Friday, April 5, 2013
April Cover Extravaganza: The Day the Music Died
What happens to a musician when Music dies?
The Day the Music Died is a story of a young man's loss of the only thing in his life he had ever truly loved - music. Academia and mainstream culture (read: 'Bullshit') have destroyed it and subverted it to the point where great music can be hidden from society and nonsense can pass for greatness. For the next ten years, void of any centering influence in his life, Cameron Forsyth lives in a life of delusion and make believe; looking within himself in order to decipher the difference between talent, inspiration and acts of sheer chance, in the hope that he may resolve what was to him an event tantamount to musical deicide.
Throw in an overbearing transvestite alter ego, the virgin mary, a career bullshit artist, the best entry level European executive saloon on the market, a meaningless piece of paper and an under aged p*rn star ... and you have The Day the Music Died.
Albert’s was a well decorated and painfully liberal café specialising in caring little for what you were when you entered. The customers may be hedonists but this was their day off. Any respectful and conservatively dressed tranny could blend into the décor with no trouble.
Its understated vibe meant that there weren’t enough mirrors in Albert’s for Hannah’s liking, other than the obligatory one behind the bar that hoped to give the impression that there was twice as much alcohol on the shelf. Half the point of dressing was to enjoy fast and easy access to one’s own reflection. Hannah would have to be content with being on stage more than sitting in the audience, presenting rather than experiencing. The corset pinching her body and the constant puffing of the lips would have to be endured for someone else’s benefit for a change. At least Rebecca would appreciate the effort taken; she had looked on as Hannah had grown in confidence, from a fledgling dresser to a full blown inhabiter of one’s female persona.
Patrons chatted to the sounds of old school jazz. Cymbals splashed on rocks while tenor saxophones reminisced of the smoke filled clubs of old. Artistry and the clean living lifestyle are not known as the greatest collaborators, and the best music was written in an age when you could develop cancer just by walking past the drummer’s dressing room, or suffer liver failure by walking downwind of a composer. The story of Rock and Roll might have been different had Jimi Hendrix not had a cigarette squeezed into the headstock of his Fender Strat, but rather a piece of organically grown asparagus. He might have lived long enough to record a few more albums and publish his own vegetarian cookbook, but who wouldn’t choke on their own vomit for the chance to write Little Wing, Purple Haze or Castles Made of Sand? A later generation of celebrity would have to create ‘Partridge Wings’, ‘Eggplant Haze’ and ‘Turrets of scorched wagyu beef under orphan veal pâte, prepared sous-vide beside matching twice killed baby harp seal foie gras carpaccio fleurettes, embedded in an almond ganache of chilli infused marmalade, moistened with a coconut hollandaise, wrapped in a seasonal medley of micro greens and partially interleaved by a desiccated black truffle durian purée’.
Rebecca waved for the attention of a staff member and at the first attempt, managed to attract an immaculately clean cut, full lipped 20 year old boy in a tight black t-shirt and designer destroyed jeans. The back fell further down his legs with each table he visited. Hannah once asked why some gay men wore their jeans like this, apparently it makes one’s bum sit higher. Smoke and mirrors, darling.