There’s a tragedie to those singer-songwriters who whine into a microphone with great art and mutter of love in clever rhyme and never really know what it is. They agree with their predecessors, maybe with a modern twang, and try to crucify their hearts on their lovers’ bedroom wall cos’ suffering equals wisdom. There ain’t been many who’ve dared to blink in the stage lights of a real war world and have said you people, I’m gonna sing a song for you, and ignored the crowds crying their name and don’t pretend that you love your audience, cos’ loving everyone means you can’t stand anyone.
Shit; you’ve said it in your own songs man, and then there’s always an interview with some handsome shirtless kid with cruel eyes and ‘he’s part of your establishment, you know, he’s god and, you know, who needs him anymore? Forget him!’ and it takes a hell of a man to listen to that and not burst out laughing. I think, if I could play a guitar and spit the fuck out of a harmonica’s high-end, you people, I’m gonna sing a new song for you and tattoo DNR on every spare inch of my body and hang myself with a guitar string tuned to Plain D. Y’know what the worst part is? Everyone’d dig it. And they’d pelt my bodies with an E harmonica and have to blow my teeth out of it when they came to use it next. But what does that matter, right? After all, Punk was only ever used to sell merch to those who didn’t want to be sold to.
You know, I don’t think I ever did thank you for reading us the Charge of the Light Brigade and stamping your foot on plaster wooden-planks like blood-soaked battle drums. I know you got more than a few blank stares but, sir, that poem sent more than a few firecrackers down my spine, it blistered more than my back too.
The kid with the hair, usually a golden brown, turning as black as the night, and whispering chaos on an assembly hall recording ‘neath the palm trees on Blackpool beach cos’ they’re the only ones he’s ever seen.