Customer Reviews

Fat Headed Stranger

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Austin's leading slam poet is also a gifted songwriter with his tongue twisted firmly into his cheek. Those who have seen him onstage with the Asylum Street Spankers know he is an engaging performer with a derelict edge and he's a keen harmonica/washboard player too. This CD shows Wammo working in the medium that got him started: Spoken Word. The material ranges from childhood memoirs to rants against the absurdity of American life in the 90's -- and I laughed outloud all the way through "Children of the Corn Nuts." The language and humor is adult, the music is often cross-bred (country punk? This is it) and just when you think you can't stand it anymore, Wammo zings you with a one-liner and you're laughing again. It's a shame the Polygram purchase swallowed up Mouth Almighty Records; this guy needs a place to play. In Your Face Big Fun.

We listen to it over and over. We always find something new. There is so much here. It's very hard to get tired of it.

This record encapsulates Wammo's view of life: witty, irreverant, thoughtful, humorous and a bit schizophrenic. The individual pieces on this album range from monster rock to jazz with a little of everything in between. Not for the squeamish. If you have ever seen Wammo live (Spankers, spoken, WORM, etc.) you'll be prepared. If not, hold on for the ride of your life.

Wammo has an amazing sense of humor, and it is captured here. Although "Lowriders on the Storm" and "Faster than the Speed of Suck" are probably better choices for Wammo noobies, but if you've survived those albums and want more, it's right here!

Wammo's observations of culture and pop music are spot on and deadly funny. Don't pass this one up.

We listen to it over and over. We always find something new. There is so much here. It's very hard to get tired of it.

One of the few renegades who survived the 90's with his head on straight. Like the darkened superhero you forget about until the last minute, just when you think all the grit in America has turned to grime, the fat headed stranger is there in his room with a ton of vinyl, cooking his fingers in the spagetti sauce and staring down the stains in his long jhons, thinking... I knew I shouldn't have kept that melted candybar there.