he cruises nightly in Lou
Reizner's Rolls Royce Silver Cloud with smoked windows so he can see OUT at YOU
but YOU can't see IN at him - ALTHOUGH if you happen to be eighteen years of
age, leggy, stylishly dressed, wearing spike heels and flaming red glossy
lipstick, and oh I almost forgot to mention FEMALE, and what's most important
and absolutely essential HAVE BLONDE HAIR GROWING OUT OF YOUR HEAD, Rod will be
more than happy to take you home with him and let his little dogie git along,
after which he will serenade you with "You're in My Heart," about
what a stuck-up wickdip his ex-girlfriend Britt Ekland is ...
the sales of Foolish Behavior were below Warner
Brothers expectations. The remainder of Rod's life will find him on a barstool
in a shabby section of London, soaking up cheap hootch and telling the same stories
about his days of fame and glory over and over again to the other barflies who
all agree he is the most annoying wino they have ever met. This will continue
for decades, till one night a drunken sailor on leave will stab him in the ribs
fourteen times after telling him to shut up about Britt (or ''Whatever her
bloody name was") for five straight hours. He will be deposited in the
city morgue, an "Anonymous" cadaver, and buried in an unmarked grave.
We know this tale has
not been a pleasant one, but present it in the hopes that readers considering
careers in the music industry, at least those who nurse dreams of becoming rock
stars, will mark its tragedy and in honest pragmatism reconsider their options,
perhaps going into accounting instead. Bookkeeping for record companies, on the
other hand, should not be thought at all perilous as career decisions go, and indeed
could very likely prove far more lucrative than previously suspected.
Thanks! Didn't realize that Bangs had co-written a Rod bio...looks like fun.
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