From: The Cassette Mythos, Autonomedia 1990
I had begun to believe that it was real--that there was something so inconceivably wicked about Little Fyodor that God himself objected greatly enough to make things hard on him and those with whom he associated. How could things be made difficult for Little Fyodor? Or for those innocent associates of his? Were those associates, indeed, so innocent as they might imagine? No, of course not.
Things were nice for us in Eldorado Springs. I rose early on weekends with the sun streaming through picture windows looking out on South Boulder Creek and the cliffs beyond. We found the freedom sufficient to pursue our eccentric work. Walls of Genius was founded. In the midst of this fine and noble enterprise, Little Fyodor walked amongst us. When he visited, tape recorders stopped functioning. Particular sets of patch cords would go bad. The Dokordor proved its reputation as the most troublesome of all the home stereo 4-tracks. (An expert trouble-shooter was called in to clean up that fiasco--but no, the curse cropped up time and time again...)
A drummer was called in to assist on recordings of "Useless Shit" and "Ugly Girl," two Fyodor standards. It made an impressive sight: drums and guitars and amps and tape recorders--all the implements of the self-proclaimed idiots in their full glory spread out on a sheepskin over hardwood floors, two dogs at the door outside and cats on the couch. The recording of the drums and rhythm guitar went fine; then the curse came. Like a cold shower on a hot bitch's stud, our hopes for the session were deflated. Fyodor's vocals were hopelessly recorded like shit, and we couldn't figure out why. Finally a connecting piece inside the Dokordor was scrapped. Twenty-four wires were soldered directly to the board inside. Our problems weren't over, though. When the curse was in full sway, nothing would work. I truly believed that there was something sick festering within Little Fyodor, something so hideous that a greater entity was using our machinery to tell us to stop; to put little Fyodor out of his sublime misery.
"Useless Shit," he would sing, "life's full of it!" On questioning, Little Fyodor would only reply, "it wouldn't work right...on the vocals, I think..." Of course not on the vocals! Who ever sang with such anti-song in his voice? Who has ever defiled key and tone the way that little Fyodor has? God himself would revolt at the spastic noise of Little Fyodor's voice screaming its way to oblivion. Unlike an infant crying out for its mother's teat, Little Fyodor cannot be turned off so easily. His philosophical dilemma--well, enough!
In light of all this, however, children rolled on the ground with joy at performances where Little Fyodor was unleashed. Pretty girls swooned in his presence--one attractive fan claimed she would "have Fyodor's child!" Little Fyodor, for all his soaked-to-the-bone evil, is a foul-mouthed Bozo the Clown; a Nietzsche speaking through the mouths of the Three Stooges! He speaks from the Id to the Id. And the Id listens--what stronger ego-source can there possibly be than the itchy Id? The ego itself? No, the Id is the source of all these things and when stroked, it purrs.
But the curse!! Was it ever really real? When I look back to those Eldorado days, it seems like a fuzzy dream, out of focus like a piece of French pornography. I try to dwell on what I liked about Eldorado Springs and not upon what I didn't like--Moko still rules in Eldorado, I'm sure of it. Moko was a dog who knew what he was doing. I was hurt when Moko was penned up by his owners. His friends barked when they missed him, and Moko would mournfully bark his answers in the dark. If only we were all this simple and effective in our communications with our fellows. Little Fyodor would have been much happier had he been born a dog. What curse laid him upon this earth as a tormented hairless ape, I'll never know, but there's no lack of mischief in him! The curse of little Fyodor faded, but Little Fyodor remains, an accursed taint on the psychological breakdown of Mankind and a blot on decency everywhere.
(Prof. L. Bottom Eyes holds a Master's degree in Deviant Anthropology at the University of Colorado in Boulder and is currently working on a new textbook, Observations at the Flesh-Pits.)
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