Buzz Drainpipe

Buzz Drainpipe: A Biography

Buzz Drainpipe, born Raymond “Buzz” DeFino in 1949, was an enigmatic figure in the countercultural scene of the 1970s. An elusive writer whose bylines flickered in and out of the underground press, Drainpipe was the quintessential voice of rebellion, blending sharp wit with a touch of absurdity that matched the chaos of the times. He is perhaps best remembered for his brief but iconic tenure as a contributor to Crease Magazine, a publication that became the mouthpiece for the fringe of both the intellectual and artistic communities.

Growing up in the gritty, industrial suburbs of New Jersey, Drainpipe developed a penchant for words early. He was the son of an alcoholic mechanic and a disillusioned schoolteacher, neither of whom understood the strange, restless boy who scrawled feverishly in notebooks. His childhood was marked by run-ins with authority, an obsession with Beat literature, and long nights spent tuning into underground radio stations that broadcasted avant-garde rock and philosophical ramblings.

After a brief stint in a minor college—where he was a fixture in the student counterculture, notorious for throwing typewriters out of windows and spouting theories about reality being an illusion—Buzz dropped out and relocated to New York City. There, he embedded himself in the Bohemian scene, living in squalor in the East Village and working odd jobs. It was during these years that he adopted the name "Buzz Drainpipe," a moniker that reflected his disillusionment with society’s excesses and his attempt to “drain” the filth from the cultural landscape.

In 1973, Drainpipe caught the attention of Crease Magazine, a publication that sought to capture the spirit of the era with an eclectic mix of music reviews, political rants, and cultural criticism. His first article, “Neon Shadows: The Decay of the American Dream,” was a scathing critique of the American ideal, blending dark humor with sharp social observation. The piece was praised for its rawness, using absurdist metaphors and non-linear narratives that had readers scratching their heads but, simultaneously, nodding in agreement. Drainpipe’s style was as disorienting as it was compelling, channeling the frenetic energy of his times.

Over the next few years, Drainpipe contributed a series of articles, including a controversial exposé on the growing cult of celebrity, an acid-drenched review of a Velvet Underground concert, and a surreal take on the political landscape called “The Alligator in the White House,” which framed the Nixon administration as a grotesque theatre production. His writing was as unpredictable as the world he was chronicling—part poetry, part rant, part nightmare.

By 1977, however, Buzz Drainpipe had vanished from the public eye. Some say he retreated to the Catskills, where he lived in near-total isolation, scribbling incoherent stories and poems in notebooks that would never see the light of day. Others believe he became embroiled in a bizarre underground art collective that dabbled in performance art, guerrilla theatre, and strange experiments with psychedelics. What’s certain is that his influence continued to linger, with many of his writings influencing later generations of writers, musicians, and artists who rejected the mainstream.

To this day, Drainpipe remains a cult figure—more myth than man—haunting the margins of 1970s counterculture. His brief contributions to Crease Magazine are regarded as a snapshot of the chaotic, transitional era between the optimism of the 1960s and the disillusionment of the 1980s. His life and work continue to inspire those who seek to question, disrupt, and—above all—write without compromise.

Reproduced below are a few of his most infamous reviews:

Buzz Drainpipe’s Review of Vanilla Fudge – Mystery (1984)
Crease Magazine (resurrected briefly, probably illegally), Spring 1984

There’s a moment, deep into Vanilla Fudge’s comeback album Mystery, when everything collapses into a warbled fog of synths, drum fills that sound like aluminum cans being dropkicked across a gym floor, and vocals so overdriven with existential desperation they could’ve been phoned in from a payphone inside an abandoned laser tag arena. That moment lasts the entire album.

Let me be clear: this isn’t your older brother’s Vanilla Fudge. This ain’t your Vietnam-era acid casualty soundtrack. This is the Fudge after a decade in the desert—probably doing session gigs, wrestling inner demons, and trying to get the smell of polyester out of their souls. Mystery sounds like four dudes waking up from a ten-year bender in a Miami tanning booth, discovering the 1980s, and deciding, “Yeah, we can make that work.”

And in a weird, deranged way… they kinda do.

The opening track lurches in like a cyborg Frankenstein stitched from unused Toto demos, haunted Deep Purple riffs, and the ghost of baroque pomp rock. There's a moment where a keyboard solo lasts so long I thought I’d aged a decade. Carmine Appice drums like he's fighting off invisible demons, and Mark Stein’s voice has aged like bourbon left out in the sun—raspy, bloated, but still somehow charismatic.

They even cover My World Is Empty Without You again. Yes, again. Because when you’ve already cracked the code on psychedelic Supremes deconstruction, why not punch the mirror and do it in Dolby?

But here’s what gets me: Mystery is sincere. It wants to believe. It’s like watching a washed-up prophet stand on a neon-lit soapbox and shout visions at yuppies who just want to rollerblade. It’s bloated, confused, thunderously self-important—yet somehow charming. You get the sense these guys still believe rock and roll can mean something, even if they’re now delivering that message through what sounds like the score to a low-budget erotic thriller on Cinemax.

Is it good? Who cares. Mystery is a time capsule, a neon-fried gospel according to the last survivors of the lava lamp era. It’s the kind of record you find on cassette in the glove box of a car you just bought from a guy named Sal who paid cash and didn’t leave an address.

Vanilla Fudge, reborn in the age of Reagan, Atari, and cocaine-streaked optimism, have no right to sound this bizarrely committed. And yet—they do. Mystery may not solve anything, but it proves one thing: even ghosts get lonely. And sometimes, they form a band.

Final verdict: Play it at full volume, then walk slowly into the ocean.

Buzz Drainpipe’s Review of The Stooges' Funhouse (1970)
Crease Magazine, 1970

"Funhouse" is the sound of madness squeezing through the cracks in the American Dream like a cheap hooker with a heart of glass. It’s raw, filthy, and about as polite as a spit in the eye of every rock-and-roll purist who still thinks there’s a place for the dulcet tones of the Eagles. This is a goddamn circus, and The Stooges are the ringmasters—dragging you into the tent with your face on fire and your soul in tatters.

Here’s the deal: Iggy Pop and his gang of lunatics—if you can even call them that, because calling them “a band” is like calling a fistfight a dance—have just blown the hinges off anything you’ve ever known as music. Every note on Funhouse is an assault, each song a chaotic explosion of primal energy, akin to watching a car crash in slow motion and realizing you’re inside it. The guitars are like broken glass, scraping and screeching, while the drums sound like a broken jackhammer. Iggy’s voice? Don’t get me started—he sounds like a man choking on his own bile while a firetruck runs over his foot. Beautiful.

But here’s the kicker: Funhouse is not for you, not for anyone who likes their rock packaged in neat, tidy little boxes. It’s for the disenchanted, the wreckage of America’s dreams—the people who look at the world and say, “Is this it? Is this what you’ve got for me?” And to them, I say, “Hell yes, this is it.”

So, let’s talk about where these maniacs belong: The Stooges? They don’t need to be headlining some dingy club in Detroit. No. They should be opening for Frank Sinatra. Yeah, I said it. Let’s put them on the same bill as ol' blue eyes, drag him into the mud, and let him croon while the Stooges tear the place apart. Sinatra with his smooth vocal lines, crooning about heartache and nostalgia, followed by Iggy leaping off the stage, slithering across the floor like a rabid animal, tearing the skin off every song. What better metaphor for America than that? The high life, the low life, the glamour and the grime, all colliding into one disastrous, beautiful mess.

Funhouse is not for the faint of heart or the lovers of conventional taste. It’s a record for the ones who’ve seen the wheels fall off and are just too tired to pretend the machine ever worked in the first place. Put it on. Let it spin. Just remember: when The Stooges are on stage, you’re not watching a show—you’re watching an autopsy. Welcome to the Funhouse, baby. It’s a hell of a ride.

Buzz Drainpipe’s Review of Thelonious Monk Trio (1954)
Crease Magazine, Reissue Column, 1971

Let’s get something straight: Thelonious Monk Trio isn’t just Monk at his best—it’s Monk at his purest. No horns, no clutter, no orchestra swells or jazz-club razzle. Just Monk, a bass, and a drummer keeping time like a doomsday clock. It's not just jazz—it's a transmission from a parallel reality where rhythm is broken on purpose and logic is optional.

This is the sound of a man dismantling Western music with one finger at a time.

Monk's piano on this record doesn’t play—it interrogates. Every note feels like it’s being lit on fire before it leaves the keys. He jabs, he stabs, he lets chords hang in the air like questions no one's brave enough to answer. “Bye-Ya” isn’t a song—it’s a ritual. “Blue Monk” doesn’t swing so much as glide ominously across your living room like a monk in roller skates, muttering scripture. And “Monk’s Dream”? That’s less of a dream and more of a fever hallucination during a blackout in a smoke-filled Harlem apartment.

The bass—whether it’s Gary Mapp or Percy Heath—isn’t just keeping rhythm. It’s anchoring Monk to Earth, like a rope tied to a genius who might otherwise float off into the stratosphere. And the drums? Either Blakey or Clarke, doesn’t matter. They’re not keeping time—they’re negotiating with it. These aren’t sidemen. They’re accomplices.

Monk sounds here like he just escaped from a lab where jazz was being dissected and decided to teach the scientists how to unlearn everything. You get the feeling he doesn’t care if you “get it.” You shouldn’t. It’s not for you. It’s for the ceiling fan that only spins when he plays. It’s for the ghosts that hover above the piano.

This isn’t cocktail party jazz. This is fight club for the soul. It’s black coffee at 4 a.m. It’s cracked glasses and late rent. It’s Monk showing up to the studio in a suit and shades, nodding once, sitting down, and blowing your third eye wide open without raising his voice.

Final verdict: Thelonious Monk Trio is the blueprint, the cipher, the sacred scroll of post-bop deconstruction. Forget the myth—this is the man. No cape, no tricks. Just Monk. Piano as exorcism. Silence as punctuation. God as an offbeat.