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A really nasty review of the Earthed book Print E-mail
Wednesday, 01 July 1987

This seems to come from RAM magazine's July 1987 issue. Under a pseudonym, someone really rips into Earthed.

Earth To Kilbey...
Earth To Kilbey...

You know me. If there's one thing I hate it's Art. But if there's one thing I detest, it's Bad Art. Now, you'd think that a poisonous old fart like me wouldn't be able to tell the difference, right? I think it all stinks, so what do I know, yeah?


A good friend of mine sells insecticides. Horrible stuff, stinks like chlorinated gym socks. This guy loathes the stuff, I mean, he doesn't leave it lying around the house so he can admire the aroma, if you get my meaning.

But he knows the difference between good and bad insecticide. One kills cockroaches and the other just stinks, which brings me to Steve Kilbey's poetry book, Earthed.

Earthed should be buried. I never had much truck with Shakespeare, but I bt he didn't decide to write sonnets just because some kids at the Trade Union Club told him he was "a fuckin' genius, mate. Unrool!" Steve seems to think he's on to something important. I don't. Here's why.

For one thing, no legitimate publisher wanted to touch the thing with a surgical probe. Sure, Steve decided to "self-publish" his poetry rather than go through the 'straight' world of book publishing", as the press release puts it. (The press release itself will surely enter some kind of hall of Fame in coming years, perhaps as Least Impressive Excuse.) But I find it hard to picture STeve being offered twenty grand upfront by Anugs & Roberston with a print run of 50,000 and total press exposure, then turning around and saying, "Naw. You're too straight for me..." Can't see it myself.

For another thing, he can't write. Dig this: "My perfect house with no flaws, the naked joy of birth...a moment and the sound is heard. There's a flock of flamingos like frothy strawberry milkshakes." Jesus Christ! The simile of doom!

Enough of all this. Let's get down to some serious marketing.

OK, so none of you have received your Grubblesnutch T-shirts yet. Well, whaddaya expect? Service? it took me three weeks to find the 40 starving illegal immigrants to do the silk screen, for a start. Then the artist tried to con me into using expensive inks that won't run in the wash or fade in the sun. Can you believe it?

Well that's all sorted out now, and you can expect delivery within hours. If you haven't ordered one, fill out this form. If you don't, I'll call you up and recite Kilbey's poetry at you. All of it.

J.Wallace Grubblesnutch

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