Larry Flint

Ride that bike

Jesus, menina!

Martin

Can I explain why I wanted to jump off the top of a tower-block? Of course I can explain why I wanted to jump off the top of a tower-block. I’m not a bloody idiot. I can explain it because it wasn’t inexplicable: it was a logical decision, the product of proper thought. It wasn’t even a very serious thought, either. I don’t mean it was whimsical; I just meant that it wasn’t terribly complicated, or agonized. Put it this way: say you were, I don’t know, an assistant bank manager, in Guildford. And you’d been thinking of emigrating, and then you were offered the job of managing a bank in Sydney. Well, even though it’s a pretty straightforward decision, you’d still have to think for a bit, wouldn’t you? You’d at least have to work out whether you could bear to move, whether you could leave your friends and colleagues behind, whether you could uproot your wife and kids. You might sit down with a bit of paper and draw up a list of pros and cons. You know:

CONS: aged parents, friends, golf club.

PROS: more money, better quality of life (house with pool, barbecue, etc.), sea, sunshine, no left-wing councils banning ‘Baa-Baa Black Sheep’, no EEC directives banning British sausages, etc.

It’s no contest, is it? The golf club! Give me a break. Obviously your aged parents give you pause for thought, but that’s all it is; a pause, and a brief one, too. You’d be on the phone to the travel agents within ten minutes.

Well, that was me. There simply weren’t enough regrets, and lots and lots of reasons to jump. The only things in my ‘cons’ list were the kids, but I couldn’t imagine Cindy letting me see them again anyway. I haven’t got any aged parents, and I don’t play golf. Suicide was my Sydney. And I say that with no offence to the good people of Sydney intended.

Statement from Morrissey

Statement from Morrissey to True-to-you

On these last days of the old year, I thank everyone who attended the 2009 concerts.
My personal favorites were:

1 Dublin
2 Dusseldorf
3 Munich
4 Pomona
5 Warsaw

The three Brixton concerts were dramatic and perfect for me, and there was a great air of adventure in both Estonia and Latvia. The Russian concerts were a big thrill, but in the absence of even a speckle of publicity .. it’s difficult. You begin to feel as if you’re playing to a private club – and, in fact, you are. We pondered on the massive poster-campaigns for others and we wondered how such things become possible. The audiences in Russia were loud and greatly inspiring.
Hope denied in Liverpool, and the physical limits were tipped in Swindon – these were life’s unfortunate lows.
I spent the night at the Great Western Hospital in Swindon where the staff restored my faith in humanity. I had no idea such kindness existed.
There were more stop-start-trap-doors and cancellations this year than ever before, and it’s difficult to keep your mental balance and to remain unclouded at such times. Since every living person appeared to have some strain of flu, there seemed no reason why I should escape it, and I could not listen to medical advice that cautioned me to stand back from the audience and not to shake anyone’s hand. Life has come to this? By tours’ end I had no face worth rearranging.

The landscape of familiar faces who have replaced the Irregular Regulars, and who attend as many of the concerts as possible, continue to astound me. I don’t know how – or even why – they attend so many. It is remarkable, and the financial costs must wipe them out for good. I am repeatedly honored and speechless by their dedication.
There are no 2010 plans to fire me out of a cannon. Hopes of concerts in New Zealand and Australia collapsed under a mound of doubts. That’s life.
Even though you see the death of culture all around you, you also want to raise whatever it is you do to a higher plane, yet there is no one, it seems, who can inch the Morrissey thing forwards. As we all now know, the world of music is purely market-driven – not even youth-driven anymore. Talent or merit or songs do not enter the equation for a split second; the campaign is the thing, the campaign is what is discussed amongst the public, the campaign is what impresses the press, and the songs are never a factor. The labels will only push the “artists” that they themselves have discovered, and have no interest in the self-made, blah, blah. But my parting with Universal is not a negative. I am sorry that “Swords” was such a meek disaster. It was proposed and accepted as a budget-priced CD, yet emerged everywhere as the most expensive CD in the racks. It was poorly distributed and didn’t stand a chance, and ranks as the lowest chart position I’ve ever encountered. I remain steadfastly proud of “Years of refusal”, which along with “You are the quarry” and “Ringleader of the tormentors” are my life’s peaks. These three will allow me to die in peace. I am no longer in the thrall of anything that preceded them; the past is not me.
I was delighted at the radio airplay in England for “I’m throwing my arms around Paris”, which seemed to match both “Suedehead” and “That’s how people grow up” singles for rotation.
However, “I’m throwing my arms around Paris” did not chart in France! … but everything has its time and place…

What does the future hold? What does the next minute hold? It all rests as ever on determination – that which springs from somewhere deeper than the body. Record label interest is zero, but the sun will creep back into the room one way or another. It always does.

Small and bowed, I offer you my eternal thanks, and my hopes for a steady 2010, full of good grace and no darkness.

MORRISSEY
London, December 2009.

Weird, eh?!

Frankenfurter

I couldn’t agree more…

Calvin…

Na vibe natalina…

LITTLE SAINT NICK – THE BEACH BOYS

Oooooooo
Merry Christmas santa
Christmas comes this time each year
Oooooooo oooooooo

Well, way up North where the air gets cold
There’s a tale about Christmas that you’ve all been told
And a real famous cat all dressed up in red
And he spends the whole year workin’ out on his sled.

It’s the little Saint Nick
little Saint Nick
It’s the little Saint Nick
little Saint Nick

Just a little bobsled, we call it ol’ Saint Nick
But she’ll walk a tobogan with a four speed stick
She’s ol’ candy apple red with a ski for a wheel
And when Santa hits the gas, man, just watch her peel.

It’s the little Saint Nick little Saint Nick
It’s the little Saint Nick little Saint Nick

run run reindeer

run run reindeer ahhhhhhhh
run run reindeer

run run reindeer we don’t miss no one
He’s hauling through the snow at a frightenin’ speed,
With a half a dozen deer with a-Rudy to lead,
He’s gotta wear his goggles ’cause the snow really flies
And he’s cruisin’ every pad with a little surprise.

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