Return to Pancake Mountain

Part One: International Sheep of Mystery

rufus_gclinton.jpgWith a style that veers between downright rude and merely impudent, Rufus Leaking isn’t your usual music reporter. He began an interview with funk legend George Clinton by introducing him as the “42nd President of the United States,” and spent most of the time asking him where he thought he could park the Mothership in downtown Washington, D.C. He virtually forced Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips to join him in a karaoke version of Starship’s “We Built this City,” even though neither of them actually knew how the song went. He gave members of Cypress Hill an impromptu anatomy quiz, compared singing actress Juliette Lewis to Corey Feldman, and confused Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst with Frank Sinatra (Bright Eyes, Blue Eyes, whatever). Yet musicians have clamored for a chance to appear on his obscure, low budget television show, whose roster of visiting talent could give the Lollapalooza, Coachella and Roskilde festivals a run for their money.

Who is this man? Actually, Rufus Leaking is a puppet with an identity crisis. Self-described on his website as an “international sheep of mystery,” he’s sometimes described in media accounts as a goat puppet. Whatever his barnyard origins, he’s the host of a wonderful Washington, D.C.-based children’s television show called Pancake Mountain, presently on hiatus while its creator, film producer Scott Stuckey (grandson of the roadside snack empire’s founders) revamps its format and tries to expand its reach. Previous episodes are available on DVD. Let’s hope Stuckey succeeds, because at its best, Pancake Mountain celebrates the simple pleasures of making a joyful noise, or at least a tremendous racket. In one of the inaugural episodes, D.C. punk pioneer Ian MacKaye used the show to introduce the Evens, his pop-savvy duo with former Warmers drummer Amy Farina. The Evens’ “Vowel Movement,” a charming ode to “six important letters,” makes you wonder what might have been if Fugazi and Minor Threat had smiled a bit and performed in matching jumpsuits.

Part Two: Of Mice and Moose

Pancake Mountain features cute and sometimes edgy sketch comedy, with an underachieving cast of regulars (including the badly misnamed Captain Perfect, Billy the Screaming Kid, and a clueless advice guru named Joey), and musical guests in unusual situations. You might see Bob Mould in the role of a corporate stooge, Built to Spill refusing to hawk a fictitious brand of sugared cereal, or rude banter with a very surly Henry Rollins, who introduces himself on a promotional clip as “TV’s Punky Brewster.” But the show’s signature moments come in its riotous and literally all-ages dance parties. Refreshingly absent from these are any attempts to dumb down the music for the pint-sized audience.

fieryfurnaces1.jpgSome of the show’s inspired performances have come from rock acts that have a kid-friendly sense of whimsy, including Shonen Knife’s time-worn Japanese Ramones tribute, “Twist Barbie,” and my four-year old daughter Amelia’s undisputed favorite, a silly and amazing Fiery Furnaces ditty called “Mouse House, Moose Hoose” that with any justice ought to inspire the biggest dance craze of the Zeroes. But more surprisingly, the show seems to have an energizing effect on performers not usually known for their childlike antics. Freed from the burden of being the anthem-makers of their generation and flanked by a gaggle of tiny percussionists, members of the Arcade Fire used their Pancake Mountain performance to take “Wake Up” to soaring new heights. On another episode, roots heartthrob Jenny Lewis, who apparently doesn’t own any long dresses, channeled her inner Dusty Springfield to harmonize with the Watson Twins on what has to be one of the sultriest performances ever captured for an audience averaging under four feet tall.

Moments like these are right in line with Pancake Mountain’s mission statement. As the show’s website explains, Pancake Mountain “aims to bring back what got us passionate about music. We want to be able to tear down the barriers that make music pretentious and boring….We like to have fun, we love new music, and we need an excuse to act really silly and call it our job.” Given the show’s location, Pancake Mountain also provides a great showcase for D.C.’s own musical intelligentsia. Fugazi drummer Brendan Canty composed Pancake Mountain’s vaguely Esquivel-like theme music. Episodes have included D.C. Go-Go funk band Uncalled 4, as well as Ted Leo serenading a Harry Potter lookalike with a hilarious falsetto version of “The Wheels on the Bus” before getting down to his well-chiseled melodic punk on “Little Dawn.”

Part Three: Rock Against Kid Rock

Pancake Mountain is far from alone in attempting to provide a fresh slant on music aimed for children. Former Del Fuegos leader Dan Zanes, They Might Be Giants, and a retooled kid version of Devo have become mainstays of the children’s music market in recent years (children, apparently, have as many uncontrollable urges as adults). Even the Mekons’ iconoclastic Jon Langford fronts his own children’s band, the Wee Hairy Beasties, which also includes fellow Mekon Sally Timms. Popular parents’ music blogs—notably, The Lovely Mrs. Davis Tells You What to Think and Zooglobble—provide useful information for moms and pops on the range of musical options, and even provide an annual “Fids and Kamily” critics’ poll that’s consciously modeled on the Village Voice’s “Pazz and Jop” poll. Much more dubiously, there’s a virtual cottage industry featuring watered-down “lullabye” versions of parents’ favorites ranging from Metallica and the Cure to Radiohead and Coldplay, which seem geared to reassure parents of their own supposed coolness much as the Baby Einstein series reassures parents of their supposed intelligence.

bananasplits.jpegbobmarley.jpegEven in this crowded field, though, there’s nothing quite like Pancake Mountain, which delivers its music and loopy sensibility straight up without much worry about whether it’s meant for little kids or overgrown ones. Drawing inspiration from the Chicago-based dance show Chic-a-go-go, the show has its own spirit and style. In some ways, Pancake Mountain is a throwback to a more freewheeling era of children’s television programming, when shows like the Banana Splits and the various projects of Sid and Marty Krofft combined a surreal sense of adventure, respect for the breadth of children’s imagination, and pretty good taste in music. (I don’t know what Bob Marley was doing on Saturday mornings in the late sixties, but try listening to his “Buffalo Soldier” sometime right after the Banana Splits’ theme song. Oy yoy yoy!) Still, Pancake Mountain’s sensibility is also very modern, not some psychedelic nostalgia exercise. Its occasional animations are subtle and affectionate, including a favorite among dads (and daddytypes.com) called Blueberry Boy, which makes me think of my own son. And while the show mainly has its musical roots in the domestic alternative and punk scenes, it’s also open-minded enough to have featured the trans-global beats of M.I.A. alongside the likes of X and Deerhoof.

Part Four: Dance This Mess Around

Pancake Mountain has been around for several years, and I discovered it during what is shaping up as the critical third phase in my development as a musically obsessed father of two small children. In the first phase, when my oldest child was still an infant and therefore unable to tell me her actual preferences, I shamelessly interpreted my own taste as hers, reading vindication into her every twitch and move as I played my favorite music (“Honey, look at the way Amelia is moving her nose to the squawky parts in John Coltrane’s Meditations! I think she’s going to play saxophone!”) In the second phase, which started when Amelia turned into a very opinionated toddler, I got slapped with the humbling realization that someone like Raffi, a guy who sings unironically about bananaphones and baby belugas and little ducks, knows some things about sparking youthful imagination that I hadn’t figured out yet. I started tolerantly listening to “her” music and sometimes even liked it, even though I occasionally wanted to pull out my hair.

blueberryboy.jpgThe third phase, which is a work in progress in Amelia’s fourth year and will probably last the rest of our lives, is a more complicated process of give-and-take. I now take it as a given that I will love some things she really can’t stand, and vice versa. We will share the things we love and sometimes passionately disagree. But then there the are wonderful moments of synchronicity that make it worth the headaches, where the generations between us fall away and we connect in magical moments of rhythm and rhyme that could, and have, come from just about anywhere.

We’ve had these moments as Amelia twirled in costume to the climactic moments of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker suite, chanted to the “bow-wow-wow-yippie oh yippie-ay” chorus of George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog,” and waited for the guitars and drums to kick in on the Kinks’ “Animal Farm.” We’ve had them as Bob Marley told the story of three little birds and Israel Kamakawiwo’ole took a worn-out “Wonderful World” sailing over the rainbow. We’ve had so many of these moments with Beatles songs that Amelia has assigned everyone in our family Beatle names (and for the record, I am John, my wife Paula logically is Paul, Amelia herself is George, and our little drummer boy Matthew is Ringo). We will continue to have these moments with Serge Gainsbourg’s zany songs, at least until the kids learn French and discover he was a lecherous creep. It’s all about timing.

And the best thing about Pancake Mountain so far is that it’s providing a terrific opportunity to share moments like these over some of the loudest and oddest music I also happen to passionately love. As I was at the computer early this morning thinking about how to conclude this piece, Amelia climbed into my lap and started requesting her favorite clips from Pancake Mountain. “Mouse Moose! Mouse Moose!” she shouted until I played the Fiery Furnaces song about five consecutive times. After breakfast, when a neighbor boy dropped by for a little visit, she knew just what to play him. Aping the ridiculous and awesome moves of the Furnaces’ Eleanor Friedberger, Amelia twirled around the room, flapping her hands over her head to make the “moose” sign, and uniting herself with generations of Moores who have discovered the foxtrot or jitterbug or twist or pogo at just the right time to matter.

Right then, Amelia’s impromptu Pancake Mountain party helped me rediscover what it takes to make me still care about dancing my way through this mess we call music. If I ever get to the point where music can’t move me enough to make me want to flap my hands over my head, not caring about whether I look ridiculous, it will be time to hang it up and close this site down. Until then, I’m going to agree with Emma Goldman, who famously said that “if I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.”

About Roger Moore

rocklobster3.JPGRoger Moore is a writer and musical obsessive who plays percussion instruments from around the world with an equal lack of dexterity. An environmental lawyer in his unplugged moments, he has written on subjects ranging from sustainable development practices to human rights and voting rights, as well as many music reviews. A native Chicagoan, Roger lives in Oakland, California with his wife Paula, who shares his Paul Weller fixation, and two young children, Amelia and Matthew, who enjoy dancing in circles to his Serge Gainsbourg records and falling asleep to his John Coltrane records.

Roger Moore’s Musical Timeline

1966. Dropped upside down on patio after oldest sister listened to “She Loves You” on the Beatles’ Saturday cartoon show. Ears have rung with the words “yeah, yeah, yeah” ever since.

1973. Memorized all 932 verses to Don McLean’s “American Pie.”

1975. Unsuccessfully lobbied to have “Louie Louie” named the official song of his grade school class. The teacher altered the lyrics of the winner, the Carpenters’ “I Won’t Last a Day Without You,” so that they referred to Jesus.

1977. After a trip to New Orleans, frequently broke drumheads attempting to mimic the style of the Meters’ Zigaboo Modeliste.

1979. In order to see Muddy Waters perform in Chicago, borrowed the birth certificate of a 27 year-old truck driver named Rocco.

1982. Published first music review, a glowing account of the Jam’s three-encore performance for the Chicago Reader. Reading the original, unedited piece would have taken longer than the concert itself.

1982. Spat on just before seeing the Who on the first of their 23 farewell tours, after giving applause to the previous band, the Clash.

1984. Mom: “This sounds perky. What’s it called?” Roger: “ It’s ‘That’s When I Reach for My Revolver’ by Mission of Burma.”

1985. Wrote first review of an African recording, King Sunny Ade’s Synchro System. A reader induced to buy the album by this review wrote a letter to the editor, noting that “anyone wishing a copy of this record, played only once” should contact him.

1985. At a Replacements show in Boston, helped redirect a bewildered Bob Stinson to the stage, which Bob had temporarily confused with the ladies’ bathroom.

1986. Walked forty blocks through a near-hurricane wearing a garbage bag because the Feelies were playing a show at Washington, D.C.’s 9:30 Club.

1987. Foolishly asked Alex Chilton why he had just performed “Volare.” Answer: “Because I can.”

1988. Moved to Northern California and, at a large outdoor reggae festival, discovered what Bob Marley songs sound like when sung by naked hippies.

1991. Attempted to explain to Flavor-Flav of Public Enemy that the clock hanging from his neck was at least two hours fast.

1992. Under the pseudonym Dr. Smudge, produced and performed for the Underwear of the Gods anthology, recorded live at the North Oakland Rest Home for the Bewildered. Local earplug sales skyrocketed.

1993. Attended first-ever fashion show in Chicago because Liz Phair was the opening act. Declined the complimentary bottles of cologne and moisturizer.

1997. Almost missed appointment with eventual wedding band because Sleater-Kinney performed earlier at Berkeley’s 924 Gilman Street. Recovered hearing days later.

1997. After sharing a romantic evening with Paula listening to Caetano Veloso at San Francisco’s Masonic Auditorium, purchased a Portuguese phrasebook that remains unread.

1998. Learned why you do not yell “Free Bird” at Whiskeytown's Ryan Adams in a crowded theater.

1999. During an intense bout of flu, made guttural noises bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Throat Singers of Tuva.

2000. Compiled a retrospective of music in the nineties as a fellow at the Coolwater Center for Strategic Studies and Barbecue Hut.

2001. Listened as Kahil El’Zabar, in the middle of a harrowing and funny duet show with Billy Bang, lowered his voice and spoke of the need to think of the children, whom he was concerned might grow up “unhip.”

2002. During a performance of Wilco’s “Ashes of American Flags,” barely dodged ashes of Jeff Tweedy’s cigarette.

2002. Arrived at the Alta Bates maternity ward in Berkeley with a world trance anthology specially designed to soothe Paula during Amelia’s birth, filled with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Ali Akbar Khan, and assorted other Khans. The project proved to be irrelevant to the actual process of labor.

2003. Emceed a memorable memorial concert for our friend Matthew Sperry at San Francisco’s Victoria Theater featuring a lineup of his former collaborators, including improvised music all-stars Orchesperry, Pauline Oliveros, Red Hot Tchotchkes, the cast of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, and Tom Waits.

2003. Failed to persuade Ted Leo to seek the Democratic nomination for President.

2005. Prevented two-year old daughter Amelia from diving off the balcony during a performance of Pierre Dorge’s New Jungle Orchestra at the Copenhagen Jazz Festival.

2006. On a family camping trip in the Sierra Nevadas, experienced the advanced stage of psychosis that comes from listening to the thirtieth rendition of Raffi’s “Bananaphone” on the same road trip.

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