“Oh God. I was just a boy.
I saw him in my dream.
He said he wanted to play.
He opened me and I invited him and he came inside me.”
~ Leland Palmer
Sweet silver-somersaulting-CGI-Spiderman, it’s nearly 10pm and I haven’t even written the Sunday Song Poem yet! What ever will I do? Hang on a sec, let me just unwrap this glossy club flyer folded into an origami envelope and…WOOOO DAWGY!
Okay, what you just witnessed was a dramatic interpretation of an instance in which a person might be driven into the position of partaking of an illicit substance to make good on its supposed attributes and utilise them for their own gain. But when you take a drug, you gain nothing, the only outcome in this game is to lose. And it’s a game of death. And we all know how that game goes, just ask Bruce Lee. Oh that’s right, you can’t, HE’S DEAD, and he only took an aspirin…
Throughout the course of reacquainting myself with the genre for this column, I discovered that Song Poems (or ‘Song Sharking’ as it was referred to by jaded contributors to the industry) are 100 years old this year. In celebration of the Song Poem’s centenary, it seemed fitting to showcase a modern example of the form. A few years I ago, I was surprised to find that Song Poems were still being sourced and recorded at all while watching the definitive documentary on the subject ‘Off The Charts: The Song Poem Story‘ – the stand out track from which is our chosen Song for today.
For those unfamiliar with the term, the Song Poem was an American phenomenon of long distance collaboration far predating, and out-weirding the hinterlands of the internet. Those hokey ads in old comics, for outlandish products that couldn’t possibly do what they purported to? Imagine one of those ads asked you for poetry that they would, for a nominal fee, turn into a Chart topping hit single, the proceeds of which you could live off for the rest of your days, and you’re on the right track. In reality. the truth was alot closer to those ‘Make Your Own Music Video’ booths in a mall.
The thinking behind bringing Bob Van Persie to Manchester for his first show in the UK was presumably motivated by little more than the fact that his son Robin is presently this City’s most celebrated adopted son, after Manchester United’s number 20 unarguably singlehandedly thrust them their 20th League title. This connection is exploited further still tonight as revealed by the restrictions on this private view, tightened to the extent that every VIP invitee is admitted under a couple of strict conditions:
“1. No photography,
2. Don’t ask Robin Van Persie for his autograph.”