Have Moicy!: The Healing Power of Absurdity

Recently, this house suffered the loss of one helluva dog. His name was Lobo; he was a devilish blue heeler with more than his share of personality, and only eight years old. My wife and I were crushed, and for the first few days after, the only song I could hear in my head, even if others were playing outside of it, was "Old Dog Blue," first made famous in this country by the Memphis songster Jim Jackson:

"I’m goin’ back to where I’m come
I’m goin’ back to where I’m come
I’m goin’ back to Giles County
My wife died and left me a bounty
Way them pretty girls ganged around
That’s the reason why I’m goin’ to Giles County

I had an old dog whose name was Blue
You know that Blue was mighty true
You know Blue was a good old dog
Blue treed a ‘possum in a hollow log
You know from that he’s a good old dog

Blue treed a ‘possum out on a limb
Blue looked at me and I looked at him
Grabbed that ‘possum and put him in a sack
“Do fer me, Blue, ’til I get back.”

“Here, Ring! Yeah, Ring Here!
Here Ring! Hey, Ring here!”
Who’s been here since I been gone
Little bitty girl with the red dress on
Who’s been here since I been gone
Little bitty girl with the red dress on

Old Blue’s feet was big and round
Old Blue’s feets was big and round
Never ‘lowed a ‘possum to tech the ground
Me and Blue went out on a hunt
Blue treed a ‘possum in a hollow stump
You know that Blue was a good old dog
Blue treed a ‘possum in a hollow log
You know from that he’s a good old dog

Old Blue died and I dug his grave
I dug his grave with a silver spade
I let him down with a golden chain
And every link I called his name

Go on Blue you good dog you
Go on Blue you good dog you
Blue laid down and died like a man
Blue laid down and died like a man
Now he’s treein’ ‘possums in the promised land

I’m goin’ to tell you this jes’ to let you know
Old Blue’s gone where the good dogs go
When I hear old Blue bark
When I hear old Blue bark
Blue’s treed a ‘possum in Noah’s ark
Blue’s treed a ‘possum in Noah’s ark."

The track's on the amazing Anthology of American Folk Music, if you want to look it up and listen to it. Anyway, the point is, if I'd kept hearing it, I would have been driven mad. So I turned rather blindly to a CD titled Have Moicy!, by three crazed hippie entities (the forefathers, as it were, of Animal Collective and the other freak folk crew, though by comparison they haven't even got the freak flag above half-mast): Michael Hurley, the most eccentric songwriter Pennsylvania's ever produced; Jeffrey Frederick and the Clamtones, fatalist funnymen from Oregon; and the (Un)Holy Modal Rounders (Steve Weber and Peter Stampfel), whose cockeyed, disrespectful-thus-respectful approach to traditional American music has been catching listeners by surprise since '65. The record features songs about the following, and I am not making this up: bohemian madness in Paris ("You wear my beret/And I'll use your bidet, Cherie/I'll be clean, you'll be free!"); a paean to crime that stretches from Argentina to Alaska ("Lord, I love poachin' chickens!"); making, eating, cleaning up after, and excreting food--potatoes, perch, tortillas, beans, spaghetti, to be specific ("We fill up our guts/Then we turn it into shit/then we get rid of it!"); freshly disattached and bleeding ears on the floor; a "meaning of life" conversation between a crow and a newt ("I don't really care too much if'n I die," sez the newt while in the crow's beak); philosophical inquiries into the disappearance of hamburgers and the source of heart attacks; a "hoodoo bash" complete with magic mushrooms; the seduction of young Griselda ("learnin' the lessons/Nature taught us!"); jealous curses from beyond the grave ("Don't you monkey with my widow when I'm gone!"); and much, much more. The music's downhome but slightly off-kilter British Isles balladry cum bluegrass; the singing can only be described as embued with flaming experience, though Stampfel (one of the Rounders) sings with more crazed enthusiasm than any non-singer in American history. Needless to say, listening to this record (plus the Rounders' Too Much Fun--which IS--and Last Round) got me out of the mourning rut and onto the road to perfect mental health (of which a touch of insanity is an essential part).