Saturday, September 13, 2003

More Bass
the everyday life of a coal mining town
all about the Wilsons
"Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.

I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.

Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.

I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.

And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.

Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.

Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black."

A Book of Old English Ballads

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

walking the Chelsea High Line
from metafilter...
badger (flash)
happy birthday Equanimity and Million Poems:

"What heavy joy
To feel rising in me
All the noise I've been dying to make
Now that I know it'll be heard"
Cobalt Jackets
Nanaimo record store zine, rightly urging shoppers toward downtown. Nanaimo, as new resident Elvis Costello (engaged to homegirl Diana Krall, and spotted in the great "Fascinatin' Rhythm" record shop) would be the first to tell you, is a book and record shopping paradise. Yesterday in this store I scored the Capitol Masters Merle Haggard, and wistfully gazed at the new Lyrics Born 12". The day before Bob got me "The Encyclopedia of Literary Theory" (well marked up, but...) for 50 cents.: "Can you imagine a day when the Woodgrove food court is desolate, the sweet and sour pork congealed and and orange julius unwhipped, meantime people are sunning themselves on the waterfront enjoying an ice cream or sitting with their dog sipping a latte at bocca. It remains a dream because here in Nanaimo the urban sprawl continues northward, last time I motored through 'Waples' I saw that many chain restaraunts were making new homes in the Woodgrove pit.

The constant and consistent growth leads me to believe that business is booming up there, while grapes wilt on the vine in the sun soaked south. We are watching the face of our city being scarred irreversably by folks looking for the 'best deal' or shortest walk from SUV to store. "
Leni Riefenstahl Though this obit from the Guardian is more informed than most, I wonder how many of the numerous eulogists and apologists for Hitler's last living toady have actually seen her awful films? Despite its historic importance "Triumph of the Will" is a barely competent piece of filmaking, and unless you're enthralled by the subject matter, palls after about five minutes. In thirty second clips on The History Channel--re-edited by professionals like Frank Capra--it works in a kind of sub-Lang way, but to discuss it as if it were a "masterpiece" of such stature that it demanded our attention is ludicrous. We have to deal with Pound, Celine etc. but the continuing sympathetic interest in Riefenstahl baffles me. I anticipate the Jodie Foster movie with a shudder.

Monday, September 08, 2003

Pom Poko was just great, the Goblin Parade as good as anything in "Spirited Away".
Skeeter Davis wanders into a De Chirico
Brooklyn Storefront Houses Of Worship
Sample Chapter (in PDF) of Marginalia by H.J. Jackson, which I am halfway through and enjoying
Homer to Lisa, who's ghosting his restaurant reviews: "Welcome to the humiliating world of free-lance writing."
"Jazz Sahara" by Ahmed Abdul-Malik on the hi-fi today
The peerless Daily Bleed notes the births of Ariosto and Joaquin Miller "Still, though. National Film Board of Canada marathons. This is the X-treme sport of wholesome dorkiness."
Salon's take on Vancouver's safe injection sites

Sunday, September 07, 2003

then put on some Antonio Carlos Jobim...
In Search of Tad(d) Dameron
Herbie Nichols: "'...anyone who plays or even contemplates playing a song of Herbie's is making this planet a better place. This music teaches many things, but most importantly the sanctity of our minds and imaginations --
the Third World that lives in each of us.' -- Roswell Rudd"
The Burryman: "This is a quite unique ceremony dating from around the 14th century that is still performed in South Queensferry. The Burryman, a native of the town, is wrapped from head to toe in flannel on which a thick matting of spikey burrs is stuck. He then processes slowly (for walking is difficult) and in silence for seven miles through the town. A number of theories exist about the origins of this strange custom. One has it that the Burryman is a scapegoat figure, carrying off the town's guilt and bad luck in his burrs. Another believes that the procession of the Burryman was meant to bring good luck to the town's herring fishermen, the numerous burrs representing fish caught in their nets. "
The Church Of Me: "If Scott Walker was the Dirk Bogarde of Brit (or honorary Brit) introspective troubadours - grandiloquent, immense, avant-garde - then Drake would be the James Fox; always apologising for breathing, so reticent that you feel that he perhaps would have been happier within a gated religious cult (as Fox later briefly was). But it's not quite accurate to assume that Drake's world is a blissful, asexual, even pre-sexual garden; in fact, if we take Barthes' identification of the 'grain' of a voice corresponding with its 'diction' - how the singer has assimilated the 'pheno-song' and 'geno-song' components, and how the singer renders them to the not necessarily passive listener - then Drake's voice is sometimes as carnal as hell. This is obviously more apparent on early things like his reading of Robin Frederick's 'Been Smoking Too Long' where his voice is surprisingly earthy, almost Hoagy Carmichael-ish; but take a real listen to his 1968 debut album, Five Leaves Left - hear particularly his Sinatra-derived habit of extending the final consonants/syllable of key words in his lyrics, sometimes with a barely suppressed growl; the 'love' in 'Time Has Told Me'; the 'time' in 'River Man'; even the 'slave' in 'Three Hours.' His natural baritone voice confirms that everything here is suggested/suggestive - Drake's voice is, more often than you might think, very sexy"
Eric Newby's travel favorites
Literary Review: God's Fugitive: The Life of C M Doughty by Andrew Taylor
Doughty and T. E. Lawrence
A taste of "Travels in Arabia Deserta": "The new dawn appearing we removed not yet. The day risen the tents were dismantled, the camels led in ready to their companies, and halted beside their loads. We waited to hear the cannon shot which should open that year's pilgrimage. It was near ten o'clock when we heard the signal gun fired, and then, without any disorder litters were suddenly heaved and braced upon the bearing beasts, their charges laid upon the kneeling camels, and the thousands of riders, all born in the caravan countries, mounted in silence. "
never mind