Toronto Mike'd: The Official Toronto Mike Podcast - David Marsden Reviews the 1970s

Episode Date: July 18, 2021

On the Spirit of Radio CFNY 102.1 David Marsden reviews the 1970s.

BFNY FM 102.1, the spirit of radio. Dave Barsad. Take a hard look around you, babe Ain't nobody got it made So you can live in your head Or you can live in your heart But if you don't live at all Then why the hell you start to see A thrill's a thrill

A thrill's a thrill I said a thrill's a thrill A thrill's a thrill In the world of paradise I said it's thrills and thrills And even in paradise And even in paradise Now that young boys are all hanging out in bars Old men don't have to cruise them all night in cars. Those young girls that love the smell of flowers. And old women love to play with them for hours.

I said the gays are straight and the straights are queer And the buyers just call everybody dear You know what? A thrill's a thrill A thrill's a thrill A thrill's a thrill A thrill's a thrill In paradise Thrills and thrills Thrills and thrills In paradise

In paradise Hey, we're down to get up And we ought to get down Ooh, I'll try anything If it makes my head go round Leather whips And fingertips Hey, I know a boy Leather whips and fingertips I know a boy who is growing tits He knows a thrill's a thrill

A thrill's a thrill A thrill's a thrill A thrill's a thrill In paradise Thrills and thrills Thrills and thrills From paradise In paradise Paradise Live in your head Or live in your heart

If you don't live at all, then why the hell did you start? You see, a thrill's a thrill. A thrill's a thrill. Even in paradise Even in paradise In paradise The gays are straight And the straights are clear And the byes just call everybody dear They never get through Everybody here thinks they're in a thrill A thrill, a thrill Deeper than paradise

Deeper than paradise Leather whips And nitrate sniffs I know a boy Who is growing Kicks me swell A thrill to thrill A thrill to thrill You can't survive A thrill to thrill In paradise

Rebirth in paradise Rebirth in paradise In paradise A thrill to thrill In paradise Rebirth in paradise In paradise I feel the thrill I feel the thrill In every eye In every eye

You don't need my eyes I feel the thrill I feel the thrill In every eye In every eye I feel the thrill I feel the thrill I feel the thrill

I feel the thrill Welcome to North America. Our Miss Shields will show you your table. Such a pretty baby. What'll it be? Have a drink, have a puff, have a snort, have some smack. Legalized gambling in the front room, skin flicks in the back. Mirrors, mirrors everywhere in glorious profusion. Come on in.

Something for every palate. Reproductions by Rockefeller, senators by David Garth, exploding pintos by Ford. Hey, and that's not all. Carcinogens in 31 flavors. Opium from Saint Laurent, secondals from Graceland, polyvinyl

vaginas from Larry Flint. Funky, punk funky, junky. You want it? We've got it. See the mayor of San Francisco shot dead in his office. See the homosexual supervisor dying down the hall. See 900 bodies bloating in the jungle sun. Parental guidance suggested. Get your top hat, get your spike heels,

grab a whip, grab a chain, and get it on for the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Sorry, Norman Rockwell doesn't live here anymore. Join the looters in New York. A police strike in Memphis, an orgy in L.A. Say hello to Harry Reams. Get a rattlesnake by mail. Who invited Solzhenitsyn?

Catch some herbs. Get a facelift. Rent a boy. Watch Linda Blair being raped with a plumber's helper. Linda Blair vomiting on a priest. Linda Blair masturbating with a crucifix. Check it out. There's something in the air.

A sense of slippage. The perfume of decay. Life is slick and bright and noisy. But there's a softness here. A crumbling behind the glass. Chuck Barris is the man of the hour. Tacky. Sure, he's tacky. But he's having a swell time. Chuck Barris is the man of the hour. Tacky. Sure, he's tacky.

But he's having a swell time. Chuck Barris is perfect. Disco with his red, raw, beaten, endless climaxes to the anthem of the 70s. High voltage, quick hits. That's what we want. Nuance and texture can wait. It doesn't have to be good. We're talking bottom line here.

We've raised image over substance and reduced sensuality to its crudest, most efficient forms. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, my rod and my vibrator comfort me. Come July, it'll be ten years since Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon, and ten years since Teddy Kennedy and Murray Jokopechny rode off Dyke Bridge. Of the two events, Chappaquiddick is far more presaged the decade ahead. It was so callous, so sloppy. We shrug off almost everything now, moving on with a lot of help from the omnivorous media to the next fleeting titillation.

For ads in vogue feature women being attacked by Dobermans. Shrug. Bianca Jagger, Billy Carter, Gary Gilmore, all hype, show, diversion. There's a new rock group called the Dead Kennedys. Shrug. It's as if we're beyond making distinctions, beyond caring. Do Teddy's celebrated indiscretions continue? No problem. His Gallup ratings have never been higher. Third graders are selling dope. White House aides are buying it. Our appetite for violence is insatiable. Sid Vicious is just a mixed-up kid. Exhausted

from our exertions of the 60s, all we ask for now is relief. Six hours of TV helps to get us through the day. Life, once removed, is close enough, thanks. The impetuous to rethink, reform, transform has long since slid into the inuit. After two centuries, we have reached a consensus of a difference. We do it all for you. That's the spirit of 79. Proposition 13 with its shimmering promise of something for nothing it's a metaphor of the times the beauty of Werner Erhardt's PR project to end world hunger

is that you don't have to do a thing small wonder Jerry Brown is our politician liberal, conservative, Jesuit, Buddhist Jerry will give us what we want no sweat don't think about it don't think about anything conservative Jesuit Buddhist. Jerry will give us what we want. No sweat. Don't think about it. Don't think about anything. Turn up the volume.

Have another toke. Honk if you're horny. Say, here's Johnny, Dolly, Reggie, Woody, Angie, Emmy, Betty, Donnie, Chevy, Henry, Goldie, Liz, and OJ. Immerse yourself in their glossy, empty lives. Oh, the better to forget your own. Jackie, oh, Jackie, oh, Jackie, oh! There are almost no famous people anymore.

Only celebrities. Personalities. Fame is passe. It is much too solid, too suggestive of steady achievement there still are ripples of grace and distinction, commitment and courage but all seem in shorter supply now it's no time for heroes

Bob Dylan at Caesar's Palace coming soon and when you can't get it up for all the stars Steve Rubell ever dreamed of. When the fevers of a thousand Saturday nights and all

the massage parlors in Wichita still aren't enough, there remains surrender body and soul to an Emperor Jones. Like the man said, choose your poison.

Oh, the hell with it. Forget it. We'll just ease on down the road and hey, welcome to North America. Drinks are on the house. Bottoms up.