Thursday, April 10, 2008

Jock Cheese: rest in peace cobber

Reports not published anywhere say Jock Cheese from TISM is dead. Oh, the ironing of a band who made pisstake and parody behind the veil of anonymity their business. No brief poignant tributes from the newsreaders. No current affairs show snippet with Molly. No epic video tribute session on Rage. I dunno if it's broken anywhere in the media yet - and by that I mean the only media channel who'd care about a really talented muscian of his calibre, Triple R.

I heard it from a friend of a friend of mine, if you want me source. I look forward to that feeling of wanting to punch something when I read the snooty 'in the know' article in the beiAge.

What can you say about a man who held down one of the fundamental positions in a band who were always too clever for the dickheads paid to write something interesting about them. I will never, ever forget the sage words of the prophets:

"why don't people find rock bands funny?"

TISM were funny. The funniest. And clever. And talented. And Jock Cheese was one of 'em. And he never took off his mask. And they never sold out/copped out/fucked out. And there will be no public shows of grief or anything as shit as Wally Meanie's infamous 'ciao bella' epigraph because these guys had no time for fools.

Jock had been sick for a while. In fact, it's my dodgily held theory that you can pick up some lyrical hints as to how sick he'd been in songs such as this:

My best concert experiences are of TISM gigs. Monash Uni, Old Greek Theatre, Rosebud Drive In, Prince of Wales, Collingwood Town Hall, EVs in Croydon, Big Day Out. All awesome. Never a shit night.

I'm glad Jock got to knock out some solo stuff and hit the road touring it. I'm glad we never knew who they were, although I'm sure some self-important fuckhead at the Hun or the Beige will dig it up in the 'public interest'.

Yes, the spirit of TISM lives on in the band Root! And bless Humphrey B Flaubert and his unseasonably large sack of goodness for putting the cunty back into country. But nothing, nothing will compare with the opening bass lick of I'm Interested in Apathy for wanting to get this big dopey Skip on the dancefloor.

Jock, you made us realise just how fucking average so much modern music is. And I thank you.