issue 19 - september 2006
everything this issue written by mark ritchie � so there!
"For my heart will always be with the drunk, the poet, the prophet, the criminal...with those whose aims are insulated from the humdrum business of life" - Frederick Exley
GREETING
Hello to all you perfect people
who never have to visit the dentist,
whose mouths shine bright with health and
vitamins and milky mornings and
no bad thoughts ever ever ever.
Hello to all of you who never feel the shame
of aloneness,
who never need to avert your eyes
every time you pass a mirror,
who don�t feel horrified and desperate
at the sight of your own decay.
It�s all pointless -
the dentist and the soldier and
the doctor and the writer.
We�ll all end up in the same place
in the end.
But what else can we do?
As long as we keep breathing,
our teeth will need capped
and our countries will need defended
and our health will need checked
and our lives will need documented.
There are no easy answers.
All we can do is ask the world to grant us some grace,
for we are all sad little soldiers,
born to fail.
I HAVE SPENT A MILLION SATURDAY NIGHTS LIKE THIS
When did isolation become my prayer?
Have I always been this way?
As a teenager, I�d shut myself away in a room,
the curtains drawn tight against the sun,
writing to all the Capotes and Plaths who never were.
Trying to make sense out of things that just never made any sense,
no matter how long I stared at them.
Making excuses to not see people,
ignoring the telephone,
preferring the company of those faceless spirits
who would dance through the air
at the flick of a switch
and disappear just as quickly.
Trying to shut out a world full of cruelty, malice and spite
also means that you shut out a world full of love.
At least these days I keep the curtains open.
AT THE BOTTOM OF A CRIMSON GLASS
With motives unclear,
you scatter the photos across the floor,
laughing and smoking and
drinking in the memories.
Pain can do two things -
it can crush and overwhelm you
or it can embolden you,
make you think,
what can happen to me now?
But, as the hours turn into days,
your world drifts silently to the bottom of a crimson glass,
where everything is murky and nondescript,
where friendships falter, fade and finally drown.
Where, distorted by pain, fear and loneliness,
death always seems much bigger than life.
NO REST FOR THE WICKED
Dark clouds cast long shadows on the wet tarmac
as all the tired children scramble for shelter.
They know that tomorrow is a bright new day,
filled with holiday fun and ice cream van chimes.
But when they sleep, it is in fits and starts,
with disjointed images flooding their fevered minds.
Houses they used to live in, people they used to know,
the wet noses of a million dead pets pressed up against the lonely windows of dawn.
Scrambled pictures invading private space.
Dramamine and cough syrup dreams
all stored away until playtime comes around again.
CDS
TOM WAITS � ALICE / BLOOD MONEY (ANTI)
Got these two (which were both released at the same time in 2002) for �4.99 each in Lost in Music, the guy behind the counter inquiring whether or not I owned �Real Gone�. I told him no, but it was on my list. To my amazement, �Alice� turns out to be one of Waits� loveliest albums, from the jazzy melancholy of the title track to the icy shivers of �Flower�s Grave� and �I�m Still Here�, it rivals even earlier works like �Closing Time� and �Blue Valentine� for sheer late-night perfection. Just remember to program out �Everything You Can Think� (which my mum likened to a Dalek) and the bonkers �Kommienezuspadt� though, or you�ll be having some seriously fucked-up nightmares. It comes as no surprise to find out that these songs were written for a stage play in Hamburg, as many have a distinctly Germanic sense of gloom. Check out the grim fairytale �Poor Edward� if you don�t believe me. It�s the cheery story of a guy who has a �devil twin� grafted to the back of his head and ends up killing himself before being whisked off to eternal damnation. Nice! Then there are sublimely weepy things such as �No One Knows I�m Gone�, �Lost in the Harbour�, �Watch Her Disappear�, �Fish and Bird� and �Barcarolle�. It�s pretty much the perfect Waits package. �Blood Money� focuses more on drunken, dribbling sea shanties and jazzy madness going on all over the place. On �Coney Island Baby� (NOT the crap Lou Reed song, thankfully), Waits manages to sound exactly like Ralph the Dog from �The Muppet Show� while �All the World is Green�, �Another Man�s Vine�, �Lullaby�, �The Part You Throw Away� and �Woe� are all fantastic, like Leonard Cohen or Cole Porter filtered through the ears of a Martian who�s overdosed on LSD and rum.
LAMBCHOP � IS A WOMAN (CITY SLANG)
Here�s another album from 2002, only I actually bought this one at the time of release (albeit a dodgy bootleg copy from a �geezer� who sold hooky CDs and DVDs at the place where I worked). I didn�t ever really give myself a chance to get into this, as it�s very understated and fragile and I suppose I just wasn�t in the MOOD for something like that at the time. Now, though, I can�t get ENOUGH understated and fragile shit! Also, I�ve been rediscovering the beauty of Lambchop lately, so decided to dig this out again. It�s very slow and dreamy, with pianos and pedal steels shimmering everywhere you turn and Kurt Wagner�s delicate voice wisely intoning tales of dogs, caterpillars and autumnal vicars. �My Blue Wave� must be singled out for being especially (and absolutely) gorgeous. This album doesn�t contain anything nasty and loud, either, so makes a perfect late-night listening companion, whether you�ve been on the sherry or otherwise. Just lovely, and I never thought I�d ever say that about a CD containing a Sisters of Mercy cover version!
SCREAMING TREES � DUST (EPIC)
Despite being a huge fan of Mark Lanegan�s sublime 1993 album �Whiskey for the Holy Ghost�, this is the first Screaming Trees release I�ve ever bought. Okay, so it WAS only �2 from a charity shop, but that�s hardly the point, is it? The Trees certainly could rock, sort of like a grunge take on The Doors, if The Doors were actually any GOOD (I�ve always found Jim Morrison�s drug-addled pseudo-intellectual rantings either pathetic or hilarious, depending on my mood. Strangely, I enjoyed Oliver Stone�s bio-pic, though). �Witness� is a truly brilliant, jumping-around-the-room-all-fired-up-ready-to-go-out-and-KICK-SOME-ASS Rawk Song and was a sort of �hit�, I seem to remember, and it follows in the tradition of amazing 7th tracks on albums. No one else seems to have ever noticed this trend, though. Why oh why must I ALWAYS be the ONLY ONE?!?
MORRISSEY � IN THE FUTURE WHEN ALL�S WELL (ATTACK)
Once again, I have failed to resist the charms of multi-millionaire Morrissey and the continuous milking of his latest album but at least THIS time I didn�t succumb to the dastardly marketing ploy of buying the same single TWICE, mainly because the 2nd CD�s extra tracks are merely ropey old live recordings which I can quite easily live WITHOUT, thank you very much. Don�t know why I often feel the need to APOLOGISE for liking this guy. Maybe it�s something to do with the fact that I used to literally wear my adoration for him on my sleeve or something (well, on my T-shirt, if we�re REALLY being LITERAL about it). Another nice cover photo (of Moz, er, �enjoying� an ice cream cone) and one which has attracted oodles of attention on the ultra-sad fan site www.morrissey-solo.com (if you have a spare couple of hours, I heartily recommend you spend some time here. You�ll be creased up at the zillions of losers who seemingly have nothing better to do than speculate on everything from their hero�s sexuality to the size of his shoes. Brilliant! The REALLY sad thing about it, though, is that I�d be joining in the �fun� if such things had only existed when I was a Smiths-obsessed teen.) This is another great single from the �Ringleader of the Tormentors� collection but the REAL reason for owning this is, of course, that exclusive extra track, �Christian Dior�.. NOT the Adam Ant B-side, as one may expect (Morrissey has a penchant for covering obscure-ish �70�s �gems�, as his last couple of singles attest to), but an original Moz/Boz composition. The verses are melancholic (�Christian Dior, you wasted your life on aroma and clothes, fabric and dyes.. on grandeur and style and making the poor rich smile�) and heavy with strings and grand pianos while the choruses are laugh-aloud witty (�You could have run wild on the back streets of Lyon or Marseilles, reckless and leg-less and stoned, impregnating women or kissing mad street boys from Napoli who couldn�t even spell their own names�). Of course, the self-obsessed Moz ends up comparing himself to the dead fashion icon and concludes that �years alone with never be returned�. It�s a rather spiffing ditty, all told.
TINDERSTICKS � N�NETTE ET BONI (ISLAND)
Had a shower and ate my last two Quorn/salad rolls for breakfast. Decided to go to Shawlands, so I DID. Walked there, stopping off in the Super Asia market on the way for some delicious spicy Koka noodles. Joe M rang while I was in Victoria Road and we chatted for about 10 minutes. He was on his lunch-break. Then I looked in some charity shops. Saw a Smithereens cassette in Oxfam but it was about �2.50. Fuck THAT! Was in Sir John's at 2pm and had to stand at the bar, it was so busy. John M came in and got us a seat at someone else's table. He told me he was in town yesterday and was going on about Aberdeen getting beaten by Queen's Park last night. I only had the one pint and couldn't be arsed waiting ages to get served at the busy bar, so I said goodbye and walked back into town. Got a veggie sausage roll from Auld's the bakers on the way. Had a pint in the Crystal Palace then nicked a Tindersticks CD from Missing (it was only a quid, as the disc was scratched and the CD was in the case, so they obviously weren't too bothered if people nicked it � that�s how I choose to justify it, anyway). Then went to the Horseshoe and James was there, so I ended up having a few pints with him. His leg is fucked 'cos he fell while on a bus the other day. Got a subway back, was in at 8.10pm. Ate some chips with my veggie sos roll. Took some stuff to the recycling bins when I went out for a litre of Merrydown. Watched a Barry Humphries interview on TV and a Smiths live DVD from 1983. Put on my new CD when I went to bed � it�s perfect for that time of night, as it�s quiet and soothing. Mainly instrumental, as it�s a film soundtrack, but there�s a stripped-down vocal version of �Tiny Tears�. Really nice.
VELVEETA HEARTBREAK - VELVEETA HEARTBREAK (SEMPER LOFI RECORDINGS) PMB 111, 144 N. 7th Street, Brooklyn, NY 11211, USA / http://velveetaheartbreak.blogspot.com
Following on from his pop-tastic seven-inch single (see last month�s issue for review), here is a very tastily-artworked compact disc thingie from Mike Bowman. There�s psychedelic backwards weirdness, mad lyrics (some of which � especially on the title track - force the suspicious listener to conclude that hallucinogenic drugs played a part in the recording of this music), floaty vocal harmonies, spooky organs and seven tracks of loveliness. �Still in Love With You� is the winning song, to my ears, as it�s sincere and sweet and lovely and a general joy to the senses. Get this CD. If you don�t, it just may turn out to be one of your saddest death bed regrets.
THE BRIAN WILSON SHOCK TREATMENT � SAVIOURS OF ROCK (SLUTFISH WORLDWIDE RECORDS / POE RECORDS) PO Box 1058, New Paltz, NY 12561, USA / www.myspace/thebrianwilsonshocktreatment
That�s Poe as in Edgar Allan, not the gay Tellytubby, dumbo. Any band who list their favourite bars on their CD can�t be all bad and this lot AREN�T all bad. In fact, they�re rather good at what they do. The psychedelic cover art points you in the general direction that this CD (recorded live in Brooklyn a year ago) will take you in � we�re taking 1960�s �Pebbles� style shit, dawg. It�s kind of hard to make out the vocals what with all those swirling guitars and crashing drums but happily some of them are printed on the sleeve. We�re not talking deep thinking poetry here, though � this is generally light-hearted, good time stuff (one of the songs is sung from the viewpoint of a zombie!) Would probably be a fun night out going to see this lot and maybe one day I will, so I can also check out some of those bars!
JENNY LEWIS WITH THE WATSON TWINS � RABBIT FUR COAT (ROUGH TRADE)
Jenny Lewis is from the fairly decent indie band Rilo Kiley, who I saw supporting the shockingly ace Bright Eyes about 18 months ago. Her solo album is a thousand miles away from the sound her band makes, though. This is more akin to Emmylou Harris or a post-punk Patsy Cline. I�d heard a couple of these songs performed live on late-night TV and liked them, but then forgot about them again until I heard them coming over the speakers in Borders while I was flicking through a Jean Genet book one fine Glasgow afternoon. I didn�t know who the songs were by and imagined they were probably by someone really naff and embarrassing but nevertheless filed away a rough description of them so I could ask one of my hipster friends at a later date. Then I looked at my feet and noticed six �1 coins scattered all over the floor. I scooped them up and was out of there FAST, before anyone noticed. How anyone could drop six �1 coins and not notice is beyond my puny understanding, but I went and had a few drinks to celebrate. Next day, I used the power of the internet to find out who it was singing those lovely songs on my day of good fortune and then remembered seeing Jenny Lewis doing them live on TV a few weeks previously. I bought the CD a few days later. Only �8, it was (it was 1p cheaper in Virgin and HMV but FUCK those corporate cunts. I bought it in Fopp. Indie Power!) Managed to listen to the whole disc all the way through before my pissed-up flatmate came a-calling, FORCING me to drink vodka with him until 3.25am. He was so whacked-out on pills and booze that he couldn�t remember how we�d gotten home the previous night and had forgotten spending nearly �200 on a keyboard! Then he mistakenly went into someone else�s room. Anyway, the music on this CD is really beautiful, recalling some other era yet still remaining firmly rooted in the Now. �Rise Up With Fists!!� (a BRILLIANT title) will have you waltzing around the room, while �Happy� is one of many sadder-than-an-empty-railway-station-at-dusk ballads that will soothe and console your weary heart until dawn comes around again. The cover of the Travelling Willbury�s �Handle With Care� is pretty special, too.
BOOK
HARUKI MURAKAMI � KAFKA ON THE SHORE (VINTAGE)
There�s something about Murakami�s novels that never fails to relax me, leaving me totally immersed in another world. I mean, reading stories set in Japan is one thing, but stories where old men talk to cats, fish rain from the sky and people who aren�t even dead come back as ghosts is something else entirely. All three of these things happen in this novel and a lot more crazy shit besides. The writing is so beautiful that you never stop to question any of these odd bod events, either. Murakami draws you into his bizarre world like the master storyteller he is. It makes a nice change when you actually AGREE with all the superlative blurbs plastered on the front cover of a book. This truly IS �spellbinding�, �addictive� and �wonderful� and somehow seems too short, even at over 500 pages.
FILM
ASK THE DUST
Wasn�t going to go to the GFT like I'd planned but then decided I may as well. Walked into town and went to the 12.45 matinee (only �3) screening of 'Ask the Dust'. Really enjoyed it. The place was pretty empty and the film turned out to be a pretty faithful rendition of John Fante�s brilliant novel (which was a massive influence on Charles Bukowski). A young writer struggles with poverty in a run down LA hotel and hooks up with a couple of slightly mad women who both end their days tragically. The scene where Arturo Bandini (played by Irish wide-boy actor Colin Farrell) and Camilla (played by saucy sex-pot Salma Hayek) nearly drown in the Pacific Ocean is beautifully shot and is a MUST for cine-pervs everywhere, as there�s some tits �n� ass action on display. Neither of those actors �do� it for ME, though, so there were no trouser stirrings in MY aisle. Afterwards, I bought reduced Quorn, salad and rolls and ate it all down by the River Clyde. It was a nice, sunny day. Was going to have a drink in the Sir John Moore but spotted John M and, for some reason, I didn't feel like seeing anyone, so I went to the Goose instead. Then I had a 2nd pint in the Horseshoe, had a look in Borders and Waterstones. Read a bit of Zola's 'L'assomoir'. Had another pint in the Brunswick Cellars then had a lovely, cloudy pint of Addlestone's cider in the Liquid Ship on Great Western Road. The music was pleasant but nowhere near as good as last week's playlist (Elliott Smith, Bright Eyes, Husker Du, Red House Painters.. a near PERFECT soundtrack for me). Was back at 7.50pm, ate another couple of Quorn rolls, drank cider (went out for more) and wrote poetry.
A STRANGE MEETING
Carla heard a crunch as she bit through the erect penis. That�ll teach him to call me a slut, she thought. Soon, she was dressed and out of there, leaving her nameless trick screaming and bleeding alone on the hotel room bed. It made her feel good. In control, somehow. She thought about what to make for supper as she adjusted her skirt in the lift.
�What�s your star sign, lady?�
Carla hadn�t even noticed the old woman standing at the back of the lift. She looked so grey and still, almost like a statue, it was no wonder.
�Um.. Pisces. Why?�
�That�s interesting. Pisceans are very sensitive on the whole, but it wasn�t very sensitive what you just did to that poor man, was it?�
Carla was amazed. She checked her pulse to make sure she was still alive and then thought about it but, no, she hadn�t taken any strange drugs that evening. This old woman really DID seem to know what had just gone on.
�How did you know about that? You weren�t in the room, were you?�
�No, but I still know what you did, and it wasn�t very nice.�
�Well, he wasn�t very nice to me either.�
�You knew what you were getting into though, didn�t you, dear?� the old woman said. �You never expected it to be a bed of roses, did you?�
�Of course not, but I want to be treated with a BIT of respect.�
�Everyone does, my love.�
Carla couldn�t quite believe this. The lift seemed to be taking forever and this mad old bitch was talking like she KNEW her.. but she DIDN�T. DID she?
�Look, I don�t know who you are or how you know what I do for a living but it�s none of your fucking business, okay? Now, I�m going home so goodnight and..�
But then she noticed the lift was stuck.
�Doesn�t look like you�re going anywhere, after all,� the old woman said, smiling sweetly.
�Oh, great! That�s ALL I need,� Carla said, slamming herself violently against the wall of the lift and staring up at the ceiling, wishing Hannibal Lector would jump down and tear the old woman�s face off.
�Sometimes you need to stop and THINK about what you�re about to do and ask yourself if it�s REALLY the right course of action. Look at how many people you�ve ended up hurting. Including yourself.�
Carla sighed and pressed the �Emergency� button, hoping that some hotel employee would turn up and save her from this crazy old cow and her mad talk.
But the old woman hadn�t finished yet.
�I�m your conscience,� she said. �You always thought you didn�t have one, didn�t you? But you DO. Ever since you were a little girl, lying in bed, scared in case your step-daddy would come into your room at night. Dreading what he�d do to you. Hating him for what he did to your big sister and terrified in case he did the same thing to you. That�s why you built up this wall around yourself, shut off your feelings, stopped letting people in. That�s why you don�t think it matters if you hurt people, especially men. But it DOES matter, Carla. I�m here to tell you that it really does and you�ve GOT to change the way you�re living or you won�t be around for much longer.�
�You�re my CONSCIENCE?� Carla really couldn�t believe this was happening. There was no way the old woman could POSSIBLY know all those things about her. She hadn�t told anyone about ANY of that stuff, ever.
�Yes, that�s right. I�m your conscience.�
Then, all of a sudden, the lift started to move again. In a few seconds, it had arrived at the ground floor of the hotel. The doors swung open and the two women walked out into the lobby.
Carla was feeling extremely odd and looked around, half expecting the old woman to have vanished into thin air, but she was still there, standing right behind her.
She made for the door, gazing straight ahead, trying not to think about anything other than getting the hell out of there.
�Goodnight, ladies,� the doorman said.
�You mean, you can SEE her?� Carla asked.
�Of course he can see me, dear,� the old woman said. �I�m not a GHOST, you know.�
The doorman looked at Carla as if she was a lunatic.
When they were out on the busy street, the old woman began to walk away.
�Wait a minute,� Carla called after her. �It�s not late. Why don�t we go somewhere and talk some more?�
�I thought you couldn�t wait to get away from me,� the old woman replied.
�Well, you�ve got me intrigued, I suppose. I mean, I don�t know how you seem to know so much about me. Are you one of those psychics? I�ve seen them on the Montel Show. I watch it in the afternoon, before work.�
�I�m not a psychic, dear. I�ve already told you what I am.�
�Okay, whatever you say. Let me take you for a coffee or something. I�ve never talked to anyone about those things that happened when I was a kid. I�d like to talk about it.�
�I�m afraid I have to go now, but I�m sure we�ll see each other again.�
�When, though?� Carla asked. �Where can I find you?�
�Oh, you don�t find your conscience, dear. Your conscience finds you.�
And, with that, the old woman walked away, disappearing into the crowd.