Both of these men were great vocalists, but only one of them could sing.
My favorite fact about the New York Dolls was that Johnny Thunders cut all their hair.
This is a battle of the accents right here. Staten Island vs. Posh. (The British “posh” accent is properly called Received Pronunciation; it’s called that because it isn’t a natural way of speaking, and must be taught, preferably by a governess.)
The world will break you and never give you what you need. Everyone you love is one day closer to leaving you forever. The weather continues to refuse you a vote.
Everything changes and nothing lasts. Everything lasts and nothing changes. One day, we’ll all forget who Christ was; what hope do you have to be remembered? One day, the Rockies will wear down to nubs and the continent will be a thousand miles to the left of where it should be; what hope do any of us have? We’re all tourists here.
And everybody hates a tourist.
How, then, do we live? Shall we howl? Take the dying of the light out back and kick it with our heavy boots? Been forever since we had a decent poet cull, it seems. Burn the libraries, and rebuild them, and burn them again so those useless words finally get the point. Fuck it all, fuck it all to death.
Or you could go down to the store and get yourself some new records. I got a turntable we can plug into my Champ amp. We could roll up some spliff and dance around my pad a little. The place is kinda small, but there’s room.
There’s room. It’s home.
I can’t get the kind of love I need, so let’s just dance.