The Importance of Being Fendersoned

How many strange-music lovers out there will step up to admit, "Were it not for Deral Fenderson, I would never have made it through...." It's like admitting to the necessity of Alfred Jarry, John Cage, Pere Ubu, some people just want to do those things silently.  OK, I'll step up - those last days of the previous millenium, when a faux war for coolness was undertaken by Mr. Fenderson and the prolific Graham Smith, the era when Smith was touting Ponyoak and Fenderson shot back with Donkeylarch, when Mr. Fenderson appeared at certain West Virginia Bunky festivals and all-night shows in warehouses in Tennessee mill towns, when all relevant personnel were "Wined Dined Entranced Sliced Diced Romanced," and if there had not been a Mucilage singing "Raised By Robots," it would have been necessary for JJ to invent one.  Or maybe he did.  In any event, I'll do the testimonial and say that Deral Fenderson allowed me to enter the 21st century, or at least vouched for my papers.

The Dada critics and dubstep snobs who eat all the canapes at art openings and wiggle their pinkies at the Shock of the New will no doubt say that there is no longer call for a Fenderson in 2012.  These are the people who have worn out their Zorn Tzadik welcomes, the kind who have not heard the extended 'Junkie Mom' mix on Soundcloud.  Sisters and brothers, I am here to tell you that I visited the Fenderson homestead on the Fourth of July two not-so-long years ago, and was washed in the blood of the lamb, courtesy of improv percussion music from Amy Splitt and friends, and a patriotic reading by the campfire by some crazy-ass guy who Deral counts as A Friend.

If it isn't clear by now, I provide these testimonials as part of an infomercial to prod you to go over to Indiegogo and throw some money in the tip jar for the Fenderson Prescription Series.  You are lucky enough to live in a universe in which Deral Fenderson exists.  Don't blow this chance.