There are times when 'tis prudent to see if there is a circus in town, and if there is, check to see whether they use the outdated and unpopular entertainment of animal acts. If they do, then let them know they might just want to check and see if the elephant has escaped, because it would appear to be in the room of what appeared to be an art gallery that was featured in aYou Tube clip to which a friend referred me. This clip was of Yoko Ono's, um interpretation of the Daft Punk song 'Get Lucky'. Now, an elephant made an appearance years ago when the Yoke-ster recorded 'Walking on Thin Ice'. I daresay this new elephant is its offspring. I am unsure what power John Lennon wielded over the recording studio (which must have almost had its equipment go into meltdown after being subjected to the caterwauling that comprises 'Thin Ice'). John possibly had quite a lot of say in what was to happen re his wife's music (hah!) career, and maybe nobody had the gumption to tell him his wife's vocals were like cats fucking as fingernails scrape a blackboard. Truly, John was an intelligent and perceptive man with heart and soul, and musically brilliant, but ye Gods, surely the man had ears and could hear the godawful racket Yoko produced? Everybody probably sat around lauding and applauding like born-agains at a tent revival, as they battled for breathing space and elbow space from being squashed by the ever-growing pachyderm that was encroaching on all physical space, and that pachyderm was not to be mentioned under any circumstances.
Now, the elephant's baby is in the room, to wit, this gallery or whatever in which a microphone was installed for Yoko to perform 'Get Lucky'. She approaches the mike as those familiar chords are played. She grips the mike stand. She opens her mouth so wide it would appear she is going to actually fellate the elephant in the room. And then, oh God, and then it starts. The strangled, hideous noise that continues in bursts and roars, and sounds like she is alternately channelling the soundtrack of a porno movie, and a horror movie. I tell you, it has overtaken Madonna's 'American Pie' for most pointless, hideous remake of a song every.
My youngest son is a fan of Pharrell Williams and of Daft Punk. Both my sons are fond of pointing out I have the worst singing voice ever. Yesterday afternoon, I said, 'Children, there is a lady who sings worse than Mum.' My oldest, a gun mathematician, denied the stastical and physical possibility of this. So, with my husband's laptop connected to the HMDI of the television, I went to the You Tube channel and played them the clip, and they looked on our television with interest. Then, a few bars into it, my youngest screamed, 'Turn it off!' I turned it off and looked at my children. The oldest was flattened against the back of the lounge from the forceful velocity of the utter badness, and my youngest son looked as though he were replicating Edvard Munch's 'The Scream'.
Anyway, I am counting down to the launch of 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' tomorrow night, and ticking off the list. Yesterday I found a Glam CD in Big W for $2.00. My husband and I played 'My Coo Ca Choo' and danced. Our oldest saw us, and said, 'That's just disturbing,' and slunk away. But hubby and the art gallery manager have conspired to create a great ambience; the art gallery manager is going to bring along some of his T-Rex album covers for decorations. It is the little things like this that humble me, and put a lump in my throat.
But I have organised the cash float, and bought myself something to use as a cash box. I am now off to purchase the beer.
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