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Ginger Says – Dance, drink, fuck and party like it was yesterday. Because yesterday we didn’t know how much it meant to us

By Ginger | September 20, 2001

Ginger by Georgina CookHow on Earth do you write a new intro when the world is about to go to war?

I can’t take music as seriously as I used to. The art of penning a few interesting lyrics and coupling them with a succession of well worn chords seems to reside on the silly side of art at the moment. Shit, it’s hard enough to even get excited about listening to anything new (even though the new Veruca Salt album, Resolver, urges me to advise you all to buy it forthwith).

My boy is to face a war unlike any that history can boast of winning. Biological and nuclear threats combine with a ‘gung-ho’ mentality with a zest unseen until Hollywood discovered computer graphics as a way of bolstering the movie hero’s buffed up screen presence. The enemy (who at present has still to admit involvement – sheesh, a villain that lacks balls) boasts of an army prepared to die, kamikaze-style, for a book. If they don’t care about saving their own lives you can bet that we haven’t seen the last of their plans to humiliate the ‘civilised’ world (‘civilised’, being the media’s term, not mine). The attacks on New York and Washington might eventually look like a warm-up. Imagine the talk in ten years’ time?

“… shit, at least they only took out thousands back then.”

Anyone will agree that the planning has taken years, and the war about to take place will take a lot longer, at the cost of millions of lives. Music seems a little trite in comparison. And musicians?

“… here’s a little ditty I composed when I was blah blah blah.”

Who fucking cares? Who cares about you or your little fucking tune, buddy?

No one. We need a release. We need to be taken out of our home, away from our fears and our anger, and shown a good time; to forget our sinister world for an evening, or at least put it to the back of our mind until tomorrow’s newspaper headlines drag us kicking and screaming back into reality.

Slap us around the face, put a drink in our hands and show us something amazing.

It’s time for the entertainers to entertain. Not impress. Not inspire. ENTERTAIN.

SilverGinger 5 can do that.

In November, we will take out our all singing, all dancing, all smashing, crashing, exploding, ear-splitting, genital-lubricating, libido-loosening, anguish-free monster of a show to as many fans as can squeeze into the modestly-sized venues that we are about to land upon.

Remember? Conny Bloom and his serpentine sex-like style of slinging a six-stringed sonic sabre, Tom Broman and his thunderous tubs of tutonic tribal torment…

… and Random Jon Poole.

I’m talking about entertainment, brothers and sisters. An almost disgracefully agreeable ticket price for an evening’s merriment in the company of fine, fine friends of the LiST (labelled for purposes of name-checking), most of whom you will not have seen for a good while, and will quite frankly have forgotten just how gorgeous they are.

These, my friends, are the good times, the memories to last you through the next instalment of war-related media feeding frenzy. You are cordially invited to get your dancing shoes out of the cupboard that has been locked since Limpkin Bizkorn and the rest of those whining, self-obsessed, little bastards convinced the media that screaming about how pissed off you are is ‘the next big thing’. Hah, they’re gonna look a little foolish when still trying to palm off ‘angst’ to a nation shattered by serious problems.

“… bwahhhh, my mommy didn’t love me enough, and my daddy beat me.”

So kiss them, you fucking pussy. You still can.

Musicians? It’s gonna take a long time before anyone takes them seriously. It’s a hobby. It’s stamp collecting, with an audience cheering your newly acquired Penny Black. Entertainment, on the other hand, is a service, and having fun is the requirement. Anyone not adhering to this request should be made to give up their instruments until the world needs a new problem. Right now, we have enough.

Dance, drink, fuck and party like it was yesterday. Because yesterday we didn’t know how much it meant to us.

Peace and love… and fucking huge pyro.


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