Beatles, For Sale...Abbey Road is Up For Grabs.

The Future's Uncertain for the most culturally identifiable studio in the world...

Thursday 18th February 2010

Now, to Borderline Reflections and The Savage Death of History; perhaps the death of learned-ship, or memory, or culture – and perhaps a barefoot walk, across a time that’s now redundant in these nullified and negligible pragmatisms, mighty.

Yet, perhaps, this is a diatribe - on loss, and what’s important, as The Cynics come to pound upon the romance of my door that stands in wavering and oaken-stead to break the floods of Foolery, and happenstance and ignorance repel the need for knowledge.

For They Took His Heart (The Scots, that is), in 1329, and then they carried it, in bloody pride, to meet the swords of Infidels; they sawed his ribs like butchers, but they did this deed in reverence, and as The Bruce was bleeding, still, he bore the wings of sanctity .  For Heaven’s sake and saintliness, the heart was kept aloft upon the Spanish fields of misery, where boys were turned to blood and bones; and if you’re all still with me, I’ll commit this point to relevance – as relevant as hearts can be when chopped up for the taking.

It may not have left your bedside, or at least, escaped your notice, that The Studios at Abbey Road will Reach The Highest Bidder when the gavel (or the Hammer) falls, and money comes a-courting, and a piece of what is truly ours will take its place in History (that thing of which I spoke of first, and feature as important).  Yet through all our many years together, history has told us that as far as we may learn from it, The Future is more up-to-date, and furthermore, the things we do today are what will shape us.

Yes, they gored each other, long ago, but that was what was needed.  Lest we gore each other now, it seems, we should Remember Music.  Let us not forsake this Holy Heart of Britain in the making. 

I envisage a museum, or a tower to our losses.

In this temple, purpose-built, would stand resplendent and encased in glass the scrolls to mourn the fallen and the ones who stand disabled  – those who battled with the Now Acute Inevitable Enemy.
They held their hearts aloft, though they were bloodied to the Ventricle, and took a stand to countermand the dictates of the diocese; in doing so, they built a house that holds the hearts of thousands.  From across the land, the peasantry and principles took notice, and accepted there was something more than Generation Given.  That, which even now, may wake this Generation Lost In Flatscreen.

The one that as we speak is busy pulsing at the jugular, and pumping on the dumb-bells of Blind Sacrilege and Bentment – this new, lizard-bodied crawler-age where everything is plasticated, venerated wet-wipe worship, mopping up the mildew of ability to think and feel in manners not attributed to passers-by, and peoples gone from present-hood and textbook – that which may contain some sweet and lost commitment to that Auld and Hardshipped Labour that is risk and slight endeavour – not the soulful view of Frigates on the Highways of Napoleonic waters, yes, but just the simple task of taking out the brain for viewing; just to taste the morning air that burns with bright and virgin promise. 

Yes, to kiss that night that sparkles with becoming and belonging, so believing that this fight is still a critical crusade...

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