THE DUKE LISTENS TO
HAS BEEN
BY WILLIAM SHATNER
HAS BEEN
BY WILLIAM SHATNER
Here’s what we’ll do first the hell off. We’re gonna take the
concept of irony and wrap it up in maybe some bin-liners or
something, some old newspapers or some shit, and what we’ll do
right then is beat it to fucking death with sticks. That irony is
gonna be coughing lungs by the time we’re through. Times up,
irony. Your five minutes are over as of the right now. I don’t
give a shit what kinda credibility Wes Craven gave you, we don’t
need your smart-arse fucking tongue-in-cheek half-truths anymore.
Get the hell out! Now! Leave, you patronising son of a bitch.
Sorry if that seems harsh, but what has happened is that irony no
longer serves any damn purpose whatsoever.
William Shatner, y’see, has just made a record that it is utterly
brilliant, I mean inspired, I mean enough to make you go holy shit
and other religious swears, I can’t believe this record is so
good! I can’t believe it’s even a little good!
Furthermore, I have a notion that what happened is maybe a lot of
folks bought it and then maybe picked up a couple gallons vodka on
the way home from the record emporium, and then called all their
“buddies” and said about “Shit, man, you’ll never believe what
happened. Fucking William Shatner has another record out. Yeah,
for sure, I picked it up. Booze? Of course I got booze. It’s gonna
be great.”
You wanted to laugh at this record, is what. You wanted to laugh
just like when you downloaded that version he does of Lucy In The
Sky With Diamonds, the one that maybe you got right now at the
Mondo MP3 Digest, who knows? But you got it, and you laughed and
laughed and laughed.
But you take the new record home, and you throw it in the stereo,
and maybe the room stinks to hell on account of the six-packs
laying discarded about the floor, and the telly’s on with the
sound down, since you just chuckled your way through Glen Or
Glenda, and now you’re gonna hit play and you’re gonna laugh till
your bollocks explode.
Well guess the fuck what? There’s no “ironic” laughter required.
When this record is funny, it’s because it’s meant to be, not
because you with your cultured tastes have deemed it to be
ridiculously kitsch. So screw you, you bunch of hypothetical
culture sluts.
Hey folks.
Anyway, I don’t know if you heard or not, but William Shatner,
star of some crap or other about space, has just released his
second record. The first one, The Transformed Man from back in the
sixties, let The Duke be the first to announce, wasn’t something I
cared for particularly much. It was original, no doubt about that,
and brave, and demented, but I think I probably gave that version
of Mr Tambourine Man maybe half a spin before deciding I could
live without ever hearing the bits out of MacBeth and shit that
are flung in between the “proper” songs.
Shatner doesn’t sing, preferring instead to read the lyrics like
as if it were some epic radio play, one about a girl called Lucy,
perhaps, who’s busy flying about the place. He sings like people
presume he talks, that very… intense… and… slow… manner that all
the sit-coms use when they wanna do a Star Trek joke. It takes a
bit of getting used to.
Recently, though, I’ve gone back to The Transformed Man on
countless occasions, and all because the new record convinced me
that, rather than being the deluded ramblings of some fool high to
the teeth on crack ganja, it is the work of an individual
redefining popular music. He just didn’t feel like doing it again
in a hurry, is all.
Has Been, being the new record, is nowhere near as eccentric as
that first one, but it still sounds more inventive and sharp and
original than most any other damn thing in the “pop-charts”.
When the Mondo Awards 2004 take place later on in the future-time,
Shatner will most likely pick up the Outstanding Contribution To
Cover Versions gong on account of the masterful reading of Pulp’s
Common People. It is a cover version that’s simply as good as the
original. How often does that happen? Once every couple millennia,
I’m guessing. He owns that song, man. When he half-whispers that
“She came from Greece… She had a thirst for knowledge”, you don’t
see a fella that used to be on a space show trying to win over the
teen market, you see a fella standing at a bar, being hassled by
an upper-middle-class woman who wants to do a spot of “slumming”.
It’s utterly convincing.
The only other cover version I can think of that is anywhere near
this good is Ryan Adams’ recent run through Wonderwall, or the
stuff on Nirvana’s Unplugged record. That’s the damn standard
we're dealing with here.
A good portion of the credit for how amazing this turned out
should, of course, be flung in the direction of Ben Folds, the
musical brains behind it all. His arrangements are amazing; the
frantic jazz-drumming on Henry Rollins duet I Can’t Get Behind
That (“And she’s all, and he’s all, and I’m all… I can’t get
behind that kinda… English!”), the lounge-bar refrains of It
Hasn't Happened Yet, the gospel choirs on the wickedly funny
You'll Have Time.
The latter track features one of the highlights of the record.
Shatner yacks on about how you like to ignore the fact, but guess
what, you’re gonna die, before running off a list of folks who
have, indeed, died, climaxing with “and Joey Ramone”, before the
choir bursts in with an ascending, “Jo-eeey Ram-ooooone”. It’s
marvellous.
And then there’s the title track, a spaghetti-western rebut to the
sons a bitches who sit around forever complaining about so and so
and such and such and what a load of shit they’ve gone and done,
without ever contributing anything. Shatner meets and subsequently
challenges a trio of critics; Jack (“Never done jack”), Dick (“I
don’t say dick”) and Down, Two Thumbs Down. “We’ll laugh at others
failures… Though we have not done shit.”
God in heaven, it’s so good, man, I swear on my last gut.
Shatner addresses his own persona again in the closing Real,
complete with brilliant, rousing country chorus (provided by Brad
Paisley), in which he says that yeah, he’s flattered that folks
think he knows everything on account of he’s a celebrity and all,
but “sorry to disappoint you”, he knows as much as you, for crying
out loud.
“While there’s a part of me in that guy you see,
Up there on that screen,
I am so much more,
And I wish I knew the things you think I do,
I would change this world for sure,
But I eat and sleep and breathe and bleed and feel,
Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m real”
If there’s one thing The Duke would wish, man, it’s that you
didn't think I’m pulling your collective digital legs right now.
I'm as shocked as you are, colour me shocked as a motherfucker,
but there ain’t no getting around the cast-iron stone-cold truth.
William Shatner has made a motherfucking masterpiece, and ain’t a
damn lick of ironic detachment required.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line
concept of irony and wrap it up in maybe some bin-liners or
something, some old newspapers or some shit, and what we’ll do
right then is beat it to fucking death with sticks. That irony is
gonna be coughing lungs by the time we’re through. Times up,
irony. Your five minutes are over as of the right now. I don’t
give a shit what kinda credibility Wes Craven gave you, we don’t
need your smart-arse fucking tongue-in-cheek half-truths anymore.
Get the hell out! Now! Leave, you patronising son of a bitch.
Sorry if that seems harsh, but what has happened is that irony no
longer serves any damn purpose whatsoever.
William Shatner, y’see, has just made a record that it is utterly
brilliant, I mean inspired, I mean enough to make you go holy shit
and other religious swears, I can’t believe this record is so
good! I can’t believe it’s even a little good!
Furthermore, I have a notion that what happened is maybe a lot of
folks bought it and then maybe picked up a couple gallons vodka on
the way home from the record emporium, and then called all their
“buddies” and said about “Shit, man, you’ll never believe what
happened. Fucking William Shatner has another record out. Yeah,
for sure, I picked it up. Booze? Of course I got booze. It’s gonna
be great.”
You wanted to laugh at this record, is what. You wanted to laugh
just like when you downloaded that version he does of Lucy In The
Sky With Diamonds, the one that maybe you got right now at the
Mondo MP3 Digest, who knows? But you got it, and you laughed and
laughed and laughed.
But you take the new record home, and you throw it in the stereo,
and maybe the room stinks to hell on account of the six-packs
laying discarded about the floor, and the telly’s on with the
sound down, since you just chuckled your way through Glen Or
Glenda, and now you’re gonna hit play and you’re gonna laugh till
your bollocks explode.
Well guess the fuck what? There’s no “ironic” laughter required.
When this record is funny, it’s because it’s meant to be, not
because you with your cultured tastes have deemed it to be
ridiculously kitsch. So screw you, you bunch of hypothetical
culture sluts.
Hey folks.
Anyway, I don’t know if you heard or not, but William Shatner,
star of some crap or other about space, has just released his
second record. The first one, The Transformed Man from back in the
sixties, let The Duke be the first to announce, wasn’t something I
cared for particularly much. It was original, no doubt about that,
and brave, and demented, but I think I probably gave that version
of Mr Tambourine Man maybe half a spin before deciding I could
live without ever hearing the bits out of MacBeth and shit that
are flung in between the “proper” songs.
Shatner doesn’t sing, preferring instead to read the lyrics like
as if it were some epic radio play, one about a girl called Lucy,
perhaps, who’s busy flying about the place. He sings like people
presume he talks, that very… intense… and… slow… manner that all
the sit-coms use when they wanna do a Star Trek joke. It takes a
bit of getting used to.
Recently, though, I’ve gone back to The Transformed Man on
countless occasions, and all because the new record convinced me
that, rather than being the deluded ramblings of some fool high to
the teeth on crack ganja, it is the work of an individual
redefining popular music. He just didn’t feel like doing it again
in a hurry, is all.
Has Been, being the new record, is nowhere near as eccentric as
that first one, but it still sounds more inventive and sharp and
original than most any other damn thing in the “pop-charts”.
When the Mondo Awards 2004 take place later on in the future-time,
Shatner will most likely pick up the Outstanding Contribution To
Cover Versions gong on account of the masterful reading of Pulp’s
Common People. It is a cover version that’s simply as good as the
original. How often does that happen? Once every couple millennia,
I’m guessing. He owns that song, man. When he half-whispers that
“She came from Greece… She had a thirst for knowledge”, you don’t
see a fella that used to be on a space show trying to win over the
teen market, you see a fella standing at a bar, being hassled by
an upper-middle-class woman who wants to do a spot of “slumming”.
It’s utterly convincing.
The only other cover version I can think of that is anywhere near
this good is Ryan Adams’ recent run through Wonderwall, or the
stuff on Nirvana’s Unplugged record. That’s the damn standard
we're dealing with here.
A good portion of the credit for how amazing this turned out
should, of course, be flung in the direction of Ben Folds, the
musical brains behind it all. His arrangements are amazing; the
frantic jazz-drumming on Henry Rollins duet I Can’t Get Behind
That (“And she’s all, and he’s all, and I’m all… I can’t get
behind that kinda… English!”), the lounge-bar refrains of It
Hasn't Happened Yet, the gospel choirs on the wickedly funny
You'll Have Time.
The latter track features one of the highlights of the record.
Shatner yacks on about how you like to ignore the fact, but guess
what, you’re gonna die, before running off a list of folks who
have, indeed, died, climaxing with “and Joey Ramone”, before the
choir bursts in with an ascending, “Jo-eeey Ram-ooooone”. It’s
marvellous.
And then there’s the title track, a spaghetti-western rebut to the
sons a bitches who sit around forever complaining about so and so
and such and such and what a load of shit they’ve gone and done,
without ever contributing anything. Shatner meets and subsequently
challenges a trio of critics; Jack (“Never done jack”), Dick (“I
don’t say dick”) and Down, Two Thumbs Down. “We’ll laugh at others
failures… Though we have not done shit.”
God in heaven, it’s so good, man, I swear on my last gut.
Shatner addresses his own persona again in the closing Real,
complete with brilliant, rousing country chorus (provided by Brad
Paisley), in which he says that yeah, he’s flattered that folks
think he knows everything on account of he’s a celebrity and all,
but “sorry to disappoint you”, he knows as much as you, for crying
out loud.
“While there’s a part of me in that guy you see,
Up there on that screen,
I am so much more,
And I wish I knew the things you think I do,
I would change this world for sure,
But I eat and sleep and breathe and bleed and feel,
Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m real”
If there’s one thing The Duke would wish, man, it’s that you
didn't think I’m pulling your collective digital legs right now.
I'm as shocked as you are, colour me shocked as a motherfucker,
but there ain’t no getting around the cast-iron stone-cold truth.
William Shatner has made a motherfucking masterpiece, and ain’t a
damn lick of ironic detachment required.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line
