 No
one expected the fetus to gestate successfully inside the new host. "Homosimian"
was a top-secret project conducted in the Sixties by Nazi eugenicists.
It was concealed and funded by the Freemasons. Attempts were made to surgically
implant a fertilized human egg inside the womb of a chimpanzee. Twelve
months later, an ape concubine gave birth to a half-human/half-chimp freak
child, with super-normal abilities and no practical application whatsoever.
The human donors were criminals, lunatics, derelicts, addicts, prostitutes,
and bartenders. The chimpstresses were cute, furry, and generally pleasant.
There was one successful birthing but the mutation and Its mother escaped.
Through a series of
dubious events, the creature was found by an Indian shaman/junk peddler
in the swamps of Louisiana. There the ape-boy learned the magic and wonderment
of alcoholism, the ancient craft of sticking pieces of junk together to
create even junkier pieces of junk, and why his penis suddenly enlarged
whenever he thought about girls (and what to do about it). But most importantly,
he learned the blues.
Years passed and Dame
Fortune suckled the beast-lad to her ample bosom. He was adopted by an
unassuming barber in Louisville, Kentucky. Once here, the boy was defanged,
his tail was cut, and his hairy ass was shaved. He was named "Scott Scarboro",
an archaic Celtic expression meaning "that place where puss doth fester".
He was made to appear and act reasonably human. He may look like one of
us, but he is not one of us. He is the Monkey Boy
So much for rumor...
and for speculation... and for rumors of speculation... and for gossip
of theories of hearsay of rumors of speculation. What now follows is a
chilling, actual account of what I saw, what I heard and what I smelled.
A Monkey Boy stage
looks like a collision of "Mr Science" meets "Sanford and Son," with few
survivors. Coffee cans, planks, and buzzing, blinking boxes, all with wires
running between them, populate the stage. There were enough homemade musical
instruments to make Eugene Chadborne orgasm all over his electric rake.
Don't ask me how,
but from this plethora of whatchamacallits and thingamajigs, therarose
music. One musician plucked something that remotely resembled a bass. The
other Monkey minion provided percussion (by beating on abunch of"stuff").
The Monkey Boy himself whipped out a series of catchy licks and riffs on
a "modified" slide guitar/microphone. The sound was brutal and jagged,
but infectious. The blitzkrieg of rhythm would have sent General Rommel's
jack-booted toes a 'tappin'.
In a short time the
audience was hooting along to the chorus of "Crank is coming to Kentucky,"
a raucous homage to this under-appreciated and excellent narcotic.
From there, the
Monkey Boy strummed into the ballad-esque "Potato." a tribute to nature's
ugliest produce. Showman-like, the maestro donned a pair of self-made,
monstrous potato shoes and then proceeded to strut and flounce his footwear
about the stage, flailing away on the Jew's harp.
 The
pace hurried again for such rambunctious ditties as "Helen Kraft," "My
Daddy's a Barber," and "Polar Bear," with the classic image "snow-white
Leslie Nielsen hair." Still, one song, "Chick-a-Dee may have the best lines:
"My chicken ain't got no tail feathers/when she stands up, it looks like
she's sittin' down."
All the while, a slide-show
behind and over the band displayed pictures of some anonymous families
doing routine and silly things; which, in a way. is kind ot appropriate.
Monkey Boy songs are matter-of-fact stories with touches and turns of perversity,
cleverness, morbidity and humor. "Codpiece", for example, concerns the
saga of a young man whos dreams of rock stardom are foiled because Monkey
Boy never makes the guy a damn codpiece. How many times have we heard that
tragic tale?
Despite the humor and
oddity of the songs and the instruments upon which they're played, it would
be wrong to dismiss Monkey Boy as a novelty act. The songs are as
strong melodically as they are rhythmically, and delivered with fun and
passion. Make no mistake, Monkey Boy has the chops to take this forceful,
unique, scorching sound and make it all work. It's a bit like a runaway
beer truck-very scary, a lot awkward; but, with a load of good stuff inside,
and unstoppable with a head of steam.
--a review
from "the Official Burt the Cat Fanclub Newsletter" #16 October '97 p.22,
William Chad Nunn
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