TL-DR Dept. - Jim Morrison

Unusually Sensitive and Artistic editorial illustration from Foam-O-Graph©

Yes probably, Morrison was the insufferable, sulky, belligerent drunk he's written off as. So what? It's not like he's going to come by your house and piss on your couch while slurring half-remembered lines from Baudelaire. You don't have to put up with his inconsiderate egocentricity, so what's your problem?

A mediocre poet, you say airily. Well, being a mediocre poet is more than not being a poet at all, which is what you are, you bum. And he was a better poet than many poets who didn't look so good in leather pants.

When the still sea сonspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted currents
Breed tiny monsters
True sailing is dead

Yebbut, he was so-oo pretentious! As I never get tired of hearing myself type: pretension is the mother of art. Without that vaulting ambition, nothing is achieved.

He couldn't actually, you know, sing? Here's John Mayer, who understands the technical aspects of singing better than I do:

He’s most commonly described as a baritone because his voice sits comfortably in a lower tessitura, with a dark tone and chest-dominant production. His range wasn’t about flashy high notes—it was about power, color, and attitude.

• Comfortable power in the low-mid range
• A naturally darker, thick tone
• Strong speaking-to-singing connection
• Less emphasis on bright, ringing top notes
• Slow, confident timing
• Controlled roughness
• Minimal vibrato (often more straight tone)

Morrison didn’t build his identity around vocal acrobatics. He built it around command. Here’s the big mistake: people think Morrison equals “sing low.” What he actually did was sing heavy.

This is good stuff, right? Read the whole piece here. So yes, he could sing. Like a motherfucker. And he had one of the most immediately recognisable voices in rock (or anywhere).

Morrison was one of the great frontmen. Yes, I know about frontwomen, we had Gracie here a few days back. There are no frontmen no more, no larger-than-life figureheads, not nohow. None. Guys who can command the attention of an audience through sheer intensity of performance, through their wild, burning presence. Elvis, James Brown, Iggy Pop. And Freddie Mercury, perhaps the last of the breed, not that I give a toss for his Saturday morning car wash music.

What we have today in the place of this magnetic electric planetary pull is niceness. Paradigm: Chris Somebody, the singer with Coldplay (is that a group?). Performers today are respected for niceness. All that testosterone strutting is a bit cringe, right? Mr Somebody is doubtless a nice guy. So, I'm sure, are Tedeschi and Trucks. None of them is likely to get his [or her - Ed.] tackle out on stage. I doubt there's a line of groupies at the stage door eager to suck them off or blow coke up their ass through a bendy straw. A shoulder pat, perhaps! A shared shy grin? ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL! Being in a Coldplay audience must be like wallowing through a sloppy sludgy soup of niceness and affection. I'm like, literally crying with niceness here! Which may be preferable to a mosh pit hammer party, but I'm not sure.

Morrison was our last bastard Dionysian, howling down the ancient days; stoned, immaculate, and absolutely live.

"It's the pictures that got small."

 

 

Perfect Tens Dept. - Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass!

Herb's "Going Places" in style! Gaston! Dos cervecas!!

 

It's a fair criticism that th' IoF© doesn't feature a whole lot of ethnic musics from the more diverse parts of the world. The Young People Of Today are properly respectful of Mongolian Nose Flute albums and Funeral Disco Chants From Tanzania, mainly because their own music is so shit they're prepared to give anything a try.

pmac in Seville, yesterday!

 

So it's in this spirit of benign cultural appropriation that the latest Perfect Ten features in our coveted Perfect Ten feature. Those of you alert enough to have read the title of this piece (and I'm taking nothing for granted these days) will already know who I'm talking about - go back and read it now if you're still in the dark. As an extra clue, I've used AI technologies to produce a pixel-perfect blurry reproduction of the original album sleeve [above - Ed.].

For why does this album garner musicdom's most coveted award? On account which there's nothing wrong with it, ya doofus. And boy, do those Spanish-type bossa rhythms ever cheer a guy up!

Herb n' Lani, 2021. Does you good to look on such a blessed state. Human beings can be great.

 

 

This post prompted by a laudable desire for inclusivity. 

"Snob Music For Posh Twats" Dept. - Arnold Bax

Arts copyright False Memory Foam™ Art Department O'Art© Dept.

Arnold Bax is this Brit what wrote big violin music for them bands what need a stiff in a tux pointin' at them wit' a stick. Currently holed up in a palm-leaf hut on th' IoF© to avoid his creditors, Arnie and me chatted poolside whilst [grammar - Ed.] Rholonne Déodoranté served crispy hens' knees on a bed of surgery waste [Kreemé is currently interning for Bob Dylan - Ed.]

Rholonne Déodoranté

FT3 So tell us for why you got into this longhair music, Arnie!

AB Duh. To get laid. Why does any guy go into the music business? 

FT3 Did it work?

AB Oh sure. Dames fall for dat sufferin' artiste shit, like you wouldn't believe.

FT3 How did you come to write that First Symphony album?

AB I wants to write a Fifth, like dat one Beethoven guy, so I gots to start somewhere.

FT3 Talk us through the composition process, Arnie!

AB What? I don't know. I just sits dere at th' pianny wit' like dis big book o' pages wit' like lines on dem, and I put dese li'l dots in? Den some dame sashays in wit' her robe open an' drapes herself across me lap and I gets distracted. Den after I takes her roughly from behind on the piany stool, why, I casts her aside like a dog race ticket! I stands there pushin' me fingers thru me hair sayin' how is the artiste to compose when dames such as like you puts temptation in me way? She's hangin' on to me ankles and I'm draggin' her across th' floor.

FT3 This really happens? 

AB You kiddin'? You're dumber than you look. Composin' snob music for posh twats is no way to pick up dames. I shoulda bin in dem Rolling Stones. They do all right.

 

This post approved by Velda Sputnik for the Commies Code Authority© 

 

 

 

 

Bob Dylan's Gatest Hits! Dept.

"There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden" but Bob's gates are fit for a king!

 

You'll know protest singer Bob Dylan for his hard-hitting social criticism - songs such as Puff The Magic Dragon, Little Boxes, and In The Year 2525 have made it to the top of the "pop charts" in spite of a message many of the "older generation" find uncomfortable!

But did you know he also welded gates? That's right! Bob stopped by th' IoF© to promote his latest passion! We chatted poolside whilst [grammar - Ed.] Kreemé [below, and eighteen my ass - Ed.] served signature eel spleen n' Reflecting Pool water smoothies!

FT3 Bob! The Bobster! Bobby-boy! Zimbo! You're looking good, my man!

BD Right now I'm lookin' at that gal's ass.

FT3 (laughs) Tells us about this unexpected career change!

BD Just got sick of the singin'. I can sing any old shit out there, make it all one same fucking note, they don't care. They should be booin' me off stage, they're cheerin', goin' crazy. Sick of it.

FT3 So why gates?

BD I've always been interested in railings, bootscrapers, grilles, gates, anything made of iron, steel, metal. Welded. Love me a welder's torch, mask, them heavy gloves. It's a manly occupation. Writin' a fuckin' song? What kind of thing is that for a grown-ass man to do?

FT3 Right. So no more records?

BD Fuck that. Fuck that with a big iron spike with a fucking rusty point on the end. It's the welder's life for me.

FT3 Let's take a break here to show th' Four Or Five Guys© some of your work ...

BD Right, here's me at work. I'm lifting my mask here so you can see who I am. Normally that's over my face, for protection from the intense light and searing heat. OHSA very strict about that. 

 BD And here's an archway what I did for some mall or something ... no! A casino!

 

BD I mean, I made more from that than I did for my last album, uh, whatever that was. Made a shitload of money out of a casino! (laughs) Not many people can say that!

FT3 Knockin' on Heaven's Door! I hav'ta say, Bob, that's better than Tempest.

BD That one's going on tour. I'm curating a truckload of gate-adjacent welding projects for Bob Dylan's Weld Tour. I stay home, weld some more stuff ... yeah!

 

 

This post funded in part by Scarcely Credible Developments And Unlikely Directions Magazine 

 

 

Boring Publishing News

Adding a cute picture will drive traffic to your blog!

 

 

You may remember [yeah, right - Ed.] I posted a new novel, Selfies, here a while back. I had a total of four (count 'em!) reactions from the Four Or Five Guys©. Two used the same phrase - "quite enjoyed it". Imagine the impact they'd have on the cover! Another "eventually" found it to be a satisfactory read, presumably after slogging through the beginning and middle parts. The fourth sent me a much appreciated and thoughtfully detailed positive reaction (thank you, Nico!). So at least four of you read it. There may be more, who didn't quite enjoy it, or enjoy it enough to get through it, and were kind enough to keep their opinions to themselves.

Over the last few months I've submitted it to thirty-nine literary agents, in the UK, the USA, and three publishers in France who accept manuscripts in English. I researched individuals who represent this genre of novel. Each submission has to conform to specific and slightly differing requirements in terms of what they want to see, and what they want to know about you. It's nothing like as simple as emailing the manuscript (you never send the whole book). Each submission is individually researched and tailored and formatted.

Break up large areas of text with relevant illustration!

 

I contacted a total of forty-two (count 'em!) people, each of whom advertised their wants specifically enough for me to not waste their time. Let's count the replies: zero. I'm not talking about rejections. I'm talking about simple acknowledgement of receipt. Something along the lines of thank you for your submission, I'll get back to you. Or not. How long would it take to press send on a boiler-plate reply like that? But no, nothing. Zip. Nada. A deafening silence.

Either the submissions were not read at all (very likely) or speed-scanned and spiked, or read and ignored. But not one was even acknowledged. This is publishing.

I never thought it would be a publishing sensation. It's just entertaining escapist fun, with strong movie potential. A holiday read, or, if the reader is the thoughtful type, something to think about. We'll never know, will we?

No, I'm not going to "self-publish" on Amazon or anywhere else. I checked the numbers. It would be lost in the flood. Millions of books out there, for free, not getting read. This is publishing.