So Uncle Tony’s seen that pipsqueak’s latest column. Tony figures he can cut the column in half. So here’s the column without the bullshit:
Life. Shit happens. Something we’ve known for a while. Been meaning to write about Big Country. Today is Thursday.
Caught the band back in the ’80s, don’t know when. Loved the clip of ’em chasing chicks in Scotland. So I got me their first album. Distinctive sound. Guitars as bagpipes. Serious shit.
The lead singer Stuart Adamson wrote about Old Scotland, paying attention to old values. All the songs were panoramic, even the love song “1000 Stars.”
The inner sleeve kicked ass. Black and white. Cool compass. What was this? Songs about the land. I felt transported. Even the videos submerged you in another place. Big Country had balls. They were unapologetically corny, unlike U2.
Big Country came when synths put guitar gods on the dole. Spaceship rock. Corny music. Of course! Neat, polished, spoonfed, little, yellow, Nuprin. Order. Easy listening. Like fasces. But we like.
Fortunately, Big Country. Difference. Good times. The Epic Album. The Crossing. Nough said.
Became a fan. Black man with Scottish accent. Goofy! Forget the music. Consider their plaid-shirt image.
So I wore flannel, bitch. Was I Scottish? Years later, was I black?
Live shows good. “I just want to say…” over and over. Then music. Cute.
No more U.S. hits. Change of fashion. And nobody remembers Big Country, despite Adamson’s suicide. Former manager blew me off.
No moral here. Join us. And if you don’t, you’ll commit suicide like Adamson because you disagree with me.