Out of Tune(s)

I crashed my media player a while ago – very careless -  and when I re-discovered my files on the hard drive, random songs were missing. Very hard to work out which though – there was no pattern to the loss, and it’s hard to figure out what you no longer have.  Today I realised I had no version of  the R&B classic, I’m Gonna Tear your Playhouse Down.  Searching for a replacement, I gave the Graham Parker version ago, only to find it had no charm at all.  Then I remembered going to see Graham Parker and the Rumour, I think at the Palace in Manchester, must have been 1980.  I didn’t really enjoy his pseudo-Elvis sound, and anyway a few weeks later we saw Elvis Costello himself, and he was much better.  So I reverted to the definitive version, which is by Ann Peebles.    She is best known for I Can’t Stand the Rain, but I prefer Missy Elliott’s version of that.

More hunting.

Cool For Cats

The tropical heat has forced Fidel to get creative about being cool…

Whilst the other three smirk in the face of heatwaves, and stick together, even if that means clammy fur and sweaty paws…..

In the wash

Where else would a cat find to hide out on a hot day?  Fidel cools his heels at the bottom of the laundry basket.

You What?

I was distracted from William Boyd by a copy of David Lodge’s Deaf Sentence very kindly given to me by my husband.  It’s very enjoyable and amusing, in an educational way (I was trying to forget about phonetics).  Part way through reading it, I read an interview David Lodge gave on a website and he offered a very clear glimpse of the book’s construction, which rather spoiled it for me.  I prefer not to see the structure through the plot, as is possible here.  I was also a bit put off by the way he levered in an expeditious trip to Auschwitz; it seemed an odd tool to use to bring threads together.  It felt out of place, and the very speed with which he despatched the visit made me a little uncomfortable.  None of the reviews I’ve read have mentioned similar feelings, so it may just be personal.  I enjoyed his curmudgeonly Desmond, who felt at odds with modern life.  Desmond’s  ire was fanned by a student writing in a library book with a turquoise marker pen, but then he goes on to list other irritants:

“Phenomena like Big Brother, four-letter words in the Guardian, vibrating penis-rings on sale in Boots, binge-drinkers puking in the city centre on Saturday nights and chemotherapy for dogs and cats”.

I can identify with these on the whole (although I can’t say I’ve ever been down that aisle in Boots, and I’m more bothered by sputum than vomit, but that’s a whole nother blog) so I must be heading into curmudgeonhood myself.   However, credibility is strained by the idea that anyone would call their baby Desmond, as his daughter does, and the winding up of the last chapter reminded me of those TV serials where all the plot points are dealt with in the last five minutes and everyone is happy again. OK then.

Leonard Cohen

We caught Leonard Cohen’s London concert from last year on the TV last night.  What a performance, it must have been an honour to see him live, something I’ve never managed.   It makes me grateful to his manager for scarpering.  His original version of ‘Hallelujah’ should have made those who have covered it blush with their inadequacy.  I have always wondered how anyone could cover such a personal song with any equanimity.   The hour passed in what seemed like moments, and left us with feelings it was hard to put a name to.  I have not felt like that since I saw Joni Mitchell sit alone in the centre of the stage at Birmingham NEC and sing A Case of You.

El Che

I wish I could stay awake through the film of The Motorcycle Diaries.   I do have a bit of a thing for Che Guevara, and especially since he is played by my favourite Mexican, Gael Garcia Bernal.   It started when I read Paul Theroux’s The Old Patagonian Express during my Easy Rider phase ( some twenty five years ago now).  I once had some fun at Barclaycard’s expense, and filled in the line about house name on their paperwork as ‘Chez Guevara’, but then my purse was stolen and I had to go to the police station and give them the full address for my credit card.  The desk sergeant smirked.  I also read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, about which I remember nothing, and On The Road, and Junky, about which I remember more.  I must have read tons of stuff that’s just gone in my head and it’s never coming out again, until I’m old and senile and can  dredge bizarre details from the distant past, but don’t know if I’ve had any tea.

Ginger You’re Barmy

It’s a bit of a fuzzy phone picture, but you get the idea.  He has to have a bed everywhere I go, so he can keep his eye on me.

If those paws are anything to go by, he is about half way to full size.  He is still rubbish at leaping and has to mew loudly to be lifted up to see what you’re doing.  He isn’t eating at the same speed, but boy does he like chocolate.  It’s taken time, but he is settled in now with his pals.  Last night he even went over and shmoozed the dog.  He has the loveliest trill, and reminds us of William, our late friend.  It’s very comforting.   He has taken to lying on the library windowsill concealed by the plants, but when I call  him he looks over with what I swear is a smile, and runs across the room to greet us.

United

I have just finished David Lodge’s Thinks, and found it surprisingly lurid.   Before that I read Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, which did nothing much for me.  I didn’t recognise any men I know in his whingeing womanlessness.  Something about him just goes over my head.   I am now stuck for what next – the complete Enderby, some more Nicholson Baker, or William Boyd.

Perhaps I should show some Mancunian solidarity; at work today in a library carrel, I noticed someone had kindly taken time out from study to inscribe in the desk ‘Die Mank Scum‘.  Presumably the ‘k’ was a stylistic choice.

June 5th, Shakespeare and all that

It is thirteen years today since I married the man my lovely first husband refers to as ‘The Beguiler’.  I must still be beguiled.  As is usually the case, he has done countless thoughtful things and I have done nothing very much, though I will buy him a Chinese lunch when he stops work.  I was going to post his favourite Shakespeare sonnet,  the one which was part of his beguiling of me, but it doesn’t really bear public scrutiny here.  If you’re interested, you can go and read No 151.  And perhaps Under Milk Wood.

Anyway, I know he will read this, so here’s a song for you.

Phenomenological!

Who knew there was a song about Jacques Derrida?  Downloading some Scritti Politti today, I came across just that.   You keep your hands off my nation state, Green.