I'm doing a discreet little charity thing...I SAID A CHARITY THING!

December 7^th – You slog over the lyrics, fine-tune the music, make the very best recording you can, release the album to great acclaim, do a six month promotional tour, get to the end of it and find you’ve made nada; zilch; diddley; sweet FA.

How is this possible? I you hear yourself say. A million albums sold, a six-month sell-out tour…how is this possible?

Noel Edmonds is a black-and-white-no-shades-of-grey sort of fella for most people. His stint on the Multi-Coloured Swap Shop (M-CSS) with whatshisname…that bloke who did the nude jungle romp, Naked Jungle was it…?...Chegwin! That’s it Keith Chegwin! Cheggers wasn’t it? What a way to earn a living, displaying your reduced manhood on national TV; Johnny Weissmuller he wasn’t. I think he said it was the worst career move of his life…no shit, Sherlock. Mr. Edmonds has also had a chequered career what with M-CSS, a show aimed at children that purported to witty and edgy but was really just a sales vehicle for the vulnerable, and his, for me anyway, highly embarrassing session of Noel Edmonds House Party and his irrepressible man-you-would-most-like-to-drown partner, Mister Fuckin’ Blobby. OK, I added the middle name; it made me feel easier about committing it to ink and paper, even if this is electronic paper and ink. But it has to be said that if it weren’t for Mr. Edmonds then the career of Harry Chapin would have been pretty lean in the UK.

When he first started performing with his two brothers they suffered the actors recurring nightmare of more people on stage than in the audience; not a great kick start to a career but things did improve not only for him but for hundreds of thousands of others, even millions. He was a pretty canny operator when it came to negotiating his recording contract, hence the opening of today’s guff.

The reason why the cupboard is so bare at the end of your most successful musical venture ever is that one often forgets the in-built codicil to every contract; the band pays for everything. When someone becomes famous the leeches, grip-tights and chancers slither into the money-pit and immediately begin to siphon off as much as they can before the gravy-train derails and the whole venture goes tits.

That cottage you rented to write the songs in?

You paid for it.

The twelve weeks of recording studio time you used up in order to produce the best work possible for your record company?

You paid for it.

The best record producer on the scene to produce and re-work your smash-hit album?

You paid for it.

The photo session and consequent printing of the sleeve, sleeve notes and the record and CD pressings?

You paid for it.

The trucks to lug around your gear, the drivers and the crew to set it up, break it down and generally look after it?

You paid for it.

The tour bus?

You paid for it.

The merch?

You paid for it.

The hotels?

You paid for it.

The twelve bags of weed and three wheelbarrows of coke you used up to keep on top of the ridiculous schedule your promoters put together?

You paid for it.

The catering and portable office that travelled with you so you could have your favourite brand of beer everyday and E-mail ahead to reach venue on the tour for venison stew to be awaiting your arrival at the next gig? You paid for it.

*.*?

You paid for it.

Not Harry Chapin. When he signed with Electra he negotiated a nine-album deal that gave him free studio time…clever; saved him hundreds of thousands of dollars, studio time he used to record what is classed as the second most depressing song of all time, The Shortest Story but also some very delicate and introspective work that still stands up today…but all that’s secondary to why he’s a bit of a role model to those who would claim to be right-on philanthropists in the music biz; you know, those folk who do lots of charidee performances (always making sure they have maximum publicity for doing it) and amass private fortunes whilst all the time bemoaning the plight of the less well off. Before he died (more later) at the tender age of 39, Mr. Chapin was of the opinion that hunger and poverty was an insult to the human race and he co-founded an organisation, World Hunger Year that melded into the Harry Chapin Foundation; heard of either? Nope? Nor have most folk yet here was a guy who was donating all his merch. sales to the foundation, sitting on and attending his various committees and working parties formed to tackle poverty and hunger worldwide (and he went to every meeting) donating the proceeds from over a third of his paid concerts and guesting on as many fundraising concerts as his tour schedule would allow, raising more than $3m in the last six years of his life…just him. Heard of him? No? Bet there’s others you have…

Mr. Chapin is worth quoting on the meaning of the dollar:

Money is for people, so I give it to them.

He was killed in, or rather by, a road traffic accident. It is believed (but not proven) that he had some sort of medical emergency, whilst driving to a fundraiser, at mid-day. His vehicle swerved several times before coming to rest across the highway where a truck and trailer, unable to either stop in time or avoid Mr. Chapin’s car, smashed into it and caused the fuel in the tank to ignite. The truck driver and a passer-by managed to get Mr. Chapin out of the car just before it burst into flames and he was rushed to hospital but was pronounced DOA. It was discovered he’d had a heart attack but whether that occurred pre or post accident was hard to determine. As is the way with the crazy world of US litigation and insurance, the family sued the truck company who employed the man who had dragged Mr. Chapin out the car and won a payoff of $7.2m; I’d like to think it went to one of his foundations just as the millions do from concerts by the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Paul Simon and Judy Collins to celebrate Mr. Chapin’s life and philanthropy, concerts which continue to be hosted and make money for victims of hunger and poverty; there’s many a pop sleb could learn a little more humility from Harry Chapin’s example, a little less of the look at me, look at what I’m doing  so prevalent in recent recordings for instance,

Savoy Brown - Never Wrong

December 6^th – OK, I admit it, it was a lie. When I eulogised about John Mayall (of Bluesbreakers fame) I sort of intimated that he was probably the longest-serving white blues musician in the UK and his band had been at the forefront of the closest thing to a blues apprenticeship that we had in this country, but I’d reckoned without coming across a birthday on this day; that of Kim Simmonds.

Touring back in the 60’s was a hard slog for bands trying to get a foot or even a fingernail onto the well-greased ladder to any kind of fame, and once you got a grip you had to watch out for the boots of other bands, boots that were all too ready to stamp on your fingers as they too attempted the scramble from oblivion to getting noticed. One of the incarnations that I belonged to, a band known as The Image (although with me as a member it could be more described as a sight) had what was a fairly typical line-up for the day; drums, three guitars, organist and vox with the members doubling on B/V; all very ordinary. Thing is, back then, there were no feather-light Casio’s and Yamahas that could be carried into venues under the arm of the weakest girlfriend of the band (usually that of the vocalist…and her name would be Etheria or somesuch…and she’d always be wearing a floor-length kaftan, sandals and an inane grin…which we usually put down to either drugs or lack of intelligence; I mean, she’d be dating a vocalist so that shows a base-line lack of common sense for a start).

So with no lightweight kit for organists available what did ours run? Yup, a Hammond…with Leslie cabinet…and two 100 watt Laney amps…and four 8 x 12 Laney speaker cabinets; bless. This keyboard kit took up a good third of the van and weighed a freakin’ ton, and there were no roadies at this arse-end of the rock touring circuit. Pre and post gig this Aegean stable of a backline had to be hauled in and out of the venue, and when you’ve just played a two and a half hour set the last thing you wanted to do was hump gear. Even on level ground with the van able to get mercifully close to the stage it was difficult enough, but some of the places we played were remote to say the least and akin to a section in the Crystal Maze. British blues bands reaching back into the 60’s tended to be die-hard technicians of the art and pop, what we classed as chewing-gum for the ears, was anathema to us purists; such a one that we supported was the Savoy Brown Blues Band.

Formed in 1965 they quickly established a name for themselves as quality players and also the go to band to get a credible stamp on your blues card. Kim Simmonds (born this day in 1947) who played lead guitar and really knew his way round a fret board, gathered together a stellar line-up of musicians and they produced some outstanding work, indeed, one of my all-time favourite albums is their 1969 Blue Matter and particularly the track I May be Wrong, a live track complete with feedback and soul. I still listen to this after all these years…after all these years and after all these changes in personnel. Savoy Brown… have played host to many of the seminal rock performers of the last century; Martin Stone, Bob Brunning, Hughie Flint, Bill Bruford, Roger Earl, Stan Webb, Jimmy Kunes… the list, as with Mr. Mayall’s line-ups, goes on and on. With 62 previous band members and 18 guest musicians the queue to join them and pick up a bit of their blues credentials is a long and snaking one…and they are still playing today, 40+ years after starting out; gotta give ’em points for longevity if nothing else.

The space we shared with them was some club in Shrewsbury, I think. All I can remember is the fuckin’ huge set of iron, spiral stairs that led direct to the stage but via a thirty-foot climb. You wanna try lumping a Hammond organ and Leslie cabinet up there before a gig never mind after? I think it was about then I said we should have hired a flute-player like Jethro Tull and although our keys player was one hell of a talent, I’d still have happily tied him to that organ and pitched him and it over the edge of the spiral stairs; at least then we could have swept him and his shattered keyboard into a sack bag and dumped it in the cut. Man, that was a slog…but on that particular night, in support of Savoy Brown… worth every drop of moisture when you get the chance to hear blues of that quality.

I know it’s not to everyone’s taste but here it is for those who’ve got seven minutes to invest.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0cRDFL2HPs

Bermuda Triangle - All together now...!

December 5^th – Songwriters find inspiration for their works in the oddest of facts or happenings.

B. A. Robertson was seemingly in demand by all producers of music. He wrote tracks for Cliff Richard and Mike and the Mechanics, has penned the TV themes for Multi-Coloured Swap Shop and Friday Night, Saturday Morning completed film themes and is a featured artist in the Children in Need Scottish end. He’s acted for film and TV, had hits and released several albums and singles, so no slouch as far as musical production goes; even if one of his songs did win a Razzle in the worst original song category…can’t win ‘em all.

When five torpedo-carrying aircraft, TBM Avengers, (collectively known as Flight 19) went missing there was a kerfuffle back at US flight HQ…to put it mildly. As Earnest’s aunt would have said;

To lose one TBM Avenger is unfortunate, but to lose five sounds like carelessness.

What we humans love next to sleb gossip is a good old mystery, particularly if that mystery can be attributed to the occult, even via the flimsiest of connections. Lay my cards on the table; personal opinion: It never ceases to amaze me how many people turn out to watch what are laughingly referred to as psychics when these modern-day snake-oil salespeople go on tour to various theatres. They sell out, y’ know? I mean 1,000 and 1,500 seater places…sell out. I’ve been asked to leave shows where I’ve voiced my disquiet at these charades being perpetrated on the gullible and distressed. Not a thing I subscribe to and no way to earn a living but my guess is they fulfill a need so… Megadeath released a track on their Rust in Peace album titled, Hangar 18 (nice use of numbers… again). It refers to the infamous hanger on Wright-Patterson Air Force Base that’s supposed to hold the evidence appertaining to the Roswell UFO incident. Like I say, we love a good mystery and this one’s got UFO’s in it so what’s not to like? It’s not a bad track either. Not a fan of Megadeath but this is a decent piece of work.

Back at Flight 19, Mr. Robertson heard of the disappearance of the 5 planes and this fanned the embers of his interest which was then blasted into an inferno when he discovered the loss of the planes was over…dan-de-dan-dan! The Bermuda Triangle.

These sorts of incidents are tailor-made for songs and stories; they’re what make our oral tradition of passing down mysterious, fantastic tales from generation to generation so compelling; it’s what religion is built on after all. For many-a-decade planes, ships, flotillas individuals had been involved in mysterious happenings in the Bermuda Triangle area and many of them had not lived to tell the tale which makes the mystery even more phantasmagorical…not only has something happened but we don’t know what because… dan-de-dan-dan! No one lived to tell the tale.

Turns out, of course that the real explanation as to what happened to Flight 19 was far more mundane. Imagine a straight line running from position number 1 to position number 2, dissecting position 3 along the line. That was the direction of flight of the five aircraft. Now picture a distant point due north of this line which was position number 4. The five aircraft were lost in mysterious circumstances at position number 4. You know things are going awry when you get the following message over the radio from the flight leader in answer to the question:

FT-28, this is FT-74, what is your trouble?

The reply came back:

Both of my compasses are out and I am trying to find Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I am over land but it’s broken. I am sure I’m in the Keys but I don’t know how far down and I don’t know how to get to Fort Lauderdale.

Don’t know ’bout you but if I heard my flight leader say that I’d think to myself;

Well, that’s us fucked then.

All the evidence pointed to a combination of circumstances (storm, instrumental failure, poor visibility and bad directional choices) that caused the loss of the aircraft.

Mr. Robertson’s song, Flight 19 was a popular musical work of fantasy on an area of the earth that carries more than its fair share of fantastical if somewhat doubtful tales. But, as I wrote yesterday, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

Castles made of sand...

December 4^th – You work hard, get the practice miles in and wait your opportunity to shine…

When most people think of Jimi Hendrix, and as is the way with the junk-press we live under the things that come to mind are the chip-shop quotes in the red-tops.

The Wild Man of Pop

and the photos that are more an advert for the photographer than the subject; Hendrix smoking a cheroot; Hendrix setting light to his guitar; Hendrix smashing his guitar against his Marshall stack… They’re listed in hundreds and they are so boring and, like a pot-boiler from Mills & Boon, so bloody predictable. Even now, what, 43 years after his death is it, there’s an element of surprise in the voices of people (who should know better) as they introduce yet another playing of Little Wing. It’s as though they think it was a mental aberration on Mr. Hendrix’s part that he should write a song not about shagging or drugs or scramble-brained ideologies but something warm and human; something lyrically beautiful; and Little Wing is that. The landscape with figure he conjures up, all laid against the haunting guitar riff that accompanies it is nothing short of magical; but he’s not a one trick pony, unfortunately, like a good many folk, their inner soul gets lost in the fog of snap headlines. You all know one of my pet dislikes is our sleb-culture, the whole circus, but it’s not necessarily the individuals involved (although it often is) it’s the whole shit-slide and hoop-la that winds me up and we know, we all know that it’s there because we perpetuate by tuning in, reading up and sharing the daily pantomime of people who become famous for being infamous.

Kim Kardashian Has Threesome’. Well actually, no, she didn’t. Robert Pattinson Forced Kristen Stewart to Take Lie-Detector Test’. Er…well actually, no, he didn’t.

The stereotypical stories keep coming and we lap them up, never thinking that, even though we may not be avid fans of the individual concerned, nevertheless there are real people, and friends and family of these real people, involved in this spiteful, bigoted and merciless trade. But remember the words of the old newspaper hack;

Never let the truth spoil a good story

That’s a truism as far as Mr. Hendrix is concerned. You only have to listen to the track, Castles Made of Sand off’f the Axis Bold As Love album to see how wide of the mark the writers of junk-headlines are. A beautifully told tale of disappointments for all but one of the subjects he discusses with us, the track holds a short, underplayed guitar break that is just perfect and I’m happy to post this without the lyrics because, contrary to all those headlines we’ve all read, he was far from being, a mumbling, drugged-up, inarticulate rock musician so I know you’ll hear every word.

Having cut his chops on the circuits and painstakingly built up a fan-base of devoted followers, Tommy Bolin was obviously destined for great things. His guitar playing was of such a calibre that he was figured a shoo-in to take the place of Ritchie Blackmore when he left Deep Purple in 1975…and some would say Mr. Bolin’s versions of Smoke on the Water and Burn were delivered with more drive and panache than Mr. Blackmore’s efforts and, having listened to both renditions on various live recordings, I can see the reasoned arguments that could be put forward to support this; not so many fireworks and not quite so much of the look at me, I’m the guy this band is supporting kind of thing that I found a little irksome with Mr. Blackmore – as good a guitarist as he obviously is…not entering any further into that arena, thank you very much, as I’m sure there’s someone out there who’ll give me their opinion on just how big an arse I am for even suggesting such a thing. Stints with The James Gang (look them up on YouTube; excellent 70’s rock music with or without Mr. Bolin…well they had Joe Walsh on guitar before Mr. Bolin so, what’s not like) his obvious talent and unpretentious yet wizard guitar playing (and the nod to just how good he was being given by one of the premier rock bands of the era) would seem to make all set for a long and illustrious career. Yes, he dabbled in the doubtful delicacies that come with fame and which capture the unwary or unwise but, for the most part, he was just another hard partier.

He was beginning to get topside of his addictions but it was prior to a tour supporting Jeff Beck (oh, yes, he was that good) that, with some free time on his hands he had a relapse, taking far, far more than was good for him…for anyone really. He managed to partially sort himself out just before the tour started and opening for Jeff Beck on this day in 1976, Tommy Bolin produced a storming set, posed for photos with Mr. Beck backstage and returned to his hotel room with his girlfriend…I leave it to the words of the official Tommy Bolin website to conclude this tale:

Late that night he passed out. Fearful of adverse publicity no doctor was called and, as he seemed to recover, roadies simply put him to bed. Around 08.00 on Saturday Dec 4 his girlfriend saw that he was looking much worse and finally an ambulance was called - he was dead before it arrived. Cause of death was multiple drug intoxication. He was 25.’

The number of times I’ve seen those dreadful, sleb words written in explanation by people for the reason nothing was done, the chance that the gravy-train might stop; Fearful of adverse publicity no doctor was called…

And so castles made of sand slip into the sea, eventually

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nbj5pM1HnAI

Bach & Mrs. Bach - where would he have been without her?

December 3^rd – In the interests of research, with an eye on the fist of vitriol and with tongue firmly in cheek, I’m a believer in the suggestion that women can indeed multi-task…unless one of those tasks is talking.

Men don’t need to multi-task for two reasons.

1) In the main, because they’re men, they have the luxury of being able to concentrate on the task in hand without the interference of children to care for, washing to get done, ironing to get done, cooking to get done, sewing to get done, cleaning to get done…and so multi-tasking becomes unnecessary…but if it were;

2) Men have the luxury of being partnered by a woman who will do all those other things for them (because they can, so freeing up their concentration for the task in hand; self-fulfilling lifestyle methinks.

Johann Sebastian Bach was a hell of a composer and a very busy one too. 224 cantatas, 7 motets, 11 liturgical works, 12 passions, 2 secular cantatas, 192 chorals, 92 songs, 5 organ sonatas, 61 toccatas and fugues, 9 misc. organ pieces, 8 organ concerti, 187 choral preludes, 8 partitas, 29 sinfonias, 4 four duets, 6 English suites, 8 French suites, 9 misc. suites, 6 keyboard partitas, 15 suite movements, 47 well-tempered clavier works, 49 preludes, 20 fuguettes, 8 part-sonatas, 6 concerto, 16 keyboard arrangements, 7 variations, 21 solo instrument pieces, 15 violin works, 4 sonatas for keyboard, 8 flute sonatas, 5 trio sonatas, 9 violin concertos, 8 Brandenberg concertos, 14 harpsichord concertos, 6 orchestral suites, 7 canons, 2 contranuptuals, 16 miscellaneous works, 30 Neumiester chorals and 60 ‘various’ works.

That’s a rough grand total of 1253 works; he started composing when he was 15 and died at age 65 so that’s 50 years of active composing which means he wrote around 25 compositions a year…or put another way, one composition per fortnight... There’s single-minded concentration for you and it’s for sure he’d not have had the chance to concentrate on the task in hand if he’d have to be forever breaking off to wash up or feed the kids; then think of how much poorer the world of music would be. To keep his output high, J. S. Bach married twice. His first wife died (now then, now then!) I distinctly heard someone mutter;

Yeah, of hard work

Just keep those feminist thoughts inside your pretty little heads, thank you; and so, in December 1721 (17 months after losing his first wife) he married Anna Magdalena Wilcken, a talented and accomplished singer. Of course, her career had to go on the back-burner when she married Herr. Bach, I mean, one talent in the household is plenty and anyway she had to get on with raising the four surviving children (out of seven) from Herr. Bach’s first marriage.

Composition and music were J. S. Bach’s only passion (well, when I say only, I mean, OK, so seven children by his first wife…OK, I’ll give you that…OK, OK, I’ll re-write; Christ you’re a pedantic load of buggers). Composition and music were J. S. Bach’s main passion (better?) and now, with a settled homelife, he could get on with it. He channelled all his energies into composing…well most of his energy; whatever was left over he used to sire 13 children by Anna (seven of whom died very young). This is where Frau Bach’s multi-tasking abilities came to the fore as she had to care for the ten surviving children and help Herr. Bach with his compositions, particularly those that had voices involved in them (I mean, come on, she was a singer…no good having a dog and barking yourself, is there; and I’ll bet she enjoyed the break from kiddie-minding)

During her life Anna, Mrs. Bach, also composed several works herself (she’s even been posited as the composer of the famed, Six Cello Pieces which have been credited to her husband) as well as being involved the vocal orchestrations for Herr. Bach’s Goldberg Variations, obviously utilising her multi-tasking skills well between all that washing and cooking…but multi-tasking only gets you so far.

After being the main support for her husband, thereby allowing him the single-minded time to concentrate on his composing by taking on all other house and home duties for 29 years, following Herr. Bach’s death his sons, who Anna had raised, fell out and left Frau Bach alone with three daughters (one of them from Herr. Bach’s first marriage). She fell increasingly on hard times but no one from the family would support her and she died, destitute, ten years after her husband. She was buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave and as if that wasn’t enough even that meagre, unmarked plot was wiped out when the Allies bombed the church in Leipzig during WW2 destroying everything and leaving not a trace of the multi-tasking, multi-talented Anna Magdalena Bach nee Wilcken. 

Role play is OK...as far as it goes...

December 2^nd – Acting out one’s fantasies (sexual or social) with people you know is an interesting form of safe thrills… You know (barring an accident) that you’re not going to get hurt and your partner will have your best interests at heart.

There’s several theatre companies in existence at present who specialise in taking their audience (usually four at most) into well-planned scenarios of seeming danger and undoubted spectacle; a bank robbery or a rescue mission. And the detail they go into is startling, but then it has to be to convince the participants of the authenticity of the action… I’ll bet the H&S Statement for these little outings are an interesting read. See the link below.

There’s also several companies that specialise in fulfilling sexual fantasies such as kidnapping and such but, never having had it inflicted on me (no, no surprise Christmas presents, please, absolutely not) I’m not quite sure how this one works. By that I mean I know what a sexual fantasy is but I’m not quite sure whether I’d want strangers involved in it; even though I know I’d be safe, it’s just… I gather there’s one company who you can approach who’ll kidnap you and secrete you away; for 72 hours. They specify a week in which the event will happen but not the day or time and, of course, they involve your partner in the arrangements as, I guess, he/she is the person who will be doing all the physical stuff to you. Thing is, you’re bagged and taped and thrown into a car boot then taken to a warehouse or some such other seedy location and… well… that’s where it takes place. Is this a good thing? I mean, kidnapping and molestation are serious crimes, heinous crimes. Is it a good thing to sanitise them and turn them into a thrill-ride (pun not intended) for the amusement of the sexually adventurous? Dunno, leave that one to you cleverer people.

And that’s the thing. When it happens for real I’d guess the element of fun is quickly dissipated, as happened to Cindy Birdsong of The Supremes. On this day in 1969 a masked intruder broke into her home, forced her to tie up her two companions (her future husband and a friend of his) gagged and bound her then forced her downstairs and into his car. Whilst on route to the seedy destination, Ms. Birdsong managed to unlock the car door and tumble out onto the highway where she was rescued by a passing motorist. The kidnapper (the maintenance man at Ms. Birdsong’s apartment block) was arrested four days later after he turned himself in to police.

So, a happy-ish ending all round, but I’ll bet Ms. Birdsong’s heart was going like a jack-hammer during the kidnap attempt; no fun-ending planned for that one, I’ll warrant.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIkPeZKP-d4&src_vid=316AzLYfAzw&feature=iv&annotation_id=annotation_619284

The Reaper: He made me do it!

December 1^st – How is it we can consider ourselves so on it when the general discussion centres round rock music and yet be so off it when certain specific lyrics are dissected?

In 1985 two families sued the band Judas Priest for causing the deaths of one son and the wounding of a second, and Ozzy Osborne’s Suicide Solution has been cited as the prime mover in the death by suicide of three fans. In no way wishing to be disrespectful, I think the lawyer opening for the defence in the Judas Priest trial got it right;

…these two youths have led sad and miserable lives and any problems that led to their deaths began long before any connection with heavy metal music. 

That one can be so off it as to believe firstly the tracks on Judas Priest’s album Stained Class, which contained the supposed key phrases;

Let’s be dead

and

Do It

(and remember, these aren’t track titles but lines in the lyrics of two of those tracks) were a strong enough signal for the listener to consider topping themself and then, in the case of one of them, to go ahead and actually kill himself beggars belief…and I’m sure the documented hours of beer drinking and marijuana smoking that preceded their end-of-life attempts had nothing to do with the eventual outcome. The same misreading has been attributed to a track by Blue Oyster Cult (BOC) that I particularly like, (Don’t Fear) The Reaper. With lines like;

Romeo and Juliet together in eternity

and

Come on baby, baby take my hand, we’ll be able to fly

you’d think it’d crumble under the weight of law suits and tombstones, and indeed there have been several publicised misreadings of the song. Trouble is folk sort of get carried away with the depth of their own imagination which can often prove to be about as deep as a really, really shallow thing; let’s just lay out the twisted thinking that accompanies brains looking for a cause to follow but without the intellect to spell the word, cause. The thinking goes…

Blue Oyster Cult, whose vocalist Eric Bloom was born this day in 1944, have an umlaut over the capital O of their name. An umlaut has German connections. The Germans gave rise to the Nazi ideology. Wagner was a German classical musician who was Hitler’s favourite composer, indeed the Bayreuth concert hall built specifically for Wagner was frequented by Hitler for him to listen to Wagner’s works of German heroism and the folk tales surrounding German history and philosophy. The band, BOC, is lumped in with the heavy metal/death metal genre of music… Ergo, it would be a good idea to go out and start a racist political party bent on wiping out whole segments of the population because I don’t particularly like them…or have I been beaten to it by the BNP? Good innit?

Now, if a fascination with fresh-cooked, piping hot ring doughnuts could be pulled out of someone’s pop song, I might be tempted towards death by warm dough, but, as things are…?

In the words of the writer of the song, (Don’t Fear) The Reaper, Buck Dharma (Dharma? That can’t be his real name…can it? If so, I don’t understand why all BOC followers aren’t cleansing themselves to death or standing still to the point that they’re hit by a passing car…if so, Money-Grubbing Stupid Law Suits ‘R’ Us would be fully employed). According to Mr. Dharma the words of the song refer to the everlasting quality of love;

I was actually kind of appalled when I first realised that some people were seeing it as an advertisement for suicide or something; that was not my intention at all. It is, like, not to be afraid of it, death (as opposed to actively bring it about). It’s basically a love song where the love transcends the actual physical existence of the partners.

Can’t really say it any plainer than that, can you, but I bet there’ll be some twerp out there now listening to that track and getting it all horribly wrong. To help with that possibility may I suggest that you go first to YouTube and type in on the address bar: blue oyster cult don’t fear the reaper lyrics and click play on any of the selection (you’ll also see how much the occult/death/reaper theme is prevalent; it isn’t; the song is about love and life, as you will see from the lyrics).

Now, after you’ve done that and to put the whole song into perspective, click on the link below…sorry about the sound quality but it’s still a killer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRyE5mqv5wk