My recording computer is once again on the fritz, this time without power. How is it that my 30 year old audio equipment works flawlessly for hours each day without a hiccup but my 1.5 year old computer keeps taking wet poops all over my nice rug? It’s going to be a little bit before I can get a new charger so I may throw up a few posts of albums that aren’t available on vinyl. Stay tuned!
Danny Elfman is the Evil King of the Gingers. This title affords him all sorts of red magic, charms and glitter powers. Since 1984 he’s been using his quartet of fetish dolls to perform terrible tasks to make life terribly good for him.
The first black kitty cat with the squiggly zipper stomach on the left landed him the gig of as soundtrack composer for every Tim Burton film ever made. It did this, of course, by breaking into Burton’s duplex in the middle of a full-mooned night. Once inside, little kitty found Burton and made fun of his silk pajamas well past the break of dawn. Burton’s spirit was quickly broken–he handed over full soundtrack rights for the next century to Elfman by mid-afternoon.
The other three, especially Skeleton Jack over there, wrastled Elfman composer duties for the theme song to The Simpsons. You see, 20 years ago Matt Groening was really into training Shetland Ponies for the show circuit. It was basically the only thing he lived for. He enjoyed doodling every now and then but it was basically ponies for life. That is, until one night, when the Ginger Trio arrived.
Well, you know the rest…they poisoned his pony, Mr. Trickets, and promised the antidote in return for a contract to a show he’d have to create. And not just a show, a cartoon with yellow people. Lots of them. Too many to keep track of unless you watched the show every week for 20 years. And somehow Groening fulfilled his end of the bargain and got the antidote. But the fetish dolls killed the pony anyway the next evening by Burger King overdose.
All right, fuck this.
All I can think about while writing is the little field mouse that died in my apartment this week. He didn’t even get the dignity of dying in a trap laced with peanut butter or anything. No, somehow he squeezed his tiny body into my box fan and lost his life to a great spinning electric monster he couldn’t possibly understand.
He escaped a Kentucky’s midsummer monsoon by finding a dry 19th century home. He even made it up to the second floor to assure he was totally out of harm’s way. Once he wiggled his way through what I assume was a heating duct he was clever enough to outsmart two dark cats. Keep in mind that these cats are accomplished mouse hunters; both trained in the jungles of Clifton.
And all I can think about is that dead, chopped up mouse and Danny Elfman’s lyrics from the song on this 12″: “Life’s been so good to me, has it been good to you? Has it been everything that you’d expected it to be? Was it as good for you, as it was good for me? And was it everything that it was all set up to be?”
Well, that mouse probably heard this album pumping through my abode right before he died. Sure, he might not have understood English but I know he felt the vibes…I just know it. And I can safely say that his life was not as good for him as it was for you, Mr. Elfman. You are such an asshole.
How many times have heard someone say,”Man, I would give anything to have been at so and so’s show show show.” Whether it’s some affluent hippy acquaintance willing to trade her Saab convertible for a few hours of muddy sex at Woodstock, your stoner buddy who would give his left nut to see Led Zeppelin in ’73 at Madison Square Gardens, or that one redheaded raver who’d gladly administer a beej to see Danny Tenaglia in Ibiza during the ecstasy revolution. Everyone has that one show they’d kill to have seen.
Well, this is one of those shows. Mr. Cash, The Man In Black, rable-rousing for a crowd of petty thieves, con men and murderers. What would it have been worth to peep this show? Would it have been worth a day behind bars in Folsom Prison? A month? A year? A spot on death row only to be pardoned by the Governor at the very last second? Well, take a read of Johnny Boy’s words here and have a good old think over it.
Folsom Prison Blues
The culture of a thousand years is shattered with the clanging of the cell door behind you. Life outside, behind you immediately becomes unreal. You begin not care that it exists. All you have with you in the cell is your bare animal instincts.
I speak partly from experience. I have been behind bars a few times. Sometimes of my own volition sometimes involuntarily. Each time, I felt the same feeling of kinship with my fellow prisoners
Behind the bars, locked out from “society.” You’re being re-habilitated, corrected, re-briefed, re-educated on life itself, without you having the opportunity of really reliving it. You’re the object of a widely planned program combining isolation, punishment taming, briefing, etc., designed to make you sorry for your mistakes, to re-enlighten you on what you should and shouldn’t do outside, so that when you’re released, if you ever are, you can come out clean, to a world that’s supposed to welcome you and forgive you.
Can it work??? “Hell NO.” you say. How could this torment possibly do anybody any good…..But them! Why else are you locked in?
You sit on your cold, steel mattressless bunk and watch a cock roach crawl out from under the filthy commode, and you don’t kill it. You envy the roach as you watch it crawl out under the cell door.
Down the cell block you hear a steel door open, then close. Like every other man that hears it, your first unconscious thought reaction is that it’s someone coming to let you out, but you know it isn’t.
You count the steel bars on the door so many times that you hate yourself for it. Your big accomplishment for the day is a mathematical deduction. You are positive of this, and only this: There are nine vertical, and sixteen horizontal bars on your door.
Down the hall another door opens and closes, then a guard walks by without looking at you, and on out another door.
“The son of a ….”
You’d like to say that you are waiting for something, but nothing ever happens. There is nothing to look forward to.
You make friends in the prison. You become one in a “clique,” whose purpose is nothing. Nobody is richer or poorer than the other. The only way wealth is measured is by the amount of tobacco a man has, or “Duffy’s Hay” as tobacco is called.
All of you have had the same things snuffed out of your lives. Every thing it seems that makes a man a man. Women, money, a family, a job, the open road, the city, the country, ambition, power, success, failure – a million things.
Outside your cellblock is a wall. Outside that wall is another wa. It’s twenty feet high, and it’s granite blocks go down another eight feet in the ground. You know you’re here to stay, and for some reason you’d like to stay a live.- and not rot.
So, for the fourth time I have done so in California, I brought my sh to Folsom. Prisoners are the greatest audience that an entertainer can perform for. We bring them a ray of sunshine in their dungeon and they’re not ashamed to respond, and show their appreciation.- And after six years of talking and finally found the man who would listen at Columbia Records. Bob Johnston believed me when i told him that a prison would be the place to record an album live.
Here’s the proof. Listen closely to this album and you hear in the background the clanging of the doors, the shrill of the whistle, the shout of the men…even laughter from men who had forgotten how to laugh.
But mostly you’ll feel the electricity, and hear the single pulsation of two thousand heart beats in men who have their hearts torn out, as well as their minds, their nervous systems, and their souls.
Hear the sounds of the men, the convicts all brothers of mine with the Folsom Prison Blues.
- Johnny Cash
>>>Click here to download Mr. Cash at Folsom Prison in 320 kbps MP3
| A1 | Folsom Prison Blues | |||
| A2 | Dark As The Dungeon | |||
| Written-By – M. Travis* | ||||
| A3 | I Still Miss Someone | |||
| Written By – -J. Cash – R. Cash, Jr.- Written-By – R. Cash, Jr.* |
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| A4 | Cocaine Blues | |||
| Written-By – T. J. Arnall* | ||||
| A5 | 25 Minutes To Go | |||
| Written-By – S. Silverstein* | ||||
| A6 | Orange Blossom Special | |||
| Written-By – E. T. Rouse* | ||||
| A7 | The Long Black Veil | |||
| Written By – -M. Wilkin D. Danny- Written-By – D. Danny* , M. Wilkin* |
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| B1 | Send A Picture Of Mother | |||
| B2 | The Wall | |||
| Written-By – H. Howard* | ||||
| B3 | Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog | |||
| Written-By – J. H. Clement* | ||||
| B4 | Flushed From The Bathroom Of Your Heart | |||
| Written-By – J. Clement* | ||||
| B5 | Jackson | |||
| Vocals [With] – June Carter Written By – -G. Rodgers – B. Wheeler- Written-By – B. Wheeler* , G. Rodgers* |
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| B6 | Give My Love To Rose | |||
| Vocals [With] – June Carter | ||||
| B7 | I Got Stripes | |||
| Written By – -C. Williams – J. Cash- Written-By – C. Williams* |
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| B8 | Green, Green Grass Of Home | |||
| Written-By – C. Putnam* | ||||
| B9 | Greystone Chapel | |||
| Written-By – G. Shirley* | ||||
There’s a 1993 Deep Jewel Green Pearl Metallic Mercury Grand Marquis that parks on my quiet Covington, KY street. On the back of that Grand Marquis there’s a bumper sticker. It isn’t very big; only about 2/3 the size of your normal tail treatment. In red font on a black background it says “REINSTATE HANK” on the top and “THE OPRY HAS SINNED” on the bottom.
That Grand Marquis is my spirit animal.
>>>Click here to download the cornerstone of Country & Western.
Tracklist
| A1 | Your Cheatin’ Heart | 2:38 | ||
| A2 | Jambalaya | 2:47 | ||
| A3 | Lovesick Blues | 2:42 | ||
| Written-By – Cliff Friend , Irving Mills | ||||
| A4 | Half As Much | 2:39 | ||
| Written-By – Curley Williams | ||||
| A5 | Cold, Cold Heart | 2:42 | ||
| A6 | Hey, Good Lookin’ | 2:35 | ||
| B1 | Why Don’t You Love Me | 2:23 | ||
| B2 | Wedding Bells | 2:52 | ||
| Written-By – Claude Boone | ||||
| B3 | Kaw-Liga | 2:33 | ||
| Written-By – Fred Rose | ||||
| B4 | So Lonesome I Could Cry | 2:43 | ||
| B5 | Ramblin’ Man | 3:00 | ||
| B6 | Honky Tonkin’ | 2:40 | ||
I have to admit that I was disappointed with Daft Punk’s last LP, Human After All. I know that Discovery was a really, really tough act to follow but I was still hopeful they’d fill my dreams with 4 more years of hentai fantasies. And maybe this sounds like a gripe that’s too little, way too late. So sue me, again, and this time you’ll end up owing me money. Don’t blame me, blame our broken judicial system.
Samples were the Shayne Graham of the last album. Now, let me stop everything right here. I don’t want you thinking that I’m against samples, because I’m not. If I may say so: au contraire, mon frère (Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalter would probably say that because they’re French!)
I’m all about samples. Daft Punk just dropped the baton, leaving the funk for Justice to grab with a clear line to the Slush Puppie vendor. But I’m still bummed that Guy and Thomas just dropped Le Groove. It’s not that the samples were bad. They were actually pretty good picks. But they didn’t do anything with them. It’s like a chef allocating the perfect lamb chop from a butcher and then placing that big, bloody, uncooked slab of wooly bully on your plate and saying, “Dig In.” You gotta prep, sucka!
Just take a listen to the next to two songs here. If you have the time give Robot Rock a good, full listen. Experience its repetitive beats with little variation.
Now take a listen to “Release the Beast” by Breakwater from 1980.
Notice any….similarities?
It’s basically the same damn song, although Breakwater’s original is a better musical representation of my mylar glove filled with testosterone stuffed inside of a black velvet glove.
LUCKILY Daft punk released 12″ remixes of the songs from this album. In my not-so-humble opinion I feel that one of these Robot Rock remixes, especially the Soulwax Remix, should have taken the original LP spot. Soulwax took the original sample and made it something truly unique instead of just adding “ROCK, ROBOT ROCK. ROCK, ROBOT ROCK” over and over. It’s something clever, something catchy, something you’d hope to meet in a metallic bikini on a spring morning along the Uruguayan coast. Just take a listensee to the next vid and download the damn thing.
>>>CLICK AND DOWNLOAD THE BEST VERSIONS
This is the album that made me think I wanted to visit the UK. Well, not this actual 12″, but the LP that this 12 was derived from. I bought this 12″ a few years after I bought the original in high school. Sue me…joke’s on you, I’m broke.
For a split second it seems like a good idea, vising the Cream Isle. After all, Britannia rules the waves! Wait, can they really do that? Is their science so far ahead of ours? We can’t even clean oil, albeit millions upon trillions of gallons of oil, from our waves. Yet somehow they are able to force the foaming sea to bring millions of Britons breakfast in bed each and every morning.
Rule, Britannia!
There really aren’t any perks to visiting England. It’s not like you can hang out for a week on one of their fabulous beaches. You can’t visit their quaint little alpine lodges. You can’t witness the splendor of untainted fauna roaming virgin countrysides. You can’t do none of that because none of that exists!
And do you know why? It’s because the United Kingdom is just a bigger version of New Jersey. There are a lot of weird-looking white people living there with no other place to go. So, in protest of their shitty luck, they’ve been forming unholy missionary positions for the past millenium and producing terribly ugly babies. And those babies have been killing off any wildlife, African Swallows included, they could get within their single-barrel shotgun sights. England, Wales and Scotland aren’t the shallow end of the gene pool…they are the trash compactor.
Instead of white trash they have "chavs".
But somehow this little island of misfit boy toys never fails to produce a steady stream of musical savants. And you know what, it kind of gives me the creeps. It’s not like these guys are being fostered in a culturally rich environment. The Beatles were from Liverpool, for Christ’s sake.
With less than 900,000 “Liverpudlians” within the greater city limits, Liverpool is less populous than Cincinnati. The only thing that ever came out of Cincinnati was 27th President of the United States William Howard Taft. He was a president so terrible that Teddy Roosevelt came out of political retirement to form a new political party in an attempt to knock Taft, Roosevelt’s former Vice President, out of office.
Nice pants, asshole.
So how, oh how, is it that this land mass crawling with cheeky monkeys keeps birthing killer bands? After listening to the song “Gomez In A Bucket (A Seaside Town Made Of Ice Cream, Slowly Melting)” I think I’ve found an answer both simple and mysterious. That, of course, is the little known existence of an unbelievably potent strain of Indian hash called “Symphalamajamjam”.
Everyone thinks that Gandhi was the reason India gained independence from the British. Non-violence my ass. No, it was because all of the Maharajas running the Indian drug trade got together and said enough was enough; those British bastards had hampered their sweet cheeba trade for long enough. So, in a bid to rid their dominion of the buzzkill wankers, the head Maharaja met secretly with GeorgeVI to let him in on a little secret.
This guy loved the doobage.
Boss Maharaja sais, “Look Georgey Boy, I don’t like you and you don’t like me,” he says. “You been floppin’ your stinky pikey feet all over my sweet subcontinental turf for too long. I want you gone and gone quick but I’m gonna make it real sweet for you, see?”
Boss Maharaja leaned in real close to George VI. It looked as if he would kiss George on the brow, but he resisted.
“This here Symphalamajamjam is gonna make all your people real good at the gee-tar. One toke and they will be just as good as the Beatles, maybe better.”
“Why in the bloody hell would I want my subjects acting like insects, blub blub blub,” said a moistening Charles.
“That’s not important, my man, that’s not important,” said Boss Maharaja. “What is important is that you take this little brick of sticky wicky home along with these seeds. Every street and alley in London will be like a god damn Gilbert and Sullivan convention. You dig?”
“No, but your turban is very convincing.”
And that’s how Gomez came to produce this 12″ in 1999.
Click here to download We Haven’t Turned Around and all the fixins’.
| A1 | We Haven’t Turned Around | 6:30 | ||
| A2 | Flight | 3:30 | ||
| A3 | Rosemary | 4:51 | ||
| B1 | We Haven’t Turned Around (X-Ray Version) | 3:16 | ||
| B2 | Gomez In A Bucket (A Seaside Town Made Of Ice Cream, Slowly Melting) | 10:02 | ||
| B3 | Emergency Surgery | 2:18 |
Torrential thunderstorms and close calls with tornadoes rocked Cincinnati this past week. Unfortunately, the skies are once again deep blue with a spattering of fluffy white clouds. As such, I felt it appropriate to upload an album which brings us back to the good old times of flash floods and hydroplaning on Route 50′s blind bend outside of Turkey Bottom. Rainbabies and splishsplashers alike, please enjoy a “Totally New Concept In Sound.”
I also felt that this is a good album to showcase what exactly vinyl ripping programs like Audacity can do to help remove the clicks and pops from well-loved discs. I bought this album at Shake-It Records for $1.99. It’s seen its share of turntables and accrued a king’s ransom of grime and scuffs over the past 36 years. Disc 4′s slutty past makes it a perfect candidate for my celebrity makeover.
The first step I always take with dirty, naughty little discs is to give them a nice bath using a synthetic fiber paint brush, mild dish or hand soap and lukewarm water. I make a soapy water solution in a small bowl and apply it heartily to the brush. Then, I use said brush to gently scrub the disc in the direction of the grooves. I take as much care not to scrub too hard and add anymore scratches. Next, rinse thoroughly. Finally, I dry it all off with a microfiber hand mitt I bought from Big Lots. Don’t waste your money on magic disc solvents, my friends. It will only lead to heartache.
Next, I pop the bad boy on the SL-10 and record. There’s a whole lot of hulabaloo that happens here but I’m going to keep that private. Some secrets are just too delicious.
Once the slippery, exhausted digital copy gets onto Audacity I take a listen and look-see to see how many of the violent offenders remain. Here’s a visual of what the sound signature of this disc’s second side looks like fresh off the spinner.
What happens next is a bit of voodoo magic. There’s a little de-clicking mechanism on Audacity that takes most of the fuzz out of records. The only catch is that if you set the parameters too aggressively on the de-click it will take some of the fidelity out of your recording. So, you have to balance what you find acceptable with clicks and what sound you’re willing to lose in order to have a clean disc.
I’ve been through a fair amount of de-clicking sessions and think I’ve found a pretty decent balance between cleanliness and bangin’ sound. Here’s a pic of the sound signature Side 2 has after going through the Audacity de-click process.
You’ll notice that there are still a few spikes on the register, especially toward the end. Even using the most ferocious setting on the de-click tool some little blips will always be present from the original record. In most cases they look much worse on the visualization than they sound when listening. It’s really all subjective; some will say you should leave every click because it keeps the soul of the record. Others demand you clean that shit up…it’s gross and you’re going to stain the carpet.
I like to go on a case by case basis on when I should ”fix” a disc and how many pops I like to remove. Usually I find that the discs I want to clean up the most benefit the least from using the Audacity software. That’s just how things work sometimes.
There’s a lot I’m leaving out here about the actual conversion process but I just wanted to basically show that it’s somewhat possible to clean up your soiled discs. But don’t get your hopes up about removing the effects of that killer scratch from your Doobie Brothers album. You shouldn’t have gotten drunk and started throwing license plates around in the first place, idiot.
>>>Click here to download Environments Disc 4
| A | The Psychologically Ultimate Thunderstorm | Running Time: 30:54 | ||
| B | Gentle Rain In A Pine Forest (Synthetic Silence) | Running Time: 35:28 |
There are now over 100 albums on Rebuilt Tranny’s Rat Rod Record Exchange. Instead of celebrating I’m going to hand over a sad album to the internet community. I’ve lost so many hours uploading the Rainbow Goblins Story, countless Daft Punk records, cacophonous machinery, and too - many – remixes.
I could have spent all of that LP-twirling doing something worthwhile: watching Red Dwarf episodes on Netflix.
British Sci-Fi Comedy is the only reason to live.
But before I digress, let’s get back to the actual subject of this post for just a second. Nick Drake, English folk rock extraordinaire, also felt like he was in a life filled with waste. Despite albums filled with tonally rich yum-yums, he continually failed to sell more than a few thousand albums for each release.
No one really knows why he couldn’t push units. Some say it was because he hated performing. Others say it’s because he avoided interviews at all costs. And then there are those who point to the fact that he was never, EVER captured on video.
But I know the real truth.
Nick hugged the electric cactus by overdosing on antidepressants 14 years before Red Dwarf even hit the air. He never got to see the pinnacle of British television. He never got to see how cats would evolve 3 million years in the future (they turn into humans with sharp canines, James Brown dance moves, and impeccable taste in Nudie-style suites.) He only had Dr. Who…and his suicide-enducing scarf.
Seriously, kill me now.
So, I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad about my lot. I do feel fortunate I had the opportunity to see that episode where Lister became impregnated by the female-alternate-universe-version of himself. That was bloody hilarious!
Maybe if Nick had witnessed the comedic gold presented in the following clip we’d still have him with us today.
I’m just be glad I’m still kickin’, my record player is still spinnin’, and I haven’t fried my new hard drive during the hours of conducting the vinyl-to-MP3 train.
I hope to bring another 100 albums online in the next year and then 100 more after that.
This album is a reminder that you should always be thankful for what you have and remember, there are always lots more juicy tunes just a click away.
>>Click to download Bryter Layter
Tying down the sound that Tobacco uses on this album can be a bit of a challenge. There are so many analog, digital and motocicletic manipulations of good, church-going sounds. I think the cover really is a good place to start. It’s fair to liken it unto a journey untertaken by big bowl of sweet meat beats while being chewed and gnashed by a muscley Pat. Manlady ate all sorts of Legos and carpet earlier in the day so shit gets hairy once everything arrives in Gullet Town.
But I think the best way to describe this is by remembering the first time you tripped some serious balls on shrooms. You remember, you were camping on the bank of the Great Miami River just outside of Harrison, OH. It was early summer and you could hear Edgewater Dragstrip from just outside of the valley. Those blown Mustangs and funny cars sounded like prehistoric beasts fighting for a giant rack of Fred Flintstone ribs.
It also happened to be the weekend of Gravelrama on the opposite side of the river in Cleves, OH. Gravelrama celebrates the tradition of Rednecks getting loaded, playing loud hillbilly music and ramping their 4-wheelers up and around a gravel track in what they call a “race”.
Between the dragstrip and the good ol’ boys’ convention it sounded like World War 3 had broken out over the baby blue airspace blanketing the protected Ohio watershed.
So it wasn’t surprising that soon after you downed your 1/8th ounce of funky cowpoop mushies the sounds of the ‘Rama took you by the cerebelum. Not in the way that a Geico commercial will hold your attention for 30 seconds and then immediately leave you playing the husk of a man role on Law & Order. No, because the thwomp el shroomhammer laid on you that early summer evening knew no time. You were locked in the midst of the nothing, staring into a tiny cesspool on the Great Miami, observing the mosquito breeding ground and just knowing what they were up to. You just knew.
Suddenly, you heard the ominous beat of a drum, the kind primitive people construct from a hollowed tree stump and stretched hide of animal skin. It became louder and louder, emanating from around the bend…somewhere off toward I-74. And then it appeared, a viking ship, a real life viking ship curling around the bend in all its awesome splendor. You could see the men rowing their long oars in tempo with the terrible pounding of the deerflesh drum. Onward to pillage the awesome treasure of your recently discovered bloodsucker fucking ground. “You can’t have it!” you yelled. “Their diseases are mine!” And you stood ready for a fight, even if it meant tearing your brown Levi’s Action Slacks. But as soon as they rounded that tiny little bend in the supposed Great they were gone.
And it became quite apparent that everything you knew, even the 15-minute-old memory of that Wendy’s JBC, didn’t seem real anymore. You were transported to a scene that you’d only seen on television in the no man’s land of 80′s summertime Saturday programming. Crazy trees that whispered directions to an abandoned trailer at the fork in the trail you dared not trespass. Purple mists that sprang from the gravel, the dirt, thin air and your suspiciously dry palms. Your fellow campers grew three sets of eyes, two mouths, and the ability to spit fire representing every spectrum known, and unknown, to scientific man.
Eventually, you left your party and sat in the forest to think of time and all eternity. Roots and thickets of all races laughed, played and grew from every part of your being. You became a fully functioning, almost necessary part of the forest. If you left, your leafy green friends would lose all knowledge of man, and therefore, the upper hand. The forest’s understanding of empty fiberglass boat hulls, giant tractor trailer hubs, aluminum dishwashers, Appalachian sized mountains of beer cans would all be lost. The forest would again become retarded…no longer a participant in our ugly pissing game.
And then, out of nowhere, your slinky friend showed up. He was obviously lost in some sort of Very Old Barton trance. He saw neither here nor there and, therefore, did not see the Buckeye tree planting its vulgar root at the base of your skull.
So, standing before you and oblivious to your presence, or that of God, he removed his pants und underskins and exposed his soft pleasure to find divine relief from his bourbon laden insides . But, instead of a penis…long, short, crooked, tanned, stove-burned…there was a spinning paisley vortex in its place. Just a terrible choke of tie patterns laughing at the both of you; learning how to breathe and downloading the latest version of Powerpoint to your hard drives.
>>>Click here to download the best thing to happen to you since blue vinyl gloves.
Did you know that this is the composition that killed Michael Jackson? I mean, of course, long before he was Michael Jackson. Before Michael Jackson was Michael Jackson he was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Don’t believe me? Check out this list of irrefutable evidence set forth by “Ciarra” on the hard-hitting news site Lipstick Alley:
That’s right, a variety of pets. Only the yet-to-be-born spirit of the King of Pop’s influence could have convinced Mozert to maintain a variety of pets. He probably had iguanas. Maybe even a ferret…a really stinky one he found in a Hungarian cornfield.
Need more proof? The ULTIMATE proof?
“I’ve done a geometrical comparison between Mozart’s death mask and MJ. Aside from Michael’s reshaped nose and eyebrows, the facial geometry looks identical. I promise you this doesn’t work so neatly with, say, MJ and Beethoven!
(Or, for that matter, with the faces of Mozart and, let’s say, John Lennon.)” – Ciarra
You cannot fake facial geometry results. Can, not.
Brothers from a different century's mother.
Also, a scene from the film Amadeus, which portrays Wolfie composing his deathbed requiem opposite his supposed musicali mortali enemi.
