Maximum FF by Mark Evanier, Jack Kirby, Stan Lee &...Walter Mosley (?!?!?!!!!)

 

(Marvel, 2005) For the pandemic my big reading projects were consuming the entire series of Walter Mosley's Easy Rawlins books, and launching a read through of the full run of Jack Kirby Collector. So far I finished Rawlins (and started on the Leonid books), and I am up to issue 50 of the amazing JKC (hoping the pandemic ends before I get up to issue 80). Anyhow, with the only good parts of 2020 brain bouncing between in in Easyland and Kirbyville it was kind of jarring to discover the existence of this book. Upon first inspection this book-length reproduction of Kirby and Stan Lee's industry shifting Fantastic Four #1 seems to have some kinship with the Chip Kidd-desinged comics books which take familiar Snoopy or Batman imagery and embrace the familiarity while recontextualizing as art and cool and artifact and beautiful by making them bigger and bolder and newer and realer than we are used to seeing them on newsprint. However, the most important (to me, at least) element of Kidd's design is celebrating the printed comic or toy or board game as object, and luxuriating in the yellowing decay and wear and tear of enthusiastic spectatorship (I credit Kidd's influence with the public domain/easily licensed reprint boom that lets old comics look like old comics rather than washed out photoshopped messes or gaudily recolored anachronisms). Anyhow, the only place we get that element in this beautiful book is in the dustjacket which folds out to a poster of the FF#1 cover roughly the size of an Winnebego, which features on the flip side a reproduction of a complete, decayed, taped, yellowed copy of issue #1 (I had actually never seen all the ads despite reading a thousand reprints). Other than that designer Paul Sahre is taking the individual panels with crisp new coloring and blowing them up so that each page has has just half a, or one, or two panels. This is not a Pop Art excision, as the story is still to be read, but I definitely found myself reading it more slowly and appreciating the Kirby art's power much more than on previous readings. But what walloped me was the essay by Mosley. Granted, his 50+ books go beyond mysteries, with nonfiction, sci fi, cultural criticism, etc, and he made a couple comic book references in the Rawlins books, but this still took me by surprise. It seems that Mosley bought an early FF issue in the 60s as a kid and has been devoted since (the crappy copy on the inside dustjacket is his), but in recent years felt a disconnection which he defeated when he began scanning and blowing up panels to a huge size which opened his comic fan third eye and let him see his old favorites in a profound new dimension. This book was his concept and it is a triumph. The other essay in the book is JKC star columnist (and Kirby assistant and Garfield cartoon kingpin) Mark Evanier, recounting his detective work about the FF#1 inker (which he'd been working out in Collector issues). I may have never stumbled upon a book as in tune to my converging interests as this one. The book cost $50 originally, is easily worth $100, and I got it for $20, so please find yourself a copy, you will treasure it. Possibly not as much as me after consuming 14 detective books and 4000 pages of Kirby worship, but maybe next pandemic you could go my route.

DICK ALLEN REMEMBERED! Fan Interference - A Zisk Anthology

(Blue Cublicle, 2013) If you can find a copy of this great collection of idiosyncratic takes on baseball fandom, grab it. What follows is my piece on Dick Allen's #1 fan that appears in it, one of my favorite interviews I've ever done. Thinking of the late great Dick Allen, amazingly on the precipice of the Hall of Fame, with only a little thing like a global pandemic keeping a committee from enshrining him, I am also thinking of the the living Ziff Sistrunk (who made the news this year by prominently making his way into the coverage of Blago's return home after his Trump pardon). Please remember Allen's amazingness as you read this piece (which I could not find online anywhere and wanted to give folks a chance to read. It is from 2002 so I made a couple updates/edits):

Who Is Dick Allen? by Jake Austen

Richard Anthony Allen should be remembered as one of the greats: he hit over 350 home runs, had over 1,000 RBI, and was the decisive AL MVP in 1972 when he led the league in home runs, RBI, walks, and slugging. Instead, when he is remembered it is often in a negative light, based upon his incendiary chemistry with the fans and press. As Richie Allen he slugged for the Philadelphia Phillies from 1963-1969, where the notoriously brutal Philadelphia sports fans had it in for him.  (These are fans that historically have booed Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Beyonce.) When he came to the American League he found a home with the Chicago White Sox (along with a new name—his experience in Philadelphia was so bad he insisted on being called "Dick" instead of "Richie."). He was a fave with the royal family of Chicago, Mayors Daley I and II, and as one old joke goes, "Who was the first black manager is baseball? Dick Allen, he ran the White Sox from 1972-1974." On the other hand, the press didn’t cotton to his unusual habits (he didn’t practice with the team, he smoked in the dugout, he didn’t give interviews) and the notoriously frank Sox announcer Harry Carey gave him hell, declaring, "Dick Allen has a million dollars worth of talent and 10 cents worth of brains."

Well one man is trying to right the injustices Dick Allen suffered, and that man is Ziff Sistrunk, Dick Allen’s #1 fan. We had a chance to talk with Ziff, and this is how it went down:

Who is Dick Allen?

Ziff Sistrunk: Dick Allen was a famous baseball player from the ‘70s. He was a person who was an example of the true American spirit of independence and freedom...a free spirit. He was a man who had tremendous power. Essentially, the Black Babe Ruth.

When did you become interested in Dick Allen?

I was a bat boy for him in the '70s. In those days they had contests, and I wrote a letter to the Cubs and White Sox, "Why I Want to Be a Bat Boy." I won the contest based on my letter and become the White Sox bat boy from 1973-1974. I was the first Black bat boy in Chicago history.

What is your greatest memory of Dick Allen?

Sparky Lyle on the mound for the Yankees, in front of a gigantic White Sox crowd. It was the second game of a double header, bases loaded, ninth inning. (White Sox manager) Chuck Tanner sent me in to the clubhouse to tell Dick Allen he was pinch hitting. He was sitting out because his contract said he didn’t play the second game of a double header. He came out and hit a screaming line drive into the upper deck. Me and the trainer were jumping up and down, screaming and hugging each other! Dick Allen brought excitement to Chicago sports (comparable to) Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen. Nancy Faust, the White Sox organist, plays a different song for every player, and for him she played, "Jesus Christ Superstar." I asked her why and she said, "Because he approached the plate like a king!"

Do you consider yourself his number one fan?

Not only do I consider myself his #1 fan (other than his wife and his mother who just died a few years ago...he was a mama’s boy), I am also the official president of the Dick Allen International Fan Club on Race Relations. It is called that because Allen was subjected to a lot of racism, and baseball needs to acknowledge what he went through if the sport is ever to achieve real racial harmony. When he played Triple A for the Little Rock (Arkansas) Travelers he was the first black baseball player in that state. When he first arrived the Governor and 200 fans met Allen at the airport with a sign reading “Don’t Niggerize Our Baseball.” When he went to the Philadelphia Phillies, the Phillies had never had a black superstar. On the field one game Frank Thomas, a veteran on the team who was near retirement, called Allen a “nigger son of a bitch.” Allen knocked him down and Thomas hit Allen on the shoulder with a bat. This was in front of fans, and the Phillies fans turned on Allen. The next day the attendance shot up, just to boo Dick Allen. They brutally rode him out of Philadelphia. He had to wear a batting helmet in the field because they threw things...nails...at him. His life was in danger. If you threw a nail at a player today you would go to jail. Baseball didn’t protect Dick Allen. Can you imagine the mental strain?  You can’t!

What does being his #1 fan entail?

What it does is it has me trying to correct the way that Dick Allen was painted as a bad person or troublemaker. He was an independent person who exercised the United States’ Constitution’s right to free speech. He chose the freedom to not speak to reporters, so of course they wrote bad things about him. I’ve been working on a documentary about Dick Allen for years, but it doesn’t have an end yet. I’m going to take my Dick Allen museum on the road and collect a million signatures, and present them to the baseball commissioner so that he will make a special proclamation. I think Dick Allen should be in the Hall of Fame.  It’s the only way his career could wind up and it’s the only way that baseball can achieve racial harmony in the sport. I was talking to (Allen), and he said he wouldn’t want to be in the Hall of Fame unless they also put me in as the first Black bat boy. That was a nice thing of him to say. You know, this is the 30th anniversary of the season he saved the Sox. They were going to move to Seattle or Florida before Allen doubled the attendance. I am trying to get the White Sox to retire his number and erect a statue. (Former Illinois Attorney General) Roland Burris said it best, he said I’m “keeping Allen’s legacy alive.” No, Channel 7’s Bob Petty said it best, “If Dick hadn’t been like Dick, then there wouldn’t be a Dick Allen!”

What’s the single act that you’ve done that best exemplifies your devotion to Mr. Allen?

I’ve collected over 500 pieces of memorabilia for my traveling Dick Allen Museum—his old uniforms, his bat, his glove.  I went to the Academy Awards to support Michael Clarke Duncan (nominated for The Green Mile) who I went to King High School with, and he told me he had Dick Allen’s glove, which I thought was strange. Allen only had two gloves. I didn’t know him and Allen were close. Duncan sent the glove to me and now it’s in the museum.

How would you like history to remember Dick Allen?

As one of the finest ballplayers to ever play the game. He ran like a deer, hit like Hercules, and dressed like the president. When everyone in the locker room had cotton drawers, he was walking around with silk drawers and a big Afro. They say he was a bad guy.  He never threw his bat, never argued with the umpire.  His mother raised him to be at peace with himself and to believe in God. The hostility he was subjected to was unfair. But he went through these things so others wouldn’t have to. Ballplayers are murdering people now, and Dick Allen is supposed to be bad. Yes, he didn’t like playing the second game of a double header, he didn’t go to spring training or take batting practice. He wasn’t perfect; once he had three homers and six RBI and had given the team an eight-run lead in the seventh inning and asked the manager if he could go. He went to the racetrack, and the team lost the lead and the game, and the reporters saw him at the track, so you can imagine how they let him have it. But ballplayers are murdering people now! He wasn’t a bad guy, just a rebel, an independent, free spirit.

How would you like history to remember Ziff Sistrunk?

As a person who stood for what was right in Dick Allen’s case, who put this in front of his own career. This isn’t about racism, it’s about racial harmony. We’re still not over Jackie Robinson. As long as baseball looks at Dick Allen as bad there will never truly be racial harmony in the game.

   

The Ones CD/7"/pins set

 

(Rerun, 2014) There was a joke on the National Lampoon radio show that went something like,What is the #1 hit in Canada? Whatever was the number one hit in the US 6 months ago. This amazing collection documenting the late 70s Milwaukee band Ozone (not the Zone brothers band), a/k/a The Ones, seems to indicate that in Wisconsin the lag is a little bit longer. Somehow this teen renegade aggressive edgy spirit-of-punk-rock band seems to have missed everything recent going on in London and New York and instead got really excited about new bands like the Stooges and MC5. And did their Midwestern proto-punk godfathers proud! Which is to say that this bag set (a 45 repress of their incredible 1979 single "Short Dress" b/w "Tightrope" - the latter of which can be seen rattling a Milwaukee telethon on Youtube ,  a CD of 16 raw and rad rehearsal and live tracks. and some pins) makes a compelling argument to put these heavy hitters in the Cream City HOF with the Haskels, Die Kruezen, Blue Ribbon Pub Cheese Curds, Jeffrey "Hack Man" Leonard's sleepy-eyed smile on his 1986 Topps baseball card, and Lenny and Squiggy (RIP). 

Make Some Space by Emma Warren

(Sweet Machine Publishing, 2019) Hopefully as a music and culture fan you will get a few opportunities during your life to enter spaces that feel hard to believe - spaces where ideals and aspirations and even fantasies about creating a communal physical zone where art and expression and fellowship and a kind of ethereal cool that transcends fashion and trends (while often embracing them) thrives. Places like that often seem transient --  how can such  a thing survive in the realm of culture cannibalism and corporate capitalism? But even if you only get to enjoy it for one month or one night or one song, what it does for your soul is huge. Warren found such  a space in London's Total Refreshment Center, a marginally legit arts hub/recording studio/practice studio, and music venue where DJ parties alternated with live music nights that brought together thrillingly innovative young jazz musicians (with some notable Chicago artists making appearances). Combining elements of oral histories with a cultural critic's musings about the meanings of such space, and with thorough research about the Century-long history of the building, going back to its industrial origins, the writer takes their role as documentarian seriously and passionately. Most impressive is a coda where Warren explains how she tracked down the info, conducted the interviews, and financed the book's printing, demystifying the process in  hopes to encourage similar documentation of these too often ethereal moments in culture.

The Story of My Scab #10

 

(xxxwwmxxx@gmail.com, 2019?) Mw. McCurtin is one of the absolute best of the army of genius artists contributing to Roctober, and I am grateful and surprised every time I see something new from him. His drawings are richly beautiful, chaotically powerful, absolutely emotional, and super weird without suffering from any of the artifice, airs, or attitude often associated with hipsterism or intentional underground-ism. This art zine (which also had some buttons and stickers) has every inch jam packed with drawings of monsters, machines, musicians, and even coverless cassette tapes which all feel like fascinating, soulful characters. Like Charlie Brown's criteria for a Christmas tree, this masterpiece redefines "sincere."

All Hack by Dmitri Samarov

 

(Pictures and Blather, 2020) A few years back I read writer/artist Samarov's first collection of stories from his days as a cab driver in Chicago in the first decade of this Century. I missed his second book (which apparently had some bad mojo as far as distribution), and I had never seen his hand typed zines he did on this subject, so I was delighted to see a new beautiful, hardcover collection (of both volumes, all the zines, a selection of tweets taking notes on interesting rides, and related writing done after the second book), and borderline surprised that it was only $20. It is definitely interesting to learn about the ins and outs of the industry in the age of rideshares, when cabs seem like faxes (my no-credit card-having co-workers always paid friends cash to order Ubers rather than calling a cab, which they found inconceivable). Dmitry deals with predatory traffic cops, the whims of dispatchers, leased vehicles he hates (and loves), strange co-workers, arrangements for special needs riders, and particulars of where to eat, pee, and serve penance for wrongdoings. But the heart of the book is the vivid snapshots of the riders, many casually (or virulently) racist, and/or oddly open about their ethical deficiencies, but so many others delightful, fascinating, odd, beautiful characters, who reveal a lot (and leave a lot mysterious) during their short interaction. There is definitely some backseat fucking and drug deal adventures (and maybe a war crime or two revealed while discounting the cabbies ears), but more thrilling is learning about how interesting each individual in each corner of so many Chicago neighborhoods is, revealed by little trips to pick up a settlement check, deal with  a pet, or just go through a drive through for a burger. Samarov, an painter by training, says that interacting with these folks and contemplating life during these marathon shifts made him a writer. But for folks used to seeing his paintings at bars, him drawings bands at rock shows, and the thousands of aesthetic images he's made over the last couple decades, it is kinda interesting that while his written portraits are so vivid, his drawings of the riders are less so (understandable since his eyes were on the road). While not all of the people pics are evocative as you'd hope, where this book reaches the stratosphere is with the moody, magnificent ink washes of Chicago traffic, architecture, and the outsides of bars and businesses that were his whole world for 6 to 16 hours a day from 2003-2012. Some of the drawings of the people are intriguingly odd and ugly, but all of his cityscapes and auto view traffic portraits are all out beautiful. All hail this cab book.

Zisk #30, #31

 

(Zisk, 2020) Celebrating their 20th anniversary Zisk puts out a double issue that is really two issues and is definitely a crowning achievement. #31, the more regular ish, features Rev. Norb channeling Jack Kirby on the cover, making it by far the best cover they have ever printed. This issue features research, rantings, and really nice prose on what baseball fans call The Big 3 B's. Namely Buckner, Bob Dylan, and Bitching about all kinds of things you don't like about baseball (mostly of the usual statistical/rule change/commissioner stripe, but also a surprising knock on non-Dodgers teams honoring Jackie Robinson). But #30 is the big deal here, as they break format and just print a small book by Todd Taylor researching the tragic razing of homes owned by poor Mexicans in Chavez Ravine in Los Angeles, ostensibly to build public housing but after a bait in switch, making the Fountainhead dude look like Mother Teresa, they equate projects with communism and eventually just pay the Dodgers to take the land and a lot of money to replace everything and everyone there  with a privately owned park and parking lots. This, of course, necessitates bulldozing the last remaining homes after barely yanking the residents out kicking and screaming. It's a nasty and ugly and predictable tale, guest starring Fernando Valenzuela as the dude who eventually convinces Mexicans that it's OK to like the Dodgers. If your powerful baseball zine can make you feel like shit for going to  a baseball game, that's what I call a baseball zine!

Roy and the Devil's Motorcycle "Good Morning Blues"

(Voodoo Rhythm, 1996/2020) This archival (from either the 90s or Middle Ages, it is unclear) release is blues music if blues music means cursed spook-a-sonic-scape spellbook incantations made by ghosts that can only be listened to through a 1" transistor radio speaker that somehow has a tiny tube amp inside it. My world is always better with haunted house psyche drones as my soundtrack to I fully endorse playing this 24 hours a day where ever you go.

Dr. Demento "First Century Dementia

 (Liberation Hall) As this shitty year closes out I finally have a clear cut favorite record of the year. That the music is mostly a Century or more old proves how far we need to get away from 2020 to get to something good. Though it would be more properly titled "First Quarter Century Dementia" (as all the recordings are 1895-1923), this collection is one of the Doctor's best compilations, as any joke that is still funny after a hundred years definitely holds up. First up, I don't know what happened over the last few years with digital restoration, but I can't believe  how clean are rich these sound. Second up, I normally would be  critical of the same artists repeating over and over on a comp, but this time I think it gives context. Billy Murray, according to the Good Doctor, released thousands of records, so why not give him multiple slots on this, especially if it means we hear him do historical goofs on prohibition ("Alcoholic Blues") and the then-sturdiness of American cars ("The Little Ford Rambled Right Along") and animal eating, which was apparently a fad in 1914 ( "Fido Is A Hot Do Now"). And you can certainly have multiple cuts by Billy Jones if they are include such all-time greats as"Yes We Have No Bananas" and "Barney Google."  It's amazing how many of these records predict comedy/novelty records that were decades away. Telephones were pretty damn new in 1913 but Joe Hayman already understood that a one-sided telephone conversation was comedy gold (even if Bob Newhart would be the one grabbing the gold a half century later). Jones finds a treasure with his Steve Martin-predicting "Old King Tut." And Cal Stewart's "Uncle Josh Buys An Automobile" is the same kind of hick comedy Andy Griffith built his recording career upon. There are some familiar favorites here (Bert Williams' "Nobody," DeWolf Hopper's "Casey At The Bat," "The Okeh Laughing Record") but also some new to me, including a weird 19th Century recreation of a Shakespearean actor having a mental episode, and Ed Gallagher and Al Shean doing a Ziegfield Follies hit that is amazing simply because they sing their own names in a very funny manner. Dr. Demento's liner notes are great, reproductions of the 78 labels are lovely, and this record is a gem. 

One addendum I love Dr. Demento, and I  delight in the use of the terms Demento, Dementoids, and Dementites. However, I don't love it as much when he throws around the term "Dementia" in this age of Alzheimers awareness. I am on a mailing list and when I see that in the subject line I always get a little sad before I realize what it is.

Martin Mull "No Hits, Four Errors"

 

(Capricorn, 1977) I never fully got my fellow RISD alum Martin Mull's deal. He was definitely funny in everything but I didn't super connect with his albums and I felt I had missed something, in part because I never got to see Fernwood 2Night, which I was convinced was a lost gem by the way trusted comedy fans discussed it. Well, after we lost Fred Willard earlier this year I found almost every episode on Youtube and it was worth the wait, Mull's character's smarm and disdain and guilt-free  relationship with ethics were a delight. Revisiting his greatest "hits" I actually had some revelations about his musical comedy. On "Jesus is Easy" and "Normal" Mull wonderfully takes a WASP-y view of the counterculture, one that Jewish comics couldn't really take, which is that he can just go back to comfortable status quo whenever he's done slumming. A little less impressive is his take on racial matters, as his "The Blacks Are Giving Me The Blues" is just awkward, and his "Santafly," is which he does a fake 70s soul falsetto, is problematic not only because he is doing vocal blackface, but because there are plenty of actual, legit, similar Soul Christmas records on the R&B charts, the idea that this is a ridiculous novelty just shows how disconnected he was from the music he was trying to parody. Sure Cheech and Chong did the same kind of joke with "Basketball Jones," but it at least demonstrated that they really knew the music they were riffing on. But that aside, some of these songs are really pleasantly pleasing (especially "Licks Off  My Records" and "Eggs") so I'm mulling moving Mull up to the next tier of comedy greats.