I FOUND IT!

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/albumreviews/black-sabbath-vol-4-19721207?print=true

I've always recalled the reviewer's line about "Quaalude popsicles". That sums up Sabbath, doesn't it?

What a review! I doubt this guy was ever published again...but he probably didn't care!

Damn, Rolling Stone! Spent more time in the AUM library reading it than I did studying. And here I am today! All that wasted brilliance! "You're gonna be an engineer." "You'll be a great writer." "You're gonna go far, young man."

BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Black Sabbath, Vol. 4

Black Sabbath

by: Tom Clark

As the Sabs poured into "Wheels of Confusion" like giant gobs of wet cement gushing from the heavens in the never-ending sameness of a taffy-pull performed by mutants, people began pouring into my house. One by one they instantly began digging the Sabs, nodding, heavy dudes one and all. Everyone picked up that old Sab neck-wobble trip where your head sort of rocks back and forth on your neck python-fash, right? Where the organ comes in over the big slow power chords; no it's not an organ, call it a component, yah, straight out of the Middle fucking Ages! Sorta walks right on out. Like some giant prehistoric plant learning how to walk ... right over your house ... so boogie while you can. But you can't lose that dyno chthonic zoomout riff 'cos it's right there in the middle of the next song, "Tomorrow's Dream," which got us so zonked we felt absolutely heavy. The cat did too. Then on into a foxy sorta Carole King piano folk song or something, whew, "Changes," kind of David Bowie we guessed, hey orchestra right? What? Went its evil way? Ooh. The room got kind of deep and spacey, brown all over, and the notes then sounded sorta while coming out of that ... y'know? Like a snowfall? It went on forever. We could dig it. Like we dig chewing gum made out of caulking compound. Right? So then can you conceive of a piercing tone followed by reverberating percussion noises called "FX," huh, that was the next tune, then we got tight with some heavy familiar Sab vibes again, swimming right up there to deep space where nothing hears or talks, right? "Supernaut." My sister had a vision of electronic buffalo ranches on Uranus, so help me. The drum solo in this song did it to her. Also, my watch stopped. But the Sabs didn't. Who needs a watch? I ripped it off my wrist & stomped on it. Slowly. Crunch. Side one groaned to a close, but soon side two followed it, without delay adhering to the walls of one's septum — the total "icicles in my brain" riff — right — "Snowblind," no less — climbing those big staircases made out of vanilla fudge, right up into your mind — so feed your nose, hey? God's a Fuzz Tone, right? The Abominable Snowman? Hey. La Fucking Brea! The tar pits was a heavy scene, right? Ask Freud or Dave Crosby. What a streaming feast of nerve gobble anyhow! But on with the snow, I mean show. Time for a Pez break. Whew. Monster slowness of the unelusive strikes again: "Cornucopia." I about fell out. Ten-ton dogs snarled in the mouth of the volcano. Storms of liquid metal blasted their way into the soap factory. Soaring zoos, etc. Then on to babies' time; breakfast on a sleigh in Hawaii with violins, titled "Laguna Sunrise." All sweet lime stripes across a popsicle spiced with Quaaludes, right. A million artichokes can't be wrong. Dreaming in the sun with their eyes open? Sweet music must end. Grunting, we tumble on into the new dance craze, you guessed it, "St. Vitus Dance." You drive me nervous. Pieces of hair got into my mouth during this one. Same old power saw on Venus move, lovely. "Under the Sun" starts out slow, like dinosaurs yawning, then it speeds up a little. Or does it? I can't tell. Fantastic four-second guitar solo by a gorilla in there somewhere, right — beautiful — gorilla! The Sabs pour it on, man, it's right near the end of the record now and here's a great three-second drum solo by a polar bear, no shit! Put mud in my ears if I lie! I can dig it! Great buncha chords there too, I couldna chose better myself, whew, we're thudding down toward the ultimate rip chord now. Gotcha. Over and out. Molten rocks hurtling across space imitating the origin of the universe, you dig? Ah, lay those chord slabs on my grave ... whew.

Update on Mole Relocation/Extermination Process

I use the term 'relocation' because the plan for this coming spring is to kill all the grubs, thus depriving the molemen of their food source. I assume once the food supply is cut off, the moles will see fit to move on to a neighbor's yard where they can tunnel their little asses off for all I care.

In the meantime, that damn worthless mole trap's kill count remains at 1. However, on a potentially promising note, two months ago we procured an insane half beagle/half Tasmanian devil puppy who appears to be fond of mole pursuit. To my knowledge she hasn't caught any of the critters yet, but she has turned my backyard into an almost exact replica of the World War I Battle of Passchendaele. Her trenches are quite accurate from what I can ascertain looking at old maps and charts. On more than one occasion, I've seen what appears to be troops moving through the labyrinth. This is a photo I took in the gray of morning the other day.

IDing Song Drove Me (and a few others) Freakin' Nuts

Sent a song to a pile of friends recently. It was on a CD I'd made of various and uh sordid artists some time back and I couldn't recall who it was. So I enlisted the aid of twenty or so friends. I'd done the ol' lyrics search and come up empty. Had someone with that Shazam app hold their phone up to the speaker to nail it down...crappo! Nuthin'. How can that possibly be in 2011?! I mean you can find anything on the interwebbies!

Well, at 3:52 this morning (which coincidentally is one digit higher than the incredible 351 Cleveland engine that was in my father's 1970 Mustang Mach I) it came to me and I sat up in bed, startling Chloe (new pup) out of her snoring stupor. I knew what that damn song was! It's a song by the Dawn Barham Band. I met Dawn at the Howlin' Wolf Museum fundraiser I attended several years ago in West Point, Mississippi. She was at Harrell's Barn milling about with all the West Point upper crusts...and me. How the song's lyrics escaped all the lyric searches I don't know. You'd think either the lyrics would show up somewhere on the internet or Shazam woulda nailed it, but who GARA now!

Dawn's band now is the Juke Joint Gypsies and you can check them out on ReverbNation if you are so inclined. (I have no idea what the angle you are at has to do with any of this...)

I'd like to express my sincere thanks to everyone who made the effort to ID the song. William Mc and Bill S in particular. I know that Willie Mac went to ridiculous lengths to ascertain the artist's name, even ruining his weekend by devoting 24/7 shifts to the task. I can't replace the time he lost, but I will buy him some wings...someday...maybe...probably not. But I do appreciate the work he put in.

What a past week. Tim Tebow walks on water, drones turn themselves in to the Iranians, someone named Newt threatens to become president, and I finally remembered the performer of that song.

Cool.

There's One Less Mole in the World - FINALLY!

His new tunnel was at least my 15th target. I'd moved the trap just yesterday to a brand new pathway and, by god, this time I won! You see, the little bastards have no idea how persistent their pursuer is. The damage these guys are doing to the lawn had to stop. I wasn't quitting. The trap had sprung once before, but when I pulled it from the tunnel months ago, it was bereft of mole. Not this time. You goofed, you little POS.

I was playing with Turd Ferguson this morning. It was chilly as a blast of Yankee air came visiting last night. I love the cold and Turd was bouncing around like a puppy when I let her out. On my days off, I generally either get out on the bike real early or, after feeding Ferg, I wander the backyard, picking off the spent rose heads, saying hello to all my plants and flowers, and stomping down mole tunnels. It's what old farts do. I'm sure the neighbors hear me muttering about the tunnels and giving Turd tips on how to kill moles. She used to at least attempt to nail them, but, after digging many unsuccessful holes, she gave up.

As I neared my shed on the last leg of my backyard rounds, I saw that the trap was sprung. It's a strong trap. When it slams shut, it slams hard. But, looking at its design, it's always appeared to me that as a mole pushes upward and triggers the thing, at best, the mole would be momentarily trapped between the two ends of the contraption. A quick side dig would allow the mole to carry on his merry way. As I pulled the trap from the ground this time, my heart fluttered a bit as I tugged at the earth. I see grass...sand...dirt...MOLE! HOLEY MOLEY! There's a damn mole in the trap! A certain trap owner who'd written glowing reviews of this trap on Amazon (I'm sure he must be the owner of the company that produces them) had recommended having a shovel nearby, as oft times the varmint will not be dead and can escape as you pull him out. So I was ready, but this li'l mole had the misfortune of the trap snapping his spine. He was a goner. He was cold and he wasn't going anywhere.

I dusted some of the sand from his little face. Moles ain't cute. Well, they have little pink feet and a pink tail, but their lack of eyes somehow makes me feel less evil for wanting them to die en masse. It's not that I want all sightless creatures to perish, but the wee fellow simply had no personality. And I think that's partly due to his lack of eyeballs.

So finally, after 4 months, I have my first trophy mole. I have 6 more regions/districts (I'm not sure what the moles call them) to purge of the little bastards. As sad as the recent photos of all those beautiful tigers and lions lying together dead in Ohio were, I'd love to see 6 or 7 moles laying side by side breathing no more. I'm not optimistic, but I'm going to ride this high for a while and get really aggressive. I may hang this one near a highly populated area so the others can see their impending fate. Wait, they can't see. Hmmmmm...I could put Braille notes in all the tunnels...

My young neighbor has never seen a mole and has been anxiously awaiting this moment. I've emailed her that she can finally gaze upon the rarely seen critter when she gets home this evening.

I am crossing this subterranean ghost off my list of seldom seen monsters: the yeti, Nessie, the chupacabra, and Phyllis Diller remain, but at least one mole has been spotted, knocked off, and will destroy that section of my yard no more.