I'm just a big fan...why does my creepy meter keep going off?
With the advent of all this lightning speed technology that fits in the palm of our hand, it's almost cliche for people to talk about how much smaller the globe has gotten when it comes to communication. Physical boundaries when it comes to commerce, communication, business, love...they simply no longer exist. Is your daughter going to spend a semester studying in New Zealand? Sure, you'll miss her, but it's nothing that frequent Skype chats and daily uploads of photos to Facebook won't ease.
The independent film, "Another Earth" twists the small world notion by adding a second Earth. Soon after its discovery, its similarities to our Earth are noted, but then it's determined that the second Earth is a mirror image of our Earth. Everyone on this planet has an identical person living the identical life on the other planet. But the plot twists even further when it's theorized that the mirror essentially cracked and the synchronicity between the two planets ended at the moment the second Earth was discovered.
After stumbling upon a blog the other day while reading some random writing about one of my favorite bands, Pink Floyd, I think I might have a twin right here, on the very planet I reside.
I was into Pink Floyd a little bit as a kid. I remember watching "The Wall" with a buddy of mine, but mostly because we wanted to know why everyone seemed to share the belief that you had to be stoned in order to truly "get" the film. Truth be told, it’s not stellar cinema; it just happens to be accompanied by the best soundtrack in the history of sound.
It wasn't until driving home from a golf outing in Red Lake Falls as a teenager – yes, I recall the exact moment – that I heard the song "Learning to Fly," which was from the "Momentary Lapse of Reason" album, the first Pink Floyd album from the post-Roger Waters era. He and guitarist/vocalist David Gilmour couldn't stand each other, Waters quit and sued, without success, to have Pink Floyd dissolved, and Gilmour and the rest of the band moved one without Waters.
I was sold. I bought the CD and marveled at Gilmour's voice and his talents as a guitarist. Was he a lyricist in Waters' class? No. But he didn't have to be.
Soon after, Floyd embarked on their "Delicate Sound of Thunder" tour and released a concert film capturing their performance at Nassau Coliseum in New York. Over the next several months, my dad and I wore out that tape in our VCR.
We dug the music, of course, but it was one of the three backup singers on that tour that particularly caught our eye. She had a unique, powerful voice that emanated from her diminutive stature...stature enveloped in a little black dress. She had these subtle, understated little dance moves and seemed to have a tremendous, even flirty rapport with Gilmour. She had an endearing, tiny gap between her front teeth and...OK, now I'm getting a little creepy. She was sexy, OK? And talented; she nailed her portion of "The Great Gig in the Sky.”
We checked the liner notes. The three backup singers were listed as Rachel Fury, Durga McBroom and Margaret Taylor. Stuck in ancient, pre-Google times, my dad and I decided that our favorite singer, who was on the right if you were looking on from the crowd, was Margaret. She just looked like a Margaret Taylor. She just oozed a dignity, elegance and grace that seemed befitting of a Margaret Taylor. OK, my creepy meter is beeping again...sorry about that.
She was Margaret, to us, for the next 25 years or so, until we stumbled across a blogger who's a fellow Pink Floyd devotee and #1 fan of a certain backup singer from the Delicate Sound of Thunder tour.
Who happens to be named Rachel Fury. All this time, she was Rachel Fury and, now that I think about it, she did exude a certain fiery charisma, a molten hot sensuality that epitomized a fury of some sort. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Oops, sorry. Moving on...
I swear, this blogger is my twin. He fancies himself a writer, digs Pink Floyd, and is obsessed with Rachel Fury, which was her stage name, by the way. She was born Rachel Brennock, and her boyfriend, a Pink Floyd producer, turned her onto the band way back when. She showed her singing chops and landed a spot on the tour.
Now, in her early 50s, she lives a quiet life in London, long ago retired from singing and currently an animal rights activist.
I wonder if she's a cat person, like me. I wonder if loves feeding birds, too, and if she loves peanut butter as much as I do, and Keebler Club Crackers. I wonder how much a plane ticket to England would set me back.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!