Christian Yorke

It’s been almost three weeks since I, Funk Moonbeam, trashed my crib with a baseball bat, smashed Tiff’s nose with a lamp and fled for my life with just a laptop and a hell-red convertible to my name. Livin in the basement of Hotel au Vieux-Valais in Verbier was sicker than that night in the Alpine shack with my uncles and their dogs. It took me longer than expected to steal a mobile so I could get that much needed legal advice from my attorney, the legendary 80 something Samoan. In the end I had to degrade myself with two cleaners, Kimi and Mika, to get the keys to a hotel room. I stole a lot of shit from that hotel room including a dazzling iphone, some moisturiser, waxing equipment, a shoe buffing mit and the entire contents of the mini bar. I was on a heavenly high when I gave the keys back to Mika and I did little to resist when he degraded me thrice more (the last act being secretly filmed by Kimi, but what the hell).

Back in the basement I was amazed that I got a signal and was straight on to the Samoan. He was in a bad state because there is a new inmate in his jail cell. The Samoan refused to elaborate but I could hear the tears in his voice. He did tell me that the pigs had taken his last loin cloth and that he was sweatin out 6 pints of salty grease during the hot nights and his digestive problems were gettin worse. Havin shared that cell with him I felt his pain and we talked about the old days for a while. Then I burdened the big guy with my sorry story and begged him to help me with his wisdom.

The Samoan listened, complaining that the battery in the mobile I’d smuggled in for him, was gettin kinda low. Then, when I was on my knees, beggin for him to help, he said (in that deep voice that used to sooth me to sleep), “We’ve been broken down to the lowest turn. Being on the bottom line sure ain’t no fun. But if we should be evicted, huh, from our homes, we’ll just move somewhere else and still carry on. Oh, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Oooh, ah baby. Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on ooh, oooh, aah. The only way is up, baby for you and me now. The only way is up, baby for you and me now.”

Every part of my body tingled as his wisdom aroused my pride, gave me belief. Through tears of ecstasy I got a lot of shit on the table, tellin the Samoan about how Ace had betrayed me with Tiff, how my band was in bits and how I hadn’t eaten for days. The Samoan was right there for me sayin, “Now we may not know, huh, where our next meal is coming from, but with me by your side you’ll face what is to come.”

I said, “Boy I want to thank you, yeah, for lovin me this way. Things may be a little hard now but I’ll find a brighter day.”

Havin fixed my head with his counsellin (three little bottles of spirit also helpin to straighten me out), he got down to business. He advised me to clean myself up. He knew a hot girl called Heidi (who owed him some favours) in Bourg-St-Pierre who was good with soap and sissors and could re-invent me as a rock star. A new image would give me the inner determination to find Tiff and Ace, get the band back together and then get us all down to the Ethereal festival in Rome where our music would knock the shit outa the big A n R guys from the majors. If I could find Heidi, all I had to do was tell her that the Samoan had sent me and she would know exactly what to do.

I don’t know where Tiff and Ace are and it may already be too late, but I’m leavin this stinkin basement and headin for Heidi; right after I’ve properly thanked Kimi and Mika for their kindness.

“The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget, ohhh how, how, how, you’re a rock n roll suicide,” sang David Bowie as he closed his 1972 album The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars. Rock n Roll Suicide detailed Ziggy’s implosion as wasted rock star back when Michael Jackson had just gone solo and was topping the charts with Ben. Even Nostradamus, or the spooky spoon-bender Uri Geller, would have struggled to make any connection between one of Motown’s brightest  stars and Bowie’s avant-garde creation, but fast forward 37 years and there is an almost classic inevitability about Jackson’s death.

There is already confusion surrounding another “where were you when…” death of a rock icon. Whilst it is likely that a massive heart attack was the technical cause of death, we must await the LA coroner’s office post-mortem to discover exactly why Jackson suffered the fatal attack. Even then attempts may be made to conceal the true cause of death in circumstances involving powerful competing interests and multi-million dollar liabilities.

Jackson was one of the most bankable stars in the history of popular music. His 1979 album, Off The Wall, sold 19 million copies, but even this achievement was eclipsed by Thriller, which sold a staggering 59 million copies. In 1985 he famously outbid Sir Paul McCartney by paying ATV Music $47.5m for the rights to 251 Beatles’ songs and later bought the now infamous Neverland Ranch for $14.6m. In 1991 he signed a $65m recording deal with Sony, but the King of Pop’s fortunes soured following 13 year old Jordan Chandler’s allegations of sexual abuse in 1995. That case was eventually settled out of court with a reported payment of $20m to Chandler. In 1995 Jackson agreed to merge ATV with Sony’s library of songs for $150m and he sold Sony music publishing rights for $95m, but Jackson’s career was already in freefall.

In 2002 Jackson faced a $12m lawsuit from Union Finance and Investment Corporation and during his 2004 trial (when he was cleared of sexually molesting another boy) a forensic accountant testified that Jackson was spending $20m to $30m per year more than he earned. In 2008 Jackson faced foreclosure on Neverland, but found a benefactor in Sheikh Al Khalifa, although that relationship subsequently collapsed when Al Khalifa claimed $7m from Jackson. To put these financial matters in context, it is reported that Jackson died with an estimated debt of $500m and a legal battle over his estate that could last years is predicted.

Against this background Jackson agreed to a series of concerts at London’s o2 Arena. Earlier this year Jackson was forced to postpone the shows from 08-07-09 to 13-07-09 citing production issues. However, Jackson was outspoken about the marathon residency of 50 shows. Earlier this month he complained, “I don’t know how I’m going to do 50 shows. I’m not a big eater, I need to put some weight on.” Jackson was openly critical of the gig promoters stating, “I’m really angry with them booking me up to do 50 shows. I only wanted to do 10…I went to bed knowing I sold 10 dates, and woke up to the news I was booked to do 50.”

This now sounds like a cry for help, but it received a hostile response from Randy Phillips (head of the promoters, AEG). In denying the truth of Jackson’s plea he stated, “This is not true. The size and scale of this show would not be possible without an extended run which Michael has been fully on board with from the very beginning.”

The clear conflict between the star and the money men must also be considered in the context of Jackson’s health. Speaking yesterday, the Jackson’s family lawyer stated, “He was very seriously trying to do these rehearsals. But his his use of medications and injuries he had sustained performing had got in the way.”

It has been suggested that Jackson was taking prescription painkillers including anti-anxiety drugs Xanax and Zoloft since suffering a broken vertebrae. Sources also claim that he collapsed yesterday after an injection of the painkiller Demerol. His private physician (believed to be Dr Thomme Thomme) was on the scene as Jackson’s breathing became shallow and was still trying to revive the singer when his breathing stopped and the paramedics arrived.

Tragically Jackson did not regain consciousness and was pronounced dead at the UCLA Medical Center at 2-26pm on Thursday 25-06-09.

It is ironic that when the o2 shows were announced Randy Phillips claimed, “He’s as healthy as can be, no health problems whatsoever.” It remains to be seen whose interests Mr Phillips had in mind when making that statement.

US entertainment giant AEG is now facing an insurance liability of up to $300m and the financial catastrophe of 50 empty nights at London’s o2. AEG and its partners now face one of the biggest ticket refunds ever to nearly a million fans.

Michael Jackson was a 50 year old man placed under enormous financial pressure to perform a series of shows that he did not believe he could complete. He was struggling with health issues and some say he was addicted to prescription drugs. The question will be asked, was this indeed one more tragic rock n roll suicide.

Whatever the cause, may he rest in peace.

 

Miami, South Beach, originally uploaded by Christian Yorke.

I took this photograph from the Ritz Carlton terrace, overlooking Miami’s South Beach. It has been short-listed for publication in the 8th edition of Schmap’s Miami Guide, which is due for publication in July 2009. Feel free to check out similar photos at CY ON FLICKR, directly from this site.

 

SWOOPING FOR THE KILL, originally uploaded by Christian Yorke.

More seagulls, and be warned; there’s plenty more where that came from. You really need to view this in full fat widescreen for maximum impact.

Yes, it was as terrifying as it looks. Hitchcock would have run a mile. It’s amazing what happens when you add a few fish guts into the equation. Nobody warned me that St Vallery en Caux (in Normandy) would be this dangerous…

Check out more images at Flickr. Just click on CY ON FLICKR under Blogroll.

Patrice Phannybaahteur’s Fiat Panda was makin some sick noises and smells when I abandoned it in the road outside my crib in Verbier. I hated myself worse than usual for stealin such a nasty craft. I’d spent the content of Phannybaatheur’s wallet on six cans of deodorant (the snortin kind), two litres of Smirnoff and almost twenty tins of Red Bull. I’d driven the wheels of that beige bad boy half way across Switzerland and was in a state of delerium. I had been sick too often to count (the evidence still splattered around the dashboard, over the pedals and down the outside of the door) and was hurtin real bad. All I knew was that I had to get the master tapes to Magnolia Glock, my laptop and a hot shower before headin down to Rome to catch Tiff and Ace.

I fell over the bins as I ran to the door and then I saw it; the 1971 Cevrolet Impala convertible, gleemin hell-red in the drive. I knew Tiff was probably already in the studio, stealin my work whilst no doubt bangin Ace over the mixin desk. It was time to shut that goat fluffer down for the final time. I was angrier than I had imagined possible, worse even that when my uncles used to join me in my Alpine exile and take photos and videos of me trying to find my clothes and warming parts of their old bodies with parts of my boyish form.

I rammed the front door, but my splintered ribs let me down and blood started pouring from my nose and I struggled to catch my breath.

I was slumped on the steps shoutin at the kids who were laughin at me when the door opened and I fell inside. My mother almost collapsed at the sight of me, her only son, lyin in the soil and weeds. But I drew strength from my anger, from what Tiff was doin to Ace, and made down the hall. My mother tried to stop me and dropped the letters that she’d been readin. I noticed that they were all addressed to me, my private correspondence and I hated that devil so badly that I wiped the blood from my nose and tried to rub it in her face. There was no respect in the way she looked at me and even though it was obvious that she had been on the brandy and even though she was practically naked in the middle of the day she seemed determined to stop me gettin to the studio. I wondered how much Tiff had paid her, or what other inducements that horny rat bastard had offered to turn her against me.

We struggled for a very long time and I knocked my old bike over and stamped on it, even though I might have needed it later to make my getaway. By the time I overpowered mother she was cryin and shoutin the Lord’s name and lookin terrified, no doubt realisin that after I finished with Tiff I’d probably be back in jail or rigged to an electric chair for all it mattered to her. When I burst into the studio my eyes were stingin and I could hardly see. My face was wet with blood and other fluid and as I dried my eyes there they all were; Tiff, Ace and, oh God have mercy, my old man!

Tiff had my laptop in his grasp and looked as though he was packin heat. Ace had her hands over her mouth and although my father was reclined on my bed he jumped up when he saw me. His face looked like the tip of a whale’s cock, all fat and bruised and full of murder. He pointed at me, laughin more than the kids outside, more than my uncles ever had, and started makin baby noises and callin me his little boy. Over and over again, sayin I was his baby and just pointin like he didn’t know what to do with his fists. Then my mother arrived and started sayin much the same. I started shoutin at Ace, wantin to know why she never came to me when I called her name like she’d promised. Whale cock was repeatin himself like he was at a funeral callin me a little boy like I was stupid and, when I could take it no more, I said somethin like, “I get down to dry my hair with a little touch of gel, I read all the newspapers but my mother still reads my mail! I won’t wish my life away but tell me if you can, who decides when I’m grown up and I’ve turned into a man?” Now I was really shoutin as I demanded, “Drop the boy, drop the boy! I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. Drop the boy, drop the boy I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

I spotted the keys to the Impala near the bedside lamp, plannin my next move, but had to get it all out in the open. “I’m tired of the boy thing, I’ve got other things to do. I’d like to be in politics, can’t take another visit to the zoo. No more bikes or plastic models and braces on my teeth. I’d like to drive as Dino and live out of my reach. Drop the boy, drop the boy. I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

Then I did what comes natural in times of trouble and started takin that studio apart. I went at the mixin desk with a baseball bat, deafened by my pumpin heart. I did the window, the shelves, my DVD’s and then went for Tiff. Old whale cock came at me sayin don’t do it son, or some redundant shit like that and I went for him with the bat, determined to burst his cock head and Ace was slappin me and my mother was screamin and Tiff joined in, tryin to get that heavy bat off me so he could use it on me.

Tiff’s abnormal weight and the brain carnage of prolonged deodorant abuse was too much and I was on the floor crawlin to the door and then everythin was clear. I threw a lamp at Tiff and as it struck him full in the face I nabbed the keys to the Red Shark and threw myself out of the window. Somehow I had also managed to grab my laptop and I took off in the Impala. I’m now hidin out in the basement of some hotel layin down this heavy shit. The Impala is hidden under some bushes and garbage and I’m gonna have to steal a new mobile tomorrow so I can try to talk to the Samoan; cos I need help, that giant eighty somethin lawyer will know what to do, he’ll help me. He’ll have the answers. I just gotta talk to the guy and then it just might be okay.

It’s cold in this basement. Cold, lonely and hopeless…

Ola! After a weird trip (see Part 1 for a recap) we found ourselves in Madrid on Hotel Urban’s roof terrace. It was early Saturday morning after my wife had forced me to wake up by opening the big electrically operated blinds and dazzling me with phosphorus sunlight. The contents of the mini bar, that I’d wolfed down the previous night, were starting to make their presence felt, but I ignored the pain and nausea to appreciate the view over the city at the start of a sunny day in May.

In order to keep me a safe distance from the edge my wife guided me towards the pool, which turned out to be little more than a slightly large garden pond. I expected Percy Thrower to materialise and start scooping frog spawn from the freezing water that had a maximum depth of 2′6”. I was amused to note that even at 8-30 am towels bearing the German national flag, pictures of Michael Schumacher and David Hasselhoff already adorned the sun loungers.

It was time for breakfast and we hopped into a large smoked-glass lift that brought us to the airy lobby. Shades on, we headed down Carrera de San Jeronimo and chose to enjoy a taste of Spain in the Cathedral Cafe. The secluded wooden booths were calming until a waitress chucked down some laminated menus that included photographs of the dishes. I always find pictures of food helpful and pointed at the most authentic Spanish dish. When the food arrived my wife tucked into some fruit and I worked through a scrambled eggs, pancakes, maple syrup and crusty bread combo with pure iced orange juice and a pint of fierce coffee. If not for the pancakes and syrup this would have been a feast fit for Ian Fleming himself.

Full to the brim and 60 Euros poorer we headed towards Plaza Puerto del Sol where a human traffic jam awaited us. Some kind of parade was brewing as hundreds of Spanish men in important pseudo-military uniforms prepared to march somewhere. Judging by the hundreds of cops and an outside broadcast van this was a big deal. We ducked into a shop selling hunks of ham to avoid the crush and escaped down a side street to do some shopping.

I have little memory of the following hour or two other than regularly handing wads of cash to my wife and bags appearing in my hands. However, all things shall pass, and we ended up in a bright but (as far as I could tell) nameless square. I am told that Madrid is the third most populous city in Europe and the Madrilenos were out in force here. There were Ferraris and a couple of Porsches illegally parked amongst the scooters and a lively vibe in the cafe terraces beneath the white buildings that shimmered in the midday sun. It was hot as hell; no free tables. So we left.

Entirely by accident we ended up in Plaza Major, which I now understand to be a major tourist attraction. What I mistook as a Spanish hobo took pity on us and explained that the Plaza dated back to 1620, although I had always been taught that it could trace its origins back to 1581 when Philip II of Spain asked Juan de Herrera to remodel part of the old, seething Plaza del Arrabal. Over the years this historic venue has seen bull fights, executions and coronations. The Plaza is enclosed on all sides and accessed through archways and arcades at street level. The richly coloured, harmonious buildings are decorated with allegorical paintings and create a powerful sense of enclosure. The centrepiece is a commanding statue of Philip III on a muscular steed who (confusingly) is said to have ordered the building of the Plaza in 1617.

Although Plaza Major did not have the romantic grandeur of the truly magnificent Italian Piazzas it was alive with people and we found a table at one of the cafes and watched the world. As I sipped an ice cold San Miguel a hurdy gurdy troop started belting out Europop classics on an accordion and three accoustic guitars. Falco’s Rock Me Amadeus went down well, as did Robbie Williams’ Angels although the classic That’s Amore enjoyed the biggest cheer. As the performers did the rounds asking for payment I noticed that the very, very fat man on the table next to me had seen fit to remove his shirt so that everyone could marvel at how much sweat he was producing. It was time to move on.

Again, by accident, we arrived at the Prado Museum on Paseo del Prado. I had never heard of the place but apparently it is seriously important. It is full of work by such legends as Goya (who has his own statue in the grounds), El Greco and Vasquez (who also merits a statute). The queue was about two miles long. We gave it a swerve.

There is a very attractive church close to the Prado, called the Church of San Jeronimo el Real. I was feeling the need to repent some sins and suggested that it would be nice to stroll up the small hill and check it out. However my wife had spotted somewhere more interesting and I was out voted.

Minutes later we were at The Ritz. This grand hotel was the wish of King Alfonso XIII (oh to have that power!) and the result was a luxurious palace in a baroque style. We were shown to a table in the Ritz Terrace where we could dine under the shade of pristine white umbrellas. I eased back in a comfy cane chair and watched Madrid’s beautiful people sipping wine and enjoying lunch. I ordered the Ritz speciality burger. It was average. A waitress missed a glass and glugged water over the table. Oh well, it was a great experience.

I was feeling the effects of two Martinis and a beer. It was 3 0′clock. The sun was blazing. And the main event was ahead of us; the whole reason for the trip. Dinner at restaurant Lur Maitea. Tune in next time when I will fill you in with a comprehensive review of what is said to be one of the best Basque seafood restaurants in Madrid.