Portrait of the Artist as a Young Corpse

My first album is a set of youthful, energetic songs celebrating youth and energy. Boys copy my hairstyle and girls mail themselves in packages to my hotel room. The whole world is a feast of Dionysian delights.

My second album is loaded with weary songs about life on the road, drug addiction, and sketches of the eccentric characters encountered along the way. The word "mature" is the common denominator in reviews. Sales are high. So is the band. I fire my drummer for substance abuse.

My third album is a self-produced concept album entitled Bok and the Toad People, ostensibly about the role of a musician in society but most listeners find the plot largely impenetrable. Epic in scope, soaked in obscure metaphors, it was dubbed "commercial suicide" by the record company and critics alike. Frequently used in elitist circles as a device to shun undesirables who do not "get" it. More talked about than listened to.

My fourth album is an attempt to return to my roots. Critically lauded, commercially modest, quickly forgotten. Soon to be a deleted title.

My fifth album is a contractually fulfilling greatest hits package. Soon afterward I retreat from the spotlight into an extended retirement of woodcraft and botany. I spend ten years crafting my memoirs which, at the time of my demise, remain unpublished. A month later a box set retrospective hits the shelves. A memorial concert hosted by the ghost of Elton John is aired on TV. Sales of my back catalog skyrocket.