The Church Of Me
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Kissing in the churchyard, I know a righteous woman

Friday, July 12, 2002
Why men go swimming: they are fantasising about returning to the Womb.

Buckley could never have been reincarnated as the cover star of Nevermind. He never would have sucked up to that dollar bill bait.

posted by Marcello Carlin Permalink
. . .
Cain slew Abel, Seth knew not why
For if the children of Israel were to multiply
Why must any of the children die?
So he asked the Lord
And the Lord said:

Man means nothing, he means less to me
Than the lowliest cactus flower
Or the humblest Yucca tree
He chases round this desert
'Cause he thinks that's where I'll be
That's why I love mankind

I recoil in horror from the foulness of thee
From the squalor and the filth and the misery
How we laugh up here in heaven at the prayers you offer me
That's why I love mankind

The Christians and the Jews were having a jamboree
The Buddhists and the Hindus joined on satellite TV
They picked their four greatest priests
And they began to speak
They said, "Lord, a plague is on the world
Lord, no man is free
The temples that we built to you
Have tumbled into the sea
Lord, if you won't take care of us
Won't you please, please let us be?"
And the Lord said
And the Lord said

I burn down your cities - how blind you must be
I take from you your children and you say how blessed are we
You all must be crazy to put your faith in me
That's why I love mankind
You really need me
That's why I love mankind

"God's Song" by Randy Newman.

posted by Marcello Carlin Permalink
. . .
ah, the calm below that poisoned river wild, you and i.
tears that dry on a rude awakened child.
where you look down. i've walked before,
burning holes with eyes of liquid brown.

if we had only known, in a way we wouldn't reach this ground.
you were my only home, silver eyes. i want to see you shine.
and we will feel the weight. fall away from us in time. searching our past for the true.

you and i,
you and i,
you and i.
all for you.

where you think you'll fall, i adore you.
where you shut your soul, i will open for you.
if we had only known in a way we'd never reach this ground.
i know, silver eyes, I can see us shine.
i said, we will feel the weight fall away from us in time.
searching our past for a true you and i,
you and i,
you and i.
all for you.

Listen to the way Buckley sings this. Every possible tonal variation is wrung out of the mode. His alter ego cries in the background. He performs this song as though he is closing down the world with it.

posted by Marcello Carlin Permalink
. . .

1. Elgar's Dream of Gerontius - the Malcolm Sargent 1944 recording with Gladys Walker, Huddersfield Choral Society et al. Preferably while watching a pirated video of Alan Clarke's 1975 TV masterpiece Penda's Fen, which reclaims it for us.

2. Chris McGregor's Brotherhood of Breath Kwhalo (aka Diamond Express). The greatest band ever to walk this planet blow their brains out in their finest 18 minutes and 35 seconds. "At the end, every instrument is a drum."

3. Joni Mitchell The Jungle Line - Consider the cover of Hissing. Consider also that its release coincided with NYC on the verge of bankruptcy. Now listen to it again.

4. Max Roach & Abbey Lincoln Triptych (Prayer, Protest, Peace). Me? Coming into Part 3. Keep on pushing.

5. Al Green So Beautiful. And the words just end and emotions take over what cannot be expressed by intellect alone.

6. Dexy's Midnight Runners Tell Me What She's Like. As well Mr Rowland knows.

7. Breeze & Styles You're Shining. Because it's on Bonkers Records and there has to be a future.

8. Ray Pollard The Drifter. Available on hundreds of Northern Soul compilations. This is what I'm like if I deny a future. LISTEN TO THE LAST VERSE.

9. Serge Gainsbourg Manon. Let's go.

posted by Marcello Carlin Permalink
. . .
Barthes re. Big Brother had he avoided the milk float? He would have shrugged his shoulders and instead partaken of some rare sirloin with optional pomme frites.

posted by Marcello Carlin Permalink
. . .
Girl in Winter (slight return): Katherine Lind comes from overseas to see an idealised Englishman with whom she has been corresponding. She is desperately trying to get him to understand the subtext of her letters but he is either not getting it or deliberately deciding not to "let her see him." They have now met and Mr Fennel so far is keeping up a front and not revealing his real self, if indeed there is one.

Does he understand? I know I do.

Words? I love words. I want to consume them and be consumed by them, to luxuriate in their compassionate embrace.

And I love people who want to love words.

posted by Marcello Carlin Permalink
. . .
Peter Cook could almost have been Britain's answer to Serge Gainsbourg, except SG was creative right up to the end, whereas PC's aesthetic life was effectively spent by the age of 30 (Derek and Clive = Blood on the Tracks?). So there was nil else for the latter to do except live off the proceeds and hack it in junk for big bucks when said proceeds got low. Decline, mock hermitage, substantial self abuse; just like Kenny Williams, Ken Tynan, Phil Larkin (except PL did at least have a day job to take his mind off his otherwise self-imposed post-1977 redundancy).

Harry Thompson's biography of Cook is straightforward but too damned journalistic. The man needs a Holroyd or a David Thomson to do him justice.

(DT's Rosebud is of course the thus far largely unacknowledged avatar, some say rip-off source, of this entire weblog).

posted by Marcello Carlin Permalink
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