There are seven goats on the cover of Pet Sounds, although some of them are only partially in shot as a result of their mad scramble to push their rivals, The Beach Boys, out of the frame.
The Beach Boys are the preppy looking ones at the back. They are dressed in blazers and sensible jackets. The goats are all buck naked and the one on the far left is baring its arse to the camera. Three years later in Miami, Jim Morrison will allegedly flash his penis at the audience of a Doors show, in an attempt to shatter their fragile eggshell minds. Jim Morrison wishes that he was one of the goats on the cover of Pet Sounds.
After shooting the cover photo for Pet Sounds, the goats had a disagreement and went their separate ways. Now they sue each other all the time, even though they hardly have any money. They all have flagging solo recording careers but perform very similar music. If you’ve heard one environmentally-themed goat-folk ballad about eating your garbage, you’ve heard them all.
One of the goats, who is called Giles (His real name is Balthazar but he changed it to make himself sound less like a male stripper) claims that he wrote the song Eve Of Destruction about his ex-girlfriend, Eve. This is a blatant lie. Even members of Stooshe know that Eve Of Destruction was penned by P.F. Sloan and is about, goth-folk duo, All About Eve’s disastrous lip-syncing fiasco on Top of the Pops in 1988.
One Saturday in November I was so bored that I went to the Reading Festival. Like most of the UK’s music festivals it runs all year round but is only publicised as taking place on August bank holiday.
Anyway, when I went to the Reading Festival, all seven of the Pet Sounds goats were on the bill, one after the other. That’s an entire afternoon of solid goat. I wanted to express my displeasure in the time–honoured democratic way of my people, by hurling a bottle of piss at the stage. Unfortunately, just before entering the festival I had taken a legal high and the kidney Stonehenge that had ensued was preventing me from urinating. Later the hysterical prog-rockers, Muse, were able to destroy it with their on-stage death ray, however by this time the goats had gone home and there was nobody left for me to drench in piss.
I have just referred to the diary entry that I wrote that evening. I see that I awarded this day a disappointing one and a half star rating, so that I will know to avoid it if I ever manage to build a functioning time machine.