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.
All the king's men. That's a royal court that could include every seasoned rocker whose creative spark was first lit by the sight and sound of Elvis Presley. They started out wanting to be him, and spent their lives dying to meet him. Most artists had to wait till they were big league players before even contemplating a face-to-face with Elvis. And even then it wasn't easy to enter his well-guarded world. But one late night in 1976, a young musician on the cusp of superstardom had the chutzpah to drop by Elvis's Graceland mansion, and pay The King a personal visit.
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.