№ 1 Alex Chilton ♥ tribute ★ № 3 rarest video ♩ update ☆ ♨ № Final ℞ dose of Alex Chilton essay ♨

 

№ 1 Alex Chilton ♥ tribute ★ 

3.18.10

№ 3 rarest video UPDATE 

1.5.19

Join me in mourning my friend, labelmate, and musician genial, Alex
Chilton

Alex Chilton MAKE A LITTLE LOVE (NEW ROSE)

Alex Chilton Bangkok

 ♥ 

R.I.P. Alex Chilton


David Julian Leonard is making a film on Alex Chilton, so I pulled this out from October 26, 2009 ♥ mrjyn

always a crowd pleaser, and i'm convinced that lx never changed at all from this video to the day he
died.

 ♥

Alex Chilton • The Box Tops • The Letter • 1967

TV horror-host John Zacherley's "Disc-O-Teen" 1967 Halloween dance party episode, featuring an appearance by The BOX TOPS.

Alex Chilton and the band don't actually perform, but their hit single "The Letter" is played twice during the dance show.

The band endures Zach's jibes, including lessons on how to flirt with teenage girls from New Jersey.

The
Box Tops chat it up with the horror-host while they plug their album,
an upcoming European tour, and a show at the Cheetah Club in NYC!

Happy Halloween!!

and thank god for continuity: Ross Johnson Tav Falco Patrick Mathe

 ♫♩♪ ♬ ★ ☆♥℞№ ♨Ⓧ∴◎×☼ 〓 ⊥ 〒 Ⓨ

Last Dose of Alex Chilton (Cleveland Box Tops Review) email to Doug Easley

1.  the first thing that's on my mind, is,
and you better answer some of these. I know how to deal with you silent
but deadly types; twice as many questions as you want answered.

I went
and saw the Box Tops at Beachhead in Cleve, and saw Peggy and Sue
Million and the guys from Reigning Sound who were playing the next night
with Mary Weiss from Shanghai-la's. I vaguely even remembered the
singer guy, although it was the drummer guy who was married to Sue
Million who was nice enough to put me on the list, but back to the
Tops:

Fucking weirdest show.

Except maybe for James brown on PCP, or the
time George Jones rode off on the back of a motorcycle with a bottle of
Mariquilla in his hand and a 22-year-old Blond-driveler-Shintoist-yeah.

2. I know probably 99 different types of irony, and use them all the
time, and this was not one of them. Still not able to tell you if Alex
was being real or not, having seen his scroungy act (Little Fishes,
anyone?), and having seen his superconducting distant act (Panther Burns as sideman). This one was more like a Game Show host for the Sultana
Brunei. I knew the fee was six-figures or a hundred virgins. I
understood, but this was boring Cleveland, and an Oldies show at that,
and there wouldn't be more than 150 people. I guess it was Irony 101.
Anyway, they played "Whiter Shade of Pale" and a couple other ones, LX
on bass for Green Onions. I really am not prepared to mine my psyche to
explain. I go directly to the backstage orgy of me and Lx. I walk
backhand-tentatively, after being convinced by Sue that it would be fun
despite the weird scenes that I had, and the complete schizophrenic
quality of our long but sparse relations. He'd just finished
Burn-N some High Grade Locoweed. Still, so Sue goes first and does
the 'remember me? I met you at western sizzlin' when.

3. I was a waitress, and watching graceless; he's lookout-inchoate.

I can only describe a very lax Hamiltonian.

Not sure which way he's
gonna go with the whole remember me reply, but then. I look around and
it's a whole different backstage scene, man. Local radio DJs. I assume
from oldies stations, family members of other boxtops, Midwestern
people. I still have not figured out; and Sue is dressed like Adultery
Vaudeville. Somehow that took a little pressure off me in case he decided
to let her have it. I knew that it'd be OK. I knowing. I
make her cry, then Alex mightn't able to make her morph into a bush. So
he's doing that lx-thing, and cachepots, blowguns in the chasms of
his mind, and he's probably thinking about something, and she
finishes, and he says, "Oh, yeah, vaguely," and it works--shes happy and
he's still thinking, and nobody gets hurt.

4. Now its my turnaround course. Smart enough to just stand there
and look at him without risking saying any words that might be used
against me in his comeback--he looks a lot older, handsome. From the
last time, maybe 7, 8 years ago, we had a good, weird New Orleans
evening together, and he was the Incontestability. I was buying the Cuba
Libras, and he breaks out in the biggest grin you've ever seen and does
the whole what the fuck are you doing here-routine with, so far, no
repercussion I haven't seen anyone I know yet, except for the night
before with Peggy and that guy who frowns, and its great. I really am
believing in it, just a little suspicious. I don't know if it was
the extra ADD, or whatever. I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I talked
to Alex. I would have never done probably as the first person since I've been here; so it was 7 months-worth of stuff; and
with me, ya know, I can go a little bit overboard, to say the least,
with the questions, and if

5.  you let me get away with one the second one's gonna be even
weirder and then exponentially on and onto. Up to the question about
something like, hey, Ive been meaning to ask you, do you remember a guy
around Stax nicknamed Super Whitey. I was doing Linda Gail's
record........you can imagine....well, that was the tipper: Jekyll met
hide and it was memorable: something like this.

I asked him about
that bouncer guy at that weird bar in the seventies that's in that
Memphis book who sang on that Bach's bottom stuff, and was an Eggleston/Chilton Quaalude-pal ... not a good start; so it was, you know, marry the
problem with questions about things you know a little bit, but you have
no idea what it is that you're talky about--it was kinda like Andy
Griffith and Barney. I was just smiley and lovey, but he smelled blood
and the whole place stopped and was presetting the oldies star who sang
the letter. And then it got downright absurdity, denying knowing anybody
that was a bouncer, and, the best one was, and even Gary from boxtops
laughed at this one--that he never knew anyone in Memphis who carried a
gun.

I couldn't contain myself and. I think. I told him how. how I met Cyndi
Underwood; how she leaned over the Tenna bar to me. I just gotten
offstage with you guys, and asked me if...I wanted to go back to her
place and have some Lemon Meringue pie, and she was wearing a fur
coat--nothing on underneath, and then her Derringer fell onto the floor
out of her boots...well.

6. I don't know if he knew her, Vouchsafe, KNEW her, but he did some
more stuff, and about ten minutes later it normalized out when I brought
up Harold Cowart, my Louisiana bass player buddy, who used to play with
John Fred, etc.

Ya know, trying to throw in the obscure cool thing.

I
think it heated off and worked. Cut to Gary Top; got in the conversation,
and Alex started telling stories 'bout the playboys, and it was
great. I never thought I'd hear those stories out of his mouth in a
million years, and it was almost over.

I had a few more questions, like
about Katrina, which was his favorite subject apparently, and I got to
hear, I got rescued off my roof by a helicopter story.

I had not heard
before but which must have been almost rote, having been in New Orleans
for the past few months, and he told me some almost unreadable-for-sincerity--update about Gus, and that...I don't know.

And he was
eager to talk about the old gang, so we went over Rene,  Ron (Easley), you (Doug Easley), Ross (Johnson), Don (Spicer), George R., and whoever else we could think of.

now keep in mind he's doing this. I think he can, at this point, at
least, give us barely perceptible rockstar eyebrow looks as one by one
the Beefaroni Midwestern middlebrows come by and hand him a Box Tops
record, DJs come up and talk about the show or their station, and one
woman hands him a picture of her boyfriend to sign crusher only piece of
paper she's got--on that one he starts to laugh and brings me into the
exchange, and gets close to the old evil LX.

I can recall couching
hidden sarcasms and practiced understatements... I was gonna write about
a bunch of stuff.

I say.

I'll save it for next time.

I may not ever
feel this prolific, thankfully, for you, again.

This is officially the
longest email I've ever written anybody. 

Holla.

  ♫♩♪ ♬ ★ ☆♥℞№ ♨Ⓧ∴◎×☼ 〓 ⊥ 〒 Ⓨ

6 MP3s Alex Chilton - Take Me Home And Make Me Like It! + Bangkok via Favorite Blog: Probe is Turning-on the People)

What Gets Me Hot: Alex Chilton died???

Last night the festive stratosphere here at South by Southwest was interrupted when news broke that Alex Chilton had died. As part of the Box Tops and Big Star...MIRACULOUSLY SOME EMBEDDED VIDEOS SURVIVE FROM THIS POST!

What Gets Me Hot: Robert Palmer : Famed Music Critic Robert Palmer ...

Patti Smith played a benefit show for Palmer in late October at C.B.G.B.'s in New York, while alternative-rock pioneer AlexChilton and legendary ...

What Gets Me Hot: 10 Tombstones - Filed under 'Death'

Dec 10, 2009 ... 2009 (5); Advertising (5); Alex Chilton (5); Baby Doll (5); Big Bird (5); Black Eyed Peas (5); Cormac McCarthy (5); David Bowie (5) ...

MP3 Alex Chilton Tennis Bum

MP3 Alex Chilton Tennis Bum. Alex Chilton: Tennis Bum. Tennis court with dimensions Image via Wikipedia.

JIM DICKINSON 50th Birthday Book - thanks tex for showing me my ...

as well as serving as co-producer with Alex Chilton on the 1979 Chilton album Like Flies on Sherbert. He has produced Willy DeVille, Green on Red, ...

『

3.18.2010

Alex Chilton "What Gets Me Hot" Displaying 1 - 8 of about 32 results Lijit

』【thanks to the original post which the internet has ruined】 ♫♩♪ ♬ ★ ☆♥℞№ ♨Ⓧ
∴◎×☼ 〓 ⊥ 〒 Ⓨ
Ⓧ 3D 3-D℞ 3-D

Bangkok
"Alex Chilton" R.I.P. sxsw "panther burns" "New Orleans" memphis "the
letter" "make a little love" box tops" "tav falco" "jim dickinson" "New
Rose" disque "patrick mathe" records Bangkok "My Rival" 3-D "like flies
on sherbert" "william eggleston" "jim dickinson" chilton "the box tops"
3d hd "greatest hits" punk mrjyn whatgetsmehot youweirdtube
yt:quality=high "george reinecke" coman "ross johnson"

Why did New Orleans Jazz Historian Al Rose, HATE its first Jazzfest? for Rex Rose

A Tribute to Jazz Historian Al Rose

“I suggest that the city cannot afford a cultural fiasco that will make it a laughing stock at best … Far better to have no jazz festival than a fake jazz festival.”

by Michael Tisserand

In August 1967, a particularly sharp-tongued letter ran in the New Orleans Times-Picayune.

“… I suggest that the city cannot afford a cultural fiasco that will make it a laughing stock at best,” it read. “… Far better to have no jazz festival than a fake jazz festival.”

The writer was Al Rose, a notoriously opinionated New Orleans native, a pioneering jazz producer and historian, writer, artist, and adventurer. Rose, born Etienne Alfonse de la Rose Lascaux ­died on December 15, 1993, due to complications from a stroke. He was 77.

But what was Rose’s beef with the event that would become known as “Jazzfest”?

Well, apparently #NOLA has been able to afford it - it is laughably mostly not jazz (what little there is has been shunted to side stages in poor time slots in order to maintain a fig leaf of jazz cred), and yet people still go and pay..their URL tells it: https://t.co/PlOz93X5cL https://t.co/FvzBtWLcXR

— Theo Pando Ra (@theopandora) January 6, 2019

The organizers, it seemed, had announced plans to bring performers Stan Kenton, Duke Ellington, and Count Basie to the city ­musicians that Rose did not consider true jazz artists.

No, he argued, this was orchestra music, “rooted in European forms and “…not related to, not derived from, not evolved from jazz in any way.” To be jazz, as Rose wrote in the preface to his reference work New Orleans Jazz: A Family Album, “music must be (a) improvised, (b) be played in 2/4 or 4/4 time, and (c) retain a clearly definable melodic line.”

There is only one type of jazz, wrote Rose to the Times-Picayune. You don’t think so? Come on, debate me. The festival went on, however. And Rose went back to work. Championing authenticity in jazz was Rose’s lifelong mission.

“He had a personal attitude towards himself and the world,” says fellow jazz historian and musician Danny Barker, a close friend. “He was a man you couldn’t argue with—you could not change his mind on nothing. He’d go down fighting.”

And like a jazz cat with nine lives, Rose spent his life fighting for ideas. His battles were waged on many fronts: music, art, politics. This included a stint in Mexico as bodyguard for exiled Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky. And, reputedly, Rose also spent some time smuggling guns during the Spanish Civil War, parachuting into Spain to free political prisoners and smuggling revolutionaries into this country in a boat with a false bottom.

“I’m still finding bullet holes and scars on Al that I’d never seen before,” his wife, Diana Rose, once told me.

I met Al and Diana just five months ago, when I hoped to write a profile for Louisiana Cultural Vistas of Al’s curious life. I had heard all the stories, and wanted to meet this Hemingwayesque character who lived in my city, and who offered a window to the secret courtyards of the 20th century.

Al Rose, at the microphone, poses with (from left) Earl Hines, Louis Armstong, Barney Bigard and Arvel Shaw at Philadelphia’s Academy of Music in 1947.

• Sadly—for me, at least—that story will not be completed. Rose welcomed conversation, but his mysteries were now impenetrably closeted in his mind. Perhaps searching for a “Rosebud” during our only inter­view, I asked him if there was one thing he had learned that held true, whether he was working in jazz, art, or politics. He had a quick answer.

• 
  

• “People always resisted the idea of having an idea,” he said.

• 
  

• Rose started acting on his ideas early. At 14, he ran away from home after refusing to be confirmed into the Catholic church, reputedly writing on the bathroom mirror, “Don’t try to find me.” He changed his name and made his living drawing caricatures in Mobile, Alabama, and New York’s Coney Island, and invented a false past and enrolled in a prep school in Pennsylvania.

• 
  

• Rose had been exposed to jazz as a child, when his father hired a band for a traveling carnival, and musicians often served as his baby­sitters. In 1936, when he was 19, Rose produced what was the first jazz concert, in Philadelphia. For the first time ever, people bought tickets and sat in chairs and treated jazz as seriously as European classical music. The program that first night included Sidney Bechet, Sidney De Paris, and Freddie “Gatemouth” Moore.

• 
  

• Then Rose left for Mexico, where he studied art with the famous muralist, Diego Rivera. He lived with Rivera and, as part of his tuition, he protected Trotsky. “I had the conviction that he was doing important work,” he once said, adding that he wasn’t actually a Trotskyite. ‘There were 12 separate incidents in which we were fired on. I had a tooth shot out. And I had to use a variety of names. I was only 22.”

• 
  

• Returning to the United States, Rose worked as a welder in Philadelphia and helped organize the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO). He produced countless jazz concerts and over a hun­dred records, and in 1946 he launched a syndicated radio program, Journeys into Jazz.

• 
  

• “The secret to my life is it doesn’t click,” he once said. “It’s not pointless, but aimless.” Rose met Diana, his third wife, at a Mensa meeting in Florida. She takes some credit for steering him into his late career as a writer. “I wanted him to start doing something that wasn’t so dangerous,” she explained.

• 
  

• New Orleans Jazz: A Family Album was Rose’s first book, which he published in 1967 with Edmond Souchon. Then came Storyville, New Orleans, which includes seven reminiscences by mad­ams and prostitutes who worked in the infamous red-light district. One of these interviews became the basis for the Louis Malle film, Pretty Baby. But when Rose realized that the film was going to be historically inaccurate, he tried to return his money and begged that his name be stricken from the credits. He failed; his name remains at the end of the film.

• 
  

• One of Rose’s best friends was ragtime pianist Eubie Blake, and Rose published a biography of him in 1979. In his forward to the book, Blake himself wrote that “When I first read the manuscript, I learned a lot about Eubie Blake …” But it’s I Remember Jazz: Six Decades Among the Great Jazzmen, published in 1987, that reveals the most about Rose himself. It chronicles his own aimless, but never pointless ­journeys into jazz, 60 years of friend­ships and behind-the-scenes work with the music he so fiercely defined and defended.

• 
  

• Although Rose once said that he had “no fierce need for immortality,” his work shows no sign of slowing down. His collection of band arrangements, photographs, books, sheet music, correspondence, and recordings is a major attraction of the Hogan Jazz Archives at Tulane, and has been used in hundreds of doctoral dissertations. One of his books, a biography of Storyville madam Lulu White, has only so far been published in France. And a documentary team is currently producing a study of Storyville, using filmed interviews with Barker and Rose.

• 
  

• According to Diana Rose, her hus­band was physically incapable of raising his voice past conversational tones. But when he stood up at age 14 to deliver his lifelong solo, he blew loud and hard. Sure, Jazzfest organizers, Pretty Baby, and Trotsky’s assassins all eventually found their mark.

• 
  

• But in jazz, that great musical forum for the exchange of ideas, so did Al Rose.

—–

Michael Tisserand is a New Orleans-­based freelance writer. A graduate of the University of Minnesota, his work has appeared in Offbeat magazine, Downbeat and USA Today. He is the author of The Kingdom of Zydeco (1998) and Sugarcane Academy: How A New Orleans Teacher and His Storm-Struck Students Created a School to Remember (2007).

Barry Hannah, Darkly Comic Writer, Dies at 67 (Hannah wrote about Feet, Goats, Engines, Governors, Hell, White people, War, Snow, Women) He was a good teacher and friend

Topics: Slaves, Feet, Goats, Engines, Governors, Hell, White people, War, Snow, Women

flannery by lamar sorrento

Barry Hannah, Darkly Comic Writer, Dies at 67

By WILLIAM GRIMES
Published: March 3, 2010

Barry Hannah, a writer who found wide acclaim with wild, darkly comic short stories and novels set in a phantasmagoric South moving at warp speed, died on Monday at his home in Oxford, Miss. He was 67.

Barry Hannah at a writers' conference in Tennessee in 2006.

The cause was a heart attack, his son Barry Jr. said.

Mr. Hannah staked his claim to the Gothic territory mapped out by William Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor in his first novel, “Geronimo Rex” (1972), a high-octane coming-of-age tale set in the fictional town of Dream of Pines, La.

“That book was like a bolt of lightning,” Morgan Entrekin, the publisher of Grove/Atlantic, said in an interview Tuesday. “It was gonzo Southern fiction that opened you to a whole new way of writing. It was fresh, original and dangerous, in a way.”

Reviewing the book for The New York Times, the novelist Jim Harrison called Mr. Hannah “one of those young writers who is brilliantly drunk with words and could at gunpoint write the life story of a telephone pole.”

The short story collection “Airships,” published in 1978, confirmed Mr. Hannah’s budding reputation as a daring stylist and a loose-limbed adventurer in an absurdist South of his own imagining: a passionate and violent land teeming with loud drunks, confused war veterans and ardent, uneasy good ol’ boys. Most of the stories were first published by Gordon Lish in Esquire.

“He played an important role in introducing Southern literature to postmodernism at a time when Southern writing was trying to live up to and move beyond the great achievements of the modernist Southern Renaissance authors, especially William Faulkner,” Martyn Bone, the editor of “Perspectives on Barry Hannah” (University Press of Mississippi, 2007), wrote in an e-mail message on Tuesday.

“Many of his stories or novels feature scenes in which Faulkner’s style, characters, or subject matter are satirized or parodied,” Mr. Bone added. “He was able to play fast and loose with Southern literary tradition and its subject matter in a way that some other writers were not.”

Howard Barry Hannah was born on April 23, 1942, in Meridian, Miss., and grew up in Clinton, a small town near Jackson. After earning a bachelor’s degree in English from Mississippi College in 1964, he enrolled at the University of Arkansas, where he received a master’s degree in 1966 and the university’s first M.F.A. degree in fiction in 1967.

While writing, he taught literature and creative writing at several colleges, including Clemson University and the University of Alabama, and was at various times a writer in residence at Middlebury College in Vermont, the University of Iowa and the University of Montana at Missoula.

In 1982 he became a writer in residence at the University of Mississippi, and later was the director of its M.F.A. and creative writing program. His many students over the years included the writers Bob Shacochis, Donna Tartt, Cynthia Shearer and Wells Tower.

Mr. Hannah’s first two marriages ended in divorce. In addition to his son Barry, known as Po, of Knoxville, Tenn., he is survived by his wife, Susan; a sister, Dorothy Kitchings of Jackson; a brother, Bob, of Destin, Fla.; a foster brother, Ralph Marston of Richardson, Texas; another son, Ted, of Leeds, Ala.; a daughter, Lee McDonald, of Tuscaloosa, Ala.; and three grandchildren.

Mr. Hannah’s exuberant, high-energy narratives tended toward the picaresque and, as often as not, crashed and burned in spectacular fashion. “Nightwatchmen” (1973), a horror-mystery tale in an almost hysterically comic vein, exhibited the author’s alarming tendency to wander, wobble and then fall apart — what John Updike, in a review of “Geronimo Rex,” called “accelerating incoherence.” Over the years, such performances recurred, in novels jammed with incident and infatuated with language, like “The Tennis Handsome” (1983) and “Hey Jack!” (1987).

Mr. Hannah himself admitted to being a short story writer first, with an imagination calibrated to the short burst. “The old man off 40 years of morphine was fascinated by guns,” begins the short story “Two Things, Dimly, Were Going at Each Other.” “He was also a foe of dogs everywhere. They were too servile, too slavering, too helplessly pack-bent, when not treacherous. The cat was the thing. Coots cut at the evening with his cane and wanted to ‘see a death’ in the big city.”

Plot and character mattered less to him than the ripe bit of regional speech, the fraught incident, the startling metaphor, the ingeniously shaped sentence. “I am doomed to be a more lengthy fragmentist,” he said in a 2001 interview with Bomb.” In my thoughts, I don’t ever come on to plot in a straightforward way.”

The essential Hannah, most critics agreed, could be found in his story collections, “Captain Maximus” (1985), “Bats Out of Hell” (1993) and “High Lonesome” (1996), and more fitfully in his eight novels.

Over the years, the manic energy of early novels like “Ray” (1980) subsided a bit. “Boomerang” (1989), a slim, autobiographical novel, exhibited a chastened, wistful tone new to Mr. Hannah’s writing. “The old guys are me now, is the horror,” his narrator writes. “I’ll wander up and get registered and vote.”

The outlaws and oddballs of “Yonder Stands Your Orphan,” in thrall to a sinister character named Man Mortimer, earn the author’s pity. Hell-raisers in their day, they have lived on into a strangely soft twilight.

“There’s a world of kindness and tenderness that surrounds me and my friends in this little town of Oxford,” Mr. Hannah told Bomb, “and I would be a liar if I left it out.”

Evening of the Yarp: A Report by Roonswent Dover

Barry Hannah

Mississippi Review

Vol. 25, No. 3, Barry Hannah Special (Spring, 1997), pp. 89-105

Published by: University of Southern Mississippi

Page Count: 17

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These tracks spiked in under a day with the most condensed amount of 24-hour plays.

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Don Martin, 'Mad's Maddest Artist,' Is Dead at 68

Don Martin, 'Mad's Maddest Artist,' Is Dead at 68

By ERIC NASHJAN. 8, 2000

Don Martin, the Mad magazine cartoonist with a rubbery slapstick style whom the magazine billed as ''Mad's maddest artist,'' died on Thursday at Baptist Hospital in Miami. He was 68.

The cause was cancer, said Christine Thompson, a hospital spokeswoman.

Mr. Martin's hapless characters inhabited a topsy-turvy, Kafka-esque world in which a hotel guest complaining about cockroaches might discover that the desk clerk himself was a giant cockroach, complete with four arms, stubble, cigar and irately quivering antennae. His prototypical drawing was of a jug-eared, slack-jawed, knock-kneed and hinge-footed man impervious to all types of mayhem, even when he is tap-dancing over an open manhole and bouncing off a skyscraper beam.

After selling his first cartoon to Mad in 1956, Mr. Martin continued to draw for the magazine until 1987, when he left to work for a rival magazine, Cracked, because of disagreements over reprint rights with Mad's publisher, William M. Gaines.

Like many other magazines, Mad pays artists on a work-for-hire basis and reserves the profitable reprint rights. Mr. Martin felt so strongly about the issue that he testified before a Congressional subcommittee on the rights of freelance artists. Paperback collections of Mr. Martin's previously unpublished cartoons were issued starting in 1962 with ''Don Martin Steps Out!'' and have sold more than seven million copies.

His gags fit in well with the ''sick'' school of the 1950's humor, but his loose, kinetic style and outrageously physical form of attack brought the strips into their own dimension. Like latter-day Harold Lloyds, his characters named Fonebone and Captain Klutz were at odds with the modern world. Machinery was always the enemy, from power tools to steamrollers to things as simple as a paper-towel dispenser.

Mr. Martin elevated the comic book sound effect to new onomatopoeic heights.

In his wacky world, a squirting flower went "SHKLITZA,'' and recalcitrant meals of spaghetti or pizza made inimitably meaty sounds. Each form of physical torture had its own exquisite sound: getting slapped in the face with a wet mackerel went ''SPLADAP,'' while getting conked with a frying pan went ''PWANG.''

His own vanity license plate read ''SHTOINK."

He attributed his style to influences as diverse as the grotesque characters of Bosch, the manic energy of the Warner Brothers cartoons and the elegant line of Al Hirschfeld.

Mr. Martin's admirers included Gary Larson, known for the twisted humor of ''The Far Side.'' An animated version of Mr. Martin's cartoons also appeared briefly on Fox Television's ''Mad TV.''

Mr. Martin was born in Passaic, N.J., grew up in Brookside, N.J., and attended public school in Morristown, N.J. ''It is interesting that all three towns deny any and all of this information,'' he wrote in a biographical note in the 1970's. He then studied at the Newark School of Fine Art for three years and graduated from the Pennsylvania Academy of Art in Philadelphia.

He drew despite a degenerative eye condition for which he underwent corneal transplants. To produce his last strips, he needed to wear special contact lenses that caused great discomfort and to work with a magnifying glass.

He is survived by his wife, Norma; a son, Max; a brother, Ralph, and a grandson.

Martin, Don

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17930 Mad #229 "One Day in a Sculptor's Studio" original comic art (EC, 1982) (Madart) (Item 17930)	interior comic art
17931 Mad #229 "One Day on a Tiny Desert Island" original comic art (EC, 1982) (Madart) (Item 17931)	interior comic art
17932 Mad #203 "One Day in Paris" original back cover art (EC, 1978) (Madart) (Item 17932)	back cover art
17933 Mad #256 "One Fine Sunday in the Jungle" original comic art (EC, 1985) (Madart) (Item 17933)	back cover art
17934 Mad #256 "One Fine Tuesday Morning Uptown" original comic art (EC, 1985) (Madart) (Item 17934)	back cover art
17935 Mad #256 "One Fine Friday Evening Downtown" original comic art (EC, 1985) (Madart) (Item 17935)	back cover art
17936 Mad #274 "One Quiet Afternoon on Willow Road East" original comic art (EC, Oct. 1987) (Madart) (Item 17936)	back cover art
17937 Mad #274 "One Quiet Afternoon on Willow Road West" original comic art (EC, Oct. 1987) (Madart) (Item 17937)

woebetide massacre jumble trouble fidget flimsy pathetic jaundice bunnyhug flood smooth sudden supreme

woebetide

massacre

jumble

trouble

fidget

flimsy

pathetic

jaundice

bunnyhug

flood

smooth

sudden

supreme

woebetide
massacre
jumble
trouble
fidget
flimsy
pathetic
jaundice
bunnyhug
flood
smooth
sudden
supreme