FROM THE DESK OF MICK CANCER, ESQ. In 1978 me and Alison (the) End traveled from Philadelphia to Memphis in search of rockabilly hoodoo. We found it. And more. We found Fabian! During our stay we also encountered an amazing band of young punk rock gurls called the Klitz (that’s right!), Midtown scamps who gleefully offered up a wildly shambolic and daring vision of pure a** rock ‘n roll. Upon visiting them, Alison and I were dumbfounded to discover record albums by the Philly teen pop artiste Fabian littered about. We’d driven one thousand miles, by God, seeking rockabilly Buddhas and we get freakin’ Fabian Forte?!? Ah, but things can work out strange sometimes, as this experience ultimately led to a re-evaluation of the music served up by the fabricated Fab One and the realization that behind the façade lurked some damn good ‘50s rock ‘n roll, featuring solid musicianship, sassy songs and the requisite surly snarls of the singer who, despite being oft-maligned* was actually a surprisingly muscular vocalist who by the nature of the circumstances of his discovery and subsequent fame actually paved some of the way for the exploitation pop rock that would dominate future generations from the Monkees to Johnny Rotten to Justin Beiber, as well as, dare I say, Mick Cancer. Flash forward to now and the collective known as Pink Slip Daddy (after years of deliberation) wish not only to celebrate but embrace the career of Fabian because unlike many of his immediate peers he was, at heart, a pure honest rocker and his stuff deserves to be heard again. Viva Fabian indeed! * For example, John Crosby, writing for the New York Herald-Tribune, described Mr. Forte as “reeling like a top, snapping his fingers and jerking his eyeballs, with hair something Medusa had left behind, and a voice that was enormously improved by total unintelligibility.”