There’s a book
written in the 1920s that’s been circling the literary hipster subterrain for years called You Can’t Win. It was authored by a cat named Jack Black, who
during the late 19th century rode the rails in the still wide open West, living
in the vast hobo communities along the way. He was a career thief and hop head
who surrounded himself with characters like Foot-And-A-Half George, The
Sanctimonious Kid, and Salt Pork Mary. William S. Burroughs once said this was
his favorite book and openly admitted to lifting portions of it from memory for
his first novel, Junky. I’ve read the
book at least four times and never once did I run across Baby Gramps, but after seeing him at Daily Perks last Monday, I
swear to Christ he had to be in there.

Gramps rolled into
town with his battered 1923 dobro
(its strings looked and sounded just as old) on his knee. Talk about old time
Tin Pan Alley vaudeville goodness — Gramps was astounding. He whipped out
palindromes, vintage blue humor, folklore, along with a jazzy slap and pluck.
The audience, when asked to participate, swayed in
strict tempo commanded by Gramps’ high-mileage brougham. It was magic, and
frankly, I think he’s a ghost. Listen for his music in the upcoming Pirates of the Caribbean sequel and
watch for Baby Gramps along the rails with those other Jack Black phantoms as
they make their way to….

Electric Eel Shock looked a little more like Electric Eel Weary last Wednesday at The Bug Jar. The
band followed a ba-listeringGrinders set. Dragging their feet to
the stage minus the typical banzai fanfare, they blasted their trademark punked metal nonetheless. They seemed especially proud to
be playing the devil’s music on 06-06-06. La
manocornuda made the
scene a whole bunch, especially when they ripped through snippets of Sabbath
and Maiden. The drummer was once again naked ‘cept
for his trusty tube sock. He tugged and twirled it like Gypsy Rose Lee if she
were a 5’5 naked Japanese man hovering maniacally over a drum kit. I know if
Gramps were there, this scene would’ve wound up in a song. Who knows? Maybe he
was. Maybe it will.

— Frank De Blase

This article appears in Jun 14-20, 2006.