Monday 1 September 2008

The CURE for monday morning (all twenty-odd minutes of it)

Rock your hearts out... apart from the pixillation, this is about as gorgeous as it gets. All dirty white brick, men in bowlers, orange raincoated Ringo, London black cabs, well behaved aback-taken "bit of an imposition to disrupt all the business in the area" humans on the street, the little twiddly fucking little microphones, the passion christ the passion, the beautiful fucking guitars held lovingly, bearded Paul, "everybody had a wet dream" John and fucking gorgeous sound of it all. Yeah, so they were bitching and falling apart at this stage. Who cares - look at them, they are having FUN. Oooooooh...

You know, I grew up at a time when John was dead, George - and indeed Bob Dylan, who I also only discovered a couple of years ago - had turned into a Travelling Wilbury, Ringo was a lardy old cigar smoker, and Paul was playing the pipes of peace, so I didn't get a Beatles infatuation until I lived with someone who had the White album. And then lived with my Brooklyn Lover last winter, who had the rest of them. I see footage like this and it makes my heart soar.

Must have also been such an antidote to all those early stadium gigs where they couldn't hear themselves play with all the screaming going on, to play a gig with such disappearing acoustics and bewildered onlookers. I am going to wear a miniskirt and boots tomorrow, mark my words. And play some guitar now.

And then along comes the fuzz. Boooooo!

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