THE MUSICAL INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX — Part #3 (British Invaders WHO Are They Now?)

By Cranky Yanky

BLOGGER’S NOTEI will no longer be including the occasional music criticism in my posts since I have realized that it only confuses the message. Besides, music is highly subjective, and opinions are like a**holes; everybody has one, and they all stink. So, moving forward, I intend to be like a restaurant critic who profiles the chef and kitchen staff but never mentions the food. If you still choose to $ample the menu after I have pointed out the unsanitary conditions, all I can say is Bon Appetit! 

Of course, “Who Are They Now?” is a play on the VH1 TV series “Where Are They Now?” But considering that most of the 60s British Invaders have either moved on to their next incarnation or are desperately clinging to their last shred of (ir)relevance, an exploration of their ancestral origins seems more logical. I did a lot of genealogical work for this post but fear not, dear reader, since most of these characters appear to have magically manifested into this realm out of thin air. When I do have family history information to share, I have attempted to make it as concise and painless as possible. So, let’s “meet the parents,” shall we?

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THE MUSICAL INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX—Part #2 (Ladies Only Edition)

By Cranky Yanky

I want to thank Mark for graciously providing space for me to vent. Although, after spending thirty minutes attempting to present a “mission statement,” I’ve realized that I have no mission since we are already chin deep in this quagmire called modern society. There will be no more proving or convincing. The lines are drawn, the die is cast. Still, I invite you all to join me in my ritualistic (though admittedly rudimentary) exorcism of musical vampiric energies.       

In conspiracy circles, it is widely accepted that promoted musicians have “sold their soul.”  I will go a step further and state that oftentimes their souls are sold FOR THEM by family members and handlers seeking power and wealth.  All of us are MK Ultra victims to some extent, but the talented and charismatic children of influential families often are given the MK Ultra crash course and are not to be envied, much less idolized.  They enjoy fame and fortune, but often at the cost of a lifetime of servitude (if they’re lucky) to narcissistic vampires who exploit their talents while envying their achievements.

Then again, many of them are just egotistical and entitled douchebags.  Take your pick.

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The Musical Industrial Complex: A closer look

 

By: Guest Writer Cranky Yanky

I recently embarked on a mission to discover some “new” music, or better stated, music that is “new to me.”  Since I am quickly approaching the age of 60, I have now been listening to a lot of the same music for several decades, whether voluntarily or not, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough!  Thankfully, technology now affords us access to almost all recorded music, so I decided to explore this extensive “virtual” record collection for possible hidden gems.  What follows is my “music mining” process:

  1. My search began in 1964, so I went to the Wikipedia page called “1964 in Music.” There it lists all the notable album releases for that year month by month. I then clicked on each musical act of interest which took me to their corresponding Wikipedia page. Once there, I pulled up the musician’s discography and downloaded all studio albums released during that decade (avoiding live releases or compilations and I also excluded music genres that I know I do not enjoy – Jazz, Country, and Progressive Rock.)
  2. After downloading all of the 1960s releases from several musical acts, I then began to listen to EVERY song using what I call the 30-second rule.  By “30-second rule” I mean that I gave each track “up to” 30 seconds to capture my interest and/or not bore me.  I immediately skipped any “hit” or familiar songs.  (I also avoided “bonus” tracks like demos and alternate versions.)
  3. All songs that survived my 30-second rule were then placed into a playlist to weed out the weaklings.  The “survivors” now comprise the song lists that I will be enjoying for my remaining time in this earthly realm.

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On the lighter side … weekend fun

Glen Campbell (1936-2017) was, in my view, one of the best natural musicians that I have ever encountered, probably the best guitar player. As you will note if you watch the interview above with Bob Costas, he also was a very charming, natural, and funny man. (It took Costas a few minutes to see what Campbell was really saying about his acting in the movie True Grit that earned John Wayne his best actor gig. He was subtly suggesting that he was so bad that he made Wayne look very good.)

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So, what’s more fun than talking about Beatles?

This video was posted in the comments under my Friday Tidbits piece, and has taken on a life of its own. So I decided to bring it front and center. It is loaded, and I mean loaded, with oddball things, but what caught my eye most was the appearance of original Paul McCartney, but only in brief shots, a few seconds each. He is mocking the Beatlemania days, doing the headbanging and woooos, all the while playing left-handed bass. Take a look at the screencap below the fold. The guy I say is Beatlemania Paul is circled in orange.

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How terribly strange to be twenty-six

Two things are really bugging me this morning, one that in the musical piece above, it is not only preceded by a commercial, but that they interject one too. They actually cut into the music and start talking about f****** insurance! That is about as indifferent to human suffering as anyone I know can be, even my ex-wife.
 
The other is that line, “How terribly strange to be seventy.” I know, Paul Simon (current age, 79) was only 26 when he wrote it, and from that perspective, being seventy looked like the end of life. His description of old men sitting on park benches in another song, Bookends, has them merely waiting to die.
 

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Ear Worms

Maarten wrote some time back about a phenomenon in music we call “ear worms,” though I cannot locate that specific piece. I’ve been suffering a bad case lately. Two songs have haunted me, one that I resent, the other that is just fun.

The one I resent is “Paul” McCartney, the original Paul, singing “For No One” from their 1966 album Revolver.  It is a haunting melody about losing a lover, that devastating feeling most of us know when after deep emotional involvement, we simply don’t matter anymore. Nothing can be done but get over the pain and move forward.

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McCartneyism

A commenter, Den, some time back suggested that I watch the movie Give My Regards to Broad Street, put out in 1984, written (supposedly) by “Paul” McCartney.” I say “supposedly” because I have no belief in the man’s integrity, knowing as I do that there are two of them. A lot of great songs have come our way from this pair, but the question I ask is that even if we assume Paul McCartney wrote that stuff, well then which one?

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Healing Vibes

For a change of pace, I am putting on my energy healer hat for the time being. I offer this post today to help uplift minds, bodies, and spirits, on this sunny Sunday afternoon as I take a brief in-breath from all the dismal narratives, of which I often contemplate, analyze, and discuss. This soundtrack, featuring a very talented sound healer and medicine woman named Vylana, resonates deeply within me, and perhaps it may for you . . .

For those who may want to learn more about sound healing:

Bill Maher: Taking a little bit of talent a long, long way

Pete HamI spent part of this morning reading the Wikipedia page on Bill Maher. To the left is a photo of him in his early twenties. I look back on such hair styles with a sense of “presentism,” that we should not judge past styles, even things like mullets, as uncool. They made sense at the time. But I must say, the look does not become Maher, who seems just a tad dorky.

Where am I going with this, you wonder? The photo above is said to be not one of Bill Maher, but rather a British rock star who faked his death in 1975, Pete Ham. He was a lead singer and “songwriter” for the group Badfinger. But I look at that photo and think “I see you, you son of a bitch, Maher. I see you. You cannot hide from me.

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