Review Summary: One burned down the cuckoo’s nest… then fluttered over the flames.
When dealing with rocks, you might increase your chances of stumbling upon a revised edition of the narcissus chronicles. All life craves for light, yet his kind flourishes under the artificial spot. If it were not for their success, those individuals’ memoirs might be full of the occasional fake gratification: stories of exploitation towards the ones who were fool enough to affirm them... pages full of despise for those who were able to see through their antics.
Occasionally yet again, you may be lucky enough to witness something interesting. Not your common life-sucking cuckoo… I am talking about the rare specimen, a kind to respect. Let us not forget that therapy back in the day was not about the humanistic or subtle manner. Therefore, if the good followers of the Geneva declaration were not able to categorise you under an already accepted disorder, meriting mild treatment, they would not hesitate a great deal to proceed with shock remedies or an adjustment on your frontal lobe. Subsequently, I believe that becoming a rock star was actually a matter of survival for Arthur Wilton Brown. The sonic rendition of his Crazy World is not a manifesto to awake the ones who need to take their pill daily and join the rest on a trip towards the inevitable. It is a hard earned pardon from the fascist consensus of the masses, all those who would not hesitate to cut him up after labelling him a basket case: a nutter, and on top of that, a nutter who abandoned philosophy and law studies in favour of music. BURN HIM!
In accordance with condensed IQ under vociferations, the numbers can be blinded by fiery pedestals of transatlantic acceptance, or -realistically speaking- feel secure outside the ghetto this here album carved in flames within their common cuckoo nest. For they could now calm their tiny minds and offer amnesty elaborating -oh, he is a rock artist… probably adding -a successful one!
Arthur Brown, once a student of philosophy and law, never again enjoyed the fame or hype this release stirred, nonetheless, speaking out of professional experience -I do not think he minds. From 1968 onwards, he was able to flap his wings while wearing his feathers and colours when and wherever he felt like it. Furthermore, he could set fire on his horned helmet or even his hair, naked yet decent, alas! a talent without fear at last screaming his banshee soul out, and that is all the enjoyment he ever longed for. Now, I do not think that the above sincerity is the case for some of the subsequent shockers, rockers, archie farchies and hip followers alike.
Allow me a final hypothesis in the name of a Rose; let us suppose we could collect a random sample out of those claiming influences or the blessing of the God of Hellfire - the Simons or Larzs and rest apostles of this element, then strip them of the spotlight indulgences so that I could chance upon them in your average pub. In which chapter - gratification or despise? - do you presume they would include old Dr. John after having too many pints, thus, not being able to contain himself within a subtle diagnostic approach he’d proclaim:
When it comes to the shock factor you cheaps claim to provide, I long for the good old days of the tangy treatment, for you remind me of daffodils in carnal suits and your true god had nothing to do with fire; he was a spoiled little brat who managed to drown while gazing at the affirmative cheers from below; here behold! As I place the free round in front of you. ON ME! The reflective qualities of condensed H2O... Cheers.
