In my youth, Max Blagg played a key role, which included my introduction to Astral Weeks. He was my first “boyfriend” when I moved to London. To a 15 year old juvenile delinquent from L.A., Max was the essence of English allure.
Max was always larger than life, one of those people who emote at high volume and always teeter on the edge of elation or dark despair. He seemed always to be yearning for another environment, another notebook or another woman. He once spent several weeks bitching about his futile search for a Victorian nightshirt. And I once risked his wrath by secretly borrowing his pink corduroy Levi’s, even though I could barely stuff my fat ass into them.
Max lives in NYC now, where he is a poet and man-about-town. I’ve only seen him once in the intervening years. But every time I hear certain records from 1969, I recall the indescribable joy of being free to do everything and everyone, and those memories usually contain an element of Max Blagg.
I missed out on high school but I racked up an education. Some of it was rough but mostly it was thrilling. It’s the kind of shit you can take pride in once you’re a boring housewife with costochondritis.
Happy New Year, Max! I’m glad you’re still around. In my heart you’ll always be 20 years old and the hottest thing on wheels.
The inimitable Laurabob said “You have to do enough stuff when you’re young so you can have something to think about when you’re laying around being old.”
Ahhhh Astral Weeks! Last year I heard the new live version at the Royal Albert Hall in London. The original album also reminds me of my first boyfriend (free spirited and wild… who introduced me to Van the Man). Whenever we had an argument he would play Madame George at full volume and refuse to speak to me, which was dramatic, beautfiful and very scary all at the same time. Adore ‘The Way Young Lovers Do’. Thanks for reviving the memories xx
Alas, and, yes, I know I am the poorer for it, but I have absolutely no idea who Mr. Blagg is. However, from the two photographs you produce above I would hazard that he is a complete dork. I base this Holmesian analysis on the fact that any man who is quite so careful in his posing lacks a sense of the ridiculous without which, of course, er, one is a complete dork. Q.E.D.
P.S: I am happy to concede that he might be very kind to animals and all that sort of thing.
SW, I will never be as cool as you! At least you sowed your oats and don’t have to fell like you missed out on something in your “old age” : ) ).
On a completely different note, my feet (wearing the silver Margiela tabi flats) are in the New York Times Sunday Styles “On the Street” today! Here’s the link: http://video.nytimes.com/video/playlist/style/on-the-street/1247463985977/index.html#1247466356619
I feel like I’m ALMOST as cool as you! xoxoxo
When are you going to publish your memoir, Sister?
“….so careful in his posing (he) lacks a sense of the ridiculous…” – au contraire (look it up, Mr Duff, it’s french. in case you did not realise).
couldn’t agree more about Astral Weeks and Forever Changes. RIP Arthur Lee, and I guess I have to forgive my husband for breast pump cleaning violation as he did introduce me to Love.
And agree w/Iheartfashion re:memoir.
Suebob – That Laurabob was one wise woman.
Susan – I saw that live tour of Astral Weeks on DVD! I’m glad you got to see him! Every song on Astral Weeks still kills me.
David – Ooh, you sound jealous! Please continue!
andrea – Oh please, no one can be as cool as me.
Iheartfashion – Can I call it “No, You Shut Up?”
JimmyP – Mr. Duff is just exhibiting his jealousy, which I like in a man. If you send me a photo, I could write an ode to YOU!
fashionherald – Wow, Mr Fashionherald gets big props for that. Let’s forgive him.
that is a deal, Sister W… i’ll find a photo where i look ridiculous (which will be easy) and then summon up the vanity to send it (even easier)…
BTW…huge best seasonals to you all with extra for the cub.
Ahh, the divine Max Blagg – a true original: 1968, Retford’s Broken Wheel (or was it twisted?), when to be young was very heaven. Bob Dylan, Canned Heat, Kenneth Patchen. He was a poet, he knew it – glad to discover he never blew it….Keep on kickin – and ‘don’t forget to boogie.’
JimmyP – Solid. and thanks.
Dilettante – Ha, I wouldn’t go that far.
Yeah – probably did get a little carried away. It was late…
Pingback: London, the Horror. |