Music Icons Who Aren't Very Good Singers.

I was thinking about how I will never be a rockstar as I lack all musical talent, and then I realised that some of the most influential Musical Icons aren't very good singers. In fact, some can just about sing in tune, but they are still awesome.

Here's my list:

• Liam Gallagher - The arsehole frontman of Britpop legends Oasis (and then the disappointing Beady Eye), Liam has an extremely sharp voice. He pretty much just shouts. Honestly, listen to Oasis songs and it's clear. Liam sings the heavy songs like "Cigarettes & Alcohol", "Acquiesce" and "Live Forever" while Noel (who can sing) takes songs like "Half The World Away" and "Don't Look Back In Anger".
• Billie Joe Armstrong - Very good frontman. Very good songwriter. Ok singer. He's not bad, but he's not particularly good. Listen to "Time Of Your Life". Great song, and it's the "everyman" appeal which draws people to Billie. He could be just anyone.
• Ian Curtis - Curtis almost sings like a caricature of a singer. It's very deep and very strange. It sounds like he's doing a bad impression of someone else, but it works.
• Johnny Rotten - The quintessential Punk. He can't really sing, but he's outragious and a showman. If he wasn't such a good showman, he would have faded away and be forgotten.
• The Clash - The Clash are arguably the most influential Punk Rock group of all time, and not one of them can sing in tune fully. They each adopted lead vocals for different songs, for instance, listen to songs like "Bankrobber" (Strummer), "Guns Of Brixton" (Simonon) and "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" (Jones).
• Tom Waits - Not many ordinary people know of him, but those who appreciate truly excellent and raw music think he's a genius (which he is). His voice is unique and has been described as sounding "like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months, and then taken outside and run over with a car." Listen to his early stuf (such as the studio version of "Ol' 55") and it's clear that he can just about sing, but it's the rawness and phenominal lyrics which make him an Icon; albeit an often overlooked one.
• Lou Reed - Simply a legend. He helped define and shape not only an era, but also music itself. He voice is strange. It is deep and almost vacant, like an echo. When listening to "Perfect Day", Reed is clearly out of tune in parts, but that's what makes the song. It gives it a melancholic feel which is distinctive to Reed.
• Jim Morrison - Regularly called the greatest frontman ever, Morrison wasn't the world's best singer. He was good, he could hold a note, and he could blow nearly any audience member's mind, but his voice didn't hit you hard. It wasn't particularly original, but he was.
• Iggy Pop - The Godfather Of Punk (who unfortunately now does car insurance ads and sings on American Idol) as often mocked with The Stooges for simply being weird, and barely able to sing or play their instruments. But this was the birth of Punk. It didn't matter. Iggy is regarded as quite possibly the greatest frontman ever, and the fact that he wasn't that good a singer was part of the Stooges' experience.
• Kurt Cobain - Extremely influential. Desperately sad. For me, he sums up Generation X. He's regularly named one of the greatest singers ever, yet his voice isn't perfect. There's better singers out there, but his voice was sorrowful and bleak. It was imperfect, just like him, and just like eveything Nirvana was.
• Jimi Hendrix - The greatest guitarist ever. Period. But, as far as I can tell, he sort of cheated everyone when it came to singing. He's good, but when you listen a bit closer, he just appears to be half singing/half speaking. It's a strange mix which really worked. He is a definition of the 60's, as far as I'm concerned.
• Bob Dylan - Often credited as the greatest songwriter ever and the 20th Century Shakespeare, Bob Dylan has influenced numerous performers over the years. However, if you listen to him, his singing voice is pretty shit. It whines and grates like an untuned violin, yet he's still considered a musical genius.

So, if you're a good enough song writer with a voice which is barely in tune, you can still become an Icon. Which means there's still some hope for me if I get some singing lessons....and talent.

54

This was inspired by one of the stories on Comic Relief a few weeks back, as well as "Time" (which features one of my favourite lyrics ever) and "Hold On" - both by Tom Waits. Again, not one of my best as it's a first draft. Needs more poetic bits.


54

54 years they were together. Most of their life.
They met in early '54 at a dance hall. 3rd Of February.
She wore a florial dress that night, he, his father's suit.
It drown him but he felt like a man. His name was Roger.
He approached her, nervous but determined.
Her eyes were big and green, her silk was pink, her hair was mousy and brown.
Her name was Marie, and didn't like it when people called her Mary.
He said he liked her dress and asked for a dance; her cheeks became rosy and she obliged.
They danced to The Chordettes - "Mister Sandman". He was in a dream.
He walked her home and a kiss on the cheek behind her garden hedge. She didn't want her mother to see.
That night they fell in love.

They married in '56 at the church on their road. It was cloudy on their wedding day, but they didn't mind.
They couldn't afford a wedding ring, so they borrowed her late grandmother's.
She moved into his family house two days later. His mother liked her, and so did his father.
He got a job at a shoe-menders. Fixing soles and mending heels.
She helped around the house.

It was in '61, when they got their own home, a small flat in the Elephant & Castle.
Two rooms, a kitchen and shared toilet. The walls were paisley and green, like her eyes.
The floors were made of old, bent wood. The boards would creak under a kitten's paw.
She had a flowerbox outside the kitchen window, where she grew daisies.
It wasn't much, but it was their home.

In '64, they tried for a child but couldn't.
Either she was barren or he was infertile.
They didn't know which.
He bought her a Yorkshire Terrier from a man in The Ship.
She loved it and called it Brando, after the actor.
He was firm that Brando would sleep on the floor, but always woke up with him laying on his feet.

Her mother moved to Cornwall in '72 and died a year later.
It was cancer, the doctors said. Cancer of the pancreas.
They tried to make it to the hospice before she died, but were an hour late. She never got to say goodbye.

They went on a foreign holiday for the first time in '81. They went to Spain.
The beaches weren't like Brighton or Broadstairs, and he got sun-burnt on the first day.
She just went red. She never could tan - her skin was too sensitive.
They stayed in a little villa which looked on to the bold, blue sea.
They would watch the boats and sip their drinks. His a beer, her's a Blood Mary.
He would always make a joke, and she'd always laugh.

He retired in late 2003. He was tired of work and had back problems.
He planned to spend his days doing crosswords and watching TV.
She wasn't looking too good. Always tired, stomach pains.
They went to the doctors to run tests.
She was scared. He never let go of her frail, silky hand.
She was diagnosed with cancer in 2004. Pancreatic, like her mother.
They didn't know how long she'd live. Only a few years, or maybe more?

They spent their days playing cards, reading, watching TV.
She began to forget the rules. Most likely age.
She forgot dates too. She'd forget what day it was or the way home from the shops.
He took her to the doctors again as it became more frequent.
It was September 2006 when he found out she had Alzheimer's.

She quickly got worse as it took hold.
Some days she'd forget who he was.
She'd be hurtful.
She couldn't help it.
He wouldn't let her see him upset.
She wouldn't be able to understand.
Each day varied.
The cancer was eating away at her even more.

It was early 2008 and Marie was asleep in bed.
Roger was sat in the chair next to her bed.
Her eyes were vacant, except for the pain.
Her skin was yellow, like a skeleton wrapped in cling film.
Her mousy hair was now thin, almost non-existent.
He glanced at the calender resting on top of their old record player, dusty from years of rest.
3/2/2008.
He wanted to cry. He wanted it to end.
Marie was sick. He was sick of her illness.
He no longer wanted to watch her die. He couldn't.
He couldn't watch her struggle to sip water through a straw.
He couldn't leave her bed-bound any longer.
He couldn't explain to her why she was in pain everyday.
He couldn't spend another moment watching tears fall from those big, green eyes of hers.
He wouldn't let her suffer any longer.

Roger cleaned off the dust and put on their record. The Chordettes.
After closing the florial curtains, he picked up his pillow.
Marie still slept, wincing slightly with pain.
Her breath was raspy as it swept through her throat.
Tears filled his pale eyes as he watched her.
Slowly leaning over her, his tears dropping over her heart, he raised the pillow.
He thought about how he'd never see her eyes again.
"I love you, Marie. And I promise, this won't hurt a bit."

Unravelling The Myth Of "The Clean Break-Up".

I've just wrote this. It's about breaking up. It's not sexist or intentionally disrespectful to women, and it's not a generalisation. It's about two individual (fictional) people, yet I think people can relate to it. It was strangely inspired by Jarvis Cocker's "I Never Said I Was Deep" and "Where Do You Go To My Lovely" by Peter Sarstedt.

It's not one of my best, probably the opposite in fact, but I'm bored at work.


Unravelling The Myth Of "The Clean Break-Up".

Let's unravel the myth of "The Clean Break-Up"....

It's never easy, it's never simple, it's never gonna happen in any other way.
She'll scream and she'll shout and never listen to what you have to say.
Don't try to be decent, don't try to be nice, 'cause you're guaranteed to "ruin her life".
Just bite your tongue and zip your lips, and whatever you do, don't look at her tits.

Don't let him speak, don't let him apologise, don't let him talk.
You could sit and discuss, but you'd much rather sqwawk.
You know full well what he's trying to say, but he deserves to pay.
You understand what he's saying, though he is wrong.
Get angry, but don't cry, you've gotta be strong.

Let her say what she wants, and let her do as she wishes.
Play your cards right, or you'll sleep with the fishes.
She may kick, she may scratch, she may bite.
But always remember, it's a one-sided fight.
Don't hit her back, that is a disgrace.
Just be a man and guard your face.

How could he do this, make you look like a fool?
You've been so loyal, you always played ball.
He used you, he took what he wanted and left you cold.
And to think, this was the man with whom you'd have grown old.
He doesn't appreciate what he has - or rather, what he had.
He was always no good, why didn't you listen to your Dad?
He's just a ponce, a sponger, a prick.
He has shit sense of humour and an inadequate dick.
He's not a real man, he's just an overgrown boy.
You'll have nothing to miss, you've still got your toy.

Don't worry about your things, you'll have them soon.
They'll be scattered on the lawn via the window of your room.
She'll smash your CDs and rip your shirts,
'Cause she knows how to get you where it hurts.
She'll break your things, and leave the TV.
But it could be 50/50 with the PS3.

This was gonna be easy, or so he reckoned.
Well, fuck him. He's a not staying a moment longer, not a second.
Kick him out of the door, grab him by the scruff.
Not long after he'll be followed by his stuff.
Get rid of ever possession, every last thing.
Especially the PS3, that'll really sting.

You better walk away, in fact, you better run.
Sticking around won't be much fun.
She can't forgive you, you've broken her heart.
Just get outta there, c'mon, be smart.

That's it, fuck off, get away from this place.
And make sure you wipe that stupid fucking look off your face.
You're not wanted, you're not needed, you're the bain of my life.
And to think, I was thinking I'd one day be your wife.

She'll move on, soon or later.
Though, deep down, she'll always hate ya.
You've gotta be different, you've gotta be mature.
So make sure you don't tell your friends she's a whore.
Soon you'll realise this was all a farce.
Maybe you'd be better off gay, and deal with a different pain in the arse?
But perhaps you shouldn't lose faith, maybe you shouldn't give up.
However, that doesn't mean go shag a slag with a bucket for a vagina and a Double-G cup.

He's gone now. He's said his last farewell.
Now let your tears fill your heart's wishing well.
You've earned it my dear, you've been through enough.
It's ok now, you no longer have to be tough.
Let those tears stream, let them fall.
It's time for you to tear down that wall.
As you lay curled, and you sob and you cry,
Remember, your heart is broken, but you will not die.