Are these the end times?
We've got middle east jitters; oil jitters; north korea jitters; price-of-bananas jitters; global warming jitters.
Seems like as good a time as any to be listening to Nick Cave preachin' the blues on "Hiding All Away": "There is a war coming ... There is a war coming ..."
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
One Two Three Four Five Six
No sooner is February out of the way than April comes along, at least in the land of the hypothetical mixtape. A few girls on the vox, a bit of the old post-punk skrunk, some new sounds, all tossed together with no time spent on the running order, and even less on research. Which is a shame, because only six of these artists have any history with me (answers on the back of a postcard, please), and my ignorance is bound to show through to those “in the know”.
Archie Bell and the Drells, “Tighten Up”: tighten up.
La Dusseldorf, “Time”: in which we get to hear the origins not only of a certain type of Stereolab song, from the era of “Lo Boob Oscillator”, but also, less expectedly, of Ed Kuepper’s majestic (oops, almost typed “jamestic”, which when you think about it equally applies; how about that?) “Honey Steel’s Gold”.
Andreas Dorau, “Strasse der Traeume (Dorau Rossknecht Remix)”: where have I heard this before? It must be the theme music for something, it sounds so familiar. It also sounds rather old. What gives? Perhaps it is mislabelled. Perhaps I am just ignorant and/or confusing it with something else.
Alpaca Brothers, “The Lie”: the EP whence this track comes was the second New Zealand record I ever bought. (The first was the Chills’ seven-inch “I Love My Leather Jacket” / “Great Escape”.) I can’t remember, now, what became of the Alpacas. Another short-lived Dunedin band whose members, no doubt, have turned up repeatedly playing with other combinations of members of that small but fecund scene. But if this was the only song they had ever done, it would have been worth it.
CanseiDeSerSexy, “Acho Um Pouco Bom”: there are some great post-punk-style guitars snaking away beneath this piece of essentially pop confection.
Snakefinger, “The Model”: my favourite Kraftwerk cover, from a genre which might well be called swamptronica, and half of one of my most-loved seven-inch singles, the other side being the timeless “I’m The Man In The Dark Sedan”, but the entire package wouldn’t be whaat it is without Mark Beyer’s cover art.
Richard Hell and the Voidoids, “Blank Generation”: and, from a similar time and place, the punk rock anthem that even your granny knows and loves.
Fantastic Plastic Machine, “You Must Learn All Night Long”: a big slice of danceable, infectious nonsense that would have your aforementioned granny tossing away the Zimmer frame for six minutes of frenetic boogaloo. Or hucklebuck.
The Pretty Things, “Defecting Grey”: here is a song I feel like I know backwards, but I swear that, on paper, I have never heard it in my life before. It’s a perfect selection for the “Million Dollar Riff” segment on “Rockwiz”.
The Wonder Band, “Whole Lotta Love”: a nice subversion of the dominant paradigm here, as the girls take hold of the Led Zeppelin (pilfered from the bluesmen but we all know that story) chestnut and send it out to the dancefloor. It must be a sign of the times when it’s the girl who sings “I’m gonna give you every inch of my love”. Take that, Jimmy Page.
Laibach, “Across The Universe”: sometimes, listening to a song for the first time can be a challenge. This is a perfect example. It is one of my least favourite Beatles songs (although not as bad as “Good Day Sunshine”, which was forever ruined for me by a tragic performance from Marcia Hines on her short-lived ABC television “variety”program, wherein she also took a bluntened butcher’s knife to the Rolling Stones’ “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”). Laibach reimagine it as performed by a heavenly choir of angels balanced on a shimmering, unbelievably thin tightrope. At any minute, you are thinking, the entire edifice is going to collapse in upon itself, and we are going to be abruptly returned to mundane reality. It is just too beautiful to be true, you think. They cannot possibly get away with it. But they do; and then, when it is over, you can take a deep breath, relax, go back to the start of the song, and enjoy it all over again.
Berntholer, “My Suitor”: it would appear that this is from Belgium from some time in the early 1980s. It figures, then, that it is, as of this moment, one of the best songs I never knew existed. Put it in a box with the Passions’ “I’m In Love with a German Film Star” and hope they start breeding like bunny rabbits.
Princess One Point Five, “By The Time I Get To Phoenix I’ll Be ...”: no, not that one. A lonely, vulnerable female voice sings about personal things, surrounded only by some rudimentary and primitive electronics. My mother once told me not to listen to songs sung by women because women couldn’t sing. This struck me as odd, given that one of the most-played records at our house was by the Seekers. (Then again, perhaps she had cottoned on to the essential truth: that nobody will ever equal Judith Durham.) I suspect now, on thinking about this after the passage of quite a lot of years, that she was probably subtly trying to steer me away from my obsession with Suzi Quatro. (She must have been beside herself when Blondie came along and the posters on my wall were updated.) Anyway, she was wrong.
Young Marble Giants, “Final Day”: now where did this come from? It’s not on the album; it’s not on the “Testcard” ep. I simultaneously love it and hate it when this happens: it’s a pinch-me moment to discover a “new” song by a much-loved but short-lived band. But on the other hand it’s very frustrating to know that you have lost 25 years of potential listening time. And the clock, it is ticking all the time.
Nathan Fake, “Grandfathered”: remember those slightly unsettling but also emotionally uplifting instrumental passages that OMD could seemingly toss out at will? This is a not half bad update that, if you like that sort of thing, you might seek out. Hi, Bart.
Ray Bryant, “Up Above The Rock”: no synths here. Just some way funky drumming, a nice vamping piano, and - “hey!” - handclaps. If this was the opening scene to a movie (and maybe it is), we would be driving in a red convertible along some European back-road in early spring, with Tuesday Weld in the passenger seat (we couldn’t afford Audrey Hepburn).
Sparrow, “The Early Years”: Franz Ferdinand via sixties bubblegum pop? Now we are in the inevitable FF-backlash years, such a description might not be instantly attractive. It might also be totally off the mark. This also reminds me of the first dBs album, and more generally that it is always the right time for a power-pop revival.
Odetta, “I’ve Been Driving on Bald Mountain / Water Boy”: the single most jaw-dropping moment on the “No Direction Home” film, an artefact with no shortage of jaw-dropping moments (eg, who knew there was actual footage of the “Judas” incident?), is Odetta singing this deep dark monster of a song. My theory is that when Robert Johnson went to the crossroads it was Odetta, in the guise of a big black cat, who was there to meet him.
Archie Bell and the Drells, “Tighten Up”: tighten up.
La Dusseldorf, “Time”: in which we get to hear the origins not only of a certain type of Stereolab song, from the era of “Lo Boob Oscillator”, but also, less expectedly, of Ed Kuepper’s majestic (oops, almost typed “jamestic”, which when you think about it equally applies; how about that?) “Honey Steel’s Gold”.
Andreas Dorau, “Strasse der Traeume (Dorau Rossknecht Remix)”: where have I heard this before? It must be the theme music for something, it sounds so familiar. It also sounds rather old. What gives? Perhaps it is mislabelled. Perhaps I am just ignorant and/or confusing it with something else.
Alpaca Brothers, “The Lie”: the EP whence this track comes was the second New Zealand record I ever bought. (The first was the Chills’ seven-inch “I Love My Leather Jacket” / “Great Escape”.) I can’t remember, now, what became of the Alpacas. Another short-lived Dunedin band whose members, no doubt, have turned up repeatedly playing with other combinations of members of that small but fecund scene. But if this was the only song they had ever done, it would have been worth it.
CanseiDeSerSexy, “Acho Um Pouco Bom”: there are some great post-punk-style guitars snaking away beneath this piece of essentially pop confection.
Snakefinger, “The Model”: my favourite Kraftwerk cover, from a genre which might well be called swamptronica, and half of one of my most-loved seven-inch singles, the other side being the timeless “I’m The Man In The Dark Sedan”, but the entire package wouldn’t be whaat it is without Mark Beyer’s cover art.
Richard Hell and the Voidoids, “Blank Generation”: and, from a similar time and place, the punk rock anthem that even your granny knows and loves.
Fantastic Plastic Machine, “You Must Learn All Night Long”: a big slice of danceable, infectious nonsense that would have your aforementioned granny tossing away the Zimmer frame for six minutes of frenetic boogaloo. Or hucklebuck.
The Pretty Things, “Defecting Grey”: here is a song I feel like I know backwards, but I swear that, on paper, I have never heard it in my life before. It’s a perfect selection for the “Million Dollar Riff” segment on “Rockwiz”.
The Wonder Band, “Whole Lotta Love”: a nice subversion of the dominant paradigm here, as the girls take hold of the Led Zeppelin (pilfered from the bluesmen but we all know that story) chestnut and send it out to the dancefloor. It must be a sign of the times when it’s the girl who sings “I’m gonna give you every inch of my love”. Take that, Jimmy Page.
Laibach, “Across The Universe”: sometimes, listening to a song for the first time can be a challenge. This is a perfect example. It is one of my least favourite Beatles songs (although not as bad as “Good Day Sunshine”, which was forever ruined for me by a tragic performance from Marcia Hines on her short-lived ABC television “variety”program, wherein she also took a bluntened butcher’s knife to the Rolling Stones’ “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”). Laibach reimagine it as performed by a heavenly choir of angels balanced on a shimmering, unbelievably thin tightrope. At any minute, you are thinking, the entire edifice is going to collapse in upon itself, and we are going to be abruptly returned to mundane reality. It is just too beautiful to be true, you think. They cannot possibly get away with it. But they do; and then, when it is over, you can take a deep breath, relax, go back to the start of the song, and enjoy it all over again.
Berntholer, “My Suitor”: it would appear that this is from Belgium from some time in the early 1980s. It figures, then, that it is, as of this moment, one of the best songs I never knew existed. Put it in a box with the Passions’ “I’m In Love with a German Film Star” and hope they start breeding like bunny rabbits.
Princess One Point Five, “By The Time I Get To Phoenix I’ll Be ...”: no, not that one. A lonely, vulnerable female voice sings about personal things, surrounded only by some rudimentary and primitive electronics. My mother once told me not to listen to songs sung by women because women couldn’t sing. This struck me as odd, given that one of the most-played records at our house was by the Seekers. (Then again, perhaps she had cottoned on to the essential truth: that nobody will ever equal Judith Durham.) I suspect now, on thinking about this after the passage of quite a lot of years, that she was probably subtly trying to steer me away from my obsession with Suzi Quatro. (She must have been beside herself when Blondie came along and the posters on my wall were updated.) Anyway, she was wrong.
Young Marble Giants, “Final Day”: now where did this come from? It’s not on the album; it’s not on the “Testcard” ep. I simultaneously love it and hate it when this happens: it’s a pinch-me moment to discover a “new” song by a much-loved but short-lived band. But on the other hand it’s very frustrating to know that you have lost 25 years of potential listening time. And the clock, it is ticking all the time.
Nathan Fake, “Grandfathered”: remember those slightly unsettling but also emotionally uplifting instrumental passages that OMD could seemingly toss out at will? This is a not half bad update that, if you like that sort of thing, you might seek out. Hi, Bart.
Ray Bryant, “Up Above The Rock”: no synths here. Just some way funky drumming, a nice vamping piano, and - “hey!” - handclaps. If this was the opening scene to a movie (and maybe it is), we would be driving in a red convertible along some European back-road in early spring, with Tuesday Weld in the passenger seat (we couldn’t afford Audrey Hepburn).
Sparrow, “The Early Years”: Franz Ferdinand via sixties bubblegum pop? Now we are in the inevitable FF-backlash years, such a description might not be instantly attractive. It might also be totally off the mark. This also reminds me of the first dBs album, and more generally that it is always the right time for a power-pop revival.
Odetta, “I’ve Been Driving on Bald Mountain / Water Boy”: the single most jaw-dropping moment on the “No Direction Home” film, an artefact with no shortage of jaw-dropping moments (eg, who knew there was actual footage of the “Judas” incident?), is Odetta singing this deep dark monster of a song. My theory is that when Robert Johnson went to the crossroads it was Odetta, in the guise of a big black cat, who was there to meet him.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives
Obviously, and understandably, the Internet is awash with words about Syd Barrett and his legacy (which is, not exactly "questionable", that sends entirely the wrong signal, but, how to say this, he seems to be worshipped, and I suspect that's not too strong a word, much more for what he could have done than for what he did - his is a story of real sadness that has been somehow turned into a cult). Jody Rosen on Slate has some worthwhile things to say, and in the Guardian you can choose from Richard Williams, Nick Kent and Rick Moody. The BBC has extracted a few paragraphs from Joe Boyd. I'm sure there is much more that can, and will, be said. So it seems a bit pointless for me to add anything.
Except: I have long harboured an irrational, but genuine, hope that Barrett would one day, J D Salinger-like, emerge from his extended hibernation and present us with new songs that would thrill and beguile us. If Salinger dies, there will be no hope left.
Except: I have long harboured an irrational, but genuine, hope that Barrett would one day, J D Salinger-like, emerge from his extended hibernation and present us with new songs that would thrill and beguile us. If Salinger dies, there will be no hope left.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Baker Street
Adrienne saw in yesterday’s Melbourne Age that one of the best (in fact it may have been the best) places for buying pies in Victoria is the Malmsbury bakery. This may not mean much to most people, other than somewhere to go for a Sunday drive. But when my father was very young, during the Depression, his father owned what was then the Malmsbury bakery. Malmsbury is a small town on the highway north-west of Melbourne, near the edge of the goldfields. It has a very nice park with a lake (where dad and Aunty Betty supposedly once found a matchbox-full of gold in some dumped quartz), a bluestone church, a mostly bluestone school, and an enormous railway viaduct that used to give me the creeps. In more recent years it has also been host to a correctional facility for naughty boys. For a few years the Emmerson family held its annual reunion at the Malmsbury hall.
One day dad showed me through the bakery, having imposed on its then owners. It was amazing to me to think that a family with 12 children could have lived and run a business in such a small space. Apart from the shop, there was one small bedroom, somewhere to cook, somewhere to wash, and precious little else. The oven was in a separate structure in the backyard. And yet this was how they lived. As it was told to me, government regulation in those dark days meant that providers of things like bread were obliged to sell on credit, even where there was no real likelihood that they would ever get paid. So things were tight. Workers on rail gangs would come through from time to time, get their bread on credit, and be gone in a day or two. Dad told stories of playing football with other kids, using an old sock, stuffed and sewn up, as the ball.
At some point he went to live with some of his older sisters in Richmond, where he went to school near the MCG and claimed to once have played a school vs school football match in which a young Lou Richards was playing for the other school. Later, dad's family left Malmsbury and somehow finished up at Meeniyan and thence to a farm at Berry’s Creek, from which I suppose dad and some of his brothers got the idea of being South Gippsland farmers.
The desperate circumstances of their youth no doubt lies behind the close-knit nature of dad’s generation. Dad and three of his brothers worked the one farming enterprise until dad’s untimely demise. If you put any two of that generation of Emmersons together, nobody would say very much. But if you added a third, it was impossible to shut them up, as the stories would tumble out. Always the same pool of stories was drawn upon, told in different combinations and in different ways. Always funny. The day my father fell into the milk separator. The day Uncle Jack had to write a letter for some poor farmer whose wife had left him and taken their prize cow. The day Uncle Jack, while on the bread run, found someone in their house trapped underneath a wardrobe that had fallen on top of them. The day Uncle Tip (real name Albert) took literally my grandfather’s exasperated exclamation “those kittens should be tied up”, with predictably grim consequences. The day Uncle Tip got the sack from his newspaper run, for some inadvertent indiscretion, and said “Well I won’t take the sack”, turning up for work again the next morning so that the newsagent felt compelled to take him back (and didn’t regret doing so). The day the bullock wagon ran out of control. The night the roof blew off the house (shades of Thurber in that one).
Well, now Uncle Mick (real name Walter) has gone, and there is only one of that generation left, Aunty Betty, the baby of the family and mother of my mad cousins from the city. It must be very strange for her to be alone, after having so many brothers and sisters for so long. And, perhaps predictably, the next generation has gradually gone its separate ways. I have a large number of cousins, but most I have neither seen nor heard from in the seven years since we moved to Canberra. News travels, of course, and I have some idea of what goes on, but many of them must now themselves be getting quite old. The stories of dad’s generation have now gone, there being no longer the possibility of a quorum. Murray, one of my cousins, has apparently written them all down, but I’m not sure what is happening with that. I suppose it would be nice to be able to pass some of them on to the boys, but it wouldn’t mean the same to them, given that they have no real knowledge of the people who were telling them.
Such is life, I suppose.
One day dad showed me through the bakery, having imposed on its then owners. It was amazing to me to think that a family with 12 children could have lived and run a business in such a small space. Apart from the shop, there was one small bedroom, somewhere to cook, somewhere to wash, and precious little else. The oven was in a separate structure in the backyard. And yet this was how they lived. As it was told to me, government regulation in those dark days meant that providers of things like bread were obliged to sell on credit, even where there was no real likelihood that they would ever get paid. So things were tight. Workers on rail gangs would come through from time to time, get their bread on credit, and be gone in a day or two. Dad told stories of playing football with other kids, using an old sock, stuffed and sewn up, as the ball.
At some point he went to live with some of his older sisters in Richmond, where he went to school near the MCG and claimed to once have played a school vs school football match in which a young Lou Richards was playing for the other school. Later, dad's family left Malmsbury and somehow finished up at Meeniyan and thence to a farm at Berry’s Creek, from which I suppose dad and some of his brothers got the idea of being South Gippsland farmers.
The desperate circumstances of their youth no doubt lies behind the close-knit nature of dad’s generation. Dad and three of his brothers worked the one farming enterprise until dad’s untimely demise. If you put any two of that generation of Emmersons together, nobody would say very much. But if you added a third, it was impossible to shut them up, as the stories would tumble out. Always the same pool of stories was drawn upon, told in different combinations and in different ways. Always funny. The day my father fell into the milk separator. The day Uncle Jack had to write a letter for some poor farmer whose wife had left him and taken their prize cow. The day Uncle Jack, while on the bread run, found someone in their house trapped underneath a wardrobe that had fallen on top of them. The day Uncle Tip (real name Albert) took literally my grandfather’s exasperated exclamation “those kittens should be tied up”, with predictably grim consequences. The day Uncle Tip got the sack from his newspaper run, for some inadvertent indiscretion, and said “Well I won’t take the sack”, turning up for work again the next morning so that the newsagent felt compelled to take him back (and didn’t regret doing so). The day the bullock wagon ran out of control. The night the roof blew off the house (shades of Thurber in that one).
Well, now Uncle Mick (real name Walter) has gone, and there is only one of that generation left, Aunty Betty, the baby of the family and mother of my mad cousins from the city. It must be very strange for her to be alone, after having so many brothers and sisters for so long. And, perhaps predictably, the next generation has gradually gone its separate ways. I have a large number of cousins, but most I have neither seen nor heard from in the seven years since we moved to Canberra. News travels, of course, and I have some idea of what goes on, but many of them must now themselves be getting quite old. The stories of dad’s generation have now gone, there being no longer the possibility of a quorum. Murray, one of my cousins, has apparently written them all down, but I’m not sure what is happening with that. I suppose it would be nice to be able to pass some of them on to the boys, but it wouldn’t mean the same to them, given that they have no real knowledge of the people who were telling them.
Such is life, I suppose.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Next Time Round
Why I would be no good at reviewing records is, well, I don’t know how this works, but somehow I am able to miss the obvious on the first few listens to something, maybe there are too many factors at play, expectations, trying too hard, distractions; whatever. I put the record away for a while, having listened to it just enough times to have some small part of it, almost unknowingly, embedded somewhere in that corner of the deepest recesses of my brain where song fragments lie in wait for an opportunity to surface.
Then I go about my business.
Until, for some reason, I am reminded of this record I have had sitting in that pile over there, maybe for a few months, maybe a year, who knows, and I think, well, I don’t recall being all that excited by this at the time, but I should give it another go, because they have another record out, or someone blogged positive about it, or I have a nagging feeling that there is something there busting to be let out. I listen again. I think, I remember this. I think, hey, this is quite good. I think, you idiot, you’ve missed the point again.
It ... is ... happening ... again ...
A few days back, Pitchfork mentioned that M Ward has a new album in the works, wherein he is backed by a “full band” (full of what? being the real question). I bought “Transistor Radio” some time back, played it a few times, pigeonholed it under “quite good but not “Transfiguration of Vincent””, and promptly went on to the next thing. I can’t believe that I had entirely forgotten about it. But I had. So I listened again last night. And again today. And do you know what? I can now say it is one of the best records I have listened to this year. Mr Ward is somehow able to occupy a place slightly outside of time without sounding in any way contrived or forced. I suppose you could say something similar about Gillian Welch. But in the case of M Ward he is somewhere between the Pacific Northwest, John Fahey and Bob Dylan. In fact, the opening piece funnels the Beach Boys through the mind of John Fahey. And succeeds. From there it’s a trip through a world of song fragments, some developed, some less so, and always (as was the case with “Vincent”) a stone classic is never far away. What I really like about M Ward is the way he chooses not to sing his heart out, but always keeps a little something permanently in reserve. It keeps you wanting more but also glad he doesn’t give it to you.
Then there is the mysterious case of “The Life Pursuit” by Belle and Sebastian, a group that should have worn out its welcome some time ago but somehow keeps finding a new chain to pull. I think I dealt with my early impressions on these pages a while ago. Those turned out to be my only impressions, until a copy turned up in The Shop Formerly Known As Revolution on the weekend, which I duly bought. (Who can resist a photo suite of gorgeous young lassies dressed in tartan?) There may still be some patches of this record that I can’t quite warm to, but it is relatively early days, really, and I feel confident in saying that, whoever you are, you will like this record. Adrienne says they must have been listening to The Kinks. It could be true (although I put the overall feel of this record a few years later than “... Are the Village Green Preservation Society”, which is our own benchmark Kinks long player). It certainly sounds very clean. Stevie Jackson’s guitar playing keeps getting stronger and stronger. Belle and Sebastian may yet outlive the cardigans and old Penguin paperbacks jibes. They may make more great records. This may turn out to be one of them.
Then I go about my business.
Until, for some reason, I am reminded of this record I have had sitting in that pile over there, maybe for a few months, maybe a year, who knows, and I think, well, I don’t recall being all that excited by this at the time, but I should give it another go, because they have another record out, or someone blogged positive about it, or I have a nagging feeling that there is something there busting to be let out. I listen again. I think, I remember this. I think, hey, this is quite good. I think, you idiot, you’ve missed the point again.
It ... is ... happening ... again ...
A few days back, Pitchfork mentioned that M Ward has a new album in the works, wherein he is backed by a “full band” (full of what? being the real question). I bought “Transistor Radio” some time back, played it a few times, pigeonholed it under “quite good but not “Transfiguration of Vincent””, and promptly went on to the next thing. I can’t believe that I had entirely forgotten about it. But I had. So I listened again last night. And again today. And do you know what? I can now say it is one of the best records I have listened to this year. Mr Ward is somehow able to occupy a place slightly outside of time without sounding in any way contrived or forced. I suppose you could say something similar about Gillian Welch. But in the case of M Ward he is somewhere between the Pacific Northwest, John Fahey and Bob Dylan. In fact, the opening piece funnels the Beach Boys through the mind of John Fahey. And succeeds. From there it’s a trip through a world of song fragments, some developed, some less so, and always (as was the case with “Vincent”) a stone classic is never far away. What I really like about M Ward is the way he chooses not to sing his heart out, but always keeps a little something permanently in reserve. It keeps you wanting more but also glad he doesn’t give it to you.
Then there is the mysterious case of “The Life Pursuit” by Belle and Sebastian, a group that should have worn out its welcome some time ago but somehow keeps finding a new chain to pull. I think I dealt with my early impressions on these pages a while ago. Those turned out to be my only impressions, until a copy turned up in The Shop Formerly Known As Revolution on the weekend, which I duly bought. (Who can resist a photo suite of gorgeous young lassies dressed in tartan?) There may still be some patches of this record that I can’t quite warm to, but it is relatively early days, really, and I feel confident in saying that, whoever you are, you will like this record. Adrienne says they must have been listening to The Kinks. It could be true (although I put the overall feel of this record a few years later than “... Are the Village Green Preservation Society”, which is our own benchmark Kinks long player). It certainly sounds very clean. Stevie Jackson’s guitar playing keeps getting stronger and stronger. Belle and Sebastian may yet outlive the cardigans and old Penguin paperbacks jibes. They may make more great records. This may turn out to be one of them.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Roll Call
There are many institutions which, having at one time or another been a large part of life, are no longer there; or have moved; or have irrevocably changed. Here are a few:
Cafe Paradiso
The Carlton Moviehouse
The Valhalla
Genevieve
The Black Cat Cafe
Dizzy Spinners
The Carlton Noodle House (or maybe it’s still there?)
Alice’s Bookshop (in its first, Trefor John incarnation)
The steps of Missing Link Records (in its original location)
Gaumont Book Co
Exposure Records
The Metropole
The Club
The Old Greek Theatre
The Venue
The Seaview Ballroom
Harley Court Cafe
The Galleon
The Longford
The Lumiere
The corner bar at The George, when it first opened under Donlevy Fitzpatrick’s stewardship, and the bakery a couple of doors up, on Grey Street
Upstairs at the Continental
And do I hear that the Astor is closing and/or has closed?
Cafe Paradiso
The Carlton Moviehouse
The Valhalla
Genevieve
The Black Cat Cafe
Dizzy Spinners
The Carlton Noodle House (or maybe it’s still there?)
Alice’s Bookshop (in its first, Trefor John incarnation)
The steps of Missing Link Records (in its original location)
Gaumont Book Co
Exposure Records
The Metropole
The Club
The Old Greek Theatre
The Venue
The Seaview Ballroom
Harley Court Cafe
The Galleon
The Longford
The Lumiere
The corner bar at The George, when it first opened under Donlevy Fitzpatrick’s stewardship, and the bakery a couple of doors up, on Grey Street
Upstairs at the Continental
And do I hear that the Astor is closing and/or has closed?
Monday, June 19, 2006
Hello!
We should like to take this opportunity to welcome the most recent additions to the circle, namely:
Niall Atticus Florien O'Shannassy, born 13 June 2006
Nicholas Hugh Breward, born 15 June 2006
Thanks to the wonders of email and digital photography, distance is no barrier to an early viewing, and we are fortunate to be able to say that both are as gorgeous as is it possible for small humans to be.
Niall Atticus Florien O'Shannassy, born 13 June 2006
Nicholas Hugh Breward, born 15 June 2006
Thanks to the wonders of email and digital photography, distance is no barrier to an early viewing, and we are fortunate to be able to say that both are as gorgeous as is it possible for small humans to be.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Dylanologists rejoice!
Yes, the fabled Bob Dylan radio shows have appeared on Ye Olde Gas-Light Internet, courtesy of the good folks at mp3@3pm (scroll down a bit; they're spread over a couple of posts).
From what I've heard so far, I observe:
1. Dylan would have made a very good late-night radio host, with his gruff voice and smooth delivery, kind of (if I remember rightly) like the radio voice on Jim Jarmusch's "Night On Earth" - was that Tom Waits? Maybe I have that totally wrong.
2. This seemingly strange career shift may turn out to be, in typically oblique fashion, a kind of audio "Chronicles, Volume Two", with Dylan seeking to put his own spin on his own mythology, sorry, autobiography. I mean that in a nice way. He is a fascinating man.
Sadly, though, the Macintosh doesn't seem to be able to download episodes one and seven, so I herewith provide, for my own benefit, direct links to those episodes on the off chance I can get them that way. I know dirrect links are a transgression of the unwritten law, so if I offend anyone by doing so, they only have to ask (nicely).
Episode One
Episode Seven
From what I've heard so far, I observe:
1. Dylan would have made a very good late-night radio host, with his gruff voice and smooth delivery, kind of (if I remember rightly) like the radio voice on Jim Jarmusch's "Night On Earth" - was that Tom Waits? Maybe I have that totally wrong.
2. This seemingly strange career shift may turn out to be, in typically oblique fashion, a kind of audio "Chronicles, Volume Two", with Dylan seeking to put his own spin on his own mythology, sorry, autobiography. I mean that in a nice way. He is a fascinating man.
Sadly, though, the Macintosh doesn't seem to be able to download episodes one and seven, so I herewith provide, for my own benefit, direct links to those episodes on the off chance I can get them that way. I know dirrect links are a transgression of the unwritten law, so if I offend anyone by doing so, they only have to ask (nicely).
Episode One
Episode Seven
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Addendum
By way of value-adding the previous entry, we provide the following links:
1. Go here and scroll down to find and excellent description of the works of Kevin Huizenga, and incidentally rare evidence that I am not his only fan in the world;
2. Go here for an entirely wrongheaded and misguided review of "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts", which raises a number of discussion points, none of which will be elaborated upon here. Including: should people be allowed to review records that were released before they were born; is "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts" post-punk's answer to "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band", i.e. revolutionary in its day, changing the face of music to such an extent that its very existence creates a kind of built-in redundancy (how can you sound fresh when pretty soon everything sounds like you); and, am I, despite fighting against it, becoming a crusty old curmudgeon of the Ian MacDonald, it-was-all-better-in-my-day type?
1. Go here and scroll down to find and excellent description of the works of Kevin Huizenga, and incidentally rare evidence that I am not his only fan in the world;
2. Go here for an entirely wrongheaded and misguided review of "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts", which raises a number of discussion points, none of which will be elaborated upon here. Including: should people be allowed to review records that were released before they were born; is "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts" post-punk's answer to "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band", i.e. revolutionary in its day, changing the face of music to such an extent that its very existence creates a kind of built-in redundancy (how can you sound fresh when pretty soon everything sounds like you); and, am I, despite fighting against it, becoming a crusty old curmudgeon of the Ian MacDonald, it-was-all-better-in-my-day type?
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Who Knows Where The Time Goes?
I have a couple of longer pieces, or at least a bit more thought-out than usual, that I want to write but I can't seem to get it together at the moment. I blame the onset of winter in these parts. (Others might blame Google Earth. I found the farm I grew up on!)
I have another one of my personal-reminiscence-type pieces ready to go, and another playlist (already?), both of which will get posted very shortly. But for now just let me say this:
1. During the week there were many tears in our house, on account of one of the two guinea pigs we have been minding for friends for almost three years now, name of Cuddles, passed away quietly in his sleep. The owners of Cuddles, and his good friend Pepper, are due back in a matter of weeks and it is a shame, having come so far, that we are unable to deliver up two healthy guinea pigs. Jules, aged six, appeared to have some trouble understanding his own emotions and, consequently, they manifested themselves as anger (the following morning he had sorted himself out and began asking questions like, "Are you sure he was really dead?"). Carl, aged eight, was the more distraught of the two, but still managed to find the silver lining: "I really miss Cuddles, even though I couldn't tell which one was which; at least now I will know which one is Pepper."
2. I might have mentioned that I received a large shipment of comic books from my Canadian pusher-man recently. A large proportion of them consisted of work by Kevin Huizenga. The more I read of this fellow, whose name I wouldn't have even recognised a year or two ago, the more impressed I am. He is a very gifted and surprisingly wide-ranging storyteller, a fine observer of human behaviour, and he draws like a treat, too. Don't you just hate people like that?
3. Also buried withing the aforesaid comics shipment: the final issue of Charles Burns's "Black Hole". Upon finishing, at long last, this beautifully drawn but frequently distressing saga of 1970s teen angst and plague, one's first response is, perhaps, envy addressed towards all the people who are able, now, to buy it off the shelf as a single publication and read it through from start to finish in one go. What they won't ever have, though, is the experience of living with the accumulated sense of anticipation every time another issue loomed. An ongoing, self-contained story, stretched out over, what, is-it-really-ten years? That's something I don't think we have seen the likes of since the days of the serialised novel a la Charles Dickens, and even they were churned out well inside a decade. It seems kind of strange not to have to wait for the next issue any more. And, even if the story might perhaps turn out to be just a bit less than meets the eye, that's really neither here nor there, given how well it all holds together, how gorgeous it is, and how amazingly consistent the drawing, writing, and tone have been over all of those ten years and twelve issues. How did he do it?
4. I have resisted most fancy-pants CD reissues of "classic" albums with their barrel-scraping extra tracks and typo-infested liner notes (exceptions: Television's "Marquee Moon" and "World of Echo" by Arthur Russell). But the floodgates may have opened with my recent purchase of not one but two of the Greatest Records Of All Time ("groats" for short), remastered and expanded, and gorgeously packaged. I am speaking, obviously, of "Remain In Light" by Talking Heads and "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts" by David Byrne and Brian Eno. These two records were staging-posts in my life. I would never need to listen to either of them ever again, on account of their being so much a part of me, but it is a pleasure to hear them as I have never heard them before: no pops, no clicks, nothing muffled, just pure joyful sound. It's a shame that "Qu'ran" couldn't be given a run, but understandable too, given the times in which we live, and anyway I can always crank up the turntable whenever I want to listen to it.
5. A big Internet hello to the human being behind Voltage Controlled Technicolor, who has gone to the trouble to offer us mere mortals an astounding collection of complete albums, most of which none of us will ever have even heard of, for download. There is very little here that you can imagine would be troubling the copyright police, on account of obscurity and presumed out-of-printness, which is a very welcome change from the seemingly endless parade of "mp3 blogs" that offer the latest "hip" "indie" records for complete download, a dubious enterprise at best, but even worse when (a) they boast about how many copies of things they have put up have been downloaded and/or (b) they have the temerity to request that users click on a banner ad on the site, which I can only assume results in some small amount of revenue to the person behind the site. This is like saying, "It's fine to deprive the musicians of what little they would have made if you had bought the record, but, hey, I'm giving it to you for free, so pay me instead." I don't think it's meant to work that way.
6. I'm going to shut up now. It's late.
I have another one of my personal-reminiscence-type pieces ready to go, and another playlist (already?), both of which will get posted very shortly. But for now just let me say this:
1. During the week there were many tears in our house, on account of one of the two guinea pigs we have been minding for friends for almost three years now, name of Cuddles, passed away quietly in his sleep. The owners of Cuddles, and his good friend Pepper, are due back in a matter of weeks and it is a shame, having come so far, that we are unable to deliver up two healthy guinea pigs. Jules, aged six, appeared to have some trouble understanding his own emotions and, consequently, they manifested themselves as anger (the following morning he had sorted himself out and began asking questions like, "Are you sure he was really dead?"). Carl, aged eight, was the more distraught of the two, but still managed to find the silver lining: "I really miss Cuddles, even though I couldn't tell which one was which; at least now I will know which one is Pepper."
2. I might have mentioned that I received a large shipment of comic books from my Canadian pusher-man recently. A large proportion of them consisted of work by Kevin Huizenga. The more I read of this fellow, whose name I wouldn't have even recognised a year or two ago, the more impressed I am. He is a very gifted and surprisingly wide-ranging storyteller, a fine observer of human behaviour, and he draws like a treat, too. Don't you just hate people like that?
3. Also buried withing the aforesaid comics shipment: the final issue of Charles Burns's "Black Hole". Upon finishing, at long last, this beautifully drawn but frequently distressing saga of 1970s teen angst and plague, one's first response is, perhaps, envy addressed towards all the people who are able, now, to buy it off the shelf as a single publication and read it through from start to finish in one go. What they won't ever have, though, is the experience of living with the accumulated sense of anticipation every time another issue loomed. An ongoing, self-contained story, stretched out over, what, is-it-really-ten years? That's something I don't think we have seen the likes of since the days of the serialised novel a la Charles Dickens, and even they were churned out well inside a decade. It seems kind of strange not to have to wait for the next issue any more. And, even if the story might perhaps turn out to be just a bit less than meets the eye, that's really neither here nor there, given how well it all holds together, how gorgeous it is, and how amazingly consistent the drawing, writing, and tone have been over all of those ten years and twelve issues. How did he do it?
4. I have resisted most fancy-pants CD reissues of "classic" albums with their barrel-scraping extra tracks and typo-infested liner notes (exceptions: Television's "Marquee Moon" and "World of Echo" by Arthur Russell). But the floodgates may have opened with my recent purchase of not one but two of the Greatest Records Of All Time ("groats" for short), remastered and expanded, and gorgeously packaged. I am speaking, obviously, of "Remain In Light" by Talking Heads and "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts" by David Byrne and Brian Eno. These two records were staging-posts in my life. I would never need to listen to either of them ever again, on account of their being so much a part of me, but it is a pleasure to hear them as I have never heard them before: no pops, no clicks, nothing muffled, just pure joyful sound. It's a shame that "Qu'ran" couldn't be given a run, but understandable too, given the times in which we live, and anyway I can always crank up the turntable whenever I want to listen to it.
5. A big Internet hello to the human being behind Voltage Controlled Technicolor, who has gone to the trouble to offer us mere mortals an astounding collection of complete albums, most of which none of us will ever have even heard of, for download. There is very little here that you can imagine would be troubling the copyright police, on account of obscurity and presumed out-of-printness, which is a very welcome change from the seemingly endless parade of "mp3 blogs" that offer the latest "hip" "indie" records for complete download, a dubious enterprise at best, but even worse when (a) they boast about how many copies of things they have put up have been downloaded and/or (b) they have the temerity to request that users click on a banner ad on the site, which I can only assume results in some small amount of revenue to the person behind the site. This is like saying, "It's fine to deprive the musicians of what little they would have made if you had bought the record, but, hey, I'm giving it to you for free, so pay me instead." I don't think it's meant to work that way.
6. I'm going to shut up now. It's late.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Home Truths
"What are you doing on the computer, Daddy?"
"Well, Carl, I'm just looking for songs."
"But, Dad, you already have so many songs that you can't listen to them all."
It is with piercing arrows like these that our weaknesses are brought home to us.
"Well, Carl, I'm just looking for songs."
"But, Dad, you already have so many songs that you can't listen to them all."
It is with piercing arrows like these that our weaknesses are brought home to us.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Okie Dokie It's the February 2006 Hypothetical Mix CD
Incredible Bongo Band, “Apache”: barely a guitar or surfboard to be found; instead, bongos (obviously), brass and a nice slice of Hammond driving the tune. You can keep your Shadows, your Ventures, your Bert Weedon: this is my “Apache”.
Edu K, “Popoduza Rock n Roll”: what you have here is, essentially, a Japanese update on that Aerosmith/Run DMC number from ages ago. And your problem with that is?
Felix Kubin, “Hit Me, Provider”: a rather brutal piece of German techno complete with breaking glass sample, and some words about losing one’s mouse oh no, but essentially nonsense. Good nonsense.
Tocotronic, “Gegen den strich”: you would think that this was mislabelled, and that it was, in fact, your typical Tarnation/Cowboy Junkies widescreen Western number. Then the singing starts, and you realise that (1) it is what it says it is and (2) it is quite special.
Ulrich Schnauss, “... passing by”: the synths wash over you in the manner of OMD’s “Architecture and Morality”. There are only a couple of moments of electrickery to remind you that it’s not 1982.
Ash Wednesday, “Love By Numbers”: but then it suddenly is 1982, a year when I was tangentially acquainted with Ash Wednesday. Mr Wednesday (not his real name) has gone on, among other things, to have a stint with Einsturzende Neubauten, whereas I haven’t really “gone on” at all. Oh well. If you wanted to remember what a particular corner of the Melbourne music scene sounded like in those golden days, you could do worse than listen to this.
Go Team, “Loneliness March”: we seem to be on a short journey through my musical past. Next stop 1987 when, in the rolling hills around Leongatha, a select group of like-minded frustrated scenesters discovered that distance was no impediment to fandom. We found ourselves tilling fresh musical fields as far away as Sydney, Australia (the Cannanes), and Olympia, Washington, USA (Beat Happening). The Go Team (not to be confused, or outdone, by today’s bande du moment of that name) comprised Calvin Johnston of Beat Happening and whoever else happened to be around at the time; they put out a series of 7” singles on K Records that came in transparent plastic sleeves and had barely legible labels. “Loneliness March” was one of their finer moments, and it is good to hear it again.
Paulie Chastain and Ric Menck, “Wishing On A Star”: back then I received a mail-order package from Calvin which contained a whole lot of things I didn’t order, plus a profuse apology, plus as an added sweetener a flexidisc with this song on one side. It's probably worth a small fortune now. It is indeed strange to find something that actually sounds better as an mp3.
Rogue Traders, “Voodoo Child”: and then there’s this. You know you haven’t lost it when your six-year-old comes home singing “baybeah baybeah baybeah” and you can say “hey, I know that song; it’s on my laptop”. They may turn out to be one-hit wonders, and even then that one hit is trading on a timeless three-note Elvis Costello guitar-and-organ riff. But try getting it out of your head.
Soft Cell, “Hey Joe”: who knew this existed? An early, extended (12 minutes!) Soft Cell jam which throws together a couple of Hendrix chestnuts. Marc Almond gets a little bit further into character during “Hey Joe” than I am entirely comfortable with.
Black Mountain, “Don’t Run Our Hearts Around”: there are days when you just want to grow your hair long, whip out your (t)rusty air guitar and crank the volume up to eleven.
Vivienne Goldman, “Launderette”: one of my cherished singles is “Private Armies/Launderette” by Vivienne Goldman, who (I think) was a journalist and who (I think) made no other records and who (I know) enlisted the help of, essentially, the then members of Public Image Limited, crucially Keith Levene, and placed Dennis "Blackbeard" Bovell at the controls. Outstanding.
Nina Hagen, “African Reggae”: in which a German screamer does for reggae what Henri Rousseau did for the Pacific Islands.
Keith Hudson, “Turn The Heater On”: the reggae nugget most likely to be known by indie kids, on account of New Order (literally) attacking it on the John Peel show. As white men playing reggae goes, New Order reached depths I would never have thought possible if I hadn’t heard it myself. It makes Paul Simonon’s early fumblings sound like, well, reggae, and gives “lumbering” new meaning. After hearing it, you need to turn to the original just to clean your system out. (Disclaimer: this is not at all meant to suggest that I don’t like New Order. I do like New Order. I don't like New Order attempting to do reggae.)
The Loft, “Why Does The Rain?”: those indie kids probably have a soft spot for this, too; and for good reason.
The Monkees, “Don’t Call On Me”: the Monkees are routinely held up as some kind of cardboard figures of fun. Listen to this and ask yourself, “Why?”
Les Calamites, “Toutes Les Nuits”: bouncy French girl-pop; suitable for pogoing.
Felt, “Evergreen Dazed”: one of my guilty secrets is the complete absence of Felt from my life. On the strength of this (if not on the strength of “Primitive Painters”, which, despite (or perhaps because of) the appearance of Elizabeth Fraser, sounds nothing so much as horribly dated), I need to dig deeper. But I already knew that.
Split Enz, “The Choral Sea”: this came on the iPod. I couldn’t place it, either by band, genre, or vintage. Turns out that it is on an album that I own but haven’t played for many years. I can’t recall ever having been particularly struck by this instrumental at the time. Sometimes if you just wait long enough your moment will come.
Edu K, “Popoduza Rock n Roll”: what you have here is, essentially, a Japanese update on that Aerosmith/Run DMC number from ages ago. And your problem with that is?
Felix Kubin, “Hit Me, Provider”: a rather brutal piece of German techno complete with breaking glass sample, and some words about losing one’s mouse oh no, but essentially nonsense. Good nonsense.
Tocotronic, “Gegen den strich”: you would think that this was mislabelled, and that it was, in fact, your typical Tarnation/Cowboy Junkies widescreen Western number. Then the singing starts, and you realise that (1) it is what it says it is and (2) it is quite special.
Ulrich Schnauss, “... passing by”: the synths wash over you in the manner of OMD’s “Architecture and Morality”. There are only a couple of moments of electrickery to remind you that it’s not 1982.
Ash Wednesday, “Love By Numbers”: but then it suddenly is 1982, a year when I was tangentially acquainted with Ash Wednesday. Mr Wednesday (not his real name) has gone on, among other things, to have a stint with Einsturzende Neubauten, whereas I haven’t really “gone on” at all. Oh well. If you wanted to remember what a particular corner of the Melbourne music scene sounded like in those golden days, you could do worse than listen to this.
Go Team, “Loneliness March”: we seem to be on a short journey through my musical past. Next stop 1987 when, in the rolling hills around Leongatha, a select group of like-minded frustrated scenesters discovered that distance was no impediment to fandom. We found ourselves tilling fresh musical fields as far away as Sydney, Australia (the Cannanes), and Olympia, Washington, USA (Beat Happening). The Go Team (not to be confused, or outdone, by today’s bande du moment of that name) comprised Calvin Johnston of Beat Happening and whoever else happened to be around at the time; they put out a series of 7” singles on K Records that came in transparent plastic sleeves and had barely legible labels. “Loneliness March” was one of their finer moments, and it is good to hear it again.
Paulie Chastain and Ric Menck, “Wishing On A Star”: back then I received a mail-order package from Calvin which contained a whole lot of things I didn’t order, plus a profuse apology, plus as an added sweetener a flexidisc with this song on one side. It's probably worth a small fortune now. It is indeed strange to find something that actually sounds better as an mp3.
Rogue Traders, “Voodoo Child”: and then there’s this. You know you haven’t lost it when your six-year-old comes home singing “baybeah baybeah baybeah” and you can say “hey, I know that song; it’s on my laptop”. They may turn out to be one-hit wonders, and even then that one hit is trading on a timeless three-note Elvis Costello guitar-and-organ riff. But try getting it out of your head.
Soft Cell, “Hey Joe”: who knew this existed? An early, extended (12 minutes!) Soft Cell jam which throws together a couple of Hendrix chestnuts. Marc Almond gets a little bit further into character during “Hey Joe” than I am entirely comfortable with.
Black Mountain, “Don’t Run Our Hearts Around”: there are days when you just want to grow your hair long, whip out your (t)rusty air guitar and crank the volume up to eleven.
Vivienne Goldman, “Launderette”: one of my cherished singles is “Private Armies/Launderette” by Vivienne Goldman, who (I think) was a journalist and who (I think) made no other records and who (I know) enlisted the help of, essentially, the then members of Public Image Limited, crucially Keith Levene, and placed Dennis "Blackbeard" Bovell at the controls. Outstanding.
Nina Hagen, “African Reggae”: in which a German screamer does for reggae what Henri Rousseau did for the Pacific Islands.
Keith Hudson, “Turn The Heater On”: the reggae nugget most likely to be known by indie kids, on account of New Order (literally) attacking it on the John Peel show. As white men playing reggae goes, New Order reached depths I would never have thought possible if I hadn’t heard it myself. It makes Paul Simonon’s early fumblings sound like, well, reggae, and gives “lumbering” new meaning. After hearing it, you need to turn to the original just to clean your system out. (Disclaimer: this is not at all meant to suggest that I don’t like New Order. I do like New Order. I don't like New Order attempting to do reggae.)
The Loft, “Why Does The Rain?”: those indie kids probably have a soft spot for this, too; and for good reason.
The Monkees, “Don’t Call On Me”: the Monkees are routinely held up as some kind of cardboard figures of fun. Listen to this and ask yourself, “Why?”
Les Calamites, “Toutes Les Nuits”: bouncy French girl-pop; suitable for pogoing.
Felt, “Evergreen Dazed”: one of my guilty secrets is the complete absence of Felt from my life. On the strength of this (if not on the strength of “Primitive Painters”, which, despite (or perhaps because of) the appearance of Elizabeth Fraser, sounds nothing so much as horribly dated), I need to dig deeper. But I already knew that.
Split Enz, “The Choral Sea”: this came on the iPod. I couldn’t place it, either by band, genre, or vintage. Turns out that it is on an album that I own but haven’t played for many years. I can’t recall ever having been particularly struck by this instrumental at the time. Sometimes if you just wait long enough your moment will come.
Friday, May 19, 2006
A word from our sponsor
This piece on Slate contains a link to an Am*r*c*n Expr*ss ad, directed by Wes Anderson, that you can watch via the wonder that is YouTube. Watch the ad. (I guess you might have seen it if you are an American but I also assume we'll never see it down here.) Read the piece. (It contains some helpful information for non-cinephiles.) Watch the ad again. And again. And again. Repeat the process.
Wes Anderson is one of the masters of contemporary American cinema. There are a few others. (There is even a second Anderson amongst them.) A companion piece on Slate laments that they are less than timely in their output, and this ad is an interesting and perhaps, in time, significant insight into how Wes Anderson's mind works. I'm not convinced that this supposed tardiness is a valid argument, though. If a film takes time to get right, isn't it better to take that time than throw five films into the world in order to see if any of them "stick"? As Mr Incredible said [Pixar has never exactly flooded the market with product, but I don't hear anyone complaining about them], "We get there when we get there."
The thing about Anderson's films, as I'm sure I've said here before, is that he tells fundamentally bleak stories by way of slapstick comedy. This provides for maximum discomfort and memorable images. He also has a lot of ideas, and (as his Amex ad, unless I am seriously misreading it, suggests) isn't averse to having fun at his own expense.
It struck me, 10 years ago, while sitting in a cinema in London observing, in amazement, the quality and inventiveness of British cinema advertising, that advertisements would be the next major artform. I have seen nothing since to disabuse me of that notion. Sure, most advertising is rubbish, but then so are most books, movies, paintings; even (perhaps especially) the vast majority of music should never have been made. So why should advertisements be any different?
Anyway, enjoy the ad. After all, you paid for it.
Wes Anderson is one of the masters of contemporary American cinema. There are a few others. (There is even a second Anderson amongst them.) A companion piece on Slate laments that they are less than timely in their output, and this ad is an interesting and perhaps, in time, significant insight into how Wes Anderson's mind works. I'm not convinced that this supposed tardiness is a valid argument, though. If a film takes time to get right, isn't it better to take that time than throw five films into the world in order to see if any of them "stick"? As Mr Incredible said [Pixar has never exactly flooded the market with product, but I don't hear anyone complaining about them], "We get there when we get there."
The thing about Anderson's films, as I'm sure I've said here before, is that he tells fundamentally bleak stories by way of slapstick comedy. This provides for maximum discomfort and memorable images. He also has a lot of ideas, and (as his Amex ad, unless I am seriously misreading it, suggests) isn't averse to having fun at his own expense.
It struck me, 10 years ago, while sitting in a cinema in London observing, in amazement, the quality and inventiveness of British cinema advertising, that advertisements would be the next major artform. I have seen nothing since to disabuse me of that notion. Sure, most advertising is rubbish, but then so are most books, movies, paintings; even (perhaps especially) the vast majority of music should never have been made. So why should advertisements be any different?
Anyway, enjoy the ad. After all, you paid for it.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
In the Core of a Flame
[warning: contains cliches]
I first became aware of the Go-Betweens when Three Triple R, in Melbourne, started playing a song called “I Need Two Heads” on high rotation. It stuck out amidst the post-punk sturm und drang for being fragile, melodic, and alive to the values of space in music, and for having an instantly memorable yet simple guitar solo. It set the tone for the Go-Betweens’ future, and for my own, as well: it was one of the earliest “grown-up” records I bought, and I love it still, even as the glue holding the cover together grows weaker and weaker. (It was also the sound of an Australian band finding its own feet; their earlier songs were essentially false starts in the wrong direction - although, to their credit, never disowned: a raucously joyous rendition of “Lee Remick” closed their set in Canberra the tour before last.)
But then Grant McLennan wrote “Cattle and Cain”. Everybody knows “Cattle and Cane”. It was the common reference point in every obituary of Grant (and how incredible, and telling, that he “starred” on the obits pages of the London Independent, the Guardian, and even the New York Times) (and in many ways I still can’t believe, let alone accept, that he is dead) (brief pause while I compose myself)
...
“Cattle and Cane” marked the appearance of a genuinely Australian sense of place in popular music. Yes, we had had Greg Macainsh’s location-specific Skyhooks songs, but there was always a sense that they were really only imported songs with the place-names changed for a bit of local colour. And Sherbet had written a song about infidelity using cricket as a metaphor. (The younger and more naive of us believed for many years that it was actually a song about cricket.) But I don’t think it is mere hyperbole to say that this song changed the way musicians in this country thought about what they were doing. The Triffids’ “Wide Open Road”, a little while later, was the “two” of a magnificent one-two punch.
And in many ways “Cattle and Cane” spoke directly to me. It appeared at a time when I had not long moved to Melbourne, to go to University, and was missing the farm something terrible. The lyrics dug in like a blade. No “cane” in South Gippsland, maybe, but plenty of “cattle”. I had been that schoolboy coming home.
I bought every Go-Betweens album on release. At some point I figured out that each one seemed to connect directly backwards, in some way, with the the album before last; to put it simplistically, their records seemed to move from rough to smooth to rough again. I first saw them play live at The Club, in Smith Street, Collingwood, when they toured Australia on the back of the “Spring Hill Fair” album. We were standing towards the back, but there was a palpable sense of self-confidence and mutual respect amongst the band. Robert Forster, of course, was the showman, but Grant with his quiet intensity almost stole the show as they ended with the feedback-laden song-story “River of Money”.
The story of the Go-Betweens is well enough known to remain unstated, but in a nutshell: an unbroken sequence of critically acclaimed records that sold half a dozen copies each; lack of record company support (I think I am right in saying that, at least in Australia, they never appeared on the same label twice); and a high degree of apparent, but unspoken, interpersonal turmoil. As I wrote previously, the Go-Betweens were never just a band. Then they went their separate ways. I had always been more attracted to Robert’s songs (although, as I have written here previously, it was always Grant's songs that could reduce me to tears, which, I guess, is not a situation that is going to change any time soon), so I picked up each one of his solo records while leaving Grant’s post-Go-Betweens career for others to follow. Then the long wait, seemingly futile but we couldn’t quite let it go, for Robert and Grant to rekindle the flame.
Which they did. Reforming at around the time of a procession of cash-driven “reunion” tours by people who should have known better was perhaps a typical case of Go-Betweens bad-timing-by-association, and there were many, even some of the old faithful, who couldn’t quite get back in the groove. But the rewards were certainly there. “The Friends of Rachel Worth”, the comeback album, was a little bit stitched together, although Grant's “The Clock” suggested that they had really returned, and for all the right reasons. By the time of “Bright Yellow Bright Orange” there was a sense of them becoming, slowly, a seamless unit again.
This was the point, also, at which they played Tilley’s Devine Cafe in Canberra. We thought that we had arrived too late to get a seat, but I happened to spot a former work colleague occupying a table of his own directly below the right-hand side of the stage, at which there were two empty chairs. Adam didn’t seem to mind us crashing his party. As the support band, Architecture in Helsinki, went through their instrument-swapping routine, Grant and Robert were sitting right behind us, in the shadows, watching the band and getting a feel for the crowd. (It was a big crowd; Canberra may not have that many Go-Betweens fans but we were all there, and some of us must have brought along our friends.) When the Go-Betweens hit the stage, Grant was directly in front of, and above, us. I spent a lot of the show watching him, admiring his quiet intensity and the way that he seemed happy for Robert to hog the limelight. It was a great show. The list of songs they didn’t play would have made up a pretty solid greatest-hits package. They were kind and generous performers, and, one thought, grateful, too, for this second chance.
“Oceans Apart” dropped a year or so later. It demonstrated, amply, what the previous two albums had hinted at: that the Go-Betweens mark II were every bit as good as the Go-Betweens mark I. Grant had written something of a sequel to “Cattle and Cane” in "Boundary Rider", and Robert gave us what may be his song for the ages, “Darlinghurst Nights”. It all seemed too good to be true.
They toured Canberra again. Money being, as it always seems to be around here, tight, I decided to pass it up this time, secure in the knowledge that I had seen a great show by them in recent memory, and that they would be back again some day. I was wrong on the second count.
It is impossible, at this point in time, not to think about Robert Forster. Maybe it is possible to imagine a future in which he pursues a sporadic solo career as something of an antipodean Paul McCartney, not too worried about what other people think of what he is doing but also not resting on his past fame as a Go-Between. But it is much too early for any of that. Me, I can’t quite bring myself to put on a Go-Betweens record just yet.
I first became aware of the Go-Betweens when Three Triple R, in Melbourne, started playing a song called “I Need Two Heads” on high rotation. It stuck out amidst the post-punk sturm und drang for being fragile, melodic, and alive to the values of space in music, and for having an instantly memorable yet simple guitar solo. It set the tone for the Go-Betweens’ future, and for my own, as well: it was one of the earliest “grown-up” records I bought, and I love it still, even as the glue holding the cover together grows weaker and weaker. (It was also the sound of an Australian band finding its own feet; their earlier songs were essentially false starts in the wrong direction - although, to their credit, never disowned: a raucously joyous rendition of “Lee Remick” closed their set in Canberra the tour before last.)
But then Grant McLennan wrote “Cattle and Cain”. Everybody knows “Cattle and Cane”. It was the common reference point in every obituary of Grant (and how incredible, and telling, that he “starred” on the obits pages of the London Independent, the Guardian, and even the New York Times) (and in many ways I still can’t believe, let alone accept, that he is dead) (brief pause while I compose myself)
...
“Cattle and Cane” marked the appearance of a genuinely Australian sense of place in popular music. Yes, we had had Greg Macainsh’s location-specific Skyhooks songs, but there was always a sense that they were really only imported songs with the place-names changed for a bit of local colour. And Sherbet had written a song about infidelity using cricket as a metaphor. (The younger and more naive of us believed for many years that it was actually a song about cricket.) But I don’t think it is mere hyperbole to say that this song changed the way musicians in this country thought about what they were doing. The Triffids’ “Wide Open Road”, a little while later, was the “two” of a magnificent one-two punch.
And in many ways “Cattle and Cane” spoke directly to me. It appeared at a time when I had not long moved to Melbourne, to go to University, and was missing the farm something terrible. The lyrics dug in like a blade. No “cane” in South Gippsland, maybe, but plenty of “cattle”. I had been that schoolboy coming home.
I bought every Go-Betweens album on release. At some point I figured out that each one seemed to connect directly backwards, in some way, with the the album before last; to put it simplistically, their records seemed to move from rough to smooth to rough again. I first saw them play live at The Club, in Smith Street, Collingwood, when they toured Australia on the back of the “Spring Hill Fair” album. We were standing towards the back, but there was a palpable sense of self-confidence and mutual respect amongst the band. Robert Forster, of course, was the showman, but Grant with his quiet intensity almost stole the show as they ended with the feedback-laden song-story “River of Money”.
The story of the Go-Betweens is well enough known to remain unstated, but in a nutshell: an unbroken sequence of critically acclaimed records that sold half a dozen copies each; lack of record company support (I think I am right in saying that, at least in Australia, they never appeared on the same label twice); and a high degree of apparent, but unspoken, interpersonal turmoil. As I wrote previously, the Go-Betweens were never just a band. Then they went their separate ways. I had always been more attracted to Robert’s songs (although, as I have written here previously, it was always Grant's songs that could reduce me to tears, which, I guess, is not a situation that is going to change any time soon), so I picked up each one of his solo records while leaving Grant’s post-Go-Betweens career for others to follow. Then the long wait, seemingly futile but we couldn’t quite let it go, for Robert and Grant to rekindle the flame.
Which they did. Reforming at around the time of a procession of cash-driven “reunion” tours by people who should have known better was perhaps a typical case of Go-Betweens bad-timing-by-association, and there were many, even some of the old faithful, who couldn’t quite get back in the groove. But the rewards were certainly there. “The Friends of Rachel Worth”, the comeback album, was a little bit stitched together, although Grant's “The Clock” suggested that they had really returned, and for all the right reasons. By the time of “Bright Yellow Bright Orange” there was a sense of them becoming, slowly, a seamless unit again.
This was the point, also, at which they played Tilley’s Devine Cafe in Canberra. We thought that we had arrived too late to get a seat, but I happened to spot a former work colleague occupying a table of his own directly below the right-hand side of the stage, at which there were two empty chairs. Adam didn’t seem to mind us crashing his party. As the support band, Architecture in Helsinki, went through their instrument-swapping routine, Grant and Robert were sitting right behind us, in the shadows, watching the band and getting a feel for the crowd. (It was a big crowd; Canberra may not have that many Go-Betweens fans but we were all there, and some of us must have brought along our friends.) When the Go-Betweens hit the stage, Grant was directly in front of, and above, us. I spent a lot of the show watching him, admiring his quiet intensity and the way that he seemed happy for Robert to hog the limelight. It was a great show. The list of songs they didn’t play would have made up a pretty solid greatest-hits package. They were kind and generous performers, and, one thought, grateful, too, for this second chance.
“Oceans Apart” dropped a year or so later. It demonstrated, amply, what the previous two albums had hinted at: that the Go-Betweens mark II were every bit as good as the Go-Betweens mark I. Grant had written something of a sequel to “Cattle and Cane” in "Boundary Rider", and Robert gave us what may be his song for the ages, “Darlinghurst Nights”. It all seemed too good to be true.
They toured Canberra again. Money being, as it always seems to be around here, tight, I decided to pass it up this time, secure in the knowledge that I had seen a great show by them in recent memory, and that they would be back again some day. I was wrong on the second count.
It is impossible, at this point in time, not to think about Robert Forster. Maybe it is possible to imagine a future in which he pursues a sporadic solo career as something of an antipodean Paul McCartney, not too worried about what other people think of what he is doing but also not resting on his past fame as a Go-Between. But it is much too early for any of that. Me, I can’t quite bring myself to put on a Go-Betweens record just yet.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Whit Stillman: his part in my downfall
In which the faithful old Guradian [sic] answers the question that has been much on my mind over the last few years, when I have thought about it at all.
Coming soon: Hal Hartley writes, "hey, screw Whit Stillman, has everyone forgotten that I have been missing for several years, too?"; followed some time later by J D Salinger on "what I have been working on since "Hapworth 16, 1924" was published in the New Yorker in 1965, and anyway am I actually still alive?" and then, after another lengthy interval, Scott Walker writes exclusively for us on preparations for his new album, which, given his recent release schedule, is expected to appear in 2018, when he will be 75 years old.
Coming soon: Hal Hartley writes, "hey, screw Whit Stillman, has everyone forgotten that I have been missing for several years, too?"; followed some time later by J D Salinger on "what I have been working on since "Hapworth 16, 1924" was published in the New Yorker in 1965, and anyway am I actually still alive?" and then, after another lengthy interval, Scott Walker writes exclusively for us on preparations for his new album, which, given his recent release schedule, is expected to appear in 2018, when he will be 75 years old.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Part Company
Yesterday morning, the news came over the radio that the Go-Betweens' Grant McLennan had died in his sleep, aged 48.
Perhaps my fragile emotional state was a product of the fact that I was driving in to what would be my 12th day at work in a row, but I had to pull the car over in order to cry.
I think I now have some idea of how Beatles fans felt when Lennon was assassinated, except that in the case of Lennon/McCartney any chance of them getting back together was pie in the sky, whereas Forster/McLennan, after many years of trying to go it alone, had recognised that the whole was so much bigger than the sum of its parts and had resurrected the Go-Betweens, surprisingly but majestically. How cruel, then, that just when they were finally getting the recognition that they had always deserved, it must end.
It is just so sad. My heart goes out, obviously, to Robert Forster, but also to all other past and present Go-Betweens, Adele, Glenn, the other Robert, Amanda, and of course Lindy (who famously shed tears of her own in the post-punk episode of "Long Way To The Top"). The Go-Betweens were never just a band.
Rest in peace, and thank you.
Perhaps my fragile emotional state was a product of the fact that I was driving in to what would be my 12th day at work in a row, but I had to pull the car over in order to cry.
I think I now have some idea of how Beatles fans felt when Lennon was assassinated, except that in the case of Lennon/McCartney any chance of them getting back together was pie in the sky, whereas Forster/McLennan, after many years of trying to go it alone, had recognised that the whole was so much bigger than the sum of its parts and had resurrected the Go-Betweens, surprisingly but majestically. How cruel, then, that just when they were finally getting the recognition that they had always deserved, it must end.
It is just so sad. My heart goes out, obviously, to Robert Forster, but also to all other past and present Go-Betweens, Adele, Glenn, the other Robert, Amanda, and of course Lindy (who famously shed tears of her own in the post-punk episode of "Long Way To The Top"). The Go-Betweens were never just a band.
Rest in peace, and thank you.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Speed Trials
When you have a minute, take a look at this picture (be quick; it will have changed to something else by next Monday).
On close inspection, it seems to indicate that it is designed to play at 32 1/3 rpm. Is that why Dylan's voice doesn't quite sound like anybody else's?
I checked my own copy, but sadly it is a crappy 1980s CBS reissue and is silent on the point.
On close inspection, it seems to indicate that it is designed to play at 32 1/3 rpm. Is that why Dylan's voice doesn't quite sound like anybody else's?
I checked my own copy, but sadly it is a crappy 1980s CBS reissue and is silent on the point.
Monday, May 01, 2006
One Down, One Up
With the death, at age 97, of John Kenneth Galbraith - the sensitive thinking man's economist - the level of common sense in this world has gone down a notch. Or two.
But all is not lost. For what do we see in the New York Times Magazine? Nothing less than a brand new, serialised Maggie story by Xaime Hernandez, coming at you a page at a time, in glorious full colour. No, I didn't believe it either.
But all is not lost. For what do we see in the New York Times Magazine? Nothing less than a brand new, serialised Maggie story by Xaime Hernandez, coming at you a page at a time, in glorious full colour. No, I didn't believe it either.
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