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How Do You Mend A Broken Heart?

One of the Bee Gees died! Maurice, he of the funny hat. Poor bugger. As a loving tribute, here is a stunning piece of writing from the vault entitled In Defence of the Brothers Gibb.

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About Shauna Reid

Ahoy there! I’m an author, copywriter and old school blogger. I love telling stories about life and helping my clients to tell theirs. Find out more about me and how we can work together.


18 thoughts on “How Do You Mend A Broken Heart?

  1. He was about 53. That’s like, Sir plus five. I don’t like that at all.

    (Next time you pull something out of the vault, consider the time we met Human Nature LOL)

  2. The Bee Gees wrote a song about Massachusetts!? Shit…news to me us folks here in the Bay State (I think that’s our nick name anyway) – you learn something new everyday – thanks Shauny!

  3. Those teeth, man. Never seen a faker set of choppers. I wonder if they’re going to take them out and put them in a museum? Hard Rock Cafe? Use the light reflected off them to power a small African country or two? I’ll miss the teeth, I surely will.

  4. Ssh. Don’t. They’ll hear you. And then the fangs will stalk the land.

    Can’t you just imagine Hammer Horror making a flick about them? Or perhaps Russ Meyer. I Was A Victim Of Bee Gees’ Bridgework!

    I’d pay to see that.

    But yes. He was the cool one. No wonky teeth, no boofy hair, always a natty hat. Fare thee well.

  5. I don’t often wander around singing old Bee Gees songs (well, I sing ‘Fanny’ in the shower sometimes), but on Sunday I just started singing “Til I finally died, which started the whole world living…” and wondered what the hell it was about. When I read later that a Bee Gee had died, I thought that that was the sort of coincidence that makes people believe in spooky tripe. But if I were to believe that, I’d have to believe there was was some sort of psychic connection between me and Maurice, which doesn’t seem bloody likely, does it?

    Still, that doesn’t explain the glowing, disembodied head of Maurice Gibb floating above my bed all last night singing “Spicks and Specks” over and over.

  6. The radio station they make us listen to at work played a whole hour of bee gees this afternoon! Geeze. It got old after Stayin’ Alive, the only one I knew the words to.

    I mentioned the death of Maurice to Cameron and his reaction was “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day!”

  7. I have to admit that although it’s a sad thing, and news of a certain interest, knowing that a Bee-Gee died is not quite as sad as say, knowing that a Beatle died. At least, to me.

    I also have to admit to a certain appreciation for the Bee Gees, being a young tot in that era and hearing the music while having a violent crush on Shaun Cassidy and learning to disco and feeling really cool as I pointed my finger in the air after a particularly well-executed spin. Of course, we all completely denied all affiliation with disco and the Bee Gees during the 80’s, but I did jump back on the bandwagon when disco chic first came back in the early 90’s.

    And the Bee Gees’ music is excellent for cleaning house. Put in the soundtrack for Saturday Night Fever while you dust, and you’ll see what I mean.

  8. The really tragic thing about this is that I didn’t really comprehend the Bee Gees until about 1994. Without any of the substances that make the rounds amongst undergraduates, it suddenly occurred to me at a party how revolutionary the Bee Gees had been in associating underground dance music with mainstream pop. What had thrown me off was the falsettos and the simplistic drum beat. But when I hooked into the carefully placed guitar jingle that punctuated each measure of “You Should Be Dancing,” and finally allowed my body to dance whenever “Jive Talkin'” played (quite carefully, given the automaton-like swaying that completely replaced line dancing and general dance innovation amongst general Caucasian weekend socials), the Brothers Gibb made sense and rocked accordingly.

    Keep in mind that disco dancing was probably the last Saturday night tableau in which one required a repertoire of moves to make it, baby, on the dance floor. Even if they were as absurd as the tango hustle (which was actually devised on the “Saturday Night Fever” set by Travolta when the choreographer didn’t show up).

    And the Bee Gees complemented, if not a questionable cultural philosophy, a frothy innocence with tunes which had a beat. Name me one other band from the 70s who managed to sound dated in the 1980s and yet come across as completely fresh after the 1990s. (And, no, The Incredible Bongo Band doesn’t count.)

    Love ’em or hate ’em, the “Saturday Night Fever” soundtrack OUTSOLD the Beatles WHILE the disco craze was on the wane. And it was entirely because the Bee Gees knew how to write songs that hooked into the Western psyche (and beyond). Why they haven’t been put up there with the Beach Boys in terms of sheer catchy tunes is a mystery I’ll never understand. One thing I do know is that the sheer number of catchy tunes that they generated could not be expected out of any reasonable songwriter. But they more then met the challenge. And yet they were mocked mercilessly when they finally collapsed in the 80s.

    Much like a political leader out of office, sometimes it takes a death to fully appreciate what was accomplished by pop performers, seemingly dated.

  9. And I didn’t mean to imply that line dancing was no longer around. It’s just not around anymore with your typical Saturday night clubber. If you want to line dance, then I’m afraid it’s country dancing or tangoing for you.

    And I defy anyone here to give me one good reason why John Travolta does not rock in his solo dance scene in “Saturday Night Fever,” complete with the Elvis pointing cutaway shot. If you can pull your body up from the floor like that on a repeated basis, well then either you’re fitter than I’ll ever be or on crack.

    (Note to self: Join ballroom dancing class.)

  10. As much as I disliked the band, their music, their hats and teeth. As much as I hated the off key falsetto singing and the tight Italian slacks, the coke chains dangling on cushions of curly chest hair. As much as I remember going to see Saturday Night Fever at the Frankfurt International Airport because it was the only place a civilian could see it in Germany where the film wasn’t dubbed, and how the theater smelled like piss and unwashed travelers, hiding for a few more hours from the world or for their plane to leave. As much as I hate remembering that I thought Disco sucked and was not nearly as cool as REO Speed wagon, Journey, Kansas, Cheep Trick and all the other shitty arena rock bands I was into when I was thirteen.

    As much as all that, no one and I do mean no one, should have to die over a blocked intestine. Spend any time in them and you’ll see that hospitals are no place to treat the unwell.

  11. I hadn’t thought about “Saturday Night Fever” in years when, one night about eight years ago, I was working the night shift in the ER. It was a quiet night and we were all bored stiff and more than a little sleepy. Somebody had brought in a portable CD player with a small selection of tunes, including the SNF soundtrack. Somebody put it on – and the level of energy in there went up about three hundred percent! I’d forgotten how good those songs were. We all perked up and made it through the rest of the night just fine.

  12. My favourite band members always die. George Harrison…and…uh. And now Maurice! My admiration and fandom are the kiss of death. Might take a while though.

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