On The Verge #28
668 - THE NEIGHBOUR OF THE BEAST
When Bruce Dickinson put down the mic for Iron Maiden, cut his hair and took up the art of fencing , metal fans everywhere were devastated, and they tore the back-patches off their ankle-len g th Lüftwaffe overcoats in grief.
What they failed to realise, however, was that the sight of Mr “Run To the Hills” Dickinson prancing about in a tight white jumpsuit with a sieve over his face, hand on hip, waving a useless wobbly sword around, was only slightly more ridiculous than the spray-on jeans and white runners ensemble of the Maiden days.
Well, Bruce couldn't cut it as the Count of Monte Christo and he soon rejoined Iron Maiden, who realised no one knew who they were without Dicko's get-your-car-off-my-foot vocals.
With Iron Maiden takin g a break between albums, and seven years since his last solo album, The Chemical Marriage, Bruce is back with new solo venture, Tyranny of Souls, out on May 23.
Unlike all other metal, Bruce explores ‘dark apocalyptic themes', like war, futility, and the futility of war. The album artwork is disappointingly Eddie-free, but make room on the back of your military jacket for a 15th century depiction of hell by Hans Hemling . Scary.
WILLIAM BAKER: THE MAN BEHIND THE BUTTOCKS
Dinner- table discussions around Australia were halted on April 19 by the momentous news that Kylie Minogue and her creative director, William Baker, had parted ways.
As the news raced through the community like wildfire, telephone switchboards across the country went into meltdown, hairdressing salons were in a state of uproar, and Kylie's website received so many hits that it crashed altogether. Shocked citizens were seen milling around Federation Square, Circular Quay and other civic hot spots, pondering the dissolution of one of the country's key collaborations.
In Melbourne 12-year-old Amber McLean expressed fears that, without Baker, Kylie might become “directionless and less creative”, while student Niall Wilson was worried that “Now Kylie won't be able to perform other people's songs as creatively.”
Gavin Jenkins, 28, of Mildura, had a different take on the crisis: “Kylie Minogue had a creative director? Really? Well, clearly he wasn't doin g his job – no wonder she sacked him.” Meanwhile, Mavis Plimpton couldn't understand what the fuss was about: “Who's William Baker, anyway? If I were hooked up to an electrified care machine on the caringest day of my life, I still wouldn't care who he was.”
Jenkins and Plimpton, though, were the only voices of dissent, as other Australians were unanimous in their dismay. Archbishop George Pell hoped that, even without a creative director, Ms Minogue's buttocks would continue to be shown in an advantageous light, captains of industry were concerned at the effect of the news on the dollar, while John Howard told the press that he hoped Minogue and Baker would resume their partnership in the “ANZAC spirit” and also promised that should Minogue die he would build a four-lane highway over her gravesite.
I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S NOT MURGEN
Swedish songwriter Jens Lekman flörgen-burgen suburban pop songen. Just 22, Jans has snurgened great reviews about his new murgensön. Nöjesguiden magazine hailed Jens Lekman as “the next biggest flurgen”.
Jens is touring Australön with fellow Swede Anna Nordström at Northcote Social Nergen May 7, so flurgen your spergen before your murgen gets jurgened.
IT'S NOT TOO LATE TO SAVE A DINOSAUR
Shiny Records is appealing to music fans to support its latest charitable cause — providing for rock stars in their old age. First g roup to benefit from the label's “Save A Dinosaur” campaign is seminal rock group Dinosaur Jnr.
“We decided to step in to help Dinosaur Jnr's aging heroes by re-releasing some of their catalogue, and directing a percentage of the monies to a rock-star retirement fund,” said Shiny president Jane Matthews. “The call to arms came when [guitarist] J Mascis was recently discovered in his retirement condo in a state of breathtaking degradation and squalor. He'd tipped himself off his Mo-Ped in the loungeroom, and was too weak to summon help.
“He was somehow able to sustain himself by eating a bowl of ornamental fruit and a copy of Reader's Digest, and also gained nourishment from the liquor cabinet, which he'd managed to crawl to and pry open.
“Despite Mr Mascis and [bassist] Lou Barlow bein g regulars at the local park, where they spend the mornings soaking up the sun and feeding tabs of pure MDMA to the squirrels, no-one missed Mr Mascis for more than a week.
“When a neighbour eventually discovered him toppled off his motorised cart and lying in a foul crèche of excrement and empty scotch bottles, she raised the alarm.”
According to Ms Matthews, rock stars in their autumn years often descend into a decrepit life of solitude once the royalty cheques and Farnham-like “farewell” appearances dry up. Many are still deeply in hock to their labels, and cannot afford the level of care their age requires. By re-releasing their records, the artists are afforded a welcome line of revenue to help them with basics like medical expenses.
So please, when you see re-released copies of Bugs, Dinosaur, and You're Living All Over Me, spend big. You'll not only be treated to a feast of 80s rock, you'll be helping heroes in desperate need.
JOHN BUTLER QUARANTINED IN EUROPE : LOCKS SHAVED, ARTIST DEVASTATED
John Butler was lucky to escape the vigorous attention of French customs recently after he was detained for breaching new EU hygiene laws. This might sound a little rich coming from the French, but they don't take no shit in Europe these days. French customs have a new set of guidelines designed to curb their international reputation as a filthy gang of rude thugs. Even if this only means they will now call you ‘Sir' when they have their finger up your arse.
Butler was yanked unceremoniously from the check-in line as a troop of circus animals breezed through on their way home to Bulgaria . The much-loved troubadour was originally suspected of smuggling a ‘ripe cheese' but after being given the stiff-brush treatment by French officials, was discovered to be in possession of nothing other than his own independent brand of musk, Eau du Jarrah.
Despite his protestations to ‘Treat your mama with respect!', Mr Butler was subsequently shaved, hosed down and powdered before being allowed to board a flight to the UK where he will be performing a sell out show at London's Brixton Academy.
British fans have been warned to remain calm and informed that the man on stage in the orange jumpsuit and the shaved head is, in fact, who they've paid to see and not David Hicks.
THE BUBLÉS ARE COMING! THE BUBLÉS ARE COMING!
Seasickness can affect some people so intensely that sufferers have been known to leap overboard to their deaths rather than endure anymore pain.
We can only assume this is the theory Canada is working on by planning to dispatch one of its most potent weapons against Australia for the second time, this time in a deadly two-pronged spring assault on the beachhead in Sydney and Melbourne. And this weapon isn't a nuclear cruise missile – it's the seemingly innocuous and bland caberet singer Michael Bublé.
Even exposure to one of his press releases – let alone his music -- can induce violent nausea, diahorrea and fever. Some copy boys have even been known to claw their eyes out than read any further. “It's worse than Vogon poetry!” wailed one sub-editor as she prepared to leap from a 12-storey window.
Don't believe me? Here's just a taste:
“Since the release of his groundbreakin g debut album, this richly gifted young artist has literally been around the world an astonishing eight times, playing for audiences large and small and, in the process, connecting with music lovers of every description.
"‘I've seen how music can transcend border and boundaries, cultures and creeds,' Michael asserts. ‘It's been an education but, more importantly, it's been an inspiration.'”
Bwwarr g hhhhhhh!! Can't… take much more… must prove… Buble a secret… weapon… destroy us… all…
“‘I want to be tangible to my audience,' says Michael brightly, by way of explaining his virtually non-stop touring itinerary over the past two years. ‘I am so ready to get out there again… and again and again. I love what I do,' laughed Bublé.”
Arrrghhh!! It burns!!!! But I did it. Now you might have some idea of just how devastating this guy would be should he ever be allowed to open his mouth and sing this sort of revolting tripe on a stage before a pack of morons stupid enough to attend his concert. Imagine for a second his sickening rendition of Quando Quando Quando , How Sweet It Is , or more terrifying still, “his own self-penned original” Home – an utterly terrifying ballad which will make your stomach leap out your throat, wrap around your neck and strangle your before you're even three bars in.
This insidious campaign by Canada to make us all ill must be stopped. Write to your local member of parliament and have this vicious tool of the Canadian government quarantined, before it's too late.
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