renaissance man
It’s late on Boxing Day, and I’m watching Kentucky Fried Movie. Earlier in the evening I tried out these nasal-hair removal doodads I got from Amazon Vine. I took some pics… have I no shame?
KFM is total dumb-ass silliness, not really worthy of one’s full attention, but kind of enjoyable as background fun. Amongst my favourite bits are… the tits…
Whilst KFM tickles gently, nose hair removal hurts like buggery. Well, maybe not quite.
I’ve just finished reading Tiger Force (for a much fuller review of the book see my mini-military blogpost on it, here), about out of control US paratroopers butchering Vietnamese civilians, a fascinating if disturbing subject. Reading this quite pulpy/thriller style modern combat history makes me want to watch the Ken Burns, Lyn Novick Vietnam series again.
Ken Burns and co. spent five years making the superb Civil War documentary series for PBS. Vietnam took twice that time. And when one watches this, one can see why. Both these wars, very different in so many ways, play a large part in making America what she is today
Although the Civil War occurred over 150 years ago, the wounds still fester. How much more so then, for a conflict only 50 years past? With ‘Nam there are still so many left alive that took part, or whose lives were scarred by the events. One such being Vietnamese girl – Phan Thị Kim Phúc – famously photographed, naked, terrified, obviously screaming or crying, fleeing with other civilians from an South Vietnamese [1] napalm bombing. Currently living in Canada, she’s still having skin-graft surgery, all these years later.
I’d dearly love to have this set on DVD, having watched a full-length version online, and the heavily edited version on the BBC iPlayer. But I’m going to wait for it to come down in price (at the time of posting this it’s currently on Amazon UK at over £50!). Even the truncated BBC version was superb. I’ve no idea why the BBC chose to show only ten hours of the full 18 that comprise the original series. Perhaps it was a condition of the production’s syndication or franchising rights? Fortunately there is a widely available full-length version out on DVD.
There was a actually a very similar series made in the early ’80s, called Vietnam, A Television History (or something similar), which was also, like this, a PBS (Public Broadcasting Service) production. It’s interesting to note that, as you’ll learn here, on the Burns series, PBS (for TV, and an equivalent radio organisation whose acronym escapes me) were fruits of Lyndon Johnson’s ‘Great Society’ policies. Yet it was Johnson who, taking over from the assassinated JFK, really escalated America’s commitment to the war, thereby jeopardising his progressive social vision.
In many ways that older TV series is every bit as good, perhaps in places even better, than this newer version. But both make very strong and deliberate attempts to get all sides of the story, from the troops, the civilians, the politicians, generals, journalists, peace movement protesters and so on. This Burns version stays in a more chronological mode, whereas the older series was slightly more thematic, and from that point of view Burns’ new series flows rather better.
The American right doesn’t like Burns – he’s an avowedly and open liberal, and whilst of draft age at the time, he managed to avoid being sent to the Vietnam war – but he’s at pains to point out that he sourced commercial backing for this series from across the board, and that the views his talking heads present are not his own, but are there for the audience to judge.
I think he probably has aimed for balance, but I can also see why the American right feels he has skewed the telling of the story towards a certain left-leaning view of it. In part it might even come down to aesthetics: all the Burns docs I’ve seen (inc. this one, and his WWII no ACW series) have a very particular feel, with moody scenic shots, melancholy music, and a definite non-glorification of war theme.
Still, this and the 1980s series are both very worthy efforts at looking at the whole sorry story that was Vietnam. Not entirely neutral, nor entirely flawless. But pretty amazing, and well worth watching. Essential viewing, I’d argue.
NOTES:
[1] I originally wrote American here, but discovered via Wikipedia that it was the South Vietnamese Air Force who dropped this particular batch of napalm. But as the napalm itself, not to mention the plane, and probably also the training and the operational planning, would derive from America… well, you know what I’m getting at.
At the end of my last post I was mentioning how I hadn’t really kept up with Valle’s more recent music. And then yesterday I asked Teresa to select a few Valle CDs to have in the car for a while. She picked Samba ’68, his US Major label debut, Vento Sul, his most out there album (a 1972 collaboration with Som Imaginario and others, which flopped at the time, but has now, and quite rightly, garnered a cult status), and Escape, a 2001 release on the Far Out label.
All three of these albums are superb, and share a lot musically, whilst also covering a vast and diverse territory. One thing that really struck me was how good Escape is. I’m rather prejudiced against modern ‘world’ music versions of what I regard as classic ’70s stuff. And I don’t much like when artists of that vintage allow themselves to be seduced by the trappings of trendy modern production (e.g. programmed rhythm tracks, or DJ-scratching, etc.).
Fortunately Valle’s musical spirit overcomes any such prejudices, and what we have here is totally organic anyway. The video atop this post is from Feb, 2016, and finds Marcos fronting a tight little band, just a bass, drums and keys trio, essentially, with the addition of a two-piece horn section and a lady singer. They play a superb mixed selection of old and new stuff, and it all sounds totally fresh and groovy. What a talent Marcos is! And what a great band.
Here’s the set list:
0:00 Samba De Verao
4:35 Garra
7:22 A Paraiba Nao Chicago
11:44 Arranca Toco
15:05 Mentira
18:41 Os Grillos
23:57 Estrelar
28:54 Parabens
35:30 Batucada
38:36 Freio Aerodinamico
44:19 Esperando O messias
48:11 Bar Ingles
53:29 Estatica
Blah…
The Life Divine
Can in the Living Room…
Ghost dog..?
John Coltrane … big knife… serial killer playing cards
Blah…
What had started out as rare epiphanies was destined to gradually become routine and dull, and I was to grow unquestionably addicted to a ‘reefer madness’ way of life, seemingly destined for oblivion.
As I bumbled along life’s highway, I continued to develop my taste for things jazz, beat, and louche. Tom Waits, Steely Dan, Joni Mitchell, Captain Beefheart, Can, Chet Baker, Miles and ‘Trane, Kerouac, all these cats themselves romanticised a life that was fuelled by sex, drugs, and beautiful music. One problem in my life was that the incessant smoking was eclipsing everything else. There was quite a bit of music, if not always beautiful. But there was far too little sex!
…
One of the clichés of any drug use, but marijuana is particularly known for this, is that it’s a ‘gateway’ drug: you start smoking dope, and you wind up trying out all sorts of other and ultimately harder drugs. I don’t be think there’s a hard and fast causal connection here. Rather, what happens is one discovers that this terrible evil one has been warned off turns out to be pretty groovy, so you inevitably think, is this also true for x, y and z?
These albums are as amazing as their cover art suggets!
At some point soon I plan to start posting reviews of individual albums on a whole slew of artists and music I really dig. But for this post it’s just a quickie, in response to the joyful epiphanies of this particular music-fuelled journey.
I don’t know what if any religious beliefs Marcos has, but several of tracks that I always find particularly powerfully moving have either overt (‘Jesus Meu Rei’) or potentially covert (‘Meu Heroi’*) allusions to Christianity. Both the pieces mentioned above have a kind of transcendent joyousness that always blows me away when I hear them.
One of the many things I love about Valle is the musical magpie aspect, he’s super-eclectic in a way many artists don’t come anywhere near, and yet whatever he does always bears his very personal imprint. And we shouldn’t forget his brother Paul Sergio Valle, Marcos’ long time lyrical collaborator.
Some years ago I bought all the albums I could by him which, at that time, meant Japanese imports for the 1970s stuff. I bought them via the superlatively cool Dustygroove website. They wound up costing me about £30 each! They were quite expensive in themselves, but I was mugged by Customs as well. Still, it was money well spent. What price the sublime?
Subsequently these albums have also been released by Light In The Attic, and I keep meaning to get these versions. Sadly funds aren’t as readily available to me right now as they were when I bought the Jap imports, or I’d have bought them already. The LITA versions look very groovy, with plenty of additional material (pics, liner notes, etc.).
The Jap reissues have lots of text, but in Japanese (although the lyrics are given in both Japanese and Portuguese). Then there’s the earlier more straight ahead bossa stuff, all of which is excellent.
I must admit I haven’t been so ardent a collector of his music of the ’80s and after.I do have some of it. And it’s very good. Indeed, by ordinary standards it’s superb. But it’s not as psychedelically and orgasmically eclectic or rich as his ’70s heyday, for my money.
Anyway, Marcos Valle is fantastic. He’s been over to England several times in recent years. But somehow I never hear about it until afterwards. Most frustrating! And from what I’ve seen posted online – there are some great recent concerts on YouTube – he’s still firing on all cylinders. Marcos, we love you and salute you!
* I mistakenly thought the chorus was ‘Meu heroi é Jesus’, when in fact it’s ‘Meu heroi é isso’. Typing the latter into google translate, I get either ‘my hero is that’, or ‘my hero it is’.
NOTES:
[1] Looks like Marcos might belong to my pantheon of boss-eyed heroes, along with Leo McKern and Peter Falk. I can find no info on Marcos’ eyes, but it looks to me like the left one isn’t a mobile as the right.
[2] His last in a run of brilliant music for Brazil’s ‘national’ label, a subsidiary of EMI.
[3] He has at least two self-titled albums, one released in 1970, the other in ’74.
And has he lost this bright shining musical genius? Watch this and decide for yourself:
I forget now exactly how I discovered this group. But I can’t forget the euphoria ‘Kali Lo’ produced when first I heard it. Like the best of 1950s hard-bop or modal jazz, Troc’s finest material sounds remarkably fresh, current, even modern, despite its age. And like a good vintage wine or spirit, it has aged beautifully.
Drummer André Ceccarelli was/is the dynamo at the heart of Troc, and he plays on this disc exactly how I want and aim to play, with a light touch, but both loosely fluid, precise, and a kind of simmering controlled intensity. His is the kind of ‘in the (Goldilocks) zone’ playing I aspire to: never too much, nor too little, just exactly right. A perfect balance of groove and finesse, the ballast of which is always spirit/feel.
So, obviously a large part of what I love here is the rhythmic element. But I also love the whole sound. For one thing music of this ilk is usually instrumental. Alex ligertwood does something pretty amazing in bringing the vocal dimension to such a sound so successfully. No easy feat!
But all the elements are just terrific: the fluid jazz-rock guitar, the mellifluous Rhodes electric keys, and the thick, fat, warm and muscular bass. ‘Kali Lo’ kicks off this excellent album with a hypnotic bass riff and percolating drums and keys that simmer with a controlled intensity I absolutely adore.
For me Kali Lo remains my favourite track. But the whole album is superb. There’s even a very good version of ‘Old Man River’, which, whilst a venerable and hoary old jazz standard, isn’t quite what the rest of the music here would lead one to expect. But that’s exactly why so much music of this era is so good; you can expect the unexpected.
Drummer André Cecarelli has played with loads of top flight big names, and is listed as an online drum teacher here (now there’s a thought!?). Cecarelli reformed Troc in 2011, and they issued a new album, reissuing their original ’72 recording off the back of that.
About two years ago I was forced into the reluctant sale of my Rhodes 54 electric piano. Truth is it didn’t quite have the bright sound of the Fender Rhodes 77s or 88s I so love. But it sure as damn-it sounded better than any of the virtual ‘plug-in’ Rhodes available in Logic, that I’d been using before.
Every now and again I have a look online to see what if any Rhodes are about. I would dearly love to acquire another. But this time a 77 or 88, for sure. Imagine my surprise to see that one used by Troc keys maestro Henri Giordano – perhaps the one on these very recordings? – was (is?) available for hire/sale. I would sooo love to own this Rhodes!
Striking titles against a great backdrop.
Searching for a vintage black and white sci-fi movie, we stumbled upon this gem, from 1961.
The male and female leads, Edward Judd and Janet Munro, are only vaguely familiar to me, whilst amongst the supporting cast – from third on the bill Leo McKern to a young uncredited Michael Caine – there’s a plethora of familiar acting talent.
Disillusioned journo Peter Stenning (Judd) is boozing himself towards professional failure and personal collapse. His only support comes from colleague Bill Maguire (McKern). But Stenning’s personal implosion starts to assume different proportions, when a lady he encounters at The Met Office drops the bombshell that nuclear tests have changed the earth’s axis, with terrifying global consequences.
As the scale of what’s happened becomes apparent, both globally and locally, normal life goes out the window. The paper struggles to continue functioning, as does everyone, from individuals to organisations, as the ramifications of the disaster start to bite: temperatures soar, weather patterns change, water is rationed, the Thames dries up, and society starts to fall apart at the seams
Interwoven with this are the subplots of Stenning’s blossoming affair with Jeanie (Munro), the Met Office girl, and the day to day life of Maguire and co, at the newspaper offices and their local watering holes. Running through all these threads numerous scenes also show how society begins to unravel, and some of these are very imaginatively done, and make great viewing.
There are some superb panoramic ‘matte painting’ backdrops. And numerous scenes showing London streets and landmarks desolate and sweltering. It’s all very effective. And, given current fears over global warming, both prescient and somewhat surprising, given the film’s vintage.
But I guess it belongs rather to the post-WWII nuclear apocalypse genre, as opposed to the more recent greenhouse gases issue. Still, in essence it’s the same sort of thing; humanity commits techno hari-kiri.
Maybe not a truly great film. But certainly an interesting discovery, possibly even worthy of the epithet ‘gem’? And perhaps also deserving of cult status, as an insight into our perennial fears of self-inflicted doom? Definitely worth seeing.
I’ve only watched a few episodes of this so far. And I’ve loved them. I had been thinking of getting hold of this classic old TV series for some time, and took the plunge after really enjoying seeing Leo McKern in the The Day The Earth Caught Fire.
I’ve always disliked ‘The Law’, seeing it as an overcharging enclave of Conservatism, in which procedure is more important than right or wrong (never mind the truth!), and money and power corrupt, if not absolutely, then enough to disgust and disillusion.
Rumpole was the creation of barrister and writer John Mortimer, who based his creation, in part at least, on real life QC James Burge (perhaps most famous for defending James Ward, in the Profumo scandal legal proceedings).
One thing that struck me whilst doing picture research for this post, more so than whilst watching the episodes, is that McKern, like Peter ‘Columbo’ Falk, is not only not archetypal leading man material, but they are both ‘boss-eyed’. With Falk it was childhood cancer that cost him his right eye, whilst with McKern it was an unspecified accident, aged 15, that robbed him of his left.
First off Leo McKern is great. Even when he portrays a character, as he does sometimes as Rumpole, who might occasionally be less than tactful. He’s always somewhat archaic, occasionally even a windy bore, and yet he’s always both sufficiently charismatic and charming to keep us interested. Some of the supporting characters take a little longer to acclimatise to, such as his wife Hilda, or ‘she who must be obeyed’.
But in addition to the joys of McKern as Rumpole, the individual episodes, at least so far, are interesting in ways I had hoped for, but half expected to be disappointed about by their absence. And it gives insight into both the legal profession, the processes of law, and a particular place and time. On that note, it’s amazing how this has dated, the opening episodes, from 1978, look older, at times like something from the ’50s or ’60s.
But so far, this is great, tackling such issues as legalism – I don’t know if that’s really a word, but it’s what I mean by when the legal system gets someone guilty off, or vice versa, i.e. law as a game rather than a quest for truth – and the practice of bullying witnesses, and so on. And other issues, such as class, with posh Oxbridge legal folk defending East London hoodlums, and drugs, contrasting Rumpole’s heavy boozing with hippies and their predilection for pot.
It’s really rather good. And, as they say, they don’t make ’em like this any more. I’m looking forward to lots more enjoyable viewing.
Having just read the tenth chapter of the superb Odysseum (read my review of it here), entitled ‘The Final Fix’, which covers such folk as William Burroughs and Terence McKenna, and the less well known ethnobotanist-psychonauts who inspired them, I’ve decided to start documenting an account of my own experiences on the fringes of the psychedelic world.
It all starts when I’m still a wee boy, living in the familial home in Comberton, a quiet, sleepy village five miles west of Cambridge.
Seeing Santana’s Michael Shrieve take a totally groovy drum solo at Woodstock – the whole band looking and sounding like they were ‘groovin’ high’ (and I believe they were, although I knew nothing of such things at the time) – was a formative experience of my youth, sealing the deal on my nascent ambitions as a young drummer. [1]
This seed fell on fertile ground, thanks in part to a small legacy of hippyishness in my parents background, which lead me to start buying them albums by the likes of Joni Mitchell (for mum) and The Incredible String Band (for dad), both of whom my parents would occasionally mention in a wistful sort of way. I can see now that this was a twin-pronged approach on my part, getting them things I believed they wanted whilst simultaneously educating myself in music I found interesting.
I was also discovering jazz, partly on my own, partly via my dad, who occasionally bought some really cool second-hand vinyl, and partly through other means, e.g. working in Cambridge Central Library on the weekends, and borrowing some of their Jazz LPs, and also through a buddy who was himself discovering jazz, in part through his dad’s music collection.
This latter friend, who shall be known here simply as ‘Mikey’, would be the young rascal who would introduce me to drugs.
Having gradually become vaguely aware of them, but being neither a smoker nor drinker – despite many of my peers having long since started, or at least tried these vices – I was still innocently virginal, in every sense. This was largely due to my Christian upbringing, which will doubtless be the subject of other future posts at some point.
But I was already wriggling free of the mental and psychological – perhaps even spiritual? – shackles of this outmoded but still popular primitive superstition. In some respects my adventures with Mikey were part of this process, helped me become well and truly and free. Certainly they opened me up to new vistas of experience, some good, some not so good.
The first time I ever got stoned, Mikey and I went for a walk in Comberton, the aforementioned village where I grew up, eventually wandering down a farm track or footpath at the far north-eastern end of the village (I lived kind of just off west-central). Mikey loaded up and lit a chillum, and we smoked it in the dark, stood underneath a tree, alongside a ditch or hedge on one side and open fields, gently sloping uphill, on the other.
I believe it was a cold, dark, clear autumn night, although memories are fuzzy… I could be wrong!? Anyway, I/we proceeded to get very high. And, my goodness, it really was quite something! Looking back now I’d have to say I was so stoned I was effectively tripping.
The tree beside and above us became some sort of psychedelic light show cum cosmic conduit to I don’t know what. It was simultaneously the tree, and some sort of blood red organ, the branches and twigs like veins and capillaries. It was totally organically alive, in a very flesh and blood kind of way, and it seemed part of everything else around it. I was simultaneously giddy with ecstasy, and totally transfixed. [2]
… TBC.
NOTES:
[1] Originally kickstarted by Cream’s Ginger Baker, and specifically by his baggily funky groove on ‘Born Under A Bad Sign’. But back on the theme of drugs: interestingly they seemed to help Santana and co. fly to new heights on this occasion (and doubtless others), whereas, in my estimation, they clearly sabotage Hendrix’s Woodstock set. Compare Santana’s two congueros with the spastic flailing of the guy with Jimi… even the legendary Mitch Mitchell is lacklustre.
[2] One thing that was a common thread throughout much of my experiences along this strange road, would be the sense that whilst being a participant in these doings, I was also an observer. And often a fairly dumb and docile one at that. We’ll come back to this issue later.