Sunday. Seven revolutions round the sun for our insignificant little orb. Circling our inevitable infernal-murderer. The Song Poem – Aural encapsulation of a delicate, all pervasive balancing act, evident throughout all God’s creation. Like so many things, it’s indicative of the eternal juxtaposition; Black and white. Sun and moon. Good and Evil. Cobra and Mongoose. While the Earth adheres to strict physical laws, Outer Space on the other hand, is a vastness more mysterious and chaotic the further away we get from our lowly point of origin. The known solar system is orchestrated precariously by forces unknown in a delicate cosmic ballet. Did you know that Pluto could one day abandon its erratic orbit and go hurtling off into space?
Fortunately it isn’t true. But that’s the thing with Space – you just don’t know…
Today’s Song Poem was, as a matter of fact, my original choice to grace this column’s inaugural edition, but I decided against it at the last minute. Like Dave Bowman’s psychedelic insemination of the Stargate, this could prove your undoing – gibbering, twitching, expiring by the wayside. Or you might just clasp the next rung of the evolutionary ladder. I believe you, dear reader, to be ready.
Jim Muir’s ‘The Moon Men’, whether intentional or not, is an undertaking as epic and perilous as the Apollo 11 mission that it chronicles. Muir launches with bravado, realises he’s bitten off more than he can chew, but has to hold on tight for dear life on this one way ticket ride to oblivion. All good Song Poems are measured on it’s performer’s ability to swagger and to a certain degree ‘sell’ the ramblings of the anonymous song poet, here Jim Muir gets cocky, and beats his waxen wings too close to the sun.
P.S. I think he means to say “Germ”.
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’.