Despite the papal canonisation today (broadcast in 3D to select cinemas and News channels, anyone catch that, did they have that swinging, incense lantern flying out atcha?), I feel like I should eschew the subject since I kind of already did the Holy Song Poem last Sunday. Not only that, but try as I might I couldn’t find a Song Poem for a Pope, which I find hard to believe having encountered a fair few about Richard Nixon, Elvis, Christopher Columbus, and Sexploitation actors turned male midwives. So instead I decided to just go straight for the crazy, literally in today’s case.
A large part of the charm of practically all Song Poems lies in the questionable mental state of the song’s author, but in this case it’s a no brainer. Whether the author (a ‘Conor P. Kelly’) was speaking from personal experience or just placing himself in someone else’s fragmented head, if he wasn’t deemed certifiable before he wrote this song he most certainly could have been afterwards.
I toyed with the idea of transcribing these lyrics, a notion swiftly abandoned after listening to the first two verses over and over. Despite hearing words I recognised, when lined up alongside one another they make about as much sense as arbitrarily generated, ‘inauthentic text’ from the Spam hinterlands of the late 90s. Finding my frontal cortex completely flummoxed and not wishing to land myself beside Conor, ‘beside myself’, I backed away. As the song progresses through the initial scattershot assault, a clearer narrative appears about a group of eight inpatients – six of which have undergone ‘frontal lobotomies the other two anxiously await personalities‘.
Not helping matters is Buddy Raye and his band’s decision to deliver this garbled diatribe in a stuttering, disastrously executed Middle Aged, White Man-Rap, at a time when the unadulterated genre that inspired it was likely in it’s infancy. The result is a tortuous mental stretch between hilarity and insanity (Shit, I’m starting to sound like Conor, maybe I didn’t come away unscathed afterall). All told, it kind of reminds me of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and makes about as much sense. It has that dirty, early 80s funk-rap sound of their early output, coupled with trademark blithering Kiedisisms of the modern day evident on that ‘By The Way’ song, you know the one that goes:
Standing in line, to see the show tonight…“
Please fasten your mental seatbelt, and keep a Thorazine filled hypodermic pressed against a vein.
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Chester Whelks is a peripheral figure on the fringes of existence. Predominantly bothering the local music scene of his native Manchester, England, he has a very finely attuned Justice-button, and knows how to call a spade a ‘Multi-Purpose Murder/Concealment Device’.