Swear, little ones, swear like the wind.....

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Live Albums of Distinction

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Feats of wisdom and wonder.....

Another band that's hardwired from my teenage years. I struggled with the jazzier elements for a long time but everything clicked in the end. Awesome facial hair specialists topped with the voice of Lowell that came speed-dialled from God.

 

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We gotta get right back to where we started from.....

Here's the fucker that started the whole ball rolling and led me to a mountain of debt chasing down Bernie Marsden picture discs and gatefold Belouis Some sleeves. Cheers, Tommy, y' cunt.

 

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Deconstructing: Free

Hello, Honkytonks. This is the first in an occasional series that seeks to shine a light on the drivel that some lyrics present us with.

"Let's move before they raise the parking rate" (Alright Now)

Jesus, Rodgers. You know damn well that the local authorities are bound by countless rules and procedures which ensure ample consultation before any fee-based municipal services are altered. Furthermore, if a council body even attempted to bypass these requirements, there'd be an almighty rumpus headed by residents and service-users parish-wide. Shame on you for leading us to believe otherwise.

"Take all your furs and rings, baby but don't you sing hurray" (I'll Be Creepin')

Why the fuck would she sing 'hurray'? It's her stuff! That said I wouldn't be surprised if she felt a modicum of satisfaction at having managed to vacate the relationship with at least some of her belongings. God knows these things are messy at the best of times.

"I'm riding on a pony in the middle of the night" (Ride On A Pony)

Far be it from me to ridicule a man's chosen mode of transport but the time of day has significant safety implications for drivers (I'm assuming Rodgers isn't the sole licenseholder and there's a fair number of other ponyriders using these routes) and pedestrians alike and I'll be damned if I standby and ignore the risk.

OK, let's assume that this isn't the 1970s and we're in a bona fide pony-ridin' era. What sort of outdoor lighting are we expecting here? Back in those days a journey would almost certainly be truncated at sundown and the provisions of an inn or similar establishment would be sought until morning. But, no. Rodgers is out there trotting along with, I suppose, some kind of headgear that supports a candle attachment. Good luck in a gust of wind, Paul, y' prick. In fact a gust of wind isn't necessary. You get that pony up to speed and the plain old laws of physics'll snuff your flame, toot sweet.

Of course if we are in the 1970s I'm dumbfounded as to what exactly is going through his mind as a 61 bus pootles past him. Madness gone mad!

Anyway, I love them dearly. So here's a Tetsu show you don't hear every day.

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When the Stones don't quite do it....

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Motherfuckin' deer bit me......

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Cause that's a cruel mental start.....

Spectoresque, Springsteenesque (I like the sound of Springsteen but there's just too many words that mean fuck all. I dig Tougher Than The Rest, Atlantic City but would someone mind telling me what on earth Blinded By The Light actually means? Second thoughts: don't bother. Go fuck yourself and wipe your knob with your Babylon 5 sweatshirt).

Featuring the mighty Young Lust and the active Hunter/Ronson ingredient that tells you it's quality assured. Click

Funny like a clown.....

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Never mind the Brian....

Relax by the pool with some primo Denny. Better put some cream on, dudes.Click

Fillum Nuwaaaaah!!!!

The darkness is upon me, people (easy, dudes. We'll have 'Permission To Land' when the time's right).

What with Dennis leaving for the Roman wilderness of pain (nah, he's earned his place right next to the Creator. I see him listening intently before taking a long mute nostril drag on a Marlboro and offering "That's great. Do you wanna know what would be really cool?"), I get the Castaneda 'at your elbow' feeling.

Here's a hunk o' burnin' blackness to get yerselves twisted and sexy to in front of your 90" TV as you watch your Britain's Got Talent, nibbling on your latest Jamie Oliver creation as the neighbour's cat deftly sprays into your painstakingly-created outdoor fuschia arrangement.

Go ahead. Vote, motherfucker!Click

School of Lazy Journalism 2

He choked on a cherry stone, you know. Oh, please.
A real mover and shaker, and a wicked groover to boot. Here's a mish-mash of stuff that never got recorded properly and was no doubt put down in a divine fog. Abley assisted by all manner of heads, there's flashes of absolute genius in them there grooves. Gotta love the Mickey Finn but Took was the real deal.Click