An extract from my own The Night Sighed With Relief:

"With me was my friend Will, my partner in crime, fighting our semi-permanent coporate existence. His humour is of the kind fairly prominent in those from Yorkshire. Will's brand is particularly venomous and yet considered and intelligent. I seem to be telling him every day that he needs put his thoughts to good use: for the benefit of all. I see him writing a comic in the same way Harvey Pekar did with Amercan Splendour. Biting, sensitive, alienated social commentary. He listens, seems interested and most certainly flattered by my responses to his innovative one-liners. However, he refuses or is unwilling or at least lacking in motivation to write his thoughts down daily in some sort of journal. I guess I am resigned to enjoying his company with the nagging feeling that every word should be documented. Isn't that what everyone says about their friends?"

Another great Hitchens interview:

"Why did you feel it necessary to comprehensively so debunk Michael Moore's film?"

Hitchens:

It's nice of you to say I debunked it. It is, in my opinion, a lie in
itself.It purports to say we are at war with Islamic Jihadism, not because of
Islamic Jihadism but because of private dealings by the Bush family.In other
words, there is nothing to worry about, there is no clash, there is no crisis,
there is no terrorism - except American terrorism. Within that there are about - one very good reviewer's counted 56 or so individual falsifications, I could mention some of them myself if you like.And then the third reason is this - I'll make it as plain as I can - Michael Moore has said openly and repeatedly that he is on the other side in this war, that he regards what he calls the Iraqi resistance as the 'just' side in the battle.He thinks that they are the equivalent of the American revolutionary fighters of 1776 and that they will win which, I will conclude by saying, makes it a bit much for him to gather up for his own purposes the tears and the grief of American widows and mothers whose sons have been killed by people who he openly proclaims his kinship with.

Christopher Hitchens, Michael Moore

The last sentence of the last book

There are almost too many great things out there to explore, a cumbersome observation but a true one nevertheless. So many books, new and old, to read. So many works of art, new and old, to view. So many pieces of music, new and old to listen to. So many films, new and old, to see. I guess that I prefer it that way around. Can you imagine completing all of the above, reading the last sentence of the last book worth reading? "Finished!......What now?" I can't forsee that ever happening and that's why life is wondrous.

Forgot to mention yesterday that another strange thing happened. Was sitting on my bed yesterday evening, writing on this laptop around 7ish when a cat walked in to my room. It was the gingery one from the flat next door. I was fairly alarmed. Not a huge fan of cats. Especially if they come unannounced and uninvited into my room. I tried to 'shoo' it out but to no avail. It didn't seem to want to go back into the hallway of my building. I hate dealing with animals. I liken my unease to being equaly unable to talk to kids. I have a particular dislike of trying to 'babytalk'. It's not me, what can I say? I spent around 5 minutes in this bizarre confrontation. Eventually I trapped it in the hallway and nearly slammed my front door in its face. Next time, it may not be so fortunate to escape. I'm against cruelty to animals but I may have to make an exception next time.

Teenage Reprobates

I'm so drained I can barely type. The day started badly with my over-reaction to the bowl of sugar being left open on the kitchen work surface. I placed the lid back on to the container and then somehow thought it wise to smash the lid with my fist. As a consequence, the sugar went everywhere, including the kitchen floor. Its a strange moment when you realise you may have issues with your temper.

Having said that, my temper was justifiably boiling. Got back from the studio late last night and noticed lots of youths milling around accross the street. Rich-kid was still enjoying his new found freedom and expressing this joy through the medium of the house party. Fine, music wasn't too loud, fell asleep. Woke at 0200hrs to hear a brawl in the middle of the street. From what I could make out, these teenage reprobates were going to chuck eggs at some of the houses. One of them chucked one at his mate and thus a fight ensued. Thought i was going to explode with anger. Listening to a bunch of spoiled rich-kid teenagers with already-formed student accents trying to cool things down with immodest and false maturity is not one of my favourite ways of passing the time. And it certainly isn't at 2 in the morning. In true English fashion, even though I heard the whole building stirring from the noise, no one, including me of course, did anything. We endured like only the Brits can. Went on for half an hour. Couldn't sleep afterwards. Beautiful.

Cubsim and the non-believers

The fact that for a long time cubism has not been understood and that even today
there are people who cannot see anything in it, means nothing. I do not read
English, and an English book is a blank book to me. This does not mean that the
English language does not exist, and why should I blame anyone but myself if I
cannot understand what I know nothing about?

Picasso,

Brancusi, Public schoolboys, the BBC and nausea

Have just finished watching a BBC4 documentary on the scupltor Constantin Brancusi. Presented by Ben Lewis. What a dreadful wretch this man appears to be. Having seen the Tate Modern exhibition 'The Essence of Things', I was looking forward to gaining further insight into the artist and the man, his methods and theories. However, we are subjected to Lewis' public school drivel regarding the works' spirituality and whether it was a 'con'. Having researched about the presenter on the internet, it appears that he studied Art at Cambridge. Wow.... Surely, the subjectivity of Art would be something drilled into him at an early stage of his learning. Or perhaps, studying the subject itself had the reverse effect. I mean, who chooses what subject to study? Universities and proffesors subjecting their opinions onto others. Which is, i guess, what Lewis was doing in the documentary. Regardless, how did this man find himself in the position of writing, directing and presenting a documenatry for one of the world's most respected broadcasting corporations? I have just wasted 45 mins of my life. It had the potential to be an uplifting, inspirational 45 mins but I find myself filled with bile once more. Essentially, my understanding of Brancusi and his attempt to present 'the essence of things' remains elementary. The presenter spoiled what was probably for many, an introduction to Brancusi's works.

What is the purpose of a documentary about Art/Artists? I don't know for sure but education has to be a principal goal. The recent attempt at introducing 'high art' to the masses hasn't succeeded as far as I can tell. I need to understand as many things as i can. I want to learn more and more. I want to know why Brancusi is considered a master scupltor, a revolutionary modernist. Instead I have to suffer Lewis' egotistical, faux modest, faux simplistic approach. Perhaps it is indicative of the BBC's decline in standards. I watched a documentary last week on experimental music in the 1960's which, too, was spoiled by the aesthetics of the documentary rather than its contents. It seems the BBC sometimes try too hard to break barriers in order to justify its existence when they should concentrate on their considerable strengths.

I watched the Royal Tenembaums last night. I had been intending to revisit the film since watching my brother's copy of Rushmore (further investigation revealed that this film was made in 1998. This seems odd - the film has a late 1980's sheen to it and I could have sworn that I looked at the case in order to confirm this), both having been directed by Wes Anderson. When first watching the film at the Showroom cinema in Sheffield on its initial release, I immediately recognised its originality but felt that the story didn't grab me as much as it perhaps should have. The second viewing confirmed it to be a terrific film, a real attempt at innovation. The soundtrack perfectly accompanies the trajectory of the plot. I remember on its first viewing the emotional impact of Elliot Smith's 'Needle in the Hay' which accompanies Ritchie Tenembaum's suicide attempt. It was the first time I had heard the song. The extras on the DVD were also superb. I like and equally dislike being let in on the secrets of film making. I feel I am learning but also find it hard to watch the next film with the same naievity.

Also watched Everyone Says I Love You by Woody Allen. Realised suring the opening scenes that I had seen it previously. I had told Ben, who leant me the film, that I hadn't seen it and my excitement made itself apparent. That excitement soon dimmed. The film's dialoge was typically a joy. I am yet to watch a musical without feeling nauseous (bar Cabaret which is slightly different). I have Porgy and Bess on DVD - maybe that can restore (or should I write store?) my faith in musicals. Although I appreciate Gershwin, I have the feeling that throughout its viewing I will be thinking about Miles Davis' version. We shall see......

Brancusi,Wes Anderson,BBC,movies,Woody Allen

How do you weigh a word?

I feel obsolete. Obsolete. How do you weigh a word like that? How do you weigh words? Do I feel as obsolete as some members of the audience of a Neil Young bootleg I've been listening to (Young's Greendale tour, UK, circa 2003)? They begin to clap in time (just about) during the opening few bars of 'The Needle and the Damage Done' and then cease a few bars later. Why did they stop? Did they realise how inappropriate it was? That can't be it. Sure, it's possible some of them felt as though they were contributing to the warm-natured feel of the evening (Young seemed in particularly high sprits) and then the song's content became apparent and they stopped. I can't figure what goes through the head of someone who appreciates Young and his history and yet feels that clapping to a song that has never featured any timekeeping in any form (not even a tambourine) would somehow be the correct course of action. Every audience member there must have had a handle on who Young is; tickets were around £40/£50 if my memory serves me as it should. They sold out quickly. Only true, authentic Youngites were present. Fact.

Of course, most of the clappers quickly became aware that the majority of the audience were not going to participate in the clapping. That would immediately cause most clappers to stop. On this evening it evidently did, but i'm sure we have all been present at some event where clappers tirelessly pursue their cause until the last few notes of the song die out. Perhaps, the moment would have been less excrutiating if the clappers had continued to the brutal end. We will never know.......

(I think I will soon write about whistlers. I don't feel comfortable, presently, about writing negatively about a group of people of which my father is a member)

It can sometimes happen. 'The Needle....' may have had its original emotional power drained from it. That goes for the writer and performer as well as the listener. A song that you love with all your heart; a song that unashamedly made every hair on your body stand to attention; a song that brought a salty discharge to the edge of your eye; a song that helped you through that two week period of dark thoughts and low feelings; a song that you had on 'repeat' for hours at a time; but now......many moments, many years, many loves, many books later, the song can no longer bring emotion to you. No matter how hard you try. That tends to produce a unfavourable mixed and nervous feeling within me. 'Aire and Calder' - Ultrasound. 'Sparky's Dream' - Teenage Fanclub. 'Dolphins' - Tim Buckley. 'I want you' - Elvis Costello. 'My Blue Wave' - Lambchop. 'Alabama' - John Coltrane. 'Bridge over Troubled Water' - Johnny Cash. The air of melancholy that these songs contain is enough to weep anyhow, but for them to become redundant to me can be devastating. An exageration, perhaps. Hard to explain, I guess......

Neil Young,music