Now Re-Proof corrected!

(Apologies for the earlier frakk up with this post - thanks to all good shipmates for pitching in - i am HTMentaLly challenged!)

(Written in the 90s, the occasional game was - write a fic while listening to an LP, the catch being that you only had the length of the album to do it. These 3 very different pieces - Elvis, Wings, Dylan - were the best of what I could manage and they are languishing still at the vaults of Pittas where I banished them about 7 years ago. How I came to be listening to these particular albums is a story for which the world is not yet prepared.
Hope they're of interest. These are most definitely Adult pieces - complex themes, bad language, possibly disturbing images - but i don't think they qualify as Slash (-?-). Whispers: some bits are even supposed to be funny.

ELVIS - AS RECORDED AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN 1972.

************************************************************************

SIDE ONE:

introduction - also sprach zarathustra (theme from 2001):

 

- honey - sure is a pleasure to be talking to you. sure is.

( Read More... )

too many people don't give a man a chance -
 

not in this world.
 

But thass alright mama - i just keep singin'....

Proud Mary:

 

just keep singing mama keep singing to my mama proud mama -

yes m'am

a real strong woman i remember and she is here now i remember

eyes never looked nothing but proud proud priscilla waves me off

from the army base and pretty soon she's waving me outta the

d.i.v.o.r.c.e court. well there is a higher court i know. spilling

drinks on the formica, seein the face of mama

used to tell me

you can see them elvis... enemies and pay no mind. you just KEEP ON

BURNIN... yeah honey i can see - in my tv. in my tv - gonna get my

gun mama gonna get ma gun and -

 

Never been to Spain:

 

what DOES it matter???

 

You don't have to say you love me:

You've lost that lovin feeling

 

and -

i guess i got a little confused there - its very dark, very dark,

dark as the valley of shadow as it says in the book. how did i get

here?

 

Polk Salad Annie:

 

so i remember skippin down beale street i was a jive cat a real

gone cat real gone. just can't get things to gooooo nooooo mooore.

honey remember hot afternoons hanging out at the radio shack mister

i gotta song yeah i gotta tune mama this one is for you and the sun

used to come off the side of the cars like a fist. smell of sausage

n shame n good to be alive and i'm alive coz jess is in the ground

and he don't get to eat nothin.

Love Me:

All shook up:

 

so i guess what i'm sayin girl, is the good times were real

and i am the one will testify to that and are you gonna turn away -

he who is not for me is against me baby.

 

Heartbreak Hotel:

 

an i remember she took me up the steps... paper peelin of the walls

like the place had goddamn leprosy and the voice of my mama sayin it

will be a sin you are doing son but i am gonna be a man today and i

will be a man n jess aint never gonna be nuthin and goddamn someone

has to be a man around here and i can hear a screamin little black

chile callin outta the back n the woman saying 'you hush now it aint

nuthin' and she's right it aint nuthin here ok - nuthin but

heartbreak.

 

Medley: Teddy Bear, Don't be Cruel, Love me tender:

and don't we all need a little love honey it's whats makes the world go

round love i can feel love i need like peanut butter hot soft love a

man could get fat on love alone.

 

SIDE TWO:

The impossible dream:

 

so when the nurse came she said "- jesus are you really elvis

presley? you really him? don't look like him... bad shape n all"

so i said to the colonel - you fire this motherfucker right now

and we got ourselves a real nice nurse and she called me E and

sneaked in chicken for breakfast and she didn't mind if i had my own

ways with the medicine she really didn't - i explained my system -

its all the numbers gotta get the numbers right - the numbers

CORRECT - and no man will go wrong - a man gets to be KING this way honey...

 

Hound Dog:

 

and she laughed when i sang HOUND DOG under the oxygen mask

and agreed that my star was gonna rise again.

 

Suspicious Minds:

 

i remember when the sudden texas wind nearly blew our car clean off

the road and the sky turned satan's only black and hail like bullets

damn bullets flying and we locked down and off the road and lisa

cryin and me laughing fit to bust and priscilla lookin at me

like 'you done this on purpose elvis - why'd ya have to go make a

storm?' n i looked in her eyes an i knew she had slept with mike

stone and i was gonna kill that sombitch straight off.

i got gods own karate to call on brothers and sisters i have the

karate of RIGHTEOUSNESS on mah side.

 

For the good times:

 

well thas all gone now honey all gone - dark eyes of my little lisa

marie dark eyes of the first horse i bought her and a dark hole in

the ground is where my eyes are now. people never notice - i just

wear mah shades and no/one will say 'man he has no eyes'

coz thas some heavy shit.

 

American Trilogy:

and the people went through this - for ME - planting corn that would

not grow and fightin battles they was only fit to lose and the dirt

roads blowin straw and blood skin dust and that was why they done

these things so i could get born. and i got born alright. and i have

come and throughout ALL MY TRIALS LORD i have borne that cross with a

mighty sense. and i have made us a mighty nation in my sight. amen.

 

Funny How Time Slips Away:

spilling drinks on the formica yellow saliva man yellow and i aint

got no eyes and you better not say that and ya better not wake me man

tell the colonel i'm sleepin i'm slippin tell ma brother mama and

maybe i can make my skin turn turn silver like the foil on this motel

window... i read that silver skin is best for astral projecting and

graceland is a ghostland now honey and i am on the road.

 

I can't stop loving you:

Can't help falling in love:

 

so m'am, don't take the easy road don't ever take the easy

road because you know - it leads away from the king.

and i have come into the Garden and lord, my disciples are asleep.

*************************************************************************

ELVIS - AS RECORDED AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN 1972.

*************************************************************************

nv 97/99

 

....................................................................................................................................

WINGS: Red Rose Speedway. 1973:

Big Barn Bed

 

• The 1970’s first presented the idea of identity as commodity. Discuss.
• Paul McCartney was born. Paul McCartney was born, Liverpool, 1942. Discuss.
• Paul McCartney was born. Paul McCartney was born, London, 1962. Discuss.
• What sells beyond any specific commodity is the art of selling itself. Discuss.

While everyone hates a salesman… that hatred is the envy of primitive tribes-people for their village shaman. In this sense, says Paul, I am Paul as McCartney immaculate.

My Love

In the aftermath of her miscarriage Linda became hooked on valium. It was beautiful. Sunny days drifting round the small terrace house watching the light dance from her paisley kaftan. One time a cheery young scout came knocking on the door, looking for odd jobs. She gave him a valium too. The twin miseries of marriage and Merseyside became less tangible – sadness became a kind of light. In the mirror she would often watch the sadness twinkling in her eyes. Everything was becoming hard to place. “You’ll lose me too one of these days” Paul often muttered. In the aftermath of the Beatle break-up Linda had urged her husband to start anew; to move to America and form a new band. But then came the miscarriage and Paul seemed simply content to sit on his royalties and live the life of a common Liverpudlian.

“Daddy knows best” he would often say.

Perhaps the music would come again if she had a child??? But Linda was afraid. And fear was a cold place she refused to enter again. Her daughter, Heather, had gone back to her father in the states. She had hated Liverpool. And with that final absence the silence had come down like a sudden mist. Or a good valium. Her husband loved she was sure of that. She wondered if he could taste the valium on her tongue.

Get on the right thing:

His ambition had always to be in The Beatles. As a child he stared at their grainy TV faces and smiled in return. As a teenager he had grown his hair and taken to wearing a suit and bright shorts. Daydreaming of Carnaby and Mr Fish, he would often be found aimlessly wandering around the high street gazing into shop windows and fantasising their secret and hidden interiors. Interiors that would be open to him one day. When Paul McCartney formed Wings he was glad. Paul had always been his favourite, with the best voice and the most sense. He was shaken by the news that the band were to be touring with a low profile. Finding them was going to be hard. He bolstered himself by buying a brand new blue and sequined velvet jacket that he would wear when they played. The days of unknowing were a hell, nonetheless.

Finally, an excited friend from the Dr Who fan club rang and told him. Hull.

They’re playing in Hull.

Gritting his teeth, he collected his money and hit the road. He amused himself on the long tedious and not entirely safe hitchhiking voyage by making songs up as he went. Each line would feature the name of the town or county he was passing through. He smiled, knowing somehow that this was the sort of game that McCartney himself would play, in the back of his tour bus. He could make a hit out of anything. These yellow telephone boxes for instance.

They were winking at him in a dizzy welcome.

Dizzy as stage lights.

Low burning - as McCartney revved up for the final encore. They’d already done ‘Hi Hi Hi’ and ‘My Love’ so what was left was jamming – a fantastic fun filled ride through the old Crickets number Rave On. It was a moment of climax and he felt himself lose all control. Here in this place, in this jacket, in front of this band, with THAT man… he felt, quite suddenly, the folding together of time and space, gathered behind him for an instant like canvas – he was sliding, sliding down, towards the stage. He barely felt the impact. He seemed to exist without consciousness. The pain called forth only a purely animal reaction. A grunt as he rolled onto his back, gazing straight up through watering eyes at the be-sequined Deus that was Paul McCartney.

It had been worth it.

He had never left home before. Never travelled and now he was at the feet of his idol.

Surely Paul must understand?

He gazed on imploring and the multicoloured McCartney before him slowly raised his thumb. An acknowledgement! The thumb upright! It caught the light in a dazzling digit smile. YES. YES. YES!!!!!!!!!!

One More Kiss:

Paul didn’t exactly remember where he had buried the body but… it was somewhere round here. The wind was cold and came off the coast in asthmatic gasps. He remembered how her final breath had been snatched by the wind as he bent down to her for one last kiss. He had felt cheated. If he could have got that final breath inside him – that would have made the difference. He could have carried her inside him. Affectionately. Now all he had were a few shreds of lace and resentment. Most of all he hated the creaky sound his bicycle made as he cycled back from the beach. He was a terrible cyclist and was very afraid of the traffic.

Little Lamb/Dragonfly

Feeling suddenly alone, Paul McCartney let the joint in his hand droop a little as he opened the kitchen window. A little puff of paint and plaster fluttered up as he fumbled with the little used catch. He coughed as the first gasp of air touched him but it was fresh at least. The sun was straining to get through the mist from the previous night. For a moment the hazy light dazzled his eyes to a squint and his ears buzzed. Maybe that was the dope he thought. No, I just feel rotten.

Last night had really been lousy and today he was supposed to sit here and write songs. He had set himself that as a task; writing on a large piece of greasy proof paper that he and Stella had been crayoning on. ‘Tuesday Morning: SONGS.’ There was a little picture of dad and daughter next to his over large scrawl. Eyes are buttons and mouths in an ‘O’. He sighed; right now it just made him feel worse. He missed the band. The real band. He was a Beatle. But the Beatles was dead. He remembered the terror that had first struck him with the realisation that band was gone. Lonely nights in the barn, crying into the floor, smacked out of his mind, feeling that, in some ways, he might just as well be dead too.

The buzzing was louder now and McCartney could see a little insect busying itself above the remains of his toast and honey that were set idly on the windowsill. It was a dragonfly. Pretty, he thought. “Maybe I could write a song about you?” The insect gave no sign of hearing him. His mother had always hated dragonflies. Holidays in Southport and there was always wasps and insects and then back to the garden only to find them there as well. So off to the country, the heart of the country and what did they find? Insects. Bleeding dragonflies. He remembers his mother scowling, tight lipped. “They’re nothing but beetles with wings”.

Beatles with Wings.

It was almost one of those moments.

Macca could feel a song coming on.

He closed his eyes the better to receive it. His left hand lurched for the acoustic guitar leaning against the kitchen wall. He took a deep breath –

and plunged straight into the horror of last night.

The old ewe giving strangled birth to a bare formed crippled lamb that McCartney had been forced to kill. To kill, with his hands. He was shaking now. He had been shaking then.

Shuddering at the spongy mass in his hand the yellow muccoid flesh with its soft patches of hair and fur, the head flung back lips blue and the eyes so sad and empty. McCartney knew that look well enough. He had been one of the few people allowed to know it. John didn’t let his guard down often, god knew. Sheep’s eyes. Paul’s were watering. Am I crying? He wondered. McCartney never cried. Rubbed ineffectually at his face with a sticky red hand. JESUS! He was still holding the dead thing. Spastically he let it drop and fell sideways, a thin line of vomit extending from his nostrils.

Opening his eyes quite suddenly Paul could see out across the grey green sweep of the mull. The sun was finally shining. He could see the fresh blooming tangles of wild purple heather scattered far and wide. He could see the green trees off to the north and the flashing birds they attracted. Within the trees was a lake. He often took Linda and the kids there for picnics, when the weather was good. Yes – the weather was turning now alright. Something like salt on the air. He smiled down at the still droning dragonfly.

Was does a Beatle do when it dies? It gets reborn with Wings…

Now there was a hopeful thought.

He smiled and strummed the first chord.

Single Pigeon:

Macca sighed as he watched the brown swirl of the Mersey meet the brown paper of his chip wrapping. He knew that all too soon there would be a swirl of brown ale piss to join them. In fact, he thought, no time like the present…. His father always said that… he didn’t usually have his dick in his hand at the same time, mind. Couldn’t say the same about meself… thought M with a rueful smile. After all, that was why he was here. That was why Sheila had thrown him out for the time. He began to whistle and sing. ‘Pissing… cross the Mersey’.

He wondered what he should do with his night on the tiles. Go to the flicks p’raps. It was a Hammer show so he might be in with a fumble. Or there was always the Palais. But no… there was a band on there, so that was no good. He hated the Beatles. They were shit.

Faintly now, Macca could hear the approaching sound of a brass band. Hands in pockets he turned towards them. In Liverpool, there was always the sally army, he thought. Thank god for that.

When the night:

During the Blitz, Paul often wished out loud that he could be in the forces, but was secretly glad he wasn’t. Deaf in one ear, which he blamed his father for, (dad had been gassed in w.w.1.) Paul had no choice but to ARP of an evening, and, during the day, had to make himself useful as best he could. Mainly visiting old ladies, making sure they weren’t dead, and giving them a little chocolate. The old were always grateful for a little chocolate, Paul would murmur sagely. Mainly he was a lazy sod, and sooner or later he knew this was going to start pissing people off; Mary for one, who was wanting to get wed. Paul was a ladies man – and the war was a godsend, no chance of him being dragged up the aisle. Still he had to admit, when it was night, and the tracer fire and bombs were bursting its bubble with fiery fingers….

… a fella couldn’t help but feel romantically inclined.

Loup (instrumental)

Like the soundtrack to a seventies cartoon. Like bad drugs in a wild blur of sound.

McCartney estimates the speed of his velocity at something approaching the speed of sound.

It is a disputable calculation.

Music…

This colour is red – this colour makes me see red

This red is a colour – this red is a sound

This sound is red – this sound makes me see red

This sound is yellow – yellow reminds me of gas

This sound reminds me of gas – gas reminds me of sound

A strange high sound. The sound reminds me of myself under gas reminds me of myself.

The idea is presented of sound and noise

The idea is presented of language

Bonded by a fuselage of language

Hidden within a fuselage of sound

“I like these sounds,” says Paul with a grin, leaning back from the moog.

“They’re a bit Space”.

Space is a void.

Ladies and Gentlemen.

The void is presented before you.

We have estimated that the speed of the void is something approaching the speed of sound.

It is a very disputable calculation.

Final Medley: (Hold me tight/Hands of Love/Lazy Dynamite/Power Cut)

Paul had always wanted to sing. And now he was.

Charlie had cried off at the last moment. So now that moment was HIS.

“C’mon McCartney,” grated a drunken Lennon as he grabbed Paul by the arm. “Let’s see what you can do…”

McCartney smiled politely. He hated these merchant marines. They were nothing but yobs.

The step into darkness was as sudden as death. And as simple.

The light snapped on and he could see the upturned faces of the geriatric crowd before him. God he hated cruise ships. He could feel their love.

 

“Well, it’s goodbye to 1932”, he murmured nervously before gathering himself, “And a HAPPY NEW YEAR!” The sound of applause. An alien sound. McCartney felt naked and awed. This… was IT. “I’ve waited all my life for you” he began to croon. “Hold me tight – Hold me tight”.

He wasn’t even vaguely distracted by the sound of Lennon vomiting from stage left. He would just have to make sure he didn’t step in it after the show. That was all.

A few years later and James Paul McCartney was doing quite well thank you. It was the Blitz and he took his role as an entertainer very seriously. During the bombing if he wasn’t broadcasting then he was to be found leading cheery sing-a-longs in the shelters.

“When I saw you last night…” he would sing to the eye wide weary mothers. “I knew for the first time – you were the one I’d been dreaming of...” The sighing he provoked was very satisfying.

There was only one incident to mar his success. Dashing one night from the studio to the shelters he came upon a surly gang of looters outside, of all things, a chocolate shop. Unfortunately for Paul they recognised him – knew him as a singing star, radio favourite. And therefore a big mouth. The thinnest and most wolfish looking of the group leant towards the leader and muttered loudly from the side of his mouth. “Whaasha we do Johnny?”

It was then that McCartney himself recognised their leader as the drunken sailor of his early days

Lennon smiled before he shot him.

Paul McCartney awoke from a fitful fevered sleep in the comforting arms of his wife. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Oh I had an ‘orrible dream” he answered. “About the past….” He gently rubbed a balled hand under his eyes.

“… It wasn’t as nice as I remembered”.

nv97

................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Shot of Love – Bob Dylan 1981:

Shot of Love:

At first the air is the colour of brandy and then the colour of mud. Somewhere out there in the storm, station RZBD deep valley radio sends psalms out – flicking its own electricity out into the current thundering night. Weather like this… stop a man from thinking. He wipes a hand over his brow. It’s damp. Warm moisture over everything. Squints through the murk. He is alone. Trying to visualise a way out past the rain and out of the city. Out of the valley. Moving through the apartment past the table with the broken typewriter, the ashtray, the empty bottle and a copy of Time magazine. Looking out through the rain smeared window he dreams the dust bowl photographs of his youth.

Heart of mine:

Fifteen miles from the nearest town and rusted down to a desert skeleton the wrecked triumph motorcycle lay on its side. When it was discovered, the migrants staring down with the air hanging off their sallow faces, they wondered whether the rider had just gone plain crazy like all the others and ridden out into his crazy death. They recognised him despite the coagulated blood and oil stains. He had been in love with that girl, the one Billy took off with him to the city - but it couldn’t have been that as done young Bobby here, no sir and no doubt. It was the goddamn dust. The fucking dust.

Property of Jesus:

The 30’s were a bitchin time for the religious – with the depression came the dust and the realisation that the dust had been there since the twenties, (only no-one had noticed) and that the dust came because of them, well that made a lotta folks figure that the hand of the lord was just nowhere fucking near. On the other hand, if you were stark plum crazy, and Bobby knew he was, there was fun to be had; Wandering around the few existing farm and mountain towns - calling down the curses of the Man that is God and the Holy Angels and the Dead Man that will rise when his time is right, calling down the curses on the woeful people. And God knew they were woeful enough.

At the age of seventeen Bobby was saved.

Was country music that did it.

Now I know I am truly evil he would smile.

I am the property of Jesus.

Forty years later in NYC, during the summer heat wave, his god fearing and good natured grandson Robert, who had thrown away his chance as a folk singer to run a small bible class for the tenement kids, was kicked to death by three uptown ex-marines home for the season and high on PCP. “It never really happens like this,” he gurgled - smiling as they spread him into the ambulance.

Lenny Bruce is Dead:

He shivers. Shivers despite the muggy and tobacco staled air. He has just seen a hearse drive past the corner of the block; lightning shining off the wet black bonnet of the slow sedan, lightning shining off the coffin. We all take a back seat in that taxi someday.

He pulls away from the window and stares for a moment back into the apartment confused. Where is he? Where is he now? The coffin makes him think of his brother – and for once he is glad. The movie screen of his mind brings the walls back to life.

Watered Down Love:

He remembered his brother Billy face down in the tub out back – the fact that there was hardly the water to wash in and Billy just had to go and drown in it. He remembered looking up at his mother but the sun was behind her and she already resembled an old photograph. He remembered that Billy had asked mother one time where God was and mother had said, looking out over the blasted plains around them, “Well Billy, God is where the water is.” So he guessed Billy had been looking for God. Billy Loved God. Everyone knew that.

A little whiles later Back-yard Lucy came around. She wore her little pink dress and carried a dry flower. She put it in her hair, blonde strands blown by the arid breeze.

He did not go out to see her. He could hear the soft sad tones of his mother murmuring to her reassuringly and was startled by the brightness of Lucy’s reply. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back,” she asserted. Bobby hoped not.

Dead Man, Dead Man:

There were always rumours of a tomb down by the old mines. An Indian tomb and haunted of course. Since his father (a no good medicine show white nigger sonofabitch) had fucked off, his old rival the doctor had taken it on himself to dispense advice to the children. He would spit on his hand and raising a bottle of tonic, wave it in the general direction of the looming mountain. “You kids n know better than t’go sneaking and peaking down there I’m sure. Old Talking Bones… he don’t take kindly to strangers. No sir. The only ghost worth knowing is the Holy Ghost. You go on now.” Bobby felt cold as he squinted through the wind blown dust and the shadow from the mountain. He knew with a certainty as how one day that Indian and all the others was gonna rise up  - dusty tongues tell the bible truth - and they would rise up and kill the shit out of just everyone. And they would do it a damn site quicker n Jesus too.

He felt the air hum like a storm coming and he looked off east to the first scraggy line of out of town scrub growth. Couldn’t exactly call it a bush but he would try anyway. As he felt the air tension increase he concentrated silently on making the fucker burn.



In the Summertime:

White sun over focused through the camera lense. The camera flares into the white. White exploding off the white of her cotton shift, exploding off the calm surface of the lake, off the water, exploding fragments of sun jagged and white against the shadowed willow trees.

All of this caught by him years later in a few bars of harmonica music.

The boat moves in a slow circle. She laughs as two dragon flies copulate and dance before her clapping her hands ecstatic, and the sun flares white off her smile, white off her eyes. Sitting at the side of the boat feeling the heat rising, ripples and insects, he squints as if in pain. Jesus looks down and sees that he has caught his hand on a nail sticking up from the damp wood. The centre of his palm carries an ugly wound. He looks at it for a moment then folds his arms. The sun flares from the white of his sleeve. The blood pours black down the white of his sleeve, begins to pool at his feet. Can’t stop the black blood bleeding. The disciples looking hopefully into their nets have not seen this. With a sudden cry Jesus pitches face first into the boat and is still. The disciples turn at the sound and bend down with expressions of alarm and concern. Jesus is dead. Boy is there gonna be trouble now.

Trouble:

Pulled back to himself he reaches into his pocket and feels the silver crucifix an anonymous fan threw onto the stage while he was performing. He feels it stir in his hand the metal giving off a coldness that soothes his humid palm. He can no longer see through the window - the rain has made it turn a greasy grey which flashes with the lightning, or else simply reflects back the grainy crazed pictures from the TV in the corner. The sound is turned down. But he can guess what the voices would be saying. His hand still on the crucifix he turns and picks a record to put on the stereo – Mahlia Jackson - but he fumbles the switch and the psalm playing radio station erupts into the quiet apartment.

Every Grain of Sand:

Though no/one knew it - he had always meant to retire to Greece.

They respect old poets there.

But in the end he had headed down to the familiar hacienda. She was waiting there alright. Or maybe it was her daughter now. He was too old to tell. And he didn’t mind pretending to himself. It felt good just to wash the dust and the sand from his bones after the long journey - and as he watched the narrow shards of sunlight slide down the walls like the water from his skin, he felt almost nostalgic.

He was shown to his room. Everything was association to him now. As he lay himself down. The walls could be a movie set he thought. A biblical film. I am in Nazareth.

But the scents on the wind promised more. As his eyes closed, he felt the world open wide to him. Like a ripe fruit. He tasted the juice, fragrant with the spices of Arabia, India, Jamaica.

Distant lands. Yes… distant lands.

He slept well in the comfortable and sturdy bed, drawing the rugs over him and he was not visited by dreams or memories. He had smiled as he lay himself down clean from the bath. Such an ancient ritual he thought. It was a basic truism. Everything he had been seemed washed away.

He felt no desire to rise the next morning.

.....................................................................................................................................................

nv97 - 01