Sure, maybe the title of this piece should've been something simpler, rather than a Silver Jews lyric that, almost typically for the band, manages to straddle the divide between amazing and tortured. But, seeing as how they regrettably broke up at the start of this year, it seems fitting. David Berman's explanation for the decision, and what appears to be his retirement from music - "I always said we would stop before we got bad. If I continue to record I might accidentally write the answer song to Shiny Happy People" - was typically fantastic. The band will be missed.
Anyway, since my laptop completely fucked it late this summer, actually writing anything has become a bit of a nightmare (as has listening to music in general - more on that in a later post). But now that I'm back home for Christmas, with nothing to do but listen to things/watch things and then write about them, it seems as good a time as any to get back on the horse (or do whatever the title of his piece implies, I don't know). So I'm currently working on listening to as many 2009 albums as possible, in preparation for an eventual list; possibly compiling a list of my favourite albums of the decade; and maybe doing the same for films, I don't know yet (I haven't seen that many this year - although the ones I have seen have often been excellent). In the meantime, I'm going to look ahead towards next year (and not just because a new, working computer is in my future):
A decent place to start would be here: Stereogum's list of sixty-nine albums worth looking out for in 2010. On this evidence, it looks set to be a good year. Some of those acts have already started previewing new songs ahead of the release of their latest efforts. Vampire Weekend currently have three tracks from their second album Contra up on their MySpace page, offering a glimpse of what we can expect - which is "pretty much the same as last time," albeit with a few added bells and whistles (almost literally, in fact). That shouldn't be a problem, though - Vampire Weekend remains an excellent album, and I'm staying positive that the lessons they should have learnt since then puts them in a position to improve upon it.
A new Liars album is also in the offing, and they're always worth checking out. The first song is available free from their website (or listen to it here). Once again, it marks a drastic shift from their last release, but at this point that's what we've come to expect from them. At this point, they probably don't get enough credit for pushing the boundaries of alternative music (Animal Collective are too busy soaking up all the plaudits).
Meanwhile, another promising upcoming release is the James Mercer/Danger Mouse collaboration. Going by the name of Broken Bells, they've put their first song out into the wide world (or worldwide web, if you prefer). "The High Road" might not be much to go on, but hopes remain high, considering the talent the two men possess.
In other words: plenty to be excited about. On a different note: Deerhunter are offering a free download of experimental 2005 home recording Carve Your Initials Into the Walls of the Night; inexplicably, Death Cab guitarist (and producer) Chris Walla teamed up with hardcore legend (and producer) J. Robbins to create "Mercury"; a shoutout to my favourite discovery of the year with regards to online comics, Hark! A Vagrant, which crafts its humour from historical figures/events, often juxtaposing them with modern day sensibilities (take Lord Byron macking on Mary Shelley, or Kierkegaard concerned with his public image); a new Channel 4 comedy starring Arrested Development alumni David Cross and Will Arnett; and a couple of end-of-decade A.V. Club lists, the best books and videogames of the the '00s. I've only read two of those books myself - The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (which I disliked, despite the praise everyone poured upon it) and Carter Beats The Devil (which I would wholeheartedly recommend to everyone).
Wednesday 23 December 2009
Sunday 23 August 2009
Why? "Eskimo Snow"
Three plays in, and I can't shake the feeling that Yoni Wolf and co. have blown their unbeaten streak of fantastic records...
I don't say such a thing lightly. After all, I consider Elephant Eyelash and Alopecia to be two of the best albums released this decade. Yet Eskimo Snow has caught me off guard in pretty much every sense. I've been a little out of touch lately, and didn't even realise there was a new Why? album due until a few days ago. What they've offered is something very different to that which preceded it - it actually seems appropriate to tag Eskimo Snow with the word "mature," as though they've consciously decided to shake off any last vestiges of the hip hop stylings that are tied into the origin of the band, in favour of a sound that has more in common with the alt folk movement. Which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, but what they've offered is strangely flat.
Things start off promisingly enough. "These Hands" is a good opener, brief and understated with some fantastic lines (such as "these hands/are my father's hands but smaller") that highlight the subtle emotional depth that Yoni Wolf injects his songs with. Further proof of this is "This Blackest Purse," with Wolf asking "mom, am I failing or worse?" (another example of a seeming obsession with parents. There are others, too) before trailing off, clearly unconvinced that the answer is going to be to his liking. It's the strongest track on the album, bristling with a sadness that slowly transforms into desperation, scaling the heights (and depth) of the beautiful "Gemini (Birthday Song)". And "Into The Shadows Of My Embrace" is an excellent ditty (and yes, that really is the best word to describe it, at least as far as the fantastic intro is concerned) that serves as a necessary mood-lightener.
"One Rose" references both "A Sky for Shoeing Horses Under" and "The Kill Tone Two" (an Odd Nosdam track Wolf provides vocals for), which is a nice touch, in that it adds a sense of continuity to Wolf's oeuvre. But it also suggests that perhaps Eskimo Snow would have worked better as a companion to Alopeica, rather than as a standalone album. They did the same thing in 2005, to great effect - the Sanddollars EP was released a few months prior to Elephant Eyelash, and is arguably the stronger work. Most of Eskimo Snow manages to pass the listener by, which is the last thing you would expect from such a distinctive, inventive band. "January Twenty Something" starts off promisingly, but as it develops the percussion washes over everything else, and what remains is relatively bland. "Against Me" leaves no particular impression in its wake, and "Even The Good Wood Gone" makes it three similar-sounding and unsuccessful songs in a row, a passage that kills any momentum the album could ever hope to gain. Things do pick up in the second half - "On Rose Walk, Insomniac" and "Berkeley by Hearseback" are both more than passable - but not enough to raise the album to the level of its predecessors.
The lifelessness that pervades much of the album is a real surprise. Why? are never usually anything less than interesting, yet much of Eskimo Snow seems somewhat insipid. Maybe it's a grower (I'm clinging to the hope that this is the case). But initially, it sounds like something of a misfire. And from a musical standpoint, one of the biggest disappointments of the year.
I don't say such a thing lightly. After all, I consider Elephant Eyelash and Alopecia to be two of the best albums released this decade. Yet Eskimo Snow has caught me off guard in pretty much every sense. I've been a little out of touch lately, and didn't even realise there was a new Why? album due until a few days ago. What they've offered is something very different to that which preceded it - it actually seems appropriate to tag Eskimo Snow with the word "mature," as though they've consciously decided to shake off any last vestiges of the hip hop stylings that are tied into the origin of the band, in favour of a sound that has more in common with the alt folk movement. Which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, but what they've offered is strangely flat.
Things start off promisingly enough. "These Hands" is a good opener, brief and understated with some fantastic lines (such as "these hands/are my father's hands but smaller") that highlight the subtle emotional depth that Yoni Wolf injects his songs with. Further proof of this is "This Blackest Purse," with Wolf asking "mom, am I failing or worse?" (another example of a seeming obsession with parents. There are others, too) before trailing off, clearly unconvinced that the answer is going to be to his liking. It's the strongest track on the album, bristling with a sadness that slowly transforms into desperation, scaling the heights (and depth) of the beautiful "Gemini (Birthday Song)". And "Into The Shadows Of My Embrace" is an excellent ditty (and yes, that really is the best word to describe it, at least as far as the fantastic intro is concerned) that serves as a necessary mood-lightener.
"One Rose" references both "A Sky for Shoeing Horses Under" and "The Kill Tone Two" (an Odd Nosdam track Wolf provides vocals for), which is a nice touch, in that it adds a sense of continuity to Wolf's oeuvre. But it also suggests that perhaps Eskimo Snow would have worked better as a companion to Alopeica, rather than as a standalone album. They did the same thing in 2005, to great effect - the Sanddollars EP was released a few months prior to Elephant Eyelash, and is arguably the stronger work. Most of Eskimo Snow manages to pass the listener by, which is the last thing you would expect from such a distinctive, inventive band. "January Twenty Something" starts off promisingly, but as it develops the percussion washes over everything else, and what remains is relatively bland. "Against Me" leaves no particular impression in its wake, and "Even The Good Wood Gone" makes it three similar-sounding and unsuccessful songs in a row, a passage that kills any momentum the album could ever hope to gain. Things do pick up in the second half - "On Rose Walk, Insomniac" and "Berkeley by Hearseback" are both more than passable - but not enough to raise the album to the level of its predecessors.
The lifelessness that pervades much of the album is a real surprise. Why? are never usually anything less than interesting, yet much of Eskimo Snow seems somewhat insipid. Maybe it's a grower (I'm clinging to the hope that this is the case). But initially, it sounds like something of a misfire. And from a musical standpoint, one of the biggest disappointments of the year.
Saturday 22 August 2009
Brendan Benson "My Old, Familiar Friend"
Brendan Benson's debut album One Mississippi was something of a revelation, a heady mixture of infectious pop songs and balladry that worked perfectly. He followed it up with Lapalco, which was solid, but lacked the inventiveness of his first. By The Alternative to Love - best described as "ponderous" - any remaining magic seemed to have disappeared, and as a consequence I almost entirely ignored his high-profile venture with Jack White (The Raconteurs). Yet whilst his fourth solo album offers definite reasons to be positive again, it also feels like further proof that he's content to stick to the middle of the road.
"A Whole Lot Better" starts proceedings off in a musically upbeat manner, with the song detailing the narrator's inability to decide whether or not the girl in his life is good for him - he keeps falling in and out of love with her, and cannot make up his mind one way or another (a wonderful breakdown sums up the dilemma perfectly). It has the kind of energy that powers nearly all of Benson's best tunes, and such is certainly the case on this album. The clear standout track "Poised and Ready" is fantastic straight-up rock, catchy as hell and fit to soundtrack any indie disco where the kids just want to dance. It also kicks off the best sequence on the album - it's followed by a couple of songs in a similar vein, "Don't Wanna Talk" and "Misery." Elsewhere, the slow build of "Feel Like Taking You Home" works perfectly, offering a balance between drive and restraint that the album benefits from; and the kitchen-sink-esque quality that runs through "Garbage Day" lifts it above most of Benson's ballads.
However, the "other" side of Benson's work is also on evidence here. "Eyes On The Horizon" is an uninspired, classic rock by-the-numbers effort; "Gonowhere" is a plodding track that, appropriately, goes nowhere, and "You Make A Fool Out Of Me" is pretty much identical to it. Songs like these serve to highlight the problem with Benson's output. About half of his songs can be filed under power-pop, and half under easy listening, and that kind of constant switching between the two vastly different genres comes across as somewhat schizoprehnic, and the gap between the highs and the lows is positively chasmic.
It is this level of inconsistency that makes My Old, Familiar Friend so difficult to recommend. When it is good, it genuinely is very good, but when it's bad, it ranges from mediocre to painfully dull, and ultimately, not really worth your time. It's only right to hold true to the belief that albums are intended to be heard as a whole, and the number of skippable tracks this one contains seriously damages its worth.
"A Whole Lot Better" starts proceedings off in a musically upbeat manner, with the song detailing the narrator's inability to decide whether or not the girl in his life is good for him - he keeps falling in and out of love with her, and cannot make up his mind one way or another (a wonderful breakdown sums up the dilemma perfectly). It has the kind of energy that powers nearly all of Benson's best tunes, and such is certainly the case on this album. The clear standout track "Poised and Ready" is fantastic straight-up rock, catchy as hell and fit to soundtrack any indie disco where the kids just want to dance. It also kicks off the best sequence on the album - it's followed by a couple of songs in a similar vein, "Don't Wanna Talk" and "Misery." Elsewhere, the slow build of "Feel Like Taking You Home" works perfectly, offering a balance between drive and restraint that the album benefits from; and the kitchen-sink-esque quality that runs through "Garbage Day" lifts it above most of Benson's ballads.
However, the "other" side of Benson's work is also on evidence here. "Eyes On The Horizon" is an uninspired, classic rock by-the-numbers effort; "Gonowhere" is a plodding track that, appropriately, goes nowhere, and "You Make A Fool Out Of Me" is pretty much identical to it. Songs like these serve to highlight the problem with Benson's output. About half of his songs can be filed under power-pop, and half under easy listening, and that kind of constant switching between the two vastly different genres comes across as somewhat schizoprehnic, and the gap between the highs and the lows is positively chasmic.
It is this level of inconsistency that makes My Old, Familiar Friend so difficult to recommend. When it is good, it genuinely is very good, but when it's bad, it ranges from mediocre to painfully dull, and ultimately, not really worth your time. It's only right to hold true to the belief that albums are intended to be heard as a whole, and the number of skippable tracks this one contains seriously damages its worth.
Monday 17 August 2009
Moon
In the not-too-distant future, Sam Bell (played by Sam Rockwell) is the sole operator of a moon-based facility that mines Helium 3 - an alternative power source - so that it can be utilised to cater for the vast energy needs of Earth. He's coming to the end of his three-year contract with Lunar Industries, and can't wait to get home to see his wife and daughter. The opening scenes are beautifully paced, as much an exploration of human loneliness as an entry into the science fiction genre, as Sam goes about his daily routine, which reveals the isolation he is forced to endure as part of his job. Not only is he alone on the station, but the lines of communication that would enable live conversation with people back home have never worked, meaning that he's limited to the recorded broadcasts sent to him. And his only companion is Gerty, a talking computer voiced by Kevin Spacey.
The similarities between Duncan Jones's directorial debut and 2001: A Space Odyssey are more than just superficial, but Moon cleverly plays upon the expectations Kubrick's masterpiece have raised - about a third of the way in, there is a significant twist that takes the film down an entirely different route. Of course, the problem with films that employ this kind of narrative shift is that they're difficult to talk about without ruining for anyone who hasn't already seen them. Moon is no different - the first twist is just the beginning, as the truth unfolds slowly, one reveal after another, until the true nature of Sam's contract is revealed.
Whilst it might be difficult to discuss the plot without giving anything away, it certainly isn't difficult to recommend the film. Sam Rockwell's performance is magnificent. Tasked with carrying proceedings almost single-handedly (Spacey's role is minimal, although full credit to him for getting the tone of Gerty spot-on), he excels, giving further evidence of the reasons he's spoken of so highly. Well worth a viewing.
The similarities between Duncan Jones's directorial debut and 2001: A Space Odyssey are more than just superficial, but Moon cleverly plays upon the expectations Kubrick's masterpiece have raised - about a third of the way in, there is a significant twist that takes the film down an entirely different route. Of course, the problem with films that employ this kind of narrative shift is that they're difficult to talk about without ruining for anyone who hasn't already seen them. Moon is no different - the first twist is just the beginning, as the truth unfolds slowly, one reveal after another, until the true nature of Sam's contract is revealed.
Whilst it might be difficult to discuss the plot without giving anything away, it certainly isn't difficult to recommend the film. Sam Rockwell's performance is magnificent. Tasked with carrying proceedings almost single-handedly (Spacey's role is minimal, although full credit to him for getting the tone of Gerty spot-on), he excels, giving further evidence of the reasons he's spoken of so highly. Well worth a viewing.
Modest Mouse "No One's First and You're Next"
Modest Mouse's 2007 release, We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank, cemented the band as a mainstream concern, in that it reached #1 in the US Billboard chart - something which would have been inconceivable for the band at the start of the century. Even third album The Moon & Antarctica - tamer than the efforts that preceded it - was still abrasive enough to dissuade most people. That said, the transformation the band have undergone makes perfect sense in the context of their entire oeuvre - it feels like a natural progression, rather than the result of a band actively striving to make more commercially viable music. But whichever way you look at it, it's hard not to argue that the results of this change have been much less interesting than their earlier output.
No One's First and You're Next exists in order to bring together unreleased tracks and B-sides recorded over the last five years or so. As would be expected from such a release, there are songs that can be described as throwaway: "Perpetual Motion Machine" and "History Sticks To Your Feet" are easily dismissed as inconsequential. "King Rat," meanwhile, simultaneously calls to mind "Dance Hall" and "Bukowski," although you wouldn't want it taking the place of either.
That's not to say that all the songs are misfires, though. It's interesting to try and find spaces for the better material of this collection on the last Modest Mouse album - of the stand-out tracks, opener "Satellite Skin" follows the template laid out by singles "Float On" and "Dashboard," whilst not quite matching their heights; "Autumn Beds" is a laid back, banjo-driven tune with a fantastic melody that should have taken the place of the similar but vastly inferior "Little Motels"; meanwhile, the epic/rambling squall of "The Whale Song" is much more interesting than "Parting of the Sensory" or "Spitting Venom." What these songs illustrate is that the band could have offered a much better album than We Were Dead (which trails off spectacularly after a strong four-song opening salvo). It's not that they didn't have the songs - they simply chose the wrong ones. Even "Guilty Cocker Spaniels" and "I've Got It All (Most)" are decent enough to have improved We Were Dead significantly.
Ultimately, then, No One's First and You're Next proves to be more interesting than their last full album, although it remains to be seen which direction the band will choose to move in come their next release. After all, this is essentially a deck-clearing exercise - hopefully, its release constitutes the band drawing this chapter of their history to a close, and moving onto to something a little different.
No One's First and You're Next exists in order to bring together unreleased tracks and B-sides recorded over the last five years or so. As would be expected from such a release, there are songs that can be described as throwaway: "Perpetual Motion Machine" and "History Sticks To Your Feet" are easily dismissed as inconsequential. "King Rat," meanwhile, simultaneously calls to mind "Dance Hall" and "Bukowski," although you wouldn't want it taking the place of either.
That's not to say that all the songs are misfires, though. It's interesting to try and find spaces for the better material of this collection on the last Modest Mouse album - of the stand-out tracks, opener "Satellite Skin" follows the template laid out by singles "Float On" and "Dashboard," whilst not quite matching their heights; "Autumn Beds" is a laid back, banjo-driven tune with a fantastic melody that should have taken the place of the similar but vastly inferior "Little Motels"; meanwhile, the epic/rambling squall of "The Whale Song" is much more interesting than "Parting of the Sensory" or "Spitting Venom." What these songs illustrate is that the band could have offered a much better album than We Were Dead (which trails off spectacularly after a strong four-song opening salvo). It's not that they didn't have the songs - they simply chose the wrong ones. Even "Guilty Cocker Spaniels" and "I've Got It All (Most)" are decent enough to have improved We Were Dead significantly.
Ultimately, then, No One's First and You're Next proves to be more interesting than their last full album, although it remains to be seen which direction the band will choose to move in come their next release. After all, this is essentially a deck-clearing exercise - hopefully, its release constitutes the band drawing this chapter of their history to a close, and moving onto to something a little different.
Monday 15 June 2009
Upcoming...
So, this last week kind of got away from me. Mostly, the (hopefully temporary) return of my insomnia has been my undoing - it's very difficult to compose decent sentences when you're barely getting any sleep at all. Then, there was the usual weekend revelry (including an incredibly impressive performance on my part at the launch of the Manchester Metropolitan University Art & Design degree show - so much free wine, that led to all manner of questionable behaviour afterwards, and a fair amount of memory loss) acting as a further distraction. Which is why my last entry was over a week ago. Which I'm not thrilled about - I really did want this to be a regular thing. Which is why I've decided to outline what I expect to be posting in the following days - as much as a reminder to myself, as to anyone who might be reading this.
Firstly, I'll be continuing The 69 Love Songs Project. I haven't decided on songs six through ten yet, but I have plenty of candidates in mind, Pasty Cline's "Crazy," Elton John's "Your Song," Nilsson's "Without You," Roy Orbison's "Crying" and Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl" amongst them. As those songs would suggest, the next instalment will be more about acknowledged classics of the genre.
I'll probably be offering a review of Milan Kundera's Life Is Elsewhere at some point in the near future; I've barely picked it up this week, due to my aforementioned difficulties/distractions, but I'm sure I'll get it finished presently. I hope so - I'm not reading anywhere near as much as I'd like to be. And considering that we're planning on setting up a library in our new house...after that, I think Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities may well be my next port of call - I'm really trying to take this 'English Literature Student' thing to new extremes, with the loose aim being to have read as many classics by this time next year.
And at some point, a trip to the cinema to see Looking For Eric needs to happen...any film centred around Eric Cantona is certainly going to get me out of the house. Hopefully, it'll live up to its promise/premise.
Firstly, I'll be continuing The 69 Love Songs Project. I haven't decided on songs six through ten yet, but I have plenty of candidates in mind, Pasty Cline's "Crazy," Elton John's "Your Song," Nilsson's "Without You," Roy Orbison's "Crying" and Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl" amongst them. As those songs would suggest, the next instalment will be more about acknowledged classics of the genre.
I'll probably be offering a review of Milan Kundera's Life Is Elsewhere at some point in the near future; I've barely picked it up this week, due to my aforementioned difficulties/distractions, but I'm sure I'll get it finished presently. I hope so - I'm not reading anywhere near as much as I'd like to be. And considering that we're planning on setting up a library in our new house...after that, I think Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities may well be my next port of call - I'm really trying to take this 'English Literature Student' thing to new extremes, with the loose aim being to have read as many classics by this time next year.
And at some point, a trip to the cinema to see Looking For Eric needs to happen...any film centred around Eric Cantona is certainly going to get me out of the house. Hopefully, it'll live up to its promise/premise.
Friday 12 June 2009
The 69 Love Songs Project part one
...of an occasional series that exists entirely to allow me to talk about some of my favourite songs.
I've become totally infatuated with The Magnetic Fields's "69 Love Songs" as of late, at the exact same time my interest in music has waned a little (I go through these phases from time to time; I hate to be one of those people claiming that "there's just not that much new music that interests me at the moment," but...). But anyway, the variety of songs "69 Love Songs" offers is proof that Stephin Merritt is one of the most talented voices in modern music, and the album offers more with every listen. It would be one thing to admire the ambition and scope such a project entails, but that it is so successful musically is really something to behold.
The very nature of the album has gotten me to thinking of the importance of love as a theme in songwriting. In fact, I wrote an essay on lost love for one of my degree courses (American Popular Song), using Jimmy Ruffin's "What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted" and The Louvin Brothers "When I Stop Dreaming" as examples. The conclusion I drew was an obvious one - that love can leave its mark in many ways, but in the aftermath it often leaves the afflicted wishing they'd never found it in the first place.
This fits in nicely with "69 Love Songs," which isn't exclusively positive exploration of love. There's plenty of heartbreak - the various narrator's speak of needing a new heart to replace a broken one; of bitter tears and love in the shadows. "Yeah! Oh, Yeah!" sees a girl asking "are you out of love with me?" to a guy who responds emphatically with the words of the title. The tone is often downbeat, which makes the work all the more honest - love is many things, but it'd be ridiculous to ignore the negative sides of it.
These considerations have led me to one question - what would my own personal sixty-nine favourite love songs be? Well, that's what I intend to find out - at present, it's not like I have a list already drawn up, even though some of the songs that will appear are a given. So I'm not presenting them in any kind of order or ranking, instead simply writing about them as they stand out to me as deserving inclusion on this list. Today, it's a handful of alternative rock staples, but in future installments I'll definitely be broadening my scope.
1. Neutral Milk Hotel "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea"
Where to start with what I consider to be the greatest album of all time? (to such an extent that I don't really consider there to be any room for debate.) I've never felt as emotionally connected to any piece of art - the number of lines that floor me every single time is staggering. I used to play these songs through my head whilst working my crappy supermarket job, and they not only got me through the day, but they got to me even then - I'd have to disguise my state as best as possible whilst feeling overwhelmingly affected by the beauty of Jeff Mangum's work. In particular, the lines "as we would lay and learn what each other's bodies were for," from opening song "King Of Carrot Flowers pt. One," and "in my dreams you're alive and you're crying," from closing song "Two-Headed Boy Pt. Two," never fail to evoke a reaction. To me, that's exactly what music should be capable of.
However, it's the title track that really gets to the hopeless romantic in me. From the opening line - "what a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling all round the sun" - there is a sense of joy that prevails throughout, as though Mangum has found the perfect girl, and not only wants to express how happy he is to have done so, but to justify the weight of his feelings by drawing parallels between love and the wonder of creation. By the end of the song, Mangum is marvelling at "how strange it is to be anything at all," a remarkable line that takes the song right back to its beginnings, highlighting the transformative power of love. At no point is he kidding himself - he knows that one day it will come to an end, that "one day we will die/and our ashes will fly/from the aeroplane over the sea," but that doesn't matter, because in the here and now, everything is perfect.
2. The Postal Service "Such Great Heights"
One of those bands that came to me at exactly the right time in my life. Already a devoted fan of Death Cab For Cutie, I'd read a couple of (mixed) reviews about a new Ben Gibbard side project, without particularly feeling like it was essential to my life. I only bought it because I stumbled across it in the HMV that used to live in Manchester Piccadilly train station, and only then because I had the exact amount of money in my pocket to purchase it with. I didn't get the chance to listen to it for a few hours, so I read through the lyrics (not something I do too often, because for the most part, song lyrics are only successful as song lyrics). And to be honest, there didn't appear to that much substance to them. Of course, having listened to the album a few times, all I felt was a sense of love towards it. Sure, it isn't perfect, but there's enough good about it to mean that it has still retained its importance to me to this day.
I'll readily admit that the lyrics of "Such Great Heights" are somewhat trite, in a way that would undoubtedly annoy the hell out of me if I didn't like the music. But this is Gibbard at his most gloriously uplifting - how can you not get swept up in a love story where the narrator speculates "that God himself did make us into corresponding shapes/like puzzle pieces from the clay"? Gibbard doesn't really belive the sentiment as such - acknowledging that it "may seem like a stretch" - but that isn't the point - it's the thought that counts. It isn't a complicated song, but it is another fantastic example of the transformative power of love - which has literally lifted the protagonists of the song to the "great heights" of the title - and another example of two people finding perfection in the faces of one another.
3. Pavement "Major Leagues"
Not known for being a straightforward lyricist - and often choosing to be actively disingenuous - Stephen Malkmus does have moments of openness that stand out a mile from the rest of his oeuvre. "Here," from first album "Slanted and Enchanted," is a good example - the opening lines "I was dressed for success/but success it never comes" carry with them an air of absolute failure that manifests itself as self-pity; the plaintive desire of "Range Life" - "if I could settle down/then I would settle down" - comes across as a genuine yearning for an easier life; and in "Shady Lane," when he declares that "I'm an island of such great complexity," you get the sense that he's speaking on a personal level.
"Major Leagues," however, stands out as the clearest statement of sentiment in the Pavement catalogue - at one point, Malkmus even goes so far as to sing "cater to my walls and see if they fall/don't leave me," trying to bury "don't leave me" under the weight of the preceding line in an effort to disguise the desperation those three words contain, but not quite succeeding. When the song first begins, it sounds like a love song, but the dismissive nature of the second line ("relationships, hey, hey, hey," delivered as though they're the least interesting subject in the world) shakes that false sense of security, creating a new state whereby you expect Malkmus's usual lyrical evasiveness. But he can't keep it up, going on to remark of his lover that "you kiss like a rock/but you know I need it anyway," and in the process displaying weakness for everyone to see. "Major Leagues" certainly doesn't detail a conventional love, but it captures perfectly the neediness that is always partially associated with the feeling.
4. The Shins "New Slang"
When considering The Shins for this list, it occurred to me that, as far as "Oh, Inverted World" is concerned, the lyrical content has always been something of a mystery to me. So reading through the booklet, I was delighted to realise that "New Slang" is indeed a song about love - of love lost, more precisely. It's honest and open in the same way "Major Leagues" is - it contains the exact same sense of longing for companionship - but whereas Malkmus is seemingly clinging on to something that he isn't entirely satisfied with, in "New Slang" James Mercer is yearning for the past. The song begins by detailing the naivety involved with the initial stages of becoming intimate with someone new, the line "I was happier then with no mindset," capturing the sense of easy contentment that soon gives way to a process of overthinking everything, a process that is often the death of any burgeoning relationship.
That's exactly what the rest of the song details, and it sees Mercer in a particularly somber mood. He makes the mistake so many of us make, motivated by the same feelings that drive us towards it, revealing that he "never should have called/but my heads to the wall and I'm lonely," knowing that it was the wrong thing to do from the start but going through with it anyway, because it somehow feels right. Ths song makes it clear that whatever he felt for the girl, she didn't share, Mercer singing "if you'd 'a took to me like/a gull takes to the wind," with the key word obviously being 'if.' 'If' she had of done, "the rest of (their) lives would'a fared well." But because she didn't, Mercer is riddled with self-doubt, his feelings of hopelessness best expressed in the line "I'm looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find." He details the feelings associated with the aftermath of any love affair brilliantly, coming across as a man who has completely given up, who sees no future for himself outside of the relationship that he has lost.
5. The Mountain Goats "No Children"
A song I'm completely obsessed with at the moment, even though that can't be seen as a good thing when you consider its lyrical content, with the lines "I hope you die/I hope we both die" being the payoff to each verse of gradually escalating rancour. Has anyone ever captured love gone sour so bitterly as John Darnielle in this song? The narrator hates his ex-wife ("I hope I lie/and tell everyone you were a good wife), his friends (whom he hopes "give up on trying to save us," and if they don't it doesn't matter, because he'll "come up with a fail-safe plot/to piss off the dumb few that forgave us"), and even himself (not only hoping for his own death, but declaring that "I hope I never stay sober"). He's positively embraced the collapse of his marriage - which the title implies has ended because of irreconcilable differences over the issue of children - which may simply be a coping mechanism, or may indeed be the celebration the song sometimes suggests. Either way, when singing "I hope it stays dark forever/I hope the worst isn't over," you believe him.
I've become totally infatuated with The Magnetic Fields's "69 Love Songs" as of late, at the exact same time my interest in music has waned a little (I go through these phases from time to time; I hate to be one of those people claiming that "there's just not that much new music that interests me at the moment," but...). But anyway, the variety of songs "69 Love Songs" offers is proof that Stephin Merritt is one of the most talented voices in modern music, and the album offers more with every listen. It would be one thing to admire the ambition and scope such a project entails, but that it is so successful musically is really something to behold.
The very nature of the album has gotten me to thinking of the importance of love as a theme in songwriting. In fact, I wrote an essay on lost love for one of my degree courses (American Popular Song), using Jimmy Ruffin's "What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted" and The Louvin Brothers "When I Stop Dreaming" as examples. The conclusion I drew was an obvious one - that love can leave its mark in many ways, but in the aftermath it often leaves the afflicted wishing they'd never found it in the first place.
This fits in nicely with "69 Love Songs," which isn't exclusively positive exploration of love. There's plenty of heartbreak - the various narrator's speak of needing a new heart to replace a broken one; of bitter tears and love in the shadows. "Yeah! Oh, Yeah!" sees a girl asking "are you out of love with me?" to a guy who responds emphatically with the words of the title. The tone is often downbeat, which makes the work all the more honest - love is many things, but it'd be ridiculous to ignore the negative sides of it.
These considerations have led me to one question - what would my own personal sixty-nine favourite love songs be? Well, that's what I intend to find out - at present, it's not like I have a list already drawn up, even though some of the songs that will appear are a given. So I'm not presenting them in any kind of order or ranking, instead simply writing about them as they stand out to me as deserving inclusion on this list. Today, it's a handful of alternative rock staples, but in future installments I'll definitely be broadening my scope.
1. Neutral Milk Hotel "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea"
Where to start with what I consider to be the greatest album of all time? (to such an extent that I don't really consider there to be any room for debate.) I've never felt as emotionally connected to any piece of art - the number of lines that floor me every single time is staggering. I used to play these songs through my head whilst working my crappy supermarket job, and they not only got me through the day, but they got to me even then - I'd have to disguise my state as best as possible whilst feeling overwhelmingly affected by the beauty of Jeff Mangum's work. In particular, the lines "as we would lay and learn what each other's bodies were for," from opening song "King Of Carrot Flowers pt. One," and "in my dreams you're alive and you're crying," from closing song "Two-Headed Boy Pt. Two," never fail to evoke a reaction. To me, that's exactly what music should be capable of.
However, it's the title track that really gets to the hopeless romantic in me. From the opening line - "what a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling all round the sun" - there is a sense of joy that prevails throughout, as though Mangum has found the perfect girl, and not only wants to express how happy he is to have done so, but to justify the weight of his feelings by drawing parallels between love and the wonder of creation. By the end of the song, Mangum is marvelling at "how strange it is to be anything at all," a remarkable line that takes the song right back to its beginnings, highlighting the transformative power of love. At no point is he kidding himself - he knows that one day it will come to an end, that "one day we will die/and our ashes will fly/from the aeroplane over the sea," but that doesn't matter, because in the here and now, everything is perfect.
2. The Postal Service "Such Great Heights"
One of those bands that came to me at exactly the right time in my life. Already a devoted fan of Death Cab For Cutie, I'd read a couple of (mixed) reviews about a new Ben Gibbard side project, without particularly feeling like it was essential to my life. I only bought it because I stumbled across it in the HMV that used to live in Manchester Piccadilly train station, and only then because I had the exact amount of money in my pocket to purchase it with. I didn't get the chance to listen to it for a few hours, so I read through the lyrics (not something I do too often, because for the most part, song lyrics are only successful as song lyrics). And to be honest, there didn't appear to that much substance to them. Of course, having listened to the album a few times, all I felt was a sense of love towards it. Sure, it isn't perfect, but there's enough good about it to mean that it has still retained its importance to me to this day.
I'll readily admit that the lyrics of "Such Great Heights" are somewhat trite, in a way that would undoubtedly annoy the hell out of me if I didn't like the music. But this is Gibbard at his most gloriously uplifting - how can you not get swept up in a love story where the narrator speculates "that God himself did make us into corresponding shapes/like puzzle pieces from the clay"? Gibbard doesn't really belive the sentiment as such - acknowledging that it "may seem like a stretch" - but that isn't the point - it's the thought that counts. It isn't a complicated song, but it is another fantastic example of the transformative power of love - which has literally lifted the protagonists of the song to the "great heights" of the title - and another example of two people finding perfection in the faces of one another.
3. Pavement "Major Leagues"
Not known for being a straightforward lyricist - and often choosing to be actively disingenuous - Stephen Malkmus does have moments of openness that stand out a mile from the rest of his oeuvre. "Here," from first album "Slanted and Enchanted," is a good example - the opening lines "I was dressed for success/but success it never comes" carry with them an air of absolute failure that manifests itself as self-pity; the plaintive desire of "Range Life" - "if I could settle down/then I would settle down" - comes across as a genuine yearning for an easier life; and in "Shady Lane," when he declares that "I'm an island of such great complexity," you get the sense that he's speaking on a personal level.
"Major Leagues," however, stands out as the clearest statement of sentiment in the Pavement catalogue - at one point, Malkmus even goes so far as to sing "cater to my walls and see if they fall/don't leave me," trying to bury "don't leave me" under the weight of the preceding line in an effort to disguise the desperation those three words contain, but not quite succeeding. When the song first begins, it sounds like a love song, but the dismissive nature of the second line ("relationships, hey, hey, hey," delivered as though they're the least interesting subject in the world) shakes that false sense of security, creating a new state whereby you expect Malkmus's usual lyrical evasiveness. But he can't keep it up, going on to remark of his lover that "you kiss like a rock/but you know I need it anyway," and in the process displaying weakness for everyone to see. "Major Leagues" certainly doesn't detail a conventional love, but it captures perfectly the neediness that is always partially associated with the feeling.
4. The Shins "New Slang"
When considering The Shins for this list, it occurred to me that, as far as "Oh, Inverted World" is concerned, the lyrical content has always been something of a mystery to me. So reading through the booklet, I was delighted to realise that "New Slang" is indeed a song about love - of love lost, more precisely. It's honest and open in the same way "Major Leagues" is - it contains the exact same sense of longing for companionship - but whereas Malkmus is seemingly clinging on to something that he isn't entirely satisfied with, in "New Slang" James Mercer is yearning for the past. The song begins by detailing the naivety involved with the initial stages of becoming intimate with someone new, the line "I was happier then with no mindset," capturing the sense of easy contentment that soon gives way to a process of overthinking everything, a process that is often the death of any burgeoning relationship.
That's exactly what the rest of the song details, and it sees Mercer in a particularly somber mood. He makes the mistake so many of us make, motivated by the same feelings that drive us towards it, revealing that he "never should have called/but my heads to the wall and I'm lonely," knowing that it was the wrong thing to do from the start but going through with it anyway, because it somehow feels right. Ths song makes it clear that whatever he felt for the girl, she didn't share, Mercer singing "if you'd 'a took to me like/a gull takes to the wind," with the key word obviously being 'if.' 'If' she had of done, "the rest of (their) lives would'a fared well." But because she didn't, Mercer is riddled with self-doubt, his feelings of hopelessness best expressed in the line "I'm looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find." He details the feelings associated with the aftermath of any love affair brilliantly, coming across as a man who has completely given up, who sees no future for himself outside of the relationship that he has lost.
5. The Mountain Goats "No Children"
A song I'm completely obsessed with at the moment, even though that can't be seen as a good thing when you consider its lyrical content, with the lines "I hope you die/I hope we both die" being the payoff to each verse of gradually escalating rancour. Has anyone ever captured love gone sour so bitterly as John Darnielle in this song? The narrator hates his ex-wife ("I hope I lie/and tell everyone you were a good wife), his friends (whom he hopes "give up on trying to save us," and if they don't it doesn't matter, because he'll "come up with a fail-safe plot/to piss off the dumb few that forgave us"), and even himself (not only hoping for his own death, but declaring that "I hope I never stay sober"). He's positively embraced the collapse of his marriage - which the title implies has ended because of irreconcilable differences over the issue of children - which may simply be a coping mechanism, or may indeed be the celebration the song sometimes suggests. Either way, when singing "I hope it stays dark forever/I hope the worst isn't over," you believe him.
Monday 8 June 2009
Batman and Robin #1
"This is it. Batman and Robin. Together again for the first time"
It's always a good idea to periodically shake things up with a legacy character, even if such changes often come across as shock tactics. Under the banner heading of 'Batman: Reborn,' DC Comics's big initiative this summer is the repositioning of the Batman universe. With Bruce Wayne "dead" (because actually he's not dead, simply trapped in the past, and he'll return to the present at some point, certainly in time fot the next movie), the three-issue mini-series Battle for the Cowl (which I didn't read, because I'm not THAT interested) explored the fallout from his absence, whilst also setting up Dick Grayson - the original Robin - as the new Batman. Which is the obvious choice, but not necessarily the right one. In a recent episode of The Big Bang Theory ('The Hofstadter Isotope'), a comicbook store owner named Stewart argues that the role should have gone to Jason Todd - the second Robin, who was killed in the line of duty, and brought back from the dead a few years ago - rather than Grayson, who as Nightwing has been a hero in his own right for many years. Todd, on the other hand, has flailed between good and bad ever since his resurrection; had he been the new Batman, we could have been treated to his redemption arc. Instead, the aforementioned Battle for the Cowl set him up as a villain again. Ho hum.
So when wandering into Travelling Man, and realising that the first issue of Batman and Robin was out, I tried to resist buying it. But when you see the names 'Grant Morrison' and 'Frank Quitely' on the front cover of a comicbook book, that's easier said than done, even though Morrison's recent run on Batman wasn't received all that well. It's tempting to say that people didn't get it - which, given the complex nature of his plotting, is at least a partial truth - but, to be honest, it wasn't consistently fantastic. Perhaps his greatest success was the introduction of Bruce Wayne's "evil" son, Damian, a character whom Morrison seems particularly fond of, and who has taken over the role of Robin. His rebellious nature is in full effect throughout this issue - he'd really rather have taken over the role of Batman himself, despite his youth, and tells Grayson that "you can have my respect if you earn it, that's all I'm saying," adding "you're not my father" by way of an insult that is likely to become one of the central themes - the first issue spends time dealing with Grayson's insecurities at having to take over from his mentor and friend, whilst he also attempts to have some fun with the role, as befits Grayson's personality.
As with any first issue, all it really does is set the scene, but Morrison has done so extremely well. The dynamic between Grayson, Damian and Alfred already feels firmly established, and should prove to be a highlight of the book. It reads as a breath of fresh air, a needed change that hopefully DC will persist with for a couple of years - a period of time which would make Wayne's eventual return seem all the more significant. Meanwhile, Quitely's artwork is at its best, full of his usual expressive detail, and a real sense of fun, not least in the couple of splash pages he's given (and who wouldn't enjoy themselves drawing a flying Batmobile?). He perfectly compliments the weirdness that is always to be found in Morrison's writing, infusing the final scene - the introduction of new villain Pyg - with the necessary horror to convey exactly why we're supposed to view him as a threat to be reckoned with. The two belong together - as their definitve work together on New X-Men and All-Star Superman has already proven, and contained within this issue is enough promise to suggest that readers should be preparing themselves for another instant classic. Here's hoping they live up to that.
It's always a good idea to periodically shake things up with a legacy character, even if such changes often come across as shock tactics. Under the banner heading of 'Batman: Reborn,' DC Comics's big initiative this summer is the repositioning of the Batman universe. With Bruce Wayne "dead" (because actually he's not dead, simply trapped in the past, and he'll return to the present at some point, certainly in time fot the next movie), the three-issue mini-series Battle for the Cowl (which I didn't read, because I'm not THAT interested) explored the fallout from his absence, whilst also setting up Dick Grayson - the original Robin - as the new Batman. Which is the obvious choice, but not necessarily the right one. In a recent episode of The Big Bang Theory ('The Hofstadter Isotope'), a comicbook store owner named Stewart argues that the role should have gone to Jason Todd - the second Robin, who was killed in the line of duty, and brought back from the dead a few years ago - rather than Grayson, who as Nightwing has been a hero in his own right for many years. Todd, on the other hand, has flailed between good and bad ever since his resurrection; had he been the new Batman, we could have been treated to his redemption arc. Instead, the aforementioned Battle for the Cowl set him up as a villain again. Ho hum.
So when wandering into Travelling Man, and realising that the first issue of Batman and Robin was out, I tried to resist buying it. But when you see the names 'Grant Morrison' and 'Frank Quitely' on the front cover of a comicbook book, that's easier said than done, even though Morrison's recent run on Batman wasn't received all that well. It's tempting to say that people didn't get it - which, given the complex nature of his plotting, is at least a partial truth - but, to be honest, it wasn't consistently fantastic. Perhaps his greatest success was the introduction of Bruce Wayne's "evil" son, Damian, a character whom Morrison seems particularly fond of, and who has taken over the role of Robin. His rebellious nature is in full effect throughout this issue - he'd really rather have taken over the role of Batman himself, despite his youth, and tells Grayson that "you can have my respect if you earn it, that's all I'm saying," adding "you're not my father" by way of an insult that is likely to become one of the central themes - the first issue spends time dealing with Grayson's insecurities at having to take over from his mentor and friend, whilst he also attempts to have some fun with the role, as befits Grayson's personality.
As with any first issue, all it really does is set the scene, but Morrison has done so extremely well. The dynamic between Grayson, Damian and Alfred already feels firmly established, and should prove to be a highlight of the book. It reads as a breath of fresh air, a needed change that hopefully DC will persist with for a couple of years - a period of time which would make Wayne's eventual return seem all the more significant. Meanwhile, Quitely's artwork is at its best, full of his usual expressive detail, and a real sense of fun, not least in the couple of splash pages he's given (and who wouldn't enjoy themselves drawing a flying Batmobile?). He perfectly compliments the weirdness that is always to be found in Morrison's writing, infusing the final scene - the introduction of new villain Pyg - with the necessary horror to convey exactly why we're supposed to view him as a threat to be reckoned with. The two belong together - as their definitve work together on New X-Men and All-Star Superman has already proven, and contained within this issue is enough promise to suggest that readers should be preparing themselves for another instant classic. Here's hoping they live up to that.
Friday 5 June 2009
Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons
"Of course, you cannot understand me: we belong to two different generations"
It is expected that each new generation will challenge the ideas and the ideals of the generation they succeed - it is, in theory, how society evolves. Ivan Turgenev used Fathers and Sons as a means of exploring generational differences, which proved to be a great source of controversy when the novel was first published in 1862 - it read as an attack on the traditional values of contemporary Russian society. Which it almost certainly was, but its importance has persevered because the theme never grows old - Turgenev offers a timeless message, suggesting that it is the natural function of society to aspire towards progression, and that such a thing requires change inspired by new ways of thinking.
The character who dominates the novel, Yevgeny Vassilyich Bazarov, certainly fits into that template. Proclaiming himself a nihilist, he casts his shadow over proceedings, offering his anti-philosophies at regular intervals, and by his very nature represents challenge, announcing this fact when stating that "in these days the most useful thing we can do is repudiate - and so we repudiate." This 'question everything' mentality is the central theme of the narrative, and whilst his brusque exterior can be extremely trying at times, there is an undoubted intelligence behind each of his proclamations. Bazarov is of the opinion that "all men are similar, in soul as well as in body," an overwhelmingly negative mindset that cuts to the heart of his nihilism - if you can't believe in human beings and their individuality, why believe in anything?
Arkady Petrovich is his friend and disciple, a man so taken with Bazarov that he mimics him as best as he is able, whilst not quite able to take the principles of nihilism fully to heart, leading to various faux pas on his part that make him appear to be something of a simpleton. Trust Bazarov to best summarise Arkady when telling him "you're a soft-hearted mawkish individual...you're timid, you've no confidence in yourself." The pair spend the duration of Fathers and Sons together, and their relationship could almost be described as familial, were there anything of the paternal about Bazarov. Arkady looks up to Bazarov, who responds to such devotion in the dismissive manner with which he treats everything he encounters.
Bazarov's opinionated nature extends to Arkady's father, Nikolai Petrovich, whom he describes as "a good man, but he's old-fashioned, he's had his day." Which is typically blunt, but not particularly unfair. After all, Nikolai is something of a nostalgist, which is indicative of the backwards-looking nature that younger generations typically rally against. At the same time, though, he is desperate to cling on to some semblance of his youth, in order that he might remain close to Arkady - and that he wants to be a friend as much of a father is somewhat troubling in itself - and to this end, he has taken up with a young girl named Fenichka, as though her youth and her innocence might rub off on him. Yet we care about him all the same, because his affection towards his son is genuinely touching, as is his exasperation upon realising how much his son has changed.
"Why should we talk of love?"
The novel takes an interesting diversion from these issues during the middle section, presenting a Midsummer Night's Dream-esque sequence of romantic attachments badly in need of correction by a Puck figure: Madame Anna Odinstov manages to capture the heart of both Bazarov and Arkady; Arkady would be better served investing his feelings in Katya, Anna's younger sister, who clearly carries a torch for him; and Anna feels nothing for Arkady but is clearly drawn to Bazarov. Away from the realms of Shakespearean fantasy, it is unsurprising that this passage doesn't provide an entirely happy ending, but it does have some fantastic exchanges between Anna and Bazarov who, despite his best efforts, cannot help but fall for her, declaring with a passion bordering on obsession "that I love you idiotically, madly." We soften to him a little at this point, because we see the humanity that lies beneath the exterior self he projects - he is clearly not immune to the power of love, and becomes more relatable for exactly those reasons. Later, he reveals to Fenichka the weight of his loneliness: "if only I could find someone to take pity on me." At this point, it becomes obvious that the self-confidence he seems to exude is at least partially a facade. But then when we see his interactions with his family, our attitude shifts again - he comes across very badly, meeting their delight at seeing him for the first time in three years with his trademark condescension, in the process appearing to be a man without sentiment, especially when dismissing them on the grounds that he has nothing much to say to them.
"Aristocratism, liberalism, progress, principles - think of it, what a lot of foreign and useless words! To a Russian they're not worth a straw"
Turgenev had an axe to grind with the Russian ruling classes - and indeed anyone in a position of authority - and uses parts of the novel to do so, finding humour in the ridiculous contradictions and hypocrisy inherent within the system. Consequently, a governor is described as "a man who, as is often the case in Russia, was at once progressive and despotic;" a superintendent of the Provincial Treasury, meanwhile, coins the phrase "every wee busy bee takes a wee bribe from every wee flower" as a quaint way of justifying his corruption. It's moments like these that give credence to Bazarov's declaration that "we should not accept any species of authority."
Despite the message contained within the text, it never really feels like you're being lectured to, which is always a danger. Turgenev puts his point across by crafting characters who are both complex and believable, and creating an engaging narrative, meaning that the point of the novel is taken on board without any risk of the reader resenting its insistence. The ending stays true to that which preceded it, and is touched with a sense of melancholy even though the plots resolve themselves in the expected manner. For Arkady, there is contentment to be found in his acceptance that he isn't a nihilist after all; he is much more cut in the mould of his father. For Bazarov, there is the only fate a man of his nature could possibly expect. The character stands out as one of the greatest literary creations of the nineteenth century, a man whose presence illuminates every page he appears on.
It is expected that each new generation will challenge the ideas and the ideals of the generation they succeed - it is, in theory, how society evolves. Ivan Turgenev used Fathers and Sons as a means of exploring generational differences, which proved to be a great source of controversy when the novel was first published in 1862 - it read as an attack on the traditional values of contemporary Russian society. Which it almost certainly was, but its importance has persevered because the theme never grows old - Turgenev offers a timeless message, suggesting that it is the natural function of society to aspire towards progression, and that such a thing requires change inspired by new ways of thinking.
The character who dominates the novel, Yevgeny Vassilyich Bazarov, certainly fits into that template. Proclaiming himself a nihilist, he casts his shadow over proceedings, offering his anti-philosophies at regular intervals, and by his very nature represents challenge, announcing this fact when stating that "in these days the most useful thing we can do is repudiate - and so we repudiate." This 'question everything' mentality is the central theme of the narrative, and whilst his brusque exterior can be extremely trying at times, there is an undoubted intelligence behind each of his proclamations. Bazarov is of the opinion that "all men are similar, in soul as well as in body," an overwhelmingly negative mindset that cuts to the heart of his nihilism - if you can't believe in human beings and their individuality, why believe in anything?
Arkady Petrovich is his friend and disciple, a man so taken with Bazarov that he mimics him as best as he is able, whilst not quite able to take the principles of nihilism fully to heart, leading to various faux pas on his part that make him appear to be something of a simpleton. Trust Bazarov to best summarise Arkady when telling him "you're a soft-hearted mawkish individual...you're timid, you've no confidence in yourself." The pair spend the duration of Fathers and Sons together, and their relationship could almost be described as familial, were there anything of the paternal about Bazarov. Arkady looks up to Bazarov, who responds to such devotion in the dismissive manner with which he treats everything he encounters.
Bazarov's opinionated nature extends to Arkady's father, Nikolai Petrovich, whom he describes as "a good man, but he's old-fashioned, he's had his day." Which is typically blunt, but not particularly unfair. After all, Nikolai is something of a nostalgist, which is indicative of the backwards-looking nature that younger generations typically rally against. At the same time, though, he is desperate to cling on to some semblance of his youth, in order that he might remain close to Arkady - and that he wants to be a friend as much of a father is somewhat troubling in itself - and to this end, he has taken up with a young girl named Fenichka, as though her youth and her innocence might rub off on him. Yet we care about him all the same, because his affection towards his son is genuinely touching, as is his exasperation upon realising how much his son has changed.
"Why should we talk of love?"
The novel takes an interesting diversion from these issues during the middle section, presenting a Midsummer Night's Dream-esque sequence of romantic attachments badly in need of correction by a Puck figure: Madame Anna Odinstov manages to capture the heart of both Bazarov and Arkady; Arkady would be better served investing his feelings in Katya, Anna's younger sister, who clearly carries a torch for him; and Anna feels nothing for Arkady but is clearly drawn to Bazarov. Away from the realms of Shakespearean fantasy, it is unsurprising that this passage doesn't provide an entirely happy ending, but it does have some fantastic exchanges between Anna and Bazarov who, despite his best efforts, cannot help but fall for her, declaring with a passion bordering on obsession "that I love you idiotically, madly." We soften to him a little at this point, because we see the humanity that lies beneath the exterior self he projects - he is clearly not immune to the power of love, and becomes more relatable for exactly those reasons. Later, he reveals to Fenichka the weight of his loneliness: "if only I could find someone to take pity on me." At this point, it becomes obvious that the self-confidence he seems to exude is at least partially a facade. But then when we see his interactions with his family, our attitude shifts again - he comes across very badly, meeting their delight at seeing him for the first time in three years with his trademark condescension, in the process appearing to be a man without sentiment, especially when dismissing them on the grounds that he has nothing much to say to them.
"Aristocratism, liberalism, progress, principles - think of it, what a lot of foreign and useless words! To a Russian they're not worth a straw"
Turgenev had an axe to grind with the Russian ruling classes - and indeed anyone in a position of authority - and uses parts of the novel to do so, finding humour in the ridiculous contradictions and hypocrisy inherent within the system. Consequently, a governor is described as "a man who, as is often the case in Russia, was at once progressive and despotic;" a superintendent of the Provincial Treasury, meanwhile, coins the phrase "every wee busy bee takes a wee bribe from every wee flower" as a quaint way of justifying his corruption. It's moments like these that give credence to Bazarov's declaration that "we should not accept any species of authority."
Despite the message contained within the text, it never really feels like you're being lectured to, which is always a danger. Turgenev puts his point across by crafting characters who are both complex and believable, and creating an engaging narrative, meaning that the point of the novel is taken on board without any risk of the reader resenting its insistence. The ending stays true to that which preceded it, and is touched with a sense of melancholy even though the plots resolve themselves in the expected manner. For Arkady, there is contentment to be found in his acceptance that he isn't a nihilist after all; he is much more cut in the mould of his father. For Bazarov, there is the only fate a man of his nature could possibly expect. The character stands out as one of the greatest literary creations of the nineteenth century, a man whose presence illuminates every page he appears on.
Wednesday 3 June 2009
The Walking Dead #51-61
After the massive drama - and upheaval - of the previous story arc, the pace has (mostly) slowed down a bit, spending time concentrating on the human interactions that have always been the strong point of The Walking Dead. To my mind, the title has suffered when writer Robert Kirkman has been in 'event' mode - I'll always argue that the Governor was a poor choice of character to bring into the story, being too much of a comicbook villain to have any place in the believable world that he has created. So the way these last ten issues have unfolded has been particularly satisfying, with the focus squarely on the quieter character moments which have earned the book such a dedicated following.
Having drastically reduced the number of living cast members, issues #51-53 are spent regrouping those who are still alive, whilst also introducing a handful of new characters. Of these, Sergeant Abraham Ford is of the greatest interest, with Kirkman having developed him into one of the more compelling figures. Initially coming across as as a generic no-nonsense tough guy, the last handful of issues have displayed him in a different light. The ending of #57 shows him at his weakest, and most human, leading into his explanation of the events that hardened him so comprehensively in #58, at the same time highlighting the parallels between Abraham and Rick, making it obvious that the previous tension between the two was down to their similar natures. Both are leaders, willing to do whatever they need to do in order to survive and to protect those they care about - no matter how extreme their actions may appear. As Rick puts it, "we do terrible things for the ones we love."
Of the other new characters, Doctor Eugene Porter and Rosita Espinosa haven't been given a great deal to do, yet still have enough about them to suggest that they'll be good additions. Father Gabriel Stokes debuted in #61, and his chosen vocation should play interestingly within this world - what place does religion have in the Walking Dead landscape? And we're reintroduced to Morgan, who finally looks set to become a permanent fixture. He hasn't fared too well in the aftermath of his son being turned - his mental state is clearly fragile, and not everyone is happy to have him around.
Mental fragility has become a recurring theme throughout the book - there are several characters who seem to be on the verge of cracking up, creating a sense of uncertainty that is affecting relations between the characters. 'Fearless reader' Rick hasn't escaped from such a criticism - between his telephone conversations with his dead wife Lori and his own self-doubt as to whether or not he was responsible for her death, his suitability to lead the group has been called into question, by himself and by several others. Dale in particular is turning against him, asking "how often does he put us in danger? It seems like it's happening more and more often," which isn't quite as unreasonable as it may seem - under his leadership, they have endured a great deal of tragedy; perhaps poor decision-making on Rick's part has been a factor. Rick's interactions with his son have also changed - he is frequently lecturing Carl on the full horror of their situation; hardening the boy to an extent that becomes painfully apparent during #61.
Ultimately, the title has gone back to what it does best, focussing on the characters rather than on any particular drama. The tension is ever-present anyway, which means it isn't necessary to ramp it up with artificial plot developments. The solicitations for the upcoming story arc have me a little worried - images of soldier-types hunting the group seem a little close to what we've already seen before. That being said, these last ten issues have really given the book a greater sense of purpose - they have a goal now, and I look forward to seeing the obstacles they have to face in order to achieve it.
Having drastically reduced the number of living cast members, issues #51-53 are spent regrouping those who are still alive, whilst also introducing a handful of new characters. Of these, Sergeant Abraham Ford is of the greatest interest, with Kirkman having developed him into one of the more compelling figures. Initially coming across as as a generic no-nonsense tough guy, the last handful of issues have displayed him in a different light. The ending of #57 shows him at his weakest, and most human, leading into his explanation of the events that hardened him so comprehensively in #58, at the same time highlighting the parallels between Abraham and Rick, making it obvious that the previous tension between the two was down to their similar natures. Both are leaders, willing to do whatever they need to do in order to survive and to protect those they care about - no matter how extreme their actions may appear. As Rick puts it, "we do terrible things for the ones we love."
Of the other new characters, Doctor Eugene Porter and Rosita Espinosa haven't been given a great deal to do, yet still have enough about them to suggest that they'll be good additions. Father Gabriel Stokes debuted in #61, and his chosen vocation should play interestingly within this world - what place does religion have in the Walking Dead landscape? And we're reintroduced to Morgan, who finally looks set to become a permanent fixture. He hasn't fared too well in the aftermath of his son being turned - his mental state is clearly fragile, and not everyone is happy to have him around.
Mental fragility has become a recurring theme throughout the book - there are several characters who seem to be on the verge of cracking up, creating a sense of uncertainty that is affecting relations between the characters. 'Fearless reader' Rick hasn't escaped from such a criticism - between his telephone conversations with his dead wife Lori and his own self-doubt as to whether or not he was responsible for her death, his suitability to lead the group has been called into question, by himself and by several others. Dale in particular is turning against him, asking "how often does he put us in danger? It seems like it's happening more and more often," which isn't quite as unreasonable as it may seem - under his leadership, they have endured a great deal of tragedy; perhaps poor decision-making on Rick's part has been a factor. Rick's interactions with his son have also changed - he is frequently lecturing Carl on the full horror of their situation; hardening the boy to an extent that becomes painfully apparent during #61.
Ultimately, the title has gone back to what it does best, focussing on the characters rather than on any particular drama. The tension is ever-present anyway, which means it isn't necessary to ramp it up with artificial plot developments. The solicitations for the upcoming story arc have me a little worried - images of soldier-types hunting the group seem a little close to what we've already seen before. That being said, these last ten issues have really given the book a greater sense of purpose - they have a goal now, and I look forward to seeing the obstacles they have to face in order to achieve it.
Sunday 31 May 2009
Edgar Allan Poe's detective fiction
"Dupin was a very inferior fellow...by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine" - Sherlock Holmes on C. Auguste Dupin
It's interesting that Arthur Conan Doyle chose to have Sherlock Holmes make such a remark in his very first outing. When you compare the Holmes canon to Edgar Allan Poe's C. Auguste Dupin trilogy, the comments come across as a defense mechanism against comparisons between the two detectives. After all, Poe's 'The Murder in the Rue Morgue' first appeared in 1841 - almost fifty years before A Study in Scarlet was published in Beeton's Christmas Annual 1887 - and established a template that Conan Doyle clearly paid close attention to: after all, the narrator of Poe's detective fiction is a prototype-Watson, a loyal companion who is unable to perceive that which, to Dupin, is both obvious and integral. Dupin, meanwhile, is possessed of the kind of analytical genius and cold logic that makes him seem somewhat detached from reality - a description that suits Holmes perfectly as well.
Conan Doyle's debt to Poe is clear - he may have had his character dismiss Dupin, but Conan Doyle certainly wasn't of the same mind, commenting that "each story is a root from which a whole literature has developed...where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?" Yet in popular culture, it is Holmes who has persevered, both in literary terms and as the subject of a great number of adaptations. That isn't much of a surprise - Dupin appeared in only three short stories, whereas Holmes featured in four novels and fifty-six short stories. His popularity became a burden to Conan Doyle - famously, the outcry was so vociferous when the author killed Holmes off that he felt he had no option but to bring him back. He remained shackled to the character throughout his life, unable to expand his literary outlook for the fear of alienating his audience. How he must have envied Poe, a visionary who was effectively responsible for the creation of several genres.
"We existed within ourselves alone"
In 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue,' we're introduced to Dupin by his friend, the unnamed narrator who recounts his exploits, and they're immediately cast in an interesting light - the two live as recluses, having essentially cut off contact with the outside world, concerning themselves with "that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford." Their attention is captured by a newspaper acoount of the gruesome murders of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, Camille, in their own home - the mother having been horribly disfigured, and the daughter strangled and forced up the chimney. The newspaper reports that "a murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris...there is not the shadow of a clue apparent," but of course, Dupin is immediately able to formulate the information into a possible explanation; a visit to the scene of the crime is enough for him to be certain of what took place. Though only an amateur sleuth, he is possessed of a singular brilliance that puts the police force to shame. There is something especially satisfying about Dupin's certainty - in such a narrative, a capacity for failure is not expected; the reader wants to see justice served, and the skill with which Dupin handles things is a wonderful trait.
That said, the conclusion of the story can hardly be described as particularly satisfying - 'the monkey did it' is something of a narrative cop-out that reads as though Poe crafted his unsolvable mystery and then couldn't solve it himself, settling for an ending that eliminates any sense of motive; as critic Hervey Allen wrote, "the moral issue is entirely dodged by making the criminal an ape; thus a double horror was invoked without the necessity of blame." Furthermore, narrative convention dictates that the reader should be able to take the clues presented and arrive at the solution themselves - the twist ending makes it impossible to do so, which has to be considered a failing.
"The atrocity of the murder, the youth and beauty of the victim, and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians"
'The Mystery of Marie Roget' is generally considered to be the weakest of the trilogy and, upon reading it, it is easy to see why. The story is obsessed with Dupin's methodology, at the expense of spinning an interesting narrative - the vast majority of the piece is given over to Dupin picking holes in the newspaper accounts of the murder, doing so in a manner that doesn't really rate as entertainment. The deductive brilliance of Dupin has already been established; Poe needn't have gone to such lengths to assure us of the character's genius. Not only that, but the story completely peters out - as soon as a clue worth investigating is discovered, the narrator ceases to recount the case, instead offering a coda that stresses the importance of "truth in detail," a point which is integral to the success of any great detective, but one the audience hardly needs lecturing on any further, considering that the entire raison d'etre of the story is to establish exactly that via the thoroughness of Dupin's methods.
"If it is any point requiring reflection we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark"
The third story in the trilogy, 'The Purloined Letter,' perfectly highlights Dupin's major fault - he is a man of contemplation rather than action, which doesn't make for the most fascinating reading. One of the staples of detective fiction is a sense of adventure - you go into the genre expecting a caper, as it were, whereas Dupin offers a canter at best, being entirely reluctant to leave his own home. Consequently, the stories really aren't that compelling when you compare them to what followed. The narrative of 'The Purloined Letter' essentially amounts to 'Dupin is smarter than the French police force,' and as such merits no further comment - it is a minor work.
One of the costs of pioneering a particular genre is that you rarely get to be the one to perfect it - over time, someone will usually come along and expand upon the original idea with greater success than its initial proponent. Given more time with Dupin, perhaps Poe would have further developed the character and the genre, but he preferred to broaden his scope, which is why he is remembered with such reverence. His horror stories are far superior to the Dupin tales, as is his poetry, but the character still retains a great sense of importance when you consider exactly how significant detective novels and pulp fiction became. The likes of Georges Simenon, Raymond Chandler and Paul Auster have all taken cues from the Dupin trilogy, and it's difficult to imagine Sherlock Holmes existing were it not for Poe.
It's interesting that Arthur Conan Doyle chose to have Sherlock Holmes make such a remark in his very first outing. When you compare the Holmes canon to Edgar Allan Poe's C. Auguste Dupin trilogy, the comments come across as a defense mechanism against comparisons between the two detectives. After all, Poe's 'The Murder in the Rue Morgue' first appeared in 1841 - almost fifty years before A Study in Scarlet was published in Beeton's Christmas Annual 1887 - and established a template that Conan Doyle clearly paid close attention to: after all, the narrator of Poe's detective fiction is a prototype-Watson, a loyal companion who is unable to perceive that which, to Dupin, is both obvious and integral. Dupin, meanwhile, is possessed of the kind of analytical genius and cold logic that makes him seem somewhat detached from reality - a description that suits Holmes perfectly as well.
Conan Doyle's debt to Poe is clear - he may have had his character dismiss Dupin, but Conan Doyle certainly wasn't of the same mind, commenting that "each story is a root from which a whole literature has developed...where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?" Yet in popular culture, it is Holmes who has persevered, both in literary terms and as the subject of a great number of adaptations. That isn't much of a surprise - Dupin appeared in only three short stories, whereas Holmes featured in four novels and fifty-six short stories. His popularity became a burden to Conan Doyle - famously, the outcry was so vociferous when the author killed Holmes off that he felt he had no option but to bring him back. He remained shackled to the character throughout his life, unable to expand his literary outlook for the fear of alienating his audience. How he must have envied Poe, a visionary who was effectively responsible for the creation of several genres.
"We existed within ourselves alone"
In 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue,' we're introduced to Dupin by his friend, the unnamed narrator who recounts his exploits, and they're immediately cast in an interesting light - the two live as recluses, having essentially cut off contact with the outside world, concerning themselves with "that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford." Their attention is captured by a newspaper acoount of the gruesome murders of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, Camille, in their own home - the mother having been horribly disfigured, and the daughter strangled and forced up the chimney. The newspaper reports that "a murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris...there is not the shadow of a clue apparent," but of course, Dupin is immediately able to formulate the information into a possible explanation; a visit to the scene of the crime is enough for him to be certain of what took place. Though only an amateur sleuth, he is possessed of a singular brilliance that puts the police force to shame. There is something especially satisfying about Dupin's certainty - in such a narrative, a capacity for failure is not expected; the reader wants to see justice served, and the skill with which Dupin handles things is a wonderful trait.
That said, the conclusion of the story can hardly be described as particularly satisfying - 'the monkey did it' is something of a narrative cop-out that reads as though Poe crafted his unsolvable mystery and then couldn't solve it himself, settling for an ending that eliminates any sense of motive; as critic Hervey Allen wrote, "the moral issue is entirely dodged by making the criminal an ape; thus a double horror was invoked without the necessity of blame." Furthermore, narrative convention dictates that the reader should be able to take the clues presented and arrive at the solution themselves - the twist ending makes it impossible to do so, which has to be considered a failing.
"The atrocity of the murder, the youth and beauty of the victim, and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians"
'The Mystery of Marie Roget' is generally considered to be the weakest of the trilogy and, upon reading it, it is easy to see why. The story is obsessed with Dupin's methodology, at the expense of spinning an interesting narrative - the vast majority of the piece is given over to Dupin picking holes in the newspaper accounts of the murder, doing so in a manner that doesn't really rate as entertainment. The deductive brilliance of Dupin has already been established; Poe needn't have gone to such lengths to assure us of the character's genius. Not only that, but the story completely peters out - as soon as a clue worth investigating is discovered, the narrator ceases to recount the case, instead offering a coda that stresses the importance of "truth in detail," a point which is integral to the success of any great detective, but one the audience hardly needs lecturing on any further, considering that the entire raison d'etre of the story is to establish exactly that via the thoroughness of Dupin's methods.
"If it is any point requiring reflection we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark"
The third story in the trilogy, 'The Purloined Letter,' perfectly highlights Dupin's major fault - he is a man of contemplation rather than action, which doesn't make for the most fascinating reading. One of the staples of detective fiction is a sense of adventure - you go into the genre expecting a caper, as it were, whereas Dupin offers a canter at best, being entirely reluctant to leave his own home. Consequently, the stories really aren't that compelling when you compare them to what followed. The narrative of 'The Purloined Letter' essentially amounts to 'Dupin is smarter than the French police force,' and as such merits no further comment - it is a minor work.
One of the costs of pioneering a particular genre is that you rarely get to be the one to perfect it - over time, someone will usually come along and expand upon the original idea with greater success than its initial proponent. Given more time with Dupin, perhaps Poe would have further developed the character and the genre, but he preferred to broaden his scope, which is why he is remembered with such reverence. His horror stories are far superior to the Dupin tales, as is his poetry, but the character still retains a great sense of importance when you consider exactly how significant detective novels and pulp fiction became. The likes of Georges Simenon, Raymond Chandler and Paul Auster have all taken cues from the Dupin trilogy, and it's difficult to imagine Sherlock Holmes existing were it not for Poe.
Wednesday 27 May 2009
Georges Perec, Life A User's Manual
"One of the most singular literary personalities in the world, a writer who resembled absolutely no-one else" - Italo Calvino on Georges Perec
Taking inspiration from one of my more organised friends, I'm planning on spending at least part of my summer contemplating my dissertation, so as not to find myself overburdened come next May. However, having had to desperately rush in order to get my preliminary title handed in - in order to meet the deadline - I panicked, which is why 'Experiments in Narrative Structure' is going to be my focus. An interesting topic, to be sure, but one that comes attached with numerous difficulties - at the moment, not only is my outline much too general, but actually selecting texts is no easy feat either.
It was this process that led me to Georges Perec's Life A User's Manual, a novel that fits my own brief perfectly, in that in terms of execution, it is both unconventional and hugely ambitious. Presented as a historical document - complete with index and chronology - it tells the story of the Rue Simon-Crubellier apartment block, and all the people who have ever been a part of the building. Perec takes the reader from room to room, describing everything - fixtures, fittings, furniture and all - in extensive detail in order to set the scene, before relaying the stories - which range from the relatively mundane to the bizarre - of those who have lived there. Indeed, description is a device Perec uses throughout, eschewing dialogue almost completely, a bold move that pays off because Perec crafts such a vivid narrative, leaving little to the imagination, as is appropriate for a novel presented as a definitive account.
It seems somehow fitting that I chose to read this novel the same week I saw Synecdoche, New York. Both pieces share the thematic link of death as a natural consequence of life - as the only possible ending to every story - whilst at the same time managing to celebrate the capacity of the human spirit. Caden Cotard is the sort of obsessive whose vision would have been perfectly at home in Rue Simon-Crubellier; after all, the novel spends a fair amount of its time dealing with obsession, an emotion the very nature of which means that a large number of the tales are devoid of happy endings; as each new story begins, you find yourself waiting for the 'but' that frequently signifies imminent tragedy. Never is this more apparent than in the story of Percival Bartlebooth, a central character of sorts whose fate is emblematic of much of the narrative. A millionaire concerned that his wealth will consign him to a life of idle boredom, he concocts a scheme that is entirely self-defeating, but will serve to keep him occupied for the rest of his days. He spends ten years learning the art of watercolour painting, before heading out on a twenty-year long world tour, during which time he produces five hundred paintings. Upon completion, each one is sent to an expert puzzle-maker, who converts each of them into a seven-hundred-and-fifty-piece jigsaw. Returning from his travels, Bartlebooth begins to put the puzzles back together, with each completed puzzle being converted back into a watercolour painting, before then being sent back to the place where it was created, where it undergoes a process that renders it as nothing more than the blank sheet of paper it once was so long ago.
The nature of this plan means that Bartlebooth, as intended, leaves no visible mark on the world, a desire on his part that is filled with a sense of melancholy and defeatism - after all, is there not within us all a longing to be remembered? In undertaking such a time-consuming yet ultimately useless task, Bartlebooth impresses upon the reader the suggestion that most of us end up leaving no lasting impact on the world whatsoever - he has fully accepted this as truth, and so dedicated his life to something which ends up removing him from society, whilst ostensibly leaving no trace of his existence. Yet that isn't the whole truth; after all, Bartlebooth's influence is felt throughout the novel, and he has clearly had an impact on a great number of people - not just those living within Rue Simon-Crubellier, but those who heard of the man purely by accident, such as the art critic Charles-Albert Beyssandre, whose interference eventually undermines the success of Bartlebooth's plan. The idea that all of the stories within the novel are connected even whilst they appear to be self-contained is crucial to its success, creating a sense of community that illuminates proceedings, and the air of inevitability of failure that hangs over the novel never detracts, because the journeys the characters undertake almost always have meaning, which lessens the impact of their eventual failure, whilst also ensuring that any successful outcome is a cause of great contentment to the reader.
In contemplating Perec, Warren Motte and Jean-Jacques Poucel defined the four directions that the author claimed to have pursued in his writing: "a concern for the everyday and its details; a tendency toward confession and autobiography; an impulse toward formal innovation; and a desire to tell engaging stories." Life A User's Manual is a triumphant blend of all of these elements, and has to be considered one of the most significant twentieth century literary achievements.
Tuesday 26 May 2009
Casiotone For The Painfully Alone "Vs. Children"
"The stories are not me. I am just a storyteller, a writer. Sure, my songs are sort of fictionalised accounts; collages of situations that happened to me or to other people. I just feel these are stories worth telling and there's a lot of real emotions behind them, but they're not the real entries" - Owen Ashworth on his songwriting process
It's no surprise that Owen Ashworth spends so much time dealing with questions about how personal his lyrics are. In some respects, he chose one of the most limiting band names imaginable - the name alone makes it easy for people to form preconceived notions of what Casiotone For The Painfully Alone are all about without having even heard a single note. People expect a perma-lonely individual pouring his heart out, and even though to a certain extent that is the truth of things, ultimately, the personal connection he has with his own lyrics is clearly derived from the sense of artistic pride any artist feels towards their own work.
"The stories are what's important: I'm not looking for sympathy. I want to create music that's comforting but it doesn't feel like there's something I need to get off my chest; there's nothing I personally feel I need to say."
These quotes were Ashworth talking ahead of the release of 2006's Etiquette, an album that represented a major leap forward in terms of musicology. The often self-imposed limitations of the three albums that preceded it were replaced by songs that incorporated guitar, bass and drums - a more conventional approach, to be sure, but a hugely successful one into the bargain. In terms of lyrical content, the progression wasn't quite so dramatic - thematically, the songs largely stuck to the 'loss and loneliness' template previous Casiotone albums established, although the tales that did unfold contained a greater sense of depth, Ashworth's growing confidence reflected in his delivery.
If Etiquette was Ashworth taking a very deliberate step forward musically, then it's only fair to view Vs. Children as a step forward lyrically - one man stepping away from the constraints inherent in such an evocative band name in order to prove that his talents aren't as limited as detractors might imagine. It may not be a concept album as such, but the recurring theme that ties the album together is meditations on the wisdom of bringing a child into the world. Before that debate becomes the centrepiece of the narrative, however, Ashworth delivers two accounts of criminality. "Tom Justice, The Choir Boy Robber, Apprehended at Ace Hardware in Libertyville, IL" is a tale that unfolds exactly as the title would lead you to expect, one that captures the imagination due to its imaginative religious imagery - the lines detailing how Tom came by the 'Choir Boy' nickname are filled with a sense of dark humour, and his eventual capture is described as though it were Tom's penance. The song references Bonnie and Clyde, whilst the lyrics of "Optimist Vs. The Silent Alarm (When The Saints Go Marching In)" also allude to the pair, describing an unconventional love story in the aftermath of a hesit - the narrator details "a mess of cash in duffel bags" before dropping his guard and revealing his hopes for the future, making plans to "raise a little family on Schlitz/And Mickey Mouse."
Over the course of the album, though, it becomes clear that these plans never came to fruition. In "Natural Light" the mood is reflective, the lines "what if we'd had a child/I guess he'd be fifteen" delivered in a manner that betrays a certain amount of disappointment that they didn't choose that path; however, by the time "Killers" comes around, the tone is completely different, with Ashworth singing "we could be killers/just for one night" in his most convincing - almost seductive - voice, imploring his pregnant lover to abort the child that he doesn't feel capable of raising, lamenting that "you're a parent/til you're dead," and clearly wanting no part of such a responsibility. The album ends with "White Jetta," the closing refrain of which sees the protagonist hoping "to stay the same to never change," sentiments that make it obvious that he's comfortable with things the way they are, which may well be considered immature and selfish, but at least it's honest.
That closing line takes on a greater importance when considering Ashworth's oeuvre. Vs. Children remains true to the spirit of Casiotone For The Painfully Alone whilst making it clear that Ashworth isn't content to "stay the same," as the constant evolution of each new release makes evident. Vs. Children is his most complete album to date, further proof that the Casiotone vehicle has broken free of its supposed restrictions, and become something more than the sum of its initial parts.
On a related note, I saw him play live for the fourth time last month, and when he was joined by a full band for the second half of the show, the music came across in such a way as to convince me that - in some parallel universe - this band would be playing the Heartbreak Hotel lounge bar every single night. And I mean that as the highest of compliments.
It's no surprise that Owen Ashworth spends so much time dealing with questions about how personal his lyrics are. In some respects, he chose one of the most limiting band names imaginable - the name alone makes it easy for people to form preconceived notions of what Casiotone For The Painfully Alone are all about without having even heard a single note. People expect a perma-lonely individual pouring his heart out, and even though to a certain extent that is the truth of things, ultimately, the personal connection he has with his own lyrics is clearly derived from the sense of artistic pride any artist feels towards their own work.
"The stories are what's important: I'm not looking for sympathy. I want to create music that's comforting but it doesn't feel like there's something I need to get off my chest; there's nothing I personally feel I need to say."
These quotes were Ashworth talking ahead of the release of 2006's Etiquette, an album that represented a major leap forward in terms of musicology. The often self-imposed limitations of the three albums that preceded it were replaced by songs that incorporated guitar, bass and drums - a more conventional approach, to be sure, but a hugely successful one into the bargain. In terms of lyrical content, the progression wasn't quite so dramatic - thematically, the songs largely stuck to the 'loss and loneliness' template previous Casiotone albums established, although the tales that did unfold contained a greater sense of depth, Ashworth's growing confidence reflected in his delivery.
If Etiquette was Ashworth taking a very deliberate step forward musically, then it's only fair to view Vs. Children as a step forward lyrically - one man stepping away from the constraints inherent in such an evocative band name in order to prove that his talents aren't as limited as detractors might imagine. It may not be a concept album as such, but the recurring theme that ties the album together is meditations on the wisdom of bringing a child into the world. Before that debate becomes the centrepiece of the narrative, however, Ashworth delivers two accounts of criminality. "Tom Justice, The Choir Boy Robber, Apprehended at Ace Hardware in Libertyville, IL" is a tale that unfolds exactly as the title would lead you to expect, one that captures the imagination due to its imaginative religious imagery - the lines detailing how Tom came by the 'Choir Boy' nickname are filled with a sense of dark humour, and his eventual capture is described as though it were Tom's penance. The song references Bonnie and Clyde, whilst the lyrics of "Optimist Vs. The Silent Alarm (When The Saints Go Marching In)" also allude to the pair, describing an unconventional love story in the aftermath of a hesit - the narrator details "a mess of cash in duffel bags" before dropping his guard and revealing his hopes for the future, making plans to "raise a little family on Schlitz/And Mickey Mouse."
Over the course of the album, though, it becomes clear that these plans never came to fruition. In "Natural Light" the mood is reflective, the lines "what if we'd had a child/I guess he'd be fifteen" delivered in a manner that betrays a certain amount of disappointment that they didn't choose that path; however, by the time "Killers" comes around, the tone is completely different, with Ashworth singing "we could be killers/just for one night" in his most convincing - almost seductive - voice, imploring his pregnant lover to abort the child that he doesn't feel capable of raising, lamenting that "you're a parent/til you're dead," and clearly wanting no part of such a responsibility. The album ends with "White Jetta," the closing refrain of which sees the protagonist hoping "to stay the same to never change," sentiments that make it obvious that he's comfortable with things the way they are, which may well be considered immature and selfish, but at least it's honest.
That closing line takes on a greater importance when considering Ashworth's oeuvre. Vs. Children remains true to the spirit of Casiotone For The Painfully Alone whilst making it clear that Ashworth isn't content to "stay the same," as the constant evolution of each new release makes evident. Vs. Children is his most complete album to date, further proof that the Casiotone vehicle has broken free of its supposed restrictions, and become something more than the sum of its initial parts.
On a related note, I saw him play live for the fourth time last month, and when he was joined by a full band for the second half of the show, the music came across in such a way as to convince me that - in some parallel universe - this band would be playing the Heartbreak Hotel lounge bar every single night. And I mean that as the highest of compliments.
Monday 25 May 2009
X-Men Origins: Wolverine
The idea of writing about Dot to Dot Festival may have made sense beforehand, but considering that the drinking started before mid-day, the reality is something else entirely. Nottingham's Student Union helpfully offers cups that contain about two-and-a-half pints - they're a thing of beauty, but coupled with all the other alcohol consumed, they make the process of articulating events pretty impossible. Better instead to talk about a film I saw a few weeks ago, X-Men Origins: Wolverine.
The X-Men franchise is of particular importance to me. Aged eleven, obsessively reading Uncanny X-Men is almost certainly what instilled in me a passion for reading. I left comicbooks behind during my high-school years, only to get right back into them at college, at which point I started to learn that the genre had more to offer than just superhero comics - whilst also refusing to ignore that side of things, building up a comprehensive knowledge of all things X-Men. So naturally, the release of the movies was of great interest to me, and yet I was never able to fully embrace them. The first two Bryan Singer-directed efforts may have gone down well with the majority of critics and audiences, but to me they were lacking something in comparison to the best comics - they just couldn't compete. In that context, I didn't feel that X-Men 3 was the abomination that many made it out to be; it was simply the subpar culmination of a disappointing trilogy, one that at least showed a certain amount of boldness in a few of its scenes (specifically, the death of one character that I never saw coming, which provided the film with an ending that the established continuity of the comics has always resisted). All of which meant that the release of X-Men Origins: Wolverine was of definite interest to me. Which is not to say that I was expecting too much from it.
The film tells the story of Wolverine's formative years - from his mutation activating in tragic circumstances as a young boy named James Howlett, the opening credits go on to show him (now going by the name Logan) and his brother - Victor 'Sabretooth' Creed - fighting in a succession of history's most famous wars, until Victor's violent nature escalates to such an extent that he kills a superior officer. With Logan standing by his brother, the two are sentenced to death by firing squad - which they survive due to their advanced healing factors, at which point they are recruited by William Stryker, joining a secret-ops team of mutants. However, Logan cannot abide the nature of the work Stryker expects of him, and so quits - a decision Victor doesn't take too well.
From this point on, the narrative is ostensibly centred around the conflict between Logan and Victor, with Logan trying desperately to avoid his more animalistic urges until Victor - who has fully embraced that side of himself - pushes him too far, at which point he feels that he has no choice but to become 'Wolverine.' But that would be giving it too much credit, because ultimately it never really explores the idea in any great depth. In fact, it never really does much of anything, except provide a series of CGI set-pieces occassionally punctuated by some expositionary hand-wringing. Hugh Jackman gets to spend a lot of time on his knees whilst looking up towards the sky, screaming "Noooo!" in an overblown manner. He doesn't, however, spend a great deal of time capturing the interest of the viewer. It isn't that Jackman is at fault, just that the plot demands that he spends most of his time moping, and as a consequence, he never gets to display the side of the character that helped make the actor's name when the original film was released - that of the charismatic anti-hero, which is the very essence of Wolverine's personality. What's more, the ensemble cast is largely underutilised. Liev Schreiber gets a reasonable amount of screen time, and uses it well, proving to be the best thing about the movie - he exudes the necessary menace to give justification to Wolverine's quest for vengeance. Everyone else is consigned to a peripheral role, and as far as the likes of Will.I.Am and Ryan Reynolds are concerned, that's probably for the best, but of genuine disappointment is that Gambit (as played by Taylor Kitsch - who excels in the superb Friday Night Lights television series) barely gets a look in. The laidback nature of Gambit's character would have added a sense of levity to the film, providing a nice contrast to the grim-and-gritty tone that prevails throughout. As it is, though, the misery prevails.
Even that would be acceptable in terms of setting the mood, if it weren't for the fact that the film doesn't hang together all that well. The love interest plot falls flat, providing both the painfully trite anecdote from which Wolverine derives his name, and a poor performance from Lynn Collins (as Kayla Silverfox), failures that undermine the entire narrative - they're intended to provide Wolverine with his motivation, yet it's impossible to truly invest in them. The final third unnecessarily complicates things, introducing a secret island (of all things), as well as Scott Summers (a.k.a. Cyclops) and a handful of other characters recognisable to those familiar with the X-Men mythos, none of whom add anything to the plot, serving only as a half-hearted attempt to address the human versus mutant conflict represented throughout the history of the franchise. And the manner in which the film ends essentially means that none of the events that preceded it matter anyway, a final insult to the audience.
Even with all that said, the film certainly isn't unwatchable - it moves along at a reasonable pace, for the most part. But there is no pressing reason for it to exist - it adds nothing to the character, which is a critical failing for a film intended to define him.
The X-Men franchise is of particular importance to me. Aged eleven, obsessively reading Uncanny X-Men is almost certainly what instilled in me a passion for reading. I left comicbooks behind during my high-school years, only to get right back into them at college, at which point I started to learn that the genre had more to offer than just superhero comics - whilst also refusing to ignore that side of things, building up a comprehensive knowledge of all things X-Men. So naturally, the release of the movies was of great interest to me, and yet I was never able to fully embrace them. The first two Bryan Singer-directed efforts may have gone down well with the majority of critics and audiences, but to me they were lacking something in comparison to the best comics - they just couldn't compete. In that context, I didn't feel that X-Men 3 was the abomination that many made it out to be; it was simply the subpar culmination of a disappointing trilogy, one that at least showed a certain amount of boldness in a few of its scenes (specifically, the death of one character that I never saw coming, which provided the film with an ending that the established continuity of the comics has always resisted). All of which meant that the release of X-Men Origins: Wolverine was of definite interest to me. Which is not to say that I was expecting too much from it.
The film tells the story of Wolverine's formative years - from his mutation activating in tragic circumstances as a young boy named James Howlett, the opening credits go on to show him (now going by the name Logan) and his brother - Victor 'Sabretooth' Creed - fighting in a succession of history's most famous wars, until Victor's violent nature escalates to such an extent that he kills a superior officer. With Logan standing by his brother, the two are sentenced to death by firing squad - which they survive due to their advanced healing factors, at which point they are recruited by William Stryker, joining a secret-ops team of mutants. However, Logan cannot abide the nature of the work Stryker expects of him, and so quits - a decision Victor doesn't take too well.
From this point on, the narrative is ostensibly centred around the conflict between Logan and Victor, with Logan trying desperately to avoid his more animalistic urges until Victor - who has fully embraced that side of himself - pushes him too far, at which point he feels that he has no choice but to become 'Wolverine.' But that would be giving it too much credit, because ultimately it never really explores the idea in any great depth. In fact, it never really does much of anything, except provide a series of CGI set-pieces occassionally punctuated by some expositionary hand-wringing. Hugh Jackman gets to spend a lot of time on his knees whilst looking up towards the sky, screaming "Noooo!" in an overblown manner. He doesn't, however, spend a great deal of time capturing the interest of the viewer. It isn't that Jackman is at fault, just that the plot demands that he spends most of his time moping, and as a consequence, he never gets to display the side of the character that helped make the actor's name when the original film was released - that of the charismatic anti-hero, which is the very essence of Wolverine's personality. What's more, the ensemble cast is largely underutilised. Liev Schreiber gets a reasonable amount of screen time, and uses it well, proving to be the best thing about the movie - he exudes the necessary menace to give justification to Wolverine's quest for vengeance. Everyone else is consigned to a peripheral role, and as far as the likes of Will.I.Am and Ryan Reynolds are concerned, that's probably for the best, but of genuine disappointment is that Gambit (as played by Taylor Kitsch - who excels in the superb Friday Night Lights television series) barely gets a look in. The laidback nature of Gambit's character would have added a sense of levity to the film, providing a nice contrast to the grim-and-gritty tone that prevails throughout. As it is, though, the misery prevails.
Even that would be acceptable in terms of setting the mood, if it weren't for the fact that the film doesn't hang together all that well. The love interest plot falls flat, providing both the painfully trite anecdote from which Wolverine derives his name, and a poor performance from Lynn Collins (as Kayla Silverfox), failures that undermine the entire narrative - they're intended to provide Wolverine with his motivation, yet it's impossible to truly invest in them. The final third unnecessarily complicates things, introducing a secret island (of all things), as well as Scott Summers (a.k.a. Cyclops) and a handful of other characters recognisable to those familiar with the X-Men mythos, none of whom add anything to the plot, serving only as a half-hearted attempt to address the human versus mutant conflict represented throughout the history of the franchise. And the manner in which the film ends essentially means that none of the events that preceded it matter anyway, a final insult to the audience.
Even with all that said, the film certainly isn't unwatchable - it moves along at a reasonable pace, for the most part. But there is no pressing reason for it to exist - it adds nothing to the character, which is a critical failing for a film intended to define him.
Friday 22 May 2009
Synecdoche, New York
Not the easiest of starts, but lets give it a go. Synecdoche, New York is the directorial debut of Charlie Kaufman, writer of Being John Malkovich, Adaptation and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a collaboration with Michel Gondry that I always return to with unexplianable skepticism - a feeling that departs as soon as I've finished rewatching it, at which point I'm convinced all over again that it is one of the most significant cinematic achievements of the last decade. This is Kaufman's first project since - meanwhile, Gondry has put out The Science of Sleep, an arguably slight "love" story that is still well worth watching; and Be Kind Rewind, a huge disappointment considering that the high-concept - Jack Black and Mos Def stage recreations of famous films - is fantastic. Whereas Gondry's stock has fallen slightly, Synecdoche looks set to send Kaufman's soaring.
The film is centred around Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a theatre director whose life is falling apart. Prone to hypochondria and trapped in a failing marriage, things only start to look up for him when he receives a MacArthur genius grant, which brings with it unlimited wealth with which to pursue his artistic interests. His wish is to create something that truly resonates - something "real", as the cliche goes. When trying to explain the inspiration behind his idea to an assembled group of actors and actresses, he announces that "I will be dying and so will you, and so will everyone here. That's what I want to explore," and in doing so he provides a reasonable summation of the themes integral to the film, which is frequently punctuated with death and funerals. For Caden, even the act of making love takes on a funereal air, causing him to break into tears or, in one memorable scene that cuts to the heart of his character, undress as though his world is ending. Which, as his aforementioned speech makes clear, it is. Years pass by unacknowledged except for the visible aging of the characters, as if to mimic the universal, inextricable march towards death that we all face.
Whilst Caden envisions the project as a study in unflinching realism, the staged nature of his "play" takes the concept of life imitating art to a whole new plateau, with the lines between his own reality and his artistic endeavour blurred until the two overlap so completely that any sense of self is lost. The subtle humour that pervades the first hour gradually fades, replaced by a sombre atmosphere that at times threatens to alienate the viewer; the film is never less than challenging, often lapsing into "gruelling" territory. At one point, a "priest" leading a funeral service encapsulates the mood prevalent throughout much of the film when delivering a eulogy: "you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really." Over the course of 2+ hours such an attitude should be demoralising, yet it rarely is; instead, it comes across as a celebration of human life. No matter how much of its time is seemingly spent telling us that none of us are special, the truth is that by focussing on the mundanities of life, the actual underlying message is the exact opposite. Whether or not Caden's life plays out as he expects it to, there is clearly value in it.
Synecdoche, New York stands out to me as an example of the kind of work filmmakers should be aspiring to make. Kaufman asks the viewer to engage with the film, a perfeclty reasonable request when he offers such an incisive examination into the human condition, one that is of relevance to anyone and everyone. He deserves all the plaudits people are lauding him with, as does Hoffman, whom it seems almost pointless to praise for his performance - when is he ever less than excellent? But the truth is that no-one else would have been suitable for the role, which demands his unique ability to become the character in order for it to be a success. The supporting cast all excel (with Samantha Norton and Tom Noonan the standouts), dropping in and out of Caden's life whilst never truly leaving him. One of the most emotionally affecting pieces of cinema I've ever seen, I can't recommend it highly enough.
The film is centred around Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a theatre director whose life is falling apart. Prone to hypochondria and trapped in a failing marriage, things only start to look up for him when he receives a MacArthur genius grant, which brings with it unlimited wealth with which to pursue his artistic interests. His wish is to create something that truly resonates - something "real", as the cliche goes. When trying to explain the inspiration behind his idea to an assembled group of actors and actresses, he announces that "I will be dying and so will you, and so will everyone here. That's what I want to explore," and in doing so he provides a reasonable summation of the themes integral to the film, which is frequently punctuated with death and funerals. For Caden, even the act of making love takes on a funereal air, causing him to break into tears or, in one memorable scene that cuts to the heart of his character, undress as though his world is ending. Which, as his aforementioned speech makes clear, it is. Years pass by unacknowledged except for the visible aging of the characters, as if to mimic the universal, inextricable march towards death that we all face.
Whilst Caden envisions the project as a study in unflinching realism, the staged nature of his "play" takes the concept of life imitating art to a whole new plateau, with the lines between his own reality and his artistic endeavour blurred until the two overlap so completely that any sense of self is lost. The subtle humour that pervades the first hour gradually fades, replaced by a sombre atmosphere that at times threatens to alienate the viewer; the film is never less than challenging, often lapsing into "gruelling" territory. At one point, a "priest" leading a funeral service encapsulates the mood prevalent throughout much of the film when delivering a eulogy: "you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really." Over the course of 2+ hours such an attitude should be demoralising, yet it rarely is; instead, it comes across as a celebration of human life. No matter how much of its time is seemingly spent telling us that none of us are special, the truth is that by focussing on the mundanities of life, the actual underlying message is the exact opposite. Whether or not Caden's life plays out as he expects it to, there is clearly value in it.
Synecdoche, New York stands out to me as an example of the kind of work filmmakers should be aspiring to make. Kaufman asks the viewer to engage with the film, a perfeclty reasonable request when he offers such an incisive examination into the human condition, one that is of relevance to anyone and everyone. He deserves all the plaudits people are lauding him with, as does Hoffman, whom it seems almost pointless to praise for his performance - when is he ever less than excellent? But the truth is that no-one else would have been suitable for the role, which demands his unique ability to become the character in order for it to be a success. The supporting cast all excel (with Samantha Norton and Tom Noonan the standouts), dropping in and out of Caden's life whilst never truly leaving him. One of the most emotionally affecting pieces of cinema I've ever seen, I can't recommend it highly enough.
In The Beginning...
Well, I haven't really done this since the glory days of MySpace (check out those early ramblings here, althought they're of very dubious merit), but, what with a friend of mine promising to properly embrace blogging (you can find his website here), and the second year of my English and American Literature course having finished, I figure maybe this will be a decent way of keeping my creative juices flowing. That, or I'll be bored of it within a week. Or I'll never have anything to write about. Still, the whole endeavour is at least worth the effort these few sentences have taken up.
So, theoretically coming up these next few days: some kind of review of Synecdoche, New York (in short, it was a stunning piece of cinema, one that's going to take me a while to fully process, and is unlikely to leave me anytime soon); my thoughts on Georges Perec's Life A User's Manual; and a report on Dot To Dot Festival, which is taking place this Sunday.
So, theoretically coming up these next few days: some kind of review of Synecdoche, New York (in short, it was a stunning piece of cinema, one that's going to take me a while to fully process, and is unlikely to leave me anytime soon); my thoughts on Georges Perec's Life A User's Manual; and a report on Dot To Dot Festival, which is taking place this Sunday.
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