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February
Hello there, Marlow here.
Never thought that I would ever be in a position to say how pleasant it is to be chained to a radiator in a damp cellar adjacent to a third rate tribute band's rehearsal studio. But if you’ve been following the diary for the last month you will probably be as relieved for me as I am for myself. Those boys is wierd.
So, hello again, hope you all had a
better month than I did and with no further fecking about or
anything it’s time for this months’
‘Ask Marlow’ First caller step right
up, come on down, put yer left leg in, shake it all a fucking
bout, what’s yer problem?
Dear Marlow
"Regarding your findings on Neil’s
lyrics a couple of months ago, don’t you think the signs
were there as far back as “2112“? A
naked man on the cover, and the reference to the all male
‘pissing’ orgy in the first chorus (Wee, Arthur Preece,
on the ten pals of C. Rinks)"
DB. Sheffield
Marlow says - You sick bastard, leave me your
email address and we can be pen pals.
Dear Marlow
"AFTK or ATWAS?"
LK. Bolton
Marlow says - Get a life, nonce.
Dear Marlow
"The blacksmith and the artist, reflect it in their art,
They forge their creativity, closer to the heart."
NP. Toronto
Marlow says - I generally feel that it is
extremely important for every craftsman to be aware of his
responsibilities within his trade, and we as people must be aware
of each craftsman’s capabilities and limitations. Take for
instance, the case ‘blacksmiths and artists.’ It would
be extremely pointless sending your horse to an artist to be
re-shod, as the artist would probably just paint some surreal
emblem on the bottom of its foot leaving the horse with no proper
foot protection and it would just go out and fall over, or do
whatever horses do when they don’t have any shoes on. (Come
to think of it, what did horses do before blacksmiths were
invented? Was there some equine-type ‘Jonathan James’
store in wherever it was horses hung about, or were horses
invented after blacksmiths or even by them as a way of keeping
the work coming in?) Likewise if you wanted a shit painting of
some sunflowers you wouldn’t ask a Blacksmith as he would
just look at you gone out, bang his hammer a bit, shout, sweat
like fuck and go for another pint. Hope this answers your
question.
Dear Marlow
"Are you fucking mad?"
FL. Cheshire
Marlow says - A little agitated at times, but
then so would you be in my position.
Right that’s the world problemless for another month, back to some more of my hilarious adventures with the Torontonian trio.
In the shopping malls
Despite Neil being out of it for so much of the
time he was still capable of delivering some classics at the
times when he wasn’t. You already know about his
considerable penchant for taking the piss but here’s a
conversation that took place after we got back from Rio, we had
just flown into Manchester and nipped into the Trafford Shopping
Centre to get some stage gear for the British leg of the tour.
Here’s what happened.
GEDDY - “I need to go to Marks and Spencers and get some
jeans, really tight ones that make my knob stick out and
that”
ALEX - “I want to go to Top Man and get some t-shirts then
cut the sleeves off like you did on the Rio video, I think that
looks dead good me. Where do you want to go Neil.”
NEIL - “A boy alone, so far from home.”
GEDDY - “For fucks sake Neil, can’t you lay off it for
a day while we get something done?!”
NEIL - “No, look, over there, that young Asian boy appears
to have been separated from his parents and is obviously in some
distress.”
ALEX - “Shall we take him to the lost counter?”
GEDDY - “No let’s just fuck off.”
Anyway, let me tell you how I came to write the lyrics for Tom
Sawyer.
Reeling by on celluloid
It was the spring of ‘81 and we had just flown into Quebec
to record Moving Pictures. Having cut the
pre-album Switzerland jaunt short cos Alex had
got measles, Neil had left with only 75% of the
lyrics done. Geddy had stashed Neil’s
drugs in the back of his rented Morris Minor (Geddy
hated flash cars, found it all a bit effeminate) until Neil
had finished writing.
Claudia Schiffer was in town on a skimpy
knickers promo or something and on this particular day Geddy
had arranged to take her to Burger King and then down to the
Odeon to watch the new remake of Flipper. He had spent the entire
morning bragging about how he was going to sit at the back, tit
her up and pull the ‘knob through the hole in the bottom of
the popcorn carton’ stunt on her. Anyway at about half past
one he left the studio, leaving me doing the keyboard parts
(which was now commonplace after my rescue job on Xanadu)
and Neil locked in the Kitchen writing the
lyrics. Everything had gone surprisingly according to plan all
day when at six o'clock, just as we were ready to lay down the
vocal track, in walked Geddy with a face like
thunder.
Apparently Schiffer had turned up with what Geddy
described as ‘a wanker of a magician, who looked like Neil
Diamond after contracting anorexia and falling into a
coma under a sun bed for a month’ and he’d spent the
entire afternoon feeling like a right twat. To make matters worse
when they got to the pictures he had forgotten Copperfield
was there, done the ‘knob through the popcorn carton’
routine anyway
and accidentally knocked one out during the part where the
Dolphin nearly dies. I remember him shaking his head and saying,
“while everyone in the cinema was crying their fucking eyes
out, I was shaking like a ‘shitting’ dog and screaming
‘av it bitch’ at the top of me voice.”
Could things get any worse? Of course they fucking could. Geddy
put his cans on (headphones to you non musos) and went into to
the kitchen to collect the lyrics. Only to be confronted with the
horrifying sight of Neil lying flat out on the
floor with his eyes doing something that ordinarily eyes
wouldn’t do, and calmly mumbling “Libby um da da”
repeatedly to himself. He had, apparently, hidden a full sheet of
acid tabs in his notepad, allowed temptation to get the better of
him and was now on first name terms with every dust particle in
the room.
Worse still was the fact that all that was written on his
urine-drenched notepad (still clenched in his left hand) in an
almost illegible scrawl was the following;
‘Verse
one’
Though his mind is not for rent
His mam and dad live in a tent
I’d like to climb a big white fence
Wham bars only cost six pence
Delivered
Having the presence of mind (despite the mood he was already in)
to realise that any form of violence would be futile, as Neil
probably wouldn’t feel anything for at least three days, Geddy
calmly called me in and explained, “We’ll have to do
it”
So there we were, me and Ged up all night with a
copy of ‘Huckleberry Finn’ and a ‘Collins Pocket
Rhyming Dictionary For The Under Nines’ painstakingly
putting together the track you all know and love. That’s why
it doesn’t make much sense. By the way it was Geddys’
idea to scream “The River” at the end of the first
verse, I thought it sounded fucking stupid. Most of the rest was
me. It was his idea to blame it on Pye Dubois,
though, so fair play.
Twenty four hours later, with Neil seemingly
back on planet earth and Geddy, with what he later described as
‘one of the worst days of my life’ firmly behind him,
decided (with Tom Sawyer finally completed) to
celebrate the fact that things could never possibly be that bad
again by taking us all down to Burger King. Happy ending?
Don’t be fucking stupid. Here’s what happened.
SPOTTY LITTLE BASTARD IN A STUPID HAT
WHO I WOULD NOT HAVE LET WITHIN SHOUTING DISTANCE OF MY FOOD HAD
IT NOT BEEN PRE PACKED - “Can I take your order
please?”
GEDDY - “Bacon double Swiss, two fries, and a coke please.
I’ll go super size and don’t skimp on the chips,
spotbast.”
ALEX - “I’ll have a junior cheeseburger meal please and
can I have Princess Leia please, I only need her for the
set.”
SPOTTY - “I’m sorry sir, Star Wars finished on Friday,
it’s Flintstones this month.”
ALEX - “Geddy, I want to go to McDonalds…”
GEDDY - “Just any kids meal then. Any chance of an ounce of
fucking sense from you, Mr Peart?”
NEIL - “Whopper, fries and an orange Fanta.”
GEDDY - “Fuck me, you’ve recovered quick.”
NEIL - “No actually it’s a new song I’m working on
about the evils of the junk food generation, that’s the
chorus:
Whopper fries and an orange Fanta
You can sir, but I don’t plan to
Kentucky, McDonalds and Burger King
Keep them all, cos it ain’t my thing”
ALEX - “It’s not very good, is it Geddy”
GEDDY - “Why are we here, because we’re here,
let’s fuck off, let’s fuck ooooff”
Next month, a day at the races, a
brush with the mafia and how ‘Grace Under Pressure’
came to be so called.
Also before I go, if it’s not too much trouble could someone
organise a “FREE MARLOW” campaign? Perhaps sort some
T-Shirts out and put pressure on the ponces by whichever means
you have available, preferably violence.
But shouting at them is fine if you don’t have the bottle.
Thanks.
Speak to you soon
Marlow
