It's all over
Kenny Graham bio
Hi there, pop fans!
Smile, smile, smile
It's all over
I have got the furious needle
Brain Drain
Revive me!
My inheritance

The Devil looks after
Hymn Number Dinky Do
The Expert
Post mortem
Tete a tete
Fine, fine, fine
Fame and fortune
Mars, they're making eyes

So now it’s all over. The Choral societies have put away the scores of “The Messiah” until next year. The same applies to the Salvation Army’s carols, the thousands of school Christmas productions and the children who come around and sing outside your door without bothering too much if they know the words or have got the tune right. All of it will be forgotten for another twelve months until Christmas comes around once more. All this, and more.

Unfortunately all the Goodwill. Happiness, Prosperity and Merriness will, I’m afraid, also be forgotten until next Christmas and one and all will dive head first into the Rat Race. All the insincere chatting–up will begin again (if it ever really stopped). It will be open season for back–biting, schneidery, bribery, wining, dining and general corruption for another twelve months, and all done in the search of a crust. Some of the non–hustlers among us will attempt to keep it to a minimum, but it will still be there if we are to survive until next Christmas.

After the meaningless Christmas wishes come the laughable New Year Resolutions. We promise ourselves all manner of radical changes in our way of life, but in the end it all boils down to “I promise to pay the bearer £X” —that is, if no way can be found to bend the contract and get out of paying altogether.

Did someone say, “Poor disillusioned Graham”? Well, I am disillusioned—though not dismayed. In my naive way I have implicit faith in my beliefs. I believe in some quaint old–fashioned concepts. I believe that sincerity and honesty count more than ballyhoo and bull. I also believe that agents and promoters work for artists and not vice versa. I’m so far out of date it’s a shame. But outdated or not, I will enter 1968 with a clear conscience and with the knowledge that I can at least live with myself. So think, think, think, me darlin’s and a very good year to all of you. Be good to one another and take care.

Overheard over Christmas
“I don’t know what to get young Johnny.”
“Get him an LP.”
“That’s no good, he’s got one!”

Bella voce
I always make a point of listening to Choral Evensong on the radio whenever I am at home on a Wednesday afternoon. I don’t want to know about the chatting bits—it’s the choir that knocks me out, especially the boy sopranos. I’ll take the chance that you’ll put me down as a queen with religious mania and explain what I dig, It has long been my belief that the most beautiful musical instrument in the whole of creation is the singing voice of a young boy before puberty. When women sing the same parts it doesn’t have the same beauty. There is something magical about the quality and timbre of a young male voice when used in choral works and its equal can’t be found anywhere else in music. What a pity it has to be so ephemeral. It lasts only for that very short period from when the youngster has learned to control it until it is whipped away by the coming of puberty and transmogrifies into an unreliable croak. As it says in the Good Book—“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away”.

Weird scene
The recent railway upheavals have given me an idea. Here we have a weird scene. Firemen with no fires to stoke and guards with no guard’s vans and yet they must still be paid. Now, my idea is this: I’m going to row myself into The Black And White Minstrel Show as principal ophicleidist. I don’t expect there will be many parts in the book for me to play, but I couldn’t half do with some of that loot. If this ruse should fail, I will inveigle my way into the Amadeus String Quartet on L.A. percussion!

Hate, hate, hate
I have finally agreed to release to the world some of my pet dislikes. So how’s this for a start?

Disc Jockeys who play records.
Critics who expect you to perform as they think it should be.
People who speak sotto vote when I’m screaming at them.

 Copyright © 1968, Kenny Graham. All Rights Reserved