If either one of these fucking idiots ever penetrates deeper into the United States than the odd coke fuelled awards ceremony in New York or Los Angeles, bundle him into the back of a car and dump him with neither map nor money in desert, on prairie or up mountain. Slack-witted, juvenile, braying über-brats, whose eminence in their field is testimony to the hectoring, bullying and general cruelty and cynicism that is passed off as ‘irony’ within our culture now.
Just days to go now to the move-out. We’re pretty much packed and ready for the logistical challenges of fitting a quarts-worth of downstairs here into a pints-worth of entire house there. The move is on Saturday so the ‘phoneline here shuts down around midday and – in glorious theory – opens up at the new address at the same time. Jaded by long experience of primate error in such proceedings, I anticipate long hours on the mobile working my way up the food chain towards someone who has some inkling of what to do next. Ditto, of course, with all the other utilities that should be coming on stream in our name at the point of occupancy. How sad that one anticipates the inevitability of cockup with such phlegmatism. The only investment of hope is in the possibility that it won’t be universal!
All deep things are song. It seems somehow the very central essence of us, song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls!
Music, music, music. Fishing for Eels, our ceilidh and other stuff band, played its first gig in a long while last Saturday. It was a birthday party so pretty much a straightforward barn dance. Our second fiddler Xara called the dances, her relative inexperience in that curious art more than compensated for by pezazz and a refreshing absence of that awful doctrinaire solemnity that has so many callers barking orders like old-style primary school teachers. We got a good sound, a low ceiling and composition walls absorbing it rather than bouncing it right back. We filmed it all and, after a little visual and sonic tidying and some judicious editing, I’ll upload it to the Fishing For Eels site.
I came across the band Beirut on a sampler and loved the melange of Parisian boulevardier, klezmer, Balkan Gypsy brass and art school rock sensibilities. A project mounted by the 21-year-old iconoclast Zach Condon - ukuleles, mandolins, a string bass and a pumping accordion lifting a frontline of what looks and sounds like trumpet, flugelhorn and tuba. Condon’s voice is as European an instrument as those behind it - melancholy and world-weary, with a breath of Tokay and Ász cigars about it.