Spot International Correspondent Jebson Interlandi in the audience and win, well, nothing.
It’s been difficult for me to write anything lately. I’m missing a few brain cells, and I attribute this to the recent Rihanna concert I caught, free of charge, thanks to an old friend of mine who is now her guitarist.
I was hoping to meet her backstage, but no such luck. Has anybody seen that episode of Saxondale where Tommy goes backstage to party with the Queen cover band and they’re all out of their wigs, drinking smoothies, eating tangerines and playing on their laptops? Not that Rihanna is anyone’s idea of an actual band, but it nevertheless seems to me that even most "real" rockers are getting soft. I’ve long dreaded the day when standard backstage behavior would consist of snorting lines of crushed vitamin C pills, sipping green tea and playing Scrabble™ with Jesuit missionaries. Well, I’m afraid the hour is upon us. Call me old-fashioned. I still believe in whiskey and coke(™).
In contrast to the lack of proper debauchery exhibited by today’s fresh-faced superstars, I’ve been catching up on theories of genius from the 18th century. Interestingly, the normative language of the day for describing traits of "genius" — particularly in the case of Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart — coincided with an emergence of travel literature describing shamanic personalities. All of a sudden, artistic theory was being modified by the discoveries of the shamanic performer and his/her behavior: irrational, mad, eccentric, possessed, wild, ecstatic, etc. This romantic notion diverged from the "adulthood male" approach to art, which was rational and disciplined. [ED – We riders on the storm call it Apollonian v. Dionysian]. Apparently, these road journals discussing Siberian and Amerindian shamans gave the top music scribes of the day some of their most colorful lexicon. And henceforth, genius was synonymous with the "androgynous child."
Perhaps I’ll stop there. I’m not sure how much nerdiness I’m allowed to exhibit in one entry.
I hope everyone was able to catch this excellent Guardian UK blog featuring a post by Moz, or Morrissey, as he’s more commonly known. The piece was in response to his "provocative" interview with New Musical Express. You know, the old "create-a-racist" shtick. NME seems to employ hacks who aren’t even familiar with Bowie. Maybe Casey should be writing for them. Casey actually asked me once if Dave Bowie (as he actually called him) was "that guy" who wrote "Major Tom."
"No," I told him. "That’s Peter Schilling."
"Oh," Casey replied. After a pause and an awkward smile, he continued: "I love that song! 4, 3, 2, 1."
[ED – I must clarify that I am an expert on "Dave" Bowie, and was listening to Peter Schilling’s synth-pop tribute to the Thin White Duke back when Jebson was but a spark in his father’s drunken, leering eye].