His Name Is Larry

WILD MAN FISCHER - Wildmania

I fondly remember an older fella that useta saw joyously on an oddly-tuned violin on the streets of the hideous city I useta live in (before I ended up out here in the sticks, now blissfully unaware of urban activities). His repertoire mainly consisted of C&W standards a la Hank Williams, Lefty Frizell etc., but his most transcendent moments occurred when he allowed his fingers & bow to wander into free-form unaccompanied jams-- it was then that he truly found his groove, completely oblivious to gathered onlookers & restrictions of meter and the "right" notes and created what can no more and no less be called Pure Fucking Art. I would stand there, oh-so-cool in my black leather, mesmerized by the alien timbres and crushed musical boundaries he negotiated with ease. If I'da had little more'n a pot to piss in at the time, I woulda taken this guy into a recording studio to document his mini-symphonies for posterity.

"You poor fool," I hear you sneer, "you were suckered by some talentless old drunk looking for his next bottle of cooking sherry!" Which is exactly the kinda weak bullshit the sniveling college geeks uttered as they pointed at him laughing condescendingly. Fuck those people (and you if you're of the same mindset). Like approximately 99.9 % of this hapless mudball's population, they've been brainwashed by "professional" musicians and the pigfucker corporations that foist 'em upon us, who'd have you believe that conjuring great tuneage somehow has something to do with instrumental virtuosity. These are the same sickening pukes that decided that you can never hear "Sunshine of Your Love" on the radio too many times-- or see pathetic marketing projects disguised as "artists" on MTV often enough.

It should be obvious what I'm getting at if you know anything about the Legendary Larry "Wild Man" Fischer. His love of singing at any and every opportunity got him locked up in various mental health institutions from his teens onwards. Of course, such hellholes did far more harm than an impromptu concert at a laundromat ever would (Then again, a society that would subject Roky Erickson to shock therapy while declaring the likes of Oprah Winfrey or Jesse Helms "sane", is not a society to fucked with). Proving that it takes genius to recognize genius, Soulman Solomon Burke spotted him at a 1965 talent show, and took him on tour with him (he also was the one to dub him "Wild Man"). Fischer's constant performances onstage with the likes of Bo Diddley, as well as on street corners all up & down the Sunset Strip, brought him to the attention of Frank Zappa, who signed him to his Straight label, and produced/engineered his 2 LP debut, "An Evening With Wild Man Fischer". A fall-out over royalties quickly ended this partnership, however ("Frank's Got Money in the Bank", anyone?).

After a few years of relative inactivity, he discovered a new favorite haunt-- a small music store in L.A. called Rhino Records (ever heard of 'em?). So enamored of their new (sorta) client was the staff that they put together this album in 1977, backing him as the "Plastic Rhino Band". The majority is Larry simply channeling his psyche, without backing (although with his formidable arsenal of vocal clucks & sound effects, he does a king-hell job of backing himself), into song-- be it stories about his family, friends or beloved Los Angeles Dodgers (in fact, several tracks were recorded live at Dodger Stadium). He offers an audience poll ("What Do You Think of Larry?"), and a far more interesting version of Otis Blackwell's "Handy Man" than the one James Taylor cursed us with. It's rare to find music as unencumbered by conformist debris as this one-- which is why you should toss aside said nonsense and enjoy some music in its purest form-- not snicker like a clueless asshole at this naive, but brilliant man. He's an artist.

Look in the comments.