WHAT WOULD BLOWFLY DO?
Well, the Phelps crew has come and gone, we all got our collective queer panties in a wad, and then the whole scene was big, fat deflating balloon. It's clear that Santa Fe has nothing to fear from eight gap-toothed yokels caterwauling and randomly yelling at passing traffic. One guesses they yelled "God hates fag cars!" but who knows. In fact, the only group that seems to have taken any flak or gotten any attention out of the whole thing, if you'll be kind enough to note from SFR's
this week, is SFR. That's a whole other kettle of fish, but what interests me the most is the Phelps clan co-optation of pop songs or traditional patriotic songs, which the group changes, twisting them with some wack-job new lyrics. For instance, the words to "God Bless America" in the gnarled, creepy hands of the Phelpses, becomes:
God hates America!
Home of the fags
He abhors them
Deplores them
Day and night, all his might, all his days
From her mountains
To her prairies
To her oceans
White with foam
God hates America!
The perverts' home!
Clever.
What I want to know is, how long does it take the Phelps clan to come up with these bits of genius? What is their creative process? I picture them huddled around a desk, brainstorming: "I've got it! Instead of 'brave,' let's put 'fags!' as they munch on lo-fat Twinkies. Tempers flare as the night goes on: "Ya'll! We have got to finish this by the time we picket that fag funeral! I mean it!" It's like finals week at evil college.
More interesting, however, is that the sophomoric changing of lyrics puts in mind the subject of Blowfly, of all things. For those who don't know, Blowfly is the original ol' dirty bastard, a man who takes old classics, Christmas songs and soul songs and exchanges the usual lyrics for, uh, about the filthiest, dirtiest, stupidest words around. "Do the Twist," for instance, becomes "Suck my Dick." OK, not all that clever either. If the Phelpses are an evil, witchy band of threatening grownups, Blowfly is the opposite: He's a fifth grade boy, giggling at his school desk as he turns "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on my Head" to "My Baby Keeps Fartin' in my Face."
OK, I know that's
really
not clever. But I think the Phelps crew could use a little lightening up. My fantasy is that Blowflly drops from the sky in all his costumed glory, flanked by hot chicks on either side, smack in the middle of the Phelps compound. He gives the good reverend a big smooch on the cheek, then launches into "Spermy Night in Georgia." If we could then harness the power of all the Phelps' law degrees and Blowfly's sublime dirty genius, the world would be a better place.
SWELLING WITH PRIDE
Speaking of better places, Santa Fe is a better place now that the Swells inhabit it. The group has been around for a while, and they've finally finished a new disc,
The Name of the Game is Transmutation
. On it, you'll find an epitimol mix of post-modernity, when Bauhaus-type dirges can rest easily next to light, almost blues-y jangle-pop. The best cut on the CD is "Alamosa," in which singer Niomi Watts just slays you with a vocal style that owes as much to Janis Joplin as it does to any number of new millennium singers (the Gossip's Beth Ditto comes to mind). Over a meandering guitar track, Watts wails in one of those rare spaces that's both modern and, well, almost ancient, and she owns a sense of odd melody that belies her youth. The disc is on sale in the Border's "local" section. Pick it up, put it on, and put Phelps behind us.
