Sunday, April 15, 2012

ED SHEERAN: OH GOD, Here Comes Another Brit Pop Fop to the USA
Ed Sheeran

I only listened to about 4 bars of Ed's latest Brit Pop song "Drunk." I'd'a had to have been stoned and very multilayered drunk to have listened to the whole shebang. It was London kiddie music as far as I was concerned. You listen to it sucking on a lollypop. Why do we here in this country have to tolerate all these Brit Pop Fops coming here to get rich? Why? Don't we have any advanced musical talents in this country? I mean is Lady Gaga the best we can come up with?

I hark back to the days of Prince and Larry Graham. Larry Graham's Graham Central Station album "Release Yourself" is still mesmerizing me. It blows a little pimple-faced Brit like Ed Sheeran out of the water like what would happen if you went duck hunting using a drone loaded with American-citizen-assassinating missiles as your weapon.

Yesterday while searching through my hundreds of CDs, I came across one dedicated to Chuck Berry, off a 1980s cassette I had dubbed onto a CD, with the extra-addition of an album by the late great Johnny Otis, also dubbed off an 1980s cassette. I was amazed by the brilliance of Chuck Berry's music--especially "Roll Over Beethoven," "Reelin' and a Rockin'," "Back in the USA," and "Carol." I mean you talk about kicking the gong around. Chuck, who a lot of us give credit for inventing rock 'n roll, was a true hard rocker. Listening to him, and this album was originally made in the 1950s, I thought, my God, this dude still leaves White bands like the Eagles sucking lemons in ditches by the side of his long highway. Forget what Chuck makes the foppy Beatles and The Who sound like to me. I mean Chuck made those albums without the use of 20-foot-high stacks of Marshall amps (Jim Marshall, by the way, just died a month or so ago). Without the use of a 240-track recording board. Without the use of cellos or violins or more than one guitar. And Chuck's guitar work is classifiably to me some of the best ever recorded.

I mean Chuck Berry pissed in better time and rhythm than this Ed Sheeran, but then, like I said, I couldn't even listen to more than a handful of bars of Ed's "Drunk." All British pop music reminds me of Lonnie Donnegan the Brit pop fop who brought "Bubble Gum on the Bedpost at Night" or some such stupid song to this country. Hey, USA White kids seem to hover around this crap it's that White. And that's what this crap is, White music. An extension of the droopy drawer British church mode crap the Beatles gave to White kids back in the 1960s. I mean Black music embarrasses USA White kids. First of all, White kids can't swing. As rockers they pogo up and down vertically. They have no horizontal swing in their stiff White bodies. There is a low-grade Murdoch channel here in New York City that is rerunning all the old "Soul Train" teevee shows and I watched one the other night--and damn, those Black kids were innovatin' like MFers to bands like Earth, Wind, and Fire or Al Green or even the Jackson Five. If you'd'a thrown an Ed Sheeran tune into that mix, these Black kids would have been halted. "How the F do we dance to that shit?"

But, hey, Ed Sheeran's soon to be a big sensation over here--any day now. He's under contract to Asylum Records, so, yeah, they'll overpromote his feeble ass and next Grammy Awards he'll be oohed and ahhed over by the airhead White teenagers who buy this crap. I'd even prefer limp-wristed Josh Groban to this little Brit fart.

Me, I'll still be rediggin' Aretha and Ike and Tina and Chuck Berry and...oh yeah, I didn't mention Johnny Otis doin' "The Signifyin' Monkey." USA White kids are still protected from such vulgar music with White innuendo music....

Sorry, even writing about the pop crap that is perpetrated on USA White kids these days makes me gag and puke--oops, sorry Lady Gaga, I puked all over your latest tacky costume.

Peter Pounder (not his real name)
for the Daddy O'Daily
by Harvey Shapiro

He had a gig
but he was hurting.
His doctor said, play the date,
then check into the hospital.
That night, when the party ended
and the band packed up,
Charlie started to give stuff away—
his watch, his rings—to the women
in the room. Then
he circled the room with his horn
playing: “For all I know we may never meet again.”
At this point, the man who was telling the story
in the locker room at the Manhattan Plaza gym
and who had sung the line slowly, with
a pause between each word, began to cry.

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