Honey, That Frosting is Improbable
Snow sprinkles outside still; I spent the morning huddled on the couch catching up on work, breaking to watch a video of PiL on American Bandstand. I could strut and flex whatever metaphorical muscles I had (delts, mostly), but nothing goes so far as simply watching Lydon forcibly shove unsuspecting ladies onto the stage, not smiling but hardly able to contain his glee; he doesn't bother to mime performance, and neither does the rest of the band. "Careering" finds fun people smiling happy fun dance what?
Trying to find some information about the event, I stumbled on collective musings on when American Bandstand proverbially jumped the shark; one man, heart broken:
"This was much like the curtain being drawn back on the Great OZ. At the same time I was on the floor gasping for breath with laughter, I also felt a deep sense of betrayal. Dick Clark had lied to me!! To us all!! From that moment forward AB became a sad joke to me."
Firstly, two exclamation points is always weird. Had to say. Hoo. Anyway, it's a great comment because it suggests a time when stuff like PiL was actually slithering around the mainstream in an antagonistic (at least interesting and entertaining) way, when seeing something like that would've actually fucked with an unsuspecting audience rather than simply stroking the "experimental" set; see also the odd paradox that music like this can't really get any POP defamation-scramble going because there is no comparable event nowadays to PiL on American Bandstand and it's almost impossible to imagine one. (Incidental charm in comment - laughing hysterically while feeling betrayed: rare feeling, good feeling.) Now I guess the hopefuls are supposed to be content with a separate piece/peace, the suggestion of a cosmic head pat, sweet-ass remasters and message board discussion (I often feel like I'm huddled at a fire under the Great Bridge of the Universe with hobos eating dirt and developing sores). Anyway, yeah, it is inspiring to see this. Slap me out of my coma when Janet's other tit slips out of her corset or Kanye starts defaming lesser apostles.
On another note, whoever did the inappropriately upbeat soundtrack to The Last House on the Left is almost enviably sick; like The Benny Hill Show but, y'know, over 17-year-old girls being raped, forced to piss themselves and hit each other while they sob in terror by some convicts that basically look like The Strokes.