Funny $ / Last Friend's Gone

 The Workdogs are the hot, new blues sensation that has all of New York on it's ear. A two man rhythm unit employing the services of a third - replacable - instrumentalist, the Workdogs have cut a wide swathe across the contemporary music scene. Equally versed in rock, jazz, trash and noise as well as their acknowledged mastry of the blues idiom; the 'dogs are in high demand - not only for their legendary live performances but also as New York's premier rhythm section for hire.

 In spite of the Workdogs' phenominal popularity, little is actually known about Robert "HiRex" Kennedy. His name appears on the 1980 census three times - aged twenty seven - residing in Los Angeles, New York and Helena, Arkansas. Sources in these cities describe him variously and contradictorily.

 It is thought that Kennedy spent his teen years following the fabled "Dumb" John Gomer (Cosmar) who apparently was his first and only tacher. Gomer would play the blues but he would (or could) not sing them; perhaps this accounts for "hiRex's" idiosyncratic vocal techniques. Likewise his lyricism, in which verses have little logical sequence and may - as rumour has it - flow directly from his subconscious mind. Besides these many intangible nuances his work is spiked with vocal asides, topical references and other special effects that suggest the buffoonery of the Workdogs' live performance.

 Of Scott Jarvis we know considerably more. Jarvis' North Carolina Piedmont background is well documented. He himself often speaks fondly of his maternal great grandfather who is still something of a Piedmont legend for his drumming at most major local sporting events - especially baseball games. This, apparently, is the inspiration forJarvis' sobriquet: "Blind Frothin' Baseball."

 Sometime during his twenties, "Frothin" became aquainted with J.F. "Peck" Curtis and subsequently taught him everything he knew: the "controlled skid", the "hesitation recovery", the "stop immediately" and the "blues waltz" to name a few. Listening to his playing, one might think that he had set out deliberately to develop a style that could never be reproduced by machine - an all too common practice at the time. in fact, first person accounts confirm Frothin' Baseball's obsessive - some say superstitious - distrust of the newfangled technology.

 Perhaps this explains the Workdogs' shunning the recording studio in favor of live performance. It is said that the 'dogs will set up anywhere, anytime and do virtually anything to hold an audience's attention. Numerous stories and hundreds of "bootleg" tapes attest to this fact. Yet these two sides are currently the only Workdogs material available anyehere in print, a sorry situation that King Dog Bisquet hopes to soon rectify.

Roberta

From the minute you hear that lonesome whistle blow, Blues has got a hold of you and won't let go. From the Delta straight up the Big Muddy to Chicago, with short stops in Memphis and St. Lou, you won't quit 'till you get your hands on Roberta.

Everybody that's heard this record says that Roberta is the Workdogs' best, and you know that means that it has to be mighty good because they have made some knockouts. The 'dogs cry and weep out loud and do they ever make that rhythm shake and groan. "and How!" Nobody ever knows just what will happen when they are let loose with a beat, but it always is sure to be great.

When you hear those Workdogs chasing Roberta, you'll be caught dead in your tracks. Thirty years time is nothin' next to having to find that woman. No jail can hold you. Once Roberta's got you, she don't let go.

Here's a mighty good number too. Tarzan's got Blues that no ordinary mortal dare tackle - his gal is missing. A wonderful subject for another wonderful Workdogs hit. Hear all the details on Jane Gone. Excitement is no name for it.

Look what's up next. RobK's Money Crazy Boogie takes that old boogie thing and turns it inside out - it makes your feet itch and quiver to hot-foot it on the boards. Look out you don't wear out your kicks dancin' to it.

And then there's a low-down moanin' hit that's filled with originality and guarenteed to give your ears a big treat. Naked Giveaway tells a story that every man understands - big leg women and throwin' down.

That Charlie Patton chestnut Moon Goin' Down gets a real workout by the 'dogs and you do too. "Yes Sir!" Feel that beat taking you places you've never been before. You won't want to miss this one!

A Woman Is More Than The Box We Come In is more than you would ever want in a song. As they work the clever words - they really are good - and you hear every note clear and sharp, you'll stamp your approval on Workdogs and their Roberta disc. They've got everything you ever want to find in a record and every song is a sensation. You're in for a real treat when you hear this! See your dealer today!

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Haunted House Of Love

 We might almost imagine the Workdogs the most purely dedicated of all artists, for they go to astonishing lengths to maintain themselves in pathetic blues producing states. After a day of soul numbing manual labor, they are often up until the next dawn, leaving behind a trail of splintered glass, broken promises, shattered dreams and a string of ex-friends hungry for revenge. Although inordinately suspicious of all contractual agreements, they may have sold the rights to their entire catalog for a pint of whiskey, a deal they deny vehemently, even as the bar napkin bearing their signatures is waved in their faces. The morning after such an encounter they are full of rationalizations and tales of being cheated and swindled. By that evening their view of the latest misfortune has become a song - a song they will have forgotten in another night or two - and, as a matter of fact, neither Workdog claims to remember recording these tracks.

 Scott Jarvis is a dangerous drummer - an audience that demands little of him, receives little. If an audience is prone to laugh at bumbling, flashing antics, they'll get no more. Frothin' pays his debt to listeners a penny at a time, exhausting those who wait for a larger contribution.

 RobK is a griefer - "he makes grief for you and himself." He is victimized from all sides. He sees injustice in the fact that the police continually harass him for driving 20 MPH over the speed limit without insurance; that an auto dealer badgers him for payments on his '75 Chrysler; that musicians hound him in expectation of being paid for jobs they play with the Workdogs. Each of these instances has produced a complaint and a song from him and, however absurd the complaint, the song shows us a pain sincerely believed and felt.

 Together the Workdogs personality and their songs are one. Their is neither strength or nobility in this, but their helplessness and ingraciating humor engage us. They beg us to laugh at them, chortle an invitation to dance, then proceed to tell us they are sinking by degrees. Not to be confused with great bluesmen who express a deeper, universal sorrow, The Workdogs are a subtle variatin on the clown who shows us how fate deals him one pitfall after another. They are a distorting mirror, who's dominant image is of themselves, terribly weakened by life, shirking any real responsibility, able only to survive with an odd mingling of musical gift and cunning.

 If recordings present the best of the Workdogs, it is because the recording studio presents its own challenges: a limited time frame in which they MUST produce, a group of listeners who have heard enough of them to be bored, and my own air of preoccupation which fades only when they yield the best of themselves as poets, musicians, physicians, sorcerers and beast showmen.

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Workdogs In Hell

 When it became obvious that the Workdogs had no intention of honoring their contract to record a follow-up to their hit LP Roberta, and after repeated attempts to contact them, we at King Dog Biscuit uncovered the awful truth: the Workdogs were dead.

 Our grief was somewhat mitigated by the sudden resurgence in sales of Workdog product. And so I, Yves Bisquet,did what so many labels before me have had to do: scoured the vaults for something - anything - releasable by our deceased artists.

 What I found were two rhythm tracks, outtakes from their first demo, and some verbal sketches for a rock opera that I had proposed to them. Seeing them flushed with excitement from their triumphant lip-synching of the rock opera Tommy, I had opined that they should write a rock opera of their own. They embraced the idea but their restlesss nature led them elsewhere.

 From these meager beginnings came WORKDOGS IN HELL.

 I sent out the rhythm tracks in casette form to a vast number of ex-Workdogs sidemen, bandmates and friends requesting that they record an accompaniment. This was an audition by mail for personnel for a memorial Workdogs single to be laid over the old rhythm tracks. King Dog Biscuit was inundated with responses. Casettes of all types poured in from all over the globe: music, words, noise - an amazing outpouring of love. Meanwhile, my own detective work had paid off. I was able to locate a tape of a memorial service that had been conducted for the Workdogs and a sheaf of RobK's lyrics for the "rock opera." Included was a rather prescient piece entitled "Death of the Workdogs". I have polished it up and my newest discovery, Rock Hasbin, covers it magnificently on this recording.

 The idea of a single had to be scrapped - we now had too much material, most of it substantially better than anything the Workdogs had ever done. Budgetary reasons dictated that there be no new recording. Still my dreams of WORKDOGS IN HELL would not die.

 And so I, Yves Bisquet, spent the next year assembling the various pieces in the K.D.B. 4 track sound lab. Piece by piece it began to take shape - guitars here, saxophones there. From the memorial service I was able to extract Rev. Osterhaut's poignant eulogy and the splendid version of the Louvin Brothers' Satan Is Real that frame the work. At times, as I labored, it seemed that the songs were building themselves. At such times I experienced great joy: but there were darker times. Apparently under the spell of Dante, Rob imagined Hell as an extension of the worst aspects of life. It was a place of perverts, killers, dope fiends and sex addicts. Special rings were set aside for censors and guitar players - not surorising choices to those who knew the Workdogs.

 As the project neared completion, the smallest bit of tape noise drove me to distraction; but I did not entirely remove it to preserve the highest fidelity possible. The slight surface noise audible at times is due to the limitations of the recording processes. All but some of the vocal tracks originated as casettes. One should also keep in mind that no contributor heard even a single note of any other contribution. Thus I, Yves Bisquet, had to painstakingly analyze each casette for the perfect moment(s) that would best compliment the work as a whole.

 What would Rob and Scott say about WORKDOGS IN HELL? Of course we shall never know. Years ago I had asked them for a rock opera. What I have ended up with is a blues opera. I think they would be proud of me. I'm sure you will agree.

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A Tribute To Sonny Boy Williamson

 The Delta blues have been enriched by many extremely talented musicians, but to my mind one man stands above all the rest. Sometimes known as "The Menace" or "The Goat", his name was Rice Miller, but I knew him as Sonny Boy Williamson. When I met Sonny Boy in Paris he claimed his art was completely unpremeditated. but it was obvious, as I explained to him, that his blues were an extremely subtle musical language, involving exceptionally fine points tat few besides Sonny Boy were able to grasp. These techniques had to do with timing, with slight varations in vocal timbre and with being able to execute very precise gradations in pitch that were neither haphazard waverings nor mere effect. Sonny Boy was a master of all this and more. As a stylist he was unsurpassed; as a lyricist he was without parallel. I strongly doubted that I would hear the likes of him again.

 What was I to make, then, of the Workdogs who, after an absence of more than two years, appeared at my door waving a battered master tape which they claimed proved that they had met Sonny Boy; who - they maintain - rules an entire circle of Hades! Such bizarre and improbable tales are typical of the Workdogs, though this was more farfetched than any I had heard from them before.

 Needless to say, I wanted nothing to do with them after the debacle of their last recording project which I had been left to finish for them after they disappeared with the advance, then faked their own deaths in an insane scheme to boost record sales. However, they insisted that they would not leave until I listened to the tape - what choice did I have?

 From the very first bars of Too Young To Die I was stunned. No, of course it wasn't Sonny Boy - but there was a certain je ne sais quois - an indefinable Something Distinctly Delta that I had never heard from the Workdogs before. As the tape spun on, I was amazed at RobK's new vocal maturity and the incredible force of Scott Jarvis' drumming. It was as if they had gained more than twenty years of Blues wisdom in the time since I had last seen them.

 Against my own best interests I decided to work with them again in the studio. Once more I turned to the hottest Blues players in town for help, once again the results were superlative. Our Goodman - a traditional tune that was a mainstay of Sonny Boy's repetoire - is here given ample coverage by the Workdogs who add a few new twists to the age old theme.

 More than a full length disc's worth of material was recorded at these sessions - perhaps the finest work the Workdogs have ever done. More will soon follow, however we decided to first issue this Tribute To Sonny Boy Williamsom to honor the man to whom we all owe so much: their very souls, say the Workdogs (part of their ridiculous tall tale is that Sonny Boy was the agent of their escape from Hell); one hundred nine dollars according to our accountant who purchased the use of Too Young To Die; and myself - were it not for that fateful meeting in Paris so long ago who is to say where I would be today.

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Electric Mutt

THIS IS THE WORKDOGS'NEW RECORD.
THEY DON'T LIKE IT.

 It is said that Wolf and Muddy didn't like their "electric" albums. Of course we now acknowledge these seminal classics as masterpieces, fusing old and "now" blues styles, creating something so unique that it required a new label: "electric" blues. Other traditional artists hurried to follow suit. Sonny Boy, Sleepy John, and now the Workdogs; all have experimented with the "electric" style, joining their prodigious talents with those of the hottest rock players on the scene.

 In the case of the Workdogs, this meant looking no further than their rehearsal space, which is also home to a number of New York's most popular acts. This address has been the scene of many historic "jam" sessions - entry to which is perhaps the Big Apple's most coveted invitation. I have tried to capture on this record what a listener might hear were he or she fortunate enough to attend one of these sessions, as I have so many times. This disc presents a new dimension in recorded sound. For the first time you will actually feel the Workdogs' presence - the aroma of their hand rolled cigarettes, the smell of whiskey, sweat and basement mildew. These rehearsal tapes truly present the very best of the Workdogs as they freely explore every avenue of self expression, unemcumbered by audience expectations or recording studio pressures. Whether they like it or not, this is the Workdogs.

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One Night Only

Perhaps the most odious aspect of managing the Workdogs is fielding the inevitable phone call from their sideman on the day after a hot gig. Basking in the afterglow of the previos p.m., he or she is full of blues bravado and bluster and ready to take on the entire planet siding with the 'dogs. It is my disagreeable duty to have to bring them back to reality - the Workdogs gig is -
ONE NIGHT ONLY!

It is the principal that the Workdogs were built upon: every guest shall have his or her chance to blow the 'dogs into another dimension - each and every one of them bringing something special and unique to the stage - for ONE NIGHT ONLY!

That's all you get. It wouldn't be the way the Workdogs want it - DIFFERENT - each and every night, if they didn't change the lineup each and every night. I show compassion and offer the consolation that there will be some sort of alumni reunion as there usually is -
ONE NIGHT ONLY!

I never mention the Workdogs' penchant for pairing improbable sideman combos like slide trombone and lap steel guitar, or inviting ten musicians to participate in a karaoke cover band. That's the chance they take playing with the Workdogs. Odds are that they will never see Rob and Scott again. Or maybe they'll get a phone call at 4 a.m. some Sunday night with some strange address and an invitation to jam -
ONE NIGHT ONLY!

But musicians are a depressing lot, prone to morosity and tending to dwell on imagined wrongs. I have had to take out restraining orders against more than one fanatical sideman to discourage their obsessive behavior. Fortunately this did not apply to the two sidemen represented here. They understood instinctively that this was it - the night that all the other nights had been leading up to -
ONE NIGHT ONLY!

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Old

 I have been able to get to see the Workdogs about once a month. Their fans will be glad to know that they are receiving the best of care and that the facility is modern and clean and seems efficiently run. It is certainly the best we can afford at this time.

 Scott still gets around pretty well. He claims to not have missed a beat since 1974. Around dusk he mixes up a round of "imbibiments" at which point Rob usually shows up with a glass in his hand.

 Occasionally Rob's a little fuzzy, but with a bit of encouragement he can be persuaded to embroider one of his colorful yarns from the olden days. Scott picks up some kind of beat and off they go, shamblik\ng into the Blues.

 Sometimes I can't help but feel that they are the last remnant of a musical form that is close to extinction - the Talking Blues. Few work as comfortably in this genre as do the Workdogs. Their years of experience show.

 None-the-less, it was not an easy decision to work with them again. They can be extraordinarily difficult. Rob might suddenly insist on being addressed as the Baseball Commissioner of the Blues and refuse to do a lick of work until everyone complies. Scott could withdraw into a dark corner, mumbling about "vulvatic rays." With the Workdogs - as always - ANYTHING is possible.

 In spite of my trepidations, I booked studio time and put together two vey different combos of back-up musicians for the basic tracks. I was looking to showcase the many facets of the Workdogs' personalities - a variety that I felt had not yet been recorded sucessfully. The presence of the younger musicians seemed to perk Rob and Scott up enormously - inspiring them to put together what is undoubtedly their finest work to date.

 I've never enjoyed that moment that inevitably comes when I am forced to eject tem from the studio before they bankrupt me. To their credit, they took it no worse this time than any other. In spite of their threats, I'm sure I will speak to them again. If for no other reason, soon enough they will be harranguing me for money.

 In the meanwhile, please enjoy their latest effort. As the years go by one can't help but wonder how many more new Workdogs' discs there will be. Each is like a precious gem - a unique but durable thing of beauty. But while the plastic of this disc should last forever, the fragile bodies of its creators will not. Celebrate them now while they are among us, for who is to say how long that will be.

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