The Continuing Adventures Of Your Own Personal Jesus

Ok, so the title of this post is a crap pun, but I've been thinking long and hard what to offer up as a Christmas goodie for the eight people and the canine who actually read this blog.  Considering that the few people I've spoken to have been kind of surprised at the documents that I've unearthed in recent times, I thought I'd start putting up some of the more obscure, rarely seen and, as such, desirable pieces of paper from both my electronic and physical collection.  This will take time, so don't expect miracles overnight, but to whet the appetite I thought I'd show off this little ripper - the December 1977 management agreement between Bill Aucoin and Kiss. What makes this document a stunner is the names that the band members were using, even then.  The contract has all of the band's proper names - Paul Frehley, Stanley Eisen, Peter Criscula and Gene Klien.  As we all know now, that isn't Gene's birth name, but it was the Anglicised name th...

Clint Eastwood once famously said that dying ain't much a living, but profiting off the dead certainly is a great living.  Dying isn't cheap these days and funerals certainly add to the cost.  Gone are the days when you could take a body of a loved one, find a nice, secluded spot and dig your own hole to bury them.  Hell, back then it didn't matter if they weren't all that dead.  Or you could go gathering wood and build your own Viking Funeral Pyre and smoke up the neighbourhood.  Or you could shove the body under a few twigs in a forest.  Or, if you lived in Germany in the 1930s and 1940s, you used oversized pizza ovens and waited for the likes of David Irving to say you didn't.  All very economical and mostly effective, but unless you're a psychopathic serial killer, a nutbag or a gangster in a Martin Scorcese movie, when someone pops off you have to go down the proper channels, getting death certificates and the like, and you can't just throw the ...

“I think I love you?   Well, actually, no.   I’m sure of it.   I most certainly do not love you or your studio.”   You can imagine David Cassidy singing that, on stage, night after night since 1975 when the Partridge Family got canned and went off the air.   Shortly after that Cassidy fell victim to the dreaded ‘teen idol’ curse and stopped selling albums.   It mattered not what he did, the world saw him as Keith Partridge, singer of crappy kiddies songs.   He was either passé for the same people who’d wet themselves over him in 1972 and had moved onto staring at Robert Plant’s cock, or just being shit by those who’d smoked a bit more weed and were busily pontificating the virtues of Pink Floyd, ELP, Genesis and King Crimson.   Everyone else had moved on and the new kids who were once busily growing up Brady had grown up and instead of longing for a sister like Jan they merely wanted to pork Marcia.   Vale David Cassidy, opr David Casso...