Rudy Casoni

They called him “Prick,” “Dum-Dum,” and “Ol’ Assgoat.” But honestly he prefers Rudy. Rudy Casoni. Sinatra’s Bastard Love Child? Now add that one. You’ve heard the rumors. You be the judge. He came to national attention briefly in the mid-nineties appearing on MTV in thirty-second spots singing the hits of the day. Every night a new club, every night a new lady. On top of his game. But it was all too much for him. The fall was fast. Hard. Smashed his nuts in the gutter. His vices: voluminous. His career, shall we say: petite. Next up was performing at dive bars and underground clubs across the country for bums and rummies and rape-os. He was paid in jeers and catcalls. They hurled obscenities and double ‘A’ batteries and sometimes their own feces (“Shit-stingers” they called them.) The places smelled of piss and regret and had names like “McTurds,” “Dumpy’s Crap Room,” “The Poop Emporium,” and “Senor Shits-a-Lot’s.” He was killing himself. He sneered at the misery. Sometimes he sang, sometimes he wept. But always he drank. Sometimes he sang while he wept and drank. You could hardly understand him with all the gurgling and the crying. It was a shame the way he savaged the great American songbook in those days. It was scandalous. But what could he do? He ran with whores and hobos. The pain was awesome. The rejection fantastic. The Nineties and early 2000’s were ugly as hell. Messy, vile, wretched. But it was the only way he knew. It was “my way,” he’d say, the Shit-stingers flying past his head. Finally in 2007, his mother, on her deathbed, told him the true identity of his deadbeat father. He finally knew. It was an epiphany. He always suspected. But never hoped. It all made sense now: The extremes, the abuse, the self-pity. The blue eyes. The voice. The Cazzo d’Oro. He had his identity. Now all he needed was a career. The road back was slow. Uphill and torturous. Made slower by his unrepentant love of booze and women. And smack. And candy. And the ponies. He gave up the smack finally. But nothing else. He actually added crack briefly. But dropped it when he felt too “crappy AND funky.” He returned to ‘the circuit’ to sharpen the knife: Atlantic City, Tahoe and the Strip. He made it. Barely. “Just gimme a song and a bottle and a one pretty lady to sing to and its on! That’s it. Listen to me. That’s all I need. Well, my band, that’d help. I need them. For the musics and the whatnot. Listen to me. But that’s it. Well. I’d really like to have a bigger audience than one dame to be honest. A nice place. No hobos. A club. I hate hobos now. Pricks. They’re the worst. Listen to me. Maybe at a little supper club with some booze. Some Calamari. Something light. Lotta booze would be swell. And some top-drawer broads floating around the joint. Drunk. Listen to me. D-runk. Stink-o. Maybe they’d get into a catfight. Oooh, that’s sexy. But drunk though. I mean really messy. Vootily Doo! Ding, ding! But other than that…Vrooom. Vroom.” (I’m not sure what’s going on. He’s started making car noises now. He’s miming driving a car. Honking an imaginary car horn. He screeches the tires around a curve and drives it over a cliff. He’s mouths “suck it” as he falls and flips me the bird. He crashes into the rocks below. Did he crash into a lady? Yes. He didn’t crash into the rocks he crashed into a lady. Ooh she’s soft and smelly. He’s miming kissing her. He gets back in a car and drives it around her backside. He’s going to put his car in her garage? He’s making noises again. He’s bent the lady over? He’s gunning the engine. He’s spitting and cackling. It’s an ass-garage sex act?! What the-? Oh God, no! It’s a truly horrible display.) His all-new Los Angeles Variety show features some fresh faces and some old familiar Joes. Rudy’s band, the Dago 5, is back and sharp as ever. Led by Andy Paley, they’ve taken their classic, big band sound and transformed it into a truly raucous and juiced-up “Filthy Swing Engine.” Gary ‘the Kook’ Cucarolo, Rudy’s unpredictable, nutty right hand man is back as well. Rude and crazy. Performers like the Lampshades as well as James Urbaniak, Pat Healy and Mark Fite grace the stage with him. As well as some top-heavy burlesque hoofers not to mention some scary celebrity talent that pops in now and again to cadge drinks and crack wise, completes the line up of his new variety show. It’s a dazzling spectacle. Like a crazed, drunken zombie thing. But one that’s singing. And sexy. And swinging. But still wants to eat your brain. While it swings. Go. Al Fonteau Casoni’s Biographer December 9, 2007 Hollywood, CA.