tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-366813642024-03-27T06:38:01.479+00:00Life Is A Malign Fiestadinner of dead languages
come alive screamingSt. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-82708518413332921332011-05-29T18:16:00.021+01:002011-06-11T06:44:35.530+01:00BLURT MEANS BLURT - Blurt, The Fox and Firkin, SE13 28.05.11<span style="color:#ff0000;">It's Saturday night and the nipper is off on her very first sleep-over, thus gifting my lovely and long-suffering wife and myself our first free night together for damn near eight years. What to do with this golden, as rare as your proverbial hen's teeth, well nigh priceless opportunity? Blurt are playing the Fox and Firkin in Lewisham, my manor ... one of my favourite ever bands, a pub, a mere five minutes walk ... I'm tickled pink. We're in South East London and the weekend starts here.<br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ4WLFIeunZS-SEhnc_UMB3qSkrQNl-Dw1rypLLjB-zWMhoWD2XD9jjOR9coTym65jjYPjVkjggSDPhOm4Ew2hdMAPYZqe2BYTGMpqTfJ3ZSYK67ppmqSuxVOfuiWBR9ua2IjN/s1600/Picture+095.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612193827743428946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ4WLFIeunZS-SEhnc_UMB3qSkrQNl-Dw1rypLLjB-zWMhoWD2XD9jjOR9coTym65jjYPjVkjggSDPhOm4Ew2hdMAPYZqe2BYTGMpqTfJ3ZSYK67ppmqSuxVOfuiWBR9ua2IjN/s320/Picture+095.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">Arriving (unfashionably) early we are treated to a soundcheck - a fascinating glimpse into the nuts and bolts of how the Blurt entity is assembled. Ted Milton has a commanding presence even in such informal circumstances, instructing the engineer ... dry on the more aggressive numbers, a little dub echo would be welcome on the dancier ones. My wife reckons she gets a Milton smile while I get a double-take. Whatever can she mean?<br /><br /></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizkivJoei1XJ7HBc5gHCfyu1GP7nNWlmUs7GVvuZ1A4VZxPG0PC_9EkY3EzWso2SLethzBTmixCxJ6guP9MJ4Upc8j1noInqa_sCDPWa0uINSSdT4H7fDrkbmYdW4kBRWGkZ0V/s1600/Picture+087.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612193826048570306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizkivJoei1XJ7HBc5gHCfyu1GP7nNWlmUs7GVvuZ1A4VZxPG0PC_9EkY3EzWso2SLethzBTmixCxJ6guP9MJ4Upc8j1noInqa_sCDPWa0uINSSdT4H7fDrkbmYdW4kBRWGkZ0V/s320/Picture+087.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">Ted Milton, long-serving lieutenant Steve Eagles on guitar and Dave Aylward on drums - a very tight and disciplined unit. Plenty of space, very inventive. Once the gig starts they are straight into business -well-drilled, this band. Angular noise, lop-sided tunes, rock-hard clattering beats.<br /><br /><br />Songs from the new(ish) album <em>Cut It!</em> (go and buy a copy now, a fine album) such as the title track, 'The Bells' and 'Pure Scenario' stack up nicely against Blurt classics such as 'Enemy Ears' and 'Amour De Ma Vie' (the latter a particular favourite of mine ... I always detect an Afrobeat influence there .... but then again that's the way I am) and the mighty 'The Fish Needs A Bike', a song as loved by my nipper as myself. A quick, guitar-free run through 'Kenny Rogers' Greatest Hit' while Mr Eagles changes a string (truncated by Milton just as Eagles is ready to come in on the beat - got to keep them on their toes), too. "Were you just about to start playing guitar?" asks Milton.<br /><br />Now, I take Milton seriously as a sax-player ... melodic invention and rhythmic nous, energy and attitude; your jazz purist may turn up his nose and Milton himself may be diffident about his abilities but I love his stuff. Didn't Don Cherry once express his admiration? That's good enough for me. Too much melody gives you a sugar rush - far too sweet at the time and very soon leaves you feeling nauseous - Milton's sax gives you melody in shards, along with enough dissonance, enough <em>noise</em>, to spice things up. Too much technique becomes sterile, wit and attitude will always trump empty virtuosity, and Milton's playing is very witty indeed. In fact, his technique, at close quarters, is all his own and when he gets down to blowing with no hands it's enough to give some jazz snobs palpitations. Which is a good thing.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAZckLsn9-mDBHXeRkwR6Yr4qTfEBh_BEbrglqPaQKYtBof3glnEYMSlWU-TTDYHuCy4CXZJ0MS1WEyiUai9zAnEGS3DAGO0EDyw6uhm72vVEl5wlByA6az8bv-C5YIFA9bl5y/s1600/Picture+078.jpg"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612193820417330050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAZckLsn9-mDBHXeRkwR6Yr4qTfEBh_BEbrglqPaQKYtBof3glnEYMSlWU-TTDYHuCy4CXZJ0MS1WEyiUai9zAnEGS3DAGO0EDyw6uhm72vVEl5wlByA6az8bv-C5YIFA9bl5y/s320/Picture+078.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;">And what goes for Milton goes for Blurt as a whole (as above, so below, very Hermetic) -tunes, driving rhythms, noise - no indulgence, no flab. It's just what you want.<br /><br />Hats off, too, for Steve Eagles - a man for whom the word 'laconic' might well have been invented. His guitar work is consistently inventive, challenging and propulsive. Minimal effects but a wealth of tones and textures .... and Dave Aylward really hits those drums. It's perfect for the Blurt sound.<br />Mr Milton's stage presence, too, is inimicable - theatrical, dangerous, slyly funny, a hint of menace; and one of the great lyricists - you can quote Milton lines all day long and there aren't many you can say that of. He's as close to Max Wall or Charlie Chaplin as he is to your average pop singer; little dance moves, grimaces ... a one off -I've never seen Blurt give a mediocre performance and tonight was no exception. Expressionistic and romantic, and off on a frolic of their own. We'll not see their like again.</span></p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com78tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-73776963028210095812008-02-15T08:14:00.011+00:002008-02-16T13:26:23.944+00:00Alas, poor Yorick!<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdF2ao7LrpmSPwXG3gwPmMBr5g1cgTufYV-Ols4PiA8iOt8IsiISfw8nfRRzTSl2EEbeYX96wdPZlpo97syColkvUcJjFvGUcnbEYqd6VoAfvrikvQ8KyZ422DJTjjr82S6MI/s1600-h/ex58.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167117804563108306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdF2ao7LrpmSPwXG3gwPmMBr5g1cgTufYV-Ols4PiA8iOt8IsiISfw8nfRRzTSl2EEbeYX96wdPZlpo97syColkvUcJjFvGUcnbEYqd6VoAfvrikvQ8KyZ422DJTjjr82S6MI/s400/ex58.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">The death mask of Laurence Sterne</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;">("Authenticity not verified" ... how very Sternean).</span><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QkpIJEkNXmGJPNvshLAc0BEqfywokBN85oXPTEPIX7-cjIRsH-Uiu7g4Xr9oOcAHSTdzvZLsGCCKC0MZxR7cV84J5PI8W7qQ7IUbLMC-BvdwAGvGVfZvhseDRIEPuhpYxDm_/s1600-h/ex56.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167117641354351042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QkpIJEkNXmGJPNvshLAc0BEqfywokBN85oXPTEPIX7-cjIRsH-Uiu7g4Xr9oOcAHSTdzvZLsGCCKC0MZxR7cV84J5PI8W7qQ7IUbLMC-BvdwAGvGVfZvhseDRIEPuhpYxDm_/s400/ex56.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">The death mask of Jonathan Swift</span> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span> </div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-61892594074830481592008-02-02T18:10:00.000+00:002008-02-02T18:37:37.170+00:00Bloody Groundhog Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUM5tkElzP1yggs0KfwYRnymlmwfNPLyvujYntJ83UJRbZqMZa-V7P6FKNKzztPVZz0I8CUhZgGi4BLl5fBjtItrLESJkIrT2vnAxAP7ZxjppUxoL9DV-i6Nz7yma-qqEAZLJ/s1600-h/main_joyce.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162447051682979874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUM5tkElzP1yggs0KfwYRnymlmwfNPLyvujYntJ83UJRbZqMZa-V7P6FKNKzztPVZz0I8CUhZgGi4BLl5fBjtItrLESJkIrT2vnAxAP7ZxjppUxoL9DV-i6Nz7yma-qqEAZLJ/s400/main_joyce.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">Diary entry for 2nd February, 2008.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">Celebrated Joyce's birthday in by now time-honoured fashion.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">Went out to celebrate; got pissed on white wine; misquoted <em>Ulysses</em> in slurred tones; insulted two bully beef squaddies who, while I was searching for just that right <em>bon mot</em>, fetched me several blows about the head; staggered home, much the worse for wear. That's another pair of trousers beyond repair.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">Can't wait for next year when I get to do it all again.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ff0000;">Joyce looks down from Heaven (he's very good about it, he lets God back on His throne on Sundays), shakes his head, smiles and whispers <em>edjit</em>.</span></div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-46448784654958299872008-01-23T07:40:00.001+00:002008-01-23T14:07:27.690+00:00Ten Guilty Little SecretsResponding to the gauntlet insouciantly thrown down by Dominic Zero to confess to "ten records that hide at the back of your collection that no grown man should own" ... oh dear, it was a struggle to get it down to a mere ten.<br /><br />1)<span style="color:#ff0000;">Something Happened On The Way To Heaven - Phil Collins</span> Actually, I put up a post on this very song, 24.1.07 - he may be a Tory-voting shitehawk, but I insist this is a wonderful and poignant little ditty. And the keerazy video, complete with dog shit, is still a kitsch classic.<br />2)<span style="color:#ff0000;">King Of Pain - The Police</span> The dreadful Mr Sumner, sucking up to any passing Amazonian Indian while treating his domestics like shit and indulging in, um, <em>congress</em> with that harpy for ten hours at a time ... what a tosser.<br />3)<span style="color:#ff0000;">Synchronicity II - The Police</span> Fuck me, <em>two</em> Police songs? Oh my God, am I a closet fan and never actually knew it? This was designed to appeal to my deep-seated pseudness, referencing as it does Yeats and Jung.<br />4)<span style="color:#ff0000;">You're A Lady - Peter Skellern</span> The dirty bastard.<br />5)<span style="color:#ff0000;">Candy Girl - New Edition</span> It's a thinly disguised rip-off of 'ABC', and it features Bobby Brown, who is, officially, an utter wanker. Nice little song, though.<br />6)<span style="color:#ff0000;">Chasing Rainbows - Shed Seven</span> Chronic indie under-achievers, with a lead singer more convincingly simian than Ian Brown could ever be. Be afraid, they have reformed.<br />7)<span style="color:#ff0000;">Radio Africa - Latin Quarter</span> The missus was once righteously appalled when I insisted on singing this in a dreadful cod Jamaican accent for the best part of an afternoon. Loudly. And, for a long time, I thought it was by Toto.<br />8) <span style="color:#ff0000;">Hand Held In Black and White - Dollar</span> As with (4), I was dubious about putting this down, coming perilously close as it does to 'guilty pleasure' style kitsch indulgence, but it's a Trevor Horn production and a lush old piece of Spectoresque pop.<br />9)<span style="color:#ff0000;">Friends - Bette Midler</span> Heard this on the soundtrack of <em>The Last Of Sheila</em>, a wonderful little oddity of a movie, written by Anthony Perkins and Stephen Sondheim (the movie, not the song). I even went out and bought a Midler greatest hits album just to get a copy of this song. And I don't care who knows it.<br />10)<span style="color:#ff0000;">Who Made Who - AC/DC</span> Has there been some kind of Led Zep style rehabilitation for AC/DC, or are they forever safely beyond the realms of <em>good taste</em>?St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-69703744349212539482007-11-21T07:07:00.000+00:002007-11-21T11:35:01.222+00:00Tiny Cinema 5<p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw_FOMY8xvb_MSvQj8IYublWxUDMQIJdJ0lEI1totYrrpL78FiqdfiBJbuBUmDKxIh54j1et_VVdXw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">The pedagogue in me offers major and definitive statement of filmic praxis. We intend to move on all fronts - the <em>Gesamtkunstwerk</em> is the building that must be built.</span></p><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">Diagetic vs non-diagetic - Eisenstein's horror of the merely anecdotal; the re/de/composition of the image/sound gestalt. Filmic space as privileged site. We are non-homogenous. We prefer to move vertically.</span></p><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">Montage is what films are. Films are what montage is. Is montage what films are? Are films what montage is? </span></p><p><span style="color:#ff0000;">No, really.</span></p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-5331579848954831262007-11-14T14:14:00.000+00:002007-11-14T14:36:04.801+00:00Tiny Cinema 4<p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzaCdc70F_PFErwZQYeFcktGfQEyweHR7Jf2uVL594y8BtKFjrgw-kNiLejoJzzXVqd4wNFjP9fRIg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><p> ... the old movies ...</p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-68616090372257956332007-11-01T13:14:00.000+00:002007-11-01T13:29:43.566+00:00Tiny Cinema 3<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dySW4W8rIcmsXVXj_tdc1CN1ZnYDAcKNsaBOoMcOyI9v51PUz-RHI-kAok1gfaVn_hH3Lnf0KDePuk' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-12893989121278647652007-10-14T16:29:00.000+01:002007-10-14T16:34:57.959+01:00Tiny Cinema 2<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyDT0ZzmvirtD39YXY9o2P5da1lUArvj0nyWrR6gO3AChxkm__M022xeeQx4gwZHLrTckU2YEFVFlQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-4213980349287726312007-10-12T13:45:00.000+01:002007-10-12T13:51:12.804+01:00Tiny Cinema 1<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzOCIu34PRrx7UVeTe0UQVqiJBTJZJ_99s9alFeQyzAuos6ADlKPlQ_vcshimX3j85D8X8sEr3Hzd4' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-57266538770563645612007-09-24T16:22:00.000+01:002007-10-04T07:21:34.726+01:00Someone Must Have Left It Underneath The CarpetWhat do the critics know? A Certain Ratio, often dismissed as Joy Division copyists, as perennial under-achievers, were something far more rich and strange than that.<br /><br />Well, anyway, there is a good case to be made for ACR both sounding and looking (what is the more important, I wonder? I mean, in the ripe old context of <em>pop</em>? Paul Morley once congratulated Edwyn Collins for apprehending the significance of Simon Topping's haircuts) like Joy Division before Joy Division did (or, at the very least, developing an early sound contemporary to and independent of Joy Division, a sound that operated in similar areas.). The grey and black palette (both aurally and visually), the demob clothes and hair-cuts, the post-punk drone and buzz, the mono/baritone vocals, the lyrics wittily dripping ennui and despair? ACR looked and sounded like the uber-Factory act while Joy Division were still sporting leather trousers and 'taches. ACR got there first ...<br /><br />(Actually, they got to New York and into the clubs before New Order did too ... and isn't it the case that David Byrne first picked up a taste for funk when ACR supported Talking Heads over here? See? They got there first).<br /><br /><br />The earliest incarnation, one sadly unrecorded - a duo featuring Simon 'Dream' Topping and Peter Terrell on guitars and noise generator. Eno (obviously), Kraftwerk and Wire are mentioned as influences. By the time of the first single , the mighty 'All Night Party'/ 'The Thin Boys', the band is a four piece - Topping on vocals, Terrell and Martin Moscrop on guitars (used as rhythmic rather than melodic elements) and electronics and Jeremy Kerr on bass. That's right, no drums. And they didn't need them - listen to 'All Night Party' and you can hear, already, the skeletal funk influence they would develop, carried by the fiercely scratched and pummelled guitars. Wonderful stuff.<br /><br />And they found their spiritual home in Factory ... even catching Tony Wilson as manager (it was down to A Certain Ratio's good offices that he got himself a halfway decent haircut). He, for a while, loved them very much. Is the myth about him rubbing fake tan into their thighs true? "But best of all I liked the white shirts. The Thin Boys. Even profoundly heterosexual managers have love affairs with their charges", he wrote. They coulda been, they shoulda been ... up there with Joy Division. Treated like royalty.<br /><br /><br />And then they asked Wilson to find them a drummer, a real life funk drummer. Enter Donald Johnson and, for a while, ACR had it all. A perfect collision of pop and Krautrock and post-punk and funk and anything else they fancied. Precision and discipline and wit and sex and style. Fucking perfect. Before the dread spectre of 'musicianship' threw a spanner in the works they were, I insist, perfect. For a while, just a moment gone as quickly as you like. Then technique set in, the desire to get real, get authentic. It's been the death of many a great pop band, and it did for ACR.<br /><br />Of course, any Ratioer is more than entitled to tell me to keep my opinions to myself ... they did what they did and, I assume, made the music they wanted to make. And made some music I love along the way. Who could ask for anything more?<br />(And, having said that, there is some wonderful music on every subsequent ACR release ... their Latin grooves, for instance ... stick some of their stuff on an anonymous white label 12" and give it to some trend-setting DJs and they would be raving about the wonderful rare grooves they'd just discovered).<br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGF6moSloAQkRaquvi894CtS2RDsVxq1N-dV3PA4AtuS5TszpriIIVI_HZXFrbkE-yIXJU3nQr5GOKPg3AZbSykp3GhGnjodMxjVgHwWzRYZCQC0AIAs7bTm-eEf9a3MhUr6W/s1600-h/005.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113791622008217602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGF6moSloAQkRaquvi894CtS2RDsVxq1N-dV3PA4AtuS5TszpriIIVI_HZXFrbkE-yIXJU3nQr5GOKPg3AZbSykp3GhGnjodMxjVgHwWzRYZCQC0AIAs7bTm-eEf9a3MhUr6W/s400/005.gif" border="0" /></a><br />Where does the first album proper, <em>To Each ...</em> , stand now? Generally regarded as a missed opportunity, by the band as much as anyone else. I love it, actually. Recorded in New Jersey and brought to perfection by Martin Hannett only for his settings to be zeroed by a hapless studio engineer (described by Tony Wilson as "that fucking six foot five hippy") just before the final mix, it is now a critical commonplace that the spark was lost then and there ... hmmm, not sure about that. The Twilight Zone funk of 'Felch' and 'Forced Laugh', the percussion epic that is 'Winter Hill' ... they all stand up today.</p><br /><p>Of course, with the arrogance and assurance of youth, they'd already released some of their best material on a series of singles - the aforementioned 'All Night Party'/'The Thin Boys' 7"and 'Shack Up', the 'Flight' and 'Do The Du(casse)' 12"s. Who cares? They were young and talent is for burning.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaEey_zmmvCh1oWfK5Pm06xovNKOloFyKxsNoxeIgqweS8yzAu3piTIwRhyphenhyphen-417GHSi6aR-I1PzPXb2uFq3yesoTAa5P1yPmgGMFuukqBSJXdfKbavTLfNWrEq_TO6RBtIRQI/s1600-h/acertain.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113791561878675442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaEey_zmmvCh1oWfK5Pm06xovNKOloFyKxsNoxeIgqweS8yzAu3piTIwRhyphenhyphen-417GHSi6aR-I1PzPXb2uFq3yesoTAa5P1yPmgGMFuukqBSJXdfKbavTLfNWrEq_TO6RBtIRQI/s400/acertain.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />'Flight', perhaps ACR's finest achievement (one of Factory's finest, too and a perfect argument for just how <em>necessary</em> it all was)... six minutes of transcendental hypnotic funk as James Nice called it . </p><p>Well, they looked so perfect. That means a lot - the Hungry Thirties Factory chic, the military look (all WWII khaki shorts, camouflage gear and fake tan ... it went with the trumpets, see?) that was appropriated double quick by Echo and The Bunnymen ... (if memory serves, the music press went overboard for the Bunnymen then, everyone thought it so witty), the sports gear. Trend setters every time. </p><p>It was an idea very much in the air at the time - white musicians who had been inspired by (or borrowed an impetus from) Punk bending an ear to various black musics, dub and funk and what have you and giving it a special twist. The individual stamp that comes from not playing the music in the 'right' way. ACR were among the best ... The Pop Group tried too hard, The Slits not hard enough, P.i.L. were too lazy, The Gang of Four too macho. ACR were separate ... unlike many of their contemporaries, they had a vital dash of sex, they were young and sharp, they had spunk in their funk ( I mean, they always looked clean, whereas The Slits ... they more often than not looked as if their knickers would be soiled (which, admittedly, has its own attractions)). They, also, lacked the smugness prevalent in the scenes around The Slits (The Pop Group or New Age Steppers or what have you) ... ofays sporting dreads and talking in cod Ja accents. What did Mark E. Smith say? "<em>The grim reefer ... The Kensington white rastas run for</em> <em>cabs/This I have seen</em>."</p><p>In Topping they had the perfect frontman. Why did it have to end? The same damaged choir boy looks as Barney Sumner, for a start, the wonderfully baritone vocals, an interesting lyrical stance ("<em>My heart was just an open sore/Which you picked at 'till it was sore</em>" ... it's a love song!), the anarchic trumpet technique, that little noise box he wielded, just the two settings, on and off. Brilliance in every moment. </p><br /><p>But something had a hold of Simon Topping, and maybe he knew exactly what it was. Topping's gradual self-effacement from his own band, his long slow retreat into obscurity ... a power struggle with Johnson for the soul of the band? ("He retreated behind the trumpet and then behind the timbales and then behind a girl singer called Tilly" wrote Wilson). Actually, Wilson had a Romantic notion that Topping never quite recovered from the death of Ian Curtis. Who knows? Were Topping and Curtis as close as Wilson asserts? They certainly played a lot of gigs together. In any case, Topping, in his own style, wrote himself out of the picture just as surely as did Curtis, if in less dramatic fashion.</p><p>He later played with Quando Quango, appeared on a Durutti Column album and released a good (though not, perhaps, essential) Latin tinged single 'Prospect Park' ... he moved to New York, he turned up at the soundcheck for a New Order concert there (causing Barney to exclaim:"fucking hell, Simon, great haircut or what!") and then ... what? Where did he go? What does he do now? Anyone know? (Rumours, rumours ... he started a degree at Loughborough University, he became a piano tuner, he did this, he did that). <em>I'm looking for a certain</em> Simon Topping.</p><p></p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com105tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-80876382392057975312007-09-17T07:13:00.001+01:002007-09-25T11:41:25.120+01:00Day In, Day Out *<div align="left">*or 'oh no, not another bloody piece about Joy Division'</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">It is always a fairly dubious experience when one's obsessions, particularly those most internalised, most personal, become public property; become, my God, spread all over the <em>newspapers</em>. I am happy, in the main, pottering along with a little set of interests few others care about - or, certainly, no one in my immediate enviroment, in my (God help me) <em>peer group</em>. As a young man, being very taken with Louis-Ferdinand Celine or, say, Kenneth Anger wasn't the best way to make friends - it wasn't, let me tell you, the quickest route to getting the girls interested.<br />I recall the release of Cronenberg's provocative but very flawed adaptation of <em>Naked Lunch</em> - suddenly you had poorly informed articles about William S. Burroughs appearing in the mainstream press ... shocking, that was, to me. I had thought I was on pretty safe ground with Uncle Bill, here was an interest of mine, surely, never designed for overground consumption.<br /><br /><br />Now here we go again - a sudden flurry (I originally wrote, parapraxis-wise, <em>slurry</em>) of Joy Division related activity; the imminent release of the Ian Curtis biopic <em>Closer</em>, a documentary about the band currently picking up awards at international film festivals, the repackaging (again!) of the back catalogue, the recent , very sad, death of Tony (that's Anthony H. to you and me) Wilson - all these conspire to push the lads back under the beady eye of Grub Street ... the one place Joy Division doesn't belong. Jesus, I even picked up a copy of The Observer yesterday to be confronted by another lengthy article about the film and the group - the second in a month or so (albeit one penned by Paul Morley and featured in the Observer Music Monthly glossy magazine ... still, it sits awkwardly between the adverts for booze, expensive sound systems and James Blunt's new album). The mainstream media, it seems to me, is particularly ill-suited to dealing with pop music - one glance over the album reviews in The Guardian, say, is enough to convince one of the futility of (in the main) Oxbridge-educated snobs struggling to get to grip with the gnarly soul of pop music - an art form both too trivial and far, far too important to be left to the mainstream.</div><br /><div align="left">Joy Division, and this seems such an embarrassingly obvious thing to write, was always the obsession of the loner. Every performance of theirs I saw, I saw alone - playing a copy of 'Transmission' to some friends (doctrinaire punks, in the main) to complete incomprehension, watching them perform on the TV programme <em>Something Else</em> to a background rumble of guffaws and laughter ... these are moments designed to make you love them all the fiercer, but alone. Joy Division's music seems to inhabit a peculiar <em>interzone</em> between community and solitude ... they made the sort of records designed for hunching over the stereo, alone in your bedroom. Of course, at the gigs, it used to be a shock to see others dressed in the Factory style ... wasn't that just me?<br /></div>Going home on the Tube after seeing them, for instance, at the Electric Ballroom (A Certain Ratio supporting ... is this the gig I saw Simon Topping take a Coke can full on the head? "Fuck off!" he said) , who could you tell what you had just seen? No one else I knew would have cared, and it would have been hard to put it into words in any case. Was it a great gig, by conventional rock standards? I don't know, I couldn't care less ... I do know that seeing Curtis perform in that way was nothing to do with entertainment.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3cqiWRHoZ1iMBgTh5wc-003TwVVuMmD2AiPNlC6utPpfOQqscAsbkETXJO4XdW19aSZDaeaDa7KO21wruz5weyymVj3IDiLgV9F0eVxqrbFhrPcv8oTJAc7Bd0StFkuK0Q2q/s1600-h/Joy+Division.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111052468391171234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3cqiWRHoZ1iMBgTh5wc-003TwVVuMmD2AiPNlC6utPpfOQqscAsbkETXJO4XdW19aSZDaeaDa7KO21wruz5weyymVj3IDiLgV9F0eVxqrbFhrPcv8oTJAc7Bd0StFkuK0Q2q/s400/Joy+Division.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">Factory workers taking a break</span><br /></p><br /><p align="left">Joy Division's music, it seems to me, always sounds so bloody <em>archetypal</em> ... the songs sound so right, so inevitable, almost as though they had always existed and were just waiting for someone to actually hear them, to pull them out of the air and give them form. Every song, every album seems carved in stone (not, I think, merely a response to the Factory predilection for tombstone imagery) - one can hardly imagine a note, a word changed now we have them in their final, their canonical forms. As they went on (during their sadly truncated lifetime) they, unlike my beloved A Certain Ratio, seem to become more and more like themselves. The music became more and more Joy Division. Every element of Joy Division seems absolutely integral to the overall design; not just the contribution made by Curtis' lyrics and performance style but Stephen Morris' drumming (surely one of the most under-rated musicians in pop music? Up there with Moe Tucker and Klaus Dinger), Hook's bass, Albrecht's/Rubble's/Dicken's/Sumner's angular guitar ... every element fits.<br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111052399671694482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq33mg5HV0OHYBmtcle4j0TmkNwbV2-8apWvQx7tO8fzNLtwZhCEEP2-L3d_X5d_dEDUteIxZqY3J9-qgRpb030pmBBhUZ-tG8X9mLPaEDV7aGelXu4xTkX5y_WzfeuH773T76/s400/joy_division1.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;">The young men </span><em><span style="color:#ff0000;">in situ</span><br /></em><br /><br /></p><p align="left">(The whole Factory set-up, the ethos, appealed to me; it was exactly what I was looking for - serious young men in grey and black demob clothes and Hitler Jugend haircuts, the sly sense of humour, the unapologetic high-art gloss, the groups creating a way out of the morass music found itself in after the initial charge of Punk had burned itself out, leaving us with the ludicrous and lumpen likes of the U.K Subs.<br />Factory artifacts were so tactile, so beautiful; the heavy paper sleeve of A Certain Ratio's 'All Night Party'/'The Thin Boys' 7", Lenny Bruce dead on one side, Tony Perkins on the other; the plastic wallet and insert of ACR's tape release <em>The Graveyard and the Ballroom</em>; the mysterious image adorning the textured sleeve of <em>Unknown Pleasures</em>; the sandpaper sheathing <em>The Return of</em> <em>The Durutti Column</em> (designed to destroy your record collection!); even the embossed sleeve of the Crawling Chaos 7" 'Sex Machine';</p><p align="left">(and I never think of Joy Division as morbid or death-obsessed, rather as life-affirming and uplifting. They made, for my money, the most <em>human</em>, the most vunerable music. Paradoxically, the more electronic, the more machine-like they became, the more human. They were, for me, the real Northen Soul. I believe Curtis genuinely meant it when he sang "love life, makes you feel higher." Even now, listening to their music (and that of New Order) makes me feel alive and responsive, makes me feel moved, engages my heart and guts and brain. Isn't that what art is supposed to do?); </p><br /><p align="left">(and I hate all those awful rock'n'roll cliches, "live fast, die young" and all that claptrap. Joy Division was so <em>un</em>rock'n'roll - it was so perfect that they looked like weird bank clerks from some science fiction 1930s that never existed. They struck me as four young men who worked hard and achieved something of real and lasting value. The admirable thing about Joy Division is the honesty; they just got on with the job - playing live, practicing, recording. So much 'entertainment' these days has palpable designs on you, on your money, on your attention, on your sense of worth ... Joy Division didn't clamour for your love, didn't bully or cajole, just got quietly down to work. Art, real art, stays with us, long after the people who made it or the conditions that obtained have disappeared - stays and exists on its own terms. That's art, that's music, that's life);</p><p align="left">(and I love Barney's description of his response when he got the phone call telling him of Curtis' suicide - "I put the phone down and went and washed my face with cold water. Then I got back on the phone and took it like a man." I like that, they had real courage, the men of Joy Division, real spine. it makes me feel very proud of the lads);</p><br /><p align="left">(and it's none of my business why Curtis did what he did ... perhaps, at the end, he was too tired. What is enough, for me, is that he had a hand in creating something of definitive value and meaning, music that inspires and exorts. Something that had an impact on me in ways that I can only guess at. I grew up listening to the music of Joy Division and New Order, is it absurd to think it had a part in making me (for better or worse) the person I am today? Tony Wilson wouldn't have thought so. That's good enough for me)).</p><br /><br /><br /><p align="left"><br /></p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-5932992300896107382007-08-18T07:45:00.001+01:002007-08-19T20:01:50.763+01:00Lady Godiva's OperationWhen I heard the doctors standing over my hospital bed discussing my massive subarachnoid haemorrhage and how I was now in a persistent vegetative state, I laughed. I then tried to climb out of bed and soiled my hospital gown.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMij30SVi_eu0hekFT71AvKQbqKvFZrYgHio6CKBzKQigbW7UJCjB9PDCLn1aBUPrcGPSRwXgMLiZSFRe9WbLV_Kw0EmhSDUb9zE2aXGZB4Sa3FoDjSWk7YANqcxgTbIzA01o/s1600-h/rabidDog.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099928252851613554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMij30SVi_eu0hekFT71AvKQbqKvFZrYgHio6CKBzKQigbW7UJCjB9PDCLn1aBUPrcGPSRwXgMLiZSFRe9WbLV_Kw0EmhSDUb9zE2aXGZB4Sa3FoDjSWk7YANqcxgTbIzA01o/s400/rabidDog.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">My brain enjoying it's haemorrhage</span></div><br /><br /><br />It was with some chagrin that I realised I had not, while comatose, been subjected to any violent and humiliating sexual assaults. What am I, chopped liver?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0O4Q6fT2UVyTLF4MP6Rc4n1Tg71FXWOb8_4gH1c-ibw_F2s4XT9Pnopn9AZty0LuRhwg-ulZUiKHLGyTjgpqJ7gvqVi2Qqpb-2kQwuVdBGGdRGccXsRmbDCq741cCmCTDoIx/s1600-h/219.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099928184132136802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0O4Q6fT2UVyTLF4MP6Rc4n1Tg71FXWOb8_4gH1c-ibw_F2s4XT9Pnopn9AZty0LuRhwg-ulZUiKHLGyTjgpqJ7gvqVi2Qqpb-2kQwuVdBGGdRGccXsRmbDCq741cCmCTDoIx/s400/219.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#ff0000;"> I am told my anal wink response is unusually highly developed.<br /></span><br /></div><br />I recall, filtered through my post-anesthesia haze, the sneering, insinuating tone of my doctor as he discussed my case bedside: the human nervous system ... what is to be done with it? Reduce it to a compact, abbreviated spinal column whatnot. The brain ... reptilian, mammalian and upper primate ... surely evolution demands it goes the way of the appendix and the adenoid? Redesign, gentleman! Redesign, retool, reboot! Wire the mouth directly into the anus! Dispense with all this antiquated plumbing!<br />I can, even now, recall the ribald sounds ... it seems there was quite a commotion as he was led away, still declaiming.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5sLleFMCUcU0c2UfrGdKgTO2AwTA-zCJ3JFhhnjYHq0V1a_X_fmnHNLhub3Tip-huQdsWnBpPSIJBCZYxVu7vLorO0wmJQtif-x2xA0nIKpgXfHDK_CqPHrHxIIe1t2EgntJc/s1600-h/meat.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099928089642856274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5sLleFMCUcU0c2UfrGdKgTO2AwTA-zCJ3JFhhnjYHq0V1a_X_fmnHNLhub3Tip-huQdsWnBpPSIJBCZYxVu7vLorO0wmJQtif-x2xA0nIKpgXfHDK_CqPHrHxIIe1t2EgntJc/s400/meat.gif" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">The operation was a success but the patient will never play piano again.</span></div><br /><br /><div align="left">While I was under sedation some wag had tattooed a yellow Star of David on my forehead. Laugh? I could have choked on a ham sandwich ... kosher, of course. </div></div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-91062815111627914602007-08-17T16:23:00.001+01:002007-08-17T16:27:13.942+01:00untilted post<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWFcYu33SNfl79RR_PFyBMaUWzouKRg5kf_4wWStvqyEcx03VGP3wvxnhFFxKwUbu1tu_GeLD_W6rBn24l39FzTD_EMlGF_0JRDWfcLdhj_SxAbGqr1jodGlbjOwpSPHlEHwM/s1600-h/AUTECHRE300.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099690500641976082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWFcYu33SNfl79RR_PFyBMaUWzouKRg5kf_4wWStvqyEcx03VGP3wvxnhFFxKwUbu1tu_GeLD_W6rBn24l39FzTD_EMlGF_0JRDWfcLdhj_SxAbGqr1jodGlbjOwpSPHlEHwM/s400/AUTECHRE300.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCMaxLcKl3TOk7m7NNSWLzeosfG-104Fi2wwxQnwJsFFUyUc8iqcseXJvK5fD9_6HPdiextzisNz0C4J5qgidvEU1vGJojJwqPUA43MjdlKocq0EFiWL8TSwsgZH8nSs-sIjX/s1600-h/Autechre.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099690431922499330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCMaxLcKl3TOk7m7NNSWLzeosfG-104Fi2wwxQnwJsFFUyUc8iqcseXJvK5fD9_6HPdiextzisNz0C4J5qgidvEU1vGJojJwqPUA43MjdlKocq0EFiWL8TSwsgZH8nSs-sIjX/s400/Autechre.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-26166004285349725132007-06-26T07:20:00.001+01:002007-06-26T07:29:19.285+01:00Jean Genet Is Dead<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1cwHq66NjQLvxNxdvsYmoNxtFHHoDwhvx05kuvdjPbo1fo4fyfrPCNQstnuV55jb45GHZb2iOLN4Ypbl9XOwxgTFA5S00eHQ2FuOc3qnFwR4P4wNQunvVJr_Zuq038YDMugF/s1600-h/3250_110669513676.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080254195598330754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1cwHq66NjQLvxNxdvsYmoNxtFHHoDwhvx05kuvdjPbo1fo4fyfrPCNQstnuV55jb45GHZb2iOLN4Ypbl9XOwxgTFA5S00eHQ2FuOc3qnFwR4P4wNQunvVJr_Zuq038YDMugF/s400/3250_110669513676.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-p6RPS6e5vpmPyyqJ3H9Bmagqz0ZAZJXczfEdXqeLjpvS1UmYznAOLyQqN4CHLp2At1BhkY9nxTczbo9XFu00ynJ-ussQaW4WVyzUhtWOM9phLQfokz3xWcr5efLfEr1LL5W/s1600-h/3250_110669477499.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080254131173821298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-p6RPS6e5vpmPyyqJ3H9Bmagqz0ZAZJXczfEdXqeLjpvS1UmYznAOLyQqN4CHLp2At1BhkY9nxTczbo9XFu00ynJ-ussQaW4WVyzUhtWOM9phLQfokz3xWcr5efLfEr1LL5W/s400/3250_110669477499.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Spanish Cemetery, Larache, Morocco<br /><br /><div></div></div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-7614803607715320272007-06-16T07:24:00.000+01:002007-06-16T07:53:40.539+01:00Bloomsday Comes But Once A Year<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ym3VSd3bUz_uzsjEZR3p-bcB20yPhGAhCrWr-EUahN97lXYp3LF_4wA9zekKxbuFW1i9VCFbMi7biKt33htSy_OHekBAUU0YrUMg4-VVdLjIAPBDbWDL-hvE33h2LExUVomI/s1600-h/slices-9822.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076544550740396898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ym3VSd3bUz_uzsjEZR3p-bcB20yPhGAhCrWr-EUahN97lXYp3LF_4wA9zekKxbuFW1i9VCFbMi7biKt33htSy_OHekBAUU0YrUMg4-VVdLjIAPBDbWDL-hvE33h2LExUVomI/s400/slices-9822.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Bloom with careful hand clutched his flower.<br />Smell the almost no smell. Language of. Yes. We are here to read. Sweets of sin, old sweet song.<br />Sighing, he peered out into the gathering dusk.<br />I am a. I am a.St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-39172605958746074782007-06-14T07:57:00.001+01:002007-06-14T14:05:44.538+01:00THIS IS A FINAL WARNING. CLEAR THE PARK. DISPERSE<div align="left">Ancient history, this - but one minute ago is history and yesterday a thousand years gone.<br />The Democratic Convention, Chicago, 1968 - significant both for the brutality with which Mayor Daley's police force/stormtroopers and the National Guard attacked the assembled ranks of civil rights campaigners and peaceniks gathered to protest and for the attention concentrated on these events by the media ( not least of which because of the indiscriminate beatings handed out to a large number of journalists and reporters).<br /><br />An interesting enough series of events in and of themselves (many echoes of today, how we got here, what happened along the way), but where my obsessions really come into play is the decision of the editors of Esquire magazine to employ three certain individuals to cover the convention - namely, get this for a rum old crew, Jean Genet, William S. Burroughs and Terry Southern. Add to this the presence in Chicago of Allen Ginsberg leading a carnival of freaks (distributing acid-spiked honey to the crowd a speciality) and you have a recipe for real chaos. Ginsberg chanting his "Om" and handing out flowers to the police, Burroughs walking around recording ambient sound in order to make a series of tape cut-ups and bring about a profound disruption in the Convention process itself, Genet pugnacious and alert, Southern turning a cynical eye on all around him.<br />"I can't wait for this city to rot" opined Genet, "I can't wait to see weeds growing through empty streets."<br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVvGs7IlKYB0N1x427YPlyhm6wC2vMzW5I0H-ff2CgUlYA2JNiPMXl3vMRFTMKRyBsoEICBHjG21puCjMyu_BVQKFwvtMb_MBbRPol7HQRWzj5ID5ok6dxtX7-9_-n21m2OfH/s1600-h/schultz6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075811361168263986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVvGs7IlKYB0N1x427YPlyhm6wC2vMzW5I0H-ff2CgUlYA2JNiPMXl3vMRFTMKRyBsoEICBHjG21puCjMyu_BVQKFwvtMb_MBbRPol7HQRWzj5ID5ok6dxtX7-9_-n21m2OfH/s400/schultz6.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">Genet, Burroughs and Ginsberg man the barricades</span></div><br /><br /><div align="left">The legend of Genet ... in the U.S. illegally, he wound up the hippies by expressing his sexual attraction to the jackbooted, helmeted riot police; at least twice he stared down a cop about to billy club him. At one point, he later recounted, on the hoof from the police violence in Lincoln Park he ran into an apartment block and rang a doorbell at random - to be greeted by a young man in the middle of writing a dissertation ... on the <em>ouvre</em> of one Jean Genet. Or a beautiful young black woman, depending on how the mood took him.<br />Genet later said of the police (speaking from a considerable experience of police behaviour, as Burroughs pointed out) that he'd never seen such expressions of blood lust on human faces.<br /><br />Burroughs and Genet - neither capable of joining movements, neither in favour of a policy of non-violence - their intervention in any debate a very poisoned chalice. If the young people, Genet would later tell Burroughs, ever achieved their aims he would no longer be with them.<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVCNuLSZ2tol4Gk9TCZgtjI3Ywpo3Atw2gozQR6464wnVzQqTjPPBBIvDnzz-_rd0ubZDs4hwHWQm4nrREvkk910aSmO8p_U4i8LcTkmLpywcMAi6CvRl4eTVDWyV_yKW7gaVy/s1600-h/DSC00643.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075811215139375906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVCNuLSZ2tol4Gk9TCZgtjI3Ywpo3Atw2gozQR6464wnVzQqTjPPBBIvDnzz-_rd0ubZDs4hwHWQm4nrREvkk910aSmO8p_U4i8LcTkmLpywcMAi6CvRl4eTVDWyV_yKW7gaVy/s400/DSC00643.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">Reality TV</span> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><br /><br />Burroughs, Genet and Ginsberg together - my heart lifts when I see these photos ... three such valiant old buggers - each off on a frolic of his own.<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gA44g4iZgRjwpD7Orty7XXlg9FDEQ6wqvONUFtBpMW65FDZXC3lQDXtDE8pgHuawZh16OsJPojNwzkepT5ZBD0O8uRgZKTKhhnTLElPqzAPtXLuf8C07sLzO5LuFUqhbxron/s1600-h/TS_WSB_card.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075811129240029970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gA44g4iZgRjwpD7Orty7XXlg9FDEQ6wqvONUFtBpMW65FDZXC3lQDXtDE8pgHuawZh16OsJPojNwzkepT5ZBD0O8uRgZKTKhhnTLElPqzAPtXLuf8C07sLzO5LuFUqhbxron/s400/TS_WSB_card.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#ff0000;">Southern and Burroughs </span></div><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><br /><div align="left">Two <em>Sgt. Pepper's</em> cover stars ... I always used to say, buy the album, keep the sleeve, throw away the record.<br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1TbcqrHcUSHVE69mcL4JsTdig178rRcZZ3UxXPRVtS5TX8SaZIfpFKGY3O4UANv00TAxbSwxLaNcEekiGhQxpkFNU0lSwgxCqDxrudPB444g65BrySY_CGcJpHuxzq97QR4i/s1600-h/1135_thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075810596664085250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1TbcqrHcUSHVE69mcL4JsTdig178rRcZZ3UxXPRVtS5TX8SaZIfpFKGY3O4UANv00TAxbSwxLaNcEekiGhQxpkFNU0lSwgxCqDxrudPB444g65BrySY_CGcJpHuxzq97QR4i/s400/1135_thumb.jpg" border="0" /><br /><p align="center"></a><span style="color:#ff0000;">Genet and Ginsberg had two very different conceptions of flower power</span></p><p align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p><p align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p><p align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p><p align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-8430045298742734642007-06-07T18:46:00.000+01:002007-06-07T19:05:46.172+01:00TOPLESS MODELS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOKa7Vtv3UCg9wV88S4m31yhfU6J5b-GunUEVZah53jW1etBdGjR3tmBkCgqoYsFh05-yXaAWJVGgLV0npNa_wX9vOrPNXSwDQFpZadv1gr7AduGL6i8U-hSYPtRqVJGiWZh3/s1600-h/burroughs_torso.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073380431153564354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOKa7Vtv3UCg9wV88S4m31yhfU6J5b-GunUEVZah53jW1etBdGjR3tmBkCgqoYsFh05-yXaAWJVGgLV0npNa_wX9vOrPNXSwDQFpZadv1gr7AduGL6i8U-hSYPtRqVJGiWZh3/s400/burroughs_torso.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">WILD BILL</div><div align="center">Boyishly sexy 45.</div><div align="center">Did somebody call the doctor?</div><div align="center">Your fantasy is my business.</div><div align="center">Always horny and ready to schlupp.</div><div align="center">Willing to travel.</div><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9S4IpZD_VuVfH9Ie1z6t79SK7htLd7k2T2brKyyQAopiFMyNcCD-HEM9iDv8ICWAXro8Eib1LVIYnfOSDgZszIXtEgrlysRdRPSdw2dXBLK8Awm7yRMH2YuVtxrVA0zMoMoXm/s1600-h/steptoeandson_3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073380379613956786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9S4IpZD_VuVfH9Ie1z6t79SK7htLd7k2T2brKyyQAopiFMyNcCD-HEM9iDv8ICWAXro8Eib1LVIYnfOSDgZszIXtEgrlysRdRPSdw2dXBLK8Awm7yRMH2YuVtxrVA0zMoMoXm/s400/steptoeandson_3.jpg" border="0" /></a>WILLY THE PIMP</div><div align="center">Horny 55. </div><div align="center">Bubblebaths and immaculate body service.</div><div align="center">Very well equipped.</div><div align="center">Eager to please.</div><div align="center">My place or yours.<br /></div><div align="center"></div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-5846414536419717022007-06-03T16:13:00.000+01:002007-06-03T18:21:32.687+01:00Signed W.B.<div align="left">I've always had a soft spot for Wilfred Bramble - his elegant performances in the great <em>Steptoe</em> <em>and Son</em> are matched only by his iconic and extremely moving appearance in Terence Davies' majestic <em>Death and Transfiguration</em>, playing an aging gay Catholic facing death.<br />For me, also, there is the added <em>frisson</em> of a marked resemblance to William S. Burroughs - which is always something guaranteed to snare my attention and fire my imagination. Whenever I see a photo of the Steptoes I reimagine it as an image of Burroughs and fellow Beats putting themselves about, on and off the road. Two down-at-heel totters from Shepherd's Bush are magically transmuted into low-life adventurers in Tangiers or Mexico, or speeding along the highways of the America of their dreams.<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2bTLKhctlXeFJ385BK2bb2rVS1PzMh85VaWBfi-XKuXKclr72FbmZl2DouxrtGzEXPhYZ2wDhKtnDpcaYMNGN4Omr643g2xmcGvKfsb9R_tNqf0tzsyb8a1ocEJYz0bhosHPo/s1600-h/steptoe.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071857126947957474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2bTLKhctlXeFJ385BK2bb2rVS1PzMh85VaWBfi-XKuXKclr72FbmZl2DouxrtGzEXPhYZ2wDhKtnDpcaYMNGN4Omr643g2xmcGvKfsb9R_tNqf0tzsyb8a1ocEJYz0bhosHPo/s400/steptoe.jpg" border="0" /></a> William S. Burroughs showing Jack Kerouac the biggest load of horse he ever did see</p><br /><p align="center"><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071857032458676946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfk3B_x1fb45bpOCL-pC7iQldRSs8lgZMbRHAWfoyxHo7QgKnDYIVFiCK8qWl4pkPhnyEkCGo3s1e273ZZAu6Z2CMrRVn6veD1NtFQ7K3L3lD3G1-t5faTF2gCza8QrMT4VGj/s400/image.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center">Albert Steptoe on the lookout for junk<br /></p><p align="center"><br /></p><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs4H9FJfBNTO0Rbig_PchM1cTQeSrdiD5S1Cj8q2UpojNiIRufz2tdmnH1-OHX1b_ux1oqZK3SOhnO3LDN7uRPDdKpYkv1SEeYN59cVnziqH1HVks3Z2y8ChonaB0T4L7XoV8q/s1600-h/wilfrid2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071856972329134786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs4H9FJfBNTO0Rbig_PchM1cTQeSrdiD5S1Cj8q2UpojNiIRufz2tdmnH1-OHX1b_ux1oqZK3SOhnO3LDN7uRPDdKpYkv1SEeYN59cVnziqH1HVks3Z2y8ChonaB0T4L7XoV8q/s400/wilfrid2.jpg" border="0" /></a> William S. Burroughs facing down the critics<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjUMtiOqKJ9bsZzBoMOBJMtxj40hA2Sf4_GdsvKlk1zDS_mz8PVeqEcOoGInU77w0aVJtnW3zcEM4fWxwTzZpybdp_sy7GG04R5bperZnrpFclkAu-Es0-kGoPYkmcX53ZoKd/s1600-h/beatrdr1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071856748990835378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjUMtiOqKJ9bsZzBoMOBJMtxj40hA2Sf4_GdsvKlk1zDS_mz8PVeqEcOoGInU77w0aVJtnW3zcEM4fWxwTzZpybdp_sy7GG04R5bperZnrpFclkAu-Es0-kGoPYkmcX53ZoKd/s400/beatrdr1.jpg" border="0" /></a>Steptoe and Son ... purveyors of fine old tot<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgedmsfTAiebz_o12lJxGBwjejouqGZzOssQMh45fbhyklU0SL8eyUfVE7wFCDyX2KdUHBLgxYaa6gj-FfAbEQAhf0s1wu1Joc-LrGe1v8_o-mvc0rOZb4X2TgOkaSEAUTeMOee/s1600-h/christmasnightwiththestars_.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071856675976391330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgedmsfTAiebz_o12lJxGBwjejouqGZzOssQMh45fbhyklU0SL8eyUfVE7wFCDyX2KdUHBLgxYaa6gj-FfAbEQAhf0s1wu1Joc-LrGe1v8_o-mvc0rOZb4X2TgOkaSEAUTeMOee/s400/christmasnightwiththestars_.jpg" border="0" /></a>Burroughs explaining to a distraught Kerouac that the <em>Naked Lunch</em> ms will have to be retyped<br /><br /><br />There are a few beguiling points of intersection between Burroughs and Bramble - the facial congruity, the air of the dignified aging queer going gently to seed, the shabby gentility, the sense of a gay identity formed before Stonewall and Gay Lib, even the brief intersection with one Paul McCartney and The Beatles (Bramble as Macca's grandad in <em>A Hard Day's Night</em> (what on earth did he make of Beatlemania?), Burroughs featuring as a <em>Sgt. Pepper's</em> cover star and being loaned the use of a recording studio by the aforementioned Macca). Both occupied an odd and incongruous position in the "swinging Sixties". What a funny old world it is.</div></div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-76493936766097487242007-05-28T08:02:00.000+01:002007-05-28T09:01:30.236+01:00Looking For Mushrooms<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-NRGmGnSBXIEES1Tb22xqMEptlSSWPK1JDBZtsW-gp-31x6wdhkC6VlXh3asAwQsuvOjE6x8jvuFkCsySFuFu4ZA2hk1DeYCJpT-Ny2xD-Vx6ZnFlXu7XXk0qLQurz0CAmmhN/s1600-h/conner3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069503540704324242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-NRGmGnSBXIEES1Tb22xqMEptlSSWPK1JDBZtsW-gp-31x6wdhkC6VlXh3asAwQsuvOjE6x8jvuFkCsySFuFu4ZA2hk1DeYCJpT-Ny2xD-Vx6ZnFlXu7XXk0qLQurz0CAmmhN/s400/conner3.jpg" border="0" /></a> Nice photo, this - two people I admire very much; Bruce Conner (standing) and Terry Riley. Conner is an extraordinary artist - films, paintings, sculptures, collages, assemblages, you name it; all his works are possessed of a sly wit and political consciousness. As an experimental film-maker, I regard him as the only serious rival to my beloved Kenny Anger, particularly in terms of imagery and editing, and manipulation of found footage. Like Anger, he is an obsessive craftsman, honing and honing his films frame by frame.<br />Riley - one of the main originators of Minimalism (and so much more, of course) and one of the very first people to start experimenting with tape-loops. Did he also invent the hippy 'happening' with his all-night concerts and all-purpose love-ins? He produced a couple of wonderful soundtracks for Conner's films, too.<br />They are both still around and producing great work - it's nice to see two old Beats still grooving away.St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-65625605313682778012007-05-24T11:22:00.001+01:002007-05-24T11:28:07.255+01:00Three Prophets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEBBAFnph_uOdmG4_bUGgzysbJkS64lW7NnzY5CSqh64gXFHTTAy1zMMY_nondavyUx6SVPofVZ1D9F3gstLzhPSa-OzqBgetFFPiZB9WqD5kF_debIiX2pK7DcF4wzRo-qAl1/s1600-h/Riley2W.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068070821218757250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEBBAFnph_uOdmG4_bUGgzysbJkS64lW7NnzY5CSqh64gXFHTTAy1zMMY_nondavyUx6SVPofVZ1D9F3gstLzhPSa-OzqBgetFFPiZB9WqD5kF_debIiX2pK7DcF4wzRo-qAl1/s400/Riley2W.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9Zfn_a55_YWq1YAPlb20v7X_Hj7IPQyoR42fid9QBa9FYvYz1HgTXmtOK58BV9zttJEJjfJzu5w1QIWgBfpZqFO67tGhHkeH-p0ZI_2gO-GEqqVLASvw7RCMujSd5UhLUY_-/s1600-h/robert_wyatt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068070756794247794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9Zfn_a55_YWq1YAPlb20v7X_Hj7IPQyoR42fid9QBa9FYvYz1HgTXmtOK58BV9zttJEJjfJzu5w1QIWgBfpZqFO67tGhHkeH-p0ZI_2gO-GEqqVLASvw7RCMujSd5UhLUY_-/s400/robert_wyatt.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWZEUxXP7Shslz9ddN3qCiThIue-9IsbRYZqhVGyTZKoagXbmLYN1OYJAWSLN6OE5WBr-QRVH3A4B9kjjtyUnjAWN7SS3RhDKGBoB5wck7GXexf6hjGRA5I1rz_jp4LznDpha/s1600-h/fv43.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068070675189869154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWZEUxXP7Shslz9ddN3qCiThIue-9IsbRYZqhVGyTZKoagXbmLYN1OYJAWSLN6OE5WBr-QRVH3A4B9kjjtyUnjAWN7SS3RhDKGBoB5wck7GXexf6hjGRA5I1rz_jp4LznDpha/s400/fv43.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p align="center">Three extravagantly bearded Biblical Patriarchs - Riley, Wyatt and Flaherty.</p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-51074315364125893782007-05-13T15:57:00.000+01:002007-05-14T16:25:18.174+01:00Paul Flaherty, Chris Corsano And Friends<span style="color:#ffffff;">Paul Flaherty - <em>Whirl Of Nothingness</em> (Family Vineyard 2006)<br />Dream/Aktion Unit - <em>Blood Shadow Rampage</em> (Volcanic Tongue 2006)<br /><br />Every now and again, just when you think it has been exhausted, noise music experiences a power-surge and reminds you that there is life in the old workhorse yet. Two albums from last year have caught my attention - both featuring Paul Flaherty, a veteran free music saxophonist. For a number of years now Flaherty has been playing and recording with demon drummer Chris Corsano in what you might term a power duo (as well as being integral parts of other combos) - there is a lovely affinity between the pair, both employing a safety-net free approach to their playing. Call me a sentimental old cove, but there is something about the relationship between Corsano and Flaherty (who is old enough to be his father) that I really like.<br />Flaherty has been around for years honing his skills - intense ecstatic screams and cries with little sparkles of melody rising out of the roar every so often. He has set Fire Music alight again. What interests me is his willingness and open-mindedness in playing with musicians from other disciplines; there is a snobbishness and prissiness about many in even the free jazz scene - odd in a music dedicated to total freedom. Corsano plays with a bewildering number of bands - notably Sunburned Hand Of The Man (or are they just 'Sunburned' now?) and Six Organs Of Admittance. He is part of an extended scene (not the right word, more like a loose circle of friends) that includes people such as Wolf Eyes, Burning Star Core and Thurston Moore. Noiseniks all. Like Flaherty, Corsano plays free jazz and noise and <em>avant</em> rock and everything else he puts his mind to because free minded musicians disregard labels, right?<br /><br /><br /></span><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dnTZELlPR2tid6qdmYhst644pPNiXdmP563cjVmvMFGanydpZ-pIwJxRaytyYWkxt_m43BsL0xRzSfFdOrnPGcGu7Iq2tkbPeW-jCFIlv6_fkwdz8A0IfgxYXmo-9w1G5CPK/s1600-h/hated.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5064059788650809522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dnTZELlPR2tid6qdmYhst644pPNiXdmP563cjVmvMFGanydpZ-pIwJxRaytyYWkxt_m43BsL0xRzSfFdOrnPGcGu7Iq2tkbPeW-jCFIlv6_fkwdz8A0IfgxYXmo-9w1G5CPK/s400/hated.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#ff0000;">Flaherty and Corsano</span><br /></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">Flaherty's <em>Whirl Of Nothingness</em>, though, finds him in that most unforgiving territory - solo. Just him and his sax, nowhere to hide. Eight pieces, improvised in one evening, of raw but structured chaos tempered with moments of intense prettiness. The album is explicitly spiritual in intent, dedicated to "all the victims yet to come" (that's all of us, Flaherty points out).</span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">Comparisons between Flaherty and other free jazzers are perhaps inevitable, but bandying around such descriptions as 'post-Ayler' or 'post-Brotzmann' tend to miss the point - this music isn't "post" anything, it is right here, right now. Flaherty himself has used the term 'freeform abstract music' to describe the sound that comes out of his horn and that'll do for me, straight from the horse's mouth.<br /></span><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAlao1iOjKwY_0ZrljJCNSXZyfZRxBdH5kBRc1VTxtXMDmjYVKN-DzkCmNq40KKvEc-hthAi5WCM-cuy8Ez21jtfA1dYKFqO2j5Xc0P_gndL83MYPxBCpqkeuAKSLnWpRGh6N/s1600-h/480605530_5031864e37.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5064059707046430882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAlao1iOjKwY_0ZrljJCNSXZyfZRxBdH5kBRc1VTxtXMDmjYVKN-DzkCmNq40KKvEc-hthAi5WCM-cuy8Ez21jtfA1dYKFqO2j5Xc0P_gndL83MYPxBCpqkeuAKSLnWpRGh6N/s400/480605530_5031864e37.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#ff0000;"> Dream/Aktion Unit<br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#000000;"><br /></span><span style="color:#ffffff;">Dream/Aktion Unit, on this occasion, comprises Flaherty and Corsano with Thurston Moore doing his guitar thing, Heather Leigh Murray and Matt Heyner. The Flaherty/Corsano axis really kicks things along here, and of course, Moore isn't too shabby. Flaherty's sax gells with Moore's guitar work brilliantly - they have performed as a duo before (there is a wonderful video on the dread Youtube of them playing together, Moore's feedback dueling with Flaherty's blurts) and the whole thing is an exercise in controlled chaos and aggression; again, the flickers of melody, when they come, mean all the more for being embedded in good old dissonance. Too much sugar is bad for you, see? I don't know if this particular incarnation will reform again - but there is such a large scene featuring these people that it is inevitable that one or another combination of said reprobates will rub up against each other at some point.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#000000;"></div></span>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-17653277971601332302007-05-09T07:32:00.000+01:002007-05-09T07:34:20.377+01:00KWA meets SME<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqd5umEq8GBbEgNNqK34FVm_N6mB8eI_5dsmgg9CAJY5eLZoxyetxHrwblXE9513vz5ooGbhUA9kjtGsdBhRTjwqc7Fs3uFiZTqUGmok6mY19IgKtATUKhq8vGPFINFg3j58H2/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062445233134831762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqd5umEq8GBbEgNNqK34FVm_N6mB8eI_5dsmgg9CAJY5eLZoxyetxHrwblXE9513vz5ooGbhUA9kjtGsdBhRTjwqc7Fs3uFiZTqUGmok6mY19IgKtATUKhq8vGPFINFg3j58H2/s400/images.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtj_-XNyKnEzSYpSbWRhm6KVq8ZE-wnCo_hevWz3hO4bz6jiV5CgYPUjfYKNCfk58bS7NL3oT1dEjZptcAPObAwB8e73U_ShEgnXadbDARuwCLDKCT8tETNFUiU1tpnrgOQSj/s1600-h/02_anger_sm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062445155825420418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtj_-XNyKnEzSYpSbWRhm6KVq8ZE-wnCo_hevWz3hO4bz6jiV5CgYPUjfYKNCfk58bS7NL3oT1dEjZptcAPObAwB8e73U_ShEgnXadbDARuwCLDKCT8tETNFUiU1tpnrgOQSj/s400/02_anger_sm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1L5YRemKz20ogd4gUHpya1DQTLFE_RNf5_CoAgvZ3Mk8Nz_qOSeHFpYWephYz9gIzPUiqB77DVXyW-7PmrDdMSRHuWXuulD4A83zcdRlhY75huNbm3v6LXMfPUVdPVuA9BEs/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062445104285812850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1L5YRemKz20ogd4gUHpya1DQTLFE_RNf5_CoAgvZ3Mk8Nz_qOSeHFpYWephYz9gIzPUiqB77DVXyW-7PmrDdMSRHuWXuulD4A83zcdRlhY75huNbm3v6LXMfPUVdPVuA9BEs/s400/images.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-28443889547436530482007-05-03T09:50:00.000+01:002007-05-04T14:41:21.934+01:00Spaced Out, We're Spacing In<div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">The Isle of Wight Festival, 1970 - Jimi Hendrix, in his last performance on U.K. soil, dedicates a number to "the cat with the silver face", a character at the front of the stage ... said cat was none over than Hawkwind's Nik Turner. Unlike Hendrix, Hawkwind had a good festival, playing a number of free gigs outside the festival proper and cementing their reputation as the people's band. Turner, in fact, wandering around with his silver countenance, flute and star spangled trousers actually made the pages of Vogue (including the front cover) and Paris Match. Not bad for a stoned space rocking hippy peacenik. The Nik Turner case - or, he's a bit of a case, that Nik Turner, isn't he?<br />Once dubbed the 'conscience of Hawkwind', due to his propensity for agreeing to free and benefit gigs, and his adherence to the peace and love hippy ethic, Nik Turner remains, for me at least, the very heart and soul of Hawkwind - part of the magic of that band during their glory years springing precisely from the very fertile dichotomy between Turner's acidhead hippy ethos (frog costumes, Egyptian drag, make-up and all), Lemmy's speedfreak biker heaviness (iron crosses and Nazi eagles), Calvert's manic personas and of course, Dave Brock's s(t)olid stage presence.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">There was obviously something in the water in Margate in the mid-sixties - Turner, Robert Calvert, Dik Mik, there they all were, sniffing the air, sensing a wave about to crest. Turner had a job selling kiss-me-quick-hats and suchlike to the tourists, as well as joss sticks and psychedelic posters and whatnot to whatever passed as hipsters down on the South Coast. Didn't Calvert work as a deckchair attendant? What a bunch. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">A bit of a one off, Turner - some kind of glam-hippy-psychedelic <em>whatever</em>, full of positive vibes and a desire to play free jazz sax in a rock band ... that's 'rock band' as in freewheeling acid experimental science fiction spectacularly unstable counter-cultural rock band. With a sideline in serious speedfreaks, rather well-endowed naked dancers and head-bending light shows.<br /><br /><br /></span></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboZX2oYDo5Py_xeO-ExS-xnPdfncJH8SxPBOQmIqUCTsklOFy6Qmo0PHhfbcwEnTREcPGyM9xl5tiG4wIPiKNF4e2MJVhwzw8yh8h-xL-IbJ-9cGERb9jgTPLvjzx9q4qSR6d/s1600-h/music_turner.gif"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060254421856749602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboZX2oYDo5Py_xeO-ExS-xnPdfncJH8SxPBOQmIqUCTsklOFy6Qmo0PHhfbcwEnTREcPGyM9xl5tiG4wIPiKNF4e2MJVhwzw8yh8h-xL-IbJ-9cGERb9jgTPLvjzx9q4qSR6d/s400/music_turner.gif" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#999999;"> The cat with the silver face, Isle of Wight, 1970.</span> </p><p align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">Turner's first, er, <em>ejection</em> from Spaceship Hawkwind - as Julian Cope pointed out ... it's 1977, punk is gathering pace and you've just been booted out of your band, so what do you do? Simple, if you're of a <em>Nik Turner cast of mind</em> - you head off to Egypt, inveigle yourself into the Great Pyramid at Giza and record yourself playing flute while sprawled out in a stone sarcophagus in the King's Chamber. Just to make sure the whole project sticks out in the contemporary pop landscape very like that crashed spaceship on the front cover of <em>Hall Of The Mountain Grill,</em> you then bring the tapes home and enlist various members of Gong to create a musical backdrop for your flute sounds ... and if <em>that</em> wasn't perverse enough, you then read sections from <em>The</em> <em>Book of Coming</em> <em>Forth By Day</em> over that.</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060254374612109330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx6NiPDt69fPdCuoOkF9mJ2_O8fJVkkmfQKPDJXs1vNKQFgMq4W_gS0Df_gl91KbYJ32fMLFnzwkPXYAP7WpdWyXKBWgcoo2UIy6EZvFt0On_aqOyx2Z-62bTgw34okaS5mPcV/s400/doremint.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"><span style="color:#ffff33;">Heavy metal psychedelic fighter pilot. Or something. Circa 1973?</span> </p><p align="left"><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">I love the classic Hawkwind template - open-ended riff-heavy jamming with added electronic noise, Brock's rhythm guitar, Lemmy's thunderous bass and Turner's vocals and sax and flute; some of the most exhilarating music of the Seventies can be found here - classic songs/improv frameworks (albeit a very monomaniacal idea of improvisation ... something akin to the Velvet's live workouts) such as 'Master Of The Universe' and 'Brainstorm', more acoustic-based songs such as 'We Took The Wrong Step Years Ago' or the proto-punk noise and Turner's sax riffs of 'Urban Guerrilla' and 'Brainbox Pollution'. Witness the way the heavy-folk of 'Space Is Deep' shifts into Krautrock motorik - so good, that.</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTewu3Odk0buk7EG9EDjksQP8KjSVo-nu2j9uSsSZS3nvOPlx7PvhFbXPvjFkHDEw9x7VDw9v6CO2EdKMEOxYAxvN1Qr3UpEX1cSwV1LUx-E93ipllmVSxc59miVptfJRPcNs3/s1600-h/italia_turner78.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060254297302697986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTewu3Odk0buk7EG9EDjksQP8KjSVo-nu2j9uSsSZS3nvOPlx7PvhFbXPvjFkHDEw9x7VDw9v6CO2EdKMEOxYAxvN1Qr3UpEX1cSwV1LUx-E93ipllmVSxc59miVptfJRPcNs3/s400/italia_turner78.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a><span style="color:#ff0000;">The Magus, 1978. </span></p><p><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p><p><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span></p><p><span style="color:#ff0000;"></p><p align="left"><br /></span><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">What I like, very much, about Turner is his willingness to have a go - he keeps active and, just as importantly, keeps <em>engaged; </em>busking<em>, </em>playing with younger musicians, guesting with a multitude of bands (most of a pronounced space rock bent) as well as keeping a number of his own outfits together ... jazzy combos such as Galaktikos or the Hawkwind revisited that is Space Ritual ... and if the latter outfit ("more original Hawkwind members than Hawkwind!") is something of a autotribute band, well, various ex-Beatles and The Rolling Stones have been doing just that for over three decades.</span></p><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBGbj1D8UG-WV3BBMPuEt2QnKx7CVOZx3ekwyc4w1q6vT3t08OF2BHCocYutnSmo0QyV9eUTE2cYyh9x1K0ljr-7-5HF3xnUl8yGeDYK0pJEWYnTFVdyhEzQmbinPPhHEspgN/s1600-h/int99903.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060254228583221234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBGbj1D8UG-WV3BBMPuEt2QnKx7CVOZx3ekwyc4w1q6vT3t08OF2BHCocYutnSmo0QyV9eUTE2cYyh9x1K0ljr-7-5HF3xnUl8yGeDYK0pJEWYnTFVdyhEzQmbinPPhHEspgN/s400/int99903.jpg" border="0" /> </p><p align="center"></a><span style="color:#3333ff;">I like this photo a lot - Turner and Moorcock, 1975.</span></p><p align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">Credit where credit is due - right at the almost-very-beginning of the story, it's not everyone who would have cast an appraising eye over the unlikely lads Turner (likes:acid, pot, Eastern religions, messing around with saxophones) and Dik Mik (likes:speed, not going to bed for a week, messing around with circuit boards) and saw them as suitable bandmate material ... but Dave Brock had the genius to do just that. God bless'im.</span></p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-11166637671430602652007-05-02T11:12:00.000+01:002007-05-02T13:11:47.259+01:00The Harmolodyssey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtF6042ZkW2t-rjp4vbf0NTcDPR2PyYIw0jrpFqXnN4xjbm4NCKHkB7TZJUXafmK1WTdLikEYtuo9HBysRL7izM6MEJoXLsmHjxdcUfilNvlVuCTzTieKbWja2H4hGVRWM_-2/s1600-h/coleman_ornette.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059904463626504162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtF6042ZkW2t-rjp4vbf0NTcDPR2PyYIw0jrpFqXnN4xjbm4NCKHkB7TZJUXafmK1WTdLikEYtuo9HBysRL7izM6MEJoXLsmHjxdcUfilNvlVuCTzTieKbWja2H4hGVRWM_-2/s400/coleman_ornette.jpg" border="0" /></a> To prove that I don't spend all of my time listening to long-haired white geezers from 1973 (Jeez, sometimes I'll even listen to a green-quiffed ... er ... white geezer from ... um ... 1973), consider the singular talents of Ornette Coleman - over half a century since he blasted out of Texas to turn the jazz world upside down, he's still making music at the cutting-edge. Indeed, so single-minded has been his pursuit of Harmolodics that even the straight world has had to take notice; his latest album, <em>Sound Grammar</em>, has just pulled down the Pulitzer Prize.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWvBJ-Sc1sZbz-eVDcWVJGof_uxwVQ_e1NYeHynW_z39sGb-1vWY7CC3WsAYl40VjAr13o0HWlEn6l2dr7LioBhAaTGC1afwO_MtzOk2R-3USY8iiVCWopDwbHOG3FswhKwgG/s1600-h/ornette_coleman200.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059904407791929298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWvBJ-Sc1sZbz-eVDcWVJGof_uxwVQ_e1NYeHynW_z39sGb-1vWY7CC3WsAYl40VjAr13o0HWlEn6l2dr7LioBhAaTGC1afwO_MtzOk2R-3USY8iiVCWopDwbHOG3FswhKwgG/s400/ornette_coleman200.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And he did it all with a plastic saxophone - although, I notice, these days it's a plastic saxophone made by Selmer. But nothing is too good for a genius. </div><div>A restless, relentless innovator, a snappy dresser, a philosopher, a metaphysician - and , important this, a saintly individual; we'll probably not see his like again.<br /><div></div></div>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36681364.post-64008070880544287352007-04-23T16:24:00.000+01:002007-04-24T11:17:15.952+01:00It's The NEU! Thing<div align="left">At around, roughly, the same time some of the long-haired loons I've featured in recent posts were, um, <em>getting down</em> here in Blighty, over on the Continent a number of equally hirsute troublemakers were helping to stoke up their very own musical insurrection ... in the main, these were German. I mean, I ask you, the <em>Bosch</em> rocking out?<br />What has become known as Krautrock was a very broad church indeed - the music of Can tempering their early Velvet Undergroundisms with something akin to the Canterbury Scene sound, whereas Kraftwerk were busy creating forms that would, in retrospect, be seen as providing the language of electronica and techno; Faust started out in a vaguely Zappaesque direction before bringing in more drone and noise, whereas the extended Amon Duul family were heavier, more psychedelic. </div><div align="left">Most significant, for my money, were NEU!, formed when multi-instrumentalists Michael Rother and Klaus Dinger left the early incarnation of Kraftwerk they had both briefly graced (and left an indelible impression on), taking with them the germ of a radical new sound (so radical, indeed, that Ralf Hutter and Florian Schneider, the main architects of Kraftwerk, milked it for all it was worth - if 'Autobahn' isn't directly influenced by/ripped off from NEU!'s patented motorik sound, I'll eat my hat, I'll eat my head, fuck it, I'll eat my NEU! albums) - a hypnotic, perpetual-motion beat, courtesy of Herr Dinger coupled with Rother's drone/ambient guitar noises and the most beautiful melodies filtering through from the haze of electronics. Dinger is, with Moe Tucker, my favourite drummer .... the constant, autistic beat - it could go on, trancelike, forever and never get monotonous. I love NEU! more than almost any music I can think of.<br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPezzwo3UB8iaTLoashaOTMZ5wgNqGMchR0RIOSNqZK8jxXI3kTMgiPQmxrTEny6iNGZ7gbmVP9bBW9sD15vpDSoSGngg3Hr1S6tePY4VCvdTWJLW84KUNh1vRFmt8yvqQcHz/s1600-h/Neu3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056644987914977490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPezzwo3UB8iaTLoashaOTMZ5wgNqGMchR0RIOSNqZK8jxXI3kTMgiPQmxrTEny6iNGZ7gbmVP9bBW9sD15vpDSoSGngg3Hr1S6tePY4VCvdTWJLW84KUNh1vRFmt8yvqQcHz/s400/Neu3.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#ff0000;">NEU! - Rother and Dinger together (seconds after this photo was taken, Dinger probably threw a punch and shouted a lot).</span></p><p align="left">NEU! only made three albums proper in their lifetime, recorded between 1971 and 1975, every one a monumental achievement - 'Hallogallo', from the first album, is so perfect, so sublime, you want it never to stop; it is NEU!'s default sound, the motorik beat, the virtual absence of conventional song structure, Rother's wonderful guitar and treatments. Not that NEU! didn't have other strings to their bow, the raw experimental noise of 'Negativland', for instance, or the proto-punk (the buzz guitars, Dinger's sneered vocals, his spiky hair in the inner sleeve photo - it's The Sex Pistols to a T, a year or so early) of 'Hero' and 'After Eight' from <em>NEU! '75</em>.<br /></p><p align="left"><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056644936375369922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW28JH5puRNc6l9ubCZTY6cEb0JDXave5WKUEbD2tctCfZsi0ynRMFvW-YolOlsXZweWqfjzXacGlh4XYgX9cEPz9PyDQiq-dDunHIW_9ZWDa39y4PmxrMr9RbbyWP_xkJce9/s400/hdr_neu_r.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"><span style="color:#ff0000;">Michael Rother - the nice one</span> </p><p align="center"></p><p align="center"></p><p align="left">Of course, something this perfect, this wonderful, couldn't last forever - there had already been a kind of interregnum (Rother off to Krautrock supergroup Harmonia) in NEU! after the second album, due to basic personality differences between Dinger and Rother; Dinger being rather an acerbic individual, Rother a bit of a peace'n'lovenik. It was a wonder they stuck together long enough to make three pristine albums. But in their beginning was their end - <em>NEU! '75</em> is an album pulling so obviously in two (at least!) different directions that it could only spell the terminal road for the entity that was NEU! ... but endings are rarely so brilliantly achieved as this.<br />They were gone, then, both - off to pastures new, their recorded legacy exerting a bigger and bigger influence the more it recedes in time. I won't bore you with a list of everyone who has copped an idea or ten from the dynamic duo - it would be too long, and anyway, you know the names.<br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpP38F6BaCkDcMYrG5jHdvCwX5NsbwdVOn9bRXJvUYl9q-xs7Ksdpn1ZHvrPhie3OvIyAt3XJtYONSqFvOHjFV-UYAPvbj2dvENNLPP5erk2aJ3C10od48QF2IkapEe1TOPCIe/s1600-h/klaus_dinger.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056644884835762354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpP38F6BaCkDcMYrG5jHdvCwX5NsbwdVOn9bRXJvUYl9q-xs7Ksdpn1ZHvrPhie3OvIyAt3XJtYONSqFvOHjFV-UYAPvbj2dvENNLPP5erk2aJ3C10od48QF2IkapEe1TOPCIe/s400/klaus_dinger.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a><span style="color:#ff0000;">Klaus Dinger - the nasty one</span> </p><p align="center"></p><p align="left"><br /><br />It makes perfect sense that United Artists asked Dave Brock to write sleeve notes for <em>NEU!</em> when they released it here - listen to parts of <em>Space Ritual</em> ... if it doesn't sound like some great lost Krautrock experiment, I don't know what does. Both shared a fondness for those electronic seagull noises, which is always nice, and isn't 'Opa-Loka' (from <em>Warrior On The Edge Of Time</em>) supposed to be a NEU! homage? The great double bill that never was - Hawkwind and NEU! - could one's nervous system have taken it?</p><p align="left">A fly in every ointment ... the two stunted brothers of the Ubermenschen that are the three albums proper - <em>NEU! '72 Live!</em> (it's not live, it's an ok but hardly essential rehearsal tape) and <em>NEU! 4</em>, a shoddy collection of outtakes and substandard songs recorded between 1985 and 1986 and not released until 1995 ... it's so bad that the best track on it is 'Nazionale', a take on 'Deutschland Uber Alles' played backwards. Elsewhere, 'Crazy' could be The Knack, for Chrissake.<br /></p><p align="left">The second album, <em>NEU! 2</em>; having recorded about one side, they promptly learnt the budget had run out - what do they do? Simple, cobble together the rest of the album by pissing around with the tapes, including sticking fingers into the tape mechanism while rerecording. Did NEU! inadvertently invent the remix? <em>Felix culpa</em> - it's brilliant and totally in keeping with NEU!'s aesthetic, both pop and <em>avant garde</em>.</p><p align="left"><em>NEU! '75</em>, of course, also boasts the contributions of Thomas Dinger and Hans Lampe on percussion, both of whom would follow Klaus, post-NEU!, into La Dusseldorf - a band that could give NEU! and Harmonia a run for their money. </p><p align="left">Rother and Dinger's fraught relationship - for years, they weren't even on speaking terms, indeed the albums couldn't get an official CD release until the pair buried the hatchet a few years ago. One can, now, hear the albums as they were meant to be heard. Of course, therein lies the genius of NEU!, the differing temperaments of Rother and Dinger combining to make this beautiful thing. And witness the end of <em>NEU! '72 Live!,</em> which appears to terminate with the sound of smashing glass and Dinger (I assume it's Dinger ... it's <em>got</em> to be Dinger) losing his temper. It says it all, it's great.</p>St. Anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05539878989031969603noreply@blogger.com13