Starring . . . Gary Burger (guitar/vocals) Larry Clark (organ/vocals) Dave Day (banjo/vocals) Roger Johnston (drums/vocals) Eddie Shaw (bass/vocals) Iggy Oppenheimer (alcohol/chemicals)

"There is nothing funny about a clown in the moonlight." - Lon Chaney, Sr.

My palms were sweaty as I opened the CD case. Not because I was excited to be getting the damn thing. I had hot and cold flashes, coming down off a three-day speed run, which I'd finally snuffed out by drinking a case of beer to get some critically needed sleep. I'd crawled into bed at 6 a.m., a heavy sigh wheezing from my tortured, nicotine-encrusted lungs. I'd had to spank the old monkey twice to finally get those knots out of my shoulders. Staying awake for seventy-two hours tends to tense up the muscles a bit. I fell into a restless sleep, dreaming about a cute little waitress who always wiggles her ass at me, but that finally passed and I plummeted into the depths of Nepenthe.

RIIIIINNNNGGGGG!

Oh, Christ. I hadn't unplugged the phone, forgetting the rest of the world was up and about their business after eight o'clock or so. I looked at the alarm clock. It read ten minutes after nine. The phone shrieked again, Katzenjammer City, the squalling of cats in me head, throbbing blood vessels and the taste of Rommel's Afrika Korps having bivouacked in my mouth during the night. I picked up the Devil's instrument.

"Hello," I croaked.

"Hey, Iggy, this is Keith at the record store. Your Monks CD came in. Come by and pick it up any time."

"Fuck you," I said, slamming the receiver back in its cradle.

I rolled over, groaning. Sleep after speed is a delicate thing. Once disturbed, you're s.o.l. I cursed Will Shade's name. I'd ordered the CD after he'd posted several messages in the Rock Hall of Fame forums about the Monks. But hey, what can you expect from a guy who actually believes the Yardbirds are the greatest band ever? WE all know it's the Pretty Things, don't we? Anyway, there was no point in taking a shower, since I can't stand the feel of water on my body when I'm strung out and hungover. I didn't have any damn soap to boot. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the local mini-mart before staggering to the record store. And this is where my narrative comes unhinged.

Back at home, I set the CD down and booted up the computer. I went to the Rock Hall website where Will Shade had posted his info about the Monks. He had bragged about having listened to the CD over 300 times in a five month period. I'd e-mailed him earlier when I first ordered BLACK MONK TIME and he said the first day he'd listened to it like 12 times in a row.

Hmm, sounded like a challenge to me. Why, once I'd had nothing but a Woody Guthrie tape and Tom Waits' RAINDOGS for a three month hitchhiking trip through Australia. Talk about driving yourself nuts. I'd also listened to PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN for an entire acid trip when I was 16. I'm 28 now and more than up for a contest of listening to an album at least 13 times in one day.

I can't describe the first listening at all. I sat captivated, looking at the picture of the band on the back of the pull out. Five dudes wearing black with heads shaved in tonsures. It almost makes you laugh when you first see it. But not quite. There's something sinister about it. They look like clowns, but evil clowns. Like that famous Lon Chaney quote. And he should have known if anybody did. Chaney was the great silent movie horror actor, starring in THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE DAME, THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA and the legendary lost classic, LONDON AFTER MIDNIGHT. His use of makeup was extraordinary for the time (and today), twisting himself beyond all recognition in his attempt to scare the audience out of their wits. Well, the Monks twisted themselves beyond all human recognition and scared the bejesus out of me thirty years after the fact.

How can an album recorded in late '65 affect somebody who was raised on the shock-shlock rock theatre of Alice Cooper and his heirs? Well, that's just it. For the heavy metal dudes it was just theatre i.e. an act. The Monks, though, were so locked into the mainframe of strangeness, running from some power-grid, feeding off the third rail of insanity (apparently the boys were well acquainted with alcohol and white crosses the entire time the recorded and toured) that they still make my skin crawl. Hell, Eddie Shaw, their bass player, said that thirty years later the album still makes him uptight. And this is HIS music! He goes onto say something about how you could drive somebody nuts by locking them in a room and playing the album continually. Oh, if only he knew how right he was.

The CD opens with some blast called MONK TIME, with Gary Burger (lead guitar/vocals) telling you what he likes and what he doesn't like and what time it is and he can't stand any of it, so shut up! And there's no rhythm guitar, its been replaced by a six string banjo that makes crazy clacking noises courtesy of the frenzied Dave Day. And there's no melodies, just dissonance via Gary's feedback fills and Larry's droning cathedral organ (visions of THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA again and Bach on L.S.D. here). The album is a seamless whole, yes, there's different songs, but it doesn't matter because they're all the same sentiments summed up in titles like SHUT UP (a most un-60s mantra) or I HATE YOU where the backing vocals scream "but call me!" And Roger's drumming reminds one of military lockstep, jackboots pounding on the pavement as the SS parade in front of Hitler, because after all the band was comprised of ex-GIs who were stationed in Germany for so long that they even DREAMED in German.

One listen to the greatest cut, COMPLICATION, confirms Gary Burger's as yet unannounced crown as rock's greatest vocalist ever. Shouting, spitting and strangling on lyrics like "Complication, complication, constipation" as the backing vocalists holler "people cry for you, people die for you" and Lord knows what else. The HORST WESSEL LIED it is or the Monks' version at least.

Then, there's crazy keyboards on BLAST OFF! and the ignorance is bliss tune THAT'S MY GIRL. The piece de resistance might just be CUCKOO. Gary Burger regards it as "nothing but a dog's ass," but he's dead wrong. It's the strangest thing ever recorded, what with backing falsettos that reach higher than the Beach Boys ever did and a fuzzed out bridge from an unfilmed slasher flick. Everybody I've talked to (males that is; females don't seem to dig this album) said this song makes them want to dress up in women's clothing. Go figure. Eat yer heart out, Captain Beefheart. Beefheart always tried to be weird, but CUCKOO is the Monks trying to go commercial. And the thing of it is that the song actually charted in Germany! Somehow, I don't quite see it sitting cheek by jowl with the Beatles' DAY TRIPPER in the American charts back in '66.

I started shaking somewhere around the intense OH, HOW TO DO NOW. I grabbed a partial bottle of George Dickle off the top of the fridge and poured a shot. It soothed my nerves for half of a song, so I cut out a big line of crank, which I snorted and then returned to the whiskey. I consumed the remnants of the bottle by the time the CD had done played halfway through the second time. Some bill collector had called in the meantime, but I'd blown him off. Claimed my wife (I've never been married) had died that morning so would he just please piss off!

Reading the liner notes consumed several hours as I couldn't focus for more than 30 seconds at a time. The album was sweeping me into regions in my head that I hadn't explored in quite some time and wasn't too damn sure I wanted to revisit. I swept cobwebs away from doors that my shrink had told me to keep shut or else! Paranoia was raging. I was sure the F.B.I. was using my computer to keep track of my whereabouts and misdeeds. The screensaver was driving me out of my skull also. One of those that looks like you're travelling through the stars. I'd fixate on it for long periods of time and then jerk away. God damn it, the red headed men are observing me through it! I'd go to the corner of the study and their eyes would follow me. All the while there's that infernal banjo clacking away. A pox on you, Dave Day. You, my boy, are a tool of Satan. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a hammer from the tool drawer. The great unblinking eye of the computer had no idea what was coming. Sparks flew, singeing the carpet and there was a horrible burning smell. I had enough sense to the turn the computer off.

I'd only listened to the CD five times by this point. I gritted my teeth and girded my loins, which were sweating profusely. I pulled out that bottle of Sambuca that some chicken zit had given me for a Xmas present. Needless to say, more drugs were also consumed. "Stop it, stop it, I don't like it!" Neither do I, Gary! I've got to go to the bar and get some beer. BEER! Yes, something cold! Hang on, I'd drink some coffee first. I'd heard somewhere that coffee actually acts as a cooling agent. Or had I misheard? No matter, I brewed some up and drank it. Just what I needed. Caffeine.

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