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Headache/Heartbeat package

12" + 7" + poster + booklet released in 1987 on Touch and Go, Blast First

body bag front
body bag back cover
12" front cover
12" back cover
7" front cover
7" back cover
additional booklet material: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

    HEADACHE 12"
  1. My Disco
  2. Grinder
  3. Ready Men
  4. Pete, King of All Detectives
    HEARTBEAT 7"
  1. Heartbeat
  2. Things To Do
  3. I Can't Believe

Limited edition set with different artwork from the standard issue--artwork so gruesome it had to be distributed in a black "body bag". Touch and Go editions have silver foil on the body bag, and Blast First editions have gold foil. One discography says that Blast First editions came with Il Duce instead of Heartbeat, but I'm skeptical, since a) I've seen numerous BF versions of the package with Heartbeat, and b) I don't think there was even a Blast First version of Il Duce.

The complete package consists of:

This is the most common Big Black rarity, with 1000 copies of each version (Blast First and Touch and Go).

For reviews see Headache and Heartbeat.

liner notes:


BOUNCING BABY BOY

people have been asking. i just don't like thinking about it. we thought it would be such a simple thing, like buying a house or getting the practice started, you know, just another phase in our lives. we figured it was time for a family. i'm not getting any younger, you know. neither is he. when i got pregnant, we had no idea there would be any toruble. everything seemed alright, you know, normal. all the way up to the delivery we had no idead it was, so horrible, you understand. we had no idea. well, when we saw it, we know right away it wasn't right. it was so purple and mean looking. not at all like we had pictured. then the doctor told us about the brain. it just wouldn't ever be up to snuff. never be a doctor, that's for sure. hardly human, i would say. hardly. well, i was still out of it, you know i was put under becayse tge pain is supposed to be...i was never good with pain, you know. so i was still out of it when it happened. he was very upset, which you could well imagine, after all that anticipation. nine months he waited to see his child, and then the disappointment. he didn't even have a child, i wouldn't say. but it was still there, ugly and mean and stupid and screaming, with our name on it. so i suppose he had been drinking with one of his doctor friends, and he thought it was just too much. he came into the ward, he's a doctor you know, so they let him right in i guess, and he took the...he took it and he threw it against the floor. i guess it was several times. the nurse said it looked like he was dancing or something, so it was probably more than once, but the lawyer said to say he could only remember once, so that's what we always say. we found the best lawyer. it's costing us a mint, you know, but it's neccessary. for something like this you can't fool around because of the price. he is the best at working the jury. they were crying for him.

i come in one morning and my tools are out. every god damn thing. scattered around like a little kid's toys or something. my fucking tools. it happens every fucking time. somebody just had to. nobody cares about anybody's private things around here. you know how important that is to me? i don't fuck with anybody's shit. no way. i just want to do my job and be left the fuck alone. just had to use my grinder didn't he. just had to. little fuck face. little ass hole. acts like he fucking owns this shit. little ass hole. grind him is what. grind his little fat fuck face. think he'd like that? think twice, wouldn't he? little shitty fuck face ass hole.

it's just a job is all. like moving boxes or sweeping a fucking floor is all. hey, i tell you something. i'm out here six o'clock inna fucking morning waiting in line; fucking bar ain't open. nobody's got scratch or shit to drink. the guy comes out and says, "i need three guys,"--fuck you, i'm going. that's 26 bucks. guy's lucky to work. who cares what it is. you gotta whack some guy on the head, big deal. he's on strike, he oughta know what's what, right? rather stand out here waiting in line all day? fuck you. guy gave us all guns one time. says, "go shake em up." had a fucking party. my room costs eight a day or forty a week. i can eat at chris's maybe two, three bucks. i work four days. sometimes three, sometimes five. i get a little wine, maybe a quart. no fucking worries, mission gives me all the clothes i can carry. what the fuck else am i gonna do, be a fucking doctor? fuck you.

no regular cop has a nose like pete. he can walk into a place, even ten days cold, take one look and say, "hadda be a spic" or "hadda be this one particular guy." fucking king, pete. king of all detectives. his woman took off one time. five days later she was back. found her and the shmoe. don't know what happened to him. didn't ask. probably gave him the spaniard's choice: shoot him in the balls or shoot him in the eye; the shmoe has to pick. smart guy'd choose the eye, 'course in the eye, maybe you have a chance. in the balls who cares. said once no white cop oughta ride with a colored. they won't cover you. chicken shit. just as soon write you off. means nothing to them, it's just a job is all, now alls anybody sees is coloreds. all the new cops. all they hire now is coloreds and women. bet none of them has a fucking nose like pete's. i bet.

recorded either march somethingth 1986 or july somethingth 1986. mixed either july somethingth or august somethingth 1986 either in chicago with iain burgess (nice neighborhood) or in detroit with breck like the shampoo.

SMOKE 'EM IF YOU GOT 'EM

multi-track, man, i just don't recommend it.

field recording of mortar shell july 4 1986, roof of the graystone, detroit, by chris gordon for gnec; during the six-man zeus god of thunder tournament.

ass grab: paul, pat, corey, lisa, sonic pudding, killdozer, (motor)head of david, ironhorse, hecky's bbq, calumet meats, pussy galore, dave cow, bill cow, peter (gus), bryon, minneapolis, muncie, theo van engenburg, jochen "jake" schwarz, the nutty dutch, carlos, tetsuan atomu, my happening one-eyed italian batchelor uncle, laura, cristina, phartography and sexophone by john "black bart" bohnen. poster photography: gail butensky.

big black: post orifice box 442, evanston, illinois 60204 usa. write if you want, but we probably won't have time to write back. think of it as therapy. people still write letters to elvis, after all. elvis the pelvis had a brother named enis, by the way. he was popular at dances. there is a special hell for people who bring babies on airplanes

"heart beat, it's a love beat, and when we meet, it's a good vibration. listen to my heart pound. i can hear a love sound. listen" - tony defranco rumored to ahve no penis.

"i can feel your heartbeat, and you didn't even say a word" -david cassidy, rumored to have quite a sizable penis.

"i feel old" -colin newman, rumored to be

boy genius stock trader kills investors to keep fraud fund afloat
memo included detailed murder plans

i can't believe originally had lyrics; something about the american political system, but sant hated them. thus are all great instrumentals born.


Mike McGonigal--The Human Valentine

By Byron Coley

With a weasel-like pop, Mike McGonigal pushed his head a few inches out of Floyd the Barber's asshole.

Floyd was sitting in his number one chair perusing a copy of the Mayberry Gazzette at the moment Mike began exiting his colon. McGonigal's wide misshapen head forced Floyd's rump off its comfortable red vinyl roost and, as he toppled to the floor, the rear seam of Floyd's pants split. Mike's face became visible through the rent.

Shit was caked in his nose and the corners of his mouth and eyes, but Mike didn't seem to discomfitted. "Hey!" he quacked. "Hey dude! It's Mike! Mike from Florida!"

Floyd looked at the thick white mucus that Mike was coughing onto the floor. "Watch out with that stuff, would-ya?" he begged. McGonigal paid him no mind and gagged a wad of yellowed fur onto Floyd's leg.

"Geez!" Floyd shouted as he jumped unsteadily to his feet. "What's wrong with you, kiddo?" There was no answer.

Lifting a mirror from the counter, Floyd raised one leg and slipped his hand between his thighs. He fiddled with the angle of the glass until he was able to see McGonigal's eyes.

"What's wrong with you, boy?" the gentle barber asked.

"Hey dude, like, what's wrong with you?"

Floyd's eyebrows raised and he started to flush, but he got himself back under control and tried again.

"What, may I ask, are you doing in my ass?" Floyd queried.

"The day that an artist like myself has to explain himself to a barber..." McGonigal huffed.

Before he could finish his sentence, the door to the shop opened and Barney Fife ducked in. Floyd threw himself onto his stomach and screamed, "THERE'S AN ART-FAG STICKIN' OUTA MY KEISTER, BARN, OPEN FIRE!"

Fife unholstered his gun with uncharacteristic smoothness and emptied his pistol into McGonigal's forehead.

Afterwards, the town's entire adult popultation marched through the shop congratulating the deputy and rubbernecking the carnage. Even li'l Opie snuck in through the back way and hunkered down to look into Mike's open skull.

"There ain't nothin' in there!" he whooped.

It was twenty minutes 'til the laughter died down.


PURE III

It's difficult to know whether or not Richard Ramirez enjoyed his crimes. Certainly, it seems that he didn't enjoy them to their fullest potential - but all the facts are currently blurred by media outrage and hype.

Ramirez received nationwide attention as "The Night Stalker" for a series of vicious sex-attacks from February to September 1985. Ramirez crept through unlocked doors and windows around California while the inhabitants slept. The late night/pre-dawn attacks stretched from Los Angeles to San Francisco and panicked almost the entire state of California. Sales of guns and locks in the state skyrocketed and Californian investigators mounted their biggest manhunt since the Hillside Strangler case.

The killer was finally apprehended on August 31, after being beaten up by a mob of crazed Mexicans in notorious East LA. Authorities had earlier that day identified Ramirez as The Night Stalker through tips from Ramirez's "friends" as well as fingerprints left at some of the murder scenes. Ramirez saw his face on the front page of a newspaper in a liquor store and burst into a frenzied run through various locales until he finally came to East L.A.. There, he tried to steal a couple of cars by pulling drivers out of their vehicles, but he met with heavy resistance and was finally set on by an angry mass of screaming wetbacks.

Ramirez himself is of Spanish descent and originally hails from El Paso, Texas.

There is no question as to the actual motives for the crimes. They were exceptionally brutal and sadistic. What is arguable is whether or not Ramirez was aware of what he was doing or of even what he wanted.

Ramirez was originally suspected of over 20 murders and 24 attacks, but the figures have been whittled down as it comes time for authorities to tie evidence and charges together. Currently, Ramirez is charged with 15 murders (14 in Los Angeles and 1 in San Francisco) plus 54 other felonies including 5 attempted murders, 19 burglaries, 6 robberies, 7 rapes, 5 oral copulations, 7 sodomies, 3 lewd acts on children and 2 kidnappings. Ramirez's lusts, and perhaps his rage, were wanton.

Ramirez has a small police record of thievery and misdemeanor charges and was known as a youth as "Ricky the Klepto". He was a great fan of heavy metal music and was fond of AC/DC and Judas Priest. Like a lot of confused youngsters, he quickly became obsessed with the darker fantasies offered by some of these groups. He liked to think that Satan was his guardian and two years ago, Ramirez asked a tatoo artist to indelibly carve a pentagram in his left palm.

Richard was also a cocaine addict. After snorting became too tame, he started to dissolve the powder in water and inject it straight into his arm. Richard's sister said he was also an epileptic and that he frequently had to take PCP to circumvent the seizures.

Ramirez played up the satanic angle quite well. At the houses of some of his victims he would spray paint large pentagrams, and in one case, "Jack The Knife" on the walls. And recently, while he remains in a California prison, Ramirez has been heard to scream loudly and wildly from the tower lockups. At his last court hearing he shouted "Hail Satan!" as he was led from the room. Because of outbursts like this, police have resorted to locking him in manacles and leg irons for all subsequent appearances.

All of these facts tend to paint a rather disparaging picture of Ramirez and his actions. But further analysis of his crimes will be necessary-as they seem definitely exciting. It is possible that Richard Ramirez is simply looking for media attention or an insanity plea, but it is highly possible that he is a deluded young man; confused and frightened of his instincts and therefore forced to play out pathetic horror games in his simple mind.

The crimes themselves are of excellent pornographic quality:

Ramirez usually did away with the man of the house by shooting or knifing first. This left him with an easy go at the females, who he raped and tortured. Authorities have described the rapes and murders: "There was an intimacy about the killer and his victim, as if the killer enjoyed feeling the pain of his victim."

He raped women in the cunt, up the ass and down the throat. It is unknown if any of his male victims were similarly enjoyed.

And he nailed little children. He fucked kids of less than ten years old and murdered their parents. Teenagers as well.

He also sexually abused and destroyed an elderly woman of 84 years old.

Some of his victims were raped as they died beneath him. He fucked corpses.

He slashed his victim's throats and let them bleed to death. He carved into their faces.

If he was using a gun, Ramirez would usually try to shoot the victim point blank in the face.

He bludgeoned people to death.

In one instance, he attempted to gouge out his dead victim's eyes with a large knife.

After some of the killings, he sat in the violated house and ate a meal from the refrigerator.

Mabel Close Bell, 84, was bludgeoned to death.
Patty Elaine Higgins, 32, had her throat slashed.
Chainarong Khovanath, 32, was shot to death.
Christopher Peterson, 38, and his wife were shot while they slept in bed. Both survived.
Etyas Abowath, 35, was shot in the head while his wife, Sakina, was raped. Ramirez then tore apart their home but left the couple's two children (aged 3 and 3 months) alone.
William Doi, 66, was fatally shot in the face and his wife raped. Ramirez raped Mrs. Doi's asshole and made her suck his cock.
Jenny Vincow, 79, had her throat slashed and was stabbed several times in her body.

Police are also looking into similar crimes from 1981 to 1984 that may have been Ramirez's handiwork.

"The murders were horrible crimes" District Attorney Ira Reiner said. "The investigators said they were some of the most grotesque they had ever seen."

Ramirez has pleaded not guilty to the crimes and has recently appointed his own lawyer, an ex-con, to defend him.


ED

INTERROGATOR (SLYLY TURNING ON HIDDEN TAPE RECORDER): Do you want to talk about your crazy girlfriend?
ED: Uh, when's this thing coming out? (WEARING HAND-EMBROIDERED LED ZEPPELIN WINDBREAKER)
I: End of the month, pretty quick.
ED: That might be a good idea then. (NOT CURRENTLY WEARING THE VERY SAD TROUSERS)
I: What's a good beer to by? (LEAVES CAR TO BUY BEER)
ED: Corona. You can drink alot of 'em, and fast. (VERY LOUDLY IN HIDDEN RECORDER) Yo! I know you are trying to play tricks on me. I will fall for no gags tonight! I am "on" to your clever tricks! Is this recording? I guess. Uh.
I (ARRIVING AT MEXICAN BEANERY): You still want to buy a gun?
ED: I think that would be a good idea. To be protected.
I (GESTURING OVER SHOULDER): I still can't go into that video stoer. I owe them for a movie for three months.
ED: That zombie one?
I: No, AC/DC, that movie they did. What caliber gun you want to get? A big one?
ED: Yeah, quite large, I think. You know, the real long-barreled revolvers...
I: Cowboy or detective?
ED: Detective, I think. And keep it in the freezer. A shure-shot barrel. Just when you need some protection.
WAITRESS (QUITE SHORT): Ready?
ED: The green enchiladas.
W: Bif oo ticken?
ED: Chicken.
I: You shoot much in Litch?
ED: Yeah, we shot mostly a lot of streetlights: all that vandalism. It all seemed to normal. I can't remember it feeling unnatural to want to destroy things. But only specific things. Expensive things. Windows with lights. Also machinery. We tried to total a big crane one time. The problem with these adventures is alot of them catch up to me. When I was in fifth grade, my buddy Roger and I, we had gotten real used to breaking things; windows. It was second nature by then. We would just, on the way home from school, we had nothing to do. One day, we just, on the way home, took out about 5,000 dollars worth of windows at the local power plant. With our little wrist rockets. Mostly with just rocks. It was one of those cases where one thing just leads to another. Before long, you've wrecked the whole place. Roger's brother, Eddie, came back with us, because we wanted to show him the damage. That was our big mistake. We got away with it, but we had to show his brother, because he wouldn't believe it. That's when the cop cars came. We tried to hide in this mound of dirt. Of course, it was juvenile court. It was weird, because they didn't really make me do anything. Sweeping the floors would come later, after yet another offense against the law. I had several. It was probation. We were so young, they couldn't believe it. My parents (this was before drugs); my dad said it was like a madman on drugs did it.
I: What was the Litch expression for dirty, stinky farts?
ED: Rotten ass. I meant to apologize for the other night, by the way, when I had some rotten ass in the car. It couldn't be helped.
I: You had a friend that fucked fat chicks?
ED: Yeah, there's a picture. These guys that lived in the house, they ambushed him. He used to just take the fattest chicks, down to the mattress by the boiler, just cause he could, you know? One time he was fucking the biggest, most white-skinned...you know those one kind of fat women who are something completely different from regular people. They got him with a polaroid, with these huge legs of hers up in the air and he was just petrified.
I: Do you still have that phone that picks up the Mexican radio station?
ED: That was back at the old place. By Otis. They used to have these weird like orgies. Sick little orgies. Otis had a real close relationship with his dog. I'm not kidding, either. They used to hang out, I'd do crack with them or smoke dope, and some chick would walk by and they'd talk about how sick pussy was, how they hated it. I had mystery callers, people would call and play part of that song, "somebody's watching you" over and over. You know that song, by Michael Jackson's sister or something. Brother, I never knew who that was.


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