apolla: (Night Life)
So, you might know that I met a guy called Scott Gorham the other day. I am not here to brag a bit more, in fact, I am here to talk about something more serious.

It was, when I actually think about it, a very odd experience. Brilliant because I got his autograph and exchanged a question with him. Sad because he chose to stop posing for pictures just as I was about to step up. Elating because this is a real rock hero and deflating because it was only an autograph and a moment.

Because like every other fan, I have this feeling that I am different to all the others. More important. Special. Something that separates me from the yelling morons with their faded Bad Reputation t-shirts. Something that makes me a bigger, better fan than anyone else. This isn't something limited to Thin Lizzy or even music. It's the same with everything that has fans. The football fans who claim to have been to thousands of games or the baseball fans in possession of certain baseballs. The fans of Certain Sci-Fi Films That Shall Remain Nameless who queued for tickets earlier than anyone else and saw it more times than anyone else. The Elvis fans who claim to have bought more over-priced tat than the others, the Marilyn Monroe fans who dress up. The Jim Morrison fans who make pilgrimage to Pere-Lachaise. The caravanners who have the biggest caravans or who've visited more sites. The hikers who walk further. The monarchists who own more tea towels or who have been in the hallowed presence of the most royals. The Buffy fans who can remember the most trivia. The Harry Potter fans who bitch loudest/know exactly what an Irish Phoenix is/wrote the OMGmostpopularficevar/I'll stop here cos of who I'm writing to right now.

You get the idea. Part of being a fan isn't just loving something/someone, it's about being seen to do so and being seen to do so more than anyone else. Rock fans are infamous for it. Remember Barry in High Fidelity? The guy who despises you for not knowing as much as him about music and tears you down for knowing as much/more. Fans are funny, funny people.

Part of this came to me while watching The Perfect Catch earlier, but most of this ran through my head on Friday, the Day After Meeting Scott Gorham. Now, I've met Philomena Lynott, Philip's mother. I've met Brian Robertson and I've met Eric Bell, two of the other guitarists. All in the space of one heady afternoon in which I realised a few things:

-There are many, many more Thin Lizzy fans than I ever really believed still existed.
-A lot of them are, outwardly at least, 'bigger' fans than I am. The woman with the tattoo of Philip's face on her arm. The guys who took their collections of Lizzy records to be signed. I realised there's actually a real community going on there.
-I am not even close to being as obsessed as a lot of other people, and I am of the opinion that love and obsession are not quite the same things.
-I also realised that I did not want to meet these people as a fan, I wanted much more to meet them on a more equal footing, as a fellow musician if possible. That I didn't want to just be a fan, grinning ridiculously into the camera as they stand beside me with a sort of strained grin on their face. I wanted to be able to converse with them on important subjects (music, obviously) and for them to be interested in what I had to say because they had some sort of respect for me in turn.

On Thursday, I met Scott Gorham. While fans of things may claim to never choose favourites, they always do. In Lizzy terms, the Prettiest Guitarist That Ever Was ranks below only Philip Lynott as far as I'm concerned. Not for being pretty, but for being consistently cool and decent in the face of overwhelming odds, for being willing to be 'the guy on the left' when the guy on the right was showboating his arse off. So it stands to reason that I should've been over the fucking moon to see him grasping my shiny purple notebook and asking how I spelled my name.

Sure, it was cool, but at the same time I was very 'blah'. Now as you know, I'm very blah about most things in the universe. Birth, life, death all flash past me with barely a quirk of an eyebrow. And although I rushed around a little trying to find a pen (he had his own) and trying to sort out my camera (fallen to the bottom of my bag)... I was remarkably cool in the face of Gorham. Then, as I stepped up to have my picture taken with him and he moved away...

And I didn't really mind. I mean sure, I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't have that small proof of the moment, but I didn't really mind. Honestly, I'd just spent a couple of hours of my life squashed against an amp on the stage (still got a bit of ringing in my ears) staring up at him and John Sykes, ripping my throat out trying to hear myself screeching the lyrics along with them over the sound of said amp. He'd acknowledged me when he was on stage, smiled at me a couple of times. More than that, he'd played a great gig. Why the hell shouldn't he piss off? He had the decency to come over and talk to us despite the cold and slight rain. Some of the fans had been yelling at him to come over even after he'd waved that he going to come over. Smoe of them, from hearing them talk, had been at the show the nights before and had hung around outside then. Why should he waste his night talking to people he talked to the night before and the night before? Perhaps I'm still sane enough to have an inkling as to what it's like for him. John Sykes didn't bother doing anything but get into the car and get chauffeured away... and even that's not entirely unreasonable. They're human beings who get tired and pissed off and hungry and whatever it is you humans do. 

More than that, I didn't like very much the feeling of hanging around outside the stage door. Mostly because I feel like I should be the one coming out of the stage door, but that's a different drama for another day. I felt alternately like a groupie (must've been the fact I was wearing a dress for once) or like an insane fan. I know it seems like it, but my entire life is not Thin Lizzy. My entire life may be rock and roll, but not just my boys. I would never buy a guitar just so it could get signed by Scott Gorham, even if it was a cheap Les Paul copy. The whole thing seemed wrong, somehow, somehow predatory. Perhaps it never used to be like this in the old days, but if anyone knows the old days are gone, it's me. 

Do I yet make sense? While I can laugh and joke about having Scott Gorham's autograph, while I can feel glad that I've at least exchanged words with him, it's not really the point. Because I am different to all the other fans. I am special. I am not like all the other fans. I'm not saying that they should see it that way, but I don't want to be just another fan with a trophy autograph. I want to be a musician and have great conversations with my heroes. I want to see that my heroes are the same as me and yet also great. I was not disappointed by my hero, which is more than many heartbroken fans can say. He wasn't a bad guy. He was thoroughly cool to the gaggle of people there. He answered my question with the same evasive non-answer he always gives, and the same for everyone else. Can you blame him? He's been doing this since 1974 for Lizzy. He's been answering the same questions about Philip since 1986. 

It must be the most infuriating thing to be a hero, or a legend, or a basic celebrity in many ways. In ways that riches do not make up for. We treat them like public property or like old friends, when they are neither. We know something of their lives, so we think we know them, when we do not. Knowing what a person eats for breakfast, having seen them come out of Starbucks or filling a car with petrol, or hearing them speak about their addiction/adultery/new movie does not give us any insight into their real selves. It just feels like it does. I don't know Scott Gorham any better than you know Jake/Tom/Heath/Whoever. Or in fact, any better than I know Jim Morrison or Errol Flynn or Philip Lynott or John Lennon. I have always known that the more I learn about these guys, the less I truly know them. I know enough to know that I don't know them at all. We are given fragments of their lives. Fragments that they let us see and which even when added all together do not create a true or full picture of a person.

This is something I know. I also know this: it is still possible to love them. Even when you're in possession of some of the bad fragments too. They are always distant and sometimes it's not a bad thing if we can accept it as the way it is.

It was cool to meet Scott Gorham, to share a few words with him. Should we meet again, it'll be cool. If he should recall "C L A R E, like the county" then I should likely be pleased as the proverbial Punch. But meeting Scott Gorham did not change my life. It did not bring stars falling from the sky, fairies were not resurrected, my heart did not stop. It was cool, but if you think it even compares to the way the music makes me feel... you have no concept of what it truly means to be a fan. Real fans? Proper ones? They know that it's the music that really counts. That while the people who made it are important, they still don't compare to the music.

So funnily enough, the concert itself was more elating than the moment Scott Gorham asked how I spell my name. God love you Scott, and your hair and the California drawl, but it was always the guitar I cared about.
apolla: (Night Life)
So, you might know that I met a guy called Scott Gorham the other day. I am not here to brag a bit more, in fact, I am here to talk about something more serious.

It was, when I actually think about it, a very odd experience. Brilliant because I got his autograph and exchanged a question with him. Sad because he chose to stop posing for pictures just as I was about to step up. Elating because this is a real rock hero and deflating because it was only an autograph and a moment.

Because like every other fan, I have this feeling that I am different to all the others. More important. Special. Something that separates me from the yelling morons with their faded Bad Reputation t-shirts. Something that makes me a bigger, better fan than anyone else. This isn't something limited to Thin Lizzy or even music. It's the same with everything that has fans. The football fans who claim to have been to thousands of games or the baseball fans in possession of certain baseballs. The fans of Certain Sci-Fi Films That Shall Remain Nameless who queued for tickets earlier than anyone else and saw it more times than anyone else. The Elvis fans who claim to have bought more over-priced tat than the others, the Marilyn Monroe fans who dress up. The Jim Morrison fans who make pilgrimage to Pere-Lachaise. The caravanners who have the biggest caravans or who've visited more sites. The hikers who walk further. The monarchists who own more tea towels or who have been in the hallowed presence of the most royals. The Buffy fans who can remember the most trivia. The Harry Potter fans who bitch loudest/know exactly what an Irish Phoenix is/wrote the OMGmostpopularficevar/I'll stop here cos of who I'm writing to right now.

You get the idea. Part of being a fan isn't just loving something/someone, it's about being seen to do so and being seen to do so more than anyone else. Rock fans are infamous for it. Remember Barry in High Fidelity? The guy who despises you for not knowing as much as him about music and tears you down for knowing as much/more. Fans are funny, funny people.

Part of this came to me while watching The Perfect Catch earlier, but most of this ran through my head on Friday, the Day After Meeting Scott Gorham. Now, I've met Philomena Lynott, Philip's mother. I've met Brian Robertson and I've met Eric Bell, two of the other guitarists. All in the space of one heady afternoon in which I realised a few things:

-There are many, many more Thin Lizzy fans than I ever really believed still existed.
-A lot of them are, outwardly at least, 'bigger' fans than I am. The woman with the tattoo of Philip's face on her arm. The guys who took their collections of Lizzy records to be signed. I realised there's actually a real community going on there.
-I am not even close to being as obsessed as a lot of other people, and I am of the opinion that love and obsession are not quite the same things.
-I also realised that I did not want to meet these people as a fan, I wanted much more to meet them on a more equal footing, as a fellow musician if possible. That I didn't want to just be a fan, grinning ridiculously into the camera as they stand beside me with a sort of strained grin on their face. I wanted to be able to converse with them on important subjects (music, obviously) and for them to be interested in what I had to say because they had some sort of respect for me in turn.

On Thursday, I met Scott Gorham. While fans of things may claim to never choose favourites, they always do. In Lizzy terms, the Prettiest Guitarist That Ever Was ranks below only Philip Lynott as far as I'm concerned. Not for being pretty, but for being consistently cool and decent in the face of overwhelming odds, for being willing to be 'the guy on the left' when the guy on the right was showboating his arse off. So it stands to reason that I should've been over the fucking moon to see him grasping my shiny purple notebook and asking how I spelled my name.

Sure, it was cool, but at the same time I was very 'blah'. Now as you know, I'm very blah about most things in the universe. Birth, life, death all flash past me with barely a quirk of an eyebrow. And although I rushed around a little trying to find a pen (he had his own) and trying to sort out my camera (fallen to the bottom of my bag)... I was remarkably cool in the face of Gorham. Then, as I stepped up to have my picture taken with him and he moved away...

And I didn't really mind. I mean sure, I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't have that small proof of the moment, but I didn't really mind. Honestly, I'd just spent a couple of hours of my life squashed against an amp on the stage (still got a bit of ringing in my ears) staring up at him and John Sykes, ripping my throat out trying to hear myself screeching the lyrics along with them over the sound of said amp. He'd acknowledged me when he was on stage, smiled at me a couple of times. More than that, he'd played a great gig. Why the hell shouldn't he piss off? He had the decency to come over and talk to us despite the cold and slight rain. Some of the fans had been yelling at him to come over even after he'd waved that he going to come over. Smoe of them, from hearing them talk, had been at the show the nights before and had hung around outside then. Why should he waste his night talking to people he talked to the night before and the night before? Perhaps I'm still sane enough to have an inkling as to what it's like for him. John Sykes didn't bother doing anything but get into the car and get chauffeured away... and even that's not entirely unreasonable. They're human beings who get tired and pissed off and hungry and whatever it is you humans do. 

More than that, I didn't like very much the feeling of hanging around outside the stage door. Mostly because I feel like I should be the one coming out of the stage door, but that's a different drama for another day. I felt alternately like a groupie (must've been the fact I was wearing a dress for once) or like an insane fan. I know it seems like it, but my entire life is not Thin Lizzy. My entire life may be rock and roll, but not just my boys. I would never buy a guitar just so it could get signed by Scott Gorham, even if it was a cheap Les Paul copy. The whole thing seemed wrong, somehow, somehow predatory. Perhaps it never used to be like this in the old days, but if anyone knows the old days are gone, it's me. 

Do I yet make sense? While I can laugh and joke about having Scott Gorham's autograph, while I can feel glad that I've at least exchanged words with him, it's not really the point. Because I am different to all the other fans. I am special. I am not like all the other fans. I'm not saying that they should see it that way, but I don't want to be just another fan with a trophy autograph. I want to be a musician and have great conversations with my heroes. I want to see that my heroes are the same as me and yet also great. I was not disappointed by my hero, which is more than many heartbroken fans can say. He wasn't a bad guy. He was thoroughly cool to the gaggle of people there. He answered my question with the same evasive non-answer he always gives, and the same for everyone else. Can you blame him? He's been doing this since 1974 for Lizzy. He's been answering the same questions about Philip since 1986. 

It must be the most infuriating thing to be a hero, or a legend, or a basic celebrity in many ways. In ways that riches do not make up for. We treat them like public property or like old friends, when they are neither. We know something of their lives, so we think we know them, when we do not. Knowing what a person eats for breakfast, having seen them come out of Starbucks or filling a car with petrol, or hearing them speak about their addiction/adultery/new movie does not give us any insight into their real selves. It just feels like it does. I don't know Scott Gorham any better than you know Jake/Tom/Heath/Whoever. Or in fact, any better than I know Jim Morrison or Errol Flynn or Philip Lynott or John Lennon. I have always known that the more I learn about these guys, the less I truly know them. I know enough to know that I don't know them at all. We are given fragments of their lives. Fragments that they let us see and which even when added all together do not create a true or full picture of a person.

This is something I know. I also know this: it is still possible to love them. Even when you're in possession of some of the bad fragments too. They are always distant and sometimes it's not a bad thing if we can accept it as the way it is.

It was cool to meet Scott Gorham, to share a few words with him. Should we meet again, it'll be cool. If he should recall "C L A R E, like the county" then I should likely be pleased as the proverbial Punch. But meeting Scott Gorham did not change my life. It did not bring stars falling from the sky, fairies were not resurrected, my heart did not stop. It was cool, but if you think it even compares to the way the music makes me feel... you have no concept of what it truly means to be a fan. Real fans? Proper ones? They know that it's the music that really counts. That while the people who made it are important, they still don't compare to the music.

So funnily enough, the concert itself was more elating than the moment Scott Gorham asked how I spell my name. God love you Scott, and your hair and the California drawl, but it was always the guitar I cared about.

Question

Thursday, 30 March 2006 00:56
apolla: (Lyooominous)
What is it about the cast of Friends that puts them into some of the most pointless films ever made? Not just bad films, but pointless ones?

All The Queen's Men makes Lost In Space look like Battleship Potemkin. And that's just Joey.

Question

Thursday, 30 March 2006 00:56
apolla: (Lyooominous)
What is it about the cast of Friends that puts them into some of the most pointless films ever made? Not just bad films, but pointless ones?

All The Queen's Men makes Lost In Space look like Battleship Potemkin. And that's just Joey.

Dude.

Sunday, 27 November 2005 22:34
apolla: (Jailbreak)

OK, so I'm watching this thing called The Queen's Sister, a drama fact/fiction thing about Princess Margaret.

It's so-so blah, except that the dude who plays Charles Bingley in the movie Pride and Prejudice just turned up as Roddy Llewellyn. Yes, Charles Bingley is supposed to be the Princess' lover. I don't buy it. Also, he looks a lot like Paul Bettany when he's mot kitted out in the old regency stuff. I'm freaked out now.

And you know, some will say this was a controversial look at Margaret's life, but it totally isn't. Until we see the old girl get down on her hands and knees and snort cocaine off the carpet (as she's reputed to have done after someone spilled it) I shan't consider it much at all. And you know, if this is a decent portrayal of Princess Meg, then someone was up her own arse with her own self-importance. I don't mind royalty, but I do mind them genuinely believing that they're better than everyone else just because they were born that way. Great people make themselves, they are not born.

I've also spent quite a lot of money on eBay this weekend on vintage stuff. I finally found a pair of knee-length boots I can live with (as opposed to a pair I truly like, which will only be possible when I am sat in front of a genius bootmaker and she/he makes it around my fucked up feet) so I might actually wear some of the shit I own.

Except I probably won't, and will continue to wear the same pair of black trousers and white shirt as always. I would like to look stupendous on a daily basis, but I suppose I just can't be fucking bothered.

"I just can't be fucking bothered" is my motto, the reason I am where I am and not where I actually want to be.

Permanent apathy is a bitch, but I don't care enough to change it.

Top Gear was fucking hilarious today though. Nothing like watching a small bloke trying to get a massive supercar out of a tiny Parisian car park.

Dude.

Sunday, 27 November 2005 22:34
apolla: (Jailbreak)

OK, so I'm watching this thing called The Queen's Sister, a drama fact/fiction thing about Princess Margaret.

It's so-so blah, except that the dude who plays Charles Bingley in the movie Pride and Prejudice just turned up as Roddy Llewellyn. Yes, Charles Bingley is supposed to be the Princess' lover. I don't buy it. Also, he looks a lot like Paul Bettany when he's mot kitted out in the old regency stuff. I'm freaked out now.

And you know, some will say this was a controversial look at Margaret's life, but it totally isn't. Until we see the old girl get down on her hands and knees and snort cocaine off the carpet (as she's reputed to have done after someone spilled it) I shan't consider it much at all. And you know, if this is a decent portrayal of Princess Meg, then someone was up her own arse with her own self-importance. I don't mind royalty, but I do mind them genuinely believing that they're better than everyone else just because they were born that way. Great people make themselves, they are not born.

I've also spent quite a lot of money on eBay this weekend on vintage stuff. I finally found a pair of knee-length boots I can live with (as opposed to a pair I truly like, which will only be possible when I am sat in front of a genius bootmaker and she/he makes it around my fucked up feet) so I might actually wear some of the shit I own.

Except I probably won't, and will continue to wear the same pair of black trousers and white shirt as always. I would like to look stupendous on a daily basis, but I suppose I just can't be fucking bothered.

"I just can't be fucking bothered" is my motto, the reason I am where I am and not where I actually want to be.

Permanent apathy is a bitch, but I don't care enough to change it.

Top Gear was fucking hilarious today though. Nothing like watching a small bloke trying to get a massive supercar out of a tiny Parisian car park.

Growl.

Wednesday, 16 November 2005 01:15
apolla: (Fleen)

My plane back from Rome Ciampino was an hour late and for no particularly good reason. When it finally got us back to Stansted, they made us all get off the plane at the front, presumably so they didn't have to pay for two lots of stairs. The plane got in at eleven pm and we finallymade it to our car an hour later. This is not a big airport, man. Grr.

Then I get home,  tired and dischuffed, to discover that Mark Lamarr has quit Never Mind The Buzzcocks except not really and he'll be back in 2007 (if it hasn't all gone arse over head without him) and joy of joys: Jason Donovan Set To Play Errol Flynn.

If I were not so very tired, if my head had not been aching almost constantly since at least Saturday afternoon, I would give you some indication of how totally fucking stupid this would be. Bitterly, bitterly ironic from my point of view, but totally stupid. Jason Donovan as The World's Most Beautiful Man? Jason Donovan as The World's Most Charming Man? Jason Donovan as The Greatest Swashbuckler To Ever Sail The Studio Seas? I think not. If I were not so tired, I would say more, but I am that tired and all I can say is this: PLEASE GOD NO!

Also: Best Thing Ever: walking towards St Peter's seeing a nun walking down the street side by side with someone wearing a Kurt Cobain t-shirt. Genius. Had I known about this Jason Donovan thing, I might have spent a great deal of time in the basilica praying to the Lord God Almighty for some seriously divine intervention.

Growl.

Wednesday, 16 November 2005 01:15
apolla: (Fleen)

My plane back from Rome Ciampino was an hour late and for no particularly good reason. When it finally got us back to Stansted, they made us all get off the plane at the front, presumably so they didn't have to pay for two lots of stairs. The plane got in at eleven pm and we finallymade it to our car an hour later. This is not a big airport, man. Grr.

Then I get home,  tired and dischuffed, to discover that Mark Lamarr has quit Never Mind The Buzzcocks except not really and he'll be back in 2007 (if it hasn't all gone arse over head without him) and joy of joys: Jason Donovan Set To Play Errol Flynn.

If I were not so very tired, if my head had not been aching almost constantly since at least Saturday afternoon, I would give you some indication of how totally fucking stupid this would be. Bitterly, bitterly ironic from my point of view, but totally stupid. Jason Donovan as The World's Most Beautiful Man? Jason Donovan as The World's Most Charming Man? Jason Donovan as The Greatest Swashbuckler To Ever Sail The Studio Seas? I think not. If I were not so tired, I would say more, but I am that tired and all I can say is this: PLEASE GOD NO!

Also: Best Thing Ever: walking towards St Peter's seeing a nun walking down the street side by side with someone wearing a Kurt Cobain t-shirt. Genius. Had I known about this Jason Donovan thing, I might have spent a great deal of time in the basilica praying to the Lord God Almighty for some seriously divine intervention.

Episode Three

Saturday, 5 November 2005 16:51
apolla: (Phantom)

I've finally bothered to watch Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sniff, or whatever it's called.

Last fifteen minutes were pretty marvellous. Sadly, the two hours preceeding were filled with idiot dialogue, so much CGI that it was hard to focus and enough wooden acting to replant the Amazon rainforest.

I know that my hatred of George Lucas is well-known, so I won't bore you with that. I will tell you this: I would really love to love Star Wars. I think it's a great idea and although I disliked Episode II, I at least came away understanding a bit better about Vader in the OT. I just didn't realise that the petulant teenager thing would run over into the third installment too. I would love to love Star Wars, but it's not going to happen because these just aren't very good films. The original ones suffer only from the genuinely shite and primitive technology used (although that never really stood in Harryhausen's way...) but the recent lot are just... naff. It's like they creak under the weight of what they precede, and so perhaps that's why only the last fifteen minutes of III really stood out for me. I don't know.

I'd love to love Star Wars, but it's just not going to happen. Not while I'm laughing at dialogue that's supposed to be making my eyes damp or yawning at Yet Another Effect.

Episode Three

Saturday, 5 November 2005 16:51
apolla: (Phantom)

I've finally bothered to watch Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sniff, or whatever it's called.

Last fifteen minutes were pretty marvellous. Sadly, the two hours preceeding were filled with idiot dialogue, so much CGI that it was hard to focus and enough wooden acting to replant the Amazon rainforest.

I know that my hatred of George Lucas is well-known, so I won't bore you with that. I will tell you this: I would really love to love Star Wars. I think it's a great idea and although I disliked Episode II, I at least came away understanding a bit better about Vader in the OT. I just didn't realise that the petulant teenager thing would run over into the third installment too. I would love to love Star Wars, but it's not going to happen because these just aren't very good films. The original ones suffer only from the genuinely shite and primitive technology used (although that never really stood in Harryhausen's way...) but the recent lot are just... naff. It's like they creak under the weight of what they precede, and so perhaps that's why only the last fifteen minutes of III really stood out for me. I don't know.

I'd love to love Star Wars, but it's just not going to happen. Not while I'm laughing at dialogue that's supposed to be making my eyes damp or yawning at Yet Another Effect.

apolla: (Philip)

THE FUCKING CORRS THE FUCKING CORRS!

The dreary little bastards have done a cover of my most dear Philip's single 'Old Town'. This was, back in the day, a great and infectious, yet terribly melancholic ode to the town he loved so well and which he never wanted to leave.

Philip wrote it to tell the world that he loved Dublin. It's become a great Dublin anthem. It has the kind of beautifully classical-style piano melody that I've only heard in pop music in 'In My Life'. The video for said song was filmed in Dublin, on the Ha'penny Bridge and down the streets and by the river. It has reduced me to a weeping wreck of a human because it combines, in three and a half minutes, the eternal contradiction of Irish effervescence and Irish melancholy. Philip knew it, and I've known it. The two threads are impossible to tear apart, you know, so he didn't bother. It's a beautiful and happy song with a story of heartbreak and sadness. Typical Philip, typical Ireland, really.

So how can the FUCKING CORRS, who make Coldplay look hard and cutting edge and make Lionel Blair look like the coolest man on the planet, how can they POSSIBLY JUSTIFY covering this song? I thought about it once, then realised that it was probably a waste of my fucking time. SOME SONGS SHOULD BE LEFT WELL ALONE. I'm not one to completely demand the sulphuric wrath of God Himself without checking it out, so I went off to the Corrs Website, and sure enough, there's a link to a little clip of the song. So I clicked on it.

The original suffered a little for its 80s orchestration and production, but not overly so. Philip sang with subtle emotion, careful and probably even thoughtful inflection. Singing Corr, whichever of the little bints she is, sounds more affected and insincere than Britney trying to convince the world that she's actually a really classy sort of a girl, with taste and restraint. She's trying so fucking hard and it makes me want to take a wire-wool brush to my own soul. The piano sounds like it was recorded by the PG Chimps in their piano-moving advert while the drums sound like a five year old with some saucepans and just as fucking clunky. Robert Plant has more fucking rhythm than this record. There is no fucking love for this song, nor in the clips of the trad. stuff I checked out there because I like to be informed.. It's like the exact opposite of Van Morrison's album with the Chieftans, Irish Heartbeat. That record made my heart swell to Grinch-at-the-end-of-the-film proportions, made me long for the land I loved so well, made me proud to have come from the same place as that music. This record makes me want to swear eternal allegiance to the Queen and promise never even to listen to Paddy McGinty's Goat ever again (almost). This is a CHEAP AND NASTY cash-in on the fact that everywhere the FUCKING CORRS go, they get asked to do Irish music, cos they're er, Irish.

FUCK THEM. IT'S SHIT. IF YOU WERE THINKING OF BUYING IT (and I find it unlikely anyone on my flist would, but you guys surprise me sometimes) DON'T FUCKING BOTHER. BUY PHILIP'S RECORD INSTEAD.

Hell, if you want to hear the original version, I'll email you it. I'm listening to it on this computer right now. Sure, I've heard some bad covers in my time, notably Sway by Michael Bubbleheaded-Wanker-Not-Sinatra, or the entirety of Swing When You're Winning by Robbie 'Talentless dancer twat from Stoke' Williams. I've heard some dodgy rock covers too. I didn't even like Jeff Buckley's rather wearing cover of Thin Lizzy's 'Dancing In The Moonlight', but I'd happily make that the sole soundtrack to my eternity in the frigid depths of HELL with Phil Collins as my voicemail ringtone instead of this VAPID NO-USE BANALITY OF A TRAVESTY FROM A GROUP I DIDN'T THINK COULD GET ANY MORE VANILLA COMA-INDUCING SHITEY BOLLOCKS WASTE OF TIME WORSE!

KILL ME NOW. SEND ME TO PHILIP, FOR I CANNOT STAND THE EVIL ANY LONGER.

Ironically, throughout this whole post, I've typed 'Coors' and had to go back and correct it. Which is ironic because this has turned me to drink. I'm fucking off to get my bottle of Jamesons. And a straw. See you on the other side. Again, this avatar seems to say everything I need it to, and on behalf of said man. To think, had he lived, my boy might've been able to stop the Corrs in their tracks. By, you know, being BETTER THAN THEM AT THIS CAPER.

I am, to paraphrase Fletcher, extremely fucking dis-chuffed.

apolla: (Philip)

THE FUCKING CORRS THE FUCKING CORRS!

The dreary little bastards have done a cover of my most dear Philip's single 'Old Town'. This was, back in the day, a great and infectious, yet terribly melancholic ode to the town he loved so well and which he never wanted to leave.

Philip wrote it to tell the world that he loved Dublin. It's become a great Dublin anthem. It has the kind of beautifully classical-style piano melody that I've only heard in pop music in 'In My Life'. The video for said song was filmed in Dublin, on the Ha'penny Bridge and down the streets and by the river. It has reduced me to a weeping wreck of a human because it combines, in three and a half minutes, the eternal contradiction of Irish effervescence and Irish melancholy. Philip knew it, and I've known it. The two threads are impossible to tear apart, you know, so he didn't bother. It's a beautiful and happy song with a story of heartbreak and sadness. Typical Philip, typical Ireland, really.

So how can the FUCKING CORRS, who make Coldplay look hard and cutting edge and make Lionel Blair look like the coolest man on the planet, how can they POSSIBLY JUSTIFY covering this song? I thought about it once, then realised that it was probably a waste of my fucking time. SOME SONGS SHOULD BE LEFT WELL ALONE. I'm not one to completely demand the sulphuric wrath of God Himself without checking it out, so I went off to the Corrs Website, and sure enough, there's a link to a little clip of the song. So I clicked on it.

The original suffered a little for its 80s orchestration and production, but not overly so. Philip sang with subtle emotion, careful and probably even thoughtful inflection. Singing Corr, whichever of the little bints she is, sounds more affected and insincere than Britney trying to convince the world that she's actually a really classy sort of a girl, with taste and restraint. She's trying so fucking hard and it makes me want to take a wire-wool brush to my own soul. The piano sounds like it was recorded by the PG Chimps in their piano-moving advert while the drums sound like a five year old with some saucepans and just as fucking clunky. Robert Plant has more fucking rhythm than this record. There is no fucking love for this song, nor in the clips of the trad. stuff I checked out there because I like to be informed.. It's like the exact opposite of Van Morrison's album with the Chieftans, Irish Heartbeat. That record made my heart swell to Grinch-at-the-end-of-the-film proportions, made me long for the land I loved so well, made me proud to have come from the same place as that music. This record makes me want to swear eternal allegiance to the Queen and promise never even to listen to Paddy McGinty's Goat ever again (almost). This is a CHEAP AND NASTY cash-in on the fact that everywhere the FUCKING CORRS go, they get asked to do Irish music, cos they're er, Irish.

FUCK THEM. IT'S SHIT. IF YOU WERE THINKING OF BUYING IT (and I find it unlikely anyone on my flist would, but you guys surprise me sometimes) DON'T FUCKING BOTHER. BUY PHILIP'S RECORD INSTEAD.

Hell, if you want to hear the original version, I'll email you it. I'm listening to it on this computer right now. Sure, I've heard some bad covers in my time, notably Sway by Michael Bubbleheaded-Wanker-Not-Sinatra, or the entirety of Swing When You're Winning by Robbie 'Talentless dancer twat from Stoke' Williams. I've heard some dodgy rock covers too. I didn't even like Jeff Buckley's rather wearing cover of Thin Lizzy's 'Dancing In The Moonlight', but I'd happily make that the sole soundtrack to my eternity in the frigid depths of HELL with Phil Collins as my voicemail ringtone instead of this VAPID NO-USE BANALITY OF A TRAVESTY FROM A GROUP I DIDN'T THINK COULD GET ANY MORE VANILLA COMA-INDUCING SHITEY BOLLOCKS WASTE OF TIME WORSE!

KILL ME NOW. SEND ME TO PHILIP, FOR I CANNOT STAND THE EVIL ANY LONGER.

Ironically, throughout this whole post, I've typed 'Coors' and had to go back and correct it. Which is ironic because this has turned me to drink. I'm fucking off to get my bottle of Jamesons. And a straw. See you on the other side. Again, this avatar seems to say everything I need it to, and on behalf of said man. To think, had he lived, my boy might've been able to stop the Corrs in their tracks. By, you know, being BETTER THAN THEM AT THIS CAPER.

I am, to paraphrase Fletcher, extremely fucking dis-chuffed.

apolla: (Rock Chick)

This is my second attempt at writing this in a manner that is articulate, intelligent and succinct. Not sure how it's going to work out, given that I'm still in the "OMG!" stage. I'll leave my other stuff in the old post, cos I'm sure that most people reading this aren't going to give a flying one about my wander through St Stephen's Green and Dublin Castle.

I might as well just cut to the chase.

Friday Afternoon: Philo. VERY NOT DIALUP FRIENDLY. MANY PICTURES )

Saturday )

The Concert )

To borrow a phrase from Bernard Cribbins: And then we went home. PS. Don't nick my photographs. I doubt any of you would want to, but a vague disclaimer is nobody's friend.

apolla: (Rock Chick)

This is my second attempt at writing this in a manner that is articulate, intelligent and succinct. Not sure how it's going to work out, given that I'm still in the "OMG!" stage. I'll leave my other stuff in the old post, cos I'm sure that most people reading this aren't going to give a flying one about my wander through St Stephen's Green and Dublin Castle.

I might as well just cut to the chase.

Friday Afternoon: Philo. VERY NOT DIALUP FRIENDLY. MANY PICTURES )

Saturday )

The Concert )

To borrow a phrase from Bernard Cribbins: And then we went home. PS. Don't nick my photographs. I doubt any of you would want to, but a vague disclaimer is nobody's friend.

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