'gimme some echo and some fuzz and some garbage can sound.'

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The great thing about the Pretty Things was that they didn't give two shits for blues purity, R&B purity, or any other kind of purity, except perhaps when it came to their drugs. They were therefore conceptually free to aesthetically amplify the physical uses to which distortion and proto power chord riffing could be put. Perhaps one downing the PTs was the Downliners Sect who indicated via their roughed up, impolite and impolitic take on the Chess label output that they did not give even a single shit for blues "purity." 

taking the Yardbirds’ sound and reducing it to this goony fuzztone clatter

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my favorite nights were just getting drunk and walking around the East Village kicking over garbage cans. Just the night. Just the night. Just that it would be the night again. And you could go out, you know? It just seemed glorious. And you’d be humming these great songs and anything could happen, and it was usually pretty good … We were into this Urban Pioneer thing, which was a bunch of kids born in the suburbs to middle-class families, moving back into the city, because they thought the city should live. The city I loved everybody else hated: it was totally deserted, people fled when the sun went down. It was run down, but we thought it was beautiful at the time of youth when you’re prone to romanticism.

I WAS A MUTANT FOR ROGER CORMAN

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For starters, there were airheads like I could not believe. I'm not talking laid back, slow on the draw - I'm talking bubbleskulls, insensates. Any gathering of five-six people would invariably include at least one raging dodo cum oaf, either (I at first assumed) because Angelenos were flexible, "tolerant," less rule-governed in respect to wiggy abstractions like human thought, or (a better working premise, one I tried hard to repress) because sun-and-fun might ultimately cook anyone's brain until full-service mentation became a tricky and functionally meaningless calisthenic, one less vital (on a regular basis) than signaling a lane change. On my second day as a resident a new acquaintance labeled me, semi-derisively, an "intellectual," as if the breed were as rare, freakish - and locally unwelcome - as an anti in New York. I had split the Seriousness Capital of the World, it was quickly becoming evident, for the Dummdumm Capital of Same.

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Just kids out looking for kicks, and not worried about how hip they look

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‘‘I’d always wanted to dig the song, but I never permitted myself to because I thought there was a real distinction between rock ’n’ roll artists, musical workmen, and these fly-by-nights like the Count Five and the groups that played at the dances I went to. Eventually I realized that everybody steals their material and is heavily influenced by just about everybody else, and my tastes began to change radically. I suddenly found it an effort to listen to the more ‘arty’ rock (Beatles, Beach Boys, Jefferson Airplane) and that I much preferred the hard crude sound of groups like the Seeds, the Fugs, the Who, etc. And when I would go to dances and hear local teenagers, school friends of mine even—non-heads even!—turn around in the middle of ‘I’m a Man’ and roll off on a thirty-minute electric raga, plasticizing the beat, crouching in front of their amps for feedback, and knocking me out, really turning me on more than anything on record, that was when I finally was enlightened.’’

There's all kindsa kulture just like all kinda kinks

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The way I heard it is some guy from Stony Brook was driving a cab once upon a time and he had the good fortune of picking up Mr. Arthur Garfunkel. Stony Brook means hair and dope and this cabbie had it written across his face. So Garfunkel figured he could pull a little reverence out of this jivebo before the ride was thru. So he sez to the cabbie "Hey are you into music?" Well this cabbie was nobody's fool and the fact is he recognized a real rube when he saw one. Sure the cat was into music, far enough to know swill when he saw or heard it. So he went to town with Artie. "Music? Naw, I think it's all pretty lame." Artie was astounded but he retorted with a quick "All music? Don't you like anything?" Well that was just the opening Mr. Driver needed. "Well I'm sort of partial to acoustic duos." Ha ha and Artie's breath quickened. "Oh yeah, which ones?" Well here's the actual list the wily hackman went thru: "I like Seals & Crofts, Pacheco & Alexander, Beaver & Krause, Fraser & Debolt, Brewer & Shipley, um, let's see, Baldwin & Leps, Delaney & Bonnie but they're not exactly acoustic, Conway Twitty & Loretta Lynn, Peaches & Herb, David & Susan, Booker T & Priscilla, James Taylor & Carole King but that's only once in a while, Zager & Evans, John & Yoko, well Richard Farina is dead but I still kinda like Richard & Mini Farina and now there's Mimi Farina & Tom Jans, oh yeah Marvin & Tammi too ... " Well by this time Garfunkel was getting sick so he rudely interrupted the guy and told him to stop the cab, he wanted out. And he didn't even tip him! 

After we'd fucked, she whispered, "Eat me and I'll come again."

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And one of the most telling, and most underrecognised, aspects of the whole business is kids, the cognoscenti, having better, livelier things to do, DIDN'T WATCH TELEVISION. What they did was hang out with friends, play records, smoke reefer and take pills, stay up all night, carry on, meet and greet the world, and if all else failed they might have turned a TV on with the sound off, smoked some reefer and GOOFED ON IT.

pdf scan (50 pages/15MB)

DATELINE:SQUARESVILLE-it's around Xmas and parties, well, parties are not what I'm after. I'd rather watch mold grow, I'd rather do the frigging laundry, but I've got this gal, see, who drags me to a screaming motherhumper of a gathering at which non-retarded children-and interested adults- are induced to sing happy birthday to Jesus. I'm thoroughly revolted-what's the earth coming to?-and only by sheer force of will do I avoid puking right in my eggnog.

All I wanted was a fucking end to all this clock shit

 pdf scan new link 14/2/12 (90 pages/30MB)

"Meltzer's no dadaist as some have supposed.He's a humanist disguised as a lurching drunken juvenile delinquent at play in the rubble of civilization (as his publisher has condescendingly hyped him).But then,they also claim in their blurb that he's a 'dope crazed....maniac,' when he is nothing of the kind,although I guess you still gotta have a password if you want in the club.With Meltzer the password is fun,and his club and beat are every unostentatious bloom of life in the world that catches his eye."-L.Bangs