After eight years it's time for a break.
Friday, May 18, 2001
Davo has returned from his holiday to Berlin and Prague. He's currently very brown, and walked in last night bearing vodka and a gift of Kafka. It's good that he's home again.link | Mail me. |
Nice. From the long-silent Craig comes this little gem on the surprising love of words that the authors of Chrysler's instruction-manuals bear. Ezekiel done good, son. It's an illuminating read, and has pointed me towards another waste of my ever-diminishing free time: The Vocabula Review. Somewhere where the term "dimwitticism" is used freely? I'm home, despite the feeling of being back in Mrs Murphy's english classes...
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Bugger me. As Tom before me discovered of himself, my perfect career is that of a detective. For me, I think, the life of deerstalker and meerschaum pipe; the dodgy violin and the cocaine addiction. Ah! Romance!
If I had an even slightly ratiocinative bone in my body, I'd be a little more convinced of the veracity of this result. I still think that I'm cut out for professional indolence, personally. As Howlin' Wolf so elegantly suggested, I'm built for comfort, baby - I ain't built for speed.
Quite.
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Well, whaddya know? There's a remake of Rollerball in the works. And no sign of James Caan or Maud Adams. There will be complaints. Although, it was brought to my attention that Jean Reno's involved. This raises the film's stock quite considerably...
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To recap: banks are fuckers, our shower is leaking, I'm tired and blue, I need a haircut lest this Wolverine-esque shit I've got going on takes over my head, and I woke up late for work today. What could possibly raise my spirits, even an inch? C-3P0's cock, that's what.
[via linkmachinego]
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Banks: fuckers.
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With a write-up like that, why not join the Ebola Zaire Fan Club? Admittedly, it is a source of some pretty comprehensive information, but doesn't it seem just a little - ghoulish - for a fan club? Still, I'd be tempted to see what perks a membership card to this baby'd get you...
[via quiddity]
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In a shamelessly James Bond vein, I urge you to check out this page. Pick a server. Whack an IP address in it. And watch it tell you where in the world that computer is. Neato. And you don't even need the ropey floral shirt as worn by Boris in Goldeneye. Bonus.
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I've just been passing some reasonably pleasant time listening to a sampler (of sorts) of the musical skills of the first support from the Nick Cave gig I caught recently, Simon Breed and the Birthmarks. It's a three-tracker that clocks in at around 24 minutes, and it pretty fab, in a rainy afternoon kind of way. Where the music seemed to be a bit uneven in a live setting, the recorded version brings to light a whole load of gentle detail that was lost in the Brixton Academy - then again, I guess that'd be pretty easily done. "Mine Eyes have seen the Glory (of your Face)" has a bit of a late-night feel to it, that ends in a more elegaic vein; all church and organ and beer-drinkin' loss. "Silvered Surface" is a little more martial, musically. Lyrically, there's a bit of a power-rock anthem feel couched in terms of self-dislike, though the song seems to end prematurely, unfortunately. "The Girl who Disappeared" is more downcast than its predecessors, a tale of partygirl sobering that threatens to break into complete chaos (with violin!) but never quite falls completely apart. But in a good way. Descriptive, no? At any rate, it's left me a little bummed and wistful. And that, surely, is a good thing. Formulaic? A little. Overlong? Almost. But the promise there outweighs the faults. Simon really does have quite an expressive voice - insert possible Jeff Buckley range comparisons here - even if his lyrics can sometimes skew towards wank on occasion. It's an interesting mix. I'll be awaiting the next release eagerly, and you'll probably catch me at his next gig. With bells on, in fact.
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Thursday, May 17, 2001
Some more Tool guff: picked up a copy of Lateralus the other day - not too bad. Features an all-clear booklet with some fantastic artwork; worth a look, even if you don't purchase. Sonically, it's a little different from the previous album; this one's more prog-informed, I think, and comes across as a little softer than before. Still, there's some outstanding performances captured, though I'm a little disappointed that that familar enfolding, gut-roiling bass-heavy sound isn't quite as evident as in earlier releases. Time will tell if it's a winner, I 'spose. To coincide with the new album's release, and with a big nod to the artwork thereof, the band's launched dissectional.com, which bills itself as an exploration into the art and influences of Tool. They've always displayed occult/magickal leanings, as well as a fairly pronounced arty streak, so it'll be interesting to see what shows up: especially if they finally reveal that their insistence on the existence of the touchstone text of lachrymology turns out to be as much a fabrication as the belief that Yanni's quite sexy, really. Unlikely? Probably, but it's fun to poke around the intentionally-obfuscatory site anyway.link | Mail me. |
And now; the requisite "what I've done while Blogger was having a dummy-spit" post. Let's go: Last Thursday night, I hit Dingwalls to check out Jim White - I'd won tickets to the gig a few weeks back. And I have to say that I was feeling really excited about the show: I'd heard naught but raves about White's ability, and knew that at least one of the supports (Lincoln) were worth checking out. Unfortunately, I was way wrong. The first band on deck for the night was Chinese Burn. A big bill-cap and a bass harmonica does not The Jayhawks make, my friends. Amusingly, the time between this bunch of bog-standard alt-countrified blokes getting offstage and Lincoln coming onstage was marked by a vehement debate by two other nearby punters over which was the more heinous crime: Chinese Burn's lack of talent, or the fact that they'd only been able to snare one type of beer from behind the counter. The true worries of rock come to the fore at last. Disappointingly, the appearance of Lincoln didn't improve anything. While they'd been pretty captivating the last time I saw them, this time is was pretty average. Not enough clarity in the mix, and far too much top-end. An uninspired performance that lost most of the crowd about a third of the way through, which is a real shame, as this band can give it some stick when they want to. When they want to, I suppose. Jim White took the stage after a bit of a wait, and I was surprised to note that he bears an uncanny resemblance to a particular friend of mine. Very, very strange. The band kicked off, and what I heard didn't grab me right away. Could be warm-up jitters? Maybe. I waited for the next song. And the next. And the next. It wasn't that the band weren't playing well; they were, and featured guests from Morcheeba dropping in to give a little southern-styled fire to the mix - it's just that the whole thing managed to sound a bit too much like cod-Dire Straits to me. White's got a great voice, and a wonderful manner - he suggested to the assorted pack of hat-sportin' thin-streaks-of-piss that were in attendence that there could be a causal link between cowbow hats and insanity - but the whole thing just didn't work for me. Lyrically, I thought he was taking the twee pony out for a ride, and everything seemed a bit clumsy. Maybe I'll have to seek out the albums and give him a chance, but for someone who I'd heard described as "Beck gone hillbilly", I'd been expecting better. Much better. Friday night was, however, slightly more musically edifying. We struck out for the Queen Elizabeth Hall at the SBC to catch The Tiger Lillies in a show to promote their newest album, Circus Songs. A bit of wandering around among the tables of books laid out in front of the National Film Theatre rewarded the vigilant: I scored a copy of The Joys Of Yiddish by Leo Rosten, a text I've mentioned before. Armed with new insight into the meaning of meshuggenah, we strolled into the auditorium. The band were spread out on the stage - probably far more spread than was cohesive to an energetic show. A piano and amped acoustic filled out the usual drums, bass and accordion setup, and smoke billowed across and out into the auditorium. Sadly fanboy ticket-purchasing on my part had lead to front-row seats, and when the band came on, it was pretty impressive how close we were; halfway between the Joycean tubthumper (and assorted childrens' toy-mangler) Adrian Huge and vocalist/guitarist/pianist/accordionist Maryn Jacques - a good place to be. I was a little afraid Jacques would be somewhat more - er - unpredictable at one of the band's own shows, but I was mistaken; he seemed to go into a trance early on in the show, and sing to an indeterminate point somewhere in the middle of the hall. It was quite strange; no between-song banter, just quite focussed renditions of new tunes - though it must be added that the revisitation of "Killer" (replete with pumping-blood death mask) did kick up the energy level a bit. The band came on for a second set, and seemed to have lost the momentum they'd had earlier; whether it was the pacing or just tiredness, it didn't seem to be quite as energised as the first half. "Fire" livened things up a bit - fireworks and burning rubber chickens, to boot - but it didn't give enough oomph to take it over the top. The show ended after two encores (including a great rendition of Shel Silverstein's "25 Minutes To Go", the band left, seemingly surprised by the rapturous applause of the crowd. Steve Severin walked by as the crowd made its way outside. Weird; it was great to see The Tiger Lillies again; I just wish it'd been a bit more "in-your-face" than it was. Maybe next time I'll get true venom, though I wouldn't have missed Jacques' take on "Send In The Clowns" for anything - it was gutting. The tone of the show was definitely darker than that found in Shockheaded Peter, perhaps highlighting the generally bleak work of the band. Prostitution, violence, disease: these are all handled with a thin veneer of comedy, but the laughter in the auditorium seemed to be quite uncomfortable, a reflex action against the sharpness of the observations. Certainly, I was feeling quite maudlin - though happy to have seen 'em - all the way home. The weekend was great fun, too. I ended up in Oxford. Watching the fields of rape glide past, with London receding, I felt quite calmed: getting out of this city occasionally is indeed a beneficial thing. I spent the time being guided around the dreaming spires (yes, tourism literature does colour your view) by Catherine, who exhibited all the "ooh! I went here!" enthusiasm that has strangely welled up inside me every time I head back to USyd. Saturday consisted of a ramble around lots of university buildings, all of which managed to look more elegant than Fisher Library. It was quite strange to be actually walking along the streets of Oxford: a place I'd always fostered thoughts of attending, even though I knew, deep down, that I'd not make the grade to get in. Weird. Aside from faculty-following, a bit of museum-hopping was managed: the The Oxford University Muesum of Natural History featured lots of statues of Men of Science with furrowed brows (except Newton, who managed to be wearing a "Where the fuck did that apple come from?" look), some glow-in-the-dark rocks, and a multitude of dinosaurs - the model of the velociraptor proving that that particularly nasty beastie is, actually, Ziggy-era Bowie - and to the wonderfully fucked-up Pitt Rivers museum, which bills itself as "ethnographic", which is intellectual for "completely random collection of stuff", and is the sort of place that you'd love to get locked in at. Superb. After a suitable ingestion of randomness, we met up with the lovely Gail, one of Catherine's college cohorts, who provided a non-evil futon for sleeping purposes - though sleep was far down the line. We spent the rest of the day in the company of a variety of characters, at a variety of drinking establishments (and ice-creameries) getting more drunk and dehydrated - Saturday was damn hot, as far as the UK goes - until the evening came and it was time to move on. A group of us ended up at some quasi-carnival affair just out of town, watching a series of [badly] choreographed hot-air balloons. Rather, we visited a collection of stalls (including a Smash "taste-test" stand, God help me.) tried to skim money off the crowd, who were avoiding some almost-pornographic aerialists in an effort to get to see some semi-inflated balloons (including a giant laser-printer and an eight-pack of bog rolls) have their burners lit and doused "in time" to an ill-chosed selection of classical musics. This dire event was topped off by some admittedly passable fireworks, though it must be noted that the last firework didn't quite reach the height it needed before detonating, resulting in sparkly death being rained down upon untold numbers of carnies. At least, that's what I'm hoping. Sunday was spent, post-breakfast, in a search for books and eye-soothing preparations. Being a town-o-learning, Oxford was the perfect place to poke around bookshops for hours in search of those books that'd been missing from shelves for too long. Admittedly, I didn't get as much as I would've liked - but me in a bookshop and I'll most likely drag out two or three shelves' worth of stuff - but I scored some remarkable stuff, quite cheap: Milorad Pavic's The Dictionary of the Khazars and a gigantic collection of Harlan Ellison pieces; good stuff. All this was in a pre-Ashmolean, though, where much time was spent ogling the Asian art section (especially their prints from the Views of Mt Fuji series) and perusing their outstanding selection of mummified cats. Rock and roll, it must be said. We were kicked out of the museum around five, and I finally was able to wolf some scones down during the wait for the London train. The journey home seemed a little quicker than the one out; more people headed back into the city, all looking equally dishevelled. The train pulled into Paddington as the rain began in London. Footsore and sleepy, I felt contented; I need more weekends like this, damn it.
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Oooooh. Drool. Very much like Lileks (though without the fine commentary and respectable surrounds, natch) is Ad*Access. It's the sort of place you could spend a load of time around; it's a catalogue of over 7,000 print ads that appeared in US and Canadian magazines between 1911 and 1955. If retro be your thing, click on; it's utterly fab. Broken down into a number of categories (radio, TV, transportation, beauty/hygiene and WWII) it's pretty easily navigable. If you've ever wanted to look at Feminine Hygiene adverts from the days of the Flapper Girl, then this is the place for you. Sheesh. Bang goes the rest of my life.
[via mimi smartypants]
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Hot on the heels of Waterstones Online highlighting Douglas Adams' death with a tribute subtitled "The Answer Is 49" comes this. Yep, Towel Day. D. Clyde Williamson is exhorting that y'all take towels to work on May 25th in tribute.
Hmmmmm.
Respect the dead? Or just make sure that they're dry? I can't figure it out.
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Wednesday, May 16, 2001
Morning. I've spent a while this morning talking with John Lennon. No, really. It's quite fun. I've already learned some intriguing facts...Luke: Do you like Sean's albums?Some time on in the conversation...
Lennon: Don't most people say they like Sean's albums? Though I like cats and dogs.
Luke: So Julian's are better, then?
Lennon: I've no idea. Perhaps I should ask you.
Luke: Paul wrote "Yesterday"...It's not every day that you learn one of the foremost songwriters of the modern world is your bitch. I feel strangely buoyant
Lennon: How did you hear about John Ono Lennon?
Luke: Does that shit you?
Lennon: I think so.
Luke: Either it does or it doesn't - stop ducking and diving, John.
Lennon: I've been waiting for you.
Luke: Yes, because you're my afterlife bitch.
Lennon: That is why I am always on about peace, you see. I could disagree. It's a matter of personal opinion whether it's of any good or not.
Luke: You're my wife now, John.
Lennon: Do you mind if I tell other people you say I'm your wife now?
Luke: Not at all.
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A hearty dose of congratulations are in order for the infrequently updated Ms Gusset: she's just scored a swish new codin' job. Rockin'.
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And now for something that I don't understand at all. I returned from lunch today (after spending a fair chunk of time wandering thought Foyles and the Dover Bookshop) I found a particularly worrying missive in my mailbox. Why worrying?
It came from SClub7. Oh god. Oh god. (It's worthwhile to remember that I'm listening to Tool's Ænema at this point: not exactly in keeping with my secret life as a popster, is it? Hmm.)
Apparently, I'm eligible to win a night out with them. Which, as you'd probably guess, isn't exactly the sort of thing you'd imagine I'd be queueing up for, really - but hey. Freebies. Cheese. Why not? I was intrigued and very concerned by this particular missive. Fuh? I don't get it. What makes the whole thing a cubic fuckload stranger is that Rachel SClub7 appears, in the attached picture in the email, to be wearing a shirt with my name on it. Stretched across her cleavage. As one would. That either means that she's my fan, or I'm meant to get worked into an erectile state by seeing my name slathered across her boobs. Only one of them's good, though I feel neither are likely. Still, yes, I've entered the competition. I have a feeling particular people wouldn't speak to me again if I disregarded a shot at a night of free pop cheese. Any other celebrities out there want to have my name emblazoned across their fronts? Who should I canvass to be banging the drum on my behalf? Lemme know.
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Tuesday, May 15, 2001
Ah... nice: more information on the new Lynch feature. And the anticipation grows and grows... Notable too is the news that as far as DVD story goes, Lynch is planning on releasing Fire, Walk With Me with all the deleted scenes and much more; allow me to commence drooling. It's also worthwhile, given this particular write-up, to point attention back to LynchNet and The Universe of David Lynch as useful repositories of information on the eccentric auteur, at least until his official site gets some content on it...[via barbelith underground]
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We're not allowed to keep pets in our new place. Which bums me out, slightly; I'm always much more at home with a cat slinking around the joint. Intelligence. Poise. Furballs. Something like that. But the landlord's strong on the anti-feline line, and I ain't arguing: I don't want to get thrown out. No, instead, I'm turning my sights towards adopting a mummified cat. Neat, clean, non-allergenic and pretty funky-looking, wouldn't you say? Rock. It's no replacement for Yum-Yum, the Siamese that's at home (and is older than my brother, coincidentally), but it's a start.
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Continuing with the Good Stuff dosage of today, I bring you, straight outta Cannes, the teaser for the new David Lynch flick, Mullholland Drive. Can't wait. Big thanks to the suave Jim White-alike (and London-bound, later in the year) Russ for the guff.
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Monday, May 14, 2001
Ooh! Ooh! Here is a review of Shockheaded Peter as written by Terry Gilliam. It's a pretty averagely-written review but it gives notice that Gilliam's working with the Tiger Lillies on an adaptation of some of Edward Gorey's work. That should be seriously good stuff. I await news...link | Mail me. |
Papa Smurf, Cats and Roberto Benigni? Oh yes. Oh god yes. Proof that memes can (and do) go incredibly wrong, The $20,000 Zig is the sort of game show that I'd like to see. It'd make more sense than The Price Is Right, surely?
[via mo morgan]
(Coincidentally, both Mo and Catherine have now been blogging for a year, too. Something in the water in the month of May, I tells ya... Thanks too to everyone who posted comments or sent emails to me about my year-o-blog. I appreciate it.)
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Back from Oxford; write-up on that and on the two gigs I went to last week when I get a chance. For now, I just want to repeat a little news that I discovered on my return to London: Douglas Adams has died after suffering a heart-attack on Friday morning. Undoubtedly, you've read this story and associated memorials elsewhere, so I'll just point you towards a fairly "us 'n' them" discussion that's going on over at Metafilter. If you're unaware of Adams' work, then I suggest you check out the java version of the Infocom Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy game, or read the FAQ from the newsgroup dedicated to him. He was no Shakespeare - and would probably have been the first to admitted it - but he was enjoyable and educational; and that's good enough.
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