It's Halloween

Dear Reader, regular broadcasts from The Little Black Egg will now resume.

In Recognition of Excellence

Dear Reader, I'd like to draw your attention to the internets' number one blog for mind-blowing Hungarian punk, experimental and otherwise: Ultra Rock Agency


Here is VHK (The Galloping Coroners) playing a show on weird sculptures.

For the longest time it was really hard for me (and, Dear Reader, you) to find this stuff, or even know what it is. So we here at The Little Black Egg salute you, Ultra Rock Agency. Keep doing your thing.

Miskolc 2

Every year, Miskolc hosts the Retek Festivál (Radish Festival). Here is an interview with some of the people who put the festival together, along with a cross-section of bands from the area.

Miskolc 1

One day I went to go see Hiroshima Rocks Around, an excellent Italian noise band that had been booked in Budapest. I got talking to the guy who booked the show, and he eventually asked me what my favorite Hungarian band was, and I told him Büdösök , a band that plays hilarious, psychotic, shitpunk music.

This was apparently the right thing to say. The singer and drummer from Büdösök were in the crowd, and in fact the drummer was in Kerdojel, the opening band. Kerdojel played shrill noise punk and wore weird masks and costumes and shit. They were great. Besides Büdösök, it was the best band I’d seen in Hungary. They were 100% fun.

It turned out that these bands weren’t from Budapest, but from Miskolc—a city about two hours from the capital. This explained why I hadn’t seen anything like them in Hungary. Watching these guys, I understood that I’d been looking in all the wrong places for music like this. It turns out that Mikolc, an economically depressed city of about 200,000, was/is home to a completely sick, experimental punk/poetry/noise scene that is totally remarkable.


There’s a lot of Miskolc music to write about, which is what I’ll be doing over the next few weeks. I’ll be posting what are going to be essentially rough drafts of something larger here at The Little Black Egg.

To start with, many of the bands and individuals that form the nucleus of the Miskolc music scene were somehow connected to a band called Ápolók, which is Hungarian for “The Nurses.”

They formed in 1982, and from what I can tell, they were the lynchpin of the Miskolc music scene, spawning a bunch of other bands. Ápolók started sounding like a fairly weird punk band in the early 80s. Only demos and live recordings of this material seems to have survived. The fidelity isn’t always great on these recordings but it isn’t completely horrible, either. Honestly, the fact that a digital record of this stuff even exists nearly 30 years on is remarkable, and I feel lucky to hear it.

Their early stuff is striking. Everyone sounds as though they haven’t been playing for that long; still, they aren’t laying down by-the-numbers punk at all—all the songs strain at their edges and follow strange paths. Who knows how this stuff actually sounded—the lo-fi tapes that remain give everything a blown-out, keening edge

Ápolók have keyboards and weird instrumentation at times, not unlike contemporaries such as A.E. Bizottság, who they played some shows with back in the day. Whatever Ápolók might have ingested from those guys, however, was excreted as something far stranger and more intense. (Interesting side-note: the song “Da da da” contains the same keyboard rhythm track that prompts Mark E. Smith to yell “turn that bloody, blimey space invader off-uh!” during the Fall’s “The Man Whose Head Expanded.”) I don’t know what was in the water supply in Hungary at this time, but it did its job. At this stage in their life-cycle, Ápolók are vibrating with potential, and were about to transform into a something else.


After a couple of years, Ápolók entered a period of dormancy as its members took care of real life concerns. During this time, Ápolók’s sound transformed, advancing them to a weird new plane. No recordings were issued during this period, so it’s anyone’s guess what happened with these guys, biologically-speaking. They didn’t “mature,” which as we all know is about the shittiest thing that a band can do. Instead, they mutated to a more virulent and efficient life form. Ápolók’s true character extruded from its old form; their new physical manifestation sounded like a spastic Beefheart/Zappa mutant, punchy and hilarious, crossbred with Hungarian film soundtracks and god knows what else, performed by musicians with surprisingly sick chops.


I don’t think you could call this post-punk, or at least, it sounds nothing like what people generally identify as being a post-punk sound. The nearest touchstone might be the Dog-Faced Hermans, maybe. Most of the songs are somehow intricate and off-kilter. You get the feeling that a couple of these guys might have come to this band after being expelled from the conservatory or something.

During the 1990s, Ápolók made a ton of music videos and little movies, all of which are still available. These are perhaps the coolest thing that these guys ever did. Shot on no budget in Miskolc, it shows the band members and their friends creating surreal and hilarious scenes.


For instance, the video for their song “Fegyver Tusa” shows one of the band members ostensibly taking a shit in an outhouse while singing. He then grabs a rifle, rolls around on the ground, sharpens the rifle on a grindstone, worms around on his stomach, and then joins his friends (who are performing a kick-line whilst dressed in Hungarian winter gear) for a waltz as the song morphs into the Hall of the Mountain King. It’s hard to explain the charm of these films but it’s easy to appreciate them.

I consulted a friend from Budapest about the meaning of this song. Here is what she said: “He says it is better to lie on the ground, which is why he is always lying on the ground, and there is a Hungarian saying that is like ‘It is always better to be lying down, because you can’t be going any lower.’ And do you see where he is sitting in this video? He is sitting on a toilet. It is very funny, actually.”

During this time, Ápolók began playing shows outside of Hungary. Barangó, former Ápolók member and current friend/co-collaborator/secret weapon/man-on-the-scene, told me this story about the time that Ápolók got booked to play a show in Amsterdam. This show happened prior to the Berlin Wall falling, so the band had to cross into West Germany to get to Amsterdam. They’d loaded all their members, weird instruments, etc. into an old Soviet model van, and drove through the snow to the checkpoint. The West German border guards wouldn’t let the band drive their van, which was a piece of shit, on West German roads. So they abandoned it, and everyone decided to hitchhike to Amsterdam. In January. They somehow pulled it off and played the show. Then they hitchhiked back.


Ápolók’s also met resistance from numerous venue owners, who didn’t feel like having to mix sound for all of the weird instruments that they employed. Also, it’s important to note that Ápolók are from Miskolc, not Budapest. That’s an important distinction.

Miskolc birthed a music scene that’s pretty singular in terms of weird avant-punk stuff. The fact that this happened in a small, dying industrial town hours from the Hungary’s largest city might seem counter-intuitive, but I think something about the relative isolation of Miskolc allowed bands like Ápolók to grown into something completely original. Like how fucked-up looking fish evolve at the bottom of the ocean. Unemployment is rampant in the city, a fact which doesn’t look like it’s going to change anytime soon. As one member of Ápolók told me, “People used to get up early and go to the factory. Now they get up early and go drink.” This decline isn’t a new thing either—the city’s economy shit the bed about two decades ago. Although this comparison doesn’t really work, Miskolc is not unlike parts of the American rust belt, where the economy has collapsed but the art scene is still vibrant.

Goszi, the drummer for Ápolók and Digep, put it this way: “People in Miskolc are more like cartoon people.”

Barangó was more blunt. He described the music scene in Budapest back in the day as having too many “people who are really pretentious, as though they wanted to be like Lou Reed or something, and did not have a sense of humor.”

Ápolók would splinter off into a number of groups. It seems that many of the members had side projects going all the time. I'd hesitate to call the Miskolc crew a collective, but from what I can tell, they all appeared on each others' projects. Ápolók itself never really stopped either—recently, they came out with new material that is another leap from their old style into something different.


And so, Dear Reader, wraps up the first part of our series on Miskolc music. There is more to come, and much work to do. I am still trying to extract more Miskolc music from the ether. There is more to come about Ápolók and others over the next few weeks. Stay tuned!

Now, some Ápolók:

We're the Youth of Today!

So the other day I went to the pawn shop/junk store on the corner of my block to look for records. At the moment I'm living in a primarily West Indian neighborhood, so I'm always hoping to score reggae and soca and etc. albums at places like this. So far I've turned up a few gems, which might make their way to this blog once I get a pre-amp for my turntable.

Sometimes, though, I come across stuff that I really just didn't think I'd come across:


I wonder who pawned this thing? For $2, though, I'll take it.

I always liked the Plasmatics, even though they were sort of a crummy band, all around. The concept was great, even if I'm not entirely sure what it was. And when it came to punk/metal hybrids at that time, these guys were about as fun to listen to as D.R.I. or the Cro-Mags. The important distinction being that the Plasmatics were fiction, and bands like the Cro-Mags were non-fiction.

Did the Plastmatics ever link up with Troma? If not, they certainly should have. Anyway, these guys were like a distillation of everything good about those weird mutant street gangs who turned up in movies like Deathwish 3 and the Class of Nuke 'Em High. You know what I'm talking about? Fictional gangs of weirdos where everyone is just violent because they're weird. They all fight with like switchblades and clubs, and they all have names like "Deuce" and "Strangler" or something.

Possibly the best scene in American cinematic history, from The Class of Nuke 'Em High:


Stirring, no? That movie is a stone cold classic. Why doensn't anyone make shit like this anymore? What's wrong with everyone?

Relax With the Stinkies

Büdösök plays a mellow version of their theme song for all the young lovers in the audience.

Kitchen Terrors

There used to be this old-timey radio program called Inner Sanctum, which is now mostly available on Archive.org. Out of all the old horror and suspense radio shows, Inner Sanctum was the grisliest. Sometimes it was just disgusting. And in my favorite ever episode, this bank robber visits a black market doctor who has a secret office in the basement of this building. The bank robber wants to get plastic surgery to change his appearance—he's worried about getting caught and executed.

The doctor straps the robber down to the operating table so he won't struggle during the surgery. He uses this opportunity to extort more money from the bank robber. Then he begins the surgery, without anesthetic.

He intones something along the lines of "There will be no painkillers for the likes of you, Rocco!"

The sound when he starts cutting, right before Rocco begins screaming, is really, really upsetting. Right after he beings screaming, the show abruptly cuts to an advertisement for Lipton Tea. But right before that commercial, it's really goddamn upsetting. Even if, like me, you were gleefully reveling in the campy opening sequence and organ cues.

I don't know about you, Dear Reader, but I often have a much more visceral reaction to sound than to film. And there's nothing quite like spending the evening slistening to a weird sound scape record whilst eating a peanut butter sandwich and staring out the window. And while I know that this shit isn't for everyone, part of me can't believe that it isn't more popular. Of course, it isn't easy to get one's head around the many, many, many albums of weird soundscapes and ambient clankings and experimental, you know, stuff . Finding something really good can be difficult unless you are already clued in to this sort of thing, which most people aren't. I'm not even, really. However, I've been listening to this album by The Sonic Catering Band called Seven Transdanubian Recipes, (or, in Hungarian, Szónikus Élelmezési Együttes Hét Dunántúli Recept)and it's one of the weirdest/greatest things I've heard in a while.


I don't know if this can officially be called experimental music, since each of these sound pieces use the preparation of a particular recipe for their source material. These sounds then get manipulated and generally screwed around with, and the end result is pretty unsettling.

From a 2003 interview for MIELE Magazine:

You could argue that what we're practicing is the antithesis of experimental music as most of our recordings have followed a very strict formula in that we let a given recipe dictate how a certain track will sound and develop. [. . .] A typical Sonic Catering session involves three phases: cooking and recording the meal in question; selecting and processing the raw sounds we want to use and finally, editing and layering. Raw sonic and culinary ingredients both become transformed into something thoroughly other both on plate and headphones.

Song titles like "Covert Feeding," "Lactic Sugar Dream," and "The Alimentary Canal by Night" may (or may not!) give you some idea of what to expect. I suppose that the easiest comparison to make would be Nurse With Wound, and like that outfit's better recordings, this album is a fully-realized, completely successful whole. Weird hissing, bubbling, gas burning howling in strange empty spaces . . . this album sounds malevolent for so long that it actually gets pretty funny, and then doesn't really seem funny, and then, after a while, you sort of give up trying to think about it and just agree to inhabit the space that it creates. Extremely enjoyable musique concrète for evil, hungry listeners.

I'll Take My Hilarity Where I Can Get It.

Dear Reader, we spent this weekend hanging out with some friends in Brighton Beach, where we got green borscht and went CD shopping. Our friends Inna and Ljova took us around the neighborhood, took us out for food, acted as translators, and basically showed us a great time.

We also learned that Potap & Nastya, a Russian hip hop duo, might be playing Brighton Beach soon. This group released an amazing video for a song about Bruce Willis which is completely insane:


The title of this song is "Krepkie Oreshki," or "Hard Nuts."

I'm thinking about going to see these guys. I'd also like to note that I took the time to see Speak the Hungarian Rapper during his first ever show at Budapest a couple years ago.



I was there.

Set Things On Fire

Japanese band GISM formed in Tokyo in 1981. Here, they attempt to set their audience on fire with a flamethrower. (The flamethrowing starts about 6 minutes in.)

YU Rock Fakebook

Dear Reader, you are doubtless aware of how much I like punk rock from ex-Yugoslav states. Well, last summer Sarah and I were in Sarajevo, and I was looking for Bosnian punk records. I went to what must have been every record store in the fucking city, but I couldn't find anything even close to what I was looking for. And since Sarajevo is an incredible place and my time there was limited, I finally gave up searching.

But I did find this really cool Balkan rock fakebook:


It's basically just a collection of tabs for popular tunes by ex-YU rock bands. Check out this page spread of two Pekinska Patka (Peking Duck) tunes:


Pekinska Patka are from Serbia, and they are one of the best punk bands ever, from anywhere, at any time in history. Period. This song, "Biti ružan pametan i mlad" (the computer translates it as "Subsist ruĹľan brainy plus adolescent"), is one of their best.



I've long wondered what Nebojša Čonkić was saying at the beginning of this song. According to my book, it's "pipipipi, kvakvakvakva, kakadakakadakakada."

This book? This thing is authoritative.

Sloopy in the Future

My friend Greg is a parts guy at a Harley Davidson dealership. In fact, his official position is Chrome Consultant. He lives in upstate New York, and spends his days playing blues rock in a band that has opened for the likes of Loudness and Pat Travers, listening to bands like Accept and Saxon, and riding his Harley around.

Besides our mutual affinity for The Dictators, Greg and I like completely different kinds of music. He frequently tries to convince me to go see bands that are a good 30+ years past their prime when they play in Poughkeepsie. Sometimes I cave in—which is how I found myself in Greg’s truck, listening to Montrose, and heading towards a motorcycle swap meet where Rick Derringer would be performing. My friend Tom, a noted Klaus Nomi enthusiast and experimental film guy, was also there.

Later on in this story, Tom has an eerie premonition.

Chances are, if you’re going to go to a motorcycle swap meet, you ought to have at least a vague interest in motorcycles. Unfortunately, I don’t know shit about motorcycles, so I wandered around the swap meet environs—a disused IBM plant—staring at, like, greasy bolts and handlebars arrayed on the floor. There were also vendors selling t-shirts, the best of which depicted a guy with a moustache and mullet riding a motorcycle, superimposed over a line drawing a of a Native American chieftain, with the caption “Brothers in the Wind.”

At events like this, Greg is like a celebrity. He’s like a cross between Bob Barker and Spiderman. As he works the room, shaking hands and kissing babies, I survey the crowd. About one-quarter have some kind of visible disability brought on by motorcycle riding—canes and braces were all over the place.

Greg introduces me and Tom to several notable scumbags who all had names like “Poochy” and “Deuce” and "Earwig," as well as one guy who also had a funny name (that I won’t list here) and a face covered in warts. He breathed really loud through his mouth and kept talking about he couldn’t get any women to show him their “pairs,” as in “man, Greg, last year everyone got all fucked up, and the girls showed me their pairs. I saw some nice fuckin’ pairs, brother. But I ain’t seen no pairs today. I’d settle for any kinda pairs, I’ll tell you that much.”

Anyways, I should mention that I didn’t actually know who Rick Derringer was. According to Greg, he was the guy who did “Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo,” which I swore I’d never actually heard until I saw the man himself perform it—at which point I said “Oh yeah, this song.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My point is, I’m wandering around this event with Tom, and the two of us have no idea what to do. We’re just waiting for Derringer. I went in there not knowing or caring about Rick Derringer—after hours of staring at crap like wires, troglodytes, and t-shirts with “English Spoken Here” printed on the front, I was desperately craving some entertainment.

There was some dink from a local radio station who made some announcements. He looked like Matthew Broderick, kind of. He really sucked, but I thought to myself, man, I wish I was born with a radio-ready voice. My voice is nasal and naturally pretty quiet, so I always feel like I'm straining to speak above a mumble. What the crap. Anyway, this is the kind of stuff I was thinking about in the interminable wait for the show.

Then, suddenly, Derringer. Tom said “watch, I’ll bet you he’s a Christian rocker now or something.” And, as Rick Derringer hit the stage in the IBM plant, the drop ceiling a mere six inches from the top of his head, a monogrammed towel hung near his amp, his hair looking perfect—he looked a bit like a shorter John Voight, to tell you the truth—and a gold crucifix dangled conspicuously down the front his shirt, I knew that Tom's premonition was correct. It was gonna be Christian rock.

Man, I’ll tell you what—Derringer wasn’t in any rush to get to the hits. He played one Christian rocker after another, the stoic audience patiently resting on their orthopedic equipment, waiting for Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo, aka The Big Song.

But before he played The Big Song, Rick Derringer announced that he was going to play the state song of Ohio. It turns out that the state song of Ohio is Hang on Sloopy, and Derringer was in the McCoys, who did this in 1965. Wow! Suddenly, everything was different. Man, I love Hang On Sloopy, you know?

Now, when I was a kid, my parents mysteriously had a copy of Heartland Music’s “Fun Rock” collection:


Which was 4 LPs of awesome songs like Yakety Yak and Purple People Eater and Sugar Sugar and stuff. Also on this collection was Hang On Sloopy. I couldn't get enough of that tune. Seriously. I played it all the time. It's still one of my favorites, and probably the best Louie Louie rip the world has ever known.

I remember it well, because for a really long time I thought that they were singing “Hang on Snoopy,” which made sense, right? But then I realized it was “Sloopy,” and I didn’t know what that was. I mean, are there any girls named Sloopy out there? It was goddamn weird. But I used to like that song a lot.

After Sloopy ended, Derringer played The Big Song and everyone left. We left too.

I told Greg about how I grew up with Hang On Sloopy and he said “Hell yeah, man! Derringer fucking rules! Let’s go get some beef jerky! Hot damn!”

Later on, I looked up some stuff on Rick Derringer, and it turns out he also worked on Weird Al Yankovic albums. Which, I guess, means that he had a fairly odd career arc, right? One Hit Wonder to Promising Blues Rocker to Weird All Cohort to Christian Music Guy.

But the funniest thing about the whole experience was that, after having seen Rick Derringer perform Hang On Sloopy, I felt mostly like I’d run into someone I’d gone to Kindergarten with or something. Like we used to be friends, and I hadn’t thought about them for decades, and they looked a lot different than I thought they'd end up looking. It’s a strange feeling.