Norbert Fragg Reviewed!

Date: Sun, 24 Oct 1999 17:39:31 EDT
From: Bknt at aol dot com
Subject: Norbert Fragg Reviewed!
Dear Team,

While zooming through the Wordly Wide (but not necessarily wise) Web, my
Duchampian inattentiveness (which can be an art in itself) snagged two
reviews of Norbert Fragg's newest boxed set, The RejeCKts. The first was
originally published in Melody Faker, that influencial compendium of mangled
metaphors and needful screeds, these comments pertain to the passions of
confirmed Fragg-o-philes, as well as those who find humor in the
tribulations, and caffeine-inspired lucubrations of our sustainfully
frustrated guitarist.

Fragg Unlocks Fat Box of Sodden Socks
by Hillaire Knock-Knock
    The first obligation of the critic is to review the art. The second
obligation of the critic is to review himself. The third obligation of the
critic is to put his head between his legs and

at this point the review was lost in a series of egocentric data strings
similar to those spewed from a pressurized aerosol cheese cannister. We take
you now to Rolling Stoned, a publication of aging hippies trying to "think
young" that was never really that significant, and is now even less important
as decaying Yuppie slime turn to more ludicrous cheesecake-filled aerosol
image-inflaters like Vanity Table and Tina Weena Brown's newest, Gawk. There,
midst the pages expensive thrills and movie stars claiming mystical values
for their latest 90 minute piece of audience-tested R-rated cinematic sewage,
was a review of Fragg's latest!

Nights in White Crimson, Fragg's RejeCKts Snags Distaff Delight
by Ponderous McNott
Echoing the not-too-trendy shadow boxing by updown bands Cool Whip and Showme
Dah Money, passably precious post-prog axe-snacker Norbert Fragg, last heard
from in the shameless one-more-try-at-getting-airplay compilation, the Highly
Annoying, Musically Disruptive, Photo-Snapping, Autograph Leeching,
Heartbreak of Halitosis Afflicted Person's's Guide to Wing Fractious, staged
a series of no-name gatherings of former Fractoids at pretentious, badly
promoted venues for which the music press received little advanced noticed,
no free tickets, and no, I repeat, NO limo ride from the hotel, not even a
paid taxi and NO admission to the green room buffet

at this point the review breaks down in a series of passionate complaints
about how things were so much better in the 1960's when the reviewer shared a
motel room in Dubuque with several adolescent males who would become Stool &
the Wang who were trying to achieve hallucinogenic effects with a banana
skin, a velvet Elvis Presley painting, and a mudshark

THIS JUST IN! Fragg's first diary entry from America, where he is reading
heavy duty modern philosophy and sitting on a chair instead of the floor
because the floor simply won't have him anymore.

    Arriving shoeless and dressed in black at Gnashful International Airport,
I found to my surprise that, in the three months I have been away from the
Land of the Freaks, the Home of the Saved,  most Americans have turned into
large, drooling, bellowing, self-assured, corpulent grocery sacks who
terrorize buffets with portable pressurized cheese-ejaculation devices that
shoot long vibrantly ochre-hued strands when their fingers twitch
involuntarily from consuming too much coffee, called Latte-o-lay, which, as a
musician of the lesser sort, inspires me to read several pages of Fuki
Fancyama's "The Rear End of History" involving, among other things, an
elegant linkage between fingering, which is pointless, and pointing, which is
speechless, quantum physics, which sounds cool but is nearly meaningless if
you don't do the math. And now, answers to the Kvetchbook:

Yes. No. No. I may be venal but I am not a crook. Seet merely
reviewing himself. No. Possibly. Impossibly. Perhaps. Because I'm da bomb and
you're not!

Bill Kent

Mike Stok