In between
The rain storms
In between a gap in the rainstorms, I took myself up for a stroll around Avenue House, as I frequently do in the search for inspiration and perspiration.
On the paved section in front of the hut that stands for a caff, a man was practising advanced tai chi moves with a sword. As a tai chi novice of 6 weeks, I stopped to have a chat with him about tai chi. Our chat was interrupted by the appearance of two police offices. “’Ello ‘ello ‘ello” said one, no really, “we’ve had reports of someone in the park wielding a sword”.
Anyway the tai chi chap explained what he was doing and that the swords (he had two) were blunt. The coppers inspected them and took his details. His name was something like Naftali Goldblatt. I’m thinking he was Israeli. There was an awkward moment when after one question too many he asked the coppers if they wanted to know the name of the last girl he shagged. I interjected that I did, but I was ignored. “That won’t be necessary” said the primary copper. After a pause, the copper said “I detect a note of sarcasm.” Yeah well done mate! Anyway the awkward moment passed and tai chi man packed up his swords and the coppers trundled off.
“What I shame” I said to him, as I had been looking forward to seeing his moves and taking some photos for you lovely readers. We had a further chat about tai chi and the importance of balance in movement and he asked me if I knew the Taoist Walking Meditation. As I didn’t, he explained it to me. You inhale for two steps, hold your breath for one step, exhale for two steps, hold for one step. 1 - 2 - 1 -2 - 1-2 et seq.
I did a further perambulation of the park, and found the Meditation surprisingly difficult to keep up, but when you get into a routine you really do lose yourself in it. Recommended.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Zen Temple Food (Shojin Ryori)
The Latte Days sent me the following question:
“Do u ever buy frozen edemame? If you do, do you find that after boiling them there are still remnants of a little worm, in at least one soya bean, who has managed to break-in seeking solitude perhaps or a good meal.
I just wondered as you appear to have taste for sushi.”
Hmmm.
Edemame, also known as edamame, is a green vegetable more commonly known as a soybean, harvested at the peak of ripening right before it reaches the "hardening" time. The word Edamame means "Beans on Branches," and it grows in clusters on bushy branches.
Personally I don't go for frozen (or fresh) edemame beans, so I have never experienced the worm effect. I should have thought that the worm should be treated with the same concern as one would if one found one in an apple or other vegetable or fruit product. Of course they say that sushi is riddled with worms, but I think they are talking about microscopic organisms invisible to the naked eye.
My advice would be to follow the principles of Zen Temple Food; namely that a meal should be taken just to escape hunger, as this is the best way to heal the body. Luxurious food is not allowed. Whilst a meal should be simple, this does not mean that it needn't have many different ingredients (see picture attached, taken in the Ikkyu restaurant in Kyoto - they purvey vegetarian food to the monks of the Daitoku Temple.)
If that fails then maybe try buying one of those miniature Zen gardens and see if that will entice the worms out. Even if it doesn't help the worm, it may help your soul.
“Do u ever buy frozen edemame? If you do, do you find that after boiling them there are still remnants of a little worm, in at least one soya bean, who has managed to break-in seeking solitude perhaps or a good meal.
I just wondered as you appear to have taste for sushi.”
Hmmm.
Edemame, also known as edamame, is a green vegetable more commonly known as a soybean, harvested at the peak of ripening right before it reaches the "hardening" time. The word Edamame means "Beans on Branches," and it grows in clusters on bushy branches.
Personally I don't go for frozen (or fresh) edemame beans, so I have never experienced the worm effect. I should have thought that the worm should be treated with the same concern as one would if one found one in an apple or other vegetable or fruit product. Of course they say that sushi is riddled with worms, but I think they are talking about microscopic organisms invisible to the naked eye.
My advice would be to follow the principles of Zen Temple Food; namely that a meal should be taken just to escape hunger, as this is the best way to heal the body. Luxurious food is not allowed. Whilst a meal should be simple, this does not mean that it needn't have many different ingredients (see picture attached, taken in the Ikkyu restaurant in Kyoto - they purvey vegetarian food to the monks of the Daitoku Temple.)
If that fails then maybe try buying one of those miniature Zen gardens and see if that will entice the worms out. Even if it doesn't help the worm, it may help your soul.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I must have been the first Jewish boy for about 2000 years to have been given the first name Jesus. Given, note, not Christened. Jesus is not my Christian name.
My Pop, bless his soul, had read how they kept finding these graves, ossuaries they called them, in Jerusalem, in the Holy Land, with the names Jesus Joseph and Mary engraved on them. The experts said they couldn’t have been the Jesus Joseph and Mary because they came from the Gallilee so wouldn’t all have been buried in Jerusalem, and in any event, and this was the bit that got Pop, Jesus and Joseph and Mary were common Jewish names in those days.
Well thought my Pop, if Jesus was a good Jewish name and we’re talking about the times of the second temple here, then I’m going to call my little puppy Jesus. A good Jewish name. In any event, it was a common name in Latin countries, as my Pop knew from his love of Cuban music and cigars, and it might prove an invaluable insurance policy if the bad times came again. What bad times he was thinking of I was never rightly sure. Maybe another inquisition.
And so I was named. To the rabbi I was Jesse, father of David, but to everyone else, I was Jesus. Jesus Goldblatt.
I’ve got to hand it to my Pop. At least he was consistent. He called my sister Mary.
My Pop, bless his soul, had read how they kept finding these graves, ossuaries they called them, in Jerusalem, in the Holy Land, with the names Jesus Joseph and Mary engraved on them. The experts said they couldn’t have been the Jesus Joseph and Mary because they came from the Gallilee so wouldn’t all have been buried in Jerusalem, and in any event, and this was the bit that got Pop, Jesus and Joseph and Mary were common Jewish names in those days.
Well thought my Pop, if Jesus was a good Jewish name and we’re talking about the times of the second temple here, then I’m going to call my little puppy Jesus. A good Jewish name. In any event, it was a common name in Latin countries, as my Pop knew from his love of Cuban music and cigars, and it might prove an invaluable insurance policy if the bad times came again. What bad times he was thinking of I was never rightly sure. Maybe another inquisition.
And so I was named. To the rabbi I was Jesse, father of David, but to everyone else, I was Jesus. Jesus Goldblatt.
I’ve got to hand it to my Pop. At least he was consistent. He called my sister Mary.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Notes on a Scandal
My abiding memory of Zoe Heller, who was in the year above me at Oxford, was her shoving copious quantities of cigarettes down Anglo Saxon tutor Vince “Dizzy” Gillespie’s top at our welcoming party. I remember her being a little scary, rumoured to be very bright, and that’s about it. Probably never spoke more than a dozen words to her.
Not much of a scandal, but I try my best.
I’ve settled into quite a nice routine now on Mondays. Pilates, salmon terryaki bento box, and cinema.
You will have guessed that this week it was the Screen on Baker Street and the film was Notes on a Scandal. I was very impressed. A very tight film, with little slack, it gets stuck in pretty much from the off and the pacing is good right to the end.
Dame Judy is fantastic and definitely Oscar worthy. I loved Cate Blanchett in Elizabeth but rapidly went off her due to her dull, worthy and overly serious “off screen persona”, but here she is very good – in fact her slightly irritating feyness works to the film’s advantage.
To me there was something of the quintessence of the Jacobean or Elizabethan tragedy about the plot – I’m thinking especially of the Changeling and Othello - as the two principal characters, with their fatal character flaws (lust, pride, envy, neediness) circle around each other like wayward kites bound to wrap their trailing ropes around each other and drag each other down to the ground.
Marvellous.
So good it either stopped the crinkly wrappers wrinkling or I didn’t notice.
Not much of a scandal, but I try my best.
I’ve settled into quite a nice routine now on Mondays. Pilates, salmon terryaki bento box, and cinema.
You will have guessed that this week it was the Screen on Baker Street and the film was Notes on a Scandal. I was very impressed. A very tight film, with little slack, it gets stuck in pretty much from the off and the pacing is good right to the end.
Dame Judy is fantastic and definitely Oscar worthy. I loved Cate Blanchett in Elizabeth but rapidly went off her due to her dull, worthy and overly serious “off screen persona”, but here she is very good – in fact her slightly irritating feyness works to the film’s advantage.
To me there was something of the quintessence of the Jacobean or Elizabethan tragedy about the plot – I’m thinking especially of the Changeling and Othello - as the two principal characters, with their fatal character flaws (lust, pride, envy, neediness) circle around each other like wayward kites bound to wrap their trailing ropes around each other and drag each other down to the ground.
Marvellous.
So good it either stopped the crinkly wrappers wrinkling or I didn’t notice.
Under The Lintel
There was a moment late on Thursday evening when I came to realise that Richard Schiff, star of television’s West Wing and currently appearing in “Under the Lintel” at the Duchess Theatre in the heart of London’s West End, really is a great actor. The moment came not during the show, but during a “Q&A” afterwards, when someone asked him whether he could give them advice for dealing with their post-West Wing withdrawal symptoms. Schiff screwed up his face and psychically conveyed the expression “get a life” whilst pretending to search for an appropriate answer so as not to give offence.
I liked the Duchess Theatre. Like my companions for the evening, it was small, old and creaky. It struck me as the sort of place where bad things really would happen if an actor were accidentally to give name to the “Scottish Play”.
“Under the Lintel” proved in its own way to be quite a creepy play. A monologue, in the form of a lecture by a Dutch former Librarian who becomes obsessed with tracing an overdue (over-jew?) book which he thinks leads to the trail of the Wandering Jew of Christian legend. As his quest develops, he loses job, girlfriend and eventually sanity, himself becoming a lonely decrepit figure, cursed to wander the world delivering his talk to half-filled theatres mostly containing slightly perplexed Jews who have been sold the play on the basis that it is somehow about them (which it clearly isn’t).
I enjoyed it. The text was well structured and had some lovely moments where themes looped round and repeated with variations. I wasn’t so keen on the accent, but otherwise Schiff was convincing and managed to hold my attention with little danger of my falling asleep (see the Auden reading below!)
Afterwards I ate too much cake and I think my pal Ricardo Silverfish was rude to the waitress who may have spiked my decaf coffee with caffeine in revenge – I dunno, but I had a very troubled night’s sleep. Maybe it was just the ghost of the Wandering Jew.
I liked the Duchess Theatre. Like my companions for the evening, it was small, old and creaky. It struck me as the sort of place where bad things really would happen if an actor were accidentally to give name to the “Scottish Play”.
“Under the Lintel” proved in its own way to be quite a creepy play. A monologue, in the form of a lecture by a Dutch former Librarian who becomes obsessed with tracing an overdue (over-jew?) book which he thinks leads to the trail of the Wandering Jew of Christian legend. As his quest develops, he loses job, girlfriend and eventually sanity, himself becoming a lonely decrepit figure, cursed to wander the world delivering his talk to half-filled theatres mostly containing slightly perplexed Jews who have been sold the play on the basis that it is somehow about them (which it clearly isn’t).
I enjoyed it. The text was well structured and had some lovely moments where themes looped round and repeated with variations. I wasn’t so keen on the accent, but otherwise Schiff was convincing and managed to hold my attention with little danger of my falling asleep (see the Auden reading below!)
Afterwards I ate too much cake and I think my pal Ricardo Silverfish was rude to the waitress who may have spiked my decaf coffee with caffeine in revenge – I dunno, but I had a very troubled night’s sleep. Maybe it was just the ghost of the Wandering Jew.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
What's with all these crazy album names
Ahh Pocket Symphony. The new album from Air. It’s every thing I hoped for – so lush. I play it softly at night and it gives me nice dreams.
By the way, and to show that many a true word is spoken in jest even if you don’t know it at the time, the new album from Gruff Rhys – Candylion – is a very strong and lovely piece of work. Also a bit lush.
And some news of the Múm album – release date unknown but it is to be called go go smear the poison ivy, let your crooked hands be holy. Ahh
As for CocoRosie, they are going with The Adventures of Ghosthorse & Stillborn about which they say… “Rainbowarriors are on a crusade for the kind of drug-free America where the elected officials are tranny shaman and the religious leaders are winged evangelists who speak in tongues of Happy Core.
Rainbowarriors horse gallop through miles of balmy grass roads all the way to the swingset swamps. They witch water(???) and have witches for fathers; they hear disharmonies of sadness sung by drunken glowworms. They sleep in swollen barns; they sleep through silver nights.
Rainbowarriors live by the hero myth; Rainbowarriors ain’t nothin’ to fuck with.”
Birthed through an intricate process of prank phone calls and clairvoyant documentation, The Adventures of Ghosthorse & Stillborn follows CocoRosie and their crew of miscreants through the Mechanical Forest of Feelings.
“It was there we first confronted the Warlock, Laughing Crow, and buried the Black Dove.”
This album is a departure from the obscured blur of stained glass rêve to a more self-exploitive memoir. Parts are dreamy and parts are savage, but, as with an opera where death represents a secret heaven, the whole record feels like a black diamond in the snow. From her humble beginnings in the South of France, the saga sailed the Seven Seas all the way to that icy crack in the Earth’s crust just outside of Reykjavik. Uponher return to her Parisian homeland, she shared a mystical rendezvous with beautiful sailors Pierre et Gilles, the album cover being the consequence of that affair.
“We definitely moved to the afterhours of life and unpacked our bags for this endeavor.”
Sierra comes from the classical world: control, mastery, dominance. And the classical world has its own bulimia. Ballet, torturous feet and leg bending contraptions --classicalism is like contortionism. It’s a cruel circus, like hunting unicorns or killing My Little Pony.
Bianca, on the other hand, she’s more of a lazy-toed lobster, somewhat of a psychological pistol. Much in the same way as Bianca, “Stillborn” is definitely the littlest champion. She’s always ruminating on blurry words and they, in turn, are always mutating, changing, transforming.
If Jean Genet was the muse that inspired Noah’s Ark, the spirit guide for this album was Wee Willie Winkie. A pre-pubescent idol who never changes out of his bedtime clothes, Wee Willie Winkie runs through town, upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown, knocking on the window, crying through the lock "Are the children all in bed? It’s past eight o’clock.” He might have been an O.R.W. (original rainbowarrior).”
You only have until 10th April to wait.
By the way, and to show that many a true word is spoken in jest even if you don’t know it at the time, the new album from Gruff Rhys – Candylion – is a very strong and lovely piece of work. Also a bit lush.
And some news of the Múm album – release date unknown but it is to be called go go smear the poison ivy, let your crooked hands be holy. Ahh
As for CocoRosie, they are going with The Adventures of Ghosthorse & Stillborn about which they say… “Rainbowarriors are on a crusade for the kind of drug-free America where the elected officials are tranny shaman and the religious leaders are winged evangelists who speak in tongues of Happy Core.
Rainbowarriors horse gallop through miles of balmy grass roads all the way to the swingset swamps. They witch water(???) and have witches for fathers; they hear disharmonies of sadness sung by drunken glowworms. They sleep in swollen barns; they sleep through silver nights.
Rainbowarriors live by the hero myth; Rainbowarriors ain’t nothin’ to fuck with.”
Birthed through an intricate process of prank phone calls and clairvoyant documentation, The Adventures of Ghosthorse & Stillborn follows CocoRosie and their crew of miscreants through the Mechanical Forest of Feelings.
“It was there we first confronted the Warlock, Laughing Crow, and buried the Black Dove.”
This album is a departure from the obscured blur of stained glass rêve to a more self-exploitive memoir. Parts are dreamy and parts are savage, but, as with an opera where death represents a secret heaven, the whole record feels like a black diamond in the snow. From her humble beginnings in the South of France, the saga sailed the Seven Seas all the way to that icy crack in the Earth’s crust just outside of Reykjavik. Uponher return to her Parisian homeland, she shared a mystical rendezvous with beautiful sailors Pierre et Gilles, the album cover being the consequence of that affair.
“We definitely moved to the afterhours of life and unpacked our bags for this endeavor.”
Sierra comes from the classical world: control, mastery, dominance. And the classical world has its own bulimia. Ballet, torturous feet and leg bending contraptions --classicalism is like contortionism. It’s a cruel circus, like hunting unicorns or killing My Little Pony.
Bianca, on the other hand, she’s more of a lazy-toed lobster, somewhat of a psychological pistol. Much in the same way as Bianca, “Stillborn” is definitely the littlest champion. She’s always ruminating on blurry words and they, in turn, are always mutating, changing, transforming.
If Jean Genet was the muse that inspired Noah’s Ark, the spirit guide for this album was Wee Willie Winkie. A pre-pubescent idol who never changes out of his bedtime clothes, Wee Willie Winkie runs through town, upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown, knocking on the window, crying through the lock "Are the children all in bed? It’s past eight o’clock.” He might have been an O.R.W. (original rainbowarrior).”
You only have until 10th April to wait.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
A Life Less Audenary
Yeah check it. One two one two. You’ve gotta check yaself before ya wreck yaself. I’m here wid my main man, Mister Double-you Haitch Smith.
Or to put it another way, I’m just back from the British Library-hosted readings of poetry by WH Auden, today being the centenary of his birth.
Well the great and the good, or in this case a multitude of pale faced and serious looking people, crammed into the Shaw Theatre in various states of balding (men and women)
and beardage (men and women); there was a yarmulke, a couple of Pinter hats, an elderly lady with a magnificent Bardot style reddy coloured bouffant hairdo and big vintage 70s style glasses, and a fair smattering of homosexual couplings and Americans in exile.
Well I’m afraid to report that it was all very Audenary.
Whether it was the heat in the packed theatre, or the soporific torporous tones of the first couple of readers, but when the lights went down, I just could not keep my eyes open.
Things improved with the next two readers, though whether it was the sudden blast of cool air con or the improved diction of the readers I could not say.
Things then went back downhill as people’s mobiles went off (in a poetry reading oi!) and speakers mumbled.
Added to all this is the fact that I find listening to poetry not the easiest thing to do – you can’t re-read a line and any lapse in concentration and you are lost. Added to this Auden (as read here) is not the easiest poet anyway. The poems which worked best were the jokey sing song ones with nice rhymes.
In the end I found it best to stop trying to process the words, and just to listen, as though to a piece of music, and let it wash over me - the better readers managed to convey a sense of what I would call educated melancholy.
Or to put it another way, I’m just back from the British Library-hosted readings of poetry by WH Auden, today being the centenary of his birth.
Well the great and the good, or in this case a multitude of pale faced and serious looking people, crammed into the Shaw Theatre in various states of balding (men and women)
and beardage (men and women); there was a yarmulke, a couple of Pinter hats, an elderly lady with a magnificent Bardot style reddy coloured bouffant hairdo and big vintage 70s style glasses, and a fair smattering of homosexual couplings and Americans in exile.
Well I’m afraid to report that it was all very Audenary.
Whether it was the heat in the packed theatre, or the soporific torporous tones of the first couple of readers, but when the lights went down, I just could not keep my eyes open.
Things improved with the next two readers, though whether it was the sudden blast of cool air con or the improved diction of the readers I could not say.
Things then went back downhill as people’s mobiles went off (in a poetry reading oi!) and speakers mumbled.
Added to all this is the fact that I find listening to poetry not the easiest thing to do – you can’t re-read a line and any lapse in concentration and you are lost. Added to this Auden (as read here) is not the easiest poet anyway. The poems which worked best were the jokey sing song ones with nice rhymes.
In the end I found it best to stop trying to process the words, and just to listen, as though to a piece of music, and let it wash over me - the better readers managed to convey a sense of what I would call educated melancholy.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The Science of Sleep
So after pilates yesterday, and a big bento box of salmon teriyaki, I scootled up to the Everyman in Lionel Hampstead to see The Science of Sleep.
I haven’t been to the Everyman for a very very long time – even longer than Donkey’s years.
It was very nice – a big auditorium filled with comfy looking armchairs and sofas instead of the usual cinema seats. There were only a couple of other people in there so it all looked set to be a great experience.
Trouble was the armchair style seat wasn’t as comfy as it looked – no lumbar support – even, if you can imagine such a thing, an anti-lumbar – it kind of caved in at the crucial point. And the screen is high up, whereas the chair focuses you straight, so you have to crick your neck up. And some people walked in halfway through and laughed in an annoying fashion.
Still I really liked the film. It hasn’t had the best reviews, but then the same was true of The Fountain which has really stayed with me (this I find to be the test of a good film).
The Science of Sleep is about Stéphane, a man who has difficulty distinguishing dreams and reality. At first he fancies Antoine De Caunes’s daughter, but then he sees the light and goes for Serge Gainsbourg’s daughter instead. Sorry that’s me not being able to distinguish the actresses' lineage from their characters. Very French.
One of the ignorant reviewers complained how dowdy Charlotte G is made to look, but one of Director Michel Gondry’s strokes of genius is to make her look both her mother’s daughter and her father’s daughter, often at the same time – and this fusion of dream shiksa and jewish princess I found to be strangely, almost irresistibly, sexy (readers interested in researching her genealogy further are invited to http://www.myspace.com/janebirkin050505.)
Anyway out of my reverie and back to the film. Like Stéphane, the viewer finds him or herself struggling to distinguish dream from reality and as a consequence the narrative becomes a little too fractured in parts, but its good sexy French fun, so you don’t really mind, although by the end I started to wonder if in fact Stéphane was certifiably meshugge, and I’m not sure whether any real woman (except maybe one who’s dad was Serge) would have put up with lines like “can I see your tits?” He didn’t even say “please”!
Like “Amélie”, the Paris of the Science of Sleep is one free from black faces, from violence, from poverty, from free running, from urban decay. Unlike Amélie, no one seems to have kicked up a fuss; further happy evidence I suspect of the decay of Parisian left wing intellectualism.
Stéphane is played by Gael García Bernal whom I understand to be popular with the ladies.
The film’s official website is rather good if a little fiddly – see http://wip.warnerbros.com/scienceofsleep/.
There’s a bit on there where they do dream analysis – below is a screen shot of mine, and you will see immediately how remarkably accurate it was!
I haven’t been to the Everyman for a very very long time – even longer than Donkey’s years.
It was very nice – a big auditorium filled with comfy looking armchairs and sofas instead of the usual cinema seats. There were only a couple of other people in there so it all looked set to be a great experience.
Trouble was the armchair style seat wasn’t as comfy as it looked – no lumbar support – even, if you can imagine such a thing, an anti-lumbar – it kind of caved in at the crucial point. And the screen is high up, whereas the chair focuses you straight, so you have to crick your neck up. And some people walked in halfway through and laughed in an annoying fashion.
Still I really liked the film. It hasn’t had the best reviews, but then the same was true of The Fountain which has really stayed with me (this I find to be the test of a good film).
The Science of Sleep is about Stéphane, a man who has difficulty distinguishing dreams and reality. At first he fancies Antoine De Caunes’s daughter, but then he sees the light and goes for Serge Gainsbourg’s daughter instead. Sorry that’s me not being able to distinguish the actresses' lineage from their characters. Very French.
One of the ignorant reviewers complained how dowdy Charlotte G is made to look, but one of Director Michel Gondry’s strokes of genius is to make her look both her mother’s daughter and her father’s daughter, often at the same time – and this fusion of dream shiksa and jewish princess I found to be strangely, almost irresistibly, sexy (readers interested in researching her genealogy further are invited to http://www.myspace.com/janebirkin050505.)
Anyway out of my reverie and back to the film. Like Stéphane, the viewer finds him or herself struggling to distinguish dream from reality and as a consequence the narrative becomes a little too fractured in parts, but its good sexy French fun, so you don’t really mind, although by the end I started to wonder if in fact Stéphane was certifiably meshugge, and I’m not sure whether any real woman (except maybe one who’s dad was Serge) would have put up with lines like “can I see your tits?” He didn’t even say “please”!
Like “Amélie”, the Paris of the Science of Sleep is one free from black faces, from violence, from poverty, from free running, from urban decay. Unlike Amélie, no one seems to have kicked up a fuss; further happy evidence I suspect of the decay of Parisian left wing intellectualism.
Stéphane is played by Gael García Bernal whom I understand to be popular with the ladies.
The film’s official website is rather good if a little fiddly – see http://wip.warnerbros.com/scienceofsleep/.
There’s a bit on there where they do dream analysis – below is a screen shot of mine, and you will see immediately how remarkably accurate it was!
Saturday, February 17, 2007
chair for sale
yeah - chair for sale - made by farstrup - (check http://www.farstrup.dk/page59.aspx ) comprising recliner with lumbar pump, neckpillow and footstool - recommended by back specialists (i'm one and I recommend it).
one careful owner - about 8 years old (the chair, not the owner) - would costs about £1000 new, and i'm looking for £100 or nearest offer. Sold as seen. Purchaser to arrange carriage. And for that I'm prepared to throw in a whole world of memories and, if you examine very closely, in a purely metaphysical sense you understand, just
Thursday, February 15, 2007
erratum et erectum
It appears that I have made a terrible error in that the picture posted a few entries ago purporting to be of "Davina Ravensburg" was in fact not "Davina" at all, but rather "Emma", who may or may not work behind the bar at the Ram Jam Inn. Well it's easy to get confused as Des Lynam once said. So here now is the correct picture of "Davina" for your delectation. Any resemblance to Amy Winehouse is entirely co-incidental. They tried to make him go to rehab but he said "no no no."By the way, nice curtains mate!
For your consideration / My name is Albert Ayler
After an early pilates session on Tuesday, I enjoyed a cinematic double bill.
First up was For Your Consideration, from the Spinal Tap/ Mighty Wind/Best in Show people. You won’t believe me based on what I am going to tell you, but it really was a mighty let down - not enough decent gags, and the plot sagged due to the lack of impetus towards a big finale such as the dog show in Best in Show. The film mockumented the trials and tribulations of the cast and crew of a low budget film: “Home for Purim”; about the dysfunctional Pischer family, which picks up some Oscar buzz. Best line, and one of the greatest lines in the history of cinema, is the director shouting something like “this time I want an extreme close-up on the kugel”. See, you are laughing already, and the film within the film is fantastically silly, but that makes up about ten minutes of it. Not enough. Still for those who worry more about Jewish continuity than artistic values, I did find myself surprisingly nostalgic for a good old family Purim.
To reset myself for the second movie, I toddled over to the Wallace Collection. I’ve been meaning to go there for donkeys years (how long is a donkeys?). It is the sort of stuff that makes me feel like a bull in a china shop (would a donkey fare better?) – lots of porcelain and ceramics and delicate artefacts, and a fine collection of Roccoccocco (CocoRosieCleoRoccos?) painting. Being a plebeian Northerner it wasn’t really the sort of art / objet d’art that I can appreciate, although it was pretty mindblowing, as well as pretty and mindblowing. In particular there was an exhibition of work by maiolica (yeah, a type of pottery) painter Francesco Xanto Avelli (c.1486-c.1542), very lovely. Mostly fine scenes of classical mythology, but my favourite was one called something like “Dick Head” (I kid you not) which was a face made up of about thirty cocks, including one with a spectacular Prince Albert. Imaging eating your supper off that!
I also took in Brian Eno’s installation “77 million paintings” at Selfridges (see picture, left), which comprised self-generating art projected onto plasma screens with a nice ambient soundtrack, set in a darkened room mostly filled with snoozing office workers. I didn’t quite manage to reach a chilled out enough state. As Eno would say, “what are the sections sections of? Imagine a caterpillar moving.”
Then off to the second part of the double header – My Name is Albert Ayler at the ICA. It was a sell out in the small cinema, and my goodnees there were some smelly people there – it smelt liked boiled tramp. Ayler (check out http://www.myspace.com/albertayler) was the most out there of the out there free jazzers of the 1960s, dying sadly young at the age of 34 (did he fall or was he pushed?) by drowning in New York. The film was intense, meditative, peopled by weird and wonderful characters. It left many more questions than answers – one suspects that Ayler had many demons which the film chose not to explore, and the question remains as to whether he was a genius or a bluffer.
Meanwhile big Ol has come down after the Juana Molina gig.
Talking of which, check out this genius animated blog with interview and concert footage of the lovely Juana: http://www.woebot.tv/
Toodlepip.
First up was For Your Consideration, from the Spinal Tap/ Mighty Wind/Best in Show people. You won’t believe me based on what I am going to tell you, but it really was a mighty let down - not enough decent gags, and the plot sagged due to the lack of impetus towards a big finale such as the dog show in Best in Show. The film mockumented the trials and tribulations of the cast and crew of a low budget film: “Home for Purim”; about the dysfunctional Pischer family, which picks up some Oscar buzz. Best line, and one of the greatest lines in the history of cinema, is the director shouting something like “this time I want an extreme close-up on the kugel”. See, you are laughing already, and the film within the film is fantastically silly, but that makes up about ten minutes of it. Not enough. Still for those who worry more about Jewish continuity than artistic values, I did find myself surprisingly nostalgic for a good old family Purim.
To reset myself for the second movie, I toddled over to the Wallace Collection. I’ve been meaning to go there for donkeys years (how long is a donkeys?). It is the sort of stuff that makes me feel like a bull in a china shop (would a donkey fare better?) – lots of porcelain and ceramics and delicate artefacts, and a fine collection of Roccoccocco (CocoRosieCleoRoccos?) painting. Being a plebeian Northerner it wasn’t really the sort of art / objet d’art that I can appreciate, although it was pretty mindblowing, as well as pretty and mindblowing. In particular there was an exhibition of work by maiolica (yeah, a type of pottery) painter Francesco Xanto Avelli (c.1486-c.1542), very lovely. Mostly fine scenes of classical mythology, but my favourite was one called something like “Dick Head” (I kid you not) which was a face made up of about thirty cocks, including one with a spectacular Prince Albert. Imaging eating your supper off that!
I also took in Brian Eno’s installation “77 million paintings” at Selfridges (see picture, left), which comprised self-generating art projected onto plasma screens with a nice ambient soundtrack, set in a darkened room mostly filled with snoozing office workers. I didn’t quite manage to reach a chilled out enough state. As Eno would say, “what are the sections sections of? Imagine a caterpillar moving.”Then off to the second part of the double header – My Name is Albert Ayler at the ICA. It was a sell out in the small cinema, and my goodnees there were some smelly people there – it smelt liked boiled tramp. Ayler (check out http://www.myspace.com/albertayler) was the most out there of the out there free jazzers of the 1960s, dying sadly young at the age of 34 (did he fall or was he pushed?) by drowning in New York. The film was intense, meditative, peopled by weird and wonderful characters. It left many more questions than answers – one suspects that Ayler had many demons which the film chose not to explore, and the question remains as to whether he was a genius or a bluffer.
Meanwhile big Ol has come down after the Juana Molina gig.
Talking of which, check out this genius animated blog with interview and concert footage of the lovely Juana: http://www.woebot.tv/
Toodlepip.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
boys and girls
They say Jewish girls turn into their mothers sooner or later. What they don't tell you is that so do Jewish boys, given enough rouge. Here's my mate "Davina Ravensburg" to prove it. Uncanny.
The Fountain
After a bout of punishing physio, I took myself off to see the Fountain down t’Odeon (by the way I should mention that my passion for cinema has been re-ignited after watching the rather excellent Bertolucci film “the Dreamers” – as well as featuring spectacular nudity from “Bond Girl” Eva Green, it took me back to that very French belief in the intellectual magic of the silver screen).
The reviews of the Fountain that I read all said that it wasn’t as bad as one had been led to believe – however as these were the only reviews leading me to believe anything, I therefore hadn’t been led to believe that it was bad. Anyway, all in all, I’d agree that it wasn’t as bad as I’d been led to believe.
It reminded me a lot of Pan’s Labyrynth; both films weaved sad, naturalistic “real world” plots with fantasy/magic plots, leaving it open ended as to whether the fantasy plots were projections of the people in the real plots, or were to be taken at face value. In a way Volver did the same thing with the ghost story.
The Fountain was indeed confusing, and refused to spell out exactly what it was going on about, but I tend to like that in a piece of art. In our jaded pre-post-post modern world where we’ve seen it all and done that, ambiguity and fractured narrative seem as good a way as any to tell a story.
The low-budget special effects were excellent, particularly the use of micro-organisms grown in Petri dishes which were used to create the scenes of nebulous star systems. And the music was fantastic – Glass-like / Reichian repeating ambient patterns contributing to the dreamlike atmosphere.
The cinema was delightfully empty, but of course some bastard ended up next but one to me crinkling a heavy plastic packet of sweets and slurping on a giant cola, rattling his ice, and tapping on the plastic for good measure. Why oh why do cinemas sell that crap?
The reviews of the Fountain that I read all said that it wasn’t as bad as one had been led to believe – however as these were the only reviews leading me to believe anything, I therefore hadn’t been led to believe that it was bad. Anyway, all in all, I’d agree that it wasn’t as bad as I’d been led to believe.
It reminded me a lot of Pan’s Labyrynth; both films weaved sad, naturalistic “real world” plots with fantasy/magic plots, leaving it open ended as to whether the fantasy plots were projections of the people in the real plots, or were to be taken at face value. In a way Volver did the same thing with the ghost story.
The Fountain was indeed confusing, and refused to spell out exactly what it was going on about, but I tend to like that in a piece of art. In our jaded pre-post-post modern world where we’ve seen it all and done that, ambiguity and fractured narrative seem as good a way as any to tell a story.
The low-budget special effects were excellent, particularly the use of micro-organisms grown in Petri dishes which were used to create the scenes of nebulous star systems. And the music was fantastic – Glass-like / Reichian repeating ambient patterns contributing to the dreamlike atmosphere.
The cinema was delightfully empty, but of course some bastard ended up next but one to me crinkling a heavy plastic packet of sweets and slurping on a giant cola, rattling his ice, and tapping on the plastic for good measure. Why oh why do cinemas sell that crap?
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Welcome to Dreamland at Carnegie Hall
Reference the Welcome to Dreamland gig I mentioned a couple of posts back, this kind gentleman has reviewed it and posted some piccies so we can enjoy the event vicariously.
Kushi Tan: Welcome to Dreamland at Carnegie Hall
Kushi Tan: Welcome to Dreamland at Carnegie Hall
Ghosts
So off I toddled last night to start my new role as perplexed theatre critic. I guess I’ve gone off the theatre of late, lost my ability to suspend my disbelief. This was however without doubt Theatre of the very finest kind.
I went to see Ghosts at the Gate Theatre.
I’ve never seen Ibsen performed live - I’ve read a few Ibsen plays but not this one.
The Gate is a 70 or so seater above the Prince Albert pub in Notting Hill. You could hear some of the inane banter wafting up during quieter moments, but it was very muffled and didn’t affect my enjoyment (if that’s the right word for the experience of an Ibsen play). Someone’s mobile set to vibrate was a little more irritating – switch the bloody thing off why don’t you – even without a ringtone you get a buzzy noise.
Seats are unreserved , and the queue to go in forms some 30 minutes before doors. This is not a happy proposition for someone of my disposition, especially when there was some poor queuing etiquette (ie pushing in). Overall I was about 14th in and happy with my seat position, if not my seat, which was a little hard, little better than a padded bench in truth, with a particularly hard backrest primed to press against the area where I am sore from physio. Nevertheless I managed to subsume the physical agony into the overall Ibsenian experience – I wasn’t there to have fun you know.
The audience I have to say were impeccably well behaved save for that instance of the vibrating ‘phone – no bangles in this part of London baby.
You will also want to know that at the front of the queue, a great British actor held forth. It might well have been the Great Gambon; if not he was certainly Gambonesque. A fine triangular beard jutted forth from his chin – it was the sort of beard that could only be worn by an actor as part of a role (“no stick on beards here, I’ll grow my own thank you”.)
Anyway the play was rather brilliantly acted – not too hammy or self-conscious, just natural and sometimes even subtle. If not exactly suspended, my belief was certainly pressed upwards, and you could tell the effectiveness of it by the trouble people had in walking afterwards (and I’m sure that wasn’t just due to the hard seats.) I was amazed that no fights broke out outside as, one after another, dazed theatre goers walked straight into the local hoodies waiting at the bus stop just by the door. That’s what I would call a good night out. And I was back home by 10.
I went to see Ghosts at the Gate Theatre.
I’ve never seen Ibsen performed live - I’ve read a few Ibsen plays but not this one.
The Gate is a 70 or so seater above the Prince Albert pub in Notting Hill. You could hear some of the inane banter wafting up during quieter moments, but it was very muffled and didn’t affect my enjoyment (if that’s the right word for the experience of an Ibsen play). Someone’s mobile set to vibrate was a little more irritating – switch the bloody thing off why don’t you – even without a ringtone you get a buzzy noise.
Seats are unreserved , and the queue to go in forms some 30 minutes before doors. This is not a happy proposition for someone of my disposition, especially when there was some poor queuing etiquette (ie pushing in). Overall I was about 14th in and happy with my seat position, if not my seat, which was a little hard, little better than a padded bench in truth, with a particularly hard backrest primed to press against the area where I am sore from physio. Nevertheless I managed to subsume the physical agony into the overall Ibsenian experience – I wasn’t there to have fun you know.
The audience I have to say were impeccably well behaved save for that instance of the vibrating ‘phone – no bangles in this part of London baby.
You will also want to know that at the front of the queue, a great British actor held forth. It might well have been the Great Gambon; if not he was certainly Gambonesque. A fine triangular beard jutted forth from his chin – it was the sort of beard that could only be worn by an actor as part of a role (“no stick on beards here, I’ll grow my own thank you”.)
Anyway the play was rather brilliantly acted – not too hammy or self-conscious, just natural and sometimes even subtle. If not exactly suspended, my belief was certainly pressed upwards, and you could tell the effectiveness of it by the trouble people had in walking afterwards (and I’m sure that wasn’t just due to the hard seats.) I was amazed that no fights broke out outside as, one after another, dazed theatre goers walked straight into the local hoodies waiting at the bus stop just by the door. That’s what I would call a good night out. And I was back home by 10.
Monday, February 05, 2007
a slow start to a fast year
Well yes it has been a slow start as Rabbi Rabbit has commented. In truth I’ve been a tad under the weather and undergoing some somewhat painful physiotherapy, and this in conjunction with the long wait for my new ergonomic therapeutic all singing all dancing office chair has led to the current state of affairs. And I’ve started my new novel, working title “2007 project”, and no, I’m not going to tell you all anything about it. Firewalls have ears, don’t you know.
But that’s not to say that it has been an entirely quiet Jan.
First gig of the year saw me and big Ol machete-ing our way through a dense forest of facial hair and student odour to the Roundhouse for the O Degrees of Separation Tour, organised by the Contemporary Music Network, the people who brought you last year’s Photophonic Experiment and Kitchen Motors Tours. This gig was a four ball featuring Weird Folk guru Devendra Banhart’s backing band Vetiver, goofy electro-nerd Adem, annoyingly dippy hippy pleased with herself but wonderfully named Vashti Bunyan (yes a relative of Pilgrim’s Progress Bunyan, but not of Queen Vashti) and last and, in truth the real reason we was there, the very wonderful indeed Juana Molina (pictured below) – check out http://www.myspace.com/juanamolina
Formerly Argentina’s favourite television comedienne, JM has produced three stunning albums of lilting honey dripping electronic tinged loveliness. I have tried on several occasions to catch her live but for some reason the gigs were cancelled. Was it worth the wait? I would admit to being biased but even the “professional reviewers” agreed she blew the others off the stage with her self-sampling sweet brew of mellow and delicious electro-acoustic harmonies. Can’t wait to catch her doing a full gig of her own.
My waiting for Juana was as nothing however compared to my waiting for Genty. 15 years in fact since the Compagnie Philippe Genty last performed on the London Stage, but they squeezed themselves on to the too too small stage of the Queen Elizabeth Hall with their latest production Vanishing Point. It is almost impossible to describe what their shows are or what they do to you. Mesmerising and meditative, they combine elements of puppetry, dance, mime and extraordinary visual effects to induce a dreamlike state in the viewer. Cardboard cut-outs morph into people, people morph into other people or into puppets, faces melt, the stage sags and expands, a giant insect tears away from its puppet masters, beating its legs to form a wild clackering sound. Wondeful stuff and I hope I won’t have to wait another 15 years for the next show. Check out http://www.philippegenty.com
So that was January, but oh what a year we have in store. So much to look forward to. New albums and tours from the big 4 – Air, Múm, CocoRosie and Bjork. And intriguing cross-pollenisations – Bjork working with Antony, CocoRosie with Icelandic contemporary classical musicians, Air incorporating traditional Japanese classical instruments into their repertoire. And two of the great German electronica acts return – Pole and Laub. Really I should take out shares in Amazon.
There’s no doubt that this is a critical and possibly defining year for this extraordinary electronic/contemporary classical/ffreakyfolky/music without labels new music. A couple of days ago saw a headline gig hosted by David Byrne at the Carnegie Hall in New York featuring erm Vetiva/Vashti Bunyan/Adem, CocoRosie, and the lovely and yet to be seen live by me Cibelle in a grand celebration of dreamy loveliness. Me and Big Ol were seriously considering flying out to New York for that one, just because it seemed so IMPORTANT. So it seems remarkable that the BBC in their infinite wisdom, have chosen this moment to cancel Mixing It on Radio 3. This wonderful programme has been my main source of discovery of new music; they gave me my first hearing of all of the bands in today’s bulletin bar Air, as well as, off the top of my head, the Necks, Deerhoof, Clogs, the Notwist, Tarwater, Jackie-O Motherfucker, Four Tet, Mira Calix, Susumu Yokota, Tunng, Dorine_Muraille, Matmos – oh the list goes on and on. Shame on you BBC.
SACK JEREMY BOWEN, NOT MIXING IT!
I’m also embarking on a new theatre initiative, ie going to the theatre, quite a lot it seems in the next few months.
Plus there’s the launch of the Latte Days Book Group Inc.
And yes I will be continuing to stick my cultural thermometer up the arse end of the contemporary world, so stay tuned.
But that’s not to say that it has been an entirely quiet Jan.
First gig of the year saw me and big Ol machete-ing our way through a dense forest of facial hair and student odour to the Roundhouse for the O Degrees of Separation Tour, organised by the Contemporary Music Network, the people who brought you last year’s Photophonic Experiment and Kitchen Motors Tours. This gig was a four ball featuring Weird Folk guru Devendra Banhart’s backing band Vetiver, goofy electro-nerd Adem, annoyingly dippy hippy pleased with herself but wonderfully named Vashti Bunyan (yes a relative of Pilgrim’s Progress Bunyan, but not of Queen Vashti) and last and, in truth the real reason we was there, the very wonderful indeed Juana Molina (pictured below) – check out http://www.myspace.com/juanamolina
Formerly Argentina’s favourite television comedienne, JM has produced three stunning albums of lilting honey dripping electronic tinged loveliness. I have tried on several occasions to catch her live but for some reason the gigs were cancelled. Was it worth the wait? I would admit to being biased but even the “professional reviewers” agreed she blew the others off the stage with her self-sampling sweet brew of mellow and delicious electro-acoustic harmonies. Can’t wait to catch her doing a full gig of her own.My waiting for Juana was as nothing however compared to my waiting for Genty. 15 years in fact since the Compagnie Philippe Genty last performed on the London Stage, but they squeezed themselves on to the too too small stage of the Queen Elizabeth Hall with their latest production Vanishing Point. It is almost impossible to describe what their shows are or what they do to you. Mesmerising and meditative, they combine elements of puppetry, dance, mime and extraordinary visual effects to induce a dreamlike state in the viewer. Cardboard cut-outs morph into people, people morph into other people or into puppets, faces melt, the stage sags and expands, a giant insect tears away from its puppet masters, beating its legs to form a wild clackering sound. Wondeful stuff and I hope I won’t have to wait another 15 years for the next show. Check out http://www.philippegenty.com
So that was January, but oh what a year we have in store. So much to look forward to. New albums and tours from the big 4 – Air, Múm, CocoRosie and Bjork. And intriguing cross-pollenisations – Bjork working with Antony, CocoRosie with Icelandic contemporary classical musicians, Air incorporating traditional Japanese classical instruments into their repertoire. And two of the great German electronica acts return – Pole and Laub. Really I should take out shares in Amazon.
There’s no doubt that this is a critical and possibly defining year for this extraordinary electronic/contemporary classical/ffreakyfolky/music without labels new music. A couple of days ago saw a headline gig hosted by David Byrne at the Carnegie Hall in New York featuring erm Vetiva/Vashti Bunyan/Adem, CocoRosie, and the lovely and yet to be seen live by me Cibelle in a grand celebration of dreamy loveliness. Me and Big Ol were seriously considering flying out to New York for that one, just because it seemed so IMPORTANT. So it seems remarkable that the BBC in their infinite wisdom, have chosen this moment to cancel Mixing It on Radio 3. This wonderful programme has been my main source of discovery of new music; they gave me my first hearing of all of the bands in today’s bulletin bar Air, as well as, off the top of my head, the Necks, Deerhoof, Clogs, the Notwist, Tarwater, Jackie-O Motherfucker, Four Tet, Mira Calix, Susumu Yokota, Tunng, Dorine_Muraille, Matmos – oh the list goes on and on. Shame on you BBC.
SACK JEREMY BOWEN, NOT MIXING IT!
I’m also embarking on a new theatre initiative, ie going to the theatre, quite a lot it seems in the next few months.
Plus there’s the launch of the Latte Days Book Group Inc.
And yes I will be continuing to stick my cultural thermometer up the arse end of the contemporary world, so stay tuned.
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