Spring forward

Nothing shows a greater faltering display of commitment than logging into a blog only to be greeted with, “LATEST: SEPTEMBER 24th 2009,” tagged against the last entry.

To my unwavering readership of 1, I apologise wholeheartedly. That is; I would, if I had a whole heart to give.

Needless to say, a great deal has happened since then. Or perhaps it hasn’t, which is just as (if not more) noteworthy. Regardless, I resolve to make this a place of greater discursive resonance, echoing through the halls of human history. There may be a few stories. A few fragmented thoughts, scattered to the wind.

However, I am considering purchasing a new camera lens, so it may simply become a place to display inadequate amateur photography.

In the meantime, here’s what happens when you forget to install the padding in a padded cell.

Chip Kidd – “The Cheese Monkeys”

Chip Kidd. Chip Kidd. Chip Kidd. It’s a curious name, there’s no denying that. I first came across it when he was credited as “designing” the luxurious, oversize editions of Alex Ross’ Mythology and Dave Gibbons’ Watching the Watchmen. It’s the kind of name you expect to be ascribed to a supporting character in Peanuts rather than to a real, living person.

But real and living he is. He’s not a household name but his work in book design is legendary. Remember the Jurassic Park logo? That was him.

However I was unaware that he was a published novelist, with two books to his name. I picked up his first, The Cheese Monkeys, on a whim. Drawn in by the fact that it was billed as a “novel in two semesters”, I thought it would resonate somewhat with my own experience of two semesters at an American university. I was please to find that it did, although not in the way I was expecting.

The novel concerns a young man starting college at a fictional institution at the tail-end of the 1950s, majoring in art. Nothing could be further from my own vaulting academic aspirations.

However, the novel perfectly encapsulates the moment in everyone’s life when they discover who they really are and what they are destined to become. Beyond the gaggles of primary school-yard friends and the closed cliques of secondary education, my wilderness year in America was a time of great self-realisation.

This is partly due to the inspiring quality of the instruction at American higher education institutions. University in the UK is, in my opinion, utterly worthless. Successive governments’ pledges to get as many people attending has driven the value of an undergraduate degree into the ground. Beyond this, so many loathsome people use university as a finishing school, with no thought given to anything beyond the cold, small streets that trap them.

However, in America, there is such breadth and diversity in higher education. The fact that you can major in English and take classes in Astronomy is utterly beguiling to me. It’s a system that caters to the truly curious and rewards the small, mewling child in us all that constantly begs, “Why?”

I’m straying from the point a little but this novel did very much reawaken within me the moments in my life when I have felt truly inspired and certain of myself. Oscar Wilde wrote that the meaning of life is the complete realisation of the self. That’s fine for a fop-faced aesthete to say, and the fact that he was married with two children suggests he didn’t entirely follow his own dogma, but it’s the closest to a workable definition I’ve yet found.

In short, read this book! It doesn’t have the most satisfactory of endings (I believe the story is picked up by Kidd’s second novel, The Learners) but it is wickedly funny and richly rewarding.

The Death of Bunny Munro… and traditional reading habits?

In most of my publishing-related posts, I’ve lambasted eBooks and eReaders for the primary reason that they fail at emulating printed books. But the fine people at Canongate, in partnership with Apt Studio, have developed a new kind of eBook: Enhanced Editions. Here’s a promo;

The Death of Bunny Munro – Enhanced Edition Promo from Enhanced Editions on Vimeo.

Granted, scepticism is natural given previous eBooks and devices that have promised to revolutionise reading, but this is different. Enhanced Editions is a programme that seems well-aware of the futility of emulating an existing medium. In creating this multimedia product, it adds considerable value and draws the reader’s attention away from the fact that they are reading an intangible novel; rather it immerses them more fully in the text.

I finished reading my hardback copy of the novel today and was listening to Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’ superb soundtrack to The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford throughout. It was a brilliant experience and I am certain that a reading of the book coupled with new compostions would add considerably to Cave’s elegiac prose.

Incidentally, the book is wonderful and I wholly recommend a purchase in either print or digital edition.

A serious house on serious earth

“Hello. I came to talk. I’ve been thinking lately. About you and me. What’s going to happen to us, in the end. We’re going to kill each other, aren’t we? Perhaps you’ll kill me. Perhaps I’ll kill you. Perhaps sooner. Perhaps later.” – Batman, The Killing Joke

I love Batman. In a life that has seen much assimilation of pulp and pop culture, the figure of the Dark Knight is one that has remained a perennial favourite. Be it seeing the repeated camp 60s TV show and revelling in the ludicrous villains, or seeing Batman Returns as an 8 year-old and cowering behind the sofa at DeVito’s grotesque Penguin, I’ve always had a nostalgic sentiment for the characters and the story of the orphan who vowed to turn fear against those who prey on the fearful.

As I grew up, I turned my attention to the Batman comics, and was I in for a shock. When I was about ten, I read The Killing Joke for the first time. Drawn in by the art of Brian Bolland, who I had admired from his work on 2000AD, I read it on a whim. It was a short tale focusing on Batman and The Joker, what could go wrong? Well, I was in for an education as to why Batman comics are so very different to other mainstream superhero works.

Key to the Batman mythos is the idea that the world the characters inhabit is so awful that the only sane way in which to live their lives is for them to lose their minds completely. It’s telling that Batman’s foes, once defeated, aren’t interred in a prison, they’re held in a mental hospital; Arkham Asylum.

“All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy… When I saw what a black, awful joke the world was, I went crazy as a coot! I admit it! … It’s all a joke! Everything anybody ever valued or struggled for… It’s all a monstrous, demented gag! So why can’t you see the funny side? Why aren’t you laughing?” – The Joker, The Killing Joke

“Gotham City. Maybe it’s all I deserve, now. Maybe it’s just my time in Hell… Train’s no way to come to Gotham… in an airplane, from above, all you’d see are streets and buildings. Fool you into thinking it’s civilised. By now Barbara’s gotten her tests back. I only hate myself a little for hoping they came out negative. This is no place to raise a family.” – James Gordon, Batman: Year One

In recent years, the resurrected Batman film franchise has played to these central conceits to brilliant effect. Heath Ledger’s performance as The Joker in Christopher Nolan’s superlative The Dark Knight owes much to the characterisation found in works such as The Killing Joke and his final scene in which he suggests sharing a cell at Arkham with Batman is almost a word-for-word recreation of the story’s closing pages.

The reasoning behind this somewhat rambling post is the recent discovery of one of the year’s most pleasant surprises. Batman: Arkham Asylum was released last week and it is a terrific distillation of all the greatest qualities that make a fantastic Batman story. It is very rare these days to find examples of good (or even competent) storytelling in videogames but this really does excel. Furthermore, it reminded me of all the things I love about Batman.

“Hahaha. Y’know, it’s funny… This situation. It reminds me of a joke…

See, there were these two guys in a lunatic asylum… And one night they decide they don’t like living in an asylum any more. They decide they’re going to escape!

So, like, they get up onto the roof. And there, just across this narrow gap, they see the rooftops of the town, stretching away in the moonlight… Stretching away to freedom.

Now, the first guy, he jumps across with no problem. But his friend, his friend daredn’t make the leap. Y’see… Y’see, he’s afraid of falling.

So then, the first guy has an idea… He says, ‘Hey! I have my flashlight with me! I’ll shine it across the gap between the buildings. You can walk along the beam and join me!’

B-but the second guy just shakes his head. He suh-says… He says ‘Wh-what do you think I am? Crazy? You’d turn it off when I was half way across!’

Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha haaa… Fnff oh, do excuse me…” – The Joker, The Killing Joke

That’s all, folks

Well, that’s it. No more education.

What now?

Job? Pension? House? Yacht? Helicopter? Wife? Children?

None of the above seem forthcoming. What to do… what to do…

A glourious return

I had low expectations for Inglourious Basterds. I despised Death Proof and the truly abominable UK trailer for Tarantino’s latest film positioned it as some kind of terrible farce, with attention drawn to Mike Myers’ absurd cameo and Brad Pitt’s camera-mugging.

But it isn’t. It’s really quite wonderful. I should start by saying that if you’re not a Tarantino fan, you won’t enjoy this at all as it is, I believe, the apotheosis of his style. Like Kill Bill, the film is divided into separate chapters that the director claims are each inspired by a different genre of film-making. I could only pick out snatches of spaghetti westerns here and there but I’m inclined to believe him. Naturally, this practice does serve to stifle the narrative; in some cases a vignette seems to be developing toward something grandiose, only to be stifled by a sudden cut. Over the course of two and half hours, it is entirely understandable that some attentions may wander.

Furthermore, most of the film is in German and French. A brave decision and one that pushes it further from the realms of mainstream cinema. However, the director’s fondness for dialogue and wordplay translates seamlessly into other tongues. Tarantino’s passion for non-diegetic music is back in abundance, with blasts of Ennio Morricone and David Bowie to punctuate many scenes.

The final point worth noting is that Brad Pitt is barely in the film. He leads the eponymous “Basterds” of the piece but the film is more concerned with the life of Shosanna, played to perfection by Melanie Laurent (pictured above, preparing for battle). Sadly, she barely speaks a word of English in the entire film so has been kept out of the weak marketing effort.

Like Kill Bill (which I believe to be Tarantino’s greatest work), Inglourious Basterds is a film of vengeance. I wonder also if it’s meant to ape Nazi propaganda but from an American perspective (central to the plot is a fictional Nazi propaganda film). It’s also a comedy; some scenes are absolutely hilarious. But is it mainstream? Absolutely not. However, whatever your taste for film, I urge you to see it. I haven’t seen anything else like it.

With loves, and hates, and passions just like mine…

I found her in a cemetery.  She was sitting against a gravestone, her head buried deep in a book.

‘Excuse me, do you have a light?’ she chimed as I walked past.  Disturbed from my stroll I stammered a lie, eager to be on my way, ‘Sorry, I don’t smoke.’

‘Nor do I.  I want to light a candle for Rosemary Miller.  Well, no matter.  I just wanted to get your attention.’

She produced a small candle, placed it atop the gravestone and promptly lit it.

‘Care to join me?’ she invited me toward the dewy grass in front of Rosemary’s memorial.  I accepted her offer.  Though she was clearly mad, there was something in her demeanour that was unquestionably charming.

‘Do you think Rosemary will mind?’ I gamely enquired.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ the girl sighed heavily, ‘she died in 1893’.

I glanced to read the inscription.  She was right, of course.

‘So what brings you here?’ I enquired.

‘Oh I adore it here.  There’s so much more life behind these gates than beyond them.’ She gleefully waved her arms to emphasise the point.  ‘Just look at that apple tree,’ she gestured.  ‘Isn’t that the frothiest…blossomest blossom you’ve ever seen?’

I followed her direction.  It was no different to any apple blossom I had seen before, yet all I could do was nod in silent agreement.

‘There’s so much beauty in melancholy,’ she added wistfully, ‘if only people could see it.’

I let out a laugh, ‘Yes, when the melancholy fit shall fall, then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.’  She looked at me, beaming.  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, ‘Keats…’

‘Yes, I know’, and I saw in her eyes a spark of recognition.

A cloud passed over and cast a pall.  I felt the cold gather in the small of my back.

‘What are you reading?’ I asked, motioning toward the book she was holding.

‘It’s Oscar!’ she yelped, ‘care to browse?’

She thrust the Wilde anthology into my lap and I flicked through the pages.  The final stanza of one poem caught my eye.

‘Very good’, I remarked, handing the book to her.  More clouds gathered overhead.  I stood up and wiped the dew from my trousers.

‘I really must be going,’ I stated plainly, ‘work calls’.

‘Oh,’ remarked the girl, a note of sadness in her voice, ‘well, hopefully we’ll meet again.’

‘Yes, hopefully.’

She waved goodbye and I continued my walk.  In the distance I heard her cry, ‘Rosemary says goodbye, too!’ I hung my head low.  There were so many things left unsaid, unasked.  I didn’t even know her name.

As I reached for the gate I sadly recalled the lines I had read in her book;

“It were better we should part, and go,

Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,

And I to nurse the barren memory

Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.”

I left the cemetery, lit a cigarette and pulled my jacket tight to my chest against the approaching rain.

New Weezer single doesn’t suck; Satan builds snowman, “ecstatic with results”

Well, this is interesting. Weezer have suffered the most catastrophic career nosedive of any band I can think of (maybe equalled by the Smashing Pumpkins) and their recent live shenanigans seem to have been the product of the fevered meanderings of those rapidly approaching nervous breakdowns. Witnesseth my earlier post with the Kids and Poker Face covers for details on that.

But hark! A new Weezer song! Look at the artwork!

Could it be? A Weezer song about romance? No frat-boy posturing? Surely not!

Well, it is. And it’s really rather good. Obviously, it pales compared to anything they committed to tape pre-2000 but it’s still an enjoyably catchy little number on unrequited love. It even reminds me a little of Girl Afraid (strictly in terms of theme only, I hasten to add).

Hopefully the new album is worth listening to also. My hopes aren’t high for that, given the other new songs played on their current tour. At least we have this little dusty nugget. For all interested, it can be streamed here.

Radiohead – “These Are My Twisted Words”

Two new Radiohead songs in as many weeks? It certainly looks (sounds) that way. I read a rumour that this song is a leaked Radiohead track. It’s yet to be verified by any trusted sources but that’s definitely Thom Yorke singing.

As for the song itself, I like it. It draws from their Neu! inspirations quite heavily and isn’t entirely dissimilar from Cuttooth, which can’t be a bad thing.

The only thing I find questionable is where this song came from. Is it a new recording or something that’s been dormant for some time? I’m tempted to say it’s new, given the sound quality. It doesn’t sound like a rough demo.

Regardless, I’m sure an announcement will be made shortly.

A hard left hook for “Southpaw Grammar”

I’m not used to defending the indefensible. In truth, I’m not accustomed to defending the defensible either. Yet I’ve suffered a tremendous change of heart in recent weeks concerning what is perhaps Morrissey’s most reviled album; Southpaw Grammar.

This volte-face came about as a result of a recent gig in which Morrissey performed Best Friend on the Payroll, a track from this album. I was immediately struck by how well he performed it and, additionally, how good the song actually was. Southpaw Grammar is an album I have owned for several years (recently repurchased in the newly-released special edition) but have never been able to penetrate. Following the gig, I resolved to give it more time.

I am very glad that I did. There is, however, no questioning the album’s inaccessibility. The original release consisted of a mere nine songs, two of which stretched over the ten minute mark. One of these songs, The Teachers are Afraid of the Pupils, opened the album with a sample of Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 in D Minor. Hardly the perkiest or most energetic way to begin an album. Another song opens with a two and half minute drum solo. Furthermore, released little more than a year after the sublimely elegiac Vauxhall and I, the album’s sound is a marked contrast that could only have confused and infuriated listeners. Critically, it was utterly panned. In 1995, Oasis, Blur and Pulp were at the forefront of British pop music. Though all bands owe a debt of influence to Morrissey and The Smiths, none could have sounded more different from Morrissey’s current work. A lacklustre performance of The Boy Racer on “Later…” (an episode in which Pulp also appeared) effectively displays the contrast. The band in suits, giving their all to a thoroughly unmoved audience. Fittingly, the song bemoans the narrator’s passing youth and envy at a more popular counterpart. Morrissey could well have been singing the song directly at Jarvis Cocker across the studio floor.

I’ve always enjoyed The Boy Racer and the new edition of the album has moved it up the tracklisting to serve as a ferocious opener. Yet there’s one song on the album that I had previously never listened to and am now utterly entranced by. The epic Southpaw previously closed the album but has now been moved to the middle of the tracklisting. As such, it serves as a centrepiece of sorts. Seemingly a tale of childhood loneliness transformed into adult longing, in which the paths of two kindred souls are destined never to cross, the song utterly transcends its lyrical obliqueness. Simon Goddard in his new book, Mozipedia, sums it up more eloquently than I ever could; “As a recording, Southpaw stands out as, potentially, the most experimental track of Morrissey’s career: five minutes of pop melancholy, sprinting in search of escape but tumbling helplessly into a trance-like abyss of sedated misery… As his voice finds its horizon and fades away, the instrumental coda’s trembling heart-strings and hollow, hopeless rhythms serve only to reiterate the never-to-be-lovers’ unalterable sorrow”. Not the happiest of songs but it makes the hairs on my arms stand bolt upright every time I hear it. Even Johnny Marr never managed that.

Southpaw Grammar is, beyond everything, unashamedly a rock album. Named for Morrissey’s newly-found passion for pugilism, it is both brutal and beautiful. It’s not his finest collection of songs but as an experience, it’s well worth listening to. The new edition is a worthy addition to any CD collection, with sleevenotes written by the man himself explaining the processes behind the recording. The sense of pride he feels in the work is overwhelming and one any fan should share.