Methods	Storyline	Reviews	Discography
New material at myspace.com/rudyschwartzproject! Music available at DC-Jam Records

Aired on KOOP-FM in March, 1995 and the Subgenius Hour of Slack in May, 1995

Somewhere east of Austin Texas, in a double-wide trailer home near the remnants of Bergstrom Air Force base, a small, wrinkled curmudgeonly old man by the name of Rudy Schwartz crouches over a desk, squints into the monitor of an outdated personal computer, and pokes at a moldy sandwich with a dirt-encrusted index finger.

As pre-programmed musical events spew forth from tiny speakers nailed to the trailer interiorís simulated wood grain paneling, Rudy lifts his left leg, emitting a noxious plume of smelly brown gas.

He dances awkwardly on the beverage-stained sepia carpeting, singing a peculiar ode to corn dogs and Pia Zadora, as several tiny green munchkins emerge from beneath the sofa and begin giggling at Green Acres reruns.

But just who is this strange little man, so vile of countenance and foul of odor, and what is it about his strange brand of music that has brought us to his cramped living space for an exclusive interview? In the next half hour, weíll answer these questions, and play samples from the first decade of recorded material from The Rudy Schwartz Project. We'll also meet Waldo, a talking reindeer hand-puppet that lives in Rudy's refrigerator and maintains a grocery list consisting exclusively of canned meats, and we'll talk to the neighbors who have been attempting to have eviction papers served since 1987.

It's hard to discern the point at which fantasy becomes reality for Rudy Schwartz. As we follow him around his trailer, we find him performing the most mundane of daily tasks while carrying on arcane conversations with Joey Bishop, whom Schwartz seems quite convinced is present with us in the room. Living out a sad, paranoid delusion, Schwartz fixes a pot of coffee, and whimpers incessantly about his recent exclusion from the Rat Pack. He tosses out an idle threat to quit returning phone calls, and to begin working up a stage act with Larry Storch and The Ritz Brothers. Grainy images of Doodles Weaver blare from the television, as Schwartz's dog, Günther, begs for sausages. I ask Schwartz if he knows there are small rodents sleeping in his food processor. He replies that he does not, but that if I'll hum a few bars he'll fake it. I soon learn that a visit to the Schwartz residence is a maddening series of dated vaudeville routines and distasteful images that sour the stomach.

It is now midnight at the Nipple Creek trailer park, one of Del Valle's most popular residential communities prior to the closing of Bergstrom Air Force base, but now the home of a disturbing assortment of social miscreants, including the members of The Rudy Schwartz Project, and their close companion, Filthpocket, a sentient plastic life form with a bulbous rubber nose which, when squeezed, bleats out the opening segment of ìBohemian Rhapsodyî. Schwartz, clad only in a baggy cotton diaper, has led us to a stone pit near the back of the trailer park, where a smoldering fire ominously illuminates the unsettling visage of Waldo, the hand-puppet from the refrigerator. Waldo and Filthpocket break into a surrealist rhythm & blues vamp, as the channeled spirit of Barry White takes shape in the flames, speaking in incomprehensible, broken Spanish. Abe Vigoda dances nude near a cedar tree. The members of the Rudy Schwartz Project sway in sympathy, their fingers producing a satisfying pop on the second beat of each bar. Just as my discomfort begins to abate, the hairpiece of Barry White begins to transubstantiate into a muscular, cocksure William Shatner. But this is no ordinary Bill Shatner. This Bill Shatner has empty, wrinkled eye sockets, and an inverted pentagram burned into his glistening, hairless chest.

Snack time is a source of great frivolity and celebration at the Rudy Schwartz household. Each member is given a plastic card which most closely matches the color of his or her socks. When a Crisco commercial appears on the television, the first person to shout ìa manwich is a mealî is given credit for one ham chunk. The person can then bank the ham chunk, or wager that they'll be able to coax a chuckle out of Waldo by recounting their favorite Frank Gorshin appearance on the Ed Sullivan show. At the end of the game, the ham chunks are counted, and the person with the fewest receives a firm handshake and is asked to adjust the thermostat.

An interlude of dense rhythmic cacophony quickly unfolds into a dadaist square dance, as each member of The Rudy Schwartz Project stands facing the center of the room, and begins a strange series of gesticulations suggesting abdominal discomfort, or the complete recorded works of Phil Harris. Filthpocket seems to choreograph the proceedings through a pair of dissonant howls, occurring on the fourth and fifth beats of an awkwardly inserted quintuplet, prompting Schwartz to mumble some indecipherable profanity about Dave Brubeck into my ear. His breath reeks of goat cheese and yellow onions.

His final tirade against fundamentalism completed, Schwartz collapses on his desk, crushing the moldy sandwich he has been nursing during our visit, and frightening his dog. I decide to withdraw from the trailer before he regains consciousness, sensing that I may be overstaying my welcome. On my way to the car, I bump into a totem pole crafted by Schwartz himself, during one of his frequent fits of rage. Its faces depict angry hamsters, each with a different set of job skills. To my relief, the car starts up without a problem. I pull slowly out of the driveway, and make my way to the highway which leads back to Austin.