White line fever

Okay, even Sam Snort has to admit it: now, I’m truly frightened.

Not about anthrax, mind you. No, fuck that. Anyone who has ever spent even a limited amount of time in the company of my good buddy, hunter-gatherer metal demon Ted Nugent, has long-since had the shots to stave off any nasty spores, of whatever type, that might chance to rise up in a miasmic cloud from the rancid

loin-cloth of The Fuckin’ Nuge.

That comes with the territory, you might say and, anyway, the very history of rock ‘n’ roll is pretty much also the history of infectious

diseases, so this is no time to start getting queasy if you happen to contract a novel dose of spotted dick.

No, what people don’t seem to realise is that it’s not anthrax per se but anthrax hysteria, which may well signal the death of rock ‘n’ roll as we know it.

Lemme lay it out for ya like this: what has the world come to if a man with a pony-tail and a satin tour jacket can’t feel free to open a letter full of white powder, shout “Geronimo!” and bury his snout in the contents without fear or favour?

Appalling Vista

See what I’m getting at? Suddenly there is fear but no favour. I mean, how can any self-respecting A&R man know who to wine, dine and sign, if he can’t personally feel safe in testing the purity of the fine white powder the latest Nick Drake clone has thoughtfully included with his poxy, depressing demo. Left entirely to the merits of the music, our A&R hero may actually be forced to listen to this shit and after a couple of days of that, don’t be surprised to see trees draped with cassette tape popping up, Taliban-style, all over the city.

An appalling vista then beckons: record companies will virtually cease to function, the toilets at ligs will be used solely for ablutions and people who appear to have head colds really will have head colds. In this new, unfamiliar world, we will all gradually lose our bearings and go completely fucking mad.

I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t all a cunning Taliban plot, just like the Feds say it is. As far as I can see, the lads with the beards don’t have much time for chicks, powders and mindless light

entertainment, so what could be more effective than to destabilize the international rock ‘n’ roll industry and nail all those ingredients of the happy life in one fell swoop? Then again, the fuckin’ Feds don’t like that good shit either, so maybe this is another of those homegrown conspiracies, of the kind that previously made life so difficult for rock giants and rebels like John Lennon, Jim Morrison and, er, Foghat.

Yes, as many of our wise leaders have urged: Don’t turn on lads with beards in your own neighbourhood just because we happen to be bombing the shit of their lookalikes on the other side of the world. As it is, Sam has noticed that many of his friends in the folk world are acting decidedly nervous at the moment, some even going so far as to pay a visit to the barber for the first time in decades. You would think that the permanent smell of drink off these lads would ensure that they wouldn’t be confused with beardies of the more fundamentalist kind but, in these days of rampant hysteria, I suppose anything is possible.

Unsightly Pustules

Anyway, Sam has no intention of standing idly by as our great way of life is threatened with extinction. Consequently, I am happy to announce the opening of the first Anthrax Testing Facility in the laboratory at Snort Towers.

Here’s all you have to do: gather up all white powder in your immediate vicinity – yes, even the crumbs still stuck to the edge of the credit card; you can’t be too careful – bung it into a jiffy bag, mark it ‘White Powder Express’ and mail it directly to me, Samuel J. Snort Esq at Snort Towers, Republic Of Ireland.

Once it arrives at our facility, a team of highly-trained roadies will test a tiny amount of the material under laboratory conditions and if, after a couple of days, they haven’t suffered an

eruption of unsightly pustules all over the skin, they will forward the rest of the stash – ah, I mean, sample – to me for final conclusive testing.

Unfortunately, because of the dangerous and secretive nature of the work we will not be able to return any material. Nor will we be able to enter into any correspondence on the matter owing to the vast amount of time we are likely to spend babbling about nothing at very high volumes.

Such is the kind of sacrifice we must all be

prepared to make in these most trying of times.

PS: if you’re a chick and you’re worried that you might end up in the arms of the Taliban, you can also pop yourself in the post to me for safe-keeping. Needless to say, Sam Snort does not intend to stand idly by. The future of rock’n’roll is at stake.

Your ever-lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq.