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#210: Shaddap You Face

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Some books just make you chuckle at how crazy they are - and this is no exception.  Written by our good mate Norm Barber, he of the non-flushing turds, ads written on toilets walls and Professional Bum, this tome is as hard to find as anything that he ever wrote, and with good cause.  It's not that Norm couldn't write, it's just that he had absolutely no idea of writing an impartial book.  Actually Norm couldn't write anything impartial really, I think he'd probably disagree with his own name. Norm hated, and possibly still does, anything to do with the Government and any form of social services.  Actually, I'll alter that, Norm doesn't hate the services, he loves them, after all he's lived his entire life on the dole and is a self confessed leach, but what really boils Norm's piss are the people who have to deliver those services to the likes of, well Norm Barber.  You know the kind, the world owes them everything, argumentative, arrogant, know it...
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#205: Something Stupid (The Incest Song)

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Promises had a career that lasted slightly less than The Knack, but, unlike The Knack, all of Promises are still alive and their music just isn’t as fondly remembered. You can all sing My Sharona, even if you don’t want to, but you’d be hard pressed to sing Baby It’s You. But at least The Knack wrote their own songs, each time someone hears Isn’t It Time by the Babys and thinks of a girl with huge norks, John Waite dies just a little bit more. But then each time someone hears Hungry Eyes and thinks of John Waite, Eric Carmen throws another dart into the wall and vice versa for Missing You. It all comes around. Promises exploded onto the television in the ‘70s via a great video clip that showcased the band. The lead singer/keyboard player, Benny, wore what appeared to be black leather hillbilly overalls, which he then gave to Willem Defoe – don’t believe me? You’ve never seen Streets of Fire? For shame! The guitarist, Bjorn – sorry, Jed (no, I’m not making that name up), well, he co...
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#288: Lick It Up

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As a kid back in the 1500s I remember reading how bands were formed.  I remember reading how John Paul Jones phoned Jimmy Page and asked him if he was forming a band, and if so, did he need a bass player?  Page said, sure, and mentioned how he was checking out a drummer and singer that weekend and would get back to him.  A rehearsal was set up and Led Zeppelin was formed.  Everyone got rich, famous and laid.  Queen simply formed itself; Kiss placed an ad in the Village Voice and got Ace Frehley as a result.  The Beatles were drawn together and bonded over a steady diet of violence, music, alcohol and drugs in Hamburg (where John Lennon would regularly berate his German audience, calling them “Fucking Nazis,” and Heiling Hitler from the stage during shows).  Bands were shored up on a foundation of mutual respect, if not outright friendship, the latter wasn’t always a requirement – as David Lee Roth once wrote about ...
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