Turn Me On, Dead Man is available for the risibly small sum of USD $10 from CD BABY, right…
Prefer the a la carte MP3 format? Amazon’s passing the pu-pu platter…
Not ready to take the BTWT challenge? Preview the CD by listening to two minutes of each cut on CD Baby or a shorter snippet on Amazon.
Five Reasons You Must Order a Copy of Turn Me On, Dead Man :
1. Sixty-nine minutes (and two seconds!) of chewy nougat and Beefheart-y goodness. It’s flavoriffic!
2. A six-page CD booklet, printed on high-quality paper, overstuffed with lyrics and commentary on the disk’s 17 songs, and featuring the ironic yet insouciant graphic design of Carlos Morera. Buy this stunningly designed artifact of the Late Caligulan phase of the Bush imperium for Morera’s work alone; sell it on eBay a decade from now, when your 401k has turned to ash and you’re spending your retirement as a minimum-wage barista at Starbuck’s.
3. Bite the Wax Tadpole builds Vocabulary Power! Can you define “magnificat,” soldier? How about “skirl”? Or “trepan”? Or “lancet”? This is the only CD intended to be listened to with a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary handy. The only collection of alt.huh? songs that includes a tune about a febrifuge. (Look it up, sailor. Or you could just…buy the CD!)
4. Forget Cultural Literacy; Turn Me On, Dead Man contains enough grad-student literary allusions, obscure historical references, smartypants wordplay, knowing riffs on pop culture, and deadpan meta-whatever to give Jacques Derrida a spastic colon.
5. Where else can you hear a full-tilt rocker about a tyrannical boss who thunders, “You’re gonna be a dissected crayfish, and I’m gonna be the man in surgeon’s greens wiping your entrails across my lapels”? A bizarre monologue by a worker on some David Lynchian assembly line (or is it a slaughterhouse?) that churns out an unspeakable product involving creatures with “sucking discs on the tops of their heads”? A musical suicide note, narrated by the Nazi nudnik Rudolph Hess? A techno elegy about the sinking of the Titanic, set to a sampled loop and sung by the ship itself (“A prunefaced corpse, his features blurring, sits crosslegged on the ceiling of my ballroom, warming his hands by the chandelier”)? We’re just saying…