Ringo Starr
Choose Love

METAMORPHOSIS AND HALF NO.

One morning Gregor Samsa, upon awakening from restless dreams, found himself transformed into a monstrous insect. He was lying on his back, hard as a shell, and by slightly lifting his head, he could see his brown convex belly, marked with arched grooves, where the blanket, about to slip to the floor, barely stayed in place. A quantity of legs, pitifully thin compared to his size, waved before his eyes.
"What has happened to me?" he thought. It was not a dream. He had transformed into a cockroach, or better yet: into Ringo Starr, the most unfortunate drummer ever so much kissed by fortune.

Someone must have slandered Ringo because, without having done anything wrong, one morning some men in gray decided to have him record yet another ill-fated album, "Choose Love" (so unfortunate that it was released just a few months after Paul McCartney's, completely overshadowing it in the media!). After which began what everyone called "The Trial" of a man of scarce virtues and so, so, and (still) so much luck.

The poor cockroach had tried everything to stand up: rocking on his back, prodding with his little legs, with the help of small jumps or even getting help from top-notch session musicians. Nothing: the result was always the same. The cockroach could not elevate himself to a decent rank and assert some dignity compared to the other three: did he never have one? This was the terrible thought of those long and interminable moments.

To tell the truth, a few years ago, he had also demonstrated some "artistic stature" with the album "Ringo Rama" in 2003, but are we sure that it wasn't the help of people like Eric Clapton, David Gilmour, Willie Nelson, Van Dyke Parks, and the legendary jazz double bassist Charlie Haden that hit the mark, more than our natural (!) qualities?

"When the sixteen-year-old Ringo, who had been sent to America by his poor parents because a maid had seduced him and had a child with him, entered the port of New York on the ship that had already slowed down, he saw the Statue of Liberty that he had spotted some time ago and...and..."
"Ohh, Wake up Ringo" said a seductive but authoritarian voice in his dream coming right from the Statue of Liberty (from the "Beatles myth") never attained. "Wake up Ringo, you've already made your mark 35 years ago... why do you still keep bothering us with bland and anonymous records that add (but rather take away) from your Musical History? Why don't you stay home doing something more profitable and satisfying? Couldn't you 'choose love' as you rightly propose from the title of this album, huh?! Grandchildren to take to the park? Fishing contests? Poker and PlayStation, nothing at all?! Are you still so hungry for fame, success, and fans willing, in a few years, to yank the catheter off you on stage? Don't you have a shred of dignity and respect towards the fans who have always supported you and dare say generously maintained you?"

This was the voice the poor cockroach heard in his deep self, and a thousand other thoughts plagued him, stuck in that position in bed, unable to straighten up into a satisfactory and dignified position for him and for Music History.

It was late evening when R. arrived. Affirmation and full dignity were enveloped in a thick blanket of fog and snow. The hill of minimal individual recognition could not be seen, surrounded by fog and darkness, not even the faintest glimmer of light indicating the great Castle. R. lingered long on the wooden bridge that led from the main road to the village, looking up into the apparent void.
The imposing Castle of the other three cockroaches was tall, golden, and unreachable. He knew he too had every right to enter it and that, in part, this castle was also the result of his work (!) but... deep down in his heart, in the basement of his soul, he knew deep down that he didn't fully deserve it, and would spend the rest of his life trying to prove his Artistic Stature, alas, in vain.

Indeed, not even this "Choose Love" managed to uplift his moral fortunes. Once again the valiant R. proved nothing, or worse, showed his true limits as an overrated and mostly bland author and artist, even in the face of luxurious collaborations (again? Yes indeed...) like Billy Preston and Chrissie Hynde.

No matter what, said R., as the 4th beetle I will die remembered as being "ONLY" a Beatle, period. One who never shook off the ghost of the other three (evoked THIS time too in the tracks "Oh My Lord," a clear reference to Harrison's success, or the track "The Long and Winding Road" present as a citation in the album's title track, not to mention the continuous sonic references to the heroic past of our/our).

There was just one little detail.
More than 35 years had passed, and the world had moved frighteningly forward.
The word "forward" suggested absolutely nothing to him. Indeed, while the world HERE was traveling at a different speed, Ringo remained fixed THERE (perhaps not unjustly, I add) to the dreams of the good (!) cockroach that he was in the good old days.

And since then, the poor R. has yet to wake up and waits for that beautiful cockroach dream he had lived years before to end once and for all to finally assume the role of the man he thought he was: from Star to Starr.
Not knowing alas, that he probably never was a "man": he was born a cockroach and will die (one day) a cockroach, accidentally crushed by the foot of his own fame.

*) This review contains excerpts from "The Metamorphosis," "The Trial," "Amerika," and "The Castle" by Franz Kafka (1883 - 1924) and was written respecting the author's original style. (And then they say I can't be serious if I want to, tsh... thoughts and comments also at: http://www.thepunishersblog.splinder.com/