"Sometimes I fantasize
when the streets are cold and lonely
and the cars they burn below me,
don't these times fill your eyes?" Made of Stone - The Stone Roses
Jackson Pollock and The Stone Roses; can't think of one without the other.
I'm a diehard Roses enthusiast. That first album was true love for me.
I was just standing there on the corner of 3rd and Broadway in NYC, clutching a bag containing the toilet paper I had purchased (I just ooze glamour don't I?), when the infamous Monkey Man jumped out of a cab and straight to me.
He smiled and said "Hullo".
I nearly dropped dead. I suppose if I would've actually done so, and my head splattered in a nice Pollock pattern, maybe he'd have taken it as a sign to reunite with the other talents that made my coming up years that much more meaningful.
How do you come together for such a masterpiece and then let it all go to shit? How do you touch upon something that brings so many to awe and then just smack it away like a loathsome mosquito?
I could ask Pollock the same, I suppose, were he here.
2 comments:
I saw Ian Brown in a fast-food retaurant in Dublin late one Thursday night. He was, to put it mildly, off his fucking tits. I was with an American friend who didn't know who he was, but once i told her he was famous she kept taking pictures of him. Unsurprisingly. he didn't like this very much, but was too drunk to manage to say anything.
Ugh, so embarassed to be American when I hear shit like that. Firstly, because they mostly don't have a fucking clue on music, and secondly their obnoxious obsession with fame and the famed.
I thought Brown was sober when I met him, but he apparently was supposed to meet his girlfriend on that corner and maybe forgot? She came up behind me while he was chatting with me and started screaming at him.
I'd rather have met Squire. I want to be in a band with Squire, still.
Their efforts outside the Roses SUCKED but I'd whip that man into shape again. He'd probably hate me.
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