The Kvetchbook of Norbert Fragg


Date: Sunday, 24 Jan 1999 11:41:48
From: Bknt at aol dot com
Subject: The Kvetchbook of Norbert Fragg
Norbert Fragg: the Kvetchbook

Dear Team,

While clambering about the ruins of Asbury Park, New Jersey,
searching for soul among the greasy nightclubs that launched
the careers of immortal (well, they're not dead yet)
American beach blues rockers Bruce Springsten and Southside
Johnny and the Asbury Jukes, I discovered, nestled in a
tumbled barrow of rancid beer and coagulated salt water
taffy behind a shuttered club named the Stoned Phoney, a
floppy disc that, though it refused to flop, revealed, upon
insertion into my palpitating laptop, what appeared to be
excerpts from the guestbook, or Kvetchbook, from the website
of Norbert Fragg, that charmless but not harmless guitarist
whose prodigal retro psychedelic ensemble, Bing Crosby, not
only recorded a live album in Asbury Park, released, on
subsequent recordings, those landmarks of pop tune
rintintinabulation the Pincer, Fred, and the salubriously
depressing salute to aging ethnic chanteuses, Ima Dinah
Shore.

There, included with a program for de-Fragging a hard drive,
were postings so vital for the understanding of the place,
role and expectations imposed upon the devious artist and
his co-dependent recording company seeking to thrive in a
world where "ethics is just another word for nothing left to
lose," I just had to post them, post haste. I have deleted
the poster's names and e-mail addresses because, well, we
KNOW who these people are.

Dear Norbert,

May I call you Norbert? I enjoy demeaning people who are
more famous than I am by referring to them by their first
names, implying a level of intimacy exists between myself
and them, that, though fictious, tends to make me bloat,
swell and release piquant pheremonically-enhanced aromas
that never fail to attract females whom I quickly learn to
despise when they won't hold my big toe 'til I have to go
(that's an extremely obscure Captain Beefheart allusion that
you, who represent to me the ultimate in penultimate
quintessential musical melancholy, caught). The music of
Bing Crosby, and its subsequent refried avatars, Sing
Frampon, Cringe Plumpton, Bun Wonder and Ding Nixon, has
been so important to me at every possible stage of my life
that, after I get to know a woman, I offer to tattoo your
album covers on their delightfully decadent... (Snip)

Mr. Fragg,

I am calling you Mr. Fragg because I know a thing or two
about esoteric mysticism and sophistic logic and I found a
tautological error in your cappucino-fueled diary about the
relationship between your doctrine of proper audiation and
the spiritual iconography pertaining to the Analgram of J.I.
Kerchief. While my posting has absolutely nothing to do with
music, it does provide me with an opportunity to waste your
time...('S'nough)

Dear Lowest Form of Life,

You miserable cheating exploitative thieving hypocritic
slime-ball! I ordered a signed edition of Fraggattack and
not only did it arrive unsigned, but the poster had a teeny,
tiny wrinkle that made it impossible for me to be certain,
from the fingering positions, if it is was you or Out Trey
playing the discombobulato on Rupture. It's bad enough that
you REFUSED to autograph my counterfeit Bing Crosby T-shirt,
which so depressed my pet rabbit (you're not the only one
with a bun, son) that it won't even leap when I dangle a
carrot on a stick, but to entice an innocent, gullible,
easily victimized fan who only wants to make you the EXACT
CENTER OF HIS UNIVERSE by employing vicious, bait-and-switch
tactics, well, I'm writing to my Congressman, I'm writing to
the U.S. Consumer Fraud Division, I'm writing to Santa
Claus...(snap)

Dear Fraggmeister,

May we call you Fraggmeister? We like demeaning antique
axe-Nazis we don't respect but want to exploit because we're
radio and, if you're radio, musicians are meat that you can
chew and screw and grind up for glue. Seriously, though, as
the only non-commerical (that means the only people we
advertise are ourselves) alternative music outlet at Dismal
Seepage University we like to suck the guts out of pathetic
fools who think their junky garbage is worth spewing upon
the airwaves. We're a college radio station and we want you
to send us promotional copies of all your recordings so we
can ridicule them on the air, melt them in the snack bar
microwave oven, or resell them at a used CD shop for tunes
we really want. You'd better send them to us, and have your
local promo man send a limo for us to take us to your
concert at Sandford W. Mallowmar Hall, or we will not only
not play your music on the air but we'll tell all our
friends that we met you and you're a silly old boofter...
(crackle)

Fragg,

I'm calling you Fragg because your first album, In the Dock
with the Dreadful Ding, was perfect for listening to after
swallowing ten Darvons, but everything you've done since
then is so bad it makes me sit here picking my nose (nose
rose goes slow--hahahaha!) and hate you--really hate you,
because I ripped off a used promo of Sometimes God Snores
from the Dismal Seepage University CD-Xchange and it's
ROOOLLY AWFUL DOOD and NOTHING like the stuff you were doing
30 years ago and I'm really, really mad that you won't do
what I like because, after all, I paid $4 for In the Dock 30
years ago, when $4 was A LOT OF MONEY and you owe me and I
own you and you're going to justify my existence by making
me happy or I'm going to keep posting to this guestbook
because, even though you SOLD OUT years ago, I haven't, and
I know what's right and I'm not going to stop bothering you
until you put your first band back together and-- (pop!)

Mr. Norbert Fragg was unavailable for comment.

Bill Kent


Mike Stok