Once upon a world with no internet, was a time when any story could be told with the use of a simple phrase like “My friend’s neighbour…”, or “My cousin’s husband’s friend…”, or “My second cousin’s sister-in-law…” or any miscellaneous bystander as identifiable as someone in witness protection.
These narratives were always infused with just a hint of personal embellishment from each of it’s raconteurs until they reached mythical proportions around the country, or even the world. And anyone attempting to question a single detail was met with personal contempt in defense of their acquaintance’s credibility. After all, who are you to insinuate that my nephew’s friend’s babysitter might be lying?
There was never any place for common sense once a tall tale had been told. The “truth” was undisputable. Here are some of the finest fabrications ever to permeate musical pop culture:
Rod Stewart’s “Protein” shakes: My neighbour’s nanny’s sister worked as a nurse in the emergency room of Our Lady of Bullshit hospital on the night they performed the procedure of pumping something like 40 ounces of sperm from Rod’s stomach. This apparently after blowing a bunch of sailors 40 years ago at a gay bar in San Diego leaving him with a gut-full of “seamen’s” semen. (Oh, the comedy!) Rod, of course, denied swallowing even a single bluejacket. My favourite quote is from a 2009 interview with Katie Couric in which Rod states “I’m as heterosexual as they come, but… wasn’t everyone at least a little bit gay in the ‘70s?”. Umm… nothing further, your honour.
Lady Gaga has a penis: Sometime around 2008, some comment Gaga made about androgyny led to increased speculation about her being “both man and woman”. This went as far as Gaga sarcastically referring to herself as a “hermaphrodite” which the journalistic tabloid elite quoted straight. When referenced in a 2009 radio interview in Australia, Lady G admirably replied “It’s too low-brow for me to even discuss,” but later responded to others saying “I’m not offended, but my vagina might be a little.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love Lady Gaga.
Phil Collins hates Jews: While performing with Genesis in the early 80s, Phil apparently asks any Jews in the audience to get out. Not right at the beginning of course. Only after they had paid for their tickets and watched for a bit (He’s not a monster!). A million people knew someone who was there, but it was never the guy inevitably telling the story. Eventually, some journalist reaches out for comment via his agent, whose name was something like Yitzik Schwartz, or his manager, Esther Garfinkel, or the group’s publicist, Nachum Shlitzenbaum, all of whom were mysteriously on a bathroom break at the time. When finally brought to his attention, a legitimately surprised Collins stated, “I would never say that about people of any religion or colour”. But his accusers would not be moved. “Who are you gonna believe? Phil Collins, or my nanny’s mother’s hairdresser?” Their steadfast argument being “You think he’s going to admit it?” Who? You mean the rock star you claim made this outrageous announcement to a stadium-full of 20,000 people? Aw, you got me. Touché.
‘Mama’ Cass died choking on a sandwich: Okay, she was no Twiggy, but that’s just mean. In fact, her death was a result of a lifestyle somewhat counter-intuitive to her state of obesity as it was determined that the strains of dieting were what put the fatal pressure on her weakening heart. It didn’t help that she was found with an uneaten sandwich at her bedside, which actually ironically indicates that she may have died hungry.
Paul is dead: Legend has it that Paul McCartney died in November 1966 when the Beatles were (according to John Lennon) “bigger than Jesus”. Understandably, the British government fearing a riot, or onslaught of teenie bopper suicides, got the secret service involved. Their job was to conceal the tragedy and replace him with a look-alike/sound-alike that is the Paul McCartney we all know today. Over the next four years, Beatles albums were brimming with clues that were so obvious to anyone who read between the lines while they experimented with hallucinogenic drugs and played records backwards. Now that I think of it, this one might be true.
Robert Johnson’s “crossroads” deal with the devil: I have read so much about this most influential of Delta blues legends and all I really know are varying versions of this one story: 19 year-old Rob is drinking in a Mississippi Juke Joint when the blues musicians on stage take a break. Johnson picks up one of their guitars and allegedly proceeds to play so badly that they didn’t just ask him to stop, but actually asked him to LEAVE the bar! Wow. And I thought getting heckled was harsh. Johnson leaves and is not seen or heard from by anyone for an entire year. Then one night, he returns with his own guitar (which somehow included a 7th string), steps on stage, and begins wailing so masterfully that it is said to have sounded like 3 guitars playing various parts at once. It was suddenly obvious to everyone what had happened: He left that night and headed to the crossroads where as everyone knows, you sit with your guitar until around midnight and a large black man arrives (I am not making this up), takes it from you, tunes it, and hands it back to you. From that point forward, you have magical musical powers and the big black devil owns your soul (I was sure Satan was white, but it’s not my story). Oh sure, there are those that surmise he simply went away, took lessons, and practiced tirelessly for an entire year, but who’s gonna believe THAT story?
And so my friends, the moral of the story is simple. If something about it stinks, it’s probably a load of crap. Stay tuned for part II.
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