T. Willy Rye
The Masked Man
What do these folk have in common? Other than voting for the cupicidal mission? Let me restructure that list for you:
Are you tuning in to what has happened here? This list, that has “messed it up big time,” has attracted the vote of every single female voter participating in the cup. Well, Cosmic American Girl resisted its testeronically intense siren song but, for the purposes of this diatribe, we overlook facts and we move straight on to the character assassinations.
And what of the male fellows that sniffed at my opponent's list and found its anaemic pandering too distasteful to contemplate? Well, see for yourselves.
Snarfyguy – cool-book-reading, guitar-slinging chap who lived the dream. You know, the one where you live in New York and play in a band that actually emerges from adolescent fantasies and actually ventures onto the stages and recording studios of the hardest market to crack.
Butch Manly, who is fucking called Butch Fucking Manly and seems to be getting away with it. A lover, a drinker, a dancer and a thinker, this handsome fellow sets his manly jaw into the future, contemplates giving it a shave – a few too many greys in there now, man – but then realises, “I am Butch Manly, I make that hornbag Griff look like a simpering nancyboy. I do what I like.”
RCL, the horny poet, hung like a happy donkey and prepared to manfully face the slings and arrows of that particular outrageous fortune.
Mentalist, who wakes every morning to find himself in God’s preferred postcode, goes back to sleep – because he can – and murmurs contentedly to himself about the arsey good fortune that has made him tall, goodlooking and
Goatboy, named not for the Barth metafictional character nor the comic book creation, but to commemorate the simple fact that when a man is in a rut his thoughts turn to rutting and no-one ruts like a Godlike Scot with a ridiculously deep voice and the immaculately dishevelled good looks of a pre-Mandrax Syd Barrett.
T. Willy Rye and his soul brother fangedango! – family men, artfully riding the constant collisions between the obligations of their love and the insistent demands placed on them outside the home. Demands that come when you write like a funny demon, have impeccable taste in music and manage to make being a mensch cool.
I would go on but being nice is very difficult for me. I would much rather draw your attention to the fucking has-beens and never-weres who showed up en masse to parade their sheeplike fondness for gathering in groups and sharing the same non-thought.
Allow me to tell you what was most funny about the tied match play-off – funnier even than seeing the taste brigade fall over themselves in their haste to run from the scary rock music. In the play-off, my opponent – who initially submitted a list comprised almost entirely of edgy postpunk – wimped out faster than a bank closing on a rotten mortgage. His or her next five were safer than nanna’s cocoa. Nina Simone, Moby Grape, Small Faces – snorecore! I was shocked not to see Rod the Mod or the fucking Beach Boys. No more arty guitar bands from the 70s there.
I didn’t deserve to be in the play-off – Apollo’s Frock had only voted for my initial last on the basis of a coin toss – and saw the playoff as an opportunity to dispense with the careful measuring of tunes designed to lure in votes from the crate-diggers and soul cognoscenti. No more contemplation of the exact right Silver Apples track or delving through the Os Mutandes catalogue for something not too played out. You know, the usual shit.
I fired a Clive Gash Strutter 78-like shot of freedom across the bows with Died Pretty’s debut single. Yes, that 10-minute slab of soul-cleansing goodness was their debut
. If you were with me after that, I fancied you had the ovaries for anything. Obviously a tune that sounds like a Nuggets-era band, wired on biker crank and playing waaaay past their abilities is too much for some of the more sensitive souls around here. They need their lysergic drones pre-approved by an authority
After that it was whatever spewed out on the night I was asked to submit a further five. I liked hearing that Samoan dug the Plush tune. That’s the spirit of the cup right there, folks. Someone actually listening to a submitted song from a band they had never heard before and discovering something they liked.
But not the taste brigade. No, no - nothing so outre. I have their pictures here, ready to post for comparison's sake, but I figure – if you are anything like me - you are scrolling back up to just admire how out there kath was.
So I leave you there friends. Defeated but defiant. A freak proud to hoist his freak flag.