Amazing really, isn’t it? Many people thought Jim Morrison a charlatan, a leather-trousered fake good only for sixth form poetry and waving his wang in the face of bemused members of the gendarmerie.
That may well be the case, I wouldn’t possibly have the cheek to claim to know for sure, but one thing’s for certain. Ol’ Crystal Ship was a seer, and the proof is there, italicised for all to see; This is the end.
That said, it’s hard to grasp just how, as Morrison staggered about in a patchouli and fajita-fuelled state of higher consciousness 40-odd years ago, he managed to predict the cessation of this column in one of his most famous works. He certainly got in ahead of Nostradamus, in whose output I can find no mention of my own; and he’s got one up on Old Mother Shipton too – when And Another Thing operatives used the long distance telephone to communicate back to the mother country to see if the old witch had accurately foreseen my writerly demise in some 16th century tea leaves, the voice at the other end claimed never to have heard of us, much less to have read about us in the venerable crone’s babblings.
They then hung up.
Oh well. It’s been a wild ride of ‘vintage ranting’ and poorly constructed sentences, but it had to end sometime – and sometime is sadly now. This column – or Colin, as he’s come to be affectionately referred to by people around these parts, is ending shortly after you’ve finished reading it. It will cease to be, it will shuffle off its mortal coil, run down the curtain and join the choir invisible. Sela, as the good Doctor HS Thompson might have had it, but there it is.
But don’t cry, it’s all I’m sure for the best. I’ll be replaced by someone who knows what dubstep is. This knowledge will surely make them more attuned to your needs as a reader, whilst into the bargain saving you from having to read about spilling kebab juice on priceless works of art or, in an untold story that will now remain largely untold, how Peter Harrod managed to contract conjunctivitis from the roof lining of a Mini Cooper, but there you go – you take the good with the bad in my experience. It all comes out in the wash.
Actually I don’t think that last bit worked. I think I meant to say it all evens out over time but, as my trembling hands tap out these closing platitudes, does it really matter? Suffice to say I have had a splendid few years boring Canberra rigid with my music industry reminiscences – and let’s face it, who else would print this rubbish but Canberra’s liveliest read? – and where else would you have been able to sit on a bus full of dole bludging bogans whilst my florid prose took you to a place where men stood proudly, trousers around ankles whilst stood atop festival merchandise tents?
Without BMA none of this would be possible, so it’s hats off to the Bossman Sko and his ever-wonderful Edgirl Julia Winterflood for indulging me. I’ll still be giving you my views on albums occasionally, but for the most part I’m off now to continue editing BMA’s sister website www.metalasfuck.net where I promise to dole out more of what made this column great, and if you need me in more concentrated form you can follow me @30yrnr on Twitter.
Ladies and gentlemen – (takes onion from pocket, tears appear) thank you, and goodnight.
