Pardon me. I need to ask for a moment of attention here.
We lost a great one today.
via Houston Chronicle: Ronnie James Dio has passed away.
Now, I don't care if you never listened to metal at all (your loss, if you didn't) but even so, you have to appreciate how great this physically-tiny little man's voice really was.
"The Sign of the Southern Cross" with Heaven & Hell (basically the same as the 1981 Mob Rules lineup of Black Sabbath) live in 2008. Just two years ago. He would have been 65 at the time.
Also realize: the \m/ metal-horns gesture? Did you ever wonder about the source of that? It was him. He always accredited it to the sign his old Italian grandmother used to make against the Evil Eye.
For a little extra tribute, here's a snippet from one of my many stalled WIPs. Good Omens. Working title: "Wrong Way Up (A Comedy of Redemption)," a bit I wrote like two years ago. In which Crowley is accidentally Redeemed as a full-status holy angel and hates every minute of it. Aziraphale tries and fails to shield him from the most traumatic effects of the change.
***
Upon getting out the door first, Aziraphale froze stock still.
There had to be some way to get Crowley to sit down immediately to have this latest news broken gently.
Too late.
He’d already seen the beautiful, immaculately kept, shining pearly-white 1926 Bentley.
The sound Crowley made should have been a screech of rage and horror to make children wake up sobbing and interrupting their parents’ clumsy, furtive attempts to have tired, dispirited sex for a 300-mile radius.
Instead, it was harmonious.
Aziraphale cringed.
The drive wasn’t much better. Crowley furiously jammed a tape into the stereo. What came out wasn’t the promised Brahms.
It wasn’t Queen either.
Come down with fire
And lift my spirit higher
Someone’s screaming my name,
Come and make me
Holy again
Crowley gave a chest-heaving, resigned sigh, the kind that would once have had a hissing quality in its final notes.
“Really? Really? Ronnie James Dio is one of yours?”
“Ours,” Aziraphale reminded him, and then bit his tongue.
I’m the man on the silver mountain
Crowley sat back. The Bentley still drove itself, but now it obeyed most traffic laws except for the really infernal ones.
“He runs a charity for abused children, you know.”
“Figures,” Crowley said, with a voice as flat as the highway. “Anybody run one for abused ex-demons?”
“You really need to start working on…acceptance right now. You’re not an ‘ex-demon,’ you’re an…”
“If you say it, I will throw you out of this car. And the worst part is it would be only because the exercise would do you good.”
“It’s not an insult,” Aziraphale said sulkily.
“On me it is. Take that coat of yours. Flattering on you. Skims your, er, curves. It wouldn’t work on me. Same kind of thing.”
“Did you just compliment my wardrobe?”
“Erk. I think so.”
***
Fair winds and smooth sailing, Mr. Dio. Hail and farewell.
via Houston Chronicle: Ronnie James Dio has passed away.
Now, I don't care if you never listened to metal at all (your loss, if you didn't) but even so, you have to appreciate how great this physically-tiny little man's voice really was.
"The Sign of the Southern Cross" with Heaven & Hell (basically the same as the 1981 Mob Rules lineup of Black Sabbath) live in 2008. Just two years ago. He would have been 65 at the time.
Click to viewAlso realize: the \m/ metal-horns gesture? Did you ever wonder about the source of that? It was him. He always accredited it to the sign his old Italian grandmother used to make against the Evil Eye.
For a little extra tribute, here's a snippet from one of my many stalled WIPs. Good Omens. Working title: "Wrong Way Up (A Comedy of Redemption)," a bit I wrote like two years ago. In which Crowley is accidentally Redeemed as a full-status holy angel and hates every minute of it. Aziraphale tries and fails to shield him from the most traumatic effects of the change.
***
Upon getting out the door first, Aziraphale froze stock still.
There had to be some way to get Crowley to sit down immediately to have this latest news broken gently.
Too late.
He’d already seen the beautiful, immaculately kept, shining pearly-white 1926 Bentley.
The sound Crowley made should have been a screech of rage and horror to make children wake up sobbing and interrupting their parents’ clumsy, furtive attempts to have tired, dispirited sex for a 300-mile radius.
Instead, it was harmonious.
Aziraphale cringed.
The drive wasn’t much better. Crowley furiously jammed a tape into the stereo. What came out wasn’t the promised Brahms.
It wasn’t Queen either.
Come down with fire
And lift my spirit higher
Someone’s screaming my name,
Come and make me
Holy again
Crowley gave a chest-heaving, resigned sigh, the kind that would once have had a hissing quality in its final notes.
“Really? Really? Ronnie James Dio is one of yours?”
“Ours,” Aziraphale reminded him, and then bit his tongue.
I’m the man on the silver mountain
Crowley sat back. The Bentley still drove itself, but now it obeyed most traffic laws except for the really infernal ones.
“He runs a charity for abused children, you know.”
“Figures,” Crowley said, with a voice as flat as the highway. “Anybody run one for abused ex-demons?”
“You really need to start working on…acceptance right now. You’re not an ‘ex-demon,’ you’re an…”
“If you say it, I will throw you out of this car. And the worst part is it would be only because the exercise would do you good.”
“It’s not an insult,” Aziraphale said sulkily.
“On me it is. Take that coat of yours. Flattering on you. Skims your, er, curves. It wouldn’t work on me. Same kind of thing.”
“Did you just compliment my wardrobe?”
“Erk. I think so.”
***
Fair winds and smooth sailing, Mr. Dio. Hail and farewell.