Today I hand over to a fine gentleman. A man who goes by the name of Paul Morley. A man wielding meticulous pop knowledge and a truly exceptional way with words, which has no doubt caused controversy with those who are too illiterate to consider the deeper craftwork of sonic frequencies we would consider to be "pop perfection". Take it away Paul!
Words And Music Part 2 - The Female Musician Part 1 - Ringo
The songs that saved your life.
THIS CHARMING WOMAN, The woman that saved your life, or at least she can protect you from a cruel and corrupt world.
I recall an encounter with her, a very musical encounter, she was wielding post-neo-classical-baroque-pop. She knew exactly what she was doing, we never went to see her, she came to see us. She teased our tympanic membranes with her rousing frequencies, a look which pierces our anterior chambers, irrefutable style. A stern sexed-up face with belittling smiles, dual sight globes which peer into our very souls, and which she wields as gorgeous eccentric weapons. She was not waiting all that time, she was arming herself. A girl whom nature chose to sculpt itself, surpassing measly human efforts in the process and even outdoing itself - it is as if Ringo-chan rose from the ether, of her own accord, and had little to do with anything mortals are able to conceive. Addictive as coke, COCA-COLA!
I COULD NOT BELIEVE IT. She wielding a guitar, the guitar which she had saved a company with. Her guitar. She wields it with such precision and care BUT it's not just attention to armour. It's a very low-key affair and yet the very notion of a girl wielding a guitar is mindblowing in itself. Striding through regions and religions only touched upon by such rock gods as THE QUO, she becomes a modern day Jean D'Arc. A fearsome feminist, killing easy male preconceptions of women and doing justice to their true profundity. Nobody can bear Ringo's intensity, and yet it is rawly thrilling to witness her exhibitions of sense-based elemental sculptures, like aural/visual/visceral tornadoes that charr and eliminate the soul only to pave the way for a inner rebirth and replenishing.
Another encounter, I COULD NOT BELIEVE IT. Merely two years on, and she had rebuilt her character, teleporting us to a smokey french club in the 1950s as she caresses her slender body with a fine avant-garde style of dress and opera gloves which exude a vice-like grip onto the microphone, and onto her life. Also onto our hearts. Her voice, so raw, dominating the orchestra behind her. She was a succubus. Her boobs looked quite big and you could see her nipples through her dress. Her gorgeous slight movements, she was making sexy noises and breathing all over the mic and shit, IT WAS FUCKING AROUSING!
She is filthy as well.
"If I make my throat work, you’ll spill over and overflow"
that is her artfully describing giving a blowjob. Lyrics to what was probably a fine slice of Morleyian Pop Perfection. CLASSY! But I think it's splendid that we have these deep female musicians tackling explicit sexual subjects unrestrained with such casuality (a morleyism). It signifies a significant "fuck you" to malekind which harkens back to the riot-grrl roots, but simultaneously we are aroused by the tenacity and indeed audacity of these bold and yet marvellously crafted female statements. A movement I like to call "Art-Slut" but I must ask, if a woman uses such archaic, baroque, and pulchritudinously poetic words, can she be excused from such a demeaning tag? Does she maintain her dignity? I believe so. Marvellous!
What IS Pop?
I remember when she formed her band, a multifarious posse of jazz-wankers wielding painfully modern jazzrockpopcore. But something wasn't quite right, to quote a bequiffed Manchester loner "The music that they constantly play, it says nothing to me about my life."
Indeed, it seems our fair maiden had gotten carried away. Or to put it in more brutal terms, lost her head up her arse. I don't want to hang her though, I still love her in a very real way, but I feel as though she doesn't love me as much anymore.
There was an exception, a particularly raw noise frenzy driven by megaphones and liberal use of a "Pub Keyboard" (Imagine the cricket themes ong, the cheapo organ.) But alas, not enough. I stop and question to myself "is THIS pop?" "is THIS a pop downfall?" in harsh comparison to a heroin induced rock self-destruction "is THIS a pop downfall?" A "Popfall" if you will.
On the live front, we witnessed her "sell out" as it were. No longer were her crowds composed of nerdy men in glasses who probably just came to look at her body, or maybe they came because her old HITS really spoke to us about OUR LIVES? These days her crowds featured notably trendy young women, who all had the same rather vile orangey-brown hair dye. Who no doubt aspired to be like her. Of course they could not, NOBODY COULD. Perhaps her concerts were saved when she quite frankly "BUSTED OUT THE OLD HITS" in a manner similar to the manchesterian candidate Paul Weller. But there is a distinct difference. Back then when she EXPLODED onto the alternative female musician scene, EXPLODED! Her arsenal of 60s outsider folk inspired, streetwise, gritty, HONEST words and pop delicacies.
Back when she referred to herself as THE SADISTIC PRINCESS! For reasons we are not sure of, possibly because her fine aural morsels and amorous character made us into her slaves. I COULD NOT BELIEVE IT! She stomped around the dingy livehouse stage in torn fishnets, her bra was hanging off, her dress was incredibly skimpy, I COULD SEE HER FUCKING KNICKERS! She was screaming into a megaphone, if you reached your hand out to her, SHE WOULD TOUCH IT! A GIRL TOUCHING YOUR HAND! She sends female depth charges to EXPLODE YOUR PANTS. But how chauvanistic of me to focus on her body. I couldn't help it when she was so sexually-aggressive, as was her music. A scorching punk spirit, yet irrefutably pop. She knew how Joan Of Arc felt, as the flames rose to her mole and the plastic personas of other popstars started to melt.
THIS! IS POP!
Then I view her modern performances with her party of musical scholars. Now she is waltzing around a huge stage in a dress that I bet was FACKING EXPENSIVE, it reflects the culture of the 18th century french working girls, the original petite bourgeoisie. She has flowers in her hand and she seems distant. "It just wasn't like, the old days anymore."
Then mum walked in again, she said "Paul! That's nice dear, how does she get her hair like that?" I said "NO MUM! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! This isn't meant to be what she is about!" then I had to hit mum with the saucepan.
She once said, "I find pop to be really artificial and plastic, I wanted to make something real." in her typical charming way. And FUCKING HELL did she succeed. This music has been dragged through the streets, thrown off buildings, scrapped across subway tracks, and thrown into the clouds.
WHAT IS POP?! WHAT IS A WOMAN?!
This is pop, this is a woman. A pop-woman a wop, woman-pop womop, wop, etc.
It is now within this moment I recall a wonderful piece of footage from her younger days. She spontaneously and eccentrically begins to dance and sing in the streets, onlookers ponder "who is this daft bint?" and indeed, if I was there I may feel the need to put my fat morley hand over her beautiful mouth in order to silence her burning musical spirit, in order to save her from any embarrassment in the eyes of those who cannot understand pop. But I couldn't believe it. I COULD. NOT. BELIEVE IT! Here she was, completely free, completely happy, beautiful. Let her be. This is female liberation.
I had to cry. The first tears of joy I have ever felt stream down my face. My mother branded me a sad little man, but for a split-second I saw a particular look in her eyes. I knew she understood, she understood it on a different level, as a female she felt liberated. As a male I saw incredible beauty in the footage. It could well be the finest melding of pop and TV ever conceived. The ONLY melding of pop and TV ever conceived.
In that moment, if she would have said "Would you like to marry me?" Yes. How did you know? But alas, the moment has passed. As I go back to the tormenting prison of my brilliant mind, I still long for the time to reappear in some unknown far off realm.
"Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out."
I've been Paul Morley.
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