This is a fundamental tenet of my beliefs.
And I’ve had it dashed.
Repeat exposure to old copies of Top Of The Pops, ancient photos revealed in the holy book of Mojo show the fathers of rock n roll, the progenitors of pop flouncing around with clean locks.
I feel sick to my stomach.
I keep on telling myself I will never believe again.
But where did I create this mantra. It was forever in Chuck’s ducktail, Little Richard’s pompadour, Elvis’s Quiff. And blow me down; even Buster Bloodvessel’s bald head was cleanly shaven – in all likelihood even dabbed with aftershave. Brut-ish brutes.
Eyeliner, make up, lipstick. They’ve all been at their momma’s pots.
Even last night, back at the Karamel Club, Nia’s deep bluesey, Karen Dalton, Billie Holiday, barnet was washed. Charlie Snelling’s positive pop evoked tainted love tresses proved pure. Adam Masterson’s urban pagan pernickety lion’s mane pristine preened. What has been going on in mind.
Rock N Roll gave me a commitment to rebel long hair, regular face fluff and ear wax. But did it have to be so dirty.
Where was I in aligning myself to rock, greaser, grebo, hippy, punk and permed footballers. Why couldn’t I see that my religion was dominated by fake pretty priests. When did music stop getting real and when will it return. Chris Sheehan I ban you from the shampoo.