Black Randy & the Metrosquad
Pass the Dust, I Think I'm Bowie

Miss frog fart is in the office, rehearsing the speech for the inauguration and sipping a shot of the most awful car lubricant to increase her already considerable level of greasiness. She'll need it today; everyone will come, the mayor, councilors, presidents, gurus. A wild parade of jerks for the opening of a new, undeclared small asylum.

The speech is perfect, written in a lively and fake casual social media style. The few phrases I catch from behind the door make me feel slightly nauseous, a sensation I know well, since, much to my dismay, I manage that hated language quite well. They usually have me write the projects, without knowing the violence I inflict on myself each time.

Yes, excellent speech, you little jerk. And perfect is the little dress you bought for the occasion, a most appropriate beige sheath dress, classy stuff.

You're excited, damn it, and you've put on a schoolgirl look before the exam. Not only that, you're almost sweet, even with me, the only one who doesn’t tremble in your presence and who isn’t impressed by your fake eloquence.

And you smile at me, you smile at me!!! After all, you have every reason to; I've done a great job, I set up a super display, clotheslines full of blue A4 sheets attached with clothespins. Those sheets are full of poetry, a creative writing workshop for the crazy, curated by yours truly, something no one deserves and no one understands except you.

“Oh Marco, it's so poignant, so poetic,” and you bug your eyes out, my god you're walking five centimeters off the ground, exuding that damn power. And I swear I wish I were somewhere else. The only consolation is the cuttering, I dive into the prosecco...

Then here it comes, your moment, you nailed the dose of lubricant, after all, you never get anything wrong. You shake hands and smile a smile that would even fool a lie detector. Then the speech, and I try, I try, but I can't help listening to you. Then forcing myself, I manage to leave. Not knowing what else to do, I enter this damn newly opened psychiatric community.

On the desk, your tiny little handbag strikes my eyes like a vicious bolt of lightning, but then an intestinal upheaval flashes the crowd idea... and so, like in “Amici miei,” I drag that bag to the toilet...

This rather old story came back to mind while listening to a very unknown late-seventies post-punk record: Black Randy & The Metrosquad “Pass the dust, I think I'm Bowie.”

Even the title says a lot. Anyway, Randy was a madman, half Belushi, half Ian Dury. A sort of fat, totally drugged-out clown. A remarkable illusionist of the real, essentially a first-class bullshitter. And I love bullshitters.

He would poop in girls' handbags, just another quirk. Then, staying on the fecal theme, one day he put shit in his pockets to go to some public office. I’m not sure what he wanted to achieve, maybe some kind of subsidy or perhaps some exemption for madness. Imagine the astonished faces of the clerks who, during the presentation, were offered that filthy, smelly hand.

He made a living doing telemarketing and, as the good bullshitter he was, apparently was number one at it. He hated rock stars. In one of his songs, he says he would have loved to work in narcotics to throw Jagger or others like him in jail. In another, he gushes praise for the colorful African dictator Idi Amin.

But the most fantastic thing is the music. A rawer version of the Contortions, the most exciting sound of those years.

Dirty, nasty, mocking voice... crooked and groovy sound. Punk that becomes strange and, to be even stranger, becomes funk.

Angles and edges, aesthetics of subtraction, incendiary rock'n'roll leanness organ sixties, howls, assaults of who knows what and then lots, so much rhythm. With covers of James Brown and Isaac Hayes.

Highly recommended...

Regarding the initial story, it's all true, except for the ending. I didn't do that thing. I've always been caught by my being a gentleman.