Norbert Fragg: The Secret Barbecue

Date: Sat, 29 May 1999 11:24:07 EDT
From: Bknt at aol dot com
Subject: Norbert Fragg: The Secret Barbecue
Excerpt from ET:
"ET is just a fat-chewing enthusiasts' forum. It's like a barbecue you go to
at someone's house: some of the food is crap, some of it's nice, and you
meet the neighbours: you get on with some, tolerate others, and get to meet
the inevitable assholes too." --T#

Excerpt from the slime-covered "mossed diaries" of Norbert Fragg:
"Tomorrow is the birthday of my Spanish but not Jewish artist wife, Goy-ah,
who, because she so often sings in the shower, is referred to occasionally in
these quantumescently computed pages as a `little hoarse.' We intend to
disappear for four days where you intolerant basement dwelling medulla
obligato mouse droppings who pretend to listen but merely want to take
photographs, shake hands, seek autographs and otherwise dilute the precious
energies of an infrequently working but most of the time shirking
guitarist--will never find us. The diary will, therefore, suffer, as the key
that unlocks the door falls on the floor and is no more. Temporarily, at

Excerpt from the covertly marinaded, basted, grilled over sizzling mesquite
coals and otherwise  "sauced" diaries of Norbert Fragg:

"The Al Fresco Pig Roast at Tony Gymbal's craftily inspired retreat (where
craft supports the skill that supports the roof whenever it doesn't rain, and
every disadvantage has been turned into someone else's problem) was a
splendid excess, beginning with a ritual lard mastication originally
developed in Guitar Wonk sessions, in which the assembled bite off more than
they can chew, and then attempt to swallow whole, what may appear to the
retrograde basement dweller as indisgestible philosophical contradictions but
are actually clever aphorisms designed to free the mind and encourage music
to take us into its flatulence. Because I have been a vegetarian for 24
years, three months, two days and six seconds, the notion of consuming
charred, flavored soft tissues--even if said high-fiber fabrications derived
from selectively severed portions of the late Mr. Allen Fresco, an
inordinantly porcine executive of Slea-Z Records who extracted management
fees from earnings of previous incarnations of Thing Nixon but maintained
that the band had not earned sufficient sums to acrue royalties--filled me
with piquant dread. As a lurking, if not mystically murking guitarist, I
repressed an urge to purge and dined eagerly, if not meagrely, on what
appeared to be Mr. Fresco's left testicle. Goy-ah, who can be a fickle eater,
found most of the feast fundamentally fecal, though an assortment of cleverly
crisped potato heads, included as symbolic representatives of the recording
industry's merchantile branch, she deemed deemed rather `nice.' We were then
introduced to Tony's neighbours, Guitar Wonkers Hideo Hideous and Steve
Sphere, and a peculiar gentleman of Yiddish distraction named Nishka Falech
who that he had performed with me in Bar-Mitzvah bands during the dark,
dreary days before I became venal and controlling. The affair concluded with
a surprise visit from the Inland Revenue Service, to whom our host graciously
explained that we were musicians, not accountants. They subsequently
departed, after extracting several pounds of flesh from Mr. Fresco who,
needless to say, found himself in reduced circumstances.

"Goy-ah and I then retired to our pleasant Cecily Beaten cottage, where we
sipped frothy cups of cappuccino and joined Wonder Bun for Twee of a Perfect
Hare. No bliss obliged, I have gazed upon thee fully clothed!"
--Bill Kent

Mike Stok