By Ginger | September 14, 1999
Welcome again to the site that changes more often than stuff that never stays the same… even for a second.
The newest news on the page is that I’m currently rehearsing the SilverGinger album with Blads (The Yo-Yo’s’ amazing drum guy), and we have Tim Smith of The Cardiacs producing. The music is the stuff from which dreams are made. And I’m not talking about those sweet little nap-type things that go unnoticed until something reminds you of that dream you had that no one really wants to know about anyway (or something). Oh, good God, no. These are sprawling nightmares complete with fiery jaws and dripping eyes… and teeth, did I mention the teeth?
In short, the stuff is sounding so damned hot we’re having to wear asbestos ear muffs just to listen back to the rehearsal tapes. Fact. The melodies are sweet kisses that bite your lip at the last moment; not hard enough to draw blood but enough to leave a little scar that from a distance, whilst it’s healing, looks like a cold-sore… but you know better.
The riffs… oh my heart, nurse, the riffs! Like hungry dogs barking at your door, demanding your attention. And to ignore hungry dogs would be the actions of a fool. Riffs that stutter and splutter like the butter of a nutter. And then some. There will be saxophones. There will be glorious gospel-sized vocals. There will be laughter, tears and the pounding of impatient feet upon the floor. The feet of a million rock-starved fruitcakes, deprived for too long of their daily juice that they call ROCK.
How long has it been since a record made you want to take off all the clothes of your best friend and burn them in a fit of over indulgence? Can you even remember when a song made you shave your armpits and give yourself a girl’s name? And don’t even get me started on you boys.
No, brothers and sisters, the wait is almost over. The time is now. And the disease is spreading. Give in to the power of the crush. All but the most desperate will be soon sailing the boat. The beat boat. The sleaze ship. The chorus catamaran. And the seas are bumpy tonight, boys and girls. So strap your sweet little selves in. The destination? Do I look like a captain to you?
Can you feel it? Can you hear the ground tremble as it awaits the oncoming stampede? No, me neither, because we start recording tomorrow. Next time we meet at this very spot it will be done and the word will be official. And that’s official.
Been spending too much time in the house? Can’t seem to muster up the courage to go and phone the number of that special girl / boy on your mind? Video player not taping the shows you wanted it to? There is hope, brethren. Hope and joy. You will be glad. And I will be happy to gladden you. It is my job, after all, to provide a healthy alternative to entertainment in the 20th century.
And if I say it ROCKS, you best believe it rocks… R O X.