songofcopper: (le pop a part)
Yes, absolutely ‘in Concert’: together, in unison, in symbiosis. I am not objective about Magma; this is not really a ‘concert review’, more like a thoroughly subjective, highly indulgent account of An Experience. There, consider yerself Warned.


Your Interplanetary Alchemist Prince, Reporting From The Field )


Thursday, 26 March 2015 18:47
songofcopper: (Poste Dalferinin)
Something about today required a dash of vivid red. (I think it’s because I’m very tired: wan, weary and wilting. I really must force myself to go to bed at the proper time, though this is inconvenient to the natural flow of interesting conversation.) Anyway, red certainly does fill in the blank of one’s personality when it is AWOL owing to mental and spiritual fatigue.

“Would you buy a secondhand book from this person?”

Within: Crimson Silk, Cosy Coffins, Pens In Profusion, Notebooks For Idiots )


Wednesday, 18 March 2015 18:34
songofcopper: (endless pencil)
Another poetical challenge: gauntlet duly taken up. (Did you know, it's dashed difficult to write with a gauntlet on? I'm afraid I had to take it off again. Sorry about that.)

Anyway - another poem. I suggested these words to my opposite number: curious - Wednesday - pastel - significance. It turns out my opposite number is rather more accomplished than pore ole Yrs Trly in the poetick dept.: Penelope's creation is subtle, simple and elegant. Me, I'm sort of the opposite of that. But at least you can say I work (or footle about) quickly: it was only earlier today that P. suggested I use those very same words in composing my... not riposte (or are we still duelling...?); my... offering? Well, whatever you want to call the thing, I have had a stab at it (zounds! My pen clearly thinks it's a sword).


It is my personal policy never to edit poems, because they are like mental polaroids. Of what is this a candid snap, you ask? Only the notion that from Wednesday, it's downhill all the way (probably in a good way, but that's up to you). Also, I am usually at work on a Wednesday but today I have the day off: sitting on sofas feeling unnecessary is not my usual Wednesday feeling. The mind perseverates upon trivialities (more so than ever), measuring the minutes' constant creep. ...I suppose fleeting novelties of this sort deserve to be immortalised in verse?

Anyway, it does mean that a day of idleness has not been entirely unproductive. ;-)

The previous poetic effort of your correspondent may be observed in situ here.
songofcopper: (Dalí)
…down at the Roxymoron Casino, presumably.

Slogans, slogans, slogans. You know me: I hate slogans (though I adore Mottoes, Axiomata, Aphorisms!). Who comes up with these things? ‘Please Gamble Responsibly’… that one wants filing next to ‘Please Die Quietly’.

Anyway, the other day I learned via Facebook that North Korea has recently issued a whopping 310 new patriotic slogans. Most have the sinister, hysterical quality that one expects from narcissist parents (which, I suppose, is a befitting label, considering the exploits of the Kim Dynasty).

Some, however, are just… plain… surprising.

Let’s Science Our Vegetables Unstintingly! )

Today I have dipped a toe into the seething, turbid waters of eBay, in search of Cheap Chinese Fountain Pens. Apparently, these can be surprisingly good for the hilariously-low price; I guess I’ll find out how true that is once the ones I’ve ordered arrive. The thing is, you see, I have fallen in love with bottled ink: and I seem to want to pair each hue I acquire with its own pen. (I’m clearly exactly as bad as those pseuds who buy the myriad differently-shaped wine glasses to match their wines! …Well, to be honest, I tend to drink wine - if I drink it at all - out of one of those tumblers that used to be a mustard-pot, but you get the general idea.) The other day I ordered three new bottles of ink in captivating shades, so of course fresh pens must follow. Luckily, I found my old Waterman pen, with accompanying converter, so one new colour will find its billet therein, but the others shall be housed in cheap ’n’ cheerful lodgings.

Sins, Aesthetick )

Today’s post brought me a couple of good things: a silver pendant depicting Hermes-Mercury (a thing of beauty!) and a good, cheap secondhand copy of ‘The Secret Service’ by Wendy Walker, which I have been wanting to acquire ever since I read its description.

A Mauve Decade )


Monday, 2 March 2015 17:29
songofcopper: (Tea is the drink of great detectives! :-)
The other day (in Another Place) I agreed to play a game of poetical tag: submit 3 - 5 prompt words, and receive a poem containing those words. If you wished you could also receive 3 - 5 prompt words in order to return the gesture. Of course I agreed to 'pome', and I received these prompt words: violet, flourish, cloud, unrequited, entwine.

Recently I happened upon the preposterous poetry of Comte Robert de Montesquiou. Honestly, it's... indescribable. Luckily for me, I found a few verses translated into English; if only my French was up to it I'd try reading the original creations. But if you read French with a reasonable fluency, if you like Ludwig II and bats and ridiculousness, if you are willing to bite your tongue/swallow your giggles whilst kneeling reverently at the daintily-shod feet of le Comte, well... it's worth your attention. Anyway, what little I read delighted me severely.

I cannot write like that, not really (despite all, I'm far too sane). But I could not look at those prompt words - violet, flourish, cloud, unrequited, entwine - without feeling the Decadent Lightbulb ping on ( it a lightbulb? Perhaps not; it may be something more like a moon reflected in the articulated opalescent glass drops which depend, shivering, from a lustre that glows on the mantelpiece, the hanging crystals agitated by the passing sweep of one's cape. ...Yeah, it's probably that, innit?).

Therefore, I have made my poem self-consciously ornate (so, no change there! Any excuse, right?). I think perhaps I'll let the Archduke steal it, he was after all spurned once by a callous harpy who so wounded his heart that he ran away to Helsinki and lived incognito in a fisherman's hut for about two days. (Two. Days.)

Please imagine him lying, trembling, on a rustic cot, glaring through his tears at an Odilon Redon print that is hanging against the rough woodwork of that hut.

Now Read On. :-)

Crepuscular descends the violet hour
Whose tint pollutes the rosy hope of day.
Her note: ‘Cher ami, veuillez patienter’;
Not patient but becalmed, sickly I cow’r.
Rise, Bile; choke, burn my heart; flourish, Decay!
Like Sun’s eye dimmed in cloud, mine eyes now lour:
Devotion unrequited waxes sour,
No more to her vile image will I pray!
Night’s leash is short; I dangle on that chain
Whose tether’s end is Dawn, and must resign
Myself to slavery. Accept this pain,
Thou humble thrall; drink, addict, of this wine
Meted so sparingly by her. In vain
Dost thou deny thy joy with angst entwine.

© MMFH 2nd March 2015
songofcopper: (neg)
Well, this is a new experience for me. I have never really had proper toothache before. I am determined, in the true spirit of sensual science, to enjoy (?!) it to the fullest.

Adventures in Stoicism and Dentistry )


Thursday, 18 December 2014 15:10
songofcopper: (le dauphin de kobaia)
Inspired by [ profile] goldmourn's tantalising bookshelf photos (tantalising because bookshelf photos make you want to reach through the screen and check out those volumes!), I thought it was about time I posted a few of my own.

Books (and other things) on shelves )

Spel Ka-st

Wednesday, 26 November 2014 20:05
songofcopper: (sol. col.)
...I really have nothing much to tell you today, except that I'm hosting a migraine (the not-that-painful but nonetheless-annoyingly-persistent kind) and listening repeatedly to this song:

'Just A Lifetime', by The Legendary Pink Dots. It is from an album with the marvellous title of 'The Crushed Velvet Apocalypse'. Well, that sounds like my kind of armageddon! The whole album is really rather good - I've been listening to it on YouTube and shall put its physical incarnation on my Christmas Wish List, I think.

The Legendary Pink Dots: massively prolific, adrift in their own homemade psychedelic/faintly-gothic fug... fronted by the Thelemically-monikered Edward Ka-Spel... This sort of thing is on the periphery of my usual musical/cultural taste. Because they are not a 1970s group, they sound much more hygienic and arch than their earlier spiritual cousins. I can kind of imagine them having a friendly musical rivalry with Julian Cope. I've known of their existence for ages but not bothered to do any serious listening until now. (Maybe my brain on migraine pills is more amenable to this sort of thing...!) The LPD discography is intimidatingly vast, which daunts me, but I can see myself exploring it in leisurely, non-completist fashion.

Recommendations of albums worth hearing are most definitely welcome, if anyone out there happens to be familiar with this stuff... :-)
songofcopper: (Albrecht Dürer Forever)
Last Thursday, I had a lovely evening of music and subtle energies… my first encounter with Mr Julian Cope, singing, talking and Being Himself, upon the stage of the Exeter Phoenix. With nil apology, this shall be quite a burblesome summation of the occasion. (Ok, You Have Been Warned: Now Read On...)

As I started on my way to the place, there was weather god drama of a suitably tingly variety. I stepped out of my house into flickered drippage, wet stop motion description of the Vertical Plane…

…yep. It was Raining.

Tlaloc Drools, Julian Rules! )


Tuesday, 7 October 2014 20:36
songofcopper: (Albrecht Dürer Forever)
Yesterday, very very overdue indeed, I gave myself a much-needed haircut. Really, it is quite a relief to feel like myself again! Hair is psychologically significant, even if to own so is apt to make one feel rather superficial.

No Actual Capes )
songofcopper: (le pop a part)
When reading a Heavy Tome, it can be helpful to listen to the Right Kind of Music. What you need is an Auditory Lens with which to focus the mind’s ear to a pin sharp inward hearing of the words you are reading. I’m currently reading a Heavy Tome Indeed, and I do find that the words seep in more readily when gently pushed by a soundtrack that is either wholly instrumental or sung in some language other than English. Herewith: a glimpse of recent soundtraquerie.

Recently I received my copy of the new album by Monomyth, entitled ‘Further’. I was prompt in pre-ordering and so it came autographed - it is rare that I am following along the career of a current band, so it is a nice experience to have that personal touch. I really enjoyed their first, self-titled album (definitely recommended). This is not an area of music I’m really knowledgeable about (they describe their stuff as ‘Instrumental Space Kraut Stoner Rock from the Netherlands’) but I would say it does manage to be more than just a session of ‘spot the influence’. Yes, the influences are tangible, but it’s not one of those ‘serious rock Jive Bunny’ experiences - it’s not ‘classic rock bingo’.

‘Further’ has - how to put it? - fewer ‘memorable tunes’ (!?) than its predecessor, and I feel as though this is the kind of music that, for full effect, really needs to be experienced live with the entire person rather than only via the ears whilst sitting sedately on a sofa, but I can already point to favourite moments. My favourite piece would have to be ’Spheres’, which builds its stubborn, jagged, geometric repetitions with Fripp-like patience ’n’ persistence. This is a well-structured album, too. The best side-effect of the resurgence of the vinyl lp (if you ask me…) is the return of the 40-something-minute album. Here we have that classic format of side A: two tracks of roughly equal length; side B: short piece followed by Epic. The Epic in this case is ‘6EQUJ5’, in which you can definitely pick up echoes of that dogged ’n’ determined Düsseldorf Motorik Beat, along with guitar sounds that occasionally remind my (biased?!) ears of 1980s Beefheart/Magic Band. The splendid artwork (by Maarten Donders) is not best served by the limited canvas of CD packaging, but I bet it looks grand on the lp sleeve. Goes rather well as visual accompaniment to an inward voyage in search of the Prima Materia.

I also received Magma’s new… what… mini-album? EP?? It’s around twenty Earth-minutes in length, let’s put it that way, and contains a new version of an old familiar piece: ‘Rïah Sahïltaahk’. This originally appeared on their second album, ‘1001° Centigrades’. Apparently, Maestro Christian Vander was dissatisfied with the original arrangement. Having listened to both versions several times back to back, along with the live version that’s on the ‘Mythes et Legendes: Epok V’ DVD, I have to admit that the difference is not really that striking. The original version has its brass/woodwind element, whilst the new version has vibraphone and female backing vocals. The original has that slightly claustrophobic production common to lps from the early 1970s, whilst the new one sounds more clean and vibrant - well, no kidding. The lead vocals on the original are by the wondrous Klaus Blasquiz; Magma’s current male lead vocalist, Herve Aknin, sings in a very similar style.

There is nothing to complain about at all with this new version, although the live incarnation of it on the DVD has more Oomph and Zeuhl Energy than the studio effort. If you know the original, you'll kind of miss the brass on the new version. On the other hand, the added vocals on the new one, along with the presence of Philippe Bussonnet on bass guitar (a proper Zeuhl Knight as opposed to Francis Moze’s jazzier style on the original), add a little something. Argh - I dunno. I would say this new 'Rïah Sahïltaahk' is non-essential but well executed. If you particularly like this piece, or if you are the classic obsessed Magma aficionado who will buy anything they release, it’s a no-brainer; you want this. But if there is such a person as the mildly-interested consumer of Magma product (?!), he/she/they may happily pass on this one.

HOWEVER, let me say this: the packaging is very elegant (silver mirrored surface with black offset Zeuhl Griffe) and as always it is Joyful Indeed for any devout Zeuhl Kadett to be presented with a singalong Kobaïan libretto and a sizeable fragment of the Magma mythos (the story of Rïah Sahïltaahk is told in French; it’s a cautionary tale warning of the dangers of Hubris).

And that seems like a good place to terminate this travelogue of Musical Opinion Territory. Time perhaps to divert my attentions away from the potential Hubris of Album Reviewin’, back to the hoped-for Humility of Heavy Tome Readin’.

My thanks, as ever, for your company on this rrrramble. :-)
songofcopper: (Christina Autochrome)
On Friday, we took another train - this time in search of Castell Coch. (You get the train to Taff’s Well, then stroll to the village of Tongwynlais and up the hill to the castle.) This was the day of our anniversary, so it was befitting that we should save the most romantic of the local castles for the occasion. I had seen it twice before (once on a field trip from University, once with David on our previous visit to Cardiff); seeing it this third time, I was impressed more by its air of melancholy than its romance. The thing is, the 3rd M. of B. (yes, this is yet another of his projects!) had a tendency to lose interest in his buildings once they were completed. The planning, the design, the collaboration with architects, the imagining, the excitement, the construction… all of that was deeply interesting to him, but a finished thing held no allure. How very sad! It put me in mind of those books and films where there is a flourishing finale, THE END, and everything just stops. Many people regard weddings that way - a lot of fuss and planning and show, and THE END. What happens next? If you can manage to appreciate the non-exciting, non-glamorous stuff that happens next, perhaps you’ll do alright.

In fact, without the non-exciting, non-glamorous everyday stuff, the gilt fades, the lustre dims, you are left with an empty memory, gathering dust. The Bute family almost never visited Castell Coch after it was completed. At times, they used it as a quarantine sanatorium when their children were ill. When first I saw this place, I thought it so very beautiful and romantic. But now, walking through uselessly opulent rooms, I felt sorry that it had never been a home. On the few occasions when the castle was used, the family had to bring in servants from Cardiff. I stood in the kitchen and felt annoyed on behalf of the state of the art range: nobody habitually cooked on that thing! It was as redundant as an Aga in a show flat. What a shame - what a shame! And what a relief to know that though our house is nothing special from an architectural point of view, it contains real life; breakfast is eaten there, warm bodies sleep there, laundry is washed there. Upon leaving, somebody locks the door with care, in anticipation of returning very soon. You can get married at Castell Coch, but you wouldn’t want to live there.

Empty Halls )
songofcopper: (Albrecht Dürer Forever)
The following day, Thursday, we avoided Cardiff, thinking it might be too full of NATO and police officers to be borne with good grace. Instead, we took the train to Caerphilly in order to look at its castle. The town of Caerphilly made me oddly nostalgic for the 1990s - it seemed not to have been touched since then, so I daresay it too was feeling the same way. We had elevenses in a café that was still serving that prototypic form of caffe latte that comes in a tall glass mug and consists of slightly-soiled milk. I have been ruined, I fear, by knowledge of coffee that tastes recognisably of coffee. Still, the establishment also served loose leaf tea (which pleased the David) and was so extremely clean that I almost wanted to drop my shortbread on the floor in order to enjoy the rare thrill of innocent trust that would assuredly accompany the eating of it anyway.

As we strolled through the town, I felt somewhat sorry for Caerphilly. It had very obviously seen better days. When you think of Caerphilly you think of cheese, and perhaps of the castle, but as for present-day prosperity I am not sure that it’s very lively. Still, we did spot a local landmark…

Enormous Edifices )
songofcopper: (endless pencil)
Time at last to relate the tale of our trip to Cardiff. I hope you like castles of the earth and castles of the air, for there are many of these herein.

I note with bemusement the fact that I seem fatally drawn to individuals who have converted to Roman Catholicism. I wonder why that is? I think it highly unlikely that I shall ever go that way (mainstream religion does not suit my constitution), but anyway - there it is. A Thing about Me.

I mention this only because of the Third Marquess of Bute. He was just such a convert. He impressed me well enough on my first visit to Cardiff, but somehow I appreciated him more fully on this second sojourn. It is always entertaining to poke through the leavings of these characters who have sufficient wealth, influence and imagination to enable fantastic things to be brought about - wondrous castles with preposterously exuberant interiors - but the 3rd M. of B. does seem to have had something more about him than mere whimsy. According to Vicipaedia, ’The Marquess’s vast range of interests… included religion, medievalism, the occult, architecture, travelling, linguistics, and philanthropy… A prolific writer, bibliophile and traveller, as well as, somewhat reluctantly, a businessman, his energies were on a monumentally Victorian scale.’

I wonder, do such people exist nowadays? What are we (our generation) building? What, moreover, are we imagining? Not A Very Great Deal is the only conclusion I can casually arrive at. We don’t quite know what to do with our rich folks these days (or they don’t quite know what to do with us). Gone are the days of paternalistic patronage, and so much the better, but that just leaves us with the dead weight of such frivolous nonentities as populate the shiny society pages, creatures content to be customers - clients! - rather than patrons, sponsors, mentors. Once upon a time, profound depths of excess were mined for rare and aweful jewels. These days, all we can muster is the occasional flamboyant celebrity, scratching out some further extent of shallows - channels for orts to float sewerwards. Distance long is not the same as distance deep. Doing opulence (decoration) well is, I fear, a lost art: or rather, having been cleansed of anything approaching the merest pose of spiritual intent, it becomes something merely selfish, gaudy and inutile. ‘Good taste’ instructs that the only appropriate expression of a rich man’s fancy is in minimalism. Discreet, faceless, apologetic, antiseptic… I like this not. Minimalism was worthwhile as a species of flamboyance: when orthodoxy takes on tints of the bombastic, rendering the outrageous humdrum, your ideal next move (stylistically speaking) is subtle, subtle, subtle, white, white, white, flat, flat, flat. Do that, cutting across hackneyed-gothic, and you have something. But it’s trite now. It’s beginning to look preposterous. It’s as if nobody has the guts to CHOOSE STUFF any more - to CHOOSE STUFF BECAUSE THEY LIKE IT.

Anyway… all I am saying is, ‘Give Fabudorability A Chance’.

With that in mind, let me take you to a strange kingdom.

A Strange Kingdom )

Hyperbole Overload

Wednesday, 27 August 2014 18:10
songofcopper: (Albrecht Dürer Forever)
Annoying discovery of the moment: the word ‘alchemy’ has become thoroughly meaningless. When you search for the word ‘alchemy’ all you get is a Vicipaedia article and about a hundred companies whose founders clearly have no imagination whatever. You can practically smell the thought process - “Uhhh, well, Clive, we could go with ‘synergy’ or we could go with ‘alchemy’… ‘alchemy’ is easier to spell, right? And it starts with an ‘a’. That’s, like, really positive, yeah?”

It is always a shame when words get bland. Think of the word ‘fantastic’. That really ought to indicate that the thing described has a beyondness, an aboveness, a quality of the dangerously imaginative. But these days, it’s ‘fantastic’ when you can successfully book a table at a restaurant, it’s ‘fantastic’ when someone hands you something over a shop counter, it’s ‘fantastic’ when something goes right in the most mundane way imaginable. ‘Fantastic’ - seriously?

Then there’s ‘incredible’. That word was originally intended to convey that an event or thing is beyond comprehension, that it’s unbelievable in the literal sense (which I have to qualify, because - inevitably - ‘unbelievable’ itself often gets handed out in response to things that are… hilariously believable).

And of course, we regularly tell each other that something is ‘amazing’ when it has not actually amazed us in the slightest, or that something is ‘marvellous’ when it is in fact no kind of marvel. Worse - we bandy the words ‘love’ and ‘hate’ and ‘starving’ and ‘torture’ when we really mean ‘it’s ok I guess’ or ‘it’s not up to much’ or ‘I’m looking forward to lunch’ or ‘that stings a bit’.

Maybe words are like drugs. The more you overuse them, the less effective they become? It feels like we need a massive shot of hyperbole these days even to move an eyelash. You can see this on any talent show where the participants have broken through the barrier of basic mathematics in order to offer A MILLION PERCENT. Careful, now. You might find yourself having to pay that back one of these days. You’ve just signed away your soul. The Devil himself (manifesting in the shape of Simon Cowell) is chuckling at you.

I searched for ‘alchemy’ expecting to have to wade through a bunch of credulous new age flannel, not… recruitment agencies and IT systems security firms. And restaurants. (Restaurants! “Would you like sulphur with that, sir, or may I suggest a little antimony on the side?”) And cosmetics firms, and media companies, and local community projects, and jewellery designers, and - lord save us - dentists. (Well, I guess the dentist kinda makes sense… if they still do mercury fillings?!)

Alchemy should be a powerful word, not a catch-all for some slick transaction resulting in ‘hey presto’. It should - it must - speak for those transformative moments in which one thing becomes another. It should be a word that reminds us that nothing is ever lost or gained… it only changes.

In All Things, I Know Myself To Be Mercury, Not Granite. That is something I need to remember, ponder, analyse and… accept.


Tuesday, 26 August 2014 21:09
songofcopper: (neg)
The other morning I awakened from dreaming about a band called Satan’s Elbow. I can’t remember what sort of music they played (metal?), or any other details, except for that name. Upon consulting the Gull of Goo, I find that there doesn’t seem to be such a band in existence, but there is a detective novel by John Dickson Carr entitled ‘The House at Satan’s Elbow’ (some sort of Scooby Doo-esque locked room mystery with fake ghosts, by the look of it).

Satan and Sebastian )

Wretchedly Corvine )

Lunacy and Quackery )
songofcopper: (magritte)
We went for a walk yesterday, in one of the local nature reserves. I took my camera with me. When I go out with the intention of taking pictures, I often feel unequipped to make much of The View. Big landscapes - I struggle to do them justice, in the camera and in my appreciation of them. Maybe it's simply a matter of scale. Or maybe it's because sometimes they really do look like paintings you've seen. It's difficult to feel you're really there, in a way.

But small things always call to me. I use the camera's macro setting more than anything else.

Anyway, here's a series of glimpses of the way wandered.

 photo DSCF3336.jpg
We ate lunch on the bench you see here. This place is called 'Belvidere Meadow', and you can see why. Sitting there with my cheese and tomato roll, I began to mourn the loss of that old country stalwart, the Real Tramp. People who were itinerant, in a skilled and (semi-)purposeful way. Moving around to where the work was, or when there wasn't any work, the welcome. A skilled tramp, sitting on this bench, eating a cheese and tomato roll, I thought, would not be less rich than whoever owned the land.

Wind-Blown Wanderings )
songofcopper: (cessole)
There is a kind of poetry in euphemisms. At least, I have long thought so. Language - verbal or textual - has its own music, its own melody, harmony and counterpoint. Just as you inevitably show your true colours when responding to music, you reveal your nature with every word you say or write… quite helplessly.

I'm one of those people who hates ugly-sounding slang. At least, I leave it to others. Especially where life's nicest experiences are concerned, I don't want to hear anything… coarse. Shouldn't lovely things sound lovely when you nearly-describe them? Gross phrases claw down an embarrassment, a clumsiness, that nobody should feel at such moments. Worst of all is being offered something delicious in a way that makes it sound disgusting… c'est vrai dans la chambre, comme dans la cuisine.

(As usual I can't think or write about anything without invoking both Music and Food. There is no cure for this, so we may as well Play On.)

Swearing, now: short sharp Anglo-Saxon-action-words may be introduced when a note of percussion is required, but they blunt in overuse ('twas ever thus with tools!), and are too generic to be effective on their own (whether as friendly suggestions or insults). As dear Meredith suggests, 'If you really want to insult someone... say something about their nose.' (Honestly though, it is pretty backwardly Cro-Magnon to use anatomical terms as insults. I personally would never share my best talent with someone who used it as a synonym for 'idiot'.)

The one problem with habitual euphemism is that… you spot them everywhere. Recently I heard this song, yet another Purcell number (ahimé; my brain is still in Baroque mode). Is it just a straightforward incitement to music? Perhaps. But check out that arrangement - prancing on tiptoe, apt to tickle - and the breathless, confiding giggle of the vocal part - and that libretto!! Oh, Mr Tate!

Strike the Viol, touch the Lute;
Wake the Harp, inspire the Flute:
Sing your Patronesse's Praise,
Sing, in cheerful and harmonious Lays.

[Loving this sprightly version, sung by one Barnaby Smith with accompaniment from an ensemble called Les Inventions.]

*blink, moue* Well, darling heart… since you ask so nicely… ;-)

In fine: a song like this (whether or not it was ever intended seductively) is very much more effective (on young Cosmé, at least!) than any of our leering modern-day equivalents. The Baroque era had Purcell 'n' Tate; we get Kanye West and Robin Thicke. Unfair or what!!
songofcopper: (fred)
[For anyone who has not encountered Meredith previously, let me explain him this way: he is my favourite character. He first visited me when I was fifteen-and-a-half years old (!) and has been ineradicably present ever since. I am fonder of him than I am of some family members. (This will, I'm sure, make sense to all writers of fiction.) Over the years he and I have sort of moulded one another, if that is not too horrid a phrase, so that now, when I look back, I cannot think of us as 'two sides of the same coin' but as something more like 'a forever-entangled wave 'n' particle combo'.]

On the frivolously-solemn occasion of Meredith’s birthday, not to mention it being our twentieth year of mutual mischief, I feel it is highly appropriate to give him the thing he most adores: Attention.

Boswell attends inevitably upon Johnson )


songofcopper: (Default)

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