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gotsnowgotslush said:
A toast, on both coasts (of America)

:heart:

Remembering Buzzcocks Front Man Pete Shelley


article author- Zachary Lipez


Pete Shelley invented a lovelorn and conversational poetry driven by slashing guitar music as unshakably catching as any of cupid’s arrows ever were. If Richard Hell was Baudelaire and Patti Smith was, well, Patti Smith, then Pete Shelley was Frank O’Hara, always in love with love, a sophisticate in his underwear, plus treble. And if maybe some of Shelley’s [cough] descendants took “all those stains on your jeans” from Buzzcocks’ first single, 1977’s “Orgasm Addict,” a bit too much as a career lyrical template, what’s more tragic/romantic than unintended consequence.


In much the same way that Motörhead was beloved by punks and metalheads alike, Pete Shelley existed as a bridge across genre and subculture. He was, being openly bisexual, a queer icon who’s ’80s electro-pop was eccentric and brilliant (1981’s “Homosapien” is particularly an LGBTQ standard, and, my personal favorite, 1986’s “On Your Own (New York Mix)” still gets plays at NYC after-hours clubs), while also writing aggro-punkers “hard” enough to be covered by everyone from posi-hardcore kick-flippers Gorilla Biscuits to scum-rockers the Lunachicks. From the start, Buzzcocks were both early innovators in DIY (self-releasing their first EP, Spiral Scratch) and, with playing Rock Against Racism shows, early adopters of the nascent and necessary anti-fascism movement in the punk underground.

After reuniting in 1989, Buzzcocks would tour with grunge acts and do Warped Tour and Punk Rock Bowling, but none of it ever felt like a cash grab.

https://www.vulture.com/2018/12/rem...8.1015953050.1544229993-1426468710.1544229993
Click to expand...

much like the punks never really disliked rory gallagher, i never really disliked pete shelley, Peter Hook on the other hand i could do something seriously wrong to - but since both lived near me in manchester i could get over it.
 
hmmmm

Good question.

*Winter naps, on the weekend*

I need some snow, to wake me up.

Inga Rumpf woke me up. (Not many names coincide with with Spooky Tooth, in the same breath.)

Chest Fever
-The Band

This is the keyboard sound, reduced to a clumbsy, boot-clomping, degraded, utilitarian form.


(I still like the song, though.)
 
They won't fucking listen, they won't fucking listen, they won't fucking listen
They won't fucking listen, they won't fucking listen, they won't fucking listen
They won't fucking listen, they won't fucking listen, they won't fucking listen
They won't fucking listen, they won't fucking listen, they won't fucking listen

We know our know our enemy they're hiding underground
They want us to live and die in the shit they leave around
What can we do? What can we say?
We're not dead yet; to show we're alive?
The government says "shove it" and "don't get in the way"
But we're sliding down corpses on a world nose-dive
People here cling tightly to their fear and their fun
The dead are abroad, so our streets are clean
Even those who know, hide in Sounds and Sun
What will it take to stop the machine?

It's only when we're serious and start to make fuss
That the politicians show their real face
It's the copper and the squaddy who were once one of us
Now trained to do the dirty work and know their place
If they won't listen either, what can we do?
They're people. Yes. But only people oppress
If we can go round them, we'll have to go through
If it rains and there's no shelter we must work in the mess

They say they're only trying to uphold the law
And if they were off duty we could talk some more
O.K., they're individuals but when they're in a mob
They're under orders, it's a dirty job
The plods are taught to go for your neck
Or bust your nose running their gauntlet
P.C. Punishment on the spot
Take the law into their own hands and fuck us a lot

If we choose to leave the paths that we've been taught
Don't expect help, do don't get caught

They try so very hard to seem reasonable and straight
And asked you twice already to co-operate
"You have every right to protest like anyone these days
But keep to the footpath and out the fucking way, see?"
???

If we choose to leave the paths that we've been taught
Don't expect help, do don't get caught

??? They'll think it's easy on the news at ten ???
The commie-anar-fems are at it again
Annoying the police and the passive 'grass roots'
We're living in a country where the army shoots
People with courage dumped and stranded
Don'ts and won'ts look on empty-handed
If you fuck up the state, don't be a star
They're struck if they don't know who you are

If we choose to leave the paths that we've been taught
Don't expect help, do don't get caught

To stand up for the good of all and make demands for peace
Will bring us hard and sharp against the army and police
Well, they're the poor too, just like us, maybe it's too late
The rich are in their bunker, the poor are at the gate
Use our head to avoid confrontation
Our love to avoid exploitation
If the uniforms choose to stay
They'll have to learn to get out of the fucking way

If we choose to leave the paths that we've been taught
We cease to be the seeker, we become the sought
 
man, i wanna fix those lyrics, but the lyric books are in a box in the closet and i'm too damned lazy to dig them out.
 
They're telling you to do it,
Grow up and tow the line,
They tell you if you do it,
Everything will turn out fine.
Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, what a wonderful life,
God, queen, country, colour telly, car and wife.
Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, what a wonderful life,
God, queen, country, colour telly, car and wife.
It's great if you can do it, it doesn't take a lot,
Just means you must destroy what sensitivity you've got.
Well, that's an easy bargain for the things you're going to get,
You can treat the wife like shit, own a car, a telly set.
Slip off in the evenings for a little on the sly,
And if the wife complains, fuck her first, then black her eye.
There's lots of worthwhile jobs for the lad who wants to know,
Lorry driving's fun, you're always on the go.
One hand on the wheel, the other up some cunt,
Or jerking off to Penthouse with with motorway up front.
The police force offers chances for a bright intelligent lad,
To interfere with anyone cos they're there just to be had.
It offers quite a range for aggression and for spite,
To take out your frustrations in a justifiable light.
It's a mans' life in the army, good pay and lots of fun,
You can stab them with your bayonet, fuck them with your gun.
Look smart in your uniform, that always pulls the skirt,
Then when you've fucked them good and proper, tell them they're just dirt.

Cos man is spelt big M.A.N. it's the letters of the law.
Man is spelt big M.A.N. that's who the law is for.

You see there's lots of chances in this land of hope and glory,
Try and make your own rules, that's a different story.
If you're a man, you'd better act like one,
Develop your muscles, use your prick like a gun.
Fuck anything that moves, but never pay the price,
Steal, fuck, slaughter, that's their advice.
Are you man enough? Ask the posters on the walls,
Have you got what it takes? Guts and balls?
Keep your myth of manhood, it's been going on too long,
A history of slaughter is the proof that it is wrong.

Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N.
Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N.
Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N.
Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N.
Big man, big M.A.N. Big man, big M.A.N.
Big man, J.O.K.E.
Big man, what a fucking joke.
 
Jacob Rees Mogg
-Ive got 48 letters but the bitch aint gone-

(uk rap star)
 
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