Here we are, once again with more examples of the fine artwork rendered on the sides of our used 7 inch record boxes. Some of these formerly plain/primitive white boxes are on the Amoeba Hollywood floor available for your perusal; others are, for now, hidden away in what we call The 45 Room, or to those with less enthusiasm for the little record with the big hole 'that used 7 inch pricing room.'

However, romantics everywhere simply whisper in hushed tones: “vinyl Shangri-la!”

The question I’m often asked: “Hey, Whitmore, if the 45 room is actually a Shangri-la, a heaven on earth so to speak, is there an afterlife, like a 7 inch heaven? And if there is a 7 inch heaven, is there a 7 inch god?”

I always answer with a glint in my eye and a friendly smile on my face, “You know, I’m not sure, but I’d like to think there is one somewhere out there in the dark.”

Hopefully you’ll enjoy this further examination of Amoeba’s own home grown outsider art. And just like there is always another used gem of a record coming on down the pike, there’s always some new artwork gunning its engine, ready to lay some rubber down in Amoeba Hollywood.

I've never met a man I didn't mutilate. I only wish I had said that first.
I might be happier today.

A funny thing happened on the way to listening to some Bonzo Dog Band vinyl. I think I’ve finally found an answer to the ol’ question “When did the attitudes of the free wheelin’ 60’s shift in the 70’s, and is there an exact date when it was nailed into the proverbial American forehead?” I think the answer lies in the sound of a tuba.

Side Note: not only am I something of a record geek, I’m also a closeted history geek, and I kind of believe in what philosopher George Santayana once said: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to have it shoved up their friggin’ asses!” (Okay, maybe it didn’t go quite like that)

Of course there was a difference between the late 60’s and the early 70’s. Perhaps not a great defining difference (at least not until disco hit big), but let’s say as different as “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” compared to “Blue Bonnet” margarine, or olive oil to canola oil. Actually ignore that part. But there was a slight imperceptible change in attitude somewhere early on in the 70’s and I believe I‘ve recovered, for my thesis, the linchpin date.

Of course it just dawned on me not everyone knows The Bonzo Dog Band. Created in the early 1960’s by British art-school students (art school, where all great bands should begin!) the Bonzos started out playing mostly traditional jazz, early century novelty and British music hall songs.

Later they combined those elements with rock, adding touches of psychedelia and dadaism to confound the public at large. They released about 4 or 5 albums, and toured the US with The Who and The Kinks. Eventually they were aligned with Monty Python's Flying Circus, having met several future members on the set of the  children's television show, Do Not Adjust Your Set, where the Bonzo’s were the resident house band. They disbanded in 1970 but had one reunion album released in 1972. There you have it … in a nutshell.

Scattered … That’s where I am these days. Completely to the wind all over the west coast.

If I’m not in the middle of packing up some 250 boxes of household items, records, and books, and moving from an island in the Puget Sound back to my native LA, I ‘m sitting in a van doing a small tour back up the coast to the northwest. (Of course, first I welcomed the movers to LA, found a change of clothes, found some musical gear, bid a big hello to all my newly-arrived-to-LA crap, then said goodbye to my wife and son and hit the 5 freeway north in a van with six other band members. It’s hardly a coincidence my life is so scattered. “Can I discharge myself now, please, sir?”

Side note (about the 250, maybe even 300 boxes):  there wasn’t really a  problem with our last house, the rooms were great, yard was huge, but  the very large basement looked kind of sad and a little desperate until I filled it with crap … oh how the basement purred once it was full. So 1,100 miles and a semi-truck filled with 11,000 pounds of personal possessions later …

Truthfully, yet not exactly, the biggest excuse for not writing this week about my nearly, yet not necessarily, favorite subject (7 inch 45’s--I had promised something for the good people at Amoeba at least a week ago):  cable was finally installed in our new house and just in time for the Tour de France.

For me, July is inevitably about my birthday, BBQ’ed sausages on the 4th (just meat--none of this mango/pesto/tofu stuff, save those ingredients for a smoothie) and bicycle racing in France. My money for the 2007 Tour was on Alexandre Vinokourov. He would have been my choice to win the Tour last year but his old team, Astana-Würth, was ripped to shreds after five of its riders were implicated in the “Operación Puerto” doping case and scandal, leaving Vinokourov with only three teammates and for the most part a team without a pot to piss in (pun intended). Last year Vinokourov was never accused or implicated in the doping scandal, however as of this morning all that has changed. On Tuesday Alexandre Vinokourov tested positive for a banned blood transfusion after winning last Saturday’s time trial, prompting him and his team Astana to pull out of the Tour de France. I’m broken hearted once again. “So it ain’t so Vino.”