RIP VAN NORBERT
Posted by
Bill Kent
on Mar 22, 2007
- This post is archived and may no longer be relevant
A peculiar glitch in the laptop of Norbert Fragg, that
one-to-five-percent musicking maestro, has finally been corrected, and
what a difference two little keystrokes makes! Delusions to the
contrary, Norbert has never stated, much less prated, that he no longer
wishes to be a TOURING musician. What he has been saying, all along, is
that he has given up his life as a BORING musician!
Let us rejoice! The Rock God has now refused to go shopping for his own groceries. He further disdains public transport and will no longer do his own laundry, though, it must be admitted, that such experience did give rise to those sprightly Thing Dismal ditties, The Night Wash and Pre-Soak Blues. A shadowy individual with a Fraggly silhouette has been glimpsed in a tailor’s shop being measured for pratty pants and a gold lame cape.
Web sites are buzzing about the up-coming Thing Dismal non-union tour, in which fans will hear zesty medleys of ancient tunes that arouse fading memories of mispent youth, see him shred in a well-lit portion of the stage and, for those who purchase Special Golden Circle 600 Pound Gorilla Tickets, let them snap his picture!
No. Sorry. It’s all a dream. Our Norbert is still Norbert, and here are expurgated ex-urps from his diary to prove it:
“An answer to the question of touring demands several levels of complexity, pertaining to the small picture, the intermediate picture, the big picture; for those with a shortage of hair, the wig picture and for those with an excess of greed, the pig picture. The pig picture is that a record company will give an advance that is actually a retreat, and require the band to tour, which means go nowhere, except unacceptable accommodations located far from Starbucks and only tangentially conducive to the hunting, tracking, acquisition, display and consumption of books, during which myself, as the Man, Da Bomb, The Boss Who Need Not Floss, is typically subject to insufferable humiliations of numerous sizes and threatening intents, such as that by by a bearded individual wearing a stained and faded Thing Dismal T-shirt who put a scrap of paper on my table that read, ‘The only good work you ever did was with the B-52s and nobody cares what the frequency is, Kenneth.’
“And then, to add injury to insult, in 1987 while on a tour bus departing from the aptly named Mount Misery Motel, en route to a gig at a nightclub allegedly made famous in a Sopranos television episode, I was suddenly asked by each of three professional musicians if I had 'cut the cheese.’ This immediately rendered all considerations of performance inconsiderate, if not impossible, because the imported Cheshire wedge in question had, in fact, been carefully sliced previously by a licensed professional cheese splitter summoned by myself for that express purpose, whose services were not paid by the record company, requiring an unanticipated out-of-pocket diminishment of the group’s per diem.”
A new day is yawning for Fraggophiles. We who loved him live, must retire to our libraries, befriend our floor and sleep, perchance to dream of the newly incarnated Rip Van Norbert Fragg: SNORING musician.
Let us rejoice! The Rock God has now refused to go shopping for his own groceries. He further disdains public transport and will no longer do his own laundry, though, it must be admitted, that such experience did give rise to those sprightly Thing Dismal ditties, The Night Wash and Pre-Soak Blues. A shadowy individual with a Fraggly silhouette has been glimpsed in a tailor’s shop being measured for pratty pants and a gold lame cape.
Web sites are buzzing about the up-coming Thing Dismal non-union tour, in which fans will hear zesty medleys of ancient tunes that arouse fading memories of mispent youth, see him shred in a well-lit portion of the stage and, for those who purchase Special Golden Circle 600 Pound Gorilla Tickets, let them snap his picture!
No. Sorry. It’s all a dream. Our Norbert is still Norbert, and here are expurgated ex-urps from his diary to prove it:
“An answer to the question of touring demands several levels of complexity, pertaining to the small picture, the intermediate picture, the big picture; for those with a shortage of hair, the wig picture and for those with an excess of greed, the pig picture. The pig picture is that a record company will give an advance that is actually a retreat, and require the band to tour, which means go nowhere, except unacceptable accommodations located far from Starbucks and only tangentially conducive to the hunting, tracking, acquisition, display and consumption of books, during which myself, as the Man, Da Bomb, The Boss Who Need Not Floss, is typically subject to insufferable humiliations of numerous sizes and threatening intents, such as that by by a bearded individual wearing a stained and faded Thing Dismal T-shirt who put a scrap of paper on my table that read, ‘The only good work you ever did was with the B-52s and nobody cares what the frequency is, Kenneth.’
“And then, to add injury to insult, in 1987 while on a tour bus departing from the aptly named Mount Misery Motel, en route to a gig at a nightclub allegedly made famous in a Sopranos television episode, I was suddenly asked by each of three professional musicians if I had 'cut the cheese.’ This immediately rendered all considerations of performance inconsiderate, if not impossible, because the imported Cheshire wedge in question had, in fact, been carefully sliced previously by a licensed professional cheese splitter summoned by myself for that express purpose, whose services were not paid by the record company, requiring an unanticipated out-of-pocket diminishment of the group’s per diem.”
A new day is yawning for Fraggophiles. We who loved him live, must retire to our libraries, befriend our floor and sleep, perchance to dream of the newly incarnated Rip Van Norbert Fragg: SNORING musician.
