Song from the Dark Times.
Song from the Dark Times.
I don’t think I’m the only person who, when this came out, thought they were singing about Janet Frame.
That, though, would have been a bit too direct for Don McGlashan.
Someone once defined the Muttonbirds as being like the a Kiwi version of the Kinks with a touch of Twin Peaks’ undefined menace to them.
That to me is almost right. The band – and Don McGlashan’s other work, with Front Lawn and Blam Blam Blam and elsewhere – certainly get, and convey, New Zealand culture in a way the Kinks, at their peak, were able to do for the English.
But Twin Peaks? Hmm. You can see it a bit in this video clip, I suppose. But really, you don’t need to go offshore to seek influcneces. The band is like a rock muso version of Maurice Gee’s novels, or of some of our infamous ‘Cinema of Unease’.
If peoeple still bothered to market music compilations, someone could do a very good ‘Music of Unease’ of Kiwi Music.
In fact, of course, you could probably make one of your own.
That old saying “write drunk, edit sober” is all wrong.
It should be: write listening to Mozart, edit listening to Miles Davis.
And do the accounts listening to the Smiths.
The Housemartins. At their geeky, catchy best.
Pogues, for St Patrick’s Day. As I may have written in the past, I don’t have a drop of Irish ancestry, but there’s sometthing which stirs the blood in this tune.
It’s a song shot through with emotion about the Irish diaspora, fleeing both poverty and a theocratic culture.
The mix of grief and rage is something the Irish do well, for good as well as bad reasons.
This is a live version – a bit rough (c’mon, its the Pogues), with Joe Strummer and Kirstie McColl.
…or rather, ‘Sweet Jane’.
Many, many bands have covered this song. it’s a great warm-up number and I have vague memories of seeing Hello Sailor use it as a set opener back sometimes during one of their mid-80s incarnations.
It’s got a chugging basicness, a riff which kind of pulls you in.
I’ve always loved the Mott the Hoople version. I think it’s my favourite one, although the Cowboy Junkies and Lone Justice run it close.
Not to mention, of course, the original, on Lou Reed’s final album with the Velvet Underground.
Mott the Hoople’s big hit, All the Young Dudes, was written by David Bowie, and he produced them in 1972.
This demo track seems to have been a warmup number in the studio, that year, and they are backing the man who actually wrote Sweet Jane, Lou Reed.
The recording quality is a bit fuzzy but you can hear the zest and verve in the playing.
An all time fave song. Love its daffy good-naturedness.
Good song for the summer break.
John Hiatt. One of his greatest. A mix of Christian and pagan imagery, and at its core a simple, unspectacular faith in redemption.
‘It’s a new place, but you’ve always been here- you’re just listening to old voices with a new ear’
Listening To Old Voices
They have come to haunt the children
They have come to walk the wind
I can hear them as they rustle through the trees
Looking for the love that killed them
So that they might live again
It’s a simple prayer that brings me to my knees
With drums and bells and rattles
They have caught us in our time
To watch the eagle rise up from the fire
Now is it true we are possessed
By all the ones we leave behind
Or is it by their lives we are inspired?
It’s a new light, new day
Listening for new meaning, learning how to say
It’s a new place, but you’ve always been here
You’re just listening to old voices with a new ear
It’s the livin’ and the dyin’
Well it scares the young ones so
They can hardly catch their breath before too long
They see the tears we’re crying
And they watch the river flow
And they follow on the banks until it’s gone
I surrender to the mountains
I surrender to the sea
I surrender to the one who calls my name
I surrender to my lover and to my enemy
I surrender to the face that holds no shame
There’s a spider at my window
And she spins a web of truth
More beautiful than all those memories
And she surely is God’s artist
As she’s caught the morning dew
It’s a simple prayer that brings me to my knees
‘ The essay form is a tricky one to handle. It is not as though you have a story to tell. Anyone will listen to a story. What you are doing is just grabbing the reader by the slack of his coat and babbling to him, and all the time his probably dying to get away and go about his business.’
That’s from the introduction to a collection of Wodehouse’s more obscure articles initially written for magazines. Picked up the collection ‘Louder and Funnier’ a few months back and dipping into it late at night the past couple of weeks.
It’s good to have a chuckle at Wodehouse’s essentially good-natured but still quite acute wit before pulling the shades down and attempting eight hours of the restorative.
Someone else pointed out once – oh, go and have a look on the Googe for it, it’s bound to be online somewhere – that Woodhouse’s writings inhabit a prelapsarian world.
That exaggerates things a little bit, but not much. If there is a snake in this garden of Eden, it is either an aunt or an income tax inspector.
If there is a snake in this garden of Eden, it is either an aunt or an income tax inspector.
To the more fallen, real world: the election of Donald Trump.
Is he a Hitler on the rise? that analogy has been used so often, since the 1940s, about every political leader the speaker or writer does not like, it is now meaningless.
Actually, that is not quite true: it usually means the person making the claim is intellectually bereft of argument.
Back in the days, pre-internet, pre-Godwin’s Rule, there was an informal rule amongst adjudicators in Auckland University’s Debating Society that any debater who compared opponents’ case to Nazi Germany/Hitler automatically lsot 10 points.
Is he a Berlusconi with nukes? Maybe.
There is a clatter and a howl, a maelstrom of reaction to Trump’s election, and much of it seems to insist on only one overriding reason for his win.
It’s the sexism!
No, it’s the smug liberaliness!
It’s the poverty!
It’s the bloody media!
It’s that if Trump was a bad candidate, Hillary was worse!
It’s the FBI director!
It’s the Brexit!
The thing is, this US election trashes so many previous presumptions about what is supposed to work in politics, and is driven by many many factors – probably almost all of the above (and I might even be willing to considering chemtrails before dismissing them completely out of hand) that any instant wisdom doesn’t seem particularly wise.
Any one of the dozen or so scandals, gaffes, call them what you will, involving Donald Trump would have sunk any previous candidate, let alone all of those events together.
But they made him stronger. Working out why is going to take some time. Because it seems a candidate whose lack of almost any characteristic of human decency gathered momentum the more people saw of that side.
And really, we don’t really know what this guy is going to do because it doesn’t seem as though he believed a lot of what he was saying himself.
I think we can only conclude two things for certain right now: one is his election upends so many previous presumptions about how politics works that a major re-think is needed.
The second, about Trump himself, is that he represents primarily an exaltation of power and celebrity that is highly unhealthy and dangerous in any democracy, let alone the world’s largest one.
This isn’t even about ‘left’ or ‘right’ – well, its not for me, anyway. I distrust untrammeled power, and even more, I distrust the worship of power, irrespective of who is wielding it.
I keep thinking of Ulysses’ great speech in Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida
Then every thing includes itself in power,
Power into will, will into appetite;
And appetite, an universal wolf,
So doubly seconded with will and power,
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last eat up himself.
Finally, the death of Leonard Cohen. Not a huge fan, but so many folk whose insight and taste I respect are fans I have to pause and note the event.
A particularly good piece comes from my good friend David Cohen, who has a lovely appreciation on Radio New Zealand site here.
I was struck, when reading Aussie singer-songwriter Paul Kelly’s autobiography a few years back (reviewed here, btw) how much Kelly revered Cohen.
Kelly toured with Cohen, opening for the older singer, and although himself far too old for hero-worship sounds almost awestruck by Cohen’s approach. and Kelly’s observations of the older singer, when opening for him on a tour.
Kelly marveled at Cohen’s attention to detail – attention paid not just for its own sake, but because it was an essential means for paying respect to the people who came to see and hear him.
‘At the age of 74, at an age when some performers are merely phoning it in, he attended every sound check, which lasted usually between an hour in 90 minutes, and then backed it up each night with an intense three hour show.
Leonard’s performance was studied, gestural. …The devotion coming at him from the audience, the release of the pent-up hunger created by the years of absence, were matched, and more, by his devotion in turn to them. He served his audience sacramentally, given proper weight to his words and actions as he offered up his song prayers, everything in due order like stations of the cross. You know he meant it when he says, “Thank-you for keeping my songs alive”. He was paying everyone battle for, and respect.
I watched him and thought, that’s a way to be, that’s a way to act, there is a road to travel.
To walk in gravity and lightness, to be serious but not take yourself seriously, to pay attention, to know that you shall reap what you sow.’
I have added emphasis on that last sentence. It applies to us all, in any walk of life. It is precisely the opposite of a worship of power, or of any of the lazy and damaging abstractions which lead to abuse of our own strengths in our own daily lives.
It is an observation is founded in respect, mutual and deep, and an essential generosity of spirit.
Bob Dylan gets a Nobel. For literature, just in case you were thinking it’s for economics or anything.
I’m in the rather large camp which believes St Zimmy’s songs were best done by other people. I don’t like his singing much – his style, especially in his better-known songs from the ’60s, is very sneering, very off-putting.
And like others, I’m sure, I’ve heard too many bad buskers hooting ‘how does it FEEL???’ too many times not to feel a certain weariness.
I’ve only ever owned one Dylan album – Blood on the Tracks, which became the soundtrack for one of the numerous, not particularly happy, road trips I did around the North Island back in the ’80s.
It is, to be fair, pretty good, and ‘Tangled Up in Blue’ is one of the great ‘Track One, Side One’ songs of all time.
More recently, I downloaded a few of the mono mixes of some of his famous songs from the mid-60s.
Yeah, they’re good. But Dylan is a bit like the Beatles. We’ve been saturated in adulation for the “genius” of these “icons” for so long the colour and flavour has kind of leached out of them. It’s kind of difficult to tell if they’re really that good any more. Besides, I’m of an age group that grew up after they were already towering eminences, great cultural gods. The urge to lay about these icons with a hammer is never far away – or at least, to point out these Emperors might not have been naked but they did have many of the less personally admirable aspects of emperors down the ages.
And the Nobel? For literature? Dylan’s influence is huge but it’s musical rather than literary. It doesn’t feel right, somehow.
Dylan himself once said the band who did his songs best was Manfred Mann. The Dylan Disciples – of whom there are many- have always maintained this was one of the Bobsters’s great jokes.
And finally: William Shatner does Mr Tamborine Man. As only Bill S & his singing hairpiece can.