Stretched to capacity. As the son of a Navajo Indian and a Quail, I know a lot about faux mysticism and uncontrollable shitting. So, I sat down to read the paper today and spat on the ground as Noel Gallagher’s big head was all around me. Everywhere I looked he was there. I’m a bit fragile this morning as I was drinking the red coloured Paul Masson last night. For anyone who hasn’t experienced it, it is the equivalent of walking up to a raspberry bush with your hands tied behind your back and launching yourself, gums-a-bleeding, into those pointy juicy barbs. Every mouthful causes a grimace of pain, telling you stop, idiot, stop! But you must continue, because you are a drunk and a good one at that. Now, Gallagher has had his good points in the past; personally I don’t believe it’s his music, but maybe his wry look on things has helped when the Oasis PR machine has pushed the band’s mediocre output on to radio stations, and mugs onto the magazine shelves. Actually, I’ll start again. Oasis, shut the fuck up! Just fuck off would yis. Really, you’re too old and you’re not going to resurrect like U2 or more recently Metallica (Don’t forget to say behemoths before you say Metallica). You’ll never return to those days when I couldn’t escape your ditties. You are like a small kid who makes people laugh and then he seizes on the opportunity and keeps pushing until he is either struck by an older relation or led off somewhere quiet by an elderly type. Chooses your pain Gallaghers, choose it! Stretch will help.
Robert Plant is getting a lot of press for not rejoining Zep, but I like Robert Plant now. He’s got his own thing going. Creatively speaking, he’s back on track and he gets to hang with that rarity in country music, a woman with all her own skin (for now). Why go back now? For what? I don’t want it and I love Led Zeppelin. The thought that Led Zeppelin were completely not in control of their minds when they were writing and touring made me believe in their music. All the magic and fantasy wrapped up in southern delta blues appealed to me as a small Stretch. The imagery the songs provoked was of lush forests and wide open plains, sticky swamps and even stickier women with the blues sweating off them and young excitable English rock stars mashed in the middle of all this. I don’t think that Jimmy Page would be able to negotiate his way through that now. Leave it be. In Top Trumps terms, listen to “Champagne Supernova” and then “When the Levee Breaks,” then utter your results in the language of righteousness. I’m off to find some very old, old men.