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| Carola 48 x 49,5 cm pastel on cotton |
SELLING OUT
is a bummer
for
the 70’s
era pop-rock super-gods
—their
latest
release
turning gold even before
it hits the
stores, cute little Stevie
on the
cover, all big eyed and blond—so
they take
revenge on their own success.
Their next
album pushes past the
limits of
the listenable; the critics kill it….
Bill
Clinton sold, and sold again. Except for an abbrevi-
ated era when
he seemed to believe
in something
French: Liberte’, Egalite’, Fraternite’—
like a
fortune cookie’s prophecy folded into
a triangulated
croissant
then
dropped, like an orphan, on Wall Street’s door step.
Mick and
David sold out
long before
Angie caught them
comparing schlongs
in a suite
at the
Waldorf. Or did I just
make that
up? Maybe it wasn’t
the
Waldorf. I don’t know, maybe it was their
guitar
collections they were comparing.
What does
selling out mean in the worlds
of pop
music, and politics,
and even
religion? It’s 1375, say, and I give
my priest a
cow and a couple of odorous goats
for a good
word in God’s ear. Meanwhile
the sun has
turned us into bones.
Bleached
out, broken, scattered across the sands
until, that
is, Georgia O’Keeffe
spirit-in-residence
on her own Ghost Ranch,
gathers us
up, places us on a shelf
with a few
other bony relics. Used to take a long
time to get
old. I was thirty-five at least ten years—
I
thought!—and now every two or three months
little bits
of me chip away. I’d sell out in a heartbeat
to slow
down the rot. It’s so easy to go Faustian.
End Of Season
Sale. Everything Absolutely Must Go!
