Sunday, 12 October 2014

THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL.


THE CELEBRITY PAGES.
VILEST COUPLE IN THE WORLD ARE GRANDPARENTS,

SPUNKY BILL'S PRAYER

Mah fellow motherfuckers. 

 
Me and yo' future Mrs President, mah beloved Hillary Trousers, here, we'd  jes' love fer y'all to join us as we offer up this prayer on the occasion of the birth of our first liddle gran'chile, liddle cutesie wootsie, ain't she purty, 

purty as her granma, Hillary;

purty as her momma, Chelsea


An' so Ah ask that y'all just join me in a prayer. 
To our Heavenly Southern White Father.


Dear Lord, our Father in Heaven, 
you have made Merka special. 
And different from thine other shitholes, 
and the creatures who dwelleth therein
 in Darkness,
 and who we must, as is Thy will, 
 bomb the fuckin' beJaysus out of.


Sometimes, Dear Lord, 
we all jest haveta
blow some foreign children
even unto fuckin' pieces, 
blessed be the name of the AirCorp

But they're  foreign cocksuckin' sonsafuckinbitches 
and probably deserve it, 
and so we implore Thee, Oh Lord, 
that none a this shit ever happens
 unto our little Miss Perfect.
Praise be to God.

  And Heavenly Father, 
Thou havest made us special among nations, 
 inasmuch as we must haveth more stuff
 than any other sonsafuckinbitches.  

Oh Lord, we beseecheth  Thou
that even though we be but an twentieth, 
 of Thine humanly host, 
we must need to have
 unto our sweet holy motherfuckin ' selves
an quarter of Thy bounty, 
of what Thy Goodness  hath bestowed upon Thy Creation, 
Merka must have the Lion's share. 
Otherwise, Heavenly Father, we gotta kick some nigger ass.  
Blessed be the name of the Lord.


And on the vexed question, Oh Heavenly Father, 
of our personal shortcomin's,

we beseech Thee to forgive us our sins, 
even though we damn well ain't never
 gonna forgive them as offends
 against Uncle Sam or His President.

Why, dear  Lord,
there's many as speak untruths about us;  
scarlet women, Lord, 
as have told lies about thine faithful  servant, 
William Jefferson,
 havin' been  screwin' their asses off of 'em.
Yea, even for fuckin' years, Lord, 
while he was wedded unto thy servant,
 Hillary Rodham Trousers

 Bitches like this, Oh Lord,
 got no place livin' amongst thy dutiful servants
 and spreading truths about 'em, 
Ah mean untruths, 
and we pray that You will,
 in Thy infinite mercy, 
roast their fat asses for 'em. 
Before we must require it, Lord,
 of the Secret Service,
that they be terminated with extreme prejudice.
Blessed be the name of the CIA

And Thy Servant,  Lord, 
soon to be Thy president, 

 
Hillary known as Trousers, 
it may well be true, Lord,
that she dwelleth in the land of the carpet eaters.

and is an abomination in Thy sight
 

 


and that she hath lain in unnatural union 
with many's an ballbustin' dyke bitch 
but Dear Lord and Father of Merka, 
she felt that she had good reason to
drink even from the furry cup
on account of some other
 
 lyin' cocksuckin' whorebag Jezebel
with whom, as Thou art my witness
Ah never had sex with,
so help me You, 
even though Ah did.
Ah feel yo' tits, babe, I mean pain.

tellin' lies about me,  

my bodily fluids


and my tobacco products. 
Grown, in thine infinite Mercy,
In the Republic of Cuba.

 
Let this not, Oh Lord, 
Thy servant Hillary's insane jealousy, 
and her wish for vengeance,
let it not


deny Thy faithful Servant, Mrs Trousers, 
the office of President,
for we are, Lord, 
down to our last hundred million dollars
 an' if I don't get to be the First Gennulman,
 living in the White House again,
I am fucked
if I know,  Lord,  how I will manage to steal any more money. 
I need to be able to offer public contracts to the highest briber.
And I can't do that, Lord, 
fucking about on charitable trusts.
Bill and Hillary Clinton at the Clinton Global Initiative event, New York
The Lord And Lady Macbeth Foundation.

Ah mean, Lord,
havin' foundations and initiatives,
that's one thing,
 but verily I say unto you,
it is fucking peanuts
and the taxman's all over you.
 I know, Lord,
that we should render unto Caesar and all that  
but me and Hills, 
we think to ourselves, 
we lied, we cheated, we killed 
for all that money 
and it don't seem fittin' 
for us to be giving any of it to the govament, 
which, as Thou knowest, Lord,
will only give it to poor folks and niggers.
So, please, Lord,
 for us to get the really big bribes and bungs, 
ya gotta get us back in the White House.


And we beseech You, finally, Heavenly Father,
that our new grandchild, 
be not forced to live in cardboard shelters
 nor in sub-standard housing, 
that she be not forced unto the place of the FoodBank;
that she be not beaten or shot
by marauding, out-of-control, militarised lawnforcement;
be not incarcerated in cruel and unusual 
mediaeval-style high security prisons
run only for the profit
 of people who bribed me handsomely;  
that she be not slowly DeathPenalty tortured to death
 in a gas chamber;  
that she be not gunned-down
 by a fellow student, 
 that she be not spied upon, 
lied about, lied to
and framed by her National Security Agency,
nor be disappeared or killed 
on the orders of her own President; 
may she not, Oh Lord, enlist,
be sent abroad to kill 
and return home to cruelty, 
to bullying and to neglect
as, dear Lord and Father of mankind,
 are so many of her fellow citizens.
Amen. 



As if, Lord,  she fuckin' would.






THE ARTS SECTION

WOTSONTELLY, BBC4, AN EVENING WITH JIMI HENDRIX

'SCUSE ME, WHILE I KISS THE SKY. 

 We were talking, recently, about Art and craft and trade and I suppose hobbies,  about what distinguishes Art from the others  and last night BBC4 was devoted to a fragmented study of the so-called art and artistry of the late Jimi Hendrix; some of it was produced by old garlic breath, himself, one of our shameless license-fee-created millionaires, 

StarFucker Al.

Alan Yentob, is pure groupie hyperbole, 
he's good at that, Al, tosser.

What happened to guitarist, Hendrix, was that he went, in a short time,  from being a US paratrooper
 A black and white photograph of five men wearing Army uniforms and standing together as a group
 to being a global superstar and sex symbol, 


worse than that, for a young man, he was hailed and  quickly hailed himself not as an entertainer, which is all he ever was but as an artist.

There can be no argument, his recordings with the Jimi Hendrix Experience, a  trio comprising

 

Brits Noel Redding, Mitch Mitchell and himself, were revolutionary - if you can have a revolution in showbusiness, that is - but they were only revolutionary pop songs. Hendrix was among the first to play the electric guitar as something other than a loud acoustic guitar;  the scorching, reverberating  menace of  Hey Joe; his own, spasming Purple Haze, the raunchy Foxy Lady,  the dreamily lyrical Wind Cries Mary, his urgent re-working of Bob Dylan's All Along The Watchtower were totally unlike anything else of their time and poor Jimi was, accordingly,  in their own fearful interests,  embraced and colonised  by other so-called superstars,  such as Mr Pete Nose of the Who,
 
 a man obsessed with writing songs about boys - Pictures of Lily, My Generation, Substitute, I'm A Boy, I Can't Explain, The Kids're Alright, Squeezebox  and the dreadful, unspeakable so-called rock opera, Tommy, about an abused deaf-dumb-an-blind kid.   Hendrix, on the other hand,  wrote pile-driving yet ethereal songs about paranoia, about lust, about  Heavenly fucking. Where the Who were fuelled by Black Bombers and Purple Hearts, Hendrix's creative toolbox was expanded by Lysergic Acid Diethylemide; technicolour to Townsend's melodramatic monochrome; Hendrix's tidal waves of part chords, lead runs, overdriving, buzzing and humming, echoing his voice note-for-note belittled Townsend's  jerky suspended fourths.

 Frightened of being outshone, Eric Clapton, who until the appearance of Jimi Hendrix was the unchallenged God of the guitar, also championed Hendrix, 
 
Come with me, we will be Gods together, 
equal Gods. You gotta wife, Jimi? Only my friend George Harison shares his with me, his wife; we're all artists, you see.

basking in reflected glory, loving him with the kiss of JunkyDeath.  

Clapton's own bizarre deification rested on shambolic, noisy performances in his  warring trio, Cream - three junkies playing at cross-purposes; 

 

 bassist Jack Bruce overplaying everything; Clapton furiously and endlessly doodling  at what sounds to me like an eleven-bar blues and drummer, Ginger Baker, thrashing and flailing away, marooned on his own, lonely Planet Heroin, his drum figures doubtless making musical sense to him but to no-one else alive. Fucked-up Brits trashing black music. By contrast Hendrix's trio had invented an entirely new form , neither black nor white,  the blues coloured electric.

And it  was only on hearing The Band's Music From Big Pink that Clapton found a musical direction which enabled him to play with some taste; Americans, again, showing this tedious, over-rated  Limey the way home.

No wonder this pair, Slowhand Clapton and Pete Nose, 

 
 Hendrix with some Mod brats.

ploughing cliche's furrow, latched-on to Hendrix, a true original, and called him artist.

Left-handed,  Hendrix played a conventional Fender Stratocaster  upside-down

 

 

and some musicologists argue that his inverted access to tone controls and especially the tremelo arm shaped his unique sound; makes sense to me, I never thought him an extra-terrestrial.  Hendrix  also employed a Home Counties electrical engineer to  develop and refine his amplifiers and effects, y'know, tradesman stuff, valves, frequencies. It's not Beethoven or Rembrandt, fuzz-wah-swell pedal, overdrive  and distortion, that's just being a tradesman.

Having been a   member of various New York R&B ensembles, Jimi Hendrix hit lucky; he was spotted by Geordie, Chas Chandler, former bassist with the Animals,  brought to England and teamed with Redding and Mitchell; the Jimi Hendrix Experience recorded all that is memorable and valuable in his short musical life.  Delusions of artistry and the esteem of the artily worthless killed him.  

At the end he  spoke of himself only as an artist, with a higher purpose and so - artistically -  he took loads of drugs; artistically, he disbanded the Experience, forming a succession of rubbishy groups with old buddies and new show-offs, all of them discordant, atonal, arythmic; artistically, he bought his own studio in New York and recorded what seems like years' worth of intolerable garbage.
  

His Woodstock concert performance reveals the depths to which he had, so artistically, sunk - too many players, too much percussion, artistry's license enabling him to play out of time and out of tune. But  then so much of Woodstock is grossly over-valued, most of it was shit, shit that only Uncle Sam can produce and digest, convinced of his  own appetising exceptionalism.  Only the Star Spangled Banner redeems Hendrix's sprawling, self-indulgent performance, and even that runs-down and collapses on itself, a black hole of circuitous jamming;   the studio version is infinitely better. 

As a pop entertainer, Jimi Hendrix, in the nineteen-sixties, produced some of the most interesting and original material of that  facetious and culturally over-stated period; as an artist, however, he never got off the ground, drowning, instead, both figuratively and literally, in his own artistic shit. Having been out, jamming, man, and drinking, he took too many sleepers and didn't wake up that morning.  He was twenty-seven
  
Clapton, now in his late-sixties


and Townsend, similarly,

 still, in their dotage, play their old hits to gullible crowds.  They still speak of his tragedy,  heedless, maybe, of the fact that their noisy, Me-Too, arty patronage of Hendrix is what blew him fatally off course. 

Anybody tells you that you are an artist, punch 'em hard in the gob.




And if you meet the Buddha on the road, 
kill him. 



AND FINALLY, 
THE NEWS FROM POUNDLAND.

MR DOUGLAS FRUITCAKE
MP FOR THE CONSTITUNCY OF
FRUITCAKES-ON-SEA.

All my life people have been refining washing powder. You'd think it  the very stuff of Life, so vigorous is its promotion, its ubiquity in our viewing, our commercial viewing, anyway. 

The term soap opera originated in 1930's US radio broadcasting, cliff-hanger radio series being sponsored by washing powder manufacturers;  even then the white, tinted or speckled flakes and powders were deemed, by those who calibrate our consumption,   indispensible to people  craving a fulfilled and hygienic life.

Once, the stuff simply washed whiter but that was in my mother's time of drudgery. As television enslaved us, to itself and to the products of its sponsors, washing powders - Ajax, Rinso, Omo, Daz, Tide, Persil, Breeze, Oxydol, Surf and countless, now vanished others,  grew ever more complex and sophisticated, their additives - blue whiteners, no, seriously, blue stuff to make your white stuff whiter, bleaches and pre-soaking enzymes - and ingredients became more and more modern, scientific-sounding;   the Space Age was entering the twin-tub washing machine.  

A party political broacast on behalf of the Persil Party

But no matter the earnestness of the adverts,  it was all just fucking soap, no more than that, washing your clothes down by the river, in the communal wash-house or in the new Hotpoint or Bendix, you need some soap, that's all, never going to be Paradise, doing the laundry. Soap is just soap.

And so it is with this gang of ponces and slags and thieves and impostors. Shit is just shit.

Eternally renewing, rewording, repeating their  bogus credentials, their miracle ingredients, their clever formulae,  their latest additives, eternally competing one with another, for the right to shit in our faces.
 And now there is a new product,

 different, brighter, better;  
what a pity it is made from the same old shitheads.
 No, honestly, they are differently different,

dimmer, duller, more impertinent.
 But largely the same.
Give 'em five minutes in Westminster and you'd never tell them apart, LibLabConFruit.


It is a matter of incredulity to me, that I see so many of my fellows arguing the toss between this shower, parliamentarians and would-be parliamentarians, when  they are all, every last one of them,  just shit,  walking and talking.  


I'm quite entitled to my expenses.
 And my mistresses. 
I went to public school, for God's sake.
 
Douglas Fruitcake-Turnover, MP.
Why does he always remind me of a man who has just awakened from that dream - the one where you're walking down a crowded street and suddenly realise that you're naked from the waist down?


Oh, it is rich to see Miliband more crestfallen than usual, 


wringing out his  party dishcloth of condescending phrases, mentally wetting himself;  Clegg is beyond embarrassment, he can already claim to have achieved more than any Liberal in the last century, even though last time around he cinsisted that his was a new party albeit that it is actually twice as old as the Labour party;  Clegg, congenitally, I should think, inhabits a world where  the Truth is an extra-terrestrial alien, nothing will trouble him, for there is nothing there to be troubled, in that part of the brain which houses conscience and doubt and discomfort and ethics and morality Clegg must just have a big, empty space. Like  the Tory, Blair, leading the Labour party, Clegg is a Tory leading the Liberals, pretending that he's a Liberal restraining the Tories and Cameron, well, he's whoever he thinks he is when he wakes up - field marshal, statesman, diplomat,  historian, philosopher and charismatic leader of a fractious and foolish  people, when  he is thrown out, either by party or electorate it will because they are mistaken, blind to his qualities, stupid.  Miliband may lose what he thinks is his Destiny,  but the rise of the FruitCakes will only slightly discomfort the leaders of the unelected government for they are FruitCakes, themselves,  there is only one party, it is the party of party politics, a hang-over from the 'sixties and 'seventies, long past its time, struggling for breath and  kept  alive only because MediaMinster is too stupid, too lazy and too frightened to imagine  a different form of public administration, one servant to Decency and Duty, rather than to greed and conspiracy, knowing whispers and secret handshakes, beasting and blackmail.

Already, prominent Fruitcakers are bragging about being 
simultaneously  MEP and MP, with simultaneous salaries, pensions and exes. Already Fruitcakers are turning their policies, such as they are,  inside-out, inventing principles according to the prevailing winds. Didn't they ditch their existing Clacton PPC, in favour of a sitting Tory?  How does that work, then, in terms of honesty and loyalty and solidarity and principle. Ah, yes, of course, same soap powder in a different box, washes whiter.

If anyone thinks that Nigel Fruitcake, Diana Fruitcake, Paul Fruitcake or Douglas Fruitcake  differs in any way from those currently on the green benches they need their fucking heads looking at.    

30 comments:

yardarm said...

Spunkin`Bill played an ignoble part in the Great Tits Up of '08. He, and human rubbish in his Administration like Larry Summers helped ditched the Glass Steaghal Act and a few years later the inevitable happened.

The fat redneck dummy stepped up the war on the poor, ' tough love ' shit while acting the sock puppet knee pads Quisling to GlobaDosh, for which he has been well rewarded, like his avatars here, Jug Ears and the NewLabour filth, work carried on by their successors both sides of the Atlantic.

You`ll note Gideon Pansy Face has kicked bankster reform back to 2019 and the pathetic Miliband doesn`t even mention it.

The kippers USP is freedom; freedom from the shackles of Brussels. But still the knee pads will come out for and the tongue applied to the fetid arsehole of the WTO, the IMF, Goldman Sachs and financial terrorist cells of banksters and City clerks, compared to whom the headchoppers are a fucking joke.

lilith said...

Did you see what Matthew Paris wrote about Clacton?

Alphons said...

I think that sums it up very nicely, apart from the bit about the railway union.

SG said...

You are surely right about the Poundlanders Mr I. They remind me of the Japanese Communist Party who have adopted a position of "Communism under the Emporer". I voted for them last time (UKIP that is - the JCP were not fielding a candidate here...) abandoning my usual tactic of voting for whoever I perceive to be the 'least of the evils' (an increasingly challenging task these days) in favour of what felt like a token act of nihilism - though of course it was nothing of the sort. Shame the fruit people didn't win in Heywood and Middleton though - I would have liked to have seen Millibean & et al rationalising that one away - though the 'victor' looked suitably chastened. The only way that I can see to wash away the filth of MediaMinister would be to divert the rivers Alpheus and Peneus though the stench is so bad that I doubt that even Heracles could be persuaded to attempt an 11th labour.

Caratacus said...

Am I the only one old enough to remember that a box of OMO placed strategically on the kitchen window-sill in the married quarters of any military housing estate stood for, "Old Man Overseas" in a blatant advertisement of certain physical needs to be catered for?

Bungalow Bill said...

I recall that Ol' Spunky made a vile point of grandstanding the botched execution of some nobody to show his iron capital punishment credentials when he was first running for President. Amoral cunt with his equally vicious, lying wife. I remember the Labour Party Conference in the Age of Blair, adoringly hoping he might leave some spunky remnant on their garments when he appeared among them. They all worship Bill, the grotesque careerists of whom you write, because he has mostly got away with his crimes and lies and that in the end is what they want to do too.

mongoose said...

Miss Lilith, I did. "Voters, not the politicians, are out of touch"

And after he had expanded on that and insulted the electors of both ends of the country for their stupidity and their temerity in putting their votes in the wrong boxes. Getting bored, or maybe needing an extra few words to get his £500, he let slip exactly what the problem is.

"Politicians do know what to do: in Jean-Claude Juncker’s phrase they just don’t know how to get re-elected after doing it."

And isn't that the point? A politician, a public servant, is supposed to seek office to do what is required. In return, we pay them money to feed their kids. We do not elect them to hide in their offices not doing the right thing so that they can stay there longer. For public service, we have substituted the gravy train, entitlement, and conspiracy to prolong the ride. And inevitably that turns into corruption. How can it not?

"Today’s parliaments are the most inclusive, diverse, unpretentious, least corrupt, most streetwise, hardest-working assemblies that Britain has ever elected..."

That had us rolling in the aisles.

First they take their salaries and do nothing in case they don't get re-elected. And then it is just so much easier to get the punters to pay for the duck houses, and the rented out flats, the seven tellies and all the rest. A mineshaft and some housebricks are needed.

blackholesunset said...

Jean-Claude Juncker of 'When it becomes serious, you have to lie' infamy.

There was an interesting documentary on BBC Two a couple of weeks ago: This World, Rwanda's Untold Story.

Spunk Bill, JCB Hague and globalist spittoon, Charles Linton, all made an appearance towards the end of the programme.

Worth a watch but, other than a few sidelong reference to those mentioned, the producers made no attempt to join the dots between Rwanda's Glorious Leader (www.paulkagame.com, ffs) and his immunity-granting friends.

callmeishmael said...

Not just a nobody, mr bungalow bill, a black, mental patient nobody, in Bill's home state of Arkansas, where, as outgoing Governor, he could have and should have commuted, instead, he and the vile, snarling trollop grandstanded, I believe the killing took place on his first inauguration day. America, eh, it celebrates its glory with executions of sick people. Fuck 'em, all of them.

Still, if Hillary is elected, the country will burn down and no amount of lesbian activism quell the flames.

callmeishmael said...

I think you may well be, mr caratacus, although I vaguely remember the WhiteTide Man, surely a double entendre there.

callmeishmael said...

It's what happens, mr mongoose, the hard left is taken over and destroyed by showy demagogues like Tommy Sheridan and George Galloway, the centre left is hollowed oit by filth like that ghastly old know-it-all Shirley Williams and the SDP, merging, eventually with the toiletcreepers who have annointed the buffoon, Clegg; the old left is hijacked by Blairites and the sift right is pissed on by Cameron and Co. When that happens what you get is the rise of the rednecks. Look out for some Fruitcake standing on a capiotal punishment ticket.

I heve lived too long, that was your despairing refrain, wasn't it, once upon a time; I think we all have, now that NaziSpiv is in fashion.

callmeishmael said...

The victor in Heywood, mr sg, looked as though she'd been grabbed from a bus stop and asked to impersonate a politician; I have been watching these things all my life and never seen such an embarrassing spectacle, it was Caligula's Horse stuff, if she is representaive of Northern Labour it should disband and join the Tories. Do less harm that way.

At least the FruitBint in the studio, the one with her skirt round her ears, Diane, is it, at least she had the sense to keep her trap shut.

callmeishmael said...

I have no stomach for Parris, I'm afraid, I wouldn't read him if I was sat on Eternity's toilet and there was nothing else to read, not then, not ever.

callmeishmael said...

The only place to find that sort of dot-joining, mr bhs, is on RT and al Jazeera, often in the form of US documentaries, made outside the national networks' stranglehold; programmes naming bent judges, senators, congressmen and cops, y'know, an everyday story of corrupt countryfolk.

I see, talking of RT, that someone at the sinking Filth-O-Graph has picked up Max Keiser's point about cheap money being of greatest use to carpetbaggers, like the people who busted Phones4You, took the money and ran off to the Gideon Isles.

lilith said...

Yes Mr Smith, spare your blood pressure, the soupçon reproduced by Mongoose gives the gist..talk about driving the electorate to vote UKIP.

We don't have a candidate this way due to him being driven out by a couple of Glastonbury control freaks who get their instructions from the Arch Angel Michael.

callmeishmael said...

Aye, mr yardarm, Spunky Bill was the impetus for NewLabour, Hill's the role model for Imelda Blair, sassy, greedy lawyer yet unloveable fashion disaster. And I, too, remember being aghast at the fawning of the Labour conference over Bill's drawling turds of wisdom, mr bungalow bill. If I had a hoped-for list of news items before switching on the radio, at the top would be the deaths by immollation in a plane crash of Spunky Bill, Hills, Tony and Imelda; that's just the kinda guy I am

SG said...

Yeah I'm voting for the Japanese Communist Party next time. Tea ceremonies and Geisha girls for all. What's not to like?

callmeishmael said...

Did you know, ms lilith, if you google glastonbury all you get is the music business, run by that horrid old farmer, the one in protracted adolescence, dribbling endlessly about Great Bands? You have to go further down the screen to find anything about the Tor, the abbey, Joseph of Aramathea. How's that for home-grown cultural imperialism?

callmeishmael said...

They'll have you slaving on a railway, 'fore you know it, mr sg, slicing your head off with a ritually cleansed sword, filthy yellow bastards, don't do it.

SG said...

Thanks Mr I. Though I have been warned about the use of flippancy before, somewhere, way, way, back up the road.

lilith said...

I give Glastonbury a wide berth...both the "Festival" and the town. It's no place for a hippy.

callmeishmael said...

I was last there 35 years ago, on a summer's morn, it was filled with hippies then, carefree people being with the leylines, man, and rather beautiful. Who knows where the time goes?

A mirage made in heaven said...

Believing as I do in the artful arranging of books, my (signed and very much for sale) copies of Nancy Reagan's 'My Turn' and Hillary's 'Living History' stand either side of 'Dogs in the White House'.

I have long thought that one of the unsung causes of WW2 was the fact that we British extracted the patent rights from Germany for Persil as part of reparations for WW1. We took their best washing powder. That is fucking humiliating. No wonder a certain Austrian corporal got hot (and grimy) under the collar.

As for Hendrix: it's 60/40 he was murdered (there's stuff still to come out and a certain Animal told a rather large lie). Might be deep state; might be greed and money; though it's more likely because he was about to join Emerson Lake and Palmer.

Your output is as excellent as ever Mr. Ishmael.

callmeishmael said...

That's enough reason to murder anyone, Emerson, LakenPalma, Christ. I blame the Beatles and that awful Sgt. Pepper album, killed pop music stone dead, it did, druggy doggerel, aka concept albums, free your mind, man. Don't start me talkin', I'll tell ev-erything I know; I think Sonny Boy Williamson said that, although Jimmy Page would claim he did.

I have that Nancy Reagan book, too, had it for decades, never opened it, anybody wants it, FTGH.

d said...

Those pictures are horrific…
Another great post Mr Ish.
I have the Keith Richards biography..opened once. Free to uplift.
I’m always amazed at the perceived validity of the addled popstar.
Vast output of music and slim pickings of anything worthy of a listen.

Doug Shoulders said...

That was me above. Blogger broke down.

callmeishmael said...

Victor Bokros, isn't it? wrote Keef's biog? A bigger slag than Keef, himself; guns, killings, beasting, heroin, shoulda been in jail years ago, all of them.

Doug Shoulders said...

Indeed, but feted for that and nothing else. Sheep slicers of the music game.

Musicians who have more ability in their little fingernail than that lot put together struggling to earn a crust… five of em..in a million quid studio in the sun…top producers best equipment money can buy..and fifty years in the trade…What do you get on the new album?..A variation of Little red rooster or some such cack

callmeishmael said...

That's them, too lazy to crow for day, endlessly recycling Ry Cooder riffs that people pay hundreds of pounds to hear. It was JugEars, wasn't ir, man of the people, kinghted Jagger? Both great rock'n'rollers, Mick'n'Tone.

Lsg Industrial said...

What's your inspiration on putting that all together? Are you really that against on those people? Mindman Distributor Philippines