Th' Word Is Spreading Hilther and Yoon

Th' Passion Of Th' Feist.

A feist. A mission. A holy writ.

Whatever the fuck that is.

Parables Of Th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus #3: Retarded Fuckface Jesus and Th' Circle Jerk Of Gollygosha

Woah! Who Wants Trouble??

Me, I want some trouble, yo.

Last time I had th' unbridled TEMERITY to speak MY beliefs about MY personal lard 'n' slavier Th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus it was a LONG HARD ROAD for your faithful Rev'rend Lightfoot.

Bad news! Phone calls! People sayin' they'd pray for me!! Whoa!

Well, "y'all" can all take a deep, long draw on m'Glory Stick because guess who came to me in a dream last night and said I must continue forward on Th' Path Of Righteousness?

That's right! The Hairy Virgin herself! She appeared to me on a Sacred iPod right between "Holiday In Cambodia" and "Dustward" by Fear!

Now I know how Joan felt when her voices came back! Ha! POPcorn! Eeeyahhhh! Th' Hairy Virgin, th' seeping discharge and Retarded Fuckface Jesus ALL came to me on th' iPod of Urine and took issue with me. And I was ashamed by my cowardice and my sloth. And so, once again, I must take up th' Sword Of Holy Unction and relate to you th' powerful and sad tale of

RETARDED FUCKFACE JESUS AND TH' CIRCLE JERK OF GOLLYGOSHA

When, in his darkest hour upon th' mount of Gollygosha, Th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus suffered and wept from his perch upon Th' Once True Croissant, twas a dark time for all gathered. Even Peter who was assured his house was visible from atop th' Croissant.

Upon th' Mount Of Gollygosha 'twer many Croissants arranged in a tight circle, the better to nail up doers of evil and all manner of miscreants. So tightly were th' Croissants arranged that one evildoer could, if not restrained with a nail through his hand, reach out and touch his suffering neighbor.

On th' day of Retarded Fuckface Jesus' Croissantification the Croissants were full up with all manner of Jews and Musicians and Supporters of Public Radio, all suffering in th' hot sun. But lo, did th' heavens not open? Did not th' mighty hand of the seeping discharge reach down from th' heavens and free the right hand of every sufferer? And did not th' seeping discharge anoint th' right hand of each Progressive with all manner of oils and soothing Lanolins and Vaselines? And thereupon direct them to reach out to their fellow and ease their suffering with th' Holy Handjob?

But lo! The songwriter to th' left of th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus was left bound and unanointed.

And th' Circle was broken. And the Retarded Fuckface Jesus look'ed about and saw that all were being spanked off but he. And in that moment he pointed his face heavenward and cried in unction:

"My lord! Why hast thou forsaken me?"

Enjoy, Christers. And pray for me and shit.

You fucking assholes. What th' fuck? You confirm my deepest convictions with every misspelled imprecationnn. Th' hypochristy is well-nigh unimpeachable. And furthermore, your god is a homosexual. How "y'all" like that? Why do you think the world is so tastefully appointed, eh?

And if you want to come for me I'll be sitting here with a baseball bat and a rosary. And Sal Th' Feist will verily fuck you up, you stupid cunts. With one blast of her Breath Of Doom.

High Congress Presents #2: "Delta Blues" by Joe Cifarelli

Woah! It's Son fuckin' House! Who's your caucasian, Son? Who's your caucasian? Is it...Blind Lemon Lightfoot?

So, in th' next chapter of Lightfoot Plays 'n' Sings Cifarelli I'm proud to stand and step away from the mixing desk at 2:30 AM and present the screamer "Delta Blues" which sounds pretty smokin' to my ears. This is an update, of course, of the old Robert-Johnson-at-th'-crossroads tale.

For this joint I laid a guide guitar and drum box track and took it over to my buddy Greg Aldrich's ProTools loft studio in Amherst and overdubbed a real drum track which, in my McCartneyesque hubris, I played myself. Woah! Holy seventy-five edits, Ball Boy! While there I popped my bass through his lovely old Ampeg rig and tracked bass, combining mic'd amp and direct signal.

Returning to Lightfoot Studios I brought Joe and his Strat and single-12" Mesa Boogie and he proceeded to stink deliciously all over th' thing. Doubled rhythm was put down as well as a whole mess o' leads which sit pretty much in their entirety across the track, coming to the fore in the solo section but prominent throughout in a call-and-response BB King-on-meth sort of way.


Little accents of 16th-note piano pounding were added under the last verse as well as some pretty fractured, distorted organ under the choruses. I also beefed up the rhythm guitar under the choruses to bring out the drum syncopations that single out these sections. Some tambourine and shaker completed the instrumental overdubs. Oh, and I threw in some stunt-slide guitar for a little added outhouse ambience. And some cool plinky-plinky Andy Summers stuff under the guitar break in the middle eight for a little future shock.

Then, god forgive me, I manipulated the first measure of "Love In Vain" by Robert Johnson to fit the intro and snuck some of th' refrain of "Come On In My Kitchen" into the middle eight. It fit, man. That shit's public domain, right? Anyway, I slapped it in in a way that it can be pulled out if problems of legality or good taste should intrude.

Vocals were recorded yesterday in a session that I carefully scheduled to occur after I'd been on stage for 8 of the last 10 nights. This was to assure access to the Robert Lightfoot voice which I've never before gotten on tape to my satisfaction. Time will tell but I'm pretty happy with the distressed, broken, overdriven vocal that might just rank as my own personal "Twist And Shout". Ugly stuff.

I was very inspired by Zeppelin in my production approach and esthetic on "Delta Blues", in particular, of course, the album Houses Of The Holy. I had originally wanted to have a dobro/porch stomping-to-arena-thunder dichotomy and it's definitely there with the hand-clappin', foot-stompin' sections but the whole thing just drives so hard that I ended up underplaying the novelty approach and just let it rip. The interesting rhythm on the break sections consist of me playing the guitar like a percussion instrument along with a quadrupled overdub of foot-stomping and hand-clapping. It's Vintage! We Will Rock You! Hope th' cotton crop don't waterlog this here season! Woah!

It's nice to do something nasty like this once in a while. Just to know I can. There ain't harmony one and there sure as hell aren't any strings. No sir. Enjoy. Bleed from the ears if you must. Mine are scabbing over.

Yeah, Here's My Fifth Anniversary of 9/11 Post.

There's something that's slipped my mind with all the changes afoot, man. All the tryin' to stay one step ahead of th' Orwellian 1 percenters, you know? Th' Roves, th' Ashcrofts, all the rest of the coterie of assholes with whom we are so amply blessed in these Interesting Times. All these chickenhawk psycho lying shit heads who have delivered unto th' terrorists everything they could possibly have hoped by dignifying them with a War of their own? Man, are they assholes. Utter assholes.

But the thing that's easy to forget is the dudes that flew th' planes were bigger assholes even. Can you imagine? Can you imagine what an utter abject dick you'd have to be to be a bigger asshole than George Bush? A bigger asshole than Dick Cheney? Fuck, is that a tall, tall order indeed. I mean, you'd have to be like a disciple of th' Asshole Yoda for 20 years to be a bigger asshole than fuckin' Donald Rumsfeld.

Those fucking dudes that flew the planes into the trade towers were some serious, black belt ASSHOLES. Trying to fuckin' talk to one of them would have made talking to some freak cult member Christian seem almost pleasant. And that, my friends, is bad. When you'd rather talk to someone who thinks apples are made of apple atoms and bookshelves are made of wood atoms? Woah!


So, what I'm sort of driving at here is that let's be all peace-loving and all that and let's all go out in th' snow and hold hands and take a shit and that but let's remember what a bunch of assholes these foreskins were.

Not Muslim, not Arab, not this, not that. Not "soldiers". Just assholes.
These fuckin' 9/11 dudes were like that.

Fuckin' Moussaui. Yeah, I know that dildo didn't ride but he's still a putz. Look at him. You know he is fully into gangsta and porno. Which Christ knows is A-O.K. but you can't be all Pat Robertson about this shit and then kill 3000 people as a statement against it.

That's what these assholes were; total cocks. I say fuck 'em. They're all the fucking same to me. They're the dickhead 20-year olds that still hang out at their high school. Except they've got this whole 40 Virgins thing. Hey, that would be a fine band name, eh? 40 Virgins.

And the fact that, at the end of the day, they can exceed even Th' Mighty Neocons as Kings Of Asshole-hood (if by a hair) tells you a thing or two about the absolute mastery, the virtuosity of these guy's assholeness.

I say let's all raise a glass to fact that these douchebags are now but a handful of molecules bouncing around th' upper atmosphere, doing no more damage than a pebble of sand bouncing off an elephant's hide.

And now let's dry our fucking tears and get on with it. And try to get th' world back to good old Totally Fucked instead of this.