#ZEP CAPS

[zepskies]

Hey Zep! I've loved BMD and currently loving LoY. I had a question regarding SB for season 5. I really want him to be redeemable, but at the same time love his little bitchy self.

Do you think there will be some sort of resolution with the new Black Noir? Or even MM? Can't wait to hear your thoughts!

Hey there!

Aw thank you. 💚💚 I'm glad to hear that you enjoyed Break Me Down and now with Lost on You too!!

I've talked about this before, but while I'd love to see a redemption arc for Soldier Boy too, with the Krip, I doubt that's gonna happen lol.

I think the "new Noir" is more of the same with these asshole supes, tbh. He seems to be a supe Vought found to just fill in the suit so they wouldn't have to tell the world that SB killed the real Noir. I do think that part's going to throw SB for a loop though after he wakes up. 😅

With MM, he might get to have his moment of vengeance with Soldier Boy somehow, but we'll see what the writers/Krip comes up with! I would love to see MM and SB have some sort of man-to-man moment of understanding (I tried my best in BMD to give them that moment), but again, I doubt it's going to happen. Maybe I'm just more of a hopeless romantic, wanting a more uplifting storyline to cap it out for these characters in season 5. 🥲

[omegaremix]

Rough Trade, 2021.

The pandemic has been a hellacious dice roll. Since last spring, all of our favorite businesses, diners, take-outs, arcades, specialty shops, record-stores, and venues had all shuttered with no telling other than the governor’s word when they’d re-open - if they’d re-open. I’ve been fortunate to see that all of my -stores on the island have survived with few hiccups. The last time I shopped at one? Summer of 2018 at Mineola’s Mr. Cheapo’s which capped off what was an unprecedented post-surgery record-store victory tour. It was so vitalizing that I promised myself I’d do it again.

For the record, I almost never done any city music shopping, save for when I purchased Sonic Youth’s Sister, Skinny Puppy’s Rabies, and Ministry’s Just Another Fix during a post-senior year city excursion. For one New Year’s Day at Times Square, my friends and I visit another record store and I passed up a chance to buy Anal Cunt’s Morbid Florist. Since then, it was nothing but mail-orders and island stores until now. I always owed it to myself to visit Rough Trade, New York City’s greatest record store for the longest time. Anxiety, scheduling, poor timing, and other personal insecurities kept me from going. New York State’s various business-closing mandates didn’t help either and I know the pandemic era has not been nice to anyone at all. Even my aunt Laura warned me not to take the train. At least, not yet.

And then a wake-up call: they’re closing down their Williamsburg store to re-locate to as-yet undisclosed digs. They announced their target date: March 21st, the final day before shutting their doors until this summer. So when a record store advertises 25% off CD’s, books, and other merchandise to say good-bye, you fucking go. I had bad luck being scheduled off of work on Mondays and Tuesdays, the two days they were closed during the week. Enough was enough. I spoke up and I finally won a Wednesday off at a price of working six-straight opening-and-closing shifts. Now, it’s on. This visit to Rough Trade is the prologue of my second-ever Record Store Victory Tour, which I’m still waiting to bank to make happen.

With a pending return to New York City / Brooklyn in the springtime, so did reminders of a certain someone from Brooklyn whose eclectic music and cultural tastes aligned with mine and a little more; someone I had a distinct connection with. She was on my mind intensely as it’s springtime in the boroughs. I had cut all ties with her not long ago because she slit me deeply and it’s a shame. It’s that time and place that holds her significance, and later visits made me wish I still had someone of her calibre to come join me.

The luxuries of living near the Long Island Expressway / Rt. 495 meant no time wasted getting there. Fifty minutes later with little traffic and only eight blocks remaining, I’m here. Driving through any part of New York City is signing your death wish, whether it’s rolling down the asphalt pothole fields of Junction Ave., or the start-and-stop traffic of 3rd Ave. during rush hour. This time it was the expressway, and driving over the new Kościuszko Bridge which I never seen before. No question that its presence would forever mark this perfect March day. Jumping off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway / Rt. 278 and driving down the narrow 8th St. was not a harrowing experience as long as you slow it. I park it near Marsha P. Johnson State Park, and walk two blocks southeast to finally scratch Rough Trade off my bucket list. I had up until 7PM with a $160.00 head-start burning in my pocket since Christmas 2019. No time to waste…and go.

I walk in and I feel it. I look around, and right away I could tell we don’t have this on Long Island. Rough Trade was the kicker: everything I couldn’t find in other stores I found here. You wouldn’t find Garcia Peoples, Horse Lords, or Sweeping Promises in any too-kind indie store or mall that would rather worship The Beatles, Phish, Jimi Hendrix, "The Dead", "Floyd" or “Zep” as you call them, you fucking Bruce Villanch-Mason Reese cross-breeds. Think Pitchfork, Alt Citizen, Gold Flake Paint, Brooklyn Vegan, and Post Trash. Not to say I never found gold at my local stores, but Rough Trade had that special something-else because us islanders don’t have the same vibe the city stores does. Oh, much better. Even I hoped to see specific titles because this location was city-centric, and at times my wishes almost came true.

First up: the cassettes section. A small selection ensures that I’d already have four in my hand in the first three minutes digging. You sure wouldn’t find Birthing Hips’ Urge To Merge anywhere else but here, right? Clipping’s Visions Of Bodies Being Burned? Nope. What a relief to find Hesitation Wounds’ Chicanery as I blast half of those songs at the gym. To my amazement: finding Kedr Livanskiy’s Ariadne. Too bad it wasn’t the disc version because that would’ve also had January Sun, one of my favorite releases of the Tens, but at least I have her now.

Next up, the used vinyl section; a small tidy amount of it that’s reasonably priced mixed with rock, pop, jazz, blues, reggae, and Latin jazz. On the overheads played various selections of Nancy Sinatra (“These Boots Are Made for Walking”) and with Lee Hazelwood (“Sand”) as I looked for more wins there. Don Patterson’s Movin’ Up!, a summer memory, was finally scratched off the list. Marcio Montarroyos’ Magic Moment was something I wasn’t expecting to find. It featured “Pedro Bonita”, a springtime memory of walking through Central Park, so I took it. The expedition got better when I acquired Dual Action’s “Babe Beer Car Bar” compilation on clear red vinyl (!). That’s one of two Hospital Productions’ releases I took home with me.

On to their 7” section where it started to sting. A good number of these platters were priced at an average of $7.00 and up, even higher. I would’ve loved to take Martin Rev’s “Gutter Rock” home but at $17.00 for only two songs? No dice. Same with the Idles / Heavy Lungs split. But I got my hands on Gong Gong Gong’s “Siren” b/w “Something’s Happening”, another small victory and one of two I found of Wharf Cat Records. At least there’s some Raincoats and Pylon up for grabs, and if anyone wants Brandy’s “Clown Pain” b/w “Rent Quest”, it’s still there. The only normal piece I took home with me was a promotional copy of Maria Muldaur’s “Midnight At The Oasis”. Just the single because it’s all I ever need of hers.

Rough Trade had plenty of new vinyl with many titles going for $25.00-$30.00 each. That was the only section I stayed away from, personally. I wasn’t so much into The Body yet that I didn’t pick up I’ve Seen All I Needed To See, for example, or the many PJ Harvey records they had on display. But some good titles in my eyes were found such as Wharf Cat Records’ ACLU Benefit Compilation. To my surprise: Alan Parker & Madeline Bell’s The Voice of Soul from Themes International. It’s the very first time I’d ever seen a [TV / film / radio] library record; the stuff hip-hop producers look for.

But as mentioned before, all discs were 25% off. Aside from the Christmas money by my generous aunt and uncle from the Brooklyn-youth era, the discounted discs would at least cushion the blow to my wallet.

I started with the used hip-hop section. I immediately grabbed Madvilliany which was the soundtrack to my most vital days at Stony Brook. More Madlib to be had when I grabbed Bandana and Pinata with new favorite Freddie Gibbs. Then, how about two legends with Slick Rick’s The Great Adventures Of… and Eric B & Rakim’s Paid In Full? Saw a copy of A Tribe Called Quest’s We Got It From Here… and that was a must-grab. I found Death Grips’ The Money Store (featured on the very first Omega WUSB show) and I had to have it. The only time I saw Death Grips up for the taking was when West Sayville’s Vinyl Paradise (r.i.p.) stocked several of their titles but gave them up because I felt I spent too much. It’s a start. My final jazz acquisitions were two from Herbie Hancock: Headhunters and The Best Of…. I had a opportunity to grab Headhunters at West Babylon’s Looney Tunes and also Sunlight at Amityville’s High Fidelity but wasn’t too keen on Hancock back then. On a separate note: Lee Moses’ Time And Place caught my eye. It’s one you see everywhere posted on obscure samplist groups and forums. That’s when I realized the mood of the overheads changed from Sinatra / Hazelwood to children’s educational TV theme songs; going from Sesame Street to Reading Rainbow. That was a cringe moment and the staff felt it, too. So they switched it up to something better: Hailu Mergia. Speaking of Awesome Tapes From Africa, I paused to pull the trigger on Nahawa Doumbia. The music is from 1980, but I couldn’t make the judgment here not knowing her music beforehand.

I continued searching through the used disc section, and these next finds I felt not only defined this store but the entire experience as well. I kept going and spotted titles I didn’t expect. Know of Council Estate Electronics? You wouldn’t if you also didn’t know Mr. Godflesh himself (Justin Broadrick). Since I did, Arktika was in the bank. Profligate’s Somewhere Else, the final of two Wharf Cat finds, was nice to see. Then, I see Boy Harsher’s Lesser Man (Extended) in the corner of my eye and immediately I snatched it up. (I noticed that of three copies, two were priced at $21.99 and one for $13.99. Why would I not want the $13.99 copy?) I was happy to get Silent Servant’s Shadows Of Death And Desire but wished it was Negative Fascination instead. But any Silent Servant is better than nothing, and beggars can’t be choosers.

As I was still reeling from the Boy Harsher grab: two from Pharmakon (Bestial Burden and Devour) and two from Uniform (The Long Walk and Shame) all in the same gasp. I almost went into cardiac arrest and died from seeing them in stock. Would Rough Trade’s staffers cut from labeling their stock to find me lying on the floor and call for an ambulance to Maimonides Hospital is up for debate. One final round in searching still continued in the used disc section. Zola Jesus had her own divider and saw what they offered. Okovi featuring “Veka” was in my possession and that’s five Sacred Bones titles I’d purchased. In fact, I attempted to order from them online a few months ago but money issues made it a bad idea. Those five made up half of that order. Rough Trade’s shelves were littered with -Bones stuff and they're both from Brooklyn, so they’re really riding that golden stallion out towards the sunset, are they?

Other wild cards I knew enough to buy started with Mr. Elevator’s Goodbye Blue Sky, a personal favorite from last year’s pandemic blues. Here’s two titles rather to be found in city stores and not on the island: Lithics’ Tower Of Age and Deeper’s 2018 self-titled album (the latter for $1.75). Idles’ Joy As An Act Of Resistance was plentiful and a lauded release, so I found a copy that included a bonus disc of their live performance at the store. And as a general rule, you can’t pick up Idles without also getting the conflicting Sleaford Mods’ 2018 e.p. Plus, I loved Tame Impala’s Currents, so I got it to spite everyone who thought their psych-rock era was better.

More? Sure. Soundgarden’s expanded Ultramega OK (including the same-titled e.p.) was in my hands. During the new-vinyl round I was thrilled to find some Akitsa records but passed them up, so I got some black metal diet with Darkthrone’s A Blaze In The Northern Sky. Finally (or so I thought), I nabbed the Electric Dress album from Merzbow, Carlos Giffoni, and Jim O’ Rourke also for $1.50. Peak hipster era. I thought to myself that I may have gotten it with my previous RRRecords mail-orders, but thankfully I was wrong. As I thumbed through that side of the bins, there it was staring at me, literally: Tops’ I Feel Alive. Jane Penny’s green-eyed look of disbelief on her face was looking at me because I passed up on the cassette, and now she’s waited for me again at the disc bins. “I Feel Alive” was a great pandemic-blues tune for me, but I didn’t know them enough to go for it. Our apologies, Jane.

Rough Trade had a few other sections as well. “Cheap Thrills!” their shelves said. That was their lower-priced new vinyl section mixed in with other used vinyl singles. One quick peek and I found Long Island white-label heroes Q-Ball & Curt Cazal. It wasn’t “Makin’ Moves”, but I wish it was. To my right is their rarities box. That’s where the big money copies are. It was where I saw a copy of Albert King’s Born Under A Bad Sign for a painful $110.00. Another copy found in-store cuts the pain away by another $50.00 less. Also on that side of their store, you’d find their bar / cafe disused indefinitely. Their live space has been cordoned off and so has most of their listening rooms. What wasn’t lost, however, was another flight of steel steps leading up to their book section; the shelves spread evenly of well-categorized books about music history, art, New York City, gender / sexuality, The 33 1/3 Series, and no shortage of copies of Cosey Fanni Tutti’s Art, Sex, Music or Kim Gordon’s No Icon to go around. The most ironic thing printed on paper? Kara Simsek’s So You Think You’re a Hipster?; of course of all places in a Williamsburg / Bushwick record store. En route upstairs are where the box sets and staff picks are. With two weeks to go, get those licks in at their operational photo booth and then see the pics- posted of how much fun the best of Brooklyn are having...assuming they’re not dying inside by rising rent prices).

By then, I was spent. I felt like there was nothing else to comb over. So I packed it in and gave my stack to purple-haired Janie, dressed in a pink long-sleeve and purple felt pants. As she counted everything up, I had second thoughts. I knew it was now or never, so I decided to give two titles I originally passed up a second chance. I ran to grab J Dilla’s Donuts and Discharge’s Protest And Survive: The Anthology. And that was that. She said I qualified for a free tote. (Are you offering a credit check for a bank loan, too?) and dashed one more time for a shirt. That was also 25%, too. I wasn’t leaving here without a fucking t-shirt.

She thanked me for my purchase, and I thanked her for her kindness. I left Rough Trade feeling -$417.00 happier. That’s what music-shopping therapy does to you. This venture had made me forget all of the recent depressing ills and anxious troubles I’ve had because it’s self-maintenance, healing, and power unto yourself. The return to Brooklyn was a much-needed reprieve outside of the daily toxicity experienced on the island that offers nothing that I really want that the city has. That, my friends and allies, is what you call happiness. New people, new experiences, opportunities, and fun. That’s what brings me it. I never felt it in such a long time.

Not since last March was when I set foot in Central Park and immediately turned back because sundown approached. Two weeks later, most of the world shut down flat and I didn’t return until now. I wasn’t the only one affected by cautionary stay-at-home mandates and city-wide closures, but things are much better now than last year when people died everywhere left and right. People and businesses are slowly out and open again with more information, confidence, and vigilance to live their lives and keep the damage to a minimum. The time was right to take precautionaries, to breathe again, and get back into it. I know I’ll get back into Rough Trade when they re-open, likely as my city go-to for everything I practiced and preached on Omega WUSB. They were on a whole new level, a level I wished other island stores would follow. It might arguably top my final visit at Tower Records before their closure.

I drive home through the tight Brooklyn streets and start the nerve-wrenching path home starting at the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The movement panned to a cripple getting on Rt. 278, but seeing the colors change on the Kościuszko Bridge showed its’ new second life at night; a sight to behold. A chilly, mid-Forties coldness dominated the ride home as I said ‘goodbye’ to the New York City skyline of clear pitch-black skies and ‘hello’ to the wide-open L.I.E. roads.

I finally arrive home with the trace of lucky green transparent on my fresh cotton threads; the new notes that'll define the next couple of years. I unpack my goods and let everyone know how my day was as I wait for the flattery from my friends and allies at WUSB. Spring is finally here. It’s a chance for renewal. The vaccines are coming and so’s the money. I’m here to win it all. Place your bets.

Freddie Gibbs & Madlib: Pinata

Uniform: The Long Walk

Herbie Hancock: Headhunters

Slick Rick: The Great Adventures Of…

Idles: Joy As An Act Of Resistance / Live at Rough Trade

Sleaford Mods: self-titled e.p.

Death Grips: The Money Store

Discharge: Protest And Survive: The Anthology

Silent Servant: Shadows Of Death And Desire

Freddie Gibbs & Madlib: Bandana

Eric B & Rakim: Paid In Full

Pharmakon: Bestial Burden

Boy Harsher: Lesser Man

Lithics: Tower Of Age

Uniform: Shame

Soundgarden: Ultramega OK

Profligate: Somewhere Else

Madvillain: Madvillainy

Herbie Hancock: The Best Of…

Mr. Elevator: Goodbye Blue Sky

Zola Jesus: Okovi

Deeper: self-titled

Tame Impala: Currents

Lee Moses: Time And Place

Darkthrone: A Blaze In The Northern Sky

Council Estate Electronics: Arktika

A Tribe Called Quest: We Got It From Here…Thank You For Your Service

Pharmakon: Devour

Merzbow & Carlos Giffoni & Jim O’Rourke: Electric Dress

Hesitation Wounds: Chicanery (CS)

Kedr Livanskiy: Ariadne (CS)

clipping.: Visions Of Bodies Being Burned (CS)

J Dilla: Donuts (CS)

Birthing Hips: Urge To Merge (CS)

Marcio Montarroyos: Magic Moment (LP)

Don Patterson: Movin’ Up! (LP”)

Dual Action: Babe Beer Bar Car (double LP)

Gong Gong Gong: “Siren b/w “Something’s Happening” (7”)

Maria Muldaur: “Midnight At The Oasis” (7”)

Q-Ball & Curt Cazal: “Repertoire” (12”)

[ducktr0ducin]

So this isn't Shiptober but anyways-

My take on a Gypad kid! He is simply a little guy, a little dude. I might doodle him more in-between prompts!

(also thank you Jenky for the big brain idea of the baseball cap)

Ramblings below the cut-

- Gyro did some mad science nonsense of mixing their blood with random chemicals and injecting it into an egg. It somehow worked!

- Zep is a MENACE (Gearloose family brains combined with McQuack family thrill-seeking is a horrifying combination)

- Zep is HDL's age (roughly ten/eleven). How does that fit into the timeline? I have no clue

- Little Helper acts like a good older brother to Zep

- He and Newton bicker quite a bit, but will not hesitate to team up in competitions

- He calls Gyro "dad" and Launchpad "pops"

- Launchpad gives him flying lessons while Gyro is trying to ignore his gut instinct to panic

- Gyro is already teaching him high school level sciences. Zeps even helps out with some of the more mild gadget orders Gyro receives

- He loves taking apart and putting back together engines, and keeps trying to modifying his bike to go fast like a motorcycle (has not yet succeeded)

- ^^He is quite resilient to crashes just like his pops

- Dewey got him his hat for his birthday a few years back

- Zep sometimes gets mocked for being a test tube baby, but he takes it with stride

- Launchpad and Gyro hadn't decided who's surname Zep would have before he was hatched. They were going to have Launchpad fight one of Gyro's robots to decide, before Daisy simply suggested they simply use both last names.

- ^^Zep WISHES the story of his last name was that cool

- Launchpad spelt "Zeppelin" wrong on the birth certificate. Now he's "Zepplin" (I TOTALLY DIDNT JUST MISSPELL IT THIS WHOLE TIME GUYS PLEASE BELIEVE ME-)

[natromanxoff]

Roger Taylor live at the Alexandra Palace in London, UK (Hall Of Fame) - November 14, 2006

Roger inducted Led Zeppelin into the UK Hall Of Fame and then played drums in a George Martin Tribute Band.

Fan Stories

“I was lucky enough to get one of the few free pairs of tickets distributed by Channel 4 via Jacky at the Queen Fan Club. Obviously you will see it on the TV, but thought I'd post a bit of first hand info. The free ticket holders were in a standing 'mosh pit' type enclosure right at the front of the stage, the paying public were in tiered seating towards the back, and the celebs were in a few rows between the two. I am not lyiny when I say that I was stood at the bavk of the mosh pit, and when I turned around, literally about 4 feet from me were seated: Jimmy Page, Dave Gilmour, Kenney Jones, Bon Jovi, Brian Wilson and George Martin!!! Jim Beach was there, seated a few rows back, dressed like a tramp as usual in an old woolly jumper and baseball cap! Roger was asked to induct Led Zep, and was given a very hearty rould of applause when he took to the stage to give a genuine appreciation of them - he then presented the award to Jimmy Page and I got some good pics of that! His playing performance was right at the close of the show - his kit was set up in the usual way (minus the Queen logo on the bass drum skin). I was stood about 5 feet in front of him!! His playing was, as expected, tasteful and appropriate, with regard to the original recordings. He played the Ringo Starr drum 'solo' part very well, and got a huge swelling of cheers and clapping from the crowd as he played this! Once the show finished I walked past the kit as the drum tec was taking it down, and managed to get a good side/behind pic of the kit (not an angle usually seen). I thought I'd show a bit of cheek (unusual for me as I'm quite shy) and asked his tec if there were any drumsticks going. He rummaged around but couldn't find any. Not to be deterred, he searched some more and found Roger's stick bag, opened it up, checked the sticks thoroughly to make sure they were used ones, and gave me a matching signed pair!!! As a drummer, I have been after at least one of Roger's sticks for years, so to get a used, signed pair is superb (obviously I won't use them). I'm afraid I don't know the name of Roger's drum tec, but if anyone does happen to know him, please pass on my utmost thanks for his brilliant reaction to my request. What a great night!!!” - cmsdrums

[aspiestvmusings]

Zoey & Max “American Pie” moments, Pt 5

Show: Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist

Episode: 1x12 “Zoey’s Extraordinary Dad” (S1 Finale)

All the little moments, where Max is there for Zoey, throughout the day (song). Always. There, by her side. There, in the background... ready to help. A shoulder to lean on. Keeping an eye on her...to make sure she’s OK. Her support system. Her rock.

[my-extraordinary-zep]

You know what would be so jarring? Leif without a cardigan.

[firelight-amber]

WHAT-

[its-a-show-stoppin-number]

My sister: I know you have a favorite character in Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist.

Me: That’s not true! I love all Tobins and not-Tobins the same!

[rachel-bloom]

don’t you just hate it when you have therapy and you think it’s gonna be a chill session but then she literally asks the worst uestions and you break out in tears every 5 minutes lmao.

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

~#6,000 screencaps from Saw.   These are unedited and unsorted.  Free for anyone to use or edit how you like but if you’d like to toss a buck or two my way you can do so HERE.  Please like and or reblog this post if you found it useful in any way.  If you have any problems w/ the downloads or files please let me know in a politely worded message and I will see what I can do to correct the issue!    You will (eventually) be able to find caps from all the Saw movies in THIS tag.

[meadow-dusk]

I've been wanting for a while to write up a post of my favorite connections between CSNY & Led Zeppelin, because there are quite a few, and more of us seem to have traversed this pipeline or are about to (plus of course, I would just love to see these fandoms converge!). Every time members come together to play benefits or tributes, you get a very strong sense of their mutual respect for one another, and this is something that's existed throughout their shared history in transforming from struggling or fairly successful musicians of the 1960s to absolute giants of their respective genres in the early '70s. So, in no order of their actual significance, here's my personal top five! Add more if you've got em!

5. The Band of Joy covers "For What It's Worth" (1968)

Even before they found their ways into the 1970's iterations of their respective bands, Zeppelin and CSNY were already crossing each others' wavelengths. Robert Plant was famously enamored with the west coast rock sound and the psychedelic / roots blend of California bands like the Buffalo Springfield. The Springfield's singular top-ten hit was the Stephen Stills composition "For What It's Worth," penned in response to police violence breaking out after teenagers violated and protested a new curfew imposed on the streets of LA. Plant, along with bandmate John Bonham and the rest of the Band of Joy, recorded their own interpretation of the song, loud, gritty, and, while only occasionally featuring the correct lyrics, charming all the same. Zeppelin, when fully formed, would go on to weave the song seamlessly into their epic medleys during live performances of classics like "Communication Breakdown" and "Whole Lotta Love."

4. Musical Influences Slip In

In 1970, Led Zeppelin were reaching new heights in their creative game, aided by their excursions to secluded locales to write and record. Here, they created much of Led Zeppelin III and IV, and influences were pouring in from everywhere. The old blues standards were, of course, still fair game, but LZ III opened a door to experimentation with folk. While the lead-in track “Immigrant Song” is as “Hammer of the Gods” as it gets (is this the first time we hear this phrase?), by the time it relaxes into “Friends” you might think you’d somehow mistakenly set the needle down on CSNY’s Deja Vu, which opens with a nearly identical driving guitar, and had been released only 8 months prior. But my personal favorite connection is the languid "Down by the Seaside," written in this period but shelved until 1975's Physical Graffiti. Many have noted that the title is similar to Neil Young’s “Down by the River” (which, by the way, would be my Led Zeppelin “dream cover” 😍), but the entire work sounds like an homage to Neil. The lyrics are full of natural imagery and hippie counterculture sentiments, Robert’s vocal stylings mirror Neil’s so closely, and even the underwater guitar effects sound like something you’d hear on Neil’s 1974 record On the Beach. Which brings us to...

3. Led Zeppelin at CSNY's performance at Wembley Stadium (14 September 1974)

To cap off their three-month international summer tour, CSNY played to a crowd of ~70,000 in London's Wembley Stadium, a venue Zep had played a few years prior. CSNY famously disbanded again soon after the event, but the group were in congenial spirits immediately after and clearly pleased to wrap up what was a very successful, if not necessarily financially lucrative, tour. Stories from this show are easy to stumble upon, and thankfully we have photographic evidence some of the best parts. Not only did Robert attend the performance with wife Maureen, but afterwards, when CSNY retired to a party at a local restaurant, they were joined onstage by Jimmy Page and John Bonham for a short jam session featuring some of the bluesier tunes from Neil Young's On the Beach album. Their reactions say it all.

2. Neil Young performs with Led Zeppelin during their mutual induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (12 January 1995)

The evening could have been totally uncomfortable for Zeppelin (mostly due to John Paul Jones' absolutely perfect but ballsy acceptance speech remark following his exclusion from the earlier Page & Plant reunion), but the drama was pushed aside for the nine minutes that the group shared the stage with Neil Young, a member of the same class of inductees. The performance isn't without flaw, but that's not really important. (On what other occasion do we get to see Robert play a guitar solo?) While Jimmy holds down the powerful, rhythmic riff, Neil gets a chance to try to match wits with a guitarist compared to whom he considered himself merely "a hack." In his biography, Neil admitted that he walked away from the experience so inspired that he wanted to convince Zeppelin to reform just to make an album with them...oh, what might have been! Instead, he wrote the song "Downtown" to capture the experience of attending one of their shows, featuring the lyrics "Led Zeppelin on stage / there's a mirror ball twirling and a note from Page / like a water-washed diamond in a river of sin."

1. Robert Plant quotes CSNY classics during their "How Many More Times" medley at the Albert Hall (09 January 1970)

This is probably not the biggest literal connection, but it's still my favorite just because of how cool it is. Just days before this show (on 06 January), CSNY had played at the same venue, and (according to some sources) at least a few members of Zeppelin were attendees. The famous acoustic sets Zep later wove into their shows are rumored to have been partially inspired by what they witnessed at this event: a moment to slow down, pull out the stools and have a seat, encourage quiet consideration, refocus the attention to a simplified delivery of music. Prior to this restructuring, Led Zeppelin were always experimenting with the dynamics of "light and shade," almost like a jam band on a tight leash. The band were closely attuned to what one another were doing and ready to shift gears instantly in response to one another's cues, but everyone had freedom within that structure, and it's what made their live performances so fascinating.

Not uncommonly, couplets from old blues tunes or new music found their way into the lyrical ramblings that floated above the glorious Hammer of the Gods sound. On this occasion, the lyrics from the earlier CSNY show must have been floating around in Robert's mind. In the evening's absolutely epic 20-minute version of "How Many More Times," he quotes not only Neil's "Down by the River" but also the lesser-known Buffalo Springfield tune "On the Way Home," regularly performed by CSNY with stripped down instrumentation and glistening harmonies. Both songs are mandatory listening, as far as I'm concerned, but this medley is the gift that keeps on giving!

Bonus! Here's some random images I found while writing this post. They're mostly of Neil but...you know what you're getting with me.

[quillquiver]

Destiel Coda to 15x20: Carry On. Major spoilers ahead. Because this story is ours.

Heaven is the open road.

It’s always kind of been that, for him. Solace and escape. Comfort. Freedom. It’s gravel crunching under Baby’s wheels and Zep blasting on her speakers. The cooler filled to the brim in the back. A never-ending sunset. So when Dean slides behind Baby’s wheel and leaves the Roadhouse behind, he’s happy to drive. He thinks he’s owed that, maybe—to leave. To go anywhere. Everywhere. Nowhere.

No monsters in Heaven, right?

So he drives. The landscape changes because he wills it to; golden fields of wheat turn to jagged, snow-capped mountains, desert sand shifts to the ocean lapping up against a rocky shore. It’s good until it’s not—until Dean’s hands itch and restlessness squeezes the breath from his lungs. Baby hasn’t been this empty in a long time. He’d forgotten how big she is inside. How much space there is.

It’s weird.

For supposedly guaranteeing peace, there’s something unsettling about… this whole thing. Something hollow, maybe, or incomplete.

Heaven’s lonely.

Dean presses on the gas and his intent changes, endless highway turning to unmaintained logging road. Mile markers morph into pine trees and he grips and re-grips the steering wheel. Praying isn’t a conscious thing anymore—not since you changed me, Dean—but there isn’t a whole helluva lot he can catch Cas up on. So he pulls up to the lake, kills Baby’s engine and just… wants? Wishes.

Asks.

“…Cas?”

But Cas doesn’t appear in the passenger’s seat. And he doesn’t show up in the back. And the more Dean waits—he can wait, he’s good at that—the clearer it becomes that there’s no one coming. Maybe their signal got jammed. Maybe there’s no praying in Heaven. Hell, maybe Cas is too important to come down and hang out—maybe he’s not allowed. Whatever the reason, it hits Dean all at once.

Grief. Loss. Anger and heartbreak and fucking despair, because no matter how hard they fight, no matter how many times they save the goddamn world, peace doesn’t apply to them. Dean shoves Baby’s door open and stumbles towards the dock. He ends up on his knees, tripping over his own feet, vision blurred and breath tight around the lump in his throat. He pounds his fists into the wooden boards. His chest is gonna collapse onto itself; he’s a dying star and he knows it’s impossible, he knows he’s already dead but this is it this is all there is it’s crushing him—

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean moves before he understands what the fuck is even happening.

He falters at the last second—skids to a stop with less than a foot between them, eyes wide and heaving laboured breaths like he’s run a marathon. “Cas,” he breathes. His hand drifts up and brushes Cas’s arm, his fingers. “Are you…? I mean, Cas—I—you—”

Cas looks… almost the same. Same hair and baby blues. Same godawful coat and tie. But there’s something tense in shoulders—something prickling at his eyes. He’s stock still in a way he hasn’t been in years. “What—” he shakes his head. Frowns at the ground. Collects himself. “What—ah, happened? Where’s Sam?”

“Safe,” Dean says.

“Dean—”

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous before, but in the wake of I loved the whole world because of you, grabbing Cas’s hand pales in comparison. His heart is bruising itself with how hard it’s beating against his ribs, his palm sweating as he grasps Castiel’s fingers, mouth dry as he tugs him close. Since when have they ever done personal space?

“I prayed to you,” he says hoarsely.

“I wanted to fix this first. Heaven—I didn’t want to come back empty-handed.” Dean goes for broke and holds his hand. Cas’s eyes widen. “Not just for you,” Castiel rushes to say. “For me, too. I needed… I needed to—”

The look on his face when Dean presses a finger to his lips would be hilarious if Dean wasn’t sure he was gonna puke. His hand drifts to touch the curve of Cas’s cheekbone and the line of his jaw. He’s shameless. Unapologetic. Cas sways closer and he’s warm and solid and alive.

“You’re a moron,” Dean breathes, because what he actually wants to say is gumming up throat as it always has.

Cas prickles like an offended, disgruntled bird and he’s the most gorgeous thing Dean’s ever seen. “I—”

He kisses him.

It’s dry and quick and chaste, pressed to the corner of his mouth, but it’s a kiss. A real kiss. And it’s like once he’s started, Dean can’t stop. He pulls back enough to meet Cas’s eyes before allowing himself to move forward again, and by the time their mouths brush Cas is holding so tightly to Dean’s wrists it feels like they’re gonna bruise. The next kiss is an impression of one; soft and barely there—exploration, permission, promise. Cas’s brows are furrowed and he chases when they drift apart, catching him in something more solid. Intentional. All at once, he moves to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist, holding gripping clutching as Dean’s hands cup stubbled cheeks and bury in dark hair and move over the breadth of his shoulders. Cas is here. Cas is here. And they’re—they’re finally—

Dean wrenches away only to throw himself at Castiel in a hug, face buried into his neck. Cas’s hand presses to his back and Dean shivers. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Dean,” Cas murmurs.

Dean breathes shaky against his skin and nods. Presses his mouth there just because he can. “I fucking love you, Castiel,” he says, and it’s an argument wrapped in fear and self-loathing but it’s out, he’s said it, and Cas only holds him all the tighter for it. Shifts a little. Pulls back so Dean lifts his head and can be more easily kissed. He swipes his tongue over Dean’s bottom lip and he opens for him, guides him when Cas falters, overwhelmed.

“Dean,” Cas breathes, like his name’s a benediction, a prayer. Like he can’t say anything else. “Dean—”

Dean huffs a laugh. Nods. Stumbles back towards the Impala and tugs Cas along with him. The guy’s like a celestial octopus, and they trip over each other’s feet until they’re pressed up against the passenger door, kissing deep and wet and lazy, and this is it, right here. Cas. Baby. Sam safe and sound and alive.

This is Heaven.

[power-chords]

Ohhhhhmygosh I'm so excited. I'm so excited. You have no idea. Short of living my utopian fantasy — getting paid to sit in classrooms for the rest of my life and learn about interesting stuff from interesting people — a college-level course on The Who is a dream come true. That is MY BAND, baby. More so than any other. The primordial rock 'n' roll soup from which all my subsequent infatuations evolved.

And I have a chip on my shoulder about it, a bone to pick, because The Who are like the black sheep of the British classic rock pantheon for reasons beyond my comprehension. Don't laugh, it's true! The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, they've all got my beloved Shepherd's Bush geezers resoundingly beat in popularity contests. Even Pink Floyd earns you more bankable cool points.

And look, I love those bands, they're great. The Beatles, I hesitate to even mention them in the same sentence as anybody else; the Stones are monster riff wizards, a class all their own; Led Zep is some of the most fun you can have getting loaded and putting an album on and listening to the whole damn thing start to finish.

But The Who! They possessed me. It was supernatural, it was instantaneous. To see footage of that band performing on stage — nobody had that kind of frightening and irresistible magnetism, that kind of danger, the most sublime melodic beauty packaged with a blasting cap. It was intoxicating, I could not look away. To this day, more than 20 years later, I cannot look away.

[magpiewithacamera]

So... about that time that Andy was a deejay...

Andy always knew he wanted that spotlight. At 12, he won a contest to be 'dj for a night' on 102.5 KZOK FM Seattle. The station is still broadcasting, still a rock station, with a smattering of early morning 'talk jock traffic' stuff. But still rocking out nights.

First two caps are from @starchild0985, thank you VERY much, hon!, from 'Everybody Loves Our Town' - a HEAVILY recommended book around here - Dave Rees talking about Andy's experience in radio.

"Well now I'm gonna have to be a rock star."

Oh L'Andrew, as if there were ever any doubt...

3rd pic is Andy and friends, age about 13, on Bainbridge. This is about how he looked when he took his turn behind the mic. He's the one in the white t-shirt, sitting, left side of pic.

And 4th is the actual newspaper announcement of his brilliant debut! Found by @fluttergirl, you're awesome! Thank you!

5th is a close up, in case he got lost in the clutter of listings.

Led Zep, Heart and Kiss. Must have been a rockin set! I wish somebody somewhere had taped it, but KZOK doesn't keep archives. And they thought I was pretty weird when I called them yesterday to ask!

This is our history.

[ladydarklord]

The Mighty Boosh on the business of being silly

The Times, November 15 2008

What began as a cult cocktail of daft poems, surreal characters and fantastical storylines has turned into the comedy juggernaut that is the Mighty Boosh. Janice Turner hangs out with creators Noel Fielding, Julian Barratt and the extended Boosh family to discuss the serious business of being silly

In the thin drizzle of a Monday night in Sheffield, a crowd of young women are waiting for the Mighty Boosh or, more precisely, one half of it. Big-boned Yorkshire lasses, jacketless and unshivering despite the autumn nip, they look ready to devour the object of their desire, the fey, androgynous Noel Fielding, if he puts a lamé boot outside the stage door. “Ooh, I do love a man in eyeliner,” sighs Natalie from Rotherham. She’ll be throwing sickies at work to see the Boosh show 13 times on their tour, plus attend the Boosh after-show parties and Boosh book signings. “My life is dead dull without them,” she says.

Nearby, mobiles primed, a pair of sixth-formers trade favourite Boosh lines. “What is your name?” asks Jessica. “I go by many names, sir,” Victoria replies portentously. A prison warden called Davena survives long days with high-security villains intoning, “It’s an outrage!” in the gravelly voice of Boosh character Tony Harrison, a being whose head is a testicle.

Apart from Fielding, what they all love most about the Boosh is that half their mates don’t get it. They see a bloke in a gorilla suit, a shaman called Naboo, silly rhymes about soup, stories involving shipwrecked men seducing coconuts “and they’re like, ‘This is bloody rubbish,’” says Jessica. “So you feel special because you do get it. You’re part of a club.”

Except the Mighty Boosh club is now more like a movement. What began as an Edinburgh fringe show starring Fielding and his partner Julian Barratt and later became an obscure BBC3 series has grown into a box-set flogging, mega-merchandising, 80-date touring Boosh inc. There was a Boosh festival last summer, now talk of a Boosh movie and Boosh in America. An impasse seems to have been reached: either the Boosh will expand globally or, like other mass comedy cults before it – Vic and Bob, Newman and Baddiel – slowly begin to deflate.

But for the moment, the fans still wait in the rain for heroes who’ve already left the building. I find the Boosh gang gathered in their hotel bar, high on post-gig adrenalin. Barratt, blokishly handsome with his ring-master moustache, if a tad paunchy these days, blends in with the crew. But Fielding is never truly “off”. All day he has been channelling A Clockwork Orange in thick black eyeliner (now smudged into panda rings) and a bowler hat, which he wears with polka-dot leggings, gold boots and a long, neon-green fur-collared PVC trenchcoat. He has, as those women outside put it, “something about him”: a carefully-wrought rock-god danger mixed with an amiable sweetness. Sexy yet approachable. Which is why, perched on a barstool, is a great slab of security called Danny.

“He stops people getting in our faces,” says Fielding. “He does massive stars like P. Diddy and Madonna and he says that considering how we’re viewed in the media as a cult phenomenon, we get much more attention in the street than, say, Girls Aloud. Danny says we’re on the same level as Russell Brand, who can’t walk from the door to the car without ten people speaking to him.”

This barometer of fame appears to fascinate and thrill Fielding. Although he complains he can’t eat dinner with his girlfriend (Dee Plume from the band Robots in Disguise) unmolested, he parties hard and publicly with paparazzi-magnets like Courtney Love and Amy Winehouse. He claims he’s tried wearing a baseball cap but fans still recognise him. Hearing this, Julian Barratt smiles wryly: “Noel is never going to dress down.”

It is clear on meeting them that their Boosh characters Vince Noir (Fielding), the narcissistic extrovert, and Howard Moon (Barratt), the serious, socially awkward jazz obsessive, are comic exaggerations of their own personalities. At the afternoon photo shoot, Fielding breaks free of the hair and make-up lady, sprays most of a can of Elnett on to his Bolan feather-cut and teases it to his satisfaction. Very Vince. “It is an art-life crossover,” says Barratt.

At 40, five years older than Fielding, Barratt exhibits the profound weariness of a man trying to balance a five-month national tour with new-fatherhood. After every Saturday night show he returns home to his 18-month-old twins, Arthur and Walter, and his partner Julia Davis (the creator-star of Nighty Night) and today he was up at 5am pushing a pram on Hampstead Heath before taking the train north to rejoin the Boosh. “I go back so the boys remember who I am. But it’s harder to leave them every time,” he says. “It is totally schizophrenic, totally opposite mental states: all this self-obsession and then them.”

About two nights a week on tour, Fielding doesn’t go to bed, parties through the night and performs the next evening having not slept at all. Barratt often retreats to his room to plough through box sets of The Wire. “It’s a bit gritty, but that is in itself an escape, because what we do is so fantastical.”

But mostly it is hard to resist the instant party provided by a large cast, crew and band. Indeed, drinking with them, it appears Fielding and Barratt are but the most famous members of a close collective of artists, musicians and old mates. Fielding’s brother Michael, who previously worked in a bowling alley, plays Naboo the shaman. “He is late every single day,” complains Noel. “He’s mad and useless, but I’m quite protective of him, quite parental.” Michael is always arguing with Bollo the gorilla, aka Fielding’s best mate, Dave Brown, a graphic artist relieved to remove his costume – “It’s so hot in there I fear I may never father children” – to design the Boosh book. One of the lighting crew worked as male nanny to Barratt’s twins and was in Michael’s class at school: “The first time I met you,” he says to Noel, “you gave me a dead arm.” “You were 9,” Fielding replies. “And you were messing with my stuff.”

This gang aren’t hangers-on but the wellspring of the Boosh’s originality and its strange, homespun, degree-show aesthetic: a character called Mr Susan is made out of chamois leathers, the Hitcher has a giant Polo Mint for an eye. When they need a tour poster they ignore the promoter’s suggestions and call in their old mate, Nige.

Fielding and Barratt met ten years ago at a comedy night in a North London pub. The former had just left Croydon Art College, the latter had dropped out of an American Studies degree at Reading to try stand-up, although he was so terrified at his first gig that he ran off stage and had to be dragged back by the compere.

While superficially different, their childhoods have a common theme: both had artistic, bohemian parents who exercised benign neglect. Fielding’s folks were only 17 when he was born: “They were just kids really. Hippies. Though more into Black Sabbath and Led Zep. There were lots of parties and crazy times. They loved dressing up. And there was a big gap between me and my brother – about nine years – so I was an only child for a long time, hanging out with them, lots of weird stuff going on.

“The great thing about my mum and dad is they let me do anything I wanted as a kid as long as I wasn’t misbehaving. I could eat and go to bed when I liked. I used to spend a lot of time drawing and painting and reading. In my own world, I guess.”

Growing up in Mitcham, South London, his father was a postmaster, while his mother now works for the Home Office. Work was merely the means to fund a good time. “When your dad is into David Bowie, how do you rebel against that? You can’t really. They come to all the gigs. They’ve been in America for the past three weeks. I’m ringing my mum really excited because we’re hanging out with Jim Sheridan, who directed In the Name of the Father, and the Edge from U2, and she said, ‘We’re hanging with Jack White,’ whom they met through a friend of mine. Trumped again!”

Barratt’s father was a Leeds art teacher, his mother an artist later turned businesswoman. “Dad was a bit more strict and academic. Mum would let me do anything I wanted, didn’t mind whether I went to school.” Through his father he became obsessed with Monty Python, went to jazz and Spike Milligan gigs, learnt about sex from his dad’s leatherbound volumes of Penthouse.

Barratt joined bands and assumed he would become a musician (he does all the Boosh’s musical arrangements); Fielding hoped to become an artist (he designed the Boosh book cover and throughout our interview sketches obsessively). Instead they threw their talents into comedy. Barratt: “It is a great means of getting your ideas over instantly.” Fielding: “Yes, it is quite punk in that way.”

Their 1998 Edinburgh Fringe show called The Mighty Boosh was named, obscurely, after a friend’s description of Michael Fielding’s huge childhood Afro: “A mighty bush.” While their double-act banter has an old-fashioned dynamic, redolent of Morecambe and Wise, the show threw in weird characters and a fantasy storyline in which they played a pair of zookeepers. They are very serious about their influences. “Magritte, Rousseau...” says Fielding. “I like Rousseau’s made-up worlds: his jungle has all the things you’d want in a jungle, even though he’d never been in one so it was an imaginary place.”

Eclectic, weird and, crucially, unprepared to compromise their aesthetic sensibilities, it was 2004 before, championed by Steve Coogan’s Baby Cow production company, their first series aired on BBC3. Through repeats and DVD sales the second series, in which the pair have left the zoo and are living above Naboo’s shop, found a bigger audience. Last year the first episode of series three had one million viewers. But perhaps the Boosh’s true breakthrough into mainstream came in June when George Bush visited Belfast and a child presented him with a plant labelled “The Mighty Bush”. Assuming it was a tribute to his greatness, the president proudly displayed it for the cameras, while the rest of Britain tittered.

A Boosh audience these days is quite a mix. In Sheffield the front row is rammed with teenage indie girls, heavy on the eyeliner, who fancy Fielding. But there are children, too: my own sons can recite whole “crimps” (the Boosh’s silly, very English version of rap) word for word. And there are older, respectable types who, when I interview them, all apologise for having such boring jobs. They’re accountants, IT workers, human resources officers and civil servants. But probe deeper and you find ten years ago they excelled at art A level or played in a band, and now puzzle how their lives turned out so square. For them, the Boosh embody their former dreams. And their DIY comedy, shambolic air, the slightly crap costumes, the melding of fantasy with the everyday, feels like something they could still knock up at home.

Indeed, many fans come to gigs in costume. At the Mighty Boosh Festival 15,000 people came dressed up to watch bands and absurdity in a Kent field. And in Sheffield I meet a father-and-son combo dressed as Howard Moon and Bob Fossil – general manager of the zoo – plus a gang of thirty-something parents elaborately attired as Crack Fox, Spirit of Jazz, a granny called Nanageddon, and Amy Housemouse. “I love the Boosh because it’s total escapism,” says Laura Hargreaves, an employment manager dressed as an Electro Fairy. “It’s not all perfect and people these days worry too much that things aren’t perfect. It’s just pure fun.”

But how to retain that appealingly amateur art-school quality now that the Boosh is a mega comedy brand? Noel Fielding is adamant that they haven’t grown cynical, that The Mighty Book of Boosh was a long-term project, not a money-spinner chucked out for Christmas: “There is a lot of heart in what we do,” he says. Barratt adds: “It’s been hard this year to do everything we’ve wanted, to a standard we’re proud of... Which is why we’re worn to shreds.”

Comedy is most powerful in intimate spaces, but the Boosh show, with its huge set, requires major venues. “We’ve lost money every day on the tour,” says Fielding. “The crew and the props and what it costs to take them on the road – it’s ridiculous. Small gigs would lose millions of pounds.”

The live show is a kind of Mighty Boosh panto, with old favourites – Bob Fossil, Bollo, Tony Harrison, etc – coming on to cheers of recognition. But it lacks the escapism to the perfectly conceived world of the TV show. They have told the BBC they don’t want a fourth series: they want a movie. They would also, as with Little Britain USA, like a crack at the States, where they run on BBC America. Clearly the Boosh needs to keep evolving or it will die.

Already other artists are telling Fielding and Barratt to make their money now: “They say this is our time, which is quite frightening.” I recall Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer, who dominated the Nineties with Big Night Out and Shooting Stars. “Yes, they were massive,” says Fielding. “A number one record...” And now Reeves presents Brainiac. “If you have longer-term goals, it’s not scary,” says Barratt. “To me, I’m heading somewhere else – to direct, make films, write stuff – and at the moment it’s all gone mental. I’m sort of enjoying this as an outsider. It was Noel who had this desire to reach more people.”

Indeed, the old cliché that comedy is the new rock’n’roll is closest to being realised in Noel Fielding. Watching him perform the thrash metal numbers in the Boosh live show, he is half ironic comic performer, half frustrated rock god. His heroes weren’t comics but androgynous musicians: Jagger, Bowie, Syd Barrett. (Although he liked Peter Cook’s style and looks.)

“I like clothes and make-up, I like the transformation,” he says. Does it puzzle him that women find this so sexually attractive? “I was reading a book the other day about the New York Dolls and David Johansen was saying that none of them were gay or even bisexual, and that when they started dressing in stilettos and leather pants, women got it straight away with no explanation. But a lot of men had problems. It’s one of those strange things. A man will go, ‘You f***ing queer.’ And you just think, ‘Well, your girlfriend fancies me.’”

The Boosh stopped signing autographs outside stage doors when it started taking two hours a night. At recent book signings up to 1,500 people have shown up, some sleeping overnight in the queue. And on this tour, the Boosh took control of the after-show parties, once run as money-spinners by the promoters, and now show up in person to do DJ slots. I ask if they like to meet their fans, and they laugh nervously.

Fielding: “We have to be behind a fence.”

Barratt: “They try to rip your clothes off your body.”

Fielding: “The other day my girlfriend gave me this ring. And, doing the rock numbers at the end, I held out my hands and the crowd just ripped it off.”

Barratt: “I see it as a thing which is going to go away. A moment when people are really excited about you. And it can’t last.”

He recalls a man in York grabbing him for a photo, saying, “I’d love to be you, it must be so amazing.” And Barratt says he thought, “Yes, it is. But all the while I was trying to duck into this doorway to avoid the next person.” He’s trying to enjoy the Boosh’s moment, knows it will pass, but all the same?

In the hotel bar, a young woman fan has dodged past Danny and comes brazenly over to Fielding. Head cocked attentively like a glossy bird, he chats, signs various items, submits to photos, speaks to her mate on her phone. The rest of the Boosh crew eye her steelily. They know how it will end. “You have five minutes then you go,” hisses one. “I feel really stupid now,” says the girl. It is hard not to squirm at the awful obeisance of fandom. But still she milks the encounter, demands Fielding come outside to meet her friend. When he demurs she is outraged, and Danny intercedes. Fielding returns to his seat slightly unsettled. “What more does she want?” he mutters, reaching for his wine glass. “A skin sample?”

[aspiestvmusings]

Zoey & Max “American Pie” moments, Pt 4

Show: Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist

Episode: 1x12 “Zoey’s Extraordinary Dad” (S1 Finale)

All the little moments, where Max is there for Zoey, throughout the day (song). Always. There, by her side. There, in the background... ready to help. A shoulder to lean on. Keeping an eye on her...to make sure she’s OK. Her support system. Her rock.