This is what 2004 meant to me:
My new Apple iBook G4.
Julius Emmerson, aged four, as a kookaburra in the Hughes Pre-School 2004 Christmas concert.
McSweeney’s No 13.
Two boys riding bikes without training wheels.
New Yorker subscription.
A whole world of previously unheard music (much of which has previously been mentioned in these pages).
Making only one late-night visit to Canberra Hospital’s emergency ward for the entire year.
Carl Emmerson’s (now aged seven) great progress with both swimming and reading, although not both at the same time. His excellent taste in music is also a never-ending source of surprise and delight.
Blogging.
Gillian Welch and David Rawlings @ the Playhouse, Canberra.
The feeling that, after almost six years in Canberra, we now have a solid circle of friends up here (even if some are away on foreign service) and that, even if we haven’t yet earned the right to call ourselves “locals”, we can at least call Canberra home. Which is not to disregard all of our loyal friends in Melbourne and elsewhere, with whom we have been in much less frequent contact than we would like.
"Knock knock." "Who’s there?" "Cowsgo." "Cowsgo who?" "Cows go moo, not who." And other jokes told by four-to-seven-year-olds.
Adrienne’s uncanny ability to think in three dimensions. (And, ahem, her seemingly limitless patience with my frequently erratic and unhelpful behaviour throughout the year. There, I’ve said it.)
The continuing allure of Santa Claus.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Construction Site: The i(Po)diot
Or: I went through the living hell of undertaking extensive renovations to both ends of the house while struggling to live in the middle as workmen crawled around and amongst us for six long months and all I got was this lousy iPod.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
After the News
Unsurprisingly, Christmas Eve seems to have been a slow news day. But what about this, the main headline in that day's Melbourne Age, under the banner "Exclusive", usually reserved for significant exposes of a corruption or nepotism nature: "Underworld Recruiting in Prisons". Well, as we used to say at Foster High School circa 1979, der.
Meanwhile, coming soon to a weblog near you: 2005.
Meanwhile, coming soon to a weblog near you: 2005.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
World of Echo
Like magpies, Stereolab have made a career out of borrowing bits of other people's sounds and building their own newfangled nests out of them. What I didn't expect was to be strongly reminded of their song "Emperor Tomato Ketchup" when listening, for the first time, to Harry Nilsson's "Jump Into the Fire" (thanks to Spoilt Victorian Child). The rhythmic structure, drum fills, and propulsive bass lines all have their analogues [ahem] in the Stereolab song. What the groop didn't borrow was the Stones-y guitar riffing and the Robert Plant-style echo on the vocals (two of the few recogisable musical tropes yet to be employed by the 'Lab). For which we are grateful. Although both suit the Nilsson song just fine.
Postscript: a fraction of a second after hitting the "Publish" button on this entry it dawned on me that there is a Stereolab/Nilsson connection: the soundtrack to "Midnight Cowboy", best known for the Nilsson recording of Fred Neal's "Everybody's Talkin'" (but personally loved for the mournful harmonica-driven title track, by John Barry), contains not only two songs by something called The Groop (by which moniker Stereolab have long described themselves) but also a seven-minute epic called "Old Man Willow", performed by Elephants [sic] Memory, which in many ways can be seen as a template for all that Stereolab have done.
Postscript: a fraction of a second after hitting the "Publish" button on this entry it dawned on me that there is a Stereolab/Nilsson connection: the soundtrack to "Midnight Cowboy", best known for the Nilsson recording of Fred Neal's "Everybody's Talkin'" (but personally loved for the mournful harmonica-driven title track, by John Barry), contains not only two songs by something called The Groop (by which moniker Stereolab have long described themselves) but also a seven-minute epic called "Old Man Willow", performed by Elephants [sic] Memory, which in many ways can be seen as a template for all that Stereolab have done.
Quiet Is The New Loud
Respect to the artist Agnes Martin, who has died aged 92. By all accounts she was still painting up a storm at least up until last year. I don't, as they say, know much about art, but I know what I like. For some time now the National Gallery of Australia has had two of her paintings up, which I have been drawn back to time and time again (except when I was momentarily distracted by the recently acquired Gerhard Richter, mentioned here a while ago). Both paintings are so minimal as to be almost blank canvases, and yet they have a power all their own. I had never heard of Agnes Martin until Adrienne's mum mentioned her in conversation one day. Then she kept appearing wherever I turned. Isn't that always the way?
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Construction Site: Careful With That Axe, Eugene
In an ideal world, I would never be left alone in the house while builders were around. Here it is, 5 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, Adrienne has taken the boys to the pool, you would think I would be pretty safe. But no. As I look out the window, a dirty great semi-trailer backs up the street, with a forklift on the back. Soon the forklift, and its operator, are in the backyard. I sit here at the computer looking like the pathetic excuse for masculinity that I undoubtedly am. He knows I'm in here. I can see him staring at me as he sharpens his power tools. (Is that what you do with power tools?) I can run but I can't hide. Keep away from me. Keep away ...
The engineer
Not everybody who makes a mark on the culture ends up a household name. You may not, even if you have dub coursing through your veins, have much of an idea of who Errol Thompson was. But, as this obituary of the man shows, he worked on so many cornerstone reggae discs, and with so many superheroes of the genre, that it would be remiss of us not to acknowledge his passing.
Impressions
It’s probably about time something was said about a few acquisitions.
It took a long time to convince myself I needed to hear Stereolab’s “Margerine Eclipse” and Belle & Sebastian’s “Dear Catastrophe Waitress”. Apprehension abounded. Stereolab’s recent output has been about equal parts struggle and joy. Each of the last three studio albums had their share of downtime. Three songs might profitably have been chopped off the end of “Sound-dust”, while the middle part of “Cobra and Phases” remains hard work, if an admirable attempt at matching minimalism with pop music. So why is “Margerine Eclipse” such a breath of fresh air? Beats me. It just is. It’s less longwinded, for a start. There is also the use of the kinds of sounds employed in their work with Mouse on Mars, circa “Dots and Loops”. Somehow there seems, as much as anything, to be more space for the groop [sic] to move around in. Inevitably they sound different given the loss of Mary Hansen, with Laetitia’s vocals doing all of the harmony work. It may not be “better”, but it is, in its own way, different.
Then there’s “Dear Catastrophe Waitress”. For a long time I didn’t know if I could “go there”. The admirable-in-theory “democracy at all costs” approach had led the band to lose sight of their strengths (mainly, Stuart Murdoch’s songwriting), and had also caused some unfortunate juxtapositions: the deeply affecting “The Chalet Lines” into the hyper-twee “Nice Day For A Sulk”, for example. (You could, if you were so inclined, burn an extremely good single CD-R from the best parts of the last three albums.) And the thought that they were now to re-work their sound via Trevor Horn, while throwing Murdoch back into the foreground, had me thinking that they may be one step too far removed from their roots for salvation to ever take hold. Of course, I was wrong on all counts. It’s not all Murdoch, and that’s no bad thing. The songs are, to a man, wonderful. The production is brilliant. The entire history of the English pop charts is in here somewhere, down to Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back In Town”. Even a song with the unhopeful title of “Piazza, New York Catcher” gets an unambiguous thumbs-up. How could I ever have doubted them?
Meanwhile, Stephin Merritt is back with this year’s Magnetic Fields, “i”, the first on a major label. “No synths”, they loudly proclaim, and while some of us doubt that this is entirely true, it produces a setting wherein the hitherto self-consciously “retro” 80s sound can no longer inhibit, as it does when one is feeling less charitable, enjoyment of the songs themselves. Merritt will one day make a fortune as people with voices more friendly to the masses than his own discover the universality of his songs about love. Above all else, Merritt should be treasured because he is the first real lyricist that “we” (by which I mean anyone born after the Second World War who takes any more than a passing interest in popular music) have had. Merritt seems to have absorbed everything that he has ever seen, heard, or read, and to be able to squeeze little pieces of it into songs that are somehow able to turn the most unlikely material into something witty, clever, profound, or all three together. (Nobody else that I’m aware of has applied the Pantone colour system to the pursuit, or loss, of love.) Your grandparents were lucky enough to have had Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. We are lucky enough to have Stephin Merritt, but, as yet, too few of us know it.
And, of course, there’s Nick Cave, who gives us not one but two albums, a wordtorrent even by his standards, supported as ever by the shambolic majesty that is the Bad Seeds. Blixa is gone, Mick Harvey steps up to the plate in the way that only he can, and an organ has been thrown into the mix. It will take time, as Cave records always do, to absorb, but for now it is an unexpected pleasure to set either disc spinning. We had our doubts upon hearing “Nocturama” about the pursuit of a nine-to-five ethic in the world of creativity. We may well have been wrong. Who said all work and no play would make Nick a dull boy?
But wait, there’s more. Thanks to the mantra of “free downloads before 7 am”, and no less thanks to the generosity of my work colleague (for one year only) Sarah, who had the good sense to put me onto folks like Sufjan Stevens, Devendra Banhart, M Ward (saviour of the universe, notwithstanding that the “M” only stands for “Matt”, which is not quite as romantic or mysterious as, say, “Miracle”, or "Manfred"), songs:ohia, Iron & Wine, and others of that ilk, I have spent much of the last few months drowning in great music of all hues. And yet, even with such a steady and varied diet of diverse, “new”-sounding music (even when much of it also sounds “old”), do I find myself reaching more often than not for two albums of unashamed old-fashioned pop music - you know, the kind with guitar lines you can play along to, and hooks that you can’t get out of your head - Snow Patrol’s “Final Straw” and A C Newman’s “The Slow Wonder”? I’m not even going to write anything about these records (there’s really not much I could say, beyond “I don’t know why I like them but I do”), they are not particularly "cutting edge" or otherwise startling, they simply brighten up a dull existence. For that I say, thanks, fellas.
It took a long time to convince myself I needed to hear Stereolab’s “Margerine Eclipse” and Belle & Sebastian’s “Dear Catastrophe Waitress”. Apprehension abounded. Stereolab’s recent output has been about equal parts struggle and joy. Each of the last three studio albums had their share of downtime. Three songs might profitably have been chopped off the end of “Sound-dust”, while the middle part of “Cobra and Phases” remains hard work, if an admirable attempt at matching minimalism with pop music. So why is “Margerine Eclipse” such a breath of fresh air? Beats me. It just is. It’s less longwinded, for a start. There is also the use of the kinds of sounds employed in their work with Mouse on Mars, circa “Dots and Loops”. Somehow there seems, as much as anything, to be more space for the groop [sic] to move around in. Inevitably they sound different given the loss of Mary Hansen, with Laetitia’s vocals doing all of the harmony work. It may not be “better”, but it is, in its own way, different.
Then there’s “Dear Catastrophe Waitress”. For a long time I didn’t know if I could “go there”. The admirable-in-theory “democracy at all costs” approach had led the band to lose sight of their strengths (mainly, Stuart Murdoch’s songwriting), and had also caused some unfortunate juxtapositions: the deeply affecting “The Chalet Lines” into the hyper-twee “Nice Day For A Sulk”, for example. (You could, if you were so inclined, burn an extremely good single CD-R from the best parts of the last three albums.) And the thought that they were now to re-work their sound via Trevor Horn, while throwing Murdoch back into the foreground, had me thinking that they may be one step too far removed from their roots for salvation to ever take hold. Of course, I was wrong on all counts. It’s not all Murdoch, and that’s no bad thing. The songs are, to a man, wonderful. The production is brilliant. The entire history of the English pop charts is in here somewhere, down to Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back In Town”. Even a song with the unhopeful title of “Piazza, New York Catcher” gets an unambiguous thumbs-up. How could I ever have doubted them?
Meanwhile, Stephin Merritt is back with this year’s Magnetic Fields, “i”, the first on a major label. “No synths”, they loudly proclaim, and while some of us doubt that this is entirely true, it produces a setting wherein the hitherto self-consciously “retro” 80s sound can no longer inhibit, as it does when one is feeling less charitable, enjoyment of the songs themselves. Merritt will one day make a fortune as people with voices more friendly to the masses than his own discover the universality of his songs about love. Above all else, Merritt should be treasured because he is the first real lyricist that “we” (by which I mean anyone born after the Second World War who takes any more than a passing interest in popular music) have had. Merritt seems to have absorbed everything that he has ever seen, heard, or read, and to be able to squeeze little pieces of it into songs that are somehow able to turn the most unlikely material into something witty, clever, profound, or all three together. (Nobody else that I’m aware of has applied the Pantone colour system to the pursuit, or loss, of love.) Your grandparents were lucky enough to have had Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. We are lucky enough to have Stephin Merritt, but, as yet, too few of us know it.
And, of course, there’s Nick Cave, who gives us not one but two albums, a wordtorrent even by his standards, supported as ever by the shambolic majesty that is the Bad Seeds. Blixa is gone, Mick Harvey steps up to the plate in the way that only he can, and an organ has been thrown into the mix. It will take time, as Cave records always do, to absorb, but for now it is an unexpected pleasure to set either disc spinning. We had our doubts upon hearing “Nocturama” about the pursuit of a nine-to-five ethic in the world of creativity. We may well have been wrong. Who said all work and no play would make Nick a dull boy?
But wait, there’s more. Thanks to the mantra of “free downloads before 7 am”, and no less thanks to the generosity of my work colleague (for one year only) Sarah, who had the good sense to put me onto folks like Sufjan Stevens, Devendra Banhart, M Ward (saviour of the universe, notwithstanding that the “M” only stands for “Matt”, which is not quite as romantic or mysterious as, say, “Miracle”, or "Manfred"), songs:ohia, Iron & Wine, and others of that ilk, I have spent much of the last few months drowning in great music of all hues. And yet, even with such a steady and varied diet of diverse, “new”-sounding music (even when much of it also sounds “old”), do I find myself reaching more often than not for two albums of unashamed old-fashioned pop music - you know, the kind with guitar lines you can play along to, and hooks that you can’t get out of your head - Snow Patrol’s “Final Straw” and A C Newman’s “The Slow Wonder”? I’m not even going to write anything about these records (there’s really not much I could say, beyond “I don’t know why I like them but I do”), they are not particularly "cutting edge" or otherwise startling, they simply brighten up a dull existence. For that I say, thanks, fellas.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Memories Can't Wait
Some very interesting things float to the top, occasionally, at Bumrocks.com. This morning I noticed that they had posted a song called “Spooks in Space” by the Aural Exciters. Gosh, that rings a bell, I thought to myself. On listening to it, I realised that I failed to remember anything at all about the song itself, but also, on the other hand, that I had a clear and vivid memory of the voice of Mac Cocker, latterly outed as Jarvis’s long-lost father, back-announcing the very same track over the airwaves of the old 2JJ back in 1979 or 1980. I can recall every inflection of his voice as he said “blah blah blah by the Aural Exciters”. The mind is a strange and unfathomable thing.
I was at the same time trying to place “Spooks in Space”. All I could come up with was, it's a bit like what the B-52s were doing, and something about it suggests the first Madness album (a long shot), but that it has an overall sound strongly reminiscent of a lot of what came out on Ze Records. And then a search of the Internet revealed, to my delight and amazement (and if I had ever known this it was long forgotten), that the Aural Exciters were, in fact, a side project of the guy who ran Ze Records, and most of the people who appeared on the label were in some way involved. You can find out more here and you can, at least for now, download the song (which has a certain charm to it, and presumably a James Chance cameo on sax) here.
I was at the same time trying to place “Spooks in Space”. All I could come up with was, it's a bit like what the B-52s were doing, and something about it suggests the first Madness album (a long shot), but that it has an overall sound strongly reminiscent of a lot of what came out on Ze Records. And then a search of the Internet revealed, to my delight and amazement (and if I had ever known this it was long forgotten), that the Aural Exciters were, in fact, a side project of the guy who ran Ze Records, and most of the people who appeared on the label were in some way involved. You can find out more here and you can, at least for now, download the song (which has a certain charm to it, and presumably a James Chance cameo on sax) here.
Happy Sad
Happy: taking last Friday off work, and finding the New Yorker’s annual Cartoon Issue in the letterbox. Studying closely the beautiful cover by R. Crumb and wondering whether he might be the first New Yorker cover artist ever to insinuate a picture of himself into a cover drawing (he’s the beardy old guy with the cloth cap, on the right-hand side of the cover); opening up a seemingly innocuous fold-out Johnny Walker ad, only to find four pages of new work by Seth lovingly wrapped inside its covers (marred only by that horrible word “advertisement” at the top of each page); noticing that Dave Mazzucchelli and Paul Auster’s comic-book adaptation of Auster’s “City of Glass” has been reissued by Picador. If any book is able to demonstrate the utility of the phrase “graphic novel”, this would have to be it.
Sad: going into a bookshop yesterday morning and reading “Michael Rosen’s Sad Book”, written by Michael Rosen and drawn by Quentin Blake. I had heard a bit about this book, made by two of the kings of British children’s books. But I wasn’t expecting to be reduced to silent tears on the floor of Paperchain Books in Manuka. I had to take myself off to a nearby cafe for a while to compose myself. I knew I had to go back in and buy the book, so that I could take it home with me and have a really good cry. (Which I did.) This is the saddest book I have ever read. (It is also very beautiful. Quentin Blake draws the best eyes.) I can’t even begin to imagine Rosen’s own sadness - to lose your 18-year-old son: I “only” lost my father when I was 25 years old (and with him my entire life’s fabric and history) - but Rosen’s evocation of his own grief in this book cuts so close to the bone of my own sadness that, like a dog with a snake, I am torn between being too frightened to read the thing because of what it is likely to set off inside me, and yet being unable to leave it alone. If it’s possible for someone else’s writing to talk to you, “Michael Rosen’s Sad Book” is talking to me.
Sad: going into a bookshop yesterday morning and reading “Michael Rosen’s Sad Book”, written by Michael Rosen and drawn by Quentin Blake. I had heard a bit about this book, made by two of the kings of British children’s books. But I wasn’t expecting to be reduced to silent tears on the floor of Paperchain Books in Manuka. I had to take myself off to a nearby cafe for a while to compose myself. I knew I had to go back in and buy the book, so that I could take it home with me and have a really good cry. (Which I did.) This is the saddest book I have ever read. (It is also very beautiful. Quentin Blake draws the best eyes.) I can’t even begin to imagine Rosen’s own sadness - to lose your 18-year-old son: I “only” lost my father when I was 25 years old (and with him my entire life’s fabric and history) - but Rosen’s evocation of his own grief in this book cuts so close to the bone of my own sadness that, like a dog with a snake, I am torn between being too frightened to read the thing because of what it is likely to set off inside me, and yet being unable to leave it alone. If it’s possible for someone else’s writing to talk to you, “Michael Rosen’s Sad Book” is talking to me.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
The Covers Record
Four weeks, four New Yorkers, four New Yorker covers. As follows:
Week one: a gorgeous cover for the Fall Books issue, drawn by Adrian Tomine, creator of the "Optic Nerve" series of comic books, published by Drawn and Quarterly. I have always loved Tomine's drawing style, but only intermittently dip into "Optic Nerve" out of a feeling that his writing lacks the depth that I'm looking for (okay, we're not talking Tolstoy here, but even in the world of comic books we require a degree of substance). I fear I may be totally wrong in this judgment, and hereby vow to give him a second hearing.
Week two: a typically clever Bruce McCall cover. McCall's connection with our comic book shelf is a one-page "What's Wrong With This Picture?" in Art Spiegelman's first "Little Lit" collection. McCall's trick is to remove any kind of personal style or statement from his art: which, in 2004, is, of course, a kind of statement in itself. He also writes very funny pieces for the New Yorker, such as a guide for applying for Canadian citizenship a couple of weeks ago ("Please use a soft pencil").
Week three: Ian Falconer. Creator of the "Olivia" books (ostensibly for kids but we seem to like them more than the guys do: they are rarely dragged off the shelf other than by us and forced upon the boys in a fashion akin to green vegetables). Falconer also appeared in the second "Little Lit".
Week four: R Crumb. What more need be said?
Some of us, obviously, would be hoping that this comic book connection would continue at least until we get another Richard McGuire cover. But we're not holding our breath.
Week one: a gorgeous cover for the Fall Books issue, drawn by Adrian Tomine, creator of the "Optic Nerve" series of comic books, published by Drawn and Quarterly. I have always loved Tomine's drawing style, but only intermittently dip into "Optic Nerve" out of a feeling that his writing lacks the depth that I'm looking for (okay, we're not talking Tolstoy here, but even in the world of comic books we require a degree of substance). I fear I may be totally wrong in this judgment, and hereby vow to give him a second hearing.
Week two: a typically clever Bruce McCall cover. McCall's connection with our comic book shelf is a one-page "What's Wrong With This Picture?" in Art Spiegelman's first "Little Lit" collection. McCall's trick is to remove any kind of personal style or statement from his art: which, in 2004, is, of course, a kind of statement in itself. He also writes very funny pieces for the New Yorker, such as a guide for applying for Canadian citizenship a couple of weeks ago ("Please use a soft pencil").
Week three: Ian Falconer. Creator of the "Olivia" books (ostensibly for kids but we seem to like them more than the guys do: they are rarely dragged off the shelf other than by us and forced upon the boys in a fashion akin to green vegetables). Falconer also appeared in the second "Little Lit".
Week four: R Crumb. What more need be said?
Some of us, obviously, would be hoping that this comic book connection would continue at least until we get another Richard McGuire cover. But we're not holding our breath.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Penguin Dreams
I ask you, how can you get to work on time, when the ABC is showing new episodes of Pingu at 8.15am weekdays?
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Jules at Gym
I had the immense pleasure this morning of taking Julius (the four-year-old) to his final gymnastics class for the year. It was a big Christmas break-up lesson and all the various groups got the chance to go through their paces together. There is nothing quite as gorgeous as a group of variously talented four-, five- and six-year-olds doing such routines as reaching up to a horizontal bar above their heads (or being lifted up) so that they can lift their legs up, lower them again, jump down onto the floor, and do the “presentation” (one arm up in the air if you are a boy, both arms spread wide if you are a girl. Just like the Olympics).
It’s interesting how, if you can find something that will motivate a child, it can be just like operating them by remote control. At one stage Jules decided he had done enough, and came and sat down next to me. I said to him that if he didn’t go back in with the other kids he might miss out on his certificate. He was back in there before I had even finished the sentence.
At the end of the lesson everyone got their certificate, and Santa Claus turned up to give out bags of lollies. Julius tells me it was really Santa. I didn’t get close enough to have a proper look, but Jules is a much better judge of such things than I am.
It’s interesting how, if you can find something that will motivate a child, it can be just like operating them by remote control. At one stage Jules decided he had done enough, and came and sat down next to me. I said to him that if he didn’t go back in with the other kids he might miss out on his certificate. He was back in there before I had even finished the sentence.
At the end of the lesson everyone got their certificate, and Santa Claus turned up to give out bags of lollies. Julius tells me it was really Santa. I didn’t get close enough to have a proper look, but Jules is a much better judge of such things than I am.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Check the record
Each time I use the facilities at home I am confronted with a big bottle of blue liquid labelled "Nu-Clenz". On account of the slightly unorthodox way my brain works, this unfailingly makes me think of The Fall's "New Big Prinz", and has me shouting "Appreciated!" until I move on to the next thing. Some people have a life.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Extricate!
I had a wisdom tooth pulled this morning.
I have to say, it wasn't one of the most pleasant experiences I've had.
Now I'm just sitting here waiting for the anaesthetic to wear off and the real fun to begin.
Where are the drugs?
I have to say, it wasn't one of the most pleasant experiences I've had.
Now I'm just sitting here waiting for the anaesthetic to wear off and the real fun to begin.
Where are the drugs?
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Zorn free (... sorry ...)
For anyone that's interested in things John Zorn, a couple of days ago, here, there was a concert available for download of the Bar Kokhba Sextet (inc Marc Ribot!) playing in Warsaw in 1999. As I write, the site seems not to be accessible, but it would be worth trying again later, as it is a wonderful concert, an excellent companion to the "Bar Kokhba" two-disc set of the Masada Chamber Ensemble, and with great sound quality. And introduced by the man himself. The Masada pieces may be the motherlode of John Zorn's work; they seem to be open to an endless amount of recombining, reworking, genre-hopping and other forms of jiggery pokery. But every new interpretation seems as valid, and fresh, as every other one. The original Masada studio recordings may, in fact, end up being the least necessary of the lot, as the original quartet outdoes itself with each concert recording that becomes available ("Live at Tonic", I think, is the high point so far, but that's a matter of opinion).
Of course, it is an expensive exercise just trying to keep up. And then Tzadik announces that it's putting together the ultimate completists' package of the Naked City recordings. Do I hear seven CDs? Maybe the kids would be happy with two meals a day.
Of course, it is an expensive exercise just trying to keep up. And then Tzadik announces that it's putting together the ultimate completists' package of the Naked City recordings. Do I hear seven CDs? Maybe the kids would be happy with two meals a day.
He is not appreciated
In one very small respect, the re-election of George W Bush might be the right result. It is, that the whole mess the world is now in is solely due to the actions of the first Bush Administration, so is it not fair that he should be the one who is now required to clean that mess up? Iraq is now, more than likely, an intractable problem: the Americans can’t leave, because of the likely state of lawless civil war that would result; but nor can they stay, because of the “Q” word, the “V” word, and the timely re-appearance of Osama bin Laden, who is still, surely, the real object of the so-called War on Terror. (Not bin Laden, as such, who may, after all, only be a Dr Evil-type figurehead, but his lieutenants, or footsoldiers, or the leaders and functionaries of whatever separate and disparate groups it has been convenient to group together under the rubric of “al Qaeda”.)
Which is not to say that a second Bush Administration won’t make an even bigger mess of things by the time the President finally swaggers off into the Texan sunset in January 2009. Four years, for example, is plenty of time for the re-emergence of the Taliban in Afghanistan; the assassination of General Musharaff in Pakistan and his replacement by someone less in the pocket of the Americans (don’t forget, Pakistan is a sovereign nuclear state); and the “successful” completion of nuclear weapons programs by both Iran and North Korea.
But if that is the case, then perhaps the American public might see the light, and we might then have stage two of the Clinton family hegemony, as Hilary steps up for her moment in the sun. Or the newly minted Senator Barack Obama. Or even a “moderate Republican”. Or perhaps the powers behind the throne might even now be finding a way to postpone the 2008 elections indefinitely due to a (self-inflicted) state of emergency, or to change the rules so that the President can seek a third term of office.
Or we could wake up tomorrow and discover that the last four years have been a bad dream, that Al Gore has just been elected for a second term, the terrorists have been rounded up and dealt with by lawful means and with meaningful international assistance and support, the Palestinians have been given a fair deal, a program of education and aid in the Middle East and elsewhere is serving to marginalise extremists of all hues, and John Peel didn’t die.
Which is not to say that a second Bush Administration won’t make an even bigger mess of things by the time the President finally swaggers off into the Texan sunset in January 2009. Four years, for example, is plenty of time for the re-emergence of the Taliban in Afghanistan; the assassination of General Musharaff in Pakistan and his replacement by someone less in the pocket of the Americans (don’t forget, Pakistan is a sovereign nuclear state); and the “successful” completion of nuclear weapons programs by both Iran and North Korea.
But if that is the case, then perhaps the American public might see the light, and we might then have stage two of the Clinton family hegemony, as Hilary steps up for her moment in the sun. Or the newly minted Senator Barack Obama. Or even a “moderate Republican”. Or perhaps the powers behind the throne might even now be finding a way to postpone the 2008 elections indefinitely due to a (self-inflicted) state of emergency, or to change the rules so that the President can seek a third term of office.
Or we could wake up tomorrow and discover that the last four years have been a bad dream, that Al Gore has just been elected for a second term, the terrorists have been rounded up and dealt with by lawful means and with meaningful international assistance and support, the Palestinians have been given a fair deal, a program of education and aid in the Middle East and elsewhere is serving to marginalise extremists of all hues, and John Peel didn’t die.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Mystery Dance
If you head over to the Music Box you will find that something has been added for your downloading pleasure. But it won't be there for long.
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