Frank-Scorching Language, Deep-Thrusting Throbbing Activity!Posted: August 20, 2011
This Is Penis.
What’s that? A DJ set by Robin The Fog composed entirely of dirty, sleazy smut? Why, you might ask, has such a respectable pillar of the community undertaken such an endeavour? A cynical attempt to get a bit more traffic on this site? An attempt at causing controversy? Career suicide? Or is it simply that there’s something about these records that he can’t help but find oddly fascinating?
The answer is all of the above. Somebody, somewhere, sometime around 1988 must have been struck by the rather dubious epiphany that what the world needed more than anything else right then and there was a rap record called ‘Penis Delight’ by The Tittyhole Gang. And a reasonable number of people must’ve concurred with this idea and voted with their wallets. And then one person in particular must’ve decided that it would make a good donation to Oxfam, which is how I first came across it.
I’ve tried to keep things light-hearted, removing a couple of references to ‘next Tuesday’ and all traces of Rudi Ray Moore. But despite such efforts, I must warn you there is still some at times quite unpleasant stuff on display here, and that it’s not for the faint-hearted. Send the kids to bed and put the cat out.
Now, let’s slap it on:
Vodpod videos no longer available.
Your hosts on this journey are Rana, said to possess ‘the infamous claim to fame of being an expert SEX PERVERT!’ (their caps, not mine); and a rather dull women who appears to trade under the moniker ‘Honeypot’, though I think that may be a pet name. Who knows what kind of exciting way-out adventures await this lovely pair? The decidedly maximalist cover of their 1971 LP teases us with a couple of subtle clues…
Clearly not a quiet weekend at home with a glass of crème de menthe and a jigsaw.
Anyway, I thought it might add some extra stimulation to your listening experience to single out a couple of the more obscure tracks and offer up what little information I can, thus giving a little anthropological weight to the proceedings. So, who’s up first? And what the hell is she wearing?
You might be forgiven for thinking a quick glance at the cover of this LP would show you everything you needed to know about Faye Richmonde. Biographical details about the chanteuse behind such gems such as’My Pussy Belongs To Daddy’ (a song concerning the ownership of a cat, naturally enough) are even scantier than that shower curtain she’s wearing. But I’ve included three of her tracks on this mix and would’ve happily included more if I didn’t have a lot more perverts to shoe-horn in. Despite the pedestrian title and the absence of a single dirty word, ‘My Movie-Operator Man’ which closes our proceedings here could well be the filthiest song ever recorded. I mention it now because I’m not sure all of you will make it to the end.
The poor sap who sold this 7″ to me on ebay listed it as children’s record, though he perhaps meant only children over the age of 18. It wasn’t until it arrived in the mail that I discovered its dirty little secret, although in hindsight the knob-coloured vinyl should’ve given it away. As you will hear it consists of a funk groove (actually rather killer) with a group of snickering men (and women) shouting an alphabetical list of dirty words over the top. Very little effort appears to have been put into compiling this dirty alphabet, inspiration runs out long before they get to ‘Zombie P***y’ and I can’t even begin to imagine what ‘Quick Nuts’ are, a breakfast cereal perhaps? I can tell you practically nothing else about it, except that another copy (on standard black vinyl) recently sold in the US for seventy-seven dollars, thus making the paltry seven I paid for my purple one seem like a wise investment. My purple one. Tee-hee…
The phrase ‘jaw-dropping’ is bandied about a lot these days, but I really think the brains behind Sexual Society and their track ‘F**king* deserve to claim it for their own. Seriously, I’ve tried putting into words how profoundly, disgracefully odd this track is and I just don’t have the vocabulary. As with the aforementioned Tittyhole Gang (on the flipside as it happens) somebody, somewhere thought that the world needed to hear it enough to press it up and ship it to the UK. And as you can see I put as much effort into photographing the sleeve as the label did in shopping around for a graphic designer. Those apples look good enough to eat!
Acquired this at a very fine evening of electronica a decade ago upstairs at The Bridge Hotel in Newcastle, in exchange for buying the promoter a pint of Guinness. Rather like the Blowers record, I had no idea what lay in store for me until I arrived home, placed the needle in the groove and got about a minute into the record. Then it hit me like a plateful of highly scandalous trifle.
Just who is Chloe Poems? Well, in a 2004 interview she described herself as ‘a gay, socialist transvestite poet, [a] lover of life and a great big camp girlie-goo girls blouse who loves joy, whoosh and nothing better than having a good time’. Fair, enough, we all enjoy a bit of whoosh now and again. But really, Chloe, this is a bit much! Is treason still a hanging offence in this country, I wonder? If so, it would certainly explain her completely dropping off the radar in recent years, her web domain disappearing and her Myspace being long-abandoned (like the rest of Myspace). Nonetheless, here she is in all her glory, and it’s worth noting this is the one track here which concerns anything other than instant, cheap gratification. We salute you, Ms Poems. What a pity you never scaled the heights of your label-mates The Ting Tings…
Well, I’ve shot my bolt for now. Big thank-yous to the Kent Coast’s premier selector Lucky Cat Zoe for help with a couple of entries on the playlist, to Alasdair Dickson for unwittingly kick-starting this dirty little voyage, and to you for listening. Who knows, one day there might be a sequel. But for now, if you’ll excuse me I’m going to roll over and go to sleep. And I’ll expect eggs in the morning…
We never did find out what Frank-Scorching was, did we?
I am Wonder-Dick.