When Kokomo’s not out at a show, sat back in his Lazy-boy reading rock biographies or listening to his favourite bangerz on $2 shop headphones, he often tappy tappy texts his lawyer/confidante/editor a little of that magic mumbo jumbo with which to piece together the genius which you now find yourself within. Koko no Shakespeare with the word and no Stamos with the looks, but Koko feel his contribution to Australian music unfairly and largely ignored. Famously, no mention of Koko in the “Who’s Who of Australian Rock” book. What next for poor Koko?
Google search shows no blogs anxiously awaiting Kokomo’s album release. Once again no ARIA red carpet invitation. No chat booked with Waleed Aly on The Project. So Koko is just gonna have to take history into his own hands and write about his favourite topics: himself, music, beer, babes and the babes within beer commercials. Koko will secretly tap out his memoir while on scheduled toilet breaks during his side-hustle working holiday as chief number two safety inspector of the Kronenbourg factory in dark depressing deeply isolated rural France. Please enjoy the introduction to the first chapters , written on his iPhone 2, speeding towards the airport in his dad’s Uber (Surge Price X1.2).
“Pray for Koko: The Life and Times of Kokomo Jones”
After falling into his daddy’s home brew cauldron of fake-Budweiser as a baby, Kokomo discovered he had average-to-low strength and Polydipsia, or as you unintellectual call it “Le Unquenchable Thirst”. Kokomo soon grew to bypass the family menhir delivery business and made his coin from dumping stacks of the Moorabbin Standard meant for delivery into the neighbour’s recycle bin. Koko then used these ill-gotten proceeds to buy a Strat copy for $130 from an Italian dude at the Mentone Pawn Shop. “These Romans are crazy”, Kokomo thought to himself. “This guitar is so gonna be worth millions after I simply learn to shred, cover it in Cool Rock Stickers (TM) and then rip off Uncle Neil and write my biggest hits on it!”
Kokomo knew that practicing or writing songs was just for nerds. One needs only cool looking equipment and fuck loads of pedals. Sadly, this prized guitar isn’t on display at the Hard Rock Café next to Axyl Rose’s soiled Welcome To The Jungle lycra undergarment, nor beside Jimi Hendrix’s jumbo salami plaster cast. Koko’s pride and joy can be found in his roof crawlspace while he waits for the value to increase, as Gumtree deadbeats offer well under the reserve when they should really be using their cash on child support payments.
XoXo – Kokomo
