In this latest installment in Toilet Guppies' meticulous and exhaustive exploration of love in modern music, we've finally arrived at garage rock from that decade of love—the 1960s.
V/A: Teenage Lust Psych-out!—18 Far Out Love Freak-outs from the Garage [.zip]
Did you ever love someone so much it kind of hurt? Chafed around the edges of the old corazón a bit? Ever felt that intensity that blurs the boundary between pleasure and pain, whether it's your mind hopelessly in love with no way of controlling it (reality as unpredictable and fickle as it is), or whether it's your body pushed over that edge and climaxing with violent spasms and tremors? Sure you have, and I bet you didn't know what to do with yourself.
To alleviate the violence of emotion, perhaps you grabbed the nearest CD by some singer-songwriter waxing poetic about the dizzying heights and crushing pitfalls of romance. That was a mistake. It won't do you any good indulging in sentimentality. What you need to keep that crazy love from exploding into a mess of human emotions, sticky fluids and funky entrails is this compilation, designed by Sheik YerdiXXX for the express purpose of acting as a vent, keeping you somewhat sane while undergoing the psychosis of overly enthusiastic affection, whether you choose to dance or fuck to it to release the tension of ecstasy when bliss lasts longer than its usual brief flash. The human body can stand pleasure only so long at a time. You, my friend, need relief, release… fun!
The last half of the 1960s saw an explosion in amateur recordings, often in the form of quickly forgotten (if at all noticed) one-off 45s by a dizzying plethora of dilettante R&B rockers all named The something-or-others who, more often than not, were still in their teens—and almost exclusively males. Erect, bursting-at-the-seams, rearing-to-go boys in their hormonal prime, on the verge of manhood and of getting it on (or so they desperately hoped). Their usually badly engineered and poorly mixed tunes typically featured stomping drums, jangly fuzz guitars and the occasional demented scream, like so many sexually frustrated howls at the moon (and all that signifies—loneliness, lunacy, the tide, menstruation and all that). When the lyrics' subject matter was not bitter recrimination of some woman who didn't put up (or else put up too much, with too many other men), a typical theme was desire for a girl yet to be persuaded and mounted (the prospect of all that pent up love milk about to be pumped out, at last!) or the joy felt at the love, physical or otherwise, provided by this girl. The sexual frustration or elation (whichever the case) was such that the song's narrator would often proclaim, out of either impatient readiness or blissed-out gratitude, his true and undying love.
Somewhat rashly, one might say, as such hormone-fuelled proclamations seem to mistake lust for affection. But then writers of love songs often forget lust when they pen their ballads of seduction, slyly playing upon heartstrings instead (which in general is much more effective than appealing to just sex—declarations of mere horniness often being considered unsophisticated by the object of seduction). If love is one part lust and one part hope (and, as long as we're being honest, a pinch of need), lust is conspicuously absent from most love songs. So these inept compositions—lazily rhyming, as they often do, «girl» with «world», «fine» with «mine», «nice» with «spice» and «good» with «would»—are refreshing. They get down to the nitty gritty of love: simple, innocent—and expressed with your body. After all, lovers tend to usher in a new romance with rampant fucking. And should a lasting relationship be formed, with the lovers going through various ups and downs, enduring slumps and crises, then rediscovering their spark would, again, be marked by a whole lotta fuckin'. Ain't nuthin' unsophisticated about it, honey buns…
So forget tender ruminations of everlasting soulmating for now. Here are ecstatic expressions of the life force and the meaning of human existence in all its randy elation. Songs almost mystically joyous, with roaring guitars taking on decidedly erect shapes and the screaming, broken voices ejaculating lust for life—and pusy.
As Rick James once told Tracy Morgan: «Freaky-deekies need love too. Freaky-deekies need love, too…»
For all you love hounds out there, then, Toilet Guppies brings you a teen mix from old 'Dixxx; a various artists collection of scuzzy, fuzzbucket '60s punk songs, some of them rare even on CD comps, all revolving around romantic affection. Unhinged teenage ejaculations of love, to be precise. This guaranteed no-filler all-killer compilation of some of the best and most blistering love songs pre-cum pre-punk ever produced is a reminder to all that love needn't be tender and gentle, expressed in faint-hearted balladry. It can be hard and upright meets soft and yielding, and awash with warm and sticky bodily juices. Let that love (or E) cup runneth over! Besides, there's no affirmation of life quite like teenage trash explosion—snotty throats incompetently vomiting out lust for life and sexual frustration in equal measure. Yeh! Switch off your mind and give in to your hormones! Rock'n'roll! And if you have a loved one, grab her and go dancin'…
V/A: Teenage Lust Psych-out!—18 Far Out Love Freak-outs from the Garage [.zip]Did you ever love someone so much it kind of hurt? Chafed around the edges of the old corazón a bit? Ever felt that intensity that blurs the boundary between pleasure and pain, whether it's your mind hopelessly in love with no way of controlling it (reality as unpredictable and fickle as it is), or whether it's your body pushed over that edge and climaxing with violent spasms and tremors? Sure you have, and I bet you didn't know what to do with yourself.
To alleviate the violence of emotion, perhaps you grabbed the nearest CD by some singer-songwriter waxing poetic about the dizzying heights and crushing pitfalls of romance. That was a mistake. It won't do you any good indulging in sentimentality. What you need to keep that crazy love from exploding into a mess of human emotions, sticky fluids and funky entrails is this compilation, designed by Sheik YerdiXXX for the express purpose of acting as a vent, keeping you somewhat sane while undergoing the psychosis of overly enthusiastic affection, whether you choose to dance or fuck to it to release the tension of ecstasy when bliss lasts longer than its usual brief flash. The human body can stand pleasure only so long at a time. You, my friend, need relief, release… fun!
The last half of the 1960s saw an explosion in amateur recordings, often in the form of quickly forgotten (if at all noticed) one-off 45s by a dizzying plethora of dilettante R&B rockers all named The something-or-others who, more often than not, were still in their teens—and almost exclusively males. Erect, bursting-at-the-seams, rearing-to-go boys in their hormonal prime, on the verge of manhood and of getting it on (or so they desperately hoped). Their usually badly engineered and poorly mixed tunes typically featured stomping drums, jangly fuzz guitars and the occasional demented scream, like so many sexually frustrated howls at the moon (and all that signifies—loneliness, lunacy, the tide, menstruation and all that). When the lyrics' subject matter was not bitter recrimination of some woman who didn't put up (or else put up too much, with too many other men), a typical theme was desire for a girl yet to be persuaded and mounted (the prospect of all that pent up love milk about to be pumped out, at last!) or the joy felt at the love, physical or otherwise, provided by this girl. The sexual frustration or elation (whichever the case) was such that the song's narrator would often proclaim, out of either impatient readiness or blissed-out gratitude, his true and undying love.
Somewhat rashly, one might say, as such hormone-fuelled proclamations seem to mistake lust for affection. But then writers of love songs often forget lust when they pen their ballads of seduction, slyly playing upon heartstrings instead (which in general is much more effective than appealing to just sex—declarations of mere horniness often being considered unsophisticated by the object of seduction). If love is one part lust and one part hope (and, as long as we're being honest, a pinch of need), lust is conspicuously absent from most love songs. So these inept compositions—lazily rhyming, as they often do, «girl» with «world», «fine» with «mine», «nice» with «spice» and «good» with «would»—are refreshing. They get down to the nitty gritty of love: simple, innocent—and expressed with your body. After all, lovers tend to usher in a new romance with rampant fucking. And should a lasting relationship be formed, with the lovers going through various ups and downs, enduring slumps and crises, then rediscovering their spark would, again, be marked by a whole lotta fuckin'. Ain't nuthin' unsophisticated about it, honey buns…So forget tender ruminations of everlasting soulmating for now. Here are ecstatic expressions of the life force and the meaning of human existence in all its randy elation. Songs almost mystically joyous, with roaring guitars taking on decidedly erect shapes and the screaming, broken voices ejaculating lust for life—and pusy.
As Rick James once told Tracy Morgan: «Freaky-deekies need love too. Freaky-deekies need love, too…»
For all you love hounds out there, then, Toilet Guppies brings you a teen mix from old 'Dixxx; a various artists collection of scuzzy, fuzzbucket '60s punk songs, some of them rare even on CD comps, all revolving around romantic affection. Unhinged teenage ejaculations of love, to be precise. This guaranteed no-filler all-killer compilation of some of the best and most blistering love songs pre-cum pre-punk ever produced is a reminder to all that love needn't be tender and gentle, expressed in faint-hearted balladry. It can be hard and upright meets soft and yielding, and awash with warm and sticky bodily juices. Let that love (or E) cup runneth over! Besides, there's no affirmation of life quite like teenage trash explosion—snotty throats incompetently vomiting out lust for life and sexual frustration in equal measure. Yeh! Switch off your mind and give in to your hormones! Rock'n'roll! And if you have a loved one, grab her and go dancin'…
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