Gavin and Bono doing Peter And The Wolf, AC/DC’s Brian Johnson adapting the legend of Helen of Troy and Ozzy Osbourne taking the story of Rasputin to Broadway – Sam Snort asks: were the 27 years since 1976 all a dream?

Older, wiser readers will recall that rock had gotten itself into such a state BR – Before Rotten – that all record sleeves were gatefold, all albums were “concept” and no gig worth its gravitas was complete without the lads and lassies from the The London Philharmonic Orchestra sawing and plucking in the background.
Whilst balding rock critics argue the toss between the New York Dolls on one side of the Atlantic and Dr Feelgood on the other, my old chum John Peel likes to date the precise origin of punk to a shouted exchange heard in the audience at a gig by prog rock behemoths ELP. Fan 1: “What do you think, Gordon?” Fan 2: “Blown, Jeremy, my mind is totally blown”.
I can see what Peely is getting at but, myself, I reckon the sea-change was inevitable when keyboardist Rick Wakeman left Yes because they had gotten, he claimed, “too pretentious”. So what did the kaftan-wearing, ivory-tinkler do next? A live version of ‘The Six Wives Of King Henry The Eighth’, that’s what. On ice.

Much Bollocks
Little wonder then that the world responded with open arms when snotty-nosed urchins erupted in New York and London and Manchester and Dublin with cries of “One-two-three-four” and “Gabba gabba hey”. It was, in a very short time, a very long way from ‘Tales From Topographic Oceans’ and ‘The Twelve Dreams Of Doctor Sardonicus’ not to mention ‘Tonto’s Expanding Headband’. Frankly, there is only so much bollocks a pair of ears can take, even on high fidelity, state of the art cans, man, which is why, as instructed, we finally chose to ignore it all and welcome the Sex Pistols instead.
Apres them lads, le deluge – The Buzzcocks, The Clash, The Radiators, The Damned, The Undertones, The Boomtown Rats, Five Go Down To The Sea, The Blades, Wreckless Eric, Ian Dury, Siouxsie, The Jam, Elvis Costello, Television, The Adverts, The Slits, The Fall, The Atrix, Jonathan Richman, Wayne County and, reigning supreme above them all, Handsome Dick Manitoba and his fabulous Dictators. Frankly, we never had it so good.
Not five minutes beforehand if someone had mentioned Jesus Christ some po-faced prog-rocker would have quit spooning cocaine up his arse long enough to produce a 12-album set called The Agony In The Garden, each disc corresponding to one of the stations of the cross (not to be confused with one of Dublin’s awful late-night radio phone-ins which are broadcast by stations which make everyone cross) and the whole thing released in a special presentation box, inscribed with biblical quotations and shaped and coloured like a communion wafer.
But not five minutes later, we had Patti Smith sneering ‘Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine’ before transforming the body and blood of garage classic ‘Gloria’ into a full-blown lesbian fuck-fest.
Progress, I think you’ll agree.
But now, in retrospect, it seems the whole golden era lasted about as long as ‘Teenage Kicks’. Since then we’ve had – deep breath – oi, the mod revival, the ska revival, the new wave of heavy metal, the electronic era, the new romantics, madchester, grunge, hip-hop, 40 shades of dance and enough chill-out tunes to wallpaper all of Mike Oldfield’s houses with a bit left over for Phil Coulter’s bathroom.
And where does that leave us? Checking the calendar it appears that the date on which I write is October 1, 2003. But listening to the radio and scanning the hot new releases in the racks it seems we’ve been deposited back in 1973 with The Allman Brothers (Kings Of Leon), The Thrills (The Eagles), The Datsuns (AC/DC) The Warlocks (Velvet Underground), My Morning Jacket (Lynyrd Skynyrd), Athlete (Steely Dan) and The Rolling Stones (The, er, Rolling Stones) So why should we be surprised that the rock opera is back on the menu? And if everyone is doing it, why don’t we?

Rehab Centre
That’s exactly what I said to my old charges Foghat when we gathered recently in a conveniently located rehab centre to plot the timely re-emergence of the most southern-fried downhome boogie band ever.
A long-dormant plan was finally put into action. Ever since the boys saw the dvd of ‘Lord Of The Rings’ whilst detoxing a few weeks ago they’ve nursed a passionate desire to record the definitive ‘Ring cycle’. This ultimate tribute to the genius of Tolkien will be completed just as soon as the boys have read the book, secured a record contract, bought new equipment, found a studio from which they’re not barred and written and recorded the appropriate words and music.
It’s a very exciting project and research continues apace. Watching bass player Manmountain Dense reading the great work line by line with his finger is a beautiful, touching sight, and once he gets past the cover we feel there’ll be no stopping him.
“That wizard basically saved the world, didn’t he?” the big cuddly bassist remarked to me the other day.
“Yes, I suppose he did,” I replied kindly.
“And he still had time to do a record and those big shows,” he added, wide-eyed.
“Who did?” I asked, suddenly confused.
“You know, yer man Gandalf,” said Dense, irritably. “Bob Gandalf”.
Well, yes, you may laugh but then…maybe the poor innocent is onto something. “Fuck the hobbits…gimme the fucking ring NOW”. You know, it’s so crazy it might just work.
After all, look at The Darkness.
Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq