September 29th – You
remember a couple of days ago, how I blathered on about little acts of kindness
(LAoK)? Didn’t waste too much time on it ‘cos I reckon all who read these minor
brain-scramblings of mine right to their end each day are pretty much the sort
of people who do these LAoK anyhow and wouldn’t want me teaching grandmothers
how to suck eggs, as they say…well, I do, you probably say;
“I know that, Peter, now shut th’ fuck up”;
Which amounts to much the same thing.
Well on that subject, I came across
two separate but well connected events that each cover a facet of that very
thing and I just wanted to pass them on, together with my usual dollop of
self-serving waffle. This will allow you to read, inwardly digest and then see
how long it takes before you say;
“Peter, that’s bollocks that is.”
Marc Bolan. Not a bad performer, I
guess. As previously and briefly mentioned in this blurb, I was always of the
opinion that he was too manufactured. IMHO I think he had a streak of
competitive selfishness that was quite happy to trample on the hands of other
ladder-climbers, and I wouldn’t argue with you if you told me that this sort of
behaviour was and is necessary in the rock music business. That’s probably true
to a large extent, maybe even more so now. But what sort of made Mr. Bolan’s
rise to fame all the more distasteful for me was the roots he discarded once
the siren whispered in his ear and convinced him he’d be better off, a lovely
boy such as him, as a solo artist (bring the band on down behind me boys
because…I AM THE BAND). When John
Peel first played Tyrannosaurus Rex’s
singles on his Sunday afternoon Radio One Show, even though I wasn’t that
impressed (too much like the Incredible
String Band for me who, in honesty, did it better) but he seemingly was
holding true to his wizard time in Paris, and his arrival on the scene was also
timed well with the upsurge of popularity of a little known work of fiction, Lord of the Rings…maybe that should have
been a pointer ’cos I believe one of his earlier recordings…with John’s Children I think…anyway, I think
it was used as the muzak to a toothpaste ad, so tenuous links right there of a
commercial soul packaged in a right-on persona…maybe that was what he was trying
to tell us in the words of Children of
the Revolution, a sort of a double-bluff and a note that all was not as it
seemed and we were foolish if we thought differently; that it wasn’t about the
others but was about him…? Or maybe it was all just words put together to give
the impression of being down widda kidz and the joke was on us…? As things went
on Mr. Bolan’s career faltered (drugs, weight gain, bad deals, bad decisions,
tax problems and such) and it would seem that one of the only really positive
events was that he and his partner, Gloria Jones, had a son, Rolan.
Anyhow, whatever height he had
regained on the perch of fame, as we all know, in ‘77’, with Mr. Bolan as a
passenger, his partner, Gloria Jones drove their Mini into a tree, killing Mr.
Bolan and badly injuring her (as an aside, Ms. Jones, although charged with
DWUTI, moved back to the States and so never faced the full force of the law
over the accident… although you’d reckon she’d suffered enough, huh?) Anyhow,
back on topic, this incident brought about a LAoK but also highlights an area
of rock fandom that is less than palatable.
Very shortly after the crash, in
response to Mr. Bolan’s death, David Bowie set up a trust fund for Rolan so
that the lad shouldn’t suffer financially through the loss of his father. Well,
no matter the royalties and spin-offs that Rolan would inherit, no lad deserves
to lose his father at just two years old so, I guess, very thoughtful of Mr.
Bowie to do that. I know he had the money and all that but still… As an antidote
to this it was found out that, very shortly after the crash, the whole area had
been ghoulishly stripped bare of all and anything even vaguely portable by Marc
Bolan fans as souvenirs.
My thoughts (as if you’re interested)
are that this incident was the beginnings of the end for the privacy afforded
to stardom that ballooned into the full-scale paparazzi indignities that we’ve
become so inured to over the past forty years; that the fans, somehow and maybe
unwittingly, colluded with the press to deglamourise glam-rock. Certainly (and
possibly in repentance?) the years following his death have been marked by ever
more strange gatherings being held and tokens being left at the crash site (things
like a fluffy toy of Shrek hanging
from the tree (?) – unfortunately by its neck – leaves from the tree being
collected and pressed into scrapbooks (?) shrines and the inevitable floral
tributes being built and left…shades of Diana…or were they putting something back
at the site of the robbery in repentance)? So, and in typical miserable-old-git
mode, the next time you see some Marc Bolan memorabilia for sale on e-Bay just
spare a thought for how it might have been come by.
It doesn’t require much in the way of
thought to decide on the right course of action. Like when, on this day in
1989, Bruce Springsteen doing an impromptu jam session at a bar in Arizona,
happened to hear about the bartender, Brenda Pechanec’s health problems and, a
couple of weeks later sent her a cheque for $10k to cover her medical expenses.
Now I know, as with Mr. Bowie’s magnanimous gesture, Mr Springsteen had the
money to do this…but he didn’t have to, y’know? It’s much the same as you or I,
on the sort of wages we earn and on a rainy day in winter, buying an extra
coffee for the person who sells the Big
Issue or an extra portion of fish and chips to give to the person sat on a
street bench with all they own in a carrier bag; we know where the lines of
treating someone with dignity and indignity lie and which side of that line we
should be walking. That if you don’t do it they’ll never know anyhow so it
makes no odds, changes nothing; but that if you do…well, little pebbles in
ponds and all that.
And yet at both ends of the spectrum
of involvement, and not necessarily with the famous, as in the case of those
who rummaged through the death site of Mr. Bolan almost before the body was
cold, or the equally unedifying spectacle of watching family members squabble
over the millions of say a Michael Jackson or a Frank Sinatra or a Jimi
Hendrix. Leave them out of the equation and just be with ordinary folks for a
second and remember where that line of dignity…compassion for want of a better
word…used to be drawn and how it’s moved further to the side of callous.
Yup…the usual format of this daily
stuff I write; as contradictory and possibly as unfair as ever. Apologies.
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