ARTICLE ABOUT Thin Lizzy from New Musical Express, October 18, 1975

The style of this interview is, in my opinion, kind of strange. But we all love a dose of Mr. Lynott, one of the greatest rock`n`roll lyricists and composers ever. A bonus of doing the interview like this, in parts written out in a phonetic spelling, is that you can hear the great man speaking inside your mind. His music lives on for the world to enjoy even if he has been gone for over 30 years now. Now enjoy this article from way back.


I take it serious wharrado, know wharramean?

There was Thin Lizzy. They were in Germany. With them was Chris Salewicz. The rest you know.

Is it odd – or merely the ultimate surrealism of this efficient economic miracle – that members of a certain Very `Eavy english Band (who play a quite passable “All Or Nothing”) can be found backstage in the bicycle-watching pavilion letting German groupies scarf up fistfuls of their legal Mandies.
“It… errh… makes them randy,” the lead vocalist suggests half-heartedly as he turns an already wall-banging young fraulein`s brain into a mixture of marrowfat and mung.
Such is pleasure in the land of over-the-counter leapers and sleepers.
And what of Mama promoters who, at every gig they put on, are obliged to take the security out of the hands of the khaki-garbed kraut fuzz and to put it in the care of the Bones, the German Angels?
Christ, easy-going pleasant British Hell`s Angels come close to giving me apoplexy. But Angels who communicate in German…!?! Bit heavy, man.
So Mama promoters just present these acres of psychedelic storm-troopers with free beer and a few human beings to roast in their own special enclosures and the official polizei back off.
Such delicious Animal Natural, no?

Ace, brought in on a morning flight to replace Supertramp at this festival, prove too mellow – pensive even – for the 25,000 wasted bodies out there to digest. They die. So does an Angel. At the side of the stage during “How Long” one of the Bones ODees, pukes up and has a heart attack.
His body is removed from the backstage area with a certain expediency.
“You`re over here to preserve a way of life: Your own.” It is probably doubtful that the third ex-GIs who make up the Bones` ranks pay too great heed to the American Forces Network radio station based just up the road in Frankfurt.
The Yanks in the audience, though? Well, theirs is quite another story. Their way of life is indeed being preserved. Right down to their imported Alfa Sweet Banana Skin skins. Get on that Frankfurt Special to Obliteration Row. Go, dunebuggy, go.
Thin Lizzy are big in Germany. Lizzy have cracked the Fatherland. Lizzy were, in fact, saved from extinction by the Fatherland.
Transformed yet again – after the departure of their second lead guitarist, Gary Moore – into possibly the first British bass and drums outfit since Jet Harris and Tony Meehan, Phil Lynott and Brian Downey brought in the axes from the remnants of heavy horrendoes Atomic Rooster and toured Germany at the beginning of last year.

The tour earned the rhythm playing duo enough money to hold auditions. Teethed on “Whisky In The Jar”, a Decca Top Ten hit at the beginning of 1973, Lynott and Downey knew what not to do.
No more hit singles. No more ballroom tours for audiences expecting Thin Lizzy to come out and play a rock`n`roll workout of “Danny Boy”. Thin Lizzy as a mean, stack-heeled, bloozy rock band that keeps splitting up, got itself 17-year-old Brian Robertson and Scott Gorham – an American over here playing with Slim Chance – in on twin lead guitars.
They left Decca, signed with Vertigo in the summer of 1974, and got “Night Life”, their first Vertigo album, into the outer edges of the US album charts.
And started selling out at club and college dates in the UK once again. And put much time into the making of “Fighting”, their new Vertigo album.
Back in the car, Lynott`s pants firmly tethered, we`re talking about the problems of being Thin. A suggestion has been put forward that possibly these former troubles could be linked with a certain mental rawness on the collective part of the original members.
“Jeeeeee-zuz. See this,” says Lynott as he pulls up the sleeve of his right arm. “Me skin wasn`t brown – it was green.”

Lynott is not just Irish. Lynott is an Irish half-caste – “Just imagine it: I get both Irish and Nigger jokes” – though the voice has more of the intonations of a Scouse `Comedian`.
Try out this lesson in jive blarney: “You know, like me and Brian came down to London and we hit the Underground…
We met this Irish fella at Euston Station and `e took us and we got smashed. And we thought `e was gonna rip us off, you know? And I was getting really paranoid and saying `Let`s get out of `ere`. So we split – and it was the first time in London. And like, you know, into this guy`s house. Get stoned. And we said `Let`s get the Underground`, you know?
“So we were standing there at the tube station – and this`ll tell you how green we were – and we see the tube coming and we say `This is ours`. And we stuck out our hands. Stop, you know. HARGH-HARGH-HARGH-HARGH!! The thing nearly took `alf our arms off.
“That`s how fookin` Irish we were.”
Such earthiness, huh?
But come, chaps. Surely there must have been just the odd moment when yet another guitarist would jack it in and you might think “Why Me?”. Or even question if it Was All Worth It? Surely just now and then you must have been a little down.


“Well, wouldn`t you? Two changes of line-up in one year…
“But anyway de “Vagabonds” (here Lynott is referring to “Vagabonds Of The Western World”, Lizzy`s third and last Decca album)” went into the charts in the States and we got a bit of readies in and we were able to carry on.
“That was it. So finally we got up again, you know.
“And this to me proves the power of the band if nothing else: that three times we set out to do it and this time we`re really gonna do it because we`ve got a line-up now that`s stable. We`ve been together a year. And we`re ready to crack it.”
A touch more solemnly: “I`ve never worked in me life. I`ve always made me living with…”
“Yeah. `Ard neck. Really, you know?” he splutters with strange giggles.
Scott Gorham slumps in the back seat of the car. He says little. “Pull my finger?” he asks his bass-player. Lynott obliges. Gorham shifts his position slightly. There is now an aroma of undigested schnitzel in the car.
“Tomorrow,” Lynott carries on, “Tomorrow I know I can go out and do this, this and this. Wear this, this and this. Pull these strokes.
“And we can break.
“But whether I want to be famous in that way is another thing.

“When I first started I was like… I believed that if these guys wore denims and striped T-shirts like Peter Green they were like paupers and really playin` the blues and feeling everything they played.
“And then I came to England and watched guys get out of suits to get into denims and go on stage.
“I thought `What`s going on here?` You know? (pauses and laughs)… I watched really nice guys with great attitudes take off their jeans and stop smoking their dope and get into the biggest fookin` pop outfit you`ve ever seen.
“You knowharramean? I`d seen complete reversals.
“So I just levelled out and I said `Well, I don`t wanna be like phoney` and I don`t wanna be like…flash… just to make money.
“So somewhere in there… I`ve got an ego,” he free-associates, “I don`t jump up in front of 20,000 people and not have ego. You know. I think I`m great. Knowharramean?… But I levelled out. I don`t wanna be famous just for the sake of being famous. I like to please people as well, you know?
“The Brinsleys, like, were a nice band. But they tried so hard to underplay it, you know, that in the end they killed themselves. They made themselves into a pub band, you know?”
The essential cream-your-knickers ingredient in a good stage show is mentioned.
“I came up on bands like The Small Faces, The Yardbirds, the Stones, The Kinks,” notes Lynott.
“Spare me the bands who just stand there all night,” adds Gorham in a rare moment of decisive speech.

It is perhaps apposite that at this exact moment we hear “Ladies and gentlemen: Status Quo”. “`Ow are you?” screams Francie. And into that shuffle-boogie rhythm. They do not stand there all night. They go down very well indeed. It is necessary to close the car roof to continue the conversation.
“Sly is me man,” continues Lynott, “People say Hendrix…I love Hendrix as a guitar player but Sly to me has more finesse. I liked (One notes that Lynott speaks of Sly in the past tense) his whole style. Sly was there. He was hip. He was cool. The way he could come up with a very simple line like, “Thank you falettinme be mice elf agin”. Wharrafookah! Sly had class, man.”
Soul brothers, ehh?
“Well, cos I`m Irish I only heard of the black problem when I looked at the size of me mickey… No, in Ireland they don`t realise that the immigration laws are stricter than they are in England, knowharramean? I`ve watched people in Ireland saying, `That`s terrible: the way the English are turning the black people away`.
“But I regard meself as `alfcaste, really. Me mother`s white. Me father`s black. So I regard meself as half-caste. I relate to them people. I relate to the Chinese man that has a Scottish accent, the dago.

“The half-caste is gonna take over in the end, knowharramean? It`s got to. I mean you`re half-fookin`- Polack, I`m half-Irish Brazilian; `e`ll fookin` tell ya (pointing at Gorham)… `E says `e`s American. `E`s got Irish relations.”
Back to rock music`s more relevant essentials, however: “The nice thing is since we`ve had the change in line-up…
As you can see (pointing at Gorham) he`s a good looker and Brian is young and he`s a good looker too. And a lot of the chicks… we have a great time,” Lynott splutters lasciviously, “We`re very popular with the girls. Really. `Cos he speaks with the American accent and I give them the Irish blarney. And when we went to America it was us that had the different accent and `e was just another long-haired Californian.”
Heavy pulling, ehh?
Lynott foams at the mouth: “Ye-ahhh. All you had to say was `London. Carnaby Street`… And you were in.
For some reason we all begin to feel hungry.


I have personally transcribed this from the original paper and you are free to use it as you like. If you use it on your own webpages – please credit me or put up a link to my blog.

This number of New Musical Express also contains articles/interviews with these people: The Who, Eric Clapton, The Tubes, David Bowie`s Mum, Blue Öyster Cult, Bert Jansch, Van McCoy, Budgie, Gerry Johnson.

The original music paper this article came from (pictured at the top) is for sale!

1. Send me an e-mail, if you are interested. Send it to: geirmykl@gmail.com
2. The offer should be 15 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.


2015 in review

About 12,000 visitors from 94 countries. It was a good year for my blog in 2015. The most popular articles were with Ian Hunter, Kiss and Yes. Read more about it here!

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 12,000 times in 2015. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

No article from this one – just some pictures and a bit of information.


I will soon be back with another article for the blog, but in this edition of NME Magazine dated April 12, 1975, I didn`t find anything that triggered any lust for me to reprint anything. As this is an non-paying hobby of mine, I have to feel something for the subject – otherwise I won`t bother.

My other motivation for doing all this work is visits to my blog – it is a lot of fun to watch my stats and see all those people from all over the world reading my blog. So please tell your friends – or share my blog with others!

I also like being followed on Twitter – it gives me a lot of joy to be followed by someone, whether it is someone rather famous or if it is plain old, ordinary you. And I accept anyone asking me for a friend request on Facebook! I have made some very interesting acquaintances through that medium, and may it continue so. The only ones that I don`t accept are what is obvious fake accounts – sorry for that.

What will happen next? Well, after I am finished with NME, I will look at some of the wonderful magazines from the 80s and try to share some goodies from them. I have an enormous collection from that period in time, several different magazines in almost complete order. Some of them are still around today, and others are long gone and maybe forgotten.

So, if you would like me to keep my motivation to write this blog and share it with you for free in the future, you can do one or maybe two of these things:

  • Buy one of the magazines that I advertise for sale. (Thanks to everone that already did!).
  • Donate (Look at link on the right side of my blog)
  • Follow me on Twitter and share my posts with others
  • Follow or add me as a friend on Facebook, and share my posts with other people.
  • Discuss or post a link to my blog articles on music related forums, blogs or pages.

See you around then! 🙂


This number of New Musical Express also contains articles/interviews with these people: Ringo Starr, Loudon Wainwright, Loretta Lynn, Patti Smith, “Can Rock lead to Schizophrenia?”, Alphonse Mouzon, Tangerine Dream, Diana Ross, Marshall Sehorn, Michael Nesmith, Roger Sutton (Nucleus).

The original music paper this article came from (pictured at the top) is for sale!

1. Send me an e-mail, if you are interested. Send it to: geirmykl@gmail.com
2. The offer should be around or upwards of 12 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.

While you wait for updates…

I have made a t-shirt!

If you are that sort of crazy person that likes to wear something unique. Here is something unique for you – a t-shirt with one of the most famous traditional melodies from Norway, with Norwegian lyrics.


Many Norwegian children sing this innocent melody at school, but you can tell your friends it is a famous Norwegian satanist song that they like to sing before burning churces. 😉 Have fun!

You can order it here, and at the same time support this site:



Here it is, finally another article from those golden days. Have you missed me? Well, sometimes paid work must take presedence over this little hobby of mine. Today you get an article from one of Bowie`s adventures in America. They were still a little confused over yet another change of direction for him. If they only knew what we know now!
See you later, and enjoy!


Mr. Bowie has left the theatre

Report: Mick Farren

And yes, we KNOW we`ve used that headline before – but what else could we call it? Funky Dory? The Man Who Souled The World? Just how corny d`you think we can GET?

New York`s Radio City music hall, with its elaborate art deco Thirties interior, must be the ideal place to present a David Bowie show. Unfortunately the decor wasn`t enough to hold up the first two shows.
All reports seemed to agree that the first early stagings in the five night stint were on the abject side of rotten. On the Sunday night, however, Bowie finally pulled it together and staged one of the finest live rock spectaculars that New York has been treated to in years.
In many ways New York is Bowie`s city. It lends itself to the kind of social orchestration at which he really excels.

As early as “Hunky Dory” days, he was courting the approval of the established Gotham Art Gang who have their epi-centre atWarhol`s Union Square Factory.
Later, when his phenomenon burned bright in the sky, New York was, above all, the city where his style and image became the blueprints for the kids who roam the hothouse nightlife of Max`s or the 82 club. Bowie was the mother code for their experiments in the transexual exhibitionism that has never been so successfully exploited by the likes of The New York Dolls and Wayne County.
Of course, Bowie has had an effect on kids throughout all of “Western Civilisation” where rock-and-roll has seeped in, but it`s been nowhere more intense than in New York City.

Despite the adverse reactions to the first Radio City concerts, the effect was still as strong as ever. The crazies in the 82 might vehemently put down the Wednesday-night show, but they still felt constrained to disguise themselves in costumes from various stages of Bowie`s development.
A couple of bad shows weren`t enough to stop the parade of look-alikes and oddities putting on their finery and hitting the the street because David was in town. Hot Tramp was still the signal in the afterhours booze-and-disco joints for the high spots in perverse juvenile display, and the kids from the suburbs – and even the small upstate towns – painted sinister bat-wings across their cheeks, climbed into their glowing spacesuits and Busby Berkley outfits, and headed downtown.
The show they got, however – the experiment that reached its peak on Sunday night at Radio City Musical Hall – showed them a David Bowie who was very different from any previous incarnations.
If you have to find a frame of reference for this new-look Bowie, the closest thing to it would be the James Brown Show, though that`s hardly an adequate description.

The performance opened with the predominantly black thirteen-piece Mike Garson Band, including six back-up singers and guitarist Earl Slick from the previous tour.
They do a swift, choreographed sub-Stevie Wonder, bless-all-the-people-and-don`t-forget-the-children act for fifteen minutes. An intermission follows, and then the slow moody curtain opens with the Garson squad doing a funky, almost “Talkin Book”-style, “Diamond Dogs”.
Finally The Man comes out.
Bowie is a strange combination of Funk, Katherine Hepburn, Dickensian Tweed dyke, and the young Elvis Presley in a blue workshirt, loosely knotted tie and ultra-short, tight tweed jacket.
He swaggers across the stage swinging a W. C. Fields walking-stick. Moves like a cross between Fred Astaire and James Brown.
The phenomenon of David Bowie fronting what amounts to an avant-garde soul show is a strange thing to watch.
It`s also a joy.

David Bowie is, in essence, totally unoriginal. He constantly borrows, steals and adapts.
This is particularly noticeable in his visual presentation. He`s almost like an animated flick-book, moving fluidly from one pose to the next.
The creativity lies in the outrageous juxtapositioning. One moment he`ll hit a bent knee, guitar slung across his back, pointing finger, total reproduction of a classic Elvis Presley photograph – the next he`s instantly switched to the brave little girl, a la Judy Garland. It`s almost uncanny how he can tread such a dangerous path with so much expertise.
The posters out for this tour proclaim the message “David Bowie in a Complete New Show”.
In some respect, the completely new thing about the show is the source Bowie is now borrowing from. He`s discovered the delights of being part of a funky-but-get-down-rock-and-roll band. Of course, it`s progressive stuff, but the British kids` favourite soul mannerisms are all there.

He struts the stage like Otis Redding. He combines with the vocal unit to wring the maximum out of every song.
To the consternation of the loyal and true fans, a few of whom came back to the hotel to show the security guys their 8,000 press clips of their David, the songs do tend to get mangled out of recognition.
Imagine “1984” done in the style of The Temptations, or “Rock `n` Roll Suicide” turned into a soul sobber on the scale of “I`ve Been Loving You Too Long”. The prospect is at once awesome and objectionable. It depends on the conservatism in your heart.
The whole thing has the streamlined professionalism of a chitlin` circuit soul review.
The change-overs, although still slightly sloppy, went like lightning compared to the usual standards of first division rock-and-roll. The curtains are used for dramatic effect, and at the end of the show, after a statutory “Diamond Dogs” encore, a voice announces that “Mr. Bowie Has Left The Theatre”. It kills the kids demanding a Second Coming stone dead. They leave the theatre with a fine sense of quietly hunting for more.


The party afterwards at the Gramercy Park Hotel gave the New York Glittzers a chance to mingle with the cast and characters of the Radio City ensemble.
Bowie, supping on sturgeon and sipping Dom Perignon, held animated conversation with David Johanssen of the Dolls, Tony Visconti, and Wayne County (sans wig and looking very straight).
Talk ranged over a January `75 tour of Brazil, the Liz Taylor/Bowie silver screen debut shelved till next year, an album recorded in Philly for release in January, and the April/May/June tour of England, Scotland and maybe S. Ireland and the Continent.
Next day the rumour mill tells us that Bowie`s leaving early to drive to Cleveland, the next stop on the itinerary.
This kind of irrelevant information is very important in the incestuous little community that hangs around any major rock tour. Vampirella and chums fade from the lobby, and slink off to their lairs to lurk in wait for the next passing superstar. The rest of us make our own plans for the hop to Ohio.

On the plane to Cleveland I sit next to a character in an expensive brown business suit and cashmere sweater. It turns out that he`s a tour manager for Ringling Brothers Circus.
Ringling Brothers open in Cleveland the same night as the Bowie concert. The Circus has booked the biggest arena in the city. Bowie has the second biggest.
Ringling Brothers are sold out for twenty days. David Bowie and his completely new show are only sold out for one.
Rock-and-roll is put firmly in its place.
It rallies slightly when the circus man remarks that his younger clowns have been warned that, if they sneak off to see Bowie and miss the show, they are liable to be fired.

The Cleveland Public Auditorium is about the size of Wembley`s Empire Pool. Its decor is a little more sprightly, but the acoustics have the same air-hanger rankness that eats even the best P.A. for breakfast. To make matters worse, Bowie is suffering from laryngitis and his voice is failing fast.
He works hard, pulling with every register that hasn`t been burnt out, but it still doesn`t sound right.
The only thing to save the show are the musicians. Behind Mike Garson`s rather overbearing conducting and multiple keyboards, they carry Bowie to, if not a semi-triumph, at least a suitable show for Cleveland.
Cleveland`s a solid, serious industrial town sunk in rain and mounds of pollution.
The audience is for the most part in sensible blue jeans and lumberjackets. A few are decked out in fancy coats and fancy shirts, a few have daubed Aladdin Sane/lightning-flashes on their faces – but lower down are their best Friday night a disco frocks.
One young lady rushes forward and nervously hands Bowie a bunch of white flowers. He holds them for a while and then hands them to Miss Ava Cherry, one of his back-up singers. He explains that it is her birthday. It`s all very polite and homely.

There`s nothing like the gangs of ravening androgynes (a blast from the past) who rushed the stage in New York. The musicians even grin at each other while they play.
Bowie appears tongue in cheek, a little camply outrageous, but basically friendly. Although he cops a few of Jagger`s poses, there is no hint of Satanic Majesty. It`s all so nice that you could almost see him joining Elvis and Tom Jones on the casino circuit.
He also looks incredibly tired.
The show is shortened to an hour and there is no encore. The curtains close and before the clapping and yelling have seriously gained momentum the “Mr. Bowie Has Left The Theatre” booms out. The audience obediently leaves.
The police department herd out the stragglers and it`s all over. Kids walking home in the rain are bitching a little about how short it was, but nobody makes any serious complaint.

Back at the Holiday Inn, things are far more stable than they were in New York.
There are a few grungy Vampirellas in primitive face-jobs and some ladies maintaining they represent local radio stations. The roadies, security men, and journalists move in. They exchange heroic professionalisms, treat the ladies as colleagues and start asking them to come up to their rooms.
Bowie appears and vanishes in a flurry of retainers. He comes back, but again splits.
The drummer and bass player of his band commandeer the local combo who are playing in the bar. Bowie returns for a third time and finally settles in a corner to smile and watch his boys have fun.
In an evening of juxtapositions, one in particular stands out.
On our way out of the auditorium, two posters stare down from the wall. One announces Bowie – the other James Brown for the following week.

The motives behind this odd change of direction can for now remain only as speculation.
It could be that Bowie, having moved as far as he could in terms of rock spectacle, is now re-examining his music. The other alternative is that he is Retreating From The Edge in the basic Bob Dylan scenario.
Either way, Mr. Bowie seems, for the moment, to have left the theatre.

A really strange ad, but very confident!

A really strange ad, but very confident!

I have personally transcribed this from the original paper and you are free to use it as you like. If you use it on your own webpages – please credit me or put up a link to my blog.

This number of New Musical Express also contains articles/interviews with these people: Tangerine Dream, Tim Rose, Bill Bruford, Peter Noone, Jack Bruce, Roy Harper, Hatfield and the North, Dave Cousins, Frank Zappa, Planxty, Andrew McCulloch.

The original music paper this article came from (pictured at the top) is for sale!

1. Send me an e-mail, if you are interested. Send it to: geirmykl@gmail.com
2. The offer should be around or upwards of 20 $ (US Dollars) to be considered. (This includes postage).
3. We conduct the transaction through my verified Paypal account for the safety of both parties.