I heard Ringo lives in West Van now

This is unrelated to the regular lyric logs and Occupant news, but at the same time enmeshed in the fibres of what makes Occupant an entity. I am on the anticipation side of experiencing the Born to Boogie dvd I just received this morning through Amazon. First time I've ever ordered something from them. I'll mark the summer solstace by viewing this only document of T. Rex in concert, at 5:30 and 8:30 p.m. March 18, 1972, at what rock historians refer to as the "height of T-Rextacy". This concept of a height is unfortunate because I think it had a toxic effect on the outfit. On the other hand it gave a kind of seasoning to Marc Bolan's image. I am more interested in the plateau of Tyrannosaurus Rex and their busy, lyrically driven, and ephemeral tunes that had the id of Incredible String Band and the ego of Uncle Arthur and Serena combined.

I just read St. Morrissey by mark simpson and I was a little dissatisfied by the fact that the biographer wouldn't take the distance his own subject takes with himself. I enjoyed the nearness of his study but he missed a big point and that is that the performer is not respsonsible for the outcome of his songs. I feel the same way about things I've read about T. Rex and Marc Bolan. His songs were the outcome. Interpretation on a critical level is irrelevent, but it influences the next song. Journalists caught their own reflections in their write ups. So on one hand it's interesting to read what people have observed (I've read about Morrissey and lots about Jasper Johns lately adn now I know all there is to know about mark simpson and Jill Johnston) but their readings inevitably are way off the mark when it comes to talking about the fan-artist relationship. It's supposed to be all wrong and distorted and illogical and fucked up to be moved and touched by art. I hate good taste as a motivator for liking a particular artist's music, or any work. Someone pointed out to me that Marc Bolan appeared less sveldt in his later career, an indication, perhaps, of his lack of fidelity to some obligatory skeletal silhouette demanded of the idiom? I say have some more chicken, Mr. Feld. I have my own cheekbones and "Who gives a fuck" has more resonance than stovepipes. Anyway, nobody around these parts is bashing the cosmic dancer. Get with glory for the sake of glory.

The screening will take place today after the moon comes back on course, around 8 pm. The phones will be off!