Sorry. No heart for the food stuff today. I'm going to spend this evening stroking my pussy, and for once I don't mean . . . oh for fuck's sake.
I guess in one way I'm feeling better about Lexie. The vet, who feels really bad about what happened, and I had a good talk about it when he came round to trim her fingernails and fill out her forms; if she's happy at Sugarplum's, and I'm sure she will be, that's excellent, and if she's not happy at Sugarplum's and comes to Australia after all, at least we'll be settled down by then, and in all honesty there's no way to look at the situation without having to admit dropping her off in Canada tomorrow is the best thing for her.
But I'm so fucking sad. It's like being dumped by a guy you really love because he has to fly back to Mars or else he'll slowly choke on Earth's oxygen-rich atmosphere, and neither of you are into the long distance thing. She's been my constant companion of years and years; my comfort when things were shitty and my darling when things were lovely; my dainty little southern belle, despite being so fucking fat; my familiar, my outlet for all the excess tenderness I used to waste tending to my own useless mental complexes.
She's moving in with Sugarplum tomorrow, close to where Neil Young grew up for awhile, in the Kawarthas. As soon as I realized that I started getting "Helpless" stuck in my head and it's got progressively sadder with every repeat. Thank god it's the Nick Cave version, or else I'd be cripplingly sad over a cat while a tomcat croons in my head.
(The F-word and I were just talking about Neil Young, in relation to where Lexie is going to be living and in relation to "Helpless" being stuck in my head, and he asked if I liked Neil Young, and I think I actually burst into laughter at the idea of liking Neil Young. Coming home from a long day at work, wondering what to listen to, and deciding - "yep, I'm going to listen to some nice Neil Young" - it's less ridiculous but no less hilarious than the idea of doing the same with Bob Dylan. But actually I really do like Neil Young, and have ever since I saw him in concert, and I would really love to see him in concert again, but the idea of sitting around listening to one of his records still makes me laugh out loud.)
Anyways, this is how I'm feeling. Now excuse me while I go cruising for some pussy:
Visualizzazione post con etichetta Nick Fucking Cave. Mostra tutti i post
Visualizzazione post con etichetta Nick Fucking Cave. Mostra tutti i post
giovedì, settembre 30, 2010
martedì, luglio 20, 2010
Sometimes I wonder if Nick Cave ever gets tired of being so awesome. But what could he do, at this point? Pick his nose and eat it? Fine. He could be a nose-mining snot-eater, be as big a shithead as the Gauguin figure in The Moon and Sixpence, enjoy the novels of Ayn Rand, cover it all in an anorak, and still remind us he's the awesomest pipol person in circulation with a double play of the a capella "Black Betty" from Kicking Against the Pricks and his narration of The Cat Piano:
Oh, how I wish normal Australians actually sounded like that, it would make my post-this-October life so much more pleasant. It's all enough to reconcile me to "Brompton Oratory". Although actually I think "Brompton Oratory" is enough to reconcile me to "Brompton Oratory". The tune is very pretty indeed and I really love the second verse for some reason:
The reading is from Luke 24
Where Christ returns to his loved ones
I look at the stone apostles
Think that it's alright for some
(BTW, we saw Brompton Oratory when I was dragging my niece and nephew around London the other week. What the fuck is it with Anglicans and Anglo Catholics, incapable of constructing a pretty bit of religious architecture; the fucking Methodists were putting up better things than they were. Anyways, a bit of a squat of a church but better than the Basilica here in Brussels, which is certainly the building I'd choose to demolish by fucking hand if necessary if they were handing out demolishing licenses. Seriously, it's piss-ugly inside and out; more basilisk than basilica. I have never seen such a hideously ugly place of worship anywhere. It's like a toad that looked at Medusa).
So he's all awesome, but does he write poetry? I keep thinking his lyrics flirt with poetry - cross into it very often. Certainly more often than most people's, and sometimes absolutely undeniably, like "The Curse of Millhaven". Probably that wouldn't surprise me or even present itself in my mind as a question, except he is a pipol person, and The Boatman's Call in particular is so problematic in those terms because it's such common knowledge that it's about a relationship with another pipol person. And my feeling of what art is, that it's a thing that speaks meaningfully to our collective unconsciousness on purpose, is hard to reconcile with songs about a specific pipol person relationship.
I think the only thing I can do is avoid reading about any pipol person there's even a possibility I might respect as an artist - reviews included, and certainly interviews included - and concentrate any coverage I read on people like Mel "give me a blow-job before I burn your house down" Gibson.
Oh, how I wish normal Australians actually sounded like that, it would make my post-this-October life so much more pleasant. It's all enough to reconcile me to "Brompton Oratory". Although actually I think "Brompton Oratory" is enough to reconcile me to "Brompton Oratory". The tune is very pretty indeed and I really love the second verse for some reason:
The reading is from Luke 24
Where Christ returns to his loved ones
I look at the stone apostles
Think that it's alright for some
(BTW, we saw Brompton Oratory when I was dragging my niece and nephew around London the other week. What the fuck is it with Anglicans and Anglo Catholics, incapable of constructing a pretty bit of religious architecture; the fucking Methodists were putting up better things than they were. Anyways, a bit of a squat of a church but better than the Basilica here in Brussels, which is certainly the building I'd choose to demolish by fucking hand if necessary if they were handing out demolishing licenses. Seriously, it's piss-ugly inside and out; more basilisk than basilica. I have never seen such a hideously ugly place of worship anywhere. It's like a toad that looked at Medusa).
So he's all awesome, but does he write poetry? I keep thinking his lyrics flirt with poetry - cross into it very often. Certainly more often than most people's, and sometimes absolutely undeniably, like "The Curse of Millhaven". Probably that wouldn't surprise me or even present itself in my mind as a question, except he is a pipol person, and The Boatman's Call in particular is so problematic in those terms because it's such common knowledge that it's about a relationship with another pipol person. And my feeling of what art is, that it's a thing that speaks meaningfully to our collective unconsciousness on purpose, is hard to reconcile with songs about a specific pipol person relationship.
I think the only thing I can do is avoid reading about any pipol person there's even a possibility I might respect as an artist - reviews included, and certainly interviews included - and concentrate any coverage I read on people like Mel "give me a blow-job before I burn your house down" Gibson.
martedì, febbraio 23, 2010
I'm gonna kick some ass with my own pipe wrench
M and I had a running stress-reliever - the word "Boner", which we made workplace-acceptable by referring to the Growing Pains character, who of course the presently missing Andrew Koenig played. Fucking best American television character name ever. Well, it's not unknown for people who were formerly famous cracking up and disappearing themselves, permanently or not, and considering it's been around five months since M disappeared it's pushing things a bit to freak out about Boner disappearing after M disappears.
But synchronicity, as an emotion or a perceived phenomenon, is a strange thing. It's there, certainly. Involved with a plain, garden variety sadness, in that I can't turn around in my office chair and say, or hear, "they can't get a Boner," "maybe Boner was dysfunctional", "I'm going to spend this weekend searching for Boner, you know, really reaching out" . . . or just "hey - Boner!" you know . . . tonnes of fucking comedy gold that aren't funny anymore because now M is missing, and even though this guy had the fucking awesomest television name ever I can't laugh about somebody being missing anymore.
No wonder adults have no fucking sense of humour. It must get harder and harder to laugh at things the more indescribably horribly shitty things happen to you and the people around you. Everything gets a little too synchronous and has this whole hollow weight of loss and sadness beneath it, which swallows up the giggles like a sinkhole. But would M have wanted me to stop laughing at Boner? Will me not giggling at the name make things better? Probably not. Anyways, who'm I kidding. The word "boner" is always going to be fucking hilarious. But I'll always remember M while I laugh at it. I guess the best way to deal with the synchronicity is to laugh enough for both of us.
Anyways. In terms of the emotionally devastating synchronicity it's not as bad as A-Ha announcing they were going to break up on the day (we found out retrospectively, thank you very fucking much, you fucking turd of a British Foreign Office - may you collectively catch scabies and scar yourselves indelibly with frantic scratching, may you find relief from nothing short of the rough side of a cheese grater, you pack of useless, irresponsible cunts; may boners always be remarkable in your beastly, functionary lives by their paucity) that M disappeared. He was the only non-Scando I've ever known who liked them a lot. Indeed, the only non-Scando who claimed to have heard a single song of theirs beyond the ubiquitous, and awesome, "Take On Me".
Speaking of, I assume you've seen it but just in case - I can still laugh at this, anyways. I guess if someone near and dear to me had been clocked in a pipe wrench fight I couldn't, so, well, carpe diem:
And to be fair, here's an A-Ha single from 2000, that M really liked and sent me as proof that they'd released things in English besides "Take on Me". Apparently Morten Harket (and it's not your imagination; the man is a phenomenal piece of ass, as, my Finnish and Swedish lady friends breathlessly inform me, an unfair proportion of the male Norwegian population is - something to remember if the F-word ever dumps my ass) holds a note for 22 seconds in it, which Wikipedia says is a British chart record, beating Bill Withers' in "Lovely Day".
Another difficult thing about synchronicity is that that song has moved in my estimation from being an example of a fucking marvellous falsetto somewhat wasted on a half-decent pop song with lyrics that make no fucking sense to something indescribably sad. I miss M. I miss him so much.
No wonder adults listen and get attached to horrible mawkish shit like Phil Collins or The Boatman's Call (I've had "Brompton Oratory" stuck in my head since Saturday and I'm getting resentful). Nothing is allowed to be funny anymore, and repellent, repellent turds like "I Can't Stop Loving You" suddenly assume this crushing emotional weight and substance. I guess I should count my lucky stars that M wasn't into anything worse than A-Ha. Well he was, actually, he was quite fond of Madonna. But frankly the fucking Nazis could have played that shit over the loudspeakers at Treblinka and it wouldn't have given it any emotional weight or substance. Fucking. Hate. Madonna.
But synchronicity, as an emotion or a perceived phenomenon, is a strange thing. It's there, certainly. Involved with a plain, garden variety sadness, in that I can't turn around in my office chair and say, or hear, "they can't get a Boner," "maybe Boner was dysfunctional", "I'm going to spend this weekend searching for Boner, you know, really reaching out" . . . or just "hey - Boner!" you know . . . tonnes of fucking comedy gold that aren't funny anymore because now M is missing, and even though this guy had the fucking awesomest television name ever I can't laugh about somebody being missing anymore.
No wonder adults have no fucking sense of humour. It must get harder and harder to laugh at things the more indescribably horribly shitty things happen to you and the people around you. Everything gets a little too synchronous and has this whole hollow weight of loss and sadness beneath it, which swallows up the giggles like a sinkhole. But would M have wanted me to stop laughing at Boner? Will me not giggling at the name make things better? Probably not. Anyways, who'm I kidding. The word "boner" is always going to be fucking hilarious. But I'll always remember M while I laugh at it. I guess the best way to deal with the synchronicity is to laugh enough for both of us.
Anyways. In terms of the emotionally devastating synchronicity it's not as bad as A-Ha announcing they were going to break up on the day (we found out retrospectively, thank you very fucking much, you fucking turd of a British Foreign Office - may you collectively catch scabies and scar yourselves indelibly with frantic scratching, may you find relief from nothing short of the rough side of a cheese grater, you pack of useless, irresponsible cunts; may boners always be remarkable in your beastly, functionary lives by their paucity) that M disappeared. He was the only non-Scando I've ever known who liked them a lot. Indeed, the only non-Scando who claimed to have heard a single song of theirs beyond the ubiquitous, and awesome, "Take On Me".
Speaking of, I assume you've seen it but just in case - I can still laugh at this, anyways. I guess if someone near and dear to me had been clocked in a pipe wrench fight I couldn't, so, well, carpe diem:
And to be fair, here's an A-Ha single from 2000, that M really liked and sent me as proof that they'd released things in English besides "Take on Me". Apparently Morten Harket (and it's not your imagination; the man is a phenomenal piece of ass, as, my Finnish and Swedish lady friends breathlessly inform me, an unfair proportion of the male Norwegian population is - something to remember if the F-word ever dumps my ass) holds a note for 22 seconds in it, which Wikipedia says is a British chart record, beating Bill Withers' in "Lovely Day".
Another difficult thing about synchronicity is that that song has moved in my estimation from being an example of a fucking marvellous falsetto somewhat wasted on a half-decent pop song with lyrics that make no fucking sense to something indescribably sad. I miss M. I miss him so much.
No wonder adults listen and get attached to horrible mawkish shit like Phil Collins or The Boatman's Call (I've had "Brompton Oratory" stuck in my head since Saturday and I'm getting resentful). Nothing is allowed to be funny anymore, and repellent, repellent turds like "I Can't Stop Loving You" suddenly assume this crushing emotional weight and substance. I guess I should count my lucky stars that M wasn't into anything worse than A-Ha. Well he was, actually, he was quite fond of Madonna. But frankly the fucking Nazis could have played that shit over the loudspeakers at Treblinka and it wouldn't have given it any emotional weight or substance. Fucking. Hate. Madonna.
martedì, settembre 22, 2009
The office monkey got her groove back
I've got my groove back at work, thank god. When fresh back from Canada, I couldn't really imagine getting it back ever again. But then Big Report Weeks came and my motivation managed to rise to the challenge, and now I'm sufficiently psyched to be awesome for another year.
Also significant is that my company may have something for me when we make the big move to to the Dustbowl Down Under - nothing close to decided on that score yet - but I'm already doing some tasks associated with the possibility that are very congenial to me, I think more congenial than what I'm doing now, if I can learn how to get good at them. Also one gets the sense Australia is about to descend into chaos so it would be good to have a nice fat slice of income coming in from abroad.
Yeah . . . so many disastrous things get reported about Australia that it gets to sounding apocalyptic, especially in view of the Mad Max Factor. I have visions of myself clutching up my family in five years time and bustling them off to the frigid safety of Canada's backwoods as leathered sodomites on motorcycles chase the townspeople through endless vistas of flood, fire, snakes and blood-red dust while Nick Cave sings "Tupelo".
So you see why I've got to go, right, I mean that sounds fucking awesome.
But when you speak to Australians they claim all the apocalyptic press is just British journalists being monumentally jealous of Australians getting to live in Australia while British journalists have to live in a moldy, violent shithole like Britain where everybody is as drunk as in Australia but they have to live much closer together. And being acquainted with what kind of shitholes the parts of Britain people actually live in are, it's a possibility I really can't discount.
Who knows? Me, hopefully, and soon.
Also significant is that my company may have something for me when we make the big move to to the Dustbowl Down Under - nothing close to decided on that score yet - but I'm already doing some tasks associated with the possibility that are very congenial to me, I think more congenial than what I'm doing now, if I can learn how to get good at them. Also one gets the sense Australia is about to descend into chaos so it would be good to have a nice fat slice of income coming in from abroad.
Yeah . . . so many disastrous things get reported about Australia that it gets to sounding apocalyptic, especially in view of the Mad Max Factor. I have visions of myself clutching up my family in five years time and bustling them off to the frigid safety of Canada's backwoods as leathered sodomites on motorcycles chase the townspeople through endless vistas of flood, fire, snakes and blood-red dust while Nick Cave sings "Tupelo".
So you see why I've got to go, right, I mean that sounds fucking awesome.
But when you speak to Australians they claim all the apocalyptic press is just British journalists being monumentally jealous of Australians getting to live in Australia while British journalists have to live in a moldy, violent shithole like Britain where everybody is as drunk as in Australia but they have to live much closer together. And being acquainted with what kind of shitholes the parts of Britain people actually live in are, it's a possibility I really can't discount.
Who knows? Me, hopefully, and soon.
mercoledì, maggio 27, 2009
The Red Dragon has a closed mind re. covers
Nick Cave has spent the last thirty years exploring how us emotional retards get to enjoy life too and there are few songs better at it in my strange-o book than the Bad Seeds' 'Loverman'. That is a fucking horny song. It's one of my favourite songs, definitely. The lyrics go from very silly ("I am what I am what I am what I am") to fucking gold ("With a trembling heart, he's coming through your door with his straining sex in his jumping paw; there's a devil crawling along your floor") without ever sounding inconsistent - a general feature of Nick Cave's lyrics I find irresistable. It's a gem of a song and I love it. I can't really comprehend a reality in which I wouldn't love it.
And yet I've always promised myself that I'll studiously avoid listening to the Metallica cover. The idea makes me want to retch. There are emotional areas of my brains I'm happy to have prodded at in Nick Cave's voice where James Hetfield's voice has no place, even if it's dressed up in Nick Cave's words. Frankly, eww. The guy from Depeche Mode covered it too and that sounds about as appealing. More eww.
Another awfully horny song, in my book, is "Use Me", from Bill Withers. I've gone on about him before, so I won't repeat myself too much. When his songs are good, they're wonders of lyrical and melodic seemingly simple perfection, and he was only ruined by all of those damnable keyboards and synthesizers. And the voice! It's a lovely voice. A proper man's voice. A sexy, comfy duvet of a voice. "Use Me" is a marvellous example of his marvellousness and playing it is the easiest way to explain and understand fun and nasty love, and that voice is singing to its best effect in it; as far as I'm concerned only Bill Withers could pull off that mumbling at the end and still make it count when he sings "it ain't too bad the way you're using me because I sure am using you to do the things you do."
And another cover I'll studiously avoid is Mick Jagger's 1993 cover of "Use Me". Don't get me wrong. Mick Jagger was horny once upon a time too, and "Let's Spend the Night Together" has got me wet played over the loudspeakers in charity shops. But his is not the voice I want to hear singing "Use Me" to me. A fucking middle class limey knight? Don't we have better things to use?
And yet I've always promised myself that I'll studiously avoid listening to the Metallica cover. The idea makes me want to retch. There are emotional areas of my brains I'm happy to have prodded at in Nick Cave's voice where James Hetfield's voice has no place, even if it's dressed up in Nick Cave's words. Frankly, eww. The guy from Depeche Mode covered it too and that sounds about as appealing. More eww.
Another awfully horny song, in my book, is "Use Me", from Bill Withers. I've gone on about him before, so I won't repeat myself too much. When his songs are good, they're wonders of lyrical and melodic seemingly simple perfection, and he was only ruined by all of those damnable keyboards and synthesizers. And the voice! It's a lovely voice. A proper man's voice. A sexy, comfy duvet of a voice. "Use Me" is a marvellous example of his marvellousness and playing it is the easiest way to explain and understand fun and nasty love, and that voice is singing to its best effect in it; as far as I'm concerned only Bill Withers could pull off that mumbling at the end and still make it count when he sings "it ain't too bad the way you're using me because I sure am using you to do the things you do."
And another cover I'll studiously avoid is Mick Jagger's 1993 cover of "Use Me". Don't get me wrong. Mick Jagger was horny once upon a time too, and "Let's Spend the Night Together" has got me wet played over the loudspeakers in charity shops. But his is not the voice I want to hear singing "Use Me" to me. A fucking middle class limey knight? Don't we have better things to use?
giovedì, aprile 09, 2009
Of squeaking and sicking
I'm at home having a massive sick, and next week we're gone Thursday and Friday on vacation. Dear oh dear. And you know what, good. On Wednesday, not only do we have the pleasure of meeting our normal deadline, but also a meeting at which I shall be obliged to be confrontational; better the stress of confrontation, I'm operating on the assumption, than difficulty in sleeping because I'm quietly letting myself get fucked up the ass by people who aren't even thinking of giving me a reach-around. Part of my problem at the moment is that the person they're threatening to replace my old boss with is the same age as I am. More experienced, yes, but I'm feeling a whole new emotion at the moment in terms of not wanting to have a boss who's my age. Oh well. I should just get over that. I think it's more difficult for some colleagues at the office, who are both older than the threatened new boss, and vastly more experienced.
Oh boo. This massive sick is making me feel bad. My head hurts, my lungs hurt, it looks like I've got two black eyes, and I am absolutely full of doubts about everything that I can't ingest and digest. Which, this morning, is turning out to be everything except dried bread soaked in cafe latte. I want to hippy out now. Not nine fucking months from now, now. What if I fucking die? What if I get fucking cancer when I'm fucking forty and have to think, fuck, I squandered years of my life not being a hippy? That's the sort of mood I'm in.
Well, life isn't all bad. The F-word introduced me to Last.fm. I'd heard of it before but thought it was just crap. It turns out I like it. Although the endless Mark Lanegan on the Nick Cave Radio is starting to piss me off, but not quite enough to ban it. It's just the repetition that gets to me. It also turns out I don't like PJ Harvey's new album at all. I resent her singing in that little squeaky pitchless voice when I know she's capable of yelling 'I can't believe that the axis turns on suffering while my head burns' in key and loud. If I want squeaky and pitchless I'll take the chick from the Arcade Fire, thank you very much.
Oh boo. This massive sick is making me feel bad. My head hurts, my lungs hurt, it looks like I've got two black eyes, and I am absolutely full of doubts about everything that I can't ingest and digest. Which, this morning, is turning out to be everything except dried bread soaked in cafe latte. I want to hippy out now. Not nine fucking months from now, now. What if I fucking die? What if I get fucking cancer when I'm fucking forty and have to think, fuck, I squandered years of my life not being a hippy? That's the sort of mood I'm in.
Well, life isn't all bad. The F-word introduced me to Last.fm. I'd heard of it before but thought it was just crap. It turns out I like it. Although the endless Mark Lanegan on the Nick Cave Radio is starting to piss me off, but not quite enough to ban it. It's just the repetition that gets to me. It also turns out I don't like PJ Harvey's new album at all. I resent her singing in that little squeaky pitchless voice when I know she's capable of yelling 'I can't believe that the axis turns on suffering while my head burns' in key and loud. If I want squeaky and pitchless I'll take the chick from the Arcade Fire, thank you very much.
mercoledì, marzo 18, 2009
Wishing, for once, TMZ had been right
I'm sad Natasha Richardson is dead. She was hot in a blonde way, she was a nice sort of actress, and she was the only good thing about that execrable film of The Handmaid's Tale back in the day. I wonder how Margaret Atwood felt about that film. I was crazy about the book, certainly relative to every other Margaret Atwood novel I read besides, which were all disappointing - besides Cat's Eye, which I also quite liked, but which is nowhere close to my desert island reading list. It must be annoying to have such a good book turned into such a lame film.
But I guess it wasn't that lame, because Natasha Richardson was really good as the lead. Poor lady. I liked her in Widow's Peak, too. That movie irritates the hell out of me because I know there was quite a nice twist at the end and I'm fucked if I can remember it, and the internet won't tell me the spoiler, and I didn't like it enough to watch it again. It reminds me of back in the days of VHS when I forced myself to sit through Breaking the Waves at a friend's house, because Emily Watson was so good. And the tape cut out about ten minutes before the end. Obviously there was no way I was ever going to watch it again, because it was a piece of shit, and no way I was going to pay money to rent it again and skip to the end, because I don't like encouraging that sort of thing. And all the other assholes who'd seen it at the time wouldn't tell me how it ended because they 'didn't want to spoil it' for me.
Well, it was already fucking spoiled for me by virtue of it being a bit of voyeuristic sado-wank fantasy from the intensely boring visual libido of Scandinavia's stuttering answer to a question about love nobody asked. Anyways, I'll try asking the internet how it ends now. Oh, she kills herself, her husband recovers, and she goes to heaven. Wow. That sucks. Let the trite shittiness of that movie be a warning to any parents who attempt to raise their children as atheist nudists.
Speaking of voyeuristic wank fantasies, we watched The Proposition, I think the weekend before last. It was worth watching and stacked the odds a little more in Australia's favour as an eventual destination for us; in view of my present job and what it's making me think about trees, I'm finding the idea of living in a continent whose native trees look like people irresistible. Not that you have to travel to Australia to see the eucalyptuses now. They're a very aggressive, fast-growing hardy tree that take over all they touch; Sicily, for example, was full of eucalyptuses, crowding out the native vegetation. Large forestry companies are pulling out all the stops to have them infest South America and, increasingly, the south of Africa too, because they mature so much faster than other hardwood trees. It's an environmental disaster in progress, one of those nasty environmental disasters that large companies can get 'environmentalist' credit for, because they plant all these trees under the rubric of reforestation.
But for a tree to survive and thrive in a desert continent like Australia, they'll take over the world elsewhere where things are friendlier if they're allowed. Mark my words, one day we'll think of eucalyptuses as Australia's answer to the syphilis conquistadors brought from South America via their rape of the indigenes: you dip the stick (or rather force it violently in), you pay for the oil . . . anyways. I'll go on more about that later.
So we watched The Proposition last weekend, and it was very beautiful to look at. I'm an absolute pig for Nick Cave, who wrote the script and co-wrote the soundtrack with another Bad Seed. The soundtrack was as good as I'd been expecting. The script . . . well, it was reassuringly unexceptional. If it had been very good I would be scared of Nick Cave's goodness. There were some nice moments of dialogue, particularly with the outlaws, but the way he wrote it for the police chief and his wife made suspending disbelief difficult - made it all a little too kabuki. The biggest revelation of the movie was that it made Guy Pearce attractive. For me - besides in Memento, in which I enjoyed his performance very much but which somehow didn't count because of the amnesia making him all appropriately vacuous - the man was unshakably Felicia from Priscilla. Even though I loved L.A. Confidential at the time, for example, his appearances as Ed always shook me out of my audienceship as I expected him to start singing "I Don't Care if the Sun Don't Shine." But The Proposition managed to get me wondering, during conferences and staff meetings, what he'd be like carnally, which I'd never wondered about Felicia.
But I guess it wasn't that lame, because Natasha Richardson was really good as the lead. Poor lady. I liked her in Widow's Peak, too. That movie irritates the hell out of me because I know there was quite a nice twist at the end and I'm fucked if I can remember it, and the internet won't tell me the spoiler, and I didn't like it enough to watch it again. It reminds me of back in the days of VHS when I forced myself to sit through Breaking the Waves at a friend's house, because Emily Watson was so good. And the tape cut out about ten minutes before the end. Obviously there was no way I was ever going to watch it again, because it was a piece of shit, and no way I was going to pay money to rent it again and skip to the end, because I don't like encouraging that sort of thing. And all the other assholes who'd seen it at the time wouldn't tell me how it ended because they 'didn't want to spoil it' for me.
Well, it was already fucking spoiled for me by virtue of it being a bit of voyeuristic sado-wank fantasy from the intensely boring visual libido of Scandinavia's stuttering answer to a question about love nobody asked. Anyways, I'll try asking the internet how it ends now. Oh, she kills herself, her husband recovers, and she goes to heaven. Wow. That sucks. Let the trite shittiness of that movie be a warning to any parents who attempt to raise their children as atheist nudists.
Speaking of voyeuristic wank fantasies, we watched The Proposition, I think the weekend before last. It was worth watching and stacked the odds a little more in Australia's favour as an eventual destination for us; in view of my present job and what it's making me think about trees, I'm finding the idea of living in a continent whose native trees look like people irresistible. Not that you have to travel to Australia to see the eucalyptuses now. They're a very aggressive, fast-growing hardy tree that take over all they touch; Sicily, for example, was full of eucalyptuses, crowding out the native vegetation. Large forestry companies are pulling out all the stops to have them infest South America and, increasingly, the south of Africa too, because they mature so much faster than other hardwood trees. It's an environmental disaster in progress, one of those nasty environmental disasters that large companies can get 'environmentalist' credit for, because they plant all these trees under the rubric of reforestation.
But for a tree to survive and thrive in a desert continent like Australia, they'll take over the world elsewhere where things are friendlier if they're allowed. Mark my words, one day we'll think of eucalyptuses as Australia's answer to the syphilis conquistadors brought from South America via their rape of the indigenes: you dip the stick (or rather force it violently in), you pay for the oil . . . anyways. I'll go on more about that later.
So we watched The Proposition last weekend, and it was very beautiful to look at. I'm an absolute pig for Nick Cave, who wrote the script and co-wrote the soundtrack with another Bad Seed. The soundtrack was as good as I'd been expecting. The script . . . well, it was reassuringly unexceptional. If it had been very good I would be scared of Nick Cave's goodness. There were some nice moments of dialogue, particularly with the outlaws, but the way he wrote it for the police chief and his wife made suspending disbelief difficult - made it all a little too kabuki. The biggest revelation of the movie was that it made Guy Pearce attractive. For me - besides in Memento, in which I enjoyed his performance very much but which somehow didn't count because of the amnesia making him all appropriately vacuous - the man was unshakably Felicia from Priscilla. Even though I loved L.A. Confidential at the time, for example, his appearances as Ed always shook me out of my audienceship as I expected him to start singing "I Don't Care if the Sun Don't Shine." But The Proposition managed to get me wondering, during conferences and staff meetings, what he'd be like carnally, which I'd never wondered about Felicia.
domenica, agosto 10, 2008
On Holes (too many and too few)
I love when American politicians are caught with their dick in the wrong hole. Right wing, left wing, I don't care. You know why? In that country once they have any stature whatsoever, they're all part of a juggernaut of suits struggling and struggling to pretend their penises have nothing to do with anything. You know why? Because ideologically speaking, that country's political scene is a black hole whose destructive powers are controlled almost exclusively through the industrial groups that quite legally pay them off. And so to keep a country that continues to be influenced by its insanely idealistically God-dy settlers engaged in the 'political process', they have to fetishize their preternatural sexlessness, with similar disastrous consequences as with Catholic priests, who are also operating in a destructive ideological black hole and also distracting their adherents with hocus-pocus.
The focus of the hocus-pocus needs to go off the cock and on to the ideology. We need another Obama to come along, but this time, instead of turning the weed and the blow into a non-issue before the campaign even starts, he'll have to admit to fucking everything that didn't run screaming in the opposite direction before the campaign even starts. Arnold, I'm waiting for you . . .
But not to ruin another Batman franchise. Got high and saw The Dark Knight this weekend; it was the greatest superhero movie I've ever seen. I was hesitant to watch it, after liking the first Christopher Nolan a good bit and then hating the new Hulk movie so much after looking forward to it so much . . . but the new Batman surpassed all my repressed but very high expectations. My disbelief was suspended; that never happens anymore, at least not with superhero movies, no matter how much reefer I suck into my lungs. By the end, when Batman said 'set your dogs on me,' I was into it enough for the Bad Seeds' 'Ship Song', ordinarily one of my least favourite, pop into my head and play for the rest of the day without irony. Goddamn, Christian Bale is a piece of ass.
And you know, the first 30 seconds Heath Ledger was on the screen, I thought 'it's such a pity that poor boy's dead, he's really great!' But then I didn't think about it again for the rest of the movie. Now I'm back to thinking it's a crying shame. I haven't enjoyed his past performances besides in 10 Things I Hate About You, which was otherwise stupid, and I thought Brokeback Mountain was also rather stupid (though I did cry when he sniffed the shirt), but he always struck me as a boy who was going to grow up into something worth watching, maybe not Spencer-Tracy-worth-watching, but probably Robert-DeNiro-worth-watching. Now I figure he would have been Spencer-Tracy-worth-watching, and was, for one glorious super-hero movie. Poor, poor boy. Boy, whatever, a year younger than me. That counts as a boy.
An aside on the poor dead boy: last week, San Francisca and my boss, in commenting on the movie, said no one would be talking about an Oscar for him if he hadn't died. How prestigious do they think the Oscars are, for fuck's sake? This is the awards ceremony that recognized Titanic as a contribution to anything besides making me want to puke. This is the awards ceremony that recognized Russell Crowe's Gladiator as anything but a marketing concept successful at being both a wank fantasy for girls into butch and boys . . . well, boys. And that's not even the most embarrassing things that have happened at that mighty industry circle jerk.
I guess that aside was more about the Oscars than the poor dead boy. Sorry. It's just that I really hate the Oscars, and I can't bring Heath Ledger back.
Already can't wait for the third Batman movie . . . it will be a bitch without the Joker character but writing-and-casting-wise those Nolan boys haven't let me down yet. Memento was awesome and I even liked The Prestige, despite Hugh Jackman not being the most convincing actor in the universe, and despite the fact that David Bowie managed to fuck up a Nicholas Tesla cameo - holy shit, how can someone suck that bad? That's like Madonna-bad. Anyways, they've never let me down with the writing, and they always cast male leads who I want to have pile on top of me like duvets on a cold winter's night. After the first Batman movie I dreamt of a Christan Bale/Mistress La Spliffe/Cillian Murphy sandwich, but throw in Aaron Eckhart and Heath Ledger too, and heavens, they'd all have to take turns. Even the fantasy would last for hours, and I'm a premature imaginator. But now, sadly, I must go to work instead.
The focus of the hocus-pocus needs to go off the cock and on to the ideology. We need another Obama to come along, but this time, instead of turning the weed and the blow into a non-issue before the campaign even starts, he'll have to admit to fucking everything that didn't run screaming in the opposite direction before the campaign even starts. Arnold, I'm waiting for you . . .
But not to ruin another Batman franchise. Got high and saw The Dark Knight this weekend; it was the greatest superhero movie I've ever seen. I was hesitant to watch it, after liking the first Christopher Nolan a good bit and then hating the new Hulk movie so much after looking forward to it so much . . . but the new Batman surpassed all my repressed but very high expectations. My disbelief was suspended; that never happens anymore, at least not with superhero movies, no matter how much reefer I suck into my lungs. By the end, when Batman said 'set your dogs on me,' I was into it enough for the Bad Seeds' 'Ship Song', ordinarily one of my least favourite, pop into my head and play for the rest of the day without irony. Goddamn, Christian Bale is a piece of ass.
And you know, the first 30 seconds Heath Ledger was on the screen, I thought 'it's such a pity that poor boy's dead, he's really great!' But then I didn't think about it again for the rest of the movie. Now I'm back to thinking it's a crying shame. I haven't enjoyed his past performances besides in 10 Things I Hate About You, which was otherwise stupid, and I thought Brokeback Mountain was also rather stupid (though I did cry when he sniffed the shirt), but he always struck me as a boy who was going to grow up into something worth watching, maybe not Spencer-Tracy-worth-watching, but probably Robert-DeNiro-worth-watching. Now I figure he would have been Spencer-Tracy-worth-watching, and was, for one glorious super-hero movie. Poor, poor boy. Boy, whatever, a year younger than me. That counts as a boy.
An aside on the poor dead boy: last week, San Francisca and my boss, in commenting on the movie, said no one would be talking about an Oscar for him if he hadn't died. How prestigious do they think the Oscars are, for fuck's sake? This is the awards ceremony that recognized Titanic as a contribution to anything besides making me want to puke. This is the awards ceremony that recognized Russell Crowe's Gladiator as anything but a marketing concept successful at being both a wank fantasy for girls into butch and boys . . . well, boys. And that's not even the most embarrassing things that have happened at that mighty industry circle jerk.
I guess that aside was more about the Oscars than the poor dead boy. Sorry. It's just that I really hate the Oscars, and I can't bring Heath Ledger back.
Already can't wait for the third Batman movie . . . it will be a bitch without the Joker character but writing-and-casting-wise those Nolan boys haven't let me down yet. Memento was awesome and I even liked The Prestige, despite Hugh Jackman not being the most convincing actor in the universe, and despite the fact that David Bowie managed to fuck up a Nicholas Tesla cameo - holy shit, how can someone suck that bad? That's like Madonna-bad. Anyways, they've never let me down with the writing, and they always cast male leads who I want to have pile on top of me like duvets on a cold winter's night. After the first Batman movie I dreamt of a Christan Bale/Mistress La Spliffe/Cillian Murphy sandwich, but throw in Aaron Eckhart and Heath Ledger too, and heavens, they'd all have to take turns. Even the fantasy would last for hours, and I'm a premature imaginator. But now, sadly, I must go to work instead.
mercoledì, giugno 25, 2008
I'd build a million of you baby
I've written about this before, but I must again: I love Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!!. And okay - fine - I haven't come across a Bad Seeds album I didn't love. Some individual songs, sure. Most of the slow ones, to be honest with you. 'The Ship Song' and 'Love Letter' and a bunch of other twee little songs with lazy rhymes. For God's sake, stop trying to horn in on Leonard Cohen's market - he writes better lyrics for slow songs and he needs the money. But there are no slow songs on Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!!. Some creepy songs, which I like, and the final song is a wee bit lazy, but that's all fine, even great - I really like 'Jesus of the Moon', which isn't quite creepy - don't have the adjectives this morning.
And then the rest of the album just rocks out. Music and lyrics. I love the title track and love that little AC/DCish guitar that slaps you awake at the beginning, and nonetheless it's probably my least favourite track on the album.
Anyways, the whole album is really good, it makes me want to fuck. I wish I could just stay home and do that all day, but no. Today is a big day. I have to interview an important person this morning. I usually do my interviews by phone or by email and I couldn't get to sleep last night, thinking that the recorder wasn't going to work today. Luckily I have enough questions that he could just answer yes or no to each, and I'd still make regulation length. No problems. If the cunt of a recorder works.
Got a shipment of exciting books yesterday - fell off the wagon and bought the F-word 'presents' that I also wanted to read - more on that tomorrow.
And then the rest of the album just rocks out. Music and lyrics. I love the title track and love that little AC/DCish guitar that slaps you awake at the beginning, and nonetheless it's probably my least favourite track on the album.
Anyways, the whole album is really good, it makes me want to fuck. I wish I could just stay home and do that all day, but no. Today is a big day. I have to interview an important person this morning. I usually do my interviews by phone or by email and I couldn't get to sleep last night, thinking that the recorder wasn't going to work today. Luckily I have enough questions that he could just answer yes or no to each, and I'd still make regulation length. No problems. If the cunt of a recorder works.
Got a shipment of exciting books yesterday - fell off the wagon and bought the F-word 'presents' that I also wanted to read - more on that tomorrow.
martedì, maggio 27, 2008
Jerusalem syndrome
"They attempt to reconcile Jews and Palestinians, speak to God and genuinely believe he answers them.” Hmm. Sounds like every American president for the last 50 years.
Joking, joking. I don't think they were really trying to reconcile the Jews and Palestinians at all. But seriously. Not to sound all Scientologist but sometimes I get a little freaked out when I reflect that if the Messiah did come, we'd certainly try to slap him or her (I'm banking on a her) in a mental ward. It's not crucifixion, certainly, but over-medication to the point of vegetation would be a rather more effective way to deal with her. No memorable martyrdom involved, no screaming at the sky about how her Dad should forgive her murderers because they don't fucking know what they're doing. Just some sort of firebrand transforming into a gently smiling lump. Gives me the willies . . . maybe I only think this because I'm slightly mad, but I think society needs a little madness to help people keep things in perspective.
Anyways, as far as Jerusalem Syndrome goes, I hope we can trust the doctors to tell the difference between faith-fuelled American yokel fatties who get too much sun and history and actual Messiah Candidates. It doesn't seem like such a difficult distinction to make, but who knows.
Speaking of madness, I am about to go all Al Pacino because tonight I am off to Stockholm to spend a little less than a week going around Sweden and Finland on a boozy press tour. The sun is out here in Brussels until after 10 and up ages before I am, even though my my internal clock wakes me at 6:30 every morning so I can make a nice café latte, blog, take care of my investments, stare out the window, think about funnies I want to Reclaim for the People (that is, rip off) from my business associates and conservative politicians (usually Boris Johnson; thank god the people of London were stupid enough to jettison that boring socialist mayor for a wise-cracking right-wing drunk), and generally ease myself into the day. So there I don't expect to see dark.
And with any luck at all I won't even have to look at a computer until next Wednesday, so I'll bid you all a happy week and leave you with Nick Cave's take on Messiah Wards.
Joking, joking. I don't think they were really trying to reconcile the Jews and Palestinians at all. But seriously. Not to sound all Scientologist but sometimes I get a little freaked out when I reflect that if the Messiah did come, we'd certainly try to slap him or her (I'm banking on a her) in a mental ward. It's not crucifixion, certainly, but over-medication to the point of vegetation would be a rather more effective way to deal with her. No memorable martyrdom involved, no screaming at the sky about how her Dad should forgive her murderers because they don't fucking know what they're doing. Just some sort of firebrand transforming into a gently smiling lump. Gives me the willies . . . maybe I only think this because I'm slightly mad, but I think society needs a little madness to help people keep things in perspective.
Anyways, as far as Jerusalem Syndrome goes, I hope we can trust the doctors to tell the difference between faith-fuelled American yokel fatties who get too much sun and history and actual Messiah Candidates. It doesn't seem like such a difficult distinction to make, but who knows.
Speaking of madness, I am about to go all Al Pacino because tonight I am off to Stockholm to spend a little less than a week going around Sweden and Finland on a boozy press tour. The sun is out here in Brussels until after 10 and up ages before I am, even though my my internal clock wakes me at 6:30 every morning so I can make a nice café latte, blog, take care of my investments, stare out the window, think about funnies I want to Reclaim for the People (that is, rip off) from my business associates and conservative politicians (usually Boris Johnson; thank god the people of London were stupid enough to jettison that boring socialist mayor for a wise-cracking right-wing drunk), and generally ease myself into the day. So there I don't expect to see dark.
And with any luck at all I won't even have to look at a computer until next Wednesday, so I'll bid you all a happy week and leave you with Nick Cave's take on Messiah Wards.
mercoledì, maggio 21, 2008
The Red Dragon and Kylie Minogue
Fuck, I'm depresseder than yesterday. Thank god Nick Cave made having a crush on Kylie Minogue socially acceptable, because I just can't fight it anymore. She gets to be the replacement for Nicolas Sarkozy as my retarded celebrity crush; I can't maintain now that he's crapped out so bad. And just like him, Kylie is so small - so perfectly wee - brings out the Reducto in me.
Also, her 'In My Arms' single makes me think of kinky sex every time I hear it, and it's huge in Belgium right now, so I'm thinking about kinky sex all the time, which is alright with me. There's something about the resignation of the lyrics, combined with all those whiplash sounds, and the narration of a sexual encounter in such an innocent, composed popgirl voice that makes me reflect on why I enjoyed and excelled at doing what I used to do for most of the time that I was doing it. And that can only be healthy manouevre on the road to arriving at my Integrated Self. Right? Right.
Now let me look at Kylie Minogue pretend to sing and dance. It's better than kittens.
Also, her 'In My Arms' single makes me think of kinky sex every time I hear it, and it's huge in Belgium right now, so I'm thinking about kinky sex all the time, which is alright with me. There's something about the resignation of the lyrics, combined with all those whiplash sounds, and the narration of a sexual encounter in such an innocent, composed popgirl voice that makes me reflect on why I enjoyed and excelled at doing what I used to do for most of the time that I was doing it. And that can only be healthy manouevre on the road to arriving at my Integrated Self. Right? Right.
Now let me look at Kylie Minogue pretend to sing and dance. It's better than kittens.
giovedì, maggio 08, 2008
Hourglasses
Creeping towards the weekend like a parched man dragging himself to a well. Starting to get a disconnected feeling. No time for my own brain. Mighty force of will to give the F-word some of the attention he deserves. Bad dreams about being trapped in a library with the fear Bluebeard will pop up behind me and we'll have to try to have a conversation, or else a duel to the death - either would suck. Still can't believe my aunt is gone.
And on top of all that, I really don't like Bruce Chatwin's Songlines, or at least the first 72 pages of it. I love Bruce Chatwin as a travel writer, and I really liked On the Black Hill, his weirdo Welsh epic I read a couple of months ago. Songlines is crappily smug and tedious in comparison. That hurts, as it's the first thing of his I haven't liked, and I like liking all of what a person publishes. Like Jane Austen or Nick Cave or Patrick Süskind or Bach. Knowing that I can grab whatever of theirs and get into it without worrying that I'll be wasting my time with crap. Time . . . can't waste it.
I have a feeling Emily Brontë would be another person who would have written stuff I'd have loved consistently. You know, they reckon she did write another book before she died besides Wuthering Heights. Her sister Charlotte burnt it, after Emily died. If that's true, Charlotte should be remembered as much for that as for Jane Eyre. But I suppose time has tamped down the possibility of knowing that for sure. Time - always a question of fucking time! It's why I would have liked to be a professional historian - cheating time a bit and finding out its secrets before it buries itself in itself forever. And it's also why I chose not to be a professional historian despite the exhortations of my professors - I was afraid I'd bury myself in time before my own personal time buried me itself.
And on top of all that, I really don't like Bruce Chatwin's Songlines, or at least the first 72 pages of it. I love Bruce Chatwin as a travel writer, and I really liked On the Black Hill, his weirdo Welsh epic I read a couple of months ago. Songlines is crappily smug and tedious in comparison. That hurts, as it's the first thing of his I haven't liked, and I like liking all of what a person publishes. Like Jane Austen or Nick Cave or Patrick Süskind or Bach. Knowing that I can grab whatever of theirs and get into it without worrying that I'll be wasting my time with crap. Time . . . can't waste it.
I have a feeling Emily Brontë would be another person who would have written stuff I'd have loved consistently. You know, they reckon she did write another book before she died besides Wuthering Heights. Her sister Charlotte burnt it, after Emily died. If that's true, Charlotte should be remembered as much for that as for Jane Eyre. But I suppose time has tamped down the possibility of knowing that for sure. Time - always a question of fucking time! It's why I would have liked to be a professional historian - cheating time a bit and finding out its secrets before it buries itself in itself forever. And it's also why I chose not to be a professional historian despite the exhortations of my professors - I was afraid I'd bury myself in time before my own personal time buried me itself.
lunedì, maggio 05, 2008
In the weeping Forest of Le Vulva
So. Whilst waiting for the Bad Seeds concert to start the F-word and I sat in a nearby park, eating chips with samurai mayonnaise and talking about Roswell and Scientology. And I was wondering what possesses people to believe the most far-fetched things, to become absolutely credulous and devout later in life - not as a malleable, impressionable child with your parents forever dragging you to church and carefully indoctrinating you, but as a mature person who surely knows better, and who has money and a standing in civil society, and who gives it up for creepy strangers who appear to be absolutely fucking insane.
A half hour later in Forest National (shitty venue - only bother with it if you know you're going to like the act), I sat in the audience, waiting for the show to start and thinking about how fucking rich Nick Cave must be. Rich as a rich Scientologist. I had paid about Euro 40 for the tickets, and there were roughly a kabillion people there, which means he was making 40 x 1 kabillion, minus costs, which according to my new Japanese abacus is still north of a kabillion. I had a moment of cursing myself for not having been a rock star; I could have retired by now.
And an hour later in Forest National, I sat in the audience, watching the show and wondering if there was a way to throw my entire cunt on to the stage - forget the underwear. So I suppose I got an answer to my earlier question.
I've said before there's a risk that if I'd been me 150 years ago, I might've have tossed everything to docilely tail around Nick Cave or Tom Waits, if they'd have been itinerant preachers. Now I reckon I know why, and it's all in the term 'charismatics'. It's fascination, a chance to forget yourself; a good charismatic is charismatic because he sets the example and makes it safe. Even when Nick Cave was younger his persona had lots of crazy old man in it. Now it's vastly crazy old man. Screaming. Writhing. With a boner. And you don't know where to look, so you look at him, and before you know it, you're wondering if there's a way to throw your cunt on the stage, and you've already gone over April's disposable income budget to even be there.
So it was lovely and semi-religious. But of course it wouldn't have worked if the music hadn't been very good and if the band wasn't picking up the melodic and rhythmic slack whilst Nick Cave was moaning at the audience and abridging some of my favourite verses. (Time constraints? Dotty memory? Wanting to wrap up sooner and go to bed early, and thinking the non-Anglo audience probably wouldn't notice?) Two drummers! It was loud, and that was good, though Forest's sound isn't so good.
They played most of the last album, which was also good as I like the last album a lot, and then a few old favourites. Audience were dead fish during the loud songs, except for 'Papa Won't Leave You, Henry', which I guess not even dead fish can resist. They waved lighters for the tinkly ones. I was happy about the 'Stagger Lee' and the 'Tupelo' - the latter of which I hadn't liked much before hearing it live and very loud. I wished they played 'No Pussy Blues', but they didn't, and 'The Curse of Millhaven', but I knew they wouldn't as they were keeping every rendition to five minutes or less. The whole thing was just too fucking short. But sweet.
A half hour later in Forest National (shitty venue - only bother with it if you know you're going to like the act), I sat in the audience, waiting for the show to start and thinking about how fucking rich Nick Cave must be. Rich as a rich Scientologist. I had paid about Euro 40 for the tickets, and there were roughly a kabillion people there, which means he was making 40 x 1 kabillion, minus costs, which according to my new Japanese abacus is still north of a kabillion. I had a moment of cursing myself for not having been a rock star; I could have retired by now.
And an hour later in Forest National, I sat in the audience, watching the show and wondering if there was a way to throw my entire cunt on to the stage - forget the underwear. So I suppose I got an answer to my earlier question.
I've said before there's a risk that if I'd been me 150 years ago, I might've have tossed everything to docilely tail around Nick Cave or Tom Waits, if they'd have been itinerant preachers. Now I reckon I know why, and it's all in the term 'charismatics'. It's fascination, a chance to forget yourself; a good charismatic is charismatic because he sets the example and makes it safe. Even when Nick Cave was younger his persona had lots of crazy old man in it. Now it's vastly crazy old man. Screaming. Writhing. With a boner. And you don't know where to look, so you look at him, and before you know it, you're wondering if there's a way to throw your cunt on the stage, and you've already gone over April's disposable income budget to even be there.
So it was lovely and semi-religious. But of course it wouldn't have worked if the music hadn't been very good and if the band wasn't picking up the melodic and rhythmic slack whilst Nick Cave was moaning at the audience and abridging some of my favourite verses. (Time constraints? Dotty memory? Wanting to wrap up sooner and go to bed early, and thinking the non-Anglo audience probably wouldn't notice?) Two drummers! It was loud, and that was good, though Forest's sound isn't so good.
They played most of the last album, which was also good as I like the last album a lot, and then a few old favourites. Audience were dead fish during the loud songs, except for 'Papa Won't Leave You, Henry', which I guess not even dead fish can resist. They waved lighters for the tinkly ones. I was happy about the 'Stagger Lee' and the 'Tupelo' - the latter of which I hadn't liked much before hearing it live and very loud. I wished they played 'No Pussy Blues', but they didn't, and 'The Curse of Millhaven', but I knew they wouldn't as they were keeping every rendition to five minutes or less. The whole thing was just too fucking short. But sweet.
giovedì, maggio 01, 2008
Do you stop being you just to be how he wants you, oh yes I do, the stew is blue as the doves coo in the kangaroo zoo next to the emu, and how do you
There's no time to write adequately about last night's religious experience of a concert as we will dash off to Bonn the moment my darling covers his shame adequately for us to venture to the train station. Instead I'll leave you with Nick Cave's 2001 cover of Pulp's 'Disco 2000'.
What I find most interesting about the cover is how it makes it mercilessly clear that Different Class had very silly lyrics, no matter how charmingly Jarvis Cocker yelped them out over catchy rhythm and melodies. I still like it though. Different Class is Dr. Seuss for teenagers, and I was a teenager when it came out, which makes 'Disco 2000' my 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand', or my 'Bang a Gong', or my 'Come On Eileen', or my 'Can't Get You out of My Head', depending on how many decades older or younger than me you are.
But I don't like it as much as His'n'Hers. I heard that when I was 12 and hence it was very Dr. Seuss-y, in the sense of teaching me lessons as basic as that one must try green eggs and ham before deciding that one does not like them. It gave me my first clue that sex was messier than in the Harlequins under the chesterfield, and that one should never decide to fuck a boy based on how much one thought he wanted one, because there was a whole world of boring, depressing adult perversion to get trapped in out there. It made me a more sensible teenager, in terms of my twat at least. And to this day 'Pink Glove' sometimes vies with 'Papa Was a Rolling Stone' in the running to be my favourite song ever. Not often though.
Also, His'n'Hers has the song 'Babies', which has the pithiest couplet in the English language - the Tristan-und-Isolde tragedy as explored through each story-telling medium through the ages, culminating in a rehashing in every television series that ever got past the pilot episode, summed up in 20 Dr. Seussy syllables:
I know you won't believe it's true
I only went with her because she looked like you
What I find most interesting about the cover is how it makes it mercilessly clear that Different Class had very silly lyrics, no matter how charmingly Jarvis Cocker yelped them out over catchy rhythm and melodies. I still like it though. Different Class is Dr. Seuss for teenagers, and I was a teenager when it came out, which makes 'Disco 2000' my 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand', or my 'Bang a Gong', or my 'Come On Eileen', or my 'Can't Get You out of My Head', depending on how many decades older or younger than me you are.
But I don't like it as much as His'n'Hers. I heard that when I was 12 and hence it was very Dr. Seuss-y, in the sense of teaching me lessons as basic as that one must try green eggs and ham before deciding that one does not like them. It gave me my first clue that sex was messier than in the Harlequins under the chesterfield, and that one should never decide to fuck a boy based on how much one thought he wanted one, because there was a whole world of boring, depressing adult perversion to get trapped in out there. It made me a more sensible teenager, in terms of my twat at least. And to this day 'Pink Glove' sometimes vies with 'Papa Was a Rolling Stone' in the running to be my favourite song ever. Not often though.
Also, His'n'Hers has the song 'Babies', which has the pithiest couplet in the English language - the Tristan-und-Isolde tragedy as explored through each story-telling medium through the ages, culminating in a rehashing in every television series that ever got past the pilot episode, summed up in 20 Dr. Seussy syllables:
I know you won't believe it's true
I only went with her because she looked like you
domenica, aprile 27, 2008
Sprung
Springtime has come to the willies of the men. This weekend was hot and sunny and lovely; all of Brussels hit the patio with an enthusiasm that rivals Canadians' on the first +0° sunny day of the season. And all the men are looking at all the women with hot, sultry eyes after a winter of resembling dead fish. I don't know if it's because of people wearing fewer clothes, or that they don't have to keep the animal part of their brain busy by bracing their poor bodies against the cold, or if it's just that the spring has made people more happy, the women walking around with little smiles instead of annoyed scowls, the men finally able to lounge outside on chairs at the right angle to appreciate the ledgey jut of tits in a t-shirt walking by.
And me, I haven't been able to stop thinking about riding face for more than ten minutes at a time since last Thursday. The thought pops into my head with a still-shocking regularity: when the more-appealing men are lounging back on their patio chairs, smiling up glowing-eyed at my tits and sandal-wearing swagger, I am only three steps away from stepping over and straddling their heads. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be able to keep a lid on myself if I wasn't in a satisfying relationship. Actually, I don't wonder, I know I wouldn't.
So it's a chicken-and-egg question at the moment: am I loving the horniness of Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!! so much right now because I'm so horny, or am I so horny because I'm loving the horniness? I think the most rampant sexuality I've ever seen was from people who have just given up on the drugs, and since Nick Cave stopped with the heroin it's been horniness after horniness from him. I like it; I like it as much as his hallucinatory madness from the eighties and nineties - still just hallucinatory enough now to be poetry but - well - hell. Next time I hear somebody ask about what might have happened to Coleridge as a poet if he wasn't rotten with opium, I may have an answer. Though I suppose Coleridge couldn't have got so deep into the horniness, professional-writer-wise, seeing as that was an era when only prostitutes liked sex.
Anyways, it's really good. 'Midnight Man' has been stuck in my head ever since I crowbarred Amy Winehouse out by stealing her CD and then not liking it much, and I love having it stuck in my head. It's like my head is an iPod. And we're going to a Bad Seeds concert on Thursday before our trip to Bonn! Yay!
And me, I haven't been able to stop thinking about riding face for more than ten minutes at a time since last Thursday. The thought pops into my head with a still-shocking regularity: when the more-appealing men are lounging back on their patio chairs, smiling up glowing-eyed at my tits and sandal-wearing swagger, I am only three steps away from stepping over and straddling their heads. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be able to keep a lid on myself if I wasn't in a satisfying relationship. Actually, I don't wonder, I know I wouldn't.
So it's a chicken-and-egg question at the moment: am I loving the horniness of Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!! so much right now because I'm so horny, or am I so horny because I'm loving the horniness? I think the most rampant sexuality I've ever seen was from people who have just given up on the drugs, and since Nick Cave stopped with the heroin it's been horniness after horniness from him. I like it; I like it as much as his hallucinatory madness from the eighties and nineties - still just hallucinatory enough now to be poetry but - well - hell. Next time I hear somebody ask about what might have happened to Coleridge as a poet if he wasn't rotten with opium, I may have an answer. Though I suppose Coleridge couldn't have got so deep into the horniness, professional-writer-wise, seeing as that was an era when only prostitutes liked sex.
Anyways, it's really good. 'Midnight Man' has been stuck in my head ever since I crowbarred Amy Winehouse out by stealing her CD and then not liking it much, and I love having it stuck in my head. It's like my head is an iPod. And we're going to a Bad Seeds concert on Thursday before our trip to Bonn! Yay!
lunedì, aprile 21, 2008
I knew she was trouble
I've been holding out, because if there's anything more alienating to my halfbaked Marxist perspective than a rich chucklehead singing a catchy anthem about how she can't be bothered to go to rehab in a country where underpriced Afghan heroin and social desperation have made opiates the opiates of proletarians who can't afford the sort of lovely rehabs she could drag her bourgeois ass to but probably need them far more, it could only be Jennifer Lopez singing about how she's still from the block.
And then yesterday, one of the gym attendants turned off the top-40 shit and put on Back to Black. Maybe it was relief that I wasn't listening to Britney Ciccone Aguilera carrying on over some 'borrowed' backing rhythm & melody that was crappy even before it was bastardized, or maybe it's that I'm an absolute sucker for anything doo-woppy, but I was really enjoying it. Then "You Know I'm No Good" came on. I'd heard it before and had ignored it due to the Marxist thing, but stuck on the rowing machine I had ample opportunity to actually listen to what she was singing - and singing, no less, in that strong voice.
Okay. It's not Shakespeare. It's not even Lennon/McCartney. But it makes sense, scans, and it's evocative, and I can't remember the last time I heard pop that did that. Unless you count the Bad Seeds, and that's something else altogether. For one thing, Nick Cave isn't a 24 year old who sings about banal-but-deadly girl things in a rich girl voice. And sadly enough, all those girl bands from the 50's and 60's who Amy Winehouse and her producers are ripping off never managed to do that because producers then never cottoned on to the fact that the style of music did not necessitate singing charming repetitive inanities about loving, loving, loving and following, following, following, giving the whole delicious phenomenon a bafflingly short shelf life.
Anyways, my halfbaked Marxist objections to everything about Amy Winehouse stand, but I really like Back to Black, so I shall steal it. Problem solved.
And then yesterday, one of the gym attendants turned off the top-40 shit and put on Back to Black. Maybe it was relief that I wasn't listening to Britney Ciccone Aguilera carrying on over some 'borrowed' backing rhythm & melody that was crappy even before it was bastardized, or maybe it's that I'm an absolute sucker for anything doo-woppy, but I was really enjoying it. Then "You Know I'm No Good" came on. I'd heard it before and had ignored it due to the Marxist thing, but stuck on the rowing machine I had ample opportunity to actually listen to what she was singing - and singing, no less, in that strong voice.
Okay. It's not Shakespeare. It's not even Lennon/McCartney. But it makes sense, scans, and it's evocative, and I can't remember the last time I heard pop that did that. Unless you count the Bad Seeds, and that's something else altogether. For one thing, Nick Cave isn't a 24 year old who sings about banal-but-deadly girl things in a rich girl voice. And sadly enough, all those girl bands from the 50's and 60's who Amy Winehouse and her producers are ripping off never managed to do that because producers then never cottoned on to the fact that the style of music did not necessitate singing charming repetitive inanities about loving, loving, loving and following, following, following, giving the whole delicious phenomenon a bafflingly short shelf life.
Anyways, my halfbaked Marxist objections to everything about Amy Winehouse stand, but I really like Back to Black, so I shall steal it. Problem solved.
martedì, marzo 11, 2008
Today's lesson is all about the corruption of the religious class
So Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!! is a nice album even if the title is a little twee. But one of the things I like about Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds besides what I gushed about on Hipster's blog is their ability to communicate exclamation marks through music, so it's not so twee as all that. It's loud and lacking the cutesy prettiness of the last Bad Seeds album that had tinkly little tracks like 'Breathless' and 'Messiah Ward', but that's okay. It has its own, louder, prettiness. Especially the second track, which is still my favourite song.
Something I like to think about from time to time when I'm stuck on public transport without a book is old-time itinerant preachers and charismatics, who'd go around selling their particular version of God in barns and street corners and speaker's corners and whatnot, building up or failing to build up a following. Especially this guy, mostly because I can hardly wrap my head around the idea of German glossolalia. Can you imagine?
Since watching Jesus Camp I haven't been able to believe modern North American charismatic or pentecostal denominations have a relationship with the divine - that their religion isn't just a travesty that serves the lay people as a socially acceptable excuse to hate gays, gainfully employed women, and scientists, and serves the preachers as a way to make enough money to buy crystal meth for their favourite manwhores whilst maintaining a large family in the style to which they've become accustomed. At the time I found the movie annoying and unedifying, but what made the price of admission worth it was seeing those children educated in the art of faking glossolalia. Exactly the sort of thing that's going to make the rest of the world think they're loony, and make them feel a strong sense of community with each other. Seeing the camp director slipping in and out of glossolalia whilst pumping everybody up was pretty amazing.
I want to think that glossolalia is an actual spontaneous phenomenon - not literally that one starts spouting off in the tongue of angels, but that one manages to have an experience of such mysticism, such abandonment of the self . . . As it stands for me the Quaker way is best: shutting up for a solid hour and only speaking (with words) when you feel moved to - second last meeting I went to, one of the speakers recited from one of Leonard Cohen's more cheerful songs - maybe that's as angel-talky as it gets these days.
Anyways, I still like to imagine that my culture used to support real honest-to-goodness mystics and angel-talk and all the other fancypants pentecostal stuff in the past, when there was less money to be made off it and people didn't know enough about the wider world to be quite so scared shitless by it - that maybe there was a time when North American mystic religion was actually about religion, and not paranoia. I like to imagine it but I doubt it. A lot.
The point I was getting at is that Nick Cave and Tom Waits are two people I think would have made fantastic itinerant preachers or charismatics back in the day. If I had seen them proselytizing back in, say, 1850, and had been raised over the preceding 29 years, I probably would have joined their cults. It's a strange thought but I'm pretty sure that's what would have happened.
Something I like to think about from time to time when I'm stuck on public transport without a book is old-time itinerant preachers and charismatics, who'd go around selling their particular version of God in barns and street corners and speaker's corners and whatnot, building up or failing to build up a following. Especially this guy, mostly because I can hardly wrap my head around the idea of German glossolalia. Can you imagine?
Since watching Jesus Camp I haven't been able to believe modern North American charismatic or pentecostal denominations have a relationship with the divine - that their religion isn't just a travesty that serves the lay people as a socially acceptable excuse to hate gays, gainfully employed women, and scientists, and serves the preachers as a way to make enough money to buy crystal meth for their favourite manwhores whilst maintaining a large family in the style to which they've become accustomed. At the time I found the movie annoying and unedifying, but what made the price of admission worth it was seeing those children educated in the art of faking glossolalia. Exactly the sort of thing that's going to make the rest of the world think they're loony, and make them feel a strong sense of community with each other. Seeing the camp director slipping in and out of glossolalia whilst pumping everybody up was pretty amazing.
I want to think that glossolalia is an actual spontaneous phenomenon - not literally that one starts spouting off in the tongue of angels, but that one manages to have an experience of such mysticism, such abandonment of the self . . . As it stands for me the Quaker way is best: shutting up for a solid hour and only speaking (with words) when you feel moved to - second last meeting I went to, one of the speakers recited from one of Leonard Cohen's more cheerful songs - maybe that's as angel-talky as it gets these days.
Anyways, I still like to imagine that my culture used to support real honest-to-goodness mystics and angel-talk and all the other fancypants pentecostal stuff in the past, when there was less money to be made off it and people didn't know enough about the wider world to be quite so scared shitless by it - that maybe there was a time when North American mystic religion was actually about religion, and not paranoia. I like to imagine it but I doubt it. A lot.
The point I was getting at is that Nick Cave and Tom Waits are two people I think would have made fantastic itinerant preachers or charismatics back in the day. If I had seen them proselytizing back in, say, 1850, and had been raised over the preceding 29 years, I probably would have joined their cults. It's a strange thought but I'm pretty sure that's what would have happened.
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