Vulture: Life in Death: 'Departures' and 'Never Let Me Go'

There's been a dearth of life affirming cinema of late; maybe it's a sign of the times; everything seems to come with a knowing nod and wink. Are we becoming too cute, too knowing and arch for our own good? 

I had an enlightening weekend; catching up on missed episodes of 'Six Feet Under' and watching two films that got the heart pumping again, got me gulping and reaching for the tissues and a good hug. 

My favourite music moves me (you can't beat a sad song) and most of my best loved films are emotionally involving, though not necessarily intellectually taxing; Once Upon a Time in America, Cinema Paradiso etc (it must be the Morricone effect). 

Interestingly, the two films that nailed me these past two nights were both of Japanese origin: 'Departures' and 'Never Let me Go'. Both are concerned with death and survival but are totally bereft of cynicism; maybe there's a cultural integrity to the Japanese (bordering on naiveté) that precludes the dark humour which seems to cast its shadow over much of modern Western cultural life.

'Departures' details the struggles of a young cellist (Daigo played by Masahiro Motoki) whose orchestra is dissolved. Jobless, he returns to his provincial hometown with his young wife and, desperate, takes a job as an undertaker. The Japanese take on this profession is different to ours; Daigo is to become a kind of 'gatekeeper' who publicly prepares the deceased for the hereafter in the presence of their grieving families. At first he is embarrassed by the taboos of this new profession, indeed keeps it a secret from his wife; but the grace and precision that is brought to bear by his employer and mentor gradually engulfs him; the precise rigours of the ritual eventually become him and, by learning to deal with death, Daigo regains control of his own life. This could all become pat and mawkish but it's dealt with skillfully by director Yojiro Takita and screenwriter Kundo Koyama and subtly performed by the brilliant cast; the music tugs too but never cloyingly; the cello's voice is a sublime affirmation of life's ultimate journey.

I mentioned 'Six Feet Under' because the subject matter is similar; for me the success of 'Six Feet Under'  comes from the flashes of humanity and empathy that strike as bolts from the blue against the black comedy; the vulnerabilities of the quirky (and often unsympathetic) characters make you root for them all the more. With 'Departures' there is a quiet dignity and calm control, a veneer that occasionally cracks, and what is revealed is profoundly moving and involving; we are all inevitably exposed by grief; tenderness and care are required but not always given genuinely... here there is a reverence extended that makes the protagonists appear as gentle spirits; the physical precision of the "Okuribito" (literally "the person who sees off") and the ceremony's repeated choreography of gesture and touch (all a part of what is ultimately a last dance) make us connect with the departed as much as the living. And this respect for the dead makes us celebrate what it is to be alive.

Kazuo Ishiguro's novel 'Never Let Me Go' needed to be distilled into a screen play and is done so with much integrity and care; the understated performances, the muted palette of the cinematography, the plaintive soundtrack, all contribute to this melancholic meditation on the transience of life. There's not a lot of joy here; the morality of this imagined modern world is as chilling as it is horrific, but at the heart of the story is a love of life and a clinging need to live it well. Carey Mulligan is subtly excellent here, even the normally over egging of a pouting Keira Knightly is reigned in to produce a fine performance. 

To detail the (surprisingly simple) plot would spoil things for those who haven't yet seen the film or read the book. Suffice it to say that 'Never Let Me Go' echoes 'Departures' in it's affirmation of life, the importance of 'healing' and acceptance of death. All of this is done with the keen eye of a foriegn sensibility, which makes us take stock and regard the mundanities of life afresh. 
Both works attest that our complicated lives lead us all to the same place and the sooner that we come terms with that simple truth, the better. Accomplishment is vital, suffering inevitable, but life should be celebrated as a joyful journey. 
Maybe the one word that haunts both of these beautifully controlled pieces is 'atonement'.

What We Did on Our Holidays...

So Christmas is officially over?
I'm a little sad although my liver is quite relieved.
As you can see, it's all left me feeling a little long in the tooth...
We had a great time locally with friends, the usual malarkey...
Before Xmas we took a trip down memory lane with some old mates in Norfolk.
Read all about it here on Di's blog.

I never got around to finishing my 2011 'Best Of' lists... let me briefly tell you that my favourite 3 films were:
True Grit: a gritty remake? Nope, more a first true telling of the novel's dark story. Jeff Bridges is excellent and, as ever, the Coen's add so much stylish detail and character that re-watching is a joy.
Winter's Bone: another adaptation of a novel. If you like your 'Noir' dark, read everything that the fine Daniel Woodrow has written. Jennifer Lawrence breaks your heart as the trailer trash teenager scrapping to keep her family together in the ugly underbelly of the Ozarks; not somewhere you'd want to run out of gas or require dentistry. I first saw Lawrence in 2009's excellent 'The Burning Plain' and she's brilliant here also.
Equally bleak is Anton Corbijn's 'The American'. Again, adapted from a novel (Martin Booth's 'A Very Private Gentleman'), the film got panned for being too slow, but for me the pace only adds to the tension. The whole thing unravels stylishly and is beautifully shot. Gorgeous George (Clooney) is fast becoming one of my favourite actors; who'd've thunk it? I hear that he's making a comedy with the director of 'Sideways'; something to look forward to seeing in 2012, as well as 'The Artist' and 'Hugo', both emotional roller coasters apparently ; watching 'It's a Wonderful Life' reminded me that there's nowt wrong with a bit of big hearted schmaltz.
I've not had time to do much reading this year.
I was riveted by Carol Sklenicka's biography of Raymond Carver and much enjoyed Rick Bass's 'The Sea, The Stars, The Wilderness' & 'The Lives of Rocks'.
However, my two favourite reads of the year were thrillers; Tom Franklin's 'Crooked Letter' (surely destined for a Dennis Lehane type adaptation by Clint Eastwood or Sean Penn) and James Lee Burke's 'The Glass Rainbow'.
I'm about to dip into Charles Portis's 'True Grit' and am bracing myself for the heartache of Ted Hughes's 'Birthday Letters'. But before I do that I need to go and sleep Xmas off....

Merry Christmas: Lovesong: Neil Hannon & Duke Special: 'No Cover Up' & 'Mastermind'

Merry Christmas folks.
I'm sorry that this isn't a seasonal posting and, sorry to be a magpie, but I've got to share this.
I was cruising David Ashley's excellent blog: http://cathedralsofsound.blogspot.com
and came across the following.
It comes from an Irish TV special where Neil Hannon (from The Divine Comedy) and Duke Special slug it out, piano to piano, singing each other's songs.
And what songs!
And... the singing is just beautiful throughout.
This is part 2 out of 4 but you'll be able to source the others once you're YouTubeGlued.
I'm off to the attic to dig out my old tweeds and cravats.
I got there first you see...

The Bliss of Solitude: Anne Sexton & Lovesong: Mercy Street by Peter Gabriel

When I first heard the new Peter Gabriel album 'New Blood' I couldn't warm to it; it didn't seem to improve on the originals so why bother? 
I should have known better really; it's a grower, there's a newfound intensity that focusses Gabriel's... intensity; he takes himself seriously and I love that about him. I particularly like his new version of 'Mercy Street', a song that was inspired by poet Anne Sexton. 
Sexton was troubled, lost, crippled by depression and tried to recognise and shape her history using poetry as therapy. She wrote essentially for herself and found an empathetic audience only after her suicide. 
Her search for relief took her in search of the house where she once lived with her father as a child, 45 Mercy Street. 
She walked the streets but couldn't find the address. 
Her search for identity and 'home' are elements picked up by Gabriel in his beautiful song.
I'm sure that you are familiar with the version off 'So' so I've included the new take from 'New Blood' here: MERCY STREET
It's emotional presence may be better felt after reading Sexton's poem:

45 Mercy Street

In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone, my real dream, I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill searching for a street sign - namely MERCY STREET. Not there. I try the Back Bay. Not there. Not there. And yet I know the number. 45 Mercy Street. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. I know it well. Not there. Where did you go? 45 Mercy Street, with great-grandmother kneeling in her whale-bone corset and praying gently but fiercely to the wash basin, at five A.M. at noon dozing in her wiggy rocker, grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower on her forehead to cover the curl of when she was good and when she was... And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I walk. I walk. I hold matches at street signs for it is dark, as dark as the leathery dead and I have lost my green Ford, my house in the suburbs, two little kids sucked up like pollen by the bee in me and a husband who has wiped off his eyes in order not to see my inside out and I am walking and looking and this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime. Pull the shades down - I don't care! Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? Not there. I open my pocketbook, as women do, and fish swim back and forth between the dollars and the lipstick. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.

I Sleep on Books: The Hare With the Amber Eyes by Edmund de Waal

I was drawn to this by the rave reviews and the fact that I was 'fictioned out' at the time. I had an inkling that it might be dull as dishwater but was intrigued by the netsuke, the artifacts central to the story.  
When Edmund de Waal inherits 264 wood and ivory carvings, the Japanese netsuke enchant him so much that he carries the tactile pieces with him everywhere (in rotation) in his pockets and becomes obsessed with them. He sets out to trace their history and how they came to be in his family.
His wealthy clan turn out to have a remarkable history that is both engaging and, at times, incredibly moving. The family were originally wheat barons from Odessa, who moved to Paris and became patrons of the arts in the pivotal time of The Impressionists. The artists that the family supported eventually turned against them in the anti Semitic climate; their struggle to survive this disloyalty and treachery tells us much about human nature, and human endurance. We see 19th century Europe (and particularly fin-de-siècle Paris) in all of its glory; and get glimpses too of the political ugliness that led towards the two World Wars of the 20th century.
De Waal is a sculpture by trade and he fashions his sentences beautifully, but in a way that only folk with English as a second language seem to do; there's an exotic lyricism that is addictive. It's all strangely compelling, I love the line, "repetition wears things smooth"; an apt summation of the idea that history is written by the victors. Edmund does get up himself a bit, he's very sincere and earnest about everything, but hey, I've been there myself; we do care about the things that we... care about. And Edmund cares about his family and their story; a story that's essentially one of the legacy of inheritance, the responsibilities of family and the potency of the inanimate object; how we can invest them with energies beyond their earthly form and carry them forward with us as emblems and signifiers of who we are, and hope to become.

The exquisitly crafted netsuke are central to this tale of possession and loss. My main criticism of the book when I read it was that there weren't enough pictures of these little knick knacks; I wanted to understand their appeal. This is remedied now as there is an Illustrated version out on Thursday 17th November; the day after my birthday.
I know what I'll be doing with that book token now...
Have a look at Edmund (who's just taken his anorak off) with his netsuke below and then listen to him reading from the book.

Lovesong: 'Falling' by Civil Wars

Civil Wars are a duo from Nashville comprising Joy Williams and John Paul White. 
When I first got their debut 'Barton Hollow' it put me in mind of the impressive (but rather bloodless) Robert Plant/Alison Krauss album 'Raising Sand', though the more I listened the more it insinuated itself as an emotional journey. 
Then I saw the couple on Jools Holland's 'Later' and was knocked sideways by their chemistry. If you're not on their side you might call it affected; if you're with them their tremulous energy is truly affecting and downright sexy.

For a FREE full album download of their second ever gig, Live at Eddie's Attic, go to: http://thecivilwars.com

Here's a video of them performing 'Falling' then watch the three performances from 'Later' including 'Barton Hollow', 'I've Got a Friend' and an amazing version of Michael Jackson's 'Billie Jean'.

Lovesong: Throw Your Arms Around Me by Mark Seymour

Having found out how to copy and post YouTube might be my downfall. I'm bog eyed with it so I'll lay off for a bit after this...
With my recent trawling of Neil Finn I did discover this song.
It's pretty meat and potatoes on the surface, but there's something within the song that transcends; elevates it to something close to classic.
Here is Neil Finns rendition of 'Throw Your Arms Around Me', then listen to the raw, powerful version by the song's writer Hunters & Collectors Mark Seymour who is incidentally brother of Nick Seymour, Crowded House's bassist. 

It's interesting how certain lines can entrance. 

"I will kiss you in four places" is both sexy and resonant...

Lovesong: Video Games by Lana Del Ray

You've probably heard this by now.If not have a look and a listen. Some say it's all a little too manufactured. Maybe so, but it still stops me in my shoes every time I hear "it's you, it's you, it's all for you."

This is great also; although I'm not sure how 'live' it is.

The guitar is almost as beautiful as Lana...

Vulture: Adams; the First Man; Gabriel let down raises an eyebrow while Finn offers love

It's been a pretty barren week; no time for reading so I listened to the new Peter Gabriel album in my car as the engine exploded on the M40. After the high quality of last year's covers album 'Scratch My Back' Gabriel has used the same orchestral template to reinvent some of his best loved songs. Yet every time I hit 'play' I smell burning oil; maybe that's coloured my judgement but I just can't get into 'New Blood'; it's all a bit too sonorous and heavy.
I hope I'll learn to love it but at the moment I prefer the originals.
Ho hum...
I seemed to watch a lot of TV.
Too much I think.
I witnessed the French getting reffed out of the Ritchie McCaw show which was a borderline disgrace, swiftly followed by Man Utd's embarrassing defeat to City (1-6) then the now controversial QPR v Chelsea game.
He's a great defender but I always thought Terry was an unsavoury character.
Not my choice for national icon/captain.
It was all getting a bit ugly; but then I switched to Sky movies...
I re-watched 'Let the Right One In' and then the American remake 'Let Me In' which was surprisingly true to that brilliant original. Both are quite chilling with stone cold captivating performances by the two young leads; don't be put off by the vampire tag; this is fine film making.
On Later with Jools I was smitten by Lianne La Havas.
Have a look at this; a star is born methinks...

The best TV moment of the week by a mile was the Songwriter's Circle series on BBC4.
This one featured Neil Finn (his usual reliable quality) Janis Ian (a surprisingly good guitarist) and one of my favourite writers, Ryan Adams.
I was a big fan of his band Whiskytown and then his excellent solo debut 'Heartbreaker' from which the last two of these three featured songs are taken (although his best album I think might be the double; 'Love is Hell'.
His new album 'Ashes & Fire' sounds great but I'm still looking for the songs.
This one 'Dirty Rain' is pretty good.

You don't need to squint to see the quality of these other two though; both spellbinding performances as you can tell by the look on Mr Finn's face.
We have 'Come Pick Me Up' from Heartbreaker:

and...
'Oh My Sweet Caroline' also from Heartbreaker (so buy Heartbreaker!)

You'll be able to pick up the You Tube links for the rest of the show which is brilliant.
Janis Ian is all nervous ticks and tension, but plays and sings beautifully, while Neil does that Finn thing with consummate grace and skill. It reminded me what a beautiful song 'Distant Sun' is.
On that record does anyone else get shivers when he sings "still so young to travel so far" and "I don't pretend to know what you want, but I offer love..."?

The Bliss of Solitude: Galway Kinnell

Galway Kinnell's early work was fierce, with a bitter beauty that reflected the early 60s when he was an antiwar activist poet and, before that, a field worker for the Congress of Racial Equality. Not only a humanist, his view of the natural world reminds me of Ted Hughes; he looks at nature to better reveal human nature, often revelling in the unpleasant details of this wildlife.
 "I've tried to carry my poetry as far as I could, to dwell on the ugly as fully, as far, and as long, as I could stomach it. Probably more than most poets I have included in my work the unpleasant because I think if you are ever going to find any kind of truth to poetry it has to be based on all of experience rather than on a narrow segment of cheerful events."
Here his young self reads 'The Bear'.
He does not consider himself a 'nature poet' though:
 "I don't recognize the distinction between nature poetry and, what would be the other thing? Human civilization poetry? We are creatures of the earth who build our elaborate cities and beavers are creatures of the earth who build their elaborate lodges and canal operations and dams, just as we do…Poems about other creatures may have political and social implications for us."

As he's aged his work has softened and re-focussed on homely things. Tenderness, beauty and a love of family seem to have rooted him; his writing is less angry, less expansive; more specific and home grown. His children appear in his recent collection from 2007 'Strong is Your Hold', including "Everyone Was in Love" (read here by the poet himself) which recalls the delight of seeing his kids Maud and Fergus transfixed by snakes; they seem as fearless and keen eyed as he once was.
The children intrude themselves into his most private moments: 'After Making Love, We Hear Footsteps'.
With this more meditative stance Kinnell remains ever compassionate and, like Keats long before him, focusses on the transience of things and how their passing impacts on his everyday existence. He recognises the importance of bearing witness and being seen to do so:
"It's the poet's job to figure out what's happening within oneself, to figure out the connection between the self and the world, and to get it down in words that have a certain shape, that have a chance of lasting." 

It's interesting how a writer's defining work is invariably that which is their most direct; often their least ambitious; possibly because All of Us respond to immutable truths; oftentimes all of the wise words have already been spoken and rest between the borders of the saccharine and the sonorous. Just listen to Louis Armstrong's 'Wonderful World' or Mancini's 'Moon River' to wonder at the power of the platitude; I love the inclusivity of "we're after the same rainbow's end, waiting 'round the bend, my huckleberry friend; Moon river and me." even though I don't quite get it (what is a 'huckleberry friend'?) 
The weight and wisdom of words well placed can make us feel connected to something within and beyond ourselves; to a greater society. Poetry's balm might even help us towards humility and understanding; our feelings and failings endorsed when the penny drop moments are articulated well for us; they connect us to the ground and to each other. Although more than ever it's a dog eat world I hope that we have moved beyond 'survival of the fittest'; it's not the strengths that bind us; it's the weaknesses; we recognise our vulnerabilities in others and love them for it. 
Mmm, I need to step down from the pulpit and get back on topic: words and music as epitaphs...
It wouldn't be hard to imagine 'Promissory Note' as the world's favourite eulogy. 
There is a heartbreaking urgency to these simple words, written for Galway Kinnell's wife Bobbie:

Promissory Note

If I die before you
which is all but certain
then in the moment
before you will see me
become someone dead
in a transformation
as quick as a shooting star’s
I will cross over into you
and ask you to carry
not only your own memories
but mine too until you
too lie down and erase us
both together into oblivion.

Lovesong: Gavin Bryars: 'Jesus' Love Never Failed Me Yet'

Sometimes 'ugly' can break your heart. 
When I play this Di ducks under the quilt (every cloud...) so it's a bit of a 'marmite moment' I guess.
There are many 'takes' available but I've included an 'easy' version with strings and an alternative, lengthy but worthwhile version with Tom Waits singingalong...
I couldn't describe the genesis of this 'song' better than its creator Gavin Bryars (or maybe he's better described here as an 'archivist'), so he's quoted extensively below: 


"In 1971, when I lived in London, I was working with a friend, Alan Power, on a film about people living rough in the area around Elephant and Castle and Waterloo Station. In the course of being filmed, some people broke into drunken song - sometimes bits of opera, sometimes sentimental ballads - and one, who in fact did not drink, sang a religious song "Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet". This was not ultimately used in the film and I was given all the unused sections of tape, including this one. When I played it at home, I found that his singing was in tune with my piano, and I improvised a simple accompaniment. I noticed, too, that the first section of the song - 13 bars in length - formed an effective loop which repeated in a slightly unpredictable way. I took the tape loop to Leicester, where I was working in the Fine Art Department, and copied the loop onto a continuous reel of tape, thinking about perhaps adding an orchestrated accompaniment to this. The door of the recording room opened on to one of the large painting studios and I left the tape copying, with the door open, while I went to have a cup of coffee. When I came back I found the normally lively room unnaturally subdued. People were moving about much more slowly than usual and a few were sitting alone, quietly weeping. I was puzzled until I realised that the tape was still playing and that they had been overcome by the old man's singing. This convinced me of the emotional power of the music and of the possibilities offered by adding a simple, though gradually evolving, orchestral accompaniment that respected the tramp's nobility and simple faith. Although he died before he could hear what I had done with his singing, the piece remains as an eloquent, but understated testimony to his spirit and optimism."

The Bliss of Solitude: Mohammad Ali

The shortest poem in the english language is attributed to the boxing legend Mohammad Ali. 
At the height of his career he gave a speech at Harvard and was asked to recite one of his now famous poems. 
No "float like butterfly/sting like a bee" was offered; what he came up with was to become the subject of much debate. 
Was it: "Me, we."?
If so it could be seen as a kind of 'I am You', 'All of Us' inclusive statement; a recognition that his own popularity crossed all cultural and religious barriers and connected people, enabling folk to discuss what was previously unspeakable.
If it was "Me? Oui!", then that is as succinct and articulate an endorsement of ego as you could get (and boy what an ego.) 
I was in awe of Ali as a kid; he brought beauty, grace and humour to a brutal sport. I had a book on sports photography and remember that the centre spread was a full scale shot of the man's right hand. I'd sit and stare at that huge mitt for hours, wondering what it would be like to be clouted by the mammoth fist.  As well as one of the boxing greats (if not 'The Greatest'), Ali was a cultural icon who challenged and changed many lazy and ingrained prejudices. His questioning of the American presence in Vietnam ("I ain't got no quarrel with the Vietcong. No Vietcong ever called me Nigger") and his conversion to Islam opened a dialogue on subjects that might have remained impenetrable or taboo.
There's been so much written and spoken about Ali, but I think that two of the finest recognitions of his presence and power are Norman Mailer's 'The Fight' and 'When We were Kings" a documentary, both are candid observations of the infamous 'Rumble in the Jungle' when, towards the end of a career in decline he fought and beat the strong favourite, George Foreman in Zaire in 1974. It's also got some great footage of musicians (James Brown and BB King in particular) who played a musical festival in support of the fight.  
Why not have a look at the man in action and decide for yourself.
What a man.
What a fighter.
The Greatest? 
For me, oui!

The Bliss of Solitude: Carol Ann Duffy

Words, Wide Night 

Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you

and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.

Carol Anne Duffy is our poet laureate whose words are direct and easily read. She believes that poetry is a unique way of relating to the world and "the place in language where we are most human". 
For her the reader must invest as much in a poem as the writer and as such that poetry is akin to prayer. 
"I like to use simple words but in a complicated way" she says, and that she does:

Talent

This is the word tightrope. Now imagine
a man, inching across it in the space
between our thoughts. He holds our breath.

There is no word net.

You want him to fall, don't you?
I guessed as much; he teeters but succeeds.
The word applause is written all over him.

Drams


Barley, water, peat
weather, landscape, history
malted, swallowed neat.


I like that last one almost as much as I like whisky. 
It made me want to like her; that and the fact that this is one of favourite poems:


There was a young man from Australia
Who painted his arse like a dahlia
Tuppence a smell
Went down very well
But thruppence a lick was a failure

Vulture: England Teams; Laughing Stock; Cooder's Lazy Slide Saves the Day

My TV did well to survive the weekend; I like my sport but was underwhelmed by two English teams that underperformed so woefully; the lackluster footy featured Rooney the Looney, and then (after a spirited and skillful display by the laudable Welsh and Irish) Johnny and the boys managed a damp squib against a French team that my old school's netball team could have walloped. I predict (and hope for) a NZ v Wales final with the All Blacks shading it in a low scoring match. The Welsh might have a better chance if someone finally notices McCaw and his boys offending at the breakdowns. 
I needed calming so, after being alerted by the excellent blog 'Cathedrals of Sound' to a piece celebrating the 20th anniversary of its release, I spent sunday morning in recovery listening to Talk Talk's 'Spirit of Eden' and 'Laughing Stock', two beautiful albums that seem to have dipped below the cultural radar. 

When asked to explain the latter's lack of success Tim Friesse-Greene the producer said that it was "just too beautiful'. He's not wrong. Singer Mark Hollis opined “the silence is above everything, and I would rather hear one note than I would two, and I would rather hear silence than I would one note” which might explain why he's seemingly disappeared into the ether. Before he departed Hollis always maintained that 'Laughing Stock' had to be listened to as a piece. so in deference to Mark I'm not going to put a track up. Just go to amazon here and buy both 'Spirit of Eden' and the sublime 'Laughing Stock'. Sadly you'll probably only have to pay a quid or two...
After all that ambience I needed grounding so I turned to (and turned up) a recent purchase, an excellent anthology of Ry Cooder's music 'The UFO Has Landed'. 

Have a look at this version of 'How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live"from "Ry Cooder & The Moula Banda Rhythm Aces: Let's Have A Ball", a film by Les Blank taped at The Catalyst, Santa Cruz, CA on March 25'th 1987.
Now I'm off into the garden to practice my drop kicking (apples and a fence); my country needs me...

I Sleep on Books: Fugitive Pieces

“Love makes you see a place differently, just as you hold differently an object that belongs to someone you love. If you know one landscape well, you will look at all other landscapes differently. And if you learn to love one place, sometimes you can also learn to love another."

Harrowing and hopeful, Fugitive Pieces by Canadian poet Anne Michaels is an extraordinary novel. It deals with the past and how we carry our histories forward with us as we go, toting the trauma of loss and acknowledging the redemptive power of hope and love. 
Jakob Beer has survived the Nazi murder of his parents in a Polish ghetto. Even in the midst of that horror, hope and faith endure:
"A camp inmate looked up at the stars and suddenly remembered that they’d once seemed beautiful to him. This memory of beauty was accompanied by a bizarre stab of gratitude. When I first read this I couldn’t imagine it. But later I felt I understood. Sometimes the body experiences a revelation because it has abandoned every other possibility."
Jakob's existence becomes that of an immigrant, a fugitive whose life is so fragmented that he can never really find himself 'home'. He is resilient and recovers, endures, prospers even and in later life meets Ben, an academic with whom he shares an obsession of the Holocaust.  The two protagonists drive the narrative with glimpses of memory, and the recognition of the need for recall and recognition in order to bare witness: "Memory dies unless it’s given a use... if one no longer has land but has the memory of land, then one can make a map." These memories are both real and metaphorical, often obliquely presented; lending the piece a languorous ambience that often leaves you feeling a little woozy at the abstractness of it all, only for you then to be re-rooted and grounded by focussed references, particularly to the permanence of nature:   

“Trees for example, carry the memory of rainfall. In their rings we read ancient weather - storms, sunlight and temperatures, the growing seasons of centuries. A forest shares a history which each tree remembers even after it has been felled.”
The idea that history is written by the victorious is tempered by the morality of truth and the responsibilities involved in keeping that flame of truth alive:
"History is amoral: events occurred. But memory is moral; what we consciously remember is what our conscience remembers."

There's the opaqueness of poetry; the narrative isn't linear, for "time is a blind guide", this history is presented as a tangle of wires, so you need to pay attention. Fueled by the understanding that selflessness and forgiveness are vital for survival and personal development (“I see that I must give what I most need”), this is, at times, a tortuous journey, a history of struggle that is tempered by enough joy that the abiding impression is one of redemption. 
“Any given moment-no matter how casual, how ordinary-is poised, full of gaping life.”  
This study of sorrow and solace is beautiful, beguiling, often challenging; the weight of its words and their story can be a burden, but there's a blessing to that burden; 'Fugitive Pieces' is a book that I'd willingly carry with me daily and have done so for over fifteen years. I'm not sure that it's my favourite novel but, tellingly, I often instinctively tell people that it is.

Lovesong: James Vincent McMorrow and Bon Iver

There seems to be a voguish propensity amongst songwriters to retreat to a log cabin in the woods, or a house halfway up a mountain (guilty) to write and record their masterwork in monastic isolation. Dubliner James Vincent McMorrow (left) found a small beach house on the Irish coast to produce 'Early in the Morning'.
There's a lightness in his voice that brings Bon Iver to mind, the vocals are often multi tracked, reinforcing that feel of 'For Emma Forever Ago', although an occasional flighty vocal inflection suggests Jeff Buckley and a pop sensibility that is shared by the likes of Tom Baxter and the quieter moments of Duncan Sheik. There are hooks aplenty but they don't slap you around the face; they sneak up behind you and whisper in your ear; it's an album for having on rotation; excellent as concentrated listening but great also as background to soundtrack your early mornings. There are highs and lows which mean that 'Early in the Morning' doesn't have the same hypnotic ambience of Mr Iver's bleak yet redemptive masterpiece; McMorrow's lyrics here are more specific, less obscure.
'Early in the Morning' is full of dawning optimism, whereas 'For Emma' seems more sanguine, regretful even.  Listening to 'If I had a Boat', McMorrow seems keen to venture out whilst Iver is happy cosseted in his hut in the northwoods of Wisconsin; he's not after reinvention or revelation; for him it's comfort and protection that are important. As he sings in 'Re:Stacks', "This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization. It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away. Your love will be safe with me"
While both albums share core elements of wistful tenderness and regret at love lost, McMorrow looks hopefully out of his beach hut through clean windows; Bon Iver's windows are muddy and misted; he seems quite happy to leave them that way...

Vulture: John Grant and Tara Pakay; a good night in...

For this ongoing section I'll be detailing stuff that's stroked my hair or rattled my cage during the week; it seems that sunday is the end of the week so... sorry, 'Vulture' is the best title I could come up with this alcohol fueled Sunday eve for detailing my cultural week.

It's been uncommonly hot (hottest October weekend on record) and I've been outside; playing tennis (tournament doubles winner) and then playing tag with six year olds (work), so I've been neglecting the 'arty' life.
Rattled: I hate to be parochial but I despair of the way that the scrum is refereed by southern hemisphere rugby officials (Kaplan esp); one for the whites, one for the blacks; bonkers. Scrummaging is one of the most defining elements of the game; it's well known that the 'Tri Nations' see it as but a restart and want to redefine the rules as such, but while they are in the book the rules should be respected; they're not for interpreting. Bah....
Stroked: Meanwhile... I'm loving the new album by Amos Lee: 'Mission Bell'. It's produced by the boys from Calexico and is fantastic driving music. Listen to 'El Camino' here.

I watched 'Songwriter Circle 2' on BBC4 and was knocked sideways by John Grant singing 'Where Dreams Go to Die'. He was in lofty company; Allen Toussaint (who sang a brilliant version of 'Southern Nights') and James Dean Whatever, the singer from the Manic Street Screechers (sorry, not a fan). Watching Toussaint's face whilst Grant sang about Signourny Weaver and aliens was worth the price of admission... I'm sure that it will be on iPlayer or whatever it's called; have a look. Also, I know it's no revelation as it was lauded last year, but if you don't have Grant's 'Queen of Denmark' album, buy it. He is backed by the brilliant band Midlake, as I believe he will be on his next release. If you like him I'd also check out everything that he did with his previous band The Czars. I particularly like their album of covers: 'Sorry I made you Cry'.

Finally, I got to see (and loved) 'The Kids are Alright' directed by Lisa Cholodenko. Fine acting by a quirky cast; Julianne Moore/Annette Bening/Mark Ruffolo and the budding Mia Wasikowska (first seen with Gabriel Byrne in 'In Treatment') as Joni, named by her lesbian parents after the singer of their favourite Mitchell album 'Blue'. It's not about plot (don't look) it's about connection and character. I liked the Mexican gardener and Di and I now have a new line courtesy of Ruffolo: "Shut the Front Door".

In a lean week I also drank the best bottle of red ever, surpassing D'Arrenberg's 'Dead Arm'. It was a present from a good friend St. John (I bet no one else has a friend named St. John). If you need spoiling, just google 'Tara Pakay 2007' and put aside a few quid (£31) to savour this spectacular red (St. John's loaded). To accompany, I roasted some beetroot, quartered, in tin foil with thyme, red onion, red chilli, garlic, good olive oil, salt and pepper and served it up with some good goats cheese. Life's good...