DAZ RORO
Cassette
What better way to see the year out than with a bit of Filthy Turd. Or is it? The clues are all there; the spray panted J-card insert, the hand painted cassette, the dried leaves in the cassette box, the button badge that [sort of] says ‘Burslem’. The biggest clue of course is what you get between the ears - deranged split channel muck fluff in one ear and an ambulance going down the street in the other.
So its to Mr. Darren Wyngarde a.k.a Filthy Turd, one half of the Bongoleeros, one half of Vile Plumage, sometime member of cracked outfits that exist for mere hours before disappearing forever that we must point our searching sticks in the direction of. It could be no other.
Somebody at the WC mentioned the dissertation on Filthy Turd as written by some bod at Leeds University so I went in search. ‘J. Mooney & D. Wilson (2013), ‘Beyond Auditive Unpleasantness: A Case Study of Filthy Turd’ is a paper that goes in to great depth about what it is that Darren Wyngarde does whilst in Filthy guise. And as much as I wanted to read it I find academic writing so boring it makes my brain hurt. So I’ve only scan read it and looked at some of the diagrams and flow charts. The Filthster in a flow chart.
So I played all of DAZ RORO, all 90 minutes of it whilst pondering the meaning of life and how it is that these things just appear from nowhere with no fanfare and no return address or contact info or anything at all resembling something that may point you in at least some direction as to what it is or who its by. Some labels have launch parties and press releases, flyers and postcards printed up, Facebook promotions and You Tube videos as trailers. Wyngarde doesn’t even have a label. If it is him.
Its not all ambulances going down a street of course. One channel on one side [I forget which] has the bogmans lament that is so unmistakably Mr. Darren Wyngarde singing one of his one liner laments through a cloud of static and surface noise, appearing through the fug like a down on his uppers Hasil Hadkins meets Milovan Srdenovic in the shittest pub in town on a Sunday afternoon where the only customer is a collapsed drunk on the long saddle. A string is plucked to mimic a beat. A guitar is fuzzed up to distortion levels as yet undiscovered. All in one channel. In the other dub flutter and hiss.
In desperation I typed Daz Roro into a search engine and got a Facebook return for somebody called Daz Roro. I’ve sent a friend request. I’ll let you know what happens.