The Bee Gees...insightful documentary "In our Own Time" release Nov. 16th! Mythology 4 Box set!

 

Whenever the classic scene from "Saturday Night Fever" suddenly bursts onto a screen - whether at a revival Movie House or on the old boob tube (featuring a svelte John Travolta swivelling his hips and getting down with a flourish of intoxicating seductive moves on the dance floor at the local Disco) viewers can't help but tap their foot to the catchy beat of the tune as they are magically uplifted to a joyous euphoric high.

Ah, such was the potent power of the song-writer ability of the talented Bee Gees who skyrocketed to fame and fortune in the heady 60's and 70's during a novelty era when London was the very heartbeat - and dizzying center - of musical trends, fashion, and style.

The Brothers Gibb churned out a bevy of chart-topping hits - not only for themselves - but for a handful of celebrated musicals artists as well such as Barbara Streisand, Celine Dion, Dolly Parton, and Kenny Rogers.

Now, friends at Eagle Rock Entertainment have informed me that they are releasing a revealing documentary - "In Our Own Time" - which chronicles the personal and professional lives of Maurice, Barry, and Robin.
The producer's have promised that the journey will be an insightful thought-provoking one that will ultimately delivery up a commentary on the popular band's spectacular highs and earth-shattering lows in a topsy-turvy world where performers often dance precariously close to the jaws of an abyss.

In addition, the documentary will take an in-depth look at the intrigues surrounding Andy Gibb's untimely demise and his long-standing dream to become a bona-fide Bee Gee alongside his legendary older brothers.

Coincidentally, last night as I prepared to pen this post, I stumbled upon the Bee Gees star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame (in front of the Kodak Theatre) which was installed a few years back with the blessings of an appreciative industry (a hop-and-a-skip away from Michael Jackson's star in front of the Mann's Chinese Theatre on the strip).

And, ironically, I found myself singing along to a Bee Gee tune the other morning in San Francisco, in Starbucks down at Fisherman's Wharf.

I started a joke

That started the whole world crying
But i didn't see...
That the joke was on me

I started to cry
That started the whole world laughing
If I'd only seen
That the joke was on me

I looked at the skies
Running my hands over my eyes
I fell out of bed
And hurt my head from the things that i said

I finally died
That started the whole world living
If I'd only seen
That the joke was on me

I Started a Joke
The Bee Gees

Oh, so dramatic!

And, who could forget those falsetto harmonies?

If you recall, the Bee Gees facilitated a song-styling rarely used so effectively!

The documentary is being released on November 16th (2010).

The film will also be broadcast on A & E on November 20th (2010).

In tandem with the broadcast, Mythology - a 4-disc set - will be released by Rhino Entertainment.

Can't wait, can you?

Maybe if I twist an arm or two at Eagle Rock, they'll offer up some freebies, as they have done in the past.

Stay posted, in that event!

Later!

http://www.thetattler.biz/

Cheap Trick...Sgt. Pepper Live @ Paris (Vegas)! Paul is dead?

Ever-popular Cheap Trick is slated to perform an eclectic mix of hit compositions from the Beatle's legendary "break out" album Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band at Paris on the Vegas strip.

June 11th thru June 30th

Seems just like yesterday, I cracked open the plastic on the cover of album running rampant with a kaleidescope of images etched on its intriquing face.

I was residing on West Hill Drive in the suburb of the same name (Toronto) when I first cranked up the volume and full throttle soaked up all the mystical (magical) musings of Lennon & McCartney.

The rumor at the time of the album's release was that Paul was "dead" and that clues tucked away here 'n there (symbolically & otherwise) would confirm it.

One of the first ubran myths?

It inspired one of my early poems:

Tune in.
Tune out.

Shout!

Julian Ayrs
Chocolate Buddha
Collection of  Poems

See 'ya there!

http://www.julianayrs.com/

Lady Gaga...wins 3 Brit Awards! Wears curtains to award show...

Lacy face mask may trigger a fashion trend!

Unimaginative drape should be hung back on curtain rod!

Lady Gaga, undoubtedly America's top Pop Icon, made a big splash across the pond last night at the celebrated Brit Awards.

The outlandish style fashionista struck a chord of a different kind around the world when she strode onto the stage in an exquisite lacy face mask coupled with a drab ball-gown-style outfit that lacked any imagination whatsoever.

The "look" - topped with a headdress - hinted at a bygone era where Maria Antoinette once reigned supreme at the Royal Court.

For good reason, the much-lauded Diva has now been crowned the Queen of Pop by many!

The avant garde stage and media circus performer nabbed coveted Brit trophies for "Best International Female Artist", "Best International Break-out artist", and "Best International Abum".

When the talented Gaga strode up to accept her 1st award, she graciously thanked her English fans.

 "Thank you so, so much. I love my fans, my fans in the UK."

 "And thank you to Lee McQueen.' she added, as her voice noticeably cracked with emotion.

Of course, Lady Gaga was referring to good friend Alexander McQueen who passed away to spirit last week by his own hand.

Some may have been disappointed that the musical wonder didn't perform her big hit - Poker Face - but were content nonetheless to be entertained impromptu with tunes such as "Telephone" and "Dance in the Dark" which featured high-energy back-up dancers.

Other winners included U.S. rapper musician -  Jay-Z - for "Best International Male artist" and Kasabian for "Best British Band".

The Brit Awards are on par in stature with the annual Grammy awards which are bestowed on musical artists on these shores amidst a lot of hoopla and glitzy fanfare.

Jay-Z

Best International Male Artist

Best British Band

www.julianayrs.com

Petula Clark...sparks memories of my childhood!

One of my favorite music invasions was British!


After a tough day battling torrential storms here on the West Coast, I headed back to the Hotel, and snuggled into bed with a piping hot cup of exotic tea.

While I was channel surfing, I stumbled across an infomercial of Petula Clark belting out "Downtown" and her other hits of yesteryear.

Suddenly, I was transported into the past to the days of my innocent youth.

In the wee hours of the night - I often plugged in the earphones of my tiny transistor radio (shaped like a hockey puck) - and mouthed the lyrics of catchy tunes made popular by the "British Music Invasion" which Petula was a vital part of.

In those childhood years, I resided outside of Oshawa, on a quaint little street known as Kilmaurs Avenue, next to an old country farm.

A smile comes to my face when I recall the clever rig I devised with a cord to facilitate an on-off switch on the beat-up TV so I could savor classic films on late-night TV, without getting caught.

In the event Gramma heard strains of the ongoing dialog on the boob tube in her room down the hall, I simply had to tug on the rope to turn the set off.

By the time the door swung open, I'd be pretending to be fast asleep, as the old gal peered into the bedroom, perplexed.

Heh, given the opportunity, I could have invented the remote control, eh?

On sun-drenched days, in those boisterous days of my lazy youth, I often trotted over to "Happy Hollow" - a swim hole in the local creek - to splash around with the neighborhood kids and wile away the golden hours.

Occasionally, I would take a detour, though - and head over to the sprawling "Little Buckaroo Ranch" - where a miniature-sized western town was inclined to urge tourists to indulge their fantasies during the summer break.

My first kiss was out back in a field where nigh-high reeds gently rustled in the whispering wind next to an old rustic barn.

The object of my affections was a pretty young girl by the name of Pamela who lived a hop-and-a-skip down the lane.

To this day, her crystal face - and luminous eyes - loom large at will.

Across the street, Mrs. Chamberlain - a God-fearing woman - baked bread for the locals to supplement her income.

Gramma would plop a few coins in my hand, and I'd dash across the dusty road to pick up a couple of loaves fresh out of the oven, before she closed up shop for the day.

Back home, we'd pull off the hot crust and slather it with butter and homemade jam - and quite generally - make pigs of ourselves.

What a gluttonous feast, it was.

The Chamberlains were "Seven Day Adventists".

Some of their religious practices were a bit peculiar to me at the time.

For instance, the children were barred from watching TV, of all silly things.

Worse than that - because of their strict ideas views on war - the towheads were not allowed to play with toy guns in make-believe shoot-outs with the other local boys.

Or, even engage in a raucous game of capture the flag. Rats!

Their spiritual practices puzzled me somewhat, too.

For the duration of my stint in the country, I attended a two-room school house farther out in the sticks, at the edge of town.

If the pipes froze up in the winter (which they were want to do more often than not) or the school bus couldn't barrel through the pristine snow drifting across the highway in a wintry blast - we'd play hookey for the day - go tobogganing, ice-skating, whatever!

You know, when you live in the country, you learn a lot about animals, nature, and things that go bump in the night.

For instance, it struck me as odd when the local farmer erected a slip-shod fence around the pond each winter; after all, it didn't appear to make any sense.

But, one fine morning, I cornered the rancher on the back forty - and after some quizzing - he revealed the reasoning behind it.

"Cows are dumb," he laughed.

"When the pond is frozen, they wander on to the ice and quickly lose their balance. Usually, in the struggle, their hoofs go this way 'n that - at which point they fall down - and end up breaking their legs."

Ah, the memories.

One balmy summer eve - as the crickets chirped in harmony and stars twinkled brightly in the inky black sky - I gazed at the heavens wondering what lay beyond in the great wondrous divide.

Suddenly, without warning, the night air was pierced by the voice of Poppa, hailing me for dinner.

Poppa!

Such a kind old man.

One stormy night, we were caught in the thick soup of a nasty snow storm that blew in from the North, unannounced.

At one point, as Poppa steered the old Studebaker carefully through the blinding blizzard, the vehicle started to skid and slide towards a gutter at the side of the treacherous road.

"I'm sorry, kids," he cried out in distress.

That was Poppa, always thinking of others before himself.

Funny, the memories that cling to the inner recesses of our minds, over the dusty course of the eventful years.

Each moment is a treasure - all the salient ones cherished and strung together - to account for a life that is uniquely our own.