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Frank Sinatra:
Not the most powerful of singers, but it didn't matter what he sang it sounded damn good. Oozed cool.
Kurt Cobain:
Master of the pop-punk, quiet-loud, 3-chord melody. Blew his talented brains out, but rumour was that he wanted to do more 'poppy' numbers without the 'punk', so maybe it was for the best.
Stevie Wonder:
This fella *is* music. Give him the crappy Casio Bossa Nova you got for Christmas 1988, and he'll give you a hit in return. Just when you think his songs are about to get all wussy, they change into hardcore funk and hook you further. Blind too, which is even more amazing.
Freddie Mercury:
How such a small man could have had such a powerful voice is beyond me - a true talent, and one of my favourite all time singers.
Mozart:
Whether you realise it or not, you know a Mozart tune. Pretty damn enjoyable stuff, even if it is stuffy old classical music. Check out the film "Amadeus" - it's a hoot, and you get to hear loads of his music.
Genius is about creation, not being able to sing.
He just was.
It's not exactly what he did, it's how.
And he did it so fan bloody tastically well.
> But Sinatra was a genius.
> He just was.
>
> It's not exactly what he did, it's how.
> And he did it so fan bloody tastically well.
I understand, he's just never done anything for me at all, i hear him, perfect pitch, tone, mood, speed, he is technically perfect, but it's not about technique it's about heart.
> Didnt he not write his own songs?
If he did it's news to me, certainly not before the beatles came along.
It's how he performed it, how he approached everything - he was essentially the most suave, collected man of his time.
> His voice isn't what I meant at all.
>
> It's how he performed it, how he approached everything - he was
> essentially the most suave, collected man of his time.
So being cool and stylish makes him a genius.
I mean in the sense that, it came to him with ease. He performed like an absolute God. The way in which he just let the most perfect voice float out - he didn't need to do any of the stuff that today's artists do.
He was simply a genius.
You can't define it.
Everything about him was just sheer genius.
Poems
"Sad Michael".
There was no reason for Michael to be sad that morning, (the little wretch); everyone liked him, (the scab). He'd had a hard days night that day, for Michael was a Cocky Watchtower. His wife Bernie, who was well controlled, had wrabbed his norman lunch but he was still sad. It was strange for a man whom have everything and a wife to boot. At 4 o'clock when his fire was burking bridely a Poleaseman had clubbed in to parse the time around. ‘Goodeven Michael,’ the Poleaseman speeg, but Michael did not answer for he was debb and duff and could not speeg.
‘How's the wive, Michael’ spoge the Poleaseman.
‘Shuttup about that!’
‘I thought you were debb and duff and could not speeg,’ said the Poleaseman.
‘Now what am I going to do with all my debb and duff books?’ said Michael, realising straight away that here was a problem to be reckoned with.
"I sat belonely"
I sat belonely down a tree,
humbled fat and small.
A little lady sing to me
I couldn't see at all.
I'm looking up and at the sky,
to find such wondrous voice.
Puzzly puzzle, wonder why,
I hear but have no choice.
'Speak up, come forth, you ravel me',
I potty menthol shout.
'I know you hiddy by this tree'.
But still she won't come out.
Such softly singing lulled me sleep,
an hour or two or so
I wakeny slow and took a peep
and still no lady show.
Then suddy on a little twig
I thought I see a sight,
A tiny little tiny pig,
that sing with all it's might.
'I thought you were a lady'.
I giggle, - well I may,
To my suprise the lady,
got up - and flew away.