Entries from July 2009 ↓

Books I've finished reading this month:

1. Art and Lies, Jeanette Wintersen.

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   Sometimes Art and Lies was breathtaking. Sometimes it was utterly opaque and alienating. I suspect it would reward re-reading; I also suspect that my recent Jeanette-Winterson-binge made it impossible for me to appreciate it for itself. Instead, I was alternately repulsed by repetitive self-indulgence and overwhelmed by resonance. I appreciated Handel, loved Picasso a little bit, and rather disliked Sappho - and then I was devastated by the way it all came together in the end.
2. Franny and Zooey, J.D. Salinger.

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   Lacking the intensity and charisma of a Holden Caulfield, Franney and Zooey came across as self-absorbed and arrogant even as it appeared to ridicule the self-absorbed and arrogant. Salinger's style was still quite contagious (my internal monologue was full of Salinger-esque tics for days after reading this book and the next), but without any soul to animate it this time.
3. For Esmé - with Love and Squalor, J.D. Salinger.

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   This collection caught my eye mainly because I have desperately loved the phrase "with love and squalor" since We Are Scientists used it for an album title. The contents were a mixed bag; I loved A Perfect Day for Bananafish¹ and the title story, while some of the others were emotionally vacant tales of terrible people.
4. Watchmen, Alan Moore.

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   I waited until after seeing the film to read Watchmen, a decision now entirely vindicated. My relative illiteracy when it comes to comics and graphic novels was alleviated by my familiarity with the story, and my likely crushing disappointment had I read the book first was entirely avoided.² Watchmen is, quite simply, brilliant. A kind lender enabled me to read it this time, but I will be buying my own copy.
1. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I adored it, thinking about it invariably invokes both ecstasy and despair, and I consider it to be a perfect story. [↩]
2. At the same time, I am newly impressed with some aspects of the adaptation, and newly equipped to disagree with some criticisms that were levelled at it. [↩]

trogonometry

The science and mathematics behind how many times it is required to hit any given thing to turn it into a plane.

(Found in Henzell's learndb, grammar preserved intact.)

This is what the last morning of 2008 looked like. I couldn't tell you what it felt like, because I've left writing this post until more than six months later.

This is Ange Takats. According to her introduction she won the 2008 National Folk Festival award for vocal excellence. That sounded appropriate enough to me; her voice was lovely. Her songs didn't do so much for me, although I was charmed by her self-deprecating tales of googling ex-boyfriends and making inept life choices.

Next came Jack and the Giant Killers, a slightly funkier variant on the Triple-J-rock staple. Good energy on stage, a not unpleasant listening experience - and then some giants showed up. Stilt-walking normal-sized humans, to be more accurate.

Jack and the Giant Killers did not live up to their name.

I have no pictures of the next thing that happned, mostly because I was too busy having an excellent time. I went to a vocal workshop run by The Kin, who turned out to be giant hippies of the raised-from-birth variety. They talked about singing with reference to chakras without batting an eyelid. They also asked the participants to stick our hands down our pants in order to dig our fingers into our pubic bones, and appeared surprised at the awkward giggling that ensued.

In the end, though, they got a tent full of people to start with making funny noises and work up to singing loudly, melodically (in tune, even, and in two parts!) and confidently, and I enjoyed every moment. It made me think, not for the first time, about seeking out singing lessons, the aim being to gain a better physical understanding of how I make sounds and thus (I hope) some form of confidence.

I showed up to see Psycho Zydeco with a certain weariness, mainly because I thought they were another gypsy/balkan-influenced band that I would struggle to differentiate from all the others like them at Woodford. This was completely unjustified, of course, as zydeco music hails from the southern USA and leads to people wearing washboards and performing cowbell solos.

Psycho Zydeco reminded me a little bit of the Blues Brothers, but not because of the style of music they played. They seemed a little older than most of the musicians playing loud music at Woodford,¹ and also a little bit out of place - no "gypsy influences", no 20-something guys with hair product and guitars, no wistfulness or political content. Despite a relatively small and lukewarm audience, they had a rollicking good time making music that would have made anyone less dance-oriented than me get up and dance.

This post threatened to sprawl oppressively and indefinitely across my Drafts folder, so I am turning the first part loose. Still to come: The Quills, The Ellis Collective, and more.

1. There were plenty of old folkies, but I'm not counting them. [↩]

It's been more than a week now since I've been able to listen to music in my usual manner.¹ Listening to as many as two songs in a row has mostly been beyond me, and even my internal jukebox has been largely silent.

I'll come back to that.

There don't seem to be any particularly nasty -isms that one falls prey to by ragging on hipsters,² and as they are such an easy target I find myself doing so quite frequently. And why not? Such studied coolness, rooted only in the performance of being cool, cannot be anything but ludicrous in my eyes. Hipsterism is the subcultural equivalent of celebrities who are only famous for being famous.³

Last Friday I went to a funeral. I arrived early and alone, and found myself intimidated by the clusters of people standing around outside. "A hipster funeral?" I thought, although maybe that was some kind of emotional self-defence and I'm pretty sure it was in poor taste. It didn't help that they seemed to consider themselves at an everyday social event when all my instincts were demanding sombre looks and hushed tones.⁴

I find myself unable to write much about the funeral itself or my personal experience just yet; by maintaining a strict emotional distance from it I carry on with the ten thousand things that keep my days ticking over, but the cost of that is an inability to express what I would like to express. It will come in time. (Unless it doesn't.)

What I am coming around to, in my distractable and roundabout way, is that seeing all those hipsters stick together in their grief, including young men who cried and hugged each other without irony or awkwardness, reminded me that phoney affectations and asymmetrical haircuts often just camouflage human beings who think about things and care for each other. And a lot of things that are often seen as important - even essential or "identity"-defining - turn out to be pretty irrelevant when something happens that really matters.

Over the last week or so I have been gently coaxing my desire for music back out into the open. Old favourites have proven to be poor bait, laden as they are with history that I am trying to leave alone. The occasional mood-encapsulating song has only led back into silence instead of the usual daisy-chain of associations. Today, though, I have found my way thanks to a sunshiney, shoegazey, post-punk/dream-pop band called Moscow Olympics (Myspace), who have come out of nowhere to lend me some much-needed momentum.

It is easier to be sad with a soundtrack, and also easier to be happy. It is easier to be anything at all.

1. That is, listening to album after album for as much of my waking day as is physically possible. [↩]
2. The hipster concept in general, rather than specific individuals, although being only human I do stray from the righteous path on occasion. [↩]
3. That being said, I recently saw Paris Hilton in a TV pilot. She sent herself up marvellously and was extremely funny. Let that me a lesson to me. [↩]
4. If you were to ask me, I would tell you that I have no problem whatsoever with people reacting to events in whatever manner comes naturally to them. But faced with jarring behaviour in trying times, my gut rebels. [↩]

Books I've finished reading this month:

1. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, Tom Stoppard.

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   Read this in anticipation of showing a friend the movie for the first time. That viewing has been delayed by various factors, but I was glad of the excuse anyway. Also, plays always seem easier to read if I have seen them on stage or on film previously.
2. The Passion, Jeanette Winterson.

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   Stranger than Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, and sufficiently unlike an ordinary novel to leave me feeling as though I hadn't just read anything, perhaps just listened to a symphony or walked through an art gallery. Often grotesque, always poetic.
3. Sit Down and Shut Up, Brad Warner.

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   While Warner's schtick wears a bit thin sometimes, I really enjoyed this re-read (possibly my third or fourth?) and anticipate many repeats in the future. The content beind the schtick never gets old, and is always worth reminding myself of.
4. Sexing the Cherry, Jeanette Winterson.

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   I didn't write anything about Sexing the Cherry right after I finished reading it, which was a mistake; 1.5 Winterson books later, it has mostly receded into the foggy depths of my mind, obscured by intricate clusters of Winterson's recurring themes and motifs.
   The grotesquerie ¹ is more obtrusive and gratuitous than in The Passion, and there is only the most tenuous of narrative threads to hold on to, but the book is strewn with nuggets of insight, beauty and delight. I like much of it, and I love the way it folds in on itself towards the end (which added half a star to my rating, in the end).
5. Boating for Beginners, Jeanette Winterson.

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   This was much lighter going, and although I became weary of humorous and/or pointed anachronism in fiction some time ago I rather liked it. Irreverent and sometimes very funny, while still having Things To Say about life and identity and how weird we human creatures are.

1. What a great word. Grotesquerie. [↩]