Gather around the campfire, children; it's time to tell ghost stories. Auntie Bingells has a doozy. I'm not going to shine a torch under my face for effect (trust me, the last thing I need at my age is any kind of technical effect that makes me look more haggard or scary), nor am I going repeat the oft-told urban myth of the serial killer with the fork for a hand, and then hold up the barbeque fork as I triumphantly roar, ''THE KILLER STILL ROAMS THE WOODS! BOO!"
Nope, this one is even more chilling. Here goes...
Way back, back, probably in the late Seventies or early Eighties, there were some men who worked as record producers. Most scary stories and fairy tales feature hunters or wood cutters, but these blokes were record producers. They met up in an office one day, and someone had left magic powder there. They breathed it up their nostrils, and strange ideas came to them. One of them said, 'I've got the most fantastic idea! Let's find a young guy and girl, preferably completely devoid of any musical talent whatsoever, and get them to record the most dissonant, jarring, and meaningless song ever!'
'But, but..' giggled one of the other producers, as he toyed with his erection, 'we're talking about music here!'
The original producer went on, sniffing a little, 'It doesn't matter. The kids will listen to what we tell them to listen to. They will believe this is the New Age.'
One of the acolytes, now under the thrall of the magic powder, interjected in the most ingratiating of tones, 'Super idea, boss! What super larks! I think I might know of such a couple. The guy is a bit androgynous which is super fashionable these days. You know, that Boy George chappie and all, really. The girl can't sing for toffee, but the sneer on her face is second to none. Also, she has the most filthy dreadlocks because she doesn't wash her hair, and writes the most horrid rude words on her shoes. The young folk will lap it up!'
'Right!' exclaimed the most senior of the producers, rubbing his hands together in unholy glee. 'I can just see a cottage on Mustique now!
They carried out their evil plan, and soon thereafter a single was released by a band with the name Haysi Fantayzee, and that single was 'Shiny, Shiny'. Teenagers everywhere were taken in by the evil spell cast by that song.
Not all teenagers were hoodwinked. Your blogger, for one. I saw through the tripe for what it was: a disharmonious, discordant, atonal heap of bullshit. I despaired for the future of music when I saw the clip on 'Countdown'. In the passage of time, I thought I had put the nightmare behind me. I thought the spell had been lifted. But tonight its evil presence manifested itself on the 'Countdown' special. I should have known I was not in for a good time when the episode opened with Pat Wilson's squeaky 'Bop Girl', a ditty that ruptures the fabric of time and space with its pointless mediocrity. But I coped. And then it re-appeared, like an evil boomerang: 'Shiny, Shiny'. My thirteen-year-old sat there stunned by the sheer godawfulness of it. So did I. I found myself reaching for a beer to cope.
That song is a gangrenous pile of pustules.
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