90° 11' 2" W
The ardent numerologists and the vaguely insane amongst you spot it immediately.
Three.
The tainted seed from which all that is debauched and pagan and just plain naughty about rock 'n roll flowers.
All those blowjob closets and black amphetamine blood replacements and seafood buffet insertions.
All that devil baiting and jailbait buggery and death by vehicular misadventure.
A lurid bacchanal: a rock and roll Grand Guignol.
A bas relief of vice, sin and theatre to give Caligula or The Marquis pause.
Dante's Inferno in tight pants and tall hair.
Three.
It's all right there in the maths: elementary.
1+7= 8
9+0+1+1+2= 13
1+3= 4
8+4 = 12
1+2 =
Yep.
90° 11' 2" W.
The crossroads near Dockery's Plantation.
A bluesman, a dream of immortality and a classic Faustian pact.
Three.
The recurring leitmotif at the very root of belief.
The triquetra is the holy trinity: father, son, ghost.
An triangle, inverted, is earth. Strength and life in geometry.
Three sixes.
And then there's The Tritone.
Diabolus in musica- the Devil's Note, or flattened fifth.
The Tritone was banned by The Church in the Dark Ages for its apparent knack of whipping the listener into a frenzy of rape and generally unbecoming behavior.
Naturally, it's the progression of notes that's at the guts of the blues scale.
The Tritone: a sonic Grail. The poisoned chalice offered in exchange for Robert Johnson's mortal soul.
The echoing, potent rumble of Sin chiming down through generations of popular music:
Evoking shamen, from moonlit altar they spread their doctrine, summoning whores, rallying baying hordes: Legion.
In alliance with mystics, yogis and snake oil salesmen, the gospel insinuates.
Crowley, The Yogi and Colonel Tom Parker.
False idols in greasepaint and Viking armor, the trappings of battle; totems living outside societal norms, evoking a wild mix and match procession of ideologies and perversions. The stuff of serial killer diaries and half lit dragons chased and ritual.
The zodiac, tarot. Thoth. Enochian, runic and dagger alphabets.
Shadowplay and performance conjures sex and death, martyrdom, golden Gods.
All the good stuff.
An embarrassment of Pans and Bacchii; a tapestry of grand narrative and gutter epitaph.
Lizard Kings and Gods of Sun and Fuck, ego and id unbound.
Hedonism at its most elemental, unbound: the pursuit of a personal truth, projection and worship of oneself over all others, the delineation of a personal narrative above all others.
To what pantheon do they devote their howls? What primal, monolithic totems? What round table or Canon, steeped narrative embellishment and legend?
Nine icons. Nine concepts. Nine stories.
90° 11' 2" W
Three.
Mea Culpa: Or it could all be rambling, self indulgent load of old toss hinged on a fanciful premise dreamed up in a desperate attempt to generate something outside my digital comfort zone to execute.
Props go to Alan Moore's cane, Christopher Guest et al, Diamond Dave, The Priory, Aleister Crowley's mighty forearm tattoos, 2001: A Space Odyssey, ZOSO & Jimmy Page's dragon pants, Paul Wilkinson, Seb Hunter, Chuck Klosterman, The Egg for impetus, The HWC (a triumvirate of 'toonists, what's more) and me Mum for banning me from listening to Poison in Year Seven.
