Sinister: Converted! (NBSC, sorry)

[Tim Hopkins]

Hello chaps,

Sorry I haven't written for a while. The fact is, I have been out of
the country on a fact finding mission. I set off with the intention of
going all the way to Misery, which is a minor provincial town in an
obscure former Soviet republic named Sobriety, but I was kidnapped by
bandits, blindfolded, abused abominably, then shuttled between the twin
rough encampments of Drunk and Disgusting. So you see, I have an
excuse.

My time in captivity made me realise that, by Jingo, I have been
curmudgeonly and closed-minded all these years. So, since my return, I
have taken the opportunity to listen with a new open-mindedness to all
the recommendations which some of you have been kind enough to post for
me while I've been away.

On the subject of the Jefferson Airplane, well, how wrong I have been!
They are indeed not the kind of addled, stinking hippy filth that
should have no place anywhere near audio equipment in a civilised
country. No! 'Surrealistic Pillow' is an appropriate and fabulous name
for an album so packed full of passion, fervour and wit. Oh yes, it
also seems that Grace Slick does not sing like a half-strangled harpy
with a twice life-sized replica of the head of Joan Baez shoved up her
arse, after all.

I quite agree with The Artist Soon To Be Known As Carsmile Steve Again
that the Bee Gees are lovely. And their 1960s Hollies-inspired (and oh!
how inspired!) 1960s output is every bit as delightful as the 1970s
tight pants and wind machine era and the 1990s elder statesmen of
transglobal middle of the road pop phase. Brilliance piles upon
brilliance, and not once in their careers have they been
bandwagon-jumping, crap-haired shovels of guano. My favourite things of
all are the fabulous songs they have written for others:
'Heartbreaker', for example, must have been just that for those
Bacharach and David fellows. Their hearts must have broken clean in two
when they realised what Dionne Warwick could have done if she had been
given a properly constructed song to sing.

That nice Alasdair Cooke wrote from America how much he loved the
Pixies. Which is admirable for a fellow of his age. Rather like his
football skills and his lovely thighs. Anyway, it turns out that he is
absolutely right about the Pixies. How I ever thought they sounded like
a poor quality, tracheotomised Krokus tribute with an unhealthy farm
animal fixation  snorting vim and getting low down and dirty with a
cattle prod in a pigsty, I can't understand. That loud/soft thing they
do is so exciting! And that science fiction thing is so cool!

Sadly, Mister Miller, I can't tell you anything about those strange
records you mention, on the grounds that Ms. Ross was quite right and I
haven't the first foggiest idea what reggae is about. Except 'I Shot
The Sheriff' by Eric Clapton. He invented the guitar, you know.

Ah, and the dear old Who's 1970s output. What a pleasure it was to
listen to it again after all these years. And how true it is that they
can't be understood as sweaty, unpalatable, macho, male-menopausal
rawk. Because, behind all the grunting and the shouting, the power
chords and the cock-thrusting, the lyrics show genuine sensitivity and,
yes, even fragility. Especially on 'Squeeze Box'. Why I ever saw them
as QPR-supporting, standard issue arena rock pish, less appealing than
finding a lump of old, dried Meatloaf jism on your spicy beanburger, I
will never know.

I'm so happy that I have seen the error of my ways.

Oh, and Tag, tennis is still cack.

Tootle pip

Tim



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