Mike check one two, one two, can you hear me through this thing!? Mike check one two, you can!? Okay.
Bob always sung it the way I liked to hear it – gracefully, evenly - such was his generous groove you could hear angels speak the love of God in your ear, and it's hard to separate his voice from what he was singing about, needless to say grown-up on his songs, cajoled and provoked by his songs, his songs always reminding me just how well I know theses songs.
Hence; “This generation. Rules the nation. With version.” The first ever time virgin vibe heard the first seven words to the song, was like, a lot like courtship preceding an engagement; of which a life’s worth of temperament had already been wooed by, and such is the apprehension, with regards to the ins and outs of the arrangement of the song, hearing the words, shouted with that rebel with a’ cause incitement, come ‘this generation’ broods were already thinking about writing a song about the love of life, ‘81’ Afro-clutches were already trying to hold onto an innocence lost, and that was the allure of these ever-so provocative songs, those were the songs everybody sung, everybody seemed to know the words to those songs, and hearing those seven words for the first time, this prelude complete with life-affirming drum roll, it was always about the song, this one song sung for the one-of-a-kind reason; of which became my own.
Truth is; these are the songs you gotta’ feel touches sorrow, every singer of these songs feels some kind of perfected mourning, thus the only thing that mike check one-two wants to do is to be heard, when offensives go some way to articulate ‘fuck-it’ undertones, when I’ll be damned (so says the fed-up conscience) if the echo of my soulful investigation is heard but only once, not when the singer of that song wants the echo to ring out always, and because all grown-up the singer has not forgotten about his juvenile code of silence, when there are no lamas terms to articulate the sensation when singing song, when there is only complication, and vague, and distant provoking the unsure motives that gravitates forty years to all grown-up, and not forgotten the words to the song. Thus singing out, sincerely accentuating every tone with poetic struggle, making it lyrical, that generation’s song is now, and will always be now an admiration humming reluctant tribute, that song will always echo an erring devotion, and God was never with that, divinity never was with the song investigating the articulation of a beautifully, personified affliction, and for singers and miming alike words to the devotion not ever nice reading, no matter how well you sung it or could sing, not when conscience has song race-ing fiction whilst melodic idioms comprehend principal truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me anybody…but him.
Apparently it starts there, and only now will reminisce take time to look at where the past came from, and made today what it is, and what tomorrow might be, in these scarce wildest dreams finally see out there, somewhere amongst the crowded function trying to aspire to a purpose, or not, born somewhere from ancestry womb, this product of The Big Smoke when nappy head rode Chopper heights, and now lows are under the illusion of overdrafts, when quenching a thirst was sucking on tap-water privilege and rank was stuck in the government line, when weekly handout’s subsidised suggestive prophecies and foresight's, when the living room was Bonanza’ and No Problem’, and Greensleeves vinyl’s were always at odds with framed psalms, especially on a Sunday afternoon, from half a’ penny to the pound of which no longer folds, the nappy roots, the TCB and the Afro combs, for all intent and purposes the revolutionary swag up-until this day still articulating a Milo’ soul, and never, not never forgetting the radio analogue announcing verse and rhyme reconciling how sweet the sound, this godforsaken song of which it clearly takes a lifetime to perfect. And it plays out; the need for a better way to sing it, the need for a better way to sing song other than those same songs and the same turn over narrative, other than all these things in this one riling song.
Mike check one two, one two, are they ready to hear me through this thing!? Mike check one two, they are!? Okay.