Apologies for the relative slowdown in activity here, but I'm kinda heads-down at work these days, which is gearing up with all engines burning over the impending royal wedding (as I mentioned here). Hopefully, normal service will resume shortly, but hang in there and be patient until then.
On other fronts, I found myself engaged in a typical exchange with my mother over the Easter weekend wherein she was decrying my generation's music (and the music of the generations that came after me) as lacking any regard -- let alone semblance -- of melody (this while she cited the merits of the likes of Michael Feinstein and his vile, indefensible ilk). It's invariably the generation gap at work -- I'm sure I'll similarly decry my children's favorite music as being equally unlistenable, but it didn't stop me from dismissing her argument as laughably ludicrous.
As evidence of same, I present to you one of the masters, Sir Elvis of Costello. Among my crowd, he remains a hotly-contested figure. A good friend of mine frequently quotes a mutual acquaintance who once infamously exhorted, "I'm tired of pretending Elvis Costello rocks, `cos he just doesn't." Suffice to say, while I share that individual's affinity for that which unmistakably rocks, I must beg to differ. Elvis is/was both a master musician and simultaneously kicked a man-sized platter of whupass. Here he is at his best.
Oh, and rest in peace, Poly Styrene.
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