The Fuxedos

by The Fuxedos

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Nicolas RESSOT
Nicolas RESSOT thumbnail
Nicolas RESSOT The Fuxedos c'est un joyeux bordel dans lequel on peut trouver une reprise des Beatles, la reprise du thème de Take 5 dans la reprise susmentionnée (Fab 5 !), des personnages de dessins animés, des nonnes avec porte-jarretelles (ah non, ça c'est moi...) etc. Un bon délire quoi ! Favorite track: Scooby Doo (And Scrappy Live Inside My Milkshake).
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    The Fuxedos' eponymous debut CD represents the unholy collision of Fuxed-up creativity and High Production Value. It features mixing by Steve "Steve B" Baughman, whose credits include 50 Cent, Michael Jackson, and Eminem; and nuanced mastering by Dylan "3-D" Dresdow, who's worked with everyone from the Black Eyed Peas to U2 to the Wu-Tang Clan.

    The striking 8-panel digipak features hilariously surreal photographic artwork by digital artist Mike Dunkley, and the disc is enhanced with the award-winning surrealist mini-musical comedy short video "Mimsy," featuring "The Jellybean Song."

    Includes unlimited streaming of The Fuxedos via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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credits

released June 5, 2009

Produced by Danny Shorago
Recorded and associate produced by Wes Styles at Von Prezley Productions, North Hollywood, CA
Mixed by Steve "Steve B" Baughman
Mastered by Dylan "3-D" Dresdow at Paper Vu Studios, North Hollywood
Additional overdubs recorded by Matt Lebofsky in Oakland, CA and by Steve Baughman in Sherman Oaks, CA

Artwork and graphic design by Mike Dunkley
Concept/direction by Danny Shorago & Mike Dunkley
Photography by Paul Zollo and Mike Dunkley
Additional photography by Myles Boisen and Kenny Leath

All words & music © 2009 by Danny Shorago, Vinyl Pork Chop Music (BMI) except where noted

www.fuxedos.com

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The Fuxedos California

"This is music both visionary and visceral, both hilarious and very serious, and it's welcome now more than ever...A spirit of wildness permeates the proceedings, but it's underpinned by a richly dimensional musical complexity. Yes. This is about passion...This is an album designed to last."

-- American Songwriter Magazine
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Track Name: Fuck Disneyland!
I want to go on the slide
I want to go on the swings
I want to go on the seesaw
I don’t want to go to Disneyland --
Fuck Disneyland!
Track Name: The Cow/Boy
This here’s a story about a half-cow, half-human boy.

Shunned from both the bovine and the human worlds, he wanders the globe in search of himself.

After years of contemplation high up in the Himalayan Mountains of India, he realizes that he has no choice but to return to the world as...The Cow/Boy!

Don’t point and whisper to your mother ‘bout the brother’s udders,
Don’t point and giggle with your friends about The Cow/Boy.
Don’t point and whisper to your mother ‘bout the brother’s udders,
Don’t point and chuckle with your friends about The Cow/Boy.
He’s The Cow/Boy, and he’s fighting for you and me.
And he’ll stop the beef and dairy industry.
He’s The Cow/Boy!

Here he comes to save the day,
Fighting crime in every way.
Tail that’s cracking like a whip,
He’s a cow you’ll never tip.
Don’t you worry, don’t despair —
He will show up anywhere.
Here he comes to save the day!

Armed with his magic udders, his endless supply of stomachs, and his unwavering passion for justice, The Cow/Boy – with the help of his masticatable sidekick, Cudly – battles to save the world from the forces of evil!

Here he comes to save the day.
He’s The Cow/Boy!
Track Name: Scooby Doo (And Scrappy Live Inside My Milkshake)
Divine canine.
Come forth.
Ride north.
The beings of night will tremble in fright,
May thine eyes shine vengeful light!
Your children meddle with villainy,
Emerging from machines of mystery,
As facades of horror — they weaken and crumble,
And rapacious wretches — they falter and stumble.
Evil doth perish in your golden sight,
The ultimate doer of right.
You rule your domain with a fist of unearthly might!

Scooby Doo looks just like Scrappy,
Only Scooby's Bigger.

Scooby Doo and Scrappy live inside my milkshake.
They whisper to me that there'll be an earthquake.
But when I press them,
They refuse to tell me any other things.
They thumb their nose at me,
While Scrappy, that obnoxious fucker sings,
"We'll never ever tell you, stupid man,
Of what the future brings,
You'll never know where you may go,
Of friend or foe, or mortal blow,
You'll never see beyond your present, man!"

Scooby Doo and Scrappy live inside my lunchbox,
They speak of epidemics — AIDS and Smallpox.
But when I press them, they go mute —
They just clam up and go to sleep.
They telepathically mock me,
While their slumber rages deep,
They send me evil thoughts,
While, simultaneously, they count their sheep.
I know those cartoon dogs they keep the mystery, silent —
Not a peep of what remains, what lies in store for me.

Scooby Doo and Scrappy live inside my folders,
They tell me that I might be crushed by boulders.
But when I press them, they go limp,
And hide away inside their shells.
Though they both know, they have an oath —
They've sworn that neither ever tells.
And though they smolder, evermore,
Inside their private little hells,
They'll never say,
Although they play with me all day,
Won't go away, persist and bray —
They're driving me insane.

Scooby Doo looks just like Scrappy,
Only Scooby's Bigger...
Track Name: Now You're Gonna' Die! (aka To Be Young, Gifted, and Heavily Armed)
I drew a Brontosaurus,
You thought it was a turtle.
Now you’re gonna’ die!
I drew a Dimetrodon,
You thought it was a sailboat.
Now you’re gonna’ die!
I drew an Ankylosaurus,
You thought it was a Volkswagen.
Now you’re gonna’ die!
I drew a Rhamphorhynchus,
You thought it was Batman.
Now you’re gonna’ die!
What the hell kinda’ teacher are you?!
Track Name: Night of the Cephalopod
Allow me to introduce myself. The name is Smith. I’m a private eye.

And while I can tell you that, what I can’t tell you is what I was doing on this dark, rainy street, on the wrong side of the tracks. And I especially can’t tell you what that giant octopus was doing in the street in front of me, and wearing a fedora, at that. Sure, the streets were wet. But a giant sea creature here on land, and in this part of town? It didn’t add up.

You don’t ask questions when a massive mollusk comes toward you, its breath reeking of squid. Now I usually like squid when I’m sitting in a Japanese restaurant. But here on this dark, lonely street, its titanic tentacles gripping my throat, I was not so much in the mood for said aroma.

“You better come with me. The Boss wants to see you,” he said.

When an oversized cephalopod grabs you and beckons you to go see the Boss, you comply.

Well there we was, in a darkened warehouse space, the gargantuan mollusk in the corner. And I came face to face with the Big Man. Now, you don’t wanna’ see the Boss under any circumstances, you dig? Under any circumstances. But especially not with an immense octopus in the room eyeing you menacingly and breathing the odor of inky invertebrates in your general direction.

Good thing I had a pouch of Big League Chew in my pocket. Everybody loves Big League Chew. I took a big handful and stuffed it in the gullet of the octopus, right underneath his beak. And as he began to chew the bubble gum, pink bubbles started emanating not only from his mouth, but also from the suction cups on his tentacles. He blew up like a giant, pink balloon and floated higher, higher out of a hole in the ceiling, and off to the Moon.

So it was just me and the Boss. And I realized right then and there that with his protection gone, the Boss was a mere puppet. Now when I say “puppet,” I’m not being figurative – I’m being literal. A marionette puppet. Craning my neck upward toward the shadows, I spied on a rafter above a tiny mouse holding the strings of the marionette.

Luckily, I had a rubber band in my back pocket. I pulled it out and shot it ceilingward at the solar plexus of the rodent, who plummeted to his dusty demise on the floor at my feet. He looked up, breathing his last gaspy breaths, and said, “Avoid a life of crime – and stay in school!”

When a dying puppeteer mouse tells you to do that, you heed his words. I matriculated at Ohio State, got a Masters in Library Science, and the rest, as they say, is history. So tell me, bub – do you wanna’ pay your library fines now, or later? Eventually, you gotta’ pay. We all gotta’ pay…
Track Name: My Three Nuns
Three nuns, smoking cigars and playing Strip Keno. The sisters all possess horrific birthmarks that resemble Shecky Greene. The nuns grow tired of the game. They whip out nunchuks, throwing stars, and cyanide-laced kosher dills, and begin an elaborate, intricately choreographed, and highly fluid circular square dance in slow-motion -- a sort of grand Sumo prancing through molasses, a perimetrical pinwheel promenade on Percodan.

All at once, the nuns cease their movements, drop their equipment, and run head first toward a central point. They collide violently, precisely: each nun absorbs the blow equally, at an identical spot on her skull. The collision is an utterly chance, yet geometrically perfect event.

Suddenly, strange things begin to happen. The earth begins to shake, the trees swirl like merry-go-rounds, sparrows begin to attend the U.S. Army's School of the Americas in Fort Benning, Georgia, to receive instruction in surveillance, interrogation, torture, intimidation, and assassination.

Meanwhile, the nuns' scalps have fused together. The sturdiest of the three slowly pulls her head back, raising the other two into the air, creating a beautiful black and white "Y."

Also meanwhile, a class of first graders on a field trip in a nearby meadow spot the nuns, and run to their teacher, informing her that they've found the next letter in their "Find the Alphabet on the License Plates" game, which they played on the bus ride over. The teacher removes her hair pins, shakes out her glorious auburn mane, points Delacroix-ly towards the nuns, and shouts valiantly, in a flawless execution of a Lakota/Serbo-Croatian hybrid dialect found only in the southeastern suburbs of mid-1980's Cleveland -- a time in which men were men, and women were women, and women were men, and men were men and women, and children were eggbeaters, and men and women were also eggbeaters, but a different kind of streamlined, kinetic, Boccione-esque Futurist sort of eggbeater --

"Seize the moment, young knaves of the Microsoft generation! Oh little cyberlings, this is your moment of Supreme Cosmic Redemption!”

Whereupon the children, whooping and hollering, screaming and salivating, tear off toward the nuns like amped-up little psychotic lemmings, descending in a horde upon the nuns with all their terrible savage Osh-Kosh might, leaping and tearing at their throats. The Nun Triad base sister swings her mighty head neck shoulders about, scattering children like sweat off a boxer's hammered face, but to no avail! There are simply too many children...
Track Name: Robot Vampire Wombats
Vampire Wombats, Vampire Wombats — Robot Vampire Wombats.
They don’t want to hurt you — they’re really quite friendly.
Although they be undead — they’re really quite friendly.
When their batteries run low, they get kinda’ grouchy.
Just give them some cows’ blood,
And they’ll be your best friend!

The first time I met one, I was in Poughkeepsie.
He brought me a sandwich, and got me quite tipsy.
We went to the ER and got him some plasma.
He slurped it, and burped it, and now he’s my best friend.
Vampire Wombats, Vampire Wombats — Robot Vampire Wombats!