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Return of the LaXuLa

PostPosted: Sun Jun 08, 2008 2:14 am
by Gordon Neill
It has been almost a year since I first met LaXuLa. A difficult first interview as I suppose she was a little nervous. But she had moved me with her uncompromising sense of where she wanted to go. I say ‘moved’, although ‘shoved’ may have been a more accurate description. But I realised that it was just the flustered reaction of a shyly feisty newcomer, unprepared for my searching questions. However, we had made a connection of some sort. As I watched her heels disappearing up the stairs, continuing on her upward trajectory to become a star, I knew that our paths would meet again……

Twelve months on and a lot had changed. While mother Earth had ground out another lonely lap around the solar system, LaXuLa had become a star in her own right. Past the stage of being a White Dwarf, but not yet a Red Giant, she had created her own gravitational field and was surrounded by rings of journalists and musicians. And I was about to come within her orbit again. With an email inviting me to join her as her personal guest, I was launching myself back into the world of pop star interviewing. Destination: London. Star date: now.

As I approached the Islington Academy, the venue for our chat, I walked past the waiting crowds, queuing all the way back to the bus stop. I was heartened to see her career taking off in such a spectacular fashion. ‘Press’ I said to the young woman behind the desk, adding that I was a personal guest. Too shy to ask for my autograph, she found my name on a list of visiting dignitaries and quizzically looked behind me. ‘And fiend?’, she asked. ‘It says “and fiendâ€

Care in the community

PostPosted: Thu Jun 12, 2008 12:40 am
by Gordon Neill
Email from a Mr H Male, South London:

Dear Gordon

As we have now virtually slept together (were it not for a wall between us) I feel you should know the truth about LaXuLa.

Her inviting you up to London was in fact a bluff. She never thought you'd
come all the way from Edinburgh. In fact she thought no one ever came to
London from Scotland even though it is down hill all the way. So when I told her you were coming, her exact words were, "Please, Howard, don't let that crazy man anywhere near me!"

Yes, I know, it must be very hard for you to except this but it's the truth.
So anyway, as soon as I told her you were making the arduous journey and hadn't lost any of your, quite frankly, perverse infatuation with her she vomited copiously, drank three bottle of wine, vomited a bit more, and then suggested that the only way of putting you off the scent was to quickly set up a fake gig in the venue where you'd agreed to meet.

I was immediately assigned the task of getting as many ragged youths off the streets and into the Islington Academy. This didn't prove too difficult as LaXula's record company were willing to foot the bill for a free bar as an incentive. I'm afraid the record company were equally anxious that you didn't meet LaXula again, fearing that you would do even more damage to her already faltering career with your strange ways.

Anyway, once the 'audience' were sufficiently inebriated to be convincingly enthusiastic, LaXula (and a few drunks gathered at the last minute from the nearby Whetherspoons pub) mimed to a tape of Siouxsie and the Banshees played backwards (so you were quite close to spotting our little ruse there!)

The whole Truman Show scenario was completed once the bar staff had all been given a photo of you. This was to make sure that when you went to the bar you were charged a convincing London price of £5.99 a pint for any beers you bought. We didn't want you being made suspicious by the free drink (after all, a free bar would any Scotsman suspicious I should image!)

Anyway, don't shoot the messenger as they say. And don't shoot LaXula
either - I'm sure that isn't too far from your mind at this point in time,
but you know that's not really on now don't you. Don't you?

Best wishes



Dear Mr Male

Thank you for your message. I have long thought of you as quite an evocative writer and your opening comment certainly made me shudder.

But I'm afraid I have a confession as well. It wasn't me. I was interested in gathering some new material but I just couldn't face going down there. At my age, the thought of pay good money to listen to a loud racket, whilst drinking lager out of a plastic tumbler, and then being obliged to sleep on a floor is simply not that appealing. More importantly, the Bill is on a Thursday and I simply couldn't bear missing an episode.

So I had one of my London operatives make an appearance on my behalf. He saw through your ruse immediately (your insistence on liking Scottish beer struck an early false note). It's the same chap who sat in for me at Darbuckas last year, so he found the role-playing quite straightforward. Although he did find it difficult to keep a straight face when you were navigating a way home late on Thursday night. He lives near Mornington Crescent and was, frankly, quite bewildered by some of your choices of tube, mainline train, bus, taxi, and rickshaw. Apparently, he's been dining out on the story all week.

But it's all left me in a bit of a quandry. The chap assured me that he'd listened to two 'really super' Chicha CDs at your house. He knows nothing about music so, frankly, I think he was just parroting whatever had been said to him. But, somewhat foolishly, I immediately went into print, waxing lyrical, only to find that Charlie has promptly announced that one of them is "OK a track-at-a-time, but is hard going as an album". Even worse, he states that the other one "is the equivalent of Brits singin' da blooze."

What can I do? I can hardly retract my earlier statement. But, equally, I can hardly dismiss the man's views in public. Although I must say that I was bemused at his statement that the first CD is "OK a track-at-a-time". Personally, as a matter of routine, I always listen to just one track at a time. But, then again, I'm not a professional disc jockey. I dare say they get special BBC speed-training to enable them to get through the bundles of CDs being constantly shoved through their letterboxes.

If you have any other impulsive thoughts that you wish to share, please hesitate to contact me immediately. And best wishes on finding the right level of medication.


PS Ms LaXuLa can rest easy. It's been several years since I actually shot a pop star. It was all a long time ago and, in any case, I've served my debt to society. So there's no need to drag that unfortunate matter up yet again. I learned my lesson and I'm now only too well aware of just how sophisticated modern fingerprinting techniques can be.

PostPosted: Thu Jun 12, 2008 1:12 am
by Dayna
This is funny!

Forrest Gump reviews 'King Hokum' by CW Stoneking

PostPosted: Wed Feb 25, 2009 10:31 pm
by Gordon Neill
Forrest Gump reviews 'King Hokum' by CW Stoneking

My name’s Forrest Gump. People call me Forrest Gump. I was asked to review this CD by CW Stoneking. So I did. I never been asked to this sort of thing before but I thought it would be good to get another life experience. The way I see it, it’s one less thing to worry about.

To be honest with you, this CW is hard to figure. It ain’t clear what his actual name is. Colin, maybe? I knew someone called Colin, but I don’t think he ever made any records. So it’s probably another person altogether. I mean, what’s the chances? Maybe his mama just called him CW, just like that BB King or that M and M singer. But the sleeve notes, they don’t say.

CW seems to be a sly one. He sounds like he’s a local boy, playing the banjo and all, maybe from New Orleans or Alabama. But Lieutenant Dan and Bubba say they never met him. They say he comes from Australia. Which isn’t south at all. It’s a whole different place. Why a feller from there want to be like that? Or, why a feller like that want to come from there? Again, the sleeve notes they don’t say. Actually, they don’t say much of anything. Mama used to say that wise men aren’t always silent but they know when to be. So maybe the sleeve writer knows more than he’s letting on. But it’s hard to say.

And it’s tricky to know how old is CW. He sounds like an old person’s grandaddy. But he looks quite young, with his own teeth and hair. Not that you can tell easy. Always wearing a hat and not smiling. Maybe he should try singing happy songs without a hat. But each to their own, I suppose. Although CW seems to keep wanting to be someone else’s own. Lieutenant Dan says he’s just a big phoney. That’s the good thing about the Lieutenant. You always know where you are with him. Even if you wished you was somewhere else. But, when it comes to hokum, I’m starting to think this CW is the real deal.

His songs though are strange though, if you was to ask me. Even if you wasn’t to ask me, it wouldn’t make them any less strange. Dodo Blues doesn’t really have as much information on rare birds as I expected. Just someone walking with his baby. I quite liked the line about ‘nothing can be right when everything is wrong’. I thought it was real thoughtful. But, for some reason, Lieutenant Dan just snorted and said ‘exactly!’ He’s like that, on account of not having any legs.

There’s another song called You Took My Thing and Put It In Your Place. I quite like it, but why write a song ‘bout that? ‘Women always tidying things up and making a mess of trouble’, the Lieutenant says. ‘It’s in their nature and writing a song isn’t going to stop them’. But least the tidying lady does get to talk a bit in the song, and we find out CW’s middle name is Willie, apparently. And no thanks to the sleeve writer.

And then there’s Handyman Blues, which is quite interesting. Although he only does two jobs in the song. Cutting down trees and trimming the lawn. It isn’t much, all things considered. But handy if you’re needing someone in that line of work, I suppose.

And that’s all I have to say about that.