Part the fifteenth is a chockfull of international wonders, British punk rock and as close to a confession on masturbation as we’ll get for a while. Read on, make notes of the transgressions against the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings. I also posit against jazz fusion, but then again, wouldn’t you?

Onwards you Black Emperors! Part the thirteenth is upon us and your humble narrator continues the Canadian vibe in the opening vignettes and goes into unrelated rambles concerning the evil heroin, albums that need to die, and the usual verbiage of violent volleys against the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings. This one does not end well.

301. SNFU — IF YOU SWEAR, YOU’LL CATCH NO FISH. I remember being in Canada in 1994 and getting a lot of Canadian TV under my belt during the slow afternoons of my two-week stay and seeing these fuckers’ videos on all the time on what was it? Much Music or More Music? Something Canadian and polite. Lots of skating involved. I dubbed this tape from a friend in school when I got back. Cool stuff. Fun trip.

302. THE DIODES — TIRED OF WAKING UP TIRED: THE BEST OF THE DIODES. Seriously, who isn’t? But in favor of finding a specific album, this “best of” collection has all the hits you need without the geenky über-New Wavey stuff that might make you cringe. Often looked over, you might enjoy it.

This is Part Twelve. This part is not one of the lost tribes of Israel. This part has many parts of disco and disco-ness. If that offends you, move right along. The assaults on grammar and spelling continue. It will make you reticent to the proclivities of your heart. But we also hit 300 entries in this part, which is cool for the ladies because it will remind them of the super-buff dudes from that horrible movie about the 300 Spartans and the Battle of Thermopylae. I promise no history anecdotes here. Just my humble narration and whimsical eye.

276. HIS HERO IS GONE — THE DEAD OF NIGHT IN EIGHT MOVEMENTS. This is a great 7” that I actually wore down considerably. Traded it away lest I finished the job. Great fucking dirty smelling crusty hardcore from these backwoods lumberjacks. Soulful, desperate, hinging on next month’s welfare check. Even a little niggerish at times for good measure… but always dirty. I recently got a slightly less used copy.

277. RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS — THE UPLIFT MOFO PARTY PLAN. Aside from having Flea, this album also boasts the background vocals by Mr. Angelo “Motherfucking Fishbone” Moore. It is arguably RHCP’s best album tied with Mother’s Milk (which loses a bit of charm with overproduction). It is a party record. It is fun. And believe me, with a “themed” entry I have planned for this, it is not all accolades for these guys.

Pry the veined leaves from the
sea, their focus unmitigated by
cyan-tinged promises of subterfuge,
obfuscation, derailment and

the tender lament of
topiaries long forgotten and
cast into the shadows of an
ugly and slow descent.

Now is the moment of reflection,
now the sky can kiss the wet hand
in a subtle manner,
noted for its depth of congenial

gravity, its lack of emotive
harrumph a coiled seahorse’s tail,
a way to drift listless,
wrecked and comatose.

On the eleventh second of the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of this eleventh year of the millennium, your humble narrator and somewhat passable scribe will contemplate the business end of a handgun as it will be held by the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings and all of these little transgressions that I have brought to all you seven of my readers will finally be given the swift justice only she can muster. Hopefully I can finish this by then, because after that, I will no longer be.

251. AIR SUPPLY — THE ONE THAT YOU LOVE. Goofy bright, cheery photog of the air balloon on the cover (no pun intended, I’m sure), this album reminds me of the music my mother played in the house when I was a toddler and it reminds me of my love for her and her psychotic cleaning binges in the wee hours of the morning. The late ’70s/early ’80s were bizarre times. But I love my mother.

252. RUFUS THOMAS — THAT WOMAN IS POISON! This is latter days Rufus, but it still is straight up blues! You’ll remember him from “Walking the Dog” but this album was my first taste. Solid shit baby.

Part the tenth, wherein our humble narrator and questionable scribe makes forays into the low moments of his life, reveals the hurtful purges of his heart, loses charisma through his transgressions against the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings, fights many urges to incorporate Burt Bacharach into the mix, fondly remembers a swimmer’s body, and ends with the exaltation of narcotics in powder form. Another good day in the office, another good day for our hero to become less and less.

226. AVULSION / LACERATION — SPLIT 7”. Avulsion takes their time, but Laceration rips through their side like their hair is on fire. My fave is Laceration’s “Rambo.” So Rambo, take a fucking hike!!!

227. SEEIN’ RED — MARINUS. One of hardcore’s oldest and truest veterans. Fucking awesome rage contained on 7 inches of wax is really something… really good release and a nice starter for you. On Ebullition Records.

228. SUICIDE COMMANDOS — MAKE A RECORD. The reason why Minneapolis, Minnesota is on the musical map of the underground. This was their only record but it is available compiled into a discography of sorts. If you can find this (since I no longer have mine), we should talk. We should really, really talk. Crucial and necessary.

I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I refuse to shave.
My shoes are soft
but my step is strong,
strong and loud
and heard by philanthropists
and lovers of poetry alike.
I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I have a fox in my backyard.
My bestiary is rounded out by
weird little dogs who
disobey my command
and find sustenance in scraps
of discarded poesy.
My whiskey is good
and I share it after a few drams
have raged through me.
I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I give South Florida
her golfing sun,
the fish nibble on my spent flesh
and Lebron follows my tweets.
Clothes look good on me.
Soft plain white T’s and khakis
accentuate the gruff
of my xistera launching pelotas
with murderous intention
into the neon Miami skyline.

Part the ninth, where our humble narrator commits acts punishable by death upon the English Language and her Grammars and Spellings, overuses the pathetic and pedantic contraction of “kind of,” declares his love for Martha Reeves and her fantastic Vandellas and follows it with a few entries concerning homosexuals in hardcore/punk bands. Burt Bacharach makes a few cameos. All is well in the kingdom.

201. MARTHA AND THE VANDELLAS — WATCHOUT! C’mon, how can you not love Martha and the Vandellas? These gals could really belt it out! This compilation of tracks has their best one ever, I don’t care how much you like to dance on the streets and shit, but “Jimmy Mack” is where it’s at! Hell yeah Martha Reeves! I fucking love Martha Reeves!

202. BIG BOYS — LULLABIES HELP THE BRAIN GROW. Sad shame that Randy “Biscuit” Turner passed a couple of years ago, but the Big Boys, along with the Dicks and MDC put the punk rock stamp on the great state of Texas. Albeit a gay one, but hey, queercore’s alright if you like saxophones, right? Good album. Good humor or is it a good hummer?

203. PANSY DIVISION — FOR THOSE ABOUT TO SUCK COCK. Pansy Division, talk about your funny gay dudes. This 7” (no pun) is for recognition that I always get a kick out of their album art and it all started when I first saw this one. Gay guys have a sense of fashion AND humor. Wow. Fabulous.

P. Scott Cunningham’s wife is a figment of his imagination,
or rather, the affirmation of a small,
well-paid cadre of people who attest her reality.
I’ve never met her because she supposedly travels a lot.

He’s rabid over Wade County and the LeBron fiasco,
he’s a typical whiteboy that way,
hoop dreams and double-dribbles that translate into
Facebook picture posts that betray fanboy sensibilities.

P. Scott’s generous when he’s thick in the drink;
lets you wander his tropical estate unattended
to help yourself to unpronounceable single malts he received
as wedding gifts that are cleverly hidden in his kitchen.

Part the Eighth in which our lonesome hero confronts international punk rock demons, some easy listening, joins in a social call to early ’90’s crossover, and makes revelations about Cher and his sexual fantasies.

176. FRANK SINATRA — COME FLY WITH ME. Aside from his awesome cover of “Brazil,” the cover of this album always intrigued me… is Frank piloting the craft? He looks sauced. Or is he inviting to ride along? At his expense? Ahh… the mysteries of easy listening.

177. CAETANO VELOSO — QUALQUER COISA. Brazil’s master musical poet and tropicalista. Delicious album and always a reminder of how limited my Portuguese is… it would be a little more enjoyable that way.

178. THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW — SOUNDTRACK. I enjoyed the tunes from this production like anybody else back in my secondary school days. What I didn’t enjoy was having to be Eddie all the time cuz I had a leather jacket. Fun times with Tatiana at the old Riviera theatre.

Sorry for the delay but I am getting older and parts of my body are failing. Like my dick. My dick is failing so now you can go on with life since I saved you the awkward moment of devising a joke about my love appendage and its shortcomings or variations thereof. Anywho, here are some more crucial and socially-inclusive records for you to dig up, reminisce about or poke fun at. Whatever. What I can promise are more spelling mistakes by the digital footage than on last efforts. My grammar leaves a lot to be desired from too. There goes my undergrad degree pretty much. Oh well.

151. ATOM AND HIS PACKAGE — BEHOLD, I SHALL DO A NEW THING. The cool guys over at Vital Music Mail-order [which I strongly recommend] sent this in one of my orders as a gift. Awesome Atom stuff, Rob Halford, the metric system… sweet little clear vinyl 7”. Good stuff.



FAT MAN AND LITTLE BOY
(After Marcus Cafagña’s “Roman Fever”)
A poem by Abel Folgar

.1.

This was no honeymoon, no way,
not in this humid heat
of wet crushed bodies
tilting this bar.
Overtown and Parkwest
and Wynwood blur by like snapping limbs.

I fall back into somebody,
a move that began with
a friend’s description of
Japan’s demise,
detonating slowly in pulses
while I stand sweaty and oblivious.

I want to save the moment
from the ATM receipts
I won’t remember tomorrow
that will pile up like Miami’s
congested and afflicted
skyline.

We here at The Heat Lightning know how much ya’ll love free shit because we too basically love free shit as well, and no week celebrating South Florida’s music can be complete without a) mentioning Iceland’s Breakfast Radio’s favorite band of all time, Pool Party, b) extremely long sentences and c) free shit in the manner of an MP3.

Those not yet acquainted with the dynamo of pop/disco/electro/punk/country that is Pool Party will not truly get a full understanding with this here track since its nuanced keyboard applications take a backseat to Creep Guirdo’s pussy-wetting voice and it’s quite frankly in my opinion the very first thing that comes close to a love song in their long and varied career.

Parts one through four

In this entry of the slow accident I amuse mostly myself with musical thoughts pertaining to a summer a few years ago shared mostly in the car with my good friend and artistic partner Patti HER as well as some punkstuffs from Florida and at-large. In any case… it’s all about poor grammar and questionable spelling in the end. In the end all we want is a hand on a thigh and a belly full of warm food. These are my wishes for Johnny Salton’s immortal soul.

126. POWERHOUSE — DEATH OF A SALESMAN. Youth crew hardcore with Dan from Cavity on bass and basketball jersey. Good stuff though. ‘Nuff said.



127. CREAM ABDUL BABAR — EXCAVATION 1995 – 1998. Wow, Tally’s longest and greatest! A full blown punk rock experimental industrial hardcore indie rock band with a horn section! This one is special to me cuz it has the Buried in Broken Glass EP in it, which I had and lost many many years before in a process in which I no longer engage: lending vinyl. Awesome release. 



Parts one through four

Here we go again… purposeless, listless, listy, whatever you will, this is as much a waste of my time as it is yours. Will I really hit 4000 records? Should all accidents be slow so we can gawk at ‘em longer? Will I ever get more than 12 readers? Who knows. All we can really count on is my dismal grasp of grammar. Huzzah!

101. BLACK FLAG — THE FIRST FOUR YEARS. I got this after Wasted… Again and it further solidified the reason why I got the bars tacked on me. Brutal. “I’ve Heard it Before” is simply, perfect.



102. REDD KROSS — NEUROTICA. “Ghandi is Dead (I’m a Cartoon Man)” sums up how these wacky brothers have tackled pop punk in a bizarre version of American Eater meets weird LSD trips near the beach. Wacky, funny, bubblegum-pop executed very well.



103. BLUE CHEER — VINCEBUS ERUPTUM. Acid roadhouse blues done right. Am I wrong in believing that their cover of “Summertime Blues” might actually be better than the original? Their first and best, don’t even bother looking up the other albums. They lost something after this one, but on this one, whatever they got, is good.



Parts one through three

Four weeks in and here we are like good little children hitting the hundred record mark. Ahh… to live freely with no care for spelling and grammar. Enjoy.

76. THE MODERN LOVERS — THE MODERN LOVERS. Something about “Pablo Picasso” and “Roadrunner.” Regardless of what has happened since their early 70s heyday, this album is pretty much perfect in its own universe of steadiness. Sexy too. You’ll see I like sexy music a lot. And typos.



77. SEX PISTOLS — NEVERMIND THE BOLLOCKS, HERE’S THE SEX PISTOLS. Punk rock or not, yadda yadda yadda, this here album is a very solid rock and roll album. And you know which two fucking songs I hate, right? But I fucking love “Pretty Vacant,” “New York” and my all time fave Pistols tracks, “Bodies” and “Problems.” Rock and roll!!!



Part One.
Part Two.

Howdy folks! Yet another entry of inflated egos and questionable grammar. Enjoy!

51. R.E.M. — DOCUMENT. Say what you’ll say, I’ll keep it brief. “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine)” and “The One I Love” are great tracks. There. I’m done.



52. CHICO BUARQUE DE HOLANDA — MINHA HISTORIA. My favorite bossanovaist of all time, Chico Buarque does it right. His haunting song “O Que Sera (A Flor Da Terra)” is on this and it is one of the few songs in the world that make my hair stand on end! Delicious. Worldly, Minha Historia sums up his work before and after… yes, he can see the future, his own! So fucking good! And danceable too. My goodness!