Diamanda Galas Hates The Foo Fighters

Posted by Charles Reece, February 19, 2011 11:30am | Post a Comment

Due as much to Dave Grohl's public stance as an HIV-denier as his musical ability, Diamanda Galás prefers Buddy Rich, or as she eloquently put it:

The FOO fighters? He is a drummer without a brain. I was raised on Buddy RIch. Now we have
breeders with chopsticks talking about viral duplication. Oh dear. Oh mommy. Oh SHUT UP, will ya?

And to my suggestion that he's a nice fellow, she replied:

When the water reaches sea level, girl, hit me baby one more time. We are talking about AIDS disinformation. I could give a fellating fuck about nice. Give me an honest homophobe over a dumbass liberal DARTH VADER bearing crystals on the bodies of the soon- to- be- dead. “Bless you my child, while the rich white boys on WALL STREET were taking anti-virals ‘just in case’ they stayed alive long enough to get the protease cocktails, YOU, sainted brother, die unblemished by the crimes of the marketplace, but annointed by ME.” JESUS FUCK ME. What a bloody weekend.

Just in case you might've missed it.

(In which Job wrestles with his subconscious mind and recommends an album.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 30, 2007 08:17am | Post a Comment
It’s seven-thirty in the morning; I’ve just rolled out of bed after a weird and ultimately unhelpful dream about being accidentally tossed off the Thunder Mountain Railroad ride at Disneyland, after which I ended up drenched in water and yelling at Timothy Dalton, who was working as a security guard, for not believing that their stupid ride malfunctioned and landed me in a private parking garage.

Seriously. That’s what I was dreaming. Is it any wonder I’m awake an hour before normal? I mean, who needs that kind of crap? I am like, totally giving my subconscious mind the silent treatment today.

Two things are helping salvage my mood. One is writing this to you, of course. The other is listening to Jobriath.

This dude’s story is mostly tragic; one of the casualties of the music industry. He was glam at a time when glam had just started retiring. Bowie had already reinvented himself as a Zoot-suit wearing soul singer. Even so, Jobriath was promoted by Elektra Records as though his debut album would be more popular than The Beatles, and subsequently, God.

His half-naked frame was plastered all over cities at a time when we weren’t used to seeing such things. (I mean, nowadays it’s like, “Oh, a huge billboard of two, scantily-clad beefcakes frolicking in a pool together… in an advertisement for Toilet Duck.”) Jobriath’s first album was inescapable, and it hadn’t even been released.

So that, when it finally did hit the shelves, though it was critically acclaimed by many, it couldn’t live up to the hype that had come before it. Jobriath was eventually abandoned by his management and lived the rest of his life out in relative obscurity; his major legacy being an example to record companies on how NOT to handle a new act.

A compilation of songs (“Lonely Planet Boy”) was released in 2004, spearheaded by one of Jobriath’s loyal fans, Morrissey. I personally didn’t discover it until Eric of Amoeba Music mezzanine fame, tipped me off.

It is good. Glorious, even. Highlights for me are “Heartbeat”, “Be Still” and “I’maman”. Any fan of glam-rock must absolutely must check it out. The only downside is that, once you’re a fan, you have little else Jobriath to explore. His two albums are rare and expensive and mostly represented by the c.d. compilation. The man himself retired from recording and made a living singing cabaret in NYC, passing away in 1983 from AIDS.

Fans of Bowie, T.Rex, and the other glam classics; fans of Elton John and the romantic man at the piano; fans of the new breed, Hedwig and Mika – y’all have something to add to your collection.

And f**k Timothy Dalton, man.

You cannot escape me. I'm inside you. You cannot escape me.