MH was a rock singer. By family he was a New Zealander, so was an Antipodean rocker. That’s the thing with birth: suddenly, out of nothing, you are something.
No one can say you are other than that.
Context has arrived, perhaps already too much.
You’re rolling down those rails.
Disappointingly for MH, the time of his birth had placed him, at his majority, and doing his rock ‘n’ roll thing, in a period when rock ‘n’ roll music had lost its cultural impetus — nearly all of it, anyway. It had degraded into a commercial undertaking, a polished vehicle to separate people — often young and therefore impressionable people — from their money, only.
But here he is, MH, still manipulating the tropes:
Machismo, showman of rock, a shower of sweat and whisky, virile, priapic, a flamboyant front man, obsolete. Which creates an odd covenant between him and those happy to watch, happy to pay, believing themselves somehow investors.
Of exclusion, as covenants are.
Older and more cynical types, those into validity, wouldn’t be buying into MH’s act, didn’t see it, couldn’t see it. They’d seen it all before, only better, as the past usually is.
They, in their dreariness, were outside, and were able to see the curiosity.
You can’t detect curiosity when you’re in it.
Completely embraced, the eyes don’t work.
Probably, step out of it.
MH wasn’t going to stop the showman act; he was going to plug away to the bitter end. Having nothing else, neither should he stop, it might well be said on his behalf.
So when the news came of his death, in a presumed heroin overdose, it did not reach tragedy pure or comedy pure, no held attitude was challenged, it was news fitting the world,
the world both before and after his sad passing.
That’s so boring, would say the young.