July 18th – Graffiti is a sometime puzzling thing
at once a work of art and a scrawled mess…but never meaningless (did you see
what I did there…?) At its best it’s a Banksy sketch that encapsulates the
troubles of ten generations in single can of spray-paint, at its worst it’s a
hastily scrawled daub that holds no interest except to the signee.
When the volume of street noise was supplied mainly by horse
drawn transport and hawkers, the shout of a human voice in distress could
penetrate above the din and attract attention. Now, like blackbirds singing
against the traffic, that shout ceases to be heard, ceases to attract; graffiti,
tall and high, fills that void. No need to shout, just spray-paint your name in
ten-foot-high letters alongside the rail track where the journeying millions
will see it, note it, become familiar with you/it and then kid yourself they’ll
become jealous of your carefree lifestyle…and know then that, unlike them,
you’ve achieved fame outside of your own self; know that, unlike them, locked
into their lemming-like journey, a journey that continues day after day after
day after day and onto the cliff’s edge that you existed; you made
your mark, a working-class shout for recognition; a novel by the illiterate?
What price a greater following?
Much has been written about the loneliness of the
long-established writer, much of it by the writers themselves. How their hours
of solitude in order to complete the arduous task of writing the next novel has
removed them from hearth and home, from the bosom of their family (or, in that
much overused and frankly sickening phrase, their
loved ones and all they mean to them…these loved ones). Rock musicians bemoan their lot as ghosts in their own
households, their time on this earth gobbled up by recording, touring, selling
their wares. You will be assured that suffering a life of having everything you
want in exchange for a log fire and TV is a huge sacrifice they have to make for
the sake of their public. Yet this is how recognition is won, on the
battlefields of self sacrifice fought from the trenches of self denial.
Breaks you up, dunnit?
My guess is it’s something we all secretly crave, the
recognition of others, a validation of our existence; that we made a difference
by being here, added something to the sum total of life on earth, otherwise
what’s the point of theatre? The bonus is that you’ll be remembered for
something good, something worthy; not for exterminating millions or for holding
a title for coot-strangling but for something that enabled others to live their
life more meaningfully, more peacefully or with a greater understanding. That
sort of achievement is denied all but the few, the rest of us have to make do
with graffiti…
The Village People; what was that all about?
Manufactured on the back of a dream (wet?) experienced by the group’s manager,
the persona they used were recognisable American stereotypes (biker, native
Indian, motorcycle cop, cowboy, etc) the object being to cash in on the disco
clubs, particularly the gay ones. Y.M.C.A.
was possibly their best known single off’f the album, Cruisin, and has been used (and is still used) as an anthem at
American football games; 60,000 red-blooded US
‘Go to a hostel, find a
boy, get in the shower and fuck him.’
Excellent. They’ve sold 100 million records since their
formation in 1977 and the thing here is…can you name any of them? Even one?
Weird it must be, to be that well known and yet totally unknown.
Always glad to help, I can tell you that on this day in 1950,
Glenn Hughes was born. Who he? In the line up of Village People he’s listed as leather
guy. That’s some epitaph; 100 million records sold…leather guy. Ah, the mantle of fame. He’d be as well spray-painting
his name on a Dolce and Gabbana hording alongside the 
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