It's been a while, but I should have some items up soon. In the meantime, I've gone back and zipped up all the music files on the blog. Well, most. Some of the 1-to-four track listings I left as is. But the rest are all one-time downloads, and boy I wish I knew about that when starting out.
In lieu of any audio this time around, here's a picture of a naked woman made out of typewriter parts.
Being a middle-school punk ('84 not '76) in Vancouver, both this and the Vancouver Complication were something of Holee Grails of compilation albums to find at the many used record shops around town. I double-scored one Saturday afternoon at the lamentably-long-gone Track Records (a 7-11 now takes the space if I have the address right) by getting both this and D.O.A.'s "Something Better Change" for $11 each - which was still hefty for me at the time. I asked why so cheap and Grant replied that the vinyl was perfect, but the ring-wear on the jackets left them all but worthless, collector-wise.
Ring-wear, schming-wear. Aesthetically scuffed but eminently playable, I jammed them in with my other grabs from Zulu (every week, nabbing on average 6-7 old punk albums at $7 apiece. I'm starting a petition to get those old days back) and got myself the hell back home...
...to be horribly disappointed. At least by the V.I. LP. I got four punk tracks and ten other cuts of utter shite, not worth perusing again, not worth the incalculably-small amount of wear on the cartridge needle incurred from letting it bore through those microscopic ravines of displeasure on it's circular trek to my misery.
So, 17-plus years later, yesterday, I pull the thing from the shelf for the third time (the Subs tracks were already classics in my head, but I had to memorize the No Exit's before shuffling the disc away forever, so I actually officially played it two times) and flap it on the Ion digital, and find myself like loving every damn track, or at least liking it or them more.
How does this happen? Hell, I'm not complaining.
Everybody knows about the Subhumans and bassist Gerry Hannah's imprisonment as part of the "Squamish Five" and their legendary punk status both here and around and all the awesome songs so we have "Behind the Smile", but a slightly different version than the later recording that was included on the "Terminal City Ricochet" movie soundtrack, and "Out of Line".
The Metros are on here with their more new-wavey "Don't Like It At All" and "In with the Crowd", and a nice bio of the band by Wolf Roxon can be read about here after scrolling a bit.
The enigmatic Si Monkey and their electro-experimental "The Conquest of Daytime" and "Get Rigid", and very little information about this outfit is Googleable. Any Vancouverites got some history for me?
And the loveable No Exit, getting under the skin with "No Excuse" and "Nothing New";
Doors-y neo-psychedelia from the Droogs' "Nuremburg '34" & "J.K.O.";
New wave and 2nd-wave ska coming from the B-Sides' "Spy vs Spy" and "Underground Radio Stars";
What I can only describe as sci-fi-influenced punk out of M.E.C.'s "What Would You Say?";
and I dunno what the Singing Cowboys are about, but "Midnight Cowboy" is a very cool instrumental.
Now, Vancouver still has a vibrant music-scene. It has slid away from the punk stronghold that held sway for most of the 90's and early 00's and into indie-rock territory with about ten new bands forming every month where ten bands disbanded and made room in the city's casualty-ridden play-space scene, so why haven't we had more compilations put out to showcase this?
Alan Meyer of Philadelphia and soon southern California lived and breathed Elvis, singing along to the albums as a kid and - according to the jacket's flip-side - ran away from home to see the Presley flick "Loving You". Sounds like the only theater playing it was very far away, but you get the point.
Around '73 or '74 Alan (as he would plainly be billing himself) took his tribute act on the road and quickly garnered much attention for not only pulling off the look and physical embodiments of the still-alive "King" (E.P. wouldn't pass to another realm til '77), but sounding nearly identical to his mentor - all without any embellishments or exaggerations that later impersonators would use as crutches to hide their lack of vocal talent or merely for comedic impact.
This got the support of Dick Clark as promoter and country-wide tours of the States and up into Canada followed, culminating in lengthy stays in Las Vegas where big crowds were being drawn, all the while the real, actual Elvis was playing across town or down the strip. The difference between your basic impersonator and Alan, is Meyer gives a time-line commentary in between performances of Presley's repertoire: he wasn't pretending to BE Elvis, but rather, as the show said, a tribute. Which of course gained even more consideration after the death.
However, Alan called it quits almost immediately afterwards due to respect and the sudden influx of 'Elvis Tribute Artists' flooding the scene almost before the body was put in the ground, and went to work in Silicon Valley, breaking out the gyrations once more in 2000, and even as late as '08, apparently at a party thrown for his co-workers at Philips Semiconductors.
Personally, I became over-saturated with the King's output very early on due to my dad being a fan (he was in attendance for Elvis' first performance in Vancouver in August of 1957 at Empire Stadium, unfortunately not hearing much of anything other than females screaming), but what the hell - it's worth it for the banter and the non-Elvisness of the Elvisness, if ya know what I mean.
14 tracks, from the obvious to the 'what's that?'.
Just in time, the very nick of time, for Canada Day! Okay, I'm ten days late (and I so wish I was a woman so I could put a joke in there), but we'll celebrate anyways.
And why not celebrate the Commie way? Today we have the Canadian Cultural Workers' Committee LP, "The Party Is the Most Precious Thing", a joyous ode to workers' struggles I guess, and why are all if not most of anything Communist weighed down with the extra-long names? It may have helped their cause(s) if they had short and pep working for them.
Anyways, where I live, there used to be a quite vibrant Communist community, which had regular meetings in a local cafe and maybe some marches and stuff. Plenty of flyers pasted up, too. Something happened, and it all went away. Maybe because the cafe closed?
Which is maybe good. A friend of mine went to a meeting once, and when she raised her hand during the question period and asked that, as an anarchist, if she didn't follow their Communist line when they eventually took the stronghold and replaced the current political thingie, she was answered with a nonchalant and very matter-of-fact "You would be killed.". So she left, because threats of a mortal nature never sat well with her.
Personally, I had (and still have) a t-shirt with Marx on it, over top of which is "WANTED", underneath being, "for crimes against humanity..." and it goes on a bit about some stuff he did or whatever. This being like 15-20 years back, and before I knew only a hint less about this communist stuff than I do now, I wore the thing with complete and utter ignorance. (I do this with a lot of things. It keeps the possibility of situations open to edginess.)
So I'm in the liquor store one day with this slap-in-the-face-to-Marxists on, and a woman says to me very loudly, "Actually, if you read early Marx, you'll find that he said a buncha neato stuff...", at which point my being-surprised-in-a-public-place-with-weird-confrontation psyche sort of fuzzed over her most likely very astute point,and answered her - after a few moments of gaping at her awaiting face - "Oh, this means the later obscure fuzzy-muffin Marx babble... " at which point I just let out a stream of nonsense at her, leaving a victim of my personal stupid-bomb behind looking at me like Lenin's head popped out of the back of my neck and gave her the razzberry.
So it was fun.
Anyways, here we go with ten tracks of Commie-folk-agenda! If I hear this blasting, I'll know you live on the Drive.
A1 Here is the Rose - Now Dance!
A2 Song of the Third Congress
A3 Inevitable Struggle Has Broken Out!
A4 Oh Albania, Red Star That Burns Bright
A5 Workers of All Countries, Unite!
B1 Salute to CYUC (M-L)
B2 Arise Proletarians!
B3 Death to the Traitors!
B4 Levesque Doesn't Wear His Specs!
B5 The Party is the Most Precious Thing
...when I was 13 or 14, me and my best friend (at the time - we "broke up" a few years later over - of all things - a large quantity of very old MAD Magazine back-issues) were spending a lazy summer afternoon wandering down a backwoods trail near the dyke in our old hometown; a small river with beautiful overhanging willows and the occasional sewage drain-pipe joining one side to the other (which we would always puff up our ain't-afraida-nuthin' chests to and cross, well, about three feet of before quivering back to the home-shore and saying something like "Ah, there's nothing over there anyway!" in a quick excuse), under which a small flock of Mallards might float, along with maybe a small log, which would get caught up in a stack of dumped tires or a misused shopping cart, now brown from being covered with decaying algae & motor-oil.
As we kicked rocks along the way, we spotted something shining off to the right, buried in the tall grass. Excited by the prospect of not being bored anymore, we rushed over and found two rifles with scopes, a huge bowie knife, and about three boxes of tranquilizer-darts, spilled onto the dirt & mixed in with the grass.
We completely freaked out.
What luck! Guns! Ammo (sorta)! Scopes!
My friend grabbed the knife (as I already had one that size), and I grabbed a rifle and started tugging at the sight-scope to get it off. We briefly imagined ourselves sauntering down the sun-scorched avenues of our 'burg with weapons almost as tall as we were and decided against it, although we made plans to hide them and get back under cover of the night to recapture the deadly items.
Anyway, we heard some noise in the distance, and carefully took a peek down the path. FUCK! A truck marked with some official city-seal and about four huge lumberjack-types inside was slowly trundling towards our position. We had a quickly-negated plan to grab the guns and lam it, but they were too damn big to go unnoticed in the hands of teenagers down a dirt path.
(I also imagined picking them off with the tranks, but that would have required some kind of aiming skill - a skill withered by my trading in the slingshot for sitting in front of Donkey Kong)
We dropped everything and bolted.
They never saw us, didn't chase us. I incorporated the brilliant plan of stopping just out of sight and sitting on the curb next to the road where the trail's exit merged: guilty kids would keep running - we just looked like a couple teens sitting in the sun. And we could see what they were doing.
They loaded up the firearms without any excitement, like it was them who left the items there in the first place, and slowly drove off.
We got up and started walking.
...remember sweltering summer days in Port Coquitlam; BMX-biking alone through heat-rippled streets with neither a moving car nor any of the thousands of kids my age, also set adrift for two months, in sight.
Eerie silence but for the combined hum of knobby tires sticking to hot asphalt and uncountable A/C units from seemingly deserted homes... where they all were I never could fathom and never found out. Inside watching TV or playing Atari? No laughter, no cheering from any of these homes. Off to Disneyland? Summer Camp?
Oh – there's the mail-lady.
Okay, so I'm not in some Twilight Zone episode or left behind as rapture-fodder, but the robotic affectations of her movements that the job requires doesn't comfort me at all.
Winding through the sidestreets, dead end cul-de-sacs grinding my tires in a 180 turn, and I find the abandoned “playground” in the middle of this particular area, only accessible through a tiny paved passage between houses.
I slowly tour the mobius-strip concrete 8 that winds through the entire area, a cracked and tree-root-warped cement path with a little bridge in the middle rising over the junction; a few giant tractor-tires are scattered about, erupting from the earth like farmland Easter-Island statues with peeling clown-paint nearly completely removed by the elements and years of neglect and almost buried in weeds. There's a three-person swing-set with one seat wrapped tight around the top, another dangling from one chain, and the last making a disturbing screeching wail from rusted chains holding a shredded canvas seat catching the dry wind.
Elsewhere, what was once a sandbox leisurely swallows unrecognizable and sun-faded plastic bits of toys. A discarded tricycle rusts peacefully against the wooden fence in a forgotten corner, and a doll-torso with matted hair and eyes frozen in horror glares up at me from a clump of undeveloped dandelions.
I ride over the small bridge once, back the bike up to the highest point for an overview of the entire area, and just get the chills; I mean one moment I'm fine and next this creeping terror with ice-legs crawls over my back like a blanket of millipedes and I am gone, I am outta there.
This side of the Voices of the Angels double-LP features author Danny Sugerman, Chris D (of the Flesheaters and Divine Horsemen to name a couple), and Doug Moody, infamous for his Mystic Records label of the 1980's.
Standouts (for me) are the Richard Meltzer track - "Wednesday...", and Cheryl Smith's "Sure", while the Jane Bond & the Undercovermen is merely a radio spot for the Rodney on the ROQ show.
Featuring the second side of the Voices of the Angels double LP. As I have no further images of the album to share (the back side being nothing but a mass of tiny tiny tiny words), here is the team card of the California Golden Seals c.1975.
I just got an MP3 player. This is my first “personal audio” player I've had in about twenty years, no joke. My last thing was a Walkman-type deal from some company other than whoever put out the original “Walkman”, but it still played cassette tapes. Can't recall if it had radio-function. No idea what happened to it. I probably threw it under a bus.
So I completely skipped past the portable-CD-'kman period, and, lamentably, the mini-CD-'kman phase.
The 'batteries dying out after three plays' with the cassette version killed any momentum for me. Nothing like a really long bus ride and halfway through the song fades to nothing and you're stuck there, still nodding your head to the beat (Tiny Tim, I think it was) after the music died because you didn't want anyone else around you to know that your energy supply has deep-sixed. Who needs the humiliation? So you bang your skull to Burt Bacharach or whatever but in reality you're listening to the banal jaw-motoring of mall-sprites and it's just a chore, really.
So this MP3-thing is like really tiny, insanely hard to navigate even with these delicate, slender girl-fingers of mine, and after a week or so of ownership, I still instinctively pull it out of my pocket after six or so songs ready to flip the tape over. Very weird sensation.
It can play movies, but I refuse that function out of pure spite.
People spend thousands for a five-foot LCD/LED/Plasma/3D TV flatscreen then rush out and spend hundreds on a 3” screen to watch the same movies. Right there, that makes me want to kill society as a whole, not just certain segments.
Three weeks I give myself til this thing squirts out of my fingers and under that damn bus.
What has any of this got to do with people talking words on vinyl? Let me stretch my segue-fingers and I'll tell you.
The main reason I got the personal player – do people still call these a “Walkman”? In a generic sense like Band-Aids or Popsicles or martinis? Because that's two syllables, and the other option is “MP3 player”, which is a lip-tiring five syllables – is to block out everybody else. I finally became exhausted with the general ineffervescence of my lovely fellow humans (not to mention the cell-talkers. Not sure what the psychology is on being aggravated by one-sided conversations, but it seems prevalent) on certain segments of mass transit. The suburban stretches only, though. The discordant ramblings you get on the inner-city buses is like having three William Burroughs' reciting different crime-scene reports while fresh off shotgunned Lysol hits with Nyquil chasers.
Why, something like listening to THIS!
Released in 1982 on the Freeway Records label by Harvey Kubernik, this two-disc set was produced in order to capture the spoken-word/poetry scene of L.A. during what was I suppose a second-wave underground beat recital movement. Featuring a hell of a lot of people as well-known as Charles Bukowski, Pleasant Gehman and Geza X amongst nearly 80 other performers, and liner notes by some guy named Ray Manzarek.
Quality? You want quality?! You find another blog, right now.
The rest of you, click something below. I'll be posting one side over the next four blogs, perhaps interspersed with some music so I don't alienate, uh, everyone.
Dr. Ballard's Presents Variations on the Ballard Beat
There was a time when dog food companies released music. The fact that this doesn't happen anymore makes me a melancholy man. Sure, Star****s can put out CD's with famous names on them to give out or sell, but that don't count at all, and Iggy or the Ramones on a TV ad counts less.
Something like this, and many other singles and releases in the same vein, are dripping with integrity, and other stuff, because of the originality and rear-vision weirdness of it all. Does AVON hand an original composition over to, say, Mindless Self Indulgence so they can put out a 7" single? Have the folks behind Depends undergarments landed Justin Biebre (the real Canadian spelling) to put out a short wax ditty? Is semi-retired Celine Dion doing a cover of Barbed-Wire Love for the TwoDaLoo?
So all we can do is sigh, and get horribly drunk while sucking on a musk-flavored Life Saver and wonder how our lives turned out so utterly wrong, or something, and listen to stuff like this.
Released in the mid-to-late 50's and featuring the Herman Apple Quintet (Bix Belair on trumpet and Moe Slutsky on drums) on the Dr. Ballard label, recorded by RCA's Montreal division, so perhaps this was a Canadian-only release? Seems Mr. Apple was a Quebecois, as the only other release I could come up with from him was a Christmas album done entirely in French.
Four versions done in different popular genres at the time. Somewhat disappointingly, there's no lyrics here, just the jingle-music. Ah well. Have a listen and see if you don't end up with a cupboard full of dog food by the end of the day.
Trust me, when I do give it up, I'll have some 'farewell' post and not leave anyone hanging like so, so many other blogs.
The past two months or whatever have been filled with a): the purchase of a new PC and b): a friend and roommate of the past 7-point-something years moving out to the Island for healthier climes. Both of which had me putting off a LOT of things before moving on.
The new 'puter moves at the speed of light compared to my previous 2003 Vaio (w/the capacity for a ridiculous RAM upgrade which will enable it to practically read my thoughts and perform functions before I even touch the mouse) and I weep with joy at it's noiseless existence. Unfortunately, my DNS server is fucked up right now and 2/3's of any sites I visit can't be reached, so that's something to be addressed really really soon.
The other thing holding me back this long while was my friend moving away, which caused no small amount of personal angst on many levels, but where she's living now is a much cleaner abode. (This place is almost literally held up by various forms of mold)
I think everything is settled now, so it's back to posting horrible awesomeness that common sense demands be left to obscurity.
Today, we got Phil Esposito and the Ranger Rockers and Dionne and the Puck-Tones with their double-A side tribute to hockey-love analogies released in 1979, with proceeds going towards the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.
Produced by Alan Thicke (he loves his hockey), I gotta give the Stambley Cup to (Marcel) Dionne and his boys with their pop-flavored entry, and the fact they have the original Kings' jerseys with the purple-gold scheme happenin'.
Phil & the Rangers pretty much look like male-models in comparison, and the 50's-style rockin' tune they belt out is good but they ain't no Ralph Nielson & the Chancellors (or even H. Adkins stuffed with raw meat & rye). And well they shouldn't be. It's a fun disc.
I think my copy still has my 16-year-old babysitter's (neighbor's kid) drool on it from when she'd stare at Ron Duguay's face for seemingly hours on end...
I forget exactly where I first witnessed the painted nature scene cover with it's sideways exclamation of "IT JUST IS!" and the little tiny duck, at first glance seemingly holding up a sign with it's wing, but I'm certain it was on one of the then-few "bad album cover art" sites which introduced many of us to the wonderful world of weird listening pleasures.
And like everyone else, I was hopelessly baffled not only by WHAT just was, but what the hell was an "eck"?
A first assumption based on the little sign and familiarity with belief-system terminology directs one to think it's a religious album (some spirit-guide is always "the way"), but wtf is "eck"?! Most would dismiss the connection since eck is more of a gutteral sound of disapproval than anything offering comfort from within.
But religious is exactly what it is, as I discovered one fine day in the local Value Village, already somewhat out of spirits from flapping past a few too many dusty Manilow, Roger Wittiker (sp?) and Baby Beluga jackets.
Then I suddenly froze, eyes popping, iris' expanding, senses alerted immediately with my mind tallying up noises and peripheral movements so as to detect any human presence about me ready to leap over my shoulder, grab the disc and flee to the cashier before I could snap out of it and give chase. I should point out that my cratedigger-ninja skills have since been honed to the point where an intrusive hand would be disabled and broken in sixteen places before reaching my pick, so beware.
There it was. THAT cover. Like right in front of me. A'famedobscurity'. Still in partial shrinkwrap and otherwise in mint condition - previous owners not sufficiently moved for repeat listenings I guess. I feverishly kept it clasped to my chest as I rummaged through the rest of the swill in hopes more manna was left by maybe the same donator. Nothing else, but I was happy enough anyways, giggling and skipping to the checkout, flippantly knocking over old ladies with armfuls of ceramic owls and officious-looking argyle-nerds and their Power Rangers retro-fetish accumulations. (no offense to either parties, but ceramic owls suck and there's this one local argyle-nerd who just... I won't get started.)
As for what Eck is... well, it stands for Eckankar, and after that, please Google it. I did, and trying to give a synopsis here would be like giving a two-sentence overview of the Roman Empire.
I recommend several of the links you'll find on the first page of searching, though: plenty of history from both the Eck believers as well as former members with their own anti-Eck pages with bizarre tales of cult behavior as well as news reports on recent rather large gatherings of Eckists in Nigeria, supposedly converting thousands of people as they move around. You'll also read of how this 'lost' religion was re-found and the conflicting tales about Darwin Gross' emergence as the Eck movement's leader, and how some of the more vocal ex-ecks have purportedly been harassed by group members who want things kept on the QT.
So I guess it's like Scientology, but with less billions of dollars. And like Scientology, that paragraph above sounds like something I totally made up, but it's all so weirdly true.
And hey! Vancouver has or had its own eck-centre (albeit very tiny) on Kingsway in Burnaby:
Abandoned for several years, it seems. About a block away from an abandoned taxidermy shop whose flourescent lights still burn away behind locked doors. Very creepy. Is there a connection!? Perhaps not.
Okay, what does the record sound like?
The first side (or 1-4, here) is Darwin singing the sacred love songs of eck. Lush orchestra, female group-vocal back-up... like easy listening of the 50's, but with Darwin Gross' soft words of enlightenment wafting through the lilting melodies.
Darwin (972nd Living Master of Eck btw) has a not-unpleasant voice that is fine on the higher end but tends to flatten on the lower notes. Mebbe comparable to an Andy Williams who got strep-throat as a kid & the pipes got damaged, or Vince Neill crossed with a young Bing Crosby after one of those tours you take through a helium-factory.
So where was Gross' head during all of this? Was he just some guy who wanted to sing, a little spiritually towards the 'E' in the gas-tank of the soul, just wanting a little assurance at the pump, maybe getting a little bag of those pink-colored 'Jolly Time' pistachios while he's there? Off-handedly mentioning to the grease-smeared attendant that he thinks he'd make an alright balladeer and the guy says to him he says, "Sure, why not? I always thought I could do it myself, but, y'know - who's gonna man the pumps all day 'way out here? Folks gotta have their gas, right? Hey - I say go for it!". Gross - one elbow leaning on the dirty formica counter-top - slowly smiles, strokes his chin thoughtfully while throwing his tweed sports-jacket over his shoulder, shakes the attendants hand with a "Thanks, brother!" as he makes ready to leave and they agree to meet up later for a few games of canasta, but you just know it never happens.
Eckists are s**t at canasta.
Track list: A1 It Just Is A2 With Eckankar A3 At The Grass Roots A4 Oh, How I Love The Bless Sugmad B1 The Law Of The Self B2 Purity
And if you just want a sample track and not all of them, I would suggest "At the Grass Roots", mainly for the female chorus lyrics.
(EDIT: Since posting this, the aforementioned taxidermy shop burnt nearly to the ground - possibly from the lights being turned on for ten years straight - and the Eck office has been leased! I think to a high-speed internet company)
Resurrecting myself from the fog of blogitus (where immediately after procuring a blog, one suffers from an intense and sudden indifference for what the person envisioned as a happy daily ritual of sharing one's thoughts, opinions, exciting news, corporate vandalism, and/or sufficiently weird enough stuff for an unknown reason), I've returned with meagre offerings!
Here I have a 7" seemingly from the late 60's, most likely from Japan, featuring a scene which can be observed by looking at this picture:
On it we have a cheerful tune about something entitled Pin Pon Pan, with enough whistles and boings planted everywhere to keep just about anyone happy. The flip is (I think) the same song but a different version, slowed down somewhat.
The best thing about the disc, however, is the hand-written note I found inside after getting it home.
Apparently written to a grade-school teacher by someone able to translate the singing, they were kind enough to include the Anglicized lyrics. Oh and what lyrics:
"Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom - pin pon pan pon Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom - pin pon pan pon Tiger pro-wrestler in stripe pants Keep putting it in over and over again, but never fails, off it comes Gonbaranakucha (meaning "preserve", but in this instance, a way of cheering on a competitor) One hand whipping and the other holding up the slippery pants Win, win, tiger's pro-wrestler
Hippo-person is so stupid He disguises to look like someone else But is always easily identified Gonbaranakucha Blowing out smoke Blowing out smoke Go go hippo-person Do a somersault (or roll over) and you're a mole Do a somersault (or roll over) and you're a (?) Do a somersault (or roll over) and you're a King Champion Do a somersault (or roll over) and you're a bride
Run, run Kintaro Jump over dishes and newspaper Run, run Kintaro The restroom is just nearby Endure, hurry hurry! Hanako-san, Hanako-san Mama's name is Hanako-san Welcome Hanako-san Please do join us all
The crocodile's bride has terrible athlete's foot No matter how much she scratches, it's itchy, itchy Gonbaranakucha Swish, swash goes your skirt, athlete's foot, itchy itchy Swish, swash goes your skirt, athlete's foot, itchy itchy Scratch, scratch, scratch, crocodile's bride
Let us be a frog - pin pon pan pon pin Let us be a huge snake - pin pon pan pon pin Let us be a caterpillar - pin pon pan pon pin Let us be a crow - pin pon pan pon pin
Thank you, thank you Thank you for the exercise Let us all say together Thank you very much!"
Ah..... whipping, slippery pants, athlete's foot... It's like a song about the surprise party given for me after I moved into my first apartment.
Someday soon I'm going to plead Rod McKuen to cover this in English.
Found simultaneously crushed and sliced to death beneath several thousand LP records today was a Mr. Panaflex, age unknown, in a shabby apartment wondrously decorated with kitsch from bygone eras in the lower east side of Vancouver. Police say that this pathetically lonely but devastatingly handsome 6'1” male had one arm dislocated in an upward stretch position, apparently reaching for an obscure Yma Sumac recording when the dilapidated housing of said records gave way and took this tragically-undiscovered artist's strange and sad life.