Nickas Cave'as, Ozzy Osbourne'as ir Alice'as Cooperis stovi eilėje prie kasos viename Vilniaus „RIMI“, likus porai minučių iki aštuntos vakaro. Kiekvienas rankose gniaužia po butelį ir karštai ginčijasi, kuris iš jų yra tikrasis Tamsos Princas.

Alice'as Cooperis, pasitaisęs juodą akių makiažą, sako:

– Vyrai, aš scenoje pjaustau lėles ir giljotinuoju save! Mano siaubo šou gąsdina kartas. Tikroji tamsa priklauso man!

Ozzy Osbourne'as, nervingai trepsėdamas vietoj, sumurma:

– Nesvaik, Alise. Aš tamsos tėvas, „Black Sabbath“ balsas, aš šikšnosparniams galvas kandžiojau! Mano siela priklauso nakčiai, aš esu Tamsos Princas!

Nickas Cave'as, vilkdamas savo juodą švarką žeme, liūdnai žvelgia į pirkinių krepšelį ir taria:

– Tikroji tamsa yra ne jūsų pigūs triukai. Tai lėtas, nepakeliamas laukimas šioje neoninėje šviesoje, suprantant, kad laikas nenumaldomai bėga, o mūsų nuodėmės liks neišpirktos...

Būtent tą akimirką laikrodis virš kasos muša 20:00.

Kasininkė ramiai paima Nicko Cave'o butelį, nuskenuoja, o kasa garsiai supypsi: „Alkoholinių gėrimų pardavimas draudžiamas“. Ji šaltu veidu atima butelius iš visų trijų roko legendų, paslepia juos po prekystaliu ir sako:

– Viskas, vyrai. Aštunta valanda. Įstatymas šventas. Galiu įmušti tik šiuos tris sūrelius ir mineralinį.

Visi trys apstulbę žiūri į tuščias rankas, o Ozzy nusivalo ašarą:

– Štai kur tikroji tamsa... Prieš Lietuvos politiku įstatymus net Tamsos Princai yra niekas.  Veryga yra tikrasis Tamsos Princas.

as a rhyming poem:

Robert Smith and Morrissey both left the earth one day,

And stood before the Pearly Gates in shades of gothic gray.

St. Peter looked exhausted as he rubbed his heavy brow,

And said, “Listen up, you kings of gloom, you’re up in Heaven now.

There are no room for tears up here, no melancholy tunes,

No black eyeliner, messy hair, or sad and lonely moons.

For twenty-four straight hours, you must find your happy place,

Or both of you will pack your bags for Satan's warm embrace.”

St. Peter snapped his fingers and he gave them each a room,

To see if they could finally escape their earthly doom.

An hour passed, the keeper went to check on Robert’s state,

And stood amazed at what he saw inside the music gate.

The room was bright with disco lights and balloons of neon pink,

With upbeat pop tunes blasting out as fast as you could blink.

And there sat Robert on a cloud, his lipstick smeared and wild,

But as he chewed a plate of ribs, he happily just smiled.

He tore the pork right off the bone, he poured himself a beer,

And celebrated paradise with grand, un-gothic cheer.

St. Peter smiled and checked his box: “Well, Robert has succeeded.

He found the joy and happiness that every spirit needed.”

He walked along the hallway then, to Morrissey’s dark suite,

And felt a shudder in his spine from head down to his feet.

The room was pitch-black, freezing cold, and silent as the dead,

With just one single, weeping candle glowing by the bed.

And there in the furthest corner sat the singer, all alone,

In a tight fetal position, making a dramatic moan.

He clutched a bunch of dead flowers tightly to his chest,

And sobbed so loud it shook the clouds inside his holy nest.

St. Peter slammed his clipboard down, his face turned red with rage,

“Morrissey!” he shouted out, “Get off this tragic stage!

I told you to be happy, but you're drowning in your tears,

You’re going straight to Hell tonight with all your gloomy fears!”

But Morrissey looked slowly up, his eyes all red and wet,

And said, “Dear Peter, this is bliss, the best I’ve felt as yet!

I am not sad, I am not hurt, my soul is filled with grace,

I’ve never felt such ecstasy in any time or place!”

St. Peter blinked in pure confusion, looking at the floor,

“You’re happy? Then what is this crying and this weeping for?!”

Then Morrissey pointed a shaking finger at the wall,

And let his final, most dramatic tear of sorrow fall:

“I’m crying ’cause I found out that just right next door to me,

Old Robert Smith is eating meat with gluttonous, wild glee...

And since this place is Heaven, where no hatred can belong,

I am forbidden from writing a twelve-minute protest song!”    

If Christopher Walken married Brian Eno, divorced him and married Alex Winter, divorced him to marry Stevie Wonder before divorcing him to settle down with Jessica Lang he’d be Walken-Eno-Winter-Wonder-Lang.

A friend is in a band called 999Mb. They haven’t had a gig yet.

A few goths I know where in a band called The Prevention. Much better than The Cure.

I went to see Placebo once.  I actually thought that they were The Cure.

I  went to a record shop and asked, “have you got anything by the Doors?” He said, “Yes, a bucket of sand, a mop, a bucket and a brush”.

Two wind turbines in a field. One says to the other “do you like music?”  The other replies “Yes, I’m a big heavy metal fan”.

Miles Davis, jazz trimitininkas, yra pasakęs.:"Man, if you have to ask what jazz is, you'll never know"

Kokių žinote anekdotų susijusių su muzika? :)