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When the name of your band conjures up images of either (1) the human arse, (2) a vaudeville star named Brice, (3) a protagonist from an 18th century erotic novel by John Cleland, or (4) a character from a recurring 'Playboy' comic strip, you might have a bit of a problem being taken seriously. I'm referring to a mostly forgotten early '70s band named Fanny. The thing is, they were taken seriously -- at least for a while. They signed a major record deal, scored two top 40 hits, appeared on TV variety shows, and toured the U.S. with the big arena acts of the day -- before fading into footnotes. David Bowie once said, "Revivify Fanny. And I will feel that my work is done." So, Mr. Bowie, here's my contribution.
Why have so many British artists had a fascination with Hitler, with Nazi fashion and, in some cases, with fascist philosophy? In this two-part article I’ll attempt to provide some insight -- hopefully, without appearing to excuse, justify or make light of truly bad behavior. We'll begin with the Nazi uniform itself - one of the Third Reich's greatest works of propaganda.
Should I trash my entire collection of David Bowie recordings because I abhor the fascist comments he made over 30 years ago? In part 2 of an article examining British rock stars' fascination with Nazi imagery, we'll take a look at three English superstars who've have made some mighty disturbing comments over the years.
Geez, you write a song to honor The Lord, and you end up getting sued! That's some crazy karma. In what is without doubt the most high-profile copyright infringement suit in music, a U.S. District Court once ordered George Harrison to pay more than $1,599,987 to music publisher Bright tunes for "subconsciously" plagiarizing The Chiffon's "He's Fo Fine" when writing his 1971 mega-hit "My Sweet Lord."
Snow came down like course sea salt on a big ugly Tupperware bowl of pale popcorn. It was January 1977, the coldest month in Pittsburgh history. I was a pint-size high school senior living in a small town 40 miles east of the steel city, serving my time and awaiting the day in late May when I would "commence." I was, in the words of Paul Simon's "My Little Town," savin' my money, dreamin' of glory, twitchin' like a finger on a trigger of a gun. I look back on the stay-at-home snow days of that brutal January - sheltered, sans-siblings, in the bedroom of our four-room apartment - as one of the most beautifully sad, soul-expanding periods of my life. With no actual school work, I was free to feed my psyche with all kinds creative matter. I was free to ponder the meaning of life -- to dissect the mysterious beast of High School Land.
