Norbert Fragg Moves On


Date: Sun, 17 Sep 2000 23:41:48 EDT
From: Bknt at aol dot com
Subject: Norbert Fragg Moves On
Guitar Wonk continues in New Jersey, at Mount Misery, an appropriately named
cluster of holiday cabins in various states of disarray, located somewhere
near the manger where three record company executives brought gifts to the
infant Bruce Springsteen.  After morning spitting, during a pleasant
afternoon's walk through putrid, insect-infested swamps redolent of decaying
organic material, Blurt informed me that, in addition to being a repository
for several toxic products of American industry, these charming bogs area
also serve as a corpse disposal area for professional mafiosi who
practice/perform their art in the larger metropolitan areas to the north and
southwest. A powerful and not altogether hopeless lesson exists in the
possibility of professional criminals finding their audience, that is, my
audience, and disposing of the audience in a manner that is consensual and
within the aim of what they hope to achieve for themselves. A quotation from
the day's reading, "exterminate the brutes!" from Joseph Conrad's Heart of
Darkness, has special resonance.

Later, during Percolation (in which eager, earnest young Wonkees of no skill
whatsoever go into their rooms, make coffee, drink it and stay up all night
talking about what a great influence I was in their lives up until the time
members of the English music press began to refer to me as "spikey"),
violence visited me in the form of a French whinger who complained loudly
after I introduced him to a tree that "thees eez not Wonk. Eet eez plonk!"
and demanded that I refund his money. Blurt made a quick telephone call and
an rather large gentleman of Mediterranean distraction arrived in some haste
in a black Corvette and demonstrated Peter Townshend's guitar smashing
technique on the whinger's knees. A nearby lake was found, and the whinger
obliged us by jumping in. He has not been heard from since.

A surprise visit by Brawny Pal in an air-cooled Supremely Useless Vehicle
took the heat off a day of whining dopes demanding that I teach them
something. Abandoning tedium, respiratory distress and festering insect
welts, Blurt and I experienced a point of fleeing as we were transported in
the essence of American-made luxury to a secret laboratory where we were
given a demonstration of what will be a valuable new addition to the rapidly
congesting electronic devices in the Fragg rack. Deceptively disguised as a
cappuccino frother, this prong-like contraption reaches innocently from what
appears to be just another black box with dancing LED displays to entertain
the pharmaceutically doped, until an audient employs flash photography. Then,
in a series of nanoseconds, a computer digitally identifies the source of the
flash and sends a scintillating shaft of Light Amplified by Stimulated
Emission of Radiation at the offending flasher. The beam is of a far higher
intensity that what is being used to write King Crumpet bootlegs to a CD, and
it not only disables the flash but pierces the camera casing and continues
onward to ultimately, if not triumphantly, vaporize the audient's eyeball and
unspecified quantities of bone and brain. Blurt questioned legal
consequences, but This Fragg responded with piquant delight. While such a
reprisal may seem shocking to those who dwell in the basement, a musicker who
seeks rejection at the very highest level can only weep for joy.

After a rousing, if soporific performance of Quack in the Rhinestone
Brassiere Lounge of the Lump Plaza Casino in Atlantic City, the Wonkees
happily realized their basemental aim of experiencing the exploitation and
naked greed of the music industry as they frolicked among the casino's slot
machines. I adopted the sacred pose of the One Who Is So Far Above It All He
Can Never Be Completely Certain His Shoes Are Properly Laced and wandered out
to the broad, wood-plank walkway that divides the city's casinos from the
turbulent surf of the Atlantic Ocean. There, with the broad and briney waves
rushing in like so many fans demanding that I, who feigns his hell without
repair (Oy vey, Urizel!), make them happy, I summoned from the brackish
depths of my glottal stop a vast and glorious hock-tooey, and sent it hurling
in a perfect arc that landed with a small but stunning splish into the
gurgling waters that, so long ago, had formed the primordial froth from which
life came forth, or second, or diminished third.

Confident that my small qualitative, incremental act had raised the tide in
London, I determined that it was time to move on.

Bill Kent


Mike Stok