Maurice Gibb
1949-2003

There's been a lot of drinking and smoking around these parts lately, but it's certainly not in celebration of anything. One of the most emotional drenched voices in our world was wiped out this weekend, and I ain't feeling too good about it. Maurice Gibb was asked to leave our planet at the age of 53 this weekend (Double check that for me if you can Matt) and I can't understand why. 53? In my darkest moments, I sometimes ask for release from this world, but would I really want it? Of course not. Fifty three is no age to die at, even for someone whose lived a life as full as Maurice.

Like every good Punk Rocker, I grew up detesting The Bee Gees. They stood for everything we detested, right? Easy goin', smooth sailing sounds. I recall a time when my father ignorantly brought me home a Bee Gees lunchbox that I quickly defiled with Punk Rock slogans (I was eight years old by the way). It wasn't until I was bored one day at the record store I worked at about eight years ago that I threw on the first Bee Gees record. I immediately removed my ass from my elbow and decided to further investigate their earlier material. The soar of their vocal range sent me into the heavens more than any effects-laden Psychedelic record I was ass- fucking at the time. I went further into their catalog and was shocked at the limbs these brothers would climb onto, esp. on their double LP opus 'Odessa' which had a clutch of instrumentals that totally defiled my ears at the time. At this time in my life, numerous chemically enhanced trips into the omniverse were taken to the strains of the first four or five albums by these Englanders (They only imigrated to Australia, you know) It got to the point where I could understand the appeal of 'More Than A Woman' or 'Night Fever'. Blame it on the drugs.

So, at the risk of sounding melodramatic (I suppose that IS IN the style of The Bee Gees) I suppose a little piece of me died with Maurice. I can recall being a young, wide eyed buck, bombed out of my brain on acid while the strains of 'Kilburn Towers' or 'Seven Seas Symphony' surged toward me in the background wondering why I ever wasted my time with Hawkwind or The Spacemen Three as my cosmos searching soundtrack. Those were times of hope and innocence. Now, I got Pabst Blue Ribbon and carton of Camel Lights to get me through the week. Self important drivel won't get Maurice back. He's dead, and so is my innocence...let's eat dinner.

Tony Rettman
Blastitude
Frilly Pink Editor