Given the paucity of non-chain record stores in Canberra, it is surprising what turns up on the shelves at the local libraries. Here’s the latest selection:
“Better Shred Than Dead: The Dick Dale Anthology”: the first disc of this two-disc retrospective rocks (although Link Wray is my artist of choice in this department). The second disc, covering the Dick Dale renaissance of the 1990s, adds not much to the first disc except higher fidelity; it also can’t help but suffer from the presence of one Stevie Ray Vaughan, much loved by bearded men who use words like “chops” and “licks”, but who in my opinion was strong on craft but sadly lacking in art.
Lisa Gerrard and Patrick Cassidy, “Immortal Memory”: not the first time I’ve borrowed this. At previous attempts I hadn’t been able to see past the idea of this being an extension of Dead Can Dance. And I suppose in some ways it is: you wouldn’t mistake Lisa Gerrard’s voice for anybody else’s. But reading it in that way, it fell short of expectations. This time around, I have been able to appreciate it for what it is: a compelling song cycle in the classical tradition, but with a definite Irish feel to it. Which, obviously, tells you nothing. This record is a delicate, precious thing, which quietly convinces you to give it the time and attention it needs for its beauteous charms to slowly unfold before you.
The Free Design, “You Could Be Born Again”: undoubtedly the pick of this bunch. The Free Design are mostly known, of course, for their purported influence on Stereolab; a theory which is parrotted so much that it is as if, if you had all the Free Design records, you would see nothing at all novel in the ’Lab. Which is, of course, a load of cobblers. You can hear plenty else in Stereolab, from the minimalists to the Swell Maps, from the Velvet Undergound to Suicide. None of which, by any stretch, have any connection, musically at least, whatsoever to the Free Design. At least, not on the strength of this record, which I think was their first, from 1968. This album sits fairly comfortably inside a circle bordered by, let’s see, the Seekers, Sergio Mendes and Brasil 66, Os Mutantes, and any number of records under the banner of Phase 4 Stereo, but with a touch of Van Dyke Parks thrown in to keep it just difficult enough to have remained slightly under the radar of popular consciousness. The arrangements and harmonies are unfaultable. And their version of “California Dreamin’” is up there with the best. But to come back to this whole Stereolab/Free Design straw man, the more I listen to this disc the more I suspect that a better modern comparison would be Broadcast, and in particular “Ha Ha Sound”, in which that band postulate a world in which 60s nostalgia would bypass all of the usual suspects in favour of the early electronic artists, Stockhausen, The Fifth Dimension, and European soundtrack music.
The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, “The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion”: JSBE, I find, are much like a visit from your in-laws (note: I didn’t say my in-laws). It’s good to have them around, but it’s also nice to see the back of them. And yet when they’ve gone you kind of wish they’d come back again. Weird.
“The Late Great Daniel Johnston: Discovered Covered”: disclaimer: I have always been a bit uncomfortable with the whole notion of outsider artists in general, and with the cult of Daniel Johnston in particular. Is it okay to derive pleasure out of the product of someone else’s mental illness? And yet the roll call of the great and the good on this tribute album surely speaks some kind of volumes about the quality of his songs. And in the hands of “actual musicians” they do scrub up rather well. The packaging suggests Johnston’s full blessing, so I am putting aside my misgivings for the time being. It’s nice to hear Calvin Johnston’s basso profundo again after all these years, for example; while Beck, M. Ward, Tom Waits, Bright Eyes and Eels are there for the benefit of the hipster cogniscenti. “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Your Grievience [sic]” is a gorgeous song no matter what its provenance.
Hood, “Outside Closer”: having listened to this four or five times, I find myself unable to commit any of it to memory. Where does it go? I can’t say I dislike it. Quite the opposite. Maybe I have reached saturation point. Influence corner: the gold standard of post-rock, Tortoise’s “djed”; The Sea and Cake; Four Tet.
Pulp, “We Love Life”: in this busy world in which we live, “Hits” is all you really need of Pulp. No more - but certainly no less, I hasten to add, in case you took this as some kind of put-down.
Mission of Burma, “Signals, Calls and Marches”: over the years I have probably discarded more Mission of Burma records than you have ever owned. Unlike most records I have gotten rid of, I haven’t yet lived to regret having done so. Once again I can’t pinpoint the problem. If I said that the CD version of their live album, “The Horrible Truth about Burma”, was the one record of theirs that has ever come close to being indispensable, would I be saying anything?
Casiotone For The Painfully Alone, “Twinkle Echo”: if I hadn’t spent much of the second half of the 1980s lost in a world of K Records, the Cannanes, and Wayne Davidson’s mostly cassette-only Toytown label, I’m sure I would find CFTPA fresh and exciting. (Plus I would now be able to lead some kind of normal life. Thanks, fellas.)
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Saturday, July 09, 2005
It Takes All Sorts To Make A World
Do I attract weirdos? Or am I, in fact, a weirdo?
I left work last night around 5.30. It was dark, and cold, and raining. There were no people around. I was walking to my bus stop. This involves crossing King Edward Terrace, a fairly busy road, at a pedestrian crossing. (The crossing is clearly signposted and well lit, but it occasionally becomes invisible to motorists, and I cross my fingers each time I step out onto it.) There was no oncoming traffic on the near side of the crossing, so off I went. I got almost half way across when a car coming the other way drove through the crossing just in front of me. The driver slammed on the brakes at about the time I would have been under the back wheel of the car. The car then drove off again, with its horn blaring incessantly and the driver’s arm waving out of the window. I thought it must have been someone I knew, apologising for almost killing me, so I waved back as I continued walking to the bus stop, shaken somewhat.
The next thing I knew (by now I was at the bus stop, calling up some Bill Fay songs on the iPod), the sound of the car horn was getting louder again, and the car, having done a U-turn on King Edward Terrace (itself no mean feat at that time of the day, on, as I have already said, a dark and wet evening), was doing a right-hand turn into the street where the bus stop is. “Here we go”, I thought to myself, as the driver, in the one motion, leaned across to roll down his passenger-side window, and started to drive his car off the road and up onto the footpath. For a moment I thought the object may have been to finish the job and actually run over me, but the car then stopped. By now I was very conscious of the fact that there was not another living soul around. The driver, who seemed to be a pretty large bloke in a small car, stuck his head almost out the passenger window and started screaming at me, and gesticulating wildly. In the split second in which I had to weigh my options, I thought: if I start to run, he will get out of the car and come after me (or even perhaps keep driving after me - I mean, the car was already up on the footpath pointing in my direction), in which case I don’t stand a chance, and it’s not as if there was anywhere that I could run to. On the other hand, it would be faintly ridiculous for me just to ignore him: he was as in your face as someone could be when they are in a car and you are standing at a bus stop, and anyway there was nobody else around that I could pretend that he might be talking to. So the only life-extending option I had, I figured, was to engage this guy in rational conversation.
As it turned out, that was fairly easy to do, because he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. And he threw me with his opening line. I was expecting “What is your problem?” (easy answer to that one: I’m standing in the rain at the bus stop, without an umbrella, watching rain pouring over the brim of my hat, and wondering if you are going to pick up an iron bar and kill me with it); or “What the hell do you think you were doing?” (easy answer to that one, too: I was crossing the road at a designated and well-lit pedestrian crossing, giving me the right of way, and you had more than enough time to see me given that I was already almost half way across the road; okay I was wearing dark clothing, but after all I am an aging post-punk and wearing black is like an article of faith, not merely a uniform, and in any event the dark clothing would be offset by what was visible of my pasty white skin).
No; the first thing he said was: “What fucking country are you from?” Huh? Before I had time to come up with some kind of smart response, though, he had the answer: “Are you Italian? Are you from fucking Italy? That’s it, isn’t it: you people. What’s your father? Is he fucking Italian? Is your father Italian? Of course he is. Why don’t you back to your own fucking country you fucking wog. You wog. I hate you. You fucking wog.” (I am perhaps not recording this verbatim, but I hope you are getting the idea.)
Before I could explain to him that my father had been dead for some years and that I am at least fourth-generation Australian on both sides of my family, he took a new tack: “Where do you work? Where do you fucking work? You work over there don’t you? [looking back in the general direction of the High Court of Australia] Yeah I know you fucking do because I seen you [sic, obviously] coming from there. You people. You fucking people. I’m going to report you to the police. You people think you can get away with anything but I’m going to report you to the police and they’re going to come down there and they will fucking report you. You fucking people. You think you can do anything. Are you fucking Italian? Where’s your father from? You idiot. Why don’t you go back to Italy you fucking wog. Fucking dago.” (I was kind of wondering if my hat, a 1940s-era fedora, of the kind favoured by Canadian comic-book artist Seth, was some kind of obscure signifier of an Italian origin, but I didn’t have the chance to ask, I was drowning in this guy’s verbal torrent.)
At that, he drove off, but not before winding his driver’s side window down so that he could continue screaming at me as he drove back whence he came, turning left onto King Edward Terrace and leaving me, standing in the rain, to ponder what exactly had just happened.
I left work last night around 5.30. It was dark, and cold, and raining. There were no people around. I was walking to my bus stop. This involves crossing King Edward Terrace, a fairly busy road, at a pedestrian crossing. (The crossing is clearly signposted and well lit, but it occasionally becomes invisible to motorists, and I cross my fingers each time I step out onto it.) There was no oncoming traffic on the near side of the crossing, so off I went. I got almost half way across when a car coming the other way drove through the crossing just in front of me. The driver slammed on the brakes at about the time I would have been under the back wheel of the car. The car then drove off again, with its horn blaring incessantly and the driver’s arm waving out of the window. I thought it must have been someone I knew, apologising for almost killing me, so I waved back as I continued walking to the bus stop, shaken somewhat.
The next thing I knew (by now I was at the bus stop, calling up some Bill Fay songs on the iPod), the sound of the car horn was getting louder again, and the car, having done a U-turn on King Edward Terrace (itself no mean feat at that time of the day, on, as I have already said, a dark and wet evening), was doing a right-hand turn into the street where the bus stop is. “Here we go”, I thought to myself, as the driver, in the one motion, leaned across to roll down his passenger-side window, and started to drive his car off the road and up onto the footpath. For a moment I thought the object may have been to finish the job and actually run over me, but the car then stopped. By now I was very conscious of the fact that there was not another living soul around. The driver, who seemed to be a pretty large bloke in a small car, stuck his head almost out the passenger window and started screaming at me, and gesticulating wildly. In the split second in which I had to weigh my options, I thought: if I start to run, he will get out of the car and come after me (or even perhaps keep driving after me - I mean, the car was already up on the footpath pointing in my direction), in which case I don’t stand a chance, and it’s not as if there was anywhere that I could run to. On the other hand, it would be faintly ridiculous for me just to ignore him: he was as in your face as someone could be when they are in a car and you are standing at a bus stop, and anyway there was nobody else around that I could pretend that he might be talking to. So the only life-extending option I had, I figured, was to engage this guy in rational conversation.
As it turned out, that was fairly easy to do, because he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. And he threw me with his opening line. I was expecting “What is your problem?” (easy answer to that one: I’m standing in the rain at the bus stop, without an umbrella, watching rain pouring over the brim of my hat, and wondering if you are going to pick up an iron bar and kill me with it); or “What the hell do you think you were doing?” (easy answer to that one, too: I was crossing the road at a designated and well-lit pedestrian crossing, giving me the right of way, and you had more than enough time to see me given that I was already almost half way across the road; okay I was wearing dark clothing, but after all I am an aging post-punk and wearing black is like an article of faith, not merely a uniform, and in any event the dark clothing would be offset by what was visible of my pasty white skin).
No; the first thing he said was: “What fucking country are you from?” Huh? Before I had time to come up with some kind of smart response, though, he had the answer: “Are you Italian? Are you from fucking Italy? That’s it, isn’t it: you people. What’s your father? Is he fucking Italian? Is your father Italian? Of course he is. Why don’t you back to your own fucking country you fucking wog. You wog. I hate you. You fucking wog.” (I am perhaps not recording this verbatim, but I hope you are getting the idea.)
Before I could explain to him that my father had been dead for some years and that I am at least fourth-generation Australian on both sides of my family, he took a new tack: “Where do you work? Where do you fucking work? You work over there don’t you? [looking back in the general direction of the High Court of Australia] Yeah I know you fucking do because I seen you [sic, obviously] coming from there. You people. You fucking people. I’m going to report you to the police. You people think you can get away with anything but I’m going to report you to the police and they’re going to come down there and they will fucking report you. You fucking people. You think you can do anything. Are you fucking Italian? Where’s your father from? You idiot. Why don’t you go back to Italy you fucking wog. Fucking dago.” (I was kind of wondering if my hat, a 1940s-era fedora, of the kind favoured by Canadian comic-book artist Seth, was some kind of obscure signifier of an Italian origin, but I didn’t have the chance to ask, I was drowning in this guy’s verbal torrent.)
At that, he drove off, but not before winding his driver’s side window down so that he could continue screaming at me as he drove back whence he came, turning left onto King Edward Terrace and leaving me, standing in the rain, to ponder what exactly had just happened.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Accidents Will Happen
The story so far: a few days ago, Orbis Quintus posted a song by 60s NZ band The Avengers, which prompted me to put up the Pop Art Toasters' cover of the same song (scroll down a couple of entries). Now, in the way of these things, the ever reliable Moistworks has posted "I Won't Hurt You" by the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band, a song which is also covered by the Pop Art Toasters on their one and only EP (which only has five songs: is this an unlikely coincidence or something more sinister?). The good news is, this gives me the chance to post the Pop Art Toasters' version, which I think is the best song on their disc. The better news is, it gives you a chance to hear this song, which so fully captures the essence of the Chills that it continues to come as a surprise to find that it's not a Martin Phillipps original.
Pop Art Toasters, "I Won't Hurt You".
Pop Art Toasters, "I Won't Hurt You".
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Splash Your Jewels
And while I'm on the subject of things New Zealand, a big shout out to me old mucker Alun Breward, who was kind enough to take the time to send me a nicely photocopied (reduced to save paper- we like that) article from NZ magazine the Listener about David Kilgour. I can't recall ever having actually read much about Kilgour, believe it or not, so it was good to have the opportunity to vicariously catch up with the man for a few minutes.
And if anyone has earned the right to spend their days sitting on the verandah of their secluded weatherboard house, contemplating whether to take the board out to catch a few waves, or whether to strum a few chords instead, it is David Kilgour, founder member of the Clean, perhaps the most influential band this side of the Velvet Underground; shortlived Chill; part-time Pop Art Toaster; part-time member of Yo La Tengo; and one of the finest guitarists and tunesmiths I can think of. His latest solo release continues to elude me, but the previous four come highly recommended. You can (and should) start anywhere, really.
Mind you, I am somewhat puzzled by a quote in the article from film-maker Bridget Sutherland (who is making a documentary about Kilgour), who calls "Here Come The Cars", Kilgour's stripped-back, sparkling solo debut, the closest New Zealand has come to a "Blonde on Blonde". How so? It's nowhere near double-album length; contains no canine-trauma-inducing harmonica solos, and is not (yet) a certifiable stone cold classic record, instantly recognisable by anyone anywhere. Yes, perhaps on one or two songs Kilgour sings in a style that might be called "Dylanesque", except that more often than not "Dylanesque" is merely a code word for "can't sing". Which isn't true at all in Kilgour's case; his voice might be limited, but he knows his limitations and works them to advantage. (In fact, a closer reference point than "Blonde on Blonde" might be "Electrical Storm", the first solo release by Ed Kuepper, someone else whose voice might sink more ships than it launches, but for whom that doesn't mean a damn.)
Oh what the heck, here is "You Forget", taken from "Here Come The Cars", just to give you a taste of the superior Dunedin sound:
David Kilgour, "You Forget".
Released on Flying Nun, at least in New Zealand, in 1991. Try Smoke.
And if anyone has earned the right to spend their days sitting on the verandah of their secluded weatherboard house, contemplating whether to take the board out to catch a few waves, or whether to strum a few chords instead, it is David Kilgour, founder member of the Clean, perhaps the most influential band this side of the Velvet Underground; shortlived Chill; part-time Pop Art Toaster; part-time member of Yo La Tengo; and one of the finest guitarists and tunesmiths I can think of. His latest solo release continues to elude me, but the previous four come highly recommended. You can (and should) start anywhere, really.
Mind you, I am somewhat puzzled by a quote in the article from film-maker Bridget Sutherland (who is making a documentary about Kilgour), who calls "Here Come The Cars", Kilgour's stripped-back, sparkling solo debut, the closest New Zealand has come to a "Blonde on Blonde". How so? It's nowhere near double-album length; contains no canine-trauma-inducing harmonica solos, and is not (yet) a certifiable stone cold classic record, instantly recognisable by anyone anywhere. Yes, perhaps on one or two songs Kilgour sings in a style that might be called "Dylanesque", except that more often than not "Dylanesque" is merely a code word for "can't sing". Which isn't true at all in Kilgour's case; his voice might be limited, but he knows his limitations and works them to advantage. (In fact, a closer reference point than "Blonde on Blonde" might be "Electrical Storm", the first solo release by Ed Kuepper, someone else whose voice might sink more ships than it launches, but for whom that doesn't mean a damn.)
Oh what the heck, here is "You Forget", taken from "Here Come The Cars", just to give you a taste of the superior Dunedin sound:
David Kilgour, "You Forget".
Released on Flying Nun, at least in New Zealand, in 1991. Try Smoke.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Things We Learnt Today
I can’t believe that I have lived my entire life until today not knowing that Martin Phillipps was responsible for the cheeeeezy (in the nicest possible way ...) organ on The Clean’s “Tally Ho”. Crikey, the Dunedin music scene was even more incestuous than I thought.
And in case you need to refresh your memory, here it is:
The Clean, "Tally Ho".
While we’re at it, why don’t we bow our heads in gratitude to the good folks at Orbis Quintus for exposing us to three tracks by the little-known 60s NZ band The Avengers, including “Everybody’s Gonna Wonder”, the only Avengers song known to us, thanks to its being covered (under the title "Everyone's Gonna Wonder" - go figure) by possibly the only supergroup ever to have come from New Zealand, Pop Art Toasters, a one-off project which included Martin Phillipps and David Kilgour (who, believe it or not, was a member of the Chills for a period of a few weeks in 1983, during which time the band neither recorded nor played live).
Right-click here if you need to hear these two pillars of Dunedin society going all 60s on us:
Pop Art Toasters, "Everyone’s Gonna Wonder".
And, for a perhaps more recognisable idea of how well these guys feel that decade, here is their version of The Who’s “Circles”:
Pop Art Toasters, "Circles".
CONSUMER ADVISORY: the two Pop Art Toasters tracks are from their only release, a self-titled five-song CD on Flying Nun. It is believed to be no longer available, which would be a damn shame. As for “Tally Ho”, unless you are one of the lucky few to have the original Flying Nun 7”, your best bet (an excellent bet all round, actually) is the two-CD “Anthology”, which just happens to be a Flying Nun release.
And in case you need to refresh your memory, here it is:
The Clean, "Tally Ho".
While we’re at it, why don’t we bow our heads in gratitude to the good folks at Orbis Quintus for exposing us to three tracks by the little-known 60s NZ band The Avengers, including “Everybody’s Gonna Wonder”, the only Avengers song known to us, thanks to its being covered (under the title "Everyone's Gonna Wonder" - go figure) by possibly the only supergroup ever to have come from New Zealand, Pop Art Toasters, a one-off project which included Martin Phillipps and David Kilgour (who, believe it or not, was a member of the Chills for a period of a few weeks in 1983, during which time the band neither recorded nor played live).
Right-click here if you need to hear these two pillars of Dunedin society going all 60s on us:
Pop Art Toasters, "Everyone’s Gonna Wonder".
And, for a perhaps more recognisable idea of how well these guys feel that decade, here is their version of The Who’s “Circles”:
Pop Art Toasters, "Circles".
CONSUMER ADVISORY: the two Pop Art Toasters tracks are from their only release, a self-titled five-song CD on Flying Nun. It is believed to be no longer available, which would be a damn shame. As for “Tally Ho”, unless you are one of the lucky few to have the original Flying Nun 7”, your best bet (an excellent bet all round, actually) is the two-CD “Anthology”, which just happens to be a Flying Nun release.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
youth in translation
Youth: "That is not totally sick as."
Translation: "That isn't exactly the greatest thing ever, but it is pretty good."
Translation: "That isn't exactly the greatest thing ever, but it is pretty good."
Friday, June 10, 2005
Things I wish I had remembered that I had once known
Number one in a continuing series:
That the first album by Eurythmics was largely the work of Can. It's funny how you can allow the awfulness of later works to obscure your knowledge of a band.
That the first album by Eurythmics was largely the work of Can. It's funny how you can allow the awfulness of later works to obscure your knowledge of a band.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Stacks o' Wax
Meanwhile, the quest continues. Having not been to the local library for a little while, I came away with a large pile of CDs. Viz:
Keith Jarrett/Gary Peacock/Jack DeJohnette, “Inside Out”; Charles Lloyd, “Hyperion With Higgins”: Both discs were so badly scratched that they contained audible glitches and, like, scratching sounds (which kinda queers the whole concept of that pristine ECM sound). You’d think goatee-stroking latter-day beatniks would be more careful with public property, wouldn’t you? And another thing: I don’t think I will ever come to terms with the way Jarrett sings along with his own piano playing. It’s too much like people who laugh at their own jokes.
Kraftwerk, “Aubobahn”: It must be said (sharp intake of breath): No, I don’t own this album. I’ve never owned this album. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Truth is, though, I never really got over the nagging feeling that there was something a bit gimmicky about “Autobahn”, which wasn’t there in the three crucial Kraftwerk records “Man-Machine”, “Trans-Europe Express” and “Computer World”. Listening to it again, I would adhere to that view. And it’s difficult to warm to the tracks on side two, isn’t it? Or is it just me?
David Bowie, “David Live”: In many ways, David Bowie was the seventies. I first discovered him in my cousin Gay’s record collection at her parents’ triple-fronted brick veneer house in Dandenong, somewhere around 1973. (Gay’s mother, my beloved auntie Margaret, pronounced “Bowie” like you would say “bow wow wow”; with an audible sneer on account of the make-up he wore.) I got confused by the number of times “Space Oddity” got into the UK pop charts, seemingly years after it had first come out. (I thought the charts were exclusively for new things. Little did I know.) I didn’t get to see Bowie until the 1980s when he played at the now bulldozed VFL Park, Waverley, supported by the Models. It was a spectacle, sure, but given how far we were from the stage you may as well have been watching it on tv.“David Live” is from about 10 years previous to that. What’s interesting about this double-cd “full concert in actual playing order and we’ve remastered the crap out of it as well” extravaganza is that the songs are played in a style that very much predicts“Young Americans” and “Station To Station”: that smooth white-boy soul sound, which I always thought suited Bowie rather well (until he tried to update it on “Let’s Dance” in 1983 and it all went horribly wrong). Then you read in the liner notes that the band stopped half way through the tour to go off and record what would become “Young Americans”, and it all makes sense. You wouldn’t, nevertheless, want to listen to this too often, I don’t think (I’m much more interested in hearing the reissue of “Stage”, from the end of the seventies, by which time David had gone through at least one further reinvention of himself), although the cha-cha-cha version of “Aladdin Sane” will wrong-foot you every time.
Various, “Sunday Nights: The Songs of Junior Kimbrough”: Patchy like most “tribute” records. (The six-song sampler disc of Kimbrough himself that comes with it, on the other hand, is a peach.) Still, it’s nice to hear the Stooges with Mike Watt on the bass. Twice.
Rachid Taha, “Tekitoi”: Coincidentally, while I had these discs out on loan this one received a rather positive review on Pitchfork, prompting me to give it a closer listen than I otherwise might have. I remain not convinced; it seems a bit too generic world music for me, either too Western or not Western enough (c.f. Konono No 1, I guess). Mind you, my concentration was destroyed by a knock on the door from a man from the glass company, who had been sent around as a result of a call from our builder, who had told the glass company that one of our new full-height windows had developed a crack. The man from the glass company looked at it, said, “Yes, it is cracked”, and left. I am still scratching my head. I guess the concern was that they might be tricked into replacing a window that wasn’t cracked in the first place. Customers can be so sneaky sometimes.
Keith Jarrett/Gary Peacock/Jack DeJohnette, “Inside Out”; Charles Lloyd, “Hyperion With Higgins”: Both discs were so badly scratched that they contained audible glitches and, like, scratching sounds (which kinda queers the whole concept of that pristine ECM sound). You’d think goatee-stroking latter-day beatniks would be more careful with public property, wouldn’t you? And another thing: I don’t think I will ever come to terms with the way Jarrett sings along with his own piano playing. It’s too much like people who laugh at their own jokes.
Kraftwerk, “Aubobahn”: It must be said (sharp intake of breath): No, I don’t own this album. I’ve never owned this album. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Truth is, though, I never really got over the nagging feeling that there was something a bit gimmicky about “Autobahn”, which wasn’t there in the three crucial Kraftwerk records “Man-Machine”, “Trans-Europe Express” and “Computer World”. Listening to it again, I would adhere to that view. And it’s difficult to warm to the tracks on side two, isn’t it? Or is it just me?
David Bowie, “David Live”: In many ways, David Bowie was the seventies. I first discovered him in my cousin Gay’s record collection at her parents’ triple-fronted brick veneer house in Dandenong, somewhere around 1973. (Gay’s mother, my beloved auntie Margaret, pronounced “Bowie” like you would say “bow wow wow”; with an audible sneer on account of the make-up he wore.) I got confused by the number of times “Space Oddity” got into the UK pop charts, seemingly years after it had first come out. (I thought the charts were exclusively for new things. Little did I know.) I didn’t get to see Bowie until the 1980s when he played at the now bulldozed VFL Park, Waverley, supported by the Models. It was a spectacle, sure, but given how far we were from the stage you may as well have been watching it on tv.“David Live” is from about 10 years previous to that. What’s interesting about this double-cd “full concert in actual playing order and we’ve remastered the crap out of it as well” extravaganza is that the songs are played in a style that very much predicts“Young Americans” and “Station To Station”: that smooth white-boy soul sound, which I always thought suited Bowie rather well (until he tried to update it on “Let’s Dance” in 1983 and it all went horribly wrong). Then you read in the liner notes that the band stopped half way through the tour to go off and record what would become “Young Americans”, and it all makes sense. You wouldn’t, nevertheless, want to listen to this too often, I don’t think (I’m much more interested in hearing the reissue of “Stage”, from the end of the seventies, by which time David had gone through at least one further reinvention of himself), although the cha-cha-cha version of “Aladdin Sane” will wrong-foot you every time.
Various, “Sunday Nights: The Songs of Junior Kimbrough”: Patchy like most “tribute” records. (The six-song sampler disc of Kimbrough himself that comes with it, on the other hand, is a peach.) Still, it’s nice to hear the Stooges with Mike Watt on the bass. Twice.
Rachid Taha, “Tekitoi”: Coincidentally, while I had these discs out on loan this one received a rather positive review on Pitchfork, prompting me to give it a closer listen than I otherwise might have. I remain not convinced; it seems a bit too generic world music for me, either too Western or not Western enough (c.f. Konono No 1, I guess). Mind you, my concentration was destroyed by a knock on the door from a man from the glass company, who had been sent around as a result of a call from our builder, who had told the glass company that one of our new full-height windows had developed a crack. The man from the glass company looked at it, said, “Yes, it is cracked”, and left. I am still scratching my head. I guess the concern was that they might be tricked into replacing a window that wasn’t cracked in the first place. Customers can be so sneaky sometimes.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Alone again, naturally
There are certain records that can only be listened to in those rare moments when you have the house to yourself. Thus, those records don't get played very often; they sit in a slow-moving queue, waiting their turn.
I didn't realise that John Cale's "Paris, 1919" was one of those records. I now know that it is. (Of course, his "Music For A New Society" was one of the first discs to be admitted to this exclusive club. In fact, that record, like David Sylvian's "Blemish" and Scott Walker's "Tilt", is now a record that I almost never listen to, out of an irrational fear that whatever hold it has over me may have released its grip while I wasn't looking.)
I didn't realise that John Cale's "Paris, 1919" was one of those records. I now know that it is. (Of course, his "Music For A New Society" was one of the first discs to be admitted to this exclusive club. In fact, that record, like David Sylvian's "Blemish" and Scott Walker's "Tilt", is now a record that I almost never listen to, out of an irrational fear that whatever hold it has over me may have released its grip while I wasn't looking.)
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Dennis, part two
Dennis appeared before us like a vision. With his unkempt hair, stubbly beard, Dennis Lillee moustache, lingering smell of tobacco, and shabby clothes, Dennis was taken on as sharefarmer by my father against all the odds. Against all common sense, really. Perhaps dad perceived in him some admirable quality arising out of the fact that he was getting out there and looking for work. That he could hit a cricket ball would have worked in his favour. That he was a drug-addicted boozehound was not then known. He had never worked on a farm, had quite possibly never stepped outside of the city. How on earth did he even find us?
Dennis brought with him his lady friend, Christine, their daughter, Sheree, who was four or five years old, a little yappy dog whose name I don’t recall, a stack of pornographic magazines, and, what was of most interest to me, his record collection. I had this idea that Dennis was into the kind of music I was into, although, looking back, all I can remember him owning was “Pablo Cruise” by Pablo Cruise, and the first Dire Straits album (which was then pretty new and, perhaps, exciting: at school we all thought, when we first heard “Sultans of Swing” on the radio, that it was something new by Bob Dylan - I think I had some idea that I could pick out Joe Strummer in there, too - of course, now it just sounds like a poor man’s “Marquee Moon”). They moved into the old rundown weatherboard cottage that was used as the sharefarmer’s “residence”. That house, which was built by a farmer during the depression from any materials he could lay his hand on, and had been moved twice, was at one point used as a shearing shed, and despite one of the side walls bowing inwards rather dramatically, it steadfastly refused to fall down.
Of necessity, dad adopted a more hands-on approach with Dennis than he had done with other sharefarmers, helping out in the shed at milking times and doing many of the other jobs around the place that needed to be done. Whether this was out of a sense of having to show Dennis the ropes, or because of a perceived inability on Dennis’s part to do anything by himself, is not known. I was also made use of on a more regular basis. On weekends and school holidays Dennis and I milked the cows together. I rigged up a transistor radio at the cowshed which enabled us to tune in to 2JJ during milking times, and, later, the “new thing” in radio, FM Stereo, in the guise of EON-FM, from Melbourne, which was actually a godsend for its first few months of existence, with its Lee Simon-programmed “album oriented” playlist, showcasing perfectly acceptable listening fare like the Reels, the Models, and Matt Finish, even if it did run too hard with “Stairway to Heaven”. (And Pablo Cruise.) (This Golden Age continued until it dawned on the men in suits that nobody was actually listening aside from a couple of guys 100 miles away who were up to their knees in milk and cow manure, whereupon an inevitable dumbing-down process commenced, which continued until we ended up with the appalling behemoth that we know as Triple M.)
Dennis joined my cricket team and in his first game showed himself to have a Botham-like ability to turn a match with his own bat (although this ability revealed itself frustratingly sparingly).
He had a very mild and pleasant nature (although he would occasionally explode with profanities of a type that the farm had never known, if a cow didn’t do what was expected of it).
It could all perhaps have worked reasonably well. Except that, in the end, it didn’t.
It seemed that Dennis or Christine - or maybe both of them - had trouble with headaches. Dennis would often get my father to run an errand for him: to go to a chemist (a different one each time: with dad travelling far and wide in the ongoing search for a miracle cure for his bad back, this actually wasn’t all that difficult for Dennis to engineer) and get a prescription for some kind of strong painkiller. These painkillers all had two things in common: they didn’t seem to last very long, and they all contained codeine. While it is understandable that a man who had known only clean living and moderate, lawful behaviour (no, I am not talking about Dennis here) would not have put two and two together, it was not until one morning when dad stumbled upon the makeshift chemistry lab operating in Dennis’s kitchen that the awful truth was uncovered: the painkillers were being melted down and somehow converted to pure codeine, which was then being used in ways other than as recommended on the packet. “I think Dennis is using drugs.” There were no more trips to the chemist.
Some mornings Dennis would fail to turn up for milkings, and dad and I would have to do it ourselves. Sometimes I would be late for school. Homework was sometimes missed. But the most serious consequence - it ended in tears - was when he failed to appear on the morning of the Saturday when I had been picked, for the first and only time, in the starting 18 for the Fish Creek thirds football team, in an away game at Devon, about an hour’s drive from our place. The cows were milked very quickly that morning, but we still failed to get to the ground on time, and that was the end of my football career, before it had even started.
Possibly the last thing we needed at the farm was a pet goat. But that is what Dennis brought home for us, one day, perhaps as an apology for his erratic behaviour. The little guy was even pre-named (by Sheree): “Pablo”. Pablo was an angora cross; he produced quite nice long, curly hair that, each year, was ignominiously hacked off as Pablo lay upturned in a wheelbarrow. As Pablo grew older, he took an unjustified dislike to my mother, who would be attacked by him if she ever ventured out into his territory, the holding paddock that ran around the outside of our house yard. Nevertheless, he ended up becoming another member of the family, and we all cried the day that Pablo, stricken by a mysterious illness that caused him to froth at the mouth and twist his neck around at an improbable angle, was finally put to rest.
When Pablo was still tiny, we once left him with Dennis overnight while we went on one of our infrequent visits to Melbourne. (Perhaps the cows were milked while we were away; perhaps they weren’t.) When we returned home, just before nightfall the next day, Pablo was returned to us, lying prone in his cardboard box, and struggling to breathe. Sheree had apparently been playing with him quite a lot during the time we were away, but beyond that Dennis wasn’t giving anything away. It looked bad. A vigil was maintained. In a fit of inspiration such as only he was capable of, dad said “Pablo looks a bit like a cow with milk fever.” So he raced off to the dairy to pick up a packet of the medicine we kept on hand for cows suffering from milk fever; did a quick mental calculation in the nature of the relative weights of (a) a large dairy cow and (b) a tiny baby goat dying from something like dehydration or exhaustion; fashioned an extremely small dosage in an extremely small syringe; and did the deed. We kept up the vigil until we all had other things to do. After a while we heard, like a voice from the heavens, a happy little “maa-aa, maa-aa”. By the morning, Pablo was as good as gold.
One morning we received a visit from the local constable, Mr Duffus, letting us know (although I’m not sure why, unless it was a pointed message to us that we had brought an unsavoury character into the area) that Dennis’s car had been found some way down a disused dirt road, wherein Dennis was “stuffing” someone else’s wife.
Somewhere around this point Christine and Sheree moved back to Melburne, leaving Dennis and his dog to fend for themselves. Dennis got to know a few of the locals around the pool table in the public bar of the Promontory Gate Hotel, in Fish Creek. On another occasion when Dennis had been a non-starter we received another visit from Mr Duffus, who pointed out that Dennis wasn’t milking the cows that morning because he had been found, sound asleep, at the wheel of his car, halfway between the pub and our place, having driven the car off the road and wedged it between two large gum trees in such a way that he could not open any of the doors, and therefore could not get out of the car. Not that he would probably have been sober enough to walk any distance from there anyway, the most likely outcome would have been for him to have been run over after falling asleep on the road, so he was probably safest trapped inside the vehicle.
It was clear that Dennis had to go, but dad hated having that conversation and kept putting it off. Then one day, Dennis packed up all of his gear and left. Where to, nobody knew. All that he left behind was his dog. Dad fed the dog for a few days, hoping to hear from Dennis so that arrangements could be made. But there was nothing. Eventually a decision had to be made. The dog was of no use to us. One of our neighbours, Joe, was called upon to put the necessary bullet into the poor dog’s brain. As if on cue, almost before the echo from the gunshot had faded, a cloud of dust appeared over the hill. It was Dennis, coming to retrieve his faithful hound. Joe ducked around the corner out of sight, dragging the bloodied corpse with him. Dad at least had the tact not to give any hint to Dennis that five minutes might have made all the difference.
And that, as far as we were concerned, was that. Once, several months later, after a game of cricket, I saw a severely inebriated Dennis struggling with a pool cue at the Meeniyan Hotel. I said hello to him, and perhaps sensed some slight flicker of recognition in response. But more than likely Dennis had moved back to Melbourne, where he disappeared into the populace, and that was the last anyone ever saw or heard of him.
However, the ghost of Dennis may not have left us quite so quickly, or so conclusively. Some time after his departure, Uncle Charlie, whose job it was to secure the perimeter of the property, so as to keep out unwanted ragwort and other noxious weeds, made a surprise discovery: someone had established a crop of marijuana (Uncle Charlie chose to pronounce the “j”) in a piece of bushland along one of the less accessible boundaries. And so we were visited yet again by Mr Duffus (these are the only three times I can remember us ever having had anything to do with the police), who removed the offending items and lay in wait for their owners; who never returned.
Dennis brought with him his lady friend, Christine, their daughter, Sheree, who was four or five years old, a little yappy dog whose name I don’t recall, a stack of pornographic magazines, and, what was of most interest to me, his record collection. I had this idea that Dennis was into the kind of music I was into, although, looking back, all I can remember him owning was “Pablo Cruise” by Pablo Cruise, and the first Dire Straits album (which was then pretty new and, perhaps, exciting: at school we all thought, when we first heard “Sultans of Swing” on the radio, that it was something new by Bob Dylan - I think I had some idea that I could pick out Joe Strummer in there, too - of course, now it just sounds like a poor man’s “Marquee Moon”). They moved into the old rundown weatherboard cottage that was used as the sharefarmer’s “residence”. That house, which was built by a farmer during the depression from any materials he could lay his hand on, and had been moved twice, was at one point used as a shearing shed, and despite one of the side walls bowing inwards rather dramatically, it steadfastly refused to fall down.
Of necessity, dad adopted a more hands-on approach with Dennis than he had done with other sharefarmers, helping out in the shed at milking times and doing many of the other jobs around the place that needed to be done. Whether this was out of a sense of having to show Dennis the ropes, or because of a perceived inability on Dennis’s part to do anything by himself, is not known. I was also made use of on a more regular basis. On weekends and school holidays Dennis and I milked the cows together. I rigged up a transistor radio at the cowshed which enabled us to tune in to 2JJ during milking times, and, later, the “new thing” in radio, FM Stereo, in the guise of EON-FM, from Melbourne, which was actually a godsend for its first few months of existence, with its Lee Simon-programmed “album oriented” playlist, showcasing perfectly acceptable listening fare like the Reels, the Models, and Matt Finish, even if it did run too hard with “Stairway to Heaven”. (And Pablo Cruise.) (This Golden Age continued until it dawned on the men in suits that nobody was actually listening aside from a couple of guys 100 miles away who were up to their knees in milk and cow manure, whereupon an inevitable dumbing-down process commenced, which continued until we ended up with the appalling behemoth that we know as Triple M.)
Dennis joined my cricket team and in his first game showed himself to have a Botham-like ability to turn a match with his own bat (although this ability revealed itself frustratingly sparingly).
He had a very mild and pleasant nature (although he would occasionally explode with profanities of a type that the farm had never known, if a cow didn’t do what was expected of it).
It could all perhaps have worked reasonably well. Except that, in the end, it didn’t.
It seemed that Dennis or Christine - or maybe both of them - had trouble with headaches. Dennis would often get my father to run an errand for him: to go to a chemist (a different one each time: with dad travelling far and wide in the ongoing search for a miracle cure for his bad back, this actually wasn’t all that difficult for Dennis to engineer) and get a prescription for some kind of strong painkiller. These painkillers all had two things in common: they didn’t seem to last very long, and they all contained codeine. While it is understandable that a man who had known only clean living and moderate, lawful behaviour (no, I am not talking about Dennis here) would not have put two and two together, it was not until one morning when dad stumbled upon the makeshift chemistry lab operating in Dennis’s kitchen that the awful truth was uncovered: the painkillers were being melted down and somehow converted to pure codeine, which was then being used in ways other than as recommended on the packet. “I think Dennis is using drugs.” There were no more trips to the chemist.
Some mornings Dennis would fail to turn up for milkings, and dad and I would have to do it ourselves. Sometimes I would be late for school. Homework was sometimes missed. But the most serious consequence - it ended in tears - was when he failed to appear on the morning of the Saturday when I had been picked, for the first and only time, in the starting 18 for the Fish Creek thirds football team, in an away game at Devon, about an hour’s drive from our place. The cows were milked very quickly that morning, but we still failed to get to the ground on time, and that was the end of my football career, before it had even started.
Possibly the last thing we needed at the farm was a pet goat. But that is what Dennis brought home for us, one day, perhaps as an apology for his erratic behaviour. The little guy was even pre-named (by Sheree): “Pablo”. Pablo was an angora cross; he produced quite nice long, curly hair that, each year, was ignominiously hacked off as Pablo lay upturned in a wheelbarrow. As Pablo grew older, he took an unjustified dislike to my mother, who would be attacked by him if she ever ventured out into his territory, the holding paddock that ran around the outside of our house yard. Nevertheless, he ended up becoming another member of the family, and we all cried the day that Pablo, stricken by a mysterious illness that caused him to froth at the mouth and twist his neck around at an improbable angle, was finally put to rest.
When Pablo was still tiny, we once left him with Dennis overnight while we went on one of our infrequent visits to Melbourne. (Perhaps the cows were milked while we were away; perhaps they weren’t.) When we returned home, just before nightfall the next day, Pablo was returned to us, lying prone in his cardboard box, and struggling to breathe. Sheree had apparently been playing with him quite a lot during the time we were away, but beyond that Dennis wasn’t giving anything away. It looked bad. A vigil was maintained. In a fit of inspiration such as only he was capable of, dad said “Pablo looks a bit like a cow with milk fever.” So he raced off to the dairy to pick up a packet of the medicine we kept on hand for cows suffering from milk fever; did a quick mental calculation in the nature of the relative weights of (a) a large dairy cow and (b) a tiny baby goat dying from something like dehydration or exhaustion; fashioned an extremely small dosage in an extremely small syringe; and did the deed. We kept up the vigil until we all had other things to do. After a while we heard, like a voice from the heavens, a happy little “maa-aa, maa-aa”. By the morning, Pablo was as good as gold.
One morning we received a visit from the local constable, Mr Duffus, letting us know (although I’m not sure why, unless it was a pointed message to us that we had brought an unsavoury character into the area) that Dennis’s car had been found some way down a disused dirt road, wherein Dennis was “stuffing” someone else’s wife.
Somewhere around this point Christine and Sheree moved back to Melburne, leaving Dennis and his dog to fend for themselves. Dennis got to know a few of the locals around the pool table in the public bar of the Promontory Gate Hotel, in Fish Creek. On another occasion when Dennis had been a non-starter we received another visit from Mr Duffus, who pointed out that Dennis wasn’t milking the cows that morning because he had been found, sound asleep, at the wheel of his car, halfway between the pub and our place, having driven the car off the road and wedged it between two large gum trees in such a way that he could not open any of the doors, and therefore could not get out of the car. Not that he would probably have been sober enough to walk any distance from there anyway, the most likely outcome would have been for him to have been run over after falling asleep on the road, so he was probably safest trapped inside the vehicle.
It was clear that Dennis had to go, but dad hated having that conversation and kept putting it off. Then one day, Dennis packed up all of his gear and left. Where to, nobody knew. All that he left behind was his dog. Dad fed the dog for a few days, hoping to hear from Dennis so that arrangements could be made. But there was nothing. Eventually a decision had to be made. The dog was of no use to us. One of our neighbours, Joe, was called upon to put the necessary bullet into the poor dog’s brain. As if on cue, almost before the echo from the gunshot had faded, a cloud of dust appeared over the hill. It was Dennis, coming to retrieve his faithful hound. Joe ducked around the corner out of sight, dragging the bloodied corpse with him. Dad at least had the tact not to give any hint to Dennis that five minutes might have made all the difference.
And that, as far as we were concerned, was that. Once, several months later, after a game of cricket, I saw a severely inebriated Dennis struggling with a pool cue at the Meeniyan Hotel. I said hello to him, and perhaps sensed some slight flicker of recognition in response. But more than likely Dennis had moved back to Melbourne, where he disappeared into the populace, and that was the last anyone ever saw or heard of him.
However, the ghost of Dennis may not have left us quite so quickly, or so conclusively. Some time after his departure, Uncle Charlie, whose job it was to secure the perimeter of the property, so as to keep out unwanted ragwort and other noxious weeds, made a surprise discovery: someone had established a crop of marijuana (Uncle Charlie chose to pronounce the “j”) in a piece of bushland along one of the less accessible boundaries. And so we were visited yet again by Mr Duffus (these are the only three times I can remember us ever having had anything to do with the police), who removed the offending items and lay in wait for their owners; who never returned.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Dennis, part one
Our farm was really three farms, one each run by my father and two of my uncles, Jack and Charlie. Our part of the farm was a dairy farm. Dad had ongoing back trouble, and, dairy farming being a fairly labour-intensive operation, he engaged sharefarmers, whose job it was to run the day-to-day aspects of the farm: milking the cows, feeding them, and so on.
As I was growing up, most of these sharefarmers had children around my age. This was, I now realise, probably a deliberate choice: I was an only child, we lived at the end of a mile and a half of dirt road, and there were no other people nearby, so having an instant supply of playmates across the road was a way to drag me away from my Matchbox cars, Lego, and football statistics and into some approximation of a normal, healthy childhood.
On most dairy farms, a sharefarming arrangement requires the sharefarmer to supply his own herd of cows, which is quite a significant capital outlay. And, perhaps, a tractor or two as well. Then they share the income with the owner of the land, and split the expenses. And do all of the work. At our place, it was a bit different, and this perhaps attracted the young families we mostly had. All you really needed to work for us was the shirt on your back. We supplied the land, equipment and cows, and paid the expenses, but we gave the sharefarmer a smaller share of the income, one-third instead of the usual half. Meanwhile dad (and myself, later on, during school and university holidays) was responsible for repairing fences, tracks and water pipes, ensuring the soil was fed, and other structural-type jobs. It was a good set-up for the sharefarmer, who was able to save pretty much all of his income (we even supplied the house, rent free), while dad was able to devote much of his time to playing bowls, having afternoon naps, and visiting every known chiropractor in South Gippsland and beyond.
What this meant was that, after three or four years, most of our sharefarmers were able to buy their own cows, and went off to a bigger farm, or had saved up enough to buy or lease a farm of their own. So they didn’t tend to stay with us for too long. Especially if they were any good. Dad had a weakness for helping out the hard-up and luckless, if it appeared that they knew something about farming or seemed keen to learn. Early on, he took on people straight from the boat from Holland; and also (before the sharefarming days, when all he needed was a helper) “boys” who had been in trouble of one kind or another and whom the authorities recognised as being in need of a good break. It didn’t always work out. One or two of these boys left at the first sign of hard work. Mum and dad once received a barely literate letter from one of them some time later, by which time he had again fallen afoul of the law. The letter was more or less an apology to my parents for letting them down, and ended with the heartbreaking sentence “I really love youse.”
The early sharefarmers were mostly Dutch. The first ones I can remember were the Hoffstedes (and I am, possibly, misspelling some of these names, or even getting them completely wrong). They seemed to be with us almost forever, although when you are four years old forever might have been a few weeks, or maybe a year or two. They had three children, including a daughter, Natasha, who was my age, and who for many years, even long after they had moved away, I considered to be my best friend in the whole world, and the girl that I was going to marry. We kept in touch with them for several years. When they left us they moved to a farm near Tullaree (home to the locally famous legend of the Lady of the Swamp), which you could actually see from the back corner of our farm, and yet was quite a drive to get to. We used to regularly visit them on weekend afternoons, when my overriding concern was to get home in time to watch “The Banana Splits Show”. They moved to a succession of farms up on the Murray River, near Swan Hill, and were last heard of running a motel or caravan park somewhere on the New South Wales south coast.
There were the Rendens, who had a son called Eric, who was also about my age. All I really remember about them is Eric’s mother, in her strong Dutch accent, calling him “Eeric”, causing him to suffer the nickname “Earwig”.
There was Noel Brooks and his wife. They had a daughter whom I can barely remember at all. She was known as “Cheeky” but I haven’t the faintest idea why.
There was Gerry Santamaria, who as I understand it was the nephew of B A Santamaria (not that I knew who he was). Gerry was probably the best sharefarmer we ever had, and I think there were tears at our house the day he said he was leaving. Gerry went on to become a professional sharefarmer, and won the prestigious Sharefarmer of the Year award on at least two occasions. But Gerry had no children so I wasn’t that interested in him.
There were the Nabbens. They had two older boys, and two adopted daughters who were a bit younger than me, but whom I played with nevertheless, despite being much more interested in hanging with their brothers. The boys were into things like David Bowie, and this was around the time when I had just started to migrate from football magazines to music and “teen” magazines, so I was desperate to pick their brains. Not long after they started working for us their oldest son, Theo, went off to University, a mysterious place far away which led him to grow his hair long, wear second-hand clothes, and (reputedly) ingest substances. This turn of events, I later realised, had a lasting effect on my mother (Theo was always such a nice boy until he moved away), because when the time came for me to head off to University, and embrace my own counter culture (in my case, record-shop counters), and start cutting my hair short and wearing second-hand clothes, she naturally assumed that I was sliding down the slippery slope to drug addiction and vice.
There was Jim Byrnes, son of a local farmer, who had big ideas and an uncanny ability to destroy any item of farm machinery, in new and highly inventive ways.
The last in the line were Ron and Ruth Alcorn. Ron was almost completely deaf, something of a disadvantage, you would think, in a job that involved quite a lot of precision machinery, the first sign of trouble therewith usually manifesting itself in unusual noises. But my father, true to form, was prepared to give Ronnie a go, and was soon able to talk to him just as well as he could communicate with anyone else (dad had infinite patience, and never felt the need to say much apart from what was necessary for the job at hand). And it turned out to be a spectacularly successful arrangement. Ron was a great worker, not prone to going out and socialising, and he was not likely to be moving to another farm in a hurry. New cows were bought, along with a larger milk vat and new machinery. The business could have gone anywhere. Except that dad fell sick and died, in short succession, and for reasons too complex to really explain and even now too hurtful to think about, it fell to me to tell Ron’s wife that they had better start looking for another place.
But one particular sharefarmer looms larger in memory than all of the others put together. His name was ... Dennis.
[to be continued]
As I was growing up, most of these sharefarmers had children around my age. This was, I now realise, probably a deliberate choice: I was an only child, we lived at the end of a mile and a half of dirt road, and there were no other people nearby, so having an instant supply of playmates across the road was a way to drag me away from my Matchbox cars, Lego, and football statistics and into some approximation of a normal, healthy childhood.
On most dairy farms, a sharefarming arrangement requires the sharefarmer to supply his own herd of cows, which is quite a significant capital outlay. And, perhaps, a tractor or two as well. Then they share the income with the owner of the land, and split the expenses. And do all of the work. At our place, it was a bit different, and this perhaps attracted the young families we mostly had. All you really needed to work for us was the shirt on your back. We supplied the land, equipment and cows, and paid the expenses, but we gave the sharefarmer a smaller share of the income, one-third instead of the usual half. Meanwhile dad (and myself, later on, during school and university holidays) was responsible for repairing fences, tracks and water pipes, ensuring the soil was fed, and other structural-type jobs. It was a good set-up for the sharefarmer, who was able to save pretty much all of his income (we even supplied the house, rent free), while dad was able to devote much of his time to playing bowls, having afternoon naps, and visiting every known chiropractor in South Gippsland and beyond.
What this meant was that, after three or four years, most of our sharefarmers were able to buy their own cows, and went off to a bigger farm, or had saved up enough to buy or lease a farm of their own. So they didn’t tend to stay with us for too long. Especially if they were any good. Dad had a weakness for helping out the hard-up and luckless, if it appeared that they knew something about farming or seemed keen to learn. Early on, he took on people straight from the boat from Holland; and also (before the sharefarming days, when all he needed was a helper) “boys” who had been in trouble of one kind or another and whom the authorities recognised as being in need of a good break. It didn’t always work out. One or two of these boys left at the first sign of hard work. Mum and dad once received a barely literate letter from one of them some time later, by which time he had again fallen afoul of the law. The letter was more or less an apology to my parents for letting them down, and ended with the heartbreaking sentence “I really love youse.”
The early sharefarmers were mostly Dutch. The first ones I can remember were the Hoffstedes (and I am, possibly, misspelling some of these names, or even getting them completely wrong). They seemed to be with us almost forever, although when you are four years old forever might have been a few weeks, or maybe a year or two. They had three children, including a daughter, Natasha, who was my age, and who for many years, even long after they had moved away, I considered to be my best friend in the whole world, and the girl that I was going to marry. We kept in touch with them for several years. When they left us they moved to a farm near Tullaree (home to the locally famous legend of the Lady of the Swamp), which you could actually see from the back corner of our farm, and yet was quite a drive to get to. We used to regularly visit them on weekend afternoons, when my overriding concern was to get home in time to watch “The Banana Splits Show”. They moved to a succession of farms up on the Murray River, near Swan Hill, and were last heard of running a motel or caravan park somewhere on the New South Wales south coast.
There were the Rendens, who had a son called Eric, who was also about my age. All I really remember about them is Eric’s mother, in her strong Dutch accent, calling him “Eeric”, causing him to suffer the nickname “Earwig”.
There was Noel Brooks and his wife. They had a daughter whom I can barely remember at all. She was known as “Cheeky” but I haven’t the faintest idea why.
There was Gerry Santamaria, who as I understand it was the nephew of B A Santamaria (not that I knew who he was). Gerry was probably the best sharefarmer we ever had, and I think there were tears at our house the day he said he was leaving. Gerry went on to become a professional sharefarmer, and won the prestigious Sharefarmer of the Year award on at least two occasions. But Gerry had no children so I wasn’t that interested in him.
There were the Nabbens. They had two older boys, and two adopted daughters who were a bit younger than me, but whom I played with nevertheless, despite being much more interested in hanging with their brothers. The boys were into things like David Bowie, and this was around the time when I had just started to migrate from football magazines to music and “teen” magazines, so I was desperate to pick their brains. Not long after they started working for us their oldest son, Theo, went off to University, a mysterious place far away which led him to grow his hair long, wear second-hand clothes, and (reputedly) ingest substances. This turn of events, I later realised, had a lasting effect on my mother (Theo was always such a nice boy until he moved away), because when the time came for me to head off to University, and embrace my own counter culture (in my case, record-shop counters), and start cutting my hair short and wearing second-hand clothes, she naturally assumed that I was sliding down the slippery slope to drug addiction and vice.
There was Jim Byrnes, son of a local farmer, who had big ideas and an uncanny ability to destroy any item of farm machinery, in new and highly inventive ways.
The last in the line were Ron and Ruth Alcorn. Ron was almost completely deaf, something of a disadvantage, you would think, in a job that involved quite a lot of precision machinery, the first sign of trouble therewith usually manifesting itself in unusual noises. But my father, true to form, was prepared to give Ronnie a go, and was soon able to talk to him just as well as he could communicate with anyone else (dad had infinite patience, and never felt the need to say much apart from what was necessary for the job at hand). And it turned out to be a spectacularly successful arrangement. Ron was a great worker, not prone to going out and socialising, and he was not likely to be moving to another farm in a hurry. New cows were bought, along with a larger milk vat and new machinery. The business could have gone anywhere. Except that dad fell sick and died, in short succession, and for reasons too complex to really explain and even now too hurtful to think about, it fell to me to tell Ron’s wife that they had better start looking for another place.
But one particular sharefarmer looms larger in memory than all of the others put together. His name was ... Dennis.
[to be continued]
Monday, May 23, 2005
Why wasn't I told?
Can't believe I've gone through the last, what, 25 years without being aware of the existence of:
1. A Peel Session by The Cure in which they do an entire second run-through of "Grinding Halt" but with alternative lyrics aimed squarely (if not entirely fairly) at the writing of our hero Ian Penman.
2. A twelve-minute minimalist disco excursion by Arthur Russell entitled "Kiss Me Again", recorded in 1979, when Talking Heads were almost at their peak, which features a blaze of guitar by David Byrne that couldn't be by anyone else and hence is totally indispensable, both for those of us who believe that the earth revolves around "Remain In Light" and for those of us who are latecoming converts to the world of Arthur Russell.
It makes you wonder what else might have gone under the radar.
I love the internet.
1. A Peel Session by The Cure in which they do an entire second run-through of "Grinding Halt" but with alternative lyrics aimed squarely (if not entirely fairly) at the writing of our hero Ian Penman.
2. A twelve-minute minimalist disco excursion by Arthur Russell entitled "Kiss Me Again", recorded in 1979, when Talking Heads were almost at their peak, which features a blaze of guitar by David Byrne that couldn't be by anyone else and hence is totally indispensable, both for those of us who believe that the earth revolves around "Remain In Light" and for those of us who are latecoming converts to the world of Arthur Russell.
It makes you wonder what else might have gone under the radar.
I love the internet.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
It's The New Thing
What are we in now, May? So it must be time for the hypothetical mix CD for January. That would be January 2005. This mix manages, I think, to cover most bases, while also being (if I may say) a damn good listen. Here goes:
The Shadows, “Scotch on the Socks”: more 60s garage than the Shadows you would know from the radio.
The Slits, “Heard It Through the Grapevine”: I never understood why this was a b-side. On my copy, “Typical Girls”, the a-side, has hardly ever been played. In an alternative universe this would have outsold Marvin Gaye hands down.
Creation Rebel, “In I Father’s House”: sonic trickery a la Adrian Sherwood. Almost everything sounds like it’s been run backwards and yet the song itself moves forward. A bit like those shots Sam Raimi managed to come up with in that Western he made a couple of years or so back.
Dr Alimantado, “Mary Lou”: conversely, this track is a lot more straightforward than we have come to expect from the good doctor.
Tim Rose, “I Gotta Do Things My Way”: this slice of soul wasn’t what I expected. I thought “Tim Rose” conjured up some kind of name recognition. Seems I was confusing this Tim with a couple of others. Such as ...
Tim Hardin, “How Can We Hang On To A Dream”: hard to imagine that I didn’t even know this song existed until a few short months ago. Now I can’t imagine how I ever managed without it.
Harry Nilsson, “All I Think About Is You”: same as I just said, only more so. Nilsson is someone who I have, clearly, misunderstood completely. I mean, “Everybody’s Talkin’”, right? But then there’s this, there’s the long version of “Jump Into The Fire”, there’s “Cowboy”, possibly the downest downer of a song I’ve ever heard. That’s four songs, four entirely different Nilssons. I better do some homework.
Scarlet’s Well, “Death”: if Bid is capable of songs this smart, well, he’s an underapprreciated genius. Which he may well be. I wish I’d listened back in the day to much more of ...
The Monochrome Set, “He’s Frank”: one particular tributary of the post-punk river got no better than this.
Junior Senior, “Shake Your Coconuts (DFA Mix)”: then, for those with short attention spans, we move into the present day (tho’ the ghost of the punk/funk arm of the post-punk diaspora isn’t far below the surface, as you would expect from the DFA crew).
Solvent, “My Radio (Mitgang Audio Remix)”: don’t know anything about this. I seem to be attracted to anything with the word “remix” in the title: which makes no sense given my otherwise purist disposition - “ah, yes, but the original was so much better”. Anyway, this has stuck, thanks to its smooth mix of Vocoder and Moroder.
Annie, “Chewing Gum (FakeID Remix)”: I got to know this; then I got to know the album version. Now I can’t make up my mind. This version certainly packs a bigger punch, but in the context of the album (which is as good as everyone has said it is) it would seem quite out of place. So the world is a better place for having both versions. And any other versions that might come along.
L’Trimm, “We Like The Cars That Go Boom”: the boys’ favourite song a while back. They are on a big Hooley Dooleys kick at the moment.
Seksu Roba, “Telephone”: studiously (in a nice way) pop, nice analog electronic sounds, heavily accented female vocals. It’s all goodness, really.
Chica and the Folder, “I’ll Come Running”: likewise, although more downtempo, but with the added selling point of being an Eno cover, not an easy thing to pull off.
Cornershop, “Valeurs Personelles”: personally, I don’t have a problem with Cornershop. This song is perhaps a bit daggy, with the sitar, corny sound effects, and French spoken-word voiceover (a la Pere Ubu’s “the book is on the table”), but the funky drummer and electric piano more than make up for it. I dare you not to be clicking your fingers by the 1:30 mark. I haven’t got our in-house translator to work on it yet, so I hope the lyrics are family-friendly.
France Gall, “Daddy da da”: you wouldn’t have to worry about naughty words in a France Gall song, especially one as joyously in-your-face as this one. (Is this a bad rip, though? It seems awfully top-heavy.)
Dykehouse, “Chain Smoking”: god I love this song. “I’m chain smoking ‘cos my heart’s broken.” Hurts, doesn’t it? Musically, just the latest in a long line of songs that couldn’t have existed without My Bloody Valentine’s “Loveless”, but we’re not sick of that sound. Yet.
The Associates, “Party Fears Two (Extended Version)”: all five-plus minutes of it. A song that sent me through the emotional ringer even before I knew anything of Billy MacKenzie’s troubles. Does anyone know what “turns to shark” means?
CocoRosie, “By Your Side”: two Billie Holidays recorded in a tent surrounded by crickets, noisy birds and a drum machine. Or something.
Strawberry Switchblade, “Trees and Flowers”: lurking somewhere in the back of my mind, as I surf the mp3 blogs, is a deep pool of songs from my past. Very occasionally I stumble upon one, and my heart gives a special little kick. Recent examples are “Money” by the Flying Lizards and “There Goes Concorde Again” by ... And The Native Hipsters. When “Trees and Flowers” materialised I fell off my chair, because I had, to my shame, not thought about it for many years. I loved it unconditionally at the time even though it was so far away from most of what I listened to (closer to the Moir Sisters than to Magazine) that it made the guy in the room next to mine at college scream out at me in exasperation (I had just converted him from a strict diet of classical music to the joys of the Psychedelic Furs, and now I was professing enjoyment of this pap). He remains one of my best friends. Memo to mp3 bloggers: does anyone have a copy of “Der Mussolini” by DAF?
The Shadows, “Scotch on the Socks”: more 60s garage than the Shadows you would know from the radio.
The Slits, “Heard It Through the Grapevine”: I never understood why this was a b-side. On my copy, “Typical Girls”, the a-side, has hardly ever been played. In an alternative universe this would have outsold Marvin Gaye hands down.
Creation Rebel, “In I Father’s House”: sonic trickery a la Adrian Sherwood. Almost everything sounds like it’s been run backwards and yet the song itself moves forward. A bit like those shots Sam Raimi managed to come up with in that Western he made a couple of years or so back.
Dr Alimantado, “Mary Lou”: conversely, this track is a lot more straightforward than we have come to expect from the good doctor.
Tim Rose, “I Gotta Do Things My Way”: this slice of soul wasn’t what I expected. I thought “Tim Rose” conjured up some kind of name recognition. Seems I was confusing this Tim with a couple of others. Such as ...
Tim Hardin, “How Can We Hang On To A Dream”: hard to imagine that I didn’t even know this song existed until a few short months ago. Now I can’t imagine how I ever managed without it.
Harry Nilsson, “All I Think About Is You”: same as I just said, only more so. Nilsson is someone who I have, clearly, misunderstood completely. I mean, “Everybody’s Talkin’”, right? But then there’s this, there’s the long version of “Jump Into The Fire”, there’s “Cowboy”, possibly the downest downer of a song I’ve ever heard. That’s four songs, four entirely different Nilssons. I better do some homework.
Scarlet’s Well, “Death”: if Bid is capable of songs this smart, well, he’s an underapprreciated genius. Which he may well be. I wish I’d listened back in the day to much more of ...
The Monochrome Set, “He’s Frank”: one particular tributary of the post-punk river got no better than this.
Junior Senior, “Shake Your Coconuts (DFA Mix)”: then, for those with short attention spans, we move into the present day (tho’ the ghost of the punk/funk arm of the post-punk diaspora isn’t far below the surface, as you would expect from the DFA crew).
Solvent, “My Radio (Mitgang Audio Remix)”: don’t know anything about this. I seem to be attracted to anything with the word “remix” in the title: which makes no sense given my otherwise purist disposition - “ah, yes, but the original was so much better”. Anyway, this has stuck, thanks to its smooth mix of Vocoder and Moroder.
Annie, “Chewing Gum (FakeID Remix)”: I got to know this; then I got to know the album version. Now I can’t make up my mind. This version certainly packs a bigger punch, but in the context of the album (which is as good as everyone has said it is) it would seem quite out of place. So the world is a better place for having both versions. And any other versions that might come along.
L’Trimm, “We Like The Cars That Go Boom”: the boys’ favourite song a while back. They are on a big Hooley Dooleys kick at the moment.
Seksu Roba, “Telephone”: studiously (in a nice way) pop, nice analog electronic sounds, heavily accented female vocals. It’s all goodness, really.
Chica and the Folder, “I’ll Come Running”: likewise, although more downtempo, but with the added selling point of being an Eno cover, not an easy thing to pull off.
Cornershop, “Valeurs Personelles”: personally, I don’t have a problem with Cornershop. This song is perhaps a bit daggy, with the sitar, corny sound effects, and French spoken-word voiceover (a la Pere Ubu’s “the book is on the table”), but the funky drummer and electric piano more than make up for it. I dare you not to be clicking your fingers by the 1:30 mark. I haven’t got our in-house translator to work on it yet, so I hope the lyrics are family-friendly.
France Gall, “Daddy da da”: you wouldn’t have to worry about naughty words in a France Gall song, especially one as joyously in-your-face as this one. (Is this a bad rip, though? It seems awfully top-heavy.)
Dykehouse, “Chain Smoking”: god I love this song. “I’m chain smoking ‘cos my heart’s broken.” Hurts, doesn’t it? Musically, just the latest in a long line of songs that couldn’t have existed without My Bloody Valentine’s “Loveless”, but we’re not sick of that sound. Yet.
The Associates, “Party Fears Two (Extended Version)”: all five-plus minutes of it. A song that sent me through the emotional ringer even before I knew anything of Billy MacKenzie’s troubles. Does anyone know what “turns to shark” means?
CocoRosie, “By Your Side”: two Billie Holidays recorded in a tent surrounded by crickets, noisy birds and a drum machine. Or something.
Strawberry Switchblade, “Trees and Flowers”: lurking somewhere in the back of my mind, as I surf the mp3 blogs, is a deep pool of songs from my past. Very occasionally I stumble upon one, and my heart gives a special little kick. Recent examples are “Money” by the Flying Lizards and “There Goes Concorde Again” by ... And The Native Hipsters. When “Trees and Flowers” materialised I fell off my chair, because I had, to my shame, not thought about it for many years. I loved it unconditionally at the time even though it was so far away from most of what I listened to (closer to the Moir Sisters than to Magazine) that it made the guy in the room next to mine at college scream out at me in exasperation (I had just converted him from a strict diet of classical music to the joys of the Psychedelic Furs, and now I was professing enjoyment of this pap). He remains one of my best friends. Memo to mp3 bloggers: does anyone have a copy of “Der Mussolini” by DAF?
Expressway To Yr Skull
Some Sonic Youth records hit a mainline in an instant (for this listener, that would be “Daydream Nation” and “Murray Street”, the former of which I would hope to have room for in the bag of discs I plan to carry with me across the Styx); others take a while to wend their way through your bloodstream before bursting slowly in your brain (“A Thousand Leaves”); others - not many - fail to make the journey (the justly maligned “NYC Ghosts + Flowers”).
“Sonic Nurse” is taking longer than most to reveal its secrets. It’s impossible to write off (for one thing, it highlights Steve Shelley’s drumming in a way that I’ve never noticed before, although perhaps I just haven’t been listening), but I’m still struggling to find a way into it. There is more of the latter-day Kim Gordon, and appearing earlier on the disc, than I would prefer (I don’t know why I find her recent vocal performances grating; I certainly have less patience than I used to have, just ask Adrienne, so maybe that’s it) and I should say that the “old-style” Gordon who appears on “Dude Ranch Nurse” and “I Love You Golden Blue” brooks no complaint whatsoever. I would also make the observation that Jim O’Rourke is now so seamlessly woven into the fabric of the band that it’s difficult, except in a couple of spots, to tell where he starts and the rest of the band ends, and that Thurston Moore’s broad-canvas exploration of 70s “rock”, begun on “Murray Street”, is admirably continued here.
Mention should also be made of their adaptation of William Gibson’s “Pattern Recognition”, which, while perhaps not a great choice as opening song, will, hopefully, cause more people to read what is an unfairly maligned novel, and of their liberal use of Richard Prince paintings (recalling the Gerhard Richter candles that appeared on “Daydream Nation”), necessitating ownership of the vinyl as well as the digital versions. Both of which just go to show how important Sonic Youth are in so many ways, and how broadly (and tastefully) their nets are cast. Oh, and the guitars sound simply beautiful throughout.
So, my preliminary conclusion about “Sonic Nurse” is that there is no reason to panic; perhaps with time it will take its place with the great Sonic Youth records after all, albeit hidden behind a couple of problematic tracks early on (reminiscent, you might say, of some of Steve Waugh’s later triumphs, or of the Triffids’ “Born Sandy Devotional”, which also recovered after a very shaky start to go on and score a majestic hundred). At the very least, there is life in the old buggers yet.
“Sonic Nurse” is taking longer than most to reveal its secrets. It’s impossible to write off (for one thing, it highlights Steve Shelley’s drumming in a way that I’ve never noticed before, although perhaps I just haven’t been listening), but I’m still struggling to find a way into it. There is more of the latter-day Kim Gordon, and appearing earlier on the disc, than I would prefer (I don’t know why I find her recent vocal performances grating; I certainly have less patience than I used to have, just ask Adrienne, so maybe that’s it) and I should say that the “old-style” Gordon who appears on “Dude Ranch Nurse” and “I Love You Golden Blue” brooks no complaint whatsoever. I would also make the observation that Jim O’Rourke is now so seamlessly woven into the fabric of the band that it’s difficult, except in a couple of spots, to tell where he starts and the rest of the band ends, and that Thurston Moore’s broad-canvas exploration of 70s “rock”, begun on “Murray Street”, is admirably continued here.
Mention should also be made of their adaptation of William Gibson’s “Pattern Recognition”, which, while perhaps not a great choice as opening song, will, hopefully, cause more people to read what is an unfairly maligned novel, and of their liberal use of Richard Prince paintings (recalling the Gerhard Richter candles that appeared on “Daydream Nation”), necessitating ownership of the vinyl as well as the digital versions. Both of which just go to show how important Sonic Youth are in so many ways, and how broadly (and tastefully) their nets are cast. Oh, and the guitars sound simply beautiful throughout.
So, my preliminary conclusion about “Sonic Nurse” is that there is no reason to panic; perhaps with time it will take its place with the great Sonic Youth records after all, albeit hidden behind a couple of problematic tracks early on (reminiscent, you might say, of some of Steve Waugh’s later triumphs, or of the Triffids’ “Born Sandy Devotional”, which also recovered after a very shaky start to go on and score a majestic hundred). At the very least, there is life in the old buggers yet.
Test drive the 1958 New Yorker now
Looking at issues of the New Yorker from 1958, you discover just how much you have forgotten, didn’t know, or had never even thought about. For starters:
Alaska wasn’t yet a State of the Union.
Miles Davis was 31 years old.
Cuba, before the Revolution, was - surprise! - a dictatorship. (There’s progress for you.) In 1958 they were still building big, glorious hotels in Havana, such as the Habana Hilton, much advertised in the magazine throughout that year.
Construction of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Solomon R Guggenheim Museum was, at long last, under way.
The first CND Easter march took place, in London.
Iran, under the Shah, was moving full steam ahead towards “modernization”.
Russian scientists, so it was believed, were way ahead of those in the United States. Ah, the Cold War; wasn’t that a time?
The Berlin Wall didn’t yet exist, notwithstanding Moscow’s best efforts.
No human being had travelled in space.
If you went for a holiday to Russia, you would be hounded for months after your return by friends, neighbours and journalists who would try to squeeze every last morsel of information from you.
There was a fire at the Museum of Modern Art.
“The Subterraneans” was published; as were “Doctor Zhivago”, “Lolita” and “Curious George Flies A Kite”.
Jan Morris was still James Morris.
All eyes, at least those that weren't on Russia, were on Cape Canaveral and Los Alamos.
America had its first ever “lame duck” (New Yorker, 1 March 1958) President.
Maria Callas sang in New York and was roundly booed.
The island of Ceylon was feeling the exhilarating urge of independence.
Algeria continued to be a bloody mess.
Tranquillising drugs were the new thing. As were, at various times, the hula hoop, car leasing, and ripple soled shoes.
A Pakistani cricket team toured America.
“Vertigo” was released: “Hitchcock has never before indulged in such far-fetched nonsense” - John McCarten, the New Yorker, 7 June 1958.
Penn Station still existed.
The “Ed Sullivan Show” had been going for 10 years.
There was trouble for the world powers in Iraq and Lebanon. (What year are we talking about again?)
John F Kennedy was John Kennedy, a rising Democratic hopeful.
All women looked and dressed exactly like Bree Van De Kamp.
The art of solo piano was dead, while elsewhere in the firmament jazz was being saved by Charlie [sic] Mingus, Monk, Gil Evans and John Lewis.
You could buy: single-pedestal dining furniture designed by Eero Saarinen (later in the year, augmented by a single-pedestal armchair); recordings from the “Living Stereo” range of lps from RCA-Victor; a 1959 Cadillac, for which GM produced the “Autronic-Eye” automatic headlight-dimming “marvel”; a Hamilton Electric Watch; the Philco Veep, a powerful transistor radio “no bigger than a pack of cigarettes”; a 1959 Oldsmobile, “the car that conquers ‘inner’ space”; or a copy of “The Most of S J Perelman” (which, obviously, is what I would have chosen, and a copy of which I did in fact pick up during our next-to-last visit to Geelong).
Alaska wasn’t yet a State of the Union.
Miles Davis was 31 years old.
Cuba, before the Revolution, was - surprise! - a dictatorship. (There’s progress for you.) In 1958 they were still building big, glorious hotels in Havana, such as the Habana Hilton, much advertised in the magazine throughout that year.
Construction of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Solomon R Guggenheim Museum was, at long last, under way.
The first CND Easter march took place, in London.
Iran, under the Shah, was moving full steam ahead towards “modernization”.
Russian scientists, so it was believed, were way ahead of those in the United States. Ah, the Cold War; wasn’t that a time?
The Berlin Wall didn’t yet exist, notwithstanding Moscow’s best efforts.
No human being had travelled in space.
If you went for a holiday to Russia, you would be hounded for months after your return by friends, neighbours and journalists who would try to squeeze every last morsel of information from you.
There was a fire at the Museum of Modern Art.
“The Subterraneans” was published; as were “Doctor Zhivago”, “Lolita” and “Curious George Flies A Kite”.
Jan Morris was still James Morris.
All eyes, at least those that weren't on Russia, were on Cape Canaveral and Los Alamos.
America had its first ever “lame duck” (New Yorker, 1 March 1958) President.
Maria Callas sang in New York and was roundly booed.
The island of Ceylon was feeling the exhilarating urge of independence.
Algeria continued to be a bloody mess.
Tranquillising drugs were the new thing. As were, at various times, the hula hoop, car leasing, and ripple soled shoes.
A Pakistani cricket team toured America.
“Vertigo” was released: “Hitchcock has never before indulged in such far-fetched nonsense” - John McCarten, the New Yorker, 7 June 1958.
Penn Station still existed.
The “Ed Sullivan Show” had been going for 10 years.
There was trouble for the world powers in Iraq and Lebanon. (What year are we talking about again?)
John F Kennedy was John Kennedy, a rising Democratic hopeful.
All women looked and dressed exactly like Bree Van De Kamp.
The art of solo piano was dead, while elsewhere in the firmament jazz was being saved by Charlie [sic] Mingus, Monk, Gil Evans and John Lewis.
You could buy: single-pedestal dining furniture designed by Eero Saarinen (later in the year, augmented by a single-pedestal armchair); recordings from the “Living Stereo” range of lps from RCA-Victor; a 1959 Cadillac, for which GM produced the “Autronic-Eye” automatic headlight-dimming “marvel”; a Hamilton Electric Watch; the Philco Veep, a powerful transistor radio “no bigger than a pack of cigarettes”; a 1959 Oldsmobile, “the car that conquers ‘inner’ space”; or a copy of “The Most of S J Perelman” (which, obviously, is what I would have chosen, and a copy of which I did in fact pick up during our next-to-last visit to Geelong).
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Paintbox
Thinking about Chris Ware's piece on Philip Guston in McSweeney's No 13. Thinking about the distinction he was drawing - oops, making - between comic art and "art" art that is influenced by comic art. Thinking maybe there was something to this, I wandered over to the National Gallery of Australia's international rooms, which have had a re-hang, and there on the wall about next to where Pollock's "Blue Poles" had until recently been, was a Guston I don't think they've had on the walls in the six years we've been up here. Thinking, who was the forward-looking curator who had been picking these works up before they had any kind of serious recognition, especially over here. Well, looking at this painting, "Bad Habits", you can, I think, see Ware's thesis in action. Yes, as a painting it is, you might say, "cartoon-like". (The vertical-slit eyes on the two Klan-like hooded figures may or may not have been a nod to early Disney characters.) Yes, it is hanging on a wall, in a frame, devoid of any narrative or other context. Yes, I think this does put it on another plane from sequential comic-book art, or even illustration work, which sits on a page or a poster, most likely with text around it, and an explicit/implicit shelf life. A painting, this painting, is to be looked at, on its own terms, an object suspended outside of time and space.
What am I saying here? Only, I think, that the recognition of influence belittles neither Guston, nor the comic strip artists who influenced him or those who came after (Guston, for example, has clearly been an influence on Ware; Crumb's influence on art/art's influence on Crumb shoots back and forth like a degenerate electrical current). Perhaps the bigger question is how Guston got to here, in 1970, from "Prospects", in 1964, a black and grey, purely abstract painting presently hanging nearby, which, to my eyes, carries no hint of Guston's future direction (c.f. the "totem"-style early Pollock in the collection, which, while still being a long way from "Blue Poles", could conceivably have dribbled from the same brush). Which is not to comment on the relative merits of the two Gustons; only to observe. And observation, "Ways of Seeing", as John Berger put it, is what looking at art (as opposed to looking at - reading - comic books) is all about.
What am I saying here? Only, I think, that the recognition of influence belittles neither Guston, nor the comic strip artists who influenced him or those who came after (Guston, for example, has clearly been an influence on Ware; Crumb's influence on art/art's influence on Crumb shoots back and forth like a degenerate electrical current). Perhaps the bigger question is how Guston got to here, in 1970, from "Prospects", in 1964, a black and grey, purely abstract painting presently hanging nearby, which, to my eyes, carries no hint of Guston's future direction (c.f. the "totem"-style early Pollock in the collection, which, while still being a long way from "Blue Poles", could conceivably have dribbled from the same brush). Which is not to comment on the relative merits of the two Gustons; only to observe. And observation, "Ways of Seeing", as John Berger put it, is what looking at art (as opposed to looking at - reading - comic books) is all about.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Juice Newton
Today, inexplicably, I found my iPod tucked inside a pile of papers to be shredded.
I wonder what sound an iPod Mini would make as it sleek metal skin hit the teeth of a shredder.
I wonder what sound an iPod Mini would make as it sleek metal skin hit the teeth of a shredder.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Speaking of Glen Baxter ...
... how could anyone not derive some small amount of enjoyment from watching this?
Late Night Shopping
I bought this and this. It is the reason a man works overtime.
Tomorrow I turn 41. I can say it; I can see it in print; but I can't feel it. There is a complete disconnect between how old I am and how old I think I am. I still see myself as somewhere in my late 20s. Perhaps I am one of the lucky few. Perhaps I am just an embarrassment. (Although I don't go around in skate-punk gear. Never did. I'm only young on the inside.) We'll see how things look in a few more years.
Meanwhile there's a piece on Sonny Rollins in the New Yorker this week, so if I try very hard I can imagine that I am living at the time when I mostly wish I had been living. Except that the piece is written by Stanley Crouch, not Whitney Bailliett. It's nice to see someone so certain in their opinions; but it is also possible to be wrong. (Example from the accompanying online Q&A: Where does Sonny Rollins rank in the jazz pantheon? Answer: No 1. Well, no he doesn't, and anyway who can say? I'd put him in the top ten, for sure, but maybe not too high within that. But that sort of baldfaced and ridiculous no-correspondence-will-be-entered-into statement belongs in the world of the fanzine writer/blogger, not in the pages of the NYer. Let's hope his editors have done their job, but I suspect Crouch would have seemed more at home there during the Tina Brown Years.)
Tomorrow I turn 41. I can say it; I can see it in print; but I can't feel it. There is a complete disconnect between how old I am and how old I think I am. I still see myself as somewhere in my late 20s. Perhaps I am one of the lucky few. Perhaps I am just an embarrassment. (Although I don't go around in skate-punk gear. Never did. I'm only young on the inside.) We'll see how things look in a few more years.
Meanwhile there's a piece on Sonny Rollins in the New Yorker this week, so if I try very hard I can imagine that I am living at the time when I mostly wish I had been living. Except that the piece is written by Stanley Crouch, not Whitney Bailliett. It's nice to see someone so certain in their opinions; but it is also possible to be wrong. (Example from the accompanying online Q&A: Where does Sonny Rollins rank in the jazz pantheon? Answer: No 1. Well, no he doesn't, and anyway who can say? I'd put him in the top ten, for sure, but maybe not too high within that. But that sort of baldfaced and ridiculous no-correspondence-will-be-entered-into statement belongs in the world of the fanzine writer/blogger, not in the pages of the NYer. Let's hope his editors have done their job, but I suspect Crouch would have seemed more at home there during the Tina Brown Years.)
Friday, April 29, 2005
Hazards of modern life
I now have, let me see, around 600 songs that I have downloaded but not listened to. That is something like two days consecutive listening. It keeps growing. It's starting to mess with my head. I may just have to abandon them en masse and start again. Is anyone else having this problem?
My feeling is that the whole post-punk/new wave revival may have run its course. When you listen to a song by a freshfaced young band and your first and only response is "It's the Cars", it's probably time to move on to the next thing.
And yet: to keep the music industry happy, I spent some hard-earned on the latest M. Ward album, "Transistor Radio". It might not contain anything as remarkable as "Sad, Sad Song" or "Let's Dance", from "Transfiguration of Vincent", but what he does he does well, and is worth doing, so I'm sure it will be a keeper.
My feeling is that the whole post-punk/new wave revival may have run its course. When you listen to a song by a freshfaced young band and your first and only response is "It's the Cars", it's probably time to move on to the next thing.
And yet: to keep the music industry happy, I spent some hard-earned on the latest M. Ward album, "Transistor Radio". It might not contain anything as remarkable as "Sad, Sad Song" or "Let's Dance", from "Transfiguration of Vincent", but what he does he does well, and is worth doing, so I'm sure it will be a keeper.
Accidental avant-garde
Can I just say that "Congotronics" by Konono No 1 is the most astounding album I have heard in a long, long time. Who would have thought that the thumb piano, amplified (necessarily) by home-made electrics, could make such a beautiful noise?
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Smells Like (pre)Teen Spirit
Anzac Day, late afternoon. Also, the last day of school holidays. We go to Manuka for an ice cream, and then stop off for a look in the bookshop. Sometimes we spend large sums of money there, sometimes we choose to treat it as a private reading library. This time it's the latter. Julius is at the stage now of beginning to recognise a few words, so reading a Maisy book can take some time, as we pause over every "is", "in", "and". (It is impossible not to get caught up in his excitement about this. We started reading to/with both boys when they were very little, so at this stage it must seem as if some kind of arcane Mystery Of The Little Squiggly Lines is slowly being revealed to them.)
So, it becomes time to leave. Carl starts to bolt towards the door, and I tell him (firmly) that it is against the rules to run in shops. To which Julius, who is just behind me, says, "Is it okay to fart in shops?" As I said, it's time to leave.
So, it becomes time to leave. Carl starts to bolt towards the door, and I tell him (firmly) that it is against the rules to run in shops. To which Julius, who is just behind me, says, "Is it okay to fart in shops?" As I said, it's time to leave.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Pop rocks
Obviously, the reason things have been so quiet around here is that we have been so deeply immersed in this Dissensus thread that we have barely been able to come up for air. It's all so difficult: am I a popist? a rockist? a deleuzian? a lacanian? (It's like the Mafia don said in "Prizzi's Honour": "Do I ice her? Do I marry her? Dese tings.")
It all started off so nice; so simple: "What is good about pop music?", asked Matt Ingram, and before too long cultural theorists, obscure philosophers, even poor old Bryan Ferry, were being flung over the battlements at a furious rate. It may be fun to watch. But what's it all about? If being a "popist" means liking whatever may be "popular" at a particular moment, well, I can't see too much future in that. But to the extent that being a "rockist" carries with it some subtle (or not so subtle) element of anti-popism, i.e. disliking something because it's popular, well, there's something a bit screwy there, too.
The correct answer, as usual, is somewhere in the middle. Popular is not everything. But it is also not a bad thing. It just is. The charts have always been fun to watch, because you just never know what might sneak in there ("Wuthering Heights", anyone? "O Superman"?). But, if you're a serious listener/consumer of music, they're not particularly relevant. And what about those poor, sad old "rockists"? They surely can't be having that much fun, forced to categorise every piece of music according to some complex personal "auter" theory, and having to throw out their favourite records in the face of overwhelming public approval. Be aware of what's going on around you, sure, but don't take it too seriously. Carpe Diem!
It all started off so nice; so simple: "What is good about pop music?", asked Matt Ingram, and before too long cultural theorists, obscure philosophers, even poor old Bryan Ferry, were being flung over the battlements at a furious rate. It may be fun to watch. But what's it all about? If being a "popist" means liking whatever may be "popular" at a particular moment, well, I can't see too much future in that. But to the extent that being a "rockist" carries with it some subtle (or not so subtle) element of anti-popism, i.e. disliking something because it's popular, well, there's something a bit screwy there, too.
The correct answer, as usual, is somewhere in the middle. Popular is not everything. But it is also not a bad thing. It just is. The charts have always been fun to watch, because you just never know what might sneak in there ("Wuthering Heights", anyone? "O Superman"?). But, if you're a serious listener/consumer of music, they're not particularly relevant. And what about those poor, sad old "rockists"? They surely can't be having that much fun, forced to categorise every piece of music according to some complex personal "auter" theory, and having to throw out their favourite records in the face of overwhelming public approval. Be aware of what's going on around you, sure, but don't take it too seriously. Carpe Diem!
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Shadows
While we are having a little "time away" (from the blog, not from home, family, or anything else), you may choose to contemplate how much "Jesus, Etc" by Wilco sounds like almost any track you care to recall from Aztec Camera's "Knife" album. (The latter of which was produced by Mark Knopfler, making that the closest - guest appearance on Scott Walker's "Climate of Hunter" aside - Dire Straits will ever get to our record shelves.)
Friday, April 08, 2005
What if Johnny Ramone was President?
Wednesday night I went to see the Ramones movie, “End of the Century”, on the last night of its two-week run in the Nation’s Capital (nice to see more than the usual token small handful of punters in attendance at Electric Shadows, too). It was, of course, a terrific film. Given the subject matter, it could hardly not be.
What I walked out with was a nagging feeling that it was reminding me of something else. At 5.55 this morning I realised: it was like a Wes Anderson movie - a bunch of oddball characters in ridiculous and frequently hilarious set-ups; except that all the characters are either doomed, or sad, or tragic, or cast adrift in some way, so that it is fundamentally not a comedy (making one’s own laughter increasingly uncomfortable). And, of course, unlike a Wes Anderson movie, it is all a true story.
And, it turns out that Johnny was the most screwed up of them all. It's alway the quiet ones.
What I walked out with was a nagging feeling that it was reminding me of something else. At 5.55 this morning I realised: it was like a Wes Anderson movie - a bunch of oddball characters in ridiculous and frequently hilarious set-ups; except that all the characters are either doomed, or sad, or tragic, or cast adrift in some way, so that it is fundamentally not a comedy (making one’s own laughter increasingly uncomfortable). And, of course, unlike a Wes Anderson movie, it is all a true story.
And, it turns out that Johnny was the most screwed up of them all. It's alway the quiet ones.
Monday, April 04, 2005
brothers gonna work it out
Slint in the New Yorker? Ah, Sasha, you've done it again.
Bonus track: Reynolds' book scores a nice review in the Independent. Big up ya mon, as the saying goes.
Bonus track: Reynolds' book scores a nice review in the Independent. Big up ya mon, as the saying goes.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
The Infotainment Scan
We went off to the Autism ACT trivia night last night. Our table came a creditable third (we should have been equal second but let's not go there), two points behind the winner.
My contributions were few and far between, but I redeemed myself by being seemingly the only person in the room to know the name of all four Banana Splits. (How quickly we forget.)
My contributions were few and far between, but I redeemed myself by being seemingly the only person in the room to know the name of all four Banana Splits. (How quickly we forget.)
I'm Not Angry
... but some mornings I wake up with a burning desire to pick up the Red Pen of Death and put an indelibly obliterating line through everything Elvis Costello has done since "Blood and Chocolate". Today is one of those days. It's not that nothing of value can be found in the Warners albums ("Brutal Youth", at least, still gets a fair hearing in these parts) but as a whole they are so hit and miss, and often completely misguided, that it takes a more positive disposition than I currently possess to be bothered separating the wheat from the chaff. Be gone the damned lot of you!
(Although, I wouldn't go so far as to adopt the radical approach Jonathan Lethem describes in his recent harrowing personal-history piece in the New Yorker in relation to his obsession with Talking Heads, and how he was compelled, upon witnessing the awful spectacle of their later records, to disown everything they had ever done (I mean, can you imagine life without "Remain In Light"?). Obviously, the majesty of the first few Costello albums, up to and including "Imperial Bedroom", cannot be tainted by anything that may have happened subsequently.)
(By the way, I'm willing to wager that Lethem's piece contains the only reference ever to appear in the New Yorker to Fripp and Eno's "No Pussyfooting"; at the very least it must surely be the only time Brian Eno has appeared in the opening paragraph of a feature article in the magazine. Now all we need is for Sasha Frere-Jones to slip into the magazine a reference to David Bowie's ""Heroes"", so that we can see how the magazine's ruthless and unbending style keepers deal with a song title which itself contains inverted commas.)
(Although, I wouldn't go so far as to adopt the radical approach Jonathan Lethem describes in his recent harrowing personal-history piece in the New Yorker in relation to his obsession with Talking Heads, and how he was compelled, upon witnessing the awful spectacle of their later records, to disown everything they had ever done (I mean, can you imagine life without "Remain In Light"?). Obviously, the majesty of the first few Costello albums, up to and including "Imperial Bedroom", cannot be tainted by anything that may have happened subsequently.)
(By the way, I'm willing to wager that Lethem's piece contains the only reference ever to appear in the New Yorker to Fripp and Eno's "No Pussyfooting"; at the very least it must surely be the only time Brian Eno has appeared in the opening paragraph of a feature article in the magazine. Now all we need is for Sasha Frere-Jones to slip into the magazine a reference to David Bowie's ""Heroes"", so that we can see how the magazine's ruthless and unbending style keepers deal with a song title which itself contains inverted commas.)
Spooky coincidences dept.
On Friday I sat down with some old New Yorkers at the National Library. After flicking through the ads and Goings On About Town listings at the front the first issue that I opened up, that of 18 October 1958, I got to the Talk of the Town section, the first sentence of which started with the words "The day after the Pope died ...".
Friday, April 01, 2005
Gentlemen it's Time
Over Easter we were lucky enough to be blessed by visitors from the deep, unreconstructed south (i.e., Melbourne). The conversation turned, as it does, to music. My suggestion that our visitors harboured a couple of Dead C artefacts owned by myself was countered, conclusively and authoritatively, by my being reminded that a transaction had been entered into long ago whereby those artefacts were traded for a 7” single by Alastair Galbraith, entitled “Gaudylight”, comprising five tracks and released on the short-lived but crucial XPressway label (and in the US on Siltbreeze).
Suffice to say, I do not resile from the deal. My love of that-era Alastair Galbraith is unabated. Another XPressway release, on cassette only, featuring on one side demos and on the other a recording of a performance (with Helga Hunke on piano accordian) in a Dunedin theatre late one night in June 1987 during a 24-hour book sale, has slowly been absorbed into my DNA. It is all stark, emotional, fragile. You feel that if a light was shone on this music, it would melt away.
The definitive (to my mind) Galbraith release from that time is a compilation CD, “Seely Girn”, originally released on XWay but licensed to the strangely misnamed (in this context) Feel Good All Over in the USA. It contains three-fifths of “Gaudylight”, along with selected tracks taken from the live tape, the Plagal Grind ep (with Peter Jefferies, David Mitchell and Robbie Muir), the fabled “Stormed Port” and “Timebomb” singles, and more besides.
Here, by popular request, are the three tracks from “Gaudylight” that are reproduced on “Seely Girn”:
“As In A Blender”
“Mrs Blucher”
“Warden Tye”
This gives a representative sample of Mr Galbraith’s sound (note: “Warden Tye” does cut out like that, it’s not poor handiwork on my part), and obviates the need for me to attempt any kind of description.
Suffice to say, I do not resile from the deal. My love of that-era Alastair Galbraith is unabated. Another XPressway release, on cassette only, featuring on one side demos and on the other a recording of a performance (with Helga Hunke on piano accordian) in a Dunedin theatre late one night in June 1987 during a 24-hour book sale, has slowly been absorbed into my DNA. It is all stark, emotional, fragile. You feel that if a light was shone on this music, it would melt away.
The definitive (to my mind) Galbraith release from that time is a compilation CD, “Seely Girn”, originally released on XWay but licensed to the strangely misnamed (in this context) Feel Good All Over in the USA. It contains three-fifths of “Gaudylight”, along with selected tracks taken from the live tape, the Plagal Grind ep (with Peter Jefferies, David Mitchell and Robbie Muir), the fabled “Stormed Port” and “Timebomb” singles, and more besides.
Here, by popular request, are the three tracks from “Gaudylight” that are reproduced on “Seely Girn”:
“As In A Blender”
“Mrs Blucher”
“Warden Tye”
This gives a representative sample of Mr Galbraith’s sound (note: “Warden Tye” does cut out like that, it’s not poor handiwork on my part), and obviates the need for me to attempt any kind of description.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
The one that got away
I can't believe that Rockwiz snuck under the radar. I am heavily indebted to Jim and Josie for setting me straight.
Rockwiz is filmed at the Gershwin Room, one of the (and perhaps the) seediest band venues in all of Melbourne, if not the world; it opens with an outside shot of the Esplanade Hotel, a view I have taken in probably thousands of times, going for walks around St Kilda in a previous life; last week's show featured none other than Robert Forster, who is one of a small handful of personal Icons of Australian Music; in relation to one of the members of the house band, I worked with his brother many many years ago - he manned the sleepy Phillip Island branch office of the law firm I worked for then, wherefrom he was able to regularly knock off in the early afternoon to go surfing; another member of the house band was in the Models, whom I have seen play live more times than any other band; and two people I know were in the audience - Edgar I saw on camera twice, but my eyes weren't fast enough to spot Dave Brown, who was apparently on screen at the same time.
That's the next few Saturday nights stitched up, then.
Rockwiz is filmed at the Gershwin Room, one of the (and perhaps the) seediest band venues in all of Melbourne, if not the world; it opens with an outside shot of the Esplanade Hotel, a view I have taken in probably thousands of times, going for walks around St Kilda in a previous life; last week's show featured none other than Robert Forster, who is one of a small handful of personal Icons of Australian Music; in relation to one of the members of the house band, I worked with his brother many many years ago - he manned the sleepy Phillip Island branch office of the law firm I worked for then, wherefrom he was able to regularly knock off in the early afternoon to go surfing; another member of the house band was in the Models, whom I have seen play live more times than any other band; and two people I know were in the audience - Edgar I saw on camera twice, but my eyes weren't fast enough to spot Dave Brown, who was apparently on screen at the same time.
That's the next few Saturday nights stitched up, then.
A Life Full of Farewells
If, like me, you know deep in your heart that you should have taken the time to listen to Peter Walsh's band The Apartments, you can at least get a taste of what you have been missing over at La Blogotheque.
If, unlike me, you can read French, you won't need to bother your wife every two minutes with "What's this say?".
If, unlike me, you can read French, you won't need to bother your wife every two minutes with "What's this say?".
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Start Me Up
I listened to "Map of What Is Effortless", last year's album by Telefon Tel Aviv, several times at work (through crappy PC speakers, admittedly) without being particularly impressed beyond the opening instrumental and the previously mentioned "My Week Beats Your Year" (and now I know why I have been so taken by that song: the singer sounds just like Scarlett Johansson in "Lost In Translation" [sigh]). I put it on at home last night, after the kids had gone to sleep, and I played it at a suitably loud volume through the home stereo, and it has become an entirely different beast. And I am now so consumed by the last song, "At The Edge Of The World You Will Still Heal", that I can feel it taking over my entire body. I wouldn't exactly say I hate it when this happens, but I am always totally amazed and it is always so unexpected. Now I am scared to listen to it again.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Miscellany
Argh! My in tray is overflowing.
ITEM! If, like me, you have always wanted to read Robert Hughes on R Crumb, well, now you can.
ITEM! So, Shane Warne has decided to live in England. I guess the long-distance dirty phone calls were getting too expensive.
ITEM! Over in the rest of weblog-world (witness, for example, Simon Reynolds and a loooong Dissensus thread, both links at right), feathers are being ruffled left right and centre as debate rages over the worth or otherwise of M.I.A. It seems that the Sri Lankan-born singer has become the poster child (willing or unwitting? the jury is out) for all kinds of cultural theory-type arguments, pro and con. It's nice to see healthy differences of opinion breaking out, as long as everyone can be friends after the smoke has cleared. Me? Well, when the hype machine starts humming, I usually take a few steps back and wait for some substance to appear. I like some of it, some of it leaves me shrugging my shoulders. Heck, if she wants to put pepper on her mango, that's fine by me. I find that ice cream makes for a much better combination.
ITEM! I recently commenced the daunting but essential task of reading through Marcello Carlin's Church of Me from day one. Strange thing is, it wasn't long before I stumbled on a quote from James Ellroy's "The Cold Six Thousand", which is my current bedtime reading. What would have been really spooky is if he had been quoting a passage I had just read or was just about to read. As it is, he may well have inadvertently given away a significant plot point. But some 500 pages of the tautest prose ever written (longest sentence so far: eight words; use of adjectives: non-existent) still ahead of me (it is probably the equivalent of a couple of thousand pages written by any other writer you can think of), it will likely be many months before I stumble upon the passage for myself, by which time I will have completely forgotten about it.
ITEM! Headed into the centre of Canberra on the weekend to spend a bit of overtime money before the kids steal it from me. I fully intended to buy the new M. Ward album, and perhaps the LCD Soundsystem disc. But I got ambushed by a number of essential pickups at Revolution (Scott Walker's "Boychild: 1967-1970", which I am a bit embarrassed about not already owning, especially given the name of this weblog; Steve Reich's "Drumming", in a 2-CD Deutsche Grammophon package; "The K&D Sessions"; and David Bowie's "Station To Station", which I have always rated as an essential album, thus making my prior disposal of the vinyl even more inexplicable). Then upstairs in the comic shop I "had" to buy Book Four of Alan Moore's "Promethea" series, even though I have some reservations about the somewhat academic tone of some of the discourse about magic(k), because it is obviously the current Moore project that he is taking seriously, unlike the myriad other Moore-related books that seem like he is tossing them off in his sleep (which obviously doesn't make them rubbish, but I'll leave it for others to actually read them). When he is working hard, nobody can twist the comics medium to their own ends as well as Moore can. (Compare and contrast Dennis Potter and television.) So M. Ward will have to await another day.
ITEM! In the New Yorker of 1 February 1958 (price: 25 cents) Whitney Bailliett gives a somewhat lukewarm reception to Miles Davis's "Miles Ahead: Miles Davis + 19". He likes the idea (breathing life into the moribund big-band concept) but is not entirely sold on the execution. His take is that it represents the last gasp of the "cool" school of jazz, which he sees as having run its course. Of course, he doesn't know what is coming next. It will be interesting to see his take on "Porgy and Bess" and, crucially, "Sketches of Spain". What Bailliett sees, through the eyes of 1958, as the end of one thing we know to have been the beginning of something else entirely. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere.
ITEM! If, like me, you have always wanted to read Robert Hughes on R Crumb, well, now you can.
ITEM! So, Shane Warne has decided to live in England. I guess the long-distance dirty phone calls were getting too expensive.
ITEM! Over in the rest of weblog-world (witness, for example, Simon Reynolds and a loooong Dissensus thread, both links at right), feathers are being ruffled left right and centre as debate rages over the worth or otherwise of M.I.A. It seems that the Sri Lankan-born singer has become the poster child (willing or unwitting? the jury is out) for all kinds of cultural theory-type arguments, pro and con. It's nice to see healthy differences of opinion breaking out, as long as everyone can be friends after the smoke has cleared. Me? Well, when the hype machine starts humming, I usually take a few steps back and wait for some substance to appear. I like some of it, some of it leaves me shrugging my shoulders. Heck, if she wants to put pepper on her mango, that's fine by me. I find that ice cream makes for a much better combination.
ITEM! I recently commenced the daunting but essential task of reading through Marcello Carlin's Church of Me from day one. Strange thing is, it wasn't long before I stumbled on a quote from James Ellroy's "The Cold Six Thousand", which is my current bedtime reading. What would have been really spooky is if he had been quoting a passage I had just read or was just about to read. As it is, he may well have inadvertently given away a significant plot point. But some 500 pages of the tautest prose ever written (longest sentence so far: eight words; use of adjectives: non-existent) still ahead of me (it is probably the equivalent of a couple of thousand pages written by any other writer you can think of), it will likely be many months before I stumble upon the passage for myself, by which time I will have completely forgotten about it.
ITEM! Headed into the centre of Canberra on the weekend to spend a bit of overtime money before the kids steal it from me. I fully intended to buy the new M. Ward album, and perhaps the LCD Soundsystem disc. But I got ambushed by a number of essential pickups at Revolution (Scott Walker's "Boychild: 1967-1970", which I am a bit embarrassed about not already owning, especially given the name of this weblog; Steve Reich's "Drumming", in a 2-CD Deutsche Grammophon package; "The K&D Sessions"; and David Bowie's "Station To Station", which I have always rated as an essential album, thus making my prior disposal of the vinyl even more inexplicable). Then upstairs in the comic shop I "had" to buy Book Four of Alan Moore's "Promethea" series, even though I have some reservations about the somewhat academic tone of some of the discourse about magic(k), because it is obviously the current Moore project that he is taking seriously, unlike the myriad other Moore-related books that seem like he is tossing them off in his sleep (which obviously doesn't make them rubbish, but I'll leave it for others to actually read them). When he is working hard, nobody can twist the comics medium to their own ends as well as Moore can. (Compare and contrast Dennis Potter and television.) So M. Ward will have to await another day.
ITEM! In the New Yorker of 1 February 1958 (price: 25 cents) Whitney Bailliett gives a somewhat lukewarm reception to Miles Davis's "Miles Ahead: Miles Davis + 19". He likes the idea (breathing life into the moribund big-band concept) but is not entirely sold on the execution. His take is that it represents the last gasp of the "cool" school of jazz, which he sees as having run its course. Of course, he doesn't know what is coming next. It will be interesting to see his take on "Porgy and Bess" and, crucially, "Sketches of Spain". What Bailliett sees, through the eyes of 1958, as the end of one thing we know to have been the beginning of something else entirely. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere.
Stone God
On account of having climbed off my death bed and straight into a 15-day unbroken stretch at the office (I did get home to sleep) I kinda missed a few things happening in the world.
Such as the death of exotica king Martin Denny. I have a healthy, non-obsessive number of Denny records (including one, sans cover, almost too warped to play, but which contains the most bizarre version of "Macarthur Park" you could ever imagine), mostly bought cheaply in the golden days before Bruce Milne went around all of the Melbourne op shops and second hand record stores picking them up for two dollars and sticking them up on the wall at the now-defunct Au Go Go Records for upwards of $60 a pop.
I can hear the fake bird calls cascading down from beyond the pearly gates now.
Here is his version of "Caravan", because you can't have too many versions of "Caravan". It's taken from a Rhino Records compilation from 1990 called "Exotica: The Best of Martin Denny". Enjoy.
[Editor's Note, 5.10pm: 1. The reference above to Bruce Milne perhaps seems uncharacteristically negative in tone. It was intended only as a good-natured jibe and would hopefully be accepted as such. Au Go Go Records was in almost every respect an exemplary record store, especially the rarities/second-hand section upstairs, which has been the final resting place of many of my hard-earned dollars. It is also the shop from which I bought "The African Man's Tomato" by the Cannanes, which dates the starting point of my Second Golden Age (which came to an end when the world chose Nirvana over Beat Happening, a travesty for which the world should never be forgiven).
2. The above link is now working.]
Such as the death of exotica king Martin Denny. I have a healthy, non-obsessive number of Denny records (including one, sans cover, almost too warped to play, but which contains the most bizarre version of "Macarthur Park" you could ever imagine), mostly bought cheaply in the golden days before Bruce Milne went around all of the Melbourne op shops and second hand record stores picking them up for two dollars and sticking them up on the wall at the now-defunct Au Go Go Records for upwards of $60 a pop.
I can hear the fake bird calls cascading down from beyond the pearly gates now.
Here is his version of "Caravan", because you can't have too many versions of "Caravan". It's taken from a Rhino Records compilation from 1990 called "Exotica: The Best of Martin Denny". Enjoy.
[Editor's Note, 5.10pm: 1. The reference above to Bruce Milne perhaps seems uncharacteristically negative in tone. It was intended only as a good-natured jibe and would hopefully be accepted as such. Au Go Go Records was in almost every respect an exemplary record store, especially the rarities/second-hand section upstairs, which has been the final resting place of many of my hard-earned dollars. It is also the shop from which I bought "The African Man's Tomato" by the Cannanes, which dates the starting point of my Second Golden Age (which came to an end when the world chose Nirvana over Beat Happening, a travesty for which the world should never be forgiven).
2. The above link is now working.]
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Back To Nature
Notwithstanding that our house is five minutes away from Australia's national Parliament House - less as the crow flies, not that any crows would want to fly that way, galahs more likely - we also have, practically outside our back door, a large slab of actual Australian bush (we had an echidna at the foot of our letterbox the day we moved in). I like to maintain a veneer of fitness by taking a walk up there every now and then. I did so on Saturday, when a bloody big kangaroo loomed ahead of me on the walking track, looking straight at me and seemingly not in the mood to get out of my way. So I turned around and went home. I went out again yesterday morning, when a very large black poodle (half as tall as me, almost) that was on a leash ran over to me and bit a large hole clean out of the shorts I was wearing. It happened so fast I had no time to be scared (that came afterwards). The owner of the dog didn't respond in any of the ways I would have liked. No apology. No checking if I was okay. They say that pets are like their masters. Let's stick with the guinea pigs.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Screen Dreams
A friend has lent us a four-DVD box set of Miyazaki films. That's a good friend to have.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Sufferer's Time
There is something in this piece by Marcello Carlin that resonates very profoundly with me. I think it is this passage:
"Up in remote Lanarkshire, as yet unfamiliar with Handsworth or Brixton, it seemed to me like a record from the outermost space, a reggae version of Stockhausen's Stimmung, all chopped up syllables and stopped polyglots, and I loved it."
Substitute South Gippsland for Lanarkshire, and ignore for a moment the reference to Stockhausen, and it could be me. Not in 1974, mind, but 1978, listening for the first time, perhaps, to the Sunday evening reggae show on Sydney's 2JJ, accessible by radio hundreds of miles to the south only as the cool night air sent the signal down our way, sporadically, fading in and out in the way only AM radio can, so that your chances of catching the back-announcement of the songs just played were fairly slim. Which, I guess, added to the mystery. What was this thing called "dub"? And why did I really, genuinely feel this music in a way that I didn't feel other music, even music that I was totally absorbed by? (And why do I still feel the same way?)
Such a response, to what (judging by the reactions I have had in the past from casual listeners) is not the most readily accessible of musics, is perhaps easier to understand in someone like Carlin, who seems to have been brought up in a kind of alternate-world ideal household, where jazz in its more lofty forms was the order of the day, along with the likes of the aforementioned Stockhausen. In my own case, my parents' feeble record collection ran to "30 Smash Hits of the War Years", Strauss waltzes, and the Seekers, spiced up a bit by regular World Record Club selections from the likes of V Balsara and His Singing Sitars (still one of my favourite records: listen to them butcher the Beatles and weep - or howl). So, whence comes the dub that courses through my body? Is there a hint of illegitimate Jamaican blood in here somewhere? (I did have two transfusions at birth. Aha - has anybody ever done a study on this?)
On the other hand, I could always cease the amateur self-psychoanalysis, relax, and put on Keith Hudson's "Pick A Dub" (Blood and Fire reissue - hey, my personal 1974 revolved around The Sweet and Suzi Quatro, with Skyhooks looming just around the corner; I wouldn't have recognised a dub plate if someone served my dinner on it).
"Up in remote Lanarkshire, as yet unfamiliar with Handsworth or Brixton, it seemed to me like a record from the outermost space, a reggae version of Stockhausen's Stimmung, all chopped up syllables and stopped polyglots, and I loved it."
Substitute South Gippsland for Lanarkshire, and ignore for a moment the reference to Stockhausen, and it could be me. Not in 1974, mind, but 1978, listening for the first time, perhaps, to the Sunday evening reggae show on Sydney's 2JJ, accessible by radio hundreds of miles to the south only as the cool night air sent the signal down our way, sporadically, fading in and out in the way only AM radio can, so that your chances of catching the back-announcement of the songs just played were fairly slim. Which, I guess, added to the mystery. What was this thing called "dub"? And why did I really, genuinely feel this music in a way that I didn't feel other music, even music that I was totally absorbed by? (And why do I still feel the same way?)
Such a response, to what (judging by the reactions I have had in the past from casual listeners) is not the most readily accessible of musics, is perhaps easier to understand in someone like Carlin, who seems to have been brought up in a kind of alternate-world ideal household, where jazz in its more lofty forms was the order of the day, along with the likes of the aforementioned Stockhausen. In my own case, my parents' feeble record collection ran to "30 Smash Hits of the War Years", Strauss waltzes, and the Seekers, spiced up a bit by regular World Record Club selections from the likes of V Balsara and His Singing Sitars (still one of my favourite records: listen to them butcher the Beatles and weep - or howl). So, whence comes the dub that courses through my body? Is there a hint of illegitimate Jamaican blood in here somewhere? (I did have two transfusions at birth. Aha - has anybody ever done a study on this?)
On the other hand, I could always cease the amateur self-psychoanalysis, relax, and put on Keith Hudson's "Pick A Dub" (Blood and Fire reissue - hey, my personal 1974 revolved around The Sweet and Suzi Quatro, with Skyhooks looming just around the corner; I wouldn't have recognised a dub plate if someone served my dinner on it).
Monday, March 07, 2005
What else can you do?
There are days when the only thing that will help is "The Fox In The Snow" by Belle and Sebastian.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
This goes with that (again)
The fifth song on side one of “The Spanish Album” by the Sandpipers (no year given; post-1966 is all I can say, but most likely not far “post”), which I picked up at the most recent Canberra YMCA garage sale (along with several others in what I consider a good vinyl haul - about which, undoubtedly, more later), is a song called “Cancion de Amor”, or “Wanderlove”, written by Mason Williams, whose own version appears, according to IMDb, in the movie “The Kid Stays In The Picture”. Can’t say I know the original, or any of the numerous other versions of this song (Esther & Abi Ofarim, anyone?).
But what I can say is that, at the point when the Sandpipers get to the three-note descending sequence at the end of each verse, my brain can’t help but segue into the chorus of Nick Cave’s “The Weeping Song”: naturally, we are far from alleging anything untoward; it is a very fine turn of musical phrase, which sits well in both songs. And astute readers will recall that “The Good Son”, the Nick Cave album on which “The Weeping Song” appears, was recorded in Sao Paolo, so perhaps the similarity is less surprising than it initially seemed.
But what I can say is that, at the point when the Sandpipers get to the three-note descending sequence at the end of each verse, my brain can’t help but segue into the chorus of Nick Cave’s “The Weeping Song”: naturally, we are far from alleging anything untoward; it is a very fine turn of musical phrase, which sits well in both songs. And astute readers will recall that “The Good Son”, the Nick Cave album on which “The Weeping Song” appears, was recorded in Sao Paolo, so perhaps the similarity is less surprising than it initially seemed.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Advisory
We are probably going to start putting up the occasional mp3 on this page. I suppose that means we might be blogging from jail. It's a risk we have to take.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
One more time with feeling
For the final hypothetical mix CD of 2004, I dispensed with usual practice of agonising over the damn thing for months at a time. I just threw it together and listened to it. And would you believe, it works. There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere, but I sure as heck won’t learn it. In the same spirit, I’ll try to keep the comments to a minimum.
Tim Hardin, “If I Were a Carpenter”: Ed Kuepper does a great version of this, on “Today Wonder” (now reissued w/ extra tracks, so there really is no excuse). I was listening to Triple R one night many years ago when the DJ seemed to have flown the coop and put Ed’s version on an endless loop. Hey, that rhymes.
Bobby “Blue” Bland, “That Did It”.
Lou Courtney, “Hey Joyce”.
Slapp Happy, “Blue Flower”: better known to the hipster cogniscenti as a Mazzy Star song. (Heck, I hadn’t even realised it was a cover.) Me, I actually prefer Hope Sandoval to the somewhat belted vocals on this. In fact, “I prefer Hope Sandoval” could serve as my epitaph.
Opal, “Fell From The Sun”: somewhat obvious segue, this, with Opal being David Roback’s band previous to Mazzy Star (what is he doing now?, you hear me ask). This is a fabulous song. I have long cherished their SST album, “Happy Nightmare Baby”, and am always excited (and never, at least not yet, disappointed) to hear anything else by them.
Bloomfield, Kooper, Stills, “Season of the Witch”: eleven minutes of anathema perhaps, but I like to think of this as the electric-blues equivalent of what happens in jazz all the time: take a standard and push it out further than you ever thought it could go (John Coltrane’s “My Favourite Things” being only the most obvious example).
Soft Cell, “Tainted Love/Where Did Our Love Go?”: exhibit A in the case for the defence of the 12-inch single. The two songs fit together like they had been born that way. You couldn’t do this in three minutes, but you could do it in eight. And they did. I first heard this at the Oakleigh Motel, in suburban Melbourne, where I was staying with my parents during one of our infrequent trips to Melbourne when for whatever reason we weren’t able to stay with my mad cousins in East Bentleigh. And of course we wish Marc Almond the speediest and fullest of recoveries from his horrific motorcycle accident. (And, on the same morbid subject, we wish Edwin Collins all the very best, too, and hope he’s not falling but laughing some time soon.)
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, “Electricity”: in a nutshell, the sound every boy and girl was looking for in 2004.
Specials, “Ghost Town”: another one lovingly packed away for the desert island. It’s surprising, and heartening, how many guest programmers on “Rage” have chosen this.
23 Skidoo, “Coup”: and when the kids have tired of OMD, they are turning to the sound of Sheffield.
Mouse on Mars, “Lazergum”: nudging us into the 21st century.
Pizzicato Five, “Good”: Looks like I missed the boat again. When I think of all those CD-eps I could have bought ...
Baldwin Brothers, “Dream Girl”: I have spoken about this before. It still keeps me awake at night if I hear it after 4pm. Just like coffee.
Mendelsson, “storagemanagementadministration”: Googling this is futile. (Which means the artist or song name may well be wrong.) I seem to be liking much of what I hear from Germany these days.
Jens Lekman, “You Are the Light”: there are, I am sure, thousands of reasons for not liking this fellow. Well, I’m sorry, I can’t help it.
Kings of Convenience, “I’d Rather Dance With You”: the closest we will ever come to a new Smiths song. Which, as if it needs explaining, is intended as the highest compliment.
Low, “Last Night I Dreamed Somebody Loved Me”: and finally, an actual Smiths song, as rendered by the once and future kings of “slowcore” (whatever that is). Twice the emotion and (almost) none of the forward motion. But it works in its own way and on its own terms. It’s not exactly the most uplifting place to finish the year, though.
Tim Hardin, “If I Were a Carpenter”: Ed Kuepper does a great version of this, on “Today Wonder” (now reissued w/ extra tracks, so there really is no excuse). I was listening to Triple R one night many years ago when the DJ seemed to have flown the coop and put Ed’s version on an endless loop. Hey, that rhymes.
Bobby “Blue” Bland, “That Did It”.
Lou Courtney, “Hey Joyce”.
Slapp Happy, “Blue Flower”: better known to the hipster cogniscenti as a Mazzy Star song. (Heck, I hadn’t even realised it was a cover.) Me, I actually prefer Hope Sandoval to the somewhat belted vocals on this. In fact, “I prefer Hope Sandoval” could serve as my epitaph.
Opal, “Fell From The Sun”: somewhat obvious segue, this, with Opal being David Roback’s band previous to Mazzy Star (what is he doing now?, you hear me ask). This is a fabulous song. I have long cherished their SST album, “Happy Nightmare Baby”, and am always excited (and never, at least not yet, disappointed) to hear anything else by them.
Bloomfield, Kooper, Stills, “Season of the Witch”: eleven minutes of anathema perhaps, but I like to think of this as the electric-blues equivalent of what happens in jazz all the time: take a standard and push it out further than you ever thought it could go (John Coltrane’s “My Favourite Things” being only the most obvious example).
Soft Cell, “Tainted Love/Where Did Our Love Go?”: exhibit A in the case for the defence of the 12-inch single. The two songs fit together like they had been born that way. You couldn’t do this in three minutes, but you could do it in eight. And they did. I first heard this at the Oakleigh Motel, in suburban Melbourne, where I was staying with my parents during one of our infrequent trips to Melbourne when for whatever reason we weren’t able to stay with my mad cousins in East Bentleigh. And of course we wish Marc Almond the speediest and fullest of recoveries from his horrific motorcycle accident. (And, on the same morbid subject, we wish Edwin Collins all the very best, too, and hope he’s not falling but laughing some time soon.)
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, “Electricity”: in a nutshell, the sound every boy and girl was looking for in 2004.
Specials, “Ghost Town”: another one lovingly packed away for the desert island. It’s surprising, and heartening, how many guest programmers on “Rage” have chosen this.
23 Skidoo, “Coup”: and when the kids have tired of OMD, they are turning to the sound of Sheffield.
Mouse on Mars, “Lazergum”: nudging us into the 21st century.
Pizzicato Five, “Good”: Looks like I missed the boat again. When I think of all those CD-eps I could have bought ...
Baldwin Brothers, “Dream Girl”: I have spoken about this before. It still keeps me awake at night if I hear it after 4pm. Just like coffee.
Mendelsson, “storagemanagementadministration”: Googling this is futile. (Which means the artist or song name may well be wrong.) I seem to be liking much of what I hear from Germany these days.
Jens Lekman, “You Are the Light”: there are, I am sure, thousands of reasons for not liking this fellow. Well, I’m sorry, I can’t help it.
Kings of Convenience, “I’d Rather Dance With You”: the closest we will ever come to a new Smiths song. Which, as if it needs explaining, is intended as the highest compliment.
Low, “Last Night I Dreamed Somebody Loved Me”: and finally, an actual Smiths song, as rendered by the once and future kings of “slowcore” (whatever that is). Twice the emotion and (almost) none of the forward motion. But it works in its own way and on its own terms. It’s not exactly the most uplifting place to finish the year, though.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Who's Next
We like what's going down over at ILMiXor, where what's going down is a real-time collaborative mp3 mixtape project (well, you try to give it a better description): the guy (naturally we assume it's a guy) running the site decides upon a theme for a mix tape, sets up a rolling list of contributors, and away it goes. When it's your turn, you have to put up an mp3 fitting the theme and, ideally, following on from the previous entry, and writing a few words about it. (Or, in the case of Ned Raggett, a whole lot of words.) So far they have put together one suitable-for-burning 80-minute mix, and are well into the second one. The whole thing is co-ordinated by way of an ILM thread, which reads like the duck's feet thrashing around furiously under the water while the ILMiXor duck gives the impression of floating gracefully along the surface. ("I can't take my turn right now, sorry, I've got to study/work/my computer's been stolen/I haven't slept for three days.")
It is a brilliantly simple idea, anyone could do it (although could "anyone" do it well?), but they thought of it (as far as we know) so full credit to them.
It is a brilliantly simple idea, anyone could do it (although could "anyone" do it well?), but they thought of it (as far as we know) so full credit to them.
Daddy Go Down
(alternative title: “Poor Poor Pitiful Me”)
I seem to have spent most of the last week and a half coming down with a mystery viral thing, hitting one of the rockiest rock-bottoms I have ever hit, and then recovering, painfully slowly, from same. There was actually a point, around midday last Friday, when I felt as if my vital fluids had drained completely away. At that stage, I would happily (no, not “happily”; willingly might be better: “happy” does not sit well, especially when over the last couple of weeks we have seen the self-inflicted deaths of, first, Nick Kilroy, a name I did not previously know, although it turns out that his musical tastes have been an enormously positive influence on my own over the last 12 months via gabba.cc, and secondly, of course, Hunter S Thompson, who should never have lived past 35 anyway, whose “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” should be a compulsory text for all self-respecting post-adolescents everywhere, and the last words on whom should be those of long-time collaborator Ralph Steadman, as appearing in the Guardian, preferably read while having open on the other half of the screen Steadman’s drawing of HST in the New York Times of the same day) have gone to meet the maker. I don’t think I have ever felt so weak, so drained.
I seem to have spent most of the last week and a half coming down with a mystery viral thing, hitting one of the rockiest rock-bottoms I have ever hit, and then recovering, painfully slowly, from same. There was actually a point, around midday last Friday, when I felt as if my vital fluids had drained completely away. At that stage, I would happily (no, not “happily”; willingly might be better: “happy” does not sit well, especially when over the last couple of weeks we have seen the self-inflicted deaths of, first, Nick Kilroy, a name I did not previously know, although it turns out that his musical tastes have been an enormously positive influence on my own over the last 12 months via gabba.cc, and secondly, of course, Hunter S Thompson, who should never have lived past 35 anyway, whose “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” should be a compulsory text for all self-respecting post-adolescents everywhere, and the last words on whom should be those of long-time collaborator Ralph Steadman, as appearing in the Guardian, preferably read while having open on the other half of the screen Steadman’s drawing of HST in the New York Times of the same day) have gone to meet the maker. I don’t think I have ever felt so weak, so drained.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Drowning in my nostalgia
Six years ago yesterday I jumped in the car and took off up the Hume Highway to start my, our, new life in Canberra. I wrote the following piece at the end of our first year up here. The quote marks form part of the title, a la David Bowie's "Heroes".
The High Court building in Canberra is situated directly across the lake from the Carillion, which has a recital each day around midday. So, as one heads out for one’s lunch-hour constitutional, one can leave one’s Walkman behind, for there is usually a musical accompaniment. Anybody who has been to Canberra will know the Carillion. It sits out on an island, looking a bit like an oversized sports trophy, and sounding like Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells”. The Carillion is, essentially, a musical instrument in a big box, and, like all musical instruments, it depends on human input to function. Thus, the music played varies widely. Most is not to the taste of the younger generation. Around Christmas time, for example, we are given an assortment of carols. Every so often there is an unexpected surprise: a rendition of Barry Manilow’s “I Write the Songs”; the theme from “The Addams Family”; “Hernando’s Hideaway”, a much covered song best known from a record by the Captain Matchbox Whoopee Band. As might be expected, this kind of thing is enough to put a spring in my step for the rest of the day.
I remember the Carillion from my only previous visit to Canberra, with my parents in the September school holidays of 1975. My father, amateur violinist and lover of all things musical, took us out to sit on the grass one morning to listen to that day’s recital, which included such chestnuts as “Home on the Range” (still a Carillion favourite). Dad would have been happy. I was bored. On that visit we also saw a model of the proposed National Gallery (now visible from my office window in all its 3-D actuality); the geodesic dome-like science building at ANU (where we saw some part of Phar Lap, the horse whose various body parts can be found at many different places across the nation); roads that go around in circles and make it impossible to get to where you want to go; the little models of satellites and other cool stuff at the Tidbinbilla tracking station. I also remember how cold it was in our caravan.
The purpose of our visit was to see mum’s uncle Arthur Hewson, then the sitting Country Party member of Parliament for the Victorian seat of McMillan (he was to be voted out in the elections of December 1975, so we just made it). The timing was extraordinary – anyone with knowledge of Australian politics will have November 1975 firmly etched in their minds, and events were, of course, unfolding well before that fateful day when Saint Gough appeared to the masses on the steps of Parliament House to vent his spleen against Sir John Kerr. So there I was, too young to know anything except what our parents had instilled in us (in order, I guess, to inure us to the propaganda they assumed would be spewing forth from the Commie-filled staff room) – that Whitlam and his band of idiots were leading this country to the edge of ruin (notwithstanding that only three years earlier, as the result of a sudden and unexpected rush of blood to the head, my parents, and many others like them, who had voted conservative all their lives and for several generations beforehand, had actually helped to elect the Whitlam Labor government) – sitting in one of three rows of seats on the floor of the House of Representatives reserved for “special” guests, and then eating lunch in the parliamentary dining room. The best part was the discovery that, to get to his office, we had to briefly exit the building via the roof. (At least to that extent, it was probably a good thing that Canberra sits in a low-rainfall basin.)
(Arthur’s fatal mistake was running on a platform that emphasised that if he were elected one more time he could collect an MP’s pension. But even allowing for that error of judgment, to this day I don’t understand how a Country Party member could have lost his seat during the ensuing conservative landslide (although the seat of McMillan is notorious for veering from left to right, to further right, and back again in relatively short spaces of time, owing to the existence in the electorate of the Latrobe Valley, its transient population and somewhat “curious” mix of residents).)
Out of the experience came my most famous short story, “Fire at Parliament House”, an epic drama in which, amid high tension and shenanigans, a serious disaster is averted by the heroic efforts of a fictitious Country Party backbencher named, imaginatively, “Arthur Hewson”. (The illustrations were by me, as well, demonstrating my all-round creative talent, which I seem to have misplaced at some point during my teens.) This story was read to visitors time and time again over the years by my mother, and to my increasing embarrassment.
Somehow the subject of my “uncle” the politician came up during the later years of High School. (This was, at least, a more credible claim to family lineage than the outright falsehood put around by me at primary school, that my mother was directly descended from William the Conqueror (later revised to Oliver Cromwell, this being to a very slight degree supported by the research of one of Arthur’s brothers, who went to Ireland with the specific intention of confirming that a Hewson had signed the death warrant for Charles the First and came back with a photocopy of a photograph of a reproduction of a document containing a number of barely legible signatures, one of which, at a stretch, may have said “Hewson” – and don’t forget, also, that Bono’s surname is Hewson, which might suggest that a family connection may be the innate, deeply rooted reason for my hating U2).) One of my teachers, a burly, thunderous man called Ray Wilkinson - one of whose most memorable qualities was the ability to raise his eyebrows while almost but not quite smiling, leaving the recipient of this gesture uncomfortably uncertain whether he was expressing amusement at whatever you had just said or treating you with the contempt you suddenly felt you deserved - heard the name, made the aforementioned gesture, and said, “Ah, Old Tiger Hewison [sic]”. Whether he was privy to some actual and possibly salacious information about Arthur (which he was not about to divulge to me) or whether he was just winding me up I will never know, but I was happy to think that Arthur was remembered by somebody other than just blood relatives.
Amongst our 1999 Christmas cards was one from my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Ray (my mother’s brother), letting us know that Arthur had died, and that there were (unsurprisingly for someone whose entire life seems to have been lived in the public sphere; but quite out of the ordinary in a family that for the most part likes to keep itself as far away from the spotlight as possible) 800 people at his funeral. I felt in some small way like a circle had been completed, because 1999 was also the year in which I moved to Canberra. It is still almost absurdly cold here in winter, and the roads are just as confusing as ever. There is a new Parliament House, and a portrait gallery in the old one. Ed Kuepper played at that year’s New Year’s Eve festivities. I hope this means that one day I get to hear “Everything I’ve Got Belongs To You” cascading out from the Carillion.
"Fire at Parliament House"
The High Court building in Canberra is situated directly across the lake from the Carillion, which has a recital each day around midday. So, as one heads out for one’s lunch-hour constitutional, one can leave one’s Walkman behind, for there is usually a musical accompaniment. Anybody who has been to Canberra will know the Carillion. It sits out on an island, looking a bit like an oversized sports trophy, and sounding like Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells”. The Carillion is, essentially, a musical instrument in a big box, and, like all musical instruments, it depends on human input to function. Thus, the music played varies widely. Most is not to the taste of the younger generation. Around Christmas time, for example, we are given an assortment of carols. Every so often there is an unexpected surprise: a rendition of Barry Manilow’s “I Write the Songs”; the theme from “The Addams Family”; “Hernando’s Hideaway”, a much covered song best known from a record by the Captain Matchbox Whoopee Band. As might be expected, this kind of thing is enough to put a spring in my step for the rest of the day.
I remember the Carillion from my only previous visit to Canberra, with my parents in the September school holidays of 1975. My father, amateur violinist and lover of all things musical, took us out to sit on the grass one morning to listen to that day’s recital, which included such chestnuts as “Home on the Range” (still a Carillion favourite). Dad would have been happy. I was bored. On that visit we also saw a model of the proposed National Gallery (now visible from my office window in all its 3-D actuality); the geodesic dome-like science building at ANU (where we saw some part of Phar Lap, the horse whose various body parts can be found at many different places across the nation); roads that go around in circles and make it impossible to get to where you want to go; the little models of satellites and other cool stuff at the Tidbinbilla tracking station. I also remember how cold it was in our caravan.
The purpose of our visit was to see mum’s uncle Arthur Hewson, then the sitting Country Party member of Parliament for the Victorian seat of McMillan (he was to be voted out in the elections of December 1975, so we just made it). The timing was extraordinary – anyone with knowledge of Australian politics will have November 1975 firmly etched in their minds, and events were, of course, unfolding well before that fateful day when Saint Gough appeared to the masses on the steps of Parliament House to vent his spleen against Sir John Kerr. So there I was, too young to know anything except what our parents had instilled in us (in order, I guess, to inure us to the propaganda they assumed would be spewing forth from the Commie-filled staff room) – that Whitlam and his band of idiots were leading this country to the edge of ruin (notwithstanding that only three years earlier, as the result of a sudden and unexpected rush of blood to the head, my parents, and many others like them, who had voted conservative all their lives and for several generations beforehand, had actually helped to elect the Whitlam Labor government) – sitting in one of three rows of seats on the floor of the House of Representatives reserved for “special” guests, and then eating lunch in the parliamentary dining room. The best part was the discovery that, to get to his office, we had to briefly exit the building via the roof. (At least to that extent, it was probably a good thing that Canberra sits in a low-rainfall basin.)
(Arthur’s fatal mistake was running on a platform that emphasised that if he were elected one more time he could collect an MP’s pension. But even allowing for that error of judgment, to this day I don’t understand how a Country Party member could have lost his seat during the ensuing conservative landslide (although the seat of McMillan is notorious for veering from left to right, to further right, and back again in relatively short spaces of time, owing to the existence in the electorate of the Latrobe Valley, its transient population and somewhat “curious” mix of residents).)
Out of the experience came my most famous short story, “Fire at Parliament House”, an epic drama in which, amid high tension and shenanigans, a serious disaster is averted by the heroic efforts of a fictitious Country Party backbencher named, imaginatively, “Arthur Hewson”. (The illustrations were by me, as well, demonstrating my all-round creative talent, which I seem to have misplaced at some point during my teens.) This story was read to visitors time and time again over the years by my mother, and to my increasing embarrassment.
Somehow the subject of my “uncle” the politician came up during the later years of High School. (This was, at least, a more credible claim to family lineage than the outright falsehood put around by me at primary school, that my mother was directly descended from William the Conqueror (later revised to Oliver Cromwell, this being to a very slight degree supported by the research of one of Arthur’s brothers, who went to Ireland with the specific intention of confirming that a Hewson had signed the death warrant for Charles the First and came back with a photocopy of a photograph of a reproduction of a document containing a number of barely legible signatures, one of which, at a stretch, may have said “Hewson” – and don’t forget, also, that Bono’s surname is Hewson, which might suggest that a family connection may be the innate, deeply rooted reason for my hating U2).) One of my teachers, a burly, thunderous man called Ray Wilkinson - one of whose most memorable qualities was the ability to raise his eyebrows while almost but not quite smiling, leaving the recipient of this gesture uncomfortably uncertain whether he was expressing amusement at whatever you had just said or treating you with the contempt you suddenly felt you deserved - heard the name, made the aforementioned gesture, and said, “Ah, Old Tiger Hewison [sic]”. Whether he was privy to some actual and possibly salacious information about Arthur (which he was not about to divulge to me) or whether he was just winding me up I will never know, but I was happy to think that Arthur was remembered by somebody other than just blood relatives.
Amongst our 1999 Christmas cards was one from my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Ray (my mother’s brother), letting us know that Arthur had died, and that there were (unsurprisingly for someone whose entire life seems to have been lived in the public sphere; but quite out of the ordinary in a family that for the most part likes to keep itself as far away from the spotlight as possible) 800 people at his funeral. I felt in some small way like a circle had been completed, because 1999 was also the year in which I moved to Canberra. It is still almost absurdly cold here in winter, and the roads are just as confusing as ever. There is a new Parliament House, and a portrait gallery in the old one. Ed Kuepper played at that year’s New Year’s Eve festivities. I hope this means that one day I get to hear “Everything I’ve Got Belongs To You” cascading out from the Carillion.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Listening
Music I plan on listening to over the weekend:
Gillian Welch, "Time (The Revelator)".
"Serendipity: an Introduction to John Martyn".
The second Tindersticks album, conveniently titled "Tindersticks", as was the first Tindersticks album.
Yo La Tengo, "And then nothing turned itself inside out".
David Sylvian, "Brilliant Trees".
Some or all of "DFA Compilation #2".
At least it's a plan, which is more than I can usually come up with. But then something will most likely get in the way. In fact, something already has: I seem to have gotten myself stuck on "Dreams Top Rock" by Pluramon, which has been spun twice at home and once in the car already. Even though Julius said "Can you turn this off!".
Gillian Welch, "Time (The Revelator)".
"Serendipity: an Introduction to John Martyn".
The second Tindersticks album, conveniently titled "Tindersticks", as was the first Tindersticks album.
Yo La Tengo, "And then nothing turned itself inside out".
David Sylvian, "Brilliant Trees".
Some or all of "DFA Compilation #2".
At least it's a plan, which is more than I can usually come up with. But then something will most likely get in the way. In fact, something already has: I seem to have gotten myself stuck on "Dreams Top Rock" by Pluramon, which has been spun twice at home and once in the car already. Even though Julius said "Can you turn this off!".
Friday, February 11, 2005
Root down
The Hammond B3 is the king of organs.
Jimmy Smith was the king of the Hammond B3.
Guess that makes Jimmy Smith the king of kings.
The fact that his key work was created circa 40 years ago doesn't in any way diminish his worth, or loss.
RIP.
Jimmy Smith was the king of the Hammond B3.
Guess that makes Jimmy Smith the king of kings.
The fact that his key work was created circa 40 years ago doesn't in any way diminish his worth, or loss.
RIP.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
what car does jesus drive?
Well, at first I thought, a white Subaru Liberty. Then I had an idea of something more upmarket, but with extra safety features, say a Volvo station wagon (but with a 6-disc CD changer in the back, so he can listen to lots of gospel without being distracted by having to change discs.
But then I thought, no, it's obvious, the long hair, the beard, the sandals: it has to be one of those old Renaults that Australian high-school teachers and academics drove in the late 1970s.
So if you see one, wave. It might give you a leg up, one day. (And if it's a teacher, well, they need all the positive reinforcement they can get, too.)
But then I thought, no, it's obvious, the long hair, the beard, the sandals: it has to be one of those old Renaults that Australian high-school teachers and academics drove in the late 1970s.
So if you see one, wave. It might give you a leg up, one day. (And if it's a teacher, well, they need all the positive reinforcement they can get, too.)
Sunday, February 06, 2005
What will we do when we get there?
I spent yesterday afternoon in the (barely) living centre of Canberra looking for the 2005 Lego catalogue, which someone in our household is desperate to lay his hands on (word is it'll be here in March; that wasn't the word he was looking for).
Rather than come home empty handed, I spent a few minutes looking around in Revolution, unsuccessfully, when my eyes lit upon one of the objects I would have been least expexting to see there, had I given the idea any thought at all: "DFA Compilation #2". Second hand. In Canberra. For about the same price as a discounted new-release "chart" CD. Believing that these things never happen to me, I sensed a trap. But only for a second or two. I grabbed it before anyone else could put their clammy hands on it. I took it home. I will now give it a damn close listen to make sure there are no faults or glitches.
(I will then decide whether I like it or not. And perhaps let you know. Although, after a year of doing this weblog malarkey, I have yet to fall into a pattern of writing "record reviews". I find them very difficult, and frequently pointless (not to mention, in the longer term, embarrassing). On the Internet there are no deadlines. I often take months - or years: take a bow, "Portishead" by Portishead - to decide if I like a record. Then I change my mind. So what I probably should be doing is looking back at what I bought, say, 10 years ago, and reviewing those.)
Rather than come home empty handed, I spent a few minutes looking around in Revolution, unsuccessfully, when my eyes lit upon one of the objects I would have been least expexting to see there, had I given the idea any thought at all: "DFA Compilation #2". Second hand. In Canberra. For about the same price as a discounted new-release "chart" CD. Believing that these things never happen to me, I sensed a trap. But only for a second or two. I grabbed it before anyone else could put their clammy hands on it. I took it home. I will now give it a damn close listen to make sure there are no faults or glitches.
(I will then decide whether I like it or not. And perhaps let you know. Although, after a year of doing this weblog malarkey, I have yet to fall into a pattern of writing "record reviews". I find them very difficult, and frequently pointless (not to mention, in the longer term, embarrassing). On the Internet there are no deadlines. I often take months - or years: take a bow, "Portishead" by Portishead - to decide if I like a record. Then I change my mind. So what I probably should be doing is looking back at what I bought, say, 10 years ago, and reviewing those.)
Now I can remember, now I can remember
January 2005. Sovereign Hill, Ballarat. I had been explaining to the boys before we entered that this was a place where everything was Back in Time, where there would be no cars or televisions. After three or four hours of wandering around in 35 degree heat amidst dust, crowds of people and the smell of several tons of horse poo (and generally having a great time of it), Carl made me suffer a momentary double-take when he said "Daddy, when can we go back to the future?"
Transfiguration of Michael
Some of us are seeing the cold, not-dead-yet hand of Kerry Packer looming larger over the Australian summer of cricket than it has for a number of years. (Maybe we just lost concentration for a while, there.) It would make sense for Packer, and his so-called lieutenants at Channel Nine, to be taking an interest this year: the time seems to be drawing near when even the most die-hard Australian supporter must start to look at the constant stream of Aussie victories and say, "pass the remote".
Thus we have: the Michael Clarke Channel. All Michael, all of the time.
Okay, he is a fine young cricketer and all-round athlete; he is rarely without a smile; and he is a good-looking bloke in the style of, say, James Hird (to pick a name entirely at random). All of these qualities are enough to make someone like myself insanely jealous, so take what follows with a fair pinch of salt. But ...
He has performed well in the Test and One-Day arenas this past couple of months, sure, but does that justify awarding him the Allan Border Medal for best Australian cricketer of the past year? Think back to 12 months ago: his form had deserted him, he seemed to be losing Most Favoured status, the yin/yang star of Simon Katich was back on the rise. (Those must have been nervous times for the Channel Nine Establishment.) So: cricketer of the year? I don't think so. This could only have been the result of a direction from On High. Maybe you could have given him cricket's equivalent of the AFL's "Rising Star" award, but ... If it wasn't Clarke, it would have to have been some much less telegenic, less wholesome version of an international cricketer. And that wouldn't be the ratings killer that Clarke hopefully would be.
And: a few weeks ago the Australian side did something incomprehensible to those of us accustomed to the rigour of the Steve Waugh Years: at the tail end of a one-day game, which was admittedly well in hand, captain Ricky Ponting frigged around for two or three overs in order to give Clarke enough of the strike to (a) let the game run for a little longer, allowing That Channel to squeeze in a couple more high-revenue ad breaks than would otherwise have been the case; and (b) let Clarke score a hundred, giving him considerable exposure and photo opportunities.
Clarke will either survive this unprecedented Cult of Personality or he will not. Kim Hughes comes to mind, in admittedly entirely different circumstances: both were superb batsmen and designated Futures of Australian Cricket. It is a lot to ask of a young man. And the person who is (speculatively) doing the asking, well, he generally speaking doesn't accept underperformance with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders.
We wish Michael Clarke well. He may well be the future of Australian cricket. He is a fantastic batsman to watch; not yet a Mark Waugh, say, but we wouldn't rule it out in the longer term. But, please, let him have the breathing room to allow him to get there under his own steam.
This has been a public service announcement.
Thus we have: the Michael Clarke Channel. All Michael, all of the time.
Okay, he is a fine young cricketer and all-round athlete; he is rarely without a smile; and he is a good-looking bloke in the style of, say, James Hird (to pick a name entirely at random). All of these qualities are enough to make someone like myself insanely jealous, so take what follows with a fair pinch of salt. But ...
He has performed well in the Test and One-Day arenas this past couple of months, sure, but does that justify awarding him the Allan Border Medal for best Australian cricketer of the past year? Think back to 12 months ago: his form had deserted him, he seemed to be losing Most Favoured status, the yin/yang star of Simon Katich was back on the rise. (Those must have been nervous times for the Channel Nine Establishment.) So: cricketer of the year? I don't think so. This could only have been the result of a direction from On High. Maybe you could have given him cricket's equivalent of the AFL's "Rising Star" award, but ... If it wasn't Clarke, it would have to have been some much less telegenic, less wholesome version of an international cricketer. And that wouldn't be the ratings killer that Clarke hopefully would be.
And: a few weeks ago the Australian side did something incomprehensible to those of us accustomed to the rigour of the Steve Waugh Years: at the tail end of a one-day game, which was admittedly well in hand, captain Ricky Ponting frigged around for two or three overs in order to give Clarke enough of the strike to (a) let the game run for a little longer, allowing That Channel to squeeze in a couple more high-revenue ad breaks than would otherwise have been the case; and (b) let Clarke score a hundred, giving him considerable exposure and photo opportunities.
Clarke will either survive this unprecedented Cult of Personality or he will not. Kim Hughes comes to mind, in admittedly entirely different circumstances: both were superb batsmen and designated Futures of Australian Cricket. It is a lot to ask of a young man. And the person who is (speculatively) doing the asking, well, he generally speaking doesn't accept underperformance with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders.
We wish Michael Clarke well. He may well be the future of Australian cricket. He is a fantastic batsman to watch; not yet a Mark Waugh, say, but we wouldn't rule it out in the longer term. But, please, let him have the breathing room to allow him to get there under his own steam.
This has been a public service announcement.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
I must have been desperate
Adrienne convinced me to watch the first episode of "Desperate Housewives".
I think she thought it was a documentary.
The highly stylised, "One From The Heart"-esque streetscape was a good start.
And it was quite funny. And well written.
But it was the first episode. Wait and see, wait and see.
I think she thought it was a documentary.
The highly stylised, "One From The Heart"-esque streetscape was a good start.
And it was quite funny. And well written.
But it was the first episode. Wait and see, wait and see.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
On The Buses
Observations made while on my way to work this morning:
1, Silly?: a young besuited gent walking along the footpath reading a document, walks straight into the branch of a tree. He was headed in the direction of the Department of Foreign Affairs. Relax, people, your country is in good hands.
2. Sinister?: I'm not sure what I saw, but what I think I saw was three guys, 30/40ish, dressed in running gear, hanging around outside the fence of Canberra Girls' Grammar, looking in at the schoolyard. (This was around 8.30am, prime getting-to-school time.) As the bus that I was on pulled in at a nearby bus stop, they gave a distinct impression of having been caught red-handed, and quickly started doing warm-up exercises with some enthusiasm. What were you doing there, fellas? It may have been totally innocent, like maybe you were discussing the architecture of the recent building works there, but it didn't look too good from where I was sitting.
1, Silly?: a young besuited gent walking along the footpath reading a document, walks straight into the branch of a tree. He was headed in the direction of the Department of Foreign Affairs. Relax, people, your country is in good hands.
2. Sinister?: I'm not sure what I saw, but what I think I saw was three guys, 30/40ish, dressed in running gear, hanging around outside the fence of Canberra Girls' Grammar, looking in at the schoolyard. (This was around 8.30am, prime getting-to-school time.) As the bus that I was on pulled in at a nearby bus stop, they gave a distinct impression of having been caught red-handed, and quickly started doing warm-up exercises with some enthusiasm. What were you doing there, fellas? It may have been totally innocent, like maybe you were discussing the architecture of the recent building works there, but it didn't look too good from where I was sitting.
The things they say
Me: Gosh, those birds are noisy this morning.
Carl: Yes, dad. If they were around you wouldn't be able to hear your poo splash.
Carl: Yes, dad. If they were around you wouldn't be able to hear your poo splash.
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