Upsetting Day: Hatenanny Records

Ever heard singles by the American Nazi party?

Not the deep cuts–I’m not insane, after all. Just the American Nazi Party singles. You know, white power jams. Save the cheap shots at country, Hatenanny Records had genre variety. Alongside the country music, they indulged in a bit of old-fashioned country, and then some new school country for the kids.

Acoustic warbling’s fine. It’s just an easy target for the American Nazi Party’s gimmick: strip something of worth, and add hate. Take their version of a crossword:

You’d think the American Nazi Party, in their own magazine, could dig deeper than “Hitler.” But today’s minds still worship 23-Across after putting 8-across new holes in his head to avoid 19-across.

After that line, a Hatenanny artist would tell me to go three thousand miles east. After that, they’d ask why I can’t see what’s in George Wallace’s heart. After that, they’d ask if I can meet their fiance Friday. After that, they’d say it’s parody country music. At least the tracks with their fuhrer, George Lincoln Rockwell. And on that note, they’d be right. Hatenanny fails country, comedy, and white children with equal vigor.

Right, I can’t skip that name. Think a hootenanny, but unlovable. Tunes for guys that won’t produce white children. When you carefully strip black influence from American music, you’re left with the sound of dryness. I hope you laughed with the label name, it’s the American Nazi Party’s best joke. Whenever someone says “this isn’t us” remember Hatenanny.

Hatenanny Records was a pet project of George Lincoln Rockwell, the founder, chair, and weakness of the American Nazi Party. In time, George could’ve been Secretary of Agriculture for his labor reform ideas. Sadly, he was cut down right on time by John Patler, his personal hack cartoonist. A murder that proved it’s never too late to become a true artist.

If you were a pale student in 1964, you might have stumbled on this leaflet:

And then ignored it to chase goals or enjoy young love. But someone embraced it. The Stormtrooper (the official magazine of SS posers) ran quarterly, and George couldn’t write for shit. Every letter “From the Desk of the Commander” struggled for a second opinion or third slur. Proof that George never met the enemy live. There are more words for black Americans than mauve.

While the bottom-right sketch deserves 2000 words, Patler’s had his moment. Today’s about music, starting with a 1964 single.

Sorry, let me enhance that so your boss can see.

Texas A&M’s fight song. Don’t hold out for variety: Hatenanny repeats this gag three times. If Rockwell screened hires, there’d be dozens of singles. A mountain of wasted vinyl approaching white heaven. We’ll make do with four.

Is Rockwell better in verse than prose? Hotter on the mic than the page? Absolutely not. I can’t fake you out here. George writes the way fruit flies survive. Here’s the first verse, after a harmonica riff that sounds like guessing:

A fine gift to deaf Aryans.

I braced for six genres of pain, and still got jumped: half this song’s fucking incomprehensible. The delivery and production unite to say nothing. You can’t crush the dirt people by mumbling. If you garble druck you figger, I’ll hand you a napkin.

Here’s an inkblot test: that third line might be steal your rank or steal and rape. My confused friends, horrified students, furious sister, regretful boss, terrified agent, and two professional music journalists are split down the fucking middle. Do you believe in humanity? Do you believe in Rockwell? Can you guess how many times I’ve listened to this sonic swastika?Now my subconscious sounds like Thomas Sowell.

All I know is that negritude doesn’t steal your humanity. Art school does. I really hope this says we’re all born rapists, because “steal your rank” is far too on the fucking nose. At that point, The Coon Hunters might as well wail “bigotry stinks and I’m a stinky dumbface.”

I’m lost. Without the title, I wouldn’t know this was about me. Degradation’s a big factor, but this is modern. “A Hard Day’s Night” came out the same year, and the New Vegas soundtrack was old news. The Junior Klan’s recruitment push should sound better than “Mmrrrmph Phrmmph Niggers.”

The vocalist (reportedly not Rockwell) rambles into Side B. It’s the same joke, but maybe we can hear it this time.

Right, your boss. He’s invested at this point. Tilt the screen so he can catch the Fallout jokes between slurs.

Unfortunately, “Who Needs a Nigger” is mostly comprehensible. Lyrically, not spiritually.

Maybe that last line’s a compliment. Otherwise, “Stop shoving your existence in my face” isn’t new. I’d ask where G.L. Rockwell And The Coon Hunters expect me to go, but there’s another verse. It’s Ethiopia.

Since text and hate tend to emphasize lyrics, I’ll underline this point: Hatenanny also sounds like appendicitis. The pictures say vinyl, but I think Hatenanny published on parrot. There’s no excuse for this quality after World War I. Not that production deserves all the credit: in two songs, Rockwell disgraces centuries of white composers. I’m convinced an FBI plant wrote the melody, a black FBI plant ran the booth, and a KGB plant told George it sounded great.

Now, those are the tracks Rockwell put his name on. Lord knows if he was involved, nazis love swiping credit. Ready for the act Rockwell signed?

Close! He’s called Odis Cochran, and he’s backed by The Three Bigots. Maybe Sowell played the harmonica, or tap-danced.

If you miss Patler, there’s cover art.

Feel free to get excited, Odis marks a new era for Hatenanny Records. He adds a clear baritone, impressions, and mid-song sketches to the formula. Art school really drove me mad, because I’m only in hell now. Odis could have screeched Cornerstone Speeches for hours without the pain his sixties blaccent inflicts.

Side A is, as you’d imagine “Ship Those Niggers Back.” I’ll understand what makes man hate, how to stop it, and how to heal long before I understand how that’s a different joke. Maybe Rockwell really does get black people; he’s abusing the fuck out of remixes decades ahead of the game.

Bring back the paper-mache mic. The slurs I imagined were funnier. And fresher: Odis can almost write a chorus, but a new angle’s beyond him. The cliches-per-second breach Schulz levels, and Odis isn’t improvising. The punctuation and caps-lock aren’t me playing around: they’re canon. Hatenanny Records wants you to read the only fresh insult in scare quotes.

The mind bleeds.

Then there’s the skits. For a sworn enemy of black culture, Odis loves pointless bits in his music.

The impression’s worse than the three-chord loop. These skits interrupt every chorus, just in case you loved country, novelty music, and apartheid. No one’s escaping with endorphins today. In fact, the CMT faithful will have a worse time: they know what this wants to be.

Have time for one more? Me neither. But there’s a B-side called “We’s Non-Violent Niggers,” and someone has to stick their hand on that stove.

Essentially, just add glasses and a thesaurus. He’s also an ivy type with a word count addiction, so we’re doppelgangers. It’s some kind of Wheel of Time cycle. But really, black American exceptionalists are a minor fixation of mine. They’re like Mets fans, but the sport is Not Hating You. Maybe I’ll write a book about that.

As for “We’s Non-Violent Niggers:”

Hey, I know these get dark. To laugh like an idiot: set the stillbirth above to “Hot to Go.” It’s the tone/content clash Odis forgot to chase, and works for the later verses too:

Scratch that, the later verses are twin stillbirths. When you’re braced for n-bombs, the antisemitism slips your guard. But my trick works for half the song.

While antisemitism’s like blinking for nazis, the one topic I thought they’d avoid was better artists. There’s a Sammy Davis Jr. single within twenty meters of the audience. Playing it doesn’t feel like tongue-kissing a blender. Don’t remind them of that.

For all the shit it sucks, I’m surprised this one’s the B-side. Neither track’s good, but “Uruk-Hai Fight Song” is a fresher idea. A joke you can tell another klansman without them asking for a refill.

That’s Hatenanny Records. Questions?

I hear you. Imagine hating anyone enough to embarrass yourself like this. Or your country.

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