Eu nao vou ler mais...: clap clap

Parece que a Duffy ganhou muitos brits (notícia Público), clap clap everybody, coisa que me recordou o excelente post que li no blog do excelente bluesman/comic performer Son of Dave, que tive a felicidade de ver ao vivo em Torres Novas no início de Dezembro. A rare thing, brothers. Um dos melhores concertos que vi o ano passado. Altamente recomendável.

A parasite by any other name still smells like foul

Know thine enemy. Name the brute. Adam came down from the trees to name the beasts and so became master over them. Our ability to reason puts us above those creatures that just act on instinct. And so I say: you are the Greedy Whore!

A little poke around and we can see where the blockage in the system is. Though the internet has opened up a world for interesting and great music to move around in, the power of radio over people’s minds and wallets is still supreme. The hit machine is as strong as it ever was.

At time of writing, the BBC Radio 1 A and B playlists can be broken up into the following categories: music you might like, music you might not like, and over-polished works of cynics that revolt me and must be destroyed. Something is exhausting the music biz like a huge tapeworm. If we hold a steak by the ass end of it, she will come out and we can kill her.

Out of 35 tunes on their playlist, 13 are by female acts. Every one of those tunes was written and produced by teams of experts, mostly men, hell-bent on taking tonnes of money from teenagers. Except one, written by Bob Dylan, which Adele tries to sing. Yes, a third of the playlist is constantly held by a handful of hit-making cartels and the puppets are the Girls on Parade.

Name them. Xenomania: a few men and women who write and produce songs for Sugababes, Girls Aloud, Kylie Minogue, Cher, Texas, Miley Cyrus, Alesha Dixon and many more. Max Martin is another who, like some mad shit machine, made the biggest hits for Britney Spears, Pink, Katy ‘I-Kissed-The-Devil’s-Scrotum’ Perry, Celine Dion, Backstreet Boys, ’N Sync, Bon Jovi and more. There are also writers and producers like Eg White and Mark Ronson who wait outside the Brit School gates for the likes of Duffy, Adele, Amy Winehouse, and the many who are scheduled to take their place.

We might ask, what is the BBC doing, relying so heavily on produced pop acts? Who is to blame for all the fatty build-up that’s clogging up the rock’n’roll arteries? Is there a backroom deal? Is it the record companies, the radio programmers fresh out of media school, the kids who buy the shit, or is it the pop divas? Hey bub, a girl’s gotta make a living! Well not if I can bloody help it. She’s holding me down with her stiletto poking in my windpipe and I don’t like that. Unless I’ve asked for it.

She stared up at me from the front row and never let up with those icy Russian eyes and athlete’s figure. She moved her hips too slowly to call it dancing. So the middle-aged bluesman chased her out of the crowd, and it didn’t take much convincing to get her to join me in the parade, watch the fireworks over the Thames, drink rum and dance on a boat to the Cumbia Kid playing old Latin vinyl till 4am. She said she was a singer.

She wanted information and purred up against me for it. She wanted to know where I went for nightlife in town. She found me exotic. I suggested dinner. I thought she was joking when she said I couldn’t afford her tastes.

It’s a small percentage who understand that a diamond is worthless unless you believe in it. Primitive tribes used gems and stones as currency. The king had the most. It was simple. But today, most people still see gold and platinum as intrinsically good stuff to own and wear. Like stapling 10 thousand pound notes to your earlobes. That would probably catch on. It would be honest, anyway.

She made me meet her for a drink in Green Park behind the Royal Academy. I’d managed to avoid those streets up till then: Gucci, Lacoste, Cartier, Gianfranco Zola. Cecconi’s. She was at the bar drinking champagne. The staff knew her by name. The tables were full of suits and diamonds. Nobody was smiling. These are serious times for money people.

Tonight, the thought of Phil Spector’s shaking hands and terrifying humour are keeping me awake. How many girl groups did he create with his songs and sonic genius? From the Ronettes to John Lennon, he was unstoppable and demented. Music was like revenge to him. I strongly identify, and would enjoy gunplay with him someday! I sleep and dream of sitting on a dock with him and shooting at fish with high powered rifles.

But ultimately we all prefer the real thing: a woman, not a girl, with her own song to sing. A woman who can belt it out like she means it, pound on a piano, and shake her bosom when the camera ain’t there. A rare thing, brother.

The Russian Princess told me about her new recording advance. I gasped. She turned her collar up to come outside and smoke. Burberry. I said I didn’t feel comfortable with all these rich people around. She said I was just jealous. I said let’s walk over to Soho for a drink. She said she’d never been to Soho and doubted they’d have single malt whiskey there.

She turned me on and off like a lamp, the way media people do, suddenly talking over your shoulder or getting on the phone. You’re just jealous, she said. I explained that I don’t mind paying for excellent food, but I don’t want most of the crap that rich people have. Talk to me when you’re there, she said, and suddenly ordered a waiter to bring us some olives and more champagne. I said something childish and walked out.

I didn’t know what to do! I bottled. Face-to-face with the tapeworm itself, and I just ran. I went to the French House and drank wine until two tears came out. Then I was happy again. Then to Tricia’s or one of the actor’s bars, I don’t remember. It’s so hard to helplessly watch the bastards slide around inside her. Feels lonely out here sometimes, but that’s where a good bluesman belongs, not inside with the backslappers. Though I might ask her to sing the chorus of this tune I’m humming...

Son of Dave

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Blog: http://sonofdave.blogspot.com