Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Tall Thin People“.

Good afternoon Jon, and greetings, not from Coventry this week but Warwick, currently hosting the famous annual Warwick Folk Festival – not your favourite genre, I know, Jon, but even you would find it preferable to the endless gabble surrounding the birth of he who would be king – it’s worse than when Collingwood wins a flag.

So, straight to the business at hand.

“Thin, tall people” – not many of the former over here I’m afraid Jon, given the typical English diet, so this week I’m going to have to venture a little closer to home.

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:

Also have a listen to the songs on the New Album “Angel In Reverse


“New Wave at its best meets rockabilly”
The thumbs up from Juke Magazine
A young RRR waxed passionately
“This band has to be seen”

So off, I headed one Friday night
I remember it clearly, still
It was Brunswick, no, Prahran
Or was it St Kilda? Maybe the Prospect Hill

Crowded and steamy, smoke mixed with sweat
Squeezed in like chooks in a cage
Queued half an hour for a watered down beer
Till finally, the band hit the stage

Well most of the band, waiting, bemused
Down, as they were, one guitar
Roadies despatched, to locate the truent
Escort him back from the bar

He reeled onto stage, nearly took out the lights
A beast, both gangly and lean
Glared at the crowd with an air of indifference
Disposition, both moody and mean

Hair like a Yeti, scruffy and thick
Down to a bushranger’s beard
Threw on his Fender, took a swig from a stubbie
Looked down on the front row and leered

From the opening note he made that Strat hum
A sound that belied his demeanour
Tasteful, not flash, inventive, with bite
A touch of the mongrel, only cleaner

He rocked back and forth like a man plagued with piles
Awkward, out of step with the beat
But what flowed from his amp, never wanted for timing
Rarely are drummers as sweet

There were stories of furniture thrown out of windows
Is this starting to ring any bells?
Unlike Keith Moon, the windows were his
Whereas Keith was strictly hotels

Now strangling patrons, regardless of reason
Is not really considered astute
Despite all his talents, aside from garrotting
With regret he was given the boot

Nearly four decades on he still treads the boards
On the Radio Method, each week
That beanpole is Ed, and he’s still on parole
Under orders, never to speak

Now bald and clean shaven, he still likes a drink
Only these days with milk in a cup
Peering over his glasses, disapproving and bored
Like he’s pissed off we’re keeping him up

He’s still tall and lanky, impatient and cranky
Attends more funerals than parties
He’s built a pergola, where he sips home brand cola
Twice a week he goes to Pilates

I promised I’d write your eulogy Edmund
But there seems little point when you’re dead
It defeats both the purpose and pleasure
When you can’t take offence at what’s said

There’s a photo of you up on Facebook
I’m not sure how to tell you this mate
If it’s an accurate representation
I’m worried I might be too late

© Copyright 2013 Ian Bland

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