THE 61 TERRIBLE SECRETS OF THE BLUE OYSTER CULT
The Blue Oyster Cult is what’s sometimes spuriously referred to as a “critic’s band” (see #43). As befitting such a characterization, critics—and ever writers—like to embroider their BOC copy with the scrimshaw and folderol of their own unfortunate, miserable existences.
THE 61 TERRIBLE SECRETS OF THE BLUE OYSTER CULT
Rick Johnson
The Blue Oyster Cult is what’s sometimes spuriously referred to as a “critic’s band” (see #43). As befitting such a characterization, critics—and ever writers—like to embroider their BOC copy with the scrimshaw and folderol of their own unfortunate, miserable existences. In The Biz, this is what they call “color.” In real life, however, it’s called a heap of dirty lies.
There’s been a persistent grumbling among the literate electorate that certain pieces in CREEM, most recently Rush, Queen and all the July record reviews, are for the most part sad delusions of drug-addled writers’ sick imaginations. That, in fact, there are no facts. The furtive scribbler would just as well have dreamed up the whole thing between episodes of Woody Woodpecker.
All too true. Honestly, if you knew the sordid slime that goes on among these elevated typists—the crude lies, the bitterness, the unholy pacts and sleazy deals [see *58], the fast n’loose promo floozies who take it on the run and never look back — you’d start reading Nude Musclemen for your rock info. All the writers do.