| Lyrics: | Sod the music," said the man in the suit,
"I understand profit and without that, it's no
use,
Why don't you go away and write commercial songs;
come back in three years, that
shouldn't be too long..."
He's a joker and an acrobat,
a record exec. in a Mayfair
flat
with Altec speakers wall to wall,
a Radford and a Revox and through it all he
plays
strictly nowhere Muzak.
"Hey, listen, baby, this band's got a lot of soul...
if
we can beat that out of them I see a disc of gold!
Give them an image, maybe glitter, maybe
sex,
maybe outrage, maybe elegance--
how about as nervous wrecks?"
Signs up the
product at two percent,
justified by vinyl shortage and the increased rent
on the yacht he
has to hire to make his pitch at Midem
and all the press receptions for his business
friends
who spill their Taittinger upon the floor
while the band sip English lager just
outside the door.
Treble, alto, bass clefs on the page,
crotchets, quavers, minims all the
rage
but you'll never find a -L- in the score--
it's there when it's strictly
merchandise,
through all the propagated lies 'bout what the whole thing's for!
He'll make
you a star, he'll make you so famous
that all you desire is to be left nameless,
drained
of all you felt you had to offer at the start.
Not without blame, either, are the
gentlemen of the press:
you can talk about the state of music,
they will writer about your
dress.
Play them the new album, they will say it's great (or not)--
when the articles come
out, they're all about
how many dogs you've got.
God to keep the human interest
high,
and the hacks are only too willing to comply,
pander to the ego, build up frail men
as gods--
but somewhere in the process, the prime purpose is forgotten.
Groupies offer
their bodies, the hangers-on their coke;
it's all very jolly--what a joke!
Fellini
creatures cluster round the dressing-room.
the heavenly bodies all got to have their
moons.
In the cult of the superman the music plays a supporting role
and far more
important is the shape of his nose,
the size of his codpiece and the cut of his
clothes...
soul and feeling always take second place
to the bump and grind of a Fender
bass.
Frankly, most musicians bore me--but not as much as those
who chase the glory to
bask in reflected light,
making the man much more important
than his arpeggios and
mordants,
when it's the other way that's right.
On the values by which this world
makes its heroes
then the best violinist ever was Nero,
because he had the most
Press
and his fire gimmick was simply the best.
We got the live thing too,
the
Human Zoo:
Ten thousand arms are raised, just like the Hitler Youth--
Ten thousand peace
signs mark the entry of the sax;
ten thousand peace signs,
but they're different from the
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