Introduction
In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, William Blake declares that “as the sayings used in a nation mark its character, so the Proverbs of Hell show the nature of Infernal Wisdom better than any description of buildings or garments.” Likewise, the songs of a nation mark its character (or expose its secret longings, forbidden desires and mad impulses) better than its monuments or memorials.
What the United States of America (as a collective entity) was listening to the day, the hour, the moment that the assassin’s bullet struck our 35th president says infinitely more about the event than any political analysis.
The term “Top Forty Radio” is revealing. Why forty? Is this an echo of the forty days of Noah’s flood, the forty nights Christ spent in the desert, the forty thieves of legend, the Forty Immortals of the Academie Française?
So then: NUMBER ONE WITH A BULLET is a disco-psychic inquiry into the state of the American soul on November 22, 1963. Most of the songs listed here were in the Top Forty the day John F. Kennedy acquired the most significant head wound in American history. A few entries (4,5,6,7,8,21) appeared on the event horizon of the American collective unconscious before or after the Dallas Apocalypse, but are included here because of their arcane connection to the assassination. The ordering of this psycho-discography may seem arbitrary, but like everything else connected the J.F.K.’s downfall, there is at work a cryptic logic, an ordering principle that can only be called an “irrational rationale.”
1. “Wipeout” The Surfaris (Dot 16479)
“Wipeout”: to destroy, kill, annihilate, eradicate. Wipeout: to expunge forever (as in brainwashing and “psychic driving”). From July to November 1963, everywhere in America, unsuspecting citizens were subjected to this hysterical, repetitive, mind-numbing hymn to murder! Beginning with the cackle of a diseased mind, the “song” is built on pounding, incessant primitive jungle drumming, punctuated by crazed guitar stabs made all the more insane by overloaded spring reverb. How many hundreds of thousand of times did that fiendish voice shriek “wipeout!”? Why was our collective gray matter grasped, kneaded and remolded like spongy neural bread dough at precisely this time?
Why was this mindless death-ditty repeated so many times? Did the assassin — alone in his dismal garret, stroking endlessly the barrel of his “gun,” repeating his instructions like a monk telling his beads — hear the trigger-phrase “wipeout!” again and again until he had no choice but to take his place and draw the sweating, damp, quivering finger against the hard tongue of the trigger? Did he sit with a tiny, white, earphone plug in his head hearing the soul-noise, the buzzing psycho-static of the American hive-mind, and finally wake from his sleep to fall deeper into the DREAM OF DEATH?
2. “Point Panic” The Surfaris (Dot 16502)
Released a week after the Terminal Experiment in Dallas, this single, though it didn’t do as well on the charts, is a veritable copy of entry #1 (“Wipeout”). It starts with the sound of an explosion (the aural equivalent of a bullet to the brain), then the mysterious “leader” shouts “Point Panic!” and emits a crazed yodeling laugh.
Immediately we return to wipeoutesque jungle tom-toms and spring-reverb-saturated guitar blasts. Forget about back-masking and other subliminal messages — all that hysteria is sheer red herring. You don’t need a secret decoder ring or a doctorate in disinfotainment to hear what’s right before your eyes: nameless, faceless, madmen shouting “Wipeout!” and “Point Panic!” How much more obvious can it get? Yet, it’s all the more insidious because the psychic skull-controllers hide in plain sight. You need no Freedom of Information Act request to listen to these recordings. You need no top secret clearances to look at the charts. NUMBER ONE WITH A BULLET! It’s all there in black and white — though spattered with red.
3. “Dominique” The Singing Nun (Phillips 40152)
Is it possible, it is conceivable, that “coincidence” explains why on the day the only Roman Catholic president in the United States history was assassinated, on the very same day (November 22, 1963) when the Vatican II council in Rome voted on the liturgy schema, overturning a 1500 year tradition of Latin-language masses, at the top of the American popular music chart was the only song to reach number one recorded by a nun in French, singing the praises of Father Dominic, founder of the Dominican Order, which with the Inquisition as its private holy-horror crusade, severely, brutally, and fanatically suppressed all blasphemy and heresy?
Is it, we repeat, possible?
The day the Magic Bullet heard the song of lethal love and flew to its beloved’s bower, there to burrow furiously into the soft, moist, sexy brain tissue and erupt on the other side, TOTALLY UNSCATHED, the most popular song, in the most powerful country in the world, was “Dominque,” by the so-called Singing Nun. A chirping, repetitive, bouncy “folk song,” this #1 hit was one everyone’s lips (though not one in ten thousand knew what the words meant) and in everyone’s ears as the homicidal radio-controlled brain probe explored and exploded the presidential gray matter.
Having joined the Fishermont monastery in 1959 (the year that “Mack the Knife,” the only song about a brutal and sadistic assassin-pimp reached #1 in the U.S.) Jeanine Deckers was dubbed with the nom-de-nun Sister Luc-Gabrielle. She entertained her putatively virginal coreligionists with winsome folk stylings, accompanying herself on guitar. At Christmastime in 1961, she and two other nuns went to the Phillips recording studio in Brussels to see if they might wax certain of Luc-Gabrielle’s songs to give away as “gifts.” At the quick, noncommercial session, a Phillips executive heard the nun (accompanied by four other sisters) and was so impressed that he released thousands of copies of the song as by “Soeur Sourire” (Sister Smile). In the U.S. the record was released as by the Singing Nun and the single, “Dominique,” went gold, eventually selling a million and a half copies.
But disappointed with the celibate life, “Sister Smile” left the convent two years later, took back her old name and recorded “Glory Be to God For the Golden Pill,” the only song about birth control (and in direct defiance of Papal edict) to dent the charts. The Belgian government sued for $120,000 in back taxes, though she’d given all the proceeds for “Dominque” to her order. Twenty years later, she recorded an electro-disco version, but by then no one cared about a chirping, dissolute lesbian “boogie-oogie-oogie” ex-nun, no matter how hard she might try to shake her consecrated booty. With another reprobate erstwhile “bride of Christ,” Anne Pecher, she opened a center for brain-damaged tots in 1983. On March 21, 1985, she and her tribadist paramour staged a joint ritual “suicide;” they were found with their bellies full of pills and cheap liquor.
Popular music is the insidious secret soundtrack to which all our lives are choreographed. The number one hit single at any time is the song sung by the social soul. So then, is it thinkable that there’s no connection between the #1 hit song in America on November 22, 1963 and the death of J.F.K.? Is a brain-butchering pseudo-gleeful hymn of praise to Father Dominic significant? Though the song is winsome to the highest degree, the subject (real name: Domingo de Guzman) was the founder of the most vicious order in Roman Catholic history. The Inquisition was the Dominicans’ private enterprise, compete with murder, torture, theft and spiritual terrorism. Before he died, Dominic’s mother dreamed she’d give birth to a dog carrying a torch. It’s no coincidence that the Dominicans, as the Pope’s Secret Service, KGB and Gestapo rolled into one, were called Domini Canes – the dogs of the Lord. Also known as the “Black Friars,” Dominic’s order hunted down all blasphemous and heretical conspiracies and routed them out to utter and absolute annihilation. After St. Dominic, the most important figure in the order is St. Peter Martyr, who was so hated and feared as the Inquisitor General that he was assassinated. He is shown on sacred medallions with a perpetually bleeding head wound.
Succeeding him as the most loathed Dominicans are Johann Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer, whose Malleus Maleficarum (The Witch’s Hammer) is a manual for hunting down and destroying Satano-reprehensible forces. Revered for centuries as being almost divinely-inspired, the “Black Book” prescribed torture to elicit confessions and gave a hearty blessing for the strangling, burning, flaying and mutilating of suspected witches.
4. “Strangers in the Night” Frank Sinatra (Reprise 0470)
Taken from the film, A Man Could Get Killed, this song has been called a valentine to secret assassination conspirators. “It’s so exciting . . . it’s so inviting . . . wandering in the night . . . exchanging glances.” Is this not a blatant appeal to murderers and bloody psychopaths? Or is it a reference to a Satanic sex rite? And who better to cast the SPELL than the central figure in the entire mind-control apocalypse, the gin-soaked Antichrist of Las Vegas: Francis Albert Sinatra?
The first song ever to make it to Billboard’s #1 spot was “I’ll Never Smile Again” by the Tommy Dorsey band, with Frank Sinatra on vocals. As late as 1980, Sinatra was still a baleful presence on the popular radio: a longer span of influence on the charts than any other musician. He is the colossus that strides over American popular consciousness. He is what Elvis (the so-called King) only dreamed of being: singer, movie star, husband of the most beautiful woman in the world, TV star, friend and confidant of presidents and mafiosi alike. The Beatles lasted a mere eight years. Elvis died an ignominious death (of “drug-induced” heart attack, trying to move his leaden bowels while reading a book about the Shroud of Turin). Rock and roll, Sinatra declared, “is the most brutal, ugly, degenerate, vicious form of expression it has been my displeasure to hear. It fosters almost totally negative and destructive reactions in young people. It smells phony and false. It is sung, played and written by cretinous goons and by means of its almost imbecilic reiterations and sly, lewd, dirty lyrics, it manages to be the martial music of every sideburned delinquent on the face of the earth.” It is, in short, “a deplorable, rancid-smelling aphrodisiac.” Doobie, doobie, do, indeed.
5. “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-haa!” Napoleon XIV (Warner 5831)
Sharing the top of the charts with the previous entry, this “novelty” record makes a very strange complement to Sinatra’s “nice and easy” lethal smarm. An incessant drum beat, insane giggles, chortles, cackles and a sniggering chant about “men in white coats” and “the funny farm,” this is one of the few pop records to openly address the fact of “psychiatric” incarceration.
The flipside (with the label printed in mirror-image and the song pressed to run backward) has a bizarre, pseudo-Russian feel to it: gritting guttural sounds, glottal stops, obscene fricatives and moist sibilants like the commands only half-remembered by a robotic hypno-patsy. Is this psychic leakage, the content of the collective unconscious oozing out like pus from a festering cultural head wound?
6. “Psychotic Reaction” The Count Five (Double Shot 104)
Just by “coincidence,” at the very same moment the mysterious Napoleon XIV was raving about his break with reality, the Count Five charted with this overt and obvious hymn to mental breakdown. It may be difficult to imagine a 4-decker aural sandwich of these pop radio skull-softeners (entries # 4 – 7) but this quartet of audio terror-induction stimulants could be heard endlessly repeated on the third anniversary of 11/22/63.
7. “Wipeout” The Surfaris (Dot 144)
In one of the rarest of top forty events, “Wipeout” returned to the charts exactly three years after it peaked, sharing the ether with two blatant cries from the schizophrenic heart of the American dream-zombie underworld and the Satano-miraculous hoodwinkery of Frank Sinatra.
8. “Witchcraft” Frank Sinatra (Capital 3859)
Though an obvious reference to a spell or “psychic driving” (see entry #11), “witchcraft” here is also significant because it was a featured part of Frank Sinatra junior’s stage act. Attempting to follow in his father’s footsteps, Frankie Jr. sang with the Dorsey band, staked his meager claim in the Las Vegas sands and made his sub-moronic movies. All were dismal failures. How awful it must be to wake up and think “I’m Frank Sinatra!” How much more wretched and horrific to wake and think — perhaps in the middle of the night, stinking of scotch and drenched in sour sweat — “I’m Frank Sinatra junior!” Abandoned by his father while still a toddler, young Frankie was never the honored or beloved child (see entry #15). Trying to BE his father by wearing the same tuxedo, telling the same moth-eaten jokes, singing the same worm-holed songs only resulted in a baffling case of kidnapping.
A mere two weeks after the Executive Action in Dealy Plaza, young Frankie was abducted by two gunmen and held for ransom. Calling in his debts, Frank Senior contacted Attorney General Robert Kennedy to demand that every available FBI man get on the case. Within days, the extremely inept kidnappers were captured, after releasing Frankie two miles from his home. A policeman found the young Spawn of Sinatra, and in a bizarre reversal of a gangland slaying, he got into the trunk of the police car. Arriving at his home and greeted by his father, he said, “I’m sorry,” as though the whole affair had been HIS FAULT.
Years later, a rumor went around that the entire episode had been staged by Frankie to bolster a flagging career, While this hypothesis has been disproved, certain loose ends remain. Why, if they were offered a million dollars, did the kidnappers only take $240,000? (N.B.: this is EXACTLY twice the amount owed in back taxes by the Singing Nun.) Why did Don Rickles’ joke — “Do you know why the kidnappers let Junior go? Because they heard him humming in the trunk!” — go unpunished? And why was Frank’s only male heir snatched two weeks after the Deadly Dallas Dream-date?
9. “Experiment in Terror” The Champs (Challenge 9140)
This is a rock-and-rollified version of the theme from a movie about a psychotic killer (released in 1962). The Champs’ version did not chart, but coming soon after their big hits (“Tequila,” “Too Much Tequila,” and “Limbo Rock” — how low can you go? where do unbaptized dead Catholic babies go?) it may be a hint as to what was rapidly approaching: the beast of the Las Vegas desert apocalypse arising from its rhinestone-encrusted tomb.
10. “Wham” Lonnie Mack (Fraternity 906)
Could this refer to the impact of the Magic Bullet on the sacrificial victim’s skull? Could this be the sound of brain tissue torn and exploded like a ripe musk melon crushed under the heel of a sadist’s hobnailed boot? Could this “Wham” be the incessant brutal pounding that the American public was subjected to previous to J.F.K.’s necro-exultation? Could this “short sharp shock” be the sound of our mental jail cell door slamming shut, trapping us forever in the nightmare from which we can not even dream of waking?
11. ‘Prisoner of Love” James Brown (King 5739)
In November of 1963, James Brown was playing at the Apollo, the absolute epicenter of Black entertainment. The November 1963 show also included Major Lance, Betty Harris, the Chiffons, the Starlighters and Pig Meat Markham, whose bizarre schizophrenic dance antics (“Truckin’”) were a great hit among those who’d lined up all the way along 121st Street and down Seventh Avenue, who’d paid their two dollars, to get into the great shrine of Black music. Markham’s major contribution to American pop culture was his “Here Come De Judge” routine — seen by some as a parody of guilt and complicity, and by others as a call for final judgment.
But it was James Brown who was the #1 attraction in Harlem that murderous month. With his histrionic showmanship – rivers of sweat, religio-spastic trembling, doing the splits, the mashed potato, weird buglike pugilistic contortionist slides and shimmies — he was a man possessed. Again and again he’d reenact his own death and transfiguration: collapsing on the stage, being covered with a great cape by his emcee Danny Ray, then lunging up and doing one more and one more tune, the Hardest Working Man in the come-back-from-the-dead business.
What can we make of “Prisoner of Love” riding high in the charts as the country was seized by the bloody sex conjuration? And what is the “love” that keeps him imprisoned?
Alone from night to night you’ll find me
too weak to break the chains that bind me
I need no shackles to remind me.
For one command I’ll stand and wait now
for one who’s master of my fate now
I can’t escape for it’s too late now.
Has there ever been a better description of a brain-controlled murder-zombie waiting for the “green light” from his secret hypno-master? Was James Brown admitting to the entire world that he’d been programmed to carry out the Terminal Deed? Perhaps the song he sang as the Fatal Day approached was a form of psychic leakage, the inner truth oozing out through the microwave machinations of pop radio.
Notorious for his squeaky-clean drug-and-alcohol-free band, singing against “King Heroin,” he nonetheless became an abject slave to PCP in 1988. The rumors were that his thralldom to Angel Dust was cause by his “wife” Adrienne – who was indeed arrested numerous times for the use of the drug. But bear in mind that Brown and she MET THE POPE in 1987 and the next year he was a raving, gun-toting maniac. In September of 1988 he went on a rampage, storming into a building he owned, waving a pistol and a shotgun and accusing the people there of “using his private bathroom.” Police were summoned and seven cruisers were led on a multi-state high speed chase. Brown’s tires were shot out but he still keep going, speeding on the wheel rims for another six miles. Pulled out of his truck, he started singing “Georgia” and doing the Good Foot Dance. Bob Patton, Brown’s tour manager, stated that Brown’s paranoia had “caused him to believe that the FBI, Secret Service and the Russians were after him.” This episode is likely a massive backflush or flashback from previous hidden memories. Garbled, yes. But largely true. Secret governmental agencies were truly “after him.” There was no way that a man with so powerful a “raw soul” could be kept in a state of quiescence forever. This “Prisoner of Love” had finally broken his psychic shackles.
In 1953, James Brown, a drug-using petty thief, was arrested and imprisoned. Yet he obviously possessed a spark; he was a vessel for the psychic wind and fire. Some officials of a clandestine mind-control organization recognized his “famous flame” and took him from jail to a secret clinic to be “regrooved.” Released, he appeared on the music scene as a hugely powerful, mind-numbingly energetic “Soul Brother Number One.” But who, or what, could have had the resources and the MOTIVE for such an undertaking?
In 1953, “coincidentally” the same year that the CIA’s MK ULTRA program was begun, Dr. D. Ewen Cameron conceived a mind-control technique he called “psychic driving.” Funded by the CIA, Cameron performed his “experiments in terror” at the Allen Memorial Institute, the psychiatric wing of McGill University in Montreal. His radical attempt to “repattern” his patients — eradicating their personalities and “regrooving” them — constitute the most massive assault on the human mind ever before performed. He used electroshock and chemically-induced sleep (Thorazine, Nembutal, Seconal and Veronal in a narco-depressive highball), sometimes keeping his subject unconscious for over a month. Then he’d employ sensory deprivation, LSD injections and the bombardment of patients with taped “do loop” messages. President of the American Psychiatric Association, and later first president of the World Psychiatric Association, Cameron was no mad doctor in the superstition-haunted backlands, but a well-respected, well-funded and well-protected employee of MK ULTRA. Suddenly and very unexpectedly, he retired from his position in 1964, mere months after the Kennedy head-rupture. Was his task accomplished? Had he served as the cerebral puppet-master, killing through the agency of his psycho-funk-zombie? Similarly suspicious, MK ULTRA was terminated in late 1963, only a few weeks after the “lone nut” cracked in Dallas.
A statement made by James Brown in a post-arrest interview perhaps can help us delve to a deeper truth. Raving about a trip he’d made to Graceland, Brown said he’d placed his hand on Elvis’ body. “With tears in my eyes, I said, ‘You rat, you left me.’ I know what they did to Elvis; now they’re doing the same to me. They always get the number one man.” Elsewhere, Brown said, “It was a tragedy to me. When Elvis died in 1977. I think I got a clue. But don’t blame the government. Disco hurt me in a lot of ways. I don’t hold a grudge. I rededicated myself to God. I’ve been the American dream.”
Dream indeed — a flaming soul sweltering in the “Sex Machine” fever, the vast hive-mind of the nation in a narco-epileptiform stupor. And perhaps — just perhaps — James Brown had managed to liberate himself, a mind once possessed but now free, rededicated to God. “As a performer,” Brown wrote in his autobiography, “I’ve had names like Mr. Dynamite, The ‘Please, Please Please’ man, the hardest working man in show business, Soul Brother Number One, and the minister of the New New Superheavy Funk. My full legal name is James Joe Brown Jr. I prefer to be called Mr. Brown. But of all the names I’ve been marked with, James Brown is probably the most mysterious. But originally my name wasn’t supposed to be James Brown at all. It should have been something else. I wasn’t supposed to be James. I wasn’t supposed to be Brown. And I wasn’t even supposed to be alive.”
As an agent of a great power, a pawn of the Eldritch Dream Engine, as the living manifestation of American “soul,” James Brown is a psycho-assassination microwave avatar without equal. “The people own JAMES BROWN. That belongs to them. The minute they say ‘I’m James Brown’ and believe it, then it will be the end of James Brown. I’m James Brown.”
Were truer words ever spoken?
In the mid-1980s, his psychic programming was beginning to wear off; perhaps “disco hurt” him in a deeply unconscious way. So various agencies, his wife, and later even the Pope, were engaged to shut down the psychic truth leakage. Enslaving him with Angel Dust, these mind-murderers were hoping that he’d get himself into a shoot-out with police and be conveniently removed, killing two “free birds” with one “stone fox.”
“I have no drug problem,” he later said. “I have a problem that everyone else have. Everybody on drugs. What are we talking about? Cigarettes is drugs. Soda is drugs. Plants is drugs. Anything is drugs. They got drugstores. What are we talking about? Aspirin? Bufferin? What else? What’s PCP?”
12. “Bust Out” The Busters (Arlen 735)
This instrumental starts out with insane, repetitive guitar hysteria-agogo. Then follows more three-chord madness. A virtual copy of “Wipeout,” complete with jungle tom-toms and insidious spring-reverb guitar twangs, “Bust Out” is only one of dozens of instrumental cuts to dominate the charts in 1963. Though “Bust Out,” like the previous year’s “Penetration” (by the Pyramids) has no words, still it tells a story.
1963 was the watershed year, the time when the whole spirit-slaying roboto-submission apparatus had reached its terminal velocity. This was the year to BUST OUT of the old psychic patterns, to thrown off the constraints of decency and virtue and personal autonomy. If the president of the United States could be sacrificed in a ritual public killing, if the whole weight of Roman Catholic tradition could be overturned, if Frank Sinatra could rise like the Beast of the Apocalypse and cast vile conjurations on the nation, then what new radical transformation of the American soul would soon occur?
The answer: anything and everything!
13. “Out of Limits” The Marketts (Warner 5391)
A surferized version of the “Outer Limits” TV theme, This is one more example of the pop cult transmutation that was occurring in 1963. Beyond limits, beyond boundaries, BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL. As a program devoted to the bizarre, supernatural, alien or insane, “Outer Limits” was a perfect vehicle — made more bestial by surfer guitars and incessant tom-toms — for a further radical shift in consciousness.
14. “I’m Leaving It All Up to You” Dale and Grace (Montel 921)
Released the week of the presidential cranium discharge, this song is an open and shut case, an incontrovertible example of the long-distance mind-hoodoo hypothesis. Who is “I”? The assassin or the entirety of the American populace? And what exactly is he leaving up to whom? Is there a more obvious expression of the brain-controlled kill-slave’s state of mind than the title of this song? Let go, give up, surrender to the “voice,” abdicate all autonomy. Similar to “I Will Follow Him,” which reached #1 in April of 1963, entry #14 is a hymn to submission, a song of abject obedience.
And surely, no one will argue that it was a coincidence that Dale and Grace (why do these people have no last names?) were in Dallas, were THREE BLOCKS AWAY from Dealy Plaza at the exact moment when Mr. Bullet went knocking on Miss Head-Wound’s front door. Touring with Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars, Dale and Grace did a show on November 21 in the black magick necropolis sometimes called Dallas. The morning of the 22nd, Dick Clark, along with the mysterious Dale and Grace, Bobby Rydell (né Ridarelli), and Bryan Hylan (the “Itsy Bitsy Teeni Weeni Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” boy) went to the front steps of their hotel to watch JFK’s cortege turn onto Elm Street. They clapped and cheered. The cars went by and three blocks past them the lethal chicken came home to roost.
Think of this — think hard! Dick Clark, the perpetual vampire of Rock and Roll, never getting older, hugely successful but with NO DISCERNIBLE TALENT, was a mere three blocks away from Dealy Plaza when the last act of the sexy murder extravaganza was brought to a close. Now some might even go so far as to argue that Dick Clark is a kind of psychic energy parasite, sucking out the “youth” of American young people, that at the moment JFK was killed, Dick Clark stole his life force. JFK, the youngest and sexiest president in American history, who drove his adulterous “Magic Bullet” into more wanton wench-wounds than any other Prez, blasted to red-and-pink flinders a mere three blocks from Dick Clark, notorious for his vampiric relationships with the young. Has anyone investigated his whereabouts during other nationally-televised ritual murders? Is it possible that he is not only the microwave Puppet Master(bator) but also the pornocratic symbiont who looms over the American landscape? Is, in short, Dick Clark a Papal sex-and-death stooge?
15. “Something Stupid” Nancy and Frank Sinatra (Reprise 0561)
The only father-daughter team to ever have a #1 hit duet single was not surprisingly Frank and Nancy Sinatra. Going straight to the top of the charts in the so-called Summer of Love (1967), it was flanked by such hippie-dippie twaddle as “Penny Lane,” “Happy Together,” “The Happening,” and “Groovin’”. The pop music brain-pressure radio-controlled assassination cabal is at times so patently obvious! What could be more clever than “Something Stupid”? Mind-numbing, soul-degrading, thought-eradicating: the ultimate goal of popular music is to lower humans to the most base, servile, groveling state in order to best control them. So it’s obvious that when the absolute King of popular music, the “Chairman of the Board” and his bikini-clad boots-are-made-for-walking crypto-incestuous daughter perform a mass media sex-magick rite before millions of listeners, its goal must be a cultural-alchemical transmogrification.
16. “Pipeline” The Chantay’s (dot 16440)
The last so-called surf instrumental to consider, “Pipeline,” with its throbbing, demoniac bass and crashing wave sound effects, is another in the long line of covert KILL-MESSAGES. Pipeline: a conduit for brain-pressure thought-assault long distance electro-trephination commands.
17. “My Way” Frank Sinatra (Reprise 0817)
“Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew,” Sinatra croons on his all-time biggest hit. Knew what? The obvious, the ridiculously unbelievably self-evident fact that Frank Sinatra is the living manifestation of infernal ego, the raging hell-furnace of self-infatuation, the diabolical Devil-head incarnate.
Note well: S-I-N-A-T-R-A = I R (are) SATAN!
It doesn’t take a code-cracking genius to figure that one out.
“My way or no way” was his motto. Yet he was a pawn, a puppet, a bum-boy of Mafia thugs. Lucky Luciano, Frank Costello, Moe Dalitz, Willie Moretti, Joe “Fish” Fishetti, Carlo Gambino were his patrons and idols.
In the late 1950s, Sinatra was friend and confidant, pimp and procurer, whoring-and-drinking buddy to then-senator John F. Kennedy. Introducing the wide-eyed Massachusetts fancy-boy to Hollywood bimbos and La Cosa Nostra thugs, Sinatra forged a link that was not even broken by the Dealy Plaza head-squirt. Creating his own “mob” – imitating his Mafia heroes with guns, sharkskin suits, snapbrim hats, tough guy lingo (God was “the Big G,” women were “broads,” “Bird” was their term for penis) — Sinatra played at being a ruthless goon. And Kennedy, before his ascension, was fascinated by Sinatra’s “clan.” As absolute leader of the Rat Pack, Sinatra was addressed as “the General,” “El Dago,” and “The Pope.” (nota bene! !)
It is his relationship with Sam “Momo” Giancanna — head of the Chicago mob, assassinated in 1975 — that concerns us most here. There existed a bizarre sexual linkage between Sinatra, Kennedy and Giancanna (who bragged with good reason that that he’d gotten the Boston Brahmin elected). Judith Campbell Exner was the sexual “pipeline” or partner of all three men, in fact ferrying their seed back and forth from Chicago to Vegas to the White House, making calls on the presidential phone to the heir of Al Capone, mixing the germ plasm of the men to form a kind of psycho-sexual homunculus. This Sicilian love-voodoo in fact played a crucial role in the assassination, putting the black hand of death on him so that the Magic Bullet — fired from any spot on the globe — could fly-fly-fly and find its target.
“And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain.”
On 11/22/63 Sinatra was on Stage 22 of the Warner Brothers’ lot, making Robin and the Seven Hoods with his Rat Pack buddies, when he found out that JFK had “bought the big casino.” Learning that Oswald had watched the film — in which Sinatra plays an insane assassin paid to kill the president — “The Pope” withdrew suddenly from circulation. He also refused to allow the rerelease of of The Manchurian Candidate, a film he’d made the year before, dealing with a killer who is brainwashed to gun down a high-ranking politician. Supposedly this was matter of respect and deference for his dead whoring buddy, but it’s highly probable that the two films were too close to the truth.
So then this is inarguable: Frank Sinatra was the Anti-Pope and JFK his wayward disciple. Sam Momo contrived to have a Crypto-Papal sex slave transporting presidential semen to be voodooized by a Black hand Mal Occhio practitioner. The mother of “El Dago,” (“Hat Pin” Dolly Sinatra), a convicted abortionist with years of experience in gynecological conjuring, prayed to some arcane Papist sex-idol to create the La Cosa Nostra assassination-golem, uniting the seed of the Blue Blood Catholic aristocrat and the Red-handed Roman Catholic goombah thug.
18. “My Way” Sid Vicious (Sacam 740509)
Having murdered his sex partner, Nancy Spungeon, Sid Vicious was arrested on October 12, 1978. Released from detox (or reprograming?) on February 2, 1979, he was immediately plied with strange drugs by strangers. Thirteen hours after his release, he was dead, supposedly of a heroin overdoes. His recording of Sinatra’s signature song, “My Way,” is a perfect doppelganger to the unctuous, martini-soaked smarm of Frank’s version. Alternately braying like a drunken Cockney lout and bellowing in a semi-retarded lounge crooner voice, Sid on this recording interpolates certain of his own lyrics: “I’m not a queer,” “what is a brat, what has he got, when he wears hats and he can not say the things he truly feels?” and “Today I killed the cat.” Coming 14 years after the Terminal Experiment in Dallas, this is more a distant echo, a dying cry, than hard evidence of real conspiracy. But more than one person who defied Frank Sinatra died an early and painful death. Perhaps “El Dago” saw a dim reflection of himself in the swaggering, crotch-grabbing, brawling, vomit-and-drool-crusted punk imbecile. Perhaps the truth of Sid’s declaration, “Today I killed the cat,” was too much. Keep in mind that in Rat Pack lingo “cat” meant “man.” Perhaps “I killed the cat” is a bold-faced admission of homicidal guilt.
19. “Louie Louie” The Kingsmen (Wand 143)
Who is the “King” in “Kingsmen”? Elvis? James Brown? JFK? Frank Sinatra? The Pope?
Though recorded by dozens of other performers, “Louie Louie” is most closely associated with the Kingsmen. It was their version which became the “hit.” By September of 1963 it was on the Billboard chart, heading upward like a V-2 vengeance rocket. A rumor that the recording contained “dirty” lyrics gave extra thrust to the song’s trajectory. Public outcry, curious teenagers, an investigation by the FCC and the FBI (ask yourself: when was the last time the FBI investigated a three-minute slice of pop pabulum?) pushed sales into the stratosphere. It was only kept out of the #1 position by “Dominique,” eventually selling 8 million copies. Everyone in America was listening closely, trying to decode the secret meaning, to unravel the sexual mystery as the song rocketed down toward the bulls-eye target in Dallas. To call this coincidence — that the day JFK was killed by an insidious Papal-Gangster-American-Bandstand conspiracy a mysteriously incoherent piece of pop obscenity and a freak French hymn to the inquisitionary monks were back to back on the charts — would be the same as saying it’s a coincidence that a song in praise of the leader of the Bavarian Illuminati sung in Platt-Deutsch would be number one when right behind was a hymn to brain-Satanist ritual murder accompanied by human thighbone trumpets and maracas made of the skulls of unbaptized Limbo-babies.
“Louie Louie” indeed. Why the double name? Why the supposedly obscene lyrics which no one has ever found? Why the fact that the lead singer immediately quit the band after the song reached its apogee?
One line is most certainly clear however. Just before the dreaded guitar solo, the singer shouts out, “Okay! Let’s give it to him!” Who is the “him” and what are they going to “give”? The song was the final signal, the last psychic shove to the thought-controlled assassin. Hearing “let’s give it to him!” literally millions of times, could there be any other result than a shower of presidential gray matter and the total abjection of the American psyche? Could there be any other final consummation than every night in the dreams of America a godlike wind-up anatomically-correct John F. Kennedy assassination love-doll with swivel head and special lifelike impact-o-matic forensic action BLOWN TO SEXY SMITHEREENS?
20. “Surfin Bird” The Trashmen (Garret 4002)
Does it make any sense that as the final episode in the sex-magick spectacle was occurring that we WOULDN’T find a song blaring from a hundred thousand car speakers in praise of a dead president’s penis and blood-mad negro midnight assassins? “Papa ooh Mau Mau”: when we break down this seemingly incoherent song refrain, the truth could not be clearer. “Papa”: Daddy, the King, the Pope. And “Mau Mau”: notorious African machete assassins. “Bird’s the word”? What could this mean? In Sinatra’s parlance, “bird’ was penis. A traditional Rat Pack greeting was “How’s your bird?” So, on the charts with other songs of praise to insane violence and psychic brain submission we have a bizarre chanted invocation of the über penis, the sex-occult male member (what else could the Magic Bullet be but a juvenile phallic phantasy?) The Mau Maus traditionally used a machete to hack the brains of their victims. And only a few notches from #1 on the day of the Great Cerebral Catastrophe we find a thrumming, mind-numbing gospel-cretin shout, the word “DEATH” made flesh.
21. “That’s Life” Frank Sinatra (Reprise 0531)
Yes, it WAS life: a living nightmare. The Papal-Mafiosi-CIA camorra had managed to finally (by the agency of black mass spermatic novenas) to usher in the End Time Horror. With reference to being “shot down,” with obvious statements such as “some people get their kicks stomping on a dream.” “I’ve been a puppet, a pawn and a king,” and “I’m going to roll myself up in a ball and die,” there is little doubt this song refers directly to the final Sicilian hoodoo rubout seizure.
“Psychic driving” and the endless costly search for a real Manchurian Candidate had proven fruitless — a 10 million dollar dead-end. So at last, the high tech Black Friars went back to a deeper, more ancient and eldritch art: the creation of a biological murder-slave simulacrum. Using her Borgia-style seed-spell, Hatpin Dolly Sinatra conjured up a sex-magick death homunculus to enact world-shattering ritualized DOOM in Dealy Plaza.
It is said in legend that where a dead man is hanged — where his ejaculate falls — there grows a Magic Mandrake. So the last act was played out before millions of viewers: JFK’s brain spattered like an overripe jack-o-lantern. The pulp, the rind, the oozing orange slime, the SEED, the whole thing was captured and replayed endlessly in Zapruder home movie disinfotainment footage. The true and complete film was confiscated by Dominican Gestapo “Dogs of God,” spirited back to the Vatican’s deepest catacomb vault where it was SHOWN BACKWARD in a kind of cinematic black mass: all the gore and blood and ichor miraculously reassembled again and again to form a perfectly smiling Kennedy love-head blasphemy idol.
Day after day and year after year — an endless hellish iteration — the Rat Pack murder rite is looped in the dismal, smoky Vatican caverns. The obliterated head-of-state gathers itself from the ground, drawn upward by inverse gravity and forming a Mandragora Antichrist suction headwound.
The Magic Bullet penetrates and releases, goes in and out, in and out, in and out, endlessly.
Forever and ever.
Amen.