God Bless Fred Cole

Anyone who doesn't love Fred Cole can just turn around and get the fuck out of here. The man is Rock n Roll's fiercest loyalist with forty five years of uncompromised balls-out rebel rock under his well-worn belt. He's never surrendered to mediocrity or bullshit to achieve the filthy lucre of success, he's never diluted his vision for fame, he is the real fucking deal, and maybe you can't handle that shit, amigo. Legend has it that Cole and his band The Weeds were headed to Canada to avoid being drafted off to 'Nam but broke down in Portland. At some point soon after, The Weeds' management made them change their name to The Lollipop Shoppe and move to L.A. None of this worked out and Fred Cole returned to Portland. There he opened a music store and record label called Whizeagle and started fresh with a new band called Zipper. Here is their one and only album, and it is just beautiful. Those of you who are Dead Moon fans will instantly recognize Cole's unique and enigmatic voice, it is the quivering voice of perseverance and resolve, the voice of the everyman's struggle. Those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Cole will fall in love for the very first time and find yourselves clamoring to find any and all things the man ever did, good luck it's staggering. Fred Cole's art is the real McCoy, the dust on your boots, the job you fucking hate, the girlfriend that just didn't work out, and yet you still ignore him, but he won't go away. Fred Fucking Cole!

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