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beatleshalloween · 16 days

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A very sweet McStarr!

Taking place in 2024, the two sole surviving Beatles return to the band's old retreat for their queer affairs together.

The place is a flood of memories, a time and love, long passed!!!

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mountain-in-springtime · 1 year

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absolutely screaming thinking about the song something by the beatles rn. imagine being loved that much! and by george harrison no less!!

#why did i word this like an elderly man #anyway i want to be loved that deeply #mal thoughts #the beatles #george harrison

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theglennon · 6 months

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He finds a thought

Speaks

And

Trails into silence at the end of every sentence

It seems

His voice drops lower in pitch

Higher

In tambour

He looks

For someone to see him

To notice

He has strung words together into paragraphs into creedos

Into

"Damn well betters"

"These kids..."

And Dangerfieldian laments

Look at him

Tongue

Circles gums

for

Teeth that aren't

There

Pushing out

fallen lips

In search of

Moisture

To parch his desert mouth

Bifocals

Perched hard at the tip of his nose

Settle into their creases

As he contemplates

The

(any day now)

End times

He is the old man template

Walking uncertain steps

Fearing falls from

His

Osteoporosed height

Barely an inch or two above 5 feet.

And losing more vertical

Sights

By the day

To the navel of a

Caretaker

Who has

No idea

"No damned idea..."

What it was to be

Him

When he was

HIM

#e.e. cummings #the beatles #klaus voormann #howard dean #elderly man

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connorsnothereeither · 2 days

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Maybe this is just me but I feel like as a collective we haven’t fully registered the sheer Marty McFly urban legend conspiracy fuel bullshittery that happened in the first 72 hours of the Cantripped campaign. Specifically regarding Rowan-

Imagine you’re attending fucking Woodstock. Then, suddenly, The Beatles go to take the stage. But hold on- Paul McCartney isn’t there? It’s just some redhead no one has ever seen before on guitar?? But oh well bands have people get sick and have musicians fill in, it happens all the time.

Suddenly this absolute nobody woman single handedly plays THE MOST TRANSCENDENT AND TRANSFORMATIVE MUSICAL PERFORMANCE IN ALL OF HISTORY. Like, never before seen musical talent, absolutely reshapes the crowds understanding of art and music, broadcast to millions of onlookers. Then, just like any other performance, the band leaves the stage (in later interviews, John Lennon reveals that the woman was a busker that almost got into a fist fight with Ringo in the parking lot 20 minutes before the performance).

15 minutes later, live on stage, the fucking Kennedy Assassination happens. The crowd scatters.

That night, in the aftermath, a bartender in the wealthy part of town says that after handing him a gun across the counter and asking him to take it to a well respected local mom&pop bakery, Jonny Cash was beaten up and arrested in the back room of the bar before being dragged out unconscious by a half dozen uniformed cops.

About a day later, the same bartender takes delivers the gun to the bakery, and inside finds not just the elderly owner, but a well dressed British man in a too small kiss the cook apron, the mysterious woman who performed on stage at Woodstock, and Robert F. Kennedy in a hood and bandana. The next day, the trio along with a very wounded Jonny Cash arrive at his bar yet again, pay him 1000 dollars cash, and leave. Jonny Cash and the unnamed woman then cause a public disturbance at the Canadian border checkpoint on their way through, before Jonny Cash simply sprints through security, and is never seen again.

#this is all /pos obviously #it’s my favourite fucking thing I adore it #it’s just also fucking hilarious to think about from the pov of anyone outside of the party akgsksgsk #cantripped #cantripped podcast #cantripped dan thorns #cantripped rowan

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ceofjohnlennon · 4 months

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“l was very proud of the way he liked to help old people. I have always been interested in this sort of work myself and used to take George around with me when I went visiting elderly people in our district. I remember one day, when | took him to the pictures with me. He was only eight years old at the time. When we came out of the cinema there was an old tramp sitting on a wall. George immediately suggested that we give him half-a-crown. Money meant nothing at all to him then and he could not see why I shouldn't give money to every old person we met."

ㅡ Louise Harrison about a young George Harrison. From The Beatles Monthly Book N°26 (September/1965).

#george harrison #the beatles #60s #1965 #louise harrison #beatles monthly book #my:read

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dynamoe · 4 months

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Billy Quizboy as the rabbit-toothed guitarist DAVE HILL of glam rock band SLADE— sporter of the worst bangs in rock n' roll history*— circa their 1973 Christmas #2 Merry Christmas Everybody**, which was covered as the annual Venture Bros holiday song this year by Pete White, Master Billy Quizboy, his mom and her lovers (the elderly superhero polycule).

→ hear the cover on KenPlume's youtube → go to the Billy Quizboy & Pete White index

(I know with the orange hair/eyepatch he looks like Ziggy Stardust— the Quizboy:Slade ratio is a delicate balance.)

Merriest Twelfth Day of Christmas to you, to Jackson Publick and Doc Hammer and to Slade and anyone else still reading who gives a shit.

youtube

Slade is more of a British thing, really. They had a ton of British hits in the 1970s as a glam rock band, but didn't break into the US until the 1980s (when they replaced Ozzy Osborne at the Reading Festival) with Cum on Feel the Noize, pivoting to be more hard rock/metal.

Noddy Holder was more of the “face” of Slade (head to toe plaid, mutton chops, tophat covered in mirrors). I suspect the all-plaid outfit on Col. Gentleman in the Vbros cover art is a take on Noddy's look... or he ignored the brief and dressed as one of Scotland's own Bay City Rollers. Slade suffered from a lesser case of Cheap Trick syndrome, where every member dressed like they were in a different band. Dave dressed full spaceman-- face glitter, every variety of metallic fabric available (lurex, glitter knit, vinyl, lamé) in shades of silver. The other guitarist whose name I won't look up wore a red lurex suit (I guess that would be Pete's outfit in their cover band) which he had to keep replacing because he sweated so much on stage the fibers literally melted (one of the suits was preserved by the V&A on an episode of Secrets of the Museum)... No one cares about the drummer.

The only reason I know anything about Slade — I'm no rock trivia geek, I’m a comedy nerd — Slade was a constant punchline in 1990s Brit Comedy. Noddy appeared on Never Mind the Buzzcocks in the LaMar era. 1993 sketch show The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer had a recurring mini-sitcom “Slade in Residence” (the band living in a suburban home together, wearing their stage costumes, eating nothing but cup-of-soup, obsessing over monster truck rallies and— the key to their appeal to Vic and Bob, I imagine— whining in thick Black Country accents.)

Billy is my Covid muse and if he stars in the annual Christmas cover (he had only sung before on 2006's VentureAid; read poems on their take on the Beatles Fan Club records), it's not like I CAN'T draw something despite saying I was done with this shit. I promised you guys a *technically* Christmas Billy drawing and I *technically* delivered.

Now I'm gonna switch to drawing characters I own so I can finally make some money. Godblessuseveryone. ___

*Dave Hill was just being a futuristic spaceman, those micro-bangs were the hottness on all the skater girls of the late 1990s. I even had 'em.

**Having the #1 song at Christmas is a big deal in the UK (as you may remember from the Bill Nighy segments from Love Actually) and the 1973 slug match between Slade's Merry Christmas Everybody and the eventual winner Wizzard’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday looms large in music trivia, to the degree that I was sure Astrobot Go was going to release a cover a day later of some other (more fan-favored) characters doing their version of Wizzard to rain on Billy et. al’s parade.

→ Wizzard

youtube

So which character dons the beard and harlequin eye facepaint to be the guy from Wizzard? Probably Hank, right?

→ go to the Billy Quizboy & Pete White index → Nobody'sSweetheart on Instagram

#billy quizboy #Slade #christmas #merry christmas everybody #1973 #cover band #cosplay #illustrator #illustration #venture bros #venture brothers #vbros #dave hill #slade in residence #glam #Explaining Slade to zoomers

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clove-pinks · 3 months

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Enter my bedroom when I'm 12 years old!

£20,000 REWARD Franklin Expedition "poster" on wall—it's only 8.5" x 11" because that's the size the library photocopier can make, but I'm very proud of this one.

Photocopied passages from other polar exploration books, also taped to the wall! My plan here is evidently luring people into my room and Educating them about the Franklin Expedition (p.s. everything that went wrong was because of LEAD POISONING, obviously).

A few genuine antique cigarette cards, with a polar exploration theme!

Framed picture of Francis Crozier (photocopy from a book), and ONLY Francis Crozier, on my bureau in a little frame. Why Crozier?! (I loved the sadness in his eyes in that 1845 dag).

On the opposite wall: Beatles posters.

I don't even know what's in the bookcase: probably a lot of Dickens in cheap paperbacks (I won't get Frozen in Time until age 13).

There's probably a rosary somewhere from the elderly mother of my mom's boyfriend.

#shaun talks #as a new england child i had a lot of access to antique shops #antique cigarette cards were within my 12-year-old budget #want to rent yellow submarine from the video store? we have a VCR now!

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noctude · 2 months

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only watching the beatles biopics if theyre like the movies. completely fabricated. absurdist & hard to follow. actors blasted out of their minds. spoken in archaic liverpudlian syntax that makes every line close to incomprehensible. containing an impish elderly relative. ringo

#spongebob meme WITHOUT THE ORIENTALISM!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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missrayon · 11 months

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After leaving the Velvet Underground in August of 1970 Lou Reed focused on his writing and poetry before embarking on a solo music career, releasing his debut album in May of 1972. Published in the book No One Waved Goodbye in 1971, this essay finds Reed at an uncertain period in his career reflecting on his own through those of Brian Epstein, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin, all of whom had recently died.

Fallen Knights and Fallen Angels by Lou Reed

Lou Reed was formerly vocalist, guitarist and lead songwriter for The Velvet Underground. His poetry appears regularly in Fusion.

At the age when identity is a problem some people join rock and roll bands and perform for other people who share the same difficulties. The age difference between performer and beholder in rock and roll is not large. But, unfortunately, those in the fourth tier assume those on stage know something they don't. Which is not true. It simply requires a very secure ego to allow yourself to be loved for what you do rather than what you are, and an even larger one to realize you are what you do. The singer has a soul but feels he isn't loved off stage. Or, perhaps worse, feels he shines only on stage and off is wilted, a shell as common as the garden gardenia. But we are all common as snowflakes, aren't we?

Brian Epstein built an empire but lived long enough to have a lot of time on his hands. Those who hate the nine-to-five regimen do not know the blessings that it holds. It masters the mind and protects it from itself. It soothes the ego. This is what I do. I have a family and I provide. When one has free time one tries to enjoy it, if only for its rarity. We are a race that needs to work. Brian Jones died from the lack of it and Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix from too much of the wrong kind.

I remember the early days of The Beatles well. I had recently been asked by the Tactical Police Force of the city which housed my large eastern university to leave town well before graduation because of various clandestine operations I was alleged to have been involved in. In those days few people had long hair and those who did recognized each other as, at the very least, a good guy and one who smoked marijuana. And so I was lining up medical proof in order to evade the draft when along came the moptops, with their pictures in every window and their records on the jukebox where the local poets furrowed their brows and read to each other, where sophisticated elderly townies came to prey on callow youth and where I often went to drink alone to that week's lost anything. It was the world of Kant and Kierkegaard and metaphysical polemics that lasted well into the night and it was into this world that the Beatles music came, first as novelty and later as the style, the Spanish heeled boots, the banged haircuts, the accents (so delightful, cooed the girls to their Wellington-footed American counterparts), a style which was so proliferate and finally dominate the Sixties.

I had recently been introduced to the drugs at this time by a mashed-in-faced Negro whose features were in two sections (like a split-level house) named Jaw. Jaw gave me hepatitis immediately, which is pathetic and laughable at once, considering I wrote a famous amplified version of the experience as a song. Anyway, his bad blood certainly put an end to my abortive excursions and consequently tempered whatever enthusiasm I might have had for pop music at the time. The Beatles were innocent of the world and its wicked ways, I felt, while I no longer possessed this pristine view. I, after all, had had jaundice.

This other-worldly approach vanished however, and after my mind and my liver kept me from the Army, I, too, danced to the Beatles music. Had Epstein realized what he had unleased on the world? Did he tie his kite to their comet or was it vice versa? Had it been a sure thing any fool could have bumbled through or was the whole enterprise a masterful scheme of plotting (ten records in the Top Ten at once!)? We will never know and if John or Paul do, it does not seem they are talking.

If Brian Epstein had nothing to do, really, with The Beatles' success, one can understand his death more easily. We see him worthless, feeling, perhaps, the pawn of circumstance, to which he had not added his true bit of fuel. Feeling that he had nothing to give. After all he did, in his autobiography, describe himself as bland, as having only come to life through them. Had he not failed at becoming an actor? I remember him on the old Hullaballoo TV show looking so pale and wan and out of place. So quiet! Was this the mastermind tycoon, the successor to Col. Parker, the new Barnum?

But perhaps he was the genius some say, filling up his day with devious and splendid machinations, plotting and coursing the trail of our idols so that they did eventually blaze above each and every one of our heads. If he was a great businessman, expressing his will through four musicians, bringing honesty and integrity to an otherwise murky business, how he then must have suffered when The Beatles decided to tour no longer. What left after two movies and no tours? No more organizational meetings, plots, plans and devices. Does one pore endlessly over monstrous manuscripts praying to find the sacred words, to resurrect once again the excitement, the glory, and the power?

Or do you spend your time flitting from one party to another, continent to continent, experimenting with this or that, savoring the fruits of one's endeavors but endeavoring no more? Do you find new groups, Gerry and the Pacemakers, The Cyrkle, Cilla Black? There is only one group. And they do not want to peform.

I remember him best for a story that may or may not have been true. In his mansion Brian Epstein kept Spanish servants, none of whom could speak English. Let that be a lesson to us all in discretion.

After The Beatles came The Stones and of The Stones one could never have ignored Brian Jones with his puffed up Pisces, all-knowing, suffering fish eyes, his incredible clothes, those magnificent scarves, Brian always ahead of style, perfect Brian. How could Brian have asthma, a psychological disease (we're told) and certainly something strange for a member of a rock and roll group. We read in interviews that Brian saw himself as the original lead Stone, a position he held until their American tour singled out Mick for the honor in the hearts of the American female.

Can you remember in 1964 when The Stones were called homosexual for long hair? (Were you?) Brian, with two fourteen-year-old girls draped on each arm, must have laughed. And yet, the center of attention was drifting. In a group the attention may be evenly distributed (we all knew and loved John, Paul, George and Ringo) but in The Stones it was to be Mick. Now normally in a group an instrumentalist can never overshadow a lead singer. (Exception: The Yardbirds where Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page did just that to poor Keith Relf.) In The Stones there was Mick, the pivotal center. Charlie and Bill were for gourmets. That left Keith and Brian. Lead guitar always, always beats rhythm guitar for popularity, so that left Brain, who one assumes therefore turned to more and more exotic instruments to establish his presence both to himself and others. This is what I'm worth. Let me see you play the damn thing.

It would be a mistake I think for someone to compete with Jagger on his own terms. Jagger has literally rewritten the book on strut scowl and scruffy and the role of street urchin versus society he played perfectly and mercilessly. Had Brian thought of competing it would have been a mistake. No one can overtake lead vocalist.

New drugs, new countries, new sounds, back to the blues, my own music (everyman's conceit and dream), I must redefine myself because the self I wanted to become is occupied by another body. And still he was identified as a Stone which was contrarily identified as Mick's group, a backup band, a sideman. Now connoisseurs of course know that the band is a Band, but the great mass looked to Mick not Brian to be their leader through this Fall from Grace. And how can you take that? "But I started the thing, " you might say. "It was my records in the first place, I turned them on, must I be a damn singer to turn on the world?" Yes. Or the champion of guitar.

Then, of course, there are more problems, the drug arrests, the constant mental turmoil. What if they tour without me? Financial. Could I starve? (He died well in debt.) If they play without me I shall be disgraced and have nothing whereas if I leave and strike out on my own I'm out before they get me (how sad! how inevitable!), and I create my own myth, style, voice, they eyes will be on me, I have a future, there's so much I know, music, music, music, who would know it from THAT, I can do it, I have to do it, I will do it, I must do it.

And of course the disorientation, am I backwards, forwards, the asthma attack (I am going to choke), the fall (where is the pool?!) and everything settles like a quiet bubble coming in spurts and then thin streams until finally the last one popped itself right out of earthly existence.

Do people realize that at the age some of our entertainers are, most people have settled into a life-style from which they will reap rewards the rest of their lives? That is security of job and family. Most have found their soul-mate and are busy with one child, if not two, and life seems ordered and with purpose. No strange meanderings for them. That is for lesser or greater or at the very least different mortals from you and I. And yet there is no son more delinquent, no family more in chaos than the audience which comes to sit at the table of rock. Who else withdraws emotions so arbitrary? And yet if the audience is just one big person, it should not be thought any more or less dependable than anyone else. Therefore performer beware. If you come looking for love, come prepared with a thick skin or a thick heart. Or, as my analyst put it, don't depend on anyone, not your lover, your friend, or your doctor.

Hendrix, that most supple of guitarists, the true electronic extension, depended on his audience to take him anywhere but where he was. But, as he insisted on taking their trip rather than taking them on his, he was ultimately forced to face a vision of himself which screamed clown. One cannot get to the top and switch masks. The lover demands consistency, and unless you've established variance as your norm a priori you will be called an adulterer. You can accept illogic as logic if it's presented all the time but not when sprung as a ripe pomegranate in a grove of erstwhile peahes.

Hendrix was at the mercy of so many people one wonders how he stood it was long as he did. He was the other side of Joplin's coin. If she traded off the black, he was trading off the white. When his management brought him here from England with two white sidemen, the die was cast. For Jimi Hendrix could never have been accepted in white America as a first-rate phenomenon had he had an all-black band.

When Jimi Hendrix came over the most striking thing besides his truly incredible guitar virtuosity was his savage, if playful, rape of his instrument. It would squeal and whine going off into a crescendo of leaps and yells that only chance could program. (See, we are extensions of Mr. Cage, it's all so modern and primitive at the same time, how simultaneous.) Anyone who does that night after night must go mad. It was the frenzy of self, for frustration can only so long be acted out in violent ways, never mime. If any part of it becomes sham, then vital energies are used to mimic the worst aspects of self and both mind and body are soon exhausted.

Jimi Hendrix's shows became sex shows, the idol erotically gliding, so . . . diffident, through a performance with two playmates clearly not in his league. Bitterness developed over attention to the star. But he was the star, wasn't he (lead guitarist and vocalist)? So the group dissolves. Comes the amorphous dawn and he realizes, I am not a strip-teaser, an Ann Corio con artist of the pelvis, I am a guitar player, now that I have, uh, arrived why don't they take me seriously? The zenith of burlesque wants to play rock Macbeth and so, they say, do all comedians, ha, ha, want to be tragedians. But I! Am! An! Artist! I! Can! Play! And he could (running counter to the Cassandra-like predictions of management) have played a sinewy Lear or a sweet and loving Hamlet, for Jimi played music beautiful music every waking minute moment, noon and sun-music permeated his every thought and action and it had to be, I repeat, had to be, that he would have to say I must play real music or shrivel up and die one wind-swept morning.

And so, as Joplin is to do also, he forms a new band, so to play what he attempts. And yet, there is no money for that, it is not so successful (where are the fans?) and so the old band is sporadically reformed for jobs in Oregon and the need to perform for an audience goes on, only this time to be forced to, this time, knowingly violate the self and soul (the body is the temple that houses the soul activated by the spirit which is energy) it was all right before, when we didn't understand what we were doing (the Shadow of Men witnesses all we do), when we had to get there . . . but to break the principles (so newly discovered) now! the spirit breaking, now! And so one runs back to the room to clarify the goals, get one's head straight, get it together, sort it all out, and dimly, dimly, may or may not perceive that management was lying.

Who can you talk to on the road? Long-haired dirty drug people wherever you look. The boy passes over a bag of green powder (for Christ's sake as Holden would put it, Samwise come protect the master) and passes out. Don't take that, it has horse tranquilizer in it. Oh, I shot up to your song, I got busted to your song. Oh please bless me and touch me and make it all go away. I loved to you.

Who did Janis Joplin talk to on the road? She brought excesses of feeling into moribund white music. On the road when one sees only nights, never the pretty days of a flat midwestern sun. And all your companions are drugged and hip and so sophisticated (we talk on such a high level only dogs can hear us) about the scene and who did what do whom and three puns on why, far out . . . She's so . . . twisted. Who can you talk to when you're famous and alone and all the people idolize you and want . . . to . . . get high with you and show you what they too are HIP, that they KNOW what is happening and watch let's get her drunk she's so funny when she's drunk you'll love her do you remember . . .

I remember people who do encore after encore and after being pressed into a role they may have wanted, either consciously or unconsciously emulate a pattern, gradually become the persona and, then alone, have to live up to it because the wretched THEY want it and what if they are right? Perhaps I should die, after all, (the great blues singers) did die, didn't they? But life is getting better now, I don't want to die. Do I?

And if it's true all so true that you can't live up to everyone's expectations, and if it's true you cannot be all things to all people, and if it's true you cannot be other than what you are (passage of time to the contrary), then you must be strong of heart if you wish to work the problem out in public, on stage, through work before "them" who fully expect and predict in print their idol's fall. And if it was true it was inevitable and oh yes we know sad, and oh nothing could be done about it after all that's how she started out she just realized too late the habits of years are not undone in days, then if it's true that princesses are besmirched, then all of us are fallen knights.

#oh please bless me and touch me and make it all go away #lou reed #the velvet underground #brian epstein #brian jones #jimi hendrix #janis joplin

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franciskirkland · 4 months

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Heya!! Alfred and Matthew, what are your guy's music tastes like? 👀

(admin: i'm an elderly zoomer with obscure taste so i have precisely zero idea what the kids are into these days. i'm gonna give them like. non-contemporary tastes if that's ok)

Alfred: Hiya! I'm mostly into rock and roll/classic rock, even stuff you might call 'Dad rock', and older country too! Elvis, the Beach Boys, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, the Eagles. I get some of my taste from my Dad though, so I love the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, even if they're kinda overrated. Don't let the old man hear me say that!!

Matthieu: Oh, hey there. I tend to like more artsy/alternative music. Indie pop, dreampop and shoegaze, experimental stuff, but also I'm pretty influenced by my mom's taste so I can vibe with some classical piano. Not gonna lie, I've been getting into the Smiths lately, they're one of Dad's favorites.

#admin says: opinions are theirs; not mine!!!#merci!#roleplay blog #FACE family #NA twins #NA bros #aph america #aph canada

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