What with US politics having descended into what feels like an aborted late 80s Rodney Dangerfield vehicle (he gets no respect, he’s even got the red tie and everything) to distract from the actual mortals scheming behind his Cheeto Benito decrees, I must have gotten to thinking about something that leads-in with a big anti-establishment agitpop-song, but swiftly realigns its sights inward, to study something more rudimentally human, if no less depressing. I’m not sure how much the last 20 years has done to improve the appreciation of the ‘Hallelujah’ dude in his homeland where he was always incongruously overlooked. I dismissed him for a decade after his debut, due to it being a staple of the record collections of students whose taste I didn’t respect, alongside the same slew of CDs that made it look as though they’d signed up for a record club with the same stroke of a pen as their University application. I’m a serial record collection forensic expert at the best of times, but this pastime served as a useful attention-deflection technique when finding myself at parties I didn’t really want to be at.
“Yo, Melissa, Imma let you finish, but I have one of the best Friday Albums of all time.”
No one invited me this week, but I have to take the stage. I have to mention it, this Elephant in the room (well it was once a Donkey, then a…whatever, then begrudgingly welcomed back as an Elephant when it looked like it might get its trunk on the peanut-keys. ‘Off she went with a trumpety-trump, trump, trump, trump’). It’s been two weeks since the combined nationwide clapping and gasp abruptly went reverberating around the world like the amplified unveiling of a waterfall of severed genitalia. To think, I was once torpid with apprehension at the prospect of the Romney-bot, who in retrospect looks like a chuckling uncle with no more nefarious-a-skeleton in his closet than a used-car lot, albeit with a dog strapped to the top of one of his inventory.
I was watching a documentary on Netflix the other night. In an opulent Florida hotel’s conference room, a defeated looking stringbean of a boy was sobbing confessions of suicidal ideation into the face of a millionaire weightlifter surrounded by an audience of strangers with whom all he had in common was the $5,000 dollar-wide hole in his pocket. Before soaking-up the boy’s despair, the muscular man – who was so strong, even his vocal chords were audibly ‘pumped’ – sort of Vogued, or did the robot or something, spun around a few times, jumped on a child’s trampoline a couple more for good measure, before ascending a handful of steps , emerging through a curtain to the conference room’s stage and fist-pumping the crowd into a frenzy with some kick ass 90s techno music before roaring a primal scream to the heavens. I mean, it looked and sounded like a roar, but I suppose it could have been a long, drawn-out slow motion guffaw at being the Cat’s Mulberry silk Pyjama’s in a room full of self-affirmed losers paying him for being so great.
Maybe this is all down to Lemmy. So impervious was he for so long, that Death was fended off, expending all his efforts and ingenuity trying to bring the man down. This most prized scalp finally secured, the Reaper was free to run amok, indiscriminately scything down anyone of any cultural significance, resulting in this Celebritygeddon we’ve been suffering since Christmas.