A platter of pure loveliness: (clockwise from top) Stinking Bishop, Epoisses, Chabichou de Poitou, Beenleigh Blue, 5-year gouda
Last week the craving returned. I tried to resist, for the sake of both my wallet and my body. I tried manfully, but ultimately to no avail. By Friday morning I was desperate.
I had to have ... CHEESE.
And so round lunchtime I hopped, skipped, and jumped the few blocks from workplace to my main local dealer, Les Amis du Fromage, and dropped an embarrassing amount of money on some fine dairy product.
At home that evening, I realized with much disappointment that I had left my swag in the fridge at work. I managed to sweat through the night, and the next morning Little Man and I made a Hail Mary run to the office for salvation. After discharging some ancillary errands, we returned to the house for lunch. And we ate our cheese.
I was uncertain whether Little Man would share my enthusiasm for any of the ponging, pungent pieces that huddled on the cheese tray, but I needn't have worried; his favourite was the butterscotchy five-year-old gouda ("Almost as old as me!" he declared), followed by the wrinkly, goaty splendour of the Chabichou du Poitou (or "Chubby-chew," as he dubbed it). The sweet mouldiness of the Beenleigh Blue he found pleasant, but he was less keen on the the in-yer-face strength of the Epoisses and my favourite, the delightfully fetid Stinking Bishop. Give him time...
Dearest Friends, I nearly wept for joy. Joy at the sight, smell, taste, and texture of my beloved cheeses, and joy at the fact that Little Man loved them too
P.S. Since 'tis once again the season to automotively schlep the kids from activity to activity, I burned a CD for inflight enjoyment. So here are three of the tracks that Daddy FiL and the bairns currently bop to en route:
Dearest Friends, it's been an odd little week full of niggly little things and bereft of both motivation and energy. To be quite honest, I was rather fed up with it all by this afternoon.
So thank goodness this came on the empeefree playah in the car on the drive home. I kept it on ear-splitting repeat all the way, my head bobbing like an electric chicken.
I love this song with every fibre of my quivering, dirty, lo-fi heart.
Soft! What dulcet verse From yonder 'puter gush? 'Tis a wondrous podcast Of contrast rare...
Yep, this week Contrast Podcast gets all poetic on yo' collective arses, Dearest Friends. The focus is on the words, the images, the cadences, the syntax, as each contributor offers up a poem of their choice for your delectation. But of course there's always music, and each plate of verse comes with a side order of song, carefully selected to complement the main dish. You can download it all here, and pen your own poetic responses here.
I chose a Ted Hughes poem because, although the man was a cad and a bounder, I find his words electrifying, uncomfortable, mythical, and revelatory. And he wrote about crows, wot are one of my favourite birds. The piece I went with, Lovesong, brilliantly captures the anguish and horror of all-consuming lust/love. But there were other contenders:
Billy Childish - The Huddie Poem (buy here or e-here) Childish is not only a garage guitar hero, but also a painter, author, and poet. But he's no posey art-school fop, Dearest Friends; for starters, he's entirely self-taught and his work --in whatever medium-- is pure and authentic and uncontrived. This piece, relating the birth of his son Huddie, squeezes my soul until tears of love seep out.
Ivor Cutler - I Believe In Bugs (buy here) I wasn't really in the mood for Dadaist whimsy this week, or else you might well have gotten a delightful dose of Scotland's finest.
As for the music, well, The Fugitives fairly leapt up to be chosen. I've mentioned them in passing before, and I thought the slam-poetry-peppered music purveyed by these shining Canadian youngsters would be most complimentary to Teddy Boy's verse. Here's another track of theirs, one that's abit more upbeat about this whole love thing:
It happened yesterday at the Granville Island Public Market. I had popped over from work at lunchtime to buy a bit of fish for supper. Having settled on a half-dozen succulent Digby scallops (which I pan-fried that evening to joyful perfection), I was making my way out when who should walk right past me but Zimbabwean despot Robert Mugabe. He was dressed in a yellow polo shirt and chinos, but I recognized him in spite of his disguise. Unfortunately, he slipped away into the crowd before I could react. In hindsight I should have incapacitated him by flinging scallops at his head, but the shock of seeing one of Africa's most nefarious tyrants in the throbbing epicurean heart of Vancouver cost me precious moments.
I remember it was at the annual school fête. I would have been eight years old. A hand-lettered sign promised fortunes told, and so I went into the tent. I sat down at the table, across from my bluff Class 2 teacher, Mrs Feitosa. She wore a turban and a purple cape, while I was Julius Caesar, draped in a sheet. Everyone dressed up for the fête, and I had been deeply impressed by our lessons that year about the Romans. I recall it being a hot, Brazilian day.
Mrs Feitosa carefully laid out the cards on the table; they were unlike those with which I had seen my Mother playing solitaire. Most of what she said I can no longer recall, nor do I remember what suits were spread out. But I clearly see her tutting at one of the tarot, and hear her informing me, in her stern and matronly voice, it foretold of a lifelong opposition, of someone who would always be an obstacle, a barrier. Someone, not something. I was rather scared.
Throughout my childhood the memory would surface occasionally and I would ponder upon it, unable to fathom who might be my opponent. This continued even after childish credulity gave way to skepticism in all things divinatory. Then a few years ago, I thought I had figured it out; in a flash of revelation, I realized who had been and was still my obstacle. Someone very close to me.
More recently I was reflecting once --idly, I thought-- on the mystic Mrs Feitosa. And I was suddenly mugged by the realization that I had been wrong. In fact I had been, was, and could continue to be, my own lifelong nemesis.
The Contrast Podcast radiates vengeful anger this week as it concludes its tour of the seven deadly sins with an exploration of wrath. Come hear the CP Nation get angry, very angry indeed. You can download the 'cast here, and vent your own spleen here. Oh, and a word to the wise: better let those Happy Flowers watch cartoons. Trust me.
As I'm of the firm belief that the world needs more Billy Childish, my wrathful pick was an easy one to select. That said, as the red haze descended across my eyes, I did also consider the following tunes: The Buffets - You Piss Me Off (buy here) Yes, the Buffs song covered by a trio of women associated to varying degrees with Billy C. Bassist Nurse Julie is Billy's wife and also plays bass for his current band, The Musicians of the British Empire. Singer Sister Tiffany Lee met Billy when he came to Seattle to marry Julie, who sang in Tiffany's band The Stuck-Ups. Drum Matron Debbie Bongo sang for Thee Headcoatees, a past Billy C affiliate band, and also drummed for the A-Lines, alongside Julie on guitar. Got all that? Good.The Buffets came together for their first rehearsal on 2 April, 2005. The next day they recorded their debut album, and it was mixed on 4 April. On 8 April they played their first and only gig in support of the Buff Medways at the Dirty Water Club. Your FiL was there to see it, and I can testify that it was an evening of authentic garage punk heart, soul, and sweat. I also got rather tipsy and chatted dorkily with the lovely Sister Tiffany at the bar after the proceedings. Oh, and I tried to cadge a lift off of Billy and his crew in their ancient ambulance. Shame they were going to Chatham, while we were going to Clapham.
Armitage Shanks with Billy Childish - Shirts Off (buy here or e-here) Another stalwart of the Chatham set, Armitage Shanks also played at that 8 April 2005 Dirty Water Club show. It was the first time I'd seen these hardworking blokes, and they served up a proper hearty meal of 1977 punk with lashings of integrity. That show was also the last UK gig I went to, but The Shanks were also the first band I saw after emigrating to Vancouver. Well, I was impressed by the serendipity of it all.
The Exploited - I Hate You (buy here or e-here) Ah, Wattie and the tartan lads shout it loud and proud. Does exactly what it says on the tin.
OK, I'm sure you're all wondering what the buddha photo has to do with wrath. Well, lots, actually. You see, as I say in my intro this week (and as I've said before), I do subscribe to the buddhist view that anger is a destructive emotion. I don't share John Lydon's opinion, as articulated in JC's submission this week, that "anger is an energy." To be precise, it is not useful energy. Anger gets you and others a whole mess of suffering. And I should know, because I --just like you and you and you-- get angry. Not homicidal-maniac angry, but angry nonetheless. But whenever I do, I regret the collateral damage it causes. Always. When I yell at the kids, when I argue with my Mother, when I pranged my car while driving under the influence of seething fury.
So, the wee buddha pictured above now sits on the dashboard of my recently restored vehicle (which I've dubbed "Nose Job" in commemoration) to help me focus on dissolving anger when it arises and transforming it into compassion and loving kindness. You probably all think I've turned into some sort of soft-boiled hippy with granola in his loincloth. Fret not, no patchouli or kaftans round here, missus. But I am trying to make myself a wrath-free zone.
I'm sure I'll fuck it up, but I'm equally certain that I'll keep on trying.
P.S. I've found this book helpful, as well as this one. Just saying.
And so, I'm back. Actually, I've been back for about a week, apart from this weekend when I was once again forth. But yesterday I was back again, but will go forth and back and forth and back in the coming weeks.
Oh dear, I think I've muddled it all up. Let me try again...
Last week I returned to town after two lovely weeks on Mayne Island. Lovely, but only partly restful; those of you with spawn of your own will know that children of single-digit ages are particularly adept at staving off peace & quiet. We also had the pleasure of dogsitting Dearest Father-in-Law's hound, a chocolate lab whose irrepressible happiness is largely offset by her incorrigible compulsion to alternately roll in or eat the foulest substance she can find. Which on Mayne means otter poo. Fret not, I shan't go any further into detail.
Dearest Wife, Little Man, and Darling Daughter are staying on on Mayne until Labour Day, which will give them a full six weeks of island time. For the kids, I'm hoping it'll be the stuff childhood memories are made of. Beach forts. Shells. Seaweed. Ice cream treats. For Dearest Wife, well, I hope she finds some soul-refresh time. I shall be joining them on weekends, temporarily locking the absurdities of finance in the boot of the car every Friday evening before stepping onto the ferry.
You might think that with both bride and bairns on the island I would be leading the life of a carefree, bachelor libertine. You know, leaving the toilet seat up because I can, going down the boozer every evening, frequenting discotheques, etcetera. Well, it's not like that at all. And why?
Because of flora.
No, no, no, not some floozy named big-eff Flora, but flora as in vegetation, greenery, things botanical. Goodness, where DO you get these ideas?
You see, Dearest Friends, Darling Wife is a keen gardener and I have been requested to ensure her plant empire remains watered and alive. Well, I say "requested," but the request came accompanied by a three-pages of instructions and the implication that should I neglect the plants I'd be better off buried beneath them.
To be fair, Darling Wife did set up a soaker hose on a timer for the back garden flowerbeds. And her instructions are written to cater for my horticultural illiteracy. But it's the pots that are killing me. You want to know how many she has? Guess.
Nope, more.
Give up? Just over one hundred of the buggers. Yes, a century of the things, ranging from tiddly seedling receptacles to a whacking huge ones in which you could hide a wombat, if there wasn't already a Japanese maple in it. There are some in the back garden, some in the front, some inside the house, some on the shower deck, and some on the top deck. And I spend ninety minutes each day checking and soaking them. Yes, an hour and a half.
Now bitching aside, I know both that Dearest Wife derives great pleasure and satisfaction from her horticulture, and that she's damn good at it. I also appreciate the results of her efforts and am pleasantly aware of the garden in general, but I really have little interest in the specifics. Which leads to many conversations like this:
Dearest Wife: "I'm really pleased with my Scrofula Scabulosa. Don't you think it looks marvellous?
FiL: (Engrossed in Betty Swallocks: The Memoirs of Lemmy Kilmister's Jockstrap) Mmm, yes.
DW: You're just saying that. You don't know which one I'm talking about.
F: Um, yes I do. It's the, er, red one. With the leaves.
DW: Oh, honestly (stalks out of room).
F: Sigh. (Returns to Betty, but enjoys it slightly less)
And so, Dearest Readers, that's why this little patch of blog garden is looking a bit limp and peaky as of late. I'll try to tend to it a bit better, most likely at night.
View from Crane Point, Mayne Island 29 July, 8:30 PM
It rained today, the first time it has done so since we arrived on the island over a week ago. I awoke late to the sounds of raindrops pittering and pattering on the metal roof, and turned over to see a film of downy grey mist shrouding the Trincomali Channel. A lone, ghost-like fishing boat sculled across its waters.
I got up and decided to shave for the first time since we arrived. Why? No good reason. My scraggle was well within the realms of acceptable island tonsorial fashion, and the itching had stopped days ago. But shave I did.
After a long breakfast (granola, natch) and ablutions, to the "village" for errands with Little Man. At the Post Office we found out that the mail comes in and goes out at six A.M. on a special Canada Post boat that weaves its way around the islands. It's still raining softly as we walk to the Trading Post for local free-range eggs and then to the Gas Station to pick up a litre of engine oil. Dearest Father-in-Law's 1992 Toyota Camry station wagon (a.k.a. The Green Whale) seems to be guzzling through the stuff (oil, not eggs). We have to wait to pay, as the girl tending the station had to run down to the gas dock to fuel up a passing boat.
We stroll to the True Value to stock up on groceries --blueberries, freshly picked salad greens, and a side of salmon to be barbecued tonight-- and finish with a stop at the Bakery next door for fresh bread. Oh, and a Nanaimo Bar, that Little Man and I share at a damp picnic table outside, watching the world go by. It is still raining.
We drive back to the house, and the afternoon unfolds into puzzles, mugs of tea, story reading, games of checkers, and the occasional squabble of siblings who, if asked, would really rather be out beachcombing, bouldering, and being pulled through the water by Daddy in their kayak, Gumdrop. But they did like the stories, checkers, and puzzles.
Evening approaches, and the salmon is grilled, then enjoyed in the company of a visiting hummingbird and squirrel. And the rain finally stops.
And the sun comes out, just for a brief spell, before it starts to set, gloriously.
Phew! It's all been going soooooooo faaaaaaast! And have I had time to tell you half the stories I want to? Of course not...
But today we're off to Mayne Island for a fortnight --that's TWO WHOLE WEEKS-- of downtime. I cannot wait until we board the ferry. It's like some sort of cosmic temporal transmogrfier; you can actually feel the time slow right down the minute you step on board. Glorious...
I will have my laptop with me, and plan to catch up with you all. In the meantime:
Alright, head on over to the Contrast Podcast RIGHT NOW or else I promise you the kitty will get it...
Aw, shucks, you didn't think I'd really hurt the wee moggie, do you? Admittedly I am both a dog person and very allergic to felines, but never in a million years would I --could I-- harm Tiddles, let alone any beastie. Oh, and for the record, I think strong gun control is essential for a civilized society.
Right, were was I? Oh yes, this week the CP offers up both threats and promises, thanks to our current Thememistress, Dearest Greer. It's a lovely cast, well-balanced between the two options and full of excellent tuneage from contributors old and new. For a change, I've actually started to listen to the podcast before the weekend (the silver lining of having a longer bus commute while the car is in the shop) and the intro is a fantastically atmospheric, hiiilarious, noirish exchange between Greer and CP compere extraordinaire, Young Tim. You must listen, I promise you'll enjoy it!! Download it here, and leave your comments here. And the threats/promises made this week are:
Gore Gore Girls - I'm Gonna Get You Yet (buy here) Oh, what I wouldn't give for these gorgeous garage gals to aim that threat at me. almost makes me want to go to Detroit.
L7- Shove (buy here) I know of no finer getthafukkouddahereorelse song. None.
CocoRosie - Promise (buy here or e-here) I keep drifting back to CocoRosie's odd little reverie of an album, The Adventures of Ghosthorse and Stillborne. So rich and lush...
Next week Contrast Podcast goes through the Days of the Week, thanks to Dearest Marcy. Find out how to contribute here.
Please, Dearest Friends, grab a vine and swing on over to the Contrast Podcast jungle post haste, and get ready for more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Yes, this week the CP goes all apeshit on us with an entire episode dedicated to humanity's simian cousins. The apesolutely fantastic selection of tunes is enough to make a monkey out of anyone, and Dearest Tim is, as usual, the masterful organ grinder. So get ready to do the funky gibbon and come join in all the baboonery by downloading the podcast directly here, then gibber and hoot about it over here (Stop it right now, the cliche police have been called - Ed). And here's all the monkey business (I said stop it!! - Ed):
There seem to be a lot of apes and monkeys inhabiting my music collection, and though The Mummies were my choice this week (since I was feeling a bit garagey), a few other tracks screamed for my attention:
Add N To X - Sir Ape (buy here) I love these guys and the jarring electronic noises that they make. And yet I've never been able to listen to a whole album of theirs from start to finish, coz usually by track three or four my nerves are shredded and the low frequencies have caused my internal organs to collapse.
The Maytals - Monkey Man (buy here) Dearest Dirk posted the storming Specials cover of this skankeriffic song, so here's the 1969 original from ska kings The Maytals. The Specials version has actually become a fast favourite of Darling Daughter and Little Man - they sing along perfectly to the line "beeg, beeg, monkey man" before dissolving into fits of laughter.
Don Ho - Shock The Monkey (buy here) Yes, you read right. That's the late Hawaiian kitschmeister himself doing a luau-lounge version of the Peter Gabriel standard. If that isn't enough to make your grass skirt flip, you MUST visit his website...
This podcast got me musing: what is my favourite primate, not counting man? I decided that while I am rather partial to howler monkeys and do have a very soft spot for the pygmy marmoset, it's the aye-aye that I hold most dear. Yes, there is a certain depth of character to this nocturnal beast, considered unjustly as a harbinger of death by the humans who inhabit its home of Madagascar, that other monkeys and apes cannot match. So, what's your favourite ape, lemur, or monkey??
And then there are the fictional primates. The clear winner for me there is Magilla Gorilla, the TV cartoon ape with whom I spent many a childhood hour. To this day I'm prone to singing the theme song at random. Here, let me introduce / reacquaint you:
OK, I think I'm rapidly losing the plot here and I'd better stop; I was about to tell you a story about proboscis monkeys and mistaken subtitling in Dutch films. Next week's CP theme is "Threats & Promises," so get thinking of a submission and submit. Or else...
And so, Dearest Friends, I'm back. Still rather wobbly on my feet, but back nonetheless...
My trip to New York went acceptably well. There was much dark matter; accusations, bitterness, spite. But there were also brief flashes of light; gratitude, shared enjoyment. I also found myself spending an inordinate amount of emotional time reconciling the present summer with summers past. As mentioned previously, Mother has moved to a part of Long Island where I spent much time as a child. Several times during this last visit memories would scream around the corner, doing twenty-years-plus per second, and smack right into me. Nothing traumatic, but rather discomfiting. But the trip wasn't about me; it was about Mother, and I am thankful that I managed to stay (largely) centred and do what I set out to. However, the visit, bookended by disrupted redeye flights, left me drained. I'm still trying to refill...
I'm also still having difficulty shaking out the causes of and working through the implications of my car prang. Truth be told, it's still dragging me low. It's as if the incident suddenly turned on a bright light, revealing a host of less-than-comfortable thoughts and emotions that need to be caught before being they scurry away back into the darkness.
But soft! There have also been moments of great fun, most prominent of which was a visit by Mentok the Mindtaker and his family. He and I have been blog buddies for over 18 months now, and this year the trajectory of his summer holiday took him through our neck of the woods. We spent the evening hanging out on one of our local beaches, dining on pizzas and chatting while our kids did all that normal kids do in sand and surf. Then back to chez nous, where they spent the night before striking out the following morning to their ultimate destination. It was a wonderful transition from the virtual to the real - Mentok, his wife Library Mama, and their three boys are all absolutely lovely. And completely housebroken. So I can unreservedly recommend that you all welcome Clan Mentok into your homes, should the occasion arise.
Oh, and it seems summer has finally arrived. I know many in the blogosphere have already welcomed it with song, but given my equivocal state, I think it'd be a good, optimistic tonic for me to follow suit...
Oh, and here's the video for "Long Hot Summer." Why, you ask, when it's sooo posey? Well, cos it shows Mick punting Paul down the River Cam, something that your FiL spent much summer time doing many years ago. And yes, it was just like that. Well, minus the bongos. And espadrilles. Oh, that bridge you can see between 1:19 and 1:43? That's the Bridge of Sighs, and it holds a most special, bittersweet place in my heart...
First there is the general underlay of family life. Little Man, Darling Daughter, and all of their demands, both the delightful and drudgeful.
Then the flow of work. Eminently swimmable, but nevertheless requiring a constant stroke.
Then mother. I'm off this evening again to New York for five days to help her out. And though I'm trying to stay calm, I'm tight and tense about what barbs might be flung my way.
Then Dearest Wife, with whom, thanks to the aforementioned underlay and her own workflow, it has been ages since I've had a proper talk. I mean, a real howyadoin', howmidoin', heart-to-heart, ebb-and-floww conversation.
Then my tendency to squeeze out sleep to squeeze in the fun stuff, such as preparing Contrast Podcast episodes for this week and (as I'll be away) next week.
Then this morning. Scrambling to leave the house. A testy quip from Dearest Wife about priorities, formed of words that I imagined (unfairly? fairly?) might have flowed from Mother's mouth. A quip that prompted a surge of anger that I suppressed. It festered quickly.
Into the car. A totally ill-judged left turn on my part (I thought she was stopping), one that take away the stress and the anger I would never have made. A collision - thankfully no-one hurt, apart from my detached front bumper, the front of my unfortunate crash-mate's CRV, her nerves, my ego. Details exchanged, cars drive away, insurance company informed, premium rises.
Yes, the universe is trying to tell me something.
Slow down. Anger is not an energy (apologies to Mr John Lydon). It is a destructive emotion. Refocus. On yourself. On those around you. Show them all --yes, yourself too-- compassion. Sort it out.
Yes, Universe, I'm listening. And trying to learn.
What? Is it that time of the week already? Goodness, what was I thinking? Where's my head at? Is this thing on? Is anybody out there?
Yes, the latest episode of Contrast Podcast is out and this week Dearest JC aka The Vinyl Villain has got it asking questions. So if you fancy finding out what musical queries the awesome CP Nation has posed, head on over here or download the 'cast from here. Want to know what's up? Have a look:
I had long been waiting for an opportunity to submit a track by the mighty Pointed Sticks, so "What Do You Want Me To Do?" was unquestionably (no, please, no applause) the shoo-in for my contribution. A while back I mentioned the band in a post on Buzzcocks, since both bands shared a similarly bright, frantic, pop-punk sound. The Pointed Sticks formed in Vancouver in 1978 when singer Nick Jones returned from a stint in England, all hopped up and ready to go on account of all that Clash/Pistols stuff that he absorbed while working in a record store. Jones teamed up with his mate Bill Hemy on guitar, enlisted a drummer and bassist, and together named themselves after a Monty Python sketch. No joke.
There followed victory at a local battle of the bands and persistent touring on the West Coast (including a support slot with Buzzcocks), which built up an enthusiastic fanbase. They had both the thrill of being the first Canadian band signed to Stiff Records and the disappointment of the label failing to crystallize their debut album. Eventually it was re-recorded and released by a Vancouver label, but hassles continued to dog the band and eventually they split up in 1981.
It was a brief, white-hot run, but it left lasting scorch marks; some material was re-released in 1995, and in 2005 their debut and sole album, Perfect Youth, was reissued along with a compilation of singles and b-sides. The band somehow became Very Big in Japan and reformed in 2006 for a tour of that country. There followed a well-received re-enactment (they refused to call it a reunion) back in Canada, and the 'Sticks continue to gig - there's even talk of new material.
And y'know, I must declare a personal connection. I had become acquainted with The Pointed Sticks and their legacy in the late 1990s during my visits to Vancouver. Then, one hot summer's day in 2005, shortly after we moved to Vancouver, my kids ended up buying lemonade from guitarist Bill Hemy's kids, though I didn't realise they were Bill Hemy's kids until after the fact. Now my Little Man is in the same kindergarten class as Bill's youngest. And to top it off, Dearest Wife recently ran into Bill's wife, who herself fronted seminal Vancouver punk band The Dishrags, at a medieval studies conference in town. How these weird and wonderful webs are woven...
Oh, I can't resist - here's a short Pointed Sticks track for you. But promise you'll go listen to the podcast, then buy the record, OK? OK.
Sultans of Ping FC - Where's Me Jumper? (Gosh, hard to find now! buy here) Actually, this was a submission on one of the very earliest episodes of the Contrast Podcast. I tell you, these lot were as mad as bag of ferrets. I still do an odd, whippy sort of dance when this vintage 1992 single comes on the gramophone. But I rather think they lost the plot after this moment of brilliance; I saw them support The Ramones in 1995 and was most disappointed by the experience. But they are touring again...
Next week CP goes all broody with the theme of "Babies." Please do contribute!
So it goes something like this: sometime back in the mid-1970s, the benevolent aliens who had been watching over humanity undetected for ages finally felt compelled to intervene. Genghis Khan they could tolerate. The Black Death, though distasteful, was mildly interesting. Stalin had no dress sense and was a boor, but they let him slide past. However, when they saw the cultural havoc being wreaked by the likes of Barry Manilow, Captain & Tennille, and naugahyde, they decided it was time to act.
Using centuries of knowledge gained through the judicious application of anal probing, they synthesized a small child and imbued him with wit, humour, mad technical skillz, and groovy taste in music. This boy was to be their gift to humanity, a saviour. They surreptitiously inserted him into a rather normal English family, and hoped that he would germinate before the world went all Sonny & Cher-shaped. Thankfully, he did.
Of course you won't find this account anywhere "official" because "They" don't want you to know. But if you download this week's CP episode from here, your eyes will be opened to a whole host of mysteries and conspiracies. Like these:
This week I felt compelled to offer up The Higsons for two reasons, namely a) I felt the need for some groovily parping horns, and b) I really wanted to come clean on the whole bongos/Albania/Moonies thing. But I also considered the following mysterious tracks:
China Crisis - Tragedy & Mystery (buy here) I never managed to classify these Merseyside marvels of the eighties. If pressed, I'd say they were most overwhelmingly pop, but with large lashings of postpunk sensibility. So poppostpunk, perhaps? This track, though appropriate for the theme, was never my favourite of theirs, as methinks it sails a bit too far into the syrupy seas of mawkish melodrama. But there are plenty more tracks to possibly post at a later date...
? and the Mysterians - 96 Tears (buy here) Yes, a well-worn standard, but this is truly terrific 60s garage stuff. And don't forget that the Mysterians were one of the first Latino rock groups to make it big. But pity poor Question Mark himself, whose Michigan house burned down in 2007, taking with it his collection ofrock memorabilia, four Yorkshire terriers, and a cockatoo. I bet he shed more than 96 tears over that. Sorry, that last comment was utterly tasteless. So go out there and buy some of the man's albums, willya??
Fabienne Delsol - Mr Mystery (buy here or e-here) And speaking of garage rock, here's a faaabulous slice of the stuff, dripping with retro girl group vocals. In 1996 the young Mademoiselle Fabienne Delsol crossed the English Channel and hooked up with a couple or rosbifs to form The Bristols. The band released a couple of albums on the stonkingly good Damaged Goods label before splitting up in 2003. Thankfully Fabienne decided to continue on solo.
Orouni - The Perfume Conspiracy (buy here) I can't recall how this ended up in my collection; indeed, I only rediscovered it when trawling for potential podcast contributions. And so very thrilled I am to remake its acquaintance! It is lovely, lilting, and lifting, tremulous, touching, and twee. In other words, perfect summer fare. Orouni himself is a quirky Parisian musician, but it seems his name has expanded to encompass a shifting collective of the like-minded. I have no idea who is singing on this lovely track, but she melts my heart and pours it into an tiny, art deco perfume bottle. Sigh.
For next week, Contrast Podcast is looking for songs whose titles are questions. Want to contribute? Find out how to over here.
I've been wanting to write to you for a while now, but couldn't get past the idea that it would be a bit of a daft, fanboy thing to do. But after seeing you this past Friday at St Andrews Wesley Church in Vancouver, I figured it really was time to put (virtual) pen to (virtual) paper. The only complication is that I also decided to make this a blog post, so goodness knows what sort of a mess it will turn out to be. I've got the dustpan and rubber gloves ready, just in case.
I was a bit taken aback upon seeing the logo on the sleeve of the t-shirt I bought after the show: "Life's Still A Riot 1983 - 2008." Has it REALLY been twenty-five years? I suppose it has, and I suppose it was just under a quarter-century ago that I first heard "A New England" hometaped onto a C90 by a mate. Discovering your music was as significant to me as seeing The Clash at the 1978 London Rock Against Racism gig was to you. You see, I was the "Saturday Boy" and though I knew the meaning of "unrequited," I couldn't articulate its feeling as you did. And in so doing, you helped a hormonal, teenage FiL cope. On the political front, the short, sharp shocks of "To Have And To Have Not," "It Says Here,and "Like Soldiers Do" helped channel my roiling ideological waters. You see, I was actually a rather conservative lad, but your thoughtful lyrics and kerranging gee-tarr helped convince me to tear up my Reaganjugend membership card. I'm happy to report that I'm now a staunch liberal (with a small 'l'), who cries in front of the TV.
I think I've seen you in concert five times now, which ties you with The Ramones for first place in the "Popular Beat Combos FiL Has Seen The Most Times" sweepstakes. So congratulations on that achievement; you must be very proud. The first time I saw you play was November 1986 at the 9:30 Club in Washington, D.C. I clearly remember sitting right up against the stage by your feet, much like the youngsters did last Friday (this time I was in the sixth row of pews, on the left, natch). I was thrilled that night when you joshingly rebuked us "fucking New Yorkers" for singing too loudly. That was the first time I experienced your fantastic gift of making everyone in the audience feel like you've come along just to hang out with them. Like the lad lying in the aisle between the pews, the one you nicknamed "Lazarus" and on whose state of life or death you commented throughout the show.
Indeed, I've always admired your ability to connect, and to share your vulnerability. Though let me make it clear that you're not the "tuneless bastard" you claimed to be while quaffing Throat Coat tea in the cold confines of the church. When you finally got through "Price I Pay" after wrestling with the capo, I think the applause was of admiration and not relief, as you suggested. With Billy Bragg, what you see/hear is what you get. He does exactly what it says on the tin. No artificial sweeteners or preservatives. You get the crunchy with the smooth. And it's all delicious.
I was struck by the nifty mix of folks who showed up to the church on Friday: hipsters and hippies, pre-adolescents and pensioners, and loads inbetween. At one point I spied a few rows ahead of me a rather rotund, balding man in his sixties nodding and shaking his head with vigour and abandon while you played. I guess he was pew moshing. Then there were the kooky-kool kids dancing in the aisles to "World Turned Upside Down." They impressed me; I never managed to figure out how to boogie to that particular tune. I must admit to myself that I fall into (the young end of) that group of oldies you mentioned; you know, the ones whose grandkids will put "White Man In Hammersmith Palais" or The Specials on the gramophone, just to see Nan and Grandpa do their funny dancing. As an aside, now I'll never be able to listen to The Specials without snorting with laughter while visualizing you doing that creaky, decrepit skank you did. Cheers for that, mate. No, really.
More than anything, Friday night reminded me that your songs are at their most potent when they are infused with the passion and feeling of you playing them live. Every tune was a stunner, even the ones that on vinyl/CD/mp3 don't move me as much as the others. In particular, "The Space Race Is Over" has never been in my top ten, but on Friday I found it utterly heartwarming. And then there was "I Keep Faith," which I am ashamed to say I didn't even recognize as yours when I first heard it played on CBC Radio some months back. But hearing it performed live with such commitment and fervour was electrifying. As for my favourites (i.e. all the rest), well, I thought I had died and gone to heaven with you and Johnny C(l)ash. I think "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward" has become my favourite live song, not least because each time I've seen you perform it it has been tweaked to be bang-up-to-date. Smart bombs in the hands of dumb people scare me too. And I thought singing the late Kirsty MacColl's stanzas during "A New England" was a wonderfully kind tribute
It has been fascinating to watch you, through listening to your music, grow from angry young firebrand into someone exploring the complexities of life, love, politics, and what it means to be human. Each time I have checked in with you over the past twenty-five years, I've found something in your journey that has resonated in mine. I know that becoming a father has been a profound influence on you, as it has on me. When my Dearest Daughter was born, I found myself singing "I Don't Need This Pressure, Ron" to soothe her to sleep. Why that song? Well, because a) I knew all the words, b) "Anarchy In The UK" seemed inappropriate, and c) I was sick and tired of singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Bloody Star" over and over. And you know what, it worked like a charm. It did too for my second-born, Little Man. Indeed, both children refer to it now as "The Banging Song" (after the first line, "What was that bang...") and I still sing it when emotions flare and calming is needed.
But in the end what I am most grateful to you for is your inspiration. Every time I have seen you perform live, I have walked out of the venue feeling re-energized, with my cynicism and apathy left stuffed in a wastebin by the exit. And this time was no different. Probably what galvanized me most was the storming "Old Clash Fan Fight Song" and the story of how a skronky rental amp, with it's sole setting of "First Clash Album," led you to the epiphany of that righteous song's creation. Thank you for reminding me that the world is indeed full of possibilities that we can, and indeed need to seize. Thank you for keeping faith, and for helping me to keep mine. Indeed, thank you for everything.
Yours faithfully,
FiL
P.S. You were right - it's on You Tube already. See below...
I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way. I'd like it if you'd come along, at least for a while. We'll have some fun, maybe sing a few songs together. Sound OK?
A platter of pure loveliness: (clockwise from top) Stinking Bishop, Epoisses,
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