride and joy, Mac Rebbenack himself, Dr. John. Both play piano, both sing a bit scratchy-voiced, and both are most definitely colorful characters.



Next up, Floyd is an unusual one. His full name is Sgt. Floyd Pepper, which sheds a bit of light on his preference in clothing. But also... the man has pink eyebrows. Get it? So Roger Waters AND the Beatles have played into the character. Personally, I always thought he resembled Mick Fleetwood or John McVie. Floyd has a great quote about the music he composes: "If I didn't know I was a genius, I wouldn't listen to the trash I write."



Janice is a relatively simple one to draw a connection to; her name is derived from Janis Joplin. But some musician friends of mine thought that personality- and musical-inspiration-wise, she might have a bit more in common with Joni Mitchell. This may very well be true, too.


Zoot the saxophonist definitely takes his name from Zoot Sims, the jazz saxophonist. But apparently, looks-wise Zoot was designed to resemble another jazz saxman, Gato Barbieri. Zoot always struck me as the perpetual stoner of the group, which is kinda cool that the Muppets were subversive enough to include that in their group.











Rowlf, though perhaps not officially a member of the Electric Mayhem (at least not initially), is most definitely modeled after Nighthawks At The Diner-era Tom Waits. Jim Henson was hipper than we give him credit for!!



And finally, the most beloved member of the band, Animal? Easy; Keith Moon. Think about it: both are crazed, both play with intensity, and both have a predisposition for destruction. For Keith, it was hotel rooms and Lincoln Continentals; Animal was kept under lock-and key, with that nutty dog collar that Floyd always had him on. Can you imagine Pete Townshend keeping Keith Moon on a short leash, with a fetish collar and the whole bit??



In case any of you need to be reminded just how cool Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem could be when firing on all cylinders, I submit to you their masterpiece, "Can You Picture That?" from The Muppet Movie. Even today, this song rocks; I don't care what you damn indie snobs think!!