Rudy & Me

? & THE MYSTERIANS - 96 Tears Forever: The Dallas Reunion Tapes

"How quaint," I hear you snicker "now he's writing about meaningless one-hit wonders-- must be gettin' desperate for subject matter." Forgive my paranoia, but I've heard the same shit too many times to not feel the icy bristling of the hairs on the back of my neck when it comes to discussing/listening to Question "Don't call me Rudy!" Mark and his Mysterians. Put it down as a pre-emptive strike.

Yes, many a bout of condescending laughter has been unleashed in my direction for my unwavering love for this band; of course, many of these folks consider themselves "in-the-know" arbiters of "good" taste-- they honestly believe that douchebags like Ryan Adams and Jeff Tweedy were/are cultural high-water marks. Thank the minions of Beelzebub I've got "bad" taste! Otherwise, I'da never been exposed to the euphoria that a simple two-note pattern on a Vox Continental can deliver. And make no mistake-- antiquated they may be (to idiots), but Q & Co. still exude an air of danger. I mean, think about it: superficially they've got that bouncy, Tex-Mex-cum-Proto-Punk charm-- pretty harmless, right? Sure, until you listen closely to the bombastic lasciviousness in the, fuck it, there's no better way to put it: leer-ics.

I'm not kidding! Every other track seems to have its sleazy subject matter lifted directly from Be a Sexual Predator 101. How else do ya explain the fact that "Girl (You Captivate Me)" had a far less palatable verb in its original form (presented here)? Or that the #1 hit known far and wide was initially entitled "69 Tears"? Kee-rist, they're like the Ted Bundy of R&R! A disarming exterior with insidious intentions lurking underneath... and yet in plain sight. OK, OK I've got tongue pressed somewhat firmly in cheek here, but ya gotta admit that the motives of a fella who claims to be from Mars, and signed to Cameo-Parkway becuz their label was orange--his fave color-- are open to speculation.

Oh yeah... this album. It was a bootleg cassette that made the rounds until picked up for distribution by ROIR in 1985. Recorded at an uncredited location in Dallas, 1984, the sound quality is pristine-- every slobber and pant expelled from Q's throat will lick yer neck and fill yer earholes with unspeakable vulgarity; Frankie Rodriguez's immaculate organ fills might as well be in yer living room... and the performance? Put it this way: if you happen to be a pre-MTV baby who grew up with AM radio, you'll be filled with a longing for those pre-pube daze, more innocent times when you weren't sure why gawking at Linda Blair (in those women in prison flicks in particular) was suddenly more appealing than tormenting the village idiot (Ladies-- put your crush in this space:_________). Best of all, "96 Tears" is extended to nine minutes of pure, otherworldly bliss.

Into the comments for an hour of total regression.