Sinister: Odds and Roddds

[Michael Jones]

Attention Earth-Humans,

Though I split my days roughly equally between trips to Rome lobbying
for the canonisation of Terry Scott, lengthy spells in a psychotropic
trance under three inches of gravel close to the A433 outside
Cirencester (in future perhaps I should actually take the time to
*read* the small print in my employment contract), and bursts of
near-silent communication with Anti-Climax (the young anarcho-gamelan
trio in my charge; they're keen but messy), this list has not
completely vaporised in my head-chamber.  Indeed, twice in the last
week my ears have been singed by fanciful mention of my God-given
name.  Although, in one instance I was implicitly accused of writing
something I didn't write, and in the other comments were attributed
to me which I never made, I take this as a sign to write again. 
Press [Delete] now. 

Last night, in a green room, I met a man who used to be in Genesis
when they 'good'*.  I say 'met', but really I just gazed at his
(bronzed, bulky, grey-shaven) neck for a few seconds and then brushed
lightly against his waistcoat.  I was in a fix - ask the WOMADic one
about his Phil Silvers tribute or just plead for some of his cash? 
Ultimately, I did neither - shuffling out of that humid box with a
stolen bottle of Becks.

(* I'm using 'good' in a deeply relative sense.  I know nothing of
the Archangel's pre-1975 work, but I cannot conceive of anything
worse than Buster's back-catalogue.  I am prepared to have my
preconceptions challenged here, however.)

Miles above, on the lunar surface, three men and one woman had just
breezed, crawled, stomped, sashayed and glittered through 27 Love
Songs.  And an oldie.  Oil is too small a word.  We call it liquid
engineering.

In other news, I see airy dismissal of the Later 'Lab has become de
rigueur in these parts.  I'm not having it.  Bathe in the moonglow of
"The Emergency Kisses", let "Escape Pod..." comb concrete dust out of
your hair, gambol up staircases of sparkly wax to "One Note Samba",
plunge headlong into hot souffle with "The Flower Called Nowhere" and
hip-grind yourself into trouble wiv da law alongside "Anonymous
Collective" and *then* come back and tell me you only need Boob
Bubblegum Disko in yr life.  No shirking.

Elsewhere, a boy called Brown opened his closet and the skeleton of
Green Gartside fell out.  No embarrassing bag of bones this.  Step
forth increasingly regular list contributor S. Reynolds (1988), to
tell us of "eerie spaces, opaque, dazzling surfaces, asphyxiating
sweetness" with a caveat that "beauty can be terrorising".  Why isn't
this stuff taught in schools?  "Because it's rubbish", bellows a
sturdy character in a 1954 World Cup t-shirt.

Unless I've been skimming posts even more than usual (and I have), I
don't think there's been over-much examination of the brief, swimmy,
piano-led instrumental which shares track-space with "Judy Slap" on
the ex-hit single (CD version).  I think Chris Jones mentioned it, to
a deafening wall of indifference.  I think it's comfortably the best
thing on there.  Does this have a name of its own?  Shall we give it
one?  "Sticky Farrago".  "Grief Jollies".  "The Path To Rushmere St
Andrew Is Gloomy And Unyielding".   I know you can do better.

I'm going where a lost cause can be found...

Mike x.

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