The sky is cryin’....cant you see the tears roll down the street
The sky is cryin’....cant you see the tears roll down the street
I'm watin' in tears for my baby
And I wonder where can she be
[SIZE="1"]Written by: Elmore James, Clarence Lewis, Bobby Robinson, Morris Levy, originally recorded in (1959)
Also recorded by:
Luther Allison, Eric Clapton, John Hammond, George Thorogood & The Destroyers, Stevie Ray Vaughan (and Double Trouble), John Martyn[/SIZE]
According to the evil drug lord Sugai in Ridley Scott’s
Black Rain, immediately after the ‘Fat Man’ leveled Nagasaki in 1945 a black rain fell on the ruined land.
I was 10 when the B-29 came. My family lived underground for three days. When we came up the city was gone. Then the heat brought rain. Black rain. You made the rain black, and shoved your values down our throats. We forgot who we were.
Well we’ve got our very own grey rain here and there’s no end in sight. If it weren’t so darned chilly I’d say it was monsoon-like but it’s bereft of that humid overcoat associated with downpours on the sub-continent. The skies over Sussex lack all definition; it’s all light and dark variations of the same dull blue-grey, subtle shifts in shades the only relief from oppressive drudgery. Rather like Sugai I too am unsure who I am, but for rather more self-afflicted reasons.
I’m watching all this from the safety and comfort of my office at home. Following a wonderful night at
London's historic 100 Club I elected to skip the commute today. For one thing driving anywhere after a veritable flood of Murphy’s stout is probably a bad idea, and for another I’ve got plenty to crack on with without the constant interruption of people calling to flog me stuff I never knew I needed. I recently received, ironically via an unsolicited e-mail, some tips on dealing with various cases of foot-in-the-door intrusion. Don’t get mad, get even seems to be the best policy. For phone calls use the three word formula – One Moment Please – before placing the handset on the desk and going about your business. The angry parp parp parp from the handset will tell you when the offending sales weasel has hung up. For junk mail take the trash from company A, remove any reference to your personal details, place the remainder in the prepaid reply envelope of company B and vice-versa. I recently sent yet another offer of a platinum Amex to my tax office. Perhaps not the best example but you catch my drift. They have to dispose of the unwanted material whilst paying the postage. You never know, if enough people do it the swine might learn a lesson.
One more tip. If you occasionally receive calls at home and hear only static when you answer this is possibly a clever sales computer determining when you are m most likely to answer the phone. This information is distributed to yet more cold-calling low-life’s who will pester you ad infinitum. If this happens simply press the # key six or seven times in rapid succession. Apparently this bamboozles the calling machine, no doubt leaving it to sing Daisy Daisy in a drowsy voice until it implodes. Your number will come up as a wrongun’ and you’ll be removed from the database.
The gig was a peach. Girlschool continue to defy the inexorable march of time, turning out some excellent new material. This time they've collaborated with amongst others the diminutive yet powerful Ronnie James Dio and our very own Lemmy to great effect. The support was terrific too, the Tokyo Dragons performing their farewell recital, a fabulous blend of Foo Fighters and ZZ Top with a soupcon of Kaiser Chiefs whisked in to add fizz to their energetic broth. The old venue was rocking, rammed to the gunnels with Hairies young and old. During the early evening sound check I reflected on just who had graced this modest stage with Craig, webmaster of the Girlschool forum and dedicated follower for many years. Everyone from Humphrey Lyttelton to Babyshambles has played here. Craig reminded me of the infamous incident when one Sid Vicious smashed a bottle of beer against one of the columns, semi-blinding a nearby lass.
'Wonder which pillar' mused my be-stubbled Scottish companion.
I suggested it probably didn't matter much, least of all to the poor girl who'd had to pick glass out of her face.
Being a beer snob I eschewed the offer of free backstage lager, putting principals before finances by shelling out a lofty three pounds sixty for highly agreeable pints of Murphy's in ugly plastic cups. One moment of divine comedy came close to inducing my first full-blown panic attack. Enid, bass player and vocalist with Girlschool, flogged me one of her old Ibanez basses last year. As the girls came off stage after their main set, huddling pre-encore to one side as the dressing room, a surprisingly nasty little corridor, was the wrong side of two hundred sweaty head-bangers, she turned to me with a huge grin and asked how I was getting on with the guitar. I was a little taken aback, not expecting this at such a hectic moment in the evening.
'Er, not bad! A mate leant me
'Bass Guitar for Dummies' and, um, I'm working on it.' The wolfish grin widened to the very edges of her glistening face, tiny horns started to push through her forehead as she fixed me with a bone-chilling stare and said in a horribly audible voice
'Great! We'll get you up jamming with us then!'
I could have easily laid a modest wall on the spot.
She was of course joshing but that didn't stop the blood draining from my face and my legs turning to useless mush.
As the sheets of slag-tinted precipitation blur the view to a heavily shaded pencil sketch I’m thinking about pulling on the runners this afternoon. Having received the green light it seems churlish to pass up the opportunity to hit the hills. The grim weather has conspired with a rather woolly noggin to persuade me otherwise. I’ll give it an hour and see what occurs.
