Amidst the general weirdness was Root Boy, a pudgy, stringy-haired rocker in spandex, cape, and giant novelty glasses that spelled out the word “STONED.” His raspy performance of the generic bar rocker “Boogie ‘Til You Puke” (complete with all-too-real hacking near the end) seemed like some kind of joke with no real punch line. Still, there was determination in this strange fat man’s eyes. He was convinced that he was some kind of rock star. The way he looked into the camera and dragged his finger across the bottom of those stupid glasses to highlight the fact that he was in fact most likely stoned…it was hilariously arrogant. Root Boy became something of an obsession for me and my friends that year (1998). Who was he? Where did he come from? Was there more Root Boy to be had? The precursor to 80s cult hillbilly Mojo Nixon, Root Boy Slim never managed to get his sleazy act over on the public here or anywhere else. Still, he had a loyal and rabid fan base who kept his delightful creep shtick going in clubs and bars around America for years to come. Root recorded a few more albums (including 1983’s strangely named Dog Secrets and 1987’s Don’t Let This Happen To You) and continued to generally act a musical fool (save his 1992 plea to help the homeless, “Hey Mr. President”). Sadly, the silliness of Slim could not go on forever. On June 8, 1993, four days after the start of an east coast tour with the Sex Change Band and one month before his forty-eighth birthday, Root Boy Slim died in his sleep in his Orlando, FL, apartment. The culprit? Hard livin’, pure and simple. The last year I lived in Orlando, I was convinced I inhabited the apartment where Root Boy died. I never saw his ghost or anything and there was never any strange phenomenon, but how else can you explain the overwhelming desire I woke up with every day to put on a cape and dance around the living room with a harmonica and a bottle of cheap whiskey? Numerous trips to the Orange County Hall of Records yielded no conclusive proof. I didn’t need no fancy papers, though. My gut told me Root Boy’s wild spirit was all over the walls of that roach infested hellhole. Foster MacKenize was all up in my synapses, commanding me to shirk responsibility and not bathe for weeks on end. Here’s to you, Root, and all the wackiness you served up over the years. Wish you’d made it to sixty-three. The world needs your yuks now more than ever. Your frat brother George has really done a number on all of us.
Do yourself a favor, kids – click this shit right here, turn your speakers up, and boogie ‘til you puke.