Diggi-Loo Diggi-Ley & All That...

Dear Friends, those of you who know me or who've read some of my earlier posts will know that je suis fanatique of cheese, especially the old and ripe varieties. Indeed, I should also make you aware that I am, in addition, particular to pickled herring, the schmaltzier the better. With all this in mind, it should really therefore come as no surprise to you that I LOOVE the Eurovision Song Contest, which on 20 May will be celebrating its 51st annual outing. "But Fil," I hear you cry, "what about Joey Ramone, Billy Childish, Johnny Rotten, Donita Sparks, Peter Murphy, Lux Interior, and Polly Jean Harvey? Is there really room in your bed alongside them for the likes of Bucks Fizz, Nana Mouskouri, and Baccara?" To which I reply: "My bed is a big one, and there is plenty of space for everyone.* Just bring cheese and/or herring." But soft! Methinks the metaphor police approach...

The Eurovision Song Contest was launched in 1956 by Frenchman (but of course!) Marcel Baison, who thought a songfest was just the ticket to promote unity in a still-fragile, post-war Europe. Rather ironic then that years later the French Minister of Culture called it "a monument to drivel." But then again, Ase Kleveland, who represented Norway in 1966, went on to become his country's Minister of Culture. Ah, the mercurial, mystical nature of it all. The contest even became a beacon of hope during the Cold War for a group of Balts behind the Iron Curtain, desperate for tacky glamour and lucky enough to have a clandestine TV antenna. Indeed, politics have always permeated the contest, with bloc voting rampant. Cyprus and Greece always exchange high marks for each other's entries, while the significant Turkish community in Germany translates into generous Teutonic points for Turkey. Denmark's victory in 2000 was largely due to Nordic votes the "Viking bloc." And don't even ask about the Balkans. What, you doubt me? Let me refer you to the vast quantity of scholarly research on the subject. But, my Dears, politics are sooo boooring, n'est-ce pas? We want music, we want glitz, we want kitsch...

There is something frighteningly grotesque about Eurovision; I find myself drawn to it in a horrifically voyeuristic way, much like I am to Jocelyn "Bride of" Wildenstein's continuing plastic surgery train wreck. There is much that is screamingly awful about the contest, not least the bulk of the songmanship on offer. A much favoured tactic over the years has been to go for the lowest common denominator, in the hopes that bland music and meaningless-yet-catchy lyrics will transcend borders. Your Honours, I submit for your consideration Exhibit A: Diggi-Loo Diggi-Ley (Sweden 1984), Yamma Yamma (Finland 1992), and Ding Ding-a-Dong (Netherlands 1975). But what draws me in, apart from the Schadenfreude at the insipidity on offer, is the hope, nay, expectation that among the dross will be moments of genius. And, Dear Friends, I posit that there are such flashes of pop perfection that precisely capture the Zeitgeist. I submit for consideration Exhibit B: Waterloo (Sweden, of course, 1974), Poupee de Cire Poupee de Son (Luxembourg 1965), Dschingis Khan (Germany 1979 - you must must must see them here) and Eurovision (Belgium, 1980). As an aside, I must also mention my soft spot for the ethnics, i.e. those countries which actually bother to submit an entry that reflects some aspect of their heritage. They may ultimately be schlocky but they get my full douze points for effort. My favourite in this category is Moldova's stonking 2005 debut, Boonica Bate Doba ("Grandmamma Beats the Drumma"), which somehow fused Moldovan folk with hip hop in a glorious, tasty hash. Plus they had a granny in national dress on stage sitting in a rocking chair and banging a drum - total class, or wot??

If you put the metaphorical pistol to my head and asked me to choose, I'd say the golden year of Eurovision was 1998. That's when both the competition and my heart were carried off by the glorious, glamourous, brave, transgendered, divine, Israeli siren, Dana International, with her shimmering jewel of a pop song, Viva La Diva. Everything about it and her was just so right. Also appearing that year was Guildo Horn & die Orthopadischen Strumpfe (which translates as "Guildo Horn & the Orthopedic Stockings," if you must know), who crooned his sappy Guildo hat Euch Lieb ("Guildo Loves You") while clad in a bile-green velour suit and clambering around artlessly on the speaker stacks. He single handedly destroyed the myth that the Germans are neither funny nor ironic.

Dear Friends, I hope I have managed, however inarticulately, to explain my love for the Grand Guignol of cultural contradictions that is Eurovision. I understand plans are afoot to introduce a US version with the 50 states compteing, but I can't imagine it coming anywhere near the sublime ridiculousness of the original.

But I end on a note of disappointment, since as far as I can tell Eurovision will not be broadcast in Canada. Sigh. Had I known, I might never have emigrated. Is there no-one out there who could burn it to DVD for me?? I had hoped to cheer on the Finnish entry; for reasons known purely to them, the wise Finns selected Lordi, who are basically the national answer to GWAR, to carry their country's torch. I can only cross my fingers, throw devil horns, and pray that Hard Rock Hallelujah moshes forward to victory. Lordi, Lordi, Lordi, they'd probably eat 1956 Swiss winner Lys Assia for lunch like a piece of young gruyere...

*That is, everyone except Celine Dion, who won for Switzerland in 1988. She's not getting anywhere near my bed and if she tries, I'll sic my Gina on her.

Those Eurovision delights yet again:

Herrey - Diggi-loo Diggi-ley
Pave Mayanen - Yamma Yamma
Teach In - Ding Ding-A-Dong
ABBA - Waterlo
France Gall - Poupee de Cire Poupee de Son
Dschingis Khan - Dschingis Kha
Telex - Eurovision
Zdob si Zdub - Boonica Bate Doba
Dana International - Viva La Diva
Guildo Horn & die Orthopadischen Strumpfe - Guildo Hat Euch Lieb
Lordi - Hard Rock Hallelujah
Lys Assia - Refrain

(For a whirlwind intro, buy this and this)

A Solid Bond In Your Heart

Dear Friends, many thanks for your expressions of condolences. Fret not, I won't go all Gwyneth Paltrow on you and rattle off lists of names while crying, even if that's what I really feel like doing. But I really do appreciate what you've done and said. We are trying to stay centred, especially since we have also just received very discouraging health news about my mother-in-law. And so the universe unfolds...

This weekend was, of course, Mother's Day in North America. Dearest Wife was blessed with some wonderful drawings and paintings from our daughter, Ailsa, and we all enjoyed a yummy brekkers (which yours truly cooked, scoff not!) of scrambled eggs and salmon with fresh bagels followed by a surprisingly ripe and tasty papaya. But I daresay that on balance I got the better deal. You see, while Dearest Wife and Daughter spent quality time digging and planting in the garden, Felix and I had a stunning boy's day out. We started off with lunch at Vancouver's legendary Vera's Burger Shack (yes, a three-year-old can in fact eat a whole adult hamburger), then went to enjoy the fantastic sunshine at Spanish Banks beach. Felix insisted on burying my feet in the sand, thus saving me the $35 I'd otherwise have had to spend on an exfoliating foot rub at some chi-chi salon. We wandered the sand flats, watched the kites flying, and marvelled at the wakeboarders skidding across the shallow patches of water. Just to remind us we were in Vancouver, the odd whiff of BC bud wafted by and a bald eagle flew past low overhead. Then we had a spot of soccer on the beach itself before heading off to cap the afternoon at one of our local playgrounds. So there you have it, Felix and I had a marvellous Mother's Day. I did feel somewhat guilty, but gained comfort by telling myself it was karmic prepayment for having to use the Squealing Pigmobile again today.

We are still attempting to bring some semblance of order to our new home, but it is proving to be a mountainous task. Perhaps we are fated to have our clothes draped over the living room sofas and our books piled in precarious cairns for an eternity. But amidst all this chaos, I had a wonderful, wonderful reunion, one that filled my soul with gladness. The other day I was peeling back the packing tape from an otherwise nondescript packing box, when the top burst open and they all started to jump out with squeals of delight. There were hundreds of them, and they frolicked on the carpet, cooing and rubbing themselves lovingly against my ankles. I was speechless, I quivered, scarecly daring to believe it. My CDs! My darling, darling compact discs! "Mes cheries!" I exclaimed, reaching down to caress them. After 10 months in storage, they were finally reunited with their Papa. And they were soooo glad to see me! Well, with a few exceptions. My Joy Division discs moped off under the sideboard and droned morosely for the next several hours. The Wedding Present albums got into one of their "Oh-well-that's-fine-just-shut-us-in-a-warehouse-for-almost-a-year-we-don't-care-if-you- don't-listen-to-us- but-we're-falling-to-pieces" snits. I also had to rescue the dog from my Slayer CDs, as they had trussed her up and were trying to figure out how to draw a pentagram around her on the carpet. And those Pogues discs somehow managed within minutes to find the liquor cabinet, drink it dry, puke up in the kitchen, and pass out. Sigh. But these misbehaviours aside, it was divine to see them all again.

Oooh, which of my rediscovered tunes to share? Letmesee, letmesee, letmesee... So hard to decide, so much music! But, Dear Friends, we do have time. Let me therefore start with a few lovelies that made me swoon upon rediscovery:

Kalyi Jag - O Kamado Brigasa (Sad Lover) (buy here)

Supafunky music from the premier Roma (i.e. "gypsy") group around, Kalyi Jag (Black Fire). Sung in the Roma language and Hungarian, this track prances and skanks - be sure to check out the mos def backing vocals!! And they're on the groovily named Hungaroton label, too. See here for more info.

Kenickie - Punka (buy here)

Oh my, quite possibly one of the most perfect three minutes of pop I've ever heard. "Are you staying true to you??"

Television Personalities - Salvador Dali's Garden Party (buy here)

Everybody was there! Did you know that after several years in the wilderness (including a short spell on a prison boat in Devon), TVP frontman Dan Treacy has reformed his seminal indie band and has been gigging? He even has a blog. As an aside, the fantastic (and late) Armitage Shanks do a storming cover of "14th Floor", Treacy's first ever song.

Prolapse - Autocade (buy here)

Art Skool Dada! One of their more melodic outings. Sadly, Prolapse disbanded around the milennium and lead shouty Glaswegian Mick Derrick (alas, silent on "Autocade") is apparently now digging up bones in the name of archaeology.

Blessed Ethel - Daisy (no idea where you can buy this)

Lifted from one of those nifty Volume CD/booklets that were around in the UK during the 1990s. I don't believe Blessed Ethel had a particularly long or illustrious career, but I always loved the grindy pop guitars and Blondie-esque vocals of this song.

Throwing Muses - Not Too Soon (buy here)

This makes me do a funny little crab dance, plus I love to howl along with Mama Hersh during the growly bits (Erratum: Anonymous [aka "Nonny"] points out that of course I've been howling along with Mama Donelley for all these years).

The Jam - A Solid Bond In Your Heart (buy here)

Gros soupir! Paul Weller, my hero. Well, at least up until and including the first Style Council album. After that it started to go a bit wobbly, and I must admit really lost all interest after he went all fuddy-duddy, just like HIS hero, Pete Townsend. "Wildwood" I find just excruciatingly embarrassing. This treat is the best of all worlds: The Jam doing a demo version of what was to become a Style Council gem.

Father and Son

The call comes on Saturday evening as Dearest Wife, the children, and I dine on pizza among the chaos and boxes of having just that day moved house. Mother tells me Dad had been taken to hospital with severe abdominal pain and the doctors do not think he will last the night. My head swings and swims as I scramble to rearrange the flight to New York I had recently booked for late May. The supremely nice lady at BA asks when do I want to travel. Tomorrow, as soon as possible, please. There, all done, and at no charge. Then on to first finding, then packing, clothes. I'd better take a suit, just in case. And a dark tie. Three hours of sleep, then up. Shower. Another call, 9:20 AM Vancouver time. It's Mum, saying Dad had died twenty minutes earlier with her by his side. His heart just slowed, then slowed some more, then stopped. I was too late.

My father had been diagnosed with cancer in October, since when he had been dutifully and diligently following the experimental chemotherapy regime prescribed by his brilliant, yet frighteningly young oncologist. Dad had immense faith in the medical profession, and it was a great comfort to him that there was A Plan to be followed. Yet his was a particularly virulent form of the disease, and statistics were not on his side. A month or so back I had asked Dr Braniac what the prognosis was. His answer was unexpectedly blunt: 6 to 12 months. I told neither my father nor my mother. I thought I knew time was short, but I was not prepared for how short. All this is overlaid with bitter irony as it is subsequently revealed that his sudden death was probably not even related to the cancer or its treatment. A blessing that saved him from further suffering? Perhaps, but I don't know.

The plane lands in New York at 9:15 PM. I have slept, bone-tired and drained, for most of the flight. The airport taxi dispatcher, who looks like a sixteen-year-old 50 Cent, smiles so broadly and beautifully when I thank him that I almost hug him. Warning, emotional dampening field is offline. Direct the cab to my parents' house, my mother's house, my childhood house, the house. Mum opens the door. She's stooped, hollow-eyed, much thinner than I remember her. The physical result of six months having to care for her husband of 47 years as he progressively became less able. We hug, she cries, I choke up. You must eat, she says. I don't want to, but I know I have to. Soup? That sounds nice, Mum. Here you are, she says, your father had some the other day. It tastes delicious, but I can't shake the though that I'm sharing a dead man's meal. I look over to his armchair, padded with pillows, flanked with a now-obsolete arsenal of pill bottles. I still talk to him, Mum says, just like he's still sitting there.

The following week is a blur of arrangements, preparations, and details, details, details. Mum, still suffering from the shock, is finding it hard to focus, so it falls to me, the only child, to handle it all. I hadn't anticipated the sheer volume of minutiae, but in a way I find it oddly comforting, if frequently surreal. Picking up Dad's wedding band from the hospital in a biohazard bag. Sorting through Dad's clothes to decide which ones the funeral home should dress him in. Wandering through the casket display -a cross between a car dealership and Macy's bed department- trying to decide which one Dad would have wanted (definitely not the Reynoldsville Tribune in powder blue). Figuring out how he paid the newspaper subscription. Bumping into a bejewelled Sean Paul and his entourage at JFK Airport while waiting for Roman, my 80-year-old maternal uncle to arrive from Poland. Fielding a neverending stream of phonecalls and e-mails. Gritting my teeth every time a well-wisher says "I'm sorry for your loss" (was a more awkward, anodyne phrase of condolence ever devised??). Tactfully deflecting Mum's attempts to give me large parts of Dad's wardrobe.

Dad's funeral is on a sunny, warm Saturday, a day short of a week after he died. All goes smoothly: the limos and hearse arrive on time, the service at St Luke's Episcopal Church is tasteful and well attended, the last goodbyes at the crematorium are fitting and poignant, the reception at the West Side Tennis Club Dad would have thoroughly enjoyed. I am satisfied with my performance as lector, pallbearer, logistician, host. Yet that evening, with all the ceremony and ritual behind me, my apparent calm and lack of emotion begin to disturb me. I have shed no tears apart from a few upon initially hearing of his death. Am I callous? An ungrateful son? Maybe I have effortlessly achieved acceptance and serenity? Or will it all come out the sides at a later date and plunge me into a breakdown? That night I am confused as I dream of myself weeping inconsolably over Dad, asleep in his bed. Somewhere Kate Bush's "Cloudbusting" is playing and as she sings "I wake up crying," I jolt into consciousness. Lying on my back in the darkness, I listen to my calm, regular breathing. I can feel the hot, damp tracks where tears have streamed out of my eyes and my diaphragm aches as though I have been sobbing for years.

Who was my father? My father was born in 1932 in Huddersfield, England and grew up in Nottingham. After completing his National Service, he embarked on a banking career that took him to Africa, Holland, the US, and Brazil, and which earned him the respect and admiration of many. His hands were enormous. He always did what he thought was right. He held strong traditional values that differed significantly from mine, and this was a source of much mutual disappointment and friction. He enjoyed, as did I, the rare occasions when we could share a pint together, as his father died too young to do the same with him. He loved sailing. He was stubborn, generous, sentimental, tenacious, bull-headed, dutiful, meticulous, and proud. He died on Sunday, 30 April, 2006. He loved me. He was my father. I loved him and I will miss him.

Many thanks to everyone for your support, in all of the wonderful forms it took.

The Smiths - Asleep (buy here)
Daniel Johnston - Funeral Home (buy here)
Sean Paul - Get Busy (buy here)
Billy Bragg - Tank Park Salute (buy here)
Vera Lynn - White Cliffs of Dover (buy here)
Dead Can Dance - The Writing on my Father's Hand (buy here)
Kate Bush - Cloudbusting (buy here)

Time Out

Dear Friends, I need to tend to a family emergency in NYC and therefore will be forced to take a hiatus from pogo a go-go for about a week. I do hope to see you upon my return - I am very fond of you all.

Boys Don't Cry - The Cure

Power Struggle

Dear Friends, further to my auto saga...

Last night I thought things were going my way, that my petulant whining had finally paid off. Not an hour after publishing yesterday's post, Dearest Wife agreed to let me have the car today, provided she could have it the following day. Victory, however petty and shallow, was mine and (add metaphors, mix briskly) my musical drought was over. So early this morning I slipped behind the wheel only to find the pesky AA battery in my mp3 player was dead. Poo. Bollox. Damn. Again. With knobs on. My crest was well and truly fallen.

All was not lost, however, as I could at least fall back on the CD I had made for a road trip we took back in March. Y'know, stuff that Dearest, the sproglets, and I can sing-song-along to in a Partridge Family stylee. And so I give you a selection from said disc. But do think of me tomorrow, however briefly, as I once again strap myself into the Squealing Pigmobile.

Davey Crockett - Thee Headcoatees (buy here)
Woo-Hoo - 5678s (buy here)
Walkin' After Midnight - Patsy Cline (buy here)
Rudy A Message To You - Dandy Livingstone (buy here)
Mambo No 5 - Bob the Builder (buy here)

Fast Cars

Dear Readers, allow me to gripe a wee bit. This week I am suffering acute and painful music withdrawal pangs. You see, Dearest Wife has (quite justifiably) commandeered the family car this week to facilitate our move and as a result I have been driving my father-in-law's car. It is, of course, very kind of him to lend me said vehicle, and I am accordingly grateful. However, his jalopy (a vintage 1990 Volvo 740 sedan, for all you carspotters out there) is rather aged and its vacuum-tube radio does not go low enough on the FM spectrum to talk with my mp3 player and its transmitter. Poo. Bollox. Damn.

What my chosen local radio station, CiTR, has on offer during my commute does not slake my craving, so I've been reduced to wandering the dial in search of a fix. Alas, in the past three days the only bit of relief I've found has been a Bloc Party track around 7:08 this morning - slim pickings, would you not say? Otherwise it's been a torrent of corporate rawk, puffed-up DJ sound and fury signifying SWEET F**K ALL (as Willie Shakespeare once wrote, kinda sorta maybe), and commercials for Thrifty Foods (Island Farm vanilla ice cream is on special this week at $3.98 for a 1.65 litre carton - happy to pick some up if y'all want). Hardly methadone for my addiction. Have I yet your sympathy?? I'm lobbying hard to get the car back on Friday, but am facing righteous resistance...

Apart from the radio, driving the car-in-law has been quite amusing. It's very front-heavy with rather wheezy acceleration, and the best way to operate it seems to be according to the principles of inertia: pedal to the metal, get up (eventually) to speed, then let the weight of the engine block pull you down road and around corner. Add on the facts it's beige and the brakes squeal like the proverbial stuck pig, and you have a real head turner. At least the seat warmers work, though they are somewhat fierce - nearly scorched me bum the other morning...

And while I'm ranting, Porsche SUVs: I don't get it. What next? Lamborghini pickups?? Ferrari dumptrucks??? Tsk tsk...

Heartfelt thanks for indulging me. And in return:

Cars - Gary Numan (buy here)
Roadrunner - Johnathan Richman & The Modern Lovers (buy here)
Interesting Drug - Morrissey (buy here)
Fast Cars - Buzzcocks (buy here)
Max Wedge - Dijits (buy here, find out more here)
Warm Leatherette - The Normal (buy here, find out more here)

Dog Daze

Dear Friends, I thought it about time that Gina the Wonder Dog made her blog debut. In my wanderings around cyberspace, I have come across countless photos and fragrant words dedicated to pets of all stripe. Gina is certainly no less a beast than any of the Fidos and Gingers I have encountered, and therefore I posit she deserves her rightful pace in the ether. She is an English Staffordshire Bull Terrier (for you North Americans in the audience, no, she's not a pit bull) and is a credit to her breed. Though she has been with us over nine years now and is slowing down a bit, she still has bags of vim and vigour. Gina is also wonderfully adept at chasing off any crap Canadian pop superstar divas who might happen to wander into the neighborhood. Her only flaw is her intolerance, owing to an early encounter with a psychotic Jack Russel, of small, yappy dogs who assault her. Mind you, she did once chew a hole in our kitchen wall, but I chalk that up to puppyish folly. Rest assured, gentle readers, I will not have Gina "posting" cutie canine observations on life; she is a simple creature, and knows nothing of these things. So there you have her, Gina the Wonder Dog. God bless her.

As we speak, Gina is dozing in the lovely warm sunshine that is painting our backyard. Closer to heaven she has no desire to be. Indeed, we are all wandering around somewhat dazed and blinking in a solar stupor. I have noted that, much like the British, Vancouverites jump at the first opportunity to shed clothes and bare skin to the sun god. However, what I can't figure out is that British Columbians seem already to be tanned & toned, while in the UK springtime is initially pasty white flesh all round. Anyway, maybe it's heatstroke, but for the past couple of days I've been totally unable to stop singing & shimmying along with Brighton's beautiful Pipettes (nice change from all the moping). These three thoroughly modern sweeties make a truly divine noise, with all due homage paid to the Ronettes and their sistahood. Fantastic pop, methinks. They've been avidly blogged as of late, but let me add my tuppence in case you've not yet fallen under their spell. Come waste your kisses on them at their website, http://www.thepipettes.co.uk/.

This coming week we will be moving house, so I may not be as blog apparent as I have been. When we moved into our last house in London some 7 (egads!) years ago, I spent two days furiously painting it with the help of dearest Uncle Dave (who we miss fiercely). The soundtrack to those 48 hours was provided by Supergrass, whose song "Pumping on your Stereo" seemed to be on hourly radio rotation. Indeed, to this day the sound of Gaz & the boys fills my heart with giddy gladness and my nostrils with the smell of latex paint.

Speaking of soundtracks:

Hounds of Love - The Futureheads (buy here)
Can Your Pussy Do The Dog - The Cramps (buy here)
Moving - Supergrass (buy here)
Get Out Of My House - The Business (buy here)
Your Kisses Are Wasted On Me - The Pipettes (buy here)

Happy Birthday - We mean it, Ma'aarm!

Right, I couldn't let the occasion go unmarked. Happy 80th Birthday, Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor (that's HRH Queen Elizabeth II to you monarchists out there). Unconfirmed reports are that the real royal knees-up will be at Olly Cromwell's Dis-co-co in Skegness with DJ Fresh Prince o' Wailz on dex spinning the choonz. Unlikely to make the playlist:
God Save the Queen - Motorhead (buy here)
50-Foot Queenie - PJ Harvey (oh, she's so lovely, buy here)
Dancing Queen - Redd Kross (buy here)
Hey We Will Rock Ya - (DJ Prince) Queen vs Outkast (visit here)
Power Slut Kiss - (IDC) Prince vs Har Mar Superstar (visit here)
Homecoming Queen's Got A Gun - Julie Brown (buy here)
God Save The Queen (Live! 1996) - Sex Pistols (buy here)

Unprofitable Servant or Unserviceable Prophet?

A short post today, Dear Friends and Visitors. Indeed I'm not in much of a mood for discourse, but I did want to share something with you. I urge you all to go post-haste to your local independent hip cinema and see without delay this most wonderful film , The Devil and Daniel Johnston. For those of you unfamiliar with Johnston, he is a most gifted singer-songwriter and artist who weaves unconventional tales of unrequited love, epic struggles of good versus evil, and pop cultcha, all against the backdrop of his ongoing struggle with mental illness. His work is by turns witty, uncomfortable, intimate, raw and touching. I saw this tremendous documentary yesterday evening (many thanks to plastic music's post pointing me in the right direction) and have been unable to shake it from my head or heart since. The film admirably addresses the impact of both Johnston's artistry and his illness on himself and those around him. Oh, for goodness sake, why are you hanging about, just go see it already!!

Well, since I'm here and feeling down for a variety of reasons (there is much sickness about at the moment), I might as well be self-indulgent and post a few suitable tracks. Why squander a good mope.

Daniel Johnston - Walking the Cow (buy here, not Amazon)
Bauhaus - Crowds (buy here)
Joy Division - Atmosphere (buy here)
The Smiths - Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now (buy here)
Jan Garbarek & The Hilliard Ensemble - Parce Mihi Domine (buy here)
Edith Piaf - Ne Me Quitte Pas (not sure what disc it's from, but buy this)
Israel Kamakawiwo'ole - Somewhere Over the Rainbow (buy here and learn more about this sweet man here)

Baby, I could use a meal

Dear Cyberfriends, the family and I returned safely to town yesterday after a very pleasant few days on Mayne Island. Alas, we found nary an otter to bother. However, we did have visitations from both an enormous, ungainly raven (that quoth not, I must report, "Nevermore") and a bevy of roufus hummingbirds, whose earnest and passionate flutterings were a joy to watch. I also did battle with a nasty, yet impressive slime mold that had taken up residence in the hot tub, but you really don't want to hear about that...

Unfortunately but unsurprisingly the weather was a very mixed bag, and we were therefore forced to hole up at times to stay dry. While I chopped wood, stoked the fire, and strained my back, (what's a city boy like me doing playing lumberjack??) the kids watched "101 Dalmatians" over and over. Not the recent live-action flick, mind you, but the charming 1961 animated version. My, my, my, that film sure has bags of style. I mean, isn't Cruella just the most divine coke-hag in all of Toontown? And Pongo and Perdita - such wonderfully clipped BBC RP accents! I couldn't help but think, however, that hailing from Dalmatia they should've by rights been given husky Slavic voices edged with travarica brandy. But then again, I have an extremely soft spot in my soul for Croats owing to an intense yet unrequited love when I was but a yoof (*deep sigh*). Anyway, I digress- we were entranced and sang "Cruella De Vil" ad nauseam for most of the weekend.

On the matrimonial side, things got a wee bit strained when Dearest Wife informed me on Friday that she had packed neither the Mimolette, nor the Manchego, nor the Sainte Maure. She claims I had agreed to her proposal to leave them behind, a charge that I vehemently denied but which I now admit could very well have been true, especially if at the time my mind was preoccupied with what tracks to put on the mp3 player for the car journey. Anyway, my petulant moping was only partly mollified by the appearance of a bit of Tiger Blue, a local BC cheese that had managed to accompany us. It was rather pleasant, but its rich creaminess lacked the follow-on, kick-up-the-jacksie taang that Cashel Blue does so well. Je suis si snob. So I moped silently until our return on Monday to a celebratory lunch of the abandoned fromage, when I finally forgave Dearest (not that she really needed forgiving). We made up, but did not kiss, on account of the fact that I stank like goat cheese.

Speaking of smoochies, I see there is a full-fledged spat going between dwarf Kiss tribute bands. Apparently MiniKiss singer Joey Fatale has accused the band's ex-drummer, "Little" Tim Loomisc, of stealing his idea and setting up a rival little people's version of the greasepainted glam rockers, Tiny Kiss. Pop Pickers, I couldn't make this stuff up. I remember being totally blown away at the tender age of eight by "Dressed to Kill" - heaven knows how that album made its way into my tender hands. Only I thought the song "Room Service" really was about ensuite hotel dining. Ah, innocence...

Herewith a few morsels to chew over:

101 Dalmatians OST - Cruella De Vil (buy here)
Icicle Works - Birds Fly [Whisper to a Scream] (buy here)
Ash - Girl From Mars (buy here)
Kiss - Love Gun (buy here)

Cheese is the new punk rock

May I start off by drawing your attention, kind folk, to the apparent similarity between Johnny Rotten circa 1977 and my son, Felix, circa bathtime last night. I am proud, so proud.


A short post, dear readers, before the missuz, the bairns, and I head away tomorrow for the long Easter weekend. We're off to Mayne Island for a spot of rest, relaxation, and otter-bothering. And guess what??? We'll have NO internet connexion! Nor will we have cable! Can you believe it?? We may even be forced to *gasp!* talk with each other.

I bought some lovely cheese today, which I am looking forward to enjoying. Yes, this is what blogging is all about, telling you of my cheese. I get it now. Anyway, decent cheese was one thing I feared missing in Vancouver - the Canadian stuff is largely tasteless wax. So thank GOODNESS for Les Amis du Fromage (sacre bleu, formidable, quelle chance!), a veritable temple of the pressed curd. I picked up a nice bit of Mimolette Vieux, a slab of Manchego, and half a log of a wonderfully runny ashed French goat's cheese. ZAP! BUZZZ!! Dang, drooled on the keyboard...

Helas, I must flit away, but before I do, allow me to draw it all together yet again...

Captain & Tennille - Love Will Keep Us Together (buy here, if you must)
Sex Pistols - Holidays in the Sun (buy here, yes you must)
Public Image Ltd - Poptones/Careering on American Bandstand, 1980 (most brilliant, you must watch here)

Vancouver au printemps

Right, I warned you there may well be some slicks of nostalgia coming up, and on Monday I ran into one that gave me a good dose of whiplash. While driving to work I was listening to this week's marvellous Sandy Acres Sound Lab podcast from East Village Radio (ch-ch-check it out). Between snippets of indie groovings and Franco-Swedish-Germano pop poifekshun came the plangent notes of Supertramp's "Goodbye Stranger." Ye, gods, I was instamatically ripped out of my seat back to 1980 and plonked into the rear of the old Ford Econoline van that used to shuttle me between home and school in Manhattan. What's more, driver Gus was now at the wheel, looking like a skinnier version of Lionel Ritchie only with a bigger 'tache and a flat cap. And all the other kids were laughing at me as I breathlessly related that I had seen Empire Strikes Back and guess what, Darth Vader is Luke's father!!!

Easter is almost upon us, and there seems to be a whole lotta birth/rebirth/spring mojo around right now. The cherry trees in our neighborhood are in full blossom and shedding swirling blizzards of pink petals. I got an e-mail yesterday, complete with adorable pix, from an ex-colleague in London announcing the birth of her first daughter (cue misty eyes of happiness). Mama Eagle seems to be doing well sitting on her nest on Hornby Island and the eaglets are expected around the end of April. As I type I can hear the roof rats thundering around in the walls - no doubt they're breeding too. I'm told infestations of said vermin are par for the course here in Vancouver, something about them trying to stay out of the rain.

I also felt compelled to explain to my six-year-old daughter this year that there was more to Easter than just bunnies and chocolate. She was asking questions and I figured it was about time she heard the full sacred narrative. So she got it, from Pilate to the disciples shindig, complete with nails and resurrection. Must say she took it all rather inscrutably; she is a mysterious child in many ways. I wonder if next year we should tell her about Eostre, the putative, hare-headed, Anglo-Saxon mother goddess whose spring festival the church so brilliantly co-opted...

Right, so what to post that would tie this all together? Spring, Easter, zartbitter memories of schooldays - er, we'll leave out the whiplash, shall we? OK, here goes...

Rick Springfield - Jessie's Girl (Buy here)
The Former Yugoslavia - Jesus Built My Strobelight [B52s vs Ministry] (visit website here)
Speed Killers - Jesus Died So We Could Ride (Buy here)
Depeche Mode - New Life (Buy here)
The Runaways - Cherry Bomb (Buy here)

Debutante at the Ball

My first posting - please be gentle with me, dear readers...

Gosh, so where to start? How about a quick and dirty introduction:

Generally speaking, things are going swimmingly; my family and I have relatively recently moved From London, England to Vancouver, which is quite possibly the best city in the world (in mah 'umble opinion). However, the move has also been rather unsettling, which has provoked occasional fits of nostalgia and reflections on how I got here. And I must admit that at times it's been frightening.

But what the heck, nothing else matters when I turn it up LOUD...

A bientôt,
FiL

Download:
Plastic Bertrand - Ca plane pour moi (Buy here)
Buzzcocks - Nostalgia (Buy here)
The The - This is the day (Buy here)
Adèle - J'ai peur parfois (Buy here)
Pretty Girls Make Graves - Speakers push the air (Buy here)