Author: Seb Palmer

I bought a copy of Santana’s Welcome album in my mid to late teens. and I’ve always adored it. It’s Santana and co at their peak – along with Caravanserai, Lotus, and Borboletta – with the perfect blending of latin, rock, blues, funk, soul, pop, and lashings of cosmic jazz.

And I love that Santana collaborated with Alice Coltrane, both here and elsewhere (Illuminations). The version of Going Home on Welcome is credited to Alice. But surely it also owes something to Dvořák’s piece of the same name, from his New World Symphony?

Here are two other readings of the Dvořák piece:

The above is by US Army musicians! And is a more conventional and minimal interpretation. Very beautiful.

And then there’s this expanded male voice choir arrangement. Which is pretty wonderful and powerful.

An email this evening alerted me to the imminent arrival of more musical goodness from Japan. A bunch of ‘Groove’ Holmes stuff:

Sadly they didn’t have the McGriff/Holmes Giants disc. So they’ve refunded me for that. But this consignment still totals five juicy new albums of Grooves’ groovy goodness.

Should be arriving tomorrow morning. Can’t wait!

Well, obviously I’m not going to be sharing my personal financial info. But it’s that time of year again. My annual last minute panic to do my self-assessment.

I’m pretty sure that in the last year or two I must’ve got some stuff very wrong. I reckon I’ve overpaid a good deal of money. Will I be able to rectum-fry that, I wonder?

And will I do any better this year? We shall see, I guess…

Silver Apples’ self-titled debut, on a silver foil cover!

This is a good informative piece on this odd duo.

Looks like it was either a gatefold record, or had a leaflet; the galleries above and below, are from those inner sleeve ‘pages’.

There was quite a lot of hype around the group, esp’ in the hip experimental NY scene. They did quite a lot of gigs.

Just five months after their debut came out, they released the follow up, Contact. Rather tragically, the cover art work would prove to be their undoing.

It was this image, above, that was their undoing. It seems rather odd, in retrospect. It doesn’t look that much like anything specific. At least to my eyes. Apparently it’s the wreckage of a plane crash. And that freaked out Pan Am, who went to war with the group and their label, Kapp.

If I’m honest, I find a lot of Silver Apples’ music very borderline, between fascinating and grating. It’s certainly not easy listening!

But I also find them captivatingly interesting. A duo of just drums and synths!? Way back in ‘68!? Nothing if not ahead of their time!

This is a pretty good film. And the premise, of America having another Civil War, no longer seems at all far fetched. Particularly after Trump’s riotous mob-rule near-coup, the infamous Jan’ 6th..

One of the key things this movie does well, is bring all that global terrorism and proxy war business, which we re all so familiar with imagery of, on TVs, computers, tablets and phones, right on home to roost. Back in the good ol’ US of A.

And so it is that two of our key protagonists – the world-weary elder photojournalist, Lee Miller (Kirsten Dunst) and the younger aspiring photographer, Jessie (Cailly Spaeny) – meet at a scene of urban rioting, when a flag bearing suicide bomber charges into the melee.

The film manages to stay almost completely neutral, most of the time, to such an extent it becomes – as is so often the case in real war – almost impossible to tell who’s who. Indeed, there’s a sniper scene, which heavily underscores this exact point, in case you weren’t getting the subtler cues.

It also points up the ways in which all ‘sides’ quickly descend into barbarism, during war time. Simultaneously both celebrating and yet shining an uncomfortable light on the detached-professionalism ideal, of the press. Or rather the press as it perhaps once was?

Ultimately the film becomes a road trip: a group of journalists attempt to get to Washington DC, hoping for the gigantic ‘scoop’ of a presidential interview.

Besieged in D.C. the third term POTUS has not been interviewed – the movie opens with him rehearsing a chest-beatingly upbeat and patriotic to-camera soliloquy – in over a year.

Jessie is just a kid. But also along for the ride is the elderly and morbidly obese Sammy, a veteran NY Times scribe. With two strong female leads, further yin to their yang is provided by Wagner Moura, as Joel, Lee’s writing partner, who’s cynical, and overly fond of booze and weed.

The sense of terror and chaos alternating with normality and tranquility features quite a lot. Sometimes in contrasting sections of the narrative, and at others, almost simultaneously; as during the sniper firefight, when natures’ flowers, in all their small delicate beauty, are blooming, regardless of human strife and folly.

The sound design is a bit ham-fisted, in places. At least to my mind. Shoe-horning some questionable musical choices into the movie, none-too delicately. And the use of occasional ‘deafening silence’, whilst as effective as ever, was a bit overplayed.

This apparently had an humongous budget. And you can see where the money’s gone. But it also looks like extensive use was made of very slick CGI. Nowadays that’s generally so good – hyper-real, almost? – that you really can’t tell where reality and CGI end or meet.

Perhaps the most powerful and disturbing scene is that in which an unnamed soldier (or we assume he’s a soldier, as he and his cronies are in battle dress), played by Jesse Plemons*, terrorises the group of journos, who have encountered some old friends/colleagues on the road.

*Kirsten Dunst’s real-life spouse, and – or so I’ve read – a last minute replacement for the actor originally cast in the role.

In this short and grim episode, we get a glimpse of the horrifically brutal simple-mindedness that underlies so much human conflict, in the form of racism.

In the end, against seemingly hopeless or insuperable odds, the journos – or some of them – reach the Whitehouse, just as the WF (‘Western Forces’?) storm it, massacring a cavalcade of fleeing spooks and aides, mistakenly thought to be the fleeing POTUS.

And here the film reaches its rather grim denouement. Spoiler alert: the WF troops find and ‘take out’ the POTUS. What does it all mean? Well, aside from the Babi Yar style massacre scene, the production team resolutely strive for neutrality. But in the context of Trumpian politics? There’s a clear and very disturbing message.

Whilst it’s not made immediately explicit, we pick up that the President is a third term despot. Racism is the fundamental part of the ‘what kind of American are you’ conundrum. And our faces are rubbed in the extreme inhumanity – or perhaps I should just say brutality? – of war, which, despite the film’s themes/title, is never very civil, if you follow?

There’s a couple of very good reviews of the film here, and here, that are both well worth a read.

FOOTNOTE: Music

The first very prominent bit of pop-culture OST programming, that slaps you in the face, is the rather brilliantly quirky ‘Lovefingers’, by Silver Apples. It’s an amazing piece. Esp’ so given it was released in 1968! I’m not entirely sure it’s the best choice for that particular moment in the film. But maybe I’m wrong. Whatever! What I am glad of is that it’s there at all. Reminding me I need to check out Silver Apples in more depth.

Whilst digging all this groovy music from back in the day, I’ve also been cogitating on the funky sartorial thide of sings.

Or have I found it? What is IT? Poss’ my ‘mojo’? I decided, tempus fuckit, n’ all that, so let’s have a bit of fun. This is to be my special muso-funk outfit. Not for quotidian normality. But for musical fun only. And, very importantly, to be kept spotlessly clean n’ white!

I might will be addbig to this outfit. A polo/roll/turtle neck sweater. Some long beady necklaces, and a white or very pale cream sports jacket. What fun!

I’m not normally one for selfies. Images of me often disappoint and upset. Ah… vanity! I’m taking these partly ‘cause I feel less afflicted that way, and partly ‘cause I want to record sideburn progress and glasses repairs.

As well as documenting face fuzz furtherance, note the last of the four above photos; my glasses are quite a lot closer to horizontal/parallel with ye eyebrows. As opposed to the first two pics in this little gallery, where they’re really on the wonk!

Wow! What an amazing film. I love this so much, that part way through this TV viewing, I upped and ordered the 50th anniversary reissue DVD.

It’s a bit proto-Jaws – hence the clever homage image below – with an evil truck/trucker chasing down a hapless ‘ordinary Joe’. You barely see the driver: a quick glimpse, as vehicles pass; a hand, on the wheel; cowboy boots, as he walks behind the truck, kicking the tyres…

It’s the ol’ mystery multiplies menace gambit. And it works a treat. Playing on the minds of both the victimised car driver, and the viewer.

It starts with a realistic enough scenario, one driver – salesman Davis Mann (Dennis Weaver), in his Red Plymouth Valiant – overtakes another; the dirty ol’ smoke belching truck. The overtaker thereby dissing the gruntle of the overtakee… if you follow? And follow is exactly what the ne’erdowell truck/trucker does.

However, this plausible quotidian scenario rapidly escalates into something more akin to Greek Myth. Mann is Odysseus, who just wants to get home, and the Peterbilt 281 big-rig is the Cyclops, or Minotaur, Harpy, or whatever, that just won’t let up.

Dennis Weaver is absolutely pitch-perfect as the ‘70s Everyman… literally; David Mann. Initially just baffled, he soon gets properly discombobulated.

His name and circumstances also make the movie a study in Mann-hood. He’s had an argument with his wife; he needs to score a contract for work; and now? He’s suddenly in a life and death fight:

‘… all the ropes that kept you hanging in there get cut loose. And it’s like there you are, right back in the jungle again.’

In this battle to reclaim his manhood, I love the way everyday commonplace scenarios – a stop at petrol station, a Diner, trying to help a broken down school bus – all suddenly become extremely sinister and menacing. It really is great.

Spielberg’s eye for detail is phenomenal. The truck a – Peterbilt 281, so I’ve read – is phenomenal as an embodiment of unrelenting malevolence and evil. The red Plymouth is spot on – although I’ve read Spielberg actually didn’t care what make/type the car was, as long as it was red! – as the underpowered Everyman’s ride.

Every single location, from subarban garage, to city, arid landscape, diner, and so on, is right on the money. Spielberg displays a Hitchockian attribute; a natural seeming ability to weave everything together just so. The right look, the right location, the right camera angle, and so on.

From a strictly real-world logical point of view, aspects of the movie might not hold up to forensic analysis. But that would be to miss the point – or the magic – entirely.

Okay, Spielberg does gamely attempt to address such matters, for example during the diner scenes, with Mann’s internal monologues, etc. Or when he stops at the lizard lady’s place and attempts to call the police.

But really this is a film that’s much more like a mythical poem than humdrum kitchen sink reality. It only needs to hold together on its own terms. And it does. Beautifully.

Nowadays we have terms such as ‘road rage’, to describe similar (if usually more mundane, altho’ not necessarily less terrifying) scenarios. And, with depressing frequency, since 9/11, we read of planes, boats, trains, cars, trucks, buses, whatever, being repurposed as instruments of lethal execution.

But back to the film… the landscapes and the music are also part of the overall magic.* And Spielberg’s masterful decision not to have the truck full of flammable material explode? The mark of a master at work.

Originally limited to 75 minutes, due to its made for TV constraints, an extended 90 minute version was created, ‘toot-sweet’, for theatrical release. Such was the popularity of the TV show.

I’m not sure which format attained the distinction, but Duel won the 1972 Emmy for ‘Outstanding Achievement in Film Sound Editing.’ And you can hear why.

An unusually good review, marking the 50th anniversary of this film, can be read here.

Spielberg did this very soon after directing the superb Columbo episode Murder By The Book. He was already a master of directorial sleight of hand. Or should I say smoke and mirrors? There are plenty of those here:

All in all? Brilliant. Highly recommended.

In the last few days I’ve started playing a bit of music. For the first time in, well, what must be at least a couple – poss’ longer – of years!

I wrote a song, on the ol’ classical guitar, which was a dustier than a dust storm in a dust bowl. That was a few days ago, now. And yesterday I got out the electric guitars: Squier Strat and Squier Jazz bass.

I even got out my ol’ pedal board, and worked on a loop of the Kool & The Gang number, ‘Summer Madness’. I’m rustier than the wreck of the Titanic. But at least I’m getting back into it.

Considering what a big part of my life music has always been, I think this a good thing. I was considering just jacking it all in. But I think that was depression speaking. We shall see, I s’pose?

BASS ACTION

So, I can’t believe I’ve owned this bass for many years, and only now have I gotten around to lowering the action!

There are at least two aspects to lowering the action, at the bridge end. Initially I just used a 1.5mm Allen key to lover the saddles on the pairs of ‘vertical’ grub-screws. But that wasn’t sufficient.

So I had to really loosen off the strings, such that I could fully access, and flip, or rotate the saddles, using the long ‘horizontal’ Phillips head screws. As the saddle moves away from the bridge, as it’s Ona slight downward incline, the action is lowered.

So it took a combo’, of both moving inwards, and downwards, to achieve the degree of lowered action I was aiming for. I wanted to photograph the process with a metal rule, to gauge the change in height. But I could’nae find one. So, needs must, it wound up being a sawn-off lolly-stick!

Lowering the action makes the bass a lot easier to play. And I’m not getting any unwanted side-effects, like fret buzz. So I’m very pleased with the outcome. Having not played at all for a good number of years, and even longer in terms of regular playing, unsurprisingly I’m very rusty!

FOOTNOTE – Web Knowledge

You can’t believe everything you read on’t internet. My Squier Jazz Bass requires 1.5mm Allen keys.

I was thinking about how mythological tales, e.g. Bible stories, may remain relevant, even after they have become in some respects – if taken literally – ridiculous (e.g. the The Fall, or The Flood).

This all got me thinking of many things. One of which was the concept of reverence. Looking at the etymology of the word, we may find this:

I find it interesting how, for a lot of folk these days, the concept of reverence has morphed from fear to love! ‘Re-Vere‘, or intense fear, leads to ‘respect’, and that, eventually, becomes love!

As bonkers as that might seem written down, and with the evolution of the meaning compressed into a few seconds, it kind of makes sense.

The why of this linguistic evolution tying in with why Christianity (and other modern monotheisms) have evolved into what they are now, suiting so well, as they do, adoption and usage by individual power figures, such as Emperors, Kings, and so on.

The lesson that we must fear the powers of Nature is thus transferred to the fear of powerful men (or women!). And over time that initial naked fear can evolve – especially when sedulously cultivated – into love. It’s almost like an ancient or primitive Stockholm Syndrome: to placate what you fear you start loving it.

Witness the abominable forelock-tugging love and respect for ‘our’ (not mine!) so called Royal Family. I always used to be massively irked by the naked sycophancy on display in big old stately homes. But of course, what could be more natural than cosying up with the biggest bullies around?

All of this thought was triggered by a thought along the lines of ‘just because something is revered by many [I was thinking of The Bible], doesn’t make it inherently worthy, in any way’, or something like that.

I can’t recall exactly how all of the above eventually lead me to Roger Scruton (I think it was something about aesthetics and architecture, which came out of looking for a comical depiction of Charlie*, our current ‘King’), but it did.

*To illustrate the hypocrisy of a tax evading megabucks ‘royal’, pontificating on charity for the homeless, in one of his palaces, stuffed with looted gewgaws.

I shall have to learn more about Scruton. Reading his wiki page has been interesting. I have a deep-rooted and abiding hatred of Tories and Toryism – what I call neo-liberalist disaster-crapitalism – and yet like Scruton, I really don’t like the middle-class hooliganism one sometimes encounters on the so-called Left.

For Scruton it was witnessing the Paris ‘68 riots. For me – amongst many other things – I could say it was witnessing yobbish destructive behaviour during the Reclaim The Streets protests, in London, c. early ‘90s. That, and similar experiences elsewhere, really soured me on what one might term neo-Marxist ‘direct action’.

But all of these things I’m touching upon here, are of course massively complex. By which I might mean, for example, that in Paris ‘68 and London in the ‘90s, most protestors were actually very peaceful. So the small hooligan element besmirched a bigger, better ‘other’. But this post isn’t the place I’m going to unpack and explore such nuances or complexities.

Suffice it to say that, whilst I’ve obviously encountered Scruton before (and, if I recall correctly, taking something of a dislike to him for his obvious Conservatism), this is the first time he’s really registered on my radar. And I do think I’d like to learn more about him and his thinking.

That’s something for another time and place, however.