Wednesday 26 January 2011

Soccer Thug – Frank Clegg (1973)


I picked this up for a quid the other week. ‘Striker wasn’t all bad’...but this cover is, very bad. Unless I missed a soccer hooligan fashion phase I don’t think they ever wore studded leather jackets (with swastika!). Bikers, yes, but boot boys? There’s another version which, as I recall, is slightly better. The writing’s nearly as bad as the cover. It makes Richard Allen sound sophisticated.


 

Tuesday 25 January 2011

Feeling The (Andromeda) Strain


Over on Unpopular Alistair asks: ‘I mean, does anyone remember words? Does anyone remember what it’s like to read poetry about music?’ I know what he means, although if asked for examples of poetry pertaining to music, as in reviews or opinions, I’d be hard pressed to recall any. That said, in his way, I think Lester Bangs achieved a kind of gonzoid poetics when he was really on fire.
   As we all know the info overload situation works against writing that isn’t news, so we have to force ourselves to stay still for a few minutes and read. I never thought I would get like that back in my early days of computer usage...now I’m as flighty with the mouse as the next person, whether it comes to reading about or listening to music online.
   It’s pretty obvious that someday writing about music will seem as redundant as the 8-track, which won’t mean people will have stopped doing it, more that those who are (or perceive themselves to be) at the psychodigital frontline will have dismissed the idea completely in favour of simply hearing everything for themselves. What does an opinion matter? The critic of old, who lead us all to the sonic promised land with his words of wisdom, has long since been replaced by...everyone who cares to comment.
   Further still, it’s obvious that we’ll all communicate with a click in the future, being micro chipped with the means to communicate. There will, of course, have to be some filter process involved to prevent people knowing what you really think of them, or the subject being discussed.

As I edge towards science-fiction I must mention the record that’s been thrilling me over the last couple of days, Gil Melle’s soundtrack to ‘The Andromeda Strain’, from 1971. It’s initial form is something of a legend in sleeve design, being a silver hexagonal shaped sleeve and record, which was notoriously expensive to produce. Apparently the director, Robert Wise, wanted it to be the same shape as the virus of the title. Gimmicks aside, the music, is astoundingly good. I won’t attempt to describe it, but you can hear four of the tracks on the clip below. Whilst the original album will cost you a tidy sum, it’s available as a download all over the ‘net.



Monday 24 January 2011

The Shootist - Glendon Swarthout



With the imminent release of the Coen brothers’ ‘True Grit’ it might seem logical to go to the source, Portis’s novel, but instead I recently bought this, the basis of what would become another vehicle for Wayne.
   Swarthout’s keen on describing the anatomical impact bullets can have on a body, which adds a distinctive flavour to this superb novel. He also doesn’t shy away from describing the terrible decline gun man Books endures as cancer sets about doing what mere men could not achieve. These assaults on the body are contrasted with great flights of lyrical prose as Books, imprisoned in his room, contemplates his past, present, and very brief future.
   Meanwhile vultures, those standard signifiers of death in Western cinema, fly in to peck at his cancerous body, but here they take the form of those who would benefit from his death. A photographer, journalist, minister, former lover, and the teenager, Gillom, all want a piece of the legendary shootist. The latter proves to be particularly treacherous as he changes from wide-eyed worshipper to mercenary and, ultimately, potential inheritor of more than just Books’s guns.
   The ending is much darker than what we see on screen, which is no surprise considering Hollywood’s desire to impose a sense of moral correctness when it can. The manner of Books’s death and the way Gillom is portrayed are profoundly different.

Sunday 23 January 2011

Saucy Pulp Fiction


Now then, fellas, control yourselves...yes, it’s a vintage sleaze selection for your pleasure, featuring some covers by ‘The Picasso of Porn’, Eugene Bilbrew, who is something of a cult figure. These were in a box of books I bought recently. When I commented on Bilbrew’s art the seller got very defensive, declaring him to be a legend. Well, there’s a market for this kind of thing, it seems, as I discovered during a brief internet search. Although, surprisingly, some titles didn’t even appear to be on Google’s radar. Make of that what you will. Note the phallic beer bottle on the cover of ‘Man At Work’, spilling its contents onto the woman’s thigh...oo-er...


 

 




Saturday 22 January 2011

The Amazing Magic Robot


Forget Wikipedia...The Amazing Magic Robot knows everything...

 

So many questions...


...but the Amazing Magic Robot can answer them all.


The Amazing Magic Robot meets Clock Robot...



Thursday 20 January 2011

Foam On The Waves Of Space And Time - a.d.l.r

Nicholas Morera says hearing Anthony Braxton at the age of 14 was a formative experience. He talks of time as an infinite grid, as well as the idea of timbre being inseparable from harmony or sonority. From this you may rightly deduce that this debut is not filled with banging beats, bass music, or ordinary ambient music for that matter.
   Composer Gerard Grisey is a major influence, the title ‘Foam On The Waves Of Space And Time’ referring to Grisey’s ‘Le Temps et l’Écume (‘Time and Foam’).
   Morera channels various mediums through Ableton Live software in order to set about shifting time and space for his spectral compositions. Here is a blurred mosaic of sounds, some of which are familiar, such as the fleeting appearance of a post-industrial or click beat, or a saxophone played very much in the style of rigorous new classicism, rather than Ben Webster, and a hint of jazzy drumming. None of these elements create a definite flavour, but crop up as pieces on the cosmic grid of time. And here time does distort. The tracks are seemingly both endless and a nanosecond long. They’re accessible and remote. As such, there’s nothing here to immediately set the pulse racing, or sooth the soul. But there is mystery. This quality ensures an ongoing curiosity. Sometimes that is preferable to the comfort of familiar musical genres.



Monday 17 January 2011

Sunday 16 January 2011

Lola – Jacques Demy, 1961




Her name is Lola, she is a showgirl...in Nantes...where sailors seek a good time on the town...and there’s even one called Frankie. He’s engaged, but that doesn’t prevent him from falling prey to the charms of Lola, who still carries a torch for her first love, and cannot return the depth of feeling Roland has for her...ah, Lola...naive, sentimental, seductive Lola...
   And then there is Cecile, just 14 and besotted with Frankie, who takes her on a fairground ride during which the cover rolls over and for a moment, in the darkness, she can fantasise that he is all hers. She is raised by her mother, who looks as if she has just stepped out of Vogue magazine circa 1955...she too has high hopes for love in the middle of her life, and the object of her affection is Roland, for whom Nantes has nothing to offer. He is made redundant, preferring a good book to punctuality. He will do anything to escape, even if it means taking a dubious assignment carrying a bag across continents...but he meets Lola, a childhood friend, and everything changes, so he hopes...
   But who is the stranger in a Stetson driving a flash American car into the opening frame? He appears again, but doesn’t interact with any of the characters until the story is almost over...
   As fate interweaves the live of these people Lola may be central to the story, yet Demy does not lessen the impact she has on others, never reduces them to mere extras. The sight of Roland’s solitary walk, suitcase in hand towards the harbour, is as powerful as anything else we see...so too is the yearning felt by Cecile’s mother...and of course, that magical fairground ride for Cecile...
   Lola’s song, Legrand’s music, American sailors...it feels like a rehearsal for the films that would follow. As the characters yearn for fulfilment we see Demy’s dream of what cinema can be beginning to take shape...his romance with Hollywood will blossom into a vision very much of his own making...unlike Cecile’s American dream...

Thursday 13 January 2011

Emotional Transference With Hemingway



Must calm down having wasted an hour trying to get the CD recorder to work properly and it didn’t so I ate some chocolate which, as you know, is supposed to release the same chemicals we get when we feel ‘love’ or something but I’m not currently feeling love for that damned machine....want to smash it into pieces because I was hoping to put together a compilation so extraordinary that it would blow the minds of the lucky recipients...but it wouldn’t, of course, because everyone’s mind have been blown long ago and we’re all cynically weary of everything....which is not true, merely a reflection of the effect rebellious technology has had on my brain...

....pause...

...and the irony, dear reader, is that the only thing it would record was the opening track, a sample of Bill saying ‘Is this machine recording?’ – can you believe that? Bill’s magickal power still exerts itself from beyond the grave...enough to jinx my efforts...and I tell myself he was telling me something...namely that I would waste the next hour if I persisted...

...13 days into the new year and I seem incapable of kick-starting the creative juices...but you can’t kick-start juices, can you? A motorbike, yes. Juices, no. Kick-start the motor that is my brain? Maybe. It’s currently still/dead/silent/kaput/idle...whatever...

...so it’s raining again on what feels like a day of total darkness now that it’s actually dark...and the sun seems to be a distant memory....was it Hemingway who said always get the weather in as advice to writers? He also said that if you describe a shotgun hanging on the wall someone had better use it...I think...he was a wise bird, Hemingway, wasn’t he? Full of good advice for writers...like: ‘After a book I am emotionally exhausted. If you are not you have not transferred the emotion completely to the reader.’ Huh. Well, not being an aspiring novelists I can ignore everything he says. Does the same advise apply to blogs, though, I wonder? No, but it could do. And perhaps this is my attempt to transfer my emotion to you, and offload it all....here, have it...

Wednesday 12 January 2011

I Am Scientifically Proven To Be Musically Perceptive


Since I scored so highly (see left) in the BBC's music test I hope you will now take me seriously when I talk about music because it’s now been scientifically proven that I’m 99% spot on. Well, when it comes to memorising melodies, noticing the difference between tunes played, whether a bleep is in time with the music, and being able to put genres together by hearing a one-second soundbite...those were the tests in that category. If you fancy taking it, the soundbite tests are fun, but the questions are rather boring. One asks if Lady Gaga is a) a genius, b) very talented, c) quite talented, or d) not talented. There’s a subsection in which you can type your own one-word appraisal. I wrote ‘C*nt’...which may explain the missing final per cent. OK, I made that up.
   Some questions related to watching ‘live’ music. I scored low there because I haven’t been to a gig in years and have little interest in seeing bands. I’m not sure why...perhaps because having seen such bands as the Art Ensemble of Chicago, Ornette Coleman, Art Blakey, and Aylesbury’s The Sore Willies (1978) I’ve been spoilt. They’re tough acts to follow, especially The Sore Willies, who I almost joined until the guitarist discovered that I couldn’t learn two notes on bass guitar, therefore falling short, by one note, of the musical ability required. If you’re musically perceptive you may be able to guess the type of music they played by the name and era. That’s right, Jazz-Funk.
   A lot of books have been written about music and psychology, as well as the science of what goes on in our brains whilst listening. I’ve been tempted to buy a few, but have’nt bothered. It’s science, innit? And I have no ability to comprehend anything scientific...other than Ornette’s ‘Science Fiction’ album and the works of J. G. Ballard which, as you know, aren’t really scientific...sometimes quite medical, yes. I read a lot of science fiction before the term ‘hard science’ started to be applied to certain novels. I’ve tried a few and, yes, you guessed it, never finished them. I’ m not interested in someone’s speculative physics, although I admire their ability to bullshit in a pseudo-scientific manner, kind of.
   I thought of devising my own musical test. It might go something like this:

K-tel’s ‘The Return of Super Bad’ is one of the best compilations ever created: True/False
99% of musicians alive today are not fit to be in the same room as a Miles Davis album: True/False
Sweep (Sooty’s mate) has sung with Herbie Hancock: True/False
Sun Ra is from Saturn: True/False
Ten seconds of Bernard Parmegiani is worth more than everything Aphex Twin has done: True/False
Radio 1 should be removed from the airwaves: True/False
Rock’n’Roll is dead: True/False
Drum’n’Bass is dead: True/False
There are no truths or falsities regarding musical taste: True/False

That’s enough of that.

Tuesday 11 January 2011

The Red Brain (Belmont Books, 1961)

Ten stories that were originally published in 'Creeps By Night' (1931). It was the Hammett introduction that caught my eye, of course, but I'm sure you'll agree that the artwork is great. For its age, this is in amazing condition, the spine being completely uncreased. I can't see how it's survived 50 years without the usual wear and tear. The positioning of the words 'and other creepy thrillers' amuses me, implying that Hammett is a creepy thriller.



Wednesday 5 January 2011

Traversable Wormhole & Sum by David Eagleman

A sad day...the Jelly Belly box of beans has been emptied. On top of the two strong coffees I’ve had this could explain why, five minutes later, I was jumping around the room to a track from the Traversable Wormhole series, telling myself it was good exercise to stave off the growth of an unsightly jelly belly.


The Traversable Wormhole series of five EPs really is a first-class thing, a sinister, throbbing, moody selection of Techno. ‘Superluminal’ is especially good, but there are high points throughout...and if you turn it up loud, close your eyes and shake your chair violently you may pretend to be traversing a wormhole, at light speed...whereby the molecules of your body dissolve...and you die.



Which brings me to ‘Sum’, by David Eagleman, a small book with big ideas...similar ideas to those of Italo Calvino’s ‘Cosmicomics’ world in that he plays with notions of reality and cosmic concepts but here specifically speaks of the afterlife and it’s various forms. You may wake up in a suburb, or a waiting room...face technicians, or God. You may relive all your experiences one chunk at a time, therefore spend fifty-one days deciding what to wear...although in my case, it would amount to twice that, probably. It’s a fantastic book which, as the hyperbole would have it, and I agree, does make you think about how you’re living your life here and now.






Tuesday 4 January 2011

Playboy, January 1965



Only in Hefner’s universe would Harold Pinter and pin-ups collide as they do in the January 1965 issue. Here, the playboy may contemplate not only the delightful curves of Miss January, but also the cultural allure of Kerouac, Nabokov, Wodehouse, Southern and Bradbury. Yes, Penthouse Man could not survive on carnal pleasure and fast cars alone, apparently. Between playing chess and seducing beautiful women after a hard day on Madison Avenue he was reading quality literature.  


Here comes the obligatory beatnik joke...text by Peter Ustinov.


Below are suggested Christmas presents...what man wouldn't be happy to receive a Dunhill book bar?

 


Miss January has a go at some 'dabstract' art...



To prove that the playboy is not politically unaware or inherently right-wing...



Saturday 1 January 2011

Pulp Fiction: Friday For Death – Lawrence Lariar (1951)



Pristine finds may be a collectors wet dream but this well-worn paperback has a special appeal, from the cracks on the cover to the tattered spine. Printed in Soho, it’s survived a 60 year journey, just.


 

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