I rarely like albums on the first listen, but Fiona Apple’s “The Idler Wheel” is my favorite album from last year, and I liked it from the first.
I enjoyed her hit “Criminal”, but was bored by Jon Brion’s production style (foot on piano pedal for echo, pound and hold chord, repeat) and soon tuned her out. I also worried about her, getting a sense that by listening to her songs I was injuring her in some way.
After reading a review I got her album and listened to it on headphones during a long walk. Then listened to it again. An interview Apple gave on Marc Maron’s WTF podcast gave assurance that she was resilient and funny. She puts herself on her sleeve, and actually lets some of it get on you, or lets it fall to the floor with a laugh. But she has tenacity and creativity.
Her video for “Hot Knife” is directed by ex-boyfriend Paul Thomas Anderson, an excellent film director (“Boogie Nights”, “There Will Be Blood”) who also keeps knocking up Maya Rudolph. Respect.
I knew Alan Thicke’s kid was a singer. Hadn’t heard any song by him before (or at least connected any song with him). His photo would show up here and there, then his name. I’d think “Ah. Alan Thicke’s kid. Bet that’s a steep climb, or a career boost. Whatever. Looks like a dullard. Like an even-blander Enrique Iglesias.”
This week, I discovered the name of that song I’ve heard 300 times this summer (“Blurred Lines)”, and that it was Alan Thicke singing it. Great production. Not surprised Pharrell is involved. The video is causing a stir, due to the presence of naked female models (let’s all of us clothed primates gasp in horror). Even so, only Pharrell and T.I. come across like the only humans within worth hanging out with. Even better, though, is the parody video. Unfortunately, getting many of the jokes in the parody require seeing the original. Here you go [Not Safe For Work unless you work someplace awesome]:
The funnier, more personality-driven parody by Mod Carousel that swaps the genders:
Bet the group in the parody video had more fun than the pretend-fun in the first video.
I enjoyed the Middlebrook biography more, but both played off each other well. Some thoughts:
1.) A Biography caused a stir
when it was released, for outing a sexual relationship between Anne
Sexton and one of her later psychiatrists. Among the immediate problems
that come to mind: conducting an affair during the scheduled therapy
hour as part of therapy and charging for it. Caused concern among her
friends at the time, and remains an eyebrow-raiser now.
2.)
More controversially, A Biography relies on many hours of recorded
sessions between Anne Sexton and the main psychiatrist of her life, Dr.
Martin Orne. The material was used with the permission of Linda Sexton,
her mother’s literary executor, and the book has a foreword by Dr.
Orne to put things in context. No big deal. Auxiliary family members had
a problem with it, Linda sanctioned it. Good insights resulted.
Middlebrook did a good job using fragments to shed light on Sexton’s
life and work.
3.) Anne
Sexton’s poetry started in her 20s, at the suggestion of Dr. Orne as a
way to deal with her mental and emotional issues. It helped.
4.) It is a romantic notion to regard the artist as shaman, one who has a
schizophrenic break and becomes shifted from the rest of our humdrum
reality. That has a bit of bearing on Sexton’s creativity and
productivity. Primarily, though, that romantic notion gets set aside as
true blue mental illness seems an outright pain in the ass with
devastating consequences for the sufferer, family, and friends. It’s not
that the person is ahead of his/her time so much as the wiring is off, leading
to sparks of brilliance than extended short circuiting and shutdowns.
The upcycle of mania may be fun. The downcycle is hellish.
5.) Middlebrook was trustworthy in both the conveyance of Sexton’s life and interpretation of her art.
6.) I admire Dr. Orne’s willingness to endorse use of the confidential
material, and especially admire Linda Sexton’s willingness to share a
variety of personally embarrassing and harrowing details in her own book
and allowing Middlebrook to probe and bring things to light the rest of
the family would likely object to. It mattered to understand the art.
“I think we ought to read only the kind of books
that wound or stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with
a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us
happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no
books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could
write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a
disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more
than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone,
like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”
— Franz Kafka, letter to Oskar Pollak, 27-January-1904
9 lines of despair then 5 of exaltation in love and friendship. I enjoy the turn at the end of this very simple poem.
Jumpstarting (and applying a prolonged cardiopulmonary resuscitation to) my writing aspirations the last three (!) years, especially the last two, definitely has me engaged in the typical carping of hopeful artists caught in the throes of enthusiasmos/manqué anxieties. “How can THAT person be successful? Ugh, such mediocrity in the agora!” Yes, my annoying artist side engages in conspicuous use of Greek terms even more often than French.
Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare
When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d, Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate, For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
“Desiring this man’s art” I take as a mix of envying another’s accomplishment and salesmanship (or saleswomanship), not so much the substance of the work. And those who find creating art a refuge relate to often being unsettled and grouchy about it: “what I most enjoy contented least”.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. PopoZão. PopoZão.The objects of the Sonnets shift between a Dark Lady to a handsome young man. Shakespeare’s sonnets to the young man reach greater heights. While there is a romantic reverie at the end here, this poem sums up much about how I feel about friends I have known and those in the present. I am fortunate in friends, and while envy of celebrities and other artists kicks in frequently, in times of even light reflection the burdens of fame and the coteries that form around it look annoying as hell. Glad for my friends and the people I love. I’m content to keep them instead of being like, say, Kevin Federline digging on his own song “PopoZão”. Federline surely had “friends” telling him this song was great. Ye gods, this moment from 2006 is golden:
“Lost in Love” is a fucking bonkers song, and either Air Supply deserves more street cred or should be constantly monitored by police.
Air Supply was the soundtrack for a puppy love phase the summer 1981. Me, a 12 year-old townie in Eugene going into 7th grade. Her: a sophisticated older lady, age 14, from another town and headed to high school. I told her I was 13. Hey, age ain’t nothin’ but a number. Am I right, “I’m a 27 year old man who married my 15 year old girlfriend Aliyaah to avoid getting jailed” R. Kelly?
Any-hoo, summer camp ended and we went to separate towns and … those Air Supply songs? On the radio? They felt the way WE did. The world didn’t understand, but Air Supply was there!
One dude was named Graham Russell. The other was named Russell Graham. I think. There may be a handy resource for looking up such details but damned if I’m leaving this laptop to go to a library.
Jump about 17-18 years later, I’m joking with my friend Paul about Air Supply. He does the BEST (okay, only) impression I’ve seen of the lead singer’s manner of holding a corded microphone and gently shifting his weight back and forth. We start running over songs and realize every Air Supply song we can think of is an apology. Hilarious! Wimps! (Them, not us.) The topic gets left alone. I still avoid listening to Air Supply, as it fills me with puppy love shame. Certainly my summer girlfriend got a significant upgrade over me in the course of her life. Yet, there were eternal promises made that I’ve fallen short of.
Jump forward to now. Looking at a karaoke experience coming up, a friend wants to duet on an Air Supply song. Sure. Confront the fear, can only make me stronger. A few days I listened to “Lost in Love”. Of course I still knew the words, but I hadn’t contemplated them for a while. They are weird and terrifying. Let’s take a look! (After the video)
I realized the best part of love is the thinnest slice, And it don’t count for much. But I’m not letting go, I believe there’s still much to believe in.
What is “the thinnest slice”? Is love best when it’s portioned out by a miser? Tough for anyone, who has watched a movie or tv show about killers who imprison a person they fetishize, to NOT grow alarmed by these initial words. Still, let’s assume positive intent and that he wants to believe in this love bond in defiance of some undefined oppositional force.
So lift your eyes if you feel you can. Reach for a star and I’ll show you a plan. I figured it out, What I needed was someone to show me.
Why would the love object have difficulty raising her/his eyes? Sadness? Hogtied and laying on the floor? Let’s go with sadness. Positive intent. He’s addressing the love object, and boasts about having figured something out concerning reaching toward stars and getting a plan. Presumably, it wasn’t the love object who showed him, as she/he cannot even look skyward.
You know you can’t fool me, I’ve been loving you too long. It started so easy. You want to carry on. (Carry on)
Palpable menace here. Goodwill over positive intent diminishing. Our fingers start moving toward the phone to call for help. Imagine the two lines being reversed: “I’ve been loving you too long. You KNOW YOU CAN’T FOOL ME!” So, the love object may have tried to fool him, he protests here that’s not gonna happen. Things started simply, and the love object wants to carry on. To persist in love? To cry out for help? Damned vague. (Now I’m) lost in love and I don’t know much. Was I thinking aloud and fell out of touch? But I’m back on my feet, And eager to be what you wanted.
Now the dynamic has changed. He was the man with the star and a plan. Now he’s obsequious. He has stumbled or been off-balance and now regained his footing. The disorientation is possibly related to having shared his thoughts aloud. Was there something wrong about the thoughts? He seems to speculate there is. Now he’s changed for the love object, can’t she/he see that? Does she/he not approve?
Air Supply. Run. As fast as you can.Lyrics repeat several times, including a musical bridge with outer space noises. Then reaches the climax where a yielding to the moment has far exceeded a craven thankfulness for a thin “slice” of love. Now the narrator is engorged, intoxicated, and in a revelry over his now abundant portion of love. Now I’m lost, lost in love. Lost in love, lost in love. Now I’m lost, I’m lost in love. Lost in love, lost in love.
But as any creature with an appetite learns, satisfaction is a temporary state. The cravings return and one must consume again. To move from a niggardly “slice” of love to an outright banquet. The song is a warning.
April is National Poetry Month. I’m going to try to post something poetry-related every other day. A charming performance by Seamus Heaney of his poem “Oysters”. Hope it gives quickening and tang.
“Oysters” by Seamus Heaney
Our shells clacked on the plates. My tongue was a filling estuary, My palate hung with starlight: As I tasted the salty Pleiades Orion dipped his foot into the water.
Alive and violated They lay on their beds of ice: Bivalves: the split bulb And philandering sigh of ocean. Millions of them ripped and shucked and scattered.
We had driven to the coast Through flowers and limestone And there we were, toasting friendship, Laying down a perfect memory In the cool thatch and crockery.
Over the Alps, packed deep in hay and snow, The Romans hauled their oysters south to Rome: I saw damp panniers disgorge The frond-lipped, brine-stung Glut of privilege
And was angry that my trust could not repose In the clear light, like poetry or freedom Leaning in from the sea. I ate the day Deliberately, that its tang Might quicken me all into verb, pure verb.
“Aaaaaaawwwwllllll…”A post today on the A.V. Club celebrating the song “Wonderwall” by Oasis vexed me. I never got into Oasis. The lyrics to their hit songs were simple and pointlessly riddled with Beatles and Rolling Stones references. The word “wonderwall” is a George Harrison reference. And hearing more than one song of theirs is exhausting. Not because of their high energy, but they nag.
Their brotherly squabbles were occasionally fun to read/listen to. Re-listening to the song to see if I feel any differently about it 16-17 years on, the answer is I don’t. I still feel like the only tension to Oasis songs is whether lead vocalist Liam Gallagher will find a third note to sing, or even a second. Pass.
I was looking at paintings online to follow along with a book I was reading. In the chocolate shop I covered the screen a bit to make sure people couldn’t see the paintings. “I don’t want people to think I’m looking at porn.” Pause. “Wait, of course this is porn.”
The Turkish Bath, Jean-Auguste-Dominique IngresLa Grand Odalisque, Jean-Auguste-Dominique IngresAnd a few others…
