The last of Santana’s sublime run of jazz fusion albums, 1974’s Borboletta has some truly superb cuts, such as the epic eight minute jazz samba Promise Of A Fisherman, and the whole opening 15 minutes or so, starting with Airto and Flora Purim’s Spring Manifestations soundscape, and morphing or segueing seamlessly into the hypnotic Canto De Los Flores, and then classic Santana vocal numbers Life Is A New, and the super hard Latin Funk grooving of Give And Take.
This was Michael Shrieve’s last hurrah, and boy does he play well! His successor Ndugu Chancler is, whilst very different, no slouch, and can be heard giving it a lighter yet still fiery Latin jazz touch on several tracks. Stanley Clarke and the returning Doug Brown provide the low register action, and Tom Coster handles keys with perfect aplomb.
And as well as guesting as wild man of the jungle, with wife Flora in support, Airto adds both drums and percussion, the latter also supplied in spades by maestro Armando Peraza, and Jose Areas. Leon Patillo’s vocals are a distinct and new/unique flavour in the evolving Santana sound. I dig his composition Mirage!
Truly extraordinary music, played with fire and passion by terrific musicians. Essential!
First published way back in 1981, the title of this book is, I feel, a trifle misleading, inasmuch as a good deal of it is as much about SOE, British/Allied special forces, and French Resistance, operating behind the lines, as it is about northward march of the infamous Das Reich!
One criticism I have, which has several interconnected strands, has to do with the class to which Max Hastings himself and a good number of the public school educated British ‘cast’ of his subject belong. The slightly dewy-eyed self-love of all such elites is both rather unctuous and not a little odious. When Hastings rhapsodises over numerous rugger loving toffs, playing at war, even when it’s very real and may well cost their own and others lives, it’s hard not to wince a bit.
A secondary point arising from all this is the possible overstatement of British/Allied efforts, and a concurrent downplaying of the French natives’ own efforts. But rather than going over all this here, I’d urge the interested reader to simply get hold of Das Reich, and decide for themselves. Hastings summarises the complexity of such things very well.
The titular or headline story traces how Das Reich, pulled out of their role on the Ostfront, start out resting and refitting deep in Southwestern France, at Montauban. Initially, and rather inappropriately, they are tasked with fighting insurgents – with dire consequences – before finally heading for Normandy, in the aftermath of D-Day, to fulfil their proper role.
As already alluded to above, Das Reich also relates how the aforementioned insurgents, with help from Allied agents, seeks to impede the 2nd SS Pz Div’s northward journey. Thanks in particular to allegedly anti-maquis actions Das Reich carried out at Tulle and Oradour Sur Glane (with which latter subject The World At War TV series so memorably commences), there’s a frisson of horror in the story. Although, as Hastings points out, such barbarity was routine in Russia, where Das Reich learned the Nazi ways of war. Nor, indeed, are the Allies blameless; Hastings asks, rhetorically, can the area-bombers of Dresden really claim moral superiority over the SS butchers?
I found Das Reich a fascinating and exciting, well-researched and well-written, and – despite Hastings slightly patrician establishment vibes – pretty well-balanced account, of a very interesting episode in the campaigns of Normandy and beyond. Definitely recommended reading.
It is All Hallow’s Eve. Teresa decreed that we have pumpkin soup, followed by pasta and a Hammer movie, and rounded off wi’ pumpkin pie. Fab! So it is we settled down to a rich repast, and Taste The Blood Of Dracula!
Three and a half stars is actually quite a high Hammy House of Horrors score, from me. Whilst there’s definitely something I love about the whole über-kitsch vibe of their films, they are at the same time pretty trashy and low budget. But I guess these ‘faults’ are also part of their charms?
The settings are sometimes quite good, and this is such a one, with some decently spooky, or even just plain atmospheric, locations. The combo’ of ye aulde togs (clashing with the late ‘60s barnets!), period paraphernalia – from gas lamps to pony and trap – and a decidedly autumnal vibe (wood’s carpeted with golden brown leaves), all conspire to give the film aesthetic heft.
The acting is very mixed, ranging from the high camp overblown melodrama of Ralph Bates, in the role of Lord Courtley (and not forgetting some lesser but similarly sliced ham from Roy Kinnear, at the films’ outset), to surprisingly decent turns from Anthony Higgins (billed as Anthony Corlan) and Linda Hayden, as the vamp’-crossed lovers, Paul Paxton and Alice Hargood. Christopher Lee has, perhaps surprisingly, a fairly minor part as the titular Dracula; his antics had Teresa chortling merrily several times!
Courtley and his acolytes summon Satan!
The daft plot finds a trio of hypocritical Victorian gents in search of illicit thrills. Their chief is the appallingly odious William Hargood (Geoffrey Keen), abetted by the moustachioed Jonathon Secker (John Carson), and the hapless hanger on Samuel Paxton (Peter ‘Cleggy/Wallace’ Sallis).
A chance encounter in an East End brothel leads them to take up with the arrogant rake, Lord Courtley. A Hellfire Club type chap, who persuades them to sell their souls to the Devil, but then loses them at the very moment that gives the film its catchy title. It’s quite deliciously rifikvukits… erm… ridiculous!
Inevitably there must be hot babe interest. And this is supplied by the ‘kids’ of these hypocritical Victorian Pater Famili-asses, who are involved with each others families’ siblings. Linda Hayden n particular really is enchantingly gorgeous, in a softly and plumply innocent way!
A true Hammer babe!
Like most Hammer movies, the plot really isn’t worthy of the energy required to synopsise it. It is a quintessential ’McGuffin’, a term Hitchcock created to describe an irrelevant plot-driving conceit. All that’s required are the ingredients for a devilish bouillabaisse: antique settings, some darkly supernatural baloney, earnest heroes, evil villains, and buxom wenches, and some ketchup or jam, in vivid but not very blood-like red.
It proved to be perfect viewing for the evening. Mildly diverting, with just the right atmos’, and even providing the occasional chuckle.
Must check out Vampire Lovers!
All the cleavage and heaving bosoms got my thinking about the Hammer Glamour book, and similar titles dedicated to the groovily painted posters. Some ideas for stuff to decorate the home with, perchance!?
I find the story of Fred and Rose West and their victims grimly compelling. And Howard Sounes tells the story well. I’d seen Sounes as a talking head on TV doc’s about the Wests. He reads his own well-researched book well.
Bizarrely, perhaps, the story starts rather cozily, looking back to the family histories of Fred West and Rosemary Letts. These stories, grim enough in their own ways, are nonetheless fascinating, for the slices of lower level humdrum lives, and how these can have a devastating fallout over time.
It’s a story that starts off tragically, grows into something seedy, and then slowly grows into a barely creditable tale of monstrous depravity, bubbling below a surface that seemed relatively normal. But of course things in the West household were far from normal.
Fred’s life, from his time in Scotland, to his eventual arrest, is filled with petty crime and strange sexual shenanigans. His life as a self-employed handyman,
It’s incredibly rare that I hear of this sort of thing before it happens. More typically I learn about it long after. And frequently – the Burt Bacharach or Magma complete box-sets, for example – it’s so long after that they are no longer available at anything but insanely high prices, if at all.
But, for once, I’ve heard some fab news with almost perfect timing. Joni’s For The Roses, released in ‘72, the year I was born, is now, like me, 50 years old. And it has been released in a remastered form, on vinyl. Including a rather snazzy blue version. So I’ve ordered me a copy.
Joni, Nordic mermaid nature girl Goddess.
Teresa and I are currently on holiday in Cardiff, with family, visiting my sister Abbie, and her husband Dan, who’re now living here, in the Welsh capital. When I learned of this reissue, yesterday, I immediately ordered it. And today I got an email confirming it has been dispatched. We travel home today, so I’m looking forward to it arriving soon.
For The Roses, her fifth studio album, is part of Joni’s early years run of pure gold. Rather like Woody Allen’s purple patch, or Tom Waits in his prime; such artistic genius and musical gloriousness is to be savoured and treasured.
Overshadowed by her two best-selling albums – Blue, which was her previous release, and Court And Spark, which came next – I hold Roses to be an overlooked meisterwerk. My picks/favourites are Barangrill, Electricity, and Woman Of Heart And Mind.
According to the Wikipedia article on For The Roses ‘she originally intended for the cover to be a drawing entitled For the Roses, the imagery in which relating to her feelings on the music industry.’ I’d love to see the artwork in question! I wonder if I can do some sleuthing in that direction?
I knew it! Or, rather, it’s what I wanted to believe. And, in all honesty, this study seems so small as to be of questionable scientific merit. But it’s in line with my confirmation bias, so I’m running with it!
Anyway, I doubt anything would stop Teresa and I chatting in our baby-ish ways with our cats. We did it with Tigger, now we’re doing it with Chester. It’s natural! We love it. And, so it seems, so does he.
Teresa and I are staying in Cardiff for a few days, visiting with relatives. Tonight, ‘Garden’ Noam Chomsky came up, at one point, in a family conversation.
I interviewed him, many, many moons back. ‘Twas a disaster, in all honesty! Here’s a far better interview, from The New Yorker online.
It’s fascinating for so many reasons: in how it illustrates Chomsky’s intelligent and articulate nature/character; how and why (and this was something I’d wanted to get at in my interview with him), even at his advanced age, he bothers to sign petitions, take part in protests, etc; his concise and eloquent summation of where things are at.
It’s interesting for me, as over the years I’ve often allowed my lazy nihilistic side to dominate. It’s very invigorating – yea! even life affirming – to hear someone of Chomsky’s international standing put things I hold to be true so pithily. Here’s a favourite example from the NY piece:
‘… [S]ince roughly 1980, since the neoliberal regression began, there has been a significant decline in the partially functioning democracy that existed before.’ Those are my italics. As so often, Chomsky nails it perfectly.
A younger Noam. Fab pic’!
This is a reminder to me that I really ought to read his more of his books on all this stuff. Not too long after seeing a doc’ on him called Manufacturing Consent (also the name of one of his books), when I was around about 18 years old, I bought a ‘collected works’ paperback by him, from what was the Heffer’s Bookshop, in Cambridge. But, truth be told, I’ve hardly read it!
What Chomsky says in the New Yorker piece on ‘cancel culture’ is equally to the point! But, intriguingly, what lead me here, and to making this post at all, was not the mere mention of someone I find inspiring and interesting (Chomsky!). But the attention-grabbing headlines quoting him effectively saying that Trump is/was worse than the usual bogeymen (Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, etc.).
Out of context that sounds totally insane. But, once unpacked, it actually begins to make sense. Trump’s unbounded egotism, in service, primarily, to himself, but secondarily – and crucially – to his ‘class’, or his enablers (the fiscal elite), is, very literally, what Chomsky describes as ‘an existential threat’ to the very future not of any particular portion of humankind, but all of humanity!
And, whilst Noam’s view – internationalist though it always is, is also almost always notably Ameri-centric – the current political chaos in the UK is evolving along Trump-esque lines, with the Tories, thus far at any rate, drifting further and further right, ever deeper into that awful neoliberal regression.
Avec le pipe, a la Bertie Russell!
If, like me, you find Noam Chomsky a fascinating and inspiring person, you might enjoy this link, to an illustrated ‘life in photos’, by the New Scientist.
Many years ago now, I was a regular contributor to Drummer magazine. One of the things I did was a regular monthly classic album column, called Recycled. I enjoyed this so much I started posting reviews to Amazon’s UK website. I don’t know how long that went on for before I was invited to join the Vine programme.
The Amazon Vine programme lets you have free things in exchange for reviews. And for many years now I’ve enjoyed being a part of this programme. But today I’ve discovered I’ve been booted off the programme for ‘violating the terms’ of the programme. It’s a bit annoying, as I’m not sure what my ‘sin’ is!
But on the other hand, as one door closes, another, hopefully, opens. Over the years the programme evolved, and, having initially been mostly sent books, it shifted towards all sorts of random stuff. And it’d gotten to be quite overwhelming. So a break from this could be a good thing.
But I’ll be sorry if that’s the total and final end of my involvement. As I got a lot of great stuff over the years.
It’s Sunday evening, and I’m hoping I can watch the last part of the Northern Ireland snooker tournament. Mark Allen, the home favourite, vs. China’s Zhou Yuelong.
In the run up to the snooker, there were adverts for several other sporting events. Including some indoor cycling. What struck me most was that ol’ chestnut… Good God, jocks are dull!
Mind, what does that matter? The real excitement in sports is all about the action; the physical side, the doing, more than the telling.
And besides, there are the pundits – some of them former players, whose long experience finally yields insight and knowledge, if not outright charisma – to supply the verbal excitement.
And then we‘re ‘treated’ to adverts, including Coldplay teaming with DHL… Eh!? What the absolute feck!? I love music, and I can really enjoy some sports, on occasion. But I generally find the two are very ill-matched, at least in terms of my tastes, when it comes to TV sports.
I much prefer the more old-fashioned approach: a nice bit of theme music, that one learns to associate with the sport, like the Pot Black theme, and that’s that. Aside from that it ought to be just snooker and commentary.
I was looking for a comical photo of an old duffer in ridiculous under-armpit high-rise trousers. I failed in that enterprise! But I did re-discover old town, whose modern take on old fashioned classics in clothing I really dig.
Perusing their ‘Small Trades’ gallery then lead to learning about Irving Penn’s book of photographs of the same name, which old town acknowledge as a major influence. And from Penn we get to his wife, the ‘first supermodel’ Lisa Fonssagrive. And via her to photographer Fernand Fonssagrive!
The young Irv Penn, and his beautiful wife. Looking like the leads in a Hitchcock movie!
Fernand had a thing for patterned shadows falling over beautiful women. A thing I most definitely share!
Nuttily enough, this all started with me wanting to find some pictures of furry chaps. By which I don’t mean hairy blokes, but those crazy cowboy over-trousers. Ah, the labyrinthine ways of the interweb!
