Fonzie’s 69th Birthday: 11 Sleazy Tracks for Arnold’s Jukebox

You are cordially invited to help celebrate Henry Winkler’s 69th birthday with 11 sleazy songs, one for every season of Happy Days. Be there. Whoa!

Remember the Tuscadero sandwich? Jumping a shark on water skis? Remember when a cool, leather-clad greaser singlehandedly ended segregation? All great times. Y’know what else is a great time? Acting out the lyrics in these eleven songs… provided you don’t end up in prison.

So let’s kick the list off with some necrophilia, shall we?

11. ALICE COOPER Blue Turk (School’s Out, 1972)

I’m sorry Fonzie, I know necrophilia isn’t cool, but Alice Cooper is, and always will be, rock and roll’s supreme champion of hot, dead bitches. With cadaver-fondling tracks such as Refrigerator Heaven, I Love the Dead, and of course the necrophile anthem Cold Ethyl, Alice has enough lazy love-making songs to keep the genitals throbbing at any mortician’s weekend soiree.

For me, it’s the unsettling Blue Turk that makes the cut here. With the heady combo of an awkward 4/4 backdrop, a series of speakeasy-type horn solos, and the sludgy burlesque of Dennis Dunaway’s guilt-ridden descending bass, even Fonzie must admit a minor intrigue into the machinations of this taboo world.

One spastic explosion, two pressure cookers go insane
It makes me act crazy, I shiver but I love this game
You’re so very ordinary, you’re so very lame
Tastes like whiskey on your lips, and earthworms rule your brain

10. ROLAND KIRK You Did It, You Did It (We Free Kings, 1961)

To many avant-garde types, Roland Kirk is king. Yoko Ono, Glenn Branca, and Thurston Moore have each drawn influence from the jazz multi-instrumentalist, evolving Kirk’s alternate tuning method. Kirk’s music transports the listener to an ethereal nowhere and a celestial everywhere at the same time. Even with the most cursory listen, it’s a stone cold trip.

You Did It, You Did It (a predominantly instrumental track sprinkled with comical scat refrains) remains true to the Kirk ethos and, as an added bonus, is ensconced within a wonderful coat of gooey sleaze. Beginning with the muffled groan of a solitary harmonica, the opening stanza resembles the wolf cry of the eternally lonely man, a bum situation, until a seductive clarinet entices the protagonist out of his funk. He’s intrigued, turned on. Cue the sensual backdrop — the smut of a rollicking piano, the rhythm of a shimmering ride cymbal, and the accentuation of a thrusting rimshot, arouses our hero to a confident strut, as a series of drum rolls propels him toward ecstasy. The jibber-jabber of Kirk’s scat-based saxophony seals the deal, the honey-dripping hmmmm at the end of the opening the cherry on top.

The middle section sees an awkward clarinet vs harmonica standoff, representing the protagonist becoming somewhat frustrated by the competition. Will he get laid? Or is this just another game? Regardless, judging by our hero’s relieving cries of You did it, you did it, I think it’s safe to say that he scored.

Ayyyyyy!

9. PETE BROWN & HIS BATTERED ORNAMENTS Dark Lady (A Meal You Can Shake Hands With In The Dark, 1969)

Sandwiched between a Beefheartian wet dream and an Arthur Brown dry nightmare, Pete Brown is one scary individual. Perhaps best known for his lyrical collaborations with Cream’s Jack Bruce, Brown has been credited with rescuing a dormant Sunshine Of Your Love from the cutting room floor by penning the lyrics to what would ultimately become one of the most iconic tracks in rock history.

And then he wrote this…

In your night, baby,
Let me ride on your train
Drive right through your tunnel to the other side
Maybe meet dawn again

Dark Lady is a manic ol’ tune. Full of clutter and mayhem, Brown demands action from his mysterious dark lady, serenading her with a cacophony of horns amid ramblings of gutter poetry. This serves only to reinforce Brown’s neanderthal demands rather than soften them, until, that is, the introduction of a Farfisa organ, perhaps indication that once in the sack, Brown is one smooth, funky lover.

These lyrics probably give it away anyway…

You say you’re gonna be late, ’cause you’re waiting for his call
I’ll give you the wine of night, baby, and you can drink it all
Said you saw old devil night, somewhere in my eyes
I was riding that black nightmare baby, right between your thighs

8. BEASTS OF BOURBON Just Right (The Low Road, 1991)

You walk into the last erectile dysfunction clinic on Earth. You needs help, but there is only one specialist on duty. The specialist would dearly love to help you except that he has just lost his sight, hearing, voice, use of both arms, both legs, and all sense of reason, the moment you walked through the door. Uh-oh.

Miffed, you exit the clinic and step into your car to drive home. You key the ignition and, amid the splutters, Beasts of Bourbon’s Just Right begins blaring through your 1982 Clarion speakers.

Beasts of Bourbon need no introduction, they wouldn’t want one anyway. Furthermore, Just Right requires no explanation, it’s just a down the middle, balls to the wall, filth pig of a song, designed purely to have women squirting, and in turn, men erecting.

With the salivating to and fro of Spencer P. Jones’ and Kim Salmon’s intertwining guitar, Brian Hooper’s pulsating bass holding back for dear life, and Tony Pola’s snare wound tighter than the pre-pubescent lovechild of Henry Rollins and Aileen Wuornos, one could be forgiven for coming down with a bout of spontaneous ejaculation. And then there’s Tex Perkins, the clinic manager, calling the shots, stroking, thrusting, cajoling, penetrating, just like a good smut peddler should.

It fits in just right, it slides in real tight
It moves up so slow, it heats up below
Get wise to the ways of the world
It won’t hurt you

Erection problem solved. Whoa.

7. CHEAP TRICK Daddy Should Have Stayed in High School (Cheap Trick, 1977)

And they looked like such nice young boys too. The two pretty ones, the autistic, the bespectacled, well-dressed one… looks can be deceiving.

Musically, Daddy Should Have Stayed In High School is, whilst an excellent romp, nothing more than a straight-up rock template—tense build-ups, anticipated releases, stock-standard chorusing, handclaps, cowbells… the complete package.

Lyrically, however…

I’m 30 but I feel like 16, I might even know your daddy
I’m dirty but my body is clean, I might even be your daddy

Nothing too serious so far. Just some fantastical musings of a horny thirty-something, obsessing over a schoolgirl. We’ve all been there, right?

I’m 30 but I feel like 16, how would you like some candy?
I’m thinking more than a kiss, whip me, spank me, grab me

Hmmm… permissible, but we’re heading into dangerous territory here.

I like you and you like me, yes? Sorry but I had to gag you
You look better completely undressed, sorry but I had to have you

Oh, these boys aren’t nice at all!

Cut to a scene inside Arnold’s. Daddy Should Have Stayed in High School has just finished playing on the jukebox.

Fonzie, not impressed that there’s a new sleaze in town, does a 180, flicks his winter scarf over his shoulder, and as he exits, he mutters the word, “Uncoolamundo.”

6. BETTY DAVIS If I’m in Luck I Might Get Picked Up (Betty Davis, 1973)

Lovers of jazz owe Betty Davis big time. For one year, she was married to trumpet virtuoso Miles Davis. One measly year. Little did we realise the effect that one year would have on music for years to come. In this one year, Betty Davis introduced Miles to psychedelics, the wild fashion and lifestyle that accompanies a psychedelic lifestyle in the late-sixties, Sly Stone, and some guy named Jimi Hendrix. From these new friendships came a new direction for Miles’ music. Filles De Kilimanjaro, In a Silent Way, and the perfect album for a stoner Sunday, Bitches Brew, are three of the most influential albums ever released.

More importantly, Betty Davis is a fantastic singer in her own right. A cross between Pam Grier and a case of Spanish Fly, Davis is the original female icon of freedom of pure sexual expression in music.

On If I’m in Luck I Might Get Picked Up, Davis brings her sleazy A-game, heaving into the club with a stoner-funk soundtrack, she lays it all on the table immediately…

I said if I’m in luck I might just get picked up

The vocals are honey for the private parts. Now, she’ scouts the room…

I said I’m crazy, I’m wild, I said I’m nasty

After proclaiming to the room that she’s, “Wigglin’ her fanny,” Betty finds her man for the night. Mr Blaxploitation, with a deep voice, he tells her he likes what he sees…

Oooh man, oooh ooooooooohhhh, I’m gonna take her home, man

And then Betty, demanding yet begging…

Take me home, take me home, take me home

Splash! Thank you, Betty.

5. GEORGE BRIGMAN & SPLIT Pull Your Pants Down (Silent Bones, 1985)

The Baltimore music scene has produced an eclectic mish-mash of talented artists over the decades. Frank Zappa, David Byrne and Ric Ocasek are all native Baltimoreans, as are hardcore punk band The Accüsed and resident Brooklyn weirdos Animal Collective. Sadly, a name that hasn’t been dropped as one of Baltimore’s greats is George Brigman. Taking his cue from mid-1970s underground rock greats Rocket From the Tombs, Brigman set about forging his own path with his lo-fi blend of Stooges-esque guitar and whimsical lyrics.

And he did it damn well.

It would be an injustice to Pull Your Pants Down to even begin analysing its contents. Suffice to say, the grit of Brigman’s down tempo swamp guitar played just behind vocalist Wayne Hastings’ half-assed crooning, should certainly be enough to stir some sort of life out of your flaccid loins.

C’mon little baby won’t you pull your pants down
Pull them down for me
All I wanna do is kiss your sweet bush
And set your pussy free

4. MUDHONEY Touch Me I’m Sick (Touch Me I’m Sick, 1988)

As a snotty teenage arsehole, I fucking loved this song. As an arsehole teenage 50-year-old, I still fucking love this song. Obnoxious, brutish, invasive, and damn rude, if people actually took heed of Touch Me I’m Sick’s mantra, sexual frustration around the world would drop exponentially. Don’t think, fuck.

I feel bad, and I’ve felt worse, I’m a creep, yeah, I’m a jerk
C’mon, touch me I’m sick
I won’t live long, and I’m full of rot, gonna give you girl, everything I got
C’mon, touch me I’m sick

You gotta respect a guy that puts all his cards on the table like that. And judging by the onslaught, he don’t want no slow, romantic bullshit—on the hood of a pick-up truck, done in thirty seconds, will do just nicely.

Touch Me I’m Sick is grunge before grunge was grunge. Balls out, blatant, crude punk rock. Forget about John Lennon and his Give Peace a Chance bullshit, just listen to, and act on, the lyrics. Wars will end.

C’mon baby now come with me, if you don’t come, you’ll die alone

3. GUN CLUB Jack on Fire (Fire Of Love, 1981)

Once upon a time, there lived a man. A man that, despite his misgivings, was well-loved and somewhat respected. One of this man’s misgivings was that this man often spoke of death under the most heinous of circumstances, yet his disciples continued to worship him. This man, is Gun Club’s Jeffrey Lee Pierce.

I am like Jack and I tell you this
I will be your lover and exorcist
In the stillness of the mosquito sunset
You will make love to me to your very best

On the surface, Jack on Fire is the perfect country song—shuffling drums, a waltz melody, a master orator at the helm. Scratch the surface just a little, and a sinister junkie bursts out of his coffin and bashes your entire face in.

When you fall in love with me
We can dig a hole by the willow tree
Then I will fuck you until you die
Bury you and kiss this town goodbye

Yet, despite the morbid proclamations, one can’t help but shuffle around the dance floor, nodding in a vain attempt to understand how Jeffrey Lee’s head works, likening him to some voodoo priest hero. You look over to Fonzie and his gal canoodling in the corner, he gives you the thumbs up, because, y’know, Jack on Fire bloody rocks.

2. THE DOORS Back Door Man (The Doors, 1967)

Say what you want about Jim Morrison, and you will, but this Casanova had big love-filled balls with serious swagger.

Back Door Man, a Willie Dixon composition originally performed by Howlin’ Wolf, is a song that should be added to the Pharmaceutical Health Benefits Scheme to help aid in the cure of erectile dysfunction. Mind you, as with flaccid sex, the song begins quite precariously. Guitarist, Robbie Krieger kicks off proceedings with a stingy riff that seems to fall apart before it begins. Enter John Densmore’s drill-sergeant snare, Krieger now has something to play with.

While Krieger and Densmore continue their foreplay, in comes Jim. First, a primal howl. An animalistic grunt. An ominous “Yeah!” The drums build, everyone’s aroused. No lube required. The song hasn’t even kicked in yet.

What follows is a three-minute cock thrust. Ray Manzarek’s Hammond organ is first to flop out with a glorious snaking melody to get your granny writhing. Enter Morrison, kicking the backdoor down, yelling, “I am ah, yo’ back door man,” followed by perhaps the sleaziest line in rock n’ roll, “The men don’t know, but the little girls understand.”

You men eat yo’ dinner
Eat yo’ pork and beans
I eat mo’ chicken any man ever seen
Yeah yeah
I’m a back door man, wah!

The men may not have known, but holy crap, these boys sure as hell understood.

1. NICK CAVE AND THE BAD SEEDS Stagger Lee (Murder Ballads, 1996)

In reality, it would have been an easy exercise to fill this list entirely of Nick Cave songs. Especially in more recent years, Saint Nick has become quite a dirty old bugger, and the world is better off for it. For the sake of balance though, I’ve included just one of his many dark songs of smut. Of course, it has just got to be Stagger Lee.

I’m a bad motherfucker
Don’t you know
And I’ll crawl over fifty good pussies
Just to get to one fat boy’s asshole

Stagger Lee has everything — guns, cars, debt, broken homes, a showdown between a lippy bartender and “a bad motherfucker called Stagger Lee”, who put “Four holes in his motherfucking head”. Enter local hooker Nelly May, a woman who upon witnessing the dead bartender, proceeds to offer her services to our hero, for free, as long as her man Billy doesn’t find out.

I’ll stay here till Billy comes in
Till time comes to pass
And furthermore I’ll fuck Billy
In his motherfucking ass

Stagger promises to spare Billy’s life as long as he blows him, but fills him full of lead anyway. Ain’t gonna get sleazier than that.

All this action plays out over a thumping, descending bass, a stalking piano, and a guitar tuned to call the soul of the devil. Throw in thirty more motherfuckers and a classic Nick Cave narrative, and you got yourself the sleaziest song of all time. Just for Fonzie. Ayyyyy!