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THE WORLD IS AT YOUR COMMAND

08 June 2005

You should consider yourselves lucky to still get your twi-weekly update of Captain August. Oh yes. I have plenty of time for the creation of new episodes, sitting in my caravan with nothing to do except reading that wonderful book that one Frank Herbert remembered to enrich the world with before he left off; Dune. I'll talk about that another time. Resuming, the actual Writing of the Rant and updating the website is a matter different entirely! Actually it's not so bad, I get plenty of time to do personal things so updating August is a walk in the park. It's just, I don't have Dreamweaver here, see? (Yes I use Dreamweaver, sue me you ratched technocrats!!) So it's difficult for me to use all the fancy boldings and italicses that I normally would use. So you'll have to settle for a might flatter text than you're used to for the next couple o' months. Which isn't something I gladly do because everything advancing the legibility of said body of proze I approach with extreme prejudice. I must have some defence against those horrid 'casual' readers. Real text should be a bit painful to read.

On to the order of the day: I enjoyed a stormy and quaint pair of days last weekend, when a cherub of a little town nearby called Burscheid decided to hold a 'strassenfest', a streetfestival. Now I'm not the one to go out to visit the first fleamarket and attached carnival, but seeing how I had nothing else to do I went anyway. The real reason I went was that I had seen on a poster a few days earlier that there would be a concert of a German Beatles coverband. Now because I duly enjoy listening to The Beatles and I am of the opinion that they make the only songs about love that are tolerable to listen to no matter how mushy they get, I decided that nothing was going to stop me from seeing the concert. Except a little rain.

It did rain a little but after an amount of dillydallying I brought up the nerve to grab that umbrella and venture out into the pathetic wheeze of arbitrary raindroplets that was going on. When I got to Burscheid I worked my way through the obnoxious display of brightly airbrushed carnivaltrailers where brainmute people were shouting and screaming for little children to give them their money in exchange for an impossible fling at some stinky plush effigy. Apologies for my vitriolic words but as you notice I don't very much like that sort of entertainment. My orbit around this stylewise bankrupt circus did however bring me to the stage of the promised concert at one point.

An insultingly small, but obviously enthusiastic crowd had gathered before the stage as the four members of the band took to it. And lo, they even resembled their Beatles counterparts! As uninterested and uninteresting people unapologetically meandered passed the stage in search of a spark of light in their obviously boring lives, the band began to play. They kicked off with a rocking rendition of 'Back in the USSR', wich would set the tone for an hour filled with the more rocking poppy songs of the Fab Four, in spite of the heavier, more avant-garde work which I take a liking to. So no 'A day in the life' or 'I am the walrus', but truthful versions of 'She loves you yeah yeah yeah' and 'A hard day's night'.

Even though their swinging performance didn't draw any extra people to the show, I thoroughly enjoyed it. There was a charm to which the young German leadsinger pushed the limits of his succesful mimicry of John Lennon's harsh British accent, whilst here and there still hinting of his native tongue through a particular interpretation of some vocal extremes. All in all making for a distinct performance, one which could herald a career in, if not singing, then at least covering to great success.

One thing I found more disturbing than the lack of audience was the reluctance of a nearby d?ner-vendor to quiet his loud cd-music while the concert was playing. With an attitude that could be considered provoking they insisted on blurting out their gibberish Turkish wailing. I have nothing against gibberish Turkish wailing-music, unless it's meant as a defiance of the live-performance of Western music. Or if it's a disruptive killjoy out of sheer ignorance and uncaring of what goes on in your surroundings. Take your pick at how you want my anger, silly d?ner-vendor.

All the while raising my cup to that charming little coverband, of course. Cheers from the blue anorak kid.

Roderick.