Shut up and dance?

I spent the weekend in a seaside town. We ended up in a room above a pub, drinking and listening to a rock 'n' roll covers band - plenty of Elvis, Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly. They did a good job, but the punters were only enticed onto the dancefloor en masse by two songs. The first was the Mavericks hit from a few years ago, Dance the Night Away, the only genuine non-oldie they played. The other was a surrogate non-oldie, a DJ Otzi-inspired version of Hey Baby. They loved that, but I found it annoying that the least authentic rock n roll songs were the most popular and then I found myself annoying for thinking this (insert 1000 words regarding tiresome debate about authenticity here). In my defence I was responding in addition to analysing, as I was dancing the night away more than anyone. The name of the band was the Alligators, and they finished with a rousing American Trilogy which you can't dance to, and no one did, but they didn't care.

Everything You Do Is A Balloon

For the cover of a CD I made the other day (thus driving the final nail into the coffin of the music industry) I used a page from a Monty Python desktop diary, which happens to fit nicely into the CD case. March 14 features an illustration of a bent-double figure carrying a collective noun of balloons. It's not familiar piece to me, perhaps one of the animated Terry Gilliam sections that I never liked much back when I liked Python, which now seems to work more as surrealism than comedy although perhaps that was always the case. The text accompanying the balloon man reads as follows:
"...all you think about is balloons... all you talk about is balloons. Your beautiful house is full of bits and pieces of balloons... your books are all about balloons... every time you sing a song, it is in some way obliquely connected with balloons... everything you eat has to have 'balloon' incorporated in the title... your dogs are all called 'balloono'... you tie balloons to your ankles in the evenings."
As someone who has always had a 'thing' about balloons, I admired this obsessive balloonism, while recognising the core of sadness at the heart of the balloon man, dragging his burden through a barren landscape.
And, of course, there was the room filled with large silver helium balloons at the Tate Modern recently, where the Andy Warhol show was on. It was my favourite room, and I wondered how mental it would seem if I filled my front room with silver helium balloons. I'd wanted to live in a world full of balloons years ago when I first moved to London and felt lost and overwhelmed and, studying the Python desktop diary picture more closely, a possible reason for balloonism why stared me in the face. The balloon man is walking through breast-shaped sand dunes towards a huge, naked sand mother with her hands in the clouds! Blimey Charlie! Still, as Freud said, sometimes breast-shaped sand dunes and huge naked sand mothers with their hands in the clouds are merely breast-shaped sand dunes etc...
It also made me remember Donald Barthelme's story about balloons, which I have just whipped out and find contains the insight that the balloon is a 'spontaneous autobiographical disclosure' to do with unease and sexual deprivation. It ends with the balloon being taken away on trailer trucks until the narrator's next bout of unhappiness and anger. Now, I may have dubbed myself the Wisdom Goof, although this was merely a pointless pun on wisdom tooth, but I recognise few sources of wisdom and eternal truth in this world of charlatans and fruitcakes, but Donald Barthelme is one teacher whose words and vision I trust.
The balloon, then, is like a guardian angel that reappears in times of stress and misery to remind us of lighter, bouncier times. There's the ee cummings poem, too, where the balloon man is a vaguely tragic figure, kept earthbound (the past/present) by his airborne trinkets yet yearning to be released, to ascend into the ether (the future) by a flight of fancy not unlike this one I'm having. I haven't read that poem for 15 years so I'm just projecting, but I think I'm curing myself of this 'thing' about balloons. Listen to them, they are whispering with their rubbery nipples 'it's time to move on.'
And, as this is a music-related weblog stroke journal, and not a place to randomly spit out shards of my disintegrating psyche, I will play the following bloon choon: Everything You Do Is A Balloon by Boards of Canada. To trot out the BOC received wisdom, their music is suffused with nostalgia for an imagined childhood, a past where balloons loom large and conjure up birthday parties and trips to the fair, representing the carefree, weightless aspect of childhood. And today, after months working in my underground bunker on top secret projects which are so top secret that even I don't know what they are, I will venture out into central London for lunch and to spend money I haven't got on new CDs, and top of the list will be the new(ish) Boards of Canada, Geogaddi.

In Zoe's Bedroom

Stevie Nixed's blog led me to a Guardian story called Top of the Flops, about the alleged lost gems that are failed 70s glam singles. And one of the records mentioned is Jet by Iron Virgin which I heard in Zoe's bedroom when I was 13 and I had a wild crush on her and I totally forgot about that record (and her) until today. Exclamation point. Part of the reason for the crush no doubt was the fact that she had this cool rocking single by a rude sounding group which I'd never heard of (I knew it was a Wings song even then). I think she must have been a little older than me. She had a trunk full of singles, like a pirate's buried treasure style trunk, which seemed wildly exotic. That was also the same day that we drove to her house (our parents were friends) and I heard A Whiter Shade of Pale on the radio for the first time - it seemed like a heady revelation. Oh, I am mister sociological memory man if you feed me the right cakes. Zoe... even the name gets me going, like Emma. Okay, move along.

Now, I don't use these pages as an excuse to be rude about the music and personalities I dislike, as I have supposedly put my years of ranting bile behind me as it is an unbecoming and unattractive quality. However, Chris Moyles, whose name cannot be mentioned without the addition of the descriptive phrase 'the unintelligent obnoxious untalented unfunny objectionable Radio One presenter', was just ranting about the Streets song Let's Push Things Forward. He didn't understand it and it made him angry. Ha ha you poor fool I thought, I had the same reaction at first but now I recognise it as a comic masterpiece. Turn it up loud and you will be provided with one of your RDA of 18 laughs which will prevent saggy face muscles and heart attacks. Is it supposed to be funny? For my purposes, not important.

Likewise, Tori Amos' version of That's What I Like, originally by Chas and Dave. Turning a typical Chas and Dave mockney knees up into a heartfelt piano ballad, Tori lists the things that make life worth living. But how familiar is she with bowls of eels, or Cannon and Ball? Do memories of 'Glenn Hoddle scoring a goal' really bring a lump to her throat? Does it matter if she obviously hasn't got a clue what she's singing about? Of course not.

I do like a list song. Yesterday I heard Ian Dury's version of England's Glory for the first time. I associate it with the late 70s version by the even later comedian Max Wall, but it turns out Ian Dury wrote it. Akin to That's What I Like, it's a nostalgic rundown of some special little things about England. There's too many great lines to mention but I'd just like to say: 'Nice bit of kipper and Jack the Ripper and Upton Park. ' Oh, and 'Winkles, Woodbines, Walnut Whips.'

Life Without Buildings

New sign up option for a Yahoo! club I started a while back (which has recently been transformed into a Yahoo! group):



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Repeat Play
In the three years since I've lived in this house, I've barely heard a peep from the upstairs neighbours. Until two days ago when the unmistakeable bassline of Sly's If You Want Me To Stay resounded through the ceiling. It's Friday evening, why not, I thought and turned my own music down to enjoy an old favourite from a different perspective. A couple of other unidentified old soul-funk songs followed it, and then silence. I was going to call it an isolated incident, until yesterday when there were several bouts of honking saxophone practice. And then repeat plays of Will Young's Evergreen throughout the afternoon. I am reminded of the court case involving a woman who terrorised neighbours by playing Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You over and over at top volume. The Pop Idol connection can't be ignored and I shall be monitoring the situation.

I see the repeat play syndrome as symptomatic of a disturbed state of mind. My housemate's girlfriend has a repeat play habit regarding nothing other than Making Your Mind Up by Bucks Fizz. It's none of my business, of course, but if I was him I'd be more than a little concerned.

Re: Pop Idol... was it wrong of me to shriek with laughter at the sight - and sound - of Rik Waller singing I Will Always Love You on Top of the Pops? It was followed by a pang, some say twinge, of guilt, as I am trying to eliminate kneejerk cynicism and elitist pop snobbery from my repertoire of learned behaviour.

On the other hand, I am delighted to have discovered the obscure joys of Canada's Simply Saucer. Cyborgs Revisited collects studio and live tracks which were recorded in 1974 (the archetypal 'twilight of cool' year made icy beyond belief by adding Canada and space rock songs about Nazis to the equation) but not released till 1989.

Musical Correctness

Months after I bought it, I finally played the enhanced CD content on my Mogwai EP+6 yesterday. The main feature is the Stanley Kubrick video, but it was a scan of some early reviews that caught my eye. It mentioned that Mogwai played some early dates with Urusei Yatsura. I dug out an old diary from the days when I used to keep a diary and discovered that I had indeed seen Mogwai in May 1996 supporting whatever-happened-to Urusei Yatsura. They were apparently so underwhelming that I had nothing to say about them except to record their name (and that of Fuxa, the other support). Contrast with the next time I saw them at Glastonbury in 1999 and couldn't stop raving about it. Insert pithy comment about context being all. This lack of memory disturbs me, although I do recall being depressed and hungover the day I saw Urusei Yatsura, so perhaps I just wasn't bothered about paying attention to unknown support bands in the back of a pub. Fuxa turned out some good records, too, but like Mogwai the first time the memory banks are empty. I also have a white label 7" featuring the bands from that tour that has a Mogwai tune on it.

I just signed up for The Rockstar Game. You give yourself a band or artist name, and spend money on practicing your instruments and songwriting skills, going on tour, releasing records and so on, gathering points and money along the way a your levels of creativity, health and happiness fluctuate. I don't know if it's going to be as addictive as Popex - it's more complex so it may lose out to my ever decreasing attention span - but it passed some time. I shall be recording as the Fat Druids, a UK-based monkey and cello duet who intend to remain so far underground you'll need the opposite of a telescope to detect them.

Some of the more interesting pages I've read lately:
Steve Albini Talks of Food - interview encompassing his views on mayonnaise, Polly Harvey's potato diet, and misuse of pronouns.
Vincent Gallo's Musical History. Musical autobiography page detailing the bands Gallo has played in from playing prog-rock covers as a 12 year-old to playing CBGB's with Jean Michel Basquiat, to his film music and a brief mention of his album When, which I've been playing obsessively of late. I've never seen any of his films and haven't read any interviews but do know he has a reputation as a highly obnoxious individual which seems at odd with the hypersensitive, fragile beauty of his recent recordings. This is supported by some self-consciously offensive remarks.
A Guide to Musical Correctness by Tim Midgett of Silkworm. A groundbreaking mathematical formula which can be applied to any musical artist to calculate their objective worth. The formula is (c@ + E) X (rP + iP + T) = mc, where c@ = coherent aesthetic, E = execution, rP = real or true power, iP = imagined power, T = tension adjustment and mc = musical correctness. I think this can sit alongside my Pop Wars method although I must admit it has the edge in terms of fancy-looking symbols. I was perturbed to see Midgett refer to the Fall's musically correct score with reference to a 'pre-mental breakdown'. I would like to ask when he believes this alleged breakdown occured.

I promise, your honour, that I came up with my Pop Wars idea independently of Freaky Trigger's current series of DUEL 2002!. They pit two easy targets against each other and asks for readers to vote to determine who is the worst. The 'winner' goes on to the next round in an FA Cup style competition to determine the worst act in the world today. Today sees Belle & Sebastian play Travis, so I may as well put these two through the Pop Wars system to translate the ultimately unquantifiable qualities of music into a number, which is more like a fact.

Belle and Sebastian
Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying 7
If You're Feeling Sinister 7
The Boy with the Arab Strap 7 
Like Dylan in the Movies 6
Seeing Other People 10
Sleep the Clock Around 7 
The State I Am In 8
I Fought in a War 6
The Fox in the Snow 5 
The Stars of Track and Field 9
Score: 72

Travis
Sing 5
Side 3
Why Does It Always Rain On Me 1
Driftwood 4
Turn 4
Writing To Reach You 5
Hit Me Baby One More Time 0
Flowers In the Window 2
The Cage 2
Follow the Light 2 
Score: 28

Verdict: Entirely by accident, the scores add up to 100. If Travis win (as in lose) this round of DUEL 2002 by getting 72% of the votes which is a reverse of their dismal score of 28 as determined by me, I shall proclaim myself the Nostradamus of the 21st century and grow a beard.

Dirty Old Town

Today in my beautiful neighbourhood was the first day of spring and I went walking down by the old canal. I am constantly invaded by song lyrics, connotations, associations, thanks to 25 years of deliberate immersion in what we shall just call 'pop music'. At first, back there, I wrote poop by mistake, maybe I shoulda kept it that way. It rules my life and has colonized a large part of my mind, it feels like I'm burdened down by a shitload of pointless knowledge about music, blocked up by the amount of time I devote my life to finding it, listening to it, writing about it, talking about it... Oh yeah baby, I'm just a prisoner of rock n roll!!

So I was walking along in the sunshine listening to a couple of CDs I made, two of a series of 50 because I bought 50 CD-Rs for a mere 20 quid (calculate in local currency here). I'm in the process of burning them and am uploading the tracklistings to Art of the Mix (under the Wisdom Goof persona). I like the transparent plastic, circular container they came in, with a spindle through the middle. The CDs rack up over the spindle, no covers, optimum usage of storage spaceage (spelling?), all for twenty of your English, some say British, quids. No wonder the music industry etc...

I walked around the local park I'd never been in the nearly three years since I've been living here. It was nice enough, not full of broken glass, gang warfare and perverts as I'd imagined. A line from Procol Harum's Homburg about clocktowers and market squares synchronized. Then, I was worrying about affairs of the heart and the uncharacteristic March sunshine and a line from Bob Dylan about the one you love standing right in front of you combined to lend me an answer.

Down by the canal, some disaffected youths were removing graffiti with a high pressure hose. It looked like a community service thing. There were a lot of joggers, some cider drinkers, some dog walkers, and an aching beauty sporting a coy beret. She was with an older woman, her mother maybe, our eyes met for longer than seemed socially permissible. Perhaps she thought I was more akin to the community service stroke cider drinking classes, however.

So, the first day of spring random playlist with mindnotes:
So Sad About Us - The Who (bastard dry cleaners are closed, why?!), Grazing in the Grass - Hugh Masekela (always think when this begins ooh pretty what is it, then of course yep, saw him with Susan that time in Notting Hill a million years ago), Galveston - Glen Campbell (washing powder, what is it with the Jimmy Webb brigade), Song For My Father - Horace Silver (flight to Australia, brief return home, newsagents, outrageous victimization of Thierry Henry, ooh look another burnt out car), Bongo Bong - Manu Chao (puts a spring in the step, Siena coffee shop, Luisa, slapped face=sign of affection), Proclaim Your Joy - Mark Eitzel (I hereby proclaim it, London Wheel in the distant distance), Stranger in Blue Suede Shoes - Kevin Ayers (passing the garage, as a pedestrian good for only one thing maybe two, passing fantasy about carwashes), Homburg - Procol Harum (the clocktower synch), Are We Are A Warrior - IJahMan Levi (recidivism, undefined yearning, him sitting beneath a tree, it's a perfect day to play football), Dollars And Cents - Radiohead (down towards the mythical pub which may or may not have been the same one we all went after the football tournament about five years ago), Box Full of Letters - Wilco (mild disturbance at the way the first second or two seems to be missing), Move It On Over - Hank Williams (I rarely concentrate on lyrics, but I got the whole doghouse thing this time), Tenement Yard - Jacob Miller (could take a right and go home, or carry on... carry on), Coconut - Harry Nilsson (of course Reservoir Dogs with food poisoning mirroring the bullet in the belly), Oh - Richard Hell and the Voidoids (missed him being interviewed on the radio yesterday), Lay Lady Lay - Bob Dylan (can I have my cake and eat it too?, you'd think I deserve to), Love You - Syd Barrett (towpath tsunami, the latest in a long line of the most beautiful girls in the world), Big Eyed Beans from Venus - Captain Beefheart And The Magic Band (planned imaginary picnic, considered the 'bean' imagery, saw Kings Cross and the gasworks in the distance), Bascilico Basilica - The Lapse (stalwart of many a philosophical drift), To You - I am Kloot (marry me, ha ha, marry me!), Choochtown - Hamell On Trial (just the greatest), Anybody Else But You - Moldy Peaches (I like to hear some songs through the ears of friends who haven't heard it, a way of hearing it anew, buy some fruit here?), Barcode Bypass - Mull Historical Society (relief from muscular pain, invigorated feeling that I should ruin myself in the gym later, buy a drink here?), I Hate Scotland - Ballboy (thoughts drift toward going to Spain soon, do I want to and can I afford it?, why doesn't the singer want to wear a T-shirt?), Kebab or Shag - Murry the Hump (singing with his mouth half paralyzed with booze, lovely, chicken kebab only 2.90), I'll Keep Holding On - The Detroit Cobras (sexiest voice in the world), Twist The Knife - Neko Case And Her Boyfriends (need to be truly overwhelmed and then it'll hit if not crush, meanwhile sickly odour of almonds), Whatever Happened To My Rock 'N' Roll (Punk Song) - Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (full of gestures but the least gripping and personally affecting of all these songs), Child Psychology - Black Box Recorder (didn't notice her mild speech impediment before, songs about elective mutism most welcome, kill yourself or get over it, oh how true, then I picture the singer and feel a little electricity, I wonder if there's any emails waiting for me). The clearest times I had last year were while out walking the streets and open spaces listening to music, the competing strands became aligned for a while. That's what it can do for me, but the trick is to keep hold of that gift, make some kind of map of that temporary alignment.