El Nuevo Wavo needs no introduction to those of you familiar with his perverse, self-centered, brain-damaged and hopelessly paranoid writings of days gone by. But for fortunates who have not been polluted by his off-told tales and personal history, a few words of explanation/warning are in order.

The Wave was born in South America on an unknown date about five years after the end of World War II. It has been suggested by some that he is a product of Josef Mengele’s bizarre experimentation in genetics, a statement he brushes aside with the comment: “Genes! Who needs ‘em?!”

He made his first illegal entry into the United States when, after three weeks in the hold of alleged dope smuggler Wolfgang (Seed-Sniffer) Von Hoffmann’s scow, he was inadvertently thrown overboard during one of the vessel’s periodic (i.e., bi-annual) house cleanings. The Wave swam to shore in what the crew later described as “record time,” his swim stroke creating a flurry of washing machine style wavelets and turbulence, and at the same time keeping the sharks out of arms reach. This led to his being nicknamed (by the crew) “EI Nuevo Wavo” {The New Wave), a title born out of his creative necessity and the nearsighted crew’s inability to distinguish dorsal fins from the rest of the garbage.

The Wave ended up in an exhausted heap on the coast of Georgia, more specifically, on Sea Island. His bravery and derring-do did not go unnoticed by the Cloister’s head life guard, and The Wave was hired on the spot as an apprentice life saver.

After throwing ice water on the back of one too many bikinied girls whose straps were untied, he was, alas, fired, and did not even receive one of the treasured green and white t-shirts for his efforts.

Seeking revenge, he methodically burglarized as many of the hotel’s rooms as possible. He was, however, apprehended while peddling across the causeway on a bicycle-built-for-two pulling a U-Haul trailer behind him.

“He looked a little suspicious,” said Glynn County Sheriff Homer Barnes Ill of the beady-eyed Wave, “and then when he braked and the taillights didn’t work, well, I just had to pull him over and investigate, pronto-wise.”

The Wave received his college education at the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, where he majored in card-throwing, hypochondria and journal writing-Jack Kerouac style-on toilet paper.

He has been out of “The Joint” for several years now, writing for whomever would publish his, uh, work. At the mercy of the quirky whims of fate, none of these publications is still in business.

El Nuevo Wavo left the city of Atlanta on the proverbial “next bus out of town” last fall for reasons not fully understood. Disjointed, soiled, obviously fever-torn post cards arrived at associates” houses throughout the last year. With postmarks from such south-of-the-border places as Guatemala, Nicaragua and the Yucatan, these cards bore tales of The Wave’s bouts with severe, malignant gastritis, as well as overwrought egocentricity (of which one “friend” joked, “Two names, one ailment.”)

As with Kurtz in his heart of darkness, it seemed as if The Wave had gone off the deep end. One card mentioned watching a slug crawl across a rain-soaked dirt road and being mashed by a Land Rover. “The horror,” wrote The Wave, “the horror. I got mud splashed all over my face.”

Soon after this incident, The Wave was captured by a primitive tribe of vegetarians somewhere in Central America. Obviously in tune to a higher consciousness, they could spot a deranged maniac from a mile away. So they tied The Wave to a stake, fed him nothing but mangos, coconut juice and water, and told him (he related on his return stateside), “In a week the fever will break, and in a month you’ll be clean as a whistle, white demon.”

And, by Quetzalcoatl, in a month El Nuevo Wavo was cleaned out; his colon as good as new. He had a rosy glow in his cheeks, was 20 pounds lighter and nicely tanned (he was no longer addressed as “white demon”) and had turned vegetarian (though he will not eat mangos).

“Maybe the human sacrifices had something to do with it,” he later said of his self-defined “vege-health food conversion” and refusal to eat meat, raw or cooked.

Which brings us to the present. We needed a reporter to cover the Plasmatics concert. We needed someone familiar with Indian hairstyles, health food (Wendy 0. “eats good”), primitive music and human sacrifices (which wasn’t promised in the press release, but you never know). We needed . . . well, need we say more? We needed The Wave, and from the moment we broached the subject to him (at the Limelight while hanging out with Andy Warhol a few weeks ago), he dubbed it “my story.”

And so, MUZIK! proudly presents, unedited and uncut, a report from the trenches on the “war against complacency” by a man who has looked 1984 right in the clothespins, and lived. MUZIK! gladly announces the return of El Neuvo Wavo.

Turn to page three, and that’s the fact, Jack.