At some point in the now astonishingly distant early `90s, I was frequently to be found hanging out with a particular cabal of similarly inclined cats from the East Village, most prominently among them a guy named Dean Rispler. Ostensibly, Dean Rispler was the erstwhile boyfriend of my friend Joanne, who I’d met a few years earlier through my writer/musician/roadie friend Steve. But Dean and Joanne had broken up, and Joanne was seeing my friend Rob B. Testament to his big-hearted and congenial nature, Dean wasn’t phased by that, and was still a member of this particular social circle, one that frequently involved drinking a lot and going to see a host of live music all around the Lower East Side. Dean was also shuffling through and working with a number of bands, at the time, including luminaries like The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black (for whom Dean payed bass), Murphy’s Law (ditto), a combo called The Brought-Low and later The Dictators. Beyond all that, he was also a sought-after producer. So, yeah, he was a versatile guy.
At some point, Dean decided to form another band that I’ve discussed here a number of times called The Hot Corn Girls (probably last invoked here). Named after turn-of-the-century Irish prostitutes who sold snackable ears of corn by day and murdered their johns by night, The HCG featured Dean on drums, my friend Joanne on bass and sometimes vocals, a hilarious guy named Bob on vocals and guitar and then a second guitar player named, somewhat enigmatically, Squeaky. They recorded an album called Look at My Bum, and an additional 7”, both released on the evocatively named Stingy Banana records and festooned with suitably pervy cover art by noted photographer Richard Kern (who I also wrote about here, not too long back).
The Hot Corn Girls were absolutely hilarious, and I remember seeing them play at, I believe, The Pyramid and then again at Under Acme. Along the way, I got to know this guy Squeaky better. A somewhat eccentric character with an encyclopedic knowledge of arcane cult cinema, Japanese pop culture and super-obscure punk rock, Squeaky also played in a dizzying host of bands, most notable among them being The Chimpanzees. They’re almost worth a post in themselves.
In any case, while Squeaky was inarguably somewhat left-of-center, he was always entertaining company. I remember asking Dean why people called him Squeaky. Apparently, it was a nickname someone had coined for him as he suffered from Tourette’s Syndrome, and was allegedly prone to periodically making high-pitched, squeaking sounds (although, to this day, I’ve never heard him do so). I immediately felt that was rather pointedly insensitive, but Squeaky never seemed to be bothered by it.
Time passed. The Hot Corn Girls broke up. Joanne and Rob B. got married and moved away, only to later divorce. Steve became a roadie for SWANS, then a guitar player for Motherhood Bug, joined Cop Shoot Cop for two albums and then moved to Texas to become a lawyer. Dean kept on producing and recording and playing in more bands than you can possibly keep up with. In no time at all, that little circle of East Village friends fell out of touch.
I kept up with Dean on social media and, through that, also befriended Squeaky there (real name, Dave Wilentz). Since those days, Dave delved further into his passion for unconventional film, making a completely respectable career out of it, while also still being his lovably eccentric, super-knowledgable self. Imagine my surprise, then, that the Killed By Desk podcast, who I’ve spoken rapturously about here and here, set their sights on Dave for one of their in-depth interview/profiles. True to form, both of the hosts have similarly convoluted backstories involving. Dave “Squeaky” Wilentz, which — evidently — just goes with the Squeaky territory.
In any case, it's entirely illuminating and equally hilarious.
Check out here and tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.
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