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bandcampsnoop · 2 years

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10/8/22.

I rarely go back this quickly to remind us of a previous post. But, I've been listening nearly non-stop to "The Hills Are Old Songs" from R.W. Hedges. And while is from the U.K. he clearly has the American West sound perfected.

This album is a beautiful combination of Yo La Tengo ("Fakebook"), Johnny Cash and, as previously mentioned, Guy Kyser. I mean, listen to "Christmas Skies" off their last studio album, "The Ruby Sea".

Hedges' work (along with his Luca Nieri, a childhood friend) is released on Wonderful Sounds.

#R.W. Hedges #RW Hedges #UK #Luca Nieri #Yo La Tengo #Guy Kyser #Johnny Cash #Wonderful Sounds #Yagada

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lcnelyday · 9 months

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keats' 2023 halloweenie muses (bios)!

nick robinson as kyser collins, the werewolf holding back his true nature for fear of hurting anyone. kyser is kind, thoughtful and aims to be honest, but the way he lies about what he really in pushes people away, building up massive walls and an almost shadow image of himself that he projects to others rather that letting them get anywhere near him.

riley keough as gillian owens, the witch with a streak of bad luck with love but the closest family anyone could ask for. trying to find a place in this world outside of the curse of bad men that've been in her life, and away from the sister who she'd been hiding from the world with for the last couple years. a witch unafraid of her magic but terrified to let anyone in.

jerermy allen white as gerard foster, the totally normal man with no predilection for blood or murder or anything. he's a totally normal guy with a really normal job who takes a normal amount of time off from his job actually. he doesn't travel and he would never hurt anyone. he's just your average neighbour. charming while awkward but in the kind of way that would never make you think anything of it.

melanie scrofano as carlie mangan, the monster hunter with ties to one of the biggest demons in hell. carlie works as a bartender at 'the good company' (asmodeus edition), and she takes on jobs to hunt down those who have broken the rules at the bar or who have ended up on asmodeus moll's bad side.

rain spencer as juno carter, the tragic survivor of a bloody massacre who is doing just fine. she's in therapy, she's got hobbies to take her mind off the event and she is actually really good. she does yoga now. she's fine. she sleeps fine and doesn't think about the fact that the killer was never fully confirmed. it's fine.

emily alyn lind as alice martin, the vampire with a habit of toying with humans. she is bored of playing it safe and hiding what she is, leading to her making bigger and more obvious messes everywhere she goes. a big bark but and even bigger bite. she's got a soft spot for sad boys, especially sad human boys.

for a starter from one my the halloweenie muses, like this post! note: halloweenie muses are only available in their original verse until after halloween, when based on popularity, they might be added to my main/genre roster of muses! they are not available in regular wheel of muses starter calls.

#new muse #halloweenie 23 #kyser collins #gillian owens #gerard foster #carlie mangan #juno carter #alice martin

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jwclapton · 1 year

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1 14 and 15!!!!

1. What is/are your top album(s) this year?

I'm sorry to say, I don't really have an answer for this one, as I don't keep up with current music. I also haven't listened to many whole albums as such over the past few years, outside of some collections of songs by my favorite vintage singers.

14. What was the last playlist you made about or for?

About those vintage singers… Recently on Apple Music, I made the above playlist of my favorite songs of the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s. Over the last four years, I've come to love the music of that period very much. Call this a comfort playlist. It features my favorite bandleaders – such as Artie Shaw, Harry James, Kay Kyser, Guy Lombardo, and Glenn Miller – and (mostly) female singers and vocal groups – such as Martha Tilton, The Boswell Sisters, Annette Hanshaw, Vera Lynn, and The Andrews Sisters, among others. Some of the most beautiful voices I've ever heard.

15. Name an artist you used to like but don't anymore

I don't have one single artist as such for this one. I used to be quite big on classic rock music generally, especially that of the 1960s and 1970s. But thanks largely to FM classic rock radio burnout, I tend to steer clear of most of it now. That and my love for vintage vocal and big band music overtaking it, with the exceptions of Eric Clapton, AC/DC, and Stevie Ray Vaughan, all of whom I've been a longtime fan of. However, I have gotten back into The Who over the past week, thanks to one of my mutuals who's a fan of theirs.

Thanks for sending this in! 🤍

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kingthreshie-official · 2 months

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I need you guys to know the only thing that's going to be going on between my ears for the next week is "Jingle Jangle Jingle" By Kay Kyser.

That's it. That's all.

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sheetmusiclibrarypdf · 10 months

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Jazz Play Along - You Stepped Out of a Dream

Jazz Play Along - You Stepped Out of a Dream by Gus Kahn (words) and Nacio Herb Brown (music)

Play Jazz Standards! Sheet music - Noten

https://youtu.be/0eN5awLjL1o

"You Stepped Out of a Dream" is a popular song with music written by Nacio Herb Brown and lyrics by Gus Kahn that was published in 1940. The song has become a pop and jazz standard, with many recorded versions. It was a centerpiece in the 1941 musical Ziegfeld Girl, in which it was sung by Tony Martin and accompanied an iconic image of Lana Turner walking down a grand staircase. Although Turner never officially sang or recorded the song, it became her theme song during her peak years as one of Hollywood's top leading ladies, often played when she entered a nightclub or restaurant. The song is played in the film The Abominable Dr. Phibes (1971) during a murder scene. The song was added to the Chichester/London 2012 Revival version of the musical Singin' in the Rain. Many artists have performed other versions of this jazz standard, as: Dave Brubeck – 1950 Peter Cincotti Nat King Cole Ray Conniff Eddie Lockjaw Davis Teddy Edwards The Four Freshmen Art Garfunkel Stan Getz – 1950 Dexter Gordon – A Swingin' Affair (1962) Johnny Griffin and Martial Solal – In and Out (1999) Johnny Hartman – This One's for Tedi (1985) Shirley Horn – You Won't Forget Me (1990) Barney Kessel – Kessel Plays Standards (1955) Kay Kyser Guy Lombardo Warne Marsh Johnny Mathis – Wonderful, Wonderful (1957) Glenn Miller with Ray Eberle – 1941 Brew Moore Lennie Niehaus – Vol.1: The Quintets (1954) Sonny Rollins with J. J. Johnson – Sonny Rollins, Vol. 2 (1957) George Shearing – 1941 Archie Shepp McCoy Tyner – Fly with the Wind (1976) Teddy Weatherford Julie London - Julie at Home (1960) Ilse Huizinga - Out of a Dream (1997) Anthony Braxton - Five Pieces 1975 (1975) Gioia, Ted (2012). The Jazz Standards: A Guide to the Repertoire. New York City: Oxford University Press. pp. 470–471 Read the full article

#noten #sheetmusicdownload #sheetmusicscoredownloadpartiturapartitionspartitinoten楽譜망할음악ноты

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bandcampsnoop · 2 years

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9/3/22.

R.W. Hedges is a London, UK based musician who has multiple releases on Wonderfulsound (also based in London). Roy (the R in R.W.) is often accompanied by his childhood friend Luca Nieri who also has several releases on Wonderfulsound.

He writes pop and country tinged music that is incredibly beautiful and melodic. He is clearly influenced by Ray Davies and The Kinks. His songwriting reminds me of Lawrence Arabia and The Capitol Years.

Hedges has a complete album of Western-styled music, "The Hills Are Old Songs". It's fantastic - at times his songs recall some of Guy Kyser's (Thin White Rope) work - mostly the melodies, since no one really sounds like Kyser.

#R.W. Hedges #RW Hedges #London #UK #Wonderfulsound #Lawrence Arabia #The Capitol Years #Guy Kyser #Thin White Rope #Roy Hedges #Luca Nieri #Ray Davies #The Kinks

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just-shipgirl-thoughts · 2 years

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Playlist number - What the fuck ever at this point, I have no idea - A collection of songs probably older than I am that I love

---------------------------------------------

I Like It Like That - Pete Rodriguez

Run Through The Jungle - CCR

Green River - CCR

Stayin' Alive - Beegees

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! - ABBA

Take On Me - A-Ha

Don't Bring Me Down - ELO

Ain't No Mountain High Enough - Marvin Gaye

It's Raining Men - The Weather Girls

Nowhere to Run - Martha Reeves and the Vandellas

I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor

Don't Stop Believin' - Journey

Hold On, I'm Coming - Sam & Dave

Low Rider - War

Kung Fu Fighting - Carl Douglas

Tainted Love - Soft Cell

Jump In The Line - Harry Belafonte

Heartaches By The Number - Guy Mitchell

I've Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle - Kay Kyser

The Wanderer - Dion

Knock On Wood - Eddie Floyd

The Dock Of The Bay - Otis Redding

These Boots Are Made For Walkin' - Nancy Sinatra

One Way or Another - Blondie

Enter Sandman - Metallica

For Whom The Bell Tolls - Metallica

Paranoid - Black Sabbath

War Pigs - Black Sabbath

Sharp Dressed Man - ZZ Top

Rasputin - Boney M

Paint It Black - The Rolling Stones

The Chain - Fleetwood Mac

Carry On My Wayward Son - KANSAS

War - Edwin Starr

We Gotta Get Outta This Place - The Animals

Shakin' All Over - The Guess Who

Gimme Some Lovin' - The Spencer Davis Group

#bis rants #music recs #bis's music recs

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rifter-pride · 3 years

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hey y'all who wanna read some DANG LORE

recidivism - 5.8k words - read on ao3 / if what Buckshot thinks is happening, is happening -- it better not be.

my self-indulgent meditation on weird friendships got out of hand, but I am not sorry!!

CN: blood, swears, minor injury (black eye), and a guy gets devoured whole.

cast: Buckshot / Grafvitni / Strawfoot / Kyser

"It ain't no poxhound."

This is the second time the rambra herder, Kyser, has said this. He stands over the body of one of the rambras killed in the latest spree, his eyes covered by the brim of his hat as he looks down. He's a good head shorter than Buckshot, dressed in a simple vest of leather that was once likely black but has since become indistinctly dust-coloured. His trousers, similarly discoloured, fit loose around the hips and tight around the calves, tucked into a pair of boots that look like they've seen a lifetime of hard road and only just lived to tell the tale. His fur, stippled grey and black, is close-cropped everywhere but his cheeks and chin, where his beard spills out in dark curls that are voluminous despite the obvious dearth of thought he spares them. The hair on his chin is pulled into a braid, held together with a simple brown leather tie.

One of his hands worries at that braid now, petting it in long strokes too quick to be called anything but anxious. His other hand rests on his hip, just shy of the revolver holstered there.

"Ain't inclined to disagree," Buckshot says, "but, if I might, how d'you know?"

"I know what poxhound smells like," Keyser says. He looks up, hand dropping away from his beard. His eyes are a blue so dark they're nearly purple. Fittingly, they remind her of the Sea -- but only the water that thrashes the Rusting Shores, bruise-coloured where the Sea and Wasteland meet to tentatively shake hands. The stippled pattern of the fur on his face makes the hard line of his mouth almost impossible to read. "This ain't it. This smells like..." Keyser's hand, now deprived of beard to worry at, gestures at the air as if to conjure some inspiration on how to describe the smell. "Smells like wet an' rot an' somethin' unnatural, somethin' I ain't smelled before 'cept when it come 'round to bite my bucks to hell an' back."

Buckshot nods. She's of no mind to argue with the rambra herder -- point of fact, she's inclined to agree with him. No one's yet seen whatever's been killing Keyser's rambras, but the grist mill of Rachidian seems convinced that it's a pack of poxhounds, driven in close to civilisation by a particularly uncompromising dry season. While poxhounds aren't unheard of in this area, the length of time they've been worrying the edges of the Rachidian rambra herd -- nearly a month, now -- and their supposed number, is.

That, and none of the corpses look exactly right for a poxhound kill. Buckshot lowers her eyes from Keyser to the carcass at his feet. A full-grown rambra buck, cut down in his prime by what looks to be one huge, savage bite to the -- well, the all of him. The rambra's middle is gone. There's no sign of tearing or chewing at the abdomen, because the abdomen isn't there, with no single scrap of rib or shred of intestines to show what might have happened to it. Even the biggest poxhound pack would struggle with the task of biting into a rambra like an apple.

"You seen things nobody's got a name for," Keyser says, drawing her attention up from the rambra corpse and back up to him. Keyser indicates the corpse between them with one hand. "Any of this seem familiar?"

Buckshot feels her mouth set into a firm, slightly disappointed line. She sucks in air through her back teeth and lets it out through her nose. "It might."

The Old Carcosa Place is a two days' ride from the heart of Rachidian. Buckshot gets an early start on the first day, leaving hours ahead of first miasma-glow. Her wife, Strawfoot, is away on business still, so Buckshot leaves her a note taped to the coffee pot, the only place Buckshot can think of that has even a fifty percent chance of Strawfoot seeing it.

Standing on an outcrop overlooking Old Carcosa, Buckshot figures she'll be back before Strawfoot even has a chance to miss the note and wonder where she is. The loose red soil of Old Carcosa is disturbed, but not by what she's looking for: of the serpentine persuasion, the biggest thing to tunnel through here in the last few days is a bonesnake. They're common in this area, though they shun inhabited areas -- something about vibrations in the soil making them shy.

The sun has set the miasma along the horizon aflame by the time she's satisfied nothing she's looking for is hiding out in Old Carcosa. The land here is rotten with holes, the remains of tunnels collapsed after the cult who built them disappeared in thin air. Buckshot sets her camp up beside the most familiar of them, a massive pit still bearing the sharpened poles she put in there herself, what feels like a minor age ago.

Her Wastebred, Rotgut, murmurs softly at her in the encroaching dark. With only an oil lantern for light, the Wastebred's eyes take on a glow that would be unsettling if it weren't so familiar. Buckshot thinks of other tricklight eyes she's seen around here, not Wastebred but something else -- a dragon, of a kind.

"You best already be long gone," Buckshot says, staring into the dark where she knows the spike-pit roughly is. She pulls her hat brim down low over her eyes, settles herself against her bedroll, and closes her eyes. "You big dumbass."

In the end, Buckshot is wrong on both counts: she isn't home before Strawfoot even has time to read the note, and the big dumbass isn't gone.

She realises that first one on the return trip back toward Rachidian. Traveling at night in the Wasteland is a fool's errand, but Buckshot figures setting out from Old Carcosa in the hour or so before first light out to be just about fine. It's somewhere in the vicinity of Biskbrill that she sees a lantern bobbing, the light outlining the shape of a dragon in a long coat and a broad-brimmed hat, carrying a rifle slung lazy-like over one arm.

Biskbrill's always attracting the rough kind -- she should know, she about lives there herself. The stranger strides out into the bridlepath and turns to face her and Rotgut. They're lean and slender and keep the spidery fingers of their wings spread to either side of them to make themselves look bigger, as skydancer chicks sometimes do before they figure things out. Buckshot might laugh at the display, if not for the rifle. Rotgut draws up with a snort, and from the tension under the saddle Buckshot can tell she's equal parts irritated as wary.

The stranger sets their lantern down by their feet, drawing sharp shadows everywhere and making their face hard to see. They lay one hand gently on the stock of the rifle, still cradling it over one arm in that lazy way, but Buckshot can get the gist. The lantern makes picking out their colours difficult, but she gets the impression of sickly yellow mottling on the only part of their neck that's exposed and lit up just right.

"This here's a toll road," the stranger says. Reedy and rangy County accent, probably something from deep in the Crinoline. Probably hitched a ride with a caravan bound for Biskbrill, looking for greener pastures -- so to speak.

Buckshot leans forward in the saddle a little, making a show of looking from one side of the bridlepath to the other. This part of Rachidian is still far enough out to be nearly considered Deep Country proper, and it's all flat and broad accordingly -- nothing like the more uneven, hilly tableland of the Gold Dust region another day's ride north of here. Hell, the stranger doesn't even have a proper lean-to or cover, just an opportunistic road sign which, now she's looking at it, she's pretty sure they put up themself, maybe all of five minutes before she was a smudge on the horizon.

"Well, then, suppose I'll just go around," Buckshot says, putting a little of the politely confused tourist in her voice. She adjusts her grip on Rotgut's reins so she can indicate the flat, unobstructed view of the land around her. "Just give your toll a berth and my pocketbook a breather."

Well, at least they give her the time to finish her quip. The other road agent still manages to blindside her -- quiet as anything, the only sound they're responsible for is the warning rumble of Rotgut when the Wastebred finally scents them. This new arrival reaches up and grabs Buckshot square around the middle, hands hooking into her belt and holster, hauling on her hard enough to unseat her and send her tumbling to the ground.

"We'll just help ourselves to whatever you carryin', then," the one who grabbed her, a ridgeback a good head and half taller than her, says. The other stranger laughs, a high, irritating noise.

Behind her, Rotgut lets out another warning rumble that turns into a full-blown bray. Buckshot can hear the Wastebred rear, feet striking the soil behind her, and gets a brief flash of Rotgut leaning over her, mouth open and tusks bared, giving the strange ridgeback a stern unhand-my-colt growl.

Buckshot scrambles backward, trying to put distance between her and the larger opponent, who ignores Rotgut and leans in closer to grab Buckshot by the front of her shirt and haul her away from the Wastebred, turning so his back is to the animal. Rotgut growls again, louder, and follows them, stretching her neck to catch the ridgeback's shoulder in her teeth and bite down, hard.

"Shit!" the ridgeback yelps. He flails at Rotgut, losing enough focus on his grip on Buckshot that she manages to grab his arm and twist it free of her vest. The rifle goes off on the other side of Rotgut, and the Wastebred bellows, shying in surprise and releasing the ridgeback's shoulder. For one horrified instant, Buckshot is sure that damn bandit just shot Rotgut and tries to shoulder past the ridgeback to get to her mount.

Buckshot's movement draws the ridgeback's attention back to her and he wallops her across the face with his newly liberated fist, apparently undeterred by the big dark stain spreading down the sleeve of his shirt where the Wastebred bit him. Buckshot doesn't hold it against herself when she falls, vision momentarily blinkered with stars. God damn, but that ridgeback's got a mean left hook.

There's another gunshot from the other road agent, then a querying shout followed by a panicked one. "Newsom!" the other road agent shouts, fear evident in their voice. There's an abortive, alarmed noise from the direction of the other road agent, unintelligible to Buckshot's rattled ears.

The ridgeback -- Newsom, apparently -- pauses, still looming over Buckshot, cocks his head toward the other stranger and says, "Yeah?"

Silence. Or -- not entirely. While the other stranger's gone quiet, there's a distinctive sound playing out all the same, a disquieting, viscerally unpleasant wet noise like somebody doing a piss poor job of mopping a wet wooden floor. Rotgut has stopped growling and huffing; Buckshot can see her outline against the night-side of the miasma, behind the ridgeback, and she's got her ears pricked in interest toward the direction of the sound. She looks fine, unharmed; the road agent either shot wide of the mark or pointed their gun at something else.

"Abscove?" Newsom tries. He jabs a finger at Buckshot, "Don't you fuckin' move."

Buckshot, still trying to recover clear vision in the one eye, waits only until Newsom's turned his back to her before she scrambles over the dirt toward Rotgut, reaching up into the dark to catch the reins and haul herself up. She leans heavy on the Wastebred without meaning to, running her hands over the animal's side, checking for holes.

"You all right, girl?" She keeps her voice low. Rotgut rumbles, but doesn't stop looking beyond Buckshot, towards where Newsom went. Buckshot follows her line of sight.

It's still dark enough to make things indistinct, but she can see Newsom draw up short from where his buddy's been, and he says something that begins with What and ends with hell and then he yelps as something big detaches from the shadows drawn sharp and stark by the lantern and envelops him in a wave. Newsom manages one scream, then half of another, and then his voice cuts out with a wet, muffled gurgle.

Backlit by the lantern, Buckshot finally gets her eyes to focus enough to see it: the monster of Sallowhill, the beast of Old Carcosa, the feral that used to be an imperial and maybe still mostly was, folding over its massive limbless serpentine hindquarters with Newsom lodged near to his waist in its mouth. The glow of the oncoming sunrise behind Buckshot catches in the beast's eyes, igniting that familiar trickfire shine. One of Newsom's arms flails uselessly against its cheek and the beast snarls thickly, working its jaw for a moment before bearing down with enough force Buckshot can hear the ridgeback's spine snap.

"Mother's tears," Buckshot murmurs, transfixed and horrified all at once by the vision of the ridgeback disappearing down the beast's gullet. Newsom's gone in an upsettingly short amount of time.

The feral slides over its own body, planting its massive foreclaws in the dirt and hauling itself to its hunched standing height. The twisted wings, long since beyond hope of fulfilling their original function if they ever even could, touch down lightly to either side of it, helping it balance. It stretches its neck toward her, sniffing. Its familiar smell of age and rot is tinged sharply with the coppery tang of fresh blood.

Its face is stained almost black in the low light; its muzzle is dripping. Seems Newsom got the more humane treatment of the two.

Something brushes her boot. She looks down. The monster's tail has swept around close, but that's not what touches her; half-obscured by the tail's tangled plume of hair is Abscove's rifle. The stock taps lightly against the toe of her boot.

There's an unpleasant sound from the beast. It works its throat and jaw, finally cracking its mouth open enough to let out a plume of fresh meat and tooth decay stink that makes Buckshot's eyes water.

"Gun," the beast says in its rasping, creaking voice.

"You lil shit," Buckshot says.

That trickfire glow in its eyes wavers, then it blinks slowly, withdrawing its neck. The butt of the gun taps her boot again, and she snatches it up out of sheer frustration more than anything -- though she still has the sense to flick the safety over before shunting into the empty rifle holster on Rotgut's saddle.

She looks back up at the beast. It's tucked its chin close to its neck in a swan-like gesture -- a gesture that would be cute if the monster doing it wasn't a slithering nightmare with a face soaked in dragon blood. Clearly her reproachful tone has hit home, somehow; she can see it looking conspicuously down and away, avoiding her stare.

"You ate a fella," Buckshot says. At least one. She's not sure what it actually did to Abscove.

The feral licks its chops, as if remembering. It tilts its head, looking at her sidelong -- almost shyly. "Gun," it says again, with a different inflection this time, almost mournful. "You - die."

"I am well aware," Buckshot says. "Don't give you license to run around eatin' folks." Could be her imagination, but the gleaming trickfire eyes have an almost pleading look to them now. "Hell." Buckshot sighs.

Under her hands, the Wastebred shifts. Rotgut nickers softly and stretches her neck out to sniff toward the beast. The beast straightens its neck, and turns to grunt in what Buckshot swears sounds like a salutatory manner at Rotgut.

"Oh, so I'm the asshole," Buckshot mumbles. Maybe she is. Louder, but with less evident impatience in her voice, she says, "You been terrorisin' folks around here again."

The feral tilts its head slightly away from Rotgut, looking at Buckshot with that shy sidelong stare again. Despite being fully a head taller than Buckshot when she's mounted, the beast keeps its head low, low enough to be nearly at eye level with Buckshot's knees.

"Not," the beast says, "ssserthis."

"Rambra ain't much better!" Buckshot snaps, then nearly feels bad for the outburst. The light is getting easier for her to see in now, and now she can definitely tell the beast looks chastened. "C'mon, we gotta get the hell away from here 'fore some other owl hoot comes out here sniffing for --"

Buckshot trails off in a discontented mumble and a grunt, struggling to get herself up into Rotgut's saddle. Her head hurts like hell and between the cooling-off adrenaline and getting walloped in the face, Buckshot feels like her visual acuity is still a little wobbly at best.

The beast snakes its head forward again, head tilted at a weird angle. It takes Buckshot a minute to figure out that it means to offer her its tangled crown of gnarled-looking antlers. She sighs, reaches out and grabs onto one of the smaller-looking tines, which feels about as thick around as the handle of her favourite hunting knife. The beast anchors itself with its stubby wings, tilting its head again so she can get a boot up on its neck and boost herself into Rotgut's saddle. She just about pitches over the other side again, but manages to grab the horn and right herself at the last second.

"We still got business, you and me," Buckshot says as the beast withdraws again and fixes her with an expectant stare.

She rubs her jaw, feels around lightly to see if anything's been broken in her face. No, but she'll have a hell of a bruise for a few days at least. It could've been much worse. She looks at the beast, then beyond it, to the outlaws' lantern still on the ground. Beside it, there's a heap of what looks like wet laundry, but which Buckshot is sure is at least half dragon meat. She looks away, closes her eyes, and sighs.

"But thanks."

The miasma is well and truly aglow now as the sun makes its final climb out of the bed of the horizon. Buckshot can't help but cast a look over her shoulder every few minutes or so, convinced somebody is going to spot her riding along with her pet damn monster in tow. Would it be any stranger than anything else that happens around here, really? Buckshot's not sure. Some folks get touchy about things that look like imperials but aren't; some people get touchy about things in general. She's not sure she has the stamina for whatever that conversation would look like, or what she'd even say if questioned about her choice of company at the moment.

At least she's always had the sense to take the more deserted roads in and out of Rachidian. Opportunistic idiots aside, this area is functionally deserted, particularly at this hour.

The beast follows at a respectful distance from Rotgut's flank. It's noisy as anything, between the scrape of its scaled belly on the ground, the tug of its claws on the soil, and the ragged half-dead-generator rumble of its breathing. How the hell had it ever managed to sneak up on anybody long enough to surprise two jumpy road agents?

Rotgut keeps one ear cocked behind her the whole time but seems to otherwise take the unlikely escort in stride.

Buckshot skews them off the path, heading northward. A little more cover that way, even with the Gold Dust tableland proper being another day's ride out. She gets them to a little cluster of foothills with a scattering of bonewood trees and what might well be the ruins of an old settlement from before the time of The Flat of Her Hand. It's impossible to hide the massive beast behind any one of these trees, but at least there's something to break up the direct line of sight and diminish the feeling of being out in the open, if nothing else.

She dismounts. The beast draws to a laborious halt alongside Rotgut, an easy three times the Wastebred's not-insubstantial length, and watches her sidelong. She ignores it, instead drawing a drinking ladle from her saddlebag and pouring some water for Rotgut and then herself. When she's satisfied she can do no more for Rotgut, she comes around the other side of the Wastebred and stares at the beast. She holds the canteen out.

"Thirsty?"

The beast shakes its head.

"Suit yourself," she says. She stows the canteen back in her satchel and then resumes staring at the beast.

Buckshot's never actually seen it by full daylight before. Its imperial nature is more obvious in the full light: the scales, the raggedy shock of mane running the length of its body, the antlers growing in a jagged and many-tined crown at the top of its head. More obvious still is the rough road it's traveled; there are the knots of scarred tissue, some she knows she put there herself, and layers of grime and dust that look like enough to have some archaeological significance. Put all together like that, the red-brown mess splattered all over its muzzle and throat from tearing into that road agent hardly registers at all.

"What'm I gonna do with you," Buckshot says. The beast tilts its head, then finally looks at her more directly. In the light, without the dark turning it to orange-green trickfire, its eyecolour is a pale, almost pleasant, yellow. The stare is provocative, but Buckshot isn't sure why.

"What? You ain't listened to a damn thing I told you." Buckshot starts counting off on her fingers: "I told you to get on outta Old Carcosa, Sallowhill, anywhere near Rachidian--"

The monster's lips pull back in what Buckshot can't decide is a sneer or a pained grimace, revealing its many dagger-like teeth. Some of which, she notices, are missing or broken. "Missed - you."

Well, that closes Buckshot's mouth. She stares at the beast, at its many rows of teeth -- certainly more than the average imperial, even a feral one -- and then up at its eyes. She opens her mouth to speak, finds nothing, closes it again and puts her hands on her hips, thinking. Finally, after what feels like an age of senselessly turning a coin with tails on both sides over and over, Buckshot says, "Well, all right."

She thinks about that first encounter. Digging that pit in Old Carcosa, impaling the monster in a spike trap she'd briefly been proud of -- before she'd come to the edge and seen what she'd actually caught in it. Her eye trails along the beast's neck, tracing the scars.

"If I might, can I ask why?"

It closes its mouth and huffs through its nose. Even standing this far away from it, Buckshot swears she feels its breath ruffle the fine feathers on her cheeks. It turns its head, looking away from her, and there's almost something -- irritated? disappointed? about the beast's expression.

"Oh, yeah -- words, huh," Buckshot says after a brief pause to think it over. Not like she hasn't noticed the creature's limited vocabulary and the pained manner of its speech, but maybe it's time to stop acting like she's doing it a favour pretending she doesn't want to patronise it. "Don't s'pose you get a lot of long conversations in your day-to."

The feral says nothing, just grunts quietly.

"Oh," Buckshot says again, and then, in a whisper to herself, "Stupid." She puts one hand to her hat and tilts it back, letting the motion turn her gaze briefly miasma-ward. "You ain't got nobody to talk to."

Ironically, there's only silence after that. Buckshot watches the feral studiously not watch her, yellow-eyed gaze pointed to something that must be supremely fascinating, like a bug, or a bonewood stump, or one of the several hundred red rocks on the red soil over here. She lifts a hand to stroke the scales on Rotgut's neck absentmindedly, earning her a soft, pleased rumble from the Wastebred. After another moment of silence, Buckshot leaves Rotgut and starts walking.

She has no destination in mind, just strolls through the nearest scattering of bonewood trees. This is definitely one of those situations where the journey is more important than the destination, anyway. Still, she finds herself gravitating toward one of the more substantially intact trees and plonking herself down to sit beside it with her back resting against its rough, splinter-rich bark.

She's aimed toward the sunrise now -- and, actually, it's not a bad view. The bonewood trees peter out not far from here, granting a near-uninterrupted view of the horizon line. The sun spilling between them hits them just right to turn their pale bark into a rosy shade of tangerine, a not altogether unpleasant effect. Above the trees, as the sun climbs the curtain of the miasma, the sky shifts from acidic flame to its more usual daytime yellow-green. Buckshot's seen her fair share of Wasteland sunrises and sunsets, and really, they're not half-bad.

Still, she's not here to reflect too deeply on the artistic merits of the Wasteland sky. It takes its time, but, sure enough, she hears it: the laborious scrabbling of the feral behind her, finally slither-clawing its way after her. She turns her head slightly, toward the sound, not looking at it; the motion is enough to bring a pause to the sound of movement, and Buckshot can't help but shake her head. Big baby, she thinks but does not say.

Instead she calls, softly, "C'mon, now," and is rewarded with a resumption of the noise of its movement. Its head slides into view to her left; she can hear the rasp of its tail on the other side, curling around the tree in a half-circle.

She turns her head finally to fully look at it. It's dedicatedly not looking at her again, though this time its eyes are pointed toward the sunrise, so at least there's grounds for an argument for more interesting things to look at. Buckshot joins it, because, well, why not.

She thinks about what to say. What do folks usually talk about? Their jobs? Well. Maybe monster hunting is a poor topic of conversation when trying to soothe the lonely spirit of a monster.

Then she says, without really meaning to, "Got hitched. While you were away."

That gets some reaction. The feral tilts its head slightly to fix her with one eye. The expression is flat, with some subtle notes of non-comprehension.

"Means married, legal-like," Buckshot adds helpfully.

The beast inhales and opens its mouth, and there is something so pointed about the expression that Buckshot gets the distinct feeling she's being gently made fun of.

"Yeah, me," she says, waving the monster off dismissively, "and don't you even try to act surprised that ol' Buck can pull." She straightens up, lifts one hand to swoop the hat from her head and ruffle the feathers there that have been mashed flat with a case of chronic headwear. "I clean up good."

Silence again. Buckshot plants the hat back onto her head. Could be her imagination, but there's something less -- tense, about the beast sitting next to her. It stretches its forelimbs out in front of it, affecting a catlike stretch, claws hooking into the soil and working it like a fangar cub worrying a blanket. Buckshot watches its claws go for a moment, thinking.

"You ain't gotta go terrorisin' the locals, eatin' all the rambra or serthis grammas or what-have-you," she starts, and can see some of the tension return to the monster beside her, so she hurries to add, "if all you wanna do is talk. Or listen, as it may be. Doorbell's a mite quicker at gettin' my attention than riling up all the locals to come get me. Not that I don't mind the pay."

The monster lifts its head to look right at her. With what looks like a not-insignificant amount of will, it forces the words out: "You - never - home."

Surprised, that's what she is. Buckshot stares at the monster, startled, then laughs despite herself. "And how'd the hell would you know that?"

The expression she gets in response to that, well. Buckshot can truly say she's seen a monster look sheepish, now.

"Oh, for the--" Buckshot could throw her hat. She looks around, as if to gather patience from the timeless pacing of the Wasteland itself -- if she looks for strength, she might just as well strangle the ginormous idiot coiled up next to her. "You're damn creepy, you know that."

"Like - the ssstable," it says, as if she hadn't spoken at all. It fidgets, staring down into the dirt. Red dust sifts from its claws as it nervously picks at the fleshy pads of its own hooked fingers.

"Hey now, that's Rotgut's place, and Wastebreds got a knack for being territorial, so..." She trails off. Slowly, she leans around to look behind her, beyond the bonewood tree, toward Rotgut, who stands placidly where she left her, one leg cocked in a resting position. "Damn traitor," Buckshot says softly, almost wonderingly.

You think you know somebody.

"All right." Buckshot straightens up and puts her hands up, palms out. "We gotta lay some ground rules. Number one, no terrorisin'. No eatin' grandmas, nor rambra, nothing. And," she folds all but her pointer finger on one hand, "no spyin', stalkin', creepin', and the like." She turns to look at the beast again. "Can we agree on that?"

It shuffles, its expression doubtful. Buckshot sighs, and stretches a hand out toward it, palm open and turned up.

"How about, you prove you can ring a doorbell, I introduce you to my ma's famous blacktongue pie."

That hits home, at least. So, the feral's food-motivated. No surprise there. It eyeballs her palm, clearly looking for the secret code to initiate the promise of blacktongue pie. Buckshot gives her open hand a shake. "You put your -- hand, out like this."

The beast has to turn on its side slightly and make some adjustments, but manages the maneuver, one scarred, gnarled-looking claw held up in a rough approximation of Buckshot's gesture. She decides she doesn't trust it to hold her hand without crushing it just yet, so she clasps one of its long claws in her hand and gently shakes it, once, up-down. "Deal."

Strawfoot comes out of the front door to stand on the porch as Buckshot rides up and dismounts Rotgut just the other side of the mailbox. Buckshot makes a point to take Rotgut's reins in one hand and her hat in the other, and do her best to look contrite.

"I got your note," Strawfoot calls as Buckshot walks up. She's got her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, arms folded over to pin it in place against the nagging breeze. The shawl's embroidered with flowers and vines in a thread that nearly perfectly matches Strawfoot's own golden hair. She reaches up to pin a stray lock behind her ear and then her gaze hones in on Buckshot's face and the shiner swelling thereon. "Any-- what happened?"

"Caught up with an old friend," Buckshot says mildly.

"That the new way to say you should see the other guy?" Strawfoot says, coming slowly down the stairs to meet her. She has to hunch a little to get a look at it, brow furrowed with concern as she assesses the injury. "Your eye's swollen shut."

"Thank goodness I got the spare," Buckshot says, smiling at her wife's gentle fretting, "elsewise I'd pine away for want of seein' that lovely face."

Three days later, the eye's mostly back to normal. Buckshot stands at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, folding dough into submission.

Behind her, at their modest dining table, sits Strawfoot, transcribing a document for a client with slow, meditative strokes of her fountain pen. There's a large bowl of blacktongue peppers, already cooked and halfway to caramelised, sitting across from her on the table. The radio's on, low enough to be unobtrusive, weaving music between the scratch of Strawfoot's pen and the clink and clank of Buckshot cooking. The current song dies down, to be replaced with the voice of the Ryder, smooth and low, and Buckshot finds herself cocking an ear to hear him say, And now, may we all be so kind as to welcome our guest today--

The doorbell rings.

Buckshot pauses mid-fold, certain she did not hear that. Gotta be one of them radio studio illusions. She looks up from the counter but doesn't turn around, just listens intently.

Behind her, Strawfoot says, "Was that--?"

It rings again. Buckshot drops the dough in her hands and turns just as Strawfoot sets her pen down and gets up. "I'll get it." Buckshot watches her go, listening to her mutter to herself about visitors right before suppertime, and feels her mouth open a little too late to say no, no, she'll get it instead.

She wipes her hands hastily on the towel slung over her shoulder and hurries after Strawfoot, just in time to hear her exclaim, "What in the actual hell," in the mildest amount of shock and fear Buckshot's ever heard from anybody.

Strawfoot's opened the door and then ostensibly leapt away from it, as any decent person would upon discovering their porch has been given over to a monster many times their own size. Coiled, or more like half-recoiled on the porch is, of course, the beast.

(Buckshot's nearly certain it identified itself as Grave the last time she saw it, though its accent got even weirder at the time, and anyway, she's not about to open her mouth and introduce her wife to a hulking monstrosity named Grave, of all things.)

The beast regards Strawfoot with open surprise, then its gaze slides off her and finds Buckshot loitering like a fool in the foyer, watching them both.

"It's that friend I mentioned," Buckshot says, before Strawfoot can ask. Her wife gives her a baffled look and then, slowly, realisation seems to dawn.

"I -- see," Strawfoot says. She looks out the door again, brows raised. "You didn't mention--"

"The monster part, yes. Darlin'," Buckshot says, holding both arms out, like she can't decide which one she's going to need to hold off in the next couple of seconds, "I apologise for my indirectness."

The beast, recovered from the initial shock, stretches its neck out toward the door again. Scales scrape against the frame as it noses its head in, regarding everything it can see about the inside of the house with a mix of open suspicion and frank curiosity. Buckshot sees its gaze land on her floured-up forearms and the cloth slung over her shoulder before its eyes flicker upwards to meet hers.

"Blacktongue."

#flight rising #riftlore longform #x: with teeth #this is silly & self-indulgent but a) i love that for me and b) i finished it!!!!#this has been sitting in my wips for ummm... months. a long time.#/rubs this story on the other wips to make them go faster

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nelson-riddle-me-this · 3 years

Note

linda seton from holiday (1938)!!

LINDA SETON from Holiday (1938)

Okay but the whole playroom aspect gave me a lot in the middle and was something I did not consider in a previous Holiday (1938) playlist I made for myself. Thank you Lucie! <3 <3 <3

"Love On The Run (Main Title)" - Franz Waxman

"Nice Work If You Can Get It" - Tommy Dorsey

"The Wedding Of The Painted Doll" - Earl Burnett & his Los Angeles Biltmore Hotel Orchestra

"Golliwog's Cakewalk (Debussy)" - Seong-Jin Cho

"Jimbo's Lullaby" - Seong-Jin Cho

"Circus Circus" - John Barry

"Aba Daba Honeymoon" - Debbie Reynolds & Carlton Carpenter

"What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" - Kay Kyser

"Change Partners" - Frankie Valdor

"Auld Lang Syne" - Guy Lombardo

"The Best Things In Life Are Free" - June Allyson

"Zing! Went The Strings Of My Heart" - Carmen Cavallaro

"I Got Rhythm" - Jimmy Dorsey

#thank you lucie #:D #holiday 1938 #katharine hepburn #character playlists

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angelamontoo · 2 years

Text

Oh what the hell, thoughts and headcanons for You'll find out

• So I'm gonna be ragging on this poor film pretty hard, so let's start out positive and say that all of the bad guys in this are great-especially Professor Fenninger. I just really enjoy how despite what a silly film this is Peter, Bela and Boris take their roles as seriously as they would in a more dramatic film

• Considering I associate this film with the general theme of obnoxious vintage funnymen making dumb jokes about how spoopy Peter Lorre and similar actors who were typecast as horror guys are, Kay kyser is actually surprisingly enjoyable in this film. I mean I wouldn't be against some of his screen time being handed over to the bad guys or anything, but his reactions to the weirdness going on are actually pretty funny, especially with Aunt Margo at the beginning

• Speaking of, What's the deal with Aunt Margo when we first meet her? Just in the middle of a trance like that. Idk it's not like we don't see her in that state later in the film aswell or anything, but I feel like it would've worked better if she was acting normal till someone brought up the supernatural or Elmer and then she starts acting all weird maybe? Also did she wanna fuck Kay kyser?

• Yknow that Jim Carrey looking guy? Ish kebabble? I. Hate. Him. Soooooo much. It is unreal. He fills me with seething rage with every move he makes. I hate his stupid bowl cut, I hate his stupid dog, I hate that thing he does with his eyes. Stop fucking making that face you fuck! You are being confronted by the supernatural, show some godamn respect! Why did you survive!?

• Speaking of, if there was ever a film where im glad we don't actually see the bad guys die, is it ever this one, lemme tell you. Never have I wanted the villains to have faked their deaths and come back to triumph over the heros more

• Considering we never learn Professor Fenningers real name, I'm a big fan of him potentially being another character Peter Lorre played. I've suggested Gimpy and Cairo before, but maybe even Abbott? Ofc the problem with the Abbott theory is that he's from a pre-hays code film so his death is a lot more explicit and harder to write off as fake

• However, if he's not another Peter character, I HC Professors Fenningers real name to be Moritz Veidt. Just cause I like the way it sounds

• So we can all agree that Fenninger and Mainwaring are fucking right? My personal HC is that they're together and Saliano and Fenninger used to be an item and Saliano isn't over him. Either that or they're both his exes and Mainwaring has the distinction of being the one Fenninger is still kind of attracted to

• I'm a fan of the whole sequence when Ginny is singing 'I'd Know you anywhere' it's a lovely song, I like her voice and I enjoy the simple visuals of it cutting from her to the three villains. It's my favourite musical performance in the film and definitely my favourite scene focusing mainly on one of the nonvillain characters

• Can we talk about Janis finding out that Fenninger was the man creeping on her and Ginny getting changed and being like "Oh thank god, it was only you :)" like...bestie. Yeah, she doesn't know he was only checking to see if she's alive cause he wants her dead, but I don't care how much you think mysticism is bologna, you should not trust some guy you've never met before if the first interaction you two had was him climbing up your balcony and standing outside the transparent door of a room where you were changing just because you're hoping he'll callout your aunts medium for being a fraud

• I remember thinking what a casual that dude Kay Kyser had on his show was for not knowing "hi ho hi ho" was from snow-white since 'we all grew up with that film', then I remembered that dude was an adult when snow-white came out and I felt very strange thinking about just how old the film I was watching really was

#youll find out #professor karl fenninger #judge spencer mainwaring #prince saliano #Janis Bellacrest #Margo Bellacrest #Kay Kyser #Ginny Simms #Ish Kabbible

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dykemisspiggy · 3 years

Text

First 10 songs that come up on shuffle!

Tagged by the glorious @hungry-hobbits (Sorry it took me an age to get round to it!)

Michael - Franz Ferdinand

All The Girls Love Alice - Elton John

Jingle Jangle Jingle - Kay Kyser

Mama Tried- Merle Haggard

Di Mi Nombre - Rosalía

Pruning Shears - The Amazing Devil

Two Minutes - The Amazing Devil

Nobody - Mitski

Amárrame - Mon Laferte, Juanes

Same Jeans - The View

As you can see my taste is very sexy and gay

Tagging @graduatedpillowmonster @rainybasketballpeachclod and @stressedenby (no pressure tho guys)

#tag games

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rapturerecords · 4 years

Audio

Song: Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition! / Jingle Jangle Jingle

Artist: Former members of Kay Kyser’s band - vocals by Harry Babbitt and Chorus

Conductor: Billy May (uncredited)

Record Album: Kay Kyser’s Greatest Hits

Record Label: Capitol Records ST 1692

Recorded: August 25, 1961

Released: 1962

Location: Appalachia Radio

Note: This stereo record features a very hard panning of the instruments and vocals. The female vocals, tambourine, and saxophones are on the left. The male vocals, percussion, trumpets, and trombones are on the right. More modern mixes have reduced this effect to be more centered.

From Julie’s perspective, this song will be about 160 years old. We just happen to be at the halfway mark right now.

I wish I knew the story behind this next song because it was written so long ago, but it's so appropriate pretty much every day in Appalachia. Here is "Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition!"

As for the story, it’s quite a long one with a couple of details still missing.

For the original story, step over here for the original 1942 recording made during the height of WWII and a naval chaplain uttering a quick prayer becomes immortalized in song.

For the next part of the story, as is not uncommon here, let me take you down the garden path 20 years later when the Swinging Sixties were trying to bring the swing bands back.

Billboard clipping from April 14, 1962 reviewing the newest Kay Kyser album, without Kay Kyser...

By 1950, bandleader Kay Kyser had largely retired from show business. A combination of the cancellation of his NBC TV show, arthritis, and the death of his mother led him to devote more time to his family and Christian Science.

Rising expenses with personnel and the various strikes and recording bans throughout the 1940s also contributed to the demise of the big bands after WWII.

Swing had swung.

A selection of album covers from Capitol Records between 1955-1961 of artists and bandleaders re-performing their hits in newly recorded hi-fi and stereo. Note the similarities in cover designs.

The end of the war brought changing tastes, but also new technology. The newly invented vinyl long-playing record (LP) could hold up to 22 minutes of uninterrupted music per side compared to the standard shellac 78′s 3 minutes per side. Then came the advent of the stereo record where stereophonic sound could come out of two speakers at the same time to give the feeling of hearing a live orchestra right in your living room. Trying to capitalize on the new stereo music invention, Capitol Records invited bandleaders to recreate their big bands of the 1930s and 1940s in hi-fi and in stereo. Dozens of freshly manufactured multi-track tape recorders whirled (a far cry from recording on wax discs to make masters) and took down the hits of Harry James, Benny Goodman, Guy Lombard, Stan Kenton, Glen Gray, Freddy Martin, Fred Waring, Charlie Barnett and many others. 20 years later and their hits would have that fresh new stereo sound.

To the modern ear, this early stereo effect can be off-putting and exaggerated with instruments on one side and vocals on the other. Recording in stereo was still in its infancy and the novelty was often too great to pass up.

In 1961, Capitol approached Kay Kyser for a new album. He declined after having being out of the music business for 10 years, but did not object to former members bringing the band back together.

Photos from the recording session from the back cover, left to right: Gloria Wood, Harry Babbitt, Ginny Simms, Ish Kabibble, Sully Mason, Trudy Erwin.

And so, Babbitt, Michael Douglas, Erwin, Ish, Jack Martin, Mason, Simms, and Wood rejoined in the famed recording studios at the Capitol Records building on Hollywood and Vine for several sessions in August and September of 1961.

Though not all of them played instruments, each lent their voices to recreate their hit songs on various tracks complete with falsetto from Ish Kabibble and Sully Mason.

Cover art illustration for the Capitol Records albums Kay Kyser’s Greatest Hits and Jimmy Lunceford in Hi-FI by Jon Jonson. Neither were present for the recording of the new albums (Lunceford had died in 1947 following a collapse). Compared to contemporary photos of the bandleaders, perhaps Mr. Jonson has stylized the covers a bit with cleft chins. Billy May also recreated the orchestra for the Lunceford album.

For this Kay Kyser album, famed Capitol arranger Billy May is believed to have conducted the orchestra for this presumably filled with more session musicians to fill out the big band.

He is uncredited on the sleeve. The Lunceford album also moved his conducting credit to the back cover.

The track listing for the album is as follows with the addition of the original recording dates:

Side One:

Ma (He’s Making Eyes at Me) [Columbia 35411, 1940]

Woody Woodpecker [Columbia 38197, 1948]

Why Don’t We Do This More Often [Columbia 36253, 1941]

Three Little Fishies [Brunswick 8358, 1939]

The Old Lamplighter [Columbia 37095, 1946]

Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition! [Columbia 36640 , 1942]

Side Two:

Who Wouldn’t Love You [Columbia 36526, 1942]

Playmates [Columbia 35375, 1940]

(I Got Spurs) Jingle Jangle Jingle [Columbia 36604, 1942]

Strip Polka [Columbia 37962, 1947]

Pushin’ Sand [Columbia 36676, 1942]

Thinking of You [Columbia 36106/Brunswick 8320, 1939]

As Columbia Records retains the bulk of the Kay Kyser catalog, it is curious that the end credits for Fallout 76 mention using the Columbia version even though other Capitol Records songs have been licensed. Perhaps the licensing fees are going to the wrong company for the wrong version.

As for differences between the Capitol and Columbia versions the overall tone is different in a way that’s admittedly hard to describe. Perhaps on the phrase “...son of a gun of a gunner was he. Shouting...”, in the original 1942 Columbia version the line is shouted loudly, but the 1962 Capitol Records version rather weakly shouts “shouting” in comparison with the male voices almost doing a voice crack. For the track on “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” Harry Babbitt is credited this time as the lead vocal role, perhaps weakly shouting. In general, the entire song is sung as a chorus. Ish Kabibble (trumpet), Jack Martin, and Sully Mason (saxophones) are also present on both recordings serving double duty on instruments and vocals as needed.

Trudy Erwin was also present at the original July 31, 1942 recording session.

Michael Douglas, Ginny Simms, and Gloria Wood were not at the 1942 recording session, but had sung with the Kay Kyser orchestra on other sessions and likely provided the backing vocals on this Capitol Records session as it is a rather loud track.

Kay Kyser himself is not present. While Stan Freberg did imitations of the “Ol’ Professor’s” voice for this record, he did not make an introduction for this track.

There is unfortunately very little else about the recording session that seems to have survived. In an interview with Harry Babbitt’s son, Chris, he recalled attending several of the recording sessions and recognizing more former band members, but he was too young to remember their names.

The album was indifferently reissued in 1989 on cassette tape and CD.

The liner notes are more or less an exact copy of those found on the LP. The cover art was not modified to fit the cassette box. Both the CD and the cassette retain the extreme hard panning of the instruments. However, most of Stan Freberg’s song introductions have been removed and he no longer calls the vocalists by name in an imitation of Kay Kyser.

Listen to the original 1942 recording of “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition!” here.

Listen to the 1962 version of “Jingle Jangle Jingle” here.

#Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition #kay kyser #appalachia radio #fallout 76 #capitol records #lp

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