to hate Andy’s songs, it turned out that they really weren’t bad at all. You will, of course, know them all by now, most probably by heart, because each has become a Rock Anthem, covered by many bands, sung at many a karaoke night, considered modern classics.
I think my favourite (and probably yours also) would have to be ‘The Land of the Western God’.
And so I print the lyrics below, so that you can enjoy them once more.
The king sends me his linen to wash.
Whatever is right, is right whatever.
Life on life downstricken goes
To the Land of the Western God.
A wolf in his belly and a fire in the hearth,
Attacking the windmills as we go,
A word to the wise should be sufficient
In the Land of the Western God.
You never must shout till you’re out of the woods
For the lion doesn’t roar until he’s eaten
A brain of feathers and a heart of gold
In the Land of the Western God.
His face is his fortune, that’s understood,
Two faces hidden beneath one hood
As good as gold and as golden as good
In the Land of the Western God.
All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye -
They’d skin a flea for his hide and tallow.
An ounce of discretion’s worth a pound of wit
In the Land of the Western God.
There’s the Devil to pay,
Every dog has his day
And an old dog learns no tricks, they say.
And the dead men tell their tales today
In the Land of the Western God.
Here’s an eye for the past and one for the present.
The future is dark as a new-dug grave.
Will our children sing any songs tomorrow
In praise of the Western God?
So uplifting! Pure joy!
You don’t get quality lyrics like that any more. And the new Sumerian Kynges are, in my opinion, little more than a pale shadow of their original counterparts. But still right there at the top of the pops, you notice. So some of our class rubbed off on them, and class, as we know, never dates.
And so, without any further words needed, let us get it on, as they say. And for the first time ever, as no biographies of the band have ever been published (for I now knew how to employ a Cease and Desist Order), let me take you on a cosmic journey into the world of the twentieth century’s ultimate band. The raunchy rock ’n’ roll World that was The Sumerian Kynges.
Let’s Rock.
31
The Sumerian Kynges did plenty of rehearsing in Toby’s big rehearsal room, and when we had half an hour’s worth of material ready, we knew that we were ready. Now, I know what you are thinking: half an hour’s worth of material? That’s not very much. But these were the nineteen-sixties, so you do have to allow for the adding in of the guitar solos. Those long and inspired twiddly-widdly guitar solos that were so loved back then, and so missed now by folk who so loved them back then.
So we had ten three-minute songs rehearsed. But if you added in the obligatory twenty-minute guitar solo at the rate of one per song, well – you had a decent performance.
And when we were done with our rehearsals, we took to the road with The Flange Collective.
The Flange Collective was the catch-all title, the banner, as it were, beneath which danced the colourful ladies and dandified gents. Where the jugglers, stilt-walkers, fire-eaters, tumblers, clowns, madmen and fools followed their crafts. Where freaks and freaksters mingled. Where strange music played. Where strange drugs were imbibed. Where the weird and the wonderful were the ways of the everyday. And in the midst of what might be mayhem one moment and revolutionary genius the next, stood a single figure. A grey eminence. A puppet master supreme. What Warhol was to the Factory, The Flange was to The Flange Collective.
There is much that could be said regarding The Flange, all of it fascinating in its own way and books and books could be written about him, but to give you an idea, I’ll tell you about a pet theory of The Flange’s that he spent the last few years of his life trying to prove. The Flange believed in the Universal Axiom that things are where they should be because they should be where they are. The Flange’s deepest desire was to facilitate the Second Coming of the Lord, and in his retirement, he worked long and hard to create something that he called The Lounge of the Lord – the perfect sitting room for God. He believed that when the room was completed, correct to the tiniest degree, completely and utterly correct down to the sub-atomic level, then following the Universal Truth that states that things are where they should be because they should be where they are, Jesus would come and have a good sit down in that sitting room, and that the Second Coming would come to pass.
Weird and wonderful were the ways of The Flange, and I am truly glad I met him. For had I not, things would have turned out very differently…
But I digress, and I will stop that now. Honest.
On the day that we were to begin our tour with The Flange Collective, Mr Ishmael sent a furniture van to pick up all our equipment, then had his own chauffeur (Rapscallion, his name was) come over and pick us up in the limo. Which was pretty fab and raised our spirits no end.
Not that our spirits were down, really. Back together and playing again, we had sort of picked up where we left off. And although we all thought that we’d given up music for good, deep down in those rock ’n’ roll hearts of ours I feel certain that we’d all been secretly hoping that we might get the chance to climb back up on a stage again. In front of a genuine and appreciative audience this time, and hopefully composed of teenage girls.
And this time we were really ready.
We’d grown into ourselves, as it were. We were no longer foolish boys who would probably, in truth, have gone all to pieces on the road. No, we were older and more sophisticated and mature and better able to cope.
So this was our time. And we meant to make the most of it. Take it to the limit and beyond.
So, Rapscallion drove us off to The Flange Collective, which was presently camped upon Ealing Common. And we had the windows of the limo wound down so we could shout out at the girls.
And I think it was Neil who first coined that immortal hailing-of-the-female call, ‘Yo, bitches.’ Or it might have been Rob, although I think he was mostly calling, ‘You cheeses.’
But I cannot be altogether sure, so please don’t quote me on it.
What I can be sure of is that I was most impressed when, having stepped from Mr Ishmael’s limo, I was
