"Honesty
Seems to bring out the better in me.
I wish I knew
Another way to ruin a day for you."
Louise Post's kind of rawness in 'Wet Suit' on 'Resolver' released in 2005 suits me this week and it's amusing to find her "happy to have had time to focus on physical and spiritual health (don't worry, no trips to India!)" -- a helpful precision at Veruca Salt (home) -- after some high-voltage metaphysics, super-glueing the bonds between sex and music, then sub-continental recollections.
There'll be more Veruca Salt imminently.
I was unable to wait any longer -- though I'm finding why we had to hang around for the stormy new Fiona Apple -- for Liz Phair's third, which just isn't in stores here.
So I reined a selection down to that and two other CDs doing what I've recommended to people who use Amazon France: order not direct from them but a dealer among those who sell far cheaper from abroad.
When you do this, the time it takes to compare prices and buy three or more from the same seller is well worth it for savings on postage. I have the patience for that.
My suspicions about what we'd get from Liz seem confirmed by an Unpaid Rock Critic who was equally pissed off by what he calls "the 'sellout' catcalls" that greeted her 2003 album; they first got me going about what our mere perceptions of age do to us. Once that birthday entry was finally in bed it seemed the piece had insisted on writing itself.
The writer lives in Spain, and he's in the blogroll, where there'll eventually be a separate section for fellow reviewers who write so well. I spent a couple of hours at his place, where he does hand out stars as I won't, keeps essays to a minimum and doesn't go on like me, but constantly shows the only too rare habit of listening.
If I'm in a mood for sharp-edged, occasionally embittered song-writing regarding hard life experience, much time made to find fellow bloggers who get it right and put musicians first has been largely wasted.
The overall standard is as dismal as that of clueless academics berated of late, it's alarmingly low; uselessly self-referential and has none of the irony of Everything but the Girl (home) at their finest. Instead we get all but any music.
Such people get savaged since luck has given me back a wealth of scholarly knowledge to be dosed out sparingly. This was so dormant that the recollections of the years spent acquiring it are overwhelmingly strong, but during the summer I blew the dust -- literally -- off work done then.
Laying it on you except in homeopathic quanties where appropriate is out of the question, but so is just remembering those years as the best of my life. They were, but I'm still here.
This morning's meditation brought a brilliant but once more provocative idea about means of swiftly finding a new musical partner, perhaps in this enterprise too if she likes. It initially seemed less smart on being back in Africa at a place where very few musical women were to be seen, then improved immensely on listening to Veruca Salt's bitchy words while practising eye language again on a good day for such exchanges.
I look forward to tomorrow's meditation and subsequent ones bound to fine-tune the kind of successfully filthy scheme for which I'm moderately famous.
Kate writes sparingly, so in blog terms it was recent when she late in September observed:
"Ah, there’s nothing like a heart of gold buried under 36-EE hooters" (Electric Venom on 'Katrina Koochie' for some news of New Orleans).
No pictures.
You've had enough and I don't require 36-EE, thanks, fully to fulfil and repay my needs. Anyway, "Moi" is aiming for the opposite, doing as women will with diets what men do with football, being how they are:
"Low fat is no problem at all as I never ate much fat anyway. However I am missing the cake with my cup of tea. Tea seems very wet these days.
Have I lost any inches?
Yes. One inch from bust, waist and hips."
Worse, she announces:
"I'm going by size and shape only. The tape measure does not lie" ('Diet - End Week 1' at Bacon, Cheese and Oatcakes).
Obsessive, isn't it? "Size and shape."
Sweetheart, what about sound? It's also the music you make, that doesn't lie; I should know. Obsessive, aren't I?
What? Yes, blogs are back. You asked and I am your humble servant -- if it serves my purpose.
It does.
The hunting season's started and may be a long one, though women's physical considerations are dealt with mainly in music while poetry is still a current theme.
I informally declare the bitching season open.
The book will be a bitch to get right, my ears badly need bitchily biting (gently -- not off), their log desperately needs bitchy musicians...
they'll help me meditate.
1:37:39 AM link 
|
|
postbox