Over here in the nerve center of Creamy Scene-age, we were as disappointed as brats on Christmas morning last year when Euro-trash industrial artistes Rammstein failed to send us the steel-cased box set edition of last year’s Liebe Ist Für Alle Da — which included anatomically correct pink dildos reflecting the schlongs of all six band members, along with a pair of handcuffs and some lubricant. While we’re still a little butt-hurt by such a slight (but not quite as butt-hurt as we could’ve been, I suppose), we took consolation in some other kick ass care packages we’ve received. A mysterious box-set of sorts was sent my way today. While it regrettably wasn’t the Rammstein thing — which I still think would make a funnier stocking stuffer than a whoopee cushion — it did inspire some chuckles here in the cubicle farm.
Starry-eyed singers and their publicists are well aware that folks in the music press like myself are the recipients of more unsolicited CDs than we could ever manage to spin, even if we wanted to. For that reason, some will go above and beyond the mere stuffing of an envelope and send us a package presented in a way that inspires enough curiosity to make us open the damn thing.
In the case of this particular peculiar package, I had my suspicions. I thought to myself, “Who could possibly want me to open something that looks like this so badly?” Classed up, wrapped in a bow and marked "fragile," the box appeared as though it could only contain lotions and loofahs, massage cream, potpourri, white chocolate and/or scented candles.
So, would it predictably contain an independently released CD of another first-name-last-name aspiring Gretchen-Wilson-in-the-making who’s playing a 6 p.m. industry showcase at The Rutledge on a Tuesday? Or was this pretty packaging really just an act of clever misdirection to get me to unwittingly open up a box of grindcore 7-inches or, worse yet, some baby rattlesnakes, an improvised explosive device, or a horse’s head as payback for past bad press?
There was only one way to find out. D. Piddy and I took the box to a relatively isolated location — the conference room — to discover and observe its contents. In the event there was a bomb waiting to engage inside, we caught the moment of truth on camera and filmed the reveal. Peep the video above to see what we found.
No snakes, no live skunks, no bombs, no scented candles, no long lost Anal Cunt records — indeed the mysterious box’s contents were an independently released CD of another first-name-last-name aspiring Gretchen-Wilson-in-the-making who’s playing a 6 p.m. industry showcase at The Rutledge on a Tuesday: Bellamy Baylor.
Her record, or at least her showcase, is called Getting My Foot in the Door. As you can see in the video, the box collapses to reveal a single bedazzled shoe — which last I checked is footwear, not a foot — at center of its contents. While the whole idea would’ve worked a bit better had the box contained Baylor’s actual foot, I can see why that wouldn’t exactly be feasible, or at least worth it, for her. Even if it displayed the kind of commitment that piques our attention around here. I mean, I wouldn’t put it past, say, Brandon Jazz to sever off his own hoof and gift it over to the local alt-weekly’s music listings editor as a way of getting his record heard.
While I have yet to go to such lengths as actually listening to Baylor’s record, I figured her efforts render her a shoo-in for a Cream post at the very least. If you wanna reward her enthused pursuit of exposure, then click here to peruse her Myspace page, or head down to The Rutledge at 6 p.m. on Tues., June 29 to catch her showcase. While the press package came with an RSVP prompting invitation, I assume the show is open to the public.