|The Loneliness of the Pioneer
||[Aug. 31st, 2004|11:04 am]
It has been brought to my attention by some of my nearest correspondents -for, at heart a Romantic, I eschew the terseness of email and communicate only by carrier pigeon- that The Noble Sausage has had scorn and disapproval poured upon it in recent days. It is with a heavy heart I admit that I foresaw all of this.|
To these naysayers, I will admit that there is a metatextual distance between the Neil Scout who greets you on these pages and the real, living and breathing, Neil Scout. Like us all, I am not without my private miseries. Prick me, and do I not bleed?
But, suffice that my prose giveth cerebral nutrition, good chear and restoreth elapsed values to this pestilent age, what of it? It disappoints me to see the public clamour for Reality and Authenticity. I pose this question to my Criticks- what if they rounded on all artists in this vulgar fashion? David Bowie would have remained a barrow boy from Dulwich, peddling fifth-generation R&B in a shoddy charity suit and tunnel-visioned mod pudding-bowl cut. Bryan Ferry would have been the archetypal geordie, smithying in his soul the consciousness of brown ale bottles, flat caps and black & white shirts strecthed across obese bellies. Worse still, The Clash would have remained withering fops in monocoles, top hats and tails, punting and playing croquet in their videos whilst writing langorous odes to lazy summer days in Winchester.
The Noble Sausage has spoken- now think on, naysayers. "We are used to men deriding that which they cannot comprehend." -Goethe