Showing posts with label the rev. fred lane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the rev. fred lane. Show all posts

Thursday, July 05, 2007

The Rev. Fred Lane - Part II

[Continued from previous post]

Back at school the next day I stopped by my Spanish professor's office hours. I asked her if she knew anyone who could translate Esperanto. "Esperanto isn't exactly a major part of our language curriculum,” she told me. She explained that Esperanto was conceived as an auxiliary language to facilitate international communication, but that--like many 19th Century utopian ideas--it never took off the way it was envisioned. I told her I had a document written in Esperanto that I was curious to have translated. Surprisingly, she never acted as if this was something strange, and told me that the department had a copy of L. L. Zamenhof's Universala Vortaro, that I could borrow in order to translate the document myself.

I never had much facility with foreign languages; I had practically flunked out of Latin, and was only taking Spanish to fulfill a graduation requirement. So it was with some trepidation that I jumped into the process of translating a document from an unfamiliar language with little more than a dictionary for help. The process was not as difficult as I expected. The grammatical rules of Esperanto were very straightforward. I would sometimes come across words not featured in the dictionary, but it was usually extremely easy to figure out what they meant based on my knowledge of English, Spanish and Latin.

I was able to establish a few basic facts very quickly. As I had suspected, "The Rev. Fred Lane" was not a real name, it was a pseudonym for a visual artist from Tuscaloosa, Alabama named T.R. Reed. Ron 'Pate's Debonairs were a real band who also used pseudonyms, and had released a little noticed album back in 1975 called Raudelunas 'Pataphysical Revue with contributions from Fred Lane. Another album called From The One That Cut You had been recorded and self-released by Lane with Ron 'Pate's Debonairs in 1983 (this would be reissued by Shimmy Disc the next year). All of the other albums featured on the back cover of Car Radio Jerome were apparently fictional.

All of these facts were established in the first 10 pages of the manuscript, and they pretty much answered the basic questions I had about Fred Lane. I now knew who Lane really was, and what was what wasn't real (or so I thought). Of course there were still a few remaining questions: Why had Kramer been so secretive about what was in reality a fairly prosaic matter of a visual artist recording under an assumed identity? And why was the document written in Esperanto? Those questions would be answered in the remaining 190 pages of the manuscript, but I was hardly prepared for the answers.

Lane/Reed's father, Henry Nostril, had been a doctoral student in the lab of noted psychologist B.F. Skinner at Harvard in the early 1950s, but had been kicked out of the program because he used some rather questionable methods to carry out experiments designed to prove his unorthodox theories. In a nutshell, Nostril believed that human beings were by nature entirely rational entities, but that we had been corrupted by the irrational nature of our languages. Nostril theorized that what separated us from our true, rational nature was the irregularities in our language systems. He also believed that if children were reared with exclusive exposure to a created, rationalized language system such as Esperanto that they would develop into adults whose actions would be dictated solely by reason.

For his part Skinner considered Nostril's thesis to be rubbish and ordered him to work on a different project for his doctoral thesis. Nostril agreed, but progress on his thesis was extremely slow. Skinner later discovered the reason for Nostril's slow progress was that he had been secretly pursuing his original thesis using his own son, Fredrick Nostril, as a guinea pig. Nostril was raising the boy without any contact with the outside world and insisted that no language other than Esperanto be spoken in the home. Worse, Nostril had acquired several babies on the black market and was subjecting them to the same treatment. When this egregious breach of scientific protocol was discovered Nostril was immediately expelled from Harvard and the authorities were contacted.

The children who had been acquired on the black market were found safe in Nostril's home, but Nostril, his wife and young son disappeared before authorities could apprehend him. Nostril spent the next several years traveling from town to town, making sure all the while that his son was not exposed to any language other than Esperanto. He later formed his own micro-nation on an abandoned oil-drilling platform in the Atlantic. He named it the People's Republic of Fundus, declared himself King of Fundus, and named Esperanto as the nation's official language.

It was on this tiny man-made island that Fredrick Nostril (who you might have guessed is T.R. Reed/Fred Lane) spent most of his formative years. It was a dreary existence, the three residents of the People's Republic of Fundus survived on a diet heavy on fish and the occasional canned vegetables imported from the mainland. With few others to communicate with, Frederick spent much time during this period talking to his haircut. By the time Fredrick was 13 the elder Nostril had all but abandoned his original theories about the inherent rationality of humans and our corruption by language due to his son's increasingly erratic behavior.

It was around this time that Henry Nostril allowed his son and wife to accompany him back to the United States where he had been contracted to serve as a language consultant on the 1965 William Shatner film Incubus (which was to be filmed entirely in Esperanto in order to create an otherworldly effect). During the filming Shatner befriended the young Frederick Nostril. Shatner had learned enough Esperanto during the filming of Incubus to understand that Frederick was a troubled young man, and that his father was likely insane. Shatner took the boy under his wing, and in essence adopted him when he confronted the elder Nostril and threatened to contact the authorities if he did not leave the boy in his care.

For the next five years Shatner raised the boy, taught him English and introduced him to the pleasures of American popular culture. At the age of 18 Frederick moved to Tuscaloosa, Alabama where, using funds given to him by Shatner, he established himself as a visual artist under the name T.R. Reed, and later as a recording artist under the name The Rev. Fred Lane. Nostril worked under these two pseudonyms because he still feared that his father would find him, kidnap him and bring him back to the People's Republic of Fundus.

Of course I am leaving out a number of details, but that is the essence of what was communicated in the manuscript. I spent so much time translating the manuscript that I nearly failed out of college. I never heard from Kramer again. The final two B.A.L.L. albums were a disappointment.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

The Rev. Fred Lane

I can still remember the day Car Radio Jerome by The Rev. Fred Lane arrived at our college radio station. Previous Shimmy Disc releases from arty New York weirdos like Bongwater, B.A.L.L. and King Missile had impressed me and found their way into the station's heavy rotation, much to the annoyance of some of students at our small, conservative, liberal arts college.

Most of the stuff on Shimmy Disc was weird, but The Rev. Fred Lane was from a whole different universe of weirdness. This wasn't arty, affected, New York "weird," this stuff was strange and compelling in a way that was more in line with the work of "outsider" artists like The Rev. Howard Finster or Henry Darger. While the music was too sophisticated and knowingly strange to have been made by an illiterate janitor who stashed tapes in his dresser that no one knew he made until his landlady found them, it was clearly made by someone on the "outside" who wasn't looking for a way "in."

The album threw absurdist humor, an Elvis fixation, demented swing music, Rahsaan Roland Kirk, rockabilly, and lounge music into a pop-culture blender. It was pretty obvious to me that the "Rev. Fred Lane" was some sort of pseudonym. The back cover featured photos of what I assumed were imaginary albums by the Reverend with titles like How's That Oil? Vol. II, and From The One That Cut You, mixed with covers for real albums by the likes of Pat Boone, Frankie Laine, and album covers by imaginary artists like Ron 'Pate's Debonaires and Nervous Tension Headache McPherson.

Or at least I assumed this stuff was imaginary. It was possible the covers referred to real albums—it was hard to tell. Could it be that there was some strange, alternate musical universe that I was previously completely unaware of? It didn't seem likely, I was pretty up on the world of strange music—I knew about The Residents, I knew about Jandek. But maybe Fred Lane and these other guys had been self-releasing albums for years and this was the first one picked up by an actual record label. Maybe this was something that had flown well under my radar.

My curiosity was aroused, so I called up Shimmy Disc owner Kramer. I had previously interviewed him for an article in our school newspaper about his multiple jobs as a producer at Noise New York, musician in several bands, and owner of Shimmy Disc. In the article I called him a Renaissance man and a genius. It was the last thing I was allowed to write for the school paper.

Kramer and I chatted for a few minutes. He told me he was working on another album with Galaxie 500. (For some reason he never asked me if we actually played the records he sent.) After a while I told him I loved the Fred Lane record, and thought it was weird even by Shimmy Disc's standards. "Yeah," he said, "cool, huh?" "Yeah, it's great," I replied, "but tell me who is The Rev. Fred Lane really, and what's the deal with all the album covers on the back?" The line went quiet for about ten seconds, and when he replied the earlier friendly tone in his voice was gone, and in an icily serious voice he said, "I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to divulge that information."

Was he serious? He couldn't tell me who The Rev. Fred Lane really is? We were talking about music, not Iran-Contra. "Come on man," I said, "don't be like that—you gotta give me something." After a few minutes of pestering he relented, "I've already said more than I should, but if you want to know more, show up at KKs on First Avenue between 11th and 12th Street at 2:30 AM. Order a bowl of borscht with two eggs. When the waitress brings you the check tell her 'the one that cut you' sent you."

All right, now this was really getting strange. I figured he had to be pulling my leg. "Dude, you gotta be kidding," I said, "I'm in freakin' Carlisle, PA. New York City is over four hours away. I have a midterm tomorrow." "Do you want to know or not?" he replied. Something in his voice told me he was serious. "Do what I told you and all your questions will be answered."

I really didn't think about it much. I went back to my apartment and "borrowed" $20 for gas money from my roommate [Adam—someday I intend to pay you back, sorry about that] got in my Subaru and headed for New York City. I listened to dubbed a cassette of Car Radio Jerome the whole way. It was almost 2:30 by the time I got to the city.

I went to KK's, a grungy little Polish restaurant in the East Village. I did exactly what I was told. I ordered a bowl of borscht with two eggs. The waitress was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties with a heavy Eastern-European accent. When she brought the check I was rather embarrassed, but said, "The one that cut you sent me." I was half expecting her to freak out on me and have me thrown out, but in a very blasé voice she said, "Okay, just a minute, I get it." She came back with a two hundred page mimeographed manuscript. It still had that slightly sickening fresh off the mimeograph smell. I looked at it for a second. "This isn't even in English," I said, "What language is this?" "It's Esperanto," she said. "But I don't speak Esperanto," I protested, "Nobody does." "You're smart boy" she said, "You'll figure out."

[To be continued...]