March 2002 Archives
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Sometimes when you hit that shutter button, you know - you FEEL it's the one. When I took the picture above, I knew I'd captured the moment. This is Michael Stipe looking out over 50,000 people at the Pinkpop festival in 1989. He'd grabbed a chair, set it as close to the edge of the stage as possible and he was singing 'Summertime'.
We'd been standing in the sun all day. Some of our group were slamdancing to The Pixies. Some of us were laughing at Tanita Tikaram who couldn't hold a tune to save her life (even her fans turned away in disgust). Some of us felt sorry for Marc Almond, pelted with food by an intolerant audience> We had all dropped our jaws in surprise when Elvis Costello came up and defied all logic by being solid, stunning and simply... sexy.
Costello, belting out 'I want you', had broken a string mid-song. He'd stood there, solo, still crying the words, his arms stretched out wide. A roadie rushed in, literally sliding in on his knees. He freed the singer of his guitar, slipped him on a new one, and plugged it in just in time for Costello to seamlessly continue his song. We had never been more in awe of musicianship.
We had made our way to the front row. Pressed up against the barrier, a little left of center. R.E.M. were last on the bill. It had been 2 years since they played our country. Two years since I had reluctantly gone to see them and had come back a fan. We didn't know it then, but R.E.M.'s Pinkpop appearance was to be their last in Holland. Ever. Believe it or not, the next two occasions the band booked Dutch venues both were cancelled for health reasons.
This one almost didn't happen either. The accident prone band nearly had to cancel at the last moment because Bill Berry'd been bitten by a tick, back in his beloved Georgia garden. The man nearly died of Rocky Mountain Fever in a German hospital. But they patched him up.
I still think the band were at their best in '89. Stipe in his white floppy suit, sporting what he now calls an 'unfortunate' haircut, seemed on the verge of insanity. Buck hadn't put on the pounds yet, and it was before ueber-nerd Mills got into dye jobs and glittery suits. And... damn it, they still had their drummer.
They launched straight into mayhem: Exhuming McCarthy, Turn you Inside Out, Stand, Orange Crush... the set heavily dominated by Document and Green favourites. Stipe swirled around the microphone stand, brandishing his megaphone. Feeling Gravity's Pull felt like the apocalypse.
Then they let us all come down gently. King of Birds, Summertime, Swan Swan H and finally, with Mills playing bass sitting down on the edge of the stage, ending with You are the Everything.
I dug out this 'Bingo Hand Job' tape. In 1991, R.E.M. were doing "secret" promo gigs in Europe and would bill themselves as 'Bingo Hand Job'. Especially for you, here is the second half of their May 22, 1991 promo gig in Milano. Enjoy Swan Swan H, Belong, Driver 8, Low, Fretless and Losing my Religion. More R.E.M. soon.
Watching Bowie's 2000 Roseland concert in Real Video from DavidBowie.com (members only). He's sporting that long blonde hair look, and wearing a sailor's top. Like the lad from Visconti's 'Death in Venice'.
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When I mention Maria Mckee, people think I mean Mariah Carey. Or perhaps they'll know they're two different people, but they will still call her 'Mariah'. Take it from me, Maria's the better singer.
I have a thing for unmarketable, underappreciated, low profile artists. It's their bloody mindedness that makes them all of that. Somewhere, some time at some point in their flaky careers, they made a decision to only sing what they mean and then only when they mean it.
Seamus is a big elderly American of Irish descent. He is in level 2. Of course he takes the car to drive around the corner to go shopping. On the third day he has a puncture. One of the locals helps him out. In the shop I hear him, his voice booming, ask the shopkeeper how to thank his benefactor. 'So what would he like? Shall I buy him a bottle of whiskey?' The shopkeeper and his son don't say much. 'He doesn't drink,' their answer is barely audible. 'Well how about a box of chocolates?' Shoulders are shrugged. 'Well, should I give him money? How much would be appropriate?' Seamus is at a loss. He doesn't understand that you don't talk about such things. His best bet would have been to pay the man a visit, and quietly leave a small present on the table.
Seamus takes Birgitta and myself for a drive around the area. We go up Bun Glas, a pass over the mountains. It is a scary drive, the fog is out and thick as peasoup. On the summit you're supposed to have a beautiful view of the cliffs of Slieve League. But today we can hardly see the back of our hands. Seamus takes pictures of everything he sees. Even the fog doesn't escape from his viewer. 'I brought plenty of film, so I can show the folks at home.' His wife did not want to come along. Later in the Rusty Mackerel in Teelin - a famous pub the heart of the Gaeltacht - he starts telling us about how he used to beat his children. He didn't know any better, he says, his father used to beat him too, and the nuns were no better. He confesses some more. Both Birgitta and I feel a little embarrassed. We feel we've just arrived in an Oprah Winfrey show. We're not used to this American frankness. On the way back he asks us what language we speak in our countries. Dutch and Swedish, of course. 'And do you speak it well, with your parents?' He thinks the entire world speaks English. A few days later we take him along to see a formation of three pre-Celtic passage graves. When the sun sets, the light shines through the openings of the three graves. 'Is that a fort?' he asks. 'It's a grave. Two thousand b.c., Seamus!' 'Oh really?' he says and takes a picture. Then he's off. Pre celtic times don't mean much to someone whose own constitution's just a quarter of a century old.
I treated myself to an early birthday gift... something very cool going down in Amsterdam on April 18th, and me has gots tickets. S. and other S. take note.
Second hand discs at yesterday's pop quiz. Couldn't resist buying Suicide, a 2 disc set of their first album. One of those bands I've never listened to, but should. Also got Placebo - Black Market Music, a nice looking limited edition. Because Low said it was good. Earlier, at bookshop Scheltema, I picked up a downpriced copy of Pat McCabe's Emerald Germs of Ireland, the version with the twee cover that the writer hated. I'm not keen on McCabe, but had to get this for obvious reasons.
Having finally finished A Stitch in Time (DS9 fans, a MUST read) I moved on to Wei Hui's Shanghai Baby. I've never read a Chinese novel before. Its style reminds me of someone, not sure who exactly, but perhaps Anais Nin.
(part I)
In the local pub, Biddy's, the drinks are poured by an elderly bartender. His arms look like they have been broken and wrongly set, stiff and twisted. Here we meet the other students. A lot of attention goes out to Michael Collins from Limerick, a Chicago resident. He looks a handsome 18 year old, but he's 28, married, runs a software company with his wife, lectures literature at University, wants to set up an Irish school in Chicago and wants to run up Glen Head. He is one of three published writers in our company. He tells us about his first book 'The Meat Eaters' which has just been published in Europe. His Canadian companion John doesn't say anything, but we later learn that he too has a novel to his name. He's here to write a tribute to James Joyce, before it is too late. John has cystic fybrosis, and has already lived longer than he thought he would. Every day is a miracle to him. We talk about modern Irish literature, and agree on a lot of things: Roddy Doyle's funny and accomplished but rather superficial, Dermot Bolger's almost magical realism is the work of a genius and we praise John Waters for his insight in Irish society. And we drink a few more pints. We clique together during tea breaks. Michael tells stories about the time he was an altar boy. What to do when the host is dropped? 'Get the Holy Hoover!!' we shout. It becomes our running gag.
The Virgin Suicides. Still catching up on those films I shoulda but didna see. This one goes in the box labelled 'The Ice Storm and other enchanting stuff set in the 70s'.
Luka Bloom (windows media) playing Perfect Groove. Nice to see him with a band, wouldn't mind if he started touring like that.
I carry a secret torch for Icelandic singer Páll Óskar (Paul Oscar) who represented his country at the 1997 Eurovision Song Contest. A couple of years before Dana International had a better PR team behind her, Oskar, last on the bill, woke me up from my Euro-stupor, sitting on a couch, clad in black vinyl, S&M ladies draped all over his ever so camp bod. I think he came last in the count. He should have won for looking fabulous at least. Apparently a child prodigy, he's had a varied career singing Rocky Horror, mambo, Bacharach and hi-energy disco. I finally broke down and bought his album of lounge tunes, 'Stereo'. Will probably splash out on his techno/disco album 'Seif' too. Here, only for you, is an mp3 of his Eurovison song, Minn Hinsti Dans.
(Peter made the mistake of mentioning Glencolmcille in the comments of my previous entry. I wrote this ten years ago.)
'It's the dialect!' Mary says. Originally from Dublin, she has lived in Leicester for the past 30 years. She's in her fifties now and she is sitting with us in front of the fireplace of our little cottage. 'It's not fair. They're not accommodating us at all. I don't understand the teacher, she is yapping away with her the people from her area.' Thomas and I listen to her lamentations and feel for her. For us 'absolute beginners', Mary is a wealth of knowledge. We practice during breakfast, asking each other for milk, butter and sugar in Irish. I've only been here a day.
'Here' is Glencolmcille, the most western tip of county Donegal in Ireland, the heart of the Gaeltacht - the name given to the Irish speaking communities in Ireland. In the Foras Cultuir Uladh, Oideas Gael have been giving Irish courses for ten years now. Liam ó Cuinneagean, teacher in Dublin but originally from the area, is the organizer and instigator of the courses. He stands before us on the first day, his voice thick with the cold he's got. The group is quite big, half of us are there for the language course, the other half will go hill-walking, supervised by Tony, a Mancunian who has perfect Irish, hates England and looks like a paratrooper if I ever saw one. He seems difficult to approach, but is nevertheless pursued by several women that week.
BBC 6 music dish out some live recordings: Radiohead and David Bowie for me. Oasis, The Cure, The Faces and Thin Lizzy for you perhaps.
I've made polenta before and hated it. Strange, coz I quite like starchy things. Jamie explains how to make it edible: enrich with butter, parmesan or stock and serve with a big stew. Butter and parmesan makes anything taste good. I've been cooking a lot of mashed potatoes lately (they say a craving for starch is a sign of 'SAD') and to lighten the load I've been adding celeriac to the mix (and butter, cream, fried bacon, bit of lard, spring onions). Just boil the chopped celeriac (20%) with the potatoes (80%).
Spinning Jimmy Scott's Lost and Found on a Sunday afternoon. A male soprano.
The hatch opened. I grabbed my dusty backpack from the coach, strapped it on and looked around. I was in Letterkenny, a dot on the North of Ireland map, close to the border.
On a two month break in between jobs I told myself I was going to travel Ireland, meet Irish people, talk and write stories.
One piece of advice if you ever feel the same way, don't try and do this by busing around the country during the high season. You'll find yourself chatting away with Australians, hooking up with South Africans, fleeing Germans, dodging Italians and sharing meals with the French. But you'll be hard pressed to find an actual living, breathing Irish person.
Catching up on things I wanted to see but never did: David Lynch's The Straight Story. You'd think this slow, uneventful vignette wouldn't draw me in, but it did. Found myself thinking about old age and (extended) family, whenever the pretty shots of the mid-west landscape would fill the screen. It's a little 'Oprah' and sentimental in places, but it almost made me wish I lived in a small community, in the quiet countryside somewhere. AND I LOVE DEER!
I'm watching 'As good as it gets' on DVD with the commentary on, the director and the actors (Jack Nicholson, Helen Hunt, Greg Kinnear) talk about the shooting the film, in detail. And it's like... you know how you should never see the restaurant's kitchen? Half the time, you have NO idea what they are talking about and it actually takes away from the picture.
There's a mozzarella and stewed peppers recipe here, I'll just have to make one day.
Boom Selection... listening to Aaliyah vs Leftfied 'Try Another Phat One'. God, this *rocks* for want of a better word. Think I know what I'm going to spend my upcoming 10 day break doing. Downloading tons of this music, that is. Try this: Missy Elliot vs Sugarcubes - Blue Eyed Freak. Dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee: Mogwai vs Cassius Clay vs Kid Loco.
Went for a chat with the bloke in Gigantic and came back with Coil's Moon's Milk, a double CD compilation of 4 separate singles released as 'Solstice' and 'Equinox'. It reminds me of the Prunes's New Form of Beauty. In that's it's just a bit of din glorious. More strings, though.
Two kinds of food make Dutch people as giddy as can be: 'Pancakes', and 'chips 'n' apple sauce'. As a student, I was appalled to find out people considered this kind of nonsense a 'treat'.
They are treats because they are what Dutch parents offer their kids on their birthdays. I'm sure it made a welcome change from the usual fare of spuds and veg, cooked to pulp. I'm sure you remember squishy cauliflower doused in sickly ready-made white sauce. I imagine generations of flowery dressed sherry sipping Dutch mothers mumbling "Must. kill. dangerous. veg. by stewing it in pot for at least a week"
A friend of mine, a college teacher and self confessed foodie, asked his first year students what their favourite restaurant was. They unanimously answered: 'McDonalds'. Most likely, they - in their early twenties - had never seen the inside of a proper restaurant. The horror.
I grew up in a household where mum experimented with paella, even if my dad refused to eat fowl or fish. Where dessert was a plate of French cheese. Where on the weekend, parents and child would compete to cook the sweetest dinner. Boiled potatoes, staple food in northern Europe, saw my plate but once every few weeks. We grew our own and harvested one little basket each year, enough to get us through the winter.
Amelie, much lauded French film from the maker of Delicatessen. It's another treat, full of quirky characters and an engaging story. It's just that... I wanted to punch Amelie in the nose for being a stupid bint. And steal her shoes.
Did I mention I don't like drum and bass? This popped up tune, Puretone's Addicted to Bass, makes it palatable to me. Quite Moloko-ish.
I'm reading, correction, trying to read A Stitch in Time, actor Andrew Robinson's background study of his DS9 character 'Garak'. It's well written, fascinating, a ripping yarn... but I seem to just have forgotten how to read now that I am no longer commuting.
Tried the new BBC radio 6. I don't care much for the music programming (Alanis, Kravitz, Jagger, Sheryl Crow... pullease), but I like Phil Jupitus. [ ... ] On second thought, I think I much prefer Jo Whiley via the 'enhanced' radio 1 stream. All the latest tunes: George Michael's Freeek, Xpress 2 and David Byrne's 'Lazy'.
Placebo - Without you I'm nothing.
And every time you vent your spleen / I seem to lose the power of speech / You're slipping slowly from my reach / You grow me like an evergreen / You never see the lonely me at all.
David Bowie - Low.
The master at work.
Perry Blake - Perry Blake.
File under 'histrionic Irishmen'. Neil Hannon without the smugness.
Fiona Apple - When the pawn.
Hell hath no fury...
Kelis - Kaleidoscope.
Chick wiff balls.
Radiohead - The Bends. I call up my friend the good angel but she's out with her ansaphone, she says she would love to come help but the sea would electrocute us all.
I kept my first diary in 1971. I was 8 years old. I didn't know quite how to keep one yet. Entries are short and say little more than 'have a headache', 'gone to see my aunt' and 'mummy's angry'.
In hindsight, however sparse they are. some of the entries are quite telling of things going on without my knowledge, days when I was sent off to stay with my grandparents apparently so my mum and dad could work out their problems.
Other times my budding charming personality shines through: 'Birthday. It was fun. The kids were a pain. We had a puppeteer.' I never liked kids, even when I was one myself.
I carried my box of journals down from the attic this morning, thousands of pages filled with my life. 1971's the oldest, and it seems 1992 the latest. (In 1993, I went on line.) There's one from 1968, but it contains nothing more than a toddler's doodles.
Talvin Singh's Dubla reminds me of The Specials.
Nine Inch Nails - And all that could have been.
It's got a 'deconstructed' bonus disc. Woohoo.
Ladytron - 604.
Post-post-post modernist Euro pop electronic wank. In a good way.
Madrugada - Industrial Silence
Madrugada - The Nightly Disease.
Norwegian dark retro wave Tindersticks type thingy.
Neubauten - Silence is Sexy
Neubauten - Strategies against Architecture III. E.N. are larger than life.
Sense and Sensibility:
It's got Hugh Grant! And Alan Rickman! It can't be bad!
Intimacy:
Believable non-romance fling in urban London. Beware. People get very nakid.
Disco Pigs:
Curiously uninvolved film with intense, involved subject matter. Great acting, but first time director Kirsten Sheridan misfires.
Mickey Blue Eyes:
Enjoyable Englishman and mobster-chick nonsense with Hugh Grant.
Bono: "The United States is just crap at P.R. and has a role to play in the world not just as a police force, but actually just continuing the idea of the country. And it's an amazing idea. The Declaration of Independence is incredible - we pledge our lives, our fortunes, our sacred honor - these are poetic ideas. And it seems like the idea of America has gone away in the last while, it's just a great successful country, with great military might. I actually believe in the idea of America and I'm really encouraged that that idea might catch on, in the wake of this tragedy." Bono often makes sense, but this stuff about the idea of America just doesn't click with me at all. In fact I find it nauseating. Deep inside I'm probably quite anti-nationalist, not because of some ideology, but because I've never felt part of any nation. Talking about countries as entities, as ideas, as something to believe in... that's just lofty bullshit to me, as, to me, is religion. It's hard enough to believe in idividuals, don't ask me to believe in a whole country full of 'em. (Funny too, to hear a self confessed stateless man praise the virtues of a nation.)