If Kinky Friedman were starting his career today, he might have a minor radio hit and be tossed into the cut-out bin with other gimmicky has-beens. Of course, the only thing keeping Kinky's '70s music from such a quick death is his legend and his mystery novels (Slick Willie Clinton is a fan.)

It seems like Kinky, as eyebrow-raising as he must have been in 1976, was a product of the times: Elvis' surreal, drugged-up, spangly showmanship, Steve Martin/Martin Mull's plectrum-enhanced irony, and an off-the-cuff-ness that bewilders my '80s upbringing. When is it rock? When is it country? Folk? Comedy?

Why does so much music from the '70s drive me to think the label heads were all at wife-swapping parties while these cuckoo acts were being signed? You put on BJ Thomas doing his amplitude-modulation hit "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" and then Dylan doing his cranky "One More Cup of Coffee," with Emmylou's off-key harmonies, and you ask, "Wait, these songs were recorded in the same decade?" Yup, no question. I'll never understand the damaged mind of the 1970s, but damned if I don't keep trying.

Kinky's 1976 album, Lasso From El Paso has been re-released on Varese Vintage (it was originally on Epic.) Those hanging around the studio at the time knew the "Lasso" part as "Asshole"--one minor thing Epic did to diddle with the Kinkster.

The album's littered with The Last Waltz -type people (Bob Dylan and the Rolling Thunder Revue, Dr. John, members of The Band, Ringo Starr, Eric Clapton, Ron Wood, and the list doesn't end there.) It's great, too: ril, ril Southern, except it's smart-assed and full up with Yankee musicians.

The mood is slow, relaxed, as if everyone present was too gone from 'ludes and red wine and Taco Bell to put much effort into the project. Even the uptempo stuff (Ray Stevens' "Ahab the Arab," for one) has a sleepy, Sesame Street-honky-tonk feeling."Waitret, Please, Waitret" is too overtired and silly to have been written anywhere other than an off-highway Denny's, on trucker's hours. Not much makes sense on "Lasso," the quivering, nasal voices, the lost-shaker-of-salt percussion, the songs about bananas and men's rooms, the cover's parody of a box of Camels. The camel on "Lasso"'s cover looks happy--I mean Cheech and Chong happy. Giddy-up indeed.

There's not much else to say; "Lasso From El Paso" is a cultural artifact, a sloppy, hazy, who's-who of a party, and if you like "Street Legal" and "Time In A Bottle" and "Verities and Balderdash," there's no reason why you shouldn't get this and a jug of Boone's. Knock yourself out. It being Passover 'n' all, I'm gonna procure me some Manischewitz.