The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Failed Rock Stars“.
Good afternoon Jon and welcome from Zahara de la sierra, a village in Andalusia, promise I won’t mention the weather this week.
One of the things I’ve realised in my travels is how rare and precious genuine community radio of the quality and independence we are blessed with in Melbourne is, and I urge any listener who is yet to sign the petition to guarantee continued funding for community radio to pop onto www.keepcommunityradio.org.au and have your voice heard.
With the election looming it is important we act now.
Failed rock stars, eh, that covers just about everybody I know.
I can only imagine you’ve chosen the theme to coincide with next week’s Reclink Community Cup at Elsternwick Park, though I’m not sure if it’s referring to the Rockdog players or the Megahertz presenters – foot in both camps I guess.
Either way, one thing’s certain, whatever the result it won’t be pretty but it will be a great afternoon’s entertainment so get down to Elsternwick, have a laugh, witness some seriously dodgy umpiring and support a good cause.
My prediction, Failed Rocked Stars by two points – still not sure who that is
To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
Failed Rock Stars
Hey, it’s what’s his face; remember him? On the TV, look
Talking about the glory days; he’s just brought out a book
Lead singer in that band, you know; wild boys in their day
Trashed that club in Sydney; the promoter had to pay
They were big once – well almost; well, they had a minor hit
The drummer did a Keith Moon, always smashing up his kit
They made it on to Countdown, despite some minor edits
You couldn’t see the singer though – he was lost behind the credits
Then his manager convinced him to strike out on his own
Had a walk on part in Neighbours; wound up sinking like a stone
They reformed in the nineties but never reached the stage
The guitarist was arrested; something to do with ‘underage’
Now what’s his face is back trying to smooch up to the press
Peddling his memoirs: confessions of excess
His bloated, battered, carcass; fake tan and hair implants
Squeezed, like molten haggis into skin tight leather pants
His ego seems more healthy in this sleazy expose
How it made the television? Must be a slow news day
He’s had five thousand women, he tells the camera, grinning
His accounting, I would venture, as suspect as his singing
He gets his ninety seconds; we, the wisdom of his thoughts
Followed by an ad break, then a piece on genital warts
His memoirs rot upon the shelves; the publisher gets burned
The book is duly shredded: a fate so justly earned
Mercifully, once again, he sinks without a trace
Leaving us to ponder what became of what’s his face
© Copyright 2016 Ian Bland
Also have a listen to the songs on the New Album “Angel In Reverse”